Foghorn Leghorn for President

I just started reading an article about the 24,000 emails of Sarah Palin's that are about to hit the fan and became so bored just reading about it that I almost slid out of my desk chair and oozed to the ground in a puddle.

On one hand, all this disclosing is insanity. I don't care if somebody smoked a joint in college, do you?

But, to some degree -- of course -- candidates must be scrutinized and "vetted" (Just where did that word come from?? Who does that word think it is?) but who is going to comb through all those emails? 

Yet, because of my intense aversion to having Sarah Palin as president of the United States, I hope something delightfully incriminating is found.

I hear that newspapers are actually requesting volunteers to go through them.

I value you all too much to suggest that any of you consider this, but wouldn't it be nice to receive credit for catching her in some horrific revelation ("Yes,Todd and I had such a wonderful weekend clubbing baby seals into seal juice that we joined the KKK to celebrate!") that will force her back to Alaska where she can live out her days stocking the shelves in a live-bait and burrito emporium in Wasilla.

In other words: We can do better, America!

Here is a list (in no particular order) of people I would prefer to see in the Oval Office rather than Sarah Palin:

1. Kim Kardashian

2. Regis Philbin

3. Any one of my cats

4. The weirdo who used to hang out in front of the deli who smelled of peanut butter all the time

5. Pat Sajack

6. Foghorn Leghorn

7. LL Cool J

8. Charlie Sheen

9. Jose Reyes

10. Anthony Weiner

Have a wonderful weekend. Thanks for reading and signing up this week--I really appreciate it!  See you all very soon!

How to Give Your Kid A Good Scare

I once told the boys that the day would come when they noticed that Dad and I were "slipping."

It might manifest in a memory lapse-- possibly very subtle, or the inability to operate something familiar like the microwave or the remote for the DVD player.

I don't think any of us expected it to occur as soon as it did.

Charlie came home the other day for a week's stay. I had spent the days prior to his arrival cooking, baking and twirling about in small, tight circles, clapping my hands.

I also spent time worrying that I might forget to buy that one special food item for which he might randomly hanker. So I bought everything in the supermarket.

As the hour of his arrival approached, Seth and I were a-twitter. Though a bit cramped from crouching by the window with our noses pressed to the glass, when we saw him pull in, we all but trampled each other as we rushed to be the first to greet him-- nearly getting stuck in the door a la the Three Stooges.

Except we were just two stooges. I'm Moe--the mean one.

Seth and Charlie performed all the male "greeting" rituals of back slapping, nipple twisting, wrestling and a bit of mutual hair tousling.

I rushed towards him with lips puckered, arms open and my emotions in such a frayed state from buying everything in the supermarket that I could have either see-sawed towards huge elation or have been hugely crushed, based on the slightest nuance of events.

Luckily, Charlie tolerated my endless, clawing hugs, babbling and overwrought ranting....so elation ruled the moment.

As the evening progressed, it was time to catch up. After Charlie answered all the questions we shrieked at him, I launched into my stories of who I've seen, what I've done and any and all news of the neighborhood I could recall.

Strangely, it appeared that I had told him all this stuff already but had absolutely no memory of having done so.

When, with more than a glimmer of fear in his eyes, Charlie informed me of this, I immediately reverted to my default setting of defensive belligerence and having immediately forgotten I'd just told him these things, started telling them again.....

Seth was in just as bad shape--insisting on talking, at length, about a book he'd recently read that Charlie claims the two had discussed in great detail recently on the phone.

Like me, Seth remembered nothing.

At this point, Charlie's personal vision of his future went right down the drain as he would certainly have to give it all up to care for two unhinged parents who'd lost their memory and were showing disturbing signs of being unable to work simple devices (Seth suddenly couldn't open a beer bottle and I was flummoxed by a package of cat treats) and, who would quickly progress to wearing their undies on the outside of their clothes.

I'm pretty sure it was all a result of being over-excited but, honestly, I'm don't think neither Seth nor I could have figured out a zip-loc sandwich bag at that point.

The growing look of sheer terror on Charlie's face, as he imagined his future as a caregiver for two deranged imbeciles, was so funny that Seth and I added insane laughter to the evening's growing list of irrational behaviors.

