(7/29/2009) "Ah, now-a-days we are all so hard up, that the only pleasant things to pay are compliments. They're the only things we can pay." Oscar Wilde Lady Windermere's Fan
We all enjoy flattery from time to time--or all the time. But sometimes, compliments are just a little hard to interpret, and if looked at in a different light are downright rude. Here is a list of some of the most left-handed compliments I have been given.
1) "Damn, girl, you look real."
Received From: A female impersonator backstage at the Driftwood Cabaret.
Hidden Meaning: None. She thought I was a dude in drag.
2) “This is Donna. She's a hoot. Go on, do something crazy."
Received From: My late brother-in-law at a cocktail party.
Hidden Meaning: We couldn't afford real entertainment so we just invited her. Give her a couple of drinks, then wind her up and watch her go.
3) "Man, you're great. I wish you were my sister/mom/daughter-in-law."
Received From: Three different men in the past month.
Hidden Meaning: You are very cool...but not very hot. Perfect to hang out with, but not to have sex with.
Received From: A pick-up truck load of Skoal dipping good ole' boys while walking down Main Street
Hidden Meaning: No fucking clue, as far I know this only refers to an Indian condiment made of fruits, vinegar, and spices. However, the word itself means "strongly spiced" which, I suppose, could be a compliment.
5) "Like that dress...and that hair...and those shoes. You look good for a white girl."
Received From: A stylish acquaintance named Lynette who is the quintessential L.L. Cool J Around the Way Girl..
Hidden Meaning: No matter how hard you try, you will never be as fly as me. But, keep on.
6) "Well, you're just in here every day, buying booze and going out and running wild. I wish I had your life, but I have responsibilities."
Received From: The cashier at Rite-Aid who thinks my name is Rachel.
Hidden Meaning: You should simmer down. Aren't you a bit old for this?
Ahhh...the plight of an aging party girl. And still, I would rather have all these underhanded compliments any old day than to get no attention at all.
(06/29/2012) Recently a friend and I went to Rite-Aid to...what else...buy booze and shirk our responsibilities. When we entered, a chorus of “Hi Rachael” went up from the cashiers. “Hi,” I smiled and yelled back. He looked at me utterly confused. “My name is Rachael at the Rite-Aid,” I explained. Yep, three years later they still haven't noticed that the credit card I use there daily says, “Donna.”
I'm also still receiving complisults (the combined compliment/insult). The latest...
“I never thought Frank Rose would find someone so perfect for him.”
Received From: A couple who knew Frank when he drank like a dehydrated fish, had his nipples pierced, and threw an ongoing punk rock party at skate ramp in his backyard.
Hidden Meaning: Lord, help us all. You're as loud and crazy as he is.
According to the latest statistics, the average American woman will live to the age of 88. That means I am now officially and exactly middle aged. And, as much as I pretend to be perfectly comfortable with getting older, there are certain parts of it that simply suck. Today, I will indulge in bitching about three aging dilemmas with no attempt at being enlightened, gracious, or optimistic.
1) Living Well -vs- Looking Good.
At this age, in order to have a rockin’ body, you have to be seriously committed to health and fitness. Gone are the days when I could eat a whole pizza with no repercussions. But, I still love pizza, and I’m not willing to give it up. I am also not willing to give up the beer I need to wash down said pizza. Or my daily bourbon…or five. I am also not willing to spend hours exercising each day to counteract all of the above.
If someone from the Dark Ages were to walk into a modern day gym, they would no doubt assume it was a medieval torture chamber. And that is basically the way I feel about them. I do not find anything appealing about traditional work-outs, and I need to stop even trying to convince myself that I ever will. However, I just cannot accept that I am never going to have the kind of body that begs for a bikini ever again. I cannot accept that when I look in the mirror, it will forever more be like looking at a painting by Rubens. So, you see my dilemma. I want to have my beefcake, eat it, and have it want to eat me, too.
2) Living Childless -vs- Dying Alone
The only reason I have ever regretted not having a child is so that I could name it Funfetti, which I do believe is a gender-neutral moniker...Funfetti Rose. Otherwise, I never saw the appeal. Even when I was a child, I didn’t particularly like other children. I've actually considered putting a wooden cut-out, like they have at amusement parks, that states, "You must be this tall to enter" on my front porch. But, now, with old age looming, I do sometimes panic and want to adopt a child from Somalia or someplace where the circumstances are so horrific that they will be forever grateful and take care of me when I am decrepit. Do I know how wrong this is? Absolutely. Do I know that even if I adopted enough kids to empty an orphanage there are no guarantees that any of them would feel inclined to nurse my ancient ass? Of course. My own mother would have better luck showing up on the doorstep of a Anthropophobic stranger’s than on mine. But, the thought of being enfeebled and alone is horrifying.
