My Hubby is Home!

I haven't seen my husband since January 2 and he is home!!! I am taking a brief hiatus from blogging -- but I will be back!!!

Sandra Bullock ROCKS!!!

Wow! Sandra Bullock has style, grace and CHUTZPAH! Did not see the baby thing coming, and apparently neither did most of the tabloid press, but congratulations to Sandra! I doff my tiara to you, sister!

THAT, my dears, is how you dump an asshole.

Nature is Overrated

Thursday was "Earth Day" and we were supposed think about how wonderful nature is and how we should care for the planet. Nature does produce some marvelous stuff, but it has a real down side nobody ever wants to discuss: Earthquakes, tornadoes, hurricanes, boob-droop are ALL a part of nature.

My really big problem with nature is that a lot of it takes place out-of-doors. There goes your climate control right away. Whenever I am outdoors I am either sweating, freezing or both. I lasted one year in the Girl Scouts and the only camp out I ever went on had indoor plumbing. Having to sleep on the floor in a sleeping bag was enough for me. I just didn't get it. The eating nasty, half-cooked breakfast with ashes in it from the open fire sealed my distaste forever. If you can get a "Grand Slam" at Denny's for $3.99 down the road, why the hell would you cook eggs over a fire?

Once a year I practice my own version of spring fever. I attempt to make peace with nature by emerging from my house into the front yard. I'm usually outside about ten minutes when I remember I try to avoid the yard as much as possible. This year was no exception. I got it into my head that Boston ferns would look lovely swinging gently in the Georgia breeze on our front porch (or should I say "veranda" since I am going with the Southern bliss imagery?), I went over to Lowe's and rounded-up a few. This led to my discovery that our hose has rotted over the winter and needed to be replaced. This required another trip to the store. I got the new hose, flipped back the cover on the self-rewinding hose holder (a thing of beauty indeed): Inside was a wasp industriously working on a wasp nest.

Yet another reason I don't like nature: You never can be sure with nature. Pull something out of the yard and there's a worm. Nature has no respect for the constructs of humanity, hence the damn wasp nest in my beloved self-rewinding hose holder. I sprayed the offending wasp and nest with wasp killer, it was a direct hit, but that damn thing wasn't going down without a fight. It came after me. I continued to shoot at it with the wasp killer, hoping it would head in the other direction. The wasp spray was the foamy kind and landed in big globs on the driveway. Finally, the wasp dropped out of the sky. I felt sort of bad about killing one of nature's creatures, but one has to do what one has to do. As I hosed the poison off of the driveway, I wonder how seriously I was damaging nature with my poisoned water run-off? Not only had I killed one of God's creatures and destroyed the home it was trying to build for it's family, I was polluting the water supply for generations to come.

All I was trying to do was hang a few Boston Ferns. Do you think the plastic pots they put those things in at the nursery have a greater negative impact on the environment; or is their toxic plasticity offset by the "plantness" of their contents? I considered this as I hosed the bird poop and pollen (two of nature's treats) off the front porch. Then I noticed the wrought iron plant holder had rusted over winter. Would spray painting it damage the environment more than throwing it out and getting a new one? Perhaps I should just bury it in the backyard. One of the trees seemed dead in the back yard. Should we have it removed and if so, what should we do with the remains? Would burning it just cause more air pollution?

Convinced I could single-handily destroy the entire planet, I went back inside the house where I could keep my damn carbon footprint under control. Nature, it's overrated.

The Seedy Underbelly of T-Ball: Skanks in the Outfield

The whole new Larry King scandal had me a little bummed-out when I found out that his wife, sister-in-law and Larry ALL agreed that Larry had NOT had sex with the sister-in-law. I never really believed this to begin with, but since skanks, celebrities and scandal go together like rama-lama-ding-dong, I was sort of sad. I certainly wasn't surprised, old Larry doesn't look likely to go THERE without a handful of Viagra and with his heart problems, I don't think any doctor is going to give Viagra to him. Of course, last year we found out that we mere mortals are not given access to drugs celebrities eat like half-price, pastel Easter basket M&M's. Once again, propothol springs to mind. But, just for auld ang syne, old times' sake, I wanted to believe that the failure of Larry's marriage was due to his philandering ways. Especially with the "ick" factor of a relative's involvement. Larry has gotten awfully frail and I was sort of thinking: "Way to go, Larry!" Which given the sanctity of marriage is all wrong, I wanted to give the old guy props for trying. Bless his heart, as we say in the South. But, alas it was not to be. It just seemed to be a regular old divorce where things just went kaput. No sleeping with the sister-in-law. No skankery. I was kind of sad. We started to move on.

