Deb on the Rocks

Giant Squid and Giant Jellyfish Means You Owe Al Gore an Apology

2009-07-20T11:32:00.003-04:00

I mentioned on Friday that I was craving more beach time, but I did not go this weekend, partially because there is nothing like announcing your love of the beach to get people sending you articles about horrifying giant squid assaulting San Diego, and grotesque giant jellyfish invading Japan. Giant, giant, everything is giant.

And read this description of the jellyfish from the New York Times:

Thousands of jumbo flying squid, aggressive 5-foot-long sea monsters with razor-sharp beaks and toothy tentacles, have invaded the shallow waters off San Diego, spooking scuba divers and washing up dead on beaches.

This is my yellow journalism report on the giant squid and giant jellyfish problems:

Oh my fucking god get me out of Florida. Who can I dump this plagued land on so I can get a nice inland cabin in Iowa or Ohio or freaking Nevada? Flailing giant slimy organ-plucking tentacles of pain and bleeding to death but not before sharks join in the frenzy! Screw you all and your Aunt Wanda too. I'm out of here!

While MS and I had not seen those monsters in the sea, we did leave the water at one point to avoid fleets of stingrays cruising from east to west. (MS jogged ahead to warn the little girls wading in the water. So gallant! I know!)

The stingrays weren't giants, but I've been stung before I needed more meat tenderizer than a frugal skirt steak. Scary stuff. So with all the dire warnings (and, true, a boatload of work to be done), we decided to be safe and have a nice inland weekend.

And you know what? We turned it around. Flipped the fear and worry into triumph. A lovely night out with warm sake! And take this you muthafucka squid-jellyfish Giants: one word = sushi. Eel, tuna, krab, yeah baby, we had it all.

Losers! You might have tentacles, but we have knives, and tidy men who know how to use them. I ain't skeered.

##

The squid invasion is called Diablo Roho. That's about the best name for a plague ever, you gotta give them that. Diablo Roho!

Take me to the place I love...take me all the way to the beach

2009-07-17T13:59:00.009-04:00

I've been begging MS to take me back to the beach this weekend. I've been twice this month. First to the Atlantic with my younger son, and then last weekend to the gorgeous Gulf with her. It was fabulous and I want to go back.

She said "Well, don't you have a lot to do to get ready for BlogHer? Your book? The party? Your two panels?"

"I can think about those things on the beach!" I assured her. Or myself. Or the Avenging Ninja of Doom who lives in my attic, ready to pounce when I slip.

"Um, how about packing?"

"I'll pack when I'm dead!"

She's so patient. Have I mentioned that lately? She is. Because she knows that I'll show up to the airport in an exhausted frenzy from pull everything together at the last minute, including hanging my favorite turquoise bra out the car window because I forgot to wash it in time for it to properly dehydrate.

But the beach! It's why I live in Florida. Both the Atlantic and the Gulf are spectacular therapy. We bobbed for hours in the salty brew off of the bend in the Panhandle, and it changed me. That, plus morning coffee and evening gin while sitting on an Adirondack chair on a balcony while waves pound in and clear skies open up universes of stars, is heaven. Heaven. Heaven is just 1.5 hours away from me. Why can't I go again?

I specifically want to go back to the sweet little inn where we stayed on Mexico Beach. I kind of hate to tell anyone about it because it is so funky and wonderful, but that would be wrong of me. The Driftwood Inn is a complex with a main hotel building with satellite cottages and Victorian Houses, joined by courtyards and rambling garden paths. Lots of art and martin houses and vintage funk tucked into its little corners, but my favorite was the mermaid with a coochie.

The myth of the sea siren mermaid seducing lost sailors is lusty, but usually mermaid statutes are fairly solid in their fishiness on the bottom and not only overtly sexual on top. Jung says they symbolize transformation. I always thought they symbolized the trick "straight" men (like sailors) have to play in their heads to be able to kiss and hump men on the down low without thinking of themselves as "gay."

"No, no, it wasn't Ensign Bob in my cabin that full moon night when we were in the Bay of Bangladesh; it was a luscious-lipped siren with a tender woman's arms and one thick tail with layers of sexy scales...." Rear Admiral Mike said to himself dreamily.

But not this mermaid. She's wholly a anatomically complete gendered she, with an junk-in-the-trunk ass that won't stop kicking. I can't tell you how much I want this fountain.

Or at LEAST a trip to visit her soon. To dive into my beautiful blue Gulf. With MS. I'm going to go call her again. Maybe we'll be lucky, and another wedding reception will be hosted in the garden patio, and from our balcony we'll hear a gentle version of Elvis singing "I can't help falling in love with you" for the couple's first dance.

And then I can just go to the blogging conference from there, with my sandy bag full of sunscreen and half-empty Diet Coke Bottles and seaweeded swimsuit. That's the BlogHer I want to have, a big damned Florida beach house party. I'll give out shells and Rum and Diet Cokes instead of business cards. We can network when we're dead. Until then, let's play!

A Case of the Wimbleton Grunts

2009-07-01T13:06:00.005-04:00

I'm feeling absolutely, indeterminately crappy. I think a poltergeist may have moved inside of me to make some noise on a cellular, soulular level. I would love to have it removed but the pope hasn't answered my email.

Of course you can email the Pope. The address is: benedictxvi@vatican.va. Or go to his freaking blog. Get the cheat codes before you go, though, because there are tons of traps doors and bonus coins.

So since the Pope hasn't helped me yet, I have had to create my own therapies. One in particular I want to share with you: Wimbletonic. Wimbletonic is a three-part feel better plan.

1. Keep the games on, but with the sound down.

2. Pour out half of the watermelon Gatorade in a bottle (or use it to partially bucket flush the toilet if waste makes you feel guilty about the planet). Replace with vanilla Stoli. Keep in freezer.

3. Now, go about your day, sipping as needed, and most importantly, making Wimbleton GRUNT noises whenever you exert effort.

For example, clicking on a link: UGH!
Filling the dog's water bowl (NOT with your GatorAID): Urgfph!
Folding a towel: Rllllffft!
Signing for a FedEx package: Orrgth!

Trust me, the shit works. And the FedEX guy APPRECIATES it that someone understands that the transfer of the inkless stylus from one to another requires the same athletic concentration and finesse as passing a relay baton or hitting a ball with a huge racket.

It's all so hard, it's amazing we get through our days. Uroooph!

(Here's something that will make you grunt--Wimbleton center court ticket prices. You know, we have entirely too little money compared to some people. Or they have entirely too much)

It's what they reflect about us that fascinates us

2009-06-25T19:02:00.007-04:00

Some celebrities are so much larger than life that they become grotesque--in both good ways and bad. They show us ourselves, and they embody the zeitgeist. My generation will be thinking a lot about the deaths of Farrah Fawcett and Michael Jackson today, not because we are mourning their losses so much as because they hold so much of our culture in their meteoric pasts.

