February 2010 Archives

So...it's not like I am shy or anything. And it's not like I have a hard time confessing things I shouldn't be confessing or sharing some of my personal struggles with you. I mean - I am a pretty open person and I don't think one should be embarrassed by too many things and I have a tendency to want to invite people into my life anyways and well...umm...you see...the thing kind of is...well...I don't really...ermmm....I...so...

FINE. I LIKE TOBY KEITH. THERE. I CAME OUT AND ADMITTED IT. OK? DON'T BE SO FUCKING JUDGY.

You know what's even worse?

I don't even really like the boot-stomping, ass-shaking, hee-hawing songs that one would expect from one of the biggest redneck country male stars out there. Because, like, that would be too...logical. Nope. I go for the FUCKING BALLADS. WTF me? And OMG this is the most embarrassing thing EVER to share because...ACK. Toby Keith. Schmaltzy ballads. I GET EFFING TEARY.  AND ALL OF YOU ARE JUDGING ME FOR IT BECAUSE HOW CAN YOU NOT? I MEAN - I AM JUDGING MYSELF HERE PEOPLE. FUCKING TOBY KEITH BALLADS MAKE ME WEEPY. 

And what did I do? I just downloaded, like, FIVE MORE BECAUSE APPARENTLY I AM SOME KIND OF GLUTTON FOR PUNISHMENT OR NEED TO ADJUST MY MEDS OR PERHAPS I AM JUST A SENITMAL, SAPPY SCHMUCK.

Really. I have no suspension of disbelief when it comes to love stories starring impossibly good looking men but give me a love song about broken hearts, unrequited love and/or love gone wrong (and occasionally death) and OMG I HAVE TO PULL OFF TO THE SIDE OF THE ROAD BECAUSE I CAN'T SEE THROUGH THE TEARS. It's like, every Toby Keith song on my iPod is ABOUT ME. Except the one about the preacher's daughter on a motorcycle because 1) my dad isn't a preacher and 2) I don't ride motorcycles because the whole balancing on 2 wheels thing just seems utterly wrong. In fact this is why I don't ride bikes. Also? Because I am extraordinarily clumsy and the last time I rode a bike I missed a turn, rode of the edge of the road, down a hill, and crashed. In Holland. True story. 3) I have never been Baptized. In clean or dirty water. But that's probably because I am Jewish and I am pretty sure we don't believe in Baptisms. 4) I have been to Arizona. Just not Tucson. 

Still - I do love that song.

Anyways. Are you living my life Toby? Have you taken up residence in my soul because HOLY CRAP YOU APPARENTLY GET ME.

It was bad enough when I admitted to liking Nickelback because apparently Nickelback is the biggest joke to come out of Canada, like, EVER and now...now this.

I honestly don't know what to do.

I am some cross between mortified and horrified. Either way. I have to go now.  I'll be back later when I can look myself in the mirror.

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I hate Matthew McConaughey. And I hate duct tape. Or is it duck tape? I don't fucking know the difference but whatever it is and whatever it's called: IT MAKES ME STABBY. Along with that stoner-dude-surfer-boy who plays the bongos high naked and any piece of lovey-dovey schlock he stars in. And lovey dovey schlock in general.

There. Now you know what they have in common:

Why I ABHOR duct tape (or is duck tape?): First of all: what the fuck is this shit called? You know? That heavy duty, silvery, really sticky tape that construction workers and engineers and REDNECKS (apparently) carry around in their pockets because you never know: At a moment's notice something might break need to be taped? Sigh. Anyways - let's forget its name. And let's discuss its presence all. throughout. my. house. In the shower. On the kitchen floor. On the porch. Apparently - whenever something broke, the previous tenant decided to slap some fucking tape on it and hello...welcome to Redneck Rigged Central. It drives me fucking batty like you would not believe, Ok - maybe you believe. And oh by the way ARGH! I hate this crap. Of course.....

 

{um hangs head in shame}

 

Remember that time Mother Nature decided she wanted to impregnate me and so she fucked me for 36 hours straight? And she produced copious quantities of rain? And flooded my basement? And submerged my furnace? AND LEFT ME WITHOUT HEAT FOR 4 GODDAMN DAYS SMACK DAB IN THE MIDDLE OF THE COLDEST WINTER NORTH CAROLINA HAS SEEN IN A FARCKING CENTURY? REMEMBER THAT? DO YOU?

Well - you might not. But I do. (Oh trust me. I remember) And one of the results of that 4-day Armadillo-Ball-Sucking-Hell was that I had to slash some giant insulated shiny silver whosamathingywhatnot that connects my furnace to my whatsamajiggy in order TO LET THE RIVER DRAIN. And it will probably take 100 years for the whosamathingywhatnot to dry out but when it does, I have been instructed: to tape it up. With that thing of which I can not actually speak BECAUSE I DON'T KNOW WHAT IT'S LEGITIMATELY CALLED.

Sigh. And STAB. STAB. STAB. STAB.

Welcome to my Rednecked Rigged Hell.

Meanwhile....

(Hold on for a moment: DEAR MOM AND DAD: YOU DON'T NEED TO READ THE REST OF THIS POST. GO READ ABOUT WHAT HARMZIE COOKS HER KIDS FOR BALENTIME'S DAY. IT'S ALL KINDS OF SWEET!!)

Now....we have this....

mcc_noshirt[1].JPG 

 

First of all. NO ONE. And I mean NO ONE. Looks that good in real life. Seriously.

Secondly (and here is where the wine takes over I get my Rom Com leading men confused):

The day some man sends me 100 roses (or fucking carnations - I'd settle for the goddamn shittiest flower in the universe) because he thought of me 100 times the day before, is the day I give him 100 blow jobs. In a row. 

The day some man shuts down Tiffany's so I can pick out my very own engagement ring, is the day I peform oral sex on the corner of 57th and 5th.

The day some man is ready to chuck bachelorhood after 10 days despite my ongoing attempts to SMOTHER him, is the day I become a lesbian and perform oral sex on Kate Hudson.

The day that I eat as much as Sandra Bullock in any one of her movies and proceed to NOT GET FAT and WIN THE MAN OF MY DREAMS is the day I call shenaningans. Also? It's probably the day I call Jenny Craig because there's NO way you wouldn't gain 400 pounds ordering that much Chinese food. 

The day that Hugh Grant dances naked across my living room...well...never mind. 

And for the record, to THIS DAY I CANNOT really watch Sixteen Candles without wanting to hurl my TV across the living room because I was Molly Ringwald in high school (I didn't have red hair and I wasn't 6 feet tall or anything but I was all, awkward and unpopular and shit) and trust me, Michael Schoeffling never showed up at church after my sister's wedding to wish me happy birthday. Let's forget for a moment that I don't have a sister but still...

My suspension of disbelief is as good as the next girl's but when it comes to Happily Ever After, well, sorry. My inner duct duck duct duck fuck-I-don't-know-what-it's-called-tape hating cycnic takes over and she doesn't believe in it. Happy yes. I definitely believe in happy. But fairytales for grown-ups? I just don't buy them. 

Anyways. Yeah. Rom Coms and some kind of tape make me fucking stabby. What makes you want to stick the Pillsbury Dough-Boy in the thigh with a fork?  

Comments ( 5 )

Yesterday I plunked down two hundred and two dollars AND ninety five cents to attend BlogHer 2010.  And as excited as I am to have another bedaucherous weekend with my girls...And as excited as I am to possibly meet some new bloggers who I admire from afar...And as excited as I am to be in my hometown with my family and dear friends a few days before I turn the big THREE-FIVE (Hello Mom and Dad: Please save the date of Sunday August 8th to take me out for an over the top birthday dinner complete with dancing girls, ponies, an illusionist, a spoon bender, a diamond tennis bracelet and an 18-layer cake. Or - I'll settle for a shopping spree at Bloomie's and overpriced Chinese at Mr. K's.)...

