I'm Addicted

Hi. My name is Roni and I'm a Fashion Police-aholic.

   If there were a 12-step program for people addicted to the "Fashion Police" show, I would make it to every meeting. Not because I want to quit watching -- unh-uh, no way am I giving it up -- but because I would love to meet other addicts so we could watch together and dish about the show. My Sweetie DMan has watched with me a time or two and thinks it's downright mean the way they talk about other people's clothes. So he's out as my Fashion Police buddy. And my bestie Sara doesn't get the E! channel. There are no Fashion Police bars with the show blaring from every TV screen and the patrons cheering for their favorite looks and booing for the worst. There are no Fashion Police parties (think Super Bowl) with everyone wearing their favorite designers, drinking Cosmos, and nibbling canapes while glued to a marathon of FP episodes. I'm all alone with my addiction, a lone Joan Ranger, oohing and ahhing and you've-got-to-be-kidding-meing at the TV every Friday night from nine o'clock to ten.
   In case you don't know the show -- and where have you been, hiding out in a cave in Montana?? -- "Fashion Police" showcases the best and worst celebrity looks of the week, gleaned from photo shoots of everything from red carpet events to airport sightings. Joan Rivers hosts, joined by Guiliana Rancic, Kelly Osbourne, and George Kotsiopoulos (Georgie Porgie, as Joan calls him), and do they have fun! Joan is caustically hilarious, throwing out naughty zingers about the fashions and celebrities like Christmas candy at a parade, and sparing no one, even herself. Sometimes the jokes are so raunchy the FP crew can only roll their eyes, but most of the time they roll with laughter right along with the audience of Joan Rangers -- salute! (Every time the Joan Rangers are mentioned, the gang gives a salute. It's cute.) As mentioned, they count down the top five must-see looks of the week, then at the end of the show they pick their best and worst looks. The worst look is dubbed "Fash-hole" of the week, and Guiliana, Kelly, and George each get ten seconds of direct camera time to convince Joan and the Rangers of their pick. The comments can get mighty snarky, and sometimes the bad-word bleeper gets quite a work out! Besides all that, the "Police" has regular segments called "Bitch Stole My Look," "Rack Report," and "Starlet or Streetwalker," which I won't spoil for you by going into all the details but suffice it to say they are a HOOT! 
   For any of you that know me, you might wonder why I'm addicted to this show. I wonder too. If I were ever a celebrity, I'm sure I would be crowned the Fashion Police Fash-hole Queen. To paraphrase the old "Hee Haw" show song: if it weren't for bad style, I'd have no style at all. I guess it's like someone that wants to be a writer but can't write worth a squat and ends up being a book reviewer -- I have no fashion sense but love admiring those who do and jeering at those who don't (or do but make the occasional very public fashion faux pas). Take a recent episode, for instance. There was total FP consensus that Beth Chapman, wife of Dog the Bounty Hunter, won Fash-hole of the week for her look at the American Country Music awards. OMG it was B-A-D! She wore a sleeveless pale pink diaphanous gown with the neckline plunging so deep it looked like Kevin James's ass crack popping out. Instead of resembling red carpet-worthy couture, the gown looked like it was ordered from the clearance page of the Plus-size Frederick's of Dollywood catalog. Now I've watched the "Bounty Hunter" show before (unfortunately a favorite of my ex-husband's), and even though Beth's usual style is part tough biker chick and part buxom sex goddess, it always worked for her. Her style looked right on her. This ACM award's dress? It looked like something someone that never met her before picked out as a cruel joke. Needless to say, I concurred with their Fash-hole of the week pick. And they were tough on Ms. Chapman, but Joan and the gang always try to say something upbeat about the Fash-hole, too, maybe mention previous looks that were winners or diss the stylist that put them in the God-awful outfit instead of the celeb. So, no matter what DMan thinks, the show is not all mean.
   Some days when I come home feeling beat like a tied-up dog from work, knowing I have the "Fashion Police" to watch is the only thing that keeps me from going straight to bed. That and a big glass of wine. So, yes, I am addicted to a silly, snarky TV show, and no, I will not swear off it. But I would love to have you join me in my addiction. Catch "Fashion Police" on E!, Fridays at 9:00 PM (Central). If you can't wait -- and sometimes I can't either -- check out their website http://www.eonline.com/shows/fashion_police. Then let's dish!

