With all the college students moving into the Mill City this month, I was brainstorming with a pal of mine about what it takes to call yourself a true Lowellian. I know what you are thinking — Lowellita and one of her vapid friends actually have brains that stimulate over more than just who went home with whom last weekend. To be completely honest, we were just trying to block out the image of Gisele licking Brady’s wounds and the fact that the economy is doing worse than Scott Weiland at a pill party.

Looking around at the influx of newbies at the Old Court, we decided that they have a lot to learn — and I don’t mean in the classroom. There is always a battle in the city between the lifelong Lowellians and the Blowellians, especially come the fall when the lines to the ladies room at the local watering holes resemble the seventh inning stretch at Fenway.

If you are going to call Lowell home for the next nine months, here’s a list of 25 things to do to avoid blow-in status.

1. Find parking in Centralville or Pawtucketville during a snow ban.
2. Drink draft Pabst Blue Ribbon at The Worthen.
3. Discover the cure for a hangover — the Boott Mill sandwich at Arthur’s Paradise Diner.
4. Nod sympathetically and knowingly about the closing of Evos.
5. Become obsessed with Jack Kerouac — at least for one semester.
6. Roll your eyes when someone mentions Jack Kerouac and call him a hack, but only after living here for at least a year.
7. Trip or break a heel on the cobblestones of Middle Street one night or early morning.
8. Curse the gentrification of Middlesex Street that caused the loss of Barney’s Delicatessen.
9. Stand in line at the Brewery Exchange for 30 minutes in the rain, before you realize they use shot regulators and you can get three gallons of gas for the cost of one cocktail.
10. Curse yourself the morning after inhaling an omelet at the Club Diner after last call.
11. Curse yourself the morning after inhaling a steak bomb from Santoro’s Sub Shop after last call.
12. Throw parking tickets in a drawer in hope that the registry will someday just forgive and forget.
13. Eat an entire fat chicken from Suppa’s.
14. Know City Councilor Rita Mercier’s phone number by heart.
15. Start calling every grocery store Demoulas.
16. Know at least one person who is in the Lowell Sun daily — mostly just in the arrest log.
17. Spend more time idling in your car on one of the city’s bridges than at the Pollard Memorial Library.
18. Consider yourself part of the creative economy as reason to justify lingering outside Brew’d Awakening all day.
19. Know how to dupe the Lowell Police handing out speeding tickets at the end of the Connector by getting off the Thorndike Street exit.
20. Swear by Espresso Pizza, but order Fio’s anyway since they deliver.
21. Only venture into downtown for two reasons: to drink or jury duty.
22. Somehow come up with a way that you are related to Micky Ward, even if it’s by marriage.
23. Eat at either the Athenian Corner or the Olympia — never both.
24. Defend your position in an argument by saying, “Well, I read it in the Lowell Sun.”
25. Know the true identity of Lowellita and buy her a beer once or twice.

What makes you a true Lowellian? E-mail your reasons to lowellita@lowellsun.com.

Best friends cannot be replaced. Boyfriends, girlfriends, therapists, bartenders — if you don’t like what they have to say about your lifestyle choices they can all be dropped.

In some way or another, you are technically paying these people to tell you what you want to hear. For them, being dishonest pays off in the form of health insurance co-pays, tips and in the case of significant others, little blue boxes from Tiffanys.

It is part of their job description to reassure you that those jeans don’t make your rear look like Khloe Kardashian, but more like her better looking sister Kim. And that drinking the well vodka in your cucumber cosmo does not make you cheap. It all tastes the same when you are on your fourth anyway.

Your best friend would tell you, subtly of course, that you need to get some class and lose that (rhymes with glass). But that is why you are BFFs, for that brutal honesty money can’t buy. You can always count on your bestie to let you in on their little secrets like stretch-denim and New Hampshire liquor stores. Thanks to their inside information you will look 10 pounds lighter, but your wallet will feel 10 times heavier.

Through thick and thin — literally, your best friend is always there. The only thing more traumatic than replacing a BFF is getting a new hair stylist. Letting anyone you don’t know that close to a main artery, let alone your layered bob with super sharp scissors, can be hair-raising.

Breaking up with either your best bud or hairstylist could lead to social suicide. With all the dirty laundry your best friend has on you, not to mention the dishes that sat in your sink long enough for Pamela Anderson to dump Tommy Lee, for the sixth time, and get back together again (Hey, it’s for the kids, people!), you better think twice before kicking your BFF to the curb. Just look at Heidi and Lauren of The Hills.

Once those two became frienemies, it was revealed that LC was a little more Paris Hilton than Marcia Brady — if you get what I mean. Heidi became public enemy No. 1 when she outted that poor little rich girl for having a little more than just loose morals.

Lauren should have remembered the golden rule: Keep your friends close, but keep your frienemies closer.

Have a topic or issue for Lowellita to tackle? E-mail your suggestions to lowellita@lowellsun.com.

Who or what starts a trend?

Is it the gals from The Hills? We have them to thank for bromances, trustafarians and men wearing a button-down dress shirt underneath a faux vintage tee to the club. I don't get it. But, I also have a hard time comprehending why everyone hates Speidi either.

If it's not that contrived celebreality on MTV influencing the sheeples of the world, then what could it be? Perez Hilton, Us Weekly, Oprah, the Jonas Brothers, Dr. Drew ... Apple?

All are strong contenders in the race to influence our culture. What I really want to know is who started the latest craze of staying with your husband after he cheats on you?

When former New York Gov. Eliot Spitzer admitted he was a John and not an Eliot like his wife, Silda, thought, she smiled and held his hand. What was she thinking? Obviously not where that hand was the past year.

Now take John Edwards and all that baby daddy drama that has the makings of a Maury Povich episode. While his wife, Elizabeth, was ill with cancer the one time presidential hopeful was carrying on with some new age hippie. She forgives him. Maybe she sees a chance to be the first lady in her future, but pulling a Clinton is the closest Edwards will now ever get to the White House.

Speaking of Bubba, I think we can blame this partly on his wife. As much as I hate to admit it, I have a slight crush on the stallion from the south. That still does not mean I feel like his other half did the right thing in letting the boy be a boy.
Some women may disagree with my stance on standing by your man. They think that Hillary, Elizabeth and Silda are strong to be able to issue a playboy pardon. The one vein of feminism that runs through my body makes me think that we as women are taking "for better or worse" to a whole new level by turning a blind eye when a husband is a philanderer.

The whole point of getting married nowadays is to get a divorce. It used to be for the overly expensive kitchen utensils that you suckered your friends and family into buying on your registry. Spaghetti never tasted so good as when it is twirled on $100 spoon your cousin, whom you despise, had to buy because everything else was already purchased.

Do all of us a favor and kick your husband to the curb. Take the mansion, the summer home in the Hamptons, let him have the kids on the weekends and that will leave you plenty of free time to have a fling with the pool boy.

Cynthia Rodriguez knows how to do it. So does Morgan Freeman's soon-to-be ex-wife, who filed for divorce while he was still recuperating from a car accident in a hospital bed. We need more Mrs. Freemans in this world.

Breaking up is hard to do, but if you do it the right way you'll get to keep the diamond and your pride.

Lowellita has never been married, so take this advice with a grain of salt and shot of tequila. E-mail lowellita@lowellsun.com.

Donna Martin is not graduating to the new '90210' and this is causing quite the uproar.

There are some things that never cease to amaze me. Getting away with using clichés is one of them. A comic book character that flies around wearing a cape and a mask engaging in fights with a delusional clown has become the phenomenon of the summer.
Amazing.

It has entered our dialogue as an ice breaker. It’s small talk for those awkward run-ins at the water cooler with people you work with that you secretly wish would get laid off.
Who cares how their weekend was or how Johnny is getting ready to enter kindergarten.

Did you see The Dark Knight?

That question is usually followed by some statement about how Heath Ledger’s performance was legendary and that he should win an Oscar.

I am not surprised by that. Everyone loves the dead guy, especially if his cause of death was an overdose. It’s just so glamorous these days to meet your maker covered in vomit.

What really gets me is this guy, who is growing out his hair to win best Halloween costume as the Joker in October has suddenly put Ledger in the same category as his other top five screen actors of all time: Pacino, De Niro, The Rock, Damon and now Ledger.

Hmmm ... which one does not belong?

A few years ago, this is the same person who almost choked on his water when I asked if he had seen Brokeback Mountain. The same guy who repeatedly made jokes about cowboys and saddling up. Throw on some makeup, dye your hair and you rank right up there with Tony Montana.

Amazing.

Holy smokes, Batman — the Joker is gay? And so is Lindsay Lohan?

Which segues to my other astonishing discovery this summer — the alleged budding romance between LiLo and Samantha Ronson. Are they or aren’t they? Does it even matter?

According to the Los Angeles police chief it apparently doesn’t. Since Lohan “went gay” as he says the paparazzi have not been a problem in L.A.
Wow — that’s all it takes. Someone better tell Lauren Conrad.

