Can We Please Bring THIS Style Back

It's bad enough that I got my People magazine on Friday with Valerie Bertinelli (age 48) on the cover looking way thinner and muscular than me (I have to guess at least a little Photoshop was involved). But then I had to go and try on bathing suits before  hitting the beach on Saturday.  I haven't tried in a bathing suit in over 2 years (and 10 lbs), so this was daunting to say the least. 

I picked out an orange and white stripped bikini - with a matching pair of mini board shorts (thinking the more of my butt covered up the better). The good news is the first size was too big, the bad news is that when I finally did get the right size, I got a good, long glimpse in the mirror.   The dressing room itself was showered in perhaps the most unflattering light known to man. I'm pretty sure the store had installed 600 watt florescent lighting and Fun House Fat mirrors, because I can't really be covered in cellulite from my waist to my ankles, right? I mean, when did my little muffin top become an SUV-sized spare tire (which by the way becomes two spare tires stacked on one another when I sit down or bend)? If Dr. 90210 came in that room with a black sharpie to circle all the fat on my body I would have looked like a freaking leopard. He would have been better off bringing in a can of black spray paint and just tagged my ass (and legs, calves, stomach, arms etc...) The only thing that wouldn't be circled in black would have been my fingers and the top part of my face. 

The truth is, I usually look fine in clothes but I can't wear a long black sleeve cotton top with jeans every day of the year, can I?  I'm not a big eater, but I am maybe one of the laziest persons on the planet (just behind the guy that is too fat to get out of  his bedroom and has Richard Simmons standing outside his bedroom wall with a blow horn and a wrecking ball). As forty looms closer and closer I think I may have to actually start working out on a Regular (gasp!) basis.

I hate you Valerie Bertinelli. 

A Quick Idol Recap - Creepy Smokey and Sweaty Ruben

I'm not sure I've ever seen anything as creepy as Smokey Robinson (whose forehead at age 75 is more wrinkle-free than mine) making googly eyes to Joss Stone throughout their duet. For crying out loud his face was pulled back so tightly, that blinking is practically a calisthenic. He reminded me of the pervert  old uncle that shows up to every family reunion and asks the little girls to sit on his lap.

Poor Ruben Studdard. Throughout his entire boring song I kept hoping a stagehand would run out and towel him down. Honestly, I could run the LA Marathon in 110 degree heat and still produce less sweat than Ruben's forehead produced in a matter of seconds. Also, when I yelled aloud to the TV,  "Can  someone get Ruben a hanky?" my son added, "And a McDonald's application."  Then we cackled and my husband sadly shook his head.

I'll Have the Applebee's Riblets - Hold the Feces

From MSN:
100 sickened after eating at N.Y. Applebee’s
Health department investigating source of Shigellosis bacteria

SYRACUSE, N.Y. - Health officials say more than 100 people reported getting sick after eating at an Applebee's restaurant near Syracuse.
The county health department says there are seven confirmed cases of Shigellosis among people who ate at the Applebee's in Camillus in early March. The bacterial infection is associated with consuming water or food contaminated with fecal matter.

I knew there was a reason why I avoid Applebee's like the plague. Every server there is a 22 year old college student with a diarrhea hangover - and you know they aren't washing their hands, so a little fecal matter is bound to slip into the ice bin or onion ring batter now and then. And, while I imagine there isn't anything much worse than knowing that you ingested restaurant food with bits of shit floating in it - Parker and I have certainly had our share of nasty food run-ins. 

One night after a night late night of underage debauchery,  Parker and I awoke the next afternoon and like any two typical teenagers with a raging hangover immediately had a craving for Hardee's. Clearly nothing kills the poison in a teenagers digestive system like grease and grade F beef. Parker ordered a Hardee Burger and I (because I clearly didn't have enough baby fat) went with the large chocolate shake. Parker ripped into that burger like she was a coyote in Death Valley who just came across a mob corpse. As she began to devour her burger, I heard a guttural sound so grotesque and off putting, that I immediately had to turn down the blaring Thompson Twins cassette to see where it was coming from. Parker had lifted the bun in order to remove the pickles and had come face to face with a dark curly one - it even had a wax like root attached to it. I'm not sure how it got there (was the funloving cook applying mustard with his manhood?) but it was ominous and disgusting. Naturally we were in the car and had left the drive-thru by this point - turning around and complaining really would have taken way too much energy for 2 teenagers with a day of MTV watching ahead of them. At this point most of us would have thrown the burger out the window - but Parker was hungry - really hungry. She actually poked a hole in the middle of the burger, threw out the pube portion and ate the remaining circular burger wheel. I sipped my shake, tried not to vomit and turned up the Thompson Twins.

