…and bring a snake.

“You brought some crazy stuff, ” said Mac Hauser, referring to the wardrobe I brought for our photo shoot.

Crazy? Wow. I’d done it. Mac Hauser, the iconic portrait photographer who absolutely embraces the freaky, was calling my suitcase full of stuff, “crazy”!? This, coming from a man who four hours before our scheduled photo shoot, emailed to request that I bring a large, live snake.

I told him I was afraid that the snake might escape while I was driving and slither around my neck. Then I would freak out and get into a car accident. Or, I would arrive at the studio with the snake and it would wind up in the rafters of his studio and I would have to shoot it.

“Good crazy, or bad crazy? ” I asked.

“Good crazy. I like everything except that ugly suede vest thing with the sun on it, but I’ll shoot it. Clients, they’ll tell you they want crazy, so you give them crazy and they go nuts. They want boring … except once I was shooting for Diesel and they couldn’t get enough crazy. I had a model on set with a dog pissing on her, and the client loved it!”

I met Marc many years ago at a party. I was out with five of my guy friends and we stumbled into a very chi chi loft where all the ladies had manicured hands and cocktail dresses. I was wearing jeans and a t-shirt with an Eames chair on it,  a cardigan sweater that had giant dolman sleeves, and puma shoes. I wasn’t at all comfortable in this hoity-toity environment, so I immediately calmed my nerves with a perfectly prepared dirty martini. I could ice skate on that slushy drink.

After proper inebriation, I made my way to the fancy food table. There was an exotic spread of appetizers that looked like it had just been flown in from Paris. The buffet had all these natural wicker, Easter type baskets that contained the food. Giant candelabrum and votives were creating an alluring ambient light.

I reached over to pop some goodie in my mouth when suddenly, my sweater caught the flicker of a flame. I watched with wide eyes as the flame spread around the wide cuff of my sleeve and I thought to myself, “Wow, this looks like a hoop of fire that a little puppy could jump though“. I started to wave my hand, in an attempt to extinguish the now spreading fire. I’d lit a basket on fire, too. The pâté was smokin’ and Carr’s Water Crackers were burning.

The background noise of the party sounded very much like Charlie Browns teacher, “Wha, wha, wha, wha, whah!”

“Help,” I choked and watched all those trixie bitches at the party, who were ignoring me. THEY WANTED THE WHITE TRASH TO BURN. I was like the hired help and the only reason I hadn’t been kicked out was because I’d arrived with five very hot guys.

That’s when my friend Miko ran over to me, knocking me to the ground like Brian Urlacher. Together, we rolled around on the highly polished floor and suddenly the party stopped partying and looked at us. They thought we were rolling around like young crazy lovers.

The spectators where delighted and gave us a round of applause.

Marc Hauser sat in a chair, perched above me from my vantage point on the floor.

“Hey,” he said to me.

“Hay, is for horses,” I said.

We left shortly later, but not before I probably had ten more drinks and stuffed my face with food.  Then we were off like thieves in the night.

Miko: “Okay, so you met Marc Hauser and all you had to say is, ‘Hay is for horses?’ Really??”

Me: “Dude, I was on frickin’ FIRE.”

Whatever, the guys all still called me the following Friday to go out and get drunk. And years later, Marc is my friend. Here’s what we did yesterday:

Model: Victoria Larsen. Makeup: Aga Kaskiewicz. Hair: Frankie. Concept and styling: Erin Butler. Photographs by Marc Hauser.

 

Something smells fishy

No, I wasn’t high. So what if I bought a four foot long stuffed Marlin pillow? It really did look cool on the web site, but when I took it out of the box, well here’s what happened:

It was around 7:30 pm when the doorbell rang.

“Don’t answer the door, it’s probably Jehovah’s Witnesses,’ I yelled.

Look at this...isn't it GREAT!??!

Greg shot me a look and walked over to the front door to get a package handed to him from the Fed Ex guy. This was the gift I’d been waiting for. Earlier in the week, I spent a day obsessing over throw pillows. I just love how they make a couch even more inviting. Now that I’m “freelance”, which translates to a professional couch potato, I’ve found it necessary to accessorize my throne. I was sick of seeing the same old pedestrian Pottery Barn pillow. My intent was to think not just outside the box, but outside everything. Why not find a fish pillow? That would score some creative points, right?

