Quirkyloon

Redi Set Go!

quirkyloon@gmail.com (Quirkyloon) — Fri, 30 Jul 2010 08:00:00 +0000

For those of us who might be slightly more...mature, do you still search for things in life that comfort you? Perhaps an object or a quirky habit that soothes your inner beast?

I mean as mature human adults, shouldn't we be over it by now?

My six-year-old son has slowly weaned himself of sucking his thumb and rubbing his "taggie." He used to suck his thumb ALL. THE. TIME. Now he reserves it as a goodnight routine. Even then, he keeps forgetting to do it. Part of the "getting over it" cycle of life.

His taggie? This kid loves smooth clothes tags that are looped. One single label isn't a taggie. Oh no. To be considered an official taggie, it must be looped, so you can insert your finger in-between the material and rub its smoothness between two fingers. And NO raised lettering. Must be smooth.

I'm not sure how he developed this habit.

I have a ultrasound picture of him sucking his thumb in the womb. (Everybody now: Awwwww!)

Actually it is an "awwww" moment, because he was adopted. From the lovely state of Arizona, he was a kid from "the" system. So I feel grateful that I have ANY birth information and pictures of him. But I do.

And I digress.

So do we ever outgrow this need to find objects or things to self-soothe, to comfort ourselves?

I hope not.

Because I found one.

My latest object of "comfort" affection?

Cathy Mitchell doing her infomercial of the Xpress Redi Set Go cooker thingamajig!

I simply adore her infomercial. I get so excited when I accidentally find it on the telly.

"It's her! It's her!"

*insert sigh of content here*

It soothes me to see her making fantastic dishes out of left overs from the nether regions of the set refrigerator. It's such a fantasy comfort because the only things you could find in the nether regions of my fridge? Mold. With a capital penicillin experiment in situ.

That's why I love Cathy's kitchen fridge so much more than mine.

And she looks so matronly, like she wants to give me a hug through the digital pixels. And I want her to!

I want a hug from Cathy AND one of those delicious looking omelets she makes (make mine with jalapenos, please).

*salivates*

Yeah, that would definitely soothe me.

Redi, set, go!

To the bathroom!

Ha!

B.S. No Xpress Redi Set Go cookers or taggies were harmed during the production of this post.

Rock [Reality TV] On!

quirkyloon@gmail.com (Quirkyloon) — Wed, 28 Jul 2010 09:00:00 +0000

Dear A&E,

I have noticed that you are adding yet another former rock star reality show to your lineup. I have no problem with this.

I was never a Twisted Sister fan, but I gave Dee Snider and his fam a looky loo or two. To borrow a line from one of the greatest crime drama series ever, Law & Order: "the jury is still out."

Or I just need more time to allow it to grow on me.

I want to commend you on Gene Simmons: Family Jewels show. It is brilliant! Funny and interesting while allowing poor, unfamous people like myself a glimpse into how a "somewhat-tamed" yet still incredibly wealthy rock star lives. Do not worry, I have no interest in NOT watching this show anymore. I will remain a faithful fan, through and through. Because as Gene says: "That's why it's great to be me." It's great for me too. He and his brood are quite entertaining. And I appreciate that.

It's hard not to compare the two shows. I will give the Snider family the benefit of a doubt and watch them with a questioning eye. Time will tell if their show is worthy of my television viewing time. I believe Law & Order is on at the same time. Hence, it's a tough sell for me.

And now may I make a suggestion?

After much thought and consideration, I have compiled a list of some other has-been rock stars or past one-hit-wonder pop stars you might want to consider producing a show for.

You may expel your bated breath and wait no more.

Here is my list and some title suggestions:

Meatloaf: With A Side of Taters.
Ric Ocasek from The Cars and his ex-supermodel wife Paulina: A Couple of New York Sausages
Bret Michaels from Poison (oh never mind, he's already busy.)
Eddie Money: I Want Money, Lotsa and Lotsa of Money!
Juice Newton: Have You Had Your Juice Today?
Banana Rama: Aging Venuses
ABBA: We All Scream For Dancing Queens
Kajagoogoo: Not Too Shy Too Shy
Midnight Oil: Help! Our Beds Are Burning!
Neneh Cherry: Dances With Buffalo Stances

Please be advised that I will only charge a one time creator fee of one million U.S. dollars per show idea.

I look forward to doing business with you.

Sincerely,

Quirkyloon

B.S. No one hit wonders or rock has beens were harmed during the production of this post.

The Look of...

quirkyloon@gmail.com (Quirkyloon) — Mon, 26 Jul 2010 09:00:00 +0000

Not love, but loathe.

"Oh, that was a good dinner, Hon!" The Quirky Husband patted his stomach and sighed contentedly.

"Was the meat too dry?"

"No, it was good."

"I'm glad you liked it."

Another pork loin UNfail! (Too easy and boring to use the word success.)

Quirky and her husband continued clearing off the table in an amicable silence.

But Quirky's mind was anything but silent. The synapses were hopping and popping as she began to wonder and hope. She kept her thoughts and questions to herself for she didn't want to give a hint that anything was amiss. But she wondered. She wondered IF the OFFER would come.

Oh, how she hoped it would.

Keeping a cool and aloof look on her face, she put away the last food item.

"Hon?"

"This is it!" She thought. "Uhm, yeah?"

"I'll do the dishes."

Mentally Quirky exclaimed, "Eureka!" Out loud she said in a small, tiny voice, "Okay."

Her husband quickly looked at her and caught the grin slipping away from her face and then it happened.

The look of loathe.

Yep, there it was. His eyes went dark and his brows scrunched up just the slightest bit to form the perfect scowl.

Quirky grinned back at him.

Then she trotted off to watch some television.

Ah! Everything went according to plan.

"The look of ~~love~~ loathe...is in your eyes." (Thanks Dusty Springfield for this romantic ditty.)

Altered slightly by me.

It's all in the planning and timing.

This meal turned out so delicious!

And loathsome.

*grin*

B.S. No Quirky husbands were harmed during the production of this post.

Do As I Say

quirkyloon@gmail.com (Quirkyloon) — Sun, 25 Jul 2010 08:09:00 +0000

Not as I... dun, dun.

