Really Juan Stamosa? Don't Care, Don't Care

When the Mexican version of John Stamos (as Val nicknamed him) picked me up in Tucson for my girls weekend, he basically looked right thru the drunken-cougar-to-be in me and told me should that should I or any of my cougar entourage get a DUI in Oro Valley, AZ, it's s minimum of 10 days in the slammer. My mouth hung open in "Home Alone" style as I pictured me calling Dw and my already pissed off boss to tell them that by day 7 of my sentence I was head of laundry, my new girlfriend shaved my eyebrows and c ya soon mo-fo's. Needless to say, for the remainder of the weekend Juan Stamosa was our driver. He took much cougar abuse but was tipped well for putting up with our drunken debauchery

When Luiz (aka Juan Stamosa) picked me up at 6:15 am on Sun for my trip back to Dallas I was so hungover my hair hurt and I wanted badly to curl up in the fetal position in the back seat of his Bob Hope cream colored Towncar. He spoke the entire time despite me 'fake emailing' in the hope he would shut the f- up. He was exceedingly freshly scrubbed and reeked of Axe Body Spray. I have to admit I was somewhat flattered but kept thinking, "Really Juan? Have tips in 2009 gotten that scarce?"

Once I bid Juan and his haze of Axe adieu, I caught my flight and by that time was a dead ringer for Robert Smith of The Cure. One more day in Tucson I would be Heath Ledger in Batman - minus the smeared red lipstick in both cases, more of a smeared Burt's beeswax - but otherwise I looked the same. Ironically, Val emailed me later from her flight saying she had the "Britney Spears during her pink wig, driving-to-random-gas stations look."

For some reason flying on Southwest puts me at ease much more so than flying any other airline. However once home watching the news, I tried to envision myself in all my Joker hungover glory had I been on the recent Southwest flight where a very large black man exposed himself. I may not have all my facts right but Long Duck Dong apparently whipped it out to the woman next to him then proceeded to get naked in bathroom, head on back to his seat and punch the woman in her face. Really, WTF? Needless to say the pilots turned the plane around and I'm guessing the rest of day was probably not so great for Long Duck (or the passengers).
While this "snake on a plane" scenario would be quite entertaining, I'm sure it would have greatly disrupted my drooling into my travel pillow.

The girls weekend in Arizona was a great success and Val made me laugh so hard many times I thought my Botox would leak. A week later Val and I emailed a picture to each other at almost the exact time: Her photo of a mustard stain on her white pants at work and mine a picture of a giant red drip on the breast of my white Lacoste polo after biting into a very ripe strawberry at work. I knew then we were BFF's forever and possibly even separated at birth.

-Parker

Baked Couch Potato

After the crazy weekend in Arizona, followed immediately by a house full of relatives visiting, I am enjoying my short weekend reprieve of drinking sugar free mocha cappuccinos and television watching. Here's the rundown (so far)...

Hoarders:

First of all, why did no one tell me that A& E has a new show called "Hoarders"? I have always had a secret fascination with hoarders, and while I don't usually watch Oprah, I try and never miss an Oprah episode about hoarders. Basically, throw a couple of cameras in front of a nutjob trapped in his/her own trash, Dollar Store purchases and newspapers from the past 20 years and I am hooked. Perhaps it's because I grew up with a mom who (while def. not a hoarder) never wanted to throw anything away. I have photographic evidence of this from when I recently visited her and found the 1970's "Cat and Owl" prints that used to hang on my psychedelic yellow floral wallpaper, now proudly hanging in her bathroom along with a medicine cabinet full of NeoSporin tubes from 1981. But I digress - although I missed the first episode of "Hoarders", rest assured it is now on my Tivo "series record".

Project Runway:

When Project Runway left Bravo for Lifetime, Bravo reacted by quickly producing a copy-cat show staring Isaac Mizrahi and the non-working girl from Destiny's Child called "The Fashion Show." Sadly, I wasted 12 precious hours of my life watching that crapfest, with sub par wannabe designers. Now, thank the lord, Project Runway is back with my gay-crush Tim Gunn, and the never-gets-fat-even-when-she's-pregnant Heidi Klum. After catching the first episode, I am already hopeless hooked. Certainly anyone who watched will agree that "Qystal" (which I think is "Crystal" with a "Q") doesn't have the chops to be there (and besides, if you are spelling Crystal with a "Q" you should automatically be eliminated for stupidity). Also, Lindsay Lohan took time away from her line-snorting and lesbian experimentation to a judge and only furthered what I already suspected: that she is a conceited bitch. Ironically the designer who went home looked exactly like Lindsay's on and off girlfriend Samantha Ronson.

Added bonus: This season, Project Runway has a spin off called "Models of the Runway." I accidentally came across this 30 minute gem (and after seeing 16 aneroxic girls living together in a downtown LA loft, immediately put down the cinnamon streusel cake I was munching on) and came to the conclusion that all the models of the runway need to go hang out at the "More to Love" house and eat a god damned pizza.

More tv roundups to come.....

Back Where I Belong (in front of my TIVO)

After an exhausting and very busy past week and a half, I am happily back where I belong: on my couch catching up with a weeks worth of TIVO.

