Let's focus on what's REALLY important today. FAST FIVE - !!!!!

Hey, look at that! I'm a girl under the age of 102 and I'm capable of thinking of something other than The Big, Fat, British Wedding!

Like, uh, A MOVIE WITH LOTS OF GIANT, TATTOOED, BALD MEN. Happy "Fast Five" day, ya'll.

Bet you didn't know that so far, the fifth installment in the longest-running exercise in hyper-manly sexual tension is also:

"the best-ever debut for a Universal title and the biggest for the action franchise yet."

At least that's the word from The Hollywood Reporter, which also mentions that the film has already grossed $3.7 million from it's midnight release yesterday and is expected to draw the year's biggest opening to date.Oh - and its opened in several countries overseas and is already number one everywhere it's playing.

Because this franchise is flippin awesome.

NPR has their own, understated way of acknowledging its flippin awesomeness, too. They've declared it "A progressive force" in American cinema. 

Got that? The article is pretty good, actually, drawing comparisons between this man-heavy metal-fest and more racial-centric flicks like "The Blind Side." By this guy's approximation, the Fast and Furious crew are much more progressive. Yep.

Paul Walker, Vin Diesel, Tyrese, Ludacris and Assorted Hot Chicks are obliterating racial barriers in ways that other, "better" films can only dream of doing. A film critic from the Boston Globe chatted with NPR's Michele Norris yesterday and put it this way: "Basically it promotes race as this very normal thing," Morris tells NPR's Michele Norris. "Around these cars are these very different types of people, but it's not the subject of the movie like it is in most Hollywood movies. Race is just a matter of fact." It "...has just sort of exploded into such a thing in these movies that it almost doesn't even matter." Of producer and star Vin Diesel he says, "And I think one of the things he wants to try to do with these movies — whether consciously or not — in achieving that effect is to sort of eliminate race as a point of conflict and use race as a sort of point of normalcy, which I think is a really revolutionary thing to be able to try to do and achieve."

AND, he also acknowledged the fact that, while women in the Fast and Furious movies may be primarily one-dimensional bikini models, he points out that, frankly, the dudes are, too. It's not just shallow, hard-bodied women in various states of trendy undress: it's shallow, hard-bodied men in various states of tattooed undress. Equal opportunity shallow. 

Because these movies are as good as it gets.

You know, for those of us who LOVE really awkward dialogue and testosterone and punching and bald guys in wife beaters and exploding and loud cars making really loud car noises and the gratuitousness of bad hip-hop soundtracks. Which I happen to love.

So, happy Fast Five Day.

Now, go forth and enjoy the best movie of the year. The Rock's in it, too. You know, in case he makes the difference between "nah, I'm not into that crap" and "oh, well, fine, I'm sorta into that crap."

They must be kidding. Tell me they're kidding.

Okay, sorry - let's just get a few things out of the way.

First: I will NOT be dragging my pretty little buns outta bed at 3am to watch The Royal Brouhaha. There's not enough coffee in the world. And in the age of You Tube, why should I have to? AND, actually, I don't even want to. I want to oogle pictures of her hair and dress after the fact, I want to get the E! Fashion Police take on her getup, I want to be done with it. Because, sorry, have you SEEN the "Royal Wedding Program?" that they just released to us 'plebs? Wedding's gonna be about 3 years long. I'll be having babies of my own before that ceremony concludes. But anyway.

Next: I do think Kate Middleton is highly adorable. I have Kate Thigh Envy. She's svelte and pretty and photogenic and well-dressed and charming. Good for her. Don't envy her the lifestyle she's marrying into, don't envy her the in-laws, but I definitely envy her wardrobe. And her thick, shiny hair. Speaking of hair:

Third: William. Dude. Cut the hair, bro. Shave that straight off. It's embarrassing us. They've taken to cropping your head in important pictures to hide the ookiness of What's Left of It. . SHAVE. IT. OFF.

Now that we've categorized my attitudes about The Wedding, let's get to the good stuff, shall we?

Like the article in the Christian Science Monitor (yes, that) which suggests that The Royal Brouhaha is "hurting marriage in the US." They're being earnest. The article cites lavish reality television programs and events like the pending Will and Kate snoozefest as being primarily responsible for fostering an unrealistic ideal within women that their wedding must be on par with The Royals, and, when we realize this just isn't within our budget: WE CALL THE WHOLE THING OFF.

A woman actually wrote the article (which I find rather hard to believe), but that's neither here nor there. The CEO of the rather tacky bridal search engine website JustWeddings says this:


“We are in an age of reality television, particularly including lavish Hollywood-type weddings, such as those on “Real Housewives,” “The Bachelor,” and “The Royal Wedding." The amount of reality television portraying the “perfect” wedding (with an unaffordable price tag) is one of the biggest causes for the drop in marriages,” Some couples, she suggests, are “not even getting married, and using the $30,000 toward their living, whether they buy a home in the down economy or rent."

Sooooo, if we can't have a wedding like something out of an over-produced reality show, we pout, whine, feel sorry for ourselves, and jip ourselves out of it entirely? Show me that girl. Show me the girl who says, "If I can't have everything monogrammed and be dripping with real diamonds, a Vera Wang gown and bridal Louboutins, I won't get married. I'll just buy a stupid house for my pitiful fiance and myself."

