Jello shots were made by Satan and last night I was possesed.

Hunglish rocks even if he did try to kill me last night. It's 1:30, I missed my girls lunch date and still am a bit on the woozy side of life. About an hour ago I thought I heard Death knock-knock-knocking on my door when I sneezed.
Hunglish is so sweet he tried not to charge The Mister for trying to kill me. How precious! Of course, I take full responsibility for actually drinking everything within reach; I also take responsibility for the ridiculous things I may or may not have said. You should know, though, I probably don't remember those words and maybe everybody else should forget right along with me.

Excuse me, I have to go rinse out my liver.

Rent raisin' and jury duty.

Before I get to Part 2 of my New Orleans recap, I had to tell everybody what atrocities I received in the mail yesterday. There were two offenders and I just don't even know what to think.

1. Our rent was raised. Eh, this I can deal with like a kick in the pants: maybe it'll bruise a little, but eventually I'll forget all about it.

2. A summons for jury duty. This being Washington, DC and like clockwork every two years I expect it. However, my summons was not the ordinary kind... Oh, no, I've never been privileged to have the ordinary summons. (Last time I was selected for a three week trial about a previously convicted felon with a weapon and I had nightmares for a month. No details, I'm sorry. It scares me.)
This summons is for jury selection in which they make no bones about telling me, "if selected this trial will take at least 14 weeks after the selection process". Oh. Sweet. Jehoshaphat. AT LEAST FOURTEEN WEEKS? After the selection, that would leave THE REST OF THE YEAR. The summons does say if chosen you get some time off at the holidays.

Don't get me wrong; I've always loved the idea of Jury Duty. It is our right as citizens to a fair and speedy (what about 14 weeks is speedy?) trial and a trial by our peers. The process is part of what makes our country great, and I am like a bee to honey about The Process. I am just terrified it is some gruesome, scary, Law & Order type mess. If that is true, then I will Never. Ever. Sleep. Again.
You'll know where to find me, though. I'll be hiding in the bathtub with a baseball bat.

NOLA, Part 1: Some Spirits Can Not Be Broken.

I don't want to bring the mood down, but it is important to address the city of New Orleans's recovery since Hurricane Katrina. I've decided to write about the different aspects of this city's resurrection in a few parts. My frame of reference is very skewed as I had never before visited New Orleans. However, the devastation was apparent. While the French Quarter was relatively unscathed, the surrounding areas are still under a cloud of desperation. It must be noted that many businesses have taken this time to make improvements by way of construction and many businesses have yet to reopen. The city is in serious need for workers in all fields, especially in the construction and service industries. Most of all, though, I think they need your money. If you are thinking about a trip, go to New Orleans. The people are happy to see you and will welcome you with all the hospitality you could possibly desire. Contrary to some beliefs, it is not under water, it is not a dump (yes, it is a 'dirty' city; but it has never been known for it's clean streets, quite frankly people who Party make messes), and if you are a little forgiving, the French Quarter has much for you to do. In five days we could not accomplish everything we had thought we would. We never made it into the cathedral or to the aquarium or French Market.
The shops, boutiques and bars are all ready for you to come in and never once did I feel pressure to buy anything. I simply felt welcome.
The people of New Orleans are unlike any I have ever met. Their resilience and passion for life is infectious. Their spirits, though many bruised, are not broken. They remain alive with strength to carry on. Often those who were there for the worst -during and after the storm- are surprisingly willing to bring the subject to the table. It was much the same each time...
A bartender brings a drink and asks, "Where ya' from and what brings y'all to town?" We answer politely saying "Washington, DC; it's our anniversary." He looks us up and down, smiles big and says it's good to have people back in his city. He's lived here all his life. Then, his words trail off as his eyes glaze over in remembrance of something horrible. He wants to talk but perhaps his words fail him or he doesn't want to spoil our time. I can sense his anguish. His head shakes bringing him back to the present. I send him kind thoughts and he opens up a little. This man has seen things; horrifying, unspeakable, tragic things that no man should ever witness. And yet, he came back to a city he -quite understandably- loves so dearly.
Please don't take this post as an indicator we had a solemn time in New Orleans; quite the contrary. The Mister and I whooped it up with the best of them. There was music everywhere and when the Saints came marching in along with a few hundred thousand fans on Friday night, we got to see NOLA in all her glory. New Orleans will be fine but it will take patience. Just please don't forget about her; she needs us.

