Tis The Season: Let's Talk Christmas Movies

As a child, each year my family would gather for Thanksgiving either in Bucks County, PA or Hollidaysburg, PA (at my grandmother's house).  On this day, there was the usual traditions of turkey, football, and the MACY'S Day Parade.  There was also a tradition that was unique to my family.  "White Christmas".  Yeah, the classic Christmas movie was our kick off to the holiday season.  

As children, and now as adults, my brother and I excelled at movie memorization.  My entire family tree speaks fluent movie quote.  David and I, to this day, can in fact, mute the TV on "White Christmas" and do the dialogue for the movie (songs included).  Don't act like you're not impressed.

So, this got me thinking tonight. What are the best Christmas movies?  Do we need to be restricted to the classics?  I think not.  I took a poll of some of my peers and here are what we believe the Top 10 Christmas Movies for your holiday season are...

• 10. Muppet's Christmas Carol: I dig any Muppet movie and although Dickens is so depressing 90% of        the time, I do love the story.
• 9.  A Christmas Story: Whether you really like this movie or not- we all know it. Every year, I swear I'm gonna make a pink bunny suit for my brother and we constantly use the line of, "Fra-GEE-lay. Huh, must be Italian."
• 8. It's A Wonderful Life: We all know that it has to be on every Christmas movie list.  I mean, I'm as big a fan of Jimmy Stewart as the next person, but in the words of Gob Bluth, "Come one!".  Surely, I'm not the only person who falls asleep 18 minutes into this one and wakes up at the end in time for Clarence to get his wings, right?
• 7. Emmett Otter's Jug Band Christmas: I may be partial on this one, but it is one of my favorites for personal reasons. Again, we're talking a Muppet Movie, but one with a rock band in it and narrated by Kermit himself.  My dad loves this movie. He knows all the songs (as do I) and he used to watch this with us in the winter every year.  If you can find it-- buy it. Your kids will thank you for it.
• 6. Elf: Some will argue that is should have been higher on the list and  while I do love it, I think it's fair placement.  This movie has come to embody not only, the fun holiday frivolity, but also the heart warming family mushiness.  You can watch it over and over and for months it makes it okay to answer your phone with, "Buddy the elf! What's your favorite color?"
• 5. Scrooged:  Two words: Bill Murray.  Yeah, I said it. Bill Murray is amazing in this.  It'd be tough to find a movie he's not amazing in, but Bill Murray+Christmas+Dickens= Christmas Miracles.
• 4. Miracle on 34th Street:  The ORIGINAL! Not that heinous remake from the 90's.  What they were thinking with that garbage, I do not know, but the original with Maureen O'Hara and a young Natalie Wood cannot be beat! I prefer the black and white version.
• 3. National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation:  There are so many quotes that pop into my head when I hear this title. So many sight gags and great visuals! And let's not forget Julia Louis-Dreyfus as the yuppie next door.  This movie inspires me to check my Christmas tree for squirrels every year.
• 2. Die Hard: No, I'm not joking.  Yes, Die Hard is a Christmas movie.  The whole thing goes down at an office Christmas party.  Good old, John McClane has to save the day from Hans m*ther f&^%in' Gruber! In essence, he saves Christmas! He's like Santa, but in a wife beater and without shoes. 
• 1. White Christmas: It just is. 

Below are some clips from my favorite parts of the above list. I hope you enjoy them and may your Thanksgiving and Christmas holidays be merry and bright and all that....

Christmas Story

Elf

Emmett Otter

Keep an eye out for Wendal

Scrooged

Christmas Vacation

White Christmas

Die Hard

Rise and Possibly Fall of the Slutty Halloween Costume:

Have We Finally Gone Too Far?

It's that time of year again! Whorenado Watch 2012 is on! That's right, Halloween is just around the corner and for every little boy out there trying to decide whether he should be Ironman, Captain America, or Thor (because let's face it, they don't want to be Hawkeye); there is a girl between 16 and 35 trying to figure out how to fashion a costume out of two strips of material and a few bra hooks.  Wait, just a hot minute there!  This is NOT a diatribe about how as women, we should be more modest in our Halloween efforts.  Oh, hell no.  This being an election year and all, you should know that I am PRO-Slutty Halloween Costume.  I run on a platform of thigh-highs, high heels and Jersey hair (Emily Bachovin knows about the Jersey hair).  That being said-- Have we gone too far? Have we surpassed fun-slutty for the truly tasteless? 

