Thursday, January 31, 2008

Note to the people at my old Job X

I know this will be hard for some of you to believe, but amazingly I wasn't responsible for this.

Of course, I imagine someone over at Job X still might figure out a way to connect me to it, despite me not being an unhinged, axe-wielding young black guy in Minnesota. (Just like I wasn't an unhinged, axe-wielding young white guy in England back in 2005...)

A couple of people over there come to my blog every day, for what it's worth. I have their IP address labeled on StatCounter, so it pops up in big bold letters each time a Job X'er drops by. (Actually, I don't even really have to label it -- it shows up with the federal agency ID and the specific bureau ID, too - it's pretty easy to figure it out.) Every day, every day. That's your tax dollars at work, my fellow Americans! One of them, though, never just comes to the blog directly - it's always through a Yahoo search. After almost three years, you'd think they'd be able to just type in the URL. But that's just me.

So, since you're still reading, why not leave a comment? I'm curious why you're interested in reading what I'm writing.

You guys sure as hell had no interest in me during eight horrific months of financially devastating unemployment after I was removed from the office we shared. For no good, decent, sane reason.

Man up.

Leave a comment.

After all, you are reading this on time paid by my tax dollars. The least you can do is acknowledge that.

Sunday, January 27, 2008

Looking for a beautiful and unique Valentine's Day gift?

I've mentioned my friend Lunesse and her cool business Juiceglass out here before - she creates artisan glass beads and beautiful jewelry. Right now, she has this gorgeous set of beads up for auction on

Isn't that cool? I totally dig the big, juicy heart pendant at the center of this set of swirly, spacey beads. I could totally see this on a silver chain or a silk cord. I hope somebody snaps these babies up and turns them into a killer Valentine's Day gift. Heck, if I had the cash, I'd bid on them myself. (After all, a girl's gotta get her own VD swag when there's no one around to do it for her!!)

A box of Godiva lasts just a short time, folks. Art is forever.

This has been a public service announcement from the Committee to Remind You to Get Your Girlfriend/Spouse/Sister/Mom/Yourself Something Cool This Year.

So, uh... do you tell them or not?

And now, a nausea-inducing moment from today's PostSecret:

Shudder, shudder, shudder...

Saturday, January 26, 2008

Shear Luck, or Getting Snippy with Me

If the Sasquatch is to be believed, I never need a haircut. Never ever. That's very kind, but sadly, untrue. I'm the princess of split ends, and, although I try to last as long as possible between trims, I eventually reach a point where I start looking like I'm sporting some kind of "homeless chic." Ungood. So, I trekked up to ye olde Hair Cuttery today for a much-needed sprucing up.

Now, Hair Cuttery is a blessing for those of us with shallow pockets, but there are risks involved with discount haircuts. Namely, will you actually be able to communicate with your cutter? I think of this as Linguistic Russian Roulette. I take a deep breath and pray my stylist is a native speaker of English. Now, if you're offended by that, I'm sorry, but I spent 4+ years getting my hair cut in Moscow in a second language, and sometimes the results were less than stellar. (I'm being kind.)

Let's face it: I don't have much going for me in the looks department - a bad haircut would be like the last nail in the beauty coffin. And so, I really like being able to clearly express my needs to someone for whom English subject/verb agreement is not an alien concept. The last few times, my hair has been spiffed up by this rockin' chick from Jamaica who totally gets how to work with thick, wavy, frizzy, unruly locks.

And, dammit, she's moved away.

Today, my choice was between someone who barely spoke English and someone else who barely spoke English. Beggars cannot be choosers, so I took a deep breath and chose Curtain #1. My stylist for the day was a middle-aged Korean woman named Sung. Her grasp of English was extreeeemly limited; she's only been in the United States for three months. From what I deciphered, her husband, who speaks no English, hates the United States (he speaks no English, can get no work, and spends all day watching TV) and is returning to Korea on Monday. But they have a 15-year-old daughter in school here. Sung will stay with her. I tried to fathom the the visa situation that brought them here, but I have to admit I was nervously focused on my head.

In truth, Sung did a perfectly fine job with my hair, but our mutual inability to communicate well created uncomfortable situations when she started asking me inappropriate questions.

