Who Needs a Man?

Last night, I was pleasantly surprised to find that my wish of coming home to a stiff man in my bed had come true. I jumped and clapped my hands together with glee, especially when I read his pillow talk...














I shouldn't have been too surprised though, seeing as how I've found Stiff Elvis in my closet, in my bathroom, behind my shower curtain, and in the guest bathroom. Stiff Elvis never fails to impress and startle a little.

I think what I love the most about these pictures is that Stiff Elvis is laying next to an Elvis pillowcase, which I call Soft-to-Spoon-With-Elvis, and later on, I stood him up against the wall underneath an Elvis clock that's identical to Stiff Elvis. It's like we've come full circle. That, or the color scheme in my bedroom is purple and Elvis.

Socially Inappropriate

My Tuesday started with a bang. Actually, with a brace on my left foot, and me hobbling into work only to be faced with questions like, "Did he finally slam you up against the car?" Sigh. I wish the reason I have a fractured fifth metatarsal was because I was kissed so passionately that I was knocked off my feet. Lit'rally.

The real reason I'm a gimp is more a result of me being an ass as opposed to me actually getting any ass.

Maybe I should back up.

The only reason I look forward to Monday's - and I mean the only reason - is because Prison Break is on. My Monday's start with a 7:30 A.M. meeting at work, followed by a completely packed day. I drag myself home around five, put on my purple muu-muu, take a nap and wake up in time to enjoy the hour of pure adrenaline and testosterone uninterrupted. I live for Prison Break. Nothing happens for me on Monday nights until after it's over.

So when I got an email yesterday afternoon about an activity that was going on Monday night, I didn't think much of it. A bunch of people were getting together to play Commando; we were supposed to meet at the clubhouse at 7pm, and come "dressed in black."

[For those of you who don't know, Commando is a game where you have two groups of people; one group goes on foot and the other group goes in cars with spotlights. The point is for the people on foot to make it from designated Point A to Point B without getting caught by the people in cars.]

I've played Commando before, and I'm not a huge fan of the whole running and dry heaving thing, but its actually pretty fun. Plus I like being the leader of a group and telling everyone where to go, when to drop to the ground, and when to army roll. The army roll directive is usually accompanied by the typical response, "But its asphalt. Why are we army rolling across a parking lot?" Followed by my typical response, "Just do it. It will be funny. Shut up. It's funny. I'm in charge here. Just do it."

I got home and talked to my roommates, who casually asked if I was planning on going. Sure it would be fun, but its my standing date night with Prison Break. Plus, I barely knew any of the people going, they barely knew me or if they did, they knew me as the girl who likes Elvis. This was not a social group that I regularly mingled with. I had absolutely no intention of going, and neither did my roommates, until I said sarcastically, "I don't have any black clothes except for my Batman costume."

As soon as I said it, the lightbulb went off.

The more I contemplated, the more fun it sounded. I weighed my options: These people almost never remember who I am, I'd probably only gotten an invite because they know my roommates, and they don't have the first idea about my sense of humor. Showing up dressed as Batman would probably just make them feel uncomfortable and not know how to respond to me. It would definitely be socially inappropriate.

But was I willing to give up Prison Break to show up at an activity dressed as Batman, surrounded by people who ask me my name every time they see me, and run around for an hour, dressed as Batman, for no reason other than to have a good story to blog about?

Getcha popcorn, folks, and let the sideshow begin.

Exhibit A: I pull out my Batman costume, a la Halloween 2005, which just so happened to be the last time I'd played Commando. It was very nostalgic.

Exhibit B: I show up, and people don't really know what to do except laugh uncomfortably. Behold me in all my glory and reflective shoes.

When people asked me why I was dressed as Batman, I pointedly said that I come to win, and secondly, that I wasn't "dressed as Batman." Those muscles were all me.


Which brings me back to the foot fracture.

As I said, I like to play Commando, and the whole point is to be stealthy and fugitive-like. None of this walking down the street crap. If you're gonna go, you go balls out. We had that covered no problem. There may or may not have been many times when I was either hiding in the bed of a dump truck, face down in a ditch, or army crawling under barbed wire. And I'm happy to report that the cape was victorious and made it back in one piece.

