All Hail Suxor!

You know what is absolutely Suxor, King Of Suckonia And Surrounding Counties? When you go out for a run and for the first time in at least two molten months, it's not eleven thousand degrees, so you don't feel like every stride is taking you one step closer to a big, beefy hug from the Grim Reaper. You're so excited, you're even timing yourself intently (which you don't normally do because your molasses pace makes you cry) to see if this newfound freedom from running through a Swedish sauna is helping your splits at all...

...and you are suddenly hit with a horrible cramp in an abdominal organ you didn't even know you had, the intense pain of which convinces you that there must be a tiny, deranged elf up in there, performing an appendectomy with a plastic picnic spork, cackling maniacally. You slow your triumphant run to a walk, but the elf continues to hack away at your marginally vital organs until you slow...to...a...stop. Phooooooooooooo. You finally silence the elf within, but you're still half a mile from home. And you're pissed. Phoooooooooooo.

All hail Suxor, for he is mighty! And has a wicked herd of elves.

Ode To My Lost Love

Thursday nights are one of my all-time favorite channels on the TV Guide of my life. Thursday night is relaxing, because while I know I have to go to work the next day, it's Friday, so there are only eight hours left in which matters at the office can catch fire, blow up in my face, or commit other acts of workplace arson. Because Thursday night isn't Friday night, I don't have the inherent feeling of guilt that I get when I just laze around on the couch on a weekend night, feeling like I should be doing something more productively and outstandingly fun with my Get Out of Jail Free night.

Thursday nights in the summer are even more creamy delicious, because everything is just plain better in the summer (except pot roast, my brain function, and large, sweaty men). It's the closest I ever feel to the summer nights when I was a kid, when the only items on my agenda were to finish my dripping popsicle, and to kick my brother in the shins for smearing my dripping popsicle in my ponytail. Oh, summer lovin'.

Last summer I found myself falling into another delightful summer Thursday night ritual, courtesy of my amigos at CBS. I would describe it to you, but here, let me show you it!

(That little circle says "The Neighbors Are Closer Than You Think," because they can't say "The Neighbors Want Your Butt" during prime time.)

For those of you who remain dismally unaware of Swingtown, allow me to give you the executive summary, in which Swingtown will henceforth be known as Summer's Excellent Xtremelyrisque guiltYpleasure, or SEXY, for short. Set in 1976 in a suburb of Chicago, SEXY follows the adventures of the Miller family, parents Bruce and Susan and teenagers Laurie and BJ*, as they move up the social ladder and into a flashy new house, with flashy new neighbors who have a flashy basement orgy playroom. They find themselves torn between their new neighbors, Tom and Trina Decker, who are swingers with a voracious appetite for fresh meat, and their old BFFs, Janet and Roger, who wear a depressing amount of plaid. Bruce and Susan get involved with their new neighbors in more than just a potluck recipe swap, and the show explores the changing dynamic of their family as they struggle to adapt to their changing world, and to hide from their kids the fact that they're now smoking dope and spelunking their neighbors.

As you may have guessed from my deep love for this show, most of the episodes were not any more serious than a backyard wiener roast...or any other backyard wiener adventure. In the initial episodes, there was a lot of this face:

"You said to bring buns, so I brought buns...what? Show you those buns? But they're in the kitche...OH."

Once the writers had us acquainted with the swingers of our summer seduction, most of the episodes centered around the Deckers throwing some sort of themed hot-weather get-together, where, by the end of the night, the company always got stickier than the barbecue. Every synopsis on the TV Guide channel seemed to begin with, "At the Decker's annual [insert ass-random party theme here] party,..." and at first I thought this was odd, that all these feather-haired folks did was throw parties. Then I realized that if you're only out to bean your neighbors, your best bet is to get them all likkered up and high on Quaaludes, just a hop, skip, and a bra away from your flashy basement orgy playroom.

Honestly, it wasn't the raunchy summer guilt that got me hooked on SEXY, it was the fact that SEXY took place in my most favorite decade, the seventies. Someone on the SEXY crew did their homework, and the set dressing and costuming, from the crocheted potholders to the slick polyester camisoles, was spot on, forming the perfect music video to accompany The Eagles, Jackson Browne, and the rest of the soundtrack--if their music videos back in the day had been, you know, porn.

