New Moon on Monday... oh, wait. It's Sunday. Sorry!

Sorry about my lazy habit of forgetting this blog...I promise to shape up. Right.

Anywhoo, unless you're living under a rock, you're probably aware of the Twilight nutsiness that is taking over the world. With the second movie New Moon bustin' out all over, the tolerant Jezebel staffers took a stab (ha ha!!) at trying to make it through the latest Twilight film without excessive eye-rolling, sighing or just generally throwing up in their mouths a little bit.

They failed. And you can read all about it here! Thanks ladies for doing my work for me!

Sparkle Plenty, babee!

I hate my purse.

What I'm listening to: Wendy Rabas' awesome mix cd -- that girl can burn some tuneage!! :)

I hate my purse.

Oh, I liked it well enough when I bought it. Stroking the supple leather at Banana Republic, admiring the creative details of its exterior, impressed by its neutral mushroom shade , I decided that this was the purse for me. It’s roomy and unstructured. It’s a shoulder bag. It has a zipper closure. It looks kinda expensive-looking but it’s still under $100. So I dug out my credit card and next thing you know that sucker was MINE. I skipped out of the store, excited that soon I would be toting this fabulous bag.

Uh, yeah right.

My first taste of this bag’s short life expectancy was when my blackberry wouldn’t fit in the purse’s interior mobile phone pocket. Oh, that’s no biggie, I told myself. Who needs to find their phone anyway?

After a couple days of using this thing, I realized that instead of a purse, I had bought myself a veritable black hole with shoulder straps. Everything I put in this purse got lost, and then I’d look again 10 minutes later and find the item, resting innocently at the bottom of the bag. In due course, my lip balm, my work ID, my cosmetics bag, my keys, and even my WALLET (which is pretty sizable!) went missing in this Bermuda Triangle.

And the zipper closure, which had been attractive at first, was such a pain in the ass to open and close. The bag had no structure and the zipper was metal, so every time I tried to open the thing with one hand while it was on my shoulder resulted in a sticky zipper and a loud sigh on my part while I grabbed the flippin’ thing with both hands so I could actually open it. From then on I just left the purse open. *rolls eyes*

This purse is a disaster. I am sad.

So now I’m on the lookout for a new purse. I have very strict criteria and expectations from my “daily” bag, as I call it – the purse I carry on a regular basis. Here are my requirements – let me know if you see anything, k?

• Needs to be a neutral color so it goes with basically every outfit I own.
• It can’t be too sporty or too casual because I have to use it at work where we have a strict business dress code, but it can’t be too formal because it has to coordinate on some level with my workout togs
• It can’t be too big because I don’t have that much stuff to carry, but it can’t be too small because my essentials take up enough space that a clutch isn’t gonna cut it.
• Must have shoulder straps, but the straps can’t be really long or too short, and they can’t have a stupid superfluous buckle halfway up the strap itself, because I hate that
• Purse hardware must be silver or brass-toned, no gold.
• Must be of an actual fabric or leather found in nature -- not look like it was made out of a bunch of cow buttholes sewn together.
• No well-known designer names should be visible on the exterior – so bye-bye Coach, Dooney & Burke, etc.
• Must have some sort of outer pocket to hold car keys
• Structured bags that can stand up on their own are preferable.
• Interior dividers and multiple compartments make me happy.
• Oh, and above all, it has to be less than $100 because regardless of my drunken sailor spending antics, I am a cheapskate when it comes to fashion.

With all these requirements, finding a decent bag is tough. Usually I end up buying something that elicits comments like “Oh, I think my mom has that purse.” Or situations arise where I see my purse on the arm of my 89-year-old mother-in-law (God rest her soul). Bottom line, I’m not gonna be the chick with the purse that everyone squeals over. I’m the one in the restroom who gets asked if she has any extra Depends.

Needless to say, I’m going purse shopping soon!

Who the heck is Ed Westwick, anyway??

What I'm Listening To: The sound of my heart going pitter-pat!

*deep breath* I would now like to share with you one of the most electrifying moments in my life: The day I met ED WESTWICK. Prepare yourselves, people.

About three Saturdays ago, Anne called me. “Hey, let’s go to dinner and drinks tonight!” she suggested. After a bit of discussion, we decided to go to Café Hollander in Wauwatosa. This place is a beer snob’s idea of paradise – a beer selection that spans the globe and back again, along with the old faves like PBR and my true love, New Glarus Spotted Cow Ale. I don’t like beer that much, but I’ll drink it. Beer makes me kinda farty, but whatevs.

So we go to the restaurant around 6:30 PM, eat dinner (it was okay, nothing spectacular, but the deep-fried gouda was pretty tasty) and then Anne suggests having a drink at the bar. Let me tell you, I am so glad that I agreed.

So we’re sitting at the bar, finishing our drinks, and I put my beer down (yes, the Vodka Tonic Queen had a Spotted Cow) and turn my head. And this super hot guy is standing next to me. And he looks A LOT like Ed Westwick, aka Chuck Bass from the TV show Gossip Girl.

I’d like to stop right here and explain my Chuck-love a little bit. Now, as you all know, faithful readers, this blogger LOOOOVES ME SOME CHUCK!!!!!!! I mean, I have paused the television to take photos of Chuck on Gossip Girl. I have created an entire screen saver devoted to photos of Chuck in his various PR poses – Chuck at the beach, Chuck at a movie opening, Chuck just adjusting his collar. I cannot explain my true love of all that is Chuck. And yes, I am old enough to be his teenage mother – he’s 15 years younger than me. But who cares!!! It’s CHUCK. SEXY, DIRTY, FLIRTY, HEARTBREAKER, GROWLY-WHISPER, NAUGHTY-BOY CHUCK.

Okay, I’ll stop now. I’m just embarrassing myself, huh.

Anywhoo, I turn my head and kinda check out at this guy on my left. And it looks just like Ed Westwick. Seriously. And I’m like, there is no freakin’ way that CHUCK BASS is in Milwaukee. It must be someone else, some guy that just looks like him. So if you know me, I like to take random photos of attractive guys. I mean, I’m married, so it’s totally no pressure and nothing big for me to ask some hot boy if I can take his photo. And I am totally thinking that there is no way in god’s green earth that this is Ed Westwick. But then I heard the guy ask for the beers with a British accent. And then I’m done. It totally IS Ed Westwick!!!! OMG!!!!!!

So I turn to him and I say, “Hey can I take your picture?” And this is before it’s sunk in that it’s Ed Westwick. But then I get a full-on look at this guy as he turns to me. My heart starts pounding and I’m stuttering. It totally is Ed. O.M.G. I am standing next to my fantasy man.

And this guy who looks like Keanu Reaves' older brother comes up behind us, and is like “I’ll take your picture with Ed.” So I’m thinking this is probably the guy that holds Ed’s drugs, for pete’s sake. So I give him my camera and I’m telling him how to hold it so the battery door doesn’t fly open and ruin the BEST MOMENT OF MY LIFE, like it seems to do every time I’m angling for a good photo. Damn camera!!!! We’re both sitting there apologizing to Ed about asking for the photo, but he is super cool about it. He even puts his arms around us and TOUCHES US!!! What a sweetie!!

But the photo turns out okay, and Anne and I look adorable. Ed looks, well, like Ed. Super hot!!!! So I turn around after we take the photo and there’s Jessica Szohr, aka Vanessa on Gossip Girl. And she’s giving us the bitch look, probably because we blew her cover. Come ON!! Just because your show is watched by girls only slightly out of diapers and who haven't yet cracked a box of maxipads doesn’t mean ALL of us are babies. And one of the bar patrons asks us if Ed is someone famous, and Anne is super cool and just says that he’s an old friend. How awesome was that!!?!

We scurry out of the bar because I can't bother Ed with those incredibly inportant questions buzzing round my brain like "What's gonna happen this season?" and "Boxers or briefs?", even though I'd love to sit next to him as he read the menu out loud in his fabulous accent. Next we call our other friend Becca, who was supposed to join us for dinner and had to bail, and practically scream into the phone about our little adventure!! Of course she is disappointed, to say the least. What follows, including Anne and I happily squealing at the top of our lungs in the car and clutching each other, then driving home like maniacs so we can email Star magazine to see if we could get the photo published in the Readers section, etc etc. This all just compounded the adventure to the nth degree.

However, my FAVE part is my joy in posting our celebrity poses photo on Facebook, and having to add a link to Ed's entry on Wikipedia so all my geezer friends can understand the magnitude of my star encounter. Half of them still commented "who the heck is that guy, anyway?" Hey, if you don't know, that's fine with me -- less Ed lovers to fight off the next time we see him in Tosa.

