I'm sure you're sick of hearing about Italy. But, this is my blog and I get to write about whatever I want. 

Plus, I don't think you're really sick of it. 

What is it exactly that's so great about Italy? 

Funny you should ask.

Take this, for instance. This skeleton guy is hanging on a church wall. It's about 25 feet tall. 

What a fantastic way to introduce your kids to church. 

Scare the shit out of them right off the bat. 

And not just once. Every single Sunday. I don't have stats but I'll bet Italy's crime rate among teens is lower than ours. Every time little Luca picks his nose, or punches little Isabella during the sermon, all Mama has to do is point. 

This'll straighten his ass up, pronto.

If that's not enough, there's this.

It's on the other side of the same church.

Again, about 25 ft. tall.

Skeleton Stereo.

AWESOME.

I mean, come on. You know you're kids are gonna talk about you in therapy. Might as well make it worth their while.

This isn't in the same church. 

Duh, it's not a skeleton.

This is in a different church. In the middle of the aisle. 

Nothing like a corpse laid out on the floor to get the party started.

Yeah, yeah, I know. My hand basket is on its way to pick me up...blasphemy is my strong suit. But, really? Isn't this a little much?

Nah. You're right. It's fantastic and you can rotate churches with your kiddies. 

Then there's this guy.

He's a dead guy covered with some kind of metal. A human made into sculpture. There's actually a bunch of these all over the place. 

Lots of churches have their own dead guy.

I thought this was a good idea for me. If I go first, hubby can have me encased in metal and enshrined in a prominent spot like the living room. Or, the bedroom. Maybe even sitting on the couch with a glass of wine in my stiff, metallic, little hand.

It might decrease his chances of marrying again. But so what? Like that's my problem?

You might recognize her. I posted this photo on my Facebook page already. It's Saint Lucy. The patron saint of eyesight.

Hard to tell from this photo but those are her eyeballs in that bowl. A little confusing because she still has eyeballs in her head.

"It's too gruesome to paint her without eyes," Tour guide said.

Really?

Unfortunately, I didn't get photos of the other martyred Saints we saw. Mostly because they were in places we weren't allowed to take photos in.

Martyrdom is big. Apparently you've got to die a gruesome death and then you're in. 

There's the guy who is always painted with giant rocks sticking out of his forehead and blood running down his face. He was stoned to death. 

Me: "That's not too gruesome to paint?"
Tour guide: Silent.

There's the guy who's always painted holding his own skin since he was...skinned to death.

Me: "That's not too gruesome to paint?"
Tour guide: Silent

Or, the guy who's always painted with grill marks all over him because he was...you guessed it...barbecued.

I didn't bother to ask.

Virginity is good.

Sex is bad.

If you have sex its important that you don't like it and you're punished for it.

Even the Greek myths celebrate virginity among its Goddesses. 

About the only acceptable way to get pregnant is by a snake, a pig, or an invisible man.

Hey, that's the way a lot of women get pregnant today. WTF? Coincidence?

See girls? We really are like Goddesses.

They've got these sassy little angels all over the place.

My favorite was one I couldn't photograph.

He was nude except for his chaps (butt-less of course) with a big, wide cowboy belt holding up the chaps. Picture Howard Stern's flight into the MTV awards that one year. But smaller. No shirt. Less hairy.

Love it.

Sassy. 

Speaking of Sassy.

This is Kinky Boots David.

I mean, Donatello's David.

Kinda like Michelangelo's David if his kitten-with-a-sword sex game had been interrupted by having to pose.

I mean, really. How much do you love this?

In case you couldn't decide...

Yeah, you love it.

I love the Italians.

Even our tour guide had to comment on it: "If you answer the door totally naked, it's entirely plausible that you just got out of the shower. If you answer the door naked, except for your hat, boots and sword...somethin's goin' on."

Yeah, we even had cool tour guides.

For comparison.

No photograph can do justice to this sculpture's magnificence. You really gotta be there. 

At first, I felt ambivalent about seeing it. I've seen the replica in Caesar's Palace...that's pretty much the same, right?

Not even close. (For more on our ugly americanism see this).

In Florence, the message is: "We've got Michelangelo. You don't." And do they ever. What a guy.

He was only 26 when he finished the David.

