I finished Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. Don't get all nervous and jerky, I'm not gonna give anything away. Sheesh.

It's no wonder I was able to read 870 pages in three days. The vast majority of solids and liquids that have entered my body during that time frame have been of the caffeinated persuasion.

Although I am extremely partial to the coffee served by a favorite local establishment, and will continue to be loyal to this cup-o-joe, I have recently discovered the insane pleasure of The Starbucks Latte. To be truthful, I don't particularly enjoy Starbucks' coffee per se, and I will admit that ordering their crap is a little intimidating (which do you say first - the venti or the latte?) but I am becoming rapidly addicted to these frothy concoctions. I will gladly make a fool of myself at the counter just to get that baby into my bloodstream, and fast. No flavorings, no sugar, just espresso and milk whipped into a frenzy. Oh yeah.

Yesterday I was too engrossed in Harry Potter to fathom dressing and leaving the house for my daily fix, so I actually MADE a pot of coffee for myself at home. The problem here is that I drank the entire thing. Myself. And because I own one of those Bunn commercial-grade coffeemakers, 48 ounces of Liquid High is always just three minutes away. I figure this is a good way for me to get in those 8 glasses of water a day I'm always hearing about.

When I'm not downing ridiculous amounts of the hot stuff, you can find an open can of ice cold Coca-Cola at my fingertips.

Oreos are, in my opinion, a food group. They are at the bottom of the Food Pyramid; therefore, I should eat 6 to 12 servings of them per day. It's getting kind of humid here, so I am enjoying the frozen Oreo as the current main staple of my diet. An occasional chocolate ice cream cone finds its way into my digestive tract, but for the most part, it's Oreo City in there.

So far today, I have consumed one pot of coffee, two cans of Coca-Cola and one chocolate ice cream cone. I'm done reading Harry Potter.

I bet I could read the whole dictionary.

I have a Bachelor's degree in Cliff's Notes.

Seriously, I do. I was an English major as an undergraduate, and my degree was earned, for the most part, reading three dollar summaries of the Classics.

Most mornings, Amy and I would wake up and yell to eachother from our respective bedrooms, "SKIPPIES?" Translation: We Are Truants. Some days we would show up late for the first lesson, some days we would miss one class, and other times we would blow off every course scheduled that day. In Amy's defense, she fell into this habit because of my poor influence.

I honed this skill one year prior to meeting Amy during my Drama course featuring Ibsen, Strindberg and Chekhov. The professor was a boring and eccentric woman, and the thought of listening to her drone on for ninety minutes two days a week was just too much for any 18 year old to stomach. Amazingly, she bought my fabricated story about missing classes due to a recently diagnosed thyroid problem and I managed to scrape up a B for my final grade.

The following year, I convinced Michelle to sign up for another course with the same professor - Victorian Literature. (Amy could not be persuaded to join.) "Come on, it'll be a total blowoff. She's completely out of it and it'll be an easy way to complete that requirement!" I could not have been more wrong. The professor's favorite expressions were "Ahhhhhhhh," and "Uhhhhhhhh," and my personal favorite, "I myself don't see that, but There It Is." This was her usual statement when I was called upon to respond to a question she posed, and unprepared to do so knowledgeably, I made up the biggest bullcrappity answer I could think of on the spot. She was on to me. Therefore, Michelle and I spent the rest of the semester tallying the number of times she repeated her Ahs and Uhs and I myself don't see that but There It Ises because we knew we couldn't dare try to skip out when we weren't completing the readings. We actually became rather well known to the Back Row Crowd, of which we were the founding members, and on the last day of class, we brought in a cordless tape recorder so we could remember her annoying phrases for all time. We and the rest of the Back Row spent the entire class covering our mouths and laughing our asses off at our great ingenuity. I wonder what ever happened to that tape...

