It's All Fun & Games Until Someone Has to Suck the Poison Out.

Dawn won't let me kill spiders in our room when we go to Africa.



Let me back up a minute and set the stage. First, yes: Dawn and I are roommates during our PEACE trip to Sierra Leone. (Am I excited?, you ask. My pee-my-pants-due-to-happiness meter is off the charts.) And you'd think, naturally, that we would have planned that, but no; it was random. (Or, divinely inspired if you want to look at it like that.)



The next piece necessary to display on this story's stage is the fact that Dawn is a vegetarian and massive animal lover. (She doesn't only love animals massive in size. And Dawn herself is not massive. It's her love for animals that earns that particular size description. And as a side note, over-clarification makes me feel all warm and secure inside.) Because of this, Dawn doesn't condone the killing of any animal when it's unwarranted, and to use her words, she "chooses compassion over cruelty" every time. This is just one of the many things I admire about Dawn. Admire, not agree with.



My thoughts on the matter are, I absolutely agree with not killing when it comes to all those beautiful animals or animals that remind me of dogs. (Sorry - you can't call me superficial if I already called myself that first.) For instance, hunting, killing for the pure "sport" (ego boosting) of it, makes no sense to me. "Wow! That's an enormous elk head you have over your hearth! I guess I never heard about the time you were lost in the wild with no food and then had to resort to killing an animal in order to survive! Oh. That wasn't what happened? You just shot the elk because you could? Was it a war of the minds? Oh. Elk don't have the intelligence level of a human? Ohhhhh, but you got a TROPHY for killing it? Well then, please, carry on. You just go right ahead and keep adding majestic animal heads to your home decor!"

But, there are certain animals (snakes, spiders, anything unpredictable and much too quick) that are so horrendous looking and that have B-movie horror films made of them, that we should all just be a little more understanding toward each other when one of us (me) kills something as freakishly scary as a spider that's large enough to EAT A BIRD! (It's true, Dawn. They exist.) Dawn's technique is to tenderly scoop up a spider on a piece of paper and gently shoo it out into nature. How very idyllic. She's like the Jane Goodall of arachnids.




And since Dawn has seen me kill a few spiders with as much blunt force trauma as what you would usually reserve for cracking a coconut, she knows my feelings about spiders being in my territory. (Or, large cockroaches. Scampering out from behind my office phone. It happened.) And as we've been warned about the possibility of creatures foreign to us showing up uninvited in our rooms in Sierra Leone, I've already told Dawn that cruelty (survival, in my opinion) will most likely wreck compassion when it comes to my "creeped out" level.

So, stay tuned to find out how many times the two of us will be forced to have a little conflict resolution while in Africa based on the number of times I bring a violent death to any and all spiders, snakes, crawling things, etc.

All I know is I, for one, will sleep a lot better.

Just, Michelle

Why I'm Not Sending Christmas Cards This Year

1. It's an expense that, let's face it, ends up in the trash. (With the exception of a few clever scrapbooky types.)

2. I have been an Albertsons Regional Manager for 6 weeks. (cutting into my "free time" outside my 40 hours a week regular job.)

3. Mischa's not, and this frees me from obligatory guilt. (LOVE her!)

4. Much to my chagrin, I'm not feeling super "Christmassey". Not your fault, Dear Potential Card Recipients, I'm just not.

5. I wanted to make cards. Couldn't find any I liked. (*excuse*)

6. Recently spent $100 on postage for Mission Trip letter. (thank you!)

7. Did NOT get awesome labrador photo for card this year.

8. Do not have an amazing "Family Newsletter" to send out. If you feel cheated, here it is:

Dear Friends,
My kid is NOT at Stanford or working with the Peace Corps. Rick and I are well and blessed. My dogs will NOT be at Westminster this year (or ever) but they are not very gassy right now. I recently sold 3 ugly bracelets to pay for wisdom teeth and community college, and feel it was totally worth it. There's a lot to be said for loving your job and your friends. I do, and I do. Not bad. Suck it overachievers.

Merry Christmas!
Love,
Maestas/Sanders

9. It's not you, it's me.

10. I hereby vow to make awesome, personal cards next year. I love you all.

just Dawn (with validation from Mischa.)

Christmas Shopping, et al: Part Deux

In your family, who does the shopping? Who wraps? Who is the BEST gift-buyer? Who is the worst? (Ok, rhetorical, do not list them here.) In my family, I shop, I wrap...(beautifully, I LOVE wrapping!) And I make: cards, crafts, ornaments, and food gifts. I sense an imbalance in the Christmas atmosphere. I am also the family diplomat, photographer, counselor, chef, and pastor. It seems like a lot of responsibility for a cynical, sarcastic, ex-potty-mouthed, ex-wrestling bartender.

Ok, so I do love and serve Jesus. Ok, so I am a bit creative, culinary, and love CHRIST-mas. Ok, so I am a big sentimental sap about Christmas. I'm sure you could conclude that I invite these yearly responsibilities.
Ok, nothing brilliant to say to that. You'd be right. So, that be said, these are a few of my favorite AND (no ILYLD blog would be complete without) my UN-favorite things....

Favorite gift: Many, many to choose from...Clown Marionette from my dad the last Christmas we were together. Beautiful. Fun. He knew what I love. And I freakin' LOVE my sweet clown puppet. Do not DARE say anything....I will shank you.

Worst gift: Matching Elephant candleholders and clock. (Have you MET me?) However, my worst gift, not THE worst gift. My friend "Annabelle" (not her real name) once got a gift of Garage Sale underwear for Christmas with the 25 cent stickers still on them. Winner.

Best gift I ever gave: Hand drawn portrait of my father at age 20 in his dress blues on the Washington DCPD. He had the photo I drew it from made for my mom when they were dating. He cried. (I never saw him cry before.) This was the last Christmas we were together. God knew. I didn't know. (Miss you JR, SO much.)

Worst gift I ever gave: None. I rock at gifts.

Best Christmas story, recent: Rex discovered his love for gifts. Tree set up, presents under, several days before Christmas. Rex "opens" all presents under the tree in gift bags. John thanks me for the new batch of socks, I scold John for "peeking", John informs me that he got home from work and new socks were strewn all over the living room, tissue paper and bags everywhere.

Best Christmas story, past: Johnny, "Mommy, won't Santa get tired of all those cookies? We should make him a big sandwich!" Good thinking, little J! Runner-up in this catagory: my first Christmas at Saddleback! Awesome!!!

Favorite Christmas CD: Charlie Brown Christmas, Vince Guaraldi Trio.

Christmas Music hate: All the crappy Muzak in stores.

Favorite Christmas food: Mom's cashew brittle. (Mom? Do you even read my blog?)

Worst Christmas food: Goose. JK, never had it or would have it. Just sounds funny. Universal worst Christmas food is obviously Meat Pops from Hickory Farms.

Favorite Christmas decoration, year after year: There are so many, but the hands down winner is my stocking. My mom made it for me when I was about 7. It is beautiful. She has made LOTS since then, but mine is the best! (Mom, seriously, you need to read my blog....) In case my brother is reading, MY STOCKING IS THE BEST.

Respond with your favorites and UN-favorites. Misch and I wish you a blessed and Merry Christmas. May the Lord revive and invigorate your generosity, grace, and humor this Christmas season!
Happy Birthday Jesus!

just Dawn

"Holiday Shopping" or "Who Are These People?"

I love on-line shopping. I love mail order catalogues. Since I shop on-line, my name and address has been sold over and over, making me the recipient of a wide variety of catalogues. Come November, there is so much paper in my mailbox, I feel like I should apologize to trees. Sorry trees, I realize that Hickory Farms does not need to market to me. Tell them. I will never eat a "Meat Pop" but I do enjoy looking at the wide variety of cured offerings from HF.

Here are a few of my favorites so far:

~For the foodie on your list: Bacon Salt. Need I say more? Just think popcorn, people.

~Pickle Bandages. (Not made out of pickles.) I just like 'em.

~Sports Logo Snuggie. Me: "John, how about a Raiders Snuggie for Christmas?" John: "OMG!!! Are you #*?!-ing me?? I WANT one!!!" (I think it was a positive reaction.)

~Pet catalogue: Monogrammed orthopedic dog bed-couch for "Large" dogs. Awesome, but at $500 a lttle pricey when Rex will just sneak up on my couch anyway.

~Cashmere socks.

~Sephora Catalogue: Me: "Yes, please." Rick: "Which items, sweetie?" Me: "Yes, please." (He can't ever say I'm hard to shop for.)

~Nieman Marcus Holiday Catalogue: $4,200 Manolo Blahniks.
(Dear NM, We broke up a long time ago. "Broke" being the operative word. Please leave me alone. It just hurts. I'll always love you. Dawn)
Sigh....

With the good comes the bad. Here are some of the items that make the Singing Bass look like a classy, well thought out gift.

~Novelty T-shirt #1. I Married a Nun. Nun in the Morning and Nun at Night. Who wears this?

~Animated Santa. Can't Stop Passing Gas! Here is the catalogue copy: "Rip Von Kringle is tootin' and hootin' his way through the holidays! His legs kick each time he lets one loose!"
Some poor journalism major with $200,000 worth of student loans is questioning the purpose of his existance.

~Book title of the year: "How to Kick Someone's Ass" $12.95
Dang! Now I've wasted 13 years in martial arts classes.

~Novelty T-shirt #2. "I'm not a Gynecologist, but I'll take a look."
If you see someone wearing this, please refer to Book Title of the Year.

~Faeries and Dragons are making a comeback. Good news for the nerds and Emos on your list.

~Skull and Crossbones egg fryer mold. Ok, I like it. Don't judge me.

~Kitty gifts: Kitty Cat plate set, Cat Bottom pencil sharpener (oh just guess!), Cat angel, Plaque that reads: You cannot have too many BOOKS or CATS. Cat-Opoly, all methos of cat-themed jewelry and Cat-lady statuettes.
(Kill me before I get there, please friends.)

~Novelty T-shirt #3. CSI Can't Stand Idiots.
Considering who would wear this t-shirt, does this count as irony?

Oh I could go on and on....Lighted Musical Elvis Tree Topper, Darth Vader Lamp, Mooning Party Shorts (don't ask), Remote Control Fart Machine, "Jeans" Lounge Pants (actual jeans too dressy for some folks?) Nose Shower Gel dispenser, Family Guy shot glasses.

