How To Get Away With Murder

How I managed to murder 2 people this weekend without even knowing it is beyond me. But, when they carted me off in those handcuffs, it became clear that I certainly must have been the culprit. And so, here is my mock confession – a la OJ Simpson “If I did It” style (he also claims to have killed two people and, yet, have no memory of it at all). Keep in mind this is all hypothetical, of course.

First I recalibrated the headphones belonging to my rock star boyfriend, Poison, so that it would shock him to death the next time he used them (a little trick I learned from my many years working with sound equipment as a singing diva myself). Unfortunately it wasn’t Poison who used the headphones – it was his (and MY) manager. Bummer. I killed the wrong guy. Which meant my lying, cheating boyfriend got to live. But, I did manage to stab the floozy he was cheating on me with to death with a spork. And I was thankful for the small victory, but not for long. Soon I was caught – found out – exposed. And I could have gotten away with it too, if it weren’t for that meddling kid … and those dogs too. Ultimately I was brought down by the evidence presented by a 4-year-old girl. Oh the shame! But, thankfully (like all the famous killers in the media), I got off easy … maybe all they had on me was circumstantial evidence? Perhaps there was some reasonable doubt in the jury’s mind? In either case, I only had to spend a few minutes in cuffs before being whisked away to a night of partying Casey Anthony style.

What’s this all about? I’m talking about my 1980s themed Murder Mystery Bridal Shower of course. And it was, like, totally rad.

Over the years I have attended many a bridal shower and have, lovingly, pretended to go along with all the cheesetastic games that come along with them. And while I do see how having activities at an event is crucial, especially when you’re bringing together people who may or may not know each other so well, I’m so glad that my amazing bridesmaids decided to do something a little more “out of the box” for my shower. And since it was my big day I got to be the killer … and apparently thanked my sister for this honor by ramming plastic utensils into her chest. But of course it was all pretend – a fitting flashback to the “real” 1980s, when sis and I used to perform in all sorts of corny hometown plays featuring similar content. In fact, it was my sister’s love of acting that allowed her to make friends with the owner of The Murder Mystery Company, who carefully crafted the plot and outlined the roles each of my friends would play in the mystery we were asked to solve – roles that ranged from a kleptomaniac to a doctor, hippie, supermodel, photojournalist and more … and each came with a ridiculous outfit (though, to be fair, with our teased hair, jelly bracelets and loud neon 80s clothing it was hard to make us look MORE ridiculous). But everyone was a good sport about it – even those who would have preferred that we stuck to traditional fare like bridal bingo and making a wedding dress out of toilet paper (games which, to my pleasure, were left off the agenda).

We did, however, stick to tradition for the “bachelorette party” portion of the evening – heading out to the bars for a ladies night out. We had dinner at the Hard Rock Café, naturally, where they really did treat us like actual 80s rock stars, showing us up to the VIP room full of rare Beatles paraphernalia and a grand piano autographed by 52 musicians. Then we partied like it was 1999 … or, errr … 1989 at a variety of clubs, played a rousing drinking game that, oddly enough, involved a bingo card, took attitude from a surly waiter at a dueling piano bar and made friends with some guys who just happened to find the sunglasses we lost earlier that evening. Oh and, of course, what sort of 80s party would it be if I didn’t make like Debbie Gibson (or perhaps a band just a smidge more hard core than Electric Youth) and sing my own version (and I can assure you it sounded very little like the original so it really was my own version) of a rock song – karaoke style. And, naturally, I got the full rock star treatment with backup singers, live guitarists and a drummer to give me a little oomph up on stage while I croaked out Kiss’ “Rock n’ Roll All Night.” And, yeah, I even worked out some sweet dance moves as well (which really just means I jumped up and down while screaming “You keep on shouting! You keep on shouting!!”) Let me tell you, this is how I should always roll – with a full rock band backing me up. But mostly because if they can play/sing louder than me it would really help me to sound less terrible.

Sadly, try as they might, they couldn’t top the high decibels at which I massacred that song. But I did have one poor fella fist pumping up at the stage the whole time. I can only assume he was deaf … but I appreciated his support nonetheless. Of course, I got lots of encouragement from my own “entourage” of friends as well. And that was really the point of it all.

That said, it took a bit of liquid courage to get me up there in the first place … and Sunday morning was not my friend. Binging like a 80s rock star does have its downside. But, hey, I wanted to rock and roll all night – it’s just that my body disagreed that I should also be able to party every day. I wouldn’t trade a minute of it though – it was truly a blast and I am so lucky to have such wonderful friends to go along with all of this nonsense for me. Here a just a few photos of the fantastic ladies I’m lucky enough to have in my life.

