December 9, 2011

Embarrasing?

Did you ever just not feeling like showering before you run out for a quick errand?

Especially if you are just running to Wal-Mart.

Did you ever just feel like going on a late night snack run in your jammies?

With your hair all sticking up on one side and matted down from the couch pillows on the other.

Did you ever ask your husband, while standing over the cakes display, in your jammies, with your hair all jacked up, and chipped toe nail polish prominently displayed in your self-bedazzled flip flops, if you are embarrassing him?

And did he ever reply, “No, I’ll just tell people you’re my retarded little sister.” ?

Did that ever happen to you?

December 8, 2011

Diamonds, Guns and Other Holiday Traditions

One of my favorite rituals when I was a kid was decorating the tree. I loved it as I got old enough to totally take over the decorating, and later in my own little apartments where I always themed my trees.

My first year out of my mother’s house, my roommate and I, broke from paying the rent on our basement apartment near the Ohio State University, decorated our stolen tree with airplane sized liquor bottles. (She was older than me and could drink stuff a little harder than Little Kings.)

This Christmas my husband and I drank wine from our recent Napa trip while decorating our blue and green themed tree. This is something I would like to do every year, uh, make that every Saturday night. (Drinking wine from Napa that is; not putting up a tree.)

However, there was a wee bit of contention over the ball distribution. My husband thinks he’s an expert on balls, while I am quite certain that I have had a lot more experience handling them than he. Yes he knows that they have to be handled with care; especially the older ones that have been in the family awhile, but it takes a woman’s touch to properly place the balls. After all one does not want one’s balls banging together and getting all scratched up.

But I digress.

While I theme the trees, he enjoys giving themed gifts. I must admit I have been the benefactor of his thoughtful bundles of packages. One of my favorite years was the diamond themed Christmas of 2008. Thank you baby, hope you liked your tie.

He has also shared with me his holiday tradition of watching A Christmas Story, and it has now become our tradition. It’s the story of a little boy who wants his own Red Rider BB Gun, but his mother fears he will shoot out his eye.

After our last visit to my father-in-law’s where I tired of shooting the air rifle and proceeded to totally destroy an innocent plastic target by blasting it from about twenty feet with a twelve gauge shotgun that left a hell of a bruise on my body, I now have a desire for my own pump action gun.

Will Santa bring me diamonds or guns this Christmas? Who is to say, for I feel I only deserve coal. Perhaps I would shoot my eye out, although it’s more likely I’d dislocate a shoulder, but making dust out of clay pigeons sure sounds fun.

Maybe we could even use the old ornaments that have lost their luster for targets. Hurray for our new holiday traditions; drinking fine wine, erecting our tree and shooting balls. Merry Christmas everyone.


November 27, 2011

Another Black Friday

I drug myself out of the house at 11:00 p.m. Thanksgiving night and went to work an overnight shift at a department store that opened at twelve a.m. Black Friday.

What we do for money is way worse than what we do for love.

I have never participated in the shopping frenzy of that famed day, and the only other time I ever worked retail on that day was in my own shop. (We never got out of the red or I wouldn’t be typing this now.)

Seriously, it was stupid is as stupid does sir. People stood in line for hours to get in. Nearly ran us over when they did. Grabbed one or two door busters, and stood in line for at least two more hours to pay for their items.

Two days earlier, I went shopping with my husband, took a store coupon, opened the store credit card just to get the discount and paid less than all the door buster shoppers who didn’t have coupons or open the card. I will pay the card off and there you go; bob’s your uncle.

And why with all the online Black Friday specials would you even consider standing in lines like that with a belly full of turkey? I received email alerts from just about every store in the land offering me free shipping, discounts prices and satisfaction guaranteed.

I even got Black Friday special offers from the spam emailers hawking Viagra and enlargement supplements… Talk about satisfaction guaranteed!

You know… my little town just got our very own “Adult Toy Store”, I wonder what kind of holiday specials they’ve got UP for sale in there:

Jingle Balls

Santa’s Little Butt Plugs

Santa’s Little Helper (It’s a vibrator, get it?)

Mistletoe for Your Camel Toe

Stocking Fluffers

Jingle Bell Cock (It plays the famed Christmas song while you use it.)

Sugar Hung Fairies

The North Hole

Jack Off In A Box

Surprise Packages

Three Wide Men

We Wish You a Hairy Christmas (Your guess is as good as mine.)

And in the DVD section:

I’m Dreaming of a Wet Christmas

I’ve Have a Blue Balls Christmas Without You

Mary Hole on 42nd Street

All I Want for Christmas is Two New Titties

A Charlie Brown Eye Christmas

Rudolph the Red Boned Reindeer

Oh and last but not least…

The Little Hummer Boy

November 23, 2011

Dancing with J.R. Martinez

J.R. Martinez, my favorite contestant on this season of Dancing With the Stars, won the trophy on last’s night finale. Yeah, I love to watch J.R. dance, but mostly it’s his smile that is so engaging.

His positive spirit is so inspirational, especially to someone like me with a predilection towards grumpy.

He is a veteran, injured in the war, who went on to a role on the soap All My Children, being a motivational speaker, and now dance champion. He makes me want to give up complaining… almost.

The last couple years as I have been struggling to get in shape, I have been joking with people that I wanted to be on Dancing with the Stars by time I’m 50; I don’t know how I’ll become a star by then, but that will be the easy part compared to losing the weight. (BTW, Go Ricki, Go Ricki.)

But dancing the night away, adorned in glitter and rhinestones is a personal goal.

As is being a contestant on Top Shot, a rootin', tootin', shoot em up show where the only bling is from bullets hitting metal targets.

I am nothing if not ecletic.



Am I dreaming when I wish for fame via reality t.v? Perhaps, but what fun is life without dreams. I just hope I don’t end up on Dirty Jobs.


November 16, 2011

My Dog Is In a Box In The Garage

Cat people are absolutely bat shit crazy.

Keeping my dog’s ashes in a box in the garage for ten years because I can’t bear to part with them makes perfect sense.

At least they’re not in a pink tin tea pot on a shelf above my stove, where my friend, a bat shit crazy cat person, keeps Mittens, a Hemingway cat that I swear I have tasted in my Earl Grey on certain visits to her house.

I used to keep my dog in the tire well of my trunk. That’s where they put him when I picked up the box from the vet and for a couple of years I just left him there. I figured it was ok because he loved to go for car rides.