Oh I do love catalogues. They elicit a response....sparkly, glowing. Warm, luxurious, homey. They are full of things we don't need, but we wish someone would buy for us. See: Sephora (did I mention that already?) Victoria's Secret, Ikea, Williams Sonoma.
The flip side of that coin is any catalogue with Simpsons merchandise, bunion cream, or "Collectible" anything. Kitch and clutter make me have anxiety attacks. White trash pride makes me wish I were Hispanic. Or Asian. Or anything not associated with a redneck joke. (No such thing as an Asian redneck.)

I wish you joy in your holiday shopping this year. Whether "Old School" mall shopping, surfing the net, or throwin' elbows on Black Friday, choose well, friends.
Oh! And If I'm on your list, there's always Sephora!

just Dawn

The Funny Continues... (And it's Name is Dawn.)

This isn't breaking news by any means, but Dawn is pretty funny. And clever. Funny and clever. And pretty. Funny, clever, pretty....let's see.....,that's enough for now. The problem is, this isn't news to her either. Which means Dawn clearly doesn't get as impressed with her humor as I do, which is why pretty much on a constant basis, I'm yelling at her, "PUT THAT ON OUR BLOG! No, seriously. Do it, or I'll claim I came up with that funny bit myself. And then I'll be funny AND shrewd."

So that's why today's post is nothing more than a chance for me to draw attention to Dawn's latest show of cleverness....since she most likely won't believe my threat of shanking her unless she puts this on our blog. This is from her Facebook status (One thing of note: Dawn refers to where she lives as The Woods since she has a few more tall trees bearing a wider girth around her house than she previously had.):

Dear Verizon, I offer my own driveway for a cell phone tower. Please contact me (via landline) to let me know when. Residents of The Woods, you're welcome. Signed, Can You Hear Me Now.

And that, my friends, is how you do "witty."

Signed, Yours Shrewdly, Michelle

"Celebrity" obsessed!

I am having a few thoughts, and rants, as it turns out lately regarding our celebrity-rabid culture.

Sports hero worship: This one makes me crazy. Generally, professional athletes are egomaniacal, obscenely overpaid, classless, and completely catered to by everyone who stands to make a buck off of them. (Not you, Peyton!) Total "lipstick-on-a-pig" syndrome. I almost can't blame them. Everyone in their life has told them how great they are because of some form of skill with a ball. Attention Little League parents! Please instill some sort of value in your child beyond sports! Stop living vicariously through little Jimmy, the 4th grade shortstop! If you are a professional, overpaid, athlete, please stop shoplifting, driving drunk, buying weed from two-bit dealers in your old neighborhood, fathering random children all over the place, and dog fighting. (Enjoy hell, Mr. Vick.) You can afford drivers, clothing, purses, and condoms.
I'm going to add a pet peeve to this catagory. Grown men in professional sports jerseys. Bad if your jersey says "Bryant" on the back. Worse if it says your own name. Rule of thumb: If you are over 15, not on the actual team, or not the parent of someone on the actual team, STOP IT. I snicker at you.

Dancing With the Stars: Not the show, per se, just the name of the show. DWTS, you are playing a little fast and loose with the word "Stars". To me, a star is talented. Their screen persona is larger than life. There is something special about their movies. (Sorry Johnny Knoxville, this criteria disqualifies you.) A "Star" is Clint Eastwood, Leonardo DiCaprio. To me a star is luminous, mysterious, and has a quality of inner beauty. (Oh Kardashian gals, you're out.) A "Star" is Meryl Streep, Reese Witherspoon, Angelina Jolie. DWTS, if you could get these folks on your show I'd be ok with your name. But The Situation, Chuck Lidell, Kate Gosslin? Maybe we should call it: Dancing with White Trash in Skimpy Costumes....DWWTISC. I have a call in to ABC.

Reality Celebre': The fact that anyone knows the name of who "won" the last Bachelor makes me want to hurl. Show premise: Women line up to get some dopey rich guy to marry them. Much spit-swapping. Gross. "Mom, I'm competing with 2 dozen desparate, insecure, celebrity wanna be's to get some guy to marry me!" Yeah, I wanna make that call. Brett Michael's Rock of Love takes this concept beyond gross, into repugnant. And Jersey Shore Cast...when did being a loud mouthed blowhard from New Jersey, of all American armpits, make you red-carpet worthy? At least Fran Drescher was attractive. I'm not saying all reality shows are bad, just most of them. Want greed, pouting, and petulance? Tune in to Say Yes to the Dress. Want titalation and drag queens? Ru Paul's Drag Race. Want backbiting, bitchy, and entitled? Try on Project Runway or The Apprentice. Potential for injury? Check out Wipeout. (Ok, this one is freaking hilarious.) Shock value, pity, and an "OMG!" or two? Teen Mom, anything with Dr. Drew, or Sister Wives. We are truly a nation of cultureless culture when this is our contribution to the arts. I throw a figurative brick at my television.

Hollywood: I am not obsessed with Hollywood. I am largely unipressed by celebrity opinions, causes, or political preferences. I got a call this morning with a recorded message from Martin Sheen, urging me to vote for some candidate. Martin, I should heed your sage advice, why? Because you have done such a bang up job with your own household? How's that hooker, trashed hotel room, drug fueled rampage working out for Charlie? Oh, I know Martin, because you played the President in a TV show. Of course! Martin, you have insulted my intelligence beyond comprehension. I now snicker at you too.
Oprah, Sean Penn, Johnny Depp, please just shut up. Go be talented. I will continue to enjoy your performances. I will not look to you for advice, validation, or a political opinion. You are not necessarily smarter than me. (Ok, Oprah, you probably are.)

I know, not all celebrities are jerks. To those of you with class, grace, style, morals, and brains, the word "Star" is reserved for you. But I'm still probably not going to vote for your candidate.......

just Dawn

Some People are Pretty Clever. (And it's not us this time.)

The other day, Dawn said she saw a t-shirt that said, "No one reads your blog." I thought this was impressively funny and clever. And so, in the spirit of irony, I thought we blog owners should write a post for our blog about a shirt broadcasting the fact that most likely, no one is reading our blog.

We like clever stuff, so if anyone has another example like the t-shirt example, feel free to post a comment. It'll be fun because it will point out the ironic fact that, yes, someone is indeed reading our blog.

And then we'll all laugh, and laugh some more.

Just Michelle

The Comeback Kid. Or, Why I Temporarily Let Crap Interrupt Life.

Oh, blog, how I've missed you. And humor, in general - I've missed you too. As I said on one of my more recent Facebook status updates (What's that? You're not fortunate enough to be the recipient of my sarcastic, often super cynical status updates because we're not yet "friends" on facebook? Well, let's change that. Find me on the Facebook and let's play "Popularity Contest for Adults" along with everyone else. It's America's new favorite game, bumping out Boggle for the top spot.), I've been in need of a really good, stomach hurting, obnoxiously loud laugh. (If I were a bearded, low voiced man from 1892 weilding an ax with a pheasant slung over my shoulder, I might even use the word "hearty.") That's my favorite thing to do, after all. Laugh.

It's amazing how much one "blah" thing/situation in your life affects every aspect of your life. (This is me being vulnerable and mysterious. Enjoy it.) I've been very noticably "off" lately and the worst part is how it's affected my ability to laugh easily. Very, very easily. I knew something was wrong every time I'd consider writing a new post on this here blog, and then just go, "Eh. Not up for it." WHAT?! Not up for making myself laugh at my own witticisms as I type by myself all the while texting Dawn to let her know she needs to read the newest post NOW?! Who are you, Michelle?*Shudder*

Something had to change. And something has, and so I'm seeing myself return to "normal" (insert cliched comment about normalcy), and I've definitely noticed that I'm back on the laughin' wagon....thanks mostly to Dawn. On wednesday, she prompted a nice, long, stomach pain inducing laugh. It was like I had had a breakthrough in a therapy session. (Which Dawn is also known for making happen when she inadvertently counsels me. Check's in the mail, Dawn.) And, the greatest part is, the laugh was entirely at my expense....and I still enjoyed the moment. Immensely.

So, like Burt Bacharach (spelling? Dawn, you'd know how to spell that, right? Heh heh.) would exclaim at a Vegas lounge full of retirees visiting from Boca Ratan, "I'm back, baby!"

Old People.

Let me just begin this post by saying that I hope I do not offend anyone. (Ha! I should start them all like that.) Today's topic: Old People. Since I am more than halfway there, my hot, Rockstar husband just turned 50, I lead a Senior Ministry, and I live in The Woods in Lake Forest, median age 78, I consider my observations incredibly relevant.

It seems af if there are 2 schools of thought with respect to Old People. #1. Beautiful, joyful, servant-hearted, people who realize that life is a gift, and that each day should be lived in gratitude and grace. I'd love to name people that I am blessed to know here, but you know who you are. You are a married couple who lead a ministry of "older" folks, and you are in your 80s. (I want to be you when I grow up, by the way.) You are a high-spirited, wise-cracking, BEAUTIFUL, funny single lady who makes my life better. You are my mom, who can outdistance me at every turn, AND look better in a bathing suit too! You are my father-in-law who defies the number of years he has been on this planet. Seriously. You are my "West Coast Mom" who prays for my dopey kid. I love you guys. I am taking notes, believe me.

School #2. Cranky. Bitter. Jerk. YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE TOO. You are never satisfied. You look for ways to complain. You are mean and intolerant. You think, because of your age, that you are entitled. You are not. What happened to you, CBJ? I want to help. I want you to see that being able to be "a certain age" is a blessing. I know, your friends die, your bones ache. Heck, my friends die and my bones ache too. You are my next door neighbor, complaining about a birthday celebration at 9.30 on Saturday night. You are resistant to technology. You are rude to waiters. You have no patience for children. (Ok, I don't either, but I will fight that, CBJ.) You gossip about neighbors and you have mean eyes.

What will we become? I know, we all want to be Old People School of Thought #1. But where is the divide? Attitude of gratitude vs. dwelling in loss.

