Table for Awkward, Party of Me

So remember when you were a kid and you thought your teacher lived in the school and then you saw her at the Safeway and you were all WHAT THE HELL? Mrs. Lyle DOESN'T live in a cave behind the coat closet? NO. WAY. Then she said "hi" to you and even though not two hours before you were waving your arm around shouting ME! ME! ME! trying to get her to pay attention to you, now, because you're not at school, somehow her saying hi to you makes you blush and sort of hide behind your mom?

Yeah. Well the adult equivalent of that? It's seeing your male gynecologist at the Victoria's Secret holding a pair of red lace thong panties.

Not Okay

I can go days, sometimes weeks, recently even a few months, where I am okay. Maybe not great, certainly not stellar, but okay. I can react normally. I can laugh, I can cry, I can get angry and I can do it all in context. I can do it all in scale.

But then there will come a day when I can't.

When that tenuous grip on okay begins to slip.

If I am lucky, there are signs. If I'm lucky, the decent from reasonable to completely losing my shit is slow. I can stop it.

This time isn't one of those.

That's the thing about The Crazy. You're fucking crazy. You do not have that ability to stand back from a situation and say "is this really about me?" Of course it's fucking about me. Everything I hear, everything I see, everything everything everything is about me. I am not able to think before I speak. All I am able to do is react. I think it's rather obvious that most times, that reaction? Not so good.

Ah, Crazy, you mother fucker.

At some point, I am not completely sure when, recently at any rate, my life has descended into locking myself in the bathroom. Which pretty much means that any day now you're going to see me on the news being craned out of my bathroom by firemen because I refuse to leave the shower and I've taken to eating soap and talking to the drain. You laugh, but it could happen.

I spend most of my day talking myself down. Convincing myself that crying about cold coffee isn't appropriate. Or that the restaurant being out of what I want to eat is probably not the end of the world. That getting in my car, driving away and not looking back isn't a reasonable reaction to the dishes not being done. That simply ceasing to be isn't the answer.

But it is. Right now, to me, it is.

Because I have the Crazy and The Crazy has me.

Dear ZDub

I have to confess. I am not fancy. I just LOOK fancy. Much like a poxed hooker.

My Blackberry is paid for by my work. My Starbucks mug was a bonus when I bought gift cards for a party last year. I was in line at QT for coffee. I bought those jeans at Goodwill for $1 and my sweater was a hand-me-up that M got from...somewhere. My Victoria's Secret panties were free with the coupon they send me every month and I bought the bra at the semi-annual sale. The headband was a spare bridesmaid gift from a wedding I officiated. I bought the Frye boots on eBay for about 40% of retail and my Coach bag came from the outlet. My big old truck is fifteen years old and hasn't been washed since I bought it.

Can we be friends again?

Luvyourbitchcuttingguts,

Kiki

Stuck

So remember that one time when you had a really shit day at work and you were all super stressed out about what to do about that one thing that was a really big deal and so then when you got home you took a Xanax and had a glass of wine and then you started feeling all mellow?

Then remember how you thought it would be a good idea to try and give yourself a "smokey eye" make over using that how to card you got from Sephora that said it was so easy? But maybe because your mom didn't teach you how to do make up or maybe because the "smokey eye" is only achievable by skinny jean wearing fifteen year old boys or maybe because you have to sacrifice baby penguins to the eye liner gods, but WHATEVER it totally didn't work and you just looked like you got punched in the face by Tyler Durden?

Remember how after that you thought it would be a good idea to have another glass of wine, because really, when ISN'T another glass of wine the answer? Then you tried to wash off that "smokey eye" only black eye shadow is no match for mere soap and the more you washed the more you looked like Rob Zombie?

So then after that you started rooting around under the bathroom sink, remember? Because there has to be some of that free gift with purchase eye make up remover in there somewhere, only instead all you could find was three pink foam rollers, a used Hannah Montana band aid and that home waxing kit that you ordered off of TV that time you got stuck hanging out at the United terminal for three days eating nothing but saltines and coffee and watching MSNBC.

Remember how you thought it would be a good idea to try it? Or maybe the wine thought it would be a good idea and totally talked you into because wine is a very fucked up friend and it has a sick sense of humor? But then, since you'd shaved your legs and pits that morning and that super evil eyebrowless waxing lady ripped out your Burt Reynolds on Saturday and so you have nothing to wax and then, you're standing there naked except for your Chuck Taylor's and you realize OMG! I'm going to wear a bathing suit in public in like three weeks, so I should start waxing my bikini line! Yes! Good idea! But, since you've had your hooha waxed before, you know that it hurts like a mother fucker so you take another Xanax and have another glass of wine and then you warm up the wax and smear in on your lady flower and press on the linen strips and

HOLY MARY MOTHER OF GOD THAT FUCKING HURT.

So then remember how you looked at that linen strip and you're all THE HELL MAN? there wasn't a single freaking pube stuck to it. But the box of wine was all, try again! So you applied more wax and pressed the strip more firmly and then ripped it even faster and

SWEET STRIPED KITTENS THAT FUCKING HURT, with the hurting and the OW OW OW.

And you know what? STILL NOT A FUCKING PUBE removed because apparently you have SUPER PUBES who are growing straight out of your bones and then you get all stubborn because you're a)Irish and b) a little drunk so you decided to try it one more time. Then you drain that box of wine right into that 7-11 cup and keep sipping from the bendy straw and you apply the wax again and rip it off AND IT STILL DOESN'T WORK BECAUSE IT'S GARBAGE, that's why.

Then do you remember how you tried to use that eensy-weensy "skin soothing" wet nap that the evil hairless tv slut said would remove all traces of the wax and leave you porn star smooth? Remember how it DIDN'T FUCKING WORK? So you tried Vaseline and baby oil and nail polish remover and peanut butter and then you're all MOTHER FUCKER. So you pulled your clothes back on and drove all super careful to CVS even though you're pretty sure the bus driver who honked at you was the Terminator and was trying to kill you. Despite the fact that you just broke a shit load of laws you managed waddle into CVS and buy mineral oil only OF COURSE their credit card system was down and you had no cash so you had to pay with the dimes from your ash tray but whatever; you get it and you drive home and you don't even hit that big chicken that was wandering in the roadway.

