Going Away Party!

I kind of love you.

You listen to me bitch and moan and watch as my multiple personalities clash it out in ridiculous scenarios of motherhood and grownuphood and wifehood and selfhood, where the best possible me wins every time.

God bless the blogosphere.

Which is why I’d like to invite you to my going away party.

Settle down there, funion, don’t let separation anxiety kick in just yet.  I’m only leaving WordPress.com.  In fact, I’m moving on up.  To that deeluxe apartment in the sky…Wordpress.org.

The doorman refuses to acknowledge me and I have no idea where the laundry room is and I can’t seem to get access to the roof pool, but the other tenants seem way cool.

I would also like to apologize in advance for the moving boxes on the floor and my bare-ass sidebar that is missing the exciting beaded curtain I found at that flea market.  I’m still decorating, okay?

But back to my love for you, the unknown reader!  And of course, the readers I know.  Like my mom.  I mean, I don’t want to lose any of the buddies from my old neighborhood.  You guys are the best!  I want you to visit.  Put your feet up.  Grab the adult beverage of choice.

What I’m ultimately asking of you is to subscribe.  Again.  I beg of you!  And I know you love it when I beg.

Once you subscribe AGAIN, I’ll show you a whole new world!

Shining, shimmering, splendid

Tell me, princess, now when did

You last let your heart decide?

Eh?  Who wants to come on a magic carpet ride with the Flying Chalupa?

You do!

So let us raise our glasses and bid a fond farewell to Generic Flying Baby.  Fly on, little bald one!  I am releasing you back into the wild to help another zombie mother return to the human race!

See you all at my kickin’ house warming party.

Did I mention I’m making dip?

Dumper By Digger

The job before you is a tricky one, but you’re a skilled driver and I believe in you.

Your mission:  to unload your contents in a narrow, water-filled shaft.

As foreman, I will assist as necessary to ensure that the job is completed and that we leave the site in pristine condition.  The last thing we need is that damn Toilet Environmental League getting all up in our asses.

This is one union that will wipe its own ass, is that understood?

Let’s begin.

First, make sure your dump truck is full and your water tank is at a maximum.

Alright, now backhoe your loader up to the potty.

Great job, son.  How’s the FM working in that truck of yours?  Let’s find some tunes to encourage the unloading process.  Hmm…seems we’re in a dead-zone.  I would like to personally lead you in a rendition of “Wheels On the Bus.”  No?  “I’ve Been Working On the Railway?”

Hang on there, partner, your wheels are slipping.  No, dammit, there’s no monster down the hole.  Now I have to call in the tow-truck.

There you go.  Now use that emergency brake while I wash my hands, would you?

Well, look at that!  The water tank is emptying nicely.  Perfect aim.  Now what about that dump truck?  No one likes a saggy dumper.  Let’s plow that puppy and be on our way.

Here it comes….aaaaand….payloader!  Right down the tube!

Hot damn, you’re steam-rolling it!  I’ve only seen that maneuver once in my life and it involved laying asphalt, but son, today you are paving the yellow shit road!

Now let’s use the crane to reach the toilet paper.

Hold up, where do you think you’re going?  When the job is done, we excavate the site in a clean and orderly fashion – hey!  Don’t walk away from me!

Oh, no.  NO!

The dump truck does NOT dump its load on the floor!  Or on the new bath mat!  Or on the floor next to the bath mat!

Larry, we’re gonna need backup.  Bring in the heavy rescue truck – and the forklift while you’re at it.  Do you copy?

That was ballsy, but I’m impressed.  You take pride in your abilities.
And that’s where it all begins.

Lemme check for skid steer marks.

Okay, you’re good.

But you’ve got a ways to go until you’re ready for a big-rig.

Ten-Four.  Over and out.

The Top 10 (Anti) Heroes of 2010

Ladies and Gentlemen,

The Top 10 CNN Heroes of 2010 will be revealed on September 23rd.  With the big extravaganza tribute show airing on Thanksgiving!

Taking advantage of the potential boredom-crater posed by this gorgeous homage to humanity, Ryan Seacrest has agreed to produce a last-minute  TOP 10 (ANTI) HEROES OF 2010 TRIBUTE.*

“What can I say?  I know what  the viewing public wants.  It wants sex.  And danger.  And tears.  And I’m asking people right now:  would you rather squirt some saline over someone who Ludacris says is a hero or someone who rules his theocratic nation with an iron fist?  Yeah.  You heard me.  Ahmadinejad is gonna be there.”