Amy and I had quite a strongbox of excuses that we used on a weekly basis so that the attendance requirements for our classes no longer applied to us. Electricity out, stalled car, various illnesses - all carefully used and never repeated in order to maintain a semblance of truth. I think we only got away with this because we participated wholeheartedly in class discussions when we were present, thus endearing us to the naive (or indifferent) instructor.

Aside: The only time I cringe when I think about speaking in class was in my 20th Century European Fiction course. During class, the professor would made us read each chapter aloud round-robin style, even though we had already been assigned the chapter for homework. When it was my turn to read aloud from a book by Isak Dinesen (I think it was Seven Gothic Tales), I mispronounced the word "truculent" (I said truce-u-lent). This was my first encounter with that word since it was, predictably, my first encounter with the chapter. I was passively-aggressively corrected later during our discussion of the chapter by a bookish bitch who monopolized the conversations and enjoyed making haughty and condescending remarks about reluctant comments spoken by shy and nervous students. She was VERY serious about books, and I was not. She was a member of the Front Row Club; I, the Back. People like her were the reason that, for me, being an English major could make reading a book a rotten chore rather than a pleasurable experience.

I blew off classes and assignments. I rarely read the entirety of a book when it was assigned. If Cliff's Notes were unavailable, I simply skimmed the text for important information and quotes that I heard mentioned in class to throw in my term papers. I know for a fact I was not the only student of this scholarly vein. In every class there was a Back Row clique who engaged in similar behavior. Even in the round table classes, Back Rowers could be picked out in the blink of an eye. It was like our own little secret society.

I'm amazed to this day that I took my major so lightly. It's not like I had anything better to do, or even that there was anything else I'd rather be studying. I was always a reader. I could read Dr. Seuss independently at the age of 2-and-a-half. I remember reading and rereading Judy Blume books until I could nearly recite them by heart. One of my favorite activities was to close my eyes, choose a volume from my shelf, open it to any page, and read to the very end of the book. I could do this for hours at a time. I collected books like kids today collect beanie babies and video games. Reading was a huge part of my life and books were partly responsible for shaping who I am today.

Which is why I think I was so apathetic in college. Stubborn Capricorn that I am, being TOLD to read something, particularly within a prescribed time frame, made me much less likely to WANT to read it. Forced learning was not my THANG. Ironic, because I was always a teacher-pleaser and got fair grades. But my heart was never in it. I wasn't trying to be Too Cool For School or anything, I just didn't care. That's one of my great regrets, considering the wonderful literature I missed out on reading back then. I'm appreciating books so much more now that I am reading of my own accord. I've recently joined a fab Book Club and rediscovered that I love talking about books with other people who love books as much as I do. I feel about books like I do about music. I'm not a snob. I'll read pretty much anything and enjoy it overall.

I barely closed the back cover of "Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix" before cracking the spine on my next great read. I think I know what my college professors would say if they knew how I felt about books now...

"I myself don't see that, but There It Is."

My neighbors suck.

When I lived in the city, my neighbors sucked in that pee-on-your-front-lawn-at-two-in-the-morning kind of way. I can deal with that. But these neighbors suck in the way that only a suburban neighbor can.

To my left is a family of five. The dad grew up in an abusive home, which I know because the mom shared that little tidbit of information with me one day. I think she did this to excuse the fact that her husband does nothing but scream at her, scream at his children and swear at the top of his lungs on a daily basis. His favorite word is the F word. Now, I'm not against using such word, but I really don't see the need to use it so loudly at 8:30 am on a Saturday morning just because some squirrels ate the tomatoes from your garden. I especially do not see the need to do this in front of your three children who are playing in the yard. This guy is obsessed with his lawn. The "theme" in the front is Nautical Beach. He built and painted this horrid lighthouse which serves as the focal point. Under the pieces of wrought-iron gate which he bolted to the front of his house (why, I will never understand) is a tri-level rock and seashell garden. Wooden cutout people complete the look. Oh, yeah, it's JUST like living in Maine, dude. Our houses are really close together and sometimes when I back in or out of our driveway, I end up on HIS precious property. I made a nice little rut in the ground, so to correct our wrongdoing, he stuck a giant fricking boulder at the edge of my driveway. I cannot tell you how many times I have run this thing over and pushed it into the street with my car. I just leave it there. If he wants a boulder on his property, he can do the maintenance.

