FIRST TIME

Recently E had a friend from Japan
visit. He spoke little English but
did an amazing job making his way
through various conversations. We
had him over for a beer one night
and before he left I reached in
to give him a hug and a quick peck
on the cheek. I think I scared him
because he laughed a schoolgirl
giggle and flushed and said,
'Oh...first time! First time!'

Note to self: Don't 'make out'
with boyfriend's friend from
Japan scaring the poor man.

NOTE TO ORNERY CAST MEMBERS

Don't sign up for Colonial House
if you are going to bitch and moan
about how much it sucks living in
the Colonial House.

THANKS

I just wanted to thank everyone for all the nice
comments about the last post. It meant a lot to
hear what everyone had to say. Just so you know
I was fine with the whole incident more pissed
off if anything. I used my blog to let it out
but again-appreciate it!

WEATHER REPORT

So does this mean May showers
will bring June flowers?

D LIKE…DON’T KNOW WHY IT’S SUCH A BIG DEAL

I have been doing a strange thing lately.
When giving my email address I've been
saying, 'K...(pause)…D like Dog' and then
giving the rest. Why do I say ‘D like dog?’
This is strange right? Do I think of myself
as a dog? You never hear people say,
“E…(pause)…C like chimpanzee’ and
the rest. This week I have made more of
an effort to change this. For one reason
or another I have started this, 'K...D like
Donna' which is stranger than dog because
my middle name is not Donna it is Duncan.
(All the women on my dad’s side have boy
middle names) I like my middle name. I
don’t know what is holding me back. Some
possible alternatives as I warm up to D like
Duncan:

K…D like diarrhea
K…D like dynamite
K…D like dandruff
K…D like Duke of Hazzard

Suggestions welcome.

I meant to write something under here yesterday. It was going
to be about my love/hate relationship with magazines. I grew up
in a house with every magazine subscription known to man. It
was a great way for my family to emulate spending quality time
together when in fact we were really just sitting side by side
drooling over the glossy pages of other people’s exciting lives.

When I left home I went to an all women's college. My first
class was taught by an amazon New Orleans woman who made
a mean gumbo and encouraged the class to work on an assignment
that involved ripping up magazines into a collage of sorts.
The theme was how badly magazines portray women. For a
couple of years the project and images my classmates
chose to glue to poster board stuck in my head. A hand
reach for a Vogue suddenly turned into an automatic
response-an electronic shock of sorts. I was too shameful
to buy mags anymore and thanks to the money I saved my
pride made me a rich woman.

A nice story-but it wasn't long until I was back on the
Magwagon again. Currently in my house I have more trashy
mags then I'd care to admit. While E pretends to hide
them away it is him I find laughing at a photo of Mike
Tyson walking to his car with TP coming out his pants.

Trashy mags break the ice. After a few beers at a party
they can be a great topic of conversation. Men pretend
to be bored by it all but trust me when I say they are
right there in it. When family comes to town and there
is no more wine and cheese there are always enough
trashy magazines-common ground for all to talk about.

All I know is yesterday sucked and if it hadn't been for
photos of Scarlett Johansson chewing with her mouth open
at the Ivy...I don't know what I might have done.

PERK OF THE DAY:

Watching Rumsfeld and Myers
squirm like little babies. Eat it.

NOT WITH THEM-REALLY

It's a rough day for the teenage boy I saw on
the train this morning when pops is sporting
a pair of suspenders in the design of 'rulers'
and mom is wearing lime green pants with
turtles on them.

MY BEST FRIEND THE SCIENCE EXPERIMENT

Last night I had fun catching up with my pregnant pal B.
Despite watching other people’s eyes glaze over at the bar
by such words as ‘sonogram’ and ‘bile puking’ I couldn't
help but be excited.

This is a natural reaction of one woman to another I'm
pretty sure. Especially when it is happening with your
best friend-your old college buddy-the one you recall
once doing an upside down keg stand in a dress
surrounded by a bunch of rowdy freshman chanting
'Do it! Do it! Do it!'.

I asked B ten million questions:

Does being pregnant feel like you are totally stuffed?
As if you just ate two giant portions of Fettuccini Alfredo?
But like…all the time?

Can you sleep on your stomach or is there some internal
force preventing you from doing so afraid you will be
crushing those two tiny human beings?
(she is having twins)

When you say you are sick in the morning are you
'god i'm hungover' sick or do you feel as if you were
an extra on the stormy seas in Master and Commander?

The most bizarro thing about all this for me to process
is how chicks spend their whole lives trying NOT to get
pregnant and then one day women that are physically
able to by circumstance, good planning, bad planning,
good genes, fear, hapiness, loneliness-get to a point
where they say, OK. Nevermind about all that stuff
before. I'm ready. Hit Me.

What is this like for guys? It's like spending your
entire lives trying NOT to get socked in the balls
and then one day due to circumstance, good planning,
bad planning, good genes, fear, hapiness, loneliness
-whatever it may be-brings you to that point where
you say, OK. Nevermind about all that stuff before.
I'm ready.
Hit Me.

NEVER GETS OLD

One time I wished my mom a 'Happy Cinco
de Mayo!' and she said 'How do you know?'

BLOCK PARTY? NO BLOG PARTY.
MUCH COOLER.

Last night I geeked out and went to hear a panal
of my pals speak at the Mac store in SoHo about
blogs. It was very interesting I must say. It got
the wheels turning. Why do we blog? More Than
Donuts needs a facelift. It needs More comments
and viewers. How do we make this happen? More
writing. Who knows. It all starts with you people.
Starts with you. That's it for now. I am wrapped
in a towel and not even close to ready to go to
work.

I wanted to write that it is my goal in the next year to
try and show some of my photographs. In a show. In a
gallery. Or at a roadside rest stop I don't really care. I
just think it would be a fantastic goal to set and follow
through on. Setting goals. Setting goals.

Speaking of rest stops. Countdown to Maine: 25 days.

Crochet Class Countdown: 23 days.

In other news-if you haven't gotten one yet-get it.
It's a WIDGET
and it's free.