Stress Dream
Mood:  d'oh
Now Playing: Jason Moss
Stress Dream

So they accepted my offer on the house and I am all shades of freaked out! For reals! I spent all weekend on an emotional rollercoaster which ran the gambit from exhilarating high to Holy crap what the fuck have I done?! Seriously! I had no idea buying a house would be this stressy or complicated.

Everyone needs documentation. Paperwork is flying back and forth with the sellers--counter offers, the SPDS form, etc. The mortgage company pretty much wants a DNA profile, my first born child and a full body cavity exam sans latex gloves and lube or so it seems. The title company, much like my credit card company, just wants my money. I really didn’t know it would be this hairy.

See, I am a virgin.

Ok, stop laughing and/or choking and listen! I truly am. I am a first time homebuyer and now I am starting to wonder if having the ability to naked Jacuzzi in my own backyard really is worth all the hassle.

I barely slept all weekend. I pretty much kept myself liquored up to the gills so that I wouldn’t dwell on it a great deal (I really hate to waste perfectly good Xanax on non-flying freakouts although they are rare). Sunday evening, in spite of my boozy football and beer filled day (I so lurve those kinds of days), I didn’t fall asleep until 4am. As in 2 ? hours before I had to get up for work. Those 2 ? hours were total trauma too! I ended up having the stress dream of life!

Now, I have had major stress dreams before. Frued dude would probably have a field day with the random whacky shit that goes on in my head sometimes and this one was majorly freaky!

So in this dream, I go to pick up my cat, Madness. She just turned 16 and is getting to be kind of a grumpy little bitch. As I pick her up, her front left leg falls off. Yep. Falls off! As in just drops off her body and falls to my bedroom floor. Not like in the blood spurting “’Tis only a flesh wound” kind of way though. This was more in the cutting a raw chicken leg in half kind of way. Just an ugly, gooey red hole. It was fricking bizarre! She just kind of looked down at her leg and back up at me and says “Meow?” like ‘what the fuck just happened here?”

I panic. I have to call the vet and of course, it’s after hours. My vet doesn’t have emergency hours so I have to find one in the yellow pages. Good times!

Then, I pick up the house phone and it’s dead.

I run out to the kitchen to get my cell phone and a friend of mine has it in pieces on the counter (he likes to fiddle with electronics). “What are you doing?!” and he tells me that he is making the phone into a combination Blackberry/Walkie Talkie for me. Huh? Exactly!

So I finally get a phone and call a vet. The vet answers and I describe her injuries and the vet tells me that they don’t want to deal with it and to call someone else.

The next vet has some total moron answering the phone and she can’t tell me where they are located. No major cross streets, nothing.

All the while, I keep checking Madness’ leg to see if it’s still warm enough to reattach.

Yeah…..

I hear it only gets more stressful from here on out with a house purchase. I am so not looking forward to the naked, chainsaw-wielding clown dreams…

Celebreality Television
Mood:  silly
Now Playing: Eddie Money
I am the only person I know who truly despises ‘reality’ television. I would rather sky dive butt nekked into a Black Sabbath concert than watch reality t.v. That’s saying a lot! You can just imagine the male concert goers thinking that it was treats from Heaven...but I digress.

I hate reality t.v. because it puts itself forward as being raw and authentic and it’s not. It’s staged and the story content is fashioned and twisted by creative editing rather like a Michael Moore “documentary”.

The only thing worse than reality t.v. in my mind (other than berets, beer hiccups, crocheted toilet paper covers and poor oral hygiene) is reality t.v. with celebrities. Celebreality t.v. Let’s empty out the drug rehab centers and Motel 6s and really find the bottom feeders and sludge (basically the worst of the Where Are They Now files) and put them on television again. Who the Hell thought that was a good idea? Must be the agents representing the ‘has been’ and C and D-list actors in Hollywood who are desperate to find work…any work.

First, they toss 6 of them into a house for MTV’s Surreal Life. That was kind of funny in a freak show kind of way if I do say so. It was like watching a train wreck—you just couldn’t look away from the horror of it all. (If I EVER hear Brigitte Nielsen’s name again, it will be too soon! That broad is wacked!) Suddenly, celebrity reality shows multiplied faster than an unchecked colony of feral cats with about as much yowling and stink.

The Osbornes. Celebrity Mole. Celebrity Fit Club. Hit Me Baby One More Time. I’m a Celebrity-Get Me Out of Here. But Can They Sing.

Then this already hideous genre mutated much like that shit growing on the goat cheese in my fridge. Suddenly, it had morphed into doing sports with has been celebrities. Celebrity Boxing. Dancing with the Stars. Skating with Stars. Like we needed more!

If we have to have celebriality television you know what I’d like to see? Building a Home Made Bong with the Stars. Picking Scabs with the Stars. All Breed Dog and Cat Grooming with the Stars. And last, but not least, Thumb Wrestling with the Stars.

Now that’s celebreality t.v!

WHY?!
Mood:  incredulous
Now Playing: XRay Spex
I don’t know about you, but I am beyond freaked out that the edgy, alternative music as well as the corny one-hit-wonders of my youth is now being used to hock financial planning services among other products.

Seriously. I was all shades of wigged out when I heard 80s pop cheese meister Falco's 'Der Kommissar' (you know the song "Don't turn around, wo-a-o! Der Komissar's in town! Wo-a-o!) being used to hock Fidelity Investment. They should have at least used the later and ever more popular club version of 'Der Kommissar' by After the Fire.

Bad enough that Bananarama promoted Gillette Venus razors. Where will it end? Will I be forced to hear The Sex Pistols used to hock mattresses? The Jam pushing faux Italian at the Olive Garden? The Boomtown Rats' ?Ghost Town? as the theme song of The Phantom Guest Ranch? Just push me in front of a public bus now!

I realized today that 30-somethings are the new baby boomers. Now i know how they must have felt when Beatles tunes started popping up in every other commercial. God, do I feel old!

Go Steelers!
Mood:  happy
Now Playing: Slip Knot
Here I sit buzzed. Super buzzed. Uber buzzed. It’s been a stellar day of beer, noshes and football. Ahhhhh! Sunday! The only thing that would make it better would be if the football was hockey but I digress.

Do you have any idea how psyched I am that the Steelers are going to the Super Bowl? The only thing that would make it better would be if the Raiders were going. Although I would be beyond torn.

Why so? Have I mentioned that I am a total whore for the Raiders and the Steelers and have been since I was a kid? Seriously. When I was a kid (SO dating myself here) in the 1970s, Arizona had no NFL team and in my mind, still doesn’t. I became a fanatic for the Raiders as they were from Oakland and we had moved to AZ from No Cal. I picked up the Steelers along the way.

My grade school had a pencil machine and I spent countless dimes, probably enough for a pair of Manolo Blahniks, on NFL pencils praying I would get a Raiders or Steelers pencil. Seriously. I was that committed which is as committed as one can be in the 3rd grade.

I know it’s bizarre as the Raiders and the Steelers rivalry was beyond intense in the 70’s. Although the Steelers dominated the NFL during that decade in one of the most famous winning streaks in all of sports, the Raiders also were one of the most successful franchises in the NFL under the tutelage of then coach John Madden. The Raider’s heartbreaking losses were most notably at the hands of the Steelers.