Now if only Rob Pattinson would drop by Mad Planet for Anne's sake! :) Dare to dream!

Huzzah Bitches! 2009 -- Our Second Visit to Renn Faire

What I'm Listening To: Undercover Martyn by the Two Door Cinema Club


Think of the happiness of your birthday, the excitement of New Year’s Eve, the anticipation level of Christmas and the gastronomical delights of Thanksgiving -- all rolled into one day. That is exactly how I felt last Saturday, the day Jim and I made our now yearly pilgrimage to the Bristol Renaissance Faire with Anne and Dan. OMG, it is beyond words. Seriously, don’t know how I’m gonna write this blog, because I am speechless with joy. Ha ha. Me, speechless. That’s funny!

Maybe you read my blog posting last year about my de-virginizing trip to Renn Faire last year. Maybe you remember my apprehension, my self-consciousness, my overall concern that maybe Renn Faire was gonna be, uh, dumb. I have done a total 180 on that one! I am now a convert to the religion that is Renn Faire, people! This is now a annual summer event that cannot be ignored! Let’s review, shall we?

Picture a beautiful sunny Saturday morning, blue skies and warm breezes. Anne and Dan drive over to our house, and we drive the 40 minute trip south to the Renn Faire, which is near Kenosha. Dan is humming “Greensleeves” all the way there, as we rhapsodize about the dragon dicks and butterfly potato chips that await our gaping maws once we arrive.

We park in a free parking lot (uh, it was an open field, but whatever!) super far away from the fair, and hoof it the ½ mile to the front gates to buy our tickets, with coupons grasped in our sweaty paws. Once inside, Anne suggests signing up for the Renn Quest pub crawl that starts at 2 PM. On our way to sign up, of course we have to buy drinks and stuff our faces as prep, so we grab some beers, then it’s on to the food court! Anne and I buy jalapeno poppers, Jim buys some curly fries (which I eat half of, btw) and Dan goes off in search of an ATM.

I should point out that this particular Saturday is “Costume Contest Day”, which means that anybody who has a hankering to dress up as any character they like may compete in a contest judged by wandering random people who vote at the end of the day. So that means on our way to get drinks we pass two Han Solos, four fairies representing the seasons of the year, a tavern wench and a guy who looks like Sting dressed in bondage gear with huge black and purple wings attached to his back. (What’s that, like the goth Icarus or something? Sheesh! I gotta get out more!!) Of course we take many many photos of these amazing creatures, such as the multiple women wearing chain-mail bras (uh, what fashion trend am I missing here?), especially the one who seemingly forgot her underpants, or the guy with the red face paint dressed entirely in black who seemed to be stalking us. My personal faves, though, were the garden variety nerds who wanted to fit in, but not be identified as full on twelve-sided-dicers, as Mickey would say. So these were the guys who threw a cape over their cargo shorts, and called it a costume. Uh, no. Scary face mask, ball-gag and a set of 3’ wide real feather wings is a costume. A cape over cargo shorts? Not so much!

So even with the forced drinking on the pub crawl – where Dan won the Simon Says game and I almost won a game of Buzz with a bunch of drunks who couldn’t seem to get past the number 20 without screwing up – we didn’t seem to get too inebriated. Maybe it was all the fabulous food – which we did not eat in the proper order btw!! – dragon dicks (aka, bagel-covered hot dogs), butterfly potato chips n’ cheese (chip it up, bitches!), ice cream, sautéed mushrooms, cheese fritters, and curly fries, and I forget what else, but it was all super good. No turkey legs this year, though. Sigh. It was just too much greasy wonderfulness to top with a turkey leg. Oh, that, and that line was waaaaay too long. All washed down with ample beers and hard ciders! Yum!

With the puppy waiting for us at doggie daycare, we had to head home a little earlier than we would have liked so we could pick her up, but even a 5:30 PM departure time did not hamper our spirits! We wrapped up the day with a tarot reading apiece for me and Anne, and a little raunchy candle sniffing session – what does that candle smell like again, Anne? LOL! With a quick stop for a pee in the porta-potty (the running water seemed to be iffy, so the regular privies were all closed) we headed home.

I have to say, I love love love Renn Faire. Anne and Dan make it super fun, and the food and people watching make it a tough venue to beat! Jim and I are actually considering a trip back just to look at all the Renn Faire merchandise we missed the first time around. But this time I’m going to stop myself before volunteering to sing a tavern song about dragon dicks! Ha!

See at the Renn Faire!!

Isn't rummage just another way to say junk?

What I'm Listening To: We Are Rockstars by Does It Offend You, Yeah?

Rummage sale. Garage Sale. Estate Sale. Moving Sale. I have never seen so many misspelled and crazy-looking jerry-rigged neon-colored sale signs posted in our neighborhood in the whole time we've lived here. They’re everywhere! There are signs tied to trees, light posts, tied on a kid’s back – no kidding, I saw a kid with this makeshift sandwich board rummage sale sign tied to him. Now that’s a fun summer job! Then there are rummage signs taped to some minivan’s rear window, or stuck in the ground with a stake.

And the lettering? Whooeee! I’ve seen signs written in pencil – uh, what are you thinking? I’m gonna get out of the car to read your frickin’ sign, dummy? I’ve seen them written in ballpoint pen – uh, hello! I'm getting up there in years, so my eyesight is not that good, so maybe write with a sharpie or something?? Seriously, though, just drive down any street in Stallis and every couple feet you’ll see some silly sign for some sort of makeshift sale. This is ridiculous. The recession has brought out the Billy Mays in all of us. (RIP, Billy!)

Every morning we drive down S. 76th Street to get on the freeway to go to work. And every morning I see a couple more rummage sale signs. It’s getting out of control. Who’s even buying this stuff? There are so many sales now, there’s no one to buy the crap!

Now I won’t lie, I don’t really like buying used things out of someone’s garage. It’s off-putting to me to purchase something that I don’t know where it’s been, even if it's priced under a buck. For all I know, that nifty blender sitting there was used to make a urine milkshake, or those gorgeous embroidered pillows once cradled your dead grandma’s head when she died in her sleep on the couch. It’s just creepy. Oh, I know, people find awesome stuff all the time and then they go on Antiques Roadshow and retire and all that. But still, you gotta admit sometimes that you're creeped out.

I’m not totally being upfront here, though. Okay, I had my seasons where I'd haunt the local Value Village and buy a vintage winter coat…or two…or three. Shut up, I know. I have like five mink-collared winter coats from the thrift store. And I've been known to buy a few items at the local “vintage” store when it’s caught my fancy. But mostly, if I have a choice, I’ll buy my things brand new – especially underwear. Ha ha!

But back to the trashy rummage-o-rama that has become my side of town in West Allis. (BTW, IS there a trashy side of West Allis? I thought the whole town was trashy! Ha!) You might as well rename our street Seven Mile Fair, for cripes sake, since there’s so many people who’ve decided to become used crap entrepreneurs. I’m almost expecting some freak with no bottom teeth and a mullet to be selling knifes on my next door neighbor’s lawn, his huge scary wife growling at me because I wouldn’t buy one! Or someone selling malnourished puppies across the street! Okay, don’t get me started about Seven Mile Fair. That place is a trip!!!

And have you seen what these people are selling? Okay, I haven’t. I’m too scared to venture over there and take a look because, hey, I might like something. And I really shouldn’t buy any more junk – because you know where it all ends up? That’s right, in our already full-of-junk basement. Let’s just not talk about Casa Reagans’ chock-a-block of crap cramped basement, with the 15 boxes of antique books, and the old furniture, and all my nostalgic memorabilia. I mean, I cannot force myself to throw away my dozens of cassette tapes, or six months' worth of high school notes written between me and my big junior year crush who declined to take me to prom so he could be reunited with his old girlfriend. Come on! He might be a big famous artist right now for all I know -- uh, I haven’t seen him in 20 years! -- and then I could sell these super personal notes he wrote me for oodles of cash. Now only if I could actually find someone who cared about dozens of tiny pieces of folded notebook paper filled with rhapsodies about him selling candy so the senior class could travel to NYC and be all arty. Whateves.

So back to the rummage sale thing. Sorry about my high school tangent there. You all know that it’s my 20 year high school reunion this year, right? Yeah, that’s another blog topic altogether. Hey, have you shopped at any rummage sales this summer? And did you get anything good? Let me know if it smells like pee though, ‘kay?

Not again. I am too old for this!

