weekend update (how's that for a snazzy title?)

Guess who had a hot date on Friday night? And guess who had to dab a bit of the concealer on her neck on Saturday morning before boarding a NJ Transit bus to celebrate her godchild's birthday as well as the 40th wedding anniversary of her parents?

While I realize that Britney Spears is perhaps a more suitable response to the second question, the correct answer is me, sillies!

Yup, I had a wonderful evening out with a beautiful woman we'll call Glamour Puss... on account of she's all hot and gorgeous and fashionable and stuff. It was an excellent first date -- good food, great conversation capped off with a rather spirited round of snogging. It was good times. I look forward to Round Two.

On Saturday, I went to my sister's house to hitch a ride to a birthday party down near the Jersey Shore. That night, I slept on the trundle bed in my 7-year-old niece's room... on pink gingham sheets, covered by a comforter with ponies and princesses on it. 'Twas a far cry from the prior evening's activities and surroundings, to say the least.

In other news, my 2-year-old nephew has become quite talkative. He's been chattering away for months but the difference is now we can actually understand what the boy is saying.

He's starting to identify his family and friends by name. Before when he'd see me, he'd shake his head back and forth as an acknowledgement of what I'd do with my curls for his enjoyment. But now that he's found his words, I've earned an actual name instead of just alarming head banging.

Last week he addressed me as "Aunt Money" over the phone. His sense of irony is already well-honed for a toddler.

Now, I don't know if this can be considered a step up or down, but when asked to identify me in person yesterday, the nephew responded as such: "Butt."

Not sure if that's a remark about the size of my ass or how sweet he thinks it is. Either way, it's a disturbing development.

pot pourri

So, remember back a month or two ago when I mentioned a possible poaching? Well, it's official -- I've been been poached. Um, to clarify, it's not in the salmon or eggs sense. No no. See, I've decided to let the river run. I poured myself myself cup of ambition and gave a big ol' "fuck you" to putting cover sheets on the TPS reports.

In other words, I quit my job.

A former manager called me up a little over a month ago with a business proposition. Long story short, I'm officially rescued from days of cubicle-dwelling in close proximity to cheese-cutting consultants. Bless her.

So yes, I've gots me a new job (starting Monday). It's in the same building so my commute, benefits and the rest of that junk stay the same. That whole different elevator bank thingy will be quite a challenge next week but other than that, most of my creature comforts will remain intact and for that, I'm grateful.

This past Tuesday was my last day at my previous job. Because I've been sickly the past month, I haven't been all that fond of the drink and as a result, my tolerance has taken a serious hit. I had a few Blue Moons the other night and well, I was lit. Just ask The Lovely Jess since she was the victim, er, I mean, recipient of a bit of drunken emailing. Here's an excerpt from the email I sent:

"no t drinkin gfor two weeks made me a lightweighsst. ha ha ha ha. i'm hammmerrdd."

I'm scary -- and overly fond of consonants -- when I'm drunk.

Changing gearrrrrrrs slightly... Here's a scan of a postcard the parents just sent me from Scotland:

Click to Enlarge

There's nothing noteworthy about it other than I think it's funny that my parents don't bother to send me scenic postcards. I used to go to Scotland all the time as a kid so I know from heather, thistle and Shetland cows. I appreciate the landscape, mind you, but been there, done that. I dig it that they appeal to my sense of humor instead. Need further proof? Here's the card they sent me last year:

Ha ha ha. I love my parents.

In other news, the list of attendees for the Weenie Roast is growing! Come out and join us. If you're feeling sheepish about meeting a bunch of strangers, just send me an email and I'll talk you into it. I'm very persuasive. All -- queer and otherwise -- are welcome. See you on the 15th!

catching up

I am pleased to report that, save for the occasional and very tame, singular cough here and there, the evil funk is finally gone from my body. I'm no longer blowing my nose like it's my job, which, despite being easy work, isn't all that pleasant nor satisfying.

Okay, enough talk about gross bodily fluids. Let's get caught up on some other happenings, shall we?

On Friday, I met up with the ever-delightful Helon the Felon and we went to see Hot Fuzz. Dear God, I loved this movie. Never was the term "bolognese" used so successfully for comedic effect, if you ask moi. Go see it. You won't be disappointed. If you are disappointed... Pbbbbbbbblt! Jog on!

Saturday was pretty much a washout. My preliminary plans to go to Fire Island for the day were scrapped so I took advantage of the free time to get caught up on personal shit. And by getting caught up with personal shit, I mean "watching episodes of The Daily Show while eating Peanut Butter Cap'n Crunch right out of the box." I was very successful in this venture, FYI.

I had planned to do household chores, some writing and other responsible tasks but well, I'm a lazy procrastinator. By the time I got a spark of motivation, the fuse box in my apartment building decided to up and die leaving the entire building without power for about four hours.

Most people would wish that they were not home to witness such an inconvenience. Me? I was glad I was aware of the power outage so that I could promptly clean out my fridge once the power was restored. Yes, I know if you keep the door closed, the cold will stay inside the unit for several hours but I'm an overly fussy freak, particularly about dairy products, and I promptly tossed out every product in my possession that originated in cow's udder. Because, ew.

But then, it got me to thinking about all the times I possibly lost power when I wasn't home and I unknowingly ate cheese or yogurt that wasn't consistently refrigerated. I'm not going to lie to you... I gagged a little bit at the mere thought because, well, I'm a lunatic who clearly has nothing better to worry about.

When not dry heaving over perceived exposure to improperly refrigerated dairy, I managed to pass the time reading by flash- and candlelight and watching clips of The Colbert Report on my brand new cell phone.

I wanted to treat myself to one of them there fancy Treo jobs but after careful consideration (translation: having to buy groceries with change found in my couch), I decided to scale back my plans and go for a more affordable model.

