Hilary Duff? You owe me 99 cents.

As a refund for the purchase of the song "Come Clean." Repayment is expected in full. You can make the check out to Tweets.

I am here to report the song as completely devoid of any musical talent, and thereby defective.

Specifically, at the 1:35 minute mark where you, Ms. Duff, proceed to do a Mexican hat dance on every musical note on the scale (inventing new ones along the way) causing me, who was once labeled lovingly as tone deaf, to scrunch my face in a way once reserved only for people who insist on still quoting Napoleon Dynamite. Then there's the 3:35 minute mark in which your song becomes the most overproduced piece of music EV. ER. And I know a thing about overproduction, I owned a NKOTB album.

Fret not Hilary, I'm not just pointing the finger at you I'm also blaming MTV. Because on every Monday at 10/9 CST they allowed this song to play as the theme of Laguna Beach, which led me to connect it with the beautiful beach vistas of coastal Orange County and being perpetually tan, rich, and taut in places where my body has long since been un-taut. (This made me keep it in my iTunes for far longer than I should have.)

Oh, I'm also blaming your mom, your sister, your boyfriend (do you guys share the same eyeliner? I've always wanted to ask you two that), your dentist who put those giant horse teeth in your mouth or anyone else that told EVER you that you could sing. Although, I'm not seeking monetary damages from them because they already have a special place in hell reserved for them.

So basically Hilary, you're really very lucky that I'm only asking you for 99 cents.

If I'm going to live like a Rock Star I would at least like the Rock Star Salary

I have a mounting suspicion that doing four Irish Car Bombs in a row was not a good idea. That suspicion being the vomit on my bedroom floor.

Thank god for Febreeze and candles.

Just know this is the kind of thing that happens when Tweets works every weekend (yes, including Thanksgiving) since September. She gets out of practice. And she talks in third person.

A sneak peek

Listening:

Heartbeats - Jose Gonzalez (who, believe or not, is Swedish)

It's the song from the Sony Bravia commercial, because yes, I am that lame that I discover music from commercials. That aside this song so beautiful, and yet I have no idea what it's talking about:

"One night to be confused

One night to speed up truth

We had a promise made

Four hands and then away "


And apparently it's a remake. Make sure you check out the orignal to hear the difference.

(I'm not as fancy as Crazy Virgo, so I don't know how to post it to the blog for your listening pleasure. Although, I'm pretty sure that iTunes wouldn't allow it anyway. Meanies.)


Reading:

Lunar Park - Brian Ellis Easton

From the guy who wrote American Psycho and Rules of Attraction. This book has me seriously creeped out. Right now, the last 60 pages or so are just taunting me.

The Gina Blog

"Being the kind and gentle mom that I am, I thought to myself, "well, how long can this thing live?" Apparently - FOREVER!!!"

Bacon Grease

"After being alienated from someone you love because of a mental illness, probably doing everything you could to see and help that person only to be denied but then discovering they were thinking of you all along, every single day, every single week, year after year. I can’t think of a more amazing yet torturous gift."

Watching:

I want to have his babies

"Just to reiterate: America is now less progressive than South Africa."

You're only 16, you don't have a rep yet.

This morning, I've been putting together a CD for my nephews – a.ka. the most adorable nephews on the planet. (Say differently, and I will cut you) I've been trying to find all sorts of fun songs that would pique a 2 year old as well a 7-month-old baby's interests, which is a difficult task under normal circumstances but seeing as I'm not shy about vying (desperately)for the Aunt of the Year spot I was not going to stop until this CD was awesome. I learned from The Bro that Trey loves to boogie, and although Josh isn't very mobile right now it's only matter of time when he will join his brother in keepin' it real. So I went about trying to find them songs to ensure motion in their adorable diapered backsides.

And that's exactly how I ended up perusing the musical library of DJ Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince. Y'all I cannot even describe how much "Parents Just Don't Understand" took me back – to 1988. (Yes. 1988. We are that old.) Instantly, as the first notes of Will Smith's nasally rap played I was taken back to my 1988-90ish years.

A simple time - free of zits and Cranky Meth Head neighbors.

Back when it didn't get ANY cooler than New Kids on the Block, and if you even try to tell me that you were not hangin' tough with your right stuff I will NOT believe you. It's back then that if you were asked out by a boy you would only agree if he would go out with all of your other friends. I remember a particularly serious 3 week relationship with another boy in which we walk around for hours just holding hands. Two tiny, sweaty palms pressed together for what seemed like FOR. EVER. because that's what grown ups did in their relationships, right? And I most definitely remember being completely heartbroken when he left me for some other girl, that skank. Every Rose Has Its Thorn, indeed.

