Yeah, so I got to drool over a giant Daniel Craig last night, so I was feeling good about the new TV “system.”

This afternoon, a friend was over watching the FSU/VT game with the hubs and after one look at the screen I determined that I’ve been ruined. “Why does that picture look all fuzzy and washed out?” I asked. “Cause it’s only being shown on regular network TV” they replied. A silence fell over the room.

Will I ever view TV the same way?? Tonight it didn’t look like it.

Still high from my Casino Royale experience last night, I hopped on over to Blockbuster this evening (yes I’m still living in the dark ages and haven’t subscribed to Netflix yet) on a quest to begin making up for lost time on the movie front. I sauntered in the house with Little Miss Sunshine, The Good Shepard and the first Pirates of the Caribbean movie (told you I haven’t seen a movie in ages) and some yummy greek food only to find strung out husband furiously punching buttons on the new remote and no picture on my precious new hunk viewing machine.

It was clear from the tilt of his baseball hat and the hair sticking straight out from the sides of his head that he had been working on this problem for some time. The edge in his voice when I inquired about the black screen told me he was once again ready to issue an edict that no one under the age of 37 was allowed to touch anything related to this new system. That’s right, the TV connected to the PS3 in the family room where the boys play. Nope he doesn’t want them to touch it.

Buttons continue to be pressed, the doors to the components cabinet (the only thing I picked out–cause it’s furniture ya know) are opened, components are inspected and then he begins to follow the wires up from the back of the TV into the ceiling–still muttering under his breath almost as a mantra that no one (read children) should be touching “things.”

I’d like to pause here to mention that NONE of my children are tall enough to reach the back of the television.

So I’m standing at the edge of the room watching husband become more maniacal with every minute that he can’t solve the problem. Hotties like Johnny Depp and Matt Damon are in little boxes in my hand waiting to be drooled over, and from the couch comes this little voice as one more time I ask what happened. “I think the ghost did it.” “I think the monster broke the TV.”

I began to think that I would have to go back to watching my boyfriends on my little computer screen, and if we ever were able to fix the TV that I’d have to get up every time a child wanted to watch a show or play a game. And that’s when I thought, is it better to have loved and lost then never to have loved at all?

Sometimes you’re going along surviving French III, making headway with your parents to extend your curfew and next thing you know life is raining on your perfectly, poufy, hot-rolled hair. That’s how it seemed to me, at 16, when my sister’s life started spinning out of control toppling the rest of my family over with her.

Drug addiction is an ugly thing.

Screaming, emergency room visits, rehab, changing schools, yelling, rehab, calls from the police, running away, rehab, padlocks on bedroom doors, counseling, rehab… A joke developed around the house.

Me: Mom I can’t find the camera.
Mom: We used to have one.
Together: But it wasn’t nailed to the counter. {explosion of laughter}

An addict will pawn anything to get money for drugs, whether it belongs to them or not.

You might think we sound heartless having enjoyed a laugh while my sister was obviously suffering in such a profound way, but we had too. Daily life was too hard. We all spent so many days, months–shoot years–walking on egg shells, not knowing what would happen next, worrying that we knew what would, that we needed a little levity just to cope.

Humor is a tactic my family’s employed a number of times over the years to avoid drowning in the buckets of shit that have been poured over our heads. I think it’s why one of my favorite movie scenes is the one in Steel Magnolia’s when Sally Field is cursing the world over her daughter’s coffin and Olympia Dukakis offers up Shirly MacLaine’s face for a smack. The relief of laughter after heaving sobs is like a cleansing shower.

Life sucks at times and we all need a way to figure out how to keep going. And this is all a very long way of explaining why I nominated Kris from I’m Not a Girl, Not Yet a Wino for the October Perfect Post award. The woman understands the importance of a good laugh.

Dad’s at it again.

Hi there Son,

Lotsa love, Dad

Of course I had to be the one to break it to Dad that she’s married and totally into the whole healthy living thing. Poor man. He just wants one ridiculously wealthy child–even if he needs to pimp his one and only son out to get one.

You may not come with millions. You may not need 30 minutes to make a meal.

