Spoke Too Soon

There will be no more New Ho Toy. I just found this in my eggroll:

Excuse me while I go and get my Tracy Gold on in the office bathroom.

This sweater probably didn't help with body image issues.

This Really Isn't Worth Your Time....

Is this your coat? I came across it on my way home from work yesterday. Some nice person took the time to hang it up on the light post. Now I'm doing my part by posting a picture in the hopes that a chilly owner will see it here and come forward. Although, I can't return the coat to you. Because I left it there. Oops. Oh well...it's on the corner of Beacon and Mt. Vernon. Good luck!

My friend and I just ordered take-out for lunch. From our favorite neighborhood Chinese joint, The New Ho Toy. You know it!! And, as you can kind of make out on the menu, above the map drawing, they "Take Party Gift Certificate!" So obivously, they're awesome. I'm down for a large order of crab rangoon. And then a nap - around 3ish. Kind of like this (I don't know who that pasty white thigh belongs to. No idea.):

The Elvis

I love milkshakes. Love, love, love milkshakes. A plain vanilla and a big cheeseburger would most likely be the meal I would choose for my last (while watching Purple Rain dressed up as Betty White - if I'm going out - I'm going all out, baby...). It's raining in Boston today and it's also extremely cold. While most would be inspired to make a big pot of piping hot chili or a warm batch of holiday cookies, I decided to get freaky with a new milkshake concoction. I call it, The Elvis. Half a banana, lots of vanilla ice cream, a little milk and three spoonfuls of chunky peanut butter. In case you're retarded, Elvis loved peanut butter and banana sandwiches. And unless you're a baby or a denture wearer, there is NO substitute for the chunky. I simply do not understand the mind of the creamy fan and I'm not going to try to start now. Frankly, I don't want to know. Because no matter the reason - it's jacked. Chunky is the only acceptable form of peanut butter. Next...

Blend it all together until it looks like this.

Pour into your favorite glass (or in my case, the only glass you have). Serve alongside the newest flavor of Doritos, Late Night: Tacos at Midnight (I used a colon - the Dorito people did not. You can tell by my frequent use of dashes and infrequent use of properly placed periods that I'm big on correct punctuation). The marketing executives at Frito Lay clearly knew what they were doing when they decided to skip on simply naming them Taco Flavored Doritos and instead, tapped into the drunk and high mind of every 30 year-old woman who finds herself perusing the aisles of 7-11 at, well, midnight- desperately searching for a snack that will nurse a dying and black heart by way of a preservative and Yellow No. 5 filled belly. Who doesn't go totally crazy for tacos at midnight!?!? Yeah, I understand that it's just a chip and not really a taco - but whatever - if I were that picky, I'd also have a job that allows me to pay my bills. Or a non-abusive string of ex-boyfriends. I mean, get over it. We take what we can get, right? And when I say, "I" I'm really saying, "those women". I'm not like that. I'm just betting women like that exist - I'm pretty sure I read it in Newsweek or something. Because I subscribe. Those chips were a Christmas gift. I would never buy those myself. I'm purely organic. And do pilates. Every day. At 6:30AM. I have great sex, too. Like, all of the time. My grandmother was NOT the last person I talked to on the phone and I don't have a crush on Andrew Lessman from HSN. So again...just hypothetical.

Anyway...enjoy this wholesome snack before retreating to your bathroom to pay homage to The King by demonstrating the ultimate sign of respect - spinning In the Ghetto on your stereo and passing out on the toilet.

Stay classy.

This morning after George Michael and I returned from our usual walk in the park – him having no clue of how to function on a leash - stopping, going, stopping, jumping, biting my leg, chasing a squirrel…me in paisley pajama pants, oversized rain boots, a sweatshirt with a large deer on it (a buck, actually – found it on the subway which makes it even classier) and a big straw hat – I realized I was out of dog food. So what did I do? I microwaved a hotdog and a bun, sliced it into little bite-size pieces, organized them to fit within the circular shape of his bowl and dressed it with relish and ketchup…so it would look like a Christmas wreath. I’m festive like that. If “festive” means the same thing as “80 year-old god damned cat lady – making fucking holiday treats for her animals while wearing clothes she pulled from the god damned dumpster. And her pets very well could be dead at this point – she’s a total bat and just forgot they were stuffed post mortem and have been serving as ‘lifelike’ and ‘adorable’ figurines propped on the couch for the past decade.” Anyway, he loved it and it got me to thinking:

That is something the mother I always wanted my own mother to be at the precious (COUGH) age of five would have done (‘When I grow up, I’m gonna let my kids eat candy and drink soda and wear My Size Barbie! clothes to school and play with the old man around the corner and watch Dynasty! You’re mean! I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!). And it’s all the reason I should never be a mother myself. I would pull that ghetto shit on my kids all of the time. Hot Pockets and grape drink like it’s going out of style.

A friend recently went on a rant about responsible parenting and the prevalent belief that if you can’t take care of yourself, you shouldn’t be able to have a child (Preachers. Someone pass me a Jolt and some Combos, please). To which I said, “And what do you propose to do about that? Start spaying people?”

Believe it or not, I do recognize what I am and am not capable of. And dealing with a baby is definitely not something on my to-do list for the next rest of my entire life. Because two months into the job, that baby would be wearing getups crafted out of trash bags and glitter since there’s been no time for laundry, and drinking White Russians because we’re out of formula. Like mother, like baby. It ain’t a pretty sight.

Good thing I’m not the Virgin Mary (close second, but she won the sack race. Grand Prize: Messiah!) because as soon as Jesus was done trying to kill my insides in that barn – I would have been off to the nearest Safe Haven Drop and then headed directly to the Four Seasons for a real bed, a massage and a cocktail before gettin’ my groove on back in the streets of Jerusalem (or Jacksonville or Jersey – or wherever they were from). And all of you suckers would be fire dancing down under. See how things always work out in the end??

The moral of this weird and rambling story is – fuck it. I have no idea. Eat a hot dog, I guess. And think of me.

Your Friday Song of the Day is DeVotchKa How It Ends.

Have a great weekend.

George Michael side-eye. Just because.

Priority: HIGH

I just had the following email exchange with a friend of mine. I love that she didn't even inquire as to why I would be asking such a random question. This is why we're friends - she knows better. By now, you should too.


From: Ms. A
Sent: Wednesday, December 09, 2009 2:30 PM
To: Murph
Subject:

How do you say, "The Jonas Brothers and Laura Bush love meatballs" in Spanish?


From: Murph
Sent: Wednesday, December 09, 2009 3:32 PM
To: Ms. A
Subject: RE:

I think it’s:

Los hermanos Jonas y Laura Bush aman albóndigas



Brilliant. Simply brilliant.

By the way, if we're wrong, please let us know. This is muy importante. Obvi.

Dear Diary

Today (Sunday, December 6, 2009) I ate lunch at a Red Lobster. In New Jersey. At 10AM.

I think we're done here.

Love,

me.

Afternoon Reading

I mean, really, People? I know you're not the fucking Economist, but come on.

OMG! I love Cheez-Its, too! And games! Just like Ashley! I wonder if she likes anal and crying on the subway?!? Totally just wondering. Obviously...

I don't know what to say about Kendra. Really, she just does all the hard work for you, no? That oreo baby is in big trouble. And those dogs are just waiting for Kendra to move her fat ass so they can immediately hurl themselves into the fireplace. Godspeed, little guys. Godspeed.