Do they actually expect us to believe any of that stuff?

Not to go all Perez Hilton on you (though once I was voted most likely to host a talk show or work for a tabloid), but honestly... some of these Hollywood folks must think we're just plain stupid. Hello, Ashley Simpson-Wentz, I'm talking to you! Now, don't get me wrong. I like boys in eyeliner and tight punk pants as much as the next girl (more, actually), but c'mon! She was SOOO obviously pregnant in her wedding pictures in People Magazine.
Of course, it's not all Ashley's fault. And I'm not talking about the pregnancy because we know how that takes two (Though, on a separate tirade, is it too much to ask that people wait to consummate their relationships until AFTER they are married? Am I going to be the last virgin of the Los Lunas High School Class of '99? Who will stand with me on that one?). No, I'm thinking it's mainly Ashley's ooky dad Joe and the rest of the Simpson PR machine. If they can stretch it out into one more headline, they'll go for it. And I thought the Boleyn dad was bad in Scarlett and Natalie's recent movie. No, Joe Simpson is a pimp. And that's not a compliment.
Of course, that is nothing that hasn't been said before, but ugh.
Also in Hollywood baby news... Clay Aiken? Clay Aiken is a sperm donor, not a dad. Well, maybe he'll be more involved in his spawn's life than his own father was in his, but who knows if that's even a good thing? Still, we haven't heard as many "Clay is a whiny baby" stories recently, so maybe him helping produce a whiny baby isn't so far-fetched.
OK, enough of that. Hollywood is weird and stupid, and not a representation of my life.
Quick endorsement of an indie film, though:
The other night, some friends and I went to see the most excellent documentary Young @ Heart. See it. I'd give it a solid B+. Points docked for the narration... not really necessary. Points added for the old gal who used to do burlesque and has a hairy chinny chin chin. And the lady who looked a lot like my Grandmother Sego, only black. Seriously. I loved her. She was Gran's twin.
In other news of my life, I'm now a camper. Well, more like if Bob Wiley (Bill Murray's character in "What About Bob?") went camping. Picture me walking through the campground saying "I'm CAMPING!" in a Bob-like way. It totally happened. But if my dear little Caleb hadn't been there, I'd never have survived the wild. Caleb cleared a nice spot of earth for me, getting rid of pine cones and various and sundry debris so I'd sleep well. Then he pitched my tent for me. And he brought me an air pad to sleep on (lest you think this was all one-sided, I also brought him a pillow and flashlight, but still...). Then he gave me one of his Jones sodas so we could clink glass and have everyone else be quite envious. He pulled my foil dinner out of the fire and fixed me a plate of food so I could sit by another fire and stay warm. The next morning, he struck my tent and helped me get sunscreen on that place on my neck that's just out of reach. And best of all, when my somewhat evil ex-pseudo bf called, Caleb gave him a rude nickname to make me laugh and told me to move on because I deserved so much better. That's what you call friendship. I'm trying to repay him by helping him get a date with a girl he met while we were there (I'm the bomb Cupid, by the way) and by buying his affection with Gummy Bears. All in all, it was a super weekend. Sure I smelled like I'd been rolling around in a fire, but I still managed to talk to a nice chap who has an eerily familiar love for Poland, and now I know for a fact that there is mercy in this world. Brett (perhaps I'll now call him Brettski) teraz jest moim przyjacielem, ale mam nadzeje, ze bedzie moim chlopcem. Zartuje! Oh, how I love the Motherland.
What else, what else? I know some good secrets these days, but nothing that ought to be divulged in the blogosphere. Or even in van time, alas and alack. But I just wanted to say how proud I am that I know some, and that I'm keeping them. Most of them aren't even about me (note the word "most") but in my new quest to keep a little mystery in my life, it goes a long way.
Finally, a bit of a shout-out goes to my love, Andrew. I can call him my love because a) I love him platonically and b) he doesn't read my blog (I think). What I love most about Andrew (well, one of the things, that is) is his constant quest for self-improvement. I told him the other day that he's kind of my Yoda, and I look to him for guidance. The fact that he's always reading some wack-job self-help book actually gives me more confidence in his opinion rather than having him fall off his secure spot on a pedestal, though I'm not sure why. Mostly because I know he's pressing forward. When I have a decision to make, I think WWAD? He'd take the road less traveled and be remarkable. This is the guy who one day looked up at the BYU Smoke Stack and thought, "I wonder how much pollution this is putting out and how we can make it more efficient?" Move over, Al Gore. He researched it and made a proposal. From what I understand, it was implemented. And he did it in his own spare time. Environmentalism is sexy, but much more so when it comes from a real concern about the planet and future generations, as opposed to all the political rhetoric volleyed around this time of year.
PS. Brettski also loves water conservation. How I love Democrats! In moderation, just like Republicans, of course.
PPS. I love Ray Foote.
PPPS. Don't freak out, Ray-Ray, or anyone else who knows me. This is not a line to qualify my previous statement, but I'm feeling the love in general.
PPPPS. I think I need to see if my Olivia Newton-John album (hooray for vinyl... records, not pants). But not for any of the reasons anyone would suspect. Hahaha! See, I should have worked for a tabloid. I know how to write a teaser. Maybe I should try to get a job with Joe Simpson!