Must Haves

I have very few "Must Haves" these days: a few pairs of well-fitting designer jeans, a good purse, a great watch and a black cashmere sweater. Growing up however, I was a slave to fashion and my "Must Have" list was never-ending: Here, in chronological order are some of the top "Must Haves" throughout the years. I'm sure I'm missing a few, so feel free to leave your own "must haves" in the comments section. 

1976- A knit Pancho and Hippie Sandals: Any stranger who came upon me at the age of 7 would have thought I was part of a commune or possibly one of Charles Manson's offspring from the looks of me. For the holidays, my mom knitted matching ponchos for the entire family and as a bonus we were fitted for handmade leather "Wiley" brand sandals, which I'm pretty sure were worn by Jesus back in his hey day.

1978-1982 Clogs, "Candies" and Plastic jellies: My hippie sandals were quickly thrown away in lieu of a new pair of stiff clogs. Those bastards would always slide off mid-stride and the soft part of my foot arch would land smack down on the hardest part of the sole, causing the kind of pain that rivals childbirth. No matter, I was willing to suffer for beauty. At the age of 10, my mom was reluctant to buy me a pair of Candies, mostly because they only came with wooden, spiked heels 7-inches or higher and she didn't want me to be mistaken for a child prostitute. However, when my high-school aged sister was out, I'd throw on the sluttiest pair from her whorish collection of shoes and tap dance the shit out of them on our Mexican tiled floor. It's a miracle I didn't break my neck. Plastic Jellies? Holy stank! Who was the madman who thought of those? Despite the fact that they were made in a lacy filigree pattern of plastic with air holes, in the Arizona Heat my "jellies" smelled like Shaquille O'Neill's armpits after a 4-hour NBA playoff game. 

1981 Gloria Vanderbilt "Swan" Jeans: Anyone between the ages of 37-45 knows from which I speak. The coveted Gloria Vanderbilt jeans were the hottest thing in school (with the Oscar de la Renta and Calvin Klein jeans in a close second). Honestly, in the sixth grade I would have murdered someone in exchange for a pair of those Gloria Vanderbilt beauties with the white stitching and coveted "swan" on the right-hand front pocket. I begged my mom for a pair and on Christmas morning when I saw that box from Dillards, I knew that the angels had answered my prayers. As I pulled back the tissue paper I tried to disguise my horror when I saw a pair of "Designer" jeans by a unknown designer with the unusual name of "Pot O' Gold". At least I assume this was the designer's name, since it had a embroidered rainbow on the left back pocket which continued over to the right back pocket, promptly settling in an actual Pot of Gold (which someone or some machine in China had meticulously sewed with bright yellow thread) and Horror of all Horrors the words (in cursive) "Pot O' Gold" largely strewn above. While I politely thanked my mom for the "amazing" jeans, I remember thinking to myself that my mom could shove those pot-o-gold-jeans right up  her ass.* 

1985: Guess, Guess and more Guess. Sophomore year in high school I was obsessed with Guess jeans. My $2.75 per hour job at my dad's nursery could only pay for an occasional Forenza sweater or neon palm-tree printed stretch pants and rhinestone jewelry from Contempo Casuals. Guess jeans were way out of  my league. Luckily for me, my sister's best friend worked at the Guess store and had a closet full of Guess, which was at my disposal. Never mind that I was 5'2" and a size 26, while she was 6'1" and wore like a 32. I would roll those fuckers up and belt them like there was no tomorrow. I was like a Hobo Guess Model. The ill-fitting pants couldn't possibly have been flattering, but I was blinded by the brand name and $74 price tag. 

1987 Girbaud jeans: These were the hot shit for about 2 minutes in 1987. I remember visiting Parker in the Bayou and we went  shopping at the mall right across from the Super Dome in New Orleans (I think that mall was eventually washed away in Hurricane Katrina) and I blew all my drinking money on a pair of black baggy Girbaud jeans. When we went bar hopping in the French Quarter, I was sure that the hot jeans would pay for themselves as guys would find me irresistable and buy me drinks and lavish me with attention. Not so much. 

