Taft '08 and The Night of Magical Thinking

I've been away a long time. Why? Intensive training for the Graduate Level Presidential Physical Fitness Challenge. Obama has inspired me to do the sit-and-reach and hang from a pull-up bar. Did you ever have to partake in the dumbed-down events for Presidential Challenge in gym class? At my school, you could either do pull-ups or just hang from the pull-up bar for as long as possible. How unfair is that to the kids who can actually do pull-ups? Do you know what's even more unfair...I couldn't even hang from the effing thing for more than ten seconds! Can you keep a secret? Promise not to tell Obama?! One year I totally cheated on the mile run! GASP! I have to say, it was one of my prouder moments in life. I can't believe I actually got away with it. "Wow, that's crazy how I shaved like five minutes off my time! Yeah, I'm sure I did all four laps." I totally only did three. Why do presidents have to be such bastards; they could sign Certificates of Participation or Good Sportsmanship Awards or something like that. Was Taft our fattest president? I bet things would be really different for a gal like me if Taft was runnin the show.

I'm currently taking a break from training and watching a rerun of some old David Blaine special. I don't even know what kind of trick he's doing, but he totally just touched this lady's boob and let his hand linger there for a while. Man, I really ought to look into magician training. "OK, I'm gonna need you to touch my right boob and tell me I look pretty while you think of your favorite card. Three of Clubs." Magic.

I went to the grocery store tonight, and my favorite check-out guy was really workin the canned goods. He took my Campbell's Chicken Noodle and was doing some Tom Cruise Cocktail-style moves. Soup has never looked sexier, and that means a lot coming from me; I really enjoy soup.

OK, random thought time:

What if you stopped using pens and did all of your written work with glue and glitter? Is it just me, or is the image of that really hilarious. Write your student loan check in glitter. You'll see.

Wouldn't it be weird if people farted in public without shame? Just let it rip with wild abandon. A couple of weeks ago I was in a checkout line, and this old fella behind me let out something fierce and just said, "Whoops!" Magic.

What if Romantic Cookbook was a legitimate literary genre? If you're so inclined, send me your favorite recipe and let me see if I can erotify it. "Melt 1/2 cup butter in microwave-safe bowl; in separate bowl, cup a buttock until frontal denim-covered area stiffens." I dunno. What kind of bowl could you even use? Eff that. That's just weird. OK, I'm just gonna bank on the magic thing working out for me. I really think it will. I mean, I can name pretty much every card in a standard deck. Magic.

Why I Wish I Was Sixty

Helen Mirren...Damn!

Miracle, Dude

Guess who's looking FIERCE?! OK, you gotta admit, he looks about twenty times better than most dudes half his age who have top-notch pancreases. Pancreases? Pancrei? Whatever, you know what I'm saying and I don't feel like looking up the proper plural of pancreas; (PAUSE slide your eyes directly to the left of the word PAUSE... you're welcome!) that's information I'll probably never need again. I'm so happy for him! Yay, Buddy! I'm yearning to hear about his struggle and victory during a very special hour with Oprah. I think it makes perfect sense, especially since he's working in Chicago for the next few months. I'm gonna e-mail Miss O when I'm done with this, and then every day thereafter, until I see him on her show when the new season starts. Please join me.

So, I've been away kind of a long time. I've been embarassingly caught up in the Twilight series of books. If you don't know what I'm talking about, you need to run to a bookstore immediately. It's like 2Am, so you should probably bring a window-smashing implement with you. Just foolin! Don't call the fuzz! Seriously though, if you're wondering what it's all about, all you need to know is this...teenage vampire love. I'm not into vampires, or teenagers for that matter, but these books are really entertaining and surprisingly romantic. Seriously, pick up a copy and get your vampire on.

For the last two nights, I've enjoyed a rum and coke before deciding to retire for the evening. This was not a good idea. Why the hell have I done this two nights in a row?! Once I finish my beverage, I feel an insatiable urge to dance and then I can't fall asleep. It is now 2Am and I have not yet retired. I gotta stick to Squirt from now on. Have you had a Squirt to drink lately? I forgot about Squirt for a long time, and then I had one and it's like I've fallen in love for the first time all over again. I love beverages! I almost want to try a Tab again. Whenever I'm at someone's house and they ask if they can get me something to drink, I have a very strong urge to ask for a random beverage. "Oh, thank you. I'll take an RC, or if you don't have that a Tahitian Treat would be just fine." Eww, I do not want to fall in love with Tahitian Treat all over again. The redness of it makes me think of babies with messy faces, which is definitely on my top-ten list of most hated things in the world. It's about like this: 1)Devil 2)Osama 3)Playa Haters 4)Land Mines 5)Fat-free mayonaise 6)Belly Buttons
7)Babies with messy faces that no one cleans for hours
8-10) Hanson...ya know, "Mmm, Bop"
Just kidding; Hanson's not so bad! I do have a fierce hatred of belly buttons though. True story, two days ago one of my coworkers said, "What stinks in this room? It smells like belly button fuzz." OMG, I almost spewed. I was like "Exsqueeze me, what did you just say?" I then mentioned I hated belly buttons and that I wanted to ralph, and everyone just laughed. Not funny.

