Your vs. You're (The Online Edition)

And, to continue on last night's blog post tradition (can it be a tradition yet? Too soon?) of writing blog posts inspired by watching TV, here's a new one.

I was watching ABC's Castle last night, and the storyline was about a murder where the victim's face was covered with phrases that made the point the murderer was anxious to make.

The murderer wrote crazy short blurbs intended for the people that discovered the body. The police were left wondering. The author character, Rick Castle, who follows the NYPD around for research purposes, and to add just a dash of "sexy banter" to the show, was more perplexed by the improper and offensive use of grammar used in said blurbs.

At the crime scene, he even dropped the line, "The person that did this not only murdered our doc here, but he or she murdered the English language, too.

The victim's face read, "Your out of time."

ARGH.

I couldn't decide whether to nod in agreement, shake my head in disgust, or raise my fists to the TV.

I settled on all three, which led me to looking like a total crazy person on my couch, trying not to spill my wine.

I digress...

Castle, I feel your pain. Yes, your. Not "you're" because I quite like you and all your rugged handsomeness.

Readers, I cannot tell you how often this, well, issue, hits me in the face. I'm so tired of reading emails, cover letters, resumes, documents and online come-ons that have misused grammar in them. It is a downright atrocity how few grown adults know the proper use of the language. They've likely never even written a complete sentence, much less diagrammed one. Mrs. Rog would be so disappointed.

And, in this era of spellcheck, I know I've gone soft, but I can almost forgive a spelling error. But, I'm pretty sure not even the latest version of Vista or iLife comes with a program to tell you if you are bastardizing the English language.

I'm not embarrassed to admit that I've had an online dating profile out there. It's not pretty, but it does serve as some fodder for laughs, some time-killing distraction and some flattering come-ons.

But, in light of tonight's grammar-centric episode, I went in to my inbox to pull a few recent ones. And these are just from the last week!!

Hey you, just wondering if you would like enjoy a night on on the town before the snow buries us in. =( I would love to meet you, call me and let chat, -K

(Emoticons are in that grey area of male-speak. Ok? Annoying? Cutesy? You decide.)

Your really pretty and have a grate smile. Just thought you should know. Lets go out sometime? - D

(Two for the price of one!)

How long have you lived in Chicago? I grew up down south and I loved it their. -M

(So glad you moved up here to give Chicagoans a taste of what a "real" Southerner is capable! Thanks, buddy.)

You said you were tall and looking for someone to look up to. Thats me, in all cents of the word.

(I so wish I was inventing these, but alas, I'm not.)

I know, right?

Inexcusable.

Buried deep in my profile (you know, like 3 short paragraphs in, God forbid) is this sentence, which I believe should guide a man who wishes to contact me:

I am a sucker for a well-written email, and have to admit that I'm a stickler for proper grammar, too.

It hasn't helped.

I will remain single. Based on the supplied evidence, I do not hereby believe that the single men of Chicago know the difference between "your" and "you're" and "there" and "they're" and "their."

And, until they do, I'd prefer to just watch "Castle" and drink cheap wine on the couch by myself.

At least I know you're reading and rooting for me. Yes, you are. Get out there. See if your grammar can top theirs. I'm pretty sure it can't get worse. (See, now I'm just showing off).

Fruit Across the USA

After a Saturday marathon that included episodes of The Real Housewives of Orange County and The Real Housewives of New York City, and thankfully, none of The Real Housewives of Atlanta, I had a thought.

If they had a Real Housewives of Chicago, what would they be holding in the promo shot?

For Orange County, they hold oranges.

For New York City, they hold golden apples.

For Atlanta, they hold peaches.

What would they do here...Sausages?

Yeah, no. Not as sexy.

Other ideas?

Shoe Crazy

Am I a cynic or a realist?

I keep seeing this commercial:



and all I can think of is:

How would I ever end up with matching pairs?

Would they be in my size?

And, wouldn't that dent the car?

This, my friends, is what happens when you're a trained marketer/advertiser with far too much time on your hands.

Someone take the remote away. Now.

Plus One

Oh. My. God.

It has come to this.

I open my Facebook account today, and have a new message in my inbox. And this was it.

--
Hi Colleen,

I am a TV producer in New York and I am looking to profile several single women who have been a bridesmaid many times over and who are now ready to finally be a bride.

