A Dyson. Because being a mom doesn’t suck. And because a vacuum is the perfect gift for pushing two babies out of your vagina and then having your nipples chewed off for the following ten months. Nope. But I figure if I am in charge of picking up after three animals, I may as well be efficient.
Animals. All of you.
After I wake up from my bedsore worthy sleep-in, I immediately want liquor and desserts for breakfast in bed. Oh wait. That’s right. My husband’s over thirty soccer league has a game scheduled for eight o’clock in the morning. On Mother’s Day. Evidently the team will crumble without him. After all, this is the big league. And none of the players have mothers, wives or children seemingly.
Mommy’s busy.
I want my bedroom back. If I roll over on top of a Lego one more time, I am burning them all. Do you have any idea how badly that hurts? Like rolling over on a landmine. I wake up screaming and furiously karate chopping the air. Unless Legos are shaped like Eddie Vedder or Johnny Depp, they just don’t belong in my bed.
What I dream of my bedroom looking like.
What my bedroom actually looks like. “Hey hun, can you pass me that chicken wing?”
Speaking of bed. I want a hotel room. I’d like to sleep alone one night. All alone. Without someone holding my nose like a handle, while kicking me in the spleen and headbutting me in the face. All alone. I don’t care if it’s a rent by the hour joint. I don’t even mind if there are cockroaches. As long as they tuck me in, are quiet and don’t smoke. Those little fuckers can totally chill with me.
Oh my god, they’re multiplying. And we’re never having sex again.
Wine. Magnums of it. I’m talking backstroke in a tub full of Chardonnay, while you pour Cabernet in my mouth. Because my three-year old is a caveman and tells me thrice daily that I am stupid. And my six-year old bullies me like Real Housewives of Orange County bullies me. Wine. All day.
Me on Sunday. In wine.
Major reconstructive surgery on my stomach. Despite core strengthening and intense cardio, I fear that my stomach will always look like it was set on fire. Twice. That belly button ring I got when I was seventeen was a fan-fucking-tastic idea though. Really. Not too sexy when your stomach stretches seventeen thousand times bigger than the size of your seventeen year old midriff. Dumbass.
Aw, isn’t that precious. Wait until the baby comes and you look like a fucking narwhal that was caught in a barbed wire net and it ripped your flesh to pieces.
For one…just one blessed family photo that doesn’t involve me screaming during the taking of said photo. “Look at the camera, kids…daddy, look at the camera (seriously?!) Look at the camera, please. I’ll give you a million dollars to look at the camera…Look at the damn camera!” <Sobbing.>
Oh fuck off. That’s not even possible. I call Photoshop bullshit.
Did I mention liquor?
For my children and husband to learn how to see. “Hun, have you seen my soccer shirt? Mom, where are my shoes? Mumma, where’s my favorite rocket ship?”
“They’re in the backyard with the Legos. I lit them all on fire. Glug. Glug. Glug.”
Happy Mother’s Day, bitches. Booze and snarkism aside, this crazy, exhausting, amazing privilege is worth every single minute. I love you F & R.
My friend and I went to the P!nk show last week at TD Banknorth Garden. She got hit by a bike messenger, (my friend, not P!nk) we haggled with a few extras from the Departed to buy tickets and scored floor seats. All in the same night. And we didn’t even end up in formaldehyde jars in the basement of a multi-family in Chelsea. Hustlers.
Hey, are you guys selling tickets? Why don’t you come follow me to the ATM…
The first time I heard a P!nk song (Get the Party Started) was 2001. I thought it was the Spice Girls making a comeback. I was disinterested to say the least. After all, I was twenty-two years old, a product of the nineties and way too cool for pop.
Sometime around 2003ish, I saw a documentary on P!nk. I learned that Linda Perry wrote a lot of her music so she couldn’t suck that bad. I fell in love with her story. Since then I have been a fan. After all, What’s Up by the 4 Non Blondes is my go-to karaoke song.
Fast forward twelve years and I feel like I grew up with her. Except she’s wicked fucking rich and I am not a rockstar.
P!nk opened with Raise Your Glass as the tiny gay boy next to me grabbed my arm, screamed in my face and fell on the floor. I helped him up, slapped him and assured him it would be okay.
Me: “Hey look, there’s three jacked guys throwing P!nk around like a rag doll.” He wiped away his tears, adjusted his coconut bra and all was right with the world.
Weird. I had a dream like this once.