On my right is the most crotchety couple that ever walked the face of the earth. Their favorite thing to do is call the Inspector on my ass. Didn't bundle your twigs for trash collection properly? Phone call. Dogs barking too early in the morning? Phone call. When I painted the house, the husband actually had the nerve to come over and tell me we missed a spot. Just to SHOW HIM, I left it unpainted. Suck on that, assface. And to make things worse, his house is the color of puke and he has it repainted THE SAME FRICKING COLOR every two years or so. I'd be a miserable bastard, too, if I had to come home every day to a Puke House. And their favorite thing to do is called Lay Outside in The Sun. She just lays there motionless for HOURS while he sucks back a six-pack of some crappy, foul beer. I thought orange skin was OVER. She looks like a suitcase, and I'm not trying to be mean. Seriously, I'm not. It's just not attractive at all. Not to mention that she insists on walking around in a BIKINI all the time. He loves to be in a tank top. Skin is hanging and swinging and I really don't want to see that.

Which is why I put up the Spite Fence. I fenced in the yard with this Big Ass Six Foot High Solid Wood Mother. It's the best thing I ever did. Ever. I love not having to interact with the humans that flank my home environment. Good fences really do make good neighbors.

Other highlights of the neighborhood include The Guy With The Lawn Jockey, The Bitchy Woman Whose Husband Rides The Loudest Motorcycle In The World, The Unruly Brat Children, The Slutty Mom and Her Slutty Daughter, and The Cat Who Shits On Everyone's Property. I don't talk to any of them.

And I keep getting invited to the Annual Block Party. Go figure.

"What the frick is that smell?" I ask myself as I sit here reading. Looking to my immediate right, I notice a small black turd sitting quietly on the hardwood floor next to my feet. A gift. From Jake. Apparently he needs to go out and this is His Way of communicating that need.

Lately Jake has become quite fond of the taste of mud. This dog's discriminating palate has determined that mud is the delicacy du jour. While in the yard, he enjoys an hors d'oeuvre of grass clippings, followed by a main course of mud, which he licks from a divet that he has made in the lawn with his paw. Then he shits black turds on my hardwood floors.

Jake is the Miracle Dog. There is some Great Force keeping him alive. Once he ate three-quarters of a 20-pound bag of dog food. I called the vet in a panic after his midsection blew up to the size of Texas. They advised me to give him a teaspoon of hydrogen peroxide every 15 minutes until he started to barf it all up. After the first heave, he moseyed right back into that kitchen and headed straight for that bag of food.

Another time he ate the greater part of a tub of Udder Cream, which, may I say, keeps the knees and elbows silky soft. He opened the jar (no teeth marks - I think he is hiding an opposable thumb)and licked out the contents until they were nearly gone. I came home and wondered at what point he decided he was full of Udder Cream.

Also, he can open cans of soup.

He cannibalized himself on one occasion. He chewed off the end of his tail. Chewed that mother off. Then he took a nap in the hall. When I came home, he couldn't contain his glee and started wagging his tail furiously. It looked like I had a home visit from Charles Manson while I was out. I half-expected to see Die Pig Die written on the wall in tail blood.

And the other two canines aren't any better. Jake's the oldest so he sets the crappy example for his younger brother and sister. Fergus is the one following in his footsteps.

Fergus eats socks. Whole socks. Just sucks 'em right down. Then he shits them out. Every once in a while I'll see him squatting in the yard looking pathetically from side to side for someone to come and rescue him. Because, you see, the sock is stuck in his ass. So I have to put on a surgical glove or bag my hand and go out there and PULL THE FRICKING THING OUT OF HIS ASS. When sphincter muscles just don't cut it, I have to fill in on the job. No wonder I feel the need to tell people frequently that I have a Master's degree.

