ricolaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa

Okay, so it turns out, it wasn't allergies. Well, it's partly allergies but dude, I have been sidelined with the nastiest chest cold the past few days. I have one of those coughs that lifts me out of my seat whenever I'm seized with a fit. My eyes tear up and even my abs get a workout. It's wonderful. Last night, as I was drifting off to sleep, I started coughing like a fiend and my throat got sooooooooooooooooo dry. Ever cough so bad you start to choke? Well, that was me. So I got out of bed, drank a glass of water and sat on my couch watching an episode of Roseanne on Nick at Nite while sucking on a Ricola. It was one of the early episodes where Dan had a head of curls more lustrous and springy than mine.

I went back to work today but as I sit here congested up to my eyeballs, coughing my brains out and again, sucking on a Ricola, I'm thinking it was a bad idea. I've become the annoying noisy cubicle mate now. Hey, it could be worse... I could be farting up a storm. I'm pleased to report that I'm not. Even if I was, I certainly wouldn't tell YOU. Oh, the shame. I'm from the same school of thought as the mother of my childhood friend, Arnold: "Girls don't fart, they squeak."

Um, okay... random tangent alert: I was just offered a job. I literally just got off the phone. I'm being poached from within. Wow. I was having a crappy week. Things just took an upturn. Gotta go!

the new pollution

As some of you may recall, I was recently downgraded from an office to a cubicle here at work. I did my best to suck up the disappointment and embarrassment because causing a scene is not really my style.

Um, usually.

Prior to the move, my office neighbor approached me and said, "If it wasn't shitty enough that you're losing your office, I hear that we'll both be flanked on either side by some obnoxious guy who's a real loud talker."

This was a troubling development but, again, I did my best to just suck it up and deal. However, after about five minutes of occupying my new seat, I discovered that the rumors were in fact true... and he was sitting right.next.to.me.

I believe this is what you call adding insult to injury, my friends. The situation is far from ideal. If he was at least friendly, I'd try to cut him some slack. But he's a complete douche. And an eyesore, to boot! He's all oily-looking and sounds winded whenever he talks.

He also visits the bathroom with alarming frequency. It's noticeable because he even walks to the john loudly. It's uncanny. Theories as to why he's in there so much range from chronic masturbation to coke addiction to frequent urination due to an enlarged prostate. Actually, those three are my theories and mine alone. I'm not sure anyone else has given it much thought.

Furthermore, he sniffles and clears his throat louder than I thought humanly possible. He fidgets and fusses at his desk and frequently peers over into my cube. I really don't care for this practice in particular. Since I can't really hang up curtains or some nice blinds, I think my only option is to aim a gun at him the next time he does it.

Picture it: He slowly rises into his creepy prairie dog pose and meeting him at nose-level is a double-barreled shot gun. You know, kind of like the one Elmer Fudd carried around when he was hunting wabbit.

Fear not, the gun would contain the same kind of ammunition used in cartoons where the only injury sustained is a blackened, gun powder-filled face and crispy, teased hair.

Or, on a day I was feeling rather cheeky, perhaps I could launch a preemptive strike and shoot him in the ass. Oh relax! It's not like he'd bleed out or anything. Cartoon ammo, remember? The only trauma he'd suffer is that his red-and-white polka-dotted underwear would be revealed through a blast-shaped hole in his pants. Again, just like in the funny pages. I'm not out to kill the man... just ruin his complexion and perhaps a nice pair of trousers.

Today he took his bad cubicle etiquette to a new level. I've come to expect the egregious use of speakerphone and his Chris Matthews-like manner of speaking, what with the ear-splitting volume and baffling inflection, but this is the day we entered into brand new territory.

Today, my friends, I was treated to a deluxe combo platter of burps and farts, with some productive nose-blowing thrown in for good measure. It was symphonic at times. At one point, he reached a crescendo which reminded me of that scene in Ferris Bueller's Day Off when Ferris had all the bodily function noises programmed into his keyboard and then proceeded to play "The Blue Danube" waltz. :: WOT WOT WOT WA. Cough cough. Sneeze sneeze. WOT WOT WOT WA. Cough cough. Sneeze sneeze.::

You get the idea...

A loud fart punctuated the gruesome medley, after which a palpable tension and discomfort filled the air. Mercifully, those elements did not rendezvous with a noxious smell. Thank God for small, odor-free mercies.

The quiet didn't last long because I began giggling uncontrollably. You know, because I'm five. My less-than-subtle sniggering made the woman to my right laugh loudly which then made me giggle even more.

It showed no signs of stopping so I thought it wise to walk away from the crime scene and get the giggle out of my system in a neutral zone.

Good plan, right? Wrong. Unfortunately, I timed my escape at precisely the same moment the gas man decided to haul (noisy) ass to the bathroom. Of course there was a near collision which set me off into another fit of giggles right in the poor man's face, which then caused the woman to my right to laugh even harder.

I disengaged from the awkward tangle and then staggered into the nearest open office still laughing, which unleashed an infectious wave of chuckling among two other women who didn't even know the details of the fart-fueled fracas. Once they found out, however, the laughter reached a fever pitch, which no doubt was overheard by the gas man who was hiding out in the men's room.

Ten bucks says he's doped up on Beano tomorrow. At least I hope he is.

ooh, ooh that smell

In case you haven't heard, New York City smelled like a big ol' fart this morning.

I will now pause for those of you who feel the need to make the obvious "How is today different from any other day?" joke...

Got that out of your system? Feel better now? Good, let's move on.

I know a lot of people were all concerned and inconvenienced by the mysterious stank but it kind of worked out well for me. I got to work from home! And have my cab ride to Brooklyn expensed! And I was able to put on elastic-waist pants and devour two Snickers Nutcrackers (mmm... 50% off all Christmas candy at Rite Aid) without any skinny bitches casting me disapproving glances!

Um, perhaps I've said too much...

Today's events also provided some amusement for people such as myself who enjoy the occasional bit of fart, poop and let's-blame-it-on-Jersey humor. I've been giggling all day long. For example, while watching NY-1's coverage, I actually heard our illustrious mayor utter the phrase "until this gas passes." I even rewound my DVR to make sure I wasn't imagining it. I wasn't! Even worse, he was reading from a prepared statement!

