So There IS a Silver Lining To All This...

I got moved to a different newscast at my little hell hole TV station.

It's a switch that doesn't mean a whole lot to folks outside of the business... but to me it was a huge ego deflator. I still have a job, though, so it could be worse. And I'm not taking a pay cut.

I am instead moving from the station's flagship, top-dog newscast to the bastard show most folks at the station forget we even air. I am trading in the high pressure of the six o'clock news for the cruise-control attitude of the noon show. I am giving up my 10 hours of heart-pounding, hair-pulling madness, shouting and running, egos the size of Texas (no offense to the Lone Star State) and crime-crime-crime for 8 hours of less management, calm voices and happy stories about luxury Christmas catalogs and junior firefighter press conferences (and an anchor who is a real professional, and an even more real person, if you know what I mean).

I am trading in a shift that starts at 9:00 am and ends at 7:00 pm... with at least 3 meetings sandwiched in there (minus a lunch break)

for one that starts at the ass crack of dawn (okay, really 6:30 am) but with the upswing of a day that ends somewhere between 2 and 2:30 pm.

And this is a bad thing because why?

I know, I know. It sounds like a no-brainer. The TV business totally sucks, and for months I've been entertaining the possibility of getting the fuck (yes, I said fuck) out of the field. It's a blood-sucking industry that demands people to perform exceptionally well under tight deadlines every day, with no appreciation or adequate compensation. Many a journalist has had to file bankruptcy or survive on generic canned tuna to stay afloat, and as enticing as both of those options sound, I think I'm more interested in door number 3 (hello, Monty Hall).

Which is why I am embracing the new assignment. This schedule will give me a chance to start applying for jobs or scheduling interviews in the afternoon. I can go tanning or to the gym in the afternoons (just like all those gym bunnies I purportedly hate). I will be able to escape the perils of my little, crumbling newsroom just as tensions are about to hit a fever pitch (at the dreaded 2:30 editorial meeting... where big egos are further inflated, and the worker bees are consistently taken down a notch or ten).

A good friend of mine tells me it sounds to her like I just got a pay raise. For years I've been pulling 50 hour weeks at 40 hour pay. Now I'm scaling back my hours by at least 10 hours a week... that's a pay raise in Lady M's book.

My mother says this is exactly the kick in the pants I needed. I am notorious for doing things last minute, job searches included. My body will probably be late to my very own funeral.

Anyway... this little career correction is going to be the inspiration I've needed to really start the all out search before my contract expires (February 25th, for anyone who's asking). I decided months ago that it was time for me to explore other options: the enchantment of television news has worn off for me. Every member of the media makes so many sacrifices to do the job they do, the sacrifices asked of me were far too great, and had come to seriously diminish my quality of life. At least now I have the flexibility to start looking around before my time is up. I am pushing hard to find a job in Marketing or Public Relations... something that would take advantage of my diverse writing skills (and you thought I was only good for blogging!) Who knows... maybe I'll take a class or two at the Greatest University in the World and end up getting my masters in something. The world is my oyster to discover and savor!

The greatest silver lining of all is how much this experience has drawn a line in the sand regarding my priorities. My demotion (if you can call it that: my title is staying the same) has led me to discover just how important it is for me to some day to get married and have a family. This is no casual desire... a plan to keep up with everyone else in my age group. Rather, it's a deeply ingrained hunger, a yearning to be an active part of a thriving family.

And from the looks of it, families do not thrive when Mom or Dad are in the media.

Sure, there are exceptions to the rule. But by in large most of the folks who come up the pike in television news either are childless, or they have the kind of family life that's fodder for a Lifetime movie.

Examples:
My first news director was a gay man. I'm down with the rainbow power, but chances are he's not planning on setting up a baby nursery any time soon.

My second news director left a manifesto on his office door upon his being fired. The main thread in that diatribe is this: the old guy wanted to find a career that would appreciate his efforts more and afford him more time with his wife and kids.

My third news director has a wonderful heart, but she was a single woman in her later 40s with an unstable son.