Up next: Walk of Shame, Just Like a Pill and U + Ur Hand. And the insanity ensued. Angry women started throwing shit and punching the poor few men that were brave enough to attend the show. I loved it.
Try: I watched a grown woman weep and bite a guy in the neck simultaneously. P!nk twirled, hanging from some contraption and rolled around on a male dancer. <—Running theme.
She covered Wicked Game. Vom. I know I’m in the minority here, but I have an irrational disdain for Chris Isaak. I blame my college boyfriend. So I went to the loo and grabbed a beer. And tried not to picture him writhing around on a palm tree. Ouch.
I had my haircut like this once. Except I looked like Billy Idol. And not like hot White Wedding Billy Idol. Like modern-day Billy Idol. I guess what I am trying to say is…Rock the Cradle of Love.
My senior picture.
Just Give Me a Reason: I died. I was curious how she was going to work in the male vocals. Especially since I hadn’t been asked to fill-in for Nate Ruess. It was beautiful. The aforementioned little gay guy next to me and I did a duet and then he fell on the floor. Again.
I almost clotheslined the person in front of me because she stood up on her chair. Then I realized that she was an eight-year old and couldn’t see anything. Not my problem, kid.
Trouble: My kids and I belt this out while we dance around in leotards. Oh wait. That’s just me.
We met four people from Ireland who were sitting behind us. One of them dumped an entire beer down my back and one of them punched me in the head while he was doing jumping jacks during Perfect. I didn’t hate it.
Are We All Here and How Come You’re Not Here: We’re here, P!nk. Covered in beer.
Sober: My favorite performance of the night. She and a half-dozen dancers climbed in a black thing and dangled precariously from the black thing while it spun around. That’s what she said.
And then I ran around under her and her gigantic spinning orb in case she fell.
And then, Big Perm showed up and he and P!nk sang like eight acoustic songs to each other while the other fifteen thousand of us felt awkward. Who Knew.
Seriously. These two back-up singers are all “Fa-la-la what the fuck is happening?♫ “
I’m pretty sure she licked Collective Soul’s face at one point. You heard it here first. They are definitely hitting it.
Perfect, Most Girls/There You Go/You Make Me Sick remix. I don’t know about you, but I’m getting mixed messages.
Slut Like You: Um, Glutes Like You?
I have never seen an ass on a human being like that before. It’s otherworldly.
Overall, P!nk was a brilliant performer. She nailed every song and managed to play most of her hits. One critical absence for me was Funhouse. But I was blown away by her athleticism, sense of humor and down-to-earthedness. Motherhood suits her. And she has evolved but maintained her individuality. Bad ass.
Encore:
And then this happened…
So What:
Aside from seeing those little prick monkeys on the Wizard of Oz when I was a wee child, I have never wanted to fly so badly in my whole life. I asked my husband to set this contraption up in our backyard so that I could try it and he said I would decapitate myself. So unsupportive. He’s just jealous.
Glitter in the Air: How about glitter in your face because I love you.
I tried this with my kids. It didn’t go as planned. It was like being waterboarded.
I still have no idea what the Truth About Love is, but I do love me some P!nk. She’s coming back to Boston in December. You should go see her. Just watch out for the bike messengers. They’re unforgiving.
Until then, I’ll be doing squats and walking lunges until I drop.
We belong to a ridiculously awesome gym called Live Life Believe. We want you to belong too. Unless you don’t want to be in our club, which would be weird because our club is kind of amazing.
Here’s a list of things that we love about LLB. And your mom.
No Creep Factor
There aren’t any large men carrying around gallons of some unknown substance (seriously, what is in those jugs?) No one leering at your ass. Well, except for the Bitchin Sisters. We are totally staring at your ass. This gym is perfect for the modest as well as the über athlete. You will feel comfortable and cared for no matter what you want to do. No meatheads like other gyms, which will remain nameless because we’re nice. Side-eye, other gyms.
I bet this guy drank out of huge gallon jugs and walked around the gym thrusting his nipple in everyone’s eye. Right before he lost to Rocky. BAM! Sly wins EVERY TIME. Fact.
The People
When you walk into this place, the energy is contagious. You’re greeted by warm people who earnestly care about you and genuinely want to help you be a stronger, healthier person. I am a reformed serial gym member. I have belonged to several gyms in my lifetime. The people at LLB are by far the most helpful, non-judgmental and just plain good. There is no hard sell. There is no script about what type of gym they are, and they definitely don’t just want your ten dollars a month and never see you again. They really like to see you. You will also like to see them. I promise.
