I’m measuring my life in fainting spells.

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Like any good alt-Victorian lady, I’m prone to fainting spells, fond of hats, hysterics and cumbersome clothing.

I like to think of these fainting episodes as a true mark of my neuroses. Trails of my faints weave throughout my life and color memories of doctor’s offices, tattoo parlors & rock shows.

I can’t be sure when it began, but I do recall an unfortunate slip of a stapler in 4th grade that produced a bloody finger, panic and my 1st school faint.

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Do yourself a favor, don’t ever watch this movie.

I went on to faint TWICE during a teacher’s attempt at teaching high school psychology by showing the 3 1/4-hour mediocre miniseries, Sybil, in class. Creepy Sybil crashed her hand through a window and, much like my brother’s same exact faint 2 years before, I crashed out of my lab chair and forever cemented myself in my classmates’ freaked-out minds. In the ensuing chaos, the teacher failed to turn the movie off and guess what? I came to… just to collapse again.

I will never be able to look at Sally Fields without getting swoony.

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Like a Victorian woman, I’m prone to fanciness & fainting.

Like everything else, the faints of my young adult years morphed into a more disturbing condition and at a higher rate of consistency. Damn, I was passing out left and right. When I couldn’t take the heat, literally and figuratively, I would collapse into unconsciousness for a minute or two.

True to my alternative roots, I longed for piercings and tattoos. Three piercings & fainting spells later, I was looking pretty cool…and wimpy. I fainted with each new hole in my body. But, I REALLY wanted that nose ring, so I went for it.

That’s some twisted braveness.

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My fainting was at an all-time high. Can’t explain the dolls hanging from nooses made of tulle.

The tattoos were another episode.  At 16, I gifted my already-tattooed super-cool high school flame with a gift certificate to a tattoo shop. My ride to purchase it? Um, my mom. Later, 3 of my friends & I embarked on an ill-advised pilgrimage to get the same tattoo. I fainted and caused a scene, we were obviously underage and the “fainting girl” is always a party-pooper.

Even writing about fainting makes me want to faint.

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a 1744 oil painting by Pietro Longhi called Fainting

Another legendary faint happened during a party I was hosting on a college break.  This party was a little different from the nightly parties I threw while my mother spent weekends in another state, this party attracted the loveliest girl from high school. She showed up and she fainted! Just from witnessing her faint, I fainted. I came to by myself, alone, slumped against my refrigerator while the whole party fawned over my co-fainter. I got it, I was old news in the fainting circles.

Dual fainting girls really brings down a party, I assure you.

I went on to have 3 children naturally. As you can imagine, it wasn’t because of a dislike for painkillers, it was because I fainted even thinking of that needle. As luck would have it, I fainted in my sister’s delivery room while she was receiving her IV. I woke up and was immediately moved from the premises.

I fainted last weekend from intense pain in my lower back and it’d been a few years since I’d done so. It’s terrifying and funny, and it feels close to death. You’re in there somewhere, but everything is muffled. I only realize I’ve fainted because I remember the familiar fog and the panicked voices coming in and out, “wake up, wake up!”

Gotta go, I’m feeling a little woozy. Till next faint.

 

 

Millennials Killed Feminism & Gen Xers can’t even make it to the funeral.

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I thought I had the best idea for a funny blog and plan on going ahead with it, but first, I must acknowledge that it’s been the most disgusting week , even worse than when poor Barb was found decomposing in the upside down world on Netflix’s Stranger Things.

I promised myself not to get too political on social media or at parties, but the Donald Trump “grab them by the pussy” story has got to be a new low, even for a man that bastes himself with tanning oil, chauvinism, Viagra and bad fashion.

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Oh Trumpy, do you kiss your mail-order bride with that mouth?

First, don’t get it twisted- I’m not even a huge Hillary Clinton supporter,  I am a true Gen Xer so I don’t really like anything, other than Courtney Love. And gin. And Jared Leto circa My So Called Life time.

But now that this sniffling, orange statement of tackiness, ineptitude and victimization took a dump on our political stage, I love Hillary about as much as I loved getting wasted at every Lollapolooza. Yeah, I’m that serious.

If I can find ANYTHING amusing about Trump’s recent leaked tape, it’s that he refers to himself as a  “star”: “And when you’re a star, they let you do it. You can do anything…Grab ’em by the pussy. You can do anything.”