Remember how after that you go back into the bathroom and take off your jeans and try to take off your Hanes Her Way only they are TOTALLY FUCKING STUCK to your cooch? Like, permanently bonded. Like, the harder you pull the more convinced you are that you're going to wind up on "Real Stories of the ER" and you're going to be that woman and someone will recognize you and you'll get on Oprah only not because she finally acknowledges that you're her best friend but because she's having a show about people who are completely incompetent. So you grab those panties and you give them a yank and every single freaking curly on your lady flower rips straight out by the roots and GREAT CESAR'S GHOST you have to grab the counter to keep from passing out?

Yeah, that sucked.

Dear Abby

I don't usually do posts like this, because really, who wants to read a bunch of whining all the time? But there's only so much whining I can do to the people I see IRL before they're all "WILL YOU PLEASE JUST SHUT THE FUCK UP?" and then I'm all "GREAT, NOW I HAVE TO HATE YOU TOO!".

That's how we talk around here, in all capital letters.

So today I'm going to whine to you and if you don't want to read it then just come back later, okay?

I am so very, very tired of fighting with my husband. Seriously. There are only so many times that I can bite my tongue before it falls off and then how would I blow the gum bubbles that annoy my mother so much?

Through the years of being married me & J have never been one of those joined at the hip couples. Mostly because while I am willing to do things that I don't enjoy just because he enjoys them, he isn't willing to do the same and so most of my hobbies, trips, etc are done with friends while he stays home and acts like he's some kind of martyr for "allowing" me to do things.

When it comes to things around the house, it's all me, all the time. He claims that his "job" is to "protect us" and that counts as an equal amount of housework and since it's either do it myself or be buried in trash and dirty laundry while weeds grow up to cover the house, I do it myself. Well, not the yard work, that I hire out, because it's fucking HOT here and all the plants in my yard want to kill me.

Because I also work full time away from home, that means from about the time I get home until I go to bed, I'm doing something. Running errands, cooking, cleaning, whatever. Even when I'm watching TV at night chances are the dishwasher is running and I'm folding laundry. It's not fair, but it's better than arguing about it.

Recently though he's started to bitch that I never want to spend any time with him. If I'm in the bathroom cleaning toilets, it's because I'm avoiding him. If I'm cleaning out my closet, it's because I don't like him any more. If I run to the grocery to buy toilet paper, I'm abandoning him. I'm seriously at my wits end here. If I don't do these things, they don't get done, but if I DO do them, then I'm a bad wife? WTF? And if I ask HIM to do them? Well, lordy be, he makes $4 hour more than I do, so that means it's MY job because he's the "bread winner"? WTF again, I ask?

THEN on Sunday when we went to lunch with BabyMama and Smooth (and my wee little Gigibella) he tells them that I need "drugs to be able to stand being near (him)". First of all, yes, I do. Secondly, what if I didn't WANT the whole world to know that I am dependant on pharmaceutical intervention to keep from screaming? Of course, I retorted (and I swear to you that I did actually say this) that "if (he) wasn't such as asshole then I wouldn't need to, would I?" and BabyMama, God love her, replied that she was on the same thing I was and he shut up.

We're headed to Vegas for the weekend so that he can go to a bowling tournament and I absolutely DO NOT want to go. It's wrong, isn't it? Shouldn't I be excited? I LOVE Vegas. It's going to be 115* here and a bit less up there. And of course, only 70* inside the casino...LOL. But I feel so anxious at the thought of going that I'm doubling up on my meds to keep functioning.

I'm just at a loss here, Peeps. Any advice would be appreciated.

Ranties

One of the questions I get asked a lot is if I'm LOVING all the shopping I get to do as I shrink. And the answer?

NO. No, I am not.

It's not that I don't love shopping and it's not even that I don't love the fact that I can now buy pants in the Juniors department instead of the dark and spidery corner known as "Women's". It's not like I don't enjoy that the selection available to me now involves more than giant pastel tee shirts with screen printed kittens who sport clever sayings like "I don't DO mornings". It's not even like I don't enjoy that my ass no longer has it's own zip code.

It's more that OH MY GOD do you realize that you have to replace EVERYTHING you own when you lose this much weight? I have so far replaced jeans, of course, shirts a little less (baggy is a look, right?), shorts, obviously, but now I've had to start replacing things you wouldn't think of. Things like underwear.

I don't know about you guys, but I'm the kind of girl who's super picky about my drawers. I have..correction HAD...two or maybe three brands and styles of panties that I know will cover and stay put and not ride up or slide down, won't pinch or bind or give crazy panty lines or anything heinous like that. But OF COURSE those brands and that style? Do not come in the size I need. Which means I now have a drawer full of panties that creep up and down and twist side to side as their tent like proportions flap in the breeze until they are completely bunched up under my ass so that it looks like I've got a roll of paper towels under my butt cheeks. Of course, in addition to being unattractive it's also uncomfortable so I'd spend half the day digging at my ass like I've contracted Parishiltonitis about my lady bits.

Tres Secksi.

After weeks of this exercise in nonsense and armed with a Victoria's Secret coupon I decided to bite the bullet and buy new panties. Only you know what? The idea of trying on panties before you buy them is just....weird. Panties are meant to come three to a bag, all hermetically sealed and emblazoned with a logo featuring fruit and prepubescent girls with no hips and winning smiles. Frugality being both one of my virtues and also one of my vices, I couldn't pass up getting panties that usually retail for $18 at 5-for-$25. Also I figured "what the hell?" I might get laid more frequently if I wasn't wearing Bea Aurthur's Signature Line of Panties.

Standing before giant vats of panties, I began to sort through the bin labeled L/XL figuring that I might be able to find a few pairs that were not too grandma and not too hooker. As I pulled out one lime green thong after high cut see through lace after hipster Pink boy shorts after another I came to the sinking realization that VS thinks I need to spend my days looking like a transvestite stripper underneath my sensible ($1atgoodwillthankyouverymuch) Levi's and Old Navy perfect tee's. Seriously, there wasn't a single pair of panties in that pile that had more than 6 square inches of fabric. And my ass? FAR TOO LARGE for that kind of nonsense.

So I handed my coupon to the hipster in the neon jeans beside me and headed to Target.

Now, if you've never been fat you may not realize that when you ARE fat, you get like three options for panties. You can have the kind that go up to your navel, the kind that reach all the way up to your armpits or "boy shorts" which are neither boyish nor shorts like. However, if you're NOT fat?

Sweet Baby Jesus, the choices.

