but I don't like the bad boy types....

Dang, Shia. You're breakin my heart. You've joined the Mugshot Club. Trouble is, you weren't thrown out of Mr Chow's or caught making a scene at Pure or seen smearing your face with food at Chateau Marmont...

You got arrested at Wallgreens. For refusing to leave.

Riddle me this, you irritatingly good-looking man-child: what was SOOOOOOO hot at the drugstore you REFUSED to leave when they tried to throw you out? I've wasted time in a drugstore or two (it was standard recreation in college...broke and bored: let's go kill time wandering around the local strip malls) - but I'm a GIRL. Girls are supposed to stand, google-eyed and dazzled in front of the Revlon displays when mascara goes on a great sale. We're supposed to sniff every bottle of shampoo before deciding on the overpriced coconut-scented brand.

I've never known a man in my life that wanted to spend more than 30 seconds buying his bar of Safeguard and getting out of that drug store as quickly as possible.

Maybe Chicago's different? Maybe in drugstores in Chicago there are X-Boxes set up with Halo III and free beer and hot wings and maybe the aisles are long enough to toss a football - maybe they're more like sports bars.

Or maybe Shia likes shampoo? And greeting cards? And makeup? Maybe he's just reeeeeeaaaallllly into vitamins and toothpaste? Maybe when he's drunk he gets an irresistible urge to floss and wash his face with Olay products? Maybe he wanted to slather himself in Carmex or Caress body wash? Maybe a night of hard drinking left him feeling...dirty.

Beats me - why bother getting yourself arrested for "trespassing" in a drug store? Isn't that like Megan Fox getting arrested for refusing to leave a Sports Authority or something? I don't get it.

HOWEVER - if I ever end up in Chicago's Chi-Town, I'm finding that Walgreens and taking a picture of myself there...in that Walgreens that obviously sells giant plasma-screen tv's and broadcasts football throughout the store (the aisles of which are OBVIOUSLY filled with hot strippers and models in their underwear) and has a bar in the back serving $1 pints of Kokanee (that come with free Grey Goose shots or something).






p.s. - I still love you Shia - you and Brad Paisley. You're the only ones on my very short list of men I'd have to think twice (no, think a dozen times) about leaving K for if you ever asked me to run away with you...er, or if you asked me to go buy mascara and bubble bath with you...?

she was willing to DIE for those things?

Ok, maybe this is silly after such a long blog-recess to take up issue with Heidi Montag, but I'm sorry, what could I do with a quote like this (regarding her boob job):

Heidi said she fully understood the seriousness of surgery. “Right before I went in, I was like, ‘What if I don’t wake up? Oh, this is scary.’ Then I thought, I don’t care. If I don’t wake up, it’s worth it. I just wanted it so badly.”

Oh dear.

I mean, um...good for her for being so ambitious and not letting a silly thing like DEATH keep her (and her douche of a "boyfriend") from indulging her insecurities.

Here's the entire story (courtesy of msnbc's "tabloid tidbits"), decide for yourself:

After lifetime of suffering insecurity and poor body image, Heidi Montag did indeed place herself under a surgeon’s knife last April — and supportive boyfriend Spencer Pratt couldn’t be prouder!

“I’ve always been very insecure about my body,” the “Hills” hottie, Us magazine, confirming speculations about her nose job and breast augmentation. “On the beach, if I was standing next to a girl with big boobs, I’d be like, I hate her! I hated my nose too. I have my dad’s nose, which is huge. It took up so much of my face, when I looked down, I could see my nose. I couldn’t get away from it!”

Heidi denied that Playboy Bunny-lovin’ Spencer pressured her into the surgery. In fact, she told Us, he was really supportive. The day she went in for the operation, “Spencer said, ‘I’m so proud of you.’ It was like he was wishing me well off to school: ‘Love you! Bye’!”

Heidi said she fully understood the seriousness of surgery. “Right before I went in, I was like, ‘What if I don’t wake up? Oh, this is scary.’ Then I thought, I don’t care. If I don’t wake up, it’s worth it. I just wanted it so badly.”

I'm not sure who to start with...poor little "insecure" Heidi or that proud, supportive lame-brain she lets herself be photographed with on the beach. Girls like Heidi are, by the way, the reason I don't particularly like girls. "Forces completely beyond her control gave her bigger boobs than me...ohmygosh, I hate her!"

She must hate her dad, too, since he gave her a nose that she was so eager to lance off she would happily DIE to fix it.

Um, dad? Where were you when she took up with a no-good, hanger-on, wanna-be, dirt-bag boyfriend who was PROUD of her for pumping herself up with plastic pillows and slicing off her schnoz.

And Heidi, darling: I hope you feel better about yourself, because if you keep wasting time with guys who enthusiastically shoot you off to be nip/tucked like it was the first day of school, your new nose and your new rack will be all you have to keep you warm...oh, wait - that assumes she's smart enough to shake those boys off. That assumes she's realized they don't love her for HER. They love her for the bizarro photo ops. That assumes she knows what's good for her...aw geez, then I guess she and Spence' will be living happily, obliviously, artificially ever after...together forever on beaches where she can stand next to other big-boobed girls and fixed-nosed girls and feel luuuuuuuv for them, because she's got what they've got.

Oh, and p.s.....

WHAT ON EARTH IS THIS GIRL GETTING COVERED ON MSNBC FOR ANYWAY? SHE'S THE POOR MAN'S KRISTEN CAVALERRI...and there should never BE a low-rent Kristen Cavalerri...that's like...below d-list. That's Q-list. And I just proudly wasted a page on 'em both :)

people having a worse monday than I

Since I hate mondays...particularly mondays following a nice wedding anniversary weekend when i'm overloaded with work the second I sit down at my desk, I began this little ritual of cruising through news, current events or celebrity gossip to find people who's mondays...um, suck considerably more than mine. While I usually prefer the obscure to the overt, I do have a Lohan-fixation that just won't die...

So, in no particular order, here are people who probably wish they were me this morning:

Barry Bonds.

