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!

Just when you thought this whole Michael Jackson madness couldn't get any weirder...

ACTOR Macaulay Culkin is the mystery dad of Michael Jackson's son Blanket, it was claimed last night.

W.T.F?

Can we get off this macabre Merry-Go-Round now, please? I think I'm going to hurl.

It's The Most Wonderful Time Of The Year!

which can mean only one thing...

It's the first day of school.

Okay, so Geo and I weren't blessed with children of our own, but September still reminds me of the start of a new school term. I can tell you I still get a charge from this time of year. There's a palatable shift in energy. A clear change from the carefree shuffle of summer to the audible buzz of a time-to-get-off-your-ass-and-get-back-to-work attitude. Facilitating this change is the noticeably cooler nights, earlier sunsets and reduced production of mint for my beloved Mojitos.

What?! Daaaaaaaammit!

But most of all this time of year reminds me of my Mom (Big Mar), her best friend Pat and the greatest First-Day-of-School tradition EVER.

When we (and by "we" I mean the five of us kids) would come home from our first day of school, Big Mar would always be on the couch napping...sometimes with a cool cloth on her head. Kinda unusual because she normally would be in the kitchen preparing some kick-ass, mouth-watering, so-delicious-your-taste-buds-would-dance dinner causing you to salivate all over the new shirt you just HAD TO HAVE so you could be as cool as Jennifer who was oh-so pretty and always had the hippest threads which she wore every day for the entire first week making you feel square and insignificant even though you tried really REALLY hard to find the signature shirt of the season and now it has this big nasty purplish pool of a stain because you just HAD to eat a grape flavored freeze pop on the way home making your spit all pinky-purple, didn't you, Asswipe and now the frock is ruined and you'll be ridiculed for being relegated to last year's fashions and...

Wait...what was I talking about?

Oh yeah. So my Mom who's usually in the kitchen cooking or baking is sleeping on the couch. Weird. It wasn't until we were adults she fessed up that once she and Pat watched the last of their broods walk up the hill and out of sight, they'd bust open the highballs (that 60s constant cocktail) and celebrate their sweet release from the long, cruel summer of offspring overload. I should note here that my Mom, like many women of that era, was a stay-at-home Mom which meant dealing 24/7--by herself--with all the crap we kids could dish out from June 6th until D-Day in September.

So, yeah. Turns out Big Mar was sleeping off a bender when we got home.

Seriously. Don't you just love that? If we had kids I'd be sooo down with that ritual.

I'm happy to say that ceremony has been adopted by many a mother with whom I have shared the tale. They call it "Mimosa Monday".

To all the mothers reading this...feel free to follow in this time-honored tradition. And please, pass it on to any woman struggling for a reason not to murder her progeny by summer's end.

They're gone, BABY! Cheers!

Friday Photo #30
Location Location Location

True in real estate... and Rhett Miller signatures. :D

The End Of An Era...

I was sincerely saddened this morning by the news of Ted Kennedy's death.

He was many things to many people. A crusader for civil rights. The champion of the underdog. The last true liberal in the Senate. The voice of the disenfranchised. And yes, to some a criminal.

First and foremost, he was human.

He drank too much. He made mistakes. He made a HUGE mistake way back when in the marshy waters of Chappaquiddick. Do I think he used his name and family connections to get away with manslaughter. Sure. Few wealthy and influential people don't. But I also believe he spent the rest of his life trying to atone for that sin so long ago, committed by a man of a certain age who should have known better than to run.

He's the only one of the dashing Kennedy boys who was spared an assassin's bullet and got to sport a thick shock of grey hair into his 70s. Perhaps that was karma's gift to him--affording him the opportunity to make right of his wrong.

And boy, did he.

Many of the great social programs which help the middle class as well as those less fortunate exist in large part because of the Liberal Lion. He understood what makes this country so special. The bounty of the American Dream is for everyone. We are all in this together, and together we can accomplish great things.

He was the only one left of our fabled Royal Family. The beastly burden of legacy was involuntarily thrust upon his shoulders. He was the baby, for God's sake. His brothers' short lives left gi-normous shoes he was expected to fill. No wonder he drank. Seriously! Good Lord! With that kind of pressure, who wouldn't need to crawl into the bottom of a bottle for comfort. He eventually got his shit together, got his head straight and became one of the most productive Senators in Congress.

I think his brothers would have been proud.

Once upon a time, there was an idyllic mind-set called Camelot wherein hope lived. Where we all believed the world was good and nothing was impossible. Teddy was the last and the loudest member. Even though the original cast of this fictitious Eden have all passed away, their ideals live on. For that we all owe him a tip of the hat and an enormous thank you.

Thank you for your courage. Thank you for your compassion. Thank you for your resolve. You have served your country and its people very well indeed.

Now go on. Have fun with your brothers.