"How long you fat?"
"You have boyfriend? Husband?"
"Very bad you alone. Very bad. Need boyfriend now!"
"Bad for life be alone."
"No dog? Cat?"
"Very bad!"
"I was fat. Lose 40 pounds."

I congratulated her for her weight loss, which she announced - just like the rest of her queries and comments - at full voice to everyone in the salon. Then she started grabbing her gut.

"Had extra skin. Had to lose skin. Go to hospital."

"Oh," I said, "You had surgery for that?"

"No! No surgery. They... you know..." She massaged and pressed her belly.

Silently, I thought, "...squeezed the skin off? Did psychic surgery? Used duct tape?" But I just gritted my teeth and smiled.

An older, Santa Claus-ish man waiting up front kept looking my way with silent sympathy. I appreciated it, but I knew that, even if I said, "Look, you're being totally inappropriate!" it would have had little effect. I don't think she knew she was being inappropriate. I just closed my eyes and pretended to sleep while she dried my crown o' frizz. At least she thought my new hair color (Light Ash Brown - no longer red, whoo-hoo) was my natural color. That was nice.

I know I can't complain much, and I do not begrudge anyone the right to make a living. When you go to a discount salon chain, you know you are getting people who, by dint of language, technical skills, or experience, cannot get a job in a higher end salon. In the DC area, that most often means you will be served by a recent immigrant supporting her family and you may struggle to be understood. And they may struggle with our cultural mores and limitations. Like asking how long you've been fat. Feh!

Well, I knew the risks when I took the job, right?

I will say this - she only charged me $14. Usually, the native speakers of English will debate me on the length of my tresses and try to add $10 on to the tab for "long hair." Cher has long hair, kids. I have shoulder length hair, thank you. Sung didn't charge me for the blow dry, either. In the end, I figured that was my prize for having been lectured on fat and my inability to find a man.

Or a dog.

So, if you know a man (or a man with a dog) looking for a broke, fat, middle-aged writer woman, let me know. By Korean standards apparently, my shelf life expiration date is coming up pretty soon.

And here I thought I would be forever fresh, like a box of Twinkies in a bomb shelter!

I go to Hair Cuttery to learn, folks. Something new each and every time.

Pervy Searches: New Contestant, Come On Down!

Lately, my blog stats have shown an increase in pervy searches from random horny visitors in the Middle East and the subcontinent. I wish to congratulate my random visitors in Europe and the Americas (for the most part) for being a little less sexually repressed. Y'all generally aren't finding me on Google while searching for "naked arab women" and such. (However, when y'all are doing pervy searches, it's usually for something really... specialized... and usually for things that would make me give you a wide berth if we met in public. And I'd use a lot of Purell if we shook hands. Just sayin'.)

But today is special. Today, to my knowledge, marks the first time I've had a visitor from (as it's labeled in Statcounter) Iran, Islamic Republic of. And how did this upstanding pillar of Islam reach me? Why through a Google search, of course! Looking for... "big and hot."

Now, to give my Iranian friend the benefit of the doubt, he may have been looking up deserts. They are, certainly, both big and hot. Maybe he has an interest in jet engines. Goodness, they're big, and they get awfully hot, I'm sure, after a long flight. Heck, maybe he was just researching Iranian president Mahmoud Ahmadinejad. He's big on the world scene and a hot button topic for political pundits everywhere.

But I doubt it.

Truth is, too, "big and hot" is such a nebulous term, I'm not sure if this dude was looking for women or men. Usually my pervy searchers who are looking for chicks just say "chicks" or "boobs" (not sure if "boobs" is a well-known term in Iran), so I'd like to think this is my first gay Iranian visitor. I'm being sexist, I know. I suppose this could be a woman searching for something "big and hot" but, again, I doubt it.

Now, how this guy decided, out of all the gazillion spots you could hit via Google to come to my blog, I simply can't fathom. I did a little experiment just now to see what I got on Google typing in "big and hot" (without quotation marks) and the first link that appeared? I swear to God, it's something called "" and no, I did not click on it. That's really not something I'm prepared for at 8:15 in the morning. Not without coffee first, at least.

