Tonight we celebrate a birthday!
So far I have managed to buy myself presents instead of buying them for the birthday boy. I just don’t think he would enjoy a polka dotted umbrella as much as Lambchop and I do. I did get an extra bottle of wodka for the making of many rounds of the Kitty Dukakis. Perhaps we should just fill the bathtub?
In other news, my sister is staying with me until some shadowy future point. Yesterday we went shopping, and today I made her go to the grocery store. I was seized with a craving for Chewy Chips Ahoy!, and this reminded us of all the horrible crap my mother used to let us eat for breakfast. We could have anything, as long as we “had it with milk.” I guess milk redeems even Little Debbie snacks or Entenmann’s cupcakes. This is a far cry from early childhood, where we suffered through home-grown vegetable stews and TVP (textured vegetable protein) and weren’t allowed store-bought cereals. A breakdown obviously took place by the time we started having fast food roast beef sandwiches every night. Five for one dollar! From Hardee’s.
In still more loosely connected news, I joined a gym. It has a pool, so the thought of being seen in a swimming costume will ensure that I either go all the time, or never go at all.
We consumed our portion of a 30 pound turkey in a home that looked like something out of Yankee magazine.
We had flaming ambrosia and volcanos next to the big fountain at Kowloon while the band played Tiny Bubbles. We gorged on nine-layer dip and tequila, recipe followed by a wake-up call of Rock Star punch (a disgusting mixture of every energy drink in stock at the store 24. Congratulations to my pals for discovering the recipe for anger, generic hatred of mankind and instant colossal headaches.)
We showed Herr W. our side of the Atlantic on this crisp November day in the lovely and salty town of Marshfield.
Then we introduced our foreign friend to Robby the lobster, pictured here steamed.
Now if you will excuse me I have to go slip into a coma….
Herr Werkhausen has come to visit me from Berlin, his first trip to Amerika! Two things you can’t find in Berlin are sweet potato waffles and non-potato root-type objects. Fascinating!
There is more Americana in store!!! Long, leafy walks, Thanksgiving dinner, & the Simpsons in English. But if someone really wants to feel like an American, we must teach them how to fritter away their money. I mean spending great flipping wadges of cash on utterly useless items such as rubber goldfish suspended in handsoap, a Dukes of Hazard thermos, a Mr. bubble t-shirt or an issue of Rolling Stone with a List in it.
So I am sending Herr W. back to Berlin with blue bathwater dye. And then we are going to the harbor and eat a nice piece of fish.
Honorable ME-ME-MEntion: the Women’s Art Organization of Berlin has published a new book and it includes the work of yours truly! If you wish to purechase a copy, email Lambchop and she will procure one for you to the tune of a C-note. (Shut up, I had to buy my own copy, too).