Dancing naked

Edited to say: No nekkidness here! Move along. *snort* I cannot believe how many people search Blogger for the word "naked". Just the word, and I am the first hit today due to the title of this post, apparently. (which is an inside joke and a nod to Matty, Weeney, and Jo) The hits are all Euros too. I wonder if it's lonley Army boys?-G.

*^*^*^*^*^*^

"Stop laying by the pool and entertain me by updating your blog!"
---Jobee "light", with only half the sarcasm and a third of elitist-ness of the regular Jobee.

I must confess, not only is she right about my subject matter (though I don't see many monks in sprawl-born suburbia) but I owe her. Jobee has been my 200 mile long umbilical cord to all things Queens, the old 'hood, and high school since I left back in Sept of 1985. (And no I don’t have a mini skirt made of snakeskin, but I do drive an SUV and my husband is a CPA.) She used to write me these 5 to 10 page letters on yellow legal pad while she ignored whatever Sister Barbara was teaching that day and sent them to me at college. I would read them over and over again, laughing. I found one in my trunk a few years ago. She is so much more clever in so few words than I could ever hope to be. My sister thinks her blog/space/journal is the funniest thing on the internet. But we know her, and can hear her voice and get the humor behind what she writes.

Now, I could poke fun at suburbia, but many of my so called not-so-desperate partners in crime read this blog; I wouldn't want to hurt anyone feelings. (Though Georgie Girl is a self admitted townie.) I'll never forget when we first moved here. I was hesitant to come this far out; being such a city girl I made the rule that wherever we bought had to have sidewalks. (Believe it or not this neighborhood does---asphalt paved that no one uses mind you, but they are there.) Anyway, there was this local paper and the crime log one week listed a report about a twelve year-old boy who fell down an embankment while drinking with friends. "Look at this!" I shrieked to my husband. Here was my proof of the lawlessness and debauchery that is growing up with no public transportation or movie theaters. "Twelve year-olds drinking!"

"Oh, like you didn't drink when you were twelve," he said to me.

"Well, yeah, but I was in a bar!" I countered. Worst that would happen is my friends would pour me in a cab and I'd make my mom some munchies when I got home and she'd never know the difference. Nachos or English muffin pizzas. I think she must have sat up late watching TV and eating junk food while I was in utero.

I had actually planned on writing about my youth with Jobee and as usual I went the self centered "it's all about me" route. That's not really it; I am just long winded and am fond of tangents. So now I get two posts out of her whiny reply. Maybe three or four. The month she lived with me in Boston is probably good for a week's fodder. Stay tuned.

Next post: Jello Pudding Pops.