You Belong in 1962

You are a free spirit with a huge heart. Love, peace, and happiness rule - oh, and drugs too.

Considering this is actually the year before I was born, it says something about my views of the world, eh? Or my taste in television reruns. Definitely not my fashion sense though.

The menu for today’s football watching feast:

Smoked cheddar cheese with rye crisps
Goat cheese spread with red peppers and wheat crackers
Buffalo wings with Bleu cheese and celery
Peach Salsa with regular and blue corn chips
Leinenkugel’s Red

If you come over, I’ll share, but you have to promise me to cheer for the Spartans. (Yea, we actually sold our tickets because we’ve all got these colds-from-hell. I’m dying at the thought of not being there, but the though of curling up on the couch under a blanket instead of being out in the chill and wind does have it’s plusses.)

—- My headband is slipping and my go-go boots need to be shined up. Mr. Hot is getting all uptight waiting for the game to start. I’m going to go put Johnny Angel and Chubby Checker on the record player and do the Twist. It’s so cool, man. —-

Sad. So very, very sad. Way back in August (when it was hot and green and dry and I had hair that was 4 inches longer, but gray), I wrote about what happened while I was in Chicago. (Go ahead, scroll down to the big red blob in the middle of the post, I’ll wait. Um, don’t forget to come back, though, okay? I’ll give you wine!)

So we’ve been watching football and Pushing Daisies and Cavemen and Dream Team on that. Up there. It does not belong in the living room. It belongs on the dresser in our bedroom where I can catch up on syndicated dramas like J.A.G. and Law & Order at 6 a.m. while I mainline drink my coffee in the morning before I drag my ass into the office that has become a sinkhole for the morale of everyone I work with skip off to the career that I love so much.

Then I wrote an update where I recounted how Mr. Hot and I were ready to firebomb a certain repair shop and a very large, well-known electronics store. (Back again? How sweet of you! Let me refill your glass with merlot. And have some cheese!)

Well, day-before-yesterday, on Halloween, our trick turned into a treat. Jeff-the-Jackass (who wasn’t so much a jackass as a habitual liar and all around creep - sorry Jeff!) brought back this:

which has a completely fucked-up digital board that has been backordered for 2 months, 10 days, and 3 hours and 47 seconds. (Um, Mr. Hot did NOT take the picture with the gas cans in the background on purpose. No he did not. I swear. It just happened that way. )

And then Mr. Hot and Shortman loaded the very thin, very expensive, not even good as a paperweight piece of shit television into this:

drove it back to that very large, well known electronics store and they gave us (because of our pain and suffering the fact that we paid $298.99 for a damn 36-month warranty on a piece of shit television that didn’t make it 18 months):

THIS! (And no, I don’t know why Mr. Hot decided to take a picture of it while the Disney channel was turned on, since Shortman certainly doesn’t watch the Disney channel. There must be things going on in my house while I’m at work having my soul sucked out of me enriching my existence that I really don’t want to know about.)

Oh Mah Gawd, ya’ll. Now I can spend mindless hours cheering for the Lions and the Pistons and getting quizzed* on the NFL’s first round draft pick of 2003.

—- *And Mr. Hot swears he never thought Jevon Kearse went to M.S.U. - he was talking about Ike Hilliard (Florida - 1996). My bad. —-