At this juncture, we are looking to showcase one woman in her quest to find the right man to walk down the aisle with. Yes, it's a bit like 27 Dresses. The subject should be outgoing and have a close network of friends and family who share the common goal. Can you tell me a little about yourself? Family? Friends? Your job? How actively involved are the people close to you in your dating life?

If this sounds like it may be of interest to you or someone that you may know, or if you would simply like to hear more about it, please reply to this message. Thank you and I look forward to hearing from you.

Thanks,

Phil
Executive Producer, Kingfish Productions
--

First of all, how did this guy find me? Did he see my "Weddings and More Weddings" Album on Facebook? Has he been monitoring my status updates that say "off to a wedding" or some other helpful clue? Has he been stalking me on the Interweb?

Now, I fully admit that I have been a bridesmaid like a gagillion times. I have been to trizillion weddings.

I have worn light pink, dark pink, light pink with dark pink, grey, navy, black, and brown dresses. I have had to have every one of them altered, and have had to pay through the nose for the added 10 inches of fabric that constitutes "extra length."

I have bought dyed shoes in brown, black and taupe, and have sported heels, demi-heels and near flats.

I have worn my hair down, up, half up half down and somewhere else in between.

I have had my nails filed, buffed and painted in a variety of "approved shades" to match the other ladies.

I have been the MOH (maid of honor for those uninformed), the COB (cousin of the bride), a reader, a greeter, and the token sorority sister, college friend, childhood friend, Chicago friend and tall friend.

I have stood at the front of the congregation on the far left (tallest to smallest), on the far right (MOH duties prevail), on the far middle (a bell curve was desired) and everywhere else in the row of beauties.

I have entered the church, one step (slow down!) at a time, to trumpets, violins, piano, organ, keyboard, a three-part harmony, and a choir.

I have carried floral arrangements ranging from the delicate to the monstrous in spring, summer and fall hues of pink, purple, blue, orange, yellow, red, white, peach, maroon and green.

I have danced the Macarena, the Electric Slide, the Shag, the "high school dance with shoulders apart," the Posse Dance, the ZTA Sisters dance, the Two Step and even participated in the Limbo.

I have flown to weddings, bachelorette parties, engagement parties, bridesmaid luncheons, post-wedding barbecues, showers, showers and more showers.

I have bought presents off the registry, from a small boutique, from a huge department store, from a local gift shop and from the Internet.

I have a registered login and password to TheKnot.com and WeddingChannel.com, NOT to plan my wedding, but to buy presents for brides and grooms.

I have loved all of it, by the way.

But, does all of this qualify me to be on a reality show? A sad over-produced television program not-so-loosely-based on a successful movie with that chick from Grey's Anatomy in it? Always a bridesmaid, never a bride?

I'd be mortified.

But, wait.

Maybe I could register? And hold a huge TV premiere party where people have to send back a pre-stamped RSVP card, bring a guest, sit at round tables according to small place setting notes, eat chicken or steak, dance to a local band, drink too much, make out with my cousins/friends/college buddies, crash in a hotel nearby and bring me gifts?

Now, for that, I'll RSVP yes. Plus one.

**The photo above the post is from my friend Liz's bachelorette weekend at the lake. Somewhat mocking tradition, and somewhat paying homage to outdated and unflattering fabrics, we all brought and wore an old bridesmaid dress, fixed our hair in outdated and unflattering fashions and put on hot pink (or mauve, as it may be) lipstick. Liz bought a wedding dress on eBay for $5 and sported it with style. We held a mock bouquet toss and even took group photos according to the hue of the aforementioned offending dress. Always a bridesmaid? Absolutely.**

Time Warp

While plotting to find my next big thing, I have also allowed myself to have the TV on in the background. When I'm not watching (or just listening to, as it may be) HGTV, I discovered a little guilty pleasure.

Reruns of Beverly Hills 90210.

The original.

They run back-to-back on the SOAP channel in the afternoon, and I am sucked in. I feel like I'm 14 again, watching the premiere episode on a luxury bus while on the 8th Grade Trip to Savannah. The poor driver. He wanted to go home, and yet we wouldn't get off the bus after dinner for fear of missing on glance at Brandon's hair, one outfit sported by Kelly, one mean comment by Brenda.