The owner’s vision was to create a healthy, friendly atmosphere that inspires and empowers people to see their own true beauty and strength and enables them to achieve goals that they didn’t believe possible. He also recycles. And dances his little heart out as seen below.
Staff
LiveLifeBelieve has the best staff. Period. The instructors are incredible. They motivate. They care and they are truly invested in the members. I have yet to see such dedication and commitment. I’ve never taught a class before, but it really has to suck having people staring at you, wondering what your next move is, making horrible faces and sweating and struggling. It is probably like being a dentist. Or a gynecologist. That WOULD SUCK. But yet, they still motivate and inspire and get you moving. Or in my case, they make sure I am still breathing and tell me to floss more. Or do more planks. You see the parallel. I was going to say something about stirrups but my mom reads this blog and she will disown me.
Magical people sent here to make you better at life. And to show you how to have fun doing it.
The members are friends. Like I said, it’s a club. Not a night club with drama and scandal. Simply good people, great equipment and incredible classes. No dicks. No cliques. No HICKS…. we just made up the last one cuz it rhymed with dicks and cliques. We kind of like hicks. Hicks are hot and totally welcome.
The Equipment
State. Of. The. Art. For reals. The equipment is the same machinery Olympians train on. All TechnoGym, FlexaBility and Kinesis Stations. You feel like an Olympian. Only you’re wearing underwear. Or not. We don’t judge.
The cycling room has Cyclops bikes, the best cycling bikes on the market. I had never taken a spinning or cycling class before. The first time I took one was at LLB. I was like a hammered baby giraffe learning how to walk. On ice. Blind folded. And I needed epi foam afterwards. But I was hooked. Natalie, who is basically the nicest person ever puts together creative rides like Animal Ride. It is incredible. I cried. I got chills. I may have lost my virginity. Again. You get to pretend you are a different animal for each track and you believe you are. I was a cheetah and I ate a gazelle. I was a wolf and I was in a pack. It was more fun than I have ever had on a stationary bike in my life. Except for my sophomore year in college but we will NOT go into that because again…my mom. (I WILL JUST SAY JELLO WAS INVOLVED.)
Assistant General Manager and maybe the Nicest Person Ever. Except when she is a tiger during her Animal Ride. She will devour you. Rawr.
The Bitchin Sisters attempting their first cycling class.
It Smells Good
No seriously. This place smells amazing. It’s right smack in Plymouth’s historical old rope factory, Cordage Park. So I don’t know if it smells like rope or what, but it’s amazeballs. The space is mad cool too. The liquidy shiny hardwood floors with exposed brick and an industrial, rustic feel, is an amazing contrast to the sleek, sexy, high-tech equipment. It all makes you feel like you’re getting a great workout in a place where shit happened. Like majorly important shit. (Ropes hold boats to docks and were used to hang bad people. We like ropes. Rope is dope). It is a beautiful sprawling space of fitnessy coolness. And it doesn’t smell like a jock strap. Bonus.
Pump class in an old rope factory? Yes please.
The Classes
I have a new boyfriend named Les Mills. He likes to kick my ass, bring me to the brink of death and make me sweat my face off. He loves me. And he loves you. Hold me, Les Mills.
There is literally a class for everyone. If you have exercise ADHD like me and want to keep your workouts fresh and diverse…let’s go do yoga, ride bikes, jump rope and OH LOOK THERE’S A SMOOTHIE BAR…at LLB. Together.
Body Combat, Body Pump, CXWorx and Body Flow will make you fit. Fast. Seriously. After your first Pump, CXWorx, Combat or other Les Mills class, you’ll notice a difference in your body. Fo Sho.
Some of our fierce Les Mills instructors: Kristine, Kelly and Jean
Get in for a 5:10am ass whooping by the Iron Woman, Maggie Phaneuf. Take a Rock Ur Body class with the magical little fairy that is Karen Rich or her husband, Stephen’s SPARK class. Karen and Stephen have like eleven babies and still manage to have more energy than most humans. LLB has the best instructors in the area. Seriously. I can’t even believe they aren’t famous. They will be. And I will get to say I knew them when. I totally say that about Billy Blanks and Susan Powter but they don’t return my calls. Whatevs.
Life coach, wellness manager and the tiniest human being with the biggest heart that you’ve ever seen, Karen Rich.
