A Little Too Close to Home

I accidentally went on a blog-reading rampage this morning when all I meant to do was find a recipe for stuffed pork chops.

Ya'll know how that happens, I'm sure--a stop at the Food Network's site, then what the hell I'll check my e-mail, oh there are new comments for the blog, click on the comment leaver's blog, then 47 clicks later, I ended up here, at Words On Waking.

And I started reading, then read some more and kept right on reading. Spellbound has a great voice and a rare honesty. Also, I am a wee bit compulsive.

In any case, I ran across this sentence and it hit me in the face like a Frisbee:

My daughter really needs a blog of her own, but of course, she’s too busy living life to write about it.

After reading that, I was spurred to action. I zipped right over to Blogger and signed on to write about how I need to get more of a life. That's so sad.

Geez, 123V. I should be climbing mountains or writing songs or even cooking goddamn stuffed pork chops right now. But, instead I'm writing about it.

I hate New Year's.

In the Comments section, tell me if you're depressed about New Year's and/or what it is that you would be doing if you weren't blogging all the damn time.

Self-Indulgent Salad

I suspect the upcoming New Year's Grieve holiday means that very few folks will be reading blogs over the weekend, so I'm letting my unprecedented self indulgence take over. I'm going to write about what I damn well feel like.

Not that I don't do that anyway, my pretties, but I'm adding an extra heaping of "it's all about me" today.

Wait. Not true. Part of it is about Glynnis and Hot Sauce Flo Dad who got engaged last night. It's a beautiful thing. It's their special occasion, so I'll let them shine, but you can bet your bippy details will be forthcoming.

Next, I would like to talk about the personal training appointment I had with Troy this morning. Troy's arms were as big as my head, and he touched my boob.

"So, you'd like an extra routine to strengthen the muscles right there?" he said and touched three beefy fingers to the top of my breast to make sure he isolated the area.

"Um, yeah," I stammered. "I have a muscle in my underpants that I want to work on, too." He didn't buy it.

My Step-Mom, Paula, informed me that we're having a birthday party for my Dad in January. This should be fun. No smarmy comments here—I'm really looking forward to it.

Next, I made ham salad, which I believe is a Southern delicacy. Maybe it's a Northern delicacy. Well, it's singularly well-loved somewhere in the Continental United States, which is more than I can say for K Fed. I've lived too many places, and they all run together, but ham salad is one of those things that I'm a little ashamed to admit I like. Much like corned beef hash, bologna, bratwurst and playing board games.

You simply take leftover ham, chop it in a food processor, add mayo (fat free) and sweet pickle relish. Traditionally, it's served on ultra-gooey, glutinous white bread, but I compromise and get the lowest quality wheat bread that I can. Ham salad = Jesus loves you.

Did you know there are people in this world who don't like Rachel Ray? I mean, I don't lurve her, but she does some clever culinary tricks, no? I'll grant you that her wardrobe is not so clever, but I'll bet she's good in bed, none the less.

Michael Jackson's Human Nature is the best song ever.

In the Comments Section, send your well wishes and congratulations to Glynnie and Hot Sauce Flo Dad for a wonderful engagement.

This One's For the Children

Hey Gang!

Short and sweet. Go here, leave a comment, help St. Jude's and children with cancer.

The New Kids On The Block would be so proud. I love you, Donnie!!!!!!!

Don't bother with my comments right now. Just go here.

Brit(a) Pop

It's so refreshing to meet someone who not only meets your expectations of awesomeness, but exceeds them.



The lovely Ms. Brita from Brinki Dink and I met last evening for the very first time and enjoyed hummus and falaffal and makdoush and ardichiwaki, and comfortable conversation and all of that good stuff. It was like I'd known her insightful, clever, statuesque beauty for years.


Brita and I belong to the same online women's group, the D.C. Sisterhood, started by Allison. Megan Jane brought me in to the fold and, despite very few of the Sisters actually residing in D.C., I've never felt more welcomed. Thank you Al Bal, Cierra, Elise, Glynnie, Hannah Banana, Jaclyn, Kara, Megan Jane, Tinzy Mama and all of the ladies I haven't yet met.

Here's hoping that we all get to sit down to a plate of tabbouleh very soon.

In the Comments section, tell me about someone whom you've met or seen lately that made you happy. Then go tell that person how glad you are to know them. Everybody likes to hear that.

Bathing Beauty

I just emerged from one of my marathon bubble baths--2.5 hours, this one was, my pretties. I'm a champion bubble bather.

Anyone who knows me knows that when I'm drunk, I tend to ask friends if I can use their tub. Sometimes I don't ask--I just sneak off and take a bubbly-scented soak and pop out an hour later, relaxed and smelling of Pearberry or Lever 2000.

Can I be honest, kids? Sometimes I'm not even really that drunk, but even I know how ridiculous it is for an adult woman to bathe in strangers' tubs. The drinking gives me an excuse, but sometimes I really just want a bath.

Christmas is prime time for a bubble bath aficionado such as myself. I get all sorts of smelly good things, candles and books.

This year, JennyJenny8675309 got me a bottle of whiskey for Christmas, which explains why I spent extra long in the bath this evening: I like to combine all of my favorite activities with a bath, a book and a bottle.

(She was worried I wouldn't like it, my pretties. To which I can only say, "Pshaw, right, JennyJenny. Sometimes I feel like you don't even know me.")

I needed the bath and the bourbon today, though, because I hit it really hard at the gym. Crunches, crunches, always the damn crunches. I probably won't be able to eat solid food for a week, but that's my own fault because, over the holiday, the only things I crunched were the ice cubes from my rocks glass.

Although, Adelka Ann saved me with an impromptu aerobics video, courtesy of the fine folks at Perdue Chicken and their generous giveaways.

I was about to head out for a run when Adelka Ann said, "You hate running."