The princess of The Hills better known as LC is on the cover of Entertainment Weekly complaining about being hounded by cameras all the time.
Huh? Does she realize she is the “main character” of a reality television show?

Amazing.

E-mail your discoveries to lowellita@lowellsun.com.

I felt a little bit like Dorothy last week. You know that wide-eyed naive girl from a small town who is flung into a universe filled with society's evils, cast-offs and temptation around every corner.

I crash-landed into an unknown world -- far, far away from the place I call home. Without the braided pigtails and tacky gingham-print apron dress, of course. In the new millennium's Oz, blue plaid is out, but a lap dog close to your side won't cause anyone to raise an eyebrow and deem you tacky -- just yet.

Follow the yellow brick road here!

Sundays. Ho-hum. Just typing the word induces yawns and heavy eyelids.

I have always associated the last day of the week (or is it the first?) with boredom. Some great authority dubbed it the day of rest. To me they either had a few too many gin and tonics on Saturday night, are lazy or had no friends.

Read the rest here!

What do you think of (insert appropriate flavor of the week's name here)? That is the loaded question that I find myself on the receiving end of when I am with one particular friend. Her tastes in men move faster than our taste buds.

Read more here!

When it is over, to me it is over. Done. Kaput. Adios. The end. Good-bye.

PhotoShop your ex out of all pictures and replace them with Johnny Depp. Delete their profile from your MySpace. Sell the birthday gifts you received from them on eBay. Change their name in your cell to "do not call or pick up unless you are sober" just to reinforce the consequences of making or taking that call after $2 shot night at the local dive bar.

If you're easily offended do not click here!

If there is one thing I hesitate telling people, it is that I am a writer. Just about everything else I feel comfortable revealing, with the exception of my climbing age and crush on Andy Dick -- come on, he is funny in a sick way.

Read more Here!

I just can't stop. Not that I want to, but if I did I would not be able to. Living on the run is the normal life for any 20-something. With so many decisions at the push of a button, how can a person settle for more than a second on one thing?

Did I stop? Find out here!

Every week I find myself invited to yet another party I do not want to attend. There are worse things I can complain about than having a packed social calendar. I figure, no one wants to be reminded about gas prices, housing costs, war and a slumping economy. I am taking the high road by sharing my salacious tales with the working class heroes of Greater Lowell.

By the way, you're welcome.

Read the rest here!

Last week, I got to play the role of a lifetime. I picked my costume out the night before -- trenchcoat, extra-large sunglasses and high heels I regretted wearing halfway through the day.

I crept down alleys, hid behind a dumpster, bribed a local business owner, got kicked out of a restaurant and manipulated a poor innocent citizen all for my own gain.

All just to meet Ricky Gervais...obviously!

Read the rest here!

I did the unthinkable just the other day.

...see what it was here!

I am on the hunt.

Most will stop reading after the first sentence, thinking yet again I am trying to find the perfect mate or martini. Sound the buzzer, because you are wrong. As much as you think you know me, it is not all about boys and booze in this gal’s life. There are much bigger and more difficult things out there to locate besides a man who is employed, with no criminal record and a sense of humor in this mill hole.

I am on the lookout for a place to call home. This is not my first apartment hunt, and it probably will not be my last, but each time it gets more difficult. In this case, experience does not make things easier.

We’re getting a bit ahead of ourselves here. Let’s take a step back and re-evaluate the situation.
I have no desire to have the smell of curry wafting through the ventilation system when I turn on my air conditioner. Nor do I want to write monthly checks that match the annual income of factory workers in Guatemala to a slumlord who will not fix a leaky dishwasher no matter how many times my heel goes through the rotted floor in the kitchen. Not in the slightest.

True story. I had a stiletto lodged in my kitchen floor for a couple of days until my friend suggested to use olive oil as a lube. Slid right out after that.

Nope, I don’t miss that at all. I would rather tough it out at my parent’s house for just a little while longer, but I am starting to get the sense that I have worn out my welcome.
I get it. I moved back in, the third time, with the plan to save money to buy a condo within a year. Two years later, still no condo or down payment. Whatever, there is a recession. Who would buy a house now? Not I. Stimulus package — smackage.

I began delving into the classifieds and Craigslist looking for ads within my price range. I learned quickly that a young, professional woman like myself can live just about nowhere. If I stretch the dollar a bit, survive on Ramen noodles, steal cable, try to pick up the neighbor’s WiFi signal and use candles instead of lamps, I could just afford to live in a basement studio in an alley off Appleton Street.
Very tempting. The landlord would not let me have a cat, even though the carpet smelled like the litter box for multiple felines of yore.

Someone told me the new apartments in the “up-and-coming” Hamilton Canal District, around the corner from the cat box, were reasonable and very nice. I thought I would give them a shot.
I parked my car at the first open spot I could find, three blocks away and fed the meter. I told the man asking for change that I put the last of it in the meter. I then avoided eye contact, putting my head down and picking up the pace when a car full of teenage boys began to cat call. I stepped over the sleeping homeless person in the alley to the front door.

Inside the model unit the building manager said there were plenty of units and models to choose from. I explained I wanted the cheapest. I didn’t even get to see any of the apartments — $1,200 for a one bedroom with no parking?!?! Later.

I woke up the homeless person when I asked him to move out of my way, flipped off another group of young men and told the beggar to get a job. When I got back to my car I was greeted with a parking ticket.

Nice, now I can tell my parents I need to pay the ticket before I move out. That buys me another 30 days. There was a happy ending to this story.

To share your housing woes, e-mail lowellita@lowellsun.com.

I used to pretend to be Madonna. I was a a 5-year-old with a ruffle denim skirt, a banana clip and clip-on earrings from the dollar store. Those plastic rosary beads they gave out in religion class came in handy for something. They worked great to complete my look.

I think Madonna would have been proud.

After the material girl, I went through a few short-lived phases. I spent countless afternoons in front of my mirror perfecting my inner Debbie Gibson, Tiffany, Paula Abdul and Jem. The Madge made a comeback, more than a few times. She is timeless.

I was tapped into anything that was peddled by MTV. As you can tell, that pop poison was pumping strong through my veins at a young age. Each dose was dispensed daily by a dealer named Downtown Julie Brown.

My parents must have thought I was doomed. There was never an intervention, but I am sure they were thinking about it. After I went to bed, I pictured them awake all night asking each other where the hell they went so wrong.

I grew up on a steady diet of blues harmonica. My father played in various gigs and open mics. His buddies would come over and they would hold jams while my mother was working an overnight shift. Looking back now, I have to say my dad was pretty cool.

I have to give my mother props too. Her record collection was peppered with Cream; Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young; Creedence and Leon Russell. She even drove my little brother and his buddy to a Metallica concert at Great Woods when they were 13 years old. She likes to tell the story about drinking Buds in the parking lot with Hells Angels as my brother was in the mosh pit.

True story. I can’t make this stuff up. Well, maybe they weren’t part of the Angels, but they were definitely bikers.

As you can see, I was raised on the straight and narrow, but like all children, I had to rebel. Pop music was the fuel to the fire — my parents hated it.

That was until the seventh grade, when I picked up a copy of Rolling Stone that was kicking around my house. I went cold turkey, trading in a Starter jacket for flannel and baby doll dresses. I used Kool-Aid to dye my hair and for once my parents were proud. I have to say that rock music saved my life.

Sometimes I still think I am Madonna. Her high was too powerful to forget. A person with a “stage name” and this wild party girl persona that in reality likes to hang at home making a spaghetti sauce while flipping through the Sunday New York Times.

The thing is, I don’t think I have ever found myself, whoever that maybe. But I sure hope that when I grow up I will drive my kid to a rock concert and tailgate with leather-clad bikers.

Who do you want to be when you grow up? E-mail lowellita@lowellsun.com.

Spring is like the light at the end of the tunnel. You can see it, you know it is getting closer, but it still seems so far away. This time of year in Lowell ushers in rain, daffodils sprouting from cracks in the pavement and long lines at the car wash on Middlesex Street.

Side effects of warmer temperatures and stronger doses of vitamin D brought on by the sun may create feelings of euphoria and cause laugh lines. It may also cause you to neglect your MySpace account, going without an update for a more than five hours. This will gradually increase as the mercury rises.

The sunny season’s side effects also bring the return of evenings of patio partying at The Courtyard and an overabundance of mukluks on the clearance racks. Can anyone tell me when these furry boots will move toward the light to their final resting place?

The crisp coolness of Sammy’s Summer Ale replaces heavy winter lagers and finally the fruit at the grocery store doesn’t look like it came from a Third World nation. Ah spring, what a lovely thing.

But the main attraction, as the days get longer and the nights get shorter, is not opening day at Fenway — though that may be at the top of everyone’s list, it is the kickoff of mating season for all mammals. And I am not talking about those pesky Acre alley cats howling all night long.

This means the dating season has officially commenced in downtown.