They encourage you to push yourself…
LLB’s Fitness Director and resident badass, Maggie Phaneuf. ~Tough Mudder 2012
Without gimmicks…
Can you say restraining order? At LLB, they don’t holler in your face.
They love their members….
The members want to live there. Or maybe that’s just me. Sometimes I hide in the bathroom so I don’t have to leave. Awkward.
The schedule is accommodating and there is FREE DAYCARE. Maybe you didn’t hear me. THE DAYCARE IS FREE. My kids love it there! My son may or may not steal a toy almost every time he goes but please don’t tell anyone. He also talks about Kids Cove in his sleep. Your kids will too.
Kids Cove. Come play with us!
The Bod Pod
I would post a picture of myself in the Bod Pod, but then I’d have to kill all of you. This Lean Body Mass assessment tool is the most accurate on the market. Want to know how much Fat/Lean Mass you currently store in that fabulous hot body of yours? (I know it’s scary. But it helps you set goals and have the real number in front of your face.) And besides, you know those calipers are SO inaccurate. If you can pinch an inch then you are alive. And you have skin. Try the Bod Pod for the real dealz. And then talk to a trainer for some goal setting goodness.
Seriously accurate results. Serious goals. Seriously felt like Mork from Mork and Mindy. And it was glorious. Nanu nanu.
Smoothie Bar
A wonderful cuisine of fresh fruit smoothies and lots of options for protein supplements including whey protein, peanut butter and Chia Seeds. You will think you have died and gone to Starbucks. Without the calories, sugar and stupid names for small, medium and large. “I would like a Small Venti Grande chemical bath with lots of preservatives and let me pay nine bucks please.”
NOPE. $4.50 and all natural and healthy goodness. SO YUMMY!!! Let’s just say that one of the Bitchin Sisters makes the best smoothie in town.
Much of my appreciation for music came from my dad. (Okay and 88.9.) My father exposed me to all types of music at an early age. We would cruise around in his Chevy Nova listening to Oldies 103.3 and he would give me background on the band, genre and random (but poignant for my little brain) facts. Like that it is not Paul McCartney whispering “quite rightly” in Donovan’s Mellow Yellow. And that The Beatles’ Norwegian Wood was originally going to be called Knowing She Would. That Mozart was five years old when he wrote his first piece. This was one of my favorite things to do.
He immersed me in bands like The Kinks, Buddy Holly, Warren Zevon, The Stones and of course the Beatles. He knew an unusual amount about music for someone who wasn’t necessarily a musician.
He once told me that John Phillips of Mamas and Papas fame called their harmony Harvey. That sometimes, there is a harmony so perfect that it could make you laugh and cry and possibly get pregnant. Wait, that was a different talk.
I would cut off your left nipple to be able to see them perform Twelve Thirty live. Just once.
Anyway…John Phillips was a genius. And aside from spawning Chynna and Bijou, the train wrecks that are what’s left of the Phillips legacy, he was kinda brilliant.
That Harvey talk stuck with me and last night, he was at TD Banknorth Garden in the shape of four gorgeous musicians. Mumford and Sons.
Setlist:
1.) Babel ~ The Gentlemen of the Road opened with Babel. And that’s when I knew it was going to be a good fucking awesome show. And it only got better from there.
2.) I Will Wait~ Please do.
3.) Winter Winds ~ This is my favorite M’ford song. And it was perfect. Better live than not live (dead?). This is about the time I decided to hide in Marcus Mumford’s suitcase. He would never find me under his several hundred vests.
I will wait…under your vests.
4.) Below My Feet ~ …Are several hundy people and a sheer drop to my death. We had terrible seats. But I didn’t care. Cuz magic happened.
5.) White Blank Page ~ “Oh tell me now, where was my fault in loving you with my whole heart?” Said no man ever. Except for M2.
6.) Hopeless Wanderer ~ And then the DICKHEAD COUPLE in front of us started making out. I refer you all to this guide for concert etiquette. It’s entitled “Don’t make out at a fucking concert. You AssKnuckle.”
7.) Timshel ~ I think I would have cried if the obnoxious drunk girl of said dickhead couple wasn’t yelling at her boyfriend through this entire song. Yes, they made out and then started fighting. I wanted to punch her in the temple.
Anyway, It was like chocolate butter. The song. Not her temple. Like if songs had a taste, this song would taste like chocolate butter.
Hi, I’m Mumford and Sons’ harmony. Nom. Nom. Nom.
8.) Little Lion Man ~ This was the real money shot the real crowd pleaser. Marcus whipped off his headphones and let the sold out Garden holler our little heads off. Cause he’s a gentleman. Of the road.
