The offender: Carrie Underwood

The item(s) in question: Everything but the shoes, during her performance at the CMA Music Awards.

My thoughts: When someone tells you that sequined granny panties are a good idea (worn underneath your clothes or as part of your outfit), they are lying to you. I think your stylist was having a Sex and the City moment, but you, Carrie Underwood, are no Carrie Bradshaw. I still think you’re stunningly beautiful and talented, though, so don’t get your granny panties in a wad.

The solution: Know your audience. The CMAs are not the VMAs, dear.

Side note: The dresses Ms. Underwood donned during the show were uber fabulous, but I couldn’t let this little number slide.

For a few weeks now, I’ve been a little uneasy when it is time for me to go to sleep. Even with the Fort Knox type security system and a dog, I’m still a chicken. So, last night, before I went to bed, I was thankful for the rain. Rain is a wonderful sleep aid. Until that rain becomes a thunderstorm, and that storm wreaks havoc on your peaceful sleep.

2:46am. I woke up to the sound of my security system going off. I spring up, look at my alarm clock to see what time it is, grab my phone (for when the security system people call to see if I’m ok and I can yell, “NO!”) and turn on the lamp. Only the lamp doesn’t turn on. Blown bulb? I scurry over to my overhead light. Nothing. I turn around to look at my clock again. Blank. Oh hell.

For a moment there I was convinced that this was my Ashley Judd moment in Kiss the Girls (you know, when he cuts the power to her house while she’s asleep, and she runs down the stairs into her fish tank and he kidnaps her). To make matters worse, my phone didn’t ring. This was my thought process: Gulp, what happens if the power was cut while my alarm was going off? Is this why they aren’t calling me? What am I going to do? I’m stuck in my room, in the pitch black darkness, with nothing but my cell phone and my dog. Breathe, think, breathe. I know! I’ll call Ben. Sure, he lives an hour away, but he’ll know what to do!

That my friends, was a correct assumption. Sweet Ben (who gets mad, mad props for even answering his phone at 3:00am) suggested that I look out my window at the street lights, which were dark. Power outage, not power cut-age. Whew!

I still called my security system peeps to ask them what was up with my alarm sounding and them not calling. It had not sounded according to their computer, and my girl Darlene assured me that I was still being monitored because my system is a) wireless and b) has a battery backup.

Nevertheless, I’ve decided I’m arming myself. I know, I know, it goes against my mainly democratic belief system, but my dog and my cell phone aren’t going to cut it if this happens again.

Who, me? Bahahaha, folks, that is hi-lar-i-ous.

My friend Meigs and her beau, Troy, got engaged on Sunday. I couldn’t be happier for these two lovebirds. Being around them can be pretty tough to take for a romantic atheist like myself, but they are two of my favorite people, so I try and stomach it.

Congratulations, guys! And, might I suggest a wedding in Mexico. Or the Bahamas. (I’m certain Meigs’ mom is less than amused right now.)

If you’ve read my blog for an extended period of time, you’ll remember the unfortunate “goth hair dye” incident in February. Well, folks, the goth hair is back.

Different stylist. Same request: Chocolate brown hair color. Same result: Black hair.

Which brings me to this question…is it them or is it me? Twice in one year makes me wonder.

Makes you wonder what that guy did…

Dear Kate Gosselin,
You, my friend, have forced me to write this letter. I didn’t want it to come to this, but your constant crying and whining all over my television screen has left me no choice.

I don’t know any other way to say this other than to say it, so here goes: I. Don’t. Buy. It. You want us to see this “new” Kate and think that you’ve changed. That the screaming, degrading and demanding days are over. Sorry, Katie, no can do. This new Kate is nothing but an act. A ploy to get America to take your side. Newsflash: As much as we dislike you, we dislike Jon even more. Nothing annoys us more than a walking mid-midlife crisis, complete with Ed Hardy t-shirts, bad hair plugs and earrings. Not even you, Kate.

So, do us all a favor and drop the act. We miss the old Kate. The one we couldn’t stop watching and judging. And, for the love of God, stop telling us you’re broke and that you hate the paparazzi. We’re too smart for your reverse psychology, ’round here. You’re broke = you asking people to buy your books/watch your show. You hate the paparazzi = you fueling the paparazzi so they’ll take more photos of you/make you more famous so that you’ll sell more books and gain more viewers.

One last thing, and really, it’s a simple (but forceful) request. Get yourself a different hairstyle. It’s beginning to catch on, and I’m frightened.
Love,
M

Poor November. As I drove to work today, I saw Christmas decorations being put up by city workers downtown. Excuse me, but isn’t it a bit early for all that? If I were November, I’d be pretty ticked off.

It’s National Alzheimer’s Disease Awareness Month, and especially since my grandmother suffers from this disease, I’m asking you to join the cause – so we can create a world without Alzheimer’s.

November is also the month of Thanksgiving, of course, so I’m writing down one thing I am thankful for every day. I know, right? How very Oprah Winfrey of me. I’ll post my list on Thanksgiving day. Not because I think you care, but because it will make me do it.

I’m not all that creative today, so lucky for you, my friend Kristin sent me this link to “Awesomely Bad Engagement Photos.”

You’re welcome.

Age. It’s only a number, right? Wrong.

As someone who is clinging on to 29 by her fingernails, I can tell you that the number matters. I used to think 30 was old…and now, well, I changed my mind. It’s not “old” – it’s older. Than 21. Than 23. Than 25. And thankgoodness for that. I don’t know about you, but I wouldn’t go back to my early to mid-twenties even if I could. I was self-absorbed (yes, even more than I currently am) and self-conscious. I drank too much (you didn’t read that, mom). I was reckless and judgmental. I thought I knew it all.

Boy was I wrong. But, hey, that’s what your twenties are for. They’re for finding out what you want to be, who you want to be and where you want to go. By the end of them, like magic, you’ve figured a lot of stuff out. Not everything, mind you, just a few things. You also realize that all of a sudden, you’ve matured. Against your will, mostly, but matured nonetheless. How? For example, now I rarely see 11:30pm during the work week. I used to watch David Letterman every night. Now, I save money for “house” or “car” emergencies. I used to shop for clothes. A lot.

My latest theory is that your twenties are made up of categories. They are: 20-23, 24-26, 27-29. As long as you “hang out” with the people in your category, you don’t see much difference in the numbers. But, if you start hanging around people below the age category you’re in, and you are bound to experience The Age Gap.

The Age Gap occurs when you’re talking about something and someone younger than you doesn’t “get it.” (Otherwise known as an uncomfortable reminder that you’re the old one.) This weekend, for example, I was around some wonderful younger ladies who were discussing boy bands. I, naturally, talked about the two New Kids On The Block concerts I attended in elementary school. Them? Well, they talked about seeing the BackStreet Boys and 98 Degrees. Yikes – I was in college then. I recalled sneaking in my room (because my dad didn’t approve) and watching the original 90210 episodes. Them? They had only seen the re-runs on FX. That, my friends, is The Age Gap.

I decided I’ll be hanging out with older people this weekend. Like at a nursing home or something.