I Majored in Political Sexy

For those of you that have read my book, listen carefully in my blogs, or know me personally, you know I majored in political science my first go around college. Sure, I hate politics now and this blog is about as anti-political as it could get. But I’m still addicted to what is going on in the world of campaign signs and lawmaking. Why you ask?

Because I really majored in political sexy.

Joe Biden

When Joe Biden came out last night after Obama’s acceptance speech, looking like a kid in a candy store, it was all I could do to keep my clothes on. Goddamn, for an older man, Biden is hot.

He’s the number one reason I read The Onion.

Romney’s Sons

While I really and truly commend Romney for his gracious and honorable concession speech last night, I still wish he had kept his family up there with him. Why you ask?

So I could drool over his sons.

Bill Clinton

He can slip me his Slick Willy any day.

Man that was crass, and Poor Nick really deserves an “oh … poor Nick …” because it’s true.

Talking Heads

Most of you are aware of my insane crush on Wolf Blitzer. I bet you didn’t know about my additional crushes, though, on Chris Matthews and Lawrence O’Donnell.

I always tell people I prefer to watch MSNBC because they are usually the most accurate (which is true). But the real reason is because I enjoy staring at Matthews and O’Donnell for hours on end. Last night I went for a record eight.

I’ll never forget when I was still in college and looking for an internship. The first internship I signed up for was for Evan Bayh’s primary presidential campaign, based in Santa Monica. I was helping the fundraising coordinator for the area with miscellaneous tasks a few days a week, and got to go to my first event Bayh would be at within the first week.

That was my last day working for them. I didn’t get fired or anything; I quit because I thought he was so sexy. I wasn’t there to oogle his fine ass, I was there to learn. Years later, I realize I should have stayed. I mean at this point, the degree has done nothing more for me than raise my blood pressure and glue me to the television, while hating how it all plays out and growing more and more jaded about the electoral process altogether.

So I majored in political sexy. Did you?

By the way … don’t be a turkey and BUY MY BOOK! And if you want it signed, just email me for details on how to get that done and shipped back to you for free! Click here, buy book, woohoo!

“I’m Pregnant!”

Hah! Man … did I fool you suckers.

There would be so many terrible, terrible; horrific things about me saying those words in earnest. For one, that would have necessarily required me to experience an awkward 30 seconds with my husband some time in the last month. Yes, that’s right: Poor Nick and I would have had sex. Ick, we’re married – I prefer bickering until we fall asleep, thank you very much. For two, the poor kid would have come out with some major fetal alcohol issues, because Mama Bear’s been sucking back the ol’ box -o- Franzia pretty hard this month.

So, sorry to announce, but there will be no more Pookies added to the clan. At least not this month. (Unless shit gets immaculate conception, in which case we are all screwed.)

It’s amazing, though, how those two words change over the course of our lives. In the last few weeks, I’ve had a whopping total of four friends – count them, FOUR – inform me that they are withchild. Each is in a much different situation than the next, too. So while I’ve sucked back my Franzia and shoved my tropical flavored marshmallows down my gullet in celebration, I’ve done a lot of thinking about just what the appropriate responses have been over time.

Teens – “I’m Pregnant!”

I think the only response to a teenager winding up pregnant is “oh fuck.” Or “oh shit” – or some variant of either. I had a few friends in high school that ended up having babies by the end of our senior year. It wasn’t pretty for any of them, and they were each amazing young women to deal with it all if you ask me.

Nonetheless, when a teenager winds up pregnant it’s one of two scenarios. Either it was an accident and she is terrified. Or she’s psychotic, in which case the dude should run and hide. I’ll never forget that episode of Jerry Springer with the teenage girls that wanted to get pregnant. During his final thought, he mentioned how “not right in the head” they all were.

20s – “I’m Pregnant!”

This could go one of two ways, and sadly the majority of the people in their 20s that I have known have been in the latter. Either it is someone that got married and had babies early. Or it’s another accidental pregnancy, although not necessarily a bad thing in the end.

Because of the uncertainty of just what “I’m pregnant” coming from a 20-something (especially earlier 20s) means, I have always considered that the most important time to tread lightly. One friend who got pregnant on a one night stand when we were only 22 dealt with it rather well; and she is now one of the greatest mothers I know. Another who had been married for a few years sobbed uncontrollably for three days.

