Wednesday, March 23, 2016

Oh Where Oh Where Have My Freaky Keywords Gone

Back in the day, I used to be able to look at analytics to see what kind of bent-freak searches drove people to my blog.  It was a damn carnival ride I tell ya, and I got many laughs and many posts out of it. Who could forget this moldy oldie from yesteryear?

Nowadays, I do not get this stat, save for an occasional mention at the bottom of blogger's own baked-in statistics page.  When I do have this information, my heart leaps with glee, proving that I need a hobby really badly.  Today was such a day. I had a single keyword search in my list.  ONE keyword search, but admittedly, it was a good one.

Today I found this:

Thank you Blogger Stats for restoring my faith in the fact that this is a freak nation and that there are legitimate nutballs out there.  Better yet, thank you for proving that my efforts at keyword labeling are still bringing the heat.  I can't wait to tag this post and see what it brings.  Blogger, you made my day...and I can't ever say that, should take the same joy from that comment that I did from the above.

I can go to work happy.  Again, not something I EVER say. It's the little things...

Wednesday, March 16, 2016

Taking a Guided Tour in Rome

We took a food tour in Rome and it was fantastic.  For a tour description and pictures, take a look over here -

Wednesday, March 9, 2016


Image Courtesy of Tri-State Surgical

I have been clumsy my entire life.  If there is a better word than clumsy for my complete lack of physical grace, I don't know what it is. It just fits.  It paints the right picture. It has a succinctness and brevity that I do not. It's just dead-on-balls accurate. It's also the reason that I spent last night in the Emergency Room.

But, before we share our most recent exploits, let's look at some past 'beauts that cannot be ignored:

- I have broken a toe the morning of at least 50% of every party I have ever thrown.  Usually in the course of cleaning the house, I will impale a toe on the metal opening of the vacuum hose, walk into an immovable object or fail to lift my foot high enough to get it over the edge of the tub.  The tub wall alone has probably broken my ring finger toe (is that even a thing?) five or six times. As a result, my toes look like a lumpy, wavy collection of peanuts in the shell from all the breaks and heals. Pretty. 

- I fell out of a moving car once. to leave it at that. 

- I have a trick ankle that gives out on the slightest unevenness in the pavement.  I once stepped on a pea sized pebble crossing Broadway and 46th street and my ankle just quit.  I face planted in the road and the contents of my purse skittered into oncoming traffic. Since it was NYC, people just walked over me like a human throw rug.  The same trick ankle downed me in front of Tompkins Square park, where an uneven section of sidewalk threw me down onto my knees, ripping my jeans and my knee and sending blood streaming down into my boot.  Luckily, clumsy was hanging out with boozy that night and I didn't feel the wound until the AM.  I slayed some Concrete Blond at Karaoke that night (Sing Sing, I am STILL sorry), in front of one drunk old lady and a Russian immigrant with an ABBA fetish.

But last night's gaffe was truly spectacular.  One of those couldn't repeat it if you tried tricks that you wish someone was recording.  It lays out like this...

I had just sat down in the living room after dinner with a couple of Milano cookies (mmmmm, Milano) and a glass of milk.  I was about to go in on those cookies when I shifted in my seat and managed to spill milk down the front of my shirt.  I got up to head toward the kitchen for some paper towels and my destructed jeans (the kind with the pre-ripped slashes and strings in them) caught on the corner of the end table and pulled it over.  The amber glass urn that was sitting on top of the table went sailing in the air, crashed, and a big hunk of it came down on top of my foot.  I thought it was the table hitting my foot, but when my sock filled with blood, I realized I'd been cut.  

Five hours in the Emergency Room and five stitches later, I left the hospital.  Not in terrible pain or even terrible embarrassment.  That's the funny thing about being clumsy. At some point you lose your shame. It's similar in child birth.  Initially you want a drape over your lap, but after your seventeenth internal exam amidst the sharp kick of labor pains, you'll let the janitor give you an exam if it will help get the baby out.  So, hobbled and humbled, I got my first set of emergency room stitches.  Let's just hope that I don't catch them on something when I go to the city this weekend.  That would be embarrassing.