A Tale of Two Sisters

My sister and I are so close that we finish each other’s sentences and often wonder who’s memories belong to who. We decided it might be fun if we each wrote a common topic on our blogs to see how similar (or not similar) our memories really are.  Our first topic: What a sister means to me. 

Read on!

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my mom and her sister with my sister and me

My mother had sisters. Close sisters. Sisters that she called on the phone constantly. Sisters that were her best-friends. At family gatherings they were always by each other’s side, baking together, each one doing her assigned task like a dance, chatting up a storm and singing. The singing was magnificent, voices rising and falling as one into perfect melody. True sisterhood and true love.

When my sister was born, I was just four days shy of turning two. Everyone told me that she was my present. She came home from the hospital on my actual birthday and we opened presents and ate cake so I knew it was true, my mom brought me a baby for my birthday. 

She was practically the same size as me from the start. There are sweet pictures of me holding my gigantic little sister and I swear her perfect round head dwarfs me. She was a beautiful baby, very round, and very blonde and they named her Shannon Renee.

Shannon loved her Johnny Jumper and I loved pushing her in it. When no one was looking I would push her just as hard as I could and scream, ”Wee baby!!!” As she flew through the air she would giggle and giggle, until she smacked into the wall, then she would cry. 

From the day she was born, I had a constant playmate. We fought like cats and dogs a lot of the time. Often accusing the other of “stealing” each others friends or my sister has a bad habbit of borrowing things “forever”, but she was always my confidant. 

When our mother died, her death brought us even closer. In a way my sister is like a mother figure to me and though I’m older I think that Shannon is the bossier of the two of us, although she just might tell you that I’m the bossy one. 

To sum my sister up isn’t easy. Shannon is the best mom in the world, the worst laundress. She breaks washing machines like a bad habit. She is remarkably talented, the person I go to for good and bad advice. She is my chauffer when I just can’t drive because I’m crazy afraid of driving, and she is my rock.

Thank God we were shown by my mom and her wonderful sisters the true meaning of sisterhood. In truth if you ask me what my sister means to me, all I really have to say is EVERYTHING! 

Me and Shannie

Click here to read my sister's version.

Why I Love Gay Men, And Always Will

For some reason I’ve always been drawn to gay men. I’m not sure what it is. Maybe it’s because, I’m going to be stereotypical here, they generally have better taste in clothes and music than any of my girlfriends or perhaps, because they weren’t trying to get into my pants, they looked at me and not my boobs. Refreshing, any girl can attest to the uncomfortable high school years when we don’t really seem to have faces to boys, just body parts. 

My first mad crush was a pretty little blonde boy named Trevor. In reality Trevor was so charismatic that I believe that everyone fell instantly in love with him upon meeting him. Trevor was outgoing and spontaneous and terribly vulnerable. His vulnerability was what really won my heart. 

I have loved gay men even before I knew they were gay, maybe even before they were sure they were gay. Every crush I had in high-school with the exception of one guy, you guessed it, was gay and Trevor was no exception. We’d spend hours talking on the phone every night, talking about things I actually cared about - music, kittens, and John Hughes. He read Jackie Collins, I was in love!

The problem was, so was everyone else. Girls draped all over him everywhere we went, they stripped down naked and changed their clothes in front of him and asked him to clasp their bras. Trevor lived a straight boys wet dream I’m sure, but to him it was all normal. He’d sit goofy-sweet and ask if he could borrow their jean shorts or quickly hand them something else to put on.

Trevor was my first sweet love, we went to our first ever Madonna concert together, spent endless hours perfecting our Vogue-moves, and he even let me take nude pictures of him for my school photography class. We were a match made in heaven.

By the time he “came out” I pretty much already knew.  He said the words and my automatic reaction was a heart crushing, “It doesn’t matter to me.”

His response will stay with me forever. He just looked up at me with big moist eyes and said, “but it matters to me.” 

There are moments in life that are so utterly profound, they shape you and that moment with Trevor is one of them for me. In an instant I felt transported into his world. I can’t profess to know what things were really like for him, but I know they were rough. He was teased and harassed constantly through high school, now we’d say bullied. Then I think we all tolerated too much, we even expected it and sadly a lot of those “bullies” were adults and even teachers.