*Note: My mom eventually did cave in and buy me a denim "Gloria Vanderbilt" swan skirt. I think the angels sang when I opened it. Later that year we went to Los Angeles to look at colleges for my sister and one day we walked around Beverly Hills. I remember wearing that skirt (along with a Ralph Lauren Polo yellow wool sweater over a pink Izod golf shirt (collar up!) and thinking I was the  hottest thing since Tatum O'Neal in Little Darlings. Did I mention I had just gotten my naturally frizzy hair cut off to match the Olivia Newton John "Let's get Physical" video? I may have even worn a sweatband with that outfit.  I flaunted that outfit like I was Heidi Klum at the Victoria's Secret Angels fashion show. Sadly, during my visit to L.A. I was not "discovered" by Swifty Lazar. 

-Val

Douchebag of the Week: Mystery From "The Pickup Artist 2"

I was flipping through the tv channels (a favorite pastime of mine) and came across this doozy of a show on the ever-classy VH1 network. The truth is I saw some of it the first time around (when it was called just "The Pick Up Artist") but even I couldn't sit through an entire episode (this coming from someone who has Rock of Love Charm  School on DVR series record). You can imagine my surprise when they brought this douchebag back for a second season. I don't care how thick our beer goggles were - at no point in our lives would this guy have had a chance in hell of even making eye-contact with Parker or me. How he is an "expert" at landing the ladies, I'll never know. I'd rather hook up with Woody Allen suffering from a flaming case of herpes then give "Mystery" the satisfaction of "picking me up"

Who Doesn't Love Amy Sedaris?

This video is not for the faint-at-heart (or children, and is probably NSFW). Amy Sedaris demonstrates a vaginial-cleaning on The Chelsea Handler Show.

Taco Bell Revenge

Parker went to a swanky work function last Friday night and wore her David Meister satin cocktail dress - the same one she wore to our 20th High School reunion last year. 30 minutes into the party, someone pointed out to her that their was a lovely "Stain" sticker (placed by a do-gooder dry cleaner employee) which she had been unknowingly wearing on her left sleeve. I guess we should have skipped those 1 am Taco Bell Mexican Pizzas after the reunion. 

Nothing says "Classy" like a Stain sticker at a party.

Hold the Starch and Just Find My Goddamned Clothes!

I once spent $300 on a sweater during my salad days -  actually I did this a lot in my salad days. It was the late 90's, I was still in my 20's and things were looking up so why not? It was certainly a different state of mind than the current "I'm pushing 40 and the sky is falling".

I always know the economy must be bad when even I stop shopping and start pretending I'm not more than in love with a fuchsia with navy hearts Marc Jacobs top I spied recently at Nordstrom. To quote bean-pole-raisin-face-stylist Rachel Zoe, "I die" whenever I see it. Oh and a Hanii Y plaid three-quarter length sleeve plaid peacoat. " I Die" and "I Die" many more times.

I used my trusty dry cleaners to take good care of my "babies" (as I called my favorite designer pieces). They knew me by name and I was confident they would keep the 'pilling' on my beloved black and neon green plaid Versace jacket to a minimum. One day, in a pinch for time I gave my dry cleaning to Daddy Warbucks to take to a dry cleaner near his office. D.W. had known the owners for years and said not to worry they do good work, he's known them forever etc.

A few weeks later I frantically tried to find one of my 300 babies in my closet with no luck. In a panic, I made D.W. go back and have them check two different times for my Ralph Lauren turquoise cashmere sweater that was so gorgeous it forgave any bad hair day. Needless to say D.W. was not too happy when the sweater eventually magically appeared in my closet. Oops.

A few years later we moved to a new neighborhood and I chose a cleaners that was very close to our house. We had been in N.Y for a week of fun and being fabulous with our hip friends, Jade and Evan and I literally took all of my favorite pieces with me: shirts, tops dresses etc. - all my best things. When I dropped all of it off at the new cleaners I remember thinking, "It would really suck if something happened to these clothes." Jinx.

