Calling All Cocktails

or here we go again...

Okay, so today has been one of those off days.

First of all, I had an extra steel drum practice this morning, and I could not have stunk up the place any more. Like a huge turd. A ginormous, garlic-laden Chinese take out, beer loaf fueled, noxious gas cloud accompanied turd. With a capital "T".

You'd think I never heard these songs before. We're supposed to perform for some big-time charity event in a couple weeks. Pffft! Yeah. Like that's not going to be too humiliating. And no, you're not invited unless you have really, REALLY deep pockets to donate thousands and are, you know, deaf. Then you can sit in the front row.

Moving on...

Part two of my "off" off day involved a trip to the hospital for a three-years-running follow-up ultrasound of my petite decolletage. After waiting for over half an hour (thank God they had wifi so my iTouch could keep me company) I was ushered into a badly lit room and handed a lovely cloth gown. Ladies, you know the one I'm talking about...it has the repetitive little diamond pattern on it much like your Pappy's boxers from the 50s. Mmmmm... Dead sexy.

This thing has almost as many random ties as Medusa has snakes for hair. Seriously. I don't know what my problem is, but I can never seem to front tie the damn thing closed. There's always a gap through which some such embarrassing girlie bit peeks. Hellooo, Sailor! Why bother covering up anyway, right? I'm just gonna have to whip out my fun bags for some stranger to wrangle. Thank God it's a chick and not some burly, furry Sasquatch Dude with a nicotine stained red beard and missing bottom teeth who doesn't wear boxers or briefs. Eeeewww!

"Hi. I'm Pam. Now lay back and let's whip that bad-boy out so I can squeeze about three inches of this ice-cold gel on your girls and press this flat DE-vice clear down to your gizzard over and over and over and over..."

Good times.

After thirty fun-filled minutes of awkward chit chat and even more awkward silences, the tech scurries out of the room to consult the doc. Turns out there are two cysts they want to do a TFA or PFA or DDT or BFD or WTF...whatever the Hell it's called. It's a fine needle aspiration of the fluid contained in the aforementioned offending cysts.

Shit.

It's not necessarily bad. It's probably nothing, much like the last time. And it certainly could be far worse. Like big-time worse. Like festering death hidden in the hollows of my innards, worse. I have two dear friends who are dealing with the Big Bad Wolf of cancers, so I should quit whining, right? Right. But still...

Shit.

I hate being a statistic.

See, now if I'd only been a big ole hootchie and got knocked up way back when, I probably wouldn't be facing this crap. But, Nooooooooooo. I had to be a good girl.

Anywho, I was fine...until I called Geo. Then the tears just started flowing. Absolutely ridonkulous with a capital DONK. I mean, really. I'm not dying of cancer. It's nothing, but you know, that's how girls are. Well, that's how THIS girl is. The first familiar voice and WHOOSH! Waterworks.

So you know what I did? I bought two Reese's Peanut Butter Pumpkin bars and ate both of them. Then I washed them down with the tallest fucking Mojito I could concoct. Because sometimes in life the only pacifier is cocktails and chocolate.

Time to turn that frown upside down. *ice cubes tinkling* Ready for a refill.

Bell X1 Blows Into Town in a Sprinter

or how to spend an excellent Tuesday night in Pittsburgh

Okay, so yesterday Geo and I ventured out of the comfort zone of our Italian leather sofa to catch the Irish band, Bell X1 at a great little intimate club on the South Side. And get this...it was a Tuesday.

Yeah. Tuesday. A school night. We're rebels. You can't stop us and our maverick ways.

Anywho, long story short (wha? a short story from me? I know, right? this post is full of surprises!) we.LOVED.THEM!!

They were so much better than we expected. The lead singer, who I will call "Michael" since I have no idea what his name is, totally looks like an older version of Michael Cera from "Arrested Development" fame.

They write such great music. It's full of layers and witty phrasings delivered with an off beat cadence. "M.C." is so much fun to watch perform. Much like my heartthrob, Rhett, he's one of those artists who closes his eyes, gets completely absorbed into the music and lets his body convulse however it wants without the slightest bit of self consciousness. At times I thought, "this is how Frankenstein would look if he was so inclined to dance". How could you not enjoy being a part of that type of abandon?