Uh, did anyone proofread that for you, Mike?

mmm... cirrhosis

Good morning! Guess who just woke up? Rolling out of bed at 1:00 PM is all sorts of fun. Actually, bed is not quite accurate... it's more like loveseat. I didn't quite make it to my bed, you see. I got home last night, took off my coat, turned on the TV and then passed out about two seconds later fully clothed, makeup still applied, hat still perched on my head and glasses dangling from one ear. So hot. Shocking that I'm single, no?

I've pretty much been inflicting damage upon my liver for about two weeks straight. 'Tis the season, after all! Last night's round of vital organ abuse came in the form of The WYSIWYG Talent Show. I was there along with Joe.My.God., Aaron, David and Tom rooting for the incredibly awesome Helen Damnation as she took to the stage in her first WYSIWYG appearance. I love the girl for many reasons already (farting on a homophobe, hello?!?!) but anyone who can lead a Springer chant of "WE LOVE LESBIANS!" after her set is okay in my book. Forever.

Last night's show was themed "I'm Not as Think as You Drunk I Am." Helen's hilarious tale of copping a squat in Times Square earned its rightful place in the annals (tee hee hee -- I said "annals") of the WYSIWYG archives. Well done, my friend. Well done.

I was also thrilled as thrilled can be to see Dan Renzi in the flesh. Dan, you see, was a cast member of The Real World: Miami season. I ain't even gonna front -- I love The Real World. Each and every increasingly ridiculous season of it. My love for RW is exceeded only by my adoration of The Real World/Road Rules Challenge. In fact, I've documented this love often on this here blog. See here, here, here and here.

Emily Epstein treated us to a tale of bungee jumping while bombed. I dare say it would take more than alcohol to give me the nerve to fling myself off a bridge tethered to a big ol' rubberband. Coincidentally, I saw Ms. Epstein performing the night before at Chicks and Giggles at Mo Pitkin's in the East Village. Total happenstance, mind you, but it's like Emily Espstein is Phish and I've become her ardent follower. See you tonight, Emily?! Hee hee.

I was at Mo Pitkin's for a Hanukkah party thrown by my friend Amy. Even though I've never spinned a dreidel before in my life (SHOCKING considering my tri-state area upbringing), I proved to be a real ringer. My speed, velocity and spin were quite impressive for a goy like me. The Jews at the table were impressed. Mind you, I didn't land on gimel but whatevs, I displayed a lot of style in my otherwise unsuccessful attempt. I represented the Gentiles well, I dare say.

I'm now on a well-earned vacation. I've barely started my Christmas shopping so I've got my work cut out for me the next few days. I know I promised a series of reviews of holiday specials (something you were all dying to read, I'm sure) but well, fuck it. I didn't have time. Next year.

I will try to check in before I go home but if not, Merry Christmas and Happy Hanukkah. You'll just have to wait to get your Kwanzaa greetings next week, bitches.

i used to be by the window, where I could see the squirrels and they were merry

I've found in the 10 odd years that I've been working in corporate America that the best way for management to look busy and effective is to inconvenience their underlings. Boring, senseless meetings are scheduled in Outlook on a weekly basis even though nothing is ever accomplished in those gatherings other than annoying the attendees and the poor admin who had to arrange the thing on behalf of the organizer. Productivity is measured by pissed-off expressions it seems. The more annoyed people look, the harder management is working. It's all very Costanza-esque.

The office move is another tactic brand new management likes to unleash to make its mark in an established department. By moving people hither and yon, the powers-that-be look effective and definitive and powerful. Flowcharts and floor plans are the weapons of choice. Their executive assistants know VISIO and they are not afraid to use it. Mark.their.words.

So, if you couldn't tell already, I fell victim to a reshuffling of sorts at my job. Long story short, I no longer have an office. It wasn't a demotion, mind you, but I along with a few others in the creative department (read: non-revenue generating employees) are back to the 1-1/2 fabric wall arrangement. Gone is my closeable door and that highfalutin sheetrock I had grown so accustomed to. Sigh.

Yesterday was my first day in a cubicle. To say that the new feng shui didn't agree with me would be an understatement. With a little help from Meg, I started a little list of ways to revolt. Passive-aggressively, of course, 'cause that's how I roll...

1) Display symptoms of a permanent cold or infection of sorts that leads to lots of coughing, sneezing, nose blowing, etc.

2) Eat lunches at my desk that smell like farts, i.e. Hale and Hearty's Cauliflower Cheddar Soup.

3) Listen to music loudly and sing along, in particular the orgasmic wailing parts of Led Zeppelin's "Whole Lotta Love" and the "Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me!" portion of Rage Against the Machine's "Killing In The Name."

4) Use speakerphone always and often.

5) Call my gyno and talk about oozing sores, rashes and bumps.

6) Explain my BMs in excruciating detail to my gastro doctor.

7) Discuss the various fungi plaguing my nether regions and feet.

8) Ask my shrink if eating one's own dandruff is cause for concern.

9) Call my doctor to see if the results of my TB tests are in. Then say, "Oh."

10) Use my blog to solicit job offers. Seriously, hook me up.

More to come as my frustration levels rise.

on fat fingers, a phat niece and phony flatulence

A couple of the fingers on my left hand had an unfortunate run-in with a car door this weekend. Fortunately, nothing is sprained but my middle and index fingers aren't quite as bendy as they could be. In other words, Part 13 will be coming along as soon as my crippled fingers can type it up. Thanks for your patience.

In brighter news, I taught The Adorable Five-Year-Old Niece the art of the breakdance-off... using an American Girl doll.

See, we took my mother out for a birthday lunch yesterday. To keep the niece entertained in the car on the way there, I sang an a capella "Din Daa Daa" while making her doll do The Worm, The Running Man and several dope back and head spins. I then pointed the doll's hand in the direction of the niece and said, "Now you!"

The niece didn't miss a beat. She sang the song, caught the vibe, thrashed around a bit and then challenged my younger sister by stylishly -- and fiercely -- pointing at her. Wee girlfriend put Ozone and Turbo to shame. It was all really quite fabulous and made me just a bit verklempt.