And when I say "the cape was victorious", I am referring to our last stretch on the Underground Railroad when we had to drop down a ten foot wall and I landed nimbly, (unbeknownst to me that my foot had landed on the edge of the cape) made a sharp turn to the left to take off running for safety, when the cape (which I was still standing on) caused me to roll over my own left foot, hence the fractured fifth metatarsal.

It would've been OK if the injury had been in the name of triumph. It would've been worth it to see the looks on everyone's faces when Batman arrived safely and shouted "I shake my fist at you, rules of convention!!" However, my excitement was short lived when we reached the safe point only to find that "apparently" everyone else had made it there half an hour earlier, and had already gone home.

It was a long and dejected walk back home. But it was worth it for the stories, right??

Sigh.

Lovin in the City of Brotherly Love...In a Non Gay Way

I was in a bad mood yesterday. So bad a mood that I came home after work, put on my purple muu-muu, and laid on the couch for nearly five hours, catching up on all the shows I missed during my hiatus / vacation to PA. And let me tell you - nothing gets you out of a funk better than Prison Break and Lincoln's wide-open v-necks.

Many of you have probably already seen Erin's blog, which pretty much sums up our trip. So what am I supposed to blog about? I could write about how we left 75 degree weather and entered a freak blizzard that lasted nearly the whole weekend. Or maybe you'd like to hear about how I brought back 15 pounds of Tastykakes. I might talk about how when I saw my 8.5 months preggo sister for the first time I started bawling. Or how we were G-L-A-M-O-R-O-U-S and got to fly first class.

Instead, please to enjoy my photos. And by "my photos", I mean "pictures taken by Erin and Johanna and many of which are already on Erin's blog".


Bone Senior and Baby Bone, aged 26 and 8.5 months, respectively.












My hero. Rocky, that is. Not Erin. But she's pretty swell too. And also here we see the beginnings of what I like to call The Tanorexia Effect, which is that I start to blend into the darker backgrounds.














Samuel was thrilled to see the official seal of the United States on the ceiling of a room at Independence Hall. Doesn't he look thrilled?

We met this strapping fellow at the historical society visitor's center. He refused to hold Samuel for a picture, but interestingly enough, he would hold a can of SPAM, which had earned him a place in the National SPAM Museum or something. It's not that he wasn't friendly, I just thought he was a bit cocky for someone in knickers and tights. And he thought he knew more than me and was funnier than me, as evidenced when he snootily corrected a passerby who thought a nearby spinster woman (who was black) was Betsy Ross, because according to him, everyone knows that Betsy Ross wasn't black. So I snootily corrected him and informed him that everyone knew that the spinster was actually Harriet Tubman. Because she was the only black woman I could think of right then. Then I went on to tell him that Harriet Tubman was injured as a child because someone threw a can of SPAM at her. Then I told him that I refused to visit the Betsy Ross house because I found out she was a fraud and didn't really sew the first American flag. Then I ran away because apparently I wasn't funny.

The Tanorexia Effect in full swing. I would like to point out that I am not, in fact, made of erra cotta. What you're seeing is an optical illusion known as Tan By Association, as I am posing with the two whitest people I know, other than Yanaj.


Samuel visits the Liberty Bell, and I make a spectacle of myself for the umpteenth time that day by whipping him out of my purse with a flourish and vogue-ing.







The Tanorexia Effect has taken over, as I have all but completely blended and disappeared into the background.










While I hope these pictures have been entertaining, nothing can compare to my latest debacle with McBicep. Take a trip with me in Ye Olde Time Machine back to Tuesday March 14. I remember it like it was just a week and a half ago.

That day, I'd been debating with my friend G over whether I should call McBicep, or wait for him to call me. The verdict was to wait. So wait I did, and McBicep came through, calling me that night while I was at work. We had a great conversation, which I thought went really well and we set up a date for the next night.

When I got off the phone, I was so excited that I immediately texted G in true Bone Junior fashion: really really really gay. And I quote: "[insert McBicep's real name here] just called me!!!!!!! He was SOOOOO cute and flirty!!!!!! We're going out tomorrow night!!!! AHHHHHH!!!!!!:) :) :) :)" Sigh. Basically, it was as gay, silly and girly as you can possibly get. I know. I know.

Now, if you're familiar with my work (and by "my work" I mean "my uncanny ability to relentlessly and constantly embarrass and humiliate myself") I think you know where this is going.

