Getting Ready for Matt, My Close-Up, and Possibly (But Not Likely) the Brazilians

Two weekends from now I will be celebrating my 37th birthday in LA with my girlfriends and hooking up* with my closest celebrity pal** at the Golden Globes.

* stalking

** Matt Damon who I met once at a Bourne Identity screening in Boston. (And by "met," I mean "babbled a supremely dorky question that he misunderstood, followed by me inwardly berating myself for the rest of my life.")

It is easy to become delusional about my looks in the suburbs. Here I am hot and young. But then I travel two miles in any direction and realize that I am neither, and that sometime in the past ten years, every woman but me has gotten fake boobs.

Back in the day, when kids only watched the odd porn flick that someone stole from their pervy, moustaschioed Dad's stash of videotapes, this was our model of hotness:

Big hair, small boobs

And now too many people I know look like this:

Small hair, big boobs

I miss the days of big hair.

To compensate for my B cups and to aid in preparation for my Weekend O' Fabulousity:

--Yesterday I visited the Kooky Hairdresser Lady and asked her to make me blonde, blonde, blonde! Emerged from Jazzy's Nails blonde-ish and well-educated on her IBS. (Damn it, Kooky Hairdresser Lady!)

--I'm using Crest Whitestrips and guiding ships through foggy nights with my dazzling smile. Ching!

--I'm also using a home microdermibrasion kit, which I'm choosing to believe is NOT a cleverly packaged-Pond's cold cream-and-vibrator combo.

--Scheduled an airbrush tan with a prayer I don't look like the pear-shaped offspring of an Oompa Loompa and Janice the Muppet.

--Worked off aforementioned pear rump at the gym. Convinced myself that Matt Damon would notice me in LA if only I did ten more minutes on the elliptical. Then I looked in the mirror, saw a mom in an Aeropostale sweatshirt, and went home to eat Alouette straight from the container with a spoon.

--Considered the Brazilian wax. Alas, the Brazilian wax is the one reason I have never had an affair. Sex with a new man would necessitate a Brazilian wax and I'm too lazy to commit; I know from experience that the regrowth stage is an ancient form of Brazilian torture.

Back in the day, the stylings of one's vajayjay was not discussed. The unspoken goal was simple: look more Play than Kid:

With apologies to Mr. Kid and Mr. Play

And maybe, if a gal was really skanky, she did a little of this:

Hi-top fade action with designs

But now, it is this shit show:

SO not happening.

(By the way, I am not African-American. Not sure what happened there.)

ANYWAY, in conclusion, I am going to LA with or without the fake tits, real tan, or Sinead O'Connor cootch. See you on the red carpet in two and two, Matt. Ching!

xo Moi

There Has to Be Meaning in This Somewhere

Hey, 2010. What'chu got?

I woke up this morning with a large "P" imprinted upon my forehead. A little New Year's Eve souvenir scored after falling into a bar. (Why did I fall and what did the "P" belong to? And whose phone number is in my purse? And where did my right shoe go? And damn, Twinkies for breakfast are criminally underrated.)

Resolutions:

1. Be present. (Hence the mystery "P"?)

2. Learn how to surf.

3. Lose ten pounds by avoiding all dairy, beer, bread, and a certain Hostess product that is a yellow cream-filled ass sabotager.

4. Discontinue falling into bars.

Happy New Year's, mofos. Let's do this.

Why I Will Die Alone

My Favorite Christmas Present, aka The Husband Repellent

I've heard that the best present is one the recipient would never think of buying themselves.

This must be true. Because if I knew I wanted a blanket with sleeves, I would have just ordered it from an infomercial one Pinot-soaked night. But I didn't know--and believe me, I didn't WANT to know--that I was the sort of person who wanted a blanket with sleeves.

I'll just come out and say it.

I love my new Snuggie.

I scored it at a Yankee Swap. It was a gag gift. (The joke's on you, Auntie Barb. I'm keeping my Snuggie.)

In fact, I'm wearing it right now.

A bright purple Snuggie with matching slippers that makes me look like the lovechild of Bridget Jones on a bender and Barney.


"When I Grow Old, I Shall Wear Purple"

I've been wearing my Snuggie since Christmas. Coincidentally, I haven't seen my husband since. He disappeared the minute I first plunged my hands into these 100% polyester sleeves and velcroed myself in.

Since wearing my Snuggie, I've also developed an intense crush on Josh Grobin. I've switched to decaf and elastic waistbands. And I've taken to covering all surrounding objects--toilet seats, tissue boxes, armrests--in something crocheted and Pepto-Bismol pink.

Shit.

I am one "Murder She Wrote" away from owning a cat.

I am so ashamed.

And yet, sooo snug.

I Am Magical and Other Things I Learned On My Thanksgiving Vacation

If any of you read the (since deleted) frantic post I wrote the night before my vacation, you already know that before I left, I was both stressed and blinded in one eye. (Note to dipshit: when checking to see if the Windex nozzle works, do not use your pupil as a bullseye.)

