Chirky

I developed my longest-running crush with Ren when I was in eighth grade. He was a little older, by (should I admit this?) 20 years, and almost every day we would spend quality time together (well, it seemed like every day, though I can’t imagine my mother allowing that). I would sprawl across our living room floor, snack in hand, and he...well, he was a bit of a rebel. Ren was full of drama and loved to dance.

Wait – we all know I’m talking about Footloose, right? And Kevin Bacon? I rewound those choreographed scenes over and over and over again, the parts where Kevin taught Willard how to dance, or when Kevin was dancing through the rafters in the warehouse, or when they all snuck out to the dance bar across the state line. Even the footwork in the opening credits had me hooked.

Beyond the movie, though, I really knew nothing about Kevin Bacon. I didn’t know what other movies he was in, for example, and I certainly didn’t know that (by the time I discovered Footloose) he was married. Truth be told, I didn’t find out he was married until just last night.

I was looking through part of the swag we got at BlogHer this year, and included in our tote was a copy of the August 2008 Redbook magazine. Kyra Sedgwick is featured on the cover with this blurb: “How she and hubby Kevin Bacon keep it sexy after 20 years” and I’m sorry, wha? Hubby? Kevin Bacon? 20 years? MY FIRST LOVE HAS CHEATED ON ME? Say it’s not so!

I shared my shock with Roger, who just stared at me, dumbfounded. I get it, okay? Not everyone shares my love for Kevin Bacon. Not everyone thinks he’s hot, or will swear to see any movie he’s in simply because he’s in it. And I’m okay with that. But Roger took it one step too far, what with all his comments about my irrational crushes on actors who can’t act. I mean, Roger hasn’t even SEEN Footloose. How can he issue such a blanket statement?

In general, I think Roger has good taste in movies – with the exception of Blade Runner and those stupid Aliens movies – and now I’m beginning to wonder if I really am alone in my love for Footloose and Kevin Bacon and any movie containing a high volume of dancing (see: Center Stage, Step Up, Bring it On, Save the Last Dance, Billy Elliot and any other movie I’ve temporarily forgotten but have certainly watched, probably several times).

Still, Kevin Bacon is tops for me – beyond his movies and looks and dancing, I adore that he’s a family man. I respect that he’s been married for 20 years to the same woman, and in Hollywood, no less! And that just makes me love him all the more.

So this begs the question: who is your Hollywood crush? (Or can you and I bond over Kevin’s weird hair and dimpled cheeks? Swoon!)

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Would you believe that I'm really not all that into the Oscars? I've never even watched the Oscars. In fact, I don't even know when the Oscars are happening. (Though I suspect it's sometime soon.) And while, in general, I like watching movies, let me go on record here: I've never seen ANY of these nominated films.

That said, I have at least HEARD of all of them. So that's something, right?

[Editor's Note: Actually, I just watched one of these movies ("Atonement") this weekend, but it was totally unintentional and it was after I began writing this entry. My husband and I meant to watch another film, and at the last minute we changed our minds. This was mainly because Roger and I were both interested in seeing different movies, and when I came up with the idea that he see his movie and I see my movie, and then we reconvene afterward, he wasn't having any of it. Apparently, "that's not a date." So my original statement about having never seen any of the nominated films is now only partially true. Roger, on the other hand, has seen almost all of them. Maybe. I actually don't know, so I'm not really a credible source of information about my own husband. Onward!]

As such, I thought I should cast my totally uninformed ballot for the Oscars.

Performance by an actor in a leading role
Choices include:
* George Clooney in “Michael Clayton”
* Daniel Day-Lewis in “There Will Be Blood”
* Johnny Depp in “Sweeney Todd The Demon Barber of Fleet Street”
* Tommy Lee Jones in “In the Valley of Elah”
* Viggo Mortensen in “Eastern Promises”

Chirky votes for:

Performance by an actor in a supporting role
Choices include:
* Casey Affleck in “The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford”
* Javier Bardem in “No Country for Old Men”
* Philip Seymour Hoffman in “Charlie Wilson’s War”
* Hal Holbrook in “Into the Wild”
* Tom Wilkinson in “Michael Clayton”

