Maman Is On Facebook

Maman, aka "Big Carole" or "Bartender Dearest" (thank you Michael for this gem) is now on Facebook.

And she's not happy about it.

I can only assume one of her friends set up her account. She called me a few weeks ago to complain about it. First of all he posted a picture of her...with a drink in hand. An alcoholic beverage.

Horrors! Not the demon rum! She ranted like it was a picture depicting her in full Lee Remick "Days of Wine and Roses" debauchery. I had to explain to her that many people have worse pictures on their Facebook. A cocktail was nothing, I've seen porn on other people's sites.

Then worst of all, he posted her real age. He got in almost as most trouble as I did when I accidentally added a year to her real age. I think he's corrected it now, but it doesn't really matter. He is officially out of the will and now will have to depend totally on the royalties from his tell all book "Bartender Dearest" (Maman is the oldest bartender in Atlanta and will only serve you a drink if you act right at her bar, it's not a given that you will receive a libation just for patronizing the establishment). Stop by if you crave a good drink though, she serves it up Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday at Hong Li Lounge on Collier road. It's probably the best kept unrecognized gay bar/Chinese restaurant in Atlanta and I swear I won't make any cheap jokes about takeout, delivery, or if you pick up a trick there you'll be hungry again in an hour.

Ooops. Did it anyway. Still stop by, it's a great way to start an evening out.

Anyway, I did talk her down from the ledge. She was convinced that millions of people would now stalk her based on her Facebook profile. I did have to remind her this morning to at least finish her profile, it's a social networking site, not an anti-social site. So if you see her as my friend on Facebook, please do not ask for a friend request because she will freak out. She's up to five friends now, which actually I think is more than I have.

I'm not exactly the mistress of social networking. But I'm working on it. I find I'm no friendlier in cyberspace than I am in real life. I'm still frozen in "Second Life", unable to move my avatar anywhere or interact with others.

Nor am I doing any better in Twitter. Why the hell would any one care what I think from moment to moment? You better pray I don't sign up to update my Twitter from my phone, or you'll all find out how I suffer from road rage and all the ugly things I say to people from the safety of my car.

Related Posts:

"I'm A MySpace Loser; So Why Don't You Kill Me."

"Twittering Idiot"

Wide-On Of The Week: Cam Gigandet

Wide-On noun. A slang term indicating female sexual arousal and interest.


Ex: "Cam Gigandet is the hot guy in the "Twilight" series. He gives me a wide-on, not that pasty looking Robert Patterson guy.

So why is it that all the hot guys this year seem to able to suck you dry this year? Not to leave out the girls, I hear rumors of some sexy female vamps appearing on television and movie screens soon. Do we just feel so helpless and out of control as the recession deepens, the unemployment numbers increase, and the political schism between the right and left factions becomes increasingly antagonistic toward one another over health care and the other divisive issues that plague our country right now that the idea of a hot, sexy being bending us to their dark will seems eminently more desirable than just sitting sheep like in front of the grim nightly news?

That's one theory to explain the resurgence of vampire popularity when it emerges every few years.

I just write about hot men, not in-depth social analysis. Notice my website is called Pretty, But Shallow; not Plain, But Deeply Intelligent.

Let's enjoy a few more pictures together before I have to run. I'm doing the Trophy Wife Triathlon today: hair salon, facial/body work, and hard core Pilates class.

Very yummy. I hear he plays a bad boy in the popular movie series.

God knows I love a bad boy.

Enjoy and have a great weekend!

The Battle Of New Orleans

My husband and I had our first fight ever during our child-free getaway and thus ended our romantic idyll in the Big Easy on the second of a four day visit.

It was several years overdue. I suppose during the course of our marriage that maybe we have spent a total sum of eighteen months together, though not all contiguously. When you have so little time together you tend to push the irritations under the rug since you're always trying to maximize your positive experience together.

Whatever. My limit was reached and I exploded. Our last two days were spent alternating between icy silence and angry words hissed out between tightly gritted teeth. I left the room for breakfast and dinner. He got dressed up for dinner the last night and took himself out.

My BF and saner head in the situation talked me out of driving off and leaving his ass there to figure out a way home. She likes my husband and was worried I would feel bad about leaving him when my rage began to cool off.