It is to spend long days
And not once to feel that we were ever young
It is to add, immured
In the hot prison of the present, month
to month with weary pain.
(Matthew Arnold "Growing Old")

I want to understand. But I also want to choose. Consider the words of 12th century Chinese poet, Lu Yu:
Old man pushing eighty
In truth he acts like a little boy
Whooping with delight when he spies some mountain fruits
Laughing with joy, tagging after village mummers,
With the others having fun, stacking tiles to make a village pagoda.
Standing alone, staring at his image in the jardinere pool
Tucked under his arm, a battered book to read
Just like the time he first set out to school.

I want to laugh with joy. (Not bitch at my neighbors.) I want a good book tucked under my arm and memories of good times, youth, people I have loved, and crazy things I have been blessed to experience. I want a funny friend, a good dog, and dignity. With all due respect, Mr. Arnold, you can have your "hot prison of the present." If I get to choose, my present will be the freedom of wisdom, humor, music, and love.

Friends, should I grievously turn into Old Person #2, I hereby give you permission to remind me of the beautiful octogenarians that I have had the privilege of knowing. If that doesn't work, just suffocate me with a pillow. I'll be over me by then......

Gratefully,
just Dawn

San Francisco: I love you, I love you not

Let me begin by professing my love for the City by the Bay. Restaurants? The best anywhere outside New York. Live music everywhere. SF, you are colorful, hip, young, fast-paced and laid-back at the same time. You are cultural, literary, interesting and fun. (If I were describing a man here, I'd gladly introduce him to Mischa.) SFMOMA is as amazing the 3rd time as it is the first. The 5th Floor Restaurant served up gastronomic perfection. City bustling, views spectacular, company, THE BEST.

You're waiting for the "but", I can feel it. (Pun intended. keep reading....)
San Francisco, you made me love you, but I can't marry you. (Neither can Mischa.) You have dark secrets. Let's begin with our cab ride from the airport into the city.
Cabbie #1: Hispanic. (I don't think race is all that important to the story, it just seems funny as the weekend unfolds.) He told us, unprompted, about a wonderful cultural event in the city this wekend not to be missed! His excitement grew with each tawdry, nearly-pornographic description of the goings-on of the Folsom Street Fair. Among the less blush-inducing events: You can get a spanking for a dollar. Lots of leashes. (Uh, no dogs.) Piercings. (Icky ones. TEE. EM. EYE!)
I suggested that his time would be better spent at church on Sunday. Yes, I did.

Cabbie #2: Middle Eastern. We asked him about the claims of Cabbie #1 regarding the Street Fair. "That thing is for FREAKS!" Ok, I was gonna say that, but I didn't want to be judgey.

Cabbie #3: Indian. Suggestion for the weekend? Folsom Street Fair. Again, unprintable (or fathomable) descriptions followed. Dress code for the Fair? Naked, he claims. Advised us to stay at least 12 inches or more from the proximity of the "naked people". (Please hear this in your head in a thick, Indian accent. It was like a SNL sketch.) Thanks for the awesome advice, Padmaj.

Cabbie #3: Asian, probably South Pacific. Normal. Cultured, educated. Whew!

Cabbie #4: Jamaican. By this point, I was doing my own sociological study of city life through the eyes of the cabbies. (I wonder if I could get a grant for that?) This time, his taxi tactic was don't ask, don't tell. I asked him if there was anything happening in the city this weekend. (There was the above-mentioned event, attracting 20,000 people, a huge Octoberfest, another huge concert and art in the park. The city was humming!) "I don't know", he says. I asked him, jokingly, sort of, how many people get run over every weekend. "Oh, none. This city is full of good drivers." (That is a lie. It is full of freaking insane drivers, and thousands and thousands of oblivious tourist-cattle everywhere! Throw in the deadly, clanging cable cars and I'll bet a good weekend has only and hundred or so fatalities!) Jamaican cabbie was like he was on the San Francisco Image Comittee or something. (Also, awesome accent.)

San Francisco, it's not you, it's me. We can still be friends. I'll always love you. Thanks for a wonderful weekend with amazing friends, but I need a little space. Preferably, 12 inches or more.

just Dawn

We Miss you Too. Really.

Can you tell we're both busy? No new post since Sept. 6th? How very wrong of us. (Visualize me shaking my head, eyes cast down in shame as I write this.)

Between my intensive perusing of those viral e-mails about Wal-Mart patrons from the south, and Dawn's Play-Doh art gallery on her desk, we've been utterly swamped.

So, don't let our lack of writing (due to our hectic and envious social lives) deter you from checking in and reading. Because you never know when some brilliant piece of witty and entertaining writing might show up on our blog. (Actually, let's be honest - more plausible is that it'll be some insignificant post centered around either cynicism, personal opinions regarding Lady Gaga's sanity (or lack of) , or our juvenile and mutual excitment over Mac's new line of eye color cream that come in cute little pots. )

You're giddy with anticipation, aren't you?

Just Michelle (which should be obvious by the "Lady Gaga's legitimately crazy" comment.)

Ah...the Past.

I was just thinking about all the ways that life changes the further along in it that you get. For those of you who are young, take notes.

I used to worry about what color bikini would not make me look like Casper the ghost.
Now I spend the greater part of January through March trying to figure out what the hell am I going to wear to the beach that won't frighten kids.

Speaking of the beach, I used to make sure to get a little bit of a tan....tan fat is better than white fat, right? Now I am keeping my eye on a wierd spot on my thigh and cursing the evil sun for every wrinkle on my forehead. (THANKS Mom and Dad, for raising us in the freaking melanoma desert!)

I uesd to worry about how much the Brazillian wax was going to sting.
Now I have more interesting anxiety (though a similar uber-personal relationship) with the mammogram machine.

I used to get 10 Victoria's Secret catalogues a week. Now I get: Support hose! 20% off!! (Please refer to earlier post called I'm Mad at My Mail.) Seriously.

I used to go "Oh, I have fun plans next weekend! I'm going to cut out lunch for a couple of days so I can lose 5 pounds and look cute in my new dress!""
Now: Hire personal trainer for 4 weeks, eat no carbs, fat, anything white, no sugar, and cut my daily calories down to 300. I do cardio, taekwondo, and stretch every day. I ice everything on my whole body, and have even experimented with laxatives. Did I mention I am starving? I gain 2 pounds.
On another note: What's a new dress?

I used to go to concerts. Awesome, screaming, lighter-lighting, heavy metal, testoroned, kick ass, mosh pit, freakin ROCK SHOWS!!!
Now, I have seriously caught myself saying: "What is this awful crap the kids are listening to?"

I used to have disposable (read: accessories and makeup!) income. Now I have a kid in college, an elderly Labrador with medical needs, another one who, combined with the first one eats enough dog food to feed 14 horses. The last time I blew a benjamin or 2 at the Mac store?....can't remember.

I used to be hot.
Now I "look good for my age." Ladies over 40...Is that the worst compliment ever?

I'm from Vegas, Baby!!! Party starts at 1:00am!!! Woooooo!!!..
Now I'm in bed by 10:15. (Ok, really? This one is actually better.)

Ok, Middle-aged pity party over. There are LOTS of reasons it's good to be a grown up. I'm not a bulimic, insecure, drama queen like I was in my 20s. I have an awesome job. I have a couple of friends I have known for 25+ years. I am going to Africa. I have a great relationship with my mom. I even have some pretty good stories. I have no regrets. You don't get all that in your 20s.

I know, 20-somethings, you think I'd trade it all for that smooth skin, firm body, and idealistic free spirit that I used to have. Now that I've thought about it, I don't think so.

Bring on the Botox bitches!
just Dawn

Oh Paris!

For those of you COMPLETELY out of touch with celebrity/Las Vegas happenings, (which I hope is the majority of you, really.) I can't just let Paris Hilton's latest foibles go unnoticed. I tried, people. For the record, I completely ignored LiLo's court/rehab troubles. I have eschewed the latest Brangelina break-up rumors, no matter how many grocery store tabloid checkout photos have showed hideous, meltdown photos of a visibly infuriated (read: freakin' batshit crazy) Angie. Really people....I IGNORE THIS TRIPE.

Why can't I let this go, you ask? Confusion. I can't decide what offends me the most about this story. Socalite, (read: no-job-havin' rich chick) Paris Hilton, riding in her BFs Escalade in LAS VEGAS, is pulled over by LVMPD because of a "strong odor of marijuana" emitting from the vehicle. Offense #1 and 2....The arrogance of cruising Vegas, smoking weed, with the windows down, in the nondescript, economy, ESCALADE. (Sidenote: I grew up in Vegas. DO NOT do that.) Paris, being Uber-famous, asks the cops if they can step inside the Wynn Resort and Casino, home of all things holy and moral, so she can have privacy from the paparazzi, and because, (go Paris) she had to pee. I'm ok with her to this point, believe it or not.

Next, Paris goes into her purse for who knows what, and, IN PLAIN VIEW of the COPS, drops her cocaine. Really, Paris? I am less offended by your stupidity than I am by your arrogance.

NEXT....as if stupidity and arrogance were not enough, her defense? The drugs WERE NOT MINE!!! Holy shit!! Really? Hey Paris, 6th Grade called...they want their excuse for getting caught with cigarettes in their purse back.

Paris H. claims that the purse was not hers. Her lip gloss and asthma medication (I'm sure cocaine is AWESOME for asthma!) were in there, but, yeah, not. her. purse. Ladies, how many times have you said something like, "Hey Misch, can I take your cheap purse out on the town, despite my millions, and don't bother to clear out your drugs! I'm just gona toss in my meds and lipgloss and I'm outie!" Yeah, right, PH. Offensive #3.

More outrage: Wynn Hotel comes out in a statement that Paris is BANNED from their establishment!!! Really Steve and Elaine? Have you ever BEEN to Vegas??? The answer is, yes, you have. I went to high school with your kids. You are Las. Vegas. Icons. You are the king and queen of Las Vegas. Your hotels changed the face of my hometown. Please, please, please do not pretend in the media that a gazillionaire like PH, or ANY celebrity or high roller could not order ANYTHING straight from the concierge of any Wynn property. Because they could. Midget stripper mud wrestlers? Done. Pam Anderson blow up doll? Latex-clad foot fetish dominatrix? Done and done. Cocaine???? They practically leave that on your pillow with the chocolate mint at night!!!