     

How are you "treating" yourself?

"One of the secrets of a happy life is continuous small treats." 
                                            -- Iris Murdoch

   I read this quote in a book recently and loved it, even penned it on a Post-it note for the message board near my writing table so I would be continuously reminded. I need all the secrets I can learn about being happy because I am prone to having the black funks. A black funk, as defined in my book "Life Gone South," is: death of the soul; wanting to crawl in a hole and never come out; a fortress around my heart that blocks out joy; can't taste food -- yes, even chocolate, and yes, I tried every kind -- don't even crave sex. Feeling low, low, low, down dirty low. As you might imagine, these black funks are no damn fun so I do everything I possibly can to avoid them. I figured if throwing continuous small treats into my life will help, then sign me up.
   Today was the kick-off of my "CST" therapy. I was off work and had errands to do, and some not so fun (gyno exam and groceries -- YUCK!). Instead of only doing the have-tos, I wheeled into $1 Jewelry Galore (on Battlefield, near National) and splurged on some bling. I got a tiger striped belt with hot rainbow colors, a six-pack of various sized silver hoops, a bangle bracelet, and a funky chunky wood necklace. Plus they had the cutest little mood rings -- I got the one with peace signs -- that must have made me happier because it changed to blue (calm, relaxed) and purple (sensual) the rest of the day. And all that happiness cost less than eleven bucks!
   Besides the bling treats, I sipped a Diet Coke as I was cruising around (something I love but rarely do), sang along with the radio, and really paid attention to my surroundings instead of rushing and being stressed out by traffic. I noticed the Bradford pear blossoms falling down like snow, that a lot of drivers are actually courteous and not jerks, and two red Mini Coopers. It may be silly but DMan and I trade "Mini Cooper kisses" for every one we see, so I got two extra kisses just from paying attention. Turned out to be a pretty happy day despite the not-so-pleasant errands.
   Feel free to give the CST therapy a try, see if you end up a bit happier. I'd love to hear if it works for you too. Now I'm going to give myself one more little treat and pour a big glass of wine to enjoy while I finish the laundry. Just because it's a small treat doesn't mean it has to come in a small glass! Cheers!    

Who The Hell Am I?

     My sister K and I were hanging out the other day and out of the blue she says, “I don't know who I am anymore. I don't fit in anywhere. I'm not young, but I'm not old either. So who the hell am I?”

     My first thought was, “Is menopause bitch slapping her too?” But the more we talked, the more I understood her quandary had nothing to do with menopause and realized I felt exactly the same: middle age is no (wo)man's land. Halfway between birth and death (we hope), being in our forties and fifties is confusing. And frustrating. We literally are not young anymore, nor are we old (except we seem like it to those that are young).

     When we were young, things were much simpler. Being young meant having big fun and little responsibility, like hanging out with friends at the drive-in movie after working part time slinging burgers at the Tastee-Freez, forgetting your worries by topping off a Big Gulp with Everclear or taking a hit off a passed-around joint (but don't mix the two unless you want to end up buzzed out of your gourd in the backseat of your date's car, take my word on this!). It meant cruising in the nearest big town to check out cute boys and blast your newest cassette tape. With gas at .79 cents per gallon back then, driving up and down Kearney Street (our preferred cruising spot) was cheap entertainment.

     We young'uns wore bell bottom Levis and feathered hair, drove Pintos or Vegas or VW Bugs, parked on country roads to make out with our sweeties, then snuck in past curfew with hickeys we passed off as curling iron burns.

     We knew we weren't “old” because old folks had bursitis and mortgages, smoked pipes and cigars and drank instant coffee, and went to church socials or PTA meetings for “fun.” Oldsters wore polyester pants, knee-high hose that bagged at the ankles, and spongy-soled shoes; got perms or a weekly wash-and-set; drove tank-like Buicks and Plymouths; and the closest they got to making out was a goodnight peck on the cheek. Those old people were in their forties or beyond but they seemed ancient. It was simple then – when you got to a certain age, you dressed and acted “your age.”