A few months ago one of these sock things didn't make its way out. After two days of projectile vomiting, I took him to the vet. They did lots of expensive diagnostic tests using special x-rayable pellets to tell me he had a sock stuck in his ass. Actually it was stuck between his stomach and intestine. Two days and $2000 worth of surgery later, I brought him home with a 10 inch incision on his belly and a bile-soaked sock in a baggie. I don't leave the laundry baskets out anymore.

Tess is the only dog in the house who eats only food. And her breath is the foulest. She's had 5 teeth extracted and a good scraping and cleaning, and still her mouth smells like the Grim Reaper ate a bowl of horseshit and is breathing right down your neck. But she really can't help it. When I was volunteering at the local Humane Society, I agreed to take her in as a "foster dog" for a few weeks around Christmastime. (Foster care my ass...like I could give her back) She had been severely neglected and starved and was basically surviving on her own feces. She was so undernourished, you could make out the outline of her entire skeleton through her skin and fur. For weeks I had to sit on the floor with her food bowl in my lap and feed her one nugget at a time until she learned to eat and trust again. She was 9 pounds that December. Today she weighs around 40 pounds. It's amazing to me that after all these years, she still has that memory etched in her brain. She growls and snarls over her bowl every single time she eats. She runs and hides whenever she gets a treat. But she's so grateful to have food, that's all she eats.

Still, a dog can't eat shit during the formative months and have good breath. It just can't happen.

I feel like breaking out the karaoke machine I got for Christmas at the age of 32.

Christmas night, we hooked that mother up and watched my dad sing Frank Sinatra tunes peppered with fart noises he made into the microphone during the non-vocal parts. Charles and I belted out a few show tunes before we started making up our own words to songs. Our original creations were mostly about pooping or calling someone a bastard. We had manic giggles and refused to let anyone else use the mikes for about an hour. My brother's friend Jim stopped over and sang a couple duets with Uncle Chuck which brought down the FRICKING HOUSE. Yeah, dawg.

At my grandma's 89th birthday party, Bart got Jiggy With It all night. Dad made more fart noises. Kelly and I kicked Carmen Rasmusen's ass on our version of How Do I Live (Without You). Gregg tried to get his hands on a microphone but we monopolized them until he finally accepted his role as disc changer. Charles and I sang duets from Miss Saigon and some hooey from that musical Jekyll and Hyde. When it comes to this machine, pride goes right in the crapper.

I'm not a music snob. Basically I will listen to anything. I'll admit to liking it too. I don't care. Who the frick am I trying to impress? You already know I'm shallow. But what I love the most about my family and friends is that they enjoy this kind of exhibitionism just as much as I do. There's no pretense, no attempt at trying to act like real musician, none of that. Just the pure rapture you can only experience by making a complete ass of yourself in front of other grown human beings. I love being an ass and not caring. It's one of the greatest pleasures in life.

That and the fart noises.

Things are getting on my nerves.

It all started when I went to Borders to buy my copy of Rolling Stone with Clay on the cover and I saw a book by Alan Thicke. Alan Fricking Thicke. Who in their right mind would publish a book by this dude? I mean, he was on GROWING PAINS. The worst show in the history of television. I bet Leonardo DiCaprio is kicking his own ass for signing on to that train wreck. Normally I would have picked up this book and flipped through the pages to see what this nonsense was all about, but I was so outraged by the fact that it was even on the shelf, I couldn't bring myself to do it. I just walked by it huffing and puffing and rolling my eyes. If it weren't for that Rolling Stone making me so happy, I would have given one of those Borders people a piece of my fricking mind.