Tread lightly.

30s – “I’m Pregnant!”

Here is where I am now and I’ll tell you: it makes me feel old.

No matter what situation anyone is in, when you are in your 30s, your clock is ticking and finding out that you are pregnant is going to bring nothing but a lot of congratulations. It’s going to bring on baby showers. It’s going to bring on excitement.

And if it isn’t, you are in a position in life where everyone around you knows exactly what will go down. And you are all mature enough to handle it maturely.

When you are in your 30s, there’s no more “oh shit … what are you going to do?” There isn’t any more gossip or shit talk. If a woman has a baby in her 30s and doesn’t have a boyfriend or husband, everyone just assumes she did it through IVF or some other donorship arrangement. If a woman has a baby in her 30s and has a boyfriend or husband, no one ever jumps to Maury or randomized state paternity testing to make sure the baby daddy is accurately identified.

In your 30s, a baby is pretty much the status quo.

40s and 50s – “I’m Pregnant!”

My opinion is that when a woman reaches her 40s or 50s and announces to the world that she is pregnant, that she gets a little more scrutiny such as she would have in her 20s.

This doesn’t mean I think there is anything necessarily wrong with it.

This isn’t to say that I am saying people are bad for doing it.

I just mean that a lot of people in society question people’s decision to have babies so late. Is it safe? Why wait so long? And so on. Although I don’t really know because I haven’t encountered anyone that has had babies that late in the game.

Yet.

60s – “I’m Pregnant!”

You, old bitty, are off your fucking rocker. Or you’re one of those weirdos that gives birth to their grandkids since their daughter or daughter-in-law is drier than the Sahara Desert.

I won’t even go there.

So am I reading too much into this? Perhaps I am. Perhaps I am thinking too much about it in an effort to justify the excitedness with which I approached the pregnancy announcements of all four of my friends this last week. Or maybe I’m trying to just over-think things to silence the noise of my own biological clock ticking slower and slower each passing year.

But ick. That would mean an awkward 30 seconds with Poor Nick. And while it would only be about 30 seconds, there are plenty of other things I could do with that time. Like suck back some more of my box -o- Franzia. Or do some 1-click purchases on Amazon with all that baby money being saved.

Congratulations to all my friends that have successfully inseminated and recently given birth!! You are all the greatest moms this Mama Bear could ever be lucky enough to know!

My Complete List of Guilty Pleasures

Well, faithful blog followers, this afternoon I saw the commercial for Paranormal Activity 4 and I was again reminded that I have a whole entire list of guilty pleasures, the Paranormal Activity movies being one of them.

Although, while the majority of people’s guilty pleasures typically involve some sort of hedonistic pleasure – people getting erotic on the beach; old ladies getting their toes licked by cats whilst they savor every moist, titilating bite of a spoonful of Duncan Hines vanilla bean frosting – mine are typically just pleasurable in the sense that they all further my cynicism and misanthropy.

Here they are, in complete form.

#1 Eating in old, rundown places full of old people

I love going to old, rundown places full of old people to eat. There are a few locally that I cannot get enough of. The food is usually crap and the service is generally awkward, but it’s so much fun to sit there and watch all the weirdos that frequent those types of places. They aren’t always old, and they aren’t always weirdos, but they make for stories nonetheless.

There is a place near my dad’s house that we go to all the time and it is constantly rife with oddities. Old women are always walking around the place, rubbing their own asses as they ramble about wanting to sit in the one semi-attractive waiter’s section (I don’t think he’s attractive in the least bit, actually). It’s near the government center, so there are often a nice mix of whacko attorneys and recently released parolees as well. The best part is that they serve alcohol, and those senior citizens sure do like to drink. I watched two ladies (both of whom stood there while they waited to be seated in “Jose’s section,” rubbing their asses excessively, which is something I see old ladies do all the time and just don’t get); watched them suck back three bottles of champagne over the course of an hour and a half lunch once, and they both ordered hot dogs with apple sauce. Weird, huh?

#2 Buying shoes

I just purged my closet of clothing I never wear and shoes I haven’t touched in years. It was painful, to say the least; and the only thing that got me through was the fact that I knew I was doing it to justify shopping.