There are no nice acne pictures to go with this blog posting. Sawry. Just imagine your last outbreak and I'll go from there.

What I'm Listening To: Ready? OK. by Matt and Kim

First off, I'd like to say thanks for sticking by me while things got nutsy over here. I'm going to try to get this blog back on track again on at least a bi-weekly basis, even though I'm kinda disappointed that my blogging hasn't reached the ears of Tina Fey, and inspired her to make my postings into a mini-series about clubbing in Milwaukee, with Megan Fox as me. Ha. Not that continuing my nobody status in the world of fabulousity would deter me from creating this awesome piece of literature for you, my adoring fans!!

As you may have figured out by now, I am no longer a teenager. However, much to my dismay, my skin has not realized that time has continued on. So every month, like clockwork, my face decides to reward my stressed-out lifestyle by placing a little gift...or two..or three...on the most visible parts of my face. And sometimes the gifts aren't so little. Yes, folks, you guessed it, it's the gift of acne.

The gifts come in many shapes and sizes and they are definitely made especially for me. Thanks Face! You are so thoughtful!! I could totally use another oil gusher on my super dry skin. Yay! The gifts range from those sneaky blackheads, or the little red bump, or those splotchy pink thingies, all the way up to the biggest and best gift of all, my favorite, cystic acne, or Mt Vesuvius. You know the ones -- big nasty welts in the most prominent place, like between your eyebrows so you look like you're sporting a third eye. And they hurt like a bitch, and they take weeks to go away. Yes, I'm talking about those ones. Arrggghh, I hate them.

And I've tried every cream, lotion, face soap, acne medication, and masque in the book. So do not go there with another recommendation as to what I should be using. Hell, I'm at the point now where I'd probably rub roadkill on my face if someone told me it was going to make my zits disappear.

And I'll tell you one thing that isn't two things. I swear to god do not tell me to LEAVE IT ALONE! How many times have I read in every stupid ladies magazine "Don't pinch your zits! They'll get worse and just scar and so just leave them alone!!" That advice is birdseed and you know it. There is not ONE PERSON in this entire universe who can see a zit on their face in the mirror, smile serenely and say, "oh, I'm just gonna watch that beautiful zit grow big and strong! Maybe it'll get on the debate team! Maybe it will be valedictorian! I'm never ever ever gonna touch it!" And if you find that person, please slap them for me. If you can watch your zit and never touch it, I'm proud of you. And you probably think the Jonas Brothers are the shit, too, right? Sheesh, please go sit down and let me rant.

Because, hell, I'm gonna say it: There is no greater pleasure that popping your zits. I'm sorry, I am just coming out with it. Come on, it's like picking your nose. We all do it, but no one wants to admit it.

So now that we're in the thick of it, let's talk turkey. Yes, I know pinching is a bad thing. But let's get past that to the good stuff and discuss the various categories of pinching.

...long pause here...

Okay, I guess I am gonna curtail this right now, because seriously I started typing out all the stuff that happens when you pick your face, and I'm kinda getting ill just thinking about it. Maybe it's too early to discuss all the excitement of what your body can excrete out of the pores in your lovely epidermis, so I guess you'll have to catch me to discuss this topic when I'm in a zitty mood. Ha!

But hey, I'm 'fessing up now about my habit in the first place, so I guess that's a step in the sharing direction. Sorry if you think it's gross, or wrong, or whatever. But to me, it's so hard to just "leave it alone", so I might as well come out and tell you all about my dirty little secret. I would love to find others just like me, though. Wouldn't it be great if there was like a Zit Poppers Anonymous for this addiction? I would join in a heartbeat. We could sit around and swap stories about our zit triumphs and tragedies, and seriously, I have a lot more tragedies than triumphs when it comes to the craters in my face.

If only I had listened when my mom told me that picking = scarring. SIGH. Whatever. Bottom line, I'm looking for suggestions on "face lighteners", whatever that means! And hey, get your hands away from your face, you sicko!

Still waiting....

I know, you're all peeved because I haven't posted lately. Well, here's an interesting article on "blog apathy" from the New York Times.

Not that I thought my blog would make me famous (okay, I was kinda hoping to meet Paris Hilton, but oh well. I'll settle for fellow blogger Perez Hilton at this point) or rich (because I'm happy working 8 hours a day...not!) or popular (uh, chua. Popular means not a slut, right? ha!). I just thought it would be a tad more fulfilling, than, let's say, brushing my teeth.

So even though I haven't achieved worldwide stardom at my advanced age, I still have my 7 core readers, so thank you for sticking by me. Since I started this blog I've realized how tough it is to write spontaneously, and for a very smart and discerning audience, no less. I feel like I need to raise the bar for myself every time I open this blog application to write a new entry, and sometimes that's intimidating, even to a great writer like myself. ha! So please be patient with me, because even though I'm not writing up a storm right now, I haven't forgot my peeps!!

So stay tuned and I'll be back...soon! Thanks!!

Saw-ry! See you next week!

Things have been hectic around here, so I promise to have my next blog post by Wednesday! So as Gilley would say, "Saw-ry!"

Thanks for your patience as my exciting life continues...

Roommates Not Wanted!

What I'm Listening To: Cavorting by the Corteeners

Ahhh, roommates. All of us at one time have had one...or two...or maybe more, and maybe all at the same time! My time on this earth has been domestically shared with some wonderful, and not so wonderful people, who've provided me with some very funny stories over the years. Since I was spared having to share a room with my sister through most of my childhood, we'll start at the beginning of my roommate odyssey...college.

I was first introduced to the joy that is having a roommate when I started college. My very first roomie was a lovely girl I will call Kim. (All names and places have been altered slightly to protect the innocent...namely, me!). Kim was supposedly the prettiest girl to ever hit this teensy school (have you guessed where yet??). And since I was Kim's roommate, I got to live vicariously through this celestial creature, the Midwest's answer to Cindy Crawford. "Hey, can I come to your room?" some hot guy would whisper drunkenly in my ear at the local watering hole as I sipped my vodka gimlet. OMG! A hot boy wants to come to my room? Oh yeah!! But of course, this request was often followed by the charming phrase, "I hear you live with Kim! She is so hot!!!" *rolls eyes* So regardless, I left after my sophomore year.

I transferred to a huge state university my junior year, and since I thought living in the dorms with the freshmen might be a good way to meet new people, I braved the roommate scene again. Bad move. Another cinder-block dorm room, another "hottie" roommate. This time around I was stuck with this blonde bimbo who wore clouds of Joop perfume and thought that she was all that and a bag of chips because once she danced with Screech from Saved by the Bell at a club in Chicago. When she forced us to install bunkbeds in our room, and then insisted I take the top one, that started us on the downward spiral. Each morning I was greeted by another fresh bruise on my skull when I whacked my noggin on the ceiling since, duh, I forgot I was on the top bunk. Again. Arrrrggggh! After she called me uncouth during one of our many bicker sessions about her horrible and loud music addiction and annoyingly loud telephone conversations while I was studying, that was about the end of the line. So I forced this president of the Toad the Wet Sprocket Fan Club to help me hang up my life-sized Red Hot Chili Peppers poster on the largest wall available -- you know the one, where they're nude except for the strategically-placed sweat socks? -- and then finally I felt we were pretty much even. Ha. Suck on that, chickie!

After I finally graduated from college, I scooted off across the country to California. Yes, truly the land of the nuts and flakes. And I think all the nuts wanted to room with me. Since rent was astronomical for even a one bedroom apartment, I had no choice but to start the roommate cycle again. My Californian roommates came and went in this order: The Narcissist, who totally got off on me watching her get dressed, undressed, and then dressed again; The Lesbian, who couldn't make it through an evening at home without burning at least 10 sticks of Nag Champa incense; The Ageless Klepto, who decided that my closet, my computer and basically everything in my room was for her personal use and who wouldn't tell me her age for love or money; and finally, The Stripper. Or as she liked to call herself, exotic dancer. ha!

Many of my favorite roomie stories involve The Stripper. When I was first interviewing for a new roommate after The Lesbian left, it seemed impossible to find someone decent to live with. They were all too pretty, or too dirty, or too weird or just not right. But I like The Stripper, mostly because she seemed cool even though she had these freaky 3-inch-long bright red fingernails. When I asked her what she did she told me she was a "night auditor at a bank", whatever that meant. But one late night after she moved in, when I caught her leaving the apartment wearing a huge blonde wig, Lucite shoes and a teensy dress that didn't even cover her tootie, she 'fessed up.

