Never Friend Your Relatives on Facebook

Why, why, why, why, why is it that one's relatives give one the most cause for concern on "Facebook"???? Once again, I have had to block a relative off my "Facebook" page for obnoxious political blabbering. Thank goodness my mother doesn't know how to use a computer. I blame talk radio -- Glenn Beck and Rush Limbaugh in particular for this unfortunate state of affairs. These two oppressed rich white guys have turned pontificating and reinforcing other people's opinions with their inaccurate political bias into careers. I would like to see both of them get caught soliciting sex in a men's room. Preferably from each other. When, when, when, when, when did all of this political posturing become a socially acceptable form of conversation???? Didn't mom tell them it was rude to discuss religion and politics? Even if they DID get this message relatives think somehow THEY are excluded from this social behavior it comes to you and your "Facebook" page. They believe they are exempt because after all you are family. I guess it makes it okay to subject you to their political opinions because, they think you won't get pissed-off with them and block their ass on "Facebook". The very same people who post their political and religious ideological viewpoints at every whip snitch are the very same people who get pissed when you say something that offends them. From here on out, my goal is to simply offend EVERYBODY. Since these people care so much what my political and religious opinions are, I shall be voicing them freely. That's right people: I have been holding back. Stay tuned.

Small People, Big Douche Bag

Dear Dumb Fucks:

You would think a company with the name "British" in its title would at least find somebody with a decent command of the English language to be its spokesperson. Perhaps BP simply has no freakin' clue as to how heavily armed the South is. Southerners as a whole are patient and polite people, but speaking for myself, I have just about had enough of BP's bullshit. This week I started seeing ads on T.V. explaining how BP really does give a crap about the disaster they have wrecked upon our nation. (A nation, by the way, made-up of mostly "small people" who got really sick of the "big people"--like BP-- screwing us back in the old country). BP can run the biggest damn PR campaign in the universe, but until they shut the bazillion gallons of oil belching into the Gulf of Mexico (and as a Florida girl I like to think of it as MY Gulf of Mexico) on an hourly basis I feel they should focus on fixing the fucking problem. I don't want to hear about how we need to get our nation off of its "addiction to oil" by a bunch of bullshit politicians trying to get a soundbite out of this situation. We have a saying in the South: "When you are up to your ass in alligators, it is hard to remember your initial objective was to drain the swamp." All the finger-pointing in the world is not going to shut-off that nightmare of oil spewing into what is a very delicate Eco-system. At certain times of the year, hotels and residences on the Gulf coast have to turn their lights off, or face hefty fines because hatching sea turtles may mistake the light for the moon and head inland instead of out to sea. Just how'dya' think they are going to fair with all this CRAP spewing in the water? Until BP shuts-off the oil, cleans and pays for the mess they have created, I REALLY don't want to know how much they CARE. As my mother used to say: "Actions speak louder than words." I already have a pretty good idea how much BP "cares" by the INACTION it took during the first few weeks of this crisis, where BP was primarily focused on finding someone else to blame for the ecological and economic crisis BP created.

Very truly yours,
One of the "small people"

Kardashians for Dummies

The "E!" network is rapidly becoming the 24-hour-a-day channel featuring the Kardashians. The Kardashian phenomena is something I REALLY don't get. I have never actually managed to sit through and entire half-hour of their show because I have never been that bored. Usually I can come-up with something more interesting and mentally stimulating to do -- like trimming my toenails. The truly disturbing thing is how much I know about these Kardashians, who I am not even REMOTELY curious about. They aren't even interesting in a "Sarah-Palin-is-she-for-real?" kind of way. I try very hard to know as little about them as possible, yet they seem to be very dominant in the nation's collective psyche. By which I mean the Kardashians are on T.V. all the freakin' time. Therefore, with the recent immigration issues having come to the forefront our nation's politics, I feel that new immigrants may be at a disadvantage if they fail to understand the significance of this American family. So I have taken it upon myself as a public service to decipher the Kardashian family phenomena to those MORE fortunate than myself.