I went ten pages in on the Google search, out of curiosity, and I wasn't there. I did find a recipe for something called the Big Thaw Hot Chocolate Toddy (which looks pretty damn decadent and possibly could put you in a diabetic coma) and a discussion of the Big Bang (not of the variety our Iranian friend wanted, I think) but no links to this blog. Maybe if I'd had an infinite amount of time and an infinite number of monkeys on laptops, I could have found the link. When you search for "big and hot" on Google, there are more than 42 million possible links. And most of it is for, unsurprisingly, porn. Aaaand hot tub resorts in California. Yet, this guy, hunkered down in his little repressed corner of the world, clicked on a link to this mindless entry: - poor bastard probably thought "ramble" was a slang term for "insanely amazing booty call." Right now, he is likely cursing me under his breath for wasting his precious dial-up time while some web-monitoring Iranian thought police schlub is marking me down as an evil infidel and trying to figure out how to access the secret messages in the non-playing audio file. (Alas, poor AudioBlogger, I do miss thee!)

Gay Iranian Man: I hope you find something "big and hot." And honestly, I hope someday you're able to find it in real life - safely and without fear. Until then, feel free to drop by. I'm afraid there won't be anything of that ilk here, but you're still welcome.

As for the perv who's always looking for "sex with grandmother in church"? You, on the other hand, have got to get a new hobby. Now. I mean it. Go!

Friday, January 25, 2008

But you gotta have faith!

Premiering on ABC after the season opener of "Lost" on the 31st (holy crap, how much am I looking forward to that?!?) is a show called "Eli Stone." Haven't heard of it? I hadn't until reading about in TV Guide last night.

I got a freebie subscription to TV Guide with some Delta frequent flyer miles I'll never use. Must have been left over from my time in Moscow, when Delta was the U.S. carrier out of Mutha Russia. I don't actually use the schedule in the guide, I just read the letters from angry readers ("I don't understand why you haven't recognized the amazing talents of Ryan Seacrest - he is a young god! His teeth are so white!") and the behind-the-scenes articles. I guess it's a little like having a subscription to Playboy and not looking at the porn. Go figure.

So, there I was last night outside the World Bank, sitting in the Crapmobile Mark II, waiting for a friend and flipping through the pages of the venerable TV Guide. I stopped flipping when I saw an unexpected face. This face:

Okay, actually not *that* face, but this one:

Yep. George "You Gotta Have Faith/Father Figure/Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go/I get high and fall asleep behind the wheel of my car" Michael. Get this -- the premise of "Eli Stone" is that the main character is an ethically-challenged San Francisco lawyer who is diagnosed with an inoperable brain aneurysm. As a result of his brain invader, he starts having visions that spur him to do extraordinary things to help people that might actually return him to the good side of The Force. One of his recurring visions/hallucinations? George Michael. The REAL George Michael. Apparently, each episode is named for a George Michael song, and, god bless him, George appears as himself in episodes throughout the season, singin' and shakin' it.

For me, this is a must-see, the-producers-had-to-be-smoking-crack moment. Roll your eyes, but I love George Michael's music. His drug problems make me very sad for him, but I tell you, the George's solo recordings are damn good. I'm not joking. I think it's good. Snazzy. Swanky. Cool. And the thought of him appearing as someone's brain aneurysm-induced hallucination week after week on primetime TV is just too good - and, frankly, bizarre - to pass up.

Godspeed, Mr. Panayiotou! Here's hoping "Eli Stone" is good -- I like the premise, but then again I'm a sucker for setting things right. ABC must have some faith of their own, since they're giving it the coveted post-"Lost" spot this next week.

Can't wait.

Thanks to the tech smarts of my friend Spencer, I have finally taken advantage of Blogger's free hosting service using my own domain name, You can still type in and it will redirect you to The "www" in the addy is important. Leave it out, and you'll get a parking page for me at GoDaddy.

So, there you have it. Not such a big change, but I've owned for a couple of years now, and it's about time I used the damn thing.

Progress. Baby steps, for sure. But progress, nonetheless.

Announcement over. I now return you to the remainder of your fabulous Friday.