Of all the disco-day touches that SEXY mastered, my favorite was the hair. The women's hair was free-range and fluffy, yet perfectly placed and purposeful:

Trina Decker (Lana Parilla).** Illegal in six states and fourteen countries. In any decade.

Women always aim to please, but when the men come through with the goods, it's always delightfully surprising, and the men really came through with delicious, lush hair in SEXY. That's what seventies hair was all about, as photos of my dad as a polo-shirted twentysomething have evidenced. Whatever happened to lush hair? I understand, and absolutely advocate, the death of polyester leisure suits (if only to avoid the fire hazard), but why did we pick gel over locks? Mohawks over feathers? Just look...look...

Ignore the fifteen-year-oldness. Love the lush.

Lush. Love it.

Lush. Lush! TOUCH IT!

And then we have, by uncomfortable comparison, what man-hair devolved into:

Not lush! NOT LUSH AT ALL!!! Go home.

SEXY became my Thursday night wine buddy, opening the gate into What The Frickday, starting my weekend off right with its disco vibe and sex for free--like a Britney video, but with a better dance beat. But I knew that the end was near when SEXY was deported to the Friday night lineup, a death sentence for prime-time programming, and sure enough, SEXY was cancelled after just one debaucherous season.I cried into my Chardonnay.

This summer I've tried to move on. I've tried Burn Notice. I've tried Royal Pains. And while I love them, in their own ways, they just can't bring back the swingerriffic thrills of SEXY. It's disappointing, like a hot summer night without a popsicle in your ponytail.

So I beseech you, CBS. Bring SEXY back. Why not? Come on. I'm bringing SEXY back.

You motherfuckers don't know how to act.

*There's your first clue.

**Maybe I have a girl crush.

Lawyer Boy Represent

As you may remember from my epic and indignant whining, on the way to the beach for Memorial Weekend, I got my first ever speeding ticket while most definitely NOT speeding through Prince "Deliverance" George County, Virginny. In lieu of showing up at the courthouse to shoot my mouth off inappropriately, I was given the option of pre-paying the fine and going on about my life, having coughed up one hundred and six of the most unjust blood dollars ever in the history of moving violations. This inherently involved an admission of guilt to a heinous crime that I knew that I hadn't committed, and I was not okay with being swept away in that grave miscarriage of justice.

I'm also married to a really belligerent attorney.

Before you picture me sailing into the courtroom surrounded by a million dollar club of slick defense sharks, throwing gems like, "if the speed trap was shit, you must acquit!" at the starstruck jury, I have to confess...Lawyer Boy is a real estate attorney. He's in front of a judge about as often as I'm on stage at the Kennedy Center shaking a tambourine behind Yo Yo Ma, so having him represent me in such a high-stakes legal matter was a slightly precarious gamble. However, he really wanted to get into open court again, and I really didn't want to stroke a fat check to my BFFs in Deliverance, so we opted to appear in court.

The first thing LB did in representing me to the highest extent of his ability was, naturally, to call the Commonwealth Attorney's office and try to sweet talk our collective way out of it. The Commonwealth unfortunately felt that habeas corpus was all there and my mens rea was perfectly capable of standing trial for the e pluribus unum crime of speedius ticketorium, so there was no bribing the law with a box of cookies in this case. However, thanks to his winning combination of crazy-good legal skills and outrageous charm,* LB was able to get the Commonwealth to agree to a plea of "defective equipment," which as I understood it, meant that I would stand up and claim that my defective foot was responsible for how hard it was pushing down the gas pedal. Perhaps, in furtherance of my claim, I should limp into the courtroom, dragging my pointy-shoed defective foot behind me. With this deal secured, all my cracker-jack legal team and I would need to do would be to breeze into the court room and yell, "defective equipment, Your Honor!" as we continued on our way over to the cashier's window to pay the fine. Why even take a seat if it's that easy?

This seemed a bit too easy to me, frankly, but the entire goal of this legal operation was to keep my insurance rates from going up, and claiming a defective foot would swish the ball right into the goal, so I took the morning off and practiced my best contrite yet angelically unaware face.

In the few days leading up to my trial, another attorney I know did everything in his power to convince me that the end of my court appearance would find me dangling from the stocks in the town square, having been sentenced to three days of public humiliation for inadequate representation by a real estate attorney. The Commonwealth would have no record of my plea. LB would have no idea what he was doing. The judge would be cranky after his wife accidentally scrambled his over-easy eggs, and he would find no sympathy in his heart for my defective limb. I would have to hang like a wet sock from the stocks and, to fulfill the "public humiliation" portion of my sentence, I would be forced to do so wearing the same clothes I wore to frat parties freshman year of college.