Well, for one thing, I am not in a position to spend two hundred and two dollars (and ninety five fucking cents) on anything not related to my mortgage, groceries, gas for my car or wine i.e. the essentials. There's a good chance that by August I will have made some headway in this area, but for now, every time I pull out my credit card, I vomit a little in my mouth. And two hundred and two dollars (and ninety five fucking cents) is just for the BlogHer ticket. That doesn't factor in plane fare. Or a hotel room (because let's face it: while I could totally stay with mom and dad, when BlogHer registration asked me if I minded if sponsors put free shit in my room, I was all SWAG ME UP BABY! Also? I might be imbibing more than an average quantity of alcohol and there's nothing more awkward then drunk stumbling into your parents' apartment when you're almost 35. Trust me. I know of what I speak.). Or taxis in NYC. Or dinner. Or drinks. It goes on and on and on. I know because I am still paying off the tab from my trip home in January. (Cue mouth vomit)

But more than the money, most of the time I don't really consider myself a real blogger. I don't have the traffic. I don't generate the comments. I don't have corporate America breathing up my inbox and asking me to whore myself out. And even if I did, do people really give a crap what I think about (fill in the blank whory product here)? Not that I would whore myself out. Because I am so not that girl. But I'd like to be asked - ya know?

When I started blogging a gazillion years ago (on a different blog, under a different pseudonymn), my goal was not to make money or cultivate readers. Blogging was merely an easy vehicle to communicate to friends and family en masse all of my "city-girl-moves-to-the-country-fish-out-of-water" experiences. But somewhere along the way I picked up readers who weren't related to me by blood. And somewhere along the way I started caring about traffic. And page views. And hits. 

But more importantly, somewhere along the way I realized that I loved blogging because it allowed me to write.  I am a writer. I always have been. So what if my attempt to dethrone Sophie Kinsella as the Queen of Chick Lit rots on my hard drive, 66% complete (And frankly? It's so sucky it needs to be burned...) So what if my memoir slash cookbook detailing a lifetime of struggling with food and body issues and weight and eating disorders (and which at one point actually had the attention of a real live agent) rots on my hard drive, 58% complete? So what if the epiphany I had over last summer while getting pedis with Dr. Diva for an honest to goodness real life awesome NEW chick lit novel that isn't total crap sits locked in my overtaxed brain? Who has TIME to write a book? Besides - you know - people who are actually PAID to write books for a living?

So yeah - this wee little blog allows me to fulfill my dream on some small, paltry level. And I relish in it. Roll around in it sometimes like satin sheets. Soak in it like a - OMG I am writing crappy analogies. Do you see what's happened to me? Actually - I am rather stabby tonight because women's figure skating is on but NBC is a giant bunch of asshats and they've chosen to air more important events like women's skicross and bobsledding and Dear NBC: No one gives a moose's ass about anything other than figure skating so stop dressing Bob Costas like a douchehose (no man should EVER wear a mock turtleneck) and fix your programming STAT before I stomp all over your head IN MY FIGURE SKATES. That is all.

Where was I?

Oh yeah. Writing. I love writing. And I love blogging. And I love THIS blog. This blog ESPECIALLY represents so much about what is good in my life and what I am proud of.  Yes. I am proud of my wee little blog. But when I pause and measure myself against people who do this professionally or even quasi professionally...well, once again - cue mouth vomit.

Still. August will find me in NYC attending BlogHer. Perhaps it was peer pressure (When I mentioned that I was on the fence about the whole thing AndreAnna told me to "remove that piece of picket from your ass and buy the tickets." I mean - how do you say "No" to that?).  Perhaps it was simply a chance for another awesome weekend. Or maybe going to BlogHer means that I am actually taking this whole blog thing seriously {*gulp*} and maybe I'll learn a thing or two to help me elevate my game

What I won't be doing is meeting my Internet crush because she she'll be off camping somewhere.  This would be tragic but if I go visit her in Texas I get to eat Whattaburger taquitos with sausage, egg and cheese (at 2am of course) and so that's kind of a win-win for everyone. Except my ass.

More importantly: Are YOU going to BlogHer because OMG if so, I totally want to meet you. For serious.  

Comments ( 11 )

You know what you don't do when eating oysters? Chew. And the irony was not lost on me seeing as the very same morning that I attended a Low Country oyster roast, I read an article that made the case for mastication. Seriously - I can not quite figure out the purpose of ingesting something that 1) you don't chew and 2) you douse so thoroughly in cocktail sauce that any possible hint of its natural, oystery tasted is so heavily masked by the heavenly concoction of tomato and horseradish.

Then again, this is how *I* eat oysters and not necessarily how normal people eat oysters. And part of this is because I don't really like seafood in general (oh God don't get me started on my myriad of seafood issues) and I am especially not a big oyster eater but when in the Low Country at an oyster roast featuring 600 bushels of the briny bivalved mollusks, one does one's best to fit in.

Also? When one is as accident prone as I am (seriously - yesterday morning I opened the car door into my right leg and there is now a giant 2-inch gash and a yellowing giant bruise on my right calf), one quickly finds a designated shucker otherwise there is the good possibility that 1) one might accidentally spear oneself and/or amputate a digit while attempting to shuck 2) one might accidentally spear one's neighbor while attempting to shuck or 3) the shucking knife might slip out of one's hand, go flying across the table, and poke out the eye of some unsuspecting, oyster loving South Carolinian. Seriously. All these things might happen.  

Lucky for me I am quite charming and I quickly found a kind gentleman who was willing to shuck my shells.  He even came to the oyster roast with not 1 but 2 shucking gloves so you know he's kind of an expert. So yeah. He'd shuck. I'd dunk in excessive amounts of cocktail sauce. Then I'd pop in my mouth and swallow whole because God forbid I'd get even the faintest hint of oyster brine I might possibly gag. And seeing as this was a work event, I am fairly sure that my gagging would not have gone over well.

Truth be told, I might as well have taken a jar of cocktail sauce and a spoon and spoon-fed myself cocktail sauce all night. That's the extent of what I ingested. That and 4 or 5 Saltines. Although not with the oysters because that would have required chewing and OMG ewww gross.

And for the record, do you know what happens when you only swallow your food whole without making use of your teeth? You realize 3 hours later that you are starving. And you kick yourself for not having had a bowl of chili and/or a bowl of banana pudding (OMG what were you thinking - BANANA PUDDING!!!). And then you make your host stop at Publix on the way home where you pick up a block of Havarti cheese, a box of giant Wheat Thins, and some Ferro Rocher chocolates. And then you go back to your host's house where Mrs. Host fixes you giant tumblers full of Maker's Mark, Schweppe's Ginger Ale and lots of crushed ice and you sit around shoveling cheese and crackers into your mouth at alarming speed, drinking bourbon, and watching the Olympics while a bunny named Sir Humps Alot jumps around the room and 1 Chihuahua and 1 Chihuahuaini (a Chihuahua-Dachsund mix) fight over who gets to sleep in your lap. Also? You curse NBC for their shitty Olympic coverage because as much you enjoyed watching the women's half pipe, you're pretty sure they should have showed Evan Lysacek's gold winning performance (and the Russian's subsequent hissy fit) some time before midnight. What - you don't believe me? Trust me. That's EXACTLY what happens when you don't chew your food.

Comments ( 2 )

I have to confess - I was surprised by the reactions to my post last week about swinging between extreme highs and lows.  First of all, so many of you were so honest and forthright in your comments and you shared your own personal struggles.  To me that represents trust and I am honored that you all would trust me enough to put a little piece of yourself on this wee little blog.  But the fact that I have awesome and amazing readers wasn't really a shock. I kind of knew that all along.

What did surprise me was that so many of you suggested that perhaps my issue was medical and that perhaps it was more serious than I was making it out to be. ACCCCKKKK. Who wants to be confronted with that news? Especially when....

{BIG CONFESSION}

About 12 years ago I was diagnosed with mild clinical depression. I was prescribed medication, took it faithfully for 7 or so years, and eventually got off when I felt like it was no longer needed.  I don't think this is a particularly big deal - most people I know have been on or are currently on some course of medication to deal with depression and/or anxiety. I see nothing wrong with that. If you break your bone, you go to the doctor and have her set it. Mental health is no different and chemical imbalances can be treated the same way as a lot of other things: with medication.

