New favorite phrase: "Pro-freakers."

Aw - when I found this article tackling whether school districts should ban "grinding" at dances I thought I must have stumbled onto an old, out-dated link. Assumed this issue couldn't possibly still be making the news. Apparently I assumed incorrectly.

AND judging from the percentage of people that responded to an MSNBC survey about whether or not they thought the next generation's "dirty dancing" should be banned ( nearly 60% said "Yes! High schoolers grinding can only lead to trouble.") it looks like it's still a hot-button issue.

Also on the list of "apparentlies" based on this article:

• Students at some California high schools now sign contracts before attending school dances promising not to "freak dance." Heh, heh, heh. I love the earnestness of that statement. Love seeing the word "freaking" in a news story. Gets my inner 13 year-old gigglin. I guess that means there would have to be some "freaking police" on hand at those dances, making sure Student A's hips don't get too comfortable with Student B's hips (or whatever). Wouldn't that be the greatest job. "Pardon me, back that pelvis up. Atta boy, soldier. Tuck it in." Or something.
• Other schools, like Pacific Hills School in West Hollywood  are testing more ridiculously awesome tactics "such as recent threats to turn up the lights and play Burt Bacharach if students started to grind, according to the Los Angeles Times." Uncertain whether a single incident would be cause enough to unleash, oh, Barry Manilow's "Mandy" on the entire student body, or if a larger "freaking contagion" would have to break out. Frankly, the best bet there would be to go "freaking crazy" as soon as the Burt Bacharach started playing and bust out a wicked waltz or fox trot when Lil Wayne played. Just a fun suggestion to mess with their minds a little.
• The larger MSNBC-reading contingent needs to have "grinding" defined for them - Jacqueline Stenson opted to describe it as an interaction where "partners repeatedly rub their pelvises together in a sexually suggestive manner." Meaning, I guess, that "freaking enthusiasts" could beat the Bacharach on a technicality by rubbing OTHER parts of their bodies together in a sexually suggestive way. Actually, by that definition, the "students" in that picture I posted are NOT, technically, "freak dancing." They're just spooning, standing up. To a soundtrack.
• "One school" (unnamed) was rumoured to have found condoms on the dancefloor. Whether these were used or unused is, perhaps, the more important question. Unused: you've got students making some conscientious, safe plans which may - OR MAY NOT - be inspired by their foray into pelvis-grinding. Used: you've got more "freaking problems" on your hands than some suggestive pelvis action.
• The article also created my new favorite phrase (!!!!) when it mentioned two Salina, Kan., high schools where "the pro-freakers" fought back. When the superintendent of Salina Public Schools banned overly suggestive dancing last fall, students boycotted their schools’ homecoming dances and instead organized their own, reported the TV affiliate KWCH. More than 400 kids attended the student event." That's the sort of reality I think schools will bump (& grind - !!!) up against when attempting to regulate the TYPE of dancing in which students are allowed to participate during school-sanctioned events. Turn on the lights, the kids will go "freaking underground."
• And yes, that is the sound of me totally snickering in self-satisfaction at how flippin awesome it is that I'm incorporating all of these "freaking references."

I'm not entirely certain that this "new school" form of dancing is really leading to more students having sex....afterall, young'uns have been shocking the elders with their "sinful" dance styles since, oh, dance was created. It's a rite of passage, participating in some sort of "dance" that your parents would insist is NOT, actually, dancing. It's the Johnny-Baby phenomenon.

By the way: I responded to the poll: I went with the "it depends" option. I'm sure there are all manner of behaviors that are otherwise inappropriate for a school gymnasium, no matter how dark and loud and littered with glow sticks that gym may be. If you show me stats that prove that "freaking students" are more sexually active, perform less well in school, crank out more babies or are otherwise any worse off than the fox-trotters, then I'll "freaking reconsider."

popular science confirms what john mayer already knew: we hourglass types are sexy heroin.

Fine. I guess I have to own up to it: my John-Mayer-Hyper-Loathing-Complex is an uncomfortably blazing example of the fine line between love and hate. I love to hate him. I don't miss many opportunities to call him a pig, but on the other hand - I'm the one writing about him at every opportunity. There must be some latent fascination that I'm ashamed to admit. So, we'll just let that thought simmer there for awhile and own up to the fact that there's a certain morbid willingness to discuss King D-bag and move on with the important stuff. Like the fact that I'm going to take something interesting like the sexiness of an hourglass figure and totally strip all the fun out of it by analyzing it numerically and invoking the name Jessica Simpson. Get ready for it:

Science has confirmed what my mother always told me: curves are good.

Let's get my own dimensions out of the way: thanks to good genes, good luck and absolutely no power of my own, I'm a 34-23-34 girl. Apparently that ain't bad. In fact, let's get mathematical about it (according to Elizabeth Cashdan of the University of Utah): 

"...scientists (and apparently Western society) thought a curvy figure trumped other body shapes. The idea was based on results from medical studies that suggested a curvy waist-to-hip ratio of 0.7 or lower (meaning the waist is significantly narrower than the hips) is associated with higher fertility and lower rates of chronic disease.


In addition, past research has revealed that men prefer a ratio of 0.7 or lower when looking for a mate. The preference makes perfect sense, according to evolutionary psychologists, because the low ratio is a reliable signal of a healthy, fertile woman. Along those lines, Playboy centerfolds tend to have a waist-to-hip ratio of 0.68..."

So, my 0.676 ratio puts me squarely in Bunny territory. Sweeeeeet. Maybe THAT'S what I should be doing for some extra cash. The playboy mansion actually looks like a pretty sweet vacation spot. Great pool. And hey, they photoshop those centerfolds. So the fact that I'm thin but not particularly (*cough - REMOTELY - cough*) fit wouldn't even be an issue. They could give me artificially sexy quads. Excellent. I love technology. You'd never hear me screaming about how the "me" on magazine covers isn't the "real me." I'd be more like, "Check out my fake abs! Smokin."

Anyway - now we've got a new study that suggests that merely "watching a curvaceous woman can feel like a reward in the brain of men, much as drinking alcohol or taking drugs might."

Well hmm.

I suspect I should be able to capitalize on this "reward" reaction somehow (and in a way that involves neither stripper pole nor bedazzled g-strings nor dollar bills tucked anywhere other than my pretty little wallet). If nothing else, I could come up with a great personal tagline: Jameson, Mary Jane, HeatherAdair. Or something along those lines. I could put it on a t-shirt. "Doctor says....my hips make you high." Eh, no. That's lame. But you get the idea. This could make for a slick bumper sticker.

The article also mentioned that "shapely hips in women are linked with fertility and overall health. As such, it makes sense evolutionarily speaking that studies across cultures have shown men typically find hourglass figures sexy." What also makes sense in that case: John Mayer's uber-classy commendation of Jessica Simpson as "sexual napalm." You know the one: "Yeah, that girl is like crack cocaine to me... Sexually it was crazy. That's all I'll say. It was like napalm, sexual napalm..." Which, initially, I thought sounded pretty uncomfortable (er, along with everything else that comes out of his mouth, but there I go with my "love to hate" thing again....). Napalm: not generally something you want to mess with. Or allow to trifle with your important bits and pieces. HOWEVER - Jess is voluptious in that very traditionally hourglass-ish way. And apparently her evolutionary advantage was difficult for the Mayer to deny.

Also interesting: '"It turns out women find similar optimally attractive female bodies as attention-grabbing, albeit for different reasons," Platek said. "Women size up other women in an effort to determine their own relative attractiveness and to maintain mate guarding — or, in other words, keep their mate away from optimally designed females."'

THERE'S my new tagline: Warning: Optimally designed female.