Within the boundaries of the cobblestone-lined streets is a hunting ground. Though some may attempt to stray outside the mill barriers, most stream into this area looking for their potential prey. For those who have been suffering from hook-up hibernation, this is the most exciting time of the year.

Men shed their winter facial hair and show off their new physique that it took since September to transform. Women also do some shedding — of clothing that is. Tank tops, skirts and bare legs return in their full glory. From the lines of bare legs at the Brewery Exchange all winter long, one could argue that we reside in the other L.A. Jean skirts in February are tacky, ladies, even if you fake sun it all year round or are a Pussycat Doll.

The issue at hand is that after such a bleak, boring and bitter five months, many of us need a refresher on our socializing skills. Here are some pickup pointers for all those lacking in self-promotion proficiency.

First off, if you want someone to take interest in you, insulting them — even if it’s a joke — is not the way to go. The dating scene is not grammar school, when kicking your crush in the crotch or putting gum in their hair is flirting.

Also, never snap, wave or call out “Hey you‚” from across the bar. Wait staff are not too keen on this tactic and neither are women.

Finally, offering to buy someone a drink is not a proposition to perform unnatural acts. Ordering a sex on the beach does not mean it will lead that way. And if they order that cheesy cocktail, whether they’re male or female, you may want to call the night a wash and head home.

What are your pickup pointers? E-mail lowellita@lowellsun.com

The traditionalist in me was nagging, like always, to write a column about St. Paddy’s Day. Though I admit to being slightly cliché at times, just a wee little bit, let’s just say I didn’t want to — yet again — conform to the norm. (Yes, you Lowellita cynics and critics, I know that is a cliché, but I was trying to make a point and/or be funny. It’s part of my job description, I think.)

There is really no need to retrogress into yet another column about the number one amateur night of the year and all that blarney. I thought blasé ramblings about consuming too much green beer and a tough piece of meat might bore my more intelligent readers — minus the emerald food color squirted into carbonated beverages for a festive mood, that pretty much sums up every Friday night in Lowell.

Everyone gets it. The 17th of March is a free pass to get loaded, sing out-of-tune U2 songs, pass out on some random couch, wake up the following morning without your shoes or socks and an overwhelming feeling you might have some apologizing to do to more than one person. Happened to me a couple of weeks ago and I didn’t even need a holiday as an excuse to come down with the Irish flu.

Here’s a warning: Watch out! It can be contagious and it’s a slow road to recovery, so proceed with caution.

On a side note, I found my kicks, but my socks just seemed to have vanished. Anyone discovers a pair of purple zebra print trouser socks, you know where to find me. And though I am no Bono, I can belt out any U2 track with the best of them. It’s not that difficult to scream at the top of your lungs after garnering a buzz, “Hello, hello! Hola! I’m at a place called vertigo.”

Somehow this entire column digressed into a rant about the Emerald Isle’s celebrated holiday even though the intent was to avoid it at all costs. But we’re all Irish on St. Patrick’s Day and if you can’t beat ’em — join ’em.

Cheers!

Lowellita apologizes for all the clichés and advises you to rotate between beer and water this weekend. E-mail lowellita@lowellsun.com.

I broke up with Jack last week. There was no other way to do it than just go our separate ways — a clean break. The relationship was not going anywhere, actually it was never a real relationship anyway. It was more of a last resort booty call when I needed a pick me up.

The flirtation would start late in the evening, always after a couple of drinks. One thing would lead to another and Jack would somehow convince me that he was good for me and I would give into the temptation. The next morning would always begin with the walk of shame.

Jack always left a bad taste in my mouth and I was never going to let him touch my lips again. I haven’t told him yet, so sorry Jack but the consequences of spending another night with you will just lead to heartbreak.

My split with Jack made me realize that many alcoholic beverages bear a man’s name. It could be ironic or just some cruel joke, but the majority of trouble in my entourage’s and my own life stems from mixing the two together. A lethal combination.

There is that dysfunctional relationship one of my pals has with Sam. His personality changes from season to season. Sometimes he is bitter, other times he is sweet. Most of the time he is sour, but no matter what she always goes back for more. Must be his Boston accent.

Then there was the ladies man — Jose. No one could resist his pungent cologne and salty taste that made all of us take our clothes off at some point. Jose broke many hearts in his days. Usually the morning after, when all that was left of the Svengali was a burning sensation.

Johnnie was a strange phase one of my friends went through. We could measure his mood by the color he wore. He didn’t last too long because his lifestyle was too difficult for the underpaid administrative assistant to keep up with. She dumped him for Bud.

Morgan’s nickname was Captain. Not quite sure how he acquired that name. His dress was a little too, how should I put this ... festive, and raised more than a few eyebrows of our guy friends. His ship set sale after a few months. She left Morgan for a fling with Stella.

As for myself, the short lived romance with Jack caused me to lose myself. When I was with him I became another person. I had violent mood swings, stayed up way too late on work nights and thought that I resembled Eva Longoria at last call when in reality it was Amy Winehouse.

My mother didn’t approve of him. My father thought he was bringing me down. Even my best friend gave me a guilt trip about his influence over me.

I left Jack and went back to my ex — Miller. Things have been working out fine ever since.

To share a slice of your life with Lowellita visit www.thesunblog.com/frosting or e-mail lowellita@lowellsun.com.

Nothing. That is what comes to mind when I sat down this week to write my column. I have started this week’s drek about a dozen different ways and have not gotten down more than two sentences. Some of the time I can’t even get to the period at the end before hitting delete.

I was going to write about my newly single friend. Lots of tales there. As I began I was not confident, that the piece would make it past the editing stage. I also was not sure that she would be my friend anymore come Friday morning.

I hit delete.

Another half an hour in the blogosphere and still no ideas were jumping out at me. One member of the bloggerati compared a trip to the zoo to porno, I didn’t see the connection and after reading it I still don’t see it. Maybe it’s because I have not been to a zoo since my fifth grade field trip. Notice how I didn’t say I haven’t watched a porno lately.

Should have hit delete there, but I just spilled my coffee and the key is not working properly so it made it in.

Then there is always the great discussions I have with my cubicle cronies. Today it was a debate over decaffeinated coffee. Should there actually be such a thing? Why do people even drink it? To me, coffee tastes like mud and gives you bad breath. The only benefit from drinking it is to stay awake while at work and suppress a hangover. No caffeine — no point. Just like there is no point in dedicating an entire column to decafe coffee.

I hit the backspace key.

With my work day 75 percent over and a deadline looming I began to brainstorm, bite my nails, curse and panic. I do have a lot of ideas, some are not that simple to translate into 500 words. Others just don’t make the PG-13 rating of this paper. Like the one about my gal pal’s boyfriend’s dog who watches them in the bedroom. Yes, I am talking about that and I am surprised if this tidbit even makes it in.

I deleted the rest of the details.

Still a blank screen with a mocking flashing cursor and a headache.

There have been a couple of messy breakups in my clique in the last couple of weeks. That usually is good for inspiration. Both were the dumpee instead of the dumper. Not really sure they would appreciate my spilling their heartbreak horror stories with Greater Lowell.
That story got trashed.

I could talk about the similarities between Miley Cyrus and a pre-K-Fed Britney Spears. Too obvious. I didn’t even begin to write that one.

It is now the end of my day. Still nothing. I was just paid for a day with zero productivity, but I feel like I did a lot more than just nothing.

Is there really such a thing as nothing? E-mail your answers to lowellita@lowellsun.com.

I am old.

When I started to abuse a keyboard with my wild escapades it was during my junior year of college. After a few too many spills on the cobblestones, a drama-filled breakup, a more drama-filled makeup and discovering that Maybelline Great Lash is the only mascara that lasts until dawn, I have graduated to adulthood. This means I have matured, become responsible and have more than just condiments, olives and alcohol on the shelves of my fridge. My parents are happy, I am more productive, and since I keep regular hours my neighbors don’t think I am a common nightwalker anymore.

But my best friend told me straight up — “You are old.”

My cell rang last Saturday night, technically Sunday morning, at prime drunk dial time. Ten minutes of conversation peppered with curses and a few pass-offs to random people, she began to guilt trip me into driving to Boston an hour before last call. I explained that I was already quite warm in my flannels, sipping a glass of Malbec while living vicariously through the Ari, Turtle, Vince, E and Drama on Entourage to fly down 93. That is when she dropped the Big O.
Old. I cringed, put down my wine, gulped some water and ran downstairs to apply more eye-firming cream.

In reality I am closer to 30 than 21, I eat dinner before 9 p.m. even on weekends and when I walk into the Mac Store I could very well be mistaken for a parent. Two years ago, trying to make last call was like a Survivor challenge; now I could not tell you the last time the lights were turned up in the bar to reveal I was not talking to Johnny Depp’s twin brother, more like Steve Buschemi’s stand-in. These are the times I don’t lose any sleep over, that is now that I get a full eight hours of sleep. I also don’t miss dry mouth, headaches, nausea or an almost debilitating craving for multiple double-cheeseburgers in the morning.

