Hammer Time

MDH and I returned from Florida less than 24 hours ago, and it's been so long since I last posted on my blog that I'd be quite shocked if anyone out there missed me.

Some (one or two) of you may be wondering, as I was, just what the fuck were you doing in Florida in the middle of June crazyface?

Central Florida is hotter than Hades in mid-June and judging (and I am indeed, very judgemental) from the snippets of overheard conversations between my fellow airline passengers, only mouth breathing degenerates and their screaming heathen progeny fly to Central Florida in mid-June.

Or people who already live in oven hot climates.

And us.

Seriously, the mental capacity of some my fellow travelers seemed pretty limited. Case in point: The young man and his "gran-maw", sitting behind us, who I'm pretty sure were both making their debuts outside the holler, had never seen a magazine and spent most of the runway taxi time and flight to 10,000 feet, (at which point the flight attendant said we could use portable electronic devices and I praised god's glory in heaven and giddily jammed my earbuds into my listening holes and was able to block these morons out), pointing in amazement at the "pitchurs" in a glossy men's magazine that I can only assume someone had left behind in the gate area, and reciting aloud the prices of each and every item of clothing in the fashion spreads and wondering who would spend $225 for a pair of jeans and the like.

When reading fashion magazines I often wonder the same thing. In the privacy of my own head. But then I quickly get over it. This guy hammered it all out in a twangy monotone. Item by detestable item.

Lookit this Gran-maw - it sez here this guys jacket costed 23 hunnert dollers. Can you believe that shit? Damn! That's a whole years wortha child support!

I've got nothing against rednecks. I've got no room to talk as I myself come from a long line of the finest Kentucky redneck stock, but when your conversational skills are that loud, that limited and I am forced to listen to your stupid ass bullshit it endangers my health. My eyes were rolling up and all around in my head, it's lucky I didn't sprain them.

Well I guess that's what you get for booking at the last minute on Squalor Airlines.

Anyhoo... back to my original question that I imagined you gave enough of a shit to care about or ask me - we went to Florida in the middle of June because we had to reschedule our original, more reasonably timed December visit to my parental units due to my mother's broken pelvis. Understandably, she wanted no visitors during her extremely painful and lengthy recovery. No problem-o. Then I had the brilliant idea to come down in June for her birthday.

It seems extreme, but I'm finding it increasingly necessary to pad visits with my parents with buffer periods both before and after our time with them. This year our 4.5 day visit with my folks was preceded with 3 days at the beach and concluded with 2 days at Disneyworld.

Let me give you some facts about how things go down at my parents house these days:

1. They keep the air conditioning set at 80 degrees.

2. 80 Fucking Degrees.

3. That is hotter than shit.

4. It is not possible to sleep when the air conditioning is set to 80.

5. My mother makes the weakest coffee known to man.

6. My mother is even more passive aggressive than I am.

7. One morning I volunteered to make the coffee and snuck in a couple of extra scoops.

8. She said it was a tad strong for her taste, but cheerfully decided that she could temper hers by adding a little water.

9. When she added the water to her cup she said that it made it too cool and she has this thing where she refuses to heat up coffee in the microwave - so she decided, rather loudly, that she just wouldn't drink coffee that day. "It's just one day. When I was in the hospital recovering from MY BROKEN PELVIS I went for almost a whole week without coffee. Can you imagine that?"

10. It was so over the top she could've won a Tony.

11. It took every ounce of strength left in my sweaty, exhausted, coffee depleted body to restrain myself from suggesting that she leave her cup in the guest room for a minute or two to heat it up.

12. On a brighter note the house rum is 92 proof, flows freely after 11am (new summer hours apparently as previously noon was considered appropriate) and is conveniently located next to the fridge (with built in ice maker) between the cocktail napkins and a bowl of limes.

Thanks for putting us at the table closest to the bar

Jogger's wedding reception on Saturday night was a big old hoot and featured a photo booth... with some props. Oh, and Raspberry Stoli... which I drank in abundance with soda and a cherry and kept 'em coming. Here is the highlight reel:

The lovely Ladette and me... In retrospect I can't believe she put those sunglasses in her mouth dude. Hindsight is always more disgusting.

