This happens all the time, it's detachable...

I know.  I’m behind on my review of the AMAs.   So I risk looking completely behind the eight ball in this “Next!”  world we live in, or just ignore that it even happened.  But everyone knows I live for an award show.  To be fair, I didn’t watch the whole thing.  I missed the hour between 9 and 10 EST.  Not because of The Walking Dead, but because I’m a grown up now and had to shop for Thanksgiving dinner, lest my guests be treated to an assortment of miss-matched beer,  week old kale, and extra firm tofu...

JLo—I’m disappointed that her first hosting dress of the evening looked like a badminton shuttlecock.  I like my JLo to constantly remind me that she is from the Bronx—which she did—and looking like one long monochromatic highlighter stick.  Like something I’d see in the Naked display at an Urban Decay counter.  Verdict:  I’d still let her do it to me.

5 Seconds of Summer—I admit I don’t know much about these twinks.  I’ve seen them here and there, but I just can’t be bothered to Google them, so if I’m out of line here apologies in advance.  Does Duran Duran know they’ve stolen their music?  I feel like I saw them covering The Kinks or something once too.  Is that their shtick?  Verdict:  None of them could do it to me.  In fact, I’m not sure I’m legally allowed to imply it.

Demi Lovato—I kind of hate girl power, independent woman anthem songs.   They are usually contrived and corny, and so is the smoky eye and red lip combo that usually accompanies them.  But Demi has her thigh and hot pants game together, even if she doesn’t know the words to the hardest Alanis Morrisette song every white girl does devil horn fingers to.   Verdict:  If she’s over 21 and “in a good place”, I’d prolly do it to her.

Meghan Trainor—I was ready for her 15 minutes to be over last year.   Only because her stuff was all novelty, and she always looked so terrified, and because she couldn’t walk in heels.  So good for her and her new block heel platforms and new found confidence.  And for her new boyfriend or whatever.  My question is, why would a woman made famous for trying to bring booty back (P.S. it already was) wear her Spanx backwards on national television?  Verdict:  Good for you for still dressing yourself in this point in your career.  Keep it grounded.

That eunuch from Pentatonix—Disconcerting. AND everything!!!!  Verdict:  I would definitely wear pajama pants and eat cupcakes with him.

Skrillex—Your new record sounds like you pulled a couple of records from Norman Cook’s bins.  No one believes you.  Verdict:  Why?

Justin Bieber—I’m comfortable enough with myself to admit that I don’t roll my eyes at or hate Justin Bieber.  I’d tried to decide a few years ago if he was going to go full douche and fade away when he started growing facial hair, or if he was going to transition into an everyman’s musical hard-on like Justin Timberlake.   Since he still isn’t growing facial hair yet, I’m not convinced.  I’m not really sure the direction he’s going.  What I do know is that he had an entire audience waving giant pink glowing dildos.  Some of them more enthusiastically than others… And until he pulled a Flashdance on one of Rhianna’s old sets, he was actually singing—which is more than we can say for some.  Verdict:  I would not let Justin Bieber do it to me.  But I would probably entertain an awkward conversation where he pursed his lips a lot and tried to sound mature while he stole glances at my boobs.  And I would know he was looking at my butt when I got up to go to the bathroom.  But then I would leave and he wouldn’t even walk me to my car, so I would leave him sitting at the bar while he asked the bartender how much everything cost.

Finally, it’s no wonder I found this little guy at some point during the viewing.  A general penis theme sort of ruled the night.  I think I wrote something a while back about a Dorito dusted dick…And there it is.

You’re welcome.

The Weekly Walk With Me

 Four things that gave me life this week...

4.  I don't care about cars.  What kind you drive, how much it cost, how it corners--I don't even know what that means...  But I do love to drive.  And I will drive a car until the axle just breaks in half and the wheels fall off.  For the first time in 10 years, I've put myself in a new car.  So now where to?  I will entertain all suggestions here, because I'll be driving this car till I'm 50.

