Dear Santa,

As I’m sure you’ve noticed, I’ve been extra special good this year, even taking on some of your work load… by stuffing as many stockings as I can. So it’s with great admiration and what I’m sure is mutual respect that I humbly submit to you my Christmas list for this year. And bro, if you have a sec, wake me up — I’d really like to talk to you about how you sneak out of so many houses undetected. I’m good, but I’m not that good.

Happy Holidays,

Shahbaz M.

P.S. I left you a glass of twelve-year-old single malt. Milk? Let’s get serious, bro.

Dj Equipment

Lusty Leopard Greeting Card

Club tickets

Hot Wheels Monster Truck

Forgetting Sarah Marshall on DVD

Aamir Khan Movie Collections on DVD/CD [Rang De Basanti, Dil Chahta Hai, Ghajini, Lagaan, Taare Zameen Par, Jo Jeeta Wohi Sikkandar, Rangeela, Fanaa]

AR Rahman: A Hit Forever mp3 CD

Boeing F-22 Raptor Fighter Jet

A Pony

Avatar I-Max Experience 3D tickets

Pin-striped 3 piece suit (preferably black)

Fully Operational Death Star

After banner years for Hollywood in 2008, 2007, and 2006, many experts predicted that 2009 would be a monumental let-down in terms of high-quality cinematic masterpieces. The experts were wrong. This past year was chock full of big screen genius, so much so that to narrow this list down to just ten films I had to leave out epic-level quality films such as Jennifer’s Body, Miss March and All About Steve. Here’s a brief rundown of the top ten Moving Pictures of 2009.

"Come with me if you want to leap"

#10 – Paul Blart, Mall Cop: For decades, Hollywood has been criticized for promoting a certain, emaciated-and-on-heroin body image. This revolutionary film –which originally had cast Captain Flingz the Orangutan in the lead role– is Hollywood issuing a gigantic, sausage-like middle finger to itself, all the while assuring an increasingly obese America that, finally, we’re on your side. A daring and provocative film that pulls no fat punches.

#9 – G.I. Joe: This special effects-driven action flick consistently pushed the envelope of modern cinematic technology, re-defining the term ‘action sequence’ for future generations of filmmakers. The climatic scene where blind idiot gods take co-stars Channing Tatum and Marlon Wayans out to the backyard and blow them up with firecrackers shoved up their yin-yangs is breathtaking in scope and beauty.

#8 – Saw VI: Saw VI what? Saw six Miley Awards at this year’s MTV Teen Dismemberment Oscars for this family-friendly flick!

#7 – Angels and Demons: For too long, high-ranking Catholic cardinals have been getting a free pass from Hollywood. It’s high time someone had balls hairy enough to tell it like it is: those sweet and cuddly old men in red robes and funny hats you’ve been led to believe are, I dunno, pretty cool? Probably evil instead. Suck it, Torquemada.

#6 – Year One: Everybody knows what biological successes our knuckle-dragging alpha-male ancestors were, with their mastery of club and filthy cavegirl harems. But what about the other guys? This film provides documented evidence that meh-inducing snark was a critical survival tool for early beta-males, allowing even the most twee Cro-Magnon hipsters a slim chance at passing on their genes with a member of the opposite sex long before the invention of ironic t-shirts and crappy indie music.

#5 – 2012: Despite overwhelming scientific consensus, very few are aware of the catastrophic apocalypse awaiting us in three years. We must roll up our global sleeves, join hands with people from all around the world and get to work on mass executions of all Mayans before they can fulfill their evil plans to destroy the planet. Or at the very least, find the guy who makes their calendars and slap him around a bit.

#4 – Couples Retreat: Many dumb critics dumbly criticized this movie as (makes quote marks with fingers) “not funny”. What these dumb naysayers fail to realize, however, is that relentless, soul-crushing tragedy is the root of all comedy. Funnymen Johnny Carson and Groucho Marx went through more divorces than I’ve had hot meals: this film has the cajones mas gorditas to expose comedy’s tear-soaked underbelly, stripping down the hollow, trite romantic comedy to its horrifying core of sterile hatred.

