Thursday, December 20, 2012

As tears go by.

I think I was around eleven or twelve when I received one of the greatest gifts ever for Christmas - A GUITAR!

I had begged for one since the dawn of MTV and envisioned something red, shiny and electric. Instead I got something beige, bulky and acoustic. But I was still pretty excited about the whole thing.

Dream vs. Reality.

My parents had hidden it away in the closet – after I had opened my final gift and come to terms with another year going by with no guitar, my dad told me to go and get something for him out of there.

Annoyed, I opened the closet door.
And there she was.

All curvy in a big black case - when I saw it I let out a yelp so loud our neighbor next door called to make sure everything was ok.

Things I loved about my childhood living room:
Stop-sign-shaped table with poinsettia.
Avocado carpet.
Fancy folding wood-paneled doors.

The closet was through that opening on the right.

Along with the guitar, my parents had also gotten me some private lessons at the Ossining Music Center, which was a good long walk from our house. I couldn’t wait to start and become the next Eddie Van Halen! Because that was what was totally going to happen! Totally.

My first lesson was the following week with my instructor, Mike. Before I met Mike I had a picture of what he would look like in my head. I was expecting someone resembling Jimi Hendrix or Jimmy Page - instead I got someone who was a mix between Jerry Garcia and my math teacher.

The best part of guitar lessons was the walk up to see Mike.

Strutting my stuff carrying that big old case – to say I felt like hot stuff was the understatement of the year. People driving/riding their ten-speeds by must have been in awe of my coolness. In my mind they saw a guitar-playing-chick on her way to play her next big gig. In reality what they saw was a chubby, pre-teen girl sweating bullets trying to lug a giant guitar case while dodging traffic.

Over the first few lessons I learned some basics; how to hold the guitar, how to tune the guitar, a few basic chords, etc. But just like anything in my life the whole process wasn't moving fast enough. By lesson three I was bored and wanting out. I practiced, but not enough.

Here are the few gems I took away from guitar lessons with Mike:

As Tears Go By - The Rolling Stones.
This was my crowning achievement, the only song I could play in it's entirety. Totally worth my parents hard earned money. I can still pick up a guitar today and whip this one out, complete with singing, and have people say, "I didn't know you played the guitar!" Awesome.

Solo from We're Not Gonna Take It - Twisted Sister.
I'm sure Mike taught me the whole song, but I have no memory of ever playing anything other than the annoying, loud solo part in the middle - which is somehow even more loud and annoying on an acoustic guitar. I can still play that bad ass solo with no sheet music. Call me a musical genius.

Opening chords from Metal Health - Quiet Riot.
You see where I'm going here? See, I'm not gonna learn a whole song, that's for suckers. But I will play the hell out of the opening of Metal Health, and it will make you want to bang your head and it will drive you mad.

So that about completes my guitar achievements - Merry Christmas.
I don't think Mike would be very proud of how well I've kept up.

My guitar made several moves with me, from New York to Florida to Oregon, until a few years ago when I finally sold it at a yard sale for fifteen bucks. Like most things I sell at yard sales, I kinda regret doing that.

When I do think back on some of the greatest Christmas gifts ever, the "Year of the Guitar" is right up there along with the "Year of the Atari "and the "Year of the giant Barbie Make Up Head."

Thank you Teacher Mike, for making an entire Stones song somehow stick in my brain forever, a whole song - not just the opening chords to Satisfaction or something like that.

Every time I hear that pretty, pretty song, I think of looking in that closet, that big 'ol guitar, and Christmastime.  

Wednesday, December 12, 2012

The Actor's Diet.

I am so excited to be guest-blogging on The Actor's Diet this week.
I am especially excited because I got to write about two things I love a lot:
1.)  Portland 
2.)  FOOD.
To read my post and see various photos of me eating relentlessly,
click on the link below.

Friday, December 7, 2012

Making a list, checking it twice.

When I was younger I started counting down the days until Christmas pretty early in the year. Like, as soon as I had unwrapped my last gift from Santa and settled in with a giant slice of stolen and kooken that my Grandma Ewart had baked, I was busy stuffing my face and looking forward to next year.

Did anyone else’s grandmother make stolen for Christmas? Stolen was a dessert with dried fruits that kind of looked like a giant donut. And kooken? I don’t remember what the hell that was, but I ate it.