3.  The CMAs.  I know, I know.  Everyone shit their pants over Chris Stapleton and Justin Timberlake. I didn't know these two knew each other, which is awkward since they are both my boyfriends, but that was the only surprising thing about their performance for me. What I really lived for was all the preening and block heels and tight pants.  And I'm talking about the men, not Reba McEntire.  The only thing more All- American homoerotic than today's country music industry (and the word industry has never been more appropriate) is professional football.  The only place I've seen better chain wallet and hanky game is twink night at a daddy bar. If Keith Urban weren't already a lesbian track coach, I'd say he'd be a perfect match for Kenny Chesney's power bottom. Go get 'em boys!

2.  Some things happened on Twitter this week that made me feel like it's OK to just lay down and die now.  My love for Anne Murray is no secret.  I carried her around with me in my portable cassette player/turntable every day, every hour, every minute for a good portion of my early childhood.  And this week ANNE MURRAY RETWEETED ME!  This means Anne Murray knows, or knew for at least a second, that I exist.  And Anne, if you're reading this, please know  I only put Barbara Mandrell in that portable turntable a handful of times.  I saw right through all that Aquanet and her skanky sisters.  It's you, Anne.  It's always been you.
AND Siedah Garrett followed me. I mean.  I. can't. even.  My work here is done...

1.  Willie Anne Wright.  Just hours after I made a cognitive decision to go full on into midlife crisis mode before even turning 40, I attended a gallery opening showing Willie Anne Wright's Direct Positive project for the first time. What's amazing about this artist is that she is 90.  This is obviously not her first show, but the first time this particular work has been shown. These photos were taken in the late seventies--when she was in her 50s.  Just a few years prior to this she discovered pinhole photography, and her medium would change forever, or at least for the next 40-ish years. These and her other photographs are some of the most fascinating images I've ever seen.  Her work skews dark, but she is joyful, and chic, and gracious.   And I'm winded and pissed at 38.  I could learn a lot from Willie Anne.

What an Inheritance, The Salt & The Kleenex...

I spent half an hour in the shower this morning like it was Saturday and I had nowhere to be.  I layered my lipstick with a Something Corporate song in my head like I was 23 and it was Friday night, not Friday morning.  I thought about one day last week when I had Boo-berry cereal for breakfast and listened to pre- 20/20 Experience J.T.

I watched the leaves fall to the highway on my morning commute and thought about where I could drive to if I should happen to miss my exit.  I judged a Sara Bareilles song harshly.  And then realized it was written for a Broadway musical, so I took it back.

I thought about the kid in the mailroom who doesn’t call me ma’am and winks at me in the hallway.  And all the people in denial about 40 being the beginning of midlife.  And how both of my grandmothers were dead in their sixties before I’d gotten through high school.  Both grandfathers dead before I was even born.   Given that genetic math, I’m actually running about five years behind.  I am literally in the middle of my life.

I realized I’ve always surrounded myself with older people, and never thought about age—young or old—until it started thinking about me.  I tried to put my finger on the exact moment a girl becomes a woman.  And what makes a woman a lady.  And how I never call men, men.  Always guys.

I thought about how much time I have left.  How Elton John pulled Leon Russell out of nowhere 30 years after becoming an almost.

And then I stepped out of the car with my scarf and my Starbucks.  I walked into the office and winked back.  Shopped for nauseatingly expensive sunglasses.  Made an appointment for bangs.  And decided to pull the trigger on my midlife crisis.

If You Catch Me at the Border I Got Visas In My Name...

There is a reason the traditional first anniversary gift is paper.  Something fragile--easily torn.  Something that cuts.  Something misplaced among the piles.  Something some would argue is becoming obsolete, or only made to look pretty, as a novelty.

Some paper is glossy and shiny-all surface.  You would have to shift it and look at just the right angle to really see it. Shuffle it around to make it look like you’re doing something.

Some is crafted and authentic.  You notice the weight of it.  How easily the ink glides over it.

Some is lined and ruled.

Some is soft enough to cry into.

Some is used as currency.

Some used to be something else entirely.

And some is made from elephant shit.

But some you scrawl your most personal thoughts on.  To lock away in a file cabinet, or stow in a shoe box.  And it knows something about you that is as personal as your handwriting.  To know a person by the curve of their Ys and the strong lines of their Ts.

You learn to fold your 5’8” frame like origami, to accommodate and compromise.  

You learn that it is a common misconception that ink is permanent.  That it is actually graphite that will not fade—though it can be erased.  And smudged into shadow. And written over.  And erased again.

