*&^5***ing christmas music!!!!!!!!!

I'm going to hack the person who sits next to me at work. She has Josh Groban's Christmas album playing on her CD player ALL FUCKING DAY EVERY DAY. That's not Christmas-y. That's psycho-neon-christmas-Wal-Mart shopping, fake snow sprinkling, plastic holly, kitschy snowman-earring wearing, glitter sweatshirt-painting, wreath-on-the-front-of-the-truck with deer antlers Baby Jesus in a Dinghy TACKY!!!!!!

I want to retaliate with six hours of Puccini's La Boheme, or possibly a Dave Brubeck oratorio just to make her ears bleed and curse me for being a liberal agnostic. SHEESH!!!!

Haiku Wednesday

Since it's a short day for me at work, I don't have time to create a full-blown limerick as is my usual wont. (What is a wont, anyway? And why is it called "usual"? Why couldn't it be a fancy wont, or sloppy wont, or a happy, lazy wont on days beginning with S? I digress.) So here is my first Haiku Wednesday, in honor of Turkey Day.

a Diva's Thanksgiving Haiku

thanksgiving turkey
gallons of gravy and pie
my new shoes still fit!

LOL Diva

I can has shoez?

Diva wedding

A couple months ago I suffered some torture at a wedding across town, on the bad side of the tracks at Planet Tacky. I prayed for the universe to erase the hideous memories from my worn- out brain, and it delivered.

I attended a Diva Wedding, and it was PERFECT. The most adorable white chapel on earth, dressed with swaths of mocha silk, FRESH beautiful fall flowers (burnt orange roses, fresh greenery, red and brown accents), brass chandeliers, candles softly flickering, and cute comfortable white bamboo-style chairs with plain white cotton cushions. GORGEOUS. The bride was exquisite in her classic ivory silk strapless gown, carrying a simple bouquet of fresh cream-colored roses. The bridemaids wore pale latte-colored silk strapless gowns with sashes of dark brown satin pinned with jeweled brooches. The mother of the bride (who is a ridiculously young and beautiful diva) looked like a model in her coffee-colored halter gown -- very simple, very stylish. And of course the men all looked staggeringly handsome in their suits (have I mentioned how much I love men in suits? all the better to grab them by the tie and kiss them) and boutonnieres.

All the music at the ceremony was played by a harpist - Elegant! Poetry was read -- Classic! No horrible warbling off-key singers -- just beautiful classical music and a really heartfelt, personal ceremony about the rigors and responsibilities of marriage, ending with traditional vows and the introduction of the married couple.

Did I say the wedding was gorgeous? The reception was even better. The perfect white chapel was right next door to the perfect reception hall, so we walked over to the reception where we were immediately greeted by a waiter with a tray full of glasses of white wine. I tell you, nothing says classy like waiters in tuxes with a tray full of drinks. Waiters! with drinks! Handing them out so you don't even have to muscle your way through the mob to go to the bar!

Another thoughtful touch was the place cards for the seating arrangements. Nobody had to wander around wondering if they should sit next to old Uncle Farty -- it was all thought out. We headed for our table, which was dressed with chocolate silk tablecloths, gold chargers, fresh flowers and champagne glasses.

I could go on and on, raving about the food and the drinks and the cake and the champagne, but I may just go into a swoon. It was like Hollywood came out to the midwest and delivered a wedding straight out of a movie. I felt like standing up and cheering, "THIS IS THE WAY THE DIVAS DO WEDDINGS, BABY!!!"

It hasn't completely erased the memory of the Gumball Wedding with a side of Cracked Plastic Vat of Petroleum-Based Cheese Food, but it sure kicked that memory's ass. And when I stopped at the ladies' room on the way out the door, I stepped into a clean beautiful room with rose-patterned carpet, scented soap and stall doors that shut without having to be yanked with a rope. The DIVA is in the DETAILS!