Our interim newsroom management consists of a single 45-year-old woman with no kids, and a mid 30s guy with no kids.

Notice the theme here?

A decision to stay with television news would cement my destiny firmly in a future of loneliness and solitude. No kids to look forward to (well except maybe the kid who delivers the Sunday paper) and no companion with whom to spend my Golden Years.

My little ego check has hurt my pride, but it's done wonders for the outlook of my future.

Drowning in my misery...

Or at least my Ben & Jerry's Brownie Batter Ice Cream

Demoted at work.

Heart hurts (I think maybe that's my bruised ego that's black and blue).

Will reveal all the juicy details (and the few silver linings I've found) just ahead.

Cheers,
Kate the (not so) Great

13 Going On 30

This chick flick made me think today.

image courtesy of killermovies.com
There I was, picking the kernels of corn out of my braces-straight teeth, watching one of my favorite actresses try her hand at the big screen... when the movie posed a question to me:

If you got a one-time do over, would you do it?

There are the obvious moments I have in the past that could merit a makeover:

the time I got arrested
the day I stole a box of Girl Scout cookies from the garage of our troop cookie distributor (who just happened to be my mom)
the time I dated a really, really bad guy

and then there are the not so significant occasions that are just as instrumental in making up the person that I am today:

the day in 5th grade I auditioned for Select Chorus
the day I wrote my first controversial column in the school paper
the day I was confirmed

One need to look no farther than Newton's Third Law of Physics to realize that every action has a consequence... and that all those decisions & consequences add up like little grains of sand on a beach.

Some beaches are big tourist attractions with miles and miles of soft sand.


Some are more reclusive, littered with pebbles, rocks and boulders.


Still others are a perfect combination of the two... with wellworn paths leading to the spots to sun in... and off beat tracts that can only be appreciated by someone who respects the complicated. They're all natural treasures, little gifts from God, made just the way he wanted them to be.

Just like me.

Sin City Chapter Five: Flaunting what my mama gave me

Can you believe I'm still writing about my Vegas trip... two weeks later?


A bikini wax doesn't even last that long.

Anyway, speaking of wax jobs... anyone who has ever visited Vegas knows you see a lot of 'em walking around. From short skirts to visible chest hair (ew, gross), there's a lot of skin to be seen in Sin City.

Mine included.


photo courtesy of the fine people at Caramel Bar & Lounge at the Bellagio

So I am not used to putting myself out there... at least in the physical sense. In many instances I've got enough confidence to power a steamboat... but where the bod is concerned...

not so much.

It's those same longing leers that most girls invite that I happen to find quite intimidating. Some men stare at me (and beautiful women in general) with such passion and vigor that their facial expression makes me wonder: Do you want to take me out to dinner, or eat me for dinner?

They lick their toothy grins... just salivating, eyes sparkling and glinting as their focus skips and dances over every juicy curve, every secret crevice, just planning the celebration of their conquest before the battle plans have even been drawn.

I am sure it's the reaction much like what Lil' Red Riding Hood encountered when meeting the wolf.


All that aside, I decided Las Vegas was a place I could be pretty anonymous with my appearance: sit in one spot on the Strip for five minutes and you'll see no less than 20 pairs of breasts (most fake, I might add) and just as many short skirts.

Vegas was the perfect place for me to take it off, and take it off I did.

I packed nothing but bikinis, short skirts, camisoles and low cut shirts. I had a pair of khaki capris in the bag (kind of as a security blanket, I guess) but they didn't come out until the flight home. You never know who you're gonna bump into at an airport, and I wanted to make sure I looked respectable (Oh, hi, Uncle Mike. Haven't seen you in ages. So, how are the kids?) for the return to little, tiny Lexington.

But for one brief weekend in Vegas, the ol' twins (which are nicknamed Woodward and Bernstein, by the way) were treated to some fresh air and the hot, desert sun.

They can't wait to go back. Glad they have to bring me with them!

A Different Kind of Sex in The City

So the NYC rags are outing Cynthia Nixon of "Sex and The City" fame.

photo courtesy www.afterellen.com

Nixon won't confirm or deny... but who cares. It's her life, right?