When I showed up to pick up my dry cleaning a week later, they told me they didn't have my clothes. I literally demanded that they go back and check at least 5 times. Meanwhile, the lady behind the counter and her uni-brow looked at me like I was insane when I started getting super pissed with tears streaming down my face. I wanted to say "Oh, you lost all my best clothes and a ton of them? Oh ok, see you next time, no starch please," but I got the feeling all sarcasm would be lost on uni-brow and her manager and manager's manager.  30 minutes later, still without my "babies", I called Daddy Warbucks in hysterics and told him to come to the dry cleaners, I mean the "fucktard cleaners", STAT I announced (as loudly as possible.)

D. W arrived and remained composed but intimidating which I found sexy through my Alice Cooper eyes and gasps of sobbing. D.W. told them he hoped they had insurance. "Yeah insurance!" I screamed.  Then all (including D.W.) looked at me like I was homeless lady with schizophrenia.

As soon as we got back home, I thew myself on our bedroom oriental rug (I love that rug) and cried at the top of my lungs in the fetal position. D.W just looked at me shaking his head and said, "I'm sorry, did your entire family die in a horrific plane crash or did the dry cleaners lose some of your clothes?" This made me scream louder and cry harder. After about an hour of crying I was hungry so of course I picked myself up from the rug, grabbed an Advil, chips and a bottle of cold Grey Goose from the freezer.

Early the next morning the dry cleaners called D.W. and said they had given my clothes to someone else who had brought them back and that my house wasn't destroyed in a giant hurricane after all.  To not give him the pleasure of learning a lesson I just replied "Well it's just a good thing they weren't a size 6 and loved Nanette Lapore." 

-parker

All I Want for Christmas

Are these. They are totally hot (hence the name "Wonder Sauna Hot Pants)and surely will melt away my muffin top and flabby thighs. I would wear them everywhere!

PS: This picture came from break.com

Former Child Star (sort of)

It's ironic that growing up I always wanted to be an actress - yet was painfully shy and never got my 'big chance'. Meanwhile two of my best friends both spent their youth auditioning for movies and television. Parker grew up in California where she made appearances in local commercials and played a schoolgirl being eaten alive by angry bees in the 70's disaster flick Swarm (click here to read her account). Meanwhile in Arizona, my elementary school best friend Viv would often miss school in order to film scenes for "Little House on the Prairie" and at the age of 7 landed the part of 'Girl in the Road' in the Steve McQueen western "Tom Horn". (Ironically both "The Swarm" and "Tom Horn" had cameos by Slim Pickens. Total 6th degree of Slim Pickens). When Viv landed this part, I was beyond jealous - sure that she would be living in the limelight attending parties with Michael Jackson and Sean Cassidy while I suffered through 2nd grade math.

Only recently I discovered my husband Tom also had his 15 minutes (ok seconds) of fame in yet another flick. The early 80's was not especially a good time for movies (think "Xanadu" and "Staying Alive") but Tom saved his acting ability for perhaps the worst movie of all time: "Kidco". The plot in a nutshell is this (taken directly from IMDB.com):  Kids who live on a horse ranch decide to sell the excess manure as fertilizer, but their new company soon comes under fire from the state tax board.  Yes, it's true the craptacular movie known as "Kidco" actually had a plot that revolved around .... crap. 

Last week, while rifling through the channels I couldn't believe my eyes. The HBO Family channel was airing "Kidco" (and not just once, but several times throughout the month!) I grabbed my DVR controller faster than Lindsay Lohan grabbing a vodka and Red Bull at an open bar and recorded the next showing. A few days later I rounded up the kids and  Tom for the big surprise: a screening of "Kidco". The lead in the movie was played by Scott Schwartz, who was riding high off his success in "The Toy" with Richard Pryor and playing a bully in "A Christmas Story." Sadly, for Scott, "Kidco" was the beginning of the end - he later went on to star in such classic pornos as "New Wave Hookers" and "Dirty Bob's Xcellent Adventure 35". (Once again thank you IMDB.com). 

Tom has approximately 7 scenes and although he never mutters a word, his non-verbal acting skills were nothing short of spectacular. In  the opening scene he plays a kid involved in an underground 7th grade gambling/bingo ring. As the camera pans by his face I  immediately paused it while my kids laughed at their dad - aged 13, with a bowl cut, trying to look like a bingo-playing thug. Later Tom has a reaction scene which called for him to look 'relieved'. Cut to Tom sighing and quietly mumbling the words "Phew". It was Oscar worthy. Tom also has a few scenes in the courtroom and later at the end of the movie is shown prominently clapping with excitement as the manure-selling hero (Scott Schwartz) gives a speech to thousands of cheering adolescents.  

