We Only Get Kicked Out of the Classy Joints

How do you spell holiday fun? Like most red blooded Americans, we spell it AT L A N T I C C I T Y. Ok so, we aren’t red blooded. As a matter of fact, if you cut my husband, he bleeds Yankee blue and I bleed whatever the color of shopping is. And I am sure that most folks don’t go to a casino to celebrate Christmas with their family, but the day that I wake up feeling like most folks, is the day that I ask the Dr. to check me for a pulse.

My husband is the youngest child in a large family, with more than 10 years between him and the next youngest sibling, so he has adult nieces and nephews that are as close in age to him as his brothers and sisters are (and infinitely more fun). This year, one of the cousins decided that it would be fun to meet in Atlantic City, a couple of days after Christmas for a cousin’s get together and they were kind enough to invite my husband and I. Now, technically, we are their Aunt and Uncle, but neither of us has ever been referred to with that title. We are addressed by our first names, which is the way we like it. And knowing how I do love the Borgata and have a comped room waiting for me like an impatient lover, we said YES!

This stay they were overflowing in the Borgata, so they offloaded us on the Water Club (thank ya Jay-sus!), which was nothing short of spectacular. Oh Borgata, you are a sexy beast, but your sister the Water Club is a hotness monster. The Water Club has a beautiful bar in the lobby called the Sunroom (http://thewaterclubhotel.com/hotel/sunroom.cfm ) The sunroom has 25 foot ceilings, a glass, greenhouse roof, a 12 foot long gas fireplace and indoor waterfall. It. Is. The. Shit. PERIOD. The drinks are all top shelf, the staff is friendly (if a little slow) and the atmosphere is chill. There is only one problem, we were there on its opening day a couple of years back and we came perilously close to being thrown out.

The Sunroom is presided over by a hot-shit chef from NY City named Geoffrey Zakarian. There is a bar menu that he designed that I would describe as “Self-important Mediterranean”. GZ himself was onsite for the first couple of days to make sure that the staff didn’t hose up his Almond stuffed Olives or Organic Pretzels with Purple Mustard, and he was visibly stressed. Between running around with a Sharpie signing cookbooks for VIP visitors, giving tours, instructing the wait staff and generally hovering helicopter-style, GZ was in no mood for his first set of paying customers to be us.

We were visiting AC with another couple and we had spent a long morning and early afternoon gambling and we were burnt out. My friend Mare went up to her room to have a nap, leaving me to go have a couple of drinks with the boys. It was the first day of the Water Club being open, so we decided to go over and check the place out. They were offering room tours and pool/spa tours, but we could tell from the sleek, modern elegance of the lobby that the rooms were beautiful. We just wanted a drink or seven.

We rolled into the empty bar and ordered up a round of drinks – Rum and Coke, Cosmo, Gin and Tonic. One round led way to a second round and a third, then a fourth. By the time my friend woke up from her nap and rejoined us, we were five drinks in and getting goofy. After this, it gets hazy, but I know that there were more drinks, an introduction to the harried GZ, stolen hand towels from the swank bathroom and the clear marker of having had one too many drinks – my friend’s husband started to draw a crowd as he threw down pints of beer in a single gulp. At this point, we were rowdy, loud and had racked up a bar bill over $600. The size of our bill may have had something to do with our staying in good graces as long as we did. Eventually the bartender tipped us off that GZ/Mgt was getting a wee bit antsy with our presence. Luckily this message coincided with us having had our fill. No harm. No foul.

By the time we re-gathered for a late dinner, we had slept off some of the afternoon’s libations. With clearer minds, we rehashed the day’s activities and could totally understand how our behavior might not have meshed with the vibe of the bar. Because of this, my eyes dart left and right every time we walk into the Sunroom since that day. I fear that I will lock eyes with the great GZ and he will recognize us as the marauding band of drinkers that brought the class level down in his establishment on the very day that he was out to impress the masses and the investors. It didn’t stop me of course. I dig the sunroom and their Cosmos are divine. I had a couple-a-three over the weekend, but I stopped there. I don’t want to incur GZ’s wrath or ever risk being banned from the Sunroom. That would be a crime far greater than me stuffing my bra with pilfered hand towels and waking up from my nap wondering why I had a bust line that would make Dolly Parton blush. Good times. Good times.