And if it is true... great. Samantha would be jelous of Miranda, and that untapped demographic of people to have sex with.

Suffering With The Stockholm Syndrome

Is it masochistic... or a coping mechanism?

It's when you grow attached to the very people who are abusing you, and I think I've got a bad case of it.

I am finding myself becoming attached to the same folks who have, in the past, been very mean to me at work.

Does it mean they're wearing me down? Does it mean they're becoming nicer? Does it mean I'm a sucker?

How have I come to accept (and even become fond of) the same people who make me cry?

Can I Get That in an 8 by 10 Glossy?

Courtesy: AP Photo/Oklahoma County Sheriff

This is what happens when you frequently leave your child "Home Alone" without adult supervision.

(And WTF was he doing in Oklahoma City?)

Sweet Home Alabama

Dixie is standing proud once again.

Miss Alabama Diedre Downs claimed the Miss America 2005 crown Saturday night, much to the chagrin of 51 other contestants.


Downs was one of four Southern ladies in the top five (Miss North Carolina, Miss Arkansas, Miss California, Miss Louisiana, Miss Alabama), reaffirming the strong belief the South has the most beautiful women in the country.

No one knows how to work a can of hair spray like us girls in the South!

Sin City Chapter Four: Learning when to say No.

No.

Aside from mama and dada, it's one of the first words a kid learns how to say, to the irk of many parents.

"Brush your teeth." "No."
"Eat your creamed peas." "No!"
"Go to sleep." "NO!!"

We learn how to say no at an early age, and it's reinforced along the way when we schooled on the perils of sex, drugs and awful rock & roll fashions.

Somewhere in there, the ill temptations of gambling are forgotten.


I had the "no" thing down pat where drugs were concerned, it was a little less reliable where sex was involved back in the day, but it didn't stand a chance in the realm of any Las Vegas casino.

The glitter (or is that neon?), the tempting cha-chings... it was all so intoxicating. Sporadic shouts of joy erupting from time to time throughout the opulent gaming hall... they were all like little lures catching on bits of foolish hope I had embedded deep within me.

A nickel slot machine at New York, New York broke me in easy.

I thought 20 chances in one buck, surely it'll bring in some bacon to Baby.

Fat chance.

Then one dollar became two... and two became five.

Fortunately, that time I was rescued by the two friends vacationing with me.

But the lure of the One Armed Bandit is a powerful one, and it dragged me in to casino after casino, chasing down that elusive pot of gold.

I can see how gambling is an addiction for folks, similar to that of alcohol, drugs or even sex.

I threw a few shiny coins in on several occasions: when I was bored, when I was bummed and when I was wanting do something fun.

The same three reasons I used to drink.

But I digress.

I only learned to say No to the slots my last few hours.

On my last day in Vegas, I walked out of Caesar's with no more than 10 dollars in my pocket, having lost five bucks in fewer minutes in one of those God forsaken slots.

At that point, no was a necessity.

The ten spot was enough money for me to take a shuttle to the airport and have, like, three dollars left over.

I was really, really hungry that last day.

But already, on the flight back East, I was plotting my next trip, and the requisite bigger budget.

Up next: the final chapter.
Sin City Chapter Five: Flaunting what my mama gave me!

Baby Got (no) Back

___________________________________________________________________
Sin City is temporarily on hiatus... stay tuned!!
___________________________________________________________________

I have a confession. I've got no ass.

It's not so much a confession really, since it's very apparent to the world (or at least the half of the world behind me.) But this external pronouncement is somehow an admission of inadequacy in my book.

The thing that separates women from men are their curves. The slight roundness about the hip or the fullness of an ample bosom are two such signifying characteristics. So is a ghetto booty.

I ain't got no ghetto booty.

J-Lo's posterior makes me so jealous.

It's the kind of thing men look at and want to grab on to. Jennifer Lopez's butt even has it's own theme song (okay, so Sir Mix-A-Lot's "Baby Got Back" was several years early), whereas my ass is more reminiscent of the 10,000 Maniacs tune "The Earth Pressed Flat."

