resurrection... sort of

Hello! This is just a wee drive-by to check in and shamelessly solicit comments about how much you've all missed me. Go on. Comment, dammit.

So, how have ya been? I'm good but still ridiculously swamped with work and life in general. However, I do I find myself emerging from the cold, dark winter. In fact, I'm feeling downright antsy in anticipation of the warmer weather. I want go to out and do new things and resurrect some of my old hobbies and interests.

Speaking of which, American Midol, my other blog, is still going strong. For those of you in the deep throes of Curly withdrawal (oh, but it's a painful affliction, isn't it?), I invite you to share in some of my sass over at the cheeky tribute to American Idol, co-authored by The Lovely Jess, Not-So-Sweet (but in a good way) Melissa and the deliciously cantankerous Mejack.

You know you watch it. You know you even vote. Embrace your addiction. We do.

Let's see, what else? Oh, congrats to the wonderful Dorothy Snarker of Dorothy Surrenders. She's the winner the 2007 Lesbian Lifestyle Blog of the Year Award. Congrats also to my peeps, Sinclair Sexsmith, Lori Hahn and Riese for their well-deserved nominations.

Things with Glamour Puss are still humming along. She's super cool. She's so cool, in fact, that I'm going to give her The Kick-Ass K-mart Bike. I'm in the market for something a bit lighter (for storage purposes, see) and GP was totally robbed of her bike a few years back. So, she inherits my phat ride, I get a hot new set of wheels and the two of us ride around together, further cementing our status as a nauseatingly-sweet couple. We're so gross. It's awesome.

Speaking of storage, oh my God, you guys, I am just about done with Operation Tiny Wee Studio Overhaul! I have a couple of more small things to get and some paint touch-ups to do but the majority of the work is done. My apartment is still ridiculously small and I still have my adult bunk bed but everything else has been shuffled around or replaced entirely making it seem like a whole new apartment. There's fresh paint on the walls, a new area rug, ottomans, curtains and all that other stuff that I never ever thought I'd be excited about. It's shocking how much time I spent comparing curtain panels. Shocking, I tell you!

Lastly, Happy St. Patrick's Day to my fellow Irish and those of you who like to pretend to be on this day. For your reading pleasure, here's something from the archives:

:: Erin Go A-Cup Bragh

Talk to you soon,
Curly

merry christmas!

I'm off to spend Christmas with the McDimples. One of the activities we'll be partaking in is watching Christmas Eve on Sesame Street tomorrow. Last year, my nephew sat on my lap rapt in attention. This year he's much more feisty so there are no guarantees we'll watch it uninterrupted but I'll sure as hell try. Thanks to the wonder that is YouTube, you too can share in the awesomeness of this holiday special:

Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6
Part 7

Merry Christmas to all! Back soon.

Love,
Curly

jingle bells and crap

Hoo lawdy, it's been a long time since I posted. Sorry about that. Work has been utterly crazy lately. On the upside, I received a bonus for all my hard work. I'm also on vacation this week. I finally managed to get caught up on sleep and put a dent in my Christmas shopping. I still have a fair amount to do but the bulk of it is taken care of.

Let's see... what else? Oh, I went to a Christmas party at my younger sister's place and ended up hurling in the Path station afterwards. A sure sign that a good time was had. You know, up until the puking. But damn, I felt better afterwards.

On a more serious note, Best Friend Since Kindergarten is going through the emotional wringer right now. A good portion of my time has been spent fielding her phone calls and text messages to help her through a rough time. I can't and won't get into the specifics because it's her story to tell, not mine, but, while it's no burden whatsoever to support a friend, it's really taking an emotional toll. I simply cannot stop thinking about her.

It's sometimes hard to find the right words so I just listen without prejudice and try my best to give her helpful, honest encouragement and support. One of the bits of advice I gave her is to do what I did here -- write it out. She doesn't have a blog nor do I expect her to start one but she seemed open to the idea of sitting down and writing down her story. Here's hoping her experience is as helpful and therapeutic as mine.

In other news, my other blog, American Midol, is up and running again in anticipation of the new season (starts January 15). Other than updating the season premiere graphic, I haven't done a damn thing over there. All credit goes to my talented co-bloggers. Speaking of which, Melissa McGee, a frequent commenter here has joined our ranks over at Midol and we are beyond elated. She's a clever broad, that Melissa McGee.

