I've been going about this blogging thing completely the wrong way. I shouldn't express strong opinions or emotions; those things make people uncomfortable and a little scared inside. And nobody wants to think about current events or controversies -- that's not FUN. And the most important thing in life is to have fun and be comfortable and content, right?

Ohmigod, guys, I am SO sorry. It won't happen again.

I can't WAIT to go shopping for fall clothes. They just built a big mall near me with totally cute shops in it. And Macy's, too, for department store stuff. Like, you can't get the designer handbags in the little boutique-y shops, you know? I like to buy all new stuff for every season. Call me a shopaholic! I can keep spending as long as I have checks in the checkbook, right? LOL.

I'm going to totally stop eating carbs. And go to the gym every day, for like at least an hour. I'm totally serious. I mean, I'm not down on myself or anything, because that would be bad, but I want cute clothes and stuff.

Facials feel soooooo good, don't they?

I need a new car. I mean, the one I have is like 3 years old almost. And it's some generic Honda, not anything hot. How can I be hot without a hot car? I know! I can't! Somebody tell Dilf!

I would tell him myself, but he gets grumpy. I don't like when people get grumpy. I don't know why he doesn't just chill out, you know?

You know who's hot? Clive Owen.

Who else here likes "Grey's Anatomy?" That show rocks!

That's it for now. My hair needs highlights.

I wrote Part III of my Monstrous Monsters of Rock series. It was conceptualized, researched and mostly written. I saved it to come back to it later, but Google ate it. And didn't regurgitate it for me.

So, you get this instead:


The Worst Music Video - Click here for more blooper videos

We'll return to our regularly scheduled programming next Thursday.

In keeping with my "little girl lost" theme from yesterday, I was going to feature JonBenet-esque child beauty pageant garb this week. However, it was all too disturbing for me.

Instead, I give you ...



the Miss Klingon Empire pageant.

No doubt, there are terrible, selfish, horrible people in this world. Some of them are lazy. Some are manipulative. Some are shrill, nagging harpies.

But when it comes to my husband, he is not unkind, neglectful, sloppy, or presumptuous when he does things like leave an empty toilet paper role or fail to tell me the Dixie cup dispenser in the bathroom is empty.

I think he is terrified of the linen closet.

The linen closet is a mysterious, magical region to him. It's contantly changing, items are seldom arranged in an easily discernible manner, and oddities not normally found in a linen closet can be found in there. Sometimes. Or sometimes not.

Other places my husband would rather not venture into: the pantry; the refrigerator in the garage; the back of the refrigerator or freezer in the kitchen; the pantry; anywhere dealing with holidays and celebrations, like the sideboard or the tubs of decorations in the garage; under-sink storage.

But worst of all, the most frightening, unnatural and disorienting of all... my purse.

Why are women able to find the blender that hasn't been used in three years that we received as a wedding present last millenium, but men have trouble finding their hats that are on the very same coatrack on which they put it that morning, but someone spun the coatrack around so that the hat is now hanging on the opposite side, thus confusing them utterly? I have a theory.

Childhood games. Boys tend to play games with rules, where girls tend to just make shit up. Thus, men have an expectation that things will run the way they "should" and that things will be where they "should" be, whereas women will wing it and check a dozen or more places it "could" be if they don't find it on their first attempt.

I guess the short version of this story is: I need to clean out my linen closet so my husband can find things and then I won't need to replace everything that becomes empty.

In honor of Elder's return to school on Monday, may I present you with "A Visit from Chalky."

Apparantly I have inadvertently foisted my blog into the seedy underworld of pantyhose fetishism with this entry many moons ago.

I discovered this fact today as I was perusing the search terms used by visitors to find my blog, of which one was "Fanny's Frolics" pantyhose.

It's interesting that the Googler was Googling in Arabic, since "Fanny's Frolics Pantyhose" appear to be a brand favored by Arabian transvestites with hairy legs.

I can't make these things up.

Anyways, the Googler must've been looking for this page, not mine. However, I was shocked to discover that my photo and website both appear when when Googles fanny's frolic pantyhose. I'm in there twice!