Until now.

There must be other girls with my same dilemma, because a special website is offering relief for flat asses everywhere.

It's called Love My Bubbles and these are their leg bands.

They boost the bum and give us ultra white girls a little more junk in the trunk. A boost for the caboose. A rise in the rump.

So next time you see a really great ass walking around, especially in Lexington, Kentucky, introduce yourself.

It might be me ;)

Visit From Beyond?

I had a strange dream last night.

I'm one of those sound sleepers with (as much as I hate to admit it) a light snore. My brain goes to the depths of my subconscious when I sleep, and I never remember the journey once awake.

This morning was different.

I dreamed my favorite grandma and I were visiting in her old house. I was my present age, as opposed to the high school senior who struggled with her death so many years ago.

We were sitting in her den, laughing and talking. Nana was telling me she was so pleased to see the person I had become, that she was really proud of my accomplishments and strength through personal struggles, and that I had become a beautiful woman.

Nana and I were really close when I was a kid. People tell me I'm a carbon copy version of her, including the ballsy attitude and fake blonde hair. Oh, how we had great times together and made lots of treasured memories. I loved the velvet softness of my Nana's arms, how they were as smooth as pillows. I miss how she'd tell me grown-up jokes with a twinkle in her eye. I miss how we'd eat Lorna Doone cookies and drink tea while I played dress up with her jewelry and silk scarves.

The dream of my special Nana was so vivid, one my wet noodle managed to hang on to, and for that reason it leaves me with one question:

Did Nana come visit me in my sleep?

The fact I remembered the dream at all leads me to believe there is some significance to the dream, though I'm not sure that indicates the dream has a tinge of alternate universe reality to it, or if it was just an emotional journey.

I've always wondered if my Nana would be proud of me, if she would be happy to see the woman I had become. If my career would impress her. If she would be shocked by some of my brazen behavior a couple years back. I don't know if this dream was a sleepy time version of all that wondering.

I immediately woke up and started crying. Not a faint whimper, but out and out bawling with tears pouring down my cheeks. The dream was so real to me, so vivid, that it brought with it that incredible longing for Nana I had forgotten so long ago.

Then I got freaked out that Nana's ghost would be bothered by my crying. I was worried her spirit from beyond would take my emotional outburst to mean I was scared or upset by her apparition, when in reality I was overcome by a feeling of longing for her.

I grew concerned my grandmother's spirit would be scared off by my reaction, so I started talking out loud, saying "Nana, I'm not scared. I'm not upset. I just miss you. I'm not upset by your visit, and I love you a whole lot."

This morning was a very surreal experience. I loved the idea my grandma may have come visit me in my dream to tell me she loves me from beyond, and I hope it happens again.

Next time I'll be sure to have the Lorna Doones on hand.

Sin City Chapter Three: Gettin' The Hook Up

Contrary to all misconceptions, television is not a glamorous industry.

Most folks (especially the ones who work behind the scenes) make many sacrifices to put stuff on the boob tube. My biggest sacrifice thus far is one of a financial nature... I'm ghetto poor and my credit rating is practically criminal... all because of the paltry pay scale this business operates on.

So whenever the opportunity comes along to snag a little perk, a sister's gotta take it.

Some careers come with fancy expense accounts and even more outlandish training seminar dinners. Other folks get to jet set around the globe for work, taking snapshots of their visits to Belgium, Bermuda and Burma.

TV folks get free access to places regular people either can't see... or have to shell out to visit.

This includes cool clubs in Las Vegas with velvet ropes... standing just beyond a line of sparkly girls and buff guys, just panting to get beyond.


I called up a few spots and tossed out my tv station call letters, saying I would be joined by two colleagues for a research visit in Las Vegas. Our party would be interested in the fun spots enjoyed by single girls, and we would not be bringing a camera with us, for this was purely a "research visit."

Rrrrrrright.

We researched, alright.

