Jersey.Girl.Genius

Punanis for Palin?

This is not a political blog, as I'm sure you've already gathered. Unless you consider lesbian intentional communities erected by Olivia Travel an act of political asylum for gay retirees in Tucson, in which case, I stand corrected. Couldn't help but comment on the goings on of the Republican Party this week, given its close proximity to Minneapolis. The RNC convention will descend upon St Paul on September 1. What a good week to be a stripper in the land of 10,000 lakes. Wonder if Diablo Cody will return to make a cameo appearance on the pole?

Meet Sarah Palin. The gun toting, feminist for life praising, moose meat eating junior senator from Alaska could be a heartbeat away from the presidency. Now there's a scary thought. With two years of good ol' Alaska governin' under her barracuda belt, she's assured us she's poised and ready to take the reins. The reins of what, however; still remain to be seen. Quoted as not knowing "what a VP actually does all day," perhaps she was simply referring to her top of the line equestrian skills.

Oh McCain, do you really think women will vote for you, simply because you added a little estrogen to the lineup? Tsk tsk. You silly, ancient, white haired gremlin, you. The prospect of converting former Clinton supporters to the dark side is highly unlikely. That's the delusional equivalent of thinking a Red Sox fan will cheer on the Yankees, if the Sox are out of the running. Do I like baseball? Yes. Will I therefore throw my support behind any ol' team, simply because they also play with balls? Not a chance.

I, like many women in this country, like the idea of a woman in the White House. But alas, vagina ownership does not trump common sense. Remember your SAT verbal? Vagina is to Elected as:

A) Simian is to Monkey
B) Verdant is to Green
C) Precipitous is to Sharp
D) Cojo is to Chastity Bono

The answer is of course D. Entertainment Tonight's "Cojo" longs to be Chastity Bono, just as I long to see a woman in the White House someday. I fear that Cojo might be closer to seeing his dream become reality than I am. Cojo has a right to dream, even if all the botox, eye jobs, cheek implants and forehead lifts have made those dreams a little foggy. I'm still holding out for my dream too - and Sarah Palin's not in it.

Breakfast of Champions

I'm experiencing Karolyi withdrawal. The tan floods, the black socks with brown shoes, the bad ties, the 70's porn star stash. I've never seen someone so excited about sports before. He made Bob Costas look like a Stepford Wife. I must admit, as much as I was drawn in by his enthusiasm, it was a tad scary too. Something a bit lecherous about Bela, no? The way he was glued to Nastia's every move... Even the gymnasts seemed to be a bit tweaked by his overzealous, in need of subtitles, color commentary.

Can someone please get Bela some pants that cover up those socks and those 1972 Romanian gum-soled desert boots?

As I sit at my dining room table this morning, eating my egg whites and my tasty chicken apple sausage breakfast, I skate the egg around in a figure eight pool of Cholula hot sauce. The Olympics are over. No more table tennis to fly through on Tivo, no more water polo or white water rafting to curse openly.

You can show me thirty hours of this sh**, but I can't watch the women's soccer team win gold?

Naturally, I start thinking about Peggy Fleming, as most people do when they eat breakfast. I've already cracked myself up twice by naming my breakfast concoction Eggy Fleming. I should have had a toaster strudel instead. I love those things.

I doubt they have toaster strudels wherever Bela Karolyi is from. I bet they eat sardines for breakfast in Karolyiland, where all men and women grow thick black hair on their upper lips and take turns carrying around the small and meek. The gym in Romania probably smells like rotten clams and hairy man cologne. I'm glad that my couch flipping stunts in footie pajamas never resulted in gymnastics camp, or worse yet, dreams of Olympic gold. I like that I had a real childhood - filled with things like HBO, Alphabets Cereal, Members Only Jackets, The Footloose Soundtrack LP and teaching the neighbors how and when to use the word bullshit in a sentence.

What do real champions eat for breakfast?

Supposedly Michael Phelps eats 20 gazillion calories a day, 5-times that of the average man. Heard he'll appear on a Frosted Flakes cereal box soon, only because they outbid the Wheaties clan so they could show his mug. Wonder if the Flakes box will come with fold-down, fold-up cardboard ear flaps on each side?

Mariusz Pudzianowski, who has held the title of World's Strongest Man, looks like he could down some flat screen TVs with a side of Volkswagen Beetle. He has the teeth for it. Maybe he eats a fistful of pills and mixes them in with his lucky charms. Green Clovers, Purple Stars, Yellow Roids.



I find the whole World's Strongest Man competition completely fascinating. Who comes up with these events? I want to meet the people who decide that they will test the strength of 25 men, by asking them to drag a 747 as far as they possibly can for over 90 seconds, with the aid of a harness strapped to their shoulders. Hey, let's see these guys walk 30 feet with an Atlas Stone that weighs over 400 pounds, and then have them place it on top of a 7 foot circus barrel.

What do these brainstorm meetings look like? (dramatic reading is most satisfactory when using your best Arnold voice for the following conversation):



Yuri, Worlds Strongest Man Event Coordinator: This year, I think we should ask them to pull a mack truck by their teeth. 



Vladamir, Worlds Strongest Man Director: No, no, that is too easy, Yuri. The mandible is very strong bone! We should have them do squats with BMWs. Or they should carry 500 pounds of bricks using only the strength in their pinkie fingers.



