The Last Weekend of Virginia Boote

There was Virginia Boote, the food and restaurant critic, who had once been a great beauty but was now a grand and magnificent ruin, and who delighted in her ruination. --from "Sunbird" by Neil Gaiman

This weekend marks my last days as a boozy trollop. Three days to the September Rules.

This weekend I am reveling in hot messdom. I am filming my own version of Leaving Las Vegas, holed up in the house with two Magnums of Conquista, Joel McHale, and Star magazine: "The Cellulite Edition."

I've eaten pizza, pad thai, and potato chips; injected a gallon of iced coffee; and emailed the Scoundrel.

Yes, a proper bender includes whiskey and Marlboro Reds, a tattered robe, and an unshaven man named One-Eyed Pete who uses his one good eye to play Keno at Jack's Bar. But this is the modified mommy bender, conducted at home after hours. A couch party of one.

Last night, before I attempted the swim to my Rock Bottom, I was delayed by a big-headed Mexican explorer. A sleepy Hooligan #2, at my side on the sofa, demanded Dora before bed. I would sooner wear novelty socks than get shitfaced in front of my children. So we watched Dora and sang the Backpack song before I put him to bed and poured my second glass of Malbec.

A bender with a singing backpack is no bender at all.

The funny thing is I wasn't in the mood to self-destruct. In truth, I'm eager to begin detoxing, depissing, and devinegaring.(Hey, a pig just flew past my window!)

Still, I marched on, gluttening for punishment. Even though I felt too fat to eat, too hungover to drink, and had zero interest in Jennifer Love Hewitt's cellulite. (Really, J. Love? you play tennis in a bikini? The same one that caused the cellulite pointing in the first place? Riiight. You're as smooth as my legs this morning.)

So maybe the September Rules will be breeze. Maybe I'm not as bad as I think I am. Or maybe last night was a fluke. I will certainly ponder this revelation.

Just as soon as I finish my Irish coffee and see what the latest fuck is up with Kate's hair.

But Being Bad Felt So Good

The Summer of Excess will soon come to a close. I've intentionally let myself go, indulging in every naughty vice: drink, smokes, and three-ways with Ben and Jerry, to name a few.

Because I knew this.

That come Fall, I would transform myself into a new woman. A difficult task because I so like being bad. Bad is fun. Bad is satisfying. But bad is giving me a daily need for aspirin and elastic waistbands.

So watch out, world! Because coming 'round the mountain (that is also my ass) are . . .

THE SEPTEMBER RULES:

1. No hooch. Bye-bye, Conquista Malbec, old friend. You've been fun. A cheap date. A good laugh, a shoulder to cry on. But in the morning, you're gone, and I'm left alone with regrets and a strange man in my bed. (My husband.)

2. No cigs. An easy one, as long as I won't be attending any wedding receptions. Something about watching people pledge their undying love for one another makes me want to chain-smoke outside in my party dress and snort with the bad kids.

3. No swearing. Fuck that one.

4. No coffee. INSANITY. How will I breathe????

5. Stop using the word "like" unnecessarily. Ok, now I'm, like, killing myself. September might be the death of me.

6. Be positive. No more negative comments. The alcoholic snarky mom is played out, yes. But can I really be a ray of sunshine? A hippie dippy? A nature nudie? If I start quoting Chicken Soup for the Lush Mother's Soul, shoot me dead.

7. Write.

8. Update my "real" blogs. i.e. those other than this no-man's-land where I dump all orphaned thoughts to die alone and ignored.

9. Eat healthy.

10. Exercise at least three times a week. Sign up for Miami half-marathon? (I'm shallow and will only run when promised a cute shirt, shiny medal, and unlimited carbs. I Brake for Bread. My Other Car is a Baked Potato. My Beer Can Beat Up Your Multigrain Wrap.)

11. Read the newspaper. And not just the entertainment section.

12. Stop watching crap TV. This is crazy talk. No more Daisy? No more Housewives? No more (gulp)infomercials for '70s soft rock compilations? Is it even physically possible to resist the lure of Johnny Mathis and Dionne Warwick reminiscing about Air Supply in front of a crackling fire?