Wynn, YOU offend me more than dumb ass Paris and her (sorry, NOT her) miniscule amount of illicit drugs. Am I for drugs? Certainly not. Am I for blatant hypocracy? Have you MET me? Wynn, make this right. Please stop pretending to be some Fuzzy Family Friendly vacation destination. Offer Paris 50K to appear at your next club opening. Free Paris! Free Paris!

To quote my funny, wise, Vegas-wrestling diva..."In Vegas, Paris can't Wynn!"

Just Dawn
Go Rebels!

Lists (The Fun Kind)

My freshman year of college, when we have that bright-eyed look of innocent, excited anticipation and expectation that, yes, of course the world is just going to open its hands and throw a possibility-filled pinata in your face for you to beat down and cause a confetti explosion to rain down adventure, I started a list of "Lifelong Goals." I'm not one of those who makes goals for necessary things like impending work deadlines and such, but I'll make a "goal" any day of the week for things I want to do. You know, something like, "Become an acrobat who does cartwheels on the back of a horse while wearing ballet shoes and a fancy dress." (That was when I was just a kid. I put that dream to rest at least 3 years ago.)

I was just reminded of how fun it was to make that list and to add to it over the years. I highly recommend it. Just write down whatever wonderfully irrational, obscure and over-the-top goals you have! It's liberating. I thought I'd share a few of mine. For inspiration...

• Start playing the violin (Took that up as an adult, and even though a monkey with one arm could play better than me, the idea of following through was worth trying it.)
• Learn American sign language. (Tried to teach myself in high school. I have no one in my sphere of influence who is hearing impaired, and I'm not willing to look crazy by communicating to myself via sign language. So, that goal's been on hiatus.)
• Travel Europe. (Been to 3 countries, going to one more soon, sooo...only about, what, 17 more to go?)
• Visit Greece
• Have a book published. (Came close. If editing, researching and "tweaking" your boss's published book counts. I say it does.)
• Start taking horseback riding lessons again. (Hoping to start that soon. If it won't cause me to give up clean water and shelter in order to afford it.)
• Start dancing again. (Done. The performing part, however....still craving that.)

So, those are a few of my own goals for my life. It's interesting, though: Even though some of these haven't happend or have only been barely started, I'm realizing I've accomplished other "goals" that I never even knew I needed to include in my list. Those are usually the decisions God made for me. Which is why those are the ones that have kind of blown my mind. He does that.

Just Michelle

We're Either a Society of Geniuses,....or Something Less Impressive

How lazy can we possibly be? We, of the 1st world countries. (Gross. I feel so arrogant using that term. But, we don't give it a second thought when we use the term "3rd world country". Is that because we're so used to hearing it? And not used to hearing, "I live in America. You know, that one 1st world country"?) Well, I'll tell you how lazy we can be.

If you just take a moment to think about all the (mostly superfluous) ways we make life easier for ourselves, it's really quite astounding. At times, I don't know whether to be proud of ourselves for coming up with the idea for pre-sliced cookie dough, or ashamed.

To show you what I mean, I went ahead and did the strenuous work of sitting at my desk in yoga pants & googling "lazy Americans." After skipping past pictures of socialites and trust fund babies, I refined my search and was much more successful with my results. Below are some examples of our brilliant ideas.

• Resealable cookie packages...because it takes too much time to put the package in a big ziploc bag or put a chip clip around it.
• That feature in cars that allows you to hit it once, take your finger off the button and watch your window roll all the way down...because, I don't know about you, but the little muscles in my index finger begin to get mighty sore if I make it work too much.
• Retractable pens....because pen caps are about as ridiculous as the idea of still using a quill and ink pot. Come on, society.
• E-cards....because putting paper inside paper, writing letters and numbers that may as well be written in code on the outer paper, and then scouring whole cities trying to find a mailbox or post office has to be the most outdated form of communication EVER! (Side note: The company, Some E-Cards, has the most amazing slogan that I wish beyond all wishes I would've come up with: "E-cards; when you care enough to hit send." That's pure brilliance.)
• Little nail-shaped strips that women put on their nails so that they can have "painted" nails w/out having to have actually painted them....because lounging and being forced to be still while you (or a professional. In a nail place. With your feet in warm water. And with one hand flipping through a magazine while the other hand is being worked on.) struggle to stay in the lines, is just asking too much.
• Any of the handy "reading tools" that have (THANKFULLY! And not a moment too soon!) taken the place of those bulky, unnecessary books...because, I swear, I was getting pretty tired of holding those things open and then having to remember to turn the page EACH TIME I wanted to find out more. That's just silly.
• Those womens' razors with the shaving cream built right in. Those commercials have it exactly right: We should not have to put up with slippery bars of soap flying all over the place, or go to the trouble of squirting shaving cream into our hands, THEN putting it on our legs, THEN closing the cap on the shaving cream can, THEN.... I rest my case.

So, it's not an exhaustive list by any means, but it's a start. ("Exhaustive." That makes me think someone should come up with a way for the thoughts in our brains to transfer to the tips of our fingers so that we only have to place our fingertips on the keyboard and the computer's brain then transfers our thoughts to the screen. Jeez. I don't even want to type anything after coming up with that ingenious idea. People - we are so above typing.)

Have any examples of lazy-slash-brilliant ways we've made life easier for ourselves? We're open for comments.... (Wait. That means you'd have to sign up to become a "follower" of our blog in order to post a comment, doesn't it. Forget it. I can't believe I asked that of you. GOSH! Why can't stuff be easier?! Right?!)

Just Michelle

Playing Hard to Get

Dear Valued Readers,

We realize it's high time we showed you that we do actually value your readership, and the fact that you're such loyal readers (right?) means you deserve to be entertained. Which is our job. Meaning, this delay in bringing the people what they demand (another post from one of us) is shameful. We're sorry. (Right, Dawn? Dawn agrees.)

So, you won't have to worry your pretty (or, gender neutral-attractive) heads very much longer. A post should be going up tonight. (Thanks, Dawn. Looking forward to it. Oh, laugh, laugh, laugh! Kidding. Sigh. I'll do it.)

Thanks for your (assumed) patience, everyone. I'll be back with you soon....

Just Michelle

Shoulder Pads Make me Feel Like a Big Girl

I never had a "thing" for stuffed animals like other kids. Dawn and I have had the "stuffed animals versus Barbie" conversation a few times - Dawn being a fan of the animals (no surprise there), and me staying loyal to my little plastic fashion icon. And I'm proud to say it's never escalated to an all out brawl (verbal or otherwise), but during one of our conversations, I did discover something: I figured out exactly WHY I couldn't get enough of Barbie, and why I never cared about anything in the category of plush. (Who else hates that word? Using "plush" makes me feel like I should be wearing Mom Jeans at a Beanie Baby collectors' convention.)

It all makes sense to me now. As a kid, I obsessed over being older. Looking older, acting older, being treated older than my actual age, dressing older....etc. Growing up and being the "baby" of the family (and being oddly mature for my age. No, really; I was a weird kid in comparison. Ask me how old I was when I had most Neil Diamond songs memorized.), I got the cheek-pinching, "you're so cute that I'm compelled to talk down at you" routine on a pretty constant basis. My reactions, consequently, led to the assumption that I was the shy one of the family when in reality, I wasn't shy - I was actually scowling at the offender and internally resenting her while crafting a scathing comeback. As a 5 year old, people.

(Hang in there - the connection to Barbie is coming up.)

So, it stands to reason that I WOULD love a doll that wore heels every day (even while performing surgery as Medical Barbie. What a woman!), drank coffee, traveled to Hawaii on a whim, drove a fancy car (drove, in general), had a boyfriend, and carried a pink briefcase until the work day morphed into nightlife and she busted out the Donna Summers-inspired sequins. Sigh.

That infatuation with Barbie either started or perpetuated my Fantasy Adult Life. Enter, mom's high heels. I'd stuff those pumps so thick with toilet paper to MAKE them fit, that my feet ended up feeling like I was the victim of traditional Chinese foot binding. But the sound those heels made on the tile floor was magical.

Next up on my premature and forced journey to adulthood, was watching Moonlighting much earlier than any child should watch (and misunderstand) the subtle flirtations of two attractive, single New Yorkers, hinting at the wild chemistry that would eventually show itself amidst the witty banter. Ditto for Diane Keaton's turn in Baby Boom. (I know. I can't figure out how I ended up watching this stuff, either. You'd think my parents put out a big bowl of food for us kids and left us for days on end with t.v. and marshmallows to keep us company.) I've seen that movie more times than makes sense, and watching Diane Keaton's character set me up for the lifestyle I planned on having when I grew up: The lifestyle that would have me walking to my corporate job in a powersuit and pumps, typing away at my computer with my long acrylic nails, and then meeting Bruce Willis for drinks in his penthouse. Totally reasonable.

So, there it is - the answer to the question, "Why no stuffed animals, Michelle?" Because stuffed animals don't go on dates or have elevators in their houses or wear leg warmers (on any occasion) or play the synthesizer in a band named after them. That's why.

Also, Barbie has great hair.

just michelle

I'm mad at my Mail.

I got home and noticed that no one had gotten the mail yet today. One of life's small pleasures to me is picking up my (snail) mail. Most of my bills are paid on-line, so there's no danger of getting one of those, and I love catalogues, as a rule, and there's always the slim chance of an invitation, announcement or a sweet card (the latter of which is usually from my mom.) So generally speaking, I do like to pick up the mail.

Today, my mail was rude to me. How dare my mail make assumptions about me? Frankly, Mail, I am a little insulted by your insinuations. I know, I know....I've neglected you a bit. When was the last time I mailed a letter? Sent a card? I know you hate my "paperless" lifestyle, but you have gone too far.

Today, in the mail, addressed to me, not "Occupant" was a mailer for a foot and ankle clinic. (Someone is assuming I have some sort of nasty bunion or corn issue. Which I assure you I do NOT. My feet are lovely and youthful.) The next piece of mail, I'm sure much to Rick's delight, was his AARP card. How DARE you, Mail? My husband is a ROCK. STAR. AARP cards are for old people. You must have the wrong guy, Mail. My sole catalog today was from L.L. Bean Woman. Seriously, Mail....Have you MET me?
What happened to my Rolling Stone magazine? My Cosmopolitan? Maybe I still need to know "10 New Ways to Please My Man". So what if I haven't known who the slutty actress is on the cover of Cosmo for the past 8 years?

