Archive for October 2010
my only superpower(s)
I get a lot of suggestions about clever ways to earn enough scrap to pay my AmEx Platinum now that my marital settlement agreement of three Twinkies and a pillowcase is approaching finalization.
Here’s how that usually goes: I scoff, roll my eyes and then morph into a petulant child who drinks triple shots of espresso in her latte before reminding them that Brian has exiled my credit cards to a local landfill and has the terror watch alert raised to red if I so much as log on to my Amazon account.
“What AmEx? I’m barely eligible for a Discover card,” I snort. “Brian’s probably flying to Tahiti with all the frequent flyer miles I worked very hard to earn through years of Neiman Marcus last call marathons and sleepless nights on shopbop.com.”
But back to what toilets I’ll need to lick to pay for my lattes going forward. I have done some serious introspection to come up with a list of my skills. For the sake of my tarnished self esteem, let’s just call them “Superpowers:”
I can use my g-string as a scrunchee: Many of you maintain that this is more of a “party trick” than Superpower, but I beg to differ. Disappearing into a bathroom with no hair accessories whatsoever and emerging with a perfectly coiffed ponytail or ballerina bun is pretty extraordinary. Although handy for unexpected sleepovers, I’m not confident this has revenue-earning potential.
I can find missing children with my superior olfaction: You can once again diminish the impressiveness of this skill by calling me “dog nose” or asking me if I’m pregnant. But someone who knows her husband just ripped open a bag of chicken chunks before she even pulls into her driveway clearly should have her own comic book.
Wikipedia defines Hyperosmia as “the increased ability to smell – for example, being able to identify the perfume of the previous occupant of a chair.” (or knowing whether you had the seabass or the halibut after talking to you for 30 seconds)
Let’s ignore the fact that most terms used to describe me begin with “hyper” and focus on how I have used this Superpower for the greater good. There was the time I got upgraded to a suite in Vegas after calling the front desk and telling them my current room reeked of “prostitutes marinated in Stetson cologne.” Or when I got bumped up to first class on a flight back from Italy because the entire row of Saudi Arabians next to us removed their boots and raised their arms quite a bit (um, Islamic dress — not exactly light and breathable). Actually, that’s a lie. Alitalia never upgraded me. So I shoved lemon fingers up each nostril, swallowed a Valium (or three) and blacked out for eight hours.
Unfortunately, I’m not having any luck unearthing a profession that calls for this Superpower. Miami airport customs turned me down, citing some bullshit about how only canines sniff bags for bombs. Whatever.
So until my comic book “Hyperosmiatic Heroines” is published, I’ve decided to highlight a few recent assaults on my olfactories as a public service:
My loaner car from Reeves: My shocking loss of status at my car dealer of nearly a decade resulted in them providing me with a rusty, dented Chrysler 3000 that stunk of scented maxi pads, dry cleaning solution and Marlboro Lights. When the guy asked me if the car was okay, I told him “only with noseplugs.” Crickets.
Method Antibac Lemon Verbena Kitchen Cleaner: Only buy this if you want your carrara marble countertops to smell like insect repellent.
Downy Mountain Spring Fabric Softener: After I perform the gruesome, ungodly act of laundry, I do not want to be rewarded with clothes that smell like they were rolled around in pine sap at Girl Scout camp.
Gain Original Fresh Dryer Sheets: You know the completely shaved, greasy-haired Italian bodybuilder wearing the Tap Out tee and staring at your breasts in line at the grocery store to buy his canned tuna fish? Your clothes will smell like him if you use this.
My armpits after Ainsley’s School Fall Festival: Because I break out into an angry rash when I use any antiperspirant that actually works, I opt for Dove Invisible solid. It’s slightly less effective than oxygen.
Little Tree Air Freshener (Lively Lemon Scent): Not so much a bad smell, as much as a smell so powerful it actually squeezes the capillaries behind your eyes forcing you to call a neurologist and schedule a CT scan of the brain.
So dear friends, please know that in the future if I happen to cancel our dinner date, it’s nothing personal. I probably just don’t like your cologne.
today’s affirmations (i think i’m finding jesus)
- I will remember that however tempting it may be, falling asleep with my hair wet is only acceptable when I’m being committed to an asylum the next day.
- I understand that the reason my ass looks fat in this terry Juicy jumpsuit, is because it is. I welcome that I’ll be confused with Kim Kardashian today and will embrace all the attention I get from black men.
