Kendra can Write?

I logged into Amazon.com today and it had a list of recommended books for me based on my past purchases, one of which was Kendra Wilkinson's new biography "Sliding Into Home." Really Amazon? Has it come to that? Sure, I love memoirs and funny books, but Kendra Wilkinson's bio? First of all, I didn't know she had a book out (can she even read or write?) and secondly, why is it called "Sliding into Home"? Does she play baseball? Does she have a large pool slide at home?  The day I read a memoir of a 23-year old former Playboy Bunny whose claim to fame is doing it with Hugh Hefner and an E! reality show called "Girls Next Door", is the day I stop reading books for good. Rumor has it they've given her a spin-off reality show, simply named "Kendra", proving once and for all that life is totally unfair.

Why Amazon.com thinks I would be interested in this book is beyond reason. I think it all stems from that ridiculous Tori Spelling book I bought a few years back (called, not ironically "NoTorius"). Perhaps my most shameful purchase of all time. My only excuse is that I must have been buzzed on wine, or so bored that I hastily ordered any book, just for something to read. Seriously the next book I buy from Amazon is going to be by Ayn Rand or Ernest Hemingway. Not really, but at least it will be a memoir of a real celebrity, like Burt Reynolds or Cloris Leachman.

Hell Hath No Fury Like a Closet Full of Designer Clothes That No Longer Fit

The other day, while attempting to find something to wear in my very large closet I managed to “hulk” a huge metal bar of clothing onto the ground. Already late for work I left it there in a pile for DW to fix when he got home.

As I started putting my clothes back up on the bar that evening I became intimately aware and disgusted that none of the items fit and hadn’t in some time. Even if I could button certain items I would look like a stuffed sausage in a Nanette Lapore casing with obscene camel toe. Thousands of dollars worth of Theory and Versace suits and endless pairs of True Religions have become relics. The Smithsonian of trendy working girl couture is collecting dust in my closet.

What the hell? Maybe a combination of turning 40, quitting the personal trainer in last year’s shitting economy, and those f..ing French fries DW makes in Duck Fat (literally crack cocaine when dipped in full sugar ketchup). I don’t drink soda and never eat dessert so clearly I am doing something wrong. I am sure my love of all things with booze has not helped.

When I used tell someone that I needed to lose weight they would always look at me like I was crazy, now I get a “me too” or a oh “you will”.

My mom aka Nancy (for her frail resemblance to Nancy Reagan) asked me if I wanted her to order a sweater she had seen, before I could answer she said, “They run small so I wonder if the size Large would be loose enough around your stomach”. When I said “That’s nice mom” she of course said "What?" as “sweet” as Snow White. Uggh further reason why I have not been in a dressing room with her in a good 10 years.

I have been working out furiously, watching what I eat, and trying not to drink an entire keg on Friday and Saturday nights (everything in moderation) so hopefully something will give.
Wish me luck and send any tips if you have any.

Parker-

Swimsuit Shopping + Ambien = No Good!

About a week before I went into the crazy farm, I jumped on a plane and headed off to see Parker and DW. They are always great  for taking in friends on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Staying with Parker and DW is similar to staying at a great resort: you've got a beautiful guest room with plenty of amenities, wake up to a warm delicious fresh breakfast and find  yourself lounging poolside reading gossip magazines and wathcing their flat screen tv under the veranda until 3:00pm, when they begin pouring expensive wine down your throat and cook you a four-course meal. You go to bed happy (an sometimes very drunk) only to be woken with a bottle of Pelligreno and a trip to the mall.

Although I was depressed, I still agreed to head on down to the mall and do some "zombie" depressive walking. Parker pulled me aside 10 minutes before we left to tell me she accidentally took an Ambien instead of her new medicine but that she's "sure she'll be fine" to go to the mall (I drove). Our first stop - and greatest mistake - heading into the bathing-suit only called, "Everything But Water". If you send two 40 year old women to the mall, one going through the most depressed time of her life and the other 15-minutes into a dreamy Ambien pill, well, let's just say nothing good will come of it.

I found two one-pieces I liked, which both had the Herve Ledger "mummy wrap" style around the stomach.  I really liked the first one, which was strapless and hot pink - but when I asked  Parker to come give me her opinion, she stumbled, bouncing from one wall the the other, slowly making her way to my dressing room to tell me "I don thinnkss thisssss is good on youuuu." (I'm pretty sure she actually saw 2 of me in the mirror, morphed into one giant Mindy Cohn body). The next one, a low cut one piece with more Herve Ledger tummy wrapping in chocolate brown Parker seemed to really like. (This is when I should have come to my senses and chosen the one she didn't like - At this point is was basically like taking advice from Courntey Love.)

