Friday, May 22, 2015

Could this be MJ's fate?



We hope not (but I couldn't find the female version, so just pretend...)

The spouse is always the last to know, part II



"You see Beverly," started Dr. Levine, "Jerry is sick, very sick.  Oh, he isn't ill in a way that you or I or any other normal person gets sick with the sniffles or the flu.  Jerry is mentally sick.  At some point in Jerry's life, he began to fetishize - the abnormal fixation on an inanimate object - on the feel of silky things that women enjoy wearing.  From there, his illness progressed to women's clothing, and from there to wearing women's clothing.  Perhaps Jerry had a childhood trauma that he buried deep inside his psyche."

"He and his parents have a strained relationship.  And his mother," I rotely explained, "is always meddling in our lives.  She second guesses all of Jerry's decisions on important life decisions."  

"I see.  Just as I suspected.  Now," Dr. Levine continued, "Jerry is unable to contain those thoughts.  He's going to need a great deal of treatment, and perhaps a stay in psychiatric hospital.  But what he needs now, more than ever is a sympathetic wife who understands that Jerry is a good man who can't help himself.  Beverly, can you be that wife?  Without you, Jerry may be lost to a life of depravity.  And your children could lose their father forever.  Is that what you want, Beverly?"

Monday, May 18, 2015

Comments, we get comments....

Even though DHTiSH has been slow of late, we still continue to get comments submitted to old posts. The number one post to this blog involves my love hate relationship with Love It of List It in which I went off on a tear about two old pissy queens who could act their way out of a paper bag.  But, wait, you say, is that also the post in which you called This "reality TV" a fake and a fraud?  Yes it is, I say.  

I mean, come on people, up until very recently, every episode went the exact same way.  You have a couple who needs marriage counseling.  They have vastly, and wildly different tastes and expectations.  You have a whiny guy who is a real estate agent.  And then you have Hillary agreeing to do everything the couple wants, for a set budget, with NOTHING set aside for surprises like bad foundations, poor original construction, things hidden, well you get the idea.  And when these people get mad, she schools them in a shrill voice.  And yes, I called her a cunt.  Now to a gay guy or a certain age, that's a word that cuts both ways.  It can be bad, but, it can also be good.  And with Hillary, who I do like, it goes to the good side.  I'd trust her with my house.

However, there are some people out there who really need to chill.  That post appeared years ago, and I am still getting hate mail and hate comments.  And these are generally from people who have read one post, and have decided that I need to be: 1) castrated; 2) killed or feel the need to 3) call me a mysoginist 4) call me a sexist.

Folks, build a bridge and get over it.  But, if you still need to shake you finger at me, go ahead.  But if you feel the need to threaten me or my safety, then I provide the following instructions:


And if you are Hillary Farr, I do love you.  


Tuesday, April 28, 2015

Let's pretend, indeed.


Funny thing about the human mind.  When confronted with events and extreme stressors, it looks for a normal status, and fixates on that.

When the 9-11 attacks unfolded before my eyes in 2001, and my sense of safety evaporated in the crash of the first plane, then the next and the third and fourth and the collapse of the first World Trade Center tower and then the next, my brain chose the moment to find a task as far away from reality as it could go.

So what did I do?  I took apart the 90 year old sash windows in our bedroom and found some sash cord and I replaced the old rotted cords.

Our cleaning lady was at the house that day, and when I asked if she wanted to go home, she said that she felt it was better to keep working.  My husband came home and felt that the yard needed cut.  The sense of security in our nation had gone up in smoke and we found solace in going through the range of motions of the familiar.

Last night, that feeling of helplessness overcame us again.  Watching the rioting start - and it by no means was near of a catastrophe of the 9-11 attacks, nor was it as big and deadly as the Los Angeles riots of 1992 - and then the feeling of helplessness as we watched TV, it rekindled a lot of the same angst and stress of 2001.