What got me is that I am conscious of the diagnosis. I am conscious of what depression feels like. And when I feel the symptoms dancing around the edges, I do my best to tamp them out because I'd like to think I am stronger than they are. I'd like to think that they don't get to control my life. And yet - I totally missed the signs. Or did I? 

I didn't. Not really. When you don't get out of your PJs for days on end and all you want to do is sleep, it's pretty obvious something is wrong. I was simply in denial because the symptoms were stronger than they've been in a while and I didn't feel strong enough to combat them. And for whatever reason, I am loathe to go back on medication. I guess I feel like I have already kicked this demon's ass once. I don't want to do it again.  

Flirtations with depression aside, the drama is killing me.  To be so DOWN one day and so UP the next? It's ex-haus-ting. Seriously, seriously exhausting.  So after reading all of your comments and reflecting further on the situation, I've come up with a plan to try and get myself back on the right track.

*  My goal is simply to have days. Not good days. Not bad days. Just days. I suspect they will have a little bit of good and a little bit of bad and that's ok.

* I am implementing a new 10-minute before I Tweet rule. The second something goes horribly awry or is fantastically awesome, I am quick to share it with the Twitterverse.  Especially the whole "horribly awry" thing.  Sometimes I think I need to take more time to process what is really going on before sharing it with everyone and their pornbot brother. Usually, when I give things careful consideration, they don't seem as overwhelming.

* In conjunction with the above rule, I will also not let Twitter dictate my mood. Seriously. Do you ever notice how everyone has sucky Mondays? It's so easy to get swept up in the wave of Sucktastic even if your day isn't that bad.

* I am learning to breathe at red lights. For the length of time I am stopped in my car, I am also trying to slow down and take a few moments to breathe and be present in my own life. It's more than a little scary because sometimes I'd like to be in somebody else's life but for better or for worse, my life is my life and there's no avoiding it.  If I can get the hang of breathing for 30-seconds a few times a day, I may even give yoga a whirl. 

I don't think these things are a panacea and who's to say if they'll work or not. But they feel like small, manageable steps I can take to subside the swinging and quiet the demons.  

Comments ( 10 )

I am a Drama Queen. I know this about myself. In fact, on occasion I flaunt it. But recently what I've noticed is that the drama? The drama is taking its toll.

I apparently live in a world of Black or White. Great or Douchestastic.  Ecstatic or Depressed.  My days are either butter-soaked, bacon-wrapped, and goat cheese-stuffed in their fabulousness or I want to curl up into a little ball in the corner and cry and cry and cry until I have purged my lacridal glands of every last tear drop in my body. It's like, the Universe is either totally for me and everything is going my way. Or the Universe has popped a Viagra and has decided to fuck me. All. Day. Long.

I don't remember the last time I had a plain, old ordinary day. A day where I woke up. I felt rested enough. Things didn't go AMAZINGLY WELL or SUCKTASTICALLY AWFUL but they just went. A day where shit happened, I survived, and didn't feel like I was the target of some grand cosmic scheme to suffer.

Today was one of the seemingly epic sucky days. It started off with the fact that I got a visit from my old friend, Mr. Insomnia, and I slept less than a total of 3 hours. The less than 3 hours I got weren't even very good as I basically woke up every 15 - 20 minutes and never fully fell into a deep sleep.  For my mommy friends out there, you know what your kids are like when they are tired. That was me today. I felt like a 3 year old in desparate need of a nap but since I couldn't take one, I wanted to throw a tantrum on the floor and kick and scream and yell until someone gave me an ice cream cone to shut me up. Of course, I didn't throw a tantrum. No. I did something smarter. I guzzled over 2 liters of Coke Zero before 9am. Seriously. And then I literally bounced off the walls until I CRASHED. HARD.

I was so tired that I should have avoided a particular interaction with someone because I did not have the mental energy to engage in the way I needed to engage. I was borderline petulant and whiny and it wasn't helpful to anyone. It was a waste of time and it sapped what little strength I had. I came home and tried to cry but I couldn't. I was too tired.

Meanwhile, yesterday was one of those awesome days you want to record on DVR and play on repeat all the time. Perhaps it was feeling SO WELL RESTED from 8.5 hours of sleep the night before. Perhaps it was the homemade papardelle with duck ragu for lunch. Or the handsome Irish attorney who sat next to me while I ate it. Perhaps it was just getting shit done and feeling a massive sense of accomplishment at work. Perhaps it was the delicious dinner I shared with another attorney where we talked about Israel and great books and I enjoyed a delicious seared tuna paired with a lovely Tempranillo. I don't know. For whatever reason, yesterday was AWESOME.

Overall, I feel as though I have more bad days than good. And the bad days? Aren't just bad. They are unbearably horrific. Heart-wrenching. Soul-crushing.  Strength-sapping. But the good days? I am so high that when I come back down to reality it's more of a thumpcrashboom on my ass.  And the thing is, singing on this pendulum, it's exhausting.

I try to maintain perspective. I really do. I try to think about people who truly suffer and remember that my "suffering" is all relative. I try to remember that my successes in life (especially work) are ongoing and I don't need to stage an opening ceremonies style celebration every time something goes right. But it's tough.

What about you lambs? How dramatic is the pendulum you swing on? How do you balance the highs and the lows?

Comments ( 11 )

Please please please please do not ask me how I came to be in possession of 2 tickets to the Duke versus Maryland's men's basketball game this past Saturday. Please. Because if I tell you I'll have to kill you and I love you all so much and really I don't want you dead. Also? Prison is not really my thing. I'm just saying.

For those of you who are scratching your head right now, Duke men's basketball tickets virtually don't exist.  At least not for the rank and file.  Cameron Indoor Stadium is a wee little stadium and we like it that way just fine because getting all of that ginormous crazy spirit and squeezing it into such a tiny space - well that enhances it exponentially and makes it miserable for the opposing team and pretty much awesome for everyone else. There's a reason why they're called Cameron Crazies. Anyways: wee little stadium with over half of the seats going to students, half of the other half going to faculty and important people like the University president, and then the rest going to people willing to pay thousands upon thousands of dollars annually for the privelege of sitting in the rafters. Literally. So not much left for everyone else.

Anyways - let's just say that I got my tickets by being me which is to say utterly charming and adorable and not doing anything illegal or nefarious. And so it was that Lilsaej and I wound up at Duke on Saturday for my first basketball game in over a decade.

{Sidenote: I went to 3 games as a student. (i) Duke-UNC my freshman year which was also Grant Hill's last regular season game.  I did not camp out but I did get on line at 6am game day which was also the first day of Spring Break which is why residency in Krzyzewskiville was so low. (ii) Duke-Maryland my senior year and actually I did not sit in the student section but got tickets through a bartender in NY I was kind of *dating* who was friends with someone on the Duke coaching staff and the seats were like, right behind the president (read: awesome) and the bartender, who was actually a Terp, game down for the game. We kicked the shit out of Maryland and I never saw the bartender again (sigh of relief). (iii) Duke-Clemson my senior year which was also Senior Day which meant seniors got to walk right in and that night Trajan Langdon scored 34 points. It was awesome.}

First of all, check out the picture perfect postcard photo I snapped of a snowy Duke Chapel:

Chapel.JPG

Hate Duke all you want but you can not - not for one minute - say anything bad about the campus. It's gorgeous.

Speaking of campus...Friday morning I was on the phone with Dr. Diva and I mentioned that I had to actually look up on a campus map where Cameron was because with a solid 10+years between me and graduation, I, um, didn't really remember. I felt her judgement withering stare over America's fastest 3G network and politely pointed out it had been a while and to cut me some damn slack. Also? I've been to Cameron THREE TIMES PRIOR. It's not like I was there every week.  Jeez.  And once I saw it on the map, it kind of made sense and I figured in a worst case scenario, we'd just follow the crowd and probably be fine.

