In Which A Casual Conversation Turns On You Like A Pitbull

This photo is my life right now.

Fact. I am a victim of extortion.

Okay, so last year at my annual gyny visit, I was handed a script and told "You're old. Go have your colon scrubbed." To which I said, "not until I'm good and ready, Round Eye."

In passing one morning, I casually relayed this conversation to Geo. He was livid. He had assumed I'd already done this disgusting dance of the macabre. Um... hello? Did you go to the hospital with me? No. Ergo, no medical close-up of my colon.

Anywho, words were exchanged, teeth were gnashed, yadda yadda yadda... Geo gave me the big "Or Else". I have to let the surgeon tickle my innards, or else we don't go see Rhett Miller perform in September.

It's extortion, I tell ya. EXTORTION!

I called to book the OR the next day.

What I won't do to hear the lovely blue-eyed one sing.

Blerg.

So, today is "prep" day, meaning I can't eat any solid food stuffs until my procedure tomorrow morning at 9am. 9AM!?!!

Good God, man!

I'm relegated to some hideous voodoo liquid that will twist the insides of my backside, expelling every reasonably solid substance until mere water gushes out of my soon-to-be baboon-red butt with the same intensity as 4-time strongman Magnus Ver Magnusson ringing out a Sham Wow.

he's my hero
if we ever get to Iceland
we are definitely looking him up

Yaaaaaaaaaay...

So since I started the Great Cleanse of my Cornhole, there are a couple of things I've learned about myself.

1. I am MEAN when I'm hungry.

No lie. Trust me. I would NOT be your friend in a plane crash in the Andes. After ten hours, I would totally chow down on Mr. Chunky over there in 11D. And in the completely literal sense. Not at all in that fun, hey-let's-have-a-pantsless-tussle way, either.

"Donner Party of seven... Party of six... five... "

I'm so ornery right now, I started listening to Gangsta Rap in the car with the windows down and the bass cranked to teeth shatter. And it's early in the day yet. Clearly, I cannot handle having no food in my belly after a couple of hours.

2. There is NO FUCKING NUMBER 2!!!

See what I mean. I'm snarky and short fused and hating on nearly everyone and everything. I will kick you square in the nut sack with the pointiest of pointy shoes today... just because.

Nasty-Ass White Chick.

For the record, that's my new rap name. Either that or Come-Near-Me-With-That-Bag-Of-Fresh-Popped-Corn-And-I'll-Rip-A-Vein-From-Your-Neck GirlieO.

That's the other thing. Everywhere I go today I'm assaulted with the sweet, sweet scent of simmering, mouth-watering foods. Barbecue chicken, hamburgers on the grill, fresh baked bread...

I'm drooling like Homer Simpson over here.

mmmm...donuts

Warm popcorn fresh from the popper is truly the Siren's song that sets me salivating. I had no idea how much I could fixate on a snack food, not to mention all the gorgeous, fresh produce from the Fabulous King Boys I got lying around. When this is over, I'm going to slather myself in sunflower butter, chocolate syrup and potato chips and have a big, fat, sloppy food orgy.

Until then, I'll drink the (non) grape Kool Aid of the damned and forge a lasting bond with my Kohler.  All this so when the masked doctor, who I hope to God has washed his hands, shoves a 100 foot garden hose in my hindquarters, it will be all sparkling clean and shit. Pun intended.

Thank the universal health care stars for drugs. Fentanyl and Versed are the meds most used when being medically violated, er... having the "fun" put back in your fundament. Fentanyl helps with the pain of the procedure. We suckers, or patients if you prefer, need to be awake and talking during the charge of the butt brigade just in case the Doc sneezes and you know, accidentally hits the pressure washer setting, sending a veritable geyser through your navel.

I imagine the conversations that go on in the OR as ones similar in nature to talking with someone who has pounded down a few glasses of wine. All slurry and I love you, man-ish. Ohmigod, wouldn't that be hilarious to tape record? Of course I have no idea what crazy crap I'll be saying in there tomorrow, so hey, keep your recorder at home Dr. Derriere. Having your poop shoot telecast on a ginormous 60 inch hi-def TV is bad enough, right?

And that's why on the seventh day, God created Versed to make one forget the horrible humiliation one just endured. Not unlike being zapped by the white light ifrom Men in Black.

this won't hurt a bit

"Oo, Ow it hurts!"
ZZZZZZzzzz
"Aaaah... pretty colors..."

