The Great Experiment: First Come, First Served.

And I know that it must be the woman in you
That brings out the man in me

I don’t know what it is about that lyric that can send me into a fit of laughter, but every time I hear that song and specifically that lyric, I think of permed hair and giant bush. The eighties were so…reckless abandon and completely without reason.I think that if a man recited that lyric, seriously to me, the woman whom he adored, I might die of embarrassment for him.

That song was a hit for one simple truth: The first time is always the best time, even when it can be the most awkward, embarrassing, humbling and stupid experience you have ever endured. As children, adolescents and young adults, we really don’t think about anything other than the first time. The first time riding a bike without training wheels, the first time going to school on the school bus, losing your first tooth, breaking your first bone, your first boner, the first time you got boned, the first time you got stoned, the first time driving a car, the first time you drove stoned……….. Youth is all about first times, totally being unprepared for the magnitude of these first times, and then completely taking these moments for granted.

God, teenagers suck.

I think the only first time I never took for granted was when I rented my first apartment, SOLO. Not the first time I moved out, but my first apartment that was all mine. No roommates, no unwanted animals and their dirty litter boxes, no having to deal with another person’s aversion to washing dishes, no having to deal with another person’s velvet painting fetish, or creepy-bug eyed children painting collection. The mess that would be there would be all mine. No more labeling food or sneaking labeled food, my dirty dishes, my dirty panties on the bathroom floor, my dust, my skid marks in the toilet; MINE MINE MINE!

Finding my own place was particularly momentous in that I had just moved out of an apartment that I had once shared with a very dear friend of mine, who ended up moving out. Let’s face it, our friendship was feeling the strain of living with one another and it was time to move on… Monica and Rachel we were not and rental rates in Cincinnati are very affordable on one’s own. However, when she cut the cord I was unprepared to leave our apartment and had to begin the very laborious process of finding a new roommate.

*famous last words* I was young. I needed the money.

After months of searching for “Roommate Right”, I eventually shacked up with a rockabilly rodeo queen who had a habit of parading nude around the apartment while eating rotisserie chickens whole…. One day after I realized I was more familiar with the sight of her nipples than I was with my own, and the smell of chicken carcasses rotting in the trash was starting to work on my nerves, it occurred to me that it was time to go solo. I sat Patsy Cline down and broke the news gently, and though no tears were shed, I knew she was devastated when soon after she skipped town owing me a couple hundred bucks.…….. A small price to pay for freedom, I suppose!

Ever since I busted out of my parental homestead and moved to the big bad city, I have always lived in questionable, “artsy” parts of town. Some people (my mother and father) would say that I lived in the “ghetto”; I liked to think of my neighborhoods as “Areas of Urban Renaissance & Inspiration”…. Yes, it was dirty, yes there were prostitutes and drug dealers, and yes there were 20 children living in the house across the street….. But, the architecture was brilliant, I was close to school and work, and more importantly, the rent was $250 a month for 1000 sf with hardwood floors, French Doors, Rookwood Tiled fireplaces (one in every room), a huge walk in closet, and a giant claw foot tub. Yeah, the refrigerator was 50 years old and I had to defrost the freezer all of the time, but I thought my first place was the most magnificent apartment in all of apartment land!

The first day I had possession of the apartment, I headed over with an assortment of newly purchased cleaning products, scented candles and dried sage to burn in case there were any negative vibes left over from previous tenants… I was on a mission for good juju, dammit, and nothing was going to stop me. I tenderly washed all of the woodwork and floors, gathered up all of the dust and cobwebs, then burned them with the sage, baptizing my new domain in the earthly smoke of new found freedom. The aroma of sage, oil soap, and satisfaction overcame me and I don’t think I had ever felt so accomplished in my entire life. I sorted through my shopping bags of new towels for hand and bath, picture frames, throw rugs, keepsakes, and kitsch. I was ready to nest my roost and the world was at my feet.

To this day I remember that feeling and I can still smell that sage and soap, and hear the echo of my portable cd player against the naked walls and floors. It was the first time that I had ever felt like an “adult”. I felt competent, responsible and capable of anything I wanted to put my mind to. I was woman and I roared.