The Steelers denied the Raiders a trip to the Super Bowl in three of four consecutive seasons in the early 1970s (the first loss was the famous "Immaculate Reception" loss) until the Raiders finally beat the Steelers in the 1976 AFC Championship game after finishing 13-1 and went on to win their first NFL championship in Super Bowl XI over the Minnesota Vikings 32-14 in Pasadena, CA, the following January. It took the Raiders forever to beat the “Steel Curtain Defense".

As I said, the Steelers' rivalry with the Raiders was extremely intense during the 1970s. After his team's loss to the Raiders, Steeler coach Chuck Noll actually described the Raider defensive backs as a "criminal element" in a post-game interview.

As a kid, I loved the players. “Mean” Joe Greene, Terry Bradshaw, the list goes on and on. My favorite player of all time and my perfect man is former Raider Howie Long (not from my childhood--from my hormonalhood). Can you say YUM!!!! He is the ultimate man--cute, great bod, well dressed, intelligent, funny, a great father and a committed husband. Can it get much better in a guy? He is best known today as an analyst for the FOX Network's NFL coverage where, as you know, he often plays the straight man to the comic antics of co-host Terry Bradshaw, a former Steeler, whom Long sacked several times over the course of their NFL encounters.

Even if I didn’t love the Steelers, I always root for the under dog. I like the rough and tumble bad boys who play with heart. More to the point, I hate the Broncos almost as much as I hate the Cowboys, AKA self important and self aggrandizing asswipes and that’s saying a lot.

I was glad that the Steelers had a decisive win today! They have played one Hell of a post season and today's win was accomplished with huge heart and huge effort and deserves to be noted as such!

I was truly hoping for a Steelers vs. Seahawks Super Bowl and my prayers were answered today! I think it will be an amazing pairing of true warriors. True heart vs. true heart. A game based upon a true desire to win—not for the paycheck and notoriety—but for the joy of winning.

A truly strange and wondrous thing in this day and age....

PS--you can tell I had giantly tied one on. Could I have used the words 'truly', 'true', and 'huge' a few more times? Jeesh!

Google Searches
Mood:  mischievious
Now Playing: The Pixies
Sometimes when I’m bored, I like to Google random weird ass shit like "I am a lush", "Nice ass bitch", or "Leprechauns make me horny” and then read the freaky bits and pieces out there on the Web that pull up for the searches. Endless amusement I tell you! Almost as fun as being wasted and having a bowl of hard candy to entertain yourself with but I digress.

I was checking out referrals to the blog trying to figure out where everyone is coming from as I still find this all rather wild. What I found surprised me. Some people have me bookmarked (I like you best!), others are coming from the Lycos Top 100 and still others from Jason Mulgrew.com (shameless plug for him). Many folks ended up here as a result of random and/or freaky Google searches. And I do mean random and/or freaky.

Sometimes the phrase or words Googled, I actually used in an entry. The majority of the time though Google takes arbitrary words and excerpts from multiple blog entries I have put up and rigs them together to fit the search even though they are not all in the same posting. Some of the searches are hilarious and some scare even me. Here are some of the actual Google searches that I copied from the site meter for your amusement, horror or both that led folks to the blog:


I am stuck in traffic and must use the bathroom?

bambi woods fucking mr. Greenfield (Meg O Rama was the #2 answer--SCAREY)

xiolin showdown porno

Schlitz bull tattoos

"little penis bay to breakers"

asiago dip

Dirty Spanking Girl (Arabic Google search)

Dead wolverine

candle wax ass crack nipple

"met a guy on eharmony" (Again, Meg O Rama was the #2 response)

"cheerleaders tied up by robbers"

Doesn’t Suck Umbrellas

Yukon john stamos fan club

"burned nipples"

Benise (He’s a nouveau Flamenco Spanish Guitarist and there were two searches for him)

Chris Evans, girly, feminine

Tramp Stamp

Mother weasel

“Sucks ass”

leather tequila bandolier

dreams, poop, public restroom

family guy meg plush

"hooters in bondage" (German Google search)

Kristy McNicols

"brazilian wax" and farted

lemonade cleanse

shanana bowzer picture

“Unholy smells”

And last but so not least, my personal favorite:

Losing British Accent After Tonsillectomy (WTF!?!)

On the bright side? I am very encouraged by the fact that I am apparently not the only whack job out there. In fact, there are many far greater than me!

A House Hunting We Will Go
Mood:  lucky
Now Playing: Boomtown Rats
Ah house hunting! I can’t tell you how excited I was to be looking for a new house! Was being the key part of that sentence. I must have been toking on the rock, having an alien abduction encounter or at the very least a rather torrid out of body experience to think that! NIGHTMARE!

On the bright side, my requirements are such that my options are limited. It must be a decent sized horse property in metropolitan Phoenix. That definitely narrows it down. There were lots of houses that fit the decent sized horse property available outside the city but after living in LA for four really long years and commuting an hour each way to and from work—SO not for me! That definitely meant I had to count out the houses in Lake Havasu—nothing like that 12 plus hour daily commute—NOT!!!

So the games began and here we are. I have now schlepped all over looking at overpriced crap whose MLS listing descriptions were way overblown and off base. I think that whoever compiles these things must have an MB degree--Masters in Bullshit-- and is wasting an excellent career opportunity as a political spin doctor in DC. Seriously, they are creatively enhanced beyond imagination and just lies, lies, lies (yeah!).

What do I mean? In my recent experience, if a house is described as “cozy” it means it is so fricking tiny that if two people were in the house and one was in the bathroom taking a dump, the other would be practically sitting on his or her lap and not by choice. “Charming” means better than the rest of the crack house shanty town dwellings in the neighborhood. “Quaint” is nothing more than a metaphor for freakishly strange. The list goes on and on!

Here is a brief rundown of the vile piles I saw:

House of a Thousand Sheds-This house had 20 sheds in the back yard. 20 sheds. All in various states of disrepair. I have no idea if these folks had a hydroponic pot farm or were hiding stolen goods but 20 sheds, even in good shape, is overkill. No thanks!

Knee Deep in Crap- I look out into the yard and it is covered in knee deep horse ‘apples’. Knee deep decomposing poop. I turned to my REALTOR and said “Oh no, this shit’s got to go” not even realizing I had made a funny. No thanks!

The 70’s Threw Up AKA Attack of the Turquoise Molded Shag Carpet-Everything in this house was original from the day it was built. A horrid melange of Harvest Gold, Olive Green, Burnt Orange, turquoise, etc. The counter tops were all white laminate with gold flecks. There was some random knob on the kitchen counter. I was all “Hmmmm, wonder what this is?” and turned it and it came off in my hand. Suddenly, this terrible high-pitched noise- ‘Shreeeeeeeeeeeek’- started emanating from somewhere in the kitchen—scared the holy Hell out of us as I scrambled to shove the knob back on and turn whatever it was off. We never figured out exactly what it was. No thanks!

