YOU CAN NEVER GO HOME AGAIN.....



I know I am supposed to be blogging about my Rochester Exploits, and perhaps all those pictures of Britney Spears' Unfortunate Vagina (she's a shaver, with the stubble to prove it), and trust me I will, but today I am going to bore you with my own personal angst.

Basically, it looks as if we have finally found a buyer for my parents' home, which I own with my sister, and due to the fact that my parents had the sense to migrate from the South Bronx to the suburbs of NYC, I am going to make myself a nice chunk of change. I should be happy about this, right? One would think. But I wouldn't be me if I wasn't pissy about something.

I am happy to be free of the financial burden of keeping a second house, happy that, in a few short weeks, I will no longer have any financial ties to my, uh, interesting, sister, happy to pay off that nagging Am Ex card I abuse...

But I miss my mom and dad. And selling off the house is the final nail in the coffin, so to speak. Viva here bounced around more in her 20s and early 30s than I can remember--this apartment, that apartment, this boyfriend, that boyfriend. But whenever things got hairy (and with my penchant for drama, they often did), there was always home to go to. So it sucks to see your history be sold to the highest bidder. I guarantee you I will bawl through the closing, bawl as they write me that big fat check, and bawl when I see the moving vans pull up to the house. Yeah, money is great, but she ain't everything.

I am grateful though, to have the awesome parents that I have, who busted their asses so that we idiot children of theirs would be taken care of. Wherever you are, Mom and Dad, thanks.

I know I am going to get emails about this post being a bummer, but you can always expect some sort of random cheerfulness from your old friend. So here, in no particular order, are some of the things I plan to do with my financial windfall--why squirrel it away when I can spend with abandon? So I am thinking:

1. Pottery Barn. All of it. Everything. Whatever they have, I want.
2. Enough plastic surgery to turn me into Rachel McAdams but not so much as to morph me into Jocelyn Wildenstein)--nip it, tuck it, pull it up, under, over, or suck it out. Give me the works!
3. A hitman to kill Jessica and Ashlee Simpson since they both annoy the crap out of me. Talentless hacks.
4. A Full-Time Personal Trainer from Fitness Together, who can whip my ass into shape. Or just stand there and flex for my amusement. Whatever. I am game!
5. Back to Ireland, this time with all the Scranton gang, because we would really have The Best Time Ever--there are no people more fun than the Irish!
6. A doggy hypnotherapist to delve into why my dog hates cars, baths, and basically everything I want him to do.
7. Booze and hookers!
8. That new Playstation 3, just cause I can.
9. A studio apartment in NYC--some people get mountain homes, or shore houses--give me a crash pad in the big city, and I am happy. I miss Brother Jimmys. Fishbowls for everyone!
10. Building the new Melrose Place, wherein all the Scranton Girls and Gays can have houses side by side, drink too much wine, and grow old together like the Golden Girls.

Okay, I am kidding, I am not going to do any of these things (although the hitman idea intrigues me). Chances are, it will all go into some dippy retirement fund, so I can rest assured that someday I can pay someone to change my diapers and puree my food for me while I chew on a sock.

But, if you see me in the upcoming months and I can no longer move my face, the plastic surgeon thing might have happened. Even if I can't smile, know I am happy to see you!