Jersey.Girl.Genius

30 Days of Quarantine Jingling

I'm taking random moments from our day and coming up with short jingles....because ...why not?  Today,  I bring you ....

Portable Pancake (PLEASE CLICK ON ME)

 

The No Divorce Sleep Solution

Hundreds of books have been written about babies, toddlers and sleep. You may even own one, or seven of them. You may have been asked to read one by your partner at two in the morning, when you thought you were being extra helpful by suggesting a transition into the crib before dawn. You may have even skimmed said book on a flight from Minneapolis to Laguardia, somewhere in-between binges of Homeland and the crack-laden Delta cookies they doll out. The Happiest Baby on the Block, The Ferber Method, The Cry it Out Book for Horrible Parents who will Definitely Scar Their Children, Turning them into Sociopathic Serial Killers, the list goes on and on.  I can’t forget my all-time favorite, The No Cry Sleep Solution, which is actually a book for kinder, more gentle and morally superior parents at the end of their delirious ropes, who refuse to entertain the cry it out option.  It’s the sleep book equivalent of your kid’s loose, dangling tooth that just needs a little tug so you can be on your merry way, but you just can’t bring yourself to yank it. This book should come with a forward that includes suggestions for family therapists and divorce lawyers within a two-mile radius.  A disclaimer is necessary, a warning that your significant other might be sleep deprived and crazy enough to say sweet and reassuring things like “don’t even think about touching my nipples ever again.” This particular book should come strapped to a box of wine on wheels with a reusable funnel.

All of this sleep stuff isn’t simple, it’s certainly not easy, like almost all things parenting. There is not a one size fits all onesie for sleep.  So why do we torture ourselves over a stage that will ultimately be a bleary-eyed blip on the radar? Because we can’t help ourselves, that’s why. All of us have that one friend whose kid sleeps seven to seven like clockwork, would sleep through an earthquake, naps twice a day in a crib for two hour stretches at a time. We are sleep deprived and crazy and we start to compare our sleepless lives to the well-rested Joneses.  This phase, also known as the "self-loathing trapped under a baby blues so I'll eat a pint of Talenti with a grapefruit spoon" is only going to make you crankier.

That goddamn Chupacabra of newborns sleeps for twelve hours without waking up. How dare they have it so easy, you’ll silently whisper. No wonder they go out on a lot of dates, you’ll finally mutter out loud, pouring your third cup of coffee before the sun is up. I guess that means they can actually put their kid down on a non-human surface without it crying. Is that a thing? People can actually lay their kids down on objects? How nice that must be, you’ll find yourself crying. Why can’t we have this sleep thingy too? You’ll say to your partner, the one whose nipples you’re now banned from visiting. Not even conjugal visits until the child is no longer nursing or heading off for college, whichever comes first. Must you wear the baby like a sloth from sunup to sundown? Even sloths have to detach from their mothers to forage for leaves at some point, a tidbit of information you absorbed while watching the third installment of Wild Kratts in a row with your four-year-old, because you were too tired to move or get up to go to the bathroom. Why can’t she just forage in her own crib, you’ll ask? She needs to forage; she needs to forage goddammit!

More than ten thousand times the number of sleep books exist today than they did when I was an infant back in the seventies. In 1974, you were lucky if you had a proper crib that didn’t kill you if you stuck your head through the metal guillotine bars. Car seats? Those are for fancy parents. Who needs car seats when you have a convertible Mercedes without seatbelts and your big sister’s lap to sit on. The floor is also a great spot for a baby, if you’re wondering. Nothing reduces the risk of head injury or death quite like being wedged between your father’s briefcase and a windshield ice scraper. Times have most certainly changed since my parents were raising four kids in a foreign land filled with lawn darts and three martini lunches. Most of that change has been for the better, of course. There’s been a lot of progress in understanding what causes SIDS, for instance. Smoking and falling asleep on the couch with your infant on your chest while watching Johnny Carson, not such a great idea. We’re no longer told to place a washcloth soaked in whisky into our child’s mouth when they are a bit feverish or teething. Much more research now points to the emotional impact on a child’s development if they are repeatedly hit or spanked for misbehaving. Getting whacked with a wooden spoon if you spill an entire bottle of finger paints on the white shag would send Janet Landsbury into a tailspin. I’m glad there’s been so much progress.

With all of our well-meaning effort to hear and acknowledge our children’s feelings, we’re left second-guessing our own decisions and behavior more and more. And the truth is, there’s not a sleep “solution” that will work for all. That’s why there are so many books on the subject. If you want to sleep with your baby suspended from the ceiling upside down to imitate the natural sleep patterns of fruit bats, I’m sure there’s a book out there for you that will validate that decision. I read an article not too long ago about a family that custom built two sets of bunk beds on either side of their own queen bed to accommodate their kids who constantly came into their room at night, looking for a warm body to snuggle.  Do I think that the father must be some sort of twisted Ikea furniture assembling genius? Definitely. Did the sleep hack mean that his entire family got more sleep? Without a doubt.

The moral to my convoluted and booze filled story is that you should try, to the best of your ability, to focus on what works for you and your family and not to worry so much about that Chupacabra neighbor baby of the same age, who loves to sleep and nap on demand, who can also recite Spanish poetry and scenes from The Big Lebowski while your kid hasn’t rolled over yet. This too shall pass. The sloth baby will become a toddler who sleeps on her own and you will, eventually, be allowed to have a few unmonitored conversations with the nipples that lay beside you. You can do this thing. I’m cheering you on every step of the way.

A Very Tootsie Halloween

Callum knew he wanted to be a leopard for halloween six months before "candy day" was officially here.  It wasn't until the day of that he decided that we also needed to dress up to Trick or Treat with him.  Last year, he barely made it down the block, his construction worker toolbelt weighed down by Pat The Hammer, he retired after only a few houses.  This year, he was ready to party.  His ask of me was simple.  That I dress as a ghost.  Unlike a friend of ours whose 3-year old told her father that he needed to be "garden mulch," this would not require much imagination.  One old sheet from Arc Value Village and a pair of scissors later, I was a ghost.  C asked Y to be a witch. 

A bit more complex, especially for someone with her over-achiever crafty nature.  Green face wouldn't do.  She needed a hat, a wig and proper makeup.  She also needed a broom.  Without the right witchy attire on hand, I was hopeful that Uber would be able to deliver a last minute option, perhaps some old standby costumes to choose from.  I happily took advantage of their genius "costume on demand" service and called for our special delivery.

 

 

What would this candy corn car deliver, we wondered?  Witches?  Pumpkins?  Vampires?  Equipped with its very own makeup artist, we'd be ready to walk around the block in no time.   Yvette was excited, we quickly found the toddler some shoes and waited outside for our delivery.

The costume arrived, tucked away in a box, its contents unknown.  "Everyone gets a mystery costume, you don't get to choose," which didn't sit well with Crafty.  The makeup artist started working on Y's face right away, which yielded absolutely no clues as to which outfit awaited us.  He's using sparkles, he's using pink!  My Little Pony?  Should we go as Bronies?  Silence.  Apparently none of the Uber folk spoke nerd.  We said goodbye to our Uber team and rushed inside to see what fate had brought us. 

What we pulled out of the box was certainly unexpected.  And definitely not safe for trick or treating.  Yvette refused to try it on.  The Uber gods had bestowed upon us a "Sexy Ref" outfit.  The team did not miss the "all women want sexy costumes" memo and we had fallen into the trap.  There are only three costumes to choose from if you have boobs.  Sexy Nurse, Sexy Zombie, Sexy Ref.  I now know that Uber's core audience is a size 2 and in their early 20's.  I decided to try on the costume, which gave sexy ref a whole new meaning.  You know what's sexy, Uber?  When Melissa McCarthy holds customers hostage inside a Foot Locker. 

 

You'll be happy to know that I did not wear the above outfit outside.  I did leave the house later that night as Tootsie, however.  Tootsie, nowhere to be found on the list of sexiest Halloween costumes, showed very little leg but a lot of heart.

She even had her big reveal moment.  Good day, Dr Brewster.  I said good day Sir!

