I couldn't bear to watch the State of the Union Address, so I decided to watch a horror flick instead -- this one.

I know I'm going to have nightmares tonight.

In fact, I had a series of recurring nightmares when I was in high school. I was always running from some evil force that had mind control powers, but that hadn't yet captured me. I was hiding in a large, antiquated stone building with a courtyard, like a university or a church or an old courthouse or something.

In the last nightmare of its kind that I had, I was escaping (so I thought) up the back stairs of this old stone building when someone blocked my way, and pointed ominously and wordlessly at me, betraying my location to the thought police. That someone was Karl Rove.

Well, it was either Karl Rove or Mr. Weatherbee from the Archie Comics.

Either way, it scared the snot out of me then and scares the snot out of me still.

Just so I'm not alone in my nightmare tonight, check out this site. It has lots of fun pictures like this one:


Sweet dreams.

Well, I am.

So very, very irate.

Because of this bullshit.

My favorite part is this:

"Exxon Mobil's 2005 net income for the year comes to $1,146 a second. That per-second profit is enough to pay for gas for the average American vehicle to be driven 10,294 miles, at current gasoline prices."

I fucking hate Exxon Mobil. Bastards.

Must...find...happy...place... "Rollercoaster...of love. Rollercoaster...of love. Say what?"

You can call me ...

Martini Cupcake Girl.

LoLo ordered one martini.

LoLo took one sip.

LoLo looked up at the waiter who had just delivered her drink, and said, "You're going to have fun with ME tonight!"

He gave her his number as we left.

No fun was had, as far as Mel and I know.

But we parted ways after dinner, so...

Bush's State of the Union Address is tomorrow night. I could get all upset thinking about things he's done, but I'll leave that to my new friend, Grand Moff Texan.

Instead, I've decided to make light of my country's demise by featuring the Disappearing Civil Liberties Mug.

"The Disappearing Civil Liberties Mug is covered with the complete text of The Bill of Rights. But when you pour in hot liquids, the Rights that are infringed by Ashcroft's Patriot Act vanish before your very eyes!"

For my right-of-center friends, you can ignore my above message and pretend I was writing about this:

I didn't tell anyone in my family I was going to Cleveland. Mainly, that's because I haven't told anyone in my family I have a blog. Besides, they're always all up in my damn business. Do I have to tell them everything?

But, because they call every day to get all up in my damn business, Dilf was forced to tell them I wasn't there, that I was visiting friends, friends he believed were related to Mrs. Kathy somehow. He did tell them that my trip was my Christmas present.

Now, it helps that my family doesn't believe that Dilf gets anything straight and that he forgets things the moment he hears them. That is partially true. However, they have concocted their own version of the truth, which is:

I had a nervous breakdown and ran away to the Mental Hospital. This is partially true; I did visit that shrine. I stayed for Mass and listened to an aged priest talk patiently for ten minutes, explaining to the attendees that they are NOT possessed by the devil, but should continue taking their meds and listening to their doctors.

So, now my family is talking very calmly and slowly to me. My sister-in-law, the former Cuntzilla who was mysteriously cured of her cuntiness by giving birth last May, asked me enviously, "You mean you just ran away? We can do that?"

I think I'm going to enjoy this. If they irritate me in the slightest, I can start to tremble and allow my eyes to fall out of focus. I think this could work to my advantage!

You can also find this picture on Mel's blog -- it's me, LoLo and Mel as Charlie's Angels in Mel's fabu new house.

This is taken the day after I consumed numerous skull-crushing martinis at Cleveland's all-purpose entertainment facility Pickwick and Frolic. I now want to walk around the house in a feather headdress, sequined bodysuit and fishnets all day:


I think I'll space my Cleveland stories out a bit. Especially the ones about the mental hospital.

I'll blog more later...

Here's a picture.

I'll be back Monday with some tawdry tales and peppery pictures

(Cue thunderstorm, wailing winds) They were dark days for the music world. The horror began in 1986 and stretched throughout the last years of the decade. True, some whisperings of the soul-deadening tunes that would reign over a terrified world began earlier in the decade... Huey Lewis and the News... Whitney Houston... disastrous Paul McCartney duets. But nothing could prepare us for what we would find in 1986.

