Mad Men on My Mind

Okay, so as I'm driving down Grand Avenue this afternoon, dishing out punishments to my son and daughter from the driver's seat I found myself shouting, "If Don Draper was your father you'd listen the first time, dammit!" Their reflections from the rear view mirror seemed slightly stunned, but mostly amused--as if to say--"Wait til my therapist gets a load of this!"

But my tirade got me thinking about last night's episode of Mad Men. Let's just jump ahead to 10:30 when Don's scream to the kids, "Cut it out!" was followed by obedient silence. My breathing became heavier when I stopped to think that he was not only admonishing his own brood, but also his brother-in-law's daughters. And they all listened! Come on, anyone who's ever had a playdate has had the urge to scream just once at some other kid, "Cut it out!" (My house, being uncensored, would follow it up with, "You little Bastard!") I am a true subscriber to the "Don Draper Method for Scaring the Shit out of Your Kids."

Okay back to the show--let's start at the beginning where Ann Margaret opened the show with "Bye Bye Birdie"--tell me that Sal didn't want to break out dancing and singing? Did you see his Fred Flinstone head slightly shaking to the beat restraining himself to not get up on the table and dance along with Annie?

And while we're on the subject of The Flintstones, I loved when sexy Joanie said to Iron Betty, "Other than Wilma Flintstone, I've never seen anyone carry so well." And not for nothing, but Joanie's looking a little thick around the waist; however, it only makes her look more sexy--my middle cannot be forced into curves--it's simply just there preventing me from sitting close enough to the steering wheel to reach the pedals. Lately it feels like I have to stand when I drive.

Then there's the dinner scene with Don, Pissed-off Betty, Pompous Price and his arrogant wife. Just once I want to be in a situation that requires me to say, "Ah, the coquille. Brilliant!"

And Roger. Roger, Roger, Roger...All I have to say about Roger is "Gibson up, Baby!" He can drink anywhere, anytime, anyplace and never break a sweat. It's true that last season's oyster and 10 martini lunch with Dan caused him to spew all over the clients (every time I eat oysters I'm reminded of that scene) he's still my favorite character. I loved the "family meeting" in his office with his ex & daughter. Let me just say that if Roger was my daddy and he was footing the bill for my off-the-charts wedding he could bring Ethel Merman for all I cared! And I love how his ex called his nubile bride "June" instead of "Jane"--can't beat passive-aggressive behavior!

Then there's Peggy's dorm sex with the Bay Ridge Boy. No Trojan, no worries--"we can do other things." -- How Don Draper of her!

I can't end the post without talking about Grandpa since the show sort of revolved around him and his son Scooter. Let me just say this--if I walked into my kitchen and found the old man pouring my booze down the drain he'd be in a home faster than you could say, "Bye-Bye Gramps!" That scene brought a tear to my eye.

Okay, and then there's the Don Draper Maypole Boner scene. The teacher was definitely headed in the "flower child" direction--hair down, no spray, no girdles, no stockings. You know there's got to be a story there...my guess is Don's going to the Parent-Teacher conference this year.

So until next week ladies, get out those matching peignoir sets, light up a non-filtered cigarette, and make yourself a pitcher of martinis...and if you find an empty box of Melba Toast in your cupboard--blame it on the maid...why not, Betty does?

The Return of Mad Men

Okay, so the rule in my house last night was this: disturb mommy from 10 o'clock to 11 o'clock and every privilege gets taken away and the house goes into lock down mode--this included my husband as well, but not the dog. Why? Season 3 of MAD MEN! Now for those of you who have never seen an episode of the show--run to the video store, Netflix, the library and watch the first two seasons. You will immediately become addicted as the opening notes transport you to the world of New York City, and the suburbs, in 1960. Sex, cigarettes, intrigue, cigarettes, adultery, cigarettes, pointy boobs and shoes, cigarettes, no birth control, cigarettes...oh, and lots and lots and lots of booze.