Many years later, Parker worked at a chain restaurant we'll call "Shenannigan's" where chicken noodle soup was always on the menu. One day while ladling up a bowl of soup from the big copper pot, Parker looked down and discovered a chicken foot (claw?) floating near the top. Mmmmm, It's made with bits of real chicken. So you know it's good.

Then there was the horrific family lake trip where just about everything went wrong. We finally left after three days of hell in the 119 degree Lake Powell, Arizona heat, stopping just long enough to pick up a few burgers from a roadside McDonald's in the middle of nowhere. As we drove into the night devouring our burgers, I heard my sister cry out in pain. When my parents turned on the dome light there she sat, red as a lobster and possibly suffering from sun poisoning, with a broken Popsicle stick and chewed meat sticking out of her mouth. She slowly removed said Popsicle stick to reveal what looked like some sort of prison weapon covered with a green mold-like sticky substance. We examined it and to this day still have no idea what it was or why or how a broken Popsicle stick made it into a Big Mac. While my brother and I laughed at the grotesque foreign object and continued to eat our uncontaminated burgers (or so we assumed) my sister began to sob. Unlike Parker, she did not "eat around it."

"It's made with bits of real Panther. So you know it's good"- enjoy:

Brush with Fame - the Ugly Side of Meeting a Celebrity

HIGHWAY TO HELL: A 1970's Encounter with Michael Landon:
In the 60's and 70's just about all of America was glued to their 600 lb black and white TV sets to watch a Western called "Bonanza". My older sister was no exception. She loved Bonanza, mostly because of the hot young actor who played "Little Joe" -  the 'John Stamos' of his time: Michael Landon.  I've never been a fan of westerns, and was way too young to catch onto the Bonanza craze but my sister Lisa was obsessed with Little Joe's dark curly hair, blue eyes and ten-gallon hat. Personally I probably would have gone for the chubby and maybe semi-retarded older brother Hoss, who was probably the "funny one", but I digress. And although Bonanza ended it's 14-year run in 1973, when Lisa was only 8 or 9, she kept that fire burning for Little Joe for years to come.

Cut to 1976 - the Annual Tucson Celebrity Tennis Tournament (imagine Wimbledon - but in the desert, and instead of real athletes like Traci Austin and Arthur Ash we got  Sherman Hemsley, Joyce Dewitt and Linda Lavin. The headliner, however was most certainly Michael Landon, who after playing sex-hunk but virtuous cowboy "Little Joe" went on to play "Pa Ingalls" on another long running classic series "Little House on The Prairie." We attended this celeb-studded event every year, and this time my sister came prepared with her Holly Hobbie autograph book, determined to get Michael Landon's signature. I was about 7 so my memory is hazy but I do remember wearing my best summer outfit - a yellow terry cloth short-short halter top jump suit and my best pair of cork-wedge sandals from Kinney's shoe store (total pedophile bait). I'm sure Lisa was just as decked out and probably had a gallon of Bonnie Bell lip gloss on in order to woo Mr. Landon with her 12-year old sensuality. 

We sat in the 113-degree sun for several hours bored to tears by the match between Robert Blake and Fred Grandy when it happened. Michael Landon was making his way through the crowd and heading towards us! Lisa grabbed her Holly Hobby autograph book and made a bee line for Michael. "Mr. Landon could I please have your autograph" she shyly asked. He ignored her and continued walking. "MR. LANDON, MR. LANDON PLEASE" she shouted chasing after him as fast as her little limbs could go. Clearly Mr. Landon was in no mood to be bothered and meandered his way through the crowd faster than OJ Simpson at the airport in a Samsonite commercial (or on the 405, fleeing a murder arrest). She repeatedly called out "MR. LANDON PLEASE" and there might have even been a tear trickling down her left cheek, but Mr. Landon was having none of it. In his defense, it was the 1970's, for all we know, he could have been jonesing for a line of coke or maybe he had a wicked case of diarrhea and there was no time for an autograph. But I'd like to think instead, that Michael Landon was just being an a-hole. I don't know if my sister ever forgave him after his major brush off, but I know I haven't. To prove it I made a point to NEVER watch his highly-rated late 1980's series "Highway to Heaven" - because really, what kind of devil like that can honestly portray an "angel" with a straight face? 

