Crazy Virgo

Bruised Knees. Big Ego.

In case you wondered if I was always crazy, I think this will prove it.

There was a time when I, CrazyVirgo, wanted to join a group where I had to audition to be a member. I know. I know. That sounds NOTHING like me. Normally, I'd scoff at the exclusivity of it all. Who was it that famously said, "I'd never be a member of a club that would have me."? But, this was the pom-pom squad. And, this was 1994. And, this was the ultimate attempt to create the greatest Senior Year of all time. So, I did it.

 In my high school, the cheerleaders were the academic do-gooders, and the pom-pom squad were the hot party girls. Of course I wanted to be on the party girl squad. These girls got to sit together at lunch. Wear their uniforms to school. Speak in a secret language about their uniforms. "Do we wear Big Blue or Inverted Bird tomorrow?" Get immediate friendship from upperclassmen. Get a locker in a popular hallway just for Pom & Cheer girls. Were initiated into the pom-pom sisterhood through a series of events that included a surprise 5 a.m. wake-up call by retiring pom-pom members that would dress you in hideous outfits, pour booze down your throat and force you to humiliate yourself for an entire day at school. That sounded awesome. I longed for that kind of acceptance and popularity. The first three years of high school I relied on my sense of humor to win me friends. Any that kind of got me somewhere in the "everybody's pal" category. So, in the middle of my Junior year, I was in the school musical where I was forced to do a strip-tease number in "Guys & Dolls." A little more into the "ya, I might let her sit at our table." Yet still, I wasn't quite at the level where my name would be remembered and revered in the halls of Central High School.

At the end of my Junior Year, me and several dear friends - including one defecting from the Cheer Squad - signed up for try-outs. For the next week, we were subjected to intense training.  Rivaled only by Navy SEAL training, we were beaten into submission with pom poms. In sports bras and itty bitty nylon shorts, 17 year-old girls did push-ups, ran sprints, and spent more time dropping to their knees than any one should. Our audition routine had four moves where we dropped from standing position to kneeling position. One could only assume that the Senior pom-pom girls who created this routine did this to ascertain whether or not our knees could withstand the pressure of being a Central High School Pom-Pom Girl. Day after day, we did it. Withstood the agony and pain of the knee drop, to prove that we were the worthy, the brave, the chosen. For hours after school and on the weekends we subjected our poor knees to torture now only performed in Guantanamo detainment camps. 

Arms out in a V formation. 1 -2 Drop to your knees. 3-4 Walk to the side on your knees. 5-6. Jump up. 7-8. Now drop to the knees again. 9-10.

On try-out day, each of us grimaced as we performed the routine that we could have done in our sleep, while dropping onto blue, bruised knees that matched the blue of our school colors. (We hoped we got extra points for that.) Biting our cheeks to keep from screaming in pain and crying out in agony, we put on our best school pride faces and hit every knee drop with military precision. Afterward, we looked like this:

But, we were one step closer to popularity and eternal fame at Central High School.

You'll be happy to know I made it. My young knees didn't suffer in vain. I was initiated by the Senior members of the squad, which I'm sworn to secrecy and can never divulge the intimate details that may or may not have included a banana, a fishing net, a Raggedy Ann costume, and chocolate sauce. I got to wear that coveted uniform and discuss things in a secret code. "Bubbles today? Or Old School?" My ego inflated so large it could barely be fit within the confines of Central High School. My destiny was complete.

My knees have never recovered. And, every time I hear, "Drop to your knees, 2-3-4," I go robotic and start performing my high school pom-pom routine. You'd be surprised how many times I hear that phrase. I wish I could tell you I went on to be wildly popular and unbelievably successful thanks to the pom-pom squad, but that would be completely false. Kicking ones legs into the air, rolling around on the gymnasium floor with your crotch exposed to the entire student body, and wearing short skirts doesn't really prepare one for the real world. Unless of course your goal is to be on MTV's "Real World." I just got a rather inflated ego for one year, and was then promptly knocked back into my place in college where being on the pom-pom squad in your high school got you nowhere. Well, nowhere a lady should be anyway.

Where was my sense of pride, self-worth and feminism? Nicely folded and tucked into a drawer underneath the ugly clothes and homely personality I would never wear again thanks to my new-found identity as a pom-pom girl.

 Don't worry. I found it again around sophomore year of college when I found the Women's Studies Department. And only now re-enact my pom-pom girl days on request.

So I'm judgmental.

I'm what you'd call a Snap Judgement Maker. I call it as I see it.

Immediately.

