Twilight

In an attempt to keep my finger on the pop-pulse that is American culture, I read "Twilight". I would have liked this book too, if I was in junior high, but I am not. I am over fifty and while I can see why adolescents like this stuff, I don't get grown women going nuts over this Edward guy. I had a lot of boyfriends like Edward back the day but we didn't call them vampires. They were good-looking guys who are always there for you but never, ever tried to have sex with you. We called them "homosexuals". (Props to Edward for originality on the the whole "...if you have sex with me it will kill you bit". What a way to keep them coming back for more!) Everybody is just so happy about the lack of sex in "Twilight". Huh? The whole stupid book is about sex, even if it is just about NOT having sex. Here is the deal, and I hate to break it to people my age, but back in the day y'all were a bunch of slut bunnies. That's right I said it. It was the 70's for gawd's sake. Even though I get that you are all worried that your teenager will come home either knocked-up (or is the knocker-upper) young people are obsessed with sex and you were too. Otherwise YOUR CHILDREN WOULDN'T BE HERE. Don't look at me like this crap didn't go on in "your day" because y'all have developed amnesia about how much sex and drugs you did. Your children will be obsessed with sex because you were too. It's biology, survival of the fittest. It's how we are hardwired. Don't get mad at me just because I am child-free and willing to tell the truth. I'm not telling your kids to run out and have sex, but to hope they aren't thinking about it is just shear foolishness. Hell, I used to have so many hormones bouncing around I don't think I had a clear thought until after I my hysterectomy. Just because you are now aware of the absolute foolishness your hormones may have or could have wrought, don't act like y'all are a bunch of vestal virgins. To use a metaphor from the book it isn't just vampires who play with lightening.

Paula Abdul: Please Come Home

Dear Paula,
We admit it. We were wrong. It wasn't Simon who made us watch "American Idol", it was YOU all along! We just didn't appreaciate you until one day we looked-up and POOF! You were gone. PLEASE come back!!! We miss your wackadoodle outfits and the way you clapped your hands with just your palms, fingers never quite touching. The way you stood up and danced and nobody really noticed you were standing until you sat down again. The way you would just barely miss knocking over your Coke cup over every week (Even though you were a spokesperson for Pepsi back in the 80's). Whether you were drunk or high, or just being Paula, we now know that it doesn't matter. All we want if for you to come home and fix this stupid show.

A Fan

American Idol: DOA?

Does "American Idol" suck this year or what? Simon Cowell seems so half-assed about his last year on the show he might as well phone in his performance. He gives the impression he just wants to get it all over with so he can go home and take a handful of Viagra and boogie-down with his new fiance. Kara DioGuardi is downright annoying, as she was last year (apparently nobody noticed), and could she please stop whining: "Oh, I just don't know..." when she thinks some body's performance sucks? O.K., girlfriend can write a song, but Kara is just so boring. Ellen's comments seemed canned, as if written by someone else for especially for the show. The only one whose opinion is remotely interesting is Randy Jackson, after he is finished there is just no point to the critiques.

It doesn't help that this year's line-up is uniquely lacking in talent. Crystal Bowersox and Sioban (Sounds like "Cinnabon" and makes me hungry, but that could just be because I am on a diet...) Magnus can't even save the train wreck that is Season 9. We should have all seen this coming when a bunch of 12 year-olds elected that Milquetoast Kris Allen (also known as what's-his-name) as last year's winner. After last week's dreadful show, I don't know if I can sit through another ten minutes of my formerly beloved AI. It's like it has become that person you really liked a long time ago, that you see again and they look like that person, but NOTHING is there. I don't know how the rest of the country feels, but last week for me was akin to nails on a chalkboard and that was just the music. Thank goodness for the remote so I could channel surf through the judges' comments. Just get it over with, enough already! Toss a coin between Magnus and Bowersox and call it a day. Let's move on!

Could I possibly be missing Paula Abdul? Surely not. Maybe I am just missing the shows in the past where talent could be inconsistent, but was at least interesting. Now all I feel is a big: "Who cares?" I am actually thinking of watching the "Dancing With the Stars" results show tonight instead AI. Was Paula that big of deal, or does the show just suck that much this year? Maybe it was just that little annoying little chipmunk Miley Cyrus who was on last week. Or could it be that AI is just lumbering on to its inevitable demise, crushed by it's own misguided hubris? Could it be that the only person who will truly enjoy AI this year is Paula Abdul? So far, it hasn't been me.

Is It a Big Fucking Deal?

Vice-President Biden got busted this week for uttering the F-bomb. A lot of people who have used this word once or twice in their live, seem to be acting astonished that a V.P. would ever say such a thing. Seems Joe Biden is a big potty mouth and to that I would like to say: "Shame, shame. Everybody knows your name!" I am just so grateful that under the tutelage of the current administration all of America's problems have been solved and we now truly have time to "sweat the small stuff" -- like the V.P.'s potty mouth. What? Things are still fucked-up? Then my potty mouth should be the least of your worries.

Sometimes I really enjoy swearing. I married a soldier and no one can put together a string of expletives more eloquently than a soldier. Yeah, yeah, I know: Swearing is lazy. Swearing is offensive. What about the children? If you think swearing is lazy, you have never heard a soldier put together an eloquent turn of vulgarity. A soldier can put together two fairly mild words, like "butt" and "munch", throw in a hyphen and you have the deliciously expressive term: "butt-munch".

As for laziness: I have never understood why being lazy was such a bad thing. I have to say that I have always found working to be a far more offensive state than being lazy. This may explain why it is Sunday morning and I am wearing the same pajamas I put on Friday night. If you can express something with one well-chosen vulgarity, it seems to me you will save a lot of energy and you will be far more environmentally friendly by practicing word-conservation. We are all about word conservation here at Kelleywood.

But, what about the children? Part of the reason I am child-free is that I didn't want to worry about "the children" -- mine in particular. Seemed like a hassle and that whole giving birth thing looks like it might hurt. Just wasn't my thing and I support your right to have a gazillion of them if you can afford to pay them. Bottom line is: If I'm the biggest problem your children have, count yourself lucky and clearly they haven't started dating yet. My potty mouth will be the least of your worries. It is also my humble opinion that my influence over your children is pretty minuscule compared to YOUR influence.