While we are on topic, people do NOT send me emails for old people. I won't get it, and if I do, I will not admit to getting it. I will roll my eyes like a teenager. Absolutely NO "Maxine" cartoons. No, I have not seen "Menopause, the Musical" nor will I. I cannot relate to your hot flashes or your colonoscopys. (Yet.) Do NOT ask me if I remember some actress from some movie from the 50s or 60s. I don't. I remember Tawny Kittean from Bachelor Party and Phoebe Cates from Fast Times at Ridgemont High.

Dylan Thomas said it best: "Do not go gentle into that good night.
Old age should burn and rave at the close of the day.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light."

Good job Dylan. I choose to burn and rave. Take that, Mail.

just Dawn

Stuff

Today's post is just full of unrelated stuff I've (Michelle) either observed lately or have some opinion about or just can't fit into a Facebook status update. Let's get started...

Please. Let's be Less Stupid, People.
Besides being irritatingly cheesy 90% of the time, license plate holders have the uncanny ability to make car owners think that there's no better way to get their agenda or some message across than to slap it on a piece of plastic and put it on the back of your car so that the driver behind you, who's most likely already in a bad mood because he couldn't figure out your indecipherable personalized license plate, can learn your life's mission statement. Or, that you'd "rather be fly fishing." For example, I was behind a mini van the other day with a license plate holder that said, "Eternity: Smoking or Non Smoking." Yep - clever, kitschy sayings are definitely the thing that would convince me to give my life to Jesus if I didn't already know Him. People. Please. NOT HELPING!

On a less cynical note....

Today I got fun catalogues, a sweet note from someone I love, 2 new books, and not a single bill. That's a good day for mail.

So, I have to let everyone know something truly amazing Dawn said recently. Let me set the scene first, though: Dawn was helping a staff member learn how to use a system we have at work that allows you to narrow down your search for a very specific person if you're looking for someone to help w/ a project or event, or volunteer for a ministry. For example, if you're looking for someone to help pack backpacks for kids in foster care, you'd search for someone with a passion for hurting children, someone who doesn't mind routine tasks, etc. So, to explain the system, Dawn, in serious work mode, tells the staff member, "For instance, say you're looking for a one handed Lebanese airline pilot...." That's the first thing she thought of. A one handed Lebanese airline pilot. I don't think she even realized how incredible that was because stuff like that just comes out of her mouth all the time. And I'm pretty sure it's involuntary. She didn't even pause until she heard me burst out laughing from my desk.

Oh. Also? I'm considering changing banks since I saw a Chase Bank commercial in which they use that one (only one?) awful Sugar Ray song in the background. Chase, if you're going to violate my musical tastes in that way, you better make up for it somehow.

I'm sure I've observed many more things lately, but I'm getting tired and I have a couple of new books to start reading....

Just Michelle

Edumacated!

While I consider myself to be fairly well-read and educated, sufficiently versed in the arts (for someone who grew up in Las Vegas), and culturally aware, it has come to my attention as a grown-up that there are some things that I know absolutely nothing about. I don't mean thermodynamics, or how to split an atom, I'm talking about regular things grown-ups should know.

#1. The Stock Market. I do not have the first clue about the NYSE. I don't know how to read the stocks page in the paper, and my eyes glaze over when someone is talking about someone named Nasdaq. (I don't know who he is.)

#2. I have never driven a motorcycle.

#3. Music. This one is most frustrating, because I enjoy music. I have strong opinions about music. I like everything from the offensive to the sublime. I listen to Classical, Jazz, Metal, Pop, Rock, Smooth Rock, Classic Rock, Alternative Rock. I listen to Bluegrass, Zydeco, Opera, and Blues. Old School Rap, Classic R & B, New Wave, and Disco. I do not know the first thing about how to make music, record it, mix it, or amplify it. I have never had the obligatory piano lessons. Heck, I've never been able to get a real sound out of a harmonica. (Note: I do hate harmonicas. Sorry Blues Traveler fans.) Obviously, I can't read the little ants on lines that is sheet music. The mixing board is so utterly confusing to me that it might as well be an atom-splitting device.

#4. Bodies of Water. Ok, really this is just a Jeopardy catagory that I suck at.

#5. Electronics. Ok, I'm not a total Troglodyte. I can manage to get the television on occasionally and I can do the basics on my computer. I have an iPod and a camera. I can text as fast as a 14 year old girl and I can also manage to Photoshop my forehead wrinkles out. I have some skills. Here's where I'm lost. I do not know what a Blue Ray is. I don't know why I need one. Tell me again why I want to watch crappy TV shows on my computer, Hulu? Plasma? Sorry, don't know. High Def? Don't know/care. Mac vs. PC? Color me "logged out" of this debate. I have had 8-Track, Cassette, Record, CD, and digital formats. I'm done people. If I have to replace my Judas Priest collection for one more format I'm going to shank someone in the Electronics Industry.

I have laid bare my ignorance for all to see in cyberspace. Please just don't ask me about cyberspace!

I is smart.
just Dawn

David Bowie Said it Right: "Dance, Magic, Dance."

I'm a massive fan of "So You Think You Can Dance." And because I didn't say that I'm a massive fan of "Dancing with the (loosely defined) Stars", it's safe to say this is Michelle and not Dawn writing. (Regarding "Dancing w/ the Stars", I admit: everyone likes a good "Comeback Kid" story. But no one wants to see Denise Richards come back from anywhere she's been.)

My affection for SYTYCD (which is what "So You Think You Can Dance" will go by from here on out because evrythng needs 2 b abbrviatd now, rght?) is due to a few things. 1) I. LOVE. DANCE. And all things dance-related. (With the exclusion of any form of dance done in the style of "country", the style of swing [if you're 72 or older, bless your heart and keep it up. If you do swing strictly because it exploded back on the scene in about 1996 as a trend and you haven't let go of it since, we probably aren't friends.], and ballroom dancing, unless it's salsa or cha-cha or some other ridiculously fast, sultry style of dance that involves spangly costumes and t-strap shoes.)

I have always adored dancing and have missed it like crazy (it's been a long time since high school dance class, folks), and finally took it up again about 10 months ago. Ahhhh, the relief! (The brief bouts of hyperactive dancing and Elaine Benes ["Seinfeld." Look it up.] impersonations at wedding receptions were all I'd had to go on, and that simply wasn't cutting it.) So, all that to say, when I watch someone dance, I remember how it felt to perform, the adrenaline rush and the constant, exhausting but thrilling feel of repeating the choreography over and over, sweating so excessively that you're flinging it on to other people's faces, and yet knowing the moment you hear the music begin again, you'll be out there dancing. Plus, it's just the most enjoyable thing to see someone dance with so much stunning grace. Or, if we're talking about hip-hop, with so much power and such a bad a$$ expression on their face. That's just filthy fun right there.

The other reason for my fan status is because the contestants on SYTYCD are all REAL people who adore dance more than life and are caught up in the fun and passion of it all. There's no motive for career revival going on. The things these people are asked to do in the amount of time they have to do it in, is unreal. They're usually starry-eyed "kids" who respect things like ballet or classic Bob Fosse style musical choreography. And the choreographers! They're also real, behind-the-scenes people; they just happen to be crazy, crazy-good at what they do. I mean, certain performances from the show have won Emmys. Someone just let me know if I missed the Emmy nomination Pam Anderson's choreographers got when she was on "Dancing w/ Fame Junkies like Kate Gosselin." Now, I can't say I've seen a single episode of the other dance show, but I think I can safely assume there's drama involved...and enough of it to land most of the "stars" on US magazine. More than once.

Here's the thing, though. My only complaint about SYTYCD (besides the stupid and not all that helpful abbreviation) is the fact that they let America choose the winner. Based on tonight's episode alone, I'm guessing the only people voting are girls between the ages of 12 and 16 whose requirements for "a skilled dancer" consist of how cute and nice-to-look-at the boy dancers are, and how much they burn with seething, angst-ridden jealousy over the girl dancers. CLEARLY, that was the only answer for tonight's decision. So, my advice to the producers? Let the judges on the show decide who should win. Judges, since they make judgements, are typically known to
be the people deciding things in the end.

But until that happens, SYTYCD, I remain faithfully yours.

It's a Celebration! Bring your Party Hat & your Bag of Bodily Waste!

Happy anniversary of the lunar landing, everyone!

What did you do to celebrate? I'll tell you what I did. I constructed a model of the moon out of old newspapers and a combination of water and glue, and put layer upon layer of the soggy newspaper on a HUGE cylindrical piece of foam. I then put on my space suit that I have on hand for special occasions (such as, celebrating the anniversary of the lunar landing, or when I eat freeze dried ice cream and it just feels wrong to eat it in anything but a space suit.), and then I invited friends over to commemorate the occasion with me - but only the friends who also own space suits and who bring their own urine bags. You know, for when we simulate our flight to the moon.

Then, we all firmly planted a little American flag into our moon model, stood in reverant silence with our hands over our hearts for a few minutes....and then we tracked down all the crazy conspiracy theorists who want to sabotage American history by claiming our government created the whole thing, and we teach them by any means necessary how very, very wrong they are. All in the name of patriotism.

That's not really what I did at all. I actually let people celebrate my birthday, which they did rather nicely, I might add. Yes, I, Michelle, was born on the anniversary of the lunar landing. (And sadly, I think my birthday usually gets more attention than the rememberance of the lunar landing does. Let's get our priorities straight, America.) But! -and this is exciting - my sister reminded me of yet another occasion that falls on my birthday: I get to share my special day with Lindsay Lohan's special day! That being, her big move into her new neighborhood (prison) for a 90 day stay (not long enough).

But enough about memorable moments....Because of my known love for all things astrological*, Dawn was nice enough to bring in my horoscope so that I could see what I had to look forward to today, the day I was birthed. I rubbed my hands together in wide-eyed anticipation, and sat down to read my future! I'm a Cancer, in case you're wondering. This is what it said:

You are sympathetic and understanding of other people's problems (so far, so good), which makes you a sucker. (Waaaaiiiit a minute....) You always keep putting things off. This is why you'll always be on welfare and won't be worth a $%#t. Everybody in prison is a Cancer.