Let's examine this further, with the aide of pictures--

Halloween 2007

Me

Tap House Toga Night

Well, those are two of the costumes from my past.  Not overly slutty, but then I'm not one blessed with the body to rock to Super Slut costumes that are out there.  With that, please allow me to present some of The Best I've seen in Slutty Costumes:

Slutty Storm Trooper?                             Slutty Robin?                                           Slutty Alice?                          

            

Slutty Banana?

None of these are so horrible and I'm sorry, but the banana just made me audibly giggle in the middle of a Starbucks while typing this.  Girls, if you don't live in or go to New Orleans for Mardi Gras, Halloween is your chance to whore it up.  Let your freak flag fly if you must, but let's see some imagination.  If you're going to be a slut--don't go with something that you'll see while you're out.  What I mean is-- Slutty Cat-witch-nurse-devil have been done! If you show up like that, you're going to look like just one of a whore herd. There'll  be dozens of people like you! Get creative or you'll only be lost in all the noise and left behind like Candy Corn in the mixed bowl of the holiday.

So, this year, I've had to ask--Have we gone too far?

What you are about to see is the evidence that we have in fact gone too damn far...

What the F*&^ was that?  Yeah, that's right...Slutty Sesame Street.  Mother of God, why? WHY?  

Okay, I get the appeal of the costumes mentioned earlier, but what guy in his right mind looks at a woman in an Ernie costume and thinks, "Daaaaammmnnn, I'm bangin' Ernie TOnight!"  No one, ladies! No man does that because it's just not right! Big Bird taught you that one of these things is not like that other--one of these things are different.  Big Bird is not who he wants to wake up next to! 

Some of you may think that maybe I'm not being fair and to that I say, "You can shove it."  I'm a big fan of Sesame Street since I grew up near Sesame Place (which is dedicated to the beloved PBS Show) and while I want them to make as much money as possible--(insert sentence which tells Mitt he can suck it too), we need reasonable limits! This is messing with my childhood!  Also, it's just weird.  If you dressed up as a non-slutty Street character, you'd get a laugh and most likely a few free drinks, but in this forum--it's just wrong. 

Awesoemly Funny Version

 

To review:

It's okay to go all out for Halloween, but don't scar anyone's childhood memories.  Also, Please remember that there are plenty of characters who are slutty enough as is and should not be overlooked:

Case in point:

Harley Quinn                          Princess Lea                                              Princess Jasmine

Chun Lee (Street Fighter)                     Storm (X-Men)

Ariel: The Little Mermaid

Trust me, these are good options are are more alluring than dressing up as Elmo in a red push-up bra.  Ask any straight man if he ever wanted to nail Ariel--the answer is yes.  Weirdos.  

Well, that's enough ranting for my night--I have my own costume to finish and it's somewhere in the middle. Sally of The Nightmare Before Christmas.  There will be pictures I'm sure. Happy Whoring! 

Playful Mutterings of the Shock Victim: 

Amy Gets Hit By A Car: Take 1

Upon asking for suggestions today, my dear friend, Kelly, mentioned the story of when I was hit by a car.  Not funny?  Just about anything is funny when you put the right spin on it.  

So, here it is, the events that follow are factual--I couldn't make this shit up...

Just before Christmas 2006, I'd been suspended from my job for a week.  I was waitressing at the good old Coconut Creek Grille & Tap House then.  It was a little place that had good food, cheap beer and interesting clientele.  Anyway, after an extended Christmas in Pennsylvania with my family, I came back to Florida with a few days off to spare.  At that time, my trusty 2000 Pontiac Grand Prix was out of commission--some dispute I had with the state of Florida regarding her registration.  In loo of having a vehicle, I rode my bike everywhere--and I mean everywhere.  Want to go to Target? It's only 2 miles--ride.  Want to go to get your nails done?  It's only 5 miles--ride.  Want to go to Barnes & Noble? The Mall?  Only 8 miles--RIDE.  