And this is hardly new news that women check out other women. Constantly. Incessantly. Now it's just scientifically documented. And yes, it is a comparison of how well we measure up against other girls. So when we get the once-over in line at Forever 21, yes, it is that nearly biological urge that compells us to determine if we're looking better or worse than her. Or, if we could pull of that particular jeans/boots combo as well as she does. Or, apparently, if our "mate" would abandon us for her, um, more optimal female design. Exhausting, really. But more or less inevitable.

So - today I shall take some pride in my waist/hip ratio. Much like my love-hate relationship with John Mayer, it's a love-hate relationship with that ratio. On the "skinny days" I can appreciate the proportion. On the "Jennifer Coolidge" days....less appreciation. More righteous loathing that both top AND pants can feel too snug all at once. But hey, if I were lounging around Heff's cabana, I guess that would be a non-issue. Teeny tiny bikinis are a whole lot more adjustable on those days where I feel "less optimally designed."

So thanks, science, for giving some merit to one of John Mayers more perplexing tirades. And for giving me biological cause to appreciate those 0.676 proportions.

And now...guess what Shakira song is stuck in my head............

Oscars still relevant: this kid says yep.

Aside from the fact that this Fox News article completely stole my trite little quip about the Oscars being "my version of the superbowl," it also completely misinterpreted the "spirit of the Oscars" when it suggested that the entire pomp and spectacle of the event really has anything to do with the films...or the academy voters...or the demographic that still tunes in to watch.

The Oscars are about the celebrities. And their dresses and hair and borrowed jewels. And the quality of the host's opening monologue. And acceptance speeches. And after-parties. And Barbara Walters Specials. And awkward red carpet interviews. And, sure, that moment at the end of the night where one film takes the best picture honor and all of those proud producers, cast members and directors parade up on stage looking proud and....shorter than you imagined.

The excitement over the Oscars has very little to do with whether or not certain films deserve to win or -- moreover, according to the article -- whether small, independent art films deserve wider distribution and a shot at an Academy Award. The excitement over the Oscars has everything to do with the dreamer in all of us that always wanted to grow up and be a movie star. Win an award. Make a speech telling all of those old algebra teachers where to shove it because you knew you wouldn't need those theorems down the road anyway. The ceremonies inspire starstruck idol-worship in all of us. Once a year. For 7.25 hours or however long the entire broadcast lasts. It's at least seven hours. And that's when the orchestra is feeling particularly frisky about beginning the music to usher the winner off the stage after twenty two seconds OR as soon as they remember to thank their wife.

Apparently "industry insiders" (those nameless, faceless "movie people" I suppose) are conflicted about whether or not the 82 year-old Academy Award tradition is outdated. Here's a quote:

"Still regarded as the ultimate critical accolade in the film industry, the Oscars have seemingly managed to achieve the impossible by remaining relevant for 82 years. But in the information age, where blogs and independent Web sites allow nearly everyone the chance to be a critic, do the Academy Awards really mean anything to the average viewer?


Some industry insiders argue that the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences are still the single most important force in an industry that contributes $10 billion to the economy in box office sales alone."

Because, sure, anyone can be a critic - not just anyone can roll out a red carpet and inspire the Hollywood elite to turn out in their best dress and tolerate uncomfortable interviews with Ryan Seacrest. Anyone can publish a movie review or encourage their friends to catch a little known indie-flick online, but not just anyone can inspire Hugh Jackman to put together a humiliatingly delightful song and dance routine in front of an auditorium full of better-looking movie stars. Anyone can watch a movie - not just anyone could convince arbitrarily paired celebrities to willingly participate in the horrific banter that preceeds the announcement of the winner in each category - banter so awful not even January Jones would deign to butcher it as part of an ill-advised SNL gig. For instance.

On the flip side, "By failing to recognize the shifting winds in filmmaking and distribution, the Academy risks making itself seem even older than 82, according to many industry insiders."

Hmmmm. So, what's wrong with an old, staid institution reveling in the glory of its own outdated tradition? What other hat trick will bring George Clooney and Johnny Depp and Helen Mirren and Meryl Streep into the same room, at the same time, for the same occassion OTHER than the Oscars?

They're not obsolete.

They're a great excuse to get a bunch of friends together, spread a table with junk food and come up with a million reasons Sandra Bullock shouldn't have worn that dress. Or why our hair would look better than Anna Kendricks'. Or why Amy Adams looks better with her hair down. Or how we'd totally agree to hit the Vanity Fair after party with Jeff Bridges, but not so much with Woody Harrelson. And somehow, no matter how close to the crypt he becomes, we still wouldn't say no to Captain VonTrapp. Er, Christopher Plummer.

(I'm behind the curve on this but.....) tiger woods to start foundation to rehabilitate, um...subversive cheating rich guys with hot wives.

Ok, so when we get past the fact that Tiger looked rather like a wax recreation of himself during what I shall deem "The Most Unneccessary Press Conference Ever" and ignore the patently uninteresting stuff like, oh, EVERYTHING that came out of his mouth, we come down to this inalienable truth: I don't give a flying pop tart about his cornucopia of marital indiscretions, his addictions, his lost endorsements OR his future in golf.

Aha.

Don't care if his wife and kids skinned him, added wheels, a strap and used his hide to haul their own clubs around the course.

Don't care if he's sorry or not, if he'll spend the future paying child support to poorly dressed cocktail waitresses the country over, don't care how his business partners or loyal fans feel, don't care if the sport of Golf loses any more "celebrity" over the entire ordeal.

I just don't care.

HOWEVER, I start to edge closer to caring about Bad Television. And the "press" conference (I use the term loosely because apparently there were very few "press" personnel even permitted to attend, those invited were hand picked by the Tiger Handlers and forbidden to so much as un-cross their legs during his protracted, foundation-wearing apology, anyway) was Bad Television. Boring Television. Pointless television. UN-entertaining. And, failing entertainment, also managed not to introduce any new "press" into the entire scenario.

So, he's sorry. So, he stuck it to a bunch of women less attractive than his wife (the gravest of offenses as far as the greater finger-wagging public is concerned, whether we admit it or not. see: Tom Brady. Left pregnant baby-mama for Gisele - no one blinked. It's because Gisele was hotter than Bridget Moynahan in the greater Victoria's Secret-shopping public's opinion). So he lied about it. So he's really sorry about that inevitable God complex he developed. So he wants to get back to golfing. So he wishes you'd leave his kids alone.

Nothing new.

Nothing we didn't simply assume to be true by virtue of him being - presumably - human.

HOWEVER: when he eventually checks himself out of sexy times rehab and reintegrates himself into the ever endorsement loving public consciousness, I'd suggest he think about doing something utterly magnanimous and start up a foundation. some sort of charitable organization to benefit those less fortunate.

I propose:

The Tiger Woods Center For Rich Guys Who Don't Cheat Good.

If I have to explain the Zoolander reference, shame on you.

Basically: he got caught. And other rich douches like him get caught every day, dragging wives and children and paramours out of their blissful ignorance and into the harsh light of reality - the reality of living with a Rich Person With A God Complex Who Thinks They'll Never Get Caught But Underestimate The Broad Reach Of Big Brother's Technological Gaze.

It simply doesn't have to be that way. The Tom Bradys and Hugh Grants and John Roberts and Kobes of the cheating world don't need to live in fear of Losing Everything when they can simply check themselves into the Tiger Center and learn how to be better cheaters. How to be more subtly evasive, how to cover their tracks more completely and -- in the unfortunate case they get caught -- how to put on a more compelling, more interesting, more necessary, and ultimately less waxen "press conference." Teach them when it's best to go underground and disappear for awhile and when its in their best interest to be photographed in pumpkin patches with their wives and children looking well-adjusted and faithful. Teach them that when your wife is better looking than you, the public will always take her side, you'll always look ungratefully licentious and no one will understand (or purchase the tell-all memoir penned by) the less attractive Other Woman. It's tabloid fodder 101. Keep your friends close and your webernet footprint closer. And pay them off well enough that they'll never be inclined to rat you out. Be a better cheater.

