If I Die Before I Wake...

Before last night I had never seen much of the television series House. I fell asleep to an episode and it must have creepy crawled into my subconscious because Hugh Laurie stole my after dark brain-show and became my boyfriend for the night.


I'm not going to lie: He did a stellar job in his role as my lovah. When I woke up, I still had the doctor on my mind. So imagine my delight when I channel surfed this morning and saw that there was a House marathon going. I get to spend my Sunday morning with the guy from last night? Sweet!

Well, here's the thing, love fuzzyed my brain a bit, and I sort of forgot that I am a ginormous hypochondriac. Even without the help of graphic, hospital/medical themed television shows, I diagnose myself with about thirty rare/incurable diseases a day. Catching part of the marathon didn't just amp my love, it pushed my hypochondria right off the charts!

Below is an abbreviated list of my current health concerns as a result of spending a little too much time with my new boyfriend while he is working:

* So far I have Legionnaires disease, Listeria, multiple allergic reactions, nonspecific brain inflammation, and Syphilitic neuropathy.

* I am going to have a seizure at any moment - I just know it. [They almost always have at least one seizure per episode]

* No fluids for me - have to hold off on going onesy for as long as I can, because I am probably going to pee blood due to a kidney blowing out.

* On that note, one of my eyes could very well launch from it's socket due to cranial pressure. That would be followed by blood shooting everywhere, by the way.

* Lots of vomiting is probably on the horizon as I decline. [They throw a lot of surprise puking in these episodes.] And if you don't know how I feel about that, then you didn't read this post.

* Another good reason to stay out of the bathroom as long as I can is that I don't want to go in there and have my scrotum burst open and spurt blood all over a doctor. [It could happen -- trust me]

* My throat is tightening just thinking about the emergency tracheotomy I am going to need. Exacto-knife to the throat - yikeys!

I know I ask too much, but I think I am going to need you to pray for me - again. Also, please send lots of cookie baskets when I am in the hospital. Once my throat and scrotum heal a little, the yummies will really help to bolster my spirit and speed my recovery. Thank you.

A Comfy Couch To Hump

I stole this off of Facebook and the caption read, "Inseparable"

The dog in the background of this photo belongs to my brother. Her name is Kona. The dog in the foreground is named Hef, and he belongs to my brother's girlfriend.

Kona was given to Sal as a puppy, and when she got to be around a year old I asked my brother what was up in the hizay* since Hef isn't neutered. He told me there was no prob Bob, because Hef only humps the couch cushions.

I am not making this up. That's is what he told me when I asked him a few months ago.

How cute are puppies? Soooooooo cute!

Guess who decided on a little more variety after humping that couch for a while?

Nine puppies later I wonder if my brother still thinks Hef only gets a case of the humps when he sees large pieces of furniture.

Good times.


*And by "hizay" I meant that I had seen this commercial enough times to know that we are all good on puppies in this country, so fix that shit!**

**And by "fix that shit!" I meant: Everyone thinks their dog is special. There are approximately 9 million companion animals put to sleep in this country every year, and they are no less special than the one you chose to feed. You merely got attached to that one. Your dog ain't that special, so you know....fix that shit!

If my brother finds out about this post, I am going to be in big trouble. Pray for me.

Just Who Do You Think I am?

I ask that (even though I am not really asking) because everyone has a different opinion about us. No surprise there, I know. It's when these viewpoints are become shitty ones, or not linked to the reality of we you are, that they get interesting.

Take for example an opinion one of my aunt's has had for a while now. On the average of about once a quarter, she loves to blurt out, "Oh, you're so bossy!" It has never been said in reaction to anything I have done, but yet I can tell in the way she expresses herself about it that she entirely believes what she is saying. That is her reality.

This particular opinion is deemed shitty by me because I do not want to be considered bossy. As a matter of fact, I am tempted to come to my own Anti-Stalin defense by pointing out that she is the only person who has ever said this, and by telling you a bajillion stories of my being the very opposite of bossy (like the time my hair stylist was burning my scalp with the blow dryer and I winced through it instead of speaking up because I considered anything else to be telling her how to do her job, which would be bossy). However, the point of this post is not for you to outclick convinced I am not bossy.

So what is my point then, right?

Well here's the jam man: once I stopped being defensive about what she thought, that is to say, I dropped the knee jerk reaction to label her opinion as "shitty", it got interesting.