Since I'm a destination site for all you pantyhose pervs out there, I'll throw you a little somethin' somethin' to get you all excited:

Last Week: Billy Joel

This Week: Captain Fantastic or Fat Frumpy Fop? You decide.

I don't expect Elton John to defend himself since he's not reading this anyways, but I have some pretty damning evidence of him not living up to the hype surrounding him. "Sir Elton," my ass.

I'll get to his music in just a second (and I didn't even need to cover anything he did for Disney or with Dionne Warwick to find stinkers), but first I'd like to address the man himself. As documented here in Top of the Pops, he's both a whiny prima donna prone to temper tantrums and a philanthropist who donates a great deal of time and money to worthy causes.

One minute he's throwing hissy fits, the next he's donating $43 million.

But in the 1980's, his music was not only soul-crushingly bad, it was utterly pervasive, oozing through every radio channel and music video show, nesting itself in the brain folds of anyone and everyone, destroying our collective gray matter to the point that Ronald Reagan is now considered by many to have been a good president.

I give you three examples of the horrors spawned by that man:



Turn it off! Turn it off! Turn off that bad song. Now all hope is gone...




This song was so bad it brought down the Berlin Wall. Sure, historians won't admit it, but it's true.




I hate this one mostly because it imprints the image of a naked Elton John "rolling like thunder, under the covers." Now that's what I call the blues. Not to mention the multicolored yawn. I'm trying to wish it away, but it just won't go.

I hope I haven't scarred anyone for life.

My new friend Monkey von Monkerstein brought this terrifying story to my attention this morning.

Do you think it's far-fetched? I don't think so. It's consistent with this administration's history.

This is why we need a separation of church and state. In addition to protecting an individual's right to believe as he or she chooses and to prohibit the establishment of an official national religion, it also prevents the government from claiming it speaks for God.

I am more concerned than ever about this book.

Everyone who's read my blog knows I am not an atheist. I am religious enough to know the difference between man-made and moral law. This isn't coming from God, people.

We are a government of the people, by the people and for the people. People fall victim to greed, fear and power lust. We the people are supposed to spot that when it happens, and correct it. When the system works, we should be able to do that peacefully, through the election process.

I desperately and dearly hope the system holds so that we can oust the current administration that would dare use people's cherished beliefs to further their aims.

Unlike them, I don't dare speak for God. But I'm hoping He gets pissed off enough to smash them all with his giant Monty Python foot and rid us of this evil.

In these troubling times, it's comforting to know there are some issues upon which we all agree. Regardless of religious or political affiliation, age or race, sex or sexual orientation, some opinions are just universal.

Like the public perception Carrot Top.

Or this week's Don't Wear Wednesday:

No, I am not prejudiced against ... whatever this guy is trying to dress as. Cuban? Mexican? A gay porn star? But it came up in the Google search when I entered my REAL prejudice.

Buck teeth. Is it bucked teeth? I don't know.

I have no reason for this bias. I mean, people can't control the size of their teeth. I think it has something to do with all the 1970's advertising icons and assorted cartoon characters I experienced growing up. As a small-toothed person, perhaps I felt alienated by the pro-toothiness of it all.

Unfortunately, what may have begun in my youth has come to haunt me in my adult life. One of the ÜberFriends, who lives across the street, has buck teeth. And a whiny, nasally voice. And is used to bullying her father and getting her way. So, maybe I have a reason to dislike her, but her buck teeth make me even less patient with her.

I don't have warm, soft maternal feelings toward her. There is an even more ill-behaved child with whom the Übergirls cavort, but I have more patience with her, and adopt a more nurturing, educational stance toward her bad behavior. She does not have protrubing chompers.

I am ashamed.

I got nothing.

They sell out sports arenas.

Their albums are guaranteed successes.

They are in, or destined for, the Rock 'n Roll Hall of Fame.

They are the Rock Gods.

Or are they? Lurking within celebrated musical catalogs that make Muzak great are songs that work their way into the general consciousness and destroy our souls, bit by bit, every time they are played. In the upcoming weeks, I will expose these crimes upon humanity here in Bad Music Thursday.

I will start where I've gone before: one Mr. Billy Joel.

Exhibit A: Tell Her About It



No, please. Keep it to yourself. And for the record, I wouldn't be worried about "losing" Billy Joel. I'd leave him behind on purpose, in fact.