When I meet people for the first time, I know instantly if I'm going to be friends with them or not.

Their handshake, facial expression, tone of voice. I judge it all, and know the extent of our relationship within seconds. The way I see it, I'm 31 - nearly 32 - and have no time for uninteresting, less than genuine, un-funny people in my life. 99.95% of the time, my snap judgement is right on the money. This is probably why I have only a handful of friends. But really, what would I do with more than that?

One time only have I made a snap judgment on a person, then retracted it. I made nice with this person for a while. Then what happened? It bit me right in the ass. My snap judgement had been right on the money. After that, I never doubted my natural gift of instinctive prejudice.

A few times in the past month my judgmentalness has slapped in me in the face. Not a left-hook or anything. More like a bitch slap. 

I saw Star Trek in the first few weeks it came out. I went as a favor to a friend that had a bad day and just wanted to "see the freaking movie and eat ice cream." Seemed like an 11 year-old's birthday party, but I humored him. His day had been shitty. Of course Gentleman Husband was dying to go. Me? Eh. I wasn't so much in to the original, much less this big budget remake that, I was positive, was going to be a flah-op. I was so positive it was going to be the next Pearl Harbor that I made sure everyone was aware of my opinion well before the movie started. I think I mentioned something to the affect that if this movie was actually good, I'd put my foot in my mouth and suck on it. Turns out, Star Trek is good. Really freaking good. Damn that JJ Abrams. He knows how to create a fictionalized situation and put it on screen, and completely suck me in with in the first five minutes, thus transporting me to wherever it is that he's fabricated for my enjoyment. I spent 30 minutes after the movie eating my foot and my words.

This past weekend I saw The Hangover. When the previews for this movie were initially on TV, Gentleman Husband pronounced it "freaking hilarious" and a "must-see." I pronounced it an "unfortunate choice for Ed Helms" and "frat-tastic humor." I vaguely remember saying to GH something like "have fun seeing this with your boyfriends after 18 holes of golf and 10 rounds of Texas Hold 'Em. I'll be doing something more fun and worthwhile, like reading, or going to the bathroom." Unfortunately, this weekend it was hot, I was bored, and GH sensed the conditions were right for coercing me into seeing The Hangover. I laughed for 1 hr and 48 minutes. This movie could have been done poorly. Much like the continuing saga of National Lampoon's. However, Todd Phillips - director of Old School - knows how to make me laugh. The formula goes something like this: Take well educated-smart actors with good timing that have resumes that include The Daily Show, Funny Or Die, movies with Will Farrell (i.e. Ed Helms, Zack Galifianikis, oddly Bradley Cooper, Rob Riggle) add a normal situation, subtract logic, multiply humor with hyperbole, add funny Asian man and good soundtrack, and you've got the perfect storm for a comedy. With my head hung in shame, I give you the funniest movie of the summer:

 

Ok, so maybe my Snap Judgement Maker ® is a little off. It's a hot summer. For the most part, I'm on it. And I'm not apologizing for being judgmental, either. It's a smarter, more efficient way to live.

It just saves time.

I've become quite good at it (save these two movie incidents that I honestly blame on poor previews). So much so, that I ponder writing a book about my instinctive judgmental talent called "Snap: How to judge and alienate people in seconds".     

An Open Letter to Sharon Stone

Dear Sharon, 

A male friend pointed out to me this week that is a universally truth widely know that women hate you. This is a male friend that's a big fan of yours, by the way.

My first thought was, no they don't.

I don't.

Then I thought about it.

You're hot. You're sexy. You're smart. And, you've got legs that go on for miles.

If I had a friend like that, I'd hate them. 

And, even though we're not friends  (sidenote: if you're taking applications for friends, I could totally get over all this petty hatred), Yes, I do hate you.

Wait, no I don't. That's silly.

Ya. Ya, I do.

After a lot of thought, several cocktails, a long therapeutic examination of myself, then a convo my neighbor, Normal Lesbian Psychic, (I think you'd like her) I know exactly why I, and a league of women, hate you. 

We want to be you.

Since women were intimately introduced to you, your severe good looks and your anatomy in Basic Instinct, there has been a sneer and snide comment that accompany any mention of your name. Here's why. Women everywhere are insanely jealous of your fearlessness. And your legs. 

Jesus. Your legs. They're miles long. Women dream of taking them off your body and fusing them on theirs. At least I do. Look at what you can do with them. Anyway, back to the subject...apologies, was totally distracted by your legs. You really nailed it with Catherine Trammel, the bi-sexual psychologist/novelist/alleged murderess. 