A handful of observations and a change is coming

Yes, new entries have been few and far between lately. The wounded lungs (and accompanying insomnia) have leeched a lot of my oomph in recent weeks, and, honestly, I've thought a lot about Heath Ledger's untimely death. I understand the pneumonia/insomnia/general misery situation. If he died as a result of trying to get some measure of sleep in the middle of that garbage, what a miserably accidental tragedy.

And, not to make light of his passing, but, dear friends, family, future pool boy Raul: if you find me face down and unresponsive, PLEASE make your first call to 911. Please. Don't call Mary-Kate (or the other terrifying Olson Twin, or Britney, or OJ, or even Brad Pitt) before calling the paramedics. In fact, please don't call Mary-Kate THREE TIMES before calling 911. Jeez.

My future self thanks you.

It's likely, from descriptions, that Ledger was probably well dead before the masseuse started making (surely, in her mind, helpful) celebrity calls before dialing people with medical training, but still...

Staying on the Ledger situation for a moment -- I was disgusted, saddened, but not surprised to hear that sick, twisted, theoretically Christian uber-freak Fred Phelps and his pathetic troop of followers plan to picket Ledger's funeral because he played a homosexual in "Brokeback Mountain." WTF, folks? I personally don't have the strongest or most defined belief system, but I have a funny feeling that, if there is a god, I have a funny feeling he's got a helluva surprise waiting for Fred in the afterlife. But, then again, I can't say for sure. Unlike Fred, I don't have the hubris to think I know the mind of God.

Frankly, people like Phelps make me wish I really believed in the full-on Catholic version of Hell. He'd have his own level - one that sinks lower into sewage and broken glass each time his sad band protests the funeral of a dead soldier. Not a very Christian thought on my part, I admit. I guess that's my cross to bear. I think I'm okay with it.

I tell you this, if I was told, upon pain of death, I had to sit through a day of proselytizing and had to choose between the wackadoodle Phelps camp and the Scientologists, I'd take the Scientologists in a heartbeat. I see nothing but darkness eminating from the doors of Phelps' church, celebrating needless death and embracing hatred. Jesus wept, certainly. I imagine he still weeps at the very thought of Fred Phelps.

The Scientologists, on the other hand? While they creep me out, at least these guys come with their own punchline this past week with the leaking of the divinely bizarre Tom Cruise indoctrination video (if you haven't seen it, watch it on before some injunction pops up and sweeps it away.) Look, if Scientologists want to spend all their money on getting "clean" and free of all that space alien spirit juju that apparently causes all the ills of this world, who gives a shit? But the sheer hubris that Cruise radiates in this film clip slays me. Apparently, if a Scientologist drives past a car accident, he/she is compelled to stop because he/she is - if Cruise is to be believed - the "only one who can really help!"


Stand back, everyone! I'm a Scientologist! No, I don't have any medical training. No, I don't know how to save these guys. I cannot reattach limbs. But I'm a Scientologist!

What a load of crap.


Big, heaping pile of steaming dung.

If Scientology is a way for people to feel better about themselves, well, that's fan-freaking-tastic. But if it gives you the delusion that you're better than everyone else - that being part of your money-sucking religion is "a privilege", and you're somehow mankind's savior??? Well, that's messed up. Want to help people, Tom? Donate money to charities that do tremendous good. Don't advise people on post-partum depression. Don't think you're capable of cleaning the toxic air around the World Trade Center. Get a grip. Self-confidence is a great thing. Hubris gets you a karmic black eye, a reputation as a joke, and people find you a bore at cocktail parties.

Note to my friends: definitely call 911 for me before you call Tom Cruise. He won't be able to help me. I'm pretty confident on that point.

And, for those who haven't seen it, please enjoy Jerry O'Connell's uncanny mockery of the Cruise video. Jerry, babes, you got it spot on:

Jerry, I guess this nixes your chances to be in Mission Impossible 12. I salute you!

Note to everyone: there will be a little blog change today. Nothing major, but you'll see it when you see it.

Thursday, January 17, 2008

How I almost killed my brother before he died

Saturday is my brother Ed's birthday. He would have been 55 this year. Double nickels. Riding the AARP train. Eligible for the senior discount. Eating the early bird special.