I had this great-aunt when I was a kid. Her name was Aunt Jo. She wore wedgies with white ankle socks, had female pattern baldness and wore wigs she bought at K-Mart. Aunt Jo wore bright red lipstick, chain-smoked and swore like a sailor. I adored her, even though she smelled like an ashtray. There was never a kinder, more honest, truly sweet person on the planet. I have met many people with dirty hearts and clean mouths, but very few as kind as Aunt Jo. (She was married to my Uncle Ab, who had a glass eye and tried to cheat when he'd play poker with us. I remember Aunt Jo running into the room yelling: "Goddamn it, Ab! Stop cheating those children!" After Aunt Jo passed away, Uncle Ab married his granddaughter's dance teacher, Kiki. Gotta' love them!) If one bit of my great-aunt's kindness is reflected in my potty mouth I believe I am a better person for it.

In my younger days, before I realized that sometimes you have to be nice to assholes, I let loose with a string of expletives on the owner of an automobile repair shop who had TRIED to fix my car failed, and now wanted me to pay for something else. When I expressed my ire with a few well-chosen expletives, he told me to, and I quote: "Act like a lady." Never was there a phrase in the history of the universe more fucking irritating and obscene TO ME than this phrase coming-out of this fuck head's mouth. "What the fuck do you mean?" I said. "You want me to be a nice girl and fucking bend over? Fuck you, you stupid fucker!!!" As ugly as this scenario was, it was even made worse by the fact that my very sweet, quiet, mild-mannered father was with me when I let loose. "Aw, shit," I thought as we walked back to the car. "Dad is gonna' be pissed." When we got to the car and I told Dad I was sorry I'd lost my temper he said: "Some guys are just jerks." But he had a wry smile and I could tell he was secretly amused by my bad behavior.

In this world of war, disease, poverty, prejudice, swearing is way down on my list of crap I am worried about. You go, Joe. From one potty-mouth to another: Free Speech Rocks!!!

P.S. I love that the blogger spellcheck knows that "fuck head" is two words not one!

Cut and Paste This Blog Into Your Status

It used to be that I would just annoy my Facebook friends with my fleeting Mafia Wars obsession. They retaliated by forcing me to play Farmville. Farmville nearly drove me crazy. Farmville players are a deeply divided group -- you either love it or you hate it. Farmville isn't just a game, it's a whole lifestyle. Slowly, one crop at a time, it starts to take over your world. I would be trying to do something important, like watch T.V., and I would start wondering about my rice crop and did I need to harvest it? Was it shriveling up on the vine, or should I say the paddy? Then people started sending me animals. When I got my first rabbit I was terrified. In Famville you harvest everything, was I going to have to off the bunny? Was I supposed to feed it? What if the rabbit died? I'm to old for that nonsense. Well, not to fear, you harvest the rabbit for angora. (Right -- like THAT happens on a real farm.) Farmville was creating a lot of stress for me, but I was recruiting a lot of my Mafia Wars family from my Farmville neighbors. So, I kept planting, harvesting, planting, harvesting it was a vicious cycle until I couldn't take one more living minute of that dumb music they play. I axed the farm. Eventually I became bored with Mafia Wars although, curiously enough, it did not induce the same sort of mind-fuck that Farmville did. However, some nights before I go to bed, my virtual farm appears in my virtual brain. Nothing ever goes away in cyberspace and my farm is still out there, somewhere. If you see it, would you please feed my chickens.

Then Mafia Wars crept into my world. I liked Mafia Wars -- extortion, beating up people, robbing. Even better, there weren't a lot of animals involved in Mafia Wars. I love animals, but people -- not so much. So, I went Mafia Wars crazy for awhile, building my Mafia Wars empire to over 300 people, whacking, plundering and bribing. Then one day I logged-on and I just didn't care anymore. I couldn't play it. I thought I might come back to it someday, but my heart was no longer in it. My Mafia Wars friends stayed on my Facebook friends list for awhile, but eventually I got tired of all their posts about what they were doing in Mafia Wars, so I defriended pretty much everybody (O.K., I did keep a couple people) and blocked Mafia Wars from my Facebook page. The thrill was gone. At least my friends would no longer be harassed by my endless game statuses of which, no matter how hard you try to screen them, always made their way to the Newsfeed.

Payback for my endless posts about Mafia Wars and Farmville seems to be in the form of all these new: "If you agree...cut and paste in your status..." blips. Not wanting to piss any of my friends off (and I have the sweetest, most well-meaning friends in the entire universe), if I agreed I cut and pasted. Now it seems my friends are getting tired of the "cut and paste" messages. If people would stop posting these message, I would stop cutting and pasting, but I keep giving into peer pressure. Yesterday a good friend, we'll call her "George" for the purposes of this article, told me she loved me but she wasn't cutting a pasting. "Good for her." I thought. "I'm getting sick of these things, too." George always was a bit of a freethinker. Maybe it IS time to stop all the peer pressure cutting and pasting before our causes become as meaningless and a billy goat in Farmville. Stop pissing-off your friends. Cut and paste if you must, but leave off the "...cut and paste..." request. Unless it is for a really good cause. Like my blog.

This blog inspired, in part, by this fabulous blog:

http://madmadmargo.blogspot.com/2010/03/please-somebody-help-me.html

But Wait! There's More Skanks!

Oh, lawd! I hate it when I am right, but just as I predicted, it's 2010 and the skanks are coming out of the woodwork! Brigitte Daguerre and Melissa Smith have tossed their crotchless panties into the ring as mistresses three and two respectively in the whole Sandra Bullock/Jesse James debacle. Now I have noticed that the first skank who outs a guy gets far more attention than skanks two, three, etc. Being skank number two can get you some notice, but past three as an outed skank and you are venturing into no longer even being a number, but being lumped in the category of "or even more". This pretty much ensures you get at the most a mention in the "unauthorized biography" as an "also ran". Unless, of course, you are outing the president, in which case all bets are off. Outing a president requires some truly special skills I am not prepared to discuss in this forum. (But I could if I wanted to.)