Chirky votes for:

Performance by an actress in a leading role
Choices include:
* Cate Blanchett in “Elizabeth: The Golden Age”
* Julie Christie in “Away from Her”
* Marion Cotillard in “La Vie en Rose”
* Laura Linney in “The Savages”
* Ellen Page in “Juno”

Chirky votes for:

Performance by an actress in a supporting role
Choices include:
* Cate Blanchett in “I’m Not There”
* Ruby Dee in “American Gangster”
* Saoirse Ronan in “Atonement”
* Amy Ryan in “Gone Baby Gone”
* Tilda Swinton in “Michael Clayton”

Chirky votes for:

Best animated feature film of the year
Choices include:
* “Persepolis”
* “Ratatouille”
* “Surf’s Up”

Chirky votes for:

Best motion picture of the year
Choices include:
* “Atonement”
* “Juno”
* “Michael Clayton”
* “No Country for Old Men”
* “There Will Be Blood”

Chirky votes for:

Achievement in directing
Choices include:
* “The Diving Bell and the Butterfly” Julian Schnabel
* “Juno” Jason Reitman
* “Michael Clayton” Tony Gilroy
* “No Country for Old Men” Joel Coen and Ethan Coen
* “There Will Be Blood” Paul Thomas Anderson

Chirky votes for:

And that's it. Seven. Seven? Is that all the categories there are? I feel like something's missing.

Anyway, I hope you'll play along, too. Leave a comment telling me if you think I'm right or wrong, and if you're feeling wordy, tell me why. Or give me your own list of who/what film you think will win. Or create your own list on your own blog, and leave a link so we can all compare notes.

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I may keep a blog about Britney Spears -- in fact, some people have even commented here before that I kind of look like her -- but that’s always where I drew the line. Until recently.

This past Friday night, Roger and I went to the Dallas Museum of Art. Every third Friday the museum offers $10 admittance, free Starbucks, live entertainment, karaoke and scavenger hunts. People pour downtown in droves for this monthly event, and the museum is alive with the young, the old, the goth, the well-to-dos. It's the closest Dallas comes to competing with the energy of other more hip, urban cities, which, naturally, is a draw for me.

But it wasn’t just any ol' Late Night at the DMA – it was its 105th anniversary. And maybe that anniversary wouldn't be that big of a deal if you didn't know anything about the beginnings of my relationship with Roger. You see, our first date took place five years ago, during the DMA's 100th anniversary. In celebration, the museum opened its doors for 100 hours straight. And so, just because we could, our date began at 10 p.m. and ended at 2 or 3 a.m. I mean, when else could we wander around a museum at 1 a.m.? We had to take advantage of it.

So I was getting ready to go out on Friday night, and I was thinking about what to wear. I was staring in my closet as I am wont to do, trying to draw inspiration, when it occurred to me: I should try to re-create the outfit that I wore five years ago. I mean, how fun would that be, right? Except the more I thought about it, the sooner I realized -- in utter horror -- what I had worn for our first date. Picture this (seriously, you're going to want to click that image link for the full effect):

A white waffle-weave thermal undershirt. Under a cornflower-blue, short-sleeve graphic tee. With a pair of cotton, charcoal grey, drawstring tracksuit pants. Like sweatpants, without the elastic. And, to top it off -- and this is the perhaps the worst part -- I paired this outfit with black, high-heeled leather boots. Like these.

As if that weren't bad enough -- and I kind of didn't want to admit this to you, because this is more evidence of the epitome of my (lack of) fashion sense -- I thought it would be appropriate to wear my black, mid-thigh-length lambskin leather coat. (Is it redundant to say "lambskin leather"?) It was cold outside, I'll have you know. Somehow, it just made sense to me.

Why are you staring at me so blankly, Internet?

You'll be glad to know that I didn't try to re-create that outfit on Friday, not even in the slightest, and that instead I wore a tasteful turtleneck sweater with jeans and cute brown shoes, plus golden, dangly earrings.