Why do silly peeves like that seem to follow you wherever you go? One time, I was staying with my family at a lakeside condo. They had the bathroom decorated all woodsy-cute, and by the sink was a piece of pottery that was clearly purchased at an overpriced knick-knack store. It was a little jar with one of those cork tops, the kind of thing you would presumably use for potpourri or something of that ilk (oooh, ilk...good one). Anyway, on the front of the jar, where you would usually see something like "Give me chocolate or give me death" (what is up with that, by the way) it said, "Belly Button Lint 10 cents." WHAT THE EFF?! OK, first of all, I don't ever want to see a container that has those words on it. Second of all, ten cents? What is this implying? Like, in ye olde days you made ten cents for every piece of belly button lint you could find? It's disgusting and beyond me...like, for real, because I don't get it. Do you think there's a store called "Ye Olde Chocolate is my Boyfriend Shoppe." I hope not.

I'm tired now. I'll be back soon!

Pizza, Dolls, and Tank Tops

Fairies give me the creeps. You may be wondering if this has anything to do with anything, or how it relates to the title of this blog entry. Well, tonight's theme is that I don't really have anything in particular I want to write about; I'm just going to let my thoughts fly and see what comes out for the next twenty-ish minutes. Grammar be damned, I just don't care about anything that's run-on or dangling tonight. Fairies are on my mind because I am currently watching Marie Osmond selling some creepy fairy doll on a home shopping show. I've always thought fairies were creepy. I just can't trust anything that's so petite and sparkly. Damn, though, she can sell the shit out of those pricey little creeps. Right now she's talking about how this doll is a symbol of the peaks and valleys we have to travel through in life or something. I better go grab my credit card.

I'm so hungry for pizza right now that I just did an image search for "gooey cheese pizza" so I would have something delicious to look at. I'm looking at pizza pictures and listening to Marie Osmond talk about walking through life with a magical porcelain fairy. Amazing.

I don't think of myself as a person who makes judgements about people based on what they wear, but I've come up with my own little theory that most women who have a little bit bigger arms and wear tank top-ish sleeveless shells with one bra strap hanging out are probably unhappy with their jobs. Think about it.

I have too many chins. I need to do something about that.

The other night I was pretending to be a contestant on So You Think You Can Dance. I woke up the next morning with a sore neck. I couldn't figure out what it was from, until I went to rehearse my signature SYTYCD wild head-roll and went "Ow!" Woops. Reality TV is dangerous for my mind and my body.

Have you ever gone to a movie and had a sudden urge to get up in the middle of it, stand in front of the screen, and start waving hello and/or tap dancing? Like, you wouldn't say anything, you would just move your body for the people in front of the movie screen for about 5 minutes and then return to your seat as if nothing happened. Draw a mental picture of it and I dare you not to laugh. People would probably think you had issues, but that's something I would enjoy seeing. I guess I would rather see it than actually do it. So if you're game, you should invite me to a movie sometime.

Did you ever see that Michael Jackson interview that Martin Bashir did a few years back? It was right around the time of the baby dangling incident. Well, I was chewing a piece of gum tonight and thinking about that interview. I remember Michael saying that when he was a kid and making so much money, he didn't understand why he couldn't have any of his money because he just wanted to buy candy and bubblegum. It got me thinking, what if you blew millions of dollars on candy and bubblegum? That would be so weird.

I like it when ladies who have really fakey looking acrylic nails point at things while they talk. It tickles my funny bone in a way that I can't really explain. Put on some fake nails and point at stuff; it's impossible not to laugh.

Do you know what would be a funny chest/torso tattoo? Crumbs of your favorite foods. Then, if you took your shirt off, it would look like you had just spilled food on yourself. This would also be a good idea for a lap tattoo.

Gooey cheese pizza.

I hate it when people leave their farts in random store aisles. Then, if you go down that aisle by yourself and then somebody else comes down that aisle, it's totally getting blamed on you. Not fair.

Do you ever wonder if you have an amazing natural talent for something you've never tried before. Like, what if I'm this amazing skeet shooter and I don't even know it. One of my favorite parts of Arthur 2: On the Rocks is when Dudley Moore is shooting skeet, and he shoots first and then yells "Pull! Hit the bullet! Hit the bullet!" I effing love that movie! IOL! If you don't know what that means you need to see the movie ASAP. It's SO under-rated!

Remember that gay dude Liza Minelli was married to a few years back. David something. Remember how he said Liza beat him up? He did an interview a few years ago with Stone Phillips and lifted up his shirt to show off his Liza scars...they were totally stretch marks! He tried to blame Liza for his flabby gut! Stone might not know a stretch mark when he sees one, but I sure as hell do.

Mmhhh...garlic.

I think I'm going crazy. I need to fall asleep so I can stop thinking about pizza and garlic. Plus it's been way more that twenty minutes. I've rather enjoyed writing this little piece of spewage though. Mmmhh...dipping sauce. Good night!

Order for Zbornak

Have you ever gone to a restaurant where you get to order your food at the counter, give them your name, and then wait for them to call you over the loud speaker? Isn't it totally boss to know that an entire restaurant hears your name?! All you need to do to get your 15 minutes of fame is pay a visit to your local Fuddrucker's. It's like you're actually a celebrity without even having to make a sex tape; alls ya gotta do is order up some flame-broiled piece of heaven on a bun. Ya know what's even funner, though? Giving them a celebrity first name and last initial! I know you're sitting in front of your computer right now, waving a judgemental finger at your monitor and saying, "Stop that, you! That's too crazy!" I know, I know, but it's just so fun that I can't help myself sometimes! An order of fudd-fries for Sarah Jessica P. One milkshake for Jennifer Love H. One double-cheeseburger for Gwyneth P. The fun is literally endless!