There are so many great lines in their songs, all delivered with a silky smooth voice:

My tongue is scaling... the north face of your neck/and we're glaring... like warriors/but I have a feeling you won't look at me that way...in the morning

Your picking your knickers out of your ass like your plucking a one string harp

and my favorite from The Great Defector:

You're the chocolate at the end of my...cornetto/I love the way your underwire bra/always sets off that X-ray... machine

One funny thing that happened, at the top of the show "Michael" asked everyone to move the tables and chairs closer to the stage. Of course, we all complied. At the end of the set there was no room for the band to weave through the crowd to wait in the back for us to do the little end-of-show dance and beg them via applause to return for an encore. So "Mikey" looks out and exposes the entire sham that is the encore by saying something like "this is where we'd normally walk off and then you clap for us to come back. Do you want us to come back? Should we just pretend we went off stage and just keep playing?" To which everyone cheered and yelled for them to stay.

Anywho...we had such a great time. They left us wanting them to return again soon. A school night very well spent. Here are three songs from the evening recorded on my Barney Rubble pocket camera.

Flame (in which he dances like a spazzy Frankenstein and plays... COWBELL!)

Rocky Takes a Lover

and the closer, The Great Defector (won't you tell us about those rabbits, George)

You can hear more songs streaming on their myspace page here. Enjoy!

Yowza!!??

or "I'm sorry waitress, I didn't order this"

When I turned 49 in January (Yes! 49!?! Me?!?) or 7 squared as I like to look at it, I laughed my ass off because I have the maturity of, like, a 12 year old boy. For once in my life, I was totally cool with my age, my looks, my body. I felt truly FABULOUS!

Then something awful happened over the past few months...

I suddenly look tired, saggy and in need of one of those "quick-fix" face lifts all the quacky dermo docs are hawking these days. Personally I think some vindictive troll swapped my mirror with a reverse Dorian Gray** model because some middle-aged, south-of-the-border, deluded cougar is staring back at me. And I can't get her to leave. Not even tossing the Kettel One Vodka out in the back yard will get her to budge from the sofa. And that's the good stuff!

Stubborn Skank.

Now I know I'm prone to flip flop between complete "I will conquer your world" confidence and utter insecurity capable of crippling my psyche and leaving me in an emotionally wrought fetal position, rocking back and forth in the back of my closet, clutching my blue blankee for solace.

But seriously. What the HELL is happening?

To my face? To my hands? To my...

Good God! What the EFF is that thing dangling between what used to be my smooth jaw line and the family of folds currently homesteading on my neck?!? It's like the elastic waistband of my youthful past life snapped overnight, and I can't quite fish it back out through the holes in order to stitch it tightly back together. And now it keeps slipping down my back side, and it's just no good for anything.

You know you're of a "certain age" (love that phrase, don't we ladies? NOT! An utterance worthy of a justified stabbing.) when you put your freshly washed, dripping hands under one of those new-fangled Turbo dryers in the ladies room... and the velocity of the air produces rippling waves on your man-mitts high enough for a mini surfer dude to hang ten into shore.

Cowabunga!

I swear to God my flesh pools over the ends of my palms like a pocket watch in a Dali painting, or that hideous upper-arm flap that continues to wave Buh-bye looong after you've quieted your limb.

I mean, come on. That ain't right.

Not to mention gross. So don't mention it. I'm not kidding. Don't go there. Really.

So where does this whole, painful realization leave me? I don't know. I'm not going to get a face lift yet. Everyone knows they only last 10 years. Pffft! Pa-lease. I guess I'll have to drink on it. Er...think on it.

Nah...I was right the first time. After a couple of super-sized refills I won't ca... what was the issue again?

**yes. I realize this makes no sense since the portrait of Dorian Gray aged while his actual flesh and blood being did not. It just sounded good to me for some reason. Don't judge me. Shut up. I'm pre-menopausal. I could injure you.

Deja Vu All Over Again

Okay, so we're getting a new morning anchor team come Monday. The female half of this new and improved, Good-Lord-let-these-people-be-the-ones-to-boost-ratings-and-get-us-out-of-the-crapper set is an anchor on her second time through.

Jen-Jen was the 5pm anchor for roughly 14 years before she decided she had a chance to bust out and go national. She did, but she didn't. So now she's back where she started, but this time working the "Shift of the Damned" with the rest of us peons.

Whether her return will be embraced overwhelmingly by the public at large as to create a seismic jump in our numbers is the proverbial $64,000 question. I wouldn't want that kind of pressure which is why I sit in my cushy chair, pushing buttons. No Atlas I.

