For those of you who know what the hell I'm talking about, share in my mourning in the passing of my favorite place in cyberspace :(
Here are our quotes from the past 3 years: http://queenlyquotes.blogspot.com/
I can't even begin to express how sad I am that our site is gone. It truly was my favorite playground. The only upside to this crap is that my work productivity will increase, and really, who wants that????
Monday, June 05, 2006
Wednesday, May 03, 2006
Piranha Eye
There has been a tradition since high school between me and my two closest friends, Booty and Piranha, of making birthday cakes for each other's birthdays. Of course, like everything else we do, these cakes couldn't be normal. For Piranha's 26th birthday we decided to create a PIRANHA cake.
We used an oval casserole dish to form the body and used a square pan for the pieces of fin. The fish was placed on a foil covered piece of cardboard and frosted. Candy corn was used for teeth and my daughter proudly donated a Barbie leg to dangle out of the mouth. Around the leg we applied blood red frosting.
We had all of the essential pieces to this lovely cake except an eye. We couldn't find anything suitable so we decided that a gumball would be ideal. We loaded up our collective children into the car and headed down the street to Quik Trip. All five of us huddled around the cheap candy and the kids were pushed back as they begged for their own piece of gum. FINALLY! We found the PERFECT gumball that would be our eye. All five of us took our single gumball up to the counter and the cashier looked at us and asked "will that be all?" Through a fit of giggles we paid our 5¢ and happily trotted out to finish assembling our fish of death - the piranha.
We used an oval casserole dish to form the body and used a square pan for the pieces of fin. The fish was placed on a foil covered piece of cardboard and frosted. Candy corn was used for teeth and my daughter proudly donated a Barbie leg to dangle out of the mouth. Around the leg we applied blood red frosting.
We had all of the essential pieces to this lovely cake except an eye. We couldn't find anything suitable so we decided that a gumball would be ideal. We loaded up our collective children into the car and headed down the street to Quik Trip. All five of us huddled around the cheap candy and the kids were pushed back as they begged for their own piece of gum. FINALLY! We found the PERFECT gumball that would be our eye. All five of us took our single gumball up to the counter and the cashier looked at us and asked "will that be all?" Through a fit of giggles we paid our 5¢ and happily trotted out to finish assembling our fish of death - the piranha.
Friday, April 07, 2006
One Time At Girl Scout Camp
Mental Mysteria and I were co-leaders. Her daughter was bitching and moaning about bugs, spiders in particular. I proudly boast that for as much as I don't like bugs, spiders don't really bother me. When I see a spider I don't scream like a little girl (roaches are a whole other story).
Clearly I was setting myself up. Murphy's Law and Karma have wicked senses of humor.
We get settled into our respective tents when all of the sudden the girls in MM's daughter's tent come out screaming. THERE'S A SPIDER!!!!
*sigh* So MM and I grab a broom to escort the spider outside (we're in the woods, we're not going to kill any of the residents).
HOLY CHIT! This thing was gargantuan. It wasn't quite a tarantula, but close... probably a wolf spier. And not something you squish. Saddle and tame, maybe, but definitely not squish. Did anybody watch Arachnaphobia? The movie where the momma spider actually plots against the exterminator dude and is really adept in the duck-n-hide maneuver? Yeah, we had its sibling.
We removed all of the girls' stuff out of the tent, leaving the cots, always keeping a watchful eye on the latest location of the spider. We chased it to the middle of one of the cots and then it scampered to the edge on the side by the wall. So MM and I agreed the best method would be to just shoot the mattress out of the tent. So MM grabbed the mattress and I was positioned to catch the end and toss. She screamed bloody murder, flung her arm, the spider hit me in the chest, I screamed and the spider hit the floor and ran to the corner.
I nearly peed I was laughing so hard. Damn spider. Of course the girls are heckling me because "I don't scream about spiders"
War ensued after we got the giggles under control. MM chased it out of the corner and in a move worthy of any NHL player, I used the broom to shoot the spider out of the tent.
TA DA!!!!
I don't scream about spiders unless there is one in actual contact with my physical body.
Clearly I was setting myself up. Murphy's Law and Karma have wicked senses of humor.
We get settled into our respective tents when all of the sudden the girls in MM's daughter's tent come out screaming. THERE'S A SPIDER!!!!
*sigh* So MM and I grab a broom to escort the spider outside (we're in the woods, we're not going to kill any of the residents).
HOLY CHIT! This thing was gargantuan. It wasn't quite a tarantula, but close... probably a wolf spier. And not something you squish. Saddle and tame, maybe, but definitely not squish. Did anybody watch Arachnaphobia? The movie where the momma spider actually plots against the exterminator dude and is really adept in the duck-n-hide maneuver? Yeah, we had its sibling.
We removed all of the girls' stuff out of the tent, leaving the cots, always keeping a watchful eye on the latest location of the spider. We chased it to the middle of one of the cots and then it scampered to the edge on the side by the wall. So MM and I agreed the best method would be to just shoot the mattress out of the tent. So MM grabbed the mattress and I was positioned to catch the end and toss. She screamed bloody murder, flung her arm, the spider hit me in the chest, I screamed and the spider hit the floor and ran to the corner.
I nearly peed I was laughing so hard. Damn spider. Of course the girls are heckling me because "I don't scream about spiders"
War ensued after we got the giggles under control. MM chased it out of the corner and in a move worthy of any NHL player, I used the broom to shoot the spider out of the tent.