Limerick Wednesday

There once was a girl on a diet
who cut up a chicken to fry it
unwrapped the foil,
poured in the oil,
but the kitchen was eerily quiet

No wine bottle popping its cork
No tasting the rice with a fork
Portions are small
I'm climbing the wall
I could eat an entire roast pork

Wandering around in the clutter
Looking for snacks as I mutter
under my breath,
"a fate worse than death?"
Dreaming of chocolate and butter

I sigh as I sit down to eat
Three ounces of sprouted whole wheat
a salad of green,
a single green bean,
and a morsel of overcooked meat

The chicken will wait until later
I'll fry it and serve it with taters
mashed up with cream,
some broccoli I'll steam,
But for now the goal is much greater

So off to the gym I will run,
skip all food served on a bun,
drink water, not wine
eat tofu, not swine,
until the tortune is done

I've got ten extra pounds now to lose,
this diet is blowing my fuse
I'm outta the kitchen
I'm sick of this bitchin'
I'm off to the mall to buy shoes.

Gnomes at work

People who work at insurance companies are bitter, rancid gnomes who smoke too much and hunch over their paperwork with their headsets on trying to rack up the most claim denials in 15 minute increments.

The world's shortest fairy tale

Once upon a time, a guy asked a girl "Will you marry me?" The girl said "NO!" And the girl lived happily ever after and went shopping, dancing, camping, drank martinis, always had a clean house, never had to cook, did whatever the hell she wanted, never argued, didn't get fat, traveled more, had many lovers, didn't save money, and had all the hot water to herself. She went to the theater, never watched sports, never wore friggin' lacy lingerie that went up her ass, had high self esteem, never cried or yelled, felt and looked fabulous in sweat pants and was pleasant all the time.

THE END

300,000 mile checkup, Part Two

Aging sucks. I feel like a car that's running poorly and needs a complete rebuild from the chassis up.

I was thinking about this the other day as I went in for my annual birthday present to myself -- a facial, manicure, and pedicure at my favorite spa. There's all the buffing, the shaving, the waxing, the sluffing of dead skin, the plucking of stray hairs, and the polishing of various surfaces, not to mention maintaining the frame and pounding out the dents.

This is the kicker about aging, for women. There is So. Much. Maintenance. Seriously, if I were a car, I'd say I just had my transmission overhauled, fluids checked (see Part One), and tires rotated but I'm still kinda limping along the road getting passed by newer, sleeker models. What else can I do? I suppose I could get replacement parts, but then I'll look like an Impala with a set of Ford Mustang headlights that don't fit, so I'd have to get a new paint job probably, which would mean the body would have to be stripped down and refurbished, and it'd cost about as much as refacing the Empire State Building so it all sounds like too much money and time, considering I don't plan to change drivers.

It really brings to mind a fabulous old Chevy Impala straight out of American Graffiti. The problem is, no matter how well-maintained the car is, one look at it and you know it's old.

So I have decided to be a classic car. I will maintain the original parts, shine 'em up when they get dusty, and keep the interior clean. Fueled by a good lemon drop martini, of course.

300,000 mile checkup, Part One

My bottle of Prozac is almost empty, so it must be time for my annual tune-up. There are times when I can objectively look at this old body and admire it for still running after this many miles with only a couple of replacement parts and a little touch-up paint, but the annual lube job, valve check, and tire rotation is almost more than I can bear.

The yearly pelvic exam is completely ludicrous. Where else would you actually pay money to take off your clothes in front of strangers, allow them to stick their body parts into your body parts and root around in your yaa looking for things (the Hope diamond? last night's leftover baked potato?) and then top it off by making you stick your boobs into some sort of stand-up waffle iron?


It's totally machine sex, only in reverse (if it was real sex, they'd start with the tits and then move to my yaa). I wonder if the exam was developed by men, back when 99% of doctors were male. The cute little peek-a-boo gown, the stirrups -- surely those had to be somebody's wonky fantasy items. Oh, and the part that makes our muscles twitch -- the speculum, that lovely tool that looks like a medieval shoehorn and feels like an industrial-weight flashlight.