I was reminded of my favorite celebrity burger story while discussing famous-people crushes with my work mates last week. One of my colleagues said, in jest, "Mine is Bea Arthur!" Well, Bea Arthur just happens to be one of my favorite performers of all time. Not only was she brill on The Golden Girls, but I've also had the pleasure of seeing her perform live in her one-woman show entitled And Then There Was Bea. It shouldn't be a surprise that I lover her so much. I mean, I was named after one of her most iconic characters; she's practically a part of me. Anyway, getting back to burgers, one night after I had downed a few too many pre-dinner cherry cokes, I was feeling a little amped up and decided to pull my old trick at the Fudd. This time, however, instead of giving a first name and last initial, I gave a first initial and a last name. I know, but just wait, cause that's not even the crazy part yet. I gave them the name D. Zbornak. If you're wondering who that is, you have NO place being here. Seriously, get the hell out my blog! Everyone knows this was Miss Bea's name on Golden Girls. Ok, so as fun as it was to pretend to be Dorothy Zbornak while shoving chicken tenders down my gullet, the best part came after I left the restaurant. What?! Keep reading.

Alright, after our bellies were full, my sister and I headed over to our local Bead Monkey store to get some raw materials for necklace-making. I'm not good at it, so don't ask me to make you one; it's just a fun creative outlet and another way for me to express my art. Anyway, I usually don't even glance sideways at the section that has all the tiger's eye beads. I don't think they're ugly, I just don't like that they're called tiger's eyes and it makes me feel inadequate because I've never even been on a safari. I was stopped dead in my tracks this particular evening though by a statuesque, silver-haired woman hunched over the bead bins. She was wearing what I guess you would call a topper or duster jacket that was like a patchwork of swirls, various animal prints, and flowers. Crazy beautiful! She smelled like my kindergarten teacher...the perfect number of squirts of Gloria by Gloria Vanderbilt. Then, in that unmistakable timbre that almost made the beads start shaking, I heard her say, "Oh, these tiger's eyes are just gorgeous. If it's alright, I think I'll just take this entire bin and bring it back to my guy who does all my jewelry. I'd love to see what he could do with these." The moment I heard her speak, I know it was her...Dorothy effing Zbornak live and in the flesh, sharing the same air with me and talking about my least favorite bead. I'd never really met a celebrity; I didn't know what to say or where to put my hands. I did the only thing that made sense at the time. I called out to my sister across the store, "I have to go to the bathroom. Just come find me after you check out." What?! I panicked. I was hoping my sister would just get an autograph for me; she's not easily embarrassed by doing stuff like that. It seemed the perfect plan. I got to see her AND I would get her autograph without actually having to make a bold move. I'm not really into autographs; I'm more for giving celebrities their privacy, but this was different. It's D. Zbornak herself! Oh man, she didn't even know I had practically stolen her identity not two hours prior to this. I never thought I would actually see her on that very night! Those things almost never happen to me; I just don't have that kind of luck. I thought my luck had changed, but my plan didn't really work out the way I had hoped. My sister was alarmed by my behavior; she thought I was sick and followed me to the bathroom. She didn't even notice D! I didn't want her to feel bad, and I thought it would just be embarrassing if she went back in, so I made up a story about the chicken not sitting well with me and we called it a night. I've NEVER told her this story, so if she's reading it now I'm sure she's experiencing what Oprah likes to call an "A-ha!" or "Full-Circle" moment. Don't feel bad! It happened the way it was supposed to. Maybe I don't have an autograph, but nobody can take that moment away from me.

Zbornak, if you're out there, thanks for always keeping it medium well. You don't even know it, but you taught me an important lesson that night: When placed in the right hands, tiger's eyes can be beautiful.

Viva la Vida!

If you haven't heard it yet, I demand you go to iTunes immediately and fork over $.99 for Coldplay's amazing new song. I promise it will be the best $.99 you've spent all year. It'll be even better than that dollar you spent on the slick 'n shine bubble gum lip balm you think makes you look like Angelina Jolie, if you can imagine that. Sometimes you have to give a song a few listens before you warm up to it, but this is a total love at first listen experience. I've heard it like a bajillion times now and it still gives me goosebumps. While you're out there surfing the world wide interweb, you should go to their official website and sign up to win a pair of tickets/airfare to their show at Madison Square Garden; think of how much fun you would have taking me with you! Not like the deal needs any sweetening, but I'll even let you hold me while they sing Yellow and In My Place.

I've heard people say that when they put their iPods in the shuffle mode, they feel like it can read their soul. I've never had that experience of having it pick the exact song I needed to hear at that moment; ya know, like some song you haven't listened to in ages but is so all about your life right now. Invariably, when I put mine in the shuffle mode, within the first 10 songs I can count on hearing Will Smith sing Freakin' It and/or Wild Wild West. I'm not really sure what my iPod is trying to tell me with this. Do I need to incorporate more "dang diggy dang da dang da dang diggy diggy" into my daily vocabulary? I just don't really know if I could pull that off, or "freak it" if you will. Ya know, though, at least ten times a day I do hear myself telling people, "Don't let your lip react, you don't wanna see my hand where my hip be at." Hmm, maybe I should start wearing belts.

I hope you all did something nice to celebrate your moms today. I honored my mother by eating deli salads, doing the dishes, and taking a nap. As I type this, I'm thinking back to the first time I helped my mom get on the internet; she took the mouse and pointed it at the monitor like a remote control. I also remember her telling me we needed to make sure we wiped it down a lot so it stayed clean and wouldn't catch a virus; she tried to play it off like a joke, but I'm quite sure she was serious. Gotta love her! I wouldn't tell these tales if I thought she had the slightest chance of finding this. "What letters do I push, honey? Ww.maude/com.internet. I think we need new batteries for the rat, nothing happens when I point it on the picture screen." Ok, she's not that bad. Mom, if you ever push the right letters and let the rat guide you to the right place on the picture screen, know that I love you and I'm just playin.

