on movies and molestation

Today's IM conversation with Jess...

Jess: Did you see Capturing the Friedmans?

Yours Truly: Yes

Jess: I watched it last night. I have to say, yes, I believe they were both pedophiles who did something, but those stories were beyond outlandish. What did you think?

YT: I think it's like the Michael Jackson case -- guilt + opportunism. Neither side is innocent

Jess: I found that one reporter's take on the mass hysteria angle really interesting. It made me think of The Crucible

YT: What really struck me was that it was supposed to be a documentary about a party clown and then the filmmaker realized the family history and focused on that instead

Jess: Oh, I didn't know that

YT: Yeah, that guy was like THE party clown of the NYC spoiled kids birthday party circuit

Jess: He looked like a pretty lame clown. No makeup, even

YT: I KNOW!!! He looked like Michael Musto but with bigger glasses

Jess: He was in serious denial about his family

YT: When I was watching it, I kept thinking of the original goal of the film. I didn't dwell on the whole pepdophilia thing. Instead, I got hung up on the question: "Who would in their right mind would want to do a documentary on clowns of all things?"

Jess: I thought it was really creepy how the son wanted to film everything. But at the same time, it was an interesting study into what happens to a family when something like that happens

YT: I need to see it again. I saw it when it first opened so some of the details are fuzzy

Jess: I didn't realize there was such a boom in false allegations in child sex abuse cases in the 80s. I would like to read a book about the phenomenon

YT: I blame it on all of those "very special episodes" of Diff'rent Strokes, Blossom, Growing Pains, etc. Once Dudley got felt up, that's when the dam burst and accusations started flying left and right. It can all be traced back to Dudley.

card sharks

I had dinner with the McDimples on Easter Sunday. The Adorable 4-Year-Old Niece was in attendance and as usual, she bent my ear about SpongeBob Squarepants, the latest feats she's accomplished in gymnastics class, preschool gossip and several other topics near and dear to her wee heart. She's recently discovered that Go Fish is a fun way to pass the time in between SpongeBob episodes and somersaults so I was recruited to play.

The Niece dealt the first hand and we each diligently removed our pairs. She allowed me to go first so I asked if she had any tropical fish. She followed up with a request for an octopus (it was an aquarium-themed deck, you see). We were able to satisfy each other's needs and were playing together quite nicely. Until she accused me of cheating.

She didn't point any fingers or make any heated accusations necessarily but, instead, she quietly put her cards down and then went and told her mother on me. I honestly didn't know I was shaking down a 4-year-old. I asked for a particular card and, upon her directive, I went fishing... and kept on fishing under the assumption that I had to keep taking cards until I got the one I originally requested. Isn't that how the game goes? Or am I confusing it with UNO? Either way, it was an honest mistake.

I'm not concerned that The Niece thinks I'm dishonest. No way. I'm alarmed that a) she's a tattle-tale and b) my method was clearly helping her cause and she didn't capitalize on it. I really need to roll up my sleeves and teach this girl how to swindle apparently.

In other news, the McDimples will soon have a new addition. The Recently Betrothed Sister is apparently VERY fertile. No doubt that upon hearing the good news, the very Catholic mother was doing the math to see exactly when this here conception took place. It was really kissing the wedding date, you see. So, by the end of August (if all goes well), I will have a new niece or nephew to corrupt, er, I mean spoil. Brace yourselves for baby minutiae, egregious fawning and other obnoxious auntie behavior.

sistuhs are doin' it for themselves

A friend sent me this and I haven't been able to stop laughing since. Here's the backstory:

An operations manager for Jack in the Box called his boss to tell him he was running late for a meeting. As he was leaving the voice mail message, he witnessed an accident and went on to provide "play by play" of the incident. This is the actual voice mail message. It was forwarded so many times within Jack in the Box, it crashed their voice mail server.