Because he's fallen into poor favor with Bob Costas. And Bob Costas is an American force to be reckoned with (not to mention object of my 10-year-old-self's innocent desire...in fact, I remember having an imaginary conversation between myself and some out-of-towner that commented on my equally imaginary licence plate frame that read, "Beautiful B.C." (not particularly odd up in these parts where we have plenty of British Columbia transplants). "Oh, you're from BC," they'd remark. "Oh no," I'd say, "That stands for Beautiful Bob Costas." I kid not. He's aged poorly...tends to look like the melting man a bit these days, but 15-20 years ago, he was foxy in that understated, deadpan style...)

But back to Barry, the man that drew the Costas ire. According to MSNBC, Costas thinks Bonds' 755th career home run will be an "ambivalent" moment for fans since the history Bonds is making is not "pure or laudable" and that "There are elements of history that are tragic or about which we feel ambivalent, and I think ambivalence is the best possible way anyone outside of San Francisco can feel about this."

It gets better. Barry and Bob make it personal. After Bob made a remark on the air about the existence of "credible information that Bonds has used performance-enhancing drugs to turn himself from a great player into a superhuman one," Barry decided to take the high (and articulate) road and responded by calling Bob "that little midget man."

Barry, Barry, Barry. You're insulting the premier sportscaster of our generation - the man to emcee at least a million Olympic Games - an athlete's advocate. A handsome, easy-going guy.

Bob's response: “As anyone can plainly see, I’m 5-6½ and a strapping 150, and unlike some people, I came by all of it naturally.”

Anyway, Bob goes on to sound decently intellectual, saying “It wouldn’t matter if I were the mayor of the Munchkin City. What matters is the validity of the information and the validity of the comments I have made, and very often when people have no credible argument — and in this case Barry Bonds has no credible argument — they resort to nonsense and ad hominem attacks, and that’s what he did.”

Anyway, sorry Barry - Bob wins on this particular Monday. I'd rather be me than Barry on this particular Monday - this kid never wants to draw criticism from The Bob.

Chief Justice John Roberts

He took a tumble on Monday. That's not what makes his day worse than mine (heck, I trip over my own feet a few times a day, I'm lucky to stay balanced, upright, and maintain a facade of gracefulness for half of my waking...er, walking hours) - what makes this a bad day is that, at 52, it's news when the man falls at home...and is hospitalized as a "precaution."

Soooo, did he fall off of a roof? Did he fall while driving the riding mower? He was conscious after the fall (thanks, CNN, for that edge-of-my-seat detail), but apparently fell well enough to warrant a trip to the hospital.

This could go one of two ways: we'll either be bombarded with forthcoming details in the next day or so telling us all about the state of the Chief Justice's dislocated shoulder (an unfortunate accident while building a tree house for his nephew or trolling for lobster)...OR we'll hear nothing and can assume it was somehow related to a sex swing.

Danika McKellar

Who? Oh yeah, WINNIE! From The Wonder Years!!!
So, after all these years she's resurfaced. She's as hot as I imagined she'd grow up to be. She's still got the shiniest hair on the entire planet. She's being featured on CNN...and after all of these years she's come back to tell us girls that "Smart is cool." Only trouble is, she manages to make saying so sound pretty ditzy: after making the easy Paris-Lindsay slam she manages to provide global news outlets with this very articulate sound byte:

"I want to show them [girls] that being smart is cool. Being good at math is cool. And not only that, it can help them get what they want out of life."

then this:

"I want to tell girls that cute and dumb isn't as good as cute and smart."

Thanks Winnie...

I'm going to err on the side of confidence in her intellect and suspect that CNN just did a poor job hyping Winnie's return to the American consciousness...she has, after all, just written a book called "Math Doesn't Suck" which includes "tips to avoid mistakes on homework, ways to overcome test-day anxiety and profiles of three beautiful mathematicians."

Hmmm. Well, not to insult the smart, hot chick and fall back into the very predictable gender stereotypes Winnie's trying to fight, but, um, if you're trying to make a statement about valorizing smarts...would it hurt to sound smart?

myspace: feeding the ravenous socially voyeuristic streak in all of us

I've decided the only reason I still waste any time on myspace is, ultimately, a creepy reason.

I'm a myspace spy.

I'm one of those "virtual lurkers" that hops from page to page to page just "checking in" on people...reading comments, cruising pictures, weaving through a "friend maze" until I'm looking at pictures of people I've never met but who might be friends with a friend of a friend of a friend that I may have vaguely known through someone else years ago in college. I can stumble across a play-by-play of someone's wedding, camping trip, graduation, drunken frat party, find out who misses who and who hasn't seen who in a long time...all from the comfort of my own little computer desk.
Creepy.

Addictive. Creepy. Because I know there are people out there lurking in on my life...and even more strange: doesn't bother me (of course, I guess I wouldn't blog or even bother with a myspace page if I were much afraid of e-voyeurs. Afterall, isn't it fun to feel like you were "really there" for someone else's trip or family reunion or bachelorette party or the birth of someone's first child...when you vaguely remember that someone being a friend of your little sister's back in grade school?

Anyway - for now, as long as people are updating their profiles with fun pictures they took of themselves at arm's length off some friend's balcony on the 4th of July, I'll probably be there, lurking.

creeeeeeepy.

ok, the spice girls won...

I was all ready to weigh in on this embarrassingly catty exchange-that-won't-die between Elizabeth Edwards and Ann Coulter or speculate about the cheerleaders that died tragically in the SUV accident overnight, or even whine about the fact that Seattle is currently colder than Anchorage, Helsinki, Oslo, North Dakota, you name it.

But then I see that the Spice Girls are reuniting - CNN confirmed it.

The way I see it, they should advertise this "global assault reunion" with a slightly more self-deprecating bent: call it the "Spice Girls PTA Tour." Parade their kids up on stage, trade organic cooking tips, breast feed during the intermission...

Aside from the fact that all five are looking a little road-weary, I can't figure out how this is to anyone's financial advantage...? The Girls had a brief run of "fame" in the states, but for the most part they're remembered as a parody as much as anything...I think they recognize this, too...the pictures I've seen of them assembled on cobblestone holding flags looking like suburban moms (with the exception of Posh, looking like a waxy mannequin...) look self-conscious, uncomfortable, terribly unlike a group of women ready to unleash a comeback on the...world.

The way I see it, unless they can get N'Sync to sign on with them, they're doomed...

leave me AND my bologna in peace...

