Thursday, March 29, 2007
Not So Bad In A Pinch Betty
Best Viewed With Cataracts Betty
Nothing $50,000 Worth Of Surgery and A Full-Body Wax Couldn't Fix Betty
Stop Throwing Rocks At Her, Maybe She Has Cute Friends Betty
Yeah, She'll Be Lookin' Pretty Good After Everyone Else Here Rejects You Betty
Just Keep Your Eyes On Her Boobs When You Talk To Her And You Won't Feel Nauseated Betty
Hotter Than "Industrial Accident Sally" Betty
Sunday, March 25, 2007
Now step back into the next pose and hold it. Let's stay here for eight breaths. Clear your mind.
Innnn. Ouuuut. Wait--is it in through the nose and out through the mouth? Or the other way around? Why the hell can I never remember that? Damn. OK, let’s try nose ouuut, mouth innnnnn…no, no, that feels wrong. Maybe I shouldn't be using my nose. Or is it I shouldn't be using my mouth? Or…oh, no. Is the teacher coming over here again? I knew when he left his fancy little mat the first time he was headed right for me and my CRAPASS Downward Dog pose. Which I HATE by the way. I HATE DOWNWARD DOG! There, I said it. I HAAATTTEEEE DOWNWARD FUCKING DOG!!!! Like it’s my fault I have extra-tight hamstrings. Some people just do, alright? Maybe it’s genetic…I think dad had them in the Army and...Innnn…Good, he went to help that slutty girl over there who…wait, what am I doing? Clear the mind, clear the mind. OK, innn….innnn…shit, wrong way. Ouuuttt…. Ouuuuttt…Now, how in the hell is Ms. Panty Lines over there doing a perfect Downward Dog? I'm WAY thinner than she is. Wait, wait, wait--yoga isn’t competitive, yoga isn’t competitive. But I do a totally better Warrior Two pose than she does. Fat ass. STOP THIS!! RELAX! THAT’S WHY YOU’RE HERE!! TO RELAX!!! OK OK OK! Clear mind, clear thoughts…we’re almost done…just concentrate on breathing and….Jesus, will you look at my toes? No, they’re not toes, they’re frickin’ mushrooms stapled to a foot. Hairy Vienna sausages covered in dry skin and cat dander. I’m a fucking Hobbit. I have GOT to get a pedicure this week. And those nasty nail girls better not make fun of me in Vietnamese again, either. Three words, ladies: Board of Health. Yeah, see how you like that, Thuy. Maybe then you won’t paint my toes Hooker Red and pretend you can’t read labels and…innn… ouuuttt. What? We’re done? Already? Man, I feel so blissed out. That’s why I love yoga. It just totally clears your head.
Thursday, March 22, 2007
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
Kenny Loggins must die. And not a quick, painless death, either. More like one of those leisurely, torture-filled demises practiced by the CIA in the top-secret prisons everyone knows about. I want 10,000-volt nipple clamps on Kenny. I want rabid dogs on Kenny. I want Kenny wearing a urine-soaked hood forced to listen to hour after hour of Warrant's "Cherry Pie." I will not rest until this happens. I want the man dead.
My white hot, vitriolic hatred of Kenny isn't on a personal level. He's probably a very lovely man who would cry in his organic granola if he knew a mother of two in Austin, Texas harbored such ill will against him. Now before you think me completely heartless, I admit that I've enjoyed much of Kenny's music over the course of my lifetime. I partied to "Footloose." I sang along to "I'm Alright." "Your Mama Don't Dance and Your Daddy Don't Rock 'n Roll?" Good stuff. Hell, I even rocked my babies to sleep listening to his beautiful lullaby "Return to Pooh's Corner." But those great times were instantly forgotten two years ago when my relationship with Kenny took an ugly turn. Kenny was no longer my friend. Kenny was a jackass.
In retrospect, it probably wasn't a good idea to let a two-year-old watch Top Gun. I'll admit to that failure as a parent. But after our son Sam became obsessed with fighter jets, we didn't see a problem with letting him watch the thrilling flying scenes. We thought the most harm that would come from this would be just some slight neurological damage due to early Val Kilmer exposure. Or that he'd make us call him "Maverick" for six months. Little did we know the real damage was that he'd become obsessed with the movie's theme song, "Danger Zone". Written and performed by Mr. Kenny Jackass Loggins.
Don't get me wrong. "Danger Zone" isn't a bad song. I liked it the same time the rest of the world did -- from June of 1986 to July of 1986. If you had told me then that I'd still be listening to it almost 20 years later, I would have doubled over laughing in my "Choose Life" t-shirt and white sunglasses and yelled "Take off, Hoser!" then finished my Bartles and Jaymes. But now I've learned what Jim Messina was silently trying to tell the world all of those years -- Kenny is the devil.