PS - It just occurred to me that with the invention of EBay and Craigslist, I might just be able to get that autographed pic of Mr. Landon after all (for a price). Or I could just print the above picture on some glossy paper and send it to her wrapped in some western-style birthday wrapping paper. Lisa is going to have the best birthday ever this year. 

-Val

JACK-ASS BLACK: Have Another Taquito While You Continue to Ignore Me, Fat Ass!

I was lucky enough to attend the Will and Grace wrap party with my network executive sis a few years ago. Jack Black was very big at the time with "Orange County" and "School of Rock", basically a lot of great movies before he started making one piece of shit after another. It was an intimate crowd and I was thrilled to see him because I thought he was beyond funny, plus I looked very cool in my Donatella Versace t-shirt with her face emblazoned on it. So I approached him (again it wasn't like I was on Hollywood Blvd. with my 12 kids wearing a fanny pack) and proceeded to have major verbal diarrhea and went on and on about how funny and great he was.

First of all, he was at least 5 inches shorter than me and much, much wider, with a scraggly beard. As I continued to verbally kiss his ass, he started off into space like a serial killer while simultaneously shoving hors d'ourve sized taquitos in his mouth. As I continued,  it started getting really uncomfortable because he wasn't responding to me whatsoever and just kept that same non-blinking expression on his face. Finally I was like "Oh well, talk to you later" and he still didn't say a word and basically treated me like I was some virus looming over him.

Jack Black was indeed a "Jack Ass" and I continue to wish him nothing buy box office disasters. All was not lost however, because although my sister and husband were very embarrassed with me, when we left we got a killer Nuetrogena Swag Bag (I even sent the  'Wolfgang Puck's Hot Chocolate in a Can' to Val, which exploded in her microwave). 

Daddy Warbucks and I saw him again a few  weeks later at Mr. Chow in NY (is it me or Nicky Hilton?). Anyhoo,  I wanted to go up to him and tell him he was an asshole but DW controlled me. To this day, I will never approach a celeb (with the exception of the Spago party).

-Parker

PS: As a side note I would just like to tell our readers to never eat at Mr. Chow in LA because unless you are Kim Kardasian or Nicolette Sheridan, they will treat you like shit. Besides the food is just so-so and really a rip off. I would, however like to give a shout out to Joan's on Third, which I love and they have no 'Tude there.

So My Foot and Chris Brown meet in a Dark Alley......

In an effort to prove I am the clumsiest person on the planet, yesterday I dropped a 75 lb potted plant flat smack on my left foot. Ummm, unpleasant doesn't even begin to describe the feeling  of Mexican pottery, 50 lbs of dirt and a Dracaena Fragrans Massangeana (scientific plant jargon for something ironically called a "Happy Plant") landing on your foot. The pot actually shattered into a thousand pieces - causing me to wonder if I should call an ambulance or sweep up the mess first.

Instead, I called my husband (who's new name is "In a Meeting" - because 9 times out of 10 when I call him he tells me in a whispered tone "In a meeting, call you right back") and the conversation went something like this:

Me: "Hi, I think I broke my foot"

IN A MEETING: "OK, Let me call you right back"

Me: "Ummm, ok" (insert agonizing moan)

2 minutes later - I'm still laying on the floor covered in dirt and pottery dust, my foot has tripled in size and is starting to resemble Rihanna's face after an especially tumultuous night with Chris Brown, when In a Meeting (IAM for short) calls back.

IN A MEETING: "Should I call an Ambulance"

Me: NO  - oh dear god, no. Too embarrassing, plus the house is a mess.

IAM: "Ok, I'm on my way".

