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. :)