3) Determining Dharma –vs- Settling for Salary
I truly believe that each person has a purpose. And that if they find and fulfill that purpose they will be happy and successful and prosperous and basically shit roses and rainbows. I really believe this…except about the sweet-smelling striped excrement. They say the path to finding this purpose is through following your passion and setting your sights on service. They say that if you do what you love the money will follow. They say we each have a unique role to fill in the grand drama that is the universe. Okay, I got it! Now, will someone please tell me what the hell mine is. I don’t want to just settle for a salary and adhere to the adage that “work is called work for a reason.” But, I don’t have a lot of time left to chase dreams. I’ve got to start planning for retirement and a liver transplant. I am so tired of trying to figure out what my special gift is that I’m ready to just wrap up one of my spare cats in a box and tell the world that is all it is getting from me. Then, I will become one of those people who change your oil from the dungeon at Valvoline.
That feels better. And, with all the whining out of my system, I can now focus on achieving impenetrable peace and perpetual joy, and celebrate all of the amazingly awesome aspects of being a middle-aged Bourbonista in the Bluegrass State. I am going to use my Sundays at the Lake to do some soul searching and come up with creative solutions to these daunting dilemmas. Deep thoughts will be happening in three…two…one!
(02/01/2010) For this Bourbonista, the ultimate injustice has occurred. Due to being prescribed Flagyl, a megapowerful antibiotic, I cannot drink alcohol for a week...not a dram...not a drop...not a shot of syrup for my nasty cough...not even a gargle of mouthwash. What would happen if did? According to some online studies and discussion boards set up to expose the Flagyl myth, not a damn thing. According to others, it will feel as though my stomach has been doused in gasoline, set on fire, and then dragged from my torso by a team of draft horses. I have opted to play it safe and sit patiently on the wagon until the drug has run its course. But it couldn't be a worse week.
Come Saturday, I will be living alone for the first time in my adult life. Seriously, I have never lived alone. I went from my parents house to a dorm to a campus house filled with theatre freaks, to an apartment with my short-lived, first husband, and then back to the forgiving theatre freaks. After college, I moved into a big gay party pad with my boys. From there, I went to an abode with hubby number two which transitioned straight into my life with spouse three where I have remained until now. Throw in a couple of summers of communal living at The Lost Colony and a trio of live-in boyfriends and you have the whole picture. I have never flown solo. Note: If you are a stalker or some psychopath, don't even think about it! I have a big dog, lots of objects de art that will work as weapons, and I am not beyond biting through your jugular in self-defense.
So, what shall I do to get through the next seven days of terrifying transition sober? I will blog and write pitiful poems and make lists. I will rearrange the kitchen cabinets and watch the Food Network in search of recipes for one. I will download music--a folder full of "hot tunes" to be background music when I someday have sex. I will learn to make a decent cup of coffee (the one I'm trying to choke down now is like prehistoric sludge). I'll visit my next door neighbor far more than she wants me to. I will redirect the energy usually spent by my liver to my brain and finally learn to play chess. I'll apply for much-needed employment. I'll clean out my closet tossing anything smaller than a six or bigger than a twelve. I'm aiming to live my life as a solid 8-10. I will walk my dog twice a day. I will get prepared, as best I can, for this frightening and fabulous adventure that is barreling at me like a bullet train.
(06/22/2012) A mere eight months after this blog post, Frank moved in. He brought with him a giant stuffed shark, skull bong, Christmas Story leg lamp, singing fish plaque, and the hell hound hybrid called Rufus. So much for the single life. I obviously made it through my week without bourbon...but, I'll never try that again if I can help it. I got a "big girl" job. I still can't play chess, am nowhere near a size 8, and still make a cup of coffee that would puke a dog off a gut wagon. I do not have a "hot tunes" soundtrack, however I do have hot sex. I've realized that now that I'm hitched to the right person, married life suits me just fine.