So we sat down at the kitchen table, and it all tumbled out. She was a dancer, she said. And seriously, lil ol' innocent me was like, "A dancer? Like what, ballet?" She giggled and said, no, exotic dancer. At a gentlemens' club downtown. After she told me how much she made a night, I was shocked! I stepped back and took a good hard look at The Stripper, who was at the most 5'2", had a flat chest and dishwater blonde hair. This woman was making THAT much money? Come on!! But when she showed me her stacks of singles, her dancer's wardrobe of shaggy Farrah Fawcett wigs, skimpy dresses and a shelf-load of strappy platform sandals that made my feet hurt just looking at them, well, what could I say? Hey, if you can pay the rent, I can deal.

After that, our time as roomies seemed to get silly. Like her perchant for adopting stray animals, including a white cat she named Fancy, after the cat's food. Very original. Or the loud spanking sounds that often emanated from her bedroom, followed by yelps of manly delight at all hours of the night. An interesting creature, to be sure. When she finally got engaged to one of the bouncers at her club, I even got an invitation to their destination wedding in, you guessed it, Vegas. Whoohooo. Sadly, I did not attend what I'm sure would have been quite the wild bash, spankings and all.

When I moved back home, I promised myself one thing: no more roommates. And I stuck to it until I got married. But I have to say that living with another person is a total learning experience. You learn how much you're willing to put up with. You learn how passive aggressive you can truly be. You learn about sharing, stealing and "hey, you weren't gonna eat that, were you?" So for all of you readers with roommate stories, I'd love to hear them! And to all of you still living the roommate dream, good luck with that. At least you'll have funny stories to tell at the bar! ha!

Nick and Norah are infinitely annoying.

What I'm Listening To: Signal and Sign by Maximo Park

Last night Netflix brought me the stupidest movie ever -- Nick and Norah's Infinite Playlist. Go ahead and read all about it on Wikipedia, I don't really care. I just would like to share my observations with you, my adoring public.

I don't even know why I put this movie into my Netflix queue. Michael Cera should be my kryptonite I hate his acting so much. Superbad, Juno, whatever other lame films he's been in -- sorry, but it doesn't take a lot of talent to wear a zip-up hoodie in the prerequisite cool color of the moment, shuffle around, strum a guitar occassionally and mumble your lines. So whatever, Michael Cera. You're a dork.

And the film's supposedly awesome soundtrack that everyone raves about, peppered with cute little cameos by indie rockers and adorable C-list actors? All I heard was a toneless drone of jangly guitars in the background as I watched a bunch of barely talented nobodies mime their way through a forgettable plot. Where was the "touching coming-of-age adventure" that I'd been promised? Where was "the millennium's answer to Sixteen Candles"? Or just show me all these fabulous stylistic echos of American Graffiti? WTF. I just saw a boring music video posing as a movie, with one distinct message: "We are kewler than you, ya fossil!" And since I'm old enough to be the mom of the entire cast, I guess I better agree. Sheesh.

So on that note, this Mee-Maw-Maw would like to point out some of the more poignant scenes in this lovely film masterpiece where I paused the DVD, turned to my Pee-Paw, and said, "WTF!"

Not getting carded at any bar -- Supposedly Nick and Norah are seniors in high school, which means they have probably what, two, three years til they hit legal drinking age? And yet, the movie shows them repeatedly waltzing right into ANY bar in NYC without being carded. WTF! I'm sorry, but when I was a senior in high school, I had panic attacks about even getting carded at Bailey's, that all-ages alternative club over in Brookfield, much less trying to get into a real bar. And forget about going to see some random hipster band at a city club -- we were forced to make do with our high school loser band U4EA (featuring future TV anchorman Joel Kleefish, no kidding!) play in our school cafeteria. But hey, I'll suspend my belief for this movie.

Drunk-ass friends -- In my many years here on Planet Chug-a-lug, I have had my share of being the drunk-ass friend as well as having to take care of my drunk-ass friends as our fun and frolic wore on into the wee hours. But one thing isn't two things, if I had a drunk-ass friend wearing a really short dress and super high heels, I would NEVER just nonchalantly let her wander all over town til the sun comes up or until I found her, whichever came first. And I'm just talking about Milwaukee! In NYC? WTF. I wouldn't even leave my worst enemy alone in the Big Apple at night. That's just cruel! I don't care how many times you've fallen down, puked or whatever while having a big night out, that's just not right to leave anyone alone anywhere when they are completely in the bag. Yeah, not good.

Underwire bras -- Kat Dennings, who plays Norah, looks to be sporting some honkin' boobins in this film, and she's not doing them any fashion favors by hiding her sexy self under a big bulky cardigan. I think Norah took a sick day when they handed out "The Top Heavy Girl's Guide to Undergarments" (which I ghost wrote, btw!) because later on we find out that Norah's over-the-shoulder boulder holder of choice is a sports bra. WTF. Then when Nick's gay band buddies try to give her a "Nick's great, go for it!" pep talk in their van, one of the buddies starts digging in a box of women's bras and other female accoutrements that he just happens to have handy! He pulls out a red underwire bra, insists Norah puts it on, and voila! perfect fit and nice cleavage to boot! WTF. What gay man drives around with a box of ladies underwear in his car, much less tosses perfect-fitting bras at strange girls? No gay man in Milwaukee, that's for sure, or I'd have me a whole new bra wardrobe! Whoohoo! Also, if you have big boobs, there's no way you don't own at least one underwire bra. I am not going to suspend belief on that fact of life, ladies!

Electric Lady Studios -- Turns out that Kat is the daughter of the owner of Electric Lady music recording studios, where such greats as Jimi Hendrix, Led Zeppelin and many other infamous bands recording their most enduring music. But Kat acts like this historic music studio, where legends where born, is no big deal, and frankly, she kinda gives the impression she thinks it's super boring and dated. WTF! I mean, half these narcissistic kids born in the 90s don't even remember Led Zeppelin. She'd probably get more excited if you told her Britney sang there once. Snort!

Used chewing gum -- One of the most disgusting running jokes in this movie is how they all pass around this nasty-ass chewing gum, from Norah's friend Caroline, to Norah, to Nick, etc. etc. This gum has been inside of more mouths than (fill in your own gutter thought here!). It's even been dropped into a puke-filled toilet, and then Caroline put it back in her mouth!! WTF. I almost puked myself just watching this running gag. Get it? Gag?! Ha! What, are these kids so poor that they can't afford to spit out old gum for a fresh piece? What is with over-chewed gum -- after 20 minutes it doesn't even taste good anymore!! I almost expected to see Willie Wonka pop out from behind a tree to scold these faux-Violet Beauregards about chomping gum like a cow! Where's an Oompa-Loompa when you need some comic relief, huh?

I guess after all that I can't really recommend this movie to anyone, unless you own a Yugo, hide out at some indie records store, are under the age of 20, or are in a NYC gay band with your video on YouTube. Kids these days! WTF! Well, gotta go eat my pretzels and watch Pretty in Pink for the 100th time. Or was that Legally Blonde? I keep forgetting!

Current events don't always involve celebrities -- but they should!

What I'm Listening To: Sun Hits the Sky by Supergrass

As most of my daily news comes from gossip sites and Star magazine, it's easy for me to ignore the world crashing down around me. And let's face it, though, a lot of weird stuff is transpiring right now. I'm talking about it all, from freaky flu epidemics, Milwaukee pension scandals, worldwide recession, failed financial institutions, mass unemployment, all the way to, hell, Jessica Simpson airbrushed to death on the cover of Vanity Fair magazine. (did you see that shit? Amazing!) And to top it all off, I know that you're just lying awake every night thinking to yourself (because who else would you think to, anyway, if not yourself?), "Hey! Why doesn't this blog ever give us a take on the hard topics? The topics everyone's talking about on the news? The ones that really hit home? What's your stand, man?" Snort!

Well, since everyone else is doing such a great job discussing the pro's and con's of America, I figured I'd give you a rest when you visited my blog. As you may have guessed if you've been following along at home, my blog's only pure and true mission is to make you laugh at my life's ignoble quirks and foibles. I'm not banging out 80 words a minute at the computer for a couple hours every week so I can bore you to tears with today's depressing headlines. But hey, if you really want to know what I think about current events, fine. Here goes nothing.

Swine Flu: Uh, we live in Milwaukee. I think there's like one confirmed flu case in Wisconsin, but the local news teams all act like we're all a bunch of friggin' flu zombies with these emergency headlines and school closings. Fact is, I don't have the swine flu. No one I know has it. And seriously, I've never seen one person who has swine flu -- not on TV, not on the street, not at work, not at the Pick n' Save, nowhere. I'm still riding the bus to my job every day and get this --I don't use hand sanitizer, so watch out!