Pictured: our nation's first werewolf president.

#3 – Transformers 2: Heavily criticized for its left wing political undertones, this brave piece from liberal activist Michael Bay uses the centuries-old medium of robots to show America what a bunch of evil fatasses they really are. Mr. Bay knocks the viewer’s perceptions down with the titanic fist of an angry 18-wheeler: think there’s no more racism in the world to-day? Here’s a couple of dumb black “robots” who can’t read and are dumb! Still putting your trust in an old man who lives in the clouds and has magical powers? Here you go, moron, how’s about a Robot Heaven, ya yokels! Durrrr! And providing young girls with a powerful, empowered female role model like Megan Fox –who may be drop-dead skinny, but can also fix cars or something so she’s independent– is a punch in the solar plexus of our male-o-centric society. Bay bravely slaps testosterone in its fat face, before stomping on the Gonads of Masculinity until the Testicles of Injustice explode, pouring the Bodily Fluids of Prejudice onto the Pavement of Truth.

#2 – Old Dogs: This brilliant film combines the powerful emotion of Old Yeller with the depraved violence of Straw Dogs, weaving the two seamlessly in an endless parade of nutshots and dog urine. Can’t wait for Old Dogs 2: Even Oldier!

#1 – The Twilight Saga: New Moon: As you read this, our nation’s top scientists are pouring stuff from one beaker into another beaker, trying to come up with the adjectives necessary to describe this work of Mormon genius. The closest our red-blooded, pale-skinned Einsteins have gotten is reportedly ‘abstinenoglistabroodlycatpeedeadalicious’. With all the liberal media elite East Coast namby-pambyness out there in America’s movie theaters (see: Transformers 2), it’s about time someone took a stand and told the world’s overweight and lonely females that it’s perfectly ok to be polite to shirtless minorities who are trying to help you, because you can easily ignore them when an unpredictably violent on-again-off-again brooding white man shows up in your life whenever he feels like it and puts your life in immediate danger! Awesome Bonus Message: being dead is romantic! And pretty easy to accomplish, too. That’s something the living will never understand, with their stupid ’smiling’ and ‘eating’ and ‘having sex’… Twihards know better. Can a sequel be in the works for this draculific flick? Put Paris Hilton and a dog shooting baskets into a Twilight movie, and you’d pretty much have the Most. Awesomest. Thing. Ever. Don’t let me and my thirty cats down, Hollywood!

SERIOUS WARNINGS!!!

I grab these beautiful pics. from IDF but I don’t know whom to give credit.

I think they’re from talented Gengen. You can go  HERE to see more from her.

The part of the Wings will be played by angry, mouthy Trevor Berbick, while the Stars will be represented by Larry Holmes jumping off a car and into an orgiastic pile of whupass:

Monday I had my 2 weeks check in with the OB and I went in figuring we’d do the norm….check my pee, do the bloodpressure thing, weigh me, measure the belly & listen to the heartbeat.

The normal routine is what we did…but the results were not the norm.  Not at all.  Everything was fine until it was time to listen to the heartbeat.  It basically was thump, thump, thumping and then is stopped, studdered, stopped, and then started thump, thump, thumping again.  I knew something was up because by this point I’m well aware of what it’s SUPPOSED to sound like and my suspicion was only confirmed when the doctor (not my normal doctor, but the other doctor) said “Hmmm…he needs to hear this….something isn’t right.”  And so I anxiously waited while she went to fetch Dr. B which seemed to take an eternity !  He came in and stuck the doppler on my belly and, sure enough, the same thing happened.  He told me that he wanted to do 2 things – hook me up to a monitor and get me scheduled for a fetal echo….then said “on second thought, just go get the echo”.

I was what I can only assume was shellshocked as I didn’t have much of a reaction at all while he was saying this.  Even as I was checking out at the front desk, making my next appointment, I was in a daze as he said “Wow.  You’re being so calm about this – - – much more than I expected.”

Yeah.

That calm ended the SECOND I got to my car.  That’s about the time I snapped out of it and realized that I was just told something was wrong with the Weeble and that I had to go to a specialist to find out what.  And so the panic set in.  I drove home, sobbing and worrying and trying not to get into an accident.  To top the night off I had my Accounting final to take and had to do my best to focus on that when I got home to get through it (via online).