For all you returning devotees of the show I have just two words: Gay Sex! And could they make it any hotter? What was it? Because it was so forbidden back then, or the fact that Sal finally succumbed to his urges? And can I just say that Sal's almost-romp with the bell boy put Don's fling with the pretty, but entirely uninteresting, stewardess to shame. And, come on, when Sal's pen exploded in his shirt pocket? Cheesy, but oh so supreme a metaphor! Although I think Sal really loves his wife Kitty (and who wouldn't--she's great!) let's hope he continues to have more great story lines.

And Peggy--way to grow a pair--you go girlfriend!!! Get that secretary working for YOU! Take away those bangs, the bow ties, and the sensible shoes and you have Don Draper!

And how pregnant is Betty? When Don delivered the warm milk to Betty in bed she looked like her water was going to break, but at the end of the show she looked only about five months pregnant.

And I have to ask: can Betty be any more cold as a mother? Did you see the snarky smirk she had on her face when 8 minutes into the show she referred to her daughter as a "Lesbian"? At least her life would be more complete and fulfilled than yours, Betty Boop! And she'd be with someone, finally, who would love her unconditionally! Can't you see her daughter dropping LSD, burning her bra, and needing deep psychoanalysis by 1970?

Then there's Joan, the curvy sexy head of the secretarial pool. She made a reference about leaving not on her terms--did her rapist husband get her pregnant? But you have to love how she seductively and brilliantly put the English boy secretary, "I'm not a secretary" in his place by giving him an office she knew his boss would take away from him.

And here's my final thoughts: what's up with Cooper's Asian snake porn picture? Can Roger stay faithful to his 21 year old bride? Did anyone catch the hair hat on one of the ladies who lunched at Pete's wife's apartment? And how great are Pete's whiny temper tantrums? Imagine being married to that??? I love screaming at the TV whenever he comes on: "Stop whining Bitch!" Makes me feel so powerful! And when I watch all those pointy breasts, curvy hips, high pointy spiked heels, and the stiff hair on all the women all I can think about is the excruciating pain they must have been in every single minute of every single day. It's all I can do to put a bra on some days--imagine girdles, three-hook bras, garters, slips, stockings...OW!

Now, considering the fact that I also watch "The Housewives of..." shows, watching Mad Men is a huge step up the cultural food chain for me, and let's face it--Don Draper is some pretty sweet eye-candy! (But I would love to see The Housewives circa 1960 go up against The Housewives of New Jersey circa 2009--Betty wouldn't have to stand up to toss a table like Teresa--her icy cold stare would bring the room to a scary standstill. And what would Teresa make of those pointy boobies? And how fun would it be if Danielle hooked up with Don Draper--she'd off him in a Jersey second if he pulled that crap on her!)

So for all you other devoted fans of the misogynistic Mad Men, loosen up the girdles, take off the stilettos, light up a cigarette, pour yourself a scotch, whiskey, bourbon, vodka...and enjoy season 3!

PS: ant colonies are "gynocracies"??? WTF?

Bless Me Father...

Last Friday, a young cousin of mine was married and because our family is insanely huge she invited only the old aunts which was just fine by me. However, my mother drafted me to be her chauffeur for the evening and so I had to accompany her to the church before entertaining her for 2 hours and hauling her off to the reception. Now, I knew my mission was difficult; however, my children have sufficiently broken me so I thought, "What's left of my sanity that my mother could actually break?" (Hint: never ask yourself that question sober!)

The ceremony at the church began at 5pm so it was completely logical that my mother insist we arrive at 4pm to get a good seat. Of course when we arrived the church was locked and therefore we did the next best thing--we walked around the cemetery for 30minutes which in itself is enough to bring your mood to suicidal, but when she stopped at my father's grave to tell him that the refrigerator he bought her 40 years ago finally broke and he did her no favors by building custom cabinets around the refrigerator because now she can't find a g-d refrigerator to fit the g-d space because they don't make that g-d size anymore...!--well, let's just say I was rummaging through my purse for any expired prescription drugs that may be rolling around the bottom of my bag.

