Having a Perez Hilton Moment

Sisterlympics: The Games We Played

Since I've been blabbing so much about Julia's recent hitchin' festivities, I gave Matthew and her their own blog label.

How I thought this would go unchallenged by my other sister Anna, is beyond me. Not that she's starving for the spotlight.

So Anna, this post is just for you.

My parents got it on 28 years ago and eventually produced a big-mouthed blonde blessing named Anna. Now while she did ruin my only-child status, she was pretty cool for a brat. She was my first BFF. And as BFFs do, we loved playing together, and we came up with some pretty sweet games.

Péoplé: Not "people." Péoplé. Péoplé was essentially Barbies, but with other toys included - Care Bears, Breyer horses, She-Ra, My Little Ponies...One (fuzzy blue) pony in particular was Wind Whistler. Anna would make this annoying wind-whistling sound whenever that damn horse did anything, and she got this far-off look in her eyes when she would fly it around the room.

What a weirdo. To get back at her, I cut off one of her Barbies' hair. I told her it would look really good. It didn't. From that point forward, the ugly short-hair Barbie was the bitch Barbie.

Softball: I somehow always talked Anna into pitching. (Sucka!) And I somehow always hit her with the ball. And I somehow always got blamed. WTF? We didn't play a lot of softball.

Quitters: My parents foolishly allowed us to watch the movie "Critters" as children. This wasn't a foolish decision because of nightmares or anything wussy like that. It was foolish because we got super-into scaring the crap out of one another at a really young age. During games of Quitters, we would turn all the lights off and pretend we were being attacked by these little creatures from the movie.

Scare the Crap Out of Your Sister: This game involved hiding in your sister's room until she was in bed, and then...scaring the crap out of her. This was an awesome game. I was definitely the overall winner of this game.

Pick What You Want: Open a catalog and pick one item from each page, including color. Major penalty for picking the same thing someone else picked.

Pick Who You Are: Watch a TV show and pick who you are. For example, from Kids Incorporated, I was Renee, and Anna was Stacy. That's right, Anna picked Fergie, and I picked buck-toothed Renee.



These days the game we play most is phone tag. Love you, sister.

Mawwiage.

Julia and Matthew went and got hitched. Much to my chagrin, Matt's last name does not happen to be Goolia. Ah well.

The wedding kicked ass, and congratulations to the new Mr. and Mrs. But this is my blog, so it's all about me on these here internets.

So now I'd like to go over a few things I learned about myself during my weekend in Statesboro, Georgia:

• Evidently my skill as an orator is purely subjective. It depends solely on the preceding speaker, and whether or not the topic happens to be, "Disney movies really get me hot."
• I do have self-control. When faced with a potentially disastrous opportunity like open access to the bride's Facebook account on her wedding day, as she's occupied with beauty rituals, I can resist any urge to update her status with "Julia is on a bus to Mexico," or "Julia is still so wasted." I can opt instead for "Julia is getting married today!" No, I don't regret that blown chance at all.
• I am officially the fierce single sister. No, really, someone I had never met before knew this about me. Holla!
• I am a dance machine, and it clearly runs in the family. My niece and nephew? Dude, they can breakdance at two years old. My mother and I might have gotten into a booty-dropping contest. And I definitely got a "whoa, a little too much" at one point. 
• I am positive that I ate something as a child that stunted my growth. My guesses? The McDonald's fish sandwiches or the tri-flavor popcorn from a tin. I've always been the family shrimp, but the height gap keeps expanding. I look like I stumbled out of Munchkin Land in most of the wedding photos. 
• Beer and cake are a classy combination, and I'm classy chick for loving the hell out of it.
• Nope, still can't pull off a strapless dress. IBTC, FTW.
• I am not a cougar. I'm a puma.
• I still don't want a wedding.

Dashboard Processional

I was proud of Ramona when she sliced and diced the pigeon a couple of months ago. She’s a tough cookie, just like her mom (me, for anyone not fluent in Allison). She don’t take no sass from nobody. But evidently she heard me bragging, and she got a little too big for her britches.

Ramona tangled with a Tundra last week. 

She lost. This is what Ramona looks like, by the way:

This is what Ramona would look like were she human:

She couldn’t possibly look like anyone but Maxine from the Hallmark cards, except she would definitely be chain-smoking Virginia Slims. When I purchased Ramona, she smelled like the inside of a smoking room in a Motel 6 in Tennessee. She is now channeling Frankenstein...with all the replacement parts, not much of her is even a Subaru at this point. What seemed like a good deal in the beginning, I have paid for twice over the span of nine months. L-E-M-O-N. At least she has low miles at 150,000. Oh wait, I forgot. The odometer was rolled back. That’s actually 250,000.

Rick, my mechanic, called me at work Wednesday. We’re on a hug-hello, life-story basis at this point. After two days of trying to get the jammed hood open after Ramona’s brawl, they discovered that the pouring smoke (no big deal, right?) was just a radiator hose that needed replacing...25 bucks. Sweet.