From what I gather, it all started because one of the Kardashians -- Kim -- who is really very pretty has a really big ass. Nobody in Hollywood has a big ass any more. Despite this horrible handicap, little Kim-with-the-big-ass was considered quite a beauty. This really pissed-off her sisters who also had big asses, but were NOT considered great beauties. That has to sort of stick in your craw. Someone decided that this would make a good T.V. show. It was not me. Now the other sisters run around trying EVERYTHING to be just as pretty as Kim, but it is not going so well for them. Too bad that all the celebrity magic in the world cannot make up for the genetic toss of the dice that is natural selection. In order to improve their gene pool, and hopefully the looks of their off-spring, the big-assed, but not so pretty Kardashians get drunk and date rich athletes. And by "date" I mean sleep with. It is not as easy to date rich athletes as it looks, and the girls are prone to resorting to all kinds of desperate measures to get their attention, except for Kim. I think the Kardashians may belong to some sort of peculiar religious cult, because despite the predilection for sleeping around, they do not believe in using birth control. It also seems that for the Kardashians, marriage actually hinders the process of conception. I am not aware of any physical or metaphysical reasons for this, it has just my observation. Bruce Jenner -- an Olympic decathlon gold medalist married Kris Kardashian, who intended to improve the Kardashian gene pool, or at least so her average, but big-assed daughters, could have a shot at meeting more athletes. I think Kris Kardashian may have as many children as those Dugger people, but I don't really watch that show either so I don't have numbers. There are so many of them and they tend to breed rapidly.

I think there is a hidden agenda here: The huge demand for constant celebrity news and the dearth of shows like "TMZ", "Access Hollywood", "E.T." etc., not to mention the entertainment segments on "news" shows create a huge demand for material. What better, more economical way to fill it than with the prolific Kardashian clan? Have a celebrity cancel on you and need to fill a time slot? There is probably a Kardashian floating around somewhere just waiting to fill your dead time. She'll probably be right in your town, too. It's a cable T.V. network executive's dream. What the Kardashians lack in quality they make-up for in quantity. Like the giant oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico, Kardashians just keep spewing forth -- whether we want them to or not.

Don't Drink the Kool-Aid!

People do like to get worked into a frenzy over political issues. I used to be one of them. One of the curses/blessings about being middle-aged is that everything in your life about the middle. I think the thickening of the mid-section that comes with age and menopause is may very well be a biological metaphor -- albeit a cruel one. Since everyone seems to care so much about MY political opinions, which is usually just a ploy so they can pontificate on their own opinions, here is a list of a few things I believe:

1. I am pro-choice. I believe a woman's ability to control her reproductive system is not an issue that should involve the state. If someone is against abortion, then by all means they should not have an abortion. Until science can issue a definitive statement on when the "soul" enters human body, the decision to continue a pregnancy or terminate a pregnancy is between a WOMAN and her doctor. When men can carry children and their bodies bear the physical strain of giving birth, they can have a say. Until then, men run just about everything else, so they can shut-the-fuck-up about MY BODY. (Please don't try to engage me in a discussion about this issue, because my opinion is pretty much set in stone on this one. Discussing it gives me a damn headache, and since I no longer have a uterus, I only have a philosophical stake in the issue and not a personal one. If you would like to disagree with me, you are free to do so, but not one this blog. I HATE discussing this subject.)

2. I love gay people. If you are gay and want to get married, have at it.

3. I support our military. O.K., if you have been following me nodding your head yes, this one may have you doing a Scooby-Doo and going: "Hurruh?" I have issues about U.S. involvement in Iraq, but Saddam Hussein was an evil, evil man who killed lots of innocent people. Until the U.S. is no longer dependent on oil, it behooves the U.S. control the oil in that region. Imperialistic? Maybe. Morally wrong? Could be. Politically advantageous to the Western way of life? Yup.

I completely support our military in the war in Afghanistan. I will always and forever be pissed-off about what happened on 9/11/2001. To fail to understand the intent of jihad in fundamentalist Islam is dangerous indeed.

4. I do not believe Barrack Obama is the second-coming or the anti-Christ.

5. I think that BP is mostly responsible for the oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico and as a Florida girl, I am just sick about it.

5. I HATE talk radio. It is divisive, full of lies and misinformation and resolves nothing -- even when I agree with it.

6. I love a good conspiracy theory, but I don't believe in them.

Now that ought to upset just about everybody.