I dig the feeling of being on a bike.  The breeze, the sheer exertion it takes to get you where you want to go, the odd looks you get from people when you didn't realize you were singing along out loud to whatever you're listening to on your headphones.  All and all, it's fun. Don't get me wrong, I don't go all Meg Ryan in City of Angels or anything.  Naturally, has it's downside too.  Rain isn't so much fun, if the winds are against you, you feel like you're not getting anywhere, and of course--people are assholes who don't look for cyclists.  Now, I'm no expert, but I'd like to think that if there is a bike lane or a sidewalk, you should be looking to see if someone is in there.  Not in Florida.  To quote Norm Peterson, "It's a dog eat dog world out there and I'm wearing milkbone underwear."  or at least that's how it feels.  I'm not a weaver through traffic, nor do I take crazy chances when I get to red lights.  I have lights mounted on the front and back of my bike to make myself as visible as possible and let's face it, I'm not tiny. Oh, and my bike was bright yellow.  Still, with all these precautions, I've gotten clipped by sideview mirrors at least a dozen times, I've had people slam their brakes on to avoid hitting me when I have the right of way and I'll admit that I've kicked at a headlight or two out of exasperation with people.  Bottom line--it's dangerous out there.  

So, on with the story at hand...

On January 3rd, I woke up to realize that my cell phone was not working.  Needing to have to looked at, I knew that there was an AT&T store in the Coral Square Mall (Coral Springs, Florida).  It was only 8 miles away and it was a beautiful day, so I got ready in my favorite white tennis skirt and blue t-shirt (yeah, I had shorts underneath.  What do you think I am? Dumb or something?).  The ride to the mall was great!  The wind was with me, the sun was shining and I had a disc player with fresh batteries (Wow, that really dates this story, huh? I didn't have an iPod then...Odd, how Apple has defined my tech history.).  Looking back, I realize that this was the calm before the shit storm that was approaching.

Trying to be safe, I was riding north on the sidewalks (since there was no bike lane) and was happily approaching my local book store.  As I rode toward the shops, I was to pass in front of a parking lot entrance.  No worries, I thought.  There is a stop sign on the way out of that lot.  So, I continued to ride on and as I passed the stop sign (into the crosswalk), only then did I see a rather large van coming at me. 

Ground Zero

 

The actual moment I got hit is fuzzy.  I don't remember what it felt like when the bumper hit me, but I remember that sound it made--even over my music.  I remember that free fall feeling of sailing over the handlebars of my bike and I remember the way my cheek seemed to explode with pain upon impact on the road.  It was then that I looked up.  I was in the middle of the right hand lane of traffic on one of South Florida's busiest roadways and sure enough, there was a champagne colored Jeep Grand Cherokee coming straight at me.  I knew I couldn't move out of the way.  This is it--Well, it's been fun.  So--I just put my head back down.  

Thankfully--In that Jeep was an off duty cop and his wife, who is a nurse.  They stopped, called 911 and apparently made the d-bag who hit me stay since he was going to leave.  Two more nurses pulled over and got me out of my book bag and onto my back.  I tried to force myself to sit up since at this point, I was about ready to freak out.  They wouldn't let me for fear of neck injury.  They asked over and over--"Are you okay? Do you have pain?  Where does it hurt?"

My only response, "I don't know." Over and over I repeated myself and each time I was getting more upset.  

After I don't know how many minutes, the first coherent thing popped out of my mouth. "Where the F*&^ is my bike?"

"It's right over there." Someone told me.

"Don't let anyone take it!" I was way more concerned over my $100 Walmart bike than I was about my injuries, I guess.

Within the time that the EMTs arrived, someone used their phone to call the only number I could think of--The Tap House.  Not my parents--Nope, my job.  Sad, isn't it?  In a way I was calling a parent, I guess.  When the bartender answered, I announced, "I need Vikki" who is not only a former boss, but a dear friend and one of the people I consider family here in Florida.  The bartender said that Vikki was there and asked if I was okay. All I got to say was, "There was a car," and that's when all the screaming started.  Not about to listen to that given my condition, I handed the phone to one of the nice nurses and told her, "You talk to her. She'll yell at me."

I was right too.  Once I was loaded onto a backboard, complete with a C-collar (sexy, right?) I was slid into an ambulance like a loaf of bread into an over and again--The screaming started.  I could hear Vikki asking, or rather demanding to know where I was, telling people she was my mother so they'd let her by.  That ambulance door opened and she let me have it.  "I swear to GOD, young lady! It's like you're one of my own F*&^ing kids! You pull a stunt like this again and you won't need to worry about the car! I'll kill you myself!"  So, here I am--strapped down, unmedicated as yet, and now in tears because my Florida Mother is mad at me.  The female EMT promptly scolded Vikki, saying she was supposed to be there to calm me down; not upset me further.  True to form, she turned on a dime and cooed over me, "It's okay mami, Vikki's here. You're okay."  And I cried even harder--until the ambulance door opened again. 

