Pucker up. Not you. I was talking to myself. I often talk to myself, in fact. Just last week I was talking to myself in a Best Buy. I was shopping for a dashboard iPhone holder for Wife’s car, and had a question for the salesman lurking in the shadows of the audio accessories section. No sooner had I opened my mouth than the apparition vanished in a poof of smoke (Camel Lights, I think – must have been his cigarette break). Before I knew it, I was chattering away about Bluetooth capability and auxiliary inputs to myself. I was escorted from the premises shortly thereafter. They told me I had violated their store policy of “Speaking to Employees.” Lesson learned. So why am I talking to myself now? Simple: my lips are chapped. Actually, my lips are pretty much always chapped in the winter time, and if I don’t give myself a verbal reminder every once in a while to apply my fancy designer ant wax chapstick, my mouth dries out and creaks to a complete standstill, much like the Tin Man in The Wizard of Oz, when he was in his actor’s trailer with lower than average humidity. The only problem is that I suspect I am becoming addicted to the soothing restorative properties of this magical product. If I seem paranoid, it’s because, for years, my late grandmother was convinced that the chapstick companies were out to hook unsuspecting consumers on their cylindrical balms and salves. I’m beginning to think she was on to something.