Friday, July 11, 2008

A frog's a frog, doesn't matter who kisses him

So, Christie Brinkley's marriage is officially down the crapper. Sad for her. And I've said it before and I'll say it again - I don't know how many guys my age would say about a woman that she's "pretty, but she's no Christie Brinkley." How dumb is her husband? He had the Christie Brinkley, and blew it. Talk about going out for a burger when there's steak at home.

But this is her fourth marriage to go down in flames. Four.

I think that says something to any woman who ever wondered if she was pretty enough to keep her husband. Or thought about doing something to her appearance to keep a marriage going. You're not pretty enough. Nobody is. There's nothing you can do to change your face or your butt or your boobs that will make a man stay faithful. If her husband cheats, that just puts the last nail in that idea's coffin. Pretty has nothing to do with it. Either you're with a faithful person or you're not. Period. A good man is a good man, no matter whether he's married to Cinderella or the ugly stepsister. And if Cinderella marries a cheater, she gets cheated on.

Let's do the Time Warp again!

Wheeeeee! George Michael!

I was thinking about this last night. This has really been my year to jump in the Wayback Machine. How many people get to not just relive their childhood, but relive their childhood with a live soundtrack provided by the original artists? Though, to be perfectly accurate, I'm not reliving my childhood, I'm reliving my '80s. Brett Michaels. Then Huey Lewis. Now George Michael. Now if only Prince and Duran Duran would come to town.

In picking out my outfit for the show, I'm having really conflicting fashion impulses. Part of me wants to wear what I would consider cute today. Some sort of drapey top, sandals with a heel, and jeans with a modest boot flare to balance my immodest booty (gotta keep that backfield covered). But the part of me wants to completely relive my teen years, and wear what I would have thought was cute if I had been able to see Wham! in its original lineup. I'm gravitating towards menswear look vests to pair with a white t-shirt, skinny jeans and my Chucks (think Mary Stuart Masterson in Some Kind of Wonderful). I've even seen a little black porkpie style hat that I would have given my left pinky finger for in 1987. I know. I know. It's so sad. Though luckily I gave away the peace symbol necklace that I wore with everything that year. Oh, my god. So scary.

So, anyway. I've got that decision to make. The '80s revival has one thing going for it over modern/hip casual. Chucks are way more comfortable than heeled sandals (my feet were so much happier back in the day). But we'll see if I have the guts to throw social norms to the wind, and dress like I truly am lost in the '80s. Well, it is me. I wouldn't bet against it.

Thursday, July 10, 2008

An Immodest Proposal,0,7671185.story

I saw the headline and thought "Ick. Nude beach. Who wants to see chubby people naked on the beach?" But then I saw the picture with the article. These folks (tastefully holding their surfboards at a discreet angle) look pretty trim and healthy.

Then I thought, maybe that's the answer to our country's weight problems. Ban clothes. Wouldn't you have a different attitude towards your body if you knew that you wouldn't be able to hide that extra donut behind a pair of fat pants? A good pair of black slacks and a peasant blouse can be a really nice safety net when I know I've been hitting the candy jar a little too hard. Knowing that all the junk food in my trunk was going to be out there for the world to see, literally, I'd probably make different decisions about my diet. "Cheesecake? Sur. . .oh. Um. No thanks."

Check your local listings - New Season Starts Tonight!

Burn Notice Burn Notice Burn Notice Burn Notice Burn Notice Burn Notice Burn Notice Burn Notice Burn Notice Burn Notice Burn Notice Burn Notice Burn Notice Burn Notice Burn Notice Burn Notice Burn Notice Burn Notice Burn Notice Burn Notice Burn Notice Burn Notice Burn Notice Burn Notice Burn Notice Burn Notice Burn Notice Burn Notice Burn Notice Burn Notice Burn Notice Burn Notice Burn Notice Burn Notice Burn Notice Burn Notice Burn Notice Burn Notice Burn Notice Burn Notice Burn Notice Burn Notice Burn Notice Burn Notice Burn Notice Burn

Note to self: Get prescription for OCD medicine

Notice Burn Notice Burn Notice Burn Notice Burn Notice Burn Notice Burn Notice Burn Notice Burn Notice Burn Notice Burn Notice Burn Notice Burn Notice Burn Notice Burn Notice Burn Notice Burn Notice Burn Notice Burn Notice Burn Notice Burn Notice Burn Notice Burn Notice Burn Notice Burn Notice Burn Notice

Go, baby turtles! Go!