But, the family has taken a vote and it was unanimous.*

For those of you who haven’t been following along (what? you don’t stop by her five times a day?), it started yesterday with an email from dear old dad.

Then came the grateful response:

Thank you family for all the love and support and guidance and advertising and marketing and, and, and… holy cr@p!!!

The testimony from a friend (see anonymous).

And of course the vote (have you ever tried to get four sisters to agree on anything?).

We have decided it might be time.

So…

My brother is now officially on the auction block.

If you’re interested, we’d be willing to entertain your offers for a date with my brother.

Despite the suggestion on the earlier post that we might be able to let him go sight-unseen, we felt we’d get a much better price if you could see the quality of the goods (not those goods–ewww he’s my brother).

Here are the stats:

• Lives in Houston, TX
• Has a PhD in something science related–it’s too complicated for me to understand
• He’s a young 40
• Owns his own home–and it doesn’t have wheels
• He’s gainfully employed–it was a nail-biter there for a while
• Remembers birthdays (he sent me flowers this year!!)
• Has been on the vomit comet
• He has four fabulously gorgeous sisters
• He doesn’t live near any of them
• Not a butter face

• Skilled in the way of the ninjas

• Not claustrophobic
  
• Has incredible muscle control

Oh, and he’s willing to make an ass of himself for fun.

The bidding will open at a long weekend of babysitting for his three “spirited” nephews.

*Dad was going to object but we just stuffed a chocolate chip cookie in his mouth.
**Serious inquiries only please.

From the same guy who brought us this, I submit the email my brother received today (and which we as his sisters were carbon copied).

Hi there Son,

I was in the grocery store line yesterday looking over the magazines for gossip, and there in that inimitable publication “The National Enquirer” was the news that Rachel Ray is getting divorced–is she a great prospect, or WHAT!!

Her husband–soon to be ex–is asking for the modest sum of $500 million for settlement, so you can detect that she can easily absorb the cost of a wedding. So CALL HER UP, and ASK HER OUT–I suspect it’s been some time since she dated a rocket scientist*, so she should be receptive, even enthusiastic.

An aside, in case you don’t know about Rachel, she is a young (?30-35) woman who has at least one (perhaps two) TV cooking shows, has written books on Italian cooking, travels the world doing feature shows on cooking in different countries and is very attractive, personable, and engaging. Her only possible weakness is that I have never seen her demonstrate compelling cookie cooking skills, an imperative–nay, mandatory–cooking strength. (This is not important since we can all help her with the cookies if she becomes part of the family–Hee-Hee.)

After all, sons-in-law are terrific, but really all they do is work and get fed and grumble that it’s time to go. What we need in the Hurst family is a prospective daughter-in-law immersed in a long (but formal) engagement to keep her alert as to how best to please her aging prospective father-in-law. The occasional dutiful hug and kiss is fine, but we’re talking ITALIAN COOKING here, and LOTSA dough for pasta AND travel expenses.

In addition to your status as a rocket scientist, I think you could also truly capture her interest if you told her your spaghetti sauce is better than hers–and then if neither of you are impressed after the first few dates you could at least get some wonderful recipes… While I have not consulted everyone, I am certain the remainder of the family joins me in this recommendation with the same unbridled enthusiasm.

Lotsa love, your old Dad

So then I asked dear old Dad if I could post his letter on my blog and here was his response:

Amie, glad you liked it, I think we all have to join to keep steady gentle pressure on such a timid family member. Of course you can post it on your blog, and I don’t care about the whether you use my name or not–however, perhaps you should use your brother’s name AND Email, since with such a blog as you manage he might turn up a whole HOST of prospects–all of us know that NOTHING gets the attention of Moms more than a stray single male… Lotsa love, Dad

I’m thinking he might want my brother to settle down. Any funny, cool, athletic, nice, women in the greater Houston, TX area want a date with a handsome 40 year-old NASA scientist??

And apparently, my dad would also prefer it if you were a good cook.

*in the spirit of semi-disclosure, my dear brother is involved in space medicine.

The radio was on in the car as we drove down the driveway, on our way to where I don’t remember anymore. I was in the front passenger seat unable to see over the dashboard of our maroon, two-door Ford LTD. I probably wasn’t wearing a seatbelt not because my mom didn’t care about me but because it was 1977.