Last weekend, Parker and I met up with a few other high school friends for my "Pre-40th girls weekend" at a resort in Arizona. Although we had a blast, getting together with old high school buddies only reminded us that, clearly we aren't in "High School" anymore. We sunbathed, had pedicures, drank and ate and were in bed by 10 pm every night. Our most exciting adventure might have been the friendly bond we formed with our driver, "Luiz." Luiz picked up Parker at the airport on Friday (in a white Lincoln with Cartier interior). Luiz was (for lack of a better word) our "bitch" (and personal photographer) for the weekend. He drove us to and from all of our shopping/restaurant destinations and after a few cocktails, "Luiz" started to strongly resemble a Mexican version of John Stamos. Henceforth we (I) began to call him "Juan Stamosa." Lucky for me - I'm pretty sure he took it as a compliment. Meanwhile, Parker made the mistake of making small talk with him about his personal life, which I think Juan Stamosa took to mean "I want to be your sugar mama." When he showed up at 6 am to pick up Parker for her early-morning hangover flight, he wearing suit and a crap load of Axe body spray. And although I'm sure Parker (with her Alice Cooper eyes and tequila/dragon breath) was tempted to leave D.W. to live a life-long fantasy life with Luiz the single-dad Lincoln Continental driver from Mexico city, she somehow managed to resist his lady killer ways and returned home to Dallas.

Surprisingly, we did not get a picture of Juan Stamosa, but we did take a few pics of us trying to relive days of yore (unlike our high school days, we would be sound asleep in our beds watching CNN a few short hours later). Parker is the one blowing kisses at the $80 bottle of Silver Patron tequila, our friend Christie (who has no inner censor when it comes to blurting out politically incorrect random statements) is hiding behind the ginormous bottle, and I am the one inexplicably sucking my thumb.

VH1 Does it Again

This story broke last week, but I had house guests and no time to put my sarcastic spin on this tragic story. Amazingly, I have not seen an episode of "Megan Wants a Millionaire" on VH1 (which has really gone downhill ever since they canceled Flavor of Love), but I have heard about the contestant who is on the lamb after being accused of murdering his "model" wife and I have a few thoughts:

Unless "model" is code for Internet porn star, then I'm sorry but (deceased or not) she is no Linda Evangalista. This poor girl was found in a suitcase sans fingers and teeth and was only identified after the coroners officers were able to match up the serial numbers on her breast implants. Clearly her ex-husband/reality contestant/millionaire (?!) is a sadistic nutcase and so I say, "Kudos to you VH1! You really know how to pick the charmers for your sophisticated reality shows." Don't they have screeners for these shows? Call me crazy but any guy who his insane enough to dismember his ex-wife and throw her in a dumpster behind Knotts Berry Farm most certainly has a rap sheet - or at the very least probably wouldn't pass your basic psychological test.

Vh1 actually showed some scruples and canceled the remaining episodes of Megan Wants a Millionaire. Oh how will the viewers ever sleep at night not knowing if Megan will find true love? Is it wrong that I sort of wish it was Megan who was found in the suitcase?

Can You Tighten That Spandex Up a Smidge?

Today I made my vigil to Target for school supplies and ended up buying a bikini. I don't usually shop for clothing at Target (but have been known to pick up a tee shirt now and then) - however buying a bathing suit at Target makes perfect sense because: Bathing suits are perhaps one of the most depressing, anxiety-producing purchases a woman can make. Why spoil it by spending a fortune at Neiman's or Everything But Water etc... Believe you me, no one at the beach is going to be checking out my "bathing suit" because instead they will be in a hallucinogenic trance from staring at the circular patterns of cellulite that travel in a spiral motion from my ass cheeks downward to the back of my knees. Ergo - spending a mere $24.99 on a bathing suit "suits me" just fine.

Of course I didn't try it on, because a Target dressing room (I imagine) is probably like entering a smelly foot locker with a fun-house mirror, carpet that hasn't been vacuumed since 1997, with 75% odds that there is a used baby diaper in the corner. I took home my Olive Green "Xhiliration" brand suit and tried it on in the comfort of my darkly lit bathroom. The top fit great, but the bottoms ? OH MY! First, unbeknownst to me, the bikini bottom came with it's own belt (with belt loops too!) Who is the genius that decided a BELT is a necessary accessory to something which by nature is constructed so that it WON'T fall down? FYI, that size "S" bikini bottom isn't going anywhere and adding a belt to it makes about as much sense as taking an Ex-Lax chaser after eating dinner at Taco Bell. There's just NO NEED.

In fact, if anything, I could have used a little MORE room. The bottom didn't even adequately cover the base of my butt cheeks. Hey Xhiliration people? How about you forego the "BELT" and add a little extra spandex down below?

And lastly, while I'm bitching, can someone tell my why when you buy a "healthy" snack like "Trail Mix," eat 95% of it and then decide to turn over the package to look at the nutrition facts, it reads "Calories: 140" (Yea!) and then (to your horror) you read further to discover that one small bag of "Trail Mix" consists of "5" servings, bringing the grand calorie total to 700 GODFORESAKEN calories? (By the way, I'm not even talking about the Trail Mix with the little generic M&M candies in it). For Jesus sake, the only time I could even fathom sharing bag of Trail Mix that small between 5 people would be if I was stranded atop the Andes after a plane crash and the only alternative would be eating the frozen-dead passengers that didn't survive the crash. Next time I'm at 7-11 and tempted to choose the "healthy" snack, I'm going for the 32 oz Mountain Dew and a Baby Ruth bar.

Val