Okay. I have no clue how to embed video. But baby turles are just hella cute. Look at the little buggers go!

Rain drops keep falling on my lawn;_ylt=Av3.hL3VAh9P82LLuS4U8hlvzwcF

I think it's kind of cute that Bill Nye and Ed Begley are in a giant Celebrity Eco-Death Match over their carbon foot prints. And of course you know I'm backing my boy the Science Guy (Bill! Bill! - Bill! Bill!). I spent many happy bowls of Cheerios watching the mysteries of science on a Saturday morning.

But I'm going to give major props to Begley for one of the things mentioned in the article. His sprinkler system that checks the weather and shuts off when it's raining. Love that. This is one of my GIANT pet peeves. When you see a lawn that's being watered in a rain storm by an automatic system. Errrrggg!! Fist shaking! I blow raspberries in your general direction! You stuuuupid people! It's one thing if it's at your own house, and you're just to flipping lazy to march your saggy behind down to the garage and shut the water off. That's just laziness. And coming from one lazy chick, even I think that's pretty bad. It makes me even crazier when it's a business that's closed all weekend. Granted, people won't be on the premises 24/7, so nobody wants to drive down to the office to switch off the sprinklers when it rains. Dear, or dear. How on earth do you fix that? It's a problem.

Wait! I have an idea! When it's a business and it rains when the office is closed, you make somebody be in charge of the sprinkler. They check the weather, and if there's a decent chance of rain, they shut the system off before they leave for the day. And if it doesn't, the lawn won't die because it missed one day of water. It won't. That's so ingenious, why, it's almost simple. But there are businesses that I drive by regularly, and see the sprinklers just spitting their heads off in the middle of a Noah's Ark style deluge. Poor planning, people. And bad business. You do know you have to pay a water bill don't you? You would think if you couldn't get even one of your employees to watch the weather report, it would actually be worth buying one of those electronic weather monitors, just from the savings on the water bill over time. Oh, and also, you'd stop wasting water! Geez!

And while we're at it, there are the subsidiary peeves of 1.) water sprinklers that are aimed at the sidewalk (FYI - you cannot grow more sidewalk this way), and 2.) sprinkler systems that are used during the winter when the temperature is sub-freezing. First, that ain't helping the grass, and second, the ice floe you just created in the street ain't helping the traffic. Schmucks.

I don't know if I'd go as far as Begley and put in an AstroTurf lawn. That's pretty out there. Though I've heard there are some pretty impressive new artificial lawns out there. Made out of recycled plastic and everything. And I guess it would be hypo-allergenic too. And no need to water. Hmmm. Maybe Begley isn't such a crazy old coot after all. I wonder how much that stuff costs?

Wednesday, July 9, 2008

Speaking of making your life simpler . . .

Why would you try to pass $55,000 to somebody in jail? I'm under the impression is all it takes is a pack of cigarettes. Seems like all you'd really have to do is leave a carton of Camels. 55 Gs would just be overkill.

Look, you could just make this a lot simpler

When I went to see Wanted on Sunday, they had a preview for the new Jason Statham movie Death Race. Which appears to be an improbable mixture of American Gladiators, NASCAR, The Longest Yard and OZ. And even more improbably co-stars Joan Allen (does she have a gambling habit to pay for or something?). And as I'm watching them basically layout the convoluted plot of this thing, I wondered one specific thing: Why do they bother with plots for Jason Statham movies? For that matter, why do they bother with making up titles? They could just as easily call them Jason Statham Kicks Somebody's Ass, Jason Statham Kick's Somebody's Ass II, or Jason Statham Kills People with Guns, Jason Statham Kills People with Cars, Jason Statham Kills People with Pogo Sticks. At some point, doesn't the need to project some infinitesimal sense of reality just get in the way?

Feeling like the only bait in town

Okay. I'm going to be brutally honest here. Even though it doesn't reflect well on me.