I've said it before, but Sunday just sucks the life outta me. I dropped my remote on the floor right next to me like twenty minutes ago and have endured half-watching a program I have absolutely no interest in because I just really don't feel like bending down. Damn. It's Swayze Sunday though, so I'm gonna have to freak this and just bend down and get it. And yes, the tradition continues although I have stopped writing about it. I felt like it was probably really annoying and decided to just keep it to myself. I'm freakin it on my own. Dang diggy dang da dang da dang diggy diggy.

You Had Me at "You're Glib"

I don't know what the friz is going on with me, but I think I'm going through some kind of latent Tom Cruise obsession phase of my life right now. I feel like this is a rite of passage everyone must experience at one time or another; boy, girl, gay, straight, young, old...it matters not. I have full awareness right now that I am a total and complete sucker for his carefully calculated Oprah comeback. I've never considered myself a big fan of his. I've always kind of had an attitude about it too, like I felt special because I had more refined taste (as evidenced by my love of films like Roadhouse and Soapdish) and wouldn't dream of drooling over some silly matinee idol like him. Anyway, after seeing him on Oprah, I can't stop fantasizing about twirling bottles and learning how to play Cocktail with him, or whispering jokes in his ear that will make him laugh in a way that frightens me, or having him sing "You've lost that loving feeling" every time our friends come around so they know he loves me and he's totally not gay. I know he's like two heaping spoonfuls of crazy, but you have to admit he is like the quintessential movie star of our generation (let's remember I place Patrick on a pedestal of his very own, so all this drivel does nothing to erase or replace him). Anyway, the summer just doesn't seem right without his face on the big screen.

Man, you guys, this is way lame. I'm SO tired right now and it's nowhere near my bedtime. I will return tomorrow night after I've devoted some hours to pondering the other objects of my randiness (Coldplay and a titillating iPod upgrade). Titillating is such a weird word. Does it have anything to do with bosoms? Typing it makes me think of J-Lo's professional nipple tweakers. She has people on the payroll whose job it is to pinch her nips so she looks cold and excited all the time. That's what I heard anyway...at the job interview. Oh, snap! I bet you did NOT see that one coming! I wonder if there's like a corporate ladder for nipple tweakers, like you have to do a pinching apprenticeship with Bea Arthur before you can even dream about giving Madonna a squeeze. Hmm, something to think about.

Blocked

Ok friends, it's been too long since I've blogged. I'm feeling down-trodden and uninspired. I planned to offer you something tonight, but after writing for a while I realized my particular combination of words really sucked ball :) and I backspaced them all into oblivion, as I have done many times before. So here's the deal. I come to you tonight asking for help. I am but a pathetic blogger in need of a muse. If you are up to the challenge, sweet rewards await you...virtual hugs and emoticons of adoration. Leave a comment if you have an idea for a topic. Things I do not want to write about include (but are not limited to) my birthday (it was lovely, I just think it's annoying to carry on about your birthday when you're an old dame like me), work, boyfriend envy, driving anxiety, Darfur, errant strands of old-lady chin-hair, and the Jonas Brothers. I'm not promising to take your ideas, but I do promise to be back tomorrow night with something. Good night, and I'll be back tomorrow!

Hold Me Closer, Tiny Dancer

You think you've heard the song before, but you haven't really heard it until you've heard it sung by this amazing up-and-comer I discovered over the weekend... ME!!! While playing American Idol at a growed-up girls slumber party with my three best galpals from highschool, I discovered that I have this crazy amazing voice. I'm setting up some open-mic night gigs for the next few months, the ultimate goal being to hit the stage at The Apollo in NYC, baby! I'm making a pledge to you and myself, here and now: I will be the first caucasian to sing "And I am Telling You" on the Apollo stage without getting swept off by that mother-effing clown. Who new karaoke could change the trajectory of one's career so dramatically? I'm giving notice at my current place of employment tomorrow; my public needs me. Just in case my Grammy acceptance speech gets cut short, let me give a shout-out right now to three of the most beautiful ladies I've ever known who helped me find my voice. I promise I won't change by the flossy, flossy! I swear! You have no reason to mucho mistrust me! I love you all; your pirate smiles and laughter are contagus.

Speaking of tiny dancers, I'd really like to bang one. That's naughty; I don't really mean it. I could go for a rhumba and a cuddle though. Tonight finds me infatuated with the professional male dancers from Dancing with the Stars. How can you not love a man who is confident enough in his masculinity to wear purple and sequins AND dance with another dude? DAAMMNN!!! Naturally, my current favorite is Tony D; not only does he have amazing moves and a killer smile, but look at the tender way he handles his plus-size partner. That's a MAN!!!

I've been trying to inspire myself to adopt habits that will lead to the development of a dancer-like bangin bod. To that end, I listened to the song "Gloria" by Laura Branigan for about an hour straight last night. I don't know why that song moves me the way it does. It must be because it always reminds me of Jennifer Beals in Flashdance; she's gotta be like ninety years old now, and have you SEEN her lately? Sick! She looks even better now than she did twenty-some years ago when she was pretending to dance on the big screen. Anyhow, I "worked-out" on my thrift-store purchased stationary bike in the basement. Well, I tried anyway. It's so wonky that the right pedal kept falling off, so I ended up just walking laps in the area around the bike (seriously) for like half an hour. Long story short, you won't even recognize me the next time we meet.