You'll need sound for this one. Enjoy!

thoughts on the ring two

In the second installment of our Deliberately Bad Film Festival, Sheila, Jess, Linus and I went to see The Ring Two. Before any of you film snobs remind us of the bad reviews this film received, let me just say, YEAH, WE KNOW. It's part of the fun. You see, we possess a need and a desire to see complete and utter crap. It's why we sat through Brown Bunny, for fuck's sake. And it's why we're going to see Red Eye when that bad boy comes out.

Sheila has an excellent recap of the film over on her blog. I agree with all of Sheila's observations and would like to tack on the following to the list. Warning, there may be a spoiler or two:

1) Naomi Watts had surprisingly easy access to ambulances, crime scenes and devastated witnesses. She just waltzed in and out of things with very little resistance. When caught interrogating the aforementioned devastated witness without permission, the worst that happened was that a cop said, "Hey you! Stop that!" Apparently badgering a devastated witness evokes the same penalty as, say, nosepicking.

2) Naomi Watts works for The Daily Astorian, a rather rinky-dink publication catering to the community in which she now lives. Despite having a small circulation and not much news to report, that paper was surprisingly well staffed. It employed more reporters than a New York tabloid. Totally bogus.

3) Poor Elizabeth Perkins. I really dig her and she's been reduced to playing a rather inept shrink who buys it in less than 15 minutes. Oh and they made the talented Gary Cole sell real estate!!! They spared him the shame of the gold blazer but saddled him with a troubling inability to handle balloons. He was decorating for an open house of the creepy well chick's childhood home, you see, and he couldn't quite wrangle the balloon bouquet that would attract and entice would-be buyers. This little bit of "character development" preceded a supposedly intense scene where Naomi wanders into the basement of the creepy well chick's house and realizes exactly what she's dealing with. At this point, the audience is supposed to be piecing together why the creepy well chick haunts and terrorizes people. But, for me, I couldn't quite deal with the fact that the man who brought us Capt. Jeffrey MacDonald, Mike Brady and Bill Lumbergh had such difficulty with helium and mylar.

4) It really bugged me that when wanting to snoop around the victim's house, it automatically occurred to Naomi Watts to look for a key in one of those fake rocks you find in a Lillian Vernon catalog. Like, she didn't even look under the mat first or check the top of the door frame. Instead, she went straight for the tchatke. "Obviously these people eschew the typical hiding places and have one of those plastic key-hiding doohickies and obviously it's in the flower bed... FOUND IT!"

That is all for now. Go read Sheila's and Jess's reviews.

on bloggers, mentioning unmentionables and an alarming use of clowns

Last night, The Lovely Jess, the Charming Sean T. Conrad and I met the Utterly Fabulous Katie of I Am Therefore I Date (or Katie Dating Is Hell as Jess and I have taken to calling her) and we attended the WYSIWYG Talent Show at P.S. 122.

Together, we watched a bevy of talented bloggers tell their best New York stories. My favorite performer of the evening (and the reason I attended) was the illustrious Joe.My.God. He's as brilliant in the flesh as he is on his blog. If you don't read him already, I urge you to start. His observational and storytelling skills are nothing short of remarkable. And he's like really buff, yo.

Meeting Katie Dating Is Hell for the first time was equally exciting. She too is the keeper of a kick-ass blog and held her own nicely with Jess, Sean Conrad and myself. Sean Conrad is no slouch either as he did not even bat an eye when discussion turned to bras, the taboo of sharing underwear and how to accurately determine one's pantyhose size.

The rest of the evening is a bit of a blur as I got uncharacteristically drunk on very few Brooklyn Lagers. I'm more embarrassed about being a lightweight than any potentially ass-y things I may have uttered in my altered state. I do remember rambling about the importance of labor unions and how scary I find that stiff-haired Ringling Bros. clown.

I'm not sure what sparked the latter tirade but I do recall Sean Conrad being oddly protective of BALCO or whatever the hell that clown's name is. Even more alarming, Jess sheepishly fessed up to preaching the word of God through "clown ministry" back in the day. After my shock subsided, I went through a series of mental visuals including clowns in full makeup distributing Communion, singing in the choir and passing around the collection plate. I found it simultaneously hilarious and horrifying.