I love buying shoes, even when I know I’m not going to wear them often. Foot fetish? No. Shopping addiction? Not really. No, I love buying shoes because while doing so I  fantasize about all the people whose toes I can “accidentally” step on in them.

#3 Seeing the Paranormal Activity movies in the theater

Not just any theater, though – it has to be a theater chockfull of people that are screaming and yelling, and “oh no guuuuurl”ing the entire time. This requires a number of different factors to be in place, and a lot of research. When the first Paranormal Activity movie came out, we saw it in Culver City. Culver City is home to some of the most ghetto people on the planet; I heard “talk to the hand” and “get out of there dot com” at least four times, each, through the course of the film.

We saw the second and third in similar theaters, although the fourth is going to be a little more difficult because we’re living in a little more upscale of an area now. As I see it, I have 9 days to find the trashiest and at the same time most popular theater and get our tickets. Halloween-season will be incomplete if I cannot spend two hours watching complete and utter fucking morons scream.

#4 Reruns of The Simpsons

I watch The Simpsons every, single day. I mean that we own the seasons on DVD and every evening I turn it on when I go to bed. I go in chronological order and then when I’m done I just start at the beginning again. Every night, for years, I’ve done this. When I go out of town, I even bring the DVDs along with. I just can’t stop.

What I love the most about it is that I have a Simpsons analogy for just about anything. And I think I enjoy these fictional characters better than any real characters I happen to come across in my daily life.

#5 Listening to my Trailer Trash Mom’s stories

I know, I know … she’s a nightmare and I should stop letting her into my house because all she does is gobble up all our food and steal my stuff, just to return to her family where she spreads lies and rumors and talks mad amounts of shit about me.

But my mom’s train wreck stories are just so good sometimes.

Today she came over and I asked how things were going with her husband in New Mexico, because she hadn’t brought him up even in conversation for quite some time. The last time I heard was about a month ago, she said he had a cold. Well, apparently the cold has lasted for this whole month and now he has gone to the doctor and has some undiagnosable disease. His symptoms? Low grade fever, body aches, fatigue, and an inexplicable desire to do nothing but “lay in bed and fondle himself.”

It was difficult for me to keep a straight face long enough to get out of her eyesight on that one.

What are your guilty pleasures, faithful blog followers? Making sweet, sweet love on the beach while the waves roll over your supple yet flabby body? Bathing with your hamsters? Licking the oil off your plate after a nice meal of eggs and grits? Come on … dish it.

Everything You Never Wanted To Know About Me

I spent some time last night scoping out new blogs. A couple things led me to do this. First we watched Hachi, and Pookie cried all over the house for an hour about how she wanted a dog. Of course, my husband was absent for the whole thing – having escaped to the bedroom to “look for jobs” – ahem, watch the Dodger’s game. Because of this I agreed to turn on another movie immediately after the crying stopped, but the one selected was some made-for-TV crap about a teenage girl that accidentally publishes her journal in the school newspaper and then goes into some book deal, or other such unrealistic jargon.

So I broke out my computer and started looking for distractions in blog form.

The first thing I do when I check out new blogs is read the About Me. Of course, I don’t want to read a blog that ends up being a total waste of my time. Someone I will not get along with. A person that speaks in grammatical errors and LOLs. Or – worst of all – will get offended if I comment and drop the F bomb.

While I read some About Me’s of the new blogs I had heard of, I thought about my own About Me. It’s pretty boring, more like a Bio. And it in no way, shape, or form represents what my blog is all about. It doesn’t talk about being a mom blogger. It doesn’t outline my truly staunch cynicism. It isn’t even snarky or funny.

To be quite blunt about it: it’s fucking boring.

So I decided I’d share with you guys another About Me. An About Me that is the true Heather. That lets out the real B(itch).

Everything You Never Wanted To Know About Me

1. I wear a 36 or 38C bra. It depends on where I buy the bra from. And no matter what, every night when I take it off I find enough food I’ve dropped in there to feed a starving third world child for a day.

2. I think it’s funny to respond to commercials, no matter where I am. As a result, yesterday when I was at the nail salon and the commercial for the attorney that is trying to hire people with urinary incontinence as a result of a faulty transvaginal mesh came on, I said out loud in front of a roomful of strangers: “can I call for urinary incontinence even if I don’t have a transvaginal mesh?”

