The Random Ramblings of a Sleepless Maverick

Well, Readers, I am staring dumbfounded at this blank page. In between the last presidential debate and wrapping my mind around that bitchy know-it-all Kenley somehow making it to the Project Runway finale, I just can't seem to compose a full thought. But, you know I am dedicated to your entertainment, Readers, so I thought I would jot down a few of my fragmented brain drizzle.

I love negative ads. It's just political shit talking. Is it true? Unlikely. Is it fun? Hell yes. So, listen up, boys: Why don't you come run some of those nasty tidbits on mommalittle. I won't player hate, I'll participate. Word.

That brings me to another. I love hip hop jargon. I've been trying to introduce it into my daily life, but thus far it has been unsuccessful.

I really like drinking coffee in the late evening. That is, until I'm laying in bed wide awake as a crackhead on a 3 day smoke feast.

Ridge snuck into Rolan's room and interrupted his peaceful nap this afternoon by shimmying into his crib and then subsequently pouncing on his little brother's head while chanting, "Wake up, Rolan!"
Rolan, in turn, spent the afternoon randomly jabbing his big brother in the eye for the torturous awakening. With each incident, rather than responsibly disciplining my offspring, I just thought, "Man, I'm so glad my sons are mavericks."

Speaking of swaggering with the big balls of a maverick, Ridge and I build some wooden car inside the house today and then proceeded to paint it on the kitchen table. He seriously had slaps of blue paint in his ears.

I am exhausted. I am so freakin' exhausted that I cannot sleep. Such is the divine comedy of life.

There are several ways to show your patriotism. One of them just happens to be paying taxes. God knows I pay my share, but I love America and don't want to further become a "sharecropper nation," as Warren Buffet described the negative effect of our expanding foreign held debt.

I love Kenny G. I mean, I really love Kenny G. He played on Dirty Sexy Money last week and my long, lost love affair was reignited. Few things get my blood pumping like that long-haired genius blowing away on his saxophone.

I think blue eyeliner rocks. I wore it daily for many years, using it for some reason on only the outer halves of each eye, which made it rock even harder. After much badgering from my more fashion savvy friends, I begrudgingly abandoned my aqua beauty trick. I'm really thinking about bringing it back. What do you think?

P-R-O-C-R-A-S-T-I-N-A-T-I-O-N. That's just how I roll. In fact, I think it is fair to say that's what I am doing right now. So, I'm gonna stop. I'm going to force myself to sleep so I won't drag around like a zombie tomorrow.

If I Think It's Tacky, Lord, It Is!

At the risk of startling my longtime friends, I have a confession: I am totally obsessed with Project Runway. Now, for those of you just coming to know me through this blog, perhaps you wonder why those who know me well would be surprised by that.
Well, let me tell you. I am a fashion nightmare. I always have been, even in my wild lady-about-town days when I was mixing it up with tall, dark and handsome men, as well as their short, pale and homely friends. I know a few of you are shaking your heads in a enthusiastic nod of agreement as you read this. I could take any two or three articles of clothing, completely acceptable on their own, and merge them together into a cocktail of chaos and clutter. I would try to give reason to my wardrobe, God knows I tried, but the end result was always the same pitiful mess. It's just like some women cannot find their way around a kitchen, in spite of a ton of labor toward it. I'm hopeless. Two words come to mind: faux and pas.
So, regardless of my utter lack of fashion awareness, I simply cannot miss an episode of Project Runway. Each week the DVR records it, but I wait until the boys are fast asleep, even the big one, before I will watch it. For Heidi, Tim and the pool of competing designers, I want to direct my undivided attention. Finally, this week, midway into the season, the judges have finally done what they should have on the first week; they have sent Stella home.
Again, I'm not claiming to harbor any trendy expertise, for I do not. However, when Stella strolled one outfit down the runway that I would've thrown together and then several more that I would've just passed over in the discount bend at the local leather S&M fetish boutique, even I knew this lady has no future in fashion outside of preparing for motorcycle drag show. Seriously, outside of the biker in The Village People, who wears that much leath-ah (spelled leather outside of Stella's New York apartment.)?
I'm still a little heartbroken that the judges sent my main gay Keith home last week. I found the send off especially unfounded in sight of Stella's remaining grace on the show.
So, from the absolutely least qualified person to say so, thank God Stella was auf'd.