Have a nice day!

Beauty IS a Beast: Toddlers and Tiaras Returns!

After a brief break in the broadcasts of two of my favorite reality televisions series "Toddlers and Tiaras" and "Little Miss Perfect", which I tend to think of as the same thing, "Toddlers and Tiaras" returned this evening for a fresh new season. This disturbing foray into the peculiar parallel universe (train wreck) that is the child beauty pageant world did not disappoint. It was almost worth the wait.

Enter one four-year old girl named MaKenzie. Clearly MaKenzie had long ago seized control of her household and was moving-on to take over the pageant world. It was obvious her parents were afraid of her. Hell, even I was a little afraid of her. As one little pageant girl put it: "I didn't like MaKenzie; she tried to bite me." I suspect there is a lot of metaphorical back-biting in the pageant world, but I got the feeling MaKenzie's biting was pretty much the real deal. With a gravely voice that sounded like she'd been smoking a pack-a-day for the past twenty years, MaKenzie clenched a pacifier ("ni-ni" she called it) between her teeth and growled commands at everybody. If ni-ni went missing, there was hell to pay for everybody concerned. MaKenzie treated ni-ni with the same kind of regard a crackhead has for a pipe. It was truly a sight to behold. Pageant people refer to such behavior from pageant girls as being a "diva" or a "firecracker". Some, like me, would call it being a brat. MaKenzie was pretty much the poster child for corporal punishment. If she hadn't been a four-year-old, I would have said: "Someone phone hell. Satan is missing a soul."

Do You Know Where Your Husband Lives?: Census 2010, Part 2

I try to be a law-abiding citizen. Seriously, I do. I have never gotten into trouble with the law over anything greater than a parking ticket which, I might add, I only got because I loaned my car to one of the attorneys I worked for and SHE got the ticket. Lest I sound like some cheerful, goody-goody nice sort, if you have read this blog at all, you may have noticed I have kind of a bitchy streak. You may have also taken note that I do not suffer fools gladly and suffer institutionalized foolishness is even less gladly. The cruel irony that the Bulldog (my husband) is in the highly institutionalized military has not escaped my notice, and has occasionally worked my last nerve. Being well-versed in the ways of bureaucrats, I try avoid them at all costs. At the very least, I try not to be blind-sided. If I have to deal with one, I take a deep sign, and put myself in my invisible, bureaucrat-proof psychic bubble-of-protection where not even the most well-seasoned form-wielding nonsense peddler can rattle me. I also carry a rabbit's foot, just in case. When I went searching for an illustration to go with this essay, I discovered that even Buckingham Palace has to answer those stupid Census Bureau questions. So, if they can make the Queen do it, I guess they can pretty much make me, too.

Saturday, after a rare day of socializing, I noticed the message light was blinking on the answering machine. It was the Census Bureau. They had a few questions they needed to ask me. Son-of-bitch. Now what did they want? O.K., so I initially had a FEW problems filling out the form which required that I kind of scribble things out, and write things in, but I had finally determined, under careful consideration and a long distance consultation with the Bulldog that TWO people live here. One. Two. O.K., so maybe the Bulldog WAS out-of-state on April 1, 2010, but his OFFICIAL home-of-record according to the ARMY is here. In my world, the U.S. Army ALWAYS trumps the Census Bureau -- it just does. Besides, that is what Bulldog said to put down. He owns the house we live in HERE not THERE. Therefore, he didn't get counted THERE, because he was counted HERE.

Of course the census taker I talk to is a serious, suspicious sort. She should have been employed by the FBI. She KNEW I was lying my ass off about where my husband was on April 1. Only moments into our conversation, knowing I totally suck at lying, I blurted out:

"Well... he wasn't HERE, he was THERE." Son-of-a-bitch, I thought. She had me on the ropes. Please don't send me to federal prison.

"Where was he?" she asked.

"The Army. He is in the Army." I think this statement should pretty much explain everything, but noooo....Miss Nosey Pants wanted to know an address for THERE.