"I know. But I've been such a lump. I've got to do something." I detest running, kids. I really do. My body was not meant to run. My body was meant to tube down rivers and lie in hammocks and such.

"Well, we could do some aerobics," Adelka Ann offered.

While she astutely followed all of Kathy Smith's moves to "lunge" and "kick" and "march it out" 123Valerie flailed around and generally made an aerobic ass of herself. The Perdue folks might be tickled to know I actually looked like a chicken running around with its head cut off. But, I bet I burned several hundred calories.

Speaking of burning several hundred, my parents, in their infinite generosity, gave me--among too many other things--a pair of diamond hoopy earrings. They're beautiful, but even before the whole movie business, I wasn't too keen on diamonds for humanitarian reasons. Best to stick with healing crystals, eh Allison--not blood-soaked stones that bear the imprint of innocent childrens' souls.

I know diamonds are supposed to be a girl's best friend, but, truthfully, I'd prefer the dog. I decided long ago that if, if, if I ever get married, I don't want the traditional diamond ring. I also want to have a pig roast and kegs for the reception, but my fairytale wedding planning is for another time.

What do you think I should do? Send them back to my folks with my sincerest gratitude? Just hang on to them and keep my mouth shut? I'm torn, my pretties.

I just need to go take a bath and clear my head.

In the Comments section, tell me what you think I should do with the earrings. I will come over to christen the tub of whoever has the best advice.

Christmas Tramp

As part of my wandering holiday to find my missing Christmas spirit, I left Connecticut on Christmas morning and took a train to JennyJenny8675309'se parents' house in New Jersey for family dinner.

No, we are not a lesbian couple disguised as roommates, though all of my co-workers think that. She's not my type, but I would gladly get it on with her Mom's scalloped potatoes.

And actually, I took several trains to get there. My pretties, can I just say that I am pleased as punch with myself that I navigated a switch from Grand Central Station to Penn Station using the very foreign, kinda scary subway system? The one that has mystery puddles and smelly people flopped out on the floor everywhere and college kids playing bongos, for Pete's sake.

Some of you natives, including Adelka Ann and Justin P., may shout, "Why the eff didn't you just take a cab from Grand Central to Penn Station, numbskull?"

That is because I might have a small, slightly irrational fear of cabs, thanks to the movie The Bone Collector. Plus, they usually smell like armpits. So, I braved the subway. All by myself. Now, haters will say, "123Valerie, it was two stops. Big hoo ha. "

True, but to that I will retort: Shut up.

Let me have my moment to revel in self-sufficiency, superior navigational skills and the supreme ability to read signs and ask people for directions. I hopped from train to train like a hobo. A hobo with clean underpants who doesn't really like baked beans from a tin, but I think ya'll can still see the parallel. Right?

After successfully journeying to New Jersey, I have a new-found goal to use more trains. I like trains. They make flying seem so mundane by comparison, though Double A did score me a $32 flight from DCA to LaGuardia as a Christmas gift. It brought back lots of old memories, my pretties, of wearing navy blue pantyhose, drinking from little bottles filched from the airplane and pointing with two fingers, not one, because that's rude. But alas ...

Mist1 knows people who get her hard-to-come-by electronics, and I know pilots who get me cheap tickets. She and I could take over the world. We just might.

The only thing I don't understand is why the porters have to punch so many damn holes in the tickets. Work smarter, not harder, dude--get a bigger punch. But, maybe some things are best left as a mystery. Unless, I mean, one of you kids wants to tell me why. That'd be cool.

In the Comments section, tell me why the porters have to punch so many damn holes in the tickets. Thank you, and mind the gap.

The Reason for the Swayze-on

Last night, thanks to weird holiday T.V. programming, we enjoyed The Swayze in Road House.

An intelligent group of individuals was assembled and not a one of us complained about watching The Swayze kick ass in super V-cut tee shirts or romance a severely-moussed Kelly Lynch in lycra. Really, though, any movie directed by a guy named Rowdy has GOT to be good.

Now, it's a fact that Sean P.K. adores The Swayze. With good reason, of course. But last night, we had doctors, lawyers and Indian chiefs all sitting around mezmerized by that which is The Swayze.

You could argue all of us were too tired to change the channel. Or maybe we had too much rum. But you know what? Call me naive, but I think The Swayze's pectorals are evidence of Christmas Magic.

I'm thankful for each and every one of you. I hope you had a great holiday, whichever you enjoyed celebrating.

In the Comments section, tell me how thankful you are for The Swayze this year. Anyone who comments will get a personal acknowledgement filled with gratitude from me.

I'm a Driver. I'm a Winner. Things are Gonna Change, I Can Feel It.

Weeeee! So, I'm a finalist in a writing contest I entered a few months ago. For money and recongition and stuff. I wrote about a roller derby girl, and they liked it, which means I have to send in a picture and bio.

Had my bio come from tonight, it would have said I spent an evening in an adult tree house with a lovely couple named Jill and Dan, along with Adelka Ann and Justin P. and six bottles of wine.

Also, it might have said that right before we left, a boy I met over the summer who moved to Charleston, SC, the day after we met--well, he called out of nowhere and wanted to meet up because he was back in D.C. this week. (Megan Jane and Kirstin, do you remember him? Backyard Bonanza with crazy Mike who broke the bottles on the street? Morgan says hello.)

For once, I was really sorry to report that I was in Connect I Cut and couldn't meet him. Oddly, various and sundry ex-boyfriends and former friends have made themselves known these past two days. Adelka Ann says it's the holidays--they drive people to seek out those they love(d).

We actually cancelled on the Quilt Boy out of principal. The principal of staying on a beautiful farm instead of driving into the city the day before Christmas weekend.