Despite the money saved, this phone I ended up with is no slouch, I must say. I can record movies on it, take decent pictures, watch video clips, check my email, use Instant Messenger and access the web. It's all fancy and highfalutin and shit. It's also quite complicated looking. Whenever I use it, I feel like I'm about to uplink with a satellite feed from CTU or whatever.

And, finally, I wrapped up the weekend in NJ attending my niece's christening yesterday. The baby smelled like clove cigarettes after the ceremony because she was anointed with chrism oil. Those of us who enjoy the occasional clove passed the baby around and inhaled the aroma emanating from her oily head. I also amused myself by crafting the wispy strands of her hair into a fauxhawk. Screw hair gel! Holy oil makes for a very effective and durable spiking agent. Pass it on.

Note: American Idol finishes up this week so I promise I'll be spending less time over on my other blog and more time here. And if for some reason I don't make good on this promise, I at least vow to feel very, very guilty about it. Isn't that nice of me?

Now if you'll excuse me, The Jesus and Mary Chain is now on David Letterman and I need to go squeal like a teenage girl.

anatomy, explained

Despite my sickly ways, I managed to hoof it across the Hudson River to visit my family for Mother's Day. Fear not as I made sure to steer clear of the new baby so as not to infect her with my funk.

The So-Fucking-Cute-I-Could-Just-Smush-His-Head-One-Year-Old Nephew has a cough as bad as mine so he and I were quarantined together. I sat him on my lap and talked to him... and he pulled my hair. I tried reading him a book... and he tore the pages. It was so sweet. The fact that he's a destructive beast only endears him more to me.

He had a dirty diaper at one point and well, that was not at all endearing and I wanted nothing to do with it. I summoned his mother and she took him aside to change him. Despite the courteous distance, the changing was still within the line of sight of those of us congregated in the family room, particularly the nosy, prying eyes of The Adorable Seven-Year-Old Niece.

She's seen her cousin get changed several times and by now, she's begun to notice a pattern, in particular, his hand movements and where they tend to... uh... roam when he's diaper-less.

Today, she took her observation a step further and emphatically stated a cause-and-effect theory she had been working out in recent months:

"He's always picking at THAT THING so that's why it's so squishy."

I don't know that I completely understand her logic but, regardless, it's still brilliant.

So let that be a lesson to you boys... If your THING is squishy, we'll all know you've been picking at it.

where i've been...

I realize I've been neglecting my blog lately. I don't mean to, really, but my head's in the clouds a bit this week. I think my reasons are fairly legit though. I have been:

1) Fawning over this wee 'un

2) Working my tail off at work on a couple of projects that I don't hate

3) Watching my figure, somewhat successfully I might add

4) Blogging on American Midol like the wind (although not so much this week. My blogging effort was less wind-like and more of a stale, lifeless breeze.)

5) Inserting the term "panda semen" into famous movie quotes and exchanging them over IM with my good friend, The Ubik. He won with "Nobody puts panda semen in the corner." Although, I was quite proud of my Witness quote: "Lady, if you don't get that panda semen out of my face, I'm going to rip off your brassiere and strangle you with it."

Um, I guess you had to be there...

My blog sucks lately but my spring, so far, decidedly does not. I promise to get back into the swing of things soon. In the meantime, here's a holiday-themed rerun for you Good Friday-observing Catholics in the house... All two of you.

Happy Easter!

it's a girl!

This just in: The Adorable Six-Year-Old Niece now has a younger sister and I now have one more excuse to be an obnoxious aunt. I can't wait to corrupt, er, I mean responsibly guide and nurture my new niece.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to buy her some of those onesies and baby tees emblazoned with Brooklyn references and cheeky sayings. I hope I can find something with skulls on it.

Update: Here she is...

I officially meet her on Saturday. It's bizarre to have a new niece and not "know" her yet. When the six-year-old niece was born, I was still living at home. When I got the call at work, I got on the earliest train possible and went right to the hospital. When my one-year-old nephew was born to my second oldest sister, her labor was induced so I had enough of a heads up to get on a NJ Transit bus and get to the maternity ward to pay a visit. This time, however, the baby arrived well over a week early and took everyone by surprise. I found out via a rather rambling voice mail left by my father at 7:00am...

"Uh yes, hello? Currrrrrrrrly? [Ed note: He's Scottish and as such, rolls his "Rs".] Just calling to tell you that [your sister] had anotherrrrrrr... girrrrrrrl. [Ed note: Not sure why he delayed saying "girl." He blew any chance at building suspense when he said "another" but I do appreciate the attempt.] She is 7 pounds... something ounces and, um, I don't know how long she is. [Ed note: Not exactly a wealth of information, that father of mine.] So, congrrrrrrrrrrrrrrratulations, auntie. Okay, rrrrrright, bye now. Bye bye."

My father has a deep, gruff voice and stands at a rather imposing 6'3" with a muscular build yet his patented phone sign-off has got to be the wussiest on record. He also turns into a complete puddle around his grandkids. And I love him for it.

Thanks for all the well wishes, everyone. Thank you on behalf of all of the McDimples.

Love,
Curly

under britney's influence

This past Saturday night, my family convened for dinner to celebrate Mama McDimple's 70th birthday. The Adorable Six-Year-Old Niece arrived at the restaurant shortly after I did and immediately claimed the empty seat to my right. We had no sooner exchanged hugs and kisses before she lowered her voice to a hoarse whisper and breathed, "I have a secret to tell you."

"You do? What is it?" I asked.

Her big green eyes widened and her lips tightened forming a super serious expression on her cute wee face. She then cupped one hand over mouth and talk-whispered, "I forgot to put on my underpants... Don't tell my Mommy."

Ah, the perils of letting children dress themselves.

Oh, and apparently The Equally Adorable One-Year-Old Nephew was caught waddling around my parents' family room the other day holding two bottles of (unopened) booze he snuck from their bar.

Yup. There's absolutely NO question these children are related to me.

success!

I just received word from my sister that Operation Budgie Switch went off without a hitch. The Adorable 6-Year-Old Niece thinks her parakeet, Kipper, went to the spa for a wing clip and grooming, which adequately explains his slightly different coloring.

