Rougie: January 2010 Archives

Fact: I left Friday morning for a much needed girl's weekend in Miami with my long-time BFF, The Literary Agent.

Fact: While I was away, North Carolina got slammed with a winter storm of epic proportions - or at least epic by our standards. I knew it was coming and so before I left on Friday morning, I sprinkled a 40-lb. bag of de-icer on my driveway and my walkway. I had a second bag in the shed "just in case."

Fact: I enjoyed the Hell out of my weekend but by breakfast this morning I was a neurotic ball of nerves worrying about icy roads when I got home and the potential for a flooded basement. So much for relaxing - although stress doesn't destory a sun-tan.

Fact: I have amazing friends. Several people stopped by in my absence and shoveled my driveway/walk/stairs AND sprinkled that other bag of de-icer.

Fact: My flight was 30 minutes delayed. Since I landed in the evening that was 30 minutes less of sunlight to drive home in. That was 30 more minutes when the roads could have potentially frozen over and I could have skidded on black ice.

Fact: I nearly threw up 37 times while driving home due to sheer and utter anxiety.

Fact: Pulling into my shoveled and de-iced driveway tonight was still super-duper scary on account of the fact that it's on a hill.

Fact: Ballet flats are not proper footwear for snow and ice.

Fact: When I made it home safely AND realized that my sump pump had actually pumped sump while I was away and my basement was dry, I burst into tears. Giant happy tears of relief. 

Fact: Superbad on TV makes it all better.

Fact: I came home to an empty fridge. If I hadn't stopped for gas I wouldn't have even had beer to drink.

Fact: I was resigned to a dinner of microwave popcorn.

Fact: Twitter is life-changing. My buddy Ben bragged about making risotto for dinner tonight. I replied that if he didn't live in another country I'd be there in a heartbeat. Then I re-evaluated my pantry/freezer situation and discovered some frozen homemade chicken-veggie soup and cous-cous in my cupboard.

Fact: Cous-cous takes about 2 seconds to cook, thereby making it the most efficient grain ever.

Fact: I wound up having a delicious dinner after all.

Fact: Cous-cous saved my life tonight. And beer. And McLovin. And the real life guardian angels who did for me what I could not do for myself.

Fact: I am a lucky, lucky girl. 

Comments ( 6 )

So the other night I was out having drinks with The Hawk and apparently, I am completely un-American or some shit like that because I've never seen an episode of The Andy Griffith Show. Also - something about my never having eaten at Olive Garden although I don't know if that makes me un-American or if it merely makes me really fucking smart. We'll come back to that topic later.

I'll start by saying this: there is no man on this Earth cuter than The Hawk and here's why. Sunday I get an IM from him telling me that Breakfast at Tiffany's is on TCM that day at 4pm. Which I of course already knew because I am in the midst of a mad passionate love affair with TCM and I pretty much know what is on TCM most of the time. Plus, I was all set to Tivo That Touch of Mink at 6pm (Ack! Cary Grant! Doris Day! That dude from The Addams Family who is also Rudy's/Mikey's dad!) so I had actually seen that Audrey would be gracing the screen prior. I mean really - what man sends you an IM to tell you that Audrey Hepburn is going to be on TV in one of your all time favorite flicks? The cutest man on Earth - that's who. Of course I replied that it was NFC/AFC championship Sunday and I was going to be out with the Boys drinking beer and eating chicken wings so I was going to have to pass on Audrey this go around.

Anyways, The Hawk and I were out the other night and we got to talking about Breakfast at Tiffany's (that dear sweet man actually thought he could stump me on Breakfast at Tiffany's trivia - as if!) and old movies in general and then somehow we migrated from old movies to old TV shows and the next thing you know The Hawk is going on about Mayberry or some such thing and I have an extraordinarily gorgeous but rather blank look on my face because oh yeah - I've never seen an episode of The Andy Griffith Show. I tried to tell The Hawk that this wasn't a big deal.  I mean - I used to love me some Matlock. And Don Knotts totally wins the award for kookiest landlord ever (also - worst dressed landlord ever). And I don't think I even mentioned that I knew that Ron Howard aka Richie Cunningham aka BIG TIME MOVIE DIRECTOR was on the show as well. And I intentionally did NOT mention that I actually know some of the lyrics to Mayberry by Rascal Flatts (pauses to turn down volume in head before my brain bleeds just from even thinking of that song) because really: did we need to be tortured?

The Hawk seemed rather surprised by my admission of having missed out on Mayberry for the last 30-something years of my life, not to mention that I think he was a tad bit disappointed. I gently reminded him that 1) I was born in the 1970s so cut me some slack dude and 2) I have seen many, many episodes of I Love Lucy so doesn't that count for something? Then I bought him another Guinness to help ease the pain. Because I'm totally thoughtful like that.

Then - I have no idea exactly how but I guess we were talking about the crazy-wacky-kooky things I have never done (not much) and I said something about not ever having eaten at Olive Garden which frankly, I consider some kind of personal triumph. And for the record, Olive Garden could be the last source of sustenance on this planet and I'd probably die from starvation rather than sully my insides with their food.

And notice how I said eat AT Olive Garden because OMFG - once I was actually FORCED to eat their food. Kind of. A few months ago we hosted a lunch presentation at one of our offices and whoever ordered lunch had it catered by Olive Garden and I near about died because frankly, I may joke about starving rather than eating Olive Garden, but in truth, I need to be fed every 2 hours like clockwork otherwise I turn into a raving, lunatic bitch my bloodsugar drops and I get a wee bit cranky. So I really wasn't going to eat and just wait to raid the vending machine after lunch but when the noises emanating from my stomach started drowning out the speaker, I succumbed and got a plate. Of lettuce. Yes. That's all I could bear to eat. Lettuce. From the salad. And maybe half a breadstick. I don't remember - it was rather traumatic and I've blocked the whole thing from my memory.

Anyways, to all of you (and this includes my beloved Hawk - I am so sorry sweetheart) who claim that if nothing else, Olive Garden has REALLY GOOD SALAD AND BREADSTICKS, I'd like to call BULLCRAP. Olive Garden has lettuce. Plain old ordinary lettuce - ok? It's not dipped in goat cheese. It doesn't taste like wine. It wasn't picked by some fucking wood-nymph and then delicately laid on the plate. I don't even think it's organic. It's not micro or macro or anything other than lettuce. And if my memory serves me correctly (which it might not because as I said, THE TRAUMA), it may have been iceberg. Look - there's a time and a place for iceberg lettuce and it's called in a wedge smothered with bacon and blue cheese right before I tackle a 24-oz. dry aged, prime ribeye (and washed down with a fantastic glass of Cab) OR shredded in my taco. THAT. IS. IT. But iceberg in a plain, old, ordinary salad? I've had more thrills getting a pelvic exam.

Where was I? Oh right. The salad at Olive Garden. As far as I can tell, it is not all that. In fact, it's not even some of that. And Bless Hawk's heart: when I started ranting and raving about lettuce, he meekly replied that the dressing was good and I didn't have the heart to tell him that I make the world's BEST salad dressing (a squirt of Dijon mustard, some lemon juice, rice wine vinegar, soy sauce, a splash of sesame oil and olive oil - adjust proportions/quantities to your personal taste and SWOON!) and pretty much in general nothing he could say was going to change my mind because I am The Queen of " Perish Olive Garden" nation. I'm also in charge of the "Don't Even Try To Tell Me That Olive Garden is Italian Food Because It Just ISN'T OK???" movement but that's more of a volunteer role. Kinda.

For the record: I don't even remember the bread. Clearly it was that ordinary good.

So yeah. I love The Hawk. And I love my country. And I'm so not a terrorist. And I love TCM. I'll even soothe The Hawk's tortured soul and watch an episode of Andy Griffith - one day. But eat at fucking Olive Garden? NEVER.    

Comments ( 7 )

I chew a lot of gum. My dentist tells me not to because apparently I grind my teeth something fierce and I basically have no enamel left whatsoever and apparently you can't put lost enamel back on your teeth which for the record totally sucks. I mean - you'd think with everything we're capable of doing vis-a-vis modern medicine someone could manufacture some faux enamel or strip it from somewhere else, put it into a wee little pot, and then your dentist could paint it onto your teeth. I mean - if Heidi Montag can have 10 plastic surgeries in a single day and turn into a walking, talking bag of silicone and plastic, you'd think I could get some fucking enamel on my teeth.

Anyways, my point is, I chew a lot of gum. And it's not like I'm sucking on watermelon Hubba Bubba. No. I chew sugarless gum in either cinnamon or mint to 1) freshen my breath 2) aid in digestion or 3) make me forget that I'm hungry. I happen to like the chiclet style gum, like this:

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My problem with chiclet style gum is this:

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THIS drives me up a fucking wall. Half empty packs of chiclets make me crazy. They make my skin itch. It's like worms are crawling in my ears. I don't quite know what to do with myself. And honestly - you can see what I started to do here. I CUT THE PACK DOWN. Yes. This happens to be a pack that sits in my desk drawer and rather than look at the empty hole next to the still-waiting-to-be-chewed chiclet, I cut it. Well, I started to and then I realized I had the makings of a blog post on my hands so I paused to photograph the offending packaging AND THEN I finished cutting it because OMFG: doesn't this make you batty too? Or is it just me?