TA DA!!!!
I don't scream about spiders unless there is one in actual contact with my physical body.
Friday, March 31, 2006
The Flowergirl
The ideal age for a flower girl and ring bearer is somewhere between 3 and 10. Of course I didn't pay any attention to that advice, mostly because I didn't have any other children to pick from. I chose my best friend's two year old daughter. She had JUST turned two. Her ability to follow directions was limited and her ability to sit still even more limited.
She and the three year old ring bearer managed to go just as instructed down the aisle to the candy bribes waiting at the end. And so began the ceremony. The long, drawn out ceremony that would never end. I'm not Catholic and this was not a Catholic ceremony, but everyone compared it in length to one. Everyone, including the bridal party, was having problems not fidgeting. I don't know where to begin my apologies. It looked like a simple enough ceremony when I sat with the minister thumbing through his book of ceremonies. I vaguely recall that he mentioned that it was longer than the standard ceremony, but what did I know? He didn't throw out huge warning flags, he didn't knock me upside the head... how was I to know that this was an AGONIZINGLY long ceremony??? OH and then the song I chose? Well, actually my mother strongly suggested a duet from Phantom. I should have had plastic forks handed out to the guests as they arrived so that they could jab them in their eyes for amusement. Again, what did I know? I was young and stupid.
Some point while the minister was rambling about love and happiness the flower girl had managed to climb onto the wooden choir pews behind the minister. In her hard sole shoes, she stomped along the the pews, the sound echoing out through the church. Her mother was stranded as a bridesmaid and couldn't break ranks so her mom dashed up and swooped the flowergirl back to her seat.
A little while later, I was nudged by my groom and I looked over at him and then he looked at me with that silent "what?" And then he looked at me, thinking I nudged him. In unison we looked between us and there stood the flowergirl. She scooched over to a position between the groom and bestman and the scene repeated as they each looked at each other thinking the other was trying to get his attention.
Thereafter I never witnessed any more of the flowergirl's activities. It was reported that during the vow exchange she stood between us with a hand on each of us, like she was pulling us together - I had no clue, I was too busy trying to repeat my lines correctly. Later she evidently took a corsage pin and contently sat on my train trying to poke holes in it.
My mother-in-law was horrified. I thought it was hilarious.
She and the three year old ring bearer managed to go just as instructed down the aisle to the candy bribes waiting at the end. And so began the ceremony. The long, drawn out ceremony that would never end. I'm not Catholic and this was not a Catholic ceremony, but everyone compared it in length to one. Everyone, including the bridal party, was having problems not fidgeting. I don't know where to begin my apologies. It looked like a simple enough ceremony when I sat with the minister thumbing through his book of ceremonies. I vaguely recall that he mentioned that it was longer than the standard ceremony, but what did I know? He didn't throw out huge warning flags, he didn't knock me upside the head... how was I to know that this was an AGONIZINGLY long ceremony??? OH and then the song I chose? Well, actually my mother strongly suggested a duet from Phantom. I should have had plastic forks handed out to the guests as they arrived so that they could jab them in their eyes for amusement. Again, what did I know? I was young and stupid.
Some point while the minister was rambling about love and happiness the flower girl had managed to climb onto the wooden choir pews behind the minister. In her hard sole shoes, she stomped along the the pews, the sound echoing out through the church. Her mother was stranded as a bridesmaid and couldn't break ranks so her mom dashed up and swooped the flowergirl back to her seat.
A little while later, I was nudged by my groom and I looked over at him and then he looked at me with that silent "what?" And then he looked at me, thinking I nudged him. In unison we looked between us and there stood the flowergirl. She scooched over to a position between the groom and bestman and the scene repeated as they each looked at each other thinking the other was trying to get his attention.
Thereafter I never witnessed any more of the flowergirl's activities. It was reported that during the vow exchange she stood between us with a hand on each of us, like she was pulling us together - I had no clue, I was too busy trying to repeat my lines correctly. Later she evidently took a corsage pin and contently sat on my train trying to poke holes in it.
My mother-in-law was horrified. I thought it was hilarious.
Tuesday, March 07, 2006
No Cable
I live under a rock. There are whole conversations that I can never participate in because I don't have cable. (((SHOCK))) How the hell can I function without ever seeing Sex In the City, Sopranos or South Park? To be honest I do feel deprived. But somehow I manage to string my days together and survive just the same.
For the most part, the decision to live sans cable has been financial. My AOL subscription is about the only luxury I've allowed myself. But it's also because I'm such a TV junkie. I doubt if I had 24 hour access to the History Channel that I would ever pry my ass off the couch. I can see calling in sick to work because I just came off a Cooking Channel flan marathon and need some sleep. Eventually I would lose my job and get behind on my cable bill and then be in the same boat I am now with no cable, but also no job, and curled up in the corner, shaking from withdrawl, because I can't watch the lastest episode of some ghost buster show.
It's clearly in my best interests that I subsist on Free TV. Being hooked on Grey's Anatomy, Desparate Housewives, Medium, and Boston Legal consumes enough of my time as it is. Having Grey's bumped for the Oscars threw me into a tizzy. Last night I went on a rampage looking for a shadow box that I hadn't seen since I moved two years ago (I knew it made the move, I could not have left it at the old house!). Fortunately I found the shadowbox, but I also missed Medium. DAMMIT!
But all is not lost. Sex In The City, Sopranos, and South Park have come out on DVD. Us under-rock dwellers who have managed to come into possession of a DVD player can finally be let in on the secret. Albeit 5 years after the fact.
