The name of the club is Venom. Venom? What is that supposed to mean? It used to be a strip club called The Candy Store. That club had the worst reputation – there were always shootings and drug busts and all manner of nefarious goings on.

Now it’s Venom.

“What is Venom?” I asked My Honey as we drove by.

“I don’t know,” he answered.

“Is it a vampire strip club? Are there naked girls ‘dancing’ with snakes? Scorpions maybe?” I asked trying to be helpful.

“I have no idea,” he reiterated.

“What did it say in the newsletter?” I looked at him expectantly.

“What newsletter?” He looked across the car at me as if he never knows what the hell I am talking about.

“The Guy Newsletter.”

He started laughing. “Newsletter,” he snorted.

“Are you telling me there’s no newsletter?” I am flabbergasted. How can there be no newsletter? Maybe that’s how come our husbands never know what the hell is going on.

“No there’s no newsletter.”

Wow this is a market that’s just desperate to be filled, crying out for attention. If one of you guys to do your species the greatest service, you’ll get yourself some newsletter software and get jumping on that. The wifes of America will thank you heartily. There are few things more annoying than when a husband comes home with the barest bit of gossip, leaving huge gaping questions. Questions that keep a wife up at night.

Women don’t need newsletters. We have no problem finding out what’s going on, who’s breaking up, where the best sales are. I promise you if there was a curious shoe/cupcake/book store opening up, we’d know all about it.

For goodness sake, one of you men get on this ASAP. Consider it a charity time donation if you must. Someone needs to fill in all these blanks.

Besides, it wouldn’t hurt to let them know stuff like what goes on in Venom.

Irony personified in a look

Sassy has been trying really hard to master the one eyebrow look of skepticism.  So far she is very frustrated. Her father and I give her the look all the time. Primarily because she is often completely full of crap and that look says, “Really?” with all the implied sarcasm.

We’ll be sitting at dinner and she’ll get all excited and say, “Look! I’m doing it.” I’ll glance over at her and her facial muscles will be completely impassive, her eyebrows exactly even on her forehead. You could use a level on them, they’re so even.

the Super-High Rise

“Nope,” I’ll say. “Keep practicing.”

“No, I’m doing it,” she’ll insist. Her forehead will be so smooth it’ll look like she’s had Botox.

“Uh-huh.” I’ll shake my head and purse my lips.

At that point, she’ll usually lift her fingers to her face and examine her forehead region.

“Darn it.” She’ll deflate. “I was sure I was doing it that time.”

perfectly executed half-naked eyebrow lift

“Practice in front of a mirror,” I suggest. “Then you’ll be able to see that nothing is moving up there.”

“I’m pretty sure I’m doing it, though.”

I’ll flash her a look with my eyebrow darn near in my hair line. That just makes her mad. So I do it again. Just to prove I can.

“How come you can do it so good?” she’ll ask.

Really? Cause I’ve been doing it for forty-odd years. I have sarcasm, in all its finer points, down to a science.  If they’d had sonograms when I was in utero you can bet you’d have seen my little eyebrow up there saying, “Really? Mexican food again, Mom?”