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...