High cut, low cut, briefs, bikini, boy shorts, hipsters, ultra low hipster, hipster thongs, high cut thongs, string bikini's, string thongs, seamless, wicking, anti-bacterial (side note: GROSS), second skin, cotton, poly cotton, silk, lace, cotton and lace, lace and silk, "satin", embroidered, screen printed, embroidered with screen print in seamless cotton silk, baby seal skin, micro fiber....seriously who the hell needs that many fucking choices? I just want panties that cover my ass, don't give me camel toe, don't creep, don't slide, and don't give me swamp ass. I don't want neon pink sparkles that spell out "SASSY" and I don't care if they have a pocket for my...whatever the hell one puts in a pocket the size of a quarter...bus fare? Gum? Wet-naps? I don't need them to be "innovative" and I don't care if they're endorsed by Bruce Willis's big headed daughter.

And the sizing? Seriously? Corresponds to NOTHING. Why can't women's undies be like men's? No more random size "7" that really equals pants size "12" but only if that designer decided that a size 12 has hips 38-40 inches instead of the other designers who think your hips will be 40-44 or 32-90 or whatever the fuck they think women want to hear. Why can't they be size 36? As in, your hips are 36" plus or minus two inches, thank you come again? Especially, when after reading the packaging you determine that you wear size X because you fit into parameters Y&Z only to get home and discover either you have shrunk three inches around or they think you want your panties to be "blousey" because that is SUCH an attractive look?

Which is why, if I get into an accident the ER doctor is going to push me out into the hall with a note that says "DO NOT TREAT. DISOBEYED HER GRAM AND ISN'T WEARING ANY PANTIES AT ALL" where I will be mocked by all and sundry as I lay dying, commando, thanks to mass retailers refusal to provide me with some damn underwear that is made of cotton, is pleasantly fitted without being tight, doesn't climb up my ass and isn't covered with cartoon characters.

So consider yourself warned; if you DON'T eat that cheeseburger, large onion rings and milk shake for lunch you're going to die. You're welcome.

Less than Minty

Before the invention of modern toothpaste, from Roman times up to as recently as the 18th century, there is evidence that people used to whiten their teeth using urine. Sometimes their own, but mostly other people's.

Have you given Emma money yet?

There might be a purse in it for you, you know!

Ralphie

Downside to having my guts rearranged: I puke all the damn time.

Upside: thanks to having no stomach acid, I get to enjoy my food twice and in this economy, every little bit helps, right?

Man's Favorite Holiday

Today is National Cleavage Day.

You're welcome.

Stuffs

I've not got anything important to blog today, so in lieu of my usual well thought out and perfectly punctuated posts, here is a bunch of randomness for your viewing pleasure.

* I have answered the eternal question of why teenagers spend so much time in the bathroom. It's because it takes HOURS to apply this much eye make up.

* If you want a baby/dog/man to look at the camera, you're shit out of luck. They're not going to.

(ex. A)

(ex. B)

(ex. C)

* Unless you have treats. Then, you get this.



* My pants make it look like I have a load in my drawers. And, now that I've photographed it, apparently I also have a bad case of "noassatall".


(this picture is for Dream who thinks that there isn't enough pictures of my ass on the Internet)

* Not at all related to my ass, how cute is this guy?



That's Frank, my sisters other Dad. He might, or might not be a leprechaun. Verdict is still out. If you live in NYC you can see him and sister CF marching about with the County Tyrone pipe and drum corp.

* And finally, PDA, from your parents, is always, always gross. Always. And forever. Amen.

Hirsute

You know what's sexy? This;

Don't you just swoon? I know I do. MmM. Thystle LIKES.

And you know what is so close to that? And yet so, so far away? This;

I hope you weren't eating breakfast....

Perfectly Presented Parable

Morning, Chickens.

I have very many tags to blog this week. I may even actually blog them! That's my dedication to y'all; I will forsake my year end reports to bring you scintillating minutiae.

Today's tag comes from the delightful Miss Lorrie Veasey and is brought to you by the letter


The tag is to list ten things that you LOVE that begin with the assigned letter.

1. Profanity - no shit. I loves me some swear words. Sometimes, nothing conveys the proper gravity of a situation quite like an explosively uttered FUCK.

2. Porn - Shocking, right? Now, I know that women every where are cringing because, OMG, PORN? You like PORN? You (meaning me) are clearly a bad, bad, woman and a shame to the sisterhood! But here's the thing; porn? Very educational. How else would I know about things like Pony Play and Sploshing? Not to mention The Superman and Dirty Sanchez. I mean really! There is a whole world of kink out there and you may not be a freak after all. Then again, maybe you are. But who am I to judge? That's the nice thing about porn, chances are if it makes you feel good, you're not alone. It's like gathering round to sing Kumbaya, but with wieners.

3. Pickles - But only dill. All other pickles are an affront to the sanctity of the pickle species. Do not email me your beloved grandmothers award winning recipe for Bread n Butter pickles, because I will not eat them and I will lose all respect for your saintly Grannie for commit such a sin against taste buds.

4. PDA - Especially among the elderly. How cute is it when a tiny little old lady and a grizzled old man are shuffling by hand in hand? Doesn't it just give you hope?

5. Pie - Oh hells, yes, Mama loves her some pie.

6. Puppies - It's pretty hard to be cranky when confronted by the sweet sway of a fat fat puppy belly. And when they fall asleep?. I swoon. SWOON.

7. Purses - Yes, yes, I'm vapid. And? Carrying around a really nice purse instantly makes you look somehow...more. More put together. More successful. More stylish. Not to mention the construction of a $300 purse vastly surpasses that of a $30 purse. And if you buy something classic - say a quilted Chanel, you'll never go out of style. That said...Louis Vuitton? Not so much. Despite the crazy price tags ($700 for a wristlet!), to me, they look cheap. Also, my birthday is coming up and if y'all love me, you'll buy me a Birkin. Just saying.

8. Purple - I always write in purple pen. Why? Because it's less harsh than black, more whimsical than red and more exciting than blue. Also? Because I'm a wee bit nuts.

9. Pineapple - true story, ladies and gents, consuming pineapple makes certain...fluids less distasteful when swallowed if you catch my drift. What? You don't? Fine. When a man drinks pineapple juice his ejaculate tastes less metallic. Try it. Seriously. If that doesn't work, try sucking on a peppermint while giving head. Tingly and tasty. Altoids work best. And in my experience? A good blow job is pretty much the quickest way to get a man to do what you want. Forever.