Kidco was the end of Tom's acting career. But, luckily for me I have it forever on my DVR queue, so he can relive his brush with stardom any time he wants. In retrospect it's probably a good thing he got out of the acting game when he did. I could never marry someone who had filmed a porno.

-Val

I am McGruber

By now you've seen/heard all the hoopla about Sarah Palin being on Saturday Night Live this weekend. It was great - especially when  Amy Poehler did the Sarah Palin rap. Amy Poheler is sooo pregnant I thought for sure her water would break mid rap. 

I've been a fan of SNL since it first aired back in 1975. No matter that I was six years old and didn't understand half the humor, I've stuck with it through thick and thin (except during the mid-80's thru early 90's when I actually had a social life). But, of all the skits shown last Saturday night, I'd have to say my favorite is the MacGruber skit (a take off of the Richard Dean Anderson 80's vehicle "MacGyver"). I love his reaction when he checks his stocks, which was almost a mirror image of me checking my 401k on the Internet every day last week. When MacGruber turns to armed robbery and heroin thanks to the economic crisis, I could relate:

-val

Puff N Stuff (Junior) High

This weekend I was driving  my son and his best friend Nick around when Nick blurted out that "a ton of kids at school smoke pot." Wait. What? "Are you talking about the 8th graders or the 7th graders," I asked. "Oh, the 7th graders" Nick replied. "The 8th graders are all into shrooms." 

OK, Holy shit. I didn't get my first exposure to the Mary J. until I was at least a sophomore in High School. And shrooms? I immediately imagined a school full of 8th graders stumbling along like Zombies and reaching out and grabbing invisible ice cream cones from the sky as they are shrooming their pubescent brains out. 

Nick, by the way is my son's zany, outspoken best friend. He is the complete opposite of my son Daniel, who is quiet and ultra mellow (but not from smoking pot).  If you've ever seen that amazing 80's sit-com "Silver Spoons", Nick is the obnoxious Jason Bateman to Daniel's even-keeled Ricky Schroeder. The boys went on to promise that they aren't part of the "stoner crowd". I know this to be true (for now) considering I pick up my son every day and he comes home and immediately retreats to his room to play video games and electric guitar until homework time. He never has any spare cash and his weekend social life mostly consists of  watching "The Soup" with his mom on Friday Nights. Even so, how much longer before some stoner kid named  Randy offers my sweet innocent son a "J" after school. What will he do next year when his fellow 8th graders decide to shroom on their field trip to Disneyland? Will he make the right decision and, in the words of Nancy Reagan, (who I never listened to growing up) "Just Say No"? Damn those OC stoner kids! Sometimes parenting sucks. Rest assured I will be watching him like a hawk for the next 5 years!

An Open Letter to Madonna

Dear Madonna:

What happened? I used to worship you in 1983 back when you were a free spirit with dark roots and ripped fishnets. I even wore rags in my hair and those low lace-up black boots that you made so popular.  "Borderline" was my teenage angst theme song and I had fantasies of running away to New York where we would become best friends and live in your cool Manhattan loft and shop at Vintage stores together wearing black leggings and Acid washed denim jackets with our bed-head hair.

Then came the 90s and you changed for the worse. You developed that ridiculous English Accent and began wearing cone-bras and leather. Somewhere along the line you just turned into condescending, snarky, snob with an attitude and a bug up your arse. Whenever I see you on the telly (that's English for television) it's like there is a subliminal "BITCH" message flashing before my eyes. Your soon to be ex-husband always looked like he was going for a  colonospcy when you were together. It is clear he was miserable.

FYI - you are a singer, not a philosopher, so lighten up. It wouldn't kill you to stop rolling your eyes at everyone and crack a smile once in a while. Put down that yoga mat and macrobiotic shake and chill the f- out with a beer once and a while. Maybe even put on a lace top and rubber bracelet for old times sake.