But, I had to base my bio on past events, so here's what it said:

Residing in Maryland, by way of Ohio and North Carolina, 123Valerie [not my real name, my pretties] is a recovering bartendress, a reformed flight attendant and a beauty school drop out. Her published work spans innumerable financial newsletters, fiction crime journals, compilation books and a third-grade article about Walt Disney in The Daily Jeffersonian. In her very limited spare time 123Valerie takes on freelance work, practices overcoming her stage fright and enjoys grocery shopping.

So, I feel good about this one.

Maybe you'll feel good looking at lovely photos of my friends and me (In no particular order because I am quite drunk right now) {Thanks Allison and T.J.!} :

Some of my darling D.C. Sisters. It's not a particularly good photo of me, but my lovely Sisters look so hot, who am I to deny them to the world? Say hello (l-r) to the world of Glynnie, Megan Jane, a not very photogenic 123Valerie, and beautiful Allison.

Hi T.J., who told me a terrible/wonderful story about the White Dragon sex move. Let's just say there's a blow job, a head slam and some semen out of the nostrils involved. Blech.

Hi Hot Allison's rack! Nice bra!

Hi Glynnie's fine boobies!

Yes, once again, it's a photo of 123Valerie's breasts! Yay!

We want the funk Gotta to have that funk. Ow, we want the funk. Gotta have that funk.

Hi Megan Jane. Maybe you'll let Har Har Harwell give you a little smoochie poo.

Oh, crap. Caught working, AGAIN, because I'm a total nerd. Total nerd. Working on a Saturday morning.

Alright kids. I am drunk again. Please leave your own comments about whatever the hell you want to. Justin P. is snoring a blue storm and I'm eating a hot dog, so maybe you can use that as a prompt. Maybe not. Happy the Day Before the Day Before Christmas Eve.

Ramblings Among the Bramble Bushes

MP3 File

Just you wait about four more hours and see what I come up with then.

I am in Conneticut, and I llove the World

Fair warning: I am drunk. And a dog is snoring next ot me.

So, I made my way to Connecticut today to spend the Christmas with my Adelka Ann. Adelka picked me up from LaGauardia and we had some suchi and and some sake and that was good.

Then we went to a holiday party her theatre company had, and that was very good. Adelka Ann was dancing, which I loved. And a yooung Leo Boy Childe was dancing all Justin Timberlake and giving me the eyeballs and then a beatious lass Named JAn was dancing and giving me more eyeballs.

It has come to my attention that NeW York boys and gals have a much finer appreciation for the wonder that is 123Valerie than the C.D. boys and gals. I got all sorts of looks and nods and dancing requests and "heys" and mmhmms.

These months in the D.C have been hard because I've known that it wasn't ME, and I have ample prroof that many other attractive, intelligent, funny, secure, women are suffering from a lack of quality dudes to choose from. But, it's always good to get objective evidence of that.

So, enought of that self rightoeous business.

Then we had more drinks someplace that had bocchi ball in the bar, and that was really, really good.

A girl named Carrie almost had me convinced to move to NY City, but goddamn there are a lot of buildings here, aren't there?

Comments, comments, WHo's got the comments. ?? Tell me comments, please. Thank you.

****
Update: Ya'll, I was in the cups last night, yes I was. I left everything as is to keep me humble. This is what good liquor will do to a badass woman. Gird yourselves.

Crystal Visions

I had one of the best sex dreams of my life Saturday night. So good, in fact, that I worried my panting and moaning might have woken up some of the darling people who were visiting for the weekend: Allison, Glynnis, Hot Sauce Flo Dad and T.J, all in from the Great Commonwealth of Pennsylvania. (check out the sidebar "Who In the Hell is She Talking?" about for details.)

They assured me that, No, 123V, no one heard a peep, though Hot Sauce Flo Dad did stumble on to one of my many Interweb porn memberships whilst checking his e-mail.

"hiddenjane.com … nice," he said and flashed me a knowing smile.

Oy vey. I'm entirely comfortable with people knowing I like porn, but it feels funny to get into the specifics. However, because I love you, my pretties, I'll save you the Google step: Hidden Jane focuses on, um, women who, uh, like to maybe masturbate. A lot. Sometimes there are lesbians involved. I like that.

I suppose most folks enjoy it because it's *supposed* to be low down, hidden camera style. That actually makes me feel very, very skeevy—so much so that I cancelled about two weeks ago.

What drew me in, though, was that I KNOW the women are enjoying themselves. That's what's most attractive to me—the honesty behind it. And partly the abundance of big boobs.

But, alas, each time I use a Podunk gas station's bathroom, I check every crevice to make sure I'm not being watched because, my pretties, there are folks out there doing things of which you can't even conceive.

Off topic. My bad.

I meant to tell you that the reason I had such a mind-blowing mental sexcapade was because I was wearing some of Allison and T.J.'s handmade, healing crystal jewelry. My brain and my libido were energized—scary, I know, to think that I can get even more jazzed up. In particular, I was rocking a sultry pair of teardrop quartz earrings—good for general healing of the mind and body, as well as rebalancing. Safe to say, I was rebalanced after my nocturnal romp, yo.

I think we were all buzzing with the energy that friendship and coming together brings. With the inclusion of Megan Jane and Har Har Harwell, we had ourselves a nice little beerfest/healing crystal jewelry party/D.C. Sisterhood reunion/enchilada fiesta/rock n' roll blowout this weekend. I think we even played a few games of Taboo. Can you handle it?

There's nothing I like better than having a house full of people, my pretties. My Dad and Step-Mom were great role models for hosting—make sure there's plenty of food, plenty of drink, throw out any notion of a schedule and encourage people to take frequent naps. That's the key to a good visit.

It was so nice that Allison and T.J. spent an extra night. I'd like to think they were vibing on the crystals' energy and stayed to continue the unity and bonding of the weekend, but it might also have been because we started drinking wine for breakfast, and I got them too schnockered to leave.