13. Go to church.

14. Have sex with the hubs. Which will totally happen because I will have nothing left to do.(And the hubs is looking smugly fit lately, much to my annoyance.)

15. No flirty emails with the scoundrel who infiltrated the Mommy Bubble.

16. Limit time-sucking, soul-sucking internet wanderings. Not yours, baby. I like yours.

This is a tough list. Will report progress. In the meantime, I'm lining up dates with Conquista. August is still here, and I intend to soak up every last drop.

A Few Reasons Why I Think Twitter Is for the Birds

Is it just me or does anyone else think that Twitter is a giant melting pot of assholes? Someone PLEASE explain it to me because I want to know what I'm missing out on. Aside from a few legit peeps, I have the following followers:

The Gramatically Challenged Exhibitionist:
Craigslisthooker: sup fellas, im kewt, im single again. seeee my fotos at ...

Ninety percent of my followers fit this category, but that's OK. I don't discriminate. Because then I would only have no followers left, and I'm just shallow enough to pad my follower count with porn stars.

The Person Who Pretends to Be of Great Service by Forwarding Random "Helpful" Links in Attempt to Camouflage Self-Promotion of Their Blog/Book/Hats Shaped Like Fruit/Whatever the Fuck:
Birdbrain: "AGD is SO MUCH MORE PROFITABLE than traditional affiliate marketing... http://bit.ly/oddsiteofday"

Sometimes I visit these links, which is unfortunate when you're reading plotlines of the "Top Ten Disturbing Movies" before you've had your coffee. Japanese cannibalism is no way to start the day.

The Earnest Smiler:
Direct Message from BestDarnMommyPeriod: "Hi there. Let's see if we can establish a mutually beneficial relationship here. What are some of your interests?"

Oh honey, I appreciate your tips on healthy summer snacks and how to make pipe cleaner dogs with the kids, but my interests include salt, wine, and inventing my own curses. You're too good for me, baby. Let's call it a day. It's not you, it's me.

John Mayer:
Sorry, John. I've thrown my own parents under the bus for less.

So the Twitter Experiment might be short-lived. Until then, thank you, Michael Ian Black.

A Call to (No) Arms

Who has time for sleeves?

Who needs an entire shirt?

Who doesn't love the luxurious feel of polyester wound tightly about one's neck?

Attention, world! The time has come. Let's champion the return of the dickie. You can't deny it; they look fierce. And doesn't it give you a secret little thrill to fool others into thinking you're wearing an actual shirt when you have instead "pulled the dickie over their eyes"?

Lazy people unite. Bring Back the Dickie!

Main Entry: dick·ey
1 : a. a small fabric insert worn in the '70s by people who found it far too much work to put their arms into those meddlesome things called sleeves.

Next up? The Momentous Comeback of the Gaucho.

With Props to Lloyd Dobbler

I've experimented with Twitter today. So far, I have fourteen people following me, and as far as I can tell, none of them are wearing pants.

Not off to a flying start. Perhaps I should not tweet. Because I lie. I do not like anyone who's younger than me. And I do not get Twitter's wild and crazy wordplay, like "Hey Twits, Let's Twarty!" or whimsical made-up nouns, such as "Twig." Furthermore, haven't I contributed enough to the planet's Cyberpollution? (Yeah, you heard me. "Cyberpollution." Coin that bad boy.)

So I have a new motto:

"I don't want to tweet anything, facebook anything, or blog anything as a career. I don't want to tweet anything facebooked or blogged, or facebook anything tweeted or blogged, or blog anything tweeted, facebooked, or blogged, or myspace anything tweeteed, facebooked, or blogged. You know, as a career, I don't want to do that."

I'm pretty sure I fucked that up, but that's the meat of it. Now go get dressed, for crying out loud. You're gonna catch a cold.

Today's Agenda

At noon, I'm going to the Cape to see my husband's friend's wife's new boobs.

