Baby, it's really freaking cold outside.

I’m cold. When I step outside in the morning, when I leave the gym, when I’m sitting at my desk. My place of living is the sorriest excuse for a house I have ever seen. Yesterday I opened a cabinet door in my bathroom and broke it in half like it was a saltine cracker. No, I don’t have a blackbelt, it was just that easy. Our house somehow manages to be even colder than the air outside. Which is an absolute tragedy considering my current latitude.

One may think that I, someone who can freeze flames with just a mere touch of my perpetually ice-cubed fingers, would be looking for any reason to warm up my life. I was, until I read about a new service being offered in London hotels. Because of the cold weather in Britain, one hotel chain is employing human bed warmers to bring the guests’ beds up to the proper temperature. The explanation states that people would dress in a body-covering fleece onesie and snuggle up for however long it took to get the bed nice and toasty. The chain also doesn’t have a comment about whether or not they require the human warmers to be showered, but they do ensure that their heads are covered. Next to expensive mini-bars, this is the worst idea a hotel has ever come up with. I have spent the last hour trying to think of something creepier than coming back to my hotel room and finding a questionably dirty British man wearing a shower cap and a Snuggie in my bed. I’ve got nothing.

I know I’m not a scientist, but I have an idea about how to warm up a bed without employing someone. It may be a tad ambitious, but it’s worth a shot….
GET IN THE GODDAMN BED YOURSELF. Christ, people.

What about double beds? I wonder if they just thrown two human warmers in the thing. Because if Johnny and Susie Bed-Warmer were both working room 106, they could be creating a whole different kind of heat, a kind that you definitely wouldn’t want to snuggle into later, or find smeared on your PJ’s.

Suddenly the idea of being “just a warm body” has a whole new meaning.

What comes around, comes around again...

Bust out your scrunchies and get yourself a bowl cut, the Babysitter’s Club is back in action. The popular teen series from the 80’s is being ‘rewritten’ and remarketed to fit today’s teens. It all started with Kristy, an entrepreneurial teen who was always dressed to the nines in her finest day-glo colors. Then it moved on to Karen, the sassy little sister. Two hundred and ninety-seven books later (I wish that was an exaggeration) and Ann M. Martin finally ran out of plot lines.

ALAS. Never fear, BSC (Babysitter’s Club, obv. Keep up, the world is a fast place,) fans, the girls are back! Don’t worry, all the old drama will still be there, the trouble with training bras and Johnny the quarterback are pillars of BSC life too rich to eliminate. Only now they google, and sext, and tweet all about it.

Speaking of future Pulitzers…Lauren Conrad (LC of Laguna, The Hills) released a book recently titled L.A. Candy. It’s not about Lauren though, it’s just a book about a girl named Jane in L.A. who is on reality shows, unsuccessfully tries to tame wild party-boy heirs, and has back-stabbing friends.

…ya. It is easier to face the truths in your own life when you pretend it’s someone else’s. But generally that theory is best actualized through therapy, not a book deal. It’s okay, I’m sure everything will work out for this “Jane” (winky emoticon.)

I just don’t really understand why people can’t just stick to one profession in Hollywood. I mean, LC clearly had a good gig going, getting paid to go on dates and look confused. And I doubt anyone was really dying to tap into her literary genius. Steve Martin, who is not only great at being type-cast as the goofy, lovable father but also can bring down the house with a banjo in his hands, is the exception. If we’ve learned anything from watching Glitter it’s that someone should have told Mariah to stick to what she knows, (high notes and low cut tops.) This should also include people who aren’t famous for ANYTHING. Demonstrated perfectly in the new diet pill commercial featuring the Kardashians. Kim, ok, she dated Reggie Bush, so that’s legit. But what else have the other ones done to deserve this sort of publicity? Also, if we can all think back to the time that Khloe Kardash was called a tranny we will see the obvious flaws in her promotion of diet pill X.
The ad ends with one of the Kardashkas sauntering through a room full of drapes and whispering in a bedroom voice, “Live the dream.”

…Uh huh.

Shot at Love 3: Pet Adoption

I’m a serious blogger. Very serious, very competitive. So I was surfin’ the old WWW and came upon Tila Tequila’s blog. I found this link because of the whole broo-ha-ha surrounding the death of her fiance, Casey Johnson. So I spent a period of time comparing my blog to Tila’s. Mine is seriously lacking in a) graphics, most of which look like replicas of tramp stamps and other generic tattoo patterns, b) followers with myspace-esque pictures showing extreme boobage, c) fights with my readers and d) photos of me in a mesh bathing suit to send to your phone. I ceased my comparison. Most of these differences hinge on the facts that I’m not a international sex-symbol and most of my readers are related to me, I’ll just have to deal.

Tila has been quite busy lately since Casey’s death. First there were the allegations that Tila’s chaotic lifestyle had a bad influence on Casey. Tila defends herself and their relationship to the bone on her blog and twitter account. Because there is no life more devoid of danger than Tila’s, someone who parties, drinks, poses naked, and hooks up in murky hot tubs for a living.

Next, there was the whole Nicky Hilton/dog debacle. Nickster and her friend Bijou (wtf? Is that a cheese?) came to rescue Casey’s dogs and clothes from Tila’s house. Nicky and Bijou (HA) apparently didn’t trust Tila with the Casey’s property or pets, (everyone knows sluts don’t know proper animal care.) Anywho, there’s some great footage of this encounter online. But in short, the cops were there, Nicky was looking skinny. Bijou looked confused. Tila cried and was the most covered up she’s been since being swaddled as a new born infant.

Get some.

New Year's 2010: Is that Snoop Dogg's Uncle?

We’re all ushering in a new year. Zae’lyn, the first baby of the new year in my city, rang it in with a gala of latex, crying, and amniotic fluid. Just a few miles away, I was attending a different sort of celebration. I, Whitey McPasty-as-hell, was busy sticking out like a tranny in mass. My parents, my dad’s high school friends, a few of my friends, and I attended a 70’s funk concert hosted by a former Caveliers player and BMOC around my hood. One man was taken aback by me and my three friends, he counted us off as we walked by. Yes, sir, there are four white girls in the building, and yes, we all came together. Three bands and four hours later my ear drums were ringing and I was a convert. My mom is stuck in a musical time-warp that keeps her perpetually in the 70’s, and for a night I time traveled with her and enjoyed myself greatly.

First of all, the music was incredible. The strong belief that I need to be a soulful black woman so I can sing out all my pain and anguish was reaffirmed.

Secondly, I realized immediately that I was underdressed. I had somehow forgotten to wear my fuzzy fedora and red pimp suit. The two guys who took the cake, (and also happened to be related to Snoop Dogg, demonstrating the F-list type of celebrities my city attracts) were dressed in black and white snake skin suits and capes. My sequined tank was rookie shit.

And of course there was dancing. Give my dad a beer, turn on the tunes, wait five minutes, and the ‘twist’ ala Chubby Checker appears. It’s magic. My friends and I gigged up close to the stage, although not close enough to get the champagne the band members and entourage were pouring into the audience.

After we had our fill of dancing, playing with anti-climactic New Year’s noise makers, and getting hit on by Snoop Dogg’s uncle, we rolled out.
I thought of my friends spread all across the U.S. and felt tiny pangs of longing to be joining them for toasts with strawberry Andre and kisses (again, anti-climactic.) But that thought was fleeting. My New Year’s was hard to beat. Also, hard to replicate.