I contend they should package Versed in pill form for every day use. Having a horrendous day? Pop one of those babies and it's gone, baby, GONE! I could make a killing selling these at the Special K.

Better living through chemistry.

Now back to Satan's elixir.

*shudder*

About That Day...

Okay, so I know I obsess about my love of all things Rhett Miller. Geo teases me that I only love the blue-eyed lovely one because he's gorgeous. It's true. He is gorgeous, but honestly what really attracts me to him is his great big brain, his masterful manipulation of words and his sense of humor.

 Alright, it doesn't hurt that all those magnificent inner workings are wrapped in a beautiful outside package. Um...hello. I am a girl after all.

In 2001, Rhett and his soon-to-be-bride, Erica lived a mere two blocks from the World Trade Center. Like thousands of others that fateful day in September, they were awaken by the impact of the planes hitting the towers. With just the clothes on their backs, they literally ran for their very lives as one by one the skyscrapers fell.

We all make split-second decisions in our lives everyday with little consequence. Their decision to run like hell instead of hide in the basement of their apartment building probably saved their lives. It would be the second time he escaped death, first at his own hand, now at the hands of religious extremist.

The Atlantic Monthly has featured Rhett's journal entries from September 11th and the two chaotic days after as part of their ten year anniversary commemoration. It's remarkable reading.

I've never lived in New York City, but have had an emotional attachment to that particular concrete jungle since the first time I walked it's dirty streets at the tender age of 13. Watching the terrifying events of 9/11 was devastating. Clearly not as devastating as those who witnessed first hand the horrors of that day, but still my heart shattered. I couldn't stop crying.

I'm crying now.

Reading his account conjured up a lot of that oppressed heartbreak, but sharing these links on the social networks sparked a wonderfully cathartic conversation with faraway friends on Facebook. So for that, and innumerable other things, I owe a debt of thanks to Mr. Miller.


You can read his Atlantic Monthly article here.

such a lovely song to come out of such tragedy

As an addendum to the main article, Rhett shares how he wrote one of the songs from Blame It On Gravity using the only musical instrument available to him post 9/11, a Mexican guiro attached to a marionette. There are also two unreleased song demos in the article here.

In Which I Spend An Evening With Terrorist Taxis and Scared Bunnies

Okay, so last Saturday night there were huge happenings on the North Shore of the Burgh. Within a 1.5 mile radius there was a baseball game with a post-debacle... I mean, game band (Train) concluding with ginormous fireworks at PNC Park, Heinz Field was hosting a Batman Dark Night Rises shoot and Stage AE was the place to hear outstanding popular music outdoors.  In the sweltering heat. Amongst the icky, sticky masses.

So much to do in one little evening!

My work buddy, Sue was nice enough to tag along with me to see Death Cab For Cutie and my favorite Scottish band, Frightened Rabbit at the above mentioned Stage AE. She and I spent an equally humid night last summer suffering through a wretched Smashing Pumpkins concert. Clearly we are drawn to sweaty events. We are like the Sheen Sister.

we've got to hit some cooler venues

I like this new venue a lot except for the painfully long security line to enter. This evening the queue wound all the way around the perimeter. Fortunately, the Good Humor lady was right around the corner.

me love you long time, ice cream lady

A refreshing orange Creamcicle for me. An erotic ice formation for Sue.

Phallus! Get your ice cold Phallus!

One of the cool things about the gents of Frightened Rabbit (henceforth referred to as Frabbits) is their charitable efforts on tour. Lead singer, Scott Hutchinson has taken to creating a drawing of some kind to sell each night for $20 which goes to a designated charity of record. Last year was the beard tour with Scott drawing a bearded figure on album sleeves bought from local used record stores. This tour's sketch offering is on postcards. Ours paid homage to Batman.

Guess what, kids...

dark night rises from sleep to ... tinkle
answers the question, "what
would batman wear to bed?" 

I scored that puppy, Beeyatch!

After the show, Scott kindly got all the guys from the band to sign the back.

Scott, goober, Gordon, Sue
post-show meet, and greet...and melt

with Andy prior to the show
does he look like a Brit, or what?

The cool thing about this show is for once the opener was as entertaining as the headliner. The Frabbits played a short set, but the crowd was thick with supporters singing and clapping along. They're great fun to watch, if not a wee bit spazzy. Plus the f-bomb sounds so charming uttered in that delightful brogue.





The Loneliness and the Scream is one of my favorite concert finales evah.