One night while he walked the block and a half from his job at the movie theater to his home he was shot thirty-two times with a BB gun. At midnight, in the dark all alone on a city street. How terrifying. Twenty-one years later he’s still picking the pellets out of his back. That’s a lot of scars, outside, but especially on the inside. 

He moved to Georgia towards the end of high school. To the bible belt, and sweltering summer heat. The next time I saw him he was a man, but he was still wearing some borrowed jean shorts and humming Madonna and it would be a good guess that he is currently humming some Madonna right now as you read this. 

Trevor is still one of my homies. He’s my partner in cleanliness, and occasionally my arch nemesis, but forever my friend.

Michael Bolton, And The Lost Loves Of My Life

Michael Bolton

My sister has been lying to everyone for years. And not a little lie either, but a giant-humongous-terrible-life-changing LIE. Like finding out that that Coke is actually Pepsi or that fingernail polish and toenail polish are the same thing!  You see the girl has a deep dark secret and I, being so sweet and sisterly, am about to share this secret with the world.

The girl that most of you believe is wholesome, kind, and a tad aloof is really a closet--and I mean closet in the doors locked, lights out, headphones on kind of way--FAN. My sister’s very first true teenage love was Michael Bolton. Yes folks, Michael Bolton. She loved the mullet of fine, slightly-balding ringlets and the southern rasp, and if she happens to hear the melody of 'Georgia On My Mind' to this day you can forget any chance there might have been of sanity in her eyes. The tears will come, and they will come aplenty, pelting her cheeks with little blue trickles until she must must must grab that Kleenex because those are Bolton tears.

Wham!

Lucky for me, I have no “closet” loves. I love them out in the open like the true dorkette I am. Glee recently did an episode about all the songs we all secretly love titled 'Guilty Pleasures.' It was fabulous, of course, because Glee is fabulous (I’m not biased or anything). The first song on the list was 'Wake Me Up Before You Go Go' and the damn thing brought me to tears (albeit, cooler tears than my sister's; Wham tears for gosh sakes). You see, I’m not a closet Wham fan, I’m an in your face nothing is better kind of Wham fan.

When I was little my BFF Jeanette and I would stay up all night watching Night Tracks on TBS praying for a glimpse of 'Careless Whisper.' We would watch George race down the boardwalk in his little white shorts and lust in the way ten year old girls lust. I imagined George was my guy. (Why I was drooling for, according to the video, a lying cheating scumbag is excellent fodder for my current shrink, but that’s another story.)

River Phoenix

George Michael, aka Georgy Michelle (hey I was ten and those Night Tracks video info bubbles faded away fast). I thought his name really was Georgy Michelle so I would fall asleep imagining myself marrying Georgy Michelle when I grew up. But something inside of me must have known he was gay because I also imagined myself throwing red cowgirl boots at him while we were fighting at the beach (also excellent fodder for the shrink) and that we would break up, staying friends of course, and then I would steal my sister’s husband, aka River Phoenix (I know, truly sick), but that wouldn’t last because River and my sister were building a summer house in the mountains and he needed to help her with the baby pigs they were raising. Forgive me, I was ten and, by the way, my ten year old brain didn’t know about sex. I didn’t know about sex until I picked up a copy of Anne Rice’s Exit To Eden when I was seventeen (I was a slow learner).

Kirk Cameron

My true love back then was Kirk Cameron; we would meet, he would fall madly in love with me, and I would debate with Georgy whether or not I should give him a shot. Truthfully, I loved Kirk for years. I taped every episode of Growing Pains and I bought every Teen Beat I could find. My bedroom walls were lined with posters of him. Kirk in leather, Kirk smiling, Kirk drinking water. I was pathetic like most teenage girls.

Kirk and Chelsea

Celebrity heartthrobs are safe. You can dream, but they don’t break your heart until they marry Chelsea Noble and Growing Pains gets cancelled.

