Beth and I have talked about New Song Sunday. That is when our group decides that we’re all going to sing new songs. Which usually happens on Sunday. Which is where our catchy title comes from. Plus, Thursdays are usually too busy for us to sing more than a warm up song so that’s why it’s not New Song Thursday.

Anyway, Sunday was not entitled New Song Sunday. This is not to say that we didn’t try new songs, we did try a few. Instead, we gave it the name Fashion Nightmare Sunday. Now a test for you. Can you guess why it was called Fashion Nightmare Sunday? Can you?

If you said “Because there were people dressed in clothing that could only be considered Fashion Nightmares” you would be partially correct. If you added “And it was Sunday” you would be completely correct and I would jump up and down in glee over how smart you are. Okay, I probably wouldn’t jump up and down but I would exude glee while standing still. That’s just how talented I am at expressing glee.

Editor’s Note – The Editor would like to apologize for the Dana’s oddness today. Apparently, the Dana’s doctor, the Deb, increased her dosage of Effexor to 225 MG instead of 75 MG. Also, the Dana finally remembered to take Seraquel last night which is a mood stabilizer but also has the benefit of making the Dana very tired so she pretty much passed out and slept really well for the first time in weeks (but also made the Dana oversleep so she missed her bus this morning and had to take a later bus because she is a slacker. But her manager, the Cheryl, is very cool and the Dana also had an hour of paid time off because the Dana’s quality rocks) and didn’t wake up with the Dana’s back in a lot of pain. So, anyway, the Editor would like to point out that the Dana, while odd and still extremely in debt (and also somewhat pissed off because the guy she was rooting for on Last Comic Standing (Chris Porter, he of the goofy charm and geeky cuteness) was voted off the show), is feeling quite well today. The Editor apologizes as well for interrupting the post to bring you this apology. Please carry on with reading the Dana’s post (There’s a reason for the third person, by the way. If the Beth hasn’t posted the reason, she really should).

I know that there are some stories about Beth’s Scottish admirer somewhere, not that I can find them. Barring not being able to find the stories (and again, I say, I have to update my archives. They are horrible and disorganized and I don’t like it one bit (Teri, Beth is the one to contact for how to do the whole code thing, I have no clue. I just did what she told me. She is very template savvy), I will give you a bit of background information.

Craig (not hot Craig, our friend who looks like George Clooney according to My Heritage. You know, the website that says I look like Rosa Parks) is a man who is apparently Scottish. We say apparently because he speaks with a thick Scottish accent but has been in the country for 20 years (Which, yes, really doesn’t mean anything. I’ve spoken to people who are 4th generation citizens and still have thick accents because of their environment, etc). BUT! His accent sort of comes and goes. He also has a habit of using phrases that are predominately English and I’m sorry, but how many people do you know in Minnesota that go around saying “Bloody Hell” and “Smeg” and “You bleeding sod?” No one. So it’s probably not something that he’s learned or picked up (now, I will admit to occasionally using the terms “Bloody Hell” or “Git” or “Wanker” but that’s usually after reading Johnny’s blog or reading one of Mil Millington’s books and so it doesn’t count) by hanging around a bunch of Scots. And do Scots have the same slang as the Brits? I wouldn’t think so and I have just realized that I have spent way too much time thinking about this guy and his possible fake accent.

Anyway, not only does he have a possible fake accent but he also wears this completely cheesy red beret (and someday I’m going to end up singing “Raspberry Beret” on a night that he’s there (or maybe not because that would be mean and I am many things but I am not mean (oh, shut up. Yes, sometimes I am a bitch, I admit that))) and has this cheesy moustache that looks like it’s headed for handlebar status. And one night he sat at our table and kept staring at Beth’s chest while stroking said moustache. Not cool. Plus, he also kept calling her Elizabeth after she repeatedly told him that her name is not Elizabeth. And it’s not. It’s legally Beth. And, even if it wasn’t legally Beth, how would he like it if I kept calling him, oh, I don’t know, douchebag? Or Pervy McPornington? And he would correct me and I would say “Oh, excuse me. Craig” and I would continue to stare at him and stroke my eyebrow, I guess, and then call him “Pervy” again. I bet he wouldn’t like that.

Anyway, yet again, I have become distracted. So Craig walked in on Sunday, dressed in a tweed (or tweedlike) suit and tie. Which, okay, is not normally a fashion disaster. I usually like a man in a suit, especially if it is tailored to fit. However, one thing that I am sure every fashion designer in the world would say is “Please, for the love of God, do not pair your suit with a red beret. That is just not right.” Perhaps if he was wearing a black beret or was actually French or maybe looked like Man Pretty Ryan who could wear a burlap sack and look good in it, the combination would work. And why is he, as a Scotsman, wearing a beret? Shouldn’t he be wearing a kilt? I would be more accepting of a kilt. Okay, maybe not because he strikes me as having skinny legs (I bet Man Pretty Ryan would look good in a kilt. And Bryan would because he is ruggedly handsome (as he continuously tells us (as a joke)) and doesn’t have to shout his Scottish history to the world by using a possibly fake accent. No. Bryan is much cooler than that and can play just about every musical instrument known to man, including bag pipes. Say what you will about bag pipes but I love them).

Now, Beth and I have also mentioned the fact that we seem to have that friend telepathy thing that can be communicated to one another with just a glance or a raised eyebrow (okay, I can’t raise my eyebrow but I’m pretty sure she can because she can wink and I can’t do that either) or we’ll be in a crowded bar on a date with Pete (which was supposed to be a date with someone else and mainly was us communicating back and forth “How did I (You) end up on a date with Pete?”) and I can hear everything she says but not a word from him or anyone else. So, Sunday, Craig walks in. Beth and I look at each other.

