Jersey.Girl.Genius

The lambs have most definitely not stopped screaming.

Jodie Jodie Jodie.  I love Jodie Foster.  I always have, always will.  From the moment I saw her in Stealing Home, and the twenty or so times I've watched it since, I knew she was like me.  I have always  known (or, hoped or suspected, rather) that she was gay.  In 1991, I dyed my hair to match Clarice Starling's reddish brown locks, perfected the southern twang, wondered if this meant I could really and truly do anything I wanted to in life. If she could do it, I certainly could. 

My gaydar, along with trusty gay sensors on million of other fans all over the world, have always set off the rainbow buzzer.  Was it the way she dragged that period frock of hers around in Sommersby?  The lingering glances between her and Kelly Mcgillis during her Accused days, or the way that I saw right through to the gay-in-her tay-tay in the wind?  Gay, straight, it had nor has any bearing on her acting chops or her believability as an actress.  I think you're with me when I say "we knew and we don't care." 

Yet her speech at the Globes last night left me wondering just what in the bloody hell was in that bad batch of pâté she was eating at table 114?  This was like a Sarah Palin gone rogue moment, spurred on by too much moet and 2 slices of bitter pie.  Even Mel Gibson looked slack jawed and vacant in the eyes.  Sure, not everyone has had some whack job attempt to assisinate President Reagan in a sick attempt to get you to notice him.  That would make anyone long for the life of a recluse.  I'll give you that one, Jodie.  But the coming out tease (will she, won't she) was just in poor taste, as was the privacy tirade.  There's a time and a place and it wasn't well chosen.  We get it.  You're a reluctant star.  You feel badly for Kristen Stewart, we read the op-ed, and you identify with her exploited, tortured soul.  You resent the attention and the shinging bright light that has been cast upon you, demanding that you reveal more of yourself.  Wave that gay flag, Jodie!  Wave it proud!  Wait a minute.  Is she going to wave it ... seriously, she looks like she's about to wave it.  Oh god, the Publicist is going to lose it.  Are those freedom rings in her left hand?  No.  Wait for it ... Wait for it ... I think I see rainbow stripes peeking out from under the podium .... here it comes .... here it comes! ... And no.  She hates flags and her monther is dying of dementia.  I'm depressed.

As far as award show acceptance speeches go, on a scale of 1 - 10.  1 being classless and tacky and 10 being anything that comes out of Judi Dench's mouth, I give her speech a 5.  It was equal parts honest and confusing.  Equally as off course as it was direct.  Did I drink too much Moet?  This is the speech you didn't hear last night.  And maybe someday, it's the one we will hear.  She has some Oscar gold left in her yet.  That is, if she isn't done with acting entirely. 

Jodie's Speech: Take Deux.

Thank you, Robert.  Thank you so much. (crowd starting to settle)

This is such an incredible honor.  (applause dying out now) I want to sincerely thank the Hollywood Foreign Press Association for this award.  When I first heard that I was going to be this year’s recipient, I thought about what a fearless pioneer Cecil B DeMille was.  And to be thought worthy of this achievement, I am truly humbled to be standing here tonight with all of you.  Looking back at some of those clips, I’m reminded not only of the power of cosmetic dentistry (laughter) but at how many lifelong friends, trusted colleagues and mentors I’ve worked with over the last 47 years.  In 1975, Robert DeNiro taught me about method acting – over lunch, at a deli on 43^rd street, while showing me how to light a cigarette properly.  He taught me that acting wasn’t just about “being natural, being yourself” as I had been taught up to that point.  I learned that I could bring depth, intrigue, mystery and interest to the character I was portraying, and I never forgot the lesson.  I want to thank you for that.  I also want to thank Marty Scorsese, my friend; you’re an incredible human being, and one of the most genuine, gifted directors I’ve ever worked with. I would do it all over again in a heartbeat if you ask me to.    Tony Hopkins, Jonathan Demme, thank you for your kind and generous spirit.  

To all the other actors, directors, producers, crews I’ve had the pleasure of working with all these years, thank you for helping me to enhance my craft, to bring my best to every role, and to challenge myself in ways that I didn’t know possible.  To my children, who are here with me tonight, there is no role that brings me greater joy than being your mother.  I love you with every fragment of my soul.  To my own tireless crew, my publicist, my manager of 30+ years, everyone at table 222, you know I would not be here without you.  I am forever grateful. 

