Table for two...

There's that age-old question "If you could have dinner with anyone, dead or alive, who would you pick?". I've heard lots of different answers to this question, but most people will pick someone famous to sit down and break bread with. I've heard people say Jesus, Martin Luther King Jr., Bono(that would be The Joyous One's choice), Abraham Lincoln, Oprah(why doesn't anyone ever pick Gayle? She's the funny one! Don't tell Oprah I said that), Mother Teresa, Captain Kangaroo, and on and on and you get my drift. I just do not know what the hell I would say to any of those people..."uh, thanks...for...all that you've done for this world. Could you pass the butter?" Seriously, I would probably just sit there, jaw dropped to double chin level, and say nothing. Or even worse, say horribly dorky things(I do NOT do well with trying to act cool around anyone famous. Just ask...oh nevermind). I mean, I wouldn't even know where to begin with someone like Martin Luther King Jr. And Jesus? I would totally ask for the truth about Mary Magdalene and dinner would take a right turn down Awkward Avenue. But really, who would I want to eat dinner with, dead or alive?

There are 2 people whom I always seem to come back to when I REALLY think about this question. My cousin Sarah died November 22nd, the day before Thanksgiving, right before I turned 2 years old. She was 10, and died of Cystic Fibrosis. I was too young to remember her for myself, but my mom implanted a memory of her which I go back to occasionally. My parents took me to see Sarah at the hospital, but I was too young to go in, so they stood with me outside of her window, so she could see me, so we could wave to each other. I can picture myself doing this, and it makes me deeply sad to think about it. That seems silly to me, since I don't remember her, I feel like maybe I don't get to be sad about her. Not that there are rules to this kind of thing, I just don't want to step on the toes of the people who do remember. Maybe I should just stop trying to be polite and let myself feel however I want. I wish I could meet her again, I'd like to get to know her, I'd like to have dinner with her. She made me a tooth fairy pillow out of washcloths and safety pins when she was in the hospital. I've asked my mom about it several times throughout my life, she's always told me she knew exactly where it was, but she's never given it to me. This weekend I asked for it again, she asked what it was worth to me...without thinking I said "A million dollars. No, it's worth more than that." Looks like I'm finally getting my tooth fairy pillow. And maybe someday, I'll get that dinner with my cousin.

My Grandpa Kroker died before I was born. He was young, 62 I believe. When I look at pictures of him, I can see where I get my penchant for pulling a funny face every time a camera is pointed at me. Stories about my grandpa and his brother Leo are legendary, I could listen to those stories for hours...and I have. He just seemed so so fun, I'd like to get a chance to laugh with him for awhile. I think about how different our childhood trips to Auburn would have been if he were alive. I can see him pretending to sleep in a lawn chair, then jumping up and scaring Emily and I as we crept closer to investigate. I can picture myself trying to impress him from way up in the backyard tree. I see Emily on his shoulders, and me being jealous. I imagine both of us in footie pajamas, curled up on the couch with him, Emily with her cugger and doll, me being pissed that my pj's were pink. I can almost feel the sheer joy of being able to wake up with him and my grandma being in the same house as us. Man, what a strange feeling, missing something I've never had.

Don't get me wrong, I am a very lucky person. I LOVE all of the crazy, hilarious, lovely, talented people I'm blessed to know. I'm not trying to dwell on what I've missed in my life, it's just the last time I was faced with that question, I started to think about what I really want. And as much as I'd love to meet Oprah, I would blow her off in a second if it meant even a moment in time with Sarah, or a splash of a day with my Grandpa Kroker.

Ohhh, only in my dreeaam...as real as it may seem, it was only in my dream...

So last night, I had a dream that I caught The Joyous One at the Brookfield Zoo with another woman. A blonde haired woman. In the dream, I was totally fine with this indiscretion, I even encouraged it. I can recall saying to The Joyous One upon catching her, "I don't want to hold you back, if you like this girl, go for it. She's cute, and nice!" As the dream progressed, The Joyous One kept seeing this girl, and stayed married to me, and I was completely fine with all of it. Then, my friend Jessica's ex-boyfriend blew up my grade school, and I woke up as we(Jessica, The Joyous One, ol' blondie and I) were escaping...I hope we made it. Anybombsquad, I blinked a few times, remembering the dream...and I was mad. Apparently awake-Meta? Is not so cool w/ The Joyous One having a side of girlfriend.