The following conversation takes place (telepathic part is in Italics):

B: Oh, my GOD!
DM: I know! I know!
B: What the heck is that?
DM: Very poor fashion taste, obviously.
B: I’m going to start laughing.
DM: Me too. Stop looking at me.
B: You stop looking at me!
DM: If we don’t get out of here, we’re going to lose it.
B: I know!

B (choked voice, trying to restrain laughter): Dana. I need to go to my car. Would you be willing to help me with that?
DM (see above voice description): Why, yes. I would be happy to assist you.

We quickly head outside, round the corner by the door. Beth opens her car door and shuts it again. And then we collapse with laughter. I am holding on to the trunk of her car to keep me upright.

B: Oh my GOD!
DM: I know! I know!
B: What is he doing? Applying for a job for the IRA? And got confused with the Foreign Legion?
DM: I don’t know.

More laughter. More holding onto the trunk.

B: (noises to indicate that she is calming down)
DM: (see above noise indicator):

We make the mistake of looking at each other.

B & DM: Bwahahahaha!

Some time goes by.

B: Okay. Should we go in?
DM: Yes. I think so.
B: It’s got to be the IRA.
DM: Oh, yeah, that has to be it. And he’s just really confused because he’s Scottish.

More laughter.

Finally we make it inside, calm, cool and collected. Until a few minutes later.

Unbeknownst to me, Craig has removed his jacket. Beth and Stubes are whispering back and forth. And laughing. I hate it when people are laughing and I don’t know what it is about. Dang it!

DM: What?
B: Nothing.

Beth grabs my notebook and writes the following:

B: Dude, suspenders are sexy!

She also put a little squiggly line after sexy. But you can’t see that because I don’t have a scanner and I don’t know how to make Blogger put a little squiggly line. Just in case any of you are wondering, Beth is actually being sarcastic here. She doesn’t really like suspenders. Neither do I, unless, of course, they are being worn by manly lumberjacks with manly chests threatening to break free of their manly flannel shirts. Then I am all for suspenders (Craig, if you were wondering, is neither a lumberjack or manly in any way). I am not sure if Beth has a lumberjack exception rule.

Becky and Angie had also noticed Craig and his odd attire. We, being horrible, horrible women, spend a few moments mocking him and trying to figure just what statement he was trying to make. We also bring up another semi-regular (fake name Leaping Larry) that will come in and wear suspenders and it just doesn’t work for him either.

Some time goes by.

B: Is that guy wearing pink shorts?
DM: What?
B: He is. Those are pink shorts.

Now I am of the opinion that you should be able to wear every color of the rainbow if you want and that colors should not be limited to you because you are a male or a female. I have seen some extremely attractive men wear pink shirts or pink ties and still put forth a very masculine image. However, there are just some things that cross the line from cutting edge of fashion to Oh my God, dude, what were you thinking? Pink shorts are one of those things. I’m sorry but I have to take a stand here. Next thing you know, you’ll have men wandering around wearing paisley and that is just wrong (actually, it’s just wrong because I’m not a huge fan of paisley).

Some more time goes by. A man is called up to sing.

DM: Huh. Looks like James Dean has made an appearance.
Angie: Yeah. Looks like he wandered off the set of Grease.

Torn blue jeans, tight white t-shirt, stubble. He may have even had a pack of cigarettes rolled up in his sleeve. He is the epitome of the 50s bad boy.

Beth grabs my notebook again.

B writes: Hey, look. John Travolta just arrived. And he’s singing Turn the Page.
DM writes: I had thought James Dean. Angie said he walked off the set of Grease. I guess you guys win.

We declare that it is Fashion Nightmare Sunday. And that is before we notice the cowboy.

That’s when it is decided that someone needs to sing “Do Ya Think I’m Sexy?” Guess who is elected to sing the song? Guess. Very good. That would be me.

Just for the record, the song “Do Ya Think I’m Sexy” is very weird. Rod Stewart is a freak. And apparently, according to Bryan, there used to be a regular that dressed like Rod Stewart and tried to look as much like him as possible. That’s just wrong.

And because it wouldn’t be right to not post the lyrics of the song, here you go.

My only question, as you are reading this, why does she ask him for a dime to call her mother? What is she going to say? “Hey, Mom, I picked up a random guy and am going to do him now. Don’t wait up.”

Do Ya Think I’m Sexy?
Rod Stewart

mmm … ooh

She sits alone waiting for suggestions
He’s so nervous avoiding all her questions
His lips are dry, her heart is gently pounding
Don’t you just know exactly what they’re thinking?

If you want my body and you think I’m sexy
Come on, sugar, let me know
If you really need me just reach out and touch me
Come on, honey, tell me so

He’s acting shy looking for an answer
Come on, honey, let’s spend the night together
Now hold on a minute before we go much further
Give me a dime so I can phone my mother
They catch a cab to his high rise apartment
At last he can tell her exactly what his heart meant

If you want my body and you think I’m sexy
Come on, sugar, let me know
If you really need me just reach out and touch me
Come on, honey, tell me so

His heart’s beating like a drum
‘Cause at last he’s got his girl home
Relax, baby, now we are alone


They wake at dawn ’cause all the birds are singing
Two total strangers but that ain’t what they’re thinking
Outside it’s cold, misty and it’s raining
They got each other, neither one’s complaining
He say’s I’m sorry but I’m out of milk and coffee
Never mind, sugar, we can watch the early movie

If you want my body and you think I’m sexy
Come on, sugar, let me know
If you really need me just reach out and touch me
Come on, honey, tell me so
Tell me so, baby