Okay, I need to split but I do promise to write again before Christmas. Here are some holiday-themed posts to hold you over until then:

:: They Do Know... They Just Don't Care

:: The Alan Alda Sensitivity Project: Holiday Edition

:: 10 Things I Can Be Sure of over the Holidays

:: Season Greetings from Curly and The Hoff

:: Kipper

stay out of the light

I hope you all had an enjoyable holiday. I had a lovely time with the McDimples, as always. Because I'm a bitchin' aunt, I braved the crowds and took The Adorable Seven-Year-Old Niece to the Macy's Thanksgiving Parade. Here are a few snaps from the event...

Um, is it just me or do Abby Cadabby, Scooby Doo and Snoopy all look like they're off to meet their maker?

Oh and speaking of sick and twisted, here's a random pair of shoes mashed under a gate...

I have many questions. For example, what happened to the person wearing them? Is this the punishment for being the last one out nowadays? Slamming the gate down on a person who isn't stepping lively? Is labeling someone a "rotten egg" too passé? Sheesh, that's harsh.

Here are some other properly-exposed and less-morbid pictures from the parade. Enjoy!

pre-thanksgiving leftovers

It's time once again, boys and girls, to resurrect my infamous take on the beloved holiday special, A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving.

It's become a tradition of sorts to share this tale with blog readers old and new. Translation: I'm too lazy to write something new every year. So, here, for your annual enjoyment, is On Thanksgiving and Why I Think Peppermint Patty Is a Big Ol' Bitch.

For your further entertainment, here's a great story of a family who celebrates "Snoopy Thanksgiving" every year. Complete with pictures of the unconventional feast! How awesome is that?

In case you've missed it, A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving will air Tuesday, November 20 at 8/7 C on ABC.

Happy Thanksgiving!

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!

oh, i could write a sonnet...

Parents of young boys are faced with a very tough decision this Easter...

Click to enlarge

Do they go with the staid lavender get-up, the plaid pimp suit or the "Mambo No. 5" ensemble?

Tough call, but I vote for the Lou Bega look.

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

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.

they do know... they just don't care

In addition to brilliant writing, The Sheila Variations also boasts a band of regular commenters who excel at providing hilarious commentary. The tangents that often ensue are delightful. In fact, I was inspired to compose the following letter thanks to a wonderfully off-topic comment thread that began with talk of a deflated Santa and ended with a lyrical analysis of Band Aid's earnest yet erroneous "Do They Know It's Christmas?"

Please read the post and comments to see how that transpired. In the meantime, here's the byproduct of my hijacking. Enjoy.

Dear Messrs. Geldof and Ure:

Thank you for your noble famine relief efforts. On behalf of the African people, I would like to convey our appreciation for your selfless dedication and desire to "feed the world." Although, truthfully, as non-Christians we could do without the accompanying relentless proselytizing about Christmas but still, we are nevertheless indebted to your tireless humanitarian pursuits.

However, I do believe it is incumbent upon me to clear up some misconceptions you seem to hold towards our beautiful continent. Firstly, I dare say the agricultural industry would beg to differ with your statement that "nothing ever grows" in Africa. In fact, my garden alone sprouts enough weeds to choke an elephant.

Secondly, the good people of Ethiopia, Kenya, and Somalia who were recently displaced by flooding would most certainly disagree with the notion that "no rain or rivers flow." That, kind sirs, is sloppy and irresponsible reporting on your part.

And, lastly, I think you do our bell makers a great disservice by describing the melodic and resonant tones of their craftsmanship as "clanging chimes of doom." While not one of our bread-and-butter industries, our bells and percussion instruments in general are no better nor worse than your own continent's. Frankly, we feel this is yet another case of xenophobia rearing its ugly -- and obviously tone-deaf -- head.

Again, we are grateful for the money you helped raise and we are most thankful for the prayers you solicited on our behalf. But, to reiterate, we really don't need reminders that "it's Christmastime again" as we don't really celebrate it. At this point, it has become nothing more than intolerant badgering and we are weighing our legal options.

