Just Because Sometimes It Sucks to be a Woman

Not So "Torious": My Beef with Tori Spelling

I have nothing personal against Tori Spelling. Sure, she's a home wrecker and is paid a ton of money to have a camera follow her and her manservant around Hollywood while they do who-knows-what, but for all I know she may actually be as sweet as pie. And I'm not jealous that her first book, "sTori Telling" (which I'm sure  she wrote alone without help as any idiot can see she has the brainpower capable of penning a noteworthy masterpiece) is currently #7 on Amazon.com's top 100 list of book sales. Fine Tori, whatever. The  world is your oyster, have at it. 

But I do have a problem with this: Tori has just announced that she is set to pen her second book, entitled "Mommywood" (a title which is amazingly original and not at all cliche). According to many sources, including the Postchronicle.com:

"Actress Tori Spelling is to tell about the joys and pains of motherhood in a new book. The 35-year old, who gave birth to her second child with husband (Gigolo) Dean McDermott last month, has signed a deal with publishers Simon & Schuster to pen her second (2nd? Wow! Is it Virginia Woolf or Tori Spelling?) tome, tentatively titled Mommywood." 

At this point I had to stop reading. Last time I checked Simon & Schuster was a respectable publishing company. I'm pretty sure Tori doesn't have a degree in child psychology or literature. In fact, I'm doubtful Tori even has a degree from High School. Secondly, Tori has two children, both under the age of 2, so how long can her book about "motherhood" be? Shouldn't she wait until she has a little more mothering under her belt? Might it be wise to wait until the kids at least go through their terrible twos and the pain of puberty before dishing out advice to other moms? Do we really want to read about her and Dean's sleepless nights during Liam's first few months?  Sheesh, it's not like they had to get up early to go to work the next day, as is the case for 99% of  most parents. Will the masses laugh in unison over the time Tori got green baby caca on her 5-carat diamond wedding ring (which I'm sure she had to purchase since I haven't exactly seen Dean in a movie of the week lately) the first time she changed  his shitty little diaper? 

Listen, if Tori can raise her two little monsters in Hollywood and keep them from getting a DUI or entering rehab before their 18th birthday, then I say, "You go girl." Write that book and be proud. In the meantime, I can live without an account of Stella's spit up and Liam's first step. Please Tori, stick to your reality show and guest spot on the new 90210 - your brain will thank you.

VAL

PS: Get in line America! "Mommywood" is already available for pre-order on Amazon.com. It comes out April 29th of 2009. Holy Mackaral. 

Miley Profiling: No Fatties Allowed??

Like most girls her age, my 10 year old daughter, Ellie is a fan of Miley Cyrus, a.k.a. "Hannah Montana". Unlike most girls her age, she tends to keep her obsession on the down low - no posters or tee shirts or mini-shrines in her room. A few months ago I reluctantly paid the $30 fee to join the Miley Cyrus fan club. For $30, we got a barrage of weekly emails (with beauty tips from Miley!) along with a Hannah Montana magnet and poster, which both sit in the back of Ellie's closet. 

Yesterday however, the fan club fee may have paid off. I received an email promoting free tickets to a Miley concert in Hollywood for MTV. Only 350 tickets would be given out so I needed to go online and apply stat. As most people know by now, a Miley Cyrus concert ticket is the Holy Grail of concert tickets. Sold on the black market (you know, Ebay) for upwards of $1200 a piece they are harder to come by than a Faberge Egg signed by Madonna. 

I immediately clicked on the link, which took me to a website that provides free tickets to upcoming televised concerts and talk shows such as The Jimmy Kimmel show and the oh-so-coveted-and-hard-to-come-by "Late Night with Carson Daly" show. Of course nothing is easy in this world and I had to first 'register' on the site before I could request tickets. 20 minutes later, I was clicking the "GET MILEY TICKETS HERE" link. Oh, not so fast, thunder thighs! A disclaimer immediately popped up, which stated: 

You MUST enter the following information before requesting tickets:

• Race/Ethnicity
• Hair Color
• Eye Color (Really? What the?)
• Height
• Weight

 Apparently, no Eskimos, redheads or fatties are welcome at the Miley concert. God forbid the camera might pan through the audience and see a 200 lb. redhead rocking out to "The Best of Both Worlds". No, if you want to attend, you better be rail thin and blond. I imagine blue eyes are preferred but I'm sure they'll accept a few hazels just to round out the group.  I actually felt compelled to subtract 7 lbs from my real weight in hopes of being selected for tickets (Oh, the things we do for our kids).   