He was in his early 30's when he painted the ceiling in the Sistine Chapel. He'd only painted one painting before that and never a fresco which involves wet plaster and is very difficult. He didn't really like to paint.

He was hard to get along with. 

He was obsessed with the nude, male form. He'd sculpt nude women but they looked like men, burly, buff men, with bad boob jobs. On the Sistine chapel ceiling even God has firm, taut, buttocks.

He'd drag his feet on projects he didn't want to do. Like a gigantic tomb for a Pope. It took him 40 years and he never finished it. Pieces of it are displayed around Italy.

He knew his own worth and died a millionaire. Part of his feet dragging involved negotiations. He'd stop work to re-negotiate his fee. Not starting again till he got the price he wanted.

He never married and when he died at 89 he had a young, male, Roman companion.

You go, Michelangelo. I'd love Italy just for him

Okay, this isn't really a toilet.

It's a bidet. Both of our hotels had them.

In restaurants toilets have no seats. Not even women's toilets.

In hotels you get double toilet action. I don't know about homes. We never got an invite. Shocking, I know.

I'm afraid of bidets. 

How do you use it? Do you straddle it facing the wall? Do you sit on it like a regular toilet? Do you turn both handles? There's soap?

Too much pressure for me. I was afraid I'd have some embarrassing bidet accident that would go down as legend, talked about at every hotel staff party for years to come. 

No grazi.

There is no one photo, or series of photos, than could ever do justice to Italy.

But, as you can tell, it's in my mind forever.

As a writer, I can't help but love a country that reveres its artists like Italy. Everywhere you go there's someone's artistic expression. No surface goes unloved, no building unadorned. The Italians value art, they preserve it, they restore it, they dig for it, they hang on to it.

It's a country where angels guide you, Saints have your back, and breathtaking beauty soothes your soul. 

I've been humbled by gratitude ever since I laid eyes on it.

Sadly, we're back from Italy and back to real life. Which for me includes hip surgery, for the 2nd time. Actually, for the 3rd and 4th time since I had both hips operated on about three years ago. They won't do them at the same time so it was two separate go rounds, three months apart.

It turns out I haven't gotten any younger in the intervening years and here I am again. Considering how it all went the first time, I'm living in dread. 

Three years ago, my health care would've been better delivered by Larry, Moe and Curly.

Me: I think it's my hip.

Doc: Hmmm...

Me (pressing down on a spot that is best described as my pelvis, lower inner thigh): I think it's my "inside" hip.

Doc: No, I think it's your ovaries.

Me: No...when I press like this, it feels better, it's my-

Doc (tearing a sheet off his prescription pad): Let's get you an ultrasound.

Two weeks later:

Doc: The ultrasound is clear. That's good news.

Me: Well, I know...I think it's my hip.

Doc (tearing a sheet off his prescription pad): I think we need to do a vaginal ultrasound. Get a better look.

That, my friends, was just as fun as it sounds.

Two weeks later:

Doc: Good news! All clear.

Me: Well, it's because it's my hip.

Doc (skipping the prescription pad thing): CT scan. Just head over to radiology and they'll book it.

Me: Will that show if something's wrong with my hips?

Doc: Hips? 

Two weeks later:

Doc (scratching his chin): Well, I'm really relieved. I was concerned. But, the CT scan is all good. 

Me: Should I have my hips x-rayed?

Doc (looking stern, flipping through my chart): We should consider re-filling that antidepressant...

Me: IT'S MY HIPS

Doc (sighing, clearly at wits end with my insistence on self-diagnosis): Well, an x-ray won't hurt. 

Two weeks later:

Doc (smug): X-rays are clear. As I thought.

Me (I'm a Taurus, I'm tenacious even when I'm sleeping): It's still my hips. At this point, I was relieved that my tonsils had already been removed when I was 8.

Doc (desperate now to get rid of me): I'm going to refer you to orthopedics.

Hallelujah!  We had an HMO so he had to refer me before I could go elsewhere. The HMO thing is a whole other post...

Two weeks later:

12 year old Doc: X rays look good. Clear. No arthritis.

Me: I know that already.

12 year old Doc: Gotta have an MRI. Head over to radiology-

Me: I know, they'll book it.

Two weeks later:

I'm back with 12 year old Doc, who has yet to ask me to take off my pants. Now, as attached as I am to keeping my pants on in most situations, I thought he might want to actually examine me.