My mom brought the car to a stop at the bottom of the driveway before she pulled out to make a left hand turn. That I remember.

The radio was tuned to an AM station, most likely AM1240 out of Waterbury, CT. I remember because we had to change our phone number not long before because it ended in those same four numbers–1-2-4-0. We were forever answering calls for song requests. After a weeks of apologizing to the callers and letting them know they had the wrong number, we just said we’d get the song right on and hang up the phone.

As she nudged the car forward to see beyond the hedges that lined our front lawn, the announcement came through the speakers.

“Elvis Presley is dead.”

Her foot went back on the brake.

“Elvis Pretzel is dead Mom?” I never could get his name right.

“Yeah,” she said, and we were both quiet for a moment–both of us processing the information in our own way. Me contemplating the finality of death; wrapping my seven year-old mind around such a horrific thought; worried that if he could die so too could the person I loved most in the world–the woman sitting next to me. And suddenly I was afraid. He couldn’t be dead! He couldn’t be gone!

“Isn’t there something someone can do?! Can’t they turn back the clock?” I asked. “No,” she said as she explained that if he was dead it was already too late. She was a nurse, and my mother, so I took her at her word letting the information sink in.

I wonder now what she was thinking when she heard the news. Elvis was the icon she grew up with. She had watched him on the Ed Sullivan Show with her family–my grandparents not understanding the draw. The cameras focused in on just his upper body. She watched over the years as he aged. She saw how he had become bloated. She saw too his comeback. But now he was gone.

Was part of her childhood gone too on that day?

Once again she inched the car forward and then turned left down the road. To where, I don’t remember.

It was just a moment in the car, at the end of the driveway, on a warm August day in 1977, but it has stayed with me for thirty years.

What do Gail and toothpaste have in common? Not much that I know of though I’m willing to bet that Gail uses it regularly. She’s clean that way. But I need to talk about both of these things today.

First Gail.

A big thanks to everyone who has said hi. I’m sorry if I confused anyone. Gail doesn’t have a blog (yet), but I’m trying to get her to start one. It would be filled with LOTS of juicy gossip I promise you. She just sent me some good stuff about my highschool friemesis. Heh.

Requests were made for a good Gail story. Unfortunately I don’t have specific story to tell, but rather an effect to report. First you must understand that Mamma’s Mamma is a bit of a goodie-goodie. She never smoked cigarettes, she never did drugs–except that one time she says my aunt made “marijuana cookies” and “you know how I just can’t resist cookies. But I don’t see what all the hype is. I just felt sleepy.” Yep. That’s my mom. She does enjoy her one martini a day, but she’s not a big drinker either.

Unless she’s out with Gail.

Mom, Gail and their two friends have labeled themselves the Fab Four. They get together once a month or so for a girl’s night out (I’m sure this was Gail’s idea). Now you see I have Gail to thank for loosening my Mamma up.

I called down to say hi during their annual girl’s weekend and what did I find? My mamma giggling her ass off. Apparently the girls had been drinking for quite some time and Gail had just whipped out the cigars (and Gail if it wasn’t you–don’t burst my bubble now). My mamma (remember goodie-goodie girl?) started smoking a CIGAR!

So how can I not love a woman who can get the goodie-goodie girl to be bad? Ah, a true mentor!

As for the toothpaste…

There are many uses for toothpaste. There’s, well, cleaning your teeth. And yet, there is so much more. According to the folks over at ThriftyFun.com you can use it for fixing DVDs, cleaning your jewelry and clearing up acne. It also works well as spackle and for hanging posters.

There is one thing though I’m pretty sure toothpaste should not be used near, and that my friends is your clitoris. Yep, I said it.

I’m not sure, poor Google searcher, how the terms “clitoris and toothpaste” led you to me, but if you want my opinion on the matter here it is.

Don’t come near my nethers with toothpaste!

I understand that you may be looking for a cheap way to accomplish this, but please listen to Gloria Brame (and she’s a sex therapist, you know) “I HATED IT- burn, burn, burn.”

That is all I have to say about that.

Days posting in a row: 40
Number of posts ever: 100

Day 32
Mood: relaxed