Michelle "Bombshell" McGee, #1 Skank in the Jesse James scandal, so far has my vote for "Skank of the Year: 2010". First off: She makes me want to pull out a can of Lysol and it takes a lot to get me to want to clean. She dazzled us with being the opportunistic uber-whore that she is by timing Jesse James' outing with Sandra Bullock's Oscar win. That shows some major whoremanship. Listen, this dame has more balls than Tiger Woods, John Edwards and Jesse James put together. Then, just as I think she may be a PR genius (although she only got $30,000 for the story, but I guess you have to start somewhere) out come the pictures of her in Nazi regalia. Holy crap! Just how the hell do you do that sort of thing and not think: "Hm. This might come back and bite me in the ass."? Aside from being morally reprehensible, which we know hasn't bothered Michelle up to this point, it's just stoopid. Her excuse is that the photographer handed her the props. WTF??? What IS the thought process here -- "He collects WWII memorabilia and I was just holding his stuff so he could take pictures of it for insurance purposes."?

Now, out of the current crop of skanks, and there are so many, I am not even sure why Brigette Daguerre (Jesse James #3 Skank, in case you are trying to keep up) decided to participate. I guess she didn't want to feel left out, but her heart just doesn't seem to be in it. She claims she only slept with Jesse 3 or 4 times, but got over 190 "secret" text messages from him, now of course they are not so secret. She actually seems to feel bad about it, but if that were truly the case I sort of think she would have kept it to herself.

All the while, the celebrity news shows keep replaying that sweet moment where Jesse James tears-up at the Oscars after Sandra Bullock's big win. Who knew then where this was all headed?

If You Can Read this Blog, Thank a Vet!

I try to be somewhat apolitical because I find that the people who know the least about politics tend to run their mouths the most. It also depresses me that I have become maddeningly middle-of-the-road in middle age, which for some reason reminds me of my body, which seems to have all gone maddeningly to the middle. However, I am somewhat worked-up today because last night on the news there was a story about some dirt-bag(s) burglarising the Acworth VFW (Veteran's of Foreign Wars). The crook(s) stole a pile of cash, which was ear-marked to be used to send stuff to our troops in Afghanistan and Iraq. How the hell do you rationalize this sort of theft? Our troops, are over there risking their lives, having left their families behind, to defend our nation because that is their duty. Some selfish, cowardly piece of crap steals the money that was to be used to send our troops a few things just to brighten their days and to let them know that folks back here appreciate what they are doing. There has to be a special place in hell for some jackass(es) selfish enough to steal this money. That flag draped coffin you see up there in the left hand corner of this post??? That was part of a funeral service paid for by the VFW to give a homeless veterans a decent burial. That's all I have to say.

"Remember"
It was the Veteran, not the reporter, who has given us freedom of the press.
It was the Veteran, not the poet, who has given us freedom of speech.
It was the Veteran, not the lawyer, who has given us the right to a fair trial.
It was the Veteran, not the campus organizer, who has given us the right to demonstrate.
It is the Veteran who salutes the flag,
Who served under the flag,
Whose coffin is draped by the flag,
Who allows the protester to burn the flag.
~Father Dennis O'Brien, USMC~

Where Does My Husband Live?

Much to my ever-loving chagrin, I managed to marry an army officer. I don't talk about it much online because he has taken enough of a liability by taking my mouthiness as his lawful wife. Plus, I think I may be just the sort of thing the current crop of terrorists are against and I don't want them finding me. Operational Security (OP SEC) you know.

Now you may have heard since 9/11/2001, our people in armed services have been pretty busy. Half the time I don't know where my husband is, and sometimes when I do, I don't want to know -- ignorance being bliss. When your spouse is home all the time, you just take little stuff for granted, like knowing where he lives. While trying to figure-out "Census: 2010", which they say should take about ten minutes to fill-out, I was totally stumped on question number one. It read something like: "How many people live in your home?" Me, the Bulldog (I don't call my hubby that, but his friends do, so we will go with that here.) and four cats. Now I know the government does not give a rap about my cats, so I wrote down "2". Then I read the instructions. It said something along the lines of: "If a member of your family is living in prison, in the armed forces, or elsewhere on April 1, 2010, do not include them in your count." (I find it so interesting that "prison" and "armed forces" often find themselves in the same sentence, but that is another blog for another time.) Once again, the Bulldog is at training for a few months. I don't think he is even attached to a particular army unit at this time. I scribble out the "2" and wrote "1". This "Census: 2010" was way harder than I thought is was going to be. Right now, I know where my husband is, I just don't know where he lives.

Not wanting to get in trouble with the Federal Government, unsure as to whether or not it was "1" or "2", I decided to call the Bulldog. I do not know how military spouses did it before cell phones and Internet, but sometimes all that has stood between me and going completely off my nut is the cell phone and the Internet. I rang-up the Bulldog: "Hey honey," I said "I have the census form." He started laughing. "Um, where do you live?" He didn't really know either, but being the decisive sort, and being in the military, which sort of makes you king of filling out forms, he decided he lived with me even although they sent him a form at his temporary residence. "My form was addressed to "occupant", he said. "So I guess I live with you." I take it as proof positive that life as an army wife is slowly driving me over-the-edge because after almost seventeen years of marriage, I do not know where my husband lives.

Normally, we get stumped on the ethnicity part, because our last name is Irish and my husband's great-great-etc. grandfather was a Spanish Don. Last time we took the census, I believe the category was "Hispanic", and if you are from Spain, not Mexico, Puerto Rico, or someplace like that, you are NOT considered Hispanic. The Bulldog is NOT Hispanic. This year, however, to add to the census confusion, was a category called "Spaniard". Now, I know I am a big 'ole white girl, in fact I may be the whitest woman on the planet, but what portion of your genetic background has to fall into one of these other categories to be considered NOT Caucasian? "Aw, just put down "Caucasian", otherwise they send me a bunch of EEO stuff." the Bulldog said. (I told you he was decisive.) I did not realize that being a member of a minority involves a whole bunch more paperwork, and for that, as one of the biggest white girls in the world, I would like to apologize to all non-Caucasian ethnic groups across the United States.

Aw, Crap!