Lest you think my niece is not the sharpest tool in the shed, I have to say, don't talk shit about my niece, first of all, and two, my sister and I picked a really good substitute. We went to four different pet stores before we found a reasonable facsimile. The birds don't look exactly alike but it's close enough. We also picked up a buddy for Kipper II to keep the birds happy... and further distract the niece from discovering any major differences between the replacement and its late predecessor.

I know some of you don't agree with the switcheroo but the niece is extremely sensitive. She was also on vacation when Kipper kicked the bucket so no doubt she would have been inconsolable since she wasn't there to say goodbye to her pet. She also has a very looooooooooong memory. Hell, she's still on my case about the time I took her into the ocean when she was about two years old and her Gilligan hat was swept out to sea courtesy of a cheeky wave... and my poor reflexes, apparently.

However, she informed me on the telephone this morning that she got a "biiiiiiiig sombrero" in Mexico so I dare say the missing hat issue is now resolved as well. It's like killing two birds with... er, perhaps that's not the best choice of phrase...

Fingers crossed that these birds stay healthy and refrain from encouraging any more tired sitcom plot lines in my life.

r.i.p. kipper

The Adorable Six-Year-Old Niece is currently out of town enjoying a vacation in Mexico with her cousins. My sister (her mother) couldn't join them because she's far too pregnant to travel (I'm going to be an aunt again in early April! Woo hoo!)

My sister was enjoying some quiet time and free reign in the house until this morning when tragedy struck. I was just informed that Kipper, my niece's beloved parakeet, was found motionless on the bottom of his cage this morning.

Sadly, Kipper is no more. Luckily the niece was not around to see the corpse and for all she knows, he's still alive and kicking. As luck would have it, I'm heading out to New Jersey tonight to attend a Devils game with my father so I have been enlisted to aid and abet my sister in finding a replacement bird in the hopes of tricking my niece and preventing her from certain heartbreak.

Why does it feel like my life has suddenly become an episode of Full House?

looking back

Happy New Year... almost! I'm going to close out 2006 the same way I did last year with a month-by-month recap of posts.

Suffer.

JANUARY

Re: The Muppets
Here began what turned out to be a 13-part series. It chronicles first love and my process of coming out. Independently, those can both be brutal experiences. When you combine the two, it's completely overwhelming. I almost didn't survive it but hot damn, I made it through. Go me.

I haven't really gone back and read this all the way through after posting it. Occasionally, I'll catch a glimpse of paragraph or passage and honestly, I don't even remember writing it. It just sort of flowed out in a way that I can't explain.

I was scared to poke around in old memories and really hesitant to bare my soul like that to the world but something inside just told me to go for it. And I'm so glad I did. I feel like I finally put that part of my life to rest.

An added bonus to sharing my story was the response I got from people all over the world -- gay, straight, confused, male, female, transgendered, Christian, Jewish, Muslim and everyone in between. Some were too shy to comment and instead, sent highly personal emails to me sharing bits of their own lives and thanking me for sharing mine. It struck a chord I never could have anticipated and inspired a few people to write their own stories. I can't even properly articulate how much that means to me.

Thanks again to everyone who read the story and cheered me on as I labored through the tough parts.

Okay, enough mush. Next!

FEBRUARY

Cottonmouth Au Jus
Here is yet another of the many gems uttered by my beloved niece.

An Open Letter to the Building Facilities Person(s) in Charge of Ordering Paper Goods for the Bathroom at My Job
The custodial staff at my office building feels the business end of a complaint letter composed by yours truly.

Judge Not
Who knew Peter Cetera could set off such a firestorm of controversy?! (Psst! Read the comments on that post.)

MARCH

Erin-Go-A-Cup Bragh
A retelling of the acquisition of my first bra and an unfortunate nickname.

Courtney & Tina: A Theory
Were Kurt's widow and Jennifer Keaton one and the same?

APRIL

The Terrible Twos
My blog became toddler this past year. In case you're wondering, the whole potty training thing is still a work in progress. Don't rush me!

A Not-So-Good Friday
Another tale of Catholic hi jinx.

MAY

An Announcement
Fans of off-key oversinging everywhere rejoiced at the birth of American Midol, the smart-assed brainchild of Mejack, The Lovely Jess and myself. The new season starts soon so stay tuned for more shameless plugs!

In the Criminal Justice System
A footnote (pun totally intended) to the tale of my tortured tootsies.

On Why the Newspaper Guy Must Think I'm a Complete Asshole
This one got a Gawker link, bitches!

JUNE

What's Grosser Than Gross?
Ham & Cheese on Wry goes interactive! Here are the results of a poll on the most disgusting television commercials currently on the air. Caution: the term "nail bed" is used.

Duh, Baryshnikov
Mejack and I discuss plot holes in the Soviet-era film White Nights. You know, typical conversation...

My Way Gay Tale of Even Gayer Gayness
Here's the piece I read at my first-ever public appearance as Curly McDimple. Not only did my story garner a few laughs, I also didn't shit my pants. Success!

JULY

They Feel the Need, The Need for Speed[os]
Photos of Brighton Beach's finest on parade.

He Will 'Rize' Again
The Lovely Jess and I make suggestions to improve the Catholic Mass. Oddly enough, the Church didn't heed our advice. Fools.

Oh man, I'm going to have to say a good Act of Contrition for that.

AUGUST

Rule Of Thumb... And Pinky, Middle, Index & Ring
The results of a manicure given by my six-year-old niece.

Are You There God? It's Me, Curly
An appeal to a higher authority for my menstrual cycle to fuck off.

SEPTEMBER

Rod 'The Bod' and God Side-by-Side on the R Train
Screw The Naked Cowboy. This woman has the hottest act in all of NYC.

My 'Porchret'
The niece takes up portrait drawing as a hobby. Behold the birth of an artiste!