Ok, superguy, I get your point: you wouldn't eat what I'm eating.

You think my tasty, heavenly little slices of mechanically separated turkey solids, hydrolized gelatin, modified food starch and sodium erythorbate (my "Meat Composite Cocktail!") are "bad for me."

And that's fine. Because I wouldn't want you eating my 98% Fat Free Bologna, anyway. More for me.

Thing is, I didn't ask you if I was good for me. I didn't consult you, Kashi: Go-Lean-eating Superguy, before I ate my 25-calorie-per-slice discs of pure happiness. If I wanted your opinion on my lunch, I would have asked.

While we're at it, aren't my mechanically separated turkey solids, snap peas, bell peppers and dried papaya slices a little higher on the "good-for-me-food-meter" than your giant bagel and cream cheese? HMMMMM?

Oh, what's that? It's "organic, non-dairy cream cheese substitute?" You think you've won this round, but don't get too comfy resting there on your health-food laurels - I see the weekly expense reports: last week when you had a lunch meeting, you went to that sports-bar-dive a few blocks from my house...and you BOTH ate the BBQ beef burger - with FRENCH FRIES. And a pint of Jolly Roger.

Mwuahahahahahahahaha.

Leave me and my beloved bologna alone and no one will ever have to know what I know: that the box of Kashi on your desk is the SAME box that's been there since 2005, and you DON'T eat it for breakfast.

Sparkling Pick-of-the-Week

Time for a Tuesday Wine Recommendation:

Segura Viudas, a Spanish sparkling wine (called Cava, meaning "cave") is my favorite "value bubbly." Available at most grocery stores for under $7.00, I prefer it to any local Washington sparkling wine, and DEFINITELY anything in the same price range out of California. It's part of the Freixenet "brand" (but infinitely tastier than the brand's black-bottle namesake).

Pale yellow in color and equally light in flavor it's perfectly dry with a light mineral scent and surprisingly fine, delicate bubbles (also blessedly free of bitter fruity after-bite). I'd call it an "agreeable" sparking wine (my term for party-friendly bubbly great for toasting), yummy flavor without a lot of fanfare.

(Bottom line: when you reach for Cooks or Korbel because it's cheap - THINK AGAIN. For the price, Segura Viudas tops the list).

If you feel like spending a little more, there's a Reserva from the same house that comes in a nifty bottle:

the things that come to me between snooze buttons...

I definitely do some of my most inspired thinking in those half-conscious minutes between snooze button slaps - in those lethargic moments of sort of ethereal stasis when part of me ponders a chocolate donut for breakfast and part of me tries to finish that conversation about microwave popcorn I was having with Nick Nolte in a dream before NPR's Robert Siegel breaks in again to fill me in on Hamas or the stock market (I wonder what would happen to my 9-minute spans of sheer genius if I set the alarm to a classical music station or...classic rock...I might become even more enlightened) I come up with some of my best theories (I'm a latent sociology fiend - while conditioning my hair or plucking my eyebrows or sitting in traffic, more often than not I'm theorizing about sociological phenomena...well, that and wondering what on earth happened to D.B. Sweeney in the past 10 years to take him from the World's Ultimate Dreamboat to a washed-up, vacant-eyed, beat-up husk of a man...sigh).

At any rate - I range from concrete moments of reasonable genius (a strange moment of clarity when I figure out the best way to consolidate our credit card debt and get a better interest rate and vaguely think about writing it down before I fall back asleep again, for instance) to more abstract thinking. Case in point:

This week between snooze buttons I came up with the answer to the suddenly ubiquitous question "Where are young Hollywood's parents? Why have all of these rich celebrities gone so awry?" It's been all over the news; it's a question Letterman posed to Nicole "I might be pregnant about to die of malnutrition but why don't you send me to a fitness camp to counsel overweight adults" Richie a few days ago, it's a question CNN even stoops to asking, it's a question hanging over the heads of Dina Lohan and Kathy Hilton and Lynn Spears and Lionel Richie...

Where have they been while their daughters are passed out on the floor in the men's room of a hotel, playing with knives, driving their cars into things, mixing alcohol with "antibiotics," and shaving their heads?

Thank you, snooze button, because I think I have the answer. Similar to my Theory of Inadequate Socialization is my theory of "Premature Emancipation Due to Financial Viability."

One thing most of these wayward celebs have in common is cash. Money. Titanium American Express cards issued along with their silver spoons. Bottomless bank accounts, trust funds, you name it. Trouble is, wisdom, a sense of responsibility, discretion, the ability to make smart decisions or even a basic understanding of mores and guiding moral tenets of society aren't included on the paycheck.

What does that translate into for rich, famous spoiled brats and their families? The way I see it, the famous teenager is able to buy a Mercedes or a Hollywood Hills mansion or an NYC loft (or their own weight in cocaine, or a lifetime supply of Ciroc...) which I think gets misinterpreted (by their parents and peers and media alike) as being able to provide for themselves altogether - which isn't such an unreasonable misinterpretation to make, considering the BULK of young adults ARE prepared to live and behave as adults by the time they move out of their family home. It's just an unfortunate mistake to make, in this case, to assume that financial viability and physical emancipation from the guardianship of their parents (legal or otherwise) translates into a realistic ability to behave as an adult living on their own ought.

Add to that the fact that wealth is as powerful a drug as any - and having the ability to BUY anything and anyone (essentially) that they want will lull the average high-school-aged kid into a sort of...intoxication of invincibility. If you can have a car and a house and a restaurant and a manager and a body guard and a ranch for your dad and a Land Rover for your mom and a closet full of Christian Louboutins, it makes sense that you'd perceive yourself as a provider, as an adult - and also expect that if purchases come easy and credit is no object, that this "credit" would extend to social situations, that if you're treated as an adult when you buy your house, won't that same money earn you respect if you mess up and run your car into a tree? If you can buy your way out of your parents home and into a sort of suspended-adult-reality, stands to reason you'd think you could buy your way out of any pesky situation with the right amount of money.

Just because they become the primary bread winner for their family (or because they're allowed to go live on their own and provide for themselves) doesn't mean they're equipped to deal with the social expectations that come with adulthood or with the responsibilities that come with being a provider...coming into cash doesn't mean you've grown up and I think parents mistake the fact that their children are sustaining themselves financially with being mature enough to handle themselves across the board.

