a word about Charity and TOMS

Here is the thing. I believe you be good to Mama (earth) and she'll be good to you. I drive a hybrid. I recycle when it's convenient. I do not however get the whole TOMS craze? These shoes are ugly. I get that they send a pair to poor kids in turn. That is nice, but they are ugly. I say write a check. Make a difference. Get the kid some damn KEDS. The only thing worse than being underprivileged is having to wear shoes that look unfinished. This isn't always a bad idea in theory- see Save The Children Ties for crying out loud. But I can't wrap my head around or put my feet in those shoes.

fat's not ugly when it's tan

I have a couple of words of conflicting advice for you honeys about summer fun,

1) wear sunscreen. you don't want to end up leathery when you're old

2) fat's not ugly when it's tan

See kiddos, life is about balance.

(remember my addage "1 margarita, 2 margaritahh, 3 marsgatittaz, floor." You can do too much of a good thing)
...And watch out for sand in those delicate places. Nothing ruins a good time like a bad rash.

farmers markets...

Today, I got in my hybrid and I drove to the farmer's market. I felt like I was saving the world and making it a better place with every mile I drove. When I got there I realized it wasn't exactly my scene. I stepped in dog poo. I forget earth-lovers are also typically dog lovers who feel the need to bring said dogs everywhere hence leaving doggy presents for farmers market shoppers.

I bought some delicious bread for $5, though I would have paid $10 to have the lady selling to me shut the hell up. These folks are proud. Then I got some zucchini for a salad I plan to make sometime in the future. I find it is best to have aspirations and I couldn't leave with just a loaf of bread.

I ran into a friend and met her sister who was with her. They suggested I try the local pop cycle stand. It is at this point I made a tragic mistake by not understanding my environment...I told them that I had been to Whole Foods the day before and a chicken breast was $7. YES, one breast was $7- because it was $12/lb. I explained how ludicrous this was to me when hippie sister chirped up- " Did you see FOOD INC. ... It will make you understand why the chicken is worth it." SO, I replied, "yes, I did and those chickens should have been nominated for an Oscar. We always overlook poultry talent." My line bombed. I had to recover so I said, " I should have known the chicken would cost that, I'm sure it was prepared by someone with an MBA." She smiled but I could tell she didn't enjoy me. White people often enjoy jokes about higher education.

Note to self: remember audience

a word about Elizabeth Taylor

It's been a while since I've posted. I always say, if you don't have anything good to say shut the hell up. But, recently, I find myself thinking about Elizabeth Taylor...

All my life I idolized Liz Taylor. I found her to be the most glamorous and beautiful woman ever, ever, and still. I fantasized about meeting her. I was genuinely sad to hear of her passing but I was shocked just last week to see her home.

To me Liz was IT. She was old hollywood elegance. I wanted to live like Liz. Hell she was sassy, respected, notorious, did I say glamorus? She was one hell of a humanitarian and she knew how to party. To me, Liz lived like Liz and no one else. Hell she had to get her hips replaced and I think we all know why.

Now recently, her home has been put on the market and all my ridiculous notions of how Ms. Taylor lived have been rocked. I always imagined Liz to live in some huge-gantic Bel Air spread. I pictured cream colored stucco and a vegas sized fountain. I had read her house had Israeli guards, which is/was true. But the house itself is a large sprawling ranch. Yes, Liz Taylor lived in a ranch home. Don't get me wrong... it looks lovely and down right homey. It's nothing like I had anticipated. I pictured formal and intimidating and fancy for Christ sake. Imagine all those diamonds in a rancher! The Maybach looks so out of place in front of that house.

But the truth is, it was a home. So, I'm impressed. Here you have a woman who could live anyway she wants and she lives comfortably. It really changed my outlook on life. All this time, I was aspiring to Dynasty when comfort was the way she lived. Goes to show you... you never know.

