I wrote my Bad Music Thursday about David Soul in October. I received hate mail from deranged David Soul fans for months, but they eventually stopped.

Until today. I received another, from a Ms. Patty Baker, today.

I tried being nice, and thinking happy thoughts, and only saying positive things. It didn't work for shit.

So, the poll and I agree: no more Mrs. Nice Guy.

Expect the old, cantankerous, rude, disrespectful Ubie back on Monday.

By the way, it's not David Soul's birthday today. That date would be August 28, 1943. I just really liked the collage. I also liked the fact that a grown woman (or man?) somewhere is still putting together birthday collages for David Soul. She sure as hell didn't give up on him, baby!

A fitting end to good karma week -- courtesy of the Cupcake Ladies.

You can make cupcakes with your friend's photos on them.

How cool is that!

Technology continues to improve our lives. Isn't it great?

Now that Karma Cleanse Week is done, I am letting you, my loyal viewers, decide:

Keep Good Karma or Back to Bitchy?
Yes! I LOVE happy Ubie! No! Bring back the Snark!
	View Results

One key to really good meatloaf is basting it twice with a mixture of ketchup, brown sugar and a dash of Tabasco -- once before you put it in the oven, and again 15 minutes before it's done.

I have other meatloaf secrets, as well. But I'll never tell.

Click here to see the Dancing Doughboy in all his wondrous glory.

In my continuing effort to accentuate the positive and eliminate the negative, I am replacing my snarky "What Not to Wear Wednesday" with "What to Wear Wednesday."

This week: little girls in Easter bonnets.

Adorable!

Note: Beloved Blogger Monkey is on hiatus. While (s)he's gone, let's pause to remember and praise our furry friend.

This post originally appeared in September under the title "Cheer Up Monkey"
(tune: Cheer Up, Charlie)

You get blue like everyone
But me and rum and coke
Can make your troubles go away
Blow away, there they go...

Cheer up, Monkey
Give me a smile
What happened to the smile I used to know
Don't you know your grin has always
Been my sunshine;
Let that sunshine show...

Come on, Monkey
No need to frown
Deep down you know tomorrow is your toy...

When the days get heavy
Never pitter patter
Up and at'em boy

Some day, sweet as a song
Monkey’s lucky day will come along
Till that day
You've got to stay strong Monkey
Up on top is right where you belong

Look up, Monkey
You'll see a star
Just follow it and keep your dreams in view
Pretty soon the sky is going to clear up
Monkey,

Cheer up Monkey, do
Cheer up Monkey
Just be glad you're you.

Jiggs Blog has more Monkey memories. Movies, music and more from bloggers everywhere who've been touched by or touched the Monkey.

ÜberYounger turns three from 2
And she has a favorite hue
The favorite hue she has is blue
The cake she ate was topped with goo
And the goo, of course, was colored blue
She ate an awful lot of blue goo
And then that goo was turned to poo
When the poo came out, the poo was blue!
But not just the poo, but her tushie, too!
There must be strong dye in that blue goo
To turn poo blue and tushies, too
It may sound strange, but it is true
So, careful when you eat blue goo
Or you'll have a blue tushie, too

If I'm going to put my fresh karma plan into action, I'm going to have to give up some of my most prized possessions. For example, my revenge fantasies.

When someone acts like a dick, asshole, bitch, twat or big meanie, I enjoy turning them into monsters in my head. Irredeemable, sociopathic mongrels who need to taste the sword of Ubie justice.

The problem is, when I construct these elaborate and delicious fantasies, I am focusing like a laser on bad things. When I focus on bad things, I'm not focusing on good things. Like baking cupcakes with the Harpy Queen. Or staging a dance party with the Übergirls. Or Dilf rubbing my feet.

So, I must bid a sad farewell to the dreams of dismembering bad guys and scattering their body parts among several dumpsters. I must abandon the nipple clamps, labia-stitchers and scrotum-sanders. No more cheese graters used on human flesh, or searing acids poured with excrutiating slowness down the backs of evil-doers.

No, I must turn over a new leaf. A happy leaf. At least for this week.

I'm going to make some chocolate chip cookies with the girls after we get back from visiting grandma and grandpa. And then, it's Taco Night! Who wants to come over and shake some maracas with me?

