Look It's Joanne Has Moved!

Dahling Look It's Joanne Readers:

I hate to tell you such sensitive news via email, so I decided to tell you via blog. That's more personal, right?

Look It's Joanne has moved to WordPress. I guarantee it is new and improved! There, you will not only find my Margarita-motivated tales, but also my biography, videos, a list of my top writing clips, and more candid pictures of me hanging out with famous, semi-famous, and non-famous non-people. It's easier to use too. I know my new website sounds like a food processor, but you can't actually slice cucumbers with it. I'm very sorry about that.

Go here for the latest:

http://lookitsjoanne.com

I also have a new like page on Facebook:

http://www.facebook.com/heylookitsjoanne

Thanks for being a loyal reader. I look forward to a fab 2013 with you!

Exclusive: Bruce Stormtrooper Tells All

On a Friday night in Mos Eisley, I catch up with a certain Sith in a cantina not so far, far, away. His purple Hawaiian shirt seems to glow in the dim light, as does his white helmet. The crisp voracity of his voice, and frequent use of the word “gurr,” startles the band. But with one finger snap and jaunty raise of his cold margarita glass, everyone realizes it’s just Bruce – their most unlikely customer.

While protocol droids are not allowed in, Bruce is the first openly ridiculous stormtrooper from  Lord Darth Vader’s regiment on the Death Star to bridge the gap between the Jedi and Sith communities. His bubbly personality has won him legions of allies  –  even Yoda admitted to a "Dark Side crush" on him. In an exclusive interview, Bruce dishes about his cranky boss and a certain flame-throwing love in his life.

Q. What is the bar scene like on the Death Star? Ugh, total snoozefest. The Jar-Jar just opened and its fun but it’s all twinky kids out of their minds. Give me a good piano bar any day.

Q. What’s your favorite drink? There’s a place on the station called The Super Laser. They serve a drink called, “I have a bad feeling about this.” Legally, they can’t tell you what’s in it but you only need one.

Q. Is Darth really as big of a bitch as he seems? Vay can be a diva, between you and me, he tow up murdered his wife for getting him a non-fat skinny mocha with soy instead of a fat-free skinny mocha with soy.

Q. Do you have a special someone in your life? There is this guy. He’s a bounty hunter. What can I say, I like ‘em bad. He doesn’t talk much, but you can cut the tension with a lightsaber. I can’t say his name but he gets me all a fetter, I mean flutter.

Q. What is your idea of the perfect romantic evening? Call me old-fashioned, but take me to the slopes of Hoth all day and a lodge for some Imperial hot chocolate. And the room can’t be complete without a Wampa rug.

Q. And finally, who wears a metal bikini best: Princess Leia or Lando Calrissian? Let me say for the record, that princess is crazy. I mean she wears cinnamon rolls on her head. If that’s not a sign of an eating disorder I don’t know what is. Crazy though she may be, gurr can wear the hell out of a bikini. Winner Leia, just don’t tell Lando. He fills it out really well.

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)"

Powered on Dreams

Stuck in a Dress, Green Glasses Powered on Dreams

When my sister and I hit our early teens, we formed an underground band. You probably haven't heard of us because we were that cool. Or that obscure, but you get it. We dubbed ourselves Licorice Snap, an electronica-infused, spoken word phenomenon that was bound to blow the minds of our then emo, pre-hipster audiences.

Every spare afternoon, we headed into the recording studio to lay down some sweet tracks. It was the start of a new millennium, hot on the heels of Ricky Martin and MTV Total Request Live. YouTube and widespread recreational music programs were a mere sparkle in the eyes of their future creators.

At the time, Licorice Snap had a new sound. Eva cranked out sweet electronica beats and I rocked the spoken word. We even had a handheld dictionary called Franklin (which, incidentally, you could play hangman on too) that would talk in a Stephen Hawking-like voice. We programmed (fine, manually typed in; this was before smart phones!) our background vocalist to say "Lambs Love School" for our house remix of Mary Had a Little Lamb.