Soon, everyone was going to want a fish pillow. I was planning to be coy, and when asked “where on earth did I find such a cool pillow?” I would shrug my shoulders and say something like, “Oh, my Mom brought this back from some  little place in the Hamptons. Some artist made it.”

“Your fish is here,” Greg said.

I ran to him and ripped the package out of his hand. “Oh, my God, I’m so excited! This is going to be so great! OMG … and now that our house is going to be featured in the bungalo walk, this is going to make the place look even better.

I tore open the package and pulled out this gigantic, horrific, dead fucking fish.  The nose, or beak, or whatever  sagged to the floor. Greg said, “Jesus christ, that looks like a  big black dick.”

“This is TERRIBLE!” I said. I felt like I was holding a dirty diaper.

The fins were like fairy wings. This fish didn’t look like it could swim. The worst part was the eyes. They were like real dead fish eyes. I think they were a photograph of some poor dead Marlin. They were looking at me creepy … creepy. The fish was thinking, “Lady, you just bought me and methinks you a fool!

“What the Hell. This is so not what was on the web site. THIS IS CRAP, ” I said.

Greg couldn’t stop laughing, “How much did you pay for it?” He asked.

“Twelve dollars,” I said.

“Oh well, it was cheap. Use it as a white elephant gift,” Greg suggested.

Then it dawned on me, I could have fun with my fish. We could go for drives in the country. I could bring him to bars, parties, picnics and vacations. My friends with kids would like my pillow. Or, maybe I could leave him on a beach?

LOOK AT THIS GIANT DEAD PIECE OF CRAP!!!!

Bridezilla

If you’re planning to exchange vows this year, don’t pull a Kardashian. In the real world, with our empty piggy banks and flabby bellies, a wedding can be a daunting prospect. When I got married eight years ago, I was broke and out of shape (still am)  My fiancé and I made our A-List of guests, shopped for invitations, checked out some local venues and that’s when it hit me. I couldn’t afford some fairy tale wedding. It was looking more like I’d be wearing a cigar band around my finger and the reception would be at a White Castle.

RELAX

Uncharacteristically, I had a bridezilla break down. You know, one of those sobbing fits punctuated with unintelligible screaming.  I started to choke and wondered why? Just why? Why is this happening to me? After a while, I couldn’t even remember why I was crying. Then I had big raccoon eyes that made me look pathetic. Next, I reached for the bag of Cape Cod potato chips and hated myself for being self-destructive, eating every last chip and licking the bag. And then I watched the movie Marley and Me (okay, I lied … Marley and Me came out in 2008. I watched some other sad movie) and LOST IT … I could fill three martini glasses with my tears (or maybe that was vodka)! After punching a pillow ten times an amazing thing happened…

I got a proper slap in the face. End of drama! When I calmed down, here’s what I learned: Use everyone you know, including yourself.

My fiancée proposed to me in the shower. It was one of those drop the soap moments. Lacking the romantic setting I’d envisioned, I figured that once I wrapped myself up in my luxury (a Costco terry cloth robe), I’d walk into the living room and it would be filled with the ambiance I expected. There would be candlelight, rose petals and a small jazz quartet playing our favorite songs. Chilled champagne would invite me to the moment I’d been waiting for. An engagement ring would sparkle like sunken treasure at the bottom of my crystal glass. Not the case. Where was the ring I wondered? So I asked.

“Rings are a cliché, I was thinking of planting a tree for us,” said my about to be ex who then spit out a giant goober and blew his nose into the shower.

GET YOUR BLING ON!

A tree … that wasn’t going to work. Thanks, but no gracias. I realize not everyone gets a classically elegant ring with, “a cushion modified brilliant diamond encircled by a double row of bead-set diamonds” in a blue Tiffany box (not unless you’re Callista Gingrich). However, I’m still a little old-fashioned. I  was fortunate to inherit my great grandmother’s engagement ring. Small, but somewhat noteworthy. About the size of a petite diamond earring, it’s  hardly “a rock” but it is sentimental and much lighter than a tree. Recycling old jewelry is a super economic trick to getting a beautiful ring and not spending nine months of pay. Jewelers use state of the art design programs to create something new from any old trinket, even a cuff link is fair game.

