Now they’re lots stinkier than they were back when I was in charge of hosing them down. I think my old showerhead died of despair.

I needed a new one, but the Home Depot guy was getting kind of personal about it.

“Before I can recommend a hand-held model, I need to know something,” he said. “What do you DO in your shower?”

“Hunh? I, uh … I … shower… in the shower.”

“And?”

It was just such a weird question. What do people do with hand-held showerheads in showers besides shower? Before I knew it, I was blushing.

“I, uh … I … wash the dog! Really!”

“Umm hmmm?”

He wanted more?

“I … I use the hand-held to wash the shower walls down!”

“Ummm hmmmm?”

“And, I, um, shower?”

He looked at me carefully. “Do you shave your legs?”

I didn’t know this guy from Adam, and here he was quizzing me about my hygiene. I crossed my arms in front of my chest. Just then the store air conditioners went off — the heat radiating off my face probably tripped the thermostat.

“Um, yeah, well, yeah. I do that, too.”

Satisfied, he turned. “Okay. Then I recommend these models over here.” He waved at a small selection in the corner of the display. “Anything else I can help you with?”

I shook my head, even though I was also supposed to get a new toilet seat. There’s only so much grilling a woman can take at the hardware store.

“It’s supposed to fit tight,” Witt called out from behind the door. “Like a second skin.”

Second skin my chicharones. This baby was tighter than my first skin, twenty pounds ago. The truth is, wetsuits are nothing but full-body pantyhose on steroids.

I cracked open the dressing room door. “Where are my kids?”

“See for yourself!” Witt said proudly, indicating two neoprene-clad figures bouncing alongside the rash guards. Not only did the boys squeak into their wetsuits at Warp 8, they could move freely in them.

My wetsuit wasn’t past my knees yet but I could already tell I wouldn’t do much more than waddle once I got it on.

“Uh,” I told Witt, “I need more time.”

He understood. “No problem,” he said. “Hey, boys, want some free stickers for your boards?”

I liked that guy. In fact, I was trying on his wetsuits because of his friendly and knowledgeable attitude. (Translation: he was the first surf shop salesman I met older than the used wetsuits he was selling.)

Ten minutes later I was slick with perspiration, but the wetsuit refused to budge past my hips. Defeat was imminent.

I cracked the door open again. “Witt, I’m just too big to boogie board.”

You would’ve thought I uttered a foul heresy. “No,” Witt said grimly. “I won’t believe it. Mind if I take a look?”

I guess I didn’t. The lower part of me was squished into the world’s largest girdle. The upper was still modestly covered by my swimsuit. And Witt is a pretty decent guy, like a friendly big brother surfer, if you happen to have one.

I opened the door and he examined my semi-metamorphosed state: half-woman, half-wetsuit.

“Not bad!” he crowed. “You got farther than most first-timers.”

“Really?” I felt better immediately.

“Sure! Now pull that flap up over your left knee.”

I pulled. He pointed out another flap and I jerked on that one. I sweated, pulled and jerked with his step-by-step coaching until I wrenched into the arms.

Unfortunately, I was stuck in a crouched position, unable to straighten up.

“It’s hopeless,” I insisted.

“There’s only one way to do this,” he answered, and I knew what he meant. Swallowing my modesty, I grabbed the doorpost with both hands.

“Pardon me,” said Witt, and grabbed the fold of neoprene hanging south of my derriere. He pulled hard — both my feet flew right off the floor.

My Great Aunt Lottie probably would not have approved of wetsuits.

My great Aunt Lottie performed a similar maneuver in order to lace her customers into corsets. As they sucked in their breath, they could read the crewel sampler hanging on her dress shop wall: “What the Lord hath forgotten, we shall fill out with cotton.”

In the case of my rear end, the Lord hath remembered too much.

I replanted my feet. “Ready!”

He jerked again and I was completely in the suit. Contrary to my expectations, I could move.

I made my way to the rash guards, where the boys stopped frolicking to look me over. All that rubber-coated activity, and they still looked as cool as cucumbers.

“Yeah! Mom!” said the oldest. My youngest took some time before he finally nodded. “Cool!”

High praise, coming from the Style Kings of Carlsbad.

“I’ll take it!” I said.

That afternoon the three of us boogied in the surf, me blessing Witt with every wave I caught. If you can package your bacon for the beach, you can do anything.