Once we'd all calmed down and, to some degree, regained  our memory and dexterity, at Charlie's request, we recited the alphabet -- without singing it -- and counted backwards from 100 by seven. He seemed satisified but still seems wary.

I can only wonder what will happen when he leaves in a few days.

Dear Anthony Weiner:Yet Another Open Letter To Yet Another Idiot Congressman Yet Again From The State of New York.

God, I hope I dreamed all this.

Dear Congressman Weiner:

Since you have, no doubt, been a victim of long-term ridicule based on an undeniably difficult last name, I shall resist saying anything about how you certainly have cooked your own weiner now, buddy.

And now your troubles are really on a roll, aren't they?

Sorry. I, literally, couldn't help it.

"I've been dealing with this all my life," you have said, publicly acknowledging that your last name sounds exactly like a slang word used for "penis" in junior highschools across the land. If that's been the case, why would you post a photo of the damn thing to a public site?

The name you were born with, Congressman, is not your fault but what you do with it --and your weiner -- certainly is.

Haven't you had enough?

 

Just when I was wondering who would be the next politician from the state of New York to reveal his bare chest, rendezvous with a hooker, tickle a staffer or forget to pay taxes, you stepped up to the plate with the latest creepiness to hit the airwaves.

Is there something in the water around here?

And, you want to be mayor. I don't think New York is going to elect you. Not necessarily because you tweeted out absolutely deranged pictures of your flexed chest but because of how you sniveled today at your press conference. New York does not tolerate snivelers.

Also, not for nothing, you're a goddam liar.

Maybe the city of the great Fiorello LaGuardia and Rudy Giuliani would prefer to elect someone who is not yet a proven liar. We like to give our politicians a running start.

But you've already stepped into something stinky. No one wants you tracking that into Gracie Mansion.

At your press conference yesterday, when repeatedly asked if you'd engaged in phone sex with any of the six women you admit to "communicating with inappropriately," you said something evasive about being unable to remember the full content of the conversations.

Oh God.

This means that we will soon be treated to explicit transcripts of you waxing horny that will make me want to put my head into a public toilet in order to feel clean again.

Speaking of waxing, it appears that you have been waxing your chest. Is there no end to the fodder you wish to provide a gleeful media? 

I need to rest my eyes now.

And, like so many of your predecessors (from whom you coulda/shoulda learned a lesson), you thought that you, the powerful and mighty Anthony Weiner (hahahahahaha) could not possibly get snagged. Idiot.

Politicians, like you, place yourselves on the pedestals of truth and justice and then lie like rugs to cover your moral inadequacies. Yes, of course, we all have moral inadequacies but we're not all asking for the public's trust.

You are.

Maybe, if you're really lucky, they'll invite you to appear on "Dancing With the Stars--Disgraced Politician Season."
But, honestly, I doubt any of those cute pros will want to get that close to you.

So, you guzzled water and cried some tears and took full responsibility for your actions. I wonder if you may have done this to try and convince congress to raise the debt ceiling. Um, I think it's safe to say you may have taken it a bit too literally.

If that well known hoop skirt chaser, Ben Franklin or the irrepressible Thomas Jefferson had twitter accounts (and electricity... and cameras...and the stupidity and arrogance necessary to harpoon their political careers in a most embarrassing manner) they might have posted lewd pictures, too. But we'll never know, will we?

Once you apologize to your pretty bride of less than one year (who I hope kicks you in ass and then to the curb), call your mother. After all, she's got to face her mah jong group tomorrow.

Congressman Weiner's car.

Mothers: Playing It Cool When We're Anything But.

My mettle as a mother is going to be tested yet again.

First comes the easy stuff...diapers and food mills, naps and first steps.

It gets harder once kindergarten begins. You must relinquish them to a stranger and a class full of mostly good kids but a few nincompoops who will worry you.

Then they get older but they're still around. Middle school means more complications, of course. Their world expands as do your worries. High school is a nightmare for all involved. Hair becomes an issue. Pimple creams go on the shopping list (for me, my skin breaks out when I'm stressed).

You see less of them and you hate that but they're still here. Home. Mostly.

