Have a Heart, Xtina

Christina Aguilera is no longer fat. There, I’ve finally admitted it.

For three months since she debuted a slimmer figure on “The Voice,” I hoped the weight loss was a phase. Maybe her current boy toy forgot to buy her weekly bag of Cheetos. Or a mega roll of sugar cookie dough complete with little sugar dough baby. But no, the traitor didn’t forget once, or twice. He forgot for several months, the bastard.

Would I ever watch Xtina belt out “At Last” with “self-tanner” running down her leg again? What about her wrecked blonde weave as she writhed in a bandage leotard, looking like she stuck her finger in an electric socket?

To my delight, I can still have all of that – minus the extra calories. I’m glad Christina is a healthy weight again, since the extra pounds may have put her at risk of heart disease, the number one killer of women in America. More than 42 million women in this country currently live with it everyday – and often go undiagnosed or treated, leading to more early deaths than men. These women could prevent or lessen the affects of heart disease by working out, eating right, and maintaining a healthy weight.

Now I didn’t mean to get all Dr. Joanne on you. I just don’t want Christina to die, because then how will I be able to make fun of her?

This, my friends, is the only reason I’m supporting my sister Evamarie Spataro’s American Heart Association Walk on September 22, 2012. She needs to raise $300 by September 15. I told her I’m only doing this for Xtina, not her, and she said I'm the worst sibling in America.

I’m not sure what Eva meant by that last part, but please heed my warning: Don’t sit back while Christina Aguilera inevitably gains the weight back, putting herself at risk for a coronary. Give her a reason to keep working out, to fit into those horrible denim cut-offs and American flag cardigan.

Please give all of your quarters to Eva's cause here: http://heartwalk.kintera.org/charlottenc/evamariespataro

From the bottom of Xtina’s cookie dough-filled heart, thank you.

Fifty Shades of Drunk

Children, you may be wondering where I've been for the last month or so. What I'm about to say may scandalize you, but you are old enough to hear about what grown ups really do on vacation. Plus there's a sweet video of me in action at the end, so stay awake.

Anyone can read "Fifty Shades of Grey" at the beach. And I tried, but Anastasia and Christian were not cutting it for me. Instead, I spent half of my hiatus on a windy Hilton Head Island beach reading a batty dead movie star's memoirs. I got some life tips from Katharine Hepburn's autobiography "Me." The book taught me three things: 

1) Always wear smart trouser pants. Especially on the beach.

2) Call Cary Grant* "chubby" as long as you mean it in a nice way. *(for kids in the audience, Cary Grant is the 1.0  version of George Clooney.)

3) Never dwell on the past, unless you are dwelling on Cary Grant's pant size, and then that's fine. 

 

Also, take up golf, because you might meet an eccentric millionaire. Aviator Howard Hughes landed his helicopter on a golf course and ripped up the turf. This made Hepburn, who was there golfing with her fat friend, think Hughes was an ass. Then, he sweet talked her over dinner one night. They were playing "The Bachelor" before it was cool and then cool in an ironic way.  And then just sad.

Speaking of reckless behavior, I spent the other half of my hiatus drunk -- just not in a bar or even a secluded ocean cabana. On a Saturday afternoon in a nail salon, I sat back in the massage chair and my pedicurist asked if I wanted a drink. I said no thanks, I'm not going to pay $5 for cranberry juice. Then she said it came with the service. It was free.

Yes, I'll have one Margarita please.

My new friend brought me a cold Margarita in a real glass with a real lime and real salt around the rim. I took small sips at first and could barely taste the tequila. Then I picked up the pace. My brain warmed up like a fresh yeast roll in the oven. My sister told me I was buzzed, but I didn't believe her. I was too busy trying to figure out how to work the remote control on my massage chair. Did I want to be flapped, kneaded, or knocked? 

Then, a random 6-year-old ran across the room, wearing the coolest sunglasses I had ever seen. 

"I love this chair; I like that kid," I said to my sister while pointing at said kid, as if we were on "The Voice" and I was putting dibs on this fresh young talent. I was Cee Lo Green, my sister was Christina Aguilera. I was cooler (and thinner) than her in my own mind.

There you have it, kids. Grown ups on vacation read books about deceased movie stars, get wasted while getting our nails done, and yak about stuff we have no right even thinking about. You have a lot to look forward to, especially self-delusion.

I'm back to writing about the hard-hitting issues in Look It's Joanne. Check out my latest report with Fox News Edge. As you can see (at second 46), American Idol nobody Justin Guarini is not going to be happy with me. He will probably stop reading this blog, unless I can interest him in a free nail salon Margarita.

Miss America (I Wanna Be)

“There she is, Miss America…”

Before a smarmy C-lister oversings a single note, before last year’s winner can bludgeon pin a crown to your bouffant of three-day-old hair without sobbing, you need to play the game. You can’t take your pageant prize of a free trip to the Bahamas just yet, cap’ain hat and white sunglasses blazing.

Actual Miss America Contestant

Winning takes time. Or at least a lot of teeth grinding. Snap in those blonde extensions for the campy opening number to “Waiting for Tonight." You can't help that the two (straight) show producers are collectively 250 years old. You will flash your veneers at the TV audience and say, “My name is Heather Mane Heather and I’m from the Corn Cob Capital of the World!” Your whippet-thin frame almost breaks in half showcasing a meticulously inoffensive bathing suit. A Danube-eyed minion with feline reflexes ensures butt glue holds up your bottom line in beachwear.

One wrong answer in the question and answer segment can turn you into a sad and unfortunate internet meme. “India is the eighth continent and largest beef producer in the world!” just hit three million views and has made your mother cry.

