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.