Holy shit, I'm in my thirties.

I think I first knew that I was getting older when I started hating teenagers at the movies. Recently, I've noticed other things that are aging me. I'm seriously considering a TempurPedic mattress. At Brookstone, I choose to sit in the massage chairs for an inappropriate length of time with no intention of purchasing anything. I'm totally disgusted that the US Army is sanctioning a war-based video game. I take a daily vitamin. Jane magazine has become "eh". I'm returning to folk music roots. I wear socks to bed. Tea has become a viable option to wine, and I don't mean the shroom-y kind. I asked for 3 paid months of Homeowner's Association fees for Christmas. I think I need to contact Oprah and schedule a makeover, so I can become the hotness that is under the surface, and stop being so fucking....old.

A Fireproof Feast

Three years ago, I was in charge of setting the Thanksgivng table at my mom's home in Virginia. I was hell-bent to make this the most goddamn gorgeous table the world had ever seen, so I went all Martha Stewart on its ass. We're talking flowers, cornucopias, FAKE GRAPES, PEOPLE, and most importantly, tea lights. We wined, we cheesed, we wined, we olived and pickled. As we all sat down to dinner, my mother filled the water glasses, and dumped the entire Brita pitcher on my guest. As we all scrambled to get towels, quietly from the other side of the table, I hear, "Nana's on fire." I look over only to see my G-Ma beating out a small tea-light induced flame on her Chico's sweater. Attention then shifts to burning grandma, inducing further chaos, which then ignites the tablecloth. Tablecloth and Nana were succesfully put out, and dinner went on as usual. This year, no flaming elders, a tablecloth that remained in tact, and no one got really drunk. Oh well, there's always Christmas.

Why Maintain the Sexy?

Because Diddy said so.

Multiple Pies

That is what I will see tomorrow. I have been diligent about going to the gym, eating well (preeeeetty-much) , in order to prepare for the gorging that shall bequeath my grill tomorrow. I'm spending Thanksgiving (cooler if I call it Thxgiving?) with a friend of mine's family. They are from Georgia and make a mean Southern Feast. My family is celebrating back east with Williamsburg-y dishes (which I love) and toasts made by my Scottish grandmother that go something like this: "I'm thankful for my family and for The Laphroaig; God Bless us until Christmas, when I'll bring in the Haggis". I do miss it.

Oooh baby, ooooh baby, ooooh.

There doesn't seem to be a more appropriate time to say...OMG, WTF? Lindsay Lohan just performed on the American Music Awards dressed in what appeared to be a clinic gown and oversized, stripper-meets-clown sized shoes. She reminded me of a spoiled drunk girl who hogged the karaoke stage at her own party. Except not as good.

"Omigod, Aaron, you DICK. Get me up and tell the DJ to cue up The Gambler. I ain't finished.."

The holidays are upon us, kiddies, and I'll be heading back East to see the fam.
We always seem to have a full-blown family fight right before Christmas Eve dinner, which is always a roast tenderloin. My mom stomps out and walks the dog in her moon boots and my grandmother says "Jesus, Mary and Joseph" alot, and the phone always rings, and everyone gets quiet as to appear to have been enjoying a lovely storytelling by the fire when the phone rang. We all make up and eat and my mom and I drink whiskey and diet ginger ale and my grandmother talks about 'bourbon' and how she doesn't like it. But she'll have one anyway. Then we talk about how perfect the tree is that year, and the dog picks a bone to chew, and we open a gift and talk about the ornaments and how funny it was that I got kicked out of Brownies for the birdseed one. Christmas at my house also consists of lots of greenery in the house- the place is like fucking Sherwood Forest. My mom makes a 1970s era Strawberry Jello salad thing that rules. We all wake up, eat breakfast and open gifts. I get my mom electronics that she doesn't understand, she gets me electronics that she doesn't understand and we get my grandmother things made of fleece and licorice. I love Christmas, and I love my weird little family.

Here's what I have to say about low-carb diets:

TBS, you bastard. How did you just suck me in and make me watch "Volcano", perhaps the worst movie ever written? And why, why did I watch THE WHOLE THING?

Rate-a-Stripper

Virginia is for Lovers. Las Vegas is for STRIPPERS!!!

And guess where I saw one today?? At the f-ing grocery store. It was magical. She even had her kid with her. Strippers in Vegas are, in a lot of ways, parallel to the celeb caste system in L.A. Your pony-walking A Listers make some bank and are at times, gorgy gorgeous (in a midwestern glamour shot kind of way). They screw the local politicians and drive hummer-financed Hummers. Yellow ones. Your B-listers (hee hee b-listers. Get it? Blisters. Sigh.) are much more ragged and are approaching their mid 30s. They probably date a bouncer and drive an Eclipse convertible. Now, this gem was perhaps, a D-lister. D, peeps. I wanted to hug her kid and tell him that mommies don't usually wear red pleather boots to Albertsons, and that maybe mommy was just tired. Or on meth. Anyway, I took a picture with my camera phone and it didn't come out. Life is unfair, yet it did begin a new game called "Worst/Best Community Stripper Sighting". Stay tuned.