10. Peeps - that's right. I love y'all. On days like yesterday, when I was pretty sure I was going to have to beat someone half way to death with my adorable red peep toed shoes, you kids all jumped in to assure me that I wasn't the only one so afflicted. And a burden shared is a burden lightened, right? (I learned that in Sunday school before they asked me to leave and not come back.)

And still not syndicated

So this right here? This is my 200th post (on Blogger. Probably much higher over all, but I can't count those because I deleted the other blog. Because of the naked pictures of Oprah Winfrey. Just kidding. Although that blog did used to get googled for that a lot and I'm all YOU PEOPLE ARE SOME SICK FUCKS. Which is the whole point, right? To connect with other people who are like minded and by like minded I mean FUCKING DISTURBED).

Honestly, I'm as surprised as anyone that I've been blogging this long. The only thing that I've done consistently more of? Breathing.

That's because y'all? YOU ARE MY OXYGEN.

Also?

You had me at hello.

I just made that phrase up. It's catchy, right?

Doesn't it seem like for this monumental occasion I should have had something planned? Some really wicked good post where I charm you and also teach you a little something about life? Like Facts of Life or some other feel good 80's show with a catchy theme song? Hey! Remember Family Ties? Me, too! No, really, what I was going to say is that Alex P. Keaton looks exactly the same as he did back then. Also, the only episode of that show I remember is the one where the blond sister was a Valley Girl and wrote a running away note that could only be deciphered by omitting ever other word, which was "like". As in, "So, like yesterday? Like me and like Tiffany like went to the like mall and like, stuff and like we, like, totally like saw these like hot guys? Like at like Orange Julius? And one of them, like, had THREE NIPPLES, like for real and he like showed it to us in the like dressing room at like 5-7-9 and then, Tiffany like totally like licked it and I was all, like GAG ME WITH A SPOON!"

Further more, once one begins to interject the word "like" into a sentence one begins to spew it uncontrollably and with out reason. Much like "dude" and words of that ilk. In fact, to recover from a "like" fit, the only cure is to trade it for another word. One might substitute "one" for example, but then one would sound pretentious and like one had a proverbial stick up ones backside.

Almost as bad as referring to oneself in third person, which is kind of eccentric and charming if one is a drag queen or maybe a really sparkly hooker but less so if one is a reality television contestant (cough, SUEDE, cough). Actually, I take that back. Kind of. Because what reality television personality isn't just a hooker? Maybe with less leath-ah, but not with out the air of selling ones soul for the possibility of slight financial gain and the certainty of embarrassment?

For that, you could just stuff a hamster up your butt like Richard Gere and then sell the pictures to The Enquirer, or as we call it round my house "The Paper". I bet he talks about himself in third person. Doesn't he just seem like that type? Maybe it's the hair that makes me think that. I don't trust people with hair that looks like the wads of dog hair I fish out of my vacuum. Also? I don't trust people with bad posture. Don't you think it's so telling when people walk around all hunched and slumped? Like Igor. Only less charming. Because, you know, at least Igor had that whole yess master thing going for him.

Also, I don't trust people that don't wear underwear. Seriously, you're not that fucking busy that you can't spare 5 seconds to pull on a pair on chones. I, for the record, am wearing panties. Great big ginormous white cotton numbers from Fruit of the Loom or maybe Hanes! Her Way! or maybe Omar the Tent Maker, I can't see the tag because it's behind me so you'll just have to live your life with out knowing who makes my delicates. Unless you want to send me $5 because then I'll totally send you my panties. Only not using E-Bay because APPARENTLY selling your used underpants as anything other than "used clothing" is considered a violation of it's service terms and you know what that means? Somewhere a dirty pervert is smelling brand new panties because I am being denied my right to commerce! Is this the kind of America that you want to live in? No, I thought not. I should probably be getting some kind of bail out money for this stompling of my rights to free market trade.

This is the part of the show where ALF tries to eat the cat.

Only, now that I've said that? I'm pretty sure that Blogger is going to flag this blog as being of questionable content and you know what I have to say to that? NO SHIT, BLOGGER PEOPLE. But maybe we can bring this back from the brink?

No, probably not. So instead, I will leave you with this.

Don't Kiss Your Honey When Your Nose is Runny

Have y'all seen that movie "Christmas With the Kranks"? No? Well, it sucks. But that's not my point. I know, right? Shocking that *I* of all people should start a post with a sentence that has nothing to do with anything and possibly isn't related even one itsy-bitsy bit to the post.

You're welcome.

What was I saying? Oh yes, Skipping Christmas. That's the book that movie was based on I think. I haven't read that either, but I think if I were the author I'd be glad that people didn't associate my likely passable or possibly even stellar literary genius with that crapfest. I mean, really, with as hard as it is to get published, let alone have a book that translates well into film, would make you think you'd be pretty pissed if someone did THAT to your baby. And believe you me, a book is a lot like a baby. It makes you want to kill yourself at least once a week because you can't sleep at night and also? It makes your ass fat.

This post has lost the plot entirely.

WHAT I WAS GOING TO SAY is that this year, we skipped Christmas. Well, not exactly skipped it, more like showed up late and then ducked out early. Like the birthday party that you go to because even though you don't like the birthday person, you know the booze will be flowing and food will be tasty. So you eat, drink and bail. That's what I did, this holiday season. I strung one row of lights around the porch and wrapped the mailbox with tinsel garland and that was exactly it. No tree, no cookies, no giant pile of shredded wrapping paper. We cooked the big meal, broke out the booze and watched The Dark Knight on television while Uncle Chuck dozed on the sofa.

As a result, the 8lb 6oz Lord Baby Jesus gave me the plague.

Because he's like that.

So, I spent the rest of the weekend in my pajama's sniffling into a paper towel because we were out of Kleenex and foraging through the left overs for sustenance and drinking a boat load of whiskey n' honey because we ran out of NyQuil sometime Saturday.

The only upside, if there is one, is that I have learned that you can burn 9,000 calories! from coughing.

The line to make out with me forms to the left.

True Religion

Last night, I had a really horrible dream. Not scary, but freaky. I woke up thinking that its message was so completely profound that I just HAD to tell you guys, that our very LIVES depended on my getting this message out to all of you so that we could act now to prevent the calamity that looms in our future.

Then, I completely forgot what it was, so we’re all going to die.

Sorry about that.