Nope. I guess they skip that in Med school these days.

I schlep in, sit in his tiny chair, and brace myself.

12 year old Doc: It's your hips.

We're leaving Italy tomorrow. 

My diet can't start fast enough.

The ancient Romans had the right idea. Gorge yourself, then take your toga'd fat ass over to the vomitorium. 

Unfortunately, we just gorged.

Even though it looks like all we did was eat, we...well...I guess that is pretty much all we did. Oh yeah, we saw some stuff. But only in between eating. 

Here's the last of our bounty...

The menu above is hanging outside a fantastic restaurant in Rome. Their specialty is cacio pepe, which I think I already told you is a Roman specialty. Pasta, butter, pepper and cheese. The name of the restaurant is...Cacio Pepe. Clever, right?

Anyway, this menu hanging outside is the only one they have. You have to stand in front of it to order. The very cool waitress went over every item with us. The food was superb, to say the least.

I had to have something green. My carb overloaded body demanded it.

Then I had carbs. 

Cacio Pepe...for, I think the third time. Homemade pasta (when someone other than me makes it) is something to write home about. 

Hubby asked what they recommended other than the pasta. She told him they were famous for their 'meatloaf with-a the gravy sauce-a." Impossible to describe how good it was. I think it was ground veal and some sort of rich, juicy, miracle gravy sauce-a.

For dessert? Grandma's pie. Sweet ricotta with toasted almonds on top. I wonder if Grandma would adopt me...

Yeah, we had two desserts. You wouldn't have wanted us to starve, would you? Hubby had this mystery pie. The very cool waitress said it was "a cheese-a cake but no really cheese-a cake with-a chocolate." Fantastico!

Next day...free bar food. These didn't look like they were gonna be very good. I was wrong. Cheese, bread, tomato sauce? How could that be bad?

Caesar salad for lunch. What better place to have Caesar salad than Italy?

Bresaola with arugula, parmesan and a squeeze of lemon. 

Our whole trip we've made it a point to eat local, traditional food. Because this is such a touristy place, bad food is everywhere. We relied on friends who'd been here before to make recommendations, along with the hotel's concierge. We stayed away from high end, fancy pants food. But, we ran out of places that fit our usual criteria. 

So, we tried a high end place. 

Glad we did. It was fun to see a more modern take on Italian food.

The bread bag above was filled with house-made breads. One tasty little roll filled with carmelized onions got me started off on the right stiletto, I can tell you that.

This amuse bouche - a tiny bite served to "amuse the chef," delighted the hell out of us! I'm not sure if that's what its called in Italy but its what the French call it, and the Americans too. Fried anchovies on a house made cracker lounging in their bed of creamy goodness.
 
A crispy, salty, silky slice of perfection.

Our official appetizer...eggplant lovingly wrapped around melted mozzarella and some sort of pesto-ish sauce. 

I had the lamb in a crust of nuts with mashed potatoes and lime. This was beautifully presented, as you can see. It wasn't my favorite thing. Something about the lime and the lamb didn't mesh for me. 

Hubby had the beef filet with a roasted tomato in a mozzarella fondu with pistachios. Oh my. This was finger lickin' good. Although I don't think lickin' is smiled on at this place.

This fluffy knob of whipped chocolate with ganache and nuts was a gift from the chef. This is how my life is going right now. Gifts galore.

How on earth could we eat dessert (another dessert) after all that? 

Easy.

This is kind of hard to see, but its slivers of puff pastry, creme anglaise, strawberries and sauce with a spun sugar curtain gracefully lying on top. 

Sigh.

Every day I say, "I'm never gonna eat again." Every day, I get over it.

Lunch. We went back to the pizza place we'd gone to a few days ago, where we had the best pizza of my life. This ran a close second. Bresaola, arugula, cheese...

I've got a thing for bresaola.

The Last Supper. We ate at a traditional, apparently swanky place right near our hotel. 

You can tell swanky in Italy just like in the US. Lots of weird facelifts and bad dye jobs. 

The women look a little suspect too.

We started off with this salad. Fine enough. 

Hubby had lasagna. He's a fan. How they get these layers of pasta so thin and yummo, I have no idea. It was a thing of beauty.

The place is called Dal Bolognese. So I had the...bolognese. I think it was my favorite pasta dish I've had in Italy. OMG. The sauce to pasta was just perfect. The bolognese rich, tender, succulent. 

