ButtercupPunch – “La clique, c’est chic!”

How much do I love this movie? It’s 109 mins of attitude, snark, bitchy elitism, flamboyant draggy fashion and a vintage convertible – and I will never love Patrick, Wesley or John more for their dedication to any other performances. Not to mention the always divine Stockard Channing, Blythe Danner, cutie pie Jason London (oh, Bobby Ray, Bobby Ray, Bobby Ray!), Chris Penn as homofuckhead Sherrif Dollard and even hottie Michael Vartan as a redneck asshole who gets his nuts crushed by Mizz Noxeema Jackson.

To Wong Foo, Thanks For Everything, Julie Newmar

This is just a fun little montage I found set to music:

You see that lady on the right? The one with the white hair who is clearly a student of the older persuasion? Most days when I’m at school I feel her age.

I go to school at night and on the weekend. I work my regular full-time job and two times a week and all day Saturday, I am in the business of educating myself. Getting that degree everyone tells you is so damn important is not only necessary but a pain in the ass when you’re twenty-eight and have law school dreams.

First, you’re not 17-21 and ya know, young and fancy free. You have a job, piles of bills to pay (like you know life as an adult), probably a husband or a wife, if you’re really fucked you maybe have a kid or two. But really, I’m not complaining. Ok, I totally am. But follow me after the jump and I’ll tell you why I have every right to be this miserable… (more…)

Although this winter is almost over, some of you may still be experiencing the ill-effects of cold weather on your complexion. The chilly winds, erratic temperature changes, artificial heat, and — let’s face it — seasonal-depression-inspired drinking binges aren’t doing most people’s skin any favors. This season even the most naturally gorgeous among us would tend to look more at home terrorizing the Island of Misfit Toys than in one of the pedestrian-yet-annoyingly-perfect spreads in Lucky fucking Magazine.

Common winter skin woes include: red, irritated, chapped skin; unexplainable abundance of acne and oil; dullness, dark circles, and uneven skin tone, and tight, dry flaky skin. In short, winter ain’t pretty. You know it’s bad out when even white girls be gettin’ ashy. Here are my tips and tricks to nurse your skin through this difficult time:

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   So, my dirty, dirty, shameful secret is that there is still a HUGE chunk of my heart still full of love for the pop culture of the 90s. Specifically, the slowjam/R&B/Quiet Storm sector of that culture. I fucking dare you to watch this video, this Cassette Tape Tearjerker That Time Forgot, and NOT think fondly upon those halcyon days. The TLC safe sex or no sex days, the I-seriously-want-to-be-Lisa-Bonet days, the original House of Style days, the Blossom watching days. Errybody in the blog gettin’ misty:  (more…)

Trixie No. 1: just ran into gorgeous photog jonah, remember him?

Trixie No. 2: gorgeous to you is paulie walnuts to the rest of us

Trixie No. 1: u r an idiot try googling him – male model, necked with him at xmas party few years ago

Trixie No. 2: i will google image him and i’ll know it’s him when i see a walter matthau lookalike

Trixie No. 1: idiot – the lawyer i tried to set you up with had nice blue eyes

Trixie No. 2: so did don knotts

Yesterday I had two encounters with men. Firstly, the old man crush and I went to lunch at a lovely restaurant. He was so funny, and regaled me with so many stories about his days in L.A. when he hung out with Marlon Brando, that my face literally hurt from all the laughing. He then drove me back to work. And I felt real and true affection for him as I gave him a kiss good-bye, and yet I am pissed the hell off because he is 77 years old. No matter how bang-on and hilarious the Brando imitation, this man cannot be my boyfriend. If he were 20 years younger, however? I’d still be at his condo going for Round Seven or Eight.

After work, I went to a big book launch party for a friend of mine. My best friend Trixie — yes, she’s a Trixie too, we each call the other Trixie — has been going on and on about this hot public defender whom she wanted me to meet. So smart, so funny, really cute — “You guys would be GREAT together!” Not only was the guy hideous — think Gene Simmons — but he was lecherous, and kept touching me. And worse than that? A group of us went outside to smoke a joint, and 20 minutes later he passed out at the bar. He literally fell at my feet. I looked down and his head was on my boots and he was staring up at me in confusion. It was 7 p.m., at a goddamn book launch.

A drug pussy! Jesus!!! Don’t smoke it if you can’t handle it! How embarrassing!

You know what my dating philosophy is? Until we have the Big Talk about going exclusive – and I believe in a minimum of three months of test drives before I make a purchase – I am Single and Dating. I might be having dinner with someone else. I might be shagging them. I might be sitting at home eating pickles out of the jar with a mud mask on my face. I might be trying out for roller derby. Most likely, I am drinking. But one way or another, it’s not really any of your business.

Basic ground rules include:

1) I will not pretend that I am seeing you exclusively.

2) Nonetheless, I will not be sharing details; nor will I ask them of you (DON’T ASK, DON’T TELL, if you like your phrases catchy).

3) Don’t trample all over my heart, and I will attempt to not puncture your own with my sexy, sexy stillettos.

4) We will refrain from saying “I love you,” no matter how intoxicated on drink, drug, candlelight, or screwing we may be, because this leads to unnecessary confusion and usually crying.

5) I will always use a rubber, with or without you, and expect you to do the same. Similarly, Blowjobs are for Boyfriends (TM). We will not be oral sexing because contrary to what you’ve not learned in your abstinence-only sex ed program, oral is an expedient way to share disease and does, in fact, “count.”

6) I will not query your previous number of sexual partners, and you will not ask mine, because nobody ends up happy or wants to think of themselves as #8 or #123. And anyway, we’re both lying and we both know it.