Yes, you learn by making mistakes - but buying your way out of those mistakes isn't the answer. And turning a blind eye as parents when your kids veer off-course - or CONDONING the notion that money can cure all ills, legal, social, political, cultural or otherwise - is what gets kids in trouble. You learn by discipline. It's a parent's job to discipline, not to fear that their cash flow or publicity or celebrity will get cut off if they upset their meal-ticket child (and I think this applies even to the very wealthy Hilton parents as well - they cash in on their daughter's celebrity status as much as anyone - Kathy gets press attention, gets her face on magazines...they're exploiting their daughter for reasons other than money gifts, but it's still an abuse of their role as parents).

Their responsibilities as parents don't stop simply because the kid has their own car or lives on their own. Your responsibility as a parents NEVER stops, and it's sad to see moms with stars in their eyes over their daughter's bank account, or a dad reveling in the attention he gets regardless of the fact that it's because their child has gone off the deep end. It's a dangerous cocktail, money and celebrity. Parents willingly forsake their responsibility to their children because of the kickbacks...and forgive their kids' gross misbehavior as simply, "a phase, what kids do," or explain it away with the excuse that, "she's just figuring some things out right now," (because heaven forbid your kid sells the house they bought for you...)

At any rate, it's a workable theory - let kids loose on their own before they're socially prepared simply because they can AFFORD to live on their own and watch the train wreck. Just make sure you've got your make-up on because the tabloids will be asking for your take on the trainwreck that is your daughter, and it would be a SHAME not to look good for Entertainment Tonight.

carmex is a thing of beauty.

Every so often I forget how much I love Carmex. Every so often I load up on "organic" lip balms and nothing-but-sunscreen chapstick and fancy Chanel gloss and a glorious array of terrible products marketed at 12 year-old girls with flavors like "Cotton-Candy-Kiwi-Cream" or "Dr Pepper Blast" or "Acid Raspberry Turnip Dream" and wonder why I'm STILL not satisfied with the state of my lips.

At any rate - once I've relegated the Chanel and the Lip Smackers to the bottomless-pit-of-a-makeup-drawer for some rainy day, I end up back on the Carmex. It's no-frills. It's tingly. It makes my lips soft and shiny and chilly. It kills cold sores. It's price never goes up. It's utilitarian enough for a man to carry around, shiny enough for a chick to dig. It's your grandma's lip medication (alright, "sexy" isn't on the list of reasons to love the Carmex) . I hope they never change the ugly yellow tin.

But it got me thinking about other things that I love (because most of the time theses days it's all too easy to fall into a mental "pit of despair," complete with emotional R.O.U.S's and lightning sand and spontaneous combustions. It's too easy to let the stress of a heavy classload, a heavy workload, a heavy load on our bank account and too little free time or nice weather squelch all of the stuff that I bump into on a daily basis that I REALLY. DIG. If I allowed myself, I could sit and wallow in envy over the fact that my coworker has no only written a book, but is in the works to pimp said book on our local NPR affiliate tomorrow afternoon, something that seems so distant and unrealizable for me, but I'd rather sit and bathe in soothing thoughts...thoughts of things that I love)

My wonderfully supportive, beautiful mom.
My eternally understanding, loving K that reinforces me when I feel wimpy, makes me feel beautiful when I feel plain, looks forward to our future together with me and makes even my toes feel cherished (!)
My utterly selfless, strong (and yes, sometimes silent) dad - and the garlic shrimp he grills up so well.
My endlessly spunky (and resonant!) sister that makes making friends look effortless and appreciates the Young Herc in a way no one else ever will...
My unexpectedly well-rounded lil brother (that would put any self-respecting radio station to shame with his collection of tunes and any self-respecting DJ to shame with his impressively extensive musical knowledge - and this from the kid that grew up preferring dad's talk radio sports shows to Amy Grant of all things ;))
My bed (particularly in those minutes between snooze slaps).
My fancy Crown Plaza pillows (splurged on them, but it's like falling asleep on an angel's tummy - so soft and weightless and wonderful...)
Guacamole
Strawberry bubble gum
Strappy sandals
Reconciliations that balance
The pool at home - the sound of the lake lapping in the background, somebody playing their reggae too loud from the building next door with the windows open, little kids with cute french accents learning to swim, the wonderful feeling that comes from realizing that at the beginning of summer, we're ALL pale and soft...
Cucumbers
Gaelic Storm
Books on loan from the Boss (currently highly recommend "In the Fall" by Jeffrey Lent)
LOUD irritating pop music in the car (think Hilary Duff and other people I should be embarrassed to blast on my way home)
Sunroofs
Endless.com
Sunglasses
Matching bra & panty (but I hate the word "panty") sets
Manicures With Mom
"The Republic of Tea" tea (particularly Blackberry Sage)
My own homemade soap - peach with apricot seeds to exfoliate
The freckles that come out on my cheeks in the sun
Falling asleep snuggled up next to K
Lazy Saturday mornings in bed
"Mystic Pizza"
Calling in sick to work and getting outta town
Rockaway beach, with the entire family and all of that Costco junk food
K's margaritas...perfect every time
The Santorini Princess Spa...and their ridiculously good pizza
Cooking. Anything.
"Simon & Simon" (where can I find reruns of that show?")
"Wedding Crashers"
John Mellencamp
Bright red hair dye
Sour candy (the type I'm supposed to have outgrown but always have a secret stash of at home...in my desk...in the car)
Learning that I DO have endurance, I CAN learn to run, I CAN keep up with big boys on a hike and that endorphins ARE a great way to combat stress
Birthdays
European cars
Big, long, dangling earrings
Good hair days
Pizza
"The Devil Wears Prada"
Bacon Cheeseburgers
Pink Wine
The "Villa" house that I pass on my way home that motivates me to get my debt in order and buy a home...preferably a villa on some hillside in Tuscany - a vineyard, a big gate, open windows with gauzy curtains blowing...a secret-garden patio with crawling vines, rose bushes, fuscias and honeysuckle where we'd drink coffee in the morning and wine in the evening
Beth Hart - "Screaming For My Supper"
White wine
Drugstore cosmetics
Grilled cheese sandwiches
That unicorn among unicorns - a GOOD greeting card that actually says what you mean to say in the way you'd like to say it...
Flowers!
Cozy, worn-in, practically threadbare t-shirts.
Cozy, worn-in, practically threadbare jeans
Red Wine (hmmm, theme)
Cold, rainy night, candles lit, snuggling on the couch with a good movie in the background.
Green olives
Batman: The Animated Series
"Young Hercules"
Finding the PERFECT gift for someone special and surprising them with it for no reason
New friends
Getting back in touch with old friends
My father-in-law
White, linen dresses in the summertime
Flip-flops
A freshly vacuumed living room
Garbage disposals (don't have one, so I love them longingly, from a distance)
Big, huge sales
Target
Barbeques
Waking up early on sunny mornings to chirping birds
Watching other people trip & fall
Celebrity gossip blogs
Pictures of celebrities in bikinis
Celebrities without their makeup
Writing a single sentence so well it gives me chills...
Going to bed early
Getting on a scale and being pleasantly surprised
Our wedding day...
Bandon Beach
Shoes by Charles David, or Nina, or JoeyO or Chinese Laundry or Nine West or...
Bob Seger
Coconut ice cream
Hot chocolate
Indian food
Swimsuits (I own perhaps 50)
K's beautiful green eyes, big, strong hands, adorable butt
Old Toyota trucks with mud tires and roll bars and obscene lift kits.
French fries
The color pink
A good black v-neck
Any black v-neck
Bright red polish on my toenails
A long soak in a hot tub
Peonies
The Puyallup State Fair
Fluff Chick-lit
Greg Iles novels
Road trips
Diet Dr Pepper
Skirts that flare out and puff up when you twirl around
and, of course,
CHAMPAGNE.