BUT, quicker than you can say: "Bombshell McGhee" we were stopped in our tracks by one Hector Penate, the King children's T-Ball coach, who has confessed to sleeping with Larry's wife, on Larry's desk. Ah-ha -- just as I had always suspected: Those T-Ball games are rife with sexual tension. Not only that, with the entrance of Hector Penate, there's a new twist to my declaration of 2010 as the "Year of the Skank": a MAN Skank!!! Now THIS is the crap that inspires me to get out of bed every morning -- sad, but true. Joy, joy, joy, happy dance!!! Once again, being shallow is SO much easier. Hector Penate running his mouth about nailing Larry's wife on Larry's desk is nothing short of HEAVEN to my shallow little soul. So, Hector Penate, thank-you, thank-you, thank-you for not only restoring my faith in skankery, but for doing it just in time to make T-ball season a little more interesting for everybody.

I Can't Dance, So Don't Ask Me.

I am going to miss Kate Gossilin on "Dancing With the Stars". I have been in possession of two left feet ever since I can remember, and when it comes to moving around I have absolutely no sense of rhythm. For years, I thought I was the worst dancer in the world. Then Kate showed up on "Dancing With the Stars". Yowsa did she suck. Not only that, I really missed the angry lesbian haircut she used to have. Kate has a real uptight, rigid, inflexible quality that when not allowed to express itself through her hairdo (or by berating Jon), seemed to have no place to go but into her dance. Her interpretation of what I think was supposed to be the paso doble was on of the strangest things I have ever seen on T.V. It made Bruno Tunioli look like just a regular guy. It was wackadoodle, weird T.V. at it's finest, in other words, this is the kind of junk T.V. I live for. In the paso doble, Kate was pursued by the bull (the press) in some sort artistic scold of the paparazzi, that would have been bad performed by good dancers, but with Kate at the helm the thing fell apart faster than a Dollar Store beach toy in the hands of a four year old. I just love how absolutely impervious to shame this woman is. If I had stomped around the floor in such an absurd mess, I would have gone home weeping and sulked into hiding for awhile. Not Kate, she is just learning to dance, you mean people (like me) JUDGING her. I just love it when she gets all self-righteous and indignant, and plays the "I-m-just-trying-to-earn-a-living-and-feed-my-babies. Why-are-you-oppressing-me-by-making-fun-of-my-dancing-card?" Um, 'cause you are on a dancing show. Trying to learn to dance myself I learned avoid dancing. What tone-deaf is to singing, my feet are to dancing. But not our Kate, she has eight little mouths to feed, and all I can say is she must really love those kids.

I Dub Thee "Team Tiara Tuesday"

Tuesday is pretty much a sucky day. The thrill of the weekend is gone, and there are still DAYS left until the next. So, in order to get through the week with ease and grace, I hereby dub Tuesdays "Tiara Tuesdays". Put some sparklies on your head, pour yourself a cold one, sit back and revel in your own splendor. You may not want to do this at work -- it depends upon your dress code. Bland people, especially at work, frequently do not understand the need to shine and resent those of us who do. As a flamingo in a flock of pigeons on the lawn that is life, I have often felt the cruel oppression of their bitter jealousy. It's the occupational hazard of being fabulous moi. However, the world needs bedazzling and it is up to Team Tiara to bring it on!!! So go forth and SPARKLE!!!!

Signs of Aging: FootSmart is My Friend

It started off subtlety, as all addictions do. My Dad had congestive heart failure and needed socks that were loose around the top. I did an Internet search and found them at a place called FootSmart. Pretty soon, I was receiving the FootSmart catalog. It seemed like a bunch of old people stuff, but then their product line started to appeal to me. Words like "massaging footbed" and "energizing cushion". I knew I could use some of that. Then the FootSmart catalog started discussing things like pronation and plantar fasciitis. Maybe the cure to all my problems would be motion control shoes.