Riiiight.

No, we ladies say "screw it, we'll buy a David's Bridal dress, we'll make our own invitations, we'll figure out how to create our own antiqued votive holders with spray paint and craft supplies, we'll go for cheaper wine but lots of it, and we'll have the time of our lives."

Really.

My personal bias against the trappings of "show pony" weddings runs deep, sure. I've been to enough weddings to know that the silly centerpieces and the floral arrangements and the save-the-date cards and the bridesmaids' dresses are totally lost on all of the guests and they just come to see the bride walk down the aisle, hear the vows, get weepy at how lovely it all is, watch the couple kiss, then hit the champagne and party for a few hours. That's the reality of weddings. The lavish Royal Treatment is totally for the sake of the bride, so that she can have that smug sense of self-satisfaction when she throws away all of those centerpieces, thinking, "I'm really glad my husband's great aunt liked these. Now my marriage will be a success."

Please.

Anyway - if the Christian Science Monitor thinks that watching some Brits get married at 4am will ruin a generation of women's willingness to get married in a setting that's anything other than Disney-Perfect, they've got a thing or two to learn.

Do we still want to look like a princess when we walk down the aisle? Sure - we want to look red carpet stunning for the most photographed day of our lives, but I've not met ONE woman who says, "You know, unless I can afford Lake Como and a 100 grand budget, I'm really not interested in saying 'I do.' How 'bout you, honey?"

The Royal Wedding isn't ruining anything. Except for that well-guarded secret of who designed Kate's gown. I am curious to see that dress........

I have a plan. But in my plan, there will be no bare-chested men in blouses with bad, shaggy hair.

Riiiiiiiiiight.

Er, no, I haven't written, nor will I ever write something called "Freesia Fantasy."  AND I'll be darned if I write a single scene where a guy with Mary Lou Retton hair and a billowy man-blouse ever drags his intended beloved out into a field that matches her gown in order to flex his traps and caress her in the most neck-twistingly uncomfortable position imaginable. It's just tacky. HOWEVER - romance novel genre, prepare thyself: Heather Adair has decided to dominate the living daylights out of you.

In the least bodice-ripper context imaginable. 

Because I just don't see myself dressing my heroine up in anything that could be construed as having a bodice that could be ripped in the first place. Commonplace. Pedestrian. Average. And I don't know the first thing about petticoats.

The historical romance marketplace is pretty well saturated. I'll leave the Scottish lords and the woefully willful mail-order brides to the writers who get excited about kilts and corsets and silk stockings and raven-maned stallion dudes. I've read those. The Scottish lord isn't looking for love, but damn if he didn't stumble across a brunette with a fiery spirit who just happened to have lost her mare in his fancy Scottish swamp. He promptly falls in love with her. Pardon - he becomes promptly consumed with blazing lust and an irrational desire to POSSESS her. And her fiery spirit. And her roguish, unconventional desire NOT to marry the old, rich guy who lives in the next manor over and is the sworn enemy of Scottish lord.

I'll let him pull her hairpins out with his teeth, I just don't see myself writing Kilt Lit. 

Which is not to say that we're not left with plenty of story lines to mine in my quest to become a multimillionaire by writing the sort of cotton candy, beach fluff you can tear through in 134 minutes flat while working on your tan. It's a goldmine. And I'm itching to pan for gold.

Check these stats: the Amazon Kindle store has, as of this moment, 930,959 titles available for wireless delivery. 17,464 of those titles are literary fiction. 15,311 of those are sci-fi, 35,768 are mysteries or thrillers, and 46,765 are ROMANCE. Fabio is KILLING the other genres in terms of selection. Which, I can only assume, mirrors demand on one level or another, or they wouldn't be publishing the heck out of them.

Cue Heather Adair's entrance. 

The key to my success here lies in the fact that I don't approach this genre with the same sense of trepidation I approach serious, literary fiction. My novel-in-progress (er, the one that's been in progress for YEARS now) is slightly more serious fiction. It's my Jeffrey Lent tribute piece. My multi-generational family saga that dares not to progress chronologically. My heart and soul are tied up in that novel. Which makes every step I take toward its ultimate publishing culmination something like life or death. STRESS. 

A fluffy little romance piece meant to help me learn the ropes of the publishing industry (and wipe the floor with the competition) is motivating, rather than flipping intimidating. 

So that's where I'll make my entrance. The not-so-scary genre. Where pulses quicken with that first meeting of lips, and predictable characters burn longingly for the lightest brush of their lover's fingers on their cheek. 

Seriously.

Mark my words - give me a few weeks to crank out a draft and I'll be sending query letters all over God's Green Publishing Earth. Countdown starts...NOW.

Dude. I feel her pain. And other boring Friday stuff.

If you knew my super-secret blogger password and could sneak in and check out my "posts-in-progress" you'd be like, "uhhhhhh - she's got a lot of unfinished shiz about makeup."

Yes, thank you.  Yes I do.

Because I keep starting these complete cop-out posts that are basically "oooh, surveys I found online about what dooooofus men think about chicks and makeup" and "oooh, NARS products that I want" and "ooh, another study - this one links lipstick sales with larger economic trends."

