We're moving. Rather, this website is moving.

You can find it at www.culottefolle.com. While I will miss this template that I only had for a brief period of time, I will eventually have a KAW, or a Kick Ass Website. Yay.

You can also email me here: culotte@culottefolle.com

Oh, and in the move, we seem to um, ah, have dented your couch lost the comments on posts from the last month or so. Whoops. That means you'll have to comment extra hard from now on.

I do a lot of "Google Research." Seriously. I do. It's part of what I do for a living. When I'm not making you people laugh, which frankly, pays shit.

Anyway, I was waiting for my carpool buddy to be done with whatever he was doing so we could just go home. Waiting for 40 minutes. So I did a little "Google Research."

I know what you're thinking: "Culotte, you mean you're stalking old boyfriends, right?" NO. NO I AM NOT. It is simply research. "Google Research."

When I was 14, I met this guy over the summer. He was 18, and about to start college. And hot. And a "writer." (How you can be a self-proclaimed writer at age 18, I don't know. But it was hot).

He called frequently. One afternoon, he visited my house. My mother was not home. We made out on my couch. Hot.

About a month into his freshman year, we "broke up."

A year later, I got a call from my sister's best friend Caroline that went to the same school as my "boyfriend." She told me, "I met your old buddy John Doe. He said that he dated someone from the Cape once, but she was an older woman. I said, 'Try me! The Cape is a small world. I might know her.'" He told Caroline my name– and Caroline almost peed herself. "You mean my best friend's little sister? The one who is 4 years younger than you?" Oh, we had a laugh over this story. Boys are dumb, we thought.
Even though he lied to her face, she dated him anyway. Because he is HOT.

Fast forward to my Google Research last night. I discover that not only has he written several plays, but he also wrote an episode of Law & Order SVU. POSSIBLY THE BEST SHOW ON TELEVISION. AND I TONGUE KISSED THE WRITER.

That is all.

Oh, and this is Tyler. He is Kristen's dog, and also an excellent frisbee player. Kristen also has another dog that apparently is very good at making out. I'll let you judge Kristen for that one. But because Kristen is such a loyal reader, I post pictures of her dog on my site.

On Saturday I am going to attend my first wedding as a married woman. Unfortunately, this is my first ocassion to buy a dress in over a year. My first thought was "Whee! I get to buy a dress!" About two weeks ago, I thought "Oopsies, I need to buy a dress soon." And then today, about FIVE days before the wedding, I think, "FUCK. I need a fucking dress. Like nowish." And the dress needs to be perfect, because any tailor would laugh in my face if I brought them a dress 5 days before I needed to wear it. LAUGH IN MY FACE.

So I went to the mall. And this is what happened.

5:25pm: Get off the phone with N. He encourages me to take my time, don't worry about dinner, etc. Grateful, I skip gleefully into Macy's. Bring it on, Macy's. I SO OWN YOU. I am about to fabrimatically bitchslap you. Dressicate all up in this place.

5:40pm: I get into my pattern. My mode. My mojo. See pretty dress. Find size. Throw over shoulder. Repeat.

5:50pm: I stumble into the dressing room. Shove 15 dresses onto a teeny tiny hook.

5:52pm: Rip off old stupid work clothing. Touching. New. Clothes. Old clothes suck.

6:01pm: Think to self, Mmmkay. So you're not the size you thought. Hmm. Also think, Apparently mesh isn't for everyone. That's okay.

6:19pm: Dejectedly put stupid old clothing back on. Return to the floor.

6:21pm: Now we are CAREFULLY inspecting dresses. Looking for an empire waist with an A-line skirt and a thicker strap.

6:27pm: Bring 3 new dresses into dressing room. Experience small tremors through out body. Realize that these are what people call "glimmers of hope."

6:35pm: Dejectedly put stupid old clothing back on. Leave Macy's.

6:40pm: Enter small boutique-ish type store on a different level. Grab 5 dresses. Pointedly ignore the slutty strapless dresses.

6:47pm: Stupid dresses. Spot a navy blue dress with small red and white flowers and red trim. Ugh. Strapless

6:48pm: Look at mannequin. Model wear cardigan with strapless. Oooooh. Ugh ugh! Brain starts churning excitedly. Must. Try. On.

6:53pm: SUCCESS! Victory is mine, bitches!

6:55pm: Cha-ching! $64. This, my friends, is what the French call a motherfucking steal.