Later at the urgent care, the  doctor looks at my purple club foot and says "I'd say by looking at it that it's definitely broken." The x-rays however, said differently - not even a hairline fracture. To be safe they sent the X Rays to an expert (still waiting the results) and sent in a Doug Henning (flamboyant magician of the  70's who  wore tee shirts with rainbows and unicorns on them) look-alike to put on a 1/2 cast-splint on my foot. While Doug Henning cracked jokes (at this point no one had even offered me so much as a fricking Motrin, thank you very much) he actually had the audacity to look at my dirty Indian feet and say, "Well, clearly your husband does not have a foot fetish." Mr. Happy Unicorn went on to say, "Although it does  look like you had your toes done......about a year ago." I wanted to apologize for not stopping off at Happy Nails for a quick pedicure before heading to Urgent Care but I bit my tongue and laughed at his stupid foot insult. 

Cut to an hour later. I'm home with my fake cast, foot on a pillow watching Ellen. IAM needs to go back to work (something about a meeting) when he gets a call about a friend and employee up in LA who is in  deep   personal trouble. Without getting into  details, IAM (a.k.a. Dr. Drew) drives up to LA  and calls me on the way to let me know, "I'm bringing *** back  to stay with us for a few days. Can you get Daniel's room  ready?" First of all, our son Daniel is 13 years old: a heroin hang-out squatter house in Hell's kitchen would be easier to clean with an hours notice. So I'm running up and down the stairs in my cast/splint changing sheets, dusting vacuuming and picking up 4 weeks of dirty towels of his floor. Don't even get me started on the kids bathroom (a.k.a. the roadside rest stop) which also needed a deep clean. I hurled expletives at the children (nice) to get them to help, which they did - thank you sweet children.  By the way, still with no pain meds. By the time I was finished, Daniel's room was spotless, and my 1/2 cast was completely sideways and the bandages were completely unraveled. I might as well have run the Boston Marathon. I ended up ripping that f**ker off about 2 am, because let's face  it, plaster and pre-menopausal night sweats just don't mix. 

This morning my daughter called from school - she had forgotten a book so I drove a whopping 1/2 mile to the school  to bring it to her. Ironically In A Meeting called while I was in route, and actually gave me a tongue lashing for being on my feet. Ummmmmmmmm, don't you have a meeting to  get to or something? Meanwhile our guest is still sleeping in Daniel's room. It's been an interesting 24 hours.

-Val

PS - for anyone under the age of 25, the handsome devil pictured above is iconic 70's magician, Doug Henning! The picture below is my foot and not Rihanna's face. 

Idol Goes Country - and I Go Comatose

So last night I abstained from the St. Patrick's day beer-drinking marathon (actually, I haven't celebrated St. Patrick's day since 1991), got into my most comfortable sweat pants and turned on American Idol, only to discover it was "Country" night. Uggh. Sorry, but I've just never been a fan of the whole Jamboree scene. Despite my hatred for country music, I endured (because the options were listening to Jewel's snaggletooth yodel song on "Dancing with the Stars" or a torturous episode of "NCIS".

I can only imagine the reaction of those poor innocent contestants when Randy Travis walked into the rehearsal room to give them advice. First of all, I'm no expert but I'm guessing Randy hasn't had a hit since most of these kids were still in diapers and imagine that not one of them knew who he was. Had I been a contestant I'd think the producers had sent in the Cryptkeeper (with a great set of fake teeth) as my musical coach for the week. Someone from the Craft Services table needed to stage an intervention stat and bring Mr. Travis a tuna club on a hoagie roll before he collapsed from malnutrition. Also, did anyone catch his eye-candy of a wife in the audience? She looked like she'd rather be sitting naked on a chair made of glass chards watching a live execution then sitting through Adam Lambert singing "Ring of Fire" set to the soothing sound of an Indian Sitar.

-val

Travis Strikes Again

Family of Chimp Victim Sues for $50M

Ok, if a chimp ate my hands and face, there's a good chance I'd sue too. But I've got a news flash for the Chimp Victim: Travis the flesh-hungry primate was not owned by Oprah Winfrey. Something tells me that a person who sleeps and watches tv with her pet chimp doesn't have an extra $50 mil lying around. Unless the faceless Chimp Victim is willing to take payment in the form of Charlie Rich albums and pet dander Afghans, I'm pretty sure that $50 million windfall is not going to come her way.  I hate to sound pessimistic, but until Clint Eastwood throws a "Chimp Victim Telethon", this lady isn't getting a dime. The good news is that, in lieu of an expensive face transplant, I'm sure she can pick up a Sarah Palin  Halloween mask on clearance at Wal Mart. I also hear that Inside Edition and RadarOnline pay handsomely .