Farrah defined the cultural standard of beauty in the late 70s, with her strong features balanced with a perfect California tan and just as golden feminine voice; her trademark mane duplicated as many times as the posters of her sitting on the beach. But then she went on to have an assault of rough experiences that have been emblematic of our times. Spousal abuse, just as our culture was learning the phrase "domestic violence." Addiction, troubled children, legal problems, losses, and then Ryan O'Neil's leukemia battle followed by her brutal cancer fight.

I've written about Michael Jackson before, in 2007, and how he seemed to wear the epaulets of our culture's dual self-hatred on one shoulder and delusional ego on the other. Celebrated as a genius, even while standing trial for a felony. A youth-obsessed self-destructing icon/predator/innovator/victim/changeling. It is going to be fascinating to watch us all respond to his death at 50.

So odd to me that the both die, and therefore dominate the news and our psyches, together, because I've always thought that Michael was trying to become a version of Farrah's beauty, either directly or simply by trying to symbolize the same mixture of strength and femininity seen in the cut of her chin and nose, the sunny optimism of her broad thin smile, the luxury of her flipping hair. It's very odd to think of our recollection of them and to not assign this coincidence as a milestone in our path away from some old part of ourselves.

Frugal Blogebrities Want You to Stay Hydrated

2009-06-25T00:25:00.008-04:00

I have been trying to master this Recession-shopping trend, so I recently bought a dozen of boxes of Crystal Light (called CLi by chicks in the know) lemonade because I they were buy-on-get-one free. In the store it made sense to stock up on lemonade, because what says "summer" more than lemonade--unless it is old man with their balls hanging out of their shorts and getting wedged in the slats of poolside loungers. That definitely says summer more than lemonade does.

So I have a cabinet full of frugalade, and it tastes like crap.

Except I finally figured out how to make it work with a RECIPE. That I MADE UP.

CLiTini
Stir the pouch of powder into a glass of chilled vodka. Garish with wrapper.

It's actually a poor man's version of my Tang drink mated with a Lemon Drop. Tough times call for sucking it up.

In related news, I'm on the cover of Celebrity magazine again. I know. I really need to stop sending them photos and press releases about myself.

(I'm hoping that Tim Gunn sees this at BlogHer and give me a consult. Queer Eye for the Lezzy Mom. What could be better?)

Cheers, little frugalistas. Have you been throwing any good money after bad?

(You can also substitute Tang for the C-Li to remember the summer of Astronaut Love.)

Not everyone has the blogging bug

2009-06-21T22:26:00.003-04:00

Catching up with My Sugar (MS) this weekend, I think I bored her with some stories about dynamics between a few bloggers. She certainly knows her way around social media and tech stuff, but she's not a blog reader. She's not become enamored as I am with the human drama of the various trends and groups and politics and individuals that sometimes are shook up together in the Internet Yahtzee cup.

But she listens with curiosity, which is very supportive.

(I have changed the names and details in this story, fyi.)

Me: ...so then Vintage Lacy Tag Sale Mom noticed that PR-A-Go-Go-Neon's post was almost freaking identical to what she had twittered...

MS: What PR-Yo-Yo had twitter?

Me: NO, what Vintage Lacy had twittered. So that means...

MS: Do we like her?

Me: Who?

MS: Vintage Lacy?

Me: No, remember she's all cheesy fake and makes up drama in her life to rope people in, but that's not the point. She twittered her idea in the morning, and then...

MS: But didn't you see her at SXSW and plan that thing together and she showed us that cool app? I thought we liked her?

Me: No, you're thinking about Vintage Lucy. She's fabulous. Totally different blogs.

MS: You mean totally different people.

Me: Well, yes, that too.

MS: Why do all of you call each other by your blog names?

Me: It's just easier, blog names go way back sometimes, I don't know, not always. It's just part of the culture. Some people prefer it because they blog anonymously. Some people I know as their IRL names, or both, though some bloggers are moving away from tag names.

MS: It sounds kind of nutty, you know. If you met Nathanial Hawthorne at BlogHer, you'd be like, "Hi Scarlet Letter, so awesome to see you!" Or you'd be like "Hey, Bell Jar, you're here! I really love your recent stuff. Have you met The Life of Pi?"

Me: You are cracking yourself up, aren't you?

MS: Yes. Totally. "But Bell Jar, stay away from Vintage Lucy, she's toxic!"

Me: No, Bell Jar would appreciate Vintage Lucy, she's cool. It's Vintage Lacy that's the problem.There is no way that Bell Jar would like Vintage Lacy. She'd see right through her.

MS: What with all of that holey lace and all.

Me: Now you are with me.

MS: Okay, Deb on the Rocks. I'm going to call you that now. More coffee, Deb on the Rocks? One Splenda or two?

Me: Deb on the Rocks? Do we like her?

MS: Um, most of the time. She's kind of too much of a flirt and spends way too much time on Twitter and ignores her blog, but we like her alright.

Me: Well that's a relief! Yes, I read that Deb on the Rocks likes two Splenda. Pretty sure of it.

A Night-Night Story For PETA

2009-06-18T14:03:00.005-04:00

PETA saw our new president swat at a fly
a wriggling, tiggling, furry-legged fly
Obama paused like a Sensei, smacked gooey guts from that fly
It almost died.

PETA spanked the new president, saying not to kill flies
"Why oh why would you smash a live fly?"
So they sent in Pam Anderson, with Triple G-cup powers
jiggly, giggly big boobelly powers.
PETA asked Pam to breathe life back into the fly
Obama's schmooshed fly.

Pammy put the bug in her massive cabbage patch bra
Life-giving bosom-filled bra that smelled like coleslaw.
She fed Triple G blood to the fly, saving its wee little life
its oogley, googley almost-dead life
pesky malaria-spreading life.

The fly now lives in PETA's Free-Range Pest and Carnivore Zoo
There is nothing to do at the Carnivore Zoo--
the animals roam free but the humans are in cages.
Naked, exploited, PETA loves chicks in cages!

I knew a loose Zoo where animals swallowed the people.
Even the PETA people? Yes, animals eat PETA's people!!!
Carnivores kill people, without any remorse,
so animals will eat and eat PETA with carnivore force!

PETA will finally be dead, of course.

##

Need more Night-night stories because that one was a little scary? Start here with the Night-Night Story for Mommybloggers, and you'll find links to others.

Be good or PETA will let the monsters eat you!

Announcing the Queerosphere OUT Loud party, and you are invited!

2009-06-12T07:11:00.005-04:00

In several wings of the Internet you can't help but stumble into BlogHer Frenzy. The groundbreaking conference for digital women (no, "digital women" is not code for lesbian, though it's pretty nice!) grows every year and is a viral virtuoso. Or a cult. Or both. The foreplay to the late July event is so fierce that you might be surprised to know that the conference is actually only 2-days long, plus the fabulous, beloved People's Party on BlogHer Eve.

Here is how the BlogHer conference is a cult: last year I only wrote about it minimally because I was aware of how annoying BlogHer-love posts are to those who are not in the 1,000 plus conference audience. But this year, I am totally adding to the foreplay by pimping the most amazing thing.

