Edit Note, 8/3: I took out the picture because I think it was messing up my parameters, or something, because my posts weren't fitting. Sorry for any bloglines confusion. It's been bugging the shit...

Today's post is really just a bunch of nonsense. So, if you're looking for stimulating, intellectual discussion, you'll need to move on.

Hey. Still here?
How's it going?
::tap tap:: Is this thing on?

The morning after my evening at the ER, my husband asked me if I wanted a little something for breakfast. Evidently, CAT Scans and vaginal ultrasounds can make a girl hungry. I asked for eggs and toast.

How you want em? Asked the chef.

Ovary See. I replied.

I can see this is quickly going down the tubes. But no, really, think about it...*

Okay, Let us move on.

Back when, like, two weeks ago, while on vacation, I started writing a piece about, well, vacations. It was supposed to be a lovely little blend of nostalgia and anectdotal recollections, peppered with philosophical, deepass shit, like 30 Years After: The true meaning of iodine and baby oil, upon the nubile flesh..

Then it got bigger. And deeper. Then I fell in. And ended up with a nasty bump on my imgination.

The piece is still a something in progress, but I don’t know what, quite. Yet.

In the meantime, I shall fill our shared space today with meaningless, self-absorbed chatter. A little Monobloggoblasterbation. If You Will.

Reminder: The meaningful segue gets Mondays off. ::With a little elbow grease and ingenuity. Wink::

So, where was I?

Oh yeah.

Hair: I got a new haircut today. I look like an artichoke. I love artichokes. I do. Whether or not I love looking like an artichoke, remains to be seen. At least I got the midriff for it, which makes this the classic good-news-bad-news-hair-like-an-artichoke story.

Six Feet Under: What the fuck? You may recall that I just started watching this show this past spring. I’ve spent hours on end, with this family, courtesy of Blockbuster Video. So this new, unspeakable development, strikes me at a most personal core. I mean, I never, ever saw this coming: Claire dating a Republican. I. know.

Dudley Do Me: I caught a showing of “10” the other night. I don’t think I’ve ever really seen the entire movie before. Although, it’s possible I did but don’t remember. I mean, it was 1979. ‘Nuf said.

As I watched the movie, I found myself feeling kind of sad and nostalgic. First I was sad for poor, tiny, dead Dudley. Such a fine musician and one of the best character drunks I’ve ever seen in movies or on TV.

Then I felt sad for Bo, because I once read that her now dead husband John, wouldn't let her eat candy and once snatched a Snickers Bar out of her hand, before she could eat it. She reportedly saw this behavior as a sign of his love and devotion to her. And I was also sad for her because she married that guy when she was, like, twelve, which means that she likely went years and years without a Snickers Bar.

And then I wondered if she’s had a Snickers Bar since her father’s husband’s untimely demise, and further wondered if she noticed right away, that there aren’t as many peanuts as there used to be, and that the chocolate is kind of waxy. And then I wondered if she drooled.

Then I felt sad for Linda Evans, who (whom?) John Derek dumped to marry the pre-pubescent Bo, and wondered if John left Linda because she had wider shoulders than he did, which made him worry that she might be able to kick his ass. Then I hoped that she did just that.

Then I felt sad for Qiana. The same fabric, I believe, that Bo’s yellow dress she wore to dinner, in the movie, was made of.

I grew up kind of poor. Not real poor, but we didn’t splurge much on stuff like full-priced clothing. Anyway. During my sophomore year in college, a bunch of my high school friends got married. So, I splurged, full-price, on this scrumptious, Qiana dress, with a very risqué, key-hole top. The color was “Dusty Rose,” but I think I would’ve called it “Frosted Plum in the Pale Moonlight,” which kind of sounds like a T.J. Swann wine, but wasn’t.

That Qiana piece was probably one of my favorite dresses of all time. Because of the way it moved. It was clingy and swishy and when I walked, it took on a movement, all its own.

I also bought some platform heels, which did not match the dress. And a macramé purse, which matched neither dress or shoes. The purse had a linen lining. Into this macramé purse with the linen lining, I put an ink pen.

The first wedding reception I attended, in my beloved Qiana, was held at the St. Josapaitis, VFW hall. This was a fairly monumental event, for me, as I was seeing some high school pals I hadn’t seen in, hell, 18 months. I wanted to look my best. And damn, if I was NOT disappointed.

So, I enter the reception hall, and swish my way to the bar, for a cheap wedding reception rendition of a 7 - 7 (called a 10 - 10 (10 O’Clock whiskey and Upper 10). As I swished my way around the room, I’m telling ya, I thought, no, I KNEW that I was the cat’s ass.

So, finally, I meet up with some familiar faces, and we start chatting. Then a good friend points to my skirt and says, “What’s that?”

Fuck Me.

Ink marks. Dozens of them. It looked like a half formed spirograph arc. In the shape of a crescent moon.

Evidently, the pen in my purse had poked it’s way through the fabrics. And unbeknownst to me, as I was sashaying my cat’s ass around the room, bursting with bad-permed confidence, the pen was marking my every swaggle. Swish, Swish, Sunnuvabitch.

The Qiana responded pretty well to the ol’ hairspray treatment, but it was never the same. I had to wear it to the remainder of the weddings, because I had no money to buy anything else. Fortunately, Big Purses were in, so I managed to cover it discreetly, most of the time. And didn’t dance much.

So, I was sad for Qiana.

I don’t remember feeling sad for Julie Andrews though. Seems like she’s had it pretty good, overall, despite that little gender identity issue, a while back.

Wow, this came out about 3 miles longer than I anticipated. Sorry.
And I’m not done.
Sorry again.

TV Commercials: When I was sick, I couldn’t really handle clicking between stations. Yeah, I felt THAT bad. Anyway, in my narcotic induced state, I would kind of let the TV commercials wash over me. One commercial I kept hearing, over and over, was for the Lap Dance Weigh Loss System. Sounds like fun! I later figured out that they were saying Lap Bands…Lap Bands. It's kind of like surgery, which didn’t sound like much fun. And that made me sad.

I used to dance to the Direct TV shadow dancer. You know, that skinny-assed shadow, with the pony-tail and hiphuggers? She always looked so happy, twirling all around, to the little salsa jingle. Since they added a couple more shadowy figures to the dance party, it’s just not been the same. And that makes me sad.

I guess I’m done now, which makes me feel happy. But I feel like I'm missing something...

Please, No! you say?

Oh, all right. I guess I’ve given the blog snipes at least something to talk about. ::wink wink::


*They looked at my ovaries, in the CAT scan and ultrasound. Now...?