The first time I had a pelvic the speculums were still made of metal, and fucking cold metal to boot -- they stuck that thing in my yaa and you could practically hear the gears turning as they cranked it open SKEEEK SKEEEK SKEEEKKKKKK and turned the overhead light on so brightly that I thought they might be guiding aliens to the landing spot for a tiny phallic spaceship. Gives new meaning to the term "landing strip" for those ladies who wax.

Strangely, it's the bright light that gets to me. Who needs to see anything that well? Those parts are designed to be seen in low light, candlelight actually -- otherwise you are exposing every mole, scar, stretch mark, ingrown hair, outgrown hair and pale knob of flab that flesh is heir to. Why don't they hand out burkas to wear, for God's sake? That may be the only time in the history of female life that it's appropriate to wear one. Sheesh, then at least your face is covered and nobody knows whose yaa looks like it's had a few late-night wrecks, or at least fender-benders.

I love it when they look up and say cheerfully "Your cervix looks great!" after taking the sample. "Really?" I think, through gritted teeth. How would you know? You just scraped a wad of flesh out of my yaa with a spork from Taco Bell! Yes, there was a dainty little Q-tip sitting on the instrument tray, but I've used Q-tips and they don't feel like floor waxers. My cervix might have looked great this morning fresh out of the shower, but now it probably looks like an old tomato with mold spots.

Then it's on to the waffle iron -- excuse me, the "mammogram." Heh heh, I'm a tiny bit testy after the yaa exam. You've all heard the comparisons about how mammograms feel -- open the refrigerator door and close it on your breast; lay down on your driveway and have someone back the car over your left boob, yadda yadda yadda. They're all true, but it's not as painful as I thought it would be. The worst part is that I really think my breasts droop more now that I've been having mammograms than they did before. You can only squish the Silly Putty for so long before it loses its shape.

So if you see a middle-aged woman leaving an office building with her hair disheveled, waddling slightly, and clutching her arms across her chest, she might have been having some rompy wild sex on top of her desk. But if she's just had her annual exam, she won't be smiling -- she'll be clutching her prescription for Prozac. Martini douche, anyone?

Gumball wedding

OK, so I went to a wedding last weekend. It was NOT a Diva wedding, to say the least -- not a drop of alcohol, no champagne, not even a keg full of warm beer, which I would gladly have opened with a hammer and chisel after the epic disaster of actually driving there, and when I describe the rest of the afternoon you'll be guzzling down martinis in sympathy (if you have any diva tendencies, and I think you do or you wouldn't be reading this).

For the record: I love weddings. Schmaltzy and trite, to be sure, but I love the whole hopeful atmosphere and shiny best-dressed drama of them. They're supposed to be a once-in-a-lifetime event, so when I'm invited to a wedding I am immediately concerned about what to wear to demonstrate the proper amount of respect for the whole shebang. Chances are about even that they won't make it past ten years, but hey! let's give it a go anyway, dress in your finest, show up, wish the happy couple all the best and head for the open bar.

The first hint that the day was going to be less than spectactular was the trip to the ceremony. Mr. Diva was driving. When Mr. Diva drives, he likes to stick his head out the window to blow-dry his hair, sending me into a seething state of anxiety before we ever get on the highway and him into a state of defensiveness about his hairstyling methods. I gritted my teeth and thought about stopping at PETCO on the way so he could get a nice doggy grooming instead of RISKING OUR LIVES DRIVING WITH HIS HEAD OUT THE WINDOW like a fucking German shepherd but I didn't want to be late. I sniffily told him I thought it was rude to be late to weddings (important once-in-a-lifetime event, blah blah blah.) Ha ha! Marital bliss!

We are halfway there when we run into Dead. Stopped. Traffic. We crawl forward. We are five, ten, twenty, forty-five minutes behind schedule. We call someone to tell them we'll be (gulp) late. At least Mr. Diva's hairstyling effort has ceased, since we are moving so slowly we are actually watching our hair grow. We finally arrive at the blessed destination, which is not a church but a squat brick building that turns out to be... an armory.

