What makes this case so interesting is Drew Peterson. He is a fucking loon. His behavior became more and more erratic the more media attention the case got. He hit on a reporter that was camped out in his yard. He calls himself, or sometimes just his weiner, “big daddy.”  He wanted a radio station to set up a contest to date him after the fourth wife went missing. He just acted like a ridiculous freak. Peterson is played brilliantly by Rob Lowe. I mean brilliantly. Lowe has perfected the creepiness the real guy exudes. He mainly does so with the mustache. Peterson has a gigantic glorious mustache. It is gray, bushy and fabulous. Lowe OWNS this mustache.

Because we were so excited to watch this groundbreaking film, Lisa and I decided to make a night of it. I even made her a shirt: It is my first funny t-shirt with moving parts!

Honey boo boo child, the movie did not disappoint. It was amazing. When I saw it was made by the same people who brought us The Craigslist Killer, Justice for Natalee Holloway and Sundays at Tiffany’s, I knew why. Those people are geniuses.

My coworker B3 (we call him that because he is the third Brian in my office) and I often find ourselves discussing this movie.  My favorite part is when Crazy Joe says, “The only thing I have to do is stay black and die.”  B3 likes it when Charmaine from the Cosby Show says, “Mr. Clark don’t love you!  Because you can’t handle your RESPONSIBILITIES!” to the guy that knocked her up (and can’t handle his responsibilities).

B3 is pretty hilarious.  We used to IM each other on the office system, but since all we do is make fun of people, he decided we should text each other instead.  Some of the stuff he has texted me:

• “Lisa is mad about the reviewer list.  She getting tired of these muthafucking snakes on this muthafucking plane!”
• On a day when I was out sick I asked him if I missed anything at work.  “Two new people started.  _____ is wearing high waters and a big black dude cried in my office”
• On a day when he called in sick:  “Hate I had to miss Halloween and first day back from the Cards win at work.  I was planning on standing around and talking a lot.”
• “_______’s titties look like a giant musky ball sack.”
• “There is a family of 10 waiting in the lobby for a hearing.  The look like extras from the TV miniseries Roots.”
• “When I was in 7th grade I went to the library and checked out a book for a book report.  It was Aladdin.  Not a novel but the big picture book about the movie.  I loved it so much I never returned it.  It was eventually destroyed somehow in the many years that followed.  That is all.”

As you can tell, B3 is pretty rad.  So last week when we were shooting the shit, we started talking about Lean On Me for the millionth time.  That led to a discussion about Waiting To Exhale (my favorite line: “I could be home watching Good Times”).  Then B3 asked if I have ever seen The Five Heartbeats.  When I said no, he was shocked.  He then appointed himself to be my ambassador to black movies and has ordered me to watch the following:

1. The Wood
2. The Brothers
3. Low Down Dirty Shame
4. Brown Sugar
5. Something New
6. Five Heartbeats
7. HavPlenty
8. Best Man
9. Poetic Justice
10. Boomerang
11. Love Jones
12. Baby Boy
13. Soul Food
14. New Jack City
15. Just Wright

B3 told me I am going to come into the office with cornrows when I am done with my movie list.

Winston Churchill was a fatass.  Do you think he ever publicly discussed his weight?  No.  There are hundreds of websites listing famous quotes by Churchill and none of these lists include a thing about his looks – “I sure wish we could beat Hitler.  And my jowls would go away!”  “The only thing I hate more than socialism is this belly.”  This is not how leaders think.

I have always been very bothered by women’s public displays of body issues (or “PDOBI”), but never more so then when I was in law school and a bunch of my female classmates were doing it at a party.  Here I am with my fellow third-year students – a week before graduation and three months before the bar exam – and the only thing they can talk about is how they hate their arms.  It is maddening.

I used to think I was so bothered by this activity of self loathing because I have issues with people showing any kind of weakness.  If someone cried around me, I would run for the hills.  If someone ever fished for a compliment, I would ignore them.  Displays of emotion or insecurity really bugged me.  However, as I have gotten older, I have learned to draw a line between insecurity and emotion.  I have come to realize one of the strongest things a person can do is to publicly show their feelings.   I will still ignore you if you fish for a compliment, but if you want to cry in public, I will weep along with you.

People used to have the opinion, and some still do, that for women to succeed in a man’s world they have to act like a man.  Strong, tough, no emotion.  These people don’t know what they are talking about.  It is a brave soul who can completely expose their innermost feelings and passions without fear of criticism.  Showing your emotions doesn’t make you weak.  Body insecurity does.

