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Disney’s Next Hit Movie: “Sister From Another Mother” starring Ashton Kutcher

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Who’s your Daddy?

I had a dream about an Ashton Kutcher movie. In the movie, he had knocked up two chicks within a year. He saw both the girls and their mothers only briefly now and then. The one mom and daughter were bitchy. The second mom and daughter were nice. They both started putting their daughters in beauty pageants. Ashton would go and cheer them both on. They are like six and seven years old. Then the good mom gets sick, so Ashton has to take over as the pageant mother. At first the other mom and daughter just laugh at Ashton and the good daughter. But then they feel sorry for them and help them out, learning to not be so bitchy. I figure Disney could make it. It would remind people of The Parent Trap.

My husband wanted to know what I would call it. I would call it “Sister From Another Mother”. Then you could have a sequel without Ashton called “Sister From Another Mother: Summer Camp”. Then you could have the straight-to-DVD “Sister From Another Mother: School Dance”.

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Why I Don’t Wear Make-Up

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When I was younger, I experimented with make-up like every other girl. I started with the blue eye shadow and the red lipstick and the pink blush. I am sure it was horrible. At some point I had enough zits that I started using foundation and concealer (are those the right terms?) to cover them. At one point, I had a great orange palette going on–orange eye shadow, blush, and lipstick. It was 90210 brand lipstick:) It sounds bad now, but it was 1989 and I was in middle school. It was acceptable then, I swear. Well, to me anyway.

I really wanted to find a picture of 90210 make-up products. You will have to settle for this orange-faced chick instead. Pretend this is what I looked like in middle school.

And the reason I don’t wear make-up: a snotty girl in my class at school. I would love to post her name here, but it is so silly, no one would believe that is really her name. And I won’t give her the satisfaction of putting her name in print. Let’s just call her Tori Crapshooter. (Except her real name is even sillier.)

In Gym class one day (the inner circle of the hell that is middle school), Tori came up to me and asked me who did my make-up. How the hell is one supposed to reply to that? So, of course, I said, “me.” She was like “oh”, and that was the end of it. I don’t really think I have worn much make-up since, except maybe some eyeliner and lipstick when going to a concert or for Halloween or to a concert on Halloween (I did that once. I saw Good Charlotte in Toledo and I stood behind Wayne and Garth from Wayne’s World).

I wish I would have said “None of your business.” or “Who does yours?” or “Yo Mama.” But I didn’t. I was meek. Much meeker then than I am now. Standing in my “cool guys are the coolest” T-shirt and shorts in the gym. My legs so white that all my veins hung out for the world to see under the harsh, buzzing lights. Tori was a bitch, and I knew it. But for some reason I took her question to heart. And committed it memory. She probably doesn’t remember me or that question or that day in gym class.

Maybe she did me a favor that day. Think of all the money I have saved over the years by not wearing make-up. All the extra time I get to sleep-in in the mornings. All the time I am not spending at the store trying to find the right shade of something. What I really should have done was use my words to make her feel as small as she made me. I could have made fun of her white girl afro. Or I could have pointed out how dumb her name was.

I’m not stalking you. is NOW ON FACEBOOK! “Like” that I’m not stalking you and get an update when there is a new post to read. (It is sort of like YOU are stalking ME.)

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