My Eagles Are Wetter Than Your Eagles

I've very slowly and miserably been dying of pneumonia for the past several weeks. That pneumonia was very officially diagnosed by Dr. Hot Lipz. So this week I finally went to the doctor, the dermatologist. I have great skin actually, texture wise that is, but lately I've been cursed with this weird and horrible blotchy uneven skin tone. So I finally broke down and made a dermatologist appointment and then waited the 9 months until they could finally fit me in. Oddly, the dermatologist prescribed me a low dose antibiotic and said that sometimes that helps with uneven skin tone. I know, that doesn't make any sense to me either, but who am I to argue with a skincare professional? Initially I thought, Wow, this is great, I'll have flawless, even skin and get rid of my lung-plaguing pneumonia all with one copay and prescription. But that was almost a week ago, and I think my pneumonia is getting worse. I think I have just strengthened it with this bullshit skin antibiotic. So if you never hear from me again, I've succumbed to the mutated, drug-resistant, self-created lung infection. It was nice knowin' ya.

I'm currently in the process of hiring a new cleaning lady. Not a day goes by that I don't receive some poorly-punctuated flyer for a new cleaning service in my paper box. So the interview process could go on indefinitely, but I think I am just going to have to take the plunge and make a decision here in the next couple of days. So far I have it narrowed down to two. It is either going to be the two Brazilian girls who are built like brick shithouses who showed up to give me an estimate in 9 inch platform shoes and micro mini skirts and don't speak a word of English. Or it is going to be the very American (it says so on the bumper sticker on the back of her '98 Dodge Ram) redneck woman with an ass like a bag of marshmallows who is overpriced, but English is her first language. The Brazilian bombshells are a good $40 a week less than Rhonda the Redneck, which equates to $160 a month, and hell I could have a Kia for that amount of money every month. But I think being able to communicate with my house staff is really fairly important for a number of reasons. $160 a month could seem like chump change when the Brazilian bombshells fuck everything in the house because they don't understand my directions or can't read the labels on the cleaning products. But one of them did have an ass that was giving me impure thoughts as I was walking up the steps behind her. Decisions, decisions.

I hope you all had great holidays and 2008 is looking bright for all of yous. I'm going to try harder to be a better blogger in the coming months.

Well, Well, Well

Look who finally decided after a two-month absence to make an appearance on her blog.

And it only took me 346294820 attempts to remember my password.

There is pretty much nothing I can say about my absence that will explain it or forgive it. I've got some shit going on. Like mega, major, life-altering shit. And it has consumed every morsel of my time and energy for the past 8 weeks. I think the shit is going to turn into some awesomeness, but until then, the shit is just going to have to stay secret. But I'd say by spring, early summer this blog will be benefitting from the past couple months of shit. During my 8 weeks of shit, I've taken up meditating or some bastardized version there of and I've found much comfort in cliches. My two current faves are: It Is What It Is (I recently saw this painted on the back of a dumptruck and although I've heard this a million times before, it suddenly made sense and I'm pretty sure God painted it on the back of that dumptruck with his own two holy hands) and Live and Let Live. Deep, huh?

Be patient, I don't want to jinx myself, but once the appropriate amount of time has passed it will all make sense. It is what it is, after all.

And whether I blog or not, I still love the hell out of my hotties. I love ya'll more than I love my Don Miguel empanadas from the freezer section. Well, ya'll are a close second.

Soon Soon Soon

Hello my loyal fuckers.

I'm going to try like the dickens to get my god damn bachelorette wild weekend post up today. But holy shit that's a lot of photos to alter and I'm not exactly photoshop-savvy.

In other news I'm happy to report that depsite the fact that I have recently become a mother and have had to greatly limit my work schedule (9:30 - 3:30 in case you care)that September and October will be my highest grossing months in the five years that I've had my little business going. I attribute it to finally getting the right support staff in place. Did I mention Jo's gone? Yep. She finally retired and I ended up replacing her with 3 new people (2 full timers and 1 part timer) and I think this is the secret sauce to my success. Can I get a witness!?!

Now, if you don't mind, it is 9:30 and we all know what that means, I've got clients waiting for me.

