Jersey.Girl.Genius

Shit (some) Lesbians Say

I am absolutely loving all of the shit girls say videos by Kyle Humphrey & Graydon Sheppard.  Genius! They inspired me to create my own shit list.  Happy 2012 everyone!

Shit (some) Lesbians Say

1. I’m just glad we had the wet/dry vac
2. Sarah Paulson is on American Horror Story?  Is she still with Cherry Jones?
3. They helped us build our fence, so we watch their three-legged pit bull and their blind chameleon sometimes
4. No … Not that Amy, softball Amy.
5. I heard she was all “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” but it was the way she carried herself in that dress she wore in Sommersby that told.
6. What are you talking about? Kristen Stewart is totally gay.  Uh, did you see her in Panic Room?
7. If Rosie O’Donnell can meet her wife at a Starbucks, I can meet someone skeet shooting
8. I kind of want to spoon Supernanny, but only when she changes into the Jack Purcells and the capris.
9. She’s working on a grant application for the nonprofit tomorrow and I need to clean the carburetors on my bike before I store it.
10. What the hell ever happened to Kristy McNichol?
11. I love Ellen … Portia is still way too skinny.
12. Can I have an MGD, please?  Ok, then do you have Miller High Life?
13. I couldn’t give a rat’s ass about what happened to Jenny Schecter.  The L Word was bullshit.  People tell me I look like Shane all the time.
14. I only have herbal teas, unless you want to try some Yerba Matte I brought back from my volunteer vacation in Ecuador?
15. She's working part time at Home Depot just to get a discount on a tile saw
16. Do you have to pay for drinks on an Olivia Cruise?
17. My cat's name is Agent Starling.  I rescued him from a shelter near Quantico.
18. Can I borrow your drain snake?
19. I'd make out with Frances McDormand in Laurel Canyon
20. Do you think they sell Keens in P-Town?

The Chupacabra of Birthing and other Mysteries

On the morning of February 14th, we carried the giant frozen space capsule that housed (our teeny tiny vials of frozen pop) into the doctor's office.  This canister looked like a cross between an oxygen tank and a fire hydrant and weighed about 40 pounds.  Kids in the waiting room had a sudden twinkle in their eyes upon seeing me, as if I was going to start twisting balloons into wiener dogs and swords at any moment. 

One minute Y had her legs in stirrups, admiring her hand-knit sock wizardry, while Dr S worked her intrauterine insemination magic.  The next, we're waiting to see if her belly button will collapse under the pressure of it all and pop out like a Perdue chicken.   It's now September, only 10 short weeks shy of 40 weeks pregnant, and I'm starting to look at the babies in the Guest Services line at Target a bit differently.

 

"Oh yeah.  One of those pink and cooing things is coming home with us.  It's not just a growing kiwi fruit any longer, that kicks or has hiccups or creates freaky belly ripples when Y is trying to sleep.  At some point, he'll be a permanent fixture.  Jesus, we actually get to keep him!"

Before we get to the part where he comes home with us, we have to get through the "birthing" part.  Did you  ever see the fantastic HBO series Six Feet Under?  If so, you might recall when Ruth starts to work on herself and starts attending the self-help seminar called "The Plan."  She starts talking about how her life is like a house, blah blah blah, and that her house needs a new foundation.  Y and I landed on a birthing class that feels like it could have been created by The Plan version of Ruth.  The class has lots of metaphors for giving birth, lots of new terminology to trick your brain into "fear clearing" and positive thinking.  It's not labor people, it's birthing.  Get with the program.  What's that you say?  She's having a contraction?  Guess again fine sir, that would be a "pressure wave." Now please go eat one of those brownies we baked for you and don't come back into the room until you've read our birth plan.

Don't take my mocking as a sign that I'm not on board, or report me to the Hypnobirth Council for Non-Believers.  I'm a big believer in the power of positive thinking, the birthing ball, the swaying of hips on all fours and barking like a dog if you need to, in order to get through.  I think envisioning the birth of your child as a beautiful, pain free experience is a worthwhile exercise, just like envisioning the next promotion, or the next tennis serve is extremely helpful in directing your intention. Speaking of directing intention, there are some very highly intended moms out there who have set the bar extremely high.

