Tuesday, February 28, 2006
The party was awesome Saturday night. The turnout was great, the mood was light and the bar was stocked. Who can complain about any of that? I think the last guest (Irish, by the way) left maybe around 4:30 am or so (with the exception of the person who passed out in my bed because driving was not an option). My apartment is still trashed.
We had tons of food and I still have tons of alcohol left (party at my place this weekend?). No suck and blow this time. Instead we all went around the room with a book of questions I have (If you could kill an innocent person and save the world from hunger, and not get caught for your crime, would you do it?) Then we moved on to the infamous game of I Never. It's nice to see I wasn't the only person at the party who had spent a night in jail.
The Girl With The Rockin' Bod found the Baby Jesus inside the King Cake, so she went home with a bottle of wine, some bath salts and and a funny swag gag gift from Sunny Delight courtesy of another producer at my station.
Some of the feedback leads me to believe the party was a success. As long as everyone goes home full and happy, I'm pleased.
Well. As much as can be expected considering some extenuating circumstances.
Monday, February 27, 2006
Armed with some liquid courage, I decided to bite the bullet and ask Irish what was up. He's been hanging around a lot and D Money said all the signs were pointing to his being interested in Yours Truly.
It turns out Irish isn't really interested at all. I'm not really devastated because I think he has some baggage that I'm not ready to take on. I don't really want to go into it other than that his criminal record might be a little longer than mine, and I don't know how I feel about that.
He might be interested in my friend, The Girl With The Rockin' Bod, but she just broke up with her boyfriend and told me she's not interested in Irish at all. I guess they had a chance to make it happen a year ago and it didn't really gel.
Onward, ho, to new prospects.
Friday, February 24, 2006
Every weekend it's the same story:
Ruby Sue Jones and Johnny Smith are pleased to announce their engagement. The bride to be is a 1995 graduate of JFK High School in Philadelphia, PA. She has a degree in Engineering from Purdue University. Ruby Sue works as an Electrical Engineer for AlphaForce INC. based in West Chester. Johnny is a 1994 graduate of Washington Prep in Haverford, MA. He has a degree in Anthropology from the University of Kentucky. Johnny is a curator at the Natural History Museum of Northern Kentucky in Newport. The couple will make their home in Hyde Park after a June wedding.
It never fails: I open the Sunday paper and I'm reminded that someone I know/went to school with/dated/hated gets married. Staring at me in black and white in the local rag, I am reminded that I am not keeping up with the Joneses. Or the Smiths. Or the Krysznewskis.
I don't mind weddings. I quite like them, in fact. I'll be in my third wedding next Fall, and I'm honestly really looking forward to it. I know I'm going to be talking about weddings when I see my engaged friends, and I don't mind that. It's expected. It's anticipated. It's enjoyed.
But sometimes a friend's marriage can catch you off guard.
Just this morning, I opened my Yahoo! inbox and discovered that not one, but two friends are celebrating their respective marriages. One friend of mine sent me an email about his engagement a week or two ago. I was a bit surprised when I noticed the wedding pictures in an email this morning. Scrolling down the inbox, I found another email from a dear friend in Colorado (whom I regret I haven't caught up with in a few months) who sent well wishes and the announcement that she was remarried, too.
I am filled with genuine happiness for these old pals. They're two great people and they both showed me that being single can be tons of fun, but their news leads me to wonder whether I'm the only one who is going to miss out on the train to Nuptialsville.
Sometimes the shock and awe is a little more subtle.
Flipping through the pages of Shape, I'll find a workout for brides. This past weekend Martha had an interesting idea in the paper for wedding cakes. Those moments are little landmines that lead me to stare longingly at my left hand.
A few weeks ago I met a man with an unusual confession. In our first conversation, he almost immediately offered that he wants to get married and have kids. It was a great occasion that made me realize I'm not the only one wandering around with this yearning in my heart.
Maybe someday I'll be matched up with my single soul mate.
