It's Laminated

Like most sane people in a healthy, monogamous, no-way-out-until-the-kids-go-off-to-college marriage, I have a list of famous people I am permitted to shag should the opportunity present itself.

Much like the one Ross Geller has when he tries to bang Isabella Rosselini.(Not that I would know this because I'm too cool to watch "Friends." You should know that I've never once said "How YOU doin?" to strange men. Or ever had--still have--the Rachel do because I'm too cheap to get a real hairdresser with working bowels and a decent magazine selection.)

Since I'm going to LA this weekend, the hubs kindly reminded me of the List.

"EUREKA!" I thought. "The List! But of course. This whole time, I thought I'd be having sex with the same man for the rest of my days, but I had forgotten about the List! The one shining loophole! The golden ticket! The light at the end of the tunnel in which I dance and dance and . . ."

Ahem.

In no particular order, I present you with . . . The List:


Matt Damon (a bit of a wild card considering his company)



Jimmy Kimmel is a sex god.


The older, paunchier Alec Baldwin (mucho sexier than his younger, paunch-less self).


Doug Heffernan = Sex on Wheels.
I fantasize about a night with the King of Queens spent in the following order: sex, spooning, together raiding the portable fridge that he keeps next to his bed.(Mostly about that last part.)
There.
I said it.
I yearn to eat food in bed with Doug Heffernan.


Huey Lewis. Because the thirteen-year-old me would think this was totally awesome.


Which brings us to Bruce Willis. Hardest celebrity crush ever.(As attested to by the fact that I purchased and played this CD.) Is David Addison on the List? Heck yeah. Do bears bare? Do pickets fence?

That's as far as I got.

You can keep your manscaped, jewelry-wearing, fake-and-baked Brody Jenners and assorted waxed douchebags. You can have your fit, muscular, bedroom-eyed Rods and Jeters, Crawfords and McConahays.

As for me? I'll stick with the fat guys. The beer-guzzling, hairy-chested, eating-cold-pizza-in-bed whilst spooning Everyman.

The kind of man, when I think about it, I have right here at home.

Who's on your list, suckas?

How to Lose Weight Instantly

Watch Food Inc.

I've been living on air and organic baby carrots since Tuesday.

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!