Kim Kardashian* has agreed to host:  “Anti?  Like honoring aunts and uncles of the world?  I think that is so special.”

Here are the nominees, as voted for by a random group of people on Twitter at 3am last Sunday:

1. MAHMOUD AHMADINEJAD: A sweet little man who says that Iran is “not seeking the bomb.”  He enjoys walks on the beach and detaining American hikers for more than a year without trial.  When not protecting Iran’s Islamic character, you can find him attending UN meetings and insulting countries through a translator.  Mahmoud is an Aries who blames capitalism for “the suffering of countless women, men and children in so many countries.”  He knows that suffering should be inflicted the good old-fashioned way:  with 100 lashes for showing your face.
2. THE VATICAN BANKERS: A group of hardworking religious men who believe that Jesus wants them to launder money.  The Vatican Bank has vast, unknown sums of money that say, “Hey!  No need to wear burlap sacks!  Time for an Ermenegildo Zegna suit and for your daughter to attend private school!”  What the Holy See doesn’t see is a blessing.  Amen.
3. DEPARTMENT STORE CHANGING ROOM MIRRORS: A horror film from three different angles.  Body of Lies!  By the Dimples of Shirley Temple!  Attack of the Muffin Top!  Whaled on the Beach of Two Sizes Too Small!  Great Zeus’ Rippled Landmass!
4. MEGAN FOX: By the sheer force of her tattooed body mass index, this little spitfire has promised to chew off the left pinky toe of any opponent who stand in her way toward becoming the (Anti)Hero.  “Which I’m pretty sure is like a superhero who flies in the face of everything that society expects of them.”  Ignorant of the fact that society expects nothing from her, the “Transformers” star excels at masking vapidity with Chanel No. 5.
   
5. KIM JONG-IL: A swell, misunderstood, Napoleonic little fellow with a great sense of humor when it comes to jokes about South Korea – “so a guy walks into a South Korean bar…”  He relishes being called Supreme Leader,  especially in bed, and on clear days can be found pointing a nuclear missile (both in bed and out) towards whichever nation his pet budgie instructs him.
6. NANCY GRACE: The hands-down favorite for winning, this CNN host poses a lethal danger to anyone who approaches the Blonde Helmet of Femicide.  She has single-handedly mastered the art of castrating TV guests with a skilled maneuver involving scalpels and a southern twang.  Giving birth to twins in 2007 sparked the great Nancy Grace Has A Vagina? Debate, which ended inconclusively.
7. THE CHILDREN’S SECTION LIBRARIAN:  Discouraging a love of books among youngsters far and wide, with their evil eye and their constant shushing and their “Cell phones are not allowed!”  No doi, asshat, I was trying to turn it off.  These ladies are composed almost entirely of paper mache and chalk dust and have been known to survive decades without touch from another human.  Their secret motto:  Every Child Left Behind.  And Shut the Hell Up.
8. BWK: More commonly known as Bitch With A Kid, these ladies can be found in your toddler’s music class, at the park, and in line at the Starbucks ordering their accessory a hot chocolate, no whipped cream, 2% milk, and stirred with a golden spoon.  They were bitches before they had a kid and popping the light-of-their-lives out from where the sun don’t shine did nothing to change it.
9. HORMONES: Motherfucking, goddamn, monthly rollercoaster of the Lady Crazies.  At Six Flags Estrogen, my favorite rides are It’s A Small, Weepy World,  Pirates of the Bloated, Fat, Disgusting Caribbean, and The Haunted Rage-Filled Mansion.
10. GROCERY STORE MOM: Nice-looking lady who passed me in Safeway.  Overheard her saying to her kid, “There was a very serious nationwide recall on Count Chocula.  How about Cheerios?”  Grocery Store Mom, know that you are loved.  And that it’s possible that your nomination got mixed in with the wrong Top 10 list.

Despite a brouhaha at E!, Seacrest has found a home for this important event at WE Television.

“It’s going to be very exciting,” says the producer.  “We plan on rolling out the Red (Communist) Carpet, doing a Fashion Police  with real law-enforcement on all sanction-approved attire, and having swag bags with jeans that nominees can barter for food back in their countries.”

“In fact, Kim Jong-il has agreed to open the show with Enrique Iglesias’ song “Hero.”  He says that in North Korea, they have a very special way of kissing away the pain.”

“And although I’m not really at liberty to say, the event may or may not be filmed in Cuba.  Eh?  Can you say ‘mojito?'”