MDH sporting a teeny-tiny purple pimp hat and busting out what I can only assume are Portuguese gang symbols.

I hope you all had as good of a weekend as we did, although I'm kinda still recovering.

Drinking Game

Last night after dinner MDH and I created a new drinking game while watching back episodes of House Hunters that have been piling up on our DVR. The game is called Man Cave. The rules, as with any drinking game, are simple:

• Watch any given episode of House Hunters* and chug a shot every time a guy uses the phrase "Man Cave".


• Chug two shots if a female says it because for some reason it sounds twice as stupid to hear the phrase come from the mouth of a woman.


• Players will draw for different finishes and features, ie., "granite counter tops", "stainless steel appliances", "crown molding", "tray ceiling", etc., and must drink each time their own special finish or feature is mentioned.

We didn't actually play the game because between the two of us we have too much common sense and probably not enough liquor in the house anyway.

(I'm looking forward to spring and summer when it's not unusual for MDH and I to spend the entire evening without turning on the TV.)

*Or for that matter any given half hour time slot on HGTV's prime time line up. Property Virgins, Bang for Your Buck, etc.,.

WARNING: Playing this game with the DIY show that is actually called "Man Caves" could lead to alcohol poisoning and possibly death. Play at your own risk.

Auld Lang Sausage

Howdy! I don't have much time to spend on a post today as I'm busy packing and running errands, getting ready for our annual trip to Columbus to spend New Year's Eve with the usual suspects.

This year we're doing it in high style and half of us are staying in a swanky-ish hotel downtown where all of us are meeting for cocktails and having a nice dinner together followed by yet more cocktails consumed into the wee hours of the morning. Or if previous New Year's Eve history dictates we will probably all eat too much, get incredibly drunk and then crash and burn before 10:30pm at which point:

• Frenchie will already have passed out cold, but somehow still be sitting up.


• Steph will have exhausted the hotels entire inventory of stemware because apparently she needs a fresh glass each time a new kind of wine is poured.
  
  
• MDH will have snuck out for an after dinner Italian sausage and pepper sandwich snack from the street vendor outside the restaurant.


• He will hide the sandwich in his pocket and save for later consumption.*

That's how we roll.

Have a safe and happy weekend. Oh and HAPPY NEW YEAR!

*The sausage thing happened on one of our first New Year's Eves together, long, long ago. MDH bought the sandwich when we were all leaving a night club and nobody saw him. With the exception of Nature Boy, our designated driver, we were all totally polluted, stumbling, drunk. Hours later, after we had been safely deposited back home, MDH and I were drunkenly making out, still fully clothed and when we came up for air I looked over and noticed that all of a sudden he was wailing on this sausage and pepper. Even if I hadn't been so drunk I couldn't have imagined where in the hell it had come from so I asked, incredulous, and not just a little jealous because sausage and pepper sandwiches from dudes with street carts are pretty damn good drunk food, "Where did you get that?" to which he replied, matter of factly, "Eh whass in mah pah-ket."

20 Questions - Part Two - STD's & Personal Care Edition

Welcome back! Glad to know that I haven't driven all of you away with my recent severe hatred of over used trite phrases, tales of long ago unsatisfied promiscuity, and crazed obsession with the direction of the toilet paper roll. I'll have to try harder from now on. (I'm just kidding, please don't leave me.)

Ummm... what was I talking about? Oh yes, today's installment of 20 questions. Here we go...

Pistols at Dawn, self-professed jerk, and one of my all time favorite bloggers, writes:

Please tell me the best STD story your "friends" have ever told you. Wait, that's not a question. Can you make it one? That's a question.

I know many of you will find this hard to believe and don't give me any shit about it because it's the truth, but I personally don't know anyone who has fessed up to ever having anything worse than a yeast infection and unfortunately (for the purposes of telling your requested story) those are not typically transmitted sexually.

Try again Pistols:

What was the worst pickup line ever used on you?