My problem with PDOBI isn’t about a showing of weaknesses.  It’s about having the damn insecurities in the first place.  Why the fuck do women think it is so acceptable to put down their bodies that they think it is okay to do it publicly?  What the hell did your thighs ever do to you?

Some women have gotten past this.  Some women, like me, see the insanity of insulting ourselves and refuse to do it – publicly or privately.  Some women, like me, had a mother who told her how beautiful she was every single day.  These women agree with me, that as long as we treat ourselves this way we can never really get ahead.  Until women can truly accept ourselves, cellulite and all, it will continue to be a man’s world.

In the meantime, let’s stop the PDOBI.  I understand that the underlying insecurities will not go away overnight.  The women of my generation may never be cured of our self-body-loathing.  But do me a favor, ladies, and criticize yourself in your head.  Hate on your ass if you must, but do it in private and not in front of your daughters.   How can we tell our girls that they can do anything they want if we give them the tools to fail?

And one more thing, ladies – if you struggle with your self-confidence and get disappointed in yourself along the way, remember what Churchill said, “Never, never, never give up.”  Dude knew his shit.

• packet of Hidden Valley ranch mix
• 1 1/2 cups sour cream
• 1 1/2 cups mayo
• 2 cups finely shredded mozzarella cheese
• granulated garlic to taste

Mix it all up.  It is about a million times better if you let it sit overnight.

At this point, I am sure you have figured out that Emily sent me something terrible.  Please keep in mind that this particular day was an exceptionally shitty Monday and after work I ran a bunch of errands in the cold.  When I got home I immediately put on my pajamas.  The last thing I wanted to do was leave the house.  Which makes the ridiculousness of this particular item all the better.  Without further ado:

1. We both have brothers named Robert.
2. We are both people.

Stuff I want from the set of the Golden Girls

1. Blanche’s wallpaper
2. Blanche’s nightgowns and robes
3. A cheesecake

Stuff I won’t eat

1. Deer
2. Seafood
3. Broccoli
4. Mushrooms
5. Cauliflower
6. Your potato salad

Books I have read lately

1. Cutting for Stone
2. Cold Mountain
3. Mindy Kaling’s book
4. The first three Little House books

My five favorite meats

1. Filet mignon
2. Link sausage
3. Kfir’s fried chicken cutlets
4. Hard Salami
5. Pulled Pork

Shitty movies I have watched in the past week

1. The Last Song
2. Spy Kids
3. Twilight (the first one)

After Emily sent me the article, she and I had a discussion about the actual mechanics of this activity, mainly the, uh, insertion, into one’s poonanny.  Namely this – how exactly do you get a vodka-soaked tampon up in your biz?  As this discussion occurred while I was ingesting some vodka the old-fashioned way, I decided to channel my inner Don Herbert and do some Mr. Wizarding.

Our first theory is that the tampon is soaked in vodka whilst still in its applicator, thus making the insertion into the lady business a walk in the park.  My materials for this experiment were a Tampax pearl super tampon and a measuring cup of water (Did you think I would waste real liquor on this?  Dumbass).  I put 8 oz. of water in the cup and put the tampon in it.  I let it sit for a while.  It soaked up maybe .25 oz.  Maybe.

I then took the tamp out of the plastic applicator and dropped it in the water.  As everyone knows it would, it absorbed a bunch of water very quickly.  However, it only soaked up 1 oz. of water.  That is it.  Even if you are an anorexic 12-year-old, you ain’t getting drunk on 1 oz. of vodka. 

Moreover, any time I touched the wet tampon, water would come out of it.  If I squeezed the tampon, almost all the water would come out.  So unless the person had the most gentle touch on earth, they would lose most of the liquid in just handling the tampon.  And how exactly are you not going to handle and squeeze something you are putting into your precious lily?

Sorry to disappoint, but I did not go further with the experiment.  From my highly scientific process I have determined it would be impossible to get enough alcohol into a tampon to even get a slight buzz.  You can put whatever you want into your orifices on your own time if you really want to test the next step.

Myth busted.

We definitely took advantage of the trolley on this trip.  It worked out great.  JD doesn’t drink wine (though she was a real sport and sampled stuff at every winery), so we periodically had the trolley take us to our motel so she could drink a beer.  It was a great plan to maintain a small respectable buzz.

After we hit our last winery and had dinner, we regrouped and headed to a local bar close to our motel.  Shit was cheap, pal.  TT bought us all a round of drinks, cheese fries, mozzarella sticks, cheddar bites and jalapeno bites (guess that dinner didn’t really take), and it was twenty bucks.  TWENTY BUCKS!  Please forward all of my mail to Hermann.