I'm Back and I'm Blocked

I am back from Blogcation and I can't for the life of me, remember any of the things that I wanted to blog about. Stepping away from the blog was difficult for me at first and it's almost like my brain punished me by hurling a ton of great ideas at me while I was completely wrapped in holiday hysteria. Now that I finally have a moment to sit down and channel those ideas into actual posts, I've got nothin'.

This issue is pretty representative of everything that's wrong with my noggin. It's a swirling hive of ideas and creativity whenever I am away far from any media that I could use to capture those thoughts. For instance, the second that I step into the shower, I am filled with thousands of remembered items from my to do list as well as story ideas and memories from long ago. All of that great material seems to evaporate as soon as I am dressed. Same for the car. I can solve the nation's health care crisis between home and work, but the second that I step out of the car, I can barely remember my own name.

This holiday was particularly crazy, given the insanity that is going on at work. It did not let up for a moment and I was still on conference calls between baking and cleaning, when I was supposed to be off. I am pretty sure that come March, I am going to take at least a week off to regroup from this cluster F and and maybe even dedicate my week to a blog posting a day. Honestly, work taking me away from blogging made me bitter (in case that is not already clear), and since I don't like being bitter, I am bitter about feeling bitter, which leaves me caught in an endless loop of bitterness.

So, with more of a whimper than a bang and a whole lot of whining, I am back. We are going to meet the hubs out of state nieces and nephews for a late Christmas celebration today, so that will give me a long ride in the car to try to remember all the awesome blog topics that I have forgotten. Let's hope I get some ideas down before the cocktails start flowing. . . oh and the gambling. Let's not forget the gambling. What?! Doesn't every family celebrate Christmas in Atlantic City?

Merry Blogcation

Even though I am far too insecure to believe that any of you will ever come back and read my blog, I am going to take a blogcation.

Work is extremely busy for me, which is putting a damper on my Christmas shopping, baking, wrapping and general enjoyment. Not to mention, cutting a major groove in my blog reading and writing opportunities.

I hope that you will indulge me this short break and I will come between Christmas and New Years with a renewed sense of blogging purpose and a slightly clearer head.

I wish all of you the happiest, healthiest Christmas and New Years possible. Please enjoy and have a drink for me. Lord knows, I plan to drink enough to toast each one of you individually.

All the best to you and yours!

- DG at Diary of a Mad Bathroom

Saturday Awards

More about zombie Chickens in a minute. . .

As I sit here and hunker down for the oncoming blizzard, I have a few brief moments of quiet and clarity, where I can work on my awards post. I have been very lucky to have gotten a few over the last 2 or 3 weeks, but I am behind on posting them. I'm not ungrateful, just horrifically busy at work (the holidays are just the cherry on my Busy Sundae). So without further ado, here are the awards:

Noelle over at Elastic Waistbands and Comfortable Shoes has done two things:

1) She chose a name for her blog that is probably prophetic for my next thirty plus years of life.
2) She gave me the Happy 101 award.

Thanks Noelle for the award and the glimpse into my future.

Then Sarah over at The Anti-Journalist gave me the same one! Sarah is a new blogging pal and has the prettiest blog design. You have to check it out, it looks like Mint Chocolate Chip ice cream. Mmmmmmm. Now I'm hungry. Thank you Sarah. Now I will have to trudge out in the frozen tundra to get a cup of gelatto. Thank god my neighbors already know that I am crazy.

And then (this is starting to sound like a "one time at band camp" post) I went over and visited Masshole Mommy, and she had tagged me with this award too! Her blog name cracks me up! Please stop in and tell her that she's a lovely lady and not a Masshole.