Honestly, if we are selected for tickets (right now our request is in, but the judges have yet to select us as the 'chosen ones'), I am tempted to show up in elaborate costume just to see if we can get through the "Gates O' Miley". I would love to show up in full Mormon Polygamist-wife garb: long blue ruffly dress with puffy sleeves and apron. No makeup (aside from eyebrow pencil, which I would carefully use to draw in a uni-brow) , my hair pulled back in a matronly bun and a set of the clunkiest clogs ever seen by mankind. As for Ellie, I would tart her up like Jodie Foster in" Taxi Driver": tank top, short-short skirt, high heels, pin curls, red lipstick and floppy hat. I'm pretty sure the producers would ban us on the spot, but it would be fun just the same.  

Of course the odds that we will actually get the tickets is just a pipe dream. Sadly, my daughter's only real chance of seeing Miley in concert is a $1200 ticket via EBay and she has a better chance of getting that Madonna-signed Faberge Egg.

-Val

Email of the Day: Project Runway does Ace Ventura Insane Ballerina Couture

To: Val@doinglaundry.com

From: Parker@Don'tEmailMeAtWork.com

Re: Project Runway

Val:

I am having one of those days where I am so busy and still sick, fatter than ever and just ordered a $15 piece of fish from the French Restaurant upstairs (plus $2 tip) that is just so-so. Also, everyone is so f*&king cheerful today, with my current attitude I should be wearing a t-shirt that says "Bite Me" (size XXL). I especially hate those friendly strangers in the elevator and really make a concerted effort to not ride in an elevator with anyone else. I'm nice. 

I have a  report due like an hour ago, but first things first:

Project Runway completely rocked last night. Loooved it - starting with Heidi's braid. It looked so cute on her, I may have to try it in my own hair however I am pretty sure I will end up looking demented and more like a homeless person than a chick doing pretty good for pushing 40. Such a great challenge watching the skinny models run around the fabric store like they were in a bakery and Tim Gunn had just told them that scientists had just discovered that chocolate eclairs aren't fattening. The brown fabric that the 3 models inexplicably picked was totally shiteous. I'm surebert, get some black jersey, black tulle and some sequins and be done with it. Also, thankkkkkkss for the peacock feathers.

Is it me or does Michael Kors get gayer and gayer each episode? He is slowly morphing into a 50 year old Long Island garden club housewife. I do love his comments however. Natalie  Portman could not have been any cuter, she looked like she weighed barely a buck and was so sweet - definitely the 'anti Brooke Hogan. 

The designer "Suede"(who annoyingly talks in 3rd person throughout) won the challenge with a dress that Heidi said she would have to be 20 years younger to wear. If  Heidi, who could not possibly look bad in anything, couldn't get away with wearing it,  than I can't help that think that in that dress I would look eerily like Jim Carey in Ace Ventura where he goes to the mental institution.

To: Parker@Don'tEmailMeAtWork.com

From:Val@doinglaundry.com

Re: Project Runway

I loved it too. Ellie and I literally sat in a catatonic state throughout the entire show. While I actually liked "Suede's" red and white criss-cross ballerina wear (which apparently is now available online at bluefly.com) on me it would look like a used chubby Tampax with a blonde wig. (That's hot). As for Heidi's braid. I'm pretty sure she had a cast of thousands working on her hair and makeup. If I tried to braid my hair like that, my arms would cramp after the first 10 seconds and I'm sure I'd end up looking like Vince Neil with a rats nest on his head. 

An Open Letter to our Dads

Dear Dad:

You finally got on the Internet, that's great. Thanks so much for the email you forwarded me on the worsening economy. I am always thrilled to receive new information about the declining US dollar and the 30% foreclosure rate in my little corner of the world. Nothing thrills me more than knowing that in 20 years the world will be run by Islamic countries and my kids will be struggling to buy a can of Pork and Beans. Oh and now that you've stopped sending the anti-Hillary messages, I am especially enjoying the barrage of Barack "Kill Whitey" Obama emails that pop up on a weekly basis. Reading passages from his book that were taken out of context so he sounds like Malcom X making a speech at a KKK rally always gives me a thrill. And the email about that "bitch" Jane Fonda's anti-Vietnam antics (you know, the one that has been circulating for the past 6 years) never gets old.