Like M, I'm talking about pop music. There are notable exceptions to anything, of course, but... just look at the Top 40 charts. If you take out Peter Gabriel, what do you have?

"That's What Friends Are For" -- Number 1. Need I go on? I sense you're not convinced. How about not one, but TWO Mister Mister hits in the top 10 -- "Kyrie" and "Broken Wings." How about the one-hit wonders; do Klymaxx "I Miss You", Nu Shooz "I Can't Wait" and Glass Tiger "Don't Forget Me (When I'm Gone)" ring a bell?

I think I've made my case. But if you remain unconvinced, may I suggest you download and listen to Number 23, Secret Lover by Atlantic Star.

Go ahead...
I DARE YOU!!

I am going to visit Mel and LoLo this weekend. This is what I'm bringing so far:

• One tiara
• One pair Hammer pants
• Scuba suit
• Velvet opera-length gloves
• "I Love Chachi" T-shirt
• Sequined tube top
• Lab coat and goggles
• Satin disco pants
• My "Yodeling Queen" sash

Am I forgetting anything?

I hope I didn't get anyone in trouble.

Just days after I urged people to drop their pants, the group Improv Everywhere performed their celebrated hipster prank, the "No Pants Subway Ride."

According to the group's founder, Charlie Todd, it was the event's biggest turnout yet, with 150 people crowding into a subway train and shedding their pants.

You can read about it here. Of course, these people have been doing it for five years, but I am awash in self-importance so I choose to ignore that fact.

In other pants-related news, some guy was arrested for wearing transparent pants. Without underwear.

"Evans, a convicted sex offender from California, allegedly would walk up to his victims and attempt to engage them in conversation, directing their gaze towards his lower region.

'He would ask them, "What do you think?" or if they could see what he had," [police Lt.] Tucker said."

Nothing like this ever happens in Downers Grove. Sigh.

If this is what passes for "fun" in their households.

My kids love the EnviroKidz brand of stuff -- cereal, waffles, snack bars. We can agree on these purchases, because they're pretty healthy and free of chemicals.

However.

The cereal box boasts, "Look Inside the Box for More Fun!" When the excited child opens the box, he or she (in my family, she) finds... facts about pandas (or cheetas, or koalas, or whatever flavor she's eating. Their flavors are all named for animals.) Also, information about how to protect the panda's environment. And, most thrilling of all, a pledge form:

"I share Wildlife Trust's sense of urgency and would like to support the conservation efforts of your scientists and educators."

It took me 15 minutes to assure both UberGirls that no one had stolen their "prize."

More clowns in the news.

"[T]he circus performance features acts that convey important messages - in fun ways. A dysentery prevention piece features a giant dirty hand that chases a clown around the stage. Eventually, the clown gets sick and whines and complains to the audience's delight."

I bet the clown likes it. Dirty clown.

I salute you, my Lord and Master.

No, not PANTS, pants. I have come to the conclusion that pants and their hopelessly evil counterpart, shorts, are unflattering to my milfiness. Yet, it seems they are forced upon me at every turn.

From the 1960's on, we've been told that pants represent female freedom. I disagree. I think kilts represent freedom for MEN, but they haven't embraced them as they should. I like dresses and skirts. They look good on me. They're comfortable. I like them. I LOVE them. But where are they?

There are some tailored skirts and dresses and skirted business suits. Good for professional women. Where are my dresses? Comfortable yet attractive, form fitting and body-skimming yet not skin-tight, feminine yet not fussy dresses? I want them. I need them.

What do I get instead? Year after tiresome year of Capri pants and shorts for spring and summer. Pants and jeans in the winter. Pants teamed with sweaters, blouses and jackets. Casual pants. Dressy pants. Even pants fit to wear to a black-tie gala. Oh, pants are so mondern, so now! Give us more pants!

Fuck pants. They don't look good on hourglass-y women. I'm just wondering why can't the fashion world manage to provide clothing for the lanky, athletic women who look good in pants AND the curvier ladies who don't? I'm not trying to take away anyone's pants; I just want options that look good on me, too -- and are more comfortable to boot!