I learned this weekend that amethyst can help with that, kids. Among many other things, it purifies the liver. It also looks damn sexy dangling from my ears.

Some of you already think I'm nuts for the astrology and therapy and the fascination with breasts, particularly my own. Well, it's a good thing I have a chunk of rose quartz to help strengthen my self love. Actually, my self love seems to be plenty strong these days.

But, hey, I'm curious: Do you have any good luck pieces or talismans that make you feel protected or energized or sexy? Tell me about them in the Comments section.

Heavy

My pretties,you are a fine bunch of people. Thanks for all of your well wishes after the last heavy post.

I was really feeling the love and light of world through your comments, so I went to the gym where personal trainer, Nick, quickly squashed all feelings of goodwill.

Nick's eyebrows curved like this ~ . Swear to Pete. He asked me in a thick accent of undetermined origin, "So, what areas is we wanting to work on?"

"Well, I guess I'd like to tone up my tummy, and my arms, and strengthen my back and work on my pectorals to keep my rack nice and firm."

"Mm hmm," he said, "And what about your butt?"

"Um, I think my butt is fine," I offered.

"Mm, no, we have some work to do." Oh, snap.

I haven't been able to sit for the past two days. I did more climbing than a billy goat.

Anyway, ya'll, thank you again for your kind words and thoughts. I wish the same back to you ten fold, especially those of you with not-so-kind words to say. I think you probably need it the most.

So, blatantly switching the subject now, we have some wonderful, wonderful friends coming into town today, whom you might remember from the big camp trip. I'm sure there will be lots of hi-jinks and shenanigans and whatnot, but I'll be *off the damn computer* for a few days. Gasp! I know. Go outside and play yourselves. Or with yourselves. I'm not here to judge.

In the Comments section, tell me if you've ever been harassed by someone with wild eyebrows.

The Mother Load

As long as I can remember, I've been The Nice Girl. I know it seems contrary to everything I show you here, but if I had a dollar for every time I heard, "Oh, 123Valerie you're just the nicest person I've ever met," well I could retire to Spain right now with a matching set of houseboys named Paco and Taco.

It's partly because I am genuinely a good, nice person, but I also have a really hard time expressing anger. Thus, it is good that I am in therapy with Alice.

Now, most of you know my Mom died in January, largely because I write about it all the damn time. But, I started this bloggy thing as a way to express my feelings, so talking about my dead Mom falls under that category.

What most of you don't know is that, while she was a smart, kind woman loved by many people--myself included--my Mom wasn't a very good Mom.

It probably started in the womb when she decided to keep smoking whilst pregnant: "What? You turned out alright. I was making sure you'd be a fighter. Besides, back then we didn't have the medical knowlege. No one knew that smoking hurt babies."

I was born in 1980 kids, about 14 years after warnings showed up on cigarette packages.

Her refusal to stop smoking--the one thing she loved in this world--might have had something to do with the fact that she hated being pregnant with me. "Oh, I couldn't have been more upset to learn I was going to have you. I tried to get it over with as soon as possible. It was awful."

True to her word, she induced her own labor and I came about 2 months early. My bad, Mom. Sorry for being born.

Now, to be fair, she didn't lock me closets or whip me or call me names. She couldn't because she wasn't around. She left my two sisters and me when I was about two years old in the care of my Dad. She moved about an hour away and we saw her every other weekend until at the age of 17 I moved in with her after this girl forced me into it.

There's a lot of back story that is important to me, but it probably matters not to ya'll, my pretties. What you need to know is that years later, my Mom calmly told me a little about her decision to leave her three daughters with a man she said she was terrified of.

"Your father was so irrational, and I was so worried that after I left he would hurt the horses to get back at me. So I sold them to a 4-H club at a complete loss. It was heartbreaking to say goodbye to them."

In case you didn't catch that, kids, my Mom left her three daughters with a man that she felt was dangerous enough to harm animals, but kids? Well, heck, that's alright.

Now, at that point in his life, my Dad was a very angry man. Part of that stemmed from being in a loveless marriage with my Mom. He yelled a lot and did nutty things like tie dead kittens around the necks of dogs who killed them and sometimes he spanked us hard and shook us for effect. He's apologized, changed and he's such a softie now, you wouldn't even know. But, the fact is that he took on the care of three young daughters, and that is priceless.

My Mom, however, continued to live under an umbrella of delusion. A few years later, when I was just shy of five, my sister and I were molested for several months by the son of my Dad's live-in girlfriend. No one realized what was happening at the time, me included. Or so I thought.

When I was about 19 or so, talking to my sister, we put it together and told my Mom. Her response: "Well, I always thought something might have happened. You two were doing some really strange things at that time. I don't know why I never asked."

I don't either.

Again, good thing I'm in therapy. Alice and I spend most of our time trying to get me to admit I'm angry about these things. A parent's first job is to protect a child and instead of using her mother's instinct to do so, she ignored it. You better believe some serious issues resulted. I'm quite pleased that I'm a fairly well adjusted, plucky gal who is a productive member of society.

So, okay, you ask, "Why tell us any of this, 123Valerie?"

Well, my Mom's been visiting a lot lately. She's not been entirely happy, either--we're not sure why. She's been over at my sister's house breaking stuff--all things we cleared from her house after she died, such as a nearly new coffee pot, a mixer, some pictures, a radio, etc. Just random crap. All broken in various ways in the past several days.

She's also been to see me. A few nights ago, I sat down to do some writing, and I planned to work on a character based on my Mom--a good woman who made poor choices. I sat down to write about the horse episode, but before I could hit the first key, a coffee cup sitting on a table across the room suddenly flew over the edge, dropped on a carpeted floor and shattered. Completely, inexplicably shattered.