So, I’m sitting on the can at work, thinking REALLY hard about what this damn dream was while giving birth to a baby I like to call “Cheesecake Factory Chocolate Raspberry Cheesecake, Jr.” and when I’ve finished my “thinking” I flush the potty and wouldn’t you know it? It clogs.

Right. Awkward.

There I am, watching the “water” creep dangerously close to the lip of the throne wondering if I it would just be easier to quit than have to admit that my giant turd over flowed the crapper. Being the only girl here, it’s not like I could really just walk out acting like it wasn’t me and then hope I didn’t meet anyone in the hall, because if the girl shitter is over flowing there’s really only one person to hold accountable and we all know who THAT is.

Ahem.

And remember how I’m not religious? Well, let me tell you, I prayed for a miracle like I was Saint Mother Theresa visiting starving one legged Calcutta slum orphans infected with malaria.

Dear Lord Baby Jesus, pleasepleaseplease do not let the toilet overflow and splash my pretty red shoes with shit-water. I promise to not consume more than 2000 calories at dinner ever, ever again if you just grant me this one wish, Love, your friend, REVEREND Kiki, ordained November 2007, AMEN.

Then, like Moses parting the poopy sea, the poo-water began its slow decent into the bowels of the municipal sewer system! When the water stopped running, I flushed again and like the true miracle it was, the last of the brackish water disappeared from view and LO, I saw that the poo was gone, and I knew the Lord Baby Jesus had granted my prayers!

Which is why, if anyone needs me, I’ll be at church praying for thin thighs, five million dollars, a never ending supply of designer purses, a closet full of red shoes and world peace.

See? I’m not TOTALLY selfish.

Like, totally, like HOT and like, stuff. You know?

I know that you all think that I, like the late Coco Chanel, have unerroring good taste and impeccable style.

You’re right.

Except that sometimes, I am less Coco Chanel and more Chanel the Stripper from Single Wide #4. When those times occur, it’s only fair that I hold myself up for mockery just as I have mocked others that sinned against fashion before me.

Because that’s just good blogging, people.

So with out futher ado, I present to you

WHAT I WORE WHEN I DID YARD WORK, BECAUSE IT WAS 110* AND I WAS REALLY, REALLY HOT, EVEN THOUGH I KNEW 1988 WOULD CALL AND BE ALL “YOU’RE TWO DECADES LATE, LOSER”



Doesn't look to bad from that angle does it? I mean, SURE, I'm wearing a visor, with the wrong initials, that I bought a Wal-Mart for a dollar and which has a really sexy sweat ring. SURE I'm clearly wearing a sleeveless shirt and OKAY; I may kind of skipped the gym for like the last week. Or month. Or whatever. Shut up, JUDGERS. Really, though, it isn't that bad.

Well, my pickles, brace yourselves, because it just gets better



Yes, that's right, I'm wearing SHORTALLS. I know. I know, okay? But they have so many lovely pockets for my cell phone, iPod, pruning shears, hair tie and flask. They're like, USEFUL, okay? Like a mechanics jump suit thingie.

And it's not like I'm not wearing a shirt.



Oh. Wait. I wasn't wearing a shirt.

That MIGHT explain why the "ice cream" man made three trips around the block and almost hit the same parked car. Twice.

Tag, I'm It!

Here's How It Works:

1. Link the person(s) who tagged you (DUDE. I don’t know how to LINK. Y’all go over to the blog roll and click on "Give Me A Minute, I'll Come Up With Something", okay? Please? She’s awesome.)
2. Mention the rules on your blog
3. Tell about 6 unspectacular quirks of yours… (all my quirks are spectacular)
4. Tag 6 following bloggers by linking them…(All y’all are tagged. SO THERE)
5. Leave a comment on each of the tagged blogger’s blogs letting them know they’ve been tagged.

Six Quirks About Me:

1) I annoy my husband to death with my need to have a made bed before I sleep. If the pillows and sheets aren’t “right”, I’ll fidget all night. I never make the bed in the morning though, I always make it right before I get in it.
2) If I was stranded on a desert island (as opposed to just in the desert) and I could only take one thing, I would take tweezers, because I am terrified of chin hairs. I have ONE chin hair that I’ve named Charlie because he shows up EVERY DAMN DAY.
3) Despite my overwhelming love for shoes and handbags, I have surprisingly few of either. But I LOVE red shoes. LOVE them. I currently have five pairs of red shoes, all of them shiny. I wore a pair yesterday, as a matter of fact. I hate tennis shoes though. I own one pair and wear them only to the gym because I think they’re ugly. I totally do not get people who wear big, clunky, blinding white trainers every where, every day. There are so many beautiful shoes out there people! Diversify!
4) I currently have 9 tubes of mascara. I’ve got a serious obsession with my eyelashes. If I didn’t think it would make me look like a stripper, I would wear fake lashes every single day. As it is, I have tried just about every brand and formula of mascara in existence. My favorites are Tarte “Lights, Camera, Lashes” for dressing up (it’s $18 a tube, but AMAZING) and for daily wear Maybelline “Lash Blast, Volume Blasting Mascara” both in black. I’ve worn mascara every single day since I was twelve and I think I look beady eyed with out it.
5) I claim that I hate to cook, but really I just hate to have to decide what to cook. By the time I decide the menu, shop, put away, take out, prepare, dish and serve it, I’m TOTALLY over whatever it was. When I had a roommate who liked to cook, I loved to cook with her. She would plan the meal, we’d shop for it together and split the prep and clean up and I had a blast. I do like to bake though, but I also like to eat what I bake, so normally I don’t, because I would weigh about 500lbs if I baked every time I felt the mood. I find it very soothing. That’s why everyone around me gets fat, because I like to feed them up with things like Black Forest Cupcakes and Skor Cookies.
6) If I hear the same song twice on the radio, I’ll change the station. There are like eleventy billion songs out there, so I can’t fathom why they play the same song twice an hour.


So there you go. AND NOW, for my encore, I’ll proceed with my NEXT tag;

10 random Facts about me!

Yeah, I know, I’m vain. But you love me.

