Crafting is God's way of rolling his eyes.

What I'm Listening To: September by Earth, Wind and Fire (this one's for Greg!)

There's a big world out there.  And basically, it's divided up into two types of people. Those people who can craft, and those of us who have tried crafting and failed.  Miserably.  So therefore I believe I can say with a lot of resentment, anger and jealousy, CRAFTING SUCKS ASS AND YOU PEOPLE ARE DORKS.  (Except for my sister, who is awesome and I love her very much.)

What is crafting, you may ask?  Well, if you just stepped off your spaceship, crafting is the art of making some amusing trinket by hand.  Usually it involves fabric, yarn, glue, thread, and glitter puffy paint.  For me, it usually involves frustration, sweat, tears, screaming and stomping off in a huff.

Oh, don't get me wrong.  I've tried to craft.  I've tried reallllllly hard.  I've bought so many crafting supplies that my basement looks like a Jo-Ann's pop-up store (don't get me started about Jo-Ann's Fabrics -- that place is like the fashion-challenged Mecca of Milwaukee.)

And with all those awesome materials, I've tried making things.  To get started, I looked up the instructions on the interwebs.  First of all, there's like A MILLION CRAFTING BLOGS. Yes, I said blogs.  Does everyone in America have a blog now?  Hey, I have a blog!!  You have a blog!! BLOG BLOG BLOG BLOG!!! 

And all the crafting blogs look like other crafty people actually read them, and comment, and are always sponsored by tons of companies that probably give the blogger actual shwag and promote them.  Jeez, where do I sign up?  Does Marlboro Ultra Lights sponsor blogs?  That would be AWESOME.

Once you find the item you'd like to make, the bloggers' directions all say the same thing.  "OH IT'S SO EEEEEEAAAAASY!!!!  I made this life-sized chocolate fondant replica of the Washington monument and matching cake stand in like 15 minutes while I fed my twins on both boobs and knitted a tea cosy at the SAME TIME!!!"  WTF!  When I see the word easy, I cringe. Easy in crafting language means "We're going to make the assumption that you've crafted before, that you know all these crafting terms, that you're in the crafting nation and that you've drank a gallon of the crafting kool-aid before you started this project.  Hey, newsflash, not every one of us knows how to do anything useful so don't make any assumptions that I understand words like "seam", "wrong-side out" or "bias".  

So I give up.  I can't craft.  I suck.  I am a horrible human being and worthless and weak.  But I'll tell you one thing that isn't two things -- I bet the bloggers can't type 80 words a minute, create amazing powerpoint presentations that will literally wipe your nose for you, and pound out a pivot table in their sleep.  (Ok, that last part, about the pivot tables...yeah, I can't do that either.) *grin*

It's About TIME!!!!

What I'm Listening To: Be Wild by M83

I'm baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaack. 

So many people have asked why I don't write on my blog anymore.  Well, here goes nothing. 

I haven't entertained you, my gang of seven readers, in quite a while.  Have you missed me?  Teeheee.

We'll start slow.  I worked from home today.  It was kinda fun to spend the day in my pajamas, but I forgot that I set the thermostat at 62 degrees while we're usually at work, then wondered aimlessly why it was so cold.  Uh, turn up the heat, brainiac. 

What else happened?  It's a new year, so Jim and I are renewing our health kick for 2012.  We gave up PRETZELS!  Can you believe it?  Now we eat air-popped popcorn (almost typed air-pooped -- would that be popcorn made by farting on corn?), which honestly needs a LOT of salt, so not sure how much good this change is doing our sodium levels, to be sure.

So I'm gonna stop here.  But I just wanted to tell you guys that I missed you and I will be back so prepare yourselves.

OKCUL8RBYE.

I ain't afraid of no ghosts! Yeah, right!

What I'm Listening To: You're the Best Thing by Style Council (I heart you Paul Weller!!!)