Jess, now that I'm sober, I realize that I have a lot of questions about this. Like, did someone read from the Bible while wearing big floppy shoes and a red nose? How about wigs and wide-waisted pants? Was there horn honking during the service? Did you engage in religious-themed tumbling? I think we need to set aside some time to discuss this further. Or even better, you can post about it. And feel free to include pictures. This is perhaps the one and only time where I'll welcome clown photography. I thank thee in advance.

insect-driven insomnia

It's 6:39am EST and I haven't gone to sleep yet. I'm exhausted and have bags under my eyes the size of those really good satchels with lots of compartments in it for your cell phone and keys and junk. I'm tired but I can't sleep. Actually, I CAN sleep but I don't want to close my eyes because I've seen two bugs in my apartment in as many days and I'm SO completely skeeved right now that I've convinced myself that one is going to crawl in my mouth while I'm asleep. No, hear me out... the two that I saw were rather nervy and belligerent and VERY good climbers. They were fast and efficient and really determined to reach higher elevations. I was able to murder the both of them before they set any new personal bests but still, their presence has given me pause. Clearly they did not properly read my earlier memo. They have only themselves to blame.

The first bug reared its head on Friday evening. I grabbed one of my boots with the honkin' heels and snuck up on it while it was checking out my book collection. My first swing wasn't accurate and thus sent both me and the bug running frantically in different directions. We engaged in a wee round of hide and seek but he was on his back sucking in bug spray before long. I reveled in the victory momentarily and then did a thorough sweep of the apartment for any of the fallen's comrades.

There were none to be found...until a few hours ago.

I was sitting at my desk and noticed something out of the corner of my eye. I looked over and to my horror, there was a big ass bug CRAWLING ON MY COUCH. AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH! I'm not even kidding when I say I want to throw the couch away and get a new one. That is just foul. I haven't been able to sit on it since. At the very least, I'm going to go get some upholstery shampoo tomorrow and give the couch and my throw pillows a good scrubbing. Two of the throw pillows are already in the trash since they were used as missiles during my attack. They were ineffective but their close proximity to that dirty mofo means they are no longer welcome accents on my cute wee Pier One loveseat.

After the attempt on its life with throw pillows, the little fucker scurried under the couch. Luckily, I had the Raid nearby so I sealed off his exits by spraying a white foamy Raid line all around the perimeter. But I wasn't content to just trust that fumes would finish the job so I pulled the couch away from the wall ready for Round Two. Every now and then, I do sprout a pair and surprise myself with my courage and aggressive tactics.

I saw the bug on his back, flailing and gasping for air. Geneva Convention Schmeneva Convention. I took no pity and smothered it in several more inches of Raid until its twitching finally stopped. And then I sprayed it a few more times just in case.

But, unfortunately, this is where MY twitching began. I don't trust that the invasion is over and I'm quite concerned that I'll be eating bugs for breakfast. Maybe I'll pick up some mosquito netting while I'm out getting upholstery cleaner...

may the hoff rise up to meet you

Slainte,
Curly

Want some mo' Hoff?

:: Boobwatch, Indeed
:: Irish Cheddar... and a Little Something for the Germans
:: The Hoff Super Fantastic Activity Fun Book
:: Season's Greetings from Curly and The Hoff
:: Soap from a Dope
:: Wax On, Wax Hoff
:: A Wee Bit o' Schmaltz

we like her, we REALLY REALLY like her

A couple of weeks ago Jess and I attended the event of the year -- My Gay Boyfriend's Annual Oscar Bash. It's always quite the scene with good eats and plenty o' snark.

My one complaint this year was that a small group in attendance wanted complete silence so they could hang on every word of every acceptance speech. That didn't sit well with those of us rely on verbal critique as a method of coping with the endless prattling. No one likes a Chatty Cathy but we were in a party setting, not a mofo library. If you need peace and quiet, stay home and watch it in your jammies next year, ass hats.