Once I had everything in its rightful place, I took pictures of my perfect apartment to cherish forever. These days when I am feeling broken down, I bust out that album to remember a time when I knew I could accomplish anything I wanted to, as long as I worked hard enough. Sometimes the woman I am today needs to reconnect with the young woman I was ten years ago, to remember where I was and how far I have come, while reminiscing my first perfect apartment and the beginning of my life.

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I Miss Him.

My Step-Dad, Russ Hensley, died on April 11, 2004. I miss him everyday.

Lately I miss him more than ever. I need him right now and he is not here.

Sometimes it is hard to let go and depend on yourself. Sometimes it is hard not to feel abandoned, like a lost child.

I know I am strong, but I still miss him with every inch of my soul. Sometimes my grief, even after five years, is so deep that it is paralyzing.

I love you, Russ. I hope you are somewhere peaceful and watching over me.

The Great Experiment: Farm Teeth

Being raised on a farm, I was outfitted with balls of steel. Situations that would make your average city dweller cringe, vomit, or breakdown crying with compassion, I found common. Castrating pigs, gutting cows, or hurling petrified cow turds at my brother, were just everyday happenings on the farm.

Our farm was infested with groundhogs. Groundhog holes are dangerous for livestock because they can fall into the holes, breaking their legs, ultimately killing them. Livestock are incredibly expensive commodities, therefore damage control is imperative to prevent these situations.

The groundhog, though known livestock nuisance, are also vicious assholes, known to chase children down in attempts to maul them to death.Dastardly creatures; cute, but evil. Luckily for my siblings and I, our beloved companion, Beauregard J PuppyDog, was our defender and ground hog assassin, who saved us from numerous groundhog attacks. Beau was a badass killer who left a fair share of slain groundhog carcasses on our front porch to admire. Unfortunately, we had a couple of other dogs and cats that perished at the fangs of the dreaded groundhog. One puppy, our beloved Bouncer, suffered his jaw being ripped off by one of these nefarious creatures during a scuffle, and had to be put down.

Every spring, the farmhands would drive the fence around our pasture with long-range rifles and cases of beer. They would sit there for hours looking through the scopes on their rifles, waiting for a groundhog to pop up and then shoot it. It was a fantastically exciting event on our farm, and I LOVED hanging around them during this time. The beer, the cussing! It was magical. I also successfully executed my first revenge on another living being during that time. I shot a groundhog, and did it feel so good! Roy, the farm hand, gently placed his rifle on my shoulder, instructing me where to look and guiding my little fingers to the trigger. I gazed through the finder and saw the tiny, fuzzy image of a groundhog. I steadied, and then pulled the trigger, watching the once erect figure, slump to the ground. I was eight and it was glorious.

The day I shot that damn ground hog, I did it for Bouncer, man.

One day, my sister and I were walking through the pastures, looking for some cows to bully and we found a rotting ground hog carcass. After inspecting it thoroughly, WITH OUR BARE HANDS, we yanked its jaw out, then started unhinging its teeth to fashion a necklace in honor of Bouncer. I don’t recall ever seeing anything similar to this done in a movie, so I believe it's proof that savagery and revenge are inherent human emotions.

We collected our treasure and headed inside to have dinner. My mother was aghast when she noticed why my sister and I were requesting a needle and thread; subsequently making us throw away our bounty of revenge.

We had fried chicken for dinner that night. I can’t remember if I washed my hands.

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Thanks!

Crickety Crack, My Knee is Straight Whack!

I'm not sure if I am spelling "whack" correctly when referring to its "street definition". Do the kids even refer to oddities and offenses as "whack" anymore? Who knows.

Over the summer, my very best friend, who is a lunatic, and I were taking our dogs on 5 mile power-walks a couple of times a week. We felt accomplished, proud and two pounds thinner. We reminisced and mused about our college days when we would eat nothing but no-doz, cigarettes and vodka for a week, while running 5 miles every other day and how fierce our bodies looked.......on the outside...... on the inside they looked like Bubbles from the Wire.... If you don't know who I am talking about, here you go:


He actually looks kind of okay there.... You really don't get a feel for the amount scabies, Hep C and body lice he is cultivating.