The same class we've just completed has invited us back next week for a group viewing of a documentary called Orgasmic Birth.  Sounds a bit like an oxymoron, I know.  Apparently all of the crazy hippies and free birthers are doing it these days.  This isn't on the birth plan.  The chance that this will happen is as good as getting struck by lightning, getting eaten by a great white shark or winning the powerball.  But hey - you can't win if you don't play, right?  Aiming to have an orgasmic birth, or worse yet, expecting to, is like saying that you really have a thing for adorable, lisping blondes, so you're holding out for Drew Barrymore.  Why put all of your eggs into one particular birthing basket, that seems as aloof as the Mexican Chupacabra or the Fisher King's Holy Grail?  At the end of the day, I'm just hoping everyone emerges healthy and unscathed.  Asking for an orgasm on top of all of that just seems a bit greedy.  I hope the orgasmic birthers don't hunt me down now.  I fear that I've angered the Kraken.

As if there wasn't already enough pressure to avoid the induction, the pitocin, the epidural, the C section, we now have youtube and orgasmic birthing bloggers and their goddamn bliss to thank for spreading their ... um .... joy ... all over the web.   Regardless of how impossible all of this sounds, or how crunchy lesbo it may be, I truly think Y can do anything she puts her mind to.  Except purr.  I really hope she doesn't start purring while she gives birth.  We weren't given a pre-made sign to hang on the door that says:  Y is experiencing pressure waves and the occasional Big Cat Week roar.  Please don't try to talk to her until she's done purring.  Thanks, The Birth Partner.

If you watch the highlighted Orgasmic Birth 20/20 video above, you'll see what the heck I'm referring to here.  Meow.

Gaydar.

Just returned home from our baby shower in Jersey to this message from my mom.  While I was in flight, Ginny was watching the US Open.  She knows a gay when she sees one.  She knows an Australian when she hears one, too.  Gotta love the Ginbomb.

Voicemail audio lives at the link below: 

Mom_gaydar

Babies R' Not Us.

Y and I took what I had thought would be an innocent stroll into the local baby superstore today, inspired by a particular interest in a glider for the nursery.  In order to get to the section where they house the rocking chairs, you have to walk through the entire store, front to back.  I liken this experience to a dream I sometimes have, where I am suddenly transported back to high school, without any pants, unprepared for a chemistry test that I'm doomed to fail.  As we pass the very pregnant women and their dazed husbands, registry scanners bleeping in hand, I start to notice that all of the men have the same glazed over look about them.  With each blip of their scanners, they are mentally shelving their home-brew kits, the over-sized man chairs with cup holders, the Xbox Rock Band setup, which will now have a permanent home in the garage in order to make room for the crib.  These guys look terrified.  They look like they've all won the same hand of poker;  but their prize is a ticket in steerage on the Titanic.  

I've barely wrapped my head around the fact that Y's growing a tiny alien with hiccups the size of a corn cob.  It's another thing all-together to picture that same corn cob in the bouncy vibrating seat that plays music while birds chirp overhead, in the high chair that converts to a car seat that converts to a 401K, in the are you fu**ing crazy, we're not getting that gazillion dollar stroller, laying its baby bum on the organic velour changing pad, with one of 2,000 varieties of newfangled organic rubber pacifiers in his mouth.  Just how much stuff can one little baby need? 

It's not just the stuff that terrifies me, it's that we might not get the right stuff.  Some babies like a swing and some hate it, according to baby superstore helper Michelle, Michelle with godsons and several nephews she's been around since they were born, they are practically like her kids.  Michelle could collapse that Chico stroller like no one's business.  I can't put an Ikea dresser together, so there's no way in hell I'm going to figure out how to attach that car seat properly.  I'm imagining bungee cords and duct tape.  They'll have to call in Supernanny, who'll stage an intervention with me at once, decide to make me a sticker chart, rewarding me for remembering not to use the F-word and for properly assembling and then collapsing that terror of a Pack N' Play in less than 5 minutes flat.  Side note.  If Jo Frost does come visit, I'd prefer she left the purple outfit at home.  You know, the one she wears with the white pumps?  Just like Mr. Rogers, I prefer her in the khakis and jack purcells.  Casual Joe.

After being overwhelmed by gadgets, nipple guards and the intimidating diaper wall, we made our way to the maternity clothes section.  I use the term clothing loosely.  Y was on the hunt for a pair of maternity shorts with a cushy waistband.  The only shorts we saw were of the denim variety, and looked like they'd fit a Cabbage Patch preemie.  Extreme short shorts, barely covering the vahoozalie, that some of the MTV Teen Moms wouldn't even be caught dead in.  A few nursing tank tops later, we stumbled to the check-out line.  From our vantage point, we could see the photography studio, where one of the employees was waving a stuffed giraffe over the head of a squirmy 10-month old.  Now that would be a difficult job. Like herding cats.  Here's to hoping that motherhood is a bit less like herding cats, and more like training Shih Tzus.

