5:00 Fridays

My friend Gerry "The Foghorn" inspired today's cocktail, and I'm hoping it's not foreboding for our upcoming jaunt to the beach. Can we be gracious guests and give Foghorn a hand, please? Not a hand like he's the old dude in Up who needs help crossing the street; I mean applause, people.

Here's the open target now for Foghorn to tell everyone I gave him the clap. Homonyms can make our language so unseemly.

I'm pretty sure there never has been, and likely never will be, a Hurricane named after me. It's a dubious claim to fame, but from a girl who never had personalized pencils and monogrammed towels, much a less a doll or Barbie who looked like me, I'll take infamy in place of fame. Then again, I bet no one is naming their babies Katrina these days. I do live with Hurricanes Bird and Deal, and I proudly pay my taxes in the city of the once-won-the-Stanley-Cup-and-then-sucked-like-a-Dyson-and-then-blew-chunks-in-the-playoffs Carolina Hurricanes.

And let's just say I've indulged in a Hurricane or five on my days of revelry in New Orleans.


Hurricane
1 ounce vodka (not the bottom shelf crap, folks)
splash of grenadine
1 ounce gin
1 ounce light rum
1/2 ounce Bacardi 151
1 ounce amaretto
splash of Triple Sec
3 ounces grapefruit juice
3 ounces pineapple juice
Vitamin B
2 Tylenol

Fill a tall glass with ice. Use a hurricane glass if you have one. It is important you pour everything into the glass in the order listed. Add the juices last. No need to stir, and if you indulge in a few of these you won't be stirring at all the next morning, at least not without pain and nausea. Garnish this cocktail with a pineapple slice. Be wary of slurping this goodness through a straw. This is a sipping libation. I speak from experience.

Take Vitamin B and Tylenol before going to bed.

Now let this be a reminder to check your emergency kits and windows! Cheers!

Wordless Wednesday: Move Over, Martha, Rachel, & Giada

BlogHer 09 Requisite Recap

I am always amazed that people who didn't give birth to me or otherwise contribute to my mere existence, people who share my last name, people I pay, and people who know me up close and personally read my little blog. My readers are better than a live audience (mostly because I'm not affected by any rotten eggs or tomatoes aimed at my head and no one counts how many glasses of wine I polish off). I count my readers as friends and fans, affectionately known as frans.

I finally got to go to BlogHer in Chicago last weekend. I met many bloggers whom I have been stalking and adoring for ages now. We are not all just a bunch of words and mouse clicks in the blogosphere; we are people. We all have a story. In many cases, we have been reading each other's stories for a while. We exchanged knowing glances and shared personal jokes, even upon having just met. There were hugs and squeals and "Oh my Gods!" and high fives and fist bumps and ass taps. Or maybe that was just me feeling up the rocking Silicon Valley Moms in the photo booth.

I laughed with my new friends. With some I cried. We broke bread. We toasted. We got snap happy. We ate cake. We wore McDonald's paper bags on our heads. We tickled our funny bones with feather boas. We cut a rug.

In a word, meeting my blog crushes was...

exhilarating.

And I am cursing for not having a freaking camera. Note to self: buy a pocket doohickey to tote around.

I should have packed Depends because I about peed in my britches when I met Ree, Redneck Mommy, Vodka Mom, Backpacking Dad, Black Hockey Jesus, Jessica Knows, NYCity Mama, Maggie Dammit, Bossy, Stephanie, Neil, and so many more whose business cards are squirreled away in a box on my desk. I would have asked for autographs but I was too chicken just like the time I saw Melissa Gilbert in an antique dress shop in Sausalito when I was 12.

I don't give a rip about the swag, but the BlogHer parties were cool. I especially enjoyed the endless supply of cheesecubes, coffee, and sweet tooth aphrodesiacs. Oh, and the champagne cocktails at the Nikon soiree. I hear there were some swag hags ruining it for the rest of us, but seriously people, BlogHer was about the people, not the free shampoo, socks, and laundry detergent. All the sqeeing and peeing was worth it. My favorite bloggy friends live in different time zones than I do. I hate that I'll have to wait a year to see them again (Yes, Mac Daddy, I'll be going again next year.). I met amazing people, and that's not even including Carson Kressley (sarcasm people, saracasm).

Most people thought I'd be taller in person and even seemed a tish disappointed to see all 60 inches of me. Perhaps I need a disclaimer in my header stating "Beware, blogger's voice appears larger than her person." Someone I met at a Triangle Tweetup once told me he was disappointed to meet me in person because he thought I was more fascinating online. Um yeah. I was floored by that too. I didn't ask him to expound; I just ran to a corner and wept. In any case, I was delighted to meet everyone in person, live in Memorex. Blogher was a bloggy honeymoon for me.

And now Mac Daddy can stop calling all these twitterific folks my imaginary friends.