With defenses down one time, I asked her why she thought I was bossy. And then I waited. She told me I was bossy because all Italian women are. All of them.

So okay, some aunt who sees you on holidays stereo-stamped you bossy in context perhaps with her Italian experiences. Not a far fetched thing, right? I mean, how well could she know you over a bustling table of food and conversation twice a year?

Well actually, I sort of anticipated she would know me a little bit better. You see, she raised me for several years when I was a teenager. I see her nowadays on a weekly basis. So it is actually a total curiousity to me that she doesn't know me all that well at all.

It also reminds me that she is not alone.

I had been hanging out with one of my guy friends regularly for at least a year when he made a comment that revealed he thought I was college educated. He just assumed it he said. Really? We have been hanging out all this time, talking about everything under the sun and you just filled in the blanks like that? I didn't take offense, I found it fascinating in a way that he had just sketched in whatever went along with his evolving image of who I am for him.

There's a lot of other examples I could provide you, but who cares?

The truth is what you make it. Your truth is what you believe. That's the interesting, hilarious, shitty, fascinating, terrifying reality folks.

And you probably knew that, but I am still learning.

A Plague Upon Our Lasagna

Sometimes I like to switch away from all the down-hearted shit I watch on television, and take in something uplifting. Have a good laugh, bring a little light in.

It was one of these times when I stumbled on to a documentary about the plague. Perfect. The Black Death was getting pretty black at this point in the show, and daily death tolls were being discussed. Most areas of Europe were losing several hundred people a day at the height of the epidemic in their villages. One historian popped on the screen to talk about the mass graves in Italy that were born out of the necessity to bury all of these people.

It was said that the Italians were constructing their mass graves much like a lasagna. No shit - that's what he said. My interest was piqued. So apparently they would put in a layer of people, and then a layer of dirt. Follow that with some ricotta, then another layer of people, another layer of dirt, and so on.

This got me thinking about a couple of things.

First off, nicely done Italians. The modern day lasagna design really is an ideal medieval mass grave layout. Just add that to all of the other things we have given the world. Among the vast list is the Renaissance, Fabio, liposuction, Bagpipes, and the barometer.

This new knowledge also begs a pretty big big question: Which came first, the lasagna or the mass grave?

Did some poor Greaseball serf survive the plague, have flashbacks about the mass graves, and then translate that experience into a tasty pasta cheese and tomato dish? Or was the lasagna already in existence and someone was pulled from the kitchen to help bury the dead and in the heat of the moment, thought ahead and implemented the old May You Rest In Peace Mass Grave Lasagna design?

Who knows, and I am not going to research it. My people have already done enough for you.

You can thank me later. Right now, I've got to get a lasagna in the dir...er - I mean oven.

All faces resemble each other, yet how easily we see in each uniqueness, individuality, an identity. How deeply we value these differences. The ocean is a whole, but it has countless waves, every one different from all the others; it has currents, each unique, ever-changing; the bottom is a landscape all its own, different everywhere; similarly the shoreline. The atmosphere is whole, but its currents have unique signatures, even though they are just wind. Life on earth is a whole, yet it expresses itself in unique time-bound bodies, microscopic or visible plant or animal, extinct or living. So there can be no one place to be. There can be no one way to be, no one way to practice, no one way to learn, no one way to love, no one way to grow or to heal, no one way to live, no one way to feel, no one thing to know or to be known. The particulars count.

~ Wherever You Go There You Are (p. 230)

That up there is some deep shit my friends. It's a passage in my current read and it totally resonated with me. It's like the universe is giving me permission to be whatever kind of nutball freak job I need to be - sweet!

You Can Keep The Puppy Dog Tails

I like snails. Water snails. Seriously. I have them in a couple of rooms in my house. I don't know exactly what it is about them but I have had many over the years and would have even more if I felt like cleaning all the bowls.

My very first snail was Babbalucci. A gold Mystery snail I got the year I was married (don't say it with diamonds, say it with water snails). He lived for many years and grew from the gumball I got at the aquarium store to the golfball he was in his golden mystery years.

