New Address

Fargo Eferdito Rides Again has moved to Disgruntled Diva: http://disgruntled-diva.blogspot.com/
Just a shameless attempt to increase foot traffic, and land a lucrative book deal. Visit me there for the same snarky commentary, and sporadic timing of posts. I may even come out of the shadows of anonymity.

A wee dram for a wee lad?

I took our son to an Irish Rovers concert last week. Great music, lots of self-deprecating humor. I had to explain to him about confession, and that not all Irish people are drunks.

We bought their latest CD, Drunken Sailor, which we had autographed. As they were signing, one Rover said that the songs might not be appropriate for the young lad. I shrugged and smiled. They're all about drinking and women. Indoctrination?

File under "stellar role model"

The following story has been confirmed by two independent sources: The mother of a girl in our son's third grade class allowed her daughter to invite all but three* girls (out of 22) to her birthday party. Now that' a classy broad.

*I'm assuming one of the three is the girl who's Jehovah Witness, and her family doesn't participate in celebrations. That means only two girls were excluded. Unbelievable!

With a nod to Kevin Smith*

My never ending battle against the wedgie has ended with granny pants. And I don't care. I can't find regular, figure-flattering, non-pantie line-inducing bikinis that fit consistently. I don't care that I've been forced to resort to an unattractive, pantie line-producing cotton bikini. Granny pants. I don't care that my spouse laughs at me. I don't care that I look in the mirror and see...well, I could be a Sports Illustrated swim suit model, apparently. At least the granny pants don't give the model a wedgie.


*Kevin Smith coined the term "granny pants" in his movie Zach & Miri Make a Porno

And the winner is...

Setting up for the school auction when a friend remarks that they should auction off a day with me. She says she'd pay "real money" to spend the day with me. Apparently I'm that amusing.

At home I tell my spouse. He groans, rolls his eyes and says, "I pay every day."

Ode to the Latest Middle Age Ailment

Knuckles swollen
Much bloodwork
I feel like a pin cusion
Diagnosis:
Man Hands

Real estate karma

I plucked St. Joseph out of the yard. Since he's holding baby Jesus, you could say I resurrected him. Not because the house sold. On the contrary. But St. Joseph belongs to my aunt. She got him at the Vatican --nice Jewish girls know where to shop-- and she wants him back.

I'm worried that if the house sells in winter I won't be able to unearth her statue from the frozen tundra. So I dug him up. Now I need a new one to plant.

Off I go to the Christian book store and, feeling a tad disrespectful, I ask if they have St. Joseph, because I don't see any. The clerk says they don't carry saints (who knew) and recommends a Catholic store. Yet I still feel like I'm desecrating another faith's icon. Then I type "St. Joseph statue" into Google and all of the results are for St. Joseph home selling kits. Guilt absolved.