From Taiwan, With Like

It's been a while since my last Bachelorette post.  Why the hiatus, you ask?  I've found this season to be one of the most painful to date.  Cooking up recaps tends to bring it all back, like a bad case of PTSD.  I was waking up at night in a cold sweat, reaching for Bentley, wondering why his perfectly faded jeans and Abercrombie awesome retail boy flip flops weren't at the foot of my bed.  In the same dream, Ashley herself would appear.  She'd say something incoherent about Bentley, blah blah blah, more tears, something about just wanting to feel safe, secure and protected, blah blah blah, cry cry cry.  Then she'd get really close to my face and ask me if I've been flossing regularly.  I get the chills just thinking about it.

Now that Bentley is out of the picture (or, is he?) the boys have been having fun traversing Asia.  First Hong Kong and last night, Taiwan.  For Ames' sake, I'm just happy they didn't introduce another martial arts challenge.  Sweet, sensitive Ames.  I appreciate his fondness for words like fantastic, exuberant and charming.  I also appreciate his pink pants and his prep-school flannel wardrobe.  That awkward middle school photo made me like him even more.  That photo alone explained the need for veneers.  Ames belongs in a Folger's commercial, he doesn't belong in a fantasy suite.  He should be surprising his little sister with the complete works of Franz Kafka after returning home from a volunteer vacation in Costa Rica, where he'd been teaching under-served kids how to salsa dance and paint landscapes with watercolors.  Some men are just too cultured for The Bachelorette. 

 

Some men, on the other hand, need a bit of manscaping and some quality time with Clinton Kelly and Stacy London.  Let's take Constantine and Ben, for example.  Constantine is just a few wily brow hairs away from a full on unibrow. Ben, while I see him as one of the most genuine bachelors this season, needs a good haircut and a hot oil treatment.  What's the deal with grown men wearing winter wool hats in the middle of summer? That look says "I still think I'm 15.  And I may wind up working at a coffee shop until I'm 40."  Yes, I'm judging.  I like Ben.  But he seems young.  Too young for Ashley to take seriously.  Also - I don't think she feels as physically drawn to him as she does some of the other tools guys.

Speaking of tools, we need to discuss Ryan's departure.  Ryan the actor "solar panel salesman" from California.  Someone, somewhere, told him that his smile was his best asset.  It's apparent that he's never forgotten this comment.  Ashley wants to jump his bones about as much as she's interested in a new, tankless water heater.  He comes across as horrifically phony.  Every gesture and facial expression looked disingenuous and calculated.  Someone told Ryan what they thought he needed to do in order to be asked to return as the next Bachelor.  He read the handbook and he played his hand well.  I've seen posts on the message boards already, asking him to be the next Bach.  Is that all it takes?  An abundance of energy, a few phony tears and a "desire to love someone unconditionally?" He reminds me an awful lot of Jake Pavelka.  He reminds me a lot of Apple Pie a la Mode, too.  Looks good, but after a few bites, it's all a bit too sweet.  You're wondering why you went there.  You needed that apple pie about as much as you needed another thigh.

At this point in the game, it's too close to call.  While I had thought JP the obvious front runner, he may come to his senses and realize that she's "just not that into you," not enough to propose, anyway.  They may bring Ryan back in the Fiji episodes, just to create some more drama and a larger rallying cry for his return as the next Bachelor.  My prediction for the final two would have to be Ben and JP.  But at this point, I'm not seeing anyone acting like they've fallen in love. Lots of like, but no L-bomb.

One Big Gay and Seven Porcelain Veneers

I'm a few days behind with my Bachelorette recap for the (June 13th episode) and the guilts are starting to gnaw at me.   Let's cut right to the chase and talk about the bright spots from this week's rainy Thailand episode.

A lot of the Bachelorette-obsessed Twitter folk I follow started a "Bentley" drinking game.  Had I played along, I would have passed out before The Geico Caveman Ben F snuck in his first sloppy Cro-Magnum man kiss.  I would have missed the gay picnic with Ames and would have forgotten all about the "shocking preview" related to Bentley's inevitable return next week.  I counted more than 13 mentions of Bentley by Ashley in total.  That's a whole lot of tequila.  Twitterati, I have no idea how you kept up, unless you were doing shots of sparkling apple juice. 

My favorite date, by far, was Ashley's one-on-one picnic with Ames.  Like two girlfriends making God's Eyes at Jesus Camp, he felt they really bonded and had a lot in common.  Ashley remarked that she got to see Ames in a whole new light.  Is it just me, or was that light ever-so-gently muted by a blush chiffon scarf?  Ames belongs in Wham's Club Tropicana video, he does not belong in a seaside fishing village wearing Prada military button downs.  I know it's Don't Ask, Don't Tell, but his Prada told.  One obvious perk to dates with Ames.  Should the village lose electricity in the rainstorm, he could illuminate a few square miles with those choppers.  You'll never lose your way in the dark.