Now for a little bit I read on the interwebs... Some kid said he went to ET's house once:
"I had been an art student and visited museums and my university often had these amazing rare collections on loan from the "Rich Mr. Smith collection" or the " Rich- this or that foundation" always displaying a very impressive name of some rich family. But from time to time there were some marked anonymous. I guess the owners wanted to be private. Well once I went to visit Ms. Taylor's residence, actually to return a painting that was on loan and having no idea whose home I was entering... and I saw several paintings that were... anonymous's. So I was excited to meet her. Elizabeth had to sign the paperwork and I said it is so nice to meet you- "you're anonymous!"

the truth about Cicadas

Down here in the South, we're all getting used to our unwelcome house guests, the cicadas. My suster told me a lot of you childrun don't know what a cicada is, she said some of you might think it's the name of the local drag queen. But, in fact, it's just a bug. It's not a particularly pretty bug and I would say it's a kin to a locust. Maybe like your cousins you don't talk to except when you see them at Thanksgiving or Christmas... the ones you won't friend request on facebook because you don't really get to pick your relations.

I digress... these ugly ass bugs are not that different than you and me. They live under ground for something like 13 years. Then the come up out of the ground and mate and then they die. Well honeys, I lived practically under ground for 21 years, came out, got screwed and now I'm just passing time. But these nasty things don't pay rent, leave their shells all over the place like your in - grate children leave they clothes out all the damn time and you haven't even paid off the Macy's card before they done gone and runned 'em.

Back to the bugs, they just damn nasty. They make a lot of noise at night, again, much like a teenager... but then after 4-6 weeks they are gone... for 13 more years. And we are left to pick up the mess, the dead bugs and the endo skeletons not to mention they produce droppings. It's just not hygentical. I know it's not a word but bugs don't have hygiene - have you ever seen a cicada in CVS? I don't think so.

So the best I can tell you is this, just shut the hell up and deal with it. Pass the time with a mint julip or a nice bubbly white wine cooler or something. It's just going to be Spring this year, but for cryin' out loud wear socks, because that crunch is just not a good sound.

a shout out for shout's sake

I wrote this letter to the owners of the real estate company who just handled my house buying and selling. I like this letter and I hope you do, too:

Dear Ms. & Ms. Real Estate Mavens,
You know how people always write a letter of complaint when they don't like something, or they get bad service? Well, I think it's just as important to write and let you know how wonderful and fantastic my experience was with your company, in particular working with agent Elaine. I met Elaine when she answered the door to show me my new-soon-to-be-home at Charlesgate and it was just like seeing an old friend. Old in this case refers to length of acquaintance rather than age. Elaine was so friendly, I felt like I knew her my whole life... and she didn't have to sell me much on the house, however she did have to deal with me on the purchase. And, deal she did. She even played hide and seek with my nephews during the inspection. Then, after selling me that house I decided to let Elaine list my other house on Copeland. Let me tell you, even prior to getting the listing that woman worked! She sent over potential buyers and builders to check out my house. My house was no million dollar listing but I felt like it. Elaine is just charming. Who else can tell you that your wallpaper is ugly and you laugh? She even gave me a punch list and it didn't make me want to punch her. She even brought over her own flowers and white bath towels, which we are sure closed the house. Seriously, when we were selling she was a rock star. The house was under contract in two days. Best yet, she got the buyer up on price even when I was yelling through the phone, "let's just take it, let's go with it, I'll sign the damn thing." And, thank God she did because I needed that money on the back end after inspections. Listen, I negotiate with people for a living, but Elaine had be wrapped around her finger the whole way; this as you may imagine is no easy feat. I know I'm just gushing about Elaine and she is kind of a shy person but, come on, she sold the house in two days and got me top dollar in this market- she deserves some sort of a shout out. So, I just wanted to make sure you ladies know how special she is and how much I adore her. More over, I want you all to know how much I appreciated the whole ease of this transaction. Tonight, as I sit back with a glass of wine (or three) I take a breath and realized just how fast and how amazingly well this whole process went. You have no idea the sense of relief I feel, and it's more than the merlot talking. I was prepared to wait out a tough market, maybe lose some money, or worst yet... rent my house out. Can you imagine me as your landlord? That couldn't end well. I can't thank Elaine enough. My family and friends can't thank her enough because they would have had a hard time if that place sat empty dealing with my emotions. I don't know if there's something special in way of recognition you can offer Elaine, maybe a corner office, a trip to the bahamas, nominate her for realtor of the year, or get her an assigned parking spot. Or maybe you can embarrass her by reading this inappropriate email at her sales meeting? It's really kind of a love letter, isn't it? My only regret is that I don't have another house to sell, but give me a little time.