So we have a great date Wednesday night, full of lots of jujitsu moves and lingering hugs, I leave for Philly, time flies, and next thing you know, its Sunday night and I'm sharing a blow-up air mattress with Erin at Bone Senior's house. I'm having trouble falling asleep so I decide to mess around with my phone and clean out my old text messages. I'm browsing through the sent messages, I find my gay message to G and get severe retarded tingles for myself...only the recipient didn't say G.

And that's when the panic set in, because I realized I'd sent the message to McBicep himself.

I tried to get into Ye Olde Time Machine, but the front door handle was busted and cost $200 just to replace the part. Oh wait, that's Ye Olde BMW. Anyway.

Erin and Bone Senior were sweet, trying to convince me that maybe he'd never even gotten the message. Right. I knew. He'd gotten it alright, A WEEK AGO AND HAD NEVER SAID ANYTHING TO ME ABOUT IT. HE'D KNOWN FOR A WEEK. A WEEK. A WHOLE WEEK.

I. Wanted. To. Die.

The next night, McBicep called me, and while I tried to politely listen to him recap his weekend, all I could think about was that text message, and how I knew that he knew what a dork I really was. So I not-so-politely interjected with the dreaded "I have to talk to you about something."

Bone Junior: Um.......about a week ago, I sent a text message to my friend G.....

McBicep: laughing.

Bone Junior: You know exactly what I'm talking about, don't you?

McBicep: I thought it was funny! I was going to respond to it right then, but I figured there was a 30-70% chance that you would never check the sent messages, and then you'd never realize what had happened, and I didn't want to embarrass you.

Bone Junior: But you've known for a WEEK and you didn't say anything! Why didn't you say something?

McBicep: That's what I do....I sit back and collect information.

Bone Junior: Great. That's just great. Now you've got the upper hand, and I just look retarded.

McBicep: You're gonna have to learn to be comfortable with ambiguity. And not always being in control, because I know that drives you crazy.

Bone Junior: Let's never talk about this again.

So there you have it folks, I've once again outdone myself for being an ass. On the brighter side, McBicep has called me since the Infamous Text Message Debacle, and we've seen each other for a few minutes - - long enough for him to devour half of my Tastykake stockpile in one sitting. I'm serious.

In other news, I am now the proud owner of a brand new $200 driver's side door handle. Ain't I fancy. And to think the fancy BMW parts guy balked at me when I clamored into his pristine shop, leaving a trail of white trash in my wake, and asked, "Don't I even get a balloon or something with this? No? Nothing? Ok well thanks for giving me yet another opportunity to bend over and take it up the tailpipe. Long live the Aryan race!"

Now who's fancy.

Quirks! Quirks! He's Our Man! If He Can't Do It, No One Can!

Yee haw! Let's jump on the bandwagon and explore The Quirks That Are Bone Junior:

- Every time (and I mean every time) I go out to my car, before its actually in my sight, I mentally rehearse what I will do and say if I catch someone in the act of vandalizing my car. "What I will do and say" usually consists of me yelling, swearing, and bobbing my head a lot in an intimidating manner.

- I have a completely rational and practical fear of spiders. Like this little gem here, which crawled out from behind my trash can at work on Monday. I saw it, I screamed, wheeled my chair back as far as I could, then I started to cry. I really cried until I heard laughing behind me and one of the supers came walking out, holding a remote control. Then everyone in the office came out laughing. Apparently they'd all been in on it, and had been waiting nearly a week for the perfect opportunity to scare me. I told them they were lucky that the spider hadn't crawled across my foot, because I'd have had to go home to change my pants. Because I would've pooped myself. Lit'rally.

- I dip my fries in mayonnaise. I hate fry sauce, don't like ketchup on anything but eggs, but I love me some mayo. One time I slurped it through a straw.

- When I use a public restroom, I have to get the handicapped stall. Even if every other stall is open and there's someone in that big stall, I'll wait until they're done and then I go in and throw myself a little party just because I can.

- I have to be at the movies at least twenty minutes before it starts, and I have to see the previews. I'll forgo Junior Mints if there's a chance I'll miss the previews. And a bad seat ruins my whole night - I'd rather just get my money back then sit in a bad seat.

- I like kids, but I don't like that they ooze. It seriously grosses me out and makes me dry heave. Sometimes I throw up in my mouth a little, and I feel like a bad person because "apparently" everyone else loves kids and their oozing.

