“Chickiti-Chickiti” in an Elevator? Why Not!

entertainment weekly

entertainment weekly


As a barely moving vivacious 50-something empty-nester, something I think about more often than when my nest was full, is engaging in some steamy chickiti-chickiti.  Yes, by chickiti-chickiti, I mean well… you know (I’m Catholic and family members read my posts so don’t make me say it!)

Going down the list of all the ingredients needed for an ideal chickiti-chickiti recipe at this stage in our lives, I checked our pantry to see what Mr. B and I had:

4 c. of desire =  CHECK!

2 heaping Tb. spoons of sexiness = shit, we only have 1/2 ounce left

2 fit bodies = the expiration date says 1/31/87

3 gallons of wine = CHECK!

 A minimum of 1 slinky lingerie = do Cuddl Duds count?

1 unlimited prescription of small blue pills = I’m not telling…

A huge amount of privacy = CHECK!

So, on a recent business trip where I accompanied Mr. B, we were feeling even more adventurous than usual.  Our hotel had an abundance of floors,  making the elevator ride…slower and longer.

It was late at night.

There was mega alcohol in our systems.

We were alone in the elevator.

The desire was palpable.

The lust…untamable.

Excitement took over us as he leaned in for a passionate kiss while his hands explored my not so sexy body.  What a rush…

That’s when it happened.

My ears popped.

Not only did they pop, but they hurt!

Can you say, MOOD KILLER!!!?



I begged Mr. B to stop at once.


He asked me what was wrong, but I could not hear out of either ear.


 The elevator doors opened to our floor.



The end.




Brickhousechick, you have been hacked, said the Wild Rider and boob lover, Susie Lindau to me the other day.  WHAT??????, said I.  She then told me that when clicking on a comment I had made, she got re-directed to another site, brickhouse.com instead of brickhousechick.com

 WHAT THE #%*&@%^+%^#said I.

Sure enough, when I went to any comment I had left on your lovely blogs, I saw a different page welcoming me to Brickhouse Software.  Who the h** were they?  I wasn’t about to click on their site to find out since this proved that I had indeed, been hacked.

Panic set in.  I froze.  I stopped eating (for an hour).  I stopped sleeping.  I checked my bank accounts and realized I was safe because I had nothing in them to begin with, I stopped living and only cared about  getting this problem resolved.

That’s when I entered WordPress Hell.



 A place where NO human can be found.  A place somewhere in the blogosphere where forums, tutorials, comments and more forums bombard you with information that you cannot possibly make sense of.  A place with a lot of codes.  And digits.  And characters.


I’m sorry but, yo no hablo WordPress code.

Between posting her boob and hamburger post and living her life, Susie tried to help me by sending me google searches on what to do when hacked.

The fabulous Peg, at Peg-o-Leg’s Ramblingslet me know that she had been experiencing this issue on my site for months!! WHAT???????, said I.

The lovely, Pam at  Year ‘Round Thanksgiving Projectkept checking in on me to see if I was back and running.

 I sent 455 messages to imaginary staff members at WordPress.  I posted S.O.S messages on anything I could find.  I stalked staff member’s personal pages to see if I could coerce any of them to pay attention to me.  I threatened their imaginary lives.  I tweeted, I twirled and I twerked…to no avail.

Finally, someone responded.  A real person!!  Praise the Lord, there are real people hiding in WordPress Hell!  And they are kinda nice, when they respond.  

This is how I met the new love of my life, Dustin.

I would give you his contact information so that you could use it when you have WP issues, but I’d have to kill you afterwards.

After corresponding with Dustin for 3 days (he was a bit slow on the replies), he finally set me straight.  It turns out I was not hacked and it was just a simple URL issue (which I still don’t understand how it got messed up when it had been fine for a year and a half.) Here is the exchange:

WordPress.com Forums.Private Support


ME:  When I click on my Gravatar pic on comments I make on blogs, instead of directing me to brickhousechick.com it goes to brickhouse.com, some software security site.

WP:  Nothing.

WP: Nothing.

WP: Nothing.