For a couple hours, I walked in the shoes of my parents, feeling the same fears and uncertainties that they felt as Cleveland was rocked by riots in its Hough neighborhood, and then the Glenville riots of 1968.

Today my chest is tight, and my hopes are for a quiet quiet night.  At the same time, the events of last night - the riots, the fires, the gunshots, have delivered uncertainty.  The husband's place of business - two mid rise towers on the inner harbour are closed today and tomorrow.  The Orioles are playing ball tonight in Camden Yard, but the stadium will be off limits to baseball fans. I have been called off work for tomorrow.  Two malls are closed and many stores are closing early.  But the birds are still singing and the sun still shines.  Things are off-balance, but they will hopefully get back to something approaching normal.

So, we still wonder what tonight will bring, if anything.

And me?  Well we no longer own that house with the wooden windows, so I can't struggle with sashes and fix pulleys and replace cords and wrestle with sashes.  This new old house has vinyl replacement windows, so there is no escape or outlet for my angst.

I'll just have to get through it, and pretend, just for tonight, that its all so far away.

 

Sunday, April 5, 2015

Why, oh why, oh why-o?



As you read this, I am on my way, by car, on my way back to Ohio.

For one week.

By myself.  Without my husband.

But not alone.

You see Cookie has a conference that I must attend as part of my certification process for my new career, so I will be there for a week.

The conference is a four day hoot-n-anny, and it was silly for the husband to take off four days and sit around while I submersed in DNA Genealogy classes.

So while I am by myself, I am not alone.  Oh noes!

I sent out feelers to my friends to say "I'm coming back..." and soon found that my dance card is full to overflowing.

This is what I miss about Ohio - our friends.

One never knows how rich you are in friends until you move away.  Good friends are precious as rubies.  So my meals and evenings are FULL to overflowing.  I consider myself very lucky.

So I will not be sitting in a hotel room alone, nor will I be out getting into trouble.  Just doing research, meeting with old friends -AND- engorging on midwest cuisine.  I should be fat as a hog in week.

On the other hand, the husband will be here, at the house, working on projects.  Winter has finally yielded its unyielding icy grip on the mid-Atlantic and the daffodils have finally bloomed.  So he has his hands full.

But I will miss him and the pups more than anyone will ever know.

Next Sunday, I will be on the road the road again, coming home.

Tuesday, March 24, 2015

Back in the day...or is it that I am just getting old?



I would venture to say that besides easily identifiable porn hunk Paul Barresi (middle row, on right) that at least two other of these models (top picture middle and bottom picture) either did Playgirl photo spreads and or gay porn (usually at the same time).

There was also a very brief time in the pre coming out days that an International Male catalog would send me over the edge until in the afterglow that I realized that no-self respecting man would wear "The Stoker", a fishnet muscle shirt most favored by overweight men who would go to gay dance clubs because they thought it would make them look "hot".

I personally always like guys in the swimsuit cuts shown in the middle photograph.  Covered just enough.  I never understood "board shorts", and I certainly don't understand these fabric slings that European twinks seem so enamored with that cover the genitals and strap around the leg,  Having seen a couple images of these, sent to me by a female cousin - who seems to think that I drool over these sorts of things because Cookie is "GAY" - I really find them a bit disgusting.

She always seems disappointed that I don't squeal with delight when I get them from her, and she also seems to have a hard time with the concept that while its pure fantasy to look at a fit man, in reality, Cookie prefers someone a bit older than I, with a bit or reality on his body.

"What do you mean you deleted them?  My friend Beth, in Thailand, said that men just go ga-ga over these types of guys," says she, implying that the problem is mine, not in her sending me these images of high school graduate twinks.

I point out that 1) I am not, and never will be in Thailand, and 2) Don't understand mankind's obsession with youth.  It isn't as if a fifty year old man will somehow become anymore vital if a bit of ejaculate from a 22 year old guy gets on him.  He may feel flattered, but thats about all.  And in the end, that semen and his feelings of vitality turn to a watery liquid mess.