I went South for a wedding. Long story short: my Dad is now married to a woman with fake tits and I woke up naked in a hammock.

Somewhere in the middle of that was a slurred toast pilfered from a Meg Ryan movie, a magnum of champagne, a hot tub, and an old vet named Mitch handing me camouflage-printed cans of Miller Lite.

SM: "Why the camouflage, Mitch?"
M: "So my wife don't catch me drinking."
SM: "Do you live in the woods?"
M: "No, I have a green couch."

The wedding was followed by a family honeymoon in Disney. Because what says newly wedded bliss like screaming children, fanny packs, and fat people on scooters?

FYI: I am PMSing.

First stop, Animal Kindgom, where I learned that if I were a bird, I'd be this:

The White-Bellied Go Away Bird, aka Sugar Mama in Animal Kingdom

If I were the White-Bellied Go Away Bird, I'd have a white belly and say "Go Away" a lot. So I'd be exactly like I am now--except I'd fly and poop on the heads of people who suck.

Have I told you I'm PMSing?

Next stop, MGM Disney in the rain, where we waited 1 1/2 hours to go on the Toy Story 3D ride. Only just as we were about to park our cold, soggy butts onto a car, the shit broke.

"THIS RIDE IS CLOSED! HAVE A MAGICAL DAY!" announced a Disney drone with a demented smile from too many shifts at "It's Small World" back in the day.

We were turned away. The herd shuffled on out without complaint. Because, as I've learned, most people are patient. Except for one woman on a scooter who told the Disney worker, "I'm not feel-ing mag-i-cal!" in a sing-songy, I'm-going-to-blow-some-shit-up-in-my-micky-mouse-ears kind of way. And then she ate Buzz Lightyear.*

So we went on to spend my childrens' college funds on Mickey-shaped food and spinning crap that glows in the dark and I vowed to make those frozen chocolate-dipped bananas at home and watch "Food Inc" and introduce myself to leafy things that grow in the ground, but this was all before Hooligan #2 went all Linda Blair on the plane ride home and I started PMSing harder than Ursula on ice.

Vacation was good. Home is better.

Have a magical day!

*I typed this as I scarfed down the last of the Halloween candy. Except the Tootsie Rolls, of course. Even I won't stoop that low.

First Burb Party: Nobody Puts Baby in the Corner

Halloween brings out the freaks. So I was optimistic about finally finding the creeps and kooks hidden in my hood.

It turns out they weren't hiding at all. They paraded down the darkened streets pulling wagons of Coors Lite-filled coolers, as their little pirates and princesses, ninjas and one mailman (that would be mine) scored loot and sugar highs.

But Sugar Mama, you're thinking, Coors Lite? Isn't that water masquarading as beer for non beer drinkers who desperately yearn to be beer drinkers?

Yes. Coors Lite is not beer. It's beer-ish. Maybe Coors Lite was invented for fast drinkers unable to intake real beer at the same clip. Because the biggest Crap Lite fan of all was pounding and toasty and invited the hubs and I back to his house for a party.

In his backyard with ten other die-hards, we enjoyed a fire, more beer, and cigs. Bonus: His wife played non-stop Prince and the Revolution.

Bonus #2: HE KNOWS WHERE THE SHACK IS AND HAS HOOKED ME UP WITH AN IN. (You need an invite to enter the Shack. And a bit of snag: you also need a dick. Only a few women have been allowed in. I can only go if I have mad poker skills. All the more reason to watch my mulleted minx, Scotty Nguyen. I shall get in. Oh yes, I shall!)

So we were whooping at up to Raspberry Beret and drinking the Silver Bullet and smoking cigs and I'm finally, finally feeling the love in the suburbs and dancing with some fella on my hubs' bball team when I decide it would be a good idea for us to perform the Baby-Johhny lift. He agrees that this is the best idea EVER.

So I leave the room . . . and come sprinting back in at full speed . . . with my arms outstretched like Superman . . . to do this--

JOHNNY!



Only I don't get air. I slam into him. Oof. This move is not easy. Especially while wearing heels, post-25 Coors Lites, in front of a china closet.

We tried again.

I survived, the china did not.

Oh, and at some point during the night, I might have said in an Irish whisper that this suburban town was Ira Levin's inspiraton for The Stepford Wives. Which will go over well with the other women, who have already begun labeling me as "the hot mess who thinks she's Jennifer Gray circa 1987 who broke the Smith's china closet."

Yeah, something tells me I won't be invited back to another burb party anytime soon. Hope you beasties enjoyed Halloween, too!

The Perfects and Poop Meatballs

Hey bitches,

Long time, no post.

So Hooligan #1 has developed a crush on one of the Perfects who live next-door. Her name is Littlest Perfect and she has her mother's last name. (I've discovered that all of the Perfect children have Mrs. Perfect's last name. No hyphen. No divorce. Mrs. Perfect simply wanted the kids to have her last name. I say whatevs. But my hubs is bothered and bewildered by this and dying to shake Mrs. P.'s emasculated mate and yell, "WHAT's the deal, man? Grow a pair.")