Yuri: We did that in 1997. Don't you remember? The year you ate bad lobster at Tony Roma's in Primm, Nevada? I think they will toss big logs at each other. No. Maybe they can toss Prius? I think it's big sponsorship time here, Vladamir.

 They toss the Prius! Yes.

***

Whatever the conversation is that leads up to the final roster of strongman events, I wish I could sit in on it. I don't know how these guys can stand up straight after pulling 747s and walking with boulders that weigh more than 3 men. Just like the thought of being an Olympic gold medalist, there are some things that are better left to others to accomplish. It's also my belief that over-compensation in the muscle arena leaves other important abilities undernourished - things like speaking, or knowing when you shouldn't make an action-film sequel. I'm pretty content with my Eggy Fleming and the knowledge that the joy of toaster strudels for breakfast greatly outweighs the joy of having my face on a cereal box, filled with 100 percent of the essential vitamins and minerals your growing body needs.

A Fierce, Hierarchy of Hottness

Caught an interesting story on NPR this morning that apparel retailer Abercrombie & Fitch is in trouble yet again. Much to my surprise, they aren't being berated by the Christian Coalition for their half naked boy toy porn pinups this time. Nor is legal action being taken by a former Abercrombie customer who lost all sense of taste and smell after wearing A&F's Fierce cologne religiously for more than a week. OK, I made that last part up. But it's bound to happen sooner or later! Have you walked past an Abercrombie store lately? I can smell that place from the parking lot. As Ginny always says, cologne should be a whisper, not a shout. Let's just say that I'm deafened by the smell of homoerotic boarding school boys with perfectly messy hair, rope jewelry and names like Blaine.

An A&F employee in Texas was sent to the stock room because "she wasn't cute enough" to work the sales floor and has since filed suit. Abercrombie managers had rated her face a ZERO on their internal ranking system, used to determine whether or not the models (the term A&F uses to refer to their sales force) are suitable for retail work or too fugly that they risk tarnishing the brand image if seen by other humans. Ouch.

From an article in the Dallas Morning News:

"There's no real problem to discriminate against 'ugly' people," said Jahan Sagafi, a partner at Lieff Cabraser Heimann & Bernstein, the firm that represented the plaintiffs in the original diversity suit. "The problem is when you define beauty to incorporate white, which it essentially does at Abercrombie. These rating systems remain legal as long as they don't discriminate based on race or gender."

Don't despair, fuglies. There are myriad career paths out there where you will find unconditional love and acceptance, even if you're a zero on a scale of one-to-five. Might I suggest looking into the following options:

Become a Mascot

Often the unsung hero of the game, the mascot has an important role to play boosting morale, selling merchandise and starting the wave. If you're particularly limber, you might also be asked to display your gymnastics ability by somersaulting down long flights of stadium stairs, beating loud noise making implements or jumping through hoops of fire. If you long to have children of your own, but find that you're too beauty disadvantaged to find a suitable mate, you'll find joy in the eyes and smiles of the children who have come to cheer on their favorite teams.

Look Into Welding Apprenticeships

Look, I don't pretend to know much about welding, but I'm sure your skills will come in handy. You'll get paid well, you'll become part of a union where ugly doesn't apply to the bylaws and your face will be shrouded underneath an over-sized metal helmet for the rest of your life.

Move to Mount Isa, Australia

The mayor himself asked that ugly women make the pilgrimage to his small mining town. Once they tackle the installation of nail salons, I'm sure the construction of an Abercrombie store will not be far behind. Please reference the recent post, Lend Us Your Fugliest, for more information on traveling to this fine state.

Sisterhood of the Traveling Pantsuits

Everyone's talking about Hillary's speech last night at the DNC in Colorado. I think she managed to look a bit less Stepford when delivering her (100% bitterness free my ass) speech to rally her supporters behind Obama. She spoke directly to her sisterhood of the traveling pantsuits and asked that they support & embrace Obama as their candidate. Very well. I wish she would have acknowledged her sisterhood of muff divers, though, who went out on a limb early and proudly plastered her bumper sticker on top of an existing one, but that wouldn't exactly unify the party now would it ...

I think Hillary forgot to thank a few other sisters along the way who have made the pantsuit what it is today. If not for these brave pantsuit pioneers, Hillary would have had to show some leg. If she's showing leg, she's wearing heels. We all know how tricky finding the right pump can be, especially when you're a pantsuit loving vaginatarian.

Here's a brief nod to the pantsuit pioneers of yesteryear.

Bea Arthur @ The Emmy's
Photo by Alan Light, 1989

Oh Bea. You wore them well. You made me proud. Not only did you sport them in a variety of blacks, you decided to grab hold of the bedazzler too. In my search for pantsuit pioneers, I unearthed an ancient video of Bea dancing with Urkel in one of her most sequintastic suits. The quality of the video is extremely poor, but worth every grainy pixel.

Angela Lansbury
AP Photo, 1984

Murder she wrote, pants suits she rocked. Everything's working for Ang in this photo. The man hands, the smart putty color of the polyester, the pleats and the slimming fit, her willingness to throw caution to the wind by wearing a man's blouse. Well done, you.

