Twaddle Like A Duck

A Shameless Bid To Increase My Blog Traffic

2012-02-07T12:19:00.000-05:00

It is with great dismay that I report that over 90% of my blog traffic is generated by readers googling "Pikachu thunderbolt attack". For reals. An additional 9%-plus of my traffic is due to google searches for "granny panties". The remaining .001 percent is my mother, who is elderly and can't actually see what she's reading, which is really all for the best.

I could become dismayed at these stats. Instead, I am emboldened. No, I am not going to post naked pictures of myself. That would likely result in someone's cardiac arrest and a protracted wrongful death lawsuit. But while I'm unwilling to whore myself out for blog traffic, I'm more than willing to whore out my dog.

And so I give you . . .

CUTE PUPPY! CUTE PUPPY! CUTE PUPPY!!!!

CUTE PUPPY + CUTE KITTY = INSANE AMOUNT OF CUTENESS!!! CATS AND DOGS! LIVING TOGETHER!

GAH! THE CUTENESS!! IT'S KILLING ME!!!

Ahem . . . now please excuse me while I go check my Sitemeter stats.

Your Mom Jeans Would Like A Word With You

2012-01-27T13:13:00.000-05:00

Hold it right there, young lady. Just where do you think you’re going? “Out”, she says. Out! Not dressed like that you aren’t.

What are those things you’re wearing, anyway – tights? Oh, they’rejeggings. Never heard of ‘em. I don’t care if they’re “in”, they’reunflattering. They thicken you, sweetie. Your thighs look like something out of the4-H fair. Now, don’t get upset withme. I wasn’t criticizing your legs – Iswear! I love your legs. They’re nice and sturdy. It’s just that thosejeggings – well, honey, they don’t do anything for you. They’re tacky.

Oh, I’m the tackyone, now? Really? Well excuse me forhitting at your waist. Excuse me forgiving you some wiggle room in the hips. Fine, fine – wear the low-rise if you want! Let your belly spill outlike soft-serve! Go ahead and stuff those sausages of yours into skinny jeans! You’rea big girl now. If you want to look likea train wreck, that’s your decision. Just don’t split a seam when you sit down.

I can’t believe you’re shoving me to the back of yourcloset. You don’t treat your otherclothes this way. You don’t tell yourLand’s End Skirted Tankini she’s too “frumpy”. Nope, every summer, you try on the one-piece you wore before your pregnancy. And then once you’re done crying, you head offto the pool wearing that same damn Tankini – just like every other Mom in the neighborhood.Don’t you girls know how to think for yourselves? By the way, that built-in “support bra” isn’tsupporting anything, missy. You can’thold back a landslide with a bit of elastic and two foam cups – and I don’tcare if is “Miracle Foam”.

Sure, sure. Nowyou’re trying on your skort. You knowhow I feel about that skort, honey – she’s trouble. Skirt or shorts? Seems to me she should picka side. Yes, I know it’s acceptabletoday to be “questioning”, but – did you just roll your eyes at me? DON’T YOUGIVE ME THAT LOOK.

I don’t think you realize just how much I’ve supportedyou. Literally! You carried twins, sweetheart. Twins. Justwhat do you think your gut was like after that C-Section? I’ll tell you what it was like: a rubbery skin-paunch. A melting flesh-sicle. And I held it in! Day after day. Week after week. Yes, the Spanx helped, too. I’m not saying I did it alone. But let’s see you try propping up ten pounds of spare tire. It isn’t easy.

And now you just toss me aside, like I’m nothing. Go ahead, sweetheart – I’ll be fine. I’ll just sit here, alone. Abandoned. With that crazy poncho you never wear. I won’t nag you any more, I promise. I don’t want to be a bother. Butjust remember, missy: if you getpregnant again, don’t you dare come running to me.

On Thanksgiving, A Pilgrim Wench Goes Gangsta

2011-11-26T10:35:00.001-05:00

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’ -- withoutour bonnets on (weather permitting. And ifGod wills it so).

What up, Miles? Youwant some Prissy? That’s right, you do –it’s pre-ordained. I could give it to youall right, Miles. Rough up yourruff. 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, aswell as exceptionally tall).

