"I Own You, Mother Plucker!"

or getting powned by Mother Nature

Okay, so last week Geo and I packed up the car with enough crap to survive on a desert island for six months, and headed to the Jersey shore for our annual beach vacation. The journey started out beautifully.

Couldn't have been better. The sun was shining. The roads were dry. The conversation civilized.

Well... mostly civilized. There was this lovely exchange of travel talk in response to me "mumbling" in the car, which I wasn't. I swear. He's just old and infirm. (I kid. I love you, honey. *flutters eyelashes coyly*)

Geo: I'm going to get a hearing check, buy a hearing aid and then turn it OFF when you talk to me.

Me: What?!? ...*snort* hahahahahaha

Okay. That was funny. One for Geo.

Anywho, the first stop on the way to our annual sun-drenched respite was lovely, Malvern, PA for a house concert with our other favorite musician, Francis Dunnery. While it's always a pleasure to attend one of his house concerts, this one was extra special because it was held at his booker, Kate's house. She and I have been conversing back and forth for the last five years, but had never met. We were stoked about finally having a face-to-face with Kate, plus our pal, Tony the merch guy was going to be there as well as Francis' better half, Erica.

(How weird is it that the two musicians I heart most are both living with women named Erica... but I digress.)

The evening was spectacular. We met a lot of really nice people. The music was great. The food was tasty. The bonding afterward was satisfying. All in all an evening well spent.

The next morning, sufficiently fed and watered, we set off for the shore. We got on the correct road, just the wrong direction. In our defense, there was no clear signage and we don't have a compass in our car or on our iTouch. But, yeah, we were heading West instead of East. In hindsight I think the cosmos was trying to tell us something. Clearly we weren't listening.

After 15 minutes of feeling like we weren't in Kansas anymore, I pulled out my phone and called upon the Navigator feature to guide us. Help us Obi Wan Kenobi.

Funny thing...the voice for the navigator is this boozy broad who slurs the names of roads a LOT. Seriously. I keep expecting her to belch or hiccup. It's hysterical. We named her "Babs" after a friend of a friend who was this crazy, in-your-face, I'm-gonna-kick-your-ass, I-love-you-man drunk at a bar crawl.

Half an hour later, with the distinct scent of gin hanging heavy in the air, we were heading eastward thanks to Boozy Babs, the barfly.

The overcast skies didn't dampen the warm greeting we received from our family members. We cracked open the Ritas, went to lunch, strolled through an art show, tapped the liquor box, hung on the dock, got a refill, cooked dinner, corked the wine... you get the idea.

The forecast called for breaks of sunshine, but everyone knows weathermen are LIARS!! By the third grey day, I was convinced the Sun, knowing we were beach bound, took a holiday to the South Seas.

Bastard. I was starting to take it personally.

Still we had fun. In between cocktails, we braved the winds and actually made it to the ocean.

...and stuck our feet in the surf.

The water was surprisingly warm. Determined to wear my bathing suit, I dove into the lagoon at the house.

Holy F..F..F..FARG!!!!??!

Are you kidding me?!? It was so cold (how cold was it?) It was so cold that if I had gonads, they would have totally retreated up into my colon.

After I got enough feeling back in my limbs to hold a fresh cocktail, we spent the afternoon kibitzing and feeding the birds off the dock.

See that bathing suit. That's the one I had on when I ran into my fantasy hubby, Rhett at Dewey beach. Yeah. Scary. But look, he's still thinking about that encounter and how hawt I looked with my crazy-ass beach blown hair. And yes, I shamelessly worked him into this post just so I could put his oh-so-yummy face here.

*swoon*

Moving on...

Things got epically worse. Apparently Mother Nature surprised the Sun at his hotel in Thailand and caught him canoodling some nimble, young Thai chippie. She got pissed, came home early and decided to trash his summer home on LBI.

I mean she brought it!

She unleashed her wrath in the form of 50 mph winds, torrential rain and spotty power outages. The perfect storm of vacation suck.

*sigh* You know the beach party's over when you don't even bother to shave your Simian armpits.

By Friday we cried "Uncle". You win. We're out. We got the message: "Here's your hat. What's your hurry. Now get off my damn island, Monkey Girl!!"

If that wasn't bad enough, good ole vindictive Mother Nature spanked us all the way home. Hey, it's not our fault horny Ole Sol was feeling his oats and other choice girlie bits on his vacation, Be-yatch. Sheesh! Take a valium, for God's sake.

We tried, but sometimes there's just not enough alcohol to ignore the harsh reality in front of you. At least I trashed the last two bags of "Fiendship" bread.

What The??!?
or was there some kind of time shift whilst I slept?