I love her, but she overestimates my human kindness factor. So I locked him out of the room and he had to sleep in the car because sometimes my maturity factor goes awry. I must remember to write an apology note to our hotel as they seemed quietly appalled by all of our vacation sordidness.

Then I roused him to leave the next morning around 4 am. At 90 miles an hour or more, we would be home well before noon.

Somewhere around Mobile he asked me why I was in a hurry to end our vacation. He was serious, not just being sarcastic. I handled the question with quiet dignity as I had also promised my BF that I would not commit any acts of homicide before getting home to Georgia. We know people here, she's got pull in the legal system.

We did get it sorted out by the time we got home. That many hours in a car together forces you to deal with a situation whether you want to or not. I was sad this morning about it as this is the last time I'll see him for several months or even a year. Twice a year we try to cram a year of marriage into a two week span. By the time we went on vacation we were both tired as hell from the constant stream of doctor and dentist appointments he needs when he comes home, plus all the necessary errands that have to be done while he's here; taxes, bank business, various phone calls, networking, and hopefully one day an actual job interview for something in a five hundred mile radius.

Damn this recession and employment situation.

Maybe our next home visit we can try the romantic getaway again. Or not. Perhaps that was just too much pressure to put on us in such a short time, especially after so much time apart. Maybe we'll just sit on our back porch holding hands and listening to Garrison Keillor and "Tales of Lake Wobegon" and quietly enjoy one another's companionship.

"Wide-On" Of The Week: The French Quarter

Wide-On noun. A slang term referring to a uniquely feminine reaction to desirable stimuli.
Ex: "Eating and shopping in New Orleans is so much fun that I walked around all afternoon with an enormous wide-on, especially when I found Saks Fifth Avenue."

Despite the torrential rain of this afternoon, we are having a great time anyway. No one comes to New Orleans and expects good hair. We did have to stop and get umbrellas as we left ours in the car at the hotel. In true Brower family vacation drama, my husband's exploded into a mess of springs and blew away in the gale force winds that assailed us as I marched us through the drenching rain toward the Aquarium of the Americas to go to an IMAX film about hurricanes. My husband refers to these little walking tours that I take him on as being much like the Bataan Death March and likes to tunelessly hum the theme music from "Bridge Over The River Quai" while he stoically tries to keep up with me. He claims today that the wake coming from my flip flops was almost as bad as the trucks that sprayed water all over us if we strayed too close to the street. Ha ha, every one is a fucking comedian at our house. Yes I recognized the irony of the rain lashing at us and soaking our clothes on the way to the theater, but it made watching an IMAX about a hurricane so much more realistic as we sat there in our freezing cold and dripping wet clothes.

No one appreciates the effort I put into our vacation experience.

Anyway we shopped our way back to the Quarter afterward and had more coffee and beignets at Cafe du Monde.

A word about lunch at Muriels. Exquisite. We started with an appetizer of shrimp and goat cheese crepes, followed by two house salads with the house dressing, a pomegranate vinaigrette. Chuck had the wood grilled pork chop and I had the peppers stuffed with andouille sausage and shrimp. Muriels is housed in a large old home at the corner of Chartres and St. Ann and is reputed to be haunted by several ghosts. They set a table every day for the house ghost, and have two fabulous "seance" lounges upstairs that more closely resemble something one might find in a Storyville bordello-an upscale one anyway.


Hate to run now, but my husband just reminded me of the time. We have reservations for Antoines at 8:30 and then are off to Preservation Hall afterward.

Good night from New Orleans! Have a wonderful Friday!

God Bless The Good Girls Of The YMCA

Yes, we made it to New Orleans--5 and a half hours thank you very much. My husband is feeling well and the trip was fun. We just got back from club crawling on Bourbon Street on our first evening and uploaded the first photos.

I wanted to especially thank the wonderful trainers at the Y in Valdosta for the body above. Thank you, thank you Elizabeth, Natalie, and Priscilla. Without you, this dress would not work. I saved it for the first night because the dresses get larger and more tent-like after this. Since I am normally a hardcore vegan ( I do slip, fried chicken is like kryptonite for me), I did plan ahead to lose my gourmand mind in New Orleans.