3. For the record, I do not suffer from urinary incontinence, although I do have the bladder of a five year old that still has to wear Pull Ups overnight.

4. Oh, who am I kidding … every time I sneeze I piss myself.

5. I have a terribly unhealthy fear of elevators and getting caught in public restrooms. I think this means that I’m claustrophobic. Regardless, a few weeks ago the lock in a public bathroom got jammed and I almost shit myself right then and there before I figured out how to unjam it.

6. When I was little, I really and truly believed that the devil existed. As in a could-possess-people, living amongst us, you’d better do your daily praying devil. I don’t even know if it was my religious upbringing or what, but it wasn’t until after high school that I shook it. Then I reaffirmed that belief when I got married and attributed the title of “satan” to my husband.

7. I have enough memories of listening to New Kids On the Block when I was little that an object-association with one of their songs occurs almost every single day. That means that almost every day I have an NKOTB song stuck in my head.

8. Every time my husband takes his cell phone into the bathroom, I yell “just remember, 90% of cell phones have e coli on them because of pigs like you!” He still does it and I can’t help but feel a little pukey at the thought of him sitting on the toilet.

9.  Once he “liked” a photo on Instagram from his cell phone while in the bathroom and I was so grossed out that I deleted the photo.

10. Almost every conversation with my mother on the phone ends with the sound of the toilet flushing behind her.

11. I’m secretly looking forward to the next Paranormal Activity movie. It isn’t that I enjoy the movies; it’s that I love to watch the reactions of the audience. People screaming and calling the ladies in the film hoes is the height of entertainment for me.

12. My biggest turn on is a philosophical conversation. I don’t mean something that I like, I mean something that makes me hot. Hotter than those Greeks when they got around Socrates and his open-robe policy.

13. While I do cook and bake things from scratch the majority of the time, every once in a while I just stop at my local bakery and buy whatever I’ve promised for a party or get-together. But I can’t let my reputation be tarnished as one of those people that just buys something (I know, it is as stupid as it sounds), so I take the goods out of the store-bought container and put it in my own tupperware. Then I tell everyone I made it. Once with a cake I made a few smudges so that it really looked like I had made it.

14. I just ate french fries from McDonalds last week. This was the first time I had eaten McDonalds food in over a year; and the entire time I read the nutrition facts and reassured myself aloud that it would all be OK.

15. I’m a total hypochondriac. But I’m not your typical hypochondriac that keeps letting their fears get more and more out of control. At some point I let my reason and rationale overcome my irrational fears. And then I hit Google. But I don’t hit Google to continue my fears; I hit Google to find other people that are more irrational than me, just to feel better about myself. Like last night, when I thought our saltine crackers tasted funny. After I forced my husband to eat half a package to decide for himself, I hit Google to find people that were more paranoid with saltine cracker fears than me.

16. I cry over everything. From big things, like when my husband told me it was a fantasy to expect quality time and never taking a day for granted with our family; to little things, like the fact that the chicken I went to prepare last night was ruined by a fickle BBQ.

17. I have always had major self-confidence issues.

18. Somehow my self-confidence issues have paired me with person after person after person, from romantic relationships to casual friendships, who not only has worse self-confidence issues than me, but uses their relationships to put others down to make themselves feel better.

19. I own an old Macbook, a new Macbook Air, and an iPad, and yet I hate the iPhone with every breath in my body.

20. I’m a leaking ball of sneezing and snot. In other words, I’m allergic to everything; worst for my situation in California is my allergy to palm frond. That means I cannot go outside without sneezing. As a result, sometimes I feel like I live in a bubble of closed windows and sterile air conditioning.

21. I have no problem pulling my underwear out of my ass in public, should the occasion arise.

22. I have never worn a thong. I don’t plan on it either.

23. Every pair of underwear I own is black, with the exception of one that is striped pink-blue-and-green. I haven’t worn those in years.

24. I was planning for vacation and buying new underwear earlier this year, and forgot that I had 12 pairs in the dirty laundry, so bought a bunch more and now I own over 45 pairs of black underwear.

25. I always thought worms looked something like a penis, and therefore had no problem eating them when I was in high school and people used to dare each other to “eat worms.”

I assume many of you need to compose yourselves enough to unfollow me now.

Does Dad Ever Know Best?