Strike two Pistols. I don't have much experience in this arena either. I never really got hit on very much, so my collection of cheesy pick up lines that guys have tried on me is limited to the standard kind that we all have heard, were so bad as to be completely forgotten or simple, brutish references to my rack or his cock.

When I used to go out a lot the bars I frequented were pretty clique-ish so most of the people at these places knew me or knew of my reputation as a "nice girl" - it kept me out of trouble, much to my chagrin. I also had a lot of male friends around which tend to fend off advances from potentially interested dudes.

Moving on...

CDP, who has a lovely blog with some fantastic writing over at (parenthetical) asks:

What cosmetic/skin care/hair product or products are you currently obsessed with?

Excellent question. This is a topic that's dear to my heart - Potions!!

I'm all over Kiehl's Abyssine line of anti-aging goop. These products have allowed me to fool myself, much more easily than similarly priced products, into believing that they are actually working. I have been buying these products on line and using them for years without having ever stepped inside a Kiehl's store, so I was thrilled to disover that limited items from this brand are available at Target.

Lean in a little closer so that I can tell you all about how I snagged what is normally a $32 jar of eye cream that was mismarked on a clearance end cap for $2. Score! God I love Target.

Also - keep your eyes peeled for a hair care brand called Davines (Dah-Ven-Ess), I hereby predict that within a year it'll be all the rage.

Our last question in this installment is from Chris over at The Radloff's Random Midnight Thoughts who wants to know:

What's your favorite drink recipe? I have a new blender, you see, and not much imagination. I needs help.

Fear not Chris. I may not know much about STD's or pick-up lines, but I do know my way around blender drinks. Here are two of my favorite recipes:

Non-Alcoholic:

Lady's Gotta Smoothie

1 banana (peel it first silly!)

1 juice of one lemon

1 cup of your favorite frozen or fresh berries

1/2 cup ice

1/2 cup orange juice

Add all of that shit to your blender, slowly. Blend and add more shit as the stuff gets blended. Look at you all healthy and shit!

Lets get drunk now... here's a good one for summer:

Watermelon Sloshy (like a slushy, only with booze)
2 cup watermelon (seeded, cubed)
1/2 cup pomegranate juice
1/2 cup ice cubes

1/2 cup vodka (add more if you want, it's your liver)

Blend until slushy. Hammer time.

More questions answered - coming soon!

What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells

Ahh... Sunday morning. I found myself awakened this Sunday morning, as I am on most Sunday mornings, at 9:15 to the glorious tintinnabulation of the bells from the Colonial looking church around the corner, calling the flock to gather for worship, or whatever it is Presbyterians flock together to do. At least I assume it involves worshiping the lord and then eventually exchanging stock tips, talking about golf and eating Waldorf salad.

Normally I find this a pretty nice way to wake up. I'm not a church goer myself, as it would be a little deranged since I'm a devout Agnostic, but church bells are OK in my book. It's a hell of a lot better than the ten thousand decibel rhythmic bleating of my alarm clock anyway.

But today I found the bells more like a death knoll.

Fuck. Shut up already.

Slightly befuddled, I also found myself in the guest room.

Slowly it started to come back to me. Last night's outing with Rachel and E to a night club and the two very large, house special cocktails I enjoyed. The server described the drink and the ingredients list of sugary booze was too long to keep track of when I ordered them as a sober person, let alone remember the day after.

I'm hung over (is that one word or two - I'm seeing double)?

I thought that I had downed enough water and waited a reasonable period of time before driving home. I felt fine. Not drunk at all. The only physical sign of ailment from the evenings events was throbbing feet from the bronze patent peep toe slingbacks I had decided to wear. I even stayed up a little bit when I got home and called MDH who is away in Indianapolis this weekend on a corporate Boondoggle for some big deal college basketball thingy, to let him know I was home safe and to whisper lovey-dovey goodnights into the phone.

Next thing I know I'm wrapped up in a polyester comforter on the sheet less bed in the guestroom cursing the goddamn Presbyterians and their goddamn fucking bells. The floor is strewn with my now wrinkled outfit. The shiny slingback resting next to my throbbing head causes me to notice that my feet are still throbbing with tiny blisters on each pinkie toe.