Dear Heatheradair

Dear Heatheradair,

I know you think your life, like, totally blows right now - like, you have no cash and your job is totally leaving your nails chipped...but, like, compared to my life right now, yours is hot.

First of all, I totally don't have time to read all of the fan mail I get every day...so I hired somebody to flippin read it for me because when I have like, nineteen new clubs to check this week it's hard to keep up with all that sh*t. But I guess sometimes, like, important stuff gets mixed in with all of that fan mail, and I'm supposed to like, PERSONALLY look at it or something? So I guess I got like, my license suspended but didn't know it cuz I didn't read my mail. Not hot.

And then I got pulled over for driving with my headlights off or whatever and I find out I totally wasn't supposed to be driving AT. ALL. But of course the guy I hired to KNOW stuff like this told me I could drive if it was for, like, important stuff like shopping or going out or whatever.

ANYWAYZ, they made me go to court. SO I put together THE. HOTTEST. OUTFIT. I totally looked like a lawyer, and I pretended I was, like, on Law and Order and looked all serious, but they used all these big legal-type words about probation and previous offenses and then the old judge guy told me I have to go jail. For 45 days!

Jail!

Not like, rehab or someplace cool like that with tons of hot guys and other famous people. I can't even go shopping in jail! Meanwhile Nicole will be, like, everywhere totally stealing my photo-ops.

So you might think your life is totally lame right now because you've got a bunch of homework and your house is really messy and your bank account is totally drained, but at least you can still go buy shoes on your lunch break or whatever. I mean, I don't even have a publicist right now!

Paris

my annual post berating local radio Cinco De Mayo hype

(a moment of reverent appreciation for my local NPR station that completely avoids any mention of places where listeners can "get their party on" for Cinco De Mayo)

One bright spot: a local bar & grill is sponsoring "Sinkhole De Mayo" to celebrate the water main break that caused a road to open up and swallow two cars down the road this week. I can appreciate that sort of thing.

SO, I usually gripe about the fact that local radio stations live and breathe for any opportunity to make normal people feel like they should be partying. I think radio stations would host Presidents Day pub crawls if they could get a local car dealership to sponsor it and their "dj with sex appeal" felt like working the Presidents Day crowd (mostly bank and school district employees, I suppose) to give away bumper stickers and gift certificates to Sears. BUT - I think I've gone almost an entire year without listening to any FM radio, so my normal gripe is without much steam.

What I can gripe about, however: the fact that the opening day of boating season happens to fall on Cinco De Mayo. See, I live on a lake. In a neighborhood FULL of rich "boat people." My sister could offer a more succinct definition of boat people, but they're basically those wealthy Saab-driving types that don't so much spend time on their boats as they do congregating at happy hours with other Land-Rover-driving, boat-owning types to look self-important and under-tip the cocktail waitresses for all those rounds of salty dogs.

But one day of the year Boat People all get together out on the lake (a few feet from my living room window), drag their cabin cruisers out of dry dock and throw a 3-day long party, probably sponsored by Red Hook, celebrating their boat-owning superiority. They get a great kick out of lining up along the log boom for the big Opening Day parade and honking their big boat horns at one another allllll daaaaaay loooonnnggg. For three days.

This year, they've got the added gusto of a minor radio-station-friendly holiday to add to the generally self-important, traffic-clogging, washed-up-frat-brother nature of the entire shindig. SO, for the next two nights while their women hop from one boat to another swapping bottles of cab sauv and talking private school, I'll be listening to their honking boat horns, their laughing husbands, their drunk nephews and their step-children while trying to sleep...

Happy 5th.

Love those boat people.

aha! my genius theory on socialization and famous brats...

They feud, they booze, they boyfriend-swap, they drink and drive, they're lonely, they're addicted, they're moody, alcoholic, rich, famous, misunderstood and overexposed; they're EVERYWHERE. They're business people, they're spokespeople; they've built empires, they've negotiated contracts, they buy, they sell, they design...and here's another common thread:

They missed out on most parts of growing up. They weren't properly socialized.

Remember those days in junior high when - suddenly - the friends you used to sit with at lunch didn't want you to sit with them anymore (er...was that just me? couldn't have been just me...)? And the girls you used to pass notes to began passing notes ABOUT you behind your back? What about the boy a few years older that didn't know you even existed...or the one that sat behind you in math class that you wish didn't know you existed? What about that time in social studies class when you realized that cute no-good rich kid you had a crush on had NO desire to call YOU, but instead asked for your number so that he could grill you for information about your "prettier friend" that sat across the room.