Needless to say, I didn’t sleep at ALL that night.  Dr. B had given me a list of specialists to call for an appointment and all I could think about was hoping that I would be able to get appointment with one of them ASAP. 

Tuesday was even less fun than Monday night.  With no sleep under my belt I got ready for and went to work.  Now, normally I’m pretty good at checking personal crap at the door when I get to work.  I’m generally able to focus on my work and do what I need to on a professional level.  Yeah…all that went out the door.  It took absolutely NOTHING to set me off.  I’d just be sitting at my desk and burst out into tears at which point I’d dart to the bathroom to pull it back together.  I started calling around to the doctors Dr. B had recommended only to find that only 1 of the 4 could see me before the new year and that appointment wasn’t until Christmas EVE ! ! ! ! ! !  I said “fine, I’ll take it” and broke down again.  (Like I said…no fun.)

As it happens, though, I was talking to my friend Michelle through IM at this time and she knew something was up.  I told her what was going on and she had a recommendation for me for a doctor in NY.  I checked with my insurance to be sure that doc would be covered and called them to see what they could do for me.  The kind woman on the other end of the phone told me that they could see me at 1:30 if I could get there.  I explained to her that I was at work in NJ and that it was 99% impossible to which she responded that I really needed to get in to see someone within 24 – 48 hours of finding out that there was an issue and recommended that I take the appointment.  I asked if I could put her on hold and headed to my boss’ office who was AMAZINGLY understanding and told me to “just go”.  I told the rest of my co-workers what was going on briefly so they knew I was running out for the rest of the day and headed out at 12:00 in the hopes that I could make it there in time.

Sure enough I got to the office EXACTLY at 1:30, got checked in, and then sat in the waiting room nervously thumbing through the tattered “Time” magazine in my hand.  They saw me about a 1/2 hour later and the echo started up.  For a little more than an hour the nurse recorded Weeble’s heartbeats from EVERY angle and looked at it up, down & sideways.  She was EXCEPTIONALLY nice (as was EVERYONE in the office) and did a lot to help keep me calm.  Once we were finished, she told me that she was shooting the results to the doctor (who was just down the hall) and that he would be in to go over everything with me because they didn’t want me to leave without knowing what the deal was.

The doctor was AMAZING.  Not only did he start by telling me that everything is ok but he also explained what their practice was all about, what their credentials were, and detailed the results of his report for me.  In a nutshell, Weeble has 2 things going on – - – neither of which is a critical problem.  One, which is what is causing the heartbeat to be irregular, is that the ventricle is basically having a muscle spasm.  He said it happens but that it doesn’t cause problems for the baby and I shouldn’t worry.  The other thing is that there’s a small hole in the ventricle wall which he predicts will seal itself up, if not by the time Weebs is born, then within the first 2 years of Weebs’ life.  My response was “So, what you’re saying is that I can sleep again?” with a smile.  “Absolutely !” was his response.

The ENTIRE staff at this dr’s office was amazing.  They actually CARED and were KIND and understood not only that I was there to check out something important but they also understood where I was coming from without me ever having to say a word.

So what started as a craptacular week is now beginning to creep into a better deal and I’m actually looking forward to the weekend and sleeping (at least until Weebs makes me uncomfortable enough to start keeping me up again !).

When pe0ple design software, it is a golden rule that the software be designed for the stupid user. You will be amazed how often users don’t understand the simplest concept or don’t see something that is staring them in the face.

Every software vendor carefully idiot-proofs their software, even though the marketing material never mentions it (It won’t look too nice on the product box to say, “Idiot-proofed for you”).

A recent hospital visit with an uncle of mine reminded me of the importance of idiot-proofing. We went to the doctor with a minor  fever and she promptly ordered enough blood tests to suck half my uncles’ blood out. On a side note, I think the only purpose the blood tests serve is to confirm that my uncle was serious about his ailment. If he’s not serious, he’d would disappear as soon as he hear the blood tests being mentioned. Anyone would.