1) I am right handed, but left eye dominant.
2) My life’s goal is to be a guest on the Oprah Show.
3) When I was a teenager, I worked at a series of summer camps where you went by a code name. Mine was “Gecko”. Years later, when M was a camper there, there was ANOTHER counselor called Gecko, as it turns out, her first name was ALSO Kendra. But she was born on Hawaii instead of Guam. FREAKY.
4) I believe in past lives, ghosts, collective memories and most other forms of “new age” beliefs. I think there is too much that we don’t understand and therefore dismiss. I call every ghost George after the ghost that lived in my little house and used to turn the drawers upside down and then replace them so the silverware fell out when you opened them. He was a prankster that one.
5) I dye my eyebrows.
6) You can always tell how things REALLY are in my life by the cleanliness of my house. The more stressed/unhappy I am, the cleaner my house. When things are good, my house is a wreck. I think this is because I need to feel in control and the act of cleaning and setting things to rights allows me to do that. The house is a wreck right now, by the way. =)
7) Sometimes, NOTHING tastes better than a hot dog with mustard and onions and an icy cold Coke Classic. Bonus points for being consumed with in sight of the ocean.
8) I have a permanent retainer glued to the inside of my bottom teeth
9) I’m thinking about piercing my nipples
10) I used to want to change my name to something more mainstream, like Christina or Jennifer, but now I like having an unusual name.

So there you go, 16 random bits of over sharing. Do you feel enlightened?

OH! And Crap! I forgot that I was ALSO tagged by I forget who with the “ASK ME ANYTHING” tag. As if you don’t know EVERYTHING about me already, right?

So, here’s the deal, you can ask me ANYTHING. Nothing is off limits and I have to answer. Leave your questions in the comments and I’ll post them later. This is your chance, peeps, don’t let it slip away. (Like I needed a tag for this? My middle name should be OVERSHARE!)

I know Victoria's Secret

Since some people, who I won’t name, but who sometimes answer when you call “Kati” finds great amusement in my nana chones, I decided to branch out; to go where my booty has never gone before, to trade in my gigantic cotton drawers for something more…less than.

But the thing is; I’m also HELLA cheap when it comes to things that I’m just going to throw away in a month or so. So while the Gestating Mrs. Smooth spent $50 to swath her nether regions when we were shopping this weekend, I spent MY lunch money on bras. And by my lunch money I mean $100. BUT I saved $100, because it was buy 2 get 2 free and at $50 each a girl needs to make sacrifices right? So while the twins are enjoying their new digs, my heinie was feeling a bit neglected.

And that just won’t do, because I’m exceedingly vain. (I’m sure you hadn’t noticed though.). In my vanity, though, I believe in equal opportunity. Fat, white, and vain all over; that’s me. But I digress.

Chones, like bras are a BIG DEAL to shop for. It’s not like jockey shorts where every pair is pretty much like the last. My lady bits need comfort and breathability. Not to mention I hate tight leg holes and exposed elastic. Also, they need to be pretty. And not give me a wedgies. And they should match with my bras because WHAT IF I’M IN AN ACCIDENT? My Gram made it exceedingly clear to us girls when we were young and impressionable that good underclothes were a sign of good breeding and GOD FORBID you were wearing that pair that is always left on laundry day because if you’re in an accident, they might not treat you and you will DIE. All because you are wearing sagged out faded skivvies with stretched out elastic and a wee little hole where they got caught in your zipper that one time when you had to cop-a-squat in the bushes during OzFest.

The stress was almost too much. I had a quick meeting with the Crown and braced myself to gird my loins. Bravely, I strode into that French Store and marched into the “Intimates” department. (Side note, since WHEN do pajama pants and socks with kittens qualify as “Intimate Apparel”? I’m pretty sure NO ONE gets “intimate” offers while wearing giant green knit pants with frolicking puppies on them.) But I am undaunted! I am determined! Nevermore will I do my impression of Mary Katherine Gallagher in the gyno’s office.

I WILL BE SEXY, goshdangit.

The problem with this of course is the sheer number of choices.

Do I want hipsters? Ew. NO. Next thing you know, I’ll have blue hair and write Emo poetry about my tight, tight pants and angsty-love-drama. Not going down THAT road.

So, then, maybe bikinis? ARE YOU F-ING kidding? Isn’t the whole point of panties to keep my bits safe from zippers and flaming hot car interiors? I’ve seen strippers with more fabric on then those provide. And STRING BIKINI’S? HAHAHA. DUDE. For reals; “String bikini” and “plus sizes” shouldn’t be even THOUGHT OF in the same sentence.

Of course, there are thongs, or as we refer to them around our house, “butt floss”. They’re useful in their own right, so okay. Those I can do. No panty lines…that’s a good idea, right? No reason to advertise my fondness for Hanes Her Way cotton sensibles all the time, is there? In the basket they go.

I’m feeling pretty victorious right about then. I’ve bought underpants that would make my mother avert her eyes and cause my father to say “SIIIIGGGGHHH” really loudly and then proclaim his ill luck for have spawned “girl children” if I ever were to mention them in his presence (actually, any mention of underwear in my fathers presence causes his beard to go one shade whiter.)

Can you wear thongs everyday though? Won’t you like, get a butt rash in the summer from the swamp-ass that goes unchecked by cottony goodness?

Seems dangerous.

And not GOOD dangerous, either. Bad dangerous. Fondle a baby bear in Mama-Grizzlies sight dangerous. EAT FOOD FROM A STREET VENDER dangerous.

And I? I am not that brave.

I am, however, persistent. So up the aisle I go.

There before me were these super adorable little lacy bits called “boy shorts”. Have you seen those? They’re like boxers, except for girls! And look at that adorable model! She looks so cozy! Very sporty-hot. Casual, yet sexy in a girl-next-door kind of way. YES! That’s just what I’m looking for! SCORE.

Yes, I just said “score!” like it was 1989, what are you going to do about it? I also say “awesome” and “super” like I just escaped from the set of the Brady Bunch and I LIKE IT.

Right, where was I? Ah, yes. Boy Shorts. Okay, so they had about 11,000 different brands, colors, fabrics, sizes, patterns, elastic/no-elastic and so on permeations. This, people, is why girls never do anything alone. WE NEED INPUT. The comfort of our secret selves is of UTMOST importance, am I right? There is just no way I am going to spend all day yanking at my undercarriage. That just won’t do.

I soldier on.

Into the cart goes a pair labeled “low rise boy briefs in NEW stretch lace”. That sounds good right? Low rise means they won’t hang out of my ever expanding collection of gap-waisted jeans. Stretch lace; that sounds practical, yet attractive. I’m feeling pretty good about it now. The cotton, though, oh damn you comfy, comfy cotton. Into the basket goes a pair of sensible black cotton ones.

I rush right home and wash them; even though it’s not laundry day yet, won’t be laundry day for about 4 more months. Carefully, I fluff them dry and fold them neatly.

