You know those people who send you those "It's Best Friends Week" chain emails? Yeah, well. Die.
I mean it. Die. This disturbs me on so many levels, I don't know where to begin. The "It's Best Friends Week...now send this to fife thousant people, including a reply back to me, or else your nipples will fall off" message? Why not just send me an email saying, "I hate your guts and wish pain and suffering for you and yours. Cheerio!" Why go through the pretense of sending me a "Friends" email and then informing me of the horrible fate that will undoubtedly befall me if I don't adhere to your obscene junk mail instructions? And a reply back to you? So that you know I'm really reading the garbage that you sent to me and every other sorry fucker on your email list? No. No No No.
First of all, if you were my friend and you sent this to me, you are no longer. You have been fired. Thank you, next applicant, please.
Second of all, if you really want to tell me you think I'm grand, step in line, or send me an appropriate email to me saying, "Hey, you're great. Would love to hear back from ya." But thinking that you are "keeping in touch" with me by including me on this absurdity of a hello? I'll give you touch, baby. KAPOW! right to the skull. How's that for keeping in touch?
And lastly, and then I will move on, I will admit to being one of the most foolishly superstitious people alive. Funny for me, especially since I don't really believe in a Higher Power so I don't know who I really think will be enforcing this vengeance on me. Nevertheless, I still had a coronary implosion last week when my father spilled the salt and didn't throw it over his left shoulder. Sad, but true. So, yes, I understand the preposterousness of superstition and that, you might, just might, be sending this along because you are actually afraid that your nipples will be ripped right from your bosom. Now, my superstition stems from a belief in a general sort of luck, and while I can't really defend that idiocy over another, please try to be just a teeny tiny bit rooted in the world of reality, would ya please? If you actually believe this specific fate will befall you, please come have this lemonade. It's tasty. Really. It'll bring us all closer together. No seriously, at least send the email saying, "I'm a fool. But I don't need the bad luck, and neither do any of my friends." (Actual email sent to me.) At least then I know where I stand. Just stop sending it under the pretense of Best Friends Week, because I assure you, that will get you killed quicker than any Wile E. Coyote threat in the email.
Thank you, please. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ The old cliche that a dog is a man's best friend still rings true in my house.
Now, I'll concede that the venday-ha Matt swore upon me for replaying and replaying and then replaying Ignition Remix fife thousant times was entirely justified. I deserve 92 multi-colored stick pins in the eye for how many times I have made him and Sadie listen to that song. I'll accept that punishment. I don't mind. I just want to hear it one more time.
But my husband is clever. Also: He. Loves. His. Dog. Beyond all human comprehension. He'll tear up when I even mention a time in the future where the Sade will no longer be with us. He wrassles with her for hours on end. But the best part of his adoration for her is that he constructs songs for her. Yes, he does. "Candy Girl, you are my World," naturally became "Sadie Girl, you are my world" with other doggy lines converted throughout.
So, back to the sweet vengeance. What better way to punish me than to turn my new favorite song into a song for the Sade? So instead of R. Kelly's:
Now I’m not tryin’ ta be rude but hey pretty girl I’m feelin’ you The way you do the things you do reminds me of my E Lexus Coup
it becomes:
I don't mean to be uncouth but I really love my pooch it's the way that she moves 'minds me of mad Scooby Doo
You get the idea. And when he sings it to her, as the song is being played, she gets all fired up and starts barking like there's no tomorrow. And effectively: I have not heard a single word of the song.
So now, my husband and his best friend have the grandest time to my song, and for me, it's done.
Never mess with a Sicilian when dogs are on the line. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- My new best friends: my shoes. Understand that I am no Imelda Marcos. Shoes are not my world. Quite frankly, I'm not a whole woman. I think I wasn't born with the S-gene that is usually attached to the X chromosome. Shoes, they work. And while I know they should be a greater part of my fashion statement, I am mute in that department anyway so I don't really care from shoes.
But my new sandals? They are brilliant. If they could speak, they'd recite the Koran or expound on the nature of Einstein's Theory of Relativity. Their construction, with the ever-so-slight wedge heel to give the calves some definition to the broad toe strap for pinky toe comfort to the clasp halfway between your ankle and heel so you can just slip into them in necessary to the cushiness of the heel so that I'm walking on clouds, shows somebody has been thinking. And I love nothing more than clear evidence of intellect. Thank you, Shoe Manufacturer. Bravo.
And they are also be-you-tiful! They will be entered into the Miss Shoe of the Universe contest. And won't Donald Trump gooo and gaaah when he sees my pretties? Yes, he will.
And versatility? They are solid enough to wear, say climbing up a mountain but also dainty enough to be worn with shorts or a skort or a skirt or pants or a jumpsuit or.....
Now. Back to your regularly scheduled programming.