"I'm Sorry, We're All Out of Warm Nuts"

Years ago I went on many company trips for various sales awards and got to stay at such
hotels as The Ritz and the W in New York and Clift hotel in San Francisco. I would attend the company award lunches politely eating my endive and lobster salad doing my best not to drip dressing down the front of my Versace suit jacket. A few years ago our company, like many, was bought out and long story short that lobster and endive is now more like grocery store mayo based macaroni salad, the kind with the fake plastic bright green lettuce underneath. 

I recently won a trip to LA for selling let's just say, a ton of shit. The trip covers a flight for 2 and hotel for 2 nights - but no specifics. I feared the worst and after a long process of paperwork and calls I finally heard from a third party travel agent. The woman that called me sounded not unlike Marge Simpson's sister Thelma. She proceeded to tell me my dates requested were not available but here are some other dates and I will be staying at a Doubletree in lovely Commerce, CA. Ummm, Commerce what the?? So my trip to LA isn't even in LA,  but in some outskirts suburb armpit of the city area? I immediately invisioned Daddy Warbucks flickering on a black light upon entering our room decked out in decor from 1984. 

Marge Simpsons's sister then proceeds to tell me I would be flying an airline I've never heard of (that we will call "air asshole") and that I would return to Dallas by way of Denver and arrive at 11 at night on a Monday night. She could hear my voice wavering as if someone told me I was going to a third world country to make a hut out of dung. She then curtly asked, "Well, where did you want to stay, because this is all there is." (because we all know how all the nice hotels in LA are filled up - with this great economy and all). I badly wanted to say "the friggen Hotel Bel Air beeatch." Instead, I basically told her this would not work and I would get back to her and her Camel unfiltered cigs later. For now, she could kiss my cornholio. 

Many emails later, after getting the higher ups involved I get a call from Bea Arthur (RIP Bea, I still love the Golden Girls) and she tells me the "good news". I can now fly Southwest and stay at a Sheraton that is actually IN Los Angeles. Her boss even called me and told me that he would send me a few free drink coupons! I politely said 'Thanks' all the while thinking I'm not a "parrothead" so I won't be downing brewskys on Southwest nor do I want to dehydrate my skin first thing in the morning. He also told me that "Air Asshole" is (and I quote) "The bomb."

I may not have any warm nuts coming my way but at least I will be in California (I hope) and I'll get to see my sis and her boyfriend and Val and her hubby. Can't wait!

-Parker

I went to Commerce, CA for a Sales Award and all I got was this crappy tee shirt:

New Rule: You Can't Run for Miss USA if You are a Dumbass

New Rule #2: You can't wear a god-damned tee shirt and hoodie if you are one of the judges for Miss USA.

Old Lady in The Pit: My American Idol Experience

Today was the big day. Me and Ellie awoke (she skipped school), showered, hit the salon and headed up to LA for our big Idol experience.  Below for your review, are some highlights of the day:

We arrived at CBS studios at 2:15 pm (taping begins at 6:00 pm). Because I'm an idiot, I wore high spiked heels, which is so not fun when you are standing outside of CBS Studios by the dirty bus stop waiting to get into American Idol for 2 1/2 hours. At 4 pm  we are shuffled into the lot, only to wait another hour. But before we get inside we are inspected by the Idol profilers and given our "seating assignment." Seating assignment is clearly not "random:" Those who are well dressed, clean and attractive (or a relative of Anoop's) you're in the front. Uglies, groups of guys over the age of 30 and anyone with a ring through their nose or more than 4 tattoos: go directly to the back of the studio.

I was hoping to be in  one of the first three rows, but alas the seat lady told us that we'd be in "The Pit". "The Pit" for those of you who don't know, is right up front by the stage by the judges. My first thought is "holy shit" I'm  going to be right up front! My next thought is "Crap, that means standing for another 2 hours." By the way, they only select about 75 people or so to be in the pit and they are ALL under the age of 18. I'm not lying when I say I could have been the mother of just about everyone around me - I had a good 20 years on them all.  

Taping begins and my daughter and I are literally in the front row, inches from the stage (and the blue couch where the contestants are dealt their fate). But first, the disco number. I can't even remember what they sang, but I can tell you that they started on a platform  right in front of me and I had a bird's eye view of Allison, Adam, Matt and Kris's ass cheeks. 