Is the Big O such a bad thing?

I haven’t quite figured it out yet. I do stutter whenever anyone asks me my age. If there is no one in audible range that knows me well, I knock off a year, sometimes two. On occasion a cheesy dance beat will cause butterflies in my stomach and for a few fleeting seconds I get an itch to go dancing. Then I recall when a stiletto punctured my toe the last time I was out clubbing. It took more than a year to heal, and I have a battle wound to prove it.

I do consider myself some kind of rebellious relic that knows enough to retire before I become that barfly my friends and I used to rag on. I may be far from calling it a night at 10 p.m. on a Saturday, but on Fridays after working all week sometimes I can’t even make it through Leno’s monologue. Not sure if that is from exhaustion or boredom. Thirsty Thursdays — what’s that?

My best buddy may think that I am old and call me out on it, but at least I remembered the next day that she did. Last weekend I may have acted antiquated, but all the more nights I spend with my eye cream I won’t look it.

It may be getting old, but e-mail lowellita@lowellsun.com.

Romance is dead. Cupid shot his last arrow and it pierced Prince Charming’s heart, striking him
dead.

What did you expect, a fluffy column about love at first sight? Lowellita is not for the faint of heart, my parents, or those that believe in soul mates. Happily ever after is a Disney-created fantasy and Valentine’s Day is more tacky than a contestant on VH1’s Rock of Love.

To prove my amoré assumption I did not have to look further than this very newspaper. On Monday, the question of the day was: “What will you be getting your sweetheart for Valentine’s Day?” A whopping 51 percent answered nothing. That’s more than Ron Paul garnered in votes during the primary.

Nothing. No card, no candy, no flowers, no cheesy stuffed-bear with a heart sewn to its paws. Somewhere between grammar school, when we gingerly cut out cardboard hearts for our crush, and now our love for Valentine’s Day fizzled.

Some blame Hallmark, the company that shoves the most commercial of holidays down our throats as we peruse the aisles. We go for lip balm and end up buying Rolaids. Others point their naked ring finger at flower shops that charge $95 for a dozen roses. That’s $7.90 per bud, more than an imported beer at Centro.

I plead guilty myself for contributing to the extinction of romantic men. In a post-Sex and the City fantasy, women in their 20s and early 30s have become cynical, jaded and bitter towards any chivalrous act. We call it sarcastic, independent and empowered — the modern girl’s spin.
What am I saying? Sometimes you just can’t blame the guy.

A perfect example is what has become known within my clique as the “rhyme without reason.” A few weeks back over platters of sashimi, one of my more giddy gal-pals pulled out a poem her live-in boyfriend wrote. The crisp piece of stationery was placed on her pillow before he left for work. How sweet.

She was more flustered than the time we met Jared Leto after the 30 Seconds to Mars show at the Tsongas Arena. She started to tell us the poem was a sign that the ring was on its way. She got up that morning registered on The Knot, picked out her wedding colors, her sons’ names and a China pattern.

Creamsicle, Aiden and Jackson, and Mosaico D’Italia Cipresso by Lenox were now off-limits to myself and my man-eating friend across the plate of raw tuna. When future bridezilla fluttered off to the bathroom, we erupted into presumptions that come from too many afternoons watching General Hospital in college.

I knew he was a friend of Bill W. And I don’t mean that he is on the wagon,” said my friend. “What straight man has monogrammed stationery? Come on! And I am not wearing creamsicle.”

The stationery was questionable, however I felt the poem was incriminating. Her significant other must have cheated, was thinking about cheating or got someone pregnant. Later, I scoured the poet’s MySpace, checking the profiles of every female in his “friends” — nothing. Then I noticed his profile song was Cher’s “Believe.” Oh boy.

I gave Cinderella a call to let her know that Prince Charming may be a princess. When she didn’t believe me, I pulled out the big guns and told her about Cher. She informed me that tune was playing on her car radio the first time they kissed.

I rolled my eyes, hung up the phone and went to bed — alone.

Send roses and Valentine’s to lowellita@lowellsun.com.

Ah, Winterfest. The city of Lowell’s knock-off of Germany’s Oktoberfest.

Hold the phone Mr. City Manager. I am not one to bash anything that has to do with consuming mass amounts of beer in public. We all need a little happiness here in New England after the incident that happened this past Sunday. I won’t mention any names ... Tom, Randy and Tedy. It’s going to take more than a six-pack to cure this girl’s depression.

Winterfest could just be the remedy that I am looking for. What better way to spend a weekend than watching semi-plastered people pull a human dog sled?

You want a pot hole filled on Chelmsford Street, the Rourke Bridge replaced, the homeless people left alone or your tax rate to go down? Then act like a paparazzi when and if Britney Spears takes a ride in a hearse.

Cannon PowerShot G9 Digital Camera: $499.
Coach leather camera case: $135.
Four draft beers plus tip at Club Celsius: $30
One hour photo prints: $12.
Getting snapshots of city councilors flashing onlookers: Priceless.
There are some things money and living in Belvidere can’t buy. For everyone else, including the homeless, there’s Tewksbury.

I am sure everyone expected that I kept with tradition and told that blasé bear, Lowla, to hightail it back to the cave from whence she came. Everyone loves a good cat fight. For this year’s frozen festivities I am putting the claws away.

I’m not sure if it has something to do with this Hillary Clinton resurgence in women working together, but I have to say the polar princess is growing on me. As a big fan of scarves, sunglasses and not shaving my legs during the winter, I think the furry female and I could share a bear hug someday soon.

It is really not Lowellita-like to be cruel to animals and I may need Lowla to have my back when the suits at City Hall lay their eyes on this.

Hey, it’s not my fault I can’t write a winning column praising the Mill City every time. Can’t we just blame it all on Gisele?

Send your bribe-worthy photos to lowellita@lowellsun.com.

I am the jealous type. It is not one of my best traits, and I am not proud to admit that everyday I want something that someone else possesses.

It could be as extreme as Kate Hudson’s effortless fashion sense or as simple as the kelly green felt tip pen my cubicle mate uses to make notes with. Now that I mention it, I am seeing green over their penmanship, too. I have never been able to write a lowercase “R” in cursive, and my uppercase “G” looks like some kind of Egyptian hieroglyphic.

I have had to refrain from using the word “grrr” in any one of my love letters because of this cursive cripple. Not that there has ever been a time where a sentence called for this cat cry. If I did meet someone who did turn me into an animal, it would help if my penmanship didn’t look like a Sanskrit swear.

I can’t help but be envious of the crude chef turned TV star, Anthony Bourdain. Not because he gets to travel to exotic places and consume outrageous cuisine. I am jealous that this man nibbles on raw seal eyeballs, countless beetles and sheep testicles, but will not eat at McDonald’s. If I only knew how to gag at the sight of a Quarter Pounder with Cheese, ditto a Big Mac — what a thing of beauty.

I am never satisfied with what I have. There is always someone that has it better. For example, the people who write those quirky blurbs on Vitamin Water labels for a living. Even better, the ones who come up with fortunes.

Arguably the best part of eating Chinese food, besides the mai tais, are the fortune cookies. Just thinking about the faces of people who crack open their cookies to read, “If you place a nut in front of a squirrel, you will get bit” would be the most satisfying aspect of the job. And I did not make this rodent proverb up. That is a real fortune along with one that revealed: “The secret to staying healthy is to eat more Chinese food.” Now I am sure that the pork fried rice and egg foo young is not helping lower anyone’s cholesterol.

I am realizing that in order to obtain these things that I so desire, it may not be so hard at all. All I have to do is shop at the thrift store, make sure my significant other has a valid e-mail address, convince myself the Golden Arches are the devil and write it on a fortune.

I already stole my co-worker’s pen, so I have a jump start.

If you’re the jealous type, e-mail lowellita@lowellsun.com. If you want your pen back, don’t bother.

Excuses are like martinis. There are lots of them — maybe too many. Some are good, some are bad, some are sweet, some are sour and there is always one for every occasion. But you never need an excuse to sip a martini.

A 25-year-old woman came up with an excuse that is worse than ordering a cocktail at a place that has Rubinoff on its top shelf. She dropped out of school, quit her job as a bank customer service rep and was no longer able to attend church because of (drum roll please ... ) Sean Paul. Yes, the rapping reggae artist who butchers the English language worse than President Bush, “We Be Burnin” anyone?

Whenever she was at the club and his dance hit “Temperature” came over the speakers, it would trigger a seizure. Funny, it’s only Sean Paul’s songs.

So why did this woman have to quit school and her job? Was she taking a class on the social impact of reggaeton in post-modern America? And even after spending 45 minutes waiting in a bank line every Friday afternoon, I have never once heard the soft Muzak bust into the beat of “Dutty Rock”.

This woman also had to give up her spot in the church choir due to Sean Paul. What church is that? I would love to ask Jesus to “jus gimme the light and pass the dro. Bust another bokkle of moe.”