7:00pm: Car ride home. Frantically start calling friends to see if anyone has a white cardigan I can borrow, as I am too cheap to buy my own. Shit. I need shoes, too.

7:34pm: Arrive at home. Race into bedroom to try new dress on for husband with appropriate vaccuum-powered (read: they suck you in) undergarments.

7:37pm: Stand in front of mirror. Something is wrong here. A-line? Check. Empire? Check. Red Bow? Check. Pigtails? Nay. Cowboy boots? Nope.

7:38pm: N: "You look like a handkerchief." Shit. He's right.

7:46pm: Cuddle in bed with N & Rufus. Decide to return the dress and buy a skirt and top instead, and make sure that those fuckers match shoes/sweaters I already own. Because dude, this is tiring.

I have to admit, I was tripped up at first by the topic Culotte gave me, “all time favorite product.” I kept reaching into my past for things that had rocked my world like Peppermint Patties or Bedhead Gel or my Gap tapestry backpack. But then I realized, it was right in my hand.

Yes <groan> it’s my iPod. Now, this picture is a re-creation, but this song ("Stinkfist," Tool) did actually pop up on my iPod as I walking to the evening service at my synagogue (that's my prayer book in the supporting role). Seriously. I would have taken the photo right then but it would have made me late. But if you had been a child passing by at hip level, that's what you would have seen in my grip.

Although it was the obvious choice, I wrestled with this in much the same way, I feel certain, as my ancestors writing the Talmud did with, you know, the topics they’d been given. I just didn't want to be conventional, and Jebus, what could be more “I’m so hipster” than choosing the iPod as your favorite product? But I’m not, really, I’m choosing the MP-3 Player! Because before I had this iPod, which as you can see* was handed down to me by my grandfather, I had a Rio 500 and really, that’s what changed my life. The iPod was just an expansion of the earth-shattering-ness.

*Look, it's larger than a Mexican doll and a Mets Suck button. And well, let's not even talk about width.

Let me explain. You see, like you, I had a mix tape for my every mood when I was growing up. The “I’m so sad, Dreamy Boy dumped me” mix (it had a lot of Cure on it). The “Driving really fast” tape (it had a lot of early Soundgarden on it). And, of course, the “Dance around my room” tape (it had a lot of Erasure on it). Now, I can have any of those things whenever I want! Except that I no longer have access to a car so it’s more of a “Get out of my way, I’m walking here” mix.

I think this is one of the reasons I can’t replace my iPod with a newer, better one. Aside from the fact that I have a mortgage, that is. I’m very attached to it. I tend to name my electronics and my iPod is called “The Happy Brick.” Nowadays, iPods are more like “Happy Packs of Chewing Gum.” But mine’s unabashedly old and large. It’s no longer hip to have an iPod from 2002 so I feel I can get away with this oh-so-typical choice. Thanks for indulging me on that. But in case you thought I couldn't get any more predictable, the runner up was my DVR. I guess if they made the Six Million Dollar Man out of a hard drive and media player, I’d marry him, no problem. Of course, these days, he’d be the 43 Trillion Dollar Man. Oh wait, that’s Steve Jobs. Never mind.

I just wanted to take a moment to thank Culotte for giving me the opportunity to blog away from Casa Del J-Ball. And her excellent post on my blog really gave me a lot to live up to. Clearly I haven't, but hey, we can't all be as awesome as Culotte. You're the awesomest, Culotte!

[Ed. Note: Let's thank Becca for being my first ever Guest Blogger! (An excellent one at that. But her self-deprication is cute.) And let's all agree with her, because the MP3 player is almost as awesome as me.]

This morning we went to a featured summer event in Brattleboro, Vermont. It's called The Strolling of the Heifers (I'm not kidding). People bring out their cows and walk them down Main Street. Yeah.

Unfortunately, it was pouring rain. That doesn't deter me! I'm here for the heifers!

Look! Here they are! Strolling! Heifers!

Occasionally there was a disgruntled heifer or two. And a pig. And a dog. And of course, your typical parade fair. But, we were in progressive VT:

There were all sorts of groups. Boys & Girls Club, local schools, retired people. And of course, the Renaissance Fair! (More on this guy later!)

After the fair, we walked down to the commons. I touched a water buffalo! Yeah!

And cute rescue workers eating free ice cream!

And right before we left, who did I spy? The Ren Fair Guy!

Oh my God! This was the highlight of my day!

THE END.

…because I happen to be Guest Blogger.