“Lookin’ good, baby,” said the hunk, but not to me.

I hadn’t visited Las Vegas since the 80s. Back then, Duran Duran was hungry like the wolf and this pool-side stud guzzled his bottles as fast as I could hand them to him.

A lot changes in 18 years.

“Baby, c’mere and meet my aunt. She changed my diapers.”

Meet my nephew, the Wolf. And that was supposed to be my line, but somehow it didn’t sound as funny as it did when I said it.

Grumbling, I smeared on 50+ sunscreen while Wolfie continued his running commentary on the prospective conquests floating by in rental tubes.

“Oh, yeah! Looking fine, baby. Come to ME, baby!”

It was hard to take him seriously, seeing as how I knew him when he barely came to my kneecap. But this boy wasn’t just talking big. Women were clutching at his trawling line as if it was a life preserver and they were going under for the third time.

“See that sexy older babe over there?” Wolfie sucked his breath through his teeth. “We went out last night. ”

I put on my prescription sunglasses to better examine this cradle-robbing senior. When I focused, I gasped. Older women were supposed to be… older… than me. But this gal was thirty if she was a day, and had a body that qualified her for Baywatch duty.

She smiled and winked at Wolfie.

“She’s twenty-eight,” he said reverently as he waved back. “She knows a lot.”

Sipping my mineral water, I carefully noted her leopard-print bikini, her deep, golden tan, her gravity-defying… Thompson Twins… just in case I needed to pick her out of a lineup of child predators.

“Yeah,” Wolfie added meaningfully, doing that breath thing again with his teeth, “I took her back to my room last night.”

The mineral water burst out of my nose. “You what!”

He frowned. “But Mom and Dad wouldn’t let me keep her.”

“Well, she’s not a lost kitten, for crying out loud!”

“No, she’s a German kitten. And in Germany, older kittens appreciate younger men.”

If any more kittens appreciated this young man he’d be classified as a Pet Shop Boy. “Do they appreciate getting tossed out of hotel rooms?”

Wolfie sighed, no doubt wishing he could get his money for nothing and his chicks for free. But Mom and Dad were paying for this trip.

“Oh, baby,” he suddenly said, and not to me. “You da bomb! Bomb, baby!”

Bomb Baby whipped around, her hands planted firmly on what couldn’t been more than 33-inch hips as she disdainfully surveyed the dude who dared lay lustful eyes upon her. Her eyes narrowed dangerously and I ducked.

Wolfie intensified his monologue. “Oh, yeah, baby, bomb! You vain, baby. You something else.” Not only was he disposing of all conventional verbs, he was growling. “Come on, baby, turn around! Gimme a look at that prime merchandise.”

“Stop it!” I hissed from under People’s “Where are they now?” section, where my zinc-oxided nose was smearing Boy George’s makeup.

“Oh, yeah, you fine! You bomb!” Wolfie threw back his head and howled.

I grabbed my towel, ready to run.

But Bomb Baby didn’t attack. Her head and shoulders began to bob, like one of those toy dogs in the rear windows of cars. A sly smile spread over her lips.

Wolfie’s head bobbed up and down, too. Bomb Baby bobbed. Wolfie bobbed. For a moment I was confused. Didn’t I just see this on Animal Planet?

Then Bomb Baby slowly turned and began to walk away, all of her bob-bob-bobbing along as she gave Wolfie the requested scenery.

“Oooohhh!” he moaned, “Oh, yeah. Ohhh yea-AAAAAGH!”

He fell back on his chaise lounge, spent.

“Are you through?” I snapped. “Do you want a cigarette?”

He popped up again. “You are so funny, Aunt Bonnie. You know I don’t smoke. But–” he used the tone he used when he was six and wanted a Popsicle from the ice cream truck, “how ’bout a beer?”

I didn’t care if the 80s were long gone. The only bottle I’d let this cub guzzle was root beer.

Oh, I do so love alliteration.

Remember the Pink Bra Bank Robber?

SAN DIEGO – Detectives Thursday arrested a man suspected of carrying out three recent mid-city bank heists while sporting women’s clothing and makeup.

Members of a regional bank robbery task force took 37-year-old Robnay Hosaka into custody, according to the FBI.