My Mom was a serious coffee drinker, and while she loved java, she was not taking too kindly to having her mistakes used as character fodder for a novel.

So, much as in life, I conceded to keep the peace: "Okay, Mama. You win. I won't write it."

Then, I met with Alice for a session today. And she said that my Mom has no right to get mad at me, dead or alive, for the things she did. Furthermore, as an important step in my healing process for what Alice calls complicated grief, which essentially means I'm going to be a mess about my Mom for a very long time, Alice said I HAD to write about it.

I'm doing this under doctor's orders, my pretties.

Do you think I should be worried that the refrigerator just came hurling at my head? I thought my Mom usually plays bridge with her friend Judy and Liberace at 2 on Thursdays. Damn.

In the Comments section, tell me anything you want today. It's a sharing kind of afternoon.

Turn Away From the Freak! Oh, It's Madness!

Thanks to a tag from Candy Sandwich, I'm an It Girl. And I'm weird. I'm a Weird It Girl.

Well, an awkward intro to a slightly awkward post revealing six weird things about me. Here goes, my pretties:

1. For at least two years during my pre-teen existence, I thought I was Elvis reincarnated.

For reals. Megan Jane can back this up. From about 9 years old to 11 years old, I would get on tables and sing Heartbreak Hotel. I was very good at swinging my hips and curling my lip, but the kicker was that Elvis died in 1979, and I was born in 1980, so you do the math, kids …

I, uh, might actually still believe this a little bit.

2. I love to grocery shop.
I go at least once a day. There are so many possibilities in a grocery store—infinite colors, tastes and moods. I love it. Plus, as a single gal whose roommate is a picky eater, I typically cook just for me, so I buy itty, bitty portions of everything. Rack of lamb for one? I've done it.

This might also have something to do with my premonition that I would meet the love of my life at a grocery store--probably not the frozen foods section. Maybe in the soup aisle.

3. I shot a man in Reno just to watch him die.

4. When I was 17, I made a quilt as a show of love for a boy on whom I had a crush.

His name was Johnny Joyce, and he was a deliberately tortured soul with unkempt black hair (dyed), misty eyes and a pierced faced. C'mon—cut me some slack. This was 1997, and it was still fairly edgy at that point in Ohio.

It was a Log Cabin pattern, and I actually made it out of navy, burgundy, grey and black courderoy pants I found at the thrift store, so it was equally as dark as he was. Mmm, actually, the quilt turned out to be a good metaphor for him: yeah, okay, kind of dark, but really just flat and a little soft. Adelka Ann can offer some insight.

Anyway, this is probably the most genuine evidence of my weirdness: I really thought it would win him over. I expected that he would go to bed wrapped in it every night and dream of me. Who am I kidding? I still think this should have won him over—do you know how much time and effort I put into that quilt? A lot. And do you know what I got for it? "Wow, 123Valerie, you're such a good friend. That's so nice."

In any case, now only the family gets my eclectic quilts. Although, when my Dad got his made out of old flannel shirts, all he said was, "Wow, 123Valerie, you're such a good daughter. That's so nice."

Maybe I just need to stop making quilts out of old clothes.

5. I use my turn signal every single time I turn. Every single time.

I didn't think this was weird until I moved down here where no one uses a turn signal. Ever. Now I feel like freak.

6. Sometimes, when I'm driving to faraway places, I'll stop at a gas station and use a fake British accent. Poorly. For no reason what so ever.

"Evenin' gov'nor. Might I trouble you for 15 pounds worth of petrol in the black carriage? 'ave you a spot 'o tea and crumpet for tea time? No? Bloody 'ell, per'aps I'll just take this cinnamon 'azelnut cappuccino and this — 'ow do you Yanks say again? Cruller? Splendid!"

There? You happy? Did gawk enough? No?

Oh.

Well, the good news is that there are plenty more where these came from—they just come out in my everyday posts. Most of the time I don't even know I'm behaving like a buffoon.

Glad I can make you feel better about yourself. Now, let's go laugh at someone else. Oh, how's about: The Lovely Brinki Dink, Darling Emmie, The Sage, over at Meow and The Beautiful Lee at Vicinity of Obscinity, whom many of you know as Nosjunkie. Show us your weirdness, gals. You're in good company.

In the Comments section, tell me if you've ever used a fake accent.

Say Cheese or At Least Go Eat Some

So, as I often do, I am stealing Candy Sandwich's photos of her holiday party for my blog. It's the season of giving, right? So, I'm really just giving you and me someone else's stuff.

Speaking of giving, Kristin tagged me to reveal six weird things about myself--I'm working on narrowing it down. I'll give you a little preview in the following photos.

This photo goes first because hot women always get to go first--from left to right, that's yours truly and The Hair, Candy Sandwich and Fernanda, Hello Miles' lovely wife. This may also just be the only surviving picture of Kristin, who is usually behind the camera. Note the cranberry concoction in my hand.

This is how God intended for us enjoy Jell-O. Atta girls, (l-r) Denise, Kayla and Kimberlicious, who looked Boobylicious that night, by the way. Thumbs up to your girls, kiddo.


Okay, so I ran out of plastic cups and attempted to make alcoholic Jell-O jigglers. FYI kids, that doesn't work with a straight vodka recipe, so we dished out plate-fulls of Jell-O love and spoon fed each other, because that's what we do where I'm from.

Notice a pattern with the Jell-O love? Kimberlicious is getting it on with some gelatin big time, and I'm lucky enough to be near her to enjoy it. Incidentally, I was not born with a silver spoon in my mouth. I was born chewing on a spork.

Someone had the brilliant idea to give The Joy of Sex with little dolls to demonstrate the positions. Kayla had a hard time finding the dolls' pee pees. Man, I've been there.

Believe it or not, Scotty thinks this pose highlights his best features.