Those things didn't kill you . They made you tough - gave you tools to prepare for the next barrage of social injustice - thickened your skin and showed you, years down the road, that you WERE strong, and capable, and that people weren't always nice but sometimes, years later, they'd apologize out of the blue? You weren't the shrinking violet you felt like when you were 14 or the awkward shy girl everyone took you for when you were 17, or the only girl without a fake tan at prom (or a date for that matter, but you went anyway with a life-sized cardboard cutout of a Star Trek character and discovered that being ballsy pays off every now and then because people took more pictures of you in your $19 last-minute faux-prom-dress than of any other girl in the room).

You cried about those times, scribbled over people's faces in your yearbook, spent lunch hours by yourself in the library for a few weeks, whined to your mom about the unfairness of life, whined to your sister about how "growing up blows" (at the ripe age of 16), whined to NEW friends about wrongs done by OLD friends...you met new people, learned to let things roll off your back, learned when to keep your distance and when to reach out, learned how to bounce back from hard hits (like that drama teacher that insulted your stylistic genius or the student government adviser that called you inept or the math teacher that kept trying to give you D's), developed inalienable personality that you wouldn't have had if you'd skipped those years...

It's THOSE moments - those "OH MY GOSH HE LIKES ME BACK!!!!!!!!" moments that the rich and famous brats missed out on. The NORMAL moments. The kid moments. The teenage moments.

They were thrown into a grown-ups world without the tools, skills, or social experiences to back themselves up. Sure, they could film a great movie and call screen icons their contemporaries, or be photographed to high heaven with all the best - they had paid entourages, they made sales pitches, they have financial advisers and trust funds and probably understood "liquidity" before they understood "tampon," and were expected to play in the big leagues before they ever learned how to survive a break-up with a little dignity, or how to have an argument with a friend and NOT throw a drink in their face and profess to a tabloid that you'll never speak to her again.

They skipped the trials by fire that shape adults and prepare kids for life as an upstanding members of society - they learn about big business, their own marketability, net worth and royalties, but do they learn how to make friends? How to apologize? How to "say NO to drugs," or how to fight through the lonely?

nevermind that this came to me while I was washing my hair in the sink the other day at, oh, 5am...I think it's valid...we wonder why the starlets can't stay on the wagon or why they bed-hop or why they don't eat or why they shave their heads, but without the life skills, without socialization, without learning to build healthy friendships in a world that sees you as a dollar sign, or a dollar sign's pretty daughter, or your own parents' meal ticket, how else are they supposed to turn out??? What happens when child stars grow up....without really growing up???

When they're surrounded by people who only have their best interest in mind as long as they're on the payroll, how else can we expect them to turn out?

Hmmm - thoughts to ponder while feeding my dlisted and egotastic addictions...viable theory, I think...

a sigh of blog-ish sadness...

It's stuck in my head at the moment, that Jack Johnson tune about the good people. Where'd they go, the good people? Reminiscing about a time a year ago when my list of blog buddies was miles long, the daily reading more than I could keep up with, the comment threads spirited, lively...

Then the summer came and went, and something happened...

Weddings, masters degrees, civil discontent, falling in love...whatever. "My" bloggers dropped like flies. The blogscape (I prefer that to "blogospere") became a little more bleak...a little more lonely. Where'd T go? Come back, Paige. Banana, I miss you...

Mere's stuck with it. I dig Mere. Her page is pink. I dig pink. She manages amazing poignancy in the middle of day-to-day anecdotes about her life...I like reading about other people's daily grind, getting caught off guard by something disarmingly touching and realizing we're all pretty similar, really...

At any rate, since I'm feeling generally repressed and uninspired by the back-breaking combination of a heavy work load, nearly full-time school, tight-as-they've-ever-been finances (ever-expanding hips) and TERRIBLY FEBRUARY-LIKE WEATHER IN MAY, I've decided to recommit myself to The Joy of the Blog. A creative outlet in my otherwise drone-like working-stiff existence in RainCity these days.

And I shall rediscover new and wonderful blogs and be inspired by people that, today, I don't even know exist.

Just know, long-lost blog-buddies, I miss you!

Since when did an attempt to lose weight include philly steaks and cheese fries?

I seem to be doing everything just right in my annual springtime attempt to ditch 8 lbs. Burgers: check. Takeout chinese: check. Margaritas, homemade cookies, potato chips, pancakes, bacon, Starbucks, fried mushrooms - I mean, I don't even LIKE most of those things most of the year, but all of a sudden, since deciding summer (and swimsuit season) was slightly too imminent given the circumference of my hips: I'm eating like a bachelor with an 8 year-old's metabolism.

Since when did I get cravings for mushroom cheese steaks? And did I just hear my own voice saying, "Mmmm, cheese fries!!!"

The jeans are hard to button these days as it is, why am I making 10pm s'mores over the stove burners and acting like provolone (by the handful) is a guilt-free snack? This is getting ridiculous. As it is, my fantastic springtime clothes are laying in heaps around the bedroom smirking at me - "So you think you wanna wear ME today? Mwuahahahaha - how'd those nachos taste last night, hmmm?"

Fine, fine, I've relegated myself to another few weeks of ill-fitting jeans and hide-it-all black v-necks...

I've stocked up on tuna, salmon, bell peppers, cucumbers, snap peas, broccoli and flavored waters, so why am I still rummaging through the fridge for that last tablespoon of peanut butter, or "cleaning the cupboards" to find the stale tortilla chips?

It must stop. As of today I begin - in earnest - Heather's Summertime Swimsuit Slim-Down. 8 lbs doesn't seem like such an insurmountable hurdle...a pound or so a week and the weather around these parts should just be getting nice about the time I'm stepping on the scale feeling something other than trepidation.

I just have to guard myself against the Sour Patch Kids.

Cheese fries??? I don't even LIKE cheese fries. Sheesh.

Holy gaming problem, batman (and also: why the food in my kitchen would survive a nuclear holocaust)

On the topic of things unnatural, an "obese Chinese man" collapsed and died after a 7-day online gaming marathon. The reason he'd stayed in front of the computer for 7 days straight: "There are only two options. TV or computer. What else can I do in the holiday as all markets, KTV and cafeterias are shut down?" Apparently the markets and cafeterias close down around the 7-day celebration of Lunar New Year, and this poor soul, when left with no dining-out options, decided to spend 7 days in front of the computer.