Don't get me wrong - Cookie can have very twisted fantasies - but skanky (or otherwise) hairless twinks under the age of 25 are never in them.

Me?  I like men.  Always have.   Always will.

Monday, March 9, 2015

Travel in my future but I am in hot water



So Cookie received the BEST two Valentine's Day presents imaginable this year.

Present Number One:  Since I have embarked on a career change - I mean working at the Beef Bran and Strip Club is a job, it certainly isn't a career - I have had to come up with my dream career and I have settled on Certified Genealogist.   It has been said that while I "can't remember where you put your keys five minutes ago," Cookie can find anyone.  I have been doing this as a hobby for 35 years and why not make big money and make it while traveling to glamorous places?  So to accomplish this, Cookie needs to get some serious research time in under my belt.

To this end, the Husband decided that it would be in our best interest to take a vacation, and combine it with some hard focused research time, which, Cookie can use towards the certification process.  So we are jetting to sunny California at some point in the future.  Felix has been told that we are coming and we hope to see him as well as Lady Donna Lethal.   If that wasn't glamorous enough, Husband is jetting us first class, coast to coast.  

And if that wasn't glamorous enough, Present Number 2 asks how much more could the big guy show me how much he loves me?

But popping for a NEW Hot Water Tank!

A what?

You heard me.  Ville Cookie, when purchased, came with many old things.  And old fashioned kitchen (no dishwasher), a purple bath tub (original to the 1932 construction of the house) and a garage that the doors don't work well.  While we relish the "Please Don't Eat the Daisies" life style, the hot water tank, vintage 1994 approached the end of its lifecycle ten years ago and has been filling up with water and sediment for way too long.   We know this because in the morning, when we are showering, washing dishes by hand or doing laundry, it sounds like someone is setting firecrackers off in our basement.

The loud popping is a bit unsettling, because it shouldn't be happening.  Mr. Bruce, our plumber, informed me (as if I didn't already know this) that the Popping is coming from the sediment in the bottom of the tank heating up and cracking, thus releasing air bubbles.

"You know," say he at $100/hour, "there are two things that leave you house weighing more than when you moved it in: your mattress, and your hot water tank."

In addition to getting rid of two ton Gertie, we are also moving the location of the new one to get it out of the way.  Right now she takes up a leisurely large percent of area that is prime space.  So the tank gets moved, we gain some space and we get more than 10 gallons of hot water at a time.

Imagine, being able to take a shower that is longer than three minutes.

Ain't life grand?

Tuesday, March 3, 2015

Monday, March 2, 2015

I am out of hibernation: March is here!



So, where in the Hell has Cookie been, you may be asking?

Well dear ones - you know that I am not a winter person.  So I was being very bear like until March 1st, which has come and gone.  So on March 2nd, I am here for all to bask in my greatness.

Someone, or another, once said that March is the cruelest month because it promises so much, and delivers mostly nothing but cold, wet, soggy weather.

Au contraire!

March is the beginning of the earth's northern hemisphere waking up after its slumber!  Or more to the point - We have made it through the worst of Winter.   Think about it:

1) March snows seldom hang around for a few days, let alone weeks.  It snows and it melts.  And the glaciers occupying the lawns of the suburbs north of Tennessee (except in Minnesota, where it will snow until May 1st) start to retreat.

2) Daylight savings time begins this coming SUNDAY at 2AM.  The down side is that it will be dark at half past crack in the morning for a couple weeks, but on the good side, you get home from owrk when it STILL daylight!

3) And with daylight savings time, grilling season begins!

4) Morning bird song starts up at this time of the year.  And little Robin Red Breast returns to eat worms. Right now we have a brood of dark eyed Juncos, finches, blue jays, wood peckers all dining at our feeders.

5) My camilla in the front garden, aka Camilla Parker Bowles, will bloom.

6) St. Patricks Day is coming, so the bloody Irish (of which I claim 1/16th of my heritage) can  get whatever it is that we need to get out of our systems out of our systems.

