I put the FUN back in Funeral

I spent the morning at a memorial service for my neighbor/friend, Jim.

Jim was 47 years old, relatively healthy, very happy and a genuinely nice guy.

He dropped dead- literally- Sunday morning.

Jim left behind his equally nice wife, Stacy and twin 5 year old girls. One of the girls is in Lauren's class. I knew him from the neighborhood, and from our daily chats in the pick-up line in school. Would I say I knew his favorite flavor ice cream? No. But, I did know he just bought a new house, loved to play guitar and had a close relationship with his God.

Jim tried on many occasions to talk to me about God, and my beliefs. I usually laughed him off and reminded him that I was a JEW. We didn't necessarily believe in the SAME God. He didn't care. He liked me anyway.

The service was very tasteful, no "remains" were present ( for which I am grateful) and there were nice words said about the departed. Someone put together a very nice montage of music and pictures or Jim's life. It was set to Eric Clapton's 'Tears In Heaven.' I couldn't contain my tears when I saw a five year old girl crying her beautiful brown eyes out over the loss of her father.

I couldn't help but wonder what it would feel like if it was LAUREN crying over the loss of Joey. I can't imagine what Stacy feels and how she will go on.

All I do know is that now is the time to treasure those I love. I am going to try and spend each day getting to know something about someone.

Jim once told me he never asked closed-ended questions- they allowed for conversations to end too quickly. He would never say " How are you?" He would say "What did you do today?"

So, my favorite flavor of ice cream is Banana- what about you?

Aww push it...push it REAL good

*WARNING* GRAPHIC MATERIAL FOLLOWS*



** YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED***



You are either a popper or not.

I am a popper. I LOVE zits, boils, abscesses and scabs.

I love to pick my own and even more disgustingly, other people's. Few things are as satisfying as squeezing a fat, juicy blackhead until a hard, greasy plug comes oozing out.

I get my hands on my husband as much as I can, but, he is relatively acne free. Even his back is clear of blackheads. It is a true disappointment. I should have married someone greasier.

I have, on more than one occasion, had to physically restrain my hands while standing behind someone at a theme park, or on line at WalMart. It always seems there is a luscious zit or gorgeous scab staring at me, begging me to pop, pull and pick it.

Considering I would likely be arrested for popping a zit on a stranger's back, I have abstained so far.

I do not know where this strange obsession came from. I am grossed out my most things. I gag at the sight of a hair in my food. I vomited every time I changed my newborn daughter's poop for the first two months of her life. Show me an ant hill with thousands of ants crawling around, and I will barf for days at the thought.

But, give me a crop of fat blackheads and I am in my own personal heaven.

Imagine my delight when I happened upon http://www.popthatzit.com/. I am not alone. The internet is FILLED with people just like me. People that get hot over an oozing scab or boil. The site is littered with pictures of acne, bacne, boils, cuts and scabs. I have seen a few pictures of faces that I would PAY money to get my hands on.

Looking at the site is my own version of surfing for porn. I am ashamed of my addiction. So ashamed that I look at it at night, when all the world is sleeping. If someone enters the room while I am enjoying the eye candy, I immediately close the page.

Go if you dare, but you have been warned, it is NOT for those who are grossed out easily.

Joey Bag Of Donuts

Ok, I will admit it to the world at large- I am hard to get along with. I do not make friends easily. I am loud, over-bearing, nosy and obnoxious. There is no “She’s ok” with me. You either ADORE me and think I am awesome or you hate me and think I am THE single most annoying person on earth.

So, living in PERFECT is not easy for someone like me. You see, PERFECT is a master planned community. This means we are “self-contained.” We have schools, churches, grocery stores, banks, restaurants, and all the amenities an upper-middle class person could ever need. All of these niceties are secured behind the gates of our manicured lawns.

The downside to being self contained is that everyone knows everyone. If you are lucky enough to be a DINK ( Double income, no kids) you MAY escape SOME of the nosiness, but if you have a child in the school, all bets are off. Once the PTA gets their hands on you, your business is everyone’s business.

