Cupcake Crime

Last night around 2 am, we were distracted from our epic Somerville Showdown thumb war by the sound of breaking glass. When the noise stopped after a couple of crashes, we figured someone had thrown a beer bottle or two, and so returned to the business at hand (or thumb).

Tinkling and shattering sounds resumed less than a minute later, and we worried that someone might be trying to break into Ann's car, parked on the street below. Ann dashed downstairs just in time to see someone running away from Kickass Cupcakes, carrying their cash register. She described a white man of average build, wearing a white cap, light-colored clothing and long shorts. Somerville's Finest were on the scene within seconds. One pursued the robber down Highland Avenue in the direction Ann indicated, the other contacted Kickass's owners.

Who could be so cruel to cupcakes? Stores rarely keep any significant money in a register overnight, so the haul was hardly worth the effort of lugging the cash register away.

By 2:30 the repair crew was already at work, clearing away the broken glass and patching the hole with plywood. Pumped up from all the drama, we escalated our tourney to full-on arm-wrestling.

How to Mix a Maggie

The Recipe For Magdalena Kennedy

3 parts Seductiveness 2 parts Wit 1 part Humor Splash of Laughter Sip slowly on the beach

What's the Recipe for Your Personality?

Thanks, Nina!

Whiskey Dick

Auntie Amanda saw this and thought of me. Isn't she the sweetest?

(yes, yes she is, in case you were stumped...)

Hi, my name is Maggie and I have a problem.

(Hi Maggie!)

After at least four whiskeys (wait, maybe it was six) that are totally not on my diet, I think I can only manage stream-of-consciousness this morning.

The biker woke up at six in a panic; he had to be at work by eight, and needed to go home to Harlem first to change. I washed all the smeared eyeliner off, grabbed a spare blanket (it was freezing; when will the heat come on?), set the alarm for 8:00 and went back to sleep . . . until 9:00.
The alarm had gone off, I'd just slept through it for an hour. My hair was a matted snarled mess and had to be washed, but at least it didn't wreak of smoke (thanks, Bloomburg!).

Where was my bra? Oh, right, in my purse. (but my cell phone wasn't, I discovered later. Still AWOL, egads.)
My boots? One was in the kitchen, the other in the bed.
My raincoat? Covered with pigeon droppings from the fire escape. I'd have to wear something else.

I barely managed to water the cat before I dragged my sorry ass out of the house. Late again. Those resolutions are dropping like flies. But at least I was wearing eyeliner while drinking more and not driving!

circus freaks

For some as yet unexamined reason, Bachelor #2=circus sex. We didn't break anything this time (neither furniture nor body parts), and we managed to stay indoors, but we did sort of flood the apartment. The cat coped with that pretty well.

Then (or maybe first) there was the bizarre drunkenness episode. After work, a few of us got together for a drink. The third round arrived while I was still only half-way through with my second beer, but I let it wait, I wasn't rushing. And though I didn't have dinner last night, I'd had a big lunch. So halfway through beer #2, I go out for a smoke, and I'm slightly wobbly on my feet. Try to shake it off, go back in, finish second and third beer, and am suddenly totally woozy. If I didn't know my companions better, I'd think someone slipped me something.

Luckily the subway was right next to the bar. We got on, I failed at small talk, and soon I was asleep, waking just in time to get off at my stop (hello, GAP!). As soon as I exited the station, I was stone cold sober. Total time of drunkenness, extreme though it was: 40 minutes.

No hangover this morning. And for the record, the reconcilliation with B#2 and the decision to go home together happened well before any wobbliness.

So yes, we're talking again.