7) St. Patrick's Day also means that my evil stepmonster, "Pat" will turn 83 this year, and it makes me so happy that she is growing older with every day.  We are hoping that Pat lives to be 110, partly because I vowed to wear a red dress to her funeral, and mostly because she dreaded growing old and having her looks leave her. (Insert evil laugh.)

8) And TJB at SSUWAT can get down his spring wear and box up his velvets and furs.

So be glad that it is March - we survived.  The worst is behind us!

Tuesday, February 10, 2015

Fall of 1968: Your next car



Top line, New Yorker



Mid-line "300"




Value series Newport


Friday, January 30, 2015

Quelle Horreur: The lie that tells the truth



I want you all to know that this is no "found on Tumblr" interior desecration.  This was taken, by moi, in my father's living room.  My father, was not a man known for his "taste" (if you can call it that) in home decor.  And that is the living room in the house of mirth where I lived from Kindergarten in 1968 until third grade until 1971.

But this lamp is what my Stepmonster, Shark, brought to the relationship.  Tasteful, just like her.

"Don't you love it?  It's art, don't you think?" she asked.

Yes, the woman who told my mother that she was going to redecorate the "kitchen and the bedroom first - because that's where a woman does her best work," moved into the house last touched in 1968 (this picture was taken circa 1995) and redecorated by plunking this thing down in the Living Room.

The picture simple doesn't do it justice.  I showed it, back when I took it, to my mother who stared at it and then said "Of all the women through his revolving do he finally found someone who has taste worse than his - but what is it?"

Good question.  "It's a lamp, but Frankensteinish."

She then tried to figure out what its creator was trying to accomplish.

"Well, it looks like someone took and ugly sofa lamp, and mated it to a pedestal for an occasional table.  But why is the cord coming out of top of the pedestal?  And that shade?  It's too small and ugly.  But there is something so absurd about it, it's funny.  Your Aunt Nan would just die for this lamp."

I asked her what style she would call it and she decided on "Belle Watling Rococo Revival."

At one point the lamp stood in front of the living room picture window.  Thats how I learned about.  I started getting calls from people I knew up in Cleveland, and they usually started with "Have you driven by your father's house lately?"  No.  Why.  "If you do, do it at night."

Finally, one friend described the sight as "A Jewish version of the major award" from A Christmas Story."

This I had to see.  My father and I weren't speaking - one of our many not speaking periods, so I took a business meeting and dinner in Cleveland just to see it.  The house sat at the top of plain hill, no trees to mask the view, and the curtains were parted.  The library of the house - the original man cave where my father's barcalounger sat before the 25" Zenith and where he spent all of his time - was lit up.

But in the living room window on the other side, there it was, lit brightly as to show off its garish curves.  It was beyond ugly.  But it was something so over the top.  As I have written about before, my father and his family members were the Jew's with the faux Louis XVI furniture.  And cherubs everywhere.  Even our Jewish Guilt was colored with faux gold gilt.  So this lamp was  something larger than life and so horrible that it went full circle into right into what we call "camp" - the lie that tells the truth.   It was so horrible, it was magnificent.

The surface, as I would discover, was in gold and copper metallic paint, and the 250 watt bulb illuminated it, so it glowed.  Like Jean Shepherd wrote in Ralphie's voice "we were bathed in the glow of electric sex" when his father turned on the infamous leg lamp, I too felt bathed in the glow from this lamp; bathed in glow of bad taste and Jewish Angst as only our family could do.

On my next visit to see the lamp in the window about a year later, it was gone.  I had hoped that someone had accidentally knocked it over and broken it.  But it was not to be.  Stepmonster, who my mother referred to as the Imperial Concubine, had simply moved it to another location away from the window.

Eventually, when my father was stricken with the first of many attacks that would end his life, I made the effort to overlook his transgressions over me and at me and sucked it up and spent time with him.  These visits were taxing.  Even though I hated him for what he did to me, and my mother, he was still my father.  Though he never drank a day in his life, his liver had cancer and he was dying, all the while the stepmonster was feeding him a diet high in sodium and off plastic plates.  It was on one of those visits when I could get in the house and that was when I took this picture.