Ann B. Davis
Alice on The Brady Bunch

Alice was always shown wearing the blue maid outfit and apron on the Brady Bunch, except when she cut loose with Sam the butcher. What did she wear then? A bowling shirt and a pair of nice khaki slacks. Oh sweet Ann. You're on my list because we know you wanted to wear the pants suit in a bad, bad way. Consider yourself an honorary pantsuit pioneer.

There are far too many newscasters, professional athletes, Olympic commentators chasing the beaver and WNBA coaches to name who most definitely follow suit. The next time you spy your favorite college hoops coach squatting in a shoulder pad pants suit, you can feel proud knowing that pioneers like Bea made it all possible.

-JGG

The Rebound

I don't know if it's a summer thing or an epidemic in these parts, but so many of my friends swap girlfriends like I pop Listerine breath strips. No halitosis problems here folks, just a fan of good grooming and a mouth that smells like a minty forest.

Not only do the girlfriends change hands, but they often wind up vacationing together. I've witnessed them watching each other's dogs and feeding each other's cats and sometimes, they even go on double dates together. When you need that new fence in the backyard installed, it's oftentimes the handy ex with the big truck and a wicked set of tools to the rescue. Are we maladjusted? Or is it a blessing that we can find this kind of harmony, long after the initial flame has lost its spark?

I don't know many straight couples who pal around with their exes, let alone, hop on over to Antigua with them. But then again, they don't have a genetic mutation that makes them long for Menard's and Home Depot quite like we do. It takes a village to build a fence, you know.

One aspect of dating that I'd like to point out, is our inability to embrace the rebound for what it is - ephemeral. Seems as though many of the aforementioned friends are now coupled with the partner who truly should have been the one night stand. If my two cents are worth anything, lesbians need to take a cue from our gay boy counterparts. It's ok to sleep with someone, just once, if you wake to find that said one night stand is sporting a nice rack, but only three tired little brain cells.

The Rebound Girl is an important stepping stone in the quest for coupled bliss. You have to know what you don't want in order to get clear on what you do want. Nothing like sleeping with a box o' rocks to set you on the right course. Much like your treasured pair of faded, broken in jeans, the rebound is never truly meant to last. She is often welcomed into your bed based on physical attributes alone and can oftentimes be spotted in a crowd if displaying some or all of the following characteristics:

Great body
Brain power equal to that of a flight pigeon
Snappy dresser
Has a drinking and or gambling problem
Owns an American sports car
Votes Republican
Was and/or aspired to be a cast member on The Real World
Currently studying for her G.E.D.
Favorite movie of all time? Harold & Kumar Go To White Castle

-JGG

Cro-Magnon In A Michael Kors Mule

Lesbians need their own clothing line.

I’m not referring to the boys section at Hollister or Abercrombie & Fitch. Some cross between an Ellen Degeneres suit & sneaker line meets beachy business casual would be nice. Have you been shopping for women’s clothing lately? It’s a ridiculous femme explosion out there. I honestly don’t know how many of us manage to clothe ourselves at all.

Went shoe shopping with Y last night because she needed some new kicks for work. Ventured on out to the mall. THE mall. The one with the full-scale roller coaster and amusement park in the middle. We did some serious browsing at Nordstrom, DSW, Steve Madden and a handful of others with spotty results, even for someone who doesn’t cringe at the thought of a three-inch heel. Unlike Y, I was completely out of my element. I felt a bit like Encino Man. Someone had unearthed me after thousands of years in my frozen cube and dropped me off in the women’s shoe department at Nordstrom. I was sheepishly picking things up that resembled stilts, grunting unintelligible things about sling backs and buckles. I'd show them to Y in the same way that my mom would point out clothes she liked when I was little:

Honey, this looks nice. What about these? They don’t have that weird heel you don’t like, right?

As much as my mom tried, she never really got it right. To this day, she still thinks I might need another paisley sweater vest or some pleated slacks from Anne Taylor, circa 1992. This is another unfortunate side effect of her second-hand shopping habit.

Look, if you don’t like it, donate it. What do I care? It was $2 at Red, White and Blue.

I was my mom last night. As much as I tried to look for the right height, the right heel, the right color, the right toe, I was miles away from shoe sleuthing success. I was thousands of years away, to be exact.

What would I do if I were forced to wear some of the more tragic shoes in the store for an entire day? How would I cope? More importantly, how would I walk? This became a new, fascinating game. I made Y take pictures with my crackberry. Would I wear the naughty secretary?
Or the furry Michael Kors, puff-pilgrim booty shoe? Tough times for Jersey in girlie shoe land. Currently thanking my lucky stars that I wasn't the one searching for a new pair.

The Lone Dancer

You've all seen the brave lone dancers. There's bound to be one at almost every event. At karaoke, at the city street festival, at the outdoor concert or the Bar Mitzvah, there's one in every crowd. The lone dancer has been known to lurk quietly and patiently, waiting for the opportunity to get out in front for all to see. I am left with conflicting feelings about the lone dancer - both applauding their chutzpah and utter lack of regard for others around them, while at the same time, cursing them violently for obstructing my view. "Nooooo! If that crazy ass would just sit the fu** down!!! How can you be that moved when no one else is standing! Sit your ass down, you freak!"