Fucking Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrilliant!

(Side Note: Do yourself a favor and click on the "Old Old" video suggestion that pops up after viewing this last video. It's awesome, too and shot from much closer.)

Death Cab For Cutie is one of those oddly named bands introduced to Geo and me years ago via our music guru friend, Beeeeeeal. Their ethereal sound struck a chord early on. It's been five years since they popped through town. Definitely worth the wait.

They played a long 25-song, two hour set full of energetic pop songs. Singer Ben Gibbard was in great voice, buzzing about the stage, bouncing to his own beat. When he stood alone on stage with his acoustic guitar (rifting about how sick HE was of all the Batman traffic chaos), I knew he was about to play my favorite tune of theirs that always makes me cry because I am a huge sappy douche.

*sniff*




This heartbreakingly beautiful song makes me think of the inevitable end of Geo's and my life together...

*double sniff*

For a minute I thought my streak of every performer singing a cover during the show was going to be broken when they finished the master set list and left the stage sans cover song, but then they returned with this.




And the streak continues!! Woo Hoo!




There are more videos on my YouTube channel here.

It was a perfect summer evening of sharing live music with a friend under the starry, moonlit sky. What could possibly top it? Sipping a nightcap in the cool riverfront breeze on a restaurant patio watching these go off.

Perfection.

Oh New York Post. How I Love Thee...

As Lafayette from True Blood might say to the stock market, "Keep your pants on, Hooker."

(thanks to my GF, Marcy for always keeping me "Posted". Groan.)

When Nice Cashiers Attack
or another morning at the Big Bird

Okay, so I actually went to the gym yesterday.

Hold the phone! OMG, What?!?

I know. It's been awhile. I think the cheapness factor of this particular facility--a meager $12 per month--has made it psychologically okay for me to skip long periods of time. However, my ever-increasing sagging ass and cottage cheese knees have become too frightening to ignore. Me plus shorts equals children fleeing the streets, calling for their Mommy, stabbing their eyes with fallen sticks. Some horrors you just can't unsee.

Aaaaanywho....

After tormenting my tendons and such, I ran across the street to a mega supermarket, Giant Eagle to get chicken, some fruit and a veritable shit load of frozen ice cream treats on sticks.

Note to self: for the love of diabetes, don't shop when your hungry and it's oppressively hot outside.

So I get to the check out and the older cashier is all sweetness and light. She's calling me Honey and asking how I'm doing, being all nice and shit.

Then she starts scanning my groceries and tossing them like she's in a fucking corn hole tourney and she's desperately trying to sink a three pointer for the win.

"How are you today, dear?"

SLAM!!

"Isn't it nice out?"

Wheeeeee!! Tosses the bag of frozen chicken bits in a three foot arc, striking the hapless bagger in the side of the head.

"That's a lovely haircut."

SPLAT!!! There go the grapes.

What the Hell?!? Her unprovoked assault on my groceries rattled me. As I stood there, slack jawed and motionless, I wondered if it was me or she just had an aversion to food stuffs. Either way, clearly not the best vocation for her underlying temperament. Crazy chick.

Next time lady, take your XanaX.

In Which It's All Fun and Games Until The Po Po Steps In

Okay, so this past week Big Mar and I drove up to the picturesque Hudson Valley to visit my big bro and lovely SIL, Leslie. It's a bit of a jaunt north, but once we hit the 287 interchange... Jesus it's a fun drive, speeding along at a healthy 80+ clip.

Hey, I'm just keeping up with traffic, yo.

This factoid will come back to haunt me later.

While Big Mar slept, Leslie and I headed to our usual swimming haunts in the river and under the falls, walked the Hudson walkway and ate at various diners.

*note:this chattier section is greyhound fueled. I've been sitting on the deck, in the heat imbibing on what is the end of my first week of vacation. BTW, a greyhound is comprised of grapefruit and my best friend, vodka.

additional side note: that last sentence took me six tries to type correctly.

additional side note squared: Geo thinks it's weird that I drink alone sometimes. I say join me and I won't be alone, right? Besides, someone is drinking somewhere. Step back, dude. I'm a happy tipsy doofus, dammit! Besides it's the heat, not the alcohol getting to me....ZZZzzzzzzzzzzzz

*snort*

But I digress...