We all have strange loves in our lives. Perhaps they are real or maybe they are our childhood fantasies, but they shape us and help us in ways they will never know. All the Ricky Nelsons, and Justin Beibers of the world help us to feel safe and free and in control of love. So next time you feel yourself starting to secretly hum a little Bolton, remember that first loves, whether they are in the closet, out of the closet, or on our TV screens are important and meaningful and no one needs a shrink to tell them that.

The Top Ten Reasons To Join A Book Club Even If You Hate To Read

Okay so maybe you’re not a big reader like I am. Perhaps, to you, reading is paging through a People magazine at the dentists office while you try to distract yourself from that upcoming root canal. It’s okay, not everyone loves to read, however everybody needs a little break from the mundane and if you happen to find the niche, the perfect book club won’t really be about reading at all.

1. You get to hang with a diverse group of people. Make friends or enemies with someone you wouldn’t normally run in the same circles with. Branch out socially, it’s fun!
2. Wine. Who doesn’t enjoy a good glass of vino? Book clubs tend, in my experience at least, to come with lots of it. So kick your feet up and get ready to poor yourself some chilled Chardonnay.
3. Feel smart! Or just act like you’re a brainiac, no one will know and if you think you sound stupid you can always blame it on the wine.
4. It’s a great excuse to buy new shoes. I mean who wants their book club to see them in the same wedges week after week and if you’re broke there is always Old Navy and their $1 flip flops.
5. It’s a good excuse not to cook. There is usually an assortment of tasty goodies or maybe your club is lucky enough to meet at a fancy pub. Walla, dinner is served and you don’t even have to do the dishes. (Unless it’s your night to host, but we’re dwelling on the positives here.)
6. Don’t judge a book club by it’s cover. Not all book clubs are about stuffy literary fiction. Find the right fit for you and if you really don’t like to read find a book club that doesn’t really read the book. There are tons of em out there just waiting for you.
7. It sounds great just to say you’re in a book club. You’ve gained ten IQ points just from uttering the sentence. Doesn’t that make you feel smart?
8. Book clubs are cheaper than eharmony! Enough said.
9. Give your couch the night off. Doesn’t your sofa deserve a break from your reality TV addiction? Those cushions will thank you!
10. Set a good example. Wether you want to impress your kids, your boss, or the family dog. Show them that you care about your brain. They do not need to know that book club is really about wine, food, or an excuse to buy shoes. It can be your little secret.

And, perhaps after all of the hoopla you’ll learn to love reading as much as I do. Happy book clubbing!

The Over-Crammed DVR Epiphany

Last month as I was combing through my over-crammed DVR in search of something compelling to wile away the afternoon, I stumbled upon an epiphany. Why on earth was I throwing away my dwindling funds on television that I obviously had no time to watch? Seriously! Some weeks, fifty hours worth of weekly TV would be waiting for me on Saturday morning. The stress of it was overwhelming. I found myself setting my alarm for six am so that I could fit in an hour of “Castle” before breakfast. Incredibly good, well acted, written, produced, and directed television programming was controlling my life and I was the only one who could stop it.

The first step was calling the Direct TV people. This was a daunting task. I knew that they were going to be hurtling great deals and perks in my path to cancellation and I needed to stay strong. “Ma’am we are willing to offer you $30.00 off your monthly bill for a year.” Oh so tempting, but no no no. Holding tight to my inner convictions I was able to muscle through and successfully cancel my programming. Yay!!!

I was excited beyond words at the idea of saving seventy-five smackers a month, but what I didn’t understand at the time was the sense of calm and serenity that would wash over my psyche. All those little fifty hour a week appointments had disappeared. A shelf that once hosted that little black box of stress was now able to hold lovely decorative  keepsakes. I was able to take my own life back.

TV hasn’t been out of my life completely. Netflix and Hulu have kept me entertained, but on my own terms. I’ve been feeling nostalgic of late, watching old episodes of poorly acted, written, and directed television programming. Things I would never have been able to watch while trying to juggle my over-crammed DVR. The first show on my leisurely agenda was the cutting edge and probably worst medical drama ever produced for television, “Emergency” starring the weak whiney acting of Randolph Mantooth. Nowadays, I’m certain that no agent would have signed him without a mandatory name change. 