It's time for a karma cleanse. Have you done something you're not proud of? Let it go. Feel stupid about a mistake you made? Let it go. Somebody piss you off? Well, don't let them do it again, but let it go.

Letting go does not mean we should repeat the same mistakes, nor does it make whatever we or someone else did "okay." But it does release us from our self-made prisons, and lets us move forward. In a good direction. A direction that might not be easy or painless, but one that lets us hold our heads high and sleep well at night.

Let's do it. Let's chalk the past up to experience and concentrate on trying our best today. We've all been idiots at times, hurt people at times, said stupid things, done shameful things. All of us. In fact, some of the best people around aren't wonderful because they were born that way, but because they made so many mistakes they couldn't help but learn from them.

Scrubba-scrubba-scrubba! All clean! Start again!

And Johnny Pipewrench, feel free to either mock my goody-goody post or replace the whole clean theme with some plumbing metaphor, like removing hair clogs or something. Or raw sewage drainage systems.

SYSM was right, and I was wrong.
SYSM was right, and I was wrong.
SYSM was right, and I was wrong.
SYSM was right, and I was wrong.
SYSM was right, and I was wrong.
SYSM was right, and I was wrong.
SYSM was right, and I was wrong.
SYSM was right, and I was wrong.
SYSM was right, and I was wrong.
SYSM was right, and I was wrong.
SYSM was right, and I was wrong.
SYSM was right, and I was wrong.
SYSM was right, and I was wrong.
SYSM was right, and I was wrong.

All hail SYSM.

I feel better today. Hooray!

If you type "shackles" into Google Image, the first page is filled with sexualized imagery. Really? Being deprived of freedom is sexy? It's the worst feeling in the world to me.

I'm not alone. I suspect my friend Todd suffers from freedom deprivation, too. He describes falling off of his diet recently. Maybe he's so sick of being forced to get up at 4 a.m. to sell closet organizers to compulsive shoppers who can't keep track of their 500 pairs of shoes without professional help, that the thought of one more constraint on his life is unbearable. Maybe what he puts into his mouth is his one free decision of the day.

My day is dictated by school hours, the needs of my children and the expectations of society. Why do I give a rat's ass what other people think? Mostly because they're not content to simply act as busybodies, but manage to enact their paranoia into law. For one example, in Illinois, kids are required by law to be strapped into carseats until age 8. Despite the fact that no proof exists that regular seatbelts don't work just as well.

When my husband finally returns home, I know he will want me to get out of the house to "do whatever I want." I have no idea what that is. What do I want to do? Spend more money on useless crap that doesn't make me happy anyway? Go to the library? Walk around aimlessly and look at people with some sort of purpose in their lives, only to discover their purposes are, by and large, meaningless anyway? What is meaningful, anyway? Who the hell am I to judge? Maybe I should learn to knit or hook rugs or something.

Meanwhile, my main goal in life is to rid myself of the physical pain that has plagued me the better part of this week. Maybe I'll get drunk and fall asleep in the planter in front of the Downers Grove train station, like some crazy homeless guy did last week.

In the immortal words of They Might Be Giant's song "Dead, "Now it's over I'm dead and I haven't done anything that I want ...
Or, I'm still alive and there's nothing I want to do"

Despite the snow we Chicagoans received last night, spring has sprung. Enjoy this week's weekend pin up one day early, while I nurse the last remnants of my headache.

Smoochies!

If my head still hurts tomorrow, I'm cutting it off.

I didn't delete the post; I saved it. For the next time Mr. Pipewrench is feeling feisty and needs a beat down. I think we all know that day will come again soon.

For now, I am nursing the remains of my migraine. Until tomorrow, my friends...

It's time to wish Happy Birthday to the two sexiest men around, my beloved Überdilf and the delightfully sinisterDoctor Sardonic.

Yes, these two powerhouses did enter our plain of existence on the very same day. Eerie.

Please join me in wishing these two upstanding gentlemen a very happy birthday. Even though Dilf has been torn painfully from my side for work junk in San Francisco. But, it does keep me in baubles and bon bons, so... I miss you Dilf! I love you... and you, too, Sardonic, you big lug.

I'm not feeling up to writing an analysis. I'll let the picture do it for me.