Heavens knows none of us want to sit through more press conferences like Tiger's.

Get me outta here, baby.

How about a sort of roundabout explanation for my suddenly more...desperate desire to hop in the car and end up somewhere like, oh, Big Sky. Or Palm Springs...

Or Vegas.

Or Mexico.

Wherever.

Beginning of last month I made a Not-Quite-Resolution to expand my musical reportoire. Diversify. I think I figured if I listened to one new artist a week I'd be doing pretty well.

...and then I discovered this practically biological imperative compelling me to attend Coachella this year, which - when coupled with spending some time recently with a music buff who has tastes that agree with mine and a great knack for recommending stuff I'll probably like - means I'm listening to more like 3 or 4 new bands a DAY. I'll checkout the Coachella lineup and pick a handful that I'm not familiar with, filter my way through their library while curled up with the Kindle each evening and end up with a fistful of new albums that I suddenly can't figure out how I ever lived without.

Case in point: Lucero.

Southern-styled indie rock group out of Memphis. Constantly compared to both Springsteen and the Replacements, but I feel a heavier dose of Bob Seger a'la "Roll Me Away." Gritty vocals, interesting piano riffs, highly catchy. Bumps up against that "jangle-pop" genre, but with less slick, more rough-hewn production. Loved them instantly. Evoked that "they wrote this song just for me!" feeling that happens only once in awhile.

Great. So. What does that have to do with the road trip fever...? Well, the "written just for me" tune in this case was called "I can get us out of here" from their 2006 "Rebels, Rogues and Sworn Brothers" release. The gist: pretty much just that. Car's outside waiting. Don't think. Don't waste time with saying goodbye. Just get in. He'll get us outta here.

Lucero - I Can Get Us Out of Here

Play it.

Loudly.

While imagining all 4 windows windows down and wind in your eyelashes and 75-degree sunshine on your left arm.

It got me right in my wanderlust-ee sweet spot. Spoke to the "hop in car and escape with me" yearning I've had since I was sixteen years old. Played right into my "let's get to know each other on the open road" fantasy. The whole "getting the hell outta here" sentiment is a recurring theme in ALMOST all of my favorite songs, but this time of year - when it seems like summer will never come, when it feels like I've been trapped under the gloomy umbrella of Seattle's winter for at least a year, when I'm restless and desperate for a change of scenery, when I'm itching for a little adventure to splinter the months of working monotony and when I'm ready to bolt at a moment's notice - I'm even more of a sucker for a good Roat Trip Romance Tune.

It's probably why the unfinished premise of both of my "novels-in-progress" revolve around the road trip. In one version, two almost perfect strangers end up on a satisfyingly aimless ramble across the country. In the other a girl takes to the highway to heal from some trauma or another and manages to shake off the pain as the miles roll past her window. I guess I associate long stretches of asphalt with freedom, opportunity, a runway to unemcumbered peace of mind, an 80 mph straight-shot at contentment -- even if only one tank of gas at a time.

I do my best thinking in my car.

When I have a big decision to make or some sort of spiritual conflict to resolve, I grab my favorite tunes and do my agonizing at freeway speeds. Somehow the blurred scenery makes things in my head feel more focused. And being in control of the car must be some sort of metaphor for the greater sense of control I may or may not feel I have over my life in general.

The irony in all of this is that my earliest road-trippin memories were rife with enough "Chevy-Chase-esque" misadventure to permanantly deter me from so much as getting behind the wheel, let alone loading up the iPod and settling in for the long haul (ask me about the fantastic perils of a cross-country move from Indiana to Oregon in an aging Oldsmobile station wagon and you'll have a fresh appreciation for my intimate familiarity with rest stops in middle-of-nowhere Wyoming). But hey, goes to show the most elaborately constructed fantasty trumps reality for me when creativity is at stake.

I have this long-simmering idea that if I were to grab my laptop and load up a suitcase and decide to just go for it - drive until I felt like stopping, then turn around and come back - that I'd be able to finish my novel along the way. Stop for lunch, crank out a chapter. Crash at a cheap motel or sleep in the car, knock out a few more chapters. Discover myself and -- therein -- discover my characters a little more authentically. I think I'll have to try it to disprove the idea. And I might surprise myself along the way and actually finish writing one of those novels.

In the meantime....

Um....I've taken 4 days off in the end of April - just have to buy the Coachella tickets and get ready for a drive to Palm Springs. Sure...I could fly.....

What fun would that be...?

let's call me a renaissance yuppie.

It's an exciting weekend.

Yeah -- we're thinking the same thing: "I wait all year for the opportunity to celebrate George Washington's birthday by purchasing housewares and end-of-season shoes at steep discounts from department stores!!!!!"

Don't we all.

Calphalon, here I come, baby.

But there's more.

While a handful of people might be getting excited about a snow-less winter Olympics (I say a handful, because I've got it on good "local morning news" authority that the border crossing at Blaine was completely free, clear, and empty this morning - and this on the morning of the Opening Ceremonies), this classy kid is, frankly, less interested in figure skating (UNLIKE legions of otherwise intelligent, respectable women) and ski jumping than she is in this:

Oh yes.

I may enjoy me some fine wine, pricey jeans and reusable shopping bags, I may live in an urban area with a particular cultural bent, I may be young, left-coast, upwardly mobile, politically independent and drive a fuel-sipping car, but make no mistake about it: I was born near the Brickyard. RACING IS IN MY BLOOD:

This weekend is the Daytona 500.

It's NASCAR season, darlin!!!!

Richard Petty will lead the field in the pace car - this year: a special edition 2011 Mustang GT with Ford’s new 5.0-liter V-8 engine. Incidentally: this is the first time a Ford has played pace car for the Daytona 500 since a Ford Torino GT convertible started the 1970 event altogether. I'm no particular Ford fan, but I like landmark car events....this would be a pretty landmark event for American heavy metal motor enthusiasts.

Once upon a time I had an itty bitty little Daytona t-shirt with the sleeves cut off. I'd wear it with some shiny fake leather pants from time to time when I wanted to seem particularly...supportive of the second amendment. Back when I drove a truck and owned a fake Stetson and threw down some cash at the state fair for an EXCELLENT belt buckle to go with the fake leather pants. Keep in mind: Coyote Ugly was hot at that point and all co-eds wanted to look like Bridget Moynahan. These days I'm shopping for something a little more trashtastically 90's to display my mostly-dormant hick-pride. This would do nicely.

I hear Valentine's day also happens this weekend.

That means I enthusiastically revert to my intermittant and much-loved single girl tradition of buying the HOTTEST matching lingerie set I can find and wearing it on Valentine's day for my own self-indulgent enjoyment.

No one will see it but me, and it will look fantastic, and I'll feel fantastic, and I'll take an entire day to glory in the fact that I don't have to worry about picking out a meaningful Hallmark for anyone, don't have to worry about snagging reservations at a restaurant with appropriately romantic ambiance (only to show up on time and have to wait en masse with other hungry love birds for seventy four minutes past my reservation time, be eventually seated at a table in the middle of the room, slapped with an overworked waitress anxious to get on with her weekend and feel rushed through our "romantic" dinner), and don't have to remember shave my legs (et all....) for any sort of post-dinner, ate-too-much-therefore-feel-less-than-sexy-by-virtue-of-food-baby Lovin.

Righteous.

Instead, I can shell out for an amazing red bra for the day and then spend that day laying around on the couch for a Bourne movie marathon with a sixer of Peroni while reveling in my carefree singlehood and working my way through a pizza. Ridiculously excited.

Then, of course, I'll get up early on Monday to hit up all of those "Extra 45% Off Already Reduced Clearance Prices!" sales at the mall and come home with, oh, I don't know, the casserole dish to end all casserole dishes in a deeply reverent display of respect for George Washington.