Then college steals them from you. Suddenly you find yourself pretending that you are going to pursue other interests but you are really panicking because you have none. Your interests are two big galoots who now have lives of their own.

You try hard to get used to this. You don't cry (mostly) when they call. You pretend to be thrilled at things that make your stomach hurt and your blood pressure sky rocket. You console yourself with aimless trips to Target where you find yourself in the men's department buying them underwear and shirts.

Then they graduate and move away. Now is the time to summon every shred of your ability to not threaten to hold your breath until you turn blue until they come home and let you make them grilled cheese sandwiches again.

And then the lousy bastards get jobs. This completely changes the playing field. Things you took for granted as your rights as a mother are now things you must negotiate.

Using a voice you don't recognize, you say things like: "Oh, do you think Dad and I could come down for your birthday this year or have you planned some sort of debauched lovely weekend involving that crack whore nice girl you've been seeing?" *

When they're in school, you technically own rights to their birthdays. But things change.

In any case, how will my mettle be tested now, you ask? Do you mean after 26 years of a series of small but constant goodbyes (have a nice day at school, at baseball camp, at your friend's for the weekend, at your new apartment, at your own totally separate life)?

Well, Charlie is coming home for a week and I am going to have to behave myself since he will begin a new job at the end of the month.*

This means an end to lazy, extended vacations where he still (kind of) belonged to me.

It also means an end to subsidizing rent, phone bills and car insurance so Seth and I may actually now have enough money for a toothpick and an ice cube.

It also means that I have to contain my nostalgic ranting when I look at all six foot three of him and, instead, see the two and a half foot version with that smile and those dimples -- he still has those things -- and the hand ready to be held as we cross the street.

He still has the hand, too but it's used more to prevent me from running into traffic now.

Pretty, pretty funny..

But this week, I will make the most of it (read that as: get a hold of more seasons of "Curb Your Enthusiasm" and watch them with Charlie) and celebrate this next phase of parenting.

Or, will I behave badly and be a clinging hysteric who drives him away sooner than expected? That kind of thing is always a crap shoot around here.***

*the girls my sons have dated have all been lovely, adorable young women but calling them crack whores gave me a really good laugh this morning.

** in reality, I am neither stupid nor ungrateful enough to be anything but overjoyed that my son was able to find work after college.

***This, of course, applies to you to, Tom. When did you say you were coming home for the weekend, again?

The Train to Bitchland....

I have been cranky for the past few days.

Was it the heat? Hormones? Could it be the fact that there are only reruns on television? Or that middle age doesn't seem to be treating Keanu Reeves as well as both he and I had hoped?

What did you say about me?

Whatever it is, there are two sure signs that I am heading toward Bitchland.

Sure Sign #1: I am mean to telemarketers.

Yes, I know you are trying to make a living, feed your family and pay the rent. 

But when I run up stairs or down stairs searching for the portable (or stumble from the bathroom, hurl Buzzy to the floor, interrupt a meal or, God forbid, a nap) because the ringing phone might be one of the boys with a question about the meaning of life, and it's you wanting money for the local PBA (yet you speak with a heavy accent not indigenous to local and, when asked, don't want to admit your location) or to chat about my banking habits or cleaning my chimney, I really want to scream at you.

I normally don't....but lately, I have been less than cordial. Today, I may have raised my voice a bit and used that awful word.

Yes, that one. Twice.

Sure Sign #2: I temporarily stop recycling.

Even though I suspect the recyclables we carefully separate all go into the same giant pile and are dropped into the ocean with the rest of the garbage where it will strangle thousands of baby seals, I dutifully follow the rules.

Sorry.

When I am riding the express train to Bitchland, however, I tend to toss everything into the garbage with a perverse and demented pleasure plus an attitude that says to the earth, "Fend for yourself, planet. You're on your own!"

You heard me, Al Gore, you smart ass. 

And tomorrow, as usual, I will receive my daily call from Mike Huckabee. It's a recorded voice and therefore, doesn't hear me shout that awful word again. But the neighbors will.

I will snap at the caller who wants to discuss AT&T's U-Verse despite my insistence that it's not yet available in my area, and I will toss my Diet Coke cans into the garbage with a flick of my wrist.

"She keeps hanging up on me!"