My amazing Bridesmaids, who were wonderful enough to throw this party for me (Note: No, the pup is not in the wedding party and yes, he is bitter about it)

 My killer costume included a sweet old school NKOTB hat.

Stace is calling me out as the killer.

The Doctor and the 4-year-old girl who presented the evidence that did me in. 

Love the dreds ;) 

My "boyfriend" and the floozy I had to murder (who just also happens to be my sister)

The Supermodel (don't they all wear hats like this?) and largest glasses I have ever seen!

No darling, I wasn't "punking" you - everyone really did show up wearing 80s clothing

Extra points for legwarmers!

Group shot at Hard Rock

 That's right - we're in the VIP suite

The VIP area also offered this balcony with a fantastic view of CityWalk

I believe we are dancing ... kinda 

Lose your glasses, never fear - you'll find this guy wearing them a few hours later! 

I think this drink was really the turning point over to the dark side

I'm so glad Sis recovered to that spork to the chest

The glasses were really a key theme of the evening  

These photos are clearly out of order because, let me assure you, we shut this place down (no daylight as we were leaving)!

Madame Trousseau

trous·seau, n. [French, from Old French, diminutive of trousse, bundle. See truss.] The possessions, such as clothing and linens, that a bride assembles for her marriage.

Last weekend I went shopping. “So what” you say? Well, let me assure you that this is not a common practice for yours truly. Shopping for lumber at Home Depot, purchasing groceries at Publix, selecting paint at Sherwin Williams – these things are common occurrences in my life. But, hitting up the mall to purchase items for me to wear? Unheard of! Even if I had the time and the inclination to do so, I have very little money for such frivolities (See: Home Repairs, Wedding, Honeymoon, New Car).

It’s not that I never purchase new garments. Why just look at me today, sporting an outfit that I “carefully” selected from an easily accessible sales rack at Target while picking up a birthday card and some fresh squash during a hectic lunch break swing-by a few months back. If that’s not dedication to fashion, I don’t know what is. No really, I don’t know what dedication to fashion is. Of course I like to look nice, who doesn’t? But I’ve never been fashion forward, I don’t have a clue what color is “in” this season, and I think that if it still fits (and looks somewhat decent on my ever fluctuating waistline) then it’s good enough to still wear for years into the future. It’s this refusal to purge clothing on a regular basis that causes my Dad to declare that I have “tons of clothing” crammed into my only semi-organized closet (as he less-than-gingerly pulls all of the items out to build me a new shelf in there), and yet causes any other astute observer to notice that I really only own, at max, 3 pairs of pants that are cleverly paired with any rotating combination of half a dozen shirts/sweaters to give the optical illusion that I am not, in fact, just wearing the same thing every single day.

But my recent trip to the mall (which, incidentally, was to pick up items for a trip that GAR is taking to South America – not for me to shop for my own needs) really left me craving more – more pants, more shoes, more sassy tops, more shirts, skirts, dresses, tees, tanks, makeup, undergarments, jeans, pjs, accessories … more more more! And that’s what got me thinking – I need a bridal trousseau!

Yes, in the olden days (you know, way back yonder. I dunno – Victorian times?) single young women all over the world prepared for their change in marital status by accumulating a whole new wardrobe -- jewelry, lingerie, toiletries, hand-stitched clothing for all sorts of formal occasions (well, pretty much everything was a formal occasion back then). Why did this tradition ever stop? Why can’t I do the same?

Maybe it’s because the modern bride is, most likely, not setting off on a whole new life when she enters marriage. I mean, it’s not like I’m still living at home and I need to prepare myself for life outside my parental cocoon. I simply don’t need a whole new anything – I’ve been living on my own, purchasing my own prêt-à-porter (another pretty French term that is much nicer than saying “off-the-rack, mass-produced in China, discounted non-designer clothing”) for years now. If I don’t already own nice things, that’s my own doing. And really it does come down to priorities – would I rather have adorable sets of matching bra and panty combinations or be able to drive around during a steamy Florida August in a car with functioning air conditioning? Can I live without this season’s “must have” nude-colored pumps* in exchange for my dream honeymoon in Bavaria? While I envy the women who always look so fresh and stylish, and I covet their perfectly ironed “this just in” blouses and pencil skirts (are those still popular? I’m taking a leap of faith that they are), I covet the opportunity to see the world, feast on crepes in France (or schnitzel in Germany) and not pass out when I see my credit card bill each month even more.

