November 29, 2005
So, if after seriously, like, HOURS of kicking it at the Walmart Eye Center, where you have been waiting all sorts of patiently (aw, who am I kidding, right?) for Rudesby McSpitsalot, the gum-snapping, busywalking Walmart Vision Care Specialist, whose nametag declares (falsely, might I add), “Hi! You Are Important To Me!”, an assertion you perhaps might have fallen for had it not been for the *snap* *snap* Oh No You DI’NT attitude thrown at you by the aforementioned VC Specialist McSpits, who for reasons unfathomable felt justified in freaking the hell out over the three whole seconds it took out of her busy, busy life to type your name into the computer and simply look up the elusive Tray Number for your youngest daughter’s new glasses, a number that– YES– you should have been able to supply her had you NOT forgotten your sales slip at home because it was a spur of the moment decision to brave the pre-Christmas crowds at Walmart that day, and did I mention that your name was already in the computer anyway?! because it totally was?!…
*phew* Hold on a sec, mm’kay? I have figuratively run out of breath. Must! Breathe! Oxygen!… Wait. Was that all one sentence? It was?! Mercy me! I do run on at the mouth, don’t I? Oh my goodness gracious!
Let me try again: So, if after all this wait-time, your nine-year-old son approaches you wearing the most hilarious pair of oversized, Napoleon Dynamite glasses– the type that went out of style even for your grandpa at least a decade ago, the kind that make you wonder how in the world they expect to unload these monstrosities even on an unsuspecting, eyewear-challenged population– and he says “Look! I’m Napoleon Dynamite!’ and then hands you a pair, would you throw caution to the wind– risking life, limb, devaluation of your street cred with the urban demo– and just friggin’ try those flippin’ SWEET suckers on for size?
Like there was ever any doubt. Honestly.
November 28, 2005
Ryan Seacrest: Coming to you LIVE from Hollywood’s Kodak Theatre, it’s… me! Ryan Seacrest! I’m unseasonably tan and deceptively wee! I work out! And flat-iron my hair! Oh, it’s also another music-filled night of American Idol. Now remember, America, every vote counts tonight. Seriously. If your favorite contestant goes home, it is on your head. I’m just saying.
Okay! Let’s start the evening by– Hmm? What? The season is over? I’m just supposed to read the teleprompter and introduce the judges? Huh?! Wait, so no hushed, introspective one-on-one with the camera? No catchy DUH-nuh-nuh-NUH-nuh-NUH musical intro? No MONTAGE?! Really?!
Oh. Well, this is awkward.
Er, so… moving on! Here are your Idol judges. First up, we have the swing voting, lexiconically-challenged keeper of the dawg pound, Randy Jackson! (woof! woof! woof!)
Next, the straight-up talented and lovely queen of insipidly positive comments, Paula Abdul! (wooooooo!) Ha! “Straight up”! That was a joke! Get it? Like, a pun! Funny!
Last, and definitely least, we have the arrogant, man-breasted, king of barrages of dead-on critical superlatives, Simon Cowell! (BOO.)
All right America, the moment you’ve been waiting for… Tonight Carrie Underwood makes her music video debut singing her breakout #1 country hit, Jesus, Take the Wheel, hot off the #2 album in the USA, Some Hearts, which is currently the highest charting album for a debut artist in 2005. Your American Idol judges have gathered to view the music video and weigh in.
But first a word from our sponsors. Remember, without these commercials no one would get paid and daddy needs some new highlights.
(Commercial: Drink Coca-Cola. Like, lots of it. And drive a Ford! Oh, and Cingular wireless phones rock the hizzouse. The end)
Randy: Carrie, Carrie, Carrie. Yo, that was dope, dawg! Aiight?! You did your thing. I love your voice, man, you give me chills. I mean it, you got pipes! That was brilliant, dude. Not pitchy at ALL. Best. Vocals. Ever. I would buy that single. You are forever in my Dawg Pound now! You can do anything! Aiight?! Aiight.
Paula: Aaaaaw, girl… I’m speechless! Just speechless! I am so proud of you, Carrie. You had fun with this and you made it your own. And you look gorgeous in those blue jeans! Rawr! Radiant! I love you soooo much! You never cease to amaze me with your fantabulous vocals. That was haunting… No, really, you moved me, you really, really did (stands up and seal claps with her fingers pointing outward)… You deserve this! You do!
Simon: (Staring at Paula) You are completely insane. (Turning to Carrie) If I’m being totally honest, it would have been a shock if you couldn’t have got that one right. (crowd boos, Simon turns around and faces audience) Would you people shut UP for a moment? I’m not finished! (Turning back to Carrie) Well, this has never happened before… I’m about to be nice. I predicted you would not only win, but sell more records than any other Idol in American Idol history. I’d like to congratulate America again for getting it exactly right. After several absolute losers were voted through strictly because of sympathy votes rather than talent, you raised the game.
Randy: Uh, Simon? You can’t just be calling people losers. How’s Scott supposed to feel, huh? And Whitey McWhiterson, er, A-Fed? Vonzell? What’s wrong with you, man?
Simon: I can call them whatever I like.
Paula: No, you can’t.
Simon: Yes, I can.
Paula: No, you can’t.
Simon: Yes, I can.
Paula: I know you are, but what am I?
Randy: Well, then I have a problem with you, Simon.