Investigators believe Hosaka is the so-called “Cat-Eye Bandit,” who passed demand notes at Union Bank branch offices on Oct. 14, Oct. 19 and Monday.

During the crimes, the robber wore women’s clothing, including a pink bra, and sported lip gloss, pancake makeup and French-manicured fingernails.

After seeing a report on the crimes on a newscast Thursday, a citizen called police to say that Hosaka resembled the suspect, FBI public information officer April Langwell said.

“Police arrest cross-dressing robbery suspect,” SignonSanDiego News Services, Nov. 17, 2005.

I looked long and hard for a photo of this guy Hosaka, with no luck. I did find this, though:

How ever he looked in his pink bra and lip gloss, the bank robber Robnay Hosaka (Hey! Get it? “Bank ROB-ber”? “ROB-nay”?) probably had nothing on actor Cillian Murphy, shown here dressed as a woman but not robbing any banks.

Heck, I don’t look as good as Cillian Murphy does here. And what a makeover! The last time I saw Murphy was in Batman Begins, where he played a man whose momma never saw fit to buy him a proper Halloween mask. All she would let him use was this nasty burlap thing, and it ruined his whole life.

Cillian Murphy as Burlap Boy in Batman Begins.

His character ended up consorting with an evil, secretive sect of vigilantes who believed the path to enlightenment was listening to Liam Neeson’s psychological musings as he beat the stuffing out of them. Lots of fun in that Evil, Vigilante Ashram, sure. Bruce Wayne ate it up, but I’d rather find my elightenment at La Costa Resort and Spa, thank you very much.

Humor, Batman Begins, Breakfast on Pluto, Crime, Bank, Robbery

There has been a little gender confusion in the San Diego crime scene lately.

HILLCREST – Police are looking for a man dressed as a woman – French manicured nails and a pink bra – who held up a bank yesterday.

[SNIP]

Witnesses described the robber as Hispanic. He is 6 foot tall, weighs about 200 pounds and has short brown spiky hair. He was wearing dark pants and a white shirt.

It was at least the third time this year that a man dressed as a woman has robbed a bank in the general vicinity.

Police reported similar robberies Oct. 19 of a Union Bank on Fifth Avenue in Core-Columbia and July 25 of a Washington Mutual bank about five blocks away.

— Mark Arner, “Man dressed as woman robs bank,” San Diego Union-Tribune, Nov. 15, 2005.

How did witnesses know this guy wore a pink bra? Did they see a pink strap peeking out from the neck of his shirt?

Maybe the robber’s shirt was one of those thin polyester tees and people could see right through to his bra — I hate it when this happens to me. It’s hard enough to color coordinate my clothes without worrying about color coordinating my underwear, too.

At any rate, this sounds like it was a very entertaining bank robbery! If I were ever a crime witness, it’d be my luck to witness a boring bank robbery, where the bank robbers only put nylon stockings over their heads. How much more interesting to have a six-foot, 200-pound man flashing a pink bra and manicured nails at us witnesses!

And how do the police know it was a man, exactly? What if it was really a woman? A woman did rob another bank about 2 hours later:

CHULA VISTA – A woman wearing hospital scrubs used a demand note to rob a Washington Mutual Bank branch on Telegraph Canyon Road yesterday afternoon, police said.

The woman wore large dark sunglasses and a blond wig when she entered the bank at the Vons shopping center near Interstate 805 shortly after 3 p.m., said Chula Vista police Lt. Gary Ficacci.

No weapon was seen, Ficacci said.

— Brian Hazle, “Woman in hospital scrubs hits bank,” San Diego Union-Tribune, Nov. 15, 2005.

I think these two robbers are the same people! Look at the facts: neither robber is reported to have used weapons, and the second robber wore a wig, which could be covering the “short brown spiky hair” of the first robber. If the second robber was a really tall and hefty Hispanic lady with a French manicure, it’s a sure bet she is the “male” robber in the first report!

Think about it: after her 1 pm bank robbery in Hillcrest, she realizes her scrubs always camouflage her pink bra better than her white shirt, so she goes home to change and stash her loot. She’d have plenty of time to make her 3 pm Chula Vista robbery, even with the afternoon traffic.

I swear, I should have been a cop.

Humor, Chula Vista, Hillcrest, Crime, Bank, Robbery