Cheesy disco dance number ends and the cast is rushed off stage to change. When they return to the "blue couch" I can literally hear their conversation (I am that close). Next up: some old crazy disco divas in desperate need of Spanx. And then, the highlight of my year: KC (of KC and the Sunshine Band) comes out in all his aging glory and all I can think is "Is it Tony Soprano or KC?" His stomach was stretching his red disco shirt to it's limits, his face lift was tighter than a drum and he was wearing a ridiculous dangly earring in his left ear.  When KC finished his little number, I was tempted to shout out, "Hey Tony, better get those slutty dancers back to the Bada Bing before the midnight rush!"

Commercial break. We are told that we aren't "raising our arms" enough during the songs. I'd love to raise my arms but my shirt is so tight that every time my elbows go above my shoulders, the middle three buttons pop open exposing my fleshy middle and C & C Factory-like black bra ("Everybody Dance Now") - so I have to literally clap with my hands no higher than my nose, for fear of a wardrobe malfunction.

Next up, David Archuleta. Personally I am not really a fan of David Archuleta (mainly because I am not a 14 year old girl) but the girls behind me screamed bloody murder and didn't hesitate to vocalize just how "HOT" they thought he was. I guess if a short, pubescent, dorky Mormon boy with the smile of a deranged clown is "Hot", then David fits the bill.

The rest of the show is a blur. I did think that Kris Allen was a cutie pie, so was Danny. Adam seemed less like Bloated Elvis in person, but was wearing a shitload of makeup. Matt seemed a little arrogant (I think he was pissed because the "Pitt" was full of Adam and Kris fans). 

When the show ended, I had more adrenaline than a crack addict at a dance contest. My daughter, however acted like she was at a funeral. Her feet were tired, she didn't give a rat's ass about seeing the show up close and personal and she definitely did NOT want to be on camera (she might have been switched at birth, because no daughter of mine would NOT want to be on camera). Unfortunately, camera man #4 disagreed and put us both on camera for a whooping 1.5 seconds during the opening of the show. I know this because Parker took a freeze-frame picture and e-mailed it to me. The result:

I'm the blond with the shiny watch (the one who can't lift her hands above her head) and my daughter is the one who looks like she would rather be anywhere but front row at Idol). I know, I know I broke the "rule" about not having my face on the blog, but what the hell - how many times will I be on camera for 1.5 seconds during the most popular show in America?

As we drove home, I thought to myself that even though my feet felt like I had run the Boston Marathon in hooker pumps, the night couldn't have been better. I was wrong. In the lane next to me was Simon Cowell smoking a cigarette in all his glory, in his cheap, shitty, ugly, brand new black convertible Bentley. As someone who prides myself on keeping my cool whenever I see a celebrity, I did what any normal, 39 -year old demure lady would do. I rolled down my window and my daughter (yes, the shy one) yelled "We love you Simon" while I yelled "Hiiiiiii". Simon flicked his cig, looked over and gave us a dashing smile and said hello. God, if I'd had time I would have asked  him for a bottle of Grey Poupon. He came up upon us at the next light and waved and smiled again (he was totally flirting with me) and then we turned left and drove off into the night.

-Val

Central Ass Whip

Ever since the economy fell in the shitter I've had to avoid malls at all costs and bid adieu to my beloved web sites Revolve Clothing and Shop Bop. I occasionally still allow a few JCrew purchases because after all, those are the basics and I am still a working girl. For the most part however I get my 'shopping high' from the grocery store. In north Dallas there are a ton to choose from, one particular store sends monthly coupons that generally equal a value of $10 dollars for each coupon. This, along with a lot of hard to find foodie items, continues to lure me back in to this Mecca of overpriced grocery hell. 

God forbid I go there hungry. I end up with things like ready made pizza dough from New York, Truffle Honey, and a giant log of Pinot Grigio Salami. Items like this are an example of why Jenny Craig could never be an option for me. Today I was actually proud of myself for putting back a frozen deep dish pizza from Chicago: the 450 calories per serving combined with the $12 cost for a frozen pizza brought me back to rational grocery shopping reality

It never fails, at Central Ass whip you have to pick a number and wait for your fish and meat which inevitably takes forever. A pound of halibut requested usually ends up being a little over two. "No really, the one pound at 24 dollars for just my husband and I is plenty." After the fish cluster fuck I head to the deli meat section and I may as well be in line for U2 tickets because watching paint dry is faster than getting some friggen Havarti and Turkey

Central Ass Whip is laid out so that you have no choice but to go through the entire store before reaching the check-out counter. I'm pretty sure that every person working the 17 different check out lines is on Thorazine, so I literally size all of them up to see who might bag the fastest. Unfortunately everyone is more like Napoleon Dynamite than the next so I take a long breath and prepare to wait.

