I don't like Mondays.

To the complete fucking moron who called my house NINE TIMES this morning looking for a transportation service, who was told, repeatedly, by me, he had reached a wrong number, and who, when I stopped answering the phone, left five messages for said transportation service on the voice mail, even though our message--"Hello, you've reached the home of ______and______. Please leave us a message and we'll call you back."--clearly states you have reached the HOME of two people whose names do not include, even fucking rhyme with the words "transportation" or "service"... May I suggest, for your edification, my so very, very dim witted mouth breathing disturber of blessed sleep, you read the formerly published Phone Ettiquette: A guide for the masses. Pay particular attention to the last two lines. Have a nice day.

Full time drunk, part time sex therapist.

The background story:
While running errands for G's birthday three weeks ago, I stopped into my neighborhood liquor store. To free my hands up to shop, I set my packages on the counter, one of which was a large bouquet of flowers. The young girl working that day looked at them and said, "Oh how pretty! Did your boyfriend give you these?"

"No," I answered, "It's his birthday, I bought them for him."

"NO! You're giving HIM flowers?" She said, honestly shocked.

"Sure... Don't tell me you've never given a man flowers before."

"Well NO!" She said giggling. "Give a guy flowers? If I gave my boyfriend flowers...he'd think it was, I don't know, weird or something."

"Why?"

"I don't know. He just would."

"Is he allergic? Insecure about his manhood? Does he have an innate fear of beauty?"

"NO!" More giggling.

"Then why would he think it was weird?"

"I don't know."

"Give your guy a little credit. I bet he'd be delighted."

She shook her head and laughed. As if the very notion was the most scandalous, ridiculous thing she had ever heard.

So fast forward to last night, I stop in to the same liquor store, same girl is behind the counter. She smiled, pointed to another shopper, and held her finger up in the universal 'wait a sec' gesture--I was to stick around until the customer ahead of me left so she could tell me something. When the person left she leaned over the counter a bit, and pulled the cowl of her turtle-neck down to reveal a constellation of hickeys which ran a line down her throat, where they, I assume, continued that downward path. Then she smiled again.

"Flowers?" I asked.

"Yep." she smiled.

"Told you."

How much money would we spend if it were England and France instead of Africa and Peru?

Today is world AIDS day. If you're not familiar with the severity of this pandemic, or why the continued spread of this disease is a disgrace to all human-kind, go read Dana's post. Get caught up.

Diet tips.

I had to renew my driver's license recently, which had expired. A fact I might never have known (since the MTA is my chauffeur round these parts, and I'm so hell-old I never get carded for anything anymore) had I not pulled it out of my wallet to one-up someone in a contest of horrible photo ID's. Which I won, of course.

My talent? Finding something to complain about.

You know, the thing about NOT going home for the holidays, about NOT having to witness (and be forced participate in) the insanity that is your family--when you spend the holiday weekend with good friends instead, people with whom you do not argue, with whom you share nearly identical political, religious, and social beliefs, who are great cooks, conversationalists, and confidants collectively--well...to be frank? You are robbed of some very necessary familial confrontations and all that delicious post-holiday bitching. Things you've come to rely on, really. For comfort. For catharsis. For therapy, whatever.

So I had a great holiday, and because of which, nothing else to say on the matter.

OH shut up. It's like cute times fifty. Have you no soul? And what are you doing online on Thanksgiving anyway? Go kiss Grandma.