     But no more. If you could meet my Sister K, headed toward the far side of 40 herself, you would see she is the antithesis of old: dark chocolate hair swinging in a CHI-sleeked “Rachel” do, body-hugging shirts and sequin-pocketed jeans showing off her curvaceousness, a mishmash of Christian and biker chick tattoos decorating her arms and legs. She rode a Harley until it finally went kaput and says “wicked cool” about everything. No way could she be described as old.

     By outward appearance, I'm not as wicked cool as she but I'm still wearing low-rider jeans without sporting a belly-flopping hangover or plumber's crack. My signature look funky cap toe sneakers and peace sign earrings give me a youthful flair. And the only polyester pants that have ever been on these thighs were part of my college job Kentucky Fried Chicken uniform. Those pants were mandatory, and I hate, hate, hated them.

     Okay, so our look is still in the young(ish) realm. Good. What about our actions?

     Sister K has teenage boys, which brings with it the requisite mommy baggage, but that's not all she's about. Besides making a living driving a school bus like an expert truck rodeoer – and I'll bet she is the sexiest bus driver those adolescent boys ever had and fodder for many fantasies – she is a faux painting diva, wine blend connoisseur, disco dancer extraordinaire, and super seamstress. She creates and wears these diaphanous ponchos, blinged out with sparkles and feathery trim, that can turn the most blah outfit into a party. She also saved my favorite Gap jeans from ending up in the trash by adding zazzy flame patches to the threadbare knees. I get more compliments on those ancient jeans than anything else in my closet. The woman can do it all, and she does. The Energizer Bunny on steroids couldn't keep up with her. She's definitely not living the oldster life.

     Me? I'm not so talented or creative, but I try. I try everything to try and find that one thing that's going to be my thing. Here's the “I Tried” short list: guitar, harmonica and keyboards (I swear I've got the music in me, I just can't make it come out); working as a massage therapist (a real one, not a quasi-hooker); being a beach babe (loved it but couldn't afford it forever); and skateboarding. I still have my pin-tail longboard Pinkie and she's gorgeous, with hot pink wheels and her underside decorated with groovy stickers like “I'm not perfect, but parts of me are incredible.” I mostly look at her these days, spending my spare time writing instead of boarding. But I could ride her if I got the urge. And I don't spend all day discussing my aches and pains and surgeries, planning my next meal at the senior-price buffet, or knitting gift afghans that will be hidden in a closet until I come for a visit.

     So we don't look old, at least fashion-wise. Wrinkle-wise? Now that's a whole different subject (see my earlier "Get Off My Face" blog). And we don't act old. Then why the hell can't we figure out who the hell we are?

     As I pondered this, I remembered my grandma saying to me, “Honey, I don't feel old. My body may be falling apart and I may look old, but I don't feel it, not inside anyway.” Bazinga! Grandma was one wise woman. I realized I don't feel old, at least not on the inside. My body sure feels 49 Part Two, some days more like 69 Part Two, but my inside feels 24 tops.

     Sister K had her own bazinga moment when I asked her how old she felt: “That's it! My body may feel like I'm in my late thirties, but my spirit is still 21. I think like a kid, that's why I'm more comfortable around kids than people my own age. I've got the wisdom of an older person with a young spirit.”

     That's true for me as well. While I don't do little kids – never had any, never wanted any, and no, I don't babysit no matter how cute the little devil is – I feel simpatico hanging with 20-somethings way more than oldsters. I try not to be an old-age bigot, but I have a phobia about visiting senior habitats ever since my 45^th birthday. My parents, bless their well-meaning hearts, got sick of me bitching about getting older and surprised me with a birthday lunch at the Senior Center. The Senior Center! The place where everyone had blue hair or no hair, the hot topic around the table was who had what removed, and the drill sergeant center director spent ten minutes lecturing the lunchers on the proper protocol for the new self-serve salad bar as if they'd never hit the senior buffets before. Needless to say, I don't mention aging around my folks anymore. Or let them take me out for my birthday. And I prefer not to hang out with an older crowd if I can help it.

     Besides me and Sister K, others weighed in on the “how old do you feel outside versus inside” question and it seems almost universal that the disparity between body age and spirit age keeps our minds totally confused. Most reported feeling younger in spirit than body, and the older the person, the wider the gap between the two.