So back off, Miles. Go home to your ho. No, not yourwife. Your hoe. For the harvest seasonis 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

2011-10-04T11:22:00.001-04:00

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

In Which I Address My Husband's Big Fat Schnoz

2011-09-30T09:07:00.000-04:00

Here’s the deal: you need to shut the fuck up, andyou need to do it now. Seriously. Onemore peep out of you and you’re dead.

I mean it this time. I can’t get a wink of sleep with your racket. I hate all that moist snot rattling in yourseptum. I hate how your nostrilswhistle. And now you’ve got the mouth inon the act, doing that little air-puff on each exhale. SNNNNRRRRTT. . .PUH!

You are the most evil facial orifice I have everknown, and I have known many. You’re garbage. You disgust me.

It wasn’t always this way, was it? Once upon a time, I thought you werecute. Sure, you were a little big. Huge, if you want to be honest about it. But cute, nonetheless.

Okay – not really cute. Endearing. Or maybe “strong” is the better word? That’s it: strong. You added “character” to my husband’sface. I kissed you. We nuzzled. At one point, I may even have told you I loved you.

And then it all went south. You know why? Because you are incapable of being quiet. Not even for a goddamned minute. You take one breath, and so help me God, itdrowns everything out in white noise, like those winds and waves at the end of La Dolce Vita.

Why do you squeak like a chew toy when you hold backa sneeze? Why hold back a sneeze atall? It’s the mouth’s problem! And why do you snort like one of those pugswith breathing issues whenever there’s chewing involved? Billions of noses the world over manage tofunction just fine when cereal is being eaten. But set a bowl of Cheerios in front of you, and you start gurgling likeDrano down a clogged pipe. And what’swith all the sniffing? Are you trying tovacuum up crumbs from the upper lip, or is it just a coke habit?

By the way, I hear you blasting those nostrils out everymorning in the shower. Jesus, use aKleenex.

Great, just great. Now it’s 2:30 am, and you’re still humming along. It’s like when the entire neighborhooddecides to run their leafblowers at once. I can hear it through my ear plugs. Yeah, I know you tried thoseanti-snoring strips. Yeah, I know it’s not your fault, it’s just thatexcess weight around the neck. Sure,blame the jowls. Waah, waah, waah.

Move to the guest bedroom? Youmove to the guest bedroom. And take thatugly mug that’s attached to you with you.

You know what I want to do? I want to tear you off. I’ll do it, too. I’ll bite you off with my bare teeth, like apit bull. I’ll go all Lorena Bobbitt onyou. But none of thisthrowing-it-out-the-car-window nonsense. No surgical re-attachment for you. And you can just kiss those dreams of a porn career good-bye. I’m waysmarter than that. I went to a really good school, okay? I may not be much of a cook, but I do own atop-of-the-line Cuisinart. Step One: Popyou in. Step Two: Press liquefy. And then Jingles will have a special treat inhis Fancy Feast tomorrow morning.

Hell yes, it’s violent and disturbing. And yes, you could never get away with sayingthat kind of stuff about me, becauseI’m a woman. Well, tough shit, Tristram Shandy.

Fine, you make a good point. I wouldprobably go to prison. But you knowwhat? I’d go, willingly. It’d be worth it. Because I’d finally get a fucking decentnight’s sleep.

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

2011-09-21T12:59:00.000-04:00

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

2011-09-07T12:39:00.000-04:00

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

2011-02-09T17:03:00.027-05:00

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!}

The Young Adult Novel Pitch

2010-03-03T16:18:00.009-05:00

Pitch #1: Sixteen-year-old Kira Belle couldn't be more bored when she moves to a remote Irish fishing village to live with her estranged mother. But then she meets Seamus, a brooding young man with a dark secret . . .

. . . he's a leprechaun.

Wait. Not that kind of leprechaun.

There we go. Much better.

When Kira first resists his attentions, Seamus plies her with her one weakness: shoes, each pair lovingly cobbled with his own hands. She falls for Seamus -- hard. But can Seamus resist the urge to trick her? Will he jealously guard his pot o' gold? Or will he finally offer his treasure up to Kira . . . in more ways than one?

Verdict: Intriguing premise. However, Irish demographic too narrow. Additionally, leprechauns same as pixies, which have been done.

Pitch #2: Sixteen-year-old Anna Lovely couldn't be more bored when she moves to Cornhusk, Nebraska to live with her estranged father. But then she meets Demetrios, a brooding young exchange student with a dark secret . . .