Won’t You be my Landlord-this house had a mobile home in the back yard that was rented to some 76 year old woman. Oh sure. Just what I want, to buy a house and have some old broad living in my yard. Next thing you know I am doing maintenance on the singlewide and hoping that if she dies, her cats eat her so I don’t have to deal with it. No thanks!

Mauve Delight-Imagine mauve. Mauve as far as the eye can see. Mauve carpet, mauve tile, mauve paint, mauve bathroom fixtures. Mauve. Mauve. Everywhere Mauve. It was liking being inside someone’s mouth, sans tonsils, and not in the good way. No thanks!

This is just some of the disasters we encountered. On the flip side of the coin, we saw the Meg Hefner Playbroad mansion. 360 degree views of mountains and the city set up high on the mountain. Ginormous front patio with awesome views. Huge front room-all windows- with same amazing views. The house just had mojo! The kitchen was huge and had an awesome wraparound bar that seated 15 and flowed into an enclosed patio with views of the pool and mountain. In the backyard was a killer pool complete with the infamous rock grotto, bamboo groves and a custom built-in grill. I was already envisioning myself holding fabulous cocktail parties, telling Paco, my cabana boy, that we needed more mojitos and suntan oil…sigh! Too bad there was no room for the horse so unfortunately,I won't be wearing a velvet smoking jacket any time soon.

That was the biggest problem--finding a house that worked for me and a set up that also worked for the dogs and the horse. Some places, I was wondering if I could put Biggers in the laundry room as there was nowhere else to house him. Like Mr. Ed. Yeah. Not so much.

Then serendipitous luck! We turn down the wrong street and “Ahhhhhhhhhh” (think the Heavens opening up and Angels singing) there it was. The house. My house. Darling, darling, darling!

Long story short? (Yes, I actually can do that sometimes with extreme concentration). I am in putting in an offer tomorrow. Keep your fingers and other assorted appendages crossed for me.

Serial Dater
Mood:  cool
Now Playing: Depeche Mode
Recently, I have been a major serial dater. Even more so than usual. Guys seem to dropping out of the skies AKA it’s raining men—hallelujah! Seriously. I am meeting men everywhere I go. I’ve been on so many dates it’s almost my fricking hobby. I should probably add it to my resume:

Hobbies/Interests: Creating art, making jewelry, hiking, cooking, music, travel, reading, entertaining and dating

Can’t you just see it? Yeah.

As mentioned earlier, I have given up on my active pursuit of Mr. Right as it just wasn’t working out. Instead, I am reveling in the enjoyment of the numerous Mr. Right Nows life is bringing me. This does not mean that I have given up hope of finding ‘The One’ someday as I am still looking to find the Bogie to my Bacall. I believe in true love and all the mush. I am a total sucker at heart but I digress….

The one life lesson that is being reinforced by this whole journey? Don’t judge people by their outer appearances. For reals. How someone looks on the inside is no gauge whatsoever of what kind of person he is on the inside. I have been out to dinner with tall, dark and handsome only to realize over the course of an hour that he is a small minded, mean spirited, horrid jerkoff. The contrary also is true. I have been out with someone who just wasn’t really my thing upon first meeting him and in an hour of talking about the world we live in and life in general (Yes, I ripped that off from my favorite Depeche Mode song ‘Somebody’), he became a Mr. Yes.

A pretty face and a hot body will only take you so far in my book if you are a dickhead or otherwise arrogant bastard (although it usually takes you pretty far if you are a seriously hot total harpy mean bitch—guys will tolerate that shit a whole lot longer than chicks will). I think what it always takes me back to is what my gramps always used to say--Pretty is as pretty does. Too true.

Someone once told me that my outside just further enhanced my inside. I think that’s a pretty sweet compliment. It’s also what I’m looking for in my Bogie—outsides are all fine and good but I want someone with pretty insides…
way harder to find than you might think.

‘Moral’ of the story? (I know, surprising if not fully scary from someone like me) Give people a chance. Go beyond the skin deep first impressions and you might just be happily surprised at what you find.

Johnny Appleseed
Mood:  d'oh
Now Playing: Buzzcocks
Friday night I went out to Harold’s in Cave Creek with my girlfriend Inga. Yeah, that Inga. This time, we managed to keep it together and not slide into absolute drunkenness. Actually, it was Kettle One drunkenness, but I digress..

Pretty soon, these two cute guys were asking if they could lean in for drinks. One thing led to another and it’s chats and all around jocularity for the four of us.

Inga tells Sean from North Dakota that she has 3 kids. He says he has two boys and shows her their pictures. Unfortunately, he then starts offering TMI about how they were both unplanned pregnancies (shocker!) with two different women. EWWWWWW! Ick! I just stare at him in horror and then, before I can censor myself, I blurt out “Who the Hell are you? Johnny fucking Appleseed?”

Inga started laughing uncontrollably.

She was still laughing about it today as she took me around on my second day of house shopping or maybe it was just the scary ‘1970’s threw up inside’ houses we looked at.

Admirer
Mood:  mischievious
Now Playing: Deep Purple
I can be a brat sometimes. I know you find that so hard to believe. Not. I say sometimes, but there are folks who would disagree with me. I also am very easily amused which I consider a good thing as it can come in handy more often than you think. Sometimes my inner brat and my ability to be easily amused crash headlong into each other with amusing results.

How so? It resulted in one of my favorite dumb, but evil in the fun way, bar tricks.

Back in college, I was dating a guy named Fred. We were two peas in a pod and definitely instigators of all things trouble.

So one night, we were out with two of my friends, Deb and Laura, at the popular campus watering hole. Across the bar from us was some nauseating couple who were macking on each other to no end. Now, we’d been drinking your basic college fare. You know….mixed drinks, beer, shots, anything put in front of us. Yeah. Such a surprise that we were rather abbreviated.

So Fred and I came up with a brilliant idea. He called our favorite bartender over and asked him to send an anonymous shot to the female portion of the now literally dry humping on the bar PDA couple. GET A ROOM PEOPLE! You aren’t even close to hot enough for us to want you to perform a live sex show in front us! I’ve seen Tijuana donkey shows with better looking couples and one of them has hooves!

The four of us were across the bar watching the whole thing. The shot was put in front of her and she was all shades of excited. Captain Hump, on the other hand, was not. He immediately asked who it’s from and Mark simply said “an admirer”. The girlfriend went to reach for it and Captain Hump pushed it away, forbidding her to drink it. A really heated argument ensued during which the four of us were roaring with laughter across the way! She wants to drink it and he doesn’t want her to so she reached out and drank it in protest or perhaps out of thirst. He proceeded to stomp off in a full blown hissy fit. Let me tell you, it was classic!

About 20 minutes went by, during which I was delivering a Howard Cosell style blow-by-blow on the action. Finally, Captain Hump returned to his extremely upset and bitter chicky. We watched from across the bar as he apologized, she apologized and they started macking again in the making up portion of the mating ritual AKA so happy together….

Fred and I looked at each other, grinning like fricking idiots. “Oh yeah baby” I shouted, “do it!” So Fred sends another shot to Captain Hump’s girlfriend (Bwah! Ha! Ha!--that’s evil laughter) and all Hell breaks loose! It was like a cheesy B movie on rewind! The same thing happened all over again. Angry words. Violent gesturing. Pouty face on the broad. Captain Hump looking like his head was about to blow off.

