Carbs, Skinny Jeans and Kathy Griffin

Every Thanksgiving is a 'free pass' to eat like you have a terminal illness and could die at any second. This year was no exception. While most people were having seconds of that delicious juicy turkey, I was saying (i.e. mumbling through a mouthful of half-chewed food like an old fat English King) "Screw the turkey and bring on thirds and fourths of anything laden with carbs". Garlic-cheddar mashed potatoes? Yes please. Candied Yams with enough brown sugar to put me in a diabetic coma until I'm 73? Bring it on. Stuffing so chock full of stuff that it is guaranteed to clog even the purest arteries? You betcha. Top it off with a few glasses of Pinot Grigio, some dinner rolls and a slice of pie and the next day I looked like Tony Soprano with a major case of the PMS bloats. Naturally this happens to be the same day my husband and I have a much-needed "date night" up in LA. 


As I prepared for our date night (we had tickets to see Kathy Griffin at Gibson Amphitheatre at Universal City Walk - btw thank you "C" for the amazing tickets!) I put on my biggest pair of "skinny jeans" (an oxymoron in my case for sure) and a really cute BCBG button down black dressy shirt and as I did a slo-mo turn in the full length mirror, I said to myself, "You look totally cute....for a 5 month pregnant woman." I actually considered just letting it all hang out and gently carassing my belly throughout the night so that people would walk by me and think "what a cute pregnant lady" until I realized that they wouldn't think I was so cute carrying that 32 oz plastic cup of beer in the lobby of the theatre. So I sucked it in and got my Tony Soprano ass in the car and headed up to LA.


As we arrived to Universal City Walk, surrounded by every tourist in the LA Metropolitan area, my husband looked at me and said, "Are those jeans supposed to be that tight?" Ok, Really? Not the best way to start the night. He made it worse with the immediate 'shit-I-need-to-save-my-ass' comment: "No, I think you look hot....No you look sexy!" "Hot? Sexy?" First of all it's  not 1978 and you are no Rod Stewart, mister. So please just quit while you are behind and lets go get a drink before the show.


We ended up at the Saddleback Ranch bar (its the famous bar with the mechanical bull in the middle) and I ordered a margarita on the rocks. What I got was a freaking Carafe of Margarita (pictured below). I know, I know....is it famed landscape photographer Ansel Adams or me? 

Now I know why no one has any inhibitions about riding the Mechanical Bull like a drunken fool - they serve their patrons more alcohol then David Hasselhoff drinks in a month. I sucked down that monster like it was a tall cool lemonade (in fact I think it was - that $15 sucker was 99% sweet and sour mix with maybe a thimble of tequila). Good thing because had that been a carafe of a strongly made margarita I most certainly would have forgone the Kathy Griffin show in favor of stripping down to my "skinny jeans and bra" and rode that bull with my muffin top a jiggling like mad, all the while screaming to my husband, "How's this for sexy?"


We made it to the Kathy Griffin show where my husband, one of the only straight guys in the joint, met up with me in our seats carrying a giant plate of nachos and two humongous beers - probably just to establish that he is all 100% manly-man. In fact I think he even farted a few times just to mark his territory - although he adamantly denied it later.) She was great as always but I have to admit that when her show ended at 10:30 the only thing I could think of was "Shit, I'm not going to get to bed before 11:45 pm - I'll never recover!"
-val

That's Hot

I was cleaning the house today, in preparation of Thanksgiving and listening to the 70's channel on my satellite music station when I looked up from my mopping and came face to face with this amazing flash-from-the-past  picture. I immediately had to take a snapshot with my cellphone:

For those of you who may not be familiar with the Rhythm and Blues (i.e. Disco) sounds of the 70's, this hot group of studs are known as the "Ohio Players". And while the Ohio Players are most famous for their one-hit wonder "Rollercoaster' they should have been known world-wide for their sense of style. Sure the 70's were all about shimmer and spandex but Ohio Players have taken it to a whole new level.

The hunkiest of the group has to be the guy on the left. Who knew satin dolphin shorts, spandex hose, a half-shirt and black knee high boots could look so breathtaking on a man of that stature. The porn stash and serial killer eyeglasses complete the look. Did he lose a bet?

