We're Gonna Ride The Boogie

A few weeks ago, a friend of mine and I were talking about Prince at work. The fact that he needs a double hip replacement. Things may have been said that were lewd in nature about this and how I'd take care of business and whatnots, but it made us both kinda stop and think that...damn...Prince is like...51.

Prince is 51! And we both looked at each other stunned by this. Because, you know, there's just some people that are so iconic and so legendary that you kinda sorta forget that they are a person, for lack of a better way of explaining that. Prince isn't supposed to get older. He's Prince! I get older. You get older. Prince? No.

So...when Micheal Jackson died...it was kinda the same thing. He's not supposed to die. He's Michael Jackson. He's one of those "icons" that should just always be around. But he did. He died. And it was sad. I'll admit it. It was sad. So, now Prince...I'm putting you on notice. Take care of your hips. Get off the pain meds. Don't die. Please and thank you.
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In other, more silly, news, I had to have a mole removed. This mole was hanging out and being all shady and shit, lurking in the shadows and being weird. So, I went to a doctor last week. And she poked at it and looked at it and said "hmmm" a lot and asked me questions and then compared it to other moles and continued to say "hmmmm" and then said "I'm gonna send you to a dermatologist." OK.

So, I went to the dermatologist. I explained the shady nature of my mole, she said "hmmm" and started to poke at it and look at it and then said "It's probably nothing, but let's take it off and send it for biopsy!" Logical brain heard "it's probably nothing" and said "Ok." The rest of the brain that I sometimes cannot control heard "Hmmm....let's take this off and test it immediately!!" and I've been fretting ever since.

I know it's nothing. I know that is what the test will come back to tell me. But I can't settle down. I can't stop fretting. And the spot where it was removed is driving me bat shit insane with how itchy it is! So, it's not like I can just sit here and ignore it, either. Oh no. "Remember me? Your shady mole that has to be tested? I'm making your skin itch and I'm not even there. Try to sleep now, Andrea. Just try! Muah hahahahahaha!"

This is one of those times that being single does not rock. Sure I can still sit around without my pants and not shave my legs and watch the same movie on HBO over and over and over and over and over without hearing anyone say "Andrea...there are other things to watch! Now, get in here and rinse this damned plate!" But there's also nobody here to see the look on my face and then say "Andrea, it's going to be fine. You're fine. Really. Please stop fretting. And here, have this hug. I have one to spare. In fact, here's another. Now, let's go watch Aliens for the 1 millionth time as I feed you Oreos." That would all be very nice right now. I guess once I get the test results back, I'll realize I can just go buy my own damned Oreos...

How Will I Know You'll Still Follow

One of my friends had a birthday yesterday. And for this special occasion, much like most people do, she had a party. And this party, not surprisingly, involved food. Not just any food, either. Home made food. Food made at home with, like, ingredients and time. Not a drive to Hardees for a box of fried chicken. Real, true, made at home food. And it was awesome.

This food was so awesome that it gave me an epiphany! As I'm sitting there eating my second full plate of meatballs, macaroni and cheese, tamale pie, cheese, dip, and pasta salad it happened. My epiphany. I'm a bum. Yup. That's my great realization. I'm a big old stinky bum. And it's all because I don't really cook. So, when I'm around real food, I turn into one of those bums you see in comedies that gets taken home by some well meaning family that feels guilty over something really stupid and the bum eats everything in sight, puts dinner rolls in their pockets, hits on the daughter and pees in the family urn. That's me. I will pee in your family heirlooms.

So I'm sitting there knocking back my 7th meatball and having this realization and thinking I really need to make some changes in my life, man. I need to get a cookbook and some real pots and pans. And I need to be an adult and cook some veggies. And never buy a corn dog again! But then, it happened...they brought out the cake. Home made chocolate cake.

Home made chocolate cake will make you forget about living responsibly. Home made chocolate cake will instead make you sit there and wonder who's birthday is next. Or wonder how your elderly family members' health is holding up as you think about wake food. Some people drive around town looking to score drugs and/or hookers. Home made chocolate cake makes me think about driving around to look for churches with dinners for sale. Home made chocolate cake doesn't care about vegetables. Home made chocolate cake only cares about making me happy. Home made chocolate cake is a powerful drug.

So, yeah. Home made food. It's addictive. There's your PSA on that.

Their Own Opinion Holding It Back

If you've ever been giving your dog a piece of Pupperoni and you smelled it and you thought to yourself that it smells a bit like a Slim Jim and then quietly wondered if it would taste like a Slim Jim, wonder no more.

It doesn't.

You're welcome.

Then I Thought Nothing Is Right

While driving about in the world the other day, I had my radio on, as people tend to do when in the car and their CD player is busted. It was while sitting at a stop light listening to a commercial for some product that I do not recall that I learned something. I learned that the rules of dating, of being boyfriend/girlfriend, have changed quite a bit since I was last in that type of situation.

I cannot for the life of me recall what the product is that commercial was for. I'm so wrapped up in the details of the script to really focus on what they were trying to sell me. All I know is this: during the commercial a dude character asked a female character to please take him back. And the female character declined this request. Why? Because he apparently put pudding in her hot tub.

Ummmm.....what?!?!?

First off, is pudding really that detrimental to the health of a hot tub? I can't imagine that it is. Pudding is delicious. And I imagine that if in hot water it would break down quite nicely and not really do too much damage to the filters and whatnots. I doubt the man put $240 worth of pudding in there. So, really...pudding in a hot tub. OK.

Secondly, is putting pudding in a hot tub really a fireable offense? Honestly? Is this the rule now? Somebody puts a bit of pudding in my hot tub, I can tell 'em to hit the road? Pudding in a hot tub is such a horrendous ordeal to live through that you can get rid of a relationship and not even talk about a reconciliation? You can just dump and never look back? Really?

So, what other silly damned rules are there that I may not be aware of? You drop a marshmallow in the floor of my car and I leave you on the side of the road? You take a sip of my chocolate milkshake so I call the cops? I can't even think of scenarios as ridiculous as pudding in a hot tub. I don't even have a hot tub. But, I need to know! I need to know if shit has actually gotten this stupid out there.

Yeah...