GET OUT OF TOWN!

Yes, Jesus did attend our wedding.

We decided to make the event manageable and elope. Our destination: Costa Rica. To our surprise, when we announced the plan, friends and family urged us to include them on the trip. I wondered how we could afford even a small dinner party for our  posse of swells? The booze bill alone could exceed our Boone’s Farm budget. We knew that to make our wedding a success, we had to call in favors. It was time to get the ball rolling and bring out the naked pictures.

My husband is great friends with a guy who owns a resort in Monte Verde, Costa Rica. As a wedding gift, his buddy promised to charge us only for the cost of food and liquor expenses incurred during the rehearsal dinner and reception. Funny what a photo of his friend hanging out with a midget in a fishnet stocking jumpsuit can provide. GAME ON!

CREATE A PAPER TRAIL

It was time to send invitations. I highly recommend that you save tons of money and make your own cards. It’s easy. If you are not confident about your design skills, try a pre-made kit, like those available at Target.

Prior to meeting my Price Charming, I had to kiss a fair share of repugnant frogs. My husband, a wildlife photographer, has spent a lot of time in Costa Rica the Amazon. For a while, he was well-known for photos of rare frogs. Ironic, because the year before meeting my hubby I went out on several dates where I was gifted a frog. At a Mardi Gras party, my date put a frog-beaded necklace around my neck. Another suitor gave me a crystal frog. We decided to use the frog reference on our invitations.

On one side of the invitation was a photo that Greg shot of the rain forest, At the bottom of a tree, we photoshopped a photo of two toy frogs who were obviously in love (awww). The reverse side had a brief shout out of: Greg Neise and Erin Butler to wed June 23, in Costa Rica. For details check out our web site.

Greg built a site outlining all the details, tickets, accommodations and a fantastic itinerary (one of his former jobs was as a travel agent specializing in Costa Rica). We included links to a variety of activities and amusements. The site was filled with his amazing photos of the wedding site.

WARDROBE PLEASE:

See? It all worked out.

I bought my dress at Nieman-Marcus, on sale in the formal attire section—Nichole Miller gown that was just over $100. It looks like a “wedding” dress, but I knew I couldn’t set foot in some bridal boutique without spending thousands of dollars. Seems kind of silly to blow that kind of coin on a dress that gets worn once and in the end, stained with wine. I asked that everyone going to the wedding wear white, and in my mind, they were all my attendants. Friends and family were spending money to join us in Costa Rica, I hardly felt it would be fair for me to tack on the cost of bridesmaids dresses and suits for the men.

OWN IT

Figure out what’s important. For me, it was food, champagne, and atmosphere.

Rather than host some huge blow-out wedding, have a small group of intimate friends and very close relatives celebrate your day at a favorite restaurant. Who wants a dried up chicken breast and rice pilaf? Typically, it will run 100 to 300 dollars a head to have a mundane wedding with suckie food. You can work a deal out with the restaurant manager and usually get some perks added … maybe even BYOB. If you combine the ceremony and reception space, you’ll save even more.

Or hire someone to cook. We had a grill master man-up lobster tails and steaks (lobster and steak is remarkably affordable in Costa Rica). A buffet table filled with salads and veggie sides sealed the meal. To this day, my friends still talk about how great dinner was.

ROLL WITH IT!

It will be perfect if you don’t expect it to be. My mother, a talented floral designer was in charge of floral arrangements for the wedding. A van with our anticipated flowers rolled up to the lodge. The Spanish speaking men opened the door to unveil buckets filled with bubble gum pink carnations. No joke. My mother looked at me and with confidence said, “Mama will fix!”

She and friend Marsha disappeared in the jungle and returned with beautiful flowers and giant leaves that they used as plate chargers. My mom bought bags of limes which she incorporated with the flowers in vases. We also brought with simple, white table clothes from home. The trick is to make them extra long and puddle the excess fabric on the floor. Trés chic!

The Chicago Tribune actually ran a feature story about our wedding and they had no idea about our shoestring budget. The party went off without a hitch and appeared to be lavish. Total cost incurred, just over $2,000. I soon realized that the problem too many couples have with planning a wedding is taking it too seriously. Use my life raft tips and don’t go into debt. Chill-lax and feel the love! I still do to this day.