The guy next to him clearly just got back from a Jazzercise class, or a bath house in San Francisco. And then there is Mr. Fabulous in the full body spandex jumpsuit with bejeweled collar. Of course no one is paying any attention to his collar because of the enormous "elephant-in-the-room" bulge fighting with all its might to break free of its spandex prison. As for his Afro? It makes Lionel Richie look like an amateur. The band also features a part-time boxer, a gigolo/extra from "Boogie Nights", a guy with epaulets the size of shovels a black polo player with graying beard, a.k.a. "the conservative one."

Clearly there was a time when we looked at these guys and didn't bat an eye. I can't help but wonder if 30 years in the future, my daughter will be pointing and laughing at me in a photo wearing my "boyfriend jeans" and long sleeve plain black Gap tee that I wear three times a week (when I'm not in drawstring sweats).

Incidentally, the Ohio Song that was playing while this picture flashed on the screen was called "Too Tight." Too tight indeed.

-Val

You Know You're Getting Old When...

• You share a birthday with "Sesame Street"
• You have a hot flash while Christmas Shopping for relatives in fu*cking "Hollister" (I'm never going there again)
• You wake up at 3 am with your very first hemorrhoid. Holy shit how do you people deal with multiple of these.
• You can't get out of a sports car without grunting, moaning and wincing with back pain

And so my 41st year begins!
-Paker

Where the Hell is My Butterfly Confetti?

It's no secret that Mariah Carey is a diva with crazy demands everywhere she goes. It might even be justified if it were say, 1995. But someone needs to remind Mariah that it's 2009, she is 40 and it's time to grow the fu*k up. First and foremost, she should start by eliminating all spandex mini dresses from her closet. Everyone knows that Heather Locklear is the only over-40 year old who can get away with spandex minis. But what really chaps my hide is her recent list of demands during a Christmas tree lighting in London. The fact that she is willing to do a Christmas Tree Lighting at a Westfield mall should be her first clue that high-priced demands might be unreasonable. But we all know that Mariah lives in a world of sparkle, butterflies and free flowing champagne, so it makes perfect sense that she demanded the following for her mall appearance:

• One hundred white doves and 20 white kittens surrounding her (health officials said no)
• Indoor fireworks display
• Pink Carpet and Pink Podium
• Sparkly wand (to wave at her minions?)
• 80 security guards
• Pink and white butterfly-shaped confetti
• $330,000 nightclub after-party, decorated with white roses, white drapes and vanilla candles
• A chauffeured Rolls Royce 
• $80,000 worth of Angel Champagne

You could cut this list in half and it still would be completely ridiculous. What the hell is "Angel Champagne" and can it possibly beat Boone's Farm Strawberry Hill in a taste test? Doesn't Mariah know that doves shit everywhere and kittens by nature are feral and at the first chance they get will make a run for the nearest 'Hot Topic', curl up and fall asleep in the "Team Edward" tee shirt bin? The sparkly magic wand I totally get because who wouldn't want a wand during an appearance at a mall?

Of course this got me thinking about all the demands I might have should someday I be lucky enough to be crowned master of ceremonies at a highway opening or the host a ribbon cutting ceremony at the local Quiznos. So, here it goes: Below are my dressing room/demands for any future appearances:

• A leopard-print Snuggie bedazzled with 5,000 Swarovski Crystals
• A 7-11 Slurpee Machine (with both Coca-Cola and Wild Cherry flavors)
• Neil Diamond's Greatest Hits and Men At Work's first album on constant rotation
• One unused, pristine "Inside the Egg Egg Scrambler" from Ronco (just to mess with them)
• A Sharper Image $3500 Massage Chair
• A bottle of Smirnoff Pomegranite Vodka (to mix with the Slurpee)

-Val
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Body Fusion Is My Kind of Workout

I've always despised exercise. And then I turned 40. I could probably eat nothing but celery and ice for a week and still gain weight, so I caved in and did what I've feared for years....started to exercise regularly. And while I have to admit I am actually starting to kind of like my daily 2-3 mile walks, if I had my druthers I would get in a time machine and head back to the eighties where working out was more about brightly colored leotards and matching leg warmers and making sure you pile a crapload of Ocean Blue Cover Girl eye shadow on before heading out to Jazzersize.

Anyhoo, below is one of my favorite SNL Digital Shorts from a few years ago. Because this is how exercise should be done.