Squealed the six-year-old to his Quirky Mom: "MOM!"

"What?"

"In two minutes on Channel 28, LAW & ORDER is coming on!" He exclaimed with his eyes so wide, I thought his eyeballs would pop out.

"Really?"

"YES!"

"Well thanks for telling me, Son!"

Gee, whatever will I do when school starts on August 11th (happy, happy, joy, joy!)? Who will announce to me when another episode of my precious Law & Order show is about to air?

Yes, he's been a wonderful summer tv guide helper.

And since there is ALWAYS an episode of Law & Order showing on some channel, it keeps him pretty busy. Yes, this announcement gig has been wonderful for me. And he thought of it all on his own! What initiative! Makes me proud.

He will be missed when he returns to school (happy, happy, joy, joy!).

Well...

Maybe.

And...

Yippity doo-dah!

School is coming back! (Happy, happy, joy, joy!)

I'm more than happy to make this announcement to you.

You're welcome.

My pleasure.

Really.

Really, really.

*dun, dun*

B.S. No Law & Order episodes were harmed during the production of this post.

A Kinder Gentler

quirkyloon@gmail.com (Quirkyloon) — Thu, 22 Jul 2010 09:00:00 +0000

Quirkyloon.

I have no problem admitting I'm a weenie.

I am.

Totally and completely.

Through and through.

Capisce?

But lately, I've been trying to retrain my thought processes by trying to identify and label things about myself, others, and this big, wide world live in in a more positive light.

Hence, to some I may seem weenie-ish. But from now on to me? I'm just a kinder and gentler Quirky.

Case in point.

Television. (Yeah, yeah, yeah, I watch a lot of t.v. Boo-hoo for you. You're just jealous.)

I love watching the sophisticated, mature adult programs on cable. (Bless you AMC! Bless you A&E!)

I have mentioned before what a fantastic show Breaking Bad is. Is it for young impressionable minds? Probably not. But after watching the show, I'm definitely not tempted to go out there and start my own meth lab. And there are definitely other adult themes evident throughout the show (and I think once there was some almost nudity, I think the "dancer" had nipple decorations, what are those called again? Pasties?). Still, I love empathizing with the main character: Walt White. A flawed hero, trying to do the right thing.

Because if I'm anything, I am most definitely flawed. Wait. Not flawed. I am most definitely still a work in progress. (That's better, eh?)

But what really excites me of late is that a few shows that used to only be shown on HBO are finally infiltrating regular cable.

Yee-haw!

For example, The Sopranos. I had heard about this show so many times and although I am NOT an avid award show watcher, I would read and hear about all the critical praise and awards this show has received.

Imagine how delighted my curiosity was when A&E decided to start broadcasting it. All f-bombs have been translated to freaking and other changes as well. They've "softened" it for the likes of someone like me who is now a kinder and gentler Quirky (remember?).

I am totally fascinated by this show! But now, I feel like part of the family and that scares me.

Cuz you don't want to get Tony mad.

It could get real scary real fast.

Just ask Ade.

May she rest in peace.

The other show I'm totally stoked over is Curb Your Enthusiasm.

I confess I rented the DVDs of this show and couldn't believe how many belly-aches I got from so much laughter. Larry David is a genius in quirky humor. Genius! But once again the language? Hoo-wee! It is a humdinger.

But Television Guide Network has bleeped out the f-bombs (of which there are aplenty) and the other not so nice words and you know something?

I still think it's freaking hilarious.

So here's to a kinder and gentler me; and here's to kinder and gentler freaking t.v.! Because there's nothing like shows about meth labs and drug lords; Mob families and Mob politics; and Larry David being an insensitive and humorous jerk that could be considered kinder and gentler, no?

Ahem.

Here, here!

*burp*

B.S. No f-bombs were harmed during the production of this post.

You Know It's True

quirkyloon@gmail.com (Quirkyloon) — Tue, 20 Jul 2010 17:35:00 +0000

Orange Popsicles SUCK!

I became an official connoisseur of popsicles during the summer months of 2007.

That, my friends, is when I had the opportunity to partake of a substance known as Cisplatin (aka chemo). Although, I did NOT lose my hair (dagnabbit!), I did toss my cookies quite often. Even my beloved diet Dr. Pepper tasted FOUL during this ordeal.

And it takes a lot for me to dis and reject Diet Dr. Pepper. It was quite a humbling experience and I can only hope that Diet Dr. Pepper has forgiven me.

"I'm sorry DDP, it wasn't you, it was me."

"I just needed some time away from you."

"I promise I never drank any other diet soda. I was a faithful and loyal loon."

"Please try to understand. You didn't taste good going down and you tasted far worse coming back up."

"I never stopped loving you, I just had to leave you for awhile."

"I promised I would come back and I did."

"We made it, you and I." (That Crystal Gale song from many moons ago.)

So while Diet Dr. Pepper was licking its love wounds from me, the only thing I was licking was...Popsicles.

And the first thing I learned very quickly: orange popsicles are icky.

My sense of taste and smell was all out of whack and extra, extra sensitive, so when I tried sucking on a orange popsicle, it left a horrible after taste in my mouth.

It was like I had sucked down raw and rancid fish. (I see you wrinkling your nose! It worked. Nice metaphor, eh?)

Now my husband took great care of me during this time (he definitely earned his angel wings), and he fed me popsicles like they were going out of style. So whenever he asked me if I wanted anything?

"A popsicle, but NOT an orange one."

"Uhm. Okay."

"It's hard to explain, but I just CAN'T eat an orange one."

He would leave with a slightly puzzled look.

But hey, if that was the only "food" I was going to eat? It was gonna be the red and purple popsicles for me. (Don't even get me started on banana popsicles *blech* or rootbeer popsicles *double blech*.)

So that was then, but it STILL is now.

Thank goodness I have not had a chemo repeat. Yet every summer our popsicle bill still quadruples with the steady flow of 100+ degree days we have May through September here in Arizona.

But one thing has NOT changed since that fateful summer.

Orange popsicles STILL suck.

And I have a freezer full to prove it.

Even my boys don't like the orange ones.

"[Icky] is as [icky] does."