"Oooh."

It's asinine.

So what do I do instead?

Find an article where Jen Particularly Boring Aniston whines about hating her hair cut and feeling like a soccer mom and I think, "Solid. I can totally get behind that brand of ire. I feel her."

Instead of being pleased with her new chin-length bob, she’s been telling pals she feels like a “dowdy-looking soccer mom”!

“Jen feels the new cut is a mistake,” an insider divulged. “She was promised by her stylist that the new haircut would make her look younger, but she thinks it has the opposite effect.”

While those close to the 42-year-old actress keep telling her how cute the new cut is, “she doesn’t believe them,” continued another source. “As far as she’s concerned, it looks terrible.”

Jen’s displeasure with the new hairstyle has brought back a flood of insecurities from her past.
Explained the source: “She’s always had issues with her nose. “She thought she’d come to terms with its shape, but without her long hair she thinks it looks too big for her face again. She also thinks the haircut makes her face look rounder and she hates that. Her hair was really a major security blanket.”

Totally get it.

And then I stop and think, "ANOTHER hair post? Really, Heather? You whine about your hair as if there was something wrong with it. C'mon you brat, don't hate. Get this action together and come up with something interesting to write about."

Yeah, okay, voice in my head is right - get your act together kiddo - at the very least, find a reason to make fun of Glee or Olivia Wilde or the Countdown to the Royal Wedding or something less self-absorbed.

On the other hand, voice in my head doesn't quite recognize that it's Friday, and still thinks I should be held to a non-Friday standard of effort.

In which case, whiny Heather wins and will just talk about hair and let you in on this little secret:

I can tell what Google terms direct people to my page.

And it's hilarious.

For instance, you MAY end up here if you Google:

hey i’ve got skillz
photo of stanley tucci with beard
megan fox brown wedges boots
girls in undies
slanderbeeking (or, it's cousin, slander-beeking)
eminem champagne
snookie ass
cougar cruise
the situation pics
OR, apparently any combination of Christina + Aguilera (frankly, I'm thinking I should just turn this into an XTina fansite - I get more traffic every day to my "Decade of XTina" post than anything else. Eh, people Google her a lot, I guess).

 Anyway - cute to have a fly-on-the-wall view of people's googling habits. Mine are MUCH more dorky.

"Gwyneth Spatula" for instance, for my last post.

So anyway - what else can I halfheartedly subject us to on this Friday morning?

OOH - how about a music recommendation?

It is with no small measure of SHEEPISH enthusiasm that I recommend you check out "Light Me Up" by The Pretty Reckless.

Yes, the Taylor Momsen band.

It's good, actually.

If lingerie-instead-of-clothes and warpaint-instead-of-eyeliner is her secret: it's working. I'm willing to forgive the "Look at me! I'm EDGY!" antics since, behind all of the hardcore hype, girlfriend can actually sing and has a solid band to back her up. She had a hand in writing all of the songs on the album (how much of a hand....your guess is as good as mine), which was produced by Kato Khandwala - he's also worked with Breaking Benjamin, Morningwood, Paramore and My Chemical Romance. With the exception of a few very Sheryl Crow-esque sad love ballads -- which are actually quite good as well -- the album is mostly punk-edged power pop - sort of grungy pop/rock with good hooks and singalong-able choruses and stick-in-your-head guitar riffs with some playfully scandalous lyrics. Yes, there's a song where she's talking about teasing a priest in a confessional and suggesting she buy his silence by offering to commit....indiscretions with him after she admits to killing a lover who scorned her. You know, typical 16 year-old girl stuff. Er........but it's catchy - really! If I had to draw a comparison, I'd say it's....Butch Walker meets The White Stripes meets The Veronicas with a little dose of Sheryl Crow tossed in.

So, yeah - check out The Pretty Reckless. It's commercial rock, but it's better than what other "models-turned-actresses-turned-singers" out there are cranking out.

With that: HAPPY FRIDAY.

5 years later. Thanks, Gwyneth.

I just looked at the calendar.

EXACTLY 5 years ago today I read an article on Gwyneth Paltrow written by one insanely amusing little blonde blogger with whom I'd eventually become casual "e-friends." She wrote this genius feature called "Gwyneth Paltrow -- she's not just like us!" for MSNBC. Until then, it had never dawned on me that the entertainment sections of major news networks would ever solicit the sarcastic wit of pop-culturally fluent post-college, marginally employed, hyper-motivated, generally underpaid twenty-somethings with a penchant for clothes out of our price range. Girls sort of like me. I found her blog and was instantly impressed by her contagiously readable writing and her every-girl appeal. She was funny! She was smart! She wrote about famous people! And shopping! And she made the same joke about the name Phil that my sister and I had made! Wouldn't it be funny if it was spelled Fil!

So, I decided to start blogging.

Back then it was over at "Observations on Stuff That Doesn't Matter," which I retired after 6 months when I discovered I was visually bored with the layout and had become a dull writer, phoning in cop-out posts about what I ate (or didn't eat) for breakfast - BUT, that's getting ahead of myself.