Simon: We’ll discuss it later.
Randy: No, now! This is crazy. This is America, man!
Simon: Oh, go take a happy pill and we’ll discuss this later. (Turning back to Carrie) Where was I? Oh, yes. Congratulations, Carrie. Very, very well done, indeed. Oh, and one more thing… I BLOODY WELL TOLD YOU SO, AMERICA!
Ryan: Uh, okay. So… there you have it. Don’t forget to check out Carrie’s debut album Some Hearts, and also DO NOT forget to check out my star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. It’s cool! And I absolutely did not pay to have it put there! It was a complete surprise to me! Scout’s honor! Now I need to go before my child-sized ironic t-shirt and tight trendy blue jeans completely cut off my breath supply…
(ETA: Incidentally, if country music and/or Jesus ain’t yer thang, her pop song Some Hearts is pretty dang good, too. I heard her sing it live on The Today Show and DAMN. Just… damn.)
November 22, 2005
Okay. For reals, y’all. This year for Thanksgiving? I am totally ordering Chinese take-out.
Okay, sure, so TGIM isn’t totally sold on this whole Chinese take-out idea as of yet, but me? I do not despair! He will soon see things in a different light. Oh, yes he will. You see, I have WAYS… Secret ways. Ways that would knock your freaking socks off if only you knew about them! Oh, the ways that I have! Lots of ’em! Like that thing where I– hmm? What? Too Much Information? Oh. Riiiiiiiight…
Well, this is awkward.
All I am saying is that there is absolutely no WAY I am knocking myself out this year by slaving all day over some HUGE Savory Stuffed Turkey, Creamy Mashed Potatoes, Homemade Dinner Rolls Like Mom Always Makes, Thanksgiving Meal thing just for my immediate family! This may sound harsh and totally un-American and I will probably burn in hell for spitting this metaphorical loogie in the eye of tradition, but seriously. Every year it is the same thing: my kids focus exclusively on the mashed potatoes and pumpkin pie and I’m stuck eating leftover turkey and stuffing for a month. A month, people! Sometime even longer! Do you think I am kidding?! Because I am NOT! Honestly. There are only so many ways you can serve turkey before you resort to Cranberry Turkey Loaf and Gobbler Cobbler, that’s all I’m saying. It’s madness. M-A-D-N-E-S-S!
Oh, now, settle down. It’s not as if I’m suggesting we go vegan and eat a Tofurkey. (Because that? Would also be madness.) I briefly toyed with the idea of purchasing a Wegman’s Complete Turkey Holiday Dinner Deluxe (with Baked Brie with Apples, Cinnamon & Brandy Candied Sweet Potatoes, and Classic Cheesecake– YUM!), but the $70 price tag brought me crashing back to my cheap-ass senses.
Plus, truthfully? The whole Thanksgiving Day preparation and fuss makes me feel as if I should be dressed in a blue taffeta June Cleaver dress wearing pearls and a polka-dotted kitchen apron, busily serving hors d’oeuvres on china plates, and saying things like “Ward, I’m worried about the Beaver…” while cartoon birds braid my hair. Which is way freaky.
So, this year? I will be ringing up the local Speedy Chopstix or Dragon Sky Dim Sum or whoever else delivers on Thanksgiving, and I will give thanks for the wonton soup and orange chicken and moo goo gai pan and shrimp eggs rolls. Maybe even some tasty chow mein. And my family shall eat it and call it GOOD. Because no mammoth pile of dirty pots, roasting pans, scary cutlery, and dishes to clean? No twenty-five pounds of leftover turkey to store away? No TGIM sprawled on the living room couch in front of football game after football game after football game in an L-Trytophan-induced coma? No Gobbler Cobbler with a side of Cranberry Turkey Loaf?! Well, hallefreakinglujah! Thank you, LORD! Can I hear a big, “Hell, yeah!”?!
November 21, 2005
After literally tens of minutes of meticulously sectioning, strategically clipping, and severely manhandling my hair just as the stylists in the Glamour article suggest; after several more minutes of attempting to wield a curly brush in one hand, a hot-as-freaking-fire blow dryer in the other, while spinning to untangle myself from the stupid twisty cord which keeps mysteriously wrapping itself around my waist; after yet more minutes of painfully straining my whiplashed neck beyond sensible, nay, beyond advisable limits with the hope of glimpsing at least a teensy section of the back of my head in the much-too-small bathroom mirror; and immediately after I finish smoothing several different types of anti-frizz cremes and serums onto my perfectly coiffed head, yes, right at the exact moment when I emerge triumphantly from the bathroom sweating like a mofo (but a mofo with perfectly blown out hair!) just walk right up to me and say, “Wow!… Um, Mom? Why is your hair so poofy?”
(::bitter tangent::) Don’t get used to it. It’s pouring outside. Good LORD, it never fails, I kid you not! Rain not in the forecast? No problem! Wishing for a little moisture, you know, for the lawn and the plants or whatnot? Have I got a deal for you! Forget the whole Wash Your Car trick. No need for a ceremonial rain dance. Just ask me to blow out my hair! GOSH. That’s, like, TENS of minutes I’ll never get back! For reals, y’all. For friggin’ reals. (::end bitter tangent::)
November 18, 2005
Gosh. I feel all ready to kick some boo-tay and shizz. DUDE! I love my new Double H biker boots!