"Can I get an address for THERE?" Probably, since Bulldog has to submit a gazillion forms to the army to get paid for being THERE, but seriously, was this any of her business? HE LIVES HERE, DAMN IT!!! I SWEAR HE DOES!!! Man, those people at the Census Bureau can split some hairs. Then I started thinking: Ethnicity. What if she asks me the Bulldog's ethnicity? Please don't ask me any ethnicity questions because on the form I said the Bulldog is Caucasian, when he is a whole lot Spanaird.

Suddenly, the part of my brain that used to work at a law firm started spewing something in "Bureaucratanese":

"I don't understand why the census bureau is putting an additional burden on the families of our servicemen and women requiring them to provide additional information during a time of war that civilians are not required to provide." I said. Hell, I don't know where the Bulldog is half the time, why does the census bureau need to know?

Weird thing was, Bulldog was present for this entire conversation, but the census taker refused to talk to him because he hadn't filed-out the form. Oh, yeah, it was MY ass they were after.

After several more minutes of this exchange, the census taker gave-up and moved on to the next question. When I hung-up I said to the Bulldog:

"I thought when I sent that form in that was the end of this census crap."

"Uh, no. I heard they are doing that a lot this year. You know they are even following-up some of this with personal visits."

Son-of-a-bitch. I just know those people are going to come knocking at the door. Who know where my husband will be by then.

American Idol: Maybe Simon Has the Right Idea.

Ugh. I stopped watching "American Idol" this season when there were still about eight contestants left. The whole thing just sort of tanked for me. I thought adding Kara DioGuardi to the judge's panel last year was a dumb move, but Miley Cyrus acting as a mentor to anybody is just hitting an all time low. Sadly, Miley is about the same age as what seems to have become Idol's target demographic: Teenage girls. Have you seen how fast teenage girls can dial a phone? What adult is going to telephone a T.V. show to vote that many times? Holy crap. No wonder the female contestants were voted off the show in rapid succession. The only girl left for weeks was Crystal Bowersox, and the only reason she stayed on so long is because she was so damn good. Lee DeWyze can sing, but Crystal Bowersox can sing like an angel.

So, I only watched the last five minutes of Idol tonight. It pretty much ended the way I expected. I think Simon has the right idea though: Time to leave Idol.

The Dirty Ugly Awful Truth

It all started where so many addictions start: Montana. Isolation, long winters and the lack of a really good mall slowly erodes the defenses of many. When I heard two women in line at Target comparing notes on whose kid was doing better in rehab, I thought it would never happen to me. Then one day a friend decided to throw a party -- not just any party, but a special party. Soon I found myself surrounded by the paraphernalia of what would become my addiction: Scrapbooking.

I know what you are thinking -- it sounds harmless, but I used to have delusions of being a punk, a bad ass, a kick-butt rowdy art chick with an attitude and maybe too much eyeliner. Here I was in Montana, wearing a cashmere twin set, at a Creative Memories scrapbooking party with some crazy dame making paper Cheerios out of two sizes of punches and acid free paper. What the hell had happened to my life? This, I told myself, is seriously stupid. Then the Creative Memories pusher, er, consultant, showed me how to crop my pictures. With one quick whack of the Personal Paper Trimmer, my pictures looked somehow BETTER. My life changed. Why hadn't I thought of this before? My seriously crappy photography was vastly improved. The consultant leaned over and said: "Not only does it improve your photos, you can cut anybody you don't like out of the picture." Holy crap! It was like she'd read my mind and met my family! I purchased a few things that day, just to be polite, but pretty soon it started to snowball as things often do in Montana.

I found myself in need of more product. I had the Creative Memories consultant on speed dial. In no time at all I had bought so much stuff, I was awarded the free paper-shaper and was now a member of the Memory Keepers Club. Then, out-of-the-blue, the Creative Memories consultant announced she was leaving town, moving to another state entirely. Before I flew into a panic trying to figure-out where I could score another tape-runner, she told me that "they" were having a big get together for "National Scrapbook Day" at the local junior high school and I was invited. There I could meet-up with obsessed scrapers, like myself, and find a new consultant.