So one day my very dear, best friend in the entire world, (who is a certifiable maniac), sends me this email:

Today I took my lunch hour to take a BIG walk, with a little bit of running. It was a full hour and I think I got in about 3 ½ miles. Anyway, I observed about 100 people out getting their exercise. Of note, all the women walking were between 150-180 lbs. and all the women running were between 130-150 lbs. I would estimate that there were only 1 or 2 that were on the other side of their respective groups. So, I have finally determined that running has to again become a normal part of my life. I’m ready to do this in a big way. I am sick and tired of my thoughts, regrets, wishes about my body dominating my thoughts.

I am going to start training for the ½ marathon = 13 miles. I want you to do it with me because it will be more fun and because it will improve our chances of succeeding since it always help to have someone encouraging the lazy one of the day.

It’s not until May. This is one of two of my ‘winter goals’. I also want to pick up on some fundamental Spanish. Okay, back to the running. In order to start training, we have to be able to run 3 miles. We can make that our September goal. Next goal is the Thanksgiving Day run, which is a 10K (6.2 miles). That will be no problem for us. I will map out all of the routes, unless you want to, but it will take 5-6 days of training a week and, up until Thanksgiving, it will never take more than an hour a day, unless we want it to. Two of my training days are going to be yoga on Tuesdays and frisbee on Sundays. So we would have 3 or 4 days each week where we have to get some level of running in. That could be Monday, Weds, Thurs, Saturday. We would be off on Friday always.

So, you think about it and decide……long term, do you want to be with the walkers or the runners?

She doesn't feel like a nut, SOMETIMES. All of the times. Ever.

From:BFF
Sent: Tuesday, August 25, 2009 2:03 PM
To:ConfusedKaty
Subject: RE: a big idea

Ok, we will join. I cannot run 3 miles either – it will be a struggle for me too. We probably won’t be running 3 miles without breaks until the end of September.

So, Thanksgiving Day is 6 miles
Then in March there is a 9 mile mini-marathon
Then May is the big 13 miler.

________________________________________
From: ConfusedKaty
Sent: Tuesday, August 25, 2009 2:07 PM
To: BFF
Subject: RE: a big idea

That’s going to be the first thanksgiving eve I don’t get schnockered.

________________________________________

From:BFF
Sent: Tuesday, August 25, 2009 2:03 PM
To: ConfusedKaty
Subject: RE: a big idea
It’s a great way to spend that entire weekend eating, drinking, and feeling really good.

Ok – you have only thought of reasons why not to, so I ask you again…..

Do you want to be with the runners or the walkers?

She's like a Mafia Don.

But, she's convincing, so I joined up. Two days after this email exchange, we went to our local Runners Spot and were fitted properly for shoes, stocked up on wicking accessories and BenGay, and were ready to go.

Our first Saturday, we successfully cleared a five and a half mile route. (I use italics because we ran about four of it and were in some serious pain for over 24 hours.) The following Monday we cleared 3 and a half, as well as on Wednesday, and then the 5 and half the following Saturday. It was a good pattern, and we were feeling confident, albeit, achy, so we decided that this would be our routine.

Fast forward two weeks, the BFF starts going through some MAJOR life drama. MAJOR. The kind of drama that overtakes your body with nothing but adrenaline, keeps you up at night and enables you to exist on a diet of nothing but water and pretzels. The kind of energy that if you don't pull on your running shoes and clear 10 miles, you will more than likely tear off all of your clothes, run down the street kicking puppies, scaring children and screaming unintelligible lyrics to Wayne Newton songs. THAT MAJOR.

Being that my BFF may be a lunatic, she is by all appearances, an incredibly successful and rational woman, so she steps up her routine to avoid any kind of uncomfortable, "naked around the neighbors with a kitten dangling from her mouth" situations.

I, being her comrade in cross country, accompanied her.

From 3 and a half miles, we kick it to seven. THREE TIMES A WEEK. 21 MILES A WEEK. Which, is not too bad for people who run marathons regularly, who did not just start running after 6 years of not running, two weeks ago. It was the kind of advancement that the only other time in my life I have done such a thing, was in fifth grade, when I went to a ninth grade reading level.... Reading is a lot easier than running, just in case you were wondering.

Also, a dirt little secret about me.... I smoke. I smoke about two packs a week, but I still smoke.

