So, Long Time No Blog...'Sup?

I apologize in advance. I promise to blog more tomorrow so that you can have a fun & frothy blog. However, in the mean time, I had some photos taken and I am not photogenic. This is not Earth shattering. This doesn’t effect my life in any major way. However, it does mean that every time I see a picture of myself I want to vomit up my lungs. Seriously. Because then I wouldn’t need to look at the picture anymore as I’d be in surgery (at minimum). Also, hopefully, the picture would be ruined by the lung goo. Sorry. That’s gross. But I think you got my point.

I think maybe I don’t know what my face looks like. Although, it should be said that in a few rare photos I do look like me. At least I look like I think I look…if that makes sense? Probably not. But, mostly, I look at a picture and think, wow. Is that my nose? Are my eyes that small? Are my lips that big? Good Lord! That’s not a forehead that’s an EIGHTHEAD!

So, why is that? Why do I recognize myself in some photos (even bad photos) but in most I could walk right past them & not know it was me unless I was told. I’d know they were related, obviously, but me? Nah. That ain’t me! That’s my aunt. That’s my cousin. That’s my ma. That ain’t me. Hu. Maybe it’s because we all look alike? And, from different angles, I look like different people?

Hu. It takes a village to raise a Fury. Perhaps it also takes a village to make a face. In that light it’s not so bad. In that light I can accept it. I still don’t like it but I accept it.

It's My Birthday (Almost). It's My Birthday (Almost). We're Gonna' Party Like It's (Almost) My Birthday.

Dear Friends,

Tomorrow, the aniversary of my birth, I ask you all to party like it's your birthday. If you could also drink Bacardi like it's your birthday, I'd appreciate it. Ya' know? I don't give a fuck it's not your birthday. And neither should you!

So, on what may prove to be your un-birthday, jump around. Jump around. Jump up. Jump up & get down.


Yours In Christ,

Dark Fury

I'm Not Sayin'...I'm Just Sayin'....

Um...awkward! But, hey, ya' don't ask ya' don't get!

If anybody is wondering what to get a certain special Fury on their shopping list (May1 is right around the corner, people...don't judge me.) might I suggest tickets to the DC Improv to see Brian Posehn?

Again, I'm not sayin'...I'm just sayin'....

Bad Jew, No Mitzvos For You!

I forgot Purim. This is not shocking. I am not, let us face facts, what anyone would call observant. Hell, I don’t even believe in organized religion. I mean, obviously, I believe it exists. I just don’t think it has anything to do with me. I don’t happen to think that G-d, omniscient and omnipresent deity that He is, needs you to be in a specific place at a set time to know you believe in Him. Call me wacky, if you will! I’m not a big proponent of prayer. Again, He’s omniscient (look it up) so He should know, well, everything. Don’t misunderstand me. I’m not putting the knock on it. If you feel better after attending services or praying then go for it. I do, however, knock those who complain that G-d didn’t answer their prayers. Maybe He has bigger fish to fry (war, famine, plague…ya’ know, the big three). Maybe the answer was simply “No.” Who’s to say? I do know that I, personally, have been waiting on the right lotto numbers for years. So, get in line.

All that being said, Purim has always sounded like a fun holiday. I’ve never celebrated it. . . Except for hamantaschen. You have to love a religion that’s based on a system of fast and feast. We should be endorsed by Bulimia. But, that’s as may be. I never dressed up as Queen Esther. I never read the Megillah. Well, not for Purim. I have read it but just for fun. I know. I’m weird. I read Mishnah for fun. Don’t judge me, or I will turn this blog around & start quoting The Lubevitcher Rebbe! But, I digress. . . .

I like the story of how one woman, with the help of a few good meals, saved her people. It’s good stuff. She was a brave broad that Hadassah. Xerxes was not a man to annoy…just ask the Spartans. I, contrary to my mothers misguided opinion, would have lain low. That’s just me. In honor of my (probable) cowardice I close with the following atrocious poem (bit of a doddle, really).

When someone calls you a kike
then that is the time to strike.
When legions call you a Yid
go run and get yourself hid.
For it might be hurtful but it’s still true
that you’re just as dead when you’re martyred. Nu?

A (belated) Freilichen Purim, everybody.

Rollin', Rollin', Rollin', Keep Them Wagons Rollin'!

I am officially moved into the apartment. And I will say this about the move - I will never, as G-d is my witness, move without the help of movers again. It's so bloody choice you wouldn't believe it (unless you too have used movers but then, obviously, I'm not speaking to you).

However . . . and I'm not here to judge . . . I'm just mentioning it . . . really it's fine . . . have you ever semlled something so foul that you're afraid it will stick to you? No? Just me? Fine. I'm the weirdo. What else is new?