OCTOBER

Toreador, Don't Spit on the Floor
I got all fancy and went to my first opera with The Hot Russian. And it totally didn't suck and stuff.

On Altruism and Inadvertent Anti-Piracy Measures
Another Gawker link! They just love to showcase when I make an ass out of myself.

NOVEMBER

Our Version of Rate-a-Record
The Lovely Jess and I go toe-to-toe on the appeal of Faith No More and the Dave Matthews Band. Caution: The term "mushy peas" is mentioned.

DECEMBER

Acting? Thank You!
Save your pennies for some Broadway tickets and set your TiVos to record the next Tony Awards. 2006 is the year I became an actor!

They Do Know... They Just Don't Care
Band Aid was a noble effort. Really it was but dear God, those lyrics! Here I take Sir Bob down a notch... or twelve.

christmas wrap[-up]

I'm finally back from Jersey and savoring the last few days of my vacation here at home in beautiful Downtown Brooklyn. Here's hoping your Christmas (if applicable) was a good one.

As usual, my father picked me up at the ass crack of dawn on Christmas Eve. Each year, he drives in from NJ so that I don't have to schlep a bunch of bags on the Path train. While I appreciate the door-to-door chauffeur service, I really could do without the early wake-up call. It's about a 45-minute drive but judging by father's ridiculously early start time, you'd think he was driving out to Michigan to pick me up. But beggars can't be choosers, so I deal. Plus, my father was bringing me a special delivery so I woke up good and early to pave the way for the newest addition to my Tiny Wee Studio -- Nintendo. Old school Nintendo. None of that Wii or DS business.

I found the game in the basement when I was home for Thanksgiving and bagged it up but it was too heavy to carry so my father offered to bring it when he picked me up on Christmas Eve. And sure enough, he remembered. It was a quick exchange in front of my building. With the car illegally parked, he handed me the shopping bag with all the paddles, games and shit like that and I gave him my overnight bag. I ran back inside and reverently placed the bag o' Nintendo next to my television and then quickly gathered up the rest of my stuff and locked up the Tiny Wee Studio for my extended leave.

When I got home the other night, I barely had my coat off before I was hooking that shit up. It's amazing how I remember all the tricks and commands in that game. Actually, I covered this topic in the early days of my blog. I said, and I quote, "Ask me what I ate for dinner last night and I'm stumped. Hand me a Nintendo control and I can unearth every hidden coin bank and secret passageway in each level of Super Mario Bros."

And it's true! I gobbled up mushrooms, those fire power flower things and the invincibility stars without even having to think twice. I remembered how to stomp on the turtles and make the shell slide along to knock all the other bad guys out of the way. Mind you, I've had a Netflix movie sitting on my table waiting to be mailed for days because I keep forgetting to take it with me, yet, somehow, I can remember how to make Mario and Luigi capture the flag like it's second nature. Scary.

Heated Nintendo tournaments in the Tiny Wee Studio are most likely in store. I've already lined up The Lovely Jess, her Young Man, The Hot Russian and The Adorable Meg. I expect a lot of Paperboy- and Ice Hockey-related trash talk, in particular.

While at home, I got to spend a lot of time with the niece and nephew. On Christmas Day, I sat the one-year-old nephew on my lap and together we watched Christmas Eve on Sesame Street. He's usually fidgety and quite noisy but that boy sat still for a solid hour watching it. I was even able to put a red and white-striped stocking cap on his head without a fight. He had blocked all previous attempts, you see.

I love that he loved the show because really, I cannot let a Christmas go by without viewing it. It just doesn't feel right. If you haven't seen it, you're missing out. It was made in the 70s so a lot of the faces will no doubt be familiar to you -- Mr. Hooper, Bob, Linda the deaf chick, Gordon, Susan, Maria, David (I had a BIG crush on him back in the day). Actually, Sheila discussed the beloved special on her blog last year. The O'Malleys are as rabid about the program as the McDimples are. There's a reason we're friends.

Oh, and I also found out that the nephew also will stand at attention (and bust the occasional dance move) when the following movies are on: The Sound of Music and Annie. Hmmm...

Later in the day, my niece wanted to watch the movie I bought her for Christmas: Time Bandits. Each year, I try to pad her DVD library with favorites of mine. Last year she was treated to The Neverending Story, The Muppet Movie, The Great Muppet Caper and The Muppets Take Manhattan. This was the year she was exposed to her first Terry Gilliam movie. Since the plot involves time travel, I tried explaining some of the historical references to her. Turns out, it was unnecessary. The niece raised a dismissive hand and said, "I know who Napoleon is." Okay, then. Punk.

And of course, no Christmas at the McDimples would be complete unless these 10 things occur. Actually, though, I'm happy to report that number one on the list was not fulfilled... yet. After all, there's still New Year's Eve to contend with.

Hope you all had a merry one!

merry christmas!

Before I head off to the swamps of Jersey for some holiday cheer, here's a wee throwback from the early 80s I found on YouTube (mmm... YouTube): Billy Squier and the MTV staff singing "Christmas Is the Time to Say I Love You."

I hope you enjoy it as much as I do. It's one of my favorite holiday tunes, in fact. Pay particular attention to the hair in this video. Mark Goodman and Billy Squier are both sporting coifs that would mirror mine if I didn't have a fabulous stylist (thank you, Randy!) and a shitload of Bumble and Bumble Curl Conscious (thank you, The Hot Russian!) and Short Cuts Flip-Out (thanks, Canadians!) to keep my ringlets in line.

Oh and get a load of Martha Quinn's bangs. She looks like my younger sister did when she got a hold of a pair of scissors and cut her own hair. Tres horrific.

Speaking of all things that are horrendous, Nina Blackwood's hairdo really pissed off my mother, as I recall. I believe she said that it looked like "rats chewed at it." Upon further review, I think my mother is right. See for yourself...

Have a merry one!

Love,
Curly

one last helping of leftovers

Oops, I forgot to include this in my Thanksgiving recap...