My recent run-in with a lone dancer at a Martin Sexton concert left me with an overwhelming desire to know more about what makes these lone dancers tick or in some cases, tone lancers dick. I wanted to get inside of her mind. Why does the lone dancer feel the need to leap up in a sold out theater, when everyone else is seated, and start flailing away? So began my quest to understand the life and psyche of the lone dancer, whom we will now refer to simply as the "LD" from here on out.

After exhausting research and hours and hours of screening LD footage, I've compiled a profile of the typical LD offender, so that we might all develop a deeper understanding.

LD is normally spotted towards the front of any event, making sure to obstruct the view of as many people as possible. Initially, I thought this might be some attempt to make a connection with the musicians themselves, as a way to let their superfan status be known. I've concluded that this is the case in 25% of all LD's. I've termed this the Dancing in the Dark syndrome. LD might be under the false impression that their dancing will get them called up on stage, as seen in the famous 1984 Bruce Springsteen video, featuring Courtney Cox, before the plastic surgery goblins abducted her and turned her into a scary Friend.

LD is almost always a sub-par dancer, but this simple fact does not seem to deter them from seeking solo infamy. The LD normally resorts to the use of arms and hands, raised high above the head, in an attempt to distract viewers from their lack of all rhythm in the lower extremities. LD might also be known to make strange pyramid-like shapes and arm gestures, resembling an ancient Hindi dance. In some extreme cases, LD's bring their own props to events. In this video, spandex man was apparently fired from his day job as an air-traffic-controller and took his rage out on the blissful drum circle.

Lest we forget clapping. LD's like to clap, and they clap often. This is often an attempt to get others to join in, so as not to be the only one having fun at an event. This LD, caught on tape at an outdoor restaurant, suffers from Soloclaphysteria, which can effect one-in-three lone dancers. It's also highly likely to happen after six rum punches on board the Tiki Tour in Cozumel.

The LD, when not seen out on the town, is normally classified by friends as being a take charge type of person. Much like the person who is obsessed with starting "the wave" at sporting events, the LD sees it as his/her personal duty to get others involved in any joyous event where pseudo dancing is a possibility. If they are unable to get others to join in the fun, they are never discouraged. If they can simply touch ONE person with their infectious dance-induced hysteria, they have accomplished what many LD's never experience: complete and utter satisfaction. Watch as this man, who most likely also started the wave in the arena, gets a taste of the lone dancer spotlight.

Contrary to popular belief, the LD is not always an attention seeking wave starter. They are oftentimes moved so deeply by the music, they see the LD option as the only way to truly express their inner-joy and appreciation. In this instance, the LD is inflicted with Bigbandboogieitis Disorder. Woah. Nice hat. Do I spy matching gloves, too? You go, boogie woogie.

Your Homo Away From Homo

I received a very special email offer the other day from Olivia, pioneers in lesbo travel. Well known for their women only cruises and midnight buffets, this e-blast wasn't pimping out drunken karaoke, hoops with Swoopes or tennis with Martina. Olivia was inviting me to pack it up and move on out ... to Tucson, Arizona!

Olivia's prez, Judy Dlugacz, recently announced plans to offer up townhouses in a brand spankin' new lesbian intentional community. The website talks about "putting the LIVE in Olivia." And by LIVE, I think she means building you your very own dog park.

"Amenities in our gated community are abundant so when it’s time to relax, enjoy two resort-style heated pools and spa with fountains, and sunning decks, well-equipped fitness center, multiple barbeque pavilions and a lavish clubhouse. The community will be enhanced with additional improvements including a dog park, a fitness course, a volleyball pit. Local community public parks, expansive gyms, a golf course, museums and art galleries, protected parks and wilderness hiking are all nearby. Tucson has bike lanes and trails throughout much of the city and skiing is available within a half an hour’s drive, during the right time of year!"

While I have no desire to live in Tucson, the thought of living in a gated lesbian community got the wheels turning. Namely, what would the interrogation be like at the security gate?

Security Guard: Hello there, ma'am. We only allow lesbians in these gates, so you'll have to answer the following questions before we allow you passage into Bush Gardens.

Anonymous gay in a Subaru: OK, no problem. But make it quick, me and my friends here are visiting Amy and Jessica Helsey-Hoff in unit 419. We're helping them build a new fence so that their Guatemalan baby can run around in the yard without getting hit by golf balls. The woman driving the cement mixer behind us is with us too ...

Security Guard: What actress hasbian appeared as "Buddy" on Family and as Barbara on Empty Nest?

There would undoubtedly be perks living alongside 75 other gays. Association fees? Zilch. With 10 pipe fitters, 3 plumbers, 15 carpenters, 6 landscape architects, 2 electricians, 3 nurses, 4 doulas, 8 midwives and 1 resident who specializes in drywall, the need to hire out for special projects -or- gayby home births would be few and far between.

Speaking as a condo owner myself, I'd love it if there were just a few more gays around to pick up some of the communal slack. Y and I have become the "go to" unit when anything catastrophic happens that needs tending to. Internet is down, heat goes out, it's the gays who make the call. What's that I smell? Dead squirrel in the basement? Let the gays handle it. Snow removal wack job gets in a "turn off your damn blower" cafuffle with our neighbor in the middle of the night? Gays again. OK, it's true. We're well connected. Gays tend to have friends with circular saws and always know someone with a truck. We also tend to walk around with a gay version ofAngie's List in our heads. We do come in handy. Which is what makes the Olivia offer so ... intriguing.