Well, downloaded some HTML I guess I should have. "Joannafesto" was a freakin' mess for awhile, but in the spirit of not knowing what the hell I am doing, I went into the HTML, edited some likely suspects (Like I know absolutely jack shit about HTML) and I seem to be back up and running. Had to ditch the borders and a few other bells and whistles along the way, but at least the blogging part is back-up. I am gonna' have to figure out how to get my analytics back. Crap. Since I really don't know what the heck I am doing, and truly have no idea exactly what I deleted, if the blog disappears overnight I can only presume I made a mistake somewhere. I am going to end the quiz early since the borders are gone. Y'all just wanted to see a bunch of naked women any way, like there is not enough of that on the Internet. I should have known better.

Five Things that Suck about Shopping

Much like flying, shopping used to be a very civilized experience. In this wretched recession which is screwing-up all of my fun, shopping has become total drudgery, just one more task you HAVE to do, much like cleaning toilets. As one store after the next closes its doors and retail establishments fight to maintain lower prices to stay alive, one amenity that we so blithely took for granted, after the next disappears. It makes me so sad.

1. Self-Checkout. If ever there was a blight upon civilization, it is the proliferation of self-checkout. Apparently the economy is so bad, stores can't even afford to hire someone to take your money. I hate self-checkout. It democratizes the whole shopping experience. When I am giving somebody money, I like the power rush that goes along with being able to buy crap. Besides, if I wanted a job checking out crap in a discount store I would have stayed in retail.


2. Bring Your Own Bag. Yeah, yeah, yeah. I should carry my own bags with me to save the planet, but frankly the planet was hell bent on self-destruction long before I showed up. How much of the planet am I saving when I get to the store bagless and have to burn a tank of gas just to go home and get one of those mystery fiber bags,so some eco-nazi doesn't give me a dirty look when I'm checking out.


3. The Spinning-Bag-O-Matic: I don't really know what it is called, but it is that round thing at Walmart, that holds the bags, spins as the cashier shoves merchandise into the bags, and you try to grab all off your bag off it like some really suck-o-la carnival game. "Step right up folks, take a ride on the spinning-bag-o-matic. Will you get all your stuff, or will you have to return to the store to argue as to whether or not you ever got your light bulbs? Try your luck. Test your skills!" Checkers are just too busy these days to hand you your bags. Who invented this thing? Like I don't have enough crap to juggle in the store between credit cards, signing receipts, holding a cell phone, and trying to find my crap in my giant purse that serves no practical purpose other than it makes me look thinner, just like Paris Hilton.


4. Discount Cards. Somewhere in the bottom of my giant purse, is a pile of discount cards. I loathe and detest stores who advertise discount prices and demand you have that damn discount card. Just what I need when I am out-of-town, in a hurry, and want to pick-up a couple things. "Oh no! We only give the discount to our members." They say "members" like their "members" are something special, as if getting one of those stupid cards is some big accomplishment. I am in the "Shop and Save"; I'm not trying to join a country club. Just give me the lowest price and let me get the hell out of your stupid store.


5. Coupons on receipts. Some discount cards create special coupons for you when you hit a certain dollar amount, or purchase a particular product. They are printed out on these fifty foot long receipts I really think the ecco-nazis need to look into. I think we could maybe use them for toilet paper, you know, to cut back. My husband loves these. "Look here honey! If we purchase 10 more packages of "Preparation H" we can get two dollars off of the store brand! It expires in two days, so we'd better hurry." I shove the thing in my purse where it sinks to the bottom, expires and is thrown-out when I clean out my purse a few months later. Unless, of course, I decide to make a purchase with one, then I can't find it. Which isn't all bad, because I try to use these stupid things as little as possible, because I feel it only encourages the store to participate in this sort of marketing.

It's 2010: The "Year of the Skank"

It's only March. We are only three months into the year and yet another cheating, liar-of-a-husband scandal has ALLEGEDLY erupted. No wonder Jennifer Aniston has been looking so happy these past few months, so tanned, content and serene that she is almost Zen. Who care about scandals of yore, when we have Tiger Woods, John Edwards, SC Governor Mark Sanford (of way-down-in-Argentina fame), and now ALLEGEDLY Sandra Bullock's husband, Jesse James? Why there is a whole bevy of botoxed, implanted beauties fighting for tabloid space. Just as one wayward husband departs for sex addiction camp, another one takes his place. Therefore, since I am always on the cutting edge, I have decided to declare 2010 the "Year of the Skank".

No doubt some of these charming ladies will object to use of the term "skank". Tiger Wood's ALLEGED mistress, Rachel Uchitel, has taken umbrage with the term "slut" and would like to be called "mistress". That's right: The age of political correctness has entered the world of adultery. I am not quite sure what the big difference between a slut and a mistress is, but I think it has to do with how many times you have slept with the guy. A mistress, if I am not mistaken, is a repeat offender and sleeps with the guy more than once. To establish your rank as mistress (not slut) it helps if the guy still has your phone number, because you can establish an electronic record that you actually do know the guy. A slut, on the other hand, only sleeps with the guy once or twice and he never calls her again. So the slut, doesn't sleep with the guy more than once or twice, and the mistress sleeps with the guy a lot. Therefore, the mistress deserves to be treated with a little more dignity that your average slut. It is also my understanding that you can be an ALLEGED mistress, but never an ALLEGED slut. (How do those tabloid editors keep up with it all? My head is swimming.) So, Tiger Woods' ALLEGED mistress, Rachel Uchitel, feels that although women-who-slept-with-Tiger are queueing up in a line that forms around the block, she was his mistress, because her relationship with Tiger was special. O-kee-dook-ie, if you say so.

Now John Edwards' ALLEGED mistress, Rielle Hunter, will soon be demanding a far more prestigious title as an official hisbabymoma. In other-woman parlance, being hisbabymoma has far more clout than just being his ALLEGED mistress, it is akin to almost being married to him. Except she's not. He is married to somebody else. In Edwards' case, he was married to someone with terminal cancer, she knew it, and still, she slept with him. So, what do you suppose that makes her?

Now, before you go thinking that I am being hard on these women, what about these men, rest assured that I am of the opinion that a wife and husband make promises to each other when they take their wedding vows. Bottom line, my deal is with him, his deal is with me, not some third-party skank, mistress, or whatever she wants to be called. If I have a score to settle, it will be with him.