That’s not all folks!

In addition, my best friend photographed the wedding, another shot video and performed a dance. We created a play list of our favorite music to blast at the reception. When I walked down the aisle, everyone sang, “Here comes the bride.” My friend Mina was my flower girl, because her name means “flower” in her native tongue. Wow, and after writing this I’m getting a little choked up. Gotta go find me some tissues. xo.

I wasn't kidding about that: Chicago Tribune, July 27, 2003.

My Snowy White Valentine

While snowy white storms have merely dusted Chicago this winter, that hasn’t kept the sky clear of Snowy Owls. The majestic birds caused a mama mia stir when they made Montrose Harbor a new pit stop in Illinois. Typically, Snowys stay to the north, but the a lack of food up there has sent them farther south to Chicago hoods in search of rats and other delectables. Here they have found a basin of dry landscape running rabid with their favorite meals and restaurants.This is bad news for any rodents that will end up as favorites on the owl’s menu. Check please!

@ 2011 Rick Remington

I guess I should feel grateful to the Snowy Owls who seem to like Chicago so much. I’m not much of a fan of varmints! When I see a rodent, a visible and audible change occurs. Simply put, I loose my smooth jazz cool. I sort of needed therapy about the issue, but that’s quite another story.

I should pack up some gifts of gratitude for those owls. They deserve a pat on their cute heads, just like any other do-gooder. It’s Valentines Day and I should dash out to Montrose Harbor where the owls have their hang out. I could bring them a thoughtful basket of food … classic Chicago hot dogs and tootsie pops! Sort of like a welcome to new neighbors.

Except that would be crazy and even a lie. I don’t love those owls any more than I’d love my husband’s mistress (if he had one). You see, I’m the victim of a cruel love triangle. Greg can’t stop talking about those stupid, beautiful owls. Really, I can’t blame him … they are fascinating, and moving to watch. Looks like I need to get over myself. This is hard.

He showed me some pictures of a Peregrine Falcon attacking one of the poor owls.

“Why is that happening? Can’t that owl take down the hawk?” I ask.

“Oh hawks and owls always fight,” says Greg.

“That owl looks like a puppet. It needs to kung-fu kick some ass,” I say.

“I don’t think the owl knows kung-fu, but trust me, the owl would win this fight,” says Greg.

“I think the owl looks scared, ” I say. Next Greg gives me the “leave” look and I’m off to obsessing on LinkedIn and stuff.

Now those photos are being ogled by birders all over the world. I dare say they are more popular than Lindsay Lohan in Playboy Magazine. These owls keep getting more lovers every day. Can you feel the love?

Sure it’s Valentines Day, we may pop a bottle of champagne and eat some fondue. However, I fully realize he will be thinking of the flock of Snowys that have tugged his heart this winter. Really, I can’t blame him. Maybe I’ll wear something with feathers! Or, maybe we’ll be real geeks and have our own little picnic at the Harbor with them.

Masternation

Today Moni, lead singer for Masternation came over to conduct a business meeting with my hubby. I’ve been dealing with a massive anxiety attack which she helped subside. First of all, she brought me a sandwich. Never underestimate the power of a good sandwich. Then, she sang her latest song (soon to be released on wood grain vinyl):

HIPSTERS DON’T SAY HI

Hipsters don’t say hi

Hipsters, I just want to know why?

A simple “Hi” when I wave at you

A little nod or smile would do

A friendly word

You don’t need to be a turd

Oh hipster, poor little sad hipster

I think this guy is a manager at Jewel.

I can’t get the tune out of my frickin’ skull. It’s not only genius, it’s the new Slacky Hipster theme song. To think, I was getting worried that I wouldn’t have the right jingle … I kept thinking nothing could top the introduction sing along songs for The Facts of Life, or Diff’rent Strokes.

Now I can say, “Move over dorks, I’ve got a hit on my hands.” I think Moni should tour again. I miss songs like, Sand in my Cookie (inspired by working out on the beach), and Hairy Knuckles. I also miss being the band’s performance artist. Fans, refill your Zippos and make sure to belt out the Slacky Hipster an turn it up to 11! Maybe, the new hit will motivate Masternation to dust off their air guitars and get out of retirement.