 

 

Dear Delta

I'm not a complainer.  Seriously, I'm not that person you'll see raging in line at the DMV, demanding to speak with the manager, acting like a complete entitled and ungrateful lunactic in public or in private, for that matter.  I'm the person you want to get into a fender bender with, accidentally spill an entire glass of red wine on, cut in front of while waiting in line to buy cronuts.  Why?  Because I'm nice.  I understand there are more important things in life than a nice white shirt.  I also believe in good karma.  I understand that sometimes shit happens, and that you're probably just having a really bad day.  This is why I wanted to share the letter I wrote to Delta with you.  Sometimes, you really just want your wifi and your in-flight entertainment to work.  And when it doesn't, you feel like the Clash of the Titans Kraken.  You just don't come between a working Mom and her Game of Thrones.  Full disclosure, I heard back from Delta two days after this was sent, and they were very kind to refund my economy comfort fee and sprinkled in some extra bonus miles to make up for my experience.  You can be nice, and still get your point across.  Behold, exhibit A.

***

Dear Delta,

Hope this note finds you well. I am writing to share my experience and my disappointment on a recent Delta international flight from Minneapolis to Amsterdam on January 5, 2014, flight #258 where I was seated in 13G.
 
After paying an extra fee to enjoy the perks of economy comfort, my personal entertainment device was broken. Release the Kraken. As the mother of a two year-old who doesn’t get to the movies often, I was very much looking forward to eight and a half hours of solo flying time, where I could catch up on recent releases and work on a business presentation I needed to complete prior to landing. Its not often that I get 8 whole hours to do whatever I wish – and this day – I wanted to binge on Oscar nominated films. I was giddy with anticipation of my flight. If you have young children at home, then you can understand how a 15 minute bath at home with a glass of wine can feel like a week in Bermuda. It doesn't happen often, and as parents, we look forward to these cherished minutes of peace and quiet during our hectic, mac n cheese making, story reading, proposal pitching, diaper changing, client demanding, sing me one more song mama, day to day lives.
 
Not only was the entertainment system broken, but the WiFi never came online. No announcement, no apology, no attempt to move my seat. I couldn’t do work, and I was unable to watch movies. Not exactly the flying experience I was hoping to have as a Gold Medallion member, and it certainly doesn’t make me want to “climb higher” with Delta in the future. I wanted to climb into the empty first class seat so I could watch Game of Thrones instead of trying to lip read Oprah scenes from The Butler from three rows back. Between you and me, I just couldn't let go of the fact that it was Oprah, even with all of the excellent wigs and makeup.
 
Imagine you had planned a big party to watch the fighting irish trounce USC, only to find that comcast wasn't televising your game. No viewing party, no beer, no high fives, no love from comcast customer service who told you that they could not reboot the entire system just for you. The Kraken aint' got no time for dat.
 
I go out of my way to choose Delta flights whenever I travel, for business and for pleasure, expecting to receive exceptional service and to be rewarded for my loyalty. I was extremely disappointed with the amenities on my flight and the lack of attention made to try and remedy the situation. I am requesting a refund of my economy comfort fee and bonus miles for the inconvenience of traveling on Delta. While you can't give me those eight hours back, I hope you offer me some consolation so that I give Delta another try. Hard working parents deserve our 8 hours of peace and quiet in the sky – and every last pretzel crumb offered to us.
 
Sincerely,
13G

Orange is the New Crack

I'm in 17C today.

No first class upgrade for me. This means I will not be getting my breakfast serving of dehydrated eggs, with a side of exploding yogurt. Have you been a victim of first class exploding yogurt? Not sure if its the pressure or what, but no matter how slowly I peel back that lid, there's always a backsplash of something containing Splenda that winds up on my nice, freshly laundered dress shirt. Today, I'm in coach with the other plebs, making a meal out of my 4 pretzels.  You can keep your Splenda 2C.  At least there's wireless to keep me occupied.  Even coach gets access to eBay.

I've found that my GoGo is way too SlowSlow, which means that I will not be able to stream my latest binge, Orange is the New Black.  If you're looking for hard hitting, gritty, true tales of life behind bars in a women's prison, I suggest you watch Locked Up Raw instead.  Reincarnation of Oz it is not.  It's more like The L Word goes to Shop Class, and is about as gritty as Oprah's camping trip was with Gale.  Except this crew gets donuts.  And shoes that look like Toms.

Are we that starved for cute gays on TV that we'll tune into Orange in droves?  Yes.  I suppose so.  Yet this show's popularity and "must see" chatter has reached near cronut worship, which I think is a bit over the top.  Before I strip-search this show, let me first start with the good.

The girl went to Smith.  Any school with an A capella group called the Smithenpoofs deserves a prime time shout out.  And it's pretty accurate that most Smith girls are LUGS.  Lesbians until graduation.  Is LUG an outdated term yet?  That's what we called them in 96, when I graduated.  Maybe now it's "lesbian until transitioning" which seems to be a lot more common now than it was back then.  But I digress.  Smith girl makes good on her felon past, entertains the masses in the process.  Win Win.

What this show does very well is the backstory profiling.  Jenji knew she couldn't film the entire series behind bars, which is a real victory for the viewer.  Because of this, we get to see Red (aka, the Moscow Mule) speed walk with the Russian mob wives and then slowly blossom into the den mother meets Scarface character that she does so damn well.  She's one of my favorites and one of the very few who doesn't appear to be pretending to be on a show about women in prison.  My money's on her having gotten very Rain Man about her role, spending time in a women's prison, living and breathing the culture that shapes her character. 

I'm also a big fan of Crazy Eyes Suzanne who does an excellent job at looking menacing, twitchy and creepy at the same time.  When we finally meet her parents, I loved every second of that quick glimpse into what shapes her.

Some of the other women need a bit more Stanislavski in their jumpsuits.  Nicky Nichols, aka Natasha Lyonne, perhaps best known for her roles in But I'm a Cheerleader and American Pie, hasn't won me over yet.  That accent is distracting, as is her unkempt hair.  Ok, we get it.  She was a junkie so always has to look a shade of crazy, down to the sticky mascara.  Her accent is right out of the 1982 Annie movie, borrowed from one of those scrappy New York orphans.  I keep waiting for her to say "Why I Outta!!!" while grating her knuckles against someone's scalp.  Not a high point for me.  There's another member of Red's crew who sounds like she's gargling marbles.  Lorna Morello, aka Yael Stone.  Not sure where she's supposed to be from, but she fades in and out of something that slightly resembles Bronx meets West Side Story meets cottonmouth.  I need subtitles for her, not the Russian.  Did they run out of money when it came to the dialect coach? 

Piper is what I like least about the show.  She reminds me too much of Marsha Brady to take her seriously.  I keep waiting for Ben Stiller to make a guest appearance as a porn stashed guard who makes the women play strip dodge ball.  I know she's supposed to be a fish out of water, a delicate wallflower.  But most fish, if flung from the confines of their palatial bowl and castle, will do anything in order to breathe again.  She clings to the doe-eyed bambie number a bit too long into the season.  Even Martha Stewart, within the first 48 hours, knew she had to be someone's bitch in order to get access to icing sugar.  Pipers don't thrive in prison, they get swallowed up by bald, tattooed power lifters named Sweet Pea who are convicted of second degree murder and then make you their inside spoon.  Hoping that she becomes a three-dimensional character at this point.

I love Jason Biggs, but I don't love him in this role.  I don't believe the relationship between him and Piper, and there's zero chemistry.  I'd sooner see Jason Schwartzman in that role than Jason Biggs.  At least he has good hair.

Despite all of my bitching, I'm still watching.  I'm still jonesing for this show.  No one is dragging me kicking and screaming to my Apple TV and force-feeding me this show.  Why do I keep coming back for more, when it's flawed, cliché and gratuitous? Because MadMen is over, and I need a new summer fling to tide me over until I can get a hold of that crystal blue on Breaking Bad August 11th.  These women could all use a little Jessie Pinkman workshop, bitch.  Next time they get busted, I suggest they call Saul and skip the second season all together.