Okay, so last week when I left for vacation, this little ole blog 'o mine had around 2,500 hits. Not a bad showing for someone of no notoriety. Most of the clicks came from a few family members (thanks Geo and Weez) and a small but loyal collection of friends. (By the way, your "thank-you-for-not-making-me-look-like-a-loser" checks will be in the mail. Promise.)


So imagine my surprise when I got home seven days later, logged on to read the head count (What? I like to see if anyone checks in on me. I know it's queer. I'm kinda vain that way...Shut up!) and was greeted with the astronomical number of 11,900 clicks!!?!

Holy Crap!

What the hell happened while I was away? Did I fall into some sort of Rip Van Winkle time warp thingie and it's really, like 3 years later? (Let's see ... 11,900 divided by 3 = 3,633 hits/year...not a bad showing for a schlub) Or perhaps it's just some sort of George W, cocaine-fueled, fuzzy math. Like the counter went on a gin-soaked, lost weekend while I was away and decided to be magnanimous by multiplying each hit by a thousand just to stroke my ego... or dick with me.

Whatever. I'll take it.

My thanks to those readers (either phantom or real) for the outstanding week. You guys rock!

Wait a minute... Now I guess this means I have to get cracking and write something actually entertaining.

*crap*

Happy Birthday to You...

or guess who's turning 39 today?

Okay, so today is my fantasy husband's birthday. Yes the blue-eyed lovely turns 39 today.

Imagine my surprise when I got an invitation to the birthday shindig at his Hudson Valley home.

But what to get the King-of-all-my-things?? He's got a bit of money so he can buy pretty much what he wants.

Hmmmm...

It would have to be something memorable. Something most men cherish. Something straight me can't resist. And in his case, something that goes well with Jameson.

I've got it!

Boobs! Fluffy, sweet, Marsha Mallow boobs. That oughta bring a little life to the party. He is sooo gonna be all over me for this.

Tick.. Tock.. Tick.. Tock..

or how my clock mocks me for my foolishness

Okay, so it's 1:14 in the morning and I can't sleep because some asshat made me drink a fully caffeinated iced mocha latte after nine o'clock.

My friends and I were having a grand ole time at the local First Friday community event here in Mt. Lebo, listening to a great local band Lohio, cruising up and down the avenue window shopping when some young turk pulled a knife and forced me to chug the loaded ice-cold coffee beverage while she laughed and pointed.

The suspect looked familiar. Red hair. glasses. Kind of a mouth-breather. Laughs at fart jokes. Hey, I know who the ASShat in question was...

ME!?!!

Clearly I had forgotten I'm middle-aged and afflicted with the inability to ignore the caffeine charge pulsing through my veins in order to fall blissfully asleep.

*sigh*

So instead of lying in bed listening with envy (and a little disgust) to my husband's measured breathing while my innards are vibrating (and not in a good way), I decided to jump on here and bore you to tears.

Lucky you.

Problem is I don't have anything much to talk about since I'm kinda obsessing over not being able to sleep, not to mention the computer is suddenly jacked up and not keeping up with my rapid, caf-FIEND-fueled typing. And it is really getting on my last nerve.

So instead of just prattling on incessantly, I thought I'd do a sort of "best-of" blog posts for those of you who may have joined my little party late. Plus perhaps it will make up for my lack of inspiration in the humor department lately.

Okay, by way of introduction as well as explanation, here's the first posting. Click here.

A rant about a Euro-trash salon that gets your "Betty ready" here and the video here.

A really bad idea for dinner here.

An evil Christmas tale in which I discover I'm living in Twin Peaks here.

In which the dream Gods are not fair..and kinda dicky here.

In which I speak of the dreaded phantom fecal spore sista here.

Every gal's favorite doctor's appointment here.

Just two more. I swear. The caffeine is starting to wear off now. Geez Louise. I didn't realize I wrote so much crap over the last year...

A little insight into Geo and my relationship and the loss of a dear, old friend here.

And finally...just because I am 10 years old. Enjoy this one here.

That should do it. I think I've successfully bored myself to sleep and no doubt dragged you along to slumberville. I promise to do better. Until then...

Nighty-Night

Friday Photo #31

Aaaaaaaah!! The last of the summer sun awaits us on lovely Long Beach Island. Bathing suit..check! Sunblock...check! Fifth of the finest vodka ...CHECK!!

Friendship or FIENDship Bread

or what fresh (baked) Hell is this?

Okay, so there's this recipe that comes around every few years for Amish Friendship Bread. On the surface it looks benign enough. It's one of those deals where a buddy hands you a baggie containing ecru colored goo, AKA a starter and a sheet of paper with instructions for the care and feeding of said bag 'o goo.