And pantyhose. Who the hell decided we can't wear pantyhose anymore? Wherever you are, shut up! I want to wear pantyhose. So there! I'm gonna. And I'm gonna wear dresses. Every damn day. To the grocery store. While taking walks. Visiting museums and art fairs. I'm gonna wear them loud, I'm gonna wear them proud. With pantyhose! In your face, fashion world!

I'm going to find little tennis skirts to wear to the gym, too. Just you wait and see!

I'm sure I'll be ranting again soon. In the meantime, drop your pants! Unless they look good on you.

because I thought it was a hoot:



Actually, it was the cabernet sauvignon. But you get the idea. I intend on drinking the whole thing tonight. I am on glass one right now. I won't bore you with details, but I had a shitty day. Literally, at one point.

Dilf left the house at 7 a.m. to help transport a server from Buttfuck Illinois to Chicago. He is in Chicago as we speak; his estimated return time is uncertain. He was just at the Microcenter in Chicago buying supplies.

I was feeling sorry for myself until I heard that part. What poor schmuck has to work in a downtown Chicago Microcenter on a Saturday night?

I informed Dilf via telephone that I will be either drunk or passed out when he comes home, and that I intend on having a hangover tomorrow.

If only he wasn't 92 and I wasn't happily married...he does encapsulate my Christian viewpoint in this post.

Sometimes hitting the "next blog" button pans out.

I just post a saucy picture.

I hope that's alright.

I had to do this, too. Especially when I saw my answers:



Also, THIS WOMAN should have her vagina sewn shut without anesthesia. Then stuck repeatedly with pins and soaked in a lemon juice/saltwater bath.

My friends, I am going to give you all a piece of advice that will save you thousands of dollars and heartbreaking frustration:

Never buy a house from hillbillies.

Never.

I have nothing against George Michael; it seems he does a lot of charity work.

I'm assuming it's to balance his karma for recording songs like "Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go" and "Careless Whisper."

Also, I don't think being caught in a public restroom with your hand in the cookie jar qualifies you as a gay rights hero.

But which song to pick as worst? I'm sure you all have your personal "favorites" from the Wham!/George Michael songbook. But since this is my blog, I pick Everything She Wants. Not only is it whiny and annoying, it also features Georgie pretending to be heterosexual. In fact, it seems to have a rather strong anti-heterosexual message. Hmmm.

Uh huh huh...
Oh yeah...
Work...work...

Somebody told me,
Boy, everything she wants is everything she sees...
I guess I must have loved you.
’cause I said you were the perfect girl for me,
Maybe...
But now we’re six months older...
And everything you want and everything you see,
Is out of reach...not good enough...
I don’t know what the hell you want from me but boy...

Uh huh huh...
Oh...oh...
Uh huh huh...
Doo doo doo...
La la la la...

Somebody tell me,
Won’t you tell me...
Why I work so hard for you?
All to give you money
All to give you money...

Some people work for a living,
Some people work for fun,
Girl, I just work for you.
They told me marriage was a give and take,
Well, show me you can take you’ve got some giving to do.
And now you tell me that you’re having my baby,
I’ll tell you that I’m happy if you want me to...
One step further and my back will break,
If my best isn’t good enough
Than how can it be good enough for two?
I can’t work any harder than I do...

Somebody tell me,
Won’t you tell me...
Why I work so hard for you?
All to give you money,
All to give you money...

Oh...
Why do I do the things I do?
I’d tell you if I knew.
My god...
I don’t even think that I love you....
Won’t you tell me...
Tell me...tell me...tell me...

How could you settle for a boy like me,
When all I could see was the end of the week...
All the things we sign,
And the things we buy,
Ain’t gonna keep us together...
It’s just a matter of time.

My situation,
Never changes.
Walking in that manner through that door,
Like a stranger,
But the wages...
I give you all you say you want is love...

And all I can see is the end of the week,
All the things we sign,
And the things we buy,
Ain’t gonna keep us together...
Girl, it’s just a matter of time.
(return to top)

Scandal rocks the cupcake world again! Cupcake-loving T-shirt designer Johnny Cupcakes has been cheated by corporate bad guys Urban Outfitters!

Johnny Cupcakes makes shirts with designs like this:



And this:



He approached Urban Outfitters with this design in 2004:



They "rejected" it, but began producing this:



just this month.