Oooh! I am so excited!

No longer will I be hindered by the Hindenburg of lingerie! I am TURNING OVER A NEW LEAF. A fashionable, DARING, leaf. A leaf that will lead to OTHER leaves and next thing you know? Featured guest of Oprah.

First thing this morning I hop into the shower. Which pair will I wear? They better look good bronzed for the museum in my honor, I’m thinking. I select those sultry black stretch lace low rise goodies.

Gently, I slide them up over my hips, pausing to admire myself in the mirror. HELL YES! My ass looks FANTASTIC. I almost repeated the ass-photography exercise; I was so impressed with it. (Y’all can stop covering your eyes; I wouldn’t do that to you.)

I whistle my way through getting dressed, slip on my favorite jeans, step into my super cute brown heeled sandals, arms up and into a flirty summer top, comb the hair, on with the make up and I am SO FUCKING HOT I want to kiss myself.

Oh, but then.

You knew there would be a “but, then” didn’t you? Because there always is.

I am half way to work. It is already 100* at 7:30am.

And where are my precious lacy-bits?

UP MY DAMN ASS.

That’s right; they are wadded all the way up there like I am the Tri-State third-grade math champ.

Out of the truck and I’m doing the wiggle. You know the wiggle? That little half side step shimmy where you clench and unclench in a (futile) attempt to avoid having to go cave diving right in front of the boss? The wiggle that NEVER, EVER works?

Right.

Of course, I am NOTHING if not stubborn, so into the loo I go and fish those bad boys out and realign them. By the time I’ve made it to my office, my grandchildren are tasting polyester flowers.

By lunch time, I can floss my teeth with them. From the inside.

At two, I give up. Back to the ladies and off with the instruments of torture.

Lucky me, though, I listen to my Gram. In addition to her edicts that we should all own red bras (in case we need to flag a train), she also mandated that we have a ready supply of fresh panties to hand. So out to the truck and into the gym bag I go, happily retrieving enough melon-colored cotton to block the sun from shining in Africa.

I guess this is why my mother always told me to never give into peer pressure.

So, Miss Kati, mock away. Sticks and stones may break my bones, but I’ll be go to hell if I’ll give up my granny panties.

In Which I Am Hit On In A Classy Fashion

All of my life people have thought it was okay to say whatever random thing comes to mind to me. This makes my life pretty interesting. It's also taught me to think on my feet. There is very little that you can say to me that's going to leave me speechless.


This is an awesome trait to have I've found because most other people are easily made speechless. Especially when talking to someone whose brain has no filter. Like um...me.


But this isn't about what I say. This is about what other people say to me. ALL THE TIME.


Last week I was standing in an impossibly long, slow line at CVS. Because I'm prone to talking (that's what every teacher EVER wrote on my report card, btw), I strike up a generic conversation with the guy behind me.


Slow line I say.
Ain't DAT the truff he says. Gun be hot, t'day.
That time of year again I reply.


See? See how generic this conversation is? See how I am not making any reference to what I am, say, wearing?


Which was this, by the way.

We stand there in companionable line waiting silence for a minute and AT LAST it's my turn. I put down my Midol, my King Size Special Dark, my Diet Dr. Pepper and my Glamour and as I wait, MINDING MY OWN DAMN BUSINESS, my line mate leans forward, his mouth right by my ear and says


I bet you have amazing nipples.

WTF. Are you kidding me right now? WHO THE HELL says that to a random girl in a check out line on a Saturday morning? If I was at a club, okay. If I was wearing a bikini and dancing around a pole, OKAY. But at CVS? While I'm buying MIDOL? Come on now! So I reply;

I certainly do.

I mean really, what else COULD I say?

"B" Side

I was thinking last night, when I should have been sleeping. That seems to be my curse, recently. Sleeplessness I mean. Not thinking.

I was thinking about how every favorite song I’ve ever had could be the story of my life. Not my life right then exclusively, either. There is something about some songs that make them stick with you. It’s as if the song writer reached into your brain and pulled out every hope, every fear, and every thought and set them to music.

I tried to remember every song that’s ever been my favorite. My song. It’s funny, you know, I can remember almost all of them. Words and all. I could sing them for you if you wanted me to. I assure you that you don’t though. Music? Not my gift.

So here, in the interest of vanity, is my list. The mixed tape of my life you could say. (In chronological order, as best I can recall). It’s long, but I couldn’t make it shorter, so just stay with me here!

Looking for Love – Johnny Lee. A sweet little country song from the eighties about never finding love when you’re looking for it. Nice. Excellent first favorite song. I was 3 or maybe 4 when I begged for this record at the PX in Ewa Beach. Do you suppose your first favorite song sets the tone for your life? I hope not, because M’s first favorite song? Mambo #5

The Gambler – Kenny Rogers. I know.

Take It Easy – The Eagles. I still love this song. I love the covers of this song. I have been through Winslow, AZ, but I’ve yet to stand on the corner there. I will though, it’s on my LIST.

It’s my Life – Billy Joel. This was the theme to the show “Bosom Buddies”. I loved that show and I still do. Tom Hanks in drag? Always funny. But the song; that I didn’t get until much later. Every time I hear it, I sing along. Sorry.

Time after Time­ – Cyndi Lauper and later Eva Cassidy. Who didn’t have this album? It had Girls Just Wanna Have Fun on it as well. Also an excellent song, but some how the slightly stalkerish feel of Time after Time always felt more me.

9 to 5 – Dolly Parton. I had this on tape and wore it out. We had a skit, I think, that involved water balloons and bra’s stolen from my mother’s drawers. We used to perform it on the neighbors retaining wall as we lip synced into broom handles and blared the music on the olive green tape deck we found in my dad’s “work” room.

Posse on Broadway­ – HF and I spent HOURS stopping the tape and scribbling down the lyrics on purple note book paper with a purple pen. I still know all the words. This song is way better than Baby Got Back if you ask me. A close second to this would have been Kid Sensation Buttermilk Biscuits because it’s hilarious.

The Unforgiven – Metallica. Nice and depressing. Just the way a teenager’s favorite song should be.

Live and Let Die – Guns n’ Roses. OMG, did I want Slash’s hair. I got this song on tape from a friend for Christmas. I bought her one of the “Use Your Illusion” CD’s and she bought me the other.