Recently, within hours of attending a small soiree at my home, my best friend and his boyfriend broke up. As his reason, the now ex-beau stated, “I just don’t fit in with those people. They’re so…interesting…so different…just not the type I feel comfortable with.” I thought back over the conversations of the evening to deduce why he had come to this conclusion.
“Yes, I have done my research and you can, indeed, get HPV from a loofah.”
“All of the cephalopods are stupid smart.”
“I know. And the Humboldt Squid seems to have sociopathic tendencies only attributed to humans.”
“My grandmother’s womb fell out. True story.”
“Do you think they changed the name of Samoas to Caramel deLites because Samoas sounds cannibalistic…like they may be made of Samoans?”
“Probably. Would you ever eat a person?”
“Absolutely. As long as I didn’t have to kill them. Flesh is flesh.”
“It still pisses me off that Sarah Palin bastardized the word 'rogue'.”
“I could become addicted to these vegan meatballs.”
“Where did you get that scar on your breast?”
“Old corkscrew injury.”
“Was he the ex-husband that wore a cape?”
“Yeah, and went around performing the Book of Revelation.”
“Do you know the proper way to remount a kayak?”
“Taking in the dimensions, water dispersion, balance, ballast…I’d assume from the rear.”
“Would you rather be a zombie, vampire, or werewolf?”
“It’s an election year. That makes it more difficult.”
“Why? When the country is leaning liberal, people fear vampires. When it is conservative, zombies get more popular.”
“Well, I choose werewolf. Does that make me a libertarian?”
Whoa…freaks of feather flock together. Looking back, it’s a wonder the poor boy didn’t run screaming instead of just hiding in the bedroom. My friends are definitely a bunch of weirdos, and that is why I love them so.
_ With the warm shawl of time-won wisdom pulled tight around my shoulders, I recline into the lap of acceptance and begin the wait.
Almost at once--Body convulses. Skin crawls. Blood curdles.
My whiskey-soaked voice rips from my chest and screams, “Fuck aging gracefully.”
I throw off wisdom’s woolen itch and drape my bare body in self-centered satin and ostrich feathers.
I kick off the sensible shoes that have “walked a mile in another’s footsteps” and slide into silver stilettos that aren’t afraid to step on some toes.
I will not sit by and wait for Father Time to molest me…to convince me to calcify...to seduce me into submission.
I will be the seductress. I’ll show up red-lipped and low-cut on his doorstep, ready for a night on the town.
I will throw the hollow old man over my shoulder and toss him in the backseat of a limousine—a long, white limo…the yin to yang of the funeral hearse…a car built for the living.
A backseat blow job.
A line of cocaine.
A glass of champagne.
And we arrive at the club.
I stroll straight through the red velvet rope…the same one I’ll hang myself with at some later date…and drift onto the dance floor.
He bows deep.
I spit in his face and smile.
Stand up, old man!
No purity balls for me, thank you.
No pledges to “go gently into that good night.”
No born-again virgin, hope I go to heaven, finally learned my lesson.
No redemption waltz here.
I lived my life like a Barbarian Queen.
I needed to be heard, I wanted to be seen.
So I laughed too loud,
And I drank too many,
I loved too hard,
Regrets I haven’t any.
Time, shall we tango?
What will it take to convince you to leave me be for a century or so?
Can I urge you with my upper thigh? Can I deter you with my derriere? Or perhaps you’re a breast man?
If my advances do not work…now a distinct possibility, being no longer utterly irresistible.
If my advances do not work…I’ll resort to violence.
I’ll kick the living shit out of time.
I’ll send him crawling on four out the door, down the street to the meat packing district.
I’ll beg. Down on bruised knees. I'll plead.
Please, just one more decade like the one just had.
Ten more years of excess.
Ten more years of too much…too much booze…too much boys…too much wine…too much women…too much sin…too much salvation…
Cause you see, Time, too much is just enough for me.
Then one more year.
One more year like the one just passed.
Another 365 days of generous, full-bosomed muses whispering in my ear and words flowing like lava…hot and alive...from my fingertips.
Then one more night.
One more naked night in the pink moonlight.
With a waiter with a washboard stomach who can philosophize at whim.
With a deep-dimpled dancing boy who called me the goddess Diana.
With a blue-eyed poet whose flannel-clad words soothe my restless soul.
With all the miraculous men whose eyelashes have yet to sweep over my flushed cheek.