Dilf left for San Francisco Monday morning at 6:30 a.m. and won't land at O'Hare until Friday night at 10:30 p.m.

Sunday is UberYounger's birthday party and she's expecting a grand Cinderella-themed event. My mother and sisters are judgemental perfectionists.

I have a migraine, cramps, and nausea and am having trouble with basic survival skills. I also haven't had much sleep in two days.

My household's condition has deteriorated as a result and I am falling behind instead of making progress. Laundry has ballooned and there are dirty dishes in the sink and clean ones in the dishwasher.

I am wearing dumpy blue sweatpants, Dilf's gold hooded sweatshirt and a knit blue winter cap on my head. It helps my head a bit.

I am exhuasted, unmotivated and feeling harried and overwhelmed.

If anyone thinks they can help with any of these problems, please let me know.

Let's all hold hands. I think I've found something we all can agree on. Races, creeds, political leanings, gender differences, cultural variances will all melt away as we join in a chorus of "Burn the Bitch! Burn the Bitch! Burn the Bitch!" Who is worthy of such universal disapproval? The woman who wrote THIS LETTER:

Dear Amy: Two years ago, I started an affair with a married man in my office. I never thought of doing such a thing. Everyone in our office thought the world of him and his wife, and thought what a wonderful husband and father he was and how lucky his wife was to have him.

I flirted with him, and occasionally we would go out in a group. One evening he had a bit to drink and the next thing I knew he was confessing to boredom and dissatisfaction with his wife and his life. Well, I didn't think twice and we were involved in a full-fledged affair. He decided to leave his wife. She was devastated and fought to keep him, but we were so in love that she didn't stand a chance. She finally gave up.

His three children barely speak to him. We are engaged to be married and everything has been great, in spite of his estrangement from his children and the fact that his wife made out quite well in the divorce.

Unfortunately, now he is sick and has been diagnosed with lung cancer. I have had to take care of him, and it's exhausting. No one in his family is willing to step up to help me take care of him. His children refuse to talk to me.

The truth is, I don't want to take care of him. I thought it was going to be different - that it would be fun and I'd have someone to take care of me.

I still love him and all that, but, honestly, I don't want to nurse him and watch him die.

We aren't married yet - just engaged. I want to break it off, but I hate leaving him with no one. What should I do? - Concerned

Be nice to me; I'm feeling peculiar.

I've been somewhat negative lately. For instance, today is my sister's birthday. I thought of nice things she's done for me, then immediately thought of the crappy things she's done to me.

I don't wallow in the negative, which would make me morose. I don't really get angry about it, which would make me a grudge-holder. I don't plan my revenge against her, which would make me vindictive.

It just briefly springs to mind, neutralizing the happy thought as acid neutralizes a base. That makes me a sourpuss.

And a bit cranky. In a, "Clean up that mess! Claire isn't coming over to play today unless you pick up all your clothes and put your books away! Go to bed! Dilf, stop touching my butt!" kind of way.

But the coffee's helping.

I can't get the Zoo Pals jingle out of my head.

For those of you who don't know, Zoo Pals are paper plates for kids.



They also make cups:



and resealable plastic bags:



If you click on one of the Zoo Pals as it spins past you on the carousel, you will notice that each Zoo Pal has a name, talent, like and dislike -- just like a Playboy Centerfold!

And, people collect them. Like fine china. Except they're paper plates. Paper Plates with animal faces printed on them, for which some advertising copywriter somewhere must create a personality. Possibly while dreaming of a different career.

"And when you clean your plate... you get a smiling face! Hoot! Hoot! Zoo Pals! Ribbit! Ribbit! Zoo Pals! Moo Moo Zoo Pals! Zoo Pals make eating fun!"

“I never said you were ugly, I just said the people at work said you were ugly,” she said, in a deceptively mild tone of voice. “Actually,” she continued, casually stabbing a beet with her fork, “they said you were ‘a dog.’” She popped the beet in her mouth and stared at her future daughter-in-law, waiting for her reaction.

The young lady misfortunate enough to be engaged to the woman’s son looked to her betrothed with tears welling in her eyes.

He shrugged and said, “What do you expect? The only time they saw you, you were hung over and wearing a Misfits t-shirt.” He turned his head away from her to listen to his mother once again.