At first we thought it cute that our son, who could barely talk in sentences, would try to sing "Danger Zone". We'd hear him in his crib belting it out in baby talk -- "HIGHWAY DOO DA ANGEE OWN!" My husband helpfully downloaded the song from the Internet (where it was surprisingly free of charge) so we could play it in our car. Sam would go absolutely nuts, dancing and singing in his car seat. This was amusing for a while, but then he started to demand we play the song. Loudly. For the next two years. We tried to distract him. We played "I Spy," we talked to him, and we even resorted to something we vowed we'd never do and bought a Wiggles CD. But to no avail. Our little brainwashed monkey in the backseat wanted "ANGEE OWN!!!" Now each trip in the car consisted of listening to the song at least once. Usually twice, or three times, or until mommy started jamming a juice box straw into her ear to numb the pain. It was only the fact that my car was leased that prevented me from driving it off a cliff. Well, that and I had my child with me. After my sister had the DJ play "Danger Zone" for Sam at her fricking wedding, I knew we could no longer live like this. Something had to be done. Someone had to pay. That someone was Kenny.
I combed the back pages of Soldier of Fortune magazine and chose a freelance mercenary named Gary who had a nice smile and low rates. I researched aerial photographs of the Loggins compound in Northern California. I watched America's Most Wanted to see what islands were in vogue for those on the lam. Operation "Whenever I Call You Friend" was a go.
But then something miraculous happened. After two solid years of being obsessed with fighter jets, one day Sam up and decided that dinosaurs were his new thing and "Danger Zone" was suddenly no longer at the top of the hit list. Days passed when I didn't hear it once. The blood started to come back to my head. I threw away my antacids. NPR made a return to my car radio and life was once again bearable. "Danger Zone" was now a funny childhood memory we'd all laugh about in 20 years. Like my parents giggling about how I was such a loser in high school the only prom date I could get weighed 30 pounds less than me. Now that his auditory assault was over, I even started to think more favorably of Kenny. I saw a picture of him in a store and rather than trying to gouge his eyes out with my car keys, I smiled and thought how cute his new hair plugs looked. Kenny and I were on the mend.
Our home was Kenny-free for a good six months, but then once again things took an ugly turn. Last week I came home to find both my sons, four-year-old Sam and two-year-old Jack, watching Top Gun with the babysitter. I furiously grabbed the remote, turned off the TV, and very firmly quizzed her about how they got it out of the double-locked cabinet marked "Do not open!" Then I took a deep breath and realized that I was probably overreacting. This is most likely nothing, I thought. Sam didn't seem to be really watching the movie, anyway, so I'm sure he didn't even notice the song. Maybe our family was still OK. Then Jack ran into the room and hugged my legs. "Hi, Mommy!" he chirped.
"Hi, sweetie," I replied. "What's going on?"
He then flashed his gorgeous smile at me, threw his arms in the air and yelled to the rafters, "HIGHWAY DO DA ANGEE OWN!!"
Watch your ass, Kenny.
Saturday, March 17, 2007
Four-thirty a.m. The house is wonderfully silent. I wake from my recurring dream in which Barry Manilow and I co-own a pasta sauce company called “Looks Like Tomatoes” and grab my nasal spray. It’s cedar season in Austin, so my body’s practically bursting with allergy medicine. Last week I called myself “One Singulair Sensation”, but nobody thought it was funny, so I stopped. I drift off to sleep again, now dreaming I’m a hip hop singer named Allegra D, when I’m jolted awake by a primal scream reminiscent of Amazon jungles and bikini waxes. Jack’s awake.
I rush into his room only to find his compact, 3 year-old body peacefully snoring on his “Heroes of Transportation” sheets. (Which, sadly, don’t have pictures of toll booth workers or baggage handlers, only airplanes and trains. Like a 747 could reroute a suitcase from Reno to Vegas with only seconds to spare.) Seeing his blissfully innocent state, I wonder if it was actually him I heard scream. Maybe it was something outside. A premenstrual cat, perhaps. Relieved, I go back to bed.
For exactly 10 seconds.
Now Jack’s shrieking louder than a contestant on “The Price Is Right” covered in fire ants. His red face, wild hair and glazed expression remind me of something, but what? Oh, right. Nick Nolte’s mug shot. I rub my hands on Jack’s back and miraculously, it works. He immediately stops howling, crashes onto his bed and falls asleep. What did I just do? And why the hell didn’t I know how to do it three years ago? I stare in awe at my hands and decide my skin must be leaking “may-cause-drowsiness” Benadryl. Cool. Back to bed.
For exactly 10 seconds.
Now Jack and I are a bad version of shampoo bottle directions: Scream, Rub, Repeat. After two hours of this heartless torture, I'm ready to confess to anything--even my real weight and SAT scores. No black hood or electric nipple clamps needed. But at 7 a.m., Jack suddenly wakes up smiling. I stare at him morosely with my bloodshot eyes and wonder when I was impregnated by Dick Cheney.