In this high tech “medical emergency” show from 1972 they do amazing things like perform surgery without sterilization or surgical masks and run around in a shiny red fire engine bringing injured people to the emergency room at Ramsgate General. The sexy paramedics even save stellar guest stars like John Travolta whos one line was, “Help I think my leg is broke!” You could tell from the intensity of John’s cry that he was destined for great things.

Also on the road to nostalgia has been the ever popular “Cheers”. “Cheers” stands out because each episode is blocked like a stage show and the writing and acting are quite good. “Cheers” does highlight some politically incorrect relationships between men and women that would be frowned upon in society today. For instance, according to the show, it is quite normal to slap, berate, threaten to kill, and lie to your girlfriend and still be considered a suave leading man. Horrendous in this day and age. We would demand that Diane call the police and have Sam arrested for domestic abuse, but in the eighties we love Sam and Diane. We want them to be happy and serve those drinks in a place where everybody knows your name.

The next show I decided to dabble in has been an ultimate favorite of mine for as long as I can remember. “The Adventures Of Ozzie and Harriet” is timeless, classic, family friendly, and best of all funny. Bumbling Ozzie Nelson and his wife, the clever Harriet, are such a relief after years of shows showing stern husbands with their ever-doting brainless wives. Ozzie accidentally creates mayhem and Harriet fixes everything. Just like real marriage! Whatever it is that Ozzie does for a living, since we never see him go to work or hear them speak about Ozzie’s “job”, keep them smack in the middle of middle class suburbia. The two boys, David and the irrepressible Ricky (who seems pretty well contained to me) are a hoot of charm and respectability. The Nelsons easily make everyday chores like mowing the lawn and buying a lamp exciting and entertaining and the musical performances are funtabulous. I just love those crazy Nelsons.

And so my life without the distraction of must see TV has become more enjoyable. I never knew how much free time I was giving over to the boob tube and while I still enjoy entertaining TV programs, they aren’t ruling me, they are giving me something. I’ve learned just how far we’ve come with woman’s rights, that people really are simple and you don’t have to be chased by terrorists to live an exciting life. I’m so thankful that technology has advanced medicine so much in the last thirty plus years and that when I call 911 the paramedics won’t give me an IV for a sprained ankle. I also learned that life is more than a TV show. Life is taking care of ourselves and our families and being a citizen and community member, not just watching them do those things on TV. Live and create your own life because that is what life is all about.

I'll Tell You Mine If You Tell Me Yours

What is your most embarrassing moment has been a game that we’ve played in my family for as long as I can remember. A tradition we’ve upheld since my mom told us about the time she lost her underwear at K-Mart. You see, she had recently lost a bunch of weight and nothing fit. Where else does the stylish woman on a budget shop but good old friendly K-Mart? When she entered the store everything felt fairly snug, but after a few hours of strenuous shopping things had changed.  She walked out of the store holding my sister on one hip and me on the other with a giant bag full of new clothes balanced over each elbow.  The car was parked very far from the entrance and as she walked through the crowded parking lot she could feel her panties slipping down under her skirt. Each heavy step bringing them lower and lower until unable to yank them up she just let them fall where they fell  in the middle of the lane. Then with as much dignity as possible she simply stepped right out of those nickers and just kept right on walking, never looking back.

We all Have them. Those horrible moments that we can’t turn off. In times of weakness they come to plague us like a bad eighties tune you just can’t get out of your head. Maybe they exist to humble us for some unimaginable sin we may have inflicted on the world? Perhaps, it was those thumbtacks you put under the dining room rug so that your sweet good natured sister would step on them while she set the table or maybe you once stole your dads car and left him on top of a mountain for an entire day so you could hang out with your friends. Who knows why, when, or how? All we really know is that they exist and they are down right nasty in a mean Joan Rivers doesn’t like my dress sort of way.

My evil sister, the same one who so meticulously placed those thumbtacks, and I have kept the  tradition alive over the years and while I’m not quite yet ready to tell you my most embarrassing secret I will gladly tell you hers.