Oh and she also recently learned how to do armpit farts. I swear I had NOTHING to do with it. No seriously, I can't even make that noise myself so there's no way I could teach her. When I try to do it, the only thing you hear is flapping and slapping. Therefore, I am not responsible for the armpit farts. Palm of the hand farts, on the other hand...

random thoughts, rhetorical questions and the occasional brain fart

Once again I'm embarking on a series that I promise to continue... but probably won't. But, it's good to have goals, right? The follow-through biznatch is another story entirely...

So, without further ado (and with full apologies to George Carlin), here's a short list of some of the things I, Curly McDimple, have pondered:

1. How do you dispose of a garbage can? Won't the trash collectors just leave it on the curb with the rest of them?

2. What asinine circumstances preceded the discovery of peanut butter as an effective means of removing gum from one's hair? I mean, did someone flail about the house in a panic and then crash head-first into a tub of Skippy after getting Hubba Bubba stuck in his 'do?!

I'm assuming that during this same melee, a can of Coke was knocked into a toilet thereby leading to the discovery of its impressive porcelain-cleaning power. Coincidentally, that person who knocked over the soda managed to get a glob of toothpaste on his arm precisely where he had a mosquito bite and voila! No more itch! Meanwhile, all the commotion frightened an eye-witness so much that her violent hiccups were instantly cured.

And there you have it, I guess.

3. Why is there an anti-skip feature on portable CD players? Is there a pro-skip movement that I don't know about? Are they in the same camp as the people who don't like to remove red eye from their photos?

Got ridiculous questions/observations? Please share them!
_______________________________________

* Please don't respond to these questions with "facts and figures" or "logic." I will instantly hate you if you do.

sing, sing a song

I've done karaoke precisely one time in my life. Technically, it was only half a time because it was a duet with Sheila (who has a gorgeous voice, FYI). Together we tackled Sweet Caroline by Neil Diamond, thank you very much.

As I recall, we invited The Lovely (and, at the Time, Very Trashed) Jess to join us but she dismissed us with a wave of her hand and said, "Nah, I've already got something in the works." Girlfriend was saving her vocal cords to take on some Britney, you see.

I'm a big ass chicken baby when it comes to getting up in front of people (hence the recruitment of Sheila). However, that hasn't stopped me from compiling a playlist of songs I would theoretically like to sing... if I had the voice and the balls. I realize some of these may not be available in the standard-issue karaoke catalog but kindly indulge me anyway. Coincidentally, this would also be my set list if I fronted a cover band...

1. The Entire Discography of One Ms. Pat Benatar
Spread out over several gigs, of course. I already know from this post that I'd have plenty of people rocking out with me.

2. Gimme Shelter - The Rolling Stones
I only want to sing backup on this song. But only when I have a cold because there's no way I can come close to sounding like Merry Clayton otherwise. Actually, NO ONE can sound like her. If you haven't paid attention to the backing vocals in this song, I implore you to do so. In my opinion (and it's just MY opinion so don't argue with me and tell me I'm wrong, music snobs), there isn't a more perfect song than "Gimme Shelter."

3. Mother Mother - Tracy Bonham
Any song that lets me emit a cathartic primal scream is okay by moi.

4. Cherub Rock - Smashing Pumpkins
Ditto on the screaming part. Oh and this song also prompts me to bang my head considerably thereby giving my curls a chance to perform like a rock star. It's quite a display.

5. Bad - U2
I would like to showcase my love of Bono when he was just preachy (as opposed to being preachy AND creepy, like he is today.)

6. My Love Life - Morrissey
When I sing along with Morrissey or The Smiths, I tend to jut out my angular Scottish chin and feign an underbite like Morrissey's. The impression is not only amusing, it could very well make you swoon.

7. Sabotage - The Beastie Boys
Just the visual of me singing this song is hilarious, don't you think? Particularly the "WAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!" part. Awesome.

8. I forget what eight was for...
Violent Femmes, anyone?

9. I Dig Love - George Harrison
Part homage to my favorite Beatle and also because the song kicks ass.

10. Brass in Pocket - The Pretenders
I used to do quite the sassy rendition of this tune in my car. It's high time I resurrected it, no?

11. Peace Frog - The Doors
Because I always welcome the opportunity to recite confusing poetry in the middle of a catchy song.

12. Surrender - Cheap Trick
This would be my sure-fire crowd pleaser. And at the end, I'd be sure to encourage my adoring public to engage in an extended a cappella chorus of "We're all alright!" 'Cause that would be cool.

13.Where Is My Mind - The Pixies
For the indie cred, yo.

Tour dates TBA. Potential groupies, consider the comments section your sign-up sheet. RAWK!

Note: I may add to this list as brain farts arise.

weirdo

I don't normally do the meme thang primarily because I just don't like that word. Meme. Not sure why but it bugs me. But I'll put aside my distaste because I found a rather fun one over at Sheila's. The task: Write down five of your own personal idiosyncrasies.

The hardest part of this was narrowing down my enormous list to just five. You see, I diligently foster and nurture my quirks much in the way others would dote on a ficus. Unlike the plants in my care, my hang-ups are lush and thriving. Case in point...

1. I despise the brown crunchy things in between layers of ice cream cake. I kinda don't care for ice cream cake all that much either. Well, if I'm being honest, ice cream in general doesn't really excite me... unless I'm in a bad mood. If that's the case, ice cream is the perfect remedy because you simply cannot lick an ice cream cone with a scowl on your face. Try it. You can't.

2. I have severe poop issues. Unless it's a DIRE emergency, I cannot poop at work or any place other than home. It's part of the reason I live alone. I found it to be very stressful when I had a roommate. I tried to time my poops after she went to bed or right before I went into the shower. Believe it or not, it worked about 90% of the time but there were a few occasions where I had to answer the call regardless of the roomie's whereabouts. It killed me to do it but I had no choice.

I think it's because I associate so much shame with my pooping that I also find poop and fart jokes riotously funny. I'm 31 years old yet I laugh like a 10-year-old boy at the first mention of poop. And I don't foresee me outgrowing this any time soon.

3. I'm a sucker for the one clap-two clap beat in a song. Even if I hate the song, I have to stop what I'm doing and clap once/clap twice/clap once in time with the music. It just has to be done.