And so, Target bargain bin, you’ll be seeing more of me in the future (as I quickly zoom by on my way to pick up a new plunger and some toothpaste). But, I will be compromising a little by purchasing a few new items (as budget allows), because every woman should own at least a few fabulous, feel good, knock-their-socks-off ensembles (though I’d settle for owning a pair of jeans with a working zipper that aren’t faded so badly that they look like I’ve been holding onto them since the stone washed jean phenomenon was “in”). And look, I’ve already gone ahead and purchased one gorgeous new get-up – my wedding dress. And once that behemoth garment is added to my closet rack, I’m not even sure I’ll have room in there for new hot pants and bedazzled mini-dresses anyway … not unless I get rid of that oversized Abercrombie sweatshirt I bought off the men’s department clearance rack back in 1997 … and I don’t think I’m ready to part with that just yet. What if there’s a freak cold spell?

Okay, okay, I’ll try to do a little purging while I’m binging on some new wardrobe items. And I’ll even try to pay attention to what’s in style – sort of … right after I put away this new flannel shirt I bought to go with the Nirvana tee that GAR gave me.

* I know that nude pumps are in style this season because, in my effort to find out what items I should have in my modern trousseau, I purchased a magazine that I have rarely, if ever, looked at before – Cosmo. First let me say that the fact that this magazine is able to stay in print in a world where paper is becoming a thing of the past is beyond me. Aside from terrible sex advice, quizzes aimed at deciphering whether or not a boy really likes you (I believe I once took a similar quiz in Seventeen magazine … back when I was young enough to aspire to someday actually be 17) and the fact that ads make up about 75% of the publication’s content, I found no real suitable fashion ideas within its pages. $790 t-shirts? Who are they pretending is the reader of this magazine? Sequined shorts that let your butt cheeks peek out? Yes, I have seen people dressed that way … but I am not considering joining them. It did, however, provide a scintillating article on Kim Kardashian where she reveals that she’s never “passed gas or gone #2.” Fascinating. I’ll be sure to read the rest of that story as soon as I decode the “secrets behind your man’s mysterious facebook status.”

Schadenfreude and German Spam

If you’ve ever seen the musical “Avenue Q” then you already know what “schadenfreude” is (and if you haven’t seen it, go buy the soundtrack now. Seriously, I’ll wait … you’re welcome). Put succinctly it is a German term for “taking pleasure in the misfortune of others.” (See – NOW do you understand why Germany is such an awesome place that I just can’t wait to visit on my honeymoon? How delightfully twisted!)

We all do it - laugh when someone falls down, gets hit in the groin, eats something spicy and smoke comes out their ears (wait, that one might be something I saw in a cartoon) … Heck, our love of schadenfreude is what has kept “America’s Funniest Home Videos” on the air for the past 20-some odd years. But it can be much more sinister as well. Oh sure, we all know that half the reason people love facebook so much is because they can look up the people who were mean to them in junior high and laugh at how fat they are now (though, of course, I would never do that … not to you anyway). While I suppose it’s human nature to see someone who is not doing so well in life and feel a little better about yourself and your own accomplishments as a result, where I see it take a dark turn is when you feel angry or threatened when you see that previously downtrodden soul take a turn in an upward direction. You know, your perpetually unemployed friend suddenly gets a fabulous job making more than you do – and you just can’t be happy for them. Of course, there are times where you feel like someone gets something they don’t “deserve” (based on your own perception of what that person has “earned” in life). But what I’m talking about goes beyond this – I’m talking about those who possess a constant need to feel superior to others.

Think you don’t know anyone in your life like that? Just wait until something fabulous happens to you and you may just see them start coming out the woodwork. You get a promotion – they are putting down your place of employment and calling your line of work a cake walk. Buy a fabulous new house – they start droning on about the mortgage crisis and the folly of those stupid enough to make such a purchase when the market is still on a downward slide. Get engaged – they laugh at the less than 50% success rate of such a silly endeavor and the gross commercialization of weddings themselves.

Or they simple twirl their hair Penelope-style and say “Oh yeah? Well, I’ve got six houses, make $7.5 million a year at my job riding unicorns, and have a dozen men competing to the death for my hand in marriage.”

Either way, these people exist … and they’re probably masquerading as your “friend.” I found  a few of them hiding out in my friend banks when I got engaged – people who were always there for me in the tough times but who, once things got great again, were not happy for me at all. I had trumped them. Gotten something they didn’t want me to have. Exposed the things they were not happy about in their own lives. It’s sad – and I’ll be feeling sorry for them (but not really thinking about them at all) as I jet off on my fabulous honeymoon that, were I still speaking to these people, they would surely put down by bragging about the dozens of countries they’ve been to, all of which are more exciting and exotic than boring old Deutschland (and, really, isn’t Europe such a pedestrian choice for a honeymoon anyway).