I hope I feel less cranky soon...for the sake of the planet. And telemarketers.

And you, Mike Huckabee because it suddenly occurred to me that maybe it really is you because you want to ask my opinion about whether you should run for the presidency again in 2012. 

The answer to that is no. Unless you are interested in having a moody blogger as a running mate...in that case, let's talk.

Scissors and Heartbreak: A Story of Ultimate Triumph

It was very difficult falling asleep last night. Thanks, in part, to the last gasp of the humid and stuffy weather before the beauty of today rolled in, I tossed and turned.

Once asleep, however, I had a dream that brought me right back to a period in my life I'd hoped never to revisit and have tirelessly striven to overcome: my (alleged) inability to cut.

I have never been nimble-fingered. With my chunky little clunkers, aka fingers, if I had been a villain in a Batman movie, I would have been called "Fumbles."

Never was this more upsetting than about a thousand years ago when my friend's father was running for state senator in New York. Last night, through the hi-def clarity of an unexpected dream, I was transported back to an awful day.

We must have been no older than seven or eight but were invited to help make posters and decorations for the campaign. Clearly, our candidate was operating on a shoestring budget because we kids were there in force.

The campaign headquarters was a storefront on New Utrecht Avenue beneath the el in Brooklyn---not prime real estate under any circumstances.

I vividly remember crossing over a hole in the wooden floor, through which you could see down to the basement, to a table piled high with sheets of oak tag, glitter, colorful construction paper and scissors.

My little heart beat with excitement as it was explained what needed to be done. It involved cutting and lots of it.

I loved to cut! 

The parents were to handle the glitter (a terrible disappointment) but I was anxious to get going. Here I was--involved in politics! And cutting!

Phooey.

I noticed a few adults whispering in the corner and looking at me as I settled in with my scissors and before I knew it I was whisked off to another table and asked to twirl crepe paper. No cutting.

I was stunned.

My friend came over and explained that since I was a "terrible cutter" they had given me another job.

TERRIBLE CUTTER???????

I had no idea that I had a rep as a "terrible cutter." Damn you all to hell.

I think I tried to laugh it off, having learned -- by a very early age -- to make light of horrifying inadequacies, but my little seven year old heart fell through the hole in the floor and into the basement below.

From that moment on, I have -- literally -- devoted my life to becoming an excellent cutter. I trained my chunky clunkers, through tireless practice, to be able to snip, trim and shape with the best of them.

I thought I had successfully submerged this memory under the blanket of near total memory loss years but apparently my subconscious had other ideas and returned me, last night, to that storefront and the pitying stares of the better cutters.

I"ll show you, subconscious! I am going to spend the day making beautiful doilies out of paper napkins. 

Sorry, Seth, no dinner.. But you will have several paper doilies made especially for you!

By the way, my friend's father did not win the election. Maybe if they'd let me cut things just might have been different.

Never Ask a Lazy Woman for Decorating Advice.

After years of bitterly complaining about our old, gnarly, cracked kitchen counter, we finally got a new one.

Those who know us are well aware that we actually prefer bitterly complaining about things as opposed to taking action, so this was not really a problem.

I mentioned my new counter to a friend who has a fabulous kitchen.

Hers was done a la Tuscany and there are tiles above her stove adorned with hand painted pictures of grape vines and rolling hills.

It's all very beautiful and does, indeed, give one the feeling of an airy kitchen somewhere in the Italian countryside. Other people prefer colonial or French country. Many now are opting for retro looks that may include laquered cabinets in bright non-traditional colors.



Too many choices---aaaaargh!!

My husband and I also have a very distinct style preference. It is called: the "just try and avoid humiliation" style of decorating.

Based on laziness, confusion and a bad attitude, we've adhered to it since we met in the early 80's.

While it may evoke a frat house instead of Tuscany's lush beauty, it works. It's mismatched but eclectic.

The pieces come from a wide variety of sources including a 1920's era dining set of my grandmother's, a piece or two from  my mother-in-law's collection and some cheap crap from Ikea and Bob's (a local-ish chain that carries furniture of  questionable integrity and oft-mocked quality) and all blend together thanks to a uniting dose of clutter and a fine patina of dust.