Since was uncle was new here and did not know of the procedures, I went to the lab holding a lab slip and waited at the counter while the nurse at the counter took care of everything except me. I gave her the customary cough. When that didn’t work, I said, “Excuse me.”

She looked irritated at the interruption and grumpily said, “Yes?”.

The lab slip I waved in her face failed to elicit any gentler response. She tightened her frown a tad and said, “Place the slip in the box and take a seat.”

I did as commanded and waited for my turn to be desiccated. A couple more people entered the room and went through the same routine, viz. wait, cough, interrupt and be sternly told “Place the slip in the box and take a seat.”

My engineer brain sprang to action. I thought, “Instead of telling everybody what to do, she could write that on a piece of paper and hang it at the counter.”

I looked for a possible spot to hang the note and I was greeted with this sign: “Place the slip in the box and take a seat.”

Evangelist Oral Roberts Dead At 91 | TPM News Pages.

Um….

I just got a photo pass for Deck the Hall Ball.

Oh. My. God.

I only get to shoot the first three songs from each band. But I get in free. So my ticket goes to Laura. And I get to shoot some of my favorite bands. Best way to end the year. I knew it would all work out. I KNEW IT!

Okay.

This is how I feel right now, except for bacon, it should say “FOTO PASSS”

I’m done.

<3 Abby

But if you try, sometimes, you might just get what you need.

I’ve never been in a car accident in my life. Sure, I’ve swerved a time or two, but hasn’t everyone?

Not in a bus. Not on a snowy afternoon, when you can feel the back tires swaying dangerously beneath you. You want to say, “slow down, would you?” but you don’t, because the bus driver knows what she’s doing. She went to bus driving school or something, didn’t she? But then you’re looking out the window, listening to that song you got free from starbucks. So the bus feels unstable, maybe it’s an old bus. Who knows.
The road is beautiful, snow peppering the evergreens. You think to yourself, “Imagine if this was the last thing I ever saw. It’s so beautiful. So beautiful.”
You look out the window just in time see that little red truck swerve a little too close. You feel the bus swerve with it, feel it shift to the side. Wheels don’t turn that way. The back end catches the turn slow and in flickering images you see the little truck together, then splintering appart like confetti as the back end of the bus bowls through the front of it. The bus barely slows. It’s coming in a full turn, but you don’t know that. You just know you’re turning, turning, turning.
It seems like forever, but you’re life doesn’t flash before you’re eyes like they say. You think, “God, it’s like that episode in house. It’s just like a movie.” and, “I’m going to die now, this is it. I don’t like this.” and the more important, “I don’t want this.” You aren’t thinking about that one guy, like you thought you would be, or what you haven’t done, what you should of done, or who you maybe should have forgiven.
You really only have time for those two thoughts. Your brain isn’t working faster. It’s your eyes seeing slower, taking everything in. Why I don’t know. Would they ask questions once you die? “Excuse me miss. Yes, you. Did you by any chance see anything of coincidence before you died? No? Well then no cream cheese and attractive men for you.”
Then suddenly you know you won’t turn anymore. That gravity pull you felt before is gone, you’ve stopped, but only for a second. You’re really sure you’ll die now. Right now. Your last second. The lightning round.
It’s silent. Maybe everyone else knows it’s the last second too. Maybe you just aren’t listening, not now. Then you fall.
When the bus hits the ground, you barely notice. It isn’t the lurch you fear, but what will happen the fraction of a second after. You expect the glass your hands have braced against to crumble beneath your palms, cut into them like in a nightmare you can’t quite remember. The glass, like the terrible silence, does not break.
You lift yourself up and look around as the smoke clouds around you. Your first thought is, once again, the likeness the scene has to that of a movie. Your second is of your iPhone. It’s a guilty thought, and you feel heartless, so you push the thought away.
At the back of the bus, not far from you, a group of three are entangled. A girl cries loudly, terrified, and a boy fidgets with the emergency exit. The woman who must have been siting near you asks, “Are you okay? Are you hurt?” She looks concerned, but really she only needs something to say. The bus driver calls out, repeating the woman’s question to the group. “Is everyone okay?” You call out yes, but you don’t really know. She dials something on her phone.
Finally you look down, sweep your hands around for the phone which had played that song moments before. Everything is fine. The law textbook that had sat in your lap is tucked under a pole, but you get it easily enough. Your hands shake and you feel material for gathering your things, but you cannot leave them behind. You are material.
A man stands in the gap where the front windowshield once was. He must have seen the crash and come to help, but you don’t think that now. You don’t care. You want to get the hell out of that bus. Fumes have started to leak and you cover your mouth with a gloved hand as you stumble across the glass, willing it not to break beneath you. The man takes your bags as you mumble something explaining why you need them so he doesn’t think you’re stupid or petty for having them. He understands, and helps you out of the bus through what was the windowshield.
You walk away from the bus, and up to the woman who had been beside you. You talk with her for a few moments. Is everyone alright? Yes. Good. Yes. Snow still falls, and cars drive past at a crawl, directed by a police officer. She wanders away to talk with some others, and you’re left with a woman you don’t know. You look at each other and after a few moments you say, “I’m going to hug you.” and you do. The woman cries. You don’t. You think it was awfuly lucky there was such a soft landing, and you say so. She nods, and says a prayer to Jesus. You don’t, and in a way it makes you sad.
More and more flashing lights arrive by the second. A local offers to drive you home, if you’d like to go wait in his car he’ll be there soon. Sure, that would be nice. Another girl is in the old SUV. Teary eyed, she’s waiting for her brother, the boy you’d seen earlier. Speaking is awkward, but you try to distract her with talk of school, and hope you don’t sound ungrateful to be alive. Eventually her brother comes, and she leaves. Your father is coming soon, and you tell the man who offered the ride so. Oh? Good. Good.
Just as you see your father and sister trudging through the snow, approaching the accident and flashing lights, the man says the police want to get your name and number, for a statement, by the way. You say, sure.
You cross the street and budge yourself up into the police car. The seat is high, and you have to grab the handle on the inside roof to get up. The officer asks you what seems like endless questions. Name? Number? Street address? Box number? Favorite colour? Favorite band? Mothers hair colour? Favorite Dr. Seuss book? And a recorded statement. You do the best you can, but avoid what he really wants. Whodunnit. After all, you don’t really know. The logical culprit is the little red truck, but you remember the way the bus shifted it’s back tires on the road, before it had happened. How you wanted to call out to the bus driver. How you didn’t, because who does that?