Oh, you misguided Ommpa-Loompa, you’re not a STAR! You’re a D-grade celebrity whose claim to fame is a show that nobody has watched in years.

Millennials Killed Feminism & Gen Xers are too “busy” to care.

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Lena Dunham-  The new leader of feminism (for every college-educated white girl in Brooklyn).

I’m a feminist. There, I wrote it. And, I loathe new-age feminism.

There, I wrote that, too.

It’s too easy to blame it ALL on the millennials, but Lena Dunham‘s smug stare of entitlement, importance and good breeding jolts me pissed and I have to cast generalizations everywhere.

Oh damn, I just ridiculed a woman, is my feminist card revoked?

Well, I’ve read every word of Friedan’s The Feminine Mystique & Jong’s Fear of Flying, do I get it back now? They both sure as hell beat Not That Kind of Girl, by Lena Dunham, but that’s another rant.

See, Lena Dunham, our fearless new leader, has formed a new brand of feminism. One where women can’t speak poorly about other women no matter what. We can’t observe that Kim Kardashian probably should have had security while she  went to bed IN A FOREIGN COUNTRY with $11 million in jewelry in her room. Lena argues that we shouldn’t be making jokes because Kim Kardashian is “someone’s mother and daughter.” Well, her mother is Kris Jenner so there goes the “someone’s daughter” argument.

Stop it! I can’t say that, we must all have each other’s politically-conscious, Urban-Outfitters-adorned backs!

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I should do something about all this, but “Reality Bites” is on tv. Maybe tomorrow.

AGH! I get so angry that I want to scream!

But, I wont. We Gen Xers are so darned busy planning our children’s schedules for every minute of their free time to make up for the neglectful parenting that we endured that we barely have time to rock the Anthropologie 40% off sale. Then, we start to feel so old & boring that we  schedule our own social lives with rock shows, book clubs and movie dates because we feel awful about how goddamned uncool we got.

It’s exhausting, so just screw it and pass me the Zima, please.

I’m About to Kick a Beyhive

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Send all hate mail right to Rhode Island.

I respect Beyonce’s astounding talent, beauty, obvious intelligence and drive. Really, I do. So please, put down your hammer. But, is it a badge of feminism to create the masterpiece that is Lemonade, and have virtually the whole album be an angry portrayal of adultery, revenge and ultimately, forgiveness?

If art is life and life is art, are we to believe that the Queen Bey lets her Machiavellian-like, father-figure of a husband, Jay Z., cheat on her and forgive him? Are we really to believe that it’s “Becky with the good hair” fault?

I don’t know, something doesn’t resonate. If that is a triumphant act of feminism, then I’ll let Trump grab me by the…well, you know.

Oh well, whatever, never mind.

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We’ve come a long way, baby. Pop singers grab crotches just like men!

I’m a feminist afraid of being honest for fear of not adhering to this new set of feminist logic. I can ridicule Angelina Jolie for stealing two hours and 12 minutes of my life by directing “By the Sea,” surely the worst movie ever made, but I can’t voice my opinion on her being a nutcase, right?

Jolie is an obvious piece of work, a homewrecker and a joke. Did I just get in trouble again? Was I just supposed to blindly side with Brad Pitt because there’s been murmurs of his drunken behavior? I mean, he is a man and I am a woman so I better just go with her.

And yes, I understand that I do not really know any of these people, but we all do know these people, right? People just like this.

I want to confess that although I love to gaze at Lena Dunham’s out-of-shape ass on “Girls” (looks better than my fat ass), that doesn’t make the show interesting, the Lenny newsletter very readable or her a spokesperson for feminism. It makes her brave and slightly overweight, but we’re not really breaking new ground here, folks.

 

 

 

Prince’s Death & Gynecology: A Vacation Day Of Horror

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Nothing kills a vacation day like the death of your childhood idol quickly followed by a Pap smear.

I took a day off today to relax. But because I rarely plan anything other than partying and going to rock shows, I forgot that I’d also scheduled my annual OB GYN appointment in the afternoon. Then Prince died. What a wretched waste of a perfectly good vacation day.

A few facts about me:

  • I loathe going to the doctors. I was FOUR years overdue for this annual appointment, the possibility of having to give blood outweighs any reasoning and I neglect physicals, podiatrists and anyone with a white coat.
  • I love music like most people love their animals.