"And that's all I got to say about that."

B.S. No orange popsicles were harmed during the production of this post.

B.B.S. Thanks to Forrest Gump for the inspiration for my last two lines of this post. And...Forrest Gump was not harmed during the production of this post.

What Le Googlie?

quirkyloon@gmail.com (Quirkyloon) — Sat, 17 Jul 2010 18:07:00 +0000

Has anyone else been having this problem with their Google Reader?

What the Google?

I mean what le Googlie-ay? (You're welcome for the French accent.)

Why am I receiving Google News articles in French?

Being half-espani, it would make much more sense if I were to receive Google News articles in Spanish.

Wait.

Won't we all be receiving EVERYTHING in Spanish soon?

*insert sarcastic "arriba arriba" here*

I digress.

Really though, I am somewhat perplexed as to why the French language has imposed itself on my Google. Personally, I don't have anything against the French language or its people.

I particularly like their fries.

But I did smile in amusement when I saw the words "le figaro."

Why?

Because it reminded me of Tom from Looney Tunes singing, "Figaro, figaro, figaro, feee-gah-row!"

Italian, French, whatever.

I guess French isn't so bad after all.

It's still hilarious to me.

Laughter.

The universal language.

Don t vous pensez? (Translation: Don't you think?)

B.S. No Google News articles were harmed during the production of this post.

B.B.S. Thanks Le Googlie-ay for http://translate.google.com/translate

This Kiss, This Kiss!

quirkyloon@gmail.com (Quirkyloon) — Wed, 14 Jul 2010 21:30:00 +0000

Once upon a time, there lived a Quirky tween.

To earn money she volunteered her babysitting services. Quite a lucrative business for a tween. She enjoyed having money and spending it unwisely as often as possible.

One time she babysat three boys. Lively, cute, little buggers, they were ages nine, seven, and four years of age.

She thought to herself: "Piece of cake. Those boys will play with each other the whole time. I'll just sit back and watch and make sure they don't destroy anything or each other. I'll be kept busy and that will make the time go by quickly.

"Yep. I can do this thing."

So the evening arrived. Quirky was picked up and delivered to the den, erm, I mean house. She was quickly ushered in through the front door and the sweet, single mother showed Quirky around the house. She learned where the kitchen was and where they kept the knives, erm, I mean utensils. The boys dinner was already cooked and ready, all she had to do was serve it up.

"Not a problem." Said the Quirky to the Mom.

She was shown where the boys' rooms were and the ever important bathroom.

"The boys can show you how to use the television set." (This was before cable and VHS. Come on, some of you still remember VHS.)

"Mmm, okay."

"Bye."

"Bye."

Then it began.

For the next two hours Quirky completed a workout that would make any triathlete proud. She ran at least 20 miles as the eldest boy, the nine-year-old, decided he was going to kiss bomb her. He constantly attacked her and bestowed upon her unwanted kisses. She hopped over ottomans and miscellaneous toys strewn on the floor.

Living room. Dining area. Kitchen island. Hallway. Left turn, oh no! Deadend. Go right, no the other right! Keep scrambling girl! Keep scrambling until you reach the living room again.

What did the other two young boys do?

They watched with glee.

And they laughed.

Alot.

Yes, they followed after egging their older brother on.

"GO, GO, GO!"

Amazingly, a couple of times I was able to calm him down and get them all to stop and sit down.

But not before I could even catch my breath, he started up again and grabbed at me forcing me to dart away.

And the race was on!

Again.

It was like a horse race. I knew the track well now.

I couldn't believe this was happening. I couldn't slow down long enough to even call the mother. And what on earth would I tell her?

"Uhm, ma'am, your boy is attacking me with kisses."

And then I would also be out that moolah and I was really counting on it. (For what? I don't know. You think I can remember all the fine details of my past?)

But I do remember running for my life and fearing for my virtue.

Finally, she came home and asked THE question that every parent asks a babysitter: "How did it go?"

"Uhm, it was okay."

Then she drove me home and I never babysat for her again.

To their credit the other boys told on their big brother and she called to apologize to me.

"Uhm, yeah, okay."

Hey, what could I say? Sexual harassment wasn't even a blip on the radar yet. This was mid 1970's. Was I going to go on and on about how terrified I was? Not to mention, I left there starving. There was absolutely no time for food during our "shared" evening. I'm sure she saw the untouched food. I'm sure her boys whinnied, erm, I mean whined that they were ravenous.

Ravenous, indeed.

From that time on, I found much more calm and lucrative babysitting jobs that had snacks a'plenty for me to consume.

Yes, I was a typical tween: stupid, often hungry, immature, and desperate for money. (Hmm, some things never change.)

But even I have my limits.

"This kiss, this kiss!" Faith Hill

Definitely UNstoppable.

*whinny*

B.S. No babysitters or horses were harmed during the production of this post.

B.B.S. Some of you old timers of my blog might remember this was not the first kiss battle I experienced. I guess that experience was priming me for this future kiss battle. Funny, how I still didn't enjoy it. Not one bit (pun intended).

Rest In Piece

quirkyloon@gmail.com (Quirkyloon) — Mon, 12 Jul 2010 09:00:00 +0000

The driver turned the wheel to the right and heard the crash before he saw it.

The former bench was now a pile of splintered pieces of wood. Some of the slats were still attached to some wrought iron.

He sighed, pulled over, stopped, and collected all the pieces throwing them back into the bed of the truck.

When he arrived home, he gathered the bench pieces and put them on the ground next to the carport pad. There they laid for a few weeks.

Then one afternoon he pulled into the driveway with his six-year-old son in the back seat.

"Dad, why is the bench still there?"

"What? Oh, that bench. Well I haven't thrown it away yet, son."

"Dad, it's been there a long, long time."

"I'll get to it."

"Good, cuz I'm tired of seeing it there."

The father just gave his son an incredulous look and rolled his eyes as the six-year-old dictator marched into the house.

Well hoowee!

Dad. Was. Told.

And now?

The busted up bench has found its final resting place in the city dump.

Rest in peace former pretty, decorative (and extremely weak) bench, now just a pile of splintered wood.

Rest in piece[s]!