Update: Last night Tom told me that he heard that the city was also being sued in this case. Obviously the family's attorney is using  that old legal Pythagorean theory which claims that since the the city knew a chimp lived in the house, then they are clearly at fault. Ok, I made up the Pythagorean theory, but seriously why should the city pay up when clearly the faceless lady also knew the chimp lived there? Maybe she should cut through the red tape and just sue herself?

I'M SO OVER IT.

Sure, I'm a Pop Culture Junkie, but even the most die-hard junkies can get sick of the poppiest of the pop stories. So here (in no particular order) are some of the headlines that I am So Ovah!

• The Octomom: Maybe it's just because I live in Southern California, but there is practically a 24/7 Octomom watch going on here and I no longer give a rat's ass. As far as I'm concerned, Octomom can take her augmented lips, Dr. Phil money, new house paid for with exploited baby money, and her free nurses and live happily ever after in the clearance section at the La Habra, CA. Wal Mart. Those kids are going to look adorable in their Dora The Explorer/Diego flammable onsies.
• Chris Brown and Rihanna: Holy Sh*t, we get it. He's the modern day Ike Turner and she is about as smart as a box of rocks. Look, even Tina Turner and Oprah have warned this girl to stay clear of her man and she clearly is listening to no one, so let her go back and get yet another black eye until she figures out that he's a loser. In the meantime we need another Anna Nicole-like celebrity meltdown to distract from the Chris-Rhianna debacle. (By the way, I know that domestic abuse is not funny - because everyone from Anderson Cooper to Fran Drescher has mentioned it in the news  about 400 times over the past month).
• The Shitty Economy and AIG's douchebag moves. By now we all know that the government has given AIG about a gazillion dollars, which they have squandered with company retreats and bonuses for their bonehead executives. Here's an idea, ask for the money back and let AIG go belly up - then we can move on to more important stories in the news, like who got kicked of Dancing with The Stars this week and Jessica Simpson's weight gain.
• Slutty girls on Reality Shows.  Remember when the highlight of a slut's life was double teaming the high school football team? Today the modern-day Slut has a plethora of career options at her fingertips, including sleazy Streetwalker, Pole Dancer, Escort, and the Pièce de résistance a Reality Show. I swear to god, if I turn on one more reality show based on the plight of the whore, a throbbing herpe is going to jump off the screen and attack my face. I can't make it past channel 27 without coming across no less than 5 slutty competitions including such dandies as "Candy Girls" (a compelling, genius show that revolves around a group of Rap Video dancers), "Bad Girls Club" (self-explanatory - last week two of the "bad girls" had sex with random foreigners in Mexico but claimed it "didn't count" because they wore a condom - a great lesson for the youth of today) and the Mt. Everest of Whore Reality shows - the show that every Herpe Ho strives to be on: "Rock of Love". Look, everyone loves a trainwreck, but this has hit epidemic proportions (in so many ways) - let's send these trollops where they belong (back to the streets of Vegas) and pick on a new social leper, like drug addicts or compulsive shoplifters. Now that's a show I'd watch. For a month or two at least. -Val

High School Memories

Oh how this brings back memories. Did Chris Farley have a secret video camera set up in the Jack in the Box on Campbell Ave in Tucson, AZ. circa 1986? Because this is almost a re-enactment of me during my off -campus lunch hour every day during Junior Year in High School  (0f course there might have been a little pot smoking involved in my french-fry/McDonalds Caramel Sundae with extra nuts addiction). Perhaps this is why today I'm such a freak about what (and how often) I eat. Somehow, even despite my substantive meal of 2 Pepsi's a day (and a small lunch) I still have Lil" Kim's midsection and back fat, so perhaps I need to reconsider my diet plan. Lay off me, I'm Starving!!!

-Yours hungrily  - val

P.S. - I know this video is older than God - but E! (which is practically on a constant loop at my house) aired a Best of Chris Farley SNL and I was reminded of his greatness.