The more awake I got, the angrier I got, and not just about the fact that The Joyous One had a floozie. I was also mad that she took the floozie to the zoo-zie. The Joyous One never takes me to the zoo and you know who loves the zoo? This girl! Luckily(for her), The Joyous One was caught near the South Entrance of the zoo, and not in the wombat exhibit...that would have been like a Catholic canoodling with another religion in the Vatican! Had she been caught in the wombats, well, I don't want to say what would have happened, but a chokehold may have been involved.

Anyadulterer, I told The Joyous One about the dream, but didn't mention being angry. I brushed it off as funny, because I didn't want her thinking I was mad at her. I know it's not her fault she dream-cheated! To be fair, there was no *cough* physical evidence that cheating was going on, but the implication was definitely there. But it's hard to resist The Joyous One, I KNOW dream-skeeze was was all up on her like peanut butter to jelly.

I had to keep telling myself that this was a dream, it didn't happen, The Joyous One did not have a side-skank, Whittier was not blown to smithereens, it was just a dream. Of course, asking The Joyous One how her girlfriend was when on the phone with her this morning makes it seem like I still don't grasp the whole "just a dream" thing. But I do now, at nearly 2pm I get it. It was just a dream.

I have to say, I was slightly surprised by my reaction to this dream. I'm fairly laid back about most things(yes, super uppity about other things, I know. Shut up, friends of mine). I used to think I would be okay with letting go if whoever I was with found someone they were better suited for. Apparently, dream-Meta is still like that, but after my boiling anger this morning, I think it's safe to say awake-Meta is not going down without a fight. Oh no, hell no.

Not funny, except when it is...

Every Friday, I go to my parents house to have coffee and barfmeal with my dad. You see, he eats oatmeal for breakfast, oatmeal disgusts me and it has ever since reading "Ramona Quimby, Age 8". You know, the part when they have the jars of oatmeal dyed blue w/ the fly larvae in it? And it makes Ramona sick and she throws up in school? Well, ever since then, oatmeal has made me sick, so I call it "barfmeal". I have had sympathy sickness for Ramona Quimby since the 80's. What the hell? Anybarforama, my dad eats barfmeal, I eat an english muffin, we both drink coffee and we talk. We talk about any and everything from sports to the comics page in the paper, to the serious side of life, like health care, politics, and more recently, his prostate cancer diagnosis.

This morning, he and I got into a discussion about Catholic guilt. I can't remember how or why it came up, but I mentioned that I believe one of the biggest contributors to Catholic guilt is the "no-meat-on-Fridays-during-Lent" thing. I'm sure there's a proper name for the "no-meat-on-Fridays" thing, but don't ask me what it is. The Catholic church doesn't want me and my homosexual brothers and sisters, so I've taken to setting up a grill outside the church on Fridays during Lent and eating meat all over the place with a bunch of homos. Not really, but maybe I'll start! Anymoo, I said the meat rule was a rule that I'm sure every single Catholic has broken sometime in their life, and the guilt is overwhelming since it's such a simple rule to follow. My dad then said, "Well sure, and it should be. I remember one time I went out to lunch with your uncle Gerry. We went to a place known for it's burgers, I think was called Tip Top, they had hand packed burgers, real thick, juicy. Well I ate one...on a Friday...during Lent...and now I have cancer." He and I looked at each other, then burst out laughing. I laughed so hard, I was almost lizzing(laughing and whizzing, courtesy of Liz Lemon and the 30 Rock writers). He laughed so hard, his face got all red and squinty, and had he not been sitting at the table, he would have slapped his knee. Yes, my father is a knee slapper...literally.

Many of you might not think that's funny, laughing about cancer, but if you know my dad at all, then you know that laughing is what he does. And if you know my dad at all, then you love him for saying that and laughing about it. God knows I do...

Why, Brooke, why???

I have something I need to talk about. The newest Colgate commercial starring Brooke Shields. That's right, I've got a toothpaste ad on the brain, and it's irritating me like a burr under my saddle. That's right, I just implied that I'm a horse. Shut up. Anyflossy, this ad, every time it's on I feel my nostrils flare as if I've smelled feet, I feel my teeth bare in anger, I feel my head shake slowly and I stare in disgust until it's over. After it, I'm fine, right back to normal, back to the cute little furry gremlin before you put water on it. That is, until I think about it again. Why does this ad bother me so much? Why, I thought you'd never ask.