For this award, I have to name 10 things that make me happy and give the award to 10 blogs. Those of you that have been here before, know that I get twisted about having to single people out, so I will give the award to my blogroll, because if you are on there, I read you and I love you.

Susan from Susan Fobes Family Formula, gave me the I Love Your Blog Award.

Susan is a High School teacher and therefore must be either a saint or certifiable. Pay her blog a visit and figure it out for yourself (I'm leaning more toward Mother Theresa than my Uncle Ronnie). Again, blogroll, help yourself!

Then, from the files of awesomely unusual awards, Insanity Kim at A Parent's Life to Behold, Insanity and Bliss gave me the Zombie Chicken award?!?!? This is so insanely special that it makes me want to watch Dawn of the Dead with all my barnyard friends. This one has no rules (how could it?), so I will just sit and stare at it because it's imbued with mystical-voodoo-covered-in-hot-wing-sauce powers. Cant. Look. Away. Go visit Kim and see if you get hypnotized by the magical chicken. And please help yourself to this award and display it proudly.

TEN THINGS THAT MAKE ME HAPPY

Baking/Cooking - I feel very anchored to home and family when I do this.

Blogging - Getting it down in writing is the only way for me to organize my thoughts. My head is usually a whirling (but deliciously spicy) gumbo of crazy, and the writing process slows me down, focuses me and gives me the clarity of thought that I don't normally have.

My family - Both blood relatives and my friends, which I consider my chosen family. I need them like the crack and jones for them when I am away from them for too long.

Work - I know. I know. This seems stupid. And there are so many things about working and my job in particular that I full-on hate. But working gives me a sense of accomplishment and opportunity to overcome adversity, which is a high that I can't match. I guess I like a challenge.

Girl's Weekend - Going away with my girlfriends is the most soul cleansing and restorative thing in my life. Just taking a couple of days a year to be with my chosen family helps me to balance out my life and recharge my batteries. Plus, we laugh so much and so hard that I can almost feel the stress peeling off.

My Son's Band - It delights me to no end that my son discovered music. I always wanted to play the piano as a kid, but my parents did not want to make that huge investment for something that could have ended up as a fly-by-night interest. When the band practices or performs, it's hard to believe that they are only thirteen years old. I am filled with maternal pride.

Broadway - I love musical theater and have seen more plays than any gay man you can name. Go ahead and try. I'll take the Pepsi Challenge with anyone. Bring it on!

Movies - I love movies. However, I don't get out to the movie theater that often unless there is a singing Disney pop princess involved. But I pay per view like nobodies business.

Spike the Hotness Monster and Brownie the Wonderdog - These two morons make me smile, lower my blood pressure and generally get under my feet. And, the interplay between them is truly hysterical. I wouldn't trade them for anything.

Lasagna - Oh sweet, sweet lasagna. How I love thee. My birthday dinner for as long as I can remember and promised to me on Christmas Eve. There is a Santa Claus!

Here comes the snow. . .

Bullets Over Ronnies House

From the files of beating a dead horse . . .




I know that my last post was about my crazy uncle Ronnie, but I feel the need to go back to the well on this topic. Thanks to all the great comments that I exchanged with all of you, I was flooded with memories that I need to put down in writing. So here's another one-



As I mentioned in my last post, Uncle Ronnie is a gun enthusiast. Last Christmas I got him a Winchester tin sign to hang in his garage that classifies all the different calibers of ammunition. Well, you'd have thought I gave him a friggin Renoir. He oohed and aaahed and gushed over this stupid thing like you can't imagine. Now to get the gravity of this behavior, you have to understand that he has never been sensitive about any one's feelings, ever. It is not uncommon for him to say things like "I didn't know you could give that as a gift." or to tell you that the food that you served him was a "grave disappointment". So if he's acting pleased, he's genuinely pleased. He is not armed with the social skills required to fake it.



The reason that I purchased that sign, was because of his love of guns and because of the time that I spent with him in his bullet factory.