"Jack, sweetie,” I croak. “Why you were screaming?” “There were snakes in my bed,” he says quietly. I chuckle. Silly, innocent children. When will they ever learn that snakes are only found on planes? I take a deep breath, decide to book a hotel room for myself ASAP and gently offer Jack the explanation only a child of mine could understand. “Never worry about snakes, honey," I say, holding back a sneeze and reaching for the tissues. “They’re allergic to you.” Then I furiously rub my hands all over his little head and hope for an early nap.
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
The Wildflower Estates Boyz
Los Whitebread Kings
The Obviously Up To No Good Crew
The Birdhouse Smashing Mafia
The Lords Of I Have More Hair On My Legs Than You Have On Your Face So It’s Only Obvious What You’re Doing With That Shaving Cream, Jeremy
The Posse Who Got Schooled In Hoops By A 38 Year-Old Mother of Two
La Perhaps If You Didn’t Sit On Your Ass All Day Playing X-Box And Flirting With Childhood Obesity You’d Actually Have A Jumpshot Cosa Nostra
No, You Suck It, Jeremy. At Least I Have An Outside Game, Loser.
The Psycho Killaz Who Should Maybe Wait Until Their Voices Change Before Making Empty Threats About My Cat
El Gango de Just Get The Hell Off My Lawn And Tell Your Mom I’ll See Her At Book Club
Monday, March 05, 2007
Manuelo the Magnificent
The Puerto Rican Pele
Jackass Ball Hog
The Apparent One-Man Show
Mr. What Kind of 5 Year-Old Has Facial Hair?
The Ringer Suspected of Juicin' In His Mommy's SUV Before the Game
Seriously, the Boy Has Pubes
Le Stealer of Le Fucking Ball From His Own Le Fucking Teammates
The Boy Who'd Better Stop Pissing Off the Snack Mom
Jesus, Will You Pass It Already?
The Kid Whose Ass Will Be Kicked By My Kid Come T-Ball Season
Dear Mr. Thatcher,
I have been a loyal user of your Always maxi pads for over 20 years, and I appreciate many of their features. Why, without the LeakGuard Core™ or Dri-Weave™ absorbency, I'd probably never go horseback riding or salsa dancing, and I'd certainly steer clear of running up and down the beach in tight, white shorts. But my favorite feature has to be your revolutionary Flexi-Wings. Kudos on being the only company smart enough to realize how crucial it is that maxi pads be aerodynamic. I can't tell you how safe and secure I feel each month knowing there's a little F-16 in my pants.
Have you ever had a menstrual period, Mr. Thatcher? Ever suffered from "the curse"? I'm guessing you haven't. Well, my "time of the month" is starting right now. As I type, I can already feel hormonal forces violently surging through my body. Just a few minutes from now, my body will adjust and I'll be transformed into what my husband likes to call "an inbred hillbilly with knife skills." Isn't the human body amazing?
As brand manager in the feminine-hygiene division, you've no doubt seen quite a bit of research on what exactly happens during your customers' monthly visits from Aunt Flo. Therefore, you must know about the bloating, puffiness, and cramping we endure, and about our intense mood swings, crying jags, and out-of-control behavior. You surely realize it's a tough time for most women. In fact, only last week, my friend Jennifer fought the violent urge to shove her boyfriend's testicles into a George Foreman Grill just because he told her he thought Grey's Anatomy was written by drunken chimps. Crazy! The point is, sir, you of all people must realize that America is just crawling with homicidal maniacs in capri pants. Which brings me to the reason for my letter.
Last month, while in the throes of cramping so painful I wanted to reach inside my body and yank out my uterus, I opened an Always maxi pad, and there, printed on the adhesive backing, were these words: "Have a Happy Period."
Are you fucking kidding me?
What I mean is, does any part of your tiny middle-manager brain really think happiness—actual smiling, laughing happiness—is possible during a menstrual period? Did anything mentioned above sound the least bit pleasurable? Well, did it, James? FYI, unless you're some kind of sick S&M freak girl, there will never be anything "happy" about a day in which you have to jack yourself up on Motrin and Kahlúa and lock yourself in your house just so you don't march down to the local Walgreens armed with a hunting rifle and a sketchy plan to end your life in a blaze of glory. For the love of God, pull your head out, man. If you just have to slap a moronic message on a maxi pad, wouldn't it make more sense to say something that's actually pertinent, like "Put Down the Hammer" or "Vehicular Manslaughter Is Wrong"? Or are you just picking on us?
Sir, please inform your accounting department that, effective immediately, there will be an $8 drop in monthly profits, for I have chosen to take my maxi-pad business elsewhere. And though I will certainly miss your Flexi-Wings, I will not for one minute miss your brand of condescending bullshit. And that's a promise I will keep. Always.