For the most part, the decision to live sans cable has been financial. My AOL subscription is about the only luxury I've allowed myself. But it's also because I'm such a TV junkie. I doubt if I had 24 hour access to the History Channel that I would ever pry my ass off the couch. I can see calling in sick to work because I just came off a Cooking Channel flan marathon and need some sleep. Eventually I would lose my job and get behind on my cable bill and then be in the same boat I am now with no cable, but also no job, and curled up in the corner, shaking from withdrawl, because I can't watch the lastest episode of some ghost buster show.
It's clearly in my best interests that I subsist on Free TV. Being hooked on Grey's Anatomy, Desparate Housewives, Medium, and Boston Legal consumes enough of my time as it is. Having Grey's bumped for the Oscars threw me into a tizzy. Last night I went on a rampage looking for a shadow box that I hadn't seen since I moved two years ago (I knew it made the move, I could not have left it at the old house!). Fortunately I found the shadowbox, but I also missed Medium. DAMMIT!
But all is not lost. Sex In The City, Sopranos, and South Park have come out on DVD. Us under-rock dwellers who have managed to come into possession of a DVD player can finally be let in on the secret. Albeit 5 years after the fact.
Thursday, February 23, 2006
February 22, 1988
There are dates in your life that will forever carry a certain significance. Of course, there is my birthday which I believe should be treated like a national holiday. July 28. Learn it, live it, love it, gimme lots of great chit. There was the day I got married. Even though I divorced the bastard, the wedding anniversary remains nostalgic. And the birthday of each of my kids always makes me a little weapy as I see how much they've grown over the years.
And then there is their due dates.
Yesterday was the due date of my first child. I don't quite get why I, and probably every other woman on the face of the earth, clings so dearly to that date. That arbitrary date, practically picked out of thin air, based on when you recall the last day of your menstrual cycle. I was told in June that I was due to deliver around... AROUND... February 22. And I held to that date like it was etched in gold.
Any woman who has carried past their 35th week of pregnancy can tell you, by that time you are DONE being pregnant. All the novelty is gone, the glowing doesn't matter, and your ankles swell. Like a prisoner in a dungeon you tick off the days until your release. The day you can stop wearing "fat clothes". The day toes stop testing the plyability of your bladder and your spleen can be pried off your spine.
Two weeks before the due date a new mentality sweeps over the expectant mother - "any time now." Bags are checked and rechecked. Meals are prepared and frozen. The house is kept incredibly clean and the car never has less than a half tank of gas.
And so we waited.
And waited.
February 22, 1988 arrived and still no baby, but surely Little Bart would be in our arms within a matter of hours.
February 23 arrived and still no baby. Mom and my husband took me out to eat. As we waited for our seat, a pair of elderly women gawked at my protuding belly and observed "honey, you've dropped!"
WHAT THE HELL? How does anyone get off telling an absolute stranger the medical state of her pregnancy? Wisely the old chicks kept their hands to themselves. I was to the point that if one more person reached out to touch me I was gunna rip their arm out! I had already had enough stranger hands pet my belly, including some really creepy guy at the mall that practically gave me an exam reserved for my gyno.
So then they ask when I was due. Rather blandly, I replied "yesterday."
I swear their eyes darted in all directions as they mentally went through a checklist for boiling water, clean sheets and scissors in case they had to do an emergency delivery right there in the middle of the restaurant.
No, no, this baby was firmly holding onto my intestines and not about to come out any time soon.
Eight days had passed since my due date. OVER a week. I was seriously looking at being induced or having a C-section - neither of which was high on my wish list.
Go look at a 1988 calendar. It happened to be leap year.
Somehow I skimmed past February 29th and started the first signs of labor on March 1st. So this was it. I had a doctor appointment in the morning which was rather pointless as I was told the signs and symptoms of labor and when to go to the hospital. To kill a little time I strolled through a department store. A baby seat caught my eye and I picked it up and tried to adjust the handle. But the damn thing would not budge. GRRRRRRRRR. Yes, this is exactly what a woman holding a baby in one arm needs, a contraption that requires fourteen hands to dislodge. I couldn't get that thing out of my hands fast enough.
Okay, I tossed it back into the display.
And then every single employee surrounded me asking if I needed any help. No. I needed help five minutes ago as I was investigating this death trap, but now I'm not interested. Your security cameras would serve better as customer service cameras so you can ward off potentially upset customers who shouldn't touch your GD precious displays of unuseful baby gear.
And then I got in the car and balled my eyes out.
I never cry.
Ever.
Hormones are hell.
And the day drug on. And on. Finally that night when my contractions were five minutes apart I promptly went to the hospital where I was told that I wasn't in full labor and I should walk around for awhile to encourage the progression. After several hours of pointless walking I was told to go home, only to return when the contractions are "really bad."
TEN PM the following night, on March 2nd, I delivered my daughter. NINE DAYS after her due date.
I resent February 22nd.
Likewise, I detest June 10th. My second child was due the following year on June 10th. Again I pegged my hopes and dreams on that special day. And again the due date came and went with no baby. And again I ticked off the days and hours and minutes until this lump would no longer do his slow motion stretch inside my ribcage. This child was a little more prompt than his sister as he arrived SEVEN days late.
Their brother, on the other hand, had completely different plans and decided to grace us with his presence three weeks early.
