On Thanksgiving, A Pilgrim Wench Goes Gangsta

I’m Mayflower, muthaf$$$a.  Don’t tread on me, or I’ll start a revolution on your ass.  I’ll take a musket to your head.  I’ll cut you with my whalebone darning needle (but then I shall quickly repent and beg the Lord’s mercy).

Me and my bitches, we’re gonna ride the buggy through the ‘hood.  It’s got yellow wheels, bra, it’s pimped out!  We’re gonna get crazy, y’all.  Gonna hit the peace pipe.  Gonna take the sewing circle outside.  We’ll be stitchin’ and bitchin’ -- without our bonnets on (weather permitting.  And if God wills it so).

What up, Miles?  You want some Prissy?  That’s right, you do – it’s pre-ordained.  I could give it to you all right, Miles.  Rough up your ruff.  Put the plum in your porridge.  You’d like that, wouldn’t you?  Well tough turkey: I already got me a man, and he’s a high roller (for Tristram is both a cooper and a wheelwright, as well as exceptionally tall).

So back off, Miles.  Go home to your ho.  No, not your wife.  Your hoe.  For the harvest season is upon us and it is a sin to be slothful.  Peace out, Miles (and peace be with you on this day of thanksgiving).

Vision Boards, of Varying Success

Dear Aussie Skank:

I tried, I really did.

I thought about what I want. I listed what I want.  I even made a vision board of what I want.  For reals! Check it out:

So here I am, months later, and my book has been turned down by every thirty-ish editor with a English/Women's Studies B.A. from a Seven Sisters College.  In other words, all editors have rejected me. Moreover:

• I want to increase my cup size to a generous 34D.  Instead, my husband left me for Shawna "Melons" Kapowski, lead dancer at the Titty Shack off the Schuykill Expressway.
• I want a house by the water.  Instead, my basement flooded, leaving me with a house full of water.
• I want Christian Bale, shirtless, pectorals primed and oiled circa Reign of Fire.  I want him to mysteriously arrive at my house and chop a cord of wood for me while I sip a cocktail.  Instead, this shows up on my doorstep and starts bitching about my clothes:

I think we can agree this is the wrong Christian.  Although I did appreciate the tips on finding a "slimming" pair of pants.

In light of the above, I have decided to think about nothing but your continued success and well-being.  Given my track record, it won't be long until you crash and burn in some horrific and (hopefully!) fattening manner.

Suck it, Sheila

Your disgruntled customer,
The Twaddler

***

Dear Secret-Lady:

Is very simple: Me want cookie.

No fame. No money.  No power.  No lady-monster to scratch my itch.  Just cookie.

See vision board?

Me think cookie.  Me talk cookie.  Me dream cookie.  Me is cookie!

Then what happen?

PBS tell me to cut back on cookie! Say it a "sometime food"! Now make me eat banana!

I get mad.  I complain.  Mrs. Obama phone me, tell me she has "secret file" on me.  White House threaten audit.  Mr. Noodle pull gun on me, make me hand over cookie.  He and Elmo dance on cookie while I cry.

Secret not work.  Please send refund, payable in cookie.

Sincerely yours,
Monster-Who-Want-Cookie

***

Dear Oprah:

Hey! Thanks for airing that segment on vision boards.  I thought you'd like to share mine with your readers:

Pretty easy to see what my goals are, right? Meow!

Anyway, I'm happy to report I've actually had some success with this vision board. Since I created it, three stray tabbies have come my way, adding to the eight beautiful kitties now sharing my apartment with me. The more the merrier, I always say!

My only quibble is that, while I'll never turn down a puss-in-need, my dream is not to own cats.  My dream is to be a cat.  On that front, I still have a ways to go:

It's all right, though.  With this vision board, I'm confident those plastic surgery funds will fall into my hands (or should I say "paws"?) any day now!

Can't wait for those whisker implants!
Guy Who Really, Really Loves Cats

***

To the Great and All-Mighty Oprah:

This vision board shit works.  Seriously.  This is mine:

And take a look at me now!  That's right, Light: I'm talking to you. You didn't think little old Neutrino had the nards, did you, bitch? Hell, you didn't even think I existed! You were all, "I'm so effing hot, 'cuz I'm a wave and a particle", blah blah blah.

