Sex and the City and the Comatose Husband

To: Parker@hangingbythepool.com

From: Val@doingthedishes.com

RE: Sex and the City Movie - Should I Pack a Lunch?

Tom said he'd take me to see the Sex and The City movie today. I heard it is 2 1/2 hours long so I plan on packing a boxed lunch along with a pillow and some no-snore nose strips for Tom who I give 15 minutes before falling into a coma. I'll post my review tomorrow.

In honor of the movie, I am attaching the video below. It is not unlike one of our martini-fueled conversations.

Tabloid Hell

To: Parker@thankgoditsFriday.com

From: Val@takinganap.com

Re: US Weekly - Sign of the Apocalypse?

Parker: 

I just got my US magazine and I need to know who is responsible (once again) for putting Heidi Montag on the cover so that I can have them killed. Honestly, I would love to throw a can of creamed corn in Heidi's smiling face (not to mention that Albino monkey boyfriend of hers). Alas, I know that there are more important things to worry about in this world (gas prices, housing market, the upcoming elections)  but I am completely bewildered by her fame. Thank god for this weeks' Life & Style's journalistic masterpiece entitled "Shiloh's Lonely World". Boo Frickin Hoo, Shiloh. 

-Val

Training Day

I've never been one to work out. My idea of staying fit has always involved sustaining on one meal a day and a Pepsi for breakfast. This was fine during my twenties, but when I hit my early thirties, I knew that at some point I would have to change my game plan.

My first experience with a Personal Trainer came to me by chance. I was employed as an Executive/Personal Assistant for a retired CEO of a major hotel chain. I worked out of the guest house of his $11 million dollar home and my job included a lot of typing, phone calls, speech preparation, and house managing. It also involved going out to lunch every day with my boss and his wife and cutting out early to exercise with them and their personal trainer 3 days a week. The Trainer was a young guy named Tim who clearly thought he was god's gift to mankind. Tim was actually a great trainer and, despite calling me "skinny fat," was likable enough and did help tone my physique over the year that I worked with him.  At some point, however Tim's personality began to change. He started missing appointments and behaving erratically. When Tim began to act like Pete Doherty in spandex, I began to question his approach to fitness. If Tim could go through six personalities in the span of an hour, then certainly I could go back to my morning 32 ounce Pepsi once and a while. We knew there was trouble when Tim didn't show up one day and then called my boss and his wife to ask for bail money.  Turns out that "Trainer Tim" had been caught selling  and obviously using GHB (also known as the "Date Rape Drug"), and was in clinker. Since Tim really wasn't my bosses problem he took the "Tough Love" approach and did not post his bail. Tim eventually served time and we ended up with a new Mormon trainer named John. 

My husband was relocated to a different city and I had to leave my amazing job o' perks  shortly after Trainer Tim's drug mess. I went back to my  meal substitute  plan of a Pepsi for breakfast, a Baby Ruth (or a baked potato) for lunch and daily 45 minute naps. This worked for me for a while, but my frequent headaches and long windedness when I ran to get the ringing phone told me that something had to change.

I joined a gym called "The Crunch" which seemed trendy and hip. The truth is I joined because the stationary bikes each had individual televisions attached to them. I would have been happy spending my future at The Crunch on the stationary tv-bikes and occasionally an elliptical machine, but alas my new membership came with a complimentary training session! Never one to  pass up a freebie and feeling confident after having worked out with a trainer before I eagerly set up a time to meet with a trainer for an hour.

I arrived in full makeup, pigtails, black stretch pants and a pink tee shirt. My trainer was the tallest, most ripped bald black man I have ever seen. He stood approximately 6'8 and you could bounce a  quarter off any  part of his body (actually the quarter would probably shatter). I can't remember his name but to this day I call him "Djimon" because he may have actually been Djimon Hounsou picking up some extra work between movie roles. Djimon was clearly in no mood for chit chat and immediately put my ass to work. 

Djimon  proceeded to humiliate me right off the bat by handing me a 10 lb. medicine ball, have me hold it in front of me and do lunges around the gym. I could see looks of both pity and disgust from fellow gym-goers as I serpentined through the machines, mascara running, arms shaking like a crack addict, holding what felt like a large toddler. We moved on to a quick rotation of the machines with no breaks in between - aside from when I had to take a break between the arm presses and hip flexers in order to throw up. When I told Djimon that I had just hurled he looked at me like I was a cockroach and told me to keep going. I did my best to finish the session. At the end Djimon had me lay down while he stretched me out. I can only imagine that it must looked a little like a large black boy playing with a Stretch Armstrong doll. Its a miracle he didn't break one of my limbs. 

As I limped towards the door, Djimon began his sales spiel. For only $600, he could be my trainer for the next 2 months! I knew that if I stuck with Djimon I would be dead within a week. It was time to cut my losses and bid him aideu. 