Rollercoaster and the Dog Shit Navajo Project

Because it isn't enough that I spend approx 3 hours every night helping my middle school-aged children with their mind boggling homework (yet another reason why there are so many alcoholic mothers), yesterday Daniel came home and told me he has to build a mother-fricking "Rollercoaster" for science class. This seemed daunting but not totally impossible (visions of toothpicks and popsicle sticks immediately came to mind) that is until he added it had to be a working Rollercoaster at least a meter high and strong enough for a small marble to complete the course without stopping. Oh and lest we forget, he also needs to do a verbal presentation with the formulas and physics explaining how the marble is able to manuever around the PVC track and at what degree et.al.  I'm sorry, but can someone tell me when eighth graders became experts in transportation engineering?

All this "rollercoaster hoopla" brought me back to my oh-so-important Navajo presentation in the 4th grade. While my memory is a bit foggy I do know that it involved me working diligently for a week straight putting together some sort of mud and stick hut along with a 15 page construction paper masterpiece documenting the life of the Navajo people. I also remember the panic that overcame me when the morning it was due, the Safeway paperbag that I had carefully put the project in was nowhere to be seen. The panic turned to shock and disgust when my mom took a drag from her Marlboro Light and calmly told me that the day before she had scooped up the dog poop in the backyard and put it all in a paper bag. A short trip to the garbage cans and lo and behold, there was my project, buried under a week's worth of our FOUR German Shepherd's dog shit. When you are in 4th grade and your project is buried under a pile of dog doo-doo, its practically the end of the world. Sure the mature approach would have been to have my mom write a note to the teacher and re-do the entire project, but the threat of turning it in late was too much to bear. Mom put down her cigarrette long enough to wipe off the poop with a moist paper towl (I can still see the grease spots that tainted my beautiful Navajo report) while I ran reconnaissance by getting her Price Club sized bottle of White Shoulders and spraying the bejesus out of that project. I think I got a "B".

My "Are You Fricking Kidding Me?s" of the week

Yesterday my daughter came home from school and informed me that her middle school is having (another) fund-raising event at their school. Not satisfied with whoring the pre-teens out in October by hitting up their relatives and every family friend with magazine sales, the school has equipped them with a War and Peace sized packet chock full of delicious factory made tubs of Cookie Dough for the rock bottom price of $16 each. $16 for a half gallon of lard speckled with chocolate chips? Are you Fricking Kidding me? While I appreciate the high kids get from selling $700 worth of cookie dough just to win something like a miniature univeral remote control (which retails for about $7.99 and can be found at the CVS "As Seen On TV" section), there is no way in hell we are shipping out the Cookie Dough Catalogs to our unsuspecting friends and family.

This week we celebrated Vetran's day, which was all the more emotional after what happened at Ft. Hood last week. The fact that "Major Fucktard" managed to kill so many people yet somehow survive in a place where almost everyone is packing heat is bad enough. Yesterday it came to light that he had his own personal cards (I guess that's like a "business" card, but for personal reasons, because Major Fucktard was smooth like that.) with his name and digits on it and the words (or the initials or some fucked up message) that read "Soldier of Allah." Hmm, red flag much? While the 17-year-old at Kinkos who processed his order was probably too stoned to bat an eye at that strange yet sublte remark, wouldn't someone else on the receiving end of that card think, "Wow, he's not only an American Soldier, but a Soldier of Allah as well. Conflict of interest? Could be!" Don't get me wrong, there are many peaceful Muslims, but when put the concept of war and religion together (on a businees card no less) you might be a fricking psychopath. On a side note, while I don't imagine a lot of military personnel read this web site (except my retired Air Force dad- who does occasionally read my snarky view of the world) - I would like to personally thank each and every person who has ever fought for our country.

Levi Johnson is officially the new Jon Gosslein (there simply is not enough room on this planet for the media to possibly be interested in both these idiots at the same time, right?). I love how Levi has stressed that his Playgirl layout will be "Tasteful." I can honestly say that I have never known one woman who has EVER purchased a copy of Playgirl. Does Levi know that he's actually posing for the gayest of the gay men?  Hot off the 'Playgirl spread' news, 'The Insider' sent Levi to New York city for a whirlwind tour and makeover where Levi revealed excusivley to one of their douchebag reporters that (hold on to your horses...) he is writing a memoir! First of all, I hope to god that Chess King sweater he is wearing in the above picture was purchased before the 'The Insider' waste-of-time-and-money makeover. And as for his "book", my guess is it is a pop-up book with lots of camoflauge, cardboard AK49s and the words "like" and "ummm". He also shared his view on finding a new love in his life, Levi said, " Right now I’m really not looking for a girlfriend. When the time comes, obviously I want someone smart. I don’t want no ditsy girl. I don’t need a high-class woman.” I'm starting to miss Richard Heene and his balloon.