"What are you gonna do? Arrest me for smoking?"

"What was your relationship with (whatever the guy's name is)?"

"I had sex with him for about a year and a half."

WOW. 

I know you didn't write that, Sharon, but jeeeesus. Way to execute bluntness. It made me hate you. 

In fact this entire scene did.

 
Basic Instinct - The Interrogation Scene - Click here for more blooper videos

I've figured out why. 

I want to do that. I want to talk like that.

I want to wear a white dress, completely dismantle a room of men with my eyes, and vindicate 

myself with nothing more than my sly smile. 

I freaking want to uncross and re-cross my legs like that. But damnit, Sharon, I'm not

as brave as you. You must know there are support groups devoted to empowering 

women to  become comfortable with and actually look at their vaginas. Oh yes.

There are. It takes some women years to even say the word "vagina", yet, you just 

put yours out there for everyone to see. And not just out there. On a 30 ft. x 70 ft. 

screen for the viewing masses. 

Basically your vagina was the size of a small Yugo. I've gotta hand it to you, 

Shar, you've got balls. And a rather nice vagina. 

Your supreme confidence as Catherine Trammel is not so far 

from your own. Am I right, Shar? There's a certain male energy about you that 

women want. You can hang with the men. Look at you in Casino. Ginger was

a hustler. She was entitled to her furs. She knew how to wheel, deal, screw, 

and climb her way to the top. While also wearing killer outfit after killer outfit. 

You're a hustler too, Sharon. You've been married three times. To three pretty 

significant men. It wasn't what you wanted, so, you moved on. You're 50 and

you're killing it, Shar. You're hot. You're crazy smart. Men still want to fuck you.

Congratulations.

I hate you.

Fondly,

CrazyVirgo

Sometimes amazing happens.

Gentleman Husband and I went to visit two of our favorite couples this weekend, the manOrrs and the Beaverhausens. They live in Kansas City, MO -very near the birthplace of CrazyVirgo. For whatever reason, we have never visited without something memorable (or illegal or embarrassing) happening. In the past I have tried to jump into the arms of my 6"5' husband, like a Romanian gymnast, totally missing him and landing with my head smacked against asphalt. No one was hurt. On one particular visit, we created the Greatest Music Video of All Time. Period. Once I mentally scarred one half of Beaverhausen so much that he bolted out of manOrr like lightening and high-stepped it the 10 blocks home.

But, nothing, and I do mean nothing, will top our most recent visit. Inspired by an almost intolerable love for GoodFellas, the Mayor of manOrr required that all 6 people involved with the first night of our visit channel Jersey 1976 for our dinner at an Italian joint in Kansas City, KC (side note: KCK is Jersey to Kansas City, Missouri's NYC, so it made sense.) Gentleman Lover and I waited at the Kansas City airport, dressed in our costumes as were instructed to, and then a 1987 maroon Ford wagon with wood panels showed up to chauffeur us around for the evening. It was, in a word, the tits. 

Then, this happened:

In all honesty friends, we didn't even pose this. We didn't even know this was going to happen. We got lost on this dead-end street, realized there was an incredible view of Kansas City, MO, got out of the car to take a picture, fell into character, and took the best picture of our lives.

Take a minute. Soak it in. But don't look too long. You might be blinded. 

Soon, people everywhere will see this picture, because it will probably be put in the Kansas City Kansas Museum of History, and want to re-enact this exact same night. But they won't be able to. It's was a once in a lifetime event. Immortalized on June 12, 2009.

Sometimes amazing happens. And it feels good.

For serious

Now, this Virgo doesn't sit down and get serious very often. Today I am. I'm sitting with good posture in my grown up chair, with my grown up clothes on, and writing a real grown up blog post. 'Cause I have something very grown up to talk about.

MUSIC.

Unbelievably gorgeous, ethereal, mind-blowing, music that will make you shiver. My lovely and talented friend, Amanda, has been writing and singing for a looooong time. She's finally at a place where her music is recorded and ready for the world to celebrate. And, I want everyone to know and listen and share her ridiculously gorgeous songs.

How would I describe her?

If Tori Amos digressed and became less obsessed with fairies, and Fiona Apple was less wacked out, less affected, and had a killer body and the soul of a human angel, then they would be Amanda Skylar.

(This is her very clever songstress name.)

Here is her stunning video for her breathtakin song, "Handfed" (Seriously, can I use any more adjectives?)

 

Handfed - Above the Sea from Dan on Vimeo.