One step closer to clones and a Nola Preview:

Last night I saw a new Macy's commercial about how they are opening stores all over the country. Surely we all know by now, Macy's bought out the May Company Department Stores (including Hecht's and Marshall Fields).
Great. We'll all look the same in approximately one season.
Here in DC, we just took it in stride with a bit of nostalgia, but not so in Chicago. They threw a hissy with protests; my favorite protest quote, "Macy's Is Just Wal-Mart with Pretension".

I'm back from New Orleans, but just about to dash off to work. I've got so much to tell, but must organize my thoughts first. My system of organization revolves around the meals I ate which says a lot about my trip. Here's a taste of what's to come:
*The Mister wandering around happily telling me "It's my turn to be drunk!" (buddy, mission accomplished).
*A downpour on the way into a football game that left me soaked through to my underoos.
*Trying to get dressed for dinner and passing out, face down, on the bed; waking up four hours later and asking where we had gone to eat.

NOLA!

The Mister and I are off to New Orleans and we'll return next Monday.
Tomorrow marks four amazing years of marriage and I still feel like the luckiest girl in the world because he picked me.

There should be lots to tell upon our return, and right now, I've got a little packing to do.

Before I go, here's a question: Is it fair that I get allotted a mere one third of our suitcase because (as The Mister says) my clothes are so much smaller?

A witness to kindness...and a whole lotta luck.

What you are about to read is absolutely true. The Mister and I decided to make this anniversary a week-long celebration beginning last night with an outing to see the Black Crowes at the 9:30 Club. Tomorrow we leave for New Orleans and if the events of the past evening are an indication of how things are going to roll, then I am ready to go.
Last night may have been the luckiest of my life. Those who read this blog have probably never thought of me as being "lucky", and for most of my life, that has been true. I made up for a life full of lucklessness in one fell swoop.
All day he wasn't sure if it was going to happen, but The Mister left work on time in order to make it to the Black Crowes show. We snagged a cab and the poor driver had only been in the city a week. Helping him get to the 9:30 Club was not a problem, but then he tried to figure out how many zones and proceeded to ask for too little fare. The Mister could have paid the cabbie what was asked, but being the sweetheart he is, gave him the proper amount and tip.
We strolled right in, walked up to the bar and got ourselves a round of drinks. After scoping out the few people there, we decided to fight the pending squish and take a spot up front. Because we were relatively early, we just stood behind the single row of people that had formed in front of the stage. As people began filling in behind us, I began talking to the ladies around me. The Mister went for another round of drinks and I felt something tickle my sandal-clad foot. Looking down, it first seemed to be a peeled off beer label; further inspection revealed it was a crisp, new twenty dollar bill.
I blinked hard and asked myself what beer had a label that looked like money. Picking it up, I asked my new friends if they had dropped it.
"No. Put that in your pocket. Stop asking and put it in your pocket!" Explaining that I couldn't do that, I asked everybody around me; each said, "It's yours, put it in your pocket." Uncomfortably, I put it in my pocket saying, "If anybody hears somebody..."
Then out come the Black Crowes. I've kept up with the unfortunate drama plaguing the band as they set out on tour a week ago and hoped for the best. With a relatively new keyboardist and a last-minute-new guy on guitar
the Crowes delivered with all the grungy goodness I have come to love over the past sixteen years. The band had snagged Paul Stacey on guitar and although he hasn't played with them in years, he nailed it. Aside from the stellar set list, my heart was warmed by the way the band really worked together. Rich Robinson is an amazing band leader and it was so nice to see him call the changes to Stacey and smile at the magic that ensued.
Halfway through 'Bad Luck Blue Eyes Goodbye', I felt something on my foot again. This time it was solid. Another hard blink, because no-fucking-way that is NOT what I think it is. But, yes! It was a small stash box. This I picked up and you can't find a stash box without trying to locate the owner. I enjoyed the rest of the song and began tapping shoulders, "Uh, does this belong to you?" My new-found girl friends firmly told me to put it in my pocket. After asking all of the people around me, I reached behind The Mister and slid it into his back pocket. Coincidence this is my favorite Black Crowes song? Coincidence that the recording begins with "B and B with a little weed"?
Coincidence? I think not.
After a few beverages, I made a trip to the ladies room. It was empty save for one poor girl who heard me come in and shouted, "Is somebody out there? Did somebody come in? Could you please give me some toilet paper?" Always willing to help a sister in need, I passed a roll under the stall door. As we were washing our hands, she stumbled all over herself with thanks. Then this lovely lady looked at me and said, "I hope this doesn't offend you, but maybe you'd like to smoke a little? It's the least I can do."
Does this happen to real people? I felt like the planets had aligned and my ship had come in. Luck be a lady tonight and I, dear readers, was that lady!

