Is that what the fistfight between C. C. and Bret was about? Had C. C. just told Bret he was gay? I mean, for a band like Poison, a band that based its merchandising and image on hypersexualized images of the female form, maybe it was too much for Bret. And he flipped out, didn't handle it well, and it took eight years before Bobby Dall could fix things up between them? I think that might be what happened.
Yes, people. I went to see Poison at the State Fair. Poison. It rocked. But C. C. is gay. Who knew? Why didn't I know that when I was younger?
Oh, but guess who opened for Poison? A band called FIREHOUSE!! And, my, oh, my, the lead singer of Firehouse has kept in shape. While Bret Michaels and Rikki Rockett could have used some time at the gym, I was a bit blown away by C. J.'s (does he even have a last name?) arms. I would like to lick him. A little bit.
Okay, and, just so you know. I honestly thought that "When I Look into Your Eyes" and "Love of a Lifetime" were the same song. I mean, let's be honest here - they have the same words for part of them. Oh, and did you even remember that Firehouse was responsible for "Don't Treat Me Bad"? Dude, I had so forgotten. It was exciting when they played it. A bonus for the Firehouse lovers in the crowd.
Sadly, I will be out of town for Kenny Rogers and the Oakridge Boys, but next year I'm going to all the State Fair concerts. Yes, that's right. Bring back the cheesy hair bands!!!
Wednesday, August 30, 2006
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
An Attractive Option
Okay, let's say you are walking down the street. The street is in a residential neighborhood. Cars line the street. Children ride their scooters and you find yourself scooting around abandoned bicycles lying on the sidewalk. Let's say you are wearing blue jeans (just normal ones that you bought at Old Navy - not the hot ones that you bought at American Eagle that always make your boyfriend drool), a regular t-shirt, and minimal makeup. You have on sunglasses because the sun is pouring down. You are simply walking.
Now let's say that a small sedan, filled with youngish looking men, suddenly screaches down the street. You smile, because it's funny. Boys being boys. There's something so naive about it. Teenagers being young in the summertime. It's sweet. But then they start honking and following you. It's no longer cute and you hie as quickly as you can to your destination.
Now let's say you reach your destination - a mass transit center. And let's say that you walk swiftly past a man wearing a red shirt and black slacks in order to reach a bench where you pull out your paperback and sit down to laugh at Bill Bryson's adventures in the woods, when you notice that the man you had walked by is staring at you. You look down at your book, while casually wiping your nose (hey, it could happen to you!) and looking down at your shirt to make sure there is no spilled milk on your shirt.
So, now imagine that you have no idea what the man is staring at. Maybe he's interested in your book. Maybe your shoelace is untied. But when you stand up, he is still staring. As you sit down on the train, this man is also in your car, but he stops staring. You read. Then, as you get off the train, the man whistles and mumbles something that sounds like "hey baby," but could be, "I'm a moron who thinks that women enjoy being ogled on the train," or, quite possibly, "my mother is proud of my honor roll status."
Was it the t-shirt?
Now let's say that a small sedan, filled with youngish looking men, suddenly screaches down the street. You smile, because it's funny. Boys being boys. There's something so naive about it. Teenagers being young in the summertime. It's sweet. But then they start honking and following you. It's no longer cute and you hie as quickly as you can to your destination.
Now let's say you reach your destination - a mass transit center. And let's say that you walk swiftly past a man wearing a red shirt and black slacks in order to reach a bench where you pull out your paperback and sit down to laugh at Bill Bryson's adventures in the woods, when you notice that the man you had walked by is staring at you. You look down at your book, while casually wiping your nose (hey, it could happen to you!) and looking down at your shirt to make sure there is no spilled milk on your shirt.
So, now imagine that you have no idea what the man is staring at. Maybe he's interested in your book. Maybe your shoelace is untied. But when you stand up, he is still staring. As you sit down on the train, this man is also in your car, but he stops staring. You read. Then, as you get off the train, the man whistles and mumbles something that sounds like "hey baby," but could be, "I'm a moron who thinks that women enjoy being ogled on the train," or, quite possibly, "my mother is proud of my honor roll status."
Was it the t-shirt?
Sunday, August 06, 2006
Some Like It Hot
For some, summer brings outdoor adventures, sunning on the beach, and freedom from the wintertime imprisonment of the house. For some, summer brings allergies, constant snuffling into a tissue, and sneezing everywhere. I am one of the latter.
I have chosen to live in a house with cats* and in the summer, when the temperatures soar into triple digits, the cat fur flies and the dander is everywhere. Ragweed explodes. With every good summer rain, more tree pollen enters the atmosphere. These allergens, in addition to regular everyday dusts and creatures of the Earth, cause my nose to explode in snot, my eyes to turn a lovely shade of red, and my entire body to be on the verge of a sneeze at any given moment.