You learn to work page by page, waste sheet after sheet, to rewrite and refold and rebind. And sometimes it gets balled up and thrown into the fire. 

But getting caught it the wind makes it litter, so you keep it stationary.

The Weekly Walk With Me

Four Things I Discovered This Week

1.  Mule Hell Trading Company.  Do yourself a favor and buy at least one thing from this shop.  The olive oil soaps make me happy.  The spearmint with kelp and coffee beans is my new favorite.  I'll be honest, this particular bar is borderline painful but it's awesome for exfoliating areas where you'd want to be extra careful with a spoonful of salt scrub--cuz, you know...


2.  Something new to do with apple cider.  I like cider, it's a fall staple, blah blah.  I use it to cook and drink and such.  But cold or hot,  it can be on the bland side.  I'm sure I'm not the first to add alcohol, but this weekend I added lemon juice for a little bite, and Fireball for a little kick. The next person who takes a seat at my fire pit is getting a mug of this, so prepare yourself.  It was perfect scary movies with the lights out giant mug drinking.

3.  Scary movies I missed the first time around.  First was Dark Places, which wasn't really scary but a dark suspense situation.  And dark it was.  Literally.  They could've spent less money on Charlize Theron and more money on lighting.  I felt like I could've rented this on audio book at a Cracker Barrel and took a road trip.  At midnight.  It would've had the same effect. There was about 15 minutes of the entire movie that I could actually see.  And that's not just because I'm old lady status.
Then there was It Follows.  I'm late on this, it's been around for a while, but I didn't think I'd be interested.  It was creepy and awkward and terrifying, mostly because of the score.  It was timeless in a way that you think you can tell that it's supposed to be set in a certain time, but it's not really set in any particular time. It was the small details that got me.  Kind of brilliant.

4.  I want someone to be happy for once.  And it's Adele.  Everyone lost their minds this week when Adele's new single was released.  I can't place where, but I'm sure I saw her perform "Hello" before her hiatus.  Anyway, I love Adele just as much as anyone.  She can stomp out time in a Chanel heel like nobody's business. I kind of preferred her when she chain smoked in ratty cardigans and self cut bangs, but I'm still paying attention. Anyway, you will rarely hear me say this but I'm kind of over that sad, pining, one that got away schtick.  There are certain artists that should always be miserable. Like I hate that Ray LaMontagne is doing this happy hippy thing now.  He should always be running off to a cabin in the woods, licking divorce wounds.  Trent Reznor should always be just a little twisted pissed.  But Adele should be transitioning to happy by now.  Or at least optimistic about the prospect of getting the one that got away back.  We get it Adele, a past relationship didn't work, and you have the over-singing in fall leaves black and white sads about it.  But you have a new-ish baby, and a partner/boyfriend/husband? thing going on now.  And obviously a gaggle of gays keeping you contoured and strobed within an inch of your life.  Why the long face--still?  So perk up buttercup, you're killin my buzz.

The Weekly Walk With Me

It's been a while since we took this stroll together...

Seven Things I've been Up To.  In No Particular Order.

1. I've met my soul mate.  OK, maybe I shouldn't go that far; but I met a friend who out of the blue one day proclaimed that fajitas are obnoxious.  Which is something I have always said!  No one ever understands when I say this but I hate, hate, hate a fajita.  First of all, they are loud for no reason and cause too much of a scene.  And if one is walked past your table your hair will smell like green pepper smoke for the rest of the day/night.  God forbid you are wearing anything knit when this happens, it will never come out of your clothes and even your boobs will smell like grilled meat and onions--which maybe for some people is kinda hot.  But then after all of this, you still have to put them together.  I don't want to put my own food together in a restaurant.  That's why I'm in a restaurant.

2. I also met a boy with a Rush tattoo.  And for some reason this did not stop me from talking to him.

3. I officially hate X Ambassadors.  Especially that commercial song.

4. We almost lost this face.  Again.

A couple of Saturdays ago I woke up to a pretty gross mess. Seven hours at the emergency vet to be told that it was "most likely cancer".  So the following Monday I learned what a doggy oncologist and ultrasound is all about. Turns out it was just a VERY expensive, messy,  but manageable infection.   I'm pretty sure Bella is actually a cat, because she's on her eighth life.