Yours Truly, -Val

That Age-Old Dilemma: What to Wear?

Next month my hubby and I are attending a rather large and important business/social event in Beverly Hills. Let's just say it is probably the most important event in Tom's career thus far. Naturally, I'm at a loss for what to wear. Obviously I want to go with something that says "classy", and when it comes to social events I've always gone for a "less is more" approach. That being said, I've narrowed it down to a few choices:

This dress debuted at Sonia Rykiel's fall fashion show last month and I've been entranced by it's beauty ever since. Nothing says style more than a giant hairy face on your dress. Of course with my luck I'd spill caviar down the front and it would be a bitch trying to pick out those fish eggs from that nasty weave.

Honestly, any of the above ensembles from "Rock of Love Charm School" would be amazing, but Heather's red dress (held together by some sort of aluminum-foil clip) is pure magic. I can only imagine how proud Tom would be to show me off to his colleagues in that simple smock. Pure arm candy. 

In my opinion, Juliette Lewis has always been one of the more fashion-forward celebrities. I can only imagine the looks of jealously and awe if i were to walk into the soiree wearing these pleather pants, wife-beater (sans bra, of course) and Indian headdress. Add a pair of Jessica Simpson pink patent leather stilettos and I think I've found my look. Tom will be so proud.

-Val

Labor Pains

After watching "Baby Mama" this weekend, I immediately felt a kinship with Amy Poehler's health-food hating, sarcastic, anti-natural childbirth character.  I was sure the writers must have had a hidden camera on me during my first pregnancy. 

I've always wanted to be a mom, and was thrilled to find out I was pregnant a mere 7 months after getting married. However, within 2 weeks after the EPT "positive" reading, the thrill was gone and the "pregnancy glow" that you hear about was replaced with a Shrek-like shade of green which would stay with me for months.  

The morning sickness (which continued through the afternoon and night) had me truly convinced that I was dying. During the first month of my pregnancy, Tom and I flew to Seattle and the return flight was so harrowing that I got off the plane (after filling up two barf bags, much to the dismay of everyone around me) and insisted that he rush me straight to the hospital, because I knew that I had some kind of  Norivirus/birdflu hybrid and wouldn't make it through the day. Dramatics has always been my forte.

In the mornings I used to sneak away from my desk job and lay on the cold, filthy tile of the public bathrooms just to feel the coolness against my face (that is, when my head wasn't buried in the toilet attempting to vomit in silence). The tiny baby inside of me had the power and potency of  a bottle of cheap tequila on an empty stomach. Adding insult to injury, the only cure for the perpetual pregnancy hangover was constant eating. My food addiction reached critical mass by month 7, when my sized 5 1/2 feet ballooned to a size 8 (I wore slippers at my desk), and I had gained a whopping 52 pounds (not good for a normally petite 5'2" girl). A typical day involved a half sleeve of Saltines and a Big Gulp for breakfast;  a lunch of everything in sight at my work's cafeteria and an afternoon snack of a Dr. Pepper and box of Hot Tamales. I'd come home and (like a Meth addict on a binge), whip up a batch of "cook and serve" chocolate pudding, bring to a boil and promptly sit on the couch watching the OJ Simpson trial unfold as I ate the hot pudding straight from the pan. Let's just say "health food" did not fit into my pregnancy plan. As a result of my crack-like addiction to sugar, today my son has a fetish for Dr. Pepper and anything chocolate. Sorry son.

I worked up until the day before my son was born (despite feeling like a bloated Weeble Wobble), but I'd grown so big and uncomfortable with the 113 average temperature during that Phoenix summer, that I literally begged my doctor to induce labor. A day later I was in the hospital and ready to pop. "What to Expect When you Are Expecting" had suggested that one bring cards, a DVD or  something "fun" to do during the first phase of labor. Within 5 minutes of the doctor inducing labor, there was no time for fun - I immediately felt like I was pushing a Nuclear warhead through a tiny pinhole. While my mother was in my face telling me to "Breathe" I was spitting back like Linda Blair in the Exorcist telling her to F- off". 