So, anyway, a rather intoxicated Southern girl collapsed into a seat next to Jess and me. She was perhaps the worst offender of the No Talking During Acceptance Speeches Policy. The makers of said law frequently shushed her but she blatantly ignored them and continued to chime in with slurred, garbled and increasingly-loud and blissfully uninformed commentary. Naturally, Jess and I fell instantly in love with her and the three of us struck up a conversation.

At one point during our chat, Jess turned to me and said, "Oh my God, I love her!" I agreed and added, "We SO need to become best friends with her." Since I had a few beers in me, I had no qualms about telling the drunk Southern girl that we just conferred and decided that she was, in fact, THE cat's pajamas. She was tickled with this revelation and we discussed how fun it would be if we all hung out. She gave me her email address and then I excused myself to go to the bathroom or something while she and Jess continued the wee love fest.

Fast forward to today's IM session with Jess:

Yours Truly: D'oh! I keep forgetting to email that crazy drunk chick we met at the Oscar Party. What was her name again?

Jess: Stephanie?

YT: No, I don't think it was Stephanie.

YT: Shit, what was it? Carrie?

Jess: Yes!

YT: You know, I crack up every time I think of you telling me that after I walked away she said, "So what kind of fun do you two want to have?"

Jess: Ha ha ha!

YT: I can't believe she thought we wanted to tag-team her!

Jess: And she seemed totally into it

YT: OMG, can you imagine?

Jess: No, no I can't

YT: Not bad considering we weren't even trying. I mean, if we actually applied ourselves we could conceivably start our own pussy posse... if, like, you know, you were actually into the pussy and, um, I wasn't such a big one when it comes to such things.

gmail and special odor-eliminating sauce

I am lucky enough to be very good friends with a woman I used to date. We'll call her The Masseuse since I don't like to name names and since she's a very talented massage therapist. I know what you're thinking and to answer your question... yes, it's EXTREMELY NICE to date a massage therapist.

But I digress, even though the relationship thang didn't pan out between The Masseuse and myself, she and I remain the dearest of friends. We hang out quite often and fully support each other in our latest romantic endeavors with nary an ounce of jealousy or weirdness. Our friendship is deep and meaningful, not to mention really fun. We get a kick out of each other. Our emails and phone calls are often riddled with ridiculous pet names that usually involve a loving tweak of the other's fictitious stank. For instance, I call her Smelly while she has dubbed me, um, Stinkerbutt. It's all really charming and not as nauseating as it may seem here.

I'm serious.

Oh, shut up.

ANYhoo, while I'm at work, I use Gmail to check my personal email account. As you may or may not know, Google has whored out our email messages so that supposed relevant sponsor links appear to the right of the message body. It freaks me out slightly that my emails are being scanned but I do have to admit that the recent "relevant" links in emails from The Masseuse have been QUITE comical:

----------------------------------------------
Stop Skunk Odor
Safely eliminate skunk spray odor on pets and home furnishings.
www.thornell.com

Pet Urine Remover Recipe
Don't buy expensive cleaners! Make your own with this easy recipe
www.stinkypets.com

Skunk Odor Eliminator
Remove skunk odor from pets Powerful effective cleaner
www.doctordog.com

Eliminate Cat Urine Odors
Cats, Ferret, Dog Odors Vanish Secret Formulas, Tips & Advice
www.odorsecret.com

I'm Gonna Kill My Cat
We've Saved Millions of Cats w/ Urine Problems. Planet Urine Helps!
www.PlanetUrine.net

The Truth About Cat Urine
We Treat Cat Odor Everyday! Get Expert Advice & Advanced Products
www.odormedic.com
----------------------------------------------

As you can see, we seem to be caught in a skunk and feline-favored link loop right now. I'm going to have to start varying the nicknames and trying different combos to see what other smelly suggestions Google coughs up. It's become like a new time-wasting hobby of mine. Try it, Gmailers! It's fun.

she bops

Yours Truly: Thanks for sharing with us that you had a romp with your magic wand

Jess: It's been awhile since I mentioned My Boyfriend

YT: I'm far too Catholic to disclose such things. Not too Catholic to actually DO such things of course... I just won't tell anyone

YT: 'Cause masturbating is like farting. I like the rest of the world to think I don't do it

Jess: You should have Filomena cross-stitch that on a sampler

dude, where's my corolla?