Back when I wanted to grow up and be a nurse, just like my mom. And I spent hours wondering when I would "blossom" because Are You There God? It's Me, Tweets. Life revolved around lunch times and who was sitting at your table. How high and ratted you could torture your bangs was directly proportional to your social life. Braces. Head gear. The running man. It all came flooding back to me.

Hangovers, real heartbreaks, credit card debt, bewbies, layoffs – these we're all yet to come. It was then that I became a little pissed off that I was a grown up. Things were supposed to be different when you were finally a grown up, right? Because to be perfectly honest at age 12 I saw my 26th year going a little different. I figured I would be married (Mrs. McIntyre, if you will), with 2.5 kids, a dog, a white picket fence and large perpetually manicured lawn. And my 26-year-old self would be there watching over it all on a porch swing, in my french cuffed jeans and sipping a strawberry daiquiri. I was from the South, and these were the dreams you had. (Oh, the horrors of being 26 and unmarried.)

And then I thought about my two gorgeous nephews, whose CD started me down this trip of memory lane. I thought about how their little lives are going to play out – and I immediately wanted to call The Bro and tell him did you know that they were going to GROW. UP! Those two are going to be grown ups. Hurry, quick push a Pause button or something because they just can't grow up. It's not all it's cracked up to be.

Oh, and don't let them have credit cards until they're 26. Or 27. Okay, 35.

The Move and the Meth Head

So, I have a new apartment. That makes three apartments in 10 months. A grand total of 9 different addresses in 3 years in a total of five different cities. In a sense, you could say I'm used to moving.

But the thing is I'm not. I should be a moving pro, but alas no. Everytime is a freakin' hassle. Because you know what, there's always a junk/mystery drawer to empty out no matter how temporary your address.

So here's the problem - I need to move again.

I've resisted mentioning my recent move here because I wanted to be completely moved before I talked about it. That way, we could all have one big ol' celebratory cheer and perhaps a celebratory glass of wine (or two or three) as well. But the Moving Gods? Well they had other plans.

First off, I might be mildly retarded because I thought I could get this entire move done in one day. ONE. Oh, and without a truck. Eleventy billion car trips later, and I still don't have furniture in my apartment.

Secondly my neighbor hates me. She hates me so much that it qualifies as The Hot Hate. And why does she hate the lovely Tweets? Because I am so loud. SO VERY, VERY LOUD. You see, she's on disability and she needs so a certain number hours of sleep. Not to mention she has a nurse who comes to her house on every other day. And if I could just keep it down, what with all the walking and such. Sure thing Lady, just as soon as you put your teeth in to talk to me.

(GRRRRRRR. I got home this evening and lo and behold what did I find? A noise complaint. The official complaint is that every evening I let my dogs run around constantly. A) first off it's a dog, I only have one. And B) These indoor dog racing tracks are just too profitable to give up. GIVE. ME. A. BREAK.)

I'll mention (although I don't think I need to) I'm no louder than your average gal. I like to think of myself as very light on my feet, somewhat graceful if you will. And Lily is a sprightly 23 pound pup. And aside from when I return from a long day at the office, she doesn't jump or run anymore than your average 6 month old puppy. And Lily and I are both usually in bed by 11:00.

Oh, and I almost forgot, you live in an APART. MENT! Which by definition means you'll need a little give and take with your neighbors. I extend you a little courtesy even though you feed the stray cats around the neighborhood. In fact I'll let it slide that you would rather just watch me struggle with my keys and the outside gate while my arms are being torn off by eighteen grocery sacks instead of reaching the four feet it would take you to open the gate for me. And I'll even cut you some slack for your friends that you let into the complex that could easily double for street transients. And you know why I do this? Because we're neighbors.


So, I've put in a request for a new unit far, far away from her. Because I'm pretty sure that I can't be still and silent for the next 12 months.

Unfortunately, it means I have to pack up my boxes. Again.

If She Doesn't Find Someone Soon She's Going to Take Out a Personal Ad

You know what? I'm not the only who misses their bestest pal, and the warm snuggles in the morning. Lily does too.

Course her hunk-o-burning love probably never farted on her hand.

Lily's all like Gurrrl, you don't even know. You heard?

Everybody Loves a Happy Ending

***

Just a little update from Sleet Watch '05: The Sleet? It came. It saw. It conquered - the roadways. I am literally dumbfounded by the fact that The Entire City of Dallas has never heard of sand or salt. These two things are mandatory weapons in the crusade against freezing water, yet as I was walking to work I saw only one instance of salt on the sidewalks. I'm SO going to fall outside of the Adam's Mark hotel and sue their ever-loving butts off. (Seeing as how I wrote about it here, I probably won't get a dime. Eh, c'est la vie!)