Cecil B DeMille, aside from being a superb actor, was also a master of silent film direction.  I wanted to take a minute to talk about the art of silence.  We live in a world today, which comes as no surprise to many of you, where our every move is documented.  Where our love lives and loves lost are tabloid fodder, our failures, our fashion faux pas, more so than our greatest achievements, fuel a seemingly insatiable craving of the masses.  I know that I cannot change this and I don’t set out to.   I unfortunately I know all too well that there are some people who are willing to go to any length to get your attention.  Despite the odds, I have always strived to live a very private life, to keep what’s most important to me close to my chest.  To fight and claw to protect what is sacred and cherish that there are some aspects of your life that no one is entitled a window into.  This silence is not to be mistaken for shame or for hiding.  I have always been proud of who I am.  Yet if by my declaring to a global television audience of millions that I’ve been out of the closet as a proud lesbian woman for more than 25 years helps a young girl or boy struggling with their identity, then this is my true lifetime achievement reward. 

On that note, thank you Cydney Bernard, for being my brave co-parent, ex-partner in love yet my true, lifelong friend.  To my mom who may not have understood much of this tonight, I love you, I love you, I love you.  You are a wonderful mother, and I hope you know this and trust this and take this love with you when you are finally ready to let go. 

Shit (some) Lesbians Say

I am absolutely loving all of the shit girls say videos by Kyle Humphrey & Graydon Sheppard.  Genius! They inspired me to create my own shit list.  Happy 2012 everyone!

Shit (some) Lesbians Say

1. I’m just glad we had the wet/dry vac
2. Sarah Paulson is on American Horror Story?  Is she still with Cherry Jones?
3. They helped us build our fence, so we watch their three-legged pit bull and their blind chameleon sometimes
4. No … Not that Amy, softball Amy.
5. I heard she was all “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” but it was the way she carried herself in that dress she wore in Sommersby that told.
6. What are you talking about? Kristen Stewart is totally gay.  Uh, did you see her in Panic Room?
7. If Rosie O’Donnell can meet her wife at a Starbucks, I can meet someone skeet shooting
8. I kind of want to spoon Supernanny, but only when she changes into the Jack Purcells and the capris.
9. She’s working on a grant application for the nonprofit tomorrow and I need to clean the carburetors on my bike before I store it.
10. What the hell ever happened to Kristy McNichol?
11. I love Ellen … Portia is still way too skinny.
12. Can I have an MGD, please?  Ok, then do you have Miller High Life?
13. I couldn’t give a rat’s ass about what happened to Jenny Schecter.  The L Word was bullshit.  People tell me I look like Shane all the time.
14. I only have herbal teas, unless you want to try some Yerba Matte I brought back from my volunteer vacation in Ecuador?
15. She's working part time at Home Depot just to get a discount on a tile saw
16. Do you have to pay for drinks on an Olivia Cruise?
17. My cat's name is Agent Starling.  I rescued him from a shelter near Quantico.
18. Can I borrow your drain snake?
19. I'd make out with Frances McDormand in Laurel Canyon
20. Do you think they sell Keens in P-Town?

When Kate Gosselin Dances, Baby Jesus Cries

Ginny's predictions for this season's DWTS winner below.  She was 100% accurate on her Oscar predictions, so I tend to trust her expertise on this one.  What do you think? Do you agree with The Ginbomb?  Does Evan (the mongoose) Lysachek lack chemistry with his "female" and use too much hair gel?  Do tell.  We want to hear from you!

Mom on DWTS Winner                         

Those Teabaggers Have Balls

Ginny's fired up about Health Care ... and thinks those Teabaggers are taking things too far!  Who will put an end to all of this balls out blasphemy, I wonder? I'm simultaneously shocked, cringing and yet - proud - that I have a mother who knows the true meaning of teabagging.  How many people can say that?  Let's see ... there's Ginny, Margaret Cho's mother .... that about sums it up.  Teabagging has nothing to do with making home made Lipton iced-tea on a sweltering Jersey summer day, or taping bags to your temples, like the fine gentleman in the photo below is demonstrating.  Teabagging is something that Kathy Griffin must reference on The D List once an episode.  Sheesh, even Maggie Griffin must know what teabagging is, which now raises the teabagging know-how tally to three moms out of thousands.  They should start a club.  This discovery is slightly less awkward than the time I realized what the "massager" under the bathroom sink was really for.  So that's something.