I recently decided to hire a new trainer at my current gym. I specifically asked for a woman. I was issued a lady in her fifties named "Betty." Betty seems to be drug free (except for popping a Boniva or two) is about as fierce as a kitten and I'm pretty sure I might be able to kick her ass if she  makes me vomit. We'll see how it goes.

VAL

 

And the Emmy Goes To.........not me

The day after the "Spago Incident", Val got up with 'Alice Cooper Eyes' and a huge tease of Buckwheat bleach-blond hair. She looked so hungover, I swear I could see cartoon stars and arrows swirling around her "Rock of Love-esque" head. 

I was ready to ease our hangover with some Bloody Mary's and eggs however Val had to head home and be a responsible mom once again. As she departed back to the OC, my sister and I waved goodbye, I still in my out of style "dragon tee" (sans bra) and some stained Juicy sweats.

My sister hadn't disowned me yet and she was still on the hook to take me to the Emmy Awards that night. We headed over to Hugo's for some breakfast. While my sister ordered some healthy egg whites and greens, I had some serious alcohol to soak up from the night before, had the Eggs Benedict and ate every last bit of it, washing it down with green tea as if there was anything to help the toxins in my system at this point. In LA, everyone weighs 100 lbs. In Texas, we are proud to say that three of our major cities are the fattest in the country. So, although I was eating everything in sight, I knew that once I left the city limits and headed back to Texas, I would be considered "thin".

My network-exec. sister and I headed off to get our hair done. My hair actually hurt from the massive hangover, but alas I was getting ready for the red carpet and as they say "beauty is pain." I dressed in a black spaghetti strap chiffon dress and some sequin and velvet Gucci slides which I justified the cost by telling my husband that he could bury me in them. My husband (who Val calls "Daddy Warbucks") also sprung for a pair of Gucci shoes for my sister as he must have known what was in store for her. Once ready, I felt like a real glamour girl as opposed to a retarded relative from out of town straggling along to the Emmy's. I owe it all to the shoes.

We had to park in a "Non-Playah" area (no Limos for us) and didn't get to do the entire Red Carpet (more like half). Nonetheless the security dudes with their Janet Jackson headsets quickly realized that we (me) were nobodies  and tried hard to corral us into the theatre and off the esteemed Red Carpet ASAP. We didn't budge until Biggie Smalls gave us the "get inside or I will taser your ass" look. As we were rushed inside, I contemplated doing my Sister Mary Katherine Gallagher "Superstar" pose behind Stockard Channing as she got her photo taken, but decided to give my sister a break. As I strutted towards the theatre, my mouth was agape from seeing so many stars. 

At the last minute our seats had been upgraded  because some top executive couldn't make it. As we were escorted to 10th row,  I kept thinking surely we will be found out as impostors and kicked out of our seats. JJ Abrhams was sitting in front of us, the entire cast of Lost behind us (Yep, behind us, and this was when LOST was all the rage, before "The Others"). Charlize Theron sat three rows ahead of us in a flapper dress and Gray's Anatomy's  Ellen Pompeo was seated across the aisle. You have never seen someone so thin in your life. Let me tell you, after seeing Ellen Pompeo in person, I actually would share my fries with her. All of the sudden I could start to feel my spaghetti straps cutting into my shoulders and I was starting to feel not unlike Chynna Doll and Brooke Hogan's love child. When JJ Abrahms won the Best Drama award for LOST my big mug was behind him on camera all the while looking at myself on the Jumbotron resulting in an image of me cross eyed staring in the wrong direction, and furiously applauding while trying to be demure. Lucky for me I still have it on TIVO. It was very surreal and all of the sudden I was starting to feel VERY hungover. 

After the Emmy's we made it over to the Governor's Ball. Still surrounded by people that eat nothing, I literally could not wait to ease my everlasting hangover with more food. When my bloody Beef Wellington arrived it was like a Golden Chalice had been put before me. I tried to eat slowly and be LA cool like "Oh food, whatever I can take it or leave it" but all the while wanting to snort my plate like it was cocaine put in front of Whitney and Bobby. Never mind that uber-thin celebrities like Heidi Klum, Shannon Elizabeth (ok not really a "star") and Carrie Underwood were walking past our table, I was NOT leaving a crumb behind. I finally felt human again and we headed to yet another party where they had free canapes and Dom Perignon (I only had a few). 

The next day it was time to head back to Texas (and back to reality). After the Spago Incident, and the night at the Emmy's, I am sure my sister wanted to stick a foot in my Texas' ass and push me out the door at the airport, but I am pretty sure that Val and I gave her some great laughs that weekend.

-Parker

Indiana Jane and the Crystalized Concert Tickets

In honor of today's release of the new new Indiana Jones movie (which originated in the 80's, I might add) here are some concert ticket stubs from days o' yore.