Not us. We were across the bar in our front row seats falling all over each other laughing. Tears pouring down our faces as we mimicked them. It was hilarious! We couldn’t believe they didn’t know it was us as we were the only folks in a totally packed bar who were laughing hysterically to the point of falling off their bar stools.

The situation made me wonder. I looked at Fred and asked him would he care if some ‘admirer’ was sending me shots. He replied “Hell no! I know who you’re coming home with. He’d be doing me a favor getting you lubed so cheaply!” To which, we all started laughing again and reliving the snit fits of the PDAs.

Ah, devious and easily amused minds. My kind of folks. Now days, Fred is a career Marine who just finished his second tour of Iraq after stints in Afghanistan, Bosnia, etc. (which probably accounts for my popularity in Dubai)I feel safer knowing that someone with that kind of Machiavellian mind is protecting my sweet ass--Semper fi Froedlet!

‘Admirer’ has proved beyond amusing through the years and really has stood the test of time. Just ask the PDA couple Darrin and I pulled it on last night in Tempe. Bwah! Ha! Ha!

Of DC and Dog Bites
Mood:  hug me
Now Playing: Maria Callas
In fact, this trip to DC was far better than my last trip in May, but that’s not saying much. Why you ask?

Apparently two fuck nuts in a Cessna were unable to follow their flight plan and busted air space near the White House. What does that mean exactly? It means thousands of folks evacuating our Nation’s Capitol on foot in a panic. In a total fricking panic.

There I am at Cannon House building. We’ve just finished meeting with one of our U.S. Representatives when this unholy noise comes out of nowhere. WHOOP! WHOOP! WHOOP! WTF? It’s crazy! All of a sudden, everyone starts tearing out of the building in a rather weirdly organized fashion.

And when I say everyone, I mean everyone. Security guards were running around getting everyone out. As I ran out, I asked one of them what the deal was. He told me that a small airplane was headed for the White House. Eeek! Good enough for me, I start bailing. As I bail, I am surrounded by some dork mall rat high schoolers who were turning their Sony cams on themselves and doing instant video a la Blair Witch Project. They blow past me muttering to their cameras “I’m so scared. We have no idea what’s going on, no one will answer our questions.” To which, I reply “A small plane busted airspace over the White House.” So much for Meg-O-Rama info central. The little pimply cretins simply ignored me and kept saying over and over “We so scared—no one will talk to us.” Oy! So not glad these kids will be voting some day but I digress….

It was a bizarre thing to participate in to say the least. Tens of thousands of folks evacuating the Capitol in minutes flat. A veritable fleet of black sedans and Suburbans screeching up to the curb and VIPs like Senator John McCain were being shoved into them, then security would slap the trunk and the vehicle would whiz off to destinations unknown. Perhaps to Dick Cheney’s ‘undisclosed location’ which contrary to popular belief is not the men’s room in the basement of the Hart Senate building, it’s Jackson Hole, WY, where he can usually be found fishing but I digress. Some folks were running full out for their lives. Others were lightly trotting. Some were simply meandering while eating lunch from take out boxes, apparently interrupted mid-nosh….bummer.

As I attempted to run as far away as I could (because at that point it was being reported as a terrorist attack) in 90 degree heat with five million percent humidity while wearing kitten mules, so not the footwear of champions, I was actually passed up by one our Arizona congressional members who, prior to this, I was unaware can run faster than an Ethiopian in a 26k race all the while flapping his arms hard enough to either take flight or at least to approximate a drunken chicken dance at a Minnesota wedding.

Long and short of it. Traumatic experience. And I say that as the uncontested queen of trauma. Take it from someone who was downtown when the riots broke out in LA, got held up at gunpoint in Santa Monica, got caught in the Sepulveda Dam Basin flood, lost her home in the ’94 Northridge Quake and then a week later got attacked by a dog to the tune of 42 stitches in her ass. Trust me, I know trauma.

Speaking of the dog bite shaped scar on my left ass cheek, boy was that a good time! Not! As I was homeless after the earthquake, I was staying with a girlfriend of mine in Burbank. Her neurotic Sheltie, Sir Percival (enough said), was not handling the earthquake nor the subsequent aftershocks well. As I soon found out, not well at all.

As he went to mount my leg for the umpteenth time in the dance of dominance or horny small dogness, I once again told him “No Percy—not the leg.” I apparently said this one too many times or Percy desperately needed to rub one out as the next thing I knew, the dog leapt at me in full attack mode.

I put up my hands to shield my face and he caught a piece of my wrist. As all animals love me, just not usually in the physical way, I am beyond freaked! I turn to run and he nails me—right in the ass! I look down and I basically have a Sheltie hanging from my butt. It always looked funnier in the cartoons you know?

I let loose with the mother of all screams which startled the crap out of the dog just long enough for me to make my escape to the bedroom.

I call my friend Veronica and tell her that she needs to come take me to the emergency room as her dog has just chowed on my ass.

The ride to the hospital was crazy! First, I have to lower myself carefully into Veronica’s bitchin’ Camero (tongue in cheek) and then ride all the way there precariously balanced on my right ass cheek (as the left one is bleeding copiously and feels like the fricking dog is still attached to it) as she shifts gears and weaves in and out of traffic like a NASCAR driver on crack.

The next thing I know, I am standing in the middle of a large exam room pretty much nekked. They have cut what remains of my sweats off and as I am normally commando, I am standing there clad only in a t-shirt and my partially tattered birthday suit.

Enter Dr. Tran. The man who further engenders the continuance of stereotypes. He walks up without so much as a ‘how do you do’ and gets down to the task at hand. It is bad enough that I am naked from the waist down, I now have a small Asian man crouching down at eye level with my twippy as he stiches up my ass without the benefit of any pain killers or anesthetic.

Pretty soon, I am hysterical….with laughter. I’m making jokes. I tell Veronica, “Man, that dog knew a sweet piece of ass”, etc. and then howling with laughter. Dr. Tran looks up at me (from crotch level mind you) and with one eye kind of squinted says in heavily accented English “Are you drunk?” To which I responded “Uh, no” wondering WTF so then he says “Are you on drug?” and I said “I wish—you got anything you wanna’ share?” and laugh some more. He looks even more aggravated and says “Then why you laughing? It no funny!” To which I started laughing all the harder which is so not good or bright when someone is wielding a needle and thread on your ass.

I explained to him that as I am accident prone, I tend to make a lot of jokes when I am hurt to keep my mind of the pain (Friends tell me that this is much more preferable than when I used to loudly sing show tunes) and that basically he has two choices: I can either laugh hysterically or cry hysterically. Which would be preferable?

He didn’t even respond. He just glared up at me from my nether regions and went back to stitching up my ass mudflap.

To make the event even more fun? Not only did I get a Tetanus shot which hurt like fuck all, I had to wear a paper hospital gown taped around my waist on the right ass cheek trip back home so that I didn’t startle other commuters on the 405.

Ah, the indignity of it all….