The topics hold up okay 16 years later, and the acting isn't THAT bad. For what it was. I still think Andrea was too old to be cast as a high school/college student, because she was my age now back then. She has mom hair for crying out loud.

The clothes, however, make me laugh out loud. The denim shirts! The cut off shorts! The shiny black vests over white t-shirts! The baggy jeans cinched with a braided leather belt! They look so ridiculous now, but I have to admit back then I was smitten.

Today, I caught myself, leaving the room to put my lunch dishes away, humming along to the theme song and double-fist-pumping in the air during THAT part of the song. You know you've done it.

So embarrassed. I really hope my neighbors didn't see that.

Electronics Grudge Match

Last week, I was given a digital converter box for each TV in my condo by the friendly local RCN representative who had stationed herself in the community room of my building's lobby. The instructions were simple. The activation was immediate. The results were easy.

Even when I threw in the curveball that I currently have a Tivo box in my living room. She assured me that it wouldn't be more than a call to Tivo to get them to "read the new signal." All was supposed to go well.

Instead, it was pretty much like this:



For four hours last night, plied with a homemade salad and two bottles of shiraz, my friend Mike was kind enough to help. He immediately rolled up his sleeves and buried his head inside my armoire. Cables were flying, dust was everywhere. He reattached everything, streamlined a few unnecessary plug-ins, relocated my wireless internet router and cable modem for maximum efficiency, and hid it all nicely behind plants and photo frames.

He even made the dreaded phone call to RCN to ask the techie questions that I don't understand. And to initiate a new "ping" of my cable boxes (which trust me, sounds far sexier than it was in real life). The best part of the evening was this, and forgive me, but it was just funny. Don't judge.

The RCN guy was asking Mike to test a few channels on the living room TV to ensure that the signal was coming through properly to give me extended cable. He asked Mike to confirm that WBBM was on Channel 2. Yes. He asked Mike to confirm what was appearing on Channel 101, which was supposed to be BET.

Mike paused, turned toward the TV from his spot near the window (the only place to get clear cell phone reception in my condo, don't get me started) and replied, "On 101, it should be BET? Well, it's totally black."

Brett, occupying himself quietly on the lounge chair, muttered under his breath, "No pun intended."

Sadly, it was the highlight. We laughed so hard that I moved too quickly and kicked the trunk at the foot of my bed while racing back into the living room to laugh with them. I think I broke my pinkie toe. No, seriously. I'm limping.

Back to Mike and his superpowers. In short, he was very cheap tech support. Who actually knew what he was doing. And was willing to stay for dinner.

I didn't lift a finger. I found the right cable in my "box o' cables" when called upon to do so. I dug out my TV's instruction manual when that was necessary. I handed him the dustrag and the spray cleaner and I am pretty sure he (or Brett) even did that part for me.

All in all, it was a stressful night of electronics vs. man.

Unfortunately, my electronics seem to have a communications problem. They don't get along.

The free digital cable converter box that RCN provided me clearly is a closed-minded snob. He doesn't want to cooperate with the foreign outsider that is my Tivo component box. Who, incidentally, is a stubborn pile of silver plastic. Maybe they need couples counseling? Maybe I should throw them into the ring to see who would win?

Bottom line?

The RCN box will only send out one signal. The Tivo needs two in order to record two things at once. To make matters worse? The Tivo won't read a channel changed on the cable box without a fancy $18.98/month box from RCN. Which is added to the monthly cable payment that is already a bit on the high side.

So, my solution was clear. Ditch Tivo, and convert to a RCN DVR for my Tivo-like needs.

Sounds simple enough, no? I call Tivo to cancel the arrangement with them. Not so fast, little lady. Tivo has me locked into a 3-year contract, in which I've only completed two years. It would cost me $155 and change to get out of it. Basically, the $12.95 a month for a year for a service I can't use because my electronics are disagreeable.

I can only imagine how the little old ladies in my building are handling this "simple transition" to digital cable.

I'm in a building where I have no choice over the cable provider. I can't change the way the building is wired. I can't do much except call RCN and beg them to send me a fancy new converter box on the off chance that it will play nicely in the sandbox with my Tivo, which may be a lost cause.

In summary, I can't do anything but throw components and their matching remotes out the 13th story window. Which would have been my idea of "solving the problem" had Mike not stopped me.