When I look at these concert tickets, I feel:

1. Nostalgic            
2. Glad that I was able to experience some of the great 80's bands of all times (you won't find any "Flock of Seagulls" or "Warrant" stubs in my stash).
3. Old as shit.

Holy Hell, look at the dates on those tickets. Not to mention the U2 ticket looks more like a scroll uncovered from the Byzantine era than a 20-year old concert ticket. Notice the price tag - $15.50 to see U2? Are you kidding me? Granted this particular ticket says "Limited View" which is code for "Bring a breathing apparatus, tissue for the high-altitude bloody nose and a flag for when you reach the summit." This particular U2 Ticket (ancient scroll) was for the opening night of the Joshua Tree Tour.  Sadly, during the archaeological dig (in my closet), Indiana Jane (me) could not track down the Creme De la Creme of all ticket stubs: the coveted U2 "Rattle and Hum" ticket.

In 1987, U2 made a documentary-like film called "Rattle and Hum," which was a compilation of some of their major concerts during that year and arguably one of the best concert films of all times. Parker and I were there in all our 1980's glory. At a special price of $5  per ticket (Bono was charitable even back then), even we could fork out some of our mad  (pot) money for this opportunity. Despite waking up at the crack of dawn to be first in line for tickets, with Bartles & James Cooler Hangovers and wine-puke  in my hair (this happened often back in the day), we still managed to score the dreaded "High Altitude" tickets, as there were about 4000 other die-hards ahead of us at the box office. No worries, we were  young, could still climb Everest-like flights of stairs and our eyesight was still good. We were also convinced that the camera man would somehow see our beauty in row 903, film us (up close in all our blue eye-shadowed glory) and we would become the breakaway stars of this film.

We remember the concert like it was yesterday. The excitement of being a part of history (not really, but we were dreamers). The hot dogs we downed (extra relish please) at the concession stand right before Bono took stage and belted out "Bullet the Blue Sky." The chaffed thumb from holding the Bic lighter on HIGH during the entire rendition of "Pride: In the Name of Love." The helicopter hovering above us to get a wide angle shot of the entire audience (all the while thinking, "Yes helicopter-camera man, I am winking at you"). 

I recently showed my kids the Rattle and Hum DVD and during the helicopter shot crowd scene, I quickly pointed to where we were sitting  (sadly our close up must have ended up on the cutting room floor). Amazingly, they were not impressed. The next day, my son asked me if I would buy him tickets for the My Chemical Romance concert (his first concert). At $62 bucks a pop (one for him and  one for dear old chaperone dad) I was apprehensive. Longing for the days of the $15.50 concert, I caved in and bought the tickets anyhow. 

By the way, a few years ago Parker scored some U2 Tickets for us at approximately $160 each. At the last minute I was unable to go and she sold them on EBay for almost twice their face value (hot dog and bic lighter NOT included).

-VAL

Idle Chatter about Idol: It's Complicated

To: Val@cookingmacandcheese.com

From:Parker@watchingidol.com

Re: Idol & White Man's Kryptonite (Denise Richards)

Watching the Idol "Finally" (Finale). So glad that David C. won as I'm not sure I could take a media blitz of David Archuleta's blank stares and lightning quick answers to all those tough questions that would have been thrown at him. First star sighting of the night was Janice Dickinson sitting front row (alongside her dealer, no doubt).  Carrie Underwood came out in basically a white double breasted jacket and heels. I sat (lay) there in my  JCrew tee with holes and baked bean juice stains as she sang (no big  surprise here) about whiskey, honkey tonk bars and one night stands. I was completely mesmerized by her Barbie-sized legs. The whole thing made me feel like Roseanne in those pictures from Vanity Fair ages ago where she was wrestling with Tom Arnold in the mud. 

By the way, have you seen Denise Richards all over the talk shows talking about Charlie Sheen's sperm? Holy 'White Man's Kryptonite', she has 2 kids and should really keep her BriteSmile trap shut. Sperm or no sperm, she is one unstable bitch. Either way it's good stuff and you guessed it, "Complicated".

To: Parker@watchingidol.com

From: Val@helpingwithhomework.com

RE: Idol & White Man's Kryptonite

Yes, I have seen Denise "Don't want no Sheen Sperm" Richards making her rounds. How can such little brain power produce so much entertainment? My Tivo will be working overtime this weekend between her new "Complicated" show and "Living Lohan."

Was it me or did George Micheal leave you with a creepy, dirty feeling after he sang on Idol? What I really want to know is  how did he get his hands  on my moms Foster Grants from 1979? She must have left them in a park bathroom stall in London at 3 am. 

I wonder if David Archuleta's dad is going to Kick His Ass for not winning?

