Do I need to say anything else??? I love him. HUGE HUGE crush on him when I was young.
Please wear those tight white pants, Barry.
Oh, you know the ones I mean.
regional curiosity
In the city/town/burg/hamlet where you live:
1) What is/are the major grocery store(s) and which one do you like? Why, please?
2) Do you have Target stores?
3) How many Starbucks have you personally visited (guesstimates okay) and will you blow them up for me?
4) Do you have Ikea stores?
5) What is the price of gas right now?
6) What is a popular chain restaurant, what kind of food do they serve, and do you go there?
7) If you don’t have professional sports teams, what city’s teams are geographically closest to you and do you root for them?
8) Do you see lots of 20-somethings wearing pajama bottoms as pants, you know, in public?
9) Do you have a neighborhood that is known as the gay neighborhood? What is it called?
10) What is the latest thing that everyone is talking about?
If you answer, will you please copy and paste the questions into the comments section, then answer them? That way, everyone can read the questions and the answers together. Muchas gracias.
oh, I am bawling!
From “Dancing with the Stars.” Seriously. I’m hopeless.
But … Laila Ali just danced the waltz tonight in front of her dad, Muhammed Ali, and paused, mid-dance, right in front of him, and blew him a kiss. And his face, his face! It’s got a certain blankness from the Parkinson’s, but in that moment, her reaching to him with such tenderness — oh! I am telling you! — there was no denying that look on his face. Pure pride. Pure joy in her. Pure love. How I wish I would have been taping that, just to play that tiny moment again and again and again. I am bawling. So beautiful.
I felt something just soar inside me.
Oh, lovely lovely love.
I am in love!
I’ve discovered a new blog and it’s awesome. A little too addictive. Still …. it’s not crack or anything, so go there now and check it out!
the line that killed “grey’s anatomy” for me
Random new character in LA (played by Tim Daly) because, what, part of the show is in LA now??:
I’m gonna kiss you. I’m gonna kiss you with tongue. I’m gonna kiss you so you feel it.
Eww, you moron. Just DO it. Don’t announce it.
ah, witches!
My born-again Christian lesbian customer, M, who has her own cleaning business, continued her vicious tirade against witches’ houses today. She is just over them. I wish you could actually hear her diatribes, though. They are even more hysterical because of this dry downward deadpan she has. I cannot tell you how much I absolutely love this woman.
So today she came in, toddling in her ducky bike shoes, chainsmoking and gearing up for her big healthy bike ride. And she was just pissed OFF about witches again:
“Okay. So. There is just no way for me to tell you how horrible this witch’s house was. I mean, it was just brutally filthy. SO gross. I swear it’s like these witches become ONE with the dirt or something from all their woodsy demon rituals. You go into their houses and it is just filthy crappy pigginess. So this last witch? I go in there and I just want to DIE from the horror of it all. It is like a junkyard of evil. And she has this dresser and it’s covered with these little plastic bugs and little plastic dinosuars. And they are gross. So dirrrrty. Like, there is just mung everywhere. You know mung? Just disgusting MUNNNG. And you know how theses witches are — how they arrange things in certain positions as entry points for power? Well, I’m standing there in a freakin’ panic from the mung, putting on my gloves and scrubbing each individual plastic wing on these gross filthy bugs. And then it dawned on me, like, what the hell am I doing?? But I cleaned them because I couldn’t stop, but I didn’t know exactly where everything went when I was done because there’s literally just crap everywhere, so I just arranged them all nice, you know? So she came home and — let me tell ya — it was just a devvvastating moment for the witch. She was instantly all pissed off because I rearranged her devil arrangement or whatever. Like, just trying to clean her filth, I ruined her connection with evil or something. And that was IT. She was having a fit about plastic bugs and I was just done with her. This horrible old witch who’s dating some 25-year-old guy, by the way ….. and what the hell is HE doing?? Seriously. Hanging out with her. In THAT house. Having filthy mungy witch sex. Dear God. It’s the trauma of it. I am totally retraumatized. All that filthy filthy mung.”
And I was howling. Literally crying. I just could not take the word “mung” being uttered one more time. But then again, I wanted her to say it again and again and again. Mung. Mung. Mungy. I was howling so loudly that the Overlord came over from his deli and said, all tight and disapproving, “Um, I can totally hear you laughing.”
Dude, one word: MUNNNG.
I dare you not to laugh.
I have no idea
I can’t even explain this post …. I really cannot. Uhm, my finger hurts??