Yours,
Brian Barry
the happy homeowner

easter is scary

As a child Easter always scared me. Granted, I always found solace in the candy. We'd go out to my great uncle's farm and hunt for eggs. There were tons of people there and lots of cousins whose names I never learned. I hated them. They were competition. There was one golden egg, a spay painted hosiery egg with a $20 bill in it and it was mine. I won it most years because my grandmother would take me right to it. I got it honest, what can I say? Get the damn money, you can buy your own candy... she always mentioned that between cigarettes.

Besides that, Easter made me nervous. We'd go to the church for sunrise service. My first memories were getting to the church while it is dark out waiting for the zombie Jesus to arise. I know that's not exactly how it is, but that is how I remember feeling. I even hated dying eggs, (1) what a mess and (2) eggs break, who needs that added stress.

Today my favorite part of the holiday is the Reese's peanut butter chocolate covered eggs. Actually, the best part of the holiday is when they go on sale. I'm stress eating a bag right now... much love.

on moving... ( an essay)

For those of you that don't know, but do care, I recently moved. It has consumed nearly every moment of every day of my life for the last month. You would think that a single person, living alone, wouldn't have all that much to move. When I tell you that I only moved one half mile away, just a few streets away you might poo-poo my move. But, let me tell you sister friends, it has been a feat of misery and patience. The actual process was quick and almost painless, almost too quick. In two days I had an offer. In another week I had an inspection report and a demand for concessions on the offer. I was sure, and I think I still am, that it was the right thing to do.

Why did I move, you may ask? I have no earthly idea. I think the only reason is because I felt like it. My old home was perfectly lovely and it was me. I had redone almost everything in the damn thing but I wanted a change. Have you ever had on your favorite outfit and thought, I really wish I had on something else? People say, " you look good in that," so you wear it everywhere you go because it makes you look thin, or it distracts from your double chin, or it has a forgiving waistline... that was my house. That little cottage became a part of me and my identity.

My identity needed to change. I wanted a more grown up house, and I got one. It was so exciting, well it was exciting until my furniture showed up and I realized I had to get all new stuff. To continue an already beaten to death analogy, that same good looking outfit- I out grew it. But, I tried to wear it with bigger pants and it didn't work. They don't make Spanx for your new house- they make TJ MAXX. So, I digress.

The thing I didn't account for was the move. I moved out and left the house staged. This is so that the house looks like someone lives there. Only not a normal someone, someone who is extremely neat and clean with very little belongings and perfect accessories. Well, mine was half assed but the damn thing sold in two days. So, I was beside my self happy. Still, I continued a few days to live in the new house with very little furniture. For a month I've been using empty boxes and side tables with lamps. I look like a refugee who fled his homeland with only lamps and flat screen televisions strapped to his raft. It was sad.

The first move wasn't bad, it's the second move. This time I have to pack all the things that weren't important enough to move the first time. Some of you might call this trash. It's the stuff in the closet you don't wear, or the things in the attic you don't really need or remember. But, to me, these things are memories. It feels really good to purge. I think that means to get rid of old clothes, but it may mean when you lie to a judge on the stand. Either way, it feels really good. But as I emptied the house, it felt sad. I felt so strange, like a part of me was going away.

A house is a structure, a building but it is part of you. Everything I see in the attic makes me wonder why I kept it and then I think of the memories. I fear getting rid of the item is like throwing away those old memories. An old desk chair reminds me of school and more innocent times. I have an old wreath my grandmother made and a lamp that was a hand-me-down that reminds me of my parent's first house. I am sentimental, but I don't want to end up on Goddamn Hoarders.

So, I toss most of the stuff, and save a few things to clutter up the new house. I've been going over almost every night and getting a few things. I have real A.D.D. about the move. I go from one room to the next taking one or two things, never finishing the task. I realized today, after having done this for a month that it is because I'm not ready, just yet, to let go of the house. It still feels like home, and I am worried I'll forget the memories. It's corny to say but it is true like that country song. There's something about your first house, it's just always your first house.

Your home is where your babies were raised. Hell, it's where your babies are made. Everywhere I look I remember something or someone in that house. I resent that someone else will be painting over my memories and if they decide to tear it down I might actually fall apart. Today, I was in the house for probably the next-to-last time and it all seemed different. The furniture's all gone, my hot tub and patio furniture are gone so the yard looks bare, it all seems different now. Then I looked at the walls where the pictures had hung, nail holes and scratches now proudly show how careless I hang art. It was then that I realized this isn't my house anymore, it's scratched walls and faded floors. And, I thought... that bitch better take care of my old house and she better not ask me to fill all these damn nail holes, it looks like somebody had shooting practice with a nail gun all up in here.

the thing about dancing

The thing about dancing when you are over the age of 24, is that you just don't realize how you look. This is why it is best to dance when you've had a few drinks. However, it is dangerous that too much liquid courage leaves one feeling too brave.

