Obama Is The New Waldo

As in... where the hell is he?!?!?

This is the wall in my office's entry way where the chain of command is supposed to be displayed. See that vacant spot on the top left? That's where the Commander in Chief should be.

Bush's face still graced this spot until Monday. I "gently" reminded our Staff Sergeant that there was a new sheriff in town and that the wall needed to be updated. He took down Bush but, four days later, I am still waiting for the new picture.

Tough Times Are No Excuse For Bad Fashion

I have a dirty little secret: I am a Forever 21 shopper. That's right. A 30 year old woman who buys cheap trendy knock-offs. I even have their website bookmarked and check out the new arrivals at least twice a day because all the cool stuff has a tendency to disappear in the blink of an eye. At least 50 percent of my jewelry comes from there. That cute shirt I wore at New Years? Straight off their website. I love being able to buy frivolous, irreverent trends and not break the bank. When an item goes out of style in a few months, I won't be out more than $30.

Being several years over their intended demographic, I have to use a little restraint. Sure... those shiny faux-leather leggings are kind of hot in Pat Benetar way and are quite the steal at only $22 but probably should never grace an ass over the age of 21. The glen plaid tube dress is really adorable and is a great knock-off of something I have seen Victoria Beckham wear but my tube dress days have passed.

Then there is the fashion that I just don't get:

Those weird hoodies covered with crappy 80s graphics are fugly beyond belief.

I think my grandma has a top like this one.



Then... today... I saw something that truly made my heart hurt.





The return of Hammer pants. Although they are now described as "harem" or "paper bag" pants. What a horribly unwelcome re-trend. Who wants to look like they took a dump in their pants? Fucking Hammer pants! MC Hammer went broke and can now be seen praying all over the Jeebus channel. Is this really who we want as a fashion icon during these troubled times?

I May Not Be Miss Manners But...

Has etiquette fallen to the wayside these days? I threw a party last night and was astounded by the amount of no-shows who didn't even bother to pick up the phone to call or text that they weren't coming. All of them were people who at least acted like they fully intended to come. How rude! If someone takes the time to clean their house and stock the fridge for you, at least have the common courtesy to RSVP properly.

Dirtbag Alert: The Aging Frat Boy

I hated frat boys in college. I only went to their damn parties for the free booze. As I sipped my Pabst Blue Ribbon in a smokey corner surrounded by grunting drones in pukka shell necklaces and Abercrombie cargo shorts, I kept telling myself that someday I would be out in the real world with real men whose life's ambition couldn't be found at the bottom of a beer bong.




Fast forward almost a decade to discover that the guys really haven't changed much. There is a another breed stalking poor unsuspecting women in bars. The Aging Frat Boy still roams in packs. They still tell fart jokes and quote Adam Sandler and Ben Stiller movies with glee. And they still wear those damn pukka shell necklaces and cargo shorts!

But that isn't the worst part. They never reach for their wallets when the bill comes; dates usually end in a half-ass offer to go Dutch. That is, if they even plan an actual date anyways; most of the time it comes down to "Why don't you come over and watch a movie?" (ladies... we all know what that is frat boy-ese for.) When this is all pointed out, they usually fall back on the old stand by of "Well, isn't this what you womens' libbers wanted?" Okay... where is the mens' lib then? If women are becoming more self-sufficient and taking over traditional male roles, why do the men throw temper tantrums and accuse you of emasculation when asked to be more compassionate and caring? I don't want to have to bring home the proverbial bacon, fry it up in the pan and then spend an hour cleaning the kitchen afterward while an aged frat boy sits on the couch playing the latest version of World of Warcraft.

Thanks, but no thanks. Dear Readers... I offer you a glimpse in to my future:

Ramblings of a Wind Swept Mind

As mentioned in the user's manual, I can often be found singing off-key. It's partly because I can never shut my brain off (okay, with enough Vodka I can but that also leads to trips to Spanish hospitals) and a small corner of my brain seems to be a jukebox that is constantly playing. I have actually woken up mid-song and just kept going. Which brings me to my point (yes I have one, kind of...) of my sleep brain. I don't remember my dreams too often but when I do they usually have certain fantastical elements mixing with the mundane to make them weird as hell. Most everyone does, I am assuming. And to prove my sister in law wrong (granted this is the same "democrat" that is now supporting McCain) who says that no one listens when people talk about their dreams (my brother did stick up for me on this saying, yeah, but Rosie's really are f'ed up) I am going to tell you mine. Maybe this way, I can stop thinking of them.