I loved making detailed lists of what I wanted for Christmas, as well as detailed lists of what the big man had delivered to me. I would divulge the list of my holiday haul to one of the most important parties that existed in my life – my diary.

I was eight years old. This was a very good year. A Barbie? A Charlies Angels doll? Pay Day? (Meh.) AND A LOOM? I made like 900 potholders on that thing and they were all awesome. I was handing them out like hotcakes to my mother, grandmothers, teachers, babysitters, strangers on the street, anyone who would take them. Oh, and hellllooo electronics - Merlin and Speak and Spell. A very good year indeed, despite the rainy weather. Oh, and Merry Christmas Dairy! I'm sure the cows had a big celebration. And Merry Christmas to you too, Hello Kitty Diary. I loved you.
Thank you Santa.

1987. I have grown up quite a bit and my taste is much more refined. Name brands are obviously very important - FORENZA sweaters, OUTBACK RED turtlenecks, "AXCESS" watch, BENETTON outfit and perfume, E-SPIRIT, LIZ CLAIBORNE, etc. But the best gift of all as you can see, was JASON. Obviously my self esteem was in the toilet, God only knows what he saw in me, with him being so "gorgeous" and all. A few days later Jason told me he loved me, got expelled from school, and I never saw him again. Happy New Year!


I'm happy to say I don't write down every little thing that I get for Christmas anymore. If I did it would probably read something like this:

This was the best Christmas ever. I got to sleep until 8:00 this morning! I had a really good cup of coffee. I laid by the fireplace like a cat until I was hot to the touch. I got some face wash and that vanilla lotion that I like and a new bra from Nordy's. And Scotchmallow's from See's Candies. And I got a new book about Mick Jagger.

I guess name brands still are a little important to me - Nordy's, See's Candies...

This would all make for another good year. 
Merry Christmas Diary. 

Christmas morning '79.
Stockings, bad haircuts, footie pajamas.

Friday, November 30, 2012

You 'da bomb.

One of the greatest Christmas gifts I ever received, or ever will receive, is the same "greatest Christmas gift" memory as millions of others of you have.

I was nine years old...


Finally a system to replace Pong. I was getting carpal tunnel syndrome from furiously spinning that doorknob-sized control dial over and over again. It was time to graduate to a joystick.

Combat was the first game we had for the Atari, because, well, it came free with the system. I can still hear the “ch-ch-ch” sound of those square little tanks slowly crawling across the television screen. Space Invaders was next, which was a huge step up from Combat. But my game - the game I can say with full confidence that I truly mastered - was Kaboom.

The gist of Kaboom was this - you had to catch live bombs that a mad prisoner was dropping from above into three buckets of water to extinguish them. Maybe that prisoner spoke to my future taste in bad boys wearing stocking caps or my future personal venture into a life of crime, but whatever the draw was, I was really, really good at Kaboom.

In the nineties, whenever the annoying phrase “the bomb” started coming out of everyone’s mouths, my mind raced back to my little Kaboom prisoner dropping all those lit bombs into my water buckets.

Needless to say I was thinking about my Kaboom guy A LOT in the nineties. Too much.
I hadn’t thought about him in a while - until recently.

A few weeks ago my friend Laura shared her product-love of Boscia’s B.B.

Now I have been seeing and hearing about these “B.B.” beauty products everywhere, they are kind of like a cross between a tinted moisturizer and a foundation with some extra benefits. This one interested me particularly because it claimed to do a lot of stuff I like:

Reduce fine lines - sure.
Help prevent breakouts - yep.
Protect my face with SPF - what the hell, why not.
One shade fits all - sold.

I happily try Laura’s B.B. Now after hearing her say the name of the product over and over again, as I understand it the "B.B." stands for BEAUTY BOMB.


I buy a tube of my own bomb. Suddenly the prisoner is back in my head again on a loop.

When I go to Sephora to buy it I explain to the girl at the cash register my correlation between this product, the word bomb, and the Atari game Kaboom. She looks at me confused and hands me my card back. As I leave I realize she wasn’t even born when Atari existed and has no idea what I’m talking about.

I feel old, but happy with my purchase.