That particular bar was a dud, so we called the trolley to take us somewhere more fun.  The trolley driver delivered – he took us to a riverfront bar that was packed with tons of people.  It must be his favorite place to go, because he parked the trolley and came on in.  He warned us to be ready to leave at 11:30, because that is when the trolley stops running.

Never tell a group of drunk people to watch the time.  It didn’t seem like we were there that long.  We only had a bucket of beers and some shots.  In that time, JD fell down (she was a victim of circumstances – weird chairs), JD and AT got their dance on and I sat with TT and people watched the eclectic crowd. 

By the time it occurred to us to look for the trolley driver, he was long gone.  Dejected, we sat outside the bar with our last beers to brainstorm our next move.  We were only about 8 blocks from our hotel.  TT (AT’s husband) wanted to walk home, but the girls were not having it.  During this discussion, JD noticed a man standing next to the door of the bar and started talking to him.  This was Kenny.

Kenny was a little slow.  He was more Forrest Gump slow than Corky from Life Goes On slow.  Not one to be deterred by one’s mental disabilities, JD struck up a conversation.  It may have been the first one Kenny had with a woman who wasn’t his case worker in months.  JD asked Kenny to take us to our motel.  Kenny agreed, but said that at least two of us would have to ride in the back of his pickup truck.  We accepted his terms.  At this point, TT had it with us and began walking back.

At this point I must stop the narrative and note this is not typical behavior for me.  I am the least trusting person on earth.  I think it is all the Datelines and 48 Hours Mysteries I watch.  But I was with JD.  I feel safe with JD.  If anyone tries any funny business with her, I have no doubt she would kill them with her bare hands and claw their eyes out with her acrylic nails.

Keeping this in mind, I did ask Kenny if he was a murderer as he helped AT and I get down the tailgate.  As Kenny replied in the negative, a guy passing by that overhead me said, “Did you just ask that guy if he is a murderer?”  I responded, “IT IS A VALID QUESTION!”  Satisfied with Kenny’s answer, AT and I settled in the back of the truck. JD got in the front and we were off.

Our game plan with Kenny was to have him stop at the gas station on the way so we could get more beer.  About two blocks into our journey, we stopped at a 4 way stop.  Apparently our driver was a local, as the policeman going the other way on the road stuck his head out the window and yelled, “Hey Kenny! Turn your lights on!”  The cop did not at all seem concerned Kenny’s lights were on and he had two women in his truckbed.  Again, forward all my mail to Hermann.

At this time, AT was getting more and more upset.  She was very sad that TT had gone off on his own and kept calling his phone.  AT was suffering from a case of the drunk dramatics.  It happens to the best of us.  Here is the picture I took of her when we were stopped at the gas station:

Poor AT.  Thanks to Kenny, soon we were home.  As we were pulling into the parking lot, TT was walking up.  All was well.  We went into our room for one final drink.  And Kenny went home and frantically masturbated.

Last week, I took off work on Friday to visit my friend Sarah in Springfield, MO. She has been out living the life of luxury (if “luxury” includes owning bear mace) in rural Oregon for the past couple of years, but was back home to visit last week. Anyway, I went down on Thursday night and we had a great time catching up. On Friday morning, we made plans to meet some girlfriends for lunch and hit up the mall. The sole reason for the mall visit? The Kardashian Kollection.

After a fun lunch with Sally, Tiffany and company, we stood in the Chili’s parking lot planning our next move. It was at this point I said something I never thought I would, “Girls, meet you at Sears!” And meet at Sears we did.  We could not have missed the Kardashian Kollection if we tried. Their “KK” symbol was all over the place.

The area containing (or should I say kontaining) the Kollection was right across from the Land’s End display. You know, to really fuck with our minds. There were less clothes there than I expected, but more than enough to make fun of.   The first thing I spied was a jumpsuit made out of a stretchy, shiny fabric that should have been only used for a purse lining. There was a lot of lace and a lot of chains. One particular skin tight dress was judged by Sally’s daughter as “the weirdest dress I’ve ever seen.”

My favorite area to look at was the accessories. The plastic sunglasses were horrendous. There was a pair of leggings made from some sort of plastic material I deemed “yeast infection pants.” My favorite item was a clutch bag made from the lowest quality fake leather ever produced. It had no structure to it – no internal piping or wiring to keep its shape. It was a floppy mess with a chain detail sewn on by some blind Chinese child. It was also $70.

The prices are astronomical – especially konsidering how low quality the products are. Most pieces of clothing were about $90. The sunglasses were $30. The yeast infection pants were $25. I bought the only affordable thing I could find. Well, two of them (one was for Michael and Gabe). Ladies and gents, the Kardashian shopping bag!