But, in deference to your season of good will as well as our desire to not contribute to your alarming paranoia about living in "a world of dread and fear," we would like to avoid litigation if possible. Perhaps you can pen a follow-up single to retract some of the falsehoods about our climate and topography as well as your cruel and slanderous claims against African bells, of all things. I'm certain the members of Bananarama, Ultravox and Spandau Ballet, in particular, would jump at the chance to help right these wrongs.

Thank you for your prompt attention to this matter.

Sincerely,

Nala Simba Mufasa
President, African Board of Tourism

Watch the video here.

what's cooler than bein' cool?

Sally Brown shakin' it like a Polaroid picture, that's what...

(via TV Squad)

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.

a tradition of sorts

Thanks to my trusty StatCounter, I can see that lots o' people are finding my site because of their interest in the cultural wonder that is A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving.

Why are these holiday special-minded Googlers finding Ham & Cheese on Wry, you ask? Could it be... oh, I don't know... because I called one of the Peanuts players a snatch?! Of course, there's also the time that I outed two of them...

Either way, welcome. Oh, and Happy Thanksgiving!

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!

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

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.

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Happy Halloween!

a minor breakthrough

I am what you'd call fussy. And impatient. I like things to be just so. I am very particular about what I eat, where I'll eat it and where I'll buy and prepare what I eat. Shades of Lloyd Dobler, no?

I'm sure that sounds dreadful to you and you're probably pitying anyone with the bad sense and misfortune to get mixed up with me. To that I say, fuck off, you judgmental asswipe!

But I kid the judgmental asswipes... I wouldn't go so far as to say I'm a pain in the ass because I do try to keep my neuroses contained. I don't expect others to work with or around my quirks. I will ask that people not slather my portion with mayonnaise and/or leave the cole slaw off the plate entirely, but beyond that, I don't issue When Harry Met Sally-like directives to family/friends/waitstaff about how things should be prepared. I keep it simple. And I stick with what's safe and tested. It works for me.

When it comes to shopping for clothes, I'm just as fussy and narrowly-focused. I have a handful of stores that I am very loyal to. I know without even trying things on which size I am in each of them. I utilize the wonder that is online shopping whenever possible. Rarely do I have to return anything because it's too big or small. I've got ecommerce down to a finely-tuned, anti-social science.

I favor the organized, crisp layout of the Gap's, Anthropologie's and J. Crew's online offerings. Their actual stores are decent... provided you go at the right time of day. Ideally, everything is folded or hung on a rack according to size. It makes for a convenient and thus, pleasant, shopping experience for moi. If the stores are looking at all bombed-out, I leave and come back at an off-peak time. For me, a quiet, orderly store is pure bliss.

Neat stacks, organized loose-fitting racks and logically-located size stickers are a requirement for me. Stores that don't adhere to this policy do not get my business. I don't peruse jammed, bursting-at-the-seams racks nor do I sift through comingled bins. If the layout isn't clean and ordered, I get quite pissy. Before you protest, I fully realize that I miss out on many a bargain because of this. However! My disdain for disorder is far stronger than my desire to save 20 percent on famous maker goods. Ew, I just said "goods." I hate that word.

Shopping is not a sport for me. There is no thrill in the hunt. No satisfaction from a bargain gained. Well, that's not true. I loves me a good sale but I'm not going to throw elbows and stampede the less fit to get it. If I happen upon something reduced in price, awesome. Bargains come my way through happenstance, not through strategy or effort. God forbid.

So yes, I miss out on bargain blowouts but that extra money I don't save ensures my sanity. Those few dollars (and 15mg of Paxil) go towards keeping me stable and good-natured. I don't see the value in paying less for a designer top or some shoes when I'm guaranteed to be wearing ill-fitting cranky pants for the rest of the day. It does not compute.

Yesterday I ventured out from behind the computer and did a bit of actual shopping. I left the satisfying and safe confines of virtual stores and went face-to-face with people who don't know how to say "Excuse me" or yield to the right of way. Fucking bastards.

Oh and what's this business with cashiers saying, "Can I help the following guest?" Following? What's that about? Is that supposed to make feel better than the cashier yelling "NEXT!"?!?! 'Cause it doesn't. They're still snotty about the whole thing. For me, it's the tone of the cashier, not what he/she says. The phrasing is secondary to the 'tude that presents it. Apathetic rudeness is apathetic rudeness no matter how fancy and calculated the spiel is. I'm sure tons of market studies were done and training sessions held so that the employees of Bath and Body Works would robotically utter this statement but I'm still not sure why. Anyone? Anyone?