Sparkle Panties 107.1 Songwriting Challenge

 

Memo

The Topic:  Sparkle Panties

 

Written in 15 minutes while driving.

Download Memo

 
Lyrics:

Gonna go out tonight

We’re gonna hit the town

There’s something I need to do and

I can’t have you around

 

It starts with a Brazillian

And then a little spray tan

I’m gonna bedazzle my cha cha

The bling’s the thing for me and my man

 

Have you seen the bright lights

Inside my pants

Jennifer love Hewitt does it

Ghost lady knows romance

 

Have you seen my glittered up

Poonanny town

Tierra also had it

But bachelor Sean he shot her down

 

Sparkle Panties

They’re not like granny’s

Sparkle Panties

Now Available in a thong

Sparkle Panties

They’re not like granny’s

I was driving while I wrote this song …

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.

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. 

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?

Ginny's Thoughts on The Bachelor Pad

I gave in.  I caved.  I watched the first episode of The Bachelor Pad on ABC.  All tolled - it's a complete slutty mess.  Think the most drama-filled episode of Bachelor meets "Survivor" & "Big Brother."  Then throw in more booze, more plastic surgery and a few guys who shave their chests and take roids.  It's really genius, actually.  Much more bang for the buck than a season-long investment of The Bachelor.  We're now bound to see many more fame whoreish-ness on The Bachelor and Bachelorette in seasons to come too.  Not only will peeps be cast through the lens of one show - but producers will now be asking themselves: should this woman end up on The Pad?  Bachelor Pad will become just like The Real World and some of the contenders will be like what's his name...  You know, the cute guy from the first season of Real World who wound up on every Real World sequel and special until he went MIA and postal looking a few years ago.  Eric Nies!

Ginny has been watching as well.  Please hit the play button below to hear what she has to say about hostess Melissa and the twisted & desperate Elizabeth.  My two cents: The Weatherman must not be a real Weatherman.  No one on TV gets this much time off, unless he's forecasting for Ben Franklin Middle School Pubic Access Television.

Enjoy Ginny.  Let me know what you think of the show!

Ginny on bachelor pad

Tuna Sub, Anyone?

I'm still experiencing Spelling Bee fever.  Special shout out to my sister for bringing this gem to my attention.  By the way, Kiran Chetry deserves a Peabody Award or a lifetime supply of free tuna sandwiches from Subway for her willingness to persevere through what must have been an agonizing three minutes.

 

 

Bee Exceptional

It's raining in Minneapolis and my sloth-like lethargy is at an all-time high.  Wifey is studying as I type, listening to lectures from down under and generally ignoring me for the sake of her higher education.

Things I've accomplished today:

Prepared a broccoli, cheese & veggie sausage omelet for brunch

Watched a documentary about conjoined twins on my computer

Showered at approximately 2PM

Ventured out for coffee

Decided where I'd like to stay in Santorini, should I ever get to Greece.  Decided that a fantasy suite with infinity pool is a must.

Thought about going to the gym.  Twice.   

This brings me to my topic du jour.  Kids who make me feel like a lazy, good for nothing slacker.  Anamika Veerami, a 14 year old wonder girl from Ohio, won the Scripps National Spelling Bee yesterday.  She's a 14-year-old overachiever who likes to study in her free time, which can sometimes total up to 16 hours a day.  When not sleeping, eating or studying, she likes to envision her future at Harvard and her career as a cardiovascular surgeon.  Was it just me, or did Anamika look like she wasn't having much fun?  If you're not experiencing this kid of emotion on the brink of victory, then something's not quite kosher.

 

What the hell is wrong with kids these days?  

I've had it up to here with all of this lofty goal setting and achieving your wildest dreams hooey.  What ever happened to the joy of eating paste or plotting the loss of your virginity?  When I was 13, I spent hours trying to cut and roll the perfect pair of jean shorts, just so I could bump and grind just like Baby Houseman.  I may not be a Rhodes Scholar, but I can carry a watermelon with the best of them.

 

I guess kids have more important things to think about these days.  Things like how to survive a rogue wave in a teeny-bopper powered sailboat off of Cape Horn.  Thank you, 20/20, for making me feel even more like a lazy sod.  So 16 year-olds are now sailing around the world and 13 year-olds are climbing Everest.  Don't kids play with Ouija boards anymore? Make their own bongs out of apples? Sneak out of the house in the middle of the night to make out with the neighbor kid up the block?  I hate to break it to you, but Doogie Howser MD was a tv show, kids.  It's not advised to actually try these things at home.  No one likes a show off. 

If your best friend's name is Merriam Webster, you need an intervention.  Do something kid-like.  Go steal some nail polish from CVS or ring doorbells and run.  Swoon over Justin Bieber a bit and then go make some macaroni art.  All of this kid-complishment makes me sluggish.  Consider yourselves forewarned, children. Use flashcards at your own risk.

 

 

One Mouth Harp and Seven Porcelain Veneers

Before we go any further, let me just say this.  I'm rooting for Crystal Bowersox to take home the Idol trophy.  Bigtime.  If anyone but Bowersox should win, then America is collectively tone deaf.  Either that, or boys with pretty hair trumps girls with dreadlocks. 

I love a good makeover story.  Who doesn't?  

 

Ginny Discusses The Bowersox Grin

Why not combine America's fascination with physical transformation (The Swan, Dr 90210, The Biggest Loser) and The American Dream ... and weave this into American Idol?  I could go for an entire makeover episode myself - and see far less of those redonkulously forced and horrible Ford commercials.  If Dr. 90210 wants to critique noses, asses, hairlines and teeth before we see Crystal talk about her Janis Joplin worship, I'm all for it.  He can start with recommending Simon Cowell receive a scalp transplant.  He has the weirdest hairline I've ever seen.  Part Howie Long, part Chia Pet, I think he'd be better off bald.  

Ginny thinks Bowersox needs to fix her teeth.  STAT.  But is paper really the answer?  How can you sing with paper in your mouth?  I'm puzzled by the suggestion but concur that anything is better than the dreaded blank hillbilly stare.  There's a hole in the bucket, dear liza, dear liza.  There's a hole in the bucket, dear liza a hole.

Two Things That Make Me Feel Old

1.  Justin Bieber

2.  Vajazzling

Justin Bieber, who looks an awful lot like a 19 year-old lesbian, is here to remind me that I do not know any tweens.  And if you're thirtysomething and childless, the words Justin Bieber have no meaning. Who are you Justin Bieber and what do you want from me? More importantly, why are you taking over the cover of People with your wind swept do?  WWKGD (what will kate gosselin do) when she doesn't see her own face on her favorite tabloid this week?  Her children, who have been talking to the cover of US Weekly for months, duped into thinking it's actually mommy, may start to catch on.  Kate is probably wondering who the hell Justin Bieber is and why there's a 19 year-old lesbian on the cover of People.  After seeing "Justin Bieber" trending on Twitter for what now seems like eons, I finally sucked it up and did some YouTube research.  Watched a clip of the young lez on Chelsea Lately, which did help solve the Bieber mystery and put my curious mind at ease.  For those of you, like me, who didn't know who this young phenom is, I'll sum it up for you:  Precocious young 16-year old pop/r&b singer who has hair that appears alarmingly similar to one young lesbian who wasn't allowed to wear a tux to her prom recently.  I call this do the "chad rogers" ...  Bieber was doing his be-bop on YouTube and was discovered by Usher.  The rest is Bistory.  Peace Out.  Yawn.  I'm old.

 

Look out ladies!  Jennifer Love Hewitt has started a TREND!  What's that you say? Dating what may be considered by many to be a below average looking stand up comedian?  No.  Helping lost souls cross over into the light while simultaneously working as an owner of an antique store?  Wrong again.  Miss Love has sprinkled crystal joy all over her va jayjay and thinks you should decorate your own vahoozaley like it's a 7 ft spruce in December.  I wonder if anyone asked Swarovski Crystal how they feel about the fact that their luxury brand has been in the spotlight lately, for taking the place of pubic hair.  If you have a burning desire to know what it's like to have your vagina turned into a LiteBrite, perhaps the following video will prove helpful.