We checked out the hot guys on the dance floor, the wacky fashions the folks are wearing in Vegas, we even had an obligation to enjoy a round of comped champagne (or in my case Red Bull and Cranberry), for research, of course.


Some folks say nothing is free in life... but I would say those comps were pretty damn close. Besides, a wise man once said "You can't always get what you want, you get what you need (oh baby)".

Sometimes God gives you a little boost to let you live a little, and that's okay. Enjoy it, because it doesn't come around often.

Which brings me to, of course, my next topic.
What He giveth, he taketh away as well.
I'll talk about that more in Sin City Chapter Four: Learning when to say No.

It has nothing to do with sex, drugs or rock & roll!

Sin City Chapter Two: The Desperate Men of Sin City

There's a comedian out there that has a schtick called "Here's Your Sign." Basically he says stupid people should come with some kind of visible alert. I think that's a really great idea, only I'd like to expand that idea to everyone... with all of us featuring some kind of wearable warning.

Mine would say "Look, But Don't Touch."

I'm used to guys looking. You can't help but notice them staring while you writing the check for your oil change... and the clerk is telling your breasts they owe "$16.95 ma'am, and do you need any windshield wipers with that?"

Looking I'm used to. The touching...

Not so much.

Fine china?

You only look in the stores... unless you're really ready to buy that 75 dollar sugar bowl.

Fine Diamonds?

Those salespeople won't even let you breathe the same air surrounding those carats unless you're gonna fork over the cash.

The same applies to fine women. You don't get to just manhandle a woman (lady or otherwise) unless you're willing to make her yours.

Apparently the men in Vegas are not familiar with this concept. Now I'll admit, these guys aren't all natives of the desert town (in fact I didn't meet one "townie" on my whole trip), but for some reason every touchy-feely, wandering-hand kind of guy makes it to Sin City like it's a pilgrimage to Mecca.



The desperation bleeds out of them as soon as they open their mouths.
"Hey lady, why are you walking alone? You look too good to be by yourself."
"Where are you staying? You wanna go get a room somewhere else?"
"Can I come back with you? No? Can you come back with me?"

That last quote is exactly what this guy said to me when we both walked out of a dance club.

His name was Dave and we had previously crossed paths quite literally while walking on The Strip (see Sin City Chapter 1). Dave and I caught up later at a really cool club and spend the rest of the night dancing.

Dancing is a pretty benign activity. I've danced with boys in school performances, I've danced with male friends at parties, and I've danced with my dad at my sister's wedding. Dancing is not a free pass to check out the color of my thong. Dave and I danced quite nicely while at the club (Techno is not bump and grind booty dancing music, in my book) until his brain waves lost complete control of the movement of his hands. Apparently his 10 digits were beyond his realm of power... moving instead to the top, bottom and sides of my gluteus maxiumus.

(If his indirect contact with my posterior was some covert ploy to hide the fact he wanted to grab my ass, it wasn't working).

I did that slick move girls come out of the womb instinctively knowing, the "I'm gonna move your hand from where ever it is and not really make a big deal about it's previous location", gently replacing his palm on my... hips... far safer territory.

The guy didn't get the clue... and decided to creep up towards the front of my body... which is a complete no-no in my book. That zone warrants some kind of verbal clearance before you make a sudden landing.

We took a break from dancing and Dave finally asked me a question. Was it about my hopes and dreams? Was it about my family? Was it about my job?

Nope. He asked if I wanted to get out of there and go someplace else with him.

One word. No.

We danced a little more and he decided to take advantage of one of those arctic blasts (the one I mentioned earlier, where dancers are unable to see their hands in front of their face) to shove his tongue down my throat. Over and over. It wasn't like french kissing was a novelty he was revisiting... it was like this move was the only one he knew... where kissing was concerned.

Ewww. I thought guys stopped kissing like that in 10th grade. This dude was like 36 years old. I was totally turned off.

There I was... a captive, stranded audience in a the frozen white blast of dry ice with no visible escape... only his fat tongue lying dormant inside my suddenly helpless mouth.

Fast forward to our parting. We walked out of ICE and Dave was pushing for us to go someplace together... my place, his place, he didn't care which place... he just wanted to get some.