The catalogs continued to come, one at a time. They weren't unrelenting like AARP on your fiftieth birthday. Those bastards harangued me mercilessly. Oh no, the FootSmart people just tucked their little catalog in amid the bills and magazines. Then I started keeping the catalog next to my chair. Brand names like "Naturalizer", "Merrell", "Romika" and the holy grail of baby boomer footwear "Birkenstock" danced in my head like proverbial sugarplums. Before I knew it, I was lusting after the Thorlos Cushion Socks, which promised me "pain-proof steps" at only $12.59 a pair. Wait -- since when would I even THINK about spending $12.59 on a single pair of socks? That is on sale, regular retail is $13.99. I'd better hurry to get the bargain! The FootSmart catalog was like orthopedic crack. Soon I was suggesting it to friends: "I know you think it is all old lady shoes, but have you checked the FootSmart catalog? They have some really cute stuff. " Since when did I think shoes with names like: "Orthaheels" were cute? Since when did I start reading catalogs that centerfolds include Dr. Andrew Weill? How did I go from Manalos to Tevas? Again I found myself sitting on the floor, wailing like Nancy Kerrigan at the 1994 Winter Olympics: "Why? Why? Why?" Getting old sneaks up on you. In sensible shoes made by Propet.

FootSmart now features a section for bras that are starting to look pretty good to me. Good-bye Victoria's Secret, hello full-figure support! I have my eye on a leisure bra. What??? After years of standing at attention my boobs need to relax.

Joanna's Terrible Horrible No Good Very Bad Week

Even though I am child-free, several years ago I purchased Judith Viorst's children's book "Alexander's Terrible Horrible No Good Very Bad Day" which I occasionally find solace in, or at least a chuckle, when my husband is deployed and the BS gets knee deep. This week was craptacular. By the end of it I was waiting for a house to drop-out of the sky and for some bitch to make-off my favorite shoes.

It all started with our annual termite insurance inspection. No biggie, I thought. We do this every year. The inspector complains to me about all the boxes the movers left in our garage and how they are a termite magnet. I have been explaining to the same guy for three years running how I am physically incapable of moving the boxes, and the Bulldog (my husband) is never home to move them. I know the termite inspector doesn't understand military life and how so much is out of my control because he asked me if I was going to go to Afghanistan with my husband. I exercised uncommon restraint by not bursting out laughing and saying: "Are you fucking kidding me? Uh, HELL NO! Afghanistan a war zone. I can't move these damn boxes because I have heart problems. You think I am going to Afghanistan??? Don't you watch the news???" But I am used to civilians not understanding our life style, and I was anxious to get this damn inspection over with for another year. Just cut him a check and move on. Of course, this is MY life, so it couldn't be that easy. Yup. We had termites in the garage. After bribing termite guy to move the boxes away from the walls (having money is one of the perks of being old) he found a roll of butcher paper that should have been in my studio with my craft supplies, but was hiding behind the pile of boxes the movers had dumped in the garage. Termites had DEVOURED this huge roll of paper. They had also started on a box of books which was pretty much a total loss. Let me say this: Termites are some seriously NASTY creatures. They are winged, wormy creatures that travel underground. I was very impressed by the amount of damage they inflicted in a very short time. Fortunately, we were covered by termite insurance and the termites had not damaged the structure of the garage or house. Termite guy told me we were lucky, and from the looks of that roll of paper and box of books, we were very lucky. Our garage was treated, and crisis number one was averted.

Proof that trouble finds me, no need to leave the house, several days later I was watching T.V. and the phone rang. It was a call for the Bulldog, who of course, isn't here. I asked if I could take a message and the fellow on the phone responded:

"I am trying to confirm that he is have three whosamadoolies sent to Florida."
"Huh?" I responded.
"Whosamadoolies. Three of them to an address in Florida." He responded.
"What's a whosamadoolie?" I asked trying to figure out why the Bulldog would be having three of them sent to Florida.
"It piece of automotive diagnostic equipment."
Now I couldn't figure-out for the life of me why my husband would be having three whosamadoolies sent to Florida. Since we have lived all over the country, including Florida, I thought maybe the guy on the phone had an old address. I named the towns we'd lived in. It wasn't those. Uh-oh, I thought. This doesn't sound right.
"Let me get in touch with my husband an have him call you back."