. . . he's a satyr.

Oh, for God's sake, not that kind of satyr.

Yes. Thank you.

When Anna first resists his attentions, Demetrios plies her with her one weakness: gyros, each one lovingly rolled with his own hands. She falls for Demetrios -- hard. But can Anna love Demetrios without succumbing to his lusty satyr nature? Or will he seduce Anna into a drunken, violent, bacchanalian frenzy?

Verdict: I like the bestiality overtones. Edgy! But could be problematic with Middle America, not to mention PETA, ASPCA, etc.

Pitch #3: Sixteen-year-old Serena Babe couldn't be more bored when she moves to a truck stop out in the middle of nowhere to live with her estranged grandmother. But then she meets Beelzebub, a brooding young truck driver with a dark secret . . .

. . . he's Satan.

&^%$@!, people. Do we never learn???? Think Satan as in gorgeous fallen angel, okay?

Yes! Finally. Sheesh.

When Serena first resists his attentions, Beelzebub plies her with her one weakness: an insatiable lust for money, fame and power. She falls for Beelzebub -- hard. But will Beelzebub drag Anna to Hell and slow-roast her over a spit for all eternity? Or will their scorching love survive temptation?

Verdict: Love it! This one's a go! Look for Damned If I Do to hit bookshelves in late 2010!

Killer Buns

2010-02-24T17:10:00.013-05:00

Satan's minion is living in my basement until the weather warms. Yes, you heard me. Satan's Minion, also known as Katy the Bunny.

She's my daughter's rabbit. Actually, he's my daughter's rabbit. We thought he was a she. He was sold to us as a she. But when I dropped him off at the vet's to get fixed, prepared for an overnight stay, the nursing staff called me within the hour, saying Katy was ready and waiting.

"That was fast!" I said.

"Castrations usually are," said the nurse.

My daughter is none the wiser, and continues to address him as Katy. Fine by me: trannies are hip now, are they not? But maybe not so fine by Katy - er, Kevin. Maybe that's why the rabbit is the most evil small mammal I've ever encountered.

Seriously. To paraphrase Tim the Enchanter, he's no ordinary rabbit. He's the most foul, cruel, and bad-tempered rodent you've ever set eyes on.

In a nutshell: he charges. He grunts. He bites. You barely set foot in the basement and he bullets out of nowhere and nips your ankle.

I have made sincere efforts to rehabilitate him. Truly. Just the other day, I spent a good ten minutes stroking his head, which he loves.

You're not so bad, little rabbit, I thought to myself. You're soft, at least. And there's no denying you're cute.

"Who's a good bunny?" I asked Katy. "Who's the best bunny in the whole wide world?"

I stopped stroking him. He lunged at my face and nipped me on the nose.

Ever since then, when I visit a French restaurant, I order rabbit. I'm a nice person, but once you break skin, all bets are off.

I compiled the following footage in Katy's honor. Take a gander. If you dare.

Offensive Hand Gestures

2010-01-19T21:52:00.009-05:00

My 8-year-old son recently brought home his latest selection from the school library:

I could dedicate an entire post to the unconventional, inscrutable being that is my son. But not today.

Today, I'll share a few gems I discovered when I paged through this sign language treatise. Signing is tricky business. To express yourself clearly and quickly, using a minimum of manual effort, you sometimes rely a bit on stereotypes. It's like cultural shorthand, you see.

For instance, the sign for IRISH is also the sign for POTATO since, as we all know, that humble vegetable is the foundation of all Irish cuisine.

Likewise, the sign for ARGENTINA is the same as the sign for GUITAR, because . . .

. . . because?

Huh. Just because.

Moving on, the sign for JEWISH or HEBREW requires the speaker to run his fingers over his chin as if stroking an imaginary beard. Which I guess makes sense, as many Jewish men are bearded and quite . . . uhh . . . contemplative, studying the Torah and all. I guess.

See how this works? Cultural shorthand! Which is why the sign for JAPANESE or ASIAN requires the speaker to pull his eyelids lengthwise and -

Wait. That can't be right. Really - THAT. CAN'T. BE. RIGHT. Let's take another example.

To sign the word HOMOSEXUAL, you simply pinch your fingers together into "ballet hands" and mince your shoulders back and forth as you emulate an effeminate walk . . .