So, we step up the program, but she is not only running on our days, but the days in between. She is clearing about 35 miles a week. She has always been more driven than I am, but I am still an incredibly competitive asshole, so I try to step it up as well. I begin to literally, KILL MYSELF. My life consisted of yoga and running..... The yoga was not an effort to enlighten and relax me. It was an effort to stretch out my muscles that were so tight, my 5'9 frame was contracting 3 inches to 5'6, and I seriously was convinced my calf muscles were taking up permanent residence in my butt. My feet were going to end up right below my bunsies.... It was not going to be pretty. Also, my house reeked like BenGay. My normal scent had gone from L'Occitane to a pungent eucalyptus, and my S.O. was threatening to shove me off of the nookie train. Not that it would matter, because I couldn't move. I hobbled around my house with heating pads and ointment like some decrepit fitness troll..... The situation was out of hand. I had to do something.......... I had to save myself.

This was easier said than done for two reasons:

#1.I am a competitive asshole. The thought that she was clearing 35 miles a week with nary a shin splint, was driving me mad.... Why was it so easy for her? Where was her pain? Why am I the one who has been stricken with the physical prowess of a geriatric, and she the nubile youth, who is a year older than me in actuality? WHY?

#2. My body, though broken and beaten, was foxing up to the max. My legs were looking bitchin and my skinny jeans were becoming a comfortable reality.

I was torn. Emotionally and physically.

I decided that I would pull back from running with BFF all of the time. My weekdays, I would run 4 miles and then join her on Saturday for our big run. It was the perfect plan.

One Saturday, due to prior commitments, I was not able to meet up with her for the run, so I decided to go at it alone. No biggie.

I'm running along and then all of the sudden, I was on the ground. There had been a shot of pain, and then my knee gave out. I collected myself, started to stretch in the middle of the sidewalk, and began walking. Walking was very uncomfortable. It actually felt more comfortable to run, so I did for about two miles... Then, the pain started shooting up the outside of my left knee, then it shot down to the side of my left foot. I had to stop.

I made it home, only to stretch, jump in the shower, strap on 4 in. stilettos and head to a cocktail party.

By Sunday, I was completely immobile.

Monday, I tried to run, mainly because I am insane. Needless to say it was not happening.

Tuesday, I activated my medical plan and headed to my doctor. After I laid out the puerile details of my bad judgment, it was of no surprise to anyone that I had now caused Iliotibial Band Syndrome to my knee.

I was prescribed anti-inflammatory medication, Vicodan (HOLLA AT YO GIRL!) and instructed to ice the shit out of my knee and to stretch gently. I was also instructed to stop running completely for a week, but to keep up with yoga, though mildly.

I felt frustrated and weak.

But, then I realized that even though I was injured, I had still accomplished more in six weeks than I ever thought I would. I also realized that going from zero to sixty is just fucking stupid. It's stupid and not surprising that I hurt myself. I am still young, but I am not 23 anymore. I am 33. My body will still cooperate with me, as long as I listen to its signals and PAY ATTENTION.

So, a week went by, and I successfully cleared 4 miles today, with little to no pain. The last two were not so easy, so I walked. But, it was still a success.

I plan to keep up with the goal we established. But, I am going to achieve this goal on my terms.

ETA: I also plan on getting some, now that the BenGay has been put to rest...*Cue Bow-Chicka-Bow-Bow, no babies, no babies, no babies, stop!*

Marinara of a Different Color.

Every summer I grow tomatoes in my garden as well as a variety of herbs and other veggies. I also compost fertilizer for my garden that gets old tomatoes and their seeds in the mix. So, even though I planted four tomato plants in the spring and then spread composted soil over my garden, I ended up with about 20 tomato plants. I shit you not.

Most I was able to re-home and I kept about 10. I had to pull the rest.


Moving on; since it is September of an unusually rainy and cold summer, I have about 5 bajillion tomatoes and I am tired of munching on tomato sandwiches..... What to do?

Marinara time, bitches!

As you can see I have a lot of tomatoes, however, that is not all of them and I have about four freezer bags filled with some I blanched last week. I also have a metric ton of sweet basil,Thai basil and purple basil. For marinara I tend stick with the sweet basil because the others can bring a lot of bitterness into the sauce. My oregano plant is huge because I only use it for marinara and drying it out to pass off as pot to sell to stupid teenagers. Since the latter got me into some trouble with the neighbors, my oregano is only used for marinara this year. I also have a lot of thyme and since I enjoy that flavor in my marinara, I invited it to the party as well.