OK, I'm gonna go whip up a little pot of chili for my midnight snack. "Calling Gloriaaaa......"

Ghost With the Most, Babe

No, I'm not talking about him again. You can quit rolling your eyes. The ghost who I refer to tonight is my second favorite celluloid specter...Beetlejuice!Beetlejuice!Beetlejuice! Ok, so I know it's not like a cinematic masterpiece or anything, but I think the AFI needs to come up with a new 100 best list for movies like this. I'm not sure what it would be called exactly. Something alluding to the fact that there are certain films that, no matter how many times you've seen them, are impossible not to watch when you find them on TV. Beetlejuice would have to be near the top of that list, along with the Kurt Russel/Goldie Hawn masterpice Overboard. If you have not seen these movies, you are only cheating yourself. I'm sure one of Oprah's make your life better books has a chapter about these films, because I just don't think you can say you're living your fullest life if you deprive yourself of Beetle and Goldie. Anyway, I was feeling a little bah-humbuggish tonight (or whatever you would call it this time of year); but then I found Beetlejuice on TV Land, and all is right in the world. Seriously, I have Beetlejuice on the tube, an ice cold glass of water in a special cup to make it taste more delicious, and two purple and red tootsie-pops which I am saving to eat until my favorite scenes so that I can have the most optimal sensory experience...could a Friday night be any sweeter? Well, probably yes, but I don't care right now.

I think I'm going to marry the freecreditreport.com jingle guy. I don't really think that, but whatever. It's fun to play make-believe. I find him very appealing, and if we do end up getting married it would be awesome to show this to him on our wedding day. I think we'll have a long engagement; the wedding date will get pushed back a few times because he'll be so caught up with his latest job...composing Beetlejuice! The Musical! "B-Double E-T-L-E. That spells beetle, yeah baby." Can't you hear it? Then there would be the scandalous love theme entitled "Juice of my Love." We're gonna have such an amazing life together. I wish I knew his name.

Well kids, Winona is getting ready to shake shake shake to Harry Belafonte, and my purple tootsie pop awaits.

Sorry, I'm Awake

So I've had a little run of bad restaurant karma these days. I don't know if I even believe in karma, per se, but if I did I would think the universe was punishing me for eating out too much or something. Maybe that's not what it is, though. Perhaps God has sent down some of his table-waiting angels to teach me a lesson about speaking up for myself.

It started one morning a couple of weeks ago when my sister and I went out for breakfast. I was so excited by the prospect of devouring something smothered in hollandaise sauce that I thought my eyes were going to pop out of my head. It's a big deal for me to be that excited about anything so early in the morning. Generally, I don't like to speak or really acknowledge anyone's existence until I've been awake for a good couple of hours. It seems the promise of hollandaise sauce is enough to cure my morning misanthropy, which was lucky for the kind-looking gentleman manning the host's station that day.

In the most pleasant tone of voice I could muster up, I said, "Good morning. Two, please, for a booth if you have one available."

The gentleman replied, "Are you trying to sleep?"

Uh, what?

"I'm sorry?" I said.

"Are you trying to go to sleep on me here?"

I was slightly thrown, but had a sinking feeling I knew where this little exchange was headed.

"No," I replied, "I'm not trying to sleep. Why do you ask?"

"Well, it's just that your eyes are so small. I thought maybe you were trying to sleep."

Yes, that is why I asked for a booth, sir. I need a soft cushiony place to rest my ridiculously tiny eyes. Constant sleep is the only way to preserve the strength of these little slits in my head.

Do you think that's what I said to him? Hell no! Apparently the presence of small eyes is correlative to a complete lack of back bone, because all I could say in response to his ridiculous statement was, "Oh." Guess I told him! Snap! This little convo probably doesn't seem like that big of a deal, but if you're reading this you have probably heard at least a few stories through the years about how strangers have displayed their shock/disgust over my small eyes. I think people are like dogs in many ways; they sense your areas of weakness and know exactly how and when to pounce. As the years go by, it bothers me less; frankly, as much as it has hurt my feelings from time to time, I just think it's really kind of a weird and stupid thing for people to comment on. I've never heard anyone say, "Are you trying to be, like, really awake? Your eyes are so big, I just thought you were trying really hard to be awake." I'll have to stick that one in my back-pocket in case some mo-fo ever tries to dis my slits again.

My ma likes to tell me I have a way with words, but I'm never able to say what I mean to say when I mean to say it. Even for dumb things, like placing an order. Last week I went to another restaurant (tsk tsk) and tried to order a salad. WHAT?! Maude ordering a salad?! During lent, no less? (For those of you who don't know, I have a long-standing tradition of giving up greens/veggies during lent) Anyhow, this salad I ordered came with pieces of steak on top of it and had some goofy name. Well, what I got when the kind waiter-in-training returned was a big slab of meat with steamed veggies on the side. Do you think I could say, "Sorry, sir, you're doing a great job but it seems you misunderstood my order." Hell no! I said what I always say when I'm given the wrong thing at a restaurant, "This looks great! Thank you so much!" Damn! For reals, what is my issue? The upside of this story is that I actually ate the slab of meat and it was quite delicious.

I'm seriously not gonna go on and on about restaurants and food and stuff, but I just have to share one more story from a few years back that really illustrates the ridiculousness of my issues and is sure to make you chuckle. Ok, here's the scene: I'm in my office cafeteria, going through the part of the line where they prepare certain featured dishes of the day. The selections are grilled cheese with tomato and bacon, a stuffed pork chop, or some fish thing. I thought the grilled cheese looked pretty mouth-watering. The cook greeted me with a smile. He was a super nice guy who spoke in broken English and made a mean grilled cheese.