- I will settle for a pedicure with Patty Melt this afternoon even though what I really need is a shot of Patron and Botox. I will be careful not to text her on my iPhone about this because it will autoINcorrect ‘pedi’ to ‘penis’ and we’ll end up someplace entirely different than Solar Nails.
- I trust that the package of “medicine” I just signed for from India contains Brian’s Viagra and not poison he will later slip into my Smart Water so that he can end his alimony obligation.
top 10 indicators of my pms
10. I almost called 911 when I couldn’t locate my eye cream.
9. While on the phone with earthlink customer service this morning, the words, “Why are you torturing me?” actually came out of my mouth before I slammed the phone down. Twice.
8. I considered throwing out a perfectly good latte because the drive-thru attendant at Starbucks fingered the lid.
7. I have nothing to wear. All 400 square feet of my closet is filled with crap even a refugee would refuse to be seen in. To illustrate this point, I engaged in personal attacks while attempting to get dressed this morning. “You’re disgusting and wrinkled and a fuck!ng bitch for making my legs look fat.” I threatened extraditing several items to the Salvation Army, but know this would never happen since it would involve me actually cleaning out my closet.
6. While washing my face, my fingers ran across a marble-sized cyst that I was sure would require emergency Moh’s surgery by a board certified dermatologist. Turns out I probably just need a Biore strip and not to be in puberty.
5. I bit my lip so hard while inhaling an entire trough of pasta for dinner, I was pretty sure I needed a skin graft. Then I did it again two seconds later and almost cried.
4. I got annoyed with Celine Dion for reproducing. Again.
3. It took me 35 minutes to figure out how to erase an episode of “What’s New Scooby Doo?” on my DVR. This too almost made me cry.
2. I skipped yoga this morning to shop for new boots on Zappos.com instead. Then I had to take a nap from the pure exhaustion of it all.
1. After scarfing down two bags of Entenmann’s chocolate chip mini muffins, I finished off a box of cheddar bunnies organic snack mix. When the bag was empty, I slid my fingers across the bottom of it to lick off all that carcinogenic, sodium-flavored faux cheddar powder. I’d feel less disgusting after a one-night stand.
my daughter: the sweet, sensitive one
While crawling through the Shorecrest carline this morning at the speed of cars on a California freeway during rush hour, I was able to ponder how much more tolerable this is with my latte in hand. Normally I’m rushing to school after a shower and effort to put together an outfit that at least doesn’t offend. But today, all bets were off. I discovered that alarms are rendered ineffective when phones are put on “silent” after I woke up (thank Charlie Crist for a bladder the size of a lima bean) at 7:02, and we have to leave by 7:30. So I instead grabbed Gator sweats and threw on a see-through t-shirt with no bra (classy), slapped some sunscreen on Ainsley and helped her find her gold glitter shoes for “Spirit Day” since today is homecoming. It’s amazing that when you eliminate basic hygiene, it’s much easier to get out of the house with a few minutes to spare. Hmmm. Now I’m left to consider the benefits of brushed teeth versus having time to hit Starbucks before I bring my daughter to school. Tough call.
So while I’m circling the school at a snail’s pace to get Ainsley to the drop-off point where the germy hands of the school’s administration are waiting to greet her and the 400 other sticky kids in lower division (yes, I get the chills every morning when I witness this), she told me she hopes that she will be able to sit on the bleachers during today’s pep rally, and not on the floor like the kindergarteners. So I explained that the gym is only so big, and that’s why the school wants to build a new one.
“Where will the new gym go, mommy?”
“Where the old gym is. They will tear it down to make room for the new one. Isn’t that exciting?”
I glanced back to see shock and horror.
“But mommy…that’s so sad for them to tear down our gym. We have Coach Pope’s dance party in there. I like that gym!” (Just to put this into perspective for those unfamiliar with the leaky abomination that is the Crisp Gym, I make it a point not to enter that gym without being equipped with a hazmat suit and noseplugs. Touring it makes you either want to donate to the new athletic center fund or commit arson.)