Oh, and also another 400 for the body work so my hood would stay shut. He wouldn't go for my bungee cord idea. Hey, my undercarriage is being held up with dental floss. No lie.

See, I have a history of automotive woes.

Before Ramona was the Bunny Slayer.

Bunny Slayer was affectionately named after she chased down and ran over the biggest rabbit I have ever seen, in the middle of the Arizona desert. She steered directly for Bugs and thunkthunk. I lost all control over her. She had blood lust - what can I say?

Bunny Slayer’s rear windows only stayed up due to the fact that I had opened the door panels and shoved a year’s subscription’s worth of Lucky magazines inside. The windows still slipped down a bit, so I jammed ink pens and sticks into the rubber pieces to help hold them up.

I was towing Bunny Slayer once (I think on one of the Georgia to Texas moves) and didn’t realize I had to tow her with all four wheels off the ground. All these truck drivers kept honking and waving. I gave a few the one-finger wave. “I’m going as fast as I can, assholes!” When I got to Texas, Bunny Slayer was literally hanging off of the tow bed by one chain. Doh. I tried to drive her off, transmission gone.

Then I moved her to New Jersey. I came out of my Newark apartment one day, walked to my (always parallel) parking spot, to find her...not there. Hmmm. I called the police, who told me she had been stolen but was found the night before. Two days of back-and-forth later, turned out my dumb ass parked in front of a driveway and got towed.

Before Bunny Slayer, there was the Blueberry. 

Blueberry was involved in the world’s first and only drive-by rafting. I was driving with a friend in Portland (likely to a bar, luckily not from one) when everything suddenly went orange and BOOM. I pulled off to the right shoulder. My left side mirror was gone and my hood was dented. I looked around and saw a large orange inflatable raft on the left shoulder. A car had pulled off to the left ahead, and someone was running to pick up the raft. I yelled at him to pull to the right shoulder as my friend got his license plate. He collected his lethal weapon raft...and sped off. When I called the police and told them I had been involved in a hit-and-run incident with an inflatable watercraft, they told me to hold before they said there was nothing they could do. I wonder if they were laughing at me when I was on hold...

My first very-own car was Mervo:

Mervo was a late-80s model Ford wagon purchased for $800 from this woman:

My sweet friend Heather told me it wasn’t so bad...that it looked like a cross between a Mercedes and a Volvo. Thus, Mervo. Mervo broke down mucho.

I really think public transportation is the right option for me.

Brain Dump

A friend of mine used the term "brain dump" in an email today. I thought this would be an appropriate title, as my brain is 'bout to take a dump in this post. I keep a running list of blog ideas in my BlackBerry notes, and I plan to cover a few of them now. I will hold off on "sesame street techno pants'ed" and "short shorts lotion no shower." Mostly because I have no fucking clue what either of those mean. Also because I think each of those might be awesome enough to need its own entire post.

Let's get this show on the road.

I moved again. For anyone keeping track, that makes seven moves in the last two years - three of those in the last six months. After all that moving, I think I've become quite the interior designer. Let me give you a little tour of my new place.

I went for the minimalist look in the living room. Notice the placement of the quilt-wrapped flat screen - right near the cable jack, should I ever decide to pay for cable. And rain boots right by the door are a functional addition to any home.

Now for the study. I haven't decided exactly how to use the study, so right now it's my art studio, home office and gym. What a useful room!

And here's where the magic happens, bitches. Notice the placement of the air mattress. That's some good feng shui.

Because I know you are wondering, yes, my design services are available to any interested parties.

Whatever, living alone is the best! I spent the weekend unbathed and singing to my iTunes in the living room. Another special treat is having my kitchen back. My kitchen. Nobody else's weird-ass food (mini cocktail weenies in a jar, beans, nasty Chili's leftovers) taking up space in my grill.  Now it's only my weird food. You see...

I went sugar-free (or at least really, really low sugar).

So these diet staples...

...have been replaced with this crap.

If you look closely, you'll see hummus, tofu, mozzarella, green tea, soy milk, fruits and vegetables. In the freezer I have gluten-free pizza and vegan chicken nuggets. Why, you ask? I had eight photos of desserts in my BlackBerry. Candy breakfasts are no joke with me - they're a real thing. If I'm not careful, I'll end up with the beetis.

Plus I jump at any chance to be a culinary pain in the ass. I was a vegetarian for nearly six years. My diet consisted of grilled cheese sandwiches and Hostess cakes.

So I'm definitely planning a picnic dinner party like Grace Adler. Put down the organic goat brie cheese and return to the picnic area!

Since I have all this space, I've decided it's time to get a hobby. Do you even know how hard it is to find a Hobby Lobby around here? How can I be expected to choose a hobby with the Lobby? After browsing the aisles, I settled on drawing. Wah waaaah. Yeah, I know, boring, shut it. If the drawing doesn't pan out, I'll move on to my second and third choices: sword swallowing and bee charming.