Looks like Bentley will be back next episode.  This Jersey Girl called it weeks back.  While I believe he's an actor who has been planted this season and scripted, I'm not 100% sure that Ashley is in on it.  If she wasn't prepped, it's a very cruel twist in a ploy for viewership.  While I agree that most of the men are complete duds this season, is a Bentley dupe the only answer?  Must we see him return to feign a change of heart, endure more of his private camera confessions, just to set Ashely up for the ultimate betrayal?  Certainly there are other things to keep us interested.  We haven't had a token zipline, building rappel or a bungee jump yet.  There's plenty of time left to swim with sharks.  The masked Jeff could return, this time wearing only a cape.  Yet at the rate we're going, we'll likely wind up with gay Ames (who will now be referred to solely as Games) and Bentley in the final two. 

I wonder if Games will reveal his sexuality at some point?  I think he'll make it as far as the Fantasy Suite date, where he'll confess his true affection for Chris Harrison.   Unable to avert his eyes from Harrison in a grass-woven sarong, spear fishing for carp, or while donning his suggestive banana hammock poolside, he'll say he needs to leave in order to pursue his true calling.  Cosmetic Dentistry.  In Games' ABC bio, he was asked what his most embarrassing moment was.  His answer?  Getting busted in boarding school for hooking up.  I wonder if he went to an all boys school?  Mmmm Hmmm.  I think he sings for The Warblers.

Bentley will make it all the way to the final days, mark my words, but not before Michelle Money is shipped to Thailand to intervene - revealing even more secret Bentley modus operandi.  What's the real scoop on Bentley?  Anyone who names their kid Cozy really likes a cold beer.  Maybe he's prone to drunken outbursts or contracted a raging case of Chlamydia from a Koala? All shall be revealed in time.

My Summer of Rumspringa

People who have children take great pleasure in scaring the shit out of us. 

I think parents secretly enjoy telling us about all of the things we'll never get to do again.  In some ways, I suspect parental misery loves company.  Look, I don't blame them.  If one couple emerges unscathed, pre-baby life intact, it angers The Kraken.  It must be like watching your cell mate bust out of Alcatraz, leaving behind nothing but a paper mache head and some woolen blankets. 

Given the multitude of tips, warnings and words of wisdom I've collected, I want to make sure I'm making the most out of these next 5 months.  Now at the halfway point, clock ticking down on my childless life, it's time for Yvette and I to experience our very own Amish rebellion.  In order to party like its 1999, I needed to ask - and have answered - one very simple question.

What do you miss the most, now that you have kids?

This summer, Yvette and I have grand plans.  In no particular order, we will be indulging in childless bliss, enjoying the simple things in life, and collectively mourning our ephemeral freedom with every passing day.  Somewhere in-between a Bucket List and a Fu**it List lies my Rumspringa Naughty List.

#5 - Sleep.

This summer, I plan to sleep like a beer pong champ at a frat house.  The bedroom has been properly darkened to mimic a Casino, not a crack of light showing through our curtains.  The Tempest could be coming, yet we shall not stir.  Sleep is something that I hear a whole lot about.  The lack thereof, how it makes you crazy.  The first three months are hell, get it while you can.  Get it while I can?  What do you mean?  Can I store up slumber like a hibernating bear? At least I'll remember what it felt like to sleep.  To wake with your head a little foggy and buzzing from too much sleep.  To sleep, perchance, to drool.  Sweet, sweet, tasty sleep.  I love you.  You will be missed.

#4 - Have Lots and Lots and Lots of Sex.

"Between the kids wanting to sleep in your bed and complete exhaustion, sex will be the furthest thing from your mind."  - anonymous sex deprived parent.  Sex will very likely be the last thing on our mind in six months, but for now, we're virile naval officers let loose on the big city for fleet week.  Nuff said.

#3 - Travel

We've all had the pleasure of sitting next to a screaming child on an airplane.  "Travel is hard on kids, but even tougher on the parents.  Vacation isn't what it used to be." - Anonymous Vacation Deprived Parent.  For this very reason, we plan to travel as much as possible within the next five months, to the most child-unfriendly destinations.  Machu Picchu, Everest, The Galapagos Islands, The Amazon Rainforest, Vegas.  I'll go out on a limb and include "eating out at restaurants" into the Travel category.  While not traversing the globe or ziplining through Costa Rican jungle, that trek to the local eatery will zap the energy right out of you.  It's a long haul, indeed.