I think giving due dates to pregnant women should be outlawed. Never has a child arrived on their designated due date. Well, okay, I'm sure a few oddball babies do what is expected of them, but they turn out to be freaks living in their mothers' basements after the age of 25. The rest of the world is populated by babies who arrive according to their own internal clocks, not some date picked off a postcard wheel carried by every obstetric doctor, nurse and hallway flunkie.
And if you don't want your head to be ripped off my some hormone enraged woman DO NOT ask when her due date is, or speculate that she's been pregnant FOREVER. Or worse yet, that the baby is setting up house keeping and is NEVER coming out.
Have I ever told you how much I hate February 22nd?
And then there is their due dates.
Yesterday was the due date of my first child. I don't quite get why I, and probably every other woman on the face of the earth, clings so dearly to that date. That arbitrary date, practically picked out of thin air, based on when you recall the last day of your menstrual cycle. I was told in June that I was due to deliver around... AROUND... February 22. And I held to that date like it was etched in gold.
Any woman who has carried past their 35th week of pregnancy can tell you, by that time you are DONE being pregnant. All the novelty is gone, the glowing doesn't matter, and your ankles swell. Like a prisoner in a dungeon you tick off the days until your release. The day you can stop wearing "fat clothes". The day toes stop testing the plyability of your bladder and your spleen can be pried off your spine.
Two weeks before the due date a new mentality sweeps over the expectant mother - "any time now." Bags are checked and rechecked. Meals are prepared and frozen. The house is kept incredibly clean and the car never has less than a half tank of gas.
And so we waited.
And waited.
February 22, 1988 arrived and still no baby, but surely Little Bart would be in our arms within a matter of hours.
February 23 arrived and still no baby. Mom and my husband took me out to eat. As we waited for our seat, a pair of elderly women gawked at my protuding belly and observed "honey, you've dropped!"
WHAT THE HELL? How does anyone get off telling an absolute stranger the medical state of her pregnancy? Wisely the old chicks kept their hands to themselves. I was to the point that if one more person reached out to touch me I was gunna rip their arm out! I had already had enough stranger hands pet my belly, including some really creepy guy at the mall that practically gave me an exam reserved for my gyno.
So then they ask when I was due. Rather blandly, I replied "yesterday."
I swear their eyes darted in all directions as they mentally went through a checklist for boiling water, clean sheets and scissors in case they had to do an emergency delivery right there in the middle of the restaurant.
No, no, this baby was firmly holding onto my intestines and not about to come out any time soon.
Eight days had passed since my due date. OVER a week. I was seriously looking at being induced or having a C-section - neither of which was high on my wish list.
Go look at a 1988 calendar. It happened to be leap year.
Somehow I skimmed past February 29th and started the first signs of labor on March 1st. So this was it. I had a doctor appointment in the morning which was rather pointless as I was told the signs and symptoms of labor and when to go to the hospital. To kill a little time I strolled through a department store. A baby seat caught my eye and I picked it up and tried to adjust the handle. But the damn thing would not budge. GRRRRRRRRR. Yes, this is exactly what a woman holding a baby in one arm needs, a contraption that requires fourteen hands to dislodge. I couldn't get that thing out of my hands fast enough.
Okay, I tossed it back into the display.
And then every single employee surrounded me asking if I needed any help. No. I needed help five minutes ago as I was investigating this death trap, but now I'm not interested. Your security cameras would serve better as customer service cameras so you can ward off potentially upset customers who shouldn't touch your GD precious displays of unuseful baby gear.
And then I got in the car and balled my eyes out.
I never cry.
Ever.
Hormones are hell.
And the day drug on. And on. Finally that night when my contractions were five minutes apart I promptly went to the hospital where I was told that I wasn't in full labor and I should walk around for awhile to encourage the progression. After several hours of pointless walking I was told to go home, only to return when the contractions are "really bad."
TEN PM the following night, on March 2nd, I delivered my daughter. NINE DAYS after her due date.
I resent February 22nd.
Likewise, I detest June 10th. My second child was due the following year on June 10th. Again I pegged my hopes and dreams on that special day. And again the due date came and went with no baby. And again I ticked off the days and hours and minutes until this lump would no longer do his slow motion stretch inside my ribcage. This child was a little more prompt than his sister as he arrived SEVEN days late.
Their brother, on the other hand, had completely different plans and decided to grace us with his presence three weeks early.
I think giving due dates to pregnant women should be outlawed. Never has a child arrived on their designated due date. Well, okay, I'm sure a few oddball babies do what is expected of them, but they turn out to be freaks living in their mothers' basements after the age of 25. The rest of the world is populated by babies who arrive according to their own internal clocks, not some date picked off a postcard wheel carried by every obstetric doctor, nurse and hallway flunkie.
And if you don't want your head to be ripped off my some hormone enraged woman DO NOT ask when her due date is, or speculate that she's been pregnant FOREVER. Or worse yet, that the baby is setting up house keeping and is NEVER coming out.
Have I ever told you how much I hate February 22nd?
Friday, February 10, 2006
Appealing to an 8 year old's Toilet Humor
Help him study for his spelling test and when he spells "unhappiness" point out that he said peepee. The child will erupt into a fit of giggles and any time he tries to spell "unhappiness" ever again.
Friday, January 27, 2006
Chicago
I had gone to Chicago for a weekend trip with my two closest friends. None of us had been there as adults so this was to be a grand adventure. Like the dipshits we are, we neglected to follow the advice of previous Chicago visitors and refused to use the taxis. As we discovered on successive trips, hailing and taking a taxi in Chicago is about as easy as breathing. But we didn't know that. Instead, we chose to walk.