B.S. One bench was harmed during the production of this post.

Oh Laundry, Dear Laundry

quirkyloon@gmail.com (Quirkyloon) — Sat, 10 Jul 2010 09:00:00 +0000

How thou doth vex me so.

I sort ye all the days and many nights through.
Ye make me feel as if my life is doomed.
Whilst there ever be an end in sight?
Can we not replenish ourselves with new clothes?
And keep an infinite steady supply?
Oh, how pleasing that would be,
To my inner and outer psy-chee.

Behold, how these white washables do rag upon me,
The underlies looking more dingy than bright.
And dare I mention socks? (socks)
So many go missing ne'er to be found.
Why for doth the dryer insist on consuming,
Our socks as they tumble round and round?

The motherly and fatherly dark clothes doth perturb me.
For howbeit that a gentlewoman, such as I,
Could produce so much more laundry, so filth-eye,
E'en me faithful consort's dirty clothing doth not multiply,
As much as mine clothing: oh fee, oh fie!
Could it be that my glistening pores,
Causeth such stench that I wish were nevermore?

Aye and aye.
This too shall pass.
For with every freshly, laundered load,
It quickly becomes defiled,
From the ne'er ending sweat
That runneth down my butt-crack aisle.

Then the little male spawn with their clothing so dark,
So quickly dirtied that I feel the need to nark.
The number of outfits they go through each day.
Perturbs and disturbs that I wont naught to say.

However in one load.
I do take delight.
So easy they foldeth.
The towels!
The towels!
Towels oh, so bright.

Aye wicked, witchy laundry,
Thou doth vex me, so, very, very sore.
However, when alas I've completed each load,
I find myself delighted to sniff.
I sigh and think to me self:
Yea verily, thou hast completed me forthwith,

However pleasantly it may smelleth.
It still be a chore I deeply abhor.
With new loads constantly rising.
Threatening mine hampers,
To falleth over evermore, evermore.

B.S. No laundry was harmed during the production of this post.

Becoming Weenie

quirkyloon@gmail.com (Quirkyloon) — Fri, 09 Jul 2010 09:00:00 +0000

I bet you weren't aware that Do Not Call Lists were around way before the government gave them their stamp of approval. My own personal Do Not Call List began at the tender age of twelve.

We were living in San Diego, California (due to my Dad's latest navy transfer).

I attended Roosevelt Junior High School which is located right next to the San Diego Zoo. You know where the camels are? Our school running field was just on the other side of the fence!

I wonder if they've had to grow foliage or install a block fence due to the increase of perverts who might try to take pictures of young, fresh, meat bobbing around the dirt field.

I remember with fondness the two boys I had crushes on.

And I remember with horror the boy who had the crush on me.

Isn't that the way it always works?

Tam was a good boy, sweet guy, good heart, and I wanted NOTHING to do with him. Truthfully, not only did I NOT feel a "like" connection, but I was, how shall I put this, a weenie. I was petrified of boys and didn't want to do anything with them, except crush on them from afar and in my dreams (much safer there). Yes, I had issues (still do).

I didn't care that he was of Asian descent (I've NEVER had a problem with different races or ethnicities, I love all people, 'cept bitches).

He was a good tennis player and decided that was THE way to my heart.

How he got my number, I'll never know. But then again, that time period was before unlisted numbers.

*ring, ring*

"Hello."

"Hello. Can I speak to Sandie?"

"This is Sandie."

"This is Tam."

(Ohhhh noooooooo!)

"Hi Tam."

"Do you play tennis?"

"Uhm, not really. I've played a little bit."

"Do you want to go play tennis?"

(Sweat pouring down my face.) "Uhm, uhm (can't think of an excuse to say no), okay."

So we set the date and time and I hung up and ran to my room.

No way, no how was I going to tell my Mom or Dad. But a few days later, my Dad busted me.

"Some guy named Tam called you to remind you of your tennis date." He said with a smirk on his face.

Blushing furiously and flabbergasted, I quickly uttered, "Uhm, okay, thanks."

Then once again, I ran to my room. No way, no how was I going to explain to my DAD what the heck was going down.

I took the bus and met Tam at the tennis courts. We played. Actually, he played, I attempted to play.

Darn hand-eye coordination, or rather, darn the LACK of.

I took the bus home and prayed that Tam would never call again. I was sure my lack of tennis playing skills would discourage him.

But he did call.

Of course.

Again and again.

What followed next I'm not proud of. What makes it worse is that I did this "thing" several times over my dating years, and at least five or six more times to poor Tam before he finally got the "hint."

Whenever Tam called, I would answer (only because I had to, by this time, my Mom and Dad knew a BOY was calling me. *smirk, smirk*) then I would spit out: "Can't talk, I've gotta go. Bye!"

Then I would hang up.

*dial tone*

How rude, huh?

Just another rite of passage: becoming a weenie.

Sadly, I haven't outgrown it.

*dial tone*

B.S. No telephones or weenies were harmed during the production of this post.

...Not Limited To

quirkyloon@gmail.com (Quirkyloon) — Thu, 08 Jul 2010 09:00:00 +0000

Lately, my six-year-old has been complaining.

"Mom, I HAVE to do everything!"

Yes, I am a firm believer in making him work for a living around here.

His duties include, but are not limited to:

Retrieving the remote control. (Especially if he is in the other room, I make him come to my room, find it, and give it to me.)
Getting Mom a big cup of ice.
Getting Mom a can of soda to go with the big cup of ice.
Bringing Mom a roll of toilet paper. (Glory!)
Checking the mail.
Bringing my current read to me (usually when I'm in the loo).
Closing and locking the doors.
Bringing the hampers to me so I can sort it. (Note: Need to start teaching him how to sort laundry.)
Collecting the little trash-cans and bringing them to the big trash-can.
Taking the trash out.
Picking up the living room.

I tell you I'm exhausted by the time he's finished with all these chores.

However will I keep coming up with more things for him to do?

Wait.