I sat in the parking lot that May day watching the throngs scrapbookers file into the school with their wheeled scrapbooking carts full of stuff. I made a note to myself: I need one of those, maybe two. The whole experience was more intoxicating than the heady vapors of an opium den (O.K., so I have never actually been to an opium den, but it could happen.). I was completely acid-free and tripping.

There was a big problem: How could I break it to my loved ones that I was engaged in something so hopelessly dorky? Always the rebel without a clue, the black sheep of the family, how the hell was I going to explain this new obsession to my peeps? I didn't even have any children to rationalize my lapse into "Mommycraft". Still, I thought I could quit at any time. Scrapbooking was just something to fill the hours of my day. Once the novelty wore off, I would move on.

Then morning I was watching T.V. and QVC was featuring a Xyron stickermaker for sale. I scoffed at the foolishness of this product and told my husband that if I EVER purchased anything so foolish for scrapbooking he must intervene. Soon I owned Xyrons in three sizes, of which I needed EVERY SINGLE ONE. It makes magnets, stickers AND laminates. The thing is a damned miracle machine. Still, I was ashamed. What happened to the girl who adored Siouxsie and the Banshees and read Samuel Beckett? She was cutting, gluing, pasting, archiving and couldn't stop.

Oh, I would document ANYTHING. My husband nearly lost all patience when I hopped out of the car after a tire blow-out on a bridge near Savannah to take pictures of what the mechanic referred to as a "catastrophic tire failure". I progressed from disposable cameras, to a film camera, to a digital camera. Going digital was amazing. Holy shit! The first digital picture I took was of a Blondie display in a Marc Jacobs window in Savannah. Why had I waited so long? This thing was 'dah bomb. Then I caught curious spectres in the basement of the notoriously haunted "Moon River Brewing Company". Digital was a damn miracle. You bet your ass I scrapbooked those spectres.

As if middle-age wasn't enough to kill somebody's street cred, scrapbooking was truly dorky enough to totally polish off any illusions I ever had of being the least bit cool. Somehow, I didn't care. Scrapbooking it seems IS my bliss.

So there you go. I used to be a punk and now I am a dork. A scrapbooking dork. Occasionally there is something so fabulous, I just have to document it -- like the bras above blowing in the breeze in Ybor City. Not everyone is meant to be deep. Some of us are shallow. Some of us are dorks. I suspect my loved ones knew this all the time.

Bottom line: Some of us scrapbook and it's O.K.

Duck-Lipped Disasters, Heidi Montag and Make-Up Free Monday

Thank goodness reality television has nothing to do with reality, or somewhere between applying spray-tans to four-year old girls and giving a burglar to the stars a T.V. show, I would be convinced that the entire world has lost its mind. Wait a second -- these things REALLY happened? WTF? My reality check just bounced through the ceiling.

As if that "reality" wasn't bad enough, now a movement has been started called "Make-Up Free Monday". Seems young women across the continent are suffering from "poor body image". Kathie Lee Gifford, in an effort to cook-up something to fill time on the "Today Show", decided to BRAVELY appear with co-host Hoda Kotb (drum roll) without make-up. The horror. For some reason this all has to do with Heidi Montag looking like a duck-billed, balloon-boobed Barbie Doll. Kathie Lee went on and on, as only she can, about how hard it was to appear au natural on national T.V. (And I guess that red is Kathie's natural hair color, too.) I hate to be a voice of reason in the middle of all this posturing and concern over poor body image in young women, but it seems to me that Heidi Montag's TEN plastic surgeries at one time, compared to the use of something with the temporary and fleeting quality of make-up, is a little, eh-hem, extreme.

Now my husband tells me there is a push for something called "Make-Up Free Monday". Swell. As if Monday doesn't suck enough, now we are supposed to face it without lipstick. Has everyone lost their minds? Jessica Simpson and Kim Kardashian removed their make-up for several magazine stories. If I looked like either Jessica Simpson or Kim Kardashian I'd walk around butt-naked all the time. As it is, I prefer clothes because I just look better that way. Trust me. I look better with highlights, too. Heidi Montag is the best advertisement against excessive plastic surgery I have ever seen. I think everyone is not thinking about how great Heidi looks, but rather: What sort of hack doctor would do this to a young, beautiful woman? She went from looking pretty to looking pretty weird. There is a rather casual attitude that T.V. shows like "Extreme Makeover" take towards plastic surgery that is disturbing. But make-up???? Plastic surgery is not the same thing as make-up. I have never had to go under anesthesia to apply mascara, have you?