It was the evening of the big Mormon dance and everyone who was anyone was going. Truthfully I don’t really know why we were even going since we weren’t Mormon and I think we only knew one girl, but hey don’t you know Mormon dances play the best music (ya I had no idea either). It was the era of modern rock and we dressed up in our best clothes. Shannon aka evil sister wore a vintage black baby doll dress over fishnets with thigh high leggings (who cares that it was August, the weekend before school started, and a hundred degrees outside, but the layered look suited her perfectly and really set off her bold kohl eye liner and fake tattoos. She was looking killer. Joan Rivers eat your heart out. 

I was sporting the look as well. White tights, and only tights, no skirt no pants nothing else were paired with the super sexy white pirate shirt I’d bought from Contempo Casuals that very afternoon and not to be remiss was the lacy black bra that peek-a-booed out of the open pirate collar accentuating something that I was way to young to be showing. (I was fifteen. I think that you should be at least 85 and senile before you are allowed to be seen in public in your underwear. 

(Did my dad not see what I was wearing? I’m so glad I didn’t have girls).

As you can imagine we were styling in every way.

My sister, our friend Layla (her name has been changed for legal purposes) and I had spent the majority of the afternoon before the dance in San Francisco. We decided that since we were all high-school bound now that we needed some practice in the guy department. We made a pact that we would all walk up to at least one perfect stranger and try out our best pick-up lines on them. (Yes, this is what three stupid 13, 14, and 15 year old girls do on a Saturday afternoon the weekend before school starts.)

Layla, being the much more brazen of the three, and I can easily say that since her name has been changed for legal purposes that this was all her idea, went first. She chose an older street vendor selling pretzels and asked him “If I where older would you date me?” to which he replied “I only sell stuff sweetie, I ain’t buyin’.” To which we all ran in fear and laughter down Polk street past the prostitutes and bums and caught a quick cablecar back to the mall on Market st.

We had all begun to lose our nerve after the pretzel guy incident, but Layla was mad and kept telling us she’d never talk to us again if we didn’t do it too. Shannon (no need to change her name for legal purposes) planning to keep it cool sauntered up to a boy about our own age and asked him for a cigarette and a light. He gladly handed her a smoke and as she held the Marlboro out toward his Zippo he said “Um, you need to hold it up to your mouth and suck in hon.” So much for the sauve delivery, but much better than pretzel guy.

I was last and super shy and suffice it to say I pretended to flirt with someone in Wherehouse records, but really I just asked him if he knew where the bathroom was so I could be off the hook.

As the three of us got dressed in our stunning ensambles for the dance we decided that we really needed to continue our practicing on those nice Mormon boys. We had all done so well during the afternoon we figured that the dance would be a cinch and that we’d all leave that night with glamorous new boyfriends to start the school year off with.

The dance was crowded with lots of alternative dressers like ourselves. Boys with black nail polish and pink lipstick had us drooling at every turn. And, then she spotted him. My evil little sister had found her mark. Tall and lanky with curly black hair and a black hoody. What more could a girl ask for?

Huddling in football pregame fashion we gave Shannon our best encouragement.

“He’s cute, but you’re much cooler.” 

“This is nothing you smoked a cigarette today.”

“Just do it.” (I think Nike stole that from us.)

So with those words of wisdom Shannon, my ultra evil sibling, charged up to that cute boy like a woman on a mission.

“Hi”, she said. “You know, you look EXACTLY like a character in this book that I’m reading.”

He laughed. “Really? And how EXACTLY is that possible?

“Uh, I have no idea.” she stammered utterly mortified.

And, with that the woman on a mission ran and insisted we leave the dance immediately.

The utterly mortifying thing is that the next Monday at orientation this same cute boy ended up being the student body president. At the end of the day he walked up to her and asked her if she’d read any good books lately and even though they briefly dated for three days that first week of school she has yet to get over the utter humiliation of those fourteen little words.

I guess I’m feeling a little more comfortable now and I think that it may be time to let you in on my embarrassing moment. For although I’ve experienced many I seem to have lost most of the embarrassment factor. Like the one time I fell down in the middle of the road on the way to pick up my car from the mechanic and the only one who saw me was a little doggy who came and licked my face trying to comfort me. It’s like the tree thing. If no one is there did it really happen? And, why in the heck is falling down so humiliating. Did our parents infuse in us some kind of notion that only assholes fall down when we were learning to walk or something. I mean who hasn’t fallen in their life. No one, that’s right no one. It should be no more embarrassing than farting or burping, but oh ya those are embarrassing too.