When it's all said and done, the end result is mighty tasty, but here's the deal--it takes ten freaking days and 28 pounds of sugar and flour to get to the eating part! No shit.

This is no ordinary confection. No. It demands a commitment. Holding out on its delectable creamy center, teasing you with its tempting mouth-watering aroma until you get on one knee and pledge your undying devotion to it. And even then when you take the leap of faith, there are STILL strings attached.

This must be what it's like being a horny guy. "Hey, babe. I'm not asking for a lifetime, just a little sugar."

Then its last demonic act is to make you involve your friends. It demands you suck them into the cycle of satanic stew by forcing you to split the batter into FOUR MORE starters--one for you to keep in order to perpetuate your own personal madness--the other three to thrust upon your unsuspecting pals, propelling them into their own nut bread nightmare where they can chase down their friends with the baggies...who will chase down their friends...who will chase down their friends...

And so it goes on and on in perpetuity... starters passed from one to the other, friends ignoring phone calls and avoiding eye contact for fear of receiving yet another bag 'o life-sucking slop until one of you has the strength and courage to break the cake or death circle and throw...the...bag...OUT!!

Then we can all breath easy until one day, when you least expect it, there's a knock on the door and sitting on your stoop is a baggie filled with...

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!

Friendship bread, my ass. More like fucking FIENDship bread.

I need an old priest and a new priest...

In Which I Become An Accidental Flasher...

or some habits are hard to break.

Okay, so last week we got all new windows installed in our house. I must tell you, I am NOT a big fan of having workers milling about the house. I loveloveLOVE that the project gets finished in a timely fashion without Geo and me having anything to do with its completion. There's less bloodshed that way. But I REALLY haaaaate having strangers parading around my domicile.

For one thing I'm usually dealing with these guys by myself, and I have little confidence when it comes to making decisions on the fly. Plus I never know what to do with myself to avoid getting in their way. And then there's always that whole awkward "Hey, how ya doin'" conversation that never seems to go anywhere except the express lane to Uncomfortable Land. Then they want to use your toilet, and I'm never sure if I'm expected to make them coffee or lunch or propositions...

It's just plain icky. (And yes, that's the technical term.) Sadly, a necessary ick if we're ever to get crap done to our house.

Plus there's always the horrifying possibility of this:

Fortunately, these guys were unbelievably great. They.Kicked.Ass!! Fifteen windows installed in one day. No lie. And they were completely easy to deal with. Totally low maintenance and barely a blip on the "ick-factor" scale. We are definitely using these dudes again.

So bottom line, we have brand-spanking-new, fully-functioning double hungs (*giggle* my inner 12-year-old thinks that sounds so dirty) and a gorgeous bay window in the front bedroom for which we have yet to figure out the window treatments.

So what does this have to do with old habits being hard to break, you may ask...and you may. Go ahead. I'll wait...

This is the second morning in which I non-chalantly waltz into the bedroom at 3:15am to do my daily check of the weather channel (yeah, I check the weather channel in the morning. What? I'm not old. I just want to know if it's cold or rainy or whatever. Shut up.), turn on the light, flip on the TV and suddenly realize...

I'm standing there TOPLESS.

Yes. Topless. In front of the uncovered bay window. For all the neighborhood to witness my mammary mishap. The girls free and easy. Out there in the gentle breeze. Being all friendly. Saying "Hi, Sailor!" They are such tarts.

Yeah.

Did I mention this was the SECOND time I've done this this week? SECOND. I think I did. I'm such a bonehead. Plus now I think I'm on some sort of to-be-watched-closely police listing of persons who should totally wear clothes. LOTS of clothes. Like...layers upon layers of clothes, you know, as a pub(l)ic service.

And here's the truly disturbing thing... you'd think I'd flee the room in haste to grab a towel or robe or even shut off the light, but noooo. I stood there, clutching my none-too bodacious bazongas and watched the weather report. In my defense, it was the Local on the 8's! Hey, the clock was ticking, and Lord knows I didn't have time to wait an entire 10 minutes for the next report. I barely get to work on time as it is.

So being one who apparently does not shy away from sharing her humiliation with the public, I naturally posted my mishap on Facebook. True to form, my friends came through with wise-ass cracks...pun intended. Jimmy McParkway even wrote a little song about it:

Moon over Dormont/see Murray's ol' tush tonight/

Flashing her bosoms/in the morning's early light.

Look out in Brookline/you might have seen her vag-i-ine.

Moon over Dormont tonight!!

I love you, Facebook.

And that's how I became the accidental flasher of Dormont. Cover your eyes! Cover your eyes!