My initial surprise by her reaction was immediately replaced with pride and relief. Because now I know that when I’m old and dribbling applesauce down the front of my shirt, she won’t just drop me off at the Tyrone Square mall before it opens so I ferment on the benches until she picks me up eight hours later. When I have a leaking roof, replaced my iPhone with a Jitterbug , and swapped my Abercrombie for elasticized-waist polyester slacks, I’m now confident my sweet girl at least puts me in a retirement home that serves Starbucks with its applesauce.
the fine line between hot and creepy and why i could give a rat’s ass about halloween
If we just skipped right over Halloween and collapsed into the drooling narcoleptic comas of Thanksgiving, I really wouldn’t care. Frankly I’m not into bones and bloody skulls, whether they be on your front porch or Ed Hardy T-shirt (which is arguably way scarier). I like chocolate, but am convinced that the mini Halloween Milky Ways and Snickers are some cheap, barely edible version of the real thing. I only can tolerate orange when it’s paired with Gator blue, and there is only so much candy I can consume without honestly debating the benefits of bulimia. Sure, I like trick or treating. But carrying my 44-pound child after two houses? I need more than a pumpkin full of Laffy Taffy for that. Even more exhausting is trying to dissuade her from wearing a purple plastic dress and red wig scrunched up in a sandwich bag from Party City.
“No one’s going to know you’re Daphne from Scooby Doo,” I tell her. “They’re just going to think you’re from Pinellas Park.”
Fortunately for children, they know what they’re going to be for Halloween in July. I make this decision loosely based on how bloated I feel two days before I need to attend a costume event. This year, after realizing my breasts probably won’t hold up for many more Halloweens, I decided the funny costumes can wait until my nights out consist of spaghetti dinners at the VFW. Not that my epiphany matters because costumes today are so skimpy, I’m not sure funny is even an option. If you are a female over the age of 14 and buying your costume off the rack, you can pretty much add “stripper” to whatever character you choose. Last year I attempted originality by ordering a handmade costume from etsy.com, but it was four weeks late and marinating in swine flu when it arrived. I ended up being your standard iParty Stripper Shortcake. So today I took my 50 cents in alimony support to the former Sound Advice store in the Kmart shopping center on Dale Mabry in Tampa. It is rented out seasonally by “Costume Craze” to house the mother lode of costumes and other vile Halloween decor I will not buy.
Because I gave up on originality and was going for more of the: I’m-not-sure-I-give-a-shit-but-this-is-kind-of-a-cute costume, I was drawn to Little Red Riding Hood (Stripper). So small this ensemble was it was folded into a silver dollar stuffed in a snack bag. That was when the store clerk asked me if I needed help. Damn. Forgot my iPod. He told me they had a dressing room where I was welcome to try anything on, and then took it upon himself to grab a few more hand picked costumes off the flimsy wire racks, including an Alice in Wonder(Stripper) and Gretchen the Beer Wench (Stripper). He offered up some more as well because apparently I was to keep his dressing room occupied until they moved in the artificial Christmas trees.
Happy with the three options, I followed him back to the plastic shower curtains and cardboard partitions that comprised the makeshift dressing room. It was there that I noticed Senor Helpful wasn’t bad looking at all. He spoke in a sexy Latin accent and was rocking a 5 o’clock shadow that was approaching 8 pm.
Assuming he left me to the confines of my cardboard box, I quickly disrobed and threw on my (Very) Little Red costume first. At no point did I mind that my tattered, nude-colored, discontinued Intimissimi bra was poking out the top because I didn’t expect Senor Helpful to be staring in my direction when I parted the shower curtain to check out my leg fat in the room’s only mirror.
But there he was. Waiting for the fashion show I didn’t exactly sign up for, and leaving me to wonder: is this hot or creepy? Should I give him my number or call 911?
Two costume changes later, “Orlando” is telling me how he owns tattoo parlors on the heels of showing me childhood pictures of himself in Catholic school sweaters complete with leather patches on the elbows. Maybe I was swept up in the romance of being surrounded by bleeding appendages and flashing skulls, but I found myself toeing the delicate line between do I want to find out more about this guy or just find my mace?
He’s from Spain and adores his mother and two teacup Chihuahuas. But he’s prone to using 14-gauge needles to drain the fluid out of his ear cartilage after MMA fights. When I asked for a paper towel to clean my splotchy aviators, he said, “Here, let me,” and rubbed them on his t-shirt so they wouldn’t scratch. Um. Thank you? Is his consideration of my Ray-Bans nice, or is the unintentional transfer of dermis onto my lenses just plain gross?
I was so confused. For way longer than I ever planned, Orlando told me story after story. Possibly in Spanish, because I’m not sure I was listening. I was just getting acquainted with the brand new notion that when marriage and children and forever are off the table, it opens up a whole new world you’d never before consider. I couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to be with someone like Orlando.