Wonder if they'll offer communal Keens and a lifetime supply of Kashi with ownership?

Lend Us Your Fugliest

Mars needs women. So does Mount Isa, Australia.

An arid NW Queensland mining town with a population of 25,000, Isa is apparently hurting for chicks. The male to female ratio stands at 5-to-1. Last week, Mayor John Molony announced his plans for reversing the estrogen shortage by proclaiming: Fugly Spoken Here.

Mount Isa Mayor John Molony was refusing to apologize on Monday for angering local women with a suggestion that "with five blokes to every girl, may I suggest that beauty-disadvantaged women should proceed to Mount Isa," in north-west Queensland state.

"Quite often you will see walking down the street a lass who is not so attractive with a wide smile on her face. Whether it is recollection of something previous or anticipation for the next evening, there is a degree of happiness," Molony told the Townsville Bulletin newspaper last week.

"Some, in other places in Australia, need to proceed to Mount Isa where happiness awaits. Really, beauty is only skin deep. Isn't there a fairy tale about an ugly duckling that evolves into a beautiful swan," Molony said.

Bologna, Malony. And did you just use the words lass and beauty disadvantaged in a sentence? Tsk tsk tsk. What are we going to do with you.

According to Wiki, cricket, rugby league and tennis are the most common sports in Mount Isa, but BMX, shooting, dancing and ten-pin bowling are also present. How do you expect to attract more women, when you consider ten-pin bowling and shooting sports? Stop thinking like a guy, Malony. What you need is an estrogen strategist, STAT. Someone Martha Stewart-esque, but with a libido. I'm kindly offering my services to re-brand your town. Some small changes could make a world of difference.

The Case: Project Isa Bonita
Location: Mount Isa, Australia
The Cause: Because you can't ring a dinner bell and call the fuglies en masse

#1 - Start building nail salons.

Women, even the fugliest of fugs, will not got to bed with a man who has 18 years of dirt and grime under his fingernails. These mining men need to practice good personal hygiene in order to attract a real mate, of the non-latex, blow-up variety.

#2 - Make Stitch & Bitch A National Pastime

Who needs shooting when you have knitting and bitching? It's cathartic and crafty. This sport will bring women out of the woodwork. Some will take to the challenge of knitting socks as fiercely as they would your beloved BMX and 10-Pin. Just don't expect any action until she's finished both pairs, which could take years.

#3 - Start Stripping

That's right, take off your clothes, mining men. I think we're all familiar with the Full Monty way of finding love and lifelong companionship. You remember, less-than-spunky unemployed blokes decide to take it all off for cash, thereby attracting women from all over the UK. The men of Mount Isa need to strip on the side. If you put in the effort, the best looking sheilas in the bush will respond.

#4 - Invite Brad & Angelina to give birth in Mount Isa

Oh no, she's not done with the baby making. Not even close. In fact, she's just beginning to hit her stride. Above all other suggestions, this one will drive the women crazy and drive them to Isa in droves. Women from all over Queensland will come to see baby daddy Brad get manicures along-side Maddox, Paddox, Hard Knox and King of Leon. If Angelina's not game to give birth there, she can always adopt one of their beauty disadvantaged babies.

The QVC Intervention

The following is an actual voice mail message I received from my mom, in which she lays out her devious plan to have me sell her second-hand shopping contraband on Ebay. I had called her to make sure she wasn't buying Barry Manilow's album from QVC. Did I mention that my mom doesn’t own a computer? I'd like you to note the proper use of the word douche as well.

Ginny

My mom loves to shop. She also loves Howard Stern, Flea Markets, her two fat cats, Air America and Red White and Blue, her favorite second-hand store. She's a rare bird, our Ginny. How many 65 year-old women would openly admit to loving Howard Stern?

Mom: Oh gawd, honey, Howard had these lesbian mud wrestlers on this morning. I was hysterical. I could hardly drive, I was laughing so hard. You should really listen to him. Why don’t you listen to his show?

Me: Why did he have lesbian mud wrestlers on? What were they doing?

Mom: He was challenging women to beat up Stuttering John. They weren’t making out or strippin’ or anything. There was a line out the door and around the block with listeners willing to wrestle Stuttering John. I guess Stuttering John is kinda weak, because these women pinned him – you know - BOOM - one two, three, he was down. I felt bad for him. They were all making fun of him.

There was a time in her not-so-distant past when she listened to both Rush Limbaugh and Bill O'Reilly. I refer to this dark time as the pre-enlightenment era. It was right around the time when Prez Bush was asking Americans to boycott the purchase of French wine and cheese and to only refer to french fries as Freedom Fries. Ginny then came out and proclaimed that she would stop buying French wine and cheese, waving the American flag, determined to teach the French a lesson for not supporting le prez in his "to hell with the UN" warlord antics. It was all the Rush and Bill brainwashing talking. I had to remind her that her Gallo by the jug is made in California and shredded parm from Pathmark was far more Jersey than it is French.