**I'd like to apologize for my substandard writing this morning. My luck apparently ran out at midnight and instead of turning into a pumpkin, I woke up with a hangover.

Radio love.

It's my first day back and it feels great. I want more.
Of all my past forays, the job I miss the most is anything having to do with Radio. I love Radio, the truest form of media. When all else fails, there is radio.
I won't go into a spiel about how Clear Channel has ruined radio and left us with nothing more than skim milk: a watered down version of the real stuff.
What I will say is "good things come to those who wait." I waited and was ready as hell when an amazing woman called on me for some fill-in hours at my old radio stomping grounds. It's just fill-in craptastic work, but at the very least I get to breathe the musty, dank air of all that is Radio.
I'm truly excited!

To Do Today: 1. Wake Up; 2. Get Job

Two out of two ain't too bad.
I got up this morning with no real plans.
Somehow, in the process of my non-plan, I got a bit of a job.
It's a shock to me, too! I'll write about it later; right now I need to get myself together and go pick up The Mister.

"No, he get's his drugs like everybody else: from the guy on the corner."

I finally fell asleep around 6am this morning and was well into a bizarre dream when the phone rang. The dream was vivid, complete with color and background music.
... ... ...
The Mister and I had gotten roped into inviting my Evil-Sister-In-Law and her family (my bro-in-law and their two kids) out to my parent's cabin in rural West Virginia. They had worked it out so The Mister would drive the kids and I would be stuck driving the Evil SIL and BIL.
At first, I couldn't find the keys and was completely preoccupied with how we were going on a boat and I hadn't shaved my legs. Not to mention how I couldn't believe I was going to be stuck in a car with these wretched people.
After finding the keys, we squashed into my chariot and were off. I had Radiohead's OK Computer blasting in my stereo and left it that way even though ESIL and BIL both jumped out of their skins when I started the car. "Let 'em sweat" I thought.
About a half-hour into the drive I really started freaking out because it had become clear their mission was to convert me to Republican. They kept calling it an "intervention" and they were only doing it "because we love The Mister and can't stand to see you keep him on the dark side." Things were getting heavy with my explanations of how The Mister (and their Mother!) was Democrat before I ever met him, when ESIL asked, "Are you giving him drugs?"
... ... ...
You won't hear me say this very often, but thank goodness the phone rang to wake me. This bizarro dream was well on its way to a nightmare. Just the thought of being in a car with my ESIL and BIL is enough to keep me awake for the next three years, but throw in a political conversion and I will never sleep again.
The question, "Are you giving him drugs?" was not a far stretch though. Right before we got married, ESIL yelled at me I had to be The Mister's "drug dealer because that's the only way he would stay with you!" She topped it off with, "I was a teacher, we are taught how to look for these things!"
Crazy people. What's even more disturbing is ESIL thinks we're the nutjobs.

When there's no one else, complain to the blog.