Don't worry Dad, you're not the only father on a quest to educate his daughter about the fascinating world of daily events. Parker can't take a trip without her dad sending her an email on the percentage of American Airlines on-time take offs flying out of DFW the day before and after her travel date. He also makes sure to send her weekly reminders about how successful her siblings have become - all destined to become CEO's of their respective companies, while poor Parker whiles away the hours, bringing in a measly mid six-figure income in sales.

Don't  get me wrong, Dad. I appreciate your knowledge more than you'll ever know. Since I'm not a regular reader of Fortune Magazine or  The Economist, please feel free to pass their latest expose my way. The occasional fat chick on a motorcycle picture is always a good time too.

Love, 

Your Daughters 

ROLLERMOM

Whatever happened to the art of rollerskating? In the late 70's and early 80's I was a roller skating wizard. And I had a season pass to Skate Country to prove it. 

Needless to say, you can imagine my excitement when this weekend daughter Ellie was invited to a Roller Skating birthday party. I didn't even know they still had roller rinks, but apparently a few still remain - and stepping into this particular rink was akin to stepping into a time capsule. A virtual portal into the late 70's, it was as crappy as can be: hideous strobe lights, gunk on the walls, dirty psychedelic carpet and missing ceiling tiles, clearly untouched since its Grand Opening back in '78. 

Better yet, the parents of the birthday girl had rented out the entire rink for a full two hours, so we wouldn't be burdened with bell-bottom wearing 50-year olds trying to relive their Leif Garrett glory days or obnoxious tweens in tank tops twirling on 4 wheels to "Fergalicious." Giddy with excitement I strapped on the rental skates and hit the floor with reckless abandonment. I would have asked the 16-year old DJ to play some Andy Gibb or Sister Sledge, but she would have probably looked at me like I was speaking Russian.

As I skated in circles at record breaking speeds, blasting by the 11-year old party-goers I began to  wonder why Roller Skating is not more popular. It's fun, good exercise and really is there nothing sexier than those clunky brown boots with giant orange wheels as footwear? If it wasn't such a taboo sport, I'd wear roller skates everywhere - I'd be like Tootie from Facts of Life or "Rollergirl" from Boogie Nights (without the career in porn or cocaine addiction). I'd pick up my kids from school, grocery shop and drop off the dry cleaning all atop custom-made skates. I'd single-handedly bring back roller disco to the new millennium. Then again, I'd look like the crazy mom stuck in the 70's as I skated down the frozen pizza aisle doing the "Hokey Pokey and turning myself around." That's What It's All About.

-VAL

Best of First Class to Hell: SPAGO REVISITED

Today, I have come down with a small case of writer's block and between Parker's busy schedule and horrible case of "Rhino Virus" we just don't have much to write about. So today we will revisit an old story about drinking Apple Martinis with celebrities once upon a time in Hollywood:

It's never a good idea to invite two 30-somethings with lifelong subscriptions to STAR and US magazines to a Hollywood party. Unfortunately, Parker's network executive sister learned this lesson the hard way.

It all started innocently enough - the night before the Emmy Awards, which is a big night of parties in Hollywood. After a day of shopping at Barney's and dining at the Ivy and Koi, we felt like Paris and Nicole. Only not as thin. Or young. Minus the Paparazzi. Also, I was in my Toyota SUV instead of a Bentley, but you get the picture. The party was at Spago, smack in the middle of Beverly Hills. As we entered, we were overcome with a plethora of Hollywood television and movie stars. The wine was flowing and we pleasantly strolled through the glamorous soiree. The second glass of wine (a.k.a. liquid courage) had surely gone to my head when I approached comedian Ant and spurted out "You new rug looks great!" (FYI - it didn't look great but more like a sick raccoon had found a place to die smack on Ant's head). Some people might have taken offense, but Ant was a trooper and we chatted about Celebrity Fit Club for a good 45 minutes. My new found friendship with Ant and a chat with another sitcom star - who would go on the next day to win an Emmy -  gave me the confidence of Janice Dickinson on speed.

The good news is that we actually were on the guest list and didn't look entirely out of place. It's not as if we showed up with mullets wearing and "I'm With Stupid" shirt or "Knott's Berry Farm" tank tops with acid-washed jean shorts. Unfortunately, at some point during the night, all composure went out the door. (To be fair, it's not like we stood on the bar and waved our tatas, so things could have been much worse.)