It wasn't long before the anesthesiologist showed up with his magic 4 foot epidural needle. At that point, he could have shoved that needle straight in my eye and I wouldn't have put up a fight. I'd gone 9 months self medicating on nothing more than chocolate pudding and hot tamales, and wasn't about to turn down a shot of instant heaven. My anesthesiologist quickly became known as "Dr. Feelgood" (I'm sure he wasn't amused) and during the next 14 hours of labor, I required a visit from Dr Feelgood no less than four times as the drug would continually wear off causing me to curse like a sailor while tearfully begging for more drugs. 

By the time the doctors warned me that my baby was "stuck in my birth canal" and my heart rate and blood pressure were dropping to dangerous levels, I was too high to care. When they told me I needed an Emergency C-Section, I said in my best Sean Penn-in-Fast-Times-at-Ridgemont-voice, "Let's Go for it". Tom watched the operation while I tried to convince the surgeon to drop the sheet so that I too could see my abdomen cut open and the birth of my son. For some reason, the Doctors didn't  go for that. At this point, I'd had so many injections from Dr. Feelgood, that  Jack the Ripper could have cut me into a thousand pieces and fed me to a hungry lion and I would have had a smile on my face. Shortly after my beautiful son Daniel was born, they showed him to me (a perfect baby weighing in at 8lbs 15 ounces). I made eye contact with my baby, smiled and the doctor put a mask over my face telling me it was time to go "night night" (apparently he didn't want my son's first bonding moment to be with a mom who slurred more than Dean Martin at a Vegas show).

Ironically, a few years later, my second pregnancy had me craving green apples and bean tostadas from a healthy Mexican Restaurant down the street. As a result (?) today my daughter is a vegetarian who drinks water constantly and can't stand the taste of soda. I still gained a whopping 45 lbs. with her, but avoided labor altogether with a scheduled C-section and only ONE  visit from Dr. Feelgood. I even managed to stay conscious after her birth and bond with her without sounding like Dean Martin or Courtney Love. Ah, the miracle of birth!

-val

The End of An Era

Forget AIG, Lehman Brothers and Wachovia. I just read that Mother's Cookies has filed for bankruptcy and will cease operations immediately. What is this world coming to? Anyone who grew up in the 70's should be familiar with Mothers Cookies. I think she only had two types: the mini chocolate chips which tasted like crispy lard nuggets with a couple slivers of chocolate and the infamous pink and white "Circus Animal" cookies. God, I hated those Circus Cookies. They must have been perpetually on sale at Luckys Supermarket, because our cupboard o' mold was always stocked with these crappy cookies. Personally, I always thought they tasted like dog biscuits dipped in wax and covered with sprinkles, but I will miss "Mothers" anyway.  

-Val

So Many Kinds of Wrong

Call me old fashioned, but this baby doll is really pushing the boundaries of decency. Since when is it cool to give your kids a Dirk Diggler Boogie Nights peeing baby doll that has an erection when a grown man tickles it's tummy? 

In my day, dolls didn't have any orifices below the neck. Their "junk" was nothing more than a smooth plastic no-fly zone. From the hips down, Barbie and Ken were indistinguishable (as it should be).  Of course there was "Baby Alive" which  you could feed fake applesauce and within minutes the doll would promptly crap it out, and yes it was disgusting but in a cool kind of way. Baby Penis Doll however, is just wrong in so many ways. 

-Val

Christmas Comes Early This Year!

• VH1 TV Shows
• Music Videos
• Celebrity Photos
• News & Gossip

Christmas comes early with the arrival of "Celebrity Rehab 2" later this month. Personally, I've been needing regular doses of Xanax over the past few weeks due to the "sky is falling" economy and the media's threat that we will all be homeless and in line at a Soup Kitchen by early next year. However, after watching the above clip, life is looking up. As a matter of fact, next to Tawney Kittean, I am practically Carol Frickin Brady. Don't get me started on Gary Busey and his crazy blank stare (I smell a knife fight) and while it might be arguable that Rodney King is a "Celebrity", nothing beats watching him barf out the window of a Mack truck.

I also just found out that there will be a Season 4 of "The Real Housewives of the OC". Since it is filmed literally in my own back yard (with many of my favorite restaurants, my salon and my skin care {i.e botox} place regularly featured on the show) I will be waiting with baited breath to see what those beatches have in store this time. They really are horrible shallow people and I am mesmerized by every minute of it. Christmas really did come early this year.

