Robeanism - My New Religion

Yeah, I've been MIA again. Whenever I drop from the face of the blogiverse, you can be sure one of two things is happening. I'm either monumentally fucking LAZY, or real life is being a total ass muncher. I can assure you, my excuse this time is the latter. After all, I DO work in an industry where our busiest time is March through July, I still have little cougars in the den, and I'm still hitched to a Papa Cougar who likes an occasional mating session, if you kwim?

There's all that, and then there's THIS:

That's right. This Mama has spent the last month preparing for the New Moon DvD release party I've been planning since November of 2009. And let me tell you, it was seriously badass. My liver is still recovering.

I'm not even going to attempt to blog about my party, partially because the Jell-O shots clouded my memories of just about everything that happened during our viewing of the movie, and partially because my new bloggy bestie 17ForeverLisa came to the party (crazy bitch drove over three hours which made me fall in love with her immediately) and she did a MUCH better job of capturing the essence of our epic fuckery in this blog entry: Mama Cougar's DvD Release Party Kicked Ass!

There....NOW do you see what I've been up to?

When non-Twi people ask me why I do things like this, I usually say something like, "Second childhood I guess" or "I have no earthly idea". But the truth is, I found the reason I truly love this fandom and all it's quirks this past weekend. I found it in the thirteen ladies and one brave man who came to my party. It's all about the amazing people I have met and our mutual addiction to The Twilight Saga.

I've lost track of how 17ForeverLisa and I hooked up except that we're both huge fans of JennyJerkface and SnarkierThanYou over at Twitarded and we're both huge Illini fans. I invited her to my party, and this very ballsy woman accepted my invite and then drove 3+ hours to come to a strange little town in the middle of corn and beans to hang with people she didn't know. Not only that, she brought me THE MOST FUCKAWESOME gift EVER, a real roll of New Moon trailer film cell. I seriously almost cried. But wait, there's more. Wether by fate or happy accident, we were watching the "bonus features" together when at precisely the same time, as Rob appeared on the screen wearing the "Beanie", we both squealed like stuck pigs. It was in this moment, that I knew I'd found my soul sister.

We've since discovered that we are not alone in our love for Beanie Rob, in fact, there's an entire underground movement of Beanatics who love, adore, and dare I say worship the Beanie. So, I've decided, it's time to come out of the winter storage bins and into the mainstream hat culture. The time for Robeanism has come.

Every religion has it's tenets. Today, I will outline them for you. First, of course, is our deity, the beloved Robert Pattinson, wearing atop his head, our Holy Relic, the Beanie.

Let us pray.

Most gracious and beloved Beanie, your adoring followers come to you in absolute reverence, for we understand that just as you can giveth fourth the sex hair, you can also taketh it away. Please, Dear Beanie, we beseech you to continue to grace the guilded locks of our beloved Rob with your glory and virtue. In turn we promise to always have faith in your ability to enrich our lives by delivering to us the most heavenly countenance (read jawporn) in the Beandom. Amen.

Holy day? Monday. Why Monday? Because, let's face it, Mondays suck smelly bawls and attending 10:15 Beaniemass can only be an improvement.

Our communion shall consist of:

Stoli shots
and

Unlike other religions, however, you need not attend mass or kneel at the altar to receive your sacraments. You're welcome to help yourself to as much as you want, as often as you feel it's necessary to pay homage to the Beanie.

We baptize our flock in fonts filled with Heiniken, not so much to cleanse sins as to bask in the glory of our deity's favorite lager.

And finally, we follow only one simple commandment, as enscribed on the back of an In & Out Burger napkin:

Rob's Beanie is the Alpha and the Omega and thou shalt not put other false hats before it.

All hail Beanie, full of grease grace, we thank you for your many blessings and pray that we continue to be one with the Beanie, which we enthusiastically embrace and love to the very depths of our souls.

UNGH.

Amen.

"Gateway Drug"

So I'm shopping the other day in "Metaphors 'R Us" and in typical Mama C fashion, the first place I head for is the clearance rack. I'm pawing through a bin of symbolism cast-offs when I come across an awesome one. "Twilight is Like Marijuana." You like? Good, because I bought it specifically to use for this blog entry. And damn, it was cheap...like 75% off.

Coincidentally, I ran into Steph Meyers there. She was trying to return the "Bella is Like Heroin" metaphor, but she didn't have her receipt. Pity. She's lookin' good though. Dropped a few pounds. She said to tell you all hello.

It occured to me while I was sorting through my list of recent DvD acquisitions, that Twilight really has been my "gateway drug". It's been harmless, really. Just a little, innocuous vice, like smokin' weed. I watch it once or twice a week and it relaxes me. Makes me all hooded-eyelids mellow & chilled out. Nothing wrong with that, I mean, nobody gets hurt, right?

Wrong.

Turn it over, and there is a dark, diseased underbelly to this seemingly harmless little habit. Initially just a recreational activity, Twilight has lead to some much more gripping addictions.

Sure, at first I rationalized that my need was under control. Yes, I have all of the books. I own the Twilight movie on Blu-Ray with a digital copy on my I-pod, and well....I talk about it on my YouTube Channel and then there's this blog. And my den. And my Cullen Car Collection. And my puppy I named Bella. And the wallpaper on my office PC. But that's it! That's all there is. It's not controlling my life or anything. I've got this.

Or so I thought.

Eventually, Twilight wasn't enough. I was constantly craving more. More of something. More of....him. Still, I couldn't admit it to myself. Instead, I went out in search of this:

I didn't have the capacity to understand it, and I didn't fucking care. I was literally trippin'. Straight up, hallucinogenic fantasies. Those lips curled around a cigarette...that perfect face in never-ending close-up shots, those ridiculously long fingers gripping bedsheets. Shit...I was on the Psychadelic Express train to Robtopia. But once I stepped off, I was confused as fuck. And not...not...satisfied.

Luckily, not soon after, came this:

Easy enough to get for a while...I mean, it was IN THEATERS. They wouldn't make it so legally available to me if it weren't safe, right? Until of course, it wasn't in theatres anymore. That's when I descended into the underground. I had to resort to a seedy torrent download to get my fix. I rationalized that since I had paid to see it 10 times on the straight & narrow, just a little tiny hit on my laptop meant nothing. I needed it to keep me focused. Sharp. On task.

Until this:

And with this....my soul spiraled down into the deep, dark, unsavory world of irreversible Robddiction. I hadn't expected to like this one as much as I did. But the temptation was irresistable and when I finally gave in, no one was more shocked than I was that I liked it. I liked it a whole lot. I mean...he man-snogs and touches himself for fuck's sake. I couldn't have stopped myself from repeated doses of that for all the lip-biting in Stewtopia.

By now, the dealers know me. My wallet and I are welcomed with open arms and wide smiles. "Why yes, Mama...we've got just what you need. In fact, there's a shipment of some exciting new stuff coming on March 12th."

Holy Mary, Mother of Rainbow Pretty Pharmaceuticals, it's a full on Rob Rave. Pass the blinky pacifiers and glowing necklaces baby, 'cause I am all over that shit like Calvin Klein's on Kellan's package.

Of course, eventually, even the X won't be enough. I'll need some hard stuff. Some rated "R" stuff. Some...the-boy-is-a-French-man-whore-and-fucks-a-woman-MY-AGE-on-a-chair stuff. The kinda stuff you just don't recover from without professional help. THIS, will be my rock Rob bottom.

Intervention time, you say?

I am telling you, I won't go.

EVER.

Because I really do have this under control.

I don't need help.

I don't want help.

Help me.