Chicago is a bigass town.
We parked a few blocks away from the "Miracle Mile" in the most amusing parking garage. For what they charged, a little entertainment was the least they could do. The music that played outside the elevator in the waiting area corresponded with the color of the floor. Of course we had to stop at each and every floor to listen to its song. We were most amused with Kermit singing "It's Hard To Be Green" on the green floor.
So we walked to the Miracle Mile and went into a few of the expensive shops. And we walked up the Miracle Mile. And then we ventured west, following our noses for dinner. Seriously. We were not following a map or any great suggestions, just our noses. Oh and this was in the middle of December. And we were wearing "cute" shoes for the night out.
Amazingly, we found a great restaurant, Rock Bottom Brewery. As we waited for our table we watched waiters wizz back and forth with platters of the most delicious looking food. Booty and I both spotted a curious item pass by and I pondered, "I wonder what those long things are." They were toasted, thin, round and nearly a foot long, sticking off the edge of the platter. Piranha very dryly replied "french fries." Obviously she hadn't seen the same platter and didn't understand why Booty and I were just rolling. Those were clearly NOT french fries, unless they were MUTANT french fries. When we got to our table we asked the waiter about them and they were the most glorious appetizer, Titan Toothpicks, tortillas filled with grilled chicken and salsa. After several hours of charming the hell out of our waiter, the waiters serving neighboring tables and the manager we were pointed in the direction of the bar district or Rush Street. Again we were encouraged to get a taxi, but we were steadfast in our insistence to walk.
The three of us meandered down Rush Street hitting nearly every bar. Some were too fancy for us and there were even a few with the "special" list of cool people. We clearly were not on any of those lists. We were actually most charmed by the hole-in-the-wall pub and made a mental note to remember this place for future Chicago trips. We went to a margarita bar and a smoking lounge. We came across all sorts of people in various places and did lots and lots of dancing. The night (morning) was winding down but we were still in the mood to party. As we were lamenting this fact while we were walking down Rush Street a stranger suggested a night club just a few blocks away that is open until FOUR AM! We were totally taken in with this concept. St. Louis, hardly a po-dunk, one-bar town, does not have night clubs that stay open past 2 am. As we made our way to the night club our eavesdropping stranger was suddenly accosted by the police and slammed against the wall! The police looked at us as if to ask a question, but we quickly assured the officers that we had no idea who this guy was, that he approached us just a few seconds earlier. Evidently he had been followed for some time and the police were well aware of our chance meeting. They let us go with a warning about who we associate with on the streets of Chicago.
We found the nightclub with no problem and proceeded to dance our collective asses off. 4 am came and we were quickly ushered out the door. Evidently the nightclub staff wasn't nearly as taken with the closing time as we were and want to get HOME.
So the night was over and it was time for us to depart as well. And yet again we opted not to use the services of a taxi. Somewhere along our stroll through downtown Chicago it truly dawned on us that this is really a big place. Needless to say, our feet HURT. And we needed to go pee again.
Now I'm not above ducking behind a bush in someone's yard and dropping trou, but the yards we passed were exactly the size of a postage stamp. There was no hiding, no privacy, no avoiding public indecency charges. And yes, at that hour there is plenty to need to hide from when answering nature's call - the sky was getting less dark as we neared sunrise and a few joggers had already passed by. No, what we needed was proper restroom facilities. Had we been on the road, a Denny's or a shady gas station would have sufficed. Unfortunately we were downtown, way too early, on a Sunday morning. Public restrooms were not readily available. And the urge was getting stronger.
And I could feel the rumblings of the onset of beershits. A toilet with toilet paper was imminently necessary. Clearly I was breaking into the fastest walk my intestines would withstand. Outright running was out of the question.
In the meantime, Piranha and Booty had discovered the skyline of Chicago as seen from the sidewalk of the Miracle Mile. They meandered at a snail's pace with their necks craned back as far as possible looking at how amazingly tall all of the buildings are. They had the audacity to yell at me that I was walking too fast. They should just be happy that I wasn't leaving a brown trail for them to follow!
At last we stumbled across a hotel. The bellhop didn't seem very receptive to allowing any drunken women into his lobby, but we explained that it was either in their toilets or right here in front of the doors. Booty and Piranha's bladders were finally pressing urgently as well.
The bellhop relented and escorted us through the lobby, down a hall, to the lady's room. The poor guy barely got to the door when we ran past him. Okay, I ran past, nearly knocking him over. Piranha and Booty made their apologies for their rude friend and politely walked in.
As Piranha would tell the story, I dashed in, dropped my pants and my load, zipped up and was washing my hands by the time she and Booty entered the restroom. She also likes to comment on the lovely smell left wafting in my wake.
Like I said, it was urgent.
We made our way back to the amusing parking garage. Another visit to the green floor and then on to our car.
I had my last drink just after we arrived at the nightclub several hours earlier. After all of the dancing and then that powerwalk, I was completely sober and thus, the designated driver. We had ahead of us a forty minute drive. Leave it to us to book a hotel on the outskirts of town! Piranha and Booty took this opportunity to catch a quick nap... or pass out. That left me all by myself with no one to talk to, no one to keep me awake. At this hour I was exhausted and very droopy eyed. I turned on the radio and rolled down the windows. Somehow I managed to keep the car on the road and delivered us safely to our hotel. As soon as I pulled into the parking lot, my passengers woke up. Chipper. And chatty. Neither of which described me at the moment. My only goal was to get to our room, get out of my shoes and socks and crawl into bed. I didn't give a rat's ass what I was or wasn't wearing, washing my face or bothering with locked doors. I sure as hell didn't have the least desire to hold a conversation with a grown woman who felt like asking eighty bazillion questions. Piranha, on the other hand, was well rested and had just enough alcohol in her to want to be a royal fucking pain in the ass and ask any pointless question that danced through that empty cavity that poses as her head.