If only you could see yourself - you may decide you are not, in fact, the dancing queen you think you are. I think I am smoov (with a v) when in fact I look like I may have systematically lost my balance. Let's not forget it is common place to judge one's bedroom talents against his or her dancing abilities. Apparently, I lay there and flop about now and then. This may be a very accurate rating system.

There really are only three kinds of people on the dance floor:
1) Good (generally young, because youth fades much like coordination)
2) Bad (look around)
3) People who stand around.
Note to the standers: it is always best to shift your weight from side-to-side to help with appearances. A good nod can be very accommodating. I find the occasional chest pat to be effective in making it appear you actually do "feel the beat."And, if you are brave put a hand up in the air, not two, two is a sign that you can no longer operate your motor vehicle. But one says, "I am having a good time and the music moves me."

I'm just making a helpful suggestion. You wouldn't leave the house with out checking your teeth and hair in the mirror... maybe check out those moves you think are so special in a full length first.

You go girl, no really go... you look like you're having an epileptic fit.

no doubt, exercise is dangerous for your health

The older I get, I realize I keep hurting myself when I am trying to get myself into "shape." Sadly, this shape is broken. What's the song in that commercial? "Hands, feet, ankle, knees and toes" ... all broken, aches, pains. What a mess. Then I spend a whole week recovering from the injury that had me motivated to get into shape.

But, yesterday was just the worst, THE worst (well almost as bad as the treadmill episode). Here I was at the YMCA trying to do my work out. I got myself hauled up onto rowing machine. Have you seen this thing? It's a death trap that you sit on, pull a bar toward you that is tethered to a damn bike wheel. It's a disaster in and of it's self.

So, I get comfy and begin to pull the bard. Eureka! I enjoy this thing. I can feel my back working and my shoulders and I have an immense feeling of satisfaction. Keep in mind it is like minute 1:04 at this time. By minute three I think I am Olivia Newton John. Am picturing new wardrobe will have to buy and how people will ask, "what are you doing? you look great." I'll smile and reply, "Oh nothing, I'm just a rower."

When, SUDDENLY, I feel my body hurling backward and I see my leg rise up. This can only end badly for your humble narrator. I feel seat fly backwards as it has before but this time with more intensity. I realize at this fateful moment that... being lazy... I had put my feet into the foot harness but neglected to tighten the fasten. Well, I mean why would you? In my defense I didn't intend on any astronaut training today.

So, the leg goes up which throws off my balance and my ass flies off the back of the seat that abruptly stops at the end of the track. And, it was one of those moments where things happen in slow motion like right before you crash your car and you see it happen and you know you're going to collide and you realize it was because you didn't hit the brake or use your damn blinker.

In that moment, as I fall off the back of the machine sideways, I have no explanation for this but I thought it best to utter the word "fuck" loudly. Not in a loud tone, or even a scream. It was more of a disappointing but authoritative tone. But, honey, it was loud. You forget these things when you have ear phones on , and others do not.

It is at this time I realize there are children near by. And, there are parents near-er by. Adults give me the stink eye. I could be injured. No pain, only injury is my pride. It is inappropriate to say four letter word so loudly at YMCA (the C stands for Can't cuss). Of course, it's not so easy to get up and run away from my scene, because my left leg is still positioned safely in the foot harness.

my life, chapter one

the first half of my life, chapter one
in 450 words or less....



I always thought of myself as a shy child. However, in the 5th grade Bunny Osteen was my English teacher and I was completely in love with her. She had big 1980’s hair and wore silk blazers with big should pads and lots of gold bangle jewelry. She was what I thought money looked like, and she drove a Mercedes 450 SL convertible with red leather. Yes, to me she was high society in Nashville. One day we read a play in class and she asked me to read the lead. Oddly, I can’t remember the play but she told me I was good and that was enough for me… I was an actor destined for greatness.