Blinded by the celebrity, we were unaware of the sprawling buffet of food including fresh shrimp, crab legs and caviar, not to mention a "Chocolate Bar" with Austrian chocolate flown in from Europe that morning. The alcohol bar, sadly, was not overlooked. Within 45 minutes, we had exchanged our wine for Apple Martinis served in glasses the size of a small toilet. Shortly thereafter, we became convinced that everyone was our best friend.

Donald Trump? Well, since the Donald and I did have a mutual acquaintance, it made it perfectly reasonable for me to go up to him and start a conversation while his wife Melania (who we might have called "Melanoma") stood there with "freeze face" pretending to be interested. Our chat was cut short when Parker butted in and told  him that all the contestants on "The Apprentice" were losers and if she were on the show she would "Kick Ass". 

When we were introduced to the cast of The Office, we soon became their "Soul Sistahs". As for the actors from Fox's "24"? I'm pretty sure we made lunch dates with them all. 

Other "Highlights" of the night included:

• Seeing Glen Close and making the rational and mature decision to yell "GLENN CLOSE" in her ear as she passed me by. It came out sounding like Steve Carrell screaming "Noooo Kelly Clarkson" during the waxing scene in the 40-Year Old Virgin.
• Swishing my giant martini onto Marlon Wayan's purple suede suit. But not before we asked him exactly which Wayan brother he was. (I don't think he was amused).
• Parker telling Carson Daly that I thought he was "hot" (for the record, I am happily married and do not, nor ever have thought Carson Daly "hot"). She then proceed to tell (scream at) him  a deafening tone "Eat a Sandwich, Fattie"! 
• Making fun of fashion designer Jay Carroll's homemade red poncho to has face. (Jay Carroll was the first season winner of Project Runway and was still enjoying his 15-minutes of fame). Clearly Jay had spent countless hours handcrafting his Poncho into a meticulous replica of a Mexican Serape that could have been purchased across the border for approximately nine American dollars. Jay retorted by looking at Parker's $125 Joie "Dragon Tee" with a look of disgust, telling her that "Dragon's are sooo out." Whatever Jay! Clearly his fantasy of making the Poncho the next best thing never panned out.
• Ending the night at a popular West Hollywood bar where Parker immediately ordered a "2-in-the-morning" burger and fries. She protected that burger like a wolf protects her young.  No one was getting a bite of that delectable beer-soaked burger. Good thing she downed that burger because why would she have bothered to enjoy the Spago complimentary seafood and chocolate buffets, when a greasy, $10 Ebola burger was in her future?

We returned to Parker's sister's condo late that night, giddy like 1990's schoolgirls who had just met Donny Wahlberg from NKOTB. I put on a Doors tee and passed out on the couch in full makeup. Parker walked teeth-first into the sliding glass door - leaving a small chip and a whistle-like lisp, which would be a fabulous attribute at the next day's Emmy Awards that she'd be attending with her sister.

Serendipitously, I would not be attending the Emmys. Thank God, as I'm pretty sure that Ellen DeGeneres wouldn't want her  monolouge to be interrupted by the sound of my dry heaving. As I drove back to Orange County that morning I contemplated the night before, over a McDonald's Hash Brown and Coke  - because really, why would I have partaked in the Crab Leg and Caviar buffet when a hash-brown-in-a-box was in my future?

Stay tuned for Parker's account of the Emmy Awards!

-VAL 

Email of the day:

To: Val@doinglaundry.com

From: Parker@Don'tEmailMeAtWork.com

Re: The Yasmine Virus

Hey Val. I am so sick today. Just blew my nose for the nine millionth time and now it is so irritated that it is bleeding. I look like Yasmine Bleeth  after an all-nighter at the Viper Room.

To: Parker@Don'tEmailMeAtWork.com

From:  Val@doinglaundry.com

Re: The Yasmine Virus

Sorry cutie. Instead of going to work and and spreading your Yasmine-virus you should be home with a SARS mask on watching Project Runway on your Tivo. No one likes a sicko at work. On a more important note, I just read that Brett Michaels has broken up with his Rock of Love 2 skank Ambre. As a result (and in a shocking turn of events) VH1 has signed him up for a third installment of Rock of Love. To be honest, I'm not sure if I can stomach another season of this whorefest. Oh, if  only you weren't trapped in that 'horrible' marriage with Daddy Warbucks, you could slip on your 1987 Zodiac boots (with the metal floral studs) and head on down to "Chateau Chlamydia" to rock his world. I think I just vomited in my mouth. 