Hours later:


WP: Nothing.

WP: Nothing.


DUSTIN:  Can you provide the link on the post where you made the comment so I can take a look? Thanks.

ME: **falls flat on her face from the shock that a person has responded**

Oh, thank God.  Thanks for responding, Dustin.  Another blogger told me about this issue.  Have I been hacked?




Days later:

ME:  Any luck looking into this issue?

DUSTIN:  Nothing.

DUSTIN: Nothing.

DUSTIN: Nothing.

ME: Dustin, DON’T LEAVE ME NOW!!!!!!!! 😦  (note the change in font size)

ME: Swearing.

ME: Swearing.

ME: Swearing.

DUSTIN:  Hey there!  The website address in your profile was set to brickhouse.com.  I’ve updated it to point to brickhousechick.com.  It may take a few hours, but all of your comments that you’ve left in the past will correct themselves and direct visitors to your correct site.

If I can help you with anything else, please let me know. Cheers!

ME: So I wasn’t hacked?

Four hours later:

DUSTIN:  Now this is an unofficial guess, but I think when you registered to leave a comment the first time, you accidentally typed brickhouse.com instead of brickhousechick.com.  I’m not saying that’s what happened, but that’s my guess.  Now that you have the correct domain, you won’t have to worry about it.

The next morning:

ME:  OH, NO!!!! It is still NOT FIXED, DUSTIN!!! HELP!!!!

That’s three whole days of my life I will never get back.  Not to mention the food I did not eat during that one hour of despair.  Eventually, Dustin came through.

In my desperate search for salvation, I did discover that many of our blogger buddies have been hacked and some have lost all of their posts and WP files.  The horror!  

It is because of this that I will leave you with the only advice I actually understand and was able to complete myself,  thanks to that awesome, Susie:

Two Step Authentication

Don’t ask me how I  completed these two steps but somehow, I did.  If I can do it, so can all of you.  

Go now and authenticate your WP blogs to death, amigos!  

Corre. Corre. Ahora! 

Yes Peg, that includes you!

Just Call Me: Footloose



Just for ha-has, let’s talk about my past shall we?

I know it is not very riveting but I am in the mood to reminisce about the old me.  There is nothing too wrong with the new me but I miss young brickhousechick and her spunk.

I would like to focus mostly on the end of my high school years, college and  several years after that.

I never joined a sport’s team in high school, not because I was not athletically fit but because I was shy (I know, can you believe it?)  I did join the cheerleading squad but kept a very low profile.

I was not a bad athlete, if I may say so myself.  My long legs helped me run distances during Gym class and beat the other students.  I played flag football with the neighborhood kids,  played wiffle ball and could actually hit the ball.  I was often the last man standing during dodgeball (which explained the huge red welts on my thighs when I was finally bombarded) and I killed it in kickball.  I simply lacked the confidence to try out for any organized sport.  

I took Jazz classes at 8:00 am while in college and was the Queen of my Jazzercize class in my mid 20’s, but that was nothing compared to how good I was (I know I am not shamefully shamefully bragging) at mastering my passion.

Please allow me to modestly tell you how f***** awesome I was at:




I’m talking getting THIS  kind of reaction – when I danced:




By dancing I don’t mean with a pole – though it looks like a blast.poledancingadventures.com


Or Dancing With The Stars- kind of dancing.



Or belly dancing.



Or ballet *yawning*.




I am talking, FUNKY dancing, people!

Reaction GIFS

Reaction GIFS




GIF Soup

GIF Soup


Everywhere I went = I danced.

My high school superlative was, Most Likely To Be Dancing.

My father nicknamed me, Footloose after seeing me appear on the 11:00 o’clock news dancing at a Boston club.




I danced in the streets.

LA Weekly

LA Weekly

In my room.



With Batman.



Man, did I have the moves.  

Then, one day this happened:

My joints began aching.  Every inch of my body hurt – including my hair.  I spent all my time going from doctor to doctor.  I had surgeries.  I rested in bed.  I rested in bed again. And again.  