By the 7th grade I was drunk with power. Mrs. Osteen asked me to write for the school newspaper, all 2 pages of it. I did a piece on whatever I was assigned but I also got my own column titled “Horor-scopes.” I advised Leo students to stay in bed or risk being chased down by an angry gym instructor only to meet your maker by a runaway piano. I am famous.

The 8th grade took me down lower than Robert Downey, Jr or La’ Lohan. We moved and I left the somewhat inner-city school (well inner city to Nashville) and we high tailed it out to set up house in the country. I was not popular. I was fat. Then I had the single worst medical woe you can imagine as a preteen: hemorrhoids. I became the boy on the doughnut. Of course eating my feelings became my new past time, which only made the hemorrhoids worse. It was me, my doughnut pillow and Snicker’s bars for a long year.

High School was a welcome relief. I tested in the Academic Magnet school. This is the smart school for nerds if you aren’t familiar with the terms. Of course, testing from that back-ass-wards country school was no major accomplishment. At the nerd school no one was cool and I was thriving. I ran for office with candy. I dressed as a middle-aged woman for pep rally and wore pasties on the outside of my oxford shirts. I learn the most valuable lesson: it’s far better to be laughed at… if it’s your laugh.

College came entirely too fast at the height of my reign in nerd Ville. I was working and I knew the job had promise. And I was in love. Then I was rejected. So, I fell in love with money because if you drove the right car everyone was interested.

I hated college and made it routine to rotate the sign-in sheet with a friend. She and I were both working in ad sales and thought this degree thing nothing more than a formality. Ah the salad days… or as it shall be called - chapter 1.

--stay tuned for chapter2---

How to Meet a RICH Man

Honey chilrun, I keep getting asked this same querstion all the damn time. All my little nieces, gram-babies, cousins, all want to ask me- motherbarry, how do you meet yourself a rich man? It's simple, honey!

Ok, so I am talking to this sweet little girl last night and she says she is trying to find herself a sugar daddy. Do you know what she is doing? She is going to trendy bars and clubs. Let me tell you something honey- them there places are for players and playboys. You don't want to be played. If you go to the trendy places you will find men who pretend to be rich, homo-sexuals and sluts. That's all you get. Get out the bar!

Here is what you do- get yourself a copy of Road & Track Car Buyers Guide. Then, bring your ass down to the local expensive car dealership. Do not screw this part up- it is tricky! Try to find a Porsche dealer. Don't go BMW or Lexus- they have too many cheap cars. Try a Porsche place. You will be amazed. Go and park your Toyota Corolla far away and walk up into the service department and hunker down. Bring a book, bring your homework, freaking knit- be prepared to wait it out. Men hunt for deer this way- you are looking for your prey.

Now, here is the thing- a nice Porsche dealer has a nice customer lounge complete with leather couches, flat screens, complimentary snacks and a latte machine! Make yourself at home and wait for the rich men to come in to get their over-priced boy toys fixed. And, for God's sake- look good but don't look like you fell out of a nightclub.

Now, for the trapping... when you see a nice man come in make eye contact. Ask him what time it is- this way you can see his watch. Also, very important. Hopefully, you can strike up conversation about how you're waiting on your Porsche to be repaired. Now, most importantly- have that Road & Track near by so you can reference the Porsche models. Ask your new man which Porsche he drives. If he says Boxster- say politely it's nice to meet him and move along. You need a man with a more expensive model, be prepared to wait this out a few days if necessary. If a dealership employee questions you- tell them you are waiting to pick up your boss when he/she drops off her Porsche and act very bothered. If necessary tell them you have cramps- nothing sends someone away faster than the threat of a woman with cramps.

Ok, so let's say you find a man and he has the right model... let's say he says TURBO. Then you know it's "go time"! So, casually ask him what part of town he lives in as you complain about the wait time. Suggest to him that you could split a cab? Then - bam- you're on your way out the door. You always let him be dropped off first and you just happen to remember that your wallet is in your fictional Porsche at the dealer. If he is any kind of gentleman he will give you some cash to cover the ride. Then you tell him you simply must repay him and make plans for drinks! See- you've met a rich man.

Bonus: you get to see where he lives. If there's a minivan in the driveway do NOT call him. Repeat DO NOT call him.