Booty was of a similar mind as me and quickly found her bed and drifted into a deep sleep. If you haven't had the pleasure, Booty snores when she sleeps. She snores a lot and very loudly. Most people find it agitating, to say the least. Not me. I was married for twelve years to a man who snores like Fred Flintstone, sucking in the walls with every breath.
But here I was, Chatty Cathy next to me and a slumbering bear across the room. The noise was deafening. There wasn't much I could do about the snoring, but at least Piranha could shut up. I asked Piranha to be quiet, but she kept on. I calmly explained that I hadn't had a nap yet, could she quit asking me questions, yet she continued. Then I yelled at her to quit talking to me, she kept yammering on. Most people in my situation would have tried to ignore her, and trust me I tried, but the bitch does NOT like being ignored. Back in high school Piranha and Booty went on a 3 week exchange trip to Germany. Booty came back with a story of how she nearly had to BEAT Piranha in the head to get her to go to sleep. Trust me, the thought crossed my mind that morning. Instead, I gave her wedgie.
I think she got the hint, FINALLY or I simply passed out.
Since then I have never shared a bed with Piranha.
Chicago is a bigass town.
We parked a few blocks away from the "Miracle Mile" in the most amusing parking garage. For what they charged, a little entertainment was the least they could do. The music that played outside the elevator in the waiting area corresponded with the color of the floor. Of course we had to stop at each and every floor to listen to its song. We were most amused with Kermit singing "It's Hard To Be Green" on the green floor.
So we walked to the Miracle Mile and went into a few of the expensive shops. And we walked up the Miracle Mile. And then we ventured west, following our noses for dinner. Seriously. We were not following a map or any great suggestions, just our noses. Oh and this was in the middle of December. And we were wearing "cute" shoes for the night out.
Amazingly, we found a great restaurant, Rock Bottom Brewery. As we waited for our table we watched waiters wizz back and forth with platters of the most delicious looking food. Booty and I both spotted a curious item pass by and I pondered, "I wonder what those long things are." They were toasted, thin, round and nearly a foot long, sticking off the edge of the platter. Piranha very dryly replied "french fries." Obviously she hadn't seen the same platter and didn't understand why Booty and I were just rolling. Those were clearly NOT french fries, unless they were MUTANT french fries. When we got to our table we asked the waiter about them and they were the most glorious appetizer, Titan Toothpicks, tortillas filled with grilled chicken and salsa. After several hours of charming the hell out of our waiter, the waiters serving neighboring tables and the manager we were pointed in the direction of the bar district or Rush Street. Again we were encouraged to get a taxi, but we were steadfast in our insistence to walk.
The three of us meandered down Rush Street hitting nearly every bar. Some were too fancy for us and there were even a few with the "special" list of cool people. We clearly were not on any of those lists. We were actually most charmed by the hole-in-the-wall pub and made a mental note to remember this place for future Chicago trips. We went to a margarita bar and a smoking lounge. We came across all sorts of people in various places and did lots and lots of dancing. The night (morning) was winding down but we were still in the mood to party. As we were lamenting this fact while we were walking down Rush Street a stranger suggested a night club just a few blocks away that is open until FOUR AM! We were totally taken in with this concept. St. Louis, hardly a po-dunk, one-bar town, does not have night clubs that stay open past 2 am. As we made our way to the night club our eavesdropping stranger was suddenly accosted by the police and slammed against the wall! The police looked at us as if to ask a question, but we quickly assured the officers that we had no idea who this guy was, that he approached us just a few seconds earlier. Evidently he had been followed for some time and the police were well aware of our chance meeting. They let us go with a warning about who we associate with on the streets of Chicago.
We found the nightclub with no problem and proceeded to dance our collective asses off. 4 am came and we were quickly ushered out the door. Evidently the nightclub staff wasn't nearly as taken with the closing time as we were and want to get HOME.
So the night was over and it was time for us to depart as well. And yet again we opted not to use the services of a taxi. Somewhere along our stroll through downtown Chicago it truly dawned on us that this is really a big place. Needless to say, our feet HURT. And we needed to go pee again.
Now I'm not above ducking behind a bush in someone's yard and dropping trou, but the yards we passed were exactly the size of a postage stamp. There was no hiding, no privacy, no avoiding public indecency charges. And yes, at that hour there is plenty to need to hide from when answering nature's call - the sky was getting less dark as we neared sunrise and a few joggers had already passed by. No, what we needed was proper restroom facilities. Had we been on the road, a Denny's or a shady gas station would have sufficed. Unfortunately we were downtown, way too early, on a Sunday morning. Public restrooms were not readily available. And the urge was getting stronger.
And I could feel the rumblings of the onset of beershits. A toilet with toilet paper was imminently necessary. Clearly I was breaking into the fastest walk my intestines would withstand. Outright running was out of the question.