He was a good ole dog. Even though he “allegedly” bit the mail man the day I brought him home from the pound, I kept him anyway. I was already in love.

Even though he had seizures that required twice daily meds; even though he never bit the boyfriend that was pilfering the doggy Phenobarbital, I kept him anyway.

And even now nearly twelve years after he died, I still have dreams that he is alive. Usually I wake up feeling really bad because I haven’t walked him in twelve years and then I realize it was just a dream.

My sister adopted my cat, my dog’s little brother, before I moved to Florida. So I was not there when he died. She took good care of him till the end, but she is the practical sort, still bat shit crazy, but not a keeper of animal ashes.

My husband and I plan on getting a dog one day, but can’t work it out just yet; travel, jobs etc. I’ve thought about another cat but my husband only likes them in his General Tso’s not in his house. But maybe this little video will change his mind.

Can’t you just picture these little darlings in a teapot one day?



Cat Hugs Baby Kitten Having Nightmare - Watch MoreFunny Videos

November 14, 2011

Lil Wayne vs. Johnny Cash

I’m sitting at a red light and I can’t hear myself think because two other vehicles are having a battle of the bands, or iPods or CD’s or 8tracks; who knows.

It’s Florida and my air conditioning has been broken ever since the check engine light magically went out after a mere seven years of begging for attention. I figured the engine checked itself, but I guess the a.c. missed the memo, so the windows on my 2001 Escort are open. (The back passenger window does not open all the way, well it does but then you can’t get it back up, but whatever.)

So I can’t hear myself think and I start looking for the source of the auditory invasion, which is so loud it must be coming from open windows as well.

All I can see are arms. I wish I could see faces so I could deliver a most disapproving stink eye, but find myself guessing who is playing what song with no other information to go on than forearms.

Both arms are male. Either that or there are two female body builders in different rides at the same red light, and unlike their male counterparts, they neglected to shave their brachioradialis.

Both arms are adorned with jewelry, that judging by the status of the vehicles, the rest of the body can’t afford.

Both hands clench a smoke as if the fingers resent the addiction of the mouth. Are they menthol? Are they not? I cannot tell.

One arm is older than the other; could that be the determining factor? The arms are different colors, is that all it takes to know who plays what music? I think not.

Can the story of lives be surmised from arms? Perhaps not accurately, but it was a long light and I gave them both quite a rich history, tarnished for one, broken dreams for the other.

One arm’s father smoked, the other arm hid it from his mother. One arm currently works, but is on the outs with the boss, the other arm is looking, but no luck yet.

Tired of both their music, besides who played which song doesn’t matter, as the light chances I cranked up Journey and give them both an earful of me and Steve Perry with the full effect that three and half car speakers can deliver.

November 12, 2011

To Sag or Not to Sag?

If you had worn more underwear in the ‘70’s could you be wearing less now?

Ok, so in the ‘70’s I wore a bra. The summer between sixth and seventh grade I skipped right over training bra and went right into the major leagues, but a lot of gals in that decade shunned the matronly restraint of a pointy cupped brassiere and went for the au natural look.

And so I ask; would those of us of a certain age and girth need the high tech gravity correcting, shape shifting feats of engineering that are today’s bras, if we’d have kept our boobies under wraps back in the day?

Or would old man time have taken his toll regardless? Speaking of old men; would the same question hold true for them? Would having spent their high and tight years in jock straps have helped them to avoid the one hung low eventuality that befalls our grey templed counterparts? Hard to say. (No pun intended.)

I only know this; these days I have so much underwear it has two major categories: reduction and enhancement.

Reduction: Girdles, (Spanks are for sissys), control top panty hose, (thank God we are allowed to wear hose again, spray tan can only do so much.) Thigh trimmers, corsets and arm stockings. (Currently only being worn by the chubby celebs on Dancing With the Stars.

Enhancement: Bras that head ‘em up and move ‘em out; demi cups that form soft mounds that peek out the top, (never to be confused with a muffin top, so not the same,) and full blown boob manipulation systems that can make your A’s into bigger D’s than you got in high school.

Also in the enhancement category; butt pads. Not just for that KardASShian derriere, but to smooth out the peaks and valleys that dimple an over the hill back side.

Not an under garment, but still in the enhancement category: lip plumping gloss. With an optimum lip plumping window of two hours and not, according to the FDA, to be applied more than twice a day or in direct sunlight, this beauty product does serve its purpose.

So, underwear then versus underwear now; who knows? Suffice it to say, regardless of your panty situation, if you’re like me you find it exceptionally difficult to put your false eyelashes on while wearing your reading glasses.

October 31, 2011

I Need My Daily Fiber

The best way to get your daily fiber is from the guys at Daily Fiber Films. So funny.

October 27, 2011

Dr. Oz is Trying to Kill me.

Dear Dr. Oz, are you tyring to kill me?

Because I don't think drinking this stuff is going to save me.

Fiber and Vinegar Cocktail
8 oz water
4 tsp of white or red wine vinegar
1 tsp psyllium husk fiber, such as Metamuc
 
Just asking!
 
 
Quick Fixes to Prevent the Diseases You Fear Most

Dr. Oz reveals his quick fixes for the diseases you fear most: diabetes, cancer, heart attack and stroke. Quick Fixes to Prevent the Diseases You Fear Most:


Both the vinegar and fiber in the drink will help slow the absorption of sugar. Plus the vinegar works as an appetite suppressant, while the fiber will help you feel full. You’ll stave off hunger, which will help prevent weight gain; obesity is often tied to diabetes. Drink this cocktail every day before dinner to prevent sugar spikes and crashes.

October 8, 2011

Dr. Oz’s Colon Blow Weekend

I am in the throes of Dr. Oz’s 48 Hour Weekend Cleanse, and I am so hungry I want to kick Oprah’s ass.

For years now I have been doing what Oprah tells me to; because damn it she knows. Seriously I went through a period where she really worked a nerve, but that doesn’t mean the woman isn’t smart.

So, Oprah said drink 8 glassses of water a day, and now I can’t make it through a movie.

She said listen to Dr. Phil; I strategized.

And then Oprah said eat what Dr. Oz’s eats so… the 48 hour colon blow is in effect.

It’s only been a few hours so I am not yet incontinent, but the trip to the store to fill Dr. Oz’s weekend grocery list cleansed my wallet, that's for sure.