So there's that.

Spies Like Us

To quote the great songbird Rockwell, "I always feel like somebody's watching me. And I have no privacy. Whooooa, oh-oh."

If you feel like somebody's watching you, that's because they are. This week in the inner burbs brought with it a shocking revelation:

People in the suburbs spy.

I had forgotten about suburban spying. How, when I was a kid, my mom would sit on our porch at night, watching the street like a movie screen. Crunching popcorn in the darkness, she'd listen to the lady across from us shriek at her cheating, lying, shit of a husband.

Or how I'd see my friend, Penny Nichols, smoke out her bedroom window while her mom made American Chop Suey in the kitchen.

Or how Mrs. Sullivan, the sweet old lady who lived downstairs, was all-knowing:

"Did you hurt your back, dear?" she'd ask me.

"Well, now that you mention it. . . yes, I think I did!" I'd say, wide-eyed. I hadn't even noticed it was sore before.

"Keep an eye on your rollerskates, dear," she'd say.

And sure enough, my sweet-ass skates were stolen the next day.

"It was that Missy girl," Mrs. S. would whisper. "By the way, dear . . . her mother's a whore."

I thought Mrs. S. was psychic. Turns out, she was just a spy like the rest of us. Only, in her vast leisure time, she was able to wholeheartedly dedicate herself to the pasttime, armed with binoculars and night-vision goggles.

These childhood memories emerged from the fog of my wetbrain when I returned from a jog earlier this week. I looked up at the window across the street to see a flash of black hair. Someone had been watching me!

Could it be Doris, that sassypants 70-something who lived there with her silver fox husband? No, Doris could give a shit. It was someone else. As I soon learned, it was . . .

a movie star!

Doris's son is an uber-famous actor. His credits include Bartender, Man with the Red Turtleneck, Detective #2, and countless Law & Order appearances. And his wife is even more famous. She was a certain co-host of a certain entertainment show.

(As much as I'd love to namedrop and toot my own horn--tooty toot!--I can't tell you their names because D-Listers google their names just like the rest of us. If word hits the streets that I'm keeping a secret blog under an alias, I won't be able to spy anymore. Which I've been doing, my friends!)

What I have learned from spying on my neighbors, thus far:

--The actor and his family are visiting from LA. At every opporunity, he struts outside, wearing only his plaid boxers, to shout quips at an imaginary camera. His wife has supernatural hair. They are lovely. They look like Barbie and Ken's rivals, the Hearts:

"I feel bad about my neck."
"Barbie can kiss my plastic ass."

I have an insatiable desire to shrink them and dress them in tiny matching polyester ensembles.

--My next-door neighbor, Mr. Perfect, hits the gym every morning at 5:30. No straight man does this unless he is having an affair. Sure enough, as soon as Mrs. Perfect goes on vacay with the kids, Mr. Perfect is suddenly Rico Suave. (Cue music.) The Volvo is missing every night. Fishy. Saucy! Mr. Perfect, whatever are you up to?

--The house next to Doris's is inhabited by robots. A nuclear family with a stiff walk, the parents and teenage twins (boybot & girlbot) do not smile, talk, nor swivel their heads. Are they filming Small Wonder: The Teenage Years? I owe it to my one reader to get to the bottom of this.

If you would like to spy on moi, view the back of my house. Some genius decided to replace the kitchen walls with large windows and a sliding glass door. Now, each pint of Ben & Jerry's and every bottle of wine I guzzle can be viewed and recorded. I hope Mr. Guinness is watching.

Until next time, suckas, watch yer back. I got my eye on you.

I Know Why the Fat Lady Sings

Hear that sound? That's the sound of the fat lady singing. The fat lady is me, and I'm a'singing, "Heck yeah, it's ovahhhhhhhhhhhhh!"

The endless stream of houseguests who have paraded through my 'burban house since we've moved in have finally left the building.

They were, in order of appearance:

Week One-Two: My father and his fake-boobed fiance who visited from South Florida. According to them, EVERYTHING is better in Florida. Exhibit A:

"It's much more humid here than in South Florida," says Dad.

