For a religious reader of People and Entertainment Weekly, not to mention a devotee of the “news” (on E! “anchored” by Ryan Seacrest and Giuliana Rancic) it is no surprise that the odd celebrity sighting would cause a rise in blood pressure, heart palpitations, and silly girly squeals; however, I happened to go through security at the airport today with Tommy Lee and remained mostly cool.
He is a beautiful, tattooed, rock & roll man—soooo hot! He looked exactly like himself—which kind of surprised me. I mean, for some reason it seems impossible that these sexy specimens actually exist in all of their glory 10 feet away from the normal masses, like me. He (and an entire entourage that bore a striking resemblance—sans tattoos—to my younger daughter, Gabi: black hair, black clothes, skinny jeans, wrists wreathed in bracelets and cuffs, beanies or other hats) rolled up casually through the VIP line and as my eye was drawn to the black-clad group, I squeaked “It’s Tommy Lee!”
I was too far away to get a good pic, (he was graciously stopping for everyone with a camera phone) and as he entered the actual strip-down portion of the security line about 2 minutes before me, I was perfectly placed to miss all good photo-ops. I rushed out of the line and schlepped my computer, Ziploc of 3.4 oz (or less) liquids and gels, purse, jacket, and boots (why did I decide to wear boots on my way to 110-degree Scottsdale?) to a bench right next to where Tommy was standing, big smile on his face, letting the growing crowd say hi and take pics. By the time I planted my ass and accompanying security strip-down fallout and fumbled in my bag for my phone, I looked up to hear, “Thanks everybody. I’ve gotta go now.” And he walked away down a terminal that was not mine.
I had cut it pretty close today and only had about 10 minutes before boarding. Should I walk down the wrong terminal just for a chance at a pic to prove I stood mere feet away from Tommy Lee? Should I take my shot at being a groupie (damn those extra 30 pounds I haven’t lost yet!)? Should I pretend to be an actual Motley Crue fan? No. I should not. That is silly. But it was still amazingly fun and cool to see him. Even though people were whispering about times being tough for Motley Crue if Tommy is jumping through the same hoops at the same location and time as the rest of us. Hello!!—it’s 2008 and it’s Motley Crue…they are probably in the position to be feeling the same sting at fuel prices as everyone else—and I do not think it diminishes Tommy’s coolness or hotness quotients one little bit. (And, no, those do not contradict or cancel each other out!)
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Monday, July 28, 2008
Terri & Becky's Big-Ass backyard BBQ!!
We had the annual shin-dig with friends, family & our gaggle of adorable loinfruit!! I gave the under-10 set the camera for most of the day, so many of these pics show us what the kidlets thought was worth documenting...enjoy!
 |
 |
| Make a Smilebox slideshow |
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
The Real Mr. Sticca
I have explored nearly every method of dating known to modern woman: match.com, eharmony, nearly every other dating website, personal ads (I only answered one--didn't place one), meeting someone at work (SO not recommended!), and speed dating. On the whole, my experiences have not been too bad; however, they are quite regularly, hilarious. I count myself pretty lucky in that regard. Not all modern daters emerge unscathed.
While checking my email the other day a message from a guy that I had one date with almost two years ago (yet he continues to spam me with "funny" forwarded emails)caught my attention. Usually, I don't even read his messages before deleting them, but for some reason this one peaked my curiosity. The subject line read, "The Real P. Sticca."
I opened the message and the first line read, "This message is not from P. It is about him." From there, the woman writing the message launches into a description of how she was searching for a good man to love, and how that search had led her to P. I thought perhaps it was going to be one of those sappy online dating success stories just waiting to be featured on an eharmony commercial. I was wrong.
Apparently she had been dating P for a while, had introduced him to her three-year-old daughter, had opened up her heart to the possibility of love, etc. But P was not on the same page. P was reading an entirely different book. Therefore, she had decided to do the opposite of an eharmony commercial and let the world know exactly what kind of man she had found online in P.