My Mom: Wow, that's some name Heidi Klum gave her baby.

Yours Truly: I know. It's a mouthful. Maybe it's traditional or something because her husband is from--

My Mom: Seal.

Yours Truly: Huh?

My Mom: Her husband's name is Seal.

Yours Truly: Right... Really? You know who Seal is?

My Mom: I'm not as out of it as you think I am, you know!

Yours Truly: Fair enough.

My Mom: Now what do you think of that Michael Richards character? And can you believe the state of that Britney Spears? Did you see the outfit she was parading around in with that other twit, Paris Hilton?

You know, some people take to rocking chairs and macrame in their retirement. My mother, on the other hand, opts instead for some Rush & Malloy. Hot.

I can't wait to see which celebrities she mercilessly skewers next. If Thanksgiving dinner was any indication, she'll be serving up bitch slaps along with the Christmas ham. I'll keep you posted.

leftovers

I'm sort of lacking in blog inspiration these days. I thought maybe I'd write a holiday weekend recap but when I sat down in front of ye olde PC, I realized that not much happened out of the ordinary. But I'll take a crack at summarizing it anyway.

Suffer.

Let's see, there was the usual talk of turkey carcasses and then the subsequent simultaneous gagging/shushing of everyone who dared utter that word by moi, the lone vegetarian in the McDimple clan.

There was a James Bond marathon on cable and, of course, my father had it on all day. He simply cannot pass up a Bond movie, even though he thinks that any Bond other than Sean Connery is a right pussy. When I mentioned that Daniel Craig is getting favorable reviews, I was met with a haughty, "Ach! He canny even swim! Sean Connery did all his own stunts!" My father is rocking a serious boy crush on Sean in conjunction with his usual, "If it's not Scottish, it's CRRRRRAP!" mentality, you see.

On Friday, I watched Jaws with The Adorable Six-Year Old Niece. Lest you be concerned about her mental and emotional well-being after watching this scary film, you have nothing to fear. She's a hearty sort and not easily frightened. Actually, no, that's not true. She has a very specific set of fears but none of which involve a mechanical shark devouring Robert Shaw. However, don't go near her with this game. The face on that guy freaks her out. Between you and me, I was glad to see that toy get the heave-ho as I wasn't too keen on the idea of sticking my hand in the dude's cranial cavity. Ew, I said cavity.

Anyhoo, the niece got through the movie like a champ. Me? Not so much. My Equally Adorable One-Year-Old Nephew climbed up on me for a nap while we were watching it and during one scary scene, I totally jumped and nearly flung the boy clear across the room. And I've seen the movie countless times! The niece, on the other hand, didn't even flinch. Her reaction to the film? Anger. She was pissed that the shark (spoiler alert for anyone who's been living in a cave for the past 30 years) got bumped off at the end. Judging by her serious scowl, knit eyebrows and impassioned tone, she cares quite deeply for the species. I informed her that Jaws got his (her?) revenge several more times in a series of crappy sequels. Oh man, don't even get me started on Jaws 3-D...

The niece and I spent a good deal of time together drawing and coloring pictures. I went down to the basement to find some more crayons for her and I came across a beloved game from my childhood: Strolling Bowling.

Basically, you set up a little bowling alley and then you wind up the wee sneaker-clad ball and it hops down the lane in search of pins. Hours of fun, I tell you, particularly when you eschew the hopping part and just throw it like a real bowling ball. The niece squealed with delight whenever we broke the rules which was uh, all the time. If I may paraphrase Charles Barkley (because I'm too lazy and disinterested to Google the official quote), I never said I was a role model.

On Saturday, I put up my parents' Christmas tree. Yes, I know it's early but I don't feel like going back out there before Christmas to do it. December weekends are a precious commodity and I'm loathe to part with them. Now you might be asking yourself, "Why don't Curly's parents put up their own tree?" The answer is simple, really: My father is a decorating retard.

I love him but the man would be wise to step away from the tchatkes. Yet, despite his obvious inadequacy in this area, he is persistent in trying year after year. So, I've learned to relent and leave some of the trimming to his [in]discretion... often to comical results. Or, as I said a few years back, "When it comes to illuminated ceramics, the man knows no restraint."

So, as a favor to my mother, I assemble the very life-like fake tree and tastefully adorn it with beads, bows and Hallmark Keepsake Ornaments. The rest of the family has learned the painful way to just leave me be when I'm in decorating mode. I used to slap hands, tsk, sigh and eventually chase everyone out of the room because I felt like they were compromising the integrity of my design. Yeah, those movies and television shows that show happy families trimming the tree while singing carols and sipping eggnog? Complete and utter bullshit. If you want to portray the holiday rituals and traditions honestly, there needs to be impatience, frayed nerves and at least one person storming off in a huff. Otherwise, it's a complete sham.

Speaking of the holidays, I'm about to embark on a series of reviews/recaps of Christmas specials and movies. I'm telling you this now so that I don't slack off. I haven't exactly been motivated or consistent with updating the blog lately in case you haven't noticed. Anyhoo, if you'd like a somewhat relevant appetizer to tide you over, kindly check out The Alan Alda Sensitivity Project: Holiday Edition.

halloween rehash

It's busy times in the life of Curly McDimple. I have a high school reunion to attend this weekend and despite my low levels of school spirit and disinterest in anything other than, you know, myself, I somehow ended up on the reunion committee. That means lots of prep work in anticipation of the big 15th blowout... and lots of bitching on my part. Oh and yes, 15 years is an off-kilter anniversary but we were too disinterested and lazy to get our acts together five years ago. Deal.

My point, and I do have one, is that I have little time to blog these days. However, I do have time to rehash shit from my archives. Lucky you! Here's an excerpt from the Halloween story I posted two years ago. Now with artwork!

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Most people think I'm nuts because I don't really like dressing up. I get the same response when I tell them I don't like those crunchy things in between layers of ice-cream cake. I don't know why they react in such a way. I give them first crack before I touch my cake (remember, no dairy share). They totally benefit.