My cashier is excruciatingly slow. I have visions of showing how to bag faster and exploding flour all over her register area. I am however thankful for the line I chose, as the line next to me has a  woman who just realized she forgot to get her free shrimp for which she has a coupon.  She makes a mad dash back to the seafood counter leaving all her shit with the cashier and two people waiting behind her. My cashier is so slow there is actually enough time for me to see the woman return, half-ass apologize to the people behind her and then proceed to write a frigging check. Seriously, why do people still write checks at grocery stores? My mouth Is
in full fly catching mode at this point.

My three bags of groceries total $120. Once home I immediately pour myself a glass of win, because rather than my day at work or the torrential downpour I drove in all day, it is instead Central Ass Whip that has thrown me into a tizzy.

-Parker

Idol or Bust: Save a Seat for Me Simon!

When American Idol started last year I looked at my 11-year old daughter and said, "This is the year. Come hell or high water, we are going to a  taping of Idol." After all, my dad always told me you have to have "goals" in life. 

The problem, for those  of you who aren't familiar with the intricacies of American Idol, is that it is essentially the "Hope Diamond" of studio audience tickets. Unless you are the Christina Applegate, David Spade, Paula's pill dealer, or a member of Anoop's fraternity, you are screwed. Needless to say I tried a few connections: my husband was working in LA all last year and whenever I begged him to pull some strings and find us some Idol tickets and he just rolled his eyes. Even Parker's network executive sister deemed Idol tickets "impossible." I even entered the Good Morning Fox LA Idol ticket giveaway every Tuesday and Wednesday (I know, am I 13 or 39?), but with no luck.

I had just about given up on ever seeing a taping of Idol, when just last Friday I received the golden-chalice of all emails. It was a confirmation that I had been cleared from an Idol ticket wait list (one I'd joined more than  a year and a half ago; literally so long ago that I'd completely forgotten about it) and had tickets to next Wednesday's show.

Of course in life nothing is easy and neither is the process of going to American Idol. The ticket had a 2-page list of instructions which included the following no-nos:

• No purses, backpacks or bags. Everything must be in your pockets. 
• No jeans, tee shirts or shirts with logos. No flip flops and No wearing white.
• No cell phones, cameras or recording devices of ANY kind. 
• Dress "hip" like you are going  out to dinner (Do they mean a dinner at Applebees? Or dinner at Spago? Because that makes all the difference!)
• No one under 14 will be admitted. 

Wait, what? Ella is only 11. But for crying out loud I promised her she could attend and if I have to whore  her up like Jodi Foster in Taxi Driver just to get her in the door, then that's what I'll do. I've seen Teri Hatcher and Heather Locklear sitting next to their tween daughers and by golly if Heather can do it, so can I.

Needless to say, this Wednesday we are going to get our hair done (real lady like), and put on our best, dark, no logo, hip (not Taco Bell night) outfits and head on up to LA to be part of Idol History. I of course am delusional in thinking that I will be in the first three rows somewhere behind Randy or Kara, where I will be tempted to make the "Rocker" sign with my right hand while mugging for the camera with my tongue sticking out like Gene Simmons. (My husband told me that under no circumstances was I allowed to do this). Also, since it is "Disco  Week" I am looking forward to a complicated choreographed dance number (one that rivals the Brady Bunch's "Sunshine Day") to "Disco Inferno." Perhaps they'll even be a guest appearance by one of the Gibb brothers? (or at least Tony Orlando and Dawn).

Only time will tell. Stay tuned for my Idol experience later this week!

NOTE: I found the above picture online and can I just say that this little harlot is breaking so many rules. First I'm pretty sure she is not 14, secondly she is wearing a tee shirt WITH a logo on it (an American Idol logo, but still). I just bet she is also wearing flip flops and carrying a ginormous Hannah Montana purse. She definitely does not look like she is getting ready to go to dinner at Spago!