Be hot in photos.

It's about time I updated my social networking photos. So like a good journalist I've done some research. I've found the best ways to achieve that difficult goal of looking smart AND sexy AND classy. Here's what I've learned:


Pucker Up and Pout it Out!
Smiling is so 90s. Maybe even 80s. This year, it's all about pouty lips. So make a kissy face at the camera. Only not like a real kiss. Pretend you're sucking on a really fat straw or popsicle. For added effect, let a little drool seep out onto your lower lip for a glassy effect.


Yes, YOU Can Glamour Shot
Photos are way better when you take them yourself. It's also a great way to show off your photography skills. The trick to a great self portrait, though, is a flattering angle. For an overall slimming effect, hold the camera way above you and look up. Take as many of these photos as possible. In fact, post no less than ten that look exactly alike.

To show off your figure, it's also perfectly acceptable to take a picture in the mirror, but remember, you want the camera to be VERY obvious. Hold it in front of you. Bonus points for using a cell phone.


Cleavage = Class
One thing that makes you look super smart is showing off tons of cleavage. Don't worry, you don't need big, fake boobs to show cleavage, either. Just make sure your shirt dips enough to show all of your sternum. ALL of it. If your shirt dips down to your belly button somehow, bonus! You can show off your belly ring AND your lady lumps with the same shirt opening. See? That's smart.


Eyeliner! Eyeliner! Eyeliner!
Why make your eyes pop when you can make them sink? Grab the blackest eyeliner you can find and draw it on thick. A half-centimeter thick line around your eyes should do the trick. Think hung-over raccoon.


You've Got Guts
There's nothing sexier than a stomach. And since it's so often that we all wander around in public raising up our shirts to our bras, why not capture that moment and post it on the internet? Just make sure the elbow of the shirt-lifting arm is lifted as high as possible, like a bird wing. This way you'll appear mighty, like the eagle. But what if your stomach isn't like Heidi Klum's? No worries, it's the internet. You're in 72 dpi. No one will notice your jelly rolls.


Camera? What Camera?
It's also very creative to pretend that you're unaware of a picture being taken. ESPECIALLY if the picture is obviously a self portrait. The key to this is a dead look in the eyes. Find the most boring object around and place it about ten feet away. Then stare at it until your eyes blur and SNAP! Perfect picture.


Baby's Got Background
Nothing says "I'm fun" like being surrounded by clutter. If the floor is visible in your photo (self portrait shot from above, for example) make sure the surrounding area is littered with odds and ends: towels, cell phone, papers, shoes, tupperware. After all, this isn't a spread in Elle Magazine, so you don't need some swanky couch or pretty window in the background. That would just detract from your beauty.


Wow, I found out more than I even knew. Guess it's time to break out the ol' camera. Wish me luck.

I'm trying to learn some French.

Since I'm going to visit my cousin and her husband in Paris this September, I figured I'd learn a few words so I wouldn't be completely helpless.

The problem with learning a new language, though, is that it's not your language.

Seriously. Sounds pretty asinine to say, but it's the truth.

It's not simply replace-this-word-with-that-word like a puzzle. The grammar is different. The tonality is different. Hell, the hand motions are probably different.

That and French is nothing like English (which I'm pretty good at) and Spanish (which I'm not helpless at).

So when I see the French words, I try to pronounce them like they're Spanish and all goes to hell.

So right now, I've decided to try and just learn to talk. Enough. To survive. My priority is saying, "I do not eat meat."

As for reading, uh, that's probably not going to happen.

But in all of this fretting about writing, I came up with a genius idea.

While in France, if I'm able to blog, I'm going to write my blogs in English. Then I'm going to use a translator web page to put them into French. Then I'm taking that broken French and converting it back into English.

So it will sort of be the reverse of my situation. I'll be trying to speak in horrible French and my blogs will be in horrible English.

It's going to be hilarious.

For example, take this sentence.

"Everyone here smells like a sick dog who's rolled around in garbage" turns into "Each one here feels like a sick dog who's rolled around in refuse."