Me, a teenage bagger with an iPhone, and the produce manager spent the better part of an hour searching Publix for ingredients that don’t come frozen or in a can.

Some of which were unidentifiable to me, as I had never seen them on a drive through menu, hence the kid with the iPhone who Googled admirably.


This morning I had quinoa and prunes.

I have nothing else to say about that. Google the side effects of prunes, if need be. (Or call your grandma, she knows about prunes.)

Later I will be drinking a kale shake with a flax oil chaser.


By Monday morning I will be empty, of that I am sure.

If you plan to join me, and are going to try the diet for the next two days, heed these words of advice from my grandmother, which should ring true this weekend even more than in ordinary times:

Never trust a fart!


October 6, 2011

Call Centers Are Giving Me Cancer of the Ear Hole

The end of a two day marathon at the day job left me with NO energy for my day off. I hate hate hate working for the weekend. Especially if my weekend is Wednesday and Sunday, and Wednesdays are spent at the Doctor, or Bank or anyplace where my time is controlled by other people.

And no place controls your time like a call center.

If I can say one thing to the kids out there; go to school for what you want to be, even if you think you could never be it. Don’t wait till you're 40 to pursue your dreams, but if you do, do it anyway.

Okay two things: stay the hell away from credit cards.

If you follow the above advice you might be able to avoid ever working in a call center. Or God help you a string of call centers, at which your day is spent on a three foot tether answering the same question over and over and selling intangible stuff to people who don’t need it.

Okay three things: take the stairs. When you’re crammed in the back of an elevator that advertises a nine person capacity and you have to carry a one when adding everybody up, (and that’s counting everybody as one when you know there are some twos in there) and you start thinking about getting stuck in there on a Tuesday night with a sore ear hole, and wondering if you’ll ever see daylight again, ask yourself, “Is this how I want to spend my time on earth?”

Time is precious, why do you think call centers keep us on such a short lease, Because customers who are spending their Wednesday on hold waiting for me to pick up don’t care if I didn’t have time to eat and pee on my break, they just want their bill adjusted so they can get back to their day off.

It’s a good job, I’m not digging ditches, I just wish I could spend as much time working on things I love, as I do working for a living.

September 23, 2011

facebook Constipates Me

I used to have a fairly regular morning routine; wake up, make coffee, throw the dishes in the machine, that sort of thing. By then the coffee would be ready and I would take it along with the NY Times crossword puzzle and retire to the “reading room” where I would see about the business of delivering the “mail”.

Not anymore. Now facebook constipates me! My morning routine is in shambles and I haven’t worked a crossword, read a book or written anything longer than one hundred and forty characters in months.

I still get my coffee, but I park in front of the computer to see who’s up, who’s not, what they are doing, did they read my thing, did they comment on my thing, should I comment on their thing, who tagged me, should I tag them, what color is your bra and should I lie about mine being white with comfort straps.

I’ve got to get in the shower for work, but wait, oh snap; that picture is funny, I just have to forward it, let me just post this picture and then I’ll get off the computer, oh hell no, she did not just post that… It’s endless.

The stress of keeping up with the newsfeed makes me twitter! It’s no wonder I can’t poop.

September 18, 2011

The Quiet Man

Ever since we started taking improv classes I have been meeting a lot of future stars.

We wanted to work on our improvisation skills as a way to improve our writing, and got a bonus of having a ton of fun and meeting a lot of creative people.

Some of whom are destined to be bright stars in whatever fields they go into; including my quiet man.

For nearly ten years he has let me take center stage. At parties, reunions, work, wherever; I talk and talk, occasionally bordering on a stand up act, telling well rehearsed jokes and stories.

At home I present an endless stream of conscious thought, vocalizing everything from deep philosophical revelations to the fact that I am going to the bathroom, again, and that I will be right back.

He’s quiet, I talk, it works.

Then we started improv classes with a range of people from high school students to seasoned actors with agents and everything, and me; awkward, nerdy, newbie who can’t seem to find the right words in a scene.

But he talks.

And it’s funny.

And he acts.

Without a script!

And I’m wowed.

My quiet man shines.

All these years I have been rambling on and on about anything and everything, thinking most of it was funny, but maybe not so much and wondering how I ever got so lucky as to have been blessed with a man who loves to hear me talk. Now I’m wondering if he just didn’t want to interrupt.

September 13, 2011

Joan Rivers

OMG. This morning was the first time in a week I have been back to spin class. So not good. I was sweating and panting, and my legs were cramping and my ass hurt, and then I walked into spin class... (Ba dum Ba)


I climbed onto that little seat; started pedaling and away I went. If only I could harness the power of the fat. But wait, maybe I can. Maybe I could use today’s fat as tomorrow’s cash cow.

That’s it! I’ll write a book, go on Doctor Phil, cry about all my struggles with depression and pasta, sell a million copies and Bob’s your uncle, I’m a skinny millionaire.

Skinny millionaire; I like the sound of that. What would I buy first? Um, let’s see. Oh come on, why beat around the bush. BOOBS! I would buy boobs. Glorious orbs with rock hard nipples. (Was that too much information? Yeah, kinda.)

I would also get a Mercedes and an ass lift.

But no vaginoplasty, that’s just going too far. I don’t need it, (she said defiantly). I could make diamonds out of coal in there. (That’s not too much information, I want everybody to know).

Besides, there is such a thing as too much plastic surgery you know! I wouldn’t want my kooch to end up looking like Joan River’s face.

September 5, 2011

Unscripted Post


Another great class at SAK Comedy  Improv University last night. I am hoping to improve my comedic acting skills as my only acting credit to date has been in a drama. I played the lead in a school production of Sounder. I played Sounder. It required a bit of method acting.

September 3, 2011

Athletic Supporters

I just want to thank everyone who has shown me so much support in my quest to weigh less than my husband. I am almost there; would have been there if he hadn’t decided to start eating right and working out too. “I love you baby but go eat a cheeseburger would ya?”

It’s a hard road. Especially the one to the gym at five in the morning, but I am feeling so healthy that maybe I'll start conditioning to do a marathon. I think I'll buy a training bra.

I have even started eating athletic-ish foods. You know, like Rocky drinking raw eggs before a workout. The other night I mixed my Metamucil powder with a PowerAde drink. I’ll keep you posted on how that worked out.

I just can’t handle raw eggs though. And I don’t think I am going to get up an extra half hour early to poach one. (That would be 4:30 in the morning. I used to eat eggs at 4:30 A.M. every Sunday morning… at Denny’s on the way home from the club, but they weren’t poached that’s for damn sure.)