Also worth getting excited about: The 2010 Houston Rodeo series kicks off in a few weeks. I didn't realize I was a HUGE rodeo fan until I caught a particularly nail-biting showdown a few weeks ago in a local sports bar. I was TRANSFIXED. The way those bulls can practically bend themselves in half trying to toss the guy off its back is impossible to tear your eyes from. Watched a man get truly trampled, dead-center of his chest - felt certifiably light-headed when he rolled out of the way and started coughing blood and was carried off on stretcher. That sport is for REAL. MEN. I was hooked. It's like modern gladiator warfare. I don't think I even touched my burger the rest of that evening, I could not look away from the Rodeo Screen. However. What makes the Houston Rodeo better than the average local arena iteration: the concert series. It's a who's who of country chart-toppers. Alan Jackson, Dierks Bentley, Brad Paisley, Tim McGraw, Toby Keith, Lady Antebellum, Keith Urban, Gary Allan - hey, even the Black Eyed Peas. So, my favorite tunes, wild bulls, Real Men and a stadium full of other people in their best NASCAR t-shirts makes me wish I lived in Houston. If only for the month of March.

Meanwhile, back in my less backwoods Real Life: hoping that the ensemble cast flick "Valentine's Day" featuring my future baby-daddy Bradley Cooper turns out to be as awful as the reviews say - I'm really looking forward to a laughably bad, horribly-scripted, cookie-cutter Holiday Movie that makes me giggle aloud with it's plastic dialogue. I love those movies. Even better that I'll be seeing it at a theater that serves alcohol - meaning after a glass of bubbles it will seem that much MORE entertaining. Bottoms up.

for all I know these quotes were created by the esquire guys....but they're pretty good anyway

Ugh, room temperature coffee.

Happens every morning.

Get to work, hit the coffee pot for some seriously weak, horrible office brew (the sort that comes in pre-packaged packets, hotel-room style), load it up with equally horrible things like sugar-free hot cocoa mix and non-dairy creamer, haul it back to my desk, get distracted by important things like an esquire.com list of "75 things you don't know about women" and before I know it: coffee's tepid, room-temperature and sort of thick & gloppy with congealed fake-hot-cocoa and hydrogenated corn solids. Mmm. This is usually when I think, "I should go drop a couple of ice cubes in this mess" to thin it out a little, but that requires getting up from the desk, and....

....I'm back. From the freezer. Added ice cubes to the gelatinous coffee...they look like little albino turtles floating in a gloppy brown sea. Little techno-beetles swimming in a cast-off Egencia mug. Like a creepy coffee stew that I probably shouldn't be drinking:

But onward.

To the rather awesome collection of female wisdom as presented by 35 random celebrity women. Everything from pilates to threesomes to men's fingernails to our self-conscious alter-egos and theories on ordering dessert. Here are a few favorites and the suppposed women credited with the quotes:

"When considering whether or not to ask out the girl you're afraid to talk to, keep this in mind: No matter who you are or what you look like, it's always flattering when you hit on us. Always." Poppy Montgomery

Heather says: this is absolutely, completely true. The old man behind me in the checkout line who said, "My, that's one pretty lady in front of me in line," made my day (for instance). And having the balls to speak up is always attractive. Confidence - without arrogance - is at the very top of our sexy list. Knowing what you want, what you like, how you feel, and articulating it well....exceptionally tough to resist. Also...being told we're hot: always scores brownie points.

"Women are innately self-conscious. This is not a choice; it's a genderwide condition. On a bad day, I look in the mirror and see my ten-pound-heavier alter ego. Her name is Bertha. On a really bad day, Bertha sees her two-hundred-pound-heavier alter ego. Her name is Brian Dennehy." Alyssa Milano

Heather says: Show us a woman who doesn't look in the mirror and find thirty seven things she'd like to change and we'll show you...um....Paris Hilton. She seems to be one of about 6 women in the world that absolutely loves herself from the time she bounds outta bed in the morning. Those women are rare. No matter how beautiful we are, we all have those Brian Dennehy days. Most of us: more often than not. My bad day alter ego: Jennifer Coolidge.

"We pay closer attention to your hands than you think. It's bad enough if you don't have manly hands, but if your nails are longer than ours, forget it." Courtney Cox

Heather says: YES. Yes, yes, yes. Hands are at the top of the list. Large, strong, manly hands (with nicely tended fingernails) are simply fantastically attractive. It's the beauty of opposites, I suppose. If I have small, petite, girl-hands, I love the contrast of masculine ones. If I'm short and curvy, give me tall-ish and broad-shouldered. Same goes for body hair. For as much time as I spend getting rid of mine: I expect men to have lots of it. If I wanted to rub up against smooth, soft, hairless skin, I'd date a girl. Things that should always be kept smooth and soft, however: lips. Please, carry a tube of chapstick with you. And use it.

"How sexy you look unbathed at a campsite first thing in the morning is as important as how sexy you look in a tux." Kerry Washington

Heather says: a tux is fine, but actually, I prefer the 'unbathed at the the campsite" look. Sleepy in sweats with messy hair and a day-old beard beats James Bond any day. Not that a guy that wears a suit well isn't sexy-- nothing's more masculine than a smart suit and the man that knows how to carry it off -- but pajama pants and a baseball cap do just as well.

"Often men confuse pensiveness with bitchiness, and I find that insulting!" Parker Posey

Heather says: this isn't just a "men" thing - lots of people consfuse pensiveness or introspection or introversion or even well-concealed social anxiety with bitchiness. I am, by nature (particularly when meeting new people) quite introverted. This doesn't mean shy, necessarily (though the two may certainly go hand in hand). It means I'm easily overstimulated and my energy depleted by new social situations. This doesn't mean my failure to strike up a conversation or my general aversion to "getting-to-know-you" small talk should be interpreted as mean-spirited disinterest. Aloof, perhaps. Ice queen: by no means. However: I'm not insulted when I'm mistaken for bitchy....actually, I'm difficult to insult or offend, period. I know myself well enough at this point to understand that I can come off as other than I intend....and it's my job to correct that perception a little. Reach out a bit. Stop expecting the other person to do all of the conversational leg work. But I can relate to being mistaken for a bitch. Has happened most of my life.

"We are all about our necks. Feel free to spend as much time there as you wish." Mariska Hargitay

Heather says: those eight inches or so between ear and collarbone are, practically, the only eight inches or so that matter ("..."). Ex-gentleman and I used to go back and forth about this....he never got it. Want to turn me to jello - instantly? Neck. What's that - you find that boring? You asked. Want to give me goosebumps straight down to my toes? Simple -- neck.

"Even if we've only been dating a few weeks, don't introduce us as your 'lady friend' — or that's exactly what we'll become." Emily Deschanel

Heather says: This is cute because it's a matter of semantics that hadn't necessarily occured to me before. She might be right. I'm okay being your "friend Heather" or your "girl Heather" (it's ambiguously affectionate, with certain implications but without irrefutable commitment), or your "lady," or even just "Heather." There's something corny about "lady friend" that seems self-conscious and outdated. Obviously I'm a lady. Obviously I'm your friend. That lends no new information to the introduction. Get a little more creative.

"If we run into your ex-girlfriend in public, the first thing you should do is put your arm around us. And if we have to introduce ourselves, you are in big trouble." Jenna Fischer

Heather says: Disagree. I don't have an ex-girlfriend hangup. Don't feel threatened by them or otherwise territorial in their presence. If you're still friends with her, great - means you probably ended on good terms and we can anticipate remaining friends if we fizzle. If you hate each other, hmmm - someone probably cheated. If you're still pining for her, it won't matter if I've met her or not, we probably won't work out in the long haul until you're good n over-it, so arm around me or no arm around me, I'm just fine with the ex-girlfriend. And if you forget to introduce me....well I'm bad about introductions myself, so don't worry. It's better than being introduced as your "lady friend."