OK! It's a military wedding. Cool! We park the car and I am having visions of crossed swords, gold braid, yummy men in uniforms escorting me to my seat. But of course we're so late that we'll have to sneak in, so I abandon that daydream and clutch Mr. Diva's arm as we get to the door.

We walk into the building and the first thing I see is row upon row of scarred metal folding chairs lined up behind a plastic garden trellis covered with tiny, plastic flowers and green plastic ivy. There is a white plastic runner (embossed!) scotch-taped to the floor between the chairs. Behind the chairs, there's a banquet table covered with a white plastic tablecloth. Are you getting the vibe here, Benjamin? "Plastics."

We sit down in the last couple of chairs, as the couple are in the middle of taking their vows. They are a lovely, sweet couple -- very young and in love, with their entire lives ahead of them and lots of exciting, hopeful plans for their future together. They exchange their rings, and stare expectantly at the minister when a country song begins playing from a tiny boombox on the plastic-covered table.

Two full minutes and thirty-eight seconds later, the minister announces that the groom may kiss the bride. I couldn't hear the words of the song, and I have no idea who the artist was, but any bride who would wait patiently for some damn song to finish playing before getting her first wedded kiss has certainly got the stamina for marriage.

Speaking of stamina: Did I mention the lack of air-conditioning? In August? Did I mention the huge aluminum fans plugged in, blowing the bride's veil around? Hm. At least it wasn't raining -- the half-open garage door behind the bridal trellis would certainly have leaked. Oops - I didn't mention the garage door?

I'm telling you, nothing says "wedded bliss" like a garage-door backdrop in your wedding pictures. I think the basketball goals were too high up to be seen in any of the pictures, which might have been too bad in case someone was drunk enough to toss the bride's polyester "silk" bouquet up there, but as I said there wasn't a stitch of alcohol anywhere to be found (although they did have a Coke machine against the wall in case you brought your flask but needed a mixer). Note to self: Bring flask to weddings from now on.

So, the couple was officially, legally married. Hup-to! On to the swanky reception on the other side of the room, under the other basketball goal!

The benefits of a concrete floor cannot be overstated. It sure made it easy for the guests who were recruited to dismantle the plastic trellis, while the banquet tables were fitted out with the folding chairs. Of course the tables were all dressed up in their best white plastic tablecloths, with pink and purple polyester flowers in tiny glass bowls, next to tiny plastic condiment cups filled with real mixed nuts, at least 40% peanuts. Thank God for Mr. Peanut!

I was slightly hysterical by then. I kept having to stifle my giggles, even during the prayers. Mr. Diva kept looking at me quizzically, but I just couldn't explain my reaction. How could I? It was a perfect storm of plastic hell, punctuated with the smell of old gym socks and a lovely view of the armed vehicle parking lot.

Eventually we made our way through the "buffet" line for sandwiches on plastic foam plates, chips and olives in plastic "serving dishes," a vat of petroleum-based macaroni salad, day-glo orange cheese dip, and plastic 2-liter bottles of generic soda. The wedding cake was one of those enormous old-fashioned cakes on columns with water trickling down, so it looked like the cake was taking a leak into the plastic greenery surrounding it. I swear, if I had had the tiniest whiff that it was vodka, I would have stuck my head under it and gargled it in. Anything to stop my eyes from bleeding.

We stuck it out as long as we could before heading over to the wedding party's table to congratulate the bride and groom. As we waited our turn, I saw a guest book on a plastic-covered podium and went to sign our names when something colorful caught my eye. It was the 25-cent gumball machines, right behind the guest book -- I suppose in case you had a hankerin' for a jawbreaker or some bubble gum in the middle of the ceremony. Party favors? We don' need no steenkin' party favors! We got 25-cent GUMBALLS, right behind the guest book!