The woman had suspicions about P's fidelity, so she did the only thing she could do: searched his computer for incriminating evidence. She found an Excel spreadsheet with at least 80 women listed, ranked, and categorized. This was not, according to the woman, your typical little, black book with names, contact info, and possibly a few stars next to his favorites. It was a checklist with things he had done to and with each woman; notes like "new boobs" "psycho" "rebound" "nice but maybe too old" "fatter than pic"; and categories such as Heavy Rotation, On the Outs, Unf---able, Desperate Measures, etc. ranking the status each woman holds in his world. The title of the spreadsheet was "New Meat SLC."
I have to disclose that this guy was no prize. I did not have any interest in seeing him again, and only didn't block his continual forwarded emails because I am lazy. He wasn't the worst person I have met online, but he was the worst of all things in my dating criteria: short. Maybe this exercise in labeling and categorizing women was his defense mechanism for having to stand on tiptoes to see eye to eye with the women he meets. He was pretty aggressive as well, which turned me off immediately. I was never unclear as to what his intentions were.
This poor woman; however, (probably less bitter and cynical than I)was taken in and felt that ultimate betrayal of not only unrequited love, but deception. I have also been deceived in matters of love, and I know the sting. I have to admire her quick action to unmask the creep and destroy any future rendezvous P had in mind for those of us on his list. I, too, have felt the undeniable impulse to administer a public form of humiliation as punishment for catching a boyfriend cheating on me. I have wanted to buy a billboard with his picture and warn women to stay away; blanket all the parking lots he frequents with fliers about his deepest secrets and prominently display an aerial shot of the balding head he was so insecure about; take out an ad in all the local papers listing his sins against me and others (again, featuring the bald shot), write letters to his children letting them know who their father is and encouraging them to find different a different role model for masculinity.
But I did not do these things. I did not want to give this man one more spec of my time, energy, heart, or soul. I liked to think of myself as mature and having achieved some level of transendence over petty revenge scenarios. I was getting the best revenge: living well, moving on, dating much cuter and younger men with full heads of hair. But my glee at receiving this woman's email makes me wonder if I have just been kidding myself. Even now, I feel a rush of pleasure as I imagine plastering the bastard's bald head all over the place with a public service announcement to all women: Take heed! Meet the REAL Assface (as I have referred to him ever since).
While checking my email the other day a message from a guy that I had one date with almost two years ago (yet he continues to spam me with "funny" forwarded emails)caught my attention. Usually, I don't even read his messages before deleting them, but for some reason this one peaked my curiosity. The subject line read, "The Real P. Sticca."
I opened the message and the first line read, "This message is not from P. It is about him." From there, the woman writing the message launches into a description of how she was searching for a good man to love, and how that search had led her to P. I thought perhaps it was going to be one of those sappy online dating success stories just waiting to be featured on an eharmony commercial. I was wrong.
Apparently she had been dating P for a while, had introduced him to her three-year-old daughter, had opened up her heart to the possibility of love, etc. But P was not on the same page. P was reading an entirely different book. Therefore, she had decided to do the opposite of an eharmony commercial and let the world know exactly what kind of man she had found online in P.
The woman had suspicions about P's fidelity, so she did the only thing she could do: searched his computer for incriminating evidence. She found an Excel spreadsheet with at least 80 women listed, ranked, and categorized. This was not, according to the woman, your typical little, black book with names, contact info, and possibly a few stars next to his favorites. It was a checklist with things he had done to and with each woman; notes like "new boobs" "psycho" "rebound" "nice but maybe too old" "fatter than pic"; and categories such as Heavy Rotation, On the Outs, Unf---able, Desperate Measures, etc. ranking the status each woman holds in his world. The title of the spreadsheet was "New Meat SLC."
I have to disclose that this guy was no prize. I did not have any interest in seeing him again, and only didn't block his continual forwarded emails because I am lazy. He wasn't the worst person I have met online, but he was the worst of all things in my dating criteria: short. Maybe this exercise in labeling and categorizing women was his defense mechanism for having to stand on tiptoes to see eye to eye with the women he meets. He was pretty aggressive as well, which turned me off immediately. I was never unclear as to what his intentions were.