Thursday, February 23, 2006
I am breaking the law.
It's only my license plates, and they expired in December, so we're not talking months and months of living on the lam. Still, I never thought I'd seriously consider hiding my parked car in various spots of the neighborhood to avoid The Pigs.
Rewind a week ago: I got a parking ticket the night after Valentine's Day. I fully admit: I parked my car in some half assed, no-no parking spot because I was just running in my apartment to make some coffee and grab my lunch before work. I came out looking like a packed camel when I noticed a cop sitting in a parking lot. There I was, ready for a trek across the Mojave, when he says, "You know. If you were out here 15 seconds earlier I wouldn't be writing this ticket."
Well, today's my lucky effin' day then, a**hole, isn't it?
He asked me about my expired tags as he handed me the ticket, and I said I'd take care of it.
So, this week I paid my ticket and settled up with The Man. 40 bucks down the drain for my laziness (and a dash of wanting my car to be close to home since I really don't heart walking far at 1 AM).
Now it seems this cop has a mission.
I stepped out of my apartment tonight and saw a cop car parked behind my Saab, shining a flashlight on the front door of the house near my car. I thought maybe there was a report of a break-in, maybe some other sexy crime dying to be uncovered inside the home. But no.
It was Barney Fife, returning to check out my tags.
Again, packed up for my nightly exodus to work, I look at the cop and see the same officer sitting behind the wheel of the cruiser. He says, "I told you about these tags," and I said, "Yeah. Sorry. I was going to get to it later this week."
Then he kind of waved his little ticket book at me and drove off.
I mean, seriously.
I work at a television station in the middle of the night. I listen to the effin' police scanner and it's not all calls about people stealing packs of gum or hanging out in the park too late. It's calls for shootings, stolen cars, drug deals and other lovely crimes.
And since I live within the city limits, I imagine this Cincinnati police officer has a little more to do than cruise down my street to check up on my Ohio license plate registration.
Tax payer dollars hard at work my ass.
Wednesday, February 22, 2006
I wish I had some valiant story to go along with my latest affliction, something like me wearing a TYR racerback tank suit doing laps like a mean bitch at the gym, scamming on some guy with a build for water polo.
But that would be a total lie, yo.
The story is much less exciting and way more my fault, but it basically boils down to this:
Right now I want some Martian alien to ride on it's magic spaceship to my house and suck out my brain when I'm sleeping, because that would probably take care of all the fluid in my left ear canal, too.
Yesterday I was buying crap for my party. Wish y'all could come because it's going to be grand: Jambalaya, assortment of cheese and crackers, veggies and dip for the WW people and several decadent chocolates/dessert treats for total indulgence. I also have plenty o' wine, beer, bourbon and vodka. Lots of vodka.
I was walking down the aisle at my favorite place to buy groceries, drooling over the olives (esp. the ones stuffed with blue cheese) when I totally ignored some woman.
"Sam's has a way better deal on those."
Five seconds pass.
"Didn't you hear me?", she says with a kind of scowl.
I realized this woman was talking to me, and for a split second I thought about doing something really smart ass like waving my hands around and speaking like I have a hearing handicap. But pretending to be deaf is a straight ticket to hell (or a sure fire way to having deaf kids), so I opted to respond like I was totally out of it (which is a real possibility, anyway).
This whole not hearing thing sucks.
Okay, this is how I got the dreaded Swimmer's Ear. I am a little OCD and develop these little grooming habits. Usually I get obsessed about something simple like tweezing my eyebrows every day, or checking my shoulders for pimples. For the past few months, it's been my ears. Specifically my left ear, and concerns over waxy build-up. I think lately I've been Q-tipping it three times a day. Excessive, I know, but still. I thought it was harmless.
Turns out I had a bunch of cotton shoved up my ear.