After congratulating the bride and groom and giving them best wishes for a happy life, it was time to escape. Since we had been stuck in traffic so long I desperately needed to hit the ladies' room, and after asking the nearest sergeant where it was I hastily headed down the hall only to find it had the door propped open in full view of the guests.

I couldn't help it. I had to pee. There I was -- in polyester Wal-Mart hell, sweating and dizzy from pent-up laughter, nostrils scorched with the smell of industrial concrete floor cleaner, surrounded by petroleum-based imitations of flowers that would probably outlast a cockroach after a nuclear winter -- struggling in my heels to wrestle the fucking ladies' room door shut. I gave up. I marched into the stall, shut it, did my thing, and as I turned around I was tempted to leave it unflushed since I didn't want to punctuate the reception with ugly plumbing noises, but I thought what the hell. I took a deep breath and flushed the toilet just as the best man was starting his toast.

I made Mr. Diva stop at a liquor store on the way home, and we cracked open our ice-cold bottles of beer long before we hit the highway.

What an adventure. Klassy with a capital K! I can't wait to see the wedding album.

I got them Wednesday mornin', first-world blues

I listened to my own complaining the other day and I swear, I sounded like a first-class bitch. Where are the blues songs for all us first-world whiners? Where is the sympathy, the fundraisers, the donations from strangers who are moved to tears by our travails with broken nails, snagged hems, bad sushi, working indoors in air conditioning, incorrect drink garnishes, and humidity's effects on our hair? Huh? This song is for all of us first-world suffering divas out there. You know the format. Sing with me...

(Da-DAH da da DUM)
My sushi's too big
(Da-DAH da da DUM)
My cube is too small
(Da-DAH da da DUM)
Can't find no parkin' place
(Da-Dah da da DUM)
Close enough to the MALLLLLL....!!!!

Whoaaaa, I got them deep-down, first-world diva BLUESSS!!!! Yeah, lawd, I got them DEEP-down, first-world blues.....

(Da-DAH da da DUM)
Broke two nails today
(Da-DAH da da DUM)
Drinkin' nonfat latte
(Da-DAH da da DUM)
What's a girl gotta do
(Da-DAH da da DUM)
Get some champagne from YOUUUUU....?!!!

Girl, I got them deep-down, air-conditioned BLUESSSS!!! Yes, I got them deep-down, hair-frizzin' blues.....YESSSSS, I got them deep-down, first-world........

diva-squallin', out-of-hand-lotion-bitchin', too-much-ice-in-my-coke-meltin', chipped-nail-polish-wearin', traffic-fightin', office-workin', not-enough-pesto-on-my-pasta-eatin', you-left-an-olive-out-of-my-Belvedere-martini-drinkin', maid-cleanin', motherfuckin' parallel-parkin' downtown BA-luuuuuuUUUUUUeSSSSSS!!!!!

Martini with three pencils, please

I just got out of a three-pencil meeting. For the uninitiated, a three-pencil meeting is a meeting so full of bureaucracy, so laden with buzzwords, so offensively boring that one is tempted to stick a pencil through one's neck. It is a crazy-making meeting with 15 people stuck in frozen places in their ill-fitting chairs that sound like they're farting whenever you cross your legs, where three managers (oops, "team leaders") drone on and on about granularity, and widget counts, and metrics, and Gaaahdd-awful phrases like "closing the loop" and "quantitative process improvement" until I had to physically restrain myself -- I felt an insane urge come over me to suddenly yank up my leg and start chewing off my toenails. I wondered if this would stop the meeting, or if anybody would notice.

Between bouts of insanity I was falling asleep. I thought I might have to start barking to wake myself up, but then I kept hearing the perky blonde talking about productivity improvements and my eyes immediately crossed into glazed, stupefying catatonia. They make drugs for what I was feeling, in fact they make them at this very place I work, but dear Jesus they need to make some sort of time-released drug for people who have to attend meetings. There is a reason people go postal, and it's called PERKINESS!!