In addition to all my stuff the movers left a BO stench that wouldn't die. Liv said it smelled like "old sweaty ass crack and feet." I believe that, though to my knowledge neither of us have ever sampled that particular perfume before, this is quite an accuaret description. I would just add that there was a wee drop of ten day old dead skunk in there but, then again, I have superior olefactory senses. But whatever the source, in the ass or the shoe, the reek of those gentlemen almost killed this Jew (sorry, I went a little Seusse). It was so bad that I had to immediately tell Liv, "hey, that is so not me!"

After they left I opened the windows. That didn't help. So, I Febreezed the entire apartment . . . including my own face. This seemed like a mistake at the time but I quickly realized that it was, in fact, the best idea I'd ever had. The smell, if such a force can be called a mear smell, is gone now and everything is fine. But it was a close call.

Three (3) Random Things

1. Today I went to work. I sat in my office. I attempted to work. I was interrupted, every ten minutes, by random coworkers popping in and out of my door.

"You're going to the breakfast, right?"
"Do you know if it's time for the breakfast?"
"What will I do if I miss the breakfast? Oh, Christ! I'll die! I'll. . .die."*
"Hey, they're starting the breakfast."

I thought about the fact that, even though I had nothing at all to do with said breakfast shin-dig, I am, apparently, thought to be Julie, The Cruise Director. On Friday we're having a luncheon. I think I'll make myself a name tag, buy a white blazer and direct people to the lido deck whilst flipping my super cute Dorothy Hamill hair cut. It's gonna' be boss and...possibly...gnarly.

2. Speaking of cruise directors. . . .

I have been staying at Elisa's in-laws since everybody and their brother Mike left for the cruise on the twelfth. I'm watching the dogs. They're adorable. I heart them. However, one of them has killer gas. No. I mean it. Killer. My life is in danger. Go ahead and laugh but you'll be laughing out of the other side of your face when you read in the paper (oh, come on, who am I kidding? Nobody reads papers anymore!) that I was found in deep rigor with a look of extreme terror and not a litt;e awe engraved on my face. Awe? Yes. Awe. I'm amazed that anything or one can smell that bad and not be dead. It must be a skill of some kind.
Oh, also? They wake up and bark every two hours starting at 1 AM. It's awesome! But, they are ador - - - - -

Holy. Mother. The stench just hit me. I can't give you a third item. I've got to run. Literally.

*OK. I made that one up. But not by much!

Erin Is An Enabler

Who feeds my list fetish. She's evil & wrong. That being said.....

1. Wrapping paper or gift bags? Wrapping paper
2. Real tree or Artificial? In a perfect world? Real. In my house? Artificial…damn it!
3. When do you put up the tree? The Saturday after Thanksgiving. It’s called “Turkey Tree Day”. It’s tradition.
4. When do you take the tree down? January 2nd
5. Do you like eggnog? No. It’s vile, evil & so very very wrong.
6. Favorite gift received as a child? The Complete Annotated Shakespeare.
7. Hardest person to buy for? Nobody. I’m a pretty good gift giver, I think.
8. Easiest person to buy for? Elisa. She’s a hippy. Step 1: World Market Step 2: Buy Something - Done!
9. Do you have a nativity scene? Yes, my great grandmother gave me one. It’s quite lovely….I am the best Jew ever!
10. Mail or email Christmas cards? Mail
11. Worst Christmas gift you ever received? My great aunt (from Brooklyn so not really her fault…much) gave me a gold lame, beaded, fringed (!) purse when I was 16. I almost threw up.
12. Favorite Christmas movie? The Bishop’s Wife
13. When do you start shopping for Christmas? Usually the week of. This year? I’m on it! I’m half done…it may be the end times. Seriously. Be afraid.
14. Have you ever recycled a Christmas present? No. Tacky.
15. Favorite thing to eat at Christmas? Beef Stew (What? We’re Irish. Don’t judge.) For Hanukkah? Latkes, obviously.
16. Lights on the tree? Yes, but I’m OCD so they’re very specific & we really can’t get into that without me having an “episode”.
17. Favorite Christmas carol? Anything by Bing Crosby
18. Travel at Christmas or stay at home? Go to my Aunt’s.
19. Can you name all of Santa's reindeer? Hanchel, Herschel, Schlomo…um, Grumpy, Doc, Sleepy, Ted & Rudolph!
20. Angel on the tree top or a star? Star.
21. Open the presents Christmas Eve or morning? Christmas morning. What am I a heathen?
22. Most annoying thing about this time of the year? Explaining, repeatedly, to my coworkers that I do, in fact, celebrate Christmas & Hanukkah…welcome to America! It’s a melting pot.
23. What theme or color are you using? We don’t do that. We mix it up. Single color trees are gross and wrong.
24. Favorite for Christmas dinner? Corn muffins. What? What else do you eat with beef stew?
25. What do you want for Christmas this year? World peace…but, if I can’t have that, I’ll take a million dollars. Who am I to be so picky?
26. Who is most likely to respond to this? Stealing Erin’s Answer: Your Mom