It’s true, folks! After what we all thought was yet another publicity stunt by our favorite caouple-du-jour actually turned out to be true. Last night paparazzi and fans were crowding the entrance for Central Park’s Boathouse where pop star/celebutante Amelia Mason married her long time boyfriend (and not so long time fiancee), Thomas Kittler-Moore. We’ll keep you updated on the lastest news!

To my dear comrades who are set along with me embarking on the noble mission to rock the world, here’s an other word of wisdom. I always tell all my disciples, among all the type of girls, bimbos are the easiest ones to hit on.

For the beginners, What or Who is a bimbo?

Bimbo is a term that emerged in popular English language usage in the late 20th century to describe a stupid, pliable woman.

The word bimbo is sometimes interpreted as the backronym “Body Impressive, Brain Optional”.

A bimbo isn’t necessarily highly sexually attractive. Being a bimbo is a state of mind, and reflects a person who exaggerates the effort and value put into her physical attractiveness. She is often perceived to be shallowly focusing on her physical appearance and neglecting or even willfully stifling the development of other parts of her personality.

For those who could not get anything from the  above sentences, I say, Bimbos are the easiest ones  to hit on. Why?, Glad you asked.

1) They are easily confused. But they would never admit it. A clever guy would take it in his advantage and use that fatal factor of her’s to speak plain gibberish, while actually rendering her an awesome image about himself.

2) They always have issues. All you need to be, to get into their pants is, Be the Issue-solver. Obviously, you don’t actually have to solve any of her issues. Be the one listening to her issues, console her and Q.E.D, You don’t have to solve the issue..!