Now I do not know her personally, but I have always liked Sandra Bullock and I feel pretty bad that her husband ALLEGEDLY fooled around with some skank. But I ask you: If you were Jesse James wouldn't you be just a little afraid of Sandy? Once Sandy gets over the gut-punch, broken-heart he has inflicted, Sandy might just kick his ass. I hope she does. What the hell was this guy thinking? Have you seen this chick he ALLEGEDLY slept with? She is an overly-tatooed, skanky, rode-hard-and-put-away-wet MESS. I'll be calling her a slut right here, because what else do you call somebody who screws-up somebody's life for a $30,000 magazine story two weeks after she wins the Oscar which should be the happiest time of her life?

I predict that Michelle "Bombshell" McGee -- Jesse James' ALLEGED whatchamacallit-- will not be the last skank to crawl out of the woodwork in 2010, and onto the pages of your favorite grocery store tabloid. Therefore, I OFFICIALLY declare 2010 "The Year of the Skank" before someone else beats me to it. Remember, kids, you heard it here first.

Poll Results, Etc.

The results are in and it is a tie. Four of you are too busy to know what you do with your shoes, and four of you like to practice your aim by chucking them at your spouse. One of you (and I suspect Colleen) likes to leave all decorum at the door and strut around "neh'kid" (naked) with a hat. Please let me know before you sit down in my house so I can put a towel down on the sofa, but I suspect I will know who you are by your grin and chapeau.

I tweaked the blog page a little. Are the side borders too much? Really, I can't decide. No, this isn't just a cheap ploy to get you to post comments so I can boost my stats on Technorati, but that sounds like something I might do in the future. However, at least this time, I really want to know.

I'm thinking about the next poll, since the last one was such a runaway success (Hyperbole, anyone?). Look for that post within the next couple of days.

Thanks for hanging-out here on "Joannafesto". Excuse my occasional potty mouth (Sorry, Mom. I know you tried.), but every so often I do enjoy a colorful expletive and admire them in others. My husband is a soldier and they do have the BEST in the world.

A Love Letter to Anthony Bourdain

Oh dear! Just when I thought it would never happen again, when my heart was won by another and signed, sealed, delivered and married, I discover the divine Mr. Anthony Bourdain, bad boy chef, international food critic, and all around punk. It's not just because Anthony will put absolutely anything into his mouth, because he will, but it is that animal magnetism where he always seems poised to tell some pretentious yuppie gourmet to fuck-off. I just adore that in a man! Oh yes, Anthony is a manly-man, with a devil-may-care attitude toward what he ingests. Whether it be from a street vendor in a third world country or a five-star restaurant, Anthony is that guy swallowing the worm at the bottom of a tequila bottle. Sigh. He is that guy your mother warned you about, that bad boy who broke your heart in college (and is now a fat, balding middle-aged putz)and he can cook. Alas, it is not to be for Anthony and me! We live in different worlds -- I have found my true love and Anthony, I hope, has found his. In another place, in another time, in a parallel universe, perhaps sitting next to one another at a tiki bar quaffing pineapple drinks across from former NY Dolls front man David Johansen, while Anthony begs for my Grandmother's German potato salad recipe, we could be together. But it is not to be in this lifetime. But, oh, my precious Anthony, you will always hold a special place in my heart, right next to the salt shaker, which I can't have either.

P.S. My husband wants to be your best friend.

Blogging for Dummies

Inspired by my recent foray into the wonderful world of blogging, I decided maybe it was time I learned something about what I was doing. Not that not knowing what I was doing has ever stopped me before, nor should it stop you. Here is a clue for you kids out there: No one knows what they are doing. This is a reassuring thought when you start you first job, but not so much when you are having open-heart surgery. The key to success is not knowing what you are doing and doing it anyway. Just dive right in there and slog it out like everybody else. That's the truth, kids: Nobody knows what they are doing. Still, thinking about my blog, if I knew something about blogging it might keep me away from things like copyright infringement and being sued for libel.

At first, I sought this information online but some of those techno-geeks out there are really bitter people. Look: I was a big, damn dork in high school too, but I suck at computers, so I have a double whammy against me. Just because I have a learned a few social skills in adulthood and stopped wearing overalls and tie-dyed t-shirts as formal wear, it doesn't mean I am one of those jerks who oppressed your ass in P.E. I, too, was the oppressed. Hell, I was in choir AND theatre. Just because I don't understand computers like you do, it doesn't mean I am not one of you. If we had "Dungeons and Dragons" in high school, I probably would have played right along with you. However, when I was in high school when Nixon was still in office and people thought they were hot stuff if they had a pocket calculator. So just give me a break, you bitter, bitter dorks.

Book-junkie that I am, I decided that a book on blogging may answer some of my questions. My husband got me a Sony Reader for Christmas, and despite being a bit of a techno-phobe, I think that thing is the bomb. I can get books without having to leave the house. It was easy to download books, and I'd already downloaded quite a few. Plus, Captain Piccard had something like it on "Star Trek: The Next Generation". (See, I'm talking "Star Trek" here, you techno-geeks. I may suck at the techno part, but the geek stuff I know.) The most obvious book choice for me seemed to be: "Blogging for Dummies". I ordered it, paid for it, but was unable to download it. After fooling with the thing for the better part of an hour, I called the Reader Store helpline. Helpline Jose told me that the problem was on their end, but since it was Saturday, they probably wouldn't be able to solve my problem until Monday. I should expect an email from them by then.

Of course, Monday came and went with no email. Ditto Tuesday. I put it off until Wednesday, and decided to contact their live support via computer. Juan didn't seem to believe that Jose had already told me that the problem was on their end. He started asking me all these questions about my operating system and was I using Adobe to run my software. Huh? Are you kidding me? If I knew about those things why the hell would I call their helpline? You think I like talking to some nerd boy who is STILL bitter because he couldn't get laid in high school? If I knew what I was doing, I'd fix the damn thing myself, O.K.? Then Juan wanted to know the author of the book I was trying to purchase. As if they don't have that information on their end. I gave him the title, in part because I thought he needed to get a clue about who he was dealing with: "Blogging for Dummies" I replied. He snarked back: "It's just called "Blogging". Don't even TRY telling me he didn't already know the author's name. After a gazillion questions, Juan still refused to believe that Helpful Jose told me that the problem was on their end, I suspiciously lost my connection to Juan.