"Hi," I said, "I'll have the grilled cheese today."

"What's that?" he replied. "You want the stuffed pork chop special?"

"Yes please."

What the eff?! Yes please? Seriously, girl, all you had to do is say, "No, actually the grilled cheese." It's not like I would have offended the man by just asking for what I wanted. Damn! I've got probs. If only I could keep my teenie-weenie eyes open long enough to take a good look at them.

To switch gears completely, I know I've neglected to deliver my Swayze Sunday entries. I'm sure you are all extremely disappointed by this, and I pray that someday I will win back your favor. So, continuing the theme of being awake, tonight I have decided to pop in Waking Up in Reno. I'll die of shock if you've already seen it. It was basically a straight-to-DVD feature...sadly, because it's actually really sweet and funny. I know I'm biased, but I've shown it to non-fans of Swayze who couldn't believe it didn't have a longer life in theatres because it's so enjoyable. Swayze stars alongside Charlize Theron, Billy-Bob Thornton, and Natasha Richardson; they play two couples who are best friends on the road-trip of their lives. There's infidelity, laughs aplenty, a dance scene between Swayze and the cameo-appearing Penelope Cruz, and Tony Orlando singing "Knock Three Times." I know, I can't believe it got snubbed at the Oscars either. It seriously is good for some silly laughs if you're ever in need of them, and who would be so foolish as to turn down a good laugh. It's probably not the last time you'll see me write this, but seriously, give it a peep and you won't be sorry.

Another work day is, sadly, just a few hours away. As much as I'm trying to fight it, these pin-holes of mine are wanting to close. I've also completely lost my will to go back and correct all the run-on sentences I know are there. Do you mind if I say goodnight? I hope not. I'm sorry :)

People Who Need People

Ok people, I swear I'm not gonna turn this into a strictly Swayze zone, because I know it must be sickening for most of you...or should I say both of you. I just have to say, though, the article in People Magazine is lovely and there are some beautiful pictures inside as well. So do me a proper and go out and buy it. Alright, that's that for now.

I'm faced with the difficult decision this week of which reality show is going to get demoted from my viewing schedule. It's just too much and something needs to go. The new season of Top Chef started this week, and they've added a spicy new flavor...lesbian. There's a romantic girlsome twosome that's in competition. Who smells some drama cooking?! That show makes me want to douse everything in a port wine reduction, and I don't even know what that means. Dancing with the Stars is getting ready to kick off as well. Ordinarily I would say I could do without that show, but I love Marlee Matlin and I'm thrilled that Marisa Jaret Winokur will be representin the larger ladies on the dance floor. Plus, I want to see how long it takes before Priscilla Presley's face melts off altogether. American Idol is finally getting good, and Big Brother is still on too. Ahh! It's too much. I suppose the wise thing to do would be too get off my ass and just step away from the TV, but I think we know that's not about to happen. I'll just have to quit my job; it's the only reasonable solution.

Speaking of the job, it's spring break week bitches! WooHoo! Not so fast, Maude. No spring break for you! I don't mean to whine, it just blows to listen to everyone counting down the days until their fabulous vacations knowing that I still have to work. I really shouldn't complain; in the grand scheme of things, this matters not. But DAMN! I could use a little break. Oh well, all I can do is try to maintain a spring break attitude when I'm stuck at work. To that end, I plan on flashing my coworkers (you're welcome!) and suggesting body shots as a team-building activity at our next staff meeting. I think it will be a huge success.

Happy Spring Break, y'all!

Canada, the Beautiful

Until last night, I thought there must be no place on earth less intimidating than the grocery store on a Saturday night in America. My sister and I went to pick up a few staples in preparation for a family birthday party. I was feeling a little sluggish and looking a little disheveled, but who cares, right? It's Saturday night at the supermarket. It's not like you have to worry about a flock of beautiful hipsters lounging about the chip aisle, right? Wrong! I have never seen a higher concentration of such aesthetically pleasing and physically perfect human beings in my entire life as I did last night, and I'm not even kind-of kidding. Navigating our way through each aisle became a difficult task, like going through an obstacle course of supermodels. They all had the perfect hair, the perfect body, the perfect ensemble, the perfect handbag...perfect, perfect, perfect! Honestly, is nothing sacred? Can't a gal count on being able to buy some pop and napkins in peace on a Saturday night without feeling bad about herself for not having a posh-bob and designer duds? Apparently not. I was so intrigued by where all of these gorgeous creatures must have come from. Were they angels sent from Heaven? Was it a supermodel night-school field trip? Were they from Canada? Ok, Canada was not the first thing that crossed my mind, but it became clear when I heard the adorable way they were up-talking...and when I heard them tell the cashiers that they were from Canada. "We're here from Winnipeg. In Canada. We're here for a track-meet. It's all day tomorrow." Seriously, the last word of each sentence was like an octave higher than every other word in the sentence. What's that all aboot, eh? Anyway, it's official...I'm never going to Canada.

My usual Sunday sulk session was cut a little short by said birthday party. I suppose it's for the best. Although I am still reeling over this week's troubling Swayze news, I'm trying my darndest to remain optimistic. I am sad to report, though, that my will to eat is almost completely intact. I was hoping to shed somewhere around 50 sympathy pounds, but the way things are going it'll probably end up being about .50 pounds. I'm just joking; you've got to find something to laugh about in the midst of such heart-ache.