Our songs were about loving yourself like the fabulous queen you were or aspired to be. Miss America (I Wanna Be) should have been a number 1 hit. We should have been on the cover of "Rolling Stone" playfully giving everyone the finger or using said finger to rage on a keytar. 

Alas, our unabashed ode to peace, love, and fierceness was too ahead of its time.

No one heard our music because we didn't know where to play it or who would listen to it. How would we even lug our sweet sound machine, a desktop computer in our parents' house, to a gig? Our studio was our parents' house. Pretty soon, we unceremoniously lost the music-making program when the computer went out of commission. The dream seemed to die. I clutched our EP, emblazoned with Eva's color pencil cover art, to my chest like my Christina Aguilera drag queen cookie held her sugar dough baby.


 With the looming Amendment One vote to ban gay marriage and benefits for unmarried or domestic partners in North Carolina, up for vote on May 8, we can't afford to keep our fabulous soundtrack of hope locked in the archives.

Licorice Snap's opus, Powered on Dreams, says that anything and everything is possible. The imagery of a flying car that puffs purple exhaust describes a utopia that will overcome bigotry, homophobia, and racism if we just believe in ourselves. And yes the song is kitschy, because it's our right to be tongue-in-cheek with a message. Politician Harvey Milk understood that balance of theatrics and politics. When he was running as the first openly gay member of the San Francisco Board of Supervisors in the late 1970s, he said, "You gotta give 'em hope."

If Powered on Dreams inspires you to go out and be fabulous, or more fabulous than you already are, then Licorice Snap's ten-year hiatus was well worth the wait.

Licorice Snap Track of the Week: Powered on Dreams

My Tote Bag, Myself

Actual Photo of Wonder Woman and me
at the 25 Most Stylish - Charlotte Style Magazine

The golden lassoed lady always has my back. When I’m on the bus, she holds my memoirs, worn notebook, and gel pens in her turquoise, star-dotted lap. I can give her a business card or research print-out and she’ll gladly file them for later in her red shellacked boot. We don’t take an Invisible Plane to work, at least not everyday. We'll take the city bus in, where we (OK, she watches me) annoy Jeff with questions about what fortune cookies mean for my life. When my coffee clutch of bus friends ask if that’s really her, I say yes, it’s really Wonder Woman. 

On my book bag.

Let Lynda Carter brighten your day like she does on my canvas tote. Watch as her boomerang tiara pierces that evil doer's flotation device. You're welcome.

 

Happy Beginning of the Work Week!

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?

Neighborhood Watch



The Nancy Drews chasing me...
yes, in my usual outfit

 My neighbors thought I’d died. They banged on my door and loudly wondered why I wasn’t answering. Unfortunately there would be no dramatic story for the dust bunnies to tell at my funeral. In fact, I was very much alive and hiding under my second floor window, since I assumed they were burglars of the Golden Girls variety.

“Her car is still here,” I heard one say, like she was searching for survivors on the Titanic.

“Maybe she went to her parents’ house.”

“Look at all her shoes!”

These misbegotten Nancy Drews didn’t sound like robbers, so I finally opened the door. They smiled like I had been missing for years. I didn’t even know who they were.

Apparently, the daughter of my home’s previous owner had called to say that fire trucks were in the vicinity of “her mother’s” house. First, she didn’t even live in my city. Second, I’d lived in this house for two years. Her mother passed away a few years ago and her surviving children had sold me the house as part of the estate. Why was the daughter still watching my house?

“I saw that your security alarm was on,” the dust bunny said. “I saw it through your window so I thought you must be fine!”

How about my house was not engulfed in flames? Or that there was not a fire truck to be seen or heard? Cagney and Lacey meant well, but this wasn’t the only incident of me being blacklisted on Neighborhood Watch.

My 83-year-old neighbor said he looks through my window on his way to the mailbox. As if this is as natural as waving to someone you know at the food store. He even judged my home décor choices. However well-intentioned, and even though he may get a seniors discount, I am not a museum attraction. I am a 26-year-old living in the Smithsonian.