So I am passing on "Make-Up Free Monday". I prefer "Tiara Tuesdays" any way.

Cardboard Mystery Boxes and the Military.

In case you haven't been paying attention (and really you should) I am an Army spouse. It is one of life's little ironies that proves the Creator indeed has a sense of humor. I am also convinced that pure evil exists due to the knowledge that every couple of years the Army makes us move. They provide movers, but one these movers are the people have submitted the LOWEST bid. This leads to some rather harrowing situations which so far have NOT included moi camping out at a five-star hotel, sipping on a refreshing cocktail, while Juan, the pool boy, paints my toenails. Instead my husband, the Bulldog, supervises the movers, while I hide out someplace far, far away. I usually withhold this information from other military spouses because they have a tendency to turn ugly really fast if you mention this marital arrangement. Before I sound like I am just lazy and shirking my duty: I have had open-heart surgery. What is the point of having a chronic health condition if you can't milk it for all it's worth? Besides, the Bulldog values his job, his marriage, and wisely intervenes during moves, so I don't wind-up somewhere heavily sedated, drooling in a straight-jacket, while still clutching a handful of hair from some unfortunate packer.

The last move we refer to as "the best move we've ever had". This may sound good, but do keep in mind that the bar for this achievement has been set rather low. We once had to argue with a mover who tried to unload all of our stuff in the front lawn. I guess he thought we could move the stuff into the house at our leisure (she said sarcastically). Just when I thought things were about as bad as they could get, it started to rain. Meanwhile the mover argued with the Bulldog about how he had to be "somewhere else", all the while I would almost swear his eyes were rolling around in his head like Wylie Coyote on crack.

The result of numerous moves, some more eventful than others, is a huge pile of boxes in our garage. These are the sum total of what we have FINALLY given-up trying to get the movers to actually unpack them, like THEY ARE PAID TO DO, and instead giving-up just to stop having to argue with these people. Seventeen years of marital bliss and military moves have resulted in a stack of mystery boxes that filled our garage. Some boxes were labeled, but the label is rarely an indication of the contents. During one of our many, many moves, somebody got funny and decided to mark multiple boxes "lampshades". In the giant pile of crap in our garage we found two lampshades total and about 10 boxes marked "lampshades".

For the past couple of years, during our yearly termite inspection, the termite inspector tells me how "we" need to move the boxes away from the walls of the garage because they attract termites. Every year I tell the inspector how my husband is never home, I can't move the boxes by myself because of the heart thing, and there are just too many of them. Well, this year we got termites. Seems the termites really LOVED the missing roll of butcher paper the movers stuck in the corner of the garage. Butcher paper is, apparently, the akin to bait for termites. (See 4/17/2010 post for that tale of woe.) I knew the roll was missing, but couldn't find it because it was behind boxes stacked at least 10 feet high. So upon the Bulldog's recent return, it was decided to use some of his precious leave time to dejunk the garage. This was an arduous task in which we took mountains of stuff to the Salvation Army (I also lack the patience necessary to conduct a rummage sale.) It took the two of us four days to go through every thing and cart it away. Few boxes gave us any clue as to the contents. We ran across stuff we thought had gotten rid of YEARS ago. Is it just me, or do you think the the movers packed all of my recipe books with a CASE of Slim-Fast on purpose? (I am still fat and the Slim-Fast expired back when John Edwards was a viable candidate for president, but I am glad to find the recipe books.) We did find some stuff that had been MIA for quite some time -- quilts my grandmother made and my husband's collection of military coins -- things we are glad the termites didn't get and we will pack with more care the next go around. One box contained stuff neither one of us recognized -- some other military family has been missing a blue skillet for a LONG time. Sorry about that. I found a vintage white punch bowl from eBay I don't remember ordering, but was in a box addressed to me. It's nice and I am keeping it.