Anyways, sometimes I'm not always at my desk. Sometimes I'm out and about somewhere and I want a piece of gum. But in order to maintain my sanity, I had to come up with a solution because it's not like I walk around with scissors in my bag. For one thing, I'm a little bit clumsy and I might accidentally stab myself. Or worse, someone else. And two, I think people would be really scared if I were walking down the street and then whipped out a pair of shears so that I could CUT MY GUM PACKAGING up. I mean - that's just flat out cuckoo. So instead, I cut the gum up IN ADVANCE and plunk it into a little bag, like so:

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See how neat and tidy that is? And said little bag o' chiclets goes into my purse and that way, when I am ready for a piece of gum, I pop it out and all I'm left with is this:

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And that single, solitary "wrapper" goes into the trash and then I don't go fucking crazy there is order in the universe, the stars are aligned and everything is as it should be. Because this:

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THIS IS JUST WRONG. OMG - MAKE IT STOP. PLEASE.   

Comments ( 8 )

Warning: to any new readers and/or those of you related to me by blood: this post contains some saltier-than-Gefilte-fish language. If you're easily offended, might I suggest taking a day off and coming back tomorrow.

 

Dear Valentine's Day:

You have my permission to officially suck it and when you're done with that, feel free to bite me. Seriously. You are nothing more than a giant conspiracy between the greeting card companies, the paper mills, the florists, the chocolatiers, and shrinks all across the land designed to play on every insecurity and neuroses that we as humans have.

And before you bite back and tell me that I sound like a jaded, cynical, bitter, old hag: save your breath. I'll totally cop to the jaded and cynical part, but you'll have to wait on bitter, old hag - I still have a few more years to go before I reach that stage.

It doesn't matter if one is in a state of couple or uncouple: you, my dear Valentine's Day, suck giant, scaly armadillo scrotum. Let's start first with the couples. OMFG the pressure is on BIG TIME to be ROMANTIC and LOVEY and SEXY and SWEET and oh boy there had better be roses and moonlight and champagne and diamond-horned unicorns flying out of your ass and one never-ending, Earth-shattering, life-changing orgasm if you have any intention of living up to the insanely high standard set by Hallmark, Hershey and FTD. Who the Hell can do all of that? 

If you're uncoupled it's even worse because OMFG: there is NO ONE to give you roses and moonbeams and fairy dust and the rest of that crap. (Although Earth-shattering, life-changing orgasms can be found for the low, low cost of $104.99. Email me privately for details.) To quote my beloved Mr. T: "I pity the fool" because YOU. ARE. SINGLE. ON. THE. MOST. ROMANTIC. DAY. OF. THE. YEAR. Should I hurl myself into oncoming traffic now or wait until rush hour?

Chocolate. Champagne. Roses. All of this crap is expensive. God help those of us who are on a budget because we pretty much have no hope of celebrating you with even the slightest modicum of panache. Seriously. I am pretty sure anyone attempting to honor you with a box of Good & Plenty, a six-pack of PBR and some cheap carnations is probably going to fall short. Like Gary Coleman short.  

And Cupid. What's up with Cupid? Weren't you a saint who got burned at the stake somewhere?  Like twice? Where did that cherubic little fucker come from? Frankly I'd like to yank an arrow or 6 out of Cupid's quiver and shove it (or them) up his dimpled little cheeks. I'm just sayin...

And while we're at it: does every retail establishment in America have to be hosed down in Pepto-Bismol between now and Your Big Moment? I like pink as much as the next girl but this? This is just too much. At least be thoughtful and leave some samples of actual Pepto by the door so that when I gag on my own bile, there's a medical remedy close by.

Oh Valentine's Day. You have nothing to offer us other than extreme neuroses, crippling insecurity, fat thighs, ginormous credit card debt and an impossible to reach standard. Why do we have to assign A SINGLE DAY to be romantic? Why can't romance and love and Earth-shattering orgasms be a part of everyday life? Or for those who are single, at least the orgasms?

You make it so difficult for me to love you - which is a wee bit ironic given that you're *all about the love.* Seriously. I want to yank out your nose hairs one by one and then jam down on your insole good and hard while wearing 4-inch stilettos. Then I'd like to revisit your history and explore the whole burning at the stake thing. Because maybe that's what you need. To be burned down and reborn - like a Phoenix rising from the ashes.

But until that time, you can keep your roses - they make me sneeze. Keep your overpriced chocolates - my ass doesn't need to get any bigger. I don't need a fancy dinner out and even if I did, I wouldn't have it with you. Take your pink bunting and your red balloons and your lacey hearts and move on. We're over. 

I'll be spending this February 14th with someone much more important: Mr. Daytona 500.

XOXO Rougie

Comments ( 16 )

Last week over at Lifecandy, Nen did a fun post on seven red things in her house. Then she tagged 7 fellow bloggy goddesses to do the same. I wasn't one of them.

I immediately sent her a sweet but semi-indignant email being all: WTF Nen my love? You know that my name means RED en francais dontcha? Doesn't this post simply SCREAM "Rougie?" Nen's immediate reply was that she wasn't sure if I did the Memes (I do) and that all of this tagging crap sure is enough to give one a monster-sized headache although she probably phrased it a lot more kindly because Nen is a class act and I'm merely a swabby on shore leave.  Anyways - she tagged me via email (MWAH Sugar!) so yeah - now I can *officially* post photos of a bunch of red stuff in my house. I know - you're still waiting for the post on my psychotic cat the thrill factor is LARGE.

 

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These pretty tea light holders were a birthday present last summer from The Artist and her hunky hubby, Mr. Monster Truck.

 

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Occasions, by Kate Spade. For when I want to pretend that I'm klasseeier than I really am.

 

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A glimpse at my boudoir. The pillow on the right might be one of my all time favorite pillows and before you say: How can you have a favorite pillow? Just remember this is me you're talking to and nothing should really come as a shock any more. Anyways, this is a gorgeous velvet pillow that is deep scarlet on one side (the side pictured) and leapord print (meow!) on the other and I bought it in college right after I broke up with my boyfriend. That's right. One random afternoon I left my summer job as a waitress/hostess at one of the restaurants in Bloomingdales, met my BFF, window shopped my way up Madison Avenue, and then popped into the Ralph Lauren townhouse (because back then I did shit like just randomly pop into the Ralph Lauren townhouse) and bought myself an utterly gorgeous, super duper sexy, plush, soft, ridiculously expensive pillow. And who says I can't do the Memes??

  

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These are deliciously gorgoeus red-beaded Bagdley Mischka stilettos that I got 100 years ago on sale somewhere like Loehmann's or Off Fifth and that I wear about once every 3 years although looking at them now, I may wear them every day for the rest of my life. (Note to self: next time you snap a photo, consider picking a portion of the floor that is NOT stained (see also Occasions/attempts to be classy). And for the record, that's totally not blood. Or if it is, It's not mine.)

 

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I remember seeing this lamp in Pottery Barn nearly 14 years ago and just having to have it. I love it when I listen to me.

 

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Tres Tres Dior - the world's most perfect shade of red lipstick.

 

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Nothing beats a classic red pedicure. Nothing. Except maybe a sparkly red pedicure.

 

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Where would Rougie be without her vino rosso?  A small sampling of some favorites from the box I keep under the Parsons table my cellar.

 

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I was going to close out with the wine (it seemed rather fitting) but I also love this gorgeous red chenille throw (another gift from The Artist and Mr. Monster Truck - they are clearly some of my giftiest friends!) only Psycho Kitty is frequently passed out on it but then I thought this was actually a DOUBLE score because I know how much y'all are dying to meet Psycho Kitty so here: Now you've met him (actually - he does look more deranged than usual in this photo) and I get to show off my pretty red blanket.

So there you have it: choses qui sont rouges chez Rougie.

Now, I know I am supposed to tag people to go forth and photograph the red in their life. But I can't. I am sorry. The pressure is too great. What if I tag her and her and her, but then forget her? I'll be burdened by ginormous guilt and I won't be able to live with myself. So if you like to take pictures (Ahem. Coughs. Coughs again.), or maybe you need material, or maybe you like the color red, or maybe you don't like the color red but you love the color seafoam green and think this post would be so much better if it were all about the seafoam green in your life, then feel free to continue the Blogosphere time honored tradition of borrowing post ideas because Holy Hell, this is not as easy as it seems sometimes. 

Comments ( 4 )

I have a flair for the dramatic.  I know - you're scratching your head and saying: No - really Rougie? But alas it's true. I am a drama queen. And while sometimes this is good and fun and results in a lot of happy happy joy joy, sometimes it ain't so pretty. And when it ain't so pretty there's a lot of "Oh woe is me" and "My life is a giant, steaming pile of rhinocerous crap" and "Dear Universe: could you heap any more shit on my shoulders because really, the current load feels a bit too light. And OH YEAH by the way Fuck. You. Too."