Fear O Flying
Mood:  don't ask
Now Playing: Pink Floyd
So I’m back from DC. Other than the flight from Hell, AKA hurtling through space for hours on end in a metal tube filled with screaming babies and enough concentrated germs to wipe out the Avian Bird Flu, excellent trip.

How’s that? Well see, I am afraid of flying. As in deathly and psychotically irrationally fearful of flying. Just call me little miss panic attack. Ok. Nix that. Call me Lord God Queen Boofoo of the panic attack.

This bod never boards an airplane without holding hands and singing kum-ba-ya with Captain Valium and several Grey Geese first. Seriously. If I don’t ‘lube’ up before I get on, strap into my aisle seat (harder to get sucked out the window that way) and tune out to my favorite episodes of South Park, I completely flip out on planes. As in completely lose my monkey meat. And can I just tell you how much fun that is for my row mates and fellow flyers over the course of a five hour flight? Yeah. ‘Zactly

My dad, who is a former military fighter and TWA pilot, finds this situation completely hilarious. The Captain who used to teach fear of flying seminars has a child who is terrified to fly. Go figure. He tried to give me a mini ‘Pop to Daughter’ fear of flying seminar once. Once. The only comment he made before I decided this wasn’t such a good idea was “Meg, you have to remember, they aren’t here to kill you. It’s bad for business.” Uh, thanks, but no thanks. Pops, shutty the pie hole!

So I get on the plane in DC and I think I am prepped and ready to go. Xanax? Check! Grey Goose and lime on the rocks? Check times several! South Park episodes? Check! Aisle seat? Check!

Then, my seat mate comes rolling down the aisle. My uber scary seat mate. My giant Mexican ex-con seatmate with the tattooed tears on his face and “HATE” and “KILL” tattooed on his knuckles. No butterflies or smiley faces anywhere on this dude that I can tell. Like I need anything else to freak me out at this point! It was the chocolate butter cream swirl icing of overkill let me tell you!

The plane takes off. My mantra? Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

Then turbulence. The mother of all turbulence. The plane is swaying and shuddering worse than an epileptic mid fit, bucking harder that I thought mechanically possible. With how hard the plane was whipping side to side, I am certain that a barrel roll and then a hard corkscrew to earth, certain death and forensically matched remains are in store for me in my near future.

Apparently, I was not pre-lubed nearly enough. I start panicking. All right, panicking is a massive understatement. I am losing my fricking mind! I have a white knuckle death grip on the arm rests as I rock harder than an autistic kid after a few Red Bulls.

I can feel myself frothing at the mouth (for reals) and yet, I can’t seem to stop thefar spraying stream of spittle coming from my mouth as I loudly mutter a steady stream of f-bombers and unintelligible shit that sounds as if I am speaking in tongues….several of them. The only portion of my rant that I can actually recount with any degree of certainty is this:

“Oh fuck! I can’t believe this fucking plane is going to fucking crash! I’m going to fucking die today! Fuck! Oh fuck! I’m going to fucking die today on this fucking plane! Oh fuck! This fucking plane is going to fucking crash and my fucking house is a fucking mess! Fuck! My fucking mother is going to see my fucking dirty house ‘cause this fucking plane is going to fucking crash! Fuck!”

Yeah. Needless to say, I reached out with my foot and snagged my purse so that I could grab another Xanax as I was obviously nowhere near my happy place. That’s the place where I am lubed to the point of feeling that if the plane crashes, hey, at least I won’t notice all that much.

I actually pop the Xanax into my mouth and dry chew it. Oh yum! Now, I literally have orange froth spewing out of my mouth.

Within a few minutes, I’m good. Or at least I am better which is still a major fricking improvement in my world! The same couldn’t be said of my seat mate, Killer the wonder vato.

I finally calm down enough to look around and when I do, all I can see are the whites of his eyes. He is sweating like a pig and has managed to shove himself as far away from me as he can physically manage while belted into the middle seat. The tendons in his forearms are literally popping with the exertion of heaving himself towards the window and away from crazy ol’ me.

And what do I do? I start laughing. Yeah. That’s the minute that all the Xanax and booze finally kicks in. Just in time for me to start howling like a fricking hyena in front of the man who probably raped his neighbor’s porch swing and I can’t stop. Shutty the pie hole is apparently not in my cards.

Although who’d of thunk that the one thing that completely freaks out and terrifies some hardcore medium security repeat offender is a psychotic white girl with rabies….

It's All About the Blog....
Mood:  chillin'
Now Playing: Sade
One of my friends is just intrigued by the whole concept of my blog. As she isn’t a digerati or experienced Internet whore, she just doesn’t quite grasp the whole concept. In her mind, my blog is as groundbreaking as that Penn State broad who had the webcam in her dorm room broadcasting her every activity to the Universe and beyond.

Yeah. I think not.

I tell her there are thousands upon hundreds of thousands of folks who have blogs, most of which suck ass and aren’t worth a read. That when you find one you like and there are frequent posts, it becomes a regular part of your day or week or whatever to check it and read the latest installment. No different than regularly checking your horoscope, the Smoking Gun, eBay and Craig’s List.

Not mollified, she wants to know if I think it’s unnatural (READ: creepy) that random strangers are reading about my life. Hmmmmmmm....considering I’m putting it out there for random consumption? Yeah. Not so much. Although I have to admit I only posted the damn thing in the first place to shut Deb the Hell up! She badgered man! And that broad is a convincing badgerer.

And here we are. Somewhere I never, ever expected to be.

So, even though Marta’s read some of it and thinks it’s funny, she still doesn’t get why people would come and read it.

Her thoughts?

•It's voyeurism

•Readers seems to think they know you AKA instabond

•Scary to have people reading about your life

I look at it like this. I only did this because Deb nagged on me and because my friends think my stories are strangely funny. I never expected to have this many folks reading and checking in. I put it out there and that’s what it is. It’s just me and my randomness.

•I don’t consider it voyeuristic. It’s not like ya’ll are peeping in my living room window as I play naked PS2. If you are, at least ring the doorbell and come in for a cold one.

•Some readers know me, some might think they do and some never want to. No worries. You’re here because I make you laugh or at least shake your head in bewilderment or loathing.

•I don’t think it’s scary that people are reading about me, my thoughts and my life. I put it out there. I think I am more surprised at how many folks are apparently really easily amused or need my blog to use for their Masters in Abnormal Psych.

Random Thoughts
Mood:  chillin'
Now Playing: Badge - Cream
•Food TV’s Sandra Lee is a freak and needs to be destroyed.

•It would be cool if everyone dressed like superheroes do. But having said that, I think that for some people, it should be illegal to wear spandex.

•I hate when a guy is no longer as fascinating as he once appeared.

•Polka music sucks ass…whether it is Polish, Mid-Western or Mexican. It is only entertaining when you and your friends are drunk in a Minneapolis beer garden.

•While door slamming isn’t a mature act, it can sometimes be beyond satisfying.

Thanks Tons
Mood:  incredulous
Now Playing: Herb Alpert & the Tijuana Brass
So I talk to my mom and thank her again for her and dad giving me a roaring case of the creeping crud (AKA flu from Hell) over Christmas. How I still feel like ass and I have to go to D.C. next week.