You Spin Me Right Round (like a record) – Dead or Alive. This song was old by the time it infiltrated my life. I think I was 14 or maybe 15 and Miss Diva and I would occasionally ride the bus to the University District in Seattle and sneak/cajole/flirt our way into clubs. I have a very vivid memory of Miss Diva in Mini Mouse ears at a bus stop at 5am. The sun is just coming up and we’ve been out all night. I remember wishing I could be that cool all the time. I totally wasn’t though. I was a huge dork.

Rusty Cage – Sound Garden. I’d been listening to Seattle punk scene for a while. This was the first big single for Sound Garden and it was cool to say that I was a fan before.

Bird House in Your Soul – They Might Be Giants. This one came to me via a mixed tape from a friend with infinitely cooler music sense then I’ll ever have.

Jose Cuervo­ ­­– Shelly West. This song taught me about drunken one night stands. We played in incessantly on the juke box at the back of the Four Aces while we nursed cokes and fries with cheese. And generally acted like idiots. This is the song I learned about boys to. It reminds me of a time in my life where anything was possible and Fire Birds and Marlboro Reds were cool.

Hearts in Armor­ – Trisha Yearwood. Ah, yes. Broken, wounded, angsty hearts. Teenage dramatics much? Still a good song though. This song took me to college. I remember listening to it in the car on my super awesome new Disc Man and thinking about the boy I’d left behind. Stupid Boys. They’re about to become a theme on this playlist.

Desperado­ & Peaceful Easy Feeling – The Eagles. Both songs remind me of boys. Of two different boys. One I loved and one I thought I loved. Both broke my heart, but for different reasons. Then? Then I hated them, but now I think it was just a lesson I needed to learn.

Asshole­ – Dennis Leary. This song? This one came on a mixed tape from the boy I did not love and who did not love me. He taught me about lying, about what it means to take responsibility for your actions and why you should always trust your instincts. He was the type of boy that you shouldn’t have in your past. He was the type of boy who taught me to guard my thoughts. I am still angry with him. But he did make a kick ass mixed tape.

The Dance – Garth Brooks. This song, too, reminds me of a boy. This boy was worse than the rest, the worst one before or since. But I loved him. God save me from myself, but to this day, I think about him. Every day. I sometimes think I see him, in places where he should not be and my heart stops. For just a moment, everything stops and I can not breathe. But then, it’s not him and my heart pounds in my ears and I’m not sure if I’m glad for it or not. Because the paperwork involved in homicide is very daunting…but not daunting enough to dissuade me.

Cecilia – Simon & Garfunkel. This song used to play all the time at the Rockin’ R Bar. My gorgeous roommate Larkin and I used to sneak in and pick up boys. One night, we hooked up with a Hawaiian and a bull rider who we were taking home with us, only they got in a fight in the parking lot when some dumbasses tried to beat up the retarded guy who used to drink there as well. The cowboy’s name was Jeff I think and I can still hear him saying “They knocked out my GodDamnit Tooth! Five years of bull riding and I never lost a one and now a stupid ass goat fucker gone knocked out my goddamnit tooth!”. Good times, good times.

I Must Increase My Bust – Lords of Acid. I had almost forgotten this one. Larkin and I used to play this album so loudly the windows rattled. I wonder if I still have this CD?

Closer to God – NIN. At the risk of telling you WAY TOO MUCH, this song? Every time I hear it all I can think about is wild, wild sex with a long haired boy who didn’t belong to me. I can’t hear it with out getting aroused.

Margaritaville – Jimmy Buffet. My twin and I are living in a turquoise singlewide at the end of a dirt road. There is a cast of characters and drama and heart ache. There are moments where everything is clear and perfect and days when I can not bring myself to get out of bed. In the back ground though is always the thought that I can walk away, any time I want and it keeps me going.

Trashy Women – Confederate Railroad. This ties with Fat Bottom Girls by Queen for the song I want playing in the opening credits when my life becomes a movie.

Wonderful Tonight ­­­- Eric Clapton. I am raising a baby by myself now. I have a boyfriend that I have written a friend “will do for now”. He’s in a band, which is cool. He plays the guitar and sings to me sometimes when we’re alone. I’d never heard this song before he played it for me. When he sang it on stage, adding it to the set at my request, he’d change the lyrics from “long blonde hair” to “long red hair” for me. He kind of sucked as a boyfriend, but that will stick with me always, the very public acknowledgement of my existence.

Song for the Dumped- Ben Folds’ Five. This is the kind of break up I always wished I had the balls for.

Don’t Want to Miss a Thing­ – Aerosmith. This was the theme to the movie my husband took me to on our first and only date. It was our first dance when we got married less than a year later.

Cold Day in July­ – The Dixie Chicks. Every marriage has it’s ups and downs and I suppose mine no more than any other. This song reminds me that it needs to be nurtured because the end sometimes come with a whimper rather than a bang.

Milkshake – Kelis. To be honest? I don’t really love this song, but it reminds me to laugh. I worked at a job I didn’t like but stayed at because I loved my coworkers. It was the kind of job you didn’t want to miss, because you never know when the next in-joke will start and you want to be in on it. One day things were particularly stressed, so I stood up and said, “Hey! I just want you all to know something!” and then started singing and shaking my booty. By the time I was done (about three lines in) we were all crying with laughter and dancing along.

Gotta Get Up From Here – Ellie Lawson. I play this song on days when I think that things will never get better. Every day is a new day and you get to decide if it’s going to be a good one. You need to own your life. Own your choices. Own you happiness.

This is the part where the list breaks down. This next group of songs has no order and stories I’d rather not tell or no story at all, but still deserves to be included.

I’m Movin’ On ­– Rascal Flatts
Realize – Colbi Calait
In My Life – Bette Middler
Break Down Here – Julie Roberts
Lady Down on Love – Alabama
White Flag – Dido
Paralyzer – Finger Eleven
Hate Me – Blue October
Battle of Who Could Care Less – Ben Folds Five
Stronger Woman – Jewel
I Need You – Trisha Yearwood
Penny to My Name ­- Eva Cassidy
In the Rough – Anna Nalik
What Mattered Most – Doug Supernaw
Boston – Augustana
Baby Blue ­- George Strait
I can’t Love You Anymore – Gary Nichols
I Will Survive -Gloria Gaynor

This brings me to the last song on the list. My theme song. The song that I want you to always think of me when you hear.

Still Got My Health – Better Middler.

Tell me, though, what’s your theme song? Which one song sums it all up, which one song are YOU?