It's the celery, I can't get past the effing celery. Brooke chomps on a full stalk of leaves-and-all celery. No one, and I mean no one, eats celery like that. Especially not a celebrity who can pay to have a personal celery cleaner come and discard the leaves. I can't blame Brooke, she didn't come up with the idea. Mind you, if I find out she did, I'm totes blaming her. I'm guessing that this is how it went down between the commercial-maker-uppers(advertisers, if you're nasty)...

"Okay guys, we have a good start here, I like that Brooke will start the commercial by saying she's a healthy person, but gang, we gotta prove that to the audience! How can we prove that Brooke is healthy? We gotta make believers outta these people...what's that Jiminy? Have her eat celery? I like where you're head is at, guy. Okay, celery...this is good...but can we make the celery seem healthier at all? What if...what if we...have her pick the celery off the tree and bite into it. What? Oh, where does celery grow then? Who cares, we have to figure this out. So, okay...how about...oh, I got it, what's that crap on top of celery? You know, it's... the crap...on the tops...of celery stalks, what is that crap? Leaves? Jiminy, speak up! You are killing me, man! So leaves, what if she bites into a stalk of celery with leaves on the top? That looks healthy! I mean, come on guys, leaves = healthy! What? Listen, I don't care if no one eats celery like that, no one is going to believe that Brooke Shields is healthy unless she bites into celery with leaves on the top! You really think the American public is going to think about the friggin leaves? Get out of my face, Jiminy, you disgust me! We're going leaves...LEAVES ON, PEOPLE!"

How do we know that she didn't just max a plate of chicken wings and she's trying to cool the fi-yah with celery? That's totally feasible. Now, if she were drinking a glass of wheat germ while tricked out in a super sweet yoga pose, then I would be like "Dag, Brooke Shields is healthy as a meyeah feyeah!" But no, they give her celery...with leaves. What's sad is that now I'm all kinds of in a tizzy about Brooke Shields, and I can remember a time not too long ago when Mina, Emily and I were at Bloomingdale's all excited to be getting Brooke's autograph on a poster. My how times have changed.

But really, what it comes down to is that I know Brooke Shields is healthy, not because of a celery stalk with leaves, but because...look at her. She's 44 years old and look at her. That's how I know she's healthy.

So thank you, Colgate advertisers, for pissing me off about Brooke Shields...and celery, one of my favorite ways to get Ranch dressing into my mouth. I'll never forgive you. But I'll keep using your products! Holla! Oh wait, I used Crest...nevermind...

SOGOTP...

You'd think that while I was benched from life with a knee injury, I would have taken advantage of my down time by writing gobs and gobs of boogs(ew). But no, apparently I was too busy downing Vicodin by the handful, dozing lazily in my recliner while listening to Maury tell Jason that he IS the father. It was chore for me to even write a friggin email. Side note: Does anyone else think Connie Chung is embarrassed by Maury's one-trick-pony show of questionable paternity? I mean, she should be. It's awful. I should know, I watched it for 2 weeks straight!

Anychung, it's now been over a month since I've written anything, over a month since I injured my knee, and 3 weeks since my surgery. It's time to shit or get off the pot...or as writers say, "it's time to scribble or get off your fancy ergonomically correct chair". I totes just made that up, I have no idea what writers might say instead of "shit or get off the pot". Actually, when you think about it, "shit or get off the pot" might possibly be the most perfect way of urging someone to hurry up and do it..."it" being many things like, a shot of tequila, or sticking a sleeping person's hand in warm water, or the act of licking a toad, or...you know...pooping. Wait, what? Um, right, yeah, so it's time for me to shit or get off the pot, and this girl is gonna shit. God, this went downhill in a hurry, didn't it? Not exactly the kind of performance I hoped for after coming off the injured reserved, but what can you do?

So, my faithful readers...all 2 of you...I hope today's crapfest marks my return to the wonderful world of nonsensical randomness that I love to write about.

Live!!! Nude Girls!!!