We started this afternoon at Cafe du Monde. I had planned on doing breakfast there, but couldn't wait any longer after we checked into the Hotel Provincial. Dinner followed at Broussard's, which was to die for. Restaurant menus are like erotica for me, so are cook books. Sometimes I just lay in bed and read them for the thrill of it, so planning our eating adventure was a challenge.

I started with the turtle soup with sherry. He did the shrimp,corn, and sweet potato bisque, followed by the Broussard's salad. I had the Maytag blue cheese salad with an entree of redfish Broussards. He choose the gulf fish Nicola, which was even better than mine. I believe it was drum, but the panko crust was lighter than air and the red curry cream sauce was rich like velvet. For dessert, we went traditional with Bananas Foster. This was a great entry into New Orleans restaurants for my husband, the restaurant was slow so we got exceptional service and each of the staff told us a little history about the establishment and shared their favorite dishes with us.

Later we wandered down the loud vomit smelling horror that is Bourbon street and wove in and out of the clubs. Seven blocks later walking back to our hotel, my Calvin Klein metallic python platforms were squeezing the life out of my feet and I was tired of sucking my stomach in. I love this dress (Bebe), but I'm buying some Spanx next time so that I can eat even more. The girls at the Y work miracles, but I'm afraid my next cosmetic improvement is going to be a little lower abdominal work. I'd rather pay the money than do lower ab work anyway.

Tomorrow is lunch at Muriels and dinner at Antoine's, plus whatever other food I can cram in. I figure we'll work it off next week when we get back. It's time to actually enjoy all the hard work I put into myself the last few months, because if I'm going to go all out and eat, it's going to be the best food on the planet--which I really believe that in the U.S is right here in New Orleans.

Bon Appetit' y'all and see you tomorrow. I told my husband I expected him to put out after all the money I spent on him at dinner and I'm off to collect on it.

And The Tanks Roll On: A Family Vacation Epic

Tomorrow my husband and I leave for a romantic interlude in the lushly sensual city of New Orleans. We have been planning this little get away for months and finally the day has almost arrived for us to leave.

We get two weeks about every six months to visit with each other as he works overseas with a large and wholly unpopular Department of Defense contracting firm.

We make the most of our time. Since the entire first week was devoted to doctor and dentist visits, we are especially looking forward to this trip.

We leave tomorrow morning at 0600 hours, with our first trip being to Outpatient Surgery at South Georgia Medical Center. My husband is having a mild and hopefully unpainful procedure done and then he can sleep it off in the car while I drive us to Louisiana.

I brought extra drugs in case he is uncomfortable, a bag for potential vomiting, a pillow, and luckily he can field dress himself in case of any open wounds. If I have to drive him all the way to the French Quarter trailing tubes and IV bags, then so be it. We are having our first vacation as a married couple with NO children coming.

I'm not unsympathetic to physical distress, I'm just on a rigid travel schedule. I plan vacations like generals plan invasions. Every day, every hour is covered. All restaurant reservations are made, menus are printed out, activities planned, and wardrobes coordinated.

You have to understand that in my formative years there were no rest stops on vacations. You got in the car and didn't stop until you reached your destination. There was no food, drink, urination, or any other unnecessary delays in travel allowed.

I think it's because my ancestors spent so much time fleeing various countries. Somewhere in our DNA is the residual genetic memory of all the times we had to pack our shit and run for our lives.

But we made really good time while escaping. The drive from here to New Orleans is seven hours. I plan to do it in five. If you were going to be on I-10 tomorrow, I suggest you find an alternate route during daylight hours.

Plus we packed everything we own. We may not get back here and need to plan ahead. Looking at my luggage, my husband nervously asked me if we were moving and I hadn't mentioned it to him yet. He also asked me how many pairs of boxers he needed to bring. His logical brain told him that we would be there for four days, but his eyes watched me pack twelve pairs of shoes and five handbags. I'm planning at least three ensembles a day and advised him to plan the same; including all new undergarments with each change of clothes.

My mom, being a veteran refugee style traveler, mentioned that I should put a towel down on his side of the car just in case and perhaps get him an adult diaper for the trip.