I do not know what army spouses did before cell phones. Seriously, I have had to track the Bulldog down in darkest Africa to fix some BS problem because being married to somebody for nearly 17 years isn't sufficient authority to get access to certain information over the telephone. Now, I would be responsible for all of the Bulldog's debt if (God forbid) something should happen to him, but until then, the credit card people don't want to talk to me. (Yes, I have power of attorney and we have filed upteengillion bits of paperwork to give me permission to have access to all of the Bulldog's info, but this is NEVER, EVER sufficient for these people. It TOTALLY chaps my behind.)

Long story short: The Bulldog doesn't know what a whosamadoolie is either, but someone was having three of them sent to Miami on our charge card to the tune of several thousands of dollars. Credit card cancelled. Crisis averted. Next.

All this stress on an empty stomach was making me irritable. I am on a perpetual diet and eat like a gerbil, but am some how still fat. "To hell with the diet," I thought. "I am ordering some dinner." Mmmm... BBQ chicken wings with onion rings -- tasty.

I was on the phone with my mother, when all of a sudden the room started to spin. You know that scene in the "Sex and the City" movie where Charlotte gets diarrhea? Well, my stomach started to make those noises. Soon, I was hunkered over the toilet, barfing my brains out. It was the perfect end, to a perfectly awful week.

Eyjafjallajokull Volcano

Eyjafjallajokull Volcano, Iceland: I am so glad I didn't go to school in Iceland and have to learn to spell that mo-fo. I listened to the news thinking: "What volcano, where?" Nobody on T.V. dared to attempt to pronounce it. Not even George Stephanopoulos and you would think that with the mouthful that is his last name he could at least try. No sir'ee, bob. When that news story slid across the copy desk you know everybody just looked up and said: "Say wha'? Eyjafjalla...? Falafel? I'm NOT tryin' to say that on T.V." In horror, they imagined the "Youtube" mash-up featuring newscasters across the land mispronouncing Eyjafajallajokull to the tune of "Super Freak". Further research (I googled) determines that Eyjafjallajokull has been rumbling since late March. How come we are just now hearing about it? Everyone feared to pronounce its name.

Bye-Bye Betty!

I knew it would happen. The minute I find a T.V. show I like, they manage to move it around so much it's harder to find than Osama Bin Laden. Once they started moving around "Ugly Betty" I knew it was only a matter of time until they cancelled it. The bastards. I just don't get it. Really dreadful shows plod on FOREVER ("Survivor" anyone?) but any show that requires an infinitesimal amount of wit, intelligence and god forbid, an actual script lasts for about two seasons. Network execs then move it around until the ratings go into the toilet and then they cancel the show. "Ugly Betty" is their latest casualty. Apparently ratings with the "important 18 to 49" year-old group dropped the most. (I think T.V. overestimates the economic power of youth. The older I get, the more money I have. This is pretty much the only perk of getting old, but you take what you can get, and you need the extra dough so you can bribe young people to do your bidding and purchase prune juice.)

Now, for some reason that completely eludes me, the people over in T.V. Ville have decided that 18 to 49 year-olds just can't get enough of those zany Kardashsians. I am neither an 18 to 49 year-olds or a Kardashian, so that may be why I just don't get it. If I were an 18 to 49 year-old I would find it mildly insulting that T.V. executives think I am this freaking stupid AND easily entertained. As it is, I know way too much about the Kardashians, who I don't give a crap about, and who really aren't very interesting to begin with. I know one of them is pretty, but the other 300 Kardasians are fairly run-of-the-mill clothes horses. That's about it. Yet, these people are on T.V. all the time -- I NEVER have trouble finding them -- and I DON'T WANT TO FIND THEM.

So, I am bitter. I am bitter that they have cancelled my "Ugly Betty" and stupid T.V. shows with crapola writers (reality my ass) spread like vermin across the vast cultural wasteland that is television. I may need to find a hobby.