There is so much more, isn't there? Like:

Sweeping the floors.
Mopping. (Not to be confused with moping.)
Scrub toilets. (This will be especially apropos for him, considering... never mind.)
Wash dishes. (MY way, not his way.)
Vacuum.
Organize the junk drawer (especially the rubberbands, those things are wild).
Dust.
Feed the dogs.
Poop scoop.
Clean the mirrors (leaving no streaks).
Refill my plate at the all you can eat buffet places (thank-you Shawn for this inspiration).
Wipe down the kitchen counters.
And the never-ending laundry!

Yep.

There are so many more things he can and will do for me.

So thank goodness for the "...but are not limited to."

The possibilities are endless!

And that makes me happy.

Very happy.

B.S. No chores were harmed (or done) during the production of this post.

My Blog On The D-List

quirkyloon@gmail.com (Quirkyloon) — Tue, 06 Jul 2010 09:18:00 +0000

I'm more than a little upset.

BRAVO is doing wrong by me.

I happen to adore and love Kathy Griffin as a comedienne. She is high-larious with a capital high. And her show: My Life On The D-List is one of my major reasons for living.

I also admit to maybe having watched The Real Housewives of New York (ahem, occasionally), which in turn introduced me to Bethenny Frankel and her new spin-off reality show: Bethenny Getting Married?

I only saw snippets of her "getting married" show. I was not impressed. Can you say boring with a capital bore?

So why on EARTH is BRAVO rerunning the Bethenny series every chance it gets?

And why is it NOT rerunning Kathy Griffin's My Life On The D-List every chance it could (and should) get?

This is so wrong on so many levels.

I keep checking the listings waiting to see if I will get my second, third, fourth, infinity chances at watching the funniest woman in the world.

Yes, I think she IS the funniest woman in the world.

She cracks me up.

And we all know, I need more crack in my life.

No! Not that kind of crack.

Butt crack should remain private. I'm not into showing off my crack to anybody. I am an anti-butt crack kind of gal.

What?

What kind of crack did you think I was talking about?

Yeesh.

Anyhoo, I figured out why I love Kathy Griffin so much (besides her wicked sense and spot-on humor, so I can totally overlook some of her offensive schtick. Hey, I didn't say she was perfect, just perfectly funny).

She claims to be a celebrity d-lister and I can totally relate to this.

How?

I'm a d-list blogger!

Ha!

B.S. No crack or butt crack was harmed during the production of this post.

Looking For Ooohs In All The Wrong Classics

quirkyloon@gmail.com (Quirkyloon) — Mon, 05 Jul 2010 09:00:00 +0000

So at what age does a car become a classic?

I remember way back in the 1980's, if anybody spotted a classic car on the road, everybody would ooh and aah.

I totally got it.

They look beyond awesome. It's like a great painting. You can stare and stare and not get tired of it. You appreciate the lines, the form, the colors, the build.

"Oooooh. Now those are some nice wheels. Aaaah."

So in the 80's, that would make these classic and "ooh/aah" worthy cars roughly twenty or thirty years old, right?

So why when I see this car, 1978 Ford Pinto, which is roughly thirty years old, I feel no ooh or aah forming in my voice box?

Furthermore, I really don't see a classic car. What I do see is a tired old car that I remember riding in when I was quite young. Ours was puke green. How about yours?

But it should be considered a classic car, no? It's old enough, right? So why does it not elicit an excited response?

Wait.

Let me try again.

Was that a quiver of a larynx vibration? Nope, false alarm.

Hence, no ooh.

Let me try again.

Garsh darn it. Not even a hint of an aah either.

*yawn*

Color me classic.

Or bored.

And larynx-less.

Hardly.

*grin*

B.S. No classic or non-classic cars were harmed during the production of this post.

SNAPU

quirkyloon@gmail.com (Quirkyloon) — Fri, 02 Jul 2010 09:00:00 +0000

I experienced a SNAPU recently.

I went to see a certain movie that fanatics attended by the hordes. Something about an eclipse and a moon and a sun.

Sound familiar?

Yep, count me as one of the millions who saw the latest Twilight movie: Eclipse.

The interesting thing is not whether or not I enjoyed the movie.

No the interesting thing is that I went at 8 AM to see it.

That was MORNING.

As in a couple of hours after dawn?

Yes, I set the alarm so I could get up in time to shower/shave/deodorize to see the flick. Wait. Did I shave? (rubs leg) Yep, I did.

And I was not the only one who got up so early. Twelve others beside myself were there to watch the movie. I don't know whether they showered/shaved/or deodorized, because thankfully there was plenty of seating so NO one was sitting close by.

But I was glad for one thing: I had a quick getaway to the door.

Why?

Because I might get scared of all that close-up and loud violence/action?

Because Edward might bite Bella?

Because Jacob might bite Edward?

Because Bella might actually stop being so wishy-washy?

Because Victoria makes me envious with her gorgeous curly red hair?

Because Dakota Fanning looks hot with red eyes?

Erm, no.

Because due to radiation therapy long term damages, when I gotta go? I. Gotta. Gooooooo.

I can't be waiting in lines. It could get ugly and messy.

And I'm not ready to purchase Depends.

No way. No how.

I'd rather become a vampire before going there (oh, I kill myself, what a great pun, eh?).

So a girl's gotta ~~poo~~ do, ~~when~~ what a girl's gotta ~~poo~~ do.

Sans the stress.

And mess.

Oh yeah, I'm a joy to be around these days.

Yep, I'm an expert on SNAPUs.

Situation normal all peed/pooped up!

B.S. No potties were harmed during the production of this post. Just the usual erm, damage.

I'm Bringing Bed Head Back

quirkyloon@gmail.com (Quirkyloon) — Wed, 30 Jun 2010 17:11:00 +0000

Most people fear and loathe bed head.

But not me.

Why?

Lately, it looks fantastic!

I kid you not.

I'm not sure what is going on. I have always had a strange head of hair. It's been enemy of mine for many moons. I want it to do this, it does that. I want it to curl, it stays straight. I want fluff, it goes flat. I want smooth, it frizzes up.

Most annoying.

Reminds me of dealing with my tween.

Then as many of you already know I went through a little vicious thing called chemo. Now unlike most people blessed to partake of the toxins, I did NOT lose my hair.

