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!

Sigh...once again 90s clothes were awful!

Okay, I'm kinda hidden behind my partner-in-party, Sarah. But you get the idea.

What I'm Listening To: Tall Boy by Har Mar Superstar

I know I’ve talked about this in the past, but god, 90s clothes sucked. I can’t believe what we considered fashionable clothing back then. And we actually left the house in these hideous outfits!!!

I just was talking with my hairdresser about my “go-to” outfit for going to The Cardinal, a dance club in Madison, back when I was college. Okay, you’re gonna love this.

My idea of a HAWT outfit to go to the club started with a snap-crotch dark heather grey stretch cotton bodysuit from J. Crew. It had long sleeves and a scoop neck. Okay, let’s stop here. A BODYSUIT? COME ON!!! That’s just R-O-N-G wrong. You are supposed to wear body suits UNDER stuff, but hey, not me!!!! And even though the sides of the top were starting to pill, and the scoop neck made me look like I had a monoboob, it didn’t matter. I was HAWT, people!!!!

Then I would wear a big baggy pair of men’s jeans from the Gap. All through high school and college I wore mens jeans, no lie. I think the final time I wore womens jeans was in like 8th grade. They were these super cute black pinstriped skinny jeans from Express with a zipper at the ankle. They were soooooo cute, but they made my feet look like surfboards. Oh well. Then I’d top this sexasaurus outfit off with a bulky black belt with a big silver buckle, and men’s black oxford shoes because my mom wouldn’t buy me a $100 pair of Doc Marten’s.

My only jewelry was a moonstone wrapped in wire along with a nasty silver celtic cross on a dog tags chain. No earrings. I think I was still wearing my high school class ring at this time, but not sure. I never did anything to style my hair – just let it air dry and just blow dried my bangs so they’d stay straight across my forehead. *rolls eyes*. It was hilarious.

Oh, and here’s a photo to get your morning started off right. Enjoy!

What effed up outfits did you wear in the 90s and thought were cute?

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! :)