Also our main offices are closed. (But fret not clients for I am here all day today) Yep, even adults get the occasional snow day. I just hope we don't have to make it up in the summer.

***

Last night I watched The March of the Penguins (I begged and begged for Charlie to see this with me whilst it was playing in IMAX theaters, but as we've seen he can be a meanie.). Y'all, it was the sweetest movie I have ever seen. Morgan Freeman is there to do what he does best - narrate. It tracks the Emperor penguins as they head inland for the winter to get a little freaky-deaky with the opposite sex. They usually have to walk more than 70 miles to get to the exact spot where they mate every year, and by walk I mean that irresistibly cute penguin waddle. After the make the 70 mile journey, they have a little meet and greet, pair off, do the nasty, and hopefully produce a wee tot. And get this, penguins are monogamous – at least for the breeding season – so when they find the one they stick with that penguin. The movie then follows as the adults make trips get food and battle -60 degrees below zero weather (with NO Snow Day). Then the chicks are born. I aaaaaaaawwwwwww'd so many times and at such high pitched frequencies that Lily had to sit on my head to make me stop.

(I should mention here that I have always wanted a penguin for a pet. Along with a pony, dolphin, the monkey from Friends, and a llama.)

There is this one scene in the movie towards the end that made me bawl like a baby. Wha? It's a very emotional time for me, and well penguins are cute. So shut up you emotionally dead robot. So anyway, I cried because here are these little penguins that waddle and waddle back forth day and night for 70 miles all for the love of each other. So who says two advertising love birds can't travel 1000 miles or so to be close to one another?

Just don't think regurgitating meals into my mouth will be considered an acceptable response to a long absence.

Well hello, Jack Frost - nipper of the nose.

Folks, it's getting cold outside which that can mean only one thing: Chuck and I are more than 800 miles apart. If I've said it once, I've said a million times… Good Fucking Times, man. We’re rounding out three years together and this will be our third winter apart. The official start of our relationship is March 10th, and with the exception of that initial March 10th we've always been on opposite ends of the country on the anniversary of that fateful day (and on one occasion a full ocean apart). You read that right folks, we have not been together on our anniversary. EVER.

But I am not bitter. Oh, and just ignore the tears.

If EVER get married you will all be invited to a January wedding.

Audience (and anyone I manage to talk with for more than 15 minutes): OKAY. Enough. We get it. QUIT bringing us down.


Why I love living in Texas during the winter: Sleet Watch '05. There's a small winter storm headed our way. Winter weather means only one thing in Dallas (or the south for that matter) – NATURAL. DISASTER. This natural disaster will be in the form of one POSSIBLY! one and a half inches of snow. People at my work honest to god called in sick to work today for fear of Nature's Wintery Mix. The workplace is all a buzz about how dangerous the bridges are going to be – should they find another way home, oh the humanity of it all. Someone even informed me today that it was BELOW. FREEZING! And they were dead serious with their fear. Our management company closed its doors at three!

Y'all I have spent the past three winter in Minneapolis and Chicago. And?

YOU.

AIN'T.

SEEN.

NOTHING.

The average temperature in Chicago in December was 12 degrees last year. The weather dudes predicted a storm would pass through the city and dump 8 inches of snow, and we were told that it was going to be no big deal the trains just tack snow plows to the front. That storm ended up dumping 12 inches of snow, and I ended up white knuckled in the back of a cab doing 60 miles an hour through snow banks on Lake Shore Drive.

In Minneapolis, I once had to walk to a class mile and a half in -18 degrees.
NEG. A. TIVE. EIGHTEEN.

(And yes it was uphill both ways. Why do you ask?)

So spare me with your stories of Omigod, it got so cold here one time that the water got real hard and stuff.


Am I a hypochrondriac? Because I think I may have this: S.A.D. They detailed the disorder on the Today Show this morning and thought yeah, yeah, that’s totally me. And then I just realized I was just really bored.

Another thing – I am the perfect audience for those segments that start with Not Feeling Well? You could totally have streptamiliocouclincus, which you can only get when the clock strikes 1 am and you're facing north standing in only your underwear. Or maybe it's just your blinds were made in the seventies and therefore could cause your feet to swell to the size of a small country.

I see those segments and think OH. MY. GOD. How did they know?!?

And then I call my mom immediately. Because she was a nurse and knows all about those scary things.