9.) Lover of the Light ~ Marcus casually walked back to the drum set that had remained untouched for the show until this song. And then he was all “Oh I play the drums too. No big deal.” And then my husband looked at me deadly serious and told me that “No, we are not waiting outside of his tour bus after the show.” And I cried. So he went and bought me a t-shirt.
Almost the same as meeting the band.
10.) Thistle & Weeds ~ Thistle and I love you.
And then the Sad Song Trilogy began:
11.) Ghosts That We Knew ~ weep
12.) Holland Road ~ sob
13.) Roll Away Your Stone ~ enough!
14.) Whispers in the Dark ~ Um, yes please?
15.) Dust Bowl Dance ~ This was fan-effing-tastic. Such a fun song. Marc (we’re pretty tight now) got back on the drums. One of my new faves.
Then, they came to the back of the stadium where us morons who paid 300% mark-up for our tickets were, and sang two songs a capella for us. All four of them.
This is when I realized that God was really just fucking with me because I couldn’t have a beer and Drunky McCries-A-Lot was still yelling at her boyfriend. Face Palm.
The worst couple that ever was finally sat down and this was our view for the first encore.
Encore 1:
16.) Reminder ~ Yes
17.) Sister ~ Gorgeous!
Me: “They haven’t played The Cave.” Sadface.
Mumford and Sons: “Now we’re going to play The Cave.”
Me: “It’s like they can read my mind…”
Encore 2:
18.) The Cave ~ I am learning this song on the banjo. And by learning I mean the following:
Me: “Hey, Paul (banjo instructor)…when are you going to teach me The Cave?”
Paul: “When you can learn how to tune your own banjo…”
Me: “Harumph.”
I was a little surprised that Winston didn’t bust out his banjitar for this song, but it was still amazeballs.
The banjitar. Not to be confused with a Ganjo. Or a banjo that is shaped like a guitar.
Overall, the show was brilliant. I was impressed by these guys. They didn’t talk a lot, but when they did they were witty and sweet. Totally humble. Yet, they put on a gritty…sweaty…heartfelt performance with tireless transitions and a good cadence. Totally sounds like I know what I am talking about. Doesn’t it? Side-eye, Rolling Stone Magazine.
Seriously. This was one of the best shows I have been to since Donovan in 1998 and The Dead in…I never saw the Dead. That was a lie. Now, I’m sad. Thanks a lot.
Up next? The Wolfetones. And Pink. Shits about to get real.
It’s Spring 1920 at Downton Abbey…right after Laura Linney punches us all in the face with her penis.
We’re preparing for the wedding of the century and the house is abuzz. Carson is about to lose his mind due to all of the intense preparation of polishing silver and hollering his head off at everyone. His gigantic caterpillar eyebrows didn’t stop moving the entire two hours. It was exhausting.
Everyone downstairs is either dumb or inadequate. Or Daisy. What’s a butler…whose only responsibility in the world is to serve three square meals a day…to do?
Do you have any idea how important I am?
It’s going to be a great season. I can feel it.
And then BAM. Cut to the kitchen. Thomas is still a douche. Homeboy subsists exclusively of nicotine and misery.
“It may appear like I am constantly smoking a cigarette, but I am really trying to figure out how to crush your soul.”
Shady McPerm and Tommy LeSatan are seemingly on the outs. Which is a shame really, because they are quite the destructive duo.
Who’s life shall we ruin today?
Then, O’Brien’s eleven-foot love child, Alfred, appears out of thin air after an apparent lobotomy, only to fuck up Lord Grantham’s wardrobe. And Thomas is all “Bitch, please. I’ll cut you. I get to dress the men.”
Is it that difficult to iron? Even in 1920?
Master Bates is in the clink and Mumbelina is on the hunt for some piece of evidence that will exonerate him. We, the viewers, are wondering if it was perhaps Batesy that killed Vera, the wonder slut, when he tries to strangle his cell mate with his gigantic man paws.
What the hell did you just say? It was Bates. In the kitchen. With the arsenic. Fact.
I still have an epic girl crush on Sybil. Who doesn’t love a feminist from the roaring twenties who runs away with the Irish rebel chauffeur? And then he gets fake hammered at the dinner table and starts yelling about the black and tans and I’m smitten. Reminds me of home.