Ok, now I know I'm old.  The vajazzle requires an extremely high level of field maintenance (aka, crop circle mowing) that most women I know just don't have time for.  Post mow, there's also a hot glue gun involved, which is what "guarantees" the vajazzle's longevity for 7 days.  You know, so your Swarovski Crystals will remain undisturbed.  Listen to me, Jennifer Love.  There's nothing you can attach to or write on your vagina that will inspire me to wax myself bald and then willingly apply an adhesive.  You could offer to vajazzle me a homemade brownie or the Hope Diamond; I'm still not on board with this.  This puzzling trend has left me feeling itchy, yet curious.  When will we start to hear about vajazzle mishaps, I wonder?  Someone's bound to swallow one of these vajazzle accoutrements ... someone's going to poke an eye out.  You know what they say.  It's all fun and faux jewels until someone loses an eye.  Soon Jennifer Love will be back to chatting up ghosts and we'll quickly forget she ever had a vagina.  There are other outlets for the crafty inclined and many of them don't involve the heimlich maneuver or a glass eye.  Consider yourself warned.

When Kate Gosselin Dances, Baby Jesus Cries

Ginny's predictions for this season's DWTS winner below.  She was 100% accurate on her Oscar predictions, so I tend to trust her expertise on this one.  What do you think? Do you agree with The Ginbomb?  Does Evan (the mongoose) Lysachek lack chemistry with his "female" and use too much hair gel?  Do tell.  We want to hear from you!

Mom on DWTS Winner                         

Take Your Mom To Work Day

I'm in NY and NJ again.  Back to the homeland!  When did it become July in April?  No one told me about this.  Fact:  No one likes a girl with a sweaty upper lip.  Mmmmm, sexy.  I'd like spring to return please.  The Polar Bears and I are a little put out.

I'm here to see a well-known CPG company to peddle my goods.  Added a few days tacked on at the end to spend some quality time with my fam, little bro, my sister-in-law and their adorable kidlets.   For the three of you who read this blog who don't know me in real life; I do have a day job.  I sell Facebook & mobile app development, strategy & sponsorships.  When not working from home, braless, sporting Nick Nolte on a bender hair, I can be found (showered & smashing) with my loyal sidekick (aka, business partner Chris) plotting to take over the world, one deal at a time. 

Traveling under my own steam, without the bankroll of a big corporate travel budget, can be highly entertaining.  Gone are the days of The Driskill Hotel (and their Gingersnap Pancakes, RIP) while staying in Austin for SXSWi. Until the new company is sustainable, I will crash in my 4 year-old-nephew's bunk bed in Carroll Gardens or at other gems like The Hampton Inn, Giants Stadium (which, incidentally, smells a lot like cow manure).  I prefer the bunk bed in Brooklyn.  A special shout out to Ikea, who has made a very sturdy piece of kid furniture, suitable for a 35-year old who is fond of penne ala vodka and the occasional rice krispy treat binge. The first time I climbed the bädd's mini ladder,  I was sure the entire thing would come tumbling down.  I'd land on top of the GeoTrax Village and the Pixar Cars collection.  Oofta.  I'm glad my brother is handy.

The Ginbomb drove me to the big meeting on Tuesday morning.  Picked me up in her green Subaru so I wouldn't have to rent a car, and off we went to Wheat Thin Falls.  There are several things I enjoy about bring your mom to work day. 

#1 - Howard Stern is on her satellite radio all day long.  While I cannot call myself a superfan, I do enjoy watching my mom get hysterical over the questions he asks his guests.  During our 40 minute ride, I learned far more about Tiger Woods' mistresses than I thought possible.  I also learned that my mom knows every character on his show.  She's like Rain Man when it comes to Howard Stern.  High Pitch Erik, Underdog Lady, Artie, Baba Booey.  Dear Artie: Ginny sincerely hopes you make a full recovery.  She's read your book and thinks you had a rough childhood.  He really doesn't hold back, that Howard.  On this particular episode, Howard kept asking Robin if she'd let Martina Navratilova perform various sexual acts on her.  I realize this is why it's become increasingly more difficult to shock and surprise the ginbomb.  She's heard it all. I actually think it's time for a new Howard Stern character: Jersey Ginny.

The man at the front desk at Snackville asked if my mom would be joining me in the meeting, and if so, he'd need her photo ID.  I was tempted to invite her in to observe, but then again, she had her NY Post and was eagerly awaiting the opening of the corporate store, where all niblets were 50% off.  This brings me to #2 on my list. 

Shopping for food at a deep discount with someone who lives for a good bargain. 

I felt like I was strolling Wonka's chocolate factory with Violet Beauregard.  The only hiccup, trying to calculate how long we could keep veggie burgers in suspended animation before they reached the point of no return.  Ginny thought it too risky and lamented the fact that we did not think to bring a cooler.  That's not normally at the top of my checklist before heading to the airport, but next time I promised we'd plan ahead.  Thank god for the non-perishables.  A few chocolate bars, crackers, snack bars, nuts and drink mixes later, Violet was in heaven.

My mom may not fully understand what I do for a living, but she does understand shopping and watching Dancing With The Stars together.  Every time Kate Gosselin dances, Baby Jesus cries.  Ginny's a woman who enjoys her perks (be it Wheat Thins for a dollar, a 50 cent pair of Coach butterscotch loafers or fair judging from Bruno).  While I'm making the transition from employee to business owner, I thought I'd miss some of the perks of corporate life, but I don't.  My last company didn't have a take your mom to work day.  I think they're missing out.  We could all benefit from a little drive-thru Dunkin Donuts, The NY Post at breakfast and a detailed sexual history of Tiger Woods' mistresses from time to time.  I won't lie.  It's always nice to hear (insert jersey accent here) you look dynamite in that suit.  Knock em' dead, kiddo.

Mom on Snack Shopping

Those Teabaggers Have Balls

Ginny's fired up about Health Care ... and thinks those Teabaggers are taking things too far!  Who will put an end to all of this balls out blasphemy, I wonder? I'm simultaneously shocked, cringing and yet - proud - that I have a mother who knows the true meaning of teabagging.  How many people can say that?  Let's see ... there's Ginny, Margaret Cho's mother .... that about sums it up.  Teabagging has nothing to do with making home made Lipton iced-tea on a sweltering Jersey summer day, or taping bags to your temples, like the fine gentleman in the photo below is demonstrating.  Teabagging is something that Kathy Griffin must reference on The D List once an episode.  Sheesh, even Maggie Griffin must know what teabagging is, which now raises the teabagging know-how tally to three moms out of thousands.  They should start a club.  This discovery is slightly less awkward than the time I realized what the "massager" under the bathroom sink was really for.  So that's something.

The fact that my mom gets her sexual Wiki knowledge from Howard Stern makes things even better.  She didn't run a porn video store in SF, catering to the gays, she just turned on Sirius radio and let Robin, Howard and Stuttering John into her Toyota Corolla.  Then again, we did grow up with a copy of The National Enquirer on the kitchen table, which was considered news.  I thought "Baby Born With Alien Head" was worthy of show & tell, until I was 7.  May we all be as lucky, to have a mom like the Ginbomb.  Her message rant about the Teabaggers can be heard below.

Mom Hates Teabaggers

Gays, Proms and Tuxes, Oh My!

Zach Posen has a new line for Target that he claims is inspired by Lesbian Proms.

Looks like he was more inspired by waifish heterosexual pigeon-toed models who need Forrest Gump leg braces and a few buckets of KFC.  How can she dance on an empty stomach ... and with those broken ankles to boot?  Had I worn the Posen pumps to my own Jersey prom, they would have wound up in the Hudson river, immediately following the slow dance to "Wonderful Tonight" on board the Spirit of New York.  Having said that, if I had seen a gay girl rock this amazing tux at my prom, I would have come out of the closet a few years early.  Well done, Posen.  But I think the majority of 18 year old lesbians may be more comfortable going to prom like this. 