You know how there are those quirky not-too-well-known holidays like National Shut-in Visitation Day (February 11) or Crackers Over the Keyboard Day (August 28)? Well I don't have confirmation but I'm thinking March 12 is National Ignore Spatial Relationships and Violate Personal Space and All Rules of Public Transportation Decorum Day. I mean, if there wasn't a coordinated attempt to upend several societal norms this past Saturday... well, then the coincidence is just freaky. I realize I already magnetically attract public transportation's finest specimens (see here and here, you ham & cheese on wry newbies) but this is getting out of hand.

Let's start with my morning experience at the Port Authority where I encountered a woman with fringed suede boots who employed an elaborate side-to-side pattern of walking. It was like she had eyes in the back of her head and an unquenchable thirst to aggravate because whenever someone tried to pass, she floated right in their path. I miraculously managed to penetrate her force field while she was pissing someone else off and dashed over to the row of ticket machines and feverishly made my purchase. With a few minutes to spare, I walked swiftly to the escalator leading up to the gate... only to be thwarted by Woman with Fringed Suede Boots who was blocking the entrance so she could primp and preen and "fix" her ratty-ass hair in the reflection of a glass-encased sign. I hated Woman with Fringed Suede Boots and secretly hoped the fringe would get caught in the teeth of the escalator. No such luck.

Fast forward to my return trip back from Jersey. I stood on the Path train platform with about five other people who were all scattered the appropriate distance from one another. Everyone was adhering to the unwritten rule that when there's enough room, you do not choose a spot less than 20 feet from your closest neighbor. You just don't.

So there I was abiding by the rule and leaning up against a wall when I noticed a woman approaching and making a beeline straight for me. I gave her the benefit of the doubt that she'd change course and walk past me at a socially acceptable distance. Nope. Instead, she opted to stop dead in her tracks and stand barely within arm's length of me even though there was enough room to do pirouettes and backflips on the platform if she so desired. I briefly considered walking to edge of the platform in the hopes that she'd follow me and then maybe fall on the tracks or whatever. Again, no such luck.

The train ride itself was uneventful except for the girl on her cell phone engaged in a riveting discussion about the cost of laundering her clothes. At one point, the door connecting our car with the next slid open and got stuck in that position. Instead of talk of Wisk and Snuggle fabric softener sheets, the car was filled with the metallic racket of the train as it barreled along the tracks. The noise is deafening and I usually close the door when it happens but in this case it mercifully drowned out the discussion of spin cycles and hampers. Believe it or not, the door slid closed again just as the girl lost reception near Journal Square. I personally think it was an act of God.

Shortly after, we pulled into the World Trade Center station and I made my way up the stairs to board a really long escalator. Now, regardless of the length, the proper procedure for riding an escalator is keep right, pass left. It's not wise nor is it acceptable to walk halfway up the left side of the escalator with a rolling suitcase in tow and then come to a complete stop to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with the person on your right. Of course some chick did on Saturday and naturally, I was the person on the right.

What the hell is wrong with people? I wanted to say, "Keep moving, toots!" but well, I would never actually do such a thing but I DID vehemently curse her out in my head for the duration of the ride.

I can't blame the attention on the allure of my toes this time around because I was wearing shoes. None of my little piggies were visible, you see. So perhaps it's the yummy-smelling pomade and Body Shop White Musk Oil combo I rock that casts such an intoxicating spell on my fellow straphangers in the cold-weather months.

I SO need to get a car.

simply stated...

Dear Winter of '04/'05,

FUCK OFF.

Warm regards,
Curly McDimple

she's crafty

My dear friend Filomena has started her very own blog and I couldn't be prouder. Filo owns a kick-ass quilt shop and has decided to keep her customers informed of shop happenings and hopefully lure new ones through this fine medium.