4. My outer wardrobe is comprised of mostly dark solid colors -- brown, black, navy, maroon, that sort of thing. Despite my seemingly staid preferences, I have a rather outrageous underwear collection. The louder the colors and patterns the better. I haven't met a striped, polka-dotted, zig-zagged or leopard pattern I haven't liked. Cartoon characters are equally represented among my undies, namely Supergirl, Hello Kitty and Mickey Mouse.

5. Bumpy textures and folds FREAK me the fuck out. I'm positively horrified by close-ups of pock marks, cavities, crevices, fibers, etc. When I hear the term "nooks and crannies," I flinch. Stucco will never see the light of day in my home. Same goes for popcorn ceilings. Well, that's also because they're butt ugly. Furthermore, don't come near me with a cross-section of something unless your aim is to make me gag.

I once had a dream that my stomach looked like a moon crater and I tortured myself with the memory for months afterwards. I think I'm finally over the disgust. Actually, nope. Not true. If you'll excuse me, I need to go find me some ginger ale.

the reviews are in

Today I discovered that my site is the #1 Google result for "farting sandal noise." I love that! It does me proud. In fact, I told Jess that if I were to ever create fake reviews of my site, I'd totally use that statistic. Hell, since my mind is hobbled by a rather potent prescription drug cocktail and I don't feel like thinking too much, I'm going to go ahead and do just that. So without further ado, I present to you phony reviews of my site based on some other keyword searches...

"Four stars! A reliable source when wanting to know 'five pounds of ham feeds how many people?'"
-- MSN

"Ham & Cheese on Wry scores with its winning portrayal of a 'nun eating shit out of a priest's ass'!"*
-- Yahoo

"The undisputed authority on 'foot sniffing.' A real crowd-pleaser!"
-- Google UK

"Plaudits! There's no finer resource for 'removing cat urine from suede.'"
-- Yahoo

"When it comes to providing 'peed dry swimsuit' information, Curly McDimple has no peer."
-- Google UK

* Um, I've NEVER written about such a practice on this here blog. OMG, ewwwwwwwww! I may have used all of those words separately, but not in that foul context, I assure you. I have my issues with The Church but that's just naaaaaaaaaaazzdy, yo. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to say a good Act of Contrition...

the book challenge

Sheila requested I participate in this wee survey and I will happily oblige...

1. Total Number of Books I've Owned:
Dude, this is like asking me how many breaths I've taken in my lifetime. Too many to count. I was an avid customer of the Troll and Scholastic Book Clubs. Those alone send my number into the hundreds.

2. Last Book I Bought:
Um... I think it was a Barbie book for my niece in Times Square but for me, it was The Plot Against America by Philip Roth and Dry by Augusten Burroughs.

3. Last Book I Read:
Naked by David Sedaris

4. Five Books That Mean A Lot To Me:

Sylvester and the Magic Pebble by William Steig
This was my sister's book but I think I read it more than she did. Even at a young age, I was impressed with the gold seal on the book. I had no idea what a Caldecott Medal even was but to me, it looked fancy and that signified quality and lo and behold, I read the book repeatedly and adored it each and every time.

Corduroy by Don Freeman and The Elves and The Shoemaker by Jacob Grimm (tie)
Corduroy: I loved that wee bear. I remember loving the warm yet vibrant colors in the book. I thought he was so lucky to be trapped in a department store. I don't remember why exactly but my favorite part was when he rode the escalator. I think I liked seeing stuffed animals and dolls doing human things or something. I don't remember all of the details but whenever I think of this story, a feeling of warmth and comfort comes over me.

The Elves and The Shoemaker: I loved this book probably for the same reason I love before-and-after decorating shows today. I like to see progress being made and hard work rewarded. It's gratifying. In this story, the shoemaker and his wife were totally poor and hurting for business. The elves came in late one night when the shoemaker was asleep and made shoes, you know, just because. They did it secretly and didn't want credit for it. The shoemaker woke up the next day to find tons of pairs of beautiful shoes, which the public then went nuts over and soon the shoemaker and his wife were rolling in it. And then they figured out that the elves were the ones responsible so they made them some nice clothes to replace their existing ratty togs. And everyone was happy and taken care of. I always found it thoroughly satisfying.

Mandy and The Beano collections
These were separate hard-cover collections of British comic books. When I was little, my mother often had to go to Scotland to take care of my ailing Gran. When she'd return, she'd have a bag loaded with tablet (condensed milk and sugar hardened into a sweet, cavity-causing bar), Crunchies, Flakes and issue upon issue of Mandy and The Beano. I think the latter is still in print but I'm not sure that the publisher is aware that in America something sold under the same name supposedly prevents farts.

Blubber by Judy Blume
I read Freckle Juice and Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing but Blubber was the first (but not the last) Judy Blume book to resonate with me. I actually still have the book and I keep it among my most treasured things. The cover has fallen off and the pages are totally yellow and dog-eared but I will not part with it.

As a side note, I went to Catholic grammar school and the only Judy Blume book allowed in the library, believe it or not, was Are You There God? It's Me Margaret. There's no way in hell that Sister Mary Ellen, the head librarian, ever read that book because if she had, she would have realized it wasn't all that religious what with the bust-increasing exercises and all that talk about periods. She made a very broad assumption based on that title, let me tell you. It should have tipped her off that the book, along with The Outsiders, was consistently checked out each week and scores of kids would be huddled around someone's desk reading it. It wasn't 'cause we were religious, Sister.

Anyways, the school library was holding an art contest one year. Participants were asked to select their favorite book and create a diorama depicting a favorite scene. Naturally, I chose Blubber and then busted out my art kit and got to work recreating the scene where Linda gives an oral report on whales and explains to the class what a flenser does. It was a pretty rocking diorama if I do say so myself. Later that week I went to the library to look at all of the projects and I was crushed to discover that mine was the only one not on display. Somehow Sister Mary Ellen deemed it inappropriate. Probably because it was my own book and not some Beverly Cleary job I checked out of her library. Apparently, her logic was as follows: Making fun of a fat kid and ultimately overcoming the pack mentality = forbidden. Frank discussion of periods by somewhat sex-positive preteen girls = hunky-dory. I mean, that sort of thing IS totally hunky-dory but that old nun's reasoning for banishing mine wasn't.