2006 was really the Golden Age of Weblogs - this was when Myspace was still relevant, Facebook was still for college kids and personal blogs were actually the go-to method of disseminating irrelevant information to everyone we knew. It was an era in which we still "networked socially" but the mechanism was different - it was an "I'll link to you on my site if you'll link to me on yours" world in which we all started our days by cruising everyone else's daily posts, commenting feverishly and hoping those comments directed traffic back to your own site. Or netted you a spot on a well-read blogger's "blogroll." Or snagged you an invitation to write a guest post when the site's owner went on vacation. Instant visibility. Instant readership. Instant inspiration to keep writing.

I ended up networked with a lot of New York City twenty-somethings. I worked the comment sections hard AND, for a brief stint, some of the most well-respected, widely read, wittiest bloggers in the 'sphere would drop by my site and pay attention. In 4 months I received as much traffic on that blog as I've received here in 4 years. I wrote every day. I had visions of straight-up, unadulterated grandeur, visions substantiated when handfuls of bloggers just like me began snagging book deals (or offers to write for Gawker; ironically, they're running a big Gwyneth feature today....interesting to see how some things DON'T change).

My plans at that point were to figure out how to become an occasional contributor to the entertainment sections of CNN.com and MSNBC.com and FOX.com. Never happened, but that was my focus.

Actually, for old time's sake, here's a snippet from my very first post, 5 long years ago:

I'm as envious as the next office rat about kids who's parents can afford expensive ivy league educations (and, ok, fine, I guess the kids had to work a little themselves), but add "Sophomore Harvard Kid With Book Deal" to that and I'm certifiably green-ish.

SO - imagine my disappointment (naw, better that that--my UTTER DISMAY...yep) when I noticed an article today about a teen chick-lit writer with a two-book deal and a "reported" six-figure advance being accused of plagarism. A Harvard student. Contributor to a local newspaper. Published author (aHA - so SHE'S the one out there stealing all the gigs I want while I'm sitting in an ergonimic antithesis, slapping the fax machine around, hoping the bank reconciliation balances for once...just this once...!). Fraud. Uhhh, yep, that's right. fraud.

Ok, so I'm probably overreacting...I'm just the aspiring writer-contributor-ivy leaguer stuck sitting at a desk all day in the accounting office of a construction company withering on the proverbial vine ("Yes, Bob Jones of Bob Jones Hauling and Excavating, I did sent your check for $624.12 on Friday, we paid that invoice in full. Yep, if you haven't received that by Wednesday, gimme a call back, I'll be glad to stop payment and reissue the check!" Now, be a good Mr Jones and never call me again! Thanks!)

I guess it made me start thinking...are the Harvard and Princeton and Stanford students of the world trading original, genuine thought and authentic compositions for an easy cruise on the coattaills of their alma mater's reputation? Have they become so disconnected from the rest of us working stiffs that they figure their school's brand is credit enough? Who needs to write their own material, they've got the greatest academic label in the country slapped on their forehead, who will bother to challenge 'em? I mean really, they worked hard enough to get where they're at, right? Isn't that enough? Good to know Harvard's busy creating the next generations's independent thinkers...

Sigh.

Oh, and I promise, I won't be nearly so soap-boxy by tomorrow...just had to brush off my "holier-than-thou" microphone and get a little social disdain worked outta my system. Watch out plagarizing ivy league sweetie-pies the country over...I imagine your agents will be thirsty for a hard-workin cute young thing like me once they're finished with scandalous damage-control. I've got plenty of my own ideas.

Ah, for now, uh...back to accounts receivable. Rich Guys A, B and C need to pay for their million-dollar remodels...hope their $450 toilet paper holders are servin 'em well. I imagine they probably graduated from someplace like Yale themselves...

Ehhh, not so bad. Sounds like me. My grumpy attitude about entitlement hasn't changed much. Different job now, new people to complain about. Still hoping to snag my own 6-figure book deal soon...

The thing about Golden Eras, I suppose, is that they're short-lived, over too quickly, appreciated more after the fact than during the heyday. So, too, with blogging.

Since we were all in our twenties and eager for better jobs, better paychecks, better apartments, and better boyfriends, things were constantly changing. The girl who inspired my blog was accepted to Columbia's journalism program and started working toward her Masters. On her first day, some of her professors admitted to enjoying her blog (which, by the way, she shut down the following week).

Some snagged big promotions at their "real jobs" and ended up with less time to devote to posts on pop stars and gripes about being single.

Others got married, or had babies, or just got tired of the pressure to stay entertaining. Facebook came along and made blogs (in their lengthier, wordier, more essay-like form) feel a little outdated. Then Twitter. Why waste time on 2 pages when you can get your fix in 140 characters?

Some of us stuck with it.

I'm still here.

Things have changed in the background, my peripheral focuses have evolved, my jobs and roommates and boyfriends have changed.

But not the fact that I still get an adrenaline rush from a well-crafted sentence.

Not the fact that I still want to entertain people with words.

Not the fact that I love the English language, love the impact of punctuation, love the whimsy of Unexpected Capitalization, love the never-ending source of giggles provided by famous people.

Not the fact that I'd love to snag book deal after book deal and live out my days in front of the keyboard, finding new famous people to target, new ways to make fun of myself, new topics to whine about and new ways to string words together.

However: I don't hate Gwyneth.