Did you know ghosts are real? Yes, yes they are. Well, according to all the ghost and paranormal shows on television, ghosts are real alright – a real nuisance.

How do I know so much about ghosts and the paranormal? I have probably watched every ghost show on TV – all 8,394 of them. Seriously, there is a show for every ghost kink you could possibly have – paranormal “true story” recreation (A Haunting) kids with psychic powers led around by an old queen (Psychic Kids: Children of the Paranormal), Jersey Shore wannabes that like to taunt ghosts at old landmarks (Ghost Adventures), and your various scientific teams of “curious people” searching for paranormal evidence (Ghost Hunters). It’s unreal. (Get it? Unreal? I am funneee!!!)

I should start by saying that I totally believe in ghosts, the paranormal, demons, all that jazz. So these shows were like crack to me. Especially shows like A Haunting, where they’d recreate true “haunting” stories, with the victims kinda narrating along with the recreation. That show was so freaky that I’d only watch it with Jim sitting next to me on the couch, in broad daylight. It was only after like the fifth time I’d watch a demon take over someone’s body, though, that I could watch it by myself.

And since I’ve watched every ghost show ever made, and I fully believe in the paranormal, I think that makes me enough of an expert to provide you, my simple reader, with some “ghost lessons”, based on these fabulous shows. Sit back and prepare to be edjumacated!

Ghost Lesson #1: Kids = Haunting.

Every episode of A Haunting is about a family. Never is there one episode about some random single dude playing XBOX all day who gets scared to death by a demon who beats him at Badge of Honor, nope. The show always features a mom and kids, or a dad and kids, or grandma and kids. Sometimes a dog, sure, but always kids.

Bottom line, kids are always in the picture somehow when a house is haunted. So if you don’t want a haunted house or demons, or a mean-ass spirit waking you up at all hours of the night, don’t have kids. How’s that as a plug for birth control?

Ghost Lesson #2: Bed sheets will protect you from ghosts.

Did you know ghosts are afraid of cotton? Yes, if you pull your bed sheets over your head, the ghosts will leave. They do not like sheets, or for that matter, any type of bedding. My mom told me that one.

Ghost Lesson #3: Ghosts do not like to be teased.

There’s this one ghost show that basically consists of these three juicehead dudes visiting old haunted landmark places. They lock themselves in the building from dusk til dawn, turn off all the lights, and wander around with night vision goggles while they film and record ghost-y stuff. Then they yell and taunt the supposed ghosts and spirits to stop being cowards and come out and play! OMG, it’s like the best show on TV!

First of all, let’s talk about these dudes, because they are awesome. Hailing from Las Vegas (totally figures because that's where awesome was born!), Zak and the other two guys are covered in tattoos and muscles. Where they don’t have a tattoo, they have a muscle bulging out. Their wardrobe consists of sparkly Ed Hardy style t-shirts and jeans. I’ve never seen them wear anything that didn’t either have rhinestones, a huge cross or a skull on it – seriously!

I can’t remember the other guys’ names – because honestly they are just background noise compared to the wonder that is Zak Bagans. I heart him and his bossy top ways. He is covered in muscles, Ed Hardy, tattoos, AXE body spray, and of course my undying admiration. And the ghosts heart him too, since they seem to attack him the most. One ghost even was caught on tape saying “I hate Zak!” That is awesome!!! I wish a ghost would hate me, and on tape, even! I am lime green jello!!! Call me, Zak! Please!!!

Overall, just let me say one thing that isn’t two things: If I saw a ghost, I would poop my burlap pants. No lie. Not try to talk to it, not ask it what was wrong, not try to help, nothing like that. Leave that ghost whisperer stuff to Jennifer Love Hewitt, for cripe's sake. For real, I would be rooted to the spot in my poopy pants. So please, if you die, don’t come find me all ghost-y. Unless you like cowards or you have toilet paper. Thank you.

Huh? Pardon me? Excuse me? Whadja say?