But, as usual, I digress... As I was saying, I did a bit of shopping in the 'hood yesterday. Against my better judgment, I went into Daffy's. I surveyed the scene, turned around on my heel and walked right out. What the fuck are T-Fal pots and pans doing right next to the shoe racks? And why are smelly candles and pot pourri kissing the clothes racks? That store (at least the one in Brooklyn's Atlantic Center) is a complete shambles. It made me instantly irate so I fled the scene.

I then engaged in a bit of retail therapy at the nearby Target. The savage inner beast was soothed and my appetite for materialistic possessions was satiated. At very reasonable prices, I might add. God, I would fuck Target if I could.

I'm in the market for some new jeans and some cute summer-y tops so I walked over to Old Navy to see what they had to offer. I've got money left on a gift card and it's positively scorching a hole in my pocket. But nothing really jumped out at me and the line was ridiculously long so there was no danger of an impulse buy. I tend to buy stupid stuff with gift cards, you see. It's like a sickness.

Despite my aversion to that breed of retail, I went into Marshall's, which is right upstairs from Old Navy. I'm on vacation this week so my temperament has been recharged and restored to near-calm levels. I've also got time to burn so I figured it couldn't hurt to go outside my comfort zone and take a quick gander at the discount merch in this much-ballyhooed store. I'm in need of a cute pair of sneakers and I thought I might score a nifty pair of Pumas or some such. I don't want running ones or anything practical like that. I just want some cute kicks to finish off some of my more casual ensembles. Which is, um, all of them.

So I walked in and it was like my worst nightmare come true. Shoes and sneakers bound by those plastic cord things in overflowing, randomly-placed bins; row after row of garments practically popping off of the overstuffed racks trying desperately to contain them; the aforementioned illogical juxtaposition of housewares and clothing. It was chaos. There was no rhyme nor reason to it. I was appalled but I decided to brave the mess and see what was what. My desire for sneakers was surprisingly resilient.

My will, however, was not. It held strong for a total of five minutes and then I wanted to leave. Really bad.

This particular Marshall's is a bit of an anomaly. I know stores spend millions on market research. I know that the music that is pumped over the speakers, the temperature and the colors on the walls and floors combine to cast a psychological spell on consumers. We are subliminally enticed to stay and spend. I don't think this Marshall's got the memo from corporate headquarters. I was not in a comfortable mental space in this branch and I wanted out tout de suite.

As I made my way towards the exit, mismatched hangers clung to me and boxes fell from their sloppy piles as I tried to squeeze through the tight quarters. My exit was hindered by this disorganization. I guess that's the genius of it. The merchandise comes alive in a sense to trap you there.

Because I'm a conscientious customer (and because I worked in retail and had to clean up after asshole customers who went through the aisles like a mofo tornado), I always pick up what I knock down... even in disgusting, hellish environments such as this where it makes no difference whatsoever.

I was in quite the snit as I tried to force the woeful culottes back into their presumed rightful place and then... What's this? Oooh! A white, lacy blouse covered with eyelets! I fell instantly in love. It was just like macrame only with short sleeves, pearl buttons and a Mandarin collar. It looked JUST like one I saw in the window of a fancy schmancy Lower East Side boutique (remember that one, Jess?) And now, here was its doppelgänger hanging haphazardly from the end of a whatever-the-fuck-the-employees-decided-to-stick-here rack in the Petites section of Marshall's in Brooklyn.

It totally didn't belong on that rack! Score! For a moment in time, I applauded disorder. Someone's second thought on the way to pay (and sheer laziness to hoof it back to the "proper" rack) was my good fortune. I gasped at the ridiculous price ($14.99) and practically squealed when I saw that it was my size (none o' yo damn biznatch).

Mark this down: May 18, 2006 was the day I made my first purchase at Marshall's. I'm feeling so emboldened that I might even take at crack at T.J. Maxx. Loehmann's is a bit of a stretch at this point. I'm going to have to work up the energy and courage to battle that behemoth.

Baby steps, people, baby steps.

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!

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 socks and in the cold weather months, a navy-blue sleeveless knit vest.