Not when she says things like, "The reason that I can be 38 and have two kids and wear a bikini is because I work my [expletive] ass off. It's not an accident. It's not luck, it's not fairy dust, it's not good genes. It's killing myself for an hour and a half five days a week, but what I get out of it is relative to what I put into it. That's what I try to do in all areas of my life."

Because I think that's a good parallel for what I'm trying to craft for myself here. I write every day. I work hard at this "second job" to keep my mind sharp and my writing skills honed and my love of all things literary at the front of my brain. So that when I find a publisher and hand over my finished product, I can be proud about the fact that it's not luck or some trick of nature that got me there - it was years of hard work that finally paid off.

In the meantime, thanks for stopping by - knowing I have even a few people reading what I write keeps me going.


5 years and counting.

LADY OXFORDS: I don't get 'em.

As a continually recovering Clothes-a-holic, I have decent tradition of appreciating (if not necessarily jumping on board with) a solid handful of micro-trends. My personal fashion victory rests in the fact that I appreciate SUBTLY in my micro-trend adhesion. Meaning: I'll rarely strike people as trendy, but neither will I seem specifically outdated. Unless the weather is cold. In which case I lose all sense of what looks good and revert to an ugly habit of hoodies and woolly socks......but anyway - I can appreciate the unusual "ew, I don't think I like that, but give me 3 months and check back" styles that come and go with the seasons.

Meaning: I may not go straight-up cropped tee and paper bag waist pants YET, but, I can appreciate incorporating a short, boxy sweater with my jeans. It'll just have a cami under it and you won't be seeing my squishy belly. I spent last summer in rompers. I own a full-length jumpsuit -- BUT -- it's black (therefore perfectly acceptable out in public in the least Kardashian way possible).

Obviously, Sienna Miller I am not.

Speaking of she (or Taylor Swift up there, take your pick) - there's a startling trend sweeping areas south of ankle. No, not the socks with platform sandals thing....that one still has me a little vexed though not altogether opposed to trying it once it becomes a little more mainstream and a little less solidly camped in "fashion-blog" territory. What's the trend?

Lady Oxfords.

Huh?

Here, let me show you:

 

Yeah.....

Now, I can get on board with brightly colored ponchos, with mixing stripes and florals, with maxi skirts (don't like 'em since I'm short, but can recognize the bohemian stylishness of them), with novelty tights, with harem pants, with clunky heels and yellow eye shadow and ombre hair color. But wimpy little man-shoes with wimpy little laces and wimpy little "are we pointed or not?" toes and non-committal little heels? Er, not so much.

Apparently, after doing a little "street style" research I've figured out that they're meant to be worn primarily one of two ways: with skinny jeans and unstructured tops (lending a less-than-menswear look to the rest of the outfit while the feet get all man-style), or with some sort of flouncy, girly skirt. So the point is to balance out the sheer ugliness of the shoes with something dainty on the body.

How about this: skip these ridiculous-looking excuses for shoes and wear something dainty on your feet. I understand, these are the next generation, more stylish sister to the also-dull ballet-style flat. So, wear them as you would little flat, round-toed slip-on things.....

People are actually paying $415 for THESE????

My fifth favorite memory of all time. Give or take.

Glorious things happened today.

It was -- miraculously -- not raining during my drive to The Cubicle this morning. Even better, there were slices of REAL, actual, unadulterated BLUE SKY. There were mountains with sun shining on them. For all of the delight I felt barreling down the freeway on my way in to The Cubicle today it may as well have been my birthday, anniversary AND the day I wake up without split ends, jiggly hips and can afford to buy those Adriano Goldschmied Angel cut destroyed jeans without remorse.

The heavens opened up for me today and a beautiful, sparkly beam of Jesus Juice followed my little, unwashed Toyota and me all the way to work.

Also, as it's Monday, it's the day that I cruise along to an Alanis "Jagged Little Pill" soundtrack, deem it Flashback Monday and discover the following:

I discover that singing along with Alanis at any point in the day, but particularly first thing in the morning, means that I sound something like a cat in heat.

And something like a dog who's just had its paw slammed in the sliding door.

And something like Aaron Neville after a swift punch to the balls.

I also discover that singing along with Alanis at any point in the day makes that point in the day that much better. For instance, that moment cruising across the the lake on I90 and seeing SUNSHINE for the first time in MONTHS is both an incredible blessing, cause for shrieks of joy, AND is made better by singing along with "Mary Jane" in the background. Every point in the day THAT much better.

AND I discover that singing along with Alanis will ALWAYS bring back the memories of the first time I tried buying her CD. Aside from "No Singing at the Table," and "Don't Leave Your Discarded String Cheese Wrappers Sitting Around Where Dad Can See Them" (don't ask) the "first time I tried buying an Alanis CD" memory is one of my favorite examples of my parents exercising their right to create arbitrary rules for their happy, table-singing, string cheese wrapper-tossing, Bad, Bad Music-buying children.

Huh?

Yeah.