I would like to tell you about this time in Berkeley that I ran out of a Vietnamese restaurant with my skirt tucked into my underwear, but alas I think the karma I have for stealing my dads car is much more severe. For although that was pretty embarrassing in the moment the humiliation hasn’t lingered.

Caution. What I’m about to tell you is not for the faint of heart, and please don’t tell you’re friends or neighbors. I really don’t want to be the girl that everyone points and snickers out in the middle of Safeway. So please out of respect, keep it to yourself. 

It was a lazy fall afternoon and my OCD was getting the best of me. We had just rented a beautiful home in the middle of nowhere. The large gray two story was truly my dream house. I used to gaze at it as they were building it and imagine living there. The house had so many windows it could have been made of glass and because it was brand spanking new there wasn’t a curtain or blind on a single one of them. 

Whenever I’m bored my OCD begins to eat me alive. What can I alphabetize? what needs cleaning, dusting, perfecting, etc. Well on this day my brain was shouting the car the car like Tattoo on Fantasy Island. My son was two at the time so off I went baby in hand down the long sloping driveway to wash the darn car and I don’t mean spray the car with water and be done. I mean toothbrush in every crevice and shampooing the upholstery. I can be ridiculous, but at least my car is clean.

After about an hour of “car perfecting” I figured I was done and I was feeling filthy. I think I had a little speck of dirt under my fingernail so of course I needed an entire shower. I hauled the baby back into the house (thankfully he loves to clean too. He’s been organizing his diapers since birth.)

I threw my clothes in the washer and was just about to step into the shower when my son came in and with little sad nearly weepy eyes asked for some milk. I figured that after an hour of car cleaning he was definitely owed some refreshment so off I went nude as newborn into the kitchen to get a sippy. 

BAM...BAM...BAM...

The next thing I knew I turned to see my landlord tapping on my glass window and waving wildly. I screamed my head off. I was naked! Couldn’t he see I was naked? His mustached face was simply smiling stalker like as I screamed. This wasn’t cute naked or sexy naked. This was chubby momma I have dirt under my fingernail naked. The worst part was I had just thrown everything in the washer so I had to walk with as much poise as I could through an almost glass house up a winding staircase into my bedroom so I could grab something anything to put on my body and all the while this crazy mustached landlord just kept waving and smiling and laughing. It was horrible. 

When I finally was able to grab my robe and come back down. All he said was. 

“How are you doing? I just wanted to make sure everything was going smoothly.”

Honestly, I could have died standing there with for all intensive purposes a perfect stranger while he continued to make idle chit-chat. Looking back, I’m sure he was just as embarrassed as I was - well maybe not.

I’m sure a lot of you out there have moments that are even more embarrassing than mine or maybe yours is a just as sweet and cute as Shannon’s. Suffice it to say we’ve all lost our dignity or our underwear somewhere along this little path of life. So don’t be humiliated, embrace it. Those moments are what map out our humanity and keep us humble.

So I told you mine. what’s yours?

My Fabulous Celebrity Dinner Party

Have you ever sat and pondered that age-old question? No, not the meaning of life, silly. A much more important question.  What famous celebrities you would have over for your own personal and spectacular dinner party? 

It could be practically anyone. Snooki? (Probably not, unless you were up for some extremely intense conversation on tanning and drinking games.) Or Charles Manson? (That choice would speak volumes about your twisted psyche.) No, really. Who would you choose?

Number one on my top ten list would have to be Oprah Winfrey. I know it’s cliche and she is most likely on pretty much everyone’s list, but how can she not be? The woman is amazing. She took a simple talk show platform and made it into an enlightening and thought-provoking hour of pure WOW. No other woman on the planet besides Meryl Streep (in numerous tear jerkers) has invoked in me as much sobbing. She’s taught me about other cultures, sex offenders, literature, and basic human kindness. She is a true treasure and I’m sure a fabulous dinner guest let alone a conversational mastermind.