One more decade of debauchery.
One more year of living dangerously.
One more night of nectar licked from the lips of forbidden fruit in white boxer briefs.
One more minute of me.
This is the prayer of an Aging Party Girl.
Swan song of a Dying Diva.
This is a testament to my last will.
___ I knew something was up Saturday when we arrived at Herrington and Frank insisted that he go get the cart. At the lake, you have to own some sort of cart, wagon, or other conveyance to transport the beer, ice, sewing machine, Sno-Cone Maker, and whatever else you decide you need to survive for 48 hours on the water. So, anyway, since Frank hurt his ankle, I have been the cart fetcher (which is better than being a fart catcher). But, he insisted that he get the cart and lead the way to the boat. We passed D on the walkway, D is one half of a gay couple who loves Texas Hold 'Em, NASCAR, bass fishing, and have been together for thirty-plus years. He said “Happy Birthday.” How did he know my birthday was coming up? Hhhmmm...
At our boat, I stepped onto the deck and realized that it is all set up—the striped cushions were on the chairs, the orange place mats were on the table, the towels were on the wicker shelf. I asked M, who sometimes out of pure sweetness opens up our boat for us, if he was responsible. No. Hhhmmm...
Suddenly, folks began swarming toward our end of the dock for no apparent reason. Triple Hhhmmm...
I turned the key and stepped inside. A bright blue kayak covered in bows and balloons was taking up the entirety of our living room. Frank was grinning from ear to ear. Bystanders were waiting for me to squeal. I just stared...stunned. After convincing me he was working late, my stealthy husband had sneaked down the night before, lugged a kayak all the way to our end slip, and arranged it just so. Sweet, definitely. Insane, possibly. The most physically-challenging activities I take place in are roller skating, bar hopping, tap dancing, and sex. I am only radical in my thoughts and extreme in my emotions. I know that kayaking is not like skydiving or rock climbing, but the same type of people that love those things love them a kayak, as well. I am not normally one of those people.
So, why in the world would he buy me a kayak? Simple—because I asked for one. Why on earth did I ask for a kayak? Because each morning, when I'm manning the turtle buffet, this lovely older man glides by in his kayak looking so sage and serene that I always think, “I need me some of that, and obviously you get that by getting one of those.” And, now, I had me one.
What the hell was I going to do with it? Learn to kayak. Like many, I hate to be watched while trying new things. To make matters worse, last Saturday, everyone, their brother, and their gynecologist was down visiting. But, I was determined to prove to Frank, and more importantly to myself, that I loved my birthday present. So, I climbed in and, with the hordes gawking, took off across the lake. Just when I was starting to enjoy myself, I heard a splash. With great care not to capsize, I looked over my shoulder. Rufus, our lab/hell hound hybrid was closing in quick. Holy Shit! Nothing can ruin your first kayak trip like a drowned dog. I somehow managed to coax him out on the bank on the other side, let him rest, and then lead him across to the ladder where I could shove him back to safety. Normally, this misadventure might have been enough to dissuade me from ever picking up the paddles again, but after a couple dozen of shots of liquid courage with lime, I decided on a do-over.
By now, I'd changed out of my bathing suit and into a full-length leopard print kaftan. I climbed in the boat. I drifted out into water. I turned to find the cooler compartment. And, I went headlong into the lake, flipping the kayak over on top of me. The excess fabric soaked up what felt like fifty gallons of liquid. The kayak took on another fifty. I swam back, kayak in tow, sputtering and spent, to the same ladder where I hoisted up the hound earlier. Laughter echoed from the floating masses. I learned Lake Lesson #32—Never Kayak in a Kaftan.
The next day, I awoke with determination burning in my stomach (or maybe it was just acid from the former day’s festivities). Anyway, I decided I would not be beaten by a piece of molded plastic. I dressed appropriately, wore a life jacket, packed bottled water, and set out down the S-turns. An hour later, I returned triumphant. I even felt a little sage and serene. I'm looking forward to kayaking again this weekend. And, I have decided to name her, “Cleodora.”