All the sudden, I'm getting hit on by older dudes. Like crusty older dudes. And I'm having a hard time thinking of this as flattering. Somehow I have this feeling that it's an indication that I've hit that "certain age". And all the sudden, I look like a hot prospect for guys who get AARP magazine, but only for the articles. Like the sell by date on my ovaries is up.

And it's not really an aesthetic thing. it's not like I don't dig the gray hair. Loves me silver foxes. But when the gray hair is in a scraggly ponytail and accompanied by a Hawaiian print shirt, I just can see this conversation ending in, "Well, gee, Bob. Going to your house to drink box wine and listen to your Grateful Dead bootlegs sounds like a blast. But I think I'm going to have to pass." And guys in their mid-50s to mid-60s come with baggage. They remember the feminsist revolution. And they remember that it didn't work out really well for them. Some of them have yet to figure out the difference between the duties of a girlfriend and a their mommy. And for the others, somebody needs to tell guys that a mid-life crisis is not an attractive look on anyone. The sports car, the younger girlfriend, the ear ring, the frat boy gear. None of it is going to make you look younger. In fact, all it's going to do is make for a higher contrast picture. Also, while I may have a sweet tooth, I've never had a taste for the sugar daddy. And for that matter, if I wanted D-cups, I'd by them for myself, thanks.

Okay. Okay. That's getting a little harsh. I've just been getting that Fins to the Left, Fins to the Right sensation a little too often here lately. I'm just going to have to accept that the 40 is hoving into view. And things are going to change. But somethings will not change that much. This hand may not rock the cradle, but it also doesn't rob the senior center.

Tuesday, July 8, 2008

Granny Rescue Mission,0,6143126.story

I am totally considering staging a rescue mission a la the Colombian security forces. I'm going to track down this poor old lady and liberate her from her nasty butted relatives.

She's 80 years old and they admit she pulls her share of the housework. And she sounds like a nice lady. So, who the hell cares if she gets into her jammies and rollers for dinner? Leave Nana alone! If you're 80, have all your marbles and are moving under your own power, then you get to wear whatever you want. She should be able to show up to dinner in a clown nose and ho gear if she feels like it.

An old lady could have all sorts of very good reasons that she wants to wear her night clothes to dinner. Maybe she doesn't want to wear the clothes that she's worn all day, but has arthritis and can only manage one costume change a day. Or maybe she's being thrifty and wants to save her good clothes from wearing out. Or maybe she's cutting down on the laundry to be done. Or maybe she's such a nice person that it's never occurred to her that her family is such a bunch of uptight jerks that they can't look past the jammies and see that she's beautiful no matter what she wears.

And as for the curlers, old ladies like a nice set to their hair, so just bug off!

Some day, she'll be gone. And they'll wish they could give anything to see those curlers and jammies again. And someday they'll be old and wish their uptight relatives would just unclench a bit and leave them be. So here's the phrase they should learn - "Oh, that's just Mom." And accept her just the way she is.

But since that seems beyond the capacity of their grinchy 3 sizes too small hearts, I'm going to rescue her like she's Ingrid Betancourt, and her family's a bunch of mean old FARCs. I'll drive up to her house pretending that I'm from the local senior center. Then when she's safe in the car, I'll yell, "Suckhas!" out the window as we drive away. Then she can stay in my guest bedroom, and we'll eat in dinner in our jammies every night, knit afghans and watch the Golden Girls. And on top of that, I'll roll her hair for her. And her relatives can just go FARC off.

I've got the jinx

I've totally got the whammy on me.

Saturday, my phone service went out, and I was stuck all day waiting for the phone guy to show up. Not that I didn't enjoy sitting on the couch all day. I will sit on the couch all day with very little encouragement.

This morning, my power went out. So I spent the morning worrying that my frozen food was going to go bad, and that the cat was going to go bad too. Killing my sister's cat would not be good for family harmony. Plus, if the house was hot all day, I don't think a dead cat would keep very well. L'Aire du Dead Cat. Not the kind of welcoming smell that you want to open the front door to. So I called my folks to beg them to rescue their grand-cat.

Then when I get to work, the lights on my half of the floor are out. That only lasted a couple of hours, and it didn't affect the phones or the computers. But still. It was all the evidence I need to know that I've got some bad mojo working.