Mom, You're Fired by Nancy K. Robinson
In this story, Tina, the main character, was embarrassed by her eccentric hippie-dippy mother and totally developed the nonsexual hots for her friend's mother who was well-dressed and totally put together.

This book was in heavy rotation along with Blubber. It really struck a chord with me because my mother was a bit older than the mothers of most of my friends. She was also Scottish and therefore didn't engage in the same banter that most young, American moms did. At times, I'd make unfair comparisons between my mom and others but then, being the big old baby that I was, I'd go to a slumber party and within minutes, I'd miss my mother terribly. The young, American mothers in charge could never soothe me the way my mom could.

5. Tag five people and have them do this on their blog:
Like Sheila, I don't expect any of you to do it but if you feel so inclined, please take it away. If you're not on my list, don't let that stop you either!
1. Occasional Bitch
2. Lachlan (My So-Called Blog)
3. The Bees Knees
4. The Ubik
5. Filomena

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

my unhealthy obsession with statcounter

Writing this here blog and reading your comments is a ton of fun. Ain't no doubt about that. However, I think I derive the most pleasure from checking my traffic stats. And lawdy, do I search those logs like a crack fiend! StatCounter's Keyword Analysis in particular is where I spend a good deal of my time. It's just a treasure trove of comedy as far as I'm concerned. It's also given me a business idea -- develop and teach a course on effective search techniques. I have no idea how some of these people find anything using their current method, or lack thereof.

To this day, I think my favorite is still the person from Australia who inquired about a comeback to what appears to be a scathing insult Down Under -- being called a "freckle fart." Who knew? I genuinely hope that after conducting this online research, he/she was able to answer back with a real biting and corrosive retort. Granted, no matter how stinging the rebuke, its intensity would be dulled by the late timing. However, equal parts piss and vinegar combined with a pitch-perfect delivery can sometimes compensate for a less-than-swift reply.

Someone else found my site by Googling, and I quote, "getting paddled, or spanked on your bare ass.com." Now I have no issue with getting one's bum whacked for pleasure but my question is this -- did this person actually think that maybe this was a valid URL? I may be revealing my geekery here but um... DUH. And because I'm well, weird, I informed Jess of my rather unique unique visitor and then sent her a couple of my own awkwardly-constructed fake URLs based loosely on my site's keyword searches. A random sampling:

http://www.people fucking sheep while wearing, for example, maroon leggings and a fur-lined poncho.org

http://www.skid marks on undies; "pantaloons" where can I get them?.gov

http://www.fashion for butches - ha ha ha ha.com

Feel free to add your own. Or not.

Another visitor asked a search engine, "What do you call someone overly fond of cheese?" I don't know why Yahoo thought my blog was a valid response but whatevs. Is there even a clinical term for loving cheese too much? I honestly have no idea. Kindly inform me if this term has been coined. If not, feel free to make up something up. I heart and support the creation of Sniglets.

In other traffic news, I surpassed 20,000 page visits this week. And only about 10K of those came from moi obsessively checking for new comments. Thanks for visiting!

on blowing off work, the big house and board games

I'm home sick today. I can't quite place my finger on what's wrong. I just feel crappy so I took the day off and have been doing a bit of work from home. I'm not kidding! I'm checking email and IMing with coworkers and what not. I actually got more shit done at home than I do at the office.

I started feeling a bit woozy a little while ago so I retired to the couch with my bestest friend ever -- HBO In Demand. Thanks to this wonderful service, I've been able to park myself on my couch for hours at a time and get caught up on the HBO shows I love. Today, I learned a bit more about gritty prison life via Season 4 of the disturbing but oh-so-addictive drama, Oz. Thanks to this program, I can now bandy about terms like The Hole, shank, hacks, gen pop, etc. with surprising believability and assurance. It's all very informative and potentially handy should I ever get thrown into the clink.

On Tuesday night, I had a wonderful time hanging out and playing games with some good friends -- Jon, Kris and Amy among them. Honestly, I'm not really one for playing games that require me to get up off my ass to act things out, sing or do anything more strenuous than rolling the dice. Usually, the most animated I ever get is when I have the car make "vroom vroom" and peeling-out noises as it drives around the Monopoly board.

But, wonder of all wonders, I was actually a joiner this time around and had a kick-ass time playing Scattergories, Encore and some game whose name I don't remember. All I know is that you're handed a beeping device with a word on it and you have to describe that word to your team. It's like Password and Hot Potato all rolled into one. And it's VERY stressful! It dredged up feelings of playing Musical Chairs at birthday parties way back when -- the adrenalin-fueled panic, the hysteria, the utter lack of concern for others in your path as you were allowed briefly to bump, jostle and step on toes if need be. And then, ultimately, the embarrassment when the best you could manage was like one butt cheek on the corner of a chair when the music stopped. So yeah, it was kinda like that when the timer ran out on you in this game.

I really liked Scattergories but I still have a few things to learn apparently. Like in one round, the assigned letter was "F" and the topic was "A four-letter word." I naturally assumed it meant something profane. Now, if you're familiar with the game, you try to pick a word that you think your opponents won't have. Keeping this in mind, I decided to skip over the obvious 4-letter word starting with "F" and opted instead for "fart." Yes, it's more crude than profane but I didn't think anyone would challenge me. Imagine my surprise during the reveal when my opponents said words like "fish" and "file." Oh. It actually called for just your basic four-letter word as opposed to a four-letter word. I felt a bit sheepish at first but it turns out that the multi-talented Kris applied the very same "logic" and arrived at the word "fart" as well. There's a reason Kris and I are friends.

Another guest, Tim, brought his own Dance Dance Revolution set-up and was kind enough to demonstrate how to play. For the uninitiated, that's the game where you follow the arrows on the screen and try to match them with your feet on a labeled pad. Or as Amy, after several glasses of wine observed, "Oh, it's almost like Bang... the... um, Chipmunk... Down!"