I think this woman’s problem is that she was listening to Sean Paul in the first place or maybe she had one too many tinis in her day. That is not a jab, it could be true. Using the most important tool I learned for the $50,000 I spent on college, I Googled seizure triggers. In .0179 seconds I discovered that binge drinking can cause seizures. It can also result in a post last call McDonald’s feast that would put David Hasselhoff to shame and feelings of terrible regret when someone named “Hottie-Boom-Buddy” calls your cell the following afternoon. I think I would rather have the seizure.

I am not insensitive to people with an illness. I understand the plight of those who suffer from musicogenic epilepsy, yes that is the diagnosis. Music is dangerous — it can cause all kinds of maladies. Anytime I hear Akon’s “Don’t Matter,” I writhe in pain on the floor wishing someone would put me out of my misery. The last time I heard someone sing Rihanna’s “Umbrella” at karaoke, I asked them how people treat people with Tourette’s. I almost ended up in the emergency room that night. I blame Flo Rida and T-Pain for my migraine since I can’t get “She had them Apple Bottom jeans. Boots with the fur,” out of my head.

What is my cure? A dirty martini, no vermouth, splash of olive juice and extra olives. No doctors involved.

Send everything but excuses to lowellita@lowellsun.com.

There are two kinds of single people — those who are alone by choice and those who have no choice. There are lots of subdivisions within these categories, but to know where you might fall, look at your grocery receipt. If your once-a-week run includes mints and condoms then you have a choice. If neither item has been on your bill for the past few months, you’re part of the latter.

Those who do not have an option are usually inept at some of the myriad skills it takes in attracting a significant other. Some of those include, but are not limited to: looks, humor, athletic ability and money. The rule of thumb is, what one lacks in looks can be made up with their net worth and if they can’t tell a joke, at least they’re not funny to look at. Hopefully your parents blessed you with at least one desirable trait.

This does seem a tad shallow and may hurt some of my readers’ feelings. I may be playing into certain stereotypes, but trust me, this is not an entire column about why some single people are worse off than Britney Spears. It’s actually quite the opposite. It is a column about the other kind of single person, who is much worse than Unfitney Spears.

I am talking about the ones that are SINGLE. That is not a typo. Their biggest accomplishment in life is not a law degree, promotion or purchasing their first condo, it’s their relationship status. The most obnoxious part about SINGLE people is that they have to continually remind everyone around them they are SINGLE.

Their success is measured by the number of bartenders, gym rats or hairdressers in the area they have notched on their belt. Even better, if they were seeing more than one at the same time. Remember they’re SINGLE, that means that they can do anything they want, if you didn’t already know that by now.

SINGLES would never attend a singles dance and only have a Match.com profile because they want to keep tabs on their exes. You have explained to them those events and Web sites are littered with people who are, well, single — just like them. SINGLES have an in-depth explanation about why they are SINGLE not single.

SINGLES make people that are in successful long-term relationships feel like President Bush at an elementary school knowledge-bowl — stupid and ashamed to be involved. The longer you have been seeing the same person the more apologies SINGLES throw at you, like if your dog just died. To them, three years of monogamy is cruel and unusual punishment. They look at you like you are one of those “adopt this child for a $1 a day” ads on early morning television. They want to help and two seconds later begin to think about their next date with Mr. or Miss X.

The rest of us get it. You’re SINGLE because you want to be. It has nothing to do with your ego or commitment issues.

Please refrain from sending lowellita@lowellsun.com e-mails about why SINGLE is the new black.

Three years. If you break it down that is 156 weeks. That number still does not seem that long to make the point I want to make. Further division makes it equal to 1,095 days, 26,280 hours, 1,576,800 minutes and 94,608,000 seconds. Now we’re getting somewhere. Pretty good for someone who struggled passing “math for the liberal art student.”

Just about 100 million seconds ago the stars were aligned to create a force of nature that Greater Lowell has since had to stomach. Sometimes it has caused much indigestion. For myself — many hangovers. Three long, long, long, years ago (did I stress long?) I became my alter-ego, Lowellita.

I suppose it was destiny. I recently flipped through the pages of my eighth-grade yearbook. There I was — bad hair, braces and no makeup. And I thought I looked like Winona Ryder! Must have needed those glasses sooner than senior year of high school.

Next to the picture, I answered a series of questions, one of them: “What I will be in the future.” Even then I laced almost everything with wit and sarcasm. But this was a Catholic school and there was no chance of getting away with a response like, “Dancer with a concentration on the pole,” or, “A writer who exploits the sins of others each week in a column as an act of attrition.” And don’t forget the kicker: “Whose name is a pun on a promiscuous preteen pedophile’s dream.”

My actual answer was, “The next Ricki Lake.”

No joke. At that moment in my life, I was serious. I haven’t exactly followed in the footsteps of the former trashtastic talk show host and that might just be a good thing, since Lake has not even made the celebrity D-list in the past decade.

For the past, almost two million minutes, I have been involved in an internal battle with my public and private personas. Sometimes I win, sometimes Lowellita is victorious. It sounds odd because they are both (essentially) me.

Instead of Lake, could I be the next Britney Spears, strapped to a gurney and rolled off into the sunset? I am sure there are many out there who wish this was my fate. They are the same ones who are grasping a bottle of Tums while sitting down to read this column each week.

Is it Lowellita or me that they want locked away from their children in a padded cell?
I wonder if in 15 years from now, I will peruse my columns and think the same thing about my eighth-grade yearbook — what was I thinking then and where has Britney been?

Should Lowellita post her eighth-grade photo on her blog? E-mail lowellita@lowellsun.com.

Another year gone, another year older, but I have realized I am not another year wiser. I had this epiphany the other night when I was struggling to fall asleep. It was close to midnight and Jay Leno was a rerun again. My options to carry myself to slumber were counting sheep, chasing NyQuil liquid gels with a glass of pinot noir left over from Christmas dinner or delving into one of the stacks of magazines, tabloid rags and newspaper entertainment sections that had accumulated on my night stand. Surprisingly I choose to read, but only after the first two tactics failed.

With the hectic holidays now a fond memory like a pre-K-Fed Britney Spears, I was now able to catch up on some of my normal nightly reading. Every piece I laid my eyes on was yet another inane list of bests and worsts, ins and outs, goods and bads. No magazine had an independent take on the year that was.

We get it. Those of us who didn’t see "No Country For Old Men" yet are committing a mortal sin. Or the masses who did not take advantage of Radiohead’s pay-what-you-will marketing tool for their latest masterpiece, "In Rainbows" should just stop listening to music altogether as a way to repent. And what do you mean you never thought of DVRing (a new word they will be adding to Webster’s by the end of 2008) "30 Rock"? Even after seeing Tina Fey in those witty American Express ads. The audacity!

These regurgitated rosters were torn directly from the pages of my pop culture bible Entertainment Weekly. And like the Bible it was filled with the obvious. We are aware that "Juno" is going to be 2008’s "Little Miss Sunshine", that Perez Hilton will replace Oprah someday, Emile Hirsch is the next Johnny Depp and Britney Spears ... well, you know.

The staff-penned columns reflecting on the past 365 days were a fresh feature in the last edition of 2007. Each one started with “This was the year ...” and went to ramble on about geeks reigning supreme, DVR taking the pleasure out of television, the pitfalls of being famous and renewing their passion for Journey after that "Sopranos" series finale. Yes that was one.

It got me thinking while lying in my bed what last year meant to me. It could have been my NyQuil-induced stupor, but all I could come up with was that this was the year of my realization that pop culture has the same effects as marijuana. The more you inhale it, the more brain cells you lose. And if you are mixing the two, well there may be no hope left for you.

I recalled a conversation I had during dinner a few weeks before with a few regular patrons and friends at a local restaurant. We were talking about some of our favorite musicians and I said that I wore out Amy Winehouse’s "Back to Black" album this past summer. One of the gentlemen asked who she was because he had never heard of her. I gasped, he had to be kidding — she is on Perez Hilton almost everyday! He did not know who that was either. I truly thought he was joking but he was clearly not. He was not embarrassed for not knowing who they were, but I felt a tad sheepish that I did.

I know Winehouse never leaves home without her gold ballerina flats that have blood stains. I know her husband Blake, even though he has not done anything in his life but been photographed with gashes on his face allegedly from her, is now in jail. I know her mother wrote her a plea to get clean. I know that her father asked fans to boycott her CD to limit her royalties and cut into her drug habit. I know that she has canceled appearance after appearance because she can not go on while her husband is behind bars. I know she threw a fit at 4 a.m. while walking the streets of London barefoot and shirtless.

To sum it up, I know a lot about nothing. I hope this year that I will know just a little bit less.

E-mail lowellita@lowellsun.com and for more celeb news and local gossip log onto www.thesunblog.com/frosting.

I am 0 for 25. That is almost a worse record than the Spears siblings’ attempts not to get pregnant. Not that I think they even try. Are they not from Louisiana? Isn’t there such a thing as a southern belle anymore?

