I adore grammar books as much as the next hack journalist, but when I read Lynne Truss’s Eats, Shoots & Leaves, something about the book didn’t sit well with me. There were parts I loved, for sure. Like the author’s passionate, and strangely righteous, denunciation of the movie title “Two Weeks Notice” (specifically, the lack of the possessive apostrophe after “Weeks”). And her tone was great, too, as I imagine a mildly sedated David Sedaris might be. But still, like a marble in my Broca’s area, the book’s advice wouldn’t stop rattling around my syntactical subconscious. As much as I tried ignore the warning signs, one thought persisted: This book is full of grammar mistakes!

As a balding man–one who desperately tries to staunch the loss with Propecia, but is teetering perilously close to a Trump combover–I’ve got a dire need for miracle hair-care products. So far, I’ve tried a bunch. There have been mousses, spritzes, and gels. I’ve tried using stiff hairspray, waiting for it to dry, and then cracking up the perfectly coifed locks. Sadly, none of the usual drug store products have worked.

Seduced by an ad in Esquire, a few years back, I ordered some Toppik, a product that claimed to be “an amazing new complex of tiny, microfiber “hairs” that perfectly blend with your hair. … Thousands of tiny color matched hair fibers will intertwine with your own hair. Charged with static electricity, they bond so securely that they will stay in place all day and night, in even the strongest wind or hardest rain!” In reality, Toppik was a $40 bottle of dirty blonde talcum powder, which just made my hair really dusty and, when I sweated, gloppy. Shortly after trashing the mail-order hair, my friend Gwynne stepped up and helped dye my hair brown–which, miraculously, did manage conceal a lot of scalp. But a week later my hair turned orange and I became known as the Carrot Top wannabe around the office.

So, as I say, I have a dire need for good hair products. And that is why the first official TurkeyMonkey.com endorsement goes to–drumroll please–Kiehl’s Solid Grooming Aid. It’s essentially a pomade with a whole bunch of wacky seed oils (Jajoba, Sunflower, Baby Seal) that prevent hair from frizzing. I’ve only been using the stuff for a few days now, but there’s no questioning that it’s brought me, or at least my hair, a few steps closer to the happy place that John Kerry inhabits. The grooming aid appears to give my microscopically thin hair more volume, and it’s keeping the wispy alfalfa sprouts to a minimum. Now, if only Kiehl’s could figure out a way to charge it with static electricity …

File this one under “how to interact with my future in-laws,” or maybe “other lessons learned on Ana’s birthday.” On Sunday, we were preparing Ana’s brother’s new deck for Father’s Day barbeque when Ana’s Portuguese aunt and uncle arrived a few minutes early (on time, actually, but we can chalk that faux paux up as a cultural disconnect). I greeted Aldina, Ana’s aunt, with a nice big hug, but she refused to release me until I acquiesed to the ol’ two-cheek kiss (chalk that up to cultural differences, too, I guess).

“It’s so nice to see you again,” I said, in my most charming, butter-up-the-fam kind of way.
Response: “Oh, you are really fat.”
“Excuse me?”
“You fat. Big belly.”
“Wha?”
“Really big belly.”

Shocked and embarrased, I reached for the nearest blunt instrument. But then I saw Ana in the distance and thought better of thumping my future aunt-in-law. I put down the badmitten racquet. The only thing to do, I concluded, was play her game.

“Well, at least I’m not as fat as you. And I dress well, too. That’s worth something.”
“Oh,” she said. “Yes. Sim.”

When I heard that Google was offering email accounts with 20 gigabytes of storage space, I nearly gnawed my fingers off in excitement. For months now, I’ve been sick of my Yahoo! account constantly going over its storage limit–usually when someone emails me more than three or four pictures. So, I was like, sign me up, Google! Only problem: You need to be invited to join Gmail by someone who’s willing to part with one of their three precious invites.
These invites have become a hot commodity, with websites auctioning them off for cash and/or body massages. My tech savvy friend, Andy, was kind enough to send one of his my way. But I never got it. He insisted that he’d sent it to the right Yahoo! address, but it was missing from my Inbox and my bulk file, and the only plausible explanation was that I’d accidentally deleted it. Or did I? As it turns out, there was another culprit. I just read a number of articles about how Yahoo! and Hotmail have been intentionally deleting or rerouting the Gmail invites. Those evil bastards!

We traveled up to NJ this weekend to christen Ana’s 27th year of life and have a nice Father’s Day grill on the Mendes family’s new deck. Other highlights from the weekend: We saw the movie “Saved!” (in which Macaulay Culkin plays a cripple, which alone makes the movie delightful), I beat Petey Piranha on Super Mario Sunshine (a mercenary mission, I should add, that I was issued from the triplets), and Portugal beat Spain in the European Cup to make it to the quarter-finals. However, it was on the quest for Ana’s gifts that I made my most useful (and disturbing) discoveries.