My beautiful, if we do say so ourselves, consultant group 3 Smart Girlz is throwing the First Ever party for the queer lovelies at BlogHer. I know! And...we're giving away the Best Ever door prize: a stateroom for two on a Caribbean Cruise with Sweet lesbian cruise line. I KNOW!

Plus--get this: you don't have to go the BlogHer or even be in Chicago to be at our party. Seriously. Because, hello, technology? Aren't digital women supposed to be into that? Hell yeah.

Check it before we wreck it, and check out our brilliant Queerosphere, the new story ranking and sharing site for posts of interest to or written by GLBTQ bloggers and our gorgeous allies. We're here, we're queer, start reading us!

Spread the word, try out the site and plan to party with us at BlogHer.

Cults are so much more fun if you just give in and join them! The Queertini Kool-aid is awesome--it's pink and has plenty of Grey Goose stirred in.

From Milk Maid to Dairy Drag King: The Celebrity Journey of Suze Orman

2009-06-08T13:42:00.007-04:00

I've been thinking about how bizarre it is to call people "celebrities" because two things happened within minutes of each other last week. I was working and waiting for the President's episode of Cribs, and I heard some of the "Get Me Out of Here I'm a Celebrity" trainwreck that was airing. (Great juxtaposition, NBC, the shows had so much in common!)

So the "Get Me Out of Here" show hosts actually address the d-listers with the C-word. The hosts say things like "Hello, Celebrities. How are you doing with all of the bugs on your face, Celebrities? Ha, ha, guess what Celebrities? You are an abomination and North America would rather eat that scorpion in your ear than lick you, Celebrities."

Glossary update: Celebrity = Loser

Just as I'm rolling my eyes I open an email addressed to Deb on the Rocks from Suze Orman. I know. The Suze. And in the email she writes: "I'm writing to you to expand my network of blog celebrities."

Whoa.

So that was unexpected, and also mildly insulting, but I don't hold silly things like terminology against my penpals even if they lob phrases like "blog celebrity" at you in a drive-by email. If I had a thin skin about names I would have melted down a long time ago from Debbie Does Dallas and Debbie Downer jokes. Being called a celebrity is a small slight and I'm not going to get my panties in a wad about it. Still, it was random.

The email didn't ask anything of me, other than an invitation to follow her on Twitter (@SOrmon), so I just wrote a little chatty email back and figured I'd move on. No big deal, right?

But I've felt a little self conscious about blogging since that exchange because Suze might be reading this for all I know, and I feel exposed. It feels like I'm peeing on QVC while she narrates and encourages people to call with their credit card numbers.

A friend suggested that I do the Marsha Brady thing and try to envision Suze Orman in panties to de-celebrate her, but it's not that I'm actually intimidated by Suze Orman so I don't think that particular technique will help. I know Suze Orman puts her pressed linen pants on one leg at a time. The problem is more that Suze Orman is now like those Geico googly eyes watching me, judging me and my levels of blogging celebritiness. Who can stand up to that?

But once you try NOT to picture Suze Orman in a corset and panties which have "Wednesday" embroidered in Chancery, it's impossible to avoid that image. You close your eyes, and there it is! However, upon doing a little research about Suze, I finally found the solution that might undo the mystical hold she has over me. I found that she is a not only a financial advice celebrity: Suze Orman is also a Milk Moustache Celebrity.

There is a whole ghoulish gallery of these dairy drag kings, and the aggregate is something deeply unsettling. Don't look at this link alone, because you might need someone to process your feelings with. This is not a fetish for just anyone. In particular, look at Glenn Close. WTF?

Suze, you look lovely, however. The milk mustache shapes your bright, white smile perfectly. I'm glad you reached out to me, Suze Q, and I'll look forward to reading your tweets and learning from you how to be a blog celebrity if that is, indeed in the cards for me. Because after finding this video that shows that becoming a Milk Mustache Celeb--a ten year dream-- finally came true for you, I am hitching my wagon to your bright star, lady, and I am not afraid to blog in front of your googly eyes anymore! Thanks to you I have a bold new goal, and as God is my witness, before ten years have passed I too will be in the Milk Moustache club.

If you don't watch it, here's her best quote: "I give great milk don't I?"

Danica Patrick: Woman, Race Car Driver, Misunderstood Moob Lover

2009-06-03T12:20:00.011-04:00

Danica is awesome at pissing people off. Right now she's a woman scorned for joking about sports doping. Even Dara Torres is mad at her. And the Trans community is offended by one of her Boost Mobile commercials. Danica's all: Wait, what?

Danica seems to try to position herself as a genderfucking sexy stud in a male field who makes fun of bimbo chicks, but inevitably feminists hate that the commercials make fun of chicks at all, or at the men who leer at them (like in the Shower Go Daddy commercial, which was kind of like the Farrah/feminist classic The Burning Bed, sort of. Her new Boost Mobile commercial is drawing fire for featuring a bear-dude pit crew in ridiculous cheerleader outfits and high heels which some queer advocates, online commentators (see Pam's House Blend) and a Sprint employee feel is a slap at the Trans community.

It's exhausting to keep up with Danica Patrick.

I actually loved the Go Daddy Superbowl reject ad that showed celebs showing their pet beavers as they opened their limo doors to the paparazzi. Having women hold beavers instead of chihuahuas was awesome. Feminists hated it for demeaning women and our sacred soul patches, even though Danica was clearly advocating for web-savvy women, saying that women with URLS as more together than panty-less limo-riding club hoppers. Cause we totes are. We seduce with our words, not our twats. Maybe we flash a boob or two, but not our snatches. Transparency doesn't mean commando, beotches. Word to da BlogHers.

I'm digging the one where she's signing the man boobs. Because if anything steals the glitter from women flashing stars to get a Sharpie tramp stamp on their right tit, I'm all for it. Moobs are the new Dippin' Dots, and I think we can learn a lot about ourselves and our culture from studying moobs, or mewbs as they are also know. Men feel free to grab up hunks of their fat and present it as though it where resume bond linen paper in a handbound book. Why shouldn't women aspire to the same freedom? Danica is not telling us we can't, she's saying we can! We can win races, and we can give our muffintops to people with Sharpies to sign without revealing our beavers! What more of a pro-chick message do you want.

If the Internet decides it hates the Moobs in the same way it hates the Beaver and hates a towel-wrapped Danica and hates her commanding a crew of men in pantyhose, then we all lose, Mary, we all lose.

I might not be able to rest until I know what people think of the mobile phone moob commercial. Am I just blinded by the moob, and this commercial truly is not good for the planet and precious living things? Am I hypnotized by her fine ass and my own willingness to laugh at the commodification of moobs and their female counterpart? Is Danica just plain old hot and nothing else matters? Tell me, I want to understand the inherent risks of the moob joke. Othewise, I'm going to fight for my write to love the moob in all of its glory.

No, I will not wear a hairnet

2009-05-31T22:52:00.009-04:00

I went to a roll-your-own party this weekend, which disappointingly, given the options, was roll-your-own sushi.

Food prep should not be left in the hands of amateurs. I'm always happy to bartend, because I know how to heavy-hand the good stuff, but food is beyond me. Sometimes it is too much to manage a few cuts of cheese and crackers on a tiny plate at a party, so isn't make your first sushi setting the bar pretty high for chatty party mode time?