The fact that my mom gets her sexual Wiki knowledge from Howard Stern makes things even better.  She didn't run a porn video store in SF, catering to the gays, she just turned on Sirius radio and let Robin, Howard and Stuttering John into her Toyota Corolla.  Then again, we did grow up with a copy of The National Enquirer on the kitchen table, which was considered news.  I thought "Baby Born With Alien Head" was worthy of show & tell, until I was 7.  May we all be as lucky, to have a mom like the Ginbomb.  Her message rant about the Teabaggers can be heard below.

Mom Hates Teabaggers

Gays, Proms and Tuxes, Oh My!

Zach Posen has a new line for Target that he claims is inspired by Lesbian Proms.

Looks like he was more inspired by waifish heterosexual pigeon-toed models who need Forrest Gump leg braces and a few buckets of KFC.  How can she dance on an empty stomach ... and with those broken ankles to boot?  Had I worn the Posen pumps to my own Jersey prom, they would have wound up in the Hudson river, immediately following the slow dance to "Wonderful Tonight" on board the Spirit of New York.  Having said that, if I had seen a gay girl rock this amazing tux at my prom, I would have come out of the closet a few years early.  Well done, Posen.  But I think the majority of 18 year old lesbians may be more comfortable going to prom like this. 

There's been a lot of media attention around two high school lesbians, a tuxedo and the state of Mississippi.  Constance McMillen, otherwise known as Lil'Gay, was banned from taking her GF to the prom, which had been set for April 2, 2010.  Not only did school officials bar her from taking a member of the same sex,  they also objected to the notion of her wearing a tux.  Had a straight girl chosen to wear one of Posen's outfits, accompanied by her meathead, there likely wouldn't have been an uproar.  The tux is taking an awful lot of flack these days.  What's so threatening about tails and a top hat?  Personally, I prefer the Don Draper suit.  But the tux is timeless, classic dapper.

Constance soon found the ACLU and Roger Ebert (huh? the movie guy?) who have since sued the district.  In response, the school decided to cancel the prom all-together.  As if this kid's high school experience wasn't horrific enough, now she has the hatred of the entire student body to contend with, for "ruining their prom."  A facebook page has been started, presumably by the ACLU, calling for support of Constance and her quest to get drunk, have sex, throw up in the parking lot and generally do regrettable things at her prom, just like everyone else.  Please help her in her plight by showing your support as a fan. 

Ellen DeGeneres, friend to the gays and wife of a former Australian, will have Constance on her show on April 19.  I'm guessing Ellen may surprise Constance with a Zach Posen outfit, some post-prom treats, a free prom performance by Melissa Etheridge or perhaps an Olivia Cruise.  Nothing says gay prom like Olivia.  Perez Hilton also invited Constance out to California.  What for, I'm not quite sure.  But I digress.

Another Mississippi gay has been discriminated against, this time, for wanting to appear in the yearbook dressed in a tuxedo. 

The moral of the story here is obvious.  Don't live in Mississippi if you're gay.  They don't like you.  They don't want you going to prom - and god forbid - you request to wear a tux while attending.  This one is so ridiculous, it's really difficult to understand the thinking behind the most recent "banning."  If Ceara Sturgis wants to wear a tux in her senior picture, let the girl wear a tux.  She should have the same exact experience as everyone else.  Which will involve deep regret in 20 years for having opted for the Chad Rogers, from Bravo's Million Dollar Listing.  Give em' hell, Ceara!

Carillo Goes Rogue

Oh Mary. 

Last I laid eyes on you, you were asking the Chinese to "show you their beavers" when covering Three Gorges Dam in Beijing.  And now, with the Olympics in Vancouver coming to a close, you're off playing Mountie, pretending you've never used handcuffs before, while dressed like Yosemite Sam.  I'm on to you, Carillo.  Your comfortable shoes, pants suits and blown out man-bob don't fool me. Is it me, or is Mary starting to look more and more like Bruce Jenner.  Or is it the other way around?  In my search for photographic evidence of Mary's Man-Bob (Mob) doppelganger, I came across a brilliant site called Men who look like old lesbians.  It's a must see.  Just make sure you're not drinking anything, as the choking on liquid while snorting factor is a 9.5

The NBC producers have a wicked sense of humor.  Last week, you slapped on a hard hat, shined up your Adam's Apple, donned your best plaid and stepped into the shoes of Canadian loggers.  Gosh that was thrilling.  What will they think of next?  Check out Mary's Mountie training at the link below. 