Why, thank you, Dawn. Once I realized it was just a joke, we just laughed and laughed. (PHEW! I mean, these things are pretty accurate so you can understand why I would've been worried. For example, one time my horoscope told me to buy myself a dreamcatcher if I wanted the stars to align for me, and that thing's been bringing me nothing but steadfast peace and good feelings every time I glance at it hanging from my rearview mirror. And that's really all we can ask of the universe, isn't it?) I'd love to include what Dawn's horoscope said, but I'm not sure how appropriate that would be. Let me just say, the words "venereal disease" were used.

So, there you go. A birthday, a moon landing, and a brand new neighbor in the Los Angeles correctional facility. What a day!!

Huh. I wonder if Lindsay is a Cancer.

*False.

What's in a name?

I have quite a few much younger friends who are in the whole family-starting mode right now. There is lots of discussion of naming the little cherubs. I thought I'd offer some guidelines for parents-to-be:

Make sure the child's initals do not spell out anything terrible. ex: My lovely friend Heather. Her initials pre-marriage were H.A.G. NOT good. (Her mom totally should have thought that through.) On the flip side, there are cool initial combos. My stepson Jeff: initials J.A.M. (musician hubby obviously thought that through.)

Make sure, please people, that you do not name your male child something that will ensure that he gets beat up every day. Children are cruel. Ex: Beau, Angel, Jaylen, Emery, Sailor. (If you must name him something girly, please enroll him in JeetKunDo.)

No "Cowboy" names. Please eschew Cheyenne, Dakota, Taos, and Kali. It's just dumb.

Use caution with ethnic names. Unless the name is completely cool, ex: Shaquille O'Neal, please ask trusted friends if your baby's name will ensure that she will never be hired in a law firm when her resume competes with Stephanies and Lauries. Ex: Shaniqua, Younique. (Don't be mad at me folks, there are studies that prove this.)

Please make sure your child's name will not automatically lead her into the sex industry. For example, when I was pregnant and considering girl names, I loved the name Savannah. My last name then was Sanders, and a good friend pointed out that "Savannah Sanders" from Las Vegas, no less, was a shoo-in for "featured dancer" status.

Please watch out for old family names. I'm sure you adore your Aunt Edna and your Grandpa Harold, but no. Not even as a middle name. (There is a reason that Declan McManus changed his name to Elvis Costello.) Cool "old" names: Harrison, Olivia, June, Molly

Last but definitely not least, do not name your child after a celebrity, famous or infamous, unless they have a normal name. In 25 years it will just be stupid. Ok: Brittney, Lindsay, Brad, Angie. NOT ok: Madonna, Beyonce, Hannah or Montana, Kobe, or Adolph.

I hope I have not offended anyone with my suggestions on how to select a name. You can dismiss all my stupid opinions just by saying, "What does she know? She named her kid John."

just Dawn

The Cleverness Abounds

I really wish I had come up with this, but I can't (or, won't. Due to integrity) take the credit for this bit of cleverness. My brother sent it to me. It was written by a friend of his. But! One redeeming fact is that my brother proceeded to call me a "literary nut" - his reasoning for sending this to me. I have no problem going by that title.

How to Write Good

1. Avoid alliteration. Always.

2. Prepositions are not words to end sentences with.

3. Avoid cliches like the plague. (They're old hat.)

4. Employ the vernacular.

5. Eschew ampersands & abbreviations, etc.

6. Parenthetical remarks (however relevant) are unnecessary.

7. It is wrong to ever split an infinitive.

8. Contractsions aren't necessary.

9. Foreign words and phrases are apropos.

10. One should never generalize.

11. Eliminate quotations. As Ralph Waldo Emerson once said, "I have quotations. Tell me what you know."

12. Comparisions are as bad as cliches.

13. Don't be redundant; don't use more words than necessary; it's highly superfluous.

14. Profanity sucks.

15. Be more or less specific.

16. Understatement is always best.

17. Exaggeration is a billion times worse than understatement.

18. One-word sentences? Eliminate.

19. Analogies in writing are like feathers on a snake.

20. The passive voice is to be avoided.

21. Go around the barn at high noon to avoid colloquialisms.

22. Even if a mixed metaphor sings, it should be derailed.

23. Who needs rhetorical questions?

"I saved $700" or "Dog Esophagus"

I raced home from taekwondo tonight (ask Rick about the FOOTPRINT upside his head!!!), went to make dinner in record time (Footprinthead doesn't like to eat late.), and feeling pretty great about class tonight, my lack of back pain in association with class tonight, and just generally, a good evening. *Smiling*



On deck for dinner: Grilled chicken for the guys and delicious soy crumbles for me. Made Tangerine Balsamic grilled onions and was slicing an avocado. I dropped the pit on the floor when, faster than a 9 year-old Labrador should ever move, Rex moved in and promptly Hoovered it up. Having had a $300 swallowed rock (yes, rock) experience with sweet Rex in the past, I pounced on him like Little Dre on the Mean-Chinese-Kung-Fu-Guys. (Please see Karate Kid for cultural reference. LOVED it!) He refused to give up his prize. Next, I reached three-quarters of the way down to his greedy dog stomach and hooked out the pit. Gross? Yes. (But not as gross as chicken, frankly.) Apparantly fine, he went about his business happily snuffling up crumbs from the kitchen floor.



The way I see it, I saved $300-$700 dollars in vet bills by horking out the pit myself. Glass half-full? You bet! Zappos, anyone?



just Dawn

The Only Kind of "Baby" I Actually WANT to Birth

So, Dawn, should we make our big announcement? I think our loyal readers (or, any reader, really) deserve to know the exciting news.

Here goes: Everyone? Dawn and I are having a healthy little....PEACE trip to Rwanda next spring! Thank you, thank you. I know - we're just thrilled. It's the first one for both of us so, naturally, there's some nervousness involved. (I didn't use the word "anxiety" there because "nervousness" can at least connote excited anticipation, while "anxiety" just carries a sense of dread and terror that paralyzes every muscle in your body except the muscles that so obediently cause your stomach to reject any little thing it's hanging onto, and then promptly and explosively dispels of it all, ironically, the very way it came in. That kind of anxiety.)

Following the advice of other parents of PEACE trips, we have our manuals and will be doing some reading and research, and we'll get all the items necessary for two first-time participants after doing some comparison shopping via Consumer Reports. I just know all the hard work and 9 months (that part's not a joke - we're going next March. Maybe May, but we'll see) of waiting and wondering will all be worth it. I can't wait to see who our little bundle will look like. (Probably neither of us, actually. Because we're going to Rwanda and I don't know if you've seen either Dawn or myself lately, but... we're both pretty much the color of freshly bathed sheep fleece.)

Dawn's already let people in on it, but I'm waiting to make my announcement in the only appropriate, expected, and socially acceptable way: on Facebook. I think I'll do that on my upcoming birthday. You know, in order to counteract the ugly and less-than-fun day it will be. (3 and 0 are just nasty looking little numbers, aren't they? Nothing good ever comes from odd numbers.) Yes. I've decided that's a pretty good plan. So, that means you all get to hear about our fun news before the 387 or so "friends" I've forgotten I have on Facebook! You lucky people.

All this to say, Dawn and I are beyond excited and still in shock that we both agreed to do the trip. The story of how it all came about is pretty cool (due to the fact that God's presence and power to change hearts was all over it), and maybe Dawn will put it in her own words since it all started with her. I'm overjoyed at the thought that I get to share this experience with Dawn. God's doing crazy, unexpected things in our lives and in our relationships with Him, I think. And that's how He makes life exciting for us.

Now. Onto fundraising.... (My anxiety over asking for money and how terribly weak and passive I am when I attempt to ask for financial assistance deserves a blog post all its own. I'm sure I'll be dry heaving as I send out my fundraising letter. But (sigh)...that's what comes with morning sickness, I guess.)

The Happiest Place on Earth!

...is definitely NOT Disneyland. (Sticky kids, long lines, desparate parents) It is the DOG BEACH in Huntington Beach! Before you roll your eyes in "Dog Blog" boredom, hear me out. Mostly, the dogs are all happy, doing what dogs do...the herders are herding, the retreivers are retreiving, the water dogs are in the water, and everyone is sniffing each others' butts. Well, the dogs are anyway. When allowed to be off the leash and in a natural environment, they even form packs, and play until they are exhausted.

So naturally, when Rick asked me if I wanted to forgo Stater Brothers on a beautiful Sunday afternoon to go to Dog Beach I said YES! I do love the freak show that is my neighborhood StaBros (WHERE do these people live?) however, sandy snouts, happy, wagging tails, and every dog breed imaginable in one place trumps the narrow aisles, overpriced produce, and rude cart-pushers at Staters. (Did you just meet me, or something? Of course you know this.)

At the beach
Rex: "throw the squirrel*, Mommy!! throw it throw it throw it! Ooohh! I'll get it!!!! THROW IT AGAIN...THROW. IT. AGAAAIIINNN!!!" This is pretty much his inner dialogue for the duration. Nothing else really matters to him.

Ruby: (with crazy yellow dialated pupil eyes) "ball. ball. ball. ball. ball. infinity....

Me: Dogs EVERYWHERE!!!! Happeeeeeee!!!

Rick: "Im going to go sit on the towell and enjoy this beautiful day, sweetie. Oh, hi big doggy, you're a good boy."

Big Fat Old Yellow Lab: Hi mister. You're nice. (lifting leg) peeeeeeee.....

Rick: #%!!@#**

Me: (hysterical, can't speak.)

Well,it was the Happiest Place on Earth to three-fourths of us. Still beats Stater Brothers.
Dawn

*Squirrel=Flying Squirrel dog toy, frisbee-like, neon orange, most beloved of all Rex's possessions.
**Huge bonus points to Rick for being a TOTALLY good sport about being peed on by a lumbering, geriatric, pookie-bear, of a dog.

Defending Adam

Dear Haters (Mischa)
If by "like" Adam Lambert, you mean that I appreciate his creativity? His "dare to be different" bravado in the white bread mediocrity that is popular music? Do you mean that I "like" his gorgeous eyes and hair, and that he has more looks than Giselle Bundchen?* Ok, you got me. I like Adam Lambert. So much so that if I were 16 years old, I would probably wallpaper my room with smouldering images of him....Adam as a quasi-fem Elvis, Adam with a boa constrictor, Adam as Ziggy Stardust....I don't care. I love him. Judge me. Bring it.

just Dawn
*how do you make an umlaut?