In the end, I walked to my car convinced it probably would involve hepatitis B and some bruising. But if you need a good deal on your Halloween costume, just tell him that “Little Red” sent you.
Costume idea: douchebag
nothing tests your patience or olfactory willpower like disney
Just returned from Disney, and I’m once again faced with the age-old question that plagues theme park visitors far and wide (especially wide): wash my clothes in the 2-hour sanitary rinse cycle or just throw them away?
Visiting six theme parks in four days is a lot like Nutella. In theory, chocolate and hazelnut should be a scrumptious coupling, but kids don’t exactly fight over it in the school cafeteria. I mean, sure, my weekend featured plenty of Disney magic, wonder and excitement. Like when I spotted the caffeinated oasis that is Starbucks across the lake at Universal Studios. Or when the couple sporting bride and groom Mickey ears accepted my Soarin’ fastpasses in exchange for promising to never kiss in public again.
But it always seemed like my joy was tempered by the fact that I’d get stuck in line next to a British woman with Nanny McPhee-like warts dangling out of her earlobes. Or behind a guy in the Toy Story line who for 84 minutes burped up his breakfast sausage in my direction. I can shut down my olfactories long enough to use a public restroom. But an 84-minute ride queue? About 30 minutes into that line I was secretly hoping the Toy Story ride included me plummeting to my death.
Irritating people: Disney’s biggest attraction
And then of course each day promised enough Space Violators, Slow Walkers and Loud Talkers to make anyone want to lay across the tracks at Test Track. With so many different categories of idiocy, it was really hard to determine who was the most annoying:
– The Crossers: typically they travel in groups of four or more and lack the brainpower to understand the typical flow of pedestrian traffic. Crossers like to make sudden diagonal or horizontal jumps across crowds, forcing people all around them to stop short, tumble or face-plant into me.
– The Stoppers: completely oblivious to the world around them, Stoppers aim to find the most congested area within any crowd to come to a screeching halt to read a map, calculate their body mass index, or ask their partner where “that hotdog place is at.”
– The Roadblockers: a close relative to the Slow Walker, Roadblockers contain three or more usually overweight people who clasp hands tightly forming a human chain of adipose tissue across any walkway or path. Even with a stroller and child outfitted with steel-reinforced boots and the instruction to point her toes like pistols, it is nearly impossible to break through this blockade (the only exception being when the Starbucks at Universal is closing in 15 minutes and you’ve been told you may not swim across the lake to get there).
– The Waiters: regardless of line length, Waiters will wait until the second they are at the ticket turnstile to even attempt to locate their passes. Waiters also decide what they’re having for lunch the minute they reach the cashier and not while they just waited in a 30-minute line complete with Jumbotron menus featured in three different languages as well as laminated menus handed to them two days ago by Disney employees. Because Waiters like to see me decompensate into a fit of tears on the ground because I’m so hungry, they also frequently ask questions such as, “How many pieces of lettuce are in the garden salad?” before finally ordering.
I’d be remiss if I didn’t add the following people to my “Why Didn’t YOU Get Lost in the Honey I Shrunk the Kids Playground Instead of my Child?” list:
– Anyone who gnaws on a turkey leg. Since when is tearing into an animal carcass the size of Cinderella’s castle while you sit on a steaming hot sidewalk acceptable behavior?
– Disney newlyweds. Um, sorry, but I fail to see the romance in fanny packs, foot odor and Mickey ears.
– New Yorkers
– Adults who get their “passports” stamped at Epcot countries.
You can’t live on 42-ounce fountain cokes and funnel cake: I’ve tried
If you do decide to visit Orlando for a theme parkathon and are concerned about where to take a little respite from the incorrigible crowds, I can recommend two excellent napping areas:
– Ellen’s Energy Adventure ride at Epcot (it’s dark, cold and 37 minutes long).
– The light on International Drive and Orangewood Blvd. It is a little longer than Ellen’s, but no dinosaurs.
As far as dining goes, if you’ve ever contemplated a liquid fast, now’s the time. Admittedly the veggie burgers at Cosmic Rays in Magic Kingdom are edible because you can hide their taste with sautéed mushrooms, onions and other toppings from the topping bar. Just try to ignore the people who so clearly are just eating plates of toppings. Witnessing this will not allow you to eat anything. Ever. Again.
You may want to visit the potty first
If you are incontinent or just drank an iced trenta passion tea, I do not recommend riding the Jimmy Neutron Blast at Universal Studios. It’s amazing to me that they have warnings for pregnant women, people with heart conditions or back problems, but nowhere does it say, “Those with bladders the size of thimbles may not ride.” That really may explain the smell.