Anywho, the new Tom Cat in the scenario is a middle-aged fellow who came to us via West Virgina. Turns out he replaced my beloved KJo in WV when Keith moved to Pittsburgh...and now he's going to be warming the very seat upon which KJo's buttocks had nestled. Okay, not literally the same chair. We actually got new ones. For realz. The tight wads in charge actually ponied up the dough for comfortable seating. Wha? That's madness, you say. I know, right?

Moving on...

And so starts yet another round of changes, which if you've been reading my crap for a while you know how much I hate change especially in personnel I adore. (catch up here)

I have to admit, however I'm going to sorta miss our temporary anchoress. Sure she was a little neurotic and obsessive at times, but you never knew what unintentional gem was going to escape her lips. Without her we would not have such classics as:

"Police still looking for a missing BONER..." (instead of boater)

and

"I don't want feces in my hair..."

That last one she uttered because she was unaware we were back from break and she was on. Live. On the air. Yeah.

Aaaaaa... Good times. Good times.

Who knows what the climate will be like come Monday. Although Jen-squared is rather witty at times, new guy Rick is a wild card. I have no idea what to expect. I hope he's quick with the clever come backs because Lord knows we could use the levity. Humor's a good thing, especially hours before the crack of dawn when it's pretty much just us watching. Somethings though things go horribly, huh wrong...

Let's hope our new male co-anchor won't bust out a similar mishap right out of the gate this week causing our Jen Jen to react with horror like that poor lass. Although wouldn't that be just awesome? Secretly, I would soooo heart that. Hey, it might even help the ratings.

Friday Photo #32

She's on the deck with me, polishing off her third cocktail. Duh. She can still hear the little rug rats...I mean, darlings. Time for another...

I Think There's A Bounty On My Head

or why the insect world be hatin' on me?

Okay, so about a month ago I was driving to my Mom, Big Mar's house when something on the driver's side window caught my eye. It was a...

SPIDER!!!??!?!!!

For those of you who know me well, you understand what an issue this is for me. I don't dig bugs in general, but Spiders.Freak.Me.OUT!! Seriously. I hatehateHATE them! Mainly I hate how they just...appear. Suddenly and without warning. They're like stealthy, furry eight-legged ninjas on a string. EEeeewww! *shudder*

Usually they choose the shower in which to ambush me during the wee wee hours of the morn. I'm minding my own business, rinsing the shampoo from my hair, open my eyes and--

WHAM!

Spider in the FACE...dangling a farging inch from my severely myopic eyes! Of course I try to make it scurry back up its silky thread by blowing on it. Logical, right?

WRONG!

The jagoff doesn't go up, but out--its hideous arachnid form swinging towards me at what seems like light speed, forcing me to bend backwards in a Neo/Matrix move. I've got shivers up my spine just thinking about it.

Wait...what was I talking about? Oh yeah. The spider on my car window. Correction. The spider on the INSIDE of my car window. Panicked, I roll down the window (thank you to whomever created auto windows) gathering the biggest, deepest breath an asthmatic can muster and blow the bastard out the window.

Relieved, I start to roll the window back up and BOING! The little f*cker flings back inside the car as if it's on a spring!?!

Holy CRAP!

Totally freaked I gathered breath from the bottom of my toes and shot the blast at the little freak, knocking him back out, zooming the window shut and leaving him hanging on the outside of the glass. All this while driving.

Asshole.

Then a couple of weeks ago, I was walking to the garage entrance at work when I was confronted by the Beast. A cockroach the size of a Smart Car was poised between me and the door...his antenna waving defensively.

He pulled a knife and lunged forward. I countered with a Kung fu drop-kick to his ribbed thorax, knocking the knife loose. The nimble minx sprung back up and charged. We wrestled. I finally pulled a gun and shot him. Exhausted, I left his oozing, lifeless hull on the concrete as a warning to the others.

Fast forward to this morning.

I'm driving to work hours before the crack of dawn when I notice something big fluttering in my rear view mirror. What the f..?? What?

At first I thought the critter in question was outside the car. Yeah, right. I should be so lucky. Clearly my winged nemesis was inside. I figured if I rolled the windows down I could blow his ginormous ass out. So down come all four windows. Now I drive slightly above the speed limit. *snort* Who am I kidding. I drive like a bat out of hell as evidenced in a past post here.

So now the gale-force winds blowing through the car are so powerful they're practically blowing my hair out by the roots and making my cheeks flap like an astronaut in a G-Force chamber. Surely that sucked the intruder out into the morning mist. I roll the windows up and try to flatten my tresses from their upright and locked position. Crisis averted.

