News You Can't Live Without

First up: There's a reason I've chosen younger men all these years. Rephrase: there are MANY reasons I prefer younger men. Though I'm trying to "go older", those guys aren't making it easy, and I'm about out of Cougar-Be-Gone.

Two: Fragrant Liar made Amazon's Kindle's Top-rated 100 Humor Blogs list. I think I'm #61. Lots of faves on this list with me. If you wanna get Fragrant Liar on your Kindle, click here. Leaving a review will help me move up the rankings too. I mean, if ya wanna.

Three: I got a new J.O.B. Yay. My full-time writing gig has been temporarily chopped to part-time. But whew! Just in time for Christmas, which I will spend, for the first time in history, without even one of my kids. Merry fucking holidays.

But I do get mini-rugrat updates, which I relish. See, youngest nanababy Shaboobka turned one. To celebrate, here she is doing a little extracurricular excavation work. How could anyone get mad at this face? Besides, that's a pitiful palm. You ask me, all Shaboobka's missing is a few Hot Wheels. That's my girl, tear it up.

Four: On December 4th, my parents celebrated 56 years of marital piss and vinegar. Nobody does it better than those two. I'm serious. Look who they raised. Me: Piss and Vinaigrette. And I'm a great catch. Depending on how old you are . . . obviously.

Five: I saw Leap Year on HBO. Twice. Despite what the critics said, I liked it a lot. Makes me want to hit Ireland and let a feisty Irish lad sweep me off my feet. Slainté. On that note, why do people who go to Ireland always stand on cliffs and look down at the cold, deep, violent waves a bazillion feet below? Don't they know they could fall off? I mean, you're just tempting the universe when you stand that close to an edge. I make it a policy never to go near something that could kill me. It's why I look at the Grand Canyon from as far away as photos.

Six: I WON! Debbie from Suburb Sanity held a contest for questions to ask tweens about texting, in conjunction with TextEd with Jane Lynch. Being the deeply critical thinker I am, I came up with real posers for the kiddos; and somebody, in his/her infinite wisdom, crowned me the winning recipient of a $25 gift card. Woo-hoo! Disposable income!

If you're not already a regular Suburb Sanity reader, go here and see what you're missing. Thanks, Debbie!

Happy December, y'all. Hope you're staying warm.
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Mr. Nice Guy

It's time for an announcement, people. I met a really nice guy tonight. No, really. Nice. As in handsome, fit and athletic, driven (and cycled), intelligent and articulate, creative and talented, firm buns and thighs, and already retired. Whoa! Stop the train and back up, people. Firm buns and thighs? I got one word for ya (with a lotta syllables): Ni-i-i-i-i-i-ice!

I know! How did THAT happen? Cuz I don't mind telling you, I am a bad-boy electromagnet. That's like millions of times more powerful than a fridge magnet. 'kay? So how this really nice guy with the firm buns and thighs made such an impact is a damn miracle. Of course, I did personally pick him out of a lineup without even previewing his buns and thighs, so I'm due a little credit here. No, not THAT lineup. Online dating. Although I am quite certain many of those guys online have been in that other kind of lineup. I swear one of 'em is a Featured Fugitive on the FBI's Most Wanted List, right next to Bin Laden. He wasn't wearing a turban, but he had a moustache. A big one, like you could hide box cutters in there.

So I met Mr. Nice Guy with the firm buns and thighs at Little Woodrow's for drinks after I got off work. Two hours went by like thirty! Minutes, that is. He's not short on conversation. I fooled him by being totally quiet and demure. I'm pretty sure he bought it. Ladies, I even got a GIFT! Swe-e-e-e-eet! He gave me a CD of some of his recordings. Did I mention he has a recording studio? And he's a musician?

Honestly, I was afraid of another musician. They're terminally poverty-stricken titty babies. But how can you not love a classically trained violinist – with an AMP!?! I'll bet he can turn that volume all the way up to eleven. And there's no worrying about this musician with the firm buns and thighs crying over his money woes cuz he doesn't need a J.O.B. Whew! That's just one less thing for me to bitch about, you know? And finally, somebody cool in my age range with a hot body. People, after chugging a quart of Cougar Be-Gone, I'm born again. And probably well lubed.

Did I mention he has firm buns and thighs? He only cycles 20+ miles a day. What Mr. Nice Guy doesn't have? A beer belly. Se-e-e-exy!

But, I don't know. We have yet to discuss the deal breaker. I mean, if the guy can't dance, he's totally yesterday's news. Plus, Mr. Nice Guy with the firm buns and thighs is going to have to show me some deal makers, so I can give him a sexier name. Like Mr. Breakfast in Bed, or Mr. Double Two-Step Me into a Sexual Frenzy, or the ultimate Mr. I Heart SYTYCD* too! Hhhhawtt!

So what do you think? Shall I tell him my real name? I mean, just in case he's a keeper.
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* So You Think You Can Dance? = My favorite guilty pleasure on the tube. Don't judge, people.
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