Clearly that doesn't fix anything.

But it would have felt really good to see a host of electronics smashed to smithereens down on the sidewalk, wouldn't it?

I should have had more wine.

Celebrity Spotting

Chicago has its fair share of famous natives, and there are a few that even still own real estate here along Lake Michigan. However, this city is not like L.A. or New York where celebrities crawl the streets as often as homeless people.

Therefore, when we do host a few famous ones, it is a pretty big deal.

Last night, I was invited to attend the screening of the new season of "My Boys," a TBS show that is set in Chicago. Three of the cast members all attended, too, and it was quite fun.

As you can see, Kristen, Katie and I met and talked to the cast, and had fun getting to laugh with Kyle Howard (very cute in a boyish way) and Reid Scott (downright hot). I spoke with Michael Bunin, too, but he wasn't around for the above photo. Interestingly enough, Michael knows and is friendly with my cousin Molly through Improv Olympic in L.A., and he was nothing short of hilarious. And totally real, which is always refreshing.

All in all it was fun to meet them, yet we didn't act like those girls who hung around, clinging to their every word, just hoping that the guys would fall in love, pluck them from the mundane reality of Chicago life, and whisk them off into the sunset of Los Angeles. Yeah, right, ladies. It was funny watching the "cougars" wait, ready to pounce.

Simultaneously, my friend Katie got a call from her boyfriend Jeff who was dining and cocktailing at Park Grill at Millennium Park. Apparently he was enjoying the musical stylings of a friend who was playing there, and looked up to see Jack Johnson at the bar. Jack Johnson! Having cocktails!

Jeff walked up to him and shared a few words, and was thrilled to meet the star. Katie and Jeff are actually heading up to Alpine Valley in Wisconsin tomorrow to see Jack Johnson's show, so it was a dream to get to talk to him, just like a regular guy, on a random Thursday. Hoorah! He was as nice as you'd assume he was!

Lookout New York. We're chomping at your heels as the coolest urban city celebrities like to roam.

And, there are fewer homeless people to step over as you do.

She's No Country Cousin

This post serves a fairly selfish purpose. Only about seven people in my life will care about the contents of this blog, but I'm okay with it.

I'd like to take this opportunity to brag about my cousin Molly McNearney. Memorize the name now, trust me. She was recently promoted to Head Writer at Jimmy Kimmel Live, and in the male-dominated world of late night comedy, this is one giant feat. A success, of course, but also a speedy ride to the top. She now is queen of the jungle out there, and given that her officemates are prone to fart, burp, swear, sweat and guffaw while in brainstorming meetings, that is saying something.

If the show isn't currently set up in your Tivo, then I'd suggest you get on that. It comes on at 12:05 am here, so clearly I'm not up to see it, but rest assured I watch most of the shows in the following days. Jimmy is a riot (and much thinner in real life!), and the bits the writers dream up are ridiculous, funny, clever and culturally relevant, if not always culturally reverent.

When I was in LA in March, I even got to rub Guillermo's tummy for good luck. Jimmy's relationship with Cousin Sal has got nothing on us, babe.

Here's a photo from a skit she acted in with Pat O'Brien from "The Insider", spray-tanned orange to look like his offspring on Take Your Daughter to Work Day:


Molly is funny, charming, witty and one of the best writers I have ever experienced. Her timing is impeccable, and she can do accents like nobody's business. When she was my roommate here in Chicago, she went through all levels of classes at Second City, and even graduated from Improv Olympic with flying colors.

Here's a photo from a skit where Jimmy had "the girls" together to mourn the last "Sex and the City" episode airing:


Molly, there on the far right, with her hand firmly clasping the cosmo, is the type that has 42 irons in the fire at all times, and never really sits still. I am pretty certain she's writing a screenplay and a book as we speak. While drinking a sissy latte and scarfing a chocolate scone with the other hand.

Tina Fey—look out. Your job security may be in jeopardy.

And, Molly, please remember those that knew you "back when"...or else.

Or else I'll tell everyone I know that you:

• Can make a fierce siren noise by banging on your throat.


• Used to love to dress up as a geek and act out skits as the character "Bertha."


• Are a lightweight drinker. Or at least, you used to be.