Maybe it was because I was on day three of my diet, but I was hungry, felt meaner than a snake and was ready to rumble. I may not know jack about computers, but I can type and type fast. What I lack in accuracy, I make up for in speed. (Take-that, nerd boys!) So, I logged back onto the help window with my real name --Jessica "Bunny" Glitter-Spank -- and get this on the screen: Juan has just left the room. Catherine has just left the room. Jose has just left the room. Techno-geeks were dropping out of that chat room like flies. Finally I get Bernard. Bernard, it seems, has some real emotional baggage. Granted going through high school with the name "Bernard" (As in "Saint" -- tee-he-he!) had to be a real bitch, but that Bernard had some real attitude. "Look here, Bernard," I typed, "Don't ask me a bunch of questions I have already answered. Helpful Jose told me the problem is on YOUR end". What followed was an exchange that had Bernard sarcastically typing: "You are using Windows, aren't you?" Somehow, I once again lost my connection.

By this time I had been dealing with this problem for an hour and a half. I was mean, hungry, night had fallen and "American Idol", the results show, would be on in a half-an-hour. I desperately needed to see someone have their dream crushed. I logged back on. This time I got Catherine. Look-out! Girl in the chat room! After making the mistake of asking me the title of the damn book, I informed Catherine it might be wise if she just reviewed the transcripts of my conversations with Juan and Bernard. There was a long pause. This Catherine, I could tell, was no dummy. Finally she asked that I try downloading a free book. No problem there. Guess what? The problem was on their end. Hello????? Seems there was a little snafu on their end with that particular book. The purchase was credited to my account. As I logged-off the help window, a little survey popped-up asking me about their customer service. Pity it was multiple choice and not an essay.

The Continuing Saga of "Little Miss Perfect"

One of the more mysterious aspects of "Little Miss Perfect" are the judges and the judging process. Deedy Melanson (I ask you: Does her name not sound like a drag queen name -- DD MELONson?) is a former "teen queen" with huge boobs who wears dresses that are just a wardrobe malfunction away from exploding. Deedy's precariously covered boobs are usually held up by insubstantial spaghetti straps, or a halter top stretched beyond reasonable capacity. I suppose this adds an element of suspense to the whole pageant experience. Deedy sometimes brings a little dog with her, holding it next to her ample bosom. It is sort of frightening because if Deedy's halter top failed, and one of those humongous ta-tas broke free, that itty bitty dog could be seriously injured. Come to think of it, we haven't seen that little dog in quite a while. Do you think it could have gotten lost in Deedy's cleavage? Somebody call the humane society just in case.

Judge Nyasha Zimucha's claim to fame is winning the "...first and only pageant title (where) she represented the entire African continent in the USA as Miss Africa USA." Huh? Still haven't quite figured out exactly just what contest that was -- if you know, please feel free to post in the comments section of this blog. Recently, as if representing "...the entire African continent in the USA as Miss Africa" wasn't enough, Nyasha is introduced as a "recording artist". Where? On her answering machine? I have never heard her sing. Or could it be even more sinister: Could it be that Pageant Director/Guru Michael Galanes is actually holding back Nyasha by insisting on singing ON EVERY SINGLE SHOW when maybe the true talent is sitting at the judge's desk? If this is true, I want to give a big shout-out in pageant parlance to Nyasha: "YOU GO GIRL!!!! Don't you let let that Mr. Michael push you around!". Wow, show biz is rough stuff. ("Citrus colored rainbows" my ass.)

Next judge is David Gilbert whose big claim to fame is that he has sat through a gazillion of these kiddie glitter-fests yet he has never appeared on "To Catch a Predator". I don't know if this is a good or bad thing, but kudos to Mr. Dave. Gilbert has a B.A. in Speech and Theatre, and I think this goes to show you just how far that sort of a degree can take you. It's probably better than wearing a mouse suit and dancing around in front of a Chuck E. Cheese.

To be continued...

Revenge of the Celebrities

Bloody hell -- leggings are back in a big way. They have been threatening to return for about the past five years, but they never seemed to quite get back into the fashion mainstream. Call 'em leggings or skinny jeans, they are still ruthlessly unflattering on almost all figure types. Except suspiciously thin celebrities. I believe the proliferation of leggings are in fact passive-aggressive conspiracy by celebrities to punish the rest of us for their own inability to eat and maintain a career. Think about it: The thrill of an Oscar nomination and what did Sandra Bullock talk about on the red carpet -- a burger and fries as a reward if she won. Yep, in Hollywood you have to win an Oscar in order to eat a burger and fries. Oscar=Burger and Fries. No wonder those people are so competitive. They are hungry. If she'd lost the Oscar would it have been back to carrots and tofu? And who among us can blame poor Naomi Campbell for slapping a couple people around once in awhile? Poor thing hasn't eaten in years. Here is how it all went down: Celebrities seem to live in two cities: LA and New York, so it would be easy for them to meet-up and hatch their evil plan. I can hear it now: "Psst! Sandra, I'll wear roses on my boobs if you promise to wear leggings in public!" "Oh, Charlize, you are such a card! That sounds like fun. Let's do it!" So now leggings are everywhere.

A new twist on the leggings phenomena are man-leggings. I kind of get why guys like them because they make their junk look bigger. Personally, if I was a man, I would just shove a pair of socks in my pants, but I'm all about comfort. Leggings really don't do a damn thing for women at all. Gawd help you if you have a big butt (I don't -- but don't ever announce this in a Weight Watchers meeting. Those women can get ugly fast.) these things will make your behind the size of a billboard. Last year when I made my fabulous trip to be in the annual SMASHED Potatoes St. Pat's Day parade, I thought some of those shiny, liquid leggings might be hilariously inappropriate. When I tried them on I realised that not even I would stoop that low for a cheap laugh. Those things showed every single bit of cellulite on my person and magnified it by ten. It was horrifying. I sent them back, but I thought briefly about destroying them so NO ONE would EVER be able to wear them again. But alas, fiscal prudence won out and I mailed them back. I didn't care if I was in another state, in a wig and sunglasses, nobody was going to see me in those damn things. I am just not THAT funny.