She swallowed her tears along with her pain, something she’d done far too often in her young life, and pondered what, if anything, she should do about her stinging pride.

Her future husband lived with his mother. They worked at the same company, in a position she had secured for him. Every weekday evening, she and her fiancé watched television with her. Every Saturday morning, they took her to breakfast. In fact, her only respite from the tiresome hag was Sunday morning, when she attended church services for a religion the woman and her son both roundly and openly mocked.

But this was “mother’s” birthday, and any scene she made would make her look like the villain. So, she filed the insult away with all the rest and drank another glass of wine to drown her sorrows.

But the evening got worse before it got better. “Let’s watch Ghost!” the crone gleefully suggested.

The girl winced, gritted her teeth, and felt another stab of pain hit her abdomen. Good Lord, that woman had horrible taste in movies. And music. And decorating. And clothes. And men.

“I’ll do the dishes!” the girl announced, desperate to avoid Patrick Swayze. From the kitchen, she could hear the movie playing. She knew both that nauseating film, and “mother’s” other favorite, Dirty Dancing, by heart.

The girl stalled as long as she could, taking care with each and every dish, leisurely wiping the counters, and stopping to feed and pet the cat. She sighed, knowing that by the time she got to the living room, Demi’s hands would be coated in potter’s clay.

She stopped short at the entrance to the living room. Mother and son were slow dancing to the Righteous Brother’s Unchained Melody. She felt her face get hot, her stomach contents rose in her throat, and her ability to ignore the situation dissipated.

She wrenched the ring off her finger, flung it in their direction (it neatly popped “mother” in the head with a sharp “ping”) and screamed, “You people are fucking sick!” She marched out the door and drove home.

Their look of disbelief and outrage was the last she ever saw of them.

What's Flash Fiction Friday?

...before they name their business.

The picture on the cover must be better than the music inside, since this is the only reference to it that I can find.

Another way I'm a freak: I get up on my soapbox with some frequency. If it weren't for blogs, I'd probably be one of those crazies you see sometimes on street corners, wearing homemade sandwich boards decrying all the evils of the world.

Sometimes, I am wrong and wind up stepping down from my soap box, red-faced and apologetic, like Emily Litella on classic Saturday Night Live episodes. So?

I would rather be wrong, but at least open a topic up for discussion, than keep it under wraps out of fear. And anyone who doesn't have the stomach for tackling tough topics might not like me. Sorry, but I'm not always diplomatic.

That's why I cherish people like Flounder, who disagree with me on a regular basis. Although he's a Republican who likes Hootie and the Blowfish, he doesn't curl up into a fetal position with his thumb in his mouth just because we differ. He speaks his piece, too. No matter how wrong he is. (smoochies, Flounder.)

The thing about Flounder and others of his ilk along the broad spectrum of ideas and expression is they can focus on the issue without attacking the person. We don't see that enough anymore. Instead personality has trumped reason, and "spin" has replaced truth.

I think that's why I'm so pissed off over this whole Bush Censure story. Look, either Bush broke the law or he didn't. Let's look at this as if we were discussing shoplifting. If someone shoplifts diapers, they may be viewed more sympathetically and receive a lighter reprimand than someone who shoplifts diamond earrings, but he/she still shoplifted. Likewise, if Bush broke the law, he should be called to task somehow. If not, he should be exonerated.

Republicans and Democrats alike should be considering the FACTS, not wringing their namby-pamby hands with limp wrists like the Democrats, nor staunchly supporting Bush in whatever he does, like the Republicans. Who cares about "political fallout?" How about doing the right thing, just because it's right, for once in your pathetically self-serving lives? I just want to take a fire hose and clear out everyone in the federal government right now.

Yes, it's St. Patrick's Day. Here's a picture of the big guy himself, saying, "Hey, you! Pick up that gum wrapper!"

I'll go into some of my negative freakiness later. But some of my freaky traits can be positive, like my perfectionism and obsessive attention to detail.

For example, some people may be content to merely wear green today. I set the table with a green tablecloth, bought green-sprinkled doughnuts, put out the cream colored china with the gold rims, and put green straws in the girls' drinking glasses. And that was just breakfast.