This pathetic showing on my part is not my attempt at trying to convince my boss to give me a raise — that would be a much poorer record. I am talking about the impossible feat of keeping a New Year’s resolution.

Last year, my New Year’s resolution was to not have a New Year’s resolution. It worked. So let me retract what I previously stated, now I can claim to have at least one win — like the Miami Dolphins. One for 25, that is not too shabby — better than Pamela Anderson’s chances of staying married longer than Michael Vick’s sentence.

Resolutions aside, New Year’s Eve is the ultimate amateur night, it blows both St. Patty’s Day and Thanksgiving Eve out of the water-downed cocktails that are served. Every December I try to convince myself and my friends that I am going to be staying on my couch with good ol’ Dick Clark. Never seems to happen. I end up waking up the next afternoon looking and feeling like Amy Winehouse after she received a late Christmas present from her dealer. My hair smells like it was washed with a cigarette ashes and Ice House-scented shampoo and there is confetti in places that even Britney Spears would be shocked to find.

Every year about this time people start making promises that they can never keep. It is not just me. I wonder what the divorce rate is for couples that are wed on New Year’s Eve? Not that it is better any other day of the calendar year.

When my morning migraine disappears on Tuesday, I will reflect upon 2007. Some things will come to mind. Television reruns, celebrity relapses and Rihanna’s “Umbrella” ella, ella, eh, eh! Actually those are things I would like to forget. The year 2007 will unfortunately go down as the year that Britney went berzerk, the Spice Girls reunited, Paris Hilton did a stint in the slammer and a MySpace-produced prostitute found her better half.

See ya 2007, we hardly even knew ya! And just maybe that is better.

Have any predictions for 2008? E-mail them to lowellita@lowellsun.com.

It’s almost over. In less than a week we can let out a giant collective sigh. No more will our commutes be subjected to overdone pop versions of Christmas carols. Will someone tell Beyoncé to please leave the boughs of holly alone and stick with singing about booty-loving boyfriends?

The holidays are almost in the past — ah.

We can now end all the political correctness and go back to being our crass selves. Happy Holidays or Merry Christmas; ho, ho, ho or ha, ha, ha; a holiday tree or a Christmas tree — who cares? I am more tired of this bah-humbug banter than the daily video of Britney Spears going to Starbucks. It’s a waste of time.

No longer will I have to endure water-cooler debates about the myth that Xmas was created by those ungodly liberals in order to take the true meaning of Christmas away. No, more like my lazy liberal self would rather write the abbreviated version out on the 80 or so cards I am sending out.

By the way, can we stop with blaming all the liberals for the world’s anguish already? At least for the holidays.

In six more days, there will be no more airing of the mindless made-for-TV Christmas movies that star 90210 alums who find themselves trapped in a small town where Santa Claus has been banned by an Ebenezer Scrooge-like mayor and Della Reese plays an angel moonlighting as a penny candy store owner. If the writers were not already on strike, I would suggest the network fire those responsible for these atrocious two-hour specials.

Next week will mark the end of awkward run-ins with co-workers, who hand you a present and stand there expecting one back when it’s all you can do to muster up a thank you as you sink lower into your cubicle. What do they expect? For you to give them a gift with a card saying,

“Hey, thanks for using all of the fat-free cream I left in the office fridge and never replacing it, stealing my fancy felt-tip pens and asking me in front of the boss what I bought at the mall when you saw me there on the day I called in sick. Merry X-mas!”

In less than a week, there will be no more articles in the paper about stolen plastic Santas. What, are pink flamingos and gnomes second-class citizens of the lawn ornament world? Or are they just too tacky for people to pilfer from front yards?

The holidays are turning Lowellita into Scrooge. Anyone else with bah-humbugs send them to lowellita@lowellsun.com.

Sorry to be the bearer of bad news but ... we are all going to die.

Yup, that is right, everyone is bound to kick the bucket, throw in the towel, push up some daisies from six feet under after biting the dust. It is that old cliché, there are only two things that are guaranteed in life: death and taxes.

By the looks of one of my year-end pay stubs, I am welcoming death to my doorstep. If a college graduate with both a full-time and part-time job could qualify for subsidized housing from their “take home income” but not their “gross income” — this has to be some kind of hell. If Mr. Joe Black comes a-knocking, I’ll allow him in and offer him a drink. I am in purgatory already.

I can see it now. The e-mails will be laced with, “But Lowellita, it’s the holidays” and, “Aren’t you supposed to be funny? Death is not a joke.”

Yes it is. And in my opinion, I am hilarious.

This December the grim reaper is making more media appearances than Santa Claus. Maybe he should replace his sickle with some bells, and make red his signature color instead of black. Although, black is more flattering, but I don’t think he is looking to make friends. If he was smart he would. He could fetch $15 a picture at any mall if he was merry instead of morbid. Americans favor thin people verse the morbidly obese, so Senor Reaper should make a killing.

Ha. I told you I was hilarious. And these days, death is a joke.

There are nightly news reports, magazine articles and talk shows that outline all the ways we are heading for eminent doom. Global warming, the 2008 election, fundamentalism and The Golden Compass, somehow all of these things are going to cause our demise.

Nothing is safe. Even toys — they’re poisonous — don’t give them to your kids. They will die.
Well, I have not yet, neither has my mother or my great aunt who is turning 80 next year. We all had Barbies and chewed on a few pink plastic high heels in our childhood. We all rode bikes without helmets, knee and elbow pads. We pricked our finger tips with tacks in order to initiate ourselves as “blood brothers” with our childhood friends.

Still here, maybe missing a few screws, but we made it. No lead poisoning, no missing limbs and no Hepatitis.

And school buses. Has anyone gotten stuck behind one lately? Since when do they stop at the end of every street? And if the parent drives them to the stop, let’s them sit on their heated seats as they wait, then why can’t they just drive them to school?

I can’t help but wonder if future generations would be better off getting sucked into a giant whirlpool as the polar ice cap melts from the greenhouse effect. It is our own fault, we are coddling the world leaders of the future. What happens when they don’t have a mommy or daddy to tell them, “Don’t touch that” or “Leave that alone”?

I forgot, we already have many of them in Washington today.

I told you I was hilarious. Oh and by the way, sorry to tell you but you are going to die.

Anyone agree? E-mail lowellita@lowellsun.com.

It’s the most wonderful time of the year. The month when all the excess, shallowness and superficial tendencies that we posses come bubbling to the surface. And what better way to celebrate than with the biggest guilty pleasure, celebrities.

And yes, I do believe that even humanitarian and queen of good deeds Angelina Jolie goes online to see how much the Cartier bracelet Brad bought her for Christmas is.

In the tradition of this column I have made my list. I do not need to check it twice. I know who has been naughty and nice. Who says celebrities have it all? Not I.

In looking over last year’s list with my celebrity-obsessed elves, I have discovered some of our glitterati are in need of the same presents. Michael Richards still needs a career and Prince William still needs moi.

Some received their gifts, but are now in need of another one. Britney Spears loved the week’s worth of undies we got her. Now we need to put her down for a new set of hair extensions, and don’t forget those two little boys she lost.

Nicole Richie ate the hamburger we sent her, along with some French fries, chicken nuggets, spicy chicken sandwich, a few tacos and a supersize milk shake. We’re not picking on her weight gain — she does have a bun in the oven. What the former waif needs is the smarts to not make Paris Hilton her child’s Godmother.

Rosie O’Donnell got her muzzle, courtesy of Barbara Walters. What she really needs now is a slot on Donald Trump’s The Apprentice. Wait, Trump needs his show to be renewed, which will happen if this writers’ strike continues. Wouldn’t that make for great television? The Ro and the Fro going at each other’s triple-chin-covered throats. Writers — who needs them?

Here is who made the 2007 list:
Amy Winehouse: a divorce, stability, sobriety and veneers.
O.J. Simpson: an orange jumpsuit to get a head start.
The Kardashian ladies: more brains than booty.
Scott Weiland: Lindsay Lohan’s sponsor.
The Beckhams: Goo Gone Stain Remover for their Mystic Tans.
Tila Tequila: a little less tequila.
Tom Brady: some good old-fashioned manners.
Katie Holmes: deprogramming with Nicole Kidman.
The Hills’ Heidi Montag and Spencer Pratt: a purpose.
Lowellita: any of the writers’ jobs who are on strike.

Is anyone missing from this Christmas list? E-mail those who were snubbed to lowellita@lowellsun.com. For more on celebrities visit www.thesunblog.com/frosting.

In keeping with the original concept of this column, I was supposed to give readers an uncensored glimpse -- by family newspaper standards -- into a woman on her walkabout. That soul-searching in stilettos has tried to answer some of life's most cryptic questions.

I have tripped up over some of these conundrums more often than the cobblestones downtown. They can be more puzzling than the length of time the TomKat marriage has made it thus far. For example, why being buxom, blonde and brainless in our culture gets you an icon status. Or why the phenomenon of having a starter husband has suddenly become trendy. Or why people think that vanity plates are hip.