As I put on my makeup in the morning my thoughts again race back to Kaboom, to the water sloshing out of the three buckets, to the prisoner dropping the bombs faster and faster.

Bomb. Bomb. Bomb. This product is the bomb!

The coverage is great, thicker than a tinted moisturizer and a nice creamy change from my Bare Minerals foundation, which don’t get me wrong, I still love.

So I’m talking to Laura the other day and start raving about how much I love the bomb, and how the bomb is the bomb, and "don’t you remember Kaboom" when she says:

“It’s a BALM Lori, not a BOMB. A beauty balm. That is what the B.B. stands for. Balm.

You 'da balm.

No wonder I confused the Sephora girl so much.

Well – eff it – I’ll continue to call it my beauty bomb.
Because it is the bomb.
Of balms.

Halloween 1988.

Friday, November 16, 2012

Tools of the trade.

During my teenage years I spent a lot of time in my room at my desk.

Not studying, writing letters to pen-pals, or reading Great Expectations for the third time, oh no, no, no.

My little white desk in my room served a dual purpose:

Make Up Station
Hair Salon

In retrospect it really was a beautiful piece of furniture that deserved much better treatment. Part of a set from Ethan Allen with matching dresser and nightstand, its drawers did not hold paper, pens and paperclips - but did hold eye liner pencils, extra cans of Stiff Stuff and banana clips.

The finish on it eventually became permanently stained light pink and bronze, splotchy war wounds of 80’s cosmetics that you couldn’t scrub off with Comet.

Which must have been really good for my skin.

There were two tools that I no longer own, but when I think back to my tedious getting-ready-for-school-ritual I can’t picture my morning routine without them. When we would go on a family vacation and I was without these things I was like a lost kid in a department store - nervous and quite scared.

Curly Top Diffuser Dryer.

My Curly Top hairdryer made me feel extra special and super cool because I was the only member of my gang to own one! I was also the only member of my gang who had curly hair so in retrospect, this made sense. Shaped like a mirror, a fan, or as I liked to think of it - a giant lolly - my Curly Top was a hair-dryer and a diffuser combo - it was two, two TWO THINGS IN ONE. Well actually three, as it also made an awesome pretend microphone to belt When Doves Cry into.

Clairol True-to-Light Make Up Mirror.

This illuminated mirror was my pride and joy - every morning I felt like a movie star in her dressing room surrounded by lightbulbs. The mirror had four settings to choose from so you would get the appropriate amount of light to apply your make up:


Back in the day this was all very high tech, as little colored shades of plastic moved in front of the light circles as you changed the settings. From what I remember "office" had a lovely light pink glow to it. Now I didn't work in an office at sixteen, but I sure liked to envision a bunch of sexy secretaries using this setting before taking the morning train and working a nine-to-fiver.

Eventually these trusty tools did retire to my personal Beauty Graveyard.

I sold the movie star mirror for a buck in our garage sale before we moved away from Florida. But old Curly Top? I still had that magic-microphone through college – and was able to introduce my new hippie flat haired friends to it.

You’re welcome, Oregon.

Majored in Curly.

Thursday, November 8, 2012

Emotional rescue.

In the early 80's, there were two things that were very important to me - both began with the letter "M":

Mick Jagger.

I watched videos like a madwoman on MTV and memorized them like I memorized song lyrics.
When I heard the song on the radio or on one of my albums I could replay the videos in my mind along with the music. It was like I had a television chip implanted in my brain with one awesome channel on it.

One hour a week I would put the song and the video in my head on a loop.
That hour was called MASS. We were Catholic, so my major zone out times started at the gospel and ended at the sermon. Bonus zone out times included baptisms of babies, confirmations, and midnight mass on Christmas Eve.

Only in my mind, the videos started out as they were on MTV, then veered off into my own little fantasy world. Most ended with Mick and I getting married or doing the deed. I had snuck downstairs at three a.m. enough times to see various Porky's movies on HBO to have a general idea as to what "the deed" actually was.

And Mick and I did the deed. A lot.

Start Me Up.