I think my mom listened to Rush and Bill because she was bored. They were on her TV and in her living room, they said things with conviction while wearing nice-looking ties, things that must have resonated in Cat Condo land. Boredom, as I've come to appreciate vicariously through my mom's lazy approach to politics, bred this insanity. It wasn't until I gave her a few Michael Moore books and she devoured Stupid White Men that she came to her senses. I'm now proud to report that the pre-enlightenment days were rough, but brief. She's now as PFLAG toutin’, Obama loving, president bashing as they come. The transformation was pretty extreme. She would have won, had she been a brainwashed O’Reilly drone on some political equivalent of The Swan.

My mom's go-to hobby and adrenaline junkie fix still comes from shopping. This malady she has not been cured of. Pair shopping with her love of mind numbing television, and you'll find her obsession with QVC. I was disturbed a few years ago to find that my mom actually knew the names of the women who sold certain products on QVC:

Mom: Sally The Birkenstock Lady was on last night. She had a funny ponytail done up on the side, I think it was 80’s night or something. Anyway, she was talking about how the shoes were originally made in Germany. Did you know that? Remember when you wanted a pair and they cost about a hundred bucks back when you went to college? I bought a pair and I’m so excited to get them, they were ranting about how comfortable these things are. It was a steal. I paid my first installment of $19.99 today.

Me: What do you mean, you paid your first installment? They bill you monthly? And then you pay shipping too?

Mom: Yeah, but, you know. You don’t have to cough it up all at once. And they sell them for less than they cost in the store.

Me: You’re scaring me. What else are you buying on QVC? Give it up.

Mom: Come on, I’m not going crazy or anything. Just a few things here and there.

Me: Like what? Spill it.

Mom: Well, I bought some delicious Omaha Steaks last week and put one on the grill. You wouldn’t believe how tender this meat is. Phenomenal. I wish you could try this steak. Smokey loved it.

Me: You bought steak on QVC? And then paid to have it shipped to your house? That’s ridiculous mom. Why don’t you just drive to Trader Joe’s? You shouldn’t be feeding steak to your cats, mom. They already weigh 30 pounds.

Mom: Listen, don’t get crazy. They don’t carry these steaks at Trader Joe’s and the quality is unbelievable. Smokey isn’t 30 pounds. He’s on a diet. I stopped giving him turkey breast from Shop Rite.

Mary Carillo Suspected of Doping, Fond of Beavers

Veteran sports commentator and friend to young, orphaned Chinese contortionists, Mary Carillo has been a precious gem in a sea of spandex body suits this week. Her segment on the Three Gorges Dam the other night left me speechless. I've looked high and low for a clip to post here, but to no avail. The memory of Mary burns bright, however; and I will do my best to relay it here.

Please note, for those of you who are not glued to the Olympics, Mary Carillo stood atop the largest hydro-electric dam in the world, wearing a bright yellow hard hat and briefly interviewed the lead engineer on the project. What was her question to the engineer, you ask?

How many beavers would it take to build this dam?

Not only did she say the B word, she said it twice. Enthusiastically. I'd even venture to say she was maniacally possessed by the word, as it gave her a child-like sense of accomplishment upon uttering it. The translator looked completely thrown by this one, which is why the engineer didn't have a response to the beaver jubilation. The beaver was lost in translation. I'm guessing the Mandarin or Chinese words for our beloved beaver wouldn't go over well on prime time. The literal Mandarin translation of Mary's question would be:

How many double vaginas would it take to build this dam?

Apparently it's an insult to have more than one vagina. Really? I think it would come in quite handy, to be honest. The Chinese are very traditional when it comes to their genitalia. Which is probably why The Vagina Monologues was banned in China. Can't have more than one vagina, can't have a talking vagina either. Boring.

Mary Carillo's vignette with the contortionist children was a bit frightening. She sounds a lot like Yao Ming when she talks, which does lead me to believe she's doping. How would you react if you were a four year old contortionist and a female Yao Ming was sitting next to you, asking you about beavers and back bends? Fi, Fi, Fo, Fum ...

CAN YOU DO A BACK BEND TOO, LITTLE BOYYYYYYYY?

The Clear Polish Pedi

I'm a big fan of the summer pedicure. I basically live in flip flops from the beginning of May until whenever the you betchya! winter gods decide to hurl snow at us. Where I live, this has been known to happen by Halloween. Long underwear is my second-skin.

My belief that exposed feet should do all that they can in order to avoid offending those who are forced to look at them began years ago. I used to work for a magazine that had a reputation for being a bit on the crunchy, deodorant free, hippie side of life. While not all of us embraced the downscaled hygiene routine, a few took full advantage. Some hardly wore clothes to work, sporting shorts and rags that could possibly pass as loin cloths.

One of the most faithful of the hippies would drag around the office, knuckles scraping the floor, barefoot and hairy. This guy had enough hair on his big toe, you could braid it. He also had feet the size of a stretch Hummer with unfortunate looking nails. My office was along his route from the editorial department to the kitchen. And man was this beast hungry. I caught one glimpse of those size 16 ferbies one hot summer day and was tortured by the thought of them for years. Clearly, I still have some issues to work out.

Y loves getting pedicures and I always go with her for a little relaxing foot spa action and some valuable People magazine catch up time. When we arrive at the salon, she always asks me the same question:

What color are you going to get?