- My comforter has two vertical lines of stitching that run down the length of it. Before I go to sleep, the stitching has to be perfectly lined up with the sides of my bed.

- When I drive on the freeway, my goal is to get all of my dashboard gauges to line up identically, as pictured here. Ok so I know they're not lined up perfectly identically, but you try getting your car up to 80 MPH and keeping the RPM's below 4. When I'm on the freeway, it becomes a compulsion. One time, I deliberately pulled off the freeway, filled my gas tank exactly halfway, and got back on so I could keep trying.

- When I'm ready to get out of the shower, I turn the water as hot as it will go and point the showerhead down so that I'm not actually in the water, but the shower and bathroom fills up with steam. And I mean fills up. That way, when I step out, its not cold. The pictures of hot men taped to the back of my bathroom door are all wilted and weathered, but its a price I'm willing to pay.

- My DVD's have to be in alphabetical order, more for my own sanity than anything else. If they weren't in that order, it'd be impossible for me to keep track of them. One time I tried to organize them by genre, but then someone told me that Predator belonged in the Sci-Fi section, and I swore up and down that I do not own a Sci-Fi film, let alone an entire section, because I wouldn't be caught dead watching, let alone owning a Sci-Fi flick, and no way was Predator Sci-Fi because there wasn't any time travel in it, which is clearly the only definition for anything science fiction, and then someone pointed out that my Back to the Future trilogy also belonged under Sci-Fi, and I was all, "No way! Back to the Future is not science fiction! There's no time tra - - - oh." So I bargained with them and said that Sci-Fi could keep The Fly as long as I could keep Predator. Then I shuffled away, dejected and with head hanging because I guess maybe I do like Sci Fi.

As per usual, if you can think of anything I left out, please feel free to remind me.

Appy Berfday, Guvnuh!

In celebration of The Guvnuh's 25th birthday today, and in light of the fact that I've had nothing interesting to post about for the past week, I give you, finally, and with much flair, The 2007 Oscar Cake...

After nearly an hour of outlining the shape with toothpicks, I finally settle on the classic "Man With Amputeed Arms".

Icing in progress...

...which requires extreme focus and concentration...

...and a little help from Yanaj...

Voila!

In other news, I did win the Oscar Ballot contest, although it was my worst year on record. As a prize, I received a whoopie cushion (which promptly popped), some screaming rocket balloons (which turned out to be more like groaning blimp balloons), and some silly putty. Huge Bald Guy was in attendance, staying the entire 3 1/2 hours on the couch next to me (Please see Erin's blog for further details), which brings our date total to 7 if you count the party. Date #6 was Saturday night, when we went to dinner and back to his place to watch a movie. Woo hoo!

However, still no kiss. The physical contact is slowly increasing. And by physical contact, I mean us being smushed against eachother on the couch and hugging. But no kiss! Maybe Huge Bald Guy moves slowly, which is fine, but mama needs a ten second frencher! Stat!

My friends have provided no shortage of advice for how to go about getting this ten second frencher. One of my favorite examples comes in an email from my amazing friend and stylist, Lez:

You need to create a “go ahead and ravish me” moment. Get to work little lady, “if you create it he will kiss”. So there you have it, that is my strategy and I am sticking to it. As for creating the “go ahead and ravish me moment”-

1. You definitely need to be alone;

2. You should probably get a great blow-dry from your uneducated stylist (a good blow-out always helps a little, no one can say no to a gorgeous head of hair, SEX…Y);

3. You should initiate some deep conversation and make yourself a little vulnerable (tell a story about your childhood or something sappy);

4. Give him puppy-dog eyes, and for the final touch,

5. Pout your lips …and WALA he will be “budda”.

It is as simple as that, so give me a call if you want a fabulous blow-dry. And now I leave you with some last words: just remember that if there isn’t a struggle, it wasn’t worth it.

The best part about Lez's step-by-step advice is when I was relaying the information to Erin later that day and told her, "Lez says the key to getting kissed is a great blow job.... I mean....blow out. Blow dry!! Blow something. Shut up."

Yet with all this advice and input, still nothing. Any and all suggestions are welcomed. I'm also taking bets on how long it will take...

In parting, enjoy a picture of The Famous Elvis Cake, circa January 2007.