I've had some insane pain in my shoulder/neck area for the past three days. Pain that makes your finger tingle and causes nausea is probably bad.
Mostly I don't want to mention this to The Mister because he worries so much.
And he won't be home this week. The Mister is working on another long-form-movie program and he'll be working quite late every day.
Normally I would say something and he would work the kinks out; or if The Mister wasn't around I'd go visit Aunt Jane who would rub my shoulder with some wacky concoction. Aunt Jane is in Hawaii and The Mister is MIA. Instead, I've been popping ibuprofen like they're tic-tacs. Interesting how they're a little sweet, huh?

Anybody want to come over and help a girl out?

Five years later and this is the best I can do...

I have tried so hard to write a post about the passing of five years and the anniversary of September 11th. Everything I have begun and erased has been disjointed and disconnected; much like my thoughts. I think I will just have to leave it this way. The thing is, all this time later and I still have a very difficult time talking about it. The events of that day changed all of our lives forever.
I was working at a local DC radio station and didn't have to be at work until 11am. The news was on; I had just gotten out of the shower. As soon as the first plane hit, I grabbed my shoes and went straight to work. I lived in Virginia at the time and I heard a strange noise on my way in. When I arrived at the station, I learned the Pentagon had been hit. I knew that day would change our nonessential entertainment jobs to that of much more importance. I was very aware that the show I worked for had flown up the night before to broadcast from our New York sister station. My roommate, also a staff member of the show, had flown up that morning. I started calling her cell phone right away. I didn't know her flight number and I was scared -terrified- but strangely calm. My cell phone wouldn't work. My apartment was less than a mile from the station; I arrived to "Thank goodness you're here, nothing is working right, see if you can get in touch with New York."
I ran to my office where I found the phones would not work but somehow, I had left my Instant Messenger on overnight. It was still working. There were only three computers in the station that still had internet access and our phones to NY were jammed.
I shouted that I had IM contact with our NY sister station and my office flooded with people. My roommate was okay as were the rest of the staff.
We decided to go on the air right then -if we could get a link between our stations. The amazing engineers rigged a way to broadcast from our NY station and we were On.
Our shock-jock show became a news and information broadcast. We were, of course, commercial free and giving out information as any of us could get it. We could get local incoming-only calls at our DC station, I would relay the information to the NY station, and if a listener with information would come through, we would put that person on the air. We did the best with what we had, and I am proud of the news and information we provided. Over the next few days, we simply took calls and let people talk and share their experiences. We had people calling, giving their name and begging other listeners to tell their families they were still alive but couldn't get through. People called to share their stories, their love, hurt, anger, fear and every other emotion we have all endured since this time.
I still don't know how I feel.

That first night, when the Station Manager finally told me to go home, I was afraid to stay by myself. I didn't want to leave the station; it was very late and I was very scared. My mom finally got through to me on my cell phone and told me to go stay with The Mister. The Mister and I had only met two short months before but mom didn't want me to be alone and Aunt Jane was out of town, stuck in Connecticut.
I went to The Mister's where a couple of friends had come by and I finally broke down. There are things about that night I've never told anybody because I couldn't bear to have them trivialized. Maybe someday, when I'm very old, I will be able to share them. Today, though, it is still too fresh.
Everything seemed so finite. So uncertain. It still does.
I pray that the lives and souls affected by these events can somehow find peace.
Five years. It seems so long ago but just like yesterday.

The sweetest thing...

Most often when the insomnia strikes, I leave the bedroom. Years of lying awake have taught me a bed is for sleeping, and at any rate that is what I hope my brain gets tricked into believing. And it sure makes certain activities a bit more interesting.
Last night was a little different. As I started rolling out of bed to head off into the living room, The Mister sweetly reached for me in his sleep. Now how could I possibly leave that?
I scooted in close and kissed him. His eyebrows fluttered with a slight smile of recognition and a lovely, "Mmmmm..." was murmured.
In the dark, I watched awhile as he fell deeper into sleep and I kissed him again. This time, he turned his head as if he was looking for more. Such sleepy sweetness.