She looks sweet, but don't make her mad.

"Amy! Doctor Bob, here!" Sidenote--  Dr. Bob was one of our daily regulars.  He's a character that I could probably write an entire book about, but for now all you need to know is that he's got a dirty mind and the ability to fix almost anything! 

Dr Bob

"Oh, shit." I mumbled.

"You a doctor?" The female EMT asked.

"Proctologist." He smiled and offered her an exam.  Yeah, that's Dr. Bob.  He told me he'd take my bike and see about fixing it and Vikki followed us to the hospital.  The female EMT stayed in the back with me and tried her best to make me feel better--

"You're doing good! You didn't even break a nail!"  I politely did not tell her that that was because my face had broken my fall. 

They ran the normal battery of tests and when the doctor finally came to see me, I'd already had Vikki call my parents and calm them down.  I was shocked when the doctor's first words were, "Well, this is your lucky day, Amy."  The shock must've shown on my face because he went on to explain--"You've got great defensive instincts. Your cheek hit the ground first.  I want you to realize that if you'd turned your head two inches to the right, you would've broken your nose and knocked out your teeth.  Two inches to the left and you would've probably broken your neck.  So, this is your lucky day."

"Well," I conceded, "when you put it like that, I guess you're right."

I went home with pain meds and more bruises and the next day--I went back to work (I only had 2 more days to make my rent payment).  I looked like I'd been beaten up.  Two black eyes, my cheek eaten up by roadrash along with my legs.  Good for tips--bad for my ego.  

I was a mess, but I do have to admit that yes, I got lucky.  I got back on my bike and am still riding.  I'm careful as always, perhaps even more now. 

Regardless of everything, how many people can say they've gotten hit by two cars and can tell the tales behind them with a smile.  Don't get me wrong, I'm convinced that if I'm hit again--it won't be pretty, but it's not going to stop me from going out there to do something I love.  So, put that in your juicebox and suck it! 

I'm Never Helpless If There's a Frying Pan Within My Reach: You've Been Warned

Let's talk kitchen weaponry tonight, shall we? Sounds good to me after the day I had at work.   After much research, in both film and literature, I've settled on my defense of choice-- The Frying Pan.  Before we jump headlong into the reasons why I think this is genius, allow me to share with you the wise words of Cranky Agnes, via the pen of Jennifer Crusie--

Agnes and the Hitman by Jennifer Crusie and Bob Mayer

Cranky Agnes Column #1

“Pan Hunting”Do not be seduced by those big-box come-ons, full of “complete sets” of extraneous cookware. A complete set is whatever you need, and maybe all you need is a wok and a hot place to grill your bacon. In a pinch, I can do it all with my good heavy nonstick frying pan. Besides the obvious braising, browning, and frying, I can make sauces and stir-fries in it, toast cheese sandwiches and slivered almonds, use the underside to pound cutlets, and in a pinch probably swing it to defend my honor. If I could find a man that versatile and dependable, I’d marry him.

 No truer words have been printed, my friends--except maybe "Candy is dandy, but liquor is quicker".

In the last few years, I've noticed a good amount of frying pans being wielded with intent to injure or at least deter an attacker.  Not that this is anything new, really.  Movies have been using this gag for a long time.  A simple search produced the following movies that used a sturdy skillet to protect and serve.

"I will use this.

1. Kill Bill
2. Tangled
3. Throw Mama From The Train
4. Raiders of the Lost Arc
5. Drop Dead Fred
6. Who Framed Roger Rabbit?
7. Fried Green Tomatoes
8. Hancock
9. Lord of The Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring
10. any number of Tom & Jerry cartoons...

Now, I'm not saying to solve any and all disputes you have with a cast-iron skillet.  No, that could cause death or a plate in the head of whomever you've just brained.  And let's face it--jail time is what you're trying to avert here, is it not?

Jessica Rabbit: Not bad, just drawn that way.