She replies “Well Meg, everyone has it. You would have gotten it somewhere from someone eventually. Isn’t better to get it from your own parents then from a random stranger in line at Walgreeen’s?”

And she’s serious....

Still Recovering AKA I Almost Don't Feel Like Ass
Mood:  hug me
Now Playing: Sex Pistols
Here it is a week later and I almost don’t feel like total ass! UGH! This shit sucks! It’s like the Incredible Creeping Crud or the Creeping Crud That Would Not Die! I swear!

Part of the problem is that I never get sick at least sick like cold and flu stuff. I am more your basic small time industrial accident girl. I break my arm, sprain my ankle, dislocate my shoulders (Yes, both…at the same time) get black eyes, knock out my teeth, etc. I just don’t do run of the mill injuries and illnesses like Influenza Type B.

I am prepared for war—Motrin 800, frozen peas (ice packs), iodine, hospital formula benzocaine spray, Silver Sulfadiazine cream (SSD), knee braces, pain killers, liquid skin AKA Super Glue, Ace bandages for days, Epsom salts, splints....you name it. The Meg-O-Rama urban triage kit....

Seriously. Everyone who knows me jokes that if it can cut me or burn me, it will. No matter how careful I am, I am seriously accident prone. It is unbelievable at times. I am a total disaster zone. If I can run into it, I will. If I can trip over it, I will….at least once. If I can stab myself with it, I will. I might even hack off the top of my thumb. I am a magnet for injury and I have the scars to prove it.

I’ve always been this way. Apparently, unlike most kids, I just never grew out of it my ‘Danger Prone Daphne’-ness.

I was the kid who was constantly falling out of trees, cutting my arm open on rebar, having skateboard accidents, getting beaten up by my older sister, falling off my bike, etc. I was always covered in an array of rather spectacular bruises and scabs.

Kids wore them as badges of honor back then. Big, gnarly, slimey, mutant scabs that evolved and dissolved on a regular basis as we spent far too much time in the pool—blech! But I digress…

Anywho, I was injured so often that our family doctor actually asked to talk to me alone to make sure our stories were consistent. Sweet! I only wish I had been old enough to play that one! Could have been funny. “My sister attacked me with a rabid hedgehog.”

So my long winded point? (Do I ever have any other kind?) Give me a sprained ankle, knock out my teeth, anything! Just no flu. Please! I can stand pain—tattoos, broken bones, papercuts, etc. What I cannot stand is being a whiney, snot infested victim of my own useless self!

All I can say is this crap had better clear up before I head to D.C. or I will whip out my buddy Jack Daniels and continue to furiously hot toddy this thing into submission!

My Dating Rules for the New Year
Mood:  cheeky
Now Playing: Tori Amos
1. I am going to stop looking for Mr. Right and spend more time enjoying Mr. Right Now more fully. Besides, if you look at the odds, I have a far better chance of finding multiple Mr. Right Nows than I do of finding one Mr. Right.

2. If I am bored and hungry, I will go out on a date. The best outcome is that I will kill two birds with one stone. The worst case scenario is that I still won’t need to figure out how my new hi-tech microwave works.

3. I am going to kiss everyone (this is not exactly a new rule)…except stalkers as this just further encourages them or narcissistic guys as they tend not to notice you are even kissing them or stinky guys unless it is the post manly workout sweaty stink which is acceptable or total toads as ugly cannot be overcome with copious amounts of liquor no matter what anyone claims or losers as again there is just not enough liquor to overcome the big “L” or self-aggrandizing guys which really requires no explanation.

4. I will improve the quality of the quantity of guys I date as I seem to be wasting a lot of perfectly good lip gloss.

5. I will strive to date guys who share the same first name as this just cuts down on identity confusion when dating multiple guys. Failing this, I plan on referring to them all by the endearing term ‘sugar britches’ to garner the same result….

6. I will no longer date guys who have been married more than twice because you have to know buddy, after the third divorce, it's you!

7. I pledge to do my very best not to re-date any of my ex boyfriends a fourth time no matter how much they beg and plead.

8. I will loosen my standards for my ideal guy which, according to my friends, are too strenuous. I therefore will now just require that he be relatively hair free, funny, cute to me, employed and have decently maintained feet. Did I say funny?

9. I will enjoy every date to its fullest, unless the guy’s a creep, in which case I reserve the right to plan a red herring emergency cell call to end the date early. “My neighbor’s iguana was just hit by a car—she needs moral support—gotta’ go.”

10. I will not date men who have pet names for their willies. Any man who refers to his maleness as the Super Sonic Master Blaster, Mr. Lovejoy’s Pleasure Stick, Ace, Mr. Bo & the Jangles, etc. is out. In the infamous words of a member of O.J.’s defense team, if the junk has a name, I don’t play the game (it was something like that).

Am I too Drunk to Drive? AKA Call a Cab Dillhole
Mood:  party time!
Now Playing: Janis Joplin
I pretty much encourage everyone to drink and drink often and as New Year’s Eve is tonight and I still feel like ass, I thought I would share with you some signs that you may be too ‘abbreviated’ to drive.

As New Year’s Eve is rank amateur hour, don’t be a fool and drink and drive. No one wants to start the New Year in the can with a bunch of syphilis infected hookers and vomiting college kids (sometimes the same thing). It just doesn’t bode well for a stellar ’06 now does it?

Here are some signs that you are too drunk to drive. Call a cab dillhole!

•Talking way louder than normal. Stray dogs in the Philippines heard you tell your story about sneaking into the Pernod Rock Festival in ’89. Your own jokes make you laugh like a psychotic hyena. Call a cab dillhole!

•Slurring like a fucking retard. Drinking stuff you wouldn't normally touch like gin, or say Puro, because it’s there. Obese and slovenly members of the opposite sex are starting to look reeeaaally good to you. Call a cab dillhole!

•You are calling all females in your line of sight sluts and whores (regardless of your sex). Call a cab dillhole!

•Standing, walking, and breathing require intense concentration and/or help from a wingman/winggal. Call a cab dillhole!

•Nothing you say makes any sense as you are speaking fluent ‘drunkenese'. Call a cab dillhole!

•Telling all of the random strangers in the room how very, very much you love them. Call a cab dillhole!

•Vomiting, heroic or otherwise. Call a cab dillhole!

•Whoa tiger! Total loss of control as you attempt to mount a harmless houseplant. Call a cab dillhole!

•Wetting/shitting your pants is in the offing (pun intended). Call a cab dillhole!

•If you are a guy, you are dirty dancing with a teenage transgender Latino ‘girl’; if you are a gal, you are dirty dancing as the filling sandwiched between two white trash cheeseballs with pencil mustaches and NBA jerseys. You do not want to have to introduce yourself to any of these folks in the morning when you are wondering where the Hell you are. Call a cab dillhole!

•Dancing a la Paris Skank Hilton on any surface that was not originally intended for dancing (e.g., table top, toilet seat, bar stool, Greek billionaire’s face, etc. Call a cab dillhole!