In my church-fantasy the rest of the band wasn't there - it was just Mick singing to me in that tight, lavender t-shirt and white pants combo, jumping and posing around me like he does at the beginning of the video. We would both giggle and flirt and he would sing to me- he would grab me and pull me close, put his hands on his hips and tell me how I'd made a "grown man cry." I would also make his "eyes dilate and lips go green." Then that part at the end - about making a "dead man cum" - I made a mental deal with God that if I didn't sing that part in my head during church it was ok. But every time I got to that part of the song in my head sitting on that hard pew I struggled, quite a bit.

It's Only Rock and Roll.

Oh my God they are wearing sailor suits - even Charlie. In my version I envisioned myself in a little navy and white sailor suit with long legs like a pony dancing with Mick. At the end of the video the circus tent they are playing fills up completely with bubbles.

I like it.

Like it.

Yes I do.

I was horsing around with the rest of the band, we were all throwing foam at each other, when Mick and I get into a little playful tussle of our own. Then a major make out session begins. The other members of the band disappear under the bubbles and Mick and I make out for the remainder of the sermon. I mean the song. Hello, sailor.

Emotional Rescue.

Didn't need to go too far in my mind during this one. Mick was my "knight in shining armour," coming to my emotional rescue. Creepy weird video where the band is seen all x-ray like and Mick is singing falsetto. I was all computerized too (I looked good) and there was lots of crawling in dark rooms involved in this one. Mick crawling toward me, me crawling toward Mick, more make outs, more colored lines and falsetto uh-hoo, uh-hoo-hoo, uh-hoo-hoo-hoo's.

On Christmas and at Easter - and whenever else I manage to drag myself out of bed on a Sunday morning to get to church - I still think about Mick, all these years later. Mick and Mass go together.
The thing about Catholic Mass no matter where in the world you go, it is the same, consistent always. The welcome, the readings, the gospel, the sermon, the communion, the end. It always feels like coming home to me.

Having Mick come to my Emotional Rescue in my head during the sermon also feels like coming home.
Lord, (and Mick) hear my prayer.

You can't always get what you want.

But if you try might find... get what you need.

Wednesday, October 31, 2012

Happy Sexyween.

I love Halloween.
I love everything about it.
Love it, love it, love it.

I thank God that growing up my parents always made the holiday super-special for my brother and me. They had huge Halloween parties - Mike and I would sit on the stairs in our pajamas waiting for the doorbell to ring so we could take turns jumping up and answering it. We would squeal with laughter or fright as mom and dad's friends paraded down into the basement year after year (click here for Ghosts From Halloween's Past.)

Much attention was paid to decorating our house with cardboard cutouts, spiderwebs and pumpkins, watching Halloween TV specials, doing the mash (the monster mash) and of course, choosing the perfect costume.

And so into adulthood a Halloween costume is still important - and necessary.
But as the years have gone by I have noticed something - scary costumes have been replaced.

Halloween is the perfect time of year for teenage girls, young adults, and seemingly normal everyday women to turn themselves into sexy-something-or-others.

Slutty nurses, slutty policewomen, slutty cats, and slutty French maids, sure - these have all been around since I was a kid.

But here are a few more recent additions to the slutty category under costumes that confuse me.

They confuse me a lot. And make me laugh. And then confuse me some more.

Here we go...

So, I'm not sure why you would want to dress up like a sexy Tin Man, or Elmo or Scooby Doo - but if you doobie doobie doo, there is a costume out there for you. Also, there are these atrocities:

Sexy Sponge Bob.
"Whooooooo works at Pink Kitty's behind the train tracks?
Look at the proper placement of Spongey's eyes - clever. That is one happy sponge.
And nothing says Happy Halloween like a little red necktie on your business.

Sexy Big Bird.
Now I know Big Bird has been in the press a lot lately with the election and all but come on, it's come to this? At least she has a little more class than Sponge Bob. And bonus points for matching her little pink belt to her little pink pumps.

Sexy Where's Waldo.
Fifty Shades of Waldo.
Where's Waldo? Ummm, she's pretty easy to find.

I love horror movies, always have, since I was a teenager. So I'm glad to see they were able to slut-up some of the most well-known horror stars of all time. Such as:

Sexy Freddy Krueger. 
Now I didn't know Freddy had a wife - they didn't really touch on that in the films - but this costume is advertised as "Sexy Mrs. Krueger."
I will say, her complexion is much nicer than that of her late husband - Freddy done good. 

