Posted on by jsmith

I want to be filthy and stinking. period.

After loosely following the stories about the Wall Street protests this last week, I was surprised to learn, a few days ago, that about a hundred of the protestors actually marched down the residential streets of Manhattan’s Upper East Side, verbally pummeling their frustrations against the front doors of some of our nation’s wealthiest businessmen.  It seems that this particular vein of the protest was well advertised ahead of time, so I have to wonder:  did the protestors think they were going to catch anyone at home?  And if so, what would they have said, specifically, to each of the Filthy Stinking Rich People?

I don’t know.  But I know what I would ask the Filthy Stinking Rich People if  I were marching in righteous anger through their front yard.  I have it all planned out in my head.  I would rub my hands together, twirl my mustache (I’m in desperate need of a wax, my faiths), and pick up my large white megaphone with the Ridgeview Coyotes logo on the side.   (My kids’ elementary school.  Yes.  I would think of everything.)  I’d raise said megaphone to my freshly-glossed lips and demand some answers with my best leftover cheerleading yell:

  • Did your GPA really make a difference?  (Didn’t think so.)
  • Do you really all get together at Bohemian Grove once a year and decide how to rule the world?  (Didn’t think so.)
  • Are your wives’ boobs real?  (Didn’t think so.)
  • Are any of you leaving your wives’ boobs anytime soon?  If so, is there an opening for a new wife?  (Didn’t think so.)
  • Do you know Gwyneth Paltrow?  (Thought so.)
  • Will she be launching a clothing line at Target anytime soon?  (Hope so.)
  • Is there any way I can have your life?  (Didn’t think so.)
  • Will yelling at you about it make me feel better?  (Thought so.)

 

Upon setting down my megaphone to give my raspy voice a rest, I wonder if an accommodating tycoon would venture to his front porch and respond to my pleas.  Perhaps Rupert Murdoch would appear in a gorgeously overpriced bathrobe to ask me a few questions of his own:

    • You want this life, lady?  (Thought so.)
    • Then why did you major in English?

 

I believe that last question would end our Q and A session; some past misdeeds cannot be undone.  I would then bend over heavily, pick up my Ridgeview Coyotes mouthpiece, and march away.  Let the Filthy Stinking Rich people have their fun; I was going to use my megaphone to hiss in a Gollum voice and scare people on the bus ride home.  That would show them.

Posted on by jsmith

Mocklate

Summer was hard on my waistline this year.  You’d think opening the new pool would have motivated me to shape up, but instead it just encouraged me to sit around with my friends noshing on Pringles and ice cream.  I have therefore decided that between now and Halloween, it’s time to bring out the big guns:

That’s right:  fat-free, sugar-free, instant chocolate pudding-like substance.  Oh yeah.

(And that glass is actually clean, we just had hard water for a long time.  I know.  Don’t you wish you were coming over for dinner?)

Let me take you back about six months.  You see, every spring, I get on a “I’m gonna eat healthy, work out extra hard, and really lose that winter insulation” kick.  I usually muster up this annual motivation sometime around March.  I try for a few weeks, get bored, give up, then start all over again in April.  Sometime around Memorial Day, I finally find my mojo.  I cut calories and sweat all over the place and eat my fatfreesugarfreeinstantchocolatepudding-like substance as though it’s being taken off the market for harboring too many toxic additives.  This highly disciplined regime usually carries me into at least the third week of June, when the family reunions and camping trips kick in.  (I know.  You summered in Greece this year while I pitched a tent with my kids in the rain, didn’t you?  That’s why I don’t read your blog.)  About midsummer, I decide it’s pointedly rude to keep turning down my mom’s potato salad or my husband’s barbequed hot dogs, so taking a breather from my disciplined dogma is a kind of obligatory etiquette.  (Did Emily Post ever recommend fatfreesugarfreeinstantchocolatepuddin-like substances in social situations?  I didn’t think so.)

But come September, it’s time to get back into a routine: bedtimes, healthy eating and exercise.  I survive on my fatfreesugarfreeinstantchocolatepudding-like substance for awhile.  But changing leaves means pumpkin bread and hot cocoa, and boy does Halloween sneak up on me fast, and it is the kids’ favorite holiday, and who wants to be the uptight mom who won’t share in a mini Milky Way or take a bite (or ten) of an ooey-gooey caramel apple?  It’s the least I can do to honor motherhood.  And of course, I have a moral–no, spiritual–responsibility to host a splendid Thanksgiving dinner for my beloved family. The shopping and prep for this event usually require at least two weeks of heedless eating on my part, but what can I do?  I’m the cook, after all, and I owe this event some foretasting.  And once we get through Thanksgiving,  really, girls, is there any point to counting calories until after Christmas New Year’s?