Recession: I don't know what these people are talking about, recession. Doesn't that mean people aren't buying anything anymore, that a lot of people are unemployed, that businesses are closing, and basically people have less money in their pockets for the non-essentials like another tube of the same color lipstick that you have at home? (Side note: Over the last five years I find myself buying the same color lipstick over and over again, but they're all different brands. My weakness is this shade of sheer mauve that makes me look like I've just been kissed. Remind me to show you one of these things. Seriously, I have like 20 lipsticks, but they are all basically the same color. Sad.) In complete contradiction to this so-called recession, every time I drive by Mayfair Mall on a weekend, the parking lot is packed with cars. My one friend said maybe people are just hanging out at the mall and not spending any money. What. Ever! Like I don't know about you, but I have NEVER been able to "hang out" at the mall and NOT spend money. Good luck with that.

Twitter -- Twitter isn't actually a "current event", per se, but I just have to say..."tweeting" out what you're doing every second of the day to a bunch of your friends and "followers" sounds really tiresome. Who cares that I just blew my nose? Who cares that I'm waiting in line at the post office? Who cares that I have to do the laundry tonight? And if you DO care about me that much, hey, tell me about it! I heart texts! And by the way, if you want to get hooked on a really good music/social networking website, check out http://www.last.fm/. I heartily recommend it!

Facebook -- And continuing on that technology vein, did you know that the majority of Facebook members are baby boomers? Yes, that's probably why this memawmaw and her peepaw and now avid FB'rs. And while I may not be updating my status every twenty minutes like some people who will remain nameless (Joel!) I won't lie, I heart Facebook. I have found out more useless crap, seen more drunk photos and have been forced to complete more grammatically incorrect and misspelled quizzes than I ever have in my whole existence! Seriously, do you really care what Smith song I am? Or what 80s movie I loved the most? Or even what my top five favorite countries are? Well? Do you?? Admit it, yes you do!!

Well, that's my wrap-up on current events and technology for this day, Monday May 4th, 2009. Tune in next week for another self-indulgent blog about me, me and more me. Come on, you know you love me. XOXO!! (Yay! Tonight's a new episode of Gossip Girl! Enjoy!)

Thank Ye Kindly!

What I'm Listening To: Wasted Years by Damone

Whatta week! Lots going on...teeth to whiten...songs to make up...elastic-waisted pants to buy....cheesecakes to order....it was endless! And to top it all off I ended this fantastic week with a haunted Walker (ha!), a delicious baby shower (you can thank Simma's cheesecake for that!) and a laughfest over drinks! All in all it was a great week!

There was one eye-opener, though. So the guest of honor at the baby shower said that since it was such a small gathering, and everyone's pretty casual and modern, that she wasn't going to send us thank you notes for our gifts. Okay, I won't lie, I was kinda disappointed. But it was totally cool. I'm an old fogey, and it's just a new generation, I know and I understand that. I have to get with the times.

As a kid we were forced to write them, so it was a pain back then, but now? Now I luuuuuuurve writing thank you notes! I luuuuurve buying cute stationary! I luuuurve opening a fresh pen and contemplating what's the best way to say things like "loved the pot roast, hated your new rug", but in a nice way, you know? I usually write them after a nice dinner out or receiving a lovely gift. It's so genteel and sedate, a throwback to a slower time, a time when people left their calling card instead of leaving a voice mail, texts were found in the Bible and the only tweets people heard were those coming from our feathered forest friends.

So since sometimes I'd rather hear a Benny Goodman tune than something by Benny Benassi and I wouldn't turn down a quick time travel junket to England between the wars, my vintage self is holding on to this sweet tradition for dear life! I mean, when we first moved into Casa Reagan, the second thing I did (after sage smudging the place for ghosts...seriously!!) was run down to Paperworks on Downer Avenue to buy my very own set of personalized stationary. For me, sighing over san serif fonts, caressing umpteen different paper weights and lingering over envelope linings was almost better than clothes shopping. I spent like two hours in there! Over PAPER, for cripes sake!

And Paperworks has got your number when it comes to selling luxurious stationary, so watch out! I don't know if you've ever been to Paperworks, but it's this little stationary store that sells all this, uh, stationary and cards and stickers. Oh, I can-NOT forget to mention the stickers. Stickers were little suburban girl crack back in the 80s. We titans of the tea set collected them, traded them, and showed off your stickerbook to all your other lady friends. They were so important that some girls even stole them! (Yeah, uh, not me...it was that Mandy down the street, the lil bitch.) The stickers came on these rolls that were mounted to the pegboard wall in the corner of the store. We used to spend like hours in there deciding which ones to buy. So I'm very familiar with this East Side landmark. (Bring back the Coffee Trader!! Who's with me?)

But back to my stationary purchase. But the best part of my order was when I'm telling the saleslady my new home's address. OMG, you should have seen her snooty eyebrow shoot up when I was all, "uh, yeah, that's S. 77th Street. Uh-huh, yes, that's WEST ALLIS." Eyebrow arch, snotty look ratchets up a notch. And I'm all like, "Do you need me to spell West Allis for you?" I almost snorted a laugh right in her face, it was hilarious. Finally, snotty bitch writes up my order and tells me to come back in a few weeks. Fun!

So maybe I walked out of there a lot lighter in the wallet but I was a whole lot happier than when I had walked in. And two weeks later I was the proud owner of 100 dove grey Crane's notecards embossed with my new married name in a lovely italicized font, with matching dove grey envelopes lined with a demure arts and crafts background print. OMG, super classy, and this is for me, the girl who buys Star magazine at the grocery store every week and reads it cover to cover over lunch. The girl who thinks nothing tastes better than a mini bottle of Miller Lite when you're drinking it on your own front stoop watching your neighbor get tasered for resisting arrest. That's me, the same girl who just luuuurves writing a sweet thank you card!

All I have to say is, I can't wait for the next dinner party, cocktail gathering, birthday celebration or even a funeral that I get invited to just so I can whip out my high-falutin' thank you cards and write you a touching note of gratitude. Yay! And maybe it's a new millenium, and we're all so busy twittering, texting and facebooking that we forgot all about the personal touch, but some of us are still old-fashioned softies. So if you want to make this old broad grin, send me a heartfelt handwritten thank you card! I'll probably write you a thank you card back for doing it, no kidding!

Thank you! :)

Spring has kinda sprung, so I am kinda cleaning!

What I'm Listening To: Better Do Better by Hard-Fi

(um, isn't that cleaning elephant picture adorable? Just so you know, Jim and I collect elephant stuff. So in case you're stumped for something to buy us for our birthdays and stuff like that, kay?)

Sigh. A rare occurrence happened today. No, a meteor didn't hit our house, nor did I see a unicorn grazing in our backyard. (Jim said he saw a leprechaun last month. Yes, that's why we are so rich!!) Actually, I broke down and cleaned.

It all started when I was looking down at one of the area rugs, and I seriously could not see parts of the rug's pattern because of the layer of crumbs, dirt, bits of pretzel, and various other microscopic items that had made their way to the floor. That's just gross, people. If it's this bad, uh, obviously, me and the vacuum cleaner aren't that close. (um, wouldn't you avoid your vacuum cleaning duties if the only conversation you had with that particular appliance consisted of loud sucking noises, and to top that off you actually had to push the thing around? Bitch, puhleeeez! No wonder I never get that thing out!)

Cleaning at the Reagans is a big event. Usually our rationalization for avoiding cleaning is that no one ever comes over. Then whaddaya know, some idiot decides to drop by, and they are greeted by newspapers strewn all over the dining room table, coffee grounds scattered on the kitchen floor, and empty La Croix cans on every available flat surface.

So today I got my clean on. Whoohoo! On any normal day, here's how cleaning goes at Casa Reagan. I clean the kitchen, the dining room, the living room, the foyer and my "personal room" upstairs. Jim cleans the bathroom and our bedroom and sweeps down the stairs. And that's all well and good. Usually we do an mediocre job, nothing fancy, about as skilled as any two people who hate cleaning as much as we do can accomplish.

But this time for me it wasn't just the "oh, I'll wipe down the counters and maybe sweep if I feel like it" urge. It was the biggie, the "let's move the couch and vacuum under it" and the "hey, why don't we throw out all the wire hangers and reorganize clothes according to color" and "oh, so that's where we put Dolores' wedding ring" kind of cleaning. Yeah, it's spring, so I guess this is the best time to do this anyway.