The key to remember? If your friends really loved you, they would already have taken your drunk ass home and put you to bed on your stomach, not your back, to prevent you from choking on your own vomit and dying like Hendrix and a few other drunken 60's music idols.

Great way to start the New Year Skippy….

Tis the Season to Feel Like Ass!
Mood:  spacey
Now Playing: Basia
As I post this from lung cookie central, I fear I may be dying. In fact, I don’t fear it, I wish for it with every aching fiber of my flu-infested being! So someone get your ass over here and put me out of my misery!

When my sis and I arrived at the ‘rents’ pad for Christmas frivolities, mom and pops were hardcore sick--hacking, dripping, sounding like Brenda Vaccaro after a carton of smokes, etc. You know. Sick as fricking dogs! My sister turned, looked at me and said “We’re so fucked!” and as usual, she was right.

I felt fine all through the Christmas. Woke up Monday with a bit of a narfy chest deal but put that off to a late night ‘dog walk’ of ‘stinkerbell’ (Belle), my sister’s lab puppy.

By Tuesday, I knew the high hard one of illness was coming to smack me upside the head and all I could do was try to prepare for the onslaught. It must be how those poor bastards in trailer parks feel after hearing a twister warning. There’s nothing to do but hunker down with provisions and ride it out.

So I hit the market, the drug store and the video store in rapid succession for necessities before I lost strength and succumbed to the creeping crud. Airborne, Emer’gen-C (I’m telling you that stuff is a multipurpose champion!), Alka Seltzer cold & flu, gallons of Gatorade, gallons of juice, and movies. I start taking the Airborne and Emer’gen-C immediately. Take a hot tub. Hoping to sweat it out and, unrealistically, avoid the ick.

Well, that didn’t work.

Wednesday. Day from Hell. Ground Zero. Flu hits hardcore. Head feels like 50lb toddler is playing dodge ball with it. Sinuses have apparently been packed with rusty steel wool. I am shivering and freezing even though I am ensconced in fleece footie jammies, encrusted in Vick’s vapor rub, holed up under the covers. Coughing, which I am doing a shitload of, hurts. Moving hurts. Opening my eyes hurts. Hearing hurts. Being me hurts. If is official. I feel like ass. I am down for the count.

A hot tub would have been nice. Too bad that I hadn’t the strength to get in one but a bonus, in some small way, as I probably would not have had the strength to get back out. Seriously. I would have ended up as Meg-O-stew after parboiling for 14 hours or so before somebody found me…. or the dogs and cats ate me…. or something else a la Stephen King (which is actually what went through my fevered and delirious mind as I pondered a hot tub). Hey, I’ve heard it happens….pets eating you and all, not the parboiling in a hot tub bit.

I opt for sleep. Lots of it.

Thursday. I am barely existing in my misery. Ever growing heaps of snot rags litter my house. The piles on the nightstand and coffee table are especially impressive. Must think about getting a trash can when it doesn’t hurt to think. I am single handedly adding to the deforestation of Costa Rica by the snot infested fistful.

Can my misery be any more complete? Why yes, it surely can!

Thursday afternoon. I was still at flu threat level red. I heard some strange high pitched whining noise like a small animal being tortured. As I strain to figure out where it’s coming from, I realize it’s the sound of my own breath, rasping in and out of my chest that I hear. My ears are ringing. My joints hurt. I go into a coughing fit. I am coughing and heaving like no body’s biz. And can I tell you about the pain? Oy! It felt like my chest was on fire and I thought for a minute, I was going to pass out—it hurt that bad. You know, where your chest is all congested and you start that dry wracking cough and can’t stop? It just burns like nobody’s business.

So here I am, coughing my fool head off, when my house was suddenly infested with barking spiders (AKA fart attack: instead of blaming it on the dog, our family blames it on barking spider infestations) and next thing you know, and there’s no way to put this delicately, I suddenly felt something oddly warm and wet. Huh?! WTF? Well, I’d done soiled myself. Yup. Coughed so hard, I pooped my pants. Interesting that I was unaware I had the trots until that moment. Moderate leakage, but still unauthorized--an oop-poop so to speak (REMEMBER: NEVER trust a fart and PULEEZE, like it’s never happened to you—it’s mortifying, but funny)

So I freaked out! Classic understatement--I completely wigged out!!! I stumbled into the bathroom, still coughing, dragged my aching self over to the toilet and whipped down my sweats to check out the collateral damage, when I cough. I cough hard. I cough so unbelievable hard that my gag reflex kicks in and I hurl. That’s right. I roark up a roiling mass of Gatorade and God knows how many sundry cough and cold products and proceed to puke between my legs, right into the soiled sweatpants that were bunched down around my ankles as I sat on the toilet.

Yeah. Good times I tell you. Not. I have a much higher level of appreciation now for the party stunts my body is capable of performing. This one took the cake! I was a wretched beast to say the least!

Needless to say, the sweats were bagged up and dumped (pun intended) into the trash receptacle as there was no way I was going to try to recover them at that point--futile and disgusting thought there.

I wearily forced myself into a hot shower and managed to cleanse. I rolled into fresh jammies and poured my still horrified self bonelessly back into bed before I passed out for another 12 hours of sleep.

Friday. I faced the day knowing there was no way it could be as bad as yesterday. I mean, there’s no way anything can match shitting and puking your drawers almost simultaneously (I think I’ll call it the ‘up dump’ for the upchuck dump). Nice. Having said that, I then commenced to stress out wondering if I had just jinxed myself to another day of feeling like ass and the possibility of a repeat performance of the ‘up-dump’.

I feel better. I must have as I attempted to eat a bowl of cereal puffs. Bad idea. Ever tried to eat cereal when you can’t breathe through your nose? Yeah. ‘Zactly. Surprised I didn’t die although there were some rather close calls….I am down to a flannel nightshirt and red furry house scuffs. My nose resembles said furry house scuffs being a rather violent shade of red at this point. Head is still pounding at a level on par with a minor construction site noise sans the heavy duty jackhammer.

It boded well. I attempted a minor sojourn out for errands. Bad idea. Major, major space monkey driving behavior commenced. You know you get in the car, you arrive at your destination and have no idea how you got there AKA Autopilot. Not good. At my first stop, I start feeling all sweaty and faint. Time to head home.

At this rate, my New Years plans are completely verklempt. There is no way in Hell without substantial improvement that I will be doing ANYTHING for New Years Eve except feeling like ass!

Have one or twelve for me….I'm not going anywhere fast....

Random Christmas Memories....
Mood:  happy
Now Playing: Best of Johnny Cash
Ah Christmas! It’s the most wonderful time of the year…yeah it is! I spent the Christmas holiday with the famn damily. We had a perfectly lovely time. For reals. Surprisingly. I know. We ate, we opened, we laughed, we played Oh Hell, my sister and I walked her Lab puppy, ‘Stinkerbell’ (AKA euphemism for sneaking off for a smoke) and we spoke of Christmases past.

Here are some of the holiday ‘gems’ that we remembered and reminisced about. Enjoy. I hope your Christmas (or other assorted Yule holiday or lack thereof) was bright…and full of good and shiny things.

