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!

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.