ALL WOULD BE LOST, Y'ALL.

The morning of what could potentially be my last day of freedom from platform shoes and Pussycat Doll-worthy eyeliner, LB and I got up early and put on our most responsible-looking outfits--the ones with matching creases in the pants and big, innocent doe eyes. We got into the car, me at the helm, and it occurred to me that I should take extra precautions not to speed, since it would be the height of irony to get a speeding ticket on the way to try to get out of a speeding ticket. I crept down I-95, nervously watching the other cars fly angrily past me, trying to hide my face from the glares of the other drivers, and telling myself that the middle finger is the new thumbs-up. After heading farther off 95 than I knew was possible without dead-ending at the Clampett's cabin, we finally arrived at the Deliverance County Courthouse.

Would you believe they had electricity out there? The court complex, built with the money collected from other unjust speeding tickets, was actually quite lovely. I had pictured a wooden structure on par with the courthouse in The Crucible, the judge glowering at me through the smoke of sputtering candles and the screams of the demon-possessed teenage girls. As we were unable to find a hitching post, we parked our wagon in the lot and headed inside, where LB quickly found my name on the docket.

As we waited in the hallway outside the courtroom, I looked at my attorney, so handsome in his suit and--oh, what is that?! A hair had fallen out of place and across his forehead, giving him more the appearance of a rakish college boy than a responsible attorney. LB saw me looking at him and smiled at me. I reached up and gently brushed the hair back into place. Without breaking his smile or moving his lips, LB hissed at me, "Do not do that in here. I'm your attorney right now!"

Well, pfft, fine. I can't help how cute my counsel is, is all.

We were finally called into the courtroom to stand trial along with the rest of the accused. As we waited for the unwashed pandemonium to settle into order, I busied myself with my favorite activity: shameless and unabashed people watching. LB and I were truly an anomaly that morning, in that we were neatly groomed, clothed in business attire, and in comparison to some of the other guest stars, we were just plain fully clothed. As the carnie folk and Clown College waitlisted applicants milled around us, I noticed all of the attorneys filing into a room behind the judge's bench. I nudged LB. "Are you supposed to be in there with the other attorneys?" I asked, concerned.

"Nah," he replied. "I don't know why I'd need to be."

The bailiff stepped out of the secret negotiation chamber and read from a piece of paper in his hand. "Attorney Thoreau?" he called out. LB and I perked up like cats in front of a fishtank. The bailiff motioned for LB to follow him, and my legal counsel, my representation, my only slight chance of not spending three days locked in the stocks wearing a tie-back shirt, disappeared into the negotiation chamber.

ALL WOULD BE LOST, Y'ALL.

I barely had time to think about the most effective way to panic mindlessly when LB and the bailiff emerged from the secret chamber. They walked straight across the court and out the door marked EXIT. Commence mindless panicking, STAT!

Half a second later, and just before I would have started unbuttoning my shirt to represent myself with the time-honored Massive Cleavage Defense,** LB popped back in from the exit and motioned for me to join him. Forgetting all about limping dramatically on my defective foot, I bolted for the exit faster than I had bolted through Deliverance County on that fateful trip and darted through the door.

"What's going on? Why aren't we in court?" I asked, half relieved and half concerned that I had already been found guilty behind my back, which would still be better than a variety of other things that have happened behind my back in the past.

"They're trying to clear out the docket to move the schedule along. They had the Commonwealth Attorney and I agree in front of the judge that we had reached a plea deal, and the judge gave his approval. We can just pay the defective equipment fine and go." He pulled out the checkbook.

"That's it?" I practically fell over from shock.

"That's it. We can go now."

I was so excited I was practically giddy. In no time at all, we were out of the courthouse and back to the car. No jail time! No stocks! No skin-tight black pants melting to my butt in the blazing summer sun! Justice had been served!

My only regret was that I didn't get to watch LB morph into Matthew McConnaughey in A Time To Kill, pacing about in front of a jury while sweat poured from his head as he furiously defended my honor, rolling up his sleeves and gesturing emphatically to my defective foot.

But seriously? No objection, Your Honor.

*I am in no way biased.
**Which I am, in reality, physically incapable of, um, mounting.