To get this party started you need to cut the cores out of the tomatoes and finger out the seeds, (that could be taken in so many inappropriate directions). After the maters are cored and seeded, stick those m'effers in some boiling water.




Boil them for about 20 minutes to make sure that the skin is loose and easily pulled off. It's easy to tell when the skin starts to loosen, which happens quickly, because it will crack. However, you want to make sure it will all come off with the slightest tug, so once the skin starts to crack, keep them in the water for about ten more minutes. Once they are ready, drain them and stick them in the freezer for an hour. If you are too impatient for that you can just go for it, but your fingers will hate you and you will risk getting burning blister puss in your marinara. Nobody wants that, so be patient dickbags.




Once you have safely removed the skins set the tomatoes aside and crush about 10 cloves of garlic and saute them in a big pot with a half cup of olive oil. Once you open up the garlic, (DON'T BROWN THE GARLIC, DIPDINGLE! IT WILL RUIN EVERYTHING!) add the a little more than half of the tomatoes and simmer on medium for about an hour. Set aside the left over tomatoes for later.




You will need a hand mixing wand, or a food processor if you want to make a huge mess. I like a clean work station, so I use a wand. You need this to mash up the tomatoes into a paste. This is the base of the sauce so it is very important.... DON'T MESS IT UP. Before mixing with the hand wand, or adding to the food processor; throw in 2 TBS of corn starch to help thicken your mixture.

I know the sauce is orange. This is a result of using a variety of naturally grown tomatoes of all different varieties from your own kick ass garden. If you have a problem with marinara of another color, I urge to keep eating your spaghetti dinners at Bob Evans and sucking at life.



Once you get the tomatoes mashed up, you will want to add two TBS of salt, some fresh ground pepper, and one cup of ORGANIC sugar. If you are an excellent cultivator, like me, your kick ass garden would not be complete without herbs like I mentioned above. If so, go out to your garden and cut some sprigs of thyme, sweet basil, and oregano. If not, haul ass to the local IGA and waste your money on delicious herbs that would taste better (if you were not so lazy and useless), if they were from your own garden. Take the leaves off of the stems, crack and peel four more cloves of garlic and add all to a food processor. It is less mess to pulverize herbs and garlic than soupy tomatoes.

As you are chopping the garlic and herbs in the food processor, drizzle some olive oil in there. Process on pulse until the are chopped pretty finely, because nothing can ruin a perfectly good marinara experience like chewing on a leaf. Add the mixture with one fresh bay leaf to the sauce (remember to pull out the bay leaf before eating), throw a 1/4 cup of balsamic vinegar into the mix, a little less white vinegar, and simmer on medium to start meshing all of the flavors together.

(For some reason, blogger.com is not letting me upload any more pictures because they are obviously jealous of my awesome sauce, but I need to share this with the world, so I continue, pictureless.)

Take the tomatoes you set aside earlier and begin to peel, squeeze and pull apart. Add these to the sauce with some chopped mushrooms, chopped onion to taste, (I "chopped" my onions in the food processor, which is totally acceptable when you have been slaving over homemade marinara sauce made from tomatoes you grew from seed in your very own garden all day long, so suck it food snobs) and any other vegetable you may fancy.

Add all to the sauce and simmer for another hour. Add more sugar, salt and pepper, vinegar to taste.

BAM!

You will then have delicious marinara of a different color that you grew in your own garden (which brings new meaning to the term "FROM SCRATCH") to eat for months. Mine turned out so awesome, that not only did I have to blog about it, but I am going to go make out with myself for awhile for kicking so much ass.

Your welcome.

TRIBE CRYSTAL HUFF

“If your actions inspire others to dream more, learn more, do more and become more, you are a leader.” John Quincy Adams.


The 1980's were a decade that defied reason. The culture, the music, fueled by the contradicting excess/abstinence perpetrated by the Reagan Administration; was a place in time where it was perfectly acceptable to snort a few lines before delivering inspirational speeches at "Just Say No" rallies under the approving eyes of a clueless Nancy Reagan.