Cellu-lot: One Girls Crusade Against Cottage Cheese Thighs (and Beyond)

Yesterday, as I sat outside in the bright sunlight reading a book (yet another of my favorite sedentary hobbies) I crossed my legs to be confronted by a horrifying realization. The cellulite, that  had once been confined to my butt-cheeks and upper thighs had spread faster than a Herpes outbreak at the Playboy Mansion and was now looking  back at me from atop my ankles (cankles). 

Don't get me wrong - I am no stranger to cellulite. Even at my Nicole Richie fighting weight of 97 lbs, I still had cellulite on my ass. But, considering that I was never going to be a Victoria's Secret model or a stripper at Scores, I let  it slide. After all, only a select few see my ass and they just were going to have to accept a little bumpage in my trunkage. But having cellulite on the lower legs is a whole new set of issues (not to mention the cauliflower-like crinkly upper backs of my arms that have been sprouting of late). I have come to the realization that 1) I am not in my 20's anymore and 2) It's time to get off my ass and exercise now and then (like every day for 3 hours). 

Gone are the days of my youth where I could subside on 2 Pepsi's a day and the occasional candy bar, then go out 3 nights a week and drink Seabreezes until dawn. After I got married, between working full-time and popping out two kids in 3 years, I was just too busy to eat and managed to stay slim. Somewhere after the age of say, 33 my body began to beg for an actual meal now and then and I  actually listened to it. Today I am paying the consequences. 

Getting old sucks, but I'm determined to fight it tooth and nail. If Madonna (who will be 50 in August) can have a body that looks like she could take on the High School wrestling team, than certainly I can conquer a little bit (lot) of thick bubble-fat in my thighs and calves. Sadly, this might mean giving up my Courtney-Love-like addiction to Pepsi and substituting lettuce for Lays and carrots for Cabernet. A trip to the gym more than twice a month might be in order as well.  I don't strive to be Giselle Bundchen or Heidi Klum (although that would be nice) but I'll be damned if a year from now I'm mistaken for Kirstie Alley while I sunbathe at the beach.  The fight is on! Right after I take a nap.

val

Recession Obsession

As I sit here watching the news about the IndyMac Bank Crisis, gas crunch,the mortgage mess, and the stock market (which seems to be going down faster than Paris Hilton on a first date), I feel more and more like Debbie Downer on ludes. It's bad enough that the economy is   in the dumps, but the media has to exploit the perilous predicament 24/7. 

Yesterday, I went on the website "Zillow.com" to check my home's value. Zillow, for those who don't know, is a website with real time value estimates on any address in the country. Last year at this time, our house was valued at approx. $55k more than we paid for it. Today, the fine  folks a "Zillow" estimate my  house at $145,000 less than it's  purchase price 2 1/2 years ago. Thanks Zillow, you made my day. Apparently, my house is depreciating more than a Detroit crack house next to the train tracks. I spent a restless night obsessing about the value of my house and the state of the union. I even considered pulling a Dina Lohan and whoring my daughter out in the entertainment business. I'm pretty sure Miley Cyrus' parents don't spend sleepless nights worrying over the price of their LA McMansion. Maybe if I had a candy dish of Xanex by my bed I could look on the bright side.

 In the meantime I guess we're all in this together, (aside from the Brad and Angelina's of this world who get a $10 million dollar paycheck for popping out twins and letting OK magazine take a Polaroid.) My kids will have to deal  with the consequences of "leftovers" and not going to the movies twice a week. No more ambling trips to Ikea and Target for shopping sprees of useless knick-knacks. It looks like we'll be watching a lot of television and taking trips to the public pool over the next year. And I guess my next round of Botox injections will have to be put on hold until the market bounces back. 

val

Girls Just Wanna Have Some Decent Television!

Last night after a glass of wine and an hour long Discovery Channel documentary about the squid family I was desperate for some real entertainment. Unfortunately, despite 700+ channels, Sunday night on cable is a Dead Zone. I love crappy reality as much as the next guy but after two minutes of VH1's "I Love Money" I was seriously afraid I might catch a venereal disease just from watching. I've tried to watch "Denise Richards: It's Complicated" but really it's not complicated at all and in fact should be called "Denise Richards: It's Unwatchable." 