Santo moved into my bedroom about six months ago. A rich yellow like Babbalucci, he is in his gumball era right now too. He's a good eater, respects the house rules of not sliming out of his bowl and breaking his snail ass on the dresser below. He also has a great sense of humor - he loves to wing out his peen when my room gets dark so when you flip on the light, everyone gets to do that awkward laugh for having walked in on him during private time. He always gets a "Whoa tiger! Let's roll that bad boy up and put it away!" out of me every time. I know, I know, he's a total crack up.

Pepino was a little chocolate brown nugget that lived out in the living room, but he died last week. I am not sure what happened to him, (actually I am pretty sure he killed himself after the Jersey Shore marathon, it's just that suicide is a hard thing to come to grips with)but he wasn't with us for long.

The two in the photo are shacked up in his old bowl. I just got them. Unlike other snails, Mystery snails aren't trannies, so you have to have a boy and a girl -- and they have to be in love to hump out some baby snail eggs. Keep your fingers crossed, this is potentially the first honeymoon snail suite we've had.

Now I am learning there are jade colored mystery snails, so I may just have to get another bowl going...

Taking A Sit

Ask Anne - that's a real meditation term. When you settle yourself in and meditate, you are taking a sit.

Or maybe you just got done taking a real satisfying sit. It's been one of those days, and you really feel like you have to take a sit. Your pants fit better after that last si....alright, maybe I am taking it a bit too far, but you get my drift.

I have wanted to try a regular meditation practice for a long time now, but apparently the road to anti-zen is paved with good intentions, because I never got around to it. Then a couple of weeks ago Anne and I were discussing a group she meditates with once a week. She enjoys it and on the days in between their meetings they are broken into texting groups where you text someone to tell them you did your daily meditation. If you miss more than one day in a week, you get booted out of the group. Tossed from the herd. Ostracized to a prison colony.

My heart sang at the potential for social humiliation, so I got Anne to initiate me into her group.

I try to concentrate on my breath. I try to become aware of my whole body. I do my best to allow my thoughts to pass through without judgment. All the good shit.



So here are a few of the things that went through my head while I was supposed to be using my third eye to Zen it up:

"I'm not doing this right."

"Another day and I am still not doing this right."

"That donut upside down cake on Serious Eats looks absolutely fabuloso."

"I'm not doing this right."

"My hands are cold."

"I hope I moved enough of the dirt they didn't repack enough in the yard to keep it from flooding with all these storms that are coming."

"When is the alarm going to go off - it's been three hours already."

"What's up pain in my knee - ow!"

"I want to move my desk"

"I was with so-and-so when I bought that desk -- ewww!"

"I want wall to wall built-in bookcases."

"There's no way I am doing this right."

"I wish I had a long hallway where my two big bookcases could go at the end."

"What should I have for dinner?"

"Why do I still feel like my stomach is trying to digest rocks?"

"Alarm is broken. I swear I am going to open my eyes."


Doesn't look like I got anything close to mediation done, right?

"The monkey mind jumps from thought to thought like a monkey jumps from tree to tree. Rather than existing in the present moment, the monkey mind focuses on one thought after another, and these thoughts distract us from existing in the present, which is one of the goals of yoga."

I will be at it again tomorrow.

Tummy Monster Force Field Failure

I am one of those people that lives in fear of puking. So much so that me and my body have been in a successful 15 year no urping pact. Fifteen years. My fear and apprehension at the prospect of it actually seemed to create an anti-tummy monster force field that kept me safe for a really long time.

Even prior to the pact, I didn't urp very often. The first time I recall, I was only about three or four. I was in my grandparent's den one evening, looking super cute in my pink footy jammies. My grandmother had made strawberry milkshakes. One minute I am looking like a cuddly little piglet sucking down the pink yummyness in my glass, the next minute my grandmother is rushing me into the bathroom. I looked like one of those garden statue cherubs that arcs water into the basin below. Luckily, I made it all look damn cute in those jams.

This was taken a year or two before my water feature performance in the bathroom. By then, I am assuming I was wearing my brother's hand me down pink footy pajamas. What?

Even though I remember every time I was forced to reacquaint myself with something I had previously swallowed, I won't recount. Suffice to say everything changed on Tuesday night. Just before midnight my body went towards the light, the light at the bottom of my stomach.

Don't get me wrong, I don't think my body meant to fail me and wipe out our decade and a half run. The stomach flu is sort of a non-negotiable - it's happening.