The Cupcake Liberation Army shall hear of this! It's an outrage!

Guess who called me this morning? I had to guess -- because my called ID said "unknown name unknown number." Imagine my surprise when the robo-voice at the other end identified itself as my old friend SBC!

Robo-voice claimed to be not only my phone "service" provider, but also the answer to all my entertainment needs as well! They could rip me off in so many unregulated monopoly-type ways!

Anyway, the robo-voice did not tell me why it chose to irritate me today. Instead, it directed me to call a 1-800 number to find out what its "important message" for me was.

*Instant Update*
They called back! I'm talking to them now! They say I didn't pay my bill. But thanks to the wonders of technology and online banking, I have the proof that I DID SO pay! I have a date, a reference number, an amount... in fact, I overpaid because I couldn't remember the exact amount so I rounded up! In your face, SBC! Motherfuckers!

I'm on hold again. She has to see how to handle this; amazingly, SBC must never make billing errors!

Wait... hold on to your hats, folks... she's APOLOGIZING. And they won't turn off my phone service. Isn't that nice? They're not going to turn off my service because I overpaid them but their system didn't update because of MLK day. Sure, blame the martyred guy.

Did I mention my bill's not due until the 28th but this is from the bill due December 28 which I didn't pay because they kept charging me for DSL service which we cancelled, but then I did because it got straightened out? So they were going to TURN OFF my service because of a 15-day delay on something that's pre-paid a month in advance? This is amazing, people.

Why do I keep them? Because if you want a land line and are a mere human instead of a corporation, you have no options. They just bought their competitor. Why do I need a land line? Because I have a satellite dish. If I had no satellite dish, I'd have to get cable or forgo TV altogether due to the bad reception. Guess who owns the ONLY cable service available to me? SBC.

To quote Monty Python, "Help, help! I'm being oppressed!"

President Eisenhower was a Republican from Texas. He presided over our nation from 1953 to 1961. He said things like this:

"Down the long lane of the history yet to be written America knows that this world of ours, ever growing smaller, must avoid becoming a community of dreadful fear and hate, and be instead, a proud confederation of mutual trust and respect.

Such a confederation must be one of equals. The weakest must come to the conference table with the same confidence as do we, protected as we are by our moral, economic, and military strength. That table, though scarred by many past frustrations, cannot be abandoned for the certain agony of the battlefield.

Disarmament, with mutual honor and confidence, is a continuing imperative. Together we must learn how to compose differences, not with arms, but with intellect and decent purpose. Because this need is so sharp and apparent I confess that I lay down my official responsibilities in this field with a definite sense of disappointment. As one who has witnessed the horror and the lingering sadness of war -- as one who knows that another war could utterly destroy this civilization which has been so slowly and painfully built over thousands of years -- I wish I could say tonight that a lasting peace is in sight.

Happily, I can say that war has been avoided. Steady progress toward our ultimate goal has been made. But, so much remains to be done. As a private citizen, I shall never cease to do what little I can to help the world advance along that road."-- Public Papers of the Presidents, Dwight D. Eisenhower, 1960, p. 1035- 1040

George Bush is a Republican from Texas, too. He says things like this:


""As you can possibly see, I have an injury myself — not here at the hospital, but in combat with a cedar. I eventually won. The cedar gave me a little scratch. As a matter of fact, the Colonel asked if I needed first aid when she first saw me. I was able to avoid any major surgical operations here, but thanks for your compassion, Colonel." —George W. Bush, after visiting with wounded veterans from the Amputee Care Center of Brooke Army Medical Center, San Antonio, Texas, Jan. 1, 2006"

People, we've been swindled.

I eat stuff like this up with a spoon.

I always have, and always will. My hips were made for shimmyin'.

I was pretty busy yesterday, so I didn't mention poor Martin Luther King, Jr. on his birthday. It's actually the 19th, anyway, isn't it?

Well, diligent bloggers Todd and Jacob had their acts together, and now I'm inspired to write about racism.

I grew up in a household headed up by an avowed liberal father and a moderate mother, neither of whom was racist. I never learned the "n" word until I reached grade school, when I heard it and used it as a generic insult for everyone until someone explained what it meant. I didn't get it then and I still don't get it now.