Good old number two will have to go to Olivia Newton-John. I know that to anyone who knows me well this comes as no surprise. She has lit up my universe with her sweet voice and inner-glow my entire life. I love her! When I was little, I used to fantasize that she was my mother, which is crazy because I had a super great one. In my little girl fantasy we would roll up together in a big white rug like she did in one of her video montages and she would sing “Falling” to me. Besides being my childhood idol (I can’t tell you how many times my sister, friends and I reenacted scenes from Grease) she is a true humanitarian. I think that she and Oprah would keep the conversation rolling.

My third choice is a bit of a surprise, at least to me. I always liked her and thought her to be adorable, but it wasn’t until I read her book “A Lotus Flower Grows In The Mud” (quite a mouthful as far as titles go, I know, but who am I to judge?) that I recognized just how spectacular this woman is. Goldie Hawn is known for her super happy quirky personality, but when I read her book I realized that behind the fun vivacious love, she emanates a real depth of character and a strong sense of inner-peace. She seems to project pure love and any dinner table would be honored by her presence.

Number four is the spectacular self-professed drag queen, Ms. Dolly Parton. This is a sensational woman. Dolly exudes humor and warmth, something all of us should strive for. With out of this world hair and nails, not to mention that bosom (although I think I may have her out-boobed), Dolly even has her own theme park. Can you get cooler than that? She is southern charm and back home elegance and I cant wait to see what crazy ensemble Dolly will wear to dinner.

I realize that so far it’s just a room full of women. Where are the men? you might be wondering. Have no fear; my first man pick is here. The fifth guest, that studly vision of pure manhood is no other than Tim Gunn of Project Runway fame. I mean, who doesn’t love Tim Gunn? He’s the sweetest, most honest and best-dressed man alive. I’d trust him to hold my designer handbag containing 40 million dollars while simultaneously babysitting my infant and walking my dog. The latter of the two I am sure he would be most appalled to do, but that’s how trustworthy he seems. (I have no dog or infant BTW. Oh, or 40 mill or a designer handbag either.) In fact, maybe he could style all of us before dinner so that we all look simply “fabulous” and if anything went wrong with the meal Tim could just remind us to “make it work”.

Six, six, six, six, six......who to choose for number six? Well, it would just have to be Rosie O’Donnell! Could it be anyone else? That woman is funny, sincere; she does wonderful things for the world; and she loves Target. Rosie is one of the beautiful people, a strong woman who isn’t afraid to express herself or to apologize after. She’d probably beg you to let her hold your baby and walk your dog. I don’t think there is anyone with a bigger heart out there in showbiz land. She might even bring her own stash of home-made confetti to the party. I so enjoy her! 

Tori Spelling may seem like an odd choice for number seven, but she is my favorite fashionista. I just love what she’s done with her celebrity. This woman is no Paris Hilton, but she could have chosen to be. She hid her brains behind fart jokes and Donna Martin for years and then the mogul in her just had to come out. Tori is one crafty hardworking momma and I respect her work ethic. Besides being an awesome party guest, perhaps she wouldn’t mind helping me plan the event. With Tori on the job this dinner party couldn’t be anything but chic.

Sweet memories often need a little something to stir the pot and who could do that better than good old Alexander Rae Baldwin the III, better known to the world as Alec. Charming, wry, and never willing to take any smack from anyone, Mr. Baldwin could liven up any room. A quick wit and stellar sex appeal follow this man wherever he goes and if the paparazzi decided to ambush the festivities Alec could easily protect us all.

My ninth and tenth guests go hand in hand, at least since they were married in 1988. Tom Hanks and Rita Wilson appear to be the poster children for the happily married couple. Not to mention that they are both multi talented like all of my other illustrious dinner invitees and famous for being super wonderful human beings. Have you ever heard a bad word about Tom? Nope. Me either. And Rita is a songstress as well as an accomplished actress. I just can’t wait for the after-dinner singing with Rita, Goldie, Olivia and Dolly. And if anyone forgets the words, I’m sure that Rosie will be able to help them out.

So there you have it, my super-duper famously infamous dinner guest list. Now tell me. Who would you invite to yours?