Oh, COME ON, deaf people. That's just not nice. Can't you substitute another word for 'homosexual'? Like "Broadway", for example? Or "Barry Manilow?"

Wait. Hold the phone. It appears that there IS a sign-language substitute for "homosexual". Based on this definition, the sign for "homosexual" is nearly identical and virtually indistinguishable from the sign for . . .

HOLLYWOOD???

Oy vey, as my gay, potato-eating, guitar-strumming, squinty-eyed, Jewish friend Herschel might say.

I give up, deaf people. I give up.

The Suspicious Advertisement

2009-12-07T09:57:00.003-05:00

Saw this on the bulletin board at the market this morning. Alas, I prefer my housework to be done by immature Lithuanians. Although the quotation marks make me question whether this person is indeed "mature", or "Polish". Or, for that matter, a "woman".

If My Neuroses Were Pokemon

2009-11-19T18:20:00.014-05:00

Ash: Hi! I'm Ash Ketchum! Welcome to the Sinnoh Region!

Me: Oh . . . right. Hey, Ash. Nice to meet you here in Pokemon World. Or whatever. I'm thrilled to be here.

(under my breath) Thank God there's still alcohol in this animated, parallel universe.

Ash: What did you say?!

Me: Nothing. Could you lower your voice, please? This isn't pep squad.

Ash: Right!! Are you a fellow Pokemon Trainer? What is your Pokemon?

Me: I have an Anxietor.

Ash: Anxietor! But I have never seen or heard of such a Pokemon!

Me: She's agoraphobic. She pretty much stays inside the Pokeball.

Ash: Let my Pikachu do battle with your Anxietor!

Me: Yeah . . . not a good idea.

Ash: But I insist!

Me: (sigh) All right. Anxietor, it's time to do battle. Come out, please. No, you don't look fat. I swear. Yes, I promise no one will laugh at you. That's right. Step outside.

Ash: What a peculiar pocket monster you possess! Let me emphasize my mirth with loud and frantic laughter! HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!

Me: (to Anxietor). Ignore him. He sounds like a girl.

Ash: Let us begin! Pikachu! Use Thunderbolt!

Me: Anxietor! Use Panic Attack!

Ash: How strange! Your Pokemon appears to have turned blue!

Me: Yeah, she does that when she hyperventilates. (slapping Anxietor) Breathe, dammit! Get ahold of yourself, bitch!

Ash: She's recovered! Pikachu, use Volt Tackle!

Me: Anxietor, use Meltdown!

Ash: Your Pokemon is defeated! I'm afraid this Meltdown Attack was completely ineffective!

Me: It always is, Ash. It always is. Come, Anxietor. Time for your Valium.

Shameless

2009-11-13T11:16:00.010-05:00

Meet my shame spiral. His name is Floyd.

Floyd’s job is to guilt me out over my various and sundry failings. This causes me to engage in all manner of unhealthy and self-destructive behavior, such as eating Nutella straight from the jar with my fingers. Or blowing off dinner to watch consecutive showings of The Real Housewives of Atlanta (a little take-out never hurt nobody). All of which, in turn, brings on another visit from Floyd.

See how this shame spiral thing works? Good. Let’s watch Floyd in action.

Here’s Floyd passing judgment on me as I eat the last Skittles from my daughter’s Halloween candy. Skittles happen to be my daughter’s favorite – and why not? It’s the Original Fruit Bite-Sized Candy!

Please don’t give me that look, Floyd. It’s not as if she’ll ever know. Besides, no eight year old girl should eat her weight in sugar. I’m just looking out for her health, right? RIGHT????

Whatever. Where’s that Nutella?

Here’s me borrowing from my son’s change jar so that I can tip the pizza guy.

Floyd does not approve.

Oh, COME ON Floyd. I said borrowing! I’ll pay it back . . . PROMISE! What’s the kid done to earn twenty-three bucks, anyway? Aside from losing a few lousy teeth?

Know what, Floyd? You’re starting to get on my nerves. A woman can’t live in this kind of a pressure-cooker. Besides, Showgirls is on, and I want to watch it guilt-free. With my Nutella. And a bottle of good white.

Floyd, meet my kids.

That’s right. Spend some quality time together.

Now pardon me, but I’ve got to go catch that psychotic, ginger-haired choreographer Hitler-scream at Elizabeth Berkeley. Thrust it, THRUST IT!!!