"Yes, it is much more humid here!" says fiance.

"The pizza tastes much better in Florida," says Dad.

"Yes, that's true. The pizza in Florida is much better. Florida pizza is even better than the pizza in Italy!" says fiance.

"They earth is flat," says Dad.

"Yes, it is," says fiance. "You are right, as always,"

"I am going to jump off a bridge now," says Dad.

"Me too!"

I tried to convince Dad that our Northeast nook of the world is beautiful by driving him to quaint seaside villages and farms. But in his mature years, he is more interested in crying out the name of every business we pass like some batshit-crazy bus driver:

"Ace Hardware!"
"Country Estate Furniture!"
"Bob's Auto Repair Shop!"
"Sip 'n Dip Donuts!"
"Four Corners Farm--"
Bang! Bang! Bang! (sound of my head against steering wheel)

And in his stubborness, he absolutely REFUSES to pronounce "hummus" correctly:

"They spell it with an "o" on this container so it must be "HOE-mus," he says.

Or he'll pronounce the first "u" as a long u, as in "HUE-mus," making an innocent Greek chickpea puree sound like a vicious STD.

I bought an IPOD for his birthday while he was here. He stared at it, puzzled, until I finally explained what it was.

"Sug," he said, shaking his head. "I don't need this thing. My ghettoblaster works perfectly fine."

Week Three: Next we have the MIL. She babysat the Hooligans. No complaints there. (Although she can't say the same. Their birth certificates say Hooligan for a reason.)

Week Four: In waltzes my madre, who is a Frat boy trapped in the body of a sixty-five-year-old woman. We must be prepared for her. The fridge must be stocked with Sam Adams, the cupboard must have UTZ potato chips, and a pub and/or restaurant crawl must be set firmly in place or SHE WILL LOSE HER SHIT. This is why my madre is also my best friend. And why, this summer, I have become the Fat Lady.

Sprinkled somewhere in there, is the stoner Great-Aunt, who lacking both man and job, has taken it upon herself to fix my life by telling me everything I am doing wrong with it. Which is, well, everything. But that is another story for another time. Because as she says, one of my numerous problems is that I'm ADD and--oh look, a bird!

Now I am going to enjoy a silent, empty house. Seize the drink, suckas!

Gordita out.

Morning, Suckas

Last night, before laying my head upon my downy pillow, I climbed onto my rooftop and shouted a cry that traveled far and wide:

"OH, GENERIC NIGHTTIME COLD MEDICINE, HOW I LOVE YOU SO! YOU TURN MY BED INTO A HEAVENLY CLOUD THAT SAILS ME INTO A CUSHY WORLD OF LOVE AND SILENCE! THANK YOU, CVS. FROM THE BOTTOM OF MY BLACK HEART . . . THANK YOU!"

This morning, I woke up. I woke to little mice whispering outside my bedroom door:

"She's waking up. Here she comes. Ready?"

I lift my head. Gone is the love. I am Frank the Tank with a horse-tranquilizing dart rammed into my jugular.

The mice voices are loud now . . . and s-l-o-w-w-w-w:

"H-E-R-E C-O-M-E-S T-H-E M-O-N-S-T-E-R!" says my husband, dressed in suit and tie. Smart and spiffy. The boys, Hooligans #1 and #2, laugh and point at me.

I stumble to a mirror. It is bad. The hair is Yahoo Serious. My eyes have packed enough bags for a month-long getaway. My head is a stationary Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade Balloon.

I go back to bed.

Here comes my husband, on Day Four of his latest cleanse/juicing/wheatgrass health kick. Although still a biggish man, he has lost seven pounds. In front of me, he and the boys are ecstatically singing, "Celebration!" They are dancing and my husband is doing this little white man clap--two claps over each shoulder. (Clap, clap!)

The boys jump on top of me. They dance and sing: "Celebrate good times, c'mon!" (Clap, clap!)