Despite plentiful laminated instruction sheets, most people ended up making fatties, more like sushi burritos, sushi Whoppers, el Grande Sushi Wraps. Biggie-sized for American sushi appetites, poor us with our big clumsy hands and lack of training in the fine petit arts of ikebana food. It was like finger-painting with rice and avocado.

But like 4-year old macaroni artists, we were, tragically, disproportionately, proud of our oeuvres. We would stand admiring our labors as if waiting for mommy to come and hang our sticky sculpture on the fridge door. Then we would try to eat it.

Then I found MS to admire my work, and she graciously allowed me to feed it to her, except I forgot it was a Cinnabon-sized pinwheel California roll and popped in her mouth. She had to wolf it or risk a rice volcano exploding down her shirt. She seriously had to mumble with a mouthful of roll for five minutes, something that sounded like "bif damf suffi!" I don't know, really, probably that she loved it.

Another part-goer wasn't eating sushi at all, so I offered to help her: maybe explain that her sushi could be fishless if that was the issue, or bring her a sheet of seaweed with a squirt of wasabi on top if she didn't want the carbs. Which was a reach and very kind of me, truthfully, because I was worn out by then from my own DIY food construction.

But Hungry Friend declined my offer of sushi social work, confessing that she shared my dislike of make-your-own food: though not out of laziness or a distrust of her own drunkenness like me, but because she didn't like the idea of all sorts of people's hands, especially children's hands, smearing germs into shared utensils and bamboo rollers.

She said: All the germs, you know. Swine flu? Hello? I'm not interested in fondue or even potlucks, really.

Me: That doesn't bother me. Fondue forks can touch and everything, but I think that's supposed to be a good thing. Sharing. That's why the Melting Pot is such a popular date spot, because it mimics primal intimacy, swirling our food from the same bubbling vat might lead to more, you know, swirling.

Hungry Friend: That's gross. Fondue is gross.

Me: Even chocolate fondue?

Hungry Friend: Yeah. Serious double dipping. Maybe I'm weird, but I'm just not attracted to other people touching my food.

Me: Except for Doritos, is any food really free from human touch? You could paint yourself into a corner with this no-touch rule. What about restaurants? I think that's how Howard Hughes started, by thinking about germs on his food. Remember when in The Aviator that guy ate the pea off of Leonardo Dicaprio's plate? Howard did NOT like that, and before you know it Howard quarantined himself.

Hungry Friend: Hmm.

Me: And he ended up peeing in jars. He thinks he's keeping his life clean, and then he ends up peeing in jar after jar and keeping them in his room. Like a 3-D wallpaper border of pee bottles instead of crown moulding. Not that I'm saying I think you will do this, but sometimes I wonder if I'm giving myself red flags that I should be paying attention to? Do you ever think fondue-hate is a red flag for that slippery slope? You could just have some sushi and maybe you can turn your phobia around!"

A third person joined the conversation.

#3 said: I heard you say "pee in a jar!" Are you talking about road trips? My mom used to make us pee in the car because she didn't want us to stop. She made a funnel for me from an old bleach bottle and we had a huge pickle jar. My two brothers and me. In the same jar, a lot of pee would add up, Florida to Michigan. Is that what you are talking about?

So that stopped the conversation, because in the first place we were talking about entirely DIFFERENT pee in jars. And I was completely distracted by the idea of a huge communal pee jar for this family of 5. What do you do with a big jar of urine when you get to the Holiday Inn? My germaphobic friend's worries were starting to make sense to me. For all you know the last person who touched a doorknob was carrying a pickle jar full of her children's pee! I worried that this second pee jar story did not help Hungry Friend want sushi. But I persevere.

I ask Miss Howard: Are you sure you don't want a roll or two? I promise I will wash my hands first! They have sour cream. I mean cream cheese.

She declined once again, and she then tightly smiled and walked off. I felt very grubby and unclean, rejected by the germ-free lady and left with the family pee jar lady, thrown together in the caste of the unwashed. It's true that I'm much more Likely to Become a Fire Hazard Compulsive Hoarder than I am to become Most Likely to Rinse an Apple More than Once. But I am not a swine flu carrier, and I can be trusted to make a damn sushi burrito! I felt indignant, and I wanted to challenge her to a wrestling match if a seaweed-lined baby pool full of sticky rice that the loser would have to EAT! And she would lose, oh yes, she would lose.

Event planners and prospective hostesses take heed: DIY food prep stations are nothing but trouble. Unless you are also going to give your guests plastic gloves, plaid chef pants and paid training with breaks, this type of party is a violation of labor and health codes at the very least. You may be one potluck away from a citation or a food fight. Stick with the basics: crackers, cheese, grapes, frozen baby quiche, booze -- or even better, have it catered. Best party you'll ever throw.

What a man, what man, what a mighty good man

2009-05-29T09:01:00.008-04:00

Have you checked in with the Official Whitehouse flickr photostream lately? They've posted some pretty sweet shots this month. Which is basically government sponsored porn, so I try to make sure that I am using my benefits of citizenship thoroughly.

Of course there are lots of pix of Obama meeting with dignitaries. I think this guy is our own Ambassador to Afghanistan, or he might be from Somalia, not sure.

This one makes me laugh. I love the dorks digging into sloppy burgers on the right of the frame, while Obama and Biden are gazing into each other's eyes on the left, while the film poster over Biden's head says "She loved them to death." It's nice to see that they are still in the honeymoon stage. (The film poster is from Lila: Mantis in Lace. The plot summary: A topless dancer attracts, seduces, then murders the men she sleeps with. She does it with a twist, however; she kills them with garden tools. Heh.)

If you want to see Obama playing basketball or concentrating hard, those photos are there. Playing with Bo, OMG. This photo is a sigh in four-color: Obama leaning over because a child wanted to see if the president's haircut felt the same as the boy's own hair.

And then since everyone liked that so much, Obama begins to offer his head to others, some of whom aren't as accommodating.

I don't know what Lippert is waiting for. If Barack offers me his head, or any part of his presidentially sealed fine self, I won't hesitate. Ready to serve, Mr. President. Hundreds of thousands of us stand ready to serve.

Rx: listen to Salt'N Pepa's What a Man and go click on some more Obama Porn.
Salt n Pepa ft En Vogue - Whatta Man

All Meta in the Hizzie

2009-05-27T16:56:00.005-04:00

Meta warning. I'm about to blog about writing about blogging. You may want to leave now if that's not your gig.

If you stayed, I'm going to let you in on a little secret.

Did I tell you that I've written a non-fiction guide book? I know I haven't, because I was going to wait until the books were hot off of the presses to say anything, but I'm a punk with a secret. Can't wait. I wrote a book about blogging.

The cover is gorgeous and I can't wait to see the whole thing all come together. It's going to be released in late July, right before the BlogHer conference.

It's called 5 Ways to {blank} Your Blog. It's basically ideas of what to do and not to do to rock your blog, ruin your blog, attract attention to your blog, piss people off with your blog, save the world with your blog--stuff like that.