I think about this for a few minutes, wondering if I could really "do" color this time. All of the pretty bottles lined up by the door with hilarious names like "I'm not really a waitress" pull me in. But would it clash with my flops? And better yet - would I feel like I'm in drag? The tomboy wears plumb or Mauve-lous Memories? I don't think so. And so after about two minutes of deliberation, I reach for the ol' standby. The Clear Polish.

I want a job working for O.P.I. naming polish. Just for a week or so and then they can fire me. I think there's money to be made catering to the, how shall we say, lesbo-pedi crowd? I can speak to my people, you see. But we'll first have to start with polish names that evoke a more homo-sensibility than Argenteeny Pinkini.

My contributions to the new O.P.I. girl-gay line:

Swamp Ophelia
"Touch me, I'm so beautiful ..."

Hummous
After all, what's a party without a little hommos?

My Cycle Is One With The New Moon
For those astro-savvy girls who howl in open fields, this lacquer is for you.

Come To My Window Karaoke
This tone is inspired by the tint of a cold Miller High Life and the hue of a leather softball glove.

Sommersby
You can put the gay girl in a dress, but she still looks like a gay girl in a dress.

Matthew McConaughey Has Baby, Becomes Jesus

I find it hilarious that Matthew McConaughey (who we will now only refer to as Jesus) is never snapped by The Pap wearing a shirt. Whether he's eating at Nobu, hanging out w/ fully clothed women wearing Armani couture or filming a scene for his next flick in Australia, the guy always has his beautiful man pecs on display. Can you blame him? If my stomach looked like this, I'd consider clothing optional too. I'd offer up my six-pack abs to house your smorgasbord sushi platter. Yes, use me as a plate. Go ahead, eat off my impressive work of art ab nuggets if you must. Hold the wasabi.

Many of People's Sexiest Men Alive have procreated before - so why all the hoopla over Jesus? I have some theories.

#1) There's an obvious scientific correlation between uber sexiness and paternal competence.

Ugly celebrity dads get no love. I didn't realize that Jack Black had a baby until pics popped up of the toddler playing at the park recently. The kid has a full set of teeth already! No baby picture madness over Nacho Libre's offspring, no bidding war vs. People and OK! magazine. No question, he's a worthless father devoid of joy. While we like staring at Jesus' sculpted body while hitting the waves off Malibu, we will drool even more readily over pictures of him sporting his sexy spawn ala Baby Bjorn, while strolling through Whole Foods.

#2) We go ape shit over (former gigalo party boy) celebrity dads who are both sexy AND sensitive environmental warriors.

Ecorazzi just reported that Jesus decided to keep the baby's placenta and looks forward to returning it to the earth. He's planning on planting it beneath a tree in an orchard in Australia. Come on Jesus. Just buy a Prius! Must you always "one up" all of the celebrity greenies? Where will that leave sensitive greenies like Sting? Bono? Dave Matthews? They'll now be forced to BUY the orchard, donate it to a nonprofit and start a green placenta exchange program with India.

The Summer Gaymes

Had a fun dream last night that I was sent to Beijing to cover the Olympics along side Matt Lauer. My task: to bring out the "gay" in the summer games. I was kind of like Matt’s little Ross The Intern. Only shorter, of the girl-gay variety and sporting better eyebrows.

Some events I’m especially curious about and will be tuning in for are listed here for your review. These may or may not be deemed Ross-worthy. I'll let you make the call.

Get ready for six-pack abs and marble bags! It’s Men’s Diving! I didn’t realize that there was anything more Greg Lu-Gay-Ness than men’s diving and a big super shammy, until I came across Men’s Synchronized Springboard. Meet Tony Ally and Mark Shipman, two of the world’s best. Holy cirque-du-soleil, Batman! Did you see that tuck position?

Men's 10m Platform Final: 8/23, 8pm CT, 9EST on NBC.
Men's 3m Springboard Final: 8/19, 8 CST, 9EST on NBC.
Men's Synchronized 3m Springboard Final: 8/13, 2CST, 3EST on NBC.

When someone says the word trampoline, I think rusty springs. I think white athletic socks, concussions and stitches. I think of being launched ten feet in the air and then landing on my face in the McKenzie’s backyard. Who knew that getting the wind knocked out of me would eventually become an Olympic sport? The You Tube clip features Portuguese commentary.

Play by play commentator translation:

Look how high he's getting!
I hope that guy is covering the springs with the blue crash mat, he looks distracted
We heard Yuri changed from his usual naked toe grip to a slippery white athletic sock, let's see if that effects his performance.
That was a slight Charlie Bucket bubble gas bobble, two tenths of a point deduction
Here comes the Flip Flop, Flip Flop, very nicely done. Nice, nice.
And a double twisting Don't Tell Mom. Excellent.

***

8/15 11:00pm ET
Women's Individual Trampoline - Preliminary
8/16 12:14am ET
Men's Individual Trampoline - Preliminary
8/28 8:25am ET
Women's Individual Trampoline - Finals

Ping Pong is for amateurs.
Table Tennis, on the other hand, is for cross-eyed Swedish super lads like Jorgen Persson.

Not to be confused with the children's pod chair at Ikea that shares his namesake, Jorgen demonstrates a mesmerizing and rhythmic Swedish Scissor Kick technique in an attempt to hypnotize his opponent.

For a complete listing of all the events and air times on your local network, visit the official site of the olympic games.