• -Val

Nicholas Cage, I'd Like to Introduce You to Willie Aames.

Poor Nicholas Cage. Rumor has it that he is "broke", which compared to you and me probably means he has to downsize to 2 houses and probably has a measly $2 mill in the bank.

Broke or not, I think perhaps Nic might have made some reckless and rash purchases over the past few years. Hmmm, did you really need those two islands in the Caribbean? How's that Bavarian Castle in Germany working out for you? Not so well. Oh, too bad, luckily you have that back-up castle in England (a picture of said shitty castle is posted, above). I'm not even going to bring up your Newport Beach crack-shack on the beach, the property in Louisiana and throughout Europe or your tiny 9,000 square foot Beverly Hills abode. Oh, and god-forbid you might have to sell your million-dollar comic book collection, a necessary staple for any man in his late 40's. I could go on, but I think you get the picture.

Sure, he owes the IRS a paltry $6.5 million, but considering he got paid $20 million for the movie "Windtalkers", I'm guessing he could whip out another shitty "GhostRider" flick or even "National Treasure III" and pay them back with a cool $13.6 million to spare.

Not surprisingly, like most 9th-grade educated celebrities, Nicholas is blaming his new found poverty on his business manager. While I'm sure the business manager is partially to blame, perhaps Nicholas should have paused to wonder, "Sheesh, do I need that 2nd deserted island?"

Luckily, I have some good news for Nic....VH1 just aired one of their top-notch reality/documentaries called: "Broke and Famous: Willie Aames" (I swear to god I didn't watch one second of this travesty) and rumor has it he is studying to be a "financial planner." If we could just get Nic and Willie in a room together, I'm sure it would be a partnership made in celebrities-gone-awry heaven.

On a side note, Parker's older brother once guest starred on an episode of Eight is Enough and had the magical pleasure of playing a bully who gets to punch Willie Aames in the face. I tried to YouTube it, but remarkably no one has posted this historical television moment. 

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The New Housewives Have Jumped the Shark (but I'm still watching...).

My family has staged an "intervention" and won't let me watch the "Real Housewives of Orange County", but unbeknownst to them I've TIVO'd it and watched under the cover of darkness (ok - during the day while kids are at school and Tom is working). Like a bad crack habit, I hate myself for doing it, but I can't help but watch. Below, a brief running commentary:

I see that Vicky is back with her two ungrateful annoying children, and goodie they are going to go skydiving. Yawn...unless the shoot fails to open, I have no interest in this.

Jeanna is back and her youngest son is now the "voice of reason" in this econimical downturn. Because 16 year old Orange County boys really do have a grasp of the way the world works when it comes to budgeting. Sadly his car (BMW? Audi?) needs a new clutch and Jeanna doesn't know where she's going to get the $2k to fix it. As she says this, I can't help but look at the pink-faced Rolex on her tanned sausage arms and yell "Ebay, Jeanna, Ebay."

Gretchen is cleaning out her garage. So good to know that the red Harley that her dying sugar daddy bought her over a year ago is still in the garage with a blanket over it. She later tells us (several times throughout the show) that her deceased 65 year-old fiance sent "Slade" to her from beyond the grave. Okay, honey, let me tell you something. I'm pretty sure that your dead ex fiance didn't send a creepy, opportunistic slut man, 20 years his junior to "save you from your sadness." And after seeing this, I say to my own husband: if you should ever pass on (god forbid) and decide to send a replacement man, please dear god don't send SLADE.

Tamra is back with her husband Simon (who finally is wearing something age appropriate that doesn't look like it just leaped of the Hot Topic clearance shelf). He is also about 400 times more grouchy this season, which I attribute to his poor decision to quit his high paying job as a Sales Manager at the local Mercedes Benz dealership and instead start his own homemade Tequila business. Another bright idea in today's economy.  As for Tamra, I don't have a lot to say about her  expect when she cries about how her house is now worth less that what she owes on it, I want to scream, "Welcome to the club, cutie." Tamra lives about a mile up the road from me and we are all pretty much f*!ked when it comes to house values right now.