* Ryan Seacrest was not harmed in the writing of this post.  But his hair was a little ruffled.

** Kim Kardashian did not agree to host anything.  It would interfere with her capitalistic Quick Trim contract.

Getting Old: The Board Game

1)  It’s Saturday night…date night:  ADVANCE THREE SPOTS.

2)  You stay in, watch the movie “Date Night,” and drown your disappointment in the Carrell/Fey sub par comedy performance with Skinny Cow ice cream bars.  Until they do the Robot Sex Dance.  Which justifies your rock-solid belief that a movie can be redeemed by a comedic dance number:  GO BACK TWO SPOTS, PAY $100 MOM-BUCKS.

3)  The lease is up and you need a new car.  You proudly say “NO” to the minivan:  ADVANCE ONE SPOT.

4)  You buy an SUV.  Because you enjoy it when people assume they know who you are by your car.  And because goddamn it, you needed that third row!:  GO BACK ONE SPOT.

5)  You make a valiant attempt at calm, radiant parenting.  You get down on your son’s level, place your hand on his shoulder, look him in the eye and say, “Do not throw that hard, plastic baseball at mommy’s head again.  Thank you.” :  ADVANCE THREE SPOTS.

6:  When calm, radiant parenting does not work, you use your son’s entire first name.  Plus the middle name.  At a thunderous level.  “CHALUPA CON-QUESO!”  Just like you swore you never would.  :  GO BACK FOUR SPOTS.  PAY $500 OLD-FART-BUCKS.

7.  You realize that everything that’s wrong with America stems from a lack of manners.  Just like your grandmother always said.  Do you think my tax-payer-bail-out dollars could buy a little customer-service, GM?  Hmm? :  GO BACK 3 SPOTS.  ENTER THE ‘NEGATIVE POINTS’ REALM.

8.  The next time the high-schooler in the Dukes of Hazard car goes 50 mph down your quiet neighborhood street, you vow to call the cops.  And also if you find one more piece of dog shit in the local park where your son enjoys rubbing his hands in all things brown.:  ONE NEGATIVE POINT.

9.  You actually DO call the cops – the non-life-threatening emergency line, of course – to report a coyote.  On the side of the road.  Watching traffic.  They might have laughed, but it was probably the TV in the background.:  TWO NEGATIVE POINTS.

10.  You encounter the word ASSHAT.  You are intrigued.  Could this be a distant cousin of Ashanti?  No?  What about an ashram.  Like your local yoga studio?  No?  But it’s pronounced as-shat, right?  A unique conjugation of the verb “to shit?”  Stop whispering in my ear!  That’s so annoying.  Wait.  You’re saying it means “asshole?”  ‘Having one’s head up one’s ass?’  Reeeally.  Like an ass as a hat, eh? :  DO NOT PASS GO.  CONTINUE ON THE PATH TO MIDDLE-AGE-AND-CLUELESS.

AND PLEASE DON YOUR ASSHAT.

YOU ASSHAT.

_________________________

A Shiv and a Prayer

In the history of roommates (the baby Jesus in a barn full of animals; Cleopatra and her slave; Tony and Angela on Who’s the Boss; Zach, Screech and Slater in a college dorm; the Clintons), I have had the worst.

On the face of this earth.

Bar none.

In fact, it’s a running joke in my family that if there’s a psycho in the vicinity, I will find that person.  And live with them.

It is only with a shiv under my mattress and a prayer in my heart, that I survived.

This is my story.

It started in college – at the glorious institution that was to be the epicenter of my intellectual earthquake!

Enter Krazee-Eyez Killa, Gerbil-Queen.

Yes, my sweet, innocent little freshman self was roomed with an insane senior that no one else would touch with a 50-foot pole.  She owned a large gerbil, a larger ego, a mean streak that reeked of sociopath, and a boyfriend who lived on Long Island.

On my first night in my new room at my new university of the start of my new life, I turned out the lights and said goodnight to Krazee-Eyez.

And her boyfriend.

And there I lay in the dark.  Three feet away from the Cuddle Furnace.

Over the course of the semester, many an event occurred that would make for a good Lifetime movie.

First, I was accused of gerbil abuse.  Because I had nothing better to do than torture her small, stinky minion of evil.

Then, she accused her friend – a resident adviser – of going out to drinks with her and preying on her long-distance loneliness and sexual desires.  The university got involved.  It was all very Gossip Girl.  Fortunately, the Man-Eater and her prey, er…boyfriend, pulled through, after many awkward Cuddle Furnace sessions.