I bought a couple packages of cut-out shamrocks. (I wanted some sort of long, rainbow streamer, but you take what you can get at the grocery store.) I led a trail of shamrocks from the girls' bedroom, through the kitchen, under the dining room table, to the living room, where, at the end of the shamrock trail, a black pot filled with gold-wrapped candies awaited the girls. Dilf helped.

We'll be listening to Irish music all day, too. Yes, some of it is by the Clancy Brothers.

For lunch, I plan on cutting the girls' grilled cheese sandwiches with an oversized shamrock cookie cutter. Oh, yeah. I'm a freak.

Then it's the traditional corned beef, new potatoes, carrots and brussel sprouts (instead of cabbage) for dinner. I also have potato rolls and a little shamrock cake for dessert.

There's so much ugliness in the world; I'm just trying to bring a little lovliness and fun into my little corner of it.

As I mentioned previously, for the past few years my family and I have celebrated St. Patrick's day with the Southsiders at Gaelic Park.

When I was little, however, St. Pat's was largely a family celebration. Other than the parade downtown and maybe a few drink specials in the local pubs, no one made a big deal out of St. Patrick's Day -- even in Chicago. My mom would find green baked goods where she could (oddly, bagels were always available in green for some reason) or those coconut Hostess snowballs would be dyed green for the occasion. Then we'd have corned beef (no cabbage -- my mom didn't like it; give her a break, she's Polish) with potato rolls or soda bread. And the Clancy Brothers. Always, always the Clancy Brothers.

My father owned quite the collection of Clancy Brothers' records, which we weren't allowed to complain about one day a year: St. Patrick's Day. Nonetheless, we would still smirk at each other when the more maudlin, morose tunes would play. And no tune was more maudlin or morose than Kevin Barry.

The most egregious stanza comes toward the end: "Another maaartyr for ol' Erin; another MUUUUUURDER for the crown..." We'd try very hard to contain our laughter at that verse. My mother would cast a warning glance at us that conveyed, "I know, but it's only once a year. Stop, before I start laughing, too." My father would say, gravely, "You kids don't appreciate how good you have it."

No one hated Kevin Barry more than my oldest sister.

So, this year we delivered up this note to the band onstage at Gaelic park, along with some bribe money:


Unfortunately or fortunately, the band member took one look at the note, grimaced, and said, "T'would be horrible!" And refused it. Even the bribe money.

Maybe next year.

In honor of St. Pat's day tomorrow, UberElder is vomiting green slime into a bucket today. Apparently, the flu has taken her school by storm.

Thus, I shall be scarce today, as I tend to my offspring. Talk amongst yourselves.

...But I don't feel like it. Yet. Maybe later.

Lovely Ms. Lucky has started her blog off with a bang!

Scroll down to see the variety of things that happen when you pass out drunk in front of your "friends."

I am not at all opposed to people dressing up for St. Patrick's Day. After all, people donning green wigs, crazy hats and such are having a good time. I'm all for people having a good time; it warms ol' Ubie's heart. Plus, ostensibly, people freely choose the clothes they wear.

Not so our canine friends. Bandanas and collars are one thing; but frilly dresses? Come on.



Can you imagine what's going on inside the poor dog's head. "Oh, no. OH NO. You are not putting that...no way... I'm a wolf, dammit! I can take down a wildabeast! Well, I could before you people fucked with my DNA. Alright, since you've already got the dress on me, I guess... whoa, whoa, whoa, nobody said anything about barrettes! This is humiliating. Good Lord! Now she's taking my picture! She's emailing it! If that bitch Chloe sees this, I'm dead at the dog park. Somebody kill me...kill me now."

Please, people. Be kind to your pets. Don't dress doggie.

Since the budgets of just about every government agency not serviced by Halliburton has been sliced to ribbons, it's up to our nation's 12 year olds to protect protect the public's health and welfare. Florida student Jasmine Roberts conducted an experiment for her school's science fair, and found that 70 percent of the time, ice from fast food restaurants was dirtier than toilet water.

Now, the optimists among us might say, "Wow! Fast food restaurants sure have clean toilets!" The rest of us will say, "I'd like a coke -- no ice."