As I  scrolled down the channels, (my hand cramping) somewhere in the 300's I discovered a channel called "Fuse" (who knew?) and the last half of an amazing 1980's movie starring Sarah Jessica Parker and Helen Hunt called "Girls Just Want to Have Fun." Named for the Cyndi Lauper song, the plot  revolved around a  girl (Sara Jessica Parker) lusting after a motorcycle-riding guy from the wrong side of the tracks. An original plot to be sure, and more importantly, how did I miss this gem-of-a-movie the first time around? Was my 17-year old social calendar so molten- hot that I was too busy to see this back in 1985? Regardless, I was seeing it now and it never fails: the worse the movie, the harder it becomes to fall asleep. So I watched in agony for an hour while Sarah Jessica and her leather-jacket-over-a-half-shirt-wearing rebel-lover prepared for the "dance contest of the year".  Of  course there was the token rich girl and her factory-owning father who threatened to destroy their dream, not to mention the always wacky Helen Hunt as the goofball best friend with a hair style that rivaled a blond Don King. 

Obviously I don't want to give the ending away and spoil it for anyone else who might meander past the Fuse Channel at 2 am in the next coming weeks, but I will say that as craptastic as "Girls Just Want to Have Fun" was, it still ran entertainment circles around "I Love Money (and Valtrex)" and the "Complicated" Ms. Richards.

-Val

The Birds and the Bees and the La-Z-Boy Fetus

A few weeks before school ended, my daughter Ellie brought home a letter saying that the entire 5th grade would be undergoing  a 2-day "Family Life" class. ("Family Life" apparently is the New Millennium code-name for "Sex Ed"). I gladly signed permission and sent her on her way, relieved that some of the pressure was off me. Over the past few months, I have tried to tell Ellie a few things pertaining to the oh-so-dreaded puberty but have been met with looks of disdain and disgust. For example when I explained that she would probably start her period in the next year or two, she took it like a mature 10-year old by promptly sticking her fingers in her ears and screaming "La La La La....." When I suggested that she start wearing a Training Bra she reacted with a yelp, running to her room and slamming the door.

My parents never sat me down and had "the Talk". As a result I was completely in the dark about all things pertaining to puberty. At the age of 10 after a painful bike crash, I was convinced that the bike had impregnated me. I began to become obsessed that if anything even brushed against my "private parts" the result would be an unwanted baby. One day while jumping on my parents brown velvet LaZBoy chair I landed spread-eagle on the arm-rest. Not only did it knock the wind out of me, but in my 10-year old wisdom, I was convinced that I was knocked up. I would spend endless nights literally punching myself in the stomach trying to dislodge the brown-velvet human/chair fetus that I was convinced was growing inside of me. I agonized over how I would explain the pregnancy to Mom and Dad. 

I was eventually saved by the mandatory 6th grade "Sex Ed" class, which basically consisted of of a filmstrip showing crudely drawn body parts and explained in 1970's terminology about the "hair down there" and the how the groovy sperm (which only came from a male human, and thankfully not a Schwinn bike or brown velvet La-Z-Boy chair) had to meet up with the foxy lady-egg in order to make a baby. Although I was relieved to no longer be in the dark, I was simultaneously horrified by the images in front of me. When the term "menstruation" was mentioned (along with a corresponding outline of a woman's reproductive system) I could feel my blood sugar level dropping to the single digit range and began sweating more than Bruce Jenner doing a sprint on the surface of the sun. I remember being both horrified and fascinated at the same time. 

As an adult I vowed to be open about sexuality with my children. No child of mine would think that a swift kick to the crotch would cause pregnancy, or have a meltdown the day they came face to face with a pubic hair. But to be honest, when the time came I left it to my husband to have "the talk" with my son, and was relieved that my daughter Ellie would be forced to watch the "Sex filmstrip" in a dark classroom surround by her peers, where she  would not be able to put her fingers in her ears and scream, "La, La, La, La....."

-val

Today I Pulled a "Fergie" in Costco

Working in Sales can be insane and today was no exception. It began with a 2-hour client meeting which, while productive was missing a key decision maker that I really needed there and abruptly ended because the client had to dash to a meeting unexpectedly, leaving me unable to ask such questions such as, "Will you please sign the contract before the Tory Burch fall shoe collection is released?" It is also so incredibly hot in Texas right now that by the end of the day my makeup looked not unlike Heath Ledger's "Joker" character and my hair style is not far off either. 