And I figure, hey, at least I’ll know one German term while I’m there (though I’m much more likely to hear Bavarians shouting “bier!” than “schadenfreude”). Actually, I do know a couple more – my father told me the German word for “constipation” is “farfrompoopin,” and that “bra” translates to “keepsthemfromfloppin,” but I can’t seem to confirm these in any language translation dictionaries. But, I really do feel the need to learn a bit more of the language – mostly so I can decipher the spam.

It’s true, I have traveled to dozens of countries before (and I ride 6 unicorns to work, where I make 70 billion dollars a year) and I’ve never bothered to learn more than a few essential words. Actually, I’m your typical nasty American tourist who just walks up to Parisians and demands “Where is Noter Dame?” like a moron. And, hey, it’s worked thus far. Plus, on this trip, GAR and I will have the added benefit of traveling with a tour guide who speaks the language fluently – a luxury we’ve never had before. No, I’m not worried about communicating with others in a foreign land – I’m worried about not being able to read all this fascinating Oktoberfest-related spam that has been flooding into my inbox. A few times a week I get a German-language newsletter that, seemingly, appears to have all sorts of great information about what is happening at the “weizen” this year. What am I missing out on? What fun is going on that I could be a part of if only I understood this language full of words that in no way remind me of those found in other languages I know (which is mainly just English … and, to be fair, “beer” and “bier” are pretty much the same – what else do I need)?

I plugged some copy from the most recent mailing into Yahoo’s language translator and it came back with this:

“Love Octoberfest fans, in 52 days the famous Trachtenumzug makes itself the way to the Theresienwiese. For 7 years we make possible for our guests to be very close and one of the most beautiful views of the removal enjoy thereby. Also in this year we load at the 1st Wies' N-Sunday to the traditional Trachtenbrunch. Loosely geht´s starting from 9:30 clock in „the spade house at the opera “. Experience the Trachtenumzug with best Bavarian Brunch from the house Kuffler. Whom it then still on the Wies' n pulls, for goes it with the bus into the beetles Wies' n Schänke to the exclusive Wies' N-prelude! We are pleased to be allowed to bergüßen you with the Trachtenbrunch. Menu in the beetles pointed `n-Schänke. Alternatively we can " Spade house to the Oper" without " Beetle Wies' n Schänke" offer."

Something about brunch? I love brunch! But, alas, I guess I will never know … unless one of my fancy-pants former friends counts “German” among the 17 languages they’re fluent in. No? Well, I guess you can’t be better than everyone at everything. I guess I’ll just skip brunch and instead grab a world-famous Bavarian hot chocolate from the restaurant at the Four Seasons (oh, did I not mention we’re staying at the Four Seasons? Yes, well, I’m sure it’s not as great as the place you stayed that one time you helped starving children in a remote area of Timbuktu).

Corporate Crashers and Party Poopers‏

A weekend away – nothing but sun, sand, swimming pools, waterfalls, poop and corporate party crashing.

This, my friends, is the tale of the weddingmoon that GAR and I recently chose to embark upon. Now, you may recall that, as a couple, my Groom-A-Saurus Rex (GAR) and I suffer from a pretty bad case of ADD. We aren’t the type to allow ourselves a lot of time for “doing nothing.” Though on this trip – this little “getaway” (though I’ve always hated this term – why would I need to “get away” from it all? My life is already awesome – by taking vacation I’m simply making it more awesome. But I digress…) – we really did try to simply relax and enjoy the type of laid-back vacation experience that others seem to enjoy so much.

So we lounged by the pool for hours, sipping cool cocktails and taking the occasional dip into the pool that, according to my friend Mac, won the title of “Best Pool in South Florida” (a title that I would like to dispute. Granted, I have not seen every pool in South Florida, but I’ve seen more impressive ones here in Central Florida and I’m guessing that South Beach has some seriously cool pools that would put the merely “better than average” pool at the Hard Rock to shame). And we were relaxed … and hot ... but mostly relaxed … until some literal party pooper decided to take a dump in the allegedly award-winning water feature. And, well, that kicked the Zen-like vibe right out of that place (to be honest, it wasn’t really that Zen … sure, we were relaxing, but only by blocking out the high-pitched shrills of oversized children crammed into undersized inner tubes running all around. For this type of serenity I could have just spent the day at any of Central Florida’s “award winning” Speedo-infested water parks).
 