My mom used to say that I was cleaning impaired, because I would always do a half-assed job. I never saw the point in moving stuff when you're dusting, or getting under the table when you're sweeping, or even doing the dishes -- hey, we use paper, for cripes sake! But when it's your own house it's a little different. So today I'm scrubbing down the kitchen cupboards, and polishing the breakfront, and dust-bustering under the couch, and swiffering every floorboard twice. It was crazy!

Okay, so maybe I didn't clean out the fridge, or wash the windows, or disinfect the kitchen floor to a point where we could actually perform medical procedures on it like some people would. But I was pretty proud of myself for reorganizing my closet and throwing out all the wire hangers and actually folding all my sweaters and putting them into storage, and changing the bedsheets, and doing three loads of laundry. That is progress, people!

I have a love-hate relationship with cleaning. I mean, I never want to do it, but it feels super good when you're done. Kinda like working out, which I also should do more of in the future. And I am lucky that Jim pitches in and does an excellent job cleaning the bathroom, which is no picnic with the amount of hair I leave in the tub drain. He must have an iron stomach to clean that out, seriously!! So now that I'm done, I have a delicious-smelling home where Joan Crawford would be pleased by the absence of wire hangers. Yay!

Happy Spring, everyone! Let's hope it warms up soon!

Running in Flats....ahhh, so much easier.

What I'm Listening To: Ask Her to Dance by Coconut Records

Writing a blog is tough. If you have kinda a dull life, like me, sometimes it's a trial to think up stuff to write about. A lot (two words, Hesper!) has transpired in the last week, but not all of it lends itself to a blog topic. Maybe I should let my readers vote. Okay, so what do you think about how I borrowed some old Electric Company episodes on DVD from the library, and had myself a little nostalgia fest earlier this week. Or that my tooth has been sorta aching all week, and how I've never had a root canal and don't ever want one. Or that I went out on a pub crawl on Friday, and never made it past midnight because I got overserved. Or my happy hour on Thursday. Or watching Saturday Night Live, with Zac Efron. All are somewhat interesting, but not sure how much I could elaborate. So.

How about this? I follow this reality show, Running in Heels about these three interns who work at Marie Claire magazine. It's a guilty pleasure, kinda like all my television habits. And my reading habits, because at Casa Reagan we get like 12 different magazines -- Vanity Fair, Lucky, New Yorker, Time, Radar (before they went under, excellent, btw), and of course, Marie Claire, just to name a few. So since I get the magazine, hey, natch, I'm gonna watch the show. Because I'm a glutton for visual punishment.

Anyway, this show makes me roll my eyes so much I'm afraid they're gonna get stuck up there. Let me tell you about this lil ladies, all who just left college like a millisecond ago. Talita is the one with the dark hair to her waist. First off, who has hair to their waist anymore? Christ, I think even Crystal Gayle cut hers already. Get with it, Talita! Also, Miss T is from California, as if you couldn't tell by her thick surfer accent. It kinda goes with her fish pout. Nice. Along with her tiny chihuahua, Chanel (duh! What did you think she was gonna name her accessory dog? Wrangler? Snort!), Talita is pretty much a cliche.

Then there's Ashley. Oh, brother. She thinks she's like this big-ass player backstabber, but she's just trying waaaay too hard. I think she has a journalism background, but who knows? She's better at being petty and bitter and gossipy, so there goes all that good writing talent. Oh wait, everyone knows writers are petty and bitter and gossipy. Just look at your favorite blogger here. No, not Perez Hilton, bitches. Whatevs. So, bottom line, Ashley needs an attitude adjustment to the sunny side of the street.

Finally, there's Samantha. I'm thinking I'll give her a free pass on the judgements, because she's from Wisconsin. Uh, no. She doesn't seem to know the first thing about fashion magazines -- maybe she hasn't been reading them since she was a zygote like the other two -- and she can't write a decent fashion or lifestyle article, either. Hello? Everyone knows that when you write a feature article the most important part is the LEAD!! My lesbian journalism professor drummed that into us like every frickin' day at Madison. (Hi Professor Lauders!! Hope you like my blog!!!) And her boyfriend Kenny (come on, his name is Kenny? Did they make that up?) looks like a baby monkey. I will admit, though, that Sam is my favorite because she's trying to bluff her way through the daily birdseed that is Ashley and Talita, and doing okay with it.

Really, I have no right to judge these girls. I mean, back in the dinosaur ages when I was in journalism school I would have given my left titten for an internship at a big NYC fashion magazine, so these girls must have some inkling of talent to be selected to join the bigwigs over at MC. But their whining, backstabby and frankly ridiculous behavior makes me doubt if they could ever find jobs on their own. I mean, is this really what fashion magazine interns look like? Is this really how they behave? Or are the cameras manipulating everything, just like every other reality show, so this is kinda a keyed-up version of real life? I don't know about you, but if there was a camera on me all day long, I'd be the most self-conscious person imaginable. And I wouldn't be giving myself extra wrinkles trying to act like an airhead, or a sulky baby, to get viewers to sympathize with me. I'd probably be hiding behind a book or cowering in the bathroom.

What I really am intrigued by is the whole "frenemies" phenomenon among these ladies. So being frenemies means you act all nice to their face and then behind their back you badmouth them. Now, I'm not saying that I haven't done that myself, I mean, what woman hasn't? Not every one of your friends is going to do and say everything to your liking, and they are going to want to talk about it behind your back. But this group has the burden of having to work together and live together, so they have no choice but to be civil to each other, as well as have a camera in their face all day, so there you go with a valid explanation of their sad behavior.

But in the real world, where you get to go home to your own place at night, I think the whole frenemies thing might be a little different. Female friendships can take many shapes, some of them fun and some of them are just irritating, like sand in your swimsuit. And some of them can be really beautiful and supportive, like a sister, and then they make movies about worn-out jeans and quilting and magnolias about you.

Here's hoping you get a movie made about your own female friendships, or at least an internship reality show at Cosmo! :) (Seriously, though, can you imagine a Cosmo internship? They probably have hourly orgies between the lingerie photo shoots and self-help articles! Whoohooooo!!!!)

The Boring Jonestown Massacre

What I'm Listening To: Race for the Prize by the Flaming Lips

Do you think I'm cool? I mean, what is cool anymore anyway? When you're 38 years old, cool isn't so cool anymore. By the way, I just want to mention that I really don't like the Simpsons, but I thought this picture of the Brian Jonestown Massacre band was kinda funny.

Last Friday Jim and I tried to be cool. I saw online that the BJM was coming to Turner Hall. Now, I saw that movie DiG!. It was interesting, and sparked my desire to see this famed Anton up close. Read the link...and see the movie. It's pretty weird. So I went ahead and bought tickets for me, Jim and Layla, and started the countdown to cool. Because, let's face it, only the COOL people would be at this show. And I am still cool, gosh darn it! My mom said so!!

So Layla bailed because she's been sick for like a month, and she's still Chokey McCoughs-a-lot, so Jim and I were on our own. I started getting ready like 2 hours before the show. And realized that I have NOTHING TO WEAR to a cool kids concert. Oh, sorry, the cool kids call it a show, not a concert. Concert is geezer language, people. I'm like standing there in front of my closet for like a half hour, and I'm perplexed. There's NOTHING cool there. I mean, either my clothes are too clubby (read: too much titty or too sparkly) or too work-like (read: super boring cardigan and super boring pants) or too sloppy (read: I wear this to go to the Pick n' Save, and even though I look like a supermodel compared to the rest of West Aliens in their PJ's and slippers, it's still sloppy to me). So I am concerned.

Finally, I pick out a purple polyester knit top and a pair of jeans, and throw a nice cashmere cardigan over the whole thing, and slip on my ballet slippers and here you go. Not too "oh god who's the poser old lady?" and not too "Uh, Notte and Suite are on the OTHER side of the block". Jim looked adorable in a nice button-down striped shirt. I hate men's clothes. Men are so lucky -- everything's so easy for them. Whatever.

We drive to Turner Hall, and because I have no problem with a healthy hike, we park like 4 blocks away. No kidding. We get to the show, walk up the stairs to the venue, show our tickets and get sucked into the throbbing masses of hipsters that have crowded into the room.