Definitely a death row dish.

Had to end with gelato. Gelato with brickle on top.

That's what this trip has been, the best gelato in the world with brickle on top. 

I'll remember it as long as I live.

Arrivederci Roma!

Finally had pizza. More than once. I was thinking I might be sick of Italian food by now.

Hardly.

Mushrooms roasted and bathed in olive oil. Mouth melting. They didn't last long enough.

Chicken, roasted. That's all. Hard to believe how good it was.

Shaved parmesan with sliced, raw, artichokes. We almost ate it all before I remembered to take the photo.

Most places give you free stuff when you order wine. Ham, tomato, cheese and arugula finger sandwiches. With Prosecco of course.

Best pizza of my life so far. White sauce, I dunno what kind of yummo cheese, white beans, onions and sausage. 

If loving this is wrong, I don't want to be right.

The most beautiful food. Breakfast in Rome.

Even morning coffee is special, lovely. Served in individual silver pots with steaming, frothy cream. Am I dreaming?

More free bar food. Finger sammies, chunks of Parm, and a mini slice.

Sometimes you get free dessert too. We got this tantalizing treat. Little fried puffs of dough rolled in sugar and drizzled with raspberry sauce. 

But, we'd already ordered these light, fluffy, puffs of fried heaven. With whipped cream and strawberry sauce.

We had no choice. We ate them both.

Mood lighting in the restaurant didn't help the food photos. I looked fantastic, though.

I should've put this pic before the dessert...but who cares? It's all good.

Squash blossom carbonara. 

Gelato every day. At least once. We're gluttons. 

So, hubby had the gelato. I had the cappuccino and these delectable little cookies. Before I knew it, they were all gone.

Fried squash blossom stuffed with cheese. They love their squash blossoms in Italy. This is why.

Fettuccine with mushrooms. I don't know what they do to their mushrooms here but whatever it is I hope they never stop.

A little rigatoni with tomato sauce and pancetta. In case you need more food.

To wrap it all up...some goat cheese, pears, balsamic and radicchio. 

I'd hate me if I wasn't me.

Just a few things I love about Italy...

"Is this over the top?" Never enters an Italian's mind.

No pose is too odd for nude men.

If one statue is good, twenty is AWESOME!

No one knows who these two guys are. They're dressed, though. They've got that going for 'em.

Every great artist must've come from here. Every space is covered with incredible art.

There's a zillion Saints. Yeah, a zillion. Seriously.

Every building is cool. Very cool.

And the sky looks like angels are coming.

What's not to love about Italy?

Hubby and I continue to eat our way across the boot. We have yet to be disappointed. Everything is FANTASTICO!

Fried zucchini. I don't know what they batter it with but it's light, crunchy and flavorful. Which is a good thing because I think everything is better fried.

Steak Florentina. This restaurant is a Florence staple. Been here for a bazillion years like everything here. You can't leave without eating the Florentine steak. I think its brontosaurus. 

It's very rare. And they're soup Nazi-ish about it. It's cooked rare. Very rare. She asked how we wanted it cooked and I said medium rare. She did not approve. I went with it and we ordered it rare. I'm certain that if you order it any way other than rare...you'll still get it rare.

It was delicious. The only seasoning is salt that forms a crunchy, briny, crust. 

This steak was for one. We split it.

I ate half of my half. 

Tuscan style beans. Cannellini beans swimming in the most fragrant olive oil. The food is simplicity supreme. 

For dessert, a grape pie that is only made in September when grapes are at their finest. 

Yes, it was as fabulous as it looks.

Cheesecake and Dark Chocolate gelato. The reason Italy exists.

Pasta Pomodoro. Just tomatoes and basil. The pasta is always perfectly cooked. No matter how thin or thick. 

Lip smackin'!

This risotto is a result of our impressive command of the Italian language. We thought it said, pepperoni and some kind of cheese. Although, pepperoni would be kind of weird for risotto...

He got squid and yellow pepper risotto. It was delicious. You have to like tentacles on your food though.

Antipasti plate. Fried brie, salami's, bruschetta and goose liver pate. I gotta say, I don't like food that looks like it came out of my grandson's diaper. But, I love fois gras (duck, goose, what's the dif?) and it was delicious. I will admit I wasn't crazy about the consistency. Hubby liked it a lot.