Recently, my drama has tended towards the negative and I hate how that leaves me feeling because for one thing - my life? Does not suck. Not in the slightest. In fact - my life is pretty fucking awesome most days if only I could remember that more often. Two? Compared to others, I have it pretty darn good. And while I don't want to play the Haiti card, I totally will (by the way your rock star delurking efforts generated $50 for Doctors Without Borders and and $50 for Partners in Health so yeah you awesome readers!). There are people without food and water and buried in rubble and I'm gonna get twitchy because something didn't go exactly my way? Sometimes I need perspective.

So today I'm throwing my Negative Nellie cloak off my shoulders and celebrating everything in this life that I love and that I have to be grateful for and that makes me smile and that makes me go SQUEE!!! Today: I'm dusting off my TITS list (thank you to Goddess Nen) because really, my life needs less shit and more TITS. So here it is. My list of things I think are totally the TITS:

* Spending time with my 4yo nephew. Especially when he's serenading me with "You Can't Always Get What You Want" (oh how true young lad) and "I've Gotta Feeling."

* Traveling. Last week was NY. Miami with my BFF shortly and then Chicago with some exceptionally bedaucherous bitches. And while I may grouse about how much money I'm spending or OMG looking for parking at the airport, I love that I can afford to do what I'm doing. And I'm having a helluva a lot of fun doing it!

* I don't know why but I've been on a HUGE Malbec kick as of late. Lucky for me the local bakery & cafe keeps an affordable Malbec in stock.

* Work. Yes work is the TITS these days. And while I will never ever ever ever ever ever in a million years talk about work publicly, I will let y'all know that it's going well, I seem to be legitimately earning my keep, and I love my job more than ever.

* My Christmas present to me: an awesome gold satchel from Coach. It's been a while since I've splurged on anything significant but I had a 1-time 40% discount and I decided to treat myself.  This bag? Never leaving my side.

 

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* Guinness. In all forms. I especially appreciate $2 pints on Thursdays at Fox and Hound. Also? At 34 I've just been introduced to Irish Car Bombs. Excuse me while I try to relive my 20s in the next 6 months before I hit 35 and I officially have to grow up.

* I was pretty anti-crockpot for a long time but then Modern Matriarch made them seem so sexy and then Wal-Mart had one on sale for $17 and then all of a sudden I was making the world's best chili while barely lifting a finger and then BAM! I was converted.

* Daniel Craig as James Bond. Ok - so the rest of you knew. I didn't. Now I do. Let's move on - shall we?

* Books. I know - right? Who gets giddy over books but the truth of the matter is, I was once a voracious reader and now I'm lucky if I get through 5 books a year. I just don't have the time. But all this traveling has given me some much needed time to catch up on my reading and I am loving it. I recently read Die For You by Lisa Unger and Sarah's Key by Tatiana de Rosnay and loved them both. Sarah's Key I found especially moving and while it's grim subject matter (A French round up of over 4000 Jews including 2000+ children in July 1942 during the Holocaust called the Vel d'Hiver), I highly recommend it. I am currently charging through Olive Kitteridge by Elizabeth Strout because hey - we all need to read a Pulitzer prize winning novel every once and a while.

* Pretty dresses on Modcloth like this and this and this. My only problem is that most of the dresses are sized S, M, L and I'm at that stage where small is too small and medium is too big and so I wind up coveting and coveting and coveting but never actually buying. Sigh.

* My occasional ability to be humble and my willingness to acknowledge that sometimes I don't know it all and/or yes - I need help. Please.

* My Thank God I'm Fabulous flask (thanks Lilsaej!).

* Sometimes I am having one of *those* days and then I click over to my Google Reader and I see that The Bloggess has posted about wrapping a cat or she's creating a scandal of sorts on the Internet and I inevitably laugh my ass off and forget about everything else for a few precious minutes. 

* My tiaras.

* This tutu which I am totally going to buy because 1) OMFG it's awesome and 2) It's so purdy and 3) When I forced The Kaiser onto Twitter, I said I would buy it if he could get 10 legitimate followers in a day. He did and so now I get a pretty dress. Total win-win.

* New bloggers. My friend Cindy (who I've never actually met IRL but you know - that's par for the course these days) leads a truly fascinating life (she and her husband are in a perpetual state of travel - it's kind of awesome) and she finally took the plunge and is chronicling her adventures in Thoughts of Ciel.  

* It's Girl Scout cookie time and I am relieved because the "In Case of Emergency" box of Thin Mints I usually keep in my freezer is gone and I really need a cookie. Even better? Operation Sweet Treat which means I can buy a lot of boxes of cookies, support the local Girl Scouts, but then send those cookies off to soliders overseas who will appreciate them a lot more than my ass.

* We have 41 days until Daylight Savings starts. Or ends. I can never keep it straight. Whatever. My point is the days are already noticeably longer and I'm loving it.

* Finding out that people I kind of have a crush on respect and admire don't think I'm a total loser also respect and admire me.

* I am on some kind of old movie kick recently and Turner Classic Movies has been delivering the goods WITHOUT commercial interruption (take notes ACM).  There was the Hitchcock/Thin Man Marathon on New Years Eve.  There's been a lot of Bogey. A dash of Audrey. I've currently got about 6 or 7 movies Tivoed that I need to watch including Philadelphia Story, The Big Sleep, Arsenic and Old Lace, Mr. Blandings Builds His Dream House and Barefoot in the Park.

* I've already told you all about some of the incredibly awesome people in my life. I won't bore you to tears by once again singing their praises, but my friends totally, totally rock and I give them lots of credit for putting up with my crap keeping me sane.

* My parents are incredible. I think my mom might be the coolest chick ever and dad? Well dad is a mentor, an inspiration, occasionally a pimp and a huge reason why I don't ever want to publish a crappy post.

* Chez Rougie. Yes. Starting off a new year and a new chapter in my life with a new blog has been nothing short of TITStacular!

What about you? What's on your TITS list these days?

Comments ( 8 )

We all have one. A distant aunt or uncle.  A second cousin 17 times removed. A remote relative who we see maybe once a year - usually at weddings, occasionally at funerals. It's not someone we speak to often. Perhaps it's not even someone we give much thought to in passing. But when we do see them, we're filled with enormous love and gratitude and we wonder how someone who is so on the fringes of our life, can make us feel so much.

Mine was named Rose. She was married to my grandmother's cousin - I think. Truth be told, I'm not entirely sure. But she was of *that* generation. My grandma's generation. A generation which is fast slipping away and that tears at my heart.

Rose. With her reddish curls and her big, warm smile. Rose. Who always had a strong hug and a kind word. Rose. A woman I don't remember much from my childhood, but as I got older I discovered how wonderfully delightful she was and I found myself looking forward to seeing her at the occasional family get together.

I last saw Rose on November 1st.  I'll confess - I was relatively grumpy that day. I flew to NYC and back in the same day for my Great Uncle's unveiling.  I was sleep deprived from staying up late to watch the Yankees play the Phillies in a rain-delayed World Series game. I was irritated that the only beverage choices at lunch were neither Diet nor caffeinated. And I had a ginormous headache from driving around Queens in a minivan with 6 chatty Cathy relatives who got us lost. Multiple times. Including once in the cemetery.

And then I saw Rose. She came up to me after lunch and I remember thinking how wonderful it was to see her. It had been so long.  And yet - she was still the same warm, kind-hearted woman I always remembered her to be. We chatted briefly, I caught her up on my life, and then we parted. I didn't give it much thought at the time but Oh how I wish I would have.

I got an email on Friday night that Rose was in critical condition. It caught me off guard because I didn't even know she was on sick. Right then and there my heart broke just a little. By yesterday, I knew it was only a matter of time. And this morning, her passing was confirmed.

Today, the world lays claim to one less warm-hearted, generous, caring, kind, loving and amazing soul. 

Today, the world has lost a mother and a wife and a friend.   

Today, I close my eyes and let my tears fall softly and silently for a distant relative who was ever present in my heart.

Today, I mourn the passing of beautiful, sweet Rose.  

May her grace and her light continue to shine down on us all.

Comments ( 7 )

I have a really big head. And I don't mean in an inflated ego kind of way. I mean like: my head is really, truly, physically big. And the only reason I know this is because when I was getting ready to graduate from college, and we went to get fitted for caps and gowns, I got the GINORMOUS watermelon-sized cap for my GINORMOUS watermelon-sized noggin while the rest of my friends got wee little tangerine-sized caps for their wee little heads. WTF genetics?

Anyways - back in August I joined a gym. I was training for a half -drama at less than 1 month into training and also because OMFG it was summer (still - technically) in North Carolina and hotter than fucking Hades and there's only so much running one can do in extreme heat before one passes out and so joining a gym seemed like a good idea. 

So did hiring a trainer. I've worked out with trainers in the past and I always love it because really, there is nothing like paying someone to Kick. Your. Ass. And seriously - that's how I signed up for my trainer. I told the manager of the gym that despite my being a girl and a wee little thing, I was tough as balls and I wanted someone to kick the ever loving crap out of me, and so he paired me up with Manny. Ok - that's not really his name but the whole Manny Pacquiao/Floyd Mayweather brou-ha-ha has been in the news as of late and it seems like as good a pseudonym as any to choose from.