I tried to pretend it wasn't happening though. I started out with my nightly routine and put myself to bed. That wasn't working, so I got up and cleaned my kitchen. Symptoms quickly progressed and left me hanging out in the bathroom, so I shaved my legs. You know, all the things you do to avoid being labeled "hairy" and "dirty" by the paramedics who rescue you half-dead off your bathroom floor.

And then it happened. While not at all pleasant, it wasn't nearly as awful as I thought it was going to be. I was also surprised at how much better I felt afterwards. Thankfully, the wave of green moved through quickly. And while I don't at all aspire to Pukey Pukerton status, I do have to own that all the times I dreaded it over the last fifteen years were probably more uncomfortable than what actually happened in my bathroom, after I shaved my legs on Tuesday night.

I also didn't end up having to call 9-1-1, and I could see my clean kitchen from the bed yesterday while I sucked down ice chips.

Now once the fever and achy chills pass me by, I will be back to my old....well...something.

That's One Kick-ass Compliment!

Bless Mahself!

Even though I am not longer a practicing Catholic, I was raised pretty devoutly and some of the traditions I still like.

One of them is the little dainty finger dip you take in the holiest of holy water on your way in and out of the church. Then you make the sign of the cross with those newly Holy Spirit empowered finger tips, touching yourself right there in church! Oh blessed be!

Do other Christians do this? Being Catholic is far superior as you all know, so no time was ever wasted studying other "faiths".

Anywho, I haven't done this little ritual in years, because as I mentioned, I....ugh...well...am not really a Catholic anymore [insert Catholic guilt here].

Well all of that is going to change! Well, not really. I am still headed to hell for not being in church every week and sucking down communion wafers, but I can bless myself at home now!

One for every room in the house - OCCD, here I come!

These are from Italy! Hand painted! Aren't they beautiful?! In fact, but not really, I read in a real fake article somewhere that Jesus wanted to be Italian, but his dad told him he had to be a Joo. You know the rest of that story. Rough stuff. I wonder if he had a stylist when he got here though, because he looks pretty Italian.

Now, I need to find holy water....


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Xerox Is Doing The Heavy Thanks Lifting For You

Xerox is extending this awesome way for all of us to thank the troops again this holiday season! Simply pick out a card, add a greeting, and they do the rest by printing your card and sending it to a deployed service member. How coolio is that?! And is there any better time to reach out than the eve of our national day of Thanks? Yeah, I didn't think so either.

As I sit here musing about how many people across our great land yack every Turkey Day from not pushing away from the dinner plate soon enough, I want to take this opportunity to wish you all a very happy and safe Thanksgiving!

I'll let you go now, so you can hop on the Xerox site and thank a brave Soldier serving over this holiday season.

"Doll" Dungeon

Adults do creepy shit to kids all the time. It's a horrible, heartbreaking, damaging reality. I have lived through some of it.

That's right, I come to you now as an adult who carries a very traumatized little kid inside. But then again, by now you have probably already guessed this Crazytown 'n down action ain't coming from a well-adjusted place.

Like any other trauma survivor, often times different things will spark flashbacks of my original horror. These snippets of the past are rough my friends. They strike almost as much dread in my heart as the time I dreamt that aliens stole all of the planet's dougnuts. Yeah, that scary.

And you never know when they are going to strike, these flashbacks. One got me out of the blue just a couple of days ago.

I was checking out this design blog, when I unwittingly scrolled down into a picture that took me right back to a dark place in my childhood.I was five all over again. Lying as still as I could in my narrow little metal framed twin bed. Trying not to twitch and call their attention to me. All of them there surrounding the perimeter of the room. Surrounding me. So many eyes fixed upon me in that dark room. Always watching. Never blinking. Waiting. Always.

My maternal grandmother was my torturer. Unlike the picture shown here where the little freaks are nailed to the wall, she had her miniature porcelain minions in eight foot tall glass cases around the room. It was at her hand I was forced to endure the night with them.

Would they break the glass and stab me in the neck with a spork stolen from the kitchen junk drawer? If I accidentally fell asleep, was I going to wake to their little cold dead hands wrapped around my neck? Or maybe they were just going to start whispering horrible things to me like, "You will never get a chance to ride Papa's go-kart" or "You are too retarded to use an etch-a-sketch" until I went insane?