Not that sitting by the pool all day doesn’t have its charms, but I’m sure that GAR would agree that we had a bit more fun once the sun went down (or, err … the sun sets really late this time of year, so maybe I should instead say “once the pool shut down”). Since lounging poolside was out, our evening started with us doing something that the hip people of South Beach would never do – we went to dinner at 6 p.m. Expecting to see nothing more than a few retirees out way past their bedtime, we hit up a Cuban restaurant at the resort (which, naturally, I had purchased a Groupon for in advance). To our amazement, it was packed! And, even more to our amazement, we sat down and were instantly greeted with lavish appetizers and exotic, bubbling drinks – items we had not ordered. When GAR insisted that we should not be getting these items, the waiter responded that we were special guests and it was all, of course, complimentary. SCORE!! Apparently dining so early in the evening is something that is only done by celebrities and royalty and, whichever one we were mistaken for, we were very grateful.

We got our menus, which listed delicious 3-course meal options and a fixed price - $6.99 ... far below what even the least expensive mini-dessert on the menu would usually cost. We were perplexed but we went with it because, well, why not? All the other tables seemed to be doing the same thing (and, yes, if the other tables jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge I might, momentarily, wonder if perhaps they’re not onto something fabulous that I just haven’t figured out yet). And soon it all became clear – we had accidentally crashed a Hard Rock employee appreciation night … and boy was it delicious!

Once dinner was done and our $14 was paid, the night was still young  … very young – in a town where the action doesn’t start until midnight, we walked out of the restaurant at 7 p.m. What to do? Like lemmings we followed the sea of employees (I'd like to say our “fellow” employees, but we weren’t officially on the casino’s payroll yet) into Hard Rock Live. We have attended concerts at this venue in Orlando many times, but this was our first visit to this locale … and it was drastically different … mostly because it was set up for a concert unlike any we’ve ever attended before. Oh yes, it was set up for an event of epic proportions – the Southeast Regional Hard Rock Employee Talent Show! Now hear me out – attending a D-grade “talent show” with people you don’t know, care about or work with may sound lame (and, okay, it is), but I assure you that the good people at Hard Rock corporate had spared no expense in setting up this event – indoor fireworks, lazer light effects, smoke machines, professional back-up musicians, back-up singers, back-up dancers and even a professional (male) bellydancer. Come on now – THIS is entertainment (good enough for 7 p.m. on a Monday night anyway)!

And – whoa! – did I mention that the whole thing was hosted by TV’s Joey Lawrence? Or so says GAR (this "fact" was never confirmed, but I will agree that it looked like him), and I have no reason to doubt he was the real deal. After all, they did have all the “real” American Idol judges – old and new – on set to review the performances. Look everyone, it’s Steven Tyler!

J-Lo ...

And, of course, Paula.

 

But it was great fun. We cheered on the contestants, shook our light-up maracas (oh yes, they gave us maracas) and rejoiced when “our” top selection won it all! Plus they gave us really cheap beer and popcorn.

Oh sure, we did lots of other exciting things on this trip – enjoyed overpriced cocktails at an exclusive, swanky rooftop bar, accidentally started a dance-off with another couple in a billiards halls, won money playing video roulette, sang along with Journey’s “Separate Ways” during karaoke, strolled along the beach hand-in-hand, hunted down an out-of-business Barnes & Noble, feasted on discounted oversized pretzels, and came back home to find Dad sitting on our couch and telling us that he just bought a house in Florida. But, really, it’s the 7th Annual Casino Appreciation Night that we’ll remember the most – GAR is already planning a trip back for the 2012 showdown. I’ll keep my neon maracas handy!

Pass The 40 ‘Cause My Mother’s Not Looking

What a cool thing to say as a kid. We all thought it. Well maybe not everyone, but if you lived in the glamour of MTV early-nineties hip-hop videos this may have been one thing you at least wished you could say. This of course is part of a verse sung by a child in BlackSheep’s “Pass the 40” from their “A Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing” album. You might remember this group more for their hit “This or That” where they sing “engine engine number nine … ” Remember them now (you just sang it in your head, didn’t you)? It’s the song you love to belt out at clubs and bars but really don’t know anything else by this band. You might also recognize them from the TV sitcom “Scrubs.” I believe Turk wore their t-shirt during one episode (I hope that helps). BlackSheep songs were one of my lawn mower anthems. I would pop this tape into my Walkman (and not the kind that fast forwarded to the next song – I had to time that puppy just right) and listen to it continuously as I worked in my parents yard. I did get paid 10 bucks to mow the lawn, but I also got paid in rapping and gangsta lessons (though to be honest, BlackSheep wasn’t that gansta. I needed to pop in my Ice Cube, “The Predator,” tape for that). Anyway, back to “Pass the 40.” That kid was an icon for how we all wanted to feel and be seen – at least on the outside. He was so grown-up and hip by telling his friends to pass the 40, but I bet he didn’t feel cool when that malty beverage coated his taste buds. He probably ran home and washed it out with milk and cookies. The only time my friends and I drank 40’s was in college and that’s because they were cheap, you only had to buy one and it saved you money before you went out. But as a teen I bought into what this kid was saying along with every other teenager. I did want to look cool in front of my friends (it’s one of the reasons why I tried to wear my bright colored jorts ABC style and why I just had to have that pull out radio, when a regular one would’ve been just as good and would have allowed us table-space at Chilli’s). Looking back, I think that’s OK though. I mean what teen or tween didn’t want to look like a Fonzie-esk deity to their friends. But as an adult? Well, that’s a whole other washbasin of marbles.