Well, you can just eat my atomic dust, pal.  That goes for you too, Gravity.  You're next.  I'm gonna eff you up.  And then I'm gonna eff up Corbin Bleu.

Oprah rocks!
The Neutrino a/k/a
DJ "Calamitous" Nu
Radioactive Badass

How To Survive A Hurricane; or, A Checklist of Preparations For The Amphibious Uprising

Remember Hurricane Irene? You know -- that storm that hit a couple of natural disasters ago? Well, here in our neck of New Jersey, we weathered it just fine, thank you very much. Those news-people act like a little rain and wind is some kind of Weather Event -- but seriously! No big deal. I mean, yeah, we're out a couple grand due to the basement flooding. But we're up one Valium prescription and God knows how many mold spores! I think even Charlie Sheen would agree that we are WINNING!

Of course, not everyone escaped Irene unscathed. But then again, not everyone was ready for Irene the way we were.  And not to brag (much), but we were hell-of ready.

I know, you're dying for our gameplan. I'm besieged with requests for advice. They may not be actual, verbalized requests. But still: I sense your curiosity through the telepathic cable-ways of the Great Interweb, much in the same way a shaman senses an aura, or that creepy midget chick from Poltergeist sensed the presence of some really foul-tempered Indians.

As such, I give you a detailed checklist for hurricane preparedness. No thanks necessary, although cash donations are always welcome.

4 Days Prior to Storm: Call elderly mother, who will fly from California to your home in New Jersey the next evening. Watch Project Runway repeat while you half-listen to her natterings, catching words like "flashlight batteries", "storm windows" and "Al Roker".   Ask her who the hell this "Irene" person is.

2 Days Prior to Storm:  Swing by grocery store for some more of those mini Dove bars.  Marvel at lines of people hoarding water, packaged donuts, and all manner of lunch meats, a la that movie about nuclear holocaust you were forced to watch in grade school.  Mentally predict mass uptick in post-apocalyptic cholesterol.  Get Dove bars and go on your merry way.

1 Day Prior to Storm: Chat with neighbor about what unusual weather you're having!  Experience twinge of nerves when she says she drove eight hours to a Home Depot in the Pennsylvania hinterlands to purchase the Last Generator on the Eastern Seaboard.  At the words "duct tape", proceed to full-on panic/flop sweat.  Rush back home to locate flashlights, candles and cell-phone charger.  Succeed in locating a penlight, the stumps of ten birthday candles, and last remaining Paxil tablet.

Day of Storm:  Pace before windows.  Make prescient, Cassandra-like comments, such as Those clouds don't look good, or Storm's a-comin'.  Cluck as wind sways tree branches, raining down hundreds of twigs (Who's gonna clean that up?  Not me!).  Survive remaining daylight hours courtesy of Paxil tablet, chased down with half-bottle of Two-Buck Chuck.

Evening of Storm: Grow anxious about pounding rain and shrieking wind.  Attempt to quell anxiety by watching some god-awful rom-com wherein Kate Hudson acts all slutty.  Agree with eldery mother that, while Ginnifer Godwin is adorable, "Kate Hudson is a bitch". 

11:30pm: Gasp as power goes out, as this means 1) sump pump will fail, and 2) you may never see that whore Kate Hudson get her come-uppance. When power returns, rush to basement to find sump pump in working order and dry floor.  Marvel at your luck.  Laugh at Gaia.  Give God the L-is-for-Loser sign.  Go to sleep, courtesy of remaining half-bottle of Two-Buck Chuck.

12:30am:  Awake to husband muttering about a little flooding.  Run downstairs to find basement submerged in three inches of murky puddle-water. Scream like Medea.  Determine that water is managing to circulate back in through windows and walls.  Accompany husband outside, in rain, in skivvies.  Together, jerry-rig spare vacuum hoses to extend sump pump drain further from house.  Briefly, revel in MacGyver-esque glory.