Seizure Walls and Shoulder Pads

Found this picture of us in my room circa 1986. A few thoughts come to mind:

• Holy shit that wallpaper is loud. How did I not wake up and have a seizure Every Single Day? To make matters worse (or better?) the wallpaper had tiny white braille-like bumps on it.  Not only was it the most hideous, seizure-inducing, LSD-inspired  wallpaper of all times, it also was in 3-D. Although the Picasso in the background does lend a hint of class to the "Timothy Leary" motif. Thanks mom.
• Ummm, could our hair be parted more to the side? Seriously our parts practically start at the ear. Was this an attempt to make the tops of our heads appear larger? Good, because it worked. 
• Shoulder pads much? Were we going to a party or to substitute as linebackers for the Phoenix Cardinals? It's not as if I needed to add any extra padding to my frame back then, but what can I say, I was slave to fashion.
• Eyebrows or Fuzzy Caterpillars? You be the judge. (posted by VAL)

Idol Gonna Knock You Out: Thoughts on Idol, Star and Fat Asses

To: Parker@sellingradio.com

From: Val@makingbeds.com

RE: Idol, Star, etc....

P:

I voted for David Cook last night although I know "Archie" will win. Yeah us! Now we get to see his winning personality and gift for gab all over the news for the next week. God, I hated David A.'s choice for the songwriting competition -  it sounded like track #12 off a Christian Pop Rock CD.

Also, what was up with that crazy boxing analogy? Is it Mike Tyson or David Archuleta? Those shots of them hanging down by the pier (as boxers often do) and the quick "360-degree" camera angles where ridiculous. 

Last night as soon as "Sorry 2000 lbs" Ruben came out, this alarm in our house went off. It sounded like someone put a firetruck smack down in the middle of our living room. It went off intermittently for a good 45 minutes until we tracked it down some bullhorn device in the air vent. Tom (I mean McGyver) eventually disassembled the device, thank god because my heart practically stopped beating every time it went off. Plus it made me miss Ruben's song and dance (sans dance) in front of the hokey Idol montage. I hate it when an alarm you didn't know you had goes off!

PS: 

Here's a preview of this weeks upcoming Scrumpdedelicious STAR magazinze. You are right - between the STAR, the premier of "Living Lohan" and Denise Richard's show "Its Complicated" (because it IS complicated) this weekend seems more like Christmas than Memorial day.  I soo love when magazines do that beach body shit. Because Reese Witherspoon really does deserve a "worst" vote. I'm surebert. 

Apple of My Eye: My Love/Hate Relationship with the Apple Store

to: Parker@NotAllowedPersonalEmailsAtWork.com

from: Val@RunningErrands.com

RE: The Apple Store!

Have I told you how much I HATE going to the Apple Store? It's not even crowded and I still hate it. My appointment at the "Genius Bar" is at 10:20 am but they said they are running late. (They opened at 10:00, so really how far could behind could they be?). While waiting, I am tempted to get one of those streamlined new desktops however. (Don't worry!)

I brought in Ellie's computer because it keeps freezing and I also brought in Daniel's laptop because whenever I sign in under my name it automatically boots me out of the Internet. They better fix both these motherf**&ers - and do it with a smile. And you KNOW I am going to tell them that this is my 4th Apple purchase in as many years and I'm getting sick and tired of the "Frozen Pinwheel" and letters that start to look like little stick men every time I go on the Internet.

PS: After that I am getting my new bracelet re-sized and exchanging the remote that Ellie broke in a fit of  rage.

Good times, 

-V

__________________________________________________________________

To me, going to the Apple Store (at least any of the ones located in Southern California) is not unlike to paying a visit to the poor-man's "Les Deux." No, you won't see Lindsay Lohan or one of the Olsen twins, but you will see every 19 year old who strives to be them. The music is loud, the outfits are trendy, there is always lots of exposed skin, tattoos and body-piercings. Also? There are people, EVERYWHERE.  If only the staff were carrying trays of Jagermeister shots or flutes of champagne instead of those tiny little credit card machines that allow them to ring up your purchases anywhere in the store. Oh, and I'm pretty sure they are pumping pure oxygen into the air to make you feel young, exhilarated and ready to spend!

I try to avoid this place as often as possible. First, because I always feel old, stupid and ugly when I walk in.  Seriously,  it is so brightly lit that no one over the age of 34 can possibly look attractive. Secondly, it is usually more crowded than a Green Day concert circa 2004 and crowds make me riddled with anxiety. I'm often tempted to take a Xanax before entering just in case it gets real hairy. But more than anything is that damn temptation factor. The marketeers of Apple are geniuses - make it simple, shiny, bright and new and they will come. 

Today I was in no mood to peruse through the new Apple 59 inch desktop or check out the 19th edition of the Ipod. I wanted someone to just tell me how to get on the Internet without getting the dreaded "Unexpected Error" message.  (Christ, I wish I could use the "Unexpected Error" excuse when I didn't want to do something. "Honey, I was going to do the dishes but my internal hard drive had an 'Unexpected Error' and I froze"). To make matters worse, my daughter's 2 1/2 year old laptop was starting to display signs of a breakdown. I know from Apple breakdowns as I've been through two - first with my Apple desktop which made it a whopping two years before the pinwheel span no more. And then again with my son's first desktop which finally kicked the bucket after months of dealing with the perpetual spinning wheel and letters that started to look like some fake computer language code from the first Star Trek movie. 