Tagliata salad. Sliced beef steak with arugula, parmesan, and a squeeze of lemon. 

Florence is kinda like Argentina. Lots of beef and they do it very well.

Hubby couldn't be in Italy and not have lasagna. OMG. It's not like any we've ever had. There were about twenty layers of thin, almost crepe like, lasagna noodles. The sauce was succulent and not heavy. 

No wonder some of the greatest minds in history came from Italy. It's in the lasagna.

That's what I'm talkin' about.

I ate more than half!

Gelato again. Raspberry and After Eight mint. 

Me, smelling the roses. My life is pretty much a huge bouquet right now.

I'm sure there's nothing left to say about Italy's food that hasn't already been said by more talented writers than me. But, one of the magnificent things about Italy in general is everyone who goes feels like they're the first. 

The food, so far, is deserving of its own post. When I die, I'm certain I'll have never eaten finer food.

Last night we had Tuscan style food. We didn't know it was Tuscan style but the waiter told us. No idea what that really means except they don't have seafood and the wine is sublime. And cheap. We got this whole bottle for less than one glass in the US. 

We started with figs and prosciutto for an appetizer. They brought the figs, whole, on one plate and the prosciutto on another. No frills, no fancy prep, just the food. Fresh, simple, glorious.

I wanted pasta. I hadn't had it yet and, well, it's Italy. It's a law.

I ordered the Carbonara. I make it at home but wanted to taste the real thing.

Needless to say, I probably won't make it anymore.

Hard to believe pasta, butter, prosciutto and eggs could taste so heavenly, but it did.

Hubby had the Pasta Castalinga - named after the restaurant. Castalinga means housewife. So, they've got it going on in Italy, those housewives. This pasta had tomatoes, chili flakes and basil. Sweet, spicy, light, perfect.

I knew it was time to go when hubby started to recommend this fantastic pasta to the other ugly Americans sitting at the next table...the Pasta Cunnilingus.

Dessert. Even though we'd stuffed ourselves and drank a whole bottle of wine...well...dessert was still a no brainer. 

Especially almond biscotti dipped in Vin Santo. When you get to the pearly gates, this is what they're serving.

I swore I'd never eat again. 

Till breakfast.

When hubby and I travel, we make it a point to never eat at the hotel we're staying in. We prefer to take our chances out and about. But, our zillion dollar hotel room came with breakfast so we felt like we had to. 

Good call.

How could you not eat in a place so lovely?

And how could you not love a waiter who brings you your own foot stool. I mean, right?

Even the flowers were delicious.

I just wish I could've filled all these plates. I tried.

I think I even love that toaster.

Man can't live by bread alone. So how about some of this?

And this...

A little bit of this...

Or, this...

Or, this...

Yeah, I know...ridonkulous.

No, I'm not kidding.

Yes, there's still more.

If you're feeling healthy.

Healthier...

A little cereal? Granola? Pumpkin seeds?

Yogurt? Like, the best in the world...yes, that's a whole wall of champagne back there.

That's what I'm talkin' about.

Thought they'd never ask.

I know, looks like I hardly ate a thing.  That was my first plate.

I've gotta go...we're getting ready to go to dinner. And I ran out of time before I could add lunch pictures. 

So glad I brought my fat pants.

Hubby and I are ugly Americans. 

We repeatedly travel to foreign destinations not knowing a word of their language. No matter how many times we are almost kidnapped, can't find band-aids or pay 3x as much as needed, we continue.

We are, as I type, in Italy. 

We've been here about 24 hours. 

The only phrase we have mastered is Parla Inglese or Par-lah Eenglaysay which, for those of you as ugly as us, means, Do you speak english? And when I say we've mastered it, I mean I know right where that phrase is in my pocket Italian/English phrasebook and can find it just like that. And by just like that, I mean after I dig it out (again) from the bottom of my bag (which takes at least 5 minutes), then another 5 minutes digging around for my glasses,  then I can start thumbing though the book like an ugly american maniac.

Yep, that's me and hubby. Unleashed on European soil with only our idiotic optimism as our guide.

To my credit (we also spend a lot of our time giving ourselves too much credit) I've been picking out useful phrases from the handy phrase book for our planned outing today.  

But, the pronunciation is tricky. For instance...