Apocalypse (Kill Me) Now

2009-10-30T09:59:00.005-04:00

One day this past summer, I was stricken with an acute case of MID -- known to the psychiatric community as Mommy Inferiority Disorder. Unlike most mental illnesses, MID is communicable; I myself contracted it after visiting a friend whose child flawlessly performed a piano sonatina for my benefit. Said child is also tri-lingual, gorgeous, and unfailingly polite.

I returned home from this visit to find my own spawn sitting slack-jawed in front of the TV, playing Nintendo.

"Hi guys!" I said. They didn't bother to look up, although my son did flick his wrist like he was brushing away a fly.

"Hello!" I repeated. "Not now," said my daughter. "Sonic just reached level 5 and we don't want to blow it."

This marked the precise onset of MID. I yanked the Nintendo power cord from it's player. After the kids finally stopped crying, they confronted me.

"Whatdja do that for?" asked my son.

"Because playing too many video games turns your brain into mashed potatoes."

"Really?" asked my daughter."Seriously?"

"Oh, yeah. Totally." I sniffed her head. "Smells like gravy."

After the second round of crying subsided, I announced that we were going to do something fun. Something productive. Something creative. "Let's make a movie!" I said.

It got off to a good start. We created a plot, although I had to nix my son's suggestion for an alien ambush. We created the characters out of play-doh. We grabbed some props.

And then it got ugly. First off, my idea to make a stop-animation movie proved to be over-ambitious and totally deranged. I thought it would be "fun" and "educational" for the kids to move their clay figures increments of an inch and shoot pictures of them. Over and over again. Hundreds of times.

Yes, I am batshit.

Secondly, never entrust your children with doing set work. NEVER. Props were moved before I yelled "SHOOT!" A pivotal scene where the car backs over a character and flattens him had to be shot -- and the character re-molded -- twice, as my son couldn't figure out how to press the "ON" button for the video.

Another scene required my daughter to drop a basketball onto a character. She dropped it from a standing position and missed by a good two feet. I told her to crouch, and she missed again. I told her to squat and hold the ball directly above the character, AND SO HELP ME GOD THE GIRL STILL MISSED, EVEN THOUGH THE TARGET WAS A SCANT TWELVE INCHES AWAY.

I admit, I said some inexcusable things to my children. Along the lines of: "A monkey could press that button. And I'm not talking about one of those smart Rhesus monkeys. I'm talking about a regular chimp, straight out of the jungle."

They were outraged, of course, and rightfully so. My son told me "you have a problem with your attitude" -- words I usually direct at him. Man, that karma's a bitch.

I apologized to both of them and assured them that one day I would burn in hell for my words. This seem to satisfy them. They scooted away -- literally, on their Razor scooters. Meanwhile, I got down to the business of editing the footage.

It was like slogging through wet cement in hip-boots. I called for my son and tried to convince him that dragging and clicking with software is a damn good time. He pointed, he clicked, and then he left to go play Pokemon.

By the time I was done, I was unhinged. My husband returned home to find me in my underwear doing martial arts moves in front of the mirror. Luckily I didn't punch it, like Martin Sheen did in Apocalypse Now. I just punched my husband instead.

And so here's the end result. It turned out decent, except for the fact that I seem to have the voice of an 80-year-old hillbilly woman.

Now my kids call themselves auteurs. They also run like hell whenever I suggest turning off the TV to do something "fun".

Dermatologist, or Frenemy?

2009-09-22T12:24:00.003-04:00

The following dialogue represents my recent visit to the skin doctor.

Doctor: Hello. What can I do for you today?

Me: I wanted you to take a look at this spot on the side of my face. Kind of a raised freckle.

Doctor: Uh-huh, I see it. Nothing to worry about now, but I'll need you back once a year to check up on it. Now about your melasma . . .

Me: My what?

Doctor: Your melasma. All that discoloration on your cheeks. You must be Celtic, right? It's common in people of Celtic descent.

Me: Talk about the luck of the Irish!

Doctor: (confused silence)

Me: So - is melasma a problem?

Doctor: Only if it's a problem for you. I mean, it's not that noticeable. But if it bothers you, we can do something about it.

Me: Umm, okay. Like what?

Doctor: I can prescribe a lightening agent. And you should never, ever go in the sun without sunblock. And you need to apply it five times a day. Seriously. With your skin, just two minutes in the sun will cause melasma. You should also start wearing a hat.