So I need a quick healthy way to get protein before the gym without having to spend $2. a pop on pre-mixed shakes.

If only chickens could lay cooked eggs. OMG! What if chickens could lay deviled eggs? Yeah now we’re talking. General Foods or somebody could figure out a way to inject the hens with mayo and vinegar… bam! They’re laying deviled eggs.

I don’t know though. I already occasionally, when no one is behind me, and when I’m not near a fan, sneak out an innocent little fart-ette while on the treadmill. (The big wind breakers that sound like an eighteen-wheeler just Jake-braked on a 90% grade are not me... I swear. The perpetrator was probably the old marine in the corner, really, I saw him clench.)

I would never let loose with a cheek rippler of that magnitude. I’d be afraid I’d crap on the treadmill. (You saw what I’ve been drinking. It’s not like I want to, but the cycling class has got my sphincter swollen shut. I need a little assistance.)

My husband says I worried about it too much because at five in the morning the Y is full of geezers. “You think one of these old fuckers hasn’t shit on a treadmill before?” he said.

I never thought of it like that.

“It would just roll on off the back and you’d clean it up later”

See what I mean? He is my athletic supporter numero uno.



September 2, 2011

August 28, 2011

Don't Tell Donnell

It was once said of Rembrandt, “He can blend like no one else, reality with mystery, the bestial with the divine, the most subtle and powerful craftsmanship with the greatest, the loneliest depths of feeling that painting has ever expressed”.

Visitors to Capt. Brien’s August 12th and 13th had the opportunity to witness a different kind of master at work, and although his medium is seldom viewed as art, Donnell Rawlings proved that his comedic craftsmanship can move an audience with both a subtle and powerful hand.
From his opening salvo of profanity laced observations on race, society and technology, to his honest and profound opinions on subjects ranging from the President to homosexuality to relationships; Donnell blended the entire range of his artistic palate to create a portrait detailing his viewpoint of contemporary American life.

Watching him use the entire venue as his stage was refreshing, as so many in stand-up these days prefer to remain behind the microphone and perform to an audience as a whole unit. Donnell makes it personal. Interacting with audience members to enhance, reinforce and strengthen the comedic points he is driving home. His energy seems boundless; his connection to the material is flawless.

Catching my eye at one point, he chose to challenge my lack of laughter for a moment following his graphic illustration of B.i.C. T.I.I.T.F. was just the icing on the cake! (you have to see it!). My apologies to Mr. Rawlings, but it was at this point in the show that my writer’s analytical brain kicked in and I sat in envy of his skillful manipulation of the audience. My internal dialogue was speaking to me, “Damn, this mother-fucker is GOOD"! Funny doesn’t do him justice.

Continuing to spin his comedic web, Donnell wrapped the audience in a silken cocoon of inclusiveness, making us all part of the joke, but never feeling that the fragile strand binding us all together would break and the web unravel. The show came to an end far too soon. Donnell left us all wanting more and that is a very good thing. He may not be the most well-known name in comedy today, but you may rest assured that day is coming soon.

Don’t miss an opportunity to see him in action while you can. Check out the show schedule, buy tickets and take all your friends. Donnell Rawlings may very well be the funniest man in America. And anyone who can't handle that can "Take it in the face"!

August 27, 2011

YMC GAY

A few weeks ago with sixteen weeks until our fifth wedding anniversary, which is just shy of our ten year anniversary of being together, and just past our nine year anniversary of moving to Florida, we decided to get in shape. Not just lose weight, but really get in shape. He wants a six pack, and I want a great can.

So we joined the Y and have been going pretty regularly. And I’m pretty sure it made me gay. I mean I am constantly checking out other women.

“Look at the guns on her; she makes Michelle Obama look like Olive Oyl.”

“I bet she does squats…Her thighs make me sore just looking at her.”

“Have you ever seen boobs like that? I want to touch them. No I don’t. Yes I do, but not the nipple, I’m not that gay.”

“That ass is perfection. A solid gold glute machine and the world’s finest plastic surgeon could not give me an ass like that.”

“Look how much space there is between her legs; you could throw a cat through there.”

I said cat, if you used a different term, then you are a very crude person.

So I asked my husband, who promises he has not been checking out the same women I have, if he thinks I’m gay.

“Baby,” he said, in his sweetest condescending tone, “if you were a lesbian you wouldn’t do what you did to me last night.”

“I might,” I said.

“Perhaps,” he grinned, “but you certainly wouldn’t have been so into it that you stopped in the middle to yell giddy up.”

August 22, 2011

YMC YAY

Guess who made it through her first ever spin class? Yeah the whole hour! All by herself with no help from paramedics? Yep me. Yay I did it, I rock!

And I wobble; when I got off the bike. But as Richard Simmons is my witness I did not cry… where anybody could see me.

I pedaled and pumped and persevered through sixty minutes of a thigh straining, calf building, cardio workout that made me regret every extra calorie I’d ever eaten and even ever read about.

So after a good long warm up of adding resistance and speed to the bike, when the instructor barked, “Out of those seats, let’s go, pedal faster,” I stood. With my feet strapped in I got up off the seat and pushed those pedals, with all my might.

Wait!... What? Holy crap, what’s that warm feeling? Did I just? NO!

I sat back on the tiny bike seat. Nothing wet, false alarm. I stood on the pedals again. What the? Oh! The warm feeling was the blood rushing back into my, shall we say, junk. Seems those tiny seats restrict the circulation at the South Pole a bit.

It’s now been 29 hours since I completed my first ever spinning class and my girl parts are still stinging.

And my thighs are really pissed.

I need a massage. My poor legs are so sore they deserve it. Hm, what should I use?

Funny thing: The site of me rubbing my own thighs with KY warming massage oil didn’t exactly turn my husband on. Maybe if I replaced the heating pad with a bear skin rug, the bottle of Advil with Cabernet and the tattered tee shirt with a silky nighty, I’d have better luck.

August 21, 2011

Honey Bitch

I just finished trimming the trees in our yard. I was very respectful of the tree's right to grow, apologizing as I removed only the limbs that threaten to jab out one or both of my eyes when I mow the lawn, and avoiding any limbs with birds’ nests, even the birds that eat all the berries off our guava bush and then mercilessly crap them all over our mail box and windshields.


For my efforts I was stung by a bee.