The amusing thing is that I *did* re-create that outfit on Saturday afternoon, and then I wore it to a friend's house on Saturday night. Except without the boots. Or the coat. Instead, I wore sneakers. Which kind of makes it acceptable, doesn't it? Say yes, Internet, because I need to be affirmed here. I'm beginning to question whether I really am more like Britney Spears after all, what with my apparent inability to dress myself properly, despite my access to an entire wardrobe of lovely clothes.

At least with time, my taste has improved. I can't say that much for Britney.

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I’m not sure why I’m obsessed with celebrities. I’ve never had an upclose encounter – I mean, I’ve certainly never squeezed Gavin Rossdale’s bum – unless you count that quazi-brush with Imelda Marcos last year in Manila. If you would even call it that.

Still, I have an obsession and I think it’s high-time that I admit it. Roger and I are in Chicago right now, home of Jerry Springer and Oprah Winfrey. When we were wandering around the Hancock Tower observation deck, in fact, I couldn’t stop thinking OH MY GOSH, I’M STANDING ON TOP OF JERRY SPRINGER’S CONDO RIGHT NOW. Which: Why? I don’t even like Jerry Springer. And then I would look out the South window, and there! There is Oprah’s penthouse! All the blinds were shut, but I was convinced that if I stared long enough, she would peek out and I would see her and…then what? Maybe she’d invite me over for coffee and dessert?

That’s why, when we walked past the Park Hyatt and saw the Maybach and Lamborghini parked directly in front of the hotel, we knew that Something Important was about to happen. We stood around, inspecting the lines of the Lambo and the drooling over the buttery leather interior, waiting to see what happened. And then they walked out. No one we recognized, unfortunately, but they were all dressed in white – head to toe in white hats and white shirts and white pants and white shoes – and I was wondering if they ALWAYS dressed like that, because how inconvenient would that be if it was after Labor Day? And did they coordinate, or was it coincidence that they all showed up wearing white?

And then he was there, among them, his corn rows weaved tight and his bling, well, blinging. He was wearing a black leather shirt and jeans, and I didn’t know that he was anyone important until I caught a glimpse of his watch, because no one I’ve ever seen has worn a watch like this one. The diamonds were so bright and so glittery that it alone could have funded quadruple my expected retirement. The wristband was probably two inches wide, and the face of the watch was as big around as my thigh, all diamonds. I grabbed Roger by the arm and excitedly said, “Watch – just watch – I bet he’ll get in the Lamborghini. Who do think he is? Snoop Dog?” It was the corn rows, I swear. I actually don’t even know what Snoop Dog looks like.

Turns out, it was R. Kelly and a group of all-white-wearing friends, who were having dinner at NoMI. Which leaves me to hypothesize: Do you think R. Kelly has some sort of rule that forces his friends to wear white when they spend time with him? I don't think that would work for me. I look much better in ivory.

Technorati: diamond, jewelry, bling

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Is it in poor taste that, upon hearing that Paris Hilton was sent back to jail kicking and screaming (literally), I started giggling? Aloud?

(AP Photo/Nick Ut)

(Yeah -- I didn't think so, either. But I still feel kind of bad about it.)

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Oh. Y'all. Something HAS to be done about this. Rumors are circulating that Britney Spears is pregnant. AGAIN. She just had her second child FOUR months ago. Maybe this is why she's vomiting peanut butter and falling asleep at the New Year's Eve party she hosts?

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Y'all knew it would happen sooner or later. More to come. Maybe. Or perhaps I'll go home tonight and forget all about this, since it obviously won't affect me to the same degree as Jessica Simpson and Nick Lachey's split. I still haven't quite recovered from that one.

Britney Spears files for divorce from Kevin Federline.

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I was in fifth grade when I first learned to write notes to my friends using calculators, the pre-cursor to sending messages on hip-slung beepers.

We couldn't say much other than "hi" and "hello," and if we were really stretching the capabilities of the calculator and our ability to interpret what different digits might represent, we could say "love," "hate" and "bite me."

Two days ago I was rummaging through the Storage Closet O' Goodness, trying to choose what gift(s) should be bestowed upon the winner and runner-up of the Ch-Agua contest. After probing for a bit, I found an old calculator of mine from high school. I immediately opened the hard-shell cover and turned it on, and was delighted (and surprised) that it still worked.