I feel a need to call out the world (Though I really don’t know that many people, so I could really use your assistance on this one). There’s a lot of fakeness among us adults … I’m sorry, let me rephrase that in a nicer way. There’s a lot of Fonzie wannabes among us and it’s not even wanting to look cool as much as it’s people trying to act how they think they are supposed to. And I’m not talking about self-actualization or personal growth either. This is more about how we think we need to actively project and portray ourselves to others (Let’s call these people “Projectors”). Fonzie wasn’t a projector and he did “cool” perfectly, but he was Fonzie. Henry Winkler is not Fonzie outside of the character, though I’m certain he tried to be and feel into Projector status time-to-time. After all isn’t that what we wanted to see in him? Anyway, here are two general Projector examples that you can deeply examine on your own time (I’m sure you know one person in each category. Try and figure out what they are projecting.): 1) the guy that wants and actively uses the term “Mancave” and 2) the girl that laughs and acts bubbly after swinging and missing a base/softball. So what’s the reason for all this hullabaloo? Well I almost fell into “Projector” status this week myself. I know what you’re thinking … no way this can happen to GAR. Oh, but it almost did.

I was looking for a cool band t-shirt to wear for the engagement pictures our photographer offered to do for us (free too!) and all mine are faded and worn. While in a store I saw a Clash t-shirt with their song/album title “London Calling” on it alongside really cool graphics of the band. Pretty sweet … I know, but here’s the kicker. I don’t listen to the Clash and I’ve never seen them in concert (this album came out when I was 3) or on TV (However, I do have an LP with this song on it. The LP is “Life in the European Theater” and it’s a compilation album with half the proceeds going to a fund that opposes nuclear arms and power. So obviously, I just picked it up because it was weird). Buying that t-shirt would be a projection to the world that I’m a cooler and more sophisticated music fan than you, when I’m just a normal music fan. How fake would that be? I just need to be a great music fan of the bands I can actually pull up on my iPod. I was lucky to catch myself before someone got hurt in this kerfuffle, but a lot of people don’t.

For instance, I started reading Steven Tyler’s (or should I call him Steven Tallarico) autobiography. Now he’s lived a crazy life, but he is an awful writer. I’m actually giving him too much credit here. He dictated his book, so he’s an awful story teller – though with his name on the cover, it appears as if he wrote it. You say you were raised by wolves Steven? Really? And that was just the first chapter. Tyler tries to be overly cool and humorous in every waking part of his life. This was a big downfall for him in his first attempt at being an author. If he was just honest and real, the stories would shock and scintillate on their own merit. Most people just want him to be the face of Aerosmith and do what he does best - hit that high crescendo in “Dream On” and live his rock star status. But he took it too far though. I’m not saying that you shouldn’t try to evolve … you absolutely should, but be yourself as you do it. He tried to be an interesting author like I tried to be a fan of the Clash. It doesn’t work unless you actually put yourself into it. I think the question here is who are you doing this for anyway and why are you trying to fool your world? This happens outside the realm of artists becoming wannabe authors too, but I’ll stick with Steven to finish my thoughts (you can overlay this “lesson” upon any other area you wish). Here’s a novel idea, if your face and name is on some literary scribblings maybe you should’ve written it yourself - otherwise you’re a “Projector” (And if you do put your face on it, at least make it an attractive picture – some of us like to eat while we read). The world isn’t stupid though. Anyone can see Steven’s failed attempt at trying to be cooler through his words/dictation and the intelligent population will have already figured that out in the first couple of chapters (on a side note, I do in fact think he is cool and has lived an interestingly crazy life, but he could have packaged it much better). As for the people he pulls the wool over, well it’s kind of like convincing a baby you’ve disappeared in a peekaboo game. Not too strenuous, but tricking a baby? Plus, do you really want that to be your audience? Come on Mr. Tyler and come on world (“world” includes all adults you’re going to help me call out. Seriously, I don’t know that many people). Shit, I almost tricked a baby myself in the music world, but I can say one thing for myself though Steven. My picture is on scribblings I actually wrote and my name is on this blog, because I penned this blog.