This poor woman; however, (probably less bitter and cynical than I)was taken in and felt that ultimate betrayal of not only unrequited love, but deception. I have also been deceived in matters of love, and I know the sting. I have to admire her quick action to unmask the creep and destroy any future rendezvous P had in mind for those of us on his list. I, too, have felt the undeniable impulse to administer a public form of humiliation as punishment for catching a boyfriend cheating on me. I have wanted to buy a billboard with his picture and warn women to stay away; blanket all the parking lots he frequents with fliers about his deepest secrets and prominently display an aerial shot of the balding head he was so insecure about; take out an ad in all the local papers listing his sins against me and others (again, featuring the bald shot), write letters to his children letting them know who their father is and encouraging them to find different a different role model for masculinity.
But I did not do these things. I did not want to give this man one more spec of my time, energy, heart, or soul. I liked to think of myself as mature and having achieved some level of transendence over petty revenge scenarios. I was getting the best revenge: living well, moving on, dating much cuter and younger men with full heads of hair. But my glee at receiving this woman's email makes me wonder if I have just been kidding myself. Even now, I feel a rush of pleasure as I imagine plastering the bastard's bald head all over the place with a public service announcement to all women: Take heed! Meet the REAL Assface (as I have referred to him ever since).
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
Loinfruit
Over the years I have referred to my children as many things: offspring, spawn, fru-its of the dev-il...but the most recent, and current favorite, was suggested by one of the little darlings themselves while we were on vacation.
We were playing a game--dominoes, I think--and I made a move that was disadvantageous to Savannah. She exclaimed with dismay, "How could you do that to the fruit of your loins?!" With mock-shame, I answered, "Awwww...I don't know how I could do that to my little loinfruit." The whole group erupted into laughter, with the episode culminating in Savannah deeming me her lointree.
Needless to say, talk of loins is not the most desirable conversation to have with your parents, grandparents and other assorted extended family around. However, such situations tend to lend themselves to those precious things that come out of the mouths of babes. My girlfriend, Terri, shared a story that one of her loinfruit starred in over the weekend. They always have a family dinner on Sunday nite with her husband's large family in attendance. Last Sunday nite the brothers got into a discussion about hair--it started with hairy chests and evolved (or should I say de-volved?) to hairy asses.
As the brothers compared their relative states of hairiness, one in particular was insisting that he did not have a hairy ass. It was late and Terri's soon-to-be 7-year-old son looked up at his scruffy uncle, and in all seriousness said, "You do have a hairy ass...on your face."
The wonderfully awful statements and beautifully innocent observations that are spoken by our loinfruit paint the world for us in colors we never would have chosen, from a perspective we may never see without them. I have saved scraps of phrases and comments from my children over the years, and I hope that I never lose the irrepresible smile and little tug on my heart that I feel when I read and remember them.
We were playing a game--dominoes, I think--and I made a move that was disadvantageous to Savannah. She exclaimed with dismay, "How could you do that to the fruit of your loins?!" With mock-shame, I answered, "Awwww...I don't know how I could do that to my little loinfruit." The whole group erupted into laughter, with the episode culminating in Savannah deeming me her lointree.
Needless to say, talk of loins is not the most desirable conversation to have with your parents, grandparents and other assorted extended family around. However, such situations tend to lend themselves to those precious things that come out of the mouths of babes. My girlfriend, Terri, shared a story that one of her loinfruit starred in over the weekend. They always have a family dinner on Sunday nite with her husband's large family in attendance. Last Sunday nite the brothers got into a discussion about hair--it started with hairy chests and evolved (or should I say de-volved?) to hairy asses.
As the brothers compared their relative states of hairiness, one in particular was insisting that he did not have a hairy ass. It was late and Terri's soon-to-be 7-year-old son looked up at his scruffy uncle, and in all seriousness said, "You do have a hairy ass...on your face."
The wonderfully awful statements and beautifully innocent observations that are spoken by our loinfruit paint the world for us in colors we never would have chosen, from a perspective we may never see without them. I have saved scraps of phrases and comments from my children over the years, and I hope that I never lose the irrepresible smile and little tug on my heart that I feel when I read and remember them.
Family Vacation 08
Don't despair! I have several entries started...the writing is just not flowing quite right, so pics are where it's at for me right now. There will be some interesting stories to read soon!! Here's a collection of group family shots from our vacation on the Oregon coast last week...
Up Close & Personal
I got a strange bug and decided to take self-portraits with the gang at the beach house...kinda fun!
 |
|
| Make a Smilebox slideshow |
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)