Soon the snow melted and the temperatures increased as did the awareness of our bodies. One by one, my friends shed their sweater vests. Through the somewhat sheer blue blouse, I could see the outline of bra straps and the bump of the clasp in the middle of their backs. My wee buds didn't really need support so I was not yet outfitted for a training bra. It didn't bother me in the slightest.

As the weeks went on, more and more sweater vests were removed to reveal the tell-tale marks of Maidenform, Playtex and the like on my female classmates. I was still unfazed.

And then discussions at lunch turned from sticker albums and Chinese jump ropes to bras and makeup and periods and boys -- all things that were foreign to me. Pretty soon, the girls and boys were making size comparisons and boasting about who they "went with" (kissed). I had nothing to contribute to the exchange of war stories and certainly, nothing to compare. My wee boobs didn't even poke through my shirt.

I was suddenly very aware of my tomboyish body and I felt like Adam and Eve did when they got all weird about being naked after eating the forbidden fruit. I felt ashamed and self-conscious about my lack of a bra. Gone was my blase attitude towards them. I now wanted one more than anything in the world... but I was too embarrassed to ask my mother.

I decided that no one would be any the wiser if I kept wearing my sweater vest. It was my fig leaf. It covered my shame because through its thick wool, no one could tell there weren't straps and a clasp beneath.

Mind you, it was now May and rather hot. Sweat poured off my head but I continued to hide behind that sweater. My plan was to ride out the rest of the school year that way. I thought I was so damn clever... until Jane looked at me with a smirk and cast Jackie a sideways glance and said, "Hey Curly... aren't you hot? Why are you still wearing your sweater?"

"I'm not hot," I shot back, even though my hairline was damp and my cheeks flushed from the heat.

"You should take off your sweater," Jackie suggested.

"Nah, I'm fine," I said with mock cool. My heart was pounding. My blood pressure on the rise. In my head I pleaded with them to just leave me alone.

Jackie and Jane exchanged knowing looks and turned their attention to Mark and Billy.

Perhaps my plan wasn't working after all. But I still didn't want to ask my mother to get me a bra. That seemed UNTHINKABLE to me at the time.

I did a quick visual poll of the girls and it was official -- I was the only free-balling girl in the class. Patricia, my small-chested compadre, had gone over to the dark side. She was showing strap. I clutched my sweater tighter.

Over the next few weeks I suffered through more inquisitions and claims that I was making people hot just by looking at me. Even on the brink of heat stroke, I maintained that I was fine. But eventually the temperature got the best of me and I reluctantly removed the sweater from my ensemble.

I was part of a clique comprised of Jackie, Jane, Patricia, Rosemarie, Julie and Best Friend Since Kindergarten. We ate lunch together as a group, went shopping after school and passed around trashy romance novels. Nicknames became an important part of our friendship. More often that not, they were applied spontaneously. If someone had weird eating habits or was particularly klutzy, a suitable name sprung forth. Eventually, all but two of us had earned a relevant moniker. This was unacceptable to the rest of the group so an entire lunch hour was spent brainstorming names for me and Julie. The nameless were allowed to offer suggestions but we were stripped of veto power.

It was very nerve-wracking. The deliberations were intense and marked by extreme focus. This was serious business. After almost an hour of duds, Best Friend Since Kindergarten's face lit up. She pointed at me excitedly and bellowed, "Curly Go Bra-less!" My pseudonym doesn't do the nickname justice. Without revealing my real name, I will say this: The nickname benefited from alliteration.

I can appreciate the joke now but oh, the humiliation back then! The torment at the hands of my own best friend! That fucking name followed me right through eighth grade, even when it was no longer accurate. I wanted to kick BFSK's ass but really, she did me a favor. I went home after school that day and requested a bra. At first I blushed a lot and then stalled but then the water works started and I broke down and told my mother about my nickname. She got misty and then really annoyed. It really pained her that I was made fun of at school. She said something about those "cheeky wee beggars" and then promised to get me the goods ASAP.

The next day she presented me with my first bra. I'll never forget it -- it was slightly padded with embossed lace and a pink bow in the center. I loved it... and I'm pretty sure it would still fit my wee bumps today.