Summer Vacation: Lazy R Us

Well, it has been two weeks since I have flung my mental detritus at you, and truth be told, I miss it like the tabloids miss La Lohan when she decides not to wander the streets of L.A., panties begone and dignity thrown to the wind, for a full weekend at a time. What has happened is this: It is a two-fold problem.

1. It is hot. It is August, which is ancient Latin for "foul swamp fungus," which means that outside, it is hot, humid, and generally akin to walking into an eighty-year-old man's denture-riffic mouth after he plowed through a bowl of Brunswick stew. The heat is killing me and my precious brain cells. All I want to do is bathe in sweet tea, with ice cubes and mint leaves floating around my puffy, sticky self. Would you believe that Lawyer Boy refuses to cold-brew me seventeen gallons of sweet tea? Oh, the abuse.

2. I have an obsession problem with food. If you're really interested in what I'm up to in my copious free time, when I'm not working as a paralegal, restoring my old house, being a crazy social butterfly, or being generally inappropriate, you can read about it here. I know I have told you before that I am a nuttermeister foodie, but I don't think I was really explicit enough about it. In layman's terms, I make up my own recipes and cater small events. (Actually, that's pretty much it, in layman's, technical, and theological terms.) When I'm in food mode, which I have been recently, my attempts at writing fail like Victoria Beckham on this side of the Atlantic. I can do one or the other, but both food and funny can't play on the same court.

Between the heat and the personal failure, the fact that I haven't flung poo at the World Wide Interwebs recently is killing me. KILLING ME. I have so many things to tell you, but they just fly around my head, shapeless and without reason, because all my good brain cells (the seven I haven't killed from alcohol) have been devoted to recipe development. I am working on coming back to you, amigos. I will be back soon. I promise.

PROMISE. Or I'll send you cookies.

Just ask Ghost Baker. When I say I'll send cookies, I send cookies. Look at my beautiful cookies, so glamorous in their very first Hollywood(-ish) photo shoot! All they're missing is their stunning feather boas and shiny lipstick.

Lake Anna: Pit of Poor Judgment

Every summer, our friends Mike and Jess invite everyone they know (like, literally--the Evite is longer than Gene Simmons' "Tapped That" List) to come to Mike's parents' lake house, cause mayhem of Biblical proportions, and pass out in assorted Cubist positions on the basement floor circa 3am. They schedule it around the Fourth of July so that we can pretend that we're getting together to rally round the flag and squeal patriotic hymns, but really, the gathering serves to get us all together in such a way that we can stagger around the house the next morning, mugs of coffee dangling dangerously from our shaky hands, moaning the motto of every twentysomething in America: "I just can't drink like I used to."

This year Lawyer Boy and I pulled out of Richmond right around lunchtime, aiming to be in full frolic on the shores of the lake a mere hour later. We should have known better, as I-95 on a sweltering summer Satuday was jammed full of my arch-nemesis, Every Other Driver Ever. We slogged along for an hour, me shrieking impotently behind the wheel and LB trying to cover the dog's ears from my violent profanity, the highlights of which would have made Howard Stern blush. Finally we escaped the interstate's wrath and flew down the country roads towards barbecue, booze, and those foam noodle things that make unseemly attempts to drown me every summer.

When we docked ourselves at the house, Mike was just pulling up the boat from taking his friend Kevin waterskiing, and offered to drag me around the lake. I grew up boating, and I know how to waterski, which is astounding, since some days it is questionable as to whether or not I actually know how to walk. I had to debate whether I really wanted to try out my sea legs for two reasons. First off, there was a dock full of people waiting to watch me skip my face across the water like an unlucky, wailing pebble. A lot of Mike and Jess' friends know me from college, so they know me for my more charming traits, like nosediving into a puddle in the middle of a bar, and making tender yet passionate love to a toilet bowl at 2am.

The second reason I was concerned about skiing behind this boat is because it involved skiing behind this boat, which is not meant to pull skiers. A good boat to ski behind has enough power to speed up quickly, yanking the skier up out of the water so she can try to find her balance immediately. A bad boat to ski behind, while it might be great for trolling around looking for bass or whatever, pulls you up so slowly that you might as well be trying to hoist yourself up behind a three-year-old on a tricycle. If you're not out of the water, you can't balance. If you can't balance, you teeter along for a few seconds, screaming like a hooker and watching your thighs billow in the wind before your head smacks into the water, where you open your eyes in time to see your bikini bottom drifting toward a watery grave at the bottom of the lake, free as a bird. Just like your ass.