We all are going to die, sometime.  It's what our destiny is from the day we are born.  But something that over the top, and that garish deserves to live on.  Maybe it's the Baltimore vibe.  Maybe its living down the road from Divine's grave and up the road from John Waters, but I want it. I want that lamp.

Why?

Because no matter where you go in life, you can never outrun your past.  It may not be who you are now, but your past can't be undone because its part of who you were.  And that lamp is the perfect symbol of the burlesque that was my life in Shaker Heights at one point.  Besides, every house deserves something that represents a joke or is pure "camp" - the lie that tells the truth.

Thursday, January 29, 2015

Mercury has been in retrograde!



It's been a day like this.

A well regarded coworker found another job in retail that pays better than the Beef House and Strip Club.  I will miss her because she was the type of person you want to work with.  Great ethics, a black sense of humor, and she brought out the best in her coworkers - these just don't fall off the tree with every application.  So not only are we short handed, but one of the regular came in and asked for said co-worker, and when told that said employee was no longer with us, Customer launched on another coworker who was trying very hard to help said Customer.

It was ugly.  People literally stopped what they doing and listened at the rant.

So a couple of us stepped up to back this co-worker up, get this person quieted down and out of the store ASAP.

Later in the day the husband of the crazy bitch came to the store and spoke with the Manager.  The husband explained that the wife was going through a rough bout of menopause and she just felt "horrible".  The manager listened, and told about the apology one by one.

"She going through the change of life," says Manager.

Well what the Hell is she changing into? A Harpy?

"Mehbee," said Manager, "she no want to take the hor-monays."

My mother used to say that Menopause is like "riding a wild bucking bronco to Hell for some women."

So riding that wild bucking bronco to Hell during Mercury's retrograde phase must be some kind of special trip.

Wednesday, January 28, 2015

An ugly little secret about Angie's List



Cookie would like to take the fun loving hat off of his head and put on a serious one for a second.

Waaaay back when - twenty plus years ago - in fact, Cookie signed up for a referral list called Angie's list that had just opened up in Columbus, Ohio - the center of midwest consumerism.  My reasons were varied, but as a new homeowner, I didn't know who to call the stuff that was beyond skills.

I can sweat copper pipe and wield an acetylene torch, with the best of them.  But I don't do sewer replacements.  Installing a new toilet is a sinch, climbing on the roof, is not my forte.

So I joined Angie's List.  For annual subscription fee, we could join, call and get referrals to businesses that passed muster.

In turn, we were told, that our information was kept confidential.   The system was kept honest because subscribers paid to be in the system, which was supposed to dissuade false reviews.  Good enough for me - I was in.

Over the years, Angie's List changed.  The organization that vowed not to take ads from service providers started taking ads from A+ businesses.   Then we started getting peppered with email ads.  Deals of the Day that involved Angie's List as the pass-through payment system. The monthly magazine grew less chatty and useful and converted to general, mundane information that wasn't telling us anything about service providers.   In other words, the things that made Angie's List special erroded away.

Well, two weeks ago I, after pestering emails from Angie's List that I had not left a review for Herb's General Amalgamated Contracting, I knuckled under just to stop the pestering emails. I left a glowing review for a contractor, with four out of five stars on the quality of their work on our old house.  But I also said that an estimate for the new place came in way too high and that consumers considering using their expertise should be prepared $$$$$.  We found a local contractor who did the same work for a fraction of their bid, and were happy. Case closed.

Or so I thought.

Last week I started getting calls from the vendor - their manager for social media, "reaching out, after my comments..." and the kicker was "because of the impact on social media..."

Hello?

So, on a lark, I called Angie's List yesterday and asked: "How did the contractor get my name and phone number?"

And the answer was:  "We provided all vendors with the names of people reviewing them."

And that was when my blood went cold.