What I'm Listening To: Hear Me Out by Frou Frou

I’d like to start out with a disclaimer. This blog entry is not a reflection on anyone, any organization or any group of individuals affected with hearing problems in any shape or form. I’m just relating my experiences with having a difficult time hearing. Thank you.

Okay, I think I’m going deaf. At first I wasn’t so sure. I mean, when you can hear your cell phone ring from two floors away, or that incessant dripping from the faucet drives you nuts, you obviously don’t believe you have a hearing problem. So I’m thinking WTF, my hearing’s fine.

If my hearing is all well and good, then my addiction to television closed captioning must be totally normal. We used to only have the CC on when it was a show featuring UK actors so we could actually understand what they were saying. I mean, we all speak the same language, right? Not. Brits, Scots, you name it – to me they talk all fast and sing-song-y and full of strange words like snog, boot or loo. Think you know the King’s English? Just watch an episode of BBC America’s “The In Betweeners” with the captioning turned off if you want to be really brave – it will make your head hurt trying to keep up.

But how can I explain why those lovely scrolling captions now accompany basically everything we watch? Well, actors mumble, for one. Or they talk too fast. My favorite, though, is when the captions don’t match what the actor says, which happens more often than you’d think. Or the captions can’t catch up to the actor’s lines, which also happens a lot, especially on Saturday Night Live, btw. Or someone in the living room is eating super crunchy loud pretzels…I won’t name any names….JIM!

However, there are downsides to CC. Watching the bottom of the screen for an entire program kinda strips away the point of actors and acting – they might as well be puppets for all it matters. But the little yellow sentences dancing merrily by now hold me hostage. It’s almost painful for me to go places where captions are a nuisance rather than a necessity – like movie theaters….sigh.

It’s not just the TV I can’t hear. I can’t seem to hear live people either. “Huh?” is my official 2010 catchphrase – I know, it’s a dud compared to “That’s hot!” or “Where’s the beef?” but it works for me. I tried counting how many times I said it this weekend – I got up to 23. No lie. Why is that? Does everyone just talk too fast, or too softly, or forget to enunciate?

I’m at a complete loss. I could pretend I don’t know where this malady came from. Of course I could never link my hearing deterioration on forgetting to put in ear plugs when moshing to Fugazi back in the day or turning my headphones up to 11 on a regular basis. It’s just old age, that’s all! So be kind and speak up, sonny!!

What kind of a name is Ouiser, anyway?

What I'm Listening To: Hearts on Fire by Cut Copy

I just saw the movie "Steel Magnolias" this weekend. Yes, that hilarious tearjerker chockablock full of cutesy one-liners that’s overacted by a bunch of big 1980s stars. Over the years I’ve witnessed multiple cultural references to this movie, but I’ve never had the resounding pleasure of seeing it. (Much like a lot of other movie classics I’ve missed, like “Miracle on 34th Street”, “Citizen Kane”, etc. But I’ve watched “Stepbrothers” like a billion times, so I think I’m okay.) So I leapt at the opportunity to see this classic gem on television this lovely Memorial Day weekend – oh, that and the car was stuck in the garage because the spring broke on the door and we couldn’t open it, so basically we were stuck at home anyway. Lots of fun!)

I missed the first 15 minutes, so it opens at the scene where everyone’s gathered in Truvy’s (what is Truvy short for, anyway? Truvilla?) home beauty salon getting ready for Shelby’s wedding. I am seriously worried about Julia Roberts as Shelby making it through the door with her massive wedding coif. It’s a tangled shellacked foot-high mass of poufy strawberry blonde spiral curls anchored by a banana clip!! Amazing! I know huge hair was just a fact of life in the 80s (just take a gander at my high school yearbook) but this ‘do is like the grand hair poohbah of 1989. Well, it was the end of a decade of excess -- what did you expect? Chua, even I had a fluffy spiral perm back in high school – which didn’t really coordinate well with my alternative punk rawk all-black wardrobe. Yeah, trying to straddle the line between being a sulky Cure-obsessed sad-sack and a member of Academic Decathalon was tough! Ha!