 

Beauty pageants force you to live in the moment. The tension is high and you can't stare too long at the finish line. Voting is a similar (yet surprisingly butt glue-less) process where one voice is added to a chorus you won't hear until later. You can't rummage through your competitor's dressing room when you're supposed to be onstage singing a Christina Aguilera ballad. Focus on what you came there to do. Who knows who will be accompanying you after the winner is announced, because what counts is your winning few minutes in the voting booth. Keylight or light musical accompaniment is optional.

 

This is my platform: on May 8, do a solid by our Miss America ladies and gorgeous drag queens alike: Vote no against Amendment One and keep North Carolina Powered on Dreams. Come May 9, we will hopefully be laying on a sandy white beach, savoring our Miss America win with pineapple rum or chilli cheese fries. Or both. But for now, we have a tired ass Jennifer Lopez song to slog through.

Song of the Week: "Miss America (I Wanna Be)"

Easter "Candy"

Sigh...Photo by Ginnerobot

Valentine’s Day, Easter, and Christmas form a holy trinity of holidays where I gorge myself on candy. Whether it’s Dove chocolates that predict my future (as seen in my Valentine’s Day with Christina Aguilera) or the jaunty candy cane filled with Hershey kisses (time better-off undocumented), I am guaranteed to be sugared out and ready to party before 10am.

But since age 11, Easter has been a cautionary tale. That’s when I became the Drew Barrymore of Cadbury Creme Eggs. The cream, with its orange-food-dye-as-yolk center, flowed from the cracked chocolate shell down my throat faster than booger sugar up a supermodel’s nose.

Even my mom, a lifelong purveyor of the Hershey’s assortment packs, was worried. She tried to cut me back to one a day, but the only thing that stopped my rampage was an unflattering picture. Under a canopy of trees, I stood in an enormous polo shirt, clutching my Jack Russell Terrier against my giant pink-swathed belly. He looked like my afternoon snack. After that, I went cold turkey. By next year, I had the wherewithal to pop just one a day.

While I’ll eat two cream eggs for the Easter Bunny’s birthday, I always remember the slippery slope of having one before bed for the entire month.

Q: What's your Easter chocolate vice?

Appropriate Valentine Behavior (and Xtina melting into a drag queen)

Some people call it the most romantic day of the year. For others it’s Singles Awareness Day, when you can eat a very unromantic yet satisfying burrito at Taco Bell. I for one don’t believe in either. Valentine’s Day is a time for me to gorge on heart-shaped Dove chocolates. I look forward to it every February 14. Unfortunately, I bought two bags too many to prove my fortunes wrong.

Actual Photo of Christina Aguilera, "The Voice"

What used to be the best part of Dove chocolates was a happily prophetic message inside each wrapper. I’m always a fan of finding out what’s going to happen to me without asking someone who actually knows me. Now the tide has turned, and I’m no longer simply told to “Remember my first crush.” This is Chinese fortune cookie realness. One morning (yes, that’s right) I opened one to reveal this command: “Watch the sun come up,” and then a second to “Share a sunset.” This had to have cosmic meaning in my life, but I didn’t know what.

I turned to the one person who could succinctly sort this out. My bus friend, we’ll call him Jeff, always has a solution. Since he had taken his car to work, I emailed him my problem, imploring, “Is the universe trying to tell me something?” I waited impatiently for an answer like he was a shaken Magic Eight Ball that hadn’t settled yet. Then the blue triangle finally flipped. “LISTEN,” he wrote, “they are in the wrong order. It should be, ‘share a sunset’ then ‘watch the sun come up.’” Lastly, with his (and now my) juvenile penchant for adding “in bed” to the end of fortunes, I got the message. I was not a very romantic person.

I’ve never watched a sunrise. And romance? Last Valentine’s Day my bestie and I loudly read from “The Vagina Monologues” and baked a giant sugar cookie replica of Christina Aguilera that melted (our goal was to make a drag queen clutching a shank and a baby, so close enough). I never begrudged not having a Valentine because when I did, it was the worst. Such a commitment meant you couldn’t phone it in. You had to wear diaphanous polyester tops to look “soft and feminine” and say “I love hydrangeas” even though you are so Madonna about them.

Since childhood, I have practiced Appropriate Valentine Behavior. Hands to yourself, candy in those hands. In second grade, Timothy Ducey unceremoniously broke my rule of Appropriate Valentine Behavior. He was my first man friend (non-dad category) that I babbled to about my life over lunch. One day at recess, I fell on the basketball court and Timothy used the opportunity to clumsily kiss me. I was not happy.

Source of My "Misfortune"

That Valentine’s Day, I made an effort, thanks to my mom trying to make me less brazen towards non-people. I baked Timothy a sumptuous heart-shaped cookie smothered in fresh frosting. I picked a card that said, “Like You Lots,” with Barbie giving vapid bedroom eyes. If that was not suggestive, I didn’t know what was. What sexually-charged Valentine did Timothy give me in return? A baseball card that said, “You knock it out of the park” or some other lame sports double entendre. I palpitated with liquid hot rage. Here I had poured my feelings out and he replied with a handshake. Going back to being lunch besties was not an option.

Share a sunset? Watch the sun come up? I was still stuck in second grade. Luckily, my "misfortune" had inspired me to school myself on finding romance my way. Which might involve first making a heart-shaped or drag queen cookie. Or both.

By the way, Jeff unfortunately knows all about my Timothy Ducey issue, which just shows how you bring baggage into a new man friendship. Thankfully he gives me sound advice or makes me laugh. I’ll need it. The last two times I went out for Chinese, I got these fortunes: “A chance meeting with a stranger will probably change your life” and “Watch for a stranger to soon become a friend."