Here's the thing, I have never written anything untrue about any vendor.  But at the same time, I have a problem with a vendor calling me up and trying get my to change my review - especially a four out of five star one - so that it makes them look better.

I also have a problem with a company founded on keeping clients identifiable contact information confidential, all of sudden providing that information freely.  Especially when they are goading me to write reviews, that they charge an annual fee to other people to access.

So, keep in mind that IF you write a review for Angie's List, they won't share your name with other members, but they certainly will share that information with the business.  Knife+Your Back = Stabbing.

Cookie has cancelled the service, and instructed them not to send me anymore "electronic" promotions, sales, magazines or elsewise.  All communication from Angie's List to me has to be sent in letter format.

Consider yourselves warned.


Monday, January 26, 2015

Snow storm Janis is here...



...and the people of this town are pussies when it comes to snow.

Thursday, January 22, 2015

Sunday, January 18, 2015

I am going to bed


Got my leopard jammies on...



my lips are moist...


The husband thinks marabou is a bit overdone...


 I hope I don't have those bad dreams, again.

Thursday, January 1, 2015

New Years Day Silliness...



...so here is Helen Steiner Rice emerging, ney, *popping* out of her mink cocoon.  Evidently she is done pupating...

There, post number one for a New Year.

Wednesday, December 31, 2014

Just remember what is most important about this "Eve"



And don't you bitches forget it.

By the way, Cookie is sending out positive energy, good vibrations and checks to our creditors in the morning.

Here's hoping your 2015 is EVErything you hope it will be.

Sunday, December 28, 2014

"Krab" with a "K"



Being that it is only December 28th, Cookie is stuck in Retail Hell, and that means having to spend a great deal of time in the cultural wasteland that is Reisterstown Road in NE Greater Baltimore, dealing with people who will try to screw you anyway possible.

At the Strip Club and Beef Barn, people are returning things that have evidently been used, poorly reboxed, and then returned without a receipt.  Since I do not own the beef barn, and since we have been told that it is all about the "experience" of "beef" and "strippers" (new readers may be confused by this.  It is a cloaking device so my corporate bosses don't try and shut down my blog) what do I care why they are returning?

I don't.  As unreceipted merchandise, that we normally stock, they get the lowest price in our database.  I dance the dance I need to dance to make others happy.

But I refuse to give these "patrons" the unreasonable, full price.  Why?  Because its morally wrong and practically theft.

"What do you mean this this used sex toy is only worth $4.98," asks a heavily accented grandmother.  "My granddaughter would never buy me a gift that only costs $4.98," she asserts.

I patiently explain that her granddaughter could have paid full retail, $20.95 for the small purse sized vibrating object before it went on clearance in February 2013, but the system is only allowing for $4.98.

"My granddaughter would have not paid just $20.95 for a gift for I, her beloved grandmother.  I am sure you charged her fifty, even a HUNDRED dollars for this cheap item that you now say is worth only the price a gallon of gasoline!"

And this is how it goes.  People bring stuff in the door, and they expect you hand them whatever dollar amount they feel its worth.

Then there are the errant couponers.  Corporate sends out coupons like Typhoid Mary sent out germs.  And they expire.  But the eastern european euro-trash foreign nationals who live in the area don't understand the concept of "expiration dates."

"You," said one angry woman with flaming orange hair (that most certainly wouldn't match anyone's carpet) pointed at me accusingly, as if to imply that I sent her an expired coupon. "You, sent this to me when I was sick in bed and now I demand to use this coupon!"

I explain to her that the coupon she is trying to use expired in October.  "It is not my fault that I have been busy since then!"

All the while, I hear my manager "it's about the experience."  Yet when I ask for the over ride, I get "Well October is a bit far back...."

It's times like this that I want to page the store for "Jack Hughes".

Yesterday, I had one man come into our shop, rudely insert himself into a conversation I was having with another customer about how to use a thumb index (no joke), and insisted that I help him at that moment with his hand-held device.