The Apple Store has something called a "Genius Bar", which is a bar where you meet with a proverbial "genius" to troubleshoot any tech problems your Mac may be having. Unfortunately, (much like hot nightclub "Les Deux")  not just any Joe Schmoe can saunter up to the "Genius Bar" for help. You need to be on "the list." In order to get on today's list I had to wake up at the crack of dawn, and "register" for an appointment online. Sure, you can do this at the store itself, but expect to be waiting downstairs at the Panda Express for approx. 3-4 hours before your name is called. Amazingly, I got a 10:20 appointment with a note that told me to show up at 10:15 to "sign in".  Excited, I put on my best casual Carrie Bradshawesque outfit (short-shorts, a linen tunic and high healed wedges, funky silver jewelry to match), because no one wants to look out of place at the poor man's Les Deux.

At 10:10 I arrived, laptops in hand to a smaller crowd than usual. I stood up against a bookshelf of Apple games and waited for my name (which was flashed up on the big board behind those hunky Apple "Geniuses") to  be called. Unfortunately for me, Dennis R. and Sandra Y were ahead of me on the list. Dennis and Sandra must have had some major issues as I didn't get called until  10:49. 

I arrived to find a  pimply-faced 20-year old who I'm pretty sure WASN'T a genius but rather a computer nerd with too much time on his hands. In my opinion, if you're going to advertise a "Genius Bar", I want to see Steve Jobs or Stephen Hawking (with his voice box of course) standing there (or sitting if you are Stephen Hawking), ready to serve. Regardless the pimply, tech kid did fix my "unexpected error" immediately and I was forever grateful. As for the other computer, the one on the verge of a nervous breakdown, he told me to reinstall the operating system, using the disk that came with the computer (uh, right!) and then I heard something along the lines of "blah, blah, hard-drive, blah, blah network, blah megabyte, blah cache." 

Thanks Techie McGyver, I'll get right on that.  I smell a Dell in my future!

-Val

Rajun Cajun: A personal account of College Life on the Bayou.

For my birthday one year my nephew and niece gave me a key chain that read “Cajun in your Pocket”. If you pressed the buttons, the recording said funny Cajun sayings like “I love you like a pig loves corn” or the ever popular “We gonna pass a good time shy”. It always sent my nephew, who if I do say so myself is the cutest thing on the planet, into a fit of hysteric laughter. Besides the fact that a four year-olds' laugh is the most awesome sweet thing ever this especially brought a smile to my face because it made me think of my Bobby Bouche’ "Waterboy" movie college days.

My grades in high school were so bad that I had no choice but to go to USL (University of Southwestern Louisiana). The first thing I noticed about Lafayette was how unbelievably humid it was; my already naturally curly hair was rendered untamable and for some reason I liked to wear it down to my ass. It was like a sheepskin rug on my head. Making matters worse, my brother used to ask me if a small family of Mexican Migrant farmers were living in my hair. I also thought it would be sexy to dye it white blond - not a good look for a life-long brunette with dark brown eyebrows the size of leeches on steroids. I knew the Pamela Anderson hair color was a bad look after some Cajun Frat Boys walking behind me one day said I had such pretty hair why do I dye the roots black? Umm, thanks A-holes. After the bleach debacle, I decided to dye it back to brown which created a lovely evergreen hue.

My arrival to college came complete with an escorted tour with my dad, Paul. He must have really wanted me to be popular because he took it upon himself to fill out my Sorority application before my arrival. Unbeknownst to me, in the summer between graduating High School and entering College, I was both a bikini model and Miss Arizona. Thanks for letting me know Dad, because it would have come in handy during Rush when all the girls swooned me (and my evergreen hair) to get a look at Miss Arizona - now enrolled in a college in the Bayou. All I can say is thank God there was no Internet in 1987, because those beatches would have Googled me and in a nanosecond, my secret would have been blown. Sadly, my background as Miss Arizona and bikini model experience was not enough to impress the more popular Sorority. I was eventually accepted at Phi Mu (known around campus as "Phi Mooooo"). The good news is that even with green hair and leech brows, I was the hottest of the Phi Moos.

The tour continued when my dad decided to take me to an authentic Cajun restaurant, which I would now appreciate and fancy myself like a critic on the food network. As an 18 year-old however, I could not have been more confused and grossed out by the food. Naturally, we got lost on the way and stopped for directions. An Amy Winehouse-skinny Cajun man came to the car in all his five-toothed glory - to give us directions. He was speaking in Cajun no less and I was thrown into a strange Deliverance moment that made me clench my butt cheeks. We eventually made it to the authentic restaurant filled with tourists. I remember was that I felt very white and there was lots of repulsive gravy. What a waste because I am sure this restaurant was the real deal, but I was too busy thinking I had just moved to another planet to notice.