Quality Control
When my sister was 8 or so the ‘rents got her the much-desired new bike with the highly coveted, uber cool banana seat. Oh yeah. Slick baby!

So it’s Christmas Eve and Pop was putting her bike together after he and mom had finished sucking back a few bottles of champagne.

On Christmas morning, mom noticed a box full of ‘leftover’ bike parts and my sister wasn’t allowed to ride it until Pop got it fixed. “She is NOT riding that bike Robert!”

We Like the Night Life Baby….
All of the kids in the neighborhood loved the Thompson’s Christmas party. It spelled a free for all for a bunch of long haired and semi-pimply adolescents.

Our parents were so fully tanked, laughing and smoking while we were running around perving forgotten glasses of booze left on the buffet table, in the bathroom, on the back porch, etc. surreptitiously combining them into one big drink and chugging it before a parent caught you. Sometimes you lucked out on the combination and sometimes, not so good. AKA The liquor version of a ‘suicide’.

It was also convenient for those kids who dabbled in cigarettes. My sister and the older kids could snake smokes from unattended purses and sports coats and no one caught on as the whole house was filled with smoke anyway (in a long ago time, AKA the 70’s, most everyone smoked and smoked everywhere—secondhand smoke not such a biggie and who worried about their kids smoking by association anyway?)

In a random way, I think it prepared me for college. Similar parties and all….

Dead Guy Clothes
My grandpa, Jamie, was the go-to guy in his retirement community in Scottsdale.

The widow Nelson needed her gutters cleaned? Gramps would whip out the ladder and get it done. Did the tangelo tree at the McGrath’s need a culling? Gramps was there. Saul dies in his sleep and you clean out the closets for the widow and keep his old clothes to wear for grubbies. Only problem with this thrifty Scottish, as we are, plan? Gramps was over 6’ tall and these clothes were all for much shorter gents. So the family referred to these too short cast offs as ‘dead guy clothes’. As in, any time we saw Gramps wearing them, we’d be all shades of “Gramps is sporting dead guy clothes today”. Needless to say, long running family joke.

It’s Christmas 1980 something. Calvin Klein, as modeled by the ever ethereal and hot in a rather disturbing jailbait kind of way, Brooke Shields. You remember: “Nothing comes between me and my Calvins”.

So mom buys Gramps a pair of Calvin Klein jeans so that he can wear them to grub in rather than the dead guy clothes.

Gramps uses his pocket knife to carefully cut the tape away from the wrapping paper, then folds it and saves it to one side fully intending to wrap next year’s gifts in it (and did by the by).

He opens the box and pulls out the new jeans and my Pop says “Oh my God! Calvin Klein died.” At which, we all burst out laughing hysterically.

Gramps carefully folded the Calvins back into their box. We never saw them again.

The Tale of The Hell Bell
Ah the joys of yute! It’s Christmas. I’m five. We’re trimming the tree. It is my year to get on pop’s shoulders and put the angel on top—boo yeah!

It’s all fun, games and Burl Ives on the stereo until I spot the bell. I remember it well. It was beyond cool. Metallic green, glitter…garish. Have you ever noticed how kids that age are attracted to garish like moths to a porch light? So I tell dad that I want to put the bell on top of the tree.

Pop, ever patient, explains to me that we’re going to put the angel on top. I reply “I want the bell.” Pop explains that it’s my turn and I get to put the angel on the tree. To which, I respond with little fists planted on my waist, “I want the bell!” So Pops got down on his knees and explained the importance of the angel and the symbolism between her and the tree top. I folded my angry little arms across my angry little body and looked Pop straight in the eye and said “Hell!” Ooops!

Next thing I know, I am airborne. Flying down the hall with the greatest of ease as my Pop had grabbed me by the arm and dragged me down to the bathroom.

Wooshe….grind, grind, grind. That was the sound the bar of soap (think LAVA brand here folks) made as it made its way over the lips and ground down the length of my teeth towards my non-existent tonsils as I sat on the toilet seat and considered the extreme, extreme, error of my ways.

Ugh! Double ugh! Giant sobs through the bar of soap. Tough to do—lots of spit. Tears coursing down my little face.

Mom came back, eventually, and removed the bar of soap from my very repentant little potty mouth and says “Oh honey, you should never have said that.”

I blinked back some tears and went to respond to her and blew a ginormous soap bubble instead….

What makes this story is that every year at Christmas, whoever unpacks the bell says “Oh look Meg, it’s the Hell bell” and everyone laughs their asses off at my expense….as usual….

Gotta’ love the holidays!

Deck the Halls Until They are Slick with Blood....From the TShirtHell.com X-mas Jingle Bell Thingy
Mood:  cheeky
Now Playing: Insane Clown Posse
Once again, I have to say how fricking much I enjoy the offerings (burnt and otherwise) from TShirtHell.com!

The t-shirts and other assorted goodies are fuck all funny. Beyond un-PC....in a very good way. If you are easily offended, don't bother going to their site to check it out. Then again, if you are easily offended, you shouldn't be reading my blog either as much like In Living Color--nothing's sacred!

Sometimes their monthly news letter is just that and other times it is screamingly hilarious. This month is pretty hilarious (at least to me) and so I am posting it for your happy daily consumption of un-PC fodder.

Now, go check out the site at:
www.TShirtHell.com and keep the dream of pissing off everyone alive by buying two....or ten shirts. I especially enjoy the Beyond Hell section of the site....but then again, I would!

Deck the Halls Until They are Slick with Blood
By Aaron Landau Schwarz, owner of TShirtHell

I saw on TV last night some good news for a change: America is winning, "The War on Christmas". I, for one, am glad to hear it because frankly I feel we needed the victory. The War on Drugs was a bust (no pun intended), and the War on Terror is still too close to call. But I think the War on Christmas is really a slam dunk.

Why a War on Christmas? Well, there have been uncorroborated reports of sleigh bells ringing, and possible evidence of reindeer droppings (some say pigeon) at the World Trade Center right before the first plane hit. So, for me, that's plenty of proof to tie Santa Claus to September 11th.

Not to mention the coded messages sent out to Santa's operatives around the world in songs like, "White Christmas". Long thought to be just a harmless call for ethnic cleansing, the real significance lies is in the verse, "May your days be merry and bright". This is Santa's plan for world domination. His call for a World both Merry and Bright, (or WMB as he likes to call it) makes the idea of Global Communism about as threatening as a pillow fight in a nursing home. Santa's already created one at his workshop at the North Pole, as well as at his Elf Training Camp. We must go there and find, and destroy these WMBs.

I think sending our special forces down to the North Pole will be a really nice break from Afghanistan. After a day of torturing... whoops, I mean talking to elves; our troops can enjoy a nice cup of hot cocoa. And there's no whore, like an elfin whore. Even the ones that are pushing 245 still look 197: and if you slick their hair back, 96. Santa's not hiding in a cave. He's in a well marked building. The place has a sign made out of gumdrops on a thirty foot candy cane. It will not be hard to find.

I figure we'll have this war won by February and those little elves will be holding free elections by March. Our troops will be home by April. Just in time to start The War on Easter. So lay those chocolate eggs while you still can Easter Bunny.

You're next.