By the Way....

.... Dawn likes Adam Lambert.

Please direct all hate mail to only her.

(Dawn, I just wanted to spark some good dialogue. You're welcome.)

Love, Mischa

Because I Want to see my Nieces and Nephews More than I Want to Write for our Blog...

*Side note (yes, at the beginning of a post. So, not really an official side note.): This is how easily distracted I [Michelle] am: I'm overhearing a conversation in which the whole thing is being spoken in spanish, so, no, I don't understand it (thanks, 5 years of spanish class. What was the point?), and yet, I CANNOT block out the conversation and focus on anything else. Weird. And aggravating. That's it on that topic.*

Okay, kiddies. I'm (Michelle) informing you all that you won't be hearing from me for a few days. I'll be in OR. basking in the goodness that is Oregon weather and Oregon politics. Not really. Instead, I think I'll bask in the wonder of my nieces and nephews and their humor, and in the joy of spending time with my family. That sounds much better. I'll be there to celebrate my niece Tori Minyi's 2nd birthday, but first birthday with her new family. (A post for later: I'll tell you the story of my brother and sister-in-law adopting this truly amazing, smart, beautiful, funny little person from China. She took my heart and got her little tiny grip on it the minute I saw her. And I'm certainly okay with that.)

Anyway, it's a pretty big deal for our family, so I wanted to be a part of it. Don't worry - I'll come back with stories to blog about. In the meantime.... Dawn? You wanna pick it up from here? I won't even bring up how many subjects/jokes of yours/witty comments you've said that I've suggested you turn into a blog post. (Monkey piss being one. Please explain that one to the good people.)

See you in a few days....

Your Subliminal Messages Don't Work Here

Obvious product placement-slash-product plugging in reality t.v. shows is a pet peeve of mine. (One of many. MANY. Seriously, I have so many pet peeves I should do a "Pet Peeve Post per Week." And obviously, alliteration is not a pet peeve of mine.)

Back to what started this post - the irritating use of product placement in reality t.v. shows, specifically those involving competition of some kind. (Which makes me wonder, now that I think of it, why there isn't product placement/plugging in The Real Housewives of....any city. There's more brutal competition between those women than there is between bulls in Pamplona and the idiots running from them. Although, and I'm guessing here since I can't stomach an episode, there's inadvertent product placement with the shoes and the clothes and the cars and the restaurants and the cosmetic surgeons....)

It's that most obvious of camera scans and close-ups on whatever product is sponsoring said show that makes me roll my eyes until I can see what my pretty little brain looks like. They do it in such a non-subtle way, but still with the impression that they think they're being subtle, which only ends up seeming condescending. As if us viewers are just dumb suckers who won't notice you holding the bright yellow box of Glad (trademark) garbage bags up by your face a la Price is Right, while you give the chefs their next challenge, Padma Lakshmi.

And I will not be made to look like a sucker. (All credit goes to Dad on that life lesson.)

So go ahead, reality t.v. competition shows. Keep placing your products and plugging your sponsors. But next time you pause the camera for 34 seconds on the Harry Winston ring box when the Bachelor* is proposing, I, and any other non-sucker, will not be buying what you're selling. (Mostly because I really, really don't want to have to buy my own engagement ring.)

*Aw, jeez, Michelle. I just outed myself with that whole "I watch The Bachelor" thing, didn't I?Current score is, Ridiculous & Shameful Show: 1. Sucker (me): 0. (I owe my dad an apology.)

Let's do a Little Reminiscing...

So, there's this Justin Bieber (am I spelling that right? Wait. I remembered I don't care.) kid who has managed to BURST onto the scene and explode all over everyone, whether we like it or not....similar to what his pubescent boy zits probably do when he gets his mandatory pre-show facials. (Where he also gets his pretty hair literally swept into place. With a very pint sized broom.) This kid is like the Dalai Lama: loved and adored because we're not allowed to NOT love and adore him, and we're also scared to hurt his feelings. (They both just seem so fragile.)

But may I remind us of a time, not too long ago, when there was another phenomenon that wriggled their way into our hearts, minds and wardrobe choices. Yes, Kriss Kross was yet another unexplainable fame magnet. Beyond our better judgement, we loved that little 14 year old duo, making us jump around all crazy-like, wearing our overalls the wrong way. And we lapped that up like pack of alley cats suckling at mama alley cat.

I just thought I'd do us all a service and help us, as the pop culture junkie of a society that we are, to bring us down from our Bieber high and get us through rehab so we never take another hit and trick ourselves into thinking, "you know what? That little guy's got talent. I see him going really far in his career. And no! It has nothing to do with him making a bargain with the devil, otherwise known as Usher."

We'll get through this and past this. Together. We'd better. Because this nonsense is just wiggity wiggity wack.

(Dawn, am I right here? Tell me this isn't like Invasion of the Body Snatchers where I find out you're one of them and I have to run from our friendship screaming, "NO!!! Not you TOO!!!" Although, our friendship has survived Lady Gaga's interference, sooo....I think we're good.)

I'd Like to Think I'm Lethal Now.

I need someone's face in front of me so I can elbow it. Tonight Dawn was nice (and persuasive) enough to teach me and some other girls in a self defense class. Actually, I've always wanted to take a self defense course, so I was excited to see what it was all about.

For those of you who don't know (or who haven't been paying attention), Dawn is, among other things, a Tae Kwon Do instructor. She and her husband Rick teach anyone who wants to learn the "art" of Tae Kwon Do, and they're very good at what they do. Plus, it just makes the two of them that much cooler. (I'll attempt to get Dawn to tell the story of Rick stealthily taking down some purse snatcher in the canned food aisle of Ralphs like he was plucking lint off his pants. Oh look. I just told the story.) Anyway, Dawn is always talking about her muscle memory and how at any time, she has about 13 moves she can use to make you involuntarily burst your bladder. And that's exactly what I want to do: some bladder bursting.

Enter Dawn and her self defense class. Let's just say, Dawn wasn't wrong all those times she told me I'm scrappy. Hitting, punching, kicking and eyeball gouging is just plain fun (when is it NOT?), but learning to do it with technique and control makes it just....addictive. I now want one of those kicking/punching bag things to practice with. And I guess I'd need the person behind it holding the bag and being irrelevant in every other way.

So, thank you "Mrs. Maestas" (your students are a hell of a lot more respectful than I would be if you were my teacher) for being so skilled and for sharing some of that skill and strength with me. (But I'm most appreciative of the fact that I feel justthismuch more confident that I can shatter the bones in some guy's foot, snap his knee, and then elbow him in the groin. With class.)

Like a Duck on a June Bug

Last night, while trying to relax, cook, and Facebook stalk, my beautiful and smart chocolate lab, Rex kept pestering me to go out. I let him out, in, out, in, out and in before I realized what all of the excitement was about. Our back deck, sliding door screen, and beyond were covered in these obnoxious little brown bugs. They are beetley, kind of, and worst of all they can fly! Not quite normal bug flying, but drunken dipping and lurching through the air. They look very much like Sugar Babies. Well apparently they are also delicious like Sugar Babies. I caught my (well fed!) Rex out on the deck leaping and twisting to devour them in-flight, and snuffling in every corner like a prize-winning truffle hunting sow! I don't know how many he ate before I caught him, but found myself shreiking, "We no eat bugs! We no eat bugs!", (which is NOT the strangest thing my neighbors have heard me instruct to my dogs, now that I think about it). Anyway, these little flying Sugar Babies are plentiful and disgusting, and anyone who has had the pleasure of me regaling them with a detailed description of the aftermath of Rex's delicate digestive system, knows what I am certainly in for later. Sigh.

I'll Take Some Smooth Soft Rock Sophistication, Please.

I'm (Michelle) just going to get this post started, but I'm trusting Dawn (not Michelle) will pick this up and run with it. Or, sail with it, as is more appropriate for this post.

I'd like to take a moment to draw attention to what is either a gift or a curse - depending on your musical preferences. (And how long you can handle it before you puncture your ear drum and experience the warm and calming sound of silence that results.) Welcome....Yacht Rock.

If you happen to have owned a yacht or tramped it up as a yacht owner's accessory with your feathered and frosted hair and heels-with-bikini outfit during the late 1970s to late 80s, then you're probably aware of Yacht Rock. And you probably spent your yacht-trolling days listening to the likes of The Doobie Brothers, Kenny Loggins, Hall & Oats, Ambrosia, Toto, Christopher Cross, anything from the Dirty Dancing soundtrack, and the eponymous song, "Sailing."

There are countless other Yacht Rockers to mention, but I'm going to leave that to Dawn or any readers who would like to add the name of your favorite soft rocking, linen wearing, gold investing musician to the list.

Mmmm...lunch time. I've got Hungry Eyes.

....Part Two

#1. So, what, about this (insert your favorite image of Lady Gaga in a horrid, frightening and "hell has broken loose" outfit) makes you say, "Damn, that Lady Gaga is so cool. Look at what an artist she is?!" http://www.radaronline.com/photos/image/69588/2010/06/lady-gaga-attends-sisters-graduation

Here’s why…As I mentioned before, I grew up in Las Vegas. In the 1970s and 80s. I also went to college and majored in fine art, real art, God bless us, in a city filled with Dice Clocks, Elvis on Black Velvet and Dogs Playing Poker paintings. The Art (and Drama and Theater) Departments were worlds away from the nice up-and-coming Hotel Management Majors and Tark’s World Famous Runnin’ Rebels Basketball program. The UNLV Art Department was a four year freak show. We had pink hair, ripped fishnets, and vinyl hot pants. We welded and did performance art. I once went to a student event where an “artist” built a sweet catapult and launched a pig’s head across the gallery while patrons noshed on cheese and crackers. So you see, we were raised in tacky. We created outrageous. The soundtrack of our childhood was lounge music and the jangling of slot machines. This was our norm. Lady Gaga makes catchy tunes, yes, but why I love her is why most people love apple pie and backyard summer barbeques….she’s just like a little slice of home.
#2. When you worked with old people, what was the single most disgusting and/or inappropriate medical-related malady you heard about...among your many options.
I love this question. Hmmmm….is it the detailed blow by blow of the colonoscopy? (They put cameras all up in there now, y’all..) Is it the inflammations and intricacies of Diverticulitis? Oooh! Crohns Disease!! (Google it…I dare you.) Bedsores? Glaucoma? Hip replacement surgery? I think the better question is: “At what age to we decide that explosive diarrhea, open, infected wounds, and inflamed intestinal tracts are conversations to be had in polite (or ANY) company?” I don’t want to get there. If you ever come up to me and say, “Hey Dawn, how’s it going?”, and I launch into a myriad of gynecological issues, information, or procedural details, I give you permission to kill me…Just make sure you describe my death to everyone within earshot in gruesome, bloody Technicolor!