We never stopped the kids from hurling themselves about on the couches, only recently accepted that "coasters" are more than a doo-wop group from the fifties, and put our feet up on every available surface in the house, including other people if they remain inert for more than fifteen minutes.

We also, quite literally, sweep things under the rug on a regular basis.

In all honesty, Seth would prefer a more ordered and stream-lined lifestyle but my theory is that if you keep it all reasonably clean and drape home-made afghans over the parts of the couch the cats have torn asunder, you're good to go.

As you can see, it all falls into the famous "who gives a flaming goddam" minimalist school of decorating. I may even write a coffee table book about it if I can muster the energy and figure out what I mean when I say it.

Things can become a little wobbly, however, when you acquire something new. The new counters, in all their unscarred glory, have shone a cruel spotlight upon the old cabinets.

I am happy to report, however, that the floor which looked pretty damn bad before the counters arrived and now looks stomach-turningly grotesque, will also be replaced shortly.

Seth and I have already pulled up kitchen chairs just to sit and admire the counters. We have not yet put our feet up (I tried but my legs are too short)) on them but they've only been in for a couple of days. Give us time.

An actual view in Tuscany or kitchen tile? You decide.

The Rusty Nail and the Spider

Yesterday I stepped on a big nail.

It was lying in wait for me right by the ironing board. Heaven only knows how long it had been there, hoping to puncture my foot, but since I am infrequent ironer, it may have been a while.

It got it's money's worth, however, because I stepped on it just right. It  imbedded itself into the sole of my foot and wasn't easy to pull out. When I did, I found that it was rusty. Extremely rusty.

Oh, good. Why do anything half-way, I say. If you're going to impale your foot on a nail, it really should be rusty in order to get the whole, "OH GOD, WHEN WAS MY LAST TETANUS SHOT??" experience.

I'd been to the local ER a few years ago for an unfortunate incident involving a shard of glass and my finger and was almost sure that I'd been given one then. And, since you only need one every ten years, that would have meant I was covered.

But 99% certain isn't enough where rusty nails are concerned and I called the ER for confirmation.

Guess what? An ER that makes you fill out approximately 17,000 forms before they will so much as look in your direction, and advertises its "state of the art" everything, told me that they couldn't locate this info for seven to ten days.

Thanks for nothing.

So, off I went to a walk-in facility to get a tetanus shot. The locale of the injection is swollen and very painful and I have no M&Ms to make into a medicinal paste paste to apply to the area.

Then today, while sitting down here, a big-ass spider scurried right across the computer screen. Quicker than I, he escaped but as he raced away, he looked over his shoulder and stared directly at my neck.

This means he intends to return and bite me on the neck within the next few hours. I know how spiders think and I am sure this is his intention.

If it had been this big, I would currently be on life support.

The only reasonable solution in this circumstance is to immediately put the house on the market and move out.

So, I going to do that right now.

Have a great holiday weekend. I love Memorial Day and always cry, under my sunglasses, at the parades. Fewer and fewer WWII vets are around so now the oldest crews are from Korea and Vietnam. The young men in desert fatigues both stir and break my heart. Enough war, world.

Let's concentrate on eradicating spiders that have the nerve to enter the homes of civilized (ha!) bloggers.

See you next week. Love, Me





Cheer up, Wayne Brady, At Least The World Won't End Until October.

America, please do not think that I spend a great deal of time thinking about Wayne Brady. For I do not.

But yesterday while  making hideous crumpled balls out of folding the laundry, the clicker -- as is its' habit -- was hiding and I was compelled by the universe to watch whatever was on.

And what was on, was Wayne Brady hosting the television classic, "Let's Make a Deal."

Maybe he was just having an off day because he seemed really mean.

If it had been me standing there with fake coins pasted to my face and wearing a cardboard box that had been violated decorated to resemble a slot machine, I would have been cowering in my sneakers.

Presuming that slot machines wear sneakers.



I am going to hit her with this microphone any minute now.

At best, he was grim and joyless and appeared to hate everyone in the audience. This is a shame because he is gainfully employed and making more money than I, for one, will ever see in my lifetime.