So, having excess melanin in your skin makes you "less than," somehow? Then why were people in the 70's (when I was a youngster) lying out in the sun getting tan? Tightly curled hair is "bad?" Then what's with all the perms? I was mighty confused, especially since I didn't know people were divided into separate groups. I mean, when I was a kid.

My dad had taken all the negative stereotypes about any ethnic group and inserted "Republicans" in their place. For instance, Polack jokes became "Republican" jokes. When we went to the one shopping mall at the time in upscale Oakbrook, my father would tell us, "Lock the doors. This is a Republican neighborhood." You get the picture.

Later, I learned about cultural differences. Still later, I learned about the effects of stress and violence on brain chemistry. That's when I became a conspiracy theorist. Crack cocaine seems tailor-made to keep poor neighborhoods down, but that's a discussion for another post.

Long story short: we have to stop dividing our country into segments, into "us" and "them." That includes my dad (and me.) While I still lean left, people of all colors, kinds and ideologies are my fellow countrymen. If I disagree with someone, the kneejerk reaction shouldn't be to hate them or consider them stupid, selfish, or stupid and selfish. We're in deep trouble as a nation; it seems we actually revel in our divisiveness.

The "rugged individualist" mentality has gone too far, in my opinion. True, we aren't responsible for other people's actions, nor should it be our job to support someone's bad decisions or behaviors. On the other hand, we have to realize that if some members of our society, our country, are sinking, they take us all down with them.

Poverty, lack of education, hopelessness and despair weigh us down. Also, rampant short-sighted materialism, a thirst for war and vengeance, and greed weigh us down. Instead of wallowing or blaming, we should throw all our energy into being the best society this planet has seen. Not the most comfortable and lazy, not the mightiest bully, but the fairest, the least destructive, the healthiest, the bravest. I'm not saying I have the answer as to how to bring these things about, but we can start by viewing ourselves as one cohesive whole, rather than unconnected "others," who obviously are to blame for all of society's ills. Because, of course, it couldn't be our own fault, could it?

It's got cupcakes, clowns, a knife, and a disembodied head.

The Polkaholics are on board.

I found a caterer.

I have a choice of a Moose Hall, a VFW Hall, an American Legion Hall, and a Knights of Columbus Hall nearby. I just need to call to check out the facilities and available dates for this spring. The caterer has worked with all but the Moose Hall, and possibly them too. This rocks.

I need to decide on a guest list, a final date near our anniversary, and find a bartender. We'll buy the booze ourselves, I think. I have specific ideas regarding the drink menu.

I'm getting excited. Also: decorations. Oh, yes, we will have decorations. And they will be fantastic.

While I love football, all I can think is this would be a great time to go to Target. Everyone else will be home watching the game.

Blah blah blah new year blah blah blah fresh start blah blah self improvement blah blah.

I want to fit into this dress again:


I wore this dress to Mrs. Kathy's birthday party in 1997; I met Dilf at that party. I was 26 years old and very healthy.

In the course of my lifetime, I've been frighteningly anorexic and post-partum bloated and everything in between. I can't use the scale as a measurement, because I have large solid bones and good muscle mass, neither of which I want to lose. So, I can be a size 6 or 8 and still weigh 150 or more lbs. I'm fine with that; who cares? It's health first and looks second, and the scale doesn't tell that.

But I am a little soft and jiggly. I do want to be the lean, mean muscle machine that tracked down Dilf and brought him in for the kill.

I don't want to obsess over every calorie or chemically analyze the content of every bite I'm eating or skip every dessert. I also don't like artificial sweeteners; they give me a headache.

So, here are my vows: Eat more fruits and vegetables. Drink more water. No trans fats. Less (sob!) butter. Switch to tea from coffee, since it takes way less sugar to make it palatable to me. I'm pretty good about everything else, foodwise.

Also, exercise! Use that Y membership more than once a week! And... wear that red velvet dress with the zipper down the front to my 7 Year Itch Anniversary Party!

I know I have your love and support in this endeavor. I hope? Yeah, I know, you don't care. But public declarations strengthen my resolve.