Somewhere around 1971, Uncle Ronnie started purchasing bullet making machinery. This included loaders that put buckshot into empty shells, a gunpowder dispenser and a priming machine. The priming machine was really cool. It would tuck the little, nerd candy sized nib of gunpowder packed brass into the bullet casing. The primer is the little circle at the ass-end of the bullet that that the hammer of the gun strikes to start the explosion that propels the lead slug out of the brass bullet casing. OK, I am going to stop right here. I just read that sentence and scared the crap out of myself. Do you understand that I am imparting bullet making knowledge that I learned at the age of 8? Is this effed up, or what?



Uncle Ronnie also had a lead smelting pot and slug molds that he used to form his own lead slugs. That's right boys and girls, my brother and I used to sit up in his bullet making room drop lead ingots into a pot molten lead. Now I know why I can't do math.



Anywho, Uncle Ronnie would assign us a job, like reloading shotgun shells or whatever, then he would get us all set up and he'd leave to go clean his guns (which he does obsessively). Yup, he left us alone in his attic, surrounded by gunpowder, molten lead and dicey, 80 year old electrical wiring.





One day when we were happily loading shotgun shells, the machine jammed up. We called to Uncle Ronnie, but he was engrossed in attaching a new site to one of his rifles and he did not come upstairs right away. Left without shells to load, we got bored (like andy 8 and 5 year old might) and we started poking around on the work bench, looking at all the bullet supplies - the shiny, brass bullet casings, the rainbow of different colored shotgun shells, the various weights of buckshot, etc.. In my investigation, I came across a box of primers. They looked like candy, all lined up in jewel-like green plastic box. I took one out and inspected it under the work lamp. It was so tiny and cute. It hardly seemed dangerous to me.



Just then, Ronnie came up the stairs. When he saw that I had the box of primers out, he got very upset. He started telling me all about the function of a primer and that it was small, but very powerful. Almost like a tiny cap of dynamite. And with that he took the box and put it away. But I still had a primer in my hand and after getting the lecture from Uncle Ronnie about not handling them, I was afraid to show him that I had one out of the box.



Ronnie got to work unjamming the shell loader while I shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, trying to think of how I could get rid of the primer in my hand. I decided to throw it on the workbench when uncle Ronnie turned away. I waited until he wasn't looking and I threw the primer toward the workbench. Well, in one of those "you couldn't have done that if you tried" moments, the primer landed in the pot of molten lead, just as Ronnie was bending over it to put in a new lead ingot.



All of a sudden we heard a muffled explosion, like a **BOUF** noise and Ronnie turned to look at me with molten lead spatter all over his glasses. "What did you throw in the lead pot?" he demanded. I looked down at my feet and sheepishly responded "a primer". This answer completely set him off and he started ranting and raving about how unsafe that was and what damage it could have done and what a fire hazard it was, etc.

Luckily, Uncle Ronnie did not sustain any injury in the accident. He managed to get the lead spray off his glasses and to get the tiny bits of lead out of his hair. The silver (or lead) lining to this story is that from that point forward, he always made sure to supervise us when we were in his bullet making factory and we remained safe and sound. That is until Christmastime when he let me play with his new pocket knife. . .

There's One in Every Family

Last night was my annual Cousin's Christmas gathering. This is an event where all of the cousins on my dad's side of the family get together with their kids and have dinner and talk about the unique experiences we had growing up with my father's side of the family.

My father was the youngest of five children born to an Italian imigrant and his American born wife. His only brother, my Uncle Ronnie is 11 years his senior and the undisputed character of the family. Every year when we get together for Cousin's Christmas, the talk invariably turns to Uncle Ronnie stories.

The most succinct word that I can use to describe my Uncle Ronnie is "crazy". Not in a traditional, paranoid schizophrenic kind of way, but more of an elusive, multi-threaded and unique brand of crazy that is difficult to pinpoint with a diagnosis. He has always been the kind of uncle that would let the kids do anything they wanted, without regard for safety or sanity.

