Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Friday, March 26, 2010
Last night I had the strangest dream about meeting bloggers. And you were there, and you, and you, and you. . .
My dream opens at the airport, this was clearly not a NY airport because there was no honking, yelling or flashing of gang signs. I am sitting in the passenger seat of a car parked curbside in front of the arrivals area, waiting for a blogger that we were picking up, who was supposed to be spending the weekend with us.
After driving for a while, we wind up magically walking up to a coffee stand in a mall, where we peruse menus and order food, which never arrives, but we don’t complain. Amy is from the south, I reason and therefore has impeccable manners, so I follow suit and say nothing. I then spend the next five minutes looking for my children, who weren’t in the car when we picked Amy up yet are now running around and fighting in the mall (the only realistic element so far). I corral the children and my daughter refuses to eat. My son, on the other hand, orders the left side of the menu just in time for us to be standing in the living room of my ultra mod but very messy home.
I am now standing in front of the linen closet, IN THE LIVING ROOM (what inept architect designed this piece of crap? Mike Brady?) wearing a full slip and battered pink slippers and choosing a towel, so I can go wash the homeless look off my person. Just then, the doorbell rings and bloggers start arriving. Each one is dressed impeccably, with their hair and makeup professionally done, as I stand there looking like a 1950’s, Days of Wine and Roses, movie version of an alcoholic mother. I make apologies for my messy house and air kisses are doled out to each lovely blogger. I do a lot of pointing and say things like “Oh My God! You!” as I cannot remember a single blogger’s name. I know each one by face and can get a mental image of their blog, but the name of the blog and the blogger are blurred out, like a logo in a rap video.
While I can’t tell you who they specifically represented, I can tell you, is that these bloggers were also portrayed by notable women – one of them was Paige, the recent American Idol expulsion, Gale Gand , baker extraordinaire, Audrey Tatou from the movie Amile and Bette Midler. As you might expect, Bette was very sassy and was critical of my untidy house, which she condescendingly told me possessed a “certain lived-in charm”. Yeah, thanks Bette and congratulations on that Jacqueline Susann movie a few years back. Brilliant stuff!
There was no food in the house as all of these bloggers appeared on the day before house cleaning and food shopping. I tried to explain that I am normally the hostess with the mostess and nobody escapes my house without consuming hot coffee and fresh, baked goods. But they all rolled their eyes at me and I sullenly skuffed off to the bathroom at which time I was abruptly woken up by the sound of my husband yelling at my son (for the 10th time) to get out of bed. (Have you tried to wake up a 13 year old? We are considering dynamite at this point)
I was disappointed that I was woken up because I wanted to know whether I would pull out some last minute culinary miracle that would get them all feeling sorry for having doubted my skillz. But I looked at the clock and decided that going to work and getting paid was slightly more important than redeeming myself to the mostly nameless, celebrity impersonated blogger tribe.
So internet, do you think I might be repressing some kind of deep-seated insecurity about blogging? I never thought so until this morning. I might have gone off to work with a big, black cloud of self-doubt hanging over me, but when I did my last check in the mirror, my hair did not look like a woodland creature’s nest. And I can feel good about that.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Thursday, March 18, 2010
No? You haven't? Just me? Well then, perhaps I should explain. . .
It was 1993. My hair was still big, my waist still (relatively) small ( at least compared to my fat ass) and children were not even a consideration. Best of all, I was still working side by side with my three BFFLs .
We were young, most of us still in our late 20's, and we had both disposable time and income. And we had a raging passion to celebrate each other's birthdays in the most outrageous manner possible. Each birthday celebrated had to top the last one, and this particular event was to be the pinnacle of our creativity.
About four weeks ahead of our friend's birthday, the other three of us started conspiring to hatch a grand scheme of a birthday celebration. This would be our greatest birthday caper ever. We could envision our wrinked, incontinent future selves, sitting in front of a roaring fire and reliving the glory of this birthday event, every Christmas.
The plan was as follows:
- After work, we would blindfold our pal and put her in the back of the car (the back seat, not the trunk, people. GAH! Where was I? Oh yeah . . . ).
- We would stop at a local deli and fill our cooler with enough food, beverages and snackage to feed an army.
- We would pull into the parking lot at Westbury Music Fair (Theater in the round bitches! What? What?) and set up the lawn chairs that we had in the trunk.
- Then we would take the blindfold off the birthday girl, reveal our location and tailgate for a little while before going into the show.
- Upon completion of a fabulous tailgate meal, we would head inside, armed with a tote bag full of special goodies that would help add a little sparkle to the evening. They included:
- An underwire bra with the cups cut out.
- Several pairs of (to the knee) cotton granny nickers.
- The largest women's underwear we could find
- Fruit of the loom men's briefs
- A gigantic, two man rubberband/slingshot
- A huge, computer generated banner with a message requesting a kiss for our birthday friend.
From the time we pulled into the parking lot, it was clear that something was wrong with the birthday girl. She seemed a little odd and less than enthused. Here we were, absolutely brimming with excitement and anticipation and the birthday girl seemed, well, annoyed.
We headed toward the theater and as we were walking, our friend smelled a rat. "What's in the tote bag?" she quizzed. We gave an evasive answer and kept on truckin. But once we were seated, she started in again, demanding to know what was in the bag. Not wanting to create a huge incident in the mostly senior citizen filled theater, we showed our friend what we had smuggled in. She seemed ok with most of it, but we were warned within an inch of our lives, not to let that sign see the light of day. We promised that we wouldn't take it out, but we didn't mean it.