There's been a lot of media attention around two high school lesbians, a tuxedo and the state of Mississippi.  Constance McMillen, otherwise known as Lil'Gay, was banned from taking her GF to the prom, which had been set for April 2, 2010.  Not only did school officials bar her from taking a member of the same sex,  they also objected to the notion of her wearing a tux.  Had a straight girl chosen to wear one of Posen's outfits, accompanied by her meathead, there likely wouldn't have been an uproar.  The tux is taking an awful lot of flack these days.  What's so threatening about tails and a top hat?  Personally, I prefer the Don Draper suit.  But the tux is timeless, classic dapper.

Constance soon found the ACLU and Roger Ebert (huh? the movie guy?) who have since sued the district.  In response, the school decided to cancel the prom all-together.  As if this kid's high school experience wasn't horrific enough, now she has the hatred of the entire student body to contend with, for "ruining their prom."  A facebook page has been started, presumably by the ACLU, calling for support of Constance and her quest to get drunk, have sex, throw up in the parking lot and generally do regrettable things at her prom, just like everyone else.  Please help her in her plight by showing your support as a fan. 

Ellen DeGeneres, friend to the gays and wife of a former Australian, will have Constance on her show on April 19.  I'm guessing Ellen may surprise Constance with a Zach Posen outfit, some post-prom treats, a free prom performance by Melissa Etheridge or perhaps an Olivia Cruise.  Nothing says gay prom like Olivia.  Perez Hilton also invited Constance out to California.  What for, I'm not quite sure.  But I digress.

Another Mississippi gay has been discriminated against, this time, for wanting to appear in the yearbook dressed in a tuxedo. 

The moral of the story here is obvious.  Don't live in Mississippi if you're gay.  They don't like you.  They don't want you going to prom - and god forbid - you request to wear a tux while attending.  This one is so ridiculous, it's really difficult to understand the thinking behind the most recent "banning."  If Ceara Sturgis wants to wear a tux in her senior picture, let the girl wear a tux.  She should have the same exact experience as everyone else.  Which will involve deep regret in 20 years for having opted for the Chad Rogers, from Bravo's Million Dollar Listing.  Give em' hell, Ceara!

Ginny's Oscar Picks 2010

Just four hours to go before I start live tweeting E's Red Carpet extravaganza here, beginning at 6 EST, and I can hardly contain myself.  I've seen all but one of the nominated films for Best Picture, The Hurt Locker, and expect to receive it any day now via Netflix.  I already like the movie and I've never seen it.  I find the title of the film to be extremely fitting.  I wondered at first if it was a documentary about what it must have felt like to be married to James Cameron.  Everyone knows he's a Kawng Utral.  That's Na'vi for douchebag.  Given the PTSD I'm sure she endures on a daily basis, I hope Kathryn Bigelow wins for best picture and best director.  

Hope you'll join me on Twitter for some snarky fashion do's and dont's.  My mom just left me a message, outlining her picks for this year's Oscar faves.  You can listen to Miss Ginny Rivers by pressing on the gray thingy below.

Mom's Oscar Picks

I have to say, I agree with most of her predictions, save one.  Find it hard to believe that Sandra Bullock will actually win a golden statue.  What do you think?  Can someone win a Razzie and an Oscar in the same year?

 

Who Thought This Was A Good Idea?

It must be far easier to be a screenwriter than I had originally thought.  With movies like "Hot Tub Time Machine" getting the green light, a whole world of possibilities has just opened up to me.  Is it the medical marijuana talking, or do Hollywood producers really think they've bagged the next Avatar?

If I just follow the hot tub time machine formula, I can't lose.  Let's see ... Grab a hasbeen 80's star, throw in some leg warmers, a heated bromance and voila! We're at the Golden Globes.  Here's my list of movie concepts that are bound to be the next big Blockbuster WTF:

Title: Big Mama's Got Squirrels In The Attic

Synopsis: Martin Lawrence is back as Big Momma (and/or) Vince Vaughan plays Martin Lawrence.  After leaving a bucket of chicken wings on the front porch overnight, an unruly upstairs neighbor moves in, of the rodent variety.

Why It's A Winner:  Man dressed as woman, man dressed as old woman, man dressed as old black woman with large rear end, everyone likes squirrels.

Title: Babies On A Plane

Synopsis:  Everyone's favorite creepy baby talkers (from the E-Trade commercial) take flight, this time as Air Marshals and save the world from a pending terrorist attack

Why It's A Winner:  People like babies, people like babies who talk, people like babies who talk like frat boys, everyone hates terrorists

Title: Folding Sheets And Other Benefits Of Being Coupled

Synopsis:  Aniston is a lonely, down-on-her-luck Anna Wintour type, trying to work her way up the corporate ladder at a well-known design house.  Butler is a blind, rare bird collecting genius, who runs the laundromat across the street from Aniston's office.  An unlikely pair with nothing in common, they decide to shack up purely for the tax benefits.

Why It's A Winner:  She has nice hair.

Ginbomb's Thoughts on The Bachelor Finale

My mom left me a message this morning, expressing her deep disappointment in Jake's choice ...

Message can be heard at the link below.  I believe she says it all.  This clip is rated PG-13, due to mild language, strong New Jersey accent & utter disgust.  Mom Reacts To Jake's Pick

Carillo Goes Rogue

Oh Mary. 

Last I laid eyes on you, you were asking the Chinese to "show you their beavers" when covering Three Gorges Dam in Beijing.  And now, with the Olympics in Vancouver coming to a close, you're off playing Mountie, pretending you've never used handcuffs before, while dressed like Yosemite Sam.  I'm on to you, Carillo.  Your comfortable shoes, pants suits and blown out man-bob don't fool me. Is it me, or is Mary starting to look more and more like Bruce Jenner.  Or is it the other way around?  In my search for photographic evidence of Mary's Man-Bob (Mob) doppelganger, I came across a brilliant site called Men who look like old lesbians.  It's a must see.  Just make sure you're not drinking anything, as the choking on liquid while snorting factor is a 9.5

The NBC producers have a wicked sense of humor.  Last week, you slapped on a hard hat, shined up your Adam's Apple, donned your best plaid and stepped into the shoes of Canadian loggers.  Gosh that was thrilling.  What will they think of next?  Check out Mary's Mountie training at the link below. 

CARILLO GOES ROGUE

The Vagina Monologues

Twilight twink Robert Pattinson felt compelled to over-share in his Details magazine cover-article this week, stating that he's "allergic to vaginas" and that he "really hates vaginas."  He also said that his deepest emotional relationship is with his dog.  Wow.  And I thought my peanut allergy was debilitating ...

New Moon grossed $294 million at the box office this year.  $293 million of which came from vaginas of all ages who camped out overnight to see the film's Vitamin D-deprived star.  Now kids, I'm not an allergy expert, but I do think Pattinson should try acupuncture.  STAT.  It might help him build up resistance and avoid breaking out in hives, especially on those long press tours, when he's surrounded by multi-national vaginas at every turn.  Better yet, he should ask Kristen Stewart how she manages to keep her penis allergy so hush hush.  Look, I saw Panic Room.  And I know a future gay when I see one ... Had to snicker when I saw Joan Jett talking about how much she and Stewart have in common while at Sundance last month.  Let's see .... they both like: wearing high-top Chucks, black hoodies, black jackets, black eye makeup, smoking cigarettes, skinny jeans.  Oh yes, and both are huge fans of vagina.  I'd venture to say they even heart vaginas.

On the other end of the spectrum this past week, we have the Dalai Lama of vagina worship.  John "D Bag" Mayer and his now infamous Rolling Stone and Playboy magazine confessions.  What did Mayer do, I wonder, to recover so quickly from his exposure to "Agent V" or, as he puts it, Jessica Simpson's sexual napalm? Mayer, you're a tool.  After what many consider to be a baffling "over-exposure" to A-List vagina, I'm guessing he must now carry an Epi Pen to avoid adverse reactions. His penis is a wonderland for gonorrhea.  Just wish he'd shut his damn pie-hole.  Give me those promise ring posers the Jonas Brothers any day, over the vaginaphobic vamp and the douchey manwhore.  I'm allergic to the tasteless over-share.  Best pop a Benadryl.