Dream #1: Two nights ago I dreamt I was with my parents at a football game. Evidently a Colts game as Peyton Manning was playing. Somehow, my parents and I were friends with Peyton's parents, and they drove a minivan. They were parked on the road and there was a semi coming so my dad decided to move the elder Mannings' van for them, it proceeded to get hit by said semi anyway. Then I was working the concession stand and the Colts must have lost because Peyton was pissed and at the concession stand to get food. The only food available were boxes of chicken, fries, and other miscellaneous food that didn't really go together. Right when I started flirting with Peyton, my alarm went off scaring the bejeezus out of me.

Dream #2, last night: My family again makes an appearance (can't get rid of them can I?). My brothers and I were all out on vacation or something with my parents. My two brothers took me out for the night, and got me absolutely blotto. I wake up the next morning feeling absolutely wonderful, having no memories of the night before, except for the tattoos I am sporting. And not good tattoos, horrible could have been better if done in prison tattoos. I think there were three of them. Anyhoo, my brothers tell me that I not only got drunk and got tattoos I somehow managed to pawn most of my furniture (even though I wasn't anywhere near memphis where said furniture is located) to further continue my night of debauchery. They didn't do anything to stop it. My parents, upon hearing about it, were not upset at all. Just amused that I had no hangover but no memory of it all. I woke up having that feeling of being incredibly grateful that it was just a dream and pretty pissed at my brothers. Come to think of it, I am pretty pissed at my brothers still.

Anyhoo, if you read this, thanks for reading it, even though it probably makes no sense. I was going to put another moment of zen but the stupid freaking program wouldn't work right. So create your own moment of zen and Enjoy.

Random Musings

Trying to keep up the blog in Roadtripper's absence but my life really isn't that interesting. I have been contemplating a Sarah Palin piece after watching the first part of her Charles Gibson interview and reading several insightful articles but I just get mad and have not been able to rationally or intelligently put my thoughts in order yet. And today is football today and my Colts managed to pull it out of their ass long enough to win, finally. But the one interesting thing I did do this weekend (other than getting the oil changed in my car and rationing my travelling due to unbelievable price gouging at the pumps) was go to the Cooper-Young Festival in Memphis. The C-Y area of Memphis is kind of like Bardstown Rd in Louisville, except with worse restaurants. It is cool and hip and they had plenty of music and crafts. I did find a few gems:

See Roadtripper wasn't lying when she said I was a Beatles fanatic. The best part is I do own a turntable to play the album on. The earrings are made from Guinness bottle caps! and an old key I will be making into a necklace. It was a nice waste of an afternoon. Did go to The Celtic Crossing, an Irish restaurant/pub there and was not impressed. Just because you serve Guinness on tap and play U2 on the sound system does not make you Irish. They had no Strongbow (which yes I realize is English not Irish but all good Irish pubs I have been to have it) and their fish and chips? Not that good.

One other good find from the weekend? The book: Other People's Love Letters edited by Bill Shapiro. Just happened across it at Barnes and Nobles (my second home) and got it on a whim. It is composed, as the title obviously implies, of real love letters written by other people. Some of the letters are funny, some are sweet, some are angry, and some are heartbreaking, as is the end which gives updates to some of the letters. An utter romantic with a pragmatic heart, it gave me hope and is a pleasant way to while away an afternoon. Hopefully Roadtripper will get her cable up soon, one of us has got to be the fun one on here.

Dirtbag Alert: Dante Moore

Dante Moore, a computer engineer who was fed up with being a nerd who got no play from the ladies, has taken it upon himself to write a "help" book for single women. The advice found in "The Re-education of the Female" (ugh... just typing that title made me break out in to hives): Learn how to cook man-friendly meals, do as you're told, stay pleasant and non-confrontational and, above all else, DON'T GET FAT!