The next day we arrived at my dorm. As a west-coast girl just removed from sunny Arizona, I couldn't’t figure out the odd, acrid smell that permeated throughout the classy vinyl floored hall. I would later become oh-too familiar with the smell of Afro-Tame - a staple at USL. In hindsight I should have borrowed some to tame my sheepskin rug-head.

I had filled out an application so they could put me with a roommate with my same interests and background. Apparently my counterpart was a 300 pound girl from Jennings, Louisiana with a love of that heart-warming, early 90s mascot Spuds friggen Mackenzie. I walked in to a room wallpapered completely in Spuds posters, most of them with him wearing Ray Bans. To make matters worse, I arrived to see her eating Boudin seafood. Boudin in case you are not aware is a Cajun sausage with all kinds of pig parts in it that Cajuns go absolutely ape shit over. The smell of Afro-Tame, seafood parts in pig casing, and the sight of Spuds was almost to much to bare but I had no other choice. I am sure my roommate wasn’t exactly thrilled with me either as I probably acted like Paris Hilton meeting her cell mate for the first time in jail.

Off to class the on the first day of College, I was met with yet another sign that I had arrived in Cajun Country. The campus was landscaped with a tres-classy man-made, Hulk-green swamp with actual live baby alligators. We gonna pass a good time indeed.
-Parker

Our Daily E-Mail Exchange

To: Paker@don'temailmeatwork.com
From: Val@goingtoyogatoday.com
Re: Idol Recap

P -
Did you make it through Idol last night? Just a few thoughts:

David Archuleta singing Dan Fogelberg's "Longer Than" was a complete cheese-fest. The Idol AV guys should have concocted a virtual Velveeta Waterfall behind him as he sang.

Is it wrong that I almost cried during David Cook's rendition of "The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face"? In my defense, I am VERY premenstrual AND it made me emotional when they flashed to his mom standing up (amongst everyone else who just sat there) all bleary eyed. Then Ryan Seacrest had to reveal that she was just the weepy Stage Manager. Creepy-Stalker Stage Manager if you ask me.

Lastly, did you see the lady in the audience holding crayola-made "Cougars 4 Cook" sign? Yikes, the day you see me holding a "Cougars 4" anything sign, just give me a lethal dose of barbiturates and put me on a bus to Mexico.

PS - I voted for David Cook three times. Uggh! Am I 13 or 38?

To: Val@goingtoyogatoday.com
From: Paker@don'temailmeatwork.com
Re: Idol Recap

V -
I totally voted for David Cook as well - and also three times. I figure that is three times more than I have voted for any president of our country - ever. Obviously I wasn't shaking in my Marc Jacobs pumps when P Diddy told me to "Vote or Die".

I just can't take David A. seriously. He looks like the little brother you'd give 6 bucks to to go fetch you some tampons at Walgreens and tell him to buy himself some Smarties with the change.

To: Paker@don'temailmeatwork.com
From: Val@goingtoyogatoday.com
Re: Idol Recap

News Flash: They just reported on Good Morning LA that Lord Bachelor Matt and Shayne are still together and happy. Phew! You have to admit that kind of story is newsworthy, because in the scheme of things, stories about earthquakes in China are just "Fluff".

PS: I really think we should both cxl our subscriptions to US Weekly in protest for putting those young bitches from The Hills on the cover every two weeks. Because US Magazine would be financially crippled if we cancelled our subscriptions.

Daily E-Mail

To: Parker@don'temailmeatwork.com

From: Val@doinglaundry.com

Re: The Bachelor Season Finale!

Score another one for the cute, short blondes (they always get the guy in the end). I always had a feeling that English chap would pick Shayne (not to mention ABC's Faux paux of running a week-long promo showing him putting a giant diamond on a manicured finger in "Palest Pink" and then during the final episode showing off Shayne's "Palest Pink" manicured hand when she handed him the photo(shopped) pic of her in a bikini writing "I LOVE YOU" in the Malibu sand.) A dead giveaway for those educated in the multi-spectrum world of nail polish colors.  

Maybe its me, but there's something twisted about saying "Yes" to marriage to a man who just the night before told another woman (read: reality vixen whore) that he was falling in love with her right before lunging his tongue down  her throat. Oh well, Shayne will get a taste of that gloomy London weather and go running back to daddy Lorenzo's Malibu beach pad - otherwise known as "The House that Falcon Crest Built". On that note, remember when I saw him on the beach in Hawaii my senior year in High School? It was the Celeb sighting to end all Celeb sightings in 1987 - oh how the mighty have fallen.

PS - Matt's parents home in London looked like a real cheap shitbag. How much do you think that house goes for?

