An Open Letter to My Book Club


Wow, this is awkward.  Um, things aren’t working out and I think we should stop seeing each other.  No, it’s not you, it’s me.  Really.  I mean, how I wound up in a group with (mostly) atheist, non-Southern Democrats will remain a mystery of the ages.  We could only have less in common if you were all gay and child predators.  Don’t get me wrong–I enjoy friendships with all kinds of people.  Many of my friends exhibit one or more of the above-mentioned, um, quirks.  (Well, except for the child predator thing, I hope.)  We just don’t seem to be meant for each other.  You all are very nice and I like you a lot.  Just not in that way.  More like siblings, you know?  Like my taste in beer and wine, my taste in books is rather pedestrian.  That may be one of the things coming between us:  the fact that I skip reading the high-brow tomes and totally get into the trash (um, like the young adult vampire fiction.)  You deserve better.

Thanks for being nice but please, don’t try to call or text me.  Let’s not make this any harder than it already is, OK?  Good luck–I know you’ll find someone else who is the perfect person for you.

Always the best,



Miss Brownie Leader

The Queen is a Brownie leader this year and I can’t wait to see her on her first camping trip.  Here is the T-shirt to best describe her outdoor living skills.  (Thanks

Me me, my me, mo me

So Mama has been begging me to do this “Meme” thing. Evidently I spend way too much time on Facebook and not enough time sharing my innovative musings with the world. But really, given the options of chatting up cute boys on Facebook or amusing the one person who will read this (my mother) in the outhouse, I’d consider it a no-brainer. PLUS… If I meet a cute boy, date him, get married, and have babies, think of all the great new stories I will have to tell! I am Facebooking for the sake of this blog!      


Anyhoo, the point of this Meme thing is to find the closest book to you, open it up to page 56, and share lines five through ten or so from that page with other readers. Why? Beats the hell out of me. But it gives me something to do. Now, to pre-empt any possible grammatical confusion, “Meme” is evidently pronounced “meem”. Why it isn’t just spelled that way is a mystery, but I’m guessing the “Hooked on Phonics” people are pissed. You give a shout out to the person who invited you to mime or meme or whatever (The Dolan Blog) and pass your own meming on to others.      


Since the rules state to find the CLOSEST book to you and not your favorite book or one that might be interesting or saucy, which is how I would play this game, I have no choice but to share with you the creative stylings of Webster’s Dictionary. Since there are no page numbers in a dictionary, I am having to count to page 56 by hand. (I didn’t realize math would be involved in this little project) and after scrolling to line five here is what I’ve found:         


appalling: adj. Causing consternation or dismay; frightful. Appalling working conditions. Used in a sentence: “I find it appalling that the word Meme is pronounced meeeeeeem.” (I swear that’s what it says. Don’t believe me? Look it up.)    


Wow. Riveting.     


I’m going to my bookshelf now, picking out one of my favorite reads, and putting it right on my keyboard so I can try this again tomorrow.

Need We Say More?

Like you need to tell us!

Like you need to tell us!

Here Fishy, Fishy, Fishy . . .

I was recently reading about the new, hip thing to do:  get a fish pedicure!  So bizarre, so strange, so Hollywood, y’all!  And the only place in the country (supposedly, at the time) was right down the street in Alexandria, Virginia.  Of course, being the cool and trendsetting girls that we are, the Queen and I had to try it out.  The spa’s site tells you about it here.  We got there and saw the tanks where you put your feet.

Waiting for the buffet.

Waiting for the buffet.

We got our feet washed and stuck them down in the tanks for the fishies to nibble.  Your feet sort of dangle in the water, which pleased me because I have all my dancer’s callouses on the bottoms of my feet.  Those fish would never go hungry again.  Unfortunately, fish don’t take direction very well and kept feeding around my ankles.  Hello?  My ankles are baby-butt smooth.  They don’t need the attention.  But, much like my kids, the fish ignored all my advice and suggestions.  It was a strange sensation.  Almost like your feet were asleep and had the prickles.  The fish don’t have teeth, so they really just rush up, suck your foot firmly and quickly, and then pull away.  (Insert your own fetish/inability to commit comment here.)  At first I kept jumping because it tickled.  But I eventually got used to it.

Yes, my feet really are shaped like that.

Yes, my feet really are shaped like that.

You can tell the Queen gets regular pedicures.  Her feet look very well taken care of.

You can tell the Queen gets regular pedicures. Her feet look very well taken care of.

After, we got traditional pedicures.  All in all, it was a fun experience.  But I don’t really think it made a huge difference in how soft my feet were.  I think the lotions helped more than anything.

