Blathering about Riches, Songs, Bed, and Whiskey

Alrighty then. Obviously, I'm not naturally inclined to blog. So, why on earth did I start my own blog? Well, vanity, of course. And don't forget fame and fortune. Both of which are sure to come my way eventually. I figure if I can maintain my current frantic blogging pace of about 2 posts per week - I should become famous and fabulously rich in about, ohhhh, 22.3167 years. Yep. About when I am set to retire. And, please, don't even bother asking what magic, secret calculus I used in arriving at that projection. It's highly complex and would take much too long to explain. Okay. Nevermind. I made it up. There. You happy now? Hrrmmph!

So, although I didn't add it to my revealing account of last night's raucously good time in bed, another song that came to mind that I was desperately trying to remember the lyrics of was "I vanna Be Rich" - Remember that one? Ivanna Trump. Oh, Lordy. The voice that had the power to cause actual, physical pain. I was living in Maine (simply gorgeous state, by the way!) at the time, and I remember that being the one and only song on the radio for about three solid months. Within 5 minutes of switching to any radio station, it would come on. It played in elevators, doctors waiting rooms, and department stores. There was NO escape, I tell you! I wonder what ever happened to her. And when was the last time anyone heard that song?

Let's see. Still have the sniffles. But, I no longer believe it's allergies. I'm now convinced it's the plague. I feel logey and icky and sorry for myself. Sniffle, sniffle. And even the tissues with lotion are too rough for my now tender, rosy nose. After not sleeping last night, I was in court this morning and while waiting for the case to be called one of the attorneys happened to mention "hot toddies" -- - oh. YUM! Does anyone remember those? I was seated next to a young social worker who turned to me and asked what they were. It's ambrosia, baby - well at least when you're feeling yuck and puny. And my mother never hesitated giving me a healthy cupful when needed, though, of course, as the social worker pointed out, nowadays my mother (God bless her soul) would be brought up on a CPS complaint and hauled into court for contributing to my delinquency. God I'm glad I grew up when I did!

Except, we didn't have tissues with lotion back then. Which was probably why we needed the whiskey.