She thinks of everything, plus has had the same procedure done. She said she barely made it home and that was a short drive. He'll be fine. Yesterday he had a wisdom tooth pulled, a new crown, a filling, and his teeth cleaned and went on a job interview right afterward.

His stitches busted today while we were driving back from our Boot Camp/Spin class and he had to staunch the bleeding with a piece of paper we had in the dash of the car.

What a bad ass. No wonder we ended up together.

I hope he's better by 19:30 tomorrow evening. We have dinner reservations at the first of our favorite New Orleans restaurants, Broussards.

Check back with me. We will be blogging from the road. I hope his hands are steady enough to hold the camera by mid-afternoon.

The Funeral Hoppers

Last week while I was driving into town I was stopped by a large funeral procession, large even for South Georgia standards. We still pull off to the side of the road here, yes that means both sides of the road. Everyone stops for a funeral procession, no matter if they have to get to work or an appointment.

It's probably someone you know anyway.

This particular procession came from a funeral home near my house and had at least seven sheriff's cars accompanying it, so I knew it must be someone important in my community. Being that I did not have a convenient copy of the Valdosta Daily Times handy with me in the car, I did the logical thing and called the Magistrate's Court in town to see if they knew who it was. My B.F works there and generally knows everything going on, so she is always a good source of information.

I told her what funeral home they had just left and she was able to pull up online all the people that had services there that day. We didn't know the first person at all, so it had to be the second person. I told her about the huge escort and that there had to be a hundred cars or so in the procession. I didn't recognize anyone in the cars, but I didn't have my glasses with me either.

Turns out we didn't know the second person either, but my friend read me her obituary so that we could see if we knew any of her kin. It was a really good obituary too, this lady had lead a full life of travel and done quite a bit of philanthropy.

So my friend read me all the other good obituaries in the paper that day while I continued my drive into town to go visit the sex store (we only have one) to buy some goodies for my husband's homecoming this week, plus pick up his shirts from the dry cleaners.

I was so into it that I had to stop her. "Good God, we are enjoying reading these obituaries too much, don't you think? You know what this means right?"

We are a hop, skip, and a hobble away from being Funeral Hoppers. Those women of a certain age that get all dressed up to go to viewings. Some of them travel to different counties even to attend really important ones.

Being small town sex kittens, we certainly have done our share of bar and bed hopping. But now that the kids are mostly gone, or don't need us except for money, we realized that it was time for our own lives to start again. However, in our small village there are not many acceptable outlets for women our age that we consider fun.

Here's what we have; garden club, church groups, golf, tennis, "Learning in Retirement" at VSU (great classes, but we are still about three years too young), bingo (she's Catholic), bunko parties, and power walking at the mall. Or endless crafts.

I have about five seconds of patience with scrap booking. It's real big here. I know because I've been to the get togethers. Nothing like five hours with a group of women using construction paper and stickers to decorate family pictures and write cute sayings with colored magic markers.

I expressed an interest in sniffing the markers and oddly they never invited me back to scrapbook. Plus, I try not to attend functions where alcoholic beverages are frowned upon.

We have a good senior center in town, but we (thankfully) are too young for it. They do all sorts of fun things. The bar, restaurant, and club scene here is geared to the college crowd.

Which leaves us with funerals. There's lots of them here and again I must mention that every one knows everyone else. You know you will run into someone you know at a funeral, even if you don't actually know the deceased. It's networking and socializing at the same time. You could find a date, or even a job if the deceased was lucky enough to be employed at the time of their passing.

Plus if you get a good seat next to the casket you can gossip about what everyone is wearing.

You might even get invited back to the house later to eat with the family. Say what you want about the South, but we know how to eat here and the best food ever is after a viewing.

I thought I was making a good case for us to start hitting the funeral circuit to jump start our stalled social lives.

She hung up on me.

I'm sure it was a mistake. Someone must have needed something important at work.

Wide-On Of The Week: Josh Duhamel

Wide-On noun. A slang term describing female sexual interest or arousal.
Ex: "I've never really noticed Josh Duhamel before, but these pictures put him on my radar."

Last night I was searching desperately for the inspiration for a "Wide-On" feature for today, as I had no suggestions from my viewing audience (hint, hint) and I know everyone must be tired of the same blonde, Aryan types that I favor.