Swoony McSwoonerson
Mary Shoulders Crawley. You almost forget she killed a Persian with her vagina not that long ago or that Matthew couldn’t even breathe on his own very recently. These two are meant to be. Mary’s wedding dress is everything. Everything. Mary and Matthew forevs. Except for when he leaves her for Moseley.
Shut. Up.
Lord Grantham bounces the only (creepy as all hell, crippled) man who would have Edith from Downton. He’s all “Nah. Let’s make her miserable while her two hot sisters lead glorious lives.” And then we have to watch painfully as Edith and Sir Sneers-A-Lot sneer the shit out of each other. Side-eye, Grantham.
One of two things are going to happen with these two. They’re either going to have like eleventy sneery babies or he’s going to die. Either way, Edith will continue to hurt my soul.
The good news is that Countess Xanax continues to be vapid and emotionless.
Lord Grantham: “Darling, I seem to have blown your fortune.” Countess Cora: “What’s that, dear? I must have blacked out. Don’t I look pretty?”
One low note: The wildly inappropriate sex jokes:
Lord Grantham to Matthew: “How was the honeymoon?”
Matthew: “My eyes have been opened.”
Lord Grantham: “Mwahahaha.”
Me: “Ew, bro. That’s your daughter.”
Shudder.
Daisy continues to surprise us with just how dumb a human being can actually be. But we love her. Because she’s Daisy. And because her tongue perpetually hangs out of her mouth. But she’s dumb as a bag of veal pies and other meals that absolutely nobody has ever heard of. It was fun watching her try to light the stove for two straight hours.
Meanwhile the world’s most depressing conversation takes place in England’s longest, coldest hallway. Mrs. Hughes has breast cancer. Cuz life as a servant isn’t bad enough. Let’s give the nicest character cancer while Mary gets a new flapper dress.
I’m gonna die. G’Night.
While Mary’s upstairs all “But how will I afford all of my hair feathers n’stuff…”
Downton Forever. It’s going to be a great season. I heard no one dies.
I married into a family from New Jersey. When I first met my husband, I heckled him endlessly about his home state based solely on conjecture and stereotypes. Shocker. I know. But while we’re being honest, I also asked him if he was Mexican in freshmen year biology lab. What? He was super tan. Thanks, I feel better now.
Having only driven through the dirty Jerz en route to much cooler places like Myrtle Beach, Virginia and um Delaware, I had no idea what this glorious state had to offer.
I knew very little about NJ. So little in fact, I actually asked his parents if their very large poster of the Garden State hanging in the hallway was Egypt. I got blank stares in return. And maybe even a little shake of the head. He still married me.
Dude. Tell me that doesn’t look like Cairo, Egypt?
For the past twelve years I have had the pleasure of visiting this beautiful, in some parts idyllic, state. That’s probably grammatically incorrect, but quite frankly I don’t give a shit.
There’s a lot of awesomeness in this state. Like more than Six Flags and funnel cake.
In NJ, stuff like this happens.
Great Falls. Paterson, New Jersey. Also a perfect spot to hide Theresa Giudice’s body.
And this.
Lake Mohawk. Sparta, New Jersey. It’s like a mofo Norman Rockwell picture here.
When some people think New Jersey, they think John Malkovich getting repeatedly dumped on the turnpike. Or Cake Bosses. Sure, a bunch of vapid, soulless orange morons may visit the shore and film their tragic little lives, but trust me…this state is more than spray tans, housewives and mobsters.
Raise your hand if you understood anything that happened in this movie? Or if you just liked that Cameron Diaz was quasi ugly?
Last week, a one-eyed, blow hard slut named Sandy blasted through the state, wreaking unprecedented havoc. And she wasn’t even wearing tight leather pants.
The Sandy that doesn’t blow your house down, ruin your life and can dance like an angel.
And things like this happened:
Hoboken, NJ
And this:
Jersey Shore
And:
Decimation.
After the hurricane, people banded together like it was the old days when community was valued and vital to survival.
Our friends, “the Angels of Hoboken.” Giving us all hope for mankind.
And it’s nary Christmas or Chanukkah. Look at me being all PC. Shalom and good evening to you, my healthy friends.
But, it’s getting cold.
A Nor’easter may hit New Jersey and New York on Wednesday.
This hurricane has been seventy shades of devastating. And why’ll power may be slowly coming back on and fallen trees are being removed, there is still a long road ahead for the good people of New Jersey (and New York).
Here’s how you can help:
Start by following my friend Kerri-Anne Lavin on Twitter. Or friend her on Facebook. Unless you’re a perv. (In which case, call me.)