"Pick the weirdest part of our body and compliment it. The left elbow, the forehead, shins. Just be creative." Saira Mohan

Heather says: We're impressed by this because it means you're paying attention. Observing. Noticing the little things. You're attentive, appreciate the details. Doesn't have to be physical, should never be sexual - something like "I like the way you pronounced that word" would be perfect. It's off-beat. Let's us know you appreciate the things about us that make us specifically unique. Goes much further than "you're smokin hot." Which is nice, too. Just follow it up with, "And your earlobes are the perfect shape." For instance.

"Women don't take forever to pee. It's other chicks who make us wait. We have absolutely no idea what we're doing in there, and we look at one another in the bathroom line like, What the hell? Then, to keep ourselves occupied, we play with one another's boobs." Faith Salie

Heather says: Pretty much. And also: it's the fixing of the hair and makeup after the peeing. That takes awhile depending on how much we like you and how separated we want our eyelashes to be.

"We drink till you're cute, too." Judy Greer

Heather says: And that never ends well.

"The smell of sweat is sexy within reason. Nuzzling your neck when you come home from the gym: sexy. Getting trapped in your armpit after you've played eighteen holes in 90-degree heat: not sexy." Kyra Sedgewick

Heather says: A girlfriend and I have talked about this a lot: when you're chemically compatible with someone (uh, in that sort of "would make viable babies together" caveman sense) there's nothing better than the smell of his skin, especially the smell of his skin a day or so after his last shower. When he smells like HIM. Not overpoweringly dirty, not grimy or sticky or stale, but...natural. It's a pheromone thing, I guess. Nature's way of reminding us that we're biologically good together.

The rest of the list was pretty entertaining, too. With maybe the exception of the Wanda Sykes quotes. You know what else is pretty entertaining? Trying to pick the chocolate off the outside of a Snickers because I'm not in the mood to have peanut chunks in my teeth. Requires surprising dexterity. And the nougat stuff keeps trying to crumble off with the chocolate (which is perfectly tasty, but also gets under my fingernails and makes for a messy desk...). Less entertaining: the Wendy's spicy chicken nuggets. I had high hopes for that $.99. Turns out there's a reason they're givin 'em away for a buck: they're just. not. that. tasty.

it took an awful lot of words to ultimately say: some people don't use facebook.

The crux of this USA Today story:

Some expatriates in Asia, an office manager in Alabama and a handful of middle-aged guys in the midwest don't use Facebook.

They have indignant social superiority complexes and would like us to believe their "real life" friendships are all the richer because of their Social Networking Abstinence (henceforth: "Snabstinence").

Most of them claim that the time-leeching vortex of Facebook stole them away from more authentic pursuits. Presumably things like watching Project Runway and finding screamin deals on overstock.com and catching the big game at their local Applebee's . You know, the one with the cute waitress that gives the midwestern guys the happy hour prices on their Budweiser Select even though they're 12 minutes too late.

Rebuttal to the "I needed to get back to real life" argument: these guys weren't actively declining face-to-face invitations in favor of e-lurking. Time wasted on Facebook is time we'd waste brainlessly otherwise. If I weren't clicking through inane status updates during Lost commercial breaks, I'd be checking Gilt Groupe sample sales for discount Rock & Republics or reading TelevisionWithoutPity recaps anyway. You can be Snabstinent, but you'll still waste time online (er, unless you're one of those suckers that downloaded THIS software alternative to "unplugging your router.") Convince me that at 11:30 on a Tuesday night you'd actually be fraternizing with a real person instead of clicking through a friend-of-a-friend's birthday party pics and I'll concede.

A few quoted in the article mentioned that they didn't like being e-hounded by strangers. "I liked that I could reconnect with friends from 30 years ago, but that soon turned into all sorts of people contacting me who I really didn't want to hear from," said one middle-aged guy from Stockton who never learned how to Hide updates or Ignore friend requests or otherwise shield himself from those privacy-averse types that update every headache they've endured, every carryout pizza they've eaten and every "What type of tree are you?" quiz they've taken.

Rebuttal to the assult argument: make the technology work for you. Take back the webernet. "Don't be a victim!" We do have some measure of control over our social network. On whom we spy or comment, with whom we email or flirt. Farmville can only stalk you if you permit it to stalk you. The "girl you barely know from high school that 'likes' each of your status updates?" We're not a slave to her approval. Block her. Oooh, you mean risk offending someone we hardly know by taking assertive control of our own online life?

Well....yeah.

The flipside: you might not make it to 350, 750 or 1201  "friends" as quickly (and obviously our sense of self worth is directly related to the number of fake friends we have online...admit it), but you'll be spared the "OMG, LOL!" refrain when you become a "Fan of Not Being Hung Over." And if you think it's strange that your mother befriends your ex-girlfriend (as one Cincinnati guy did)....well, um...he's on his own there...I don't have any advice for that. Odds are they'd have stayed in touch with or without social networking websites, but it is sort of funny that you might have to read their exchanges. Although my mom is friends with at least one of my ex-gentlemen and it hasn't turned out to be as strange as it sounds. It wouldn't have driven me to Snabstinence as it drove Mr Cincinnati....If I were him I'd have gotten creative and befriended one of the ex-girlfriend's friends and sent her hosts of flirty wall posts. Would be so much more satisfying than taking the high road and ignoring the site altogether. Wimp. Make the technology work for you.

A middle-aged guy from Nashville went Snabstinent after he met up with a facebook Lady Friend in person and was introduced to her friends as "Jim from Facebook." He would have preferred to be "Jim from Nashville."

Rebuttal: what's the difference?

More people know where Facebook lives than where Nashville lives. And Jim? You're looking that gift horse in the mouth. Down the throat. Don't be a Snypocrite (Social Networking Hypocrite - get it?!?!?!? So great. That doesn't get old). This guy's decided the Facebook's fine for landing that date, but only if it's kept secret?

Hmmm...if I had a buck for the number of gentlemen from the past that have surfaced on Facebook for the express purpose of asking me out I'd have, um, four dollars and fifty cents (you figure that fifty cents out yourself). And I didn't have to pay Match or eHarmony or eChemistry or eCubicleRats (heh, heh) a dime. And I'd have no problem telling people, "Got to know each other on Facebook."

Being ashamed of "meeting" someone online: very 2002.

The only hurdle: when you meet e-squeeze's friends in person for the first time, you sort of have to stifle the urge to say, "Hey, how's your super-cute wife doing????" as though you were entitled to have any idea who he - or his wife - were in the first place. And asking how his brother's doing after that back surgery: probably best to let them bring it up before you admit you know his brother's profile isn't private and that it looks like he had fun on New Year's Eve.

So, Nashville Jim, come up with a cute quip for when she introduces you that way again and immdiately impress the new friends. Own it.

Snabstinence: leave it to my dad. Because without the Facebook...err...I'd probably have finished writing my novel by now. Or I'd have read 15 instead of 12 books last month. See -- I still pursue REAL things like literature....I just break between chapters to refresh the profile instead of dashing to the kitchen for ice cream.

I'm sure someone can make a perfectly cogent argument against being so steeped in "up-to-the-second" access to the mundane activities of people we hardly know....I'll just de-friend that person. Er, no, they've probably already de-friended me.

And I do have some decently impressive ideas about the ways that our education system needs to catch up with the iGeneration (the kids trailing behind us Generation Y Millenials as we approach 30) and their expectation of instant, constant connectivity. Another day.

Also another day: how much brain power did we waste trying to remember "what movie that guy was in with so-and-so" before we could look 'em up on IMDB with the blackberry and reclaim that peace of mind?

hot blondes and mortgage APRs.

I'm confused.