3) They have sluggish unencumbered minds. You can easily convince them, manipulate them, control them. Yeah, I know. That sounds soo evil..( muaahahaha)

4) They are not afraid to be the conversation starter. They won’t mind continuing the conversation provided that you’re above 5 in a scale of 1-10 lame.

5) They easily fall for praises, social statuses, romantics, looks, glitz n glam and the elaborate lies you tell them about yourself.

6) Perhaps the biggest of all, Just be super sweet to them for a week, they’ll be super sweet to you for the rest of your life.

In a crowded place, how do you spot a bimbo?

Glad you asked.:)

1) Look out for chicks wearing pink, violet, purple and rest of the disney colours.

2) If you spotted one, and she’s in a herd, check her status in the herd. If she manages to keep a perfect balance in talking and listening and flashing false laughs at every possible chances, She is a bimbo.

3) Keep observing. Approach. If she has a seemingly fake accent, and artificiality in the manner of speech, she is a bimbo.

4) If her clothes and accessories are branded, she is a bimbo.

5) Her clothes and accessories would be up to date with the fashion as they keep themselves informed of the what’s new and perceive it in order to catch the all attention by themselves from a male herd.

6) The way the clothes are worn. If it’s super tight or slightly revealing or showing maximum cleavage area possible, she is a bimbo.

7) They can’t keep their hands off their hair. For guys who do not know, playing with the hair is the most classiest flirt move you can get from a female.

When you’re sure you’ve spotted a bimbo, make your move and there’s 83% probability that she will end up falling for you in day 1 itself.

Salad’s in the bag and it is on…

Family Guy Season 2 Episode 2 Holy Crap

Alternative:

As you no doubt probably already know the results of the philpapers survey are out. These results were especially costly to me as I lost a bet on how many philosophers would self-identify as dualists. I bet Dave $100.00 that it would be less than 10% and it actually turned out to be something like 27%! One nice feature of the results is that you can sort them by rank and AOS. Turns out the only category where I got it right was among people who explicitly identify Philosophy of Cognitive Science as their AOS…coincidentally these are just the people that I usually associate with…I wonder if other people who took the meta-survey noticed that their meta-survey guesses reflected the numbers filtered for their AOS/friends in philosophy?

statue of liberty ain’t got nothin’ on you girl..

Can you believe it???  40 more days until the Weebs joins our household ! 

HOLY CRAP !

I don’t think I’ve ever felt so falsely prepared in my whole life.  Heck, I was more sure about that Economics final I took last night that I was completely unprepared for !

There’s still so much to do before those 40 days turn to 0.  We still need curtains and doors to go up and, though the dresser is finally at our house, it’s sitting in a box in the garage at the moment quite useless while the clothes, blankets & spit rags sit in bags waiting to be washed.  I’ve got NOTHING at work prepared for my departure (which, in case your interested, is at a 24 work day countdown) while I’m running like a lunatic trying to ensure that I don’t fail the next 2 finals I have coming up, juggling basic home maintenance, my job and what little social life I have left all on next to no sleep.  SQUEEE !

On the upside, in 40 days I’ll regain my body to some extent which will be nice ! 

Since my last appointment I’ve noticed that the Weeble has switched from using my bladder as a trampoline and is now just ON IT CONSTANTLY.  I’m not really sure which is worse to be honest…the 5 lb. sack o’ baby applying constant pressure or the 3 lb. sack o’ baby bouncing up and down…neither is fun that’s for sure !  And I have to wonder…now that Weebs is head down and still VERY active does that mean that it’s kind of like a break dancer in there doing headspins???

Beyond the constant need to pee, the newest game Weeble likes to play is called “Kick the CRAP out of Mommy’s ribs”.  This is a game of surprise as I never quite know when it’ll be happening but suddenly WHAM ! my ribs are KILLING me because Weebs just kicked them like a Ninja Warrior !  And it appears that the right rib cage is the preferred side for this game for some reason.  As I was sitting in the tire place this morning, waiting for my new snow tires to be put on the car, I got 2 KILLER rib shots compliments of Weebs which made me wince in pain and surely made the room full of manly men that much MORE uncomfortable with having a big pregnant chick in their midst.  I could almost hear them silently praying that I wasn’t going into labor when I reacted to the rib shots !