Well, I am exhausted from all this tutoring. If you like this let me know, I can take you to the next chapter: old sugar daddies vs middle-aged ones who is better?

love is like a bad analogy

Oh children, it's that time of year when everywhere you look is love- especially if you look at the grocery and the Walgreens. It's a sea of discount chocolate in paper heart boxes, and those damn "be mine" valentines that have taunted me for years. Love is like those damn candies, you think it's cute and sweet but then it sours, it doesn't last long and you think, God I want to spit this out but I hope nobody is looking.

Infatuation is an ill-fitting sweater (usually cheaply purchased at H&M) that you think you simply must have but is best discarded after wearing it out a time or two, because after the wash the next day you realize it doesn't really fit you ( I know what you're thinking...i'm not maya angelou but i should be)

Potty Humor: I blame Oprah

Do you ever look at your poop? I blame Miss Oprah- I'm always looking for that damn S shape that Dr Oz says we need.
Have you ever thought... what the hell is that? when did i have sesame seeds? Oh my God, that sesame seed was left in my colon from 1973. Let's be honest, poop is part of the human experience. It's right up there with love and food for me. I don't take pleasure in it but I can certainly take pain. Nothing worse than being at the mall and having to poop. Nothing worse than being in public and having to go after I ate Taco Hell. I'm just saying, we've all been there. You could hear my screams coming from the airport bathroom and that's the horror from the cleanliness of the facilities.

And the worst thing is constipation... it is like walking around with a basketball, no... a basketball made of led in your stomach
and no matter how hard you push, sometimes I imagine it's like labor, or how many laxatives, which then I imagine what it's like to be a supermodel nothing happens... then finally it's like a miracle and you feel lighter and your clothes fit better and you think- damn how much did that thing weigh?

Well, I know this is gross and crass but I had to get it off my chest.

Today's post is brought to you by the letter "S" and the number 2

(the) hangover club

Oh chuldrun, I am hurting behind this in a bad way. Have you ever woke up on the Sundee morning and you still drunk? That's a bad, sad and turrible place to be. I'm halfway in a party and halfway want to grab the turlet and hold on fur dear life and stuff. Now, don't go getting all preachy on me. I know it is damn Sundee and the lord Jesus is looking down on me with shame. But, fret now Christian brothers and sisters I got the Joel O on the tv. Missing service is like a snow day for me... if snow came out of a Jim Beam bottle.

I had a wonderful, exhilirating (look I've tried to spell this word 5x and it still is in red typo squiggles, my bad ok) exhilirating, facsinating evening. I felt like Katy Perry in that damn firework song. My heart was beating like the lyrics of a Taylor Swift song. Alas, childrun I woke up alone and all I can think is I need me some damn friend chicken. But, don't you worry about me honey I am not having a problem. I am determined to make this headache a happiness headache. The headache pain is directly in correlation to the amount of fun had the night before.

Let me give you a glimpse into last night:

- said by one of your mama's friends: " there was this child in the restroom. And he's just standing around I am like what does he want? He's too young to be a attendant. I'm done doing my thing at the urinal and this child says 'that's awesome'... well I'm feeling pretty good about myself, a little creeped out but a compliment none the less- but unsure how to respond to this situation of bathroom admiration. Then I realize that there is a tv built into the mirror in the bathroom and that must surely be what he considers awesome."

You can tell it was a night. But your mama is no alcoholic. The difference in a drunk and an alcoholic is if everyone has a good time or if anyone ends up crying.

Completely off topic I need to share some things I have learned (no worries this is prior to the anyone consuming Jesus Juice)
Rules of the road updated:

- The turnabout is basically a free for all. Yield signs are a mere suggestion. People drive through the turn about as fast and furious as they can like they are fleeing a burning barn for their life or like I imagine a cab driver in Kuwait
- You can park your car just about anywhere if you leave your hazzard lights on. No need to pay these ridiculous parking lot attendants, pull up in front of the restaurant and leave your blinkers on. If you plan to stay a long time pop your hood and pull to the side street with your blinkers on. No one will dare get involved
- Most important rule of all- the golden rule of driving is ... if you hit it and IT could possibly die it has the right of way. I may or may not have yelled that at some lady in a Hyndai (now I know she has bigger problems driving a car no one can rightfully pronounce but heiffer needs to not run up on folks trying to get across the street).
- Last rule- when in doubt use your horn. I am a horn blower, the worst kind of driver but I have been known to use my vehicle as a weapon and the horn says " i mean business" well it does to me, most people see it as an invitation to give me the damn bird.

ok i must go and get me some fried chicken chuldrun. I will see you later and remember be good because Jesus is watching and he keeps score. Actually, Santa clause is watching too, maybe they just trade off shifts?

the day I almost died

You know how you get reruns of Oprah sometimes, well today's blog is a rerun, an oldie but a goodie

THE DAY I ALMOST DIED

So, yes I had a near death experience on Halloween of all days. Picture it: I was at the Palm having a business lunch. I was witha client that I adore and have a little crush on. She is very excitable and talkative- so it took her a few mintues to realize I was actually choking to death.