I think that an integral part of the conspiracy is to make us all look like fools for a few years, so the wicked fashionistas have plenty of fodder for their future "fashion don'ts". Why? Because although they want us to be jealous of their fabulous, glamorous lives, what they REALLY want is a burger and fries. Celebrities can be so passive-aggressive when they are hungry.

Betty White Hosting SNL!

What a thrill that the always hilarious, multi-talented Betty White is going to host Saturday Night Live! As just one of over 800,000 people on Facebook who signed a petition to get the legendary funnylady to appear on SNL I am very much looking forward to watching Betty show the youngsters how it's done. Can't wait to see her!

Intelius Sucks

Phone books are quickly becoming a thing of the past as we supposedly have all the information we need at our fingertips with computers. In some ways, this is a good thing -- save the trees and all of that, but in other ways it has become more of a problem. Looking up a person's name and finding information on them online was pretty easy and free a couple years ago. Many of these services now require a credit card and a subscription, and they can be pretty sneaky about getting it. What you think is a one time charge can become anything but that.

Here is what happened to me with INTELIUS: I was an idiot at one time and married a man I will refer to as Satan. I divorced Satan many moons ago, but I like to keep tabs on Satan's current whereabouts. Last I heard, Satan was on his way to prison, where he so richly deserves to be. Every so often, I Google Satan to see just where the hell (pardon the pun) he is. My Google search was yielding nothing, so I decided to use INTELIUS. Huge mistake. They had a special for a 24 hour pass for $19.95. I could look-up whoever I wanted for 24 hours. Seemed a little pricey, but I wasn't having much luck on line. Foolishly, I gave these people my credit card number. After all, I'd used INTELIUS before and not had problems. I am VERY leery about signing up for ANYTHING online and since I used to be a legal assistant, I read EVERYTHING. Online companies have a habit of putting it somewhere in the fine print that they can use your credit card forever, charging you monthly until you call their customer service line a hundred times and threaten to sue if they do not stop. I do my best to avoid these so-called "services". INTELIUS has found a whole new angle on the scam that I only found-out about by accident.

Here is what happened: I was searching my spam folder for an email. Imagine my surprise when I saw a whole slew of emails from INTELIUS. I figured they were probably run of the mill spam advertising more services. Wrong. They were receipts for five separate services I did NOT use or request from INTELIUS. The grand total of the receipts was about $160.00. INTELIUS had run unrequested reports on any name I had searched for in during my 24-hour pass period. The bastards actually charged me for a report on my dear, sweet Uncle Gary, when all I wanted was his address because I was unable to send him a Christmas card this year. Oh, and by the way, I couldn't find ANY information on my ex-husband through this stupid service AT ALL. They gave me information for a Satan K., but my ex was a Satan B. Admittedly, Satan is a common name, but they didn't even TRY.

My next step was to call INTELIUS "Customer Service" because this surely was a misunderstanding. Although there were two unauthorized services they would remove from my charges, they refused to remove the other two charges totalling about $80. I was willing to pay for the $19.95 24-access service that sucked, because sometimes you have to pay to find-out something sucks, but paying $80 for something I neither ordered or wanted just frosted my cookies. I went up the food chain of "Customer Service" and got nowhere. I think I found where all the people that used to work for Bernie Madoff went.

I don't know why some business people think that it is "good business" to make it a policy to rip-off and scam honest people, but INTELIUS is one of those companies. I filed a report with the Better Business Bureau. I doubt they will do much, but I did find out that the BBB has received over 1000 consumer complaints about INTELIUS, so I guess now I am in line with them. There are several attorneys advertising for class action lawsuits against INTELIUS. So, I suppose if and when INTELIUS is finally sued, it will be the litigious people and money-grubbing attorneys oppressing them, instead of their own damn greed, corruption and dishonesty. The internet is rife with this sort of behavior and I have trouble understanding why a lot of these sorts of institutionalized scams are not considered criminal and treated as crimes. At least when somebody shoves a gun in your face, you know you are being robbed. Maybe someday this stuff will be treated as criminal. I'd like nothing more than to see white collar thieves like INTELIUS in the slammer. Maybe then they could find Satan B.

Little Miss Perfect, Part Two (The Sequel)

My favorite part of "Little Miss Perfect" is what pageant director Michael Galanes has dubbed "Wow Wear". The purpose of "Wow Wear" is to "wow" the audience. Actually, I think it should be called "WTF??? Wear" as the is the quotation that most likely appears above my head in a cartoon bubble when I am watching this portion of the pageant. "Wow Wear" can be anything and frequently it is. One little girl strutted out in a shiny black vinyl police officer's outfit, blowing a whistle with great gusto, swinging her billy club, and when she turned around, we could see the authentic handcuffs tucked into her little uniform. I'm just grateful they were not covered in fur. This begs the question: Does child protective services not know about these people? As "Little Miss Perfect" builds a following, the "Wow Wear" competition has become more and more complicated. One little girl, whose parents were Marines, actually barreled out in a cardboard tank build over one of those electric kiddie cars. The pageant child's family's biggest concern was that the kid might drive off of the stage. I would have paid money to see that.

One if the peculiarities (and there are many) in kiddie pageant world is that many of the little girls have developed a very pronounced and strange manner of walking: One hand on hip, behind swinging, they sashay across the stage. Except in the beauty portion of the pageant where they are supposed to glide across the stage looking "regal". Seriously: Four-year-olds looking regal? According to Michael Galanes the goal is to "float". I am sure he has no problem with this, but a lot of little girls require a coach just to teach them how to walk. Here's the big question: How do I get this job? I have two-left feet, but even I can walk. (And my parents bitched about having to get a math tutor.)

(To be continued...)

Where are My Fifteen Minutes?