I went to the doctor's last Friday and they flushed everything out and gave me a prescription. Cipro for the ears. All I could think about when I got it was Penny Marshall in her Laverne & Shirley voice talking about how she stocked up on a motherload of Cipro after 9-11 and all the Anthrax threats. I paid 40 freakin' dollars for the damn eardrops, which require twice-a-day treatment.
So now my ear is totally full of some expensive-as-crack liquid that's supposed to be making me feel better. My ear drums don't really hurt anymore (beware the Q-tip, friends) but now I can't hear crap.
I know, I know. My life is so hard...
Monday, February 20, 2006
Four jobs I've had:
Four movies I can watch over and over:
Goonies/The Sound of Music/Pulp Fiction/Chocolat
Four places I've lived:
Charlotte, N.C.; Minneapolis, MN; Cincinnati, OH; Madison, CT
Four TV shows I love:
Local 12 Good Morning Cincinnati, Oprah, Desperate Housewives, Days of Our Lives (my graveyard shift schedule has really screwed with my TV watching)
Four highly regarded and recommended TV shows that I've never watched a single minute of:
Arrested Development, Nip/Tuck, The Sopranos, 24
Four places I've vacationed:
Bermuda; London, England; Cape Cod, Massachusetts; Las Vegas, Nevada
Four sites I visit daily:
Go Fug Yourself, wkrc.com, Google, The Cincinnati Enquirer
Four places I'd rather be right now:
In my bed; on a vacation; with my family; at a good restaurant with excellent company
Friday, February 17, 2006
If you were a color, which color would you be, and why?
Red, because with my new (blonde again) hair style and my minus 12.5 lbs, I am red-hot, bi-otch.
When was the last time you went to the doctor, and what was your reason for going?
Wednesday. I decided I'm not going to tolerate my adult acne any longer, so I sought out some face time with the dermatologist. A $20 copay and 60 bucks for four prescriptions (one for that pesky, three-times-a-year cold sore) later, things seem to be getting on the right track.
I am trying to stave off a trip to the internist for my newest ailment: an ear infection.
What do you collect?
Weird. I was just thinking abiut this last night. I collect wheat pennies, unique pint glasses from bars around the world (that I've been to), matches from hip establishments, Tiffany jewelry, personal stories of heartache, sweaters from J Crew, cute handbags and recipes.
What were you like in high school? Name one thing you miss and one thing you don't miss about those days. (If you're still there, imagine how you'll remember it in the future.)
I was a dork. I was one of those artsy fartsy people who did multiple choirs and stage productions. I volunteered a bunch and never went to one wild HS party. One thing I miss: the singing. I was almost a Voice major in college but shunned my most favorite hobby (and I suppose one of my best talents) when my parents said they wouldn't pick up the tab for a major that led to a crappy income. I got them back by picking Journalism. One thing I don't miss: the bad hair and bad clothes. Now that it's my dime, things have gotten a lot better.
Pretend you're standing in front of your home, with your back towards your home. Describe the view - what can you see? Trees? Cars? A zoo? Wal-Mart?
I see a parking lot behind one of Cincinnati's popular pizza chains. I see a funeral home that looks like it came out of the pages of a Bavarian travel magazine. I see cars parked on the street, and an old time theatre very reminiscent of the 20th Century.
Thursday, February 16, 2006
It was a complete reversal of fortune compared to the way I spent Valentine's Day last year.
A few months ago I learned how to turn off the "Looking For A Husband/Boyfriend/Someone to Sleep With" function embedded in my wiring. Honorary Big Sis has always said that's key to actually finding The One. HBS told me I needed to focus on myself, my interests, my friends, and other things having to do with My Life. My. Single. Life.
Once I mastered this, I stopped caring. I stopped wondering which man at the table was the most likely candidate to make his way into my double bed. I stopped wondering why I don't have a BF and I stopped pouring myself over my hair/makeup/wardrobe (who am I? Jessica Simpson?) for the Perfect Ensemble to Snag A Date.
Blech. How pathetic.