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.

The children of the eighties are coming of age and the crows feet are beginning to cackle. As the invitations to the 20 year reunions start to dry up in the wake of the blossoming 25 year reunions, their offspring bust out the old high school year books to see what mom and dad looked like in the "olden days"..... The first thing to catch the eye? The hair, oh sweet Mother of Mercy, the fucking ginormosity of the hair.This was an era funded by Aqua Net, where the romanticism of the hunky Man's Man was replaced by men in drag, wearing Italian suits colored like Easter Eggs. The hair of the eighties overshadowed any kind of foreign policy gaffe, political scandal, celebrity death, etc. Who the fuck cares who shot JR, did you see how high Sue Ellen's bangs were? Iran-Contra wha? Is that Ricki Rocket in a boys name? Or Ricki Rockett in a girl's name?

As the eighties wound up and the nineties began, Seattle started to brew the thunderstorm of grunge that would wash away the broken spirits of bankrupted drug addicts that were searching to find the tranquility that would replace the emptiness that their repossessed yellow Lamborghini and foreclosed beachfront condo left in their souls. The party was over and it was time to read poetry in the coffeehouse.

Only a select few of the ever-faithful followers of hair metal remained, as those more fickle minded shampooed out their teased tresses in favor of a more "now" appearance. Once the many, were now the few and they stuck out like a sore thumb. In any given town, especially in New Jersey, Kentucky and Southern Ohio, you would be able to find those steadfast in the their love for Kip Winger and Dingo boots, traveling in caravans of Monte Carlos and Camaros, to roadside bars to catch a Ratt tribute band.

In my Junior High School, we had our own tribe of Hair Metal Disciples roaming the halls. Our school was fairly divided as the majority of students either lived in a cluster of brand new, middle to upper middle class subdivisions; or they lived in a smaller, older, middle to lower-middle class, to downright impoverished, town that consisted of persons of Appalachian descent. The school district had separate elementary schools for the suburban kids and small town kids, yet made the genius decision to combine the schools into one junior high in the sixth grade.... Because pre-teens are known to function with high levels of tolerance and understanding for one another. Needless to say, junior high was a little tense.

The Tribe of Disciples seemed to all hail from the little Appalachian town, which combined with their fashion choices, kind of made life a tad hellish for them. My gang of stuck up, white bitches with weekly allowances to the Gap were unrelentingly bitchy towards the Disciples and the Disciples in turn, took great joy in beating the shit out of us. Those girls were fierce, there was no denying that.

As time traveled on for me, I replaced my Guess jeans with camo-pants, and my permed hair for shaved hair dyed with Manic Panic. My fashion choices exiled me to a status lower than that of the Disciples, but I really didn't seem to care. I found camaraderie with many of these young women and new found respect for someone willing to sit all day in a non-air conditioned classroom wearing Lycra, zebra-stripped pants and a ten pound hair-do.

As it usually does, time slipped away and the once awkward fashion rejects of Kings Junior High, grew up and moved on. The 90's turned into the new millennium, the Towers went down, and the Gulf War warped into Operation Iraqi Freedom. As the beat marched on, the notion that much money could be made from nostalgia started to surface. Metal Heads were soccer moms and Bret Michaels needed a nest egg to fund his European hair extensions. What once was a decade of songs, stories and life, has now made the strange transmutation from time to commodity, not unlike the decades that preceded it.

Now teenagers and twenty-somethings rock those Lycra, zebra print pants without even a hint of irony while they jam out to Cameo, much like how I rocked bell bottoms and kicked my heels out to Kung-Fu Fighting in 1995. Bands are reuniting and labeling their tours as the "Second Chance Concert Series" and marketing to the parents of today who were either grounded, or broke, the first time that tour came to town. Acts from Pat Benatar and Debbie Harry to Poison and Def Leopard are strapping on their youthful spandex, applying spray tans, and bleaching their teeth before hitting the road to relive the glory days with their graying, adoring fans. Steven Tyler was even hospitalized last week for taking a tumble off the stage, which would not be too out of the ordinary if weren't for the fact he was stone cold sober and the reason for the fall was because his hip went out.