I am aware of the current plight of the pollinating insect and how we as a world of eaters need them to insure our crops regenerate and our biscuits are good. And I fully sanction their right to live in our yard, but if I catch the bitch that stung me in the face there is going to be some shit!

August 20, 2011

A SAK of Boobies

We started improv classes at SAK Comedy Lab  where I have been volunteering.

I started going there just to be around funny people, but found a community too. Creative, talented people who are so accepting and supportive of everyone’s artistic interests, despite a staunch refusal to think that I am as funny as I think I am.

They all talked of and recommended the improv classes offered there, but having seen the shows, I never thought I could do what these improv specialists do. (It generally takes me about three days to come up with a witty retort.) Then my husband, who by the way is only one who almost thinks I am as funny as I think I am but always supports me none the less, suggested we take the class together. I so super love him.

Anywho, so the first class went great; so much fun, and we are lucky enough to have Charles as our instructor. His SAK bio:

Charles Frierman

Charles has the longest hair of any of our improvisers. He's also the only improviser at SAK who moonlights as a librarian.

I had met Charles before. Many a night while sweeping the theater after the show, Charles would come off stage and shake hands and thank each of us volunteering for the night, so I was really happy to find out he would be our instructor.

Last Sunday was our first class. We played improvisational games, some to help learn each other’s names and eventually we even got to get up on stage, just like the big kids, and do some improv. Some were better than others, some of us (me) had a case of the nerves and some really, really impressed me (my husband). But Charles made us all feel safe and encouraged every effort.

I can’t wait for the second class tomorrow night even if I do end up rolling around on the stage again. At Charles’ urging students are to be accepting of each other’s scene suggestions when in an improvisational game, so when my fellow student suggested that our characters roll around on the stage, I hesitated but proclaimed “yes lets” and down I went.

But my boobs went up… and out… the top of my best bra. The one that made my bestie at work reply to my wish to have a boob job with, “You mean a reduction?” Yeah, it’s a really good bra, thank you Army Corps of Engineers. But as luck would have it the unruly orbs never made it out my shirt.

So when I stood, trying to make my lack of grace in rising from an awkward, very public spread eagle position, look funny, I pirouetted my back to the audience of fellow students, gave my foundation garments a couple of quick adjustments, (I also had a wedgie), and sashayed into the wings stage left, boobs and granny panties back in their rightful places.

See you tomorrow night SAK improvisational classes… PS, I will be employing duct tape in preparation for whatever positions I may end up in.

August 19, 2011

Top Shot Vs Dirty Jobs

I love men, manly manly men.

I love my husband, he’s manly, hairy and he cooks. Meat, fire, man, love him. Here he is holding his twelve inch Woody.

Men Men Men Men Manly Men, LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE them.

And I love my new favorite show Top Shot, but wait…

Dear Mike Rowe of Dirty Jobs,



It may seem like I have abandoned you;
I have not. There is room on my DVR for you and Colby Donaldson of Top Shot.





Dear Colby Donaldson of Top Shot; YOU’RE SO HOT.


Don’t tell Mike Rowe… or my husband.



August 17, 2011

Facebook Funnies

Sometimes people post things that really crack me up:

They laughed when I said I was going to be a comedian. They're not laughing now.
-Bob Monkhouse, comedian

Just saw a 'Buy Local' bumper sticker on a VW Beetle! Guess that doesn't apply to cars.
Wayne

Love staying in hotels... There not my sheets and I don't have to wash them!
Me.

On the way home from work I bought a new trash can. When I reached our driveway, I drove over the old one. It was the funnest thing I did all day.
Me again.

Note to self: next parent teacher night don't take two muscle relaxers before you go.
Terry S.

I just found out I'm a descendant of a guy named Obadiah Belcher. That is quite a name. Yikes.
Sid

Any my most recent fav:

August 11, 2011

Your World Frightens And Confuses Me

I find the mall overwhelming; sometimes it’s just too much. There are so many choices and few are them are wise.

It begins in the parking lot where I try to maneuver my little Escort into a spot beside the behemoth Suburban or Escalade that can’t, or simply won’t limit itself to the allotted space between the lines. Luckily I am losing inches around my waist and can squeeze through the abbreviated space between my driver’s side door and the vertical toll bridge that serves as a passenger door on the land yacht in the adjacent space.

Once inside I am barraged with coffee possibilities. Champagne problems, I know, but what if I choose poorly and end up blowing two days lunch money on one grande cup of bitter sludge with more calories than a Big Mac.

But I came for some clothes, so let’s begin… Where? I am used to the chubby girl shop in the strip mall. You park right outside, there are four or five things to choose from, you use their credit card and you drive though DQ on the way home. Easy as pie; until you need help out of your car because you have too much pie.

I quit pie! And DQ!

So now I have choices.

For just a moment I feel like the convict in Shawshank Redemption who when let out of prison after so many years is so lost in the real world that he longs to go back to the safe constraints of his cell. Or the unfrozen caveman lawyer from Saturday Night Live, who declared upon being thawed, “Your world frightens and confuses me.” Then something shiny catches my eye.

I fly through the stores, trailing bags of clothes, none of which bear large flowery prints. I move with such speed and determination taking piles of pants without elastic in the waist to the dressing room that I draw the attention of security. I walk so fast from store to store that they surely must think I’ve stolen something, but I did not.

I am just trying to burn extra calories so that one day I can spend time in Victoria’s Secret. A lot of time!

August 7, 2011

Have You Ever Worn Panty Hose In Florida?

Have you ever worn panty hose in Florida? In the summer? While standing all day behind a teller line where nobody could see them anyway? And there is SO not a gap between your thighs where just a teensy bit of A.C. might happen to waft up your skirt that is supposed to NOT be more than an inch above your knee; no? Then you can’t possibly understand my distain for all things nylon (and spandex too) or why I am sooooo happy with my new job’s dress code.

We can dress casual, not even business casual, but everyday casual, as in shorts, tee shirts, jeans, open toed shoes, and yes we are even allowed to wear hats. I’m not a girl who wears a lot of shorts in public, and my jeans are more of a dress pant made out of denim than the currently popular jeggins, but I do enjoy the freedom to wear whatever I want as long as I am not offensive. Besides, it’s so very convenient to wear my capris, sneakers, oversized T and go straight to the Y after work.