So I had been planning on devoting Sundays to watching my favorite bad movies and giving little mini-reviews, with the hopes that you would watch these movies and hate to love them as much as I do. This week's selection was going to be Mannequin, which is one of my all-time faves. I've decided to put Bad Movie Sunday on hold for the time being; instead, my Sundays will be spent revisiting my favorite Swayze classics. Don't you worry, Mannequin will get the props it deserves; it'll just have to wait until Swayze is back in action. That's how long I intend to continue this Swayze Sunday tradition.

This evening's selection is One Last Dance, a tale of three aging dancers who reunite to perform the piece that drove them apart years ago. This is the film which I have the strongest emotional attachment to, even more so than Dirty Dancing. Any fan of Swayze the Man and not just Swayze the Movie Star would probably tell you the same. I'll spare you the long history, but the short version of the story is that Patrick and his wife/costar Lisa Niemi spent many years trying to make this into a film. It was born out of a play they conceived and performed in the 80's entitled Without a Word, which won several theatre critic awards. There were many starts and stops in getting this film made before Lisa decided to write/direct it herself. Although it never made it to the big screen (except for a few festivals and industry viewings) I'm happy to say it is available to rent or own on dvd. In honor of him, or to appease me, you should give it a peep. The dancing is beautiful; and even if you're not a huge fan, hopefully you can appreciate the love that was put into the creation of this project. I especially enjoy watching it while listening to Patrick and Lisa's commentary; it's fun to hear their banter and the familiar way they interrupt eachother and finish eachother's thoughts. OK, I'm stopping myself there. You should really see it, though.

Can I just say that my love for blogging defies description. I'm serious. I don't understand why, but carrying-on about the insignificant details of my life and talking about movies that you'll probably hate is satisfying in a way that is completely unexpected. So, mucho thanks to the one who suggested I do this in the first place. I'm so glad you decided to blog it forward.

Always in Your Corner

I come to you tonight with a heavy heart and a mind full of thoughts that I can't quite organize, so forgive these words if they don't come together the way they should.

By now I'm sure you've seen the TV reports or read the headlines with some variation of these three words that made me lose my breath for a moment today:

Patrick. Swayze. Cancer.

I know what you're thinking, and it's okay because I'm thinking it too. How could she be so thrown by a piece of news about a person she doesn't even know? A piece of news that, let's be honest here, will probably be forgotten in a few short weeks to come. Not by me though. When the stories stop rolling and the headlines change, I'll remember this day and how it made me different somehow.

It started when I was about eight years old. I idolized my sister, and I wanted to like everything she liked. My parents were always open about us seeing "grown-up" movies; so at the behest of my teenage sister, we planned an entire Friday night around the first family viewing of Dirty Dancing on VHS. She had seen it before, and assured us all we would love it. I remember the details of that evening quite vividly. There was shrimp cocktail with cream-cheese, barbeque meatballs, and the four of us. A better Friday night I couldn't imagine. I'll never forget my dad, yes my dad, rewinding the final dance scene three times because he thought it was so great. As for me, something else took over and I was literally in a daze. For many Fridays following this one, the first words out of my mouth at the end of the school day were, "Can we go to StarLand and rent Dirty Dancing again?" These were the days before each bedroom had its own entertainment system, and before VHS tapes were cheap enough to buy the day they were released. Our movie-watching was one-for-all and all-for-one. My parents were sweet enough to indulge in this all too frequent request...most of the time. I remember the first time my request was denied; I spent the evening crying in my room.

I can't articulate why or how this spark was ignited. I don't understand it, even now. I suppose it started as a purely physical response to him, but it grew into something different. I just know he's been an unwitting participant in many of these moments in my life. Moments filled with laughter and shared with the people I love most. Moments when a bad day has been turned around by seeing his face on my TV screen. Moments spent revisiting each picture and article that's been lovingly collected through the years. It sounds crazy, I know; but when you invite someone in like that, even a stranger, they become woven into the fabric of you.

Call it devotion, or call it obsession, my fondness for him has been unwavering. I have seen each film, listened to each song (there is more than one), and read each article. I have always believed in his talent and his goodness. What I find most endearing about him, though, is how much he loves his wife. Thirty-two years they've been married, and he still goes out of his way to talk about how great she is. I think that's pretty amazing. I am feeling for her tonight.

I don't even know how to end this. I feel like I could go on and on, but I'm not going to. Not now. I don't want to think about the statistics or all the speculation. I just want to hold on tight to all the happy moments he doesn't even know he's given me. I'm sending my prayers, and hopefully you will do the same.

Stay strong, Buddy! God bless!

A New Dimension

Tonight finds me popping SweetTarts and contemplating the twenty-nine dimensions of compatibility. I don't really know what this means; it's just something I heard on an ad for one of those love connection websites. I think it's called mymomisgivingmeshitfornotgivinghergrandbabiesandpeopleare
startingtothinkimightbegaycauseimtoooldtobesingle.com or something like that. Anyway, seeing this gave be a better understanding of why each day brings me another inch closer to eternal spinsterhood. I mean, I can't imagine I have twenty-nine dimensions, or even twenty-nine different things to talk about. God, family, friends, work, Swayze, SweetTarts, TV, Movies, TV Movies...these are pretty much the elements that comprise my dimensions. Not even close to twenty-nine. Damn. Maybe I should start my own service, I'd call it dontsayyouonlylikeathleticgirlswhenwhatyoureallymeantosayisthatyou
dontlikechubbygirls.com
Seriously, call a spade a spade, gentlemen. Enough of this, "I'm really into the athletic look," bullshit we always hear on dating shows. Oh really, you're into the athletic look? You should meet my friend Ulga von Hogstein, world-class female Greco-Roman wrestling champ from your favorite non-armpit-shaving European country. You think you'd like to give it a whirl with her? Yeah, that's what I thought. Say it. Own it. You don't like chubby gals; it's cool, we don't like you either.