     Some examples:

                        Body feels         Spirit feels          Age

Roberta               60ish                 23/24              50s

Mikey                  50                     30                   50s

Deb                    45                     23                   50s

Eli                      35                     20                   20s

(Actual ages are approximate – I'm not out to out anyone's age.)

     I wanted to better understand the disparity and the reason behind it, so I asked my sweetie DMan for his opinion. He said, “I guess I feel under 40 all over. If I tried to do things I did when I was 30, I'd probably feel older.” And he's older than I am. I do love him to death, but sometimes I just want to wring his neck to choke off his Pollyanna attitude that makes me feel like his “old” lady. Plus his answer didn't help my understanding one bit.

     Then I tried asking Mama and Daddy to tell me their body versus spirit ages to use for something I was writing. Big mistake. I got righteous soliloquies as if they were having their fifteen minutes of fame on “Oprah.” In a nutshell, Mama's version was “wake up every day with a sunny outlook and you'll feel your best no matter what age you are,” and Daddy spouted off on “I've worked hard all my life and I damn well deserve to feel how old I feel.” Spoken with good intentions on their part, I'm sure, but no help at all.

     Looks like I'm on my own to explain the “who am I” disconnect. Could it be that our bodies keep on aging but our spirits hold at some prime time when we were at our peak? That's how my memory seems to work anyway. It must have peaked in the 1970s because I can sing every blame word of the “Green Acres” theme song but can't remember when I last changed my sheets. (See, that song is playing in my head right now – “Green Acres is the place to be, farm living is the life for me . . . .” The sheets? I don't have a clue how long they've been on the bed. Guess it's time for the sniff test.)

     If the spirit peak supposition is true, maybe what we see as middle-age crazy isn't crazy at all. That paunchy balding man with newly implanted hair plugs is only acting his spirit age, and his spirit paused as a testosterone-fueled teenager with the hots for well-endowed Corvettes and 22-year old blondes. And maybe a lot of oldsters diagnosed with senility are perfectly fine. Their spirits just choose to hang out at the age when having a teddy bear as their lunch companion and calling everyone “Mama” feels right. Life was much simpler with a cuddly friend and Mama around all the time, wasn't it?

     Or could it be that the way we feel inside reflects our true soul age, in cosmic terms? What if there is no arrested spirit development involved and that no matter how old we get to be or how many times our soul gets to hang out in bodily form (if you believe in that sort of thing, which I do – Sorry, Mama, for disappointing you), we'll forever stay at our unique and perfect soul age?

     That sounds right to me, and my uncle Jesse is a prime example of why. He's on the express train to turning 87 and lives in a nursing home due to Parkinson's and the residual effects of several mild strokes, but his soul is forever youthful. Those honey brown eyes of his exude orneriness. He may not be able to get a forkful of peas to his mouth without spilling half, but he is still the biggest flirt I've ever known. And the best. He's got every female in the facility wrapped around his little finger and loving it. He wise cracks. He plays practical jokes. His soul isn't a day over 25. Never has been. Never will be.

     Now it makes sense why most folks I talked to feel they are in their twenties or thirties no matter what their birth date says. If all souls were kid souls, the world would be one giant messy playground and nothing would get accomplished. If oldster souls dominated, the world would creak to a cantankerous halt on oh-my-aching-whatever woes and remember-when-life-was-better bitchfests. At least our 20-something souls still have hope enough to believe we can make the world better, the energy to keep plugging away until we do, and the smarts to have some fun along the way.

     So, who the hell am I? I'm a 24-year old soul making the best of life in a 49 Part Two-year old body. Let's see, what was my life like at 24? I was a nearly-single gal, after the breakup of my first marriage, with my very own place and a decent paying job. When I wasn't working hard or sleeping soundly, I was boogieing with my sisters every chance I got, wearing jean mini skirts and fringey short boots, drinking cheap beer by the pitcher, and partying with good friends hearty and often.

     Being 24 forever? I can live with that.

 (Me and Sister K rocking our young souls!)