So you would think with all this freedom people would be wearing some pretty over the top, or under the butt crack clothing, but no, not compared to what I’ve seen at past jobs. At all the banks I’ve worked for with business or business casual dress codes, I saw more T&A in a day than my brother saw all through high school. (It’s been a really, really, long time since he went to high school.)

A typical day might yield unwanted glimpses of boobs over a coin drawer desperately searching for the twelve cents needed to make them balance for the day. (Check your cleavage you might even find the rest of your lunch.), or ass crack, (sometimes with lint) emerging out of the top of a pair of “dress” pants whose owner was crouched in front of their floor vault putting away their Ben Franklins. There was the occasional thigh high peeking out from under a pinstriped skirt suit, (PS, if you muffin top your thigh highs, wear a longer skirt) and the ever present CFM shoes, again behind the counter where no one could see them, so why bother.

One time at a job interview I had to double check the address in the day planner I keep in my pleather brief case, because I thought I had accidently shown up to an open call for pole dancers instead of the personal banker interview. I guess they were looking for someone with a lot of experience helping men with their money, because they hired the chick with the pinstriped tassels leaving me to pound the pavement in my sensible shoes.

But I digress.

I am new at this company, so I don’t know how long the lenient dress policy has been in effect, but I hope my co-workers don’t ruin a good thing. Sometimes some people (and by some people I mean those of you under twenty five who think you’re inventing the wheel every time you push what you think is the envelope but really it’s just a piece of returned mail) when given an inch will take it and completely jack it up for the rest of us. If have learned anything in the gazillion day jobs I have had over the years, it’s that if you take a mile then the inch giver is eventually going to get most irked and want it back and then some.

So when at work my friends, remember that modest is the hottest and maybe, just maybe none of us will ever have to wear panty hose again.

July 31, 2011

YMC OUCH

Spurred on by her anniversary, a mere 16 weeks in the future, and the expensive (especially considering the lack of material involved) dress she already bought, a woman with an under muscled, overly cushioned keister pushes her way to the heavy weights side of the YMCA. Passing the retired marines, the off duty cops and the high school boys with more brawn than brain she declares, “Pardon me girls, I’ve got some work to do!”

She determinedly lowers herself onto the leg press, the theme from Rocky pounding in her head, and she wonders if she should have drank her eggs raw instead of making them into that delicious omelet.

She pushes; muscles flex, varicose veins bulge and she grunts under the strain of the ten pound weight, (that’s’ five on each side) “One! One leg press, ah ah ah.” she proclaims aloud with pride.

“You sound like the count from Sesame Street,” the boy next to her smirks, then slides another hundred pounds on his machine. (That’s a hundred on each side.)

She presses on, “Be quiet boy or you’re going to meet the Grouch!” She strains, “Two?” She sweats and pushes, “Two legs press, ouch , ouch, ouch!”

“Do you need some help up lady?” the bicep burdened mocker inquires.

“No!” … “Yes!”… “Be careful don’t hurt your” she’s on her feet before she can finish. “Self. Thank you, you’re very strong.”

“It’s ok, my mom’s almost as big as you and I help her up all the time.”

He moves, nay, all but skips to the next machine. The woman waits until he is gone before she pulls her abundant panties free from what seems like a 127 hour entrapment in her gluteus cavernous maximus. She rubs her legs as a smile creeps over her face.

“Two, two leg presses ah ah ah. That’s one more that I did yesterday!”

July 24, 2011

Cat Man

Ladies, you are never going to get a man that looks like this if you have cats, because guys think you're crazy. Wayne has a friend that has a theory regarding women and cats, and I have relatives that prove it.

It states: three is the tipping number. His crazy meter shows that anything over three cats is a short jump to thirteen. Three cats and she might still be OK, but once she gets the fourth one it's on. Cats on the kitchen counters, crocheted kitty boots and gourmet cat food is the next stop on the cat town express, final destination cuckoo-ville.

Quick aside: Have you noticed that some of the gourmet cat food looks better than some of the Chinese food from the joint on any city corner, that is probably made out of cats? Just a thought.

Now, below is another bit of evidence on the cat crazies. When I see a hot guy with a sixer, (which I would never notice unless Wayne had never been born, see previous post on that matter here) this is not the kind of pussy I'd want to see him holding.

July 3, 2011

Pep Talk

Anywhere I have ever worked I have been forced to suffer a Pep Talk. God help me I hate the talk. If you want to suck the life out of my soul with a deliberate, incredibly agonizing mélange of nauseatingly inspirational adjectives, give me a Pep Talk.

Follows is an example of the kind of Pep Talk that works best for me. “Get your shit together asshole; now get out of my office.”

However, my team was given a little rah-rah session the other day that I actually found amusing. It was chalk full of tips and reminders on how to deal with our customers when they call in regarding their phone or internet service.

We were reminded to give clear and concise instructions when trouble shooting a problem for the frustrated customer on the other end of the line. “Make sure they understand to dial *69 and not S.T.A.R. 69. Also if they can’t find the pound key maybe you just need to tell them to mash the tic tac toe button.” Good advice really.

But we were also warned how our behaviors might negatively affect our performance rating. “Should you be talking on your phone when you’re supposed to be talking on our phones? O.H.N. Oh heck no! And when I catch you, which I will, don’t start telling me you’re talking to your grandma on her death bed or that you just found your long lost twin. Man up, say you’re sorry and get back to work… Now get out of my office.”

I think I might like this job.

June 28, 2011

I Know You're Busy...

I know you're busy, I’m busy; in fact yesterday I started working again. That's why last week I was trying to get everything done all at once before I started my new position. Take my word for this, multi-tasking is great, getting appointments checked off the TO-DO list is wonderful, but you really should avoid getting a root canal and pap smear in the same day.

It can be done, I just did it. Not only that; in the same week I also had a mammogram, an MRI, went back the next day for an MRA, went to the eye man for a new pair of "I'm over forty but these glasses still make me look like a hot librarian right?” bi-focals, and painted the hallway pink.

Yes I checked everything off the list but if I had it all to do again I would so not do the mouth man and the kooch Doctor in the same day. It's just asking too much of yourself and your self esteem to have that many people in that many orifices in a day that involved absolutely no chardonnay.

June 20, 2011

I Love You, Close the Door

There is a wonderful soul fulfilling contentment to being with someone you love for a long time. There is also some weird stuff that happens.

Showers together-
Wonderful: No fear of a negative reaction to father time’s cruel jokes.
Weird: Accidently (meaning you thought you could do it without getting caught) peeing on your partner’s feet a little.