Sigh.

I don't know what's more unnatural: that he played computer games until he died or that he couldn't last 7 days without the markets and cafeterias and so essentially killed himself. Death by online gaming over-stimulation. Not the first time I've heard of this sort of thing, either. A Korean youth died several years ago after a massive online gaming competition during which he sat in front of a computer for 50 hours straight. Taiwan reports several similar deaths, all cite heart failure stemming from exhaustion as the cause, as most of the gamers (all men in their 20's) would sleep for extremely short spells and only get up to use the restroom.

So this got me thinking: Jack Bauer hasn't used this technique yet. Sure, maybe it's not as instantly menacing as ol' bags-over-the-head or knives-through-the-kneecap or broken fingers or chemical cocktails. BUT - it's creative. And it would make me giggle to hear the Jack Bauer yell "I DON'T WANT TO MAKE YOU PLAY THE SIMS FOR 100 HOURS BUT I WILL DO IT IF IT HELPS ME FIND THAT BOMB!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" or "PICK UP THE JOYSTICK AND PLAY, DAMN YOU!!!!!!!!!!" Hey, I'd love to see a scary terror-monger cowering in fear at the sight of an iMac. Or an angry CTU suit demanding another Jack resignation because he subjected the wrong bad guy to "Rise of Nations IV"

But enough of that. More about my kitchen cupboards.

I was standing in the kitchen the other day, innocently snacking on a handful of Fruity Pebbles (my theory on cereal: why allow it to get soggy: don't ruin it with milk in the first place) when I realized the sell-by date on the top of the box said July 08, 2009. That in itself is pretty impressive. Way-to-be, Post cereal, for creating a product that could rival a Twinkie's shelf-life. That got me curious. What else in my kitchen is designed to sit on a shelf until Jesus comes back?

• Campbell's "Thick & Hearty: SIRLOIN BURGER" soup, for one (mmmmm....)

• Easy Cheeze (White Cheddar!)

• Crystal Lite (my great-grandchildren will be able to enjoy a refreshing glass of "Strawberry Sunrise" long after I'm gone)

• Green Olives (check on that jar in the back of your fridge that you bought for making martinis on New Year's Eve five years ago: they're still fine and tasty and green as ever. Promise)

• Generic "Butter Flavored" popcorn (probably good for eating during a marathon online gaming championship. It'll outlast you..)
  
  
• Ginger Ale (I think I'll leave it for whomever moves into my apartment once I've moved out)
  
  
• Marshmallows. Unopened, I think their jet-puffed tastiness lasts for about 27 years.
  
  
• JIF peanut butter
  
  
• Bisquick

The list could go on...but startling to realize some of my groceries are built to last better than the people that buy them. And yes, there is a fridge full of nice, edible food (white wine, dill pickles, salsa, provolone; the essentials), but comforting to know in the event this early daylight savings causes computers to freak out and send us back to the dark ages (and the people that buried gold in their back yard fearing Y2K will be the gods among us) I'll be able to live happily on popcorn, easy cheeze, and marshmallows. mmmmmmm......

The Britney postpartum depression theory makes sense.

SO - terrible disregard for HIPPA aside (but then, what average rehab facility orderly wouldn't violate a little thing like patient confidentiality for the chance to sell Britney's diagnosis to gossip websites and tabloids in exchange for more money than they'd bring home in a month or twelve), this postpartum depression diagnosis theory makes sense. Ok, so it's a little spooky that she has a "death list" of her "enemies" (she's a washed-up teen pop-star. Do teen pop-stars have enemies......? of course they do - how else do I suppose Law & Order comes up with those fantastic plot lines about sociopathic cheerleaders and homicidal has-been child actors if pop stars didn't have enemies. how naive of me....) and I still can't quite reconcile the tattoo compulsion on the heels of the head-shaving ordeal, but I have an idea that it was a misguided Brit-Attempt to add a little happiness and joy to her otherwise overwhelmingly overexposed existence...hey, they said she was reading Brooke Shields' book in rehab...I think I smell an attempt to champion a popular cause in the works. Her comeback will follow her stint as a motivational speaker as the voice of underrepresented new mothers the country over (which will necessitate another Matt Lauer interview) .

Makes sense, though, doesn't it? This type of depression (though widespread...Postpartum Support International estimates 1 in 8 mothers suffer from a postpartum mood disorder of some sort) seems to go undiagnosed and unrecognized until something high-profile (and usually tragic) happens to bring some legitimate recognition to the condition - most of Britney's bizarre behavior seems in step with someone trying to self-medicate for depression - drinking, drugs, avoidance, emotional instability, unpredictable behavior...the suicide watch (which may or may not be true, but if extreme postpartum mood disorders play any part in driving a mother to kill her own children, stands to reason it could also drive a mother to kill herself).
Frankly, if it does turn out that Britney's battling extreme depression (and is open to receiving treatment to help heal and work toward being a responsible, caring parent) then I think she stands to accomplish more for postpartum depression than we've seen so far - if it could happen to this pop princess, it could happen to anyone (seeing public service announcements playing in my mind now...).

Here's my optimistic shout-out to Britney...may she receive the help she needs and get back to being a mom. Even a bald mom. That would be the ultimate come-back. Careers may come or go, but children need their parents for the long haul (shoot, I'm well on my way to grown-up and couldn't make it through a week without my mom!)

For aunt Kim...And because it has been awhile.

(Alternate titles: "I Send 'Em Running to the Far Reaches of the Continent" or "You Can't Keep A Good Paraprofessional Accountant Down," or "This Week's Contestant In: So You Think You Can Work Here???")

Things have been busy lately.

(but before I get to that: Starbucks, in some sort of philosophical attempt to make drinking from their paper cups a spiritual experience, has taken to printing trite platitudes penned by everyone from Dr Laura to a National Geographic herpetologist, then adding a nice asterisk at the bottom reminding any of us that actually read the "fine print" on our coffee cups that "This is the author's opinion, not necessarily that of Starbucks." Today's gem: "Growing up, my parents always said, 'You will leave this world the same way you came into it: with nothing.' It made me realize that the only things we do in this world that count are those things that make the world a better place for those who will come behind us." Tyrone B. Hayes, Biologist said that - Starbucks may or may not agree.)