3. If you could live on any reality t.v. show, which one would it be, and why. i.e., to be a part of a family (the Kardashians?), or to have the chance to verbally and/or physically fight whomever you wanted to (Jersey Shore mascot, Snookie? In her case, this would be if you wanted to help her with her hair...and everything else.)
This one is easy, though to preface, I don’t watch much TV at all. I’ve never seen most of the shows that are hugely (and I’m sure disgustingly) popular. Like Jersey Shore. I watched The Kardashians once because Bruce Jenner used to be a huge fan of Godiva before he made his face all weird and married into a freaky family, and, I confess to being a little obsessed with Kim Kardashian. But I digress. If I could be in any reality show I would be a judge on RuPaul’s Drag Race!!!! (Again, I know you haven’t seen it…Google it!) I‘ve seen it once. It is a drag queen rip off of Project Runway. RuPaul=Heidi Klum. My favorite lines from the show: You know how when someone gets voted off of PR Heidi goes, “One day you are in, the next day you are OUT. Auf Wiedersehen! *kiss kiss*” RuPaul says, “SASHAY… AWAY!” to the dejected, voted-off drag queen. Amazing. 2nd favorite quote from RPDR: “Girl…Are you getting’ FIERCE with me?!” OMGsh. Indescribable. Please watch.

4.I'm glad we agree on the fact that Aerosmith are true rock icons who are ACTUALLY lyrically and musically talented, and I love that we have a secret solidarity in agreeing on Steve Tyler's hotness. (That should spark some controversy.) But, tell me why exactly you scoff at, in your words, "indy-wimp musicians" that I happen to enjoy? We agree to disagree here, I'm aware, but I just ask out of curiosity. Not at all out of a desire to correct your misguided opinion.

Oh Misch...you answered the question with the question. Do you really want a dissertation on why Steven Tyler and his ilk are iconic compared to the Whitebread Ben Folds and Death Cab for Bleah Cutie? I‘ll give you the short version with just a couple of poignant examples. Compare/contrast. Aerosmith, Black Sabbath, Judas Priest, Guns N Roses: 25 year career of ROCKING 3 generations of asses off. *Ben Folds, She and Him, The Arctic Monkeys, and the aforementioned DCFC: responsible for the pussification of the modern rock genre. I will give exception to a few Indie Rockers who actually rock. These bands are exempt from my contempt: Shiny Toy Guns, The Strokes, The Raconteurs, and Babyshambles. Dear Followers, if you hate my answer please refer back to Question #1 where I explain that I am from a culture of tacky and trash. Viva Las Vegas and Long Live Rock …

* For the record, I (michelle) really, really hate Ben Folds's music. (Putting Ben Folds in the same category as Death Cab for Cutie will get you shanked, Dawn.) And I really like Shiny Toy Guns. And also, Dawn, I didn't know you knew She and Him. I'm impressed. Very, very impressed.

Getting to Know Us, Getting to Know All About Us (Part 1)*

*That title is from the musical, The King and I, for those of you who don't (care to) know about musicals. Or, who might actually detest them - which is the category I thought Dawn fell into until I was pleasantly surprised to learn that Dawn has a special place in her heart for this song, in particular. I suppose you can ask her the reason why, if you're that curious.



Now is when we play the interview game so you all can get to know us better. Most likely, the only things you'll come to learn will be unnecessary, trivial, but no doubt entertaining bits of trivia. Which will take you nowhere in life. (Which, by coincidence, have also taken us nowhere.)



First contestant today? Me. (Michelle/Mischa) I will be answering Dawn's questions, and in Part 2 (insert anxious anticipation!), we'll switch places. And we're off....



Donald Trump, Hulk Hogan, Dog the Bounty Hunter , or JLo for U.S. Senate? Why/why not?

What's this "U.S. Senate"? Okay, well, you'd think right off the bat it would be Donald Trump for reasons obvious to anyone as to why he'd make a great politician. (Such as, messy marriages and divorces, excessive focus paid to his hair, etc.) Then, you've got JLo which makes sense with the whole "I want to have my hand in everything, even if it's not my specialty" thing. (Acting) But, I'm going with Dog, the Bounty Hunter. At least we'd know he'd get the job done. Whatever that job is, it would be rounded up, intimidated, cussed at, and thrown into an SUV. Done and done.



You are from the great (debatable) state of Oregon. What are the top 3 myths about OR, Oregonians, or anything Pacific Northwest, and how do you debunk them?

There are no myths. Everything you've heard is proabably true. I make no claims that I'll defend Oregon. Never have.



If there were a movie made of your life, who would most accurately play you? Who would be the most outrageous actor to play you? In your life story, who would play me?

Way to bring it back to you, Dawn. Nicely done. So, let's start with your actor. The obvious answer is Chelsea Handler; you both have a dry, take it or leave it kind of wit about you. But, as you've said before, you guys would be best friends if she knew you. So I think you should stay friends instead of having Chelsea try and portray you. Here's the thing, Dawn: you don't fit into a mold, and actresses nowadays are all just mold-y and unoriginal. I might need some suggestions from our reader(s). Guys? Who has a really smart sense of humor, is gorgeous, but also really tough (in a good way)? I'm going to disappoint you and ask you to let me think on it... *Update: It just came to me who should play you, Dawn! Lauren Graham, most famously known for playing the extra, super sarcastic, good with words, well dressed, pretty, and so-cool-that-everyone-wants-to-be-her-friend character in "Gilmore Girls." I like her a lot - she seems like she's perpetually a teenager (the fun kind, not the kind that makes you want to remove your uterus with whatever tool you have lying around). So, I hope you think of that as a compliment, Dawn. Because I most definitely do.*
Who would play me, huh? Well, you know that James (names not changed to protect privacy) calls me Lemon after Liz Lemon/Tina Fey because apparently I do and say things that remind him of Liz Lemon....excluding stealing babies, eating bags of Mexican cheese snacks, wanting to marry an astronaut, and stapling my bra. (I've only done one of those.) But, saying Tina Fey would play me is too much of a dubious honor for me to accept. So, I don't know. Diane Keaton? I might say Jenna Elfman. (I realize she's very tall, folks). She's quirky, imperfect, talks with her hands, and makes crying look cute. The most outrageous? Also Jenna Elfman - this time because of the enormous and ridiculous difference in height.

All super heros have a super power. Superman can fly, Spiderman can make webs or something, Wonder Woman has a golden lasso that makes people tell the truth. What super hero are you and what is your super power?
I've actually been asked this and have asked it of other people, and each time I give my answer, I'm mocked. But, I think it would come in extremely handy. I. Would like. The power of knowing every language in existence. Hear me out. How helpful would it be to know how to communicate no matter where you went in the world?! You'd sound cool, you would be able to negotiate with terrorists and world leaders, AND you could get away with not looking so much like a tourist when you traveled to France where they hate American tourists. (Or, just Americans.) Maybe it's that I love other languages and am always impressed when people are bi-lingual or multi-lingual. Because it's not easy for me to learn languages. So that's what I'd want. Which, I guess, would make me "SUPER LINGUIST!"

Next up: Dawn....

That's for Damn Sure

Regarding our blog, I thought I'd pass on the challenge that Dawn e-mailed me yesterday.

"Let's get famous. We can handle it."

(One of us, though, has already experienced a life of fame. No one's bidding on my wrestling action figures on e-bay....or, can find herself all over YouTube....or, can claim to have been on about 12 episodes of Family Feud. In character (oh, Lady Godiva). Using the British accent. Competing against male wrestlers. The Phil Donahue show, however.....No. That didn't happen to me either.)

Leadership is Overdone.

See how it says "Followers: 1"? That's me, you guys. I'm following my own blog. Please help end the shame and embarrassment by adding your name to the "Followers" list. You don't even have to read it. Just pretend.

Dreams, Dates & Dawn - A Love Letter to Alliteration

My wish has come true - Dawn started a blog. And it didn't even require too much persuading, pleading, crying, bribing, (falsely) admitting that Lady Gaga is a true musical artist, or letting Dawn yell at me, "Dance, monkey! Dance!" Which I would have done. Gladly.

The only catch in seeing my dream come to fruition is that I write the blog with Dawn. So, because I believed with all my soul that the world (or, our immediate circle of people we know) MUST have the chance to know the clever, witty, brilliantly sarcastic, Queen of quick (and usually mocking) one liners, amazing, interesting, hilarious, lovely, super fun, loyal, grace-filled, authentic, unique, rare person that is Dawn Maestas. (Did you read her post?! Come on! After that, I have to prove that I'm "the writer", as Dawn claims? And she "just draws stuff?" Now I feel like I can't write OR draw stuff.)

And now, let me explain why our first post is called Me n Misch. During one conversation with Dawn, she told me, "Michelle, you'd probably date a lot more if your name was something exotic like Mischa." And since that moment, I've been Mischa to Dawn. (Poor thing probably doesn't know that her theory hasn't worked worth a puddle of piss because NO ONE CALLS ME MISCHA EXCEPT DAWN. And I have yet to go out on a date with Dawn, sooo...theory fail.)

So, yes. Here is our blog. Most likely you'll be seeing clever and well written posts, laced with sarcasm from Dawn....and one line posts from me taken right off of my Facebook status updates. Or, unnecessarily long posts like this one, for example. Because I'm wordy. Very, very wordy.

Thank you for making my dreams come true, Dawn. Now that all (three. Hi, Mom.) of our readers see me writing this blog along with you, I feel like a much cooler person knowing people will know me as your friend. Next post from me? Lighter, less "ode to Dawn", and actually about pop culture of some kind. Such as, "Why our culture is obsessed with Lady Gaga." I have thoughts on this. Dawn knows my feeling: You can't spell Lady Gaga without "gag."