So yeah, we found it. And our seats, while not dead center behind the president, were not up in the rafters either (phew because there's that whole fear of heights thing I have going on). All in all, no complaints:

Cameron.JPG

Meanwhile, I had about 14,000 random thoughts throughout the day and I decided to jot them down:

* Despite spending 4 years at Duke, it's amazing how little I remember about it at least in terms of geography. {See also: it's been a full 12 years since I've graduated and things change}

* I could not, for the life of me, understand the cheers. I thought "Sweat Gary Sweat" was "Suck Gary Suck" which is kind of understandable but there were others. Seriously - Lilsaej had to translate for me.  And to Dr. Diva who asked me to pay attention to any of the new cheers, I say: I don't know the old ones.

* Students stand/jump/yell the entire time. It's exhausting. And possibly requires a sports bra. Now I remember why I didn't attend more games as a student. Also? Camping out wasn't really my thing back then. I don't know how much of my thing it is these days but it sounds appealing in theory. As long as there is wine.

* Seven foot one is tall. Seriously, seriously tall.

* Chik-Fil-A is awesome. It's awesomer with mayonnaise.

* Our band is evil.  And by evil I mean brilliant. During one play, Maryland had the ball and the shot clock was running low. While normally the out loud verbal count down from 10 is accurate, on this particular play the band shaved off 3 seconds so 10 was 7, 9 was 6, etc.  They got to 1 and the poor guy had 3 whole seconds left which he then wasted 1 and a half of by looking up at the shot clock and probably wondering why it wasn't buzzing. So yeah. Brilliantly evil. 

* I want to know how the kid who walks around shadowing Mike Krzyzewski gets that job. And is it as boring as it seems.

* I also wonder about the kids whose job it is to mop up the water/sweat spots on the floor after timeouts or someone falls. Also? What's the career path for that? What comes after wiping up Brian Zoubek's sweat off the floor?

* Speaking of Brian Zoubek, I take back anything bad I've ever said about the kid. He's actually not a waste of really good height genetics and can actually play some very good basketball. His hairstylist, on the other hand, probably needs to be shot.

* JJ Reddick was in attendance. In fact former players, coaches and staff from the 1940s through the current year were on hand to celebrate Duke's basketball history and also honor Coach K who was coaching his 1000th game at Duke. But they were mainly old and I didn't really care. JJ Reddick however, is still very much deliciously dreamy. His trashy looking lady friend on the other hand gave me some cause for concern.  I hope it was a cousin or someone who won a contest or something and not an actual date because then oh dear me.

* Maryland spent at least 5+ minutes of warm up doing some kind of totally coordinated interpretive dance meets tai chi routine. The players people. The players. It's probably why they got their ass handed to them we won.

* One other possible reason for our decisive victory: Maryland players sat on stools during timeouts. I don't know - seems kind of lazy.

* It's a good thing Gary Williams coaches at a school whose colors are red and it doesn't really matter seeing as his face is a perpetual shade of scarlet. Also? It's fun watching his head almost explode. The man is like apoplexy come to life.

* Our cheerleaders are basically the color of milktoast. Which: yay you for discovering sunscreen and not getting skin cancer. But I don't know - ever hear of self-tanner?

* By far the best part of the game was the older gentleman sitting in front of me and Lilsaej. He was well dressed in khakis and a sport coat and he had very distinguished looking silver hair.  He was the epitome of polish and class. He also stood up and shouted, cheered, and/or danced his ass off for most of the game. It was nothing short of awesome and I think Lilsaej and I both wanted to hug him by the end of the rout the game.

It was a pretty fabulous day and I've already decided that I'll have to either make a lot more money so I can become a season ticket holder (less likely) or simply continue to be utterly adorable and charming so I can score some more tickets (more likely). Also? Next time I go I'll totally remember where Cameron is.

Comments ( 4 )

Warning: This post contains excessive amounts of food porn and puppy porn. Not for anyone on a diet or who hates puppies.

 

You know what happens when you grow up with an older brother? You wind up watching shows like The A-Team which means as a 34yo and a half woman I can still quote Col. John "Hannibal" Smith: "I love it when a plan comes together." Seriously - this weekend was like the perfect confluence of events from the two tix I snagged to Duke v. Maryland on Saturday (don't ask me how I got them otherwise I might have to kill you) to the fact that Dr. Diva was going to be in town with her boyfriend visiting her parents, Mr. and Mrs. Amazing. And even though Mother Nature tried to screw things up for us, I totally one-upped the bitch. It's about time.

If it's Friday in NC that must mean there is some kind of weather issue and this past Friday was no different: forecasters called for several inches of snow to start falling in the afternoon.  I was fortunate to get an early start and managed to avoid both the rush hour traffic out of town and the weather which is good because Mr. and Mrs. Amazing live in a lovely little house IN THE MIDDLE OF NOWHERE.  We're talking windy backroads, streetsigns that are hard to read and a steep driveway which as I drove up I thought to myself: thank god it's not dark or snowing because Holy Hell I'd probably be lost and/or stranded and while yes, I always have my trusty crackberry glued to my hands, it only works if you have a signal.

So I arrived in 1 piece and thanked the universe for small favors (like not snowing on me) and then I thanked the universe for larger favors, like this:

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Do you want to know why I call him Mr. Amazing? He built this. And I don't just mean the fire. He built the actual fireplace with his own 2 hands. In fact, It's a dual-fireplace (there's an identical one on the other side in another room that feeds up the same chimney). Also? He bakes homemade bread. Also? He'll bend over backwards for you and he'll do it with a smile. Also? He's like the nicest man ever. Seriously - I've said it before: If anything happens to my parents (which I sincerely hope is not the case) then I want Dr. Diva's parents to adopt me.

Anyways, I walked in to a roaring fire and a giant cheese plate full of yummy, cheesy deliciousness that Dr. Diva and her boyfriend, Private Equity Guy, had schlepped down all the way from NY and while the boys went into the other room to watch a sailing race on DVR the girls sat around the fire, catching up, drinking Vouvray and eating our weight in cheese.

Eventually, we could eat no more cheese, and so Dr. Diva and her folks got to work on dinner while for once in my life I acted the role of guest, kept my cheese-laden ass on the couch, accepted another generous glass of white wine from Mr. Amazing, and caught up with Private Equity Guy who in fact, is someone I went to high school with and have known for - gasp - about 20 years. Holy shit.

So I don't know exactly where Minnetonka is but Holy Hell - I'd like to thank them for their genius cuisine which involves butter, bacon, beef, and more butter followed by a shot of Lipitor. 

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This my friends, is Step 1 of a Minnetonka Hot Dog. 

(I'll pause while you get a napkin to wipe the drool from your chin.)

 

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This is Step 2 of a Minnetonka Hot Dog.

 

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This is Step 3.

 

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This is Step 4, which I call the Dip & Soak.  Now, you can either dip one half of the roll and daintily blot it on the other half for a nice, light coating of garlic butter. Or you can go whole hog and submerge both halves of your roll and dribble garlicky, buttery lusciousness down your chin when you bite into this:

 

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This my friends, is a Minnetonka Hot Dog. And it is nothing short of awesome. Also? You can totally tell which path of Dip & Soak I chose to take. 

 

You know what you eat with a Minnetonka Hot Dog? Minnetonka Rice (or Minnetonka Groats as was the case with us).  Basically fry up some bacon, remove from the pan and then sautee some diced onion in the bacon grease.  Mix the bacon and the onion with brown rice (or groats), add 2 cups of beef consomme, 2 cups of water and bake until it's all golden brown and bubbly, like so:

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I am ashamed to even tell you how many helpings of this I had, but this is what the dish looked like when we were done with dinner:

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If I thought I could have gotten away with it, I probably would have licked the bowl clean.

 

For the record, there was salad:

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And for the record, you can never have too much cheese. Ever.

 

This whole incredible meal was prepared with these 2 underfoot:

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Scout is the placid looking Retriever on the left. Murray is "In-Your-Face-I'm-All-Puppy" Labradoodle on the right.