And last but not least, I discovered that Krazee-Eyez hacked into my computer.  Frequently.  And read all my emails.  In which I was complaining bitterly to my family about how insane she was.

On the plus side, this did explain a lot of her mood swings.

The semester ended and Krazee-Eyez Killa left my life as personality-disordered as she entered.

Four years later, I graduated, moved to NYC, and after a brief interlude of living above my means, I did what any normal, intelligent woman would do:  I looked in the Village Voice for a room in an apartment with a complete stranger.

And so began what I refer to as Three Years – and a Phone Call Away from the Cops – In Queens, which culminated in a fiery ball of roommate hell.

Come with me, friends, to a little neighborhood known as Astoria.  Known for its great Greek food and the Boulevard of Broken Dreams known as Steinway St.  You see that cute little apartment?  With the tree in front?  That’s my window!  Where I looked out at the moon and wondered, “Why, God?  Why did you abandon me and leave me to die at the hands of DJ Jazzy Schizophrenic?”

My roommate seemed ideal when I agreed to live with her:  a single woman in her mid-40’s, working as an executive assistant, who loved traveling to Italy on vacation.  Perfect!  She has no life and a stable job!

The reality:  she was a mean drunk who talked loudly to herself each and every night and performed body cleanses when she felt fat.

At first I just thought she was on the phone with an old friend.

Having a heated exchange about the Miami Dolphins.

At 2:00 a.m.

But the number of empty vodka bottles on the kitchen counter the next morning discounted that theory.  That – and I saw her sitting there, holding court before her loyal subjects of booze and invisible people.

The rantings went something like this:

“SO I TOLD THE BITCH TO STAY THE HELL AWAY FROM ME I KNEW WHAT I WAS TALKING ABOUT I LOVE THE MIAMI DOLPHINS I LOVE THE MIAMI DOLPHINS I LOVE THE MIAMI DOLPHINS.”

She would stumble on a phrase.  And repeat it.  All night long. Angrily.

During one drunken episode, she told me that she had been the long-time girlfriend of the drummer from the band Queen and that she had inspired the song “Fat-Bottom Girls.” 

Whatevs, nut job.  And then she showed me the picture of her on stage next to Freddie Mercury.

Naked.

My husband – then boyfriend – did not spend the night there once.  Who could blame him?  Besides, he had cable and air conditioning.  Visiting him on the magical island of Manhattan was like a night at the Four Seasons.

But my residency with Public Enemy came to a head the night of my office holiday party.  She told me that morning she got me a Christmas present.  Which was great.  Considering that I was broke and feared for my life.

The solution dropped into my lap like a gift from the gods.  I would re-gift the gift that my company gave me.  And so I came home that night, oh, around 8-ish, to find Grandmaster Funky Vodka-Breath three sheets and a mattress pad to the wind.

As soon as I entered the room, the drunken verbal assault began.  The details have been lost to time except for the fact that she called me ‘fat.’  Which is when I threw my gift at her and ran for my room.  Can you believe my boyfriend / husband was not there to give her the “Bitch!  No one calls Baby ‘fat!'” speech?

Point is:  giving an insane drunk person a bottle of wine as a gift is perhaps not the best idea.

I eventually escaped Astoria with my life and a greater knowledge of the effects of hard liquor.

But the truth remains:

Yes.  I love my husband with all my heart.

But cable, A.C. and mental stability never hurt.

The Sport/English Dictionary

Like the French/English Dictionary you used in high school.

But with balls.

NFL PRESEASON GAME (noun, of Gaelic origins):  Magic act consisting of vanishing and reappearing based on the poopy-diaper-to-fourth-and-down-ratio.  As used in a sentence:

• SPORT: “It’s the NFL Preseason Game tonight.  New Orleans will win.  Dude!  I can get live TV on the computer!”
• ENGLISH: “Is anyone else shocked that Unlock the Full Power of Your PC With IE9 Beta gets the honor of being Freshly Pressed?  Is that REALLY the best of what’s on WordPress.com?  Really?  Also, would anyone join me in producing a remake of the movie “Twins,” this time starring Tom Brady and Justin Beiber?”

NFL OPENING DAY (noun, derived from Pig-Skin Latin):  The greatest day of the year.  A prolonged moment of heightened masculine excitement with effects similar to Viagra.