Clean up your junk

The guys were actually kind of on to something with their locker room jokes. I could tell by the escalated laughter resounding from the boys in the corner, that conversation had turned to the gutter. I decided to cross over the fence of ladies and move to the male side of the party. Who doesn’t love a little dirty talk?

It all started with my husbands bushy beard. A male friend was combing his fingers through the nest and remarking about the soft bristles.This lead to a laundry list of wishes that female fuzz was equally as pet-able. A suggestion was made that the ladies grow out their landing strips and groom their shag rugs Bo Derek style, corn roll braids with little beads on the ends. My husband suggested that eventually, when the braids were long enough, they could be cut off and made into friendship bracelets. I believe the men were drinking whiskey.

A little mishegas might help your shikse.

I for one wasn’t laughing. Instead, I briefly drifted away from the party. I couldn’t help putting on my thinking cap and ponder, “Do people really decorate their downstairs garden?” I’ll admit that I’m a little freaky about wearing socks that match my outfit, but it seems outlandish to worry so much about the carpet getting steam cleaned and accessorized. So, I decided to do a little research and I suppose I shouldn’t act like an old prude, but I was surprised.

I’m now informed about the Merkin. As cited from Wikipedia, ” Merkin (first use 1617)[1] is a pubic wig. Merkins were originally worn by prostitutes after shaving their genitalia, and are now used as decorative items, erotic devices, or in films, by both men and women.”

Apparently, I’ve been living under a rock because even Joan Rivers, whose older than paved sidewalks recently was printed as saying, “Merkins are so last year!” Her sock drawer must be full of whatever it is that is in the now. (Yeah. Think about that … think about what’s in Joan Rivers’ sock drawer if you want to stay up nights.) Then again, why buy a toupee, when you can get a transplant and a face that looks like a Halloween mask.

Cindy Barshop, former Real Housewives of New York Star and owner of the spa chain, Completely Bare, would argue that the Merkins she designs are a big deal. Her original “Foxy Bikini” ($225) made out of real fur has been redesigned with faux fur. How thoughtful of Barshop to be so politically correct! I do declare this the perfect gift for the girlfriend working at Peta. Or, if fur isn’t your thing, try the popular Carnivale Bikini. For a mere $195, you can adhere a strip of neon colored feathers to the private sector of your body.

Seriously, I’m all about fun, but I’d just rather get some cute new shoes, maybe even see the Muppet Movie! … still, I can’t help but think about those Merkins and how I’m so last year.

What a croc of

I wonder about some people’s fashion choices. The capital offense, Croc shoes. I’ve noticed that even celebraties embrace their right to parade around in the whimsical  clogs. Take top chef Mario Batali, a man who could have diamonds on the soles of his shoes. To my dismay, he favors sporting Crocs, the fruit colored foot gear. Maybe they remind him of pasta strainers?

Do I really need to say anything?

I don’t understand why anyone in their right mind would wear Crocs; or why the Colorado based company isn’t bankrupt. Far from taking a financial stumble, Crocs grossed over $1 billion in 2011 and project to surpass that number this year. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, but I think those wearing Crocs are leaving behind an ugly footprint.

For those not familiar with Crocs, I applaud you! Crocs are rubber shoes that make your feet stink. Really gross. Anyone wearing Crocs should throw them into the recycling bin! Or, gift them to a dog, as they would make great chew toys.

Please, don’t try to pass Crocs off as gardening slippers! With all those holes, how are your feet protected from getting dirty? And don’t use the alibi that they are comfortable. So are Jimmy Choos.

Do you want to know what’s worse? Seriously, the story gets better! So called, “designers” have expanded the Croc line and now they have boots, jelly flats, and even sandals. A little something for everyone with bad taste. This makes me so sad. They violate me. It just seems so, ugly American. I’m not mad at anyone … but disappointed. You fools wearing Crocs have let me down and I expect change! Quick, go to Nordstrom and redeem yourself with some shopping therapy.

I’m certain Croc lovers haven’t moved from the couch. Not only is Nordstrom not on the Croc lovers agenda, they’re probably windexing those rubber soles for a weekend date.