"MOMMY IS SLEEPING! MOMMY IS SICK TODAY!" I yell.

"Mommy is eating too much processed food!" says my dancing husband.(Clap, clap!)

"WILL KOOL 'N THE GANG PLEASE EXIT MY ROOM?"

Oh, CVS Nighttime Cold Medicine. You are a pharmaceutical one-night stand.

Up and at 'em.

Things That Interest My Fickle Heart Right This Minute

1. Conquista Malbec at $6.99 a pop. (Don't tell me yer Mama never gave you anything.)

2. Watching my imaginary boyfriend Matt Damon overact his bluff with Ben Affleck coaching in the wings on the World Series of Poker. Gay and Gayer.

3. The word "shammy."

4. The Canadians.

5. Scotty Nguyen, Sex God. Oh, Scotty. Always Scotty.

6. Making up my own texting lingo: IYLOLOMTIWPAFIMRE = "If you LOL one more time, I will plunge a fork into my right eyeball."

Suburban Etiquette and Other Crap

As I was driving to the liquor store tonight--and another--and another--all closed on account of some mysterious holiday called Victory Day--I had a revelation: I should always keep a break-glass-in-case-of-emergency case of wine on hand. Alas, I do not. Because it would be vamoose tout de suite. Which is why I'm drinking a martini--dirty courtesy of Stop and Shop Minced Manzanilla Olives. The olives were intended to be mixed with cottage cheese on some foolish whim. (Diet? Homey say what?)

The day started out on the wrong flip-flop. I brought my eldest, Hooligan #1, to daycare (half-day, a spit of peace), but it was closed for aforementioned Victory Day. Came home to find the Perfects cleaning out their garage and selling stuff in driveway. Even their junk is Perfect. Brand-new toys for five cents a piece. (These Perfect offspring also hold weekly lemonade stands--Pottery Barn circa this year--and are quarter- and dollaring me to death.)

On principle, or let's be honest, to avoid looking like the white trash we are, I buy only the phone Hooligan #1 begs for, although I have my heart set on the plastic kitchen -- that is AT THIS VERY MOMENT on the treebelt.

[insert sip of S & S martini]

Today I struggled yet again to figure out Suburban Etiquette. We practically share a front lawn. Do I keep the kids from playing at certain hours? Are they allowed to migrate, which they do? Shit, things were easier in my childhood when the parents let the kids run free and drank Schlitz until the streetlights came on.

So . . . this is what happened today in the following order:

1. Mrs. Perfect has friend over, who she kindly introduces me to. After, I go back to my post (folding chair under tree) to watch kids.

2. Shudder in horror as youngest, Hooligan #2, proclaims, "I lost my nail!" and holds up the dead toenail that has been threatening to come off his poor wounded big toe for days. He says this to Mrs. Perfect as she is talking to friend on her lawn, and she tells him, "Go see your mother." I can hear the unuttered "you feral imp" and run to get him, just as he proudly hands me said toenail, all the while loudly narrating that the black, bad toenail is slipping through my hands and onto their driveway.

3. Hooligan #2, in day three of potty training, proceeds to YET AGAIN pee in front of their house. I hear her say, "Please don't do that, you fer-- . . ." and before she can finish, I exclaim, "Oh, my God. Thank you." And run over to remove Mad Pee-er from the Perfects' Property.

3. Unable to control Hooligans, who have never lived in the burbs nor had neighbors who spoke to them, I take them to the Y pool and the bank and other whizz-bang 'burban locales, to remove them from the premesis.

4. After dinner, Hooligans are allowed outside again, where Hooligan #2 IMMEDIATELY sprints across the lawn to ring the Perfects' doorbell. It was a blur. "Please let him not have rang their doorbell," I pray. "Please." It is too late. The youngest Perfect emerges. A little girl, who Hooligan #1 believes is his best friend. She looks directly at me and like a rabid dog (or Zoul from Ghostbusters), barks viciously, "WE ARE IN THE MIDDLE OF DINNER!"