Sexy Jason Vorhees.
Look out! It's Sexy Jason Vorhees from the Friday the 13th movies!
This costume kinda reminds me of costumes from the 70's - like when I went as Mindy from Mork and Mindy and my costume was just a plastic jumpsuit with a picture of Mindy on it - but this one is slutty with a picture of Jason on it.

Sexy Michael Meyers.
The worst - Michael Meyers from the Halloween movies - they didn't even try.
A blue jumpsuit with the name of the movie, HALLOWEEN on top of the left boob. No mask, but a bloody knife. I bet she never even saw this movie. Jamie Lee Curtis would not approve.

Other "sexy" honorable mentions include:

Sexy Straitjacket.
Because you are crazy.
Crazy sexy.
And also, you have no legs.

Christmas Sweetie.
 I just can't imagine someone saying, "You know what I want to be for Halloween? SANTA CLAUS."
These two things should remain separate.

Sexy Hamburger.
Oh Christ, really? I mean I love a good hamburger, but...come you really want some jerk following you around all night saying, "Nice buns!"? No, you don't. Or maybe you do. I don't know, this is just a bad costume. Even this model thinks it's stupid, she's all like, "I'm a hamburger, what do you want from me?"

Sexy Terminator.
This costume is called "I'll Be Back Babe" with the word TERMINATOR emblazoned down the leg.
I do not recall this character in the film.

Sexy Crayon.
Perfect. That's it. The perfect costume. I am going to be a sexy crayon. How many times have you heard a woman on October 31st say, "I sure hope there are no other Sexy Crayons at the party tonight."

This year however you dress up, and however you celebrate, let's keep it sexy people.
I'm off to don my "sexy sextretary" costume for work.

Tuesday, October 23, 2012

You're givin' me (givin' me) nothin' but shattered dreams.

In the tenth grade we were given an assignment in English class to put together a book of poetry.

The poems could consist of either original work or favorite poems - by such brilliant authors as John Keats, Walt Whitman, or old Bill Shakespeare - all whom we had been studying in class.

Or apparently, it could also be this:

Oh my poor, poor English teacher Mr. Jakob. He must have gotten a migraine from all the eye rolling that went on when he got to my book of SHATTERED DREAMS.

Do you sense a theme?

See, my boyfriend, Albert, had just broken up with me for another woman, Angie. I was a little down in the dumps over the whole thing. 

Just a little.

Below, a few excerpts from this sad, lonely, assignment. Poetry, painstakingly typed out on a typewriter, corrected with bumpy Wite-Out, copied from the pages of what many poets consider to be their Bible, Teen Magazine.

What a nice, upbeat start to the whole project - doncha think? Oh Laura LeBlanc, it's like you know me, you know exactly how I am feeling! You spelled the word "maybe" wrong and I copied it exactly the same way so I spelled it wrong too! And Mr. Jakob didn't even catch it - YEAH!

Hey, another poem about living in the past, all right! Oh, "Teen Magazine Editor," it's like you know me! You know exactly how I am feeling!
Nice artwork, see how I clipped the couple in the I.O.U. brand sweatshirts in half?

Um...yeah...Donna Mullins,  it's like you know me - you know exactly how I am feel -
oh, fuck it.
I spelled the word "lonley" wrong and Mr. Jakob caught it and thought I was "TOO LITERAL" in my explanation of what this poem was about (you think?) And look at my corresponding artwork - that guy doesn't look like he's in high school. He's out having a good 'ol time on a Saturday night with a new girl.
Just like Albert - having a good 'ol time with Angie.
I am a bad person.

Klymaxx - 80's girl group with chart-busting hits such as...well...Klymaxx had this song. DEPRESSING.
I remember calling Q105 and making a "dedication" to Albert with this song, bawling on the air. Awesome, and totally not crazy. I like in the comments I state "I think this is a beautiful song about feelings" and Mr. Jakob tells me once again I am being TOO LITERAL. Shit. I hope I get a good grade. What the hell does literal mean? Anyway...I MISS ALBERT.

In case you are interested, I took the time to type out a bibliography, so you can go to your back issues of your Teen Magazine, oh hey, wait a minute, it basically looks like I copied everything from the poetry page from one issue of Teen Magazine, it's the January 1986 issue, page 48.