Kerri has valuable updates and really easy, yet critical ways to help out. And she’s hot so it’s a win-win.
It took my husband two years to convince me to get this series on Netflix. I have never even been on a motorcycle. Why would I want to watch a show about a bunch of bikers? I finally caved. And then we watched like ten episodes in one night.
Sure, it’s unrealistic. Bigoted, misogynistic gun runners who “fix cars,” kill whomever they want and suffer zero consequences. If these guys existed in real life, we’d all hate them. But we don’t. We love them. And even though sometimes I wear pearls and a popped collar, I thoroughly enjoy this show. And so should you.
A brief overview:
I think it’s safe to assume that these guys smell like something between a urinal cake, chicken soup and an ashtray. But I still want to hang out with them.
Do you guys smell that?
I have never seen so many murders and other various crimes committed with so few repercussions.
Jax is all “Let me just throw on my hoodie and cut real quick and oh, can you pass me my glock? I gotta go set a few people on fire. And then we’ll go have Sunday dinner.”
I’m so pretty. You could slap a little rouge on me and call me Vanessa.
And the cops are all like “huh?”
Foiled again.If we could only actually witness them shooting someone in the face with 14 kilos of cocaine stuffed in their oversized pants…
And then Tara, the doctor, is like “Oh Jax, you’re so romantic. Let’s have a ton of babies. I may have taken the Hippocratic oath, but I love your reckless sense of adventure and total disregard for human life.”
But as a side note, I want to live in Jax’s beard.
Clay: This man hurts to look at.
You may recognize me from In the Name of the Rose.
And then Peg Bundy grew up and got smokin hot. But she likes to open mouth kiss her son and it makes me want to hide under a blanket. She also talks like a trucker. And only eats cigarettes.
I am the creepiest mom ever.
My favorite episode is called Opie’s hair.
In this episode, Opie’s bff shoots his wife in the back of the head. Whoops. No worries though. They hug it out. And then good ole’ Ope marries a porn star before his wife’s body is even cold. Surprisingly, he’s the most empathetic character on the show.
I am so nice. You can even shoot my wife.
And then somewhere around season 4, Opie turns into the caveman from an SNL skit.
Wah. I miss Donna.
Which brings me to Tig. He is my favorite character. He’s mildly sociopathic but the most loyal friend anyone could have. He makes me laugh.
I hate dolls. They creep me out.
Chibs: I have no idea what this guy is saying. Ever. No seriously, what are you saying?
Can you repeat that? This time, without the marbles in your mouth.
Bobby: I want nothing more than to wash his hair and put him on a treadmill. For like two years. I made the picture small so you can’t smell him from here.
Juice: Holy adorable. But only if you’re into guys with tatoos on their heads.
Otto: This poor slob rots in jail with NO EYES. You’d think Clay would do him a solid and smother him with his chin.
Please. Somebody end me.
I haven’t watched Season 5 yet. So please no spoilers.
To sum up the woman who gave birth to my brother, sister and me and has subsequently spent forty-one years being systematically bullied by us, I’d like to tell you a little bit about her…
She was born in South Boston. Her father was a one-armed Congressional Medal of Honor recipient. Her mom was Mother Theresa.
Popa MacGillivary. And his forty-pound wooden arm. Oh and Truman.
She married her high school sweetheart and spawned three smart asses.
Camping trip circa 1984. I’m fairly certain we all got full blown pneumonia on this little excursion.
Every Christmas Eve, she unabashedly serves us frozen shrimp cocktail and hairy chicken wings, while we sit surrounded by four hundred caroler figurines in an eight hundred square foot house, wondering why we’re all in intensive therapy. Nothing says Happy Birthday, baby Jesus like these little fuckers.
Multiply this by several hundred, shove five adults and six children in a closet and call it Christmas. Glug glug glug.
She ran for State Representative on an Independent ticket and managed to not set her opponents on fire with her burning bra.
Side eye, Republicans.
She starts stories en medias res and expects us to keep up with her. Her stories are typically about people whom we’ve never met. Like Nate Berkus and Dr. Oz. She quotes Doctor Oz like he’s our uncle.
Happy Birthday, Joan. Let’s spoon.
She’s a scientist.
She can’t remember names. She calls her six grandchildren by numbers, pertaining to their birth order. They love it.
The Boys from Brazil.
She made me jump into the water with all of our clothes on when we were visiting the Blasket Islands when I was twelve. It’s one of my favorite memories.