• Locked yourself out of our apartment once a week. On a good week.


• Molested me in a photo booth once.


• Got "lessons" at our dining room table. With a candlestick.


• Are a hack at an indoor water fight. Using a iced tea pitcher IS cheating.


• Once, for a shining moment, held a golden phone.


• Impersonated the 7-Eleven cashier. Perfectly.


• Prank called our neighbors, only to listen through the walls for their reactions.


• Participated in, and possibly won, the "no shower" contest at your all-girls high school.


• Send sweet, verbose, sappy birthday cards that make me cry.


• Mocked my Dad at a Second City show while on all fours.


• Made a 6-month long pro/con list before moving to California.

Look where that pro/con list got you after all. Is the mic warmed up yet? Can I get a mic check? Miggity mic check. Congratulations, Molls. We knew you could do it. Go show those men who's boss.

I'm a dead woman when you make it big, aren't I?

Wires vs. Boxes

As a young(ish) woman, I have spent the last decade, admittedly, trying to figure out men. As my girlfriends and I can attest, they are simple creatures whose actions and words often betray the layers of complexity that may be found within.

That is, I thought that until I discovered, through a blossoming and very healthy relationship, that men are actually pretty simple through and through. As Seinfeld once said, "When a woman asks a guy what he's thinking, and he replies, 'nothing,' it's true. We're actually not thinking about anything." This theory is seconded by the recent "nothing box" discussions seen in this funny (and true) video.

The subject is the difference of how men and women's brains are wired. Men are more simple, according to the speaker, Mark Gungor. Women's brains, which will come as no surprise to anyone who is a woman or has ever known one, are connected like a superspeed highway with many twists, turns, overlaps, interconnections and jumbles of wires. A topic, to a woman, is never a singular one. It is attached to everything else in the brain.

For example, when a man mentions a party to a woman, she isn't just processing the invitation, she's thinking about what she'll wear, who will be there, if they'll accept her into the group, how she would feel if they didn't, what she needs to do in order to get ready for the event, what she may be missing out on if she does attend, and how the man in question will respond to all of the above. Because she'll undoubtedly share most of these intersecting thoughts with him, much to his dismay and/or confusion. To him, it was just an invitation to a party.

Men's brains, to the opposite, are organized into boxes. There is the Sports Box, the Food Box, the Sex Box, the Work Box, the Friend Box, the Family Box, the Beer Box, the News Box, the TV Box, the Weekend Box and the Girlfriend/Wife box. Hidden way back beneath all of the other boxes are the unsightly In-laws Box, the Ex Box, and the Exercise Box. When a topic comes up, a man's brain goes to the box in question, accesses the information necessary to compute the response, and then puts it back away, being careful not to touch, open or disturb any of the other boxes. It's like a well-organized garage, albeit with a little dust and a few random "collectibles."

And, finally, there is the "Nothing Box." This is the one that when a man is sitting still, walking down the street or watching TV, he accesses. This results in absolute nothingness. No thoughts, no activities, no obsessions, and no required response. When a woman asks him what he's thinking while this box is engaged, his honest reply is, "nothing."

This isn't to say that men are less intelligent, or less engaged in everyday life, it is just an assessment on how men like things to be. Simple. Why confuse things if they are better left alone? Why add complexities where one simple answer/activity is enough?

I think this theory of men's simplicity is best exemplified, of late, by the recent commerical for the new product, the Old Spice Hair & Body Wash. View it below if you haven't had the privilege to see it on TV just yet.


Because it would just be TOO MUCH TROUBLE to use two separate products. One for your hair and one for your body. I mean, come on. Men just want things to be easy. Give me a product, that I can buy for under four dollars at CVS, that I can open in the shower, rub all over my body AND my head, and then I'm finished. Hand me a towel and I'm ready to go. I am guessing this product can be found in the very small, rarely considered "Grooming Box."

Unlike the female wires of makeup, body image, salons, shopping, hair products, cosmetic surgeries, figure flattery, and other more complex, and misunderstood interconnected issues, the Grooming Box has two things inside. A razor, and this lovely Old Spice product. [Warning: Blanket Generalization Alert—this excludes many metrosexuals and most gay men. I'm certain, to their credit, that their Grooming Box is easily accessible, fully-packed with the latest products, tips and salons. Come on, they just smell too good for this not to be true.]