Night after night, I would focus on my survival. Each dawn bringing another chance to get out of this nightmare alive. Just needed to make it through one more night.

Eventually I was able to escape that hell, and after decades of therapy as an adult, I became strong enough to confront my g-ma. I did this on the one condition that they stayed in the other room. She claims that she had no idea that the "Doll Room" (nice syrupy sweet name right? They always try to sugar coat their shit.) as she called it, would be scary for me to sleep in.

Of course this was an outright lie. How could she not know? After all, she had been the one to hand pick all of them. You could tell they were chosen specifically for their powers of fear and intimidation. And she was the one to line them up into battalion formation in their glass barracks once they enlisted with her. Oh, she knew.

I didn't really expect her to own up to the abuse anyway. In fact, she had the nerve to laugh off my confrontation. In the end, all she would say is that she loved me and that she thought I considered it a real treat to spend the night in the Doll Room. When I mentioned other victims such as my brother and other cousins close in age, she just dismissed me again, stating that she was sure they had enjoyed staying in her Dungeon Room as well (I call it like it is people.) as I was the only one complaining about it.

I wasn't complaining anyway - I was speaking out. If finding my voice about this issue helps even one other child out there, then all of my work to get better has not been in vain.

This is some sick shit people! If you know of an adult who is making a poor defenseless child sleep with tiny replicas of dead babies, or "dolls" as the abuser will often call them -- speak out!

We can't just stand by and allow this to keep happening. The next generation is depending on us.

M O W

You know that stoopid (I like to spell it that way) saying "food is love"? Well, I think I have just caught myself spoon-handed trying to love up on people with stuff from my kitchen.

I do it because it makes me feel good. Big surprise that their is a personal payoff in my motivations huh. Luckily, this particular loverly thing usually makes other people feel good too (big sigh of relief from everyone who endured my crank calling and pantsing phases). And it's fun. If I only had me, myself, and I with which to share all the things I want to cook, we would be wasting some serious amounts of food. That doesn't go over too well in my psyche.

So out of all these things, my mini-scale Meals On Wheels was born.

Last week I made these.

Next up on the roster before Turkey day hits, are these.

I don't just bake mind you; and good thing because I am fairly craptacular when it comes to all things flour, eggs and butter. Most cookies I can pull off while steering clear of complete disaster though. They also tend to be pretty MOW friendly for traveling.

MOW menu dinner items extend to things like a completely cooked pasta dinner with homemade sauce and spicy Italian sausages to a friend. Or Salmon Wellington with a side of rice and breaded zucchini spears.

Pretty soon here I want to add rice and tomato sauce to my Sicilian meatball recipe and stuff it in bell peppers. Will be leaving two of those on someone's porch like abandoned twins at the back door of a church. Just heat and eat! - The peppers of course, not the twins in my analogy. NOT advocating that you warm children in your oven and then eat them. I want to be clear about that because the government is watching me. I already have to wear a special helmet to block out the GAMA rays they have aimed at me. I don't want to have to tin foil my windows too.

Anywho, feeling a little hungry over here. Not sure what to eat... NOT those twins - I know that much! Okay -- we are clear on that then. Good.

Am I Supposed To Push?

I'm feeling all blocked up party people. Not in an "eat more fiber" kind of way, but upstairs. Mental Constipation. It has happened to me before.

When this sort of thing sets in, my first inclination is always one of cooperation. I will just shut the hell up until I have something good to say. Who knows how long that could take though! In fact, you wouldn't have to really be a master debater (Don't you love how those two words bring you right up to the edge there? Don't worry though - you didn't say it.) to assert that I have never had anything all that good to say, so why seize up now?

So let me drivel here a bit.....

I got to see Anne for the first time in way too long. We have a history of suffering dead people together, for some reason. She is fabulous though, and we both had on the same shoes which I thought was also fabulous.

Anne got caught in the middle of this three girl pileup. Back then, we used to wear same patterned skirts. We worked up to the shoes.

I made some Pizzelle - Italian for "Star", these cookies are pretty popular in my family. It is a pretty simple batter-dough that is usually anise flavored. I was too busy screwing my batch up royally to snap any photos, so this is a star body double from the Sur La Table website.



I am bummed that the weather outside is not even a little bit frightful. I am craving some cold temps, some rain. All I am getting is breezy five day forecasts with highs in the 70s. Who knew Al Gore's global warming induced Armageddon was going to be so Springy?!