Sharing a sense of humor-
Wonderful: Laughing at the same shows, comedians, movies and life’s little funny moments.
Weird: Making the same joke about an aesthetically challenged person at the same time, and thinking it would be fun to sneak around after dark putting NRA stickers on Prius’.

Board Games-
Wonderful: Drinking wine on our screened porch and playing Scrabble, just like we were playing the first time he said he loved me.
Weird: Taking FOREVER to spell, insisting that words of three letters or less is like having a small penis; bigger is better and who doesn’t want a double score.

Acceptance of the other person’s bodily functions-
Wonderful: Knowing that you love your partner and they love you for who you are, warts and all, even during the occasional outburst of a flatulent nature.
Weird: Thinking your partner’s barrage of staccato farts sounds like a Bert Bacharach song. Can you fart your way to San Jose?

Home improvement-
Wonderful: Working together to make our home beautiful.
Weird: Buying a wooden yard stick in the paint department in hopes that your partner will let you spank them with it. (Not hard or while naked or anything, just something akin to an innocent pillow fight.)

Togetherness-
Wonderful: Being comfortable and content just being together without pretention or false modesty.
Weird: Taking a big ole Dairy Queen soft serve shit with the door open.

June 12, 2011

Top 10 Muffin Top Reasons Why You May Want to Drop a Few!

#10 Your belly muffin tops your jeans.

#9 Your ass muffin tops your jeans.

#8 Your ankles muffin top your socks.

#7 You knees muffin top your knee highs.

#6 Your thighs muffin top your fishnet seam up the back thigh high nylons. (And really you should not be wearing them, but I think you know that!)

#5 Your neck muffin tops your turtle neck.

#4 Your wrists muffin top your cuffs.

#3 Your boobs muffin top your bra, but not in a good way.

#2 Your back muffin tops your bra. (SO NOT GOOD)

And the #1 reason: Paul, drum roll please.

 YOUR KOOCH HAS A MUFFIN TOP

Hi, What's Up With You Lately?

So Mary thanks for asking, here's my current deal. Sucks OK!

I got a new job starting the end of the month. No I don't want it, but yes I feel so lucky to get it, so I decided to do some much overdo maintenance doctor’s appointments while I still have days open. So, today I had a follow up mammo to see if the nodule on my right one is a nodule like my sister had or cancer, like killed two cousins. They’ll call me.

Then I had an MRA to see if I have an aneurysm like the one my other sister has, or the one that killed one cousin, or the one that made another cousin unable to drive for 2 years, or the one that made yet another cousin just really nice and a big believer in Jesus, or if I even have a brain at all.

Monday I go to the eye doctor because since I turned 43 which was 3 years ago, I can’t see shit. One sister says it's my upcoming menopause, fuck her. My husband says it's just age, and my best-y from high school, says it's about time bitch, I’ve been wearing glasses since I was nine so what are you crying about.

Monday afternoon I have an MRI, the second half of the testing to make sure my brain is not going to leak all over the new carpet.

Tuesday a root canal! Fuck me running!

Thursday; a pap smear. Are you fucking kidding me? No I wish I was.

Next week; back to dentist for 4, yeah 4 fillings, and a crown over the root canal. Yep, going to cost 3 $LARGE, good thing I’ve got a job I don't want.

Then depending on boob and brain results, which believe fucking me I am hoping are nothing, I am going to dye my roots because I look like shit.

But seriously I ain't mad. Smooches, hope to see you Saturday night, but karaoke at the local choke and puke sounds pretty good right now.

You’re pretty, Wendy.

June 6, 2011

Jolly Green Monster

Gawd I hate acting like a jealous woman. I can’t stand being around myself when I’m like this, so I can understand how it would annoy the recipient of my sulking fits of attention seeking tantrums. But there are  three of them vying for his attention and it's making me crazy.

They’re all new in his life and he is infatuated. I could handle one at a time; throw some Select Comfort acrobatics or a perfectly cooked meal at the situation, but even a wine and meat Saturday night couldn’t take his mind off them.

I could see it in his eyes as we dined and drank, he longed for them, one at a time or all at once it didn’t matter, anything but the agonizingly long game of Scrabble he had reluctantly agreed to. It hurts to see how he looks at them, touches them, so I banished them, “Me or them at least for one night, you owe me that much.” He chose me, but I could tell he had to think about it.

The first one came around at Christmas, that’s when it started. Now he never goes to the bathroom without one of them and worst of all, he sometimes brings them to bed. He says it’s just to charge them up but I know better.

Damn you Kindle and your sleek build, seemingly endless energy, interesting tales and tight leather jacket. At least he shares you with me, but only when I have an appointment and need something to keep me entertained for long periods of time.

Shame on you Bleachy-Haired Honky Bitch and the way he laughs at what you say. I am his wife; he should only laugh at what I say. I’ve seen him try to get you on Kindle, and I have offered to get on Kindle too, but he says he has seen my stuff and that is not necessary.


But it is his latest acquisition that has dominated his mind. Always at his side, where I should be, never out of his reach, begging for his attention, as I am. He says it’s the best he ever had and he never wants to go back to the way it was.

At least I know I still have his heart… that is until we get a new t.v.

June 3, 2011

Green Screen Living Room

Instead of painting the town red this weekend we’re going to paint the living room green. It’s a cheap way to freshen things up and make the room look new. Plus, it can double as a green screen when we get around to filming some of our short scripts. (Oooh… I wonder if we could write it off?)

I also like to move furniture and nic-nacs around when I get bored with the house. I really love our house other than the fact that it’s in Florida. If only we could hitch it up to the pick-up and take it to L.A. (Our beloved little 3-2-2 on lot big enough to shield us from the sounds of the neighbor’s toilet flushing would be a million dollar baby in California.)

So I move things around, splash a little paint up now and again and utilize wall hangings and area rugs. In fact I just splurged and bought a new bathroom rug. It is the most gorgeous shade of yellow. Sometimes when I am sitting there looking at it, the color reminds me of an early morning vitamin pee.

May 29, 2011

What Is It With Me and Shoes?


I am a girl, so technically my wearing girly stuff does not make me a Drag Queen, but some things just make me feel my inner Pricilla Queen of the Desert. Especially drop dead CMF shoes.