I excused myself from the befuddled customer I was helping and asked a coworker to help this man, giving her the eye signal that the guy was a handful, and he says, "I don't want no nigger like Obama telling me...blah, blah, blah..."  My befuddled customer, gave the man a sharp look, and went back to the index at hand.  My coworker and I both used our headsets to alert the manager that it was customer "tag" time, and she was it.

Now, just so you not think that I surround myself with crazies, 99% of the people I encounter are normal people.  Its just the 50% with unreal expectations that I kvetch about.

And its not just my store.  You find these people everywhere in the NW corner of Baltimore.  They just don't save it for me.

The other day on my lunch hour, I had to run to the local Giant to pick up something to eat.  While standing at the deli, there were two women standing just behind me.  Their conversation was thus:

Young Woman One: "Look at dat, what is that?"

Young Woman two: "Dat?" pointing with a finger that my peripheral vision picked up along my side.

YW1: "Yeah, that 'krab salad' shit.  They misspelled 'Krab' with a 'K' when it should be a 'C'."

YW2: "My mama says that it's kosher krab so the Jews can eat it."

YW1: "What make it kosher?"

YW2:  "All krab with a 'K' is kosher because it starts with the same letter as 'kosher'...."

There comes a time in everyone's life when you can address someone's stupidity, but that urge is overcome by the feeling "what good will it accomplish.  This was one such moment.  

After a day of "Many unhappy returns", Cookie just didn't care.

Instead I ordered my turkey breast, paid for it, headed to the Cookiemobile and, once seated and belted in, doors closed and locked, I screamed at the top of my voice.

Regaining composure I headed back to the Beef House and Strip Club for round two of my double shift.

Think of me the next time you see an offer for "krab" with a "k".

Friday, December 26, 2014

Well now...

Now the holiday returns are done, and you have shipped the children back to their boarding schools, aren't we relieved its over for another year?

Thursday, December 25, 2014

Merry Christmas and welcome to our home!


Aunt Midge is standing by the door, and has dragged our bar over so she can get you started on her mission to spread Christmas cheer.  So do come in and have a glass of mellowed eggnog, minus the nog.




Our brother and our sisters are still decorating with tasteful nudes and bowling balls - so you can join in if you choose - or - ...


... head to the Rumpus Room to hear some Bob Ward toons on the Wurlitzer...



A "boofay" meal will commence shortly...



And my sister Disco Noel has finally arrived...



Just remember, tomorrow is Boxing Day!

From my home to yours, Merry Christmas one and all!




Tuesday, December 16, 2014

Christmas Party Hell



So, why has Cookie not been posting to the blog so much, you may well be asking yourself.

Well, if you have been following said blog, you would know that Cookie is in sales at the Beef House Strip Club, and Christmas is an busy, bust time of year.  My days are spent consulting with clients, and answering their questions:

Customer: Have you used this dildo?

Cookie: Madam, we carry over 100,000 different dildos, and it would be impossible for me to try them all.  But purple sparkly is a flattering color on you!

and

Customer: Well it looks like your co-workers aren't very keen on helping you out...

Cookie: Madam, that could be because they are helping other patrons with their ball gags.  Now, what kind of brisket would you like to find today?

Customer: Well someone needs to tell your zone manager that they aren't very good at scheduling enough employees.

Cookie:  Would you like me to ring them for you?

Customer: I don't want to get into the middle of this, you call and tell them.

Cookie: Hello, Manager, This is Mr. Cookie in the Beef House.  We have a Mrs. Rosenbloom would like to complain about your staffing of the Pavilion.  "Mrs. Rosenbloom, Manager will be here shortly..."

Enough about my drab existence. You want more? OK.  Last Friday I went to the most unfriendly Christmas Party ever.  Husband is a member of LGBT network at International Amalgamated.  He joined because he thought it would be a boffo way to meet people, and we have met people.  Strange, odd people.

