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.

Light My Fire

I should know better, but I'm like one of those head trauma victims who have no access to short term memory; either that or I'm in the early stages of alzheimer's. What was I talking about? Oh yeah. Let me explain what I mean. I am pea-soup green with envy at those couples who divide household responsibilities. One dad was telling me that his wife cooks, he cleans up; she prepares lunches, he does bath-time; she reads to the kids, he folds laundry. Then there are those moms whose houses are spotless because every Saturday the house is divided in half and they clean one half while their husbands clean the other. As if that's not bad enough, every night as I clear away the dishes from the meal I have cooked I get to watch as my neighbor's husband cleans the dishes, mops the floor, and if I'm seeing things clearly, it appears that he's re-organizing the pantry. (Listen, if there's no curtains on the windows you're inviting people to spy!) What I'm trying to say is that I think that I'm in love with my neighbors husband--well, in love with his cleaning initiative.

So, imagine how turned on I was one night two months ago when my husband told me that he was going to do the laundry. (If he added that he would also bathe the kids I think I would have had an orgasm!!!) The next day when I looked around for the laundry he looked at me in surprise and said that it was in the washing machine--where else would it be? If I hadn't been rendered speechless I would have explained that the little laundry fairies who come into people's houses and take the wash out of the washing machine and put it into the dryer is a myth. Instead I went to unload the washer only to find strings of shredded wires strangulating the jeans, tee-shirts, socks, underwear. "What the...???" And then I saw that familiar ear piece and I knew that I was looking at the remnants of my beloved IPOD. You have to understand, my IPOD keeps me eternally young and happy. When I want to forget that I'm a mother, wife, overstressed crazy person I put those ear plugs into my ears and get an infusion of David Cassidy, Roger Daltrey, Elvis Costello and suddenly, every bit of stress melts away. So when I saw my IPOD in shreds I immediately blamed it on "Mr. Helpful" also known as the man I married. He countered my accusations by scolding me for not taking it out of my pocket before putting my jeans in the laundry. I reached deep inside myself to resurrect my inner petulant teenager, stormed up to my room, and slammed the door shut!

All that brings me to last night when he said he was going to help me and throw in a load of wash. Hesitatingly, I managed an unconvincing, "Great..." It took about 2 minutes for him to summon me to the basement. I knew it couldn't be good news, so I slowly made my way down the stairs only to see him staring at the washing machine as smoke was pouring out of it while the wash cycle sputtered in distress. He asked me, seriously, did this seem normal to me? Now, I don't have the firefighting training or years of firefighting experience that he has under his belt; nor was I, like him, a fire chief, but I was pretty certain that the washing machine was on fire. When I gave him my verdict, he slowly leaned closer to the machine, sniffed twice, and told me that he thought I was right. However, he did not want to call the fire department because he didn't want to be embarrassed. I replied that I agreed it would be better to burn with dignity than to have the fire department come and check it out.

Instead, he unplugged the washer, took me in his arms and said it was a good thing he did the laundry or else God knows what could have happened if I had thrown the wash in and walked away. "Well," I thought to myself, "We'd have clean laundry."

Happy Wife, Happy Life

Okay, so I have a dirty little secret--I am hopelessly addicted to "Desperate Housewives of New Jersey". There I said it. But come on--it's a total train wreck and I can't help myself. Everyone in my house, including the dog, knows that I can't be disturbed on Tuesdays beginning at 10pm. My obsession has gotten really bad; I mean I was at a Board of Education meeting tonight and I kept looking at the clock thinking, "People, can we please speed up the talk about the swine flu! It's the season finale of "Desperate Housewives of NJ!"

I swear it's like I have OCD with the show, too. For those of you who watch (admit it--I can feel the smiles on your face) you know that they replay it no less than 3 times in a row. I'm OCD because I must watch the show from 10-11 just for the sheer pleasure of watching. I must watch it from 11-12 to make sure that what I watched from 10-11 actually happened, and I must watch it from 12-1 to dissect it. A botox party? Boobies? Women in Franklin Lakes with Hudson County accents? Boobies? (yes, boobies must be repeated!) Giving your daughter a brand new car for failing out of school and having to attend summer school? All those 100 dollar bills stuffed into Teresa's wallet??? A 45 year old dating a 25 year old??? (Technically, isn't that babysitting?)