Damn, I was lazy. At least I shook things up a little with that Kymaxx song.

And now for the grading:

I got a "B"! Pretty good for copying some poems word for word out of a magazine, right??
And Mr. Jakob thought my illustrations were "very appropriate!" And my themes were "well interpreted!"

And he thought I had a nice touch at the end... 

 Angrily highlighted in hot pink.
Albert + Lori 4eva.

1986. I am an awesome poet.

Friday, October 12, 2012


There are a few fashion/beauty trends that I am unable to pull off, despite the fact that I really, really want to.

Not because the trends are too expensive/outrageous/unattainable - they just don’t work for me.
For example:

  • The Leggings - Three pairs purchased, each worn in public zero times.

  • The Nail Art - Last holiday season I got a pedicure and had a Christmas tree painted on my big toe. The whole thing made me very uncomfortable. Not for me.

  • The Hairbrush - I would love to be just like Marcia Brady and brush my hair one-hundred times every night before bed to keep it shiny and pretty. I mean, to feel a brush run from the top of my scalp to the end of my roots? Sounds dreamy - but so not happening.

It's not fair!
Marcia, Marcia, Marcia!

Which leads me to my next I-wish-I-could-use-that-but-I-can’t-product: The dry shampoo.
My friend Laura and I are always super excited to share products we love with each other. The following is an actual conversation I had with her about Pssssst! Instant Dry Shampoo, which she loves:

Do you see how this can says, "NEW LOOK!"
New look from when? The 1950's?

Laura: Lo, you wanna try my dry shampoo I’ve been telling you about?

Me: YES!

Laura: Spray around your hairline and your scalp.

(I do this, it feels cool and tingly! I walk away from the mirror.)

Me: Thanks, I like it!

Laura: Wait, Lo, you have to brush it.

Me: I can’t brush my hair.

Laura: What do you mean you can’t brush your hair?
Me: I haven’t brushed my hair since I was a little girl, you can’t put a brush through this.

Laura: Well look in the mirror!

I notice white foamy strips on my head where I had sprayed the Pssssst. It looked like that snow-in-a-can that people spray on their windows at Christmastime.

What happened next was five-minutes of Laura chasing after me with a hairbrush and me ducking away from her, laughing like a crazy person while she hollered at me how I "couldn’t walk around like that, with the white stuff outlining my head."

The chase ends with Laura attempting to brush my hair, and me yelling that if she touches my hair with a brush how it's going to look all frizzy for the rest of the day. It ends with her exhausted, eventually giving up. Poor Laura.

Pssssst! This sucks!
So, dry shampoo, you are now on my list along with the leggings and the Christmas tree on my toe.

On my non-shampoo days I'll stick to doing what I do best - when all else fails, add more hairspray.

Friday, October 5, 2012

The Ballad of Lori and Rod. And Billy. And Jon. Especially Jon.

I love a good story-song.
Or a good song-story.

Or whatever you want to call those songs where the lyrics were dramatic tales of young rebel couples, making it against the odds by bucking the system, disobeying their parent’s wishes, and often becoming teen mothers. Take THAT Mom and Dad!

I would listen to these teen rock ballads and create my own music videos in my head (with me in the “girlfriend” role – naturally) dancing, singing, and sometimes crying (seriously) like a madwoman while my Sony Walkman gave me level five eardrum damage.

I never did care much for that Jack and Diane – I don’t really want to hear about someone “sucking on a chili dog.” But these three particular songs still star me as the lead anytime I hear them on the radio.

Young Turks by Rod Stewart.
Ahhh, the first very dra-ma-tic song-story I remember loving from my youth....Young Turks tells the story of Billy and Patti. At the start of the song we learn that Billy has a dollar in his pocket as the young couple runs away from home together. By the end of the song Patti gives birth to a ten-pound baby boy. Hopefully Billy got himself a jobby-job. We also learn that they are not going to let anyone put them down/push them around/change their point of view.

In the music video, a chorus of West Side Story-style dancers follow Billy and Patti around, taunting adults by dancing on their cars while the adults shake their heads and fists at them. Rod Stewart looks exceptionally young and foxy in the video, so that sorta sealed the deal for me picturing Rod and myself in the starring roles as Billy and Patti. Oh - and there is also a weirdo break dancing and doing the robot on top of a roof throughout. Bonus!