Okay.  My lack of blog followers is starting to get depressing.  I have been looking at other people's blogs and frankly they look a hellava' lot better than mine.  Their content sucks, but their blogs are more tricked-out than Flo, the Progressive Insurance Girl's, name tag.  Surfing the net for ways I can improve my blog I fail to understand 75% of what they are talking about.  One way to improve my website is to discuss things of a more topical nature, so here goes my list:  Winter Olympics, Tiger Woods, Goel Ratzon, Toyota, recession, Super Bowl, Betty White, selling-out.  Opps, I almost forgot:  Jesus.  Sadly, I am not really qualified to discuss any of these matters, but if other unqualified people are willing to blog about them, so am I.  One of the things they say not to talk about is cats.  Big opps there, already talked about the little buggers.  Scrolling through other blogs I see that pictures of snowmen are really big.  No can do as this would mean I would have to go outside where it is cold.  I could talk about fashion, because I really like clothes, but I am old, fat and wear comfortable shoes.

I tried to sign-up for "Technorati" but apparently they couldn't figure-out what my blog was about either, and are telling me my description didn't match the contents of my blog. WTF? Bottom line is: I want my fifteen minutes of fame -- NOW! How to go about doing this? People have told me I am funny, so I figured the best was to get famous was to expose myself for the smart-ass that I am. THAT is what my blog is about, you people at "Technorati" who are holding my ten minutes of fame hostage. (I have always been an underachiever so have decided to crop my fifteen minutes down to ten. Maybe that'll work.) I can only compromise my integrity so much before I am writing about the improper use of quotations marks and bird-watching. Don't suck the life out of me by making me shove myself into a box and limit the scope of my smartassness.

Little Miss Perfect, Part One

The biggest train wreck on reality T.V. for my money is neither "The Jersey Shore" nor "The Bachelor", for my money it has to be We T.V.'s "Little Miss Perfect". It is demented, therefore, I cannot stop watching it. To become "Little Miss Perfect" you must be a little girl and have a whole entourage of "people": Pageant coaches, hairdressers, make-up artists, photographers, spray-tan expert, clothing designers, vocal coaches, choreographers, and the list goes on. The show stresses that little girls who want to be Little Miss Perfect must work, work, work, EVERY DAY to perfect her perfection. I was such a slacker at the age of four, a virtual no-talent, underachiever in a pixie hair-cut and red Keds. Not these girls. They have drive, talent, ambition, and hair pieces. My childhood was very deprived as I was completely lacking hair pieces. The little girl down the street had a Morticia Adams wig, which I deeply coveted (the bitch wouldn't let me wear it) but the closest I ever got Morticia's wig was an Uncle Fester light bulb that cast a greenish glow when I stuck it in my mouth. My parents insisted on investing in things like insurance and college, instead of indulging my need for glamour. Mom tried -- she would go to rummage sales and purchase old prom dresses for me. I also got to play with some of her hand-me-down cocktail dresses. I do recall having a faux fox stole, but compared to the stuff the Little Miss Perfect girls have, I was strictly minor league. My mother actually cut my hair herself, the bangs requiring a piece of tape secured to the forehead so she could follow the straight line. This resulted in the lopsided look featured on my kindergarten photo, which made me look like an unloved urchin. My brother actually carried this photo with him in college and would tell people that I was an orphan he was helping support. He thought this was hilarious. Whether or not this had anything to do with his becoming a minister, I do not know. I do hope he has gotten over the lying. However, I digress.

Michael Galanes (who I think is named after a French cigarette) is the director of Little Miss Perfect. I just love this guy -- he make Richard Simmons look butch. At the end of every pageant he sings, with all his gusto and might, The Little Miss Perfect pageant song, to the one lucky child whose parents have out spent (this week) all of the other parents. Outside the economy may be suck-o-la, but inside pageant contestants parade in $1000 dresses they will outgrow in a matter of months. After a great deal of criticism about how fake the little girls looked in these sorts of pageants -- a lot of people found four-year olds tarted-up like whores to be sort of offensive (go figure)-- Little Miss Perfect seems to be leaning towards a more "natural" look. This seems to be directed primarily at the huge hair pieces and these weird things call "flippers". If you think Flipper is a dolphin, you have not been keeping up with Little Miss Perfect. A flipper, in pageant world, is this weird ass appliance that little girls who have lost their temporary teeth put in their mouth too look like they still have a full set of choppers. Sort of a "baby bridge" because everyone knows that six-year olds missing teeth are NOT perfectly adorable. The flipper, when coupled with the fake bake spray tan looked pretty much like it would glow in the dark. Something had to go. Pediatric dentists took the hit instead of the pageant professionals that are the spray tan experts. (To be continued...)

Oprah Doesn't Live Here

I don't get this Western cultural embrace of the no-shoes-in-my-house thing. I have my suspicions though: It has Oprah's fingerprints all over it. Sort of like the whole: "Eighty-percent of women do not wear the correct size bra." info that was on Oprah's show. Just where and how did they get that particular statistic? Did they go around and measure women? Nobody measured me, except me and I am keeping that information to myself, thank-you very much. Who decides what constitutes the appropriate bra fit? We'll accept just about any sort of nonsense as long as it is prefaced with "Oprah says". This current trend towards forcing a guest to take off their shoes before entering someones house just seems like some of the big O's handiwork. "Do you know how many germs are on the bottom of your shoes?" No. Do you know how many germs are on my floor? My husband lived in Korea for awhile and they are so crazy about taking your shoes off over there his landlady actually made him take his shoes off in his own apartment! This is one trend I am bucking. I am going to insist that people wear shoes in my house. If for no other reason than to piss off Oprah. We have four cats, and if you have ever had cats, you know damn well why you wear shoes in the house. They try, but accidents happen. This whole "take-your-shoes-off" thing has gone so far that some well-trained people (not me) step inside my door and start whisking-off their shoes. I have to insist that they stop. I cannot be responsible for whatever crap (figural or literal) that they step on, bare or sock-footed, in my house. In fact, I think it may even be part of our home owner's policy. You should probably also have a tetnus shot before I allow you inside. What sort of message is it to tell your guests that the bottoms of their shoes are so disgusting they must remove them before entering the extremely sterile environment that is your home? "But, I have a toddler crawling around on the floor!" I promise not to let the little gipper lick the bottom of my shoe(and just where do you think I have been?), but have you seen the crap a two-year old will shove in their mouth? How the heck are they supposed to build an immune system if they are never around any germs?