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Category Archives: Entertainment

My Kind of Bucket List!

I’m not a huge fan of ‘bucket lists’. I’m not a fan of widely-ingested and promptly regurgitated catchphrases in general. Don’t get me wrong; I love Morgan Freeman. Not many elderly male actors can rock a freckle quite like he does, or deliver public service announcements with such eloquence. That said, I don’t need (or care) to know the inner yearnings of every Joe off the street.

I swore to myself I’d never make a ‘bucket list’. I also never had a need or desire to create a Things I’d Like to Do Before I Die list, either. But I did decide that if I ever did, I’d prefer to keep it a Things I’d Like to Do Before I Die list. It sounded more noble.

Last night, however, as I was watching Shaun of the Dead for the third time with my husband, I decided I might create a bucket list after all.

So, without further ado, here’s my (cough) Bucket List:

 

Sell my college degrees on eBay

Park my car in the middle of a busy Dunkin’ Donuts drive-thru and walk away

Go into Abercrombie & Fitch and open all the blinds

Be a zombie extra in a movie

Buy a wedding dress and wear it to the supermarket

Unapologetically consume gluten, on an Italian piazza, at dusk, in May, with a glass of Sangiovese

Proposition a cop

Walk into a Korean nail place and yell, “I know you’re talking about me, ASSHOLES!”

Plan and execute a hostile takeover of the E! channel, using Daniel Tosh as my mouthpiece

Dress up like a drag queen (I haven’t really thought this one through yet)

Go back in time and punch Frank Sinatra in the face

Let all my gray grow out

Chop down a tree with a tiny axe

Bring sexy back. And not Nicki Minaj sexy, Donna Reed sexy

Change my name to Wonder Woman

Go to Taco Bell and ask for two free-range beef tacos with non-GMO lettuce, locally-sourced tortillas, and organic Fire sauce

 

What do you think? Doable?

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An Open Letter to Baby Houseman Re: Your Relationship with Johnny Castle

I’ve been struggling with whether or not to write this, because a) how irrelevant can one get, and 2) really, who cares?

But it keeps knocking around in my head, so I am going to go for it.

How many times have you seen Dirty Dancing? Ten? Fifteen? A hundred? For most of us, it’s somewhere within that range. Remember the romance? The intrigue? The lurve?

Dirty Dancing

Dirty Dancing (Photo credit: ♥ Xanda ♥)

Yeah, well, I watched it (with my husband…it was his FIRST time) a few weeks ago, after twenty-six years (twenty-SIX years – say that out loud to yourself a few times), I have to say I saw that movie with a really fresh set of eyes. And not because I just got new contacts.

I’ve got a few things to say to Ms. Baby Houseman, if you’ll indulge me.

 

 

Dear Baby (Do you mind if I call you Baby?):

I’ve got a few things I’d like to discuss with you regarding your relationship with Johnny Castle. Let’s start here: It will never, NEVER work. Like, EVER. Let’s talk about why.

Johnny, though both ruggedly handsome and playfully sexy, is NOT the guy for you. You may think of it as a good will mission or ‘making the world a better place’, but here’s the thing: You two are from COMPLETELY different worlds.

While you crazy kids might do just fine until the pheromones wear off, eventually you will tire of Johnny’s persistent disregard of which fork to use at dinner. The way he’ll pronounce ‘foie gras’ will sound like nails on a chalkboard. His lack of appreciation for the nuances of your doctoral dissertation will be, at best, a bummer.

And as for career options? I suppose he could teach dance. Maybe he could open a studio. Your father MAY be able to pay his way through nursing school, leading him to a respectable career as an ex-dancing male nurse. There are options. And, by the way, did you ever find out whether or not he graduated high school? My money’s on no. Just think carefully about how well-received this will all be at Polo Club.

Eventually, you’ll want to visit the theatre, or the opera, and you’ll realize that Johnny may be, well, a little too rough around the edges for those types of activities. Sure, he can rock a tux, but where do you think he’ll put his gum when he’s done chewing?

I’d keep a close eye on your sister, Lisa, too. Between you, me, and the lamppost, she’s kind of a tramp.  