When I was a kid, my Uncle Ronnie was my favorite uncle. He would show up at our house on the weekends and he would take me and my friends for rides in his camper. He had one of th0se campers that mounted on the top of a pickup truck. Being that this was 1971, long before the days where people cared about silly things like buckling up their children in vehicles, Ronnie would load me and a couple of friends in the back of the camper and we would take off. My parents would happily wave good by from the front door, clueless as to the danger that we were in from the moment we stepped into the camper.

Left to our own devices in the back of the camper, a group of seven year old girls will try their best to play "house". This meant using matches to fire up the gas stove, filling a pot with water and black pepper (the only thing in his cabinets) and boiling up some "pepper soup". Aside from the matches and gas stove and boiling water, the other hazard that the camper had was guns. Not just a couple of guns, more like a rolling arsenal, complete with boxes of ammunition of every imaginable caliber. And if the mood struck him, we'd stop at a sand pit and we would fire those guns. What? Don't all seven year old girls know how to shoot a Winchester .30-30? Watching me shoot down cans and bottles with a sniper's precision would make Uncle Ronnie laugh. Ha. Ha. Ha.

One year when I was about 8, we gathered for a family Christmas celebration at one of my dad's sister's houses. This was the home of two of my favorite, older cousins, both of whom I idolized. While the aunts and uncles were busy putting dinner together, Uncle Ronnie took me and my older cousins to an office building complex to practice driving. For me to practice driving, not the older cousins.

I would sit on my uncle's lap and take the wheel and I would step on his foot, which was on top of the gas to accelerate. I had done this dozens of times before (probably since the age of six), so this was a pretty routine event. My cousins were in the back seat of the car as we drove down the main drag of the large office complex. I was doing fine, tooling along at a reasonably safe speed, until we rounded a bend and spotted two teenagers on ten speed bikes, pedaling down the middle of the road. My cousins immediately recognized these two as their next door neighbors. Neighbors that they had a beef with.

As soon as one of my cousin's yelled "It's the Lindemans! Get 'em!" I was overwhelmed with a desire to please them and my foot jammed down on top of Uncle Ronnie's, sending his Cherry Red Cadillac rocketing forward toward the unsuspecting bikers. Ronnie started stuttering, half yelling at me, half laughing as my cousins cheered me on from the back seat. Totally consumed by the mob mentality and the adrenaline rush of chasing down these teenagers, I broke into a fit of uncontrollable laughter. Ronnie took the opportunity to grab the wheel from me and swerved the car to avoid the bikers as I gasped for breath and eventually peed in my pants from laughing so hard.

Ronnie returned us to my cousin's house and we went inside to eat dinner. Nothing was mentioned to the parents about the attempted run down of the Lindemans or the fact that I had peed in my pants. We never talked about it. . . not until years later at Cousin's Christmas, this last one and the fifteen or so that have come before it, where it is always the centerpiece of the conversation. And Uncle Ronnie? I'm pretty sure that he's still laughing.

How George Clooney Turns Panties to Manties Without Even Trying

You know how life is? Sometimes wack-ass shit happens to you and you have to shake off the body blow and regroup, and sometimes, but far less often, something cool happens . .

Like this:

A couple of weeks back, there was a "guess the coins in the jar" contest over at Nanny Goats in Panties. Have you been there? It's the best, nay, the only place to see goats in lingere AND read some really funny stuff. Anyway, I eyeballed the jar, which looked to contain about 135.00 to me and lo and behold, the dang jar had 129.66. My guess was the close enough for government work and I won. I am shocked.

So what did I win? A copy of the book "Marrying George Clooney". I can't tell you if it's any good yet, as I have not recieved or read it yet, but I will be certain to post a book review upon finishing it.

Thanks to all this talk of panties and the ongoing stream of consciousness in my head, I am reminded of one of the (unintentionally) funniest sites on the Internet. Run, don't walk to Manties.net. This site is totally serious about outfitting men in frilly scanties. When I tell you that they have the days of the week underwear, ruffled briefs and silky thongs, that barely covers the half of it. Conversely, the underwear itself is custom built for men and created to cover all of "it" (if you know what I mean) while giving a distinctly feminine look and feel.