My only alternative is to contact Yoko Ono. Ono just launched her recent art project in support of Occupy Wall Street which involves volunteers who write their personal wishes for peace onto scraps of paper. These wishes are tied to trees in Zuccotti Park, located in lower Manhattan.

I read a few of those well wishers thoughts: “I wish for equality for all and an end to tyranny and poverty,” while another had a simpler message: “I wish everyday was swimming.” My wish Yoko, “Make love, not crocs!” Now stick that on a tree and let’s hope that Americans march out into the world wearing some snazzy shoes!

A tip to Mr. Batali, Dansko makes classic kitchen clogs that will always look chic. Just go there, for the love of Mike!

Let me take you on a magic mustache ride

The fake mustache trend showed up on the runway in 2008. Who would have thought that four years later, the accessory would still tickle both our fancy and our upper lip? My girlfriends and I got together last weekend for an annual pillow fight. Once in a blue moon, we kick our husbands, kids, and cats to the curb for a night of girl bonding. One of the ladies surprised us with a package of adhesive facial hair and the next thing we knew, stars were born.

We went on a magic mustache ride; a journey right up there with the one time I declined a proposition to join the mile high club. Each of us, stood up from cozy bar stools and became thespians. Before we could control what was happening, we were all acting like guyz. “Yo, whad up with the sushi?”

How bout’ a beef sammie, make it wet. Why I outta call Freddie, he’s got the best salami.You always get an extra couple of inches of meat from dat guy.”

My mustache stopped being sticky after a few paparazzi shots. WARNING: champagne and fake mustaches don’t mix. So us gals moved on to bigger and better fun. Ladies, when you bond, let it all hang out!

l-r: Ricky, Mario, Olga (aka Unibrow), Nick, the banker from Monopoly and Salvador Palsy.

I’ve found that the older I get, the more I learn about having fun. So, if you are hosting a ladies night, or  are an attendee, I recommend that you bring the right props. Here are the ingredients for a great girlie get together:

The menu should be light nibbles. Think small plates and appetizers. If you’ve got the buckage, sushi and cupcakes make an impressive spread. To help with the cost of the bar bill, guests should bring something to complement what the host plans to serve as a signature drink … and I’m not talking about a straw. My gals love the bubbly, so we each had a bottle of champagne in tote. It can be a lot of fun, tasting different sips from the variety of bottles. A tasting that lasts for hours and hours.

To create a great vibe, music is vital. Never play the Eagles or country-western (yes, despite the current line-dancing craze) unless you want everyone to leave. Instead, sneak a peek at Facebook, and look up the guest’s profiles. Under the music section,  jot down what bands they like and create a custom mix based on their tastes. At the last party, we heard Arcade Fire, R.E.O. Speedwagon, Florence and the Machine, Rihanna, and Lady GaGa. The mix was perfect.

Although there is never a lull when my amigas gather, I recommend having some no-brainer amusements. There is usually someone in the crowd who reads tarot cards to add mystery, intrigue and drunken stupidity. Mad Libs, question games, and even reading old high school diaries are hilarious. For those who stay late, bring out the moose munch and watch Bridesmaids. How can you go wrong?

See, this is why the guys stay home, cuz if they were at this party they’d really be taking one for the team. To think all this time, they thought we were talking about sex and having pillow fights in our panties. Hmmm … I guess that’s more sexy then the thought of a group of grown women acting out an 8th grade slumber party. Or is it?

Bro-tox

I drink a lot of water, and it’s not because I think it’s refreshing. Water is about as close to the fountain of youth as I’m going to get. I take care of my skin and regularly bury my face in a wet towel, that I steam in the spaghetti stained microwave. (Great for a hangover!)  I realize that I’m not a teenager anymore and that my Irish skin doesn’t love the sun, but still I wasn’t prepared for a question that I was recently asked during a dinner party. A male friend inquired, “Have you thought about Botox?”

Do you think the Slacky Hispster needs a shot in the forehead? I don't!

I dropped my fork and wondered if he had thought about a toupee, except all his hair was intact. Well, he must have been hitting the sauce because not ten minutes earlier, I’d been having a make-out session with myself in the bathroom mirror. I cleaned up nice for the party. I had enough Maybelline instant age rewind eraser on my face to fill in the cracks. I felt like going to the Jewel to buy some booze, just so I would get carded. Heck, they card my Grandma at that store.

