The past week has been one awful news story after another–Farrah Fawcett, Ed McMahon, the Oxiclean guy, and, of course, Michael Jackson. Dead, Dead, Dead, and Dead. All of them. So tragic. Although not so much with Ed McMahon because he was 86 and that’s pretty old. So I’m not sure he qualifies as tragic. More like, um, predictable. That’s what old people do. They die. Tis one of those inescapable facts of life. Except it’s also one of those really scary facts of life, so I try not to think about it too much. I like to pretend that I’m going to live forever. Like a vampire, except minus all the slaughtering and blood drinking. At church, when they talk about dying, I close my ears and go “la la la la la.” In my head, of course. Our priest isn’t really cool with people ignoring him out loud. Priests are strict like that. Even though I’m pretty sure he was either hungover or possibly still drunk during one of his weekday sermons a few weeks ago. But that’s a story for another day, like preferably when I live in a different town because it’s not the best idea to write about your drunk priest in your blog even though the chances that anyone from your church reads your blog are slim to none because they only read these boring religious books that make me want to go to sleep. 

Back to the recently deceased–Unlike Ed, Michael Jackson definitely qualifies as a tragedy. Ahhh, Michael Jackson. It sounds so trite because everybody keeps saying it over and over again, but he really did define a generation. My generation. Kids who grew up in the 80’s. I remember in 4th grade when all the girls were carrying these leather drawstring Michael Jackson purses. I wanted one SO BAD. A light purple one. I’ve been trying to find a pic on the internet, but the closest I’ve found is this:

Which, I’m sorry, is SO not as cool as the purse I’m talking about. And guess who is kicking herself now? That’s right–my mom because the cool purse would be worth, like, a thousand dollars now. See Mom? I TOLD you you should have bought it for me. But noooooooooo.

Although I didn’t have the awesome purse (sniff sniff) I did have the Thriller album, which I played on my blue record player. A record player!!! I am so old.

This is the Thriller album cover and when you opened it up it stretched out so you could see his legs too. I hung it up on my wall, but my dad made me take it down because Michael Jackson was black and good little Southern girls did not have pictures of black boys hanging up in their bedrooms. In fact, he was mad at my mom for even buying it for me. But my mom didn’t care because she liked MJ too. Even though she didn’t buy me the purse. Not that I still think about that. That would be sick and unhealthy.

RIP, Michael.

The girl on my site is cut in half! I don’t know what has happened to her and my graphics, but I have somebody working on it. In the meantime, if anyone sees the bottom half of a girl’s sillhouette, let me know . . .

According to a Time article I just read, the “secret” ingredient in Red Bull Cola is, um, COCAINE.

Ooops.

This is very upsetting. I don’t drink the cola, but I guzzle Sugar Free Red Bull  Energy drink by the gallon.  Starting right after I finish my daily iced coffe from McDonald’s and giant glass of water laced with “Spark,” which I suspect also contains cocaine or some other illegal drug because I can’t stop drinking it, even though it costs $50 a month and tastes like crap.

Incidentally, Sugar Free Red Bull also tastes like crap, yet I’m drawn to it. I can’t live without it. I think about it all the time. I love it so much, I’d marry it. You get the idea.

While we’re on the subject of my embarrasing addictions, let’s talk about The Real Housewives of New Jersey.

First off, let me say that I can’t believe I’m watching this. Yes, I adore the Real Houswewives of New York, but that’s different. That’s women in New York. I don’t even watch the Orange County or Atlanta Housewives, so what’s up with me and these New Jersey chicks? One of the women (Teresa–2nd from left) calls breasts “bubbies,” for heaven’s sake.  And Dina (2nd from right) is so scary I sometimes worry she might actually jump through the television screen and kick my you-know-what. Yet I find them strangely fascinating. Or maybe it’s just that I have no life. I’m not sure.

In other news, Donald Trump finally got around to firing Carrie Prejean.

I have to say, I don’t really get this girl. She’s trying to hold herself out to the world as this sort of spokesperson for “traditional” Christian values (i.e. slamming the gay and lesbian community), yet Fox News just published transcripts of several emails between her and Keith Lewis, the director of the California USA pageant, and they do not present Ms. Prejean in a flattering light. At all. Professionally or grammatically. Here is a sampling:

You do not cooperate with me, and you pick and chose the the things YOU want me to do. That is not happening anymore. Stop speaking for me. I have MY own voice. What are u gonna do fire me for volunteering for the special olympics hahaha ur crazy No I am doing this appearance. You do not need details. Its for the SPECIAL OLYMPICS!!! You just need to know I will be doing it alright

 There are so many things wrong with this e-mail, I don’t even know where to start.  First off, I know e-mail, texting, etc. lends itself to a very informal style of writing–no punctuation, abbrieviations, etc. And that’s fine if you’re writing to your BFF, your mom, the cute guy from the gym, Aunt Martha–you get the idea. However, if you’re communicating about your JOB, you need to put in a little more effort (a LOT more in Ms. Prejean’s case). And make no mistake, being a title holder is a JOB. Especially on the state level. Yes, you get to wear fancy clothes and have your picture taken and (perhaps) go on TV and appear in magazines, but the bottom line is that it’s still a job. In the first line she says you pick and chose (notice “chose” is misspelled) the things YOU want me to do. That is not happening anymore. 

Yeah . . . um, the pageant organization does pick and choose the things a titleholder does. That’s sort of the point. Hence the contract they make you sign when you enter the pageant. Now, that being said, I would certainly expect pageant officials to make every effort to accommodate reasonable requests from a titleholder–like allowing them to volunteer for a Special Olympics event should they wish to do so. But based on Mr. Lewis’s response (below), it appears the California organization was very willing to work with her. 

 Carrie,

Although I do not agree with your directive nor is this letter an indication of our intent to waive our contract rights, we do not want to escalate the situation with you. In good faith, we will simply ask that you provide us all of the details so that we can block it in on our master calendar. We would also want to get the contact information should something come up - like you become missing after the event or you are in an accident before the event and need us to reach out for you. It is for your safety and our responsibility.

Best regards,

Keith Lewis

Notice how his professional, POLITE, e-mail makes her sound even more like a spoiled, hateful 13 year old? I’m not saying that he’s right and she’s wrong or vice-versa. Obviously, I have no idea what goes on behind the scenes of the California USA system. Maybe Keith Lewis is Satan himself. Maybe he boiled Carrie’s pet kitten in a pot. I don’t know. All I’m saying is that because of the unprofessional, rude nature of her written communications, she comes off looking like the bad guy. So let this be a lesson to you, boys and girls. Be polite!! And use proper grammar!!