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Prince was one of those loves for me. I went to see him in concert as an adolescent and it was a life-altering experience. I was an awkward Catholic kid covered with freckles and dysfunction in a rural Massachusetts town, I had to find my own escapes and Prince delivered on that evening. I learned about sex from watching “Purple Rain.” I watched the movie so many times that I can still recite the whole damned thing. I know because I’m doing it right now.

These days hit me hard. Maybe it’s the taste of my own mortality, or perhaps it’s that I am so in love with myself at that age. I love that little me more than I can communicate. I see the promise, the intellect, the creativity and I can smell the looming derailment. It’s tricky terrain in there, like the wart on my foot that I just can’t stop digging at, I want to get to the root and pull it out to marvel at its bloody splendor.

That’s what nostalgia really is, it’s not truly about the person or thing that we loved so much, it’s more about missing ourselves at that age. It’s been a LONG time since I’ve purchased new Prince music, but it doesn’t matter, I love him for who he was and more importantly, who I was when he touched me.

Here’s to Prince, the pop icon that always stayed cool.While poor Madonna engages in a tacky custody battle for the world to see, and Cyndi Lauper disappears into “Kinky Boots” land, Prince never lost a shred of authenticity. Rest in peace, Prince.

And make your annual OB GYN appointment- the stirrups are less uncomfortable than I remember.

 

I’m measuring my life with rock show stubs and fainting spells. Lessons learned from rock shows.

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It started innocently with Cyndi Lauper. Proudly clad in a purple stoned wash miniskirt while sporting high-top mint green Reeboks, I breathed in my first concert air. It was love at first screech. Each concert taught me a valuable lesson and this one was: Opening bands can be a necessary evil. At 10, I was cooler than opener Eddie Money.

Appollonia is starting to take of her shirt. My 12-year old self is watching on repeat.

Appollonia is starting to take of her shirt. My 12-year old self is watching on repeat.

Prince and all his filthy brilliance came next. I never knew someone could move like that. I remember blind folds, heavy breathing and squeals, but mostly, I remember the music. It sounded electrifying, dirty and important. I’d already watched Purple Rain more times than I’d brushed my teeth. I’d hit pause and watch as Apollonia disrobed, shocked at her voluptuousness.

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I saw the Eurythmics in this.

The Madonna show forecasted my soon-to-be troubled teen years. 13 years old, I boldly swiped beers from a parent’s fridge and encouraged my friends to slug them seconds before entering said parent’s vehicle. Hustling into a Subaru, cheap beer on our breath, red lipstick smeared on our lips, we were caught.There were threats of canceling the night, but I knew how much those tickets cost, and I knew there wasn’t a chance. I had secretly borrowed a set of my mother’s rosary beads and her black bra. Soon after entering the arena, off came my Benetton rugby and out came my newly developed breasts and rosary beads. A star was born.

Cyndi, Prince and Madonna: the Holy Trinity of late 80s pop music. Mine for the night at the Worcester Centrum, Massachusetts. Throughout the years, beers and the hear loss, I learned more rock-show etiquette:

  1. Don’t gift your kid concert tickets unless you actually
They were better than Metallica.

They were better than Metallica.

know your kid.  Are you flummoxed that I’ve seen Bell Biv Devoe? Ditto. A good pal’s loathsome mother gifted her Nirvana-loving daughter with…surprise…three tickets to Bell Biv Devoe! Always a good sport, I laced up my Doc Martens and dutifully shook my nonexistent arse to classics such as Do Me! and Poison.

It wasn't legal, but it was fun.

It wasn’t legal, but it was fun.

2. One is never too young to fail at being a groupie: I started out small with a local band, but I had goals and aspirations for so much more. My 15 -year old mind focused on becoming a Mighty Mighty Bosstones groupie. It never really happened, but not from a lack of effort. I had what every wanna-be-groupie needs: a best friend that topped 5’10, a lusciously cascading mane of hair, a bona fide bad-girl girlfriend, absent parents and sheer recklessness. It was a recipe for groupie-galore.

My focus was on meeting rock stars more than classwork. I may have been just getting by in school, but I really wanted to get by with some B-grade rock stars. I schemed, I lied, I stalked, and I succeeded, maybe not in the biblical sense, but enough to be a lil’ rock star in my small world.

I'm with the band.

I’m with the band.