So, what’s so wrong with just being whom and what you are as an adult? There’s no need to sneak the 40 to look cool people. I say, drink it because you like the taste, or because its 94 cents (with tax an even dollar) and that’s your best right now.

Well, now it’s time to pack prior to jetting off to the Galápagos’ Islands where I would love to become a Projector upon my return. The truth is though, on day 5 I’ll probably say, “oh … look … more animals” and that’s how I’ll write it.

Step 1: We Can Have Lots of Fun

Guess what folks – we finally got down to business and planned this wedding! In one weekend we managed to book a florist, hair/make-up “artist” (and I secured a hair accessory that I hope will work with whatever hair style I decide to go with), made cake selections, arranged for a rehearsal and the subsequent dinner to follow, and I even squeezed into my wedding dress during the latest fitting (sitting is still a problem, but I’m sure I can suck in all throughout dinner, right?) Not to mention that we also took care of our stairway problem (okay, so maybe my Dad made those for us, but I’m still marking it on the “done” list – so there).

I think it’s high time we took a break from all this hard (eh, hard-ish) work. That’s right friends – we’re off on a weddingmoon (a pre-wedding honeymoon … you know, a trip to kick-back, relax and get away from the stress and burden of all that planning and whatnot). There’s just one little problem – we’re not exactly the type of people who are good at just relaxing. But we’re going to try. We’re heading down to South Florida for a long weekend (I know you’re not supposed to tell people that … what if they’re burglars? Well listen here burglars – in addition to the two fearsome guard dogs protecting our home, who have a combined weight of nearly 30 pounds, we have house sitters staying over as well. So consider your efforts thwarted) and we’ve booked a nice, laid-back stay at the Hard Rock Hotel & Casino … okay, well, maybe we just need a thing or two to keep us busy in case the endless miles of beaches, resort pools, bars, restaurants and other chill lounge areas aren’t enough to hold our attention.

Maybe we have adult ADD (and I say “we” because neither of us can sit still for very long. Oh look – something shiny!!! Let’s find out what it is). Where was I? Oh, right – we picked an action-packed hotel because we’re action-packed people and we need to be surrounded by, well, activity. Although, yes, we do want to lounge … enjoy the sun and sand … take a dip or two … read a little (“reading” is this new activity my Groom-A-Saurus Rex just discovered) … all that stuff. But we do have something to fear when it comes to planning an outdoor vacation during July (besides the heat and damaging UV rays) because it is, after all, hurricane season. And with all these tropical storms out there right now with menacing named like “Bret” and “Cindy” (don’t you feel like cataclysmic storms capable of destroying cities and murdering thousands should have names that don’t remind you of 4-year-olds who have yuppies for parents?) we are little concerned – not of the threat they pose to the coastline. No, they are too far out for that. But they do bring with them rain – lots of it. And it’s been never ending for a couple weeks now. And in the event it literally rains on our parade, we’d like to have some fun indoor options as well … like gambling … or shopping … or dancing … pretty much anything other than sitting in our hotel room watching “Golden Girls” re-runs (not that I don’t love that program. It’s a timeless classic after all). And, lucky me, I even found a Groupon for one of the restaurants at our hotel!

Of course, before we can get to all that relaxing (or whatever) we just have a few small stops to make on our way to the Hard Rock. First up, the NKOTBSB concert* (this one GAR is not joining me for – instead I am attending with Sapphire and Jeep … friends who were both born in the 80s … leading me to believe that I’ll be the only one Hangin’ Tough at the show as they were both going through potty training when I was learning about The Right Stuff the first time around). Then, of course, there is the drive to West Palm Beach where GAR will golf with his BFF, I have a wedding shower to attend in Fort Lauderdale, then there is dinner with friends, a potential beach party … See, just a few, little, teeny things to do along the way. But then it’s straight onto the Hard Rock for some sweet, sweet relaxation. Ahhhh … sweet, sweet slot machine, dance club, bar hopping relaxation.

See you when we get back!

* At some point in the early 90s it became horribly “lame” to admit that you had ever liked NKOTB … but, come on, we all did. While I was smart enough to promptly stop liking them at that point I never denied my former fandom. But, most of my classmates – those who only a week earlier had a life-size poster of Jordan hung on their bedroom wall and had been fervently declaring themselves the “biggest fan ever” – refused to admit that they had ever thought NKOTB was cool. Now, thanks to facebook, I see all these very same ladies once again getting jazzed about seeing them in concert. HA! I knew it! And I’m call you – yes YOU – out about it. I guess this just proves what I always knew all along – I really AM the biggest fan ever.

