The silicon chip inside her head got switched to overload

So I started my week with an e-mail from the proofreader I hired to help me clean up my little author's manuscript before I go in and embellish it. "Not worth the money," she wrote. And I don't blame her. It's really, really bad and I wanted to quit the project myself, but I can't let people down. Sigh. Anybody know any grammarians/editors willing to take on a very challenging document? (UPDATE: Found somebody. Thanks for all the inquiries!)

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"I was really desperate for some shampoo..." I said to Anna, my stylist. She interrupted me with, "Never start a sentence that way." This particular visit was a milestone, as we were using Pravana's brand-new line of permanent pink. I've been waiting for someone to invent permanent unnatural color for years now. I loved my Manic Panic for over 20 years, but I was tired of the fading and having to reapply it every couple of weeks. I was also tired of having to put a dark towel on top of my pillow for the first few nights and having my tub and fingers stained whatever color I was into at the moment.

Worst case story: I chose a color of Manic Panic called "Deadly Nightshade" to match my bridesmaid's dresses and had it applied three days before my wedding. The day before my wedding, I had a French manicure. The next morning, I washed my hair and my nails were stained pink and dark pink. As it was fairly even, I didn't bother taking it off.

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I just purged my closet. My tiny, tiny closet. I know I dissed SATC in an earlier post, but I, like Carrie, would marry for a walk-in closet alone if I weren't already married. I pulled things out and made the three standard piles: Out-of-season jackets/tops, out-of-season skirts/bottoms and too small/out of style. The first two piles were put in trash bags and taken to the attic. The third pile, the "donate" pile, had a third adjective added to it. "Age inappropriate."

What a drag it is getting old.

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My mama found the famous "Jill screaming in the toybox" pic!

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Mr. Sweetypants is, as I write this, flying from New York to Dusseldorf. The cheapest flight he could find (his company makes him book his own flights) was on LTU Airlines. He'd never heard of this airline and looked them up last night. They are, apparently, the airline of the former East Germany and are not internationally renowned for their on-flight service or friendliness.

He left a message for me just before he boarded to tell me he'd seen the flight crew, dressed in their tight black pants and shirts. He said they looked like members of Kraftwerk. All I could conjure in my mind was Mike Myers as Dieter (Steve didn't live in this country in the early 90s). So I'm imagining the flight crew becoming bored of the passengers and their silly requests, proclaiming, "Now is the time on LTU Airlines ven ve danse!"

And this is how my blog looks in a German browser. Be sure to check out the “Benachrichtigen Sie Blogger uber” on the top link.


Touch my monkey, y'all!

Culture clash

My mama and aunt were in Raleigh for a conference and I was able to have dinner with them this evening. They'd spent the afternoon at the upscale shopping center and were raving about it. I told them that the center hosts live beach music on Thursdays, complete with dance lessons, and on said nights it's nearly impossible to find a place to park.

"You should take Steve," one remarked, as we are from the home of beach music.

"Does Steve shag?" asked the other.

And it took every ounce of my Southern soul to keep a straight face. My husband, you see, is English... (cue Austin Powers music)

So now that I've got money coming in again

I went on a ridiculous online shopping spree last night. I can't remember the last time I went to the mall; the walk and the other shoppers wear me out. I used to go to NYC once a year to shop at Trash & Vaudeville, but I'm old, I'm married, I don't go to clubs, and I really don't think the government workers and corporate types in downtown Raleigh were ever that impressed with the show I used to put on in my cooler-than-thou days.

One of my main missions was to find a pair of black gladiator sandals, as that's what all of us ewes are supposed to wear this summer. I did a million searches and, of all the shoes I looked at, I thought these were the cutest. There was absolutely no way I would purchase them as I have principles. Even sent an e-mail link about my refusal to purchase them to my friends, with the subject line "The power of branding works both ways."

My girl Laura e-mailed me back: "Sooo.... Olsen twins are tolerable. Paris Hilton is a ho. Yes?"

The girl has a mind like a steel trap, dammit. Four years ago, when I first got reading glasses before my downward optical spiral into "Put 'em on and keep 'em on" (my opthalmologist actually said that), I bought a pair that just happened to be from the Mary Kate & Ashley line.

But, yes!

Hi! My name is (Rx N @ x mg)

Every 30 days, I stop by my neighborhood pharmacy to pick up the month's scrips, one of which is a very low dose of a drug used to treat generalized anxiety disorder.

Without fail, as I step up to the counter, the pharmacy technician softens her face into one of familial concern, lowers the decibel level of her speaking voice, and gently greets me with, "Hello, Ms. Frink. How ARE you today? You doing okay?"

She's not being insincere or patronizing at all. She only knows me for the prescriptions I take, so for all she knows, I could be a housebound, nervous wreck constantly on the brink of a breakdown and trip across town for a few days. And, truth be told, I kinda like being treated so delicately for a few minutes, as I usually stop by the drugstore on my way home from work.

I do wonder, though, if she greets other regular customers based on what drugs they're taking for manageable, nonlife-threatening conditions...

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Hello, (Flomax): You're in strong form today.

Hello, (blood sugar tester): How's life? Sweet!

Hello, (estrogen replacement patch): You cool?

Hello, (Cialis): How's your wife? Give her my best.