Hipsters. I am scared. Here's my synopsis of some of the more obvious types of hipster in the room:

• Bearded weird young guy: What is with the huge full beard phenomenon?? Uh, people, Joaquin Phoenix is freakin' crazy! Imitating him by growing a disgusting bushy black beard (can blond guys even grow beards??) makes you look even crazier, if that's possible. Good luck with that.
• Cutesy little pixie girl, age=way too young: These types are a given at any hipster show. They are cuter than you, they are younger than you, and they can get away with wearing a ballet tutu and pigtails while you glare at them over the edge of your Miller Lite. Get over yourself, you little bitches. You're gonna get old too, no kidding!
• Huge Fat Dude: Oh, shut up. You know I'm right. These guys are always there. They always wear the same thing -- a zip-up hoodie, or a flannel, or a huge t-shirt. And they are NEVER cute like Seth Rogen. They look like Captain Lou Albano and they smell slightly stale. Oh well.
• Sexy Rockabilly Throwback Boy: Since this is Milwaukee, and we're somewhat close to Detroit, the guys here seem to think that Rockabilly never died, and that wearing your hair in a pseudo-pompadour and strutting around in your poplin windbreaker like a dimestore James Dean is still cool. Let me let you in on a secret, sexy boy. You may be super hot, but you are boring because I don't care about how my car works, only that it does work. Period. Go grease someone else's fanbelt for a change.
• Princess Snotty Bitch: This is what I call that chick who gave me a once-over while I was coming out of the bathroom. Hey girlie? Don't try to play like you only wear resale or vintage before 1952 and that you've never stepped foot in a Target before. Because, pssst, I saw you buying those earrings at Walmart, so suck on that, 'kay?

That's all I can think of for now. Hey, if you know any more, send them my way. I'm always happy to add to my lexicon of Milwaukee hipster scene cliches.

At this point you're like, who cares about the lame scene, how was the band? Well, let me tell you, I was kinda disappointed. Oh, it was no fault of BJM. They were fine, that is, as much as I heard their slightly boring show. Because there were NO CHAIRS to sit on, Mee-mawmaw (that would be yours truly) and Pee-Paw (that would be Jim) had to STAND UP through the whole thing. Oh, the horrors, I tell you!! Even after three Spotted Cows (yes, I drank beer. It was under duress, I swear!) my knees and feet still hurt, and this particular granny wanted to sit down super bad! Jeez. So I begged this lady to lend me her chair (one of the three chairs available at Turner Hall, seriously!) while she stood up and bopped along to the drone of the band.

Yeah, even with the chair, I was bored. So we left like after a half hour. No kidding. We're a tough crowd, that's for sure. We went downstairs, bummed a cigarette off this guy at the bar, and then drove home and went to bed. Whoohoo, a night out with the Senility Twins! Join us! Next week we're gonna mix some vodka in with our wheat germ and prune juice smoothies...you don't wanna miss it!

Did I tell you that we're still cool, though? Yes, even though I wasn't wearing skinny jeans or a ballet tutu, and Jim didn't have a bushy beard with a tiny bird in it, I still felt that the Reagans were two cool individuals. This may not be true, since an old friend once said to me, if you're cool, you don't announce it. But hey, we're all cool, people. Some of us, however, don't need to be reminded by going to dull shows. :)

Ugly Ugly Ugly! The Clothes of the 90s

What I'm Listening To: Creeps Me Out by IMA Robot

Uh, I just want to start out by apologizing for not writing last week. It was my sister's wedding on Sat March 21, and so in honor of my sister's happy nuptials as well as a mea culpa for not writing, I've posted a picture of my sister in a classic 90's outfit. BTW, this was in front of my dorm room door at UW Madison. Gotta love that Charlatans poster! Whoohooo!

So last night I'm sitting having pizza with some friends after the free spa experience we had at some basement in Brookfield. Yeah, check it out at www.prettycity.com if you'd like. And like any group of women, we got to talking about clothes, and out comes this long drawn-out story about how that one time back in the day at Forever 21, Charlotte Russe, Deb and some other teen-time store and they got a buttload of super cute clothes...all for under $100. Uh, did I mention that it was super cute stuff? They even got luggage, for cripe's sake!

Then the story segued into finding someone's high school graduation photos in the car, and what she was wearing, and how, because it was the 90's, it wasn't so cute. And how now there's all these super cute (stop counting how many times I've said super cute, 'kay?) stores like Deb and Forever 21 and H&M that totally WERE NOT AROUND when we older ladies were all in our 20's. ARRRRGH!

I just want to tell you a little bit about me in the 90's. Well, for one thing, I went through my 20s during this decade. Yes, my 20s, the years when my face was fresh and clear, the years when my ass was minuscule, the years of my glowing youth and beauty. Yeah, I forgot to mention, these were also the years when I thought it was OK to dress in men's clothing, pretty much all the time. I mean, this is the time when I actually thought a sexy club outfit was a pair of leggings, a HUGE chambray shirt that went to my knees, and topped off with men's brogues and a HUGE black blazer. I looked like a man who forgot his pants. And seriously, I thought this was a HAWT outfit. I remember, I wore it in San Francisco when I just got there, and we went to the cluuuub. I met this nice 30-year-old guy....and I was 24 at the time! Gosh, I was smokin'!!! Being SF, he was probably gay, though, and just thought I was a very femme-looking man. Oh well.

What pisses me off is that I feel like I WASTED my 20s -- my cutest years, mind you -- wearing the UGLIEST outfits ever. I just want to say for the record -- it wasn't just that 90s fashion was terrible. Because it was. We had no fashion role models during the 90s besides "Saved by the Bell - The College Years" and "Friends". Sorry, I know it's hard to believe, but I think that I owned one of the tops Screech had on during that show. I know, sad, right? And christ, I think I had more cardigans than Phoebe. No doubt! Combat boots and shorts, as my sister so elegantly demonstrates in the photo above, was the outfit du jour for the tragic hipster. At least in Madison, that is.

But it wasn't just the fashion black hole surrounding me at this difficult time. It was ME, and being 5'11" in a 5'2" world isn't always easy. I mean, I wore men's pants because, uh, it's the 90s people, and there was NO online shopping, so I couldn't find long pants for women anywhere except specialty stores where they charged $100 for some rayon jobbers with an elastic waistband. Yeah, uh, I don't think so. So I wore men's jeans and men's shoes (try finding a cute shoe in a size 12 in 1995...come on! I dare you!). One time, my roommate came home and she's like, "Do you have a man in your room?" and I'm all like, "Uh, no. It's my first month here. I should be so lucky!" and she's like, "Well then, whose shoes are those in the kitchen?" and I had to confess and tell her they were mine. So embarrassing, I must say.

So now it's almost the end of the first decade of the 21st century, and as far as the eye can see there are celebutards and barely talented rawk stars with their own clothing and perfume lines, and everyone and anyone has a cute outfit on!! Even prostitots like Miley and Co. have access to foxy clothes and fun shoes and accessories that I couldn't have even dreamed up when I was their age. Are they wearing men's shoes? I should think NOT! Are they thinking that a patched cardigan and a ragged t-shirt with a flannel tied around their waist is a cat-sound of a look? Um, they probably wouldn't even wear that to scrub out the toilet. Lucky dawgs.

I just sigh heavily when I think of all the dorky outfits I thought were hawt back in the day. Remind me to show you the photos if you're blue because you will LAUGH your ass off. So I'm making up for lost time and wearing all the cute outfits now! Except I won't wear anything above the knee or below the boobins. Is that bad? :)

A rousing game of Barbie!

What I'm Listening To: Paralyzed by Rock Kills Kid

It's Barbie's 50th anniversary this year. There's tons of stuff and nonsense about this exciting event all over the Internet, the paper and TV. Just read her wikipedia entry to get the gist of it all. You know, the scandal about her not having nipples, how she's been the subject of numerous lawsuits and controversies, how she's led little girls to hate their bodies and spawned the feminist revolution against being plastic, etc etc. Yet I can't name one female friend of mine that didn't play with Barbie as a girl. I certainly did. Hells yes! Let me tell you all about it!

Well, back in the dark ages, when there was no cable TV, no CDs, no Ipods, no computers, and no mobile phones, and you even had to change the TV channels by hand (gasp!), I was a little girl living in Shorewood, WI. Maybe I didn't have a lot of friends to play with. Maybe things were a little, let's just say, uh, hectic, at home. But I definitely had myself a Barbie. And I luuuuurrved my Barbie.

Now every girl played Barbies differently, but my Barbie, like her owner, was a solitary creature. Friends never came over to Barbie's house. Barbie did not really socialize, either. And family? Snort! Barbie doesn't need a stinkin' family, 'kay? As for menfolk, heck, Barbie didn't need Ken either. I mean, I had a Ken, of course. But Ken had one outfit -- a tuxedo, the stud muffin! -- and you couldn't do anything with that molded plastic hair. And, as all Barbie owners know, the best part of owning a Barbie is doing her hair. Combing it. Braiding it. Putting it in a pony tail. Taking it down. Cutting it. You get the picture. So Ken really just sat in the Barbie suitcase waiting for his day to come. Sigh, it never did.