I mean, I know, sidebar ads aren't necessarily meant to make sense from a conventional marketing standpoint, they're meant to catch our eye, encourage an errant click and boom - off we roll, forgetting why we began on any particular page, but really glad we got our hands on life-saving information that will keep us from snore-induced crib death. I think that mexican food lunch has drained just enough blood from my brain that I fail to see the logic in the pictures chosen for this particular sidebar ad (possible...just like it's possible that I had a few brain cells stolen from me while I stood in front of the TV this morning watching with googly eyes while that Q13 Fox Morning Show Girl Who Yaps Exclusively About Reality TV - But Primarily American Idol - tried to fill me in on the Super Bowl commercials we'd seen 23 times already by 6:30 this morning...).

Anyway - those guys in that picture popped up on the side of the USA Today website and they have me convinced that the lowermybills.com people are totally in bed with the match.com people and the Facebook people and they're all engaged in a big stock photography-swapping orgy, banking on the fact that people of my age, gender, earning power and tracking cookie history will go completely click-crazy over a toothy blonde.

I would ask the obvious question "what do cute (presumably "single! single! single!") blonde girls have to do with mortgage rates?"  but come on, Heather. It's totally obvious:

If I click that link, then I'll be e-zapped off to a special place where I will meet and fall in love with a toothy blonde, get a great rate on a perfect cookie cutter new construction on a quiet cul-de-sac that we'll buy together and we'll live happily ever after to a Ke$ha soundtrack for the rest of our shiny, size-2 little lives. She'll drive the hybrid Lexus SUV, I'll have the Volvo coupe with lots of horsepower. We'll spritz our tanned little selves with fragrances by Kim Kardashian and stay skinny using tricks we learned from Vernon Davis. And before we tuck ourselves in each night within the pretty walls of our perfect little Crate and Barrel bedroom, we'll thank the Lord for those good folks over at AdBlade that brought us (and our amazing 3.62% APR!) together.

Thanks, AdBlade!

Definitely not confused any more.

watch me draw a Nietzsche/Sports Illustrated parallel. dazzled much?

Was not planning on tackling a "real subject" on a Friday. 


Actually, was planning on a sort of free-form list of the random things I've learned this week while wasting time at work. I've learned, for instance, that Lindsay Lohan threw a drink in Sam Ronson's face last night while on a bender. Sweet. 


And I learned that there's an ATM in the King County Superior Courthouse that doesn't charge any fees. 


And I learned (for about the 20th time, but hey....) that there's NOTHING at H&M that I'd bother spending money on......and every time I re-learn that, I feel like a traitor to other budget-conscious girls of my general "gimme" generation that saved themselves for the U-Village H&M the way they'd save themselves for any of the guys from Prison Break, given the chance. Either way, I don't like their stuff. "But Heather, they totally have cute little black v-necks and pretty scarves and turquoise velvet heels, there...what's your problem." Yeah, I know. And there are girls out there that want to have more of Brad Pitt's babies. I'm just not one of em. 


And I learned that it's possible to find a decent parking spot downtown-ish when there's a matter of grave existential importance for which is necessary to park on Friday afternoon. You can't say my God isn't a God of parking spaces. among other things. 


and I learned that the Black Smoke and John Locke are renting the same body (AND that the black smoke is afraid of gunpowder). 


And I learned that the horrifically awesome weather woman on the horrifically awesome Q13 Fox morning show was out this morning because she tore it up at the Billy Joel/Elton John show the other night. 


Yep. that's the sort of list I was planning to make. 


But then I found this woman's blog post inspiring all sorts of gramatically poor vitriol in the comments section and started thinking....Yeah, about the reverse correlation between the blood pressure spike that accompanies reading something that pisses you off and the perceived necessity for proper punctuation, but also about cultural things. advertising things. publicity things. sort of feminist-esque things. Things, things. Aaaand thus was born a single girl's Friday night at home on the couch with the computer and the Nietzsche and the Sports Illustrated. 


Here's how it went down:


News sites were lit up today with rumblings about Olympic skier Lindsay Vonn's "controversial" cover shoot for the February issue of SI. So I checked out the cover. Couldn't figure out what the fuss was about. The plaid getup was hideous, nothing new there. She's looking a little posed, but then, this is the cover of a magazine, no one doubts some posing is usually required for a photo shoot. She's smiling for the camera - I'd do the same - she's happy to be on the slopes, she's got a great grin, why not put the grin on the cover. So, she's ass-out with a giant pole in her hands.....er.....


oh. hmmm. 


yeah, I just don't think that's what has people screaming sexism. If that were the case, they'd be screaming "Sports porn!" and I haven't heard that particular accusation yet....


Actually, Nicole LaVoi, the one that wrote the short article that garnered so much angry (grammatically lackluster) press it actually crashed the Women Talk Sports site for awhile today said "When females are featured on the cover of SI, they are more likely than not to be in sexualized poses and not in action–and the most recent Vonn cover is no exception." The crux of her complaint is that the cover was sexist primarily "because female athletes only receive 6-8% of all sport media coverage regardless of the medium," and that "when we DO see them it is MORE LIKELY in poses that highlight traditional gender norms, femininity and framed in a way that can be interpreted as sexualized."


Okayyyyyyyyy. 


Gimme a sec here to grab my copy of "Beyond Good and Evil" and brandish it about like a weapon. A female-sports-blogger-flogging weapon. I know, Nietzsche is just misunderstood enough in the mainstream that he seems an unlikely tool in my debunking quest, but let's dig into the "Virtues" section of the book where he talks about the crisis of defeminization. Here's a quote:

Wherever the industrial spirit has triumphed over the military and aristocratic spirit, woman strives for the economic and legal independence of a clerk: "woman as clerkess" is inscribed on the portal of the modern society which is in course of formation. While she thus appropriates new right, aspires to be "master" and inscribes "progress" of woman on her flags and banners, the very opposite realizes itself with terrible obviousness: Woman RETROGRADES. Since the French Revolution the influence of woman in Europe has declined in proportion as she has increased her rights and claims; and the "emancipation of woman" insofar as it is desired and demanded by women themselves....thus proves to be a remarkable symptom of the increased weakening and deadening of the most womanly instincts. 

He was on to something: when women strive to be other than women, they're laying down their greatest weapon: femininity. When female athletes want to be considered in spite of their beauty, aren't they discounting their power? Discounting that they can be appreciated for their athletic prowess as well as their femininity? 


And really, we can be as politically correct as we like (wait, no...not 'we,' I hesitate to count myself among the politically correct - it's a language barrier, a corruption of honesty and an unwillingness to defend that hides behind a veil of equality and sensibility and dilutes our real opinion), but Sports Illustrated is a magazine marketed to men. Mostly about men, primarily sold to men, ostensibly featuring lots of men. Sooooo, if we put a girl on the cover, doesn't it stand to reason she ought to be presented in a way that's appealing to the magazine's target demographic: men? And what's more appealing to a man than a beautiful woman? And sports. So combine sports and a sexy girl in spandex who knows what to do with big poles, and you've got a slam dunk cover. Right? 


To get technical, the definition of sexism is something along the lines of: prejudice or discrimination based on sex; especially : discrimination against women. 


I don't see any prejudice in the SI cover....


Why bother making the argument that women should be portrayed identically to men on the covers of magazines? 


We're not identical to men. 


Are we capable of amazing feats of physicality? Yep. Can we ski down the same hill or run the same marathon? Sure we can. But why homogenize ourselves when there's the entire realm of WOMANHOOD that sets us distinctly apart in an amazing, beautiful way? Why NOT advertise that? Why not advertise that we can rail down the slopes one day, put on a sexy dress and make you drool (to be polite) the next? It's not a betrayal to feminism to glory in what it means to be beautiful. It's a POWERFUL thing to be a woman. 


While I don't necessarily mean to posit this as such a...combative dichotomy (beauty as a weapon, that equality is some sort of battle, that we're fighting and struggling to achieve), the whole sexism accusation turns it into a competition anyway. That we're competing in the same arena and ought to be judged (and photographed and featured on covers) using an identical set of criteria as men is silly. It ignores our best tools. And yes, beauty is a tool. And I don't mean to restrict this so exclusively to "pretty face" beauty. I mean inherently feminine beauty. The inalienable gorgeousness that comes with simply being woman. Call the cover sexist, but that says that Lindsay Vonn should be appraised the same way we appraise men. Why would we want to do that? Why rob ourselves of the right to be sexy at the same time? 