CARILLO GOES ROGUE

The Vagina Monologues

Twilight twink Robert Pattinson felt compelled to over-share in his Details magazine cover-article this week, stating that he's "allergic to vaginas" and that he "really hates vaginas."  He also said that his deepest emotional relationship is with his dog.  Wow.  And I thought my peanut allergy was debilitating ...

New Moon grossed $294 million at the box office this year.  $293 million of which came from vaginas of all ages who camped out overnight to see the film's Vitamin D-deprived star.  Now kids, I'm not an allergy expert, but I do think Pattinson should try acupuncture.  STAT.  It might help him build up resistance and avoid breaking out in hives, especially on those long press tours, when he's surrounded by multi-national vaginas at every turn.  Better yet, he should ask Kristen Stewart how she manages to keep her penis allergy so hush hush.  Look, I saw Panic Room.  And I know a future gay when I see one ... Had to snicker when I saw Joan Jett talking about how much she and Stewart have in common while at Sundance last month.  Let's see .... they both like: wearing high-top Chucks, black hoodies, black jackets, black eye makeup, smoking cigarettes, skinny jeans.  Oh yes, and both are huge fans of vagina.  I'd venture to say they even heart vaginas.

On the other end of the spectrum this past week, we have the Dalai Lama of vagina worship.  John "D Bag" Mayer and his now infamous Rolling Stone and Playboy magazine confessions.  What did Mayer do, I wonder, to recover so quickly from his exposure to "Agent V" or, as he puts it, Jessica Simpson's sexual napalm? Mayer, you're a tool.  After what many consider to be a baffling "over-exposure" to A-List vagina, I'm guessing he must now carry an Epi Pen to avoid adverse reactions. His penis is a wonderland for gonorrhea.  Just wish he'd shut his damn pie-hole.  Give me those promise ring posers the Jonas Brothers any day, over the vaginaphobic vamp and the douchey manwhore.  I'm allergic to the tasteless over-share.  Best pop a Benadryl.

Why Old People Love Donny Osmond, Slankets & Other Mysteries

Donny Osmond and the elderly go together like summer sausage & cheese.  Like hair plugs and Elton John.  Like a bottle of Benefiber and a bottle of prune juice.  Maybe he reminds our seniors of a more fragile time - a less hectic, no hullabaloo geriatric time - when the variety show was king.  Flashback 1977.  Corporate America was smoking and drinking in the office and smacking its secretaries on the ass.  Studio 54 made hedonism a household word, Donna Summer was moaning her way to disco super-stardom and Donny Osmond was playing with skunks. That's right.  Skunks.  What else do Mormons do when called upon to entertain?  Aside from charm us with their recollection of biblical phrases and god's hatred of gays, that is. 

Long before the birth of the PETA movement and the invention of the opening monologue, there was this cornholio form of entertainment:

Just what is it about this guy that captivates the semi-senile?  His stellar jitterbug dance moves?  His full head of hair?  His ability to take a pie in the face?  No, I say.  Hogwash.  Truth be told, I think it's all about the coat.  You know ... the coat o' many colors, the technicolor dreamboat's dreamcoat.  Old people are frequently cold.  With poor circulation and chilly feet, the technicolor dreamcoat is an old lady's anodyne.  The elderly equate Donny with warmth, I say ... like a cup of earl gray tea on a cold winter's night.  And just as they respect his appreciation for fine fabrics and volumizing hair product, they all secretly long to purchase some version of the coat on QVC.  If only I had a technicolor slanket for sale, I'd be a gazillionairess.

Toupee Spoiler Alert!

That's right, I can sniff them out and spot them from ten yards away.  No one is safe.  Want to know if someone's had "work" or is sporting a new nose?  You've come to the right place.

Dancing With The Stars is on as I type and a new toup has just come into view.  Hello, Dolly!

Meet Jonathan Roberts.  Jonathan is the 2008 "Smooth" Dance Champion and holds several impressive Latin dance titles.  He's also sporting one of the worst toups on primetime.  ABC, how can you let this happen?  His rug scores a -1 in my book.  Here's how you can spot a fake and endlessly impress loved ones with your toup-a-rific expertise:

1.  The crown doesn't match the coiffe. 
Look for discoloration between crown and top of head or an "unnatural" blending of layers

2.  Wigs don't move.  Ever.
This guy spins and flips all over the place and the sturdy toup doesn't budge.  Not even a sweaty breeze or faux-hand-through-hair move can make a single follicle blow in the wind.