So, imagine my horror when Lauren started school and my every move was watched. They all wanted to know: What did I wear? Where did I work out? Where did I go to college?

Well, the last few weeks, I was starting to finally feel like I was fitting in. Moms were being nicer to me at the Starbucks. Neighbors were stopping to chat. My empty garbage cans were at the top of my driveway every Monday and Friday, placed there by a caring neighbor.

I figured my annoying over the top personality FINALLY caught up with them, and they were liking me.

I was wrong.

I was at the local pizza shop today having lunch with Anthony when a mom I had never seen before came over to me. “Aren’t you Joey’s wife?” She asked. “Yes, I am.” I said as I wiped pepperoni grease from my face.

“I’m Martina, a friend of Andrea’s, nice to meet you! Lunch is on me!” She said as she picked up my check and sprinted to the counter, visa card in hand.

ANDREA. That bitch.

Ok. Back story.

Andrea is an UBER MILF. She looks like a Barbie and acts like one too. Plastic.
She has a reputation as being THE nosy bitch in the neighborhood. She is also a notorious one-upper. Anything you have done, she has done better and it cost her more.

I first met Andrea at the park last year. We said hello and that was that. We ran into her at the park a few times, and always said hello. By the third time I saw her, I had been warned by the others of her ways.

Well, last month, I was at the park, sitting on a bench minding my business when Andrea came over. After exchanging pleasantries, she decided to get her hooks in me. She casually mentioned how she missed her husband, as he was presenting a speech to the world's most famous plastic surgens in Greece. " David is always away on a PLASTICS thing." She droned. " I don't think I ever asked you, what does YOUR husband do?" She squeaked.

I had two choices here. I could take the high road and be honest. There is no shame in my husband being a lowly Assistant District Attorney or a landscaper for that matter. Or, I could be Cici. I could spin a web of delicious lies so delicate and precise that even *I* would be impressed with myself.

I opted for the latter.

Taking a cue from the fact that I had just come off a two day bender of watching The Soprano's DVD's- I fashioned myself the next Carmela.

"I'm not really sure what he does." I said coyly.

"You're not sure?!" She giggled.

"Nope. He never told me, and it's not really my place to ask." I stated.

"What?? That's ridiculous! Where does he go when he goes to work?" She asked, starting to get annoyed.

"I'm not really sure, he travels the state, and he goes out of town a few times a week."

Ok. You could smell the bullshit from space at this point. I felt sick to my stomach by now, as I knew I was caught in my lie. NO one could believe this dreck.

Except Andrea. She smelled juice and she was hot. I think I even saw her botton lip quiver.

"Ok then, who signs his paychecks?" She asked like a CSI who had just found the bloody shoe.

"I don't know. I think he gets paid under the table."

"How much does he make at this mystery job?" She snotted.

"I have no idea, we don't have a bank account. He gives me cash to buy groceries and stuff."

By now, I sounded like a stupid moron with no brains. Surely she was going to call my bluff at any second.

Nope. She was hooked.

"What's his boss' name?" She prodded.

"Vincent something?" I said in a question like answer.

That was it. She was SOLD. We chatted briefly about house prices, (Where I GROSSLY overstated the value of mine) and the elementary school fundraiser(Where again, I grossly overstated my contribution.) And she gathered her daughter to leave.

"Your son his name is Anthony?" She asked as she was leaving.

"Yes, Anthony Giovanni" I said. "And my husband is Joey, but most people call him 'Two shoes'" I yelled after her.

I went home and told Joey the tale. We had a good laugh at the story and I have been calling him Two Shoes ever since.

Fast forward to lunch today. It all became crystal clear. I am CONNECTED. I am married to a made man. According to Andrea and her henchbitches, my husband is seconds away from making concrete shoes for the local Bunco group.

That explains all the smiles, and nice gestures. No longer am I wondering why I get asked to head every school function and attend every Pampered Chef party in the 'hood.

I AM MARRIED TO THE MOB!!

I am heading over to QVC.com to buy myself some new bling. If I am gonna BE rich, I have to look rich.