Speaking of wardrobes, it’s time once again for me to bitch about 80s and 90s fashion. I’ve included a photo of me at my high school graduation – which, coincidentally, was the same year Steel Magnolias came out. Why does it look like I borrowed my grandma’s burial outfit? BECAUSE CUTE TEEN OUTFITS DID NOT EXIST IN THE 80s. Oh, wait, yes they did -- if you wanted to look like a neon-splashed or Easter egg-hued spazasaurus. I blocked out the motivation as to why I chose to spend this monumental day in such a flowered monstrosity…probably to torture my classmates. I’m sure it was a success. (Okay, I had the best intentions of including a HS graduation photo, but this blog is not cooperating. Maybe later.)

So for two lovely hours movie viewers are exposed to what can only be termed as an 80s fashion horror show, a parade of yoke-collared pastel dresses, huge shoulder pads, sloppy boxy jackets with big patch pockets, and shapeless sack skirts. It was almost physically painful to see wealthy crank Ouisier in one of her trailer trash Chanel knock-offs consisting of matching jacket lining and print shell, or Shelby sporting a frighteningly fluffy Christmas sweater and stirrup pants. The only person wearing something decent is…can you believe it? Dolly Parton. Her vintage-y polka dotted church dress with the splashy ruffles was ah-dorable.

Bottom line, I don’t get why this film is such a female cult favorite. All it did for me is raise questions, like why did Shelby REFUSE the orange juice when she was obviously going into diabetic shock? Diabetes is a well-known and completely treatable disease even in the 80s, so why do they all act like Shelby’s some saccharine-coated time bomb? Why didn’t Truvy’s husband ever want to go anywhere? Why didn’t Dylan McDermott take his top off – at least once? How did frumpy geek Annelle go from hotsy-totsy makeover to religious nutbag in the space of two hours? Was she just trying on personalities for size til she found one that fit? I don’t know. And through the whole movie I’m trying to figure out for the life of me where I’ve seen Annelle’s boyfriend before – oh, right, he’s the creepy dude in those Mummy movies with smelly Brendan Fraiser (doesn’t he look like he smells bad? I know!!) Okay, turning off Shelby’s life support at the end was admittedly heart-wrenching and uh, maybe I did get a little misty-eyed. But snappy Southern comebacks and a couple of stray tears still doesn’t justify why this movie turns so many people’s crank. Most of the time it just made me roll my eyes, not wipe them.

From the ridiculous fashion and hair, the inane one-liners, the diabetic tragedy of organ donations (huh?) or gastrointestinal treat of an armadillo-shaped groom’s cake, viewers are forced to walk away from this movie feeling at least something heartwarming about friendship, funerals and bald dogs. Me, I just felt a little sick to my stomach. Sorry, y’all.

Don't get your undies in a bundle!

What I'm Listening To: Can I Get Get Get by Junior Senior

I was in the locker room at the gym last night. Don’t even get me started about those women who think that the words “locker room” actually translates to “exhibitionism alley”, prancing around naked as they blow dry their hair, or hold long involved conversations with their boobies sticking out. No, that’s a whole ‘nother blog post.

I would like to turn your attention to the undergarments of some of these ladies, especially the older ladies. Now, as my circle of life comes around another bend, I really have begun to distinguish as to what “older” means – now that I’m almost “older” myself. Older is like…over 70. Ha!! But back to today’s topic, which is…wait for it…granny panties.

What are granny panties, you ask? Well, they are waist-high nylon underpants. They come in either industrial-strength beige or dingy grey – honestly, could you imagine a printed granny panty? I mean, what would the print be? Sparkly walkers? Cute orthopedic shoes? A Depends pad or two? The mind boggles.

