No, but a four-hundred-pound wino offered to wash my hair.

Some Drive-Bys:

* Last weekend I went to Rehoboth with my dear friends La and Signe. There was outlet shopping, hot tubbing, wine drinking, light-hearted mocking…I heart my giggly friends. What I did NOT heart was being the first to arrive at the beach house, which was cold, dark, and interminably creepy. I ventured throughout, turning on lights and thermostats. I was even brave enough to go down to the basement, where I flipped what I thought was a light switch—turns out it was for a fan in a room I couldn’t see. Thus, some lovely chug-chug-chug noise started up, scaring the bejeezus out of me.

That’s when I went upstairs and opened the bottle of wine.

I huddled on the couch and watched Friends until the real-life ones showed up to rescue me from whatever sinister force was clearly lying in wait for me in the Beach House of Death.

* Jeremy flew up to Boston for work yesterday. I had left my car at the VRE station the night before; he suggested I drop him off at work so he wouldn’t have to park at the airport, and I could drive his car for the day. All well and good—until I got in the driver’s seat and realized that the warning lights for gas, windshield wiper fluid, and engine were ALL ON. That’s three (3) warning lights, people. Thankfully we stopped by the gas station, and Jeremy took care of two of them. I begrudgingly pulled into a parking space in front of his office and let him out (I had suggested that, to save time, he could merely tuck and roll, and I would toss his suitcase out after him. I think four warning lights would have pushed me over the edge on that one…)

* We’re off to Vegas on Sunday, so expect some bizarre people-watching-related blog entries (last time we were there, a dude in a cow suit was parked at the slot machines at the MGM Grand). Also expect that, if I hit the jackpot, I will retire at the ripe old age of 31 and spend my days in secluded luxury, quietly mocking passersby from my custom-made hyperbaric chamber.

Sometimes I think you ain't got the sense God gave a lemon!

So lately I’ve been enjoying the Barnes and Noble eReader on my iPhone. I have a long commute, and a high tolerance for crap novels, so I’ve been working my way through the eBooks they offer for free. The other day, having grown tired of Harlequin romance novels (see note re: high tolerance for crap) (and also, their “military-themed” romances with the tagline “The Few. The Proud. The Sexy as Hell,” always makes me giggle out loud.), I downloaded a book that didn’t have a synopsis, but that I was pretty sure wasn’t a cheesy romance novel.

I was right. It wasn’t. What it was, was gay erotica. Now, I have no problems with gay erotica per se, but it doesn’t do much for me. Also, I felt a little weird reading it on the train. Still, the worst thing about it was the GRAMMAR. I am shocked—SHOCKED—at the low grammatical standards for pulp gay erotica. Also, dialogue exchanges such as this made me want to pluck out my eyelashes:

“Thanks Mr. Austin You da man”.

“Nah, you da man Pauli” I said pointing at him as I walked in to the bar.

That’s exactly as it’s written – I take no credit for the grammar or content of the above. It made the Harlequins look like Tolstoy.

On an entirely different note, who decided that the years 2000-2009 would be dubbed the “Aughts”? As if I didn’t feel old enough already, I have to tell the story of my twenties sounding like a grumpy old fart??

**Gross throat-clearing noise**

“Back in Aught-Four,”

**adjusts ratty bathrobe**

“Janet Jackson sang a ditty with that Timberlake feller during the SuperBowl…”

**shuffles slippers**

See what I mean?

Would you please put some pants on? I feel weird having to ask you twice.

So what happened to the rest of November and December? Well, mix the holidays with two ailing grandmothers, horrible news from dear friends, and a wee bit ‘o seasonal depression, and you get…a lady who doesn’t feel much like writing. So, here are some niblets going a ways back:

1. Communion at an unnamed southern church: At our home church, communion is prefaced with “the table is open to all who proclaim Jesus as lord,” or some such statement. However, this church we visited had the longest list of what Jeremy dubbed “fine print” that I had ever heard: you had to be confirmed, repentant (really, truly repentant – if you’re not completely and totally 100% sorry, don’t even think of taking communion), able to walk on water, dressed by joyous songbirds in the morning…it went on and on. And my favorite part: if you weren’t worthy, “don’t worry about skipping communion, nobody’s watching.” Which pretty much guarantees that everyone is watching.

My stubbornness almost prevented me from taking the juice and bread when it was passed, but I did so to keep the peace. Of course, I inhaled a bit of flour when eating the bread and started coughing. My first thought? “Ack! It’s rejecting me—I’m not worthy!”

2. I started a spinning class last night. Let’s just say that “hovering” is not as fun and sci-fi as it sounds.

3. I got to spend a little time with my niece and nephew on Thanksgiving Day. There is nothing as great as hearing a 2.5 year old girl attempt to say “Spongebob Squarepants.” This exchange was a close second:

Me, upon being presented with a plastic bag full of little toys: Oh, look, what a neat car!
My niece: No, it’s a Transformer (pronounced ‘Twansfowma’)!
Yup, she’s definitely my brother’s kid.

And finally,

4. I have been known to rant about the occasional clothing trend (gladiator sandals—ick). Now, this is not so much a popular fashion trend as it is an unfortunate “DC worker bee” trend. I give you what I have dubbed the ‘sleeping bag coat’:



For the love of God, people. This is not Alaska. It’s not even Maine. If your coat doesn’t cover your ankles, you’re probably not going to die. However, if your coat does cover your ankles, it makes something inside of me die. So please, invest in a nice, wool peacoat. Do it for me.