Monty Hall, the original host of the show, favored plaid jackets and a slick 70's 'do. He always seemed to like the crazies who paraded through the studio...liked giving them cash that was secreted in his pockets as well as scheming to entice them to trade it all away for the thrill of a Maui vacation or the disappointment of the dreaded "zonk."

A Zonk means a bad deal....no big money or prize and is feared by all. Once, the zonk was an ostrich. I remember, as a kid, wondering why the person who won it was so upset. Who wouldn't want an ostrich?

I still feel that way.

I think Wayne is an angry fellow. He's a very talented guy who, for some mysterious reason, was never able to be distinct enough to break through to the big time. He remains a "B" when he desperately desires to be an "A."

He can be funny. That was proven when he appeared regularly on a comedy improv show a while back. He can certainly sing and dance as evidenced by this clip. I just don't think he expected to be asking maniacs dressed like Julius Caesar whether they want the box or the curtain, for a living.

Wayne, like so many, thought he was going places but there's room for only so many Wilder Valderamas in this world. Oh, wait--he's a nobody, you say?  How about Ashton Kutcher? Hold on, he had to marry the successful and much older wife of another washed-up actor and perpetually maintain an adolescent demeanor to catch his break.

I give up.

Snap out of it, Wayne.

You have a job. It's kind of easy.

And there are perks. I bet you could have your pick between the 450 pound woman dressed as a meter maid or the really tall old lady, wearing the Yeti suit and dragging around the oxygen tank, for a bit of pre-show hijinks. Then all you have to do is pick them to stand up and make deals. It's a clear case of win-win.

How bad could it be?

So, stop being so grim. Relax. Have fun. After the week's tapings, go home and stalk people from high school on Facebook like the rest of us and live your life, man.

And, if I ever come on and win an ostrich, I'm bringing him home.

I would have been happy with a llama, too.

The Times, They Are Still A-Changing.

So cool.

Despite the fact that Bob Dylan has closely resembled a cadaver for the past several years, it turns out that not only is he actually still among the living but yesterday was his 70th birthday.

I was, and continue to be, a big fan.

In the 1970's, as a smug teen with a musical superiority complex, I was very impressed with myself for listening to his albums. My friends, however, thought I was a bit of an ass. After all, the Bee Gees had just gone disco.

During a news segment on the Early Show, as his birthday was reverently acknowledged by people too young to know much about anything,"The Times They Are A-Changing'"  was playing in the background.

Suddenly, a bolt of realization shook me to my Birkenstocks. This ground-breaking song no longer applies to my generation!!

This song is now telling moi to "get out" if I can't "lend a hand." ME. It's telling ME that?!

WHAT?? 

Hold everything.

I sat back and thought. Back then, Bob was talking, to a great extent, about politics. The Vietnam war. Values of the 50's vs. the sexual revolution. Unresponsive govenment. Big stuff.

And I was all in favor pf pushing the older generation off a cliff and, for good measure, stepping on their fingers as they tried to claw their way to safety before, inevitably, crashing to their deaths on the jagged cliffs of my youth, below.

But now, it's ME????

Okay. After hyperventilating for a few minutes, my immediate goal became to minimize the shock and contain the emotional damage...so I did.

I decided that what this song would apply to now is....texting.

Bob Dylan --  if he had written "The Times They Are A-Changing'" today --   would be referring to texting. Nothing else. Not disconnection from society or inability to keep abreast of political shifts or social norms (by the way, why does that Lady Gaga insist on wearing her underwear out in public? Well?) 

Texting. The song is just about texting! Lalalalala--fingers in ears.

It's a fact that aversion to obsessive texting is a generational issue. When I am introduced to you at a party and despite a polite greeting, your eyes only flicker to meet mine for a split second but you hold fast--with both hands --to your phone and keep clicking away, I want to -- literally --punch your lights out.

Surprise--the young do not feel this way! Why? Because they're all doing it. So, no one makes eye contact or really connects on any significant emotional level....unless, of course, it's via a text.

So, forget the sexual revolution, war, changing social mores, and anything else Dylan was referring to in his music, as sources of the eternal conflict between the youngs and the olds. Since it currently applies only to texting, I'm still in touch with the important stuff. 

I'm also a skinny blonde with long legs and a tiny nose. Who can dance.

Happy birthday, Bob. Many more.

Bob, at 70.