 

And we washed it all down with the 2007 Gundlach Bundschu Cabernet Franc which was exceptionally fitting seeing as Dr. Diva was the one to introduce me to Gun Bun last year. 

After dinner, we sat around playing Catchphrase and drinking more wine and OMG I have never laughed so hard and I forgot how much fun it is to play games. Seriously. I grew up in a big game playing family but I haven't done it in ages and so this was especially enjoyable. Also? I nearly suffered a minor injury when Private Equity Guy hurled the Catchphrase machine at me with incredible force. Don't worry - it wasn't malicious. But you don't want to get stuck holding it when the timer goes off. Also? Points to anyone who can tell me how you'd get your teamates to guess Busta Rhymes without  using "Sounds like Dusta Chimes" because "sounds like" is a no-no in Catchphrase.

The evening ended with giant scoops of Ben and Jerry's ice cream and double-stuff Oreos at 11:30 because really - how else would you end such a fantastic evening? 

I woke up Saturday morning to this:

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For about 2 seconds I thought to myself, "How lovely" and then I thought "Fuckety fuck fuck fuck" because OMG I have to be on the road by 10am to pick up Lilsaej to head to Duke for a basketball game and Holy Hell HOW AM I GOING TO GET OUT OF HERE?

I came downstairs and found this:

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There was also a fire in the fireplace, fresh coffee on the table, and Mr. Amazing was outside cleaning off my snow-covered car. I joined him outside to do a little recon on the driveway situation and was greeted by this:

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Seriously: Murray is rambunctious as all get out but he is the sweetest dog ever and watching him frolick in the snow almost made me forget how stressed out I was.  Also? It kind of made me want to get a dog.

Murray and I ventured down the driveway together and this is what we saw:

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So yeah.  I pretty much fretted all morning about the snow and getting down the driveway and once I got down the driveway what would all those twisty, back roads be like before I could get to a major thoroughfare and even if I didn't run myself off the road or get stuck what about all the other asshat drivers out there who don't know what they're doing and OMG I have tickets to a Duke basketball game and that happens like, NEVER, and damn you Mother Nature for once again trying to screw up my awesome weekends. And for the record I was also worried about my pump not working, my basement flooding, my furnace breaking, and finding Psycho Kitty frozen and dead in the bathtub. No - I'm not dramatic. Not at all.

Eventually, after a mid-morning gab fest with Dr. Diva, I pulled myself together, packed, and fortified myself with a Diet Coke, a clementine, yet even more cheese (shut up), and a piece of Mr. Amazing's homemade sourdough bread toasted and slathered with butter (shut up again) and sprinkled with coarse sea salt.

Mr. Amazing walked me to my car, loaded me up, and gave me the paternal pep talk I needed.

Me: So I should put the car in a lower gear, right?

Mr. A: Yes, for going downhill - but not up.

Me: Do you think second is ok?

Mr. A: Absolutely.

Me: And you're confident I'll be ok getting down the driveway.

Mr. A: Yes. It's gravel underneath the snow. Not like asphalt. Your tires will grab and hold onto it.

Me: Ok. I can do this.

Mr. A: Just one thing. Don't use your brakes.

And that was the point that all color drained from my face and I nearly vomited because OMG: drive down a snowy, icy driveway WITHOUT MY BRAKES? ARE YOU INSANE?

Long story long, Mr. Amazing further lived up to his name and drove me down the driveway. In first gear. And for the record, he had to use the brakes.

Comments ( 3 )

1) Yesterday was my half birthday. What this means is that I am that much closer to dying much closer to 35 than I am to 34. Which for the record I am totally ok with because I am aging like a 2003 Brunello di Montalcino which is to say...FABULOUSLY. The thing is, when I was like, 5 or 6, and I couldn't go a whole 12 months without some kind of celebration in my honor, half birthdays made sense. And mom and dad did it up right: half a card, half a cake, half a present (1 sock, 1 earring - you get the picture). The whole day was ABOUT ME. And yay because I am all about the mememememes.  But at 34? Can you really even justify it?

Truth be told, it was a pretty sucky day (neither mom nor dad remembered to call *sniff* but then again they're *stranded* in the Caribbean while waiting for the Eastern Seaboard to shake off 3 feet of snow) that ended with me wearing a tiara but no pants and drinking just enough wine alone in my house with Psycho Kitty. The good news is I had heat so at least my ovaries didn't freeze and there is still the distinct possibility that one day I might have children. Or another psychotic cat.

 

2) At 34 and a half and a day, I sleep with a teddy bear. Yes I do. And I'm totally not ashamed to admit it. I haven't been sleeping with Teddy for long but over Thanksgiving I went home to visit mom and dad and one of the exercises that weekend (besides my standing on my feet and slaving over a hot stove for 48 hours straight to churn out the best damn Thanksgiving meal anyone anywhere has ever had in the history of mankind) was to clean the attic. And apparently cleaning the attic involved giant storage bins full of every stuffed animal I HAVE EVER HAD SINCE I WAS BORN OMFG (Hello Madela Lindy - my first Cabbage Patch Kid EVER) and for the most part I wanted to hose the bins and their contents down with Clorox and Lysol and Hydrochloric Acid because Oh Dear those animals looked like a breeding ground for Influenzaphoidulosis Fever and I actually thought everything was going to get burned chucked (once again: see Influenzaphoidulosis Fever) and so I rescued Teddy, one of the first stuffed animals I ever remember having, from the fray, and promptly handed him off to mom who threw him in the washing machine and then the dryer and then left him sitting clean and fuzzy on my pillows and OMG I regressed and have been regressing daily since then and who the fuck doesn't like sleeping with a teddy bear? Who?  Cold-hearted, soulless, puppy-hating, lollipop-stealing, butterfly-crushing, hate-mongering dragon breeders. That's who.

 

3) I sleep in torn sheets. And not like the B-52s sang about in Deadbeat Club ("we'll dance in the garden in torn sheets in the rain") but more like: if my hand or my foot moves the wrong way by even an inch, the 2-inch tear is going to be a 4-inch tear is going to be a 6-inch - aw fuck it: I know. I need new linens. Using sheets I bought when I was 22 is like...wow - do they even last that long? The problem is 2-fold:

I. I love these sheets. They are sexy, saucy Ralph Lauren badass boudoir bed linens sans competition.

II. They are currently the only sheets I have that fit the bed I am sleeping in.

I know. I should just shut up already and buy some new sheets.

 

4) I've had some physical discomfort recently. And while mommy bloggers across the globe will on occasion make mention of or reference that gift of child birth that keeps on giving, the only thing I have given birth to recently is a food baby. And yet, the expression "pain in the ass" suddenly has all new meaning for me these days.

Ok. My work here is done. Please feel free to chime in with an embarrassing tidbit about yourself. You know. So I'm not the only one.

Comments ( 4 )

Dear Mother Nature:

To quote Polly Holiday: "Kiss My Grits." And that's just me being a polite, Southern Belle. I'd much rather tell you to do a whole lot of things that rhyme with "uck" and call you names that rhyme with "blunder punt."

What gives lady? Are you not getting laid? Do the kids not call? Did Toyota recall your Prius? Are you on a diet and suffering from low blood sugar? PMS? Hot flashes? Did some guy at work try to cop a feel at the last Christmas party? Are you sleep-deprived? In need of a drink? Or meds? Or both? Did your dog die? Were you defriended by the Easter Bunny on Facebook? Did Revlon discontinue your favorite color lipstick? What? What on this green earth is making you such a spiteful, vindictive bitch? I'd truly like to know.

First there was the snow. Not a huge deal if you live in oh...say Chicago...but 6+ inches in the Foothills of NC is too much. Now granted: everyone loves a snowday and how often do these little Carolina crumbcrunchers get to build snowpeople? Not often. So yeah: a happy, snowy  snowpeople and hot chocolate filled Saturday. Great. Let's. Move. On.