I did some side turns with my arm at the hip (you know, like Paris is always doing right before evnents to make her pencil-thick arms look even thinner) thinking to myself, "Maybe Parker is right, maybe this is flattering on me." The next thing you know we are BOTH in line with the exact same low-cut brown $127 bathing suit. Parker slowly began to come out of her coma and within a few hours we were in the pool in our new purchases. 5'9 Parker standing next to 5'2 me like we were the freaking Bobbsie twins. Nevermind that although we don't have the worst bodies in the world, we are both at our heaviest in a while. Worse, we thought it would be a great idea for DW to take a picture of us standing side by side in our new "Flattering" suits. Once again, one of of the less intelligent things we've ever done. The resulting photo made Parker look like that Green Bean Giant standing next to me, while I looked like a can of Pop-n-Fresh croissant dough had exploded out of the arm socket of my bathing suit. Not to mention the suit is so low that every time I bend down to pick up a towel, one of my breasts (which is basically just a large nipple) pops right out of that low-cut suspender-like upper part of the suit.

A week later I was perusing through US magazine and low and behold I come across the following picture. Are you freaking kidding me? Bethenny from the Real Housewives is wearing OUR suit -just weeks after she had a baby. Where are the Pop-n-Fresh Arms, or the blue veins running down her legs? Seriously, she is only a few years younger than us and a baby just came out of her stomach. Adobe Photshop is my new best friend. And by the way, those photos that DW took will NEVER see the light of day

Parker does the Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy....

I haven’t written a blog entry in forever partly because my job has sucked all of the funny out of me (seriously sometimes I feel like I work in a morgue), but also because I have been forcing myself to do extracurricular activities. I never did anything extracurricular in High School - but at 41 I figure its never to late to start.

One of my good and few friends talked me into taking and adult tap class. When she brought this idea up to me I immediately had a flashback to my mom dragging me to beauty contests as a kid and repeatedly telling me “What are we going to do? You are pretty enough but you have “no” talent to speak of”. What? Roller skating, climbing trees, dismembering Barbie dolls and sneaking smokes and my dads' Heinekens in the backyard aren’t talents?, I thought at the ripe age of 8.

Nancy quickly enrolled me in tap class and my routine was Yankee Doodle Dandy. I wore a satin American flag jumpsuit that did nothing for my serious toothpick legs. My brother later in life told me that I would stare blankly into the spot light and flail my arms like a wild chicken and tap in some insane manner until the song ended. Luckily I remember none of this clearly horrible childhood episode.

I hadn’t put on tap shoes since I was 8, but I thought what the hell, something different - I'll go for it. Unfortunately my friend suggested intermediate tap. Although I fought for beginners, she thought it would be too basic. The first class were all students that had already taken the beginning class and they showed up with canes and hats. I literally gave my friend the "Look of Death." The class of "experts" then proceeded to show us the "Puttin on the Ritz" routine they had learned the previous season. Once more, I flashed "the Look of Death."

I somehow managed to tap my way through 8 embarrassing weeks and on Monday night we had our "Come See" show.  Although I invited my family, Nancy told me her TiVo was not working and she couldn't miss "24". Thanks mom.  DW however, was very proud and my teacher said it was my best performance and that I worked really well under pressure. That probably couldn't be more true given my job.

Below is the fruits of my labor. Enjoy...

Chef Boy-R-You A Jackass

I'm A BIG JACKASS!!!!!

So you may or may not have heard this story about chef Juan Carlos-Cruz (aka The Calorie Commando) who was recently arrested after plotting to kill his wife. Personally, because my cooking capacity goes no further than Taco Night and a mean Kraft Macaroni and Cheese - I had never heard of the "Calorie Commando" (also, counting calories has never been my thing). Apparently this dude has (or had) a show on the food network (I really need to defer to Parker on this one as she is the real "foodie" in this friendship). However, when you live in Southern California, the news revolves around 1) live car chases 2) celebrity gossip and 3) wife-killing plots. So naturally I can't escape this story.

According to several Los Angeles news sources, Calorie Commando (who I have aptly nicknamed "Chef Boy-R-You a Jackass") approached a few local homeless dudes, and offered them a whopping $1000 to slash his wife's throat with a box cutter. I guess he didn't want to part with his prized chef's cleaver. The kicker is that he gave the homeless guy $500 up front and showed him a photo of the remaining $500 he'd get after the job was done. Everyone knows that if you show someone a photo of money it means you are good for it. He also provided the homeless man with a pre-paid cellphone  - did he at least cook up some low-calorie Carne Asada burritos for the dude?

Needless to say, Chef Dum Dum got caught and he is now claiming that his wife had been despondent for years over her infertility and he was only fulfilling her suicidal wishes and was going to kill himself after her murder. Because that always-convincing "Romeo and Juliet" defense works every time! Personally, I get a little depressed now and then, but that doesn't mean I want my husband to hire a toothless smelly dude to slice my neck with a box cutter. Wouldn't the whopping $1000 be better put to use on a therapist for your sad wife, or maybe a cheap divorce lawyer?

Needless to say the "Calorie Commando" is going to have a lot of time contemplating his stupidity while his jailhouse roommate, the "Butthole Commando" goes to town on his low-calorie ass.