When I played Barbie, of course my girl had to do something all day for a living. Duh, she had to earn money for cute clothes somehow! She was, get this, a model. But my Barbie always seems to be sitting in a waiting room waiting for her photo to be taken. And since I haven't played with Barbies for over 25 years now, I don't really remember doing any photo shoots with my Barbie either. I just remember her sitting around...a lot. Maybe that's because I only had one piece of Barbie furniture -- a wicker chair. So Barbie just sat there and looked pretty. Chua, that's a model's job!!

My Barbie may not have had a lot of furniture, but of course she had a car. I just want to state for the record that even as a kid I thought all the plastic Barbie accessories available at the time -- the Dream House, the Corvette, and even that huge scary afghan hound dog -- were just R-O-N-G wrong. My Barbie was waaaaaaaaay too classy for pink plastic and glitter. She was a working girl, dude. No, not that kind of working girl, but the parallels could be drawn. ha! Sitting around dressed to the nines and waiting all the time are the hallmarks of OTHER professions that we won't go into right now. Anyway, since I didn't have all of Barbie's accoutrements, Barbie drove around in a clog, uh, I mean, convertible. Just because it didn't have wheels didn't make it any less of a slick ride. Jeez, use your imagination people!! I had to! :)

Once in a very long while I would play Barbies with a friend. I had my friend Jenny come over to my house one time with all her Barbie gear. But Jenny didn't play Barbies right. I mean, she would thump her Barbie as she "walked" her over to my Barbie's house, and the thumping almost bent her Barbie's legs in half. Yikes! Also, it was Jenny who kept making Ken and Barbie "make love". But Jenny called it something worse that started with the letter "F". OMG. Uh, my Barbie, like her owner, was a innocent little lady. Not some hussy, Jenny! Yeah, needless to say Jenny wasn't invited back.

Some friends, though, knew how to play Barbies in the proper fashion. My next-door neighbor Marla had set up her Barbies in a bookshelf in her attic, kinda like a multi-level condo layout. So I'd bring all my stuff over and set up in the empty bookshelf next door. I just remember spending HOURS playing Duran Duran's "Rio" album up there in that stuffy attic, and pretending that our Barbies were going on dates with Simon Le Bon and John Taylor. Oh, did I happen to mention that Marla and I were 12 years old at the time? Yeah, maybe a little old to be playing Barbies, but we didn't care. Half the time we were talking about boys instead of playing Barbie anyway. Good times.

One year I got the Barbie Makeover head for Christmas. It was just Barbie's head, and you could really curl her hair and put makeup on her. Awesome!! Remember those little wires in her hair so it would hold a curl? And the cute makeup cases? I played with that thing so much her hair started to fall out. More good times. Wonder where that thing is now?

Oh, I hearted Barbie all right. I played Barbies so much that one time, when I mentioned to my mom that I didn't have anything to do, she suggested that I "play a rousing game of Barbie", which became an inside family joke for years to follow. I don't have my Barbies any more, but I'm sure if I did I would enjoy a game or two just for fun. Except now instead of modeling and driving around in a clog, Barbie would play stuff like "Barbie partying at the club" or "Barbie auditions for a modeling reality show" or "Barbie tries to quit smoking". Yeah, good times.

Do you still have any Barbies? Maybe we could get together?? Please?? Call me!

Mini-posts: And all I have to do to be happy is ... spend money?

Gosh, that Jezebel website certainly opens my mind to something new every day.

Chew on this little tidbit of opinion people.

So let me get this straight. If I hadn't gotten married, all I really had to look forward to as a single lady is mindless consumerism and endless hours of shopping? WHOOHOOO!!! Thanks for confirming my reason to live!!

I shop like a maniac NOW, and I HAVE a husband. I think they mean, if you don't have KIDS, right?

Hot Rod - The Making of another SNL Vanity Project

What I'm Listening To: New York Girls by Morningwood

I think I have an Andy Samberg problem. Two posts in a month about this guy?? What is up with me?? Is the universe trying to send me a message about Andy and his curious brand of humor? What am I supposed to be learning here? I'll never know. And frankly, who cares? ha!

Andy Samberg is a ghey-wad. Well, if you were born before 1980 you know what I mean. :) I just got done watching his movie Hot Rod, which, I know, was released in 2007. But hey, I forgot about it, didn't ever get around to adding it to my Netflix list (for good reason, I might add). So recently I caught the end credits on Showtime, and next thing you know, I'm DVR'ing this birdseed to watch after work because Gossip Girl isn't gonna be back on until later in March. ARRRRRGGGH! Okay, enough about that.

Can I just say, ugh? I felt so sorry for everyone in that movie. And they have no excuses for how horrifyingly bad it was. The plot is hopelessly stupid and juvenile. I think that Evel Knievel is turning over in his grave right now. Enjoy my crib notes on the synopsis:

Andy Samberg is Rod Kimble, the world's worst stuntman and probably the only one that performs on a Moped. He has a couple of loyal friends (a bunch of rejects from SNL, surprise!!) who serve as his crew and a possible romance with girl-next-door, Denise (Isla Fisher). When Rod's hated step-father's life is dependent on an expensive (uh, $50,000 is expensive, people!) heart transplant, Kimble wants to perform the ultimate stunt to raise the money to save his life, just so he can have yet another chance (he has already had many)to beat the tough old guy (Ian McShane) in a fight and earn his respect -- because a stepfather's love is EARNED, not given. Gee, what a great lesson for kids of all ages!! And with Oscar winner Sissy Spacek in a small role as Rod's mother, mission is accomplished and belief is truly suspended. I hope Sissy at least got a good payday and some decent craft services out of the whole thing.

Uh, here's my verdict: SUCKED. I hated it. And that's coming from ME, the girl who LOVED The House Bunny for pete's sake. That's just sad. Throughout the whole movie, I'm having this heated internal debate:
"Turn it off, this is horrifying."
"No, maybe it will get better."
"OMG, he just played ANOTHER song by that awful hair metal band Europe on his tape player. That make three so far. Sad!"
"No, Andy is pretty good on SNL. Maybe it will get better."

And on and on. Needless to say, I watched the whole damn thing. I am truly ashamed.

I just wanna know how type of vanity project fare gets from its probable origin as a comedic stoner discussion between Andy and his friends while they plan another episode of "Laser Cats", to an actual movie in an actual theater. (Does Andy even smoke pot? Is pot even cool anymore? I don't know anything, seriously!!) I mean, kids are making movies all the time and uploading them to You Tube, so maybe making a film isn't that hard. But the production, nationwide distribution, DVD rights to Zimbabwe, stuff like that? That's a little more difficult, isn't it? That's why Ron Howard makes the big bucks and the blockbuster theater releases, and Joe the Dancing Groundhog is making 3 minute shorts on Hulu with suspenseful music that make you giggle.

How did Andy convince other sentient beings to make this ridiculous and assinine movie? Did he just say, hey, I'm Andy Samberg, and I thought up "Dick in a Box", so get outta my way while I make you some dough because people will watch anything these days? Is that how this always works with these SNL breakout stars? Did Will Ferrell wake up one day and say, sheesh, you know what this world needs? A movie about ANCHORMEN! A movie where I can stick all my friends (and not so friends, but who cares about them!) on film and we can have a grand ol' time on someone else's money? I hope not. That's effing scary.

Damn, I wish it was that easy! Give ME the money, whydoncha?!! I could make a movie too!! I have friends!! I have ideas!! People tell me I'm funny!! We could make a movie about the library! No one's done that before! I could make a movie about the seventeen levels of intellectual excitement that resides in each and every book. We could have crazy nutbag characters and all my friends and family could be in it. I could direct, and Irene's Catering could be craft services. My sister could make handbags to hold people's scripts! My husband could hang the lighting! My friends could order drinks and make rude bodily noises! The possibilities are endless!

Okay, so if you wanna be in a movie with me, let me know. I am casting on Craig's List. It's called "Library Library" and it's gonna all be shot at the West Allis Public Library, just as soon as I get them to lift their ban on cell phones. Damn, that's annoying. Join me in a making this wild romp through literary liabilities! It'll be fun. Yeah, I mean it!

Next week: I try to turn War and Peace into a funny SNL sketch comedy script, a la Amy Poehler. Get in on the ground floor as my producer and throw some money at me, okay, because it'll be a blockbuster, dammit!!!!