Monthly Archives: October 2012

Bettie’s Beauty Secrets

Most mornings when I wake up I instantly hate everything. I’m mad at the curtains for fooling me into thinking I had more time. I’m pissed at my cats for meowing in excitement at my first sign of life and the possibility that they might be fed. I hate the thought of untangling myself from the comforter that has somehow not strangled me in the night and touching my bare feet to the cold bamboo floor. In short, I’m not a morning person.

My snooze button sees more action than Chris Brown and Rihanna’s bathroom stall and I usually manage to flop out of bed sometime between 7:00 and 7:15. In order to be to work on time, and especially if I want to stop for coffee (which I need), I have to be walking out the door by 7:25. Not a minute later. I use the ten minutes between slumber and sidewalk to smooth out the previous night’s makeup and take on a heavy dose of dry shampoo while simultaneously brushing my teeth. Needless to say, I look damn good for my coworkers. Damn good.

On a rare occasion I will wake up at 6:50 in an attempt to shower away the anger and trick myself into being awake and alert. With shampoo residue glistening in my rat-tail, I slather on as much makeup as I can get on in ten minutes and make sure to do my eyebrows and lips so onlookers can definitely tell that I’ve tried that day. My eye makeup is inconsequential underneath my thick, black-rimmed glasses so that’s a definite time-saver. Whatever clothing is nearest and not wrinkled (least wrinkled) goes on and I jump into either loafer-like slippers or black ankle boots that have been falling apart for a year. Hair still dripping down the back of my neck, I run out the door and down the stairs, avoiding spiders and the occasional rat to try to figure out where I parked the night before.

By the time my hair air-dries and the morning fog lifts, I realize that I’ve put on something that smells of cat urine and my tights have a giant fuzzy on the inside of the shin that I can’t get out without completely removing my shoes and tights. So I leave it.

It’s a wonder someone hasn’t snapped me up. Hot.



I’ve noticed a sort of pattern in my life as of late. I never seem to have a normal, casual social life. I’m either hitting up 3 or 4 bars with several different groups of friends or I’m sitting in my bed, watching Netflix and posting multiple Facebook statuses about my cats. Where is the happy medium? It’s lost among hangovers, homework and alarm clocks, that’s where.

Last Friday I begrudgingly tore myself away from my slippers and trudged downtown in my favorite yellow booties. It’s quite a transition going from grungy slippers to 5-inch spikes, but hey…my ankle isn’t going to sprain itself. I met up with one of my favorite bar-buddies to have a beer at a place we never go. Two sips in, I remembered why we didn’t go there. Dude-bros filled the scant standing area surrounding the bar like a douchey tidal wave and I drowned in bedazzled denim. Soon, the air responded in kind and reverberated with the “boom-ch-boom-ch” of the worst club music you could imagine. Was I in a club? You might ask. No. I was in a Tavern/restaurant. You can imagine my confusion. Once I was finally able to get the attention of the miniature blonde bartender, she turned her dimpled back to me and grabbed my tab. I furiously signed and got the hell out of there before I could find out if Nickelback fandom was contagious.

Somewhere in the excitement and Affliction aftermath I lost my friends but found a new one. He and I set off down the street, with me carefully hobbling over the treacherous bricks in my heels, to visit a presumably less douchey bar. That night was a particularly bad night for non-douche bars, however, since apparently local arena football brings out all kinds. We cut our losses and flounced to my favorite karaoke gay bar instead. Ah…peace at last. When friend number two had to leave me and head home to his boyfriend, I contacted the Lesbian Legion to see what shenanigans they were up to that evening. Of course, more than a few were out and about on the strip. After walking what was a couple of miles at that point, I started to reconsider my choice of footwear. It was too late to do anything though, and I’d rather look fabulous than feel my feet the next day so I marched on, hiding my limp with a strut. Or so I told myself, anyway. The Lesbian Legion wanted to hit yet another bar, my fifth of the evening, and dragged me along for the ride. Much to my chagrin, there was dancing involved. I can’t say no to dancing and my feet were seconds from falling off of my body. Just detaching and heading home without me. So close. I tried to slyly take them off to dance (my shoes, not my feet) but the bearded bouncer stopped me within seconds. He’s good. He’s seen white-girl-wasted before. Finally, when the bar was closed and we were all but pushed out the door, I was able to remove the wretched spikes and walk home in my tights. Not before stopping to say hello to the most famous homeless man in town, however. Bra Man says “what’s up”.