You Stay Classy Paris

I try not to write about Paris Hilton, because, while I'm no humanitarian,  she is clearly the most self-absorbed and repulsive person on the planet (OK, its a tie with Bobby Trendy - someday I'll tell the story about being on the LAX shuttle with Bobby and his shiny lip gloss). But when I saw her wearing this shirt I couldn't resist sharing her swanky style with the rest of the world). Because nothing says "class", "maturity," and "America's Royalty" quite like a shirt with a quote about all my other shirts having cum on them written in permanent black Sharpie. By the way, Paris just turned 27. At 27 I was married and a mother of two. I even had a full-time career back in the day. Someone needs to throw a diarrhea pie in her face and tell her to grow the f**k up. (This coming from someone who was doing Kamikaze shots and  stage dives outside a college bar three weeks ago, but at least I wasn't wearing my cum shirt).

-Val

Stupid People are Hilarious

I knew there was a reason I should have kept watching "Tool Academy". Brian Cranston deserves an Emmy for his reaction to the Tool Academy finale, which involves a glorious wedding, complete with a "harpoon" player and the "Champion" of Tools (seriously, what an honor) saying his "proposes" to his Kate Moss look-alike wife. Crap, these two geniuses will probably pro-create multiple times before divorcing. 

Seriously. I Need to Get a Life.

Much to my dismay I once again found myself watching (most) of the premier of Dancing with the Stars (that you've never heard of). Every year I anxiously start watching, trying to catch the "Dancing Fever" that for some reason captivates the rest of the country and inevitably after two or three episodes I find myself bored out of my mind and tuning into the Discovery Channel in favor of watching the plight of the Polar Bear over a 90's starlet in a glitter leotard doing the cha cha. 

Needless to say this will likely be the last and only post about Dancing with The Stars (until season 9 starts up again). I missed a few of the early dancers, including Belinda Carlisle, who I really wanted to see because as a young teen I worshipped her and the Go-Go's. Belinda and I had a lot in common back in the day - we both had the curse of the chunk - but luckily with good bone structure, which forgave some of the fat-face syndrome.  But then sometime around my senior year in High School, Belinda ditched the Go-Go's, got thin and sang that horrendous "Heaven is a Place on Earth" and our sisterhood was over. 

Lucky for me I did get to see Steve O - who was surprisingly sober, kind of sweet, and - one of the shittiest dancers of all times. However lets be honest, unless he comes out half-naked with a slice of bologna stapled to his nutsack, this guy has no way in hell of making it much longer in the competition. 

Denise Richards? One word: Fembot. Corky from "Life Goes On" has a quicker wit than this broad. Clearly, like the name of her amazingly fascinating E! reality show,  much of life really is "Complicated" for this brainiac.

Steve Wozniak? I think I yelled out "Nerd Alert" about thirty times during his boogie times. He'd be better off if he danced on his Segway or (as my son suggested) developed a computer program that made a hologram of himself dancing while the real Steve W. sat in the Green Room playing Dungeons and Dragons. My son, who would rather watch a marathon of 1970's Young and The Restless episodes than a ballroom dancing competition walked in to the room right as the judge Bruno was animatedly waxing poetically over Steve's Telly Tubby Tango and said, "That guy has a weird accent, where's he from?" to which I deadpanned "Gay Island" and proceeded to laugh for the next 10 minutes. (Note: I totally love the gays and meant it in the nicest way). 

I'm not even going to acknowledge the others because, to be honest I can't remember anyone else. I'm also not going to watch the results show (is their even a results show tonight?) because dog-gonnit, I have a life - and American Idol is on tonight!

-val

Nancy Reagan Strikes Again

My mother (a.k.a Nancy Reagan, a nickname I gave her for her size, stamina, and her one time love of St. John knit suits) has a knack for tossing some major insults my way and delivering them as innocently as Snow White.

The other day she asked me once again when D.W and I are going to have kids now that I'm 40. We of course have no idea and I am completely non-stressed about it. At this point, a virtual miracle will have to happen for me to get pregnant. As I wisely decided to not respond, she sighed and said, "Well, if something happens to D.W. you will be all alone for the rest of your life." Thanks Nancy - because that thought has never crossed my mind.

Last night I met her at Neiman Marcus, a favorite place of hers, to check out their sale. Nancy and I used to always shop together, as a teen we regularly hit the Loehmanns "Back Room" for bargain priced irregular-sized designer duds from the previous year's collections.  Of course back then I could get away with slightly 'off' fashions, as I was always tall and skinny. However, in college I discovered a love of beer and sugary drinks loaded with god knows what and scooped out of a metal tub at frat houses. For food it was either Wendys or Taco Bell. The freshman 15 was in full force. Nancy would take me shopping and proceed to tell me my thighs were bulbous  along with, "You know can't always keep the wolf from the door," when referring to my diet and lack of exercise. I vowed to never go shopping with Nancy again.