Your Bluetooth negates your defense

If you're wearing one while doing anything other than driving, you are, in fact, a douchebag. Sorry. I know you think you're cutting edge, but you're a douchebag.

I work downtown and take a lot of breaks throughout the day, which I spend outside. I've been doing this in the same area for over a decade and have witnessed countless (there but for the grace of God go I) raving lunatics conducting animated conversations with themselves. These observations make great fodder for stories I tell my co-workers; "I was outside minding my own business and..."

Unfortunately, with the advent of these insipid wireless devices, I have to look harder at people talking to themselves before being able to judge between bat-shite and Bluetooth.

So, today I was outside minding my own business when a small, bald woman wearing a wife-beater and baggy shorts was walking down the sidewalk in my direction talking loudly. It took me several sneaking glances to determine that she was not wearing an uber-Star-Trek-fan-dorky device in her ear and speaking to a second party.

Nope. She was performing a spoken-word piece for an audience only she could see. I caught the following as she passed:

"I'm a Virgo. I believe in peace. People using dirty needles. Don't need no dope. The soul is like a hot dog."

I'm not about to pass judgment. She may be the next messiah for all I know.

14 dog years of wedded bliss

Steve's in Edmonton, Canada, riding around on a fire truck and doing science. I went out with my happy hour buddies for our standard Tuesday night Board Meeting. So we both had wonderful days on our anniversary.

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Two years ago today:

* Steve and I stood together in front of 40 friends and family members in a tiny historic chapel I chose because it looked like the church in Rocky Horror.

* My daddy, after walking me down the aisle, lifted my veil, kissed my cheek, then put the veil back down. The video shows me whispering, "Daddy, Daddy, put the veil back up." The video also shows me taking my place at the altar, making eye contact with my friend who does my hair, then furiously brushing down with my free hand the bangs that had been left standing straight up after the veil incident.

* I professed my undying affection through the lyrics of Journey.

* My sister made me cry.

* Steve's groomsperson made me and my sister cry even harder by reading Cure lyrics during her testimonial.

* I freaked out and handed off my bouquet before I was supposed to. Not to my best woman/sister, but to my bridesperson Greg, who shrugged, sniffed the flowers cutely, and held them until I walked out.

* I couldn't get the ring on Steve's finger, and as I struggled, the officiant said, "It is for keeps." That line killed.

* At the reception, held at my favorite rocker dive bar, Steve and I slow danced together for the first time to the song I always dreamed of dancing to at my wedding reception. And we laughed the whole time.

* Rexy signed my marriage certificate.

* Between the reception and the after-party, my friend Ray brought me back to the house to change. "Honey," I told him, "I know you've never undressed a girl, but I need you to help me get out of this dress." He unhooked and unzipped me and I closed the door to modestly change into a tee shirt and shorts for the party. I came out and couldn't find him. "Ray? Ray?" Ray had high-tailed it out to the store to get things for the after-party at his and Rex's house. He didn't realize he was supposed to take me with him. I started calling my friends and my new husband (who'd gone back to his hotel room from the night before to check out and change) to come get me, but all their cell phones were still turned off for the ceremony. I didn't have a lick of cash for a taxi. So the bride sat sadly on her front porch drinking a Bud Light for an hour before the groom got to the party and realized she wasn't there.

* I turned the story into a column for the Raleigh News and Observer.

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I wouldn't change a thing. Happy anniversary, Mr. Sweetypants.

Confessions of a once-cool (in her own mind) girl

Today was my first day back at work since March. I didn't do a great job with my hair or makeup, as I haven't worried with either for the past nine weeks. Wearing pants with buttons and zippers will be extremely difficult to get used to again after two blissful months in sweats.

My boss (we're the same age) and I started talking about the shameless outfits the young girls are wearing in public these days. A part of me is really irritated that when I was 21 and had a flat belly we were all wearing giant shirts; now that I'm (cough) and the years of beer and rich foods are showing, things are teeny and fitted.

Not that it matters. The last thing I'd ever want to do is go out after 9 p.m. Like I told her, I love being this age and spending my saved-up cool points liberally by not caring what's hip (fresh? phat? the current vernacular eludes me...) or not.

Wow. It feels good to get that off my chest. So good, in fact, I'm gonna get some other confessions out of my system.

* I HATED "Juno." Seriously, did the former Brook Busey write a fairly good story then hire random, barely literate, text-messaging teenagers to replace organic dialog with insipid, stilted hipster- and pop-culture-of-the-moment references? "Honest to blog?" Honest to dog, nobody ever said that before this movie, and anyone who's uttered it unironically since should be locked in a cell with the OED and a stack of Bill Bryson books for a month. And don't even get me started on the musical name-droppings between Ellen Page and Jason Bateman. (backs away slowly)

* I only ever saw two episodes of "Sex and the City." SJP annoys me. (ducks)

* I think critics are too cowed by Kanye West's tantrums to admit that his music is completely unlistenable. (screeching car sounds)

Okay, I'm going back out on my front porch with my air gun to chase those hooligan kids off my property. Damned kids, with their awful pop music and saggy pants. I can't even tell the boys from the girls...

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Gimme your confessions. This is a safe place where you won't be judged and we can all hold hands and sing "Kumbaya."