What kind of a person likes meetings? What awful genetic code makes people drool with anticipation of being stuffed into a cold room with a huge plastic table where they cheerily fire up their 347-slide Powerpoint presentation and proceed to read every fucking word to you as if you are too stupid to put together the alphabet into recognizable words without their benevolent guidance? Huh?

Let me tell you. They are former cheerleaders! That's gotta be the secret. Take away the pompoms and the Friday night football games and these people droop like old bologna. I once attended a women's executive club meeting where our speaker was a ridiculously perky, thin, blonde woman (a former cheerleader!) in a very nicely tailored navy suit who proceeded to talk about her love of public speaking. She actually stood up at the podium and said in her perky cheerleader voice, "Whenever I'm really bummed, I know that I have to get up in front of a big group of people and talk? And eat lots and lots of M&M's? Because that's the only thing that really gets my energies going?" It occurred to me that she was trying to give the group actual advice on how to get out of the doldrums by speaking in public, but I was too busy thinking about how much better it would be if someone flayed the skin on my upper arms and ground red pepper in it while playing Lawrence Welk's polka version of "Onward Christian Soldiers." They didn't serve alcohol at those club meetings, so I quit going.

Martini, please. I'm going to work on my productivity improvement matrix at the bar.

Stacey Leigh's Birthday!!!

Yesterday was my dear sister's birthday! She's not actually my sister, but we decided we needed to be sisters because we are scarily alike in so many ways. Plus, she is lovely and talented, and massively inspiring, and horrendously intelligent, frighteningly hip -- she outshines me so greatly that it's really all I can do not to rip her hair out, and I would if I didn't just adore her.

Happy Birthday, darling girl.

Go forth, and shop

Nordstrom's Anniversary Sale. I love it! If I could fuck an entire store, this would be the one.

Limerick Wednesday

This morning I looked in the mirror
and said to myself, "Listen here -
your jawline is sagging
your eyelids are bagging
your face needs some help now, it's clear."

Maybe I'll get some more Botox,
hey, sometimes it turns back the clocks,
it freezes my lines
helps with facial designs
But I ain't gonna look like a fox

Or maybe I'll head to Sephora,
(disguised by a velvet fedora)
Buy some shit that smells good
'cause it's just understood
When it comes to their stuff, I'm a whore-a

Makeup, eyeshadow and liner!
It all makes me look so much finer
hoist up my tits,
spackle my zits,
and I'll quit acting like such a whiner

The gay makeup artist has found me
the salesladies start to surround me
Oh my god, it's on sale!
Fill up my pail!
Before the cashiers start to hound me

As I headed out after my trip
I looked at my credit card slip
I said "What the fuck?
I've spent my last buck!
For eye gel and blush -- what a rip!"

So my divas, I gotta admit
I'm getting real tired of this shit
Maybe instead
wear a bag on my head
The fountain of youth? Girl, I quit.

Baboon meeting

Sweet Jesus on a lighthouse. I just got out of the most boring meeting where, to keep myself from falling asleep, I looked around the conference room table and idly counted how many women obviously color their hair. 13 out of 16, and the other three probably should.

The meeting dragged on, and I seriously could not stop myself from thinking mean snarky thoughts the more I looked around the room. Why doesn't that woman stop getting her hair poodle-permed? Has the woman with the inch-long gray roots not been close to a mirror lately, or at least looked into a stagnant pond to check her reflection? And dear Buddha, there was a woman who at first glance I thought had been using newsprint as a napkin but was actually suffering from so much facial hair that it looked like a goatee. Was there no one around who would wrestle her to the ground and wax it off? Or am I just a screaming bitch about grooming, brainwashed by the photoshopped ads in Sephora?

I mean, even monkeys groom themselves. Even baboons sit and comb through their hair for ticks, and I haven't noticed them politely asking each other, either -- they just wander over to their baboon girlfriend and grab a wad of hair. Or maybe one female baboon goes up to another female baboon and says "Girl, get over here and let me do somethin' about that nasty chin hair you been gettin' all over your breadfruit. I mean come on, you can't be gettin' down with Mr. Alpha baboon with that scaly shit all over your rump -- get OVER here before I beat you with this rotten jawbone!"