Whack-a-Mole/Bang the Chipmunk Down -- same difference.

dingleberries by definition

I was just looking through some pictures from my sister's wedding and I came across one of a childhood friend who lived in our old neighborhood. We'll call her Tilly to make things easier on both reader and author. So years ago when Tilly was best pals with my recently-betrothed sister, I often hung out with Tilly's younger brother (let's call him Arnold).

Arnold and I could almost always be found playing with Star Wars action figures and Matchbox cars. Lest you think I was a total tomboy lesbo in-the-making, I'll have you know that I was playing with Barbies on alternate days. And for the record, the dolls were always impeccably dressed and not one of them ever played golf or worked for a non-profit. Oh, and when I did play with Matchbox cars, I always selected a Le Car (mustard yellow with an open-and-close hatchback) or a ragtop red Lincoln Continental. Make of that what you will, armchair psychologists.

ANYhoo, the mother of these neighbors was a stay-at-home mom who often passed the time with various crafty projects. One day we entered their backyard to find signs hung on the privacy fence around the pool. Because many neighborhood kids used to swim there and because she had the time to do it, the mother made her own signs similar to "Welcome to our ool. Notice there's no P in it. Let's keep it that way." Her homemade signs were neatly printed in blue ink on beveled wooden boards and were suspended from the fence by blue-and-white waxy clothesline rope. A few of her ground rules:

:: No running

:: No P'ing (I remember she made the "P" really big and thick)

:: Please don't pee in our pool. We don't swim in your toilet. (She obviously felt strongly about this)

:: No diving

:: No dingleberries

On the latter sign, the neighbor's mother drew three little circles in a triangular formation right next to the lettering. I remember questioning the meaning of the word dingleberry and was told by Arnold that it was another word for fart. So I gave the sign a closer look and surmised that the three little circles represented tell-tale air bubbles. I was on board with the whole no diving thing but I didn't think that farting in a pool warranted a whole rule devoted to it. It's not like it tore the lining, clogged the filter or caused permanent paralysis or anything like that. I felt it to be frivolous. Regardless, I was delighted with the new word I had learned and called everyone a dingleberry for months afterward.

Fast forward several years later to me in a car listening to The Howard Stern Show. As frequent listeners know, Howard often regales the audience with tales of his battles with post-pooping clean-up. In short, the man is the King of All Skidmarks. So in the course of the broadcast, the term dingleberry came up often and not in the context to which I was accustomed. I became confused and voiced my befuddlement to a friend. Luckily, she was able to fill me in on its actual meaning. Imagine my surprise in a later conversation when my 70-year-old uncle used the term properly. Well, he called it a "dangleberry" truth be told but at least he knew that it was a wee ball of poop in question and not a toot, if you will. Don't even ask why this was being discussed.

It then occurred to me that the put-down I used for years was a far more wicked and diabolical insult than I had realized. The looks of shock and hurt it registered now made much more sense. Some of those kids really deserved to be called a piece of shit dangling from one's ass. But not all of them did. In that moment, I felt victorious and remorseful in one fell swoop.

Now here's where it gets slightly Telephone Game-like -- was the neighbor's mother mistaken when she made the sign or did her son interpret it wrong? Because of Arnold, I taught other kids that dingleberry=fart. A wealth of misinformation sprung from that boy. But that's not to say that his mother was in the wrong. Maybe she knew the real meaning and those three little balls she drew didn't signify air bubbles at all. Perhaps she grew tired of skimming mini turds out of the pool and decided to lay down the law. What I do know is that between this incident and his insistence that we watch the likes of No Retreat, No Surrender and Raw Deal, Arnold gave me many a bum steer during our friendship. Bum. Hee hee hee.

in the merry old land of oz

I've never been to Australia but from what I understand, it's GORGEOUS. I would really love to visit and see for myself. After checking my site statistics tonight, I really need to make this trip. Thanks to StatCounter, I think I inadvertently learned a new bit of Aussie slang and I'm eager to test it out. No doubt it will help me stand out from the other Yanks who will only be talking about shrimp on the barbie and all that waltzing Matilda's apparently been doing.

My plan is to make my way to the continent, approach a local and call him/her a "freckle fart." Yes, a freckle fart. Why? Well, from what I can gather, someone Down Under was rendered SO speechless by this put-down that he/she felt compelled to Google "comebacks for if someone calls you a freckle fart." Apparently, it's quite the burn in Brisbane, Australia and somehow, Google decided that my humble blog was a viable solution to this verbal scourge.

Now I'm quite certain that I've written all of those words individually but just never in the same sentence. I sincerely apologize for the confusion, mate. I'm even sorrier to report that I don't have a good retort other than the standard-issue and very American "Fuck you!"

If you're averse to using profanity, I guess you could retaliate with sheer logic. To my knowledge, human emissions do not have freckles or any other blemish for that matter. Sure, gas can smell to high heaven but in terms of sun damage, I think it's safe to say it doesn't suffer from it. Let science speak for itself, if you'd rather not be potty-mouthed.

Again, I'm partial to a good old-fashioned "Oh, go fuck yourself" but I understand and respect that certain folks are a bit gun shy when it comes to dropping the F bomb. Regardless of your strategy, I wish you luck!

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to Orbitz to check fares to Sydney...

it's all fun and games until someone gets pelted with a coors light

Those of you who read my blog with any regularity are well aware of my seemingly normal family life. I've got the British immigrant parents who raised their four daughters to behave in public and at family gatherings in such a way as to not incite gossip and whispering. Even though I can be quite potty-mouthed in this forum and with my friends, I don't dare curse in the company of my parents, relatives and/or the elderly. My sisters are all the same. I don't mean to imply that my parents are stodgy and overly restrictive but we can enjoy a good laugh without introducing bodily functions and overt sexual references into the mix. I kinda dig this aspect to our relationship. I don't really need or want to hear my mother or father telling off-color jokes. I really don't.

I have two first cousins on my mother's side who are the exact opposite of us. Even though they are the spawn of my mother's brother, they could not be more different.

The female cousin owns a McMansion near the Jersey Shore and insists on hosting most holidays there. A party at her house wouldn't be complete without Costco meatballs, fart jokes and some sort of altercation between her feuding in-laws. And they can get really ugly. There are profane tirades, overturned chairs and dramatic exits. While it still shocks and appalls us, my immediate family has grown quite used to it. We just stand back and let the sparks fly... and then talk about them the whole way home, of course.