I was told that my allergies would get better as I got older, but this year I actually had to go on inhalable steroids. In addition to a regular regimen of antihistamines and eye drops, I sniff crap up my nose every single day. This is seasonal, but if you consider that the seasons in which these allergens require me to be medicated are spring, summer, and fall, you can quickly understand why I look forward to winter with an all-consuming yearning.
The night I reached the conclusion that Biker Boy really honestly cared about me was the THIRD night in a row that I woke Biker Boy up to crawl out of bed to get to some tissues. Once the tissues were procured, I proceeded to wheeze for an hour before the allergy attack left and I was once more dead to the world in sleep. Three nights the boy put up with his sniffling girlfriend waking him up with a (very sexy) red nose, saying in the stuffiest voice possible, “I think I snotted on your pillow.”
His only comment: “Should you be on additional medication?”
*Before I lived with these cute cats, I would go to Pet Smart and cry at the cats in the cages. Seriously. Every weekend. So I take the allergies so that I don’t have to put up with the pining for a pet. Now, some people (BB included) think that this is silly. But the one time someone went to a Pet Smart with me and saw the crying was not a silly time. I’m just saying. This is my rationale for living with cats, animals that make me sneeze more than cockroaches.
I have chosen to live in a house with cats* and in the summer, when the temperatures soar into triple digits, the cat fur flies and the dander is everywhere. Ragweed explodes. With every good summer rain, more tree pollen enters the atmosphere. These allergens, in addition to regular everyday dusts and creatures of the Earth, cause my nose to explode in snot, my eyes to turn a lovely shade of red, and my entire body to be on the verge of a sneeze at any given moment.
I was told that my allergies would get better as I got older, but this year I actually had to go on inhalable steroids. In addition to a regular regimen of antihistamines and eye drops, I sniff crap up my nose every single day. This is seasonal, but if you consider that the seasons in which these allergens require me to be medicated are spring, summer, and fall, you can quickly understand why I look forward to winter with an all-consuming yearning.
The night I reached the conclusion that Biker Boy really honestly cared about me was the THIRD night in a row that I woke Biker Boy up to crawl out of bed to get to some tissues. Once the tissues were procured, I proceeded to wheeze for an hour before the allergy attack left and I was once more dead to the world in sleep. Three nights the boy put up with his sniffling girlfriend waking him up with a (very sexy) red nose, saying in the stuffiest voice possible, “I think I snotted on your pillow.”
His only comment: “Should you be on additional medication?”
*Before I lived with these cute cats, I would go to Pet Smart and cry at the cats in the cages. Seriously. Every weekend. So I take the allergies so that I don’t have to put up with the pining for a pet. Now, some people (BB included) think that this is silly. But the one time someone went to a Pet Smart with me and saw the crying was not a silly time. I’m just saying. This is my rationale for living with cats, animals that make me sneeze more than cockroaches.
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
I am woman
1) I must brush my hair before I leave the house.
2) I must squeal when I see baby things - baby humans, baby dogs, baby cars, baby wombats.
3) I must cry at the endings of movies like Beaches and Titanic.
4) I must swoon when I walk into a shoe store. Oh, the leather scent. That's what heaven smells like, isn't it?
5) I love a man in a suit. Especially a clean-shaven, clean-smelling one with glasses on.
6) I listen to Bon Jovi, Meatloaf, Conway Twitty, and Blessid Union of Souls.
7) Sparkly things please me - including jewelry, clean windows, and sequins on dresses.
8) I will not answer questions about my weight; age; natural hair color; or when I will get married, finish my dissertation, or get a puppy.
9) I can not parallel park. Or park at all. Or drive with any dexterity.
10) I will clean your apartment when you are not looking.
These are things that need to be understood. Please don't question them. When I squeal at the pet store and cry while listening to "Hello Darlin,'" crash my truck inot the curb for the third time in a day, or sniff as we pass by DSW, you have to just deal with it and acknowledge that this is all normal because I have ovaries. My ovaries explain all of this.
2) I must squeal when I see baby things - baby humans, baby dogs, baby cars, baby wombats.
3) I must cry at the endings of movies like Beaches and Titanic.
4) I must swoon when I walk into a shoe store. Oh, the leather scent. That's what heaven smells like, isn't it?
5) I love a man in a suit. Especially a clean-shaven, clean-smelling one with glasses on.
6) I listen to Bon Jovi, Meatloaf, Conway Twitty, and Blessid Union of Souls.
7) Sparkly things please me - including jewelry, clean windows, and sequins on dresses.
8) I will not answer questions about my weight; age; natural hair color; or when I will get married, finish my dissertation, or get a puppy.
9) I can not parallel park. Or park at all. Or drive with any dexterity.
10) I will clean your apartment when you are not looking.
These are things that need to be understood. Please don't question them. When I squeal at the pet store and cry while listening to "Hello Darlin,'" crash my truck inot the curb for the third time in a day, or sniff as we pass by DSW, you have to just deal with it and acknowledge that this is all normal because I have ovaries. My ovaries explain all of this.
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