Anyways, Manny and I hit it off from Day 1 when he basically realized he was being paid to torture me could suggest anything and I'd say either "Ok" or "More weight please" or "You want 10? How about 15" or "Bring it motherfucker." 

We started out with super sets. Did some machine work (always jumping rope for 1 minute in between every. single. exercise.). There were suicides one day. Followed by burpees (OMG - worst name for an exercise EVAH). We used the ball and did core work. Free weights.  It didn't take long for Manny to catch on to my dedication.

"You a beast" he shouted at me while I struggled to hoist my flailing, exhausted body into a single, unassisted pull-up.

"You need to be on the cover of a Wheaties box because you a champ," he encouraged as I collapsed into a sweaty heap at the end of a particularly grueling session.

For 3 months I trained with Manny about once a week. At one point he told me that my dedication and my toughness made him a better trainer. He had to find the BEST exercises. The most CHALLENGING exercises. I was his SUPERSTAR client and NOTHING LESS would do.  I think we were in the middle of boot camp at the time and I politely told him to fuck off.

"Hold that stomach in." Ok Manny - what else am I gonna do with it?

"Do you feel that Rougie? DO YOU?" What am I Manny - hard of fucking feeling?

Seriously. Our sessions can be a little tense at times but in a good way and he seems to feel better about himself when I am telling him that as soon as I regain the ability to use my legs (squats on the rack - FTW!), I will promptly be kicking his ass.

Working with Manny turned out to be exactly what I needed and somewhere around Mile 11 of my half-marathon I was grateful for suffering through countless reps of squats and for all of the ab work we did because my body had the physical strength I needed to get through those last 2.1 miles. 

When Manny and I sat down to renew my contract last week, I told him I wanted to up it to twice a week.  As well as he's trained me thus far, and as good as I am at kicking my own ass when he's not around, I like having someone constantly challenge me and push me beyond my own my limits.  Meanwhile, he looked at me and told me that everything we had done up until this point had basically been pansy ass bullshit and we were going to seriously, seriously step up the game.

I looked at him like he was high because seriously - there ain't nothing pansy ass about the work I've put in for the last 3 and a half months. But he fixed his dark eyes on me and told me I was about to enter a whole new universe. "We're G.I. Jane'ing it now," he said. "So get ready."

And because I'm me, I didn't flinch. Not once. I simply told him to Bring It. But I refuse to shave my head because I have a REALLY big head. 

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Does anyone know if Pam Dawber is still alive because Holy Hell I've been watching a crapload of NCIS reruns on USA and DAMN! Mark Harmon is smokin' hot still which I find hard to believe given that he was a heartthrob sometime back in the 80s - HELLO ALMOST 30 YEARS AGO!!! (and OMFG don't I feel *old* now.) And while I never watched an episode of St. Elsewhere (he was on that - right?) I have seen Worth Winning more times than I care to admit and by the way did you know that Madeline Stowe is (or was?) married to Brian BenBen and I think they live on a ranch somewhere in Texas. Or not. Or maybe. I don't know. Texas is a big fucking state and Madeline Stowe hasn't made a movie since....since I don't even remember. OH WAIT! Totally remember. Creepy film with Ray Liotta as the stalkery cop and Kurt Russell as her poor, wrongly-accused-of-something-I-don't-remember husband. And now I wish I had Netflix so that I could push Worth Winning to the top of the queue and find every other film Mark Harmon ever made. Only...

It's 2010 and I don't have a working DVD player which means Netflix is totally lost on me. Well - that's not totally true. I have a DVD player that works when it feels like it which is usually when I am utterly distracted and not when I actually want to sit down and watch a freaking film like I did last week when The Kaiser lent me Casino Royale so that I could be introduced to Daniel Craig as James Bond and I got all set to watch it and I turned off the lights and I had my wine and my popcorn and....Fuck me! Well - not literally. But pretty much. My DVD player is part of my TV (my TV by the way, which is some random ass brand that the cable box doesn't even recognize. I shit you not. When the cable guy came to set me up he looked at my TV and looked at me like I was smoking crack or something living in the wrong century and politely told me that while the cable boxes provided by Charter recognized 18 gajillion brands of TVs, mine was 1 of about 2 that they don't recognize and I am pretty sure that this is why every time I turn on my TV I have to hit the input button to get to the right feed in order to actually watch TV. Yes - I do not make this shit up. Also? This is why my TiVO doesn't really work unless I set it AND the cable box to exactly the right channel (neither seems to be able to change channel on  its own - le sigh) and this is why I stopped watching American Idol because there are 78 episodes (or something) and if I miss even ONE I will totally freak so rather than suffer the heartbreaking, soul-crushing disappointment of my TiVO fucking up I just decided to excommunicate the show entirely from my life.)

Anyways, my sucktastic TV also comes attached to an even more sucktastic DVD player which is nothing short of tempermental and every once and a while, just when the movie is getting good, it freezes. Not a sudden stop mind you. More like a gradual, you know it's coming but you don't quite know when, the picture gets fuzzy and choppy and OMG NO BECAUSE THIS IS A CRITICAL MOM--  and then my DVD player basically says "Bite me" and I have no choice but to acquiesce (hello SAT word) because even though I have not one but two laptops, both of which have DVD drive thingys (that's the technical term) they don't actually have DVD readers or players or whatever it fucking takes to play the DVD because I tried on both after my TV-DVD player froze during the opening credits of Casino Royale. And then, for the record, I ejected, waited, re-loaded and then my DVD player had the NERVE to tell me that there was NO DISC and I'm all like: OF COURSE THERE'S A FREAKING DISC IN THERE - ARE YOU A MORON? And then I realized I was yelling at an out-of-date electronic appliance that clearly hates me anyways and I took a sip of wine and hung my head in shame.

Where was I?

Oh right. Does anyone know if Pam Dawber is still alive because I'd totally do Mark Harmon.

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Because sometimes I can be "Oh woe is me!"

Because sometimes I forget that I have it better than most.

Because sometimes I can be too memememememememe.

Because sometimes I get selfish.

Because sometimes I forget that things have a way of working themselves out.

Because sometimes it's never enough.

Because sometimes I want more.

Because sometimes I need perspective.

 

ASKING PRAYER

 

I asked God for strength, that I might achieve.

I was made weak, that I might learn humbly to obey.

 

I asked for health that I might do greater things,

But I was given infirmity, that I might do better things.

 

I asked for riches, that I might be happy.

I was given poverty, that I might be wise.

 

I asked for power, that I might have the praise of men.

I was given weakness, that I might feel the need of God.

 

I asked for all things, that I might enjoy life.

I was given Life, that I might enjoy all things.

 

I got nothing that I asked for, but everything that I had hoped for.

 

Almost despite myself, my unspoken prayers were answered.

I am among all men, most richly blessed.

 

Anonymous

 

Comments ( 5 )

Dear Oscar:

 

Once upon a time, many, many moons ago, you were my favorite awards show. You were glamorous. You were elegant. You were even (in the Billy Crystal era) entertaining. And then you got long. And bloated. And pretentious. And you started taking yourself way too seriously. And boring. Did I mention long? And that's why you basically suck now and no one watches you anymore. Also? You picked some pretty crappy post-Crystal hosts. Also? Ryan Seacrest shouldn't be allowed withing 100 yards of you. Also? You got too damn political. I swear: there should be some kind of rule about what people can and can't say during their acceptance speechs. Also? Not enough alcohol.  

After watching your half sister GiGi last night, I have a few suggestions on how you might improve yourself and return to some of your former glory.  I know it's late, and you are right around the corner without much time to implement all of these ideas, but I am sure you can work in 1 or 2.

CHOOSE RICKY GERVAIS TO HOST YOUR HOST WISELY

Can anyone name 5 post-Crystal Oscar hosts? Me either. Other than the painful memory of David Letterman and Uma-Oprah-Oprah-Uma seared permanently into my brain, the post-Crystal era has been largely forgettable. And for the record, I think we'd all like to forget the Letterman-Uma-Oprah fiasco. Also? whatever happened to Uma Thurman?

You need a host with insousiance. You need a host with flair. You need a host who's not afraid to hit below the belt. You need a host who will shed his jacket, take off his tie and drink a pint (or 4) while he pushes on with the show. Honestly I'd love a host who did Irish car bombs - but perhaps I'm pushing my luck.  Anyways, give GiGi a call and ask her for Ricky Gervais's number. Or I am sure he's on Facebook.

DEPRESSING AND SERIOUS IS ALL FINE AND DANDY BUT LAUGHTER IS GOOD TOO

Apparently if it's got orphans, abuse, poverty, starvation, wide-eyed children of any sort, disease, triumph over tragedy, rags-to-riches, the Holocaust, a natural disaster, drugs, and/or teen pregnancy you love it and you shower it with love and affection. If it was made for under $1 million and/or by a first time filmaker and/or by someone in a different country and/or released independently, you love it even more. Yeah you for being so damn politically correct and conscientious, but consider adjusting your Prozac prescription and going for some laughs every once and a while. Seriously: comedy is harder than drama. Ask anyone. Also? K is the funniest letter in the alphabet. I don't know why this is true, but it is.