I just got this new computer. I love it completely, except for the CD burner drive, which doesn't work. So I can't make copies upon copies of my bootleg Clay Aiken CDs to force upon my unwilling friends and family members. "Listen to this. I mean, you have got to hear this boy sing. Have you ever heard a voice like this in YOUR EVER LIVING LIFE?", I would say. But I can't say because the fricking CD burner drive is hooey. So after hours and hours on the phone with customer service reps and technical experts who kept rerouting my call to someone more incompetent...after following directions to click this and open that...after spending 20 bucks on obsolete CD-Rs...after I asked the rep on the other end of the phone if she was TRAINED TO LIE TO CUSTOMERS when customers tried to pursue an actual resolution to their technical problems...after the rep on the phone advised me to take the fricking side panel off the CPU and unplug the drive, thus releasing a smell of burning plastic that permeated every nook of my humble home...they figured out that the DRIVE DIDN'T WORK. DUH! I tried telling them that the first hundred times I called! When I finally threatened to return the computer (which, of course I wouldn't do now that I have about 100 pictures of Clay saved on my hard drive, and I wouldn't dream of losing them), they hightailed a new drive to my house to be installed. Ah, sweet justice. I can't wait to burn, baby, burn.

I've got two nerves left. Alan Thicke and my CD burner drive are sitting on them.

It's official. I am 15 years old again.

I know this because I bought Tiger Beat yesterday. Fricking Tiger Beat magazine.

Why, you wonder, would I do such a thing? I am a grown woman. Chronologically, anyway...

Because there was a picture of Clay Aiken in it, of course. One picture. I spent 3 dollars and 99 cents on a crappy teen periodical just for a picture I could have downloaded from the internet for free. But if I did that, I wouldn't be able to examine it REALLY UP CLOSE for freckles and what not.

Then, of course, because I found one magazine with a picture of Clay in it, my extremely AGILE mind deduced that there might even be more such publications! So I stood in the aisle at Target scouring every page of every magazine with a celebrity edge just for a glimpse of The Buttercup himself. And guess what...

I FOUND ONE MORE! It made that 20 minutes of my life I will never get back TOTALLY WORTH IT. I proceeded to spend another 1 dollar and 99 cents on THE BIGGEST PIECE OF GARBAGE WEEKLY GOSSIP MAGAZINE (which shall remain nameless). At least this one had an article. A totally bogus article, but words nonetheless. I felt like I was really getting my money's worth with this one.

My collection is up to 6. Six magazines purchased solely for pictures of Clay Aiken. I mean, I haven't done this since I was 15 and I bought magazines like Creem and Rolling Stone just because there was a 1x1 inch black and white picture of the back of Sting's head in it. It's just that I HAVE TO HAVE IT.

Isn't my happiness worth $5.98?

I am hyper-aware of my obsessive-compulsive nature. Mostly because everyone I know reminds me of it every chance they get. So all these gentle reminders got me obsessing about my obsessions. This is the most current list, categorized, of course, but in no particular order.

POP CULTURE AND CELEBRITIES

-American Idol (Clay Aiken in particular)

-Donny and Marie

-Shaun Cassidy

-Rad Daly (obscure teen idol)

-THE POLICE (Andy Summers, baby)

-Emeril Lagasse

-Howard Stern

-Howard Jones

-South Park

-Trey Parker

-Waiting for Guffman

-Rocky Horror Picture Show

-Harry Potter

-Bobcat Goldthwait

-Barry Sobel

-Grease

-An American Werewolf in London

-MTV

-Saturday Night Live

-Concerts in the 80s

STYLE AND FASHION

-Magnetic earrings

-Stick pins

-Velvet blazers

-Gauchos

-The Preppy Handbook (all clothing listed within)

-Bonne Bell Lipgloss (remember that girl in grammar school who used to EAT the big fat ones???!!!)

