My Brochure of Miracles

... of miracles!

Every now and then, a miracle.  A minor one, I'll give you that.  A teeny-tiny one.  But still, I offer you a moment of OMG, an excerpt from my Brochure of Miracles. It's not about the Miracle Cream the new dermatologist prescribed, the anti-aging face-brightening youth-defying agent of change.  No miracles in that department.  Not yet.   Same punim.  Same age spots.  But there was a petite miracle this morning, a feeling of how-cool-is-that!  Last night, the SJG was so sleepy-ass, that around 10:36,  I apologized to Joan Rivers and said, "Bitch, I'm going to sleep."  I turned off "Fashion Police," something I never do, right before the panel guessed whose bikini booty was up on the screen.  You know how I hate suspense, but I just couldn't keep my eyes open.  Dreamland was extending an invite.  I had to accept.  This morning, I turned on the telly at 6:36, and, brace yourselves, there was "Fashion Police," at the exact same place where I left it last night, as if frozen in time, waiting for me to catch up.  Woo-hoo!  It was booty call time!  "Yay!" I said to myself, for hubby was already out walking the dog.  "Who said miracles don't happen!"  And speaking of who, who was "picking at her butt," as Kelly Osbourne put it so eloquently?  Was it J-Wow or Snooki or, as Joan guessed, Chris Christie, the governor of New Jersey?  No, it was some TV Jersey gal whose name I can't remember.  Oh, I was so happy to see the rest of the show, to find out the best and the worst looks of the week; so grateful that I'm not famous enough to have my personal style of what-fits-me-this-week critiqued on national TV, that I can now go on with my day.  I'm ready for the next miracle to add to my brochure.