Finally, the church doors opened and I convinced my mother to sit in the last pew because I had just come from the pool and a cover-up dress was not appropriate attire for a wedding. The real reason I wanted to sit in the last pew is because my mother is a devout Catholic who believes in confession. Not the "Bless me Father, kneeling in the confessional" confession, but the very loud, very public confessions made from her seat in the pew about the people sitting near and around her. Having not seen her extended family and old friends in quite some time I knew she'd have a lot to say.

As the church began to fill and strangers sat in the pews in front of us I thought we were safe from any family members who would be seated towards the front overhearing the comments I was sure she would make. And then the priest flipped on the two gigantic fans that sat right behind our seat in the last pew. I began to sweat because now the fans would push her comments to the front of the church amplifying her vitriol.

Her first victim was a young cousin of mine who, I admit, is amply endowed and wore a dress that accentuated her healthy cleavage, but my mother in her loud church whisper said, "Will you look at the size of her boobies!" My head snapped to look at my mother in disbelief. Now I'm sitting next to Theresa from Housewives of NJ? "Those boobies are enormous! If she coughs her boobies'll fall to the floor and then what will she do?! I thought your boobies were big, but..."

"Stop saying 'boobies' in church!" I seethed.
"Oh you're being ridiculous!" she snapped back.

I handed her the a copy of the wedding booklet the bride and groom had placed in the pews for guests hoping that it would amuse her. She idly flipped through it and without looking up said, "You should talk to her about her boobies. Tell her about your BREAST REDUCTION."

I nearly pushed her to the floor in matricidal rage. "Stop talking about boobies...her boobies...my boobies...stop!!!" Now I couldn't stop saying boobies and the people seated in the pew in front of us began to shift uncomfortably.

"I'm just saying that you should tell her about your BREAST REDUCTION because your boobies were humung..."

I pinched her arm like she was one of my children and told her if she didn't stop talking about overgrown body parts we were leaving!!!

I couldn't quell the nausea rising like the perfect storm in my belly as the grandmothers of the bride were escorted in. I could tell my mother was shifting her thoughts from boobies to whores when she pointed to a guest and said, "Will you look at her--in that outfit! You know she cheated on her husband in 1955! She always had a reputation as a ..."
Another pinch accompanied with, "DO NOT SAY IT!" Now STOP!"

Now, people were willing to ignore 'boobies' but words like 'cheating on her husband' and 'reputation' registers with people especially when they're directed at a seemingly harmless 80 year old woman.

Just when I thought there was nothing worse she could possibly say it was time for the vows. A hush fell over the congregation when the bride and groom stood to take their vows. I could see that my mother thought this was her cue to give a play-by-play commentary. The first pitch 'whispered' was, "She married someone who's bald? She's so beautiful!" The second pitch: "Why would she want someone who's bald? and is he Mexican or an Arab? I can't tell." The third pitch: "You see that old fat woman wearing that awful red dress with the knee-hi's? She was voted most beautiful in 1945. Look at her now! I hope they don't sit me with her--I'll never get anything to eat at the reception!"

At this point my mom conveniently drops her tissue, bends down to pick it up so that when everyone finally turns around to see who's been spewing all these comments I'm the only one standing. I thought the crowd was going to attack me there and then, but thankfully the priest pronounced the bride and groom, man and wife, and there was no time for retribution of the masses as the newlyweds kissed.

By the time the bride and groom made their way down the aisle, I was hoping to get my hands on some of the sacramental wine because I was done! I made my mother wait until everyone left the church because I wanted to leave by the side door afraid that I would be assaulted by the crowd. However, before I could make my get-a-way my mother said, "Wait, I want to go light a candle. Here-- take this dollar, it would benefit you to light one too. Oh, and don't forget to talk to your cousin with the big boobies about your BREAST REDUCTION!"

"Bless me Father..." I said as I looked up towards the statue of Jesus who, unless my eyes were deceiving me, seemed to be smiling just a little.