But if I do dress up, it's rather begrudgingly. I also assemble costumes that easily blend into normal clothes so that I can travel on the subway without comment. One year I put on army green pants, high-laced Doc Marten black boots and a white t-shirt (couldn't find a green one) and showed up to a party as Private Benjamin. I look nothing like Goldie Hawn so I made a "Hello, My Name is PRIVATE BENJAMIN" sticker. I rolled up my pants, slapped on the sticker, removed my coat right before entering and voila, instant transformation. It went over well.

My dislike of costumes must stem from an incident I had at an early age. When I was about seven-years-old, my mother got the idea from one of her coworkers to dress me as a crayon. I was asked to pick out my favorite color (at the time it was yellow) and we went to the store to buy big sheets of stiff yellow poster board (oak tag, if you're from Jersey). My father cut one of the pieces and formed it into a cone for the hat. I was given a black marker and told to write Crayola on the side and draw the squiggly lines, etc. When the big day came, the pointy cap was secured on my head with an elastic thingy and I was stapled into the yellow cylinder. I wore yellow pajamas underneath to avoid any yellow-peach confusion.

Remember when we were younger and the word on the street was that bees are attracted to the color yellow? I don't know about the rest of the country but we have a shit load of bees in Jersey in September and October. And they're all pissed off trying to get in their last stings before they die off (or go into a hive or whatever the hell they do in the winter). I got as a far as around the block before a bee started buzzing around me. I swatted at it a few times but it persisted. Finally, I decided to run from it. Um, not a smart idea considering my legs were mostly covered by a narrow tube. I can still remember the ripping sound. It wasn't even a clean break that could be fixed with Scotch tape. I ripped that muthafucka asunder.

I sadly walked back home and rang the bell. My mother came to the door thinking I was a trick-or-treater but instead of getting candy, I got a high-pitched "What on earth happened?!?!" She muttered and told me I was daft as she rummaged through her drawers to find a suitable replacement. She finally found a pair of pirate pants one of my older sisters wore a year or two before. Truth be told, I was a half-assed looking pirate because she couldn't find the hat, eyepatch or knife. In the end, all I was wearing was shredded jeans and a white shirt. I looked more like a castaway or someone victimized by a pirate.

But I still got lots of candy and did my yearly tradition of trading all of my Mary Janes in for the better candy in my Mom's bowl. The trade-in was the best part. I ditched all my bad candy and pennies for the good stuff. My rate of exchange benefited me rather generously, I might add. One penny = two boxes of candy corn or three Dum-Dum lollipops (cherry, preferably). My Mom made us remove Sugar Daddies, Now & Laters and Laffy Taffy from our bags because of their superior teeth-ruining properties. So we'd put those in the bowl in an uneven exchange for the Mom-approved (and much better) candy. Funny how she didn't seem to mind rotting some other kid's teeth.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Happy Halloween!

my 'porchret'

The Adorable Six-Year-Old Niece launched her own start-up this past weekend. Check out what she's shilling:

In case you can't read her first-grade level handwriting and spelling, it's "Portraits for Sale. 50 Cents."

Reasonable rates, right? Naturally, I bought a few of them. Actually, I didn't even have to commission the drawings since they were waiting for me when I arrived at her house on Saturday. The drawings were intended to be a gift but once I discovered the above sign, I happily forked over the cash. Far be it from to contribute to the further starvation of artists.

Unfortunately sales weren't too good on her first day of business. Not much foot traffic in front of her "store," you see. I asked my niece if anyone walked by and she replied, "Yes, one lady did. But she read the sign and just kept on walking." The niece shrugged her shoulders and seemed incredulous that someone would pass up such a bargain. I silently seethed.

Lady, whoever you are, kindly suck my dick. Not only are you a bitch but you're missing out on a masterpiece like this:

My Porchret by The Adorable Six-Year-Old Niece
(Click to enlarge)

I think the niece really captured my essence, no? I had a few questions about the Picasso-like nose but as a sensitive artiste myself, I really can't quibble with her creative choices.

I'm representing the budding artist should any of you want to take her up on her reasonable sitting fee.

rule of thumb... and pinky, middle, index & ring

When approached by a six year old toting Bratz bubble gum pink nail polish, one should ask about the availability of nail polish remover prior to application. Otherwise, you'll have to rock this look until you can finally get your hands on some Cutex...

Hot, right?

Note: In anticipation of comments concerning the stereotypical length of my lesbian nails, I've taken the liberty of preparing a rebuttal ahead of time. So, for those of you about to go down that well-worn road, kindly click here first ... then sit; and finally, spin. Thank you.

realizations and a recap

A quickie guide to my weekend...

1. Despite my Scottish heritage and the fact that I'm, like, a lesbian and stuff, I have NO aptitude for the game of golf whatsoever. For Father's Day, my sister gave my Dad this thing so that he can practice chipping the ball in the backyard. I'm athletic and can usually pick up a sport quite easily so I grabbed the chipper (is that what it's called?) and took a few swings. Let's see... I knocked one clear over the fence, sent a bunch of balls skidding past the target into a patch of Impatiens and launched the rest over near the compost bin in the far corner of the yard. I did not enjoy retrieving those. So, yes, it's safe to say that I suck at golf. Yet another stereotype smashed.

2. Christian Bale has a fucked-up grill.

3. My 10-month-old nephew (Wee Man) is babbling up a storm these days. After a few minutes of trying to place the voice, I realized that his clucks, gurgles, giggles and chirps make him sound just like Baby Smurf. It's uncanny, really.

4. Babies think sneezing is riotously funny. Parents, don't waste money on expensive toys and gadgets for your wee one. Just get a pepper mill and feather and let the fun begin. Seriously, allergies are a real knee-slapper amongst the diapered set.