This weekend is Daddy Warbucks' family camping debacle so I made a mad dash to Costco after my meeting. We are in charge of a dinner for 30 - because 30 is easy and cheap to cook for. I was in such a hurry and I had to pee but against my better judgement decided to hold it in. 30 seconds later I literally half peed my JCrew Chinos in the wine section, crossing my legs as tight as possible. I had a little pep talk  with myself and made a mad dash (looking like I was running in a sack race) to the Ebola-virus laden Costco bathroom, which was literally on the other side of the 40,000 square foot store. As I shuffled with my va-jay-yay clinched tighter than a bear trap, I almost plowed over a number of sample seekers in my way. I finished my Costo mission with a totally soaked crotch and ass and many curious looks from my fellow Costo cuties.

At least I had a stack of coupons, which I happily handed to the fucktard cashier that took forever to check me out. He took my coupons with a look of disdain and said "These don't start until July 17th!" so I instructed him to "put back the cellulite cream" which he had to retrieve under the  20 lb bag of potatoes on which were haphazardly placed atop of the double loaves of Milton's wheat bread. As I paid my $300 bill, I told him it looked like a serial killer packed my cart, while I'm sure he was thinking, "Whatever you cellulite-cloaked, pants-peeing Princess." 

-Parker

McCain and the Deranged Tax Lady

I love this crazy old rooster. After hearing the sound bite on the radio, I was expecting a toothless hobo in a torn caftan. When I Googled the video, I was surprised to find a clean (but still demented) gray-haired pipsqueak dressed in a fine white suit from TJ Maxx. She is basically my mom with a Czechoslovakian accent hyped up on iced tea. She the geriatric "Norma Rae"- a revolutionary with dentures and Easy Spirits, the voice of a new generation.  

I'm guessing she has a product endorsement deal by the end of the week, or at the very least an appearance on "The Soup." 

-Val

Email of the day: Nicole Kidman's Baby, Madonna's Brother and the Humdrum Bachelorette

To: Paker@Don'tEmailMeAtWork.com

From: Val@whatever,I'mBusy.com

Re: Pop Culture Crapola

Nicole Kidman gave birth to a (wrinkle free?) baby girl on Sunday who she named "Sunday Rose". Sunday Rose? Really? When I hear "Sunday Rose" I immediately picture a feminine hygiene product (more specifically it sounds like the brand name of a douche). Don't get me wrong - the name "Sunday" is quite nice and "Rose" all alone is pretty but put them together and it all goes south. 

Last night the Bachelorette ended (insert cricket chirping noise here). I don't think anyone cared, including myself  - I only watched the last ten minutes. Deanna (who you'd think was Angelina Joile the way the men on the show salivated over her) chose Jesse the "Snowboarder Dude" (speaking of douches). Good for you Deanna, because nothing says "stability" like a Snowboarder. Between his lack of education, weekend trips to Sun Valley and all the pot smoking, I'm sure he'll make a wonderful husband.

Madonna's crazy brother Christopher Ciccone will be on Good Morning America next week (must TIVO) to promote his new book. I may have to hit the bottom of the barrel and actually buy this book. Of course I will have to order it online rather than be humiliated at Borders by standing in line holding "Life With My Sister Madonna".  Clever title by the way. Sounds like Christopher spent a long agonizing night trying to come up with something original. If I was the greedy, publicity-hungry sibling of Madonna, I'd choose a name like "Material Bitch" or "Like a Virgin Bitch", "Lucky Star-Bitch" or "Who's That Girl?: The Story of my Bitchy Sister Madonna." But that's just me.

Val

P.S. - you know he is pissed at her - just look at that unflattering photo.

Amy Crackhouse and the folks at A&E

What the F*&k is wrong with this girl? Amy Winehouse, who was recently the hospital/rehab (again!), checked out after a few days and then performed in Rio with a glass of Chardonnay (and later, Cabernet) in hand. Today Britain's "Telegraph" reports that Amy has admitted to doing drugs while in a previous rehab stint. 

OK, I get the allure of drugs - you feel almighty and painless; the world is your oyster or whatever. But then you have to wake up the next day feeling like a cat has shit down your throat and shaking like Nicholas Cage in "Leaving Las Vegas". At some point, doesn't that become kind of a drag? I think it's time for Amy to have a little visit from the crew of one of my favorite shows: A&E's "Intervention".