So I called my B.F, who I must add was no help at all. She prefers short, bald men and her two suggestions, Telly Savalas and Ed Asner, were both dead.

No one wants a dead "Wide-On". That would be too creepy.

So next I asked her daughter, and she did have two cute choices. They both looked to be around twelve though, so I'll give those two some time to ripen on the vine a bit. Thankfully one of them was not Robert Patterson (from the movie "Twilight" for the pop culturally challenged), as I find him utterly vacuous looking.

Josh Duhamel was pretty hot to start with, but look what I found:



Suddenly he is transformed into a much more interesting guy. Fergie is a lucky woman indeed.

Have a great weekend!

"G.I. 'Ho: The Rise Of Trouser Snake"-More Channing Tatum

Does Channing Tatum have a secret stripper past? Yes he does according to this video showing the actor dancing in a Chippendale style revue at a Florida nightclub back in 1999 that Us Magazine is running on it's site. The hot actor, currently starring in "G.I. Joe", has never been shy about showing off his best assests and they are considerable if you recall the post from June featuring him as a "Wide-On of the Week".


Since then I've gotten a few more pictures of him to covet and share. Normally I only feature hot guys (or the occasional accessory that I lust for) on Fridays, but I think we could all use a "hump day" pick me up.











Enjoy!

Hell Yes Hilary Clinton Is Pissed Off.....Again.

I don't normally do political opinion posts and I'm not today either. But I saw this situation coming last week when former President Bill Clinton sashayed John Wayne style into North Korea and waltzed out with those two hot Asian reporter chicks. I watched the whole drama on the news, and I do have to add that I was thrilled and relieved that the young women were freed.

Then I made myself laugh all afternoon as I pictured scenarios that might have taken place on the plane (thoughtfully loaned by playboy Hollywood friend and Clinton supporter, Stephen Bing). Apparently Clinton just went and spoke to Kim Jong Il and was able to negotiate the release of the journalists with the notoriously difficult dictator in a few hours. Damn that man is smooth.

I'll bet he promised to film a little action and send it to his new buddy. A former President,two grateful young women (who happen to be very attractive), a tricked out personal jet (did it have a hot tub?), and a well stocked bar complete with Cuban cigars.

"Come here to Big Daddy, little girls. Show me some of that hot Oriental love. Y'all do some massage?"

I swear he winked at the camera when he followed them on to the plane.

So where was the Secretary of State during all this? I would have been right there myself, shoving him out of the way so that the press could have gotten my sound bite instead of his. Yes, the State Department coordinated the biggest foreign policy accomplishment of the Obama administration last week, but who took all the credit?

Big Daddy did, darling.

So can you blame Hilary when she got pissy as hell at a news conference in the Congo when a mistake in translation led to a question about President Clinton's opinion instead of President Obama's? She went full menopause on the reporter, and as a woman going through it myself, I totally understand. The only thing missing was the scary cobra neck roll that accompanies my own meltdowns.

Visit msnbc.com for Breaking News, World News, and News about the Economy

I'm Secretary of State! Quit asking me about my husband, he's retired and happily ass grabbing a whole new staff out of the limelight, dammit! I'm the important one now!

I love when Hilary Clinton loses her cool. I do like her, unlike most women. I'd have liked her a lot more a few years ago if she had gone white trash on Bill and beat him upside the head with one of her sensible shoes on live television when that whole Monica Lewinsky drama took place. I think a lot more women could have identified with her and might have supported her political aspirations if she had acted like a normal woman would have when slapped in the face with her husband's continual very public pussy chasing.

She would have been elected President, and maybe he would have had to finally step down and let her just for once not look like a bitch to the public.

Again.

Glamorous Monique Is Just That And Then Some

This Sunday I was lucky enough to be invited to a private music video production for Glamorous Monique's new video, "Punch My Kitty", being held at my very favorite workout/dance studio Art of the Catwalk in Tallahassee. The studio's owner, Marian Shaeffer, asked me Saturday if I would like to come down to observe and record the shoot, and reminded me to wear something fabulous as they were also looking for extras.

How could I ever say no to the best way ever to spend a Sunday afternoon? Gorgeous gays, fabulous transexual entertainers, sexy strippers, and the most dedicated fag hags ever. Yes baby; count this hag so IN.