I don't know about you, but that's comedy.

Bon apre medi.

Come on, July 30, 2008.

We all get forwarded-to-death emails from time to time. The "don't buy gas this Tuesday" messages. The "Microsoft will give you $1,000" informers. And the countless "George Bush" something somethings.

Not often enough, such an email will get squashed by the one person sensible enough to research before clicking "forward."

I just so happened to be that person today.

And I discovered utopia.

This coming July 30, the Cheesecake Factory will be selling slices of delectable, creamy, sinfully delicious cheesecake for [drumroll] $1.50.

That's one dollar and fifty cents American.

That's less than two dollars.

That's in my couch cushions.

I'm almost certain that a dollar fifty's worth of coins is clinking around in the underbelly of my purse. I usually keep it there so the purse is heavier in case I need to thwack a mugger or renegade muppet. But now I can use it for CHEESECAKE!

Date night is on me, babe.

I love "The Golden Girls." There, I said it.

Seriously. That show holds a special place in my heart.

And the passing of Estelle Getty, the hard-nosed Sophia on the Golden Girls, always made me wish for a crotchety, old, Italian grandmother figure in my life.

So today, when you look at the sky and you spot that golden ray of light that appears to be traveling up into the clouds instead of down onto the earth, know that it's Estelle Getty ascending to her pillowy retirement castle in the sky.

Have we met?

Too often, someone approaches you and strikes up a conversation like they've known you years.

In some cases, they have.

And you have no idea what this person's name is, what kind of alcohol he likes, or if he's ever worked with you.

Too often, you stand there like a blinking idiot, idiotically blinking and playing every who-are-you game you can think of. You mention your siblings, schools, jobs, bars - nothing works.

You: How's your, er, sister?

Stranger: Brother.

You: Oh, yeah. How's he?

Stranger: Dead.

You: Uh?

Stranger: We met at the funeral.

Then you run away and cut yourself to feel something that's less painful.

Well, I've taken a new approach on figuring out who people are.

Flat out say, "Dude, who are you?"

Being an awkward, foot-in-mouth comedian type has it's perks in situations like this. If you can get away with it, I offer the following lines*:

- You're going to have to remind me of your name. I drink a lot.

- I'm sorry, I've been in a coma and lost most of my memory. Where did we meet?

- [Interrupt him] I'm a terrible person and have no idea who you are. Please tell me. [Then say this exact same thing a minute later. Then periodically throughout the conversation. Be sure to end with] Nice to see you again, er ...

- I forget who you are. Remind me? [let him answer] Oh, yeah! I forgot you on purpose!

- Are you sure we've met? [he reminds you] Oh, I remember that night. But I still don't remember you, [name]. You must've made a horrible impression.

If all else fails, fake appendicitis and get out of there.

*Most of the time, I'm being completely sincere when I say these offensive things. That's what makes them so funny! To me!

I saw THE DARK KNIGHT twice today.

Dear Christopher Nolan,

Thank you.

Most sincerely,
Veronica

Today is a holiday.

Happy the Dark Knight Day, everyone.

Love,
Your Queen

Every night is a dark night.

Hello, Lover*.

There are only two days that separate us. Two painful, agonizingly long days.

And then?

Perfection.

Every second that passes is agony. Every glance at the clock reveals the dire truth that it's not yet 12:10 PM on Friday, July 18th.

But know this, Batman, when the theatre goes dark and Gotham City flashes in front of my eager face, I'll be right there.

Ready and willing to do whatever it takes to get a ride in the Bat Mobile.

Want homemade cookies? Done. Need your floors mopped? Well, I'm sure you have house staff for that, but do they wear pink, patent-leather bikinis? I don't think so.

Want a hand job? Sure, why not? Let's do this.

And by the way, I drive a stick.

Until Friday,
Veronica

*Batman

Why is the sun so popular all of a sudden?

Man, I don't want to use this blog for pop-culture musings and pointing out other people's work, but (and there it is, the but) I found something today.