But it didn't work out that way. He'll have been gone two years come June. Not a week goes by when there isn't something that happens (or something ridiculous I see on TV) and I think, "Oh, man - gotta call Ed and tell him about that."

And then, I remember.

Can't do it. No more phone calls.

So, I store away whatever that tidbit is, hoping there's someone else who will appreciate it at some point.

Ed had a messed up sense of humor. When I was a kid, he was the one who enjoyed terrifying the living shit out of me, hiding in the dark under the stairs, waiting to grab an ankle, or bellowing outside my bedroom window at three in the morning in a demented basso-profundo, like some demonic opera singer, straight from the seventh level of Hell. He also enjoyed just the plain old weird shit this world offered us.

Like the spongmonkeys.

Remember the spongmonkeys?

Sure you do. You may have tried to block them from your memory - they were freaky-looking things. Creatures that looked genetically wrong and sang in raspy falsettos and wore silly hats.

Originally, the spongmonkeys were the totally random and messed up creation of Joel Veitch, an English animator. The world may never know why, but Joel crafted these things and had them sing a song called "We Like the Moon." If you missed it, here it is, in all its inexplicable glory:

Kinda f'ed up, huh?

But much, much, much more f'ed up is that a restaurant chain - Quiznos - actually made the conscious decision to use these vastly unappetizing critters to advertise their fast food. Now, I love Quiznos (they make a yummy tuna salad sandwich), but I would like to know just how much blond Lebanese hash had to be consumed by their marketing team before they all said, "Hell, yeah! The mutant furry baked potato animals with human mouths! Yes! They just say 'mmmmm, tasty!' America will LOVE them! LET'S DO IT!"

Judge for yourself. Here's the ad:

Now, most of America fell into two camps: the people who were totally creeped out by the Quiznos spongmonkey ad and people without TVs.

Then, there was me and my brother Ed. We thought this ad was freaking hilarious. In fact, in finding that clip on YouTube, I managed to laugh myself into a coughing fit. It's the words "THEY GOT A PEPPER BAR!" that makes me laugh like a moron. And it had the same effect on my brother. In fact, he used to call me and leave messages on my answering machine simply saying, "THEY GOT A PEPPER BAR!" That was it. Just that. Click. I would double over laughing. It was so ridiculous, and yet so damn funny.

After a week of these calls, I phoned my brother back and did my best spongmonkey impression for him. Now, the thing is, my brother was very ill already at this point, so he was almost always at home when I called. No answering machine, just my brother, struggling to breathe on the other end of the line. And this time was no exception. God help me, I could not resist it, even though I could hear he was struggling with his weak lungs and failing heart. I just went for it. I didn't even say "Hello" - I just started singing in this hideous high rasp. And, omigod, did my brother ever laugh his ass off. That's right - I tortured a dying man with laughter and a commercial jingle, screaming, "WE LOVE THE SUBS CUZ THEY ARE GOOD TO US!" until I could only hear him wheezing and gasping through giggles. By the time I got to "THEY GOT A PEPPER BAR!" he was begging me to stop, but laughing all the time.

"Oh my god, I can't breathe!" Ed wheezed and coughed. "Oh jesus, stop, please!" But through it all he was laughing so hard he was in tears. I stopped, thinking, "Holy shit, I think he's dying. Now, this is going to be hard to explain to the family..." But then he said, gulping in precious air, "Do it again!"


Ed struggled for air and gurgled and howled and said, "Oh shit, that's funny."

I hadn't heard him laugh like that in years. After that, I periodically called him and just yelled about that damn pepper bar and he would laugh and laugh. In time, his laughter became more faint, as he couldn't even find the energy to respond. Once he told me that, indeed, I had almost killed him with my manic spongmonkey call. You know, the truth is, I think Ed would have loved going out that way, giggling like a fool over a really messed up TV commercial. Hell, we should all go out laughing.

Silly though it may be, I think of Ed every time I go into a Quiznos. I see the pepper bar and have to smile.

Thank you, wee spongmonkeys, you twisted little bastards. You were a damn demented way to advertise a sandwich, but, bless you - you made my brother happy.

