Michael Flatley I'm not
Last weekend presented me with a holiday Monday, just when I needed it the most. I even went so far as to take last Friday off so I could indulge myself and poke around the grocery store in the middle of a weekday like a Lady of Leisure. I�m always surprised at the number of people out and about at times when most people are in school or slogging their guts out on some loading dock or selling someone yet another item they don�t really need or tucked away behind a desk. How are these people able to meander through the week? What secret are they guarding? Some day I will beat it out of them, I swear.

I wasn�t really able to enjoy my shopping excursion, since I was suffering from a little self-induced hangover, the result of a boozer after work on Thursday. I�d like to be able to say that Patti poured shooter after shooter down my throat while my hands were tied, but that would be a big fat lie. I alternated shooters with pints of Guinness, then switched to grapefruit juice too late in the night for it to do any good whatsoever.

One of the urban myths I was betting on in my drunken state was that you burn off a lot of alcohol when you�re out on the dance floor all evening. Not so � for me, anyhow. Ah, I remember the days when a hangover was something to be proud of, the pain in your head the last remnant of a night of fun, frolic and debauchery. These days, I�m more apt to complain about the pain in my shins due to the spontaneous bout of Riverdancing I attempted when I heard �Home For A Rest�. In my bare feet, no less. In the bright light of day, I chastised myself for placing my daintily painted toes in the way of the boots of men, the broken glass of a bottle or pint glass and the filth of the general public. Damn, it was fun.

So, I�m home on Friday night (not having the heart or the stomach to go out again), and I have control of the remote as usual. The Boy loves to make comments about what a good thing it is he�s not epileptic, because the speed I cruise the stations would bring on the fits in no time. Ha. Ha. So, I landed on Much More Music and stuck there, just to allow myself a little room to argue the next time about how I don�t always move through the channels like a whirling dervish. Shakira happened to be up, shaking her booty while giving the camera a look. You know, A Look. Sex to the Nth degree with her inch-long black roots. Then it hit me: she is half Ricky Martin and half Charo, a true Latin rock hybrid. I always wondered why she looked familiar!

Cuchi-Cuchi!

Posted at 12:17 p.m.