I was watching Millionaire Matchmaker tonight. For those of you who have never seen it, it's a reality show which follows socially-inept entepreneurs in their search for love. One of tonight's gentlemen asked his lady prospect, "What's something I haven't asked that you'd like to share about yourself?" To which the beautiful athletic girl replied, "I really like, like, stud earrings. I usually have, like, a cupcake in one ear or maybe a frog." For reals. I'm speechless, but enlightened, for this little exchange led me to the following selfishly hopeful conclusion: Maybe I have spent too much time trying to fill my dimensionless void with purple and green SweetTarts, and maybe I'll never look "athletic," but I have this. This here. My own little corner of the blogosphere, where I get to prove to the world (and by world, I mean the five or six of you out there) whenever and however I choose that I have something to offer other than cupcakes in my ears. So thank you. Thank you for adding a new dimension to my life.

Oh, and in case you were wondering, I did go back for that last Samoa. Zip-lines be damned; you know I'd never ride one anyway. Life is short, and Girl Scout Cookie season only comes once a year.

Just One

I think it's the Scandinavian way...never eat the last of anything! Perhaps it's embedded in our DNA, some kind of Norse survival skill that dates back to Viking-ship times. Or maybe it's just some kind of twisted Minnesota-nice; you can consume the majority of something, but if you leave the last one you can still feel good about yourself for being so generous. Whatever it is, something inside just won't let me eat that last Samoa, even though I'm pretty sure I ate every other cookie in the box. You know how it goes; or maybe you don't, so let me tell ya. It always starts with the same internal monologue: "I'm just gonna have one...row. One row really isn't that much, it's only like three cookies. Alright, I'm only having three...rows." You see where this is going. Not pretty. Does anyone know why the outside of these boxes are littered with images of young folks engaging in aerobic activities? Maybe it's to remind us that if we eat too many cookies, we'll never know the joy of riding zip-lines.

So I tried to watch that bit on 20/20 about the Royal Family, but I ended up falling asleep. I guess there weren't enough teasers of Wills and Harry without their shirts on to keep me going. There was one part, though, that I found tragically amusing. The Queen was having lunch with George and Laura Bush. Laura was carrying-on about the history of the plates they were using, while George hung spoons off his face. Ok, the spoons part is false, but you have to admit it's a funny image. Anyway, I was really kind of feeling for the Queen in that moment; she looked so bored, and I wonder how many moments like that she has to endure in a single day. She is just a person too, after all, and you know she can't find plates that interesting. I wonder how many times a day she feels like saying, "Bitch, please! Are we still talking about plates? Have you seen the new trailer for the Sex and the City movie? I'm totally a Samantha; I even have a t-shirt that says so. By Jingo!" If I were British, I would end every thought with "By Jingo!"

I woke up just in time to catch the end of John Leguizamo on HBO performing his one-man show called "Freak." Man, it takes a crazy kind of talent to be able to do something like that. You should check it out if you've never seen it. It's funny, dirty, and really very moving...what more could you want? I'm not sure if it's on DVD, but I think you can see most of it on YouTube. Seek it out, and try to watch it in its entirety. Even if you're not a big fan of his, I think you'll still take something away from it. He is really quite an amazing story-teller and a genius performer. So that's my plug for the evening.

Good night, and God Save the Queen. By Jingo!

Call me Maude

Ok, so hello? I guess.

I'm banking on the fact that this opener will be to blogs what "Call me Ishmael" was to American literature. Ok, maybe not, but if I can't dream that big in life maybe I can do it on this blog. Guess what? I don't even know what book that line is from. Ok, fine, that's not entirely true either. I will admit, though, that I wanted to make a clever reference and I had to wikipedia "Ishmael book" to make sure I was thinking of the right thing, just in case fate (or an internet search of "Ishmael") happens to bring some crazy Moby Dick fans my way. Full disclosure to all those Moby Dick fans (or Moby and Andy Dick fans) that may have stumbled here by accident: I've never read the book. I only know like two of his songs, and I think he owns a tea store. He seems funny in interviews, but I never really got into watching News Radio. Did I cover all my bases? Thanks for stopping by; I hope you find what you're looking for. Damn, I keep ending stuff with prepositions. I hope you find for that which you are looking??? Fuck it, let them dangle! I hope you find what you're looking for.

So what's this thing all about? Dangle Well, I don't know. For now I'm just typing words and waiting to see where they take me. There's no real theme, and that kind of suits me.

It's Sunday. Too late to still be in my pajamas, but here I am wasting another weekend's end watching movies so terrible I can't help but love them. Today's showing is Big Trouble in Little China. Have you seen this John Carpenter masterpiece? It has Kurt Russell in a tank top, a creepy martial-arts guy who floats and wears lots of white makeup and Lee Press-On Nails, and Kim Cattrall before she got all ultra-horny. I mean, really, how could you not love this film? If this won't cure my paralyzing case of the Almost Monday Blues, well I just don't know what will.

I hope you come back soon, blogger friend, but this is where I end it for now. I think Kurt Russell's tank top is about to get wet. I gotta go.