Burn, Baby-fat, Burn

For a long time I've been considering getting back into shape because as I mourned the fact that my children have lost their baby-fat I came to the stark realization that I had not lost mine. But let me be real--I just didn't feel like expending all that energy when there's so much good, bad food to be had! But in the last 2 weeks I have lost any ability I thought I had to "suck-it-in" at the pool, so I was at the "considering" stage and asking friends about the merits of their gyms. Imagine my surprise as I surfed "Craigslist" for freelance writing gigs when I came upon "Looking for writer to write on-going series of PR/fitness articles in exchange for free personal training 3x's a week". "Wow!" I thought as I took another white-trash sip of beer from my long-neck bottle of Bud and shoved a handful of Lays Sour Cream & Onion potato chips into my mouth, "That's just what I'm looking for!" (BELCH!) So I responded.

I came to my senses the next morning and laughed at my craziness as I over-buttered my ginormous "flagel" and poured waves of half & half into my coffee. I was so certain that hundreds of people applied for the gig that there was no way I'd even get a response. So, I sat down to check my email and there it was--THE xxxtraining.com email. It said, "You're just who we're looking for." Really? Me? Then it occurred to me. I was probably the only one who responded because most writers I know are notoriously lazy and quite content to sit in front of a computer all day. Hell, I should know--I count myself among their numbers. But I took this as a sign from God and decided to give it a shot.

Initially, the gods were on my side because on my first scheduled day of training I woke up with a wicked stomach virus that I was certain I had contracted from a kids' birthday party 48 hours prior. Ordinarily, this would have really pissed me off, because I've become a sort of germaphobe, but this time I was elated! In fact, if I could have found the little germ-monger I would have given him or her a big "non-antibacterial" kiss. However, that lasted only 24 hours so tonight I set off to fulfill my obligation as one sets off to death row.

Now I used to be incredibly active. I ran competitively throughout high school and college; ran every road race anywhere I could find them, and most times won for my age group. Then came kids. And snacks. I think it was the "Goldfish" Crackers that put me over the edge. Those little cheddar fish are notoriously deceiving--they look tiny and harmless, but they're really sharks and I hold them responsible for at least 10 pounds!

Getting back to my "training", I didn't even know what to wear. I had to go into the attic and find a trunk with my old work-out wear. I pulled out spandex piece after spandex piece. I could start my own '80's rock band! And then came the question--does anyone wear spandex shorts anymore? Even if they have a Nike swoop on them? I didn't have much of a choice--it was either that or a loose-fitting sundress. So I stuffed my torso into the black tubular hell that was now strangulating my small intestines and made the best of it.

I arrived at the gym and was greeted by an extremely fit and muscular twenty-something boy. (I can't help it; it's really hard to refer to someone who could be your son--if you drank one too many Jello shots in college-- as a man.) "Christ, this can't be real," I thought. But I have to say, he kicked my black spandex ass. He had me do more things with a yoga ball than any human should have to do; we lifted weights; we ran; we did jumping jacks; we pulled bands with weights; we squatted; I think I even hauled a Chevy pick-up, but that might have been what it felt like right before I became delirious. Seriously, when the hot sweat of a "good workout" turns to cold flashes, 911 should be called. But when I felt as if I could take no more my trainer shouted, "I can already see some definition in your abs." Now, when a sculpted twenty-something boy-man, tells a gelatinous 40-something woman that he can see definition in her abs, you will yourself not to faint and find that extra boost of energy! I hated to tell him that the "definition in my abs" that he saw was actually the Big Mac I ate making its ascent up to my esophagus. But right when I thought my body could go no further, he announced that our session was up. He handed me my water bottle and like a bizarro-world scene from the movie "Flashdance" I removed the cap and poured the water over my head and fell to the floor.

But you know something? When my head stopped spinning, and I felt like the need for a defribilator was lessening, I actually felt great. I mean really great. Or at least that's what I'm telling myself because I have my next session tomorrow night. And right now, the only thing I'm inspired to write is my will. Stay tuned.