Friday Night Blues

   You can give me the blues to end my week any time, as long as it's the Brenda Meyer Band brand of blues. Caught their show for the first time last night at The Flea (on Kimbrough, formerly Harlow's), and I'm hooked.
   The band easily shifted from gritty give-me-another-whiskey old school blues to classic soul and R&B tunes with a blues twist that had the makeshift dance floor hopping with everything from two-stepping to Soul Train moves. There were no flashy costumes or glitzy light shows, just great vocals, tight harmonies, and musicians that know how to strut their stuff and pump up a crowd. Brenda, on lead vocals and drums, belted out the perfect mix of Bonnie Raitt's gravelly soul and the sultry sass of Bette Midler à la "The Rose." The slide guitarist wailed smooth as silk and hot as Southern Comfort Fiery Pepper at the same time; the bassist thumped the groove and kept the dancers grinding; and the keyboardist looked like he could be a dentist but when he pounded those keys, the finest Hammond organ sound came blasting through to round out the band's unique blues sound.
   The band is headed to Memphis for the International Blues Fest next week, and the show was a send-off to get them pumped up to compete. It was great to see a big crowd there, but the turnout of local musicians was phenomenal. I saw Stella Blue and Maddog Steve Call, Chris Albert of Techs and the Roadies, and folks from Nathan Bryce and Loaded Dice and the Norman Jackson Band. Brenda also pointed out Treva and the Troublemakers in the audience and that gang was dancing up a storm. The blues, and all types of music, are alive and kicking ass in Springfield, Missouri, and if you aren't out there digging it, you are missing out.
   The Flea was a dinky dive, but The Brenda Meyer Band was the bomb! Good luck representing the Ozark's blues scene in Memphis! I'll be catching you again when you get back. I've got my calendar marked for your show on February 16 at Jalen's, the perfect place for live music with plenty of room to boogie. The band starts at 8:00. You can sample their music at www.brendameyerband.com, including "Mississippi Water." I'd never heard it before, but I gotta hear it again. 

   

A dope, or not a dope, that is the question

   What do you think about all this Lance Armstrong hoopla? Personally, I'm fed up to my eyeballs with it already. It's not gaudy enough that Lance has to go on Oprah to blab his guilt about doping throughout his bicycling career, now the media is dredging up anyone that ever greased his chain or aired his tires to ask if they noticed anything suspicious in order to keep the headlines popping. Enough already. The man admitted he's a big fat liar -- why does he deserve all this attention?
   First, he uses performance-enhancing drugs and techniques to win the Tour de France seven consecutive times, among other cycling feats. Why he would do this is beyond me. I mean, the man was Superman in spandex and a helmet anyway. He had a lovely wife and three cute kids, then he had Sheryl Crow by his side. Not shabby. He had a three-way with cancer and won, then started the Livestrong foundation to help others with cancer. He was even on Wheaties boxes, for Pete's sake. What more can a man want out of life? Why would you take a chance on losing all that by cheating?
   Then, he vehemently denies doping over and over, to anyone and everyone, including under oath. That's what really angers me, how much and how strongly he lied. And how convenient that he finally tells the truth after the statute of limitations runs out for perjuring himself. For a long time I actually felt sorry for the guy, believing he was being unfairly persecuted for being the best. Well, no more. The dude is a major dope. I'm glad he's been stripped of all his titles and banned from the sport. But I don't think that goes far enough. Even his name, Lance Armstrong, sounds like a winner, sounds like someone people should look up to. I think he should be stripped of his name as well and be dubbed Dingleberry Dopington. That seems more fitting for a liar and a cheat. And maybe that will kill all the headline buzz as well. He's had way more attention than he deserves already.

Kiss Carrie Bradshaw Good-Bye

Love, love, love Carrie Bradshaw! Surely you know her, from “Sex And The City”? Played by the effervescently fabulous actress and fashion diva Sarah Jessica Parker? No?? Honey, how big of a rock have you been hiding under?