Note to self:
these rocks are fucking slippery even with new
Keen water shoes
Seriously, ridiculously slippery
so NOT graceful here in the waters

the river is much easier to maneuver my
graceless ass through

Hudson River Walkway
this sombitch is HIGH

majorly high freaking bridge
geo would HATE IT
me, I hate my hair
Jesus Christmas wtf?

lovely vista from the bridge

Every morning I was greeted by this mug.

who could resist this face
especially when it's attached to such
teeny-tiny legs

Is that not the cutest face EVAH?

P.S.: water dogs are the best fun, except for the shedding... and the drooling... and the water smell. Other than that, they're pretty damn irresistible. Seriously cute.

This time around we did the fat-ass rich people's tour of the Vanderbilt mansion.

"oh this little thing. It only has room for 30."

back stairwell to servants quarters
you know there was some shenanigans going on here

This is the smallest of the 42 mansions. Some people have waaaaay too much dough. Am I right?

And then because we're so sophisticated, we had tea at the nearby town of Beacon where we also stumbled upon the grooviest of groovy toy stores filled with high-brow items as these.

Clearly he is the life of the party 

Boobie BALLS!!
Yay!

So how do you like my new short-as-shit haircut? It's as disheveled as my mind. Whatev. Unlike my ill-fated Skipper doll of yore, this hair grows back.

Oh yeah, I almost forgot about the art exhibit. One of the things I really enjoy about the New Paltz area is the prevalence of artists. We stopped by a walk-in closet sized gallery on Market Street to discover this exhibit of clothing made from waxed paper. Not even kidding. Waxed paper.

never would have guessed she was an artist
she strikes me as a librarian

Translucent paper garments floating. It was really cool. The artist, Kate Hamilton was hanging around for us to get the lowdown. Some people are so clever.

The other thing I love about New Paltz is the fact it has the most fabulous tie-dye store anywhere. It's called Blueberry something or other. I don't know. I don't care at this drunken point. I just know where it's located. They have the BEST tie-dyed garments. The yoga pants... to die for. Seriously comfortable and make everyone's bottom look luscious. I am not even kidding. They are like miracle pants. If they weren't inanimate objects I would consider having an affair with them. They talk so pretty in my ear. Plus Blueberry has the most adorable children's clothes. Is there anything more "Awwww" worthy than a beautiful cherub in masterfully crafted tie-dye? I think not.

But, alas. Even hippies can be dickish.

????

Passive/Aggressive much?

Anywho, we had a great time visiting and buying unnecessary shite to lug home in our little red batmobile. Awwww, but Mercury (the universe's right-royal bastardo) is in retrograde. Big Mar and I were 20 miles from home when I saw this in the rearview mirror.

FUUUUUUDGE!!

Nabbed. Speeding. Nothing puts a damper on a good time like a set of flashing cherry tops bouncing off the mirror. But I swear I wasn't going as fast as he says. I was just keeping up with traffic.

This time I'm fighting the man, if only to get the points removed. To his credit, the officer was very sweet, so maybe I'll catch a break from the court. From Geo... aye yai yai. Maybe not so much. He doesn't know yet, so shhhhhhhh! Ixnay on the ickettay.

Oh Holy CRAP!!?! Now this.

That is one sad sight, indeed.

Mercury, you're a mean mother.

File Under "Seriously, WTF?!?"
or dude, I would have loved to be in on this meeting

Okay, so the savvy folks at Summer's Eve, you know the douche bags who make douches, pulled all their creative resources and decided the answer to sagging sales was a talking vagina. Or as some of the ads refer to it as "vertical smile".

No shit.

A talking vag.

Okay a feminine hand symbolizing a talking vag. Same diff. Thank God it wasn't a hairy male hand. Hey, wait a minute. That would have been more accurate than those Brazilians...

Ewwwwww.

Anywho, Conan was the first to give the femme product a spin.



Oh Conan. You rock.

The original ad both repels and amuses me in that shocked, deer-in-the-headlights, can-they-really-do-that-on-television disbelief way. Seriously. There are some meetings that deserve ticket purchases to witness the evolution of such a train wreck of an idea.

Last week The Colbert Report weighed in on the vaginal puppeteering.

The Colbert Report	Mon - Thurs 11:30pm / 10:30c
Vaginal Puppeteering vs. D**k Scrub
www.colbertnation.com
Colbert Report Full Episodes Political Humor & Satire Blog Video Archive

"This is America. Our vaginas speak English."

Enduring the embarrassment of personal girlie products publicly broadcast is so much more palatable with these two hysterical guys on the planet.