Celebrities Who Annoy Us: Daisy Fuentes

We all have one: That certain celebrity who bugs the bejebus out of us although we have no reason for it. Some celebrities have earned our disdain: Jesse James, Tiger Woods, Miley Cyrus. We can discuss at length why they annoy us, but other we just don't like. I just can't stand Daisy Fuentes. I see her face and she is like chalk squeaking across the a black board that is my psyche. Daisy Fuentes has never done anything to earn my ire, for all I know she could be a perfectly lovely person -- if she wasn't so annoying. I had a friend that hated Marilou Henner AND Aretha Franklin. Who the heck doesn't like Aretha? No particular reason -- they just annoyed her. Of course, since I have my own personal disdain for Daisy Fuentes, I understood. My Dad didn't like Linda Carter. Yep -- that right "Wonder Woman". Every time she would do that contact lens commercial a few years ago, he wriggle-up his nose, reach for the remote, and switch channels.

So, I am asking y'all: Do you have a celebrity that for no reason you can pinpoint that you just can't stand? We (as in me) at "Joannafesto" want to know!

Good-Bye to Dixie

I woke-up to surprising and sad news that the lovely Dixie Carter has died. Certainly this is a heart-breaking loss to her family. As a fan, I will miss her. Like so many I will remember her wonderful portrayal of the sassy, smart, intelligent and hilarious Julia Sugarbaker on "Designing Women". In a world that often sterotypes Southerners as racist hicks, batting mosquitoes off their sweaty arm-pits, Dixie Carter's Julia Sugarbaker was as smart and sophiticated, as she was beautiful. We are going to miss her.

Saddle-up at the Pink Pony

Well as if we weren't busy enough with the Master's Golf Tournament in Georgia, Joslyn James (a Tiger Woods also-ran) is in Atlanta headlining at "The Pink Pony", one of Atlanta's most well known strip joints. In my unrelenting attempt to keep my readers abreast (Get it -- a breast!!!) of the latest trends, I did a little online research on "The Pink Pony".

If you need something to do, I advise you to Google "The Pink Pony" reviews on "Yelp. There are a couple creepy ones, but for the most part the reviewers community-minded guys (and gals) sincerely trying to rate the place for their fellow man. Sort of a public-service for strip-fans. Surprisingly, for an area that is on the shiny buckle of the Bible Belt, there are a LOT of consumer reviews of "The Pink Pony". In fact Sunday, one reviewer notes, at "The Pink Pony" is "the best" because it is "Soul Food Sunday". You cannot buy packaged beer in the Georgia county I live in on a Sunday, but if you drive 20 miles to Atlanta, you can drink test tube shots out of some chick's cleavage. I love America. "The Pink Pony" is also handicapped accessible, has a coat check. (Whew, wouldn't want to be carting that around all night.) However, much to one reviewer's chagrin, they charge $3.00 for parking and he resented having to tip some guy for a towel and soap in the bathroom. (And I thought my husband was cheap, er, I mean thrifty.) Now I think the quality control that goes along with making sure you get a CLEAN towel in the men's room at a strip joint would be worth a tip, but that could just be me. My favorite reviewer actually reports falling asleep during a lap dance!!! I suspect he was military because those guys can sleep any where, but I kinda' feel sorry for that poor girl working her ta-tas off to no avail. That's got to bruise the old ego just a little. I bet she went home that night and seriously reconsidered her career choice.

I had heard of "The Pink Pony" prior to Miss Joslyn James scheduled appearance. My husband, the Bulldog, being a man and a soldier and all, was the first to tell me about it. Every area of the country seems to have one of THOSE places. When I moved to Sarasota, Florida back in the late 70's, there was this place called "Club Mary". I believe it is still there, only now it is a "Cheetah's". "Club Mary" was quite notorious in a town made-up of mostly retired people. My mother was an RN at a high-end retirement center (run by the Presbyterian Church) that actually took the old folks out on a field trip to tour "Club Mary". Sort of a continuing education program for seniors. When I was in Tennessee I recall this one topless bar located in a log cabin, that featured an all you can eat Chinese buffet. In Orlando, Florida they tried to outlaw nudity in the clubs by stating they would only allow on stage nudity as "artistic expression". The Orlando strip club girls took to reading Shakespere. You would drive by "The Platinum Club" and there would be a big sign advertising: "HELD OVER! Hamlet. Featuring Dusty Mounds!" Some guys are all about the arts, you know.

You Wanna' Tax What???