Along those lines, I was looking around on Women Talk Sports a little more to get an idea for whether or not this was a site that just liked to find examples of what they decided were discrimination and rail against some sort of perceived patriarchal oppression. I found this bit - one woman's disgust over the amount of makeup on the faces of the softball players in the Women's College World Series. Her arguments against makeup on the baseball diamond are all over the board (she sort of slams female gymnasts in the same breath, so her logic is a little, um "blood-pressure driven"), but she closes with a plea for women athletes to stop "getting dolled up to compete." Because apparently it's perfectly fine for us to look nice when we're "in the club" but definitely not okay to play up our cheekbones and eyelashes while we're stealing third. Why not? Why can't we slam that line drive while wearing lip gloss? The Women's College World Series was an ESPN-televised event - why NOT look as amazing as possible while pitching that perfect strike? I suspect we wouldn't tell a female newscaster to wipe off the eyeshadow while she's presenting the news....why on earth tell the outfielder to wipe it off? Doesn't that reinforce the weird idea that we're supposed to compete in precisely the same way as men? We're not men. 


Bottom line: to ignore what makes us female and to forfeit the right to celebrate our femininity in the athletic forum would be a huge mistake: you can call me antiquated, but there's Power in the Pinup. Particularly a pinup with amazing quads that can score a gold medal on the snow. That's about as powerful a combination as nature ever created. Celebrate it. 


I happen to love being a girl. 

Group dream therapy....this guy may be onto something.

I love dreams. Love dreaming. Love the fact that there's an entirely separate universe we unconsciously drip into each night and float around inside of, doing and living and experiencing everything from death to childbirth to hot dog eating contests while our conscious brains are unplugged. I remember almost all of my dreams. Have considered stringing them together into a novel, actually, each dream a separate chapter - leave all of the bizarre existential details in place and see if - when I get to the end - there's any sort of cohesive message. A sort of pseudo-therapeutic look into my own brain in narrative form. 

Chapter one: young Heather chews a hole through the family room wall, discovers a raging inferno on the other side, helps her family to safety only to get left behind in the rush and ends up living in a refrigerator box on the side of her street. 

Chapter two: adolescent Heather's mother sells her to Nick Nolte. Takes her to the beach to make the exchange, walks away with a bouquet of brightly colored candy roses and a series of admonishments to Heather about her reluctance. Doesn't she know this guy can provide for her in ways her own parents can't?

Chapter three: high school Heather has beautiful shiny, glossy hair - hair so beautiful, shiny and glossy that talent agencies chase her down the street begging her to be a handgun spokesmodel. The Sig Sauer people really think she's be the perfect face for their product, there aren't enough young women buying guns anymore (anymore? was there ever a period in history....?).

Chapter four:  college-age Heather gets it on with her philosophy professor at church. In the middle of the senior citizen's Bible study. Room full of people. She's afraid if she gets caught she won't be allowed to go on that mission trip. On the other hand, the senior citizens are sort of egging her on and she really doesn't want to push the guy away and get heckled by a bunch of grandmas. 

Chapter five: twenty-something Heather secretly dates Matt Damon. She realizes she doesn't really find him particularly attractive, but she knows there are probably Vanity Fair parties in her future if she sticks it out. The only problem: Matt's totally embarrassed to be seen with her and makes her hide under a table whenever anyone comes anywhere near the front door. When he's certain no one will see, he's very sweet, poetic, romantic - a huge wimp. But the parties....with the other celebrities...and the Carolina Herrera gowns....and the--quick, get under the table!!

Yep - that'd be some good readin right there. 

I've actually had more than a few eerie incidents of dreams "coming true." In startling detail. Mundane detail, sure, but everything from the time of day to the location to the conversations between myself and the dream characters manages to come true a few days or weeks later. Nothing dramatic, but disconcerting either way. Much different than any hard-to-place deja vu sensation...this is more like watching a television re-run where you know what the character is going to say next or which direction the camera will swing. So I've got this fascination with dream analyses. 

Noticed this article today written by a social worker and "certified Jungian analyst" giving a sort of Cliff's Notes version of Jung's theories on dreams. Jung takes a sort of "distillation" approach: take all of the elements of your dreams - the details, the scenery, the celebrities and candy roses and ooky makeout sessions and shiny hair - and strip away the specifics - come up with the more essential elements of the dream. Therein lie the archetypes. The self, the shadow, the mother, the child - the stuff that EVERYONE'S dreams are made of. They're all symbols. Dreams speak their own language, don't bother trying to understand them in the conscious sense; the example in the article is of someone showing up in a foreign country and becoming frustrated that the people there didn't speak English....it's a non-sequitur. Dreams don't speak "awake" language. 

This was my favorite excerpt: 

"Because there is often such difference between the attitude of the dream and our conscious standpoint it's often helpful to have an analyst or dream group to arrive at a more objective interpretation."

I love the idea of a "dream group." 

Group therapy, but at its most abstract. Everyone talks dreams. We connect with parts of ourselves we don't usually communicate with personally, let alone socially, en masse. The article suggested we get in the habit of looking at our dreams as a series (I like to think television series). Record them - notice themes, recurrences...get familiar with the language your dreams speak.  It's like "Rosetta Stone" for REM. I hate Rosetta Stone. Charge out the nose. I decided I wanted to learn an abstract, "not-taught-in-community-college-continuing-ed-classes" language this year - coughed up something biologically important when I saw the price tag on their "first year, phase one" set and decided those are Bastard People, those Rosetta Stone People.  Anyway - get familiar with your dreams' dialect. 

Mine apparently speak Hollywood. Anthony Lapaglia, Colin Farrell (ooh, that one had a disturbing anatomical twist), Nick Nolte, Matt Damon, Renee Russo, Christina Aguilera, Kiefer Sutherland, David Hasselhoff. They've all had some dream screen time. Most of the time they're both in love with me and ashamed of me. Want something from me and are afraid they'll get found out. I'm both beautiful, and being asked to do ugly things. A girl with good hair shilling for a shotgun. A little girl being sold to a dirty old man. A heroine left in a box on the roadside. Sex in a church. Dichotomy. 

Weird. 

As Gary Trosclair says: 

"It would be easy to get caught up in theories and research on dreams. But what it really comes down to is being open to and engaging with what the dreams give us, rather than expecting them to conform to our 21st century mindset. As with sleep, giving dreams respect and attention in our lives offers a chance for rejuvenation. It's the attitude that heals."

With that, I'm hittin up Craigslist for Dream Analysis Groups. I suspect my subconscious is searching for something. Or has found something and is trying to pass that (gunslinging) wisdom along to my waking self...in dreamland I've got high fame ideals and fears of shortcomings. I've got a celebrity complex and assume they'd be slummin it to hang around with me....I've got virgins and flames and geriatrics duking it out for my soul. And that bouquet of sugar roses: well I love candy. That one's a gimme. 

...and I chew holes in walls and see fire. It's not as concise as "I see dead people" but it still has some box office appeal. Especially if Colin Farrel and his unusual...anatomy showed up to rescue me from my cardboard hovel on the suburban roadside. That'd be killer. 

Mmmm, carginogens.

While licking the delicious, pink, primarily-trans-fatty-frosting off the top of a delicious, pink, primarily-trans-fatty-cookie yesterday it occured to me: carcinogens are wonderful.

Deadly, fine, sure.

But yummy.

While I worked my way through the frosting on three cookies in a row -- I throw out the cookie after I lose interest...but mark my words, I never lose interest in frosting...it's why I buy an entire 12-pack of cookies with no intention of eating more than one: there's frosting on the other 11 with my name on it...and it's pink...and there are sprinkles -- I started making a mental list of the other clearly cancer-causing agents of death that I love.