One year I sent my brother a pair of Forrest green, ruffled briefs as a joke. Manties has been a family favorite website ever since. That was way back in the early half of this decade, so apparently the website is surviving on the strength of the rabid demand for frilly nutslings. Holy Ed Wood Batman! Check it out.

What about you? Do you have a funny website that you and your friends or family chuckle over? It's the holidays. Why not share?

Button, Button. Who's Got the Button?

Yes, yes y'all. Thanks to the lovely Jenna at Bloggy Blog Designz, I now have my very own button. Please, help yourself to it (It's over there on the left. See it?). If you see fit to display it on your site, you will have my eternal gratitude and freedom from concern that I would ever flat iron one of your body parts while you sleep. As a matter of fact, I submit that this button has magical powers and if you post it to your site, the following things will happen:

1) You will never have so much as an ounce of cellulite on your ass.

2) You will wield magical powers over men that compel them to clean up after themselves without being asked.

3) Your children will be wildly popular, athletic honor students that will get full ride scholarships to ivy league colleges.

4) Your credit card purchases will mysteriously disappear from your bill.

5) Your boss will get a festering patch of piles and will have to take an extended leave from the office, leaving you in charge to host a daily kegger and water balloon fight in the Board Room.

Not that I am saying that you should be superstitious or anything. But what if you don't take the button? What then? Could YOU possibly get the festering piles? Nah. At least I don't think it works that way. But you might want to take it just in case.

And before I move off the topic of the button, I would be remiss if I did not mention what a pleasure it was to work with Jenna at Bloggy Blog Designz. She was professional, worked fast and had a great collaborative style. I highly recommend checking her out.

In closing I would also like to thank MiMi at Living In France for the Rockin Blog award. Thanks MiMi I was very excited to recieve this. Now that I have my very own button, I feel a little more like maybe I do rock, a little.

Hairstyling with the Chickens

This morning a weary child stumbled out of bed uncharacteristically early and started the shower. Then the child towel dried and blow dried their hair in preparation for the flat ironing to come. That child? My son.

It seems that someone has put a bug in his ear that his thick, naturally wavy hair would look good if he flat ironed it. That someone, I have determined, is female. So as a result, the quiet, peaceful pre-dawn hours of the morning, have been pierced by the drill Sergent like orders of a 13 year old. Being that I don't want a pre-dawn visit to the ER for any flat ironed body parts, I have accepted the challenge of straightening his hair for him.

Last night, after a lengthy discussion about Japanese Hair Straightening and chemical relaxers - what they do, how they work, the damage they cause, etc. The boy asked me to flat iron his hair "as a joke". Well, not 30 seconds after I had delivered the punchline on that joke, texts were sent, Facebook status was updated and a new photo uploaded. Hilarious, right?

So here I am, sleep barely out of my eyes, listening to the little boss man tell me - " Don't swoop it to the left, I don't want it emo." "Why is it sticking up over there? I want it down." "How's the back? Is the back straight?" And while I was almost overcome with the impulse to flat iron his tongue as he was barking orders, I realized that this time that I could spend, bonding with him over hair, along with the fact that I have the skills to do so, is a gift. It's a gift because this child is usually nothing more than a moody mirage, flashing thorough a hallway, scarfing down the contents of the refrigerator in the middle of the night or asking for a ride hiter and yon. So I'll take the gift. Even though I probably won't appreciate it anymore by Friday morning.

My Blog Needs Fiber

Hey y'all. Is your blog looking tired? Run down? Out of sorts? Well mine is. (I think I just called my blog constipated). Check out the blog re-do giveaway below. Good luck!