DON'T BE SO OBVIOUS

If Avatar wins Best Picture, I'm going to find out where you live, come to your house, and stab you repeatedly in the left thigh with a spork. Then I am going to make you watch David Letterman's Uma-Oprah speech on repeat until your brain bleeds.

NEED MORE COWBELL BOOZE

No one likes a sloppy acceptance speech (See: Mariah Carey at the Palm Springs Film Festival. Actually - scratch that because no one likes Mariah Carey period). But remember 100 years ago when Christine Lahti was in the ladies room and MISSED receiving her Best Actress Award for Chicago Hope? Or remember when Ving Rhames won for something but gave his award to Jack Lemmon instead? Or remember when people were eating and drinking and laughing and having fun and didn't look like a bunch of partially-starved, constipated asshats? If you don't want to provide booze for everyone, at least consider letting people bring their own flasks.

NO MORE ACCEPTANCE SPEECHES

Period. Unless given by Robert Downey, Jr. Does anyone else find it ironic when people thank God and their publicist in the same sentence?

Anways, these are just a few suggestions from me to you to help restore you to your earlier glory days and make you an awards show that people will actually want to watch again.

 

Ever Lovingly Yours,

 

Rougie   

 

PS What would you do to make the Oscars better?

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Now that I am a real blogger, and do the sorts of things that real bloggers do, I am super duper excited to participate in National Delurker Day, the bloggiest of all holidays.

 

DelurkerDay2010.JPG

Are you a regular reader but don't comment? Frequent commenter already? Totally new to Chez Rougie? It doesn't matter. Today is the day to poke your head out of the Internets and simply say Hi. Or Bonjour.

And...because I really want you to show me your privates to help, for every comment I get on today's post, I will donate $1.50 to relief for the victims of the earthquake in Haiti. Including my own replies.

AND....if you want to quadruple your pleasure, quadruple your do-gooderness, go visit the oh so sexy Diary of a Modern Matriarch, Miss I'm a Brave Badass Cass, and the rockingly hot Nenette because my awesometastic blogging babes are also celebrating Delurking Day by donating money to victims of the earthquake in Haiti. Sometimes blogging kicks some seriously, cool ass   

So Delurk. It's for a very good cause.  

Comments ( 56 )

When I am not sucking down chicken wings and ogling cocktail waitresses with The Boys, I am hanging with My Girls and we're probably braiding each other's hair and having tickle fights in our delicate and lacy underthings. Ok. Not really. But since most men seem to think that's what women do when left alone and to our own devices, I didn't want to spoil the fantasy.

I will say this about My Girls: they are hardly sugar and spice and everything nice. They drink. They swear. They work hard. They mother. They write. They juggle. They occasionally struggle. They are tough. Basically, except for the whole motherhood thing, they're Just. Like. Me. And I wouldn't take 'em any other way.

LILSAEJ

Don't ask how Lilsaej (pronounced LIL-SAY-JAY) and I met. It's really not a good story. Ok. Fine. I knew her boyfriend Bobo because we used to be barflies at the same local pub. Then he started dating Lilsaej and she and I would hang out on occasion, but it wasn't until last year's Super Bowl party that I discovered just how awesome she truly was and OMG I might have a human twin. Except she's blonde. And she's from the South so she's a whole lot sweeter than I am. Here's what Lilsaej and I have in common: a love of NASCAR, a love of Duke basketball, we both drink inordinate quantities of Coke Zero Cherry, we both can drink inordinate quantities of Michelob Ultra, we're both recovering carbophobes, we order the exact same thing when we go to lunch at the local cafe, we could both possibly be described as shopaholics and we're both wickedly funny. Ok - I'm not that funny but she is fiercely funny. She is Trouble 1 to my Trouble 2. Or vice-versa. I always forget. The point is: stick us in a room/in a car/in a mall/in a field outside of a race track with 2 coolers full of beer and we're likely to get into trouble. But only the good kind.

Rougie and Lilsaej at AA5.JPG 

Lilsaej is Out of Beer.JPG 

Lilsaej and Rougie on the Lake.JPG 

HARMZIE

Harmzie is the type of woman to psychoanalyze you early on a Saturday morning via Twitter DM. That's how twisted she is. I am the type of person to allow myself to be psychoanalyzed early on a Saturday morning via Twitter DM. That's how twisted I am. And that's probably why we're friends. Also? Since she's an enginerd she puts awesome graphs on her blog and has promised me an awesome graph for my blog just as soon as she can come up with something to plot. Also? She likes Kahlua and bacon. Also? She's fucking funny as Hell. My only complaint is that she doesn't post enough. But that's probably because she's too busy drunk Tweeting.

MODERN MATRIARCH

I am a solid 5 years older than this woman and yet...OMG sometimes I want to be Modern Matriarch when I grow up. Maybe it's because she is mother to the world's 2 most adorable children while I am mother to 1 insane psycho cat. Or because she clued me in to how sexy and useful crockpots can actually be. Or because her New Year's resolutions include "using more creative curses" and "slapping a sticker that says "My balls are bigger than yours and I have a uterus" on one of those obnoxious trucks with the hanging testicles from the rear hitch." Or because she can out-Martha-Stewart Martha Stewart even when she's been hitting the dirty martinis. Or because she makes me laugh my ass off daily. I don't know. But those are all pretty good reasons.

NENETTE

Nenette loves Grease 2 and that's enough. Seriously. There are a lot of reasons why I don't like people. And there are plenty of people I choose not to be friends with. But if you ever want to get on my good side and become an insta-BFF (just add red wine and stir), then tell me that you love Grease 2 almost as much I do. Tell me that you know the lyrics to every song and the moves to every poorly edited dance sequence. Ok. So there's plenty more to Nen. Like her Freebie lists. And her teaching me about critical things like Tits lists and 100 Things. But mainly it's because she loves Grease 2 almost as much as I do. And the fact that she's totally hot. Did you know she used to teach hula?

So you may be wondering why there are only photos of me and Lilsaej. What about the rest of the girls? Oddly enough, I have never actually met Harmzie or Modern Matriarch or Nen. Nor have I spoken to them on the phone. Most of our conversations have been held on Twitter supplemented with the occasional email (when more than 140 characters is required) or via blog comments (you can learn so much about someone by who's on their freebie list). And yet, when I went through a difficult transition last year, these were the women who managed to help me through in ways that IRL friends couldn't. (Did you know that girls? If not...you totally did.) Score one for the Internets.

Anyways, I am happy to say that the whole no picture thing is about to be rectified because Holy Hell y'all in a few weeks I will be in Chicago with 3 of my 4 girls (we won't discuss Nen's absence. No. We. Won't.) where we will drink take advantage of all of the wonderful cultural institutions that Chicago has to offer, get tattoos enjoy the city's history, and drink some more spend lots of quality time together discussing literature, politics and changing social mores. Also? We'll try not to freeze our tits off. Also? We'll probably totally strip down and have a tickle fight.

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Like any good movie star Drama Queen, I don't star in the movie of my life alone. Seriously - when did you ever watch a movie that had only 1 person? I mean, Ok. There was Castaway but that was like, the dullest movie ever. Seriously. Who wants to watch Tom Hanks lose weight, grow hair, and play with a volleyball for 2 hours? I'm all for showing off your dramatic chops (and thanks for chasing the memory of The Money Pit from my brain) but don't forget where you came from Tom (Hello Bachelor Party and The Man With One Red Shoe) and next time Dabney Coleman gives you a call, answer. Oh wait. You totally did in You've Got Mail.

Fuck. Only 1 paragraph in and I've already lost my train of thought except I have another totally non-sequitor thought which is this: why was Heather Locklear permanently a Guest Star on Melrose Place? I mean, after a season or 6 you'd think we'd expect her as a regular cast member and not like this was the last week she was going to grace us with her presence. And another thing: why did it take them so long to make Joe E. Tata a regular on 90210? The man was in the show from the very first episode practically and I don't think he got "regular status" until after Mark Damon Espinoza came, knocked up Gabrielle Carteris, got to dance around like an asshat in those moronic opening credit sequences for one season, and then left when everyone realized that at 34 (born in 1961 HELLO!), no one was going to buy Gabrielle Carteris as a college student any longer. You know what else no one bought Gabrielle Carteris as? A talk show host. Seriously. Whose bright idea was that?

Where was I? (See - this is why I shouldn't write blog posts sober so early in the morning when I am nice and juiced on Coke Zero Cherry because OMFG it's like the voices in my head are running a marathon while dancing a jig while building houses for the homeless and curing cancer.)

Anyways...here's my real point (besides pointing out the genius of Aaron Spelling save for him actually giving his daughter a career that seems to have the survival skills of a cockroach. Seriously - can someone get Tori Spelling off the air, like yesterday? Although maybe it's my fault for still watching 90210 reruns on SoapNet): I have some pretty awesometastic people in my life and you ought to get to know them or at least be introduced to them because I will probably write about them alot because really my life is only half as interesting as I make it out to be (Seriously - I Tweet about my cat way more than is healthy) and if it weren't for these entertaining peeps, I'd probably run out of shit to say tomorrow. Ok. By Thursday. 