To: Val@doinglaundry.com

From: Parker@don'temailmeatwork.com

Re: The Bachelor Season Finale!

Oh I know - totally. Did they say what his crusty ol' Houndstooth wearing dad does? Shayne will probably stick it out with Matt just to score a bunch of new shoes from Harrods.

I  forgot to tell you, so pathetic, there was a TV ad during the show for a small theater in Ft. Worth starring Lorenzo Lamas called the Fastastiks. Not too sad for him. I guess he has to get a check somehow.

To:  Parker@don'temailmeatwork.com

From:Val@doinglaundry.com

Re: The Bachelor Season Finale!

It's called the Fantasticks (or something similar) and was a famous Broadway play eons ago - today, in Ft. Worth, not so much. I give  Shayne and Matt three weeks tops. Also, just wait till she puts on 10 lbs from all the fish and chips London has to offer - then we'll see how much he loves his chubby little "Monkey". 

PS: Don't know what came over me but I am waiting in line to pick up Ellie and I am wearing oversized Victoria Beckham round sunglasses, pig tails, a wife beater and a pair of $7.99 sweat pants from TJ Maxx (recession, what recession?). Seriously, I look like the spawn of Mary Kate and K Fed (with Mischa Barton's cottage cheese ass - see this weeks edition of National Enquirer for visual).

 

Hairlicious

People have always told me how lucky I am to have blonde, thick, wavy (frizzy) hair. "You are so lucky," my flat-haired friends would say. Little did they know the struggle I went through daily, trying to avoid "mushroom head" during the years I had that cute little bob. Or, during the long-haired years, the 50 minutes I would spend before school blow-drying it on "High", sweating like Whitney Houston during a coked out performance of "I Wanna Dance With Somebody."

Today, thanks to the miracle-invention of the flat-iron, I am able to tame my "big hair." On occasional lazy days I may forgo the flat iron, resulting in a look similar to a bleach blonde, female, Peter Frampton circa 1977. For the most part, I am attached to the hip with my flat iron. I am perplexed each morning however, when I wake up (after having perfectly straight hair the day before) looking like I just stepped out of a New Jersey night club in 1986. Overnight, my hair  somehow metamorphosizes (yes, I know this is not a real word!) into the "Lita Ford Do" - think back to the video for "Close My Eyes Forever" she did with Ozzy Osborne and you'll get the picture. Seriously, I could  wake up, throw on some heavy eyeliner, hightail it to a Ratt concert and I'd fit right in.

"Oh, you're exaggerating, " some might say. "Surely your morning hair isn't that bad." To those doubters I tell them about the morning I rolled out of bed and went in to wake up my 12 year-old son for school. He sat up in bed and immediately said, "You look like Heather." Who's Heather, you might ask. Could he have been comparing me to that hot, never-aging MILF Heather Locklear? Oh no, he was referring to one of the Rock Chick skanks from Season One of "Rock of Love." That's right, my son likened me to a ho-bag on a reality show trying to win the love of  badly-aging Rock Star, Brett Michaels. Sadly, Heather didn't even win. Slutty Heather came in second place, beaten out by a much classier girl with hot pink streaks in her hair.

-Val

Dander Island

My mom lived the same house (my childhood home) for more than 30 years. A house I now lovingly refer to as "Dander Island." Seriously, no vacuum cleaner was up to the task. As a child it wasn't so bad. I have fond memories of several Hispanic housekeepers coming and going throughout the years. Who could forget Rosarita, the young pregnant housekeeper who we found passed out on the floor desperately clinging to a bottle of my parents' finest scotch? She was promptly delivered to the bus stop where she stumbled off into the distance. But after years of raising animals and my parents' three-pack a day cigarette habit each, the house started to become toxic. Knowing this, you'd think we were poor white trash living in a double wide amidst tumbleweeds and dirt-devils. This was the furthest from the truth. The house was a 4-bedroom, 2400 sq. foot house in a nice suburb with a pool. My parents were successful business owners with a boat and an airplane. I was even a debutante!

My dad moved out in the early 90's while I was away at college, leaving Mom to rule the nest. Unfortunately, cleanliness in Mom's world was never a virtue. Dog hair would literally float like furry angels around your feet when you walked on the Mexican-tiled floors. Crossing the threshold required a gas mask for non-smokers or those who hadn't yet acclimated to the environment.

Ticks are hard to avoid in the Arizona heat, but throw 4 indoor/outdoor large dogs and some shag carpeting into the equation and it becomes a personal hell. Whenever friends were over, I'd often see a tick in the background meandering up my mustard-colored floral wallpaper. In a panic, I'd have to somehow distract them while I quickly cornered the tick, flicking it downward onto my booger-colored carpet, praying that it wouldn't return. Imagine the horror when, during my senior year of high school in Psychology class, I looked down at my feet to discover a tick desperately trying to suck blood from my dry, scrunchy, white sock. I knew that if any of my classmates were to see the struggling, bloodthirsty tick, I would be forever known as "Tick Girl." I quickly made a fluid I'm-bending-down-to-stretch-my-arms-and-scratch-my-leg movement and clasped that tick between my forefinger and thumb. Paranoid that the tick would immediately start to suck my entire blood supply via my thumb, I quickly flicked it in a backward motion, under my desk. The tick was airborne for a second or two before, landing (god-willing) close to someone else's fluffy sock.