12:45am: Wake up elderly mother and enlist her in lifting remaining basement valuables onto ping-pong table.  Slosh barefoot through ankle-deep filth as elderly mother hoists her pajama bottoms up like a worker on a Vietnamese rice paddy.  When she worriedly points to numerous electrical cords dangling from ceiling, bark: "Shut up and keep moving, woman."

1:00am:  Answer phone call from Russian father-in-law in Brooklyn.  Listen in sympathy as he describes, in thick Russian accent, the flood damage to his New Jersey rental property.  Listen in disbelief when he announces he is driving down to survey carnage. Try to dissuade him with compelling, tightly-reasoned arguments, such as Hey! Shit happens! What're you gonna do?

1:15am: Roll eyes when husband informs you he is driving to aforementioned property to meet father-in-law.  Mention unlikelihood of getting there, as roads will be flooded.  Mention futility of getting there, as property cannot be saved.  Roll eyes yet again when husband responds Hey! It's Pops! What're you gonna do?  Snottily, toss him car keys and go back to bed.

3:30am: Dream of phone ringing and ringing and ringing . . .

3:35am: Wake up and answer goddam phone.  Lie in stunned silence as husband states his car is stalled in water and you need to come rescue him. Stare at receiver when his cell phone cuts out. Wait three seconds, then let loose with string of searing profanities that rouses not only elderly mother, but twin children to boot. Don pair of dirty sweats and flip-flops, then hit the road.

3:50am: Drive at snail's pace over fallen tree limbs and debris. Pass downed telephone poles and mangled lawn furniture.  Change routes twice due to roads closed by flooding or fallen trees.  Shiver as wind kicks up.  Remind yourself of marriage vows, of promises to support and aid spouse through thick and thin.  Remember, tearfully, all instances he was there for you, providing succor.

3:51:09am: Glance down at fuel gauge and see that husband has left you with empty tank.

3:51:10am: Curse that stupid shit-ass motherfucker and the day you married him.    

3:52:am: Cry. Glance at fuel gauge again and determine that the red line is JUST BELOW the E, not even ON it.  Cry harder.

3:55am: Talk to Jesus.  Tell him it's been awhile, but He's always on your mind.  Tell him if He gets you through this, you will serve him.  Faithfully and for eternity.

3:56am: Drop your jaw in amazement as scores of frogs begin hopping into the road. Little itty-bitty ones! Big fat juicy ones! Dozens and dozens of them, leaping before your headlights! Asserting their rightful place as Masters of Creation! Convince yourself this is either 1) a flashback to that movie Magnolia or 2) the End of Days.

3:57am: Talk to Jesus again.  Tell him if He gets you through this, the whole family will serve him.  Even the ones who are Jewish.

4:00am: Arrive to find husband's car in a ditch alongside father-in-law's, which has a flat.  Exhort husband and father-in-law to get in the damn car.  Tell them: "Congratulations, assholes! You're both Jews for Jesus now!"  Watch father-in-law shake head and mumble, What the Hell? Which, with his accent, comes out Vat da Hill?

4:05am: Drive home as father-in-law becomes increasingly worried his grandchildren have been promised over to Christ.  Listen as his Vat da Hill?s grow louder and more frequent.

4:10am: Arrive home.  Stumble into bed, but not before reminding father-in-law he WILL be working the Methodist soup kitchen come Thanksgiving, because Jesus says so.  More Vat da Hill?s.

9:00am: Stand in driveway bleary-eyed as tow-truck pulls husband's and father-in-law's cars in.  Jokingly ask the tow-truck guy if he was "busy" the night before.  Keep quiet when he responds, "Yeah . . . and all because of stupid people making poor decisions."  Just nod and sigh as if you are in no way, shape or form one of those people.

Sleeper: The Mayberry Version

Ms. Taylor? Wake up, Ms. Taylor.

Who said that? Andy? Opie? Oh, good heavens -- where am I?

In a hospital, Ms. Taylor. In the year 2011. You've been cryogenically frozen for the last half-century, but there's a defect in your preservation tank. We thought it best to thaw you out.

Like one of those TV dinners, you mean? Sakes alive! Well, thank you, gentlemen. And please, call me Aunt Bee.