I'm starting with The Boys because 1) Isn't that how they kick off the Oscars? With the Best Supporting Actor category? Because let's face it - we only all give a shit about the acting awards (and if you say you care about Best Live Action Short Film I will punch you) so you sort of need to bookend the show with what we care about so that we're forced to sit through the other 4+ hours although CONFESSION: I love the montage of people who have died in the last year and even though I don't know 87% of them, I always get weepy. Because I am totally sensitive like that.

Back to My Boys. I am also starting with them because that's who I seem to spend the most time with. Seriously. My life these days seems to revolve around beer, chicken wings, sports bars, loudly yelling inappropriate things at the TV (I'm best known for "Suck It"), dirty jokes, sexual innuendo, references to Blazing Saddles which I don't understand because I still haven't seen the movie (although SCORE: Got it for $7 while waiting to check out of the grocery store the other week. And who says point-of-purchase doesn't pay off?), and figuring out how to use the phrase "She's got some dandy tickets" more often. As in:

Me: Kim Basinger is a crappy actress.

The Kaiser: Yeah - but she's got some dandy tickets.

{I'd like to pause for a moment to thank my father for making me listen to Howard Stern as a small child. If it weren't for the many years of being exposed to Mr. Private Parts and his *eclectic* sense of humor, I don't think I'd be prepared for what my life has become. So thank you Daddy. Love, Your Little Girl.}

And without further ado...meet My Boys:

THE KAISER

I don't even know where to begin with The Kaiser (aka Griss Warhound because The Kaiser was already taken when I forced him onto Twitter he signed up for Twitter to humor me). All I can say is that he has a lot of chest hair. Oh - and he despises John Mayer. Yep - a man I've known for over 3 years and who I spend a large amount of time with (usually busting his balls and drinking Guinness - oh! there you go: He likes Guinness) and that's all I've got. Oh. And the fact that he wants to get a Bugs Bunny tattoo which I am desperately trying to talk him out of because let's face it, real men don't do bunny wabbits. If you're going to permanently mark your body with a Looney Tune, at least make it sexy. Like Tweety.  Also? He grew up in Ohio which means he's pretty much the most doomed sports fan ever (See also: Cleveland Browns and Cleveland Indians). Actually - truth be told he's a very talented writer and since I am lazy as fuck all about promoting others, this is my totally backwards way of bullying him into writing a self autobiographical guest post. Although actually, I pretty much summed him up for you already. And if I didn't, this photo will:

The Kaiser and The Pose Down.JPG  

We call this the Pose Down. It's The Kaiser's signature move.

Kaiser Strangles Rougie.JPG 

The only reason The Kaiser looks so happy in this photo is because he is strangling me. The reason I look so happy is because I am digging my heel into his insole with tremendous force.

SUMO

Sumo is my big brother slash bodyguard slash giant teddy bear slash playmate all rolled into 1 loveable package. He's from the Western part of the county which means he doesn't tolerate any bullshit. From anyone.  Also? He loves Blue Motorcycles, The Captain, and he's a Cowboys fan which means he isn't perpetually disappointed on Sundays. On any given night he's probably out watching sports and 93.46% of the time (that's a scientifically proven statistic BTW) I am with him. This is a man who doesn't mind chauffering my ass around always makes sure I get home safe and who tolerates me when I get all weepy and PMS-y. In return, I ply him with baked goods and whatever genius creation has come out of my crockpot. It's a win-win for everyone.

Rougie and Sumo Celebrate.JPG

See? I told you I wasn't afraid to wear my tiaras out and about.

Rougie and Sumo at The Race.JPG

You can immediately see why I love this guy - right?

THE HISTORY PROFESSOR

Last but not least is The History Prof, who is the world's coolest ever high school history teacher and who loves livermush, PBR & wears flip flops year-round. This man gives new definition to the world chill, which makes him the polar opposite of my uber-neurotic self. Also? He's not afraid to wear hats that aren't baseball hats and he doesn't look like a schmuck when he does. That my friends is a serious skill.

 

 

The History Prof 2.jpg

 

 

The History Prof 1.jpg

See what I mean about the whole hat thing?

So now you've met My Boys and you'll know who the fuck I am writing about or Tweeting about when I am out 6 nights a week.  Tomorrow (or maybe Wednesday because Holy Hell this post took forever to write) you'll meet some bedaucherous bitches (aka my GIRLS) and eventually, you'll have the thrilling honor of meeting my psychotic cat. Trust me - you won't want to miss that one.

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Rougie's tips for making it a Super-Cali-Fragilistic-Special kind of day:

 

  • Be forced to weigh yourself in clothes AND shoes at 4pm after gorging on a giant country fried breakfast AND grilled pimento cheese for lunch. I'd do it every day if I could.

 

  • Tell someone EXACTLY where something is and then have them tell you they still can't find it. Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

 

  • Drive. Anywhere. Because apparently you don't need an IQ to get a driver's license. Just decent vision. Except in Florida where you can be blind or dead.

 

  • Find out that your much needed tropical getaway is possibly being postponed or worse...cancelled. (See also: wake up to sub-Arctic temperatures for 5 days in a row.)

 

  • Ask someone to tell you that all of your photos look FAB-U-LOUS but by the way...they don't look like you. I'm flattered.

 

And my #1 tip for having a truly Awesomtastic, Fantabulous, Incredible day?

 

  • Have your ovaries squeezed. Seriously. There is nothing better than having someone shove their hands halfway up your body and feeling around your insides. Would I lie?

 

So lovelies, what are your tips for making it a Super-Cali-Fragilistic-Special kind of day? 

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Last week I was in a seriously funk-kay mood that I could just not snap out of. I don't know if it was the holidays or the severe lack of sunlight or the frigid weather or WHAT but I was all: I am so fucking over it all and oh yeah I'd like to crawl under the covers and not emerge until April kaithankxbye. Only I can't hide in my bed for the next 3 months so I did the next best thing: I listened to La Cage Aux Folles on my iPod.

 

Half of you are probably thinking: La Cage Aux Folles - WTF Rougie? While the other half of you are probably thinking: La Cage Aux Folles - WTH Rougie? (because it's just not in your pure, golden hearts to drop an F-bomb). La Cage is a Broadway musical about 2 gay lovers on the French Riviera who run a nightclub and cabaret act featuring (gasp) drag queens. One day their straight son comes home and announces he's going to marry a girl from an uber conservative family and could they please cover up the whole gay/nightclub/cabaret/drag queen business because his FIL-to be is basically a giant political wanker who will put the kibosh on the wedding if he finds out where Straight Boy really comes from. You might also know this as The Bird Cage starring Robin Williams and Nathan Lane. And while Birdcage was all kinds of fabulous and funny, it does not have music and I totally require a soundtrack for my life.

 

So anyways, after feeling all down-in-the-dumps, maybe-I-have-a-case-of-the-Mean-Reds (only I have no Tiffany's to retreat to...le sigh), and oh yeah: bite me Seasonal Affectation Disorder, I turned to La Cage to soothe my tortured soul. There are 2 songs in particular that lift me up no matter how blue I am.  The first is "A Little More Mascara" which Albin (the over the top drag queen played by Nathan Lane in the film) sings early in the first act. Basically he's all bummed out, and when he feels all bummed out, he hustles out his highest drag slaps on some make-up, fake boobs, a sparkly evening gown, heels, a boa and BAM!!! He's all: The World is Fabulous. And I have to say, I am inclined to agree (though I don't don drag have fake boobs). Seriously y'all. There is nothing quite like getting dressed...or overdressed...and putting on a snazzers dress and gorgeous heels and going for full maquilliage and a spritz of perfume and jewels to make a girl forget her woes and feel, if for but a brief moment, utterly fabulous. 

 

The second song comes at the end of the first act when Straight Boy tells Albin that he cannot attend dinner with the future wanker in-laws: either in drag or no drag. And Albin is stung (who wouldn't be) and he sings this powerful ballad I Am What I Am which is basically a giant: Fuck You World! I know who I am and I am comfortable in my own skin and YOU - you're the one with problems because you can't be honest about who you are and where you come from. You go girl! (Actually, Gloria Gaynor apparently released a version of this song if you want a clue as to the extreme levels of You Go Girl! captured in these lyrics.)

 

So basically for 2 or 3 days all I belted out from the top of my lungs while driving in my car and/or sitting around my house all I listened to on my iPod were those 2 songs on repeat (with a dash of Beyonce every once in a while to keep my sassypants levels up). And after listening to a drag queen sing about maribou and ankle straps and Shalimar and mascara and tiaras and I bang my own drum and I deal my own deck and rhinestones and everything's fabulous and sparkledust and I am what I am and what I am needs no excuses...well...I got INSPIRED. Inspired to be FAB-U-LOUS. So I dusted off one of my tiaras (I have 3), and put it on. Then I announced on Facebook that I was going to wear a tiara for the rest of the day. BAM! Fabulous! Of course, I wasn't planning on actually leaving the house, but when The Kaiser sent me a text and asked me if I wanted to meet him at the Irish Pub for a few pints, I didn't even hesitate. Twenty minutes later I strolled into that pub in my holey leggings, boots, giant shades and of course, my tiara, because I am what I am and what I am is the type of girl to wear a tiara. Always.