I replied that I was going to ride in my own cab, and he in his, and if he was really interested in seeing me again he had my phone number. We could rendezvous the next day somewhere but I was going home because "I'm a straight edge kind of girl."

Dave's reply?

"Well, I'm a straight edge kind of guy."

Whatever. The only straight edge on that guy was about 5 inches long and it was a few inches more below his waist.

Poor Dave. So transparent. If only I had been wearing my sign... he would have known better and probably have moved on to an easier mark. Which brings me to a perfect opportunity to plug my next entry:

Sin City Chapter Three: Gettin' The Hook Up

It's not what you think!

Sin City Chapter One: Blinded By An Arctic Chill

Click here for a pic, and Yes... they're real

Even in the sweltering, desert heat I managed to find a chill spot to hang out.

I heard about this club ICE in Las Vegas (200 East Harmon Boulevard, in case you're wondering) where to my amazement Paul Oakenfold was doing a charity show (check earlier posts if you're wondering who that dude is).

I dragged my girls to a few spots before heading over to ICE. My media connections got us past the tediously long line and overly inflated cover charge. We sauntered in, the fine ladies that we were, to check out what this club was all about. After some dancing in the hip hop room and fending off some overly forward gentlemen (and I'm being generous with that term), my girls decided to crack out of ICE for something a little less heated. Not wanting to be the party pooper, I reluctantly went along.

I was sooo bummed to go b/c Oakenfold hadn't started spinning, so once we got back to our room at the Monte Carlo, I decided to head back out.

It was a big step for me.

Big cities I can handle. Big cities, alone, and after 2 am... that's when I feel like things can get a little sketchy for a girl with her double Ds hanging out.

I decided to sack up anyway, and returned to the cool scene @ ICE. Right before I left I got a call on my cell from some guy whom I happened to give my number to while walking on The Strip. Dave called me back late and asked what I was up to, and I told him 5'8" and that was about it. I mentioned I was going to a club and he said he'd meet me there.

I got to ICE first and headed to the techno room... where there were a bunch of people dancing to this thumping, electronic, energetic music... pulsating through every pore of your body. Some folks were obviously enjoying the event with assistance from various illegal chemicals, in fact one guy asked me if I was interested in doing X. It was an ironic experience for me, the girl who doesn't even drink anymore. I was having a perfectly good time with my Red Bull and Cranberry.

I think I am now what they call "straight edge." It's sometimes tossed out as an insult, other times it's a label of wonderment given by folks who are amazed some of us can survive without mind altering chemical influences.

Whatever.

Anyway. I don't mean to boast, but I'm a master on the dance floor (which admittedly is pretty easy for anyone when the music is Techno) . I just kind of bounced and bopped to my own little beat... scooting away from weirdo guys who looked like they belonged on that old SNL skit Sprockets (you know, Mike Myers, all black clothes, some weird little glasses and a horribly awful German accent).

Then all of a sudden it happened.
The little gimmick ICE is known for.

Every hour they drop a bunch of dry ice and the dance floor becomes completely engulfed in 40 degree temperatures and a frozen, white cloud. Dancers can't see beyond their own hand, much less what's beyond. You can't see who's dancing around you, and those folks can't see you wiggling around them, either.

It was the strangest sensation, to be completely embraced in this frozen cloud that would glow all white when the black lights were on... then turn to pitch black when the lights went off. The flashing back and forth is enough to send someone into an epileptic seizure...

It was very cool to be anonymous for those few minutes, with no one staring at my moves... it was just me, Paul Oakenfold's tunes, the dry ice and the dance floor. The moment was surreal enough for me without the assistance of any mind altering drugs; I can't imagine what it was like for the pill poppers.

On the other side of things, it was kind of freaky because it's a scenario where it would be very easy for a girl to get sexually assaulted. In between my dance moves, my mind wildly raced through thoughts of me discovering I was completely nude once the cloud cleared... my clothing having been ripped off by nearby dancers in the thick of the icy smoke.