So. 14 year-old Heather (who was probably wearing knock-off Doc Martens, dark green jeans (YES.), a giant flannel shirt stolen from Dad and a scrunchie on her wrist) was browsing CDs at Fred Meyer during a weekly grocery shopping trip. Heather spied Jagged Little Pill. She showed it to Dad who, in an unexpected moment of teen girl pop music fluency, said, "Hey, she's nominated for some Grammys!" which Heather took as his understated acquiescence to Heather's purchase of the CD (because parental acquiescence was critical at this point; she was a good little middle school kid who listened to nice, clean music and had nice, clean friends and was only interested in nice, clean boys who attended her church and absolutely viewed cigarettes and fruit-flavored malt beverage as agents of the Devil and would not have dreamed of listening to anything so impure as a singer-songwriter who dared sing the "F word" without at least implied parental consent; she was no moron.).

She proudly carted her Pill home, excited to turn up the freshly procured copy of "All I Really Want" at maximum cheap boom box volume in the bedroom, surrounded by nice, clean pictures of kittens snipped from several years of old calendars and a nice, clean picture of Keanu Reeves from Speed in the corner where it seemed less sinful. Extraordinarily well-behaved, this Heather.

CD is enjoyed for a week or so. Fast forward to the Grammys. We gather to watch; this is back when awards shows still managed some shred of glamourous believability and the suspense actually felt a little more authentic. Alanis performed "You Oughta Know"live.

Alanis had to be censored. You know the line. "And are you thinking of me when you _____ DEAD AIR SPACE______ her?"

Oh, mother jumped up like....well, like Aaron Neville after a swift punch to the balls and made a fantastically unilateral declaration:

"NONE OF YOU ARE ALLOWED TO BUY HER CD."

Because she's not nice and clean, obviously.

Panic.

Complete and utter panic.

Must not let her find out that I've already purchased the not nice, not clean CD and listened my little heart out over the past week -- miraculously, WITHOUT turning into a wayward, cigarette smoking, fruit-flavored malt beverage-drinking, cursing, school-skipping, non-virgin at any point during the listening process. But it's early yet. The effects might be cumulative - I might be simply one more "You Oughta Know" listen from that wayward, not nice, not clean lifestyle.

So I do what any lunch money-conscious 14 year-old would do.

Sold it to a friend.

Ah. Now I can rest easy.

Now I don't have to shove the CD case furtively under the pillow when Mom comes into my bedroom. Now I don't have to worry that the finger of God will split the skies and strike me down or afflict me with an out-of-wedlock pregnancy (fate worse than church girl death). Now I'm back in everyone's good graces, without Mom (or God!) even being the wiser for it.

The catch: my friend took some reasonable amount of pity on me and made me a cassette tape copy.

Er, she played the CD on her computer and set a tape recorder up next to the computer speakers and hit "record" so I ended up with this sort of pirated-sounding bootleg version that I left discretely UN-labeled and listened to on my Walkman when I was safely out of the house.

If we believe it, I still managed to make it through my formidable years without smoking cigarettes or drinking Smirnoff Ice of any flavor or letting any boys shove their hand up my shirt, even if I wanted them to. Pregnancies averted. Didn't become a runaway. Didn't swear like a truck driver or skip any classes or even so much as take the Lord's name in vain for years and years to come.

They did good, those parents of mine.

It was years before I told Mom this story.

I think I was still afraid she might confiscate my digital copy of the album....?????

"Worshippin' Worshippin' YEAH!" (Also, I'm sorry in advance)

So, somehow my sister must have known that I had a horrible dream last night; I was attacked in my bed by a "Rock & Chop" wielding mad man and when I escaped and recounted the story to my mom, she laughed at me and said, "that's what you get for having deranged friends." I tried screaming at her that her beloved first-born's LIFE HAD NEARLY ENDED AT THE HANDS OF A GIMMICKY KNIFE, but in my dream, I could only hoarse-whisper with a particularly crazy-eyed expression. I mean, when your own mother laughs at your narrowly-missed death......oy.

Sis MUST have known this because it's the only reason I'll give her a free pass for her efforts to divert my thoughts from machete-like knives by blasting some Rebecca Black while we were getting ready this morning.

Thankfully, she thought ahead - rather than letting me leave with "Friday" stuck in my head, she followed it up with the SNL "I Just Had Sex" video so I got to walk outta the house (in frustratingly uncomfortable shoes, actually) humming something a little less suicide-inducing. HOWEVER, now the song's stuck in my head again.

SORT OF.

There's a Nondenominational Mega-Church parody video making the rounds that is absolutely fan-flippin-tastic. It's called "Sunday." And a cute little blonde girl rides in the back seat while MOM drives. And they make it to the service in time for her to lead worship (n a modest little denim jacket, bad bangs and no discernible lip gloss in sight, no less). They even toss in some nice, law-abiding, no-texting-while-driving Rap Dweebs who get to issue the best line in the entire video:

"We're goin to church on saturday night - WHOA! Tomorrow's EASTER."

Don't get it? Then you obviously weren't raised in a Nondenominational Mega-Church. Because obviously you don't go to the Sunday Morning Easter service. That would be altogether too crowded. Better leave the parking lot mess to the casual attenders. The Easter Guilt attenders. Go on Saturday night with the rest of the really righteous. Or something.