I was quite shocked when I learned I would NOT be losing my hair. I was actually sort of sad. Weird, I know. The reason why? I was thinking ahead (pun intended hee hee) to greater and grander hair days: wigs.

Oh, I was finally gonna have me a great head of hair. No more bad hair days, no more bed head days (because bed head has not always been kind to me).

I didn't even care if it wasn't really mine. It would have been mine in theory. And hey, that works for me. The only down side I could foresee? Wind. Wouldn't want my wig flying off!

But, but, BUT, chemo did change my hair. I used to have curly hair and if I scrunched it? It almost looked like a perm! But after chemo, now my hair lays much more straight. I scrunch it? It results in the most lackluster curl.

So imagine my recent surprise when I wake up in the morning and toddle into the powder room (funny, I never powder in there, I do many other unmentionable and stinky things, but not powder), I brave a looky loo in the mirror and...

WOW. My hair looks fantastic!

Look at that volume! Perfect.

Look at that shape! Perfect.

Then I hop into the shower, wash my hair, and spend the rest of the waking day with meh hair and counting the minutes and hours til I can go to bed and wake up with my hair looking great again.

Bed head is being verra verra good to me!

*fist pump*

Go bed head!

Or you could say...

"I'm bringing bed head back." (ala Justin Timberlake's Bringing Sexy Back, now Nomie don't tell me you've never heard of THIS song.)

Who needs sexy, when you've got great bed head?

B.S. No wigs or hair were harmed during the production of this post, unless you count the hair I shaved off my legs.

Oh Harry!

quirkyloon@gmail.com (Quirkyloon) — Mon, 28 Jun 2010 08:05:00 +0000

He's got the look.

Harrison Ford is a talented actor.

He definitely has the "stressed out" look acting down to a t.

He knows how to work his face into a concerned frown instantly.

And who could blame him?

We knew and understood the concern and worry etched on his craggy face as President Marshall in Air Force One or as Dr. Richard Kimball in The Fugitive. I distinctly remember seeing his "worried" look when he played Jack Ryan in Clear and Present Danger and of course, it goes without saying that he was one worried cookie during all the Indiana Jones movies. He must have learned this look a long, long time ago when he was Han Solo in The Star War Movies, oh how he fought valiantly against Darth Vader and his evil empire!

Makes me proud to be an avid movie goer.

But I saw a recent picture of him and guess what? He's still looking worried.

And I wondered why.

So I went on an intense research project (which means I Googled him) and found the answer.

Mr. Ford's not-so-new look of stress etched worry is not because he is running from terrorists, the IRA, Tommy Lee Jones, the Death Star, or even a huge rolling boulder.

Oh no, not anymore.

No, he was caught clutching at his heart because of a much more important and dire situation. And of course the "look" accompanied the clutch.

He and Calista bought a new house.

And his present dismay is due to...

The crown molding in the dining room does not match the crown molding in the living room.

Life is a bitch, ain't it Harry?

Yep, it sure is.

B.S. No crown molding was harmed during the production of this post.

B.B.S. No truth was behind this fictitious (and hopefully humorous) attempt about Harrison Ford and his lifestyle of being rich and famous.

A Girl Crush

quirkyloon@gmail.com (Quirkyloon) — Sat, 26 Jun 2010 09:00:00 +0000

Okay, I admit it.

I have a girl crush on Lea Michelle from the show Glee.

Talk about an extraordinary voice. Day-ang this girl can sing! I looked her up on YouTube and found out that Glee is not her first singing gig. She has also co-starred with Jonathan Groff in an off Broadway production, Spring Awakening. And when she was much younger she starred as the young Cosette in Les Mesirables.

I think I remember Rosie O'Donnell gushing about the musical, Spring Awakening, before she left The View. Don't hate me because I have, on occasion, watched this show. Hate me because I love watching Punked on the TV Guide Network, but always forget to watch it.

Ashton would not be pleased.

Anysing, this girl has got a tremendous set of pipes on her.

Whooeee.

I sing like her only in my dreams (or the shower).

The other day I mentioned to my 12-yr-old that I thought an actress (I can't remember which one, there are so many beautiful women) on the boob-tube was pretty.

He looked at me in horror.

"What, why are you looking at me that way?"

"Mom, are you gay?"

Oh brother.

"You know, just because I can look at a woman and see that she is pretty or even sexy doesn't mean I want to kiss her, feel her up, or have sex with her. I can look at a woman and see those things and it doesn't mean that I'm gay."

His eyes widened impossibly more. Oh, the horror.

"Wow Mom. I can't believe you just said that."

Oh brother.

*insert eyeroll here*

So back to my girl crush: Lea Michelle.

This girl is extremely talented and very pretty too. But the ONLY thing that turns me on about her? Is her incredible singing voice.

Plus, she's got a nice butt too.

Ha!

B.S. No hot babes were harmed during the production of this post.

B.B.S. Here is a taste of her music.

Spitstrionics

quirkyloon@gmail.com (Quirkyloon) — Fri, 25 Jun 2010 09:00:00 +0000

What is it with men and their spit?

Or it's more like than insane need to hurl their spit.

*insert flashback frame here*

Quirky meandered through the neighborhood for the fifth time that day. Summertime means she dons her taxi cab hat and off she goes picking up boys and dropping them off various places. (She is counting the days til her 12-yr-old can start driving. I know most Moms fear it. Not. This. Mom.)

She pulled up to the stop light and a movement to her left caught her attention. A teen boy, shirtless, spitting a huge loogie. "Ugh, that's nastay!" She thought to herself.

Turning the car to the right she drove a few more blocks and came to a four-way stop. Right there on a church lawn, two teen boys were sitting on the grass and then lo and behold, she saw another loogie arcing. "Isn't that risky, loogie-ing so close to where you are sitting? If there happened a small breeze, that could send the loogie right back to the loogie-nator. Hmm. Kind of like a boomerang loogie. Hmm."

She continued driving feeling ever so grateful for freon and the cold air pouring out of her car's AC vents. (It's hotter than Hades, here in Arizona.)

Then she heard the whirr of one of the car windows going down. "What?" She took a quick peek to the back seat where her demon spawn were sitting.

That's when time.... slowed.... dow----owwww--nnnnn.