As a side note, the polyester comforter was a wedding present from my mother who never checks fabric content labels. It looks like gorgeous green and gold wide striped silk with gold braided trim, but it itches like a son of a bitch. I have a mark from the braiding embedded on my temple.

Why the guest room? Well, it's not uncommon for me to sleep in there when MDH is away. It's warmer in there as it's smaller than our cavernous master bedroom and for some reason the bed doesn't seem so empty.

Anyhoo... I'm not normally a drinker of giant cocktails containing shot samplings from then entire Bacardi flavors collection served in pint sized glasses. Certainly, I wouldn't normally drink two. I'm more likely to sip one martini, or a glass of red wine with a meal. On special occasions, like when it's blazing hot outside I may, if I'm feeling nutty or on the verge of profuse schwitzing , chug an ice cold beer or two. Who am I kidding? I never finish the second beer.

So hang overs are not commonplace. I probably haven't had one for... shit I don't even remember. I do however remember a time when I could drink half of a $5 bucket of beer all night (they used to serve Milwaukee's Best tap beer, literally in gallon mop buckets at a place I frequented called Mustard's. Come to think of it, it's where I met Dan and Nature Boy) and wake up fine. In fact I could get up, go to work all day and go out drinking all night all over again. I don't remember this head pain or feeling like my ears are numb and my eyes all fuzzy and made of cotton balls.

I'm too old for this. I need a drink.

24 Hour Weenie People

I have lots of things to write about, but most of them are of the long-ish story telling variety and I'm not in the mood to flesh them out today. Besides, it's bill paying day for MDH and he's probably going to boot me out of the office at any moment. He is currently performing his usual Sunday afternoon routine of watching the talking head brigade (Face the Nation, Chris Matthews, Tim Russert, etc..) while simultaneously watching UMass basketball on his laptop and shouting to himself, so I have a little time.

Here instead I'll tell you about our evening out. We forgot to take the camera. I don't have any actual photographic proof, but Rachel, Playtah and Aria were there as witnesses that MDH and I actually went out on a Saturday night.

We went to Billy's Lounge, which is a terrific little bar near our house. Technically it's within walking distance, but since we live in the fucking tundra, we drove. Aria's father's band were the featured performers of the night with the lovely Aria filling in for the regular female vocalist. She, along with the rest of the band, kicked ass. They played the kind of crowd pleasing R&B, Funk and Soul standards that make even the fuddiest of fleece wearing duddies get up and dance.

As we were leaving the bar I noticed that it was 12:50am and that I had a terrible hankerin' for a chili dog. MDH was not keen on the idea. I whined and put up a fuss until I realized that I was the driver, so I shut up and just drove straight to the 24 hour weenie restaurant instead of going home. It's weird that such things as 24 hour hot dog joints exist in a dullsville boring town that normally shuts completely down by 11PM, but I'm so very glad that they do. It's almost all we've got.

By the time we got to the weenie store MDH had decided not only that chili dogs were just the ticket, but also declared me "A Genius!" and trudged across the slushy parking lot to buy our late night snack while I waited in the toasty warm car.

We ate the sloppy doggies back at home hovering over paper towels on the sofa in the den and stayed up until almost 3am talking and laughing.

How did I get so lucky?

The Boysh Are Back In Town or... Fuzzy Memories

MDH has kicked it into high gear this week as he plots a pilgrimage with 3 of his 4 brothers to Las Vegas for the Superbowl.

"But Lady", you might ask, "isn't the Superbowl in Tempe, AZ this year?" And to you I would reply, "Why, yes. Yes it is."

Here is the plan as I understand it so far:

MDH will fly to Las Vegas next Thursday, along with his brothers Miami and Syracuse to meet with their other brother LV, who I normally refer to in this blog as Las Vegas, because I have named his brothers by location (which wasn't so smart in hindsight because what if one or more of them moves?) with the exception of his brother Knucklehead (because he is a knucklehead wherever he goes and Cambridge sounds way too educated and important sounding of a handle to give him). For the purposes clearing up any confusion in today's post brother Las Vegas will be referred to as LV.
Are you with me so far?