She was class president in high school and college.
She has suffered more loss than anyone I know.
True love
She also loses her glasses and her keys every fucking day.
Once when I was fifteen, she picked me up from work wearing only a Daisy Duck bathing suit and flip-flops. I managed to not kill myself.
Then, she asked my sister’s prom date if he had his rubbers. It was raining out. That’s not what he thought she meant.
She is fearless. She is selfless. She makes friend wherever she goes.
She likes Celtic Thunder. A lot. Every other sentence begins with Celtic Thunder. If I have to watch those far too jovial, tap dancing freaks run across stage one more time, I’m going to back a car over myself. Please God. Not again.
You can never get enough of Fields of Athenry in acapella. Fact.
She buys random shit at Ocean State Job Lot. Like tons of random shit. Who buys forty-seven fly swatters and a ten gallon drum of chlorine? My mom. That’s who.
It’s 10:18 pm on a Tuesday. I am usually in bed. Instead, I am in a sea of chubby girls wearing entirely too many sequins and too little clothing. Drinking a nine-dollar near beer. At TD Garden where drunk middle-aged women go to die.
Every time Madonna comes around, my sister and I say we’re going to go see her before she retires. So this time we seized the moment and then dropped a bazilly dollars.
The opening act canceled (Madonna had them killed) so we’re forced to listen to a terrible D.J. while I am repeatedly hit in the back of the head with yard glasses full of mixed drinks.
Cuz these are ever a good idea.
And then Madge trips over her ego onto the stage at 10:30 pm looking like an emaciated penis.
Hi, I’m Madonna. My arms have an uncanny resemblance to penises and I am very tardy.
And then she splatters blood all over the stage while swastikas hang in the background. And no one understands why.
Papa don’t preach…cuz you’re a Nazi.
And then she pulls out a gun. Um, ok. Now it’s a party.
Seems mildly off-color.
I sit next to a sixty-year old man who is clearly being punished for some horrible misgiving while his wife hollers her little heart out. I think I catch a glimpse of him trying to gnaw his own arm off.
Madonna from the Bronx that we know and love.
What I am is demure and British. Nope.
Knock knock? You’re American. Stop calling the Atlantic ocean “the pond.”
Here’s the set list with some commentary. Raise your hand if you give a shit.
You have to hand it to the old girl. Thirty years in the business and she still murders it on stage. The show was mindblowing and Madge is nothing less than impressive. Even if her nickname does rhyme with vag.
It’s summer. It’s hot. Stupid people are everywhere. Leaving their kids, animals and expensive make-up in the car. Parking themselves on the beach just begging for melanoma. Swimming in the ocean whilst sharks are eating people and baby seals. Taking their children to the playground where dangerous shit happens.
Every year I look forward to this million degree bitch of a season like it’s her half-sister Christmas. And every year I remember that summer is the most dangerous thing ever. I’m talkin’ lawn darts, fireworks and bridge jumping dangerous.
After this, let’s go play with my dad’s gun! it’s the seventies, why the fuck not?!
But really the most dangerous, scary, hand wringing thing about summer is the playground.
I loathe the playground. It’s an emergency trip waiting to happen. Every Sunday my husband and I take the kids to the playground for dinner. And every Sunday I envision a peaceful evening . My husband and I marveling at the kids while they run hand-in-hand frolicking through the grass. Happy in the moment. Nope.
I call this one the spleen rupturer. My friend and I used to watch kids drop like flies on this little spiderweb of terror.
Another one bites the dust.
Seriously? Who thought that this wasn’t the most dangerous idea ever? How to knock all of your kid’s teeth out in under fifteen seconds.
What we’re going to do is build a tower made of metal. Kids love towers. And the tooth fairy.
I run around like a maniac. I scream and yell and shout “be careful” repeatedly. It’s miserable for all of us. My husband tells me to “relax” and I look at him incredulously, like how can you just sit there while our kids are risking their lives all in the name of an eighteen-foot high fireman’s pole.
I just had a panic attack and swallowed my own tongue.
And while I appreciate rocket ships, this one is particularly baffling.
Shits about to get real on this rocket ship of death.
My brother and sister used to like to whip me around on this little ditty.
Was anyone thinking of centrifugal force here? Anyone?
There’s no such thing as a slide that’s too tall.
Nah. Let’s make it higher.
Fall can’t come quick enough. Cuz pumpkin carving and sledding are safe. <dry heave.>