Of course I name names! I don't know if you can or should write about blogs without naming names.

I don't know if it will be of any use to anyone or not, and some of it is just plain old yellow journalism. I have loved immersing myself in bloggity goodness because it turns out that I simply love the idea and the practice of blogging. I worship bloggers and blog readers and hell, feedreaders and Google and I stumble all over myself when I try to talk to Stumble Upon. So nutty, brilliant, perverse, and nerdy, this bloggy thing is. So to let myself get all metafied for awhile was delicious!

Two months before it is real? This is a ridiculous amount of time to wait. I have no idea why I'm telling you now. How anti-climatic.

Also, the start-up I'm slaving over? We're having a surprise party!!!

God, I suck with the secrets.

A Goose Would Make It All Better

2009-05-26T10:19:00.003-04:00

I've been feeling brain-flattened by a start-up I've been starting up. Cranking the motor on this thing was easy, because it's a good idea, easy like starting a brand new lawnmower that just needed a little grease through it's works. And now the bastard is running across hills and dales on it's own, and I'm chasing behind it, limbs flailing, trying to catch up.

It will be worth it very soon. But right now I'm sleeping with a mulch pillow and have serious grass stains on my knees. Lawdy.

I'm so tired I find myself staring at the "To Do By Yesterday" list and just blanking out to pick a task, but my brain feels gritty, smudged, like the windows of a Steinbeck novel. I need some soul Kaboom.

And then, kaboom, I got it.

Sometimes a tiny visual break is all the inspiration we need to start up our own engines. I stumbled into the photography of Sharon Montrose, and I'm clean and happy again, like Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, but without the messy memory loss.

I want one of every animal in her Etsy store. I have filled and emptied and refilled my basket 8 times. How can I choose between Nubian Goat and Silkie Chicken. Well, I can't. Would you just look at this deer?

And the donkey!!!! A miniature donkey!!!

Buying Rachel Maddow

2009-05-19T23:33:00.007-04:00

I need some money. Serious, fast, easy money.

I have a start--I won second place in that Skillet contest that you helped me win, so thanks for that you darling little clicking monkeys! It is supposed to be "grocery" money, and I know I promised to buy you a drink if you helped me win, but now I'm going to have to use the dough to double down on lottery tickets or a craps game, cause momma needs a new pair of shoes and to pay her escort fee to buy a night with Rachel Maddow.

How high will this meet & greet go? I think I need to be prepared to throw down some rows of decimals. Plus be ready to slide for a luxe hotel room and some E for three for later.

And by three I mean Rachel, MS and me--not Rachel's girlfriend Susan Mikula. Who is like a poltergirlfriend because her profile is invisibly low, but she is there as a barrier blocking the Rachel view. Susan Mikula is SPF 50, the Yoko Ono of news talk shows. It must be hard to be Susan Mikula, but you know she is bringing on all of Rachel-fan negativity herself by staying in that relationship, so it's hard to throw her a pity party.

I noticed that Rachel didn't add Susan Mikula to the meet & greet prize. Strategic way to keep the fetching prize high, perhaps, or just a way to keep Rachel free and untethered by the Mikula factor? I will ask her when I have a chance. Susan won't be around so she will be able to answer honestly, and I will listen closely to hear the truth: that Rachel is trapped in a marriage of convenience, kind of like Stedman and Oprah, but Susan is less like a beard and more like a Don Draper 5 o'clock shadow.

So, back to the money -- I need some quick money, this month! I have the boys and their friends examining all of their snacks before eating them, because we might find the face of Jesus on a chip or a Debbie Cake Oatmeal Pie and be able to close on our own E-bay auction before the One Night with Rachel Auction ends.

That, plus plasma sales (another reason I have the kids packing in the snacks) plus a craps night Southside is all I think I can do to infuse the cash I need to buy Rachel. I think I have some buy-one-get-one brownie mix boxes to throw together a little bakesale, but this time I'm leaving out the secret ditchweed ingredient because that cuts into the profit margin a bit.

I may have to sell myself to get the money to buy Rachel. It's the new Diamond Rating System. I wonder what the ratio of sales will be on how many tricks I need to turn to afford one of Rachel's? We're running 5ish to 1, depending on add-ons, right now. Will it go to 20 to 1? 100 to 1? At what point would I give up and say Rachel is not worth it? Not to mention not having time for anything else?

It's for charity, though!

I'm Magneto Bold Too, Too

2009-05-17T20:56:00.003-04:00

Guess where I am? I'm in Australia, mate! I'm at my Sheila Kelley's house at Magneto Bold Too. She's been having a bad go of it lately and asked for a few guest post visitors, but I think she really needs IRL visitors. So...I posted a pitch over there to get the Aussie Tourism Agency to send some blogging bitches down under to visit our friend and do a little mommyblogging influencial PR work. I think it's going to work out, but it's a drag to set up anything over there because the freaks sleep all during our day and it's winter there now too and it is fucking confusing to talk to them with all of their slang. They told me that I'll like the Platypus Pie, though, so I'm looking forward to that. I love pie! Come on over and help the magic of the Internet make the world a smaller, friendlier place. You get to say "down under," and I know y0u love that!

Running Away to Join the Cirque

2009-05-14T09:49:00.010-04:00

Last night I took the boys and A's foxy girlfriend to see Cirque du Soleil's traveling show "Saltimbanco." I knew it would be awesome. Cirque is now a megalithic brand, so you know you are going to love what you see even though Circus Noveau isn't that noveau anymore, sort of like knowing your favorite cheesy enchilada platter isn't Mexican, or that Bohemian fashion from Saks really isn't so bohemian. It's still good, though. By now the CdS geniuses have boiled down the perfect sauce of opera, homoerotic porn, Olympic feats, Steampunk sci-fi, clown seduction, rock, trapeze shenanigans, ribbon crafts, Fellini nightmare costumes, and Eyes Wide Shut. And mimes. Cirque is from Canada, you know? Go figure.

The problem with Cirque extravaganzas is that I always come home from a show feeling as though I am wasting the potential Superhero powers of my body on relatively mundane tasks such as typing and having sex.

So then I go and buy vitamins for joint health because I'm not as flexible as I could be, and give up gluten (I really like gluten, so that is a tough sacrifice for my art). Afterwards I also realize that I am wearing my clothes too loosely, and that my uniform of jeans and a black shirt are rather uninspiring when the world is clearly full of leotards, mask, capes and corsets. So I go through this heavy duty Cirque du Soleil metamorphosis for at least two weeks-- and then find that I still can not climb up a wall, leap onto a flagpole stuck in the ground ten feet away and spin round and round on my ass while juggling 7 lava glowing lava lamps. It's hopeless. My circus window may have passed.

So I guess I am saying that Cirque du Soleil is impressive, inspirational, overstimulating and intimately depressing, like Obama wearing spandex and on acid dangling over your head in a locked Go-Go cage. Absolutely adorable but personally unattainable.

I won the tickets to Saltimbanco in a contest, which was fantastic because I really like to win.