So, for the gift exchange, Hello Miles got a box of dirty fortune cookies. Sean P.K. seemed very engrossed in the whole thing--perhaps he was stockpiling ideas for the Lovely Ms. Taylor (who was sick and not there. I was so sad, I had to drown my sorrows.)

So, um, I hope the Lovely Ms. Taylor wasn't expecting much because the dirty fortune cookies? Not so much. I can't remember any of them off hand, but I'll give $3 to any person who leaves a bad dirty fortune in the Comments section. Then I'll steal it, edit this post and pretend that YOUR fortune was one of the bad ones, deal?

Har Har Harwell said a silent prayer to Santa: "Please Mr. Kringle, I've been so good all year. Please, can I have the new Desperate Housewives game?"

There is a Santa Claus.

Byrd is one of my favorite people because a.) she's a red head, too b.) she wears knee boots and c.) she brought new friend Ed for all of us to meet d.) she has a laugh that could bring about world peace.

Seriously, he is a handsome dude. He just doesn't photograph well. But his teeth do.

Hey Queen Z! Hey Denise! There was a way better picture where Denise kind of looks like Popeye, but since I left out all of the fugly ones of myself, it's only fair I return the favor. Uh guh guh guh guh.

Yes! Yes! It's here: The Planisphere. Thanks Megan Jane! I look like I have to pee because I kind of did with all of the excitment of the Planisphere.

No, seriously, I was excited. Even my hair got a little crazy in the moment.


So, to calm my nerves I drank more. A whole lot more. That cup filled up 52 times. I counted.

Then, everyone had this great idea to get me tanked and make me sing. And I tried, the Baby Jesus knows I tried, but at that point I was lucky to not have peed my pants, let alone remember chords and words, good God Almighty. I made it through 1.5 songs before declaring, "I am too drunk to do anything but drink more."

Maybe I didn't say that, but I should have.

"God, I am so wasted. This is the drunkest I have ever been." We're going to put that on a T-shirt for Scotty, because he says that every damn time. That night, it might have been true though.

Ah, a good time was had by all, except maybe Kristin who's house got destroyed and who accidentally got all sorts of scraped up. Yowch.

To make her feel better, go visit her blog and read six weird things about her.

In the Comments section, tell me a bad dirty fortune. The winner gets to be a star that I will then find on the Planisphere.

I Saw the Light

Biz to the Z, kids.

I'm as busy as a beaver and a bee, yo. I'm up to my eyeballs in financially goodness, and I've taken on a host of freelance gigs about chandeliers, very appropos given that I had a few key realizations this weekend. So, here's the rundown:

1. It's Time to Leave the Virgin Territory
Broke it off with Cohen on Friday, which, was odd because I never really broke me off a piece, know what I'm saying. (You know, the whole virgin thing.)

He took it poorly, oh so poorly. He was a pissy chicken, indeed, but it just solidified my resolve that much more.

For the record, I went the nice, dishonest route and told him an ex-boyfriend had come back into my life. It seemed so much kinder than, "I need to get laid, and I think you might be gay and/or incapable of intimate sexual contact."

2. Work Can Wait
So, I typically spend every Friday evening and Saturday morning working. What I have to do is not terribly taxing, but it means I can't really go out on Fridays.

However, this past Friday, Sean P.K. and the Lovely Ms. Taylor (check the side bar, kids) invited me to the Capitals vs. Ducks hockey game so I could flirt it up with a one Mr. Door. (FYI: his last name, spelled phonetically, not accurately) I've been after Door for months, months I say.

Good judgement be damned, I said, "Work, you will wait. I am going to have fun."

And we did, and I got an invite, albeit a casual one, to Door's birthday celebration next week, which means he's a Sagitarius. That's a good thing. I'll keep you posted.

3. Cranberries Are Good For You
Okay, I had an inkling of this already, but here's the skinny: Candy Sandwich had a holiday party Saturday, and it was glorious. Wonderful company, great food, much nakedness, and lots of good drink, particularly a festive cranberry/champagne combo from both Kristin and Megan Jane.

I brought some hellacious Jell-O shots because I am very classy, but normally I am a whiskey kind of gal. Still, this cranberry concoction looked so pretty, we just drank and drank and drank and drank and drank and drank and drank, and do you know what kids? I woke up the next morning, er afternoon, and I felt fabulous. And I didn't even get laid the night before.

Aside from a being hangover free, the party was great because it's always good to hang out with friends and make some new ones. There was a gift exchange, too, and though it was cleverly designed, I was glad to end up with Megan Jane's Planisphere, which tells me where all of the planets currently are. Neat, huh?

Right now, by looking at my handy dandy Planishpere, I can see that a Mars/Jupiter conjunction and Venus' move into the house of Capricorn mean there is much to be done. Much, much to be done.

In the Comments section, tell me how you feel about cranberries and/or the most memorable gift exchange gift you ever got. The winner gets to borrow by Planishpere.

Hair Apparent

So, Justin P. (Check out Who in the Hell is She Talking About? toward the right for details) sent me some loverly photos to entice me to move to Connecticut. I'm thinking about it. I've been thinking about it for years.

Do any of ya'll know folks in Sherman, CT, or surrounding areas who would pay me to flop out words for them? That seems to be the one small, deciding factor--that whole "job" thing. Boo.

Think about it as you look over another hair photo. (The sweet baby girl is laughing, not crying. I swear to Pete.)


Thanks Justin P.! See you soon!

In the Comments Section, tell me where you would rather be living, and what you'd rather be doing. The winner gets positive support to help make your dreams come true.

Know When to Walk Away, Know When to Run

We had our company holiday party last night. I should say, yesterday afternoon. It started at 4 p.m., which gives you an idea why I like working for a company that promotes day drinking.

It was actually a very nice affair, and the company is very generous, so there aren't any trite comments on my part. The only thing is that there was a casino night theme—lots of gambling.