To use Agnes Crandall, my favorite fictitious, angry food columnist as an example. Here's a quick summation of Agnes; she's hit no less than 4 men in her life with a frying pan--2 cheating fiances (neither of which die, but one does have a metal plate in his head), 1 dog-napper (who dies when he falls into her unknown basement), and one hitman (who ironically turns out to be the good guy).  And after all this assault, battery and self-defense, what was her punishment? Only one conviction after fiance #2 got bopped (court appointed therapy and community service).  I'm thinking this is the smartest self-defense tool out there.  

Yes, there is the sheer comedic factor too. The movie-esque sound effect that we all conjure up in our minds which we think about actually doing this.  

Tangled it the perfect example.  Not only is it giggle-worthy when Rapunzel cracks Flynn Ryder in the head, but there are few things that make me laugh out loud like when she brains herself during her "Too weak to handle myself out there, Mother? Tell that to my frying pan!" moment in the mirror.

Part of my fascination with this, might just be the creativity aspect. I mean, anyone can snatch up a knife in the kitchen, but who the hell wants to stab someone? I'm not Jack The Ripper. I don't think I could ever stab anyone.  Let's face it...a. it's messy. Who the hell wants to clean that up? b. I can barely get a straw into a juice box without hurting myself. c. I don't think I'd do well in jail.  

So in summation-- If you're at home and you have an attacker situation; my advice is to grab your trusty frying pan and swing for the fences.  And if you're asking yourself, "What's the best pan to use?"  Here are some parting words from Anthony Bourdain--who knows a thing or two about frying pans--and possibly battery.

"Let me stress that again: heavyweight. A thin-bottomed saucepan is useless for anything.  (...) A proper saute pan should cause serious head injury if brought down hard against someone's skull. If you have any doubts about which will dent—the victim's head or your pan—then throw that pan right in the trash."   — Anthony Bourdain, Kitchen Confidential

Any questions? Fire away in the comments.  I'm off to make sure my kitchen is properly armed.

"Frying Pans! Who knew, right?" --Flynn Ryder 

Welcome to the Funky Bunch: How Mark Wahlberg Brings People Together...

Annyong!  Over the weekend I did something I haven't done in ages.  I selfishly requested a weekend off for no other reason than to watch college and professional football.  Yeah, I'm that girl.  No, I don't apologize for it.  The topic of Walhberg brothers came up while I was at Casa del Schaefer. UM was getting an ass whooping at the hands of The Irish and conversation turned to Mila Kunis' lack of an ass and guys she's in movies with... BOOM! Mark Walhberg circa Ted.

I have to start off by saying one thing here-- I am deeply saddened when people mention Mark Wahlberg and  don't really know the vast and influential history that is goes with that name alone.  Now, people in my own age bracket really don't do this, but this younger generation worries me.  These are the same kids who not only got medals and trophies simply for participating (which is worrisome enough), but they are also the kids who think The Parent Trap is a Lindsay Lohan movie! It gives me so little hope for the future.  These are the kids that don't know about The Funky Bunch!  I mean, how do you not know about the early years of Marky Mark when he had his own bunch of funksters?  

Case in point:

Ladies, we all remember when we saw this video.  I don't care how old you were, you were like Daaaaaaaaammmmmnnnn.  Admit it, you still are.  

That being said, if you didn't know about this video, then you wouldn't understand the hilarity of Stranz Van Waldenberg saying "Not only did we embarrass Marky Mark, we let down the Funky Bunch." in Blades of Glory.

If you don't know about the Funky Bunch, do you know of the pop royalty that calls itself big brother to Marky Mark?  How could you? I mean, Donnie Walhberg was what was up when I was 8.  He and the other New Kids on The Block that is. Now, as the host of this gathering said, "He wasn't even good enough to be a New Kid then!" I know you're expecting a rash of NKOTB puns and jokes--and who am I to disappoint? 

"He just didn't have the right stuff!" I yelled and quickly followed up with, "Maybe he couldn't hang tough then?"  I know what you're thinking, Really? You all laughed at this?  Hell yes, we did.  I love a good pun and my friends are always open to a stupid joke.  

Naturally, this led to a debate of the other things that this younger generation of kids who weren't spanked probably didn't know about Marky Mark--

• Most are too young to have seen him as Dirk Diggler in Boogie Nights (although you never know nowadays)
• Big Brother Donnie is the emaciated guy who killed Bruce Willis in The Sixth Sense.
• He play Vincent Papale (which maybe only people in Philly care about, but dammit I love sports movies!)
• He was not only in The Departed, but stole the movie from a cast including Matt Damon, Leonardo DiCaprio and, oh yeah, Jack F*%#ing Nicholson!  (Special thanks to Chris for assigning The Departed as homework when we worked together.)
• He was the only good thing about The Happening.