Watch it. Then, watch it again. She's unreal. And talented. And beautiful. I think that's what you call a triple threat. If you're a music producer and reading this blog, please email me and I'll put you in touch with Amanda so you can listen to her music, become entranced by it and immediately  ink a million dollar recording deal with her, put her on the cover of Vanity Fair or Interview or W and allow her to live her dream. Or, if you're reading this blog and know someone in the biz.... or if you know someone who might know someone. You get the point.

It's hard out there for a pimp. So help a lady out.

Standard

Dear Denver, 

What a difference 24 hours makes.

happy now?

It's one day of rain! Deal with it.

Dear Denver/Boulder, 

You ARE NOT Seattle. So stop f*cking crying. It's been raining for one day, and every Denver Metro area resident seems to think they live in Seattle now. It was freaking sunny yesterday. That doesn't happen in Seattle. There are two seasons - rain and sun.

"Man, I didn't know I lived in Seattle. What is this weather?!"

"If I had known I was living in Seattle, I would have worn my rain boots."

"Rain again [for the second time in a week]? Is this the Pacific Northwest?"

NO. IT'S F*CKING NOT. The Pacific Northwest looks like this for 9 months:

Notice the tops of the buildings are missing? That's because the cloud ceiling is about 100 feet above the average human being's head. This cloud ceiling rolls in around late September and stays put, somedays almost touching the top of your head, until late June. Seattle goes from cloudy to partly cloudy to scattered clouds to broken clouds to heavy clouds to rain to scattered showers to mixed rain and showers to heavy rain to light sprinkles.  Anything else is just a passing storm. I know. I lived this for 5 wonderful years. I know what rain is, and what we're all experiencing today is not it. Rain is the constant stream of moisture needling your face when you're walking to the bus. Rain is what causes you to throw away your umbrella because it's too annoying to just open and close it every time you walk outside and instead opt for a jacket with a hood. Rain comes sideways, from all directions, soaking you to the bone while walking from your car to the office. Rain causes you to gain 20 lbs from hibernating and drinking too much red wine. Rain gives you a cynical, biting sense of humor (one that Coloradoans don't seem to understand.) Rain makes you angry and angst-y. Rain makes you hide in your basement and write songs like "Blackhole Sun" and "Lithium" and "Smells Like Teen Spirit." 

That's Rain, muthaf*ckers. And THAT is Seattle, Denver.

See here how it looks like it's 5 p.m.

It looks like that all day long. The sky goes from light gray to dark gray, without as much as a tease of sun. That's Seattle. Denver, this has never happened here.

Cmon Colorado. You know yesterday it looked like this:

And tomorrow it will look like this again. So we have one day of rain that actually makes our lawns green instead of the dirt yards that they will inevitably become in a month with the scorching sun. Should we really complain that we might not be in a drought this summer? I know it feels weird to use your windshield wipers to do something other than clear bugs off the windshield, and God knows, you've probably gone to buy a Gore-Tex rain jacket and galoshes by  now. But, fear not, Colorado. We won't start loading in animals two-by-two quite yet.

I hate to break it to you, Colorado, but there is a name for this rain today. Spring. It's a common weather pattern that happens every year. Summer - and the officially blazing, sultry, desert, scorching heat - doesn't start until June 20th. Until then, the weather has every right to be unpredictable, raining, sunny, chilly, hot, and pleasant. And, let's hope it is. 

Colorado, you are a bunch of pussies. For real. Toughen up. It's a freaking day of rain. Ok, it's two days of rain in a week. HOLYFUCK. Maybe use it as an excuse to sit on your couch and watch re-runs of "Law & Order" instead of training for your triathlon. A day of rest and laziness. What a novel idea! 

Don't worry, Colorado. It will be like the surface of the sun here soon enough. See... here's the weather for the rest of the week (and you know Thursday's thunderstorm is a 15 minute episode, so don't give me any guff about three days of straight rain):

There now. All better.

Real Simple. No shit.

Let me start this post with a warning. I don't like Real Simple magazine. I loathe its print existence. So, if you like it, maybe don't read this post. For it will most certainly offend you.