Scenes From an Italian Restaurant by Billy Joel.
Oh lordy, grab a bottle of red and a bottle of white. Are you ready for this one? It exhausts me, but I still love it. Brenda and Eddie are the stars of this show, just being announced king and queen of the prom they certainly have a lot of promise. Adults doubt them but they sure showed everybody by getting that apartment, some paintings from Sears, and best of all, a waterbed!

Go Brenda and Eddie, go! You guys are doing great!

But…then…oh no…uh oh. In the same verse where they get the apartment and the waterbed they start to fight and end up getting a divorce. Shit! I don’t believe there is an official music video for this song, there would just be no way to fit in all of the frantic action and the decades it spans – Jesus, the song is like ten-minutes long - it warrants its own short film. But here is Billy, in all his glory in front of his piano. (Cue forward to around the three-minute-mark to get straight to the Brenda and Eddie saga - I told you this is loooong.)

Livin’ on a Prayer by Bon Jovi.
Of course I loved Jon Bon Jovi and had this poster of him on my bedroom wall back in the day:
Nice belt.

Livin’ on a Prayer is a true story. I mean Jon starts by dramatically saying, “Once upon a time, not so long ago."

What follows is the tale of Tommy and Gina; Tommy used to work on the docks but is apparently now having some trouble with his union. Gina has a crummy job at a diner and cries a lot at night. She should probably talk to somebody about that. Things aren’t great, but they gotta hold on to what they got.

The music video starts in black and white and consists of the band in rehearsal flying around on harnesses, horsing around with each other, waterfalls of sparklers falling from the ceiling, and grown men having gi-normous mall hair. Jon is also wearing that fringe-y leather jacket that I loved and wished I had for myself. Halfway through the video it’s like the Wizard of Oz where everything turns to color and the band is playing before an audience. Since there are no “characters” in this video so it was super easy for me to plug myself into the Gina role (nice Italian girl) and picture myself bringing my heard earned money home to Tommy (Jon) every night.

So - basically I have cast myself in the role of star-crossed young lover to Rod Stewart and Jon Bon Jovi.

Billy Joel, I cast a young Kristy McNichol as your girlfriend.
We can totally still be friends.

Friday, September 28, 2012

Call me corny.

Fall is my favorite season by far.

        There is a chill in the air, but it’s bright and sunny out.

      Tights, turtlenecks, sweaters – fall clothes are the best!

      Colorful leaves crunch under your feet and float from the sky.

      I ceremoniously switch to my favorite "pumpkin purse."

Bag 'o tricks.

 But most importantly, the onset of fall whispers two little words into my ear:
Sweet Jesus I love candy corn!
I love it so much that I cannot be trusted with it.

Even my four year old knows it needs to be hidden away from Mommy, or Mommy will go to bed cursing herself on a sugar high that keeps her up until three a.m. in a cold sweat.

And don’t try and give me those bullshit pumpkins, other candy corn flavored shaped gourds, brown Indian candy corn or try and tell me in April that pastel colored Easter candy corn tastes the same, or better – it’s not and it doesn't.

Give me my yellow on the bottom, orange in the middle, white pointy topped little triangle and I’m a happy girl.
A very happy girl.

So…how excited do you think I was browsing through Sephora when I came upon this:

Based on the name of the product alone, I knew it would be mine.

I love candy corn three-in-one shampoo, shower gel and bubble bath by philosophy was made for candy corn addicts like me who love the almost (almost) sickeningly sweet scent. I scooped it up and looked forward to some sweet time in the tub that night.

I don’t love the philosophy stuff as far as shampoo goes but I do love it as a bubble bath and shower gel. And this was way y-u-m-m-y. Sweet, vanilla/honey/corny goodness.

I felt like Mena Suvari on the poster for American Beauty.

Americorn Beauty

Finally, a candy corn indulgence that doesn’t have to be hidden away from me for the love of God.
Fat free! Zero points! No calories!

I'm off for another dreamy bath full of honey-marshmallow bubbles.

Oh - hang on - my snack.

A girl's gotta eat!