I had to stop working because I felt like this every day: 



When they discovered cervical deterioration of my spine, I tried dancing but looked something like this:



But that hurt.



After crying, screaming, yelling, kicking and feeling sorry for myself, I, being the eternal optimist that I am (don’t ask me why), decided that Rheumatoid Arthritis was not going to stop me from doing what I love. 

I dance when I can and even when I can’t.

If my feet hurt, I move my arms.  If my arms hurt, I move my feet.  If my hips hurt, I shake my head.  If my head hurts…I still dance.


Does The World Really Owe Us Anything?



The air conditioner was blasting frigid air throughout the bus, on this muggy summer afternoon.  It had not been this cold on the plane.  I could not control my shaking as I sat in my seat watching intently, the man seated behind my father.  Understanding that my shaking was attributed mostly to the chilled air blowing on me, I could not ignore that the immense fear I was feeling during the entire two-hour trip, contributed to my physical state.

As a naïve nine-year old girl who had just arrived to the US for the first time, I was convinced that my father would be stabbed to death while on the bus.  The man seated behind my father was the first person of Asian descent I had ever seen.  According to the television shows I had watched while in Puerto Rico, Asian men hurt others by utilizing their martial arts techniques or by stabbing their victims to death.  I was adamantly convinced that this man would be stabbing my father at any moment.

My sister, younger brother, father and I arrived safely at our chosen destination with no incident and where our new lives were to begin.

Although I knew it was summer, I was disappointed to see that there was no snow in the front yard of the apartment that was now my home.  The visions in my young mind of the US, always included snow on the ground regardless of the season.  My disappointment continued as I walked in to see my mother and older brother, who had arrived a week earlier, watching a man and a woman on the television screen speaking as rapidly as an auctioneer, saying words I could not understand.   These were my first impressions and memories I had upon arriving in this new bigger world.

As I made new friends and began school, I soon learned what the word stereotype really meant.  Just as I had stereotyped the Asian man on the bus, classmates and teachers would make general comments about me and assume that I behaved a certain way because I was Puerto Rican.  Mind you, this was 1973 when only a handful of Puerto Rican families lived in our town.  They stereotyped me based on TV shows, movies or Puerto Rican families they had been exposed to in nearby towns.

Did you live in a hut on your island?

You must love tacos and enchiladas

You are too white to be Puerto Rican

You are in America, speak American

Do you have cockroaches in your house?

In spite of these and many other forms of  discrimination my family and I encountered, we persevered, stayed true to ourselves and our culture and moved forward to reach our goals all the while, never assuming the role of victims.

It was not easy and hardly fair, but our pride in who we were as individuals as well as who we were as a family,  gave us the determination to fight through the obstacles we faced.   It was never about what we were owed.  It was never about pointing fingers.  It was never about placing blame.  

Sadly, I have seen a shift and an escalation in this line of thinking in people in our town and around the country.  No one deserves to be discriminated against and we must raise awareness of the racial and cultural disparities that exist, but it appears that we have lost something along the way.  I believe that we have lost the sense of personal accountability, responsibility and ownership of our actions.

It was not my fault

I deserve better

They should pay

What’s in it for me?

I’ve been wronged

The world owes me

I do not remember it being like this growing up.  My parents encouraged my siblings and I to be strong, feel worthy and to make our own paths.  This way of thinking was reinforced by our teachers and administrators at our school.

After having children of my own and taking them to school, it was clear that something had changed.  I rejected the coddling my children received because of their race.  I rejected the message teachers sent to children of color that they needed protection.  I refused to let my children take part in activities that reinforced the notion that they were victims because of their race.  What was happening?  I wanted no part of this.

I still don’t.

This obviously does not mean I believe racism and discrimination are okay.  I am the first to advocate for equality, fairness and to opportunity to contribute to change.  But, what message are we sending to our youth of all races?

Awareness and change are needed because most of us whether knowingly or unknowingly are guilty of stereotyping and judging others who are different from us, but let us not forget to look deeply within ourselves and take ownership of our actions and behaviors without the expectation that the world owes us anything.