Jambalaya!

First, I so need to go on The World Series of Pop Culture. I'm recruiting a team right now, and will take whoever comes up with the best team name. I'd prefer a 90210 reference, but am willing to consider anything.

I was going to go with "8 Year Olds, Dude," but I'm afraid people will get the wrong idea.

I'm just pissed as hell that my sister, of all people, had a pub trivia team a few years back with what I'd most like to have gone with, "Lumberg Fucked Her." But I guess that's really too dirty for VH1 anyway.

So, what do you got, people?

As for my trip to New Orleans: FUN. The following happened, not necessarily in this order.

1) I innocently put my hand down on a branch to steady myself on a path leading down to a river (toobing is fun!), and wondered, when I pulled it away, why I was suddenly wearing a glove. FIRE ANTS!!!!!! I managed to only get bit four times, but let's just say I considered peeing on myself to ease the pain. I ended up peeing in my tube later on anyway, laughing so hard at the 18th beaver dam or whatever that we ended up ensnared in, but didn't manage to get my hand under there fast enough.

2) Shortly after arriving home from the toobing, was viciously attacked by a wasp. WTF, mates.

3) My sister got so drunk that she ended up refusing to tell our "designated" (as in, she was the least drunk) driver how to get home. She somehow blamed the entire debacle on me, which is, let's face it, entirely possible after 11 shots. Even if they were mostly chick shots.

4) Jambalaya at the Gumbo Shop = best Jambalya I've ever had. Granted, the only other jambalaya I'd had came in a pouch.

5) The Gumbo Shop also serves a frozen drink that, no lie, tastes precisely like Peppermint Stick ice cream............oh, sorry, I just peed a little. (It obviously don't take much.)

6) A rousing game of "I Never" at my brother-in-law's birthday party in which I learned things about my sister that, let's just face it, I cannot unlearn.

7) I cried in front of various gate agents in the Philadelphia airport.

8) Lost voice...gained seven pounds. I'm thinking my seven pound voice now resides in my ass.

All in all? Good times. Didn't meet any boys, but boys are dumb anyway. And it's kind of hard to fool around when your hand is swelled up with fire ant welts.

I'm on Day 3 of my latest attempt at detox. I expect to last until Saturday. At least I'm realistic this time...

It's My Wine in a Box!

I keep seeing these commercials for Fish Eye "wine casks," which can hold 4 bottles of wine at once and last for weeks and weeks!

The commercials make it out like this is quite fancy, but I just think about all the good times I've had with the illustrious Box o' Wine!

Ah, the box o' wine. Five liters of fun in a sack, wrapped in a box with a spigot. You can get drunk like, three nights in a row for about $9.99! Now that's a deal. Aching, skull-splitting, back-breaking hangovers aside, the only better time you can have with a box involves Justin Timberlake's junk.

So as it turns out, it appears that eliminating high-sugar foods from one's diet can yeild positive results. After giving up candy and ice cream for Lent, despite my utter lack of Catholicism, I dropped six pounds in a week. Seriously. And the only thing I did differently was not eat ice cream and candy. Six pounds in a week! I was astounded. I didn't even cut out all sugars, I still have my low-cal cookies and fat-free pudding and all that.

Apparently, I used to eat quite a bit of candy. Who knew?

In other news, I'm a huge loser.

I have only a few friends, several of them are in what the kids are calling "romantic relationships with members of the opposite sex," and the others are on the 28-day program (I fell off that wagon last week, I suck ass) and are avoiding bars like the plague. So I've had pretty much jack-all to do lately.

Friday, I was all excited to hang out with my bestest buds. My fucking parents. No lie, I hang out with them more than anyone else.

We had dinner Friday night, discussed the Oscars, and they said they hadn't seen my favorite movie of 2006, The Departed.

Me: Oh! Well let's go rent it then, we can watch it after dinner.
Them: awkward silence
Me: What?
Them: We sort of have plans to go out tonight.
Me: Oh.
Them: If you're not going out tomorrow night either, maybe we can do it then!
Me: (slits wrists)

Good times!

Stay Tuned...

Boy howdy, do I love Oscar night.

I may or may not keep a running diary tonight...depends on my motivation level.

I was actually out until 4 in the morning last night, a highly unusual move on my part these days, but it was indeed fun.

Yesterday, I bought four pairs of shoes for 90 dollars from the Nine West outlet. I am such an unbelievable sucker for the buy one get one half off deal. But they're all so darn pretty!

Then it occured to me that three of them are suede, and it's the dead of winter. I'm wicked smaht. But, again, pretty!!!!! Slingbacks and platforms and spikes and kitten heels, eggplant suede and charcoal tweed...aaaaah. Who needs sex, honestly?

Last night, on day seven of 28 Days, I folded like a cheap suit. Since I did not get drunk, I do not consider it a total failure. And I only drank beer. Oh, and a shot, whoops. Oh well.

In all honesty, how is a person supposed to give up smoking, drinking and candy all at the same time? Impossible! I did not smoke last night, at least...siiiigh.

Anyway, this is just a space filler in between the depressing post previous and the no doubt awesome Oscars wrap-up later.

Come Fly With(out) Me

Am I the only one who understands how completely insane it is to ride on an airplane?

Why is everyone else always acting so damn normal, like they aren't potentially minutes away from a tummy-churning plummet several thousand feet out of the air ending in a horrific fiery death?

