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.

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.