Super Sternwheel.

My weekend was nothing short of amazing. The Mister and I boarded the chariot and drove to Ohio for the Ohio River Sternwheel Festival in Marietta, Ohio. Think of a festival with scores of Sternwheelers, a profusion of people, countless classic cars, a myriad of music and more funnel cake and fair food than you could shake a french fry at.
We arrived late Friday evening and drove straight to Capitall and Wino's abode for a good old fashioned drunken' marshmallow roast. Booze, fire, sticks and marshmallows always make for a good time. That is, until The Mister seriously burns himself with a marshmallow he didn't realize was just a tiny bit on fire. Put to lips, sticks to lips, sizzle. Poor guy didn't say a word; he just went inside, cleaned off the stickiness and came back out to the party.
We awoke five hours after the party on Saturday morning and I wasn't aware he had burned himself until I saw the blister with my bleary eyes. The Mister said it didn't hurt and we rolled out of bed to meet Drinky, Red and baby Sip at the farmer's market. Baby Sip is still the best baby ever and it was fun to tote her around the market. Drinky introduced me to their Heirloom tomato farmer friends. They grow all sorts of other things, too, but...
Oh. Sweet. Tomatoes. From. Heaven.Not to leave out the best grapes I have ever eaten; so good The Mister calls it "Grape Candy". We loaded up on local produce, honey and cheese, then headed to The Harmar Tavern for breakfast and beverages (aka "antiseptic for the burn victim"). A greasy spoon breakfast topped off with a Red Eye is one helluva way to get the day started.
Saturday evening, we hit the town to get fully tanked before the bombs bursted in air. You can see it worked, matey. Crooked Hook Super; mess with my drink and I'll gouge your eyes. I'm not even trying to explain this; just know, it was as hysterical as it looks. I left the decision making to The Mister as he seemed well equipped to make judgement calls (see picture) and it was his first Sternwheel festival. We decided to ride up to Red's parent's house to watch the fireworks. Mommy and Daddy Red are amazing people and I feel privileged to know them. Their home sits atop Harmar Hill and overlooks the city lights. They say they bought a view with a house and someday, The Mister and I are determined to become their neighbors. A good ways above the display, the show was phenomenal. It may be a small town in Ohio, but the fireworks display is -I swear, no exaggeration- first rate.The Mister was in a little bit of shock as he's seen the Fourth of July fireworks in DC since he was a little kid. However, a snob he is not and he freely admitted it to be "fucking amazing!" and stated, "I had no idea... certainly did not expect that."
We lingered a few hours just chatting and bonding and I can only hope that at some point in every person's life, they feel friendship like this.
It would stand to reason that on Sunday we would have packed up and driven home. Oh no; after an early brunch with my family, The Mister and I met up again with Wino and Capital for "a cup of coffee before heading out of town."
Coffee somehow turned into a trip out to the Dranks castle (I'm really not joking when I use the word 'castle'. It's huge, stone and complete with a fireman's pole and cave for escaping out the wine cellar.) Yours truly may have ended up stripping down to her underoos in a hot tub with Capitall, Mommy Drank and a tasty friend called Bloody Mary. So much for a cup of coffee.
The drive back was a little sad as it was such an incredible weekend. I knew I was in the right place though, because as I was pulling my bag from the backseat, The Mister whispered, "Super...look." I turned my head in time to see a little mini-weenie puppy prancing past.
My gasp got her attention and she came right over with a little tail waggle "Hello." We introduced ourselves and little Dee let me pet and fawn all over her. We said our goodbyes and as I turned to The Mister he whispered, "Super, I think this weekend you touched a few dreams."

No, no, no. NOT the horse tranquilizer.