Certainly. And no thanks necessary, Aunt Bee. We're just glad you made it, and in perfect health. Or at least healthy enough for a woman your age. Who lived a half-century ago, that is.

Say, fellas, what's that supposed to mean?

How do we put this, Aunt Bee? You make a respectable 50-ish woman, circa 1960. But in 2011 . . . ahem . . . taking together your skin tone, your muscle tone, your weight, your hair . . .

Oh, now, quit your hemming and hawing!

. . . you translate into roughly ninety-eight years old.

Ninety-eight! Why, you're as crazy as a Bessie bug!



Believe it, Aunt Bee. But don't fret. Thanks to 21st-Century Know-How, you have the tools to look like a 45-year-old who's desperately trying to look 30!

You don't say!

We do say. Let's start with those saggy, oversized breasts of yours. Nothing a set of surgically-implanted silicone baggies can't fix.

Hold it right there, mister. No one's going to stick a Glad bag in my bosoms!

Can't be helped, Aunt Bee. Your floaters don't float. They droop like 30 pounds of wet pizza dough.

But can't I just borrow a set of falsies from my friend Clara? She only wears them when she needs an extra "oomph", like at the church bake sale. Helps to sell pound cake, Clara says. Or how 'bout I stuff my brassiere with a pair of Opie's socks?



Insufficient leverage. See, it's not enough that your nipples are above your navel. They need to be upright, Bee. The boobage needs to be tight, shiny and wrinkle-free. Ideally, you should look like you have a child's buttocks stapled to your chest.

But -

Moving on: let's talk about those extra pounds. You're fat, Aunt Bee. As in grossly, horrifically overweight.

Well, I suppose I do over-do it on the fried chicken. And I've always had a weakness for butterscotch pecan pie. But flibbertigibbet! Can't a gal treat herself once in awhile?

No, a gal cannot. Your deep-fried, carmelized days are over, Bee. From now on, it's shredded Romaine hearts, doused in vinegar. You want to go nuts? Add an egg white. You need to get moving, too. We haven't seen calves like yours since Water for Elephants. Start jogging. Kick-boxing. Aerobic-aquatic-pole-dancing. And weight training, for those bat-wings you call arms! How much heavy lifting do you do?

Heavy lifting? I leave that for Andy!

Not any more, you don't. You need to build up those biceps to a nice, gender-ambiguous size. Muscular, but not threatening -- like Jared Leto in Fight Club. And don't worry about any stubborn flab you can't lose. We'll just suck that right up with lipo.

You're -- you're going to take a Hoover to me? Butter my biscuit!



Lipo's only the beginning, Bee. Wait till we start sand-blasting your face. Right now, you look like a Bassett Hound bitch on her last litter. But a little Botox, a little filler, and good-bye, droopy eyes! You'll look like a lobotomized crack-whore when you smile, but not a line in sight! As for that jawline of yours -- yeesh. That's a problem. We've seen walruses with tighter jowls. Maybe a partial facelift?

Oh, tie me to a pig and roll me in the mud! I've just about had it with you boys! It's all lift-this and firm-that with you! Well, I've managed quite nicely for the last fifty-odd years with just a Maidenform girdle and a jar of Vaseline for my face. Besides: I'm an old woman! Why in the good Lord's name do I have to look young?

I've got one word for you, Bee: Viagra.

What's that, you say? Niagra?

A pill, Bee. A beautiful, magical pill sent by God to mankind. See, there was a time when a man reached a certain age, and his machinery . . . slowed. There was no bone in the pork, if you will. But thanks to Viagra, a guy can dippity-do-da till he drops dead! His lungs may be hooked to a respirator, his heart wired to a pacemaker, his sorry old ass shoved in a wheelchair -- but so what?! Mr. Zippy still zips! And isn't that really what it's all about?

A pill that puts the pepper in the pickle?! And all so that men can keep churning butter? Opie, cover your ears!



So you see, Bee, it's important women your age stay as attractive as possible. Because God knows, a 72 year old bald guy with ear warts and hemmorhoids is going to be hard-pressed to score a younger woman, unless she's blind. Or deranged. Or Lindsay Lohan. So come on, Bee -- let's make you HAWT! Let's get you looking sex-ay, sex-ay, SEX-AY! . . . which brings us to your bikini area . . .