3.  The Caesar cut is out.
I highly doubt Jonathan would willingly opt for this do.  I didn't even accept that it was ever "in" - but I do recall a few of these hair dont's floating around in the 90's. 

*Disclaimer on the Caesar*

Apparently the Caesar cut is kinda/sorta ok if you are a hot runway model walking for Versace at Fashion Week.

4.  A faux hair gap is present. I call this a "hair balcony."

If you look closely (put the Tivo on pause and stare at Jonathan's head during judging) then you'll notice that the front of his faux hair fringe isn't touching the top of his head.  It juts out, leaving a noticeable toup gap between faux wig and tippy top of forehead.  Another known offender sporting a hair balcony would be Clinton Kelly from What Not To Wear.  A bit harder to detect due to the fact that he often chooses to style his wig into a faggy faux hawk, you'll have to trust me on this one.   I know something Clinton shouldn't wear ... and it's not in his closet.

Bald is beautiful.  Embrace that shiny head, lads.  Free your wig and the bliss will follow.

Lohan Confirms: She Digs Skeletor

The Belfast Telegraph went out on a limb today and announced that Lindsay Lohan confirmed she was a lesbian. On the heels of Gaiken's announcement yesterday, it would appear as if everything's coming up rainbows.

Not so fast,Telegraph.

Here we see a feeble Samantha Ronson trying to catch up with Lohan on set. She looks like she's got the scurvy, lads.

Last time I checked, an innocent Ronson romp does not a lesbo make. I once swore off eating meat for an entire week - that doesn't make me a vegetarian. It's not that I don't want to make room for her in the parade, it's just that I don't really buy the whole lesbo-transformation is all. I should consult with Betty Ford to see if Skeletor Woship is part of Step Eleven. Whatever keeps her off the smack is fine in my book.

You can listen to Lohan's non-confession and decide for yourself, by playing the Loveline clip below.

According to Lohan, she's been with Ronson a really long time. Maybe celebrity hook-ups are calculated in dog years now? That would mean that her 6 months with Skeletor on Snake Mountain is really the equivalent of 6 years and 3 months. Now that's a long time.

I think Lohan might be a Celesbian. She might even be a more frightening subset of the Celesbian: The Hechebian. One day she's with Bozo Skinny Jeans, the next, she's on a bender in the desert, looking for her spaceship Andromeda. Not long after that, she's hooking up with the Dolly Grip and naming her baby Cricket Banjo Lohan. I smell a new E True Hollywood Story. Oh happy day.

Gaiken Like Me

BREAKING NEWS from the crew here at Jersey.Girl.Genius.

In a stunning turn of events, singer and American Idol fan favorite Clay Aiken has just come out of the closet. Quoted in my favorite crack mag People, Gaiken stated that he expects the news may overwhelm some of his fans.

Overwhelm? Perhaps. If you were raised by wolves and like to tay in da win. Or, if you live in Elmore City, Oklahoma, your daddy's a preacher man and the town has just banned dancing and rock music.

I was shocked to learn that he's a Born Again Christian, however. Isn't he breaking a thousand evangelical laws like thou shalt not use hair extensions and thou shalt not perform musical theater? Not to mention the dreaded thou shalt not aspire to look like chastity bono and/or Entertainment Tonight's Cojo. I think it's time to play a little game that I call: Spot The Real Gaiken

Is it exhibit A:

Exhibit B:

Exhibit C:

Exhibit D:

Exhibit E:

I'll select one winner at random, who will receive a $50 gift certificate to International Male. Be sure to include your pick in the comments section.

Joe and The Working Girl

After a long, long day, I finally shut off the computer and took in tonight's episode of Project Runway. The season 5 designers were asked to create a new look for women just entering the work force. Some of the designers were just a tad confused as to which work force they were getting these ladies all dolled up for.

Banker, Lawyer, Graphic Designer - a job's a job.

Oh really? The last time I was in an office with graphic designers, I didn't spy any Marshall's looking pinstripes. I did spy a lot of Stan Smiths, I'm a creative person eyewear and nicely weathered cardigans with just the slightest bit of pill. Bankers, at least the ones that I see when I stroll up to US Bank, would look very out of place with a MacBook and the latest issue of Metropolis.