I totally woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning and was feeling quite the crank in my pants until I opened an email from Drinky.
I was munching on my cereal when I read his signature "Pip Pip and all that jazz". It made me snarf my Special K.
Special K is such a great cereal and when I was young my parents would tell me it was made Just. For. Me. For those who don't know, contrary to what I wrote yesterday, Super is not my real name. My name actually begins with a K, so it wasn't a far stretch for a little girl to believe a cereal with a big bold K and Special was made just for her. Add to that I was the Middle Child and wanted to latch onto anything making me a little more sparkly and you've got a recipe for a very special breakfast.
To this day, I flinch when The Mister reaches for MY cereal. It's involuntary that my first thoughts are, "Don't you be touchin' that! Does that box look like it's got your name on it? I don't think so; reach over there and have yourself a bowl of Fruit Loops 'cause you're crazy to think you can have MY cereal." Then reality reigns me in and realize I have to -EEK!- share.

Super Super bo Buper, Bananafana fo Fuper...

It's the old John vs Johnny, Joe vs Joey, Jen vs Jenny, Rebecka vs Becky thing...
My name has been a bit of an issue for the past 9 years. You know me as my alter-ego, Super, but outside of bloggerland, I am Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious**. (Fine. Fine. FINE. Super is not my real name, but as I've been told, "You can't nickname yourself." It's my blog and I'll call myself whatever I damn well please.)
I grew up as Superie. My whole family with the exception of a few members of my step family called me Superie. In college, I was dubbed Little-Superie because my next-dorm neighbor was a 6-footer also named Superie (what are the chances?!). Many of my college friends still call me Little-Superie.
Then I got a job at the top 40 radio station during my sophomore year. It was my major, after all, and I (along with the Station Manager) decided Super was more 'radio friendly'. Super is more radio friendly; it is concise, easy to understand and has a more professional feel. From that day forward, professionally, I became Super.
Then I moved to DC for a radio job and as my coworkers became friends, the lines began to blur. They all knew me as Super instead of Superie. At parties, I'd be introduced as Super. I was with a coworker when The Mister picked me up at a bar. He met me as Super, but now he calls me Superie. It's endearing and frankly, I like it better.
My email is Superblahblah@blah, but that is simply because one day -you never know- maybe I'll have the need to be professional again. Anything is possible.
Regardless, in an informal setting I prefer Superie. Super makes me feel a little buttoned up; Superie makes me smile.
Most likely though, I'll answer to just about anything. Hell, I have college friends who drop the actual part of my name and simply call me Little.
It would be awesome if people called me Super in real life, though... Dude that would kick a little bit of ass. However, that wouldn't be quite fair to The Mister since he was the original Super. I kinda stole it, but Little Super doesn't sound nearly as... well, Super.

**Would you believe that Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious is actually in the blogger spellcheck?

As if I'm a 5 month old baby, "YAY! I SLEPT THROUGH THE NIGHT!"

I think I died a little last night. Those who read regularly probably have figured out I'm a bit of an insomniac. The past two weeks have been no exception and The Mister had gotten tired of waking up in the middle of the night to find an empty space where I should have been. I started feeling wonky and pseudo-Tyler Durden without the violence and aggression... that I know of at least.
It had gotten to the point my (doctor recommended) sleep-aid was simply making me woozy instead of sleepy. I would take the stuff and go to bed when I got tired, only to awaken two hours later in a punch-drunk half-stupor unable to drift back into Sleepyland. It's a new version of "lights on nobody home" because although my eyes wouldn't close and my mind was racing, my thoughts were disjointed and erratic.
Last night remedied all that plagued me and I slept. The Slumber came and stayed overnight. This new bedfellow can stay every night as far as I'm concerned. I don't even think The Mister will mind sharing me with The Slumber. It makes The Mister's life a bit easier as I'm not a wandering dazed crazy woman when The Slumber stays over.

Well, I'm off to enjoy the day: Awake, alive and fully conscious!

Compliments. I know this is going to come off the wrong way, but...

