It’s time for me to come clean with all of you…

I have an unhealthy obsession with karaoke.  There.  I’ve said it.  I spent my childhood crooning into a Goody hairbrush, pretending it was a microphone.  At age 4, I made my stage debut at my father’s office Christmas party, singing on stage with the band.  I’ve always hogged loved the spotlight and when karaoke came along, it was love at first song.

In July of 1992, my father double-dog-dared me to sing karaoke at a bar/lounge on the island where we were vacationing.  I accepted the challenge.  My favorite memory of that night is spying my 15-year-old sister covertly knocking back my mom’s Johnny Walker because she was so embarrassed by my performance.

Five years ago, Husban-dito gave me my very own karaoke machine for Christmas.  It came with a bunch of cds and my career as an at-home cabaret singer was launched.  I perform a song or two every year at my Halloween party but am fully cognizant that I will not be offered a record deal anytime in the near (or distant) future.  I just love to sing karaoke.  

And now you know about one of my deep, dark, unhealthy obsessions.  Do you still love me?

Break a Leg: Have you ever broken a bone?

When my arch rival cousin and I were eight, she went skiing and managed to break her leg.  In our loco Italian family, this warranted a special non-holiday visit to see her, replete with gifts for the wounded ski bunny.

Somehow my cousin managed to make her broken leg and crutches seem enviable.  She was showered with chocolates and stuffed animals, while I stood by braying feeble protests.  

The cousin was the recipient of a beautiful set of scented markers, which the family put to use decorating her hip-to-toe cast.  I was positively frothing with envy.  I wanted a cast and a broken bone–or maybe I just wanted the gifts and attention.  

In all my 34 years, I haven’t managed to achieve my goal of wearing a cast.  Sure, I chipped a bone in my foot during the Sledding Debacle of ‘93  and I somehow fractured a finger in 2005, but I’ve never had a cast with well-wishes and cartoon drawings decorating the facade and feel a bit deprived.

Years later, my cousin admitted that wearing the cast was hell–it was sweaty and itched like crazy–but she didn’t want me to know that.  When her cast was cut off, the doctor removed my cousin’s itch-relievers–several pencils, a wooden ruler, and a straightened wire hanger –from inside the cast.  

Have you ever donned a cast and was it really that bad?  Tell me all about it!!

Is 8:13am too early to eat leftover chili?

I was in Martha Stewart mode last night.  I chopped up some green peppers and an onion(!)–on a cutting board no less–threw them into a pan and sauteed them.  I used my tomato grinder thing (despite the fact that I don’t like to cook and rarely do it, I own EVERY kitchen gadget and tool known to man) to smash up some Cento San Marzano plum tomatoes.

I unceremoniously dumped the whole mess into a bowl and proceeded to fry/brown/burn some ground turkey meat.  When the meat was done (and the smoke detector stopped shrieking), I poured the onions, peppers, tomatoes, and rinsed red kidney beans back into the pan with the charred meat. 

I wrangled up some chicken stock (thanks, College Inn brand), 2 tablespoons of both chili powder and sugar, a couple of grinds of salt, and then I let the whole thing cook for a few hours.  Husban-dito and I scarfed down the delish chili with cheese and oyster crackers while watching a DVD episode of “I Shouldn’t Be Alive.”  What a heinous show!  It should be called, “I Shouldn’t Watch This While Eating.”

And back to my point: now it’s 8:21am Monday morning and I hear the leftover chili calling me like a siren from the fridge.  Surely cowboys in the olden days ate chili for breakfast, why can’t I?

Sidebar Images: I see YOOOU!

I broke down and finally did it…I put a semi-image of myself online.  When I first started blogging, I was resolute about hiding my identity, but I’ve reached the conclusion that I like to ”see” the faces behind the blogs.  Seeing the ‘blogger’ makes me feel more invested in the blog…I don’t know why.   