Side effects such as blurred vision (“he did NOT let that ball slide through his fingers!”), upset stomach (“and he calls himself a coach!”), and back pain (especially from the Touchdown-Up-&-Down-&-Side-To-Side-&-Call-Your-Dad) to last the length of the season.  As used in a sentence:

• SPORT: “It is un-American to schedule the Back-To-School Picnic on NFL OPENING DAY and I’m bringing my blackberry to check scores.”
• ENGLISH: “Jeans or skirt?  I really should invest in a flat-iron.  Should I pack lunch for the Chalupa or will he actually eat what they offer or will he be nourished on the chaos of hundreds of screaming children?”

THE PLIGHT OF THE BUFFALO (noun, with origins dating back to Super Bowl XXV):  A lesson in the repeated crushing of expectations.  To know how the story will end.  Each and every time.  But to read the story anyway.  As used in a sentence:

• SPORT: “The Bills are looking truly dismal this year, but the Sabres are building a good program.”
• ENGLISH: “I miss T.O.  He brought the bling to the Buff.  That man has gorgeous skin and he filled out that red and blue uniform nicely.”

THE SEPTEMBER MONOLOGUE: (noun, derived from ancient Greek meaning “to ramble”) Annual, grandiose exclamations of relief proclaiming good riddance to the doldrums of a sports-less summer and hailing the fall by lying prostrate on the couch in obeisance before the ESPN Gods on the Flatscreen Chapel.  As used in a sentence:

• SPORT: “Can you feel the excitement?  Things are starting up again!  Hockey!  Football!  Post-season baseball!  I’ve gone so long without sports and have let you watch ALL your shows.”
• ENGLISH: “By all that is holy and Derek Jeter, that is a blatant falsehood!  But if by all my shows you mean the nightly enduring of that show on physics and outer space with the kooky Scottish scientist, then you’d be right.”

COLLEGE GAMEDAY (noun, from the Gallo-Roman meaning “to tailgate”):  The day when college football teams compete, when the cameraman focuses for an obscenely long time on busty cheerleaders, when the marching band wears dark glasses and believes they are cool, when mascots think they can drop-kick the other mascot because wearing a four-foot chipmunk head makes them invincible.  As used in a sentence:

• SPORT: “It’s College GameDay!  I’ll be in the man-cave for the next several hours.  I can’t wait to see if Corso is going to spit on the mascot headgear of the Lord Jeff’s!
• ENGLISH: “The Lord Jeff is a mascot?  That’s gay an embarrassment.  Does Kirk Herbstreit highlight his hair?  He’s kind of cute.  Even if he does fake tan.”

MLB PLAYOFFS (noun, of Finnish origin meaning “to make funny fingerpuppet performance in front of crotchal region”):  After an interminable season, baseball culminates in the playoffs, which ends with the world championship.  Because the world is composed of 29 United States teams and one Canadian team.  As used in a sentence:

• SPORT: “Goddamn it!  The Yankees are on a losing streak.  What the hell do they think they’re doing as we head into the playoffs?”
• ENGLISH: “God bless tight white pants.  Is Minka Kelly really dating Jeter?  Did he approve her appearance on the season finale of Entourage, where Vince was like ‘Minka, I hate you cause you won’t do me?’  And I love when the Yankees win and they all run together and starting jumping up and down in this huge, homoerotic ball of joy.”

THE NHL (noun, not to be confused with the National Hotness League):  Sports league which rewards viewers who have 20-20 vision and their ability to follow a puck the size of a turd slapped around by men zooming around the rink at warp speed.  High definition television is essential.  As used in a sentence:

• SPORT: “Maybe this will be the year that the NHL stops kissing Crosby’s ass and Ovechkin will ramp it up a notch.”
• ENGLISH: “Call me crazy, but Ovechkin’s cute.  No, really, see – oh, shit, that’s him without his helmet and mask?  Sweet baby Jesus, put it back on, dude!  You’re scarring the children!”

__________________________________

Although you are disinterested in it and feel a general, random rage towards it, you, too, will learn to speak Sport.

With time and patience.

And the knowledge that Sport is essential should you ever want to talk to your husband.

Curb Your Enthusiasm, Soldier!

2010 Mother-Son Impulse Control Bootcamp

We are sitting in a circle.

Or alternately, I am sitting and the Chalupa is running around like an insane midget on crack.

DRILL SERGEANT: Ladies, you are here today because you are enthusiastic. Boisterous.  Emotional.  You want something, you take it.  You are ruled by impulse.

You’re like your toddlers, who are here today for essentially the same reason.  Except that they yell, kick, throw and steal.

You with the over-eager smile!  Tell us your story.