     I will admit: I came to the SATC party late. The series ran from 1998 to 2004, and I never watched it. Never. I was vaguely aware of it from all the Emmys it won, but in my mind it was some smutty show about over-sexed bimbos. It was on HBO, for Pete's sake, and you had to pay to watch that channel like pay-per-view porn. My bestie had mentioned from time to time what a hoot “the girls” were and I had enjoyed Sarah Jessica's free-spirited movie characters in “Footloose” and “L.A. Story,” but I never bothered to give it a try. Then one day in 2009, when my entire world was in the crapper and videos were my escape haven, I saw “Sex And The City – The Movie” on the library shelf. I checked it out. I watched it. More accurately, I devoured it. Knowing next to nothing about the characters or back story, still I was hooked. Even by Mr. Big, who hurt my girl Carrie when he couldn't get out of the car to marry her but redeemed himself in the end. In the closet. With double doors. I'll say no more, don't want to be a spoiler, except seeing that movie was a life changer. I had something to live for again. I had six whole seasons of Carrie Bradshaw's life to catch up on.

     Carrie Bradshaw. How do I love her and want to be her? Let me count the ways.

WORK: A writer for the fictional newspaper The New York Star, Carrie has a weekly column called “Sex And The City” about traversing the trials of relationships and finding love as a single gal in New York City. All that traversing takes her to the coolest NYC hot spots – clubs, restaurants, art gallery openings, benefits, fashion shows – in sky-high stilettos to cavort with celebs and fashionistas and all kinds of quirky characters. Fabulous! (In case you think I don't know any other words besides “fabulous,” I do. But when it comes to all things CB and SATC, no other word will do. Watch her. Watch it. You'll see.)

     I'm a writer. I could totally do that. I don't know much about sex and I'm certainly no whiz at relationships, but then Carrie doesn't have it all figured out either. That's why her signature phrase “I couldn't help but wonder . . .” starts the last sentence of nearly every column. So I'm willing to learn right along with her.

LOVE/LUST: Carrie has an on-again, off-again steamy romance with Big – a man with money who likes the finer things in life and abso-freakin-lutely will not be corralled by convention – played by hubba-hubba Chris Noth. Count me in big time! He is the buff bad boy you can't help falling for that makes falling, even when it hurts, so damn much fun. I have played some of Big and Carrie's sizzling scenes over and over so much that my DVD player actually groans when I hit rewind again.

     As if Big wasn't big enough to make me want her love life (he is!), through the seasons Carrie also hooked up with:

Seth, in a cameo role by Jon Bon Jovi (who just keeps getting hotter with age – so not fair). Carrie meets him in the waiting room when she tries therapy because the girls think she picks the wrong men. She finds out, after they have mind-blowing sex, that Seth is also Mr. Wrong: he is in therapy because he completely loses interest in a woman after sleeping with her. So long, Seth, but Jon Bon Jovi, you are welcome in my bed anytime. (Season Two)

Aidan Shaw, made irresistibly adorable by John Corbett, a long-time crush of mine since “My Big Fat Greek Wedding.” Aidan, a laid-back furniture designer, is the antithesis of Big: sweet, open about his feelings, and not afraid of commitment. All of which scares Carrie back into the arms (and Stanhope Hotel bed, the episode where my DVD player groaned the loudest!) of Big. Carrie and Aidan break up in Season Three, reunite and get engaged in Season Four, then split for good before the season ends when he wants to run off and tie the knot and she feels tied in knots because she's not sure she's the marrying type.

     Aidan is lovable, has a dog named Jack (I love dogs!), and can make me a big comfy armchair like the one Carrie cozies into for cocktail sipping and Vogue viewing. So if Carrie can handle Aidan calling her Pop Tart and eating fried chicken in bed for a season or two, I can, too.

Jack Berger (Ron Livingston) is a novelist Carrie meets through her publisher after her columns are turned into a book. They are a perfect intellectual match, effortlessly exchanging razor sharp banter, but can't match up in the sack until they try bringing their banter to bed. Once the sex gets good, the relationship goes bad when Berger can't handle Carrie's authorial success and ends it on a Post-it note. Yeah, a writer breaks up on a Post-it note: “I'm sorry, I can't, don't hate me.” Cruel, curt and clever, huh?