Comments ( 6 )

So apparently *real* bloggers are supposed to do this 100 Things business. Or so says my hot friend Nen and not only is she hot, she's smart. She's also a real blogger. Of course, when I was scouring my blog roll looking for clever, witty examples of 100 Things to inspire me I noticed a lot of people didn't actually have a 100 Things business and I get why.  Holy Hell y'all this crap is hard!

Yes - this coming from the girl who broadcasts EVERYTHING on-line and who has no trouble spilling the most intimate details of her life to utter strangers (there are customer service reps across 3 continents who know my entire life story). That girl. Me. I had a hard time coming up with 100 Things. Well - let me rephrase that: I had a hard time coming up with 100 Things that I thought you would actually give a rat's ass about and that were interesting without being overly revealing. (Yes - I do have some boundaries. It's not always obvious but they are there.)

Anyways, it took a while, but I finally managed to come up with 100 pépites* de Rougie. Pépites that are hopefully fascinating. Insightful. Possibly life-changing. And on the greater than likely chance there's something I missed that you're just dying to know - leave me a comment or shoot me an email. I'm probably good for an answer. Just remember that my dad reads my blog so if it has to do with sex or drugs, I'm probably gonna lie. And if it has to do with sex and drugs, I'm just gonna flat-out deny it.

*Pépites is French for "nugget" which means chicken nuggets in French is pépites de poulet. Don't you feel smarter? You're welcome.

 

    IN THE BEGINNING

  1. I was born on August 11th. I am a Leo and the Sun is my ruling planet. This means I pretty much always need to be the center of attention.
  2. I was born at 3:59pm. My mother was in labor for less than an hour. In fact - I don't think she ever actually checked into the hospital.
  3. I didn't have a name for an entire week. Mom contemplated naming me Zoe (which incidentally is one of my dream names) but she was afraid I might not have the personality to carry off such a big name. She was wrong. Clearly.
  4. Another possible name was Katherine Raleigh but with a last name that starts with K, mom didn't want me to be called Katie K. Also - I think there's a rule about Jews being named Raleigh.
  5. In the end, my parents gave me a name which means Princess in Hebrew. It's very fitting nomenclature.
  6. My middle name is Rebecca.
  7. I was born and raised in New York City. I learned how to hail a taxi before I learned how to ride a bike.
  8. My taxi hailing skills are still legendary in some circles. I have been known to dart across 3 lanes of moving traffic in 4-inch heels, in the dark, in the rain just to grab a cab.
  9. I was a precocious child with a penchant for bursting out into song at inopportune times - like riding on the crosstown bus. My favorite for a while was "Look at Me, I'm Sandra Dee" only I didn't know what virginity was so I'd always sing: "Lousy with Virginia tea." True story.
  10. My father made me listen to Howard Stern when I was growing up. This has shaped me in many ways and means there's very little you can say or do that will offend me. See also: BAD HABITS.
  11. I played Bonnie in our 8th Grade production of Anything Goes. I still remember my entire routine for Heaven Hop.


    I'M NOT WEIRD. I'M JUST A LITTLE ECCENTRIC.

  12. I am Jewish but I celebrate Christmas. It's confusing - I know. Believe me I really struggled while standing in line at Wal-Mart with a 7.5 foot pre-lit Kennedy Fir in my cart.
  13. Grease 2 might be the best. Sequel. Ever. And for the record - I can sing the entire soundtrack and perform at least half of the dance sequences.
  14. I cannot pee in a lake. Or a pool. Or the ocean. I require porcelain under my ass.
  15. I have tremendous seafood issues. I like lobster and shrimp but I don't like crab. But I won't eat lobster salad or shrimp salad. But I will eat tuna salad. But only my tuna salad because I put enough lemon in there to make it not fishy. There's more but I'll spare you.
  16. Also - I don't believe in eating seafood during the day. Except for tuna salad. There's still more but really...
  17. I love to eat meat on the bone. I am especially fond of chicken wings, and I prefer the flats to drummies - more bones. I am fanatical about picking my bones clean so if we go out for wings together and you leave meat on the bone, I will probably reach across the table, pick up the half-masticated bones from your plate, and polish them clean. People either find this absolutely disgusting, a giant turn-on, or some weird hybrid of both.
  18. I cannot stand runny egg yolks. Give 'em to me scrambled. Give 'em to me in an omelet. Give 'em to me hard boiled. But poached or fried eggs with runny yolks kind of freak me out.
  19. I rarely wear pants. Generally, I'm a dress or skirt kind of girl. Even in the dead of winter. 
  20. I don't understand women who wear open toed shoes but don't have pedicures. 
  21. I don't understand people who order expensive meat and then ask for it well done. What's the point?
  22. I don't believe that Olive Garden qualifies as Italian food. In fact - I've never eaten at an Olive Garden. Ever. I pride myself on that fact.
  23. I believe in celebrating half-birthdays.
  24. I lost over 30 pounds on Atkins several years ago. I still have a lingering fear of carbs to this day.
  25. I am tremendously OCD. This applies to so many areas that if I were to address them all, this list would be known as 463 Things.
  26. I am friends with people I have never met IRL (In Real Life). The Internetweblogosphere is a pretty amazing place.
  27. If I need to cry I either watch Debra Winger's death scene in Terms of Endearment or the second-to-last scene in Little Princess. "Papa - it's me Sarah" gets me every time.
  28. My hair is naturally curly. From the time I was 12 or so, I straightened it religiously because having curly hair gave me a headache. Recently, I've learned to love my curls again.
  29. I can't whistle or burp.
  30. There's only one way to load a dishwasher: my way.


    THINGS YOU PROBABLY DIDN'T EXPECT TO DISCOVER

  31. I was at the World Trade Center when the first plane hit.
  32. The best hug I ever received was from my father on September 12, 2001.
  33. I have 2 tattoos. This means I can't be buried in a Jewish cemetery. But that's ok because I'd prefer to be in some sort of above-ground mausoleum since being buried alive is one of my biggest fears.
  34. I am also afraid of raw chicken, heights and losing my parents. Actually - I am not afraid of the actual raw chicken - just of getting salmonella from it.
  35. I'm less liberal than most people think. I'm probably more of a Libertarian then anything, but I am registered as a Republican. I keep meaning to change that.
  36. I used to smoke 2+ packs a day. I quit smoking April 1, 1996 and haven't had a puff since.
  37. But I do smoke the occasional cigar.
  38. I spend less money on clothes and shoes than most people think. Most of my cute dresses are from Target and all of my expensive shoes were purchased years ago when my 20-something self thought that she was entitled to Jimmy Choo.
  39. For the record, I haven't worn my Jimmy Choos in probably 2 years. Maybe longer.
  40. I do splurge on my toilet paper though. I have a sensitive tushi and I need the toilet paper with lotion.
  41. Also, my underwear costs $18/pair.
  42. I have read every Harry Potter book at least twice AND seen every Harry Potter movie at least twice. For books 4 - 7 I was one of *those* people who was on line to buy the book at midnight.
  43. I got glasses when I was in 7th grade. I moved to contacts in high school and got LASIK back in 2000. Letting someone stick a laser in my eye was one of the smartest decisions I've ever made.
  44. Growing up I was a competitive ice skater. I got all the way to Freestyle 5 but couldn't handle an axel and thus ended my dreams of becoming the next Dorothy Hamill.
  45. When I was a kid, I wanted to be the first female, Jewish president of the United States. I am not exactly sure why since I have no interest in politics.
  46. I also wanted to be a buyer for Bloomingdales and an actress.
  47. After my parents shelled out an assload of money to send me to Duke, and after I graduated cum laude with a degree in economics, I enrolled in a 6 week acting workshop at NYU. When I wasn't immediately *discovered* by one of my professors, I realized there was a difference between being an actress and simply being a Drama Queen. I am a Drama Queen.
  48. I hated high school and felt like something of a social misfit/outcast/wallflower for most of it.
  49. I was Editor-in-Chief of my high school newspaper. The fact that I was an economics major in college and that I've worked in finance for over 10 years, still has me scratching my head.


    BADASSY THINGS

  50. I completed the 2009 Kiawah Half-Marathon in 1:59:48. My goal was to finish in under 2 hours. I had 11 seconds to spare. I was thrilled.
  51. At the end of my Junior year in high school, I met with the college guidance counselor to discuss my schedule senior year. She asked me why I was signed up for BC Calculus. I said because I'd been in advanced math since First Grade. The fact that she even asked the question still pisses me off.
  52. I love to cook. And bake. I'm pretty darn good at both. My specialty is probably my Quattro Chip Cookies so named because they contain 4 kinds of chocolate. The recipe is proprietary and I guard it more fiercely then the Colonel guards his chicken recipe (blend of 13 herbs and spices my ass).
  53. My next career is Cookie Queen and I plan to dethrone Mrs. Fields.
  54. I also have a weird knack for meatballs.
  55. I am ultra competitive. ULTRA.
  56. I own my own power drill and I know how to use it.
  57. Recently I took up shooting. I am the only girl at the shooting range in a shift dress and pearls.
  58. I love roller coasters. The faster, the higher, the more upside-downier, the loopier, the twistier - the better.
  59. Years ago I took up boxing. I didn't compete but I trained in an old school gym with no A/C, a bunch of sweaty men and a Russian trainer named Steve. Of course, my boxing gloves were pink.
  60. I have mad phat jump rope skillz yo!
  61. When I was 7 or 8 I decided that I wanted Kate Jackson's hair style (because apparently at that tender age I was already watching Charlie's Angels). Although my hair was long(ish) and curly (and Kate's hair was short(ish) and straight), I conveniently waited until I emerged from the shower one day, combed my hair straight, and CHOPPED. Mom wasn't too happy.
  62. I wish life offered us more occasions to wear big hats and feather boas.
  63. I have 3 tiaras. I've been known to wear them out on occasion, because really - why not?
  64. I didn't hit my stride until I turned 30. But once I hit it, I hit it with a vengeance and I keep getting better as I get older. I am actually looking forward to my 40s (though I still have more than a few years to go).