Well whaddya know, while standing in front of my bedroom window...totally naked...the bedroom curtains fell down. I knew it was going to happen, I have spent much time laying in bed looking at the left side of the curtain rod hanging precariously just by the tip of a screw, so I knew it was going to happen, I just didn't know when. And obviously I was hoping that it wasn't going to be when I was standing there in my birthday suit. Oh who am I kidding, I knew that's when it would happen, and if I really didn't want the curtain to fall when I was naked, I would have fixed it along time ago. Problem is, the only time I thought "Man, I should fix that so it doesn't fall when I'm naked." was when I was naked.

There I stood, freshly cleaned and scrubbed, still pink from the heat of the shower, naked...wearing only a towel turban on my head. I was facing the bedroom window, which faces the street, by the way, facing the bedroom window, staring at nothing. Something made me look up and to the left, and in slow motion, I saw the screw that was holding the left side of the curtain rod lazily tumble out of the wall, as if it had fallen asleep. And although only one side of the curtains fell, the curtains parted nice and wide, so that anyone who happened to be outside my window got way more than they bargained for when they decided to take their dog on an innocent walk around the block. I frantically grabbed the curtain rod mid somersault, lifted it back up and tried to set it on the hook that helps to hold up the curtain rod. The rod(hee) had not previously been on the hook, which probably contributed to the fall. As I lifted the rod(hee) and tried to set it on the hook, I realized that the gap in the curtains had closed up a little, but my right boob was perfectly placed in the gap. Anyone who was walking past, or driving past, or who had stopped to see the rest of the show, saw only a pale white boob, nipple and all, since I hadn't yet put on my bedazzled nipple pasties. After what seemed like 15 minutes, I finally got the curtain rod onto the hook and ran out of the room. Not sure why I ran out of the room, maybe I was chasing what little dignity I had left. Which, after a bare-assed run visible to anyone on the street, was none.

The Joyous One came to my rescue and closed the rest of the gap, so I could dress without an audience, but by that time it was too late, I'd already given everyone outside a free show, which I felt bad about until I saw lip prints on the window. Just kidding, I didn't really see lip prints, it was actually ralph. So you're welcome, street that I live on, you're welcome.

I wanna hold your ass...

So last weekend, yours truly and The Joyous One went to Las Vegas, and it was our first time visiting the Gaygas strip. I know, I know, I seem like the type that would thrive in a place where you can booze 24 hours a day, a place that is home to the Pussycat Dolls, and a place that has glittering titties as far as the eye can see, but Vegas was never really a destination that I considered when planning a vacay. However, we had an opportunity to go with The Joyous One's sister and cousins, so we jumped on it like a moonwalk.

While in Vegas, I spotted a phenomenon that I just don't understand. I saw men, lots and lots of men, guiding their girlfriends/wives by the ass. Literally, guiding them around by the butt cheek. Hand cupped, placed on the right or left globe, guiding these women through casinos, the Forum shops at Caesar's, down the street, into church...okay, so I didn't go to church in Vegas, I'm just saying. Anygooseme, what happened to the good 'ol hand hold, guys? Too prudish for Vegas? What's wrong with a nice arm around the shoulders? Too hot for that kind of thing in Vegas? Why not go arm in arm? Not romantic enough? How about the arm around the waist? Not sexily possessive enough? Seriously, guiding a woman around by the ass? Is creepy. It made me miss the hand-in-your-partners-back-pocket craze of the 80's and you know something is bad when I miss that craze! I mean, come on guys, we will know just as well that this woman is your girlfriend/wife if you simply hold her hand, no need to cup the buttocks and guide her around the mall. Might as well toss a leash on her and feed her treats when she goes the right direction. Leave the ass grabbing for the bedroom...or the poker tables which was another place where ass grabbing was a fixture, although at the tables it was a little more romantic because there was no guiding, just rubbing and such. See? Romantic.

Maybe I'm being a little dramatic, but whatever, if I saw it once, I would not have cared. But I saw it at least 2 or 3 times a day, in various places, at various times, so of course it is now something I will be constantly looking for so I can complain about it and judge people out loud(but not within earshot of them, I'm a sissy!). Don't get me wrong, I love asses as much as the next guy...if you've seen The Joyous One's rump, you'll know this is true...but to me, the ass-guide is a little much, it's degrading, and unless you won the girl in a poker game, she's not your property. Back up off the ass-guide, fellas. Your jean shorts already inform us that you're a tool, we need no further proof.