The only one who can't get over it is my mother. She's the link in this family chain yet she's the most offended by these gatherings. She has yet to successfully figure out how to tune out the male cousin who takes great pleasure in sitting next to her with a steaming plate of beans while singing, "Beans beans are good for your heart..." Um, the male cousin is 34 years old.

The female cousin has a mouth on her that could peel paint. You do NOT want to get on her bad side as she will tear you a new one in seconds flat. Her choice of language makes my mother's ears bleed. One year, the male cousin thought it would be funny to play horsey on his knee with one of his nieces. Too bad she was wearing a loaded diaper and was very prone to diaper rash. Once the female cousin saw what was happening, she screamed, "How would you like your ass caked with a diaper full of shit?!?" Oh, she's a classy one that cousin o' mine. My mother looked at my cousin with such contempt. It borders on hatred at times, I think.

The female cousin's mother-in-law is also a piece of work. She gets into fights at most, if not all, of these events. At last year's gala, she barely dodged a beer that came flying at her after she mouthed off at someone. That's no small feat considering she's morbidly obese and not exactly agile. She's also very blunt and spares no one with her take on situations. There are usually no less than three dogs running around at these functions. One of them has a severe reaction to table food and is not allowed anywhere near it. A guest did not know this and was about to feed the wee corgie when the mother-in-law bellowed from her perch in the kitchen, "Don't feed the dawg table food!!! She gets dia-rear!" [spelled phonetically for emphasis]. Ah, such a heartwarming soundtrack to the Christmas dinner.

This weekend's party saw a near fistfight between a man and a woman. Apparently there was some leftover bad blood from another party and it surfaced in the form of a lashing with a wet pool noodle. For real. All I know is that I was bouncing with my niece and a few other kids on a trampoline when the fracas took place. My nosy gene took hold and I jumped off the trampoline leaving a bunch of small kids bouncing precariously in my wake. I missed most of the good stuff but the arguments and related dust-ups that followed were quite entertaining.

I think at the next event where people are somewhat well-behaved, I'll announce my lesbianism at a really inopportune moment to keep the Springer-like atmosphere going. Every family needs a tradition after all.

the snowsuit

Frank was this really cool older guy from Jersey City who often hung around in my neighborhood. His girlfriend Donna lived around the corner from me and everyone in the neighborhood thought they were just the most awesome couple ever. She had mountains of teased curly hair on her head, caked-on makeup, fuck-me pumps and a fire-engine red Trans Am. I wanted to be Donna. All the younger kids often sat on Donna's front stoop and talked to her and Frank while we nursed our sexual and non-sexual crushes alike. My younger sister and I hung on Frank's every word. One day he told us a joke that we thought was the funniest thing ever. "Hey girls, how do you spell diarrhea?" We attempted to spell it and he stopped us and said, "No. It's D-I-dash-two-farts-and-a-splash!" I didn't think I'd ever stop laughing. I nearly gave myself a case of "the cha" from all that abdominal heaving.

The next day I went shopping with my younger sister, my cousin, my aunt and my mother. For some reason, the younger sister and I thought it would be cool to have full-length snowsuits. Yes, you read that right. I was about 11 and she was 9. I had no business wearing a snowsuit at that age. Yet, I wanted one. The cousin was seriously into hunting so he came along with my aunt to stock up on layered clothing at the factory outlet. I picked out a red snowsuit and the younger sister got an identical one in blue. There was a diamond-shaped patch on the left shoulder with an embroidered skier on it. I felt like Suzy Chapstick with my new ensemble. We were pleased with our purchases and left.

I don't remember why but my mother and aunt had to go back into the store. We were left alone in the car with the cousin who, I might add, could be a real prick when he wanted to be. But he was older and the younger sister and I were always in a bid to make our older siblings and cousins think we were cool. So the sister said to him, "Hey, do you know how to spell diarrhea?" I didn't want to be left out so I joined in and we squealed and laughed our way through the punchline. We saw the aunt and the mother approaching and quickly squelched the raucous giggling and swore the cousin to secrecy since our mother did not like that kind of talk. In our family, getting caught telling a joke with the word "fart" in it was just as damning as getting caught snorting a pound of coke. In my mother's eyes, the two crimes were equal in severity.

The car doors opened and the aunt and the mother immediately asked us what we were up to. The younger sister and I were as thick as thieves and were used to forming a united front. "Nothing!" we chimed in unison. I looked over towards the cousin and saw the evil glimmer in his eye. I knew we were doomed. He said through a wicked grin, "Guess what joke I just learned?" My sister and I looked panic-stricken. We begged and pleaded with our eyes for him to shut up. But with much pleasure and gusto, he repeated word-for-word our new favorite joke. My mother was incensed because not only were her two wee girls dealing in crude jokes, but she was made to look bad in front of her gossipy sister-in-law. She said, "I have a good mind to march you back into that store and return those snowsuits!" NOOOOOOOOOOOOO! We protested, apologized and groveled profusely and the mother soon relented. We did get a severe talking to when we got home though but the snowsuits were at least safe.

A few weeks later we had a significant snowfall. The younger sister and I were thrilled to put on our snowsuits and go out and play without getting all cold and soggy. We weren't out the door 10 minutes before someone made fun of our outfits. I wanted no part of mine anymore. After lunch I tried going out with my old jacket and pants but my mother ordered me back inside to put the snowsuit on. The younger sister was equally pissed to be wearing such an obvious target for ridicule. What were we thinking when we asked for these?!?! At least that time when we convinced the mother in the supermarket that we liked Kix, we were able pawn off the cereal on the two older sisters when we realized that it wasn't all sweet and sugary. Otherwise, what's the point of eating it? But we were stuck in this case. A snowsuit is not edible. We not only hounded our mother to buy these things but we even rescued them when they were nearly taken from us!!!