Home Again Home Again Jiggity Jig

I'm home safe and sound.

It was an amazing trip. Really it was. I'm so glad I went because a couple of times I had said to myself, Fuck this, I've got too much on my plate, I'm skipping the five-day bachelorette party. But luckily I didn't listen to myself and packed my shit and went. I have many, many stories to tell which may or may not include meeting Richard C. Davis, getting arrested and partying on a yacht all night long. But unfortunately I came home to a pile of work on my desk, a filthy house and a sick kid so I can only tease you with the existence of said stories. But hopefully life will be back to normal tomorrow and I can grace you with an update then. If it is any consolation, I took lots of pictures.

Quickie

I made it down to the beach. We had a fun little Cannonball Run/Scavenger Hunt competition on the way down. I, of course, came out victorious.

The house is amazing (and currently on the market for $3 million!) and we are all having a lovely time. I'm taking lots of pictures, or at least I did yesterday and have good intentions to continue throughout the weekend. Of course the only thing that this $3 million dollar beach mansion doesn't have is wireless internet so I'm writing this from dialup. Mother fucker!

So there is that.

Winner Winner Chicken Dinner

I was supposed to be leaving for my Folly Beach getaway this evening after KT got off of work, but it looks like we're losers and won't leave until in the morning. Before we leave we've got to go to the local dirty store to stock up on penis party supplies and porn (say that 10 times fast).
Even though everyone else is flying or taking the train, KT and I decided that we were going to drive. Don't ask me why. That's very unHotLipslike. But at the time I had just gifted myself with a huge new 890 person SUV and it seemed like an appropriate time for a roadtrip. KT and I decided we would watch porn on the DVD players the whole way down. We've also got to hit the liquor store and stock up on booze.

Big Daddy suggested that I take my other car down because it is better on gas. I told him that was ludicrous. What's the point of having an 890-person SUV if you don't take it on roadtrips? He said, Yeah, but there is only two of you. But then I started naming off all the stuff I needed to take, including but not limited to: my own sheets, blankets, pillows and towels, an inflatable 6-foot penis, a blender, a suitcase full of booze and lubricant, a vacuum, a half dozen Swiffer dusters, a blow up doll, a stack of porn DVDs, a laptop, a briefcase, a purse the size of Wilmington, Delaware; a case of Mardi Gras beads, 11 visors, a large jar of honey, 17 pairs of shoes, 6 bathing suits, three dozen cupcakes, 69 jello shooters, 22 outfit choices, and blow darts, chloroform, duct tape and a ball gag (for when I kidnap Richard C. Davis). I think he finally saw my point.

So, yeah, I've got nine and half million things to do, that's why we put off leaving until the morning, but yet here I sit procrastinating. It is what I do best.

Everyone say hi to our newest hottie, Dixie Chick.

You Are Not Going To Believe This But...

I just got home from a PTA fundraising committee meeting.

Sara is always saying to me, Let's write a book. And I'm always saying back, What the hell would I write about?

And tonight as I sat there on that leather sectional in the living room of the fundraising committee's chairwoman, I had an out of body experience. At least that's what it felt like. It was the strangest most surreal feeling the whole time I was sitting there. I kept blinking my eyes to try to ground myself. I kept reminding myself that what I was doing at that moment was probably the most normal thing in the world. But God damn it felt strange to me.

Sometimes everything, right down to the little, mini tortes on the granite countertop, seems so cliche to me that I feel like I must have just been dropped into the middle of the Twilight Zone. The other 15 committee mothers there all looked exactly alike, sort of half granola, half yuppie. And then there was me. I am pretty sure I was the only one wearing make up, and I am very sure that I was the only one with their cleavage on display.
Even my French pedicure was sure to assert its individuality from everyone else's (and of course everyone else was rockin' the French pedi - I felt like I was in some freaky cloned toe bizarro world).

I'm not sure what exactly I'm trying to say here, but the whole scene was just strange to me. And at one point as I was flying around the room detached from my body I thought to myself, I've got to put this in my book. But then I thought, Who am I kidding. No one would buy my book, and even if they did, no one would get it. Except maybe me and the six of you.