Saturday and Sunday were spent laying in bed, watching movies on Netflix and musing about my cats on Facebook. I posted two pictures and a number of statuses about things they were playing with, eating and/or how they were sleeping. I’m that lady. Make no mistake, blogosphere. It takes me at least two days of cat-statuses to recuperate from a night on the town with my friends. I can strut/limp all I want and throw back shots like a cool chick, but you’ll know that for the next two days I will indeed be wearing hideous pajamas, not showering and expecting answers in cat-conversations.

Please enjoy this picture of my cats sleeping:

It’s Lazy Sunday, yo!

Caramelized: Nashville Part 2.5

Not wanting to waste any of our time in Nashville (or Nashvegas) my sister and I made the sound decision to go out on the strip after the festival on Friday night. All we had to do was wander into any of the bars and we were treated to wall to wall frat guys, more bachelorette parties than I can stomach and struggling musicians insisting on tips. Since I’m a straight up bitch, we opted to avoid any potential conflict and duck into the bars that seemed (at least from the outside) to be sparsely populated.

Despite our best efforts, we were still irritated and thought that perhaps doing some shots would help remedy that. It did. We were making friends in no time. Our first friend was the guitarist/singer for one of the house bands who sat at our table (uninvited) between sets. We bought him a shot of “Fireball” Whiskey and it seemed to have the same effect as feeding a stray animal. He kept coming back. It was amusing at the very least so we stuck around for a bit and chatted with the bouncer who was – gasp – also an aspiring musician. This town is bursting at the seams with wannabe singer/songwriters. It’s almost like LA is with actors, but more hopeful and smells less like prostitution and old milk.

After leaving that bar we were planning to head back to the hotel. Until, that is, we wandered past a man with a glorious beard/mustache combination that we just had to touch. He was a bouncer for another bar boasting cigars and a female singer who was belting out “Pontoon”. We were sold. We walked in, disappointed that there were no cigars available in the actual bar area and ordered more Fireball whiskey, so as not to break the pattern. I was standing next to a good-looking youngster so I struck up a conversation, like I tend to do. After surprisingly little prodding we found out that this particular dude went to high school with Taylor Swift and hated her. Go figure. I guess she was a bit of a snob to anyone who didn’t fit into her clique. “You wear short skirts, I wear sneakers”,  my ass…

Mutlu and the band, rocking out to “Caramel”

Once we were good and lubricated (socially) we headed back to the hotel and changed into more comfortable but extremely unflattering pajamas. This wouldn’t be an issue if we went right to bed. Instead, my sister headed outside to smoke a cigarette and after an eerily long wait for her to return, I went down to make sure she wasn’t passed out on a gargoyle. She wasn’t. She was involved in a parking lot singalong. With Amos Lee and his band. I was startled at first, when I almost ran right into Amos, and said, “You’re Amos Lee and I’m wearing this.” He laughed. I didn’t. Thank Gos for that lubrication!

Amos Lee and me in my PJs (cameltoe?)

The singalong consisted of Amos’s guitar player and fellow vocalist, Mutlu, taking the lead and singing hilarious songs like “Caramel” and “Are you a Dude?” I laughed for hours (especially when treated to their “Alvin and the Chipmunk” song renditions) and even swooned when they did a capella versions of my favorite Boyz II Men songs. We were eventually asked to move to a more secluded area by the fountain when the sun started to come up and hotel guests started milling about. I guess ten people with beer in their hands, debauchery in their eyes and guitars around their necks at 6 am can be a bit off-putting. Who knew. To avoid further stern looks from the valets, we headed up to one of the band members’ rooms and kept singing. At one point, I busted out the first line of Montell Jordan’s 90s hit, “This is How We Do It” to help out with the lyrics and everyone stopped to stare at me, asking why I was so quiet for the first part of the night. I blushed and obviously stored that moment for later humble bragging. Please…take a moment to revel in it with me. Ah. That’s nice.

Big deals all around

After all the laughing, drinking and ridiculous singing we finally made it to bed at around 8 am. I didn’t realize how big of a deal Amos Lee was until recounting this story for friends when we got home. He’s kind of a big deal. Hopefully he keeps the Williams Sisters in his phone for any future tours through Michigan. We’re hoping to be kind of a big deal.

Southern Ground and On the Town: Nashville Part 2

My sister and I woke up refreshed and ready for the big day ahead on Friday morning. We knew we would need food at some point before the festival gates opened at 2pm, so we fabulized ourselves and headed downtown to “the strip” to find some grub. My fabulization looks like this:

It must be a bit too much for the southern folks, because while we were enjoying a fried bologna sandwich (yep) at a local bar, the owner came up to us and asked if we were musicians. We said we were not and he seemed unconvinced. He then offered to take care of our tab. Kicking myself for ordering a PBR, now. Once the meal was done, we had to wander toward the bathroom to freshen up. We opened the door and found the strange man in the women’s bathroom, taking pictures. Of stalls. Not vaginas. I was initially shocked but then just sort of went with it. He did own the place, after all. We chatted for a minute about his ongoing lawsuit (about a lack of handicap access, not for taking pictures in the bathroom) and then he left so we could pee. Nice dude. Looked a bit like Elvis. Only not.