Suddenly Mothra dive bombs my head, bouncing into the windshield. I'm not ashamed to say I let out a huge, girlie scream and swerved left. Not a good idea since I was in the left lane which is lined with Jersey barriers and, you know, I'm driving fast.

Mothra tries to grab the wheel. There's a struggle. Sparks are flying as we bounce off the Jersey barriers. I manage to elbow him in his dingly-dangs, shove his crumpled thorax out the window at 50 mph and watch his white-winged carcass get smaller in my rear view mirror.

"Yeah you're getting smaller in my rear view mirror..." (sorry. love that Old 97's song)

I'm starting to take these assaults personally. What is with all the juiced up bugs lately. Holy Crud. They're all hopped up on the roids and looking for a fight. Well I got news for you, Creepy Crawlers. Just cause I'm a girl y'all think you can take me. I may be uber squeamish and scream like a girl, but when push comes to shove and it's you or me...I'm bringing the hurt. It's ON!

Oh... it's ON, BABY!!

And Another Thing...

or somedays there's a lot to share

Okay, so lately I've had to stretch to find something to write about--hence the infrequency of posts. Then some days a pile of stuff happens each of which is screaming to be shared. Today (or yesterday, or last week, or last month depending on whenever the Hell I publish this) is that day.

So I get summoned into the control room this morning to have a book thrust at me titled "The Alphabet of Manliness" written by visionary author (his words) Maddox, a 27 year old, ex telemarketing programmer who happens to also have a website thebestpageintheuniverse.com. The subtitle of which reads "This page is about me and why everything I like is great. If you disagree with anything you find on this page, you are wrong."

OhMiGod! This tome is completely off-color and entirely un-PC. With a capital U-N. It is also flipping HILARIOUS!!

Our hours-before-the-crack-of-dawn show producer, Kelly claims she didn't buy this lovely bit of literature, but it was sent to her. Right. Whatever. It is a treasure of the most juvenile kind. There are so many great terms (pork sword and ass bouquet) and euphemisms I swear to Jehovah it was penned by my dearly-defected-to-the-nation's-wang buddy, KJo. It is soooo up his proverbial alley. It is replete with fractured factoids and elicit illustrations guaranteed to make fluids fly out your nose.

I'd like to read from this missive. (I realize I run the risk of some readers not finding the humor in this as I. So be it. You know me by now. This should be no surprise.)

"B is for Boners"

A chapter imparting a wealth of knowledge of all things stiff, not flacid. Besides including helpful tips (pun intended) about concealing one's boner--always cover it up with something i.e. a newspaper, book, family pet because bending over just calls attention to ones saluting soldier--he lists a handy-dandy trouser snake reference guide:

Sporting wood while shopping for a gun: straight

Sporting wood while shopping for a gun with your buddy: Straight

Sporting wood while shopping for a gun with your buddy while holding each others willy: Gay

"G is for Gas"

Apparently internal pressure is essential in the fine art of flatulence. The author believes the reason women can't sound off trailing bottom burps is we ladies can't shut our traps long enough to store up the proper pressure for epic tush tootelage. Contained Pressure = greater frequency of "fart ripples" or "fripples" = elongated braaaaapping = hours of enjoyment for your friends.

He identifies some classic farts:

Resident Evil- a fart so hideous no amount of fanning or deodorizers will make it go away. It clings to your clothes, hair, carpet. I think I wrote about that here.

A Fart from the Heart- Letting one fly in a romantic setting after uttering "There's something I've been meaning to tell you"

Dutch Oven-trapping your loved one under the covers after cutting an odiferous doozy in bed. That one's for you, Tooooooodd.

"H is for Hot Sauce"

All men like spicy food. The statement "I don't like spicy food" is a more verbose way of saying "I have a vagina".

"U is for Urinal Etiquette"

Rule #1: "Don't speak unless spoken to, and even then don't speak. In other words: hold your peace while you hold your piece."

Rule #2:

"No peeking or don't gawk at the cock. After a subject has witnessed the penis of another man standing at a urinal, things that once tasted good will taste bitter, video games will start to suck and he will eventually develop a taste for women's literature."

HaHaHaHaHaHa --*SNORT*

Alright...I'm not doing it justice. There's just too much juvenile humor packed into its 200 pages for me to process and share properly. Do your inner 12-year-old a favor and thumb through this tome. Don't make me unleash the "Scratch for Justice" on your keyboard.