I need to shake the hex off. I don't have a sage smudge at home to smoke the bad vibes out. Do you suppose it would work if I put a bunch of dried parsley in a bowl and lit it on fire? Or maybe I should just stand in the living room and shout "Out, unclean spirit!" Mmmm. Probably not good for my neighbors. What to do? What to do?

Monday, July 7, 2008

Wooo-hoooo! Hurricane Watch!

Ah, yeah! The first big hurricane of the season. All eyes switch to the Weather Channel.

Or maybe this is just my own personal, little weather perversion. No. No. I know other people have this morbid fascination. We talk Cat 3, tropical depression, convection, storm path. We watch for updates. Is the rise in frequency of hurricanes a product of global warming, or merely part of a long-term weather cycle that is in no way influenced by greenhouse gases and human activity? Discuss amongst yourselves.

But here's one thing I question. Why on earth would you name a hurricane "Bertha"? That's just asking for trouble. Like naming your son Damien (can you really act surprised when he act like demon spawn?) or naming your daughter Candy (unless of course you think making a living on a pole is a good career path). What's the first thing that you think of when you hear "Bertha"? That's right. Big. But thankfully, this list has been scrubbed so much lately, there aren't too many scary names left on the Atlantic list. I'm looking forward to named storm Nana. I think Tropical Depression Nana's going to bring me milk and cookies.


I had certain expectations for Wanted. I expected a check-your-brain-at-the-door summer thrill ride. I love a good stupid action pic. But this wasn't just stupid. It was agressively stupid. I seriously can handle gaping holes in a plot, improbable motivations, gravity defying action sequences and eyebrows like Angelina Jolie's (Those things are unreal. How does she do that?). And this movie had all those aplenty. Fer instance, the police never question a sniper shooting from a high-powered assault rifle on top of a skyscraper. Or no news stories about a serial killer using untraceable, hand crafted and very weird looking bullets. Or that Angelina Jolie still has the hips of a 14-year old boy after having a baby. All that is highly unlikely, yet I could willingly suspend my disbelief for the magic of the movies.

But here's where things start to break down for me - a fraternity of assasins that take orders from magic fabric swatches. Assuming that it's okay to take orders from a weaving machine (even one named THE LOOM OF FATE), is just a tad psychotic. And the fact that the magic fabric swatches have been picking out assassination targets and for a thousand years, and yet they missed Vlad Tepes, Adolf Hitler, Pol Pot and Joseph Stalin, seems to be slight oversight. Of couse, the Fraternity's motto is "Kill one, save a thousand." Killing one to save several million must not be there department.

Also, as part of the Fraternity indoctrination process, our young hero submits himself to weeks of having the crap kicked out of him. Repeatedly. And with gusto. I see. The Fraternity recruits masochists in order to turn them into sadists. Good plan. And as a cover, these assassins who are evidenlty filthy stinking rich from the fruits of their labor, run a textile mill/slaughterhouse. Where they all happily man the looms and butcher hogs in their spare time. I guess even a trained killer needs a hobby.

But where they really, really lost my interest was early on. They kept having these giant chase sequences in which dozens of cars wouldn't just be bumped. They would be destroyed. As these high-class, super secret assasins chase their target. Not only does this seem to draw a lot of attentional that you would think super secret assasins might like to avoid. They also seem to have zero concern or remorse for the collateral damage their racking up left and right. At one point, they even derail train and send it plummeting into a mountain abyss. I lost track of how many people looked like they were either killed or seriously injured while the assasins

Okay. Why this offends me so much is that, in this situation, I would be the collateral damage. I'm not a super assasin. Can't bend bullets. Can't make my heart beat 400 times a minute. I'm just the schmendrick who gets nailed by flying debris as these whack jobs run off to kill somebody because of the magic fabric swatch. And these Frat boys don't seem to give a flying fig whether they take out 20 or 30 innocent bystanders in the process. Doesn't even come up during the beat the crap out of the newbie training sequences. "Oh, by the way, killing innocent people is frowned upon." For some reason, I take offense at being one of the eggs that an assasin needs to be crack in order for to make an omelet. Call me picky.

And because of all that, I'm going to have to rate Wanted as a movie that even a shirtless James McAvoy can't save.

TIME: Quotes of the Day