The new song, and the song from the video above, "38 Triple F" are the artistic collaboration of Glamorous Monique (aka "The People's Tranny) and conceptual producer, Gordy Cox of Neon Glitter Bliss. Gordy's production company, Vanilla Funk Productions is now based out of Tallahassee, Florida, which is his home town. They will be adding a third song and video by the end of August, and after hearing the infectiously danceable "Punch My Kitty" and "38 Triple F", I must say that I can't wait for the trilogy to be finished. As I was watching the video above I found myself chair dancing, and then just full out shimmying around my living room.

Between sets I was able to interview the Glamorous Monique, who I must say is pretty fucking glamorous. The video above really doesn't fully show off how just flat out pretty she is, or that she's a divinely sweet and honest woman with an incredible story to tell. The video below was done this summer in London by a group of young film students and narrates sexuality and transgenderism in a remarkably sensitive short film. They interviewed Monique because not only is she one of the first Americans to undergo gender reassignment in the early '70's, but she has worked for a government agency for almost thirty years--as a woman.

A VEIL OF INVISIBILITY


Monique is relatively new to performing, which I never would have guessed watching her today. As a veteran drag club patron, especially one from Atlanta, I am a sharp judge of a good performance. Somehow she has managed to vault herself up in the ranks and is taking her act on the road, touring all the fun clubs worldwide. I haven't had so much fun since the Ru Paul days and I might add that she too is a fan of Monique's--calling her "Hotness" as an affectionate and apt pet name.

The video today was done by director David Leatherwood and his director of photography, Chris Oroza, both seniors at FSU Film School. Both are young, gorgeous, and uber-talented; making me realize that it's possible to be a fag hag and a cougar at the same time. There must be a catchy term for that, but I've not heard it yet.


See? Precious. The girl with them, Becca, played a "Mini Glamorous Monique" in the video, as well as being the good natured Girl Friday of the crew.

Sadly I couldn't stay long enough to be an extra. However I did loan my very sexy open sided booty shorts to Jorge so that he could do his pole routine for me. Bitch looked almost as cute as me in them too.


He is single, and I do have his number for any interested parties. He can work a pole with the best of them.


Have a wonderful Monday, and don't forget to shake those titties!

Wide-On Of The Week: Sharon Stone's Shoes

Wide-On noun. A slang term usually referring to female sexual response to a physical, i.e. human object of desire. However it is occasionally used to describe lust for an object of clothing or an especially appealing accessory item.

Ex: "OMG! The shoes Sharon Stone is rocking on her nudie Paris Match Cover give me a total wide-on."

Forget the fact that she is semi-naked and in bondage gear, I am so over seeing middle aged women naked or half naked all over the place. Yes, we could all look this hot if we had trainers, nutritionists, plastic surgeons, stylists, make up artists, hairdressers, world famous photographers, lighting specialists, and Photoshop at our disposal. That does make it a smidge easier to look hot at mid-life.


Copy cat. I have the exact same ensemble that I clean house in. Those rubber gloves are very useful when I'm scrubbing mold out of grout.

But those shoes!! I must have those. I've been online all morning trying to find out the designer. I'm guessing Dior or YSL, but have no confirmation of either yet. If anyone finds out, please email me.

I may recreate this look for my annual holiday card. That would certainly shake things up a bit. No one really wants another picture of my cats wearing felt antlers propped on their mantle. I know when I'm being humored.

Have a great weekend

Do You Suffer From CNS?

No, it's not some exotic new disease or another complication of menopause I'm going through.

The acronym stands for "Cockeyed Nipple Syndrome". I have it often and it bothers me, I just became curious if other women were plagued with this also as I don't normally check out other women's high beams.

I found myself for the umpteenth time yesterday rearranging my boobage in my sports bra so that my nipple line was even as opposed to having a high one and a low one. Or one pointed straight and the other one looking sideways. God knows how long I had wandered around the gym all askew, it's not like anyone is going to pull you aside and mention that your girls are crooked.