Let me back up and tell you that this was after I had to get on the floor and crawl around under the table looking for my blackberry (which I had dropped). I am all about making a good impression- the picture of professionalism. "Excuse me, I will be right back." And, poof under the table I go as if immigration had raided the joint.

So, back to my elusive death scene. We were talking, I remember laughing a little. I was having a tenderloin (petite for those of you that are interested and it was good, damn good). Suddenly, I thought I had taken a bite too large or something. I took a hard swi on my diet coke. But... nothing. Have you ever felt like you have some food just stuck and you can usually force it down with a drink or a hard swallow?

Well, this goes on for a few minutes. My lunch partner unaware I am dying inside. She asks me a question and I can't respond. I can't speak and I am starting to realize I am choking. The end is near and all I can think is- I DONT WANNA GO DOWN LIKE MAMA CAS!

This is not how I want to die- at a restaurant. I mean, sure it's a nice place but how embarrassing. Even the best of my friends will snicker at the funeral. My client says, "Oh God, you are blue. You are choking." I am really annoyed because I am trying to be Mr. Suave and I run to the bathroom. I literally shove an old white lady out of the way who is standing blocking the doorway. She was so concerned someone would get the last business lunch filet special. She scowled and called me rude as I ran past her to the bathroom.

I remembered how my cats cough up fur balls. These damn cats saved my life- and finally I dislodged the steak and proceeded to barf like a fool. Then I get light headed. I don't want to die like Elvis in the bathroom, people will say.. oh yeah she died on the toilet. Can you imagine the giggles at my funeral service?

It is amazing the things you think about before death in a public place. I wasn't thinking about my family, or walking toward a light. I was thinking- NO, DAMN IT, NO. I haven't done all the things I want to do. I haven't been accused of an indecent act in public, had a taudry affair with a teenager, been sued for sexual harrassment, won the lottery, sang on American Idol, or dated Paula Abdul. I haven't done a shot with Courtney Love, been sky diving, passed out with George Micheal or had a fight with anyone from Dancing with the Stars. I never met Monica Lewinsky or Oprah or Gayle King or any of my idols. I want to live damn it.

So, I pulled the cat thing off and managed to barf-huff out the poisonous beef. Then (the worst part) I walked back to my table ashamed and people looked at me like I was fool. I am sure most of them thought I was a rude bastard or had explosive diarhea, both could be true but not today. So, I 've made it through halloween so far. It's time for tricks and treats. I am off to consume my weight in Almond Joys. God bless, shalome and may the force be with you and your loved ones this holiday season.

a little inspiration

So, here we are the 12th of January and I am struggling with my best intentions for keeping resolutions. I've been going to the gym but I have not been blogging... so tonight I had a little pick of inspiration. I talked to an old friend who inspired me. She is like a whit Oprah, but do you know that bitch lost 40 something lbs? I don't like people who lose weight because it makes me feel fat. No, I kid, I am happy for her (and I am about to get happy with some chocolate chips). But I want to share this with you:

"enjoy what you do but remember that it must bring you job because if you aren't your best self, you aren't going to give your best to others or your self..."

If you have a glass of wine or two this makes a lot more sense, okay? By the way I don't trust people who don't like wine or don't drink wine. And another friend of mine says she doesn't trust people who say they have "left over wine." I say those are some mofos who can't finish a task. And I am not a quitter, a slacker maybe, a quitter? nope

SO, I leave you with that kiddies, find your damn joy. Do you love your life? Do you love what you do? Do you get joy from others? Do you give joy from others? ... doesn't this sound like a recruitment ad for prostitution? Yes, really lay down on the job- get maximum job satisfaction... I digress. I gots to go this chardonnay is not gon' drank itself and nothing worse than warm wine.

love and stuff