Alone and Naked with Yanni. Stop it.

I'm beginning to think that not only am I predisposed to wanderlust, but my brain likes to loiter in the places I've been and so takes its sweet time catching up. What I mean is, my feet are on the ground here in Austin, but my head is still flighty. And I have to figure out what's next, which I would totally do if I could just land the plane.

Fortunately, I'm in a good place. Which brings me to the meat of my post. I'm no longer Alone and Naked with Yanni.

There, I said it. You pervy people who keep coming here looking for that? That ship has sailed. You normal people who keep up with me, you know that my running-around-the-house-naked love affair with Yanni happened last summer; and quite sadly I've now entered into territory where Yanni is the equivalent of Lord Voldemort, or He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. And really, what self-respecting rabid fan would subject her musical sex-symbol-of-yesteryear to the anathema of Generations X and Next? No, not me. The young'uns can have their beat boys and that Fitty Cent guy.

The aforementioned post was one in which I lamented that living alone is not remotely part of my true calling. Now that I'm living temporarily with my daughter and two nanaboys, I'm reminded of the axiom, "Be careful what you wish for," cuz these days I'm never EVER alone. That is, unless I go into the bathroom and lock the door, and even then the family Boxer feels the need to accompany me. And may I point out that the walls are so thin in apartments, I'm not sure I'm ever really alone. You hear what I'm saying? I can't croon in the shower for fear my vocals will end up on WikiLeaks. Damn you, Julian Assange!

Plus, and this is the most egregious news of all, my pastime of running around gloriously naked has been severely, um, destroyed. I know. The tragedy that befalls my life is never-ending. I'm now subject to wearing clothes ALL THE TIME, not to mention humming "The Flower Duet" in private to myself. Yeesh, one's children can be so cruel.

But back to last summer's most-highly-sought-after post, Alone and Naked with Yanni. I've gotten thousands of hits from this one post and only 57 measly comments. Pervy people, if you stop in to see me (or me naked with Yanni), please leave a nice note. That just shows you have manners.

The next closest post, I Didn't Shave My Legs for Sex, has less than a quarter of the hits. That tells my scientifically analytical mind that Naked trumps Sex. Or that Yanni trumps Sex. No, no, Yanni IS Sex—figuratively speaking. But never Alone and Naked trumps Yanni, which is obviously blaspheme and cause for a trip to Confession.

Anyway, I've moved on, you obsessed lovers of Alone and Naked with Yanni. So stop it.

UPDATE: Twice as many hits today on "Alone and Naked with Yanni" as this post here with essentially same title. C.R.A.Z.Y.
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Alone and Naked with Yanni

I just got home after five days in Hotlanta where I visited my daughter and her husband, my beloved Miss America, Destructo, and Baby Shaboobka (See pic to the right. Note how helpful Miss America is at getting a cranky Destructo to smile). On walking through the door in Florida, I was slammed in the face with the realization that I don't like living alone. In fact, other than the delicious freedom to run around naked with ice cream and listening to Yanni full blast, it sucks, yo.

So thank you very much, children of mine, for growing up and turning out all independent and well-adjusted and smart and wonderful, and replicatin' yer bad selves with angels. Apparently my efforts to make you clingy and dependent and servile have failed miserably, and now you've gone and left me ALONE. You know how I hate doing my own laundry. I didn't raise you to be so cruel!

Oh, I hear what you're thinking people (because you know the code of support among bloggers). "Wow, Fragrant Liar should be happy. After all, she was an astonishingly mind-blowing single mother who singlehandedly raised FOUR DAUGHTERS."

I know! The horrormones! The horrormones! Pity me.

And this, in keeping with the code of support, no doubt: "That Fragrant Liar, she is the maternal model of sainthood. Her kids actually still like her! Praise Prozac."

I know! Even my parents adore me (after the dog)! I totally can't help it.

Oh but please, I'm much too modest to take ALL the credit. The girls did, after all, have a sperm donor. I think he donated elsewhere, too, so he does have a smidge of generosity. Yes, it's in his pants. But you have to give him credit. His strategy for never paying child support or calling or sending birthday cards or showing up worked brilliantly.

I know! The girls lucked out and got the "Oh yeah?" snotty gene from me. In spite of being fatherless, they RAWK!

Alas, I am still here on my own, lamenting how far away my kids are and how living alone is not remotely part of my true calling. But until I meet someone who thinks I'm as extraordinary as I do (Shhh! Don't forget the code!), I guess I will just have to make due with Yanni.

Aw, it's okay. It's Rocky Road day.
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