Dessert first.

At a wedding reception Saturday night, I was staring at the individual truffles we were provided as favors (with our initials on them - CUTE), and I wanted...to...eat...it...NOW. I looked around the room to see if anyone else had eaten theirs...couldn't tell, but didn't see anyone actually eating one.

I waited patiently until the last person at my table finished their meal and then I pointed to my truffle and said something like "Time for dessert!"

The woman next to me put her hand to her mouth and whispered loudly, "Oh NO, it's too beautiful...are we supposed to eat them, REALLY?"

"Uh, YEAH." I laughed. "If they didn't want you to eat it, they would have shellacked it or something."

Others mumbled similar things as Miss OH NO MY STARS, and yet...I REALLY wanted it. Chocolate, please and thank you.

Finally, the champagne was poured as we prepared for the toast. "You know what goes GREAT with champagne, right?" I said to the table, as a waiter filled my glass. "Truffles!"

There were some half-hearted chuckles, and then I thought, fuck it. It's MY damn truffle with MY damn initals on it, down the gullet it goes.

I went ahead and sunk my teeth into it, wondering in my head what would be the center...when not a second longer would I have to wonder...as cherry juice squirted all over my place setting, and the table centerpiece.

OH NO MY STARS, indeed.

S-a-l-s-a

I overheard my mother today referring to "text messaging" or "texting" as..."tex mexing". And it wasn't a slip of the tongue. I heard her say it TWICE. I didn't have the heart to correct her, because I want to see what happens when she says it to someone else.

Regrets

Last night I had my first Biker Bar Experience. Things that my friends are laughing about today, also known as "Why the hell do I feel the need to say things like this when I'm drinking?":

"Is that your HOG?"

"You've got a bit of barbecue sauce in your ZZ-Top beard."

"So you come here EVERY NIGHT?!!!"

(while watching a guy put 5 dollars into a juke box - which by the way, I had no idea that they totally upgraded juke boxes - computer touch screens and everything. I stared at it way too long): "Please choose 'I Am...I Said' By Neil Diamond. Please choose 'I Am...I Said' By Neil Diamond. Please choose 'I Am...I Said' By Neil Diamond."

"I've been on a motorcycle before!"

God, I'm cringing.

Something bugging me today: There are some nasty flu/cold viruses running around right now. My question is this. Business people? WHY DO YOU SHOW UP TO MEETINGS WHEN YOU'RE SICK? I've turned all OCD with the constant hand sanitizing and the drinking of Airborne every hour on the hour.

Funny

This "Bershon" photo stream had me laughing all damn afternoon. I...so...GET IT. The definition of Bershon can be found here. And if I didn't love one Sarah Brown quite a lot before, I now want to have little Sarah Brown babies. I have also sent the stream to every single woman I know.

Look out below!

Last night I was lounging in my leather recliner, watching the season finale of Hells Kitchen (for I have a mild crush on Chef Gordon Ramsey and his forehead wrinkles - and I melt just a little inside when he calls someone a donkey), when I looked down at my exposed legs and feet and about gasped in horror.

On my left foot, is a nice new scar near the bone that juts out on the side and below my big toe (what the hell is that called?), which I got from dragging a bookcase 10 hundred times my size across my office a few weeks ago.

Right above my left foot and at the ankle/shin (?) (I'll never be a doctor), is a fresh scrape from when I tripped over a paint can YESTERDAY, right in front of the person who will be painting my living room (and of course when I tripped, I fell forward at an amazing awkward speed and sprawled over my coffee table (classy) and then had to pop up and act like it didn't hurt even though I could already see the scrape. I'm pretty sure the painter now realizes why I'm having HIM paint, instead of doing it myself).

On my right foot, in nearly the same place as the injury on my left foot, is a scrape I got in a clothing store, (which was eerily predicted by a handwriting analysis person the day before) (this is my life, scared yet?), by running into a rack.

On the right side of my calf (I'm pretty sure this body part in which I speak is my calf! YES! I'm ready for Jeopardy now!), is a long scrape from when I didn't bother to move over a tiny inch when bringing down the door of my dishwasher.

So, I'm looking down at my scrapes and I'm wondering, am I six years old again? HOW does one accumulate so many scrapes in such a short time frame?

The only thing I can figure is that I'm always rushing around, doing this and that, hurry hurry hurry bitch, when I don't take the time to LOOK DOWN now and then. It's not hard, I imagine. Yet I just don't do it.

Lesson learned! No point to this post! I am now off to look up feet and legs and identify their parts. Six years old again!

Why?

Today I said, "It sure tit hot out here today." I'm a girl. I said it to a boy. I was almost as embarrassed as the time I did this.