Snoop Dog Discovers the True Meaning of Vanilla

Thanks to my taller half - I stumbled across a recorded episode of a very stoned, sunglasses clad Snoop Dog on Martha Stewart today.  Martha and Snoop go together like ... well, The Olsen Twins & a Denny's Grand Slam Breakfast.  Fo'shizzle, my izzles.  The goal of the gastronomy?  To bake green brownies. 

Double up on the chocolate, top with green icing sugar and add a side of "go ahead snoop, rap while you do this."  Martha awkwardly refers to Snoop's 16 iPhone apps a few times, stating that he has a GPS application that gives you directions in rap. As if rap is a language setting.  Hmm.... Should I get my directions in German, Dutch or Rap?  She obviously has never had her shizzle dizzled, because she wouldn't know rap if it suckled on her vanizzle.

Painful to watch through and through, but this snippet made it all worthwhile.  Remember kids, no sticks, no seeds, no stems! 

working from home (aka, look boss, no pants!)

I absolutely love working from home.  The insulated down bootie shuffle from bed to "boardroom" in a matter of steps, the coffee pot brewing on timer, sporting the kind of bed head that scares grown UPS men and frightens small children.  I'm a real telecommuter and proud of it. 

You might have spoken with me about a certain brand campaign or digital sponsorship for your Fortune 500 company, and I may or may not have been wearing pants at time time.  As of late, my work-from-home or homeless person routine has reached new heights.  I need a telecommuter 12-step program. 

Hello, my name is Jersey, I'm a Sagittarius.  I like to talk on the phone without pants on.  I also enjoy Dunkin Donuts coffee and hosting Academy Awards parties.

Who needs to shower daily, especially when the only other live entity you might see on a daily basis is a squirrel that lives in the flower box?  The squirrel doesn't care if I've put my face on or not.  Ok, I've always wanted to use that phrase in a sentence ... put my face on.  So I can now axe it off the list.  Does it matter that I don't wear make-up and never have?  No.  My aunt used to tell me she had to put her face on in the morning and this is the reason why I never wanted to sleep over. I was afraid I'd see a headless body asking me if I wanted a strawberry toaster strudel or an Eggo for breakfast.  But I digress.

I could tell that the mailman was looking at me suspiciously last week.  Maybe he wonders why I'm always home to retrieve the mail?  It wasn't until later that I realized what had caused his sideways glance.  Eager to retrieve my new license and see if the new picture really is (as the woman at the DMV so graciously offered) a million times better than that last one - I didn't think twice about saying hello to Mr. Mailman.  I was wearing multi-colored M&M themed PJ pants that (may or may not) have been falling off the waist just a tad.  It's possible that there was minimal crack exposure, especially as I knelt down to retrieve the Amazon.com box he had left on the step.  I heard the mail and I rushed to find my pants.  Tying drawstrings are for chumps. 

On top I was wearing a (two sizes too small) Tide t-shirt that says Loads of Hope on the back.  Because shrunken shirts should only be worn to bed, you see.  They should not be worn to flash your postal carrier when you emerge from your house,  breathless, braless and crazy, looking like some lesbian version of the Nick Nolte DWI mugshot.  I can only imagine what he must have thought of me as I scurried off, packages in hand.  He saw my bra-less downy balls on spin cycle.  I need loads of hope, I really do.  

There have been a few times when I've been on web conference calls - when the unassuming party on the other line has requested to initiate the video conference feature.  Gee, I'm sorry ... my camera is broken!  That's such a shame, because if it was working, you'd see me sitting here with a down jacket on, no shirt, and a black winter hat that says "Bada Bing" on the front.  Not worried that you'll see that I'm sitting here in my underwear, unless you ask for a tour of the house and I have to stand up ... 

To all of the other telecommuters out there, I feel your pain.  It takes a lot to properly wardrobe day in and day out.  For those brave work-from homers who manage to wear pants and shower on a daily basis, I salute you.

Why Old People Love Donny Osmond, Slankets & Other Mysteries

Donny Osmond and the elderly go together like summer sausage & cheese.  Like hair plugs and Elton John.  Like a bottle of Benefiber and a bottle of prune juice.  Maybe he reminds our seniors of a more fragile time - a less hectic, no hullabaloo geriatric time - when the variety show was king.  Flashback 1977.  Corporate America was smoking and drinking in the office and smacking its secretaries on the ass.  Studio 54 made hedonism a household word, Donna Summer was moaning her way to disco super-stardom and Donny Osmond was playing with skunks. That's right.  Skunks.  What else do Mormons do when called upon to entertain?  Aside from charm us with their recollection of biblical phrases and god's hatred of gays, that is. 

Long before the birth of the PETA movement and the invention of the opening monologue, there was this cornholio form of entertainment:

Just what is it about this guy that captivates the semi-senile?  His stellar jitterbug dance moves?  His full head of hair?  His ability to take a pie in the face?  No, I say.  Hogwash.  Truth be told, I think it's all about the coat.  You know ... the coat o' many colors, the technicolor dreamboat's dreamcoat.  Old people are frequently cold.  With poor circulation and chilly feet, the technicolor dreamcoat is an old lady's anodyne.  The elderly equate Donny with warmth, I say ... like a cup of earl gray tea on a cold winter's night.  And just as they respect his appreciation for fine fabrics and volumizing hair product, they all secretly long to purchase some version of the coat on QVC.  If only I had a technicolor slanket for sale, I'd be a gazillionairess.

Toupee Spoiler Alert!

That's right, I can sniff them out and spot them from ten yards away.  No one is safe.  Want to know if someone's had "work" or is sporting a new nose?  You've come to the right place.

Dancing With The Stars is on as I type and a new toup has just come into view.  Hello, Dolly!

Meet Jonathan Roberts.  Jonathan is the 2008 "Smooth" Dance Champion and holds several impressive Latin dance titles.  He's also sporting one of the worst toups on primetime.  ABC, how can you let this happen?  His rug scores a -1 in my book.  Here's how you can spot a fake and endlessly impress loved ones with your toup-a-rific expertise:

1.  The crown doesn't match the coiffe. 
Look for discoloration between crown and top of head or an "unnatural" blending of layers

2.  Wigs don't move.  Ever.
This guy spins and flips all over the place and the sturdy toup doesn't budge.  Not even a sweaty breeze or faux-hand-through-hair move can make a single follicle blow in the wind.

3.  The Caesar cut is out.
I highly doubt Jonathan would willingly opt for this do.  I didn't even accept that it was ever "in" - but I do recall a few of these hair dont's floating around in the 90's. 

*Disclaimer on the Caesar*

Apparently the Caesar cut is kinda/sorta ok if you are a hot runway model walking for Versace at Fashion Week.

4.  A faux hair gap is present. I call this a "hair balcony."

If you look closely (put the Tivo on pause and stare at Jonathan's head during judging) then you'll notice that the front of his faux hair fringe isn't touching the top of his head.  It juts out, leaving a noticeable toup gap between faux wig and tippy top of forehead.  Another known offender sporting a hair balcony would be Clinton Kelly from What Not To Wear.  A bit harder to detect due to the fact that he often chooses to style his wig into a faggy faux hawk, you'll have to trust me on this one.   I know something Clinton shouldn't wear ... and it's not in his closet.

Bald is beautiful.  Embrace that shiny head, lads.  Free your wig and the bliss will follow.

Year of the Rat

This past Sunday began like any other Sunday ...

Woke up early to a cold house and was urged out of bed by my cramping bladder.  As much as I love drinking my earl gray tea with just the teeniest splash of milk, I think it might have secret diuretic properties.  

I look a lot like Courtney Love on a bender when I wake up.

Puffy cheeks and lips, squinting eyes, hair like a tropical baby bird, feeling my way from bedroom to bathroom by patting down the walls, unable to fully open my eyes to let all the light in.  Standing in the bathroom in my squinty morning fog, I found myself staring at the toilet bowl, seat cover raised, wondering why I wasn't already on the bowl.  Body said go, brain said:  now you just might want to hold on a second, little lady.  There was a logical explanation as to why I hadn't lunged for the bowl straight away.  But what was it?  Something about this scenario wasn't computing. 

