On love and mail ...

I get asked the same question over and over, no matter where I go, so to finally answer ... yes, these are my real breasts.

As I drove into work this morning, listening to F*** the Police (pron. POE - lease) by N.W.A., I thought about the group that Dre and his posse of ne'er do wells should have been railing against, and that is postal carriers.

I'm pretty sure mine is stealing my mail and leaving me with nothing but ValPaks and Dominos coupons, which he balls up before he puts them in box, making it look like I dug them out of someone's trash if I ever decided to use them.

Speaking of sage advice from unexpected places, our office cleaning lady is the wisest person I know. Sorry mom and dad. But this woman, who goes by the handle of "Mother Love," cuts to the core of every world issue with just a few words.

I don't know if it's because she spends most of her day sitting on a chair in a supply closet reading tabloids or what, but she is my 6' 2" Yoda.

In the words of Mother Love, sometimes "you gotta fall out of love, before you can fall in love."

Watch your back, mailman.