5. To which, I think, "You entitled little shit" but for the sake of neighborly interactions, mumble nervously, "Sorry. He got away from me. Sorry." Pull it together. She is five, for Chrissakes.

6. Then I wait. I expect a parent to come out and apologize for the daughter's rudeness, which they surely heard--and maybe, likely influenced. The latter thought makes me sad. Sadder than sad because I have PMS. An overshare, but we're all friends here, right? I think of Neil Gaiman's "The Troll Bridge" short story, where to fit in to adulthood, you have to give up. I will not. I. Will. Not.

7. After hubs comes home, late, late, I realize I am not cut out for this. Begin to google my name for bad reviews. Decide I need a glass of wine to push down the lump in my throat. Decide to drive to package store. Decide many things--I need to read the paper, volunteer, make more friends, have sex with my husband, do yoga. (OK, fuck yoga.) And #1: I realize that I don't need to be friends with the neighbor. We just need to get along.

So tomorrow, I will take my Mom's advice and say "Heya neighbor, do ya have a minute?" And explain that we Hooligans are working on the whole family/private/company time and boundaries and peeing inside and not ringing doorbells without permission. And we're really not assholes. We're just fish out of water. Bear with us. We'll get it.

(Just don't expect me to stop blasting Amy Winehouse from my minivan, mofos.)

Meeting the Perfects

36 is an odd age to be lost. I'd always thought I'd have my shit together at 36. From the outside I do. I have published books and ran marathons and lived in many places. I work from home, freelancing while taking care of two very young children. I have a good husband. We own two decent cars and live (rent) in a wealthy town by the sea. But I have a secret:

I do not love being a mom.

That is not to say I don't love my children. I do. Implicitly. I could inhale them. But I can not wait for them to grow up so I can breathe again. I am afraid that when that moment comes, I will be too old to remember how to breathe.

Case in point: My husband has just stormed into my new office to yell at me for not going into the kids' bedroom across the hall to get them to go to sleep. They are yelling "POOPIE!" and "IDIOT!" and trying to push buttons because that is what kids do before they go to bed. At least, that's how I remember my childhood. (You see? I don't know how this is done. I am not good at it. I hate being bad at something; I grow to resent it. Like yoga.)

This month, we moved into a Perfect Town into the Perfect Neighborhood to live in (rent) a Perfect House. But the irony is, the closer I reside in the Perfect, the more I feel like a Freak. I thought I'd finally found camoflauge, but this disguise is not working. It is having the opposite effect; it is a neon sign. One of these things is not like the other, c'mon, can you guess which one?

How did this happen? How did I go from single in NYC to married with kids in the burbs? And why is everything in me supposed to be shoved down to live here?

The first day we moved in, our next-door neighbors--the real Mr. & Mrs. Perfect (they write the neighborhood directory, go on nightly family walks and weekend biking trips, the mom is a Girl Scout Leader, the dad is . . . well, kinda hot)--introduced themselves. Oh, and they are nice, too (or else they wouldn't be perfect). Yes, they are nice and happy and I am dying to find out where there cracks lie, what malfunctions they hide, so I can feel Normal again and not the freaky, wild-haired, quiet lady with the nervous laugh who lives next door--because I am shy and experiencing the Summer of Frizz-Ease.

Anyway, the Perfects . . . Mr. Perfect tells my husband, "We have a men's club. We get together for a darts night every once in a while."

As we are talking, we have paired up, you see, as Couples do--the man is talking to my husband. The wife is talking to me about baby names or Crocs or whatever the fuck.

My ears perk up when I hear "darts," that being a game often paired with alcohol, and I turn toward the husband to ask, "Do you all play poker?"

He looked startled before sheepishly saying, "Once. A long time ago."

So I turned back toward Mrs. Perfect, "Do the women play poker?" (A shot in the dark, but one never knows.)

"No," she said. "We have a book club, though."

Gah.