7) Any Spare Toothbrushes Unknown to You in my possession will be hidden before you enter my abode; likewise, please ensure that any foreign bras are unobtrusively located and will not become tangled around my ankles at the bottom of your bedsheets. This is called courtesy.

8) We will not talk on the phone every day. We will not see each other every night. We will not abandon our friends, hobbies, and lifestyles to wrap ourselves in a coccoon of infatuation that is illusory, fleeting, and ultimately embarrassing. We will avoid overly affectionate nicknames and discussion of long-term plans to a) swim with the dolphins in Cabo b) run with the bulls in Pamplona c) babysit your sister’s children for a weekend d) roadtrip in a Winnebago or e) other excessively romantic and “coupley” activities. Joint trips to the supermarket should be undertaken carefully, lest I playfully chuck frozen tacos into your cart for dinner or you sweetly try to replace my Lean Cuisines with fresh pasta and zuchinni in an attempt to better my diet. Dogwalking while holding hands, while acceptable, should not occur more frequently than twice a week.

9) Babies will be discussed only in the most abstract terms possible. They may be referred to as “critters.”

10) In the event we find ourselves in Big Talk territory, we will quietly but definitively severe any remaining romantic complications and progress to Phase 2. Additionally, full sexual health screenings and subsequent disclosure are mandatory, because I believe in both romance AND chlamydia. “Love in the Time of Gonnorrhea” was not on my high school reading syllabus and will not be in my bedroom without my informed consent.

And yet, I screw up every time. I don’t abide by my own rules or consistently subscribe to my own philosophy because the water in actual relationships is a lot muddier than expected (not to mention full of snakes, undertows, and probably nuclear waste). When you fall for someone, you fall, no matter how cynical you thought you were or how prickly your exterior. More to come, but first: What are your Rules of Engagement?

Ever since last January, when my husband walked out on me the morning after initiating very passionate sex with me and then telling me sleepily how much he loved me and how beautiful I was, I have been messed up about the sexing. For many months, the libido simply died completely. I viewed sex as something that would cause me profound agony and soul-destroying misery. I connected his leaving me for another woman — I guess he was dreaming I was her that night, I still don’t really know — with the act of sex.

 Well my libido has slowly returned, but it’s still skittish. And it is finding itself titillated only by men who are utterly unavailable — in other words married men, gay men or elderly men.

 1. The married men. There are a number of them. One is a famous actor up here who I just assumed was a pretty-boy dumbass but is actually supremely smart, profane, snide, hilarious and smoking fucking hot. Has been married happily for 20 years. Off limits. Another in this ilk? A famous writer, blond and sort of boxer handsome (think Daniel Craig), funny, charming, urbane, flirtatious, engaging, witty … and again, married happily for 20 years. Off limits. And yet I am desperately turned on by both these men.

 2. Gay men. In fairness to me, the gay man I lust over was once a lady-lover. He actually went out with one of my closest girlfriends for two years before he came out. She said that except for his love of fashion, she had no clue — he was all man in the sack. The first night I met him he was owning a 1970s Burt Reynolds look, sort of Marlboro Man-ish, and he had every gay man and every woman in the place drooling, and every straight man wishing he could carry it off. He is hot. And he always, always flirts with me. Last summer he hugged me while I was wearing a sundress and went on and on about how soft my skin was — yes, that old heterosexual saw. Yet every time I’ve seen him since, he rolls up my sleeve and caresses the inside of my arm, waxing once again — in a very ungay way — about my “satiny” skin. I am turned ON.

 3. The elderly. He’ll be 78 in July. Yet he has all the charm, swagger and balls of a man half his age, plus he’s one of the funniest men I’ve ever known. And he is a silver fox, very handsome. We are going out on our first date this week. The question is not whether I can eventually have sex with him, it’s if I could ever even kiss him. Could any of you neck with a 77-year-old man, no matter how drunk you were? And without necking, can you do the sexing? No. So I don’t think I can go there.

My shrink sees a pattern in all this — the unavailable. I am attracted to the unavailable because by virtue of them being unavailable, they cannot hurt me. It’s the ones who are free and open and available who truly terrify me. And she’s right.

But it’s not just because they’re available that they scare me. They’re also out there dating and boning women — women I don’t feel I can compete with. Women, for example, who likely wax their entire beavers and have fake tits and teeth and all the rest.

Married men likely wouldn’t care about these things — there’s no way their wives are getting regular bikini waxes. Gay men — well, they’re not ever going to sleep with me. Elderly men? They aren’t even aware that women are waxing their poons bare, and they would think it was peculiar.

 I think maybe it’s just better I stick to Internet pornography.

Last weekend it snowed again in Wisconsin, Milwaukee got over a foot during the Friday night storm, those of us by the lake got 14 inches. This pushes Milwaukee into the #2 spot of snowiest winters ever on record, and I have no doubt another dumper will come along to give us the honors – fucking yay.

In case you couldn’t tell, I am beyond sick of winter. Winter and I are not on speaking terms, and I talk shit about winter to everyone I know, every chance I get. Fuck winter. About the only thing that this winter can do that doesn’t chap my ass is provide a very short amount of time immediately following a big snowfall when the world is momentarily silenced. Very briefly, the landscape is blanketed in a pristine white comforter which seems to quell all sound and motion, as though everyone has gone to bed until a warmer day arrives.

Inevitably, time will start moving again and my hushed moment of serenity will be no more. After this comes, salt, slush, grime, ice and general fucking mess. So, what to do when you’re sick to death of winter??

Make a yooge pair of snow tits.