You should really check out Magic Jewball. J-Ball has all of the wit and wisdom of… a bunch of people that are really smart.

And she's cute. Did you see that childhood photo in the sidebar? Adorable! I want to braid her hair and steal her Barbie corvette.

The blog is witty, people. And she reccomends music. Good music. How many people tell you to listen to a Clash song just 'cause?

Really. Take the J-Ball for a ride. I bet she won't even eat in your car.

Hi, Blog. I'm looking at you a little bit different today. I don't know why. It's like we just made out in an elevator or something, and now we're trying to adjust our clothes really fast before anyone catches on. I can't explain it. Stop winking at me.

Maybe it's because I'm actually allowing people to read you. And link to you. Huh. Imagine that!

I'm also going to allow other people to WRITE on you, blog o' mine. That's correct, you heard it here first: once a month, I will be featuring a guest blogger. I'm so awesome, that I'm already booked until September. If you're interested, please email me, and I will send you a topic and a deadline. Here's the catch: I pick the topic and I'm allowed to have an editor's note. No, I don't trust you. You're right.

If you do not have a blog, you can still be a guest blogger, but you have to include a photo of yourself, so you feel as exposed as the rest of us who splay out our lives on the Internet for the whole world to see.

Here's the summer line-up:

June: Magic Jewball

July: Duchess Jane (The Culotte & N 1st Anniversary Edition) 

August: Tomorrow Is Another Day (Although, she doesn't know it yet because I haven't replied to her email. HA! I'm still working on your topic.)

And because I just figured out how to do this– I present to you, a song for the day (I totally ripped off Becca, maybe she won't notice?):

Lovely Day Bill Withers

My parents were up this weekend. My parents were up this weekend.

For those of you who don't know, my parents "travel" the country in an RV. Their "home base" is at my step-brother's house in North Carolina. Please keep this in mind as you continue to read: I AM NOT CLOSE WITH HIM. He's a nice guy, I'm sure. BUT WE ARE NOT BUDDIES. This backstory is a post for another time.

So yesterday, we went out for breakfast lunch (why the strikethrough? My folks were 2 HOURS LATE), and after, we decided to get a creamie. Unless you are from Vermont or some other backwoods state, you are asking yourself, "What the fuck is a creamie, and why would you eat something with such a pornographic name?" Because that's what hilltown people call "softserve ice cream." On Cape Cod, we called it Par-Tee-Freeze, and it was the bomb.

Anyway, we were sitting on a bench, devouring our creamies. N is complaining because his watermelon flavor burst is not at all watermelon-y. And for some reason we started talking about hepatitis and tattoos. My mother offers this little tidbit: "I'd get a tattoo, if I wasn't so afraid of the pain. A rose on my boob." Thanks, Mom. I will scratch that off of the list of Things I've Always Wanted to Know About You, But Never Asked, Because in Reality I DIDN'T Want to Know That About You. She then explains that my step-brother, because of his work, cannot wear a wedding ring, so he chose to have a wedding ring tattooed. How very Tommy Lee, right?

N, in a brilliant moment of comic genius, with a completely straight face, says, "That's kind of like wearing one of those t-shirts with a tuxedo printed on it, you know? Just makes life easier."

Most of you wanted me to go to the prom. I wanted to go to the prom. 

Apparently, none of the other invited teachers are bringing dates, and therefore, N will not be bringing me as a date. Can we just BLAZE A TRAIL once in a while? Be the first teacher to bring a date? A hot date, no less? Whatever.

So I will be reading at the café tonight. But I'm still not sure what I'll read. It will be a surprise for everyone! (Act surprised!) Wheee. 

I know, I know. You're tired of hearing about my cats. This is the last time, I SWEAR. (Although, we both know that's not true.)

This is Rufus. He's what we like to call an attention whore.

See that? I can freely rub his stomach. He's like a dog. Look at his face, he's totally into it. Claws: retracted. I walked away from this situation unscathed.

I could give you the whole back story on Rufus but frankly, it would take too long. And I don't have that kind of time. What with my new "growing blog" status, radio commentaries, and coffee shop readings, well– would you have the time? (Want my autograph?)I will say this, though: it's a story so full of mystery, intrigue, and fancy feast that it would make Truman Capote roll over in his grave.

Did I also mention that Rufus craves attention? Like right here:

Did I tell you about the whole face petting thing? What about the snaggle tooth?

Ah, yes. There it is. The tooth. You can rub it, he's totally into that. And Wilbur's ass. Of course.

THE END.