ME: (smile faltering)  Well, I come from a long-line of loud, inappropriate enthusiasts.

My father once put a bumper sticker that said “Equal Rights For Women Now” on his Muslim friend’s car as a joke.  In Saudi Arabia.

(shamefully) I was raised on Mel Brooks and John Belushi.

(whispering now) My reflexes were honed at Mexican restaurants with the chips and salsa basket.  It was go fast or go hungry.

DRILL SERGEANT: Excuses.  Nothing but excuses, grunt.

I know your kind.  You buy a dozen snickerdoodle cookies at the market, eat three-quarters in one sitting and throw the rest away, denying your family their sacred cookie right!

ME: It would be wrong to eat the entire box in one sitting.

DRILL SERGEANT:  It says in your file that you not only sing in cars, but that you sing loudly and with the wrong lyrics.

ME: Being in a car makes me happy!  The toddler is restrained, the sky is blue, Katy Perry is on the radio!  And I am always on key, except with certain Kelly Clarkson songs, and don’t you feel moved when you’re cruising down the highway and “Ramble On” just happens to come on and shouldn’t everyone in the car be singing when you hear a Beatles song, because that is a solid gold sign from the heavens that all is right in the world?

As for the wrong lyrics, it’s called improv.  It’s called feeling the music.  And if “Promiscuous” Ms. Furtado doesn’t appreciate that Timbaland was “at a loss of words first time” cause he choked, that’s her problem.

DRILL SERGEANT: What about singing when you eat?  Because that’s four kinds of wrong.

ME: It’s more of a happy humming, interspersed with grunts of appreciation and exclamations of deep contentment.  Which is totally out of my control!  Food is the first step on the Path To An Enlightened Waistline.

DRILL SERGEANT: Shut your trap, Scooby Doo.  Is there anything else you’d like to confess before we begin the Transformation to Automaton-Matron?

ME: Well, I must admit that I am a Constant Narrator of the Stage & Screen.  It’s a God-Given talent.  How else will my husband and family know how I really feel when Anthony Bourdain eats at Le Comptoir in Paris?  Or who’s going to die at the end of “Body of Lies?”  Or why Leonardo DeCaprio’s exchange with Hani Pasha is complete foreshadowing?  Or whether deus ex machina can be used in “Keeping Up With the Kardashians” to remove Scott from the picture completely?

I also happen to be the Golden Retriever Puppy of First Impressions.  Yes, I am.  I want people to like me.  I talk too much.  I share too much about myself within the first 15 minutes.  And I use questionable language.  So there’s that.  Maybe I should tone it down and not bound into a room and lick people’s faces and knock them down with the power of my personality.  Maybe I should try the Stately and Elegant Poodle Impression?

DRILL SERGEANT:  Maybe you should.  Yes, I think you’re ready, soldier.  Please approach the Avatar Transformation Booth.

ME: For real?  Like in the movie?  You want me to lie down in that thing?

DRILL SERGEANT: And when you awake, you will inhabit another body.  One that lives quietly.  Appropriately.  One that doesn’t bring shame to your family.

Your avatar will wear khakis and cashmere.  Its hair will be blown dry and the laugh lines will be gone.  Because its laughs quietly.  Appropriately.

Your avatar’s name will be Elin.

ME: Listen you Dumbass-Fugazi-Nazi-Figment-Of-My-Imagination, I’m no Tiger.  Yes, I happen to be loud, embarrassing, and slightly mentally off balanced, but at least I’m fun. And not in the I’ve-Banged-500-Prostitutes-Arrogant-Kind-of-Way.

I have, however, controlled the impulse to slap you upside the head.

Stop kicking the man, Chalupa.

We have places to go and people to offend.

______________________________

Proud participant

Fugazi: artificial, fake, false, can be in reference to a thing of person

Slightly Less Regular Than You

It’s a great day!

Today, I am not just one of the tired, the poor, the huddled masses.

Well, I am pretty damn tired.  And I feel like a mass of cranky she-devil.  But that’s beside the point.

No!  Today, I’m special.

On the corporate ladder to Empress-ness, I have been elevated to at least the Head-Bed-Pan-Emptyer.

Or quite possibly the Court Jester.

Because permission was granted to do a little song and dance, juggle some balls, and throw a few flaming daggers over at the Kingdom of Good Day, Regular People – by invitation of the Empress herself, my dear friend Alexandra.

I do hope you’ll stop by – if only so that I can flaunt my less-than-regularness in your face.