I can order penne in a restaurant. Duh, I can even do that at home. But, if you order pene instead of penne (and I'm not sure what the pronunciation difference is) depending on the cafe, you'll either get thrown out or the waiter will unzip his pants and put his penis on your plate.

You can see how we might get into trouble.

Luckily, the phrase book is divided into helpful categories, like eating, health, traveling, entertainment, etc. 

Not sure what the guidebook author was thinking, or maybe we know even less about our Italian friends than we thought. For instance:

Finding a prostitute is a common request. And right after you find one you can tell her you are covered in bed bugs, which is the first phrase after "prostitute" in the guide.

You can tell the taxi driver to slow down or you'll throw up. How do you say that in New York?

You can sing all the words to Volare or Happy Birthday. Just those two though.

You can announce you're a virgin, or not a virgin, you're a pheasant plucker, have bad breath, or you're Peter Piper picking peppers.

You can call someone pussy cat, cupcake, honey bunch or sugar pie. Or, pig, stupid, and/or jerk.

You can tell people what planet you're from. Which might come in handy if you're scratching yourself from bed bug bites, introducing yourself as Peter Piper, or asking the waiter about his penis.

You can ask if anyone wants to hear you burp, if they smoke pot, or if they believe in Santa Clause. There's also a handy section on conversing with Italian animals so you can avoid those embarrassing  cock-a-doodle-do, tweet-tweet and quack quack situations.

The profanity section is one of my favorites. I find that as soon as I cross the border (any border) I become a teenage boy. In this section I can ask if anyone farted (so far, I haven't seen the translation for the smeller's the feller), call the bus driver an idiot or cretin, and inform someone their mother is a...well, you get it.

But...can I find a hospital, call a taxi, or exchange money? 

No. 

Those sections in the phrase book aren't very interesting.

But if you want to rustle up some assholes for a thumb wrestling contest, I'm your girl.

BTW...the title of this post pretty well sums it up. 

We stink.

Last weekend, I had my first book signing. I wished all of you could've been there, and some of you were. So, I wanted to share some images. My very good friend Audrey Michele took all the photos and as usual, they're perfect. A beautiful representation of what was one of the most special days of my life.

Note the champagne glass hiding in the corner. I think that was my second, or fifth, glass.

Perfect weather. The stunning view from our balcony. 

The incredible cake. I think everyone was relieved it wasn't more...Rob Rhino shaped...

Yes, those are my pink chandeliers and they're awesome. Just so happens my book cover colors complimented them. Coincidence?

These were all mine. Well, not technically, but I kept picking them up and drinking out of them even though they were someone else's. Hey, it was MY party. That's Richard's hand, the awesome guy from the Four Seasons who helped us out that day. He was sweet enough to pose with my book too (what could he do? he was trapped 28 floors up) which I will post on my FB page later.

My new friend, Manuel Ramos, Denver attorney by day, successful author by night. We have the same agent. She makes a lot more money on Manuel. This is me, forcing him to hold my book. I think I've already made it clear I'm obnoxious.

Hubby chatting up the guests. This is Patsy, her beau David, and Manuel. Patsy Brown is our realtor extraordinaire. After helping us find our beautiful home here in Denver, she hasn't been able to get rid us.

This is me, dying...I mean reading. Out loud. I didn't plan on doing it but when Manuel discovered my plan...he vetoed it. And Flo (you can see the back of her head here), his wife rounded everyone up, made them sit down, and then she was the BEST audience member ever. She laughed at all my jokes. She reminded everyone in her Flo firm way that they could buy a signed copy before they left. Cash or check, please.

I gotta say, I LOVE Flo. She's a great supporter of authors...she's married to Manuel and all. But she's a dynamo and I want to spend more time with her.

This is Lori and Lee. And hubby. Lori is laughing at my jokes. Actually, I have no idea when this photo was taken or what she's laughing at. I just choose to believe it's at my jokes.

"She just said what?" Awkward.

"Yep, I think she really did just say that."

I said what? And my mom never thought I'd amount to anything.

Me signing for Flo and Manuel. Did I say I LOVE Flo? I do.

I even had a little line! And more champagne!

My hallway. Me and my bull at the end.

Who knew you could sign an e-book? Sheri did. And she brought they stylus and everything. I'm too hip for words. Well, Sheri is.

This is me, looking all serious author like. In my furniture that does tricks. That chair pushes in and it looks like it's just a table. That's the trick.