At least then there's no mildewing, hairy, slimy soap to drop in the shower. Because the "Cleaning Box," which includes scrubbing the bathroom, rarely sees the light of day. It is placed WAY back in the brain, just to the left of the "Anniversaries & Birthdays Box."

It's simple, right?

Dance Like No One Is Watching

The Office comes back to television tonight, and I'm so excited I am doing a little dance in my office. Seriously, I am.

If only you could see it. On second thought, it is probably for the best that you can't. (The lady staying in the Marriott Michigan Avenue, on the 24th floor facing south, doesn't think my dance is very funny. I think she's scared.)



I feel pretty certain you'd be looking at me with a Jim face, and I think it is too early in the morning for that.

Could Also Be Signs I'm Crazy?

In honor of tonight's NCAA Championship game, here are the Top 10 Reasons Why I Like College Sports:

10. You can root for your team whether they are any good or not. People expect it of you, and I hate to let people down.

9. You can go to a crowded bar, and instantly have new friends (to con a chair from) just because you're pulling for the same team. Works like a charm.

8. You can road trip to various campuses and use it as an excuse to tell your own college stories that begin with, "yeah, this is cool, but when I was in college, we..."

7. You can holler, hoot, swear, moan, laugh, scream, cry and yell—all within the span of 3 hours. Therapy can't even touch that kind of cathartic release.

6. You can wear a sweatshirt, ponytail and tennis shoes to a bar and not be underdressed or overlooked.

5. You can win money against your friends in sideline bets, such as how many dribbles each team will take down the court in said number of minutes. Or how many cheerleaders will have fake boobs. You decide.

4. You can make nice with the cute guy/hot girl/loser/jerk/boss in your office just by asking about how their team is doing in the tournament while at the water cooler.

3. You can officially be a fan of a grown man dressed in a sweaty furry animal suit, convulsing and doing the macarena on national television, without anyone raising an eyebrow.

2. You can automatically have plans on a boring Saturday without even trying..."come on, there's a game on!" works every time.

1. You can drink during the day without prompting someone to slip you an AA brochure. Enough said.

Go Jayhawks!*

*Not my alma mater, but I'm a team player. And, I know enough KU grads here in Chicago to watch what I say. Yes, that means you, Brenna.

Pretty Soon I'll be Eating Dinner at 5 PM

I saw a preview for a new NBC show called Quarterlife today, and it got me a little freaked out. They even had the audacity to use the copy line, "They're 25. And life starts now."

With all the shows aimed at the teen, college and immediately post-college market, such as The OC, The Hills, Real World, One Tree Hill, and others that I don't even know of, I realized something frightening.

I am in a new check box. Neilsen has moved me past the "young adult" category altogether.

Upon further reflection, I recall that when Friends was on, they were in their late 20s. I'm already past that. American Idol is chock-full of talented people who are in their late teens or early twenties. I'm not saying I want to be 20 anymore, but I just didn't realize how old this all would make me feel.

Maybe I need more shows like Sex and the City and Seinfeld where the plotline doesn't center on who's taking whom to the prom, or which college professor is sleeping with which co-ed? At least there is always Brothers & Sisters and The Office to keep me happy and not full of age-related self doubt...but I may have to wait until 2009 to see any more of those.

Therapy may be a more direct path to healing.

Singing the Blues

Last night, Brett* and I were watching American Idol. It's my guilty pleasure, and I'm dragging him into it full speed ahead.

I don't hear him complaining.

In fact, we got into a healthy discussion about what this contest, or similar types of reality-TV based talent shows, are doing one of two things to American music culture:

• They are creating a culture of "instant stars" who wouldn't normally have been famous, haven't earned it and probably aren't ready for the success, and they sell albums and make record producers happy and rich, but they are just overproduced, slick pop stars with little to no true musical talent.
  
  
• They are an example of mainstream cultural musical taste, and whether you like it or not, this is what the public is buying. Evidenced by the Billboard sales, music award shows and tour records, shows like American Idol seem to be generating a product which America wants, and therefore, proves the artist in question is "talented."

We debated, and it was clear that both things are true.