And have you even remotely considered the in-law situation? At first, you’ll decide it’s the polite thing to do to let his father slap your ass while you’re cooking, but the era of polite will come and go. You’ll eventually get into all that women’s lib stuff and try to strangle him with your bra. It won’t be pretty.

A few years down the road, you’ll walk in and find him on the couch, in the dark, watching big-time wrestling, scratching his ass and swilling a Budweiser with your son Skeeter, AGAIN, and realize you’ve made a terrible mistake. 

Luckily, Daddy’s got a few good lawyers on retainer, and will take care of this whole mess before the entire town gets wind. 

You’re a smart girl. Do yourself a favor and WALK NOW. You’ve had a few memorable rolls in the hay, you carried a watermelon, you did the lift. You done good. Summer romance with a well-intentioned dance instructor from the wrong side of the tracks? Check!

Now get back to school and keep your eyes peeled for a marginally-kempt pacifist. It’ll be better for everyone in the long run.

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The Geriatric Slide

So, I’m thirty-four, hovering dangerously closely to thirty-five. And I’ve discussed my mortality before. But today, I’d like to take a step back. Today, I’d like to talk about another issues, a few ideas that often find themselves fleeting through my mind.

I have to wonder at what point I will be considered old, because, in my mind, I’m probably nearing twenty-eight (or eighty). At which point (beyond the realization you can’t stay up past ten, have more than two drinks, or go to the late movie), should one actually consider herself old? I know, I know. It’s a state of mind. You’re only as young as you feel. Euphemism. Euphemism. Tagline. Trademarked phrase used to entice you to buy eye cream. I get it.

English: Chico's store, Green Oak Village Plac...

Am I old? Am I getting there? Am I JC Penney old or Chico’s old? And what exactly is Chico’s old?

I know enough not to shop in the Juniors’ department. I know enough not to buy anything with PINK stamped across the ass. I know enough not to buy lip gloss with sparkles in it. I also know not to tie a sweater around my neck or wear a visor in a convertible.

But I feel like I’ve entered an abyss of sorts, that point where you know you can’t hang with the party animals, but you also know you’ve got a little more fight in you than bridge club requires.

And what’s that hill again? The one I’ll soon be over? Forty? Is it fifty? And what happens then? Will I be issued a knot in my back, permanently pleated pink polyester pants, and a pair of bifocals? I’m worried about this.

When I was in Florida in October, I had a sobering moment. I got nauseous on Buzz Lightyear’s Space Ranger Spin. I got nauseous on Buzz Lightyear’s Space Ranger Spin. The wind also whipped a little too swiftly through my hair on Big Thunder Mountain. And, truth be told, I got a little nauseous on that, too. I kept it to myself, but that’s got to be a turning point, no?

From screaming obscenities atop the twistiest, turniest, upside-downiest rollercoasters in the country, and, trying, quite literally, to drunkenly wade through a fountain at Downtown Disney (Sorry, Disney. I never did get the chance to apologize), getting nauseous in a bumper car attached to a conveyor belt, is humbling, to say the very least.

Should I start practicing my bunion rants now? Get fitted for orthotics? Fail my driver’s license test? I don’t want to be a salmon fighting upstream. I don’t want to resist maturity, but I don’t want it to overtake me, either.

If you’re as young as you feel, and you don’t necessarily feel the call of the wild anymore (and would probably puke immediately if you drank anything with Wild in its name), are you old? What are you? What are you?

And what will this new demographic unearth? I mean, besides hormone replacement therapy and line filler? I’m a little bit frightened. Will Paris Hilton be hosting infomercials? Will I be sipping Jonah Hill vodka, mindlessly mashing buttons on an Armageddon slot machine? Who really knows?

Perhaps I am feeling a little bit old, but I can tell you right now, I refuse to prepare for the day I find myself lounging around in a Snuggie, eating poop yogurt, watching a Party of Five marathon on The Hub.

