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Experts say having a healthy fantasy life is good for you...
Ahhhh... I feel better already.
Just returned from my holiday travels involving much love, much fun and of course, much food. Will write more later, but for now, I've issued a warning to my favorite treadmill at the gym: "Prepare thyself, I'm a' comin!"
Last night I attended a smallish dinner party with a group of friends at which much wine was drunk, leading to the somewhat regrettable decision to attempt a round of 20th Anniversary Trivial Pursuit. Imagine a roomful of otherwise intelligent adults, struck dumb by multiple glassfuls of fermented grapes. That's entertainment!
The game took considerably longer to finish than it normally would, what with all the giggling. But the clincher was the way in which it was won, by me, for the girls' team (yes, intelligent adults sometimes still fall prey to the well-worn "girls vs. boys" approach to competition).
Indeed, it was I who single-handedly won the whole shebang for the girls with one simple answer: "Hank, the Angry Drunken Dwarf." I haven't listened to a certain radio show since leaving New York and yet, somehow, the mind never forgets the really important stuff. Thank you, Howard Stern, for helping us girls kick ass.
I just noticed that the toilet-seat covers in the restrooms here at my office are called "Discreet Seat." It kind of made me sad.
Meanwhile, Melody strives to defend her title as Feline Queen of All Things Ladylike:
Yo, pass the Courvoisier...
Why do department stores have specific sections for "outerwear?" I mean, isn't all clothing pretty much outerwear?
I'd hate to think what might constitute "innerwear." Ick.
Lots more to write about today, but as usual, work gets in the way (hey, wasn't that a Gloria Estefan song circa 1988?).
Meanwhile, for your endless amusement, I present 61 Things to Do With an AOL CD.
* That's breast-reduction surgery speak; it stands for "over the rainbow" (meaning post-surgery, lighter-chested, newly perky, etc.)
It's hard to believe two months has passed since I traded my enormous bosom in for more manageable breastlets. I'm thrilled I finally did it and I've had no problems. Aside from some lingering soreness, I feel great and happily gazonga-free.
I'm continuing to adjust to my new proportions. As my chiropractor recently reminded me, it's not just the breasts that are healing, but the entire upper body. My back, neck and shoulders are all getting used to having considerably less strain on them. It's like they get a permanent vacation; I should dock their pay now that their workload has lightened.
Each week, I take a photo of myself to help me monitor how my "girls" are healing. There's one thing I've noticed in each photo... these strange-looking ripples on either side of my body, just underneath my boobs.
"What the fuck is that?" I've often wondered while inspecting the twin oddities. I'm no surgeon; I figured it was just some scar tissue below the skin that would eventually heal and even out.
It wasn't until today, nearly 9 weeks after surgery, that I solved the mystery. With much relief and delight, I realized what those little ripples are.
They are my ribs.
Yes, dear friends, I can see my ribcage for the first time since the Reagan administration. Life is sweet.
Thanks to elkulak on Flickr.
This is how the entire weekend looked here on the northern California coast. The only way it could be gloomier would be if decaying corpses poured down from the sky along with the endless buckets of rain. Rain, I don't mind so much. But I'd appreciate first-hand knowledge that the sun hasn't vanished permanently from our solar system.
On a more joyful note, this weekend my grandparents celebrated their 60th wedding anniversary. 60 YEARS. A truly remarkable feat, if you allow your inner pessimist to consider the odds against a union lasting even half that long. I am proud they trudged on together, stumbling over the hurdles in their way (nearly splitting up at one point). Proof that it can be done!
Oh, and my friend Aviva sent me this gem, seen on a sign at a recent Bush protest:
"Would someone please just give him a blowjob so we can impeach him!"
You know, I'd volunteer to take one for the team, but gosh, I'd hate to have to forcibly extricate Karl Rove from his spot under GW's desk.
Michael Brown, the thoroughly and disgustingly incompetent FEMA director/lying sack of shit who resigned two weeks after Hurricane Katrina, when thousands had suffered and some even DIED due to his utter failure to do his job, is still receiving his six-figure salary.
According to CNN.com:
"Brown is still on the federal payroll at his $148,000 annual salary. Homeland Security Secretary Michael Chertoff, saying Brown's expertise was needed as he investigated what went wrong, agreed to a 30-day extension when Brown resigned. Chertoff renewed that extension in mid-October." (emphasis mine)
Yes, let's continue using taxpayers' money to pay an exorbitant salary to a man who, instead of doing his fucking job and working to secure and assist Gulf Coast residents in desperate need, found time to write the following to FEMA's deputy director of public affairs on the morning of the hurricane:
"Can I quit now? Can I come home?"
This from the man whose hand our deaf, dumb and painfully blind president shook as he praised the useless prick for "doing a heck of a job."
The man responsible for widespread suffering and death quietly resigns, keeping his six-figure salary. And President Clinton was impeached for lying about a blowjob. Unfuckingbelievable.
P.S. Happy Friday, everyone! Let's see what other vomitatious truths are uncovered while we sadly deceived Americans enjoy our crisp November weekend. Can't wait! ;)