Moving on then...

Where was I? Oh, yes, MDH and his slightly less knuckleheaded brothers are meeting in the city of Las Vegas next Thursday with the hopes that between the 4 of them someone will have been able to score Superbowl tickets. How this is supposed to happen, I haven't a clue. I assume it won't be above board, based on the thuggish character of his brothers, so I don't ask.

If the tickets are scored the group will (hopefully) sober up and rent a car with which to drive from Las Vegas to Tempe, AZ and attend the game.

If the tickets are not scored the group will remain hammered and watch the game together in one of their hotel suites or in the Caesar's Palace Sports Betting Lounge.

I have a feeling they will not make it to the game.

The last time they were all in Las Vegas MDH was having such a good time that he called me from what sounded like a combination of a Girl's Gone Wild video and a scene from Animal House and slurringly and lovingly asked if I minded if he stayed an extra day. He's a grown man, we have no children. What do I care? Go ahead my darling, stay an extra day. Party responsibly.

MDH: Hunna Bunna (Honey Bunny) me n' LV wanna shtay till tommmmma, tommma...

Me: Tomorrow?

MDH: yhu

Me: Why? What's up?

MDH: Otish Day n' the nights are playin and there'sh a toga party an Jenny McCarthy ish here n' Otish saysh for me to tell you "hi". (I had met some of the members of the band on a flight a few months prior and I'm sure they had no recollection of it.)

Me: OK.

MDH: yer smost wunnerful baby I wishyu were here right now I'd take yer mine armsn givya a big...

I could smell his scotchy breath through the phone from 2000 miles away.

Me: We can talk about it when you get home baby. Have a good time. I'm going to hang up now. Come home safe, OK?

MDH: Hunna Bunna, hunna bunna I jush wanna tell yoo shanks I love yoo soo mush...

He went on, but I hung up.

Half an hour later I received a call from the American Express Fraud Department about an attempted suspicious cash withdrawal of $4000 on the card from an ATM machine at Caesar's Palace.

Half an hour after that I received a call from Visa's Fraud folks on the same topic for the same amount.

I told them both to deny the transactions because MDH is really happy and generous when polluted and probably trying to buy a round of drinks for the entire audience at Cirque Du Soleil, but there was also the possibility that he had had his pocket picked by Miami's "date" or been robbed at gunpoint.

Anyhoo... I think it's pretty obvious that I'm not a jealous type, but don't fuck with our bank account. So next weekend I'll be manning the phone here at home, ready to nix the crazy credit card cash withdrawals hoping like hell Otis Day & The Nights have a gig elsewhere.

Here is a sampling of the amazing photos MDH took at the toga party:

Not sure.
No idea.
Kind of like when you point to something for a dog and it looks at your finger.

With regard to the photo at the top: Betcha can't tell which one is Knucklehead.

Remember These Guys?

When I was mopping the kitchen floor this afternoon the King Missile song "Hamsters" popped up on the good ole iPod. I tried to find a video of "Hamsters" to post here today, but I couldn't find one. So I'm posting these three videos for other King Missile songs that I always liked too. I didn't have cable at the time that I was into this band so I've never seen the videos.

I went to see them play once at a place in Columbus called the Alrosa Villa with my friend Bob. We were both really broke and only had enough money to split one pitcher of beer between us. We decided to drink it as fast as possible to help us along with our buzz and each chugged 2 glasses very quickly and left the rest for later.

The Alrosas was the kind of place that bands with names like Whitesmoke, Deesel Fuel or Gun N Roses tribute bands would play and we almost didn't go to see King Missile when we found what club we'd have to go to. We had been there before but only because we had to, like when one of us was dating a musician because the Alrosa always hosted our local Battle of the Bands. Most of the guys that hung out at the Alrosa looked like this:

I went to the bathroom and when I got back Bob had vomited in our pitcher of beer.

She has always been a really sweet natured person and it is the only time I can ever remember being angry or disgusted with her.

Detachable Penis


My Heart Is A Flower


Here is a homemade one by some dude lip syncing that's pretty good too...

Cheesecake Truck