I am almost finished with Take the Cannoli by Sarah Vowell. She is an awesome writer! I recommend picking up anything she has written and taking it for a spin. She makes me wish I could go back to school and have all my history books rewritten by her. It might end up being a bit of an eclectic mix of material, but it definitely would have grabbed my interest and stuck in my brain better.


I met Stella this weekend. If she were any cuter, my head probably would have exploded all over her and blood spattered all of her cute little liver spots. Don't you love the little swatch of brown she has on the left side of her top lip? She even has freckles on her nose. I know, I know -- she's crazy cute.


Well friends, I promise I am going to do my best to get flowing again. Even though I haven't opened my church yet, I still treasure my precious followers. Every time I see someone new on the list, I get a pretty big, possibly semi-maniacal smile on my face. Thanks for stopping by, and being so patient. Hang in there and I will pull it together soon.

Bummer I Can't Get A Boner

I have Boner Envy. I think it started a couple of years ago when I was relating to my cousin how good looking the new dentist was in the dental group where I get my cleanings. When I told her he was much too handsome for me to sit comfortably while he put his fingers in my mouth, she responded, "Why? Were you having trouble hiding your boner?" We both totally cracked up at this, but in that moment I felt a slight tug, not in my pants, but my heart. It was disappointment that boners don't apply to me.

Now let's not misunderstand each other: I am not talking Penis Envy here. I love Miss Puss and she loves me. We're good.

There is just something I love about the comedy of a boner. I suppose it's possibly not all that funny to those who get actual boners, but I feel cheated out of comic potential by being left out of the boner loop.

So now I try to force my way in to the club from time to time. The other day I interrupted my brother on the phone to declare "I've got a boner" and started laughing. All I got on the other end was a few seconds of silence followed by "Sick - shut up Daniella"

I tried it again with a male friend and got a big laugh -- Uh-oh! Now my behavior has just been positively reinforced -- look out!

Oh...wait wait, hang on a second..........oh...oh - yep.......I think I've got a boner. Buuaahahahaha! Come on, you have to admit that's hilarious. Well at least pretty damn funny. A little funny?......Right?

Oh nice! Freakin Kim Kardashian is stealing my comedy now to try and further her celebrity!

Wanna see one of my fave boners? Click here and then click on the red shorts

Home Alone

When I was a kid, everything was very proper. I was primarily raised by my father, and God love him, he was a man of order. Would have been stellar in the military.

Everything had it's place. The house was too packed with organization to be cluttered. There was a day preordained by the universe for laundry, housecleaning, and mowing the yard. Dishes were cleaned and put away after dinner. Period.

You didn't hit the sheets without first taking a shower, and you didn't run around on Saturday mornings without your bathrobe on over your pajamas. You never went without slippers. Ever.

Beds were always made as soon as you woke. Books were packed tightly on their shelves because they're special, shirts hung in the closet with all of their collars facing the same way, and toilet lids stayed down when not in use so that they won't slam in the event of an earthquake and crack the bowl. Exclusively.

I'm not joking.

So here's the deal and I doubt anyone is going to be surprised: Now that I am an adult on my own, I have spun out in a lot of ways, and don't exactly run my household the way my father ran his.

The highlights of the mayhem and debauchery I regularly partake in over here at my Animal House are:

I haven't made my own bed in about 5 years. I occasionally smooth. I usually just delight at the disheveledness of it all as I fluff my pillow and flop into bed each night.

I still hang up my clothes in the closet, but nowhere near the perfection my father mandated is present in there these days. If I roll the door shut though, who cares?

I have books stacked up everywhere. I ran out of shelf space a long time ago.

I resist bathrobes as if wearing one would turn me into one of the Skeksis from The Dark Crystal.

This is what happened the last time I tried putting one on.

The only time you will find the toilet lid down at my house is when I have either just added bleach to the bowl, or somethin yellow and I am lettin it mellow.

I stick my fingers in everything in the fridge. My dad lives about 40 miles away and I still have yet to double dip into my own damn food without looking over my shoulder nervously as if I am about to be totally busted.

I've even tried shape shifting into a cat to get away with it!