If I'm not sedated with a nice cocktail of wine and Advil PM, flying could pretty much count as cardio for me, considering my heart doesn't stop pounding the whole time. And yet I sit there on the plane next to all these people who are just hanging out, having conversations, reading books, not clutching the armrest with a Vulcan Grip of Death (or whatever) and gasping like it's their last every time there's even a teensy bump.

I guess it does occur to me that I do all sorts of stuff that other people think is just as terribly abnormal as strapping themselves into a flying metal death tube several miles above earth.

Like when I mentioned to my friends at brunch on Sunday about how I ate an entire box of Life cereal in one day last week. They looked at me like I'd just told them I'd eaten an entire box of toenails.

(You know what though? If eating an entire box of Life cereal is as horrifying to them as flying is to me, perhaps I ought to rethink my position on it.)

(Nope, it's still delicious.)

I never made it to Mardi Gras, as flying standby in a blizzard isn't really conducive to such things. I did, however, make some excellent friends waiting in line for flight re-bookings for two point two hours.

Regardless of the lack of Mardi Gras, the official Fu Manch Shoes 28 Days of Virtual Rehab officially began at 12 pm on Sunday (before which I had the obligatory last glass of champagne with brunch, of course) and I'm on Day 3. So far, I haven't been shaking in a corner cranking butts and scratching at the invisible bugs on my skin...but the night is young.

Not to mention that tomorrow I've agreed with my friend Kelly to give up candy for lent. Despite my whole "not believing in Christ" thing.

CANDY! Talk about scratching myself and cranking butts.

And that's forty days. I mean, good god!

Although perhaps being cut off from my nougat I.V. cold turkey might be good for the alarmingly yoooge size of my ass lately.

(I may have to cheat on the no smoking pledge at some point here. Most people eat candy to combat smoking cravings.)

(Mmmm, I smoked this weekend, sooooo goooood....)

It Takes Two...To Pull Me Away from the TV

I've been a fan of Sarah Bunting's (aka "Sars" for those non TWoP readers among us) writing for ages, but I don't recall the last time I ever came so close to snapping my neck nodding along with one of her posts until today.

The nodding started last week, when she listed out a bunch of classic books and movies she has always meant to read/watch but never got around to. I currently have a post-it full of book titles I need to take down to Barnes and Noble, which I've been meaning to read for, oh, three hundred and eighty-seven YEARS. It's stuck to my desk right next to the unpaid doctor's bill I keep meaning to sort out from October of 2005, where they are trying to claim that I was diagnosed with chest pain or something when it was only a damn physical. Every day I think, "I will call about that again today and see about getting it cleared up."

And every day I leave work going "D'oh!"

So you can imagine how far through that list of books I've gotten.

But there's better things to do, don't you see? Like my 85th viewing of the Farrelly brothers crapfest otherwise known as "Fever Pitch."

Which is the point Sars made, today, as I chuckled and giggled myself into several damn coughing fits (oh did I mention that I'm pretty sure I have the flu? Good times!):

"Why? Why? I could read Dante! I could catch up on vintage sitcoms! I could tutor a child or have tea with a friend! But no: I've got my feet up on the coffee table, sharing a bowl of kettle corn with an overweight feline and watching Stakeout -- again! Actual astronauts do not know as much about airlock technology from the 1980s as I do, because I have seen SpaceCamp more times than Americans have gone to the actual moon!"

I bolted from work at exactly five today, more excited for my couch than I've ever been in my life. And found (fucking) "Fever Pitch" waiting for me on HBO.

This movie is about as good as I feel right now (read: as in, NOT GOOD AT ALL).

But you know what? I watched it anyway. For the 85th time. I can't turn it off. I'm powerless against it. Why? Becuase they play Dropkick Murphy's at the end and show real footage of the final out and the victory parade, which makes me fire up the waterworks and get all giddy and happy and flashbacky to when it actually happened.

(*tear)

Ever see "The Long Kiss Goodnight?" This is seriously (seriously) in my top five. I would normally never admit this. But I'm sorry, Geena Davis straps on FIGURE SKATES and chases the bad guys across a frozen lake and SHOOTS THEM WITH A MACHINE GUN while performing a CARTWHEEL. On ICE SKATES.

It's so good. And Samuel L. Jackson is there. And Geena snaps the neck of...a deer. Yeah, I don't know. It's just so good. I've seen it like, 24 times.

So Sars? I feel ya. And don't even get me started on the Olsen twins/Kirstie Alley/Steve Guttenberg trifecta also known as "It Takes Two." Can't. Not. Watch. Mary-Kate Olsen driving a hansom cab. Seriously. Can't resist. I mean, come on.

In other news, I think I'm checking myself into rehab.

Well, Virtual Imaginary Rehab anyway.

Next week, I go to Mardi Gras. When I return, I am going to sentence myself to 28 days sobriety.

(Ah! "28 Days!" Sandra Bullock goes to rehab and meets quirky characters! Steve Buscemi as a drug counselor! Viggo Mortensen as a drug-addled baseball player! It's gold!!)

I know those of you who know me in real life are probably laughing hysterically. But really, I think it's necessary.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go fish my lung out of the kitchen sink and try to stuff it back in after my latest coughing fit.

I promise to blog about it often and will totally cop to it if I cheat...wish me luck! (Oh, did I mention that the 28th day is St. Patrick's Day? Yeah.)