Love Thy Neighbor (Or At Least Recognize Them In Your Waiting Room)

I’ve never been that neighborly. In the past I’ve mainly just referred to my neighbors in the most basic ways – i.e. “the crazy Christmas decorations people” or simply “yellow shutters.” I am cordial to those who live around me but I don’t stop for a long chat. Plus, since I’m sure we’re known as “the neighbors with the barky dogs” a conversation is often difficult to carry on.

However, when we moved into our current house it became clear that we were going to have channel our inner Mister Rogers a little more (shouldn’t be too hard – Señor Rogers attended college at the very institution at which my own Groom-A-Saurus Rex now teaches). The inhabitants of the 5 houses in our cul-de-sac seemed to all be a fairly tight knit group (with the exception of the old people next door with the blind poodle – they don’t hang around much and have despised us ever since we constructed a literal wall between our properties). Pulling into our little court you see all the children from the cul-de-sac playing together … all 6 of them, with the parents chatting and several dogs and cats running all about (including my own pups – the children like to take them out for “walks,” which really just amounts to frantic dogs dragging these poor children around the neighborhood). When “deaf neighbor” put up a sign in the middle of the street (so I wouldn’t miss it) instructing us to “please slow down, children at play,” we got the picture – make nice, talk to these people and be the type of neighbor they want you to be.

And we have. We talk to Trina across the street about the many blessings God has bestowed upon her (I’m pretty sure she’s talking about the aforementioned children who run wild and dig in our yard). I’ve made friends with the neighbor next door to her, who I call Ginger George because, well, he’s a ginger (you know … red hair, fair skin) who oddly enough I’ve never – not once – seen wear a shirt. Not that he can’t pull off that look (because he can … he really can), but seeing as he’s an investment banker I do find it odd that by the time he comes home from work he is already sans shirt … as if the fabric rubbing against his chest for a full 8 hours each day is more than he can bare and he must liberate himself from its confines at once. And I’ve stayed cordial and remembered him name despite the fact that no matter how much I hint, he never offers to take me out on his boat (“Gee, that’s a nice boat George! I sure wish I could go boating. But, sadly, I don’t have a boat. When are you taking it out again? Saturday? Hmm … I’m wide open Saturday. Yep, no plans AT ALL.”) And all of the kids, dogs and assorted bikes, trykes, scooters and skates have been allowed to roll up onto our lawn as much as desired – no questions asked.

Then earlier this month (as part of the “Summer of Me” celebration) I visited an aesthetician, Joanna, to discuss various facial treatments that might help give me a more youthful glow to my complexion. As I spoke with Joanna about chemical peels and the benefits of proper skin treatment routines I couldn’t help but think she looked really familiar. I’ve seen her before. But how do I know her? HOW? And then it clicked – she’s my neighbor. In fact she is Ginger George’s wife. We’ve talked lots of times. Just last week we discussed abandoned kitties her son found and how she was nursing them back to health. We’ve corralled her dog when he escapes and brought him back to the house for her. And here we were, in her office, looking at each other face to (not yet rejuvenated) face not recognizing each other. Had I been so blinded by Shirtless George’s perfect 6-pack abs that I never paid attention to what his wife actually looked like? And did she not recognize me either? What’s going to happen when I bump into her on Pine Street afterwards? What do I say then?

So maybe I’m not THAT bad of a neighbor … I’m just as apathetic as everyone else on the block. Walking around, pretending we’re all so neighborly – it’s a scam … a ruse we put on for the benefit of looking like we’re all regular June Cleavers. Deep down none of us really care enough to remember each other’s names (or faces apparently). And that’s not all – oh no – a recent chat with the neighborhood representative told us all about their dark little secrets too. The old couple with the blind poodle – they’ve got an RV parked on their property, which is against code … and Trina and her gaggle of God-fearing children across the street, they have 2 forbidden RVs. And Ginger George and his aesthetician wife? Well they’re not allowed to park that fancy pants boat that they never share on their lot either. Oh yes, perhaps it’s not such a wonderful day in the neighborhood after all, is it Mister Rogers?

Now I can stop feeling bad about still not finishing the paint job on our house after all these months. It can wait a little longer, right? Whatcha gonna do neighbors – tell on us? I dare you.

In the end I did mention to the aesthetician that I am her neighbor ... and she gave me a free chemical peel as a result. So I do, in fact, love my neighbor. And clearly I will not be forgetting her so quickly in the future ... though now that my face is completely flaking off as a result of the procedure it is quite possible she'll fail to recognize me (again).