But Oh wait: you decided to wallop us AGAIN because apparently you have us confused with Green Bay, WI. And it wasn't just snow. It was days upon days of freezing temperatures and ice and black ice and OMFG: this is North Carolina. WE ARE NOT EQUIPPED FOR THIS {outside of Boone that is}.

When you weren't drenching us with snow and leaving us stranded since we don't know how to drive in the flaky white goodness I like to think of as your dandruff, you were pelting us with rain. Sometimes ordinary rain. Sometimes freezing rain AND ICE. Global warming my ass. There were so many days in a row when the temperature didn't go above freezing, that for a minute I thought that Canada must have invaded the United States. AND WON. WTF Mother Nature?

Rain. Torrents of it. Buckets of it. Oceans of it. Where was this rain when we were parched 2 summers ago? Where was this rain when the lakes dropped a foot and boats sat docked on dry lakebed? And while it's not *your* fault that my sump pump failed and my basement flooded with 2 feet of water and fried the circuit board in my furnace and OMFG I am STILL without heat 3 days later because the insulation in my furnace is so wet that if they were to replace the circuit board (which they did once) the air from the fan would suck all that moisture out and fry the new board (which it did) and then the furnace would stop working AGAIN (yep - been there, done that - Ha! Ha! Ha! Joke's on me...) and so basically all I can do is wait until the insulation dries and then hope that a new board does the trick because OMFG I AM FREEZING MY ASS OFF because it's bitterly cold out AND there are BONE-CHILLING 60 MPH winds because apparently I am doomed to be Helen Hunt in Twister only where the Hell is my Bill Paxton?

You know what rain-soaked grounds and high winds lead to? Downed trees and power lines. Fun times for all. THANKS Mother Nature.

I haven't even started on the snow in the Northeast. Are you trying to BURY the entire Eastern Seaboard? Snow on ice on more snow on more OMFG lady: give it a rest. They're saying Maryland is closing in on the season-high snowfall set back in 1995-1996 and probably going to pass it. I REMEMBER 1995-1996. There were 10-foot high snow banks lining the streets of Manhattan until APRIL. And I thought you were being a douche weasel back then.

And - for the record: what's up with the Earthquake in Chicago? Are you off your rocker?

I'll admit: this whole not having heat since Sunday is making me just a wee bit stabby - that is - it would be making me stabby if I could actually FEEL MY FINGERS. Which I can't. So I am only stabby in theory and not in reality because I couldn't even pick up an instrument with which to actually stab you if I wanted to. Which for the record, I totally do. Want to stab you that is. Oh and BTW I am totally typing this post with my tongue.

So yeah Mother Nature. I don't know what happened to piss you off so fucking badly but let's put it behind us and move on - shall we?

Much appreciated.

xoxo Rougie

 

PS This entire post was written under the extreme duress of being numb from the neck down.

PPS Clearly I can do amazing things with my tongue 

Comments ( 5 )

What happens when you combine 10 amazing women, 9 blogs, 6 iPhones, 2 Blackberries, 2 tiaras, 5 funny accents (including 1 Canadian who says "eh" alot and "aboot") and mix with copious quantities of alcohol, a lot of insanely good food and 1 testicle-shaped red velevet cake for 3 days in the Windy City? You get totally, incredibly awesome.

 

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So Lilsaej and I totally traveled to Chicago wearing tiaras and I will say this: traveling while wearing jewels on your head is awesome. Mainly because everyone treats you like royalty and/or thinks you're a beauty queen. One woman actually came up to Lilsaej and asked her what pageant she was representing. I near about died. Please excuse the classy bra strap I'm flashing and also the dude behind us. I don't do Photoshop. I don't know how to erase him.

 

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There were 5 of us. That would have been like, 2 whole taxis. So we took a limo. Natch.

 

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AndreaAnna gets her Twitter on. There was a lot of that this weekend. Twitter that is.

 

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Native Chicagoans are laughing at me right now because they've known about this for sometime (probably anyone who watches Oprah too) but OMFG Garrett's cheese caramel popcorn is magically delicious. I know - cheese? Caramel? It sounds God awful but it's like heaven in a little bag.

 

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The amazing Annabelle Speaks (whose freezer I covet) and Pseudostoops who was our unofficial tour guide while we were in Chi-town and picker of the most delectable dinner spots.

 

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I couldn't go to Chicago and NOT be a tourist so Saturday morning Harmzie, Lilsaej and I went to the top of the John Hancock Observatory aka Big John aka The John. This shouldn't seem like a big deal but I have a crippling mild fear of heights so 94 stories up is kinda sorta maybe just a little bit HIGH. Anyways, this is a shot of a snowy Navy Pier.

 

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This is my awesome, arty skyline shot which basically involved me turning my camera on an angle. Annie Liebowitz - watch out!

 

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You have not lived until you have had deep dish pizza from Gino's East. It's orgasmic. Literally.

 

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This is what your plate looks like after you've eaten TWO whole slices. And for the record, the only reason there is crust on my plate is because I didn't want to be a complete oinker and and eat the entirety of 2 slices bigger than my head so I left some crust behind to look daintier than I really am.

 

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This cake says it all.  The inside was red velvet. I took a picture of that too but OMG - I am not cruel enough to actually post it.

 

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The morning after.

 

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The  awesometastically incredible women of TwitHER 2010:

Top (from L to R): Pseudostoops, Modern Matriarch, McMamaCass. Just Curious (photog extraordinaire who actually took this badass photo that I have now co-opted for my blog too!)

Bottom (from L to R): Belle Plaine Living, Moi, Harmzie, Back to Me, Lilsaej.

Not Pictured here but pictured elsewhere on this page: Annabelle Speaks.

 

The weekend was, in a word, fantasticredible. There was shopping and pizza and beer and Tweets and Irish car bombs and chugging contests and flirting and red velvet cake and tapas and salami in the morning and snow flakes and martinis and fondue and mimosas and tall buildings and new dresses and dancing and massages and shiny gold shoes on sale for $24.99 and sleep and love and laughs and an all around fabulous time. The only thing missing (as per my dear friend AndreaAnna)? A pool boy. Next year we're so doing this shit someplace tropical.

Comments ( 7 )

So for the record, this is the SECOND time I'm writing this post because the first time I wrote it, my computer crashed and apparently auto-save is as temperamental as my sump pump. But more on my bitchy pump later.

First - I may have kinda sorta maybe almost killed my cat this weekend. And the ironic thing (I was going to say funny but really, there's nothing funny about dead cats unless you're The Bloggess and then you can write about dead cats AND the Holocaust and it's actually fucking hysterical - trust me - I'm Jewish) is that while I was having a salami-filled breakfast this morning with Harmzie and Lilsaej I mentioned that whenever I go out of town I worry about coming home a to a dead cat.  Seriously.

I think part of it is because Psycho Kitty will be 10 in April and while I don't think he's totally knocking on death's door (a la The Who - Super Bowl half time show choice WTF?), I don't think he's going to be around for the next 10 years either. Although come to think of it the cat I had as a child lived to be 20-something so I suppose it's possible.

And while age definitely has something to do with my unnatural fear, I think part of it is because whenever I travel I basically leave Psycho Kitty all alone and unattended for the duration of my travels which is not a big deal because truth be told, cats are pretty self-sufficient.  I simply put out enough food and water and then leave him be because frankly, he got the name Psycho Kitty for a reason i.e. he absolutely abhors and despises anyone other than me and so to have someone come by to play with him or keep him company or even check on him would be 1) a waste of time and 2) possibly result in an injury.  Anyways, while it's not a big deal to leave a cat alone for 2 - 3 days, I have an inner drama queen and she doesn't shut the fuck up so I wind up worrying that Psycho Kitty is going to fall into the toilet and drown or get tangled up in my bedding and strangle himself to death or a bookcase will fall on him and crush him or he'll choke on his food or have a seizure or develop kitty cancer and die right then and there because clearly: I have issues.

So yeah. Breakfast this morning I made an offhand comment about how I really wouldn't want to come home to find a dead cat but I am frequently afraid that I will. Fast forward to me actually getting home this afternoon, unlocking the door and being greeted by the most pitiful, guttural, mournful, loud-ass wail ever to emanate from my 3-lb slightly deranged fluffball. Although my cat wasn't dead, something was clearly wrong.   