I photoshopped the picture into black and white and then used some weird tool to make it look all old-newsprint-ish.  Here I am in all my glory and thanks to HAYDEN for inspiring me to come out of hiding without being insanely self-critical.

I’d like to solve the puzzle: Who’s the worst game show host?

Of late, I’ve had an opportunity to watch numerous Jeopardy! and Wheel of Fortune episodes.  As a result, I’ve been struggling to answer an age-old question: Which game show host is more grating: Alex Trebek or Pat Sajak?

Is it Alex Trebek’s simpering smile and snide, slightly Canadian “Oh, sorry!”’s when a contestant guesses the wrong answer?  Or is it Pat Sajak’s snarky comments and bouffant hairdo?  Let’s take a closer look.

I get annoyed with Alex and his mincing ways–especially when he pretends that he KNOWS all the answers to every question.  He’s always like, “Ohh, sooorry.  The correct answer is King Qvieosk Phzllskdkksl of the Srytrpkstriptian Empire.

And one more thing; Alex, if you’re reading this: Grow your mustache back.  And stop the spray tanning.   

Wheel of Fortune, or “That Letters Game” as my dad refers to it, is “meh”.  Ever since they stopped “shopping” and Vanna stopped turning the letters, my interest waned.  Didn’t Merv Griffin realize that the real draw to the show was the shopping and the “Spotted Dalmatian”?! 

(If you, like my family, have no idea what I’m talking about, in the old days there were only 3 rounds on WOF.  After each round, the contest would SHOP in various “rooms” with his/her winnings.  There were sofas, televisions, luggage, lamps, and more depending on the “room” he/she was shopping in.  My mum and sister said this never happened.)

Pat Sajak always seems a bit pissed off with the contestants, his hair, or maybe just his job.  I don’t know, is it me?  Am I reading him wrong?  It was more fun in the 80s when he got all “handsy” with the ladies–patting them and hugging them–watching them desperately squirm away from his roving paws–the height of hilarity.

But I have veered dangerously from the topic at hand, so let’s regroup: Who is the more annoying game show host?  Can you help me here?

Help! What should I name my baby?!

During the Cabbage Patch Kid craze of ‘83, my mother went to great lengths to secure her darling daughters said dolls–illicit deals in dark Burger King parking lots in the dead of night, etc.  My CPK came with the name Marilyn Elise, which I changed post haste.  My 9-year-old self renamed her Felicia Faye–a name I thought was uber-chic. 

Husban-dito and I live ‘kid-free’ over here at the ‘Amish’ Beach House, but if someone left a kid on our doorstep or something, what would I name it?  Better yet–if someone left twin children, a boy and a girl, what would I name them? 

I realize that many people today are creative with their kids’ names–I work in a school and get to witness the originality of parents on a daily basis.  I’m not really down with the contemporary-type names myself; I prefer ethnic and/or classic names. 

I’m from a long line of crazy Italians and love names like Dominick, Vincenzo, and the like.  But could I saddle my imaginary kid with such a old-school, Italian name?  My last name is Italian, so it would flow better than say Dominick Lorenzo O’Malley. 

Here are some of my favorite fake baby names:

• Juliette, Anna, Charlotte, Antonina
• Dominick, Vincent, Dante, Michael

So, what would you name the twin babies if they were dropped off on your porch? 

PS. I’m not really pregnant. 

PPS. If I was, I’d Fed-Ex you the baby.

Yum! You smell like a cupcake!

From 9th grade until college, I wore the same perfume every day: Sung by Alfred Sung.  An older friend of mine wore it and since she was the height of sophistication, I had to have it.  I put it on my Christmas list and hoped for the best. Santa came through and it became my signature scent for many years. 

In college, I started branching out and wearing other fragrances–patcholi, CKOne, Ultima II, Prescriptives Calyx, and more.  I even wore men’s cologne once in a while (Drakkar–how cliche!) because it reminded me of the ‘beach boy’ I spent my summers smooching.