Anyway - little blonde Christian passes the communion plate and the offering bag. She does Wednesday youth group. Her only slip: I'm pretty sure Jesus would prefer we not put our lives on the line by riding on the back of a convertible (that's what SEAT BELTS are for, good Christian children!). I gotta hand it go them: the people who made this video are startlingly well-versed in the stereotypes of the Mega Church, straight down to the attempt at a "rock concert!" platform from which the blonde leads her Worshippin. Not bad. Not quite as awesome as the "death metal" version of the original, but a solid, squeaky-clean parody that at least made me giggle.

I mean the girl's bangs....are just....impressive. This is so ME as a 12 year-old.

Um. So. When the world ends, we'll all crawl out of the sewers in...red fishnet body stockings?

Just so we're clear: immediately PRIOR to the world ending all the hipsters will jump into the surprisingly crowded sewers to grind around on each other with startlingly well-coordinated choreography.They'll do this sewer-dancing completely sober -- not a red plastic party cup in sight. And they'll be sort of grimy and sort of greasy-looking and evoke the general idea of pure STANK, but it'll all seem pretty cool, because along with plenty of dudes that look like Project Runway rejects: Brit's there.

In a shockingly awesome leather jacket that I sort of want to reach through the screen and steal from her. To prepare for the end of the world, of course, when I might need to defend myself against frightened hipsters or sewer monsters. By dancing at them with my crazy spiked shoulders.

So yeah, Brit's there. With unsurprisingly NON-EXISTENT EYEBROWS.

Sidebar: this girl is killing me.

The fake hair doesn't look too bad in this video. Her body looks righteous. Yeah, her facial expressions are completely mired back in the 1998 days (17 year-olds can pout. 30 year-olds shouldn't) but the overall look is pretty decent, AND YET,  for the love of all that is holy about dancing in the sewers, please, DEAR LAWD, find this girl a makeup artist who believes in the art of the brow pencil. Draw those bad boys on. She'll look less like a kid who got into mama's secret stash of eyeliner and Kardashian lashes. C'mon - just cuz we're waiting for the end of the world is no excuse to neglect one's brows.

FER SERIOUS.

But anyway.

We'll know the world's about to end because Brit actually looks happy. And able to move on her own. And almost dance on her own. And she SMILES and jumps around.

This is all because Ke$ha wrote the song, of course. Because everything Ke$ha touches turns to gold (edible lactose gold even, but that's another video for another day). Yep. Britney looks happy and alert because she's singing a song penned by Ke$ha. Actually, further off-topic, Mr Wonderful and I were discussing the fact that neither of us are particularly in Dollar Sign's "target demographic." Which then led to wondering about exactly WHO her target demographic may be. And coming up totally empty-handed. I mean, I flippin love the kid, but I couldn't quite figure out to precisely whom she's trying to appeal...obviously not Mr Wonderful. He likes Real Music (with the occasional XTina exception. Cuz I'd shank him if he dissed my XTina). Probably not even trying to appeal to me, though I'm admittedly not remotely averse to music that mentions glitter in the lyrics like 1274 times on one album. I like bad pop. Whatever - someday when I bump into Ke$ha in the sewers before the world ends I'll ask her.

Speaking of End of Days - by the end of the video, the world has, apparently, ended.

We know this because...er, because Brit's wearing a red mesh...body stocking...thing. And she crawls out of the sewer into the sunshine. So - pre-apocalypse we party in the sewers without any booze wearing drab colored leather with really technically styled hair. Post-apocalypse it's sunny and urban and....Britney's the only one left on earth.

Actually, that sounds sort of okay with me. And much less stressful than, say The Book of Eli's post-apocalyptic dust bowl fantasy of sunglass porn. Britney's version looks a little more like Chicago on a nice day. The sort of post-apocalypse that pretty much makes me want to go watch a baseball game and eat a hot dog and drink a $17 beer out of a plastic party cup.

In my red mesh body stocking.

Okay, let's get this bit out of the way while I'm thinking about it: would it KILL anyone to put Brit in some "normal" clothes? I mean, I understand there's this whole idea of "video chic" that involves variations on vinyl leotards and that apparently video babes between the ages of 13 and 33 can't lip sync convincingly unless 100% of their ass is showing, but what would have been REALLY cutting edge here would have been to toss her in some awesome vintage-looking AG denim crops with some sky-high heels and a white t-shirt. Get her makeup done right, toss on some funky jewelry, repair the weave that looks like it really HAS been drug through the sewer, and impress everyone with how normal she looks.

Because there are a few quick scenes in the video where she manages a truly authentic, honest, happy grin, like she's finally having fun again. I'd rather they dress her in something that looks like a girl who's recovered and likes to dance rather than a girl who's been eaten by something Joan Collins may have coughed up a few decades ago.

Other than that: let's call this video a success.

(It's totally because of Ke$ha.)

I changed my mind. It happens.

I hate peas.

They're the only food I've ever gagged on, they're the one food that Grown-Up Heather has yet to decide are edible in ANY way, they still creep me out with their fleshy little skin and their mushy, squishy, grainy insides.

I hate 'em.

That's nice, Heather. What's that have to do with the price of -- (shoot - I can't remember how that idiom goes...the price of milk? of barbie dolls? of tater tots? beats me). Nice, Heather; what's that got to do with the price of Sour Patch Kids?

