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It happened last night. I laughed until I was unable to breathe, and had tears streaming from my eyes, the day's mascara running in twin trails of Goth down my face.
You're probably going to read this and decide that it's one of those you-had-to-be-there things, but I was in hysterics. Of course, everything's funny when I'm tired. My mother, on the other hand, was in fine form: her best church-lady "Oh, my"s and horrified expression pulled out for her daughter's benefit.
Lemme 'splain.
I'm currently reading "The Jane Austen Book Club." At one point I stopped reading and held the cover out and said, "I like this book, so far."
Tilted the book to show that I was halfway through.
"No one's perfect; all six characters have their imperfect backgrounds and their flaws. It's interesting and funny, but dry and very real. I think you'd like it; so far, there's a few F-words --"
I do say fuck from time to time, but only when I mean it (like the night I slipped and my foot went under the bathroom door, but my big toenail did not go under the bathroom door with the rest of my foot), and never in front of Mom. Never mind that she's used the word in front of me twice, and don't get me started on my Dad and me.
"-- and while there's some sensuality, there isn't anything graphic that's irrelevant to the story."
Of course, my mother doesn't know about Ashwinder. I prefer to read the Conservative, Suggestive and Brazen-rated fics, but I'll stray over to the Wanton and even Lewd-rated stories if the summary looks good.
Mom held up her own book. "This is why I like Janet Evanovich and Carl Hiassen. Sex happens, but they don't get wrapped up in it. They don't feel that it's necessary to give a blow-by-blow ..."
Her voice trailed off.
Blow. By. Blow.
I was able to hold it in for three seconds.
After four minutes of guffawing and snorting, I picked myself up off the floor and wiped at my streaming eyes with my grungy grey pajama shirt. Oh, man, did my belly hurt after laughing like that.
*****
Today's song is courtesy of Harry Connick, Jr. The DJs at "The Lounge" -- 690 AM radio station out of Los Angeles -- say that the arrangement was Count Basie's.
It's dedicated to Crusty. (Not the clown from "The Simpsons." This is a fellow I've gone out with. Sort of.) Crusty, who treats me like a friend when there's no one better to spend time with, asks me to hang out with him once in a while and then ignores me when we're actually out and about. (If he asks me to John Williams' Hollywood Bowl concert again this year, I'm going to let him have it. Last year was a slice of hell. But I digress ...)
Git.
You're probably going to read this and decide that it's one of those you-had-to-be-there things, but I was in hysterics. Of course, everything's funny when I'm tired. My mother, on the other hand, was in fine form: her best church-lady "Oh, my"s and horrified expression pulled out for her daughter's benefit.
Lemme 'splain.
I'm currently reading "The Jane Austen Book Club." At one point I stopped reading and held the cover out and said, "I like this book, so far."
Tilted the book to show that I was halfway through.
"No one's perfect; all six characters have their imperfect backgrounds and their flaws. It's interesting and funny, but dry and very real. I think you'd like it; so far, there's a few F-words --"
I do say fuck from time to time, but only when I mean it (like the night I slipped and my foot went under the bathroom door, but my big toenail did not go under the bathroom door with the rest of my foot), and never in front of Mom. Never mind that she's used the word in front of me twice, and don't get me started on my Dad and me.
"-- and while there's some sensuality, there isn't anything graphic that's irrelevant to the story."
Of course, my mother doesn't know about Ashwinder. I prefer to read the Conservative, Suggestive and Brazen-rated fics, but I'll stray over to the Wanton and even Lewd-rated stories if the summary looks good.
Mom held up her own book. "This is why I like Janet Evanovich and Carl Hiassen. Sex happens, but they don't get wrapped up in it. They don't feel that it's necessary to give a blow-by-blow ..."
Her voice trailed off.
Blow. By. Blow.
I was able to hold it in for three seconds.
After four minutes of guffawing and snorting, I picked myself up off the floor and wiped at my streaming eyes with my grungy grey pajama shirt. Oh, man, did my belly hurt after laughing like that.
*****
Today's song is courtesy of Harry Connick, Jr. The DJs at "The Lounge" -- 690 AM radio station out of Los Angeles -- say that the arrangement was Count Basie's.
It's dedicated to Crusty. (Not the clown from "The Simpsons." This is a fellow I've gone out with. Sort of.) Crusty, who treats me like a friend when there's no one better to spend time with, asks me to hang out with him once in a while and then ignores me when we're actually out and about. (If he asks me to John Williams' Hollywood Bowl concert again this year, I'm going to let him have it. Last year was a slice of hell. But I digress ...)
Git.