 

Short answer: no. Long answer: sometimes.

Before you dads out there get all your tails wadded up inside your assholes over how much I’m emasculating you, let me be clear: there are some things that dad does know best on, although it’s the long answer and I’m not sure you want me to ramble on about it. Dad usually knows best about bar-b-queing, probably because he has no fear of fire-related death. Some dads know best about cooking; I can name quite a few friends whose husbands are amazing in the kitchen. Dad also traditionally knows best about bringing home the bacon, so to speak – at least in our house that is the case. Lastly, I will concede that Dad knows best about tools, unless of course he is one and that is an entirely different blog post altogether. Beyond that, it’s a little more complicated and drawn out. Like I said, ramble.

There are a lot of things that the short answer (NO!) fits better with. And while this may be generalizing a little, in my experience it stands pretty true for the majority of the men I know.

Dad does not know best on matters of housecleaning.

So you’re a dad and you pitch in your fair share to keep the house pretty clean. You throw on a frilly apron once in a while and prance around with a feather-duster. You pick up on occasion, toys and books and things laying around the floor. You help fold some laundry once in a while.

For some reason, a lot of men seem to think that this is all there is to cleaning. Last night my husband said he would be totally willing to help clean the house when it needs to be cleaned – once a month.

Once a month you say?

If any of you faithful blog followers have let your home with kids in it go for more than even a week at times without being cleaned, you know why the words “once a month” are probably the most ridiculous words ever spoken in the history of talking. I wish the house could go for a full month without having to be dusted, mopped, scrubbed, wiped down, disinfected, vacuumed, and otherwise cleansed of the disgusting mess that is daily life with kids.

Dad does not know best on matters of having respect for a woman’s feelings once she’s become a mother

To be fair, I’m sure a lot of guys don’t realize that when a woman becomes a mother, some of the things she previously overlooked would no longer be “cool.” Recently my husband and I got into a huge argument about a book (I know, stupid to get into an argument that can be called “huge” over something as little as a book) all about sex. The word “fuck” was on the cover, so I thought it was totally inappropriate to be out there – in the open – for little eyes to see. My husband thought it was no big deal and called me a “prude,” which ushered in the huge argument.

Sometimes it isn’t just about being a mother or wanting to avoid little eyes from seeing things, though, but really just a matter of respect for a woman’s feelings. For years, I overlooked this little figurine of someone taking it up the behind that my husband had for reasons I still do not know. For years, I said in the back of my mind “boys will be boys” until Pookie saw it and asked what those people were doing. It wasn’t Pookie seeing it that upset me, though (I told her “playing leapfrog”); what upset me was that my husband never considered that something like that might offend me – a woman. Not a roommate. Not another dude. A woman.

Dad does not know best on matters of personal hygiene

Ever woken up in the middle of the night because your husband ate way too much broccoli and beans for dinner and you’ve been dreaming of a loud tuba concert, only to be woken by the grande finale of the song which turned out to be loud, tuba-like sounds in your own room?

No? Okay, well I have.

Ever been laying in bed and thought you might suffocate because the smell of rotten feet was so overpowering in every crevice of the house and it was just so late for you  to go anywhere for escape but under the covers, where you were then confronted with those feet sticking right in your face?

No? Okay, well I have.

To make matters worse, it sometimes seems like Dad doesn’t know best on when to replace things. I keep trying to explain to Poor Nick that if only he would replace his tooth brush, his teeth and mouth might not be so nasty in the morning. If only he’d buy a new pair of cheap sandals – rather than wearing the same ones for over seven years that literally fall apart on his feet every time he wears them; maybe if he would just fork over the ten bucks and buy new ones, his feet wouldn’t be so rancid all the time.

Between the the rotten feet, the urine on the side of the toilet, the belching in your face, and the gas at the most inopportune times, Dad does not know best on matters of personal hygiene.

Dad does not know best on matters of interior decorating

When I met my husband, he was living in a condominium shared with his brother and two other roommates. They had sort of a mute, hodgepodge of decoration in the place. Really everyone used it as a place to sleep and that was about it. When we moved in together, I therefore inherited a world of wonderful goods he had just been waiting to put out for all to see. There was a fucking Lord of the Rings goblet placed on the TV stand when I came home one day. The treasures of course were really worthy of nowhere but the garbage dump. Besides the goblet and that anal sex figurine there was a rusted African figure, an entire bookcase full of out-of-date AAA travel books; there were guitars that are never played, two bins full of miscellaneous wires that “may one day come in handy;” and, a whole host of other gems.