UberYounger has a scary doll, pictured here:



UberYounger loves this doll, and tenderly cares for its every need. Apparently a mother's eyes can't see the evil, cunning glow in its baby's inhuman eyes, and can overlook the Mikail Gorbachev black smudge on its head from when UberElder was instinctively trying to give it the mark of the beast with a black marker, but was too young to know how to write "666."

It's very difficult when your own adorable offspring lovingly offers up her demon doll to you with wide, trusting eyes and says, "Kiss my baby, mommy." It takes all of my strength to smile, lift the devil's offspring to my lips, and wait for the searing flames of hell to burn off the lower half of my face.

Luckily, that hasn't happened yet. But I am not the only one freaked out by some dolls. Check out The Haunted Dollhouse for starters. If you dare.

In August, I warned you of the dangers of Naked Elvis.



Thanks to SYSM, I have been made aware of more Elvis debauchery.

I wish I would've known about this song in time to honor the King on his birthday, but we can't have everything, can we?

I give you, in all its creepy glory, Elvis Presley: Lover Doll


Lover doll, oh lover doll
Lover doll, lover doll
You're the cutest lover doll
That I ever did ever see
Let me tell you lover doll
You were meant, just meant for me

On the first time that I saw you
How I fell for your cuddly charms
Lover doll I'm crazy for you
Let me rock you in my arms

I'm so glad I found you
Never thought dollies came full grown
I'm gonna tie a ribbon around you
Wrap you up and take you home

I would never treat you badly
Like a cast away broken toy
Lover doll I love you madly
Let me be your lover boy

I'm so glad I found you
Never thought dollies came full grown
I'm gonna tie a ribbon around you
Wrap you up and take you home

I would never treat you badly
Like a cast away broken toy
Lover doll I love you madly
Let me be your lover boy

Lover doll, lover doll
Lover doll, lover doll
Lover doll, lover doll
Let me be your lover boy

Lover doll, lover doll
Lover doll, lover doll
Lover doll, lover doll
Let me be your lover boy
Let me be your lover boy
Let me be your lover boy

Why are computers performing clerical work and answering phones? Why are they determining credit scores and playing chess? And, most importantly, why are humans still emptying garbage and cleaning toilets?

People, we've been sold yet another lie. Robots and computers were supposed to do all the dirty and dangerous work. Yet somehow I'm cleaning the litterbox (okay, Dilf does that, but stay with me people) while some damn computer calls me 5 times a day to "Please hold for a very important message." Folks, it is NEVER an important message.

With the exception of the wonderful Roomba, computers and robots have filled two purposes: one, saving corporations money; two, giving MIT students a hobby.

My current favorite is the new kiosks at the grocery stores where customers scan and bag their own groceries. Great! Now I can deprive a fellow human of a job AND do more work myself! How wonderful! Granted, I have used said device when I've had but a few items. But how long until humans are completely replaced, and we're stuck working, unpaid, for the grocery store?

Motherfuckers.

And now my fucking dishwasher, which we bought in 2004, is acting bizarre. I'll bet you anything that it's not a simple, inexpensive part. I bet it's the "computer board" that runs the whole damn thing and costs as much to replace as a brand new dishwasher.

I'm becoming Amish next week.

My new friends the Cupcake Ladies found a New Tastement: Biblical cupcakes.

God loves cupcakes.

I now I usually post Bad Music Thursday on, well, Thursday. But this song is stuck in my head now, and it must be removed!

This song, like almost all of my Bad Music songs, is from the 1970's. I'm not sure why this particular decade of music keeps showing up in my head, but I think it has something to do with AM radio and formative brain growth.

Reasons aside, I give you Undercover Angel by Alan O'Day. It contains the lamest refrain ever recorded. I don't know how he could've sung it without convulsing in spasms of shame.

I said "Whaaaat?"
She said "Ooo-ooo-ooo-wee"
I said "All right!"
She said "Love me, love me, love me"

Yes, folks, I hate to think of what the first draft of lyrics read. "Ooo-ooo-ooo-wee" isn't even a word! He can't even think of a real word?

Dilf, the girls and I brought a cake over to his grandma's house on Sunday. Isn't it purty? It's a snowflake!