I mean, that's purely hypothetical.*

On my second try at public humiliation, I managed to get up and stay up, and had a nice ride around the lake, except for the part where El Capitan kept steering the boat through the wakes of other boats. When you're being dragged behind a boat, skittering along precariously on two glorified two-by-fours, and you see said boat start to bounce like a yo-yo, it is likely that you will start to wonder if the same people who brought us the Spanish Inquisition were also responsible for the birth of water sports.

Once we returned to dry land and everyone stopped laughing at me**, it was time to kick back with a cold one. Everyone had brought a contribution for dinner, ranging from a delicious cucumber salad down to my totally obscene "tropical" cake. I had originally planned to use my completely marginal cake-decorating skills to smear frosting into a patriotic pattern in honor of the Fourth, but the day before the party, Jess mentioned that they had decided on a tropical theme for the party instead. It was my feeling that Betsy Ross couldn't come to a party hosted by Hawaii Five-Oh, so I decided to whip up some pink, yellow, and green frosting, and festoon the cake with tropical flowers. What resulted was a cake covered in what appeared to be, by all accounts, pink and yellow octopi trying to have filthy squid-sex all over it. The pink ones were the girls, obvi, and let me tell you something. Thank God we had all been drinking by the time we laid into the cake, or watching nature take its course all over our dessert would have been too much to stomach.

After dinner we did all those great summer things that you do at the lake, like making a bonfire, lighting fireworks, and getting ticks all over us. When we had eventually had enough of playing buffet to the local insect population, we made our way into the basement, which is fully tricked out with a wet bar, poker table, and pool table. LB, Jess, and a few others commandeered the poker table for a game that I assume I do not know the rules to, since no one invited me, and I am positive that this had nothing to do with the fact that I am a totally useless sack of whiny during card games of any sort. Mike, Kevin, and I set up shop at the bar, where we mixed drinks while Kevin made fun of the music on my ipod for a solid five hours. All I have to say is, Kevin must have been genuinely and thoroughly wasted, because that is the only circumstance under which someone could not appreciate the musical genius of Tiffany, Britney, and Flo-Rida.***

Without my knowledge and likely against my will, someone took this picture of Kevin and I sitting at the bar, and now I understand how celebrities feel when the paparazzi snap shots of them staggering out of clubs in the wee hours of the morning. Can't you see the headline on the cover of Life & Style now?

WHERE'S LAWYER BOY????

A dazed Grace gets wasted at the bar with a mystery man, while Lawyer Boy plays it up with sexxxy ladies!

We were all of three feet apart, but everyone would be saying that we were leaving Richmond and packing our bags for Splitsville.**** Do you think this is what happened to Jon & Kate?

Me neither.

The card game wound down around 2:30, at which point those of us in the group with more common sense than unhousebroken puppies went to bed--which is to say, I stayed up. Mike, Kevin, and I decided to play pool, Mike actually playing for himself and Kevin coaching me, whereby "coaching" meant "flicking balls into pockets when Mike wasn't looking." Even on a good (sober) day, I'm terrible at pool. I have been told that there is a theory that, up to a certain level of drunkity, alcohol actually makes you a better pool player, resulting in an optimal level of drunken athletic prowess. That may be true, but when you have to be reminded before each shot whether you are the plain balls or the stripey balls, you are no longer at the optimal point of anything. Mike later claimed that I eventually stopped taking aim at the cue ball, and instead fired directly at the ball I was trying to sink.

Sidebar, Your Honor: I would like to know why pool is not played that way in the first place. Maybe if it were, pool could take its place among other respectable sports like baseball, tennis, and polo, where in order to hit the ball you are aiming for, you actually hit the ball you are aiming for.

Sometime around 4:30, one of us realized that we were within an hour of dawn and suggested we go to bed, an idea I brutally rebuffed. Going to bed once you realize it's already almost dawn is a bit like ordering a Diet Coke with a Big Mac and fries and giving yourself a pat on the back for maintaining your rigorous nutritional standards. We played a few more rounds (sets? matches?) of "pool" before the guys, wimps to the core, begged off. I contemplated staying up to watch the sun rise by myself, eventually deciding against an idea that would put me awake, by myself, in full daylight. What would I do then? Make muffins and coffee and wait for everyone else to wake up?