Some days I wish for that octogenarian bluntness. An anonymous AARP Gold Card member will tape hand-written citations on my recycle bin when I haven’t taken them in on time, even when others who do the same don’t get so much as a post-it on theirs. Someone told me my first day on the block, that, once I had changed from my romper into jeans and a shirt, I had “Finally put on some clothes.”

Neighborhood Watch is a slippery slope into profiling, as we are all too aware of today. On Feb. 26, George Zimmerman, a neighborhood watch volunteer, shot Trayvon Martin because he suspected wrongdoing. Martin was unarmed and not dangerous as he walked through the neighborhood wearing a hoodie and carrying a bag of Skittles. Zimmerman followed him even when 911 told him not to. Outraged Martin supporters, which include celebrities and politicians, are demanding Zimmerman’s long overdue arrest and a fair investigation.

Some even blame the fatal shooting on Martin’s appearance. Geraldo Rivera said the African-American teen’s hoodie contributed to his death. Photos of him wearing a wife beater, flashing his gold teeth, and sporting tattoos also circulated. Despite what Martin did or didn’t do in his life, it seems he didn’t harm Zimmerman.  New police footage shows that Zimmerman, who claimed Martin assaulted him, did not have any of the injuries. As far as we know now, Martin didn't “have it coming" as some want to believe.

Yes, I’m fifty years younger than most of my neighbors. I wear my husky boy's sized tank top and eat Cheddar Ruffles on power walks. That doesn’t mean I’m up to no good or should catch the ire of suspicion. While what the oldies are doing is wrong, I had to be the one to throw down an obstacle to their ogling. Now I have a lovely gold shade for that window. While I’m striving for privacy, I’m sure they’ll make something else up about me. Maybe playing a reclusive Grey Gardens-sque character wouldn’t be so bad. I’d finally be just like them.

Q: Do Your Neighbors Spy on You?

Don't Sweat It (Much)

Lights, camera, don’t sweat. Keeping cool was my mantra as I waited for the Access 21 studio to open. I was going to be a guest on “The Paul Brown Show,” my first TV interview (check it out here, parts one and two). I had prepared for this moment since, well, birth. I channeled the grace of my idol Diane Sawyer even as my face started to run into my pumps. Host Paul Brown agreed it was hot for March, dabbing his face. I loved sunny days, but today I would have killed for a breeze.

Plus, there was the matter of a one Blow-Dried Hair. My sister Eva, the Roy Helland to my Meryl Streep, styled my ‘do to perfection the night before. I had covered my hair with a silk wrap held with bobby pins. I slept awkwardly on my side to prevent my hair from tenting into a horrifying triangle. Now I felt like Cinderella and, without air-conditioning, midnight was about to strike and my head was going to turn into a pumpkin.

At 1:30, the studio mercifully opened. The show’s director Sonya, who had been with Access 21 for five years, was a fantastic whirligig. She paced the studio from end-to-end while giving orders into a headset. Then she turned her attention to me. “Keep talking,” she said as she duct taped the microphone cord to the back of my dress. I had a sophisticated conversation with myself: “I’m talking, you hear me talking, and I’m talking to you.”

Now cool and sufficiently amplified, I focused on final touches. Without a mirror, I had only one way to look at myself: The judgmental studio monitor, like my own “Toddlers and Tiaras” mom plying me with pixie sticks and correcting my posture. I kept a strategic hand on my lap, going for Kate Middleton modesty and avoiding Britney Spears danger.
 

Cue the energetic opening graphics and the lump in my throat. Think of Diane, I said to myself. Diane would speak slowly and say what she means. She doesn’t rush through ABC News like she has to catch the late bus home! Then a camera lit up red. Showtime. Paul introduced me and asked questions. I took two beats to think about my answer to be sure I didn’t fill the silence with a spastic joke. After fifteen minutes, I started to live in the moment. It’s like Paul and I were brunching on a Sunday afternoon, minus the two Darth Vader cameras and (regretfully) Mimosas.