Exhibit B: You're Only Human (Second Wind)



Upon reflection, perhaps Mr. Joel is actually demonstrating his premise: everyone makes mistakes, like he did himself when he wrote this song. One saving grace: Adam from Mythbusters gets rescued from drowning.


Exhibit C: Keeping the Faith



Guilty! Guilty! Guilty! For God's sake, Guilty! Oh, my head.

This genre straddles the line between delightful kitsch and dreadful
fashion mistake. However, its discomfort level sends it into "Don't
Wear" territory: itchy yarn; Stiff aluminum cans that won't conform to
the curves of the human head and/or body. Thus, we enter Beer Can
Couture into the Don't Wear Wednesday Hall of Fame.

Here is a sampling, in all its glory, courtesy of Stitchy McYarnpants. Oh, Stitchy, where have you gone?

By now, I'm sure everybody's heard that Mr. Weatherbee's evil twin resigned yesterday.

But nobody's asked after his Ho. How are you, Ho, now that your honey's on the run?

The world may never know. It appears she's too distraught to answer.

In other news, there are extremely stale circus peanuts nestled on the bottom of my purse:



Anybody want some?

"Rather than love, than money, than fame, give me truth."

Some days I'm all feisty and funny, and some days I'm disheartened and sensitive. This is a disheartened and sensitive day for me, I think.

I was feeling down, until I came to a page of Henry David Thoreau quotes. Then I felt better.

We hear a lot about our "Founding Fathers" and the Enlightenment thinkers. I like to think of them as the skeleton of our country, so calling them the "framers" of our Constitution is apt. Then, I think a lot of our country's guts and soul were provided by the Transcendentalists, like Emerson and Thoreau.

I've forgotten how much I love and admire the Transcendentalists. When human behavior reaches an abyss, I can think of them and remember that humans are capable of greatness, too. Not just great achievements, but great thoughts.

Important things.

But a thought, while I'm here...

Wouldn't it be nice if people said things like, "I think I understand what you mean, but have you thought about [alternate viewpoint]..." when they disagreed with someone?

If reaching a consensus or a mutual resolution was the desired goal of a debate, instead of ramrodding one point of view down the other person's throat?

If it were more important to be together than to be "right?"

I'm not claiming moral superiority here. I'm just calling for peace, love and understanding. There's nothing funny about it, you know. Elvis Costello told me so.

I forgot to mention I got arrested recently. How I wound up in Seattle, I'll never know, but that's beside the point. The point is, be careful who's fake ID you steal, because that person could have warrants.

Wait, maybe the point is NEVER sing Coldplay in public, especially "Yellow."

No, the point is I was mistaken for a 21-year-old, although I am insulted they called me a "hippie girl."

I should punch whoever called me that.

For those of you who did not grow up in the Chicago area, or who were born after the late 1970's, Cuddly Dudley was a fixture on WGN's Ray Rayner Show.

I still remember the song:

"We're off to Cuddly Dudley's house
He's [cute or sweet] as he can be
With his ears of gold and his nose that's cold
He's cuddly as can be!
The [I forget] that he [I forget]
And the jokes that he pokes
Are never aimed at me
But the name that he gives and the way that he is
Is Cuuuuuuddly"

I loved Cuddly Dudley with a white hot passion. They sold Cuddly Dudley stuffed toys. I never got one. I pretended my stuffed collie was Cuddly Dudley, but I knew it was a sham.

Now I have a big gold dog. Go figure.

Anyway, my big gold dog is about as dangerous as Cuddly Dudley, but without the razor-sharp wit and quick rejoinders. We were over at Towel Boy's house the other night; he has a pool in his backyard. Underneath this pool reside several baby rabbits. Moxie removed each of these baby rabbits gently in her mouth, and set them each down in the grass where she could watch them squeak and hop. Unharmed, we returned them to their nest at the end of the evening.

Contrast this with Miss Muffin's approach to wildlife. ÜberGirls and their friends were en route to the back yard when they ran back into the house in a panic: "Daddy! Mr. Über! There's a chipmunk tail on the stepping stones to the backyard!"