Fine, I did think of that. But I couldn't find baking powder.

*Except for the part where that happened to me when I was 14.
**Which was three hours after we returned to dry land.
***Flo Rida? Flow-Ridah? Florida?
****We're not, BTW. LB is the best thing since peanut butter M&Ms.*****
*****Which are beyond outstanding, if that is any indication of how much I love him.

Bienvenidos To Me!

Welcome back to my universe, amigos! It probably would have been more useful if I had told you that I was going on vacation before I went on vacation, as opposed to letting you know now, when I'm back, when you undoubtedly spent the last week in mourning, convinced I had died of avian Ebola flu, never to throw words and vulgarities at you again.

I mean, I know you got over it, but you thought it.

That said, I am back, and with many delightful things to tell you all about. There was a lake party, a visit from Mil and Dil, a visit from our friends who hosted the lake party*, and a whole week of sun-drenched drinking at the beach. I will tell you all about it...but not right now.

There are many exciting things to come this week, but they will come after I have taken a nap or two, checked myself for ticks, and checked myself into rehab.

And, oh yeah, after I've gone back to my regular day job, which involves neither waterskiing, sunbathing, nor dancing like a completely hopeless sorority case to Right Round.

*Summer goal: Make them as sick of us as humanly possible.

Do The Charleston, Chapter B: The TP Penitentiary

At 11:45 Thursday night, Lawyer Boy and I finally arrived in Monck's Corner, Scarolina, a suburb of Charleston characterized by its extreme suburban sprawl, the neighborhoods, shopping centers, and gas stations strewn so far apart that it's best to pack a lunch to get you through the trip, should you decide to go out to dinner. And if you venture out after dark, a travel toothbrush is a necessity.

I would give you my in-laws' names, but it's much more fun for me to call them Mil and Dil, which is my juvenile yet functional abbreviation for Mom-in-law and Dad-in-law. Or, their names could in fact be Millard and Dillene. Don't act like I made that one up. You know that somewhere, way down deep in the sphincter of the South, with a sister named Lurlene and a brother named Bass, is a little girl named Dillene, dreaming of the days when she can let her light shine, get out of the family double-wide that smells perpetually of Cheez Whiz and Raid, and make it big, singin' June Carter Cash at the traveling carnival for free funnel cakes and rides on the Tilt-A-Whirl. You go, little Dillene. YOU GO!

And for my next act, I plan to put down the crack pipe.

Aaaaaanyway, Mil and Dil just moved into their new house a week before our arrival, and they had been hard at work trying to erase all decorative evidence of the prior owners, whose taste I would be gracious to describe as 1980s Duckblind Chic. In contrast, Mil and Dil have fabulously excellent taste in home decor; their prior house, a rambling farmhouse they had built in Virginia, looked like a model home out of Southern Living, with acres of shiny wood floors and gleaming granite countertops. Upon arrival at the new pad, Mil told me the first thing she and Dil had done was to tear the forest-green shag carpet out of the master bathroom, before the color gave them seizures or the underlying mildew crept out and murdered them while they slept.

Thus I present to you a collage of the TP Penitentiary, before it goes extinct. Seriously, where's a good meteor when you need one? The pictures are of my traditional poor quality, in part because I took them, and in part because I took them quickly, on my cell phone, while I was pretending to drain the swamp before the trip home.

First off, the reason behind my naming the bathroom the TP Penitentiary: the actual toilet paper jail cell.

This is a maximum-security toilet paper incarceration facility, locking up dangerous, criminal toilet paper for your protection. I am aware that there is no actual toilet paper in there at this moment. It's all out workin' on the chain gang.

Next, the prison guard at the TP Penitentiary:
Guarding over his prisoners, the covert war-mallard pulls double duty, serving as a dirty, creepy eyeball to watch you while you drain the swamp. Adding an extra level of skank, he does not blink. He only stares.

Up next, should you be interested in washing the terror off your hands, a shelf holds all the hygienic necessities:Literally, up next--up next to the ceiling, above the shower, is where the prior owners stowed the hand soap. The thing that looks exactly like a lantern (and how clever!) is actually a hand soap dispenser. Squeaky clean hands were just a fantasy for these folks, apparently. And should you feel the need to cast a line into the toilet, a handy tackle basket awaits, full of whatever you might need to go fishing. Like I know what that is. The one thing I do know you need, though...