Wow, I wanted to sweetly and gently take the bearded lady to a nice salon where she could relax and have a facial, while secretly the prison matrons get ready to hold her down and wax her face.

Damn, I hate meetings.

eet eez not French, mais non

Before I offend the vast hordes of my readers, both of you, let me first say that I love accents. All kinds, because I think they are cute and human and charming, although sometimes ear-piercingly awful. I especially love accents that have no particular reference to any country, like Edna Mode in The Incredibles, but this is because I'm a dweeb.

So, I went and got a manicure and pedicure the other day. The place I go to is small, owned by Koreans, has pretty much an open door policy (and I mean literally open door, they leave it propped open to get the nail dust out) and gets you in and out for about $25 for a pretty decent pedicure. The hilarious thing about the place is trying to understand what they are saying to you, which is why I ended up with a nice "French" manicure and pedicure that is so bright white it makes me look like I'm under a black light.

The little Korean ladies rush over and say "Hi OK, you pick colo' out, OK? You wan' both? OK!" I follow one of them to the little pedicure chair and plop my feet in the tub. I don't really know what she means by "both," but I figure it can't be too bad. (What, like both hands? Both feet?)

The nail lady assigned to me comes and grabs my right foot out of the water and smiles like a crazed doll. "You wan' cut, OK?" She looks at my toes and says "Ohno! No you no wanna cut just file, OK? You toenail look GOOR!!! You no has no prorem with toes, no." She goes to work on my toes, and I am relaxing in the nifty massage chair when she grabs a bowl of something and says "You wanna sarrub?"

I blink, like a dense dog. What's a sarrub? Is it a snack, customarily offered to guests in Korea?

She waves the bowl around and says it again. "Sarrub, good for leg! Fi dolla!" Finally I realize she's asking me if I want a salt scrub for my legs and feet to smooth the skin, and I decline, feeling silly. What's the proper etiquette when someone has your leg hoisted up and is speaking bad English about your rough skin?

She finishes the prep work on my feet and says "Whe' colo'? No colo?" I tell her (eagerly, because I am beginning to understand her wonky accent) "I'd like a French today, please." She looks at me grimly, as if I'd asked her to suck my toes purple, but pulls out her bottle of white polish and starts painting thick white lines furiously. They are so sloppy that I almost stopped her, but I was afraid she'd stab me with a cuticle stick.

Anyway, she eventually finished and I have to say they looked OK, if a little supernaturally white. The Korean lady, however, was so happy with her own work that she said something in rapid native language to the other ladies, and they lean over to look at my feet and babble. "Oooh, you toenails GOOR! You be toenail moder!! Look, no mawk, no rine -- no sarrub? You no have sarrub? Oh, you lucky have GOOR toenail, ha ha ha ha!" I don't know why they call it French.

Limerick Wednesday

I'm the oldest and creakiest diva
Might need to start taking Boniva
But I've traveled to France,
Had mucho romance,
So for all us old broads, I say Viva!

I don't look like I did at 19,
Fake tits and nose jobs ain't my scene,
But invisible blogging
Is better than jogging
Does my ass look too big on this screen?

All this aging shit gives me the blues
Only things that still fit me are shoes
I'm one massive wrinkle
When I laugh now, I tinkle
When my daughter looks at me she moos

Menopause gives me hot flashes
My sex drive quite frequently crashes
I need a new lube
A jumbo-sized tube
Cause now all I'm getting is rashes

My favorite color is black
It's at least half the clothes on my rack
But it makes my thighs smaller
Since I can't grow no taller,
To get thin I'd have to smoke crack

So I slap on a little mascara,
Coat my flabbiness with aloe vera,
Put on my bikini,
and drink a martini
And dream of the French Riviera

So ladies, let's all have a drink
It's better than paying a shrink
We'll flirt with the pool boy,
make plans with our sex toy
and paint our toenails Nipple Pink!