Er, not much, but I'm gonna try to make some sort of parallel anyway, I guess. Fair warning.

See, for the most part, foods that were banished from my grade school repertoire and declared unilaterally "GROSS" have been, albeit slowly, allowed to infiltrate the present diet. I discover that things I assumed I hated for YEARS are actually, mostly, pretty tasty.

Tomatoes. Zucchini. Cheddar cheese (in moderation). Green beans. Even more recently - red wine, Chinese food, pork. Acorn squash. Eggplant. Marshmallows. Yogurt. Some chocolate. For the most part (with the exception of peas and....ooh, sour cream - yuck) I've realized that these gastronomic bad guys weren't really all that bad. I mean, I'm not going to race out and blow cash on Panda Express in this lifetime or sit down with a plate of nothing but pork, but I'll eat it and not make my "bourbon face." Bourbon face. The face (and entire body shudder, actually) that happens if I take a sip. The smell, the taste, the way a perfectly good maraschino cherry can suck up all of that icky, creepy bourbon and catch me by surprise when I THINK I'm just going to sink my teeth into red food coloring and some artificial flavor. Oh no. Bourbon cherries. Anyway.

So it goes with celebrities.

I'm a catty, judgmental, nit-picky sort of girl. Famous people can do something as simple as date the wrong person and I'll be all kinds of turned against them. Or I can love them with a startlingly unhealthy devotion for no reason at all. Natalie Portman, for instance. I love her. She can do no wrong. Why? We have the same birthday. Same year, same day. We're soul mates or something.

BUT, I've been feeling a little generous lately with my "Ugh, you're an obnoxious twit, I can't stand you" list.

Giving people a free pass to leap off the list. Cut them a little slack. Actually admit that I don't hate them. No, Taylor Swift gets no mercy, sorry.

Who does? For starters, Blake Lively gets a free pass this week. The "peas and sour cream" of Hollywood are sliding onto my "some chocolate and the occasional slice of melted cheddar" list. Which is not to say she's made it to the "champagne and cheeseburgers" list, just that I don't necessarily want her to be hit by a bus this week. Ooh, by the way, speaking of cheeseburgers, I just discovered that Jack in the Box has a Jr Bacon Cheeseburger that's only a DOLLAR and 400-and some calories and, while a little limp and lacking a certain amount of burger panache, is actually QUITE good when a girl is on a cash and calorie budget and also has a compulsive Friday "Treat Myself to Junk Food at Lunch" habit. Just so you know.

We'll start with Blake. I'm not sure why I immediately couldn't stand this girl - maybe because I'm female, and much like our aversion to Jessica Alba, we're generally averse to women about whom men are wont to say things like, "Dude - I'd tear that sh*t up" or other such nonsense that's particularly encouraging to us normal, "Not Blake or Jessica" types.

Also: she's an actress who can't act. But she keeps getting roles. And keeps dating high-profile men. And keeps being called an "actress," when clearly, as any of us who have seen her in either of the Traveling Pants travesties would know: this is simply not the case. She's a head of hair with the world's most enviable legs. Who also gets attention for being a "fashionista" when the only evidence I've seen that warrants such a label is her inexcusable proclivity toward ankle booties. And harem pants. And being seen frequently alongside Karl Lagerfeld and Anna Wintour.

So what changed?

The delightful movie "The Private Lives of Pippa Lee," In which she "non-acted" in the role of a younger version of Robin Wright's grown-up character who's married to octogenarian Alan Arkin. She got to play this sort of affected, bohemian, orphan of sorts who eventually flees the nest because of her drug-addicted mother, played to the hilt by a very fantastic Maria Bello who has really nailed Acting Like a Junkie. Basically it was an excuse for the movie to dress her in awesome retro clothing and have her walk listlessly down a beach looking lost and hungry and hungover.

After watching this (absolutely delightful) movie, something about my opinion of her changed. I sort of took her for what she is: a girl who can't act, particularly, but can really decorate the hell out of a movie screen if the role calls for someone to stand around and look pretty - maybe sort of cry from time to time, and generally look fantastic in clothes.

So, I was expecting too much and hating her for expecting her to be something that even the studios don't seem to expect her to be. They know she's glorified set dressing, but she's appealing that way. In a beachy, all-American, Barbie-doll sort of way that made me want to slap on some messy eyeliner and a blonde wig and go wander the beach in a mini-skirt. Cuz it had this cool sort of "sexy-trashy-orphan" cache that I liked.

Blake gets a pass. I no longer loathe her. And, in fact, she's done well not to mess with her face, surgically speaking, which I admire, too. She's got her natural lips and her natural nose and they're sort of girl-next-door-esque and I like that. She seems benign. And it's hard to hate pretty and benign, even when she's trying to convince us that she's an edgy, high-fashion actress. She's not peas, she's marshmallows.

Oh - and about that "Pippa Lee" movie? See it! It's surprisingly delightful - tackles a rather heavy subject with some lightheartedness and charm. And Robin Wright is aging BEAUTIFULLY. She was luminous in this film in a completely natural way that I adored.

Plus, with cameos and bit parts by everyone from Winona Ryder to Keanu Reeves I'm surprised I hadn't heard more about it when it came out a few years ago.