"Life made easier." This is the motto of Real Simple magazine. To that statement I ask, How? By charging $3.50 an issue for someone to tell me how to get stains out of my clothes and buy more thoughtful holiday presents? Really? There needs to be an entire magazine about that? Well, pardon me. But, I'd rather read about drinking or food, or the green revolution. Something a little more enlightening. Real Simple is full of articles and infographics written by women, for women, to drastically lower women's intelligence and self-sufficiency. Of this, I'm sure. Otherwise, why else would they be giving 10 tricks for opening that tricky pickle jar? Glamour, Vogue, Lucky - these magazine don't hide that fact that they're vain, gossipy, fluff machines. They celebrate. Hell, it's smeared all over their cover. But not RS. No, no no. They hide their enabling well behind a clean modern cover showcasing a perfectly furnished kitchen void of any life, save for a J.Crew sweater tossed casually over a chair. See? Someone lives here. Bullshit. 

Several topics I've seen grace the covers of RS:

How to organize your closet in 5 Easy Steps. I know how to do this. Bitch, please. I just have better things to do with my time.

Moving Made Easy. Simple steps to getting it together. Step 1: Throw it in a f*cking box and tape it up. Step 2: Hire someone.

Why I Love Ziploc Bags. Are you shitting me? An article completely stocked full of the most obvious ways to use a Ziploc. Put saline solution in here when you travel. Keep all your spares keys in here so you don't lose them. Stuff your personal pride and intelligence in here and keep them fresh for when you need them next.

How to whip together dinner in less than 20 minutes. It's called pasta on the stove with a can of sauce. Cmon.

Storage Solutions. They're called boxes. Must there be an entire issue dedicated to this?

Housewives of America, you are smarter and more interesting than this. I know you can figure out all these things on your own if given 5 minutes. In fact, start your own magazine called It's Easy, You F*cking Idiot. Apparently, there's an audience out there dying for this advice.

You know who I wish wrote Real Simple? Tina Fey.

In the meantime, here's some print worth reading. (link)

Rosé season

That's rosé, as in row-say. The delicious,blush pink-colored wine that makes every summer afternoon perfect. It's so intoxicatingly good that I don't mind not drinking it all winter, and waiting 6 long, cold months to uncork (or unscrew, in some cases) a bottle. Much like drinking a hearty cab in a sweater in front of a fire just feels right, sipping a slightly chilled glass of rose on a patio overlooking a body of water, with nothing but blue skies and smiles all around is beyond. Sure, I love white wines, and summer brews and margaritas and mojitos and sangria and all the wonderful drinks that satiate the palette during the hot summer months. But, when the taste of strawberry, ripe cherry, sophistication and refreshment hit your lips, you'll care not about whatever is going on around you - be it a neighbor loudly mowing the lawn or a over-chatty woman at the next table over. Rather, you'll be dreaming of St. Tropez, a sailboat, and a cabana boy named Sven. A glass makes anywhere you are, better. Anyone you're with, more interesting. Anyone you're looking at, more attractive. Really, there's no downside to drinking a glass of Rose. 

Oh, the best part? Don't worry about that 4th glass. Rose is the best kind of drunk. Yes, there will be a headache later. Isn't there always? But, while in the rose haze, you'll be the nicest, friendly, most lovable, interesting drunk in 6 states. Rose somehow has a calming, beautifying affect, once consumed. So go ahead. Fill 'er up and top it off. Not even a male wearing a shirt unbuttoned one too many to show his well-groomed chest hair and gold-braided necklace, hitting on you can spoil this high.

If you fear it, or "don't like it", then get the thought that it is White Zinfandel out of your skull. It is most certainly not. White Zinfandel is left over, bottom of the barrel grapes mixed with sugar.  Great. Glad we got that out of the way.

Some of my favorites:

Les Jamelles Cinsault Rose - at $9 a bottle, you can't afford to go the summer without having a bottle on hand at all times. No Saturday on the patio is complete without a bottle of this. Really... don't try it. 

FFC, Sophia Rose - Francis knows wine like he knows the Vietnamese jungle, and this is no exception. Plus, you totally feel like you've summoned the spirit of Sofia Coppolla when you drink it. So be aloof and pretentious. It's perfect, subtle, clean, and modern.

Crios Rose of Malbec: Seriously.... it's usually always right around $10 a bottle and will blow your mind. You'll want to drink it all immediately. But don't. Savor it. And keep it a good temp - chilled, not cold. Because it's a malbec, it's more spicy than sweet, as a lot of Rose's are. A lovely diversion on a Sunday afternoon. 

If you have me over for dinner, cheese, or conversation this summer, have a bottle of any of these on hand and see what happens. It might turn out to be one of the greatest afternoon into evenings of your life.

"This is a project."

The exact words that came out of my new stylist, Roxy, Patron Saint of Hair, said to me today. Though that sounds threatening, she was able to take my hair from this:

To this:

on the way to this:

God love good hairstylists.