I met her at Neiman's because I figured although I'm 8 pounds more than my usual weight, after 20 years I would let Nancy into a dressing room with me. I'm 40 and I just don't give a shit as much as I used to. She started with "your bust has really gotten big," (two of those 8 pounds are currently sitting in my boobs.)  It's not the worst comment that's for sure, however it was followed with "you have always had a little pot belly." At that point my pants were staying on and I was only trying on tops in front of her. She then held up a size 12 dress and said "this would be cute" to which I told her I'm not a 12 as she gave me the big girl once over and I reminded her I was a size 8 and have been forever. To make myself feel better I said "at least when I gain weight my face stays thin," to which she replied "You know, you do have a little bit of double chin".

I bought three tops, bid Nancy goodbye and told her " thanks for saying I had more chins than a Chinese phone book." Of course by that time, she couldn't even recall her insults with her now Snow White demeanor. In a way Nancy has been good for my diet - knowing I'll see her every few weeks always keeps the extra 55  lbs at bay. My sister is tiny. Of course, she has the combination of Nancy's hounding and living in LA working in television so she will pretty much never think she's thin enough. It's a double whammy for lil sis. I can't help but think what would Nancy do if say Wynonna Judd was her daughter.

-parker

Night Fever (Night Fever)

As a child I remember watching an episode of "Maude" in which Maude (played so femininely by Bea Arthur) was going through the change of life. Maude, in her huge polyester tunics bitched endlessly about  her "hot flashes" and I remember thinking, "That is so Gross. I'll never be like Maude."

Cut to yesterday where I found myself - dressed in a tunic (it was a black and white really cute Michael Kors linen tunic, but a tunic nonetheless) and the last several months where I have woken up almost every night covered in more sweat than if I'd run the NY Marathon. And when I say "sweat", I'm talking a River Runs Through the space between my breasts kind of sweat, the "Did I pee the bed?" kind of sweat - the kind of sweat that no straight, non-athletic women should ever have to endure.) My doctor says this is the result of peri-menopause, which is just a souped up name for You are turning into Maude. "But I'm only 39" I pleaded - I'm way too young for that. "Oh, this isn't menopause - this is pre-menopause, which can go on for years," she replied. (This is doctor code for "you'll still get raging PMS and mind-blowing cramps every month, but also get to enjoy the early stages of being an old geezer.") I'm thinking about opening a boutique called "The Tunic Tavern" and giving an automatic 15% discount to shoppers 39 and over.

-Val 

The Sofa Dance

The producers at American Idol are genius! All night I worried about how blind Scott would make it through the dancing musical number with the other 12 contestants but someone (Debbie Allen, Paula Abdul herself?) choreophed a dance in which he barely had to shake his grove thing thereby preventing a horrible accident. Who'd a thunk Scott could perform something as amazing and entertaining as that hot sofa dance while he flailed his arms carelessly about?

Now that he's moved on to the final 12 - what clever ideas will they think of next for the oh-so-anticipated dance numbers? I pedict they put him on a stripper pole where he can spin and twirl to his hearts delight without fear of falling into the orchestra pit. Oh, and those little monsters better be singing the Brady Bunch hit "Sunshine Day" while he works that pole.

Meanwhile my crush (aka Jorge, aka Antonio Banderas in "Philadelphia", aka Madonna's boyfriend with a lazy eye) also made it through and no surprise here, Lil Round Ass (as Parker has nicknamed her) continue on.

The Wild Card Round starts in just a few hours (out here on the West Coast) and naturally they brought back the Tatiana for some authentic tears and Oscar winning drama. When she is done with Idol, she could totally get a gig on Passions (is that even still on the air?) I'm sure I'll have more to say tomorrow.
-val

Idol Chatter

If the blind guy (who sang  Bruce Hornsby's "Mandolin Rain" one of my most hated songs ever) makes it through to the top 12, how will he get through all those Brady Bunch Choreographed numbers that they force the contestants to do every week? Will he be able to do the hand-jive with his white cane? Can they give him a German Shepherd to walk him through the electric slide moves that go so well with "Wake Me Up Before You Go Go?" God, those numbers should be illegal, they are worse than Fraternity Hazing and way more humiliating.

