Buddha was Breast-Fed

I had originally typed my whole blog and when I pressed save to edit the whole thing it completely disappeared, so I am once again typing at midnight cursing the person who thought it would be great for me to do a blog!!!!

As I was saying, oh that's right you wouldn't know because my pearls of wisdom are "Went with the wind". So here's the shortened version and hopefully still as brilliant. I was leaving my chiropractor today, when I observed on the car in front of me the bumper sticker "Buddda was Breast-fed". I found it amusing at first but by the time I arrived home, I was befuddled. Wasn't everyone in 400 BC breast-fed? It's not like they ran down to the 7-11 for Similac. And wouldn't that mean Pontius Pilate, Atilla the Hun and Ivan the terrible were also breast-fed? I don't hear their parents going "That's my boy!!". But for arguments sake, I'll say breast-feeding is what made Buddha, Buddha; then by all means breast-feed your kids so they too can be obese, megalomaniacs who run around saying "I'm God, I'm God". But enough about Buddha; let's talk about me- I was bottle fed!

Friday Night-- Dined on pheasant at home while we watched PBS. Fine it was steak, potatos and Kathy Griffin, but don't complain about the boring blogs. I love Kathy Griffin, but her Bible Belt special was a waste. The same old, same old goes like this- Hi to all "My Gays", pick on Pam Anderson, talk about "Dancing with the stars", chastise all the straight guys who secretly watched it, and then talk about Renee Zellweger and thank everyone.

Saturday -- Tickets to South Pacific for nephew's birthday, who cancels the night before. So I scramble for replacements. "Mustang Sally" John detests the show, Head Bucca is on a "daddy and me" trip with his son, Cha Cha needs to dance because a dancer dances, and 2 Groovy friends rock with James Taylor/ Carole King (Yes, that's why I called, so next time get messages quicker), and Tom and Cabbage Paul say yes but can't get a flight out of Denver. So I select Mother Mary, of course telling her it was her surprise birthday present; that's why I'm her favorite daughter. But it still leaves one other person, so I call gullible sister Eileen, who I neglect to tell that Mother is joining us. So with these 2 in tow, Myself, James and my favorite godson R.J. (Yes, my only godson, but I hate to burst his bubble) head to the city. We almost lost Mary and Eileen among the flea market kiosks on the grounds of Lincoln Center, but with the lure of cocktails and restrooms we coax them in. The show was wonderful. We had it seen it before, which explains why James had opera glasses for the 5th row. He whipped them out just in time for the gratuitous, male butt-ular, nudity. After Mary's Scotch and soda during intermission, she decided to hum the whole 2nd act, and believe me when I say I got my singing voice from her. Eileen was none too pleased. We headed directly home, so James could attend an 80th birthday party. While James, brother Tom and Miss Kitty headed off to Patrick's for the party, I had dinner with the family, dropped off Sparky and headed to the party. James and Family were gone, when I arrived. Convenient, wouldn't you say? This party should of had a coat check girl to confiscate all flammable objects so you wouldn't set off the highly combustible guests. Looks like they passed six sheets to the wind an hour ago! I bravely said Hello and quickly drank my coffee (Yes, real coffee, no additives), and just as I was about to leave they decided to play "strip the 24 yr. old studly bartender". Well not wanting to be a party pooper, I played along with the game. And of course my Lo-Jack system kicks in and James calls beckoning me home. Like if I get even close to fun, he knows!. I dutifully go home, check Facebook so I can befriend the bartender (and according to his stats a personal trainer, too), and head off to sweet dreams in bed!

Sunday-- James heads into work early, while I tend to my back spasms. The same spasms that always kick in when James pulls out his "Honey-Do List". James makes it out in time so we can catch the sunset in Northport, which has parking unlike the abyss of Port Jefferson. We then had a quick dinner and sent James on his merry way to pack for Toronto, while I search for a personal trainer on-line! STILL NO RESPONSES, DAMN IT.

Aren't you glad you got the short version. Well, as I always say TaTa for now and DON'T DRINK THE BREAST MILK IT'S SPOILED