Yesterday, I worked at school for a few hours and a former student came by to visit.  She ran over to give me a hug and said, “YUM! Mrs. M., you smell like a cupcake!!”   Of late, I’ve been wearing The Body Shop’s Vanilla essential oil.  And now I understand Husban-dito’s recent insatiable cravings for baked goods. 

Do you wear the same fragrance or cologne every day?  Spill the beans.  I want to know what you all smell like!

Pucker Up: Tell me about your first kiss!

Preface: I’m a happily married woman–I’ve been with Husban-dito for 16 years next month, but there was life, love, and smooching before he showed up on the scene.  

With that out of the way, today we’re dishing about first kisses!  Let’s cut to the chase–I’m not talking about the 6th grade Spin-the-Bottle garden variety kisses–but the first real kiss you ever had.  I don’t require gory details–just a brief glimpse down memory lane!  It’ll be fun–I promise.  I’ll go first to take the pressure off.

Grade 8: I was madly in love with Tommy (who liked me in 7th grade) but had to settle for Jimmy because I needed a date for the holiday dance.  (What can I say–I was a vixen even at a young age.)  Jimmy planted my first ‘real’ kiss on me in the basement of my childhood home at Christmastime.  It made me feel all floaty and dizzy. 

He also showered me with gifts–a teddy bear that had a light-up heart and a jar of chocolates.  And now I will use my blog as a venue to publicly thank Jimmy for the kiss, candy, and bear–I really wanted a charm for my necklace.  Maybe I wouldn’t have jilted you if you just bought the charm. 

Now it’s YOUR turn!

Pardon me, is that a scrotum dangling from your truck?

This post is not for the faint of heart or the easily offended.  You have been warned.

Recently, I was alone in my car, yowling along with Bob Marley, when I espied something dangling from the undercarriage of a truck in front of me.  We were stopped at a light, so I eagerly inched closer to get a better look, thinking it was some leftover carnage from road kill–I’m a ghoul, I know.  My mistake.

Photo cred: hijacked from somewhere on the internet.

People, people!  What has this world come to when poor, misdirected souls intentionally hang faux scrotums from their trailer hitches?!  What message are they trying to send?  Something along the lines of: I bought this behemoth phallus truck because I’m insecure about the size of my wiener.  Just so you don’t misinterpret my message, I’ll hang a large scrotum from the trailer hitch. 

Am I reading this the wrong way?  Is it just some type of gang symbol that I haven’t read about yet?  Is it a friendly reminder to get checked for testicular cancer?  What is going on here?  Am I too Puritanical?!  Have you guys seen this?  Better yet, does anyone HAVE these little charmers dangling from his/her vehicle?  If so, kindly enlighten me to their meaning and provenance.  Thank you.

My “fishy” faux pas: Open mouth, insert fish.

I skipped off to my little part-time job yesterday and made a huge social gaffe.  At lunch time, I wandered into the kitchen/mini-cafeteria to microwave my lunch (leftovers).  I didn’t notice anyone else in the kitchen; I’ll be honest: I didn’t look because I was so intent on the prospect of eating my delicious lunch.  Pathetic, right?

I opened the door to the microwave and was assaulted by the stink of hot, smelly, microwaved fish.  In typical CWG-fashion, I jumped back and barked: ”Ewww! Fish!” 

And then for some reason, I turned around and saw this quiet Asian girl sitting alone at the lunch table eating a huge fish that still had its head.  I said the only thing that came into my pea-brain: “Oh, sorry.  I’m allergic!”  What a lie!  What a pathetic attempt at a cover-up.  Someone kill me.

With my cheeks burning red, I hastily gathered up my lunch and high-tailed it to the other side of the building to use the smaller kitchen.    My only consolation is that I work there once a week and won’t run into this person on a regular basis. 

Am I the only person that does these sorts of things?  Please tell me I’m not.