Let's call a spade a spade. Saying that you are a desperate divorcee is far less sexy than asserting you were once a starter wife. As for the triple threat, men feel threatened by the other three Bs -- buxom, bright and brunette. Vanity plates -- they're like the continuation of the war in Iraq, inexplicable.

One mating mystery that recently crossed my path is whether the blind date has seen its day. Is there such a thing as "blind" if you can Google the person before your rendezvous and see an actual picture of him from his company outing on any image-hosting site? I think Ray Charles, God rest his singing soul, would agree that does not fall into the definition of blind.
What is worse than seeing an enlarged pic of your evening cocktail companion donning Bermuda shorts and socks with sandals?

I'll tell you: when he pops up in the local rag's arrest log, or worse, on dontdatehimgirl.com. They say knowledge is power, but what if this knowledge is acquired from a spiteful woman who was just dumped? Maybe she was the problem, one of those everything-has-to-be-taupe types. You know exactly the type I am talking about here.

Sometimes, an Internet search can be a girl's first line of protection. My girlfriend met a guy, who gave her this big long schmooze fest about how he was redeveloping an abandoned mill building into high-end retail and live-in space. Instead of Cupid, she saw dollar signs floating all around his head. After plugging his name into the flashing cursor, she discovered he was a deadbeat dad from New Hampshire.

But then there are the guys you like. Same gal met another man who she thought was Brad Pitt to her Angelina Jolie. She resisted Googling on this one, thinking he might be a sex offender or worse. She gave into her temptation and entered his name anyway. To her delight, there was no results except some high school sport scores.

She decided to tell the fool on their second date that she Googled him and he came up clean. His dumb response: "Really? I was sure one of my arrests would be on there."

I don't know who was more astonished -- him or her.

Some truths are better never to be known.

E-mail your dating dilemmas to lowellita@lowellsun.com.

Sometimes it is difficult to come up with a topic for this column each week. The space I am allotted every Thursday is one of the last things in the section to be filled. Who am I kidding?
It is the final thing to be placed, much to the chagrin of my editors. They spend a lot of time biting their nails and praying I haven’t gone overboard this time.

It can be a struggle to try to write clever, witty and edgy on deadline. Something that everyone from Raytheon retirees to freshmen at UMass Lowell can relate to, laugh at and talk about with their families at supper. Not that everything in here is appropriate for the dinner table.

Then there are my family and friends, who have taken the brunt of this thing I call Lowellita. Their dating disasters, boyfriend blunders and fashion faux pas have made great column fodder for the past three years. When my gal pals are grumbling about the pros and cons of dating someone at work, someone always says: “You better shut up or you’ll end up in the paper.”

It may be at their expense, but they do benefit by getting a comped round of drinks or VIP access to concerts at the Tsongas Arena. There is a give and a take with any friendship, and you all seem to make out better than I do.

My father has given up completely. He’s told me many times that he reads the first sentence and is too scared to go any further. My writing gives him a headache. You can see where my knack for humor comes from.

When I began this column, I was going to write a tongue-and-cheek blurb about things I am thankful for. For example, did anyone know there’s such a thing as bacon salt? And it is calorie-free? I am thankful for the college-educated stoner still sleeping on a futon in his mother’s basement who invented such a blessed thing.

Don’t laugh. He’ll be filthy rich someday and remember me plugging his artery clogging delicacy. Next I’ll be sprinkling bacon salt on our $50,000 wedding cake.

Even though pig-flavored sodium is a splendid thing to give thanks for, I realized, half-way through writing this, that I would not be writing word one if not for my patient editors, the drama-filled lives of my friends and the sarcasm I inherited from my family.

Yes, I am thankful that the skinny jean was in style for only about 15 minutes and that Paris Hilton has fallen off the paparazzi radar (See what happens when you start wearing panties? Take note Britney.), but I am truly thankful for all the people who make my life interesting enough to read about in the paper every Thursday.

Have a safe, happy Thanksgiving and don’t do anything Lowellita wouldn’t do. E-mail lowellita@lowellsun.com.

Ring, ring, ring. (Insert your ring tone here)

Hello?

What’cha doing?

Nothing.

That by far is the most popular answer among the names in my phone book. Besides that, I have been nauseated by their other responses.

I dialed up my buddy to whine about the lack of intelligence possessed by the local coffee-slinger. It never ceases to amaze me that a medium French vanilla with a little bit of cream and two Splendas can cause so much confusion.

We are living in a society where too much information is never too much information. Instead of bursting into a rant about my caffeine crisis, I made the mistake of first asking my friend at the opposite end of the line what she was doing. Her answer: She was at a doctor’s appointment, in the middle of a breast exam.

Hold the phone. Instantaneous loss for words. Way too much information.

This was not the first incident of indecent disclosure. I have friends who proceed to tell me they are on the toilet while talking to me about where we should go for a bite to eat. Some relatives (I’m not letting you guys off the hook either) have asked me to hold on while they gurgle in the dentist chair.

Is there such a thing as censorship or even dignity anymore?

In a world where going commando and then getting caught exiting a car is headline news, the human law of personal privacy does not apply. I mean, is it necessary to know how many ounces of fat was sucked out of a rap superstar’s mother before she died from complications of cosmetic surgery? That is just in poor taste. What is worse is that if Britney Spears orders a chalupa for lunch at Taco Bell it comes over on my Google Alert as breaking news.

Sites like, You Tube, have changed the private lives of private citizens forever. Even celebrities had a private life once. They did, I am not lying here. Ever see a choppy video of Marilyn Monroe buying celery at the grocery store? Didn’t think so. How about Britney? Exactly.

No one knew that David Hasselhoff ate like a pig at the troth when he had a few drinks. Remember that horrifying video? I don’t know what’s worse, Baywatch or the infamous binge.
I could blame our biggest scape goat, Hollywood, for my friends’ and family’s lack of discretion when answering their cells. Or maybe it’s rap music, MTV, baggy pants, Hillary Clinton or tattoos.

Or maybe it is just us.

Hold all my calls and send e-mails to lowellita@lowellsun.com.

I went to court on Monday. Save the snide remarks, I was not booked for indecent exposure. You’re looking at someone with a clean record, or the fortune of never getting caught in the act. Call me O.J. On second thought, don’t. I was there to fulfill my civic obligation — jury duty.

I am one of the fortunate few including J-Lo, Brad Pitt and Oprah, who had the privilege of being part of the fair and balanced judicial process of this country in 2007. Are you spotting the sarcasm yet?

This was my first taste of Lowell court and hopefully my last. I was to report at 8 a.m. sharp. At that hour I am usually still dreaming about Tom Brady with nothing but his pads on. Abandoning my football fantasy I headed to my downtown destination. Two loops of one-ways later, I finally located an empty spot in the metered parking lot across the street.

After setting off the security gate more than a dozen times, the guard gave up and let me through anyway. I filled out a questionnaire that asked me just about everything except whether I was a terrorist. Wait a minute, that was part of the true or false section. I left it blank.
The court officer informs us that the city doesn’t allow anyone reporting for jury duty to park where I did. Myself and about a dozen others were instructed to move our cars a few blocks away to South Street. It would have been nice if that was posted before I dropped $2 worth of quarters into the meter.

At my new parking location, I was greeted by a homeless hippie. I thought he was the lot attendant until he began screaming at the pigeons about how a Smurf swiped his blueberry muffin earlier. If I still had those eight quarters I just pumped in the meter, I would have bought him another muffin and a coffee too.

Trying to make him laugh, I told him it must of been Papa Smurf who stole his muffin to feed the rest of the Smurfs since Smurfette is anyone but Martha Stewart when it comes to cooking. I think I may have confused him more than he already was, if that was possible because he started to bark.

Walking back to the court house, I began to wonder if he would think my collection of Britney Spears albums in my back seat were worth anything. The homeless man, and I am presuming he was since he looked as if he had been wearing the same clothes since Brit was dating Justin Timberlake, was better dressed than myself. You see, my trick was to look as disheveled as possible in hopes they would take one look at me and send me home. That plan backfired right when I walked in the door and saw the rest of the jury pool. I should have started talking about Smurfs and muffins. That guy had the gig down. I am almost positive he has never served on a jury.

Settling into a seat in a cramped room with no windows, the lady to my left pulls out a Walkman. At first I thought it was George Carlin stand-up, but as I listened more carefully, it was a self help audio book. For the next five hours, I learned how to tell the “aggressor” in a relationship that it is not your fault and that love is a gift. I kept thinking I was in an episode of Seinfeld and was about to pull a Costanza.

It was my own fault. I am not one to shirk my duties, but last week I thought about postponing. I Googled “getting out of jury duty,” and fetched more than 1,780,000 hits in .28 seconds. There was a guide named, “How to Get Out of Jury Duty and Be a Hero for it” and CNN called dodging the duty a “national pastime.” To encourage people to attend in Florida, the judicial system plastered Harrison Ford on billboards as a spokesperson. I am assuming the subliminal message is you should feel lucky to serve ... punk.