I felt exhilarated by this tiny find and - almost as if law compelled me - I performed a super-secret calculation to ensure that, yes, this precious piece of my past still functions correctly.

And then I realized what a peculiar obsession I have developed. One that I have never found necessary to share with my husband, Roger, but that I'm perfectly willing to divulge to The Internet. It is a fixation that rushes back and seizes me any time I am near a new calculator or a calculator that I have not used recently.

I have sat in numerous meetings, in classrooms and at home, and before I trust such an unpredictable machine as a calculator, I must complete a certain riddle that invariably leaves me snickering to myself. It goes like this:

Dolly Parton has 69 pounds of – what crass term can we include here? – boobs. (Udders? Silicone? I just did a search on the Internet for other terms for women's breasts, and do you know how dirty it made me feel? Especially because of big brother, watching me? Sick. I need a shower now.)

69

That was too, too, too much.

69222

So she took 51 pills…

6922251

…for 8 days…

6922251 x 8

…and that left her...

I'm not sure what it is about this riddle - Does it even count as a riddle? – that throws me into fits of giggles.

Is it the thought of Dolly Parton without breasts? I cannot even imagine such a thing. That's like thinking of Kate Bosworth or Nicole Richie and ignoring the fact that each have become synonymous with anorexia. Or thinking of Kevin Federline and not becoming perplexed by how he convinced Britney Spears to marry him. I mean, he's so greasy. And he wears tube socks with his flip-flops. That alone should have been enough of a warning sign to her.

(Or, perhaps it is the fact that I am a grown adult and am still fascinated that I can spell out "boobless" on my calculator.)

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As a former dancer, from back in the day when my age ended in "teen," I can say with certainty that some people just shouldn't attempt certain maneuvers. Kicking, for example, without first stretching. Or without learning the skill of kicking so your knee does not bend and your back does not hunch. (Her body? It shouldn't be in the shape of an "S".) Or without learning how to prevent your bottom foot from turning outward. Which probably occurs because you didn't stretch. It's a vicious cycle.

Lindsay Lohan was recently caught on video performing an odd assortment of kicks in the middle of a deserted alley, in between puffs on her cigarette.

AND: What are those boots she's wearing? Stop it.

La Lohan: She's so classy.

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For a while, everyone was buzzing about Suri Cruise and whether or not she existed. I really don't care whether she exists, or whether she is really Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes' baby.

Talk has died down a bit, but I can stay silent no longer.

What I care about is this baby's hair.

Is she wearing a wig? And, why? I understand that some babies are born with lots of hair. I was one of them. I looked like a monkey when I was born, what with my two-and-a-half inch afro. But my hair was all one color, and obviously coming out of my head. I'm not so convinced by Suri's style.

Suri Cruise...Well, I just don't understand. Why is her hair styled in a near-90° angle? And what is that little bit of brown hair against featured just in front of her backdrop of jetblack strands? Is it a birthmark?

(Or, like I presume, perhaps Suri's toupee - inspired a la Donald Trump - is merely slipping off her head.)

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When I was little, I watched countless episodes of Wheel of Fortune with my grandma. She loved Wheel of Fortune (as I've discovered numerous elderly people do), crossword puzzles, and cooking.

Last night, Roger and I went to the last taping in Dallas of Wheel of Fortune – Family Week. I was given VIP tickets by a friend, which meant (a) we didn't have to stand in line with all the losers other folks waiting to get in, (b) we were ushered directly to our seats and (c) we had GREAT seats.

Before the gameshow started, the film crew used the arm-crane-extension-thing to float the cameras above the crowd and shoot us while we clapped and cheered and acted as though we were excited to be there. We all pretended that Vanna and Pat were coming out on stage while the crew forced us to clap and cheer and act enthusiastic for a full ten minutes. In case you've never clapped and cheered in a continuous pattern for ten minutes, I should tell you that it gets old after about twenty seconds.

And then they came out, and we cheered again, except not as loud (nor as long) because we were all worn out. Especially the elderly people.

I didn't have high expectations for Vanna White because I think her head is disarmingly large for her body. Apparently that's just how she appears on camera though, because in person? She is heavenly. And I want to wear all her clothes. Seriously. She's got some style!