5. My 6-year-old niece now knows the term "naked Twister" primarily because her dopey aunt couldn't change the radio station in the car fast enough. When asked about its meaning, I feigned ignorance and tried to change the subject. But the niece displayed uncharacteristic patience and focus and managed to figure out the definition on her own. Fortunately, she showed no interest in playing naked Twister. For now.

6. The niece banged on the bathroom door yesterday morning while I was in there getting ready. I pretended not to hear her hollering about "[having] to pooh" or whatever 'cause that's gross and I don't need to deal with that before my first cup of coffee. So I told her to wait her turn in the way that only a self-centered, childless, city-dwelling aunt can. The niece countered with the following statement: "Aunt Curly, you KNOW that I'm impastries."

Impatient, impastries... close enough. Oh and she's taken to calling certain articles of clothing "hideous." I welled up, I did.

on shooting blanks

The McDimple Girls pooled our money this past Christmas and bought our parents a computer. As expected, they were thrilled with the present and then lovingly chastised us for spending our "hard-earned money on such a pricey gift." We get the same speech every year and every year we choose to ignore it.

So for the past few months my sisters, brothers-in-law and I have been taking turns showing the parents how to turn on/off the computer, print things, sign on to the Internet and retrieve/send email. Here's what I just found in my inbox:

--------------------
From: Ma and Pa McDimple
Sent: Friday, May 19, 2006 8:31 PM
To: curly@curlymcdimple.com
Subject: Re: Pictures



--------------------

Let's grade their progress, shall we? Turning on the computer? Check! Signing on to the Internet? Checkerooni! Retrieving email? Affirmative! Sending email? Uh, improvement needed.

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go schedule an email refresher course...

intuition

Overheard in the McDimple family room while we were digesting our gargantuan Mother's Day brunch...

Mom: What time are you heading home tonight?

Yours Truly: I don't know... about 6:00-ish?

Mom (giggling): Better watch out that you don't get your feet attacked by that weirdo on the subway.

Yours Truly (mouth agape): ... Um, uh...

To clarify, my parents know NOTHING about my personal run-in with the toe sucker.

Yours Truly (only slightly recovered from the shock): Oh my God, I know, right? [forced laughter] Say, did I tell about my friend's friend's friend who got her armpit licked on the subway?

I successfully changed the topic (armpit licking is good that way), took the focus off of me and put a stop to the knowing looks and concealed gasps and giggles circulating amongst the other McDimples girls.

My mother's intuition is so fine-tuned and spot on... even when she doesn't realize it! And it FREAKS.ME.OUT.

in honor of mama mcdimple

I'm on my way out to meet the McDimples for Mother's Day brunch... Um, after I stop at the store and pick up a few cards. I SUCK at getting cards ahead of time. Regardless of the holiday or occasion, I'm in the store at the last minute with all the nervous husbands and lazy kids picking through the sorry selection in the bombed-out-looking card aisle. Nothing's ever left at this point which means I'm most likely going to be giving my mother and sisters cards that are in either in Spanish or are part of Hallmark's Mahogany line. Eh, they'll just think I'm being cheeky and laugh it off.

But enough about me being a bad daughter. I'm not a complete waste of space, you see. I've written some posts about my mother over the years. She's quite a character at times. And other times, she really typifies the heart-tugging sentiments written in a Mother's Day card... you know, the ones I can never give her because they're already sold out by the time I drag my sorry carcass to the store.

Anyhoo, here are a few stories about my mother:

:: My Mum
:: I'm a [Last Name] Girl
:: Erin Go A-cup Bragh
:: The Snowsuit
:: Since I'm Up Now Anyway... (aka Mum's Messages, Part One)
:: Mum's Messages, Part Deux
:: Misdiagnosis

Happy Mother's Day!

a not-so-good friday

Despite its serious religious significance, Holy Week was a bit of a hoot back when I was in Catholic school. Well, the beginning of the week was at least. Like every other holiday, Easter came early at school. Construction paper crucifixes and papier mache bunnies were made, Easter eggs hidden and found, paper baskets woven and copious amounts of candy consumed despite the Lenten season and its intolerance of such indulgences.

We were dismissed early on Holy Thursday and given Good Friday off so that we could prepare ourselves for the biggest of big holy days -- Easter Sunday.

Everyone else at school looked forward to the long holiday weekend. I didn't care for the extra days off so much myself. See, every year, my mother gathered up her four girls and shuttled us off to church. Yes, while my friends were out playing and basking in the sunshine, my butt was in a hard wooden pew in a darkened church.

Holy Thursday services weren't all that bad though. They were really long but I kind of dug the whole oil and incense thing and all the Latin and the reenactment of the Last Supper. Watching the pastor of the church washing the feet of select members of the congregation -- my father included -- always struck me.

Of course, part of my curiosity was about the temperature of the water being poured on those people's bare feet and wondering if those people all remembered to clip their toenails before Mass. I also pondered if the priests discussed the state of their parishioners' feet at social gatherings.

"It looked like old So-and-So's feet haven't touched water since last Holy Thursday! Hardy har har!"

But then again, maybe there's a certain amount of confidentiality surrounding foot washing similar to the seal of Confession. Like, no matter how manky the feet or how atrocious the sin, the priest has to keep mum. Any religious scholars care to weigh in?

It was the Good Friday services that I really dreaded. Every year, I woke up with a sick feeling in my stomach hoping that my mother wouldn't make me go to church. It wasn't even because the Mass ate up a good chunk of my day or because of the REALLY long Gospel that we had to stand all the way through. My discomfort stemmed from one thing and one thing only -- the Veneration of the Cross.

In the latter part of the Mass, the priest stands in the front of the church with a big crucifix and invites the congregation to come forward to kiss or touch the cross. While I can't remember what I ate for dinner yesterday, I can remember exactly what the priest said during this part of the service:

"This is the wood of the cross on which was hung the savior of the world."

And then the congregation sang in response: "Come let us worship!"

Except me.