I could have listened to my friends for once. They suggested I pretend to be prejudiced. I didn’t want my fellow jurors to think I’m an insensitive racist. But this was not a jury of my peers. Looking around the room of 50 people there was one young Spanish woman and a 20-something man of Middle Eastern descent. The room resembled a meeting to block the Home Depot in Billerica, not an inner-city court room. The defendant would take one look at the jury and think it would be more discouraging than working the valet at a Family First fundraiser where Ann Coulter is the guest speaker. No tips that evening.

I told the judge this when he asked me if I harbor any prejudice. As you can imagine I was sent home, but at least no one will think I have white sheets hanging in my closet next to my BCBG dress.

The city can send my $2 to 491 Dutton St. Others can e-mail lowellita@lowellsun.com.

It is time to turn the tables. Instead of myself poking and prying into the private lives of you then airing all the dirty laundry in this column of my associates, and it smells worse than Tom Brady’s socks on Sunday, it is now time for my readers to delve into the life of Lowellita. I am flattered that I get more e-mails from my Lowellita Loyalists than Britney Spears gets summoned into court. Hit me with your best shot, guys, because I have not been socially stumped yet.

Lowellita, we have our harvest dance right around the corner. I was wondering if you would like to be my date? You would have to buy the tickets though, as I recently was fired from my job delivering pizzas. — Broke Bobby from Billerica Memorial High School.

Bobby, Bobby, Bobby, no need to worry about being unemployed at such a tender young age. Look at K-Fed, he is probably 10 years your senior and lives off a woman. In his case, delivering a few pies would be a vast improvement. I am flattered that you would think of me to attend this high school harvest ho-down, but I will have to pass. You see, the whole Demi Moore-Ashton Kutcher relationship seems more outlandish than the fact that Paris Hilton gave up partying for praying.

I am so sad to hear that Britney Spears will not regain custody of her children. Do you think the judge is a Christina Aguilera fan? — Betty the Britney lover from Lowell.

Dear Betty, Please do not have any children yourself. Sincerely, Lowellita.

With the cold weather on its way, should a fabulous and fashionable female sport a fur frock this winter? — Carnivorous Cathy from Chelmsford
Well Cathy, I think you may be safe from a PETA paint attack in the ‘burbs of Massachusetts, but one never knows if they are hiding in the rose bushes of your front yard when you leave for work — wait, I mean to go on a play date with the Joneses. I do think that wearing an animal skin is a bit pretentious, but you do live in Chelmsford. Practice the duck and dodge move in the mirror a few times before leaving your Garrison, you wouldn’t want to get any red paint on your Dooney.

If you and I were going on a first date, what would seal the deal for a second one? — Wondering Walter from Westford.
Well, Walter, I don’t think I would ever date a Walter, especially from Westford. All kidding aside, if you even utter the words: my ex, frat, Playstation 2, stripper, or barefoot and pregnant in the same breath, that first date would not even make it through the entrées.

How do you let one of your best friends know that her new boyfriend is a tool? — Deidra with a dilemma in Dracut.
Ooooh, that is a tough one, Deidra. That is worse than telling someone that they got a bad haircut. Well, maybe not. Your best bet is to just hope that she eventually grows out of him like her hair will. If she has a bogus beau and a horrible haircut, then I would dump her and find a new gal pal.

Try to stump Lowellita by e-mailing your questions to lowellita@lowellsun.com.

It is that time of year again.

When the demand for Xanax, Paxil and Lexapro causes a surge on the black market. Christmas comes early for drug dealers and pharmacists here in Red Sox Nation. Manny, Jacoby, Papi and Pedroia cause more angst to us in October than Ellen DeGeneres’ pampered pup will ever experience over the recent doggie debacle.

Who cares where that mutt ends up? The four-legged friend is still going to have a more expensive hair cut and wear more designer duds than I ever will. Never mind all this canine crying, there are far worse things to shed tears over when the leaves start to tumble off the trees. Like for example, hooker-themed Halloween costumes.

Now, I have written about the exact same topic for the past two years in hopes of starting a movement liberating ladies from these polyester horrors. It has not seemed to have worked. At a costume party I attended last weekend, there was enough fishnet to catch Moby Dick.

There was a sexy Strawberry Shortcake, a ghetto Goldilocks and a Raggedy Ann that looked like she was going to amateur night at Macs Two in Billerica. I don’t know why the racy referee bothered to wear a skirt, she was showing more than a centerfold. That outfit made a few male party-goers yell “touchdown.” Cheesy guys, to say the least.

If you were at the party you’re probably thinking didn’t yours truly have on fishnets ? I admit I gave into the whole scary skank shtick: stockings, heavy eyeliner, overly teased hair and all. But at least I was not the porno translation of nursery-rhyme character — I was Amy Winehouse. After looking at the pictures I should have said “No. No. No!”

Why is the Halloween hooker such a celebrated look? Do we all secretly wish we were one of Hef’s Girls Next Door? Maybe, but definitely not Kendra. DeGeneres’ dog has more brain than that bottle blonde. She would make a perfect streetwalker scarecrow ... “If I only had a brain.”

Maybe I am barking up the wrong tree. I imagine Lowellita loyalists would not object if the naughty ninja turtle showed up at their doorstep looking for a treat. I am also sure that many have a garter belt in their panty drawer as well. It is just my hope that someday I will be able to watch the Wizard of Oz without thinking about Dorothy in patent leather red pumps and a checkered micro-mini.

I guess we’re not in Kansas anymore.

Has Lowellita turned into the Wicked Witch of the city? E-mail lowellita@lowellsun.com.

Lowell is ready for its closeup. For once, the Mill City will be in the spotlight for something other than sharing its name with a certain Red Sox player. It is time for Lowell’s 15 minutes of fame, which some may argue has been milked by our incessant bragging rights as the birthplace of beat author Jack Kerouac.

After years of speculation over whether the Micky Ward biopic The Fighter will ever make it up off the mat, the city is finally getting some confirmation that we’re not down for the count. We may even see film crews in Lowell before Britney Spears regains custody of her children.

Mark Wahlberg, who will play Ward, is said to be coming here to get into his part as the Lowell boxer. Wahlberg has adopted this movie as his stepchild and brought on fellow foster parent Brad Pitt to portray another Lowell resident — Ward’s brother and trainer, Dicky Eklund. That means Angelina Jolie may just be tagging along to the cobblestone streets with her children in tow.

Yes, gentlemen, wipe the drool off your chin now.

Lowell may be a bit more Hollyhood than Hollywood, but at least Brangelina will be able to run into our brand new Target, which will be open on Plain Street by then, for a box of Odwalla without a tribe of paparazzi in tow. Doesn’t Britney ever learn that assistants are for running errands? Maybe after she learns that lap dogs and Red Bulls are not accessories.
If our fine city on the banks of the Merrimack were to host the Brangelina crew, and I were somehow thrust into being their unofficial tour guide (in particular Mr. Pitt’s) where would I bring the clan?

Some obvious stops would be landmarks like Elliot’s Hot Dogs, since we all know Angelina could use a few “all-arounds.” It has become difficult recently to distinguish her biceps from a pair of Schonland’s natural casings.

Before you start sending me e-mails about how I am just jealous of Angie, I’ll save you from wasting your time and admit it — I am. Anyone who is covered in ink, was once married to a man with two first names, shares their name with a couple dozen strippers, passionately kissed their brother in public and is still considered the most desirable woman in the world is definitely someone for Lowellita to envy. Other gals with that under their belt would be part of the supporting cast on the white trash parody, “My Name is Earl.”

But Angelina is a remarkable woman and mother. I mean, hasn’t everyone seen the snapshots of her picking up Maddox from school? She was smart enough to give that kid a mohawk. What kindergarten bully is going to try to steal an organic fruit roll-up (yes, there is such a thing) from a kid sporting that do?

Speaking of the pint-sized punk rocker, Maddox can reconnect with his Cambodian roots in the Mill City.

His younger brother Pax, who is Vietnamese, can get in the cultural action, too. The four of us — that’s the boys, Brad and myself — can meet for a breakfast of Khmer omelets at Tepthida Khmer on Chelmsford Street.

Where is Angie while I am traipsing about the city with her men? At Inizio’s Day Spa experiencing their “Valley of the Temples Thai Massage.” And let’s keep her there. She needs a break from all the ... well, whatever it is she does with her days.

After breakfast, we can pick up Marky Mark. I could rattle off a list of places where we could go, but then again I would not want the paparazzi to hunt us down. I’m not looking for publicity. I would never want a picture of Pitt, Wahlberg and myself having martinis together, outside Caffé Paradiso one afternoon. That’s at the corner of Palmer and Middle streets in downtown Lowell, Us Weekly, if you didn’t know that. Just thought you should be aware, but no pictures please.

If you spot Mark or Brad on the corner then e-mail lowellita@lowellsun.com.