I’ve busted out an older post for the occasion, one that garnered all of two comments. But this time, I’ve set it to the tune of “I’m Henry the VIII” by Herman’s Hermits as performed on an 18th-century harpsichord!

So, thank you, dear Empress for having me.

If you are displeased in any way, please note that I am not fond of public floggings.

Run, Bambi, Run

While we’re on the topic of Man vs. Wild, I would like to talk about my man vs. the wild.

And not that I’m keeping score, but the battle board currently reads:

Mother Nature = 6.  Husband = 1.

Do we live in Siberia?  Or Alaska?  Or a small Welsh island?

No.  We live 15 miles from a major metropolitan city with a population of about a million people.

In my husband’s defense, we do live in a forest.  A forest with every creature known to man, for whom our house is the designated Noah’s Ark.

And over the course of this biblical boarding process, I have watched my husband transform into a true military leader.

Someone who creates tactical combat plans over breakfast.

Someone who can stare deeply into a mound of deer shit and tell which way the wind is blowing.

Someone who will protect his family from the fiery encroachment of nature.

At all costs.

BATTLE OF THE BULGE: THE GOPHERS

We have two small grassy areas which we dare to call “lawns.”

It ain’t much, but by god, it’s why we left the city.  Like astronauts on a suburban moon, we staked that soccer net in the ground and proclaimed, “Life!  Liberty!  Lawn!”

But you know who loves our lawn the most?  The gophers.

The goddamn rat bastard gophers who merrily dig tunnels and leave holes.  Over every.  square.  inch.  of.  grass.

Which is when my husband turned into Carl Spackler and went Caddyshack on me.  It was all he could talk about and it was the only battle he won.

No.  It wasn’t through the use of high-powered explosives.

It was noise-makers.  These little solar-powered sticks in the ground that make a horrendous high-pitched noise every time something moves.  They do a great job.

And make eating and playing outdoors really enjoyable.

BATTLE OF MIDWAY INTO THE GARBAGE CAN

The gophers were under control!  Let’s go on the new patio and toast to my husband’s keen analytical mastery of the wild!

And just as we were raising our glasses, we were joined by the cutest family.

Of raccoons.

Who calmly marched their way up to our porch and over to the garbage shed.  Where they were soon joined by the resident skunk.

The General was livid.  But he hadn’t earned this rank for nothing.  Even if it was in the field of Five-Star City Living.

Armed with factoids about the most recent raccoon attacks (did you hear about that lady in Florida!), he surrounded the perimeter of our house with barbed-wire outrage.

Which actually seemed to be working.

Until we came home from dinner one night and found Papa Raccoon sitting on the garbage shed all fat and happy.

The two proceeded to have a staring contest, which my husband lost due to “the lack of a good-sized rock.”

BATTLE OF THE ANTLERS

It was all a school-yard brawl until Bambi came to town and stripped our suburban glory of every last piece of vegetation. Which happened to coincide nicely with the extraction of a deer tick from the Chalupa’s neck.

It was then that my husband started saying things like, “It’s not a crime to trap a deer and turn it over to the authorities.”

“If our kid gets lyme disease, I’m killing it.”

“I’m out hunting.”

As any good military strategist would do, he examined all possible points of entry.  He planted trees along the fence, discussed the artistic fortification of hedges and the possibility of trellising vines.

One Saturday, I awoke at 5am to discover him missing from bed.

He was out casing the property for intruders. With a hockey stick.

For hilarity’s sake, I almost wished that we owned binoculars and a BB gun.  You know.  Something that says, “You with the doe-eyes!  We mean business!”

Because every couple of weeks, our four-legged friend comes on over and helps herself to a big helping of Home Depot’s finest.

And in spite of the raccoons, the skunks, the moles, the scorpion, the possible termite infestation, and the ants that invade our home when it rains, nothing gets the General’s dander up more than this one rogue deer.

Because he’s sure it’s just one.

One lone dick of a deer claiming squatter’s rights.

And during this whole military campaign, I have been the MODEL of wifely support of my husband’s territorial endeavors:

• I made him a WWBGD bracelet.  What Would Bear Grylls Do.
• In preparation for the holidays, we will sing about venison roasting on an open fire.  Not chestnuts.
• I’ve practiced the Genuine & Sincerely Interested Look.
• I’ve perfected the Sympathetic Murmur.
• I’ve participated in his “If Only We Lived In a World Without Deer” dream.

Yes, Mother Nature is in the winner’s circle at the moment, but she better watch her back.

Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned in the nine years that I’ve known my husband, it’s that defeat is a term that’s only acceptable when discussing the fate of the Boston Red Sox.

We will triumph.

We might be living in a steel-reinforced bunker 200 feet below ground.

But we will triumph.

Mrs. Man Vs. Wild

I just can’t help it.

I got Bear Grylls on the brain.

You know.  He’s that hot British star of Man vs. Wild.

As well as one of the youngest – and hottest – to climb Everest.

And THE youngest and hottest to climb Mt. Ama Dablam in the Himalayas, which Sr. Edmund Hillary and I agree is a killer climb.

Bear is the McGiver of televised survival expeditions and his mesmerizing accent makes it impossible to turn the channel.

His chiseled abdomen also makes it impossible.

He is the king of the outrageous and the unexpected.

He will spend the night in a fresh camel carcass to escape a sand storm.  He will eat raw snake brains because tribal leaders believe it prevents Alzheimer’s.

And at least once an episode, his will get naked and do push-ups.

To avoid hypothermia.  And heat stroke.

And bad tan lines.

He is overly dramatic in a way that both Anderson Cooper and the cast of The Young & the Restless would appreciate.

And when I’m not perfecting Bear’s pronunciation of “glacier” or thinking about what kind of insurance his camera-man has (Blue Cross Insanity), I’m thinking about Mrs. Bear Grylls.

Also known as Shara.  Or the woman behind the Man vs. Wild.

Here is what any good stalker knows:

• They live on a house boat on the Thames River
• And on a small Welsh island
• And have three sons:  Jesse, Marmaduke and Huckleberry.

What I don’t know is if Bear and his progeny go spear-fishing in the Thames for breakfast?

And does Bear row the kids to school in a self-carved wooden boat modeled after King Henry VIII’s first wedding barge?

Does Shara pack them a lunch of raw carp brains to boost their immune system in preparation for adventures with dad?

Did Shara win the coin toss on “Jesse” but lose the next two battles?

Is Jesse teased for being a Mama’s Boy?  And because he thinks floating down the Mississippi River is disgusting?

Are family vacations referred to as “expeditions?”

Are star-rated hotels frowned upon?  Or does Shara put her foot down and say, “Goddamn it, Bear, I want a shower.  And food that’s not cooked over an open-flame.  And water that’s not melted from snow on the side of a mountain.”

For that matter, does Shara tell Bear he stinks?  That he’s hot but he stinks?  You know, cause he’s been in the wild for a gazillion years and he smells like wildebeest balls?

Bear is a black-belt.  So is Shara practiced in the arts of karate?  During their downtime, do they lovingly spar together?

When Bear heads out to film, does Shara say, “Now, Bear, please no free-fall parachuting.” You know.  Since he broke his back in three places from free-fall parachuting and then rehabilitated himself using nothing but coffee grounds and a tree branch.

When Shara feels down in the dumps and Bear busts out his go-to Motivational Speech, does she say, “Shut up, doll.  My hormones can’t afford your corporate speaking fee.”

Or do they make sweet love in the dirt behind the chicken coop on their Welsh island?

And what about the wild woman factor?  What I’m asking here is if Shara lets her legs and armpits and…other areas…go wooly mammoth?  I’m curious.  Because as every good survivor specialist knows:  hair helps to conserve body heat.

And there’s obviously a lot of Clan-of-the-Cave-Bear style heat between Shara and Bear.  I mean, it’s Bear Fucking Grylls.

If my suspicions are correct, there’s a secret Shara-and-Bear sex tape based on every one of his bestselling books:

• “Facing Up” =  “Missionary In the Wild”
• “The Kid Who Climbed Everest” = “The Kid Who Climbed Twin Peaks”
• “Facing the Frozen Ocean” = “Foreplay Melts Ice”

You get the picture.

In 2009, Bear was chosen to be Chief Scout.  The figure that 28 million scouts all over the world look up to.  Of everything he’s done in his life, Bear “considers this his proudest task.”

Does Shara give him shit about this?  Does she joke about badges and reference the movie “Troop Beverly Hills?”

Or is she super proud of his proudest task?

Does she refer to him as Chief Scout and say things like, “Let’s live our own adventure through scouting” and leave a trail of bread crumbs for the children to scout their way home from playdates?

Mrs. Man vs. Wild fascinates me.

Who is this mysterious Florence Nightingale figure who wipes the glorious perspiration from Bear’s brow?

And why won’t she leave my man the hell alone?