Concert-going taught me more than the nuns at my Catholic college. I soon graduated to see Hole, Beck, Nine Inch Nails and every Lollapoooza. My rock intellect was sharpening while my ears were constantly ringing.

3. Fainting at rock festivals is a downer. I was dehydrated while Lindsey Lohan was drinking baby formula. At 20, it was unfathomable to drink water when there were so many more attractive substances to drink in. Yet another health lesson gleaned from rock shows: Severe dehydration will cause a young me to faint. Fainting will certainly welcome the paramedics to visit you and your suspicious friends. These circumstances will sober you up, and ruin an evening. Drink water, bring sunscreen, and take it easy.

Riot Grrl.

Riot Grrl.

4. Rock music is religion. I spied God at a Hole concert. I remember when it happened, when I decided that I would spend gobs of time reading about Courtney Love, obsessing over her and even trying to look like Ms. Love. I was crushed against the stage at Lupo’s in Providence, RI after waiting over an hour for Hole to play. Exhaustion, paranoia and dehydration did not deter me, and right before I almost fainted, Courtney Love stammered onto the stage. I saw the light. I saw her underwear, her cleavage and a even bit of her battered soul.

These boots are made for concerts.

These boots are made for concerts.

The curmudgeon in me misses the old rock show. The smoke was always so thick, why not light up a Camel Light and contribute to the taint? Now, I spy teenagers at rock shows snapping picture after picture, what will they do with all those damn pictures? Don’t they know  they’re missing out on valuable make-out time? Priorities, kids, priorities.

I turned 40 and nothing really happened: A few things I’ve learned along the way.

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I turned 40 with aplomb and positivity. I ditched domesticity and dishwashers and hightailed it to Vegas with some girlfriends. I soon landed back in Rhode Island, the land of very little milk and honey, to land my first full-time job since 2009.

It’s been a dizzying frenzy of doing ever since: working, scheduling, partying and sleeping. Yes, sleeping. My insomnia has completely ceased without explanation. I slumber for a solid eight hours. I feel like a traitor to my own neuroses, and I can’t believe how delightful sleep feels.

A 20-year old me. What will I learn?

A 20-year old me. What will I learn?

But really, I turned 40 and nothing happened. No moment of Zen that clears up life’s issues, no bender worthy of bragging rights and shame. I was given a slice of adulthood in the form of a robust benefits package. It was all kind of dull. But, I gaze at my picture above, at a 20-year old troubled, intelligent, loyal and misunderstood young woman and think, “what has she learned along the way?”

Soak yourself in heartbreak while you can: To be awash in purely wretched heartache is a lovely and essential experience that  should be clung to once or twice. My romantic heartbreaks are, hopefully, over, but what a shame if they’d never been there. I want you to rub the dirt of heartache into your skin, breathe in the melancholy, and choke on the sad songs. Remember it. It may never happen again, and it is an experience to embrace. The sorrow ends, it gets better, love sprouts again..

A perfect ode to heartbreak.

A perfect ode to heartbreak.

And may I suggest wallowing in sadness while listening to Sinead O’Connor’s The Lion and the Cobra. That album sounds like what tears taste like.

Party like Kate Moss: Go ahead, eliminate the drugs and alcohol, but have some fun while you can. Life does not stop after 40, or after squeezing out a few kids, but it does slow down. I danced on every table that could hold me; I wore the highest heels imaginable, and walked home with bare feet on filthy streets. Tell bawdy stories in inappropriate settings. Live. Taste. Hurt. Don’t apologize…well, unless you fool around with your best pal’s boyfriend-make no mistake, that action deserves an apology and flowers.

My friend Dina. Friends since the '80s.

My friend Dina. Friends since the ’80s.

Keep your Friends: Family is life, yes, but your life is also your life. Don’t always confuse the two. If you don’t show up, you won’t keep being invited. I clutched onto my friends through moves, divorce, sickness and a bad attitude. They are mine, I am theirs and together, we are glorious.

The grass may be greener on the other side, but there’s cat urine everywhere: If I wanted a McMansion with a luxury vehicle and lavish vacations, I should not have majored in English Literature and stumbled my way into adulthood. I can own that, I can stomach it. I live on the wrong side of the tracks in a lovely New England town, and the view is divine. The sooner I realized to be content with my lower middle class surroundings, the better life became.

mom ,jMarry Well: This has nothing to do with money. Marry someone that knows you have a life, too. I’ve lost so many girlfriends to Neanderthal men that still think women should be home baking gluten-free snacks for Bucky. Gross. Don’t get married and try to change someone. A jerk is a jerk, a good guy is a good guy and a chauvinist will always be a chauvinist.