Occasional dirty dishes overnight in the sink have yet to negatively impact my sleep or the sun's ability to rise - over here at least. Who knows, maybe my dad is plunged in to 24 hours hours of night every time I pull that shit.

So did anything my dad teach me stick? Absolutely.

Generally, I like things clean. It makes me feel calm and ordered, just how Dad feels too I bet.

I may not make the bed, but the sheets have to be clean.

I may not have a shelf space for every book but that doesn't mean they aren't like children to me, and again, one of the ways God shows his love for us.

Ooo...Ahh...so pretty.

I also still shower and I love wearing slippers - so there!

"But I Shaved My Balls For You!"

Every once in a while I find myself in moments that are so perfectly encapsulated by the accompanying verbiage that the phrasing becomes a theme label for future situations.

Years ago I helped a friend move and she had one of those round, wicker chairs with the futon style pad inside. When we got to the front door, we realized we were going to have to tip the chair onto it's side to get it in, but that would also dump the futon pad out. In that moment, I don't remember if the sun shone a little brighter, or if the birds twatted a little more tweetier, but I do know that our minds melded and full ESPN kicked in. When she looked at me and said, "Let's just move the actual ton (as in futon) first then" I needed no further clarification. We moved in sync to grab the pad at the same time and take it in; coming back for the frame after. The actual ton. To this day, when the occasion calls for discerning one thing away from it's other parts, "the actual ton" becomes our short-hand verbiage to communicate that. Neat.

When building the OAP website, my friend Vince and I spent hours sitting shoulder to shoulder in his room working on the details. Every time he would upload something to the server, my anticipation to see the end result on the larger of the two monitors would have me looking more eager than a virgin at a whorehouse. Sometimes, he would forget to refresh the screen for me, and a new term was coined. "Dude, you forgot to hook up the doll"* was all I offered on one such occasion and Big V knew what I meant! Originally stemming from the movie Weird Science, we both remembered the scene surrounding that line and from then on, we could throw that out to each other any time a piece of information was missing in our conversation, or a step was left out when doing something together. Neat.

Another time a boyfriend decided to straddle the toilet backwards and shave his balls with his little electric trimmer. As the hairs softly floated down to the water below, he fantasized of all the attention his twig and berries were going to be on the receiving end of once he showed me his handy work.

At the unveiling, it was lost on me. It looked fine, but did nothing for my libido or attraction to him. Remember, I had not requested this manscaping in the first place, nor had I even voiced a preference for smooth berries. But hey, to each his own, right? He must have been in to the idea or he wouldn't have chosen to do it.

That is sort of where I left it and went back to my book. He had a little more trouble. As I walked away, all I heard him yelling from the end of the hall was, "But I shaved my balls for you!"

No you didn't. You shaved those bad boys for yourself. And in that comical moment, another sophistication to my vocabulary came in to being.

When I try to convince other people that something that is potentially mutually beneficial was really just selflessly done for them "But I shaved my balls for you!" always gets the job done. Neat.

I encourage you to form your own special language with the people around you. Contrary to popular belief, (and possibly decency - but don't let crap like that get in the way) ball shaving is not the limit! There is a whole world out there waiting for your linguistics. It is so much more fun than just sticking to the 100 or so words and phrases that almost all of us just doggedly wear out when describing the world around us and expressing ourselves.

So don't be afraid! Call your doctor out the next time he/she forgets to hook up the doll and rush you through that appointment. Don't let your brother ruin another Thanksgiving dinner whining about how he shaved his balls for everyone at the table, and for God's sake be there for a friend when they need you to assist when it comes to the actual ton. Neat.


* Sidenote to Big V ~ Nine months ago, "You forgot to hook up the doll" was added to Urban Dictionary! You realize what this means, right? We changed the world. For the better. In less than three years. That makes us better than most people, and don't you ever forget that.

I Dreamed A Dream - A Nice One This Time

I dream a lot, and I remember many of my dreams in pretty vivid detail. Sometimes that is not always all that fun as many tend to be rather intense adventures into my subconscious that leave me wondering "what the hell?" in the morning.

Last night was different though. Last night was dreamy in every sense of the word -- ethereal, romantic, and exciting.

I dropped into Dreamland smack-dab in the middle of my aunt and uncle's pool yard. They had gone through what I would assume was a great expense to completely enclose their entire backyard. It looked wonderful! All the lush plants bordered and the roof had big sky lights that let in some of the evening light.