...is hooks.
Can I...just...for a minute? THERE ARE FISH HOOKS ALL UP IN THE TOILET SEAT!!! Phoooo. Phooooooooo. Nothing welcomes your tender bits like a seat full of multi-purpose metal shards.

I'd like to remind you that the previous owners of this bathroom paid real live money for a seat full of jumblies specifically placed to be right next to their...jumblies.

I can't imagine why Mil and Dil want to redecorate.

Dammit, Horizon Wireless

Last night I promised you a post about the TP Penitentiary, complete with pictures. True to my word, because I am an honorable little being, like a knight of the Round Table but with personal hygiene habits that do not involve dry-clean-only metal panties, I have already written that post. Howevz, I have been fumbled by my wireless company, which is refusing to spirit the pictures from my phone onto the intarwebz. I am not naming names, but if you wanted to become a knock-off service provider for less, you'd do well to trade under the name Horizon Wireless.

Actually, I like replacing the first part of their name with "Ho." It's just so appropriate, since I give them my money, and they in turn perform acts that are illegal in many states.

Anyway, hopefully I can smack the phone around enough and threaten to take away its dessert privileges for a week, so that by tomorrow, I'll be able to share the photos with you. Normally I am not particularly wedded to posting photos, but you need to see these photos to appreciate the story, just like when I gave you all those nice shots of my new driver's license photos. Can you imagine if I tried to do that one with words? "And next, I'm making a beaver face. My teeth look like giant slices of Wonderbread and I'm showing a bit too much of the whites of my eyes..." Just not as good.

I thought that, until I can fulfill my solemn oath to you, I'd leave you with a bit of a challenge. Last night, after having giggled to myself repeatedly and hysterically over this all day, I told LB that my new favorite word is bitchopotamus. Albeit it was out of nowhere and apropos of absolutely nothing, but he still looked at me like I'd just said I wanted to farm salamanders instead of having children.

Seriously. Bitchopotamus. Can you think of a word funnier than that?

That, amigos, is my challenge to you. Give me a word that's funnier than bitchopotamus, and I'll mail you cookies. I'll even raise that to a full two dozen cookies, because I just don't think there's a word out there that's funnier than that.

But I want you to try. Ready, set, bitchopotamus!

Do The Charleston, Chapter 1: Graceful Road Rage

This past weekend's patriotic sojourn southward began with my least favorite activity in the world, ever, so help me Gawd, amen. Now, I have never given birth, eaten chitlins, or sat through an entire N*Sync concert, but I do not believe that I could loathe any of these activities any more than I mega-loathe being in the car. I can handle up to about three hours of four-wheeled confinement -just long enough to get to Blacksburg, Home of the Hokies, and ooze into the nearest bar- but after that I start to come apart at the seams, bits and pieces of my sanity littering the car like the cheap, greasy gas station popcorn that I insist on buying for car trips. Road trips. Bad for my sanity, bad for my cholesterol.

Before we even got on the road, I could hear the orchestra warming up for the opening act of "Motor Doom" in the back of my mind: Holiday weekend traffic would clog up I-95 faster than I could scream "Get out of my lane, you scraggly slut!!!" turning a seven-hour trip into a sixteen-hour slog through the darker recesses of my vocabulary. I don't think I'm known for a sparkling, clean vocabulary safe for preschoolers and the dainty, but new guests to my Jeep are often shocked and horrified by the demons that screech out of my mouth in heavy traffic. Well, not even in heavy traffic. All you really have to do is hesitate at a traffic stop long enough to make me think that I might miss out on the beacon of hope that is the green light, and in decibels rivaling a sonic boom, I will proceed to insult your hair color, religion, mother, clothing choices, pets, and unborn children. In that order, and in furious, red-faced profanity.

Lawyer Boy and I managed to schlep our shizz out the front door of our house only forty-five minutes behind schedule, which is pretty decent for a household that may as well not own a clock. We could be more punctual if we only timed ourselves using a sundial, and that is saying a lot, since as far as sundials go, I do not even know which way is up. We loaded the Labradozer into her seat in the back, perched my perfect chocolate cake precariously on top of our luggage, and set the tripometer to zero, so we could watch every one of the 419.9 miles of our odyssey roll by. I am a glutton for punishment.