Suede the Skittle Dipped Leprechaun referred to himself in the third person only three times, while Kenley found giddy solace in a miniature version of her overly cocky, vintage self. I used to like Kenley. I think I'd like her more if she were sent for some speech therapy and emerged sounding less like a k'fetching yenta who smokes filterless camels, lives by the sea in Boca and mows down pedestrians at street festivals in her Lark mobile.

Please note. If you've TIVO'd tonight's episode and haven't yet realized who got the AUF, you might want to stop here or risk spoiling some of the best, bitchy judging of the entire season. Some highlights:

Nina Garcia was left speechless by Suede's hot tranny pirate sleeve mess. She mentioned having many issues with the outfit. I believe I heard "tip" and "iceberg" and then her refusal to waste another breath on the matter.

Korto wasn't smiling. But she did whip out one sassy looking burlap jacket.

Michael Kors thought Joe's pinstriped suit cliche looked very Working Girl, ala 1988. Those shoulder pads didn't work for Melanie either. Let the river run, I say.

Jerrell was wearing his Puck garnish once again during the runway show. He looked like he was abducted by Peter Pan's gay twin and then turned into Sprout on the flight home.

In what should really have been a double elimination, Suede was spared. Joe, the lone heterosexual mullet, was sent to pack up his sewing machine and say adios to the Blue Fly accessory wall. There were considerable taste issues with Joe from the get go. But just as every episode of The Real World has a formula ...

One gay and or asian
Bigoted white guy from small southern town with bad teeth and hair who voted for Bush
Brothers or BFFs from Boston with wicked bad accents
Mormom girl, engaged to high school sweetheart
Alcoholic
Ivy league Abercrombie Hot guy
Clueless, big breasted girl next door with boyfriend (that she will invite to the house, cheat on, cry to and then beg for forgiveness)

I believe Project Runway's formula called for one jersey looking heterosexual male this season. It's the only logical reason why producers would keep Mr. Faris around as long as they did. Maybe they had a hetero quota to meet? Perhaps they were fearing the faggy wrath and thought they'd toss us a testosterone filled bone? I have to say, Joe's bone was more reminiscent of Lane Bryant women on a bender than anything else. The producers were not doing us any favors by keeping him around. I hope he returns with much less hair for the reunion special.

Auf Wiedersehen, Joe.

Pound Sand

Looks like Misty May-Treanor and Kerri Walsh have been making the talk show rounds as of late. I spotted them on Letterman and again on Ellen via Tivo, my reliable old friend. On the off-chance that you do not own a television and were not held captive by eight hours of Olympic coverage per day last month, Misty May and Kerri Walsh are beach volleyball players.

My interest in watching beach volleyball ranks somewhere between making a godseye and getting a bikini wax. I'm not overly enthusiastic about it. These two wedgies, however; are complete lunatics about their sport. From what I can gather, neither is the sharpest tool in the shed either.

Often spotted around Beijing wearing "crazy" wigs, sunglasses and drinking beer from an old school helmet, tailgate style, I wondered if their insanity stemmed from the fact that they were simply wasted? Not so. After their gold winning match, sly commentators gave us a glimpse into their diminished mental capacity.

Commentator: Congratulations you two! You've just won Olympic gold again. The first women's team to repeat in back to back Olympics. How do you feel? Can you put it into words?

MM & KW: We have to thank Mr. Bush. Without you, none of this would be possible. We love you Mr. President!

That's right. The tools thanked George W. Bush. They squealed that if it weren't for him, none of their success would be possible. Now just how in the bloody hell did GWB turn these women into Olympic gold medalists?

By critiquing their form and giving them gentle, non-lecherous pats on the bottom of course. It's a damn good thing he was there - all 14 days - or Misty might have suffered from the dreaded burnt ass cheek syndrome, effecting one in five pro volleyball players. All hail the monkey.

Cro-Magnon In A Michael Kors Mule

Lesbians need their own clothing line.

I’m not referring to the boys section at Hollister or Abercrombie & Fitch. Some cross between an Ellen Degeneres suit & sneaker line meets beachy business casual would be nice. Have you been shopping for women’s clothing lately? It’s a ridiculous femme explosion out there. I honestly don’t know how many of us manage to clothe ourselves at all.