• I loved that Nathanial sang Meatloaf's "I Would Do Anything for Love - But I Won't Do That" and by "that" I'm guessing he meant go within 10 feet of a vagina. Still a sweet kid - with the fashion sense of someone who became blind circa 1982 and still loves the night life.

Was it really necessary for them to humiliate Alex the way they did? Don't get me wrong, I love to see people get humiliated on national TV as much as the next guy, but he was on the verge of tears, and my peri-menopausal hormones could barely take the anguish. I've always been a sucker for the nerdy underdog types.

When the Puerto Rican, Jorge, started to sing an Elton John song, I screamed "Dios Mio don chu sing Elton wit a Puerto Rican accent!" I was prepared to hate him, but then he got all crocodile tear-eyed (and one eye is lazy to boot) and I kind of fell in love a little  - like he was a puppy  at the pound (or Antonio Banderas in the movie "Philadelphia".) 

File This One Under "Who Gives a Shiat"

Dear ABC:

Is anyone still watching The Bachelor? Last night I turned on the telly to come face to face with something called "The Bachelor: After the Rose, Part 2". Part 2? Really? Weren't the 2 hour weekly shows where desperate horny women drool over an ordinary guy like he was George frickin Clooney, enough? And thank god for that reunion show: we all can finally sleep at night now that we know that the other 14 whores have been able to move on after losing at love. 

And yes, this might have actually been the "most dramatic Bachelor Rose Ceremony ever" what with Jason proposing then dumping the girl #1 and going back to the girl #2, yada yada yada, but do we really care anymore? Call me when he marries four of them, moves to Utah and gets all Big Love on our asses. Until them, I am over you, "The Bachelor". Good Riddance.

P.S. Jesus, quit your sobbing Jason. Your family didn't just die in a fiery plane crash. 

More Bubble Bath Blogging the Blues

Once again, here I am blogging in the bath about the things that are on my mind this week:

The economy: My doctor actually ordered me to stop watching CNN, because I get anxiety attacks every time the stock market plummets (which is just about every day), she also cut off my supply of Xanax (for the stock market meltdown attacks) so now, instead of watching the world turn into the depressing movie, "Cinderella Man" I am finding myself watching shit like "Celebrity Apprentice" or spending hours on Facebook looking for old Jr High classmates and writing "50 Random Things About Me." I've also started baking lately and have become obsessed with making the perfect banana cream pie. So I blame you economy for making me watch the Donald (who I've met and is as obnoxious as you'd think) and for the ever-growing banana cream fat ass. God, I miss the days when I was young and poor and had never heard the term 401k. OK, I take that back, at least I still have my (under appreciated) house and haven't (yet) had to purchase a Hyundai because they are the only car company offering no penalty to your credit if you lose your job and have to give it back. (That's always a reassuring tv ad - no panic here).

Celebrity Apprentice: I am one of the few people who actually sat through the uber-long 2 hour premiere (via my DVR) of Celebrity Apprentice. Looks like the ratings are down this year - might it be that people are sick of meglomaniac Donald tooting his own horn? Maybe we're just sick of psuedo-celebrities trying to peddle Carls Jr burgers and bottled water to passerbys on the streets of New York? This season they actually have one of the models from "Deal or No Deal" competing - because everyone knows that opening suitcases in golden glitter dresses helps to prepare you in the fast paced business world. Regardless, after last night's cupcake cook off, I'm hooked. Damnation.

Wii Fit: We got the Wii for Christmas but I quickly became disillusioned when I threw out a rotator cup in my right shoulder after an especially gruelling game of fake tennis (self-diagnosis, but I now can no longer scratch the middle of my back with my right hand). More recently, I had the bright idea to quit the gym that I never go to and invest in a Wii Fit. Because that's really working out for me. So far I've partaken in Yoga exactly 2 times and can someone please tell me how walking a virtual tight rope will help me get fit? When my poor husband (who has put on about 15 lbs recently) created his Wii character, it actually weighed him, measured his body fat and then we watched as his character's stomach morphed into the pregnant man. Not cool, Wii Fit, not cool.