Sure they boast a lazy river and 4-star accommodations, but who cares?
Because Disney hotels contain enough allergens to make my eyes puffy for a week following my stay, I’ve become a regular guest at the JW Marriott Grande Lakes. Primarily because they have a Starbucks in the lobby. But they do serve a fantastic breakfast buffet at Citron that often is complimentary with your stay if you book using the AAA rate. Blah, blah, blah. They have a Starbucks.
Living Poor Life Coach gives me an A- for the weekend
My “Living Poor Life Coach” approves of the JW Marriott (if not the $28 nightly valet), and that I refrained from stopping at the Burberry outlet on my way home tonight. And, yes, maybe my daughter would have preferred the $6 pizza outside of Mission Space. But the $19.50 pizza in Italy that she didn’t eat included a street show if you craned your neck. And stood up on your chair.
I think it’s even possible I’ll get extra credit for refusing to pay $35 for express valet at Universal and instead pay only $25 for the regular valet (which means you could walk to your hotel and back three times before they bother to bring you your car).
I’m just afraid any earned extra credit will be offset by my $149pp SeaWorld passport ticket expenditure so that we could attend the last hour of its “Spooktacular.” But we did eat at Perkins that night. So I’m getting there.
A Stopper in action at Epcot
Looks reasonable enough
someone’s ready for mickey’s pretty frickin scary
If I didn’t fear orphaning my child, I’d have snapped a picture of his girlfriend too.
mickey’s pretty frickin scary
For those of you making the trek to Orlando for “Mickey’s Not So Scary Halloween Party,” do humanity a favor and leave your fairy wings at home.
Although I fully expected the children to be rocking the latest Halloween costumes, it’s pretty unsettling to see grown men wearing nothing but green felt loincloths as they wolf down churros and lose their kids. Morbidly obese women who appear to have brought back smallpox, dripping grease from a turkey leg on their Tinkerbell tutus? Check.
Despite witnessing enough weirdness to make me question procreation, I will admit that certain costumes were cleverly chosen and well executed. My personal favorite was Schneider from “One Day at a Time.” So impressed I was with his ensemble, I just had to complement him. His quizzical look and violent key jingling was followed by, “What costume?” and possibly a threat of violence that I didn’t really hear because by that time I was faking a seizure.
If you can get past the sea of glitter and inbreeding, Mickey’s Not So Scary is the best Fastpass you’ll ever have barring the one you’d get by storming into guest relations and threatening terrorist-like attacks because the Pygmy working at Space Mountain decided your daughter was one molecule below the 44-inch height requirement. (If you find yourself in this situation, I do not recommend saying: “And you’re about a foot shy of getting laid. Ever.”)
Because the $58 admission serves to eliminate probably 75% of Disney’s regular cretins, it’s not unusual to walk right on Space Mountain. Or to be able to ride Thunder Mountain so many times you actually start to ponder what color your vomit would be if you had a veggie burger swimming in French’s mustard and tangy Sweetarts for dinner.
Don’t expect too much from the Trick or Treating though. Basically you wait in an hourlong line behind a 56-year-old Snow White so that Disney employees standing at the finish can scoop up two MaryJanes from a garbage pail and throw them into your kid’s bag. Save yourself some time and olfactory assaults by picking up a bag of candy beforehand. That way you can forego those painful lines and instead shove a Tootsie Roll into your child’s mouth every time she complains that her costume is too itchy.
There is a Halloween Parade that features regular Disney characters (villains mostly) along with a few Haunted House/Halloween-themed appearances. It’s important to note that the fright factor of this parade or any other aspect of the event is nonexistent compared to the scariness of the people attending. The fact that they have the ability to reproduce is way more horrifying than any scare Disney could conjure up.
So if being terrified is not your thing, you may want to avoid eye contact with 80% of the park visitors (especially those from Indianapolis). Take a pass as well on the “Kimberly No Coordination Show.” It is there where you’ll risk witnessing my utter lack of gross motor skills when attempting to fold up a stroller to board the tram while also carrying a sleeping six year old. Lucky for me, said dirty-fingered child was sticky enough after running her hands across every handrail in the entire park (much to my horror and constant chiding) that she kind of just adhered to my shoulder while everyone in the transportation lot watched, trying to determine what the over/under was on me breaking my ass. A piece of advice: always take the over on that one.
i only wear white when it rains 