I was really happy to see that one of the bra companies is finally addressing the nipple problem by creating a bra with "modesty petals" built in. I'm not particularly modest, I admit to being guilty of using the power of booby confusion to my advantage when dealing with the male species, but occasionally I do find myself in situations where nipples are inappropriate. Living in the Deep South there are exactly three seasons: Summer, Football, and Baby Jesus' Birthday. Since all three are mainly hot and humid, we have year round Arctic air conditioning that only adds to the nipple problem.

Which leaves you with the option of: heavily padded bras (I don't want any added size), cardigans, jackets, or other layers of clothes (better to sweat in), or silicone nipple concealers. The nipple concealers are made by the same company that puts out Hollywood Fashion Tape, which is probably the most useful product ever created. They are flesh colored silicone discs that stick on your nipples so that you can wear thin shirts, sheer tops, or even go braless (as if). They have some form of adhesive on them that lasts up to ten uses, though I'll bet they wouldn't make it through a humid evening fish fry here. Having already survived the trauma of a good friend losing her breast enhancement rubber cutlet in a Friday night crowded Atlanta restaurant, I'm a little leery of any "self stick" booby products.

On a side note: my friend that lost her rubber boobie ended up marrying the gentleman she was out with that night. It was a first date, and I was along for moral support. Since there was no way we could retrieve the big rubber cutlet from literally the middle of the floor and it was obvious that she had shrunk dramatically on one side, she just 'fessed up to the ruse and pointed to where it was laying on the floor. He laughed his ass off and I'm pretty sure fell in love with her right there.

Now if they could just solve the sports bra nipple solution. Since I live in the gym, my current solution has been to layer two or three extremely tight bras under my tank tops, making sure I arrange the nips in a position they might naturally be in, as opposed to squashed near each arm pit. However, I did run across this awesome sports bra this morning called appropriately enough "The Wine Rack". It's a sports bra that holds 25 ounces of your favorite liquid in the lined cups and is equipped with a small hose built into the side of the bra that you can discreetly run up the front of your shirt. As you drink, the size of your "rack" will shrink, but considering how drunk you'll be, who cares? You can find it at "The American Tailgater Company".

If I hurry and order this morning, I can get one in time for football season.

Bite Me: I'm Quasi-Famous And Therefore Delicious

In my what feels like a weeks long hiatus from writing blog related material, I have possibly discovered my true calling in life.

Not as a writer, but as a deluded camp follower (read: online stalker)of the oh so charismatic Alexander Skarsgard. I've been enamored with him since "Generation Kill", and the lust just continues on with "True Blood".

I have given up Viggo Mortensen for this man; that's just how serious I am.

So innocently enough I shared him with my readers back in May as one of my featured "Wide-Ons". I also guest blog for Mike Alvear and share the "Wide-On of the Week" with his audience.

And my blog took off.

The only problem was that no one actually was reading it or following it. They were just reading about Alexander Skarsgard. Checking my statistics nightly, I found that all the search terms were about him.

So I did the rational thing and became irrationally angry at my creation. How dare Alex take over my blog?? Dammit, I'm supposed to be the star here. What else is a blog for than to make you famous in your own mind??

Then I got an email from Mike, except that he was deliriously happy about all the havoc Alex was causing on both our blogs. He asked for even more material, so I had to get over my own ego and write another post featuring the tall, blonde Swede.

And then finally another one last week. Mike ran it as "Why America Is Baring Its Throat For Alexander Skarsgard".

Then he added his own spin to that post and get this; put it in the Huffington Post. Yes, do immediately click that link and go read it. I'll sit here and wait until you get back.

I now have an inbound link from the Huffington Post. I can't wait to print the post out and stick it on my dream board.

Please feel free to comment or even send flowers to congratulate me. Note that I am partial to tuberoses and lily of the valley. I'm not so famous yet that I have to have my publicist do thank you cards, you will get a lovely handwritten one from me and my cats.

Yes, I sign my cats names on all my personal correspondence. In case you were wondering, the latest one is called "Itsy Bitsey Brower" or "Bitsey" for short.

All famous people cultivate an eccentric personality disorder. Mine could be worse; I understand cocaine is more expensive than my stray cat habit. And I do make them sign their own names, I don't just change my hand writing to look like cat prints. That would be cheating.

Fuck me; I'm almost famous late in my life. I had better cultivate a full harvest of weirdness to catch up with everyone else.