By the time old TJ took the stage, we had our ammunition locked and loaded. Once he got rolling, we would start firing giant underwear at the stage. We agreed that when he sang "What's New Pussycat", we would pelt him with panties.
Let me tell you a little something about ole TJ and that song. First of all, he gyrates his hips in the most obscene air hump you have ever seen. And the dude does not wear underwear, because his kit was swinging like a jungle gym. I feared that his careening genitals would poke out the eye of some unsuspecting senior, unfortunate enough to be sitting in the front row. The look of shock and horror on the faces of the blue hairs is something that I will remember for the rest of my life. And if that's not enough. . . When he sings the last line "You and your pussycat nose" he sings it like this:
You and your pussssssssyyyyyyyyyyyy (long dramatic pause) cat nose.
Again, the elderly were aghast and our poor friend was mortified.
OF COURSE we slingshot underwear on the stage
OF COURSE some of it was men's
OF COURSE we nailed the drummer with the cupless bra
OF COURSE we put up the sign.
Nothing happened. No kisses were offered. But our friend was M.A.D. Between being carsick from driving around blindfolded for an hour, to being publicly called out for both her birthday and for wanting a kiss (which she would have rather sucked a hospital mop, by the by) and the fact that none of us really liked Tom Jones and were only there for the irony of it, she was one very unhappy camper. And we were all left with a searing case of pranker's remorse.
The late, great, Johnny Carson used to say that the key to a great joke was - know your audience, timing and commitment. We clearly had only one of those things right and as I look at the calendar, I realize that August will be here before we know it and we will once again be drawn together to celebrate this friend's birthday. But instead of sitting around the fire reveling in what awesome pranksters we were, we will be reminded of our singular, but epic birthday fail.
F.U. Tom Jones. I hope your d1ck falls off. Aw, who am I kidding? F. Me.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Sunday, March 14, 2010
Friday, March 12, 2010
We have a problem at work. It is a problem so serious that my company incurred great expense in trying to solve it. And to no avail. What problem is it, you ask?
Bitches talking on cell phones in the bathroom.
Don't scoff, it's serious. I don't know about you, but when someone is broadcasting over the airwaves, I get a little shy. Performance anxiety. I didn't go in there to share the news of my Venti Iced Latte with the world. When I hit the ladies, I'm all about the business. There's no NY Times, there's no snacks and beverages and there sure as hell ain't no effing phone. (Pardon the double negative, but I am too fired up to be grammatically correct. Who am I kidding, I'm NEVER grammatically correct.)
This problem is so pervasive in my office that the company actually built a vestibule outside of the bathroom and outfitted it with comfy chairs, so that these classless ho-bags would have a place to yack with their pals. Not good enough I guess.
Yesterday afternoon, I walked into the ladies and sure enough, some skank-ass-ho-sicle was yammering away on the phone in the first stall (bad enough on its own), then mid-sentence, she begins to audibly drop anchor. I was like, Hobagsaywhat?!?! My fight or flight response went into full '767 on the runway at JFK' mode and I washed my hands faster than The Flash and got the hell outta Dodge. Hopefully her friend on the other end appreciates the fact that Chatty Cathy's regimen of Activia and Bran Flakes was paying off. What. The. Hell?
So, for this hideous and unladylike behavior, I am awarding Miss Talkshow Poofest 2010 with the most repulsive of awards. Sittin On tha Toilet - The Remix. I hope she chokes on her own exhaust.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Friday, March 5, 2010
We were hoping to relive the glory of our (now infamous) *1991 trip to Atlantic City, where we got robbed, cheated and swindled, all in the name of a good time. But there were nine of us on that trip and we couldn't put the band back together, so all hopes of replaying that episode of our lives were dashed. Sad, as I do so miss (insert eye roll) the crack police work of the Egg Harbor Police. It was like an episode of Police Squad, only with less competent police work.
For now, I will tell you that both of the women that I will be traveling with are tough chicks that spent their rebellious years sneaking out their windows to go to Alan Freed Rock N Roll shows, wearing their “hoodlum” jeans rolled up under their poodle skirts, getting their ears boxed by parochial school nuns, carousing in bars and chain smoking cigarettes until all hours. OK, that was just my mom. (The apple doesn’t fall far, which is why I don’t sleep at night.)
My mom’s cousin dates a horse trainer, so she has spent much of her adult life at the race track. Any woman that can spend that much time at New Jersey race tracks is clearly a no-nonsense broad that would slap the teeth out of Sinatra’s head if he busted a move. (And I'm talking skinny, mobbed up Sinatra that remembered the lyrics. Not doddering, hardening of the arteries Sinatra)
So me and these two tough old birds are making our way to Atlantic City for some R&R. And while I fear that there could be a geriatric/mid-life Thelma and Louise (And Diary) moment in my future, I will risk it because these ladies know how to have fun and best of all, how to laugh.
For the next couple of days, I won’t doing much posting, replying to comments or commenting on your blogs. However, if I don’t start showing my face at your place by the end of the week, send the cops and tell them to check for a droptop 66 Thunderbird at the bottom of the cliffs of New Jersey. Ok, Ok a green minivan. Gah!
*That 1991 trip to AC is a whole other Oprah and I will be sure to write a lengthy and multi-episode post about it, in the very near future.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Do me a favor though, don't rat me out about the twitter spam. If they find out that I am actually slutty, I might get kicked out of the club.