Me: How about a burka?

Doctor: (more confused silence)

Me: Anyway, my freckle's okay, right?

Doctor: Right. And those crow's feet around your eyes aren't that bad, either. Your frown lines, though, are fairly marked. If you want, I can do some Botox on those. Like I said, only if you want. Some women are bothered by frown lines. Very bothered. As in really, extremely upset. But if you're not bothered, then I'm not bothered.

Me: (confused silence) But my freckle's good, right?

Doctor: So do you want some Botox?

Me: No. Just some cyanide. So I can go home and kill myself.

Where's a Hungry Shark When You Need One?

2009-09-07T13:21:00.006-04:00

Okay, I'm going to say it. And damn the consequences.

I hated, hated HATED Ponyo. Hated it!

Yes, yes, I know. It's visually arresting, creatively ground-breaking, magical, exquisite, insert-your-own-breathless-adjective here.

It's also unequivocally and purely wrong.

It's bad enough that Japan unleashed the scourge that is Pokemon. No, they had to create yet another cutesy-yet-deeply-disturbing blight on the cultural landscape.

I'm sure you know the set-up by now. Ponyo is a fish that yearns to be human. When she's first caught by the young protagonist, Sosuke, she looks like this:

Now, I don't know about you folks. But if the little minnow I caught had bug-eyes and a vaguely human face, I'd be a little unnerved. I might even scream and throw the devil-spawn back into the depths from which she came. But no one in Ponyo, whether child or adult, seems remotely troubled by a fish that looks like a genetic hybrid experiment gone tragically awry.

But wait, there's more! Ponyo's transformation from fish to human is instigated when she consumes ham. Yeah, you just read that right. No fairy intervenes, no magic spell. It's the ham.

She just scarfs down a slice of pork, and BOOM! The next thing you know, she's sprouted bi-toed chicken limbs! She looks like newly-animated flesh that's just crawled out of a petri dish!

Dear readers, there will be no more ham sandwiches in this household.

I could go on about how Sasuke's mother takes him on a hell-ride through narrow, winding cliff roads, in the middle of a hurricane. Or about Ponyo's ostensibly transgendered father, a cross between the frontman for Poison and a Barbie doll. Or about Cate Blanchett, doing her uber-enchanted-sexy-fairy accent.

But I won't. I'll just leave you with the subtitled Ponyo theme song, which bores into your head like Satan's own drillbit.

It ain't right, people.

Pristiq Critique

2009-08-04T20:08:00.002-04:00

I loathe this commercial. Play the clip to see why.

Middle Age: The Garage Band Version

2009-07-29T19:18:00.010-04:00

A weekend or so back, Hubs and I ferried the ol' offspring to Hellertown, PA to visit the fabled Lost River Cavern -- the area's #1 attraction.

The #2 attraction in Hellertown? My money's on these guys:

We tailed the Midlife Crisis Band (MCB) on their way to some sort of church/charity/carnival/thingee that looked like a hoot and a holler. Still, as we drove, I couldn't help but think the band name was a little on the vague side. What kind of mid-life crisis are we talking about here? Viagara and a sportscar? Or your basic vaginoplasty?

If it was my band, I'd use the same name as one of the eighties/nineties bands I grew up with -- with a mid-life twist.

Remember Nine Inch Nails? I don't either, really, but here they are:

The mid-life version: Nine Inch Hemmorhoids.

Ahem. So how was your pregnancy experience?

In high school, because I was freakishly sensitive, I had a thing for Simple Minds.

Mid-life version: Dimpled Hinds.

Which of course refers to my childrens' darling derrieres and IN NO WAY describes my own curdled buttflesh.

The high school jocks liked to crank some Rush:

Mid-life version: Flush.

That's right. FLUSH. As in: Did you remember to flush? Or, alternatively: God &%#@! Who didn't flush? Also: I know you said you did, but I didn't hear the toilet flush.

It's a compelling topic of conversation in this family. If walls could only talk. Or flush the damn toilet.

Finally, this one's a little late-nineties, but we all know Aqua, the group that gave us that hideously annoying "Barbie Girl" song.

Mid-life version: Lycra.

Because every pair of jeans I own has it. As well as a "relaxed fit" in the hips and thighs.

*SOB*