"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