I went out to watch the Super Bowl (effin' Steelers) with some friends when The Neighbor came along. He lives near one of my friends and I had met him a few months ago, sometime after I stopped caring about the men I met at bars and other social events.
At 37, Irish is a little bit older than I am, but not enough to make a huge difference. He and I had a great time talking during the football game. At one point, we were totally engrossed in convo, ignoring the other two people sitting at the table. When our friends went to the restroom, Irish made a surprising confession.
"I really want to get married and have kids. I'm getting older and I hope I find someone."
Well damn. The shock hit me like the impact of a 16 wheeler Mac truck. Since when do attractive, viable men make such a revelation to a woman they barely know?
You'll be proud to know I kept the poker face on. This was not a good moment to gush back, "Me too! When are we going to Vegas? My uterus isn't taken!!"
Instead, I kept my thoughts to myself and continued to talk to this handsome man, pouring his heart out to me.
My gal pal D Money knows how I've pretty much pulled the emergency break on any advances towards men, so she slyly mentioned to our table mates that we each had tickets to Joseph, and "Do you all want to go with us?"
We knew our friend The Girl With The Rockin Bod would be in, we were just surprised that Irish was just as eager.
Fast forward to Valentine's. TGWTRB actually couldn't go because she actually has a boyfriend and actually had to spend the holiday in some state of actual or figurative bliss with him.
But Irish wanted to go.
Did I mention my nerves led me to bite off all my nails?
We had a great time. D Money rounded up some other date so we got to enjoy the evening as little, superimposed couples. We turned up at a charming bar across the street from the Broadway venue and Irish was a picture of perfection. Pressed blue Polo oxford, navy sportcoat, great slacks. We got the convo ball started rolling and I was smitten.
After the first half of Joseph was over, Irish and I walked to the lobby and he surprised me with a glass of red wine when I returned from the restroom. We chatted inside the theatre long after the second half started, he sharing with me how much he loves theatre, ballet, museums and the like. I know what some of you are thinking, and no. He's just cultured. I have to say, I have a lot more in common with this kind of guy than I do someone a rabid sports nut (no offense intended, NB-C. You know how little I'm interested in sports.) He told me about some of the best seats he's had for other performances (ps. Irish says you can see the best version of the Swan Lake ballet in Moscow).
We talked about traveling and some of his interesting experiences living in spots around the world.
Irish chided me to come out for a drink after the show, even though I had my heart set on a nap before my graveyard shift started.
Our little foursome headed to a different, chic bar and instantly it was more talking. Just the two of us. D Money says we left her little couple in the dust, chatting up how Irish and I go to the same church (he even sat in the pew in front of me last Sunday) and about our families.
He asked me to stay out a little bit longer, and then around midnight we both turned into pumpkins, he heading home and me getting ready for work.
A few days later, I have not yet envisioned he and I standing at the altar. I haven't planned the reception and I am not mentally dreaming up what kind of couch I want in our future living room.
All I'm thinking about is the next time I might get to see him. Irish says he'll be at my Mardi Gras party.
I hope he brings the beads.
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
All I have is a wrinkled photocopy of the image, tucked in my desk drawer at home. It's a two-by-two inch, black and white chronicle of my past, complete with disheveled hair, runny mascara and teary cheeks.
Who said mugshots were ever pretty?
True story: not three days after I pleaded guilty to my 2003 DUI charges, I used said mugshot to get into a bar. I took a timeout (389 days) from drinking the day after my arrest, but I still liked to barhop with all my old pals. A bunch of us bible study folks (yes, I said this is a true story) went for a round after a day of ice skating, and well, seeing as I didn't have my driver's license on me, I used the printout to prove my age. I figured any legal paperwork from the Fayette Co. Detention Center was good enough to pass as proper ID.
My parents love that story.
They didn't love the whole DUI fiasco, but they loved me anyway, and I guess that's the point, isn't it?
We don't keep secrets in my nuclear family. When the shit hits the fan, we're a talking/yelling/fighting/crying/hugging kind of family. We don't pick at each other's flaws, faults and indiscretions because we know we're all vulnerable to that silly game called Judgment.