People who had experienced the eighties firsthand now bask in the joy of what they loved being socially relevant again. In 2002, mother's were dragged onto talk shows, ostracized, and made over into Jenn Anniston look-a-likes for dressing like this:



This picture was taken a week ago.

Now these women have the social acceptance to break out their Limited Express fold over, frosted, denim, mini-skirts and banana hair clips! I envision The Disciples breaking out the old year books with pride replacing dread, and bragging about how cool they used to dress. The Eighties are fucking back man.

Which leads me to the inspiration for this post, my muse.

A few weeks ago, my town embraced the come back of the ever mighty, Hepatitis-ridden rockers, Motley Crue, hosting "Crue-Fest" at the local, outdoor arena. The energy in the air was palpable by 12:00 pm as mini-vans invaded the parking lots of nearby sports bars, their passengers donning denim mini skirts and half shirts, as they stood up straight trying to camouflauge the tell tale tummy of a recent, or not so recent, pregnancy. Lips that had denied themselves the sweet sensations of Southern Comfort for the past decade, in favor of something more socially acceptable for mothers, like Chardonay or Crystal Light, were reunited with the sweet elixir of their youths, and did it feel so good. So good. So good, that the alcoholic beverage became a catalyst for time travel. No longer were Breighdon, Kaileigh and Teegan waiting at home with a sitter for Mom in 2009; Tommy, Vince, and Nikki were primed for a lap dance at the after hours shin dig in 1985! The women had gone wild and chaos ensued.

In tabloid fashion, the buzz of chaos perked the media's ears and the headlines of the morning papers declared:

THREE WILD WOMEN ARRESTED AT RIVERBEND

Hamilton County Sheriff's deputies arrested three woman Friday night during the Crue Fest 2 concert at Riverbend in three separate instances for crimes ranging from obstructing official business to assault.

The first arrest happened at 6 p.m. when a woman from Hamilton allegedly refused to leave. According to court records, it took several officers to remove 31-year-old Jessica Bryant from the concert. She told police she only consumed one pint of Captain Morgan. She is charged with disorderly conduct while intoxicated.

Deputies arrested a second woman around 11:30 p.m. after she allegedly wouldn’t leave. Police say the woman was arrested but then got out of her handcuffs and tried to run from police. Deputies say she refused to give police her name, address, or date of birth. After arriving at the justice center, she claimed her name was Crystal Huff, guessed her date of birth, and she said she lived at the Drop Inn Center.

The third woman was arrested for assault just before Midnight. 40-year-old Barbara Evans from Centerville was allegedly thrown out of Riverbend because of her behavior, then punched a female employee in the right side of her face.

With headlines like this, who needs the weather?

Crystal Huff, here's to you bitch. Let's fucking party like it is 1985.

Don't You Forget About Me.

Today is a very sad day for me. Almost every memory I have of my childhood/adolescence contains a John Hughes movie.

When my parents began their separation on the first day my dad began treatment for addiction, my mom bought us the ever coveted, yet never consumed (UNTIL THAT DAY), Swanson's TV dinners and rented 16 Candles for us that evening to cheer us up.

After my dad had moved out of the family home and into an apartment, the first time we spent the night, he ordered pizza delivery and we watched Weird Science, to cheer us up.

When I was in the fourth grade and all of the popular girls were ostracizing me, and picking on me for being different, I watched Pretty in Pink. Then, I didn't feel so alone, odd, or desperate.

When I was in the seventh grade, my brother was getting picked on by bigger, richer, guys in high school. One night, we watched Some Kind of Wonderful and felt inspired to stand up to our bullies.


I have seen Ferris Bueller's Day Off over 300 times and I can quote it, verbatim.... I would be lying if i said it didn't teach me the fine art of faking sick to play hookey, techniques I still use to this day.

The Breakfast Club never taught me about me looking past the roles people play in high school society, but it did teach me that Judd Nelson was a fucking hottie. It also taught me that Ally Sheedy looks better as the "freaky girl" than she did as a "preppy girl".

I know that many critics of Mr. Hughes thought movies about over privileged white kids in Shermer Illinois, were vapid, but they're wrong. These movies, though on the surface, seemed shallow, really shaped an entire generation of people, and that is nothing to shake a stick at.

Also, this gal is my hero.