Okay.  So after New Years, I’m back on My Diet (still don’t have a tight definition for that.)  But wait–oh, wait, my three faithfuls–Valentine’s Day is right around the corner!  And I refuse to be the cold fish who disregards my hubby’s lovingly bestowed sweets on the grounds of self-discipline.  (Didn’t you see Chocolat?  I’ll be the Sexy Chocolate Salesvixen, not the tight-lipped mean mom, thankyouverymuch.)  Okay.  So we’ll get right back on it after V-day.  We’re on to March, and it’s time to get serious.  I make it until St. Patty’s, but then really, wouldn’t it be cute to get the kids some gold chocolate coins and make Irish soda bread?  And I do feel like I should honor the Irish with a little “consumption” of my own.  Okay, start over.  Mid-march, round one.  Diet, exercise…made it to Easter.  Took a teenytiny little break for (the entire week of) Easter.  It is an important holiday, after all–equal to Christmas in its theological underpinnings, but reduced to bunnies and pastel eggs by our society.  But unlike common folk, I try to make Easter as important as Christmas by eating equal amounts of chocolate for both.  What can I say?  I’ve always been spiritual.

And after Easter, it’s into May and my fatfreesugarfreeinstantchocolatepudding-like substance.  It’s brown.  It’s cold.  It’s kind of sweet and kindofbutnotreally chocolate-y.  I’d call it chocolate-flavored foam.  Chfloam.  Add a dallop of whipped chemicals (i.e., fatfreesugarfreenondairysubstance) and I’ve got a winner for those long days of sugarlessness that plague me for at least six weeks of every year–three in May, until my teensytiny summer break, and another three in October until my teensytiny autumn break.

So here we are, and here I am, making you feel guilty about all the full-fat pudding you’ve been eating.  I know–I’ve become one of those bloggers, intimidating you with my nutritional discipline and fitness savvy. But don’t worry, my three faiths;  underneath all the muscle and tone, I’m still just me.  We can still be friends.  In fact, let’s start by talking about your own, personal chfloam.  What do you live on when you’re trying to be “good?”  I’m guessing it’s something kindofbutnotreally healthy, kindofbutnotreally tasty, kindofbutnotreally food.

Come on.  Tell me.  I need to know, because if I don’t find a replacement soon, this mocklate’s* gonna kill me.  Or at least get a really thick skin on the top.

*name that sitcom.  embarrassingly easy bonus question.*

Posted on by jsmith

21

I caught a little of the movie 21 this weekend.  Have you seen it?  It’s pretty good, and interesting because it’s based on a true story.  In short:  a group of brilliant MIT students form a secret team that “counts cards” and sneaks off to Vegas every weekend to make obscene amounts of money playing blackjack.  The film shows splashy scenes from the famed city’s nightlife:  the neon-lit strip, dizzying dance clubs, posh hotel suites and high-end shopping sprees.  In the end, of course, the once well-behaved students recognize their reckless greed and learn that–now brace yourself–Money Isn’t Everything.

Still, it’s a fun show.  But after watching it, I realized there are a few things I just don’t understand about 21:

A Few Things I Just Don’t Understand about 21

1.  Why my life is–and ever has been–so dull in comparison to everyone else’s.  Example:

I had never set foot in Las Vegas until after I was married, and then my young husband and I were kicked out of Ceasar’s Palace for looking underage.  (We were actually twenty-two at the time, thankyouverymuch.)  We had stopped in Sin City on our way to visit relatives in California and decided to see a few of the sights.  We’d barely made it past Cleopatra’s alabaster bosom on the main floor when a loud, frazzled lady came chasing us through the crowded aisles, demanding to see our IDs and raving about how the Gaming Commission would “shut us down!” if they caught two infants like us frequenting their din of iniquity. We smiled and told her that hey, it was okay–we were married!  Proof of adulthood.  She just blinked at us and wondered aloud how two kids who weren’t old enough to gamble had managed to get themselves married.  We looked at each other and wondered the same.  (Oh well, we shrugged.  Too late now.  Let’s go try the slots at Treasure Island.)

2.  Why 21 is such an anticipated birthday for some people.  Example:

My twenty-first birthday found me home from college for the summer living with–who else?–Mom and Dad.  My darling mother had hung approximately four balloons and four strands of streamers from the dining room chandelier.  A cake was made and approximately four friends from church came over to wish me a happy birthday.  We sat around talking quietly as they generously tried to pretend that this was a real party.  I cannot now remember any of the friends’ names, so I’m thinking we weren’t too close.  My close friends were all off serving missions, studying abroad, getting married, or getting drunk for their own 21st birthdays.  I remember being thankful that a) my mom would still hang streamers for a grown daughter who should have had her own birthday plans by now, b) that school was starting soon, and c) that my cute friend Derrick was still available to hang out with.  (He was pretty fun.)  (And funny.) (And smart.) (And cute.) (Wait, did I already say cute?) (Well, that was all.) (No, really.)

3.  Why these young gamblers were so excited about their winnings.  Obviously they had never experienced the thrill of putting your kids and husband to bed early on a Saturday night, having the tv all to yourself, and watching half of a movie while folding laundry, vacuuming carpet edges (not kidding), and re-organizing the DVD closet.  They must never have felt the goodness of finally plopping down on the sectional, only to fall asleep before said movie ended.  What a great night.  I get a tingle down my spine just re-living it on the page.  Don’t tell me you haven’t been there.

4.   Why Kate Bosworth is considered such a hottie, and Jim Sturgess isn’t considered more of one.  The guy just does something for me.  Brainy and sloppy, that’s how I like ’em.  (See my last post for proof.)

5.   How to play Blackjack.  After paying close attention to the movie’s explanation, I still don’t get it.  But I almost have Uno down.  (Care Bears version.)