It's a strange phenomena, these women who can't take a compliment. Yes, there is something to be said for being modest, but there is also something to be said for graciousness. I had never encountered it before coming to the area, and now, occasionally, I find myself slipping into the wrong. Just take the damn compliment, ladies; don't point out flaws or shrug it off. Take it.
This phenomena is how I stumbled upon the realization of why I adore my Ohio friends so much. This is, of course, not the sole reason I love them; not even close.
With a wink and a smile, I'll tell you one reason they are so great: They tell me I'm beautiful, pretty, hot, sexy, whatever and it's genuine.
Yes, it sounds very self-absorbed, but we all shell out these compliments. There's nothing fake about it; nor is it trite. It is not the simply the compliments themselves; it's the authentic generous nature of these wonderful people that these accolades represent.
Let me give an example.

The Mister and I walk into a bar searching for the couple we are meeting. The man of the couple jumps off his bar stool, gives me a great embrace and says with a big smile, "You look gorgeous."
This is where things anywhere else might get hinky, as this man's wife is on the other stool. However, not here. This woman will jump off her chair, have a similar exchange with my husband while I'm receiving my hug, then she and I will fawn all over each other. Genuinely. "That dress was made for you! You're radiant!"
In the meantime, the men are exchanging handshake hugs they way good man-friends do.

The exchange is sincere with nothing phony about it.
We really love each other and want each other to know how wonderful, amazing and foxy the other is. I've never met men so eager to pay a compliment and women so confident they don't mind if the compliment is for somebody else.

I love these women. There is no cattiness, no backbiting and no jealousy. We want each other to be Great. Don't be suspicious or down on yourself; just take the damn compliment.

Age 250?? Just another beta test...

Mostly I'm just testing this new Beta Blogger out again...

I just noticed that somehow the age in my profile is 250.
Although there are occasions where I may feel like a corpse, last I checked all body functions were fairly normal. And just because I've recently become obsessed with the crow's feet around my eyes, there isn't a shit-ton I can do: They run in my family! There's no amount of eye cream to stop it. And there's no way blogger would know I was having an internal wrinkle crisis.
Yes, somehow blogger changed my birth year to 1756. Well, the correct year does, in fact, begin with a "1"; however the rest is super wrong.
Stop fucking with me blogger!
Although it's odd, I'm leaving it. Unless tomorrow I think it's just stupid. Then I'll change it back.

A call from heaven.

Drinky called me from Ohio this morning to ask when The Mister and I would be arriving this coming weekend.
He said they have been scrounging down the heirlooms like they're going out of style and wanted to take us to the farmer's market where a they had befriended a local heirloom tomato farmer.
I believe there is drool dripping down my chin in delicious anticipation.
I've got lots to write about from this past weekend, but The Mister is home so it will keep until he goes back to work tomorrow. Today is about recovery and relaxing.

If you've got the day off, enjoy it!

Bender weekend.

"All things in moderation." I don't mind a really hot day every once in awhile, nor do I mind a wind-blowing drencher... every once in awhile. In fact, the inconsistency makes me smile. We all have moods, why not afford that to Mother Nature?
I say, "Bring it on, bitch!"
Sure, it may put a damper on some long-weekend plans, but c'mon people, break out the creativity and eek out a great time anyhow.
Here are five examples of making the best of a rain doused weekend:

1. Call your friends, whip out the board games and adult beverages.

2. Get sexy with your significant other, fuck buddy or make your move on that girl/boy you've had your eye on. Go ahead, give 'em a call and see if their weekend is a washout as well.

3. Visit the remaining exhibits at the American History Museum. It's not the full spectacle, but with it being closed for the next two years, why not?

4. Although I am not a Shopper, snagging an umbrella and hitting Georgetown could make for an interesting time. When I worked in retail the rain kept Shoppers away as if somebody had shouted "Anthrax!" in the Senate. I predict small crowds and, as far as I am concerned, a better shopping experience. Take a go-cup.

5. Throw down. Along the same lines of #1, call everybody you know, send out an email, whatever. Make Hurricanes and Dark & Stormy's. Rally your friends for an impromptu, casual bender.

These may not be the most creative, but for a wash-out weekend, not too bad.
Any more ideas? I'd love to know what y'all have up the sleeves of your raincoat...