“Funny, you should ask, but no I haven’t thought of getting Botox (next subject please),” was my response. There were plenty of other people at the dinner table. Why was I getting picked on?

My friend was looking very close at my face. He was like a Dermatologist, holding a magnifying glass, concerned about his aging dinner guest. Was this an ultimatum … you’ll get Botox and like it, or no wine for you! Was he about to extract a big mad scientist doctor-bag?

“You look good, but there are lines on your forehead and around your mouth. Don’t you want them to go away? You see, I have this friend who makes house calls, so I was thinking that I would invite you to a little Botox house party, ” he said.

Wow, I’ll bring the Bacardi to that blow out.

Yes, I was appalled. Had he not seen the same Tyra Banks show that I saw? The one were a bunch of women had their butts injected with some crap that was supposed to give them a great booty, but instead it sent them to the hospital. They had been injected with cement! I thought of my face … it has character. I don’t want to look pulled and stretched like silly putty.

I never thought a man would be so frank. Most of the time when a lady asks a guy a question like, “Does this make me look fat?” The man isn’t paying very much attention. If someone were to ever tell me I was not aging gracefully, I would have thought it would have been me. That little voice in my head that is usually too critical.

I'd probably come home looking like this.

As it turns out, Botox is on the rise among men. It was a popular “gift” during the holiday season. ABC News reports that more than 300,000 men got Botox last year, that’s a 10 percent increase from last year. Getting shot-up isn’t just for celebrities or trophy wives. Since 2000, 45 percent more men are opting to get plastic surgery, too.

I never thought that men would creep into the female vanity circle. Go away puffy eyes and flabby belly. I want to eat my cake and get laid too. Apparently, working out and diet is too pedestrian.

After doing my research, I realized that my friend just wanted a partner in crime. I warned him never to bring up the subject again and told him to go to a real doctor if this was his choice.

I was like, “A bro-tox party is kind of ghetto. If you can afford a BMW, you can see a professional.”

Hello, don’t you watch Tyra Banks?

The New Year year won’t hurt a bit

This year, I resolve to stop fucking with people, not to fall asleep in public, and to be a lady. (Deep Breath) This will require that I stop yelling to my favorite bartender, “Hey, fat black man, bring me another!” (He actually enjoys this. His name is Anthony, and everyone tells him he looks like the fat black guy from SNL.)

I will end my ruse of pretending to be an actress. So, I’ll have to stop LYING and claiming that my most recent role is the Emmy-winning scene where I portray a sad lady, walking across a bridge in an Alzheimer’s commercial.

I will not engage all the people who email with promises of wiring me money. I will stop giving these people a contact number so that I can negotiate my terms … and that I plan to fly in to wherever the money is. I won’t tell them I’m gluten-free, so they better have proper food, or that I require copious amount of alcohol or else I shake. I won’t tell them that there had better be a limo waiting for me at the airport. And no guns, spears, or lightsabers. The money should be unmarked and not smell funny. I promise I won’t tell them any of this ever again.

I won’t fall asleep at the House of Blues, or on Michelle’s bathroom floor (not that I ever sunk so low).

Instead, I’ll lose weight. I vow to end the cheeseburger diet and work out a little. I will not exercise  with a bloody mary in my hand. I’m going to have friends over for a gumbo party and all they will talk about is my skinny ass and cute outfit. I will stand back and eavesdrop on my party and see them talking in slow motion about my flat stomach. Although I won’t eat for a week prior to the party, on that day, I’ll gobble it down. They will wonder where I put it.

I’m going to go someplace in my car that requires driving a couple of hours (a big deal because I hate to drive) I won’t honk my horn during the drive, or yell, “DOUCH BAG” because I will drive like a lady. I will not flip-off my husband, or make fun of crying babies. (I’ll give you something to cry about), I will stop thinking evil thoughts about Packers fans. I will be an extra-Slacky Hipster and put a little fun in your dull pathetic life.

Have a hell of a happy New Year and if you are on the pulse of hip, you will be at a pajama party getting trashed. C U in 2012!

[note- I fully expect to fail at all of these resolutions … especially the Packers thing.]