Bloggy Blog Designz is having a super Holiday Giveaway!!! They are giving away blog designs and all kinds of goodies. Plus ALL entrants will receive 25% off their purchase through the end of the year! Be sure to check out their website for more information, or to enter yourself. Take a look at their portfolio and packages to see what you want for Christmas ;) With 14 giveaways in all and a 25% discount, everyone is a winner! http://www.bloggyblogdesignz.com/


PS. A slightly belated thank you to Susan over at Susan Fobes Family Formula for the blog award below. Many thanks Susan. I encourage anyone on my blogroll to grab this award and make it your own as you are all more adorable than a duckling and a baby bunny sharing a muffin.

And They Called it Puppy Love

Tonight was my daughter's parent teacher night at her elementary school. I have come to enjoy this opportunity to have a little one on one time with the teacher and to hear their perceptions of my kids. Now that my son is in Junior High School, the whole process has depersonalized and I've all but lost that connection with his teachers.

This evening's meeting was lovely as it always is when meeting with my daughter's teachers. She's doing well and involved in lots of extra projects and blah, blah, blah. The only thing that she mentioned to me that had me a little concerned was that she is already starting to see crushes develop and love notes being passed in the classroom. She clarified that my daughter wasn't part of the love note passing, but aren't 10 and 11 year olds a little too young for this, I wondered? Then I remembered my first crush.

When I was in kindergarten, I had a friend named Bobby Nicholls. One day when he and I were playing house, I kissed him on the mouth and immediately declared to my mother that Bobby and I were going to get married. Later, as we grew a little, we continued to pal around but there was no further discussion of marriage.

One day in the spring of 5th grade, Bobby showed up at my front door and asked me to come out on the porch. He told me that he had some presents for me. He began by pulling a small bottle of liquid out of his pocket. "This is the world's most expensive perfume." he said, handing it to me. I held the bottle up to the light and watched the amber liquid swish between the curved hips of the crown shaped bottle. Then he pulled a big gold brooch out of his pocket. It had ornate, antique looking scrolling circling an oval, quarter sized pearl in the center. This pin, he explained had a core of diamond dust sitting beneath the giant pearl. I gasped as I ran my finger over the pearl, trying to see if I could detect the diamonds within. Then he proclaimed me his girlfriend and he ran off before I could offer my agreement.

I went into the house and took my treasures to my room, not sure what I should do with such valuable goods. The most obvious choice was my jewelery box as it held my other worldly possessions - my gold bangle bracelet, my gold "S" chain necklace, an assortment of Wacky Pack cards, 2 packs of Topps Baseball cards (minus the gum) and a custom printed cocktail napkin from my cousin's wedding. I tucked my gifts into the box, afraid to use the expensive perfume or wear such a valuable piece of jewelery. I would visit them now and again, smelling the unusual floral notes of the perfume, but never daring to wear it.

About two weeks later Bobby's mom showed up at our door. The sound of her somewhat hushed conversation with my mother drew me down the stairs for a little eavesdropping. Turns out that Bobby had stolen her Windsong perfume and his grandmother's costume jewelery brooch and he cracked under a little light interrogation and told her where he fenced the goods. Mrs. Nicholls was very cool about the whole thing and told my mom that I could return her things in my own time. I was crushed, of course, but I returned he things the next day.

This was my first lesson in two important truths in life:
1) Men are liars
2) Windsong smells like shit

And in retrospect, it is a reminder that love can bloom early and sting hard. So I am donning my armor and readying the fort for the first time I find a little football folded love note in my daughter's backpack. And I will try to be sensitive and handle the situation with grace and understanding, like Mrs. Nicholls and my mom did. However, if I should run across any sexting on any one's phone in this house, I am buying a stun gun and I will not think twice about using it.

Gone fishin . . .

Grrrr. I am officially unwell. Woe be to the cootie that decides to invade my body as I am going to attack it with copious amounts of sleep and sloth.

I am actually not even feeling like reading and commenting on blogs (I know. WTF?), so I may go missing for a day or two. Please be patient with me.

Gotta go. I have cootie butts to kick.

Adios. Must. Sleep.