I like the Perfects. At least, I think I do. But we haven't hit it off famously and I can't put my finger on why. Maybe it's because Mrs. Perfect is currently in New Mexico at a leadership retreat so she can come back and impart her wisdom to the Girl Scout troop she leads, PTO she chairs, and small country she rules.

Back to Hooligan #1's crush. It was a rare morning. My house was clean. Mrs. P. was away. So I told Hooligan #1 he can ask Little P. over to play. This is their First Indoor Playdate. It begins swimmingly. Until Little asks for Play-Doh.

Fuuuuck.

But she's a guest. She wins. They make Play-Doh Spaghetti with Meatballs. I play some classical music. Mr. Emasculation comes over to check on his offspring. We're a vision of domestic bliss, a Martha Stewart wet dream.

"Eveything's A-OK!" I chirp. I even offer to watch Little while he shops or gets manscaped or whatever the fuck.

And then Hooligan #1's teacher calls. "Your son is doing terrific, but . . ."

But?

"But I'm sorry to report that your son has a weak hand," she tells me. "He writes his letters from bottom to top, not top to bottom. I'd like him to see an occupational therapist."

He's FIVE, I want to say. But instead I say, "Do what ya gotta do."

Then she says, "He also has a short attention span" and I drift off. . . .

I'm on the phone with her in the next room for all of TWO MINUTES when Little's Dad reappears. He is standing outside the sliding glass doors of my kitchen looking in on the once-serene kids who, in my absence, have gone apeshit. They are standing on chairs. They have changed the soft classical music to blaring Korn. They are throwing around the brown Play-Doh "meatballs" and yelling:

"POOP!" "POOOOOOOOP!" "POOP FIGHT!"

Hooligan #2 flings a handful of something at the sliding glass doors and there it sticks, a Play-Doh poop, right in front of Mr. E's horrified face.

Meanwhile, Hooligan #1's teacher won't let me off the phone. When I finally hang up and let Mr. E. in, I say, "I promise everything was under control. I just left for a minute . . ."

"The trick is not to leave," he says.

Then he grabs his kid and sprints out the door. And I feel shamed . . . until I remember that his wife has Bobbited his manhood . . . and I have a lot of cleaning to do. Play-Doh is a bitch. Whoever invented it did not have children. Ditto to the bottom freezer drawer.

So, what's new with you?

RENT-A-NANA

I have a plan that will make us MILLIONS. Millions, by golly!

*Sniffle*

I also have a cold. A hacky, sneezy, chappy, two-tissue box-a-day, nasty whore of a cold. (And riddle me this. Why do colds always give me a Super-Sized Afro? Does this happen to anyone else or am I the only one jamming snowball-sized snotrags, as well as a hair pick into my purse . . . or back pocket, if I'm feeling extra groovy.)


Runny nose + high temperature = Disco Fever

Although I do love me the Sudafed, Non-Drowsy and Drowsy, upping and downing more than fat Elvis in the bedazzled jumpsuit, I need something else. Or someone, really.

I need my mom.

Mom. I really need my mommy. To give me hot tea and buttered toast. To tuck me in snug. To turn off the lights and shut my bedroom door and gently tell my family, "You're mother's sleeping, sweeties, so please . . . STAY THE FUCK OUT!"

Instead I'm the mom, so there is no rest. My kids care about three things--eating cereal, saying the word "poop," and breaking shit. Not being Apple Jacks, excrement, or glass lamps, my cold is irrelevant.

Here is where my plan comes in. I'm starting a business. A service, if you will. People hire nannies, don't they? Well, let's push the envelope. Let 'em hire nanas. You know, sweet old ladies who come in and care for moms who are sick? These grandmas-for-hire will watch the kids, serve tea, and toast bread all at once! RENT-A-NANA is a granny goldmine, a white-haired windfall, a geriatric jackpot!

In fact, I've already begun the application process. As a test run, I'm choosing one of these lovely ladies to care for me. Who shall I choose? Let's take a peek.


She looks like a pistol, sure, but a bit chatty. I'm looking for silence, carbs, and an indecent amount of butter--not Crockpot recipes and "Judge Judy" play-by-plays. Pass.


Now this is better. An eager beaver, this one. She's already working on my cuppa.


Aw man, now this gal's gone and poisoned it. Yeah, I'm not falling for your tampered Tetley, lady. No thanks to the Earl Gray with two lumps of arsenic. After you, sweetcheeks.


Ah, this fine grandmama's a speaking my language: "Tea, dearie? Fuck tea. Nana's making you a hot toddy. Oh, and your toast needs waaay more butter. What are you, on a diet? Silly young girl. You can bounce a quarter off your tush." DING, DING, DING! We have a winner.

Yeah, RENT-A-NANA is going to make me millions. Just you wait. It will be huge. HUGE, I tell you. Ill moms everywhere will be thanking me for the clutch elderly hook-up.

Of course, lest we go the way of Annie Wilkes, there will always be a screening process. . . .