I guess it’s because I never have been able to handle heels, which is probably why I covet them so. I mean just look at these babies; towering stilettos, stage-like platforms and hypnotizing shine. Glorious gold bling that looks like two glitter encrusted boobs enveloping your feet.

I love you shoes, but alas, I fear my pink Chucks will be as close as I ever get to having girly feet.

May 25, 2011

Guns and Vibrators

We’re not moving; in fact I have lived in this house longer than I have lived anywhere since my childhood home. Awhh, that is so warm and fuzzy, kind of like the stuff in the corners, fuzzy.

When I was a kid mom made us do spring cleaning. Move the furniture clean behind it, clean the furniture, and wash the walls, windows and light fixtures. Thank goodness it was only once a year.

Upon adulthood however, I would just move once a year.

But we have been in our home for six and a half years and while it’s not like I have never done a spring cleaning, it just wasn’t quite as thorough as Mom would like. (Believe me I hear about it when she comes for her winter visits.)

So this past week when I rearranged our bedroom, I found some pretty interesting stuff under the bed. Frankly I was amazed at the stuff under there.

Home is where the hair ball is. And this particular hair ball had been formulating so long it was representative of at least three different hair colors: Standard red, kitchen beautician blonde and LA Espresso.

There was also a commemorative bat from the 1975 Cincinnati Reds, one sock, one panty ho, a heating pad that does not heat, hot curlers that get too hot and two items I’d rather not mention.

God help me, I’m scared to move the couch.

May 17, 2011

Goodbye Fat Girl Shops, Hello Dryer

I have been treating myself with some respect for about ten months now and DAMN! Side–effect: I am almost down to playing weight. (Almost is a relative term.) I mean don’t get excited yet, I have a ways to go, ( I can still move furniture with a good hip swing) but if you know me and you ran into me recently you’d be impressed.

“Damn girl you look good”
“I know.”

And if you don’t know me and you ran into me, you probably wouldn’t notice me.

Hallelujah! Hallelujah!

You would not do a double take as I passed. You would not poke your friend and point at me. (I’ve seen you do this, bitches). At worst you might think, “That lady would be even cuter if she dropped ten or fifty.”

You would have to live my life to know how good being just normal fat feels. I bought a blouse at Kohls. KOHLS! Yes it was in the woman’s department, but it is the same store where a size 2 might buy something. GOODBYE FAT GIRL SHOPS FOREVER.

Goodbye Catherines. What makes you think chunky chicks want to be draped in flowing hibiscus print potato sacks? Goodbye Lane Bryant. Thanks for making me feel too old to shop at the sort of almost hip fat girl shop. Goodbye Woman Within Catalog. Shame on you and your muumuus, up to size 8x, that beckon us to keep going.

“There’s still a few steps left before you’ll be wearing bed sheets fastened with a lovely butterfly or cat pin, so order today.” (And I am not taking about twin sheets here!)

Goodbye to my ass being so big it looks like it houses my parasite twin.

Goodbye seat belt extenders on airplanes.

Goodbye daily pain. I have been recalled to life.

HELLO!

Bras that don’t have extenders.

Shopping with my girlfriends at the mall.

Hello waking up sans pain, and not dreading the day.

Hello to wearing something besides black, navy blue or brown… dark brown.

Thank you normal fat, but don’t get attached to me, I am just blowing through. I’ve got a date in chubby town. Smile when you see me there, in something besides shoes with a flat cushy heel, waiting in line for the next train to voluptuous city.

Hey there red dress. Yeah, red dress! Low cut and above the knee. That’s right… above the knee. I’ll wear you with strappy heels all the way to blue jean burg where I’ll slide into a pair of 501s without the aid of friends, pliers or lubricants.

In blue jean burg you’re free. It’s like a hub from where you can go anywhere. Anywhere!

Turn your nose up at the relaxed fit. Shun the elastic waist and the vanity sizing. Say hello to your DRYER. If you can’t slide them on, so hot the rivets burn your belly, you better get your pumas and hit the bricks. And no stopping for a smoothie because they’re “healthy”, you may have water, maybe some lemon.

Look, you do what you want, but when I get to the burg, I’m staying. So don’t come around talking to me about vacation or birthdays or Christmas or its Tuesday. Me, Wayne, 3oz chicken breasts, in season fruits, south beach fiber bars, and baked salmon are staying!

May 9, 2011

Cops and Darlings

I like to eat in restaurants. The kind of restaurants where they call me Mrs. Lastname, but find it gauche to mention that while the entrée costs more than the server is old, the sides are still ala cart. (That means it’s extra for asparagus, and corn is not on the menu.)

And I like to call waiters who have less mustache than I do, Darling. Yep, and I do so in a Zsa Zsa accent. (If you don’t know who Zsa Zsa is I would probably call you darling too.)

No, they like it; they do… But cops don’t! Even super duper cute cops with the biggest gun I’ve ever seen (close up) who have a really good start on a big ole Tom Selleck ‘stache.

Maybe because waiters have to be nice if they want a good tip, and cops can’t take tips, (aka bribes, or at least won’t take the kind of bribes I could afford) so they feel no need to tolerate condescending endearments from a woman whose excuse for knowingly giving a stop sign the California treatment was that it was in the mall parking lot and therefore only required obedience if there were another vehicle in the vicinity, “Daahling”.

Not sure why he let me off with a warning, (during which he referred to me with a patronizing “ma’am”) perhaps it was because I refrained from calling his partner sweetie.

May 1, 2011

Yes I Watched the Wedding, and Yes I Wore a Tiara

And yes, I know how silly that is, but so what, it was fun.

I got up at four in the morning, put on the tiara from my bridal shower, made tea, no crumpets because I don’t know what they are, and tuned in for six hours of pretty people in amazing clothes with fairy tale horses and some of the assed upped-est hats I’ve ever seen.

Why would I watch something as inconsequential as a royal wedding when there was tornado devastation in the mid-west, unemployment everywhere, $4.50 gas and suffering people all over the world. Because duh, there is devastation, unemployment and suffering all over the world and my heart and brain can only take so much before I need some escape time.

I made my donations to the Red Cross, said my prayers, did my job hunting, skipped the day trip to the beach and watched fancy people in hundred year old horse drawn carriages and a thousand year old church do it up limey style.

Hopefully by the time Harry ties the knot, the world will be in a little better shape and I can skip the frivolity… But I might watch anyway; after all Harry is a cheeky little bugger who is kind of cuter than Wils. Should be a jolly good show.