Went shoe shopping with Y last night because she needed some new kicks for work. Ventured on out to the mall. THE mall. The one with the full-scale roller coaster and amusement park in the middle. We did some serious browsing at Nordstrom, DSW, Steve Madden and a handful of others with spotty results, even for someone who doesn’t cringe at the thought of a three-inch heel. Unlike Y, I was completely out of my element. I felt a bit like Encino Man. Someone had unearthed me after thousands of years in my frozen cube and dropped me off in the women’s shoe department at Nordstrom. I was sheepishly picking things up that resembled stilts, grunting unintelligible things about sling backs and buckles. I'd show them to Y in the same way that my mom would point out clothes she liked when I was little:

Honey, this looks nice. What about these? They don’t have that weird heel you don’t like, right?

As much as my mom tried, she never really got it right. To this day, she still thinks I might need another paisley sweater vest or some pleated slacks from Anne Taylor, circa 1992. This is another unfortunate side effect of her second-hand shopping habit.

Look, if you don’t like it, donate it. What do I care? It was $2 at Red, White and Blue.

I was my mom last night. As much as I tried to look for the right height, the right heel, the right color, the right toe, I was miles away from shoe sleuthing success. I was thousands of years away, to be exact.

What would I do if I were forced to wear some of the more tragic shoes in the store for an entire day? How would I cope? More importantly, how would I walk? This became a new, fascinating game. I made Y take pictures with my crackberry. Would I wear the naughty secretary?
Or the furry Michael Kors, puff-pilgrim booty shoe? Tough times for Jersey in girlie shoe land. Currently thanking my lucky stars that I wasn't the one searching for a new pair.

Your Homo Away From Homo

I received a very special email offer the other day from Olivia, pioneers in lesbo travel. Well known for their women only cruises and midnight buffets, this e-blast wasn't pimping out drunken karaoke, hoops with Swoopes or tennis with Martina. Olivia was inviting me to pack it up and move on out ... to Tucson, Arizona!

Olivia's prez, Judy Dlugacz, recently announced plans to offer up townhouses in a brand spankin' new lesbian intentional community. The website talks about "putting the LIVE in Olivia." And by LIVE, I think she means building you your very own dog park.

"Amenities in our gated community are abundant so when it’s time to relax, enjoy two resort-style heated pools and spa with fountains, and sunning decks, well-equipped fitness center, multiple barbeque pavilions and a lavish clubhouse. The community will be enhanced with additional improvements including a dog park, a fitness course, a volleyball pit. Local community public parks, expansive gyms, a golf course, museums and art galleries, protected parks and wilderness hiking are all nearby. Tucson has bike lanes and trails throughout much of the city and skiing is available within a half an hour’s drive, during the right time of year!"

While I have no desire to live in Tucson, the thought of living in a gated lesbian community got the wheels turning. Namely, what would the interrogation be like at the security gate?

Security Guard: Hello there, ma'am. We only allow lesbians in these gates, so you'll have to answer the following questions before we allow you passage into Bush Gardens.

Anonymous gay in a Subaru: OK, no problem. But make it quick, me and my friends here are visiting Amy and Jessica Helsey-Hoff in unit 419. We're helping them build a new fence so that their Guatemalan baby can run around in the yard without getting hit by golf balls. The woman driving the cement mixer behind us is with us too ...

Security Guard: What actress hasbian appeared as "Buddy" on Family and as Barbara on Empty Nest?

There would undoubtedly be perks living alongside 75 other gays. Association fees? Zilch. With 10 pipe fitters, 3 plumbers, 15 carpenters, 6 landscape architects, 2 electricians, 3 nurses, 4 doulas, 8 midwives and 1 resident who specializes in drywall, the need to hire out for special projects -or- gayby home births would be few and far between.

Speaking as a condo owner myself, I'd love it if there were just a few more gays around to pick up some of the communal slack. Y and I have become the "go to" unit when anything catastrophic happens that needs tending to. Internet is down, heat goes out, it's the gays who make the call. What's that I smell? Dead squirrel in the basement? Let the gays handle it. Snow removal wack job gets in a "turn off your damn blower" cafuffle with our neighbor in the middle of the night? Gays again. OK, it's true. We're well connected. Gays tend to have friends with circular saws and always know someone with a truck. We also tend to walk around with a gay version ofAngie's List in our heads. We do come in handy. Which is what makes the Olivia offer so ... intriguing.

Wonder if they'll offer communal Keens and a lifetime supply of Kashi with ownership?