Mom decided to move to a smaller house in 2000. I was terrified when she asked me to help her move. She couldn't afford movers so my sister, her husband, his brothers and me were recruited to pack and move all her precious belongings via U-Haul. the secrets that lurked in the depths of that house will haunt me forever. Cereal boxes that had expired in 1989 (but made for great breeding grounds for mealy bugs), cake mixes purchased circa 1977. "Pack those, they're still good," Mom insisted. Deep, dark closets contained horrific albums  - such 70's legends as Leon Russell, Loggins & Messina and Richard Harris singing "MacArthur Park." Again, we were instructed to throw NOTHING away. Adorning her fireplace were silk flower arrangements that no longer had color - unless you call "dust" a color!  Colonies of unhatched tick eggs hidden beneath the Indian Couch (also known as 'Sticker Couch'). The furniture itself should have been burned in our front yard. It would have been an amazing shit-smelling bonfire. While Mom stood center stage, directing us and pointing, we found ourselves dripping in sweat doing the (literally) dirty work. At hour 5, my sister and I began to randomly throw useless items (porcelain chicken sculptures, unravelling wicker baskets, plates with German Shepherd Heads painted on them) over the back wall and into the desert. It took 12 hours and a box of allergy pills to get the truck loaded. When finished, we looked like 9/11 survivors coming out of the rubble: dry, thirsty and covered in a mystery dust. I don't even think I got a "Thanks."

Pimp My Ride

It was the day my parents dreaded. Their underachieving, black sheep, middle-child-from-Hell turned 16. I was desperate to drive and desperate for a shiny new car. Driving meant that I could get the hell out of my dysfunctional house whenever I wanted. My room full of Duran Duran, Prince, Michael Jackson and Eurythmics posters could only bring me so much happiness.

My dad had the audacity to suggest a red Yugo. Keep in mind that a NEW Yugo retailed for $2995.00 (because that high dollar ticket price would ensure that I was safe while I drove with one hand grasping an Old Olympia while the other rewound my Thompson Twins tape.) Basically the Yugo was someone's sick idea of providing a car to 'the masses' (the poor masses). My dad however, was not poor   - just thrifty. For those of you who aren't familiar with the Yugo, TIME Magazine listed it as "One of the 50 Worst Cars of All Time." It goes on to say, "Built in Soviet-bloc Yugoslavia, the Yugo had the distinct feeling of something assembled at gunpoint. Interestingly, in a car where "carpet" was listed as a standard feature, the Yugo had a rear-window defroster - reportedly to keep your hands warm while you pushed it." Yikes! Luckily it was not meant to be. After several tantrums that involved tears and stamping my feet while screaming about the humiliation associated with driving a Yugo (I would be the laughing stock of my upper-class, private Catholic High School), my dad concluded that I'd be much safer in my brother Stephen's hand-me-down Chrysler K-Car.

The K-Car could be considered the Mary Kate car of its time, as the metal used to construct it (aluminum....tin foil?) was paper-thin. In a near-genius advertising campaign, Chrysler used the slogan: If You Can Find a Better Car, Buy it.  Hmmmm... a "better car?" you mean like a Porsche 911 or a Mercedes 500 series? Even a Buick LeSabre or Chevy Impala would have been better - but who am I to argue with the product experts of Madison Ave.?

I'll never forget the day  my dad handed me the keys to this beauty. It was perhaps the squarest car ever made. Every angle was sharp and perpendicular to the other. Curves apparently were a big "no-no" in the mid-eighties. Every 16 year-old girl dreams of a cherry red car; the K-Car had a metallic shit-brown exterior and a subtler crap-brown interior. The inside could really not have been more generic. The steering wheel and dashboard were also a lovely shade of crap-brown (the designers were obviously going for a "shit" theme). Aside from the ignition switch, AM/FM radio and the speedometer, it lacked any dials and buttons that might enhance its performance. It truly was the 'Easy Bake Oven' of cars. Arizona in the summer can be upwards of 113 degrees and the steering wheel would become the temperature of molten lava. I'd often use a bandanna or the bottom of my shirt (exposing my rock-hard teenage abs) to cover the steering wheel and avoid blistering my hands.

I abused the hell out of that poor car - treating it like a red-headed, deformed stepsister who has been locked in the basement since birth. Looking back, I should have been grateful. Some kids got nothing on their 16th birthday.  But at least it wasn't a tin box from Yugoslavia and it got me to point A to point B in style.