#2 - Get Trashed.

Aside from the few micro sips of Pinot Grigio Y has allowed herself, I'm on my own with this one.  At least someone will be there for me with an Emergen-C when I wake up deydrated, heart racing and hating life.  I might take a puff of someone's cigarette or get a little crazy with some Mary Jane (mom, if you're reading this, I'm totally joking.  I plan to smoke more than just a puff.)  You know you're officially old when, even if you felt like it, you don't have any connections what-so-ever to score weed.  It was so much easier in my youth to be Amishly naughty.  There was college, for one, and the many waitressing jobs that followed.  Right now there's a sous chef somewhere making pot brownies and showing the staff how to make creme brule with one hand, while holding a bong and a blow torch in the other.  In light of getting trashed, I think I'll just eat another red velvet cupcake instead.  Fewer calories.

#1 - Be Irreverently Irresponsible.

There's not much time for this, I have to act quickly, but I plan to make the most of it.  Before I have to worry about how much diapers cost, or which organic baby mattress is the highest rated, I think I'll let loose a little.  Zappos lets you sort your search results by price, sorting from "high to low."  I need another pair of shoes like I need another thigh.  The same might be said for watches.  Yet in my Rumspringa summer, I will sort high to low.  I will make unnecessary electronic gadgetry purchases and linger outside of the Bang & Olufsen store longer than absolutely necessary.  I might throw caution to the wind and buy another watch, I might even purchase a painfully trendy hipster cruising bicycle I will likely ride twice all season.  I will buy unnecessary camping gear, fit for the Himalayas, the likes of which would make even Oprah and Gayle very proud. 

Small Boobs, Big Heart.

I watched yet another painful episode of The Bachelorette last night.  As predicted, there was a whole lot of crying, heartbreak and one tight camera shot of a melting, plastic Zorro mask.  Ashley falls hard, she's made this abundantly clear.  She also cries hard.  The ugly, can't catch your breath kind of cry.  Sometimes she cries in her bed under a purple comforter, in the wings of a theater, or while staring at Bentley's picture.  More often than not, she can be found crying on a douchebag's shoulder, or on a soft, manly flannel in front of a faux fireplace.  Bentley was "her guy" - and after just two short weeks of sitting on each  others laps, she had found true and everlasting love.

Bentley may be gone for now, but I have a feeling we haven't seen the last of him, his perfectly messy hair and his I know I'm sexy smirk.  He played the Wes card and played it well.  Given his villainous, raunchy confessions to the camera, he will absolutely be asked back for the next Bachelor Pad.  Bentley and Bachelor were made for each other.  Well played, Bentley from Utah.  You smell like an actor and you look like one too.

So? What did we learn last night? Let's recap, shall we?

William is a cell phone salesman who aspires to be a stand up comedian.  He also has a small weenie and it will be revealed in an upcoming episode involving a very euro Speedo.

Bentley has nice jeans, but could use a belt.

J.P. looks good in pajamas. He'd look even better out of them.

Ashley cried her eyebrows off and is in need of new glasses.

Ashley has three big insecurities and two of them were realized last night.  So what the hell is the third insecurity?  Don't leave me hanging, ABC.  The fact that some of the men made fun of her small boobs, while childish and deplorable, does not seem to be on her top three list.  Am I missing something?  She feared the guys would be disappointed that the Bachelorette wasn't Hot Emily or Hot Chantal.  (check) She also worried that some of the guys would turn around and leave the show, disappointed that she isn't Hot Emily or Hot Chantal. (check check).

So she isn't Hot Emily or Hot Chantal.  Less than 1% of the population looks like Emily.  Most of America thought Ashley would make an annoying, boring Bachelorette, and they were right.  But what I've learned from watching this show, season after season, is that the show is very rarely about the Bachelor or Bachelorette themselves - the show is all about the contestants.  Now that Bentley made such an early exit, ABC will have to cook up something extra scandalous to keep us interested.  What could that be?  Will Brad return?  Will Bentley realize he's made a mistake and ask to come back?  Will Ashley have to perform an emergency root canal on Chris Harrison?  Will Ryan P. turn on the charm and rev up the "here for the wrong reasons" chorus?  Whatever the next shocking twist, it's bound to create the perfect storm in Phuket.   Bring it on, Be-yatchelorette.  Bring it.

The Bachelorette is Back! (Insert Annoying Giggle Here)

Ashley Hebert was kind of rejected by bad boy businessman Brad Womack on last season's Bachelor.   You know, in the same way that she's kind of a dentist.   A few porcelain veneers does not a dentist make.  Just as a date in a tree house in South Africa does not solidify your status as soul mates.