-Val

E-Mail of the Day: AIG Can Burn in Hell (while they get Hot Stone Massages)

to: parker@Don'tEmailMeAtWork.com

from: val@doinglaundry.com

re: AIG & Lehman Brothers are Bastards!

Parker:

I just read about the $440,000 retreat that AIG spent for employees, just days after the government gave them an $85 billion dollar bailout. Good for them. I hope they had fun! Ummm can you say holy-greedy-bastards-burn-in-hell? And if you are wondering just where they had their "business meeting", it was at the St. Regis in Dana Point, Ca. (you remember, the place where we went with our hubbys and had that cheap $600 dinner a few years ago?) Not exactly a budget-friendly hotel. In these times of economic turmoil, I have given up the manicures and pedicures (which I only had every few months anyway), expensive scented candles, Starbucks and online jean shopping while buzzed on wine. Shit, sometimes I even find myself "Coasting" downhill in an effort to make my gas tank last longer. Meanwhile, AIG executives are spending $23,380 for spa treatments while our retirement portfolio dwindles down to nothing. Son of a Bitch.

to: val@doinglaundry.com

from: parker@Don'tEmailMeAtWork.com

re: AIG & Lehman Brothers are Bastards!

As (my personal hero) Cartman says: "Sons of Bitches!" I also heard that the ex-CEO of Lehman Bros. was on the treadmill and someone came up to him and punched him in the face. So great.

to: parker@Don'tEmailMeAtWork.com

from: val@doinglaundry.com

re: AIG & Lehman Brothers are Bastards!

I don't usually advocate violence, but in this case I'd say that "Karma came a calling". By the way, if I was partially responsible for the collapse of one of the largest investment firms in history, I would probably be sitting in my closet sucking my thumb in a haze of anti-depressants and cheap wine, and NOT getting jiggy wit-it on the treadmill.

This is Genius

In my day we had "drunk dialing": a late-night regrettable phone call after a night of hedonistic partying which involved one-too-many Long Island Ice Teas. No one was immune and the result was waking up the next day with a massive headache, and coming to a fuzzy realization that you made a phone call you shouldn't have. 

While I'm sure that "drunk dialing" is still rampant amongst the partying crowd, a new plague has enveloped our society over the past several years: "Impaired E-mailing". If you have a computer and a liquor cabinet, you are not immune. That remorseful feeling of Oh if only I hadn't sent that email to my high school crush/ex-boss/President Bush/ex-girlfriend etc..... 

Google labs has just announced a possible cure for 'Impaired E-mailing' called Mail Goggles. According to the Official GMail Blog, "When you enable Mail Goggles, it will check that you're really sure you want to send that late night Friday email. And what better way to check than by making you solve a few simple math problems after you click send to verify you're in the right state of mind?"

I guess the train of thought is that inebriation and math don't mix. Thanks Google. 

Judy is One Hot Bitch! (So is South Central Chihuahua)

When I saw this video on Saturday Night Live this weekend, I almost peed my pants. Judy is one hot, sexy bitch. Also, with beer goggles on, she looks slightly like Nicole Kidman. I've been singing this song all weekend. 

My daughter has been begging me to take her to see "Beverly Hills Chihuahua" - but unless the movie theatre has installed a Margarita Machine, I would rather take a hot poker in the eye then sit through that shitstorm. I would, however totally pay my $10.50 to see "South Central Chihuahua". When my animal-lover daughter saw this on "The Soup", she became emotionally distressed and ran from the room sobbing (must have been the realistic bloody effects). Meanwhile my son and I were rolling on the floor gasping for air. -val

God Doesn't Care About Dancing

Last night after my 3-hour binge of reality TV (America's Next Top Model, Project Runway and Top Design) I finished the night with a little E! Entertainment News. In keeping with its journalistic integrity, E!'s first story was the demise of Kim Kardashian from Tuesday's Dancing with the Stars. Cut to a clip of a teary-eyed Kim telling the reporter that "God felt like it was time for me to leave." News flash Kim: God doesn't give a rat's ass about you and the dancing show. The American public decided you should leave because you are annoying, a bad dancer and maybe just a little bit conceited.