Her head slowly floated to the right, forty five degrees. It continued floating to look over her right shoulder and covered another twenty degrees. The whirring noise droned on as the window went further and further down. Her vision honed in on her son. He was placing his face in an upward position and outward and then one second, two seconds passed and she heard an intake of internal liquid. The wet sound began coupling with his pursing lips and she could heard the air collect, one atom at a time, then the loogie spewed forth. It looked like a fountain, an arc of water lasting for minutes, when in reality it was mere nanoseconds.

"Ugh. WHY did you do that?"

"What? I had to spit. What's the problem?"

"That was disgusting is WHAT the problem is."

"Aw, Mom, everybody does it."

And you know what? He is wrong, wrong, WRONG.

Only human males do it.

Not once during all my taxi-cabbing adventures have I seen a tween girl, teen girl, or any human female spit.

Is it the testosterone that makes human males produce more saliva? Is male DNA similar to llama or camel DNA? Those animals spit. Yet, as a human female, I never feel the need to expel mouth spit.

I don't have any spit to share and that makes me very happy.

I wonder how many studies have been done to identify the number of times and measure the volume of loogies.

It would be great if they could come up with a cure for men. Apparently, men don't like to swallow their own backwash. I get that. But there has got to better a way. Shouldn't men be able to suck it up (pun most definitely intended)? If the proverbial "they" ever come up with a cure for the male spittle dilemma, I will gladly cheer.

In fact...

I'll spit to that!

B.S. No spit was harmed during the production of this post.

Stop!

quirkyloon@gmail.com (Quirkyloon) — Wed, 23 Jun 2010 09:00:00 +0000

In the name of bass clefs, treble clefs, measures, beats, sharps, flats, chords, intros, and outros, please stop!

Please, no more Hey Soul Sister!

Gah!

*insert eye twitch here*

The first one hundred times of radio play, this song was okay. But now that we are up to one billion times? It's driving me crazy. I'm not only ready for the rubber room, I'm making rubber curtains for my personal loony bin.

This song has become a serious dilemma for me and is affecting my mental health.

A group called Train sings it and for me it represents a train wreck geared to incite genuine angst and anger. Am I alone in these feelings? (Do I really want an answer? Hmm.) I admit I do tend to feel things....deeply. And this particular song is on its way to becoming my personal straw breaking my camel's back. And I don't even own a camel!

And this is from an old bitty who still acts like a teen when it comes to a new song she likes.

Lady Gaga anyone?

*rah rah ooo lah lah*

Although I'll pass on Alejandro. *yawn*

Yes, when I like a song I will play it at least one thousand times, because I'm immature that way.

But this song? "Dick I give it a big ICK for overplay, although it does have a good beat."

I can appreciate the sentiment behind the song, but it just wore me down. Before I knew it I was getting ticked off, irritable, moody, feeling bloated, and just all around whiny and witchy every time I heard the song. And oh, how I heard it. Again and again and again!

Nothing like a tune to inspire PMS symptoms. (And I'm in menopause hence, no more monthly visits, just ever so delightful surprise hot flashes. Wheeee!)

And I'm finding that I now truly loathe the ukulele sound (almost as much as I hate hot flashes).

And it never did anything wrong to me.

Til now.

Thanks Train.

B.S. No trains or ukuleles were harmed during the production of this post.

Bible Thief!

quirkyloon@gmail.com (Quirkyloon) — Mon, 21 Jun 2010 09:00:00 +0000

Today (which is yesterday by the time you read this), my husband took our two sons to church.

Shock and awe.

I'm sure after reading all the weenie and worldly desires of my 12-year-old, you might be more than a little surprised that we expect him to go to church.

But we do.

My husband took my Bible which I had gotten before we were married and it has my maiden name engraved on it.

Our six-year-old knows our given names so he knows my name is Sandra, (although I go by Sandie or Quirky).

So while they were sitting at church and receiving their spiritual edification and education (one can hope, right?), my younger son noticed the discrepancy between the last name on the Bible and our last name.

He whispered. "Dad, what does this name say?"

Dad helped him sound it out. (Noticed how I dodged revealing it? Yep, I'm a blogging cowardess.)

"Whose Bible is this Dad? That's not Mom's name."

Dad just smiled.

Six-year-old wheels were still turning and churning as he processed this information and he finally came to his own conclusion.

"Dad?" He whispered.

"What son?"

"I bet Mom stole this Bible didn't she?"

*snort*

I may be many things, but I'm not a thief.

Well except for that one time...

Never mind.

B.S. No Bibles were harmed during the production of this post.

B.B.S. Quirkyloon is a SINNER!

And They Called It Puppy Love

quirkyloon@gmail.com (Quirkyloon) — Sun, 20 Jun 2010 08:00:00 +0000

Let me begin this post by explaining one thing very clearly: WE ARE DOG PEOPLE.

We love dogs.

Despite this fact, it does not mean that we believe every single canine critter upon the earth is adorable and cute in body and personality.

We know this because we are in possession of one such dog. She is neither cute in body or (more importantly) personality.

Oh, I could regale you with all of her not so cute antics, but I fear you would become quite bored. Trust me: she's an obnoxious little bitc..erm, I mean dog.

But we're suckers and we still love her.

So imagine my intense delight when after agreeing to dog sit my friends dogs, that one of the dogs, a stud can't seem to get enough of our dear, dastardly dog, Looney.

Yep, that's her name. And it fits to a t!

This new fella? His name is Buster and he follows her everywhere. (Thank goodness they're both fixed. Looney should NEVER reproduce and she hasn't nor will she ever. Did I thank goodness for this?)

Back to Looney's torture: if she goes out, he goes out. She comes in, he's right on her heels. He stops when she stops. She dutifully ignores him while he soaks in her lovely Corgi-mix visage with adoration liberally laced in his deep brown, chocolate canine eyes. I swear you can see them light up when he gazes upon her.

She has walked at least ten miles around the house trying to dodge him, here and there. She just can't get rid of him.

And she hasn't stopped trying. She is just as stubborn as he is.

And we have gleefully witnessed her trying to escape his watchful eyes with mirth in our bellies and numerous snorts escaping.

I haven't laughed this much in a long, long time.

