I get stupid, I mean outrageous.

I heard Rob Base & DJ E-Z Rock's "It Takes Two" today.

"Right about now... you're about to be possessed... 

Remember this one?

...by the sounds of MC Rob Base and DJ... EZ... Rock...  

and I wept.

Hit it!"

I wept for my high school cafeteria where had my first braces-clad kiss on some Friday night just inches away from the same spot where I ate Fiesta Sticks in flourescent lunchtime lighting every Thursday between '89 and '92.
I wept for the teenage brain that I can never get back.  The one that was the Secretary of Student Counsel and President of the V-Club.  The one that was totally happy believing that sushi was gross and America was great.
Of course, I weep for my teenage waist, too, but I am not strong enough to face that tonight...  "Bartender...?"

Three-Whiskey Hotel

I do a lot of traveling.  I love traveling.  I have stayed in a lot of lodging.  I don't always love the lodging.  Good lodging is like home away from home.  Bad lodging is like an attack on all of your senses and a desire that your skin not make contact with anything.

The things I love include tight white sheets and shades that block out sunlight in the morning, then spring open to reveal abundant natural light when I am ready to get up.  I don't give a rat's ass about room service, but a continental breakfast that includes fruit is high on my list.  I just want one food-thing that is not over five years away from its life source.  A hard boiled egg counts...  unless it is over five years away from its life source.

Cheerleader Me

The Angry Baker, Columbus, OH, is on the corner of Oak and 18th, just East of Downtown in "Olde Towne."

It is a question I have been asked repeatedly in my adult life.  It is a question for which I am never quite prepared.  It is a harmless question.  To anyone else, it is meaningless:  "Were you a cheerleader?"

Often it is not even posed as a question.  Often it is half accusation/ half "I-know-your-type":  "You were a cheerleader, weren't you?

It's been 20 years since high school.  I am a grown woman.  And I am frightfully flattered by the question.  What is it they see in me?  Am I little and peppy?  Am I popular?  Am I cheery!?!

In 1988 as I prepared for the Bishop Hartley Cheeleading Try-Outs, I believed in my heart and soul:  I am a cheerleader.   I  knew all the words to all the cheers, I had the right hair, (well, I had big hair, but that was acceptable), my big sister Katie was already a BHHS cheerleader and coached me mercilessly in the weeks prior to the try-outs ("straighten your wrist, straighten your leg, more to the side, more to the front, higher.... higher.... higher!!!!  Well, you asked me to help; don't get mad.")  I can still remember the first 16 counts of choreography we learned to a New Order instrumental.

Cheese and Rice!

Only in Southern Utah do I go out on a Friday night to do a v & the b and find the coffee shop ready to close "unless you are here for Bible Group."  

I was not there for Bible Group.  

I did not even know that Bible Group was happening... but they hadn't busted out their guitars yet, so I stayed.

I know it's going to seem like I am making fun of religion, but I am not.  I respect religion.  I might however insert a few wisecracks about hypocrites.  I fucking love hypocrites.  They do all the work themselves.  

Southern Utah.  Mostly Mormons.  And Mormons don't drink hot caffeinated beverages and they don't drink alcohol.  This was going to be interesting.  (Please refer to title of blog.)  Turns out there was plenty of coffee to be found and there are liquor shops.  (Just don't buy that beer they sell at grocery stores:  that stuff is Barley-Flavored Soda dressed up for Halloween.)

It also seems like the Mormons don't like The Cussing.

P.B. & G.

We think we should be in commercials.  

Sometimes, we even write them ourselves.

Rarely can we shoot one without laughing.

Peanut Butter.  Take One.

Bitch Sugar

My fixation on signs began a few years ago.  I can't stop collecting them.

This first sign was posted in a dorm at a college in Iowa.  

I like the severity of its words in contrast to its pink hue.

I like the exclamation point at the end.  

I like that some event or events must have prompted its adhesion here.

Breeches and Hose

breeches (/ˈbrɪtʃɨz/breeches or britches) an item of clothing covering the body from the waist down, with separate coverings for each leg, usually stopping just below the knee, though in some cases reaching to the ankles.
hose 1. are any of various styles of men's clothing for the legs and lower body, worn from the Middle Ages through the 17th century, when the term fell out of use in favor of breeches and stockings. (See alsotrousers.) The old plural form of "hose" was hosen. The French equivalent was chausses.
hose 2. are sheer, close-fitting legwear, covering the wearer's body from the waist to the feet. 
ho 3. (ho)  n. pl. hos. Slang A prostitute.

I never wanted a job that asked a dress code of me.  I spent twelve years in a Catholic school uniform where any expression of individuality was squelched (save for colorful socks and creative hair styles; see Bang Bang Perm Fringe)  Even my extra-curricular activities required uniforms: field hockey, ballet class, and that one feeble attempt at a season of Track...  So, these days, I love clothes.  I, in fact, dress-up for a living, sometimes changing up to five costumes in the course of a two-hour play, each with its own set of undergarments and accessories.  Outside of work, I am frequently accused of over-dressing for events.  Yes, as far as I am concerned:
Life is a Party.  Dress up for it.