Was it really her inability to open up?  Her bitchy snarking and lack of self-confidence?  The absence of hair extensions that turned Brad off?  While the first date at the makeshift carnival looked promising, all girls know you can't ever trust a carnie.  Ashley eventually committed Bachelor suicide by throwing in a few "I don't cares" and got the boot, full of regret.  It was there that she made her best, most calculated move.  Somewhere in the back of her mind, and in the back of a limo, she was giving her appearance on The Bachelor her Bachelorette hopeful all.   If you've ever watched any of the previous seasons, you know that there is a tried and true formula for a repeat performance, be it on Bachelor Pad or as an upcoming Bachelor/Bachelorette.  What's that formula, you ask?

#1: Leave full of regret.  Return as enlightened as Dr. Phil.

It usually begins with the epiphany in the limo on your way back to Medawaska.  One minute you're zip lining your way into a man's heart, the next you're rejected over an oaky chardonnay somewhere in the middle of the rainforest.  You gave the Bachelor two months of your life, and all you have to show for it is a nasty rope burn and a mild case of yellow fever.  The first obstacle for any Bachelor or Bachelorette hopeful is to recognize one's misgivings and have some semblance of an off camera transformation.  The bigger the obstacle you overcome, the more likeable you'll be as the next Bach.  In the case of both Ashley and Brad - fear of rejection, fear of opening up were common themes.  Brad talked a lot about an absent father and heaps of talk therapy.  He even dragged his "therapist" around the world, to make his transformation look all the more believable.  All scripted to provide for the ultimate viewing experience, and to justify his return.  My advice to current Bachelor hopefuls, is to talk a lot about your own fear of rejection.  Leave early because your job demanded you return - facing you with the most painful decision of your life.  Have second thoughts about an ex-girlfriend; contemplate sleeping with the guy who wears the Mask around the house.  Above all else - act like a child and then demand that the producers bring you back to showcase your miraculous transformation.  It worked for Ed; it could work for you too.

#2: Be the first to bungee jump, repel off a building, sky dive or risk sudden death

ABC loves to flash back to the first "leap of faith" together for that final montage at the end.  Odds are if you take a leap of faith with the Bachelor or Bachelorette, you're getting a good edit on the season and will likely wind up in the final two.  Jumping off cliffs, zip lining, bungee jumping off a bridge, skydiving, shark cage swimming, snake charming, are all a few options for Bachelor infamy.  If you're not the final pick, no worries.  You'll likely end up in the top 2 and can hope for either a Dancing with the Stars stint or a room at the Inn when they film the next Bachelor Pad.

#3: Overcome obstacles, become a fan favorite.

This is the toughest road to hoe, but the most fruitful if you can pull it off.  Jillian followed this formula to a T, and wound up as a Bachelorette who now stars on Extreme Makeover as a designer.  Jillian talked a lot about how her mother's lifelong battle with depression shaped her and made her a stronger, better human being.   As a side note, she appeared to be one of the most genuine, down to earth contestants to ever appear on the show.  I'm going to go out on a limb and say that Emily (winner of Brad's final rose) will be back at some point to claim her title as Bachelorette.  Now that she's poked the bear and lived to tell, she'd make a dream Bachelorette.  She lost her fiance in a plane crash, was duped by Womack, and is still looking for her Prince Charming.  Can't script better TV than that.  If ABC wants her back, they will have to cough up some serious cash.  Rumor has it that Hef has already offered her a pictorial in Playboy.  What would little Ricki say?

#4:  Play the guitar, sing and/or get a tattoo. 

While Wes supposedly had a girl back home during Jillian's season, he was brought back for The Bachelor Pad and wormed his "love don't come easy" way into Gia's heart.  Remember Kasey?  The fruit loop Kermit the Frog marble mouth who wanted to "guard and protect Ali's heart" so much that he went out and got some ink?  Yeah, that guy.  He also sang to Ali.  Twice.  If you want to make an impression, a guitar or a little ink can go a long way.  Odds are you're loopy enough to make good TV or just sexy enough to be tolerated when you break out that six-string.  While singing usually helps the men with a repeat stint on ABC, it has the opposite effect when women attempt to serenade.  I recall an early cocktail party for Matt Grant, the London Calling Bachelor, when one of the women attempted Opera.  Nothing brings on a puff tent like a good aria.

Apocalypse Soonish.