At first she returned the attention and seemed happy and excited to have some new blood in the pack, but after twenty four hours of stalking, I guess she's had enough.

She has emitted a few low, guttural growls of warning towards our studly guest.

No fights... yet.

I think she has simply had enough of his adoration and attention.

But I'm loving it.

Is it wrong that I'm enjoying her emotional torture?

I can still call myself a "dog" person, can't I?

*woof*

And I'm telling my friend that her stud, Buster, is welcome here anytime.

Anytime.

Because I'm kind like that.

And who am I to get in the way of puppy love or lust?

B.S. No dogs were physically harmed during the production of this post.

I'm Gasping...

quirkyloon@gmail.com (Quirkyloon) — Fri, 18 Jun 2010 09:00:00 +0000

For breath!

*heavy breathing*

It was a long and arduous task, but I did it!

I finally reached rung number two on the ladder.

"Mom, Roland's Mom is embarrassing. She's always trying to hang out with us and telling us what to do. She thinks she's one of us and she's not Mom. She's NOT. It's so strange how she tries to talk and act like us. She's a Mom. And she is NOT cool. But she thinks she is.

"And Mom, she's way more embarrassing than you. In fact, you're not even embarrassing compared to her."

*ding, ding, ding, ding*

That's the sound of Quirky Mom ascending the ladder. One rung at a time.

Now I must keep striving for the next rung. There is always one more rung. Exhausting.

But I can do this thing.

As long as I stay in the background and remain the wallflower Mom that I am (and proud of it) I will hang onto the parental ladder and be safe.

Trying to be young, hip, and cool is way overrated. And it's a long fall down.

I got this thing under control.

Totally.

Ouch!

A toe cramp.

I won't let go. I don't care how much it hurts.

Toe cramp be damned!

B.S. No ladders were harmed during the production of this post. However, one Quirky toe suffers.

Lady QCue

quirkyloon@gmail.com (Quirkyloon) — Thu, 17 Jun 2010 17:43:00 +0000

Lady QCue has entered the building. She gracefully and slowly walks along the red carpet. She is dressed tonight in Zanel. The dress is made of bunches of shimmering red tulle with black clips keeping them in place in a haphazardly fashion.

It's quite mesmerizing and horrifying all wrapped into one.

There are at least a thousand different sizes of tulle bunches being held together by the black clips.

It's difficult to stop staring.

Lady QCue continues her descent into hell, erm, to the front of the auditorium where she will not sit, but stand on an ergonomic mat. She cannot sit down in the dress. Therefore she will stand.

Her face is completely wrapped with red velvet with only two slits for her eyelashes that peek through like cactus needles and another slit for her mouth. Her nose is out of luck. She keeps her lips slightly parted not to impart the image of slow, heady lust, but to keep oxygen in her lungs.

Ryan Seacrest is (once again) hosting the award show.

"And the winner of this year's Quirkiest Vocal Performance is...... Lady QCue!"

(applause)

Lady QCue begins to slowly walk up the steps to the podium. She is barefooted, but has toe bling galore. On each digit she bears a brilliant luscious red ruby. On each delicate ankle is a medical i.d. bracelet.

She is allergic to penicillin and glucose.

"I want to thank my little z-z-z-z-ombies who m-m-m-m-ade this award p-p-p-p-p-ossible. I happily l-l-l-l-l-l-l-ust for each and every one of y-y-y-y-y-y-ou."

Later at the after party celebrations, Mary Hart risks her million dollar legs and walks up to Lady QCue for a possible interview.

"Congratulations Lady QCue on your award! I know it's been a lot of hard work and effort that has honed your craft into an award worthy skill."

Lady QCue simply gives a small nod of acknowledgement.

"Tell us Lady QCue what do you think is the secret behind your success? What makes your music so different and delightful to the ear masses?"

"I b-b-b-b-elieve that I have brought a new l-l-l-l-ight and understanding and an ah-p-p-p-p-p-p-preciation for stuttering lyrics. Look at my most popular songs: P-p-p-p-p-poker Face, T-t-t-t-t-t-t-telephone, Bah-ad Bah-ad Romance. Can you hear how the stutter is revered and respec-pec-pec-pected?"

"Y-y-y-es, Lady QCue, I guess I d-d-d-d-do."

"You have n-n-n-now become one of my little z-z-z-ombies. May I french kiss you now?"

"Wha-wha-wha-t? Oh, look there is that Richard Simmons trying to get your attention?"

She points behind Lady QCue. They look beyond where Richard Simmons is adorned in shining black silk short shorts and a black tank top with faux tux printed on it. His legs are shining (and freshly shaved).

Lady QCue's eyes widen in horror.

"Oh no. I can't h-h-h-h-andle him.

"He's just too weird.

"Even for m-m-m-meee."

B.S. No red carpets were harmed during the production of this post.

Quirky Classifieds

quirkyloon@gmail.com (Quirkyloon) — Wed, 16 Jun 2010 09:00:00 +0000

I know somebody who is looking for a blog post proofreader.

A certain blogger (who shall remain anonymous), spends copious hours writing and rewriting blog posts and has found that no matter how many times she (wooops, or he) rereads her (or his) posts, the typos are multiplying like bunnies.

For example: "can me stoopid" should have been "call me stoopid."

I know for a fact, because coincidentally (huge, huge coincidence) I happen to hang out with this blogger (a lot), that she or he has read and reread this post over and over again. In fact she or he was so disgusted with her/his self because she or he didn't even FIND the typo until FIVE days later.

Yes, this blogger tends to reread her/his own posts, especially older posts. Don't all bloggers do this?

So she (woops again, or he) has decided to hire a blog post proofreader.

These are the qualifications:

Must love her (or his) blog.
Must shower her (or him) with tons of praise.
Must carefully search out typos, correct them quietly, and then reassure the blogger that NO typos were found.
Must be able to work for free.
Must have a flexible schedule.

Anyhoo (spelling is intentional, so it's NOT a typo), let me know if you can think of anybody who could fit this bill.

This blogger needs help.

And she (or he) knows it.

B.S. No bunnies were harmed during the production of this post.

B.B.S. How many typos do you spy?