I didn't mean to watch the show, let alone obsess over it. But I watched the 30 minute season premier and was hooked when Teresa's husband said (in response to her spending hundreds of thousands of dollars) "Happy wife, happy life!" I want to get that tattooed to my husband's forehead. My husband, hurumphing it all away said, (bless his soul) "You can spend hundreds of thousands of dollars if you want--I won't get mad." Sweet man, doesn't he realize that first you have to have it before you can spend it?

Tonight's season finale involved a housewarming party held at a restaurant (???) and a table being overturned (really thrown over) in anger. I nearly cried when I saw all those full glasses of red wine spilling to the floor. But, believe it or not, coming from a passionate Italian family, I've been to a few family events where tables have been turned over but never, I repeat, never when there were full glasses of wine. We knew where to draw the line.

But alas, the show has ended for the season (however, next week the cast gets together to rehash the season!!!) so I will have to find some other way to fill my Tuesday nights with entertainment. Moms--anyone out there want to meet at the Gazebo? I'll bring the wine!

The Commercialization of Jack

When I think of all those adman on Madison Avenue creating their ad campaigns for all those new "As Seen on TV" products, I imagine that hanging on their conference room walls is a humongous picture of my son Jack. I swear, every product hawked on TV Jack insists we absolutely need. I think the popularity of the "SHAM WOW" had less to do with the crazy guy on the commercial and more to do with the fact that Jack couldn't stop talking about it to everyone he met--in church, in Shop Rite, in the mall, in the liquor store (hey! don't judge!). Being a magician-in-training, the SHAM WOW was nothing less than magical to Jack's then 5-year-old-eyes.

This morning, I heard Jack's little feet padding down the stairs at 7:30am. "Thank God he can turn the TV on by himself," I thought as I rolled over to the cool side of the sheets only to be greeted with a tongue in my eye. Thinking it was my husband I grumpily pushed him away thinking, "You have to be kidding me!" but as I pushed, I felt all the fur and realized it was my dog violating my eye, so I pulled her closer to me so she could violate my other eye. (Look, I didn't want the damn dog, but when everyone else lost interest in her newness she became my ward and I have grown to love this scary hairy mutt to the point that when she dies I'm having her stuffed and I'm walking around town with her! But that's for another blog!)

While in the deep REM's of a dream that involved me on some beach alone (!) my son's finger tapped away on my shoulder. Still half in the dream and half coming out of it I thought it was the cabana boy coming to replenish my drink. It was not the cabana boy it was Jack excitedly telling me that he wants soft beautiful feet and he wanted my credit card so he could order the Pedi-egg. Whether it was exhaustion or shock, I was speechless. He kept trying to convince me that we'd get a lot of use out of it--his feet, my feet, daddy's feet, Katies feet, even the dog. "We'd be the soft- beautiful-feet family at the pool!" he exclaimed.

You have to understand, I've lived through the Slap Chop ("Look mom, we can make egg salad for breakfast!") the Fanny Lifter ("Mom, look--I do have a flat fanny--do you want the kids to laugh at me at the pool?"), the Ab Away ("Mom, I'm doing this for you--you really need to do something about that stomach!"), the Fasta Pasta ("If you got the Ab Away you could eat the Fasta Pasta every night!"), The Forearm Forklift ("Daddy can move anything with no excuses now!"), the Go Duster ("Mom, now you have no excuse!") and so much more.

When he was three-years old I walked up from the laundry room to find him on the phone and in the process of ordering The Shower Stick (for that all-over full-body shower experience!) Clearly Jack had been on the phone for at least a few minutes so I grabbed the phone out of his hand and started screaming at the telemarketer. I asked him what was wrong with him engaging a three-year-old -- he should know better! He responded by telling me that if I was a more observant mother, my son would not have dialed the phone nor would he be watching commercials if I took him outside more. "Bastard!" I yelled as I slammed the phone down, knowing full well he was right.

So now it's 8:30 on a Saturday morning and my son wants the soft beautiful feet that only a Pedi-egg can give. Maybe it's time to make breakfast and go to the playground.