But in addition to the strain of my recent disfugurement and my looming head head, it seems that now, our massive espresso machine, known as the monster, has suddenly become sentient. And not like sentient wine cork sentient which would be truly horrifying, but sentient like that lovable HAL in 2001: A Space Odyssey sentient.
Witness this proof:
The monster has stolen my image, my essence, as you can see, trapping me inside, slicing off my body, and covering my mouth with a metal plate. Ah, our little monster. So huggably malevolent. So squeezably evil. Basically, he’s morphed me into a silent floating head, but I really seem okay with it. So much so that I’m clearly distracted by …. oh, probably something shiny. Or Talking Timmy just walked in. Eek! Can’t reach stopwatch!
More dehumanizing plates and letters and numbers. But I laugh at them. Laugh at them!!
“Hahahahahahaha!!”
MB’s essence also stolen. Or, really, mostly his hair and forehead and rolled-up eyeballs. God only knows what ungodly things the monster can do with those rolled-up eyeballs. He’s a scamp, he is!
See how the monster continues to take and take and take? Numbers and letters replace rolled-up eyeballs. Metal plate replaces neck. But — thank God! — I see the nose is still intact.
Thaaaat’s right, monster. You can have my candy corn finger, but step away from the nose.
giving you the finger
Sorry. I don’t know how to make my cell phone pictures smaller.
Okay. I am officially the world’s biggest narcissist. Taking pictures of my hideous disfugurement. My self-fascination knows no bounds.
But I very possibly broke the end joint of my finger here, which, as everyone knows, IS the worst thing ever. It was 7th grade — a softball hit the tip of my finger — and the tip of this finger is swollen and purple and immobile just like softball finger so it makes me wonder. Poor Sam had a freakin’ piano fall on her and yet I CONTINUE to talk about my finger. I am disturbed.
And yet …. here comes even more:
One girl at Boheme gasped today when she saw it, because — and this is where the picture isn’t doing it justice, darnit! — my finger joints are actually colored as follows: purple/green/white. Like a long freaky candy corn, a parfait of disfugurement, a veritable sausage of pain.
Yummy.
heard at boheme today
Besides “!!?#@&!!@??!!!!!!!” about my now grape-sized and -colored fingertips, there was also this from Carla, our Intuitive Clairvoyant:
“Um, what’s with the n*aked pictures in the conference (Misfit) room???”
My business groups had been on a 2-week break and so they hadn’t seen them yet and Carla …. was NOT pleased. She said she’d be writing an email to the Overlord.
So stay tuned on all THAT.
owbie
When she was a toddler, Piper always used to say “owwwbie!” whenever she got hurt; an expression I always loved and would like to steal right now:
Owwwbie!!
I am writing with one hand, peeps, because today at Boheme, I smashed my the tips of the middle and ring fingers on my left hand under a huge 10-foot umbrella. Rather, it smashed down on them — the tips, the tender baby tips! — and now they look like teensy little shovels, all flattened and steel-colored.
But I am basically two things which made me contributorily negligent in my disfuguring — (I won’t fix that typo, too much trouble right now, plus, I think I like the word “disfuguring”) — injury.
So — okay. The two things I am that made me Con. Neg. in this:
1) Too short to handle a very tall and heavy table umbrella
Annnd …
2) Grossly, hideously stubborn.
Basically, here’s the truth, the disfuguring truth — a 5’4″ woman married to a 6’3″ man becomes impatient waiting for his assistance. Oh — which activates the stubborn which activates the stupid which activates her decision to lift a giant heavy umbrella out of its little umbrella hole and depoof the unwieldy thing all by herself. Things go horribly awry. Can you see that all in your mind’s eye? The stubborn, the stupid, the smashing? Yup. I thought so.
Also of note: Just over yonder ’bout 5 feet away, stands a young, strapping Hispanic lad, watching the entire episode: huge cumbrous umbrella, stupid struggling woman, big smash-down moment. He doesn’t even move, but leisurely sips his vitamin water while stupid woman literally wails in pain, like a big blubbing baby. It’s like he’s watching a movie. Chivalry is dead, I swear. And, you know what? I DID swear.
So please — will you pray for my steel-colored shovel fingers? And for the person they’re still miraculously attached to — thank God — to become less stubborn and stupid and to learn more insults in Spanish?
Gracias a todos!
(Forgive any typos. Forgive me if blogging is light and one-handed and for the really stupid post in my drafts that I’m now probably gonna post. Forgive me if it chases you all off for good.)
But I am disfugured, you see. Inside and out.