Anyhow, Christmas was at the home of two men who live the "Loft Condo" lifestyle.  You know, RAW brick, RAW steel trusses and beams and ENORMOUS windows for all to see into the Condo while they do outrageous things, with great sophistication.

We were greeted at the door and TOLD to put our coats in the closet, then TOLD to get a drink.  Once we had said drink, made with well spirits, we were TOLD to go up stairs to the living level.  Up in the living level, we were TOLD that they would give us a tour of their "space".  We walked around this enormous room and were told that the air ducts "delineate our purpose spaces."

"Purpose spaces?" asks the husband.

"Well we can't very well call them rooms, can we.  Will you excuse me while I go greet Monica?  You can find your own way back to the Conversation Area.  MONICA!...."

Monica, a woman of color and her bald girlfriend walked in.  Bald girlfriend, Clothilde, shaves her head to shatter the male dominated paradigm for women's fashion.  Monica told us this.  Baldy, who we have tried to chat with before is rather rude.  She looks, and she doesn't engage, but does engage with other "womyn'.  In her path to shattering sex, race and gender paradigm, EVIDENTLY Baldy doesn't include men in that mission.  Fine by me.

Anyhow, I had worked a ten hour shift on my feet earlier in the day, my legs were killing me and I was exhausted, but I put on that support husband smile and chit chatted for about two hours, when my body - which was still 50 days out from surgery - started to get wonky.  I needed to sit and sit fast before my legs went out from underneath me.  Even the husband noted that after drinking three plain old ginger ales (from cans we brought) and dining at the buffet while standing up, that the color had drained from my face.  He looked into the "casual dining purpose space" and saw that a chair had freed up and sent me to it.

No sooner than I had sat down then ol' Baldy said her first words to me: "You aren't going to sit down there.  There is a pregnant woman standing over there," and she nodded at a youngish twenty something with a trim figure. I must have had the "Huh?" look on my face and ol' Baldy reasserted herself by calling to the pregnant woman "Renee, git yourself over her, this man needs to get up and out so you can git off your feet and sit in this chair."

I looked up at the husband who looked at Baldy, who looked at him and said "Find him some other place to sit."  Both offended, we walked towards the kitchen area where there was a food bar and stools when the host came over and TOLD us to move towards the "Social Purpose Space" (reader I am not making this up) because "I spent all this money on this loft and people need to learn to use the spaces."

So the husband and I got up, and moved towards the coat closet, got our coats and left.   The man who runs the group saw this ten minute Kabuki Theatre presentation and looked as horrified as we felt. "Fred's just nervous about hosting, and Clothilde is a lovely person when you get to know her. Please stay.  We thanked him, but I pointed that I really did feel wonkie, and had to work the next day.  "Maybe another time," and we left.

Now, all this said, and ol' Baldy, and the creepy host aside, this group is important to the husband at International Amalgamated because it gets him social access to decision makers.  And the man who runs the group is very nice, and 90% of the people are exceptionally nice as well.   But even the husband was really put out by these people.

On the way home, husband said "Did all that really happen?"  Yes, it did.

Between the host who treated us like circus dogs by ordering us about, and ol' Baldy, I am just fine as long as we can get away from these people.

Just fine indeed.


Monday, December 15, 2014

You have until sundown tomorrow...



...to get that Chanukah tree up and ready for your your eight nights grief  from your parents, cheap presents from your bubbie, and candle lighting.  Good luck, and remember, if the Rabbi comes to call have a sheet handy so you can drape it and just say that the "parrot is sleeping".

Sunday, December 14, 2014

It's a Mitzvah!


I just heard that one of our family members is now Sadie, Sadie, Married Lady!  I'll let the "bride" make the announcement, but don't expect it until they get the bride's legs closed and out of his therapeutic sling.

I have pictures from the Bachelor(ette)  Party and Taffy Pull that I'll share!


Friday, November 28, 2014

Thursday, November 27, 2014

Wednesday, November 26, 2014

This holiday...


...Norma and MJ, try and make an effort, if for no other reason, for the sake of the children.