I might even have a bit of a problem with contests. My friends are used to requests to vote for me about contests that come down to popularity votes. These are the friends who believe I have a problem. Still, they vote, and MS says "Yes, Baby" when I say I want to win. When I say that repetitively. "I really want to win that thing." I say, and she patiently closes her eyes and nods.

Years ago I entered an L Word screenwriting competition that I really wanted to win. In the online voting interface, two scripts came up at a time randomly for people to vote on like in Project Greenlight (remember that?) voting. My ex-husband spent hours wading through scripts for me, on all of the computers at his office to dodge the cookie detectors, clicking and clicking through bad soft lezzy porn waiting for my "Shane takes a stray dog to the vet and meets Dr. Mary Feelgood" scene. What a sport.

My friend Barbara is also excellent on the follow-through. No matter how random the instructions I give her, she votes for me in whatever ridiculous contest I am in. I think as a fellow Aquarian she deeply knows that it doesn't have to make sense to be a great concept.

It's just a good thing that I don't live near gambling outlets, because the hum of a casino is a swarm of seductive contests that I would not be able to manage. Once I visited Biloxi with a group of friends, ironically to see Cirque, for Lisi's birthday. The plan was to kill a little time in the casino before heading to the theatre. But Sharon and I got hooked on a slot machine that had a Wheel of Fortune puzzle. My phrase was almost complete, and I KNEW I could solve it if I could just get an "L" to show up the next slot hit. Seriously, I was THIS close to the $100,000 prize, but I couldn't get the last tug. Sharon was hooked on her own game so we tried to shoo away the others who were responsibly clutching the show tickets, telling them to leave and let us play just ten minutes more, but they would not go.

An intervention was performed, dammit. And look how it turned out. Obviously I've had other chances to see Cirque, but we'll never know what path my life would have taken if I had stayed the course and won the $100,000 Wheel of Fortune game! (Sharon, Joy and I did go back to the games. Sharon ended up in a fight with Mde. Butterfly over a slots stool and not many hours after that was a crumpled, drunken pile of woe in Joy's arms in front of an ATM machine, and I am banned from Beau Rivage because I proved beyond a shadow of a doubt with the tiny bottles in my jacket pocket that they were substituting well booze for Jack call, but that's another story.)

Mostly, though, I stay out of casinos and stick with contests. Sometimes I win and get to show my children a man balancing himself on the head of his pal. Most times I don't win, but the mortgage still gets paid. Contests will probably be how the FBI will find me when I run away from a failed bank robbery (my number 1 retirement plan) and try to hide in a Cirque du Soliel troupe (my number 2 retirement plan.) they will be able to track me down by IP addresses linked to contests that I really, really want to win. When I'm cuffed and hauled off on my trapeze, I will be asking the officer "Hey, do you have a smart phone? Could you just bring up this site and look for the voting widget...."

The other tip-off might be that I choke myself nightly trying to unravel down a spun ribbon and have to be treated in a long series of ERs for trapeze burns, unlike real Cirque performers. That might be the biggest tip-off dead giveaway that I am a bank robber instead of a circus imposter. One way or the other, though, I'm a winner! And you can't win if you don't play!

Protecting My Endless Love

2009-05-06T11:59:00.001-04:00

One of the many reasons to love the Internet is that with just a few clicks, you might land like a butterfly on a chrysanthemum of a story that makes your day beautiful. Inspiration is out there, y'all!

I found such a gem this morning.

The setting of the tale: On the glam night of NYC"S MET Ball, at SubMercer. Which is the speakeasy below the Mercer bar and I've never heard of because who am I, but I truly believe it must be amazing, because look who was there.

Players: Kristen Dunst, Mary-Kate Olsen, Kiefer Sutherland, Brooke Shields, and some annoying designer named Jack McCollough.

What Happened Was: Brooke and Kiefer were talking, and this Jack McCollough dude came to interrupt, or said something rude, or spit on Brooke, or Kief did those things or something. I don't know, but it was awesome.

But then Kiefer was all "ARRGGGH" and headbutted McCollough. Like he was Mickey Roarke!

Kristen and Mary-Kate just blinked.

McCollough went to the hospital all bloody, with a broken nose.

Kiefer had another drink.

People had more drinks or pills or a line or a hit or whatever, and then went home at dawn and went to sleep or first had sex and then went to sleep.

This story inspires me. To think of men out their headbutting each other in Brooke's honor, decades after her heyday, and years after she had to be rescued from Tom Cruise's rants, warms my heart. Brooke is a douche magnet. Aside from JFK Jr., her dating record is pretty horrific: Michael Bolton, Prince Albert of Monaco, George Michael, Michael Jackson -- and an annulled marriage to Andre Agassi. If anyone needs Jack Bauer following her around to headbutt assholes, it is Pretty Baby.

Or me.

I hope he doesn't go to jail again, because I'm a little strapped for cash right now. Maybe Brooke will pitch in.

###

I need you to vote for me, or else Kiefer might be heading down your driveway. Pick the one with SKILLET in the title. Love you, mean it!!! http://bit.ly/aMOFV

Sister Carrie Prejean Goes to Victoria Secret

2009-05-06T11:57:00.003-04:00

Dear Ms. Carrie Prejean, Miss California:

Yikes! It's been a crazy year, huh?

First you conned the Miss California Organization into paying for your breast implants, clever girl. But you didn't have much recovery time before the next pageant, poor thing!

Then all of the Miss USA pageant wackiness happened, when you said you were brought up to discriminate against gay people! That was wild. Way to sell yourself to the conservatives Little Miss Smarty Jeans! (Funny about Paris Hilton asking you the question, wasn't it? I bet you were relieved to see that you are much hotter than even her! Sorry you weren't hot enough to win, though, because it would have been radical to have a bigot at the Miss Universe pageant truly representing the minority of hateful but organized people of this country!)

And then the pageant, while a personal failure for you, led to all those cool deals with "opposite-sex" organizations. You are like a cat, landing on your feet, aren't you?!

And now, could it be true, some titty pics are about to be published?!?!? And that one of you in shorty shorts is already up on The Dirty? You say a photographer took them to try to get you into Victoria Secret as a panty model!

Soooo smart of you. Keep everyone guessing about whether you really are conservative victim of photoshopping gays, or just an opposite-sex titillater playing a whack game. No wonder you wear the tiara!

And you are brave, too. Because wow, all of these lesbians and bi-sexual women will SEE YOUR NIPPLES now. Women who have touched other women's tops will now be able to see yours in the raw! That is so wild to think about, isn't it? And they will be able to just ogle and drool and even trace their fingers on the outlines of all of your curves, Carrie!!!!!! This so proves your point that they shouldn't marry each other!!!!

And transgendered people who are interested in body transformation and sometimes breast implants will be STUDYING YOUR BODY. They will be seeing if your surgeon did a good job on your BREASTS!!!!!! Can you believe it???? They will be just looking and looking and looking at your big, big, new, bulbous breasts?! And the rest of your pre-jeans body, too, like the line where your little shorty shorts meets your thighs. Even the few natural parts of you will get some attention, too, promise.