I am the world's worst gambler. I just am. I understand the theory, and I have a very good poker face; I'm just not very lucky when it comes to that sort of stuff. You find out who your friends are—people whom I never even met were lending me money to stay in the game. I still ended up busted broke, but I did enjoy a very nice roast beast dinner and made the best use of my drink tickets.

#1 Laura cleaned house and actually refused the prize she was due—she won an iPod last year and has been bequeathed with gifts lately, so she made the decision to spread the love around. She is Karma's darling.

The only down side is that it was slightly awkward because the older, married gentleman whom I have a massive crush on was there. Looking very handsome and dapper. And married. And handsome. And married. But, still, very handsome.

We exchanged pleasantries, and I kept trying to toss my hair. I don't think it worked. I went home alone. Just as well. He's married. But very, very handsome.

So, just to make sure my luck wasn't saving itself like a virgin bride, I bought a Maryland lottery ticket on my way home. Home for the Holidays, it was called. One of the $5 jobbies. I lost. I totally lost.

In Ohio, even the losing tickets offer a chance to send them in for a raffle sort of thing called Cash Explosion! (Their exclamation point, not mine.) Not Maryland, because it is the place of sour luck and broken dreams. And really, really high taxes.

I was so bogged down and stressed out today (not on strike, Matty) that I automatically came home, walked Wonder Dog Bean, and headed to the gym before I even had a chance to talk myself out of it. I've been doing pretty well, kids, with the whole working out thing. It's good for me. It's also pleasant because a very nice guy I work with also goes to my gym. His name is Michael. He's very tall and very nice. Not married. But very handsome.

So, I turned on the elliptical machine and I ran for everything I was worth, which ended up being about 3.5 miles and 968 calories. Go me.

It's Cohen's birthday today. I decided earlier to walk away, but I haven't done a very good job of telling him that. Oh, that hurts my heart. He shouldn't die a virgin.

In the Comments section, tell me about your holiday party or how you like to work out. Whoever gives me the story to which I can relate the most wins and gets to hang out with #1Laura because some of her good luck might rub off on you.

Speaking of rubbing off on you, here are some photos from Megan Jane's Birthday on Ice celebration.

"Yes, I wax my chest hair! What of it?" asks Sean P.K. (see sidebar Who In the Hell is She Talking About? for details) "It's fiercely sexy," says The Lovely Ms. Taylor.

Oooh! It's a double shot of The Lovely Ms. Taylor!

Hey 123Valerie! It's not on purpose that all of my photos are kind of vague. My hair and my breasts really are my best features. Along with my stellar personality, of course.

Ice skating is all fuzzy and fun! I lurve it!

Three Hot Girls at the End of a Night. Megan Jane and Taylor seem like they "Gotta Dance!" Me, of the Pointy Chin, well, I'm just happy to be upright.

Thanks, Candy Sandwich, for the photography, as always!

Secrets Weren't Made for THIS Woman

My Mom, a very wise woman, once told me that if you are about to do something that you can't tell either your mother or your best friend about, then you shouldn't do it.

I think that's a pretty good test, don't you? Let's take the example of piercing your clit. You probably wouldn't tell your Mom, but you could tell your best friend, so Check. It's alright.

Taking up baton twirling lessons? Your friends might think it was lame, so you wouldn't want to tell them, but your Mom could definitely know: green light.

Killing a prostitute in the dead of night? Well, you can't tell your Mom, and you can't tell your best friend, so it's clearly a bad decision.

See, isn't this easy?

It's a bit more difficult for me since my Mom is dead (from cigarettes, kids. What? ... I'm just saying), but I simply run everything through the Megan Jane/Adelka Ann/Kirstin/Kristina Hotpants Best Friend Detector to get my answer.

Recently, I recieved a proposition for a meeting, but it had a lot of conditions. Namely, I couldn't tell anyone about it and I certainly couldn't blog about it.

So, I ran it through the Best Friend Detector:
Q: Secret meeting with M?

A: I can't tell anyone about it.

Well, I think ya'll know the answer by now. It's not in my nature to keep secrets, which is sometimes troublesome to me. I'm sorry M.

As consolation, here's a picture of my breasts, the mystery scratches and some whiskey, courtesy of Candy Sandwich, who made a valid point that in the last post, she won regardless because she's already seen my bosoms. So, she gets a big, ole hug instead
.

In the Comments Section, tell me how well you can or cannot keep secrets.

Slip Sliding Away

(Hey there, I hate the new beta version Blogger Shanghaied me into. I'm having a hard time leaving comments on your blogs, muchachos. I can't find the photo upload buttons or the linky buttons, and I just got damn tired of making all of the "a href" doodads. Sorry, kids. It's just a big bunch of words this time. But I do talk about my boobs--all the way at the end of you want to skip.)

Apologies, my pretties, for having a life. It felt weird to be away from you for TWO WHOLE days, but it just makes me appreciate you that much more. Have you been working out? Seriously, you look good.

I spent most of the weekend here, living the good life.

And by good life, I mean drunk and engaging in deep, meaningful conversations with Adelka, Justin P. and all of their lovely friends while eating a lot of fancy cheese. Also, there were a lot of dogs around, so that made me happy. It's refreshing to know that there are rich people in this world who are kind, welcoming and warm, who also burn some herb and can drink me under the table. That's what I aspire to be--friendly, rich and perpetually drunk.

That desire to stay cuddled in the lap of luxury among friends led to a little, what I like to call, emotional ickyness this weekend. See, I'm a very "in the moment" sort of person, meaning I enjoy where I am in the moment.

Which is a great, Oprah-approved way to live life. Ordinarily.