As I see it, most family secrets aren't any big effin' deal, anyway.
I think some people have a tough time coming to terms with their past. They'd rather float through life in a cloudy facade of denial and perfection, instead of admitting their faults and mistakes.
That, I don't mind.
What I mind is these very same people casting arrogance and judgment on family members for the sake of making themselves feel better or look better to the outside world.
That's what's shameful.
Monday, February 13, 2006
I guess we are the only 2 people awake at this hour huh? I will still not be able to celebrateMardi Gras with you though. I might be able to celebrate in India but might not be as fun!
I had chicken feet, cow nuts, and fish eyes for dinner last night. It was so good. I justlove the food over here. It is like living on Fear Factor. Actually I usually try to stayaway from that stuff, but try it once in awhile.
This menu list has my reconsidering any travel plans I may have previously had to see the Great Wall.
Friday, February 10, 2006
Read this on your lunch break. Read this after checking your work email (how many ways can you spell boring?) Read this when you discover clazzydiva86 has outbid you for that awesome Gucci knockoff on Ebay. Read this when you catch your boyfriend sending naughty text messages to some bee-yotch and surmise that he is actually a Manwhore.
Read it whenever you want a laugh, because it's hilarious.
Daily Candy is shining the spotlight on a product for your less endowed conquests. Huge Brand offers condoms that can give any guy an inflated ego. They're emblazoned with the word HUGE across the box, but inside you'll find some protection that even the most, uh, challenged man can use.
I don't really want to rat myself out on this one, but I know there are some men who could benefit from this out there.
Daily Candy says:
Choose from the Nightcap (a pack of three), the Weekender (twelve), and the Extended Stay (thirty-six), depending on your plans (and stamina). Each comes with the word “HUGE” printed in suitably ginormous lettering so all who see it know just what they’re dealing with.
What was a class or course you took while in school that you realize now was a total waste of time?
Biology, at least for my current life applications. I can't remember the last time I uttered protozoan or photosynthesis in every day conversation.
Who is the tallest person you know?
My brother-in-law, Steve, checking in at a lofty 6'7". Yeah, my sister is going to have giant children.
What's your favorite midnight snack?
The only time I eat midnight snacks these days is when I'm visiting my parents back home in Connecticut. I usually raid whatever cake or pie my mom has recently made for all of us to devour. My favorite: chocolate cake with chocolate icing... with a tall glass of cold milk, it's digestive heaven.
Have you ever found money somewhere? If so, where did you find it, and how much was it?
I found 20 bucks once, but I can't recall where. My youngest sister has the best story though. When she was five, she claimed to spot five dollars in a pool filled with leaves in Hilton Head. We all basically disregarded her claims seeing as she really didn't know what money looked like, especially when it would be at the bottom of a pool, but she was right! Gosh she was such a cute kid! I'm ten years older so I sometimes have feelings similar to parent in regards to their children growing up.
Where would you like to retire?
Somewhere near my kids. I want to be kind of close to the grandchildren and such. Hopefully it's somewhere in the South so I can be along the coast.
Thursday, February 09, 2006
I think all the healthy food I'm eating and all the exercise I'm getting is starting to seep into my brain. Those endorphins and upbeat vitamins are bouncing around in this 5'8" body of mine, and it's starting to really have an effect on my disposition.
I've always been a positive person. Well, I shouldn't say always. But several, several things have led to a change in my attitude within the past couple years. These days D Money says I'm always full of faith and optimism, and well, I think this diet is really making my happy place work overtime.
So I'm having a party.
I am thick in the midst of planning a big Mardi Gras bash, complete with Hurricanes, jambalya and beads. This weekend I want to look for some good Zydeco music to get everyone in the mood for the festivities... cause there's nothin' like some good tunage to Let The Good Times Roll. I'm even going to offer a prize for whomever gets the Baby Jesus out of the King Cake.