See, that's when my freak-out really kicked into high gear. I sooooooooooooo did not want to go and worship. My palms got all sweaty and my legs felt leaden and stiff. Kissing the cross was the last thing I wanted to do. I often considered touching it but I never saw anyone else do that and I didn't know how long I was supposed to touch it or where exactly. So kissed the cross, I did... and every year I walked back to my pew with a flaming red face and slightly skeeved out that I had just put my mouth on something where many others had been. It was even more embarrassing when some of the boys in my class were the altar servers. They'd smirk at me while I trudged forward in line waiting to pucker up. I wanted to flip them off in the worst way but even I'm not that irreverent.

I realize I wasn't supposed to be thinking of such things because, what was it that my mother said again? Oh right... Jesus died on that cross and his suffering was far greater than mine and I should be ashamed of myself for even being embarrassed and I should go say a good Act of Contrition for being so silly on such a solemn day.

My younger sister loathed the cross-kissing practice as much as I did. She too felt awkward and self-conscious and experienced similar smirks from her altar-serving classmates.

One year, she was the first of the McDimples in line to venerate the cross. In her haste to do a quick buss and bolt, she somehow made a really loud smooching noise with her lips. If she was in a cartoon panel, the dialogue bubble would have read: SMMMAAAAAAAAACK!

It was unreal! A wave of snickering and stifled laughter rolled backwards on the procession line starting with my older sister, then the second oldest, my two cousins and then finally, me. We were trying to be discreet but not doing a very good job of it. However, it did make me forgot about my cross-kissing panic. But, in my attempt to simultaneously kiss and conceal my swelling laughter, I banged my tooth on Jesus' foot, at which point I yelped, "OW!" and then realizing how loud it was, I gasped and then cupped my hand over my mouth, turned around and then proceeded to giggle all the way back to my seat.

A spectacle was made.

And my mother witnessed the whole thing. The ride home from church was NOT fun, let me tell you. But, she had the last laugh because as I recall, my basket was really light on the Cadbury Mini Eggs and pastel candy corn that year.

Have a Happy Easter and Passover! And try not to chip any teeth.

on the next rollergirl, honoring mr. mcdimple and the disputed history of the over-the-shoulder boulder holder

I spent Saturday afternoon at a roller rink with my soon-to-be six-year-old niece. It was, and I quote, "[her] best birthday party ever!" She's quite skilled on her rollerblades and was one of the few kids able to skate around without clutching an adult or the wall for dear life. In fact, the only time she was found on her rump was when one of the male skate guards came near her. Wee girlfriend totally took a dive so they could help her up! She's six and already has the damsel in distress thing going on. We are all fearful of her adolescence.

Saturday night was a big night for Mr. McDimple. My father was honored as Man of the Year by his Knights of Columbus council. A dinner was had, an engraved plaque was bestowed and an "Electric Slide" was slid. Mrs. McDimple still doesn't have the hang of it so I spent most of the time standing directly behind her gently nudging her in the proper direction. She is bound and determined to learn this dance even though it's way passe. I'm not really into line dancing but well, the McDimples had already consumed several pitchers of beer and we weren't too concerned with looking lame nor uniform. Um, that is until "The Cha Cha Slide" came on. That shit is too complicated for our fair-skinned, freckled asses. Hook us up with a "Stack of Barley" and we'll make short work of it. Ask us to "Charlie Brown now" and we fail miserably. What is that exactly anyway? If left to mine own devices, I would, like, act melancholy and try to kick a football and miss or something... which I'm certain is incorrect. Anyone? Anyone?

Oh and my Dad had to say a few words after he received his award. It turns out that when given a microphone, my father is the total vocal twin of Sean Connery. He could probably earn some extra scratch doing some looping or something. I'm going to help him work on his reel.

Yesterday afternoon, the Younger Sister, a friend and myself engaged in a rather insane conversation that involved us all affecting a severe case of mush mouth... 'cause speech impediments are all sorts of funny. Don't ask me how but I somehow escalated the conversation to me threatening to put someone's tits in a sling. Of course, it sounded more like "titsh in a shling."

And oh how we laughed. The Younger Sister suddenly stopped giggling as a thought dawned on her.

"What does that even mean? Tits in a sling?"

"I'm not sure. I might have made that up. It's usually 'ass in a sling,' isn't it? I got carried away. I don't know why I said tits."

"Wait, wasn't that the name of the inventor? Something Titsling?"

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, my Younger Sister actually believed the battle of Philippe DeBrassiere and Otto Titsling to be fact. Apparently, Beaches has a high credibility factor with the Younger Sister. You heard it here: CC Bloom speaks the truth, yo.

erin go a-cup bragh

Happy St. Patrick's Day! Because I made a promise to Roro (no Hoff on my site for several months in exchange for her hooking me up with my beloved hair schmutz), I will not fill this space with a hairy-chested Hibernian Hoff as I did last year. (Psst! Don't click on it if you're Roro... or easily squeamish.)

I had half a notion to create an animated gif with a shillelagh-toting Hoff step dancing alongside one Michael Flatley but again, I made a vow to keep this a Hoff-free zone for now and I must stick to it. Oh curse me and my promises!

So rather than assault you with The Hoff, I will instead tell you a story that dates back to seventh grade and really has nothing at all to do with this holiday. Deal.

I was 12 years old and attending a small Catholic school. Up until then I was blissfully unaware of the judgment surrounding anatomical assets, endowments, shortcomings and all other issues that would eventually eclipse my life and all future discussions through college and beyond.

In seventh grade, I was really petite, short in stature and with a shape, when upright, that was a perfect straight line. When standing, I resembled a T-square.

There were no bumps nor curves where some of my more buxom classmates had them. I was called "string bean" and "small fry" more than once. I didn't mind so much because I liked both string beans and French fries. Those were not offensive references. If anything, they just made me hungry.

My school uniform consisted of an ugly-as-sin plaid pleated skirt, a blue blouse with a Peter Pan collar, navy blue knee-high sock