Andy? Barney? Anyone?!! Help me, please!!!

It's a disaster, Bee. Let's just say Chewbacca was better groomed. But with just one Brazilian wax --

You want to pour beeswax on the begonias???

Where's she running? Dammit, straight for the cryogenic chamber! Stop, Aunt Bee! Come back!!! . . . Too late. She pressed the Reset button. And we hadn't even talked vaginoplasty yet. Ah, well. Better luck next time. Let's go thaw out Ethel Mertz.

Tiger Mother: Coco's Response

Editorial Note: In recent weeks, there has been much uproar over Amy Chua's memoir, Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother. In it, Ms. Chua chronicles her controversial parenting methods, including how she withheld food, water, and bladder-emptying privileges from her daughter until she mastered an obscure piano piece by an even more obscure French composer. Some pundits champion Ms. Chua's tough-love approach as an antidote to the flaccid, weak-willed parenting favored by non-lawyers who did not attend Harvard. Others claim her tyrannical style puts her daughter's psychological well-being at risk.

No one, however, has questioned how Ms. Chua's "Tiger Mothering" has impacted another member of the Chua household.

No, not her husband, Jed. That poor bastard will shut up and keep his head down if he knows what's good for him. I refer instead to Coco, the Rubenfeld-Chua's Samoyed dog. Chua devotes a chapter of her tome to her struggles with housebreaking Coco, obedience training Coco, and teaching Coco to bark in Mandarin.

And how does Coco feel about her "Tiger Mom"? No one has bothered to ask. UNTIL NOW.

I conducted an in-depth interview with Coco over a can of Alpo. The following represents her response to how she is depicted by Ms. Chua in the book. And yes, those are actual excerpts.

Coco is our dog, my first pet ever.



We had an earlier ordeal that was thankfully short-lived. When the girls were very young, Jed got them a pair of pet rabbits named Whiggy and Tory. I disliked them from the moment I saw them and had nothing to do with them. They were unintelligent and not at all what they claimed to be. . . Eventually, the rabbits mysteriously escaped.



Coco is a Samoyed . . . born on January 26, 2006. The runt of the litter, she has always been unusually timid.



. . . My first instinct was to apply Chinese parenting to Coco. I had heard of dogs who can count and do the Heimlich maneuver . . . [Samoyeds] were also the lead dogs for the explorer Fridtjof Nansen's famous 1895 attempt to reach the North Pole.



. . . I was convinced that Coco had hidden talent. I began to do extensive research. I bought many books . . . befriended other dog owners . . . I found a place that offered a Doggy Kindergarten class, a prerequisite for more advanced courses.



. . . [Eventually], the only skill she'd mastered was not going to the bathroom anymore on our rugs. Jed pointed out that Coco could also sit and fetch and that she excelled at Frisbee. Unfortunately, that was all Coco could do.



I did an Internet search for "dog intelligence rankings" . . . I scrolled down the list, frantically looking for "Samoyed" to appear. It didn't . . . Samoyeds were ranked #33 out of 79 -- not the dumbest dog but definitely average. I felt nauseated.



I accused [my husband] of being selfish and thinking only of himself. "What dreams do you have for Sophia, or for Lulu? Do you ever even think about that? What are your dreams for Coco?"



Samoyeds are notoriously difficult to train . . . [but] if the only issue was a stubborn, disobedient streak, that was nothing I couldn't handle.



. . . and then, Coco? Coco! I said, COCO!!! What IS it? I explicitly instructed you NEVER to interrupt me when I'm recording my mem-wahs! You shame me! You're GARBAGE! You're -- wait. What's that in your mouth? Bring it here.



Bring it! What's this? A present for me? Oh, Coco, you really shouldn't have. Actually, you should have, because you owe everything to me. But still. Let me open this. It's a -- it's a -- I don't believe this --



IS THIS HOW YOU TREAT YOUR MOTHER?!!!

{hyperventilating} Keep breathing, Amy. You are a Tiger! Tigers. Don't. Faint.{THUD!}