At first squint, I thought that someone had inadvertently left behind a surprise.  A large surprise, to be exact, but hey, everyone's guilty of a forgotten flush every now and then.   Further inspection revealed that this was a surprise of another kind.

Holy shit ... there's a fucking dead rat in the bowl.

I quickly dropped the lid and walked back into the bedroom.

Um.... honey?  Honey?  I'm sorry to wake you .... but there's a dead rat in the toilet bowl.   I have no idea how the hell it got in there.

I'm not sure if you know this, but once you're told that you can't use the toilet, you immediately need to go to the bathroom.  Y’s immediate concern stemmed from her need to pee.

Look, pee in the tub if you have to.  I need to go and get some rubber gloves.  I'll be back soon.

It was 8am on Sunday and I was headed to Walgreens in all of my Courtney Loveish glory.  I was a bit surprised as to just how many people were also at Walgreens at this early hour.  I spied an entire clan of mysterious Red Hat ladies who were a tad over-eager to check their blood pressure and gather bunion cushions.  The two giant Nordic men in line ahead of me had just purchased three cases of Peanut Rolls and handed one of the cases to a young boy, who was hidden inside an over-sized Green Bay Packer's parka.  Who the hell eats that many peanut rolls in one sitting?  Maybe they intended to throw them at Vikings fans in the parking lot.  Or stuff their pants.

Hair still crazed, my voice now transformed by the head cold I can't kick, I sound like I smoke two packs a day.

Excuse me?  Where are your rubber gloves?  Do you sell masks? Not Halloween masks, you know, the ones that Michael Jackson wears?

The good people at Walgreen's must have thought I was trying to clean up a murder scene.  C-Love flips out because her dealer isn't holding, so she kills him with her Golden Globe Award right there in the living room.  I finally made my way to the household cleaners and picked up the following items:

One pair of yellow, rubber gloves

Febreze, Antimicrobal.  I have no bloody idea what antimicrobal means, but I'm hoping it's geek talk for eradicates large odors and stops the spread of the bubonic plague on contact

One small, white plastic dustpan

Industrial strength garbage bags

One Michael Jackson SARS white cotton mask, ala trial #2

Once back at the ranch, the dirty deed began.  Slapped on the gloves, donned my Jackson mask, rolled up my sleeves and scooped out the stiff rodent with my handy plastic dustpan.  I then placed ratty into (3) industrial strength garbage bags and dropped the dustpan in there with him.  I then proceeded to clean that bowl like there was no tomorrow.  Only a few moments earlier it had been the epicenter of the bubonic plague.  It now smelled like a Febreze forest and glistened with bleach.  Although the offender was removed and the bowl was now medal worthy clean, I still couldn't shake the thought of a rat swimming up WHILE I WAS ON THE BOWL.

I'm a get up in the middle of the night to pee kind of gal, you see.  According to the kind exterminator I called, this pest came from the sewer straight up into my business.  He was surprised that we didn't come upon it - um - alive and swimming.  Are you fu**ing serious?  Swimming?  Jesus Mary and Joseph, I would have passed out.  Rick the Angie's List exterminator also said that there was no way that our rat was cruising around the condo, eating Golden Grahams and then decided to hit the john for a quick drink.  This offered me much needed relief, but I still couldn't shake the rat-a-phobia.  Will I ever carelessly hop on the toilet again?  It's been three days since I found the rat and each and every trip to the bathroom has now become a sort of Cirque du Soliel experience.  The sight of the furry, mammoth creature still burned into my brain. I've now learned new ways of contorting myself so that I can get the job done while still keeping a watchful eye.

Ok, Ok, just chill.  Everything's cool.  You're guarding the castle....  Now breathe ...No frickin' rat is gonna swim up and bite me on the ass.  I'll Febreze it to death before it gets near me.  Damn, my quads aren't used to all of this squatting.  Are my legs shaking?  Shit.  I really need to go back to Body Pump.

When faced with rodent-related trauma, I turned at once to the web for solace.  I was shocked to find that there are thousands of unlucky souls with similar stories - and one very unlucky lady in the UK with an even worse one.  I also stumbled upon a woman in Texas who had parked it to pee, only to find a five-foot long rat snake curled up in her bowl.  Truly, my experience could have been a whole lot worse. 

I was born in the year of the tiger and I'm thankful that this doesn't mean that I'll wake up to find one of Sigfried's pride in the bathroom.  Apparently the ol' "bat swing into the balls" trick is just old hat on America's Funniest Home Videos in other parts of the world.   I see they take their Chinese Zodiac very seriously. 

Gaiken Like Me

BREAKING NEWS from the crew here at Jersey.Girl.Genius.

In a stunning turn of events, singer and American Idol fan favorite Clay Aiken has just come out of the closet. Quoted in my favorite crack mag People, Gaiken stated that he expects the news may overwhelm some of his fans.

Overwhelm? Perhaps. If you were raised by wolves and like to tay in da win. Or, if you live in Elmore City, Oklahoma, your daddy's a preacher man and the town has just banned dancing and rock music.

I was shocked to learn that he's a Born Again Christian, however. Isn't he breaking a thousand evangelical laws like thou shalt not use hair extensions and thou shalt not perform musical theater? Not to mention the dreaded thou shalt not aspire to look like chastity bono and/or Entertainment Tonight's Cojo. I think it's time to play a little game that I call: Spot The Real Gaiken

Is it exhibit A:

Exhibit B:

Exhibit C:

Exhibit D:

Exhibit E:

I'll select one winner at random, who will receive a $50 gift certificate to International Male. Be sure to include your pick in the comments section.

Granny Get Your Gun

I just read a curious little news item about an elderly woman in Maryland who fought off an intruder with a reacher.

No juicy details were given - only that she was able to "repel him" with her reaching device used to grab cans off of high shelves. Sadly, he did flee with her purse. She should have hurled that can of baked beans at him instead. Naturally, the fuzzy details have left me feeling somewhat unsatisfied. What kind of burglar would be scared off by a rubber squeeze? I have a feeling that granny skipped her meds, stored some stale pieces of bread in her purse and attracted nesting squirrels disguised as burglars. Or hit men. You make the call. Mark my word, it will all be revealed in time.

I once considered getting a reacher of my own or a preschool looking step stool in the kitchen. Then I met Yvette, who is able to retrieve the crock pot from the highest cabinet with use of her monkey arms. Oh happy day. Yet one more benefit to being coupled. There are so many other perks that often go unnoticed. I thought they deserved a little shout out.

1. Folding Sheets.

It's nice to have someone who'll step foot into the dark, musty basement with you in the first place. The fact that you can stand in front of the dryer together and fold king-sized flat and fitted sheets is a nice bonus. Folding sheets solo sucks. It's not easy to do without plopping your clean, Downy Ball loveliness on the ground. And when you're a shorty like me, there's not as much distance between torso and skanky basement floor. I don't know about your basement, but in our condo there are lint and dust balls that blow around like tumbleweeds. One false move and that drop to the floor will render your sheets un-sleepable. Best to bring a partner with you to ensure proper foldage.

2. Double Parking

I always curse people when they selfishly plant themselves on a busy street, hazards flashing, while their precious companion runs to drop off the dry cleaning, the movie rental, the post office parcel or to retrieve a nice tall skim latte on a rainy day. I curse them openly - yet practice the same kind of parking entitlement every now and again. Yet another overlooked aspect to being coupled, your faithful companion will dart through traffic, dodging raindrops, to return carrying your caffeinated item and (every now and again) a slice of lemon poppy seed cake. Heaven. Pure heaven. Now if you were single, you'd have to haul your lazy ass to the closest parking lot, walk three blocks in the rain and arrive looking like the Unibomber in your drenched hoodie and maniacal looking bed head.