Todd posted his personal ad a couple days ago. I like Todd; I want him to happy. Thus, I have taken it upon myself to create an infomercial for him, designed to create an unprecedented demand for his love among the ever-popular 18-34 consumer target market. Here's my commercial, designed to air during Cheaters, Elimidate, Blind Date and other late-night programs:

[Opening: "My Old Kentucky Home"; a shot of Churchill Downs]

Announcer: "Kentucky is famous for producing thoroughbreds. Introducing one of Kentucky's most prestigious creations: Todd."

[Upbeat incidental music plays]

"I know what you're thinking: I've tried Todds before and been disappointed. What makes this Todd so special? We're glad you asked!

Most Todds available on the market today come in a 5'9" package. Our Todd measures a whopping 6'6"! That's 12 percent more Todd for you to enjoy!

Also, unlike some Todds, our Todd is not stringy or scawny. [waah-waah sound effect] You call that a Todd? That's a Rod!

Our Todd is solidly built from American materials, and won't bend, scratch, dent or shatter under pressure. Our Todd is the best Todd available in the U.S.!
But a Todd offer like this won't last forever. Call today for your chance to date Todd, before it's too late!

*Todd isn't for everyone. If you are a male, Todd is not right for you. If you are a female under the age of 18 or past menopause, Todd is unavailable. Side effects of Todd include laughing uncontrollably, eating late-night cheeseburgers and listening to Pixies and other alternative bands from the 80's and 90's. Ask your doctor or pharmacist if Todd is right for you. Please enjoy Todd responsibly.

Todd: Alive with Pleasure for Today's Woman"

Since we'll be going to Gaelic Park for South Side Sunday this weekend, I've decided to go green this time.

Erin go Bragh! Or, as my father would say, to the amusement of some, "Erin go braless!"

Click here for disturbing miniature freak shows inside match box containers. To see the two bearded ladies fight, you have to click the match box on the right.

Also, this mini film is very educational, but may not be acceptable viewing for the workplace -- depending on where you work, of course.

Until next week, let your Freak Flag Fly.

I warned everyone last June about Bill O'Reilly. Now, it seems my worst fears have been realized.

Media Matters reported on this incident involving Mr. O'Reilly:

From the March 2 broadcast of Westwood One's The Radio Factor with Bill O'Reilly:

O'REILLY: Orlando, Florida, Mike, go.

CALLER: Hey Bill, I appreciate you taking my call.

O'REILLY: Sure.

CALLER: I like to listen to you during the day, I think Keith Olbermann's show --

O'REILLY: There ya go, Mike is -- he's a gone guy. You know, we have his -- we have your phone numbers, by the way. So, if you're listening, Mike, we have your phone number, and we're going to turn it over to Fox security, and you'll be getting a little visit.

Merciful heavens! Fox security! Wait, there's more:

(co-host E.D.)HILL: Maybe Mike is from the mothership.

O'REILLY: No, Maybe Mike is going to get into big trouble, because we're not going to play around. When you call us, ladies and gentleman, just so you know, we do have your phone number, and if you say anything untoward, obscene, or anything like that, Fox security then will contact your local authorities, and you will be held accountable. Fair?

HILL: That's fair.

O'REILLY: So, just -- all you guys who do this kind of a thing, you know, I know some shock jocks. Whatever. You will be held accountable. Believe it.

We'll be right back.

So, the mere mention of Olbermann, who has repeatedly awarded O'Reilly the "Worst Person in the World" designation during his show, MSNBC's Countdown with Keith Olbermann, will result in O'Reilly's army showing up at your door. Fly, monkeys, fly!

You can't say you haven't been warned.

I understand you may have had your first kiss, met your spouse, or lost your virginity at a frat party while Hootie and the Blowfish blared on the stereo. Nevertheless, he is a monotone blot on music history; an overrated plot device used in the overrated sitcom known as "Friends"; a washed-up has-been last seen in a Burger King commercial.

However, to each his own. If you love Hootie, God bless you. I, however, want to bang my head against a wall until it splits open like a pumpkin whenever I have the misfortune to hear him sing.

Here's the inaugeral edition of "Don't Wear" Wednesday.



I think it's pretty self-explanatory.

I reread my old journal for a bit this morning, and I found this entry from March 23, 2004:

"So I'm watching Alice in Wonderland with Meghan, and I'm thinking...

What world do I want to fall into without warning?

Follow your curiousity; it's the only way to have a grand adventure."