But back to the "things have been busy" gripe:

After "SHE" took off for the heartland to work for no pay with a man that does not love her, the huge "when will I next explode with fury over a diatribe extolling the virtues of a chemical-free lifestyle????" weight was lifted (which, coincidentally, I have trouble reconciling with her penchant for highlighting her hair with chemical bleaching agent), it was time to hire "HER" replacement.

I begin to wonder if perhaps my boss didn't marry the first girl he took to a drive-in-movie date 40-some years ago, because he has a habit of hiring the first person he interviews. SO - after one interview, we'd replaced HER. With a nice, soft-spoken girl that could never get to work on time. A nice girl that separated from her husband after two days with us, and it was touch-and-go from then on out. She would leave for a lunch related to the legal separation, call back in tears hours later and say she couldn't come back to the office the rest of the day. She moved out of her married home and into an apartment closer to work, then - in a stab at living a more urban lifestyle - sold her car and planned to take the bus to work. But the bus schedule seemed to be an ongoing mystery to her and she would miss one bus, then another, then another, then call after she was an hour late to say she was on her way, it just might be an hour...or two.

So, we were understanding to a point - the girl was going through some monumental life changes and we wanted to be flexible - flexible right up to the point where we realized it was in our better interest to seem a little more assertive and have "a meeting." A "please get here on time or we can't keep you on board" meeting. At which point she said, "Actually, my husband decided to sell the house, so I have a little extra money, so I'm putting all of my stuff in storage and riding my Yamaha down to south America. Do you want me to work through the end of the week?"

So, first it was single woman pursuing "chance of a lifetime to work for no pay with a man that doesn't want to marry me in Missouri," now it's single woman pursuing "chance of a lifetime to take my motorcycle to Brazil." I'm starting to feel very dull. Very predictable. Very stable. Very...settled down. Very promotion-worthy.

At any rate, we had to replace another one. So we hired the first person we interviewed. And I'm cutting my "management teeth" on a woman twice my age, with perhaps twice my experience. I'm Topher Grace to her Dennis Quaid (without any intentions of dating her daughter, mind you. And without the annoying attitude. Or sales babble. Or Porsche. And better hair)

SO - in my two and a half years at this desk, staring out at the Ugliest Highway In The World I've outlasted three office mates and am now curious to see how long the 4th lasts.

like dad always said:

"Never underestimate the stupidity of the American public." Or something like that. Actually, I think it was a combination of platitudes, about catering to the lowest common denominator and never being surprised when people like things in poor taste. But for the sake of example: never underestimate the stupidity of the greater microwave-using public. Case in point:

http://www.cnn.com/2007/HEALTH/01/24/germs.sponges.reut/index.html

So, University of Florida experiments suggested that sponges - wet sponges - could be decently sterilized by nukin' em for about 2 minutes. Dirty-sponge mongers the country over began microwaving their sponges posthaste...and their dry sponges started exploding and ruining microwaves from coast to coast.

Ya think?

The best comment by a dry-sponge-microwaver: "Just wanted you to know that your article on microwaving sponges and scrubbers aroused my interest. However, when I put my sponge/scrubber into the microwave, it caught fire, smoked up the house, ruined my microwave, and pissed me off."

Gee.

So, the entire principle behind the microwave - that the waves excite moisture molecules in the item you're trying to heat - has apparently been lost on us for generations. Sounds like most of us probably just think microwaves are a MAGICAL means to heat our Marie Calendar's fettuccine dinners and reheat our coffee.

At any rate, a marketing team from the University released the following advisory:

"To guard against the risk of fire, people who wish to sterilize their sponges at home must ensure the sponge is completely wet. Two minutes of microwaving is sufficient for most sterilization. Sponges should also have no metallic content. Last, people should be careful when removing the sponge from the microwave as it will be hot."

Because the university definitely doesn't want any lawsuits alleging "injury by hot sponge." Not when they've duly warned the nitwits out there about the abundant dangers of "Dry Sponge."

Although, to be fair, I've long remembered an anecdote my mom told me about a family friend that, when attempting to warm a towel in the microwave to place on his sick wife's forehead neglected to dampen the towel, and delivered a smoldering, smoking towel, remarking, "this doesn't look right."

"GET THAT OUTSIDE, NOW!" advised wife, before the smoldering towel promptly combusted in a flaming cotton bundle on their lawn.

DAMP SPONGE. Damp.

slept through it again.

The New Year, that is. Went to bed at 11:27 after playing taxi for 2 hours. Left husband at a kegger with his father, dodged crazy lunatics in downtown traffic, went home and went to bed...woke up hours later to husband telling me a story about eating kegger potluck beans and meeting a guy that worked on a fish processor. Tried to sleep a bit. Woke up to husband screaming "HAPPY NEW YEAR" on the phone to some drunk buddies that called in the middle of the night. Slept for another five minutes. Woke up to husband YAKKING his guts out - violently - sometime around 3 am (those fantastic potluck beans he'd told me about, apparently). Threatened to go sleep elsewhere, then took out the trash containing vomit clean-up napkins. Paused for a moment to wonder exactly why I was standing outside in slippers and my nice dress coat holding vomit-garbage in the middle of the night when I should have been sleeping. or cuddling. or whatever newleyweds do on their first married New Year.

earlier in the night, sometime around 10, between picking someone up and dropping someone else off at ridiculously far-removed parts of town, had a conversation with two guys wearing...hmmm..."dapper" fedoras in a parking garage elevator that went something like: "You look like you're on your way to party!"

me: "actually, party's done for the night, i'm goin home"

(must be the nice dress coat. long, fancy coats scream "out on the town")

fedora guys: "well that's just wrong."

me: "what can I say. i'm an old lady. I'm goin to bed."

fedora guys: "there's something wrong in the world."

my thought: yep. two full-grown men in matching fedoras that don't seem remotely embarassed.

At any rate, Happy New Year...I think my one resolution shall be to throw away the christmas tree by April this year. and to pluck my eyebrows a little more consistently. and maybe wash the sheets every now and then. or the kitchen towels...one or the other.