Happy birthday, Ed.

Saturday, January 12, 2008

A Cheat Entry from the Musical Time Machine (next to the Sick Bed)

My lungs and I are not cooperating this weekend, so the muse is taking a couple of days off to play blackjack in Atlantic City. In the interim, I thought I'd share a few of my favorite songs of the late 1970s - gather around kiddies for a little musical edjamacation, and, fellow 40-somethings, feel a little nostalgia for stringy haircuts and jeans so tight they may have caused peripheral artery disease!

First, one of my all time faves, 10cc with "The Things You Do For Love":

10cc had Godley & Creme and Eric Stewart - the guys were no slouches. It's got a good hook, and I put it on just about every mix I make.

And how about one of the coolest early (1978) new wave-ish songs around, Sniff 'n' the Tears' "Driver's Seat":

Whatever happened to Sniff 'n' the peeps? Not a clue. Guess I could look 'em up on Wikipedia, but maybe it's better to think of their fate as a mystery rather than find out they're working the drive-thru window somewhere...

And, finally, a track that has everything right about it. "(What's So Funny 'Bout) Peace, Love and Understanding" was written by Nick Lowe (who also produced this track and "Armed Forces" the album on which this appeared in the U.S.) and performed by Elvis Costello and the Attractions. Just look at those skinny English boys frolick, and, damn, listen to that skinny English boy just belt that out!

That was 1979, when I think I really first started to listen to my own music, as opposed to whatever my sisters were listening to. I see Elvis in that tweedy overcoat with those huge eyeglasses and I swoon.

And then I realize that was how I dressed, pretty much the haircut I had, and the glasses I wore through much of the 1980s. Yes, I was a slave to new wave fashion. Men's new wave fashion. Go figure.

Now, just for kicks, here's a 2004 performance of "(What's So Funny 'Bout)..." by Elvis and Nick Lowe together. Slowed down, with a sweet harmony:

Back to the sofa with me. Hope you enjoyed the musical interlude!

More when the muse returns (hopefully with a couple hundred bucks and a hangover.)

Thursday, January 10, 2008

But are they bodacious?

A car manufacturer in India is following through on a promise to make a reasonably priced car available for the burgeoning middle class of his country. The Tata car company unveiled a marvelously inexpensive model today to the press and a sea of eagerly salivating subcontinental buyers. Retailing at 100,000 rupees (roughly $2,500 US) the question is, for that tiny price tag, just how bodacious are these Tatas?

A modest Tata, but still more than a handful!

Lord knows, guys throughout India are probably dying to get their hands on some Tatas. Generally, men are aware that getting their hands on even one Tata can be pretty expensive, but with this new model, my gosh - guys could get their hands on a couple of really hot Tatas and not break the bank!

Heck, I'm sure the men are not the only ones pondering Tatas these days. The attractive, round, stylish shape and "just right" size of these babies - and the miraculously low price - surely have savvy Indian women of means thinking, "One? Hell, I'm gettin' myself a pair of new Tatas!" And what man could possibly pass up a woman with a set of fine new Tatas? Of course, taking the conservative local culture into account, there may be concern about women allowing guys to check out their Tatas far too soon. And then, once the guy tires of your Tatas, he'll be off looking for a new model. Such is life.

As for me, I'm afraid there are no new Tatas in my life. Then again, you never know. Perhaps this will revolutionize the economy market and Detroit and Tokyo will have no choice but to follow suit.

Honda Hooter, anyone? Chevy Chesticle?

So many boob jokes, so little time...

Saturday, January 05, 2008

Yeah, I cry over the Military History channel

Flipping channels tonight, I stopped on Military History when I saw they were running a doc on women pilots in combat. These women are the successors to my mother and her friends and colleagues - women flying B1 bombers, women flying off carriers, facing the same dangers the male combat pilots face. Earnest women - I see the same straightforward, common sense determination on their faces, in their voices, that I recall from my mother and from her fellow WASP when I met them at reunions.