Dang !  Looking at it now I probably SHOULD’VE made them more nervous on purpose because then maybe they would’ve moved a little faster than an hour and a half to get those tires on my car !  Oh well !  At least we’re now safe for when the next round of snow hits ! 

… don’t EVER borrow my Louboutin’s again. EVER.

There we were getting ready for our annual holiday ornament party. Friends had up from orange County and from various parts of southern California. My parents were here helping along with a couple that come up from Long Beach to help us run the bar and make our celebration terrific. My husband has known them for many years, and they are from the same parts of Pennsylvania.

So I climb in the shower, and I’m doing all my normal things. Which one of my friends would call the PTA.

What is the PTA?

Well somebody might think that PTA means Parent Teacher Association. And, they might be right if there were from Alabama, and NOT in the shower.

Hmmm… The PTA.

And, like I said I was in the shower doing my normal things, which included the PTA…

Puss, Tits and Ass.

Well, let’s be real… everything does need to be cleaned, right?

I have to look, smell and feel absolutely divine for my guests that are coming for the annual Christmas party… so everything gets washed including the PTA.

So, I climb out of the shower and I’m towelling off…

I am calm, because downstairs I know that everything is in place.

The Bar.

The Buffet.

The vegetable crudite display and the candles in the chandeliers were lit.

24 Christmas Trees dangling beautiful ornaments from around the globe …

Yes, now the number had grown to 24 trees. I can’t help it. They just look so beautiful… I can’t stop buying them.

It looked like a gigantic Winter Wonderland inside my house…

Sans the snow…

And, of course, no mittens or galoshes…

79 degree California weather with palm trees outside.

A giant California Winter wonderland, okay?

We Californians have got to do it our own way… I just throw a little “Alabama” in on the side from time to time — with a Y’all here, and a Y’all there! But, you understand that I do have some of the California affectations absorbed by now, and so… well, I don’t really do anything “small.”

So, yeah, I’ve got 24 Christmas trees running up my electricity bill. It’s beautiful, dang it. So get over it.

Yes, now there I am. Unusally calm with the impending knowledge that very shortly my home was going to be alive with about 80 other minds… and the fact that I was going to have to be witty, charming, and beautiful… Well, hell… I should have been freaking out.

Don’t worry…

My calm didn’t last for long.

The help was busy prepping the hot food and everything was on schedule.

So, there I was… still damp, with my PTA’s still tingling.

I had just begun to shimmy into my beaded dress because I wanted to do all my makeup and hair after I finally got my dress on.

It’s a fabulous dress, but I don’t know why I always buy such complicated clothing. Once again, not a “step in” dress… an “over the head” dress with straps going this way and that.

Just a fricking pain in the butt to get this dress on.

Holy crap, what a mess.

I am standing there contemplating just wearing the stinking thing as a partial top since it was strangulating to get the dress on over my head and wet showered hair. One arm in, one breast out.

No problem. Throw on a skirt and my left tit will be the hit of the party.

Right.

So, I finally get the frigging thing on.

Slide it down over my hips.

Thank God it still fits.

I’ve been eating my weight in turkey, brownies, fudge and cheesecake for the past two weeks. So, my ass is about the size of Oklahoma right now.

Thank God for the proverbial black dress…

… that stretches….

A silent “yay” for  the creation of Spandex.

Bless this inventor, this Sultan of Elasticity. I will always display their label of honor on my expanding derriere…  

So, I finally get this beautiful, god-forsaken, beaded strappy dress over my head with final authority, and slick it down the side of me.

Finally.

I need a frigging drink just to get this dress on.

Relax. Relax.

“Honey, can you get my a green apple martini from the bar?”

Yes, relax.

Help is on the way…

No sooner to I get the dress on… zipped up… looking in the mirror I turn left, and turn right… and of course, curse the size of my butt…

When all hell breaks loose. The fire alarm starts to go off at my house. It’s a loud blaring bell that is completely destructive to all your senses.

BANG, BANG, BANG.

CLANG, CLANG, CLANG.