Happy St. Patrick's Day and sláinte!
Curly Go Bra-less

re: the muppets (part thirteen)

Here's the next -- and last -- installment of my lengthy tome. Please click here for Parts One through Twelve.

~ Part Thirteen~

I wish I could say that when I returned home from Columbia, things stayed on the high road. I wish I could say that I learned my lessons and applied them and that strength and grace were the prevailing themes of the post-break-up version of us. But I can't.

I came back weary, wounded and tired. I didn't quite know what to do with myself. She was part of my existence day in and day out for almost three years. It was hard to have that stripped. She became my habit, as addictive to me as smoking is to some. But in the first few days after I got home, I had reached my saturation point with her. I was tired of being angry and hurt and I didn't want to deal with it anymore. I was sick of feeling that way. I wanted to clear the toxins from my system so I plotted a step-down course to wean me off of her. I planned to slowly phase her out, cut my losses and just get on with my life. Somehow.

Early in our friendship, I created a hidden AOL account that only she knew about. I signed on under that screenname so that we could send instant messages back and forth free from the distraction of others on my buddy list. She loved that I gave her that special access. And she loved that I named the account for an inside joke between us.

After I got back, she continued to send email to that account. Because I didn't want to torture myself with memories and because I wanted to send a clear message that her VIP access had been downgraded, I tersely replied to one of her emails:

Subject: Re: Well?

Hey, from now on can you send email to my main account? I'm going to get rid of this one. I hope you understand.

Thanks,
Curly

It's not what I really wanted but it's what I felt I had to do. Her reply:

Subject: Hmph!

It makes me sad but I understand. I guess I can't have you to myself in our little hideaway anymore...

I don't recall her exact wording but she wrote several more paragraphs in that email. By the time I finished reading, I was incensed. She couldn't just leave well enough alone. I had reached some semblance of calm about the whole thing and she just opened it up again with declarations of love for me and how she was repressing her true feelings.

I didn't think she could destroy me any more than she did with that initial break-up letter she sent but every word from Rice's mouth was a body blow. My anger that night was white hot. I wanted nothing more than to pound on her and return the pain she had caused me. But instead, I sucked it up and hauled my aching carcass back into her room convinced that I had made the biggest mistake in my life, that the whole fairytale romance was just that -- a fairytale. I told myself over and over that I had been fucked over by a little girl who didn't know her ass from her elbow. I HATED swallowing that explanation but it was the only way I could make it through the remaining days in Missouri.

I thought that I'd confront her about it eventually but I found that the explanation sustained me beyond Columbia, beyond two days on a train, beyond a testy explanation to my family why I was home so quickly, beyond unpacking, beyond removing the dozens of pictures of her and us I had on display, beyond describing the details of the trip to my friends. I felt a bit resilient. I wasn't crying. I felt focused. My anger and hurt metabolized into strength and determination. The explanation empowered me.

Until I read that email.

She prattled on about how much she loved me and how hard it was to be so close without being able to touch me; how this was all just as hard on her; how much she sacrificed; and once again how I knew her better than anyone, better than she knew herself.

Everything she said contradicted what Rice told me. I weighed Rice's words against my ex-girlfriend's. And I believed Rice.

I thought about how Lowercase Fucking Ed's picture was on her night stand right next mine -- the first photo of me I had sent her. What exactly was she sacrificing? It was like she put my heart on an altar and performed a Satanic ritual on it. That was the only sacrifice I could recall. She was not to be pitied in this regard.

I thought about how she treated me with such disdain since sending that letter. I was replaced. My presence tired her, my touch, with the exception of one moment of weakness on her part, had no effect. Her treatment of me was the polar opposite of everything she had just described in that email. Apparently, treating me like shit was all part of her charade but since I knew her "better than anyone," I was supposed to understand. I didn't understand and I certainly wasn't going to sign off on it.

I didn't write back right away because my response would have been simply:

Subject: Re: Hmph!

You're certifiably insane. Get help. And then go fuck yourself.

Despite my rage, I had the presence of mind to know that I would quickly regret sending such an email. So I slept on it. Several days.

A few days later I went on a road trip with Best Friend Since Kindergarten and her husband and told them about that email.

"Okay, that girl needs to just shut the fuck up," seethed BFSK.

"Agreed."

"You're not going to let her get away with that, right?"