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Momma’s 12 Days of Christmas Presents Singing (So I Don’t Cry) by Off Duty Mom

off duty momThe founders of Off Duty Mom have been inspired by the humor and hard work of parents everywhere.  In 2011, after realizing that parenthood was the most beautifully and gloriously exhausting job in the whole world, the Off Duty Mom blog  was formed to share the hilarious and heartbreaking moments so many of us endure through the child-raising process. With topics regularly covered ranging from Gangsta Rap to Jake and the Neverland Pirates, from infertility to public drunkenness, Off Duty Mom seeks to bring the world’s parents together in a forum that is supportive, fun, funny, thought-provoking, and brutally honest. Find Off Duty Mom on Facebook and Twitter @OffDutyMom.

 

So, we drummed up (hee hee) a little ditty to help tell it like it really is as we reflect this holiday season.

Like to hear it?  Here it goes…

On the First Day of Christmas, my children gave to me

      …alcoholic tendencies.

On the Second Day of Christmas, my children gave to me

      …two droopy boobies

      …and alcoholic tendencies.

On the Third Day of Christmas, my children gave to me

      …the likelihood of making less money than my male counterparts at work

      …two droopy boobies

     …and alcoholic tendencies

On the Fourth Day of Christmas, my children gave to me

      …handprints on everything

      …the likelihood of making less money than my male counterparts at work

      …two droopy boobies

     …and alcoholic tendencies

On the Fifth Day of Christmas, my children gave to me

      …five months without sleep

(wait, I will be back in a minute.  I have to pee.  Again.)

On the Sixth Day of Christmas, my children gave to me

      …1/6th my former gag reflex

      …five months without sleep

      …handprints on everything

      …the likelihood of making less money than my male counterparts at work

      …two droopy boobies

     …and alcoholic tendencies

On the Seventh Day of Christmas, my children gave to me

      …I forget.  I am sooooo tired.     

On the Eighth Day of Christmas, my children gave to me

      …several tension headaches

      …I forget.  I am sooooo tired.      

      …1/6th my former gag reflex

      …five months without sleep

      …handprints on everything

      …the likelihood of making less money than my male counterparts at work

      …two droopy boobies

     …and alcoholic tendencies

On the Ninth Day of Christmas, my children gave to me

      …a muffin top

      …several tension headaches

      …I forget.  I am sooooo tired.     

      …1/6th my former gag reflex

      …five months without sleep

      …handprints on everything

      …the likelihood of making less money than my male counterparts at work

      …two droopy boobies

     …and alcoholic tendencies

On the Tenth Day of Christmas, my children gave to me

      …What?  Sorry, I zoned out for a minute.  Have you seen my car keys?

On the Eleventh Day of Christmas, my children gave to me

      …No free time.  Seriously.  None.

      …What?  Sorry, I zoned out for a minute.  Have you seen my car keys?

      …a muffin top

      …several tension headaches

      …I forget.  I am sooooo tired.     

      …1/6th my former gag reflex

      …five months without sleep

      …handprints on everything

      …the likelihood of making less money than my male counterparts at work

      …two droopy boobies

     …and alcoholic tendencies

On the Twelfth Day of Christmas, my children gave to me

      …Ugh.  Varicose veins.

      …No free time.  Seriously.  None.

      …What?  Sorry, I zoned out for a minute.  Have you seen my car keys?

      …a muffin top

      …several tension headaches

      …I forget.  I am sooooo tired.     

      …1/6th my former gag reflex

      …five months without sleep

      …handprints on everything

      …the likelihood of making less money than my male counterparts at work

      …two droopy boobies

     …and alcoholic tendencies!

Ta-da!  So, it wasn’t terrifically musical, but I have been up since 4:30 so…whatever.

Merry Christmas!

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I’m a Contestant on ‘Name That Job’ at Kelley’s Breakroom!

Ever want to peek into someone’s past, to see how they became the person you know today?

I’m at Kelley’s Breakroom today, a proud contestant of Name That Job, where YOU can guess which jobs I did, and which one I didn’t.

Plus, enter to win a subscription to Us Magazine, a virtual wellspring of blog fodder!

Head on over now and play a round!

Good luck!

 

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