5. The Knick.  It has everything: rampant cocaine use, prostitutes, corruption, olden times inter-racial relationships, and yummy Clive Owen.  Only he's not really that yummy here because he's an asshole drug addict who never wears socks with boots.  Gross.  Oh, and there's medical stuff that happens too.

6. My current office listening is straight out of  the Rockabye Baby library and I am absolutely not ashamed.  Right now it's The Smiths, but I'm considering having a go at Nine Inch Nails.  It's perfect background noise for times that get serious enough to put glasses on.  I almost bought Jay Z on vinyl at one of my favorite record stores, but I don't think I'd ever listen at home.  Unless a stork left a baby on my doorstep.

7. I found a white eyebrow hair this morning.  What. The. Fuck.  I didn't pluck it out specifically so I could share it with all of you.  But it's not there now, so I guess nature took its course and let the old, dead, blaring hint that I'm not getting any younger just fall out of my face.

#FBF

Let’s flash all the way back last Thursday, when the Governor had declared a state of emergency amid already flooded regions south and west, and ahead of Hurricane Joaquin.  I’m usually not a panicker—I’ve survived a flood myself.  And a three week power outage in August.  Every store within 20 miles sold out of ice.  So I bought beer instead and put it in a bathtub full of cold water.  (Spoiler alert: It turned into a party.) But last Thursday my fridge was already starting to remind me of my college days, so just in case, I made the mistake of making a “quick” trip to the grocery store.  

The show started in the parking lot-nowhere to park-a man with a hood, head down, running for his life with a cart overflowing with cases of soda, lost his footing and had a yard sale all over the pavement.  I feel like I should mention here that it wasn’t even raining yet.  So obviously inside was absolute madness.  It was like witnessing the annual Barney’s sale, guy with less $80 cashmere and more off brand cereal.   There was a feeble old lady muddling through in one of those scooter/cart hybrids.  She was alone, and struggling to get out of it to get her hands on something canned.  I thought hard about it, but my famous instant instinct kicked in and something told me not to help her.  So I turned back the other way, only to make eye contact with a small, smiley Jew (who, going forward will be referred to as the Rabbi) in the same aisle.  I assume he saw the whole thing.  Just as I passed him he turned in the same direction and followed so close behind me I could actually feel him.  What could the universe possibly be trying to tell me with this?  That I should be thinking of how I can be a more effectual human being in this time of crisis?  Probably.  My guilty conscious usually wins.

So about 10 minutes and 3 collisions later I ran into Grandma Moses in the scooter again.  So I thought, oh here’s my shot at redemption.  Mostly I just needed her out of my way.  Just as I started toward her another lady walks up and hands Grandma what she had been trying to reach.  The Good Samaritan gave her a nod, and walked away.  The old woman stared at what she had in her hand and let it sink in.  Then she started screaming.—THIS IS THE WRONG ONE!! YOU GAVE ME THE WRONG THING!!  THIS IS…

My instant instinct usually wins.

 

Finally at the register, I left my case of water in the cart.  Because I’m lazy.  And can’t lift a cotton ball by myself.  And because the counter had a break in it for the cashier to use the scanner gun thing without anyone moving a muscle.  While I was being rung up I listened to the mentally challenged bagboy give an updated weather report to everyone who walked by him.  I watched his googly eyes roll every which way, and independently of each other.   I realized the miniature cashier with horrible glasses and two wrist braces did not see the water, so I told her I had it. Instead of using the resources she had right there in front of her.  She walked all the way around the counter, hoisted the water out of the cart with her 23 pound body, and schlepped  it all the way back around to her side of the register.  And who should walk up behind me while I stood doing nothing?  The. Fucking. Rabbi.  With his smiley face and his environmentally friendly reusable tote.  Ugh!!  It is official.  I will not be resurrected at End of Days.

 

I risked life and limb, and my eternal soul.  And I walked out with a 12 pack of Coke, sesame seed buns (?), 3 frozen pizzas, bananas, 2 cans of Spaghettios, and a can of store brand peanuts.   If I can’t take care of my family during a weather emergency, I don’t know who can… But I did get that case of bottled water.  Which currently sits unopened on the desk in the guest room.