The weird thing is, the more stuff we got rid of, the better we felt. Unloading all of that crap was rather refreshing and we kind of had fun. Especially when that box of records fell on the Bulldog's head. Still, I hope we don't have to do this again for a very long time.

Now where is that pool-boy with my cocktail?

Attack of the Pearly Whites

First off you must know that I have issues about my teeth. (Y'all might get sick of hearing about me, but that is why this blog is called "Joannafesto" not "I Really Care About Others". If I ever start a blog called that rest assured I have either lost my mind and/or am completely full-of-shit. Actually, you SHOULD presume I am full-of-shit unless I am coming off a recent colonoscopy.) Back to my teeth issues. I have crappy teeth. However, I have reached a point in my life where I am no longer trying to keep them looking all straight and pretty, but am just trying to keep the damn things in my head. This is not due to a lack of effort on my behalf: I brush, floss and water-pick with excessive regularity. If I was to calculate my dental work tab, I should have a Mercedes in my mouth. Yet teeth remain gaped toothed and a bit more yellow than I would like. It is no mean feat getting all of one's bridgework to match. Some people look at paint swatches, I browse through porcelain dental samples. Considering my first tooth imploded on itself -- it just crumpled like a cookie -- before I was 25, I suppose I am fortunate to have ANY teeth in my head.

Perhaps it is just jealously, but lately I have been noticing A LOT of preternaturally white teeth on T.V. people across the land. These teeth are not just white, they are whiter than white: They are glow-in-the-dark Ross Geller white. The freaky thing is that a lot of the people who have the preternaturally white teeth have also had a lot of other work done. They already look sort of embalmed to begin with, but the extreme white smiles make them look absolutely skeletal. I stopped watching "American Idol" this season not just because it really sucks -- which it does -- but I just kept getting so distracted by Simon's whiter than white teeth. The twenty-something contestants with their imperfect teeth would be singing their little hearts out, and then there was the middle-aged judging panel flashing their perfect whiter than white teeth. I just couldn't focus on what was being said. All I could see were teeth.

Back to my own imperfect choppers: I am doing my best to keep them. I will pass on aiming for the whiter-than-white, perfect T.V. teeth. This is not just because I suspect that they are computer enhanced. Going through a pile of old photos I ran across a picture of my late father at his high school graduation. My Dad had a bridge where his front teeth had been pulled, so I never knew him with his original grin. In this picture from so many years ago, Dad stands in his cap and gown, beaming with the same gaped toothed grin he passed on to me.

Hats! Hats! Hats!

Every year the running of "The Kentucky Derby" reminds me just how much I miss wearing hats. I think it started when my parents (aka "Santa") bought me a leopard print hat with a matching fur muff. For a four year-old living in Pekin, Illinois, it was pretty much as close as I got to haute couture. Sadly, hats have all but disappeared. There is an occasional jaunty beret, an idiotic backward baseball hat, or an occasional sun blocking canvas deal on the beach, but the fabulous head-gear of yore is the stuff of photos and flea markets. Once a year, for a brief shinning moment, fabulous hats (Not those frump-du-jour things Queen Elizabeth wears. Couldn't she have inherited just a little pizazz from her nattily chapeaued mama?) hear gear reigns supreme at the "Running of the Roses". I have no idea who won the damn race this year; it's all about the hats.

This is how to rock a hat. My brain says I want to look like this in a hat, but in reality I wind-up looking like this:

Sad, but true. I live in a world where the only tickets I can get for Derby Day are on the infield, but that doesn't stop me from trying! Bless her heart for attempting this look in the rain.

Why is it that every place else blue flowers occur they look tacky, but never on a hat?

Another 2010 Derby Day masterpiece.

Spectacular.

"A bird on the head is worth two in the bush." Actually, I think I may have the matching shower curtain.

What the hell is that blue thing?

Johnny Weir.

"OMG! Did you see Johnny Weir's hat? I am SO jealous!"

Everything looks better if you wear it on your head.

"You may not believe this, but my other hat is a wedge of cheese!"

Now THAT'S a HAT. Glad I am not sitting behind this baby.

This has nothing to do with the Derby, but I wouldn't want you to miss this bit of wonderful.

Or this.

I really miss hats, but how cute is Johnny Depp?

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.