Recently, I realized that my husband really is eligible to be on A&E’s Hoarders. He keeps things just because they may one day be useful. I used to be like this (a little), but as the years go on I’m getting more and more frustrated with keeping around a bunch of tacky crap just for the sake of having to clean it.

Case in point: in the last three or four years, my husband has played those guitars once. They are merely matters of decoration now.

I was talking about this last night, because it would feel so much better in our apartment if it always wasn’t so cluttered. At one point in the discussion, he referred to those guitars and the amp and all its cluttering accessories as “part of the decoration.” Odd, I didn’t know a beautiful vase with faux branches in it came with two ugly guitar cases, an amp, and a bunch of wires!

Dad does not know best on matters of interior decorating.

 

As I said, there are a lot of things that Dad knows best on. Maybe we could add a few things to the long answer: sometimes list, like playing catch with the kids, teaching a little boy how to pee standing up, and so on. But then it gets complicated and the answer gets long again, for example in the case of the peeing dad who obviously doesn’t really know best because if he did then why would generation after generation after motherfucking generation of men continue to have such a problem with aim? If only Dad really did know best on the matters of peeing standing up the whole personal hygiene thing might be a little better.

The bottom line, really, is that when push comes to shove – unless we’re talking about a bar-b-que or a game of catch or using a screwdriver, just assume the short answer. So who knows best then? Well, the answer is obvious: Mom knows best. Always.

This Week’s STFU: People That Give Bad Advice

For this week’s Shut the Fuck Up Fridays, I’d like to address people that give bad advice.

Have you ever been given bad advice? I’ve been given plenty of it. Sometimes I’m smart enough to know that it’s bad advice, and so I ignore it. Other times I’m either tricked or my brain is so far up the asses I’m wiping and bathing and shuttling to and from activities that I take it and suffer the consequences.

Here are my most recents that I should have just told to shut the fuck up:

That blogger that told me the best and only necessary way to network my blog was on Facebook

What a load of bull shit that was. If you currently or have ever had a blog, you know that relying solely on Facebook or even social media in general to market your blog is probably a recipe for disaster of blognanamous proportions.

The biggest problem with doing this is you are relying on a terribly inconsistent and a too broadly used resource to market something that is niche. Blogs are niche – whether they are general blogs, mom blogs, cooking blogs, whatever. Not everyone goes to Facebook to talk about blogs, though; so not everyone you try and market your blog with on Facebook will want it to clog up their newsfeed.

Also, people are dicks. I can’t tell you how many people I have supported in their stupid causes through social media, only for them to tell me they don’t “do that” in return. Really? You don’t say?

Blog advice giver(s): shut the fuck up.

That person at my husband’s work that advised us to watch “The Trip”

Jesus Christ slathered on a piece of toast (and I’m Catholic, so I can say that), what a terrible, terrible, horribly awful movie “The Trip” was.

For those of you unfamiliar, these two British actors that are not funny, not attractive, and quite idiotic go on a little foodie trip through Wales to engorge themselves on scallops, tons of shit covered in butter, lots of wine, marijuana, and one of the guys sleeping with every two-bit whore he could find in their various hotels. It was two hours in which I felt like repeatedly banging my head against the wall, because if I did it enough I would black out and not have to endure the stupidity and boringness that was this film.

Next time this guy tries to recommend a movie, my husband has been advised to tell him to do one thing, and one thing only: shut the fuck up.

The person that suggested I give California Italian food one more shot

Eating California’s version of Italian food is typically like eating a bowl of puke. It’s actually worse than puke.

I don’t know what it is about it that turns me off so much. Maybe it’s California’s emphasis on fusion – fusing multiple genres of food into one. The result is a bad combination of spices and sauces that these local yupsters think is so posh and unique, when really it’s like a plate of bile and vomit.

I thought I’d take the advice of the person in one of my book clubs that suggested I give California Italian food one more shot, and have tried it a few more times over the course of the last few months. I tried different dishes. I tried to see the beauty in adding carne asada to lasagna. I tried to see the sheer awe-inspiring genius of fusing edamame with alfredo linguini. But I just can’t help but feel like an idiot myself for taking this horrible advice. Crap is crap, no matter what way you look at it.