As I dove in, the water in their kidney shaped black-bottom pool was bathtub perfect. When I surfaced I found myself surrounded by people. Some were in the water with me and others were standing beyond in the patio area. Many people I know and like were there, but I was also aware that I didn't know everyone. Despite this though, I was completely comfortable. None of my social anxieties had leaked in to this night flight.

I was having a great time playing in the water and chatting with friends. I was also rocking this black one piece bathing suit. Every time I popped out of the water, I was once again amazed at the favors I was doing for this suit!

Me rockin the suit...in my dreams

And then it happened.

I am chatting away with someone, standing in the shallow end, when I become aware of someone waiting to get my attention. A man is standing over by the pool steps waiting to catch my eye. A hot man.

I finish my convo and wade over to where he stands looking down at me. He is tall, and dressed in a dark suit (I guess he wasn't planning on swimming). He compliments my swimming (you can't avoid awkward ice breakers party people -- not even in your best dreams). I see his cheesy remark and raise him by replying,

He rockin my dream...in my dreams

"Well my ancestors are from Sicily - island people are good swimmers" Island people are good swimmers - nice Daniella. Yeah, that is what I said, I remember it crystal clear. Yikeys. He then told me he was from Italy (how convenient this dream is becoming!).

The whole time we are talking I feel this rush of excitement and attraction to my new pool pal. We have total dream chemistry.

Next thing I know I am taking his outstretched hand as he helps me out of the pool. We are standing pool side gazing at each other when he curls his forefinger under my chin and raises my mouth to his. It was a fabulous kiss of course....then I woke up.

Ahh......in my dreams.

A Miracle Is Never Old News

I heard about this when it first hit the news, and I have been meaning to do a post ever since.

Long story short, apparently God so loved the world he decided to send his virgin mother's image to us....in the form of......loose stool from a bird's pipe.

I'm not making this shit up. ABC and many other news agencies actually reported on it.

A miracle. Moved by the grace of the spirit. Touched by a bird's ass.

What?! Come on, people aren't really buying this crap, (full pun intended party people) are they?

If you watch the video, there is no shame in anyone's game as they gush over the miraculousness of dried poo on some dude's truck mirror.

They're full of it, right? I mean, come on. Our creator actually expects us to draw the sacred from this? In these troubled times, what message are we supposed to take away?

Bird poo? Really?

But what if....

What if the Divine really is trying to shine through shit? Trying to reach out to us. Send a message. Let's suspend doody disbelief, and go with it. However, I offer you this: The supposed miracle detailed above is simply not grandiose enough.

Here is how I like to envision it.

A zookeeper enters the Elephant enclosure early on a Sunday morning. The zoo won't open for visitors for several hours, so it's very quiet as he works. The hills in the background are misty and the there is a golden Sun Ray coming down right over the pen. A truly glorious morning. After water troughs are replenished and hay bins refilled, Jesus grabs his shovel and prepares to muck out the stalls.

As he enters the enclosure the sight before him takes his breath away. There on the concrete floor is a giant pile of dung, and in the center is a perfect image of the heavenly father. Swathed in a deep red robe, one hand outstretched, the other over his heart. He smiles peacefully as he lovingly looks up at Jesus. His halo and the surrounding divinity glow coming through the pile have filled the room with a soft yellow light.

This humble zookeeper can't believe his eyes. As he steps closer a voice emanates from the heap before him, "Jesus my son, I love you and I want you to be happy."

As tears stream down his face he replies, "Yes Father, thank you for showing yourself to me. I have loved you all of my life."

After a few moments, the image starts to fade and the light around this miracle starts to dim. Seeing this, Jesus fills with urgency. Surely, there must be something God has come to tell him to do. A special task he must carry out to save the world.

He stammers, "My father, before you go, is there any way I can serve? I am here to do your will."

God smiles again and says, "Yes my son there is. Clean up this shit."

Normal Thoughts With Daniella

* What kind of acne does a Feng Shui specialist get? Chi Zits

Holy crap that was funny, right?!

* This is the kind of wacky shit that goes through my head at 3:00a.m. when I can't sleep and then lay there long enough to feel hungry. Cheezits sounded good at the time, and I obviously had too much time to say the word over and over in my head......and then things went a little sideways.