The purist of the pure gay boys, hmmm, probably not so much. Maybe, though, some will imagine that instead of a breast augmentation your plastic surgery removed your breasts and gave you a penis that you can only barely see tugging at those pink panties. They (along with some others from groups mentioned above--you know it's impossible to categorize people!!!) might be daydreaming of Carrie Packing-jeans. Yowza! That's what nudie pix do to people, right?

You are a brave woman of conviction, Carrie. Fighting for your right to pose like a centerfold AND represent conservative anti-equality values, you are a puzzle within an enigma, and we treasure you all the more for that complexity, even when you have no crown to your name and no spokesbigot deals in the bank. At least you will always have those funbags, they can't take those away from you...well, until they leak, but you've got years to save up for that problem.

I'm rambling on, but in short, this is all to say: may I have an autographed copy of one where you are washing a firetruck? Nude? Thank you!

Deb Rox

####

Please help a girl out and vote for me in this contest. Pick the one with SKILLET in the title. That is secret code for TOASTER OVEN, by the way. You know us queers have lots of secret codes, right?

Love you, mean it!!! http://bit.ly/aMOFV

Update

2009-05-01T10:51:00.001-04:00

Update on previous post: He picked Basketball.

Choose your own adventure at Lee NAILS

2009-04-28T09:07:00.007-04:00

My son and I were driving home from the dog park last night, talking about the politics of the park (they can be thick, with both dogs and owners throwing down on any given day) and Swine Flu and his course selections for next year and very other important stuff like dinner.

The sign at the side of the road (in the photo at the right) caught my eye. I've never been to Lee's, but I know it's a stripmall nail salon. Free wine/beer/soft drinks! I guess the recession must be killing pedicure places. If money's tight, it's pretty easy to say "Ya know, nail polish is three bucks at CVS, I bet I can slap some lotion and paint on my own damn toes at home." It's really not that tricky.

Then I heard my son Salo ask me, "Mom, did you hear me, I asked you which one would you choose?"

I snapped to attention. This was a reachable, teachable moment with my fifteen year old! He was asking me about my opinion. It's not often that a parent of a teen is actually invited to give feedback. You have to jump at the few open doors they give you and run in. I ran in!

"Well, son, beer, wine or soda? I've learned the hard way you have to be careful with offers of free wine. Free wine, unless you are at a decent party, is often crap wine. Bad wine tastes sort of like horse piss if it's white, or bat guano if it's red, and it gives you a headache. If someone ever gives you wine that tastes like salad dressing and you have to spit it out and then you still feel like hurling, don't think that it's you. That was bad wine. When you are given good wine, you will like it. When you are older. So NEVER choose the free wine from the almost bankrupt nail salon."

I felt full of wisdom! This was a question that I felt well prepared to discuss.

I continued to share my learned thinking. "Beer MIGHT be okay. It doesn't even have to be excellent beer--nothing wrong with a Corona or a PBR. That stands for Pabst Blue Ribbon, beer of the working class. Never forget our blue collar roots, my boy. Busch products are also good--I knew one of the Busch kids in St. Louis, a real coke fiend, wow, trust fund babies can go there! But Bud or Amberbock, that's decent cheap beer. If it is in a bottle, and if it is cold, I like a beer now and then. It's not my favorite, and sometimes makes me feel sinusy--it might be the gluten. But on a hot day after doing yardwork, or on the beach, a beer dripping on ice out of the cooler, beer is heaven. Heaven! I'm not sure if it would taste good in a nail salon with your feet in hot water though."

I was on a roll. I think the dog was even taking notes. It was time to hammer the ball home. Or something like that.

"See, nail salons sometimes stink of acetone and nail chemicals which would make the beer taste horrible, unless they are Aveda salons, but if you are at an Aveda salon you would be drinking tea, or Baileys if it is December. Sometimes the stink of the chemicals gives you a headache without adding liquor to it, so I'm not sure drinking is a good idea. All in all, at Lee's Stripmall Salon, I suggest choosing the soft drink. Or just wait until you get home for your beverage. It's hard enough to drive without messing up your toes after a pedicure without also being beered up. Or just stay home, use your forty bucks to buy some vodka and nail polish, and have mani/pedi/drinking night in your own house. Yeah, now that I think about it, that's the best solution. Drink and soak your feet at home."

Dang I am a good parent. I just don't miss a beat.

He just looked and looked at me, blinking.

"Any questions, sweetie?" I asked. "You can ask me anything!"

He said, "What are you talking about? I asked you which elective class would you choose, Basketball or Art?"

That was a pretty big downer, I have to say.

"Oh. Art. Always choose Art."

Getting Schooled about Work

2009-04-23T09:41:00.007-04:00

What fiendish devil created Take Your Child to Work Day?

As if 13 years of required school aren't considered adequate mindbreaks to prepare a human being for an adulthood of consigned slavery to the man, someone decided to set aside a day to hammer the nail all the way through their tiny little brains. This year's brilliant theme for the day is Building Partnerships to Educate and Empower. Hey gangbangers and sugar daddies, try to top that enticing, youthful message!

Ms. Magazine started this National Day of Indoctrination back in the 90s to help girls see that they, too, were welcome in the workplace as cubicle rats, middle managers, sales agents and government workers. And maybe, just maybe if you work hard enough you can be the Big Cheese someday, girls, the Big. Damn. Cheese! Then men complained that boys shouldn't be discriminated against from a special invitation from the Borg, so Take Your Child to Work Day's mission is to "confront societal messages about youth so that they may reach their full potential."

DAMAGING Societal messages like: go ahead, enjoy the first 20 years of your life while you are developing, because the next 60 years (if you are lucky, cowgirl) are going to be a grind! Wanna play? Yeah, let's play!

Those wacky well-meaning feminists!

The upshot of this special day is that some workplaces permit bringing your spawn in to be overwhelmed with introductions and then play video games under the desk; and some workplaces have structured programs with guest speakers, military recruiters and clowns to trick the kids into thinking that having a job is bags o'fun and an adventure. Many workplaces say "I don't care if it is a national day, this junk is whacked. Don't pull your kid out of school for the day.

But most of the cool jobs--like plastic surgeon or crime scene investigator or con artist or being Johnny Depp--don't let kids come watch.

Remind me next year that I want to get a fleet of ice cream trucks to drive around office complexes on Take Your Child To Your Living Hell Day blaring a chime version of "Take This Job and Shove It." "Youth Freedom Counselors" will give out ice cream in those little plastic cups with the wooden slab spoons. When they peel back the top and lick away the ice cream, they will see subversive messages to counteract the indoctrination of their dangerous day in the machine. Messages like:

You really can make your own explosives. Look on the Internet!
They are lying, big time!
When you can, read this dude called Karl Marx. It's like Where the Wild Things Are, but a little more wild.
Remember that ugly guy that your dad told you in a whisper is the boss? Go and steal something from his office. A pen, anything. And give it to your dad.
Run While You Can, Adults are Dicks
If you think you want a life of crime, try it out now. You won't get in nearly as much trouble as a juvenile.