Here is a little sample from his manifesto:

"The fatter you get, the more you decrease your potential single-man pool. Let me give you an example. When you go to the grocery store to shop, do you pick out the nastiest-looking, most rotten, smelliest fruit or meat you can find? Oh, you don't? Why not? . . . It's the same with men when they see baby elephant-sized, out-of-shape women."

Even better is:

"Here's a little secret, ladies: men never really ask for anything. They command. . . . And believe me, what you won't do, ten broads around the corner will."

Thank you, Mr. Dante Moore. Reading your vile excuse for advice made me vomit. Looks like I found a new diet plan. Maybe I should pick up a copy of your book, so every time I get the urge to eat, I can just read a passage and completely lose my appetite. Maybe I will lose the will to express my own opinions since I will be so weak from calorie deprivation. Then I can be really skinny and submissive and get a domineering, arrogant douchebag like you for a boyfriend.

I Just Choked On Bubble Gum

I have tried my very best to avoid this new wave of teeny-bopper pop. I flip the channel every time Hannah-Miley-Destiny-I-have-too-many-names-to-keep-track-of-Montana-Cyrus graces the screen. Her hyper Tennessee-tinged voice drives me bonkers; and all I see are these giant teeth. Oh yeah... and I am still holding a grudge against her father. My junior high's physical education program had a required block of instruction on dancing. Picture me at age 12 forced to do the Achy-Breaky Heart for 45 minutes straight. Picture me at age 30 still seething about it.

Screw you, Cyrus! I still have scars.

The only thing I knew about the Jonas Brothers was that one of them was linked to that demon spawn from the previous paragraph. Then came their Target commercial. I adore Target. There is a 40% chance when you call me that I will tell you, "yeah... I am Target right now... just stopped by to get a few things." Why did my beloved Target need these little shaggy-haired moppets? I will take my Isaac Mizrahi shift dress and Michael Graves toilet bowl scrubber without a side of reworked Beatles' songs sang by prepubescent boys.

Seriously... they make Hanson sound like Barry White!

I was bored at work so I decided to educate myself on these little rat bastards. 5 minute lesson learned: the Cyrus chick and the Jonas brothers are all evangelical types who wear promise rings for God and pledge to save their virginity until marriage.

Uggghhh. No wonder they all annoy me. Cheeseball pop is one thing; sanctimonious preachings regurgitated from their parents is another. Virginity is such a private issue, especially for teenagers. I hate it when people pledge it publicly to a higher being or (the creepiest of all) to their fathers. Couldn't you just keep that to yourself? Besides... didn't we already see how the pop star who publicly vows to stay a virgin ends up?

And this is only Exhibit A

What happened to pop music? My generation had the New Kids on the Block; and yes I was a certified Blockhead. The kind that plastered my room with ripped out magazine pictures from Bop and Tiger Beat. The kind who pinned those giant buttons of my fave New Kid (Jon, with Donnie as a close second) on my acid-washed denim purse. The New Kids were your classic cheesy pop fare... but there was at least a small acknowledgment to sex. Nothing overt because they were dealing with pre-teens. Just the occasional wink or pelvic thrust to sate a poor girl's raging hormones. But they didn't feel the need to broadcast the details of their sex (or lack of) lives. Neither did Debbie Gibson. Or (reaching back to my mom's generation) David Cassidy. So shut up about your precious virginity, pop stars. We all know that you are going to lose it to some groupie backstage after sucking down a fifth of Jack Daniels chased by an 8-ball anyways.

What do you think they really meant by "Hangin' Tough"?

Dirtbag Alert: The Angry White Guy Edition

Meet Roy Den Hollander, Angry White Guy

Hollander is currently suing Columbia University for the abolishment their namby-pamby women's studies courses, claiming that it is unconstitutional to use government funds to preach religious beliefs. What religious belief?, you ask. "Feminism"! (His use of apostrophes...not mine). Feminism is now an option for religious preference?... shit... if I'd have known that, I would have had that stamped on my dog tags instead of the boring ol' No Pref.