Facebook: Revenge of the NERDS?

I finally gave into peer pressure and hopped from MySpace to Facebook earlier this year. Can’t say that I like it any better. Everyone had been telling me to open an account, going on and on and on about how much they love it, how amazing it is. After its street value was tagged at a whopping 15 billion, I decided to see what all the crazy hoopla was about.

Am I the only person on the planet who thinks Facebook is, um, just kinda silly?

As much as I loathe Facebook, find it clunky and harder to use than MySpace, it does have its perks. I’m able to send short little notes to friends from college that I’m too lazy to call, thereby assuaging my guilt for being a bad friend. Facebook can also give you the comforting illusion that you’re in touch by viewing a recent photo album, or by sending things like virtual champagne bottles to congratulate them on their new job or new baby. Lest I forget, you can also throw sheep at them and various other sundry items, should you bother to dig around long enough to figure out how to do it.

One truly fascinating aspect of Facebook that I find hard to ignore as of late, is how former high school classmates have literally come out of the woodwork, sending friend requests with a frenzy. Many are people that I wasn’t particularly close to, some I’m certain I’ve never even had a conversation with. Yet I don’t see any harm in accepting these kinds of requests. Many of the people I didn’t seek out a friendship with when I was 15 would probably be much more interesting to talk with today. Had I paid much attention in 1989, they would have been much more interesting back then, too, than some of the people I was friends with or looking to befriend.

In 2008, more than sixteen-years after I graduated from high school, I’d like to think that we’ve all changed for the better. That we don’t think too long and hard about what it might mean or look like to accept someone’s offer of friendship. Even in the virtual land of Facebook, where I will likely not come face to face with former classmates unless I attend my 20 year reunion in 2012.

I’ve spoken about this tidbit with friends, who share my experience and have heard from people they had never really known as friends in real life. Maybe it’s voyeuristic curiosity that spurs the invite, or maybe it’s something more? Maybe this is the way that former social outcasts are making peace with their pasts?

A friend of mine recently received a friend request from someone who was hopelessly nerdy and awkward in high school. She said that she had never really spoken with him, but remembered that he played the trombone and didn’t have many friends. After further snooping of his profile, she said that he now looked like Zach Braff and was a Tony award-winning producer.

The criteria for mainstream acceptance and popularity when I was 15 was pretty cut and dry - and I’d venture to say - not unlike every John Hughes high school movie cliché that many of us lived and breathed. 1) You had to be good looking OR 2) You had to be well liked and deemed worthy by those that were universally agreed upon as good looking. Have we really changed that much? Or are we just given a new set of criteria to judge by?

On Facebook, I can instantly see where someone went to college, what degrees they hold, what their occupation is, who they work for, if they are married or partnered or single, what their spouse looks like, what their kids look like, or if they think that Obama should be the next president. For the Mr. Tony Awards out there, it must be cathartic to be accepted by those who once ignored or rejected them – even if that acceptance comes in the form of a virtual poke or a potted plant.

Things I've Learned From Shark Week.

Move over Oprah!

My TIVO has a new crush this week, and his name is Les Stroud. I've recorded 7 sharky shows in all, featuring juicy nuggets like "Survivorman: Surviving Sharks" and "Sharkman" - a new, two hour tonic-immobility potpourri, featuring some of the most amazing stunts, interesting factoids and unbelievable shark encounters I've ever seen. Sadly, Discovery Channel did re-run many of the same programs they've shown previously. It would have been nice to see a few more new additions, but can you really blame them? I, for one, am happy that they don't have heaps of new material to work with when it comes to shows like "When Great Whites Attack." I’ll watch the Australian abalone guy and his stoner son with the Sideshow Bob fro once more any ol’ day if it means another year went by without another attack.

For those of you who are not obsessed with Shark Week like I am, thought I'd break down some of the very basic tips and observations here for your reading pleasure. After all, it's the very least I can do to ensure that your next trip to the Florida Panhandle or Australia's SW coast doesn't end in bloody chaos.

1. I would rather sit with a giant bull’s-eye on my head in the stands at a fiery air show, or work a double shift in a poorly ventilated coal mine, than be forced to dive for Abalone in Australia. G'day, Great White.

2. If you're swallowed head first by a shark, and it hasn't also swallowed both of your arms, proceed to poke it in the eye. By poke, I mean punch and claw. It doesn't like to be poked in the eye. Neither do I. Poke Poke Poke

3. If you resemble a seal, sea lion or a large dog while swimming or floating, you have no business being in the water. Find another hobby while you're on vacation.

4. So we know that sharks don't like to be poked in the eye, but apparently, some like to be stroked on the snout. How the hell did someone figure this out without being EATEN ALIVE?

5. Your first aid kit should include an emergency tourniquet if you plan to attempt any the above. Which I am by no means recommending. How To Stop Blood Loss Wiki, 101

6. If you find yourself "surf casting" in knee-deep water with bloody shrimp and tuna bait in your pocket, you deserve to be eaten. This is the mindless equivalent to strapping raw, bloody T-Bones around your neck and then wondering why the Rottweilers won't stop chasing you.

Many more interesting tidbits and accidental nibbles can be found on endless repeat. See The Discovery Channel for a full lineup of Shark Week programs here: Shark Week Program Listing