So, yes, youngsters, Mark Walhberg was in Ted ( and absolutely hysterical).  And yes, he still looks darn good, but you're really missing out if you're not down with the Funky Bunch.  I think it's safe to say that after all these years, he's got the right stuff--no pun intended--well, maybe a little bit.

Martinis & Oily Bohunks: A Night Out With My Family & Members of My Church Choir

Today I shared the link for this site with two of my favorite people and much to my chagrin; my Uncle Tom, or Unc as I call him, said he wouldn't mind being the "butt" of one of my stories. Well, I don't think he gets that title in this one, but he is definitely my costar.  

This one's for you, Unc...

Now, it's helpful to know in the beginning here, that my Uncle Tom is my dad's youngest brother and while this apple didn't fall too far from the tree, people sometimes wondered if my dear brother and I hadn't been part of a different branch. If you know what I mean and I think you do.  Yeah, we are frighteningly like Uncle Tom.  Our inappropriate sense of humor is a dead ringer for his and our ability to make a  mockery about the most serious of topics has always caught people off guard. 

This tale starts with me at the tender age of 21 driving from where I studied in Lock Haven, PA to the suburbs of Pittsburgh.  For what, you ask? A yearly pilgrimage to Uniontown, PA with my dad and my church choir. Seriously, I'm not making this up. My church was an interesting blend of traditional and, well, completely bizarre.  We had all the normal stuff; Sunday School, choir practice and the occasional too long sermon, but we also had a hall--with a bar--with a liquor license.  Yeah, sounds interesting, right? Believe me, it is.  Great people too. I grew up with at least eight sets of honorary grandparents, which believe me, when my birthday rolled around was sa-weet!  Ah, back to trek westward on I-80. It's a crumby drive and more often than not (including this trip) landed me in a heap of debt via a friendly Pennsylvania State Trooper, but when all was said and done, I made it to Unc's house where I was welcomed, as always with people hugs and doggy kisses. My Uncle Tom and Aunt Bobbie always had food and booze to great me and their company was one word: primo.  

My father called to inform me that we'd all be going to dinner at Monterey Bay Fish Grotto, which I have to admit made the speeding ticket totally worth it! So, having gotten done up for a 4 Star dinner, we piled into the car and met up with my grandfather and his wife, Gertie, for drinks at bar while waiting for my parents and the choir members. There would be 14 of us total for dinner, so take a moment and imagine that amount of alcohol I'm about to ingest while we wait--go ahead. I'll wait. Yeah, it's about to go down Holy Ghost style.  

While at the bar, being the little explorer that I am, I came across a "Specialty Martini" list.  Oooooooohhh! These look like fun, I thought. Just then, I heard it--

"Ezmeralda, do you want one of those?" Yes, my Pap Pap called me all sorts of nicknames, but Ezermalda was because I was a wild little gypsy as a child apparently. Not much has changed actually.  I picked a Watermelon Martini off the list and thanked my Pap Pap for my drink while clinking glasses with his vodka tonic.  

So, while waiting for our group to arrive, I played Russian Martini Roulette to see which ones were with best and on arrival of my parents and visiting choir members--I finished off the list.  Eleven in total, all while the other 13 members of this little party enjoyed their Manhattans and scotches and God-knows-what-elses.  

Yes, it's far to say that we were all feeling no pain by the time dinner rolled around.  The table was long to accommodate a party of our size and I took my customary seat between my father and my uncle and near enough to my grandfather that I could tell him about school and answer all of his questions about my studies (not that I was in any condition to do so).  As dinner progressed, the conversation turned to my parents' upcoming 26th wedding anniversary and how I, as good child, had arranged for them to renew their wedding vows at church.  Yeah, wrong topic of conversation when you have Unc and I sitting next to each other.  

Why? Oh, I'll tell you why. 

Have you ever seen 16 Candles?  Oh, you have? Yeah, so have we--somewhere in the neighborhood of 100 times.  This is how it went...

Unc: Where are they doing this?

Me: At da chuch! Dey getting maddied!

Unc: MADDIED?

Me: Yeah, MADDIED! Jeesh!