Of course, I won't be eating any of that sugary hell, but I'm happy to have it for everyone else.
Have any ideas to help me have a great bash?
No nudity allowed... that's strictly reserved for Bourbon Street.
Tuesday, February 07, 2006
A WOMAN'S WORTH
In a brief conversation, a man asked a woman he was pursuing the question.....
"What kind of man are you looking for?"
She sat quietly for a moment before looking him in the eye and asking. "Do you really want to know?" Reluctantly, he said, "Yes."
She began to expound... "As a woman in this day and age, I am in a position to ask a man what he can do for me that I can't do for myself. I pay my own bills. I take care of my household without the help of any man. I am in the position to ask, 'What can you bring to the table?'"
The man looked at her. Clearly he thought that she was referring to money. She quickly corrected his thought and stated, "I am not referring to money. I need something more.
"I need a man who is striving for perfection in every aspect of life." He sat back in his chair, folded his arms, and asked her to explain. She said, "I am looking for someone who is striving for perfection mentally because I need conversation and mental stimulation. I don't need a simple-minded man.
"I am looking for someone who is striving for perfection spiritually because I don't need to be unequally yoked... believers mixed with unbelievers is a recipe for disaster.
"I need a man who is striving for perfection financially because I don't need a financial burden. I am looking for someone who is sensitive enough to understand what I go through as a woman, but strong enough to keep me grounded. I am looking for someone who I can respect. In order to be submissive, I must respect him. I cannot be submissive to a man who isn't taking care of his business. I have no problem being submissive...he just has to be worthy.
"God made woman to be a helpmate for man. I can't help a man if he can't help himself."
When she finished her spill, she looked at him. He sat there with a puzzled look on his face. "You're asking a lot," he said.
She replied, "I'm worth a lot."
Saturday, February 04, 2006
Not the classes. No, I'm talking about the roughhouse walking between the dorms and dining halls, the trying to sneak in a bar on your fake ID or a great rack, or playing silly card drinking games where you shotgun too much beer and learn way too many personal things about people whom 10 minutes previously you thought were just like you.
Last night I masqueraded as a college co-ed at the nation's Number 2 party school (I think my host reminded me of this Catch-22 quality no less than five times) and I had a blast.
I got hit on by a guy 10 years my junior (don't worry. He was legal) and crashed a college party where the hosts had burned their couch inside their apartment living room no less than a week before.
Yeah, they're not getting their deposit back.
This weekend I'm visiting my youngest sister Mixster at Ohio University, in a little village called Athens, sitting in the southeastern corner of the state (they call it "Harvard on the Hocking"). Right now Sleeping Beauty is worshipping the mattress, while I struggle with my only six hours at a time sleeping pattern that's come about because of my whacked out work schedule.
It's funny. Hearing my sister talking about how her biggest worries in life include how she's pulling a C- in Psychology, and how one of her best guy friends admitted his undying love for her after he invited her on the fraternity ski trip.
She has no idea what it's like to scrape along the last four days before you get a paycheck, especially when the hits keep coming in the mailbox... bills nagging you, reminding you of your fiscal responsibilities.
Mixster also lives in this idyllic life where she doesn't worry about crime, poverty within her community or the way global politics sometimes have a way of making you take it up the ass in your local neighborhood.
College is this beautiful bliss state where most of the guys are handsome, girls drink for free, and some kryptonite force field puts a smackdown on the real world at the campus line.
I admit: ten years before Mixster, I was living the Life of Riley in the big Lexington K-Y. Just this past week, I told the kind people who paid every dime to send me to UK (my "workin' hard" parents) that it was the best, most expensive party I've ever been to. They were able to let out a huge belly laugh, considering I graduated a million seven years ago.