His other case, where he took on the plight of the poor male who is forced to pay bigger cover charges at clubs on designated ladies' nights, is still pending. In addition to being a douchebag, Mr. Hollander is also a lawyer who specializes in male discrimination cases. His entire law firm is dedicated to "battle the infringement of Men's Rights by the feminists and their allies".

STFU, Mr. Roy Den Hollander!

I have absolutely zero sympathy for The Angry White Guy. All their whining about how minority special interest groups are ruining the world with their liberal agenda. Yeah... it must be really hard for the white man to get by these days. My heart breaks for you all. Not only do men hold the majority in every sector of business, government and industry in this country... but then they have to shell out $10 to get in to a bar. The horror!

What really cracks me up is that ladies' night really is for men anyways. The entire concept of ladies' night it to lure women in to the bar for the guys. Why isn't there a mens' night? Because the men are already there. This isn't a case of discrimination; it is an example of simple capitalism. The demand (created by men) for more women in bars and clubs is met by these establishments creating a lure for women.

The Angry White Guy prides himself on being an old fashioned, take-charge, no bullshit type of guy. He idolizes John Wayne. He wishes we could all just go back to the time where women were ladies and men were real men.

So, I ask you this, Angry White Guy: Would John Wayne throw a hissy fit because he was asked to pay $10 to get in to a club while his date only had to pay $5?

Hell no! John Wayne would man up. He would slap down a $20, tell the door attendant to keep the change while calling her honey and pinching her on the ass.

Newsflash to all Angry White Guys out there: you can't have your cake and eat it too. Either be a crybaby or be a real man. And real men don't whine... or sue!

Don't You Dare!

I gritted my teeth when the fashion gods brought back skinny jeans. But this... I draw the line here!


Pegged jeans sucked the first time around. They haven't gotten any better over the years.

Name Blame

I saw a documentary on MTV called "True Life: I have embarrassing parents." One of the segments was centered on a set of triplets whose parents were full-time clowns. As in, picked them up from school and sat around the living room in complete clown gear. Clowns can suck it because they are just plain creepy... but that was not the most disturbing part for me. Get ready for this one. The father introduced them all as the Gramm family and his daughters as Candy, Holly and Millie.

Hold up... what?!?!? You named your kids Candy Gramm, Holly Gramm and Millie Gramm? Why, dear God, whhhhhhhhyyyyy?!?!?

I went to elementary school with a girl who had gotten saddled with the name Kandy Kane. I just hope that poor girl didn't end up sliding down the stripper pole. Hopefully she got married and secured a new last name... or just started going by Kandace instead.

In high school, a girl from my homeroom class had the first name Love and middle name Leigh. Awww... how lovely of her folks to have gotten so creative... especially since her last name was Funkhauser.

My friend Chrystal has the best name stories. She moved in to her college dorm room and saw that her roommate's name was Turquoise. Upon the roommate's arrival, Chrystal greeted her, pronouncing the name the same as the color. She was quickly corrected. Proper pronunciation? Turk-qwa-si.

Chrystal loves to tell about a family she knew who had three girls: Porsche, Lexus and Mercedes. When ol' momma got knocked up with a fourth child and announced it was a boy, a betting pool was formed to guess which luxury model he would be named after. Bentley? Royce? Corvette? Nope... the new baby boy was ushered in to this world as Diamante. Poor thing got gyped and named after a Mitsubishi.

Chrystal must be a magnet for bad names. One time her and I were at the mall, waiting in line. The lady in front of us started yelling at her younger daughter "Get your ass over here, Genesis." The little girl joined her mom and older sister in line. Read that again. Older sister! Why give the name Genesis to a child who is not the first? Is it not the first book in the bible? It means beginning, for Christ's sake!

I used to hate my name. Nothing good rhymes with Maggie. (Go ahead and run through the alphabet... I'll wait). There was always some rocket scientist who figured out that Maggie sounded a lot like maggot. Then there are the people who think they are original and bust out with a line from Rod Stewart's shitty song "Maggie May". Yeah, yeah... the morning sun when it's in my face really shows my age... thanks.... oh... let me guess... you think you have something to say to me.

Considering the alternatives though, maybe it isn't such a bad name after all. Well-played, mom and dad!

(But I would still love to kick the shit out of Rod Stewart!)