The first thing I noticed was that my house was cold. Arctically cold. Like in the 40s cold even though I had set the thermostat at 59 before I left. This could only mean that my furnace was broken and the only reason my furnace would not be working would be because my basement was flooded and the only reason my basement would be flooded was because we had a 36-hour monsoon starting Thursday night and lasting into Saturday and the only reason that would be an issue is because my sump pump is a temperamental bitch and it works like almost NEVER unless I'm here to caress it lovingly and coo at it hand trip the float. So yeah - despite the fact that Psycho Kitty is nothing but fur (there is only 1 surface in my house not covered in cat hair and that's the kitchen table) he was COLD. I could tell where he had burrowed under the covers to get warm. Pet mom fail #1.

The second thing I noticed as I walked through the kitchen to get to the door to the basement to evaluate the damage was that his food dish was entirely empty.  My cat barely eats and I expected a full dish to last 2+ days easy. Nope. There was not a lick of food in there. My baby was cold AND hungry. Pet mom fail #2.  Factor in that Psycho Kitty had been without contact or affection since Friday at 7am and OMFG - I AM THE WORLD'S WORST PET MOM EVER. Clearly.

Meanwhile, I opened the basement door only to discover that my basement was no longer there as it had been replaced with an ocean. A two foot deep, brown, frigid, stagnant ocean that filled the entire roughly 150 square feet formerly known as Rougie's basement and which had covered the bottom half of my furnace and probably fried the fucker. Thank God for warranties. And homeowner's insurance. But I digress.

Getting the pump started was not pretty (Note to self: you may want to invest in some thigh high Wellies in case it ever rains again) but once it started, the water began to drain and about 4 hours later, my basement was returned to me albeit a soggier, damper, version than what I had left on Friday.

What's particularly noteworthy is that I did not lose my ever loving shit over the transformation of my basement from functional room underneath the ground to provide shelter for my furnace to vast, freezing swamp. Normally I'd be all ohmygoduniversewhyme and dramadramadrama and icanttakethisshit {cue hysteria in 3...2...1...} but for whatever reason, today, I just took it all in stride. It's probably because I'm hungover as fuck growing up.

Meanwhile, I still have no heat. Well - no furnace heat. I have gas logs. And flannel PJs. And wool socks. And cashmere sweaters. And extra blankets. And a mink coat. And a hat which may or may not look like a condom. And a 3-lb slightly deranged pile of fur who is so glad that I am home and who frankly, I am so glad I did not actually kill. Because coming home to no heat, a flooded basement AND a dead cat probably would have sent me over the edge.

Comments ( 9 )

I think you can tell alot about a person by what's on their iPod. Unless you're me in which case Freud would be scratching his beard and smoking his cigar (which of course, is just a cigar) because nothing about my iPod makes any fucking sense. I'm as likely to download Lady Antebellum as I am Lady Gaga and who else in the entire universe has a playlist containing Adam Lambert, Beyonce, Taylor Swift, Jem, The Offspring and some song that I downloaded after hearing it played on SoapNET commercials one summer only then to discover it was actually on a Disney soundtrack? Who? No one I tell you because no one is quite as insane as I am has quite the same eclectic taste in music as I do.

I used to tell people that I had awful taste in music. Looking back - I think that's silly.  99% of my male friends might think that Tik-Tok is the equivalent of a mammoth-sized musical piece of crap, but guess what? It was #1 on the charts for practically ever so someone, somewhere thinks it has value. And don't judge me for listening to Indigo Girls either. Or showtunes. Anyways - my point is that this is all entirely subjective and if I want to listen to Rhianna followed by Daughtry followed by Katy Perry followed by Sugarland, then who's to say I'm wrong?

Once upon a time, I used to agonize over making mixes: what songs made sense together? What flowed well? The genius of iTunes is that you can create, edit and adjust playlists all at the touch of a button. Now I keep a playlist at the top of the pack called "New Faves." I know - the title is soooooooooooooooo painfully unoriginal and 10 points (or cookies) to whoever comes up with a better name for my list of most-favorite-play-all-the-time songs. Anyways, about once a week I hop on iTunes and download whatever tickles my fancy and then I juggle my playlist accordingly. In an attempt to give you insight into my dark, twisted psyche, here's a glimpse at my to-be-renamed playlist and also a look at what songs I've been listening to a lot, in general:

  • According to You by Orianthi: So I seriously, seriously love this song and basically listen to it on perma-repeat 5 or 20 times in a row. The thing is, I never quite know how to feel about the lyrics. On the one hand, it's quasi-empowering because she's basically telling her asshat boyfriend/husband/sugar daddy to fuck off. Then again, it's only cuz she's all like: there's A DIFFERENT HIM who likey me. So yeah. I struggle politically. But I still dig the song.
  • If You Only Knew by Shinedown: I am fairly certain this might be a religious band but I refuse to confirm my suspicions.  The lyric that drew me to this song was: "It's 4:03 and I can't sleep without you next to me I toss and turn like the sea." So yeah. Been there, done that with the whole "no sleep at 4:03" thing.
  • If I Knew Then by Lady Antebellum: So I just downloaded this song last night and "Need You Now" and "All We'd Ever Need" are kind of my big Lady A obsessions but 5 plays in and...BIG SIGH. Frankly Lady Antebellum could sing the Physician's Desk Reference and I'd download it. 
  • For Your Entertainment by Adam Lambert: I want to say that Adam Lambert is my guilty musical pleasure but Holy Hell a gajillion people loved him on American Idol so I can't be wrong. Ironically - he annoyed the crap out of me on American Idol but I totally dig this mass-produced, Wonder Bread pop sound they've engineered for him currently. This song in particular makes me wish I had a pole in my living room because it's the ass-shakingest song ever. {Sorry mom and dad. Just kidding about the pole. I meant this song makes me want to put on my glasses and read a book while sipping a cup of chammomile tea.}
  • Poison by Beyonce: Ok - so I was about 400 years late to the Beyonce party but I am now on that train BIG TIME and this song just kicks ass and is just like poison, my affliction, my addiction, I can't lie. 
  • Bad Romance by Lady Gaga. Lady Gaga used to scare me. Then she confused me. And then I fell in love. The first 3 times I listened to this song I scratched my head. Now I know the lyrics by heart. Including the French ones.
  • Bleeding Love by Leona Lewis: I missed this train too. But now I'm all aboard. Choo-Choo.
  • Come Back To Me by David Cook: You'll notice an obscene amount of American Idols on my iPod. This is one of those songs I heard randomly on the radio and it just GRABBED me because of the lyrics. Really. I think at one point or another we've all faced the "If you love something, set it free" conundrum.
  • Gotta Be Somebody by Nickelback: I LOVE Nickelback which means you either love me or you hate me. Sorry. But I do. And who the fuck isn't waiting for their silver screen moment?
  • Complicated by Avril Lavigne: Like most everything else, I'm about way late on this song but I'm not ashamed. I might however be ashamed for downloading Alice since that seems to be nothing more than 1 never ending 3-minute shriek.
  • Over You by Daughtry: Like many before (and after) him, Daughtry sort of annoyed me on the show but now I kind of heart him. This is one of his older songs but I adore it.
  • Keeps Getting Better by Christina Aguilera: My personal anthem.
  • Dollhouse by Priscilla Renea: Falls into the Empowering Girl Rock category of which I am so fond {See also: P!nk}. "So glad I kept my receipt." Hellz to the yeah.  
  • You're in My Heart by Rod Stewart: Probably slightly out of place amidst the pop, rock and country, but this a beautiful ballad that I love. Although I confess - I don't quite get the part about the big-bosomed lady with the Dutch accent.
  • Love Story by Taylor Swift: I have mixed emotions on Miss Swift. I love her music and her albums and her songs but when I listen to her live my ears bleed and I want to stick a spork in my head and slowly twist it until I lose consciousness which leads me to the conclusion that she's wonderful produced but sucky live.
  • How Low by Ludacris: LUD-A-CRIS. He's awesome. C'mon.
  • Cry by Kelly Clarkson: I can not discuss this song. I don't think it's been released as a single which means if you haven't downloaded the entire album you probably aren't familiar with it. And if you're happy - you won't get it. But if there's even the tiniest sliver of pain in your life, you'll know what I'm talking about. 