In the meantime, Piranha and Booty had discovered the skyline of Chicago as seen from the sidewalk of the Miracle Mile. They meandered at a snail's pace with their necks craned back as far as possible looking at how amazingly tall all of the buildings are. They had the audacity to yell at me that I was walking too fast. They should just be happy that I wasn't leaving a brown trail for them to follow!
At last we stumbled across a hotel. The bellhop didn't seem very receptive to allowing any drunken women into his lobby, but we explained that it was either in their toilets or right here in front of the doors. Booty and Piranha's bladders were finally pressing urgently as well.
The bellhop relented and escorted us through the lobby, down a hall, to the lady's room. The poor guy barely got to the door when we ran past him. Okay, I ran past, nearly knocking him over. Piranha and Booty made their apologies for their rude friend and politely walked in.
As Piranha would tell the story, I dashed in, dropped my pants and my load, zipped up and was washing my hands by the time she and Booty entered the restroom. She also likes to comment on the lovely smell left wafting in my wake.
Like I said, it was urgent.
We made our way back to the amusing parking garage. Another visit to the green floor and then on to our car.
I had my last drink just after we arrived at the nightclub several hours earlier. After all of the dancing and then that powerwalk, I was completely sober and thus, the designated driver. We had ahead of us a forty minute drive. Leave it to us to book a hotel on the outskirts of town! Piranha and Booty took this opportunity to catch a quick nap... or pass out. That left me all by myself with no one to talk to, no one to keep me awake. At this hour I was exhausted and very droopy eyed. I turned on the radio and rolled down the windows. Somehow I managed to keep the car on the road and delivered us safely to our hotel. As soon as I pulled into the parking lot, my passengers woke up. Chipper. And chatty. Neither of which described me at the moment. My only goal was to get to our room, get out of my shoes and socks and crawl into bed. I didn't give a rat's ass what I was or wasn't wearing, washing my face or bothering with locked doors. I sure as hell didn't have the least desire to hold a conversation with a grown woman who felt like asking eighty bazillion questions. Piranha, on the other hand, was well rested and had just enough alcohol in her to want to be a royal fucking pain in the ass and ask any pointless question that danced through that empty cavity that poses as her head.
Booty was of a similar mind as me and quickly found her bed and drifted into a deep sleep. If you haven't had the pleasure, Booty snores when she sleeps. She snores a lot and very loudly. Most people find it agitating, to say the least. Not me. I was married for twelve years to a man who snores like Fred Flintstone, sucking in the walls with every breath.
But here I was, Chatty Cathy next to me and a slumbering bear across the room. The noise was deafening. There wasn't much I could do about the snoring, but at least Piranha could shut up. I asked Piranha to be quiet, but she kept on. I calmly explained that I hadn't had a nap yet, could she quit asking me questions, yet she continued. Then I yelled at her to quit talking to me, she kept yammering on. Most people in my situation would have tried to ignore her, and trust me I tried, but the bitch does NOT like being ignored. Back in high school Piranha and Booty went on a 3 week exchange trip to Germany. Booty came back with a story of how she nearly had to BEAT Piranha in the head to get her to go to sleep. Trust me, the thought crossed my mind that morning. Instead, I gave her wedgie.
I think she got the hint, FINALLY or I simply passed out.
Since then I have never shared a bed with Piranha.
Monday, January 16, 2006
Sick Tour
My brother is possibly the most warped individual you'll ever encounter. The bastard is truly sick. He's come up with this idea for a vacation tour as an income possibility. I nearly died when he told me about this. Evidently his wife had the same reaction. Then I tossed out that if he added a movie camera that he might actually become famous.
I went on vacation with my brother and sister-in-law over the summer. The two of them clearly have different vacationing styles. The entertainment value was incredible while watching the two of them be on different trips at the same time. They bickered over every last thing. If he were my husband I would have cold-cocked him and left him at the curb long ago.
There are two things you need to know about him: he's cheap and he does not give a damn.
Now just imagine for a second somebody like that buying a tour bus and conducting bus tours. Oh and he drives like a demon. Then add his wife, the voice of reason. I swear the two of them could be the next Sharon and Ozzy.
I went on vacation with my brother and sister-in-law over the summer. The two of them clearly have different vacationing styles. The entertainment value was incredible while watching the two of them be on different trips at the same time. They bickered over every last thing. If he were my husband I would have cold-cocked him and left him at the curb long ago.
There are two things you need to know about him: he's cheap and he does not give a damn.
Now just imagine for a second somebody like that buying a tour bus and conducting bus tours. Oh and he drives like a demon. Then add his wife, the voice of reason. I swear the two of them could be the next Sharon and Ozzy.
Thursday, January 12, 2006
Ned Flanders
He's a character off the Simpson's. He's the pollyanna, holier-than-thou, goody-two-shoes next door neighbor that annoys the living crap out of Homer and Homer basically treats him like shit.
I never made the connection before, but I've had a Ned Flanders in my life for quite some time. He's a member of my ex-husband's family. He's a great guy with his heart in the right place, but I can't tell you the times I've wanted to smack my head and scream DOH! He's too good, too sweet and tries too hard. In the end he's just a blundering fool. Love the guy dearly, but really, if he would just tone it down a notch, things in his life might go smoother.
Imagine my dismay when I encountered a SECOND Ned Flanders, this time in my professional world. "Unsettling" can't even begin to describe the sensation. The two men are approximately the same age, have incredibly similar features and they DRESS ALIKE.
How is it possible that a grown man can take fashion tips from a cartoon?