The tripometer had not even registered 5.5 miles before we came to an infuriating standstill, parked on the ramp from the Downtown Expressway onto I-95 South. As far as we could see, cars attempting to flee the city for a carefree holiday weekend were stalled, their pilots simmering from the stress of moving .02 miles in half an hour.

I started to get a little twitchy. I perhaps suggested not less than sixteen times, as casually as I could, that maybe we could turn around, cancel the trip, and get ourselves a nice baby pool from Target for a grand staycation in the comfort of our backyard. Maybe I banged the steering wheel a bit. Maybe there were tears.

This is just a thought, but if you are twelve minutes into a seven hour road trip and you find yourself on the roof of your car, naked, throwing your cute pointy shoes at the car in front of you and shrieking, "BITCH I WILL CUT YOU!!!" as a result of a perceived traffic slight, you should perhaps consider changing your travel plans. Either you change your travel plans, or the state troopers and their Tazers will, is all I'm saying.

Traffic crawled for an hour. I eventually stopped crying, put my clothes back on, and resumed my duties as diligent driver. The nice lady in the car in front of us even graciously returned my shoes. (I so would not have.) I smoldered in an angry little pile of hate, cursing Henry Ford, GM, Honda, and anyone else I could blame for the proliferation of the automobile in America. I went so far as to flip the bird at the Richmond Raceway sign as we trolled past it.

Then, suddenly, out of nowhere, as we passed through the cesspool of disease that is Petersburg (motto: "Clap If You're Clappy!"), traffic lifted. All the other cars disappeared! Dumbledore must have heard my prayers, and swooped in to save me. The road opened up and we were free to fly through the next 400 miles of the trip. Of course, after that point, LB offered to drive. My sciatic nerve -medical Latin for "whiny thigh"- was bugging me, and I think the dark curses I was muttering under my breath were bothering him. He took over at the helm, and I spent the next six hours trying to get comfortable in the mixing bowl-sized passenger seat.

I never succeeded, but we did eventually make it to Charleston.

***
Tomorrow, I promise The Tale of the T.P. Penitentiary, complete with pictures!

Party Poop't

This has been a long week, amigos. Yes, I am aware that it is only Wednesday, and that it is technically a "short week" because everyone except the mall is closed on Friday, but I have felt every excruciating hour at the office drip by like drops in an IV bag. I still do not think I have recovered from my Eight Hour Birthday Festival. Even though I celebrated my own glorious presence until three o'clock Sunday morning, I didn't sleep in that day because my elderly body thinks that dawn is already noon, and that if we are not already up by then, WE HAVE LOST THE DAY, PEOPLE.*

Lawyer Boy and I had to clean up the house from what looked like a visit from Courtney Love & Co., resulting in the accumulation of 16 wine bottles and one bajillion beer bottles in the recycling bin out front. (The recycling people are never going to let their kids play with our kids.) After that, I found the energy to curl up with my shiny new porno, "The Art and Soul of Baking," and fantasized about croissants and baguettes for the rest of the day.

Coming back to work without the birthday princess card to play was, of course, a letdown, but really, is Monday morning ever not a total wart of a time period? This week at work I've been slap-happy slammed. For example, today I spent an unfortunately ginormous amount of time engaged in Celebrity Death Match: Grace Thoreau v. The Department of Labor. Experience has taught me that the DOL will likely claim victory in this battle, due to sheer size and strength. Also they pull hair.

In my copious free time, when I haven't been passed out from exhaustion or fishing for the rogue beer caps rattling in the dishwasher, I've been trying to get LB and I ready to haul it to Charleston, South Cackalacky this weekend for America's high holy day. Don't get me wrong; I'm super-stoked for the Fourth. I am rabidly, almost embarrassingly patriotic, but in order to get to the point where I get to cry while watching fireworks Saturday night, we have to get us, the Labradozer, and all the food I made across two state lines. Of course I made a ton of food for the trip. What else could I be doing to get ready? Laundry? LB's boxers could be walking themselves around our house, stealing food from the fridge, before it would occur to me to break from decorating a cake to wash them.

It has taken me this many words to wind around to the point that I came here to make, which is that you won't hear from me for the next few days. I'll be back next week to regale you with tales of my raucous patriotism and massive patriotic picnic, complete with Betsy Ross cap and corset.

And, if I may?

HAPPY FOURTH OF JULY, AND GOD BLESS AMERICA!

*Have you noticed I always refer to myself in the plural? I think that says a lot about what's going on upstairs.