That's just a sampling. There are 50+ songs on the playlist inlcuding way more Lady Antebellum and Lady Gaga than I acknowledged.

Now....looking at my entire iTunes library here are my Top 10 most played songs (and their playcounts):

1) Gotta Be Somebody by Nickelback (408)

2) Keeps Getting Better by Christina Aguilera (369)

3) Best Days of Your Life by Kellie Pickler (325)

4) Goodbye by Kristiana DeBarge ( 322)

5) It Happens by Sugarland (313)

6) Cry by Kelly Clarkson (258)

7) Irreplaceable by Beyonce (257)

8) U + UR Hand by P!nk (239)

9) So What by P!nk (224)

10) It's Alright, It's Ok by Ashley Tisdale (218)

First of all: Bite Me to anyone who says anything about Ashley Tisdale. It has got a snappy beat and is a great running song. Secondly: any of you Freuds-in-Training who want to offer up an analysis, go ahead. But frankly? I'd rather hear what's on your playlist. What songs can't you stop listening to? 

Comments ( 2 )

I've been meaning to write about my weekend in Miami since I landed on Sunday but Holy Hell between the weather and unpacking and my semi-fragile emotional state and sleep and repacking and traveling and work (you know those people who actually pay me) and dinner and dancing and standing on my feet in heels on a concrete floor at a trade show right across from the booth for the adult diaper company for 6+ hours and more work and more dinner and more sleep....well, I haven't had time.

At the very least, you'll be pleased to know that I've written the post 16 times in my head. And every version was awesome. But also? They were long since I pretty much wrote out a minute-by-minute, drink-by-drink, here's what we did every waking minute for 48-hours recap and OMG - I don't have time to actually write out the War and Peace version of my weekend so here's the bulleted version instead:

  • 2 hours and 7 minutes on a plane listening to a child who would not. stop. squaloring.
  • A glass of wine upon landing to ease the pain while waiting for the Agent to arrive.
  • Late lunch poolside at The Raleigh: Caesar salad, haricots verts and a bottle of Cakebread Sauvignon Blanc.
  • Glasses of Albarino lying on one of the poolside beds and gossping and catching up.
  • A semi-buzzed trip to Walgreens.
  • Caiphirina's at the Delano. That shit is STRONG.
  • 27 Dresses on HBO, a nap and an overpriced bag of pretzels from the mini-bar.
  • Dinner at Casa Tua: heavenly burrata with organic heirloom tomatoes, lemon risotto with pesto and rock shrimp, cheese plate, and a bottle of prosecco.
  • A walk back to our hotel where it became obvious that actual hookers in Miami really must just blend with the rest of the folks walking around. Or there are a lot of hookers. It's unclear.
  • Bed.
  • My first run in 48 days. I saw a man in a fur turban, a lot of stray cats, and possibly one of Michael Jackson's children.
  • Three miles totally kicked my ass.
  • A sober trip to Walgreens for trashy magazines and Coke Zero that cost less than $5 a bottle.
  • Two+ hours on a poolside bed, in the sun, reading said trashy magazines and more gossip.
  • Also? For fun, we made our lists. You know, the list of everyone we'd ever....
  • Slight horror at discovering there's a roughly 2 year period in my life that is one giant blur.
  • A long, hot, hunger-inducing walk along Ocean Blvd.
  • Lunch at News Cafe: Greek salad with chicken, hummus, lots of pita bread and a couple of glasses of Columbia Crest Grand Estates Chardonnay.
  • Nerves at sending back the first glass of wine because it didn't taste right (and thinking the bartender would spit in the next glass).
  • Pride when the waiter returned and told me he'd brought me Pinot Grigio by mistake.
  • Getting crapped on by a pigeon.
  • Gelato.
  • Poolside nap.
  • Stroll on the beach and an introduction to Footvolley.
  • Reminiscing about some seriously funny shit that had me laughing to loud and so hard, people actually commented.
  • $16 mojitos at the Raleigh while trying not to stare at the Pro Bowl Pool Party going on.
  • Learning what it must be like to live in a rap video.

(I'll pause here to say that OMFG this party was some seriously crazy shit. It was like MTV Cribs meets a Puffy video with some small bikinis, plenty of booty, lots of bling, and the most insane poolside footwear I've ever encountered. These women were wearing 4-inch, knee high gold gladiator boots with their leopard print monokinis. I mean - truly - there are no words.)

  • Glasses of rose on the OTHER side of the pool where it was less scary.
  • Dinner at Meat Market Miami: cucumber Southsides*, fresh ceviche with mahi-mahi, tomatoes, lime and jalapenos, Ceasar salad, aged NY strip, gouda tater tots, caramelized Brussels sprouts, and a bottle of Malbec.
  • A stroll home on Lincoln Avenue.
  • A stop in a jewelry store to look for sparkly hoops and slight disbelief when the bitchy salesgirl told me I could not actually try any of the jewelery on. WTF?
  • Bed.
  • Early morning solo breakfast. When I asked for tomato juice, the waiter said they didn't have any so he sent someone to the store. Much appreciated.
  • Less appreciated? The $5.50 they charged me.
  • A second breakfast later on with The Agent during which time the very same waiter who had been so accomodating 90 minutes earlier, acted like our wanting to have breakfast was some giant inconvenience.
  • Onset of panic because of the snow and ice in NC.

There's really not much else to tell you since from that point on I was pretty much a ginormous bundle of nerves and anxiety and every relaxing, wonderful moment of the trip was basically snatched from my fingers as I promptly freaked out for the next 10 hours.

That said, a weekend in Miami with my BFF in the middle of the wintery gray blah month of January was totally what the doctor ordered.

* So I used to drink gin and tonics back in the day and then one day I woke up and the smell and taste of gin literally made me gag. Recently I've been easing my way back into gin. It started with a Magellan and tonic at Miss Mary's a few months ago at one of her stylish soirees. These cucumber southsides (made with Hendricks) on Saturday were next and my oh my they were delicious.  So yeah. I may start drinking gin again.

Comments ( 4 )

Lightbulb moment #1: I have had the song Hey Ya by Outkast on my iPod for quite some time courtesy of Dr. Diva. It's the world's most awesome song to run to (or run stairs to) as it will literally make you want to shake your ass. However, there's always been a lyric towards the end of the song that's puzzled me. I've always wondered what "shake it like a Polaroid pig child" meant. Then last week it was pre-5am and I was en route to the gym (dedication baby!) and Hey Ya came on the radio. Either it was so early the voices in my head were still asleep or the reality of a pre-dawn workout meant I was in the zone but that line finally played and OMG: it's not "shake it like a Polaroid pig child." It's "shake it like a Polaroid PICTURE" which makes total sense.

Is there a song lyric out there that stymies you?

 

Lightbulb moment #2: I'm sitting poolside in Miami this past weekend with my BFF The Literary Agent (and OMG if I get a chance to breathe I will write about it because how often do you find yourself on the fringes of a rap video masquerading as real life?) and Lord knows what we were talking about but somehow the actor Campbell Scott came up and The Agent is all: "Well you know he's George C. Scott's son - right?" And I'm all {slaps head}: "Uh...No......" And she's all: "Yeah. And Colleen Dewhurst too." And then my brain exploded because how do I not know such things?

 

Why I am *exactly* like George Washington: I can not tell a lie. No shit. It means I'm a lousy poker player although every once in a while the sheer combination of naivete and guile actually works in my favor. But for the most part, I both suck at lying and I hate it. Except last night, I had to lie. It was for my own protection. And my own good. And I know that but still. Holy Hell it was hard.

Can you lie?

Comments ( 10 )

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