Somehow, between all that Beast and Nati Light, between the shady games of Asshole and Waterfall, I did some growing up. Not growing up in the sense that I felt capable and able to manage all my responsibilities. More like, growing up in the sense that I felt I could be as cool as I wanted to be. After years of having my nose in the books and working the Madrigal Choir circuit (did you know there's a big demand for that sweet-ass acapella sound?), college gave me the opportunity to let my social sense of self get a little bigger.
I became comfortable with the fact that I could be the girl who can tell a dirty joke well. I discovered what it was like to use my sex appeal (read: my DD chest) to my advantage. I discovered that I could be sexy at all in the first place. I found out that it was okay to pour yourself in the talents God gave you, while realizing I was never going to become a professional mathematician.
All of that partying, all of the growing did wonders for my sense of self, and I wouldn't trade any minute of it.
Even the I-want-to-die splitting headaches that came after the nights of dancing on the coffee table at the SAE house.
Friday, February 03, 2006
The Mixster Monster is a freshman at Ohio U. and a prettier, smaller version of me. My mom calls us "The Bookends" because there are ten years between us, with another sister in between.
My sister is in a sorority and from what it sounds like, the Belle of the Ball, so to speak. Lots of boys calling/asking out. I'm looking forward to being the "Big Sister" hanging out with her at the frat parties. Yeah, her um 24 year old sister. Riiiiight.
Here I'm discussing my latest accomplishment. I'm really proud of my 12.2 pounds down after four weeks of hard work.
I'm thinking I'll probably be able to reach my 50 lbs lost by August 5th for Vegas goal.
I saw Walk the Line yesterday. Great flick. Joaquin Phoenix could flip my car any day.
Things I'm signing up for in the next few weeks:
Cincinnati Junior League
Yeah, the guys are really missing out here.
Thursday, February 02, 2006
info....I see you're maybe 1-2% of all Catholic women in this service who (are smart enough to ) desire only a Catholic guy...good goin'...we all want love..but we want peace of mind too...consider also catholicmatch.com or my fave (but they're too far away..many of the fine prospects....)..www.avemariasingles.com ...you can look at it if you want...avemariasingles.com id is email@example.com and password is xxxxxx I'm afraid with your fine curves you might be attracting the wrong type of guys in this service...half of them probably married or taken. . . ....hope you find a good one!!You know in dating true Catholic women who are divorced/annulled and in their 30's, 40's, 50's..the BIGGEST lament I've received fm them is that they were misguided enough to marry either a non-Catholic...or worse yet..a bad catholic....(who contracepts/fornicates/aborts/into porn big time/skips Sunday Mass/generally dissents fm Church Teaching.....etc..etc...like a Ted Kennedy or Kerry also)..this caused them so much anxiety and lack of peace of mind...but you're smart enough not to make this mistake..good goin!! Somebody raised you right!!God bless ya.bob
Wednesday, February 01, 2006
You see, I like to lay in bed as long as possible.
Those stolen moments are decadence during the workweek. On weekends, I've been known to stay in bed until 2 pm. I'll admit that's a bit excessive, but it felt damn good.
This alarm clock could be the answer to my problems (all this sleeping can make a girl late, which is a problem when I'm already habitually late. Right, Honorary Big Sis?)
The clock pops these colored puzzle pieces out of the top when your alarm goes off. The annoying noise won't be silenced until you can get all those pieces back where they belong.
All that thinking could just be enough to wake me up on time.
I'm not banking on finding my soul mate there, but hell. I guess the chances online are just as great as at the local watering hole, and I'm sure the whole thing is bound to provide some good laughs, too.
Like the following line I snagged from the profile of a guy who winked at me:
"i love taco bell, i enjoy a good white castle now and then, tumble weed, texas roadhouse bw3.Daytona for race week is a hot spot for me"
The grammar and syntax is verbatim from the original, and all I have to say is, Hawt.
The pictures were just like what you're imagining. A few sleeveless racin'/wraslin' t-shirts. Sittin' in a stock car. Drinkin' some Busch beer.
I guess he forgot to scan the one of him sporting the mullet at Hooters.