Speaking of coke

Oooooo. That’s bad. Really bad. And not the kind of bad where it’s so bad it’s good. (You know, Pen, so bad it’s good like this. Or this.) But I mean, we all have stuff in our pasts that still causes acute embarrassment and shame upon recollection. Like when you lie to your friends about doing coke in the bathroom at a Nirvana concert when all you really did was hover over a nasty toilet and try not to splash pee on yourself. And your friends know you are lying and call you on it. Or when you vomit all over some hippies’ carpet and you’re too out of it to know or care that their dogs promptly licked it up while your future-husband tries to figure out how to cart your sorry-ass back home. And he has to call his friend D. to come over and help him lift your same sorry-ass into the car.

We’ve all been there, Jason!!! Don’t sweat it. Now I think I’ll go play with my young and impressionable child.

The most coked-out lettuce and tomato hamburger commercial…ever!

As my sister Allegra says, this makes me want a McBump.

Just the colors, the dancing, the “musical shill” dialogue (the piccolo the piccolo) – and why yes, Mr. Alexander, I am getting “tired of lettuce and tomato hamburgers in this town that don’t quite make it.”

Monty and I use the McDLT to find each other in crowds. If we lose each other, I call out “Hot Beefy McD!” and he responds, “Cool Crisp LT?” Kind of like the way our friend D. used to cry out “suckacock” like a crowing rooster whenever he needed to find Jimbo.

Anyhow. I’ve got to find a nice quiet corner in which to come down. Have a great weekend, Bunny.

Creme Anglais

I remember Jimbo’s Caesar salad. It’s very good – but I guess not good enough to absolve him come Father’s Day.

Queen Elizabeth was in town last week. Last Tuesday, Monty and I passed her limo as she was leaving the British Ambassador’s residence, probably bitching to her minions about how the Pres added 200 years to her age. Monty cut off the motorcade. For a second I was really proud of his “mooning the empire” gesture; then I realized he just didn’t want to get stuck waiting for 20 vehicles to scream by.

 

(I call the sidecar, Bun.)

My weekend was like a trip to the UK Pavilion at Epcot.

Instead of foraging at Disney’s “Rose and Crown Pub,” I had lunch with my friend S. at a Canadian-owned, theme British pub called “The Elephant and Castle”. They did have brown British food like meat pies on the menu, but they also had a Thai chicken wrap. Wasn’t Thailand the only Asian country that Europeans did NOT colonize? Sour Canadian-owned commonwealth grapes, perhaps? Anyway, I had the American “turkey dinner” sandwich and ordered a Pimm’s cup. They gave me a shot of Pimm’s instead, which tastes less refreshing than Robitussin.

Instead of checking out Epcot’s Olde English architecture, S. and I went to the National Portrait Gallery to check out the “Great Britons” exhibit. S. was thoroughly disgusted with the video of David Beckham sleeping. My only quibble is about the inclusion of Henry James, who wrote The American, among other works. According to my Heath and every early 20th century lit class I’ve ever taken, dude was an American.

Instead of seeing the UK Pavilion’s house band “The British Invasion,” I got to see Monty’s band play on Saturday. They sounded great of course, and my evening culminated with punching an Irishman in the “arse,” per his request.

And what did Monty and I do on Sunday? We watched the episode of “Extras” in which Kate Winslet simulates phone sex. There is no equivalent at the Epcot World Showcase.

Maybe the Norway Pavilion next? I bet the Norwegian embassy has a “trolls and vikings” exhibit.

Mother’s Day = Mierda

Thanks, Penelope. Let me tell you how my first Mother’s Day as a mommy went down.

I did not get breakfast in bed and no one sent me flowers. I was not honored with a Mother’s Day brunch at the Golden Corral and I did not wear a corsage made of carnations on my lapel. My husband did not give me a greeting card that said To My Mommy and then trace our daughter, Yolanda’s, handprint on it. Nor did he present me with a gift certificate to a day spa.

Here are a few things I did do this Mother’s Day. I breastfed Yoyo a bunch of times. My husband, Jimbo and I had muffins and coffee for breakfast while videotaping Yoyo, as she managed to pick up a cheerio and put it in her mouth unassisted (GOOOOOOAAAALLLLLLL!). I took the dog for a walk and scooped his poop. I watched Yoyo go down the slide at the playground for the first time ever while sitting in her dad’s lap. Jimbo and I engaged in yet another discussion of how best to help our daughter sleep more. For dinner, Jimbo made his superb Caesar salad and we washed it down with a mediocre Chianti. And while our daughter slept peacefully upstairs, I watched Jimbo play online poker. We ended the day with a movie– this disturbing film, about over the top evangelical Christians and the children they are “training”.

Pretty sorry-ass mother’s day if you ask me.

Jimbo can suck it when Father’s Day rolls around.

Feliz Dia de Mamas, Bunny!

Hey Buns,

Happy Mother’s Day and Happy First Blog Day! As the resident “no mommy,” I was first a little sad that there’s no “children of mothers day.” And then I remembered that Family Circus (or maybe Hi and Lois) told all of us parasitic little ingrates that “every day is children’s day.”

I hope Baby Yoyo gives you some free time today.

Luv,

Pen