A Case of the Wimbleton Grunts

I'm feeling absolutely, indeterminately crappy. I think a poltergeist may have moved inside of me to make some noise on a cellular, soulular level. I would love to have it removed but the pope hasn't answered my email.

Of course you can email the Pope. The address is: benedictxvi@vatican.va. Or go to his freaking blog. Get the cheat codes before you go, though, because there are tons of traps doors and bonus coins.

So since the Pope hasn't helped me yet, I have had to create my own therapies. One in particular I want to share with you: Wimbletonic. Wimbletonic is a three-part feel better plan.

1. Keep the games on, but with the sound down.

2. Pour out half of the watermelon Gatorade in a bottle (or use it to partially bucket flush the toilet if waste makes you feel guilty about the planet). Replace with vanilla Stoli. Keep in freezer.

3. Now, go about your day, sipping as needed, and most importantly, making Wimbleton GRUNT noises whenever you exert effort.

For example, clicking on a link: UGH!
Filling the dog's water bowl (NOT with your GatorAID): Urgfph!
Folding a towel: Rllllffft!
Signing for a FedEx package: Orrgth!

Trust me, the shit works. And the FedEX guy APPRECIATES it that someone understands that the transfer of the inkless stylus from one to another requires the same athletic concentration and finesse as passing a relay baton or hitting a ball with a huge racket.

It's all so hard, it's amazing we get through our days. Uroooph!


(Here's something that will make you grunt--Wimbleton center court ticket prices. You know, we have entirely too little money compared to some people. Or they have entirely too much)

It's what they reflect about us that fascinates us

Some celebrities are so much larger than life that they become grotesque--in both good ways and bad. They show us ourselves, and they embody the zeitgeist. My generation will be thinking a lot about the deaths of Farrah Fawcett and Michael Jackson today, not because we are mourning their losses so much as because they hold so much of our culture in their meteoric pasts.

Farrah defined the cultural standard of beauty in the late 70s, with her strong features balanced with a perfect California tan and just as golden feminine voice; her trademark mane duplicated as many times as the posters of her sitting on the beach. But then she went on to have an assault of rough experiences that have been emblematic of our times. Spousal abuse, just as our culture was learning the phrase "domestic violence." Addiction, troubled children, legal problems, losses, and then Ryan O'Neil's leukemia battle followed by her brutal cancer fight.

I've written about Michael Jackson before, in 2007, and how he seemed to wear the epaulets of our culture's dual self-hatred on one shoulder and delusional ego on the other. Celebrated as a genius, even while standing trial for a felony. A youth-obsessed self-destructing icon/predator/innovator/victim/changeling. It is going to be fascinating to watch us all respond to his death at 50.

So odd to me that the both die, and therefore dominate the news and our psyches, together, because I've always thought that Michael was trying to become a version of Farrah's beauty, either directly or simply by trying to symbolize the same mixture of strength and femininity seen in the cut of her chin and nose, the sunny optimism of her broad thin smile, the luxury of her flipping hair. It's very odd to think of our recollection of them and to not assign this coincidence as a milestone in our path away from some old part of ourselves.

Frugal Blogebrities Want You to Stay Hydrated

I have been trying to master this Recession-shopping trend, so I recently bought a dozen of boxes of Crystal Light (called CLi by chicks in the know) lemonade because I they were buy-on-get-one free. In the store it made sense to stock up on lemonade, because what says "summer" more than lemonade--unless it is old man with their balls hanging out of their shorts and getting wedged in the slats of poolside loungers. That definitely says summer more than lemonade does.

So I have a cabinet full of frugalade, and it tastes like crap.

Except I finally figured out how to make it work with a RECIPE. That I MADE UP.

CLiTini
Stir the pouch of powder into a glass of chilled vodka. Garish with wrapper.

It's actually a poor man's version of my Tang drink mated with a Lemon Drop. Tough times call for sucking it up.

In related news, I'm on the cover of Celebrity magazine again. I know. I really need to stop sending them photos and press releases about myself.

Actually the Celebrity cover is part of a mocumentary I made to try out the Whrrl iPhone app in honor of the SocialLuxe Lounge girlies' party. Take a look at my story if you have a minute.

Cheers, little frugalistas. Have you been throwing any good money after bad?

(You can also substitute Tang for the C-Li to remember the summer of Astronaut Love.)