 When we wrapped, Sonya shook my hand and said, “You are a good person.” Her validation meant a lot to me, since I could tell she had seen many a guest on that sofa. 

I toiled over my answers on the way home. Paul had asked what my ultimate life goal was. I could have said “to be famous” or “to live in a mansion where Diane and I are awesome next door neighbor friends.” Instead, I said to be happy and keep working. And maybe, most importantly, to not let them see you sweat.

The Fabulous Kakapo - Randy Overeaters!

   

I don’t usually play the “What kind of animal are you?” game. Taking a quiz to see whether I’m a ferocious lion or a mole with tiny eyes doesn’t add to my life. Then I read a scathing article in The Daily Mail (is there any other kind?). The article’s writer sounded like a stage mother claiming her daughter is too fat. That’s where I learned about my bird doppelganger, the Kakapo. The female Kakapo is an endangered, flightless bird in New Zealand that likes alone time, becomes randy from overeating, and only gets busy every two years. If someone wanted to interview me about my habits, I would say, “Read this Kakapo article and get back to me.”

    

Our 27th President
WilliamHoward Taft
wants in your pants.

The Kakapo wants to love you...
every two years, baby.

While the mossy green-feathered Kakapo (or “night parrot”) and I would be awesome roommates, Mail paints our fabulous qualities as flaws. The article title smacks of old school imperialism: “Do some animals DESERVE to go extinct? The parrot that can’t fly, mistakes predators for mates and only wants sex every two years.” Geez, why don’t you tell everyone that we don’t wash our hair every day too? Way to make an endangered species feel even more down on itself.

 First off, lady Kakapos don’t always need a roll in the, uh, leaves. Sure, the male Kakapo has urges and gets blocked up (see this video of one getting frisky with a conservationist’s neck), but we have standards. Do you know what a male kakapo looks like? That's right, our 27^th President William Howard Taft. Even the BBC reporter in that video describes a male Kakapo as “old-fashioned… with his big sideburns and his Victorian gentleman’s face.” Is that what you want, our 27^th president or an old Victorian dude amorously chasing you around? Maybe I’m going to the wrong nightclubs, but if I had a dime for every time this has happened to me…

Overeating, not bushy mustaches, get us in the mood. Mail says, “Conservationists discovered that the more females are fed, the more horny they will become.” Amen to that! But our aphrodiastic can’t be just any food. Kakapos, like me, have specific dietary needs. They eat fruits from the rimu tree, which comes into season once every four years. I’m like that with cherries. They’re a whopping $4.99 per pound during the winter and an affordable $2.99 in the summer. So for one season of the year, I enjoy bowls and bowls of cherries. After I’ve eaten too many, I am guaranteed to make a pass at you. I apologize in advance for spitting red juice on your neck.

Jujubee: Kakapo Pride!

Since only 127 Kakapos exist in the world, there’s more pressure to make babies. Mail says “the chubby, land-bound parrot is so uninterested – and hopeless – at mating.” Maybe that’s because you keep calling them fat. Plus, wouldn’t you be lacking in the bedroom if humans were destroying your house to build a Super Wal-Mart? Kakapos are the original anti-corporation hipsters. They lay their eggs in rotten trees and don’t eat food unless it’s locally-grown. Bohemian-chic seekers pay good money to make their homes resemble the dankness of a forest.


I decided Mail (gasp) was a hater and perhaps (second gasp) not entirely factual. So I did some research. To my delight, “The Fabulous Kakapo” webpage is aptly named with solid, albeit slightly outdated, information. The best of the best, New Zealand’s Department of Conservation website, calls us “an eccentric parrot which can live for decades” and a “unique treasure.” That’s what I’m talking about. We are as beloved as Madonna, Cher, or that fierce drag queen who should have won “RuPaul’s Drag Race” (we will never forget, JuJubee).