_ (01/07/2008) I have a long and tumultuous relationship with Ra. Being from the Coppertone Baby age when parents freely took their toddlers to the beach, sat them in the sun to bake, and then let vicious dogs rip off their bikini bottoms, this fair skin has had more than its share of burns. By Junior High, I learned that she who had the darkest tan got the most male attention at the Mt. Sterling City Pool. So each spring, the minute the sun dispersed enough rays to lay out without my teeth chattering, I slathered myself in Hawaiian Tropic oil, grabbed the aluminum foil tanning mat, and began, what I know now, was the mummification process. Though I have to admit, I still love that freshly greased-up feeling and Pina Colada smell. Come high school, my hometown got its first tanning bed; I fully embraced the cancer coffin.
Come college, I started working summers at The Lost Colony, an outdoor theatrical production that tells the story of a bunch of British Colonist who wander into the woods and never come back. I played an Indian. In order to turn Native American, one was required to wear this stage make-up called Texas Dirt. This disgusting concoction stained clothes, sheets, and was so stubborn that it would stay in your pores until the following Christmas. One season, the costumer decreed that if you could get naturally dark enough, you didn’t have to wear the crap. I was determined to gain an Indian complexion. And, with daily AM visits to the tanning bed followed by 4 hours on the beach, I somehow managed. I’m quite certain that one summer aged me, at least, ten years. To make up for it, I have not stepped into the sun without an SPF 25 or above, even in the dead of winter, for the last twenty years, and yet, come July, when everyone else is all bronze, I too long for color.
When you are naturally the color of biscuit dough, but don’t want melanoma, there is only one option. Self-tan, of course. But, despite the fact that any common yahoo can buy the Banana Boat Summer Color Sunless Tanner from Rite-Aid without so much as a prescription, self-tanning is not to be screwed with. It is a very precise science and not for amateurs. It requires flexibility, sobriety, patience, and a loofah.
At least on three occasions, my own forays into self-tanning have ended with disastrous results. There was the time that I headed out to Central Park without letting my tan properly set, and then got caught in a downpour which turned me into a human tiger. Also, there was the time that I forgot to wash my hands, so it looked like I’d been playing with radioactive Playdough. And then, there was New Year’s Eve 2006. Though I had already self-tanned earlier that day, I didn’t feel I was sufficiently amber, so I had another go round with the Loreal lotion. We arrived at the party at 10pm by 11pm, I was Latina, by midnight, I had the same skin tone as Tina Turner. The picture above was taken during my transformation at approximately 11:15 PM.
But, even with these tanning debacles, I am brave and vain enough to try again and will do so tomorrow. Therefore, the next time you see me I will either inspire you to Ooohhh…and Aaahhh…and call me Bronze Goddess or to burst into the Oompa Loompa song, for which I will slap you.
(06/08/2012) After the recent emergence of the “Tan Mom,” I think we have all learned that it is neither heroin nor nicotine that are the most addictive substances on earth—it is UV rays. As far as self-tanning, it freaks Frank out. He refuses to touch bronzing lotion even with surgical gloves on. And since no one but a contortionist can effectively and evenly do their own back and I have yet to acquire a monkey slave (fingers crossed for upcoming birthday), I no longer even attempt it. However, life on the water comes with a certain amount of sun, even when you’re not actively trying, so I hope to get just enough color this summer not to be mistaken while swimming for the legendary giant albino catfish of Herrington Lake.
“Clothes are never a frivolity: they always mean something.” James Laver
If the above quotation is true, then when it comes to Frank, I am screwed. After realizing his closet has not been organized since he moved in, I decided to wash and reshelve all of his tee shirts. Based on these, I would challenge the most lauded cultural anthropologist to try to figure him out without their egghead exploding.
First out of the laundry basket, was his favorite White Zombie concert memento. It bears the words, “Astro-Creep 2000, Songs of love, destruction, and other synthetic delusions of the electric head.” Also on it, is a neon-green zombie with a frightening phallic tongue and matching fuchsia hair and nipples. He also has a Misfits concert shirt with toddler zombies eating each other. I may see a theme.
Second in line, we had a Kelly green number with a faux tux front replete with over-sized bow tie meant to worn on St. Patrick’s Day. During our first year together, he somehow thought St. Paddy’s was in late February and showed up to take me out to drink green beer a month too early. When I informed him that he was thirty days off, he just shrugged and wore it anyway.
After that, I fished out a like-new shirt with Matt Hoffman (Frank’s BMX hero) captured on cotton breaking the record for going 50.6 feet above the ground on his bike. I know all about this one because I have been forced to watch the documentary celebrating it, The Birth of Big Air” no fewer than 39 times.