When we were done, the ladies at the spa asked us to autograph the big sign they keep next to the fish.  It’s a place for customers to put their name and home town so you can see how far people are coming for the fish pedicures.  The ladies seemed rather disappointed that we were from the local area.  When I mentioned that I used to live in Germany, they got all excited and told me to put that as my home town.  I think they were really wanting to seem exclusive–“that woman came all the way from Germany just to get a Doctor Fish Pedicure!”  I’ll let the onus for truth in advertising be on them.

Accessories are EVERYTHING!

Well, shit.  I guess if the Queen is going to actually post something, I need to give our blog a little love, too.  For BabyGirl’s birthday this year, the Queen gave her (among many cool, wondrous things) a backpack that is in the shape of a giant, fuzzy, pink cat.  BabyGirl wasn’t too sure about it.  Most people might find it a little disconcerting if you tried to force a huge stuffed animal onto their back.  So I hung it on the coat hooks next to the back door.  There it sat for about two months before BG decided that maybe she likes the cat after all.  Suddenly, she won’t go anywhere without the backpack.

With a cool backpack and hat, who needs pants?

With a cool backpack and hat, who needs pants?

With her elbow-length gloves (socks).

With her elbow-length gloves (socks).

Not only does she wear it around the house, but she’s also wanting to wear it while we are out running errands.  She was always OK with having the backpack in the seat next to her while we were in the car.  Until this week.  Now, she insists on wearing the backpack while in her seat.

What?  I'm totally comfortable.

What? I'm totally comfortable.

What with the Queen’s love of purses, I’m thinking this is just her influence on BabyGirl’s fashion sense.  It’s better to look good than to feel good, dahling.

Condoms and Misdemeanors

So I just finished the last day of a 60 hour training course to become a P.I. here in the beautiful state of Virginia (Which if my dating history is any indicator is NOT for lovers, contrary to what all the t-shirts and bumper stickers profess.)  I decided that I enjoy snooping around in other people’s business so much, why not make it official and get paid for it? 


The class itself was very educational, as we discussed all sorts of civil and criminal law, compared surveillance techniques, and watched a great movie explaining why one should NEVER, EVER, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES talk to a cop when pulled over.  (There goes that method of finding a date.)  We spent a day talking about computers (Really… Someone should’ve told me that I need to defrag my hard drive more than once every four years!) and I just couldn’t stifle my chuckle when I saw that someone had mistyped the letter “c” instead of “s” in the word disk on the PowerPoint slide and in giant letters on the screen we were told to ALWAYS find time for “DICK CLEANUP”.  Makes you wonder what staff meetings are like at I.B.M.  Had I known such pertinent information was part of the curriculum I would have taken computer science instead of band in high school. 


The crème de la crème of investigative subjects just begging for sarcastic remarks and witty repartee came under the guise of a lesson simply called “Adultery”.  For starters, I learned that it is a class four misdemeanor (read: ILLEGAL) to have pre-marital sex in the state of Virginia.  Uh oh.  Is it pre-marital sex if I have no intention of getting married?  I think I need to write my Congressman.


Next was a lesson in how to “prove” adultery based on evidence found in the hotel room where the alleged Dance of the Bumping Fuzzies took place.  For starters:  P.I protocol says that if a used condom is found in the man’s room, it is not adultery.  However, if the liquid-love filled prophylactic is found in the woman’s room, DING DING DING!  We’ve got us some cheatin’! (I assume we trust a visual only inspection of said condom for this sort of thing.  And sixteen layers of latex gloves.)  I guess it is to be assumed that if the protection is found in the man’s domain, he is simply a practitioner of unusually cautionary self indulgence. (Tube socks are soooo passé.)  If found in the woman’s room, she is a whore and adultery is assumed. 


But how, as a non-involved party (unless you’re into that sort of thing) does an Investigator get his/her hands on such evidence.  Well, apparently it is good M.O. to attempt entry into said hotel room where extra-marital love doodling occurred by getting the maid to allow you in under the guise of having left something in the room.  For example, “Excuse me, Molly Maid?  It seems I left a baby-batter filled condom here in the room.  Might I retrieve it?”  And in you go.  Or, if too shy for straight talk, tell the cleaning crew that you left something important in the room and need to get in.  When after a thorough inspection of the love nest you walk out dangling a pubic hair between your thumb and pointer finger in a death pinch, simply exclaim, “Oh thank God!  I thought I’d lost it forever!” Chances are you’ll end up on some weird sex registry after such a display, but HEY!  You’ve got your evidence.


We learned many more interesting facts throughout the course, but honestly… It only goes downhill from here.  Let’s just say it’s safe to assume that out in this big wide world of ours, there’s a lot of freaky shit going on.  And where’s there’s freak, you’ll find me, a magnifying glass, fingerprint dust, and a briefcase full of pubic hairs.