Then she said something more about baby names and how people mispronounce her kid's name all the time because she named the poor girl some yuppie bullshit and I mumbled, "Well, there are all different names"--with the "names" drifting off into silence at the end because I knew I sounded retarded mid-sentence and then, per usual when meeting new people, I fled the scene, a cloud of awkwardness polluting all in my wake.

Behind the Picket Fence

I abandoned this blog for a while. Deleted it, actually. I went too far outside my comfort zone, experienced some sort of mid-life crises, and creeped myself out. When you start to find yourself creepy, it's time to move in another direction.

So I did.

I moved . . . to the middle of Suburbia. White picket fence, herb garden, wooden bucket overturned in an island of mulch and planted flowers. We are renting. No commitment. But I haven't lived in the suburbs since I was a kid and it's freaking me out.

I forgot the first day of moving in. You're under a spotlight, a microscope. People are peeking out of their windows. The kids want to know if the new people have children their age. The adults want to know if the new people will be compatible with them, i.e. not drag down their property value.

I am learning Suburban etiquette. I am meeting Skipper the mailman. I am trying to maintain individuality in a world of chemlawn and minivans. (You know you live in the suburbs when you're in a parking lot and try to put your key into another person's car because they all look alike. This has happened more than once.) I'll report from the trenches. Must tell you about the next-door neighbors, Amy, and the St. Bernard. TBC. . .

Week One: Status Report

This month's resolution to lay off sauce and be as disciplined as James Bond on a mission is in tatters.

May 3rd: I dine at Ruth's Chris Steakhouse. (Most annoying restaurant name ever. I don't give a damn if you are Ruth or Chris or Ruth Chris. Just pick a fucking name, lady.) Being the classy broad that I am, I begin with bubbly and then switch to good red wine. I leave the restaurant tipsy, but stayin' classy, San Diego.

Lacking the funds to keep drinking top shelf, I drift to a friend's Irish bar with a solid beer list. No problem. Trying to remain vaguely presentable in my mini Ann Taylor sundress, I order a fleet of high-falutin' microbrews . . . which inevitably devolves to cans of PBR, a trip over a step, and a barful of opinionated strangers viewing my blindingly white ass.

The wise old saying is true: opinions are like asses--best when kept to yourselves, drunkos.

Last night: I consume 3/4 bottle of wine as a kudos for being sober four days. I leave the last 1/4 to prove I am no longer the sort of boozebag that downs an entire bottle of wine.

This morning: Down the remaining 1/4 bottle with brunch (or whatever you wish to call a Triscuit eaten between breakfast and lunch).

Tonight: I eat a Lean Cuisine, handful of almonds, and half a bowl of Life cereal. Not bad. Then make unwise decision to go to a fund-raising carnival. I hold my own pizza-chips-soda-brownie (with surprise!--a cream cheese center),-oatmeal cookie-and more chips freak sideshow. By the time I come home, the damage is done, so why not add an 100-calorie pack of Pringles and more wine? (I'd happily forgo square meals for a salt lick and IV of Cab.)

The gym portion of my mission is going exceedingly well, however. I looove working out. I sweat til I bleed. In the city, I was one of many. But at the suburban YMCA, I am the youngest, skinniest bitch in the joint. The old men love me. (The old women need to stop parading nekkid around the women's dressing room. C'mon, ladies. Your pants are in the locker in front of you. There's no need to migrate. Your pants also lack buttons and zippers. What's the fucking holdup?)

Score:
alcohol--cheated 3 days
diet--cheated 2 days
exercize--banging!

I'm no James Bond. I'm just a squirrel trying to get a nut to move your butt.

Audi.

Mama Wants Sugar

In case you suckas forgot, Mama's Day is coming up. Show your Mama some love and please send the following:

1. French Milk and other books that don't suck (excluding Revolutionary Road, which triggered my Mrs. Robinson-in-training downward spiral.)

2. Hanky Pankys (in black and navy and other hues complementary to your standard blonde white chick.)

3. Man in uniform: Suburban cop, Mama loves you. Thank you letting me off with just a warning this morning. I promise to slow it down. Honest. C'mon, baby, would I lie to you?