But, you may recall that Megan Jane had a birthday recently, for which I am eternally thankful. And her wonderful boyfriend Har Har Harwell spurred plans for us to go ice skating at the Sculpture Garden rink in downtown D.C. on Saturday night, followed by drinks and merriment and mirth--a fantastic idea that everyone has been looking forward to for weeks. Weeks, I say.

But, then this whole "hanging out with good friends in a castle" thing showed up. And also the memory of Megan Jane saying, "Meh, I don't even want to do anything for my birthday this year. Don't even worry about it."

Okay, my pretties, when someone says something like that, especially someone you love, don't believe it. Even for a minute. Even if that person really, really, really, really means it, don't believe it. It's a slip-slidery slope if you do.

But, I was born without the normal birthday-sentimentality gene (honestly, I can't think of the last time I gave someone a birthday card, and I don't eat the cake, even though it's bad luck). I also have an overabudance of selfish genes, in general, so I tend to forget that typically birthdays are important (hey now--mine included. I'm an equal-opportunity anti-Hallmarxist).

Taking Megan Jane's birthday comments at face value, which again is a BAD IDEA, I called Megan Jane from the castle and basically said:

"Megan Jane, I'm having a great time with Adelka and Justin P. I want to be two places at once. I can't. Can you tell me if you'll be hurt if I don't come tonight?"

The tests are still out to determine if I'm actually a dude. I might be, but if I am, I have the smallest penis in the world. That's not true--that belonged to a guy by the name of Ryan. In any case, this is one of the many, many, many, many times my honesty has come back to bite me in the ass.

Long story short, I hurt Megan Jane's feelings, for which I am forever sorry, and obviously was not my intent. Especially right before a birthday celebration. But, I went--of course I went because--I wanted to go. It's just that sometimes need to hear things said explicitly that ya'll take for granted as common sense, such as, "When you have two very dear friends that you equally want to spend time with and enjoy, but for time and space reasons they can't be in the same place, always choose the friend with the birthday celebration."

So, on my way to the Birthday Bruhaha on Ice, I was feeling so sick and distraught at hurting Megan Jane's feelings that, during a sharp turn, I distractedly slip-slided off the side of the road and managed to get myself stuck in a ditch. I promptly had a melt down, cried for 20 minutes then called AAA to come get me. They did, and thanks to John from Master Towing and Transport, I arrived to meet the gang only two hours late! Way to go, 123Valerie.

Walking up to meet all of our friends, I felt unbelievably awkward and shaky and regretful and kind of puffy and snotty from the crying jag. Hey Candy Sandwich (who gave me a box of chewing gum that read: Oh, God, I am so totally wasted. Did we make out? I ask that at least once a day). Hey Brokekid and new girl-toy, Erica. Hello Miles and Ferny. Hi Sean P.K. and the lovely Miss Taylor. Hola, Kimberlicious.

Awkward. Awkward. Awk to the ward. Then, Megan Jane and I started talking about her period, and suddenly all seemed right again. And we skated our hearts out, kids. No, really. Scotty took a dive and probably broke his heart, or at least a few ribs.

We had such a great time slip slding around on the ice, holding hands and making fun of people. (Grateful Dead on Ice--hello, you do NOT wear tie-dye T-shirts and long hair to ice skate, okay?)

Then we went to Solly's and proceeded to drink. Most of the time at Solly's was devoted to showing people the mystery scratches on my breast and wondering how they got there (JennyJenny8675309 has a declawed cat, I have no fingernails due to the guitar, and goddamnit I haven't had any sex).

All in all, I give the the weekend a solid 9.8, with a few points deducted for emotional ickiness, a severe lack of triple sow kows and the fact that Adelka and Justin P. are now on their way back to Connect-I-Cut.

In the Comments Section, tell me how glad you are the usual 123Valerie grandiose, text-heavy, ziggy-zaggy, what-in-the-hell-is-she-talking-about kind of posts are back. Or, you know, also what you did this weekend. The winner gets to examine the scratches on my breasts.

A Post Not Quite Fit For a Princess, But Megan Jane Gets It Anyway

Two important things are happening today. Well, ONE important thing and another that's mildly amusing.

First, this day 27 years ago, Megan Jane was born. The world was made a better place by:

her ability to tap dance in heels.

Her killer tuna salad with pickles (a.k.a. Heav'n)

her proclivity toward playing Boxcar Children in the suburban woods of Ohio.

her awesome tumbling skills, etc. as a Bobcat cheerleader (go blue and white!)

her pottery throwing skills. No sarcasm here. I have a beautiful mug from her, and I know for a fact a lot of other beautiful pieces exist.

having awesome hair. Megan Jane hasn't had a bad hair day in her life. Except maybe Picture Day in 7th grade. Not her fault.

being my popsicle. From the very first time I met that girl, she captured me. She's my pop-si-cle! All I know is that she makes me feel so fancy free. Gonna love her for a lifetime. And I know she's gonna love me too. She makes me feel, feel so real. And it feels so good, through and through.
Sweeter than candy
Better than cake

That's my Megan Jane. If you didn't understand that that was reminiscent of the New Kids On the Block, then you obviously were not a kewl girl in the late 1980s. Bummer for you, dude.

Megan Jane was a kewl girl then, and she's a kewl girl now. Believe that.

Though it's unlikely, perhaps you'll enjoy the next bit of news as much as Megan Jane's birthday: I am sleeping in a fucking CASTLE tonight. CASTLE. Like a real, live princess. A CASTLE.

Must go. Ghosts of dead kings and such are calling.

In the Comment section, wish Megan Jane a lovely new year, and tell her how happy you are she was born.

*******
UPDATE

I was at the castle because Adelka Ann and Justin P. have really awesome friends who buy castles and invite us over to stay in them and drink tequila so good that after 7 shots, I woke up right as rain.

I slept in one of the round rooms in those towery kind of things that castles have.

I will have full details later, I promise.