WTF?

Aaaaaaaah! I am running down the stairs with a trail of obscenities still stabbing the air behind me. Shoeless, and bra-less. Boobs bouncing, and wet hair flopping.

80-some people are coming to laugh and schmooze in less than an hour. WHAT THE HELL AM I GOING TO DO? TELL THEM THE NOISE IS SANTA COMING…

AND COMING…

I NEED THAT ALARM OFF. PRONTO.

“What the hell is going on?” I scream.

I then begin pounding the number buttons on the alarm pad.

Pressing. Jabbing. Cursing. Screaming. But, the alarm keeps screeching.

7 minutes of this was enough to drive me out of my f-ing mind. “We’ve gone to all this trouble for this party, I need for you (the alarm) to shut the hell up! (:?sdt% qvio4$ – More obscenities) ”

I was screaming so many bad words, that I ran out of them and had to make some new ones up.

I finally pressed a series of numbers that seem to work…

Aaaaah. Sigh of relief…

Well, it worked for 10 ten seconds, and then:

BANG, BANG, BANG.

CLANG, CLANG, CLANG.

HOLY CRAP!

I have this vision of all these firetrucks pulling up elbowing my guests, “Excuse me Ma’am, but we’ve got a fire in this house to attend to.”

“A FIRE?” And, then of course my guests run screaming for their lives.

Nice.

Yeah, that’s the type of celebration I wanted to have that night. Right.

Fun. Fun. Fun.

Right.

Another 6 minutes of ear-piercing stressing-inducing mind-numbing noise enveloped my house. What the heck am I going to do?

Where is my alarm company?

“Ding-dong.” 

BAM, BAM, BAM, BAM. Pounding on the door right next to where I was standing cursing and banging the alarm codes. I could feel the vibrations of the knocking.

I’m thinking, holy crap, the firetrucks are here and I am going to get a humongous bill from the City for a false fire alarm.

Shit.

I open the door, “Is everything alright here, ma’am? We got a signal at the station.”

It was a man from the alarm company dressed in a Kevlar vest and carrying a “piece.”

My eyes widen.

Double holy crap.

“Well, this alarm thing won’t go off, and in a matter of minutes I am going to be hosting a holiday party. I can’t have this thing going off! We’re supposed to be singing god-damn christmas carols! Help! I need help, man! I need this thing to stop to improve my stinking mood. I’m supposed to having fun, and I am NOT having any fun here, Sunshine.”

We finally got it to stop. “I can’t guarantee that it won’t start-up again,” he said.

Holy guaca-crapping-christmas-colored-mole.

“Well, that is the point when I will rip the freaking alarm out of the wall, sir.”

He looks at my husband. A knowing nod passes between them.

This must be male code for “and you have to live with this, huh?”

“Smile for the camera. You’re now part of this night,” I said.

So, I in barefeet and he in his kevlar, had just settled down the long alarm for a nap.

And, what to my wandering eyes should appear, but 80 familiar faces carrying ornamental reindeer.

Where up in the past the alarm rose such a clatter, and now it all behind us, it didn’t seem to matter.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work, and stopped all the ringing and turned with a jerk.

Laying his hand upon the side of his Glock, I thought for a moment he was going to whip out his …

Identification.

You guys are so naughty… I just love it!

And, giving a nod, out the door he did flee, this house of freakouts and terminal glee.

He sprang to his patrol car, gave a loud call, “Have a great party, my dear! Oh, Belle of the Ball!”

But, I heard him exclaim as he drove away faster, “If is goes off again, I know a man that’s good in repairing wall plaster!”

…

The party was a great success… and, the alarm did NOT go off again.

Thank you, jeeze Louise.

We drank, and we schmoozed, and some carols we did sing.

But, the alarm stayed silent, not nearly a ring!

Here are some pics from the party!

xoxo

Be well,

Belle

  A 78th Annual Writer’s Digest Award Winner

S. Belle Karper, Author, Speaker www.BelleKarper.com
THE WIDOW WEARS BLACK - An Edgy Memoir from an Outspoken Survivor
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i just made “raddies” up..i think it fits..