Lastly is Lynn. Lynn is gloating about how successful her "Cuff" jewelry line is. Seriously? A successful Cuff line? I live in Orange County and have never seen anyone wear a cuff (except the time a few years back when Parker was reliving her teens and bought a terry-cloth cuff that said "BLink 182" on it. I gave her shit for weeks.) Meanwhile Lynn's "Cuffs" are a hot mess of leather and metal with rhinestone hearts glued on. Hey Lynn, a 1990's rap video called and wants its look back.

The show ends with a dinner and "trunk show" of Lynn's hideous cuffs at the St. Regis resort (who have obviously bartered a free dinner with unlimited Turning Leaf chardonnay for the ladies in return for some free publicity - hence the close up on the hotel's name about a dozen times). If anything, it was worth sitting through the entire show just to watch the blank expression on Lynn's face as Gretchen and Tamra hurl insults across the table at each other. The show abruptly comes to an end with the dreaded words "To Be Continued...."  but not before Jeanna interrupts Gretchen mid verbal bitch-slap to ask her, "Are you going to finish that Mac & Cheese?" Hey, in this economy you gotta get your meals when you can.
-Val


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F#*k, its that time of year again, filled with more useless shit I don't need. Without sounding too Bah Humbug, I so want to say, "Hey everyone, DW and I aren't getting you any gifts and we don't want anything in return, so Feliz Navidad and see ya in 2010," while we high tail it to the One and Only Palmilla Resort in Cabo or even just hide out in our master bedroom and channel Priscilla and Elvis for a week and just lay in bed. Since we don't have kiddos and everyone else does, we are somewhat ass-whipped by it all and I know it's around the corner when those dreaded spread sheets from whatever junk my-little-Johnnie is selling shows up at our office.

My first purchase has been from a co-workers daughter for a can of Gummi Bears (everything else in the catalog was chocolate candy with the least cocoa content allowed by the FDA.) The Gummi Bears arrived and were actually tasteless and not "gummi" at all. Now really, how can you f- up a Gummi Bear?

Next up, wrapping paper from my nieces and nephews. Finally, something useful although more than likely the thickness of tissue paper. If I'm paying $16 for a roll of wrapping paper, it better be the thickness of a 2x4.

Yesterday, I was handed the piece de resistance  from a co-worker: a catalog of faux Yankee Candles her daughter is selling; as if the real Yankee candles aren't bad enough. She actually had smelling samples, the least offensive of which happened to be, "Apple Streusel". As I signed my order I noticed that my piece of shit vomit tart smelling candle will burn for 75 hours...Super.

Most of the people that I buy holiday "goodies" from support me clerically so saying "no" isn't really an option. So instead, here's a message to the people that come up with this shit to sell: I don't need a 5 pound tub of frozen cookie dough, a nitrate injected sausage log or fruit cake in any form. Put an Alessi Cheese Grater in the catalog for crying out loud. A Diptique Tuberose Candle would be lovely. Williams Sonoma frozen croissants perhaps?  These things I will gladly pay for. A wisk with a snowman handle? Not so much.
-Parker

Shut up Chrissie Snow

Yesterday I was at Borders and in the "Best Sellers" section, I came across this dandy book:

I've really had it with High School educated celebrities trying to be experts in fields where they don't belong. Here's a "news flash," Suzanne Sommers, you are a has-been actress not a Guru so please don't try to sell us a book on how to cure/prevent cancer.  God forbid, If I ever get cancer, the first place I run to will NOT be the library to search under "Author: Suzanne Sommers" for advice. Given the choice, I'd rather take advice from a crack addict on skid row then succumb to the wisdom of someone known for playing Chrissie Snow on "Three's Company."

I realize that Suzanne is into health foods (but so is acclaimed Interrogative Medicine Doctor Andrew Weil, who's book I would read) and that she has probably done some research (clearly she's had the time since she hasn't filmed a movie since Lifetime's "The Darklings" in 1999). And OK,  I see that the book says that she "Interviews Doctors" (so it's not like she's writing off the cuff, thank god because I'm guessing she's no John's Hopkins graduate). But then again, Larry King interviews doctors all the time and he isn't in any rush to pen "Larry King Bites Cancer in the Ass!".

Listen up Suzanne, stick with what you know: the thigh master, working with comic genius John Ritter and lunching with your retired celebrity friends in Palm Springs.