The Convenience of Children

Children are many things...bundles of joy, gifts from God, blank slates, pains in the ass, but I just realized the other day how convenient it is to have children. Why? They make it so easy for you to lie. I'm not talking about anything serious just, you know, small white lies that wouldn't hurt a fly. For instance, a few months ago my brother-in-law gave me an electric hair grooming razor to use on my son. Now, although I considered it, I did not attempt to use it on my son because I know better. However, when I looked at the dog as she trotted past me, I thought, "Why not?" Afterall, it costs me more to have her hair cut than mine, so...what could be the harm?
I have to admit, the dog actually sat still for me as I plugged in the shears (circa 1970) although she did howl and cry. I was amazed by the first few cuts. How easy! The hair just came off in clumps and I momentarily thought that I had found a new career. Forget writing! I'll charge $20 to shave dogs and have a nice comfortable income. As I shaved behind her ears, under her chin, on her paws visions of "Chez Annie's Pet Grooming" danced before me. I even chose a color theme--Retro pink and black. I was brought back to reality when I saw a real tear fall from my beloved canine's eye. I switched off the razor to stop and admire my work.
As my dog sat there obediently allowing me to observe her, I was instantly horrified. If there's a doggy version of "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest" she'd get the lead. It really looked like she had a lobotomy. One side of her jaw was bald while uneven clumps of shag hung from the other side. Her tail looked like a topiary and her paws looked like they belonged to a poodle. In my "Chez Annie" glee, I shaved off her left eyebrow. Frankly, I never knew that dogs even HAD eyebrows until I shaved one off!
Now, the dog is not stupid--I could see the scorn in her eyes as she skulked off. However, it wasn't until she refused to step out of the house to go for a walk that I realized she was thoroughly embarassed! I literally had to lift and carry her out of the house and even then she ran to hide behind every unoccupied tree!
So, I did the only thing that a responsible dog owner could do--I made an appointment at a real dog grooming shop and when they saw the state of the dog I blamed it on the kids. The owner of the shop just sadly nodded and said, "Kids will do the darndest things!" Imagine if she knew what their mother was capable of! Is there such a thing as doggy DYFUS?
So, let's just say that children are convenient--at getting us out of the most awkward and embarassing situations!

Rock'n'Roll Mama (or Twisted Sister)

Being the head writer for The Garden State Jubilee--a new, cutting edge, up and coming, old-school radio variety show--allows you certain privileges--like writing yourself into as many skits as you can when the headliner has a stick up his ass, the entire male- dominated cast pisses you off, and the producers are three sheets to the wind. So, this past Friday I made my acting debut on the stage of The Asbury Lanes. Okay, so the stage was really lanes 14-23 covered with a well-worn carpet.(No bowling was allowed during the show, but I was tempted at times...)
Trying to be hip, trendy, and cool (emphasis on "trying") I bought a pair of red platforms and a black Massimo mini dress at Target. (Sarah Jessica Parker, eat your heart out!) Can I just tell you how many times those platforms got stuck on the carpeted gutter and I almost fractured my friggin' ankle!!!??? (Oh, and by "mini-dress" I mean that when I sat down my knees were bared--which is when I discovered that I only shaved my lower leg, so I had "knee afros" or knee-fros as I like to call them. Thank God it was dark!)

When I walked into "The Lanes", as it is referred to by locals, it appeared that time stopped somewhere in the early '80's and when I heard the Ramones blasting on the sound system it was surreal and disorienting. All I wanted to do was dance, but I was overcome with the urge to mop the floor at the same time because it looked like it hadn't been cleaned in 30 years. Who goes into a bar and thinks about mopping a floor??? I felt like somebodies punk-rock Jewish mother!

Being a part of the show, we got to drink and eat for free, a perk I took advantage of. I was starving so right after rehearsal I grabbed a cold beer and indulged in their infamous taylor ham and cheese sandwich. As I took the first bite of the sandwich I was in heaven...pork roll and melted processed cheese...and then the stage hand with halitosis decided to sit across from me and engage in conversation about "man-cans" (yes, this is the man fixated on his "man-cans") Well, the halitosis was overwhelming, but so was my hunger so I tried to eat without breathing. Didn't work. I took a sip of beer--it was tinged with halitosis. Finally, unable to take it any longer, the mother in me kicked in and I shouted, (I had to shout over the music) "Your halitosis is killing me!" to which he replied, "Hal's not talking to me either." Thoroughly pissed off, I gave him my sandwich and went off to sulk.