-Pseudo-punk-new-wave look (lopsided haircuts, Sun-In, Madonna jewelry and clothes)

-Cher perfume

-Hair crimping iron (how big can my hair get)

-Flatiron

-Black suede boots

-Black suede fringe jacket

-Button-cover purses

-Clinique makeup

-Osh Kosh and Dickies Chinos in every fricking color

-Red leather jacket

ACTIVITIES

-Cheerleading (for about a week)

-Synchronized swimming

-Dancing

-Gymnastics

-Playing the flute

-Shoplifting

-Renovating houses

-Building a house

-Karaoke

-Thursday night bowling

-Musical theater

-Trips to New York City

-Gay bars and drag shows

-Rescuing animals

-The Wedding

-Online shopping

-Online anything

-Painting

BIGGEST NON-CELEBRITY CRUSHES ON GUYS THAT I DIDN'T MARRY

-Andy - the very first - I remember crying in my bed just thinking about him

-Brian - who lived in the neighborhood - I used to sit on the corner and watch him play hockey and spit - spitting was cool then

_________ - fill in the blank with the name of any tall, thin, funny teenage Catholic school boy

-Fran - now my best boy friend

-Father "DeBricassar" - a priest I actually had a crush on while making my confirmation - how creepy!

I just love reading this over and noticing that there is absolutely nothing on this list with any intellectual value whatsoever.

Yep, I'm shallow.

My new haircut is so fabulous, I can't even stand myself. Amy told me it's really 80s, which is why I think I like it so fricking much.

I haven't spent more than 10 dollars on a haircut in years. However, my newly acquired bout of vanity sent me searching for a "salon". I recalled going out for dinner one night and asking the server where she got her hair cut (she had REALLY good hair). True to my impulsive nature, I called and made my appointment.

Well, I'm no idiot. I don't know these stylists from Adam, and I'm not showing up and turning my tresses over to them without an insurance policy. So I brought a picture. You know the ones from those hairstyle magazines with photos of women wearing too much blue eyeliner and tilting their heads "just so" to accentuate their trendy cut. The ones where you go, "I want my hair to look like THAT," even though you have wavy hair and the model's hair is naturally poker straight. "Do it. Make me look JUST like that." I mean, I'm not the type to cry over a bad haircut but at least if it turns out badly, I brought a fricking picture, so it can't be MY FAULT.

So I turn over the picture and my locks to a complete stranger. She's cutting and we're chatting and I'm not really paying attention to what she's doing because there are two little kids causing havoc all over the salon and chasing the owner's dog while their mom gets her hair highlighted and screams at them to STOP IT every three seconds. The stylist starts drying my hair, and that's when I started to freak out just a little bit.

Like I said, I'm not really the type to cry over a bad haircut, but I was starting to look like Little Lord Fauntleroy.

She cut my hair EXACTLY as I asked her to, but man, this was not turning out right. Basically my hair was shorter and slightly layered in the back, angling forward to about chin length in the front. Which is where the problem was. It was all curled under and looking fricking ridiculous.

AND THEN SHE BROUGHT OUT THE FLATIRON.

"I saw that on American Idol," I shrieked, realizing after the words came out of my mouth that she might not share my love of the aforementioned show, nor was she aware of the level of my obsession with it. She commented that she saw them using it on Clay and Ryan, and immediately she was my stylist for life. I wanna look like Little Lord Fauntleroy FOREVER if it means having my hair done by someone with such good taste in television!

I was in a bit of a trance at this point, so I didn't notice what this thing was doing to my hair. IT WAS MAKING IT LOOK LIKE THE PICTURE! I LOOKED LIKE THE PICTURE, ONLY BETTER EVEN! I was falling in love with myself all over the fricking place. My hair had never been so straight in my life. As a child, my hair had always been really thick and dark, but a little wave here and there kept me from getting that great Cher look I so loved. My hair is nowhere near as thick as it was back in the day, but it's not horrible. I just never knew it could look like THIS.

I was especially excited because I had just attempted to highlight my own hair with one of those new kits where you just "comb" the strands you want lightened. It was B.S., people, total B.S.! The "highlighting cream" was just that powdered peroxide women used to use to bleach their upper lip hairs. I ended up looking like I did in 1984 when my friends and I thought it would be cool to put Sun-In in our bangs, because we were so punk. Two hours after my botched highlighting job I colored my hair dark brown in an attempt to get my natural color back and vowing for the millionth time that I would never color my hair again. Yeah right.