The reality-TV atmosphere, and the "fan voting" and the sugary-pop nature of the artists churned out by American Idol isn't necessarily a barometer of long-lasting, historically relevant musical talent. However, you'd be hard pressed to argue against the success (and dare I say skills) of artists like Kelly Clarkson, Daughtry and Carrie Underwood. All three have had a few great years, and their bank accounts and fireplace mantles are better for it.

The true comment thread during last night's Hollywood show—for me at least—was the blue tongue syndrome. Each contestant came out to audition, sang their lungs out (for better or worse) and showed the audience (millions of Fox viewers as well as the three cranky judges) their blue tongues.

We also had a few theories about this:

• There was a huge bowl of blue Jolly Ranchers backstage and no one can resist a good Jolly Rancher.
  
  
• There is a new brand of throat lozenges for singers that is tinted a lovely shade of cyan.
  
  
• A sneaky production assistant doused the craft services table with invisible-to-the-naked-eye powdered blue food coloring.
  
  
• American Idol is a cult and they gave them all blue Kool-aid backstage to make it all hazy and interesting, and to ensure that no one leaks Paula's real addictions to the press.

But, seriously. Didn't these kids look in the mirror? Or, more precisely, didn't it occur to someone at Fox that this would undoubtedly look strange on television?

It gave me the blues.

Or maybe that was just the TERRIBLE performance by the southern pageant queen and the even WORSE argument she got in with Paula to give her another chance. In that whiny "I'm pretty and used to getting what I want so give it to me now!" voice that makes my skin crawl.

Sing your way to the door, babe. Don't let it knock off your tiara as you leave.


*This is Brett's first mention by name. And, a sneaky test to see if he's reading this. More likely, his mother will read it first, and will mention it to him, and he'll come to me in protest. She's already a fan, or so I hear. Pass the blue blog Kool-aid, please.

Simple Genius

While watching a Tivoed episode of Oprah, I heard something that struck a chord. And, yes, this is primarily for my single female readers, but I suspect that all women could benefit from this nugget.

The show featured Patti Novak, the straight-talking, tough-as-nails, East Coast matchmaker from TV fame, and the subject was 'why can't eligible single women find love?'

I have felt that way before so many times, for myself and for friends and family. Wondered what we were doing wrong. Blamed ourself and analzyed it to death.

Patti broke it down. She calls it the "pickle jar effect."

Now, before I share this, please refrain from any comments that fall into the categories of Oprah-hating, men-bashing, women's lib promoting, or any others that are heavy with argumentativeness.

Because, as much as we may not like it, she has a point.

Her "pickle jar theory" is that since women are more educated, more succesful, more talented, more well-paid and more independent than ever before in history (and yes, this is still deemed a good thing), we are also more and more intimidating, and alienating, to the men. At the core of their being, men want to be needed. And, sometimes this is just as simple as needing them to open the pickle jar.

Yes, we can dig out a knife and bang it on the lid and strain and open the stupid jar ourselves, and we WOULD do that if we were home alone, but it never can hurt to turn to the guy and ask for his help opening it.

It is a very base, simple and innocent gesture that allows men to feel strong, manly and necessary, and it allows us to dig into the pickles much faster.

Feed the ego, feed the stomach.

Seems like a win-win to me.

Plain By Comparison

I thought my life here in Chicago was pretty interesting.

Eventful and noteworthy, even.

That was until I got a text message last night from my beautiful and hilariously talented cousin Molly who now lives in L.A., works in television writing for one of the late night comedians. She hob-nobs with stars so often that she doesn't even think the stories are worth telling anymore.

The text said this, word for word:
___

Just nearly got plowed over by paparazzi. Four choppers circling above. Hundreds of people racing on Sunset. Britney is on the loose. That girl is crazy.
___

Yeah. Commuting on the CTA doesn't compare.

And, something tells me that my trips down Michigan Avenue won't ever appear on Extra or TMZ.

Thank God. I'd hate for someone to shove a camera in my face each morning and post the evidence in magazines under the caption, "Stars are Just Like Us - they hate winter!"

Or something far worse. Like a comment about my outfit (ok, so I didn't really try this morning) or my frizzy hair (it's dry out, people!), or the fact that I'm wearing last year's shoes (the horror!), or my comings-and-goings on a Saturday morning (can't comment for fear that my mother will read this).

Yeah. I'd rather just be little 'ol unfamous me.