Me and Audrey Michele. Love to you, Audrey. You rock.

There's more photos...but I have to save some for my FB page! It's just too much fabulous for one day.

Thanks to everybody who made it over, and to everyone who was rooting for me but couldn't make it. 

It was a GREAT day.

I’m not the first person to take issue with the ridiculous utterings of my fellow man or woman.  I’m not the first to write them down. I just think mine are better.

Thought I’d share.  

These are things anyone past a certain age should never say. In most cases, that certain age hovers around 16. In some cases, these tidbits should never pass anyone's lips, no matter what their age.

Michael will always be with us.  

While standing in front of Neverland on the anniversary of Michael Jackson’s death. 

Back away from the gate and go home. 

For Christ's sake, the man's nose fell off while he was on trial for molesting children...his second trial. 

Read that last sentence again. 

Had he been less freaky, this sentiment would still be true. This is also true of Elvis, Marilyn, JFK, Amy Winehouse and Whitney.  

They weren't family.

No, they weren't.

You didn’t know them.  

No, you didn’t.

Harry's my favorite. 

I didn't know who Harry was until I took my granddaughter shopping. He is, according to her, the one in the middle. 

If you have a favorite, get a grip. 

And no, you don't have Beiber Fever. You have problems.

This goes for Team Edward or anything Twilight related.  The only acceptable connection you’re allowed to have with Twilight is dropping your 12 year-old daughter off in front of the movie theater showing it.  

Please stop recommending the book series to me with the expectation I won’t make unmerciful fun of you. Stop saying out loud that Kristen what’s-her-name is a slut and Robert what’s-his-name should never have forgiven her. 

And, please, please, please, don’t come to my house for dinner and tell me with a straight face how hot Taylor Lautner is and not expect to find yourself lampooned in this post.  

This does not apply to Harry Potter.  Although, even JK Rowling has moved on. She was a welfare mom, she gets special consideration. You go, girl.

We're hooking up. 

The only hook up in your future is to a respirator. 

This phrase is only acceptable if you're trying to humiliate your teenagers by saying it in front of their friends. Under that circumstance, by all means, hook up to your heart’s content.  

If, however, you’re repeating this phrase hoping it will actually happen to you with the twenty year-old who’s reaching for her pepper spray, please re-read the first sentence of this paragraph.  

If you’re attempting to hook up during a night of clubbing, continue reading.  

I beg you.

The last thing you clubbed was a brontosaurus for dinner.  

Enough said.

She'll keep me young or He’s an old soul.  

25 year plus age differences are gross. 

Yes, they are. 

You don't think you look like them - look again. If you don't now, you will.

If you’re dating a boy young enough to be your son, or a woman young enough to be your daughter...good luck to you.  

I know, I know... 

You dream of being Ashton and Demi or Michael and Catherine.  

Don’t worry.  You will be.

Can I borrow this? 

While standing in front of your daughter’s closet.  

Kudos to you girlfriend for wearing the same size as your teenage daughter. 

Or, thinking you do.  

No kudos to you for actually wearing her clothes.  

Just because you can, doesn’t mean you should.  

You think you look like this. 

You don't. 

Really. 

I know, your sister says you look great.

She’s lying.  

Your husband says you haven't changed since the day he married you.

He’s lying. 

Maybe just on special occasions.

No, not even on Halloween.

I need to touch up my roots.  

If you’re a man.  

Yes, it’s sexist.  Too bad.  

So is putting women out to pasture after thirty.  It is what it is.  

If you’re under drinking age and dying your Mohawk purple, or you’re a Duke fan coloring every exposed surface of your body blue, it’s all good. Other than that, stop.  

Yes, that goes for you too Mike Krzyzewksi.  

If the Waynester can't get away with it, either can you. I think he's actually on trial here for breaking the laws of decency.

Unlike women, men are allowed to age gracefully.  

So, do it.  Have some dignity.  

It looks bad. Everyone knows its dyed.

No, really, they do.  

Your wife says it looks like the color you were born with.

She’s lying.  

Your hair guy says its well worth the $150 you spend on it every month.

He’s lying.  

Maybe just for your daughter's wedding.

No, not even on Halloween.  

What are you doing dressing up for Halloween anyway?

I don't even own a pair of Spanx.  

I know.