In reality, my ass was grabbed a few times, but other than that the folks were pretty kind... keeping their hands and bodily fluids to themselves.

Dave managed to meet up with me at ICE. I'll break down those details ahead in
Sin City Chapter Two: The Desperate Men of Sin City.

Can't Wait To Hit The Hay

I am so tired!

Got in to Lexington this morning at 10:30... and I'm now at work! Talk about punishment!

Actually I didn't do anything bad while I was in Las Vegas ;)

Ahead...

I'll tell you about being blinded by an Arctic Chill...

The desperation of men in Sin City...

Gettin' the Hook Up...

Learning when to say No...

And flaunting what my mama gave me!

In television... that's what we call a tease. Stay tuned!

Goin' from the itty bitty Bluegrass to the Bright Lights of Vegas

Ten tips to go from Wholesome to Hoochie in 24 hours

Okay... I'm not going to get completely hoochiefied... there's nothing worse than looking like a ho... and knowing it.

I prefer to consider it more of a transformation towards glamour.

There ain't no glamour in Kentucky, baby. At least in my lil' neck of the woods. Some people try, with their cutesy seat belt bag purses and off- the-shoulder flouncy shawl gettups... but really, here in Kentucky it's more a mock-up of glamour. Big City flattery in a little town.

But Vegas. That's a different story. Pretty people with pretty things, and lots of pretty paper in their pockets (all of it green, of course.) It's a lot to intimidate a girl straight out of the hayseed sleepy town of Lexington (cue the banjo music here.)

That's not really what I think of Lexington.

Lexington is actually a cool little town, unfortunately the rest of the world doesn't know it. So I am out to prove otherwise, one city at a time, and here are the ten hip tips I'll use to help me do it.

1) False eyelashes - not just for Halloween anymore

Every celebrity you see on TV has these incredibly long lashes perfect for batting at beaus. The truth is out: these folks weren't born that way.

2) A great tan
Fake or otherwise, a little bronze on the ol' bod does wonders for a gal. A tan can make you look younger, thinner and otherwise attractive. Lots of great bronzers are out there, spray on is always an option, or you can choose the route of the cancer coffin.

3) Diamonds are a girl's best friend

Real or not, a little bling bling can go a long way. I'm trying out some sparkly stilleto earrings and a nice Austrian crystal bracelet.

4)Up, Up and Away

(no, this is not me!!)
A push up bra can do for the little girls what it does for the big girls. Lift and push together.
I myself was overly blessed (or was it cursed?) by the boob fairy, so I am using something with a little more archetecture, but you get the point.

5) Piercings

Barbells aren't for the gym anymore. It's a remnant from my days as a wild college girl, and I just haven't been able to part with it. There's a far less committment than tattoos, and in my book it's a little bit more discreet than some dolphin on your ankle. Eww.

6) A good pair of heels

Not very practical for walking The Strip (well, I guess they are for the professionals) but they look great with a little black dress.

7) Little Black Dress

It's no-brain uniform for the cocktail set. Every girl has at least one.

8) Flat iron


This invention is a gift from Folliclesus... the Greek God of Hair. Okay, I made that up, but it ranks up there as one of the world's best inventions. I've got some frizzy hair to contend with, and every once in a while it's nice to go sleek like everyone else.

9) Little Black Handbag

To keep your lipstick, tampons, pens for snagging guys phone numbers. Most girly purses in Kentucky also stash cigarettes and lighters, even with a city wide smoking ban in all public places.
10) Lip Gloss

Keeps your lips pretty and pouty.

T Minus 43 Hours & Counting...

Viva Las Vegas, Baby!!!

I am SO ready for my trip, folks. This gal hasn't been somewhere fun in a long, long time... and so I'm super pumped for my trip to Sin City. Don't know so much about the sinning part, but you know what they say... "What happens in Vegas... stays in Vegas." !!



I'm staying here Saturday night, and here Sunday night. My plan is to lay out by the pool all day long, maybe fit a massage in somewhere, do some Strip walking and then dance my booty off at night. I've never been to a club in a big city so it should be pretty cool... and I've even met a few people off of some Vegas club websites... so there are fun people to meet up with once we get there.