• Artificial sweeteners. I even like Sweet n Low.
• Nitrite-rich processed meat products; this means hot dogs, bologna, and other tasty treats involving mechanically-separated turkey solids
• UV-rays, particularly when they come from the real, live sun, but I'll take 'em however I can get 'em, especially during the cold, dark winter months.
• New Car smell
• Whole milk...I think the RECOMBINANT BOVINE GROWTH HORMONE makes it taste better, frankly
• Tartar control toothpaste - apparently it's the combination of FD&C Blue #5, Saccharine and Flouride that will get me in the end.
• Permanent hair color. Actually, every few months when I color the grey, I do my little "QUATERNlUM, DIETHANOLAMINE, PHENYLENE-DIAMINES, PROPYLENE GLYCOL" dance. Non-Hodgkins Lymphoma, here I come.
• AJAX. Because who doesn't love AJAX? And Comet, for that matter. It gets the dirt out. And lets the Crystalline Silica in, I guess. Good thing I don't clean nearly often enough. If I were as compulsive about my grout-scrubbing as I am about my eyelash-curling, I'd have The Black Lung by now, for sure.
• Weed killer. Ehh....no. No weeds to kill, no opinion on weed killer, no inclination to buy weed killer if I had an opinion on weeds when I've heard boiling water and a little something acidic have the same effect. But then, who am I to talk plant care: I kill cacti. I do. There was a delightful little planter of assorted cactus I bought during a trip to Sedona. Brought it home, took it to work, set it on the window sill....watched it die. And you thought you couldn't kill a cactus. I like to think it was a strange cactus fungus that only existed inside the 4 life-sucking walls of that office. Who knows. Cacti turn brown and get shriveled like raisins when they die.

I'm sure there are others (considering the very act of waking up in the morning and drawing a breath -- much like getting behind the wheel of a new Toyota.... -- seems to mean taking our lives in our hands these days), but these were the immediate favorites. I also occassionally enjoy a whif of second-hand smoke. It reminds me of the days before smoking in public places was banned, and a trip to Disneyland with the family meant a great cacophony of cigarette brands all blending together in a smell I will forever associate with the Happiest Place on Earth. Beat that for weird smell memories. Blend a Kool with an American Spirit with a Marlboro and, oh, essense of Cheeseburger or Churros you get the Scent of Disneyland.

And lo, the day has arrived.

It's not just that The Onion manages to say precisely what the rest of us are actually thinking, it's that they have the money to make what the rest of us are actually thinking look really slick:


Final Season Of 'Lost' Promises To Make Fans More Annoying Than Ever

This was perfect.

Until 6 months ago, I was one of these rare people - these "people who live among Lost fans and haven't watched the show since the third episode of Season One." Made it as far as Charlie's heroin-in-the-shoe schtick and gave up. Had to endure conversations over the cubicle walls at work that went like this:

"And then the smoke monster grabs Eco and--"
"STOP! DON'T SAY IT! I DVR'd IT AND HAVEN'T WATCHED IT YET!!!!!!"
"Hey, if  you can't handle the spoilers, watch the show when it airs."
"I hate commercials."

At one point, there was even the passing back and forth of a dvd copy of the Tivo'd episode when someone's cable box recorder blitzed out. You'd have thought Snookie was in the building, the amount of clamoring over who got to borrow the dvd first (while I debated whether or not to tell them that you could stream it for free online if you knew where to look).

And then the entire series came to Netflix's "watch instantly" and I joined the club. The "do we or don't we like Ben Linus" club. The "Is Richard God, or just an ageless guy in eyeliner?" club. The "Death to Claire and her stupid baby" club.

I became one of them. But Shhhhh....I haven't watched the premier yet. Tomorrow night. Lost and Pudding Wednesday.

In the meantime: Lea Thompson could do worse. I actually remember "Caroline in the City." I love the idea of Smoke Monster as suburban dad.

Products I Won't Be Buying: Round One

A small truth about me:

I like to buy things.

Sigh.

A lot.

In fact, I'm a marketing department's dream come true. The stuff ad campaign dreams are made of. If you tell me that I need Something, convince me that everyone else already has the Something and throw in a picture of a thin, good-looking woman wearing or otherwise promoting that Something: stick a fork in me, swipe the card, whatever. It's the reason I own something like, oh, seventy nine shades of pink lip gloss and probably a hundred and sixty three variations on bronze-colored eye shadow. I probably saw a picture of Frida Pinto wearing that shade and figured, "hey, that's exactly what I didn't realize I absolutely needed!"

And yes, I'm embarrassed about what a sick testament this is to our shallow, consumer-driven culture, I feel badly about it once a month like APR-driven clockwork when the credit card statement arrives, yes, you may consider that remorse well and truly wallowed in.

That's not the point.

That was all just set-up while I get around to the fact that every now and then there are - really - products that you couldn't pay me to purchase. Dan Brown books, movies involving Adam Sandler, music by Hall & Oates, wintergreen-flavored gum, canned peas, Jager shots, slippers, a Buick LaCrosse, anything lavendar-colored, dogs, Danskos, Grape Nuts, Il Devo concert tickets, ribs, a date with Spencer Pratt, basketball shorts, membership in a bowling league, A Touch of Gray, Scrunchies, quippy kitchen floor mats with sayings like "if you can't stand the the heat..." sweet pickles, anything featuring Ziggy, meth, malted milk balls, beautiful applique sweaters, bananas, and Kim Kardashian's fragrance.

Sephora invites me to "Discover the sensual scent inspired by one of the world's most idolized women." Boasts that the scent "evokes Kim's sultry style with crisp top notes, lush mid notes, and a sexy drydown. Gorgeous, voluptuous florals reflect her allure, while soft jasmine, tuberose, and gardenia mirror her femininity."

To interpret it another way: you can shell out up to $65 to smell like the perhaps the most obnoxious Famous-For-Nothing hack ever to swindle her way into our collective E!-watching consciousness. If it wasn't enough that she gets a front row seat at awards shows these days, if it wasn't enough that she's plastered all over every mens, fitness, and fashion magazine from here to Dubai, if it wasn't enough that our facebook sidebar ads bombard us with offers to "get skinny like Kim!" we can SMELL like her now, too. Oh. Boy.

It's not so much that I have a pathological problem with Kimmy herself (just the empire she's been allowed to build and the countless gossip pages over which she reigns), it's that there's someone out there that bought into her suggestion to market a fragrance. That's the person I have a pathological problem with. The person that says "women these days should want to smell like that omni-present girl that's famous for nothing, because you want to feel sultry, sexy, gorgeous, voluptious and feminine.

I'd sooner buy a fragrance by Heidi Montag. No, I would. Actually, I'd buy the big bottle, the smaller bottle, the purse-sized sample, and I'd whip it out and re-apply whenever I was in a crowd. I'd wave the bottle around and coo breathlessly about how I love smelling like Heidi - because people would GET that - they'd be in on the joke. The satire of paying for a bottle of denatured alcohol with Heidi's name on it, that's obvious. The purple Kim Kardashian bottle: it just says "I'm a moron. I'm funnelling money into the coffers of this completely over-exposed, inarticulate bimbo that leaks her own bikini photos for more media attention. I want to support the empire daddy's money built. I want to encourage more self-indulgent heiresses to slap their name on something and call it "their career."" It was one thing when Paris Hilton made herself famous for nothing - entirely something else when the next gen Paris-knockoff tries the same, recyled formula and we're expected to fall for it all over again.

Irate much, Heather? Aw, not so much....it was just the suggestion that she's one of the worlds "most idolized women" that brought on the righteous indignation. Really? The WORLD idolizes Kim Kardashian? The WORLD?

The world.

And you could not PAY me to buy that purple bottle. Which is saying a lot. I'll pay for almost anything. Almost.