Next, I found a tattered and torn cleaning rag with sleeves. It has Popeye emblazoned on the front flexing his muscles and gripping a can of spinach. Above him it reads “I ams what I ams.” It is stained, ripped, and stretched out. I threw it in the trash.
Fourthly, I fold his S&M logo shirt. S&M actually stands for some cycle company, not sadomasochism. However, this shirt pains me most. On it, is this super hot chick with dark curls and plush lips wearing a leather bikini and holding a whip. I am legitimately intimidated by an iron-on, and hate to stand next to her in public.
Next, came an understated brown one with “Woodward” written up the shoulder. He has another “Woodward” shirt that is still in the plastic bag. He is afraid to wear either. Woodward was the skate/bike camp he attended when he destroyed his ankle only two weeks after our nuptials and in some ways changed the course of our marriage. I blame that place for dozens of sleepless nights, several gray hairs, and 10 pounds of stress-induced belly fat.
The next three shirts were nods to movies. They're equally self-explanatory and contradictory. There’s The Big Lebowski tribute with the words “The Dude Abides” circling the floating head of Jeff Bridges. There is a black number that states “Expressions of Vader” and has twenty different emotions listed under identical depictions of the completely emotionless masked villain. He thinks this one is hysterical. I beg to differ. And, finally, we have an orange “Dukes of Hazard” tee that boasts the General Lee’s number--“01.” I admit I occasionally wear this to sleep in.
On the very bottom, I found a simple white tee with the words “Never Trust Anything that Bleeds for Seven Days and Doesn’t Die” in red Old English lettering. This one immediately joined Popeye in the trash.
_ (08/04/2009) Being alone, on this dark and dreary afternoon, I'm just not feeling quite my spunky and funky self, but I have tricks up my sleeve to combat the rainy day blues.
1) Throw a Private Dance Party.
I personally prefer to crank up the stereo, strip down to my underwear, and accessorize with a feather boa, but I guess you could keep your clothes on. In my repertoire of songs for today's dancarama are:
It's Raining Men by: The Weather Girls
Dancing in the Moonlight by: Toploader
About a Girl by: The Academy Is...
Last Christmas by: Cascada--Yes, I know it's August, but I was the kid who made Eddie, the organist at The Steak House, sing Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer all year round. Some songs are good enough to be seasonless.
2) Make yourself a hot toddy and get cozy from the inside out.
Hot Buttered Rum
1 teaspoon powdered sugar
1/2 cup boiling water
1/4 cup rum
1 Tablespoon butter
Freshly grated nutmeg
3) Pen a love...or rather LUST letter to someone forbidden that you know you'll never send...the more graphic the better.
4) Masturbate...the above letter should give you all the inspiration you need.
5) Write all of your sins on your body in lipstick and then stand naked in the deluge and let the water wash them away, leaving you clean and free to start sinning anew.
Start back at #1 and repeat until the sun returns. Feel free to borrow any of these remedies, though they have not been approved by the AMA.
(06/01/2012) What a difference three years makes. Back then, I was so prone to boredom that there were times I would march around the house banging two pots together just to break the silence. But after the monumental events, chaos, and challenges of this past year, I am thrilled to be at home on this rainy day…alone…with no noise, no drama, and nothing to do but sit here and write a few words. I still love a good solo dance party, and have added I'm Not Gonna' Teach Your Boyfriend How to Dance with You by The Black Kids to my play list. I’m fatter so I don’t get cold as easy, and can therefore substitute a glass of Merlot for a hot toddy. Though I still love the thought of writing a raunchy lust letter to some forbidden fellow, for the first time in my life, I don’t want anyone other than the man I’m with (Go ahead throw up in your mouth a little, I know you want to). Masturbation…still enjoyable, but I’m getting the real thing way more often, so it’s not as necessary as it was back then. As for writing my sins on my body…I’ve stopped believing in sin in any traditional sense. I now deem SIN as Self Inflicted Nonsense like self- loathing, jealousy, unwarranted fear, shame, guilt, inhibition…the feelings that stand in the way of joy, love, peace, and success. Those are what we need to be delivered from. But, I still may put on some red lipstick and go stand naked in the rain...or better yet combine Remedy 1 and 5 and dance nude in the deluge. That should shock the neighbors.
the bourbonistA, Promoting Debauchery and stamping out political-correctness one blog at a time.