For quilt lovers unable to visit her shop in person, she offers a forum to discuss their hobby as well as nifty haiku and crafty tips. With any luck, Filo will foster an online community as warm and inviting as the one in her place of business. It's become the IT spot in Lyndhurst, New Jersey, you see...

Please go check out her blog and then dart on over to her site and buy some shit. If you're not into the quilt thang, please pass along the link. Filomena makes pretty pretty things, I assure you. If that doesn't clinch it for you, she also has a steady supply of Blow Pops and Smarties on hand. Now make haste!

I thank you in advance.

Air kisses,
Curly

hootie & the filet o' blowfish

Um, do my eyes deceive me or did I just see that dude from Hootie & The Blowfish on TV wearing a purple cowboy outfit while plucking a gee-TAR and singing about a bacon cheeseburger?

Now I'm no fan of that band. In fact, I actively plotted their demise back in their miserable heyday. Regardless, I kinda feel bad for the Hootie dude. The man's been reduced to singing a jingle about charred processed "beef," for fuck's sake. And unlike, say, Wilford Brimley, he doesn't even get to announce who he is and inform us how much he likes and relies on the product in question. Instead, he just anonymously and obediently sings like the good Burger King bitch that he is.

My dreams of his miserable failure have come to fruition and honestly, it doesn't feel nearly as good as I once thought it would. Who woulda thunk I'd grow up to be so compassionate?

UPDATE: I found this in a recent issue of Entertainment Weekly. Not surprisingly, the Hootie Dude was unavailable for comment...

Hootie's Latest Is...A Burger Joint?
Darius Rucker stars in a new commercial hawking a new chicken sandwich by Leah Greenblatt

Hey, haven't we met that folksinging, poultry-craving cowboy before? Isn't that. . .Hootie? Indeed. Leaving behind his Blowfish, Darius Rucker is taking a solo turn in the new Burger King campaign, crooning an ode to the TenderCrisp Bacon Cheddar Ranch sandwich. We're kind of getting a kick out of it, so we called BK headquarters to find out more. According to a spokesperson, not only is it Hootie under that ten-gallon hat, but the song he's strumming is a remake of the bluegrass classic ''Big Rock Candy Mountain'' (from O Brother, Where Art Thou?). The clip was directed by lensman/videographer David LaChapelle, whose surreal vision for Gwen Stefani's ''Rich Girl'' is in heavy rotation on MTV. So will Rucker be making more paeans to the Beef Monarch? The singer, say his reps, is in the studio and unavailable to comment. Have it your way, Hootie. Have it your way.

my new pen pal

I have two Instant Messenger accounts -- one for home and one for work. Thus far, the Dating Prospect and I have blabbed strictly over the work account. Over the weekend I updated the Buddy List at home and added her name. I should mention that I totally guessed what her screenname was since I was too lazy to log off/log in to the work account to verify it. But I thought I remembered it and proceeded to add it to my group of online pals.

Later in the day, that screenname appeared online so I pinged it and chatted with the person on the other end. I opened the conversation with a playful, "Guess who?" Without hesitation, I received a reply: "Emmy Rossum." I racked my brain to see if we had an inside joke going about the star of The Phantom of the Opera but nothing rang a bell. At a loss, I offered a weak, "Ha ha! How did you know?"

I was attempting to keep it light and flirty but the subsequent responses seemed hesitant and were dry as a bone. I decided that I was bothering her and dejectedly said, "Well, I just wanted to pop in and say hey... so hey." I was SO ready to log off and pout.

Then came the response: "Who is this?!" My heart broke a little. My two screennames are pretty similar in format so I immediately became concerned that she didn't recognize my last name. I didn't use all caps or italics to convey my emotions but my "It's Curly!" response had a definite tone of exasperation to it.

Her reply: "Oh hi"

No exclamation point. No punctuation at all. My temperature started to rise. I decided to try once more with the intention of packing it in if the uncharacteristic aloofness continued.