I don't know if there were two more miserable-looking kids out there on the snow piles. I had to wear it a few more times before I outgrew it but I did try repeatedly to ditch it. But the mother wouldn't allow it. It didn't occur to me then but the younger sister and I should have just banded together and said, "Hey ma! How do you spell diarrhea?"

no gas shortage here

So I replied to a woman through Craigslist this past week and she immediately wrote back and gave me her phone number. Truthfully, the immediacy of her response and the request to be called right away set off some alarms in my head but I ignored them. I proceeded because I haven't had much dating success lately and I'm making a concerted effort to be less of a fussy pants. So I called and left her a message. I didn't hear from her for a day or two and actually, I was glad. I received her picture after I called her and well, she's just not my type. She dresses like a suburban mom. I'm no fashion plate but even on my worst day, I could never be confused with someone who shot out three kids and regularly attends PTA meetings.

When I hadn't heard back from her, I thought I dodged a bullet. However, I returned home last night to find a message from her on the machine. D'oh! She rambled on for a good 10 minutes and left several phone numbers and spelled out her email address to ensure that I'd call or write back. Halfway through her blather, her voice sounded rather muffled. I thought it was the machine or a bad connection but then she said, "Excuuuuuuuuuse me! I just burped. Well, actually, burped is the polite word. Belched is more like it!" Um, is she TRYING to make me hate her?!?! If I'm in a love with a woman, she can fart and belch up a storm and I'll think it's charming. If a woman does that during the getting-to-know-you stage, she's finished. I was beyond grossed out.

A few years ago a woman contacted me through an online dating site. We emailed back and forth a bit and decided a phone call was in order. She sent me a picture on the day we had scheduled our chat. She was wearing a baseball cap and Tevas. I believe both should be worn for function, not fashion. If you're not on a beach or near a marina, take them sandals off before I strangle you with the Velcro straps. She was already at a disadvantage but I went through with the phone call anyway. The conversation was as dry as toast. Boooooring. Also, I don't know if she had recently consumed soda or what but she did quite a few of those barely audible burp-and-blows. I was horrified. "So I live on ::burp-whew!:: Long Island ::burp-whew!:: and I ::burp-whew!:: like to ::burp-whew!:: go the movies ::burp-whew!:: and watch ::burp-whew!:: Ally McBeal. What ::burp-whew!:: about ::burp-whew!:: you?" That girl is lucky the answer wasn't a dial tone.

I didn't think I'd have to say this, but to all potential suitors, if you're feeling a touch gassy, kindly press the mute button. If one does sneak out, as in the most recent case, just keep talking and don't even acknowledge it. I know I said I wanted to stop being so particular, but courtesy -- and an appropriate level of shame -- will forever remain mandatory.

the accused

Today for lunch I bought a nice, steaming large cup of cream of broccoli soup from Hale & Hearty. I heart H&H. I keep them in business. But the aroma of today's selection was quite pungent. I was transporting the soup back to my office and the smell immediately filled the confined space of the elevator in the short trip from the lobby to the 4th floor.

In other words, the elevator was a moving Dutch oven, so to speak.

A woman on the elevator looked at me disapprovingly because, I'm guessing, she thought the smell was coming from my nether regions as opposed to the bag I was holding.

What do you say? "I realize it smells like a fart in here but that was so NOT me. It's the broccoli, ma'am, the broccoli."

Had I been feeling a bit mischievous, I may very well have gotten into the whole "Whoever smelt it dealt it" debate but then again, she could have countered with, "Whoever denied it supplied it" and then where would I be? "Oh yeah, well whoever... um... uh... JUST SHUT UP!"

False accusations of farting are following me today. I just went to the ladies room to do my afternoon tinkle and as I was crouching, my sandal-clad foot slid forward on the tile.

These tiles are those small, slightly raised cubes with really grungy grout in between them. The bathroom is ancient and its acoustics lend for some unfortunate echoing. Luckily for me, I can't poop at work. I physically cannot do it. I rarely do it outside of my home. It's a hang up I have but not a bad one, I might add.

Other people's digestive schedules dictate that they visit the can during work hours and I feel sorry for them. I can feel the tension in the air when they're already mid-poop and others enter the bathroom. I know they're hoping we'll just hurry up and get the hell out so they can finish in peace and solitude. I respect that and try to accommodate them.

But my point is, any noises and sound effects that blare from my stall are fake. Like today's experience -- as I was saying, my sandal scooted forward on the tile making a rather unfortunate, flatulent noise. I was mortified. I wanted to yell, "It was my shoe!"

I even tried making the noise deliberately several more times in the hopes that my coworkers would realize that the noise was not man-made. There was a pooper several stalls down so she was probably relieved that someone deflected the attention from her drop off. I feel like I did her a favor or something. My good deed for the day is done.

paradise lost

So I was home visiting the parents today in honor of Mother's Day. During the usual Sunday morning post-Mass fry (you Brits and Irish will know of which I speak), we were chit-chatting about various things: recent headlines, marriages and deaths of people we know, etc. Somehow Nintendo managed to sneak into the conversation (but doesn't it always?!) Before long, I was engaged in a good 15 to 20-minute long Duck Hunt and Double Dribble-inspired reverie. 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. I'm terrible with names but to this day, I can remember and capitalize on the weaknesses of most of the opponents in Mike Tyson's Punchout! I actually dusted off the Nintendo a couple of years ago and played a few games with a friend. I fully recognized the absurdity of the moment as I assumed the role of ring-side trainer and barked orders:

Give him a quick jab in the stomach first! When his trunks fall down and he goes to hitch them up, unleash a series of left and right hooks to his unprotected mouth!

Sure enough, King Hippo staggered backwards and was down for the count. As my friend savored her victory (and dramatically yelled, "Adriaaaaaaaaannnne!") I felt just like Mickey... except not all grizzled and decrepit.

I'm totally fiending Nintendo now. I looked for it in my mom's basement today but couldn't find it. You see, my father has a bad habit of "organizing" things in such a way that no one can ever find them again without tearing the house asunder. He has been known to put things in the rafters and behind drop-ceiling panels. Now, normally I would applaud such space-saving ingenuity if only he could remember his secret hiding places. So, while my craving goes unsatisfied, Nintendo is no doubt buried in the backyard or propping up a support beam in the attic never to be found again. If by some miracle my father has a brain fart and remembers the location, I'm taking that bad boy back to Brooklyn with me where I will host a party in its honor. Come to mama, Rad Racer.