What world would YOU like to magically fall into? What creatures would you meet? What would you want to see, find, learn?

We're back from our weekend in the Wisconsin Dells.

I'll post details later, but we had a great time. Mostly because we remembered to miss This Guy:



Oh, and UberElder had to get stitches. She cracked her noggin on the top of one of the water slide tubes. Nothing serious, like a concussion -- just the skin.

Later, taters!

Click Here

Feelings, nothing more than feelings,
Trying to forget my feelings of love.
Teardrops rolling down on my face,
Trying to forget my feelings of love.

Feelings, for all my life I'll feel it.
I wish I've never met you, girl;
You'll Never Come Again.

Feelings, wo-o-o feelings,
Wo-o-o, feel you again in my arms.

Feelings, feelings like I've never lost you
And feelings like i've never have you
Again in my heart.

Feelings, for all my life I'll feel it.
I wish I've never met you, girl;
You'll never come again.

Feelings, feelings like I've never lost you
And feelings like i've never have you
Again in my life.

Feelings, wo-o-o feelings,
Wo-o-o, feelings again in my arms.

Feelings...

(repeat & fade)

I know a lot of my fellow bloggers have been experiencing pain. Feeling rejection. Being Misunderstood. Facing isolation. Fearing friendships, once fiercely glowing warmly, have grown cold.

To these people who can identify with "Feelings" run amock, I say... if you can't handle the fact that some people don't like you, or that people who do like you might disagree with you sometimes, or that you might disagree with someone else, or that the world is made up of all kinds of different people and that's what makes it interesting, or that sometimes you might need to apologize for hurting someone, or that you need to respond rationally when someone says something objectionable to you, maybe you should wrap your head in guaze and sit in a big plastic bubble. If not, and you want to remain in contact with others in the human race, grow a pair (of testicles or ovaries, whichever applies.)

Thank you.

I hesitate to report this story, for fear that "long-lost relatives" and needy friends may come knocking at my door, looking for a handout, but I am too excited to keep this under wraps.

I am a winner. A champion. Victory is mine.

Read all about it:



Witness my prize, in all its magnificence:



Now, my babies, don't you worry. Übie won't forget the "little people" now that she's hit the big time. I will still take the time to glance disdainfully at you as I drive past in my limousine.

Do you think I have to report this on my taxes? I hope it doesn't push us into another bracket. Oh, what am I talking about? George Bush is president! I'm one of the elite now.

Let them eat cupcakes.

You could say I was losing my will to live.

Or that I couldn't stand the withdrawal anymore.

Or, you could say Johnny Pimpwrench made me do it.

Whatever the reason, I could only last 3 days without coffee. For the record, the chills started yesterday, the headache and tremors today. I started to get nauseaous. Really, I did it for my family; they need me.

I already mentioned this story in the comments on Brooke's blog, but it bears repeating. I wish it was fiction, but sadly, it's all too true.

For reasons only known to her (trust me, I asked and she won't tell me) my mother thinks the song "Volare" is bad luck. Uttering the word "Volare" alone is bad luck; thus, she calls it "The Big V" or "The V song". This fear of the V song is so ingrained in me, I am wincing every time I write "Volare." (wince) See?

Her phobia precedes the late 1970's Plymouth model Volare, yet it factors into the scenario. See, Plymouth naturally used the Big V in its television commercials, causing my mother to scream, leap from the couch, and turn off the TV for 30 seconds or so until she was sure the song was gone.

Everyone in my family can recognize the song from the first two notes, since it causes such a violent reaction in Mom. My mother has exited stores and restaurants to avoid the Big V. She has abandoned oldies radio stations that she previously loved because they played the Big V. The fear of the Big V has become so strong in me, even though I know it is ridiculous, that I will program the song out when playing Italian music CD's.

If we "mocked the V song" by pointing out her insanity, the very next bad thing that happened to us would be blamed on the V. "See?" she would say, as she bandaged our skinned knees, "You mocked the Big V." My brother's 8th grade trip to Washington, D.C. was notable because the song came on the TV in his shared hotel room, and he had to resist the impulse to jump up and turn off the TV. I'm surprised the plane stayed in the air on the return trip.

I would go on, but I don't want to "Mock the Big V."