I really wish someone had told me that last point. If you run it right, I think it would be possible to earn enough money as a juvenile petty thief to invest it and live off of the profits the rest of your life. That would really be educating and empowering youth! Maybe I can get a grant.

###

(Speaking of creative work, if you are reading this post in an e-mail or in an RSS feed reader, you should pop over to the site for a second to drool over my spanking new header fresh from the brilliant mind of Schmutzie. Among her many, many talents, Schmutzie is a creative and skilled graphic artist, and she zeroed in on a design that perfectly captures what I didn't even know was in my head. I think she's a design intuitive...it felt like good medicine to open the file, like cough syrup and baby aspirin and ah. She's just getting going and is working cheap right now, too, so I suggest you get on her agenda right now. Don't think you'll ever take my place as her biggest fan, but I will share her with you otherwise.)

I wonder if this little asshole has shown her face on the street yet

2009-04-21T10:58:00.003-04:00

On Prom and Susan Boyle

2009-04-17T14:55:00.003-04:00

Tonight is my kid's first Prom, and I'm feeling a little queasy about it. I overheard some mothers talking about "Oh, I love springtime, it's so gorgeous out, and it's outside wedding and Prom time!"

There is an easy test to see if an adult is the type of person who likes or loathes Prom:

1. Show the subject the ending clip from "Carrie," where the kind-of nice girl goes to Carrie's old house and clears of the gravestone that says "Carrie White will Burn in Hell," and as she contemplates the horror of Carrie's last night on Earth, Carrie's gnarly zombie hand reaches up through the ground and grabs her!

2. Your subject will reveal signs of being shocked and startled.

3. Ask the subject "What are you feeling?"

3a. If he/she says "I'm scared! Carrie's zombie might come to get me!" = a person who likes Prom-type activities and empathizes with Carrie's victims.

3b. If he/she says "Wow, Carrie can even rise from the dead to seek her revenge. She really scared that bitch! Go Carrie! Go Carrie!" = a person who probably doesn't like Prom-type activities or attend high school reunions.

My kid is going to have a great time, but I'm a 3b, so I'm hoping I don't have to be involved in any way. There is no way in hell I would agree to chaperon Prom. I do have some Xanax to help me keep my telekinetic anger powers under management, but it is taxing nonetheless to think "Wow, if I was not on Xanax I would have set that kid with the smarmy grin on fire!" Not to mention that I would be constantly scanning the crowd for buckets of pigs blood or pissed off girls who haven't met their best friend Xanax yet.

I hope some day to be like Susan Boyle, who seems to be gracious with a public that acts like nasty Nancy Allen, and uses her special powers to be able to sing like an angel instead of igniting Simon Cowell with her thoughts.

I adore Susan Boyle and I hope she's okay. In fact, the only way you could get me to go to Prom is if Susan Boyle would go with me as my date. We would waltz in graceful circles to her beautiful song, and I would keep her safe from any buckets of pig blood around.

Tonight, though, while my son's at Prom, I think I'll just play poker on the porch while dipping strawberries in Amaretto and rolling them in chopped Xanax--and keeping my eyes on my phone. He's a great kid and wouldn't have made fun of anyone who needs to seek telekinetic revenge, but as Stephen King's bank account will tell you, you never know what lurks just below the surface of the silk of a Prom dress. You never know.

###

Speaking of the perils of the weird and whacked: please do a big favor for me! I have two sessions in the running for sessions at BlogHer's summer conference. It's easy to vote for them if you are a member of BlogHer. Click on the links, log-in, and then at the top of the pages for each session, click on the sentence just under the title that says "I would attend this session." It will then change to "I will not attend this session." Which will feel weird, but just let it be. That's it. Voting closes soon, so I appreciate your help!

If you aren't a member of the BlogHer site, it's easy to sign up, and then you are qualified to enter their juicy contests and leave comments. You don't have to be a blogger to join.

Sessions:

ROTFLMAO with Jenny, The Bloggess (and me) Come on.

and

Blogqueer: LGBTQ Blogging with Kathryn Martini (and me) We really would appreciate our straight allies voting us up, too, in support of our minority voice!

Merci!!

Ready for a Doggie Date with Bo Obama

2009-04-15T10:46:00.002-04:00

My dog River is still acting pissy this week because of his seething jealousy of Bo Obama that I described in the previous post.

And I am still having a hard time consoling him, because I can't get it out of my head that he wanted TO LEAVE ME, to leave this home that we are creating together just for a chance at life in the White House. This fact is digging raggedy mutt nails into the chalkboard of heart. Which in turn has irked him that I don't understand him or his sadness at the Obama rejection.

What I'm saying is, the house is TENSE. Mostly this tension plays out with the silent treatment. He is saying very little, and I have to tell you, it burns. Yesterday morning he did not even steal my underpants out of the hamper while I was in the shower to chew on and hide under the couch. That's how bad it is. I admit I, too, have been playing games by withholding Treats. Treats and Rawhides. And I rub it in to him. I'm like hmmm, wonder how many treats Bo is getting today?

Last night while I was getting ready to cook Pasta Primavera for dinner I was telling my son about the tension so that he doesn't get a complex thinking it is about him, and so that he could join me on my side--using code words and air quotes to exclude River, of course.

Me: So you might notice that the "TRASH CAN" is a little STINKY because it turns out the TRASH CAN wishes it could be the "MAILBOX" for someone in "SEATTLE."

Salo: Mom, I think you found some old wine again.

So it takes me two trips to get the right stuff out of the fridge, and when I get to the counter after trip 2, I'm missing some of my Vera for the damn Prima Pasta. I glance out the kitchen door, and guess who is bolting to the far end of the lot with a fat green bone?

I finally got him to obey the "come" command, but he wouldn't "drop." He stood there in stand-off, and if I moved toward him, he poised to bolt. It was like The Good, The Bad, The Spring Produce.

He stared. I stared. He stared. I used my phone to grab a photo.

He's all: Did you take a picture? Let me see it? Am I cute? How cute am I? Do my white paws show?

I reveal the photo to him.

Me: Look at the cute boy with his dangly wangly asparagus bone! Look at the little Dickensian urchin "I steal vegetables in these economic times" pup! You know, River, maybe since you look so cute you might get invited to a playdate at the White House, and we could both go together. If I blogged this photo, I mean.

He started wagging his tail. He dropped the asparagus and came to me.

He's all: Sorry, sorry, sorry. You love me the best, don't you, so much that you would SHARE me with the Obamas? Please blog it, please blog it!

Me: I love you the best, so much that I would totally whore you out to get a visit to the White House.

River: You're mine! And on the playdate, I'll sniff Bo's butt, and maybe I'll even like him even though he's a Portie! Maybe he IS the best dog for the Obama's, just like I'm the best for you!

Me: Don't stop there! Please sniff Mr. President's butt for me while you are at it!

We laughed and laughed and laughed. So, the drama might be spinning itself out, all thanks to the magic contained in the stalks of asparagus.

We trotted back into the house and I gave River a few Treats.

Salo shouted from his computer: Hey, where have you been? I'm in a war but I'm starving. What's for supper?