Ethiopian pygmies

Since this silly blog is about being a diva, martinis, and shoes, and associated superficialities of modern female life, I am posting today to testify to the stupidity of drinking and sunning.

I broke two diva rules this weekend. These Rules are not formally introduced in the Rules of a Diva (coming soon), but I'm thinking of adding them as a warning to diva-potentials.

One of the broken rules involves drink mixing. No, not the kind where you come up with a funky new martini mix called "Dirty Panties" but where you choose your source of alcohol for the evening. As in, Do Not Mix Beer and Hard Liquor. I broke that rule, and this diva paid.

I woke up the next morning with the sensation of a horse standing on my head. Beside the horse was a horde of tiny Ethiopian pygmies, battering my skull with their little drumsticks and wailing something along the lines of "aaaAAAAAAooooAAAAAuhhhhhhhAAAAOOOOOuuuhhhhh," which did not grok. I lurched out of bed and begged the pygmies to go away, but they tied me down like Gulliver. I sucked down some advil and water and crawled back into the prone position.

The next rule I broke was trying to cure the hangover by sunning myself by the pool. You know that sensation that your hangover is finally gone, and you feel OK but your mind is not working at its usual warp speed? I loaded everything up and went to the pool, armed with a gallon of diet coke, ice, and pretzels to soak up the remaining alcohol.

I failed to put on sunscreen, of course. I forgot what it was for. I looked at the bottle and I swear I thought, "I don't need moisturizer today. I haven't even showered." I FORGOT WHAT IT DOES. People! I survived the hangover only to attempt self-immolation by sunburn.

So in the interest of diva management, I am attempting to come up with a new rule to add to the book, something like "Diva Rule #x.2: Do Not of Mixing of the Beer on Vodka, or the Pygmies will Burn Your Face to Dead Hurt."

My first real post

Diva Rule #1: Shoes



Diva Rule number one is shoes. Must have shoes. Lots of shoes. Lots, lots and lots of shoes.

This is of course due to my recent adventure at the Nordstrom's Half Yearly Sale. Walking into the shoe department gives me a tiny frisson of excitement, as if I'm about to meet a lover, which in a way I am. A tiny leather lover that will caress my feet and change my life into one that is Glamorous, Exciting, and decidedly un-midwestern. No Keds, in other words.

So I bought a pair of black patent leather wedge sandals with the CUTEST black polka dots on a beige linen heel. Um, and the matching pair in red. Because I bought um, five cute tops in the other department, as an act of charity which I will explain shortly.

Which brings me to Rule Number 2 for divas: Save the world from bad fashion. To be a diva, one must Dress Well. No, you don't have to wear Nanette Lepore or Prada or any such name-hogging twit designer. Your clothes must make YOU look good. We don't give a shit where the clothes come from, as long as they show off the body that is uniquely yours.

Anyway.

I bought five tops off one rack at Nordstrom's. They were sitting there, all lonely and sad on their little rack, and swarms of women were walking RIGHT BY them, ignoring them, and I felt their pain. They were MARKED DOWN! And lonely! And cute, and their self-esteem was low because no one was buying them and so I took pity on them and bought a few because I am sensitive in that way. Also they were stretchy enough to cover my boobs, which coupled with the cute print was enough to enhance the curves without giving off whiffs of KFC. I felt like Albert Schweitzer, but my friend was kind enough to point out that I don't look quite that old.

Here is my ode to Nordstrom's Half Yearly Sale (with apologies to Emma Lazarus):

Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled materials yearning to clothe me,
The wretched refuse of last year's fashion bore,
Send these, the stainless, cargo-tossed to me,
I lift my lamp beside the closet door!

Birth of a diva

Divas are born, not made. There are only a few of us; many may wish to become divas but hey, evolution has its limits.

This is the meeting place for the divas: biographies, pictures, and stories to follow. Also look for the "Rules of a Diva," coming soon.

Ciao, dahlings.