ÜberFriend: "There's still some parts attached to the tail."

ÜberElder: "We think it's a chipmunk, but we can't tell for sure."

I went out to look, and sure enough, Muffin had eaten half a chipmunk, and reserved the tail section for later. Lucky for me, she doesn't have opposable thumbs. I probably would've found it in a Tupperware container in the fridge.

I feel a bit bad about this. They're having so much FUN out there! Something so fun can't be BAD, can it? Can it?

I leave it to you to decide.

I don't give a shit anymore.

I had an Oprah-HA moment when I read this last week.

I was wondering why mini-mansions bother me so much. I like pretty things. I like extravagant things. I am not upset or envious if I can't own them myself; I like looking at them. So why would I care if someone built a big Victorian-looking thing where a split-level of little consequence had once stood? (Actually, I still don't know why I care, but now I know what bothers me about them...)

They aren't real. They're an attempt to buy feelings and a life and I just know within those walls are people frustrated and disheartened because they've reached their "dream" and yet they're still not happy.

I know I'm overreaching. That's what I do. But bear with me anyways.

How many "de-clutter" articles and tv shows and products are there on the market? This smacks of people buying stuff to make them happy, then realizing that not only did the stuff not make them happy, but its presence is now crowding them and making them unhappy. We need to wake up, people.

You can try and stage your life by buying props and scenery and costumes and even scripting your speech, but you can't create a life that isn't there. You can hire someone to perfectly decorate your house for Christmas, but if your family barely knows one another, you're not going to be able to fake the togetherness.

I'm not someone who thinks all women need to be stay-at-home moms or anything like that, but if people are pursuing material success at the expense of human relationships, it's just going to result in misery. We are social animals. We need each other. You can work to afford the summer home and the boat and the fishing gear only to find when you get your kids out in the middle of the water, you have nothing to talk about.

I watch that SuperNanny show all the time. It strikes me that the parents who are at their wits' end often have no idea what to do with their children because they don't know their children. If you know your children, you know what to do to really discipline and motivate them. You can't read it in a book. Every kid is different.

I think I'm rambling here. Where was I again? Oh, yes. Buying happiness.

You can't do it.

Also, going to Paris in Vegas is not really going to Paris, and touring Vegas is not the same as traveling the world. Nor does owning an SUV make you sporty.

You have two days to prepare for Sneak Some Zucchini onto Your Neighbor's Porch Day.

Now, some people feel the zucchini is disrespected. It grows like a weed in many places, and overproduces itself to extremes sometimes. Nevertheless, there are many zucchini festivals out there, as this excerpt from the highlighted story illustrates:

...zucchini are dressed in silly little costumes and paraded out into the agricultural halls in front of throngs of giggling fair-goers...

At the annual Vermont State Zucchini Festival held every August in Ludlow, there are zucchini coloring and carving contests, the ‘zucchini model airplane races,’ and the ‘people’s choice awards for the best Mr. and Mrs. Zucchini Head.’ Day two of the festival is dubbed ‘Salute to the Big One Day.’ One more term of disrespect to the long-suffering zucchini.

Why are we so fascinated with huge green squash? Could it be something to do with their shape? Large zucchini have often been associated with the male phallus. Bigger is better is the mantra of mass marketing these days, for both men and (apparently) zucchini.

A zucchini resembles a phallus? I hadn't noticed.

Like a phallus, the larger zucchinis may be more difficult to hide, disguise or otherwise sneak into a place where it isn't invited. Those of you with very large zucchinis will have to be very discreet when depositing your zucchinis onto your neighbors' porches on Wednesday. Good luck.

I have my people working on it.

Why did the salad explode, Mr. Kovacks, why?

The world will never know.

I was going to post an online musing about the new Edna Turnblad doll; specifically, I was wondering if they simpy re-used the heads from the Vinnie Barbarino dolls from the 70's...

And that's how I came across ... him.



[I pause to sigh, and enjoy the pleasant fluttering sensations in my stomach]

He's dreamy. Donnie Osmond-in-purple-socks dreamy. Dirk Benedict-as-Starbuck dreamy. Very nearly Shaun Cassidy-as-a-Hardy Boy dreamy.

I'm floating on air.