Be Good: People can be such assholes, don’t be one of them. The hierarchy of high-school popularity never ends. It’s at work, at our kid’s school, at the bus stop. I resort to my high school antics: I let my freak flag fly high, listen to The Cure and quietly laugh at how uncool cool people really are.

mom-communionOwn your faith: I’m Catholic, now let the bashing begin. Does my Catholicism mean that I am an anti-homosexual, anti-abortion zealot that accepts molestation? Jesus Christ (oops, forgot that commandment)! No, it does not, and it also does not give people the right to bash my faith to my face after mentioning that I am on my way to church. Is there any other religion, other than Scientology, that this is acceptable?

Here’s the deal, I was raised Catholic and I am raising my children that way. I take it fairly seriously and attend mass as much as I can. I don’t get into all the sticky stuff and vote in whatever way I choose. Own your faith, don’t be ashamed by it.

My celebration of 40 continues. Tonight I will toast family by attending my niece’s starring role in another Massachusetts production. Tomorrow night, I will heavily imbibe with friends, all of whom I have known since that top picture was captured. So much and so little has changed.

When the world crumbles, laugh at celebrities.

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When all else fails, make fun of celebrities. In the dysfunctional dinner date of life with news junkies, pop culture is dessert. Just as I can’t tear myself away from reading every drop about the latest act of horror, I turn my attention to Gwen Stefani’s video of self indulgence and am surprised by the smile creeping across my sour face. Yes, Gwen selling her sordid family secrets for a hit, that makes me feel warm and fuzzy. Thinking of her nine year old son watching this video also gives me joy. “It’s, like, art!” says Gwen.

Gwen, you valley girl of contradictions, I remember when I used to love you. It was a brief, fleeting love, like a one-night stand with Blake Shelton, satisfying but so embarrassing. You know the kind, you wake up and spy the tribal arm tattoo and you just want to cry.

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Gwen Stefani, surprise step-mom to British It-Girl, Daisy Lowe

I did not dig Gwen’s premiere hit, “Don’t Speak,” her pouty song lamenting the demise of her high school romance with band mate Tony Kanal. It struck me as silly and the world knew that Gwen and her six-pack could do better. And she did. Kind of. Gwen moved onto Gavin Rossdale, grunge’s whipping boy. They trudged along with Gwen’s red lips, Gavin’s man-bun, and a few failed attempts at reviving No Doubt. Gavin made the amateur tennis circuit rounds and played small arenas hushing people that dared to speak during “Machinehead.” Their marriage even survived the realization  that Gavin was the biological father of Britian’s favorite bad-girl-It Girl, Daisy Lowe. Wowza.

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Man-bun-√; Hot nanny-√

But, we all know how this one ends: attractive nanny enters home, has-been rocker pulls a Jude Law and allegedly boffs pretty nanny. The rest is pop-music history and resulted in a big hit for Gwen. Thanks Gavin.

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I don’t know what’s sadder- that Scott Weiland died at 48 or that nobody seemed surprised. I winced as journalists reported his death with a matter-of-fact sincerity. Okay, I wasn’t the biggest fan of Stone Temple Pilots, but the man was a pure rock star. He dripped sex, decadence, style and charm. And, if my obsession with Kurt Cobain had allowed it, I bet I would have been a Stone Temple Pilots fan.

I care that Scott Weiland died. I loved “Sour Girl” and thought of it as one of my anthems in 2000. I appreciated Weiland’s beauty and yes, his cheekbones. Those cheekbones were jagged daggers of beauty, those cheekbones could pierce your veins. Scott never lost his coolness, he never stumbled into “Celebrity Rehab,” never had a televised intervention, an unsightly weight gain or an embarrassing stab at acting. No, he penned a fine autobiography, Not Dead & Not for Sale that chronicled a sexual assault at 12 that probably contributed to a life stained with substance abuse and failed relationships. Scott tried; he was a father of two teenagers and thrice married. This Christmas, I plan on adding Weiland’s Christmas album, The Most Wonderful Time Of The Year, to my holiday music.

 

I only speak in euphemisms and hyperbole. The Emmys: A cure for my insomnia.