Comic about sunburn.
The conclusion.

I can't help but wonder, did they see my blog first?

I've lost faith in the law.

As you probably know, I've been writing little snippets of a story where some dumbass sues the Sun.

"It's the Sun's Fault."

You can interpret this tale a few ways. Some dude is suing an inanimate object. Some dude is suing a celestial body. Or if you approach it as poly-deism, a guy is raising a case against the gods or God in general.

Well, my far-fetched idea isn't so imaginative after all.

Today in the local paper is a story about some idiot who fell over while praying. He bumped his noggin and now he's suing his church.

"Matt Lincoln of Knoxville, Tenn., says he was so consumed by the spirit of God that he fell and hit his head while worshipping. Now the 57-year-old is suing his church for $2.5 million for medical bills,lost income, and pain and suffering."
Associated Press

Aren't you supposed to give to the church? Isn't the church supposed to teach forgiveness?

And what idiot attorney would take a case like this? Seriously. I need to know.

There really isn't anything to say here besides a grown-ass man should fucking know better.

I award you, Matt Lincoln, the ultimate douche bag award.

The whole thing it truly stunning.

Um, I'm trying to make a really important point.

Um, something is really having a negative, um, affect on my speaking.

And, um, it wasn't there before.

Why have I started using "um" again?

A few years back, like so many 20 year olds at the time, I used "um" and "like" excessively. Perhaps not to the Valley Girl level, but it was pretty bad.

So I put crap tons of effort into fixing my vocabulary. I learned how to use pauses instead of monosyllabic utterings.

And being in the business world has ruined me. I've recently noticed that I've started umming again.

Saying um is communicable. You catch it aurally. It leaves one person's mouth, floats into your ear and merrily implants itself into your brain. Sometimes it takes effect immediately. Other times, it lays dormant for weeks or even a year.

Then, BAM, you're umming like a stoner kid giving excuses about why his eyes are all red.

It's alarming how many people in the business world (and not just my business world, mind you) can't speak. They'll passionately express valid arguments, winning over the hearts and trust of important associates.

And then ruin it all with a drawn out um.

Their intelligence just flees out the crack under nearest door.

And their um lodges itself into my head and repeats itself sentence after increasingly-dumbing sentence.

So now the rehabilitation process gets to start all over again.

For those who know me and see me, if I say "um" and it's not used in an intended way, slap me. But not in the face. If I can't break this habit, I need my looks to fall back on.

It's the Sun's fault! Part 4

Jason's alarm went off at 6:30 in the morning. This was standard operating procedure.

Jason's eyes slowly opened to total darkness. This wasn't standard operating procedure.

Assuming that he mis-programmed his alarm, he snoozed it.

Ten minutes later when the alarm woke him up, he discovered that light still wasn't seeping in through his curtains. So he snoozed again.

And again. And again. And until 8.

"This can't be right," Jason mumbled as he got out of bed and walked to the window. He raised the blinds and discovered that all was dark around his house. The house across the street, though, was bathing in the warm glow of the morning sun shine.

"What the hell?" Jason asked no one as he scratched his head. He went to the living room and turned on the TV to check the news.

It was indeed 8 AM and it certainly was a sunny day.

After a few moments of processing this info, Jason shouted, "Shit, I'm late!" and sprung into an abbreviated version of his morning routine.

Thirty minutes later, he was pulling out of the driveway and onto the street.

Before he drove away, he took one last look at his house.

All around, the sun shone brightly. Except where Jason's property line started. The entire house and yard were encased in shadow.

And so was Jason's car.

He looked up through the sun roof and saw the cloud hovering over his auto.

"?" Jason literally thought.

He drove to work at break-neck speed as the Wind directed the car-covering cloud through the city traffic.

As Jason locked up his car at the office, he finally started realizing that he'd experience no sun during his lawsuit. Oh well. At least his car would stay cool.

He walked into his office where a county servant was waiting for him with some folded papers.

The Sun, in an effort to protect himself, had filed a restraining order.