So I guess my new sense of calm has somehow spilled over into my workplace. At our all-company meeting last week, I was awarded this:

Something about being a raving fan, yada yada yada. I got a scarlet letter. WTF. It is funny how this stupid little wooden R has washed a strange contentment over my professional life and alleviated the restlessness. Such a small recognition had such a pacifying, sedating effect. I'm fairly certain it's The Man trying to hold me back. Like drugs, those crimson wooden letters. They turn you into a lemming, and the next thing you know it's 30 years down the road. I ought to burn it, that evil voodoo witch letter.

But evidently, it also stands for "Retiree Bait." Check out my dating matches this week. No lie.

Um. I don't remember ever checking "Santa Claus" as my preferred body type. I can just imagine the third dude saying, "I've got a present for you, little girl. Just come sit in my lap." 

Brain elimination complete.

Happy Hands Club

Let's discuss my seemingly endless talent some more.

You probably already know that I'm an expert at The Sprinkler. However, you probably don't know the story of how I honed those mad skills.

Like most little girls, I took dance lessons. I started with ballet, then added tap classes, and eventually I progressed to...jazz. We spent a couple of hours in a second-floor mirrored studio with no air conditioning, practicing to craptastic 70s piano tunes on Mrs. Klagges' busted old record player.

I would typically be wearing something very similar to exactly like this, stirrups and all:

I can assure you, however, that I never did a standing split inside a tree trunk while I was wearing said get-up.

The shoes weren't much better. These are jazz shoes:

And these are tap shoes:

But around age 10, we graduated to high-heeled tap shoes. Which was soooo bad ass. Also, that's the reason I can totally walk so sexy-like in heels now.

Really the best thing about dance class was the location of the dance studio. It was right next door to an old-school candy store. Because I was blessed with my darling little sister, I would "get" to wait around for an hour before my class. Which basically meant that I spent an hour stuffing my face with Sour Patch Kids, Fireballs, Tootsie Rolls, Candy Cigarettes, and anything else that cost less than a dime.

All this tough practice led up to the annual recital, which was, of course, a major deal in Culpeper. It was always held in the high school auditorium (no need to specify, just one in the entire county at the time), which was super exciting for a fifth grader in a unitard and braces.

We wore makeup and itchy sparkly outfits with tutus and chokers:

Mrs. Klagges picked all the music. And let me tell you, it was almost never fair. For example, in 1989, my sister's class danced to this:



We danced to this:



But even though we got screwed with such a lame song, I got a solo. I got to arabesque (or something) myself all over the center stage. I was such a total prima ballerina, bitches.

After the show, my entire family informed me that I had some weird epileptic flutter-finger hands thing going on. Sure enough, upon inspection of the video footage, I took Mrs. Klagges' "soft ballet hands" instructions about 17 steps too far. I don't know what was going on, but those things were twirling and whirling like they were about to detach and take off. It was like I had a baton...but not.

So I quit dance classes after that. Stupid uncontrollably flailing hands.

Take Your Kids to Earth Day: The Musical

Today was both Earth Day and Take Your Kids to Work Day. A friend of mine had the idea that there simply must be a blog topic here.

There is. Kind of. Stay with me.

Back in the late '80s, I was a student at St. Luke's Lutheran School. I think I "graduated" from sixth grade with nine other kids, we wore knee-length dresses and attended chapel every Friday, and when I got busted for cheating on one little spelling quiz during the last week of my last year there, I truly thought (and kind of hoped) I was going to be brutally beaten and then assassinated by a firing squad. When I finally set foot in the public school cafeteria wearing red hairbows in my pigtails in seventh grade, "You down with O.P.P?" being shouted by some 13-year-old was truly music to my ears.

Anyway, back at St. Luke's, we were really into musicals. Not just any musicals, of course. One particular musical that comes to mind was called, "It's Cool in the Furnace."

Here's a sample. (This isn't my school, by the way, but this is pretty much identical to us 20-some years ago.)



Now, I don't know why, but I somehow ended up with solos or lead parts in most of these things. Maybe it was because I ooze natural talent. Maybe it was because my mom was a kindergarten teacher at the school. Whatever. In the above musical, I sang a nasally solo about dreams...in a drop-waist diagonal-striped dress with Keds, of course.

In one production, "Androcles and the Lion," I was the rhyme-dropping lion.

One of the productions was some kind of Earth Day thing. We were actually pretty ahead of the times, us St. Luke's Crusaders (uh-huh), considering the holiday has only been around for 40 years now. I won't even go into the countless hours I spent outside with my classmates in the cold, crushing aluminum cans into little discs.

The part I landed in the Earth Day musical was Susie Soda Pop Bottle. Out of curiosity, I looked it up. It seems that "Susie Soda Pop Bottle is a 1950s rock 'n roll girl who loves to dance. She has a very bubbly personality." Well see, here was the thing about that.

Here was what I was wearing:

(Except I said "Soda Pop," of course.)

...plus a dash of...

Yes, I was a giant 10-year-old cheerleading, singing plastic bottle. I didn't want to come out of the bathroom. Once I was coaxed out of hiding, I was far from "bubbly."

So there you go, Grant, that's the best I can do tying kids and Earth Day.