The documentary ran a fairly lengthy segment on the WASP. I'm always squinting and scouring footage to see if I catch a glimpse of my mom. But, she was shy and not likely to make herself available for film. I got angry when the narrator spoke of the lousy Rush Limbaughs and Sean Hannity-types of the day who castigated the WASP as a joke, unworthy of military status, and even suggested they weren't "real" pilots. They even showed political cartoons of the era that mocked these amazing, brave women. I hadn't seen those before - they infuriated me.

But it was when the documentary returned to our day that I fell to pieces - as those earnest women, combat pilots, heirs to my mother's true estate, spoke of how much they owe the WASP for paving the way to the lives they lead, the careers they cherish.

That was cool. And a little heartbreaking. Wish Mom was here to have heard that.

Yep. I roll my eyes at most chick flicks and don't own a single pair of heels. But you catch me at the right moment, and I weep like a baby over the Military History channel.

And I watched football tonight.

Do I get an honorary "guy" card?

Eastbound Side's Comin' Atcha!

Spencer found this for me - more Dance Party Friday from Local 12 News in Cincinnati! This time, there's a little Russian holiday flavor:

I love these guys!

I foresee more of this, so I've actually created a "Dance Party Friday" tag (as have, likely, a ton of other folks online.) Yeah, I'm not really writing much right now, but I'm sick and on vacation, and these guys are amusing the hell out of me!

Friday, January 04, 2008

I'm just a squirrel...

...tryin' to get a nut to move your butt!

This is totally silly, and it made me laugh hard enough to have a coughing fit. Meet "Dance Party Friday" in Cincinnati:

God bless local TV news.

Very very silly.

Day Three of the All-Day Sleep-a-Thon

It's true that no one wants to be sick when they're on vacation, but it sure saves on sick days. I'm deep in Sick As A Dog territory right now. I've been sleeping round the clock for days now, just getting up for an hour here and there and then returning to motionless sleep. I should have known this would be a very bad round of bronchitis because I was fighting it for two weeks before it finally hatched. My lungs are fried, my ears crackle and crunch, and sleep is a lovely escape from the painful cough.

Last night I went out for Vick's Vapo-Rub and some Mucinex DM. (Yeah, the TV ads for Mucinex are disgusting, but the stuff works like a dream.) I didn't realize just how cold it was outside, and I think my entire respiratory system went into shock, and I had a coughing fit to beat the band. Thank god for the inhaler the doctor gave me when I had pneumonia back in September. A friend last night suggested that I might have pneumonia again. She's possibly right, but dear lord, I hope not. My doc's on vacation, and the first appointment I could get with an ENT is on Monday. I may be at the urgent care center this weekend. We shall see.

Right now, sleep is sounding pretty good again. So is a shower, if just to get my lungs clear for a moment.

Tuesday, January 01, 2008

2008: Now with extra harsh cough and muppety voice!

Yes, indeedy! True to form, I rang in the new year harfing up a lung on the sofa at Chez Merde. This time, the cough is so harsh, it feels like someone is taking a slightly dulled, rusty hacksaw to the back of my throat. Mmm, mmm, good!

Today I had no voice at all (makes me wish we still had AudioBlogger, so you could share my pain) and I slept almost the whole day. Remarkably, considering how little time I actually was conscious, I went through a whole box of tissues and a two liter bucket of diet 7-Up. Honestly, I don't really remember drinking all that (that's what they all say, right, officer?) Unremarkably, I felt like Koko the gorilla was bouncing on my bladder when I finally came to around 7 p.m.

A friend called from the UK - must have been midnight his time. Turns out he's sick as a dog, too, and so we consoled each other on our similar symptoms and tremendous desire for sleep. He told me that I sounded like a Valley Girl. Apparently, my clogged sinuses give me an awful Moon Unit Zappa-esque twang that amuses British people. (Well, at least one British person.)

I finally crawled out to Shoppers Food Hell tonight to get more bubbly clear fluids and chicken soup, and as soon as I got there, I wanted out. That's the fastest grocery run I've ever made. Now, I'm back home, ready for a bowl of soup and a lot more sleep. Thank god this week is vacation. I think my eyeballs are burning out of my head.

And with that lovely thought burned into your imagination, I bid you a fond good night. Welcome, 2008: seriously, it's just gotta get better!