Or, more accurately, all the designers who send her free clothes to wear? THEY have style. We weren't allowed to bring camera or cell phones into the studio, so I drew a picture of her wearing my favorite dress. (Vanna and Pat changed in the middle of the taping to make it seem like it was the next day. And the only good part about that? We didn't have to clap for an eternity when they came back on stage again.)

At one point an enormous camera was directly to the side of Roger and me, filming us clapping. Roger was great. And me? Gah. I was a moron. I started nervously laughing and looking at the camera only every so often, trying to pretend as though it wasn't there, one inch from my face. And then I would look away and continue pretending to clap, because by then my palms were sore and bruised and I could no longer press my palms together without a look of anguish coming across my face, and that look just wouldn’t be pretty for the camera.

After he stopped filming us, I got upset with myself because THAT WAS MY MOMENT TO BE DISCOVERED. Why didn’t I ham it up? Why didn't I flirt with the camera and blow it kisses? Why did I ignore it and pretend it wasn't there?

AM STUPID. THAT'S WHY.

I, however, was very pleased with my performance compared to the woman who was caught picking her nose, ON CAMERA. And after several seconds of digging, when she finally figured out that everyone was howling with laughter at her and watching in horror as she unknowingly humiliated herself, she blushed and hid her face.

Yes, sir. Here in Dallas we's got usself some fiiiinnnee folks.

I would do more than blush if I was caught on national TV picking my nose. I would call a plastic surgeon and schedule a facial reconstruction. No amount of hiding can redeem that act.

We'll be on the air November 16-17, 2006. Go get your grandma and watch for us. We'll be the ones in blue, ignoring the camera and pretending to clap.

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I just read a movie review and started sweating and swearing. My stomach leapt toward my heart and my hands were shaking. It is rare that I become so emotionally involved in reading something that I actually get mad - but in this case, it took only one sentence: "[Hounddog]...written and directed by Deborah Kampmeier...calls for [Dakota] Fanning's character to be raped in one explicit scene and to appear naked or clad only in "underpants" in several other horrifying moments."

I read elsewhere that both Dakota Fanning's mother and her agent are urging her to do this movie because they both believe it is "Oscar worthy." I also read that Dakota was somewhat traumatized by the role. Why do the reviews of this film not mention the outcome: does the movie at all address the psychological affect upon the victim of such a crime? And at what point do we make a stand for morals rather than escalate our own fame and wealth?

The premise of Hounddog resonates deeply with me. I don't discuss much of my past on this site, but now seems to be a fitting time for me to speak out against our culture's apathy toward sexual, emotional and physical violence.

Eight and a half years ago, I was raped. It was a time of fear, of embarrassment, of not knowing exactly what to do with myself. I felt shame. I felt responsibility. My best friend - someone that I trusted at the time and who made a grave mistake in the advice she gave me, advice which still makes me hot with anger - told me that "it happens to a lot of girls, it's not a big deal or something to get upset about."

Continue reading "Provoking Mixed Emotions About Rape Since 1997" »

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Ahhh, infomercials. How do I love thee? Let me count the ways:

1. You tell me about Elvis' colon.
2. You tell me about John Wayne's colon: he had forty pounds of feces in his!
3. You tell me that the average colon has 10-15 pounds of feces in it. AT ALL TIMES.

Did you know I've been wanting to lose 10-15 pounds? How convenient.

Continue reading "On Tap: TMI Wednesday - When Elvis Presley died, his autopsy records revealed sixty pounds of feces in his colon" »

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Of course, I don't have paparazzi constantly surrounding me, and I can't say that photos of me eating would look much better than this.

Still, I think she is beautiful. Even with a mouthful of cole slaw.

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When I read this, my heart leapt into my throat and I felt like crying.

Jessica Simpson and Nick Lachey have split. Finito. No More. See US Magazine's spread for more details, including the bitter back-story and a list of reasons they are calling it quits.
I. HATE. THIS.

I have already deleted all of Jessica Simpson's songs from my iTunes, and sweetie pie, I want you to go turn the Jessica Simpons CDs into the used CD store. I'm TOTALLY in protest. How could they do this without consulting ME first?!?

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