I'm not a religious person, but would like to think there is a higher power out there. However, I am always baffled when I watch a frivolous awards show (like the Oscars or the Grammys) and the winner's speech always contains a "shout out" to God. As if he cares whether or not Three Six Mafia win the Oscar for best song or some divine intervention  led Jennifer Hudson to beat out Cate Blanchett in the best supporting actress category. 

Maybe it's just me, but  I'm guessing that if their is a God, he might be concerned with more urgent matters like the crisis in Darfur or conflict in the Middle East. Then again, maybe he's a huge fan of Dancing with the Stars.

-Val

Adopting Charlie

If you've never tried to adopt a dog from an animal rescue shelter (especially in Southern California), I dare you to try. It's not as easy as it seems. When I adopted my first dog from the Humane Society 17 years ago, it involved little more than tearfully pointing at the most pathetic looking, frightened dog in a cage, writing a check for a small fee and the cost of neutering and I was on my way. Easy.

2 years ago on a whim, my daughter and I went on Petfinder, which is a great way to find a pet that desperately needs a home. It's kind of like a "Match.com" for pets and their new potential owners. We (just for fun) entered in our zip code, the kind of animal we were "looking for" (dog), age (young) etc.... and Petfinder found us a plethora of available animals within a 75 mile perimeter. Within minutes we were introduced to "Charlie" who was available at a local animal shelter. It was love at first site (see picture below and you'll understand):

Even with his wonky, runny eyes, I knew I had to have him. We immediately called and set up an appointment to meet him. My husband was not exactly jumping for joy when I told him of my plan to adopt a new puppy, but he was helpless over my amazing willpower to get what I want. 

The next morning the kids and I trekked a whopping 60 miles to meet Charlie. The over zealous animal-shelter representative made it very clear that she needed to meet with us in person and give us the 'once over' before relinquishing custody.  He had just had eye surgery (hence the runny eyes) and was approximately the size of a New York City rat. The first thing she asked me when we arrived was "Where's your husband?" When I told crazy dog lady that "dad" was at work (to earn the money for the Kibbles and Bits) she looked at me blankly as if I was insane and said, "I can't adopt him to a family until I have met every member of the household. Meanwhile, my kids were on the floor having a love fest with Charlie and I knew this wouldn't be easy. Honestly, I'm pretty sure Angelina and Brad had an easier time adopting baby Zahara. 

My husband works approximately 70 hours a week and getting him to make the pilgrimage to "Crazy Animal Shelter Land" (60 miles away) would be harder than getting him to go to a Spice Girls Reunion concert. I begged the lady to just talk to him on the phone, which she did, grilled him for 20 minutes, hung up and said, "I still need to meet him." Fine.

Day two: the entire family treks another 60 miles for a chance at winning the Charlie lottery. This time Tom and I sat at a table and answered approximately 2000 questions including, "Who will get the dog if you divorce?" (me); "Will you ever under any circumstances put the dog to sleep?" ("Yes, if he's dying" was apparently the wrong answer); and "What kind of food will you feed him?" (Purina dog chow?) Again, Wrong Answer. According to crazy dog lady, Charlie (a mutt who was dropped off in a box in front of the shelter) would have to be fed organic dog food ($20 for a small bag) and could never, under any circumstances be fed table scraps, which are "toxic" for his precious innards. It seemed odd that my family and I were perfectly fine after consuming our weekly Prime New York steaks, yet it was "virtual poison" for a dog. Whatever, I got wind of her game and started to give her the answers I knew she wanted to hear.

Long story short, 2 hours (and $300) later, we were the proud new adoptive family of 8 week old Charlie. He promptly urinated all over the back seat of our car. Within a week, he was off the "organic" stuff (which gave him continual, projectile diarrhea) and happily feasting on the oh-so-deadly Purina Puppy Chow. Within a few months, he was downing  table scraps (carrots, hamburger and occasional steak parts) like an old pro. And guess what? Aside from a neurotic fear of balloons and large boxes (and large trucks) Charlie is completely spoiled and doing just fine.

-Val