It’s not easy being green, especially with Mail ruffling our feathers (my last cheap bird joke). Although 11 bird babies were born in 2011, Kakapos are still critically endangered. We’re not rolling mad deep, but we do have a rotten tree clubhouse stocked with rare fruits. When someone asks, “What kind of animal are you?” you proudly say, “I’m a flightless, endangered bird who will go to town on you after too many nachos!”

Lady Parties and the Women Who Don't Eat at Them

There is nothing more terrifying than women getting together for a party.

Yes, I'm blonde when I entertain.

Like most things, lady parties start out with good intentions. There’s a blessed occasion, a church function, or a book club. Women wear noisy bangles, talk about giving birth in graphic detail, and smile to your face even when they disapprove of you. At the end of the event, an insane woman will say “Let’s do this again!” even when it’s a total flop. This week, I am going to two baby showers. Like a drag queen sewing sequins on an evening gown, I will spend hours squinting at baby outfits in Target.

There are many women’s parties: Baby showers, bridal showers, and potlucks for holidays or because we allegedly don’t see each other enough (even though, as they say, it is such a hassle to get everyone together). Then there are women who want to have a party, think they should have a party, or claim to throw the best party. I’m the first or second. Whether at work or with friends, I’m usually the gal holding a dirty spoon and wearing an apron smudged with tomato sauce. The third does not apply to me. The burning brie incident of 2011 almost set my kitchen ablaze.

Here’s how it happens: You decide to a throw party. You invite all guests via social media or, if it’s a life milestone, call or send paper invitations. Then there’s the two-week honeymoon where you're excited. You drafts menus or keep a spreadsheet to be sure there are no potluck dish repeats.  It’s all fun and games at this point.  

It’s the week of your party. The RSVP list is filled with comments like “So excited!” or “Wish I could make it. Next time!” You cringe at the last one, thinking they’re won’t be a next time if no one comes the first time. None of this makes you feel better about cleaning your house. When you decorate the table, you go for Martha Stewart but end up with kindergartener on crack. The crazy multi-colored craypaper and dusty fake flowers are not shabby chic at all!

No matter how poorly or beautifully decorated, the buffet table will be a war zone. At potlucks, women will crowd into your kitchen like it’s the last lifeboat leaving the Titanic. They will spill ranch dressing on your countertop. Worst of all, Amber will bring a platter piled high with ham pinwheels and hunks of cheddar while Marcie enters carrying the same appetizer. Amber will put her heavy dish on the paper tablecloth, practically lifting her leg and peeing on the table to mark her territory. Marcie tearfully makes room for her plate in the fridge, since there is no sense in having two of the same item when no one has arrived yet. A jilted Marcie says, “I thought you signed up for the fruit cocktail.” Amber just smiles at her.

The real reason for these parties is the food. By that I mean it's a public opportunity for women to pretend they don’t eat. They pick at tomatoes and carrot sticks like anorexic supermodels at a salad bar. They claim to “have a little of each” so as not to offend any of the potluck cooks. Secretly, they want to take a sweaty mound of chili and be done with it, but that wouldn’t be “polite.” Everyone munches on chicken wings daintily and says how “rich” the food is. Towards the end of the meal, someone will contradict herself by saying, “I can’t eat another bite,” as she inhales an enormous forkful of quiche. Then a brave soul gets seconds, plating the chili she wanted in the first place.

  

If your guests haven’t bludgeoned each other to death with salad tongs yet, it is time for the main event. At the bridal shower, the wife-to-be will insist that cooking pot roast for her fiancé every Sunday is better than a week lounging in Saint Tropez. If it’s a baby shower, someone will tell a disturbing birth story (“She was in labor for 90 hours and the baby’s head ripped right through her!”).

If the party isn’t about impending procreation or successful procreation, it’s about how to get in the mood for procreation. At Pure Romance parties, I’ve sampled phallic red-velvet cake and passed a dildo between my legs in a raunchy yet giggled-filled version of Hot Potato. You sit with other women and lick or blow hot oil on the tops of your hands to feel its heating properties. Women especially pretend not to eat at these parties.

