Memories of Cambodia

Dear J,

Thank you for making this possible:

Who's better than you?

Love,

Me

P.S. Mmmm... Angkor Beer.

A New Arrival

Major update coming soon! (Seriously. I know I'm always saying that; but this time I mean it.) Ol's wedding weekend in Long Island! New career developments! Next vacation spot chosen!

But first and foremost today, I'd like to introduce you all to the newest arrival to the HomeValley clan:

Internet, Roberta. Roberta, Internet.

Roberta is a healthy, radiant, four-door Nissan Altima 2.5 S. She is dark slate with a lovely charcoal interior. She also comes with a "moon roof", inexplicably.

She is so purty.

And no, I am not quite sure why her name is Roberta. I went out to admire her last night after returning from the dealership, and the name popped into my head.

Roberta.

Welcome, love.

Also, do you think car salesmen are given a manual upon taking the job, perhaps: How to Be Smarmy and Make Patrons Generally Uncomfortable?

Because: GOD. Douche bags. If Mr. Sales Manager said one more time, "Man, I hope you don't need this extra $900 warranty; but GEEZ! Won't this come in handy if you do!" I was going to have to take him out. Or, my personal favorite: "Now, I normally don't do this, BUT..."

What It's Like At Our House.

J and I are currently sitting on the couch with computers on our laps, reviewing wedding invitations online. (We suddenly have 18 laptops in our home, inexplicably.) I spent the day in Scranton, PA (regrettably, no Dunder-Mifflin there), and I am drinking wine.

HV: Can I get you another beer, J?

J: No.

I dash into the kitchen for more chianti. Upon my return, J looks up and shakes his head.

"Your going to be a drunk," he laments.

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So many things! To write! Can't focus! Too busy!

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I am thinking of starting a family-friendly wedding blog, where I will use the word fuck a lot less. Yes, I know I don't update this blog nearly enough. But I'm tipsy and feeling ambitious.

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Yes, I know there is no real topic here.

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*Sips wine.*

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"Babe!" J taps me on the shoulder, directing my attention to the invitation he's just created.

Lovely! A picture of us in Santorini, a photo of our potential resort in Negril, and a message:

Melissa is one hot piece of arse.

I plan to love her for the rest of my life.

God help me.

J! Aw.

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"The Internet is awesome."

-J

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Gah! I promise a real post tomorrow. I've got some time before a 10:30 meeting; plus, I've been grappling with a Big Decision that I may attempt to describe as vaguely as possible here, in the hopes of gaining some clarity. Or perhaps we can chat more about penis. Either way.

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http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=auEceiMGGk4

Shocked and RuPauled

It's just tragic when you can't find the time to blog, if for no other reason that you lose your window of opportunity to use the aforementioned witty post title to describe your trip to a drag restaurant in Lower Manhattan. My friends, just know that this April bachelorette party consisted of "orgy bowls" (Rainblo's Poontang, anyone?) and men far more woman than I adorned in evening gowns and bikinis. Well, except maybe this lass:

There were lap dances and words we wish to remember forever (Ol, the Bachelorette: "I've had a headache since that queen's balls were in my face, banging my head into that damn metal pole.")

There were the lap dances that should have been; instead, Al and I cowered when we learned what we had volunteered for and scurried back to our table. (It would take a lot of Rainblo's Poontang for that, y'all.)

And there was Porky's, the land of alcohol-poisoned underaged kids from New Jersey drinking liquor from fish bowls and downing yard stick beers. And this guy. (Sadly, that is not us in the picture, nor did we catch him there. I'm just sayin'.)

I have long pondered the origin of the bachelorette party; more specifically, the incorporation of the phallus into any and all bachelorette activities. (I smell a future doctoral thesis!) Penis cakes; penis Jell-o molds; penis martini glasses (that light up!); veil adorned with tiny penises; penis straws; giant inflatable penises; enormous rubber penises; penis necklaces; penis earrings; I could go on.

That's a whole lotta penis, and why? Are we celebrating the acquisition of one final penis til death do us part? Or is this merely an homage to the penis that never was, and now never will be? Also, does the word "penis" look weird to anyone else after reading it this many times?

J and I have opted not to have bachelor/bachelorette parties. As we'll be having all of our guests travel to some Caribbean island in the oppressive July heat for our nuptials, we'll likely do some boys only/girls only activities at the swim-up bar or spa. Also, I have made Grace swear on all that is good and holy to a strict, no plastic cock policy. Lovely as the penis is, I prefer not to wear tiny replicas of it on a pristine white veil.

On the other hand, this guy? Totally welcome.

Game On!

GAH!

So busy.

All (mostly) good things: meetings and more meetings and wedding plans and classes and luncheons and girls' dinners and martinis and nature hikes and family gatherings and phone calls and cooking and grocery shopping and laundry and dry cleaning and bridesmaid dresses and car shopping and honeymoon planning and J kicking my ass to write a novel already and hosting a Mother's Day feast on Sunday and much Goddamnit, J - we cannot use paper napkins! Etc.

I promise a real update soon. I still love you, Internet. As proof, here:

http://www.theonion.com/content/video/report_70_percent_of_all_praise

*Edited to say: What the fuck is wrong with my webpage here? Can everyone see it's gone mad?