And why do older ladies insist on wearing this style of underwear? Honestly, I’ve never seen anyone under 60 wearing these underpants. Do you hit a certain age and one day, doot doo doot, walking to your mailbox and wow! It’s a package from the Granny Panty Patrol. “Dear Mrs. Jones – Welcome to the world of being an Older Lady. Now that you’ve reached this pinnacle of lady-dom, please accept our humble gift of your first pair of Granny Panties. Wear them with pride, Granny!” That’s just wrong, R-O-N-G.

Because guess what? It’s AMERICA, land of the free and home of the sexyback, and a LADY can wear ANY underpants she wants – at ANY age! For realz! You can go to Target, or Vickie’s, or hell, even Frederick’s of Hollywood you hot slut, and they won’t turn you away from the lingerie just because you’re an Older Lady. So why wear those granny panty monstrosities? You don’t see Samantha from Sex and the City wearing granny panties, and she’s like a million! Chua!

I’d love to hear from some Older Ladies as to why you’ve chosen to wear these undergarments. Is it that you think you can’t rock a thong anymore? Is it you have a secret penchant for wearing tatty beige nylon near your lady bits? Please reveal the mystery! Or better yet, throw those nasty things out and wear a hot pink lacy number next time you’re hitting the gym. My undergarment sensibilities will thank you.

Everybody's a Comedian...except me.

What I'm Listening To: Paranoiattack by The Faint

Last week I watched the movie “Funny People”, the one with Adam Sandler and the now svelte (but still a disgusting shlep) Seth Rogen. Click on the link to learn more about it if you haven’t seen it already.

First off, I haven’t been to a live comedy show in like a million years. In fact, I don’t think I’ve EVER been to one. And this movie makes me NEVER want to go to see a comic live. Is that all it is? A fat dude standing on stage, telling me about what his balls might say to his dick? That is stupid. I’m just saying, all the comedy in this movie basically consisted of jokes having to do with genitalia, scatology and impotence. Uh, whatever happened to intelligent humor? Does that not exist anymore? Or are comics just too lazy to get past the laughs they receive when reveling the crowd with their “oh, and then my balls said…” type of humor. I am soooo not interested in hearing that your butthole said hi to your taint. That is totally lame and that signifies to ME that the person is a total lazy comedian. But hey, no one said that Adam Sandler was talented. “Lunch Lady Land”? Snort. I have sung better songs DRUNK – and RIGHT OFF THE TOP OF MY HEAD!! Whatevs.

Hey, I do NOT envy Adam Sandler and his ilk, though. Being comedian looks like it would be really tough. If you’ve been following along with this blog over the year or so, you have probably laughed out loud at the misadventures of me – from Barbie in her clog to sex-crazed roomies to my suggestions for Halloween treats for teenagers. So hey, maybe I AM funny, whatever that means to you. I make up stupid songs. I adopt ridiculous catch phrases that everyone seems to start using. I’m pretty good at comic timing, if I may say so myself. I write a silly blog about my so-called life. But could I get up in front of a roomful of people and do a “comedy routine”? Hellz no!

Don’t think I haven’t thought about it. I mean, sure. Everyone’s probably seen some crappy comic on TV and been like, “Hey, I could do that!” If anyone loves attention and making people laugh, it’s me. But the thing is, what might be funny sitting around at the bar with your friends, or lying in bed with your husband, or written online, or joking around at the lunch table, is probably not going to go over well when you try to talk it through on a stage. And my humor relies on mostly inside jokes and situations in their organic setting – not trying to describe a conversation my boobs might have with my butt. I mean, come on. That’s just gross. Besides, my boobs haven't spoken to my butt since high school ... all because of that one guy. Chua!

So I will stick to pouring the tea, ending every other sentence with "chua!" and singing dumb songs about crab cakes and table vultures, thank you very much. So don’t haunt any comedy clubs waiting for me to go on. I’ll probably be the one in the front row heckling! HA!