So here I was sitting in the chair of a REAL SALON watching my hair turn HOLLYWOOD. I called everyone I knew and told them I was Jennifer Aniston or Courteney Cox.

I ran right out and bought me one of those flatirons. I bought every hair product made for "straight hair" I could find. I came home and flipped my hair around in the mirror for an hour. I was vanity personified.

The stylist told me not to use the flatiron every day because it would fry my hair if I did. Works for me.

Hey, Little Lord Fauntleroy, nice knowin' ya.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, so what if I just wrote a diary entry? I'm completely in love with this diary thing, so deal with it.

Here's how it all went down:

"What the frick are you reading?"

"Harry Potter."

"Oh, you're reading a BABY book, huh? How is your BABY book, anyway? What is your BABY book all about?"

Cut to...

June 2002

It's 3am and my heart is palpitating while I read through Book Four with sickening fervor.

"Did you get to the part yet where Ron dies?"

(Ron, of course, does not die, but I don't know this.)

"Shut up. Just shut the frick up. Don't even tell me that Ron dies because if he does, I am going to have a heart attack. Does he die? Does he? Come on, the truth! Does he die? Really? COME ON!"

Cut to...

HARRY POTTER BOOK 5 IS BEING SHIPPED TO MY HOUSE TOMORROW.

I can't wait to read that baby book.

"Vanity is the quicksand of reason." -George Sand

I have no humility. None. I am completely vain. I can prove it.

I have a close relationship with the mirror. I examine my skin, looking for signs that I won't age as beautifully as my grandmother has. I've started buying jars of overpriced eye cream to ward off puffiness. I stare, checking to see if one of my eyes really is just a smidge higher than the other. I fastidiously pluck stray eyebrow hairs just as they peek through the follicle. And, yes, I sing. I sing and wonder how I would look in my American-Idol-Top-Ten-Close-Up-Shot-On-Carpenters-Songs-Night-When-Richard-Carpenter-Is-The-Guest-Judge-But-No-One-Really-Wants-To-Hear-What-He-Has-To-Say.

I buy makeup. No, not just a tube of lipstick. I am talking LOOKS, baby, LOOKS. Whole collections of makeup based on a theme. The Neutral Look is so I can leave the house, secure in the thought that I look so natural, even though I have 7 layers of gunk on my face. The Pink Look is so I can leave the house thinking I look like Kimberley Locke on Top Three Night.

My feet are starting to intrigue me. I've never had a pedicure, and I usually only wear shoes with closed toes, but lately, I've become quite the exhibitionist by buying two pairs of open-toed shoes. I've got this red nailpolish for my toenails and I'm gonna put it on, I swear. And because in my mind I am 18 all over again, I got myself a toe ring. Who do I think I am?????

I'm addicted to jackets. Usually that addiction is coupled with an unhealthy obsession for some celebrity, but the jacket-love is true, so true. It all started in 1986 with that pink suede number I draped myself in until the sleeves were shiny from wear and raindrops had permanently stained the fabric. Then it was the black suede Barry Sobel blazer with the fringe under the arms. Now I'm on the hunt for a red leather jacket with a mandarin collar a la Clay Aiken singing Grease.

I almost peed myself when I saw that one. Amy said that jacket is SO EIGHTIES and SO ME and I better not settle for some crappy substitute. I won't settle, I promise.

Yeah, I'm losing it.

1984: A Conversation Among Five Catholic High School Girls

"Sting is so hot."

"No, Andy Summers is hotter."

"Are you kidding? Stewart Copeland is the hottest."

"Yeah but Sting's songs have, like, The Odyssey in them and stuff. He talks about paradox and stuff."

"Oh, yeah, he's like Joe Paradox."

"Let's start a band and call ourselves Joe Paradox."

"Totally."