    BAD HABITS

  65. I not only overshare the intimate details my life, I tend to broadcast them. For this reason, Twitter is either my biggest savior or my biggest downfall. Probably the latter.
  66. I hurl a lot of F-bombs. More than is probably appropriate for a drunken sailor on shore leave. I know it's a sign of weakness. I'm fucking working on it.
  67. Most days I crack my first Coke Zero Cherry before 7am.
  68. Although I drink obscene quantities of diet caffeinated soda, my coffee and tea have to be decaf. Otherwise my heart will explode out of my chest, my breathing gets very rapid and I will likely have a massive anxiety attack. And then you'll either have to take me to the ER or listen to me ramble incessantly for an hour or so. 
  69. I am glued to my Crackberry and have no capacity for disconnecting in general.
  70. I have a slight case of ADD. Although I prefer to call it My Amazing Ability To Multitask, really it's more li - oh look! Something shiny!


    THINGS THAT MAKE ME ALL TINGLY

  71. I love my family fiercely. I would not be where I am today without their love and support.
  72. If I could bring anyone back from the dead, it would be Cary Grant or Gregory Peck (especially the Atticus Finch Gregory Peck because OMG - hot and noble!). Or possibly William Powell. But only as Nick Charles.
  73. I love to shop. For anything. Going to CVS to buy toothpaste gives me a thrill.
  74. I have more make-up than most drag queens and I add to the collection frequently. That said, these days I wear very little.
  75. I believe that a woman should always have her own money.
  76. I believe the keys to a happy marriage are separate bathrooms, separate closets and separate checking accounts.
  77. I love Italy and I spent my first semester Junior year in Florence. At one point I was nearly fluent in Italian. Now I'm lucky if I can order an insalata Caprese at an Italian restaurant.
  78. Although I'm not French, I pretty much drink wine every day.
  79. Butter makes everything better. So does goat cheese. And bacon. And mayonnaise. In fact - if it were socially acceptable, I'd eat mayonnaise straight out of the jar with a spoon.
  80. I love anything that sparkles and glitters.
  81. One of my favorite flavors of ice cream is mint chocolate chip. However, after I found out that Timothy McVeigh requested 2 pints of mint chocolate chip ice cream for his final meal, I stopped disclosing that information. I guess I didn't want to be mistaken for a psychopath.
  82. Guinness, Target, McDonald's fries, being surprised with flowers, letterpress stationery, Audrey Hepburn movies and Baby Guinness all make me smile. Yes - there is such a thing as Baby Guinness.


    THOSE THAT MEAN THE MOST

  83. My Dad is my biggest cheerleader and my biggest inspiration. I admire him for turning his passion into a successful, paying career and I hope to follow in his footsteps one day.
  84. My Mom is the most beautiful woman I know. She has taught me what it means to be a strong, independent and proud woman.
  85. I am 34 years old and I still need my parents. I am not ashamed to admit this.
  86. I am fortunate to have the world's best older brother. He wasn't the kind of older brother to buy me beer or introduce me to his friends or sneak me into R-rated movies. He was - and still is - the kind of brother to always look out for me and make sure I am ok.
  87. I have a 4 year old nephew. He's delicious and adorable and he makes my ovaries all twitchy.
  88. I have no living grandparents. Two of my grandparents died before I was even born and my last remaining grandmother died my Senior year in college.
  89. My paternal grandfather ran a candy store. I always thought that was pretty cool.
  90. My maternal grandmother was one of the first women to graduate from Yale Law School. That might be where I get my badassness from.
  91. The one good thing to come out of high school was my best friend. She is the only person who knows everything about me (and I mean EVERYTHING) and I'd be lost without her.
  92. My Senior year in college I lived with 7 other women. We are still friends today (over a decade later) and we have annual reunions. I love them all and they will always be in my life.
  93. These days, you're likely to find me at a sports bar drinking beer and eating wings with The Boys. I'm also usually yelling "Suck it (hated sports team here)" and making inappropriately crude comments (see #10). I've grown a pair and I'm proud.   
  94. I have a guardian angel here on Earth. Her name is Becky.


    NOW THAT I'M OFFICIALLY A SOUTHERN BELLE

  95. I grew up in an apartment on the Upper East Side. I now live in a small town in rural North Carolina. All the jokes about Green Acres have long ago been made but still feel free to call me Zsa Zsa.
  96. Despite my Upper East Side roots, I love NASCAR. It's basically a social experiment gone totally awry.
  97. I root for Jimmie Johnson. Not because he's the 4-time Sprint Cup winner, but because a friend of mine runs his private foundation and when I started watching racing, I wanted to root for someone I felt like I had a small connection with.
  98. Things I've picked up since living in the South: y'all, pimento cheese, NASCAR, and biscuits. Things I can't wrap my head around: grits, sweet tea, and Rascal Flatts.
  99. Reasons I love living in a small town: running into someone I know at the post office/grocery store; being a regular at the local bakery and café; being remembered by the lady at the post office; neighbors dropping by unexpectedly with baked goods/fresh produce from their garden.
  100. I came up with the term rougeneck when I was trying to describe myself to a new friend. Although I watch NASCAR and listen to country music, I also carry a Louis Vuitton handbag and wear pearls. Rougeneck seemed like the right way to marry it all together because let's face it - everything sounds better in French.
Comments ( 21 )

There's a reason why there aren't too many operas in English. English is, for the most part, an ugly language that has zero lyrical flow. Seriously - with the exception of a few awesome words (like sobriquet, obsequious and apoplexy - although actually apoplexy is not exactly a pretty word but I just like to say it) we're all harsh lines, sharp stops and staccato syllables. And that is why everything sounds better in French.

Just take the word potato. It's such a dull, hard word in English. Po-Ta-To. But say it in French - pomme de terre - and it sounds downright magical and mystical. 

Does anyone remember that classic 80s flick, Gotcha? Remember the scene where college student Anthony Edwards (with OMG a full head of hair) tries to pick up Eastern European spy Linda Fiorentino? I guarantee you if he had said: "My pencil is large and yellow," she wouldn't have given him a second glance. But "Mon crayon est large et jaune?" Well...I'll just point out that she did in fact accompany him back to his hotel room...

Le Sigh.

Anyways, about a year ago I met The Attorney at a Bar Association luncheon and I chatted him up all through lunch as I am prone to do. He was fascinated by my "city girl transplanted to rural NC" tale and at the end of the meal we exchanged cards. The next day before I could drop a handwritten "so nice to meet you" note in the mail (because I am uber-classy like that), I recieved an email from him. I replied. And then he replied. And thus a massive email correspondence bloomed.

While I tried to keep up the facade of urban, cultured sophisticate who just happened to live in Smalltown USA, eventually some of my deep dark secrets were revealed. For example, my love of NASCAR. The fact that I listened to Country Music. Or that I was, on occasion, apt to consciously use improper grammar. I didn't quite know how to reconcile the posh, professional brunette who was sporting a pink wool belted shift dress with matching tea-length coat and triple-strand pearls at the luncheon with the truck-driving, boot-stomping, hee-hawing girl I occasionally was on the side. Was I redneck? Not really. I mean, I do sometimes go to biker bars, but usually I'm there in designer jeans and heels.

I gave my whole incongruous persona some serious thought and that's when it struck me: Everything sounds better in French. 

Here's what I finally wrote and sent to The Attorney in an attempt to explain my many facets:

I moved down to North Carolina a nice Jewish girl raised on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. I was more Sex in the City than Dukes of Hazzard. But over time I suppose, I evolved. Or adapted. I am not sure which. I now find myself listening to country music and pulling for the #48. I say might could, y'all and fixin' ta. Although I don't care for grits or sweet tea, I do love me a chicken biscuit from Bojangles every once and a while. All this, and I still wear Dolce and Gabbana and carry a Louis Vuitton. In a word, I am a rougeneck.

And thus Rougeneck aka Rougie was born.

Truth be told, I actually think that I am pretty clever to have coined such a genius term Rougeneck is a pretty fitting moniker because it happily marries my cosmopolitan upbringing with the Southern Fried Belle I have become over the last 3-1/2 years in NC.

Et Voila! Now you know where I come from. I hope you'll stick around to see what I do.

Comments ( 18 )

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