I love everything about the show, from the fact that the addicts never have a clue that their family is gathered in a hospitality suite at the Fairfield Inn (for the record, if you're ever led by a camera crew to a hospitality suite at any limited service hotel, get ready for the family reunion of a lifetime) waiting to disarm them of their heroin or meth and send them down the road to a cruddy rehab center in Tallahassee, Florida - to the creepy Intervention specialists who never speak above a whisper, overseeing the entire process like Dr. Phil on Valium.

The fact that the show is shown on A&E (the "Arts and Entertainment" channel) also baffles me. Watching people shoot meth in a bathroom at a train station strikes me as neither artistic nor entertaining - although I must admit that watching a 45-year-old crack addict dancing naked in trailer full of clutter can be mildly entertaining.

Now, getting the A&E crew to follow Amy Winhouse around for a week would definitely be both Artistic and Entertaining. Between her renditions of "Rehab" and "Back in Black" we could catch a glimpse of poor Amy smoking a crack pipe behind the dumpster with Pete Doherty and one of his many feral cats. While she lay passed out in a pile of her own vomit, the camera crew could zoom in on one of her many classy "naked woman" tattoos or her elaborate mite-infested hair bouffant. At the end of it all, we would be led to a shabby hotel conference room where she would be confronted by her enabling music producer Mark Ronson, even more enabling husband Blake, and her n'er do well pop, Mitch (it's frightening that I knew his name without having to Google it). We'd sit back and watch as they'd try to make her go to Rehab and she'd say, "No, No, No."

-Val

To Blog or Not to Blog

So, I haven't made a blog entry in over a week and I am sure our many (three) readers are wondering if the magic is over. No, unfortunately I am back from my vacation which means more blogging from Parker and Val. 

My family and I have been on a whirlwind trip across the U.S. (Dallas and San Diego!) and the idea of blogging was pushed aside in favor of doing cannonballs off Parker's diving board in Dallas and laying on the beach drinking margaritas in San Diego. We started off our vacation by visiting Parker's house in Dallas. When I say "house" I really mean "museum" - it is huge, modern, long and linear and my kids immediately turned the upstairs into a whirlwind of clothing, and wet towels strewed across the guest bedrooms (all four of them). Parker and her husband "Daddy Warbucks" love to entertain and when I say "entertain" what I really mean is feed  you until you can hardly move and bombard you with expensive wines and beers. Seriously, last week I drank more beers than a migrant farmer at an open bar. Today, my stomach is still so distended that it resembles J-Lo's during her 9th month of pregnancy with twins.

It was during one of these beer/wine-fueled nights that Parker's brother and I got into a conversation about "blogging". He proceeded to tell me that the truth is, no one gives a rat's ass about us or our blog and we should focus not on ourselves, but on the entertainment industry. While he is probably right with  his claim that no one cares what we have to say, I must say that the blogisphere needs another gossip sight like it needs another site filled with baby pictures. He continued on berating our blog asserting that we will never have an audience and we should give it up. Parker abruptly ended the conversation by telling him that since he'd never spent more than 5 seconds on our blog he should "F#*k off". 

On the way home from Dallas, I pondered: Maybe Parker's brother is right. Maybe our blog is a fruitless effort based on our heightened since of self-importance? Us? Self Important? Nah!

-Val

Email of the Day: Pop Culture Round Up

To: Val@doinglaundry.com

From: Parker@don'temailmeatwork.com

RE: Madonna etc...

No surprise Madonna and Guy Ritchie may be splitting up. Apparently she would only let him go to the pub three times a week and that was a problem for him. Like she couldn't just chill and enjoy her down time or roll around in some money or something, or how about go have an Ale with him? Surely this would have helped hone her British accent.

Since I haven't given a shit about Madonna since she rocked my world in Desperately Seeking Susan with the dance tune, "Get Into The Groove", I don't mind saying that she seems like a total bitch that takes herself way too seriously. I am not surprised that they are breaking up. I have never seen a husband look so miserable on the red carpet. He always looks like he wants to OJ her ass as soon as they get home.

Also have you heard about Michael Lohan's "love child" who is also shopping a record deal at 13? Just what the world needs. 

Lastly, I read that they might make a "Friends" movie. Don't care, don't care, don't care.