After bathroom Elvis and the fried bologna, it was time to make our way to the festival. We were hell-bent on getting “front row” and didn’t want to wait too long after the gates opened to go in. The line was surprisingly short and we were traipsing toward the stage in no time. We wasted no time in forming “gate alliances” for the requisite bathroom/drink breaks and our impending meet and greets. Two of the ladies were from Kalamazoo and the other two guys were henceforth known as “The Tylers”. Tyler 1 (the hot one) and Tyler 2 (with a great personality).

Tyler 1 asked me if it was true that there are a bunch of wild dogs running around Detroit.

The smugness of our front row real estate wore off quickly once we realized that we couldn’t see anything over the top of the stage. Oops. We decided to hope for the best and stand our (southern) ground. While we waited for the show to start, we struck up a conversation with the Tylers and learned that they were from Atlanta and both came from family money. We used the rest of the night to glare at them every time they sang along to “poor people lyrics” (…”no we don’t have a lot of money…”, etc). We were amused, and I think they were just grateful someone their age (sort of their age) was talking to them.

When 5pm rolled around we headed over to the AMC tent to flash our badges and feel special for a while. We then realized that we’d get to meet the star of the show, “Hell on Wheels” (which neither of us had ever heard of) when he wandered in with security and a cameraman. When we first walked in, we looked around at the full tables and felt a bit like the losers in the high school cafeteria. After realizing that there was no room for us at any of the tables, we got resourceful with some new equally outcast friends and made a makeshift table out of a long piece of wood and a couple of barrels. You know, things you’d expect to see just lying around a VIP tent. It worked and we jumped into line for the delicious southern BBQ dinner.

We had barely finished shoving pulled pork into our mouths when a line started to form for the Anson Mount meet & greet. Sidling up to the end of the line I stared at Anson’s tiny rear end and giggled to myself about his hotness. I am an adult, after all. Poised and elegant. When it was finally our turn I had the usual moment of panic when I realize I had nothing witty or fun to say. Instead, I stuck out my hand and introduced myself which elicited an ear to ear grin from Anson and sparked some recognition. Was he? He was. He was “love interest” from the 90s Britney Spears movie: Crossroads. All of this realization came washing over me as I slowly walked away from his tush, stunned. CROSSROADS with BRITNEY SPEARS! I shared this newfound information with the other 20-something women in the tent and we all giggled and stared like the professional adults we are. I wanted to (needed to) talk to him about the movie. But I didn’t. I’m a chicken. Instead I sang “I’m not a Girl, Not Yet a Woman” quietly every time he walked near me.

Anson with the Williams Sisters

Crossroads Anson with Britney Spears


Almost immediately after meeting Anson we were corralled into yet another line to meet Zac Brown Band. This meeting wasn’t quite as exciting as we were literally shoved into the giant band of tiny men, struggled to smile while shaking Zac’s hand and shoved back out again in a matter of seconds. I never even got to touch (or smell) the famous beanie. I bet it smells like pot. And BBQ sauce.

 Finally it was time to head back to the crowd and enjoy the show. I had missed Michael Franti and Spearhead while enjoying my dinner and got back to the crowd just in time to catch the end of Amos Lee and his band. Of course, at the time I had no idea who Amos Lee was and sort of wanted him to hurry up so ZBB could hit the stage. My sister waltzed back into her previously claimed spot and was halted by a middle-aged woman with a mom haircut. This lady said, not to my sister, but rather to the uninterested crowd, “Ok. Stand right in front of me. I can see GREAT now.” Which was just stupid because the stage was at least a foot taller than any of our heads. This lady was drunk and mad about being old and having a stupid haircut. I asked her if she had an issue and she started in on me. I chose to stand directly behind her and breathe down her neck rather than take my rightful place in front of her. She seemed to get my intent since she took off after shouting more hateful things to my sister. I was about to fight someone my mother’s age. It would not have been pretty. I was wearing a dress.The rest of the evening was spent enjoying Zac Brown Band and their myriad guests (John Mayer, Sheryl Crow, Greg Allmen and Alan Jackson, to name a few) and trying to stay motivated to go out after the festival. We succeeded, but more on that in the next installment.

Zac Brown and John Mayer