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I only speak in euphemisms and hyperbole.My goal is to be as honest as I possibly can be without sounding like I’m being honest. Euphemisms offer a more dignified approach to explain everyone’s problems while hyperbole satisfies my desire to shock people. I’m embarking on a one-woman crusade for civilized banter. I beg of the world, can’t we do better than “this sucks” and “I’m bored?” Yes, life does indeed suck, but let’s dig a little deeper into our treasure trove of nasty words to bestow upon people and things that do suck.

Cheap: Frugal.

Addict: Troubled

Crazy: Fragile

Lost in life: Undecided

Promiscuous: Over-trusting 

Eccentric: Annoying

Fat: Out-of-shape

Rednecks: Uncultured

Cheated: Strayed

Brat: Feisty

Words get so sticky while we all share space in the politically conscious world of half-truths. But don’t fret, I don’t want to be honest about anything truly important, just about pop music and celebrities.

Oh no, not even Sandberg can revive this one.

Oh no, not even Sandberg can revive this one.

Shall I attempt honesty with The 2015 Emmys? The Emmys were fantastically dull, but finally, I finally found a cure for my insomnia:an Emmys broadcast.

Claire Danes, the only natural breasts in Hollywood.

Claire Danes, the only natural breasts in Hollywood.

I am bonkers over Claire Danes, but after seeing her on the red carpet, my discomfort and anxiety mounted: is Claire frighteningly thin? Doesn’t she know that she is required to stay healthy to save a  middle-aged Jordan Catalano? I feel better today, I think that Claire just appears thin because she is one of the few stars without breast implants.

Natasha Lyonne & Fred Armisen come out as a couple of cool cats in love. I have nothing but praise for these two complicated lovers. I enjoy a juicy rehabilitation story and am fond of anyone involved with Saturday Night Live.

Procreate, please.

Procreate, please.

Elisabeth Moss of “Mad Men” was married to Armisen for eight months. Moss went on to term the marriage as “extremely traumatic and awful and horrible.” After their sour divorce, Armisen dated a new favorite of mine, Abby Elliott of SNL and Bravo’s “Odd Mom Out.” This funny man gets the ladies. A sense of humor goes a long way.

1I’ve been in love with Natasha Lyonne since she starred in 1998’s classic coming-of-age film,  “The Slums of Beverly Hills.” In 2005, in the throes of serious drug addiction, Lyonne created her own slum in Michael Rapaport’s apartment. Lyonne’s drug-hazed odyssey resulted in open heart surgery and a booming comeback.

These are my people. Now, how do I get invited to one of their dinner parties?

This man could crawl right into my world. Jon Hamm

Hamm can crawl right into my world.

Jon Hamm, do not change one thing.

I savored every step of Hamm’s much-deserved win for playing Don Draper of “Mad Men.” This man is a delicious specimen of flesh, muscle and brain.

Hamm did not walk the red carpet, probably because of the uncomfortable questions he would be asked about his recent split with his girlfriend of 18 years, Jennifer Westfeldt.

This movie could cause a breakup.

This movie could cause a breakup.

Gosh, what a shock! An 18 year romance that does not end happily ever after. The breakup is probably more due to Hamm having to star in Westfeldt’s Friends with Kids. That one was a self-indulgent stinker!

Knowing that Jon Hamm has a dark side and recently completed a stint in rehab only makes me love him more.

Rhode Island Sweeps the Emmys

It was a big night for Rhode Island (how many time can I write that?) at The Emmys. Central Falls-raised local superhero Viola Davis and Rhode Islander Richard Jenkins both won Emmys.

Culpo, Rhode Island native, lover of Nick Jonas, fainter.

Culpo, Rhode Island native, lover of Nick Jonas, fainter.

And, not to be forgotten: Little Rhody’s very own Olivia Culpo, Nick Jonas’ ex-love and a former Miss Universe, also had an unforgettable showing as an Emmys commentator. She pulled a Kathleen and nearly collapsed on the red carpet while talking fashion with E! News.  As a fainter myself, I understand, I have been there. Empty stomach, too much partying, it’s hard to stand up straight. Poor Olivia, I would be fainting from hysteria over not dating Nick Jonas anymore. Girl, faint your little heart out.

P.S. , Tracy Morgan is back and he is fantastic, Terrence Howard is frighteningly crazy and Peter Dinklage is unstoppable.