     Even though Berger turns out to be a jerk and isn't my type physically – too hairy, no five o'clock shadow at breakfast for me, thanks – I could go for a guy who stimulates my mind as much as the rest of me. And he rides a motorcycle, even more stimulation for the rest of me. So CB, I'm on board (and definitely won't be bored) with Berger as well. (Seasons Five and Six)

Aleksandr Petrovsky, Carrie's final season final fling, is portrayed by the sexy, sophisticated, and suave Mikhail Baryshnikov. Or Misha, as I affectionately call him ever since I got acquainted with his ballet brilliance and beautiful body in a college Intro to Dance class and came away wet after every class (and I don't mean with sweat!). While gallery hopping with Charlotte, Carrie meets Alek, an internationally-renowned Russian “light installation” artist. He romances her old-world style, including a snowy sleigh ride through Central Park and a black-tie slow dance at McDonald's, and convinces Carrie to move to Paris with him for his art show.

     Even though Petrovsky doesn't turn out to be the “ridiculous, inconvenient, consuming, can't-live-without-each-other” real love Carrie is looking for, he can light me up anytime. At being romanced by Alek/Misha, I say, “Da!” At being whisked away to an expensive suite in a lovely hotel in Paris by a worldly, wealthy smoking-hot artist, I say, “Oui!” and “Ooh la la!”

FASHION: Dressed by the ever-quirky and outrageously fashion-forward costume designer/stylist Patricia Field, Carrie Bradshaw shot SATC style into the mainstream of the new millennium even bigger than “Dallas” did in the Eighties. Looking perfectly put together for anything and flawlessly fabulous in everything from a trench coat over Dolce & Gabbana sequined panties on the runway to an original Oscar de la Renta at the Met (and later McDonald's) to deep-cuffed skinny jeans over Manolos running for a taxi, CB pulled viewers in every week to indulge in the fashion as much as the storyline. Bras became chic accessories because she let them show from underneath revealing couture. Single-handedly, Carrie brought Candies back to life and put Manolo Blahniks and Christian Louboutins on every fashionista's wish list.

     Please, oh please, if there are any miracles left in this world let Pat Field be my fairy godmother and bring me the style savvy and entire wardrobe of Carrie Bradshaw! (But size it up, way up, to fit me!!) And the hair, gotta have the hair, too, to complete the look.

     Over six seasons, Carrie's do morphed from long rock star curls to sleek, chic chignons to messy chin-length bobs to every imaginable style in between and never once looked less than fabulous. And perfect. Or fabulously perfect. Better yet, perfectly fabulous. I know, I've got to come up with more words, but you get the idea.

THE GIRLS: More than anything else, I want to be Carrie Bradshaw because of “the girls,” her gal-pal posse that is by her side for every triumph and tribulation. As Big puts it, “You three know her better than anyone, you're the loves of her life and a guy's just lucky to come in fourth.”

     There's Miranda Hobbes (Cynthia Nixon), the feisty, red-headed lawyer who favors logic over love and straight talks Carrie when she finds herself falling in big time affair trouble with Big and later loses her “self” with Petrovsky. Just like Carrie, I sure can use a tough touchstone like Miranda when I start screwing up my life.

     There's also Charlotte York-MacDougal-York-Goldenblatt (Kristin Davis), the artsy, always proper Park Avenue pal that believes true love exists and is forever finding ways to make it happen for herself and the girls. Just when Charlotte is on the verge of giving up – “I've been dating since I was 15. I'm exhausted! Where is he?” – she finds her Prince Charming in Dr. Trey MacDougal. Unfortunately, Charlotte's marriage to Trey doesn't last (like Trey's erections). But, her Tiffany engagement ring rescues Carrie from having to live in her Manolos when her building goes condo, and Charlotte's divorce lawyer Harry Goldenblatt turns out to be the true love she kept believing in. Charlotte is exactly the cheerleader chum I need for life's rough spots. Maybe her money can't buy me happiness, but it can buy a lot of Cosmopolitans and that's a start.

     I saved Samantha Jones (Kim Cattrall) for last. Because she's the best. With her free-wheeling sexuality (“I'm a trisexual. I'll try anything once.”) and say-anything sauciness (“I'm dating a guy with the funkiest tasting spunk.”), Samantha is the show's Next-Best-Thing-To-Sex dessert you feel guilty about enjoying but eat every last bite of anyway. She loves sex. She loves her body. And she's not afraid to let both be known.