On the "Today Show" this morning were a couple people who support taxing soft drinks because they feel the excessive sugar consumption is the numero uno culprit in our being a nation of fatties. They feel the solution to this problem is to tax sugary soft drinks. If they actually pass this legislation, I would like to be the first in line for a refund because I am fat and I haven't had a sugary soft drink since 1986. My husband (the Bulldog) refers to these people as "gooders" -- you know the people would want to inflict their will on you because you can't be responsible for yourself. I like to think of them as "Party Poopers" -- or "PP". Matt Lauer never ascertained from this morning's PP what their stance is on diet soda, but I doubt they think it is health food. I am not here to defend diet soda as such, and it does concern me that my cats, who will eat crap you drag in from the outside on the bottom of your shoes, sniff at diet soda, look at it in disgust, and prefer to lick their own behinds. In defense of diet soda, I do not believe it is as dangerous as certain medication. For some reason propothol springs to mind.

Although PP would like you to believe that you can control all health problems through what you eat, I am here to tell you otherwise. In August of 2001 I damn near died from a consistently misdiagnosed congenital (as in BIRTH DEFECT) heart condition. What pisses me off about PP is that they would have us believe that diet and exercise will cure all, and I am here to tell you it doesn't. Three weeks before having open-heart surgery, I actually became concerned that I was putting on weight, so I went on a diet and started an exercise program. Which is O.K. normally, but I had put on weight because I had congestive heart failure. Well, post-op I lost thirty pounds in a week and the excess weight was caused by completely non-food related fluid retention and the damn exercise could have killed me. The PP are the same people who look at me when I tell them I had open heart-surgery and want to know if I ever smoked (no), was fat (Off and on. I was fit as a fiddle, according to their standards, when I had surgery.) and blah, blah, blah. As if it is not annoying enough to have to have open-heart surgery at the age of forty one, these douche bags inquire as to whether or not I was complicit in my own heart-condition. Are you fucking kidding me? I just want to look them all square in the eye and say: "You are gonna' die. You just are. We ALL will and there is only so much you can do about it, because YOU are not in charge." Frankly, I think the PP may be responsible for some of my heath problems, because they are jacking up my blood pressure because of the stress caused by all their damn rules. They have taken away my salt shaker and fried chicken, and would have me eating nothing but leafy green vegetables grown by virgins. FYI: I am always on a diet, and yet I am fat. It is called middle-age and heredity.

Bottom line PP: Just keep your damn paws off my Diet Pepsi.

We Get It. He's Sorry. Next.

Just when I had settled in for my happy afternoon of watching my very important judge shows my T.V. viewing was rudely interrupted by a press conference. Not just any press conference, but the "Tiger Woods I'm Sorry Tour" press conference. The whole nation stood still while Tiger Woods got asked basically the same question fifty kagillion times and was as apologetic, contrite and humble. Yawn. Where's my remote? Is this the crap for which we are now interrupting MY T.V. viewing? For crissakes people, Tiger Woods is a freakin' GOLFER, not the president. Now I am never going to know if Kenesha gets her cell phone bill paid after her babydaddy ran off with that skank Monesha. O.K., they will probably rerun that one next week, but Tiger Woods is a GOLFER. We are a nation at war and when I hear: "We interrupt this program..." I can't help it thinking it is going to be for something more than Tiger Woods saying he sorry. AGAIN. We've moved on. Jesse James has completely diverted us. We whipped our heads around so quick to get a peek at his shenanigans we're lucky we don't all have whiplash. How could we help it? Nobody in Tiger's harem was dressing-up like a Nazi. My biggest disappointment was that no one asked the big question: "So Tiger, this tournament is called "The Masters". Is that short for what you will be doing a lot of in your sex life???" (Snark. Snark. Snort.) To the press, it's over. We've moved on and you need to too.

HOPPY EASTER EVERYBODY!!!!

Team Tiara

A lot of people have been taking sides on the whole celebrity scandal factory that is showbiz, whether it be "Team Aniston" or "Team Sandra" to profess their loyalty and support of a particular celebrity going through a bit of a rough patch. We've all hit a rough patch or two in our day, haven't we? Sometimes it is so hard to remember how fabulous one truly is when someone has just taken a metaphorical dump all-over your fabulousness. Therefore, whether it be death, divorce, desertion or disappointment, I propose you put a nice sparkly crown on your head and remember just who the hell you are.