Like the cartoon Ned Flanders, Ned 1 and Ned 2 also wear loafers, a button-down long sleeve shirt and a pull-over sweater. Everyday. I know, there isn't an array of clothing options for men in the realm of "business casual" beyond the loafer and sweater combo. But somehow every other man on the face of the earth manages to change it up on occasion.
Okay, clothing aside, it's the behavior. It is the syrupy sweet conversation that teeters between gay and condescending. The excessive gratitude for the most meager of acts. The almost feminine capacity to over explain and go on for hours about nothing. My two real-life Neds would be absolutely crushed if they found out someone didn't like them - they try so hard to make everyone happy.
And maybe that's what bothers me the most. I detest when someone makes me do anything, even tries to make me like them. I hate a suck-up. I will like you on your merits, as you are. You don't have to spit and polish on my account, you don't have to acquiesce to me, just stand up and be you. Nothing will garner more respect from me than honesty. Sucking up isn't being true to yourself. It feels slimey when people do it and I just don't respect it.
So in the end, Neds 1 and 2, for as much as I want to protect their tender little hearts, I am conflicted because ultimately I don't respect either one of them. And that is a shame.
I never made the connection before, but I've had a Ned Flanders in my life for quite some time. He's a member of my ex-husband's family. He's a great guy with his heart in the right place, but I can't tell you the times I've wanted to smack my head and scream DOH! He's too good, too sweet and tries too hard. In the end he's just a blundering fool. Love the guy dearly, but really, if he would just tone it down a notch, things in his life might go smoother.
Imagine my dismay when I encountered a SECOND Ned Flanders, this time in my professional world. "Unsettling" can't even begin to describe the sensation. The two men are approximately the same age, have incredibly similar features and they DRESS ALIKE.
How is it possible that a grown man can take fashion tips from a cartoon?
Like the cartoon Ned Flanders, Ned 1 and Ned 2 also wear loafers, a button-down long sleeve shirt and a pull-over sweater. Everyday. I know, there isn't an array of clothing options for men in the realm of "business casual" beyond the loafer and sweater combo. But somehow every other man on the face of the earth manages to change it up on occasion.
Okay, clothing aside, it's the behavior. It is the syrupy sweet conversation that teeters between gay and condescending. The excessive gratitude for the most meager of acts. The almost feminine capacity to over explain and go on for hours about nothing. My two real-life Neds would be absolutely crushed if they found out someone didn't like them - they try so hard to make everyone happy.
And maybe that's what bothers me the most. I detest when someone makes me do anything, even tries to make me like them. I hate a suck-up. I will like you on your merits, as you are. You don't have to spit and polish on my account, you don't have to acquiesce to me, just stand up and be you. Nothing will garner more respect from me than honesty. Sucking up isn't being true to yourself. It feels slimey when people do it and I just don't respect it.
So in the end, Neds 1 and 2, for as much as I want to protect their tender little hearts, I am conflicted because ultimately I don't respect either one of them. And that is a shame.
Monday, January 09, 2006
Pony Tail Boy
Saturday night I was a chaperone to a dance.
About an hour into the dance, one of the moms points out ponytail boy. Evidently he's been to a few activities. I speculated that he would be a great future computer geek based on his clothing. Okay, so I'm being judgemental - shoot me. She giggled and agreed.
And then he burst into dance.
They were playing Thriller and most of the kids were managing a half decent imitation of the video. But ponytail boy didn't quite have it right. He managed to capture the attention of his friends which was good for a few laughs... and he kept going. There was an actual dance routine, although not quite Michael Jackson. Arm flail here, arm flail there and SPIN. Yes, he did SPINS, like a freaking ballerina. At one point he took off his tie a-la-male stripper and I nearly fell out of my chair trying to hide my expression (horror and humor). And then it struck me, he wasn't imitating anything from the Thriller video. No, think more along the lines of Star Wars and Qui-Gon(however you spell his name) or Obi-Wan's light saber display. Yes, that was it. He was doing the light saber dance routine. I was expecting red or green lights to shoot up any second. I was in fixed fascination and could not stop watching this boy dance and spin and do his arm flail thing. And he did it the entire song.
The next day I asked my 8yr old to show me how to do an imaginary light saber. Damn if he didn't copy the dance routine from the night before with exact moves, minus the spin.
About an hour into the dance, one of the moms points out ponytail boy. Evidently he's been to a few activities. I speculated that he would be a great future computer geek based on his clothing. Okay, so I'm being judgemental - shoot me. She giggled and agreed.
And then he burst into dance.
They were playing Thriller and most of the kids were managing a half decent imitation of the video. But ponytail boy didn't quite have it right. He managed to capture the attention of his friends which was good for a few laughs... and he kept going. There was an actual dance routine, although not quite Michael Jackson. Arm flail here, arm flail there and SPIN. Yes, he did SPINS, like a freaking ballerina. At one point he took off his tie a-la-male stripper and I nearly fell out of my chair trying to hide my expression (horror and humor). And then it struck me, he wasn't imitating anything from the Thriller video. No, think more along the lines of Star Wars and Qui-Gon(however you spell his name) or Obi-Wan's light saber display. Yes, that was it. He was doing the light saber dance routine. I was expecting red or green lights to shoot up any second. I was in fixed fascination and could not stop watching this boy dance and spin and do his arm flail thing. And he did it the entire song.
The next day I asked my 8yr old to show me how to do an imaginary light saber. Damn if he didn't copy the dance routine from the night before with exact moves, minus the spin.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)