To the California Italian cuisiners: shut the fuck up.

Those are just a few of the incidences of bad advice I have been given recently. At least bad advice that I’ve taken. Then we have bad advice I haven’t taken (like the suggestion that I put my kid into underwater ballet, whatever the hell that is); as well as unsolicited advice (don’t even get me started on that one).

What bad advice have you received lately faithful blog followers? I’m sure you will join me in telling those bad advice-givers a resounding SHUT THE FUCK UP!

People I Would Have An Affair With, Fall 2012 Edition

As I sit here, going on hour ten (or something) of being relatively glued to The Weather Channel, I realized I should consider making a few additions to my “People I Would Have An Affair With” list. It isn’t because I’m bored, it’s that weather events get me all excited and crazy.

For those of you relatively new(ish) to the blog, my list published last year was possibly the most bizarre list of pseudo-crushes I have had for years. Each crush was for a different reason – most of which (most, not all) had nothing to do with sex appeal. It included: any dead philosopher circa 1700 – 2000, as well as Plato and Aristotle; any dead writer from the Lost Generation; King Arthur as played by Sean Connery in First Knight; Wolf Blitzer; anyone high up in the Russian government; Dog the Bounty Hunter; Chris O’Dowd; Lars Von Trier; and last but certainly not least, Ross Perot. Of course I had a different, and somewhat insane, reason for each of those.

So sitting here now, with my husband annoyed because I won’t let the television be turned off of the Isaac coverage, getting excited and crazy, and beginning to swoon over Jim Cantore in those Hurricane Glasses of his, I make additions to my list:

#1 Jim Cantore

Not Jim Cantore in the weather center station. Not Jim Cantore in a suit. Not Jim Cantore during nice weather. Only Jim Cantore in hurricane gear, with his Hurricane Glasses, in the middle of a storm, being pummeled by rain.

No way around it – that hurricane shit is hot.

#2 Joey G from Cheaters

I’m trying to embrace irony. This seems to be what LA is all about these days – the hipsters and the yuppies and the yupsters have really taken over this place. It’s almost hard to communicate with people if you aren’t being ironic.

So I think an affair with Joey G from Cheaters would bring a nice slice of irony to my life.

#3 Kyle Korver from the Chicago Bulls

Okay, being a corn-fed Midwest girl, I am of course a Bulls fan. I have a Bulls sticker on the back of my car. Ultimately I would have an affair with just about any member of the Chicago Bulls – the players, the coaches, the administrative staff, the interns… Who I’d really like to have an affair with from the Chicago Bulls (although he was recently traded), though, is Kyle Korver. You know why?

Because he looks like a mother fucking vampire.

#4 Any Hillbilly With a Mullet

How debased that is, I know. I’ve always wondered, though, what it would be like to be in some sort of an intimate relationship with someone rocking a mean Kentucky Waterfall.

A plus if said hillbilly wears overalls with nothing underneath.

#5 Wolf Blitzer

Now I know what you are all saying: but you already had Wolf Blitzer in your last “People I Would Have An Affair With” post! Yes, I did. I just thought it was worth reiterating because I really have the hots for Wolf.

I also used to have the hots for Anderson Cooper, which was all the more heartbreaking for me when I found out he was gay.

Wolf, if you are reading this: please don’t break my heart. A girl has to dream.

#6 Hulk Hogan

It’s the ‘stache. And the voice. And possibly the 1980s, neon stretchy pants. I imagine a time when Hulk and I trade stretchy pants – he wears my leopard printed ones; I wear his super hot neon ones. We prance around the house and then he pile drives me something real good.

So I think being pile driven by Hulk Hogan is a good place to stop for now. I think that’s a nice image to leave you faithful blog followers with. My People I Would Have An Affair With list is growing nicely, though. Sure my people and reasons may seem psychotic, and my mother-in-law may be printing this and calling my husband to try and convince him to divorce me, but in the end I think every girl has to have a list of fun times she’d love to have, even if in a million years she’d never have them.

I’m back to my Cantore on The Weather Channel. Hopefully Isaac picks up quickly so he leaves those glasses on all night.