[Don't worry, Dilf. It's just a phase.]

My local movie reviewer summed up what I already knew, but what I'm glad somebody put into print, about the "Bratz" movie.

"The girls in the live-action "Bratz" movie look less - what's the right word? - whorish, but the lifestyle their movie is selling is no less disturbing. In an appearance-obsessed culture that's already full of land mines for self-conscious little girls, here is a movie that insists they are only worth as much as the clothes on their backs."

Other reviews, courtesy of Rotten Tomatoes:

"Bad not for its message or values, but for simply being a flat-out awful abortive trainwreck of a disastrous pile of worthless stupid garbage of an utter mess of a movie, even by the low, low standards of Movies Based on Toys."

"Wow, is this movie mind-numblingly vapid and shrill."

"This is why the terrorists hate us."

And I was so sure it would be full of positive values. Huh.

This book oughtta scare the wits back into the people who haven't been paying attention to the Theocrats trying to steal our country and turn it into some Puritan work camp.

Here's what the author thinks, summarized here:

"In Gelernter's telling, this religion consists of two main elements, both of which are rooted in the Bible and a culture of close biblical reading. The first is a secularized version of ancient Jewish Zionism, recast in Christian terms by 17th-century English Puritans who believed that the purpose of their journey into the American wilderness was to build a New Jerusalem—a "City on the Hill." The Puritans were not only convinced that God had sent them on this mission; they maintained that their project, if faithfully executed, would make America a light unto other nations. Those beliefs would eventually lose their original Puritan-Christian shadings and take on a more secular and nationalistic coloring (Manifest Destiny), but they continue to define what Gelernter calls the doctrine of American Zionism.

Great. This again. I'm not so naive that I didn't know people thought this way, but that someone would have the guts to write it down, to cop to it...

Some people like to paint those who fight to keep church and state separate as anti-religious zealots who can't handle seeing Baby Jesus in the manger every year. But the message found in Gelernter's book are far, far more damaging to Christianity, and insulting to every other religion, than anything I've ever heard an atheist say. My sect in particular has a lot to be concerned about from this "Protestant self-congratulation."

Abraham Lincoln himself refused to call Americans a "chosen people," as noted by the book reviewer. As he aptly states:

"In that modesty resides a far-reaching wisdom that recognizes the dangers of declaring a nation—or any other human creation— the fulfillment of divine providence. That way lies idolatry, a worship of false gods that should be at least as offensive to the believer as it is to the one who believes in none."

Amen to that.

We're thinking of you, praying for you, and ready and willing to help.

As usual, not everyone agrees with me, but this has not held up well with age:



Don't miss the odd blond fellow who dances across the screen midway through the video. Sigfried and Roy must've seen this.

She also performs a Flashdance Medley, and this is pretty fun to watch, too.

Viva la spandex glam!

Full Frontal Nudity

This week's edition is not to be taken generally; it is very, very specific. To me. The following items are not unattractive per se, but on me, they frighten small children and woodland creatures.

For instance, the "fishtail" or "mermaid" skirt:



Tight through the hips and thighs, then flaring out to accentuate the size of the hips and thighs. I look like Mae West after she met and devoured Dolly Madison when I wear one. Unsightly. Especially in satin.

Next, we have the tunic:



The cruellest thing about the tunic is it promises to be your friend. "Wear me!" it calls to you cheerfully from the sales rack. "I will cover your butt, hips and thighs! You will love me, and I will shield you from public contempt!" But no. Here's what happens: the tunic widens to match my widest point, turning me into a giant walking hippie box with legs sticking out the bottom. Not for me. Next.

The sleeveless turtleneck:



Some ladies love the sleeveless turtleneck because they have thin arms, but a wrinkly neck or unattractive decolletage. I have chubby arms and a lovely neck and decolletage. Also, it reminds me of high school in the 80's, but that's a personal insight that should no way discourage anyone from wearing it if it fits and flatters her. It just doesn't work for me.

These are but three items among many that I look at and say, "It's cute, but not for me." Join me next week for a more outrageous, entertaining edition of "Don't Wear Wednesday."



I'm sorry I was so boring this week. I'm having a boring week and it's rubbed off on me.