The best part of the whole debacle is when people leave, and not just because you’re glad to see a ceasefire to the Marcie/Amber beef. If you’re the host, comments from guests like “Thank you!” and “You did a great job!” gloss over all sins. You forget the long lines at Disney World and only remember eating breakfast with Cinderella in her castle. You swell with pride at all you did and don’t remember that your kitchen looks like a crime scene.

I will go to those baby showers and always RSVP to women’s parties. Why? The only thing worse than getting invited is not being invited at all.

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."

Jason Wu, My Superbowl

My Lombardi Trophy

There was a reason I couldn't fall back asleep this morning at 7:53am. I was about to doze right through a momentous event. No, it was not getting ready for the Super Bowl, like any red-blooded American today. As I checked my Twitter, someone's tweet tipped me off: The new Jason Wu line at Target was finally here.


Target had opened its doors at 8am. It was only 8:15, so I still had time. I was tired and congested, swathed in a hot pink sweatshirt and black sweat shortpants. I had two choices: Try to go back to bed, knowing I was missing out on fashion normally worth up to $5,000 a piece, or suck it up and get Wu (60 items under $60 in the entire collection!). I owed it to myself as a super shopper, runny nose or not. I put on my proverbial helmet and mouth guard and sprinted to the nearest Target.


I was a pro, the Tom Brady and Eli Manning of sales and clearance racks. I knew what was fabulous and what wasn't. I'd seen the inside of a dressing room a time or two in my life. I was not afraid to grab an armful of clothes and buzz-saw past ladies who still didn't know if they looked better in turquoise or red. Amateurs. The rabid 8am crowd beat me to the accessories, but I was not about to leave empty-handed.


I whipped outfits on and off like a supermodel backstage between runway walks. I heard a banal woman whining to her friends, "I don't know if I like the color." Lady, if you don't know what you look good in by now, you best leave. This was not a social hour. This was war. I almost even lost a dress when I picked the wrong size. Luckily, a Target dressing room employee, my own personal quarterback, ran out and made the play for the right one. My Lombardi Trophy was a white silky dress with fine pearls along the neckline.


As I slid into the end zone (checkout), I felt like wildly gyrating or smacking a teammate's rear (which is frowned upon for shopping trips, by the way). Even my lovely older man cashier admired the pearls. Now when people ask me where they can get my dress, I can say, "Sorry, but you had to be in the game."


For my MVP speech, I'd like to thank God for making my runny nose wake me up this morning.

The Power Lunch

Steve Kerrigan

Last week, I went out for a sandwich and came back with local star sightings. One particular lunch spot in Charlotte is the hub for bankers, celebrities, and very important businesspeople (VIBs) to order $7 sandwiches. While in line, Steve Kerrigan, CEO of the 2012 Democratic National Convention in Charlotte, strode past me, flanked by two angular VIBs. Kerrigan and I had met after his luncheon speech a couple of weeks ago. When I said, "Hello Steve," his eyes flickered. He replied, "Hello," either because he was stunned at the random greeting or remembered me. I just hoped he took my concerns to heart that day. His plan for including local businesses in DNC festivities is vital to our community.

John Boyer

After inhaling my chicken pump, I went to a drug store for a typical after sandwich activity: Buying new lipsticks. As I settled on Apricot Fantasy and Champagne on Ice (buy one get the second 50% off!), another powerful executive was paying at the register: John Boyer, President and CEO of the Bechtler Museum of Modern Art, looking elegant with his coiffed gray hair and neat suit. We chatted at an event last fall and he complimented my dress. Today, unfortunately, he left before we could discuss what we bought. I'm sure he would have loved my excellent lipwear choices. The man obviously has great taste.


It's easy to have a power lunch in Charlotte. Everyone can agree on a good sandwich. There's something for everyone at the drug store. You just need to know who you're looking for.