3. Practicing Voodoo on The Neighbors

No one likes to be a hater all alone, which is why tag-team hatred feels so good. Five words of advice for you, if ever considering the purchase of a swank condominium: Never Buy The Lower Unit. On any given evening, our upstairs neighbors might be bowling, breeding cloven hoof animals, rearranging furniture, dropping barbells or playing leap frog above us. Truly, it's anyone's guess. It's refreshing not to have to be the bad guy all the time, which is why we take turns imagining the myriad ways in which they might suffer an untimely end. Death by poisonous blow dart is this week's winner. Know any ninja assassins who were recently laid off from Lehman Brothers? I'd like to befriend them.

Office Talk

I've been blissfully consulting for two years and managed to escape the everyday goings on that an office setting provided. If there were a Kinsey type scale that measured a company's capacity for corporate bullshit, my former employer would probably rank somewhere around 2.5. They'd once experimented with corporate culture but realized it just wasn't their bag.

Controversy stemmed from whether or not the staff lunches on Wednesdays could include a vegetarian option - or if the lounge could be turned into a nap room. I was asked to consider a Feng Shui color pallet for my office, comply with barefoot editors with hairy man toes and co-workers who opted for an ergonomic alternative to the Herman Miller office chair: Gaiam yoga balls.

Given the fact that I sprug myself from inter-office chatter, I find that I'm extra sensitive to officeisms these days. Like an expat who returns to her country to find that her people talk funny, I'm picking up on all sorts of goodies that once seemed as normal as patchouli scented marketing meetings. I think that some of the lingo has its place - a kind of short-hand that says, hey man, "I'm right on top of that Rose," secret-handshake style. When officeisms start to creep outside of the workplace and into non-work-life conversation, it's probably intervention time.

Some common offenders to be on the lookout for:

1. The Download and The Upload.

There's often lots of uploading talk during and downloading done after meetings, via inter-office email, and is actually code word for: we'll get back to you when we have our shit together.

2. Next steps.

Every office has the let's talk about "next steps" fan. The taskmaster, the whip cracker, the up-your-ass to pay your portion of the birthday gift for a coworker and sign that damn card and pass it on already. Mr. Next Steps can also be spotted in sports arenas starting the wave.

3. Action items.

Not to be confused with Mr. Next Steps, Mr. Action Items isn't a take charge kind of guy. He delegates. He lives to delegate and to define your role. Mr. Action Items can usually be found at office parties standing under his Successories poster or nursing a warm Amstel Light and talking about the importance of work life balance, of which he has none.

4. Synergy.

Oh beloved synergy. Seems as though everyone's looking for you. Often sought-after when trying to sell someone something they don't actually need, synergy makes even the most sensitive of ponytail heroes look like blue chip tycoons. Whip out the synergy and some clients might think you're after a soul connection with their brand. Some might think you're just a douche bag. Please note. If this word appears anywhere near your first date scenario, you should run for the hills.

5. Lighting & Putting Out Fires

There is so much fire hurling danger these days, I need a flame retardant suit when I step back into an office. Those who light fires are usually procrastinators. They rarely set themselves ablaze. It's ironically not often the responsibility of the fire starter to get (said) job done initially. He or she has a warm heart, a desire to lead and is often guided by a higher power in their quest for instant bonfire gratification: money. Fire starters should not be confused with Fire Extinguishers, who are closely related to Mr. Action Items. Extinguishers have over-inflated egoes and a warped sense of hierarchy. Extinguishers can often be seen making photo copies of the company's organizational chart to give away to loved ones in the annual Holiday letter, written from the perspective of their dog.

Just trying to think outside of the box, push the needle and give you the heads up so you can get your ducks in a row and stop the insanity.

-JGG

Pound Sand

Looks like Misty May-Treanor and Kerri Walsh have been making the talk show rounds as of late. I spotted them on Letterman and again on Ellen via Tivo, my reliable old friend. On the off-chance that you do not own a television and were not held captive by eight hours of Olympic coverage per day last month, Misty May and Kerri Walsh are beach volleyball players.

My interest in watching beach volleyball ranks somewhere between making a godseye and getting a bikini wax. I'm not overly enthusiastic about it. These two wedgies, however; are complete lunatics about their sport. From what I can gather, neither is the sharpest tool in the shed either.

Often spotted around Beijing wearing "crazy" wigs, sunglasses and drinking beer from an old school helmet, tailgate style, I wondered if their insanity stemmed from the fact that they were simply wasted? Not so. After their gold winning match, sly commentators gave us a glimpse into their diminished mental capacity.

Commentator: Congratulations you two! You've just won Olympic gold again. The first women's team to repeat in back to back Olympics. How do you feel? Can you put it into words?

MM & KW: We have to thank Mr. Bush. Without you, none of this would be possible. We love you Mr. President!

That's right. The tools thanked George W. Bush. They squealed that if it weren't for him, none of their success would be possible. Now just how in the bloody hell did GWB turn these women into Olympic gold medalists?

By critiquing their form and giving them gentle, non-lecherous pats on the bottom of course. It's a damn good thing he was there - all 14 days - or Misty might have suffered from the dreaded burnt ass cheek syndrome, effecting one in five pro volleyball players. All hail the monkey.

The Mini Bio

Still in SF, stuffing L'Occitane soaps and lotions into my bag faster than they can turn down my sheets. Y needs to get her L'Occitane on, you see. I was given strict instructions to pocket whatever crack was available in my hotel room. I'll come home smelling like lavender and figs but I refuse to pilfer the Bonnet de Douche.

When was the last time you wore a shower cap?

My mom used to have a lime green one that hung on the wall outside of the shower. Can't say that I ever used it, nor do I recall her using it. Very peculiar. She must have bought it at a second hand store and thought it might come in handy at some point. If you haven't already listened to the kind of voice mail that my mom is capable of, I highly suggest The QVC Intervention, where you can hear a real live excerpt. It will help to get an audible on what's to come.

Whenever my mom has a story to tell about someone I don't know, she slips into what I refer to as the mini bio, so that she can get me caught up. Like so:

Honey, did I tell you what happened to Lois at work? She's around my age. She sits next to me, so sweet, she wouldn't hurt a fly. Dresses a little frumpy, one of her kids is blind in his right eye, her husband has been on disability for a million years, I'm not sure what the story is there. Anyway, she got into a fight with one of the partners and wound up throwing a paper weight across the room. You know, one of those heavy muthahs, with the fake snow inside?

She must think that the story would lose some edge, had I not known her husband was on disability. Either way, Lois threw a paper weight across the room. Now you don't hear that everyday.

My siblings and I talk about how hilarious this is, when she launches into the mini bio. She knows she does it, because I've imitated her to her face, which had her rolling. As much as I poke fun at the Ginbomb, I think she's onto something here...

Inspired by her snippets, I think I'm going to start reviewing movies without seeing them, based on the trailer alone. I could use the mini bio method - to warn potential moviegoers of sure to be flops before they spend their hard earned cash on a total piece of sh**.

Nights in Rodanthe:
She's an older woman, attractive, reddish hair, whose husband has been a complete pig womanizer. Apparently, hubby now wants to take her back. Red helps out a friend by running a fancy ocean-side inn for a weekend, meets Richard Gere, bonds with Gere for his affection for J. Crew hoodies, Banana Republic good-looks and his quiet intensity that involves pseudo flirting on a beach. Must love dogs and equally unrealistic and sappy films based on traveling to Tuscany to find oneself.

Death Race:
Like Mad Max, Beyond Thunderdome, but without the Thunderdome. Joan Allen plays a prison warden in the distant future. She already looks about a hundred years old and is seriously malnourished. Sunken in cheeks, bulging eyes. She gets her jollies off on putting together a "race to the death" and allows some of her inmates to participate. Lots of sweating, car flipping, shooting, cursing, explosions and oh yes, lots of driving.

Beverly Hills Chihuahua:
Some Paris Hilton type must lose her pocket pal that winds up mingling with the Huas from the other side of the tracks. All of the Cesar Milan sounding miniatures probably take Tinkerbell under their wing and start behaving badly together. I see potential for shoplifting along Rodeo, dog romance between Taco and Tinkerbell and two hours of pure, unimaginative crap that can only be appreciated by some (less gifted) children 3 and under.

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.

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.