Yours Truly: Are you working?

Her: No, I'm helping out with the show

[My Internal Dialogue (MID): What the fuck? She didn't tell me she was working on a show. And why did she say that like I'm supposed to know? Maybe it has something do with work. Hmmm... she works in PR so maybe it's a client.]

Yours Truly: What show?

Her: Into the Woods

[MID: Um, hello?!?! We talked about theater on our first date as well as my love of Stephen Sondheim. Why didn't she mention she was doing one of my favorite musicals ever? She clearly doesn't listen to a word I say!]

Yours Truly: Interesting. Where is that being performed?

Her: Suffern

[MID: Huh? I don't get it. Why is she working on an amateur theater production upstate? What the h--?]

Yours Truly: Um, this isn't [Dating Prospect's name], is it?

Yup, I spent a good 10-15 minutes chatting with a suburban high schooler named Jordan while simultaneously prepping for a big ol' kiss-off. I'm REALLY scary when I'm exhausted.

next week we teach her how to funnel...

This past Saturday was the youngest McDimple's annual raucous bash to coincide with her town's St. Patrick's Day parade. The oldest McDimple, with the husband and the Adorable 4-Year-Old Niece in tow, attended the parade and an after party right around the corner from the youngest sister's building. Afterwards, they paid a wee visit...

Things were in full swing by the time they arrived. The youngest sister was, shall we say, enjoying herself. In other words, she was totally lit. When sober, she is very practical, responsible and wise beyond her years. She is slightly less so when inebriated. The girl is prone to removing her shoes and commandeering microphones at bars. It's very entertaining for us but not so much for her when she can't find her shoes and is reminded of her off-key screeching of "Just Like Heaven" in front of a jam-packed bar the night before.

Anyhoo, after several hours of drinking, the younger sister was coaxed into performing a keg stand. Yes, a keg stand. All 5 feet 11 inches of her. I'm quite certain she hasn't done one of these since college so the oldest sister really had no indication that a gymnastic routine was on the agenda when she brought her impressionable daughter along.

Upon seeing the youngest's antics, she quickly scanned the room for the niece in an effort to shield her innocent eyes from the proceedings. Too late. The niece saw the whole thing and promptly began practicing headstands while announcing, "I want to go next!"

Oops.

My sister was a little concerned about sending the niece to school today since she has a tendency to broadcast family matters to her teachers, classmates and anyone else who will listen. If the Department of Youth and Family Services shows up at my sister's door and hauls her off in handcuffs, we'll know she blabbed.

watch me make this peanut butter cap'n crunch disappear

You can stop speed-dialing the suicide prevention hotlines and writing maudlin poetry bemoaning my absence 'cause I'm baaaaaaaaaAAAAAAck, ladies and germs. Miss me?

I launched a site yesterday so now I have some free time once again. How did I celebrate post-launch? I sat on my couch with a Yuengling while watching Real Time with Bill Maher and eating Peanut Butter Cap'n Crunch right out of the box. Don't ever say I don't know how to have a good time.

As I was snarfing, a singular peanut-buttery ball went astray. I felt around my sides, patted down my front, took a peek down my shirt but alas, no errant cereal to be found. I thought maybe I had just imagined it during my exhausted-yet-euphoric binge. Shortly after, I got ready for bed and at long last, slept off the relaunch.

It was a restful slumber mostly devoid of dreams... save for one brief one where I walked into an office of some sort to discover that wee fella from The Station Agent being interviewed for a job. Anyone want to take a stab at analyzing that? Oh and during the week, there was a dream about THE EX. Except, she looked like Salma Hayek and during our discussion, she threw her arms around my neck and straddled me while whispering incoherently in my ear. Umm... thoughts?

So I just climbed out of bed a wee while ago and made my way into the can for my first-of-the day tinkle. I dropped my drawstring drawers and what fell out but the missing Peanut Butter Cap'n Crunch -- totally intact. It was like a magic trick unfolded right there in my bathroom. I reached behind my ear to see if there was a quarter or something, but alas, no dice.