Welcome To The Island: Gerard Butler

Who else could make a skirt and a pink shirt look so manly?

Due to high demand (okay... only one person), a new member will be inducted on to the island once a week. Not only am I living in fantasy land, but I am also so unoriginal that I chose Wednesday aka Hump Day (because my sense of humor never progressed past year 12... hee hee) as my debut.

This week's addition: Gerard Butler. The man is simply smoking hot. And that accent... every time he opens his mouth, I think of Samantha Jones' line "If he can do that with his R's, imagine what else his mouth can do."

From The Cubicle Farm

Your tax dollars at work! Here is what has kept me awake in my cubicle this morning.

Apparently Chrystal and I haven't even scratched the surface when it comes to crappy names.

Pimping out "family values" is so 2004. A take on Obama that is aimed right for the single girl's heart.

I am not sure if I am turned on or scared shitless by this new condom ad.

This bastard wants to get rid of the entire month of August. If I don't get any birthday presents, I am hunting him down.

Know When To Fold 'Em

Upon arriving at my desk this morning and opening Outlook, I was slammed with the nagging suspicion that I was forgetting something. I kept focusing on today's date... August 12th... did I miss someone's birthday? Did I forget to pay the electric bill? Why does August 12th sound so damn important?

Duh... it was the day I got married. Today would have been our eight year anniversary. What a crazy thought. Eight years ago on this very day, I was standing in line at the Clark County Courthouse Marriage Office in Las Vegas with twenty other nervous couples. The paperwork was nothing. I would take longer filling out an application at McDonald's.

Eight years ago today, I was being swept away in a white limo to be married at a fine establishment called The Chapel of Love. I was wearing a purple sun dress and black sandals. But... hey... it's Vegas, baby.

Classy, isn't it?

Eight years ago, I was having a nervous breakdown in the bathroom of The Chapel of Love, ten minutes prior to the ceremony. I knew it wasn't a good idea. I wanted to run but I tried to convince myself that part of being an adult was to honor your commitments. I was afraid of letting everyone down. After I got divorced, I told my mom about that bathroom breakdown. She told me that her and dad would have grabbed me and walked out; then spent the rest of our time in Vegas partying.

Eight years ago, I was being escorted down the aisle by my father, who was trying so hard to choke back his tears. The ceremony was a blur to me. All I remember is that the guy performing it had a disfigured nose. I stared at it the whole time.

Eight years ago, I kissed Todd and was declared his wife. We were two stupid kids smiling at each other; having no clue what we just did. Love was a word we kicked around a bunch but the two of us never stopped to think about what it really meant. We were convinced that spontaneity and passion were essential building blocks for a long lasting relationship.

Eight years ago, I took the biggest gamble you can in Vegas. I used to swear that Vegas weddings were cursed. It was just too damn easy for couples drunk on love/lust/whiskey to jump in without thinking. Vegas isn't to blame. It may be a city for fools but it is (to steal a line from The King) the fools that rush in.

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!)

The new Sex and the City?

After hearing all the hype, I broke down and rented the entire first season of AMC's Mad Men. Instant addiction! Now I am trying to drum up support for the show but for very selfish reasons. This show is begging for a theme night. Remember when everyone would get together for Sex and the City viewings? Women would dress up like the character they most identified with and swill the ubiquitous Cosmos. Just think of the bomb ass clothes and hairstyles you could bust out for Mad Men:

Just swap the Cosmo for a martini or a scotch on the rocks. Voila! A new Sunday night obsession to cap off your weekend.

Way to represent the ol' US of A!

I never knew the old man had it in him. All these years... I would have pegged him as a tits man.

An Introduction to the Russell-Pfau-Lannon Island Theorem

Anyone who has ever hung out with Rosie and I (and, if you were lucky, Andrea Lannon... RIP) may have wondered why we shout "That man is SO on the island!" upon seeing a hot guy. To understand this, one needs to trace the roots of the Russell-Pfau-Lannon Island Theorem back to our crazed college days.

I really miss college sometimes. Not all that pesky studying or having to sneak food out of the cafeteria in order to stock your fridge. But I do get nostalgic for those nights where everyone would sit around the dorm room and have the most nonsensical, vodka-fueled conversations about off-the-wall subjects. Themes of socialism in Dr. Seuss books? Check. The heavy use of phallic symbols in architecture as a latent reminder of male dominance? Done that. But our finest moment: the creation of a Utopian society located on a fantasy island where my friends and I would turn men in to our sex-slaves. Ching-ching! We have a winner!

This island theory was simple. Andrea, Rosie and I ruled it as a triumvirate. Each of us chose a man to be our king-escort who was our primary companion (sometimes the king-escorts were off-limits to the other friends, other times we would loan them out. No true consensus was ever reached on that topic.) The rest of the island consisted of man-candy ripe for the picking.

Rosie has consistently had Val Kilmer on her throne for 10 years now.

Sadly, Val doesn't quite look like Iceman anymore...


prompting us to add this addendum: All men on the island will be from the stage in their lives where the 3 queens find them the most desirable... even if that was several decades ago.

My king-escort throne has been a revolving door over the years. First it was Peter Wingfield from the TV show Highlander. Past occupants include Russell Crowe, Dave Navarro, Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson and, for a brief moment, even a Backstreet Boy (shut up!)

My current?

All hail Richard Armitage!

What? You don't know who he is? Shame! Get on Netflix this instant and move BBC's production of "North & South" to the top of your queue. Prepare to swoon with his depiction of John Thornton, a mill owner from the north who is love with a preacher's daughter from the south. Or turn on BBC America for Robin Hood and watch him smolder as Guy of Gisbourne.

Just be careful googling him. My beloved shares a name with Bush's former Deputy Secretary of State who is nowhere near as attractive.