It's the end of the world as we know it.  And I feel fine.  Truly, I do.   I had my hair colored today, to cover up those persistent grays.  Look, if I'm going to see Madonna, The Countess LuAnn, Mel Gibson, Jodie Foster, her Beaver, Lady Gaga and all the gays in purgatory, I want to make sure I'm at my best.  What does one wear to one's first Rapture debut?  Bet you twenty bucks that LuAnn is back on good terms with Ungaro by now, and will be wearing something similar to Ramona, but not too similar.

All of this talk of the rapture has my head spinning.  How can so many people believe this nutterbutter?  He looks an awful lot like Orville Redenbacher.  I wouldn't trust him to accurately predict the proper popping time for microwave popcorn, let alone predict a cataclysmic chain of events leading to oblivion.  I'm baffled that he's collected nearly $80 million dollars in donations in just under three years.  Did I mention that Christian radio network Family Stations Inc is a nonprofit?  Evangelical broadcaster Harold Camping is at the helm.

Floods, tornadoes, oil spills, hurricanes, earthquakes, tsunamis, oh my.  The planet has serious issues, there's no denying that.  But if the end of the world where near, I'm pretty sure that Oprah wouldn't have scheduled her last episode to air when no one would be around to see it.  Who would she give all of those cars to, if we all ceased to exist?  Who would she sing her farewell Maya Angelou poetry to?  Don't forget that you too can praise Oprah openly, via a fanpage on facebook, along with 150+ people who believe she's God and worship openly at the Church of O.  Of course Oprah is God.  Who else could get a group of self-deprecating women to Zipline at the Miraval spa?

It's now 11:08 AM on the day of reckoning and I'm still here.  Hoping to get in a few hours of garage sale browsing before the big kaboom. 

Me & Mrs. Jones

We've got a thing going on ... we both know that it's wrong, but it's much too strong to let it go now.

What do we have here? January Jones has a scandelous baby bump.  Betty Draper has been a very busy bee.  Somewhere in-between tupperware parties, neglecting bobby and sally, three martini lunches and chain smoking, she's found some time to get horizontal with a few good men.  And apparently, one very naughty one.  SNL funnyman and former squeeze Jason Sudeikis has gone on record to say that he is not the sperminator.   I'm not surprised.   I picture her with more of a Roger Sterling type, someone older and more refined.  Sudeikis, while in his thirties, is likely trapped in his teens emotionally.  Can you imagine dating him, or Andy Samberg, for that matter?  Even if I were a raging heterosexual, roofied out of my mind, I'd still look at Samberg and wonder why the hell the Cathy cartoon was trying to pull my pants down.  Ack! 

Word on the street is that January's baby daddy is one of her X-Men: First Class co-stars.  Tisk Tisk.  I'm not so convinced.  My money's on Iron Chef Bobby Flay.  His secret ingredient? Cucumber.  The fact that Flay's wife, Stephanie March, is a poor man's January Jones makes it all the more painful. 

Wonder how she hooked up with Flay?  Why not, Mario Batali?  or Cat Cora, for that matter?  If Batali was the baby daddy, it would be much easier to decipher genetically.  I've heard his kids are born with full beards, a soft spot for gwyneth paltrow and orange crocs.  Will the baby's looks say it all?  Look for a baby born with unruly brows, clinging to a bottle of Jameson.

Celebrity Baby Naming: 101

If we were rock stars, this would all be so much easier.  And no, I'm not referring to a never-ending selection of tight pants or on-call groupies.  The rich and famous get a free pass when it comes to the monikers they choose for their offspring.  Why is that?  When Cher named her son Blue (he now goes by Phillips Exeter Blue I) was there a grandmother amongst them who hung her head in shame? 

You want to name him what?  Blue?  What the hell is blue?  No one should name a baby blue - that's the color you hope to avoid when the thing comes out, for Christ sake!  I just knew that Gregg was smoking the mary jane.

Due to my many years of E Channel & Bravo TV wisdom, coupled with years of People magazine browsing, I think I've come up with a tried and true formula for naming celebrity babies. It's a lot like Yahtzee, actually. 

Step 1:  Choose a city or state.  Need not be in the US. 

Brooklyn, Halifax, Montana, Winnetka, Peoria, Saskatoon, Bruges, Columbus, Burlington

Step 2:  Select 9 colors that might also double as swatches for Benjamin Moore paints.

Blush, Boysenberry, Slate, Midnight at the Oasis, Sunburst, Peppercorn Fiesta, Sweet Corn, Blossom, Safari

Step 3:  Choose a helpless baby animal.

Fawn, Fledgling, Kit, Calf, Farrow, Cub, Foal, Joey, Pup

Step 4:  Place all of the above in a tragically hip hat and shake. 