My mom and Aunt Bobbie by this time were laughing both with and at us, but my father (who has a limited base of knowledge with movies of the 80's) was completely stupefied. This led to him saying, "What?" over and over and to us taking this insanity further with, 

Me: She getting maddied to oily BOhunk!

Dad: What? 

Unc: She getting maddied to oily BOhunk!

...and on and on until we could take it no more. My dad finally just laughed with us, but even that night when we were on the way back to Unc's house, he and I were in stitches while Aunt Bobbie drove us home to avoid us needing actual stitches. 

I guess I remember this night for a lot of reasons, even 11 years later.  I spent some serious QT with the family that weekend and it was great.  It wasn't terribly long after that that my Pap got sick again, so I remember him being so healthy and fun then.  And that thoroughly confused look on my dad's face was priceless.  I only get to go to Pittsburgh to see the family once or twice a year, but the next time I go home, I'm asking Papa K if we can do a dinner at good old Monterey Bay and Unc's part of the deal.  End of story. 

In case you needed a reminder of the brilliance of any scene featuring The Donger and Jake Ryan--here's all you need to know: 

Peer Pressure, Ain't It a Bitch?

Well, folks you must all be wondering why we're here. If you're not wondering, then why are YOU here? I  suppose it's a moot point, I'm here and it's nice that you're here.  

Anyway--I'm here because my best friend decided that all the inane stories I tell her on the phone needed to be shared with the general population.  Also, I need a creative outlet. Oh, I could paint I suppose, but I'm a horrid painter.  Or I could take up skeet shooting, but living in a city, that doesn't seem like the best idea.  Don't get me wrong, I have things to do that I love when I'm not working. I read, I bake, I randomly break out into song in my kitchen, but I need something more.  So, here I am.

In honor of my best friend, Christina (you'll be seeing a lot of her name here), I give you the story of New Years Ever 1999.

Winters are cold "as a witches thorax" in Philadelphia, so we are pretty limited in our New Years Eve plans. We can't really slut it up the way they can in warmer climates, not that either of us would (me being a homegrown, American chubby girl and Christina having good taste), so we took Option B.  What's Option B, you ask?  A private party at a family run establishment where everyone knows our names--and yes, they're always glad we came.  

Having been promised a designated driver to get us home safely, Chris and I partook in a few shots courtesy of the bottle of Stoli I'd boosted from my parents' wet bar and the lemon we'd snuck up to her room.  Then, feeling warm and tingly via the lemon drops, we proceeded to the bar. After several more hours of drinks and a ride home (while trying to keep up the pretense that we weren't drunk) from Chris' mother, we decided that it was a good idea to go to bed.

Now, 84% of drunks would fall asleep on the floor, right? Well, not these drunks.  After a few moments of testing which direction the room was spinning in, I was informed that there was a futon mattress in the basement! "If we carry it up here, you can sleep on that!"  

I thought this sounded brilliant!  Don't judge me. I was 18 and had a fifth of Stoli in me. 

As stealthily as possible for two intoxicated teens, we picked our way down two flights of stairs and found the futon.  It really did look comfy and in hindsight, I was probably drunk enough that I could've slept in the basement and not cared, but alas, the plan was in motion and so were we.  

Together, we heaved and hoisted this hunk of dead weight up the basement stairs.  Once there, we pulled and tugged our way to the other stairs, all while trying to stop the giggles and jokes about moving dead bodies.  That was when everything changed! 

For the second leg of the journey, that mattress took on so much extra weight! It was suddenly so heavy and only now, over ten years later do I realize two things...

1. Gone were our liquid muscles

2. Gone too was the adrenaline rush that goes with the booze and giggle fits...

I soon realized something else, though--We had an audience. Yup, Mrs P was home from ferrying the rest of the drunks home and was now watching up try to pull a mattress up her stairs.  We looked at one another and made a pact right there, to try our best to look or at least act sober, and at the time, we thought that we did a pretty damn good job.  Ahh, to be young and ignorant to my own shenanigans again.

Finally, after a lot of work, we made it to the bedroom and into our jammies and bed.  

It's a story that we still tell people and it's one that still amuses us to no end, although we may be biased.

I learned something that night. After six years of friendship I learned that she is truly my person.  In the words of those dopey bitches on Grey's Anatomy, "She's my person. If there was a dead body in my livingroom, she's the person I'd call to help me move it."  Surely, if two 18-year-old kids can move that mattress, we could move a body. Either way--She's my person and that's what got me here.