No real segue to write here... so I'll jump right in.

My other obsession lately is knitting.

Not in the bathtub, but in other comfortable spots, like my bed and such. I'm working on two scarves, one is hot pink and has all these little fuzzy, flashy pieces in it... another is a bit more subdued, green and very soft.

I know this post is kind of lame... nothing to say and really subpar writing but I am so tired and distracted by my trip! Maybe I'll get creative later today.

Cheers :)

Reading by candlelight

I spent last night bathed in candlelight.

The glowing flame flickered and shined in my tiny Main Street apartment, a cozy little evening with my books and nothing but peace and quiet.

The clocks stopped, I was saved from slaving away at the stove and the television did not distract my serenity. Last night I was rescued from the trappings of modern day convenience.

All because I forgot to pay my utility bill.

Okay. So it wasn't all wine and roses.

I hated that the stuff in the freezer was defrosting. I was pissed off that I didn't get to see the last night of the GOP convention (although did I REALLY miss much?)

Mostly, I was worried I wouldn't wake up in the morning on time, what with my alarm clock all blanked out. Last night I would have been happy with the constant flashing of 12:00, but alas, my irresponsibility got the best of me.

These little moments happen to every one of us. A less than ideal situation crops up that can put a real kink in your disposition; but it's not so much what happens, but what you do with it once it happens that matters.

I decided to suck it up and spend the night in the dark.

I lit the few candles I had in my apartment and quickly realized I should have a few more on hand, just in case. Luckilly it's the tail end of summer, with its mild temperatures, otherwise I would have really missed my air conditioning. But it wasn't hot, so I hibernated comfortably for one night, alone with my travel guide to Vegas.

And therein lies the great irony. Here I am planning a trip to Sin City, and yet I can't pay my utility bill.
----------------------------------------------------

Vegas Trip Update: I got my ticket, thanks to nine years of hoarding my frequent flyer miles.

I finagled some VIP passes for myself and my friends to a hip club out there... and the manager just emailed to tell me Paul Oakenfold will be spinning that night!!



Oh my starry eyed surprise, sundown to sunrise, I dance all night, we're gonna dance all night, dance all night to this DJ.

Procrastination Gets The Best Of Me

Anyone With Some Tips for A Party Girl Bound For Vegas?




Okay. I plead guilty to last minute planning. I am horrible when it comes to thinking ahead... even where vacations are concerned.

Now I am stuck with a dilemma: Miss out on Friday night in Vegas... or sell my first born for a flight out Friday evening.

I've searched all the websites. Expedia. Hotwire. Orbitz. Been there. Priceline & Cheaptickets, been there, too. I've scanned the US Airways, Delta and United websites as well.

The tickets are all checking in at around $280, and that's on the cheap side. Some folks might scoff at that price as pocket change, but not the girl who ate ramen noodles for dinner two nights ago.

Everyone told me flights to Vegas would be cheap. "Oh honey, the casinos want your cash... so you can get to Vegas on a song."

Since when did a song cost around 300 bucks? What is this, a Streisand concert?

I may have to delay my decadence by one night and fly out Saturday morning. What a bummer... but when a girl's gotta party, a girl's gotta party.

I'm Having A Baby... Vicariously

One of my dearest friends, Lady G., just told me she's having a baby girl.

My synapses immediately spiraled into sugar plum thoughts of pretty hairbows, dresses with petticoats, little pantaloons covered with ruffles on the bum, and pink monograms galore.

I literally squealed out loud when she told me. My coworkers probably thought I was having a pig roast in my corner of the newsroom.

I am so anxious for that period in my life when I get to have children. It's really quite a blessing I don't think God is ready to give me, probably because I'm not ready, myself.

But until that time, I will shower all my affection and cravings to buy baby clothes on my friends' children.


And as the wonderful Aunt Kate, I get to hug and hold a baby as much as I want. And when she starts throwing up pea soup or screeches a high decibel scream, I get to hand her back to Mommy :)