     Samantha is beautiful, brazen, and hooked up with boy toy Smith Jerrod (Jason Lewis), a hung hottie that even hangs tight with her through breast cancer. Of all the girls, and I do love them all, I would choose to be Samantha if I can't get “Carrie”d away. (Being a public relations pro, Samantha can really pop a phrase, second only to CB. She used that play on words in Carrie and Big's rehearsal dinner toast. Couldn't resist borrowing it.)

***

So the other evening my sweetie DMan is taking me out for a little wine tasting, then a wine-sipping visit with friends. An actual date night. Since most of my time is spent in grubby jeans and boring t-shirts for my job shelving books, I decided to channel my inner Carrie and spiff up. I slipped on a hot pink bra and left an extra button undone on my silky black blouse for a pop of pink “accessory.” I hauled out the gray high-heeled faux-croc mock booties that have been relegated to storage under the bed forever, paired them with dark boot-cut low-rider Levis. I mussed my hair and gave it a spritz of spray for that after-sex look Carrie pulls off so well. I even found the makeup kit I mostly use for zit coverage and shadowed my eyes in shades of gray, lined my lids with the least dried-up eye pencil. The final Carrie touch was a slick of pink lip gloss.

     There. As close to Carrie as I'll ever be. I looked in the mirror and . . . hideous looked back at me. Somehow I resembled a cheap hooker under the florescent lights at Wal-Mart after a long, hard night way more than the fabulous idol I was trying to emulate. The ancient eye liner was already flaking, leaving gray flecks on my cheeks. The shadow job I worked so hard on made my eyes look sunk in, as if I'd just been sprung from prison camp. The pink gloss gave my teeth a yellow(er) cast. The pink bra didn't even show unless I bent completely over since I have no cleavage to heave it out there. And I nearly broke my neck in those heels trying to pirouette in front of the mirror to witness this hideousness.

     Before my obituary read “death by heels” or I frightened DMan off for good, I realized right then it was time to kiss Carrie Bradshaw good-bye. As much as I hated it, I had to finally admit: CB I ain't never gonna be.

     I'll never have her looks, no matter how much makeup I put on. I'll never pull off her perfectly put-together style, even if Patricia Field showed up with a wardrobe truck full of Carrie's clothes in my size. My hair will always be too kinky to be rock star curly and too curly to be sleek straight, so trying to have Carrie's do is a don't. I'll never lie next to Big and watch him blow smoke rings at the ceiling after sex, never have Seth dump me after sex, never get to cheat on Aidan with Big, never get the Post-it breakup from Berger, and never get to dance (horizontally or otherwise) and romance with Petrovsky. And the girls? The only time I'll get to have my own gal-pal posse like the girls is when I pop them in the DVD player. My Carrie dream is over.

     But wait. I am still a writer. That's my only shot at living the CB life. Now if I can just figure out a subject I know about that's as fabulous as her “Sex And The City” columns. Huh? What could it be? I do know a lot about Carrie Bradshaw and “Sex And The City” – what could be more fabulous than that? And I do have six seasons worth of episodes, the “SATC: Kiss and Tell” official companion book, the trivia game, and the movie for research material. This might work.

     Pucker up, Carrie Bradshaw! The dream lives. 

Let Them Bones Play

Your bones. Have you thought about them today? Maybe you should. They may be all that's left of you when it's your time to go. I visited my Aunt Naomi today, and that's all that is left of her:  bones covered by nearly translucent skin. Cancer has taken the rest of her. So while you still can, let your bones play. Let them run shoeless through wet grass. Lift up your arms and twirl until you get dizzy and fall down laughing. Take your bones out to salsa or Electric Slide or do the Hustle. Wrap your bones around someone you love and share a big hug. Let your bones feel weightless floating in a pool or get them pounding bicycle pedals. Bones love to jump on trampolines or take a walk with a friend. Your bones may be craving the thrill of a roller coaster, the tickle of the ocean, or the chill of snow swooshing beneath them. Whatever is their fancy, LET THEM BONES PLAY. Then when it's your time to go, they'll be spent and satisfied and ready for a forever rest.
   Life be crrr-azy, Folks. Sometimes funny crazy, sometimes not. I'll get back to funny someday. Just not today.