And they happen in threes....

My partner in crime, Mock, celebrated her 40th birthday yesterday. And you know what that means? Well, besides creating a huge fuss over her (and rightfully so, as you only turn 40 once), it made me realize that holy CRAP, I'm on the slope to 40. Now granted, I'll be 38 in August, but I'm on the slope and gaining speed. It's official.

In addition to the Mock hoopla, Farrah Fawcett died yesterday, which totally sucks. I know she had her "I'm going to do abstract painting with my naked body" phase and appeared to be all druggified in her later years on Letterman and stuff, but I liked Farrah. I liked her because I LOVE Charlie's Angels, as I've always secretly wanted to BE a Charlie's Angel. In fact, I was walking on the treadmill the other night, watching the second Charlie's Angels movie (the Drew Barrymore/Cameron Diaz/Lucy Liu version), and I was asking myself: "Self....I wonder when they're going to come out with another Charlie's Angels movie. It's about time."

And my Self agreed with myself. It is time, indeed.

To top it all off, I get home after an exhausting day of work and birthday fuss to hear from Mr. Daisy that Michael Jackson had died. I was pretty shocked, as were a lot of people. Now, I'll freely admit that I think the dude was a complete vampire-like freak. I know it's not politically correct to say such a thing, as you're supposed to have respect and reverence for the dead. But he named his kid Blanket, and he was weird. You know you're thinking it, too...so don't even try to tell me I'm being snarky here.

I will give the guy credit where credit is due, and that credit for me lies with his music, of course, and the memories his music created for me. Thriller was one of my favorite albums of all time. I wore it out. And, my childhood and teenage years were just FILLED with Michael Jackson music. He personified the 80s. Hands down.

After hearing the news about his death, I called my sister and made the obvious next comment of, "well, you know this stuff happens in threes....so who's the third?"

To which she responded, "Duh...Ed McMahon."

And there's the triumverate. Three very 70s and 80s popular icons. On the day that my best pal turned 40. And the day that I realized that I'm really, REALLY not getting any younger.

With all that said, I look forward to my 40s. They say 40 is the new 30, and I even spewed that to Mock and meant it. I think my 40s will be the best decade yet...

Off to work now, listening to the radio playing softly in the background. Of course, programming has been set to Michael Jackson - all day long.

With that, I leave you my absolute favorite song of his of all time. On that downhill slope to 40, I'd like to at least pretend that I'm still a Pretty Young Thing.

I defy you not to shake it (you know you want to just a little bit):

Funniest Movie of All Time and Space

Husband-man and I went to see "The Hangover" for his birthday last weekend. And, I know I'm not in the business of reviewing movies here on my blog, but I feel compelled to tell everyone how freakin' hilarious this movie was. It was one of those flicks where you are laughing so hard - just in the first 20 minutes - that you're actually sore from laughing when you walk out of the theatre.

It's cinematic perfection. A complete laughing, feel-good, happy, friendfest, what-happens-in-Vegas-stays-in-Vegas good time.

Please rush out immediately and see it before I call you an old sourpuss.

P.S. - Bradley Cooper is yummy.

HOLY CRAP, It's been forever since I've written here....

Yeah. I always have excuses. I have none today, other than the fact that I lunched with the Governor yesterday and managed to kiss him on his actual face (pictured above....I'm on the left, FYI). But other than that, I haven't been doing much of anything lately besides pondering having a personal assistant someday to fetch me lattes while I twirl my imaginary mustache and plan world domination.

So, I'll update you on life and love and dogs and weather and jobs and all that stuff, dear readers. Pack your bags. We're going to spew-town...

First off, my job. I still love my job, love my boss, and love everyone I work with (well, almost everyone), but I'm loving the prospect of Chicks on the Right going places, and the thought of how far we've come in a mere 4 months makes me smile with absolute glee. I usually steer clear of glee, as it seems very clown-like, but this time, it's glee. There's no other way to describe my love for the site, what we're doing, the response we're getting (good and ugly), and the potential for it. Who knows. Life is spectacular in all its delicious ambiguity, after all.

Secondly, my husband turns 46 today. I, on the other hand, am still on the downward slope to 40 - my 38th will be fast approaching here, and that freaks me out a bit. Mainly because I'm faced with shrinking ovaries. But that's neither here nor there. I keep telling Husband-man that 46 is the new 36, and he must remember that both Brad Pitt and Johnny Depp are his exact age. And while they may have more hair, they don't have me as a wife. So he has that, at least.

Third, my puppy Jeb is so brilliant and painfully cute in his floppiness. His feet are as big, if not bigger, than his big, full-grown Great Dane brother's. He is enormous, and he still hasn't achieved the motor skills necessary to use his back two legs individually when he runs, so he instead uses them simultaneously and hops like a huge bunny. He's more than precious, and unlike Zeke as a puppy (he was a raging terror who I couldn't WAIT to see grow up into the wonderful dog he is now), I don't want Jeb to get any bigger. Now I know how Moms of toddlers feel...if you could just stall time and keep them that size for just a little....while....longer...

I went to the Indy 500 with my pal, Miriam, on Memorial Day while Husband-Man was in Singapore on business. It was fun as hell - not what I expected really - even though the gin and tonics really helped with the fun factor and all. Tube tops were a'plenty, and Jim Nabors singing My Indiana Home made me cry. Everything a girl could ask for from her first Indy 500...

Since I've written last, I've also met, and subsequently kissed, the Governor. I've been invited to my reunion (again) and have still not RSVP'd, hoping that I can respond with, "No, I'm sorry, I'll be on Hannity that night in syndication."

A girl can dream, after all.

So, let's recap. The Indy 500 was awesome, my ovaries are shrinking, my husband is getting older, but better, I have assaulted the Governor, my puppy may have rabbit genetics hidden somewhere in the proverbial woodpile, and it's Friday.

It just doesn't get any better than it is right...this...second.