The show was a hit. At the end, a female audience member wearing a black micro-mini dress and flip flops got so excited that she jumped up and down really high. After her third jump the entire cast looked at each other for confirmation--yes, she was wearing no underwear. She continued to jump up and down, we continued to gawk. I couldn't help thinking, "No underwear, really? And wasn't she sitting on the barstool earlier that I then sat down on???? And look at that floor--it's filthy!"

After the show a man came up to me and said he would love to "ink" my legs because he thought they'd be even hotter with ink. (Somebody called my legs hot??? God, I love these people! For a moment I felt like the Jennifer Aniston of "Bizarro World" but my mind was too busy calculating if I was old enough to be this man's mother. When did that happen??? Calculating if I'm mother or MILF material???) Flattered though I was (and dear God, I was--I felt like the claw in one of those claw machines the kids like to play--and in my claw was the prize) I waved my husband over to me. Now, I've established that his hearing is going, so imagine in a loud bar--deaf as a stone. So as this man gushed about my legs (gush...please gush) my husband stood, nodded, and smiled. Amazing. But it was getting close to closing time and we had to head home. So I bid my new friend goodbye, and took my old man home.

As we left "The Lanes" and walked out to go back to my real life, I told my husband about this man's fascination with my legs. The "delay" button on his machismo kicked in and he wanted to go kick the guy's ass (as soon as his sinuses cleared up because his head was killing him). I handed him a Kleenex, and said, "Come on Grampa--your moment passed."
Wow, I wonder if Jennifer Aniston has such problems????

Housewives of NJ Supper Show and Reunion, Pt.1

"If you're not familiar with the 'table flip' then you're not from New Jersey."
A quotable quotable from Christopher, Caroline's son. (Psst...Craft Lounge--can I also have that embroirdered on a tee-shirt???)

Just when I thought that all was back to bland on TV, I accidentally stumbled across Bravo's airing and dissection of the "Supper Show" from the finale of "Desperate Housewives of New Jersey". BRAVA, Bravo for taking a ten minute trainwreck and stretching it into an hour of armchair analysis and petty commentary. TV doesn't get much better than that--I was glued to the set. Then there was the quotable observation made by Theresa (aka, the 'table-flipper') about her table-flipping moment, "I think Joe was turned on by the table flip because we went home and got it on...I mean really got it on." (BTW the only thing I really get on when I get home is my pajamas, but I digress.)


Not only does Bravo throw all us fans a bone with "The Supper Show" they give us a two-parter reunion!!!! Tonight was part one and it was the perfect tease to get us to watch part two on Thursday (as if I'd miss it????) They start off with "the book" and the "table-flip" and slowly ease us into getting at the core of what ails those Jersey girls--from bitch-slap revelations (Danielle really slapped Caroline???) to Theresa only liking "cleansy" houses because dirty houses shkeeve (sp?) her, what more can a Jersey girl ask of the Jersey girls? And who knew that the "Big Reveal" would come from the host who admitted he was gay. Really? I mean really? Do you really think we didn't know? Two things a Jersey girl can sniff out--a sale and a gay man.

Half-way through the show my husband came in to get his (sweats) on and started his running commentary which was spoiling the experience of the show for me so I banished him from the room. He returned during the commercial break to tell me that my life is much more sexy and interesting and would make for a far more compelling reality show than the lives of these women. I asked him which wife he was talking about and could he please ask her to take a break from her sexiness and do a load of laundry every once in a while, or take the kids off my hands for an hour or two so I could go get a wax and stop looking like Chewbacca. He assured me he was talking about me. Now, I could use a lot of adjectives to explain my life and sexy isn't even in the top 100. Who does this poor man think he's married to? I may be desperate, and I may be a housewife, but even with Acadamy Award winning editing, my life could never rise to the level of insanity that the lives of these women do.
I had so much more to say in response, but the commercial break was over and he was once again banished from the room.

The coming attractions for part two (airs Thursday night) look great...tears, accusations, more tears, and anger...always seething anger. I can't wait! So stay tuned...I'm sure I'll have more to say on Thursday.