Long before I read and participated in (to my regret) the "smashed" Potato Queens annual parade and soiree in Mississippi, I developed a particular fondness for wearing a tiara. Some of my earliest memories were making crowns with paper bags and crayons. Now I am sure the author of those books would like to keep all the tiara wearing to herself and her followers, but I believe the tiara truly belongs to the world. Therefore, I am here to bring the tiara wearing to the masses. It is time high time we declare sovereignty over ourselves and there is no more fabulous way to do it then by slapping a sparkly crown on our heads. Got to do something you don't want to do? Put your tiara on. Whether it is cleaning toilets, or cleaning up your life, put some sparklys on your head and remember who you are. Now I know Beyonce is all with that song about "...put a ring on it" but I say: "Ring-schming. Put a crown on it." Put a tiara and there will be no confusion amongst others with whom they are dealing. Don't just get one, you need at least a half-dozen or so. There's a gazillion of them on eBay. Most of them are a total bargain when you consider the dollar to glamour ratio imparted by a tiara. Also, as my dear friend Alisa reminds us, do not forget those less fortunate than yourself and remember to donate your old tiaras to charity.

Now on a note for that darling Sandra Bullock who has been so hideously treated: There is no need to hide your lovely face from the paparazzi because you married some fool. You have done nothing wrong. I say: "Sister, put a crown on your head and carry-on! Remember who you are." If anybody asks what team you are on say: "Team Tiara".

It's Raining Skanks!

Well, it's been about a week since I declared 2010 "The Year of the Skank". It continues to rain skanks with no relief in sight. This last week brought a downpour of skanks. Tiger Woods is apparently up to fifteen, and is expected to go higher. It has gotten to the point of where I think someone should consider printing a program like the ones you get at baseball games so we can keep up. I mean: "Who is on first?"

O.K., the first skank in this current avalanche of skanks is Rachel Uchitel, Tiger Woods' #1. You may have noticed she has been suspiciously quiet. While Michelle "Bombshell" McGhee bites, claws and whores her way through her fifteen minutes of fame, Ms. Uchitel remains as silent as the sphinx. "Bombshell", or "BS" as I like to think of her, blabbed it all for a mere $30,000. Chump change compared to Uchitel's cool ten million in hush money. As skanks come out of the woodwork and onto the pages of "Vanity Fair", Uchitel rides atop the earnings heap like Daddy Warbucks looking for a lap dance on a Saturday night. Just goes to show you talk is cheap and silence is golden.

The list of dubious occupations continues to amuse and amaze, in case you are wondering what these women put down on their tax statements. BS now wants to be referred to as a "tattoo model". (Human billboard would be more like it, but I am not even sure she IS human.) Of course there is the usual smattering of models, escorts and actresses, an occasional student or two. One skank was described as a "professional party girl". Hm, I guess I missed that option on career day in high school.

The Best April Fool's Day EVER

Once upon a time, in a land far, far away called "California" there lived a beautiful princess who was married to an evil man called Satan. The Princess had put up with a great deal of crap off of Satan, and one day the princess had had enough. On a particularly beautiful Spring Day, the Princess decided to kick Satan's sorry ass to the curb. "Bye, bye. See you tonight." she said to Satan as he left for work that morning, knowing full well she was lying through her teeth. The Princess was boarding a plane for the east coast that very afternoon, and if she was lucky (and she was VERY lucky) she would never see Satan's sorry ass again. She started to dance and pack and sing. It was the mid-eighties and Annie Lennox was singing: "Would I Lie to You" on MTV, followed with Tina Turner with "What's Love Got to Do With It". As the Princess twirled and packed, a couple blue birds dropped in to help her neatly fold her panties and tuck them into her suitcase. The princess wrote note to Satan telling him she had enough of him and his foolishness and this was good-bye forever and ever and ever. The princess boarded the plane that very afternoon and flew far, far away, never to see Satan again. Without a doubt, it was THE BEST APRIL FOOL'S DAY ever!!!!

It took a few years, but the Princess found a REAL Prince and they lived happily ever after.

Satan eventually made his way to prison for assaulting another not so lucky Princess, which made our Princess kind of sad, but she felt very vindicated knowing that people rarely change and this guy really was Satan.

The End.