Continue to select names until you've selected one color, one city/state, or one city/state and one helpless baby animal.  In no time, you'll be Introducing Halifax, Safari and Peppercorn Fiesta Farrow.  In my research, I've discovered that step three can also be replaced with a musical instrument or a fruit and/or vegetable, like so:

Sunburst Banjo, Midnight Plumb, Burlington Rhubarb, Sweet Corn Pan Flute.

Look out Rosie Pope, there's a new baby naming Sheriff in town!  Now auditioning for a gay male assistant and/or Meshach Taylor, who played Hollywood in 1987's Mannequin.  I wonder if he's available?

Are My Boobs Any Bigger?

It's 10 pm and my girlfriend is now in bed. 

Earlier this week, bedtime was 7:30.  What had started off as an innocent, tasty nap on the couch before Dancing with the Stars, turned into full REM sleep.  I'm quite used to entertaining myself after hours these days.  As a matter of fact, I'm watching Chaz Bono explain transgender 101 to Letterman and how he tackles the "men's bathroom" conundrum.  An amateur question from a smug Letterman, but I give them both credit for having such an open conversation.  Aside from Chaz's poor taste in footwear, I thought the interview likely blew the minds of more than half the population.  Good for you, Chaz.  You have bocce sized balls, my friend.

For those of you who have been reading this blog (and are not somehow related to me) over the past few years, I wanted to say thank you.  I've been on a bit of a hiatus while my real-world job has taken me all over the globe, peddling our savvy facebook wares.  It's only now, and in the wee hours, that I have time to crank out my thoughts on everything from A to Zoe.  And so, it's with this post that I'll be starting to take a look at new subject matter for the Jersey Girl Genius blog.  The whacky and wild world of Pregnancy. 

After only two attempts at IUI, Y is now 14 weeks pregnant.  Over the past three months, I've learned a few things about pregnancy and pregnant women that I'd never thought about before.   Eager to share my mama to be knowledge with you, there's no time like the present to start making lists.

#1.  Pregnant women will read an average of 20 gazillion books about being pregnant. 

Something funny happens as soon as that faint line on the 20th EPT test turns the slightest shade of fuchsia.  Hormones surge.  There's one hormone in-particular that sends women to the closest barnes & noble store.  The dog-eared copy of the latest David Sedaris book on my nightstand has collected a fine dusty patina, while Y can read about pregnant women the way professional eaters put away Nathan's hot dogs.  She's like a character from the tv show Heroes, with a super power for speed reading.  Just when she's finished one book, she's on to another.  Her appetite for pregnancy prose has left me feeling a tad guilty that I'm not putting down the pages like a true champ.  My copy of "She Looks Just Like You" along with "Daddy's Pregnant Too" have become excellent coasters for my water glass.   I know I'll pick up speed, but there's lots of time left, right?  And besides, why do I need to know everything there is to know, when Y's taking in all of this info, Rain Man style?

#2.  Pregnant women worry about the state of their nipples.  Often.

I now know that nipples darken to create the perfect bulls eye targets for hungry newborns.  It can happen during pregnancy or after birth.  But it does happen all right.  We're told they turn from pink to brown.  Mom nipples, as it were.  This impending transition can cause some anxiety for new moms-to-be.  Y asks me weekly if her nipples look any different, or if her boobs have gotten any bigger.  If I knew I'd wake up one day to be greeted with areolas the size of dinner plates, I might experience a teensy bit of anxiety too.

#3.  A Pregnant woman's sense of smell rivals that of a Great White Shark.

Because I'm a Shark Week nerd, I know that Great Whites can detect a single drop of blood in an olympic sized swimming pool from miles away.  A pregnant woman can tell if I'm wearing a sweatshirt that I wore to a diner three months ago, when I happened to eat an incredibly tasty, greasy cheeseburger.  While most schnozes would only detect the faintest hint of a downy ball, pregnant women will hone in on the cheeseburger smell, buried deep within the sweatshirt's fibers.  Pregnant noses should be trained to work alongside sniffing dogs at local airports, allowing them to give back to their community while simultaneously wreaking havoc on their loved ones for deciding to cook fish in the house.

#4.  Having Morning Sickness is not at all like being hung-over.

People who are hung over don't rebound quickly.  It's a slow transition at best, from misery to normalcy.  Boozers don't often wake up, throw up, immediately eat a bowl of Raisin Bran and then talk about what's for dinner.  I'm in awe at how quickly Y can go from hurling to hankering. 

Over the next few weeks and months, I plan to chime in every now and then to bring you the latest.  We're both so excited and (slightly) terrified for this next chapter.  I hope you pop in and chime in as we discover what the future holds.