Walmart: It Really is the Portal to Hell

I've always called Walmart the "Maze of Lucifer". I've never been inside one that wasn't an obstacle course of crap - like Vietnam Nam, except instead of land mines and live grenades the floors are laden with bargain-priced DVDs and tween-sized tees from the Mary Kate and Ashley collection . I don't care if they have a Panasonic DVD player on sale for $13.99 - I'd rather pay 10-times that amount just to avoid the crowds of cheap-ass holiday junk purveyors. My point was proven last Friday when a Walmart employee (who was just a poor Maintenance worker to boot) was trampled to death by hundreds of greedy bastards who couldn't wait to get their greasy fat hands on their Coty fragrance gift sets and bargain-priced electronics. Those a-holes literally ripped the doors off the wall in an effort to be the first to enter the Portal to Hell. 

I'm no Gandhi, but for the love of peace can't we all just chill the f*ck out. Merry Christmas all you Walmart bastards - I hope the Bratz Dolls Sparkle Rock Limo was worth it. This is why I shop online.

-Val

Thanksgiving + PMS = No Good

Happy Thanksgiving. Unfortunately I have a raging case of PMS which peaked yesterday as I was cleaning my house. As I went from room to room (complaining like a 90 year old Jewish lady) my kids were methodically following me around messing up the house. At some point I turned into a cross between the Cloverfield Monster and Debra Winger in Terms of Endearment when she screams at her kids in the Pick N Save parking lot. When I asked my son to rake the leaves outside he looked at me like I was speaking Russian. At that point the voice of Satan took over and I literally screamed "Rake the God Damned Leaves". That set him straight. I even managed to start a almost deadly kitchen fire (all without even cooking a thing - its a long story). Despite the back-breaking cramps and my flaring temper, I managed to get the house ready. Today the cramps are worse than ever, but I'm armed with a hidden stash of Xanax (only for emergency) and if necessary several bottles of Chardonnay. 

Hope everyone has a safe and Happy Holiday.

-Val

Reality Roundup: Real Housewhores of Orange County

I hate myself for watching this show, but the truth is these bitches all live within 5 miles of me and I love getting glimpses of my neighborhood haunts. Last night Season 4 (uggh) premiered and I sat through the entire agonizing hour. These women truly are horrible, horrible people. Below are some random thoughts about these 5 superficial bitches:

• Vicki: this money-hungry whore might be the worst of them all. When she contemplates buying a million-dollar yacht, (literally jumping up and down with glee when she discovers it includes a dishwasher and a washer/dryer) I almost threw a brick at the TV (I refrained because in this economy, I cant afford to replace my flatscreen. Also I was too lazy to go outside and find a brick). Hey Vicky - in case you haven't heard, the country is in a "recession" - you're not P. Diddy, your a freaking insurance agent, so  maybe instead of buying a pimped out boat, you might want to concentrate on selling that second house you bought last year which is still on the market.
• Laurie: Clearly Laurie and her new husband, "George Mc-No-Chin" are living the high life. I loved when they name dropped "Charles Branson" (when they were clearly talking about Sir Richard Branson - CEO of Virgin Records) as they ate their free dinner, paid for by the St. Regis hotel in exchange for the camera panning over the hotel's name for a whopping three seconds. 
• Jeanna: I find Jeanna to be the least offensive bitch - or I did until they showed her bedroom full of her semi-naked Nagel paintings from the 80's (by the way, Parker was a huge fan of Patrick Nagel in High School and I think she actually had one of Jeanna's Nagel renderings hanging in her bedroom: Holy 6 degrees of OC Housewives). Jeanna - we get it, you used to be hot. But for the love of god put the Nagels in the spare bedroom and box up that glamour shot of you circa 1984 wearing a hot pink Members Only jacket and nothing else.
• Gretchen: 30-year old money-grubbing gold digger doesn't even scratch the surface. It's not like that old dude that she is with is Mr. Personality - the ficus tree on my back patio has more personality than that Kenny Roger clone. Sadly, he has Leukemia, and I wouldn't be surprised if she has the "Leukemia count down clock" loaded on her laptop - counting down the days when she is the "hottest widow in Orange County".
• Tamra: Tamra lives in my community and I can say with confidence that she is not "the hottest" housewife around. Also, she just listed her house on the market, which makes me wonder if they are needing the cash to pay for those leopard print dresses, Restalyne and the diamond watch her hubby bought her last season.
• The "Trunk Show": When Laurie whipped out her Black American Express to pay for those fake Roberto Cavalli dresses (who buys Roberto Cavalli at a trunk show?) I was ready to actually go outside in the rain and find a brick and throw it at Laurie's plastic face. Nothing says Superficial like whipping out your black card in front of your friends. Also I think the lady who ran the trunk show has a company called "Haute Rod" - classy.

The only fair outcome this season would be if a giant meteor blazed down over Coto destroying these narcissistic wenches. Can't wait for next week.

-val

Twilight Mania

I've heard about the Twilight series for the past year now - even tried to buy the book for my son Daniel, who promptly told me "thanks, but no thanks." An avid reader myself I also overlooked the book, because 1) I've never been a Vampire genre kind of gal and 2) I'm not a 14 year old girl.

But last week the media bombarded everyone with all things "Twilight" and my kids became brainwashed by the  madness and forced me to take them. So on Saturday, me, Daniel (13), Ellie (11) and Daniel's best friend fought our way through the hoards of adolescent girls and went to see "Twilight". 

For the first 20 minutes I couldn't help but let out several loud guffaws. It was ripe with teenage angst and long lovey-dovey stare contests between Edward, the vampire and his aneroxic, pouty love interest Bella. I felt tanner than George Hamilton after watching vampire Edward and his cronies who were the color of a Chinette paper plate. Midway thru the movie, I actually started to like it and by the end I was a total fan. Sure some of the special effects and dialogue were cheesier than Velveeta, but after all is said and done it worked for me.

My daughter's best friend is so obsessed with the movie that she asked me to make her an "I Love Edward" shirt using some extra iron-on letters I had lying around. Since I didn't have all the available letters, I ended up cutting and pasting other letters to make the "L" and "W" and "D" causing the shirt to look like a 1970's kidnapping ransom note. She loved the shirt so much that she even wore it to her second showing on Sunday (yes I let my kids go back for a second round of Vampire worship the next day). Thank god I only had to make one tee shirt, as my kids, like me would rather parade around naked than wear a shirt proclaiming their love for someone. 

The country is in the middle of an economic crisis and I ended up spending $85 on that damned movie this weekend (between tickets for me and the kids and the snacks). Seriously, for $85 I could have purchased a 1/2 pair of Citizens of Humanity jeans or had a Swedish Massage. Crap, now I'm going to have to buy the books too.

-val

Best of First Class to Hell: Assid Washed - or How I Flashed My Butt Cheeks to a Restaurant full of Steak Eaters

We'll be back in a few days. In the meantime enjoy this story of how I exposed my ass cheeks to a room full of unsuspecting steak eaters:

Men often say or do things without thinking first. For instance when I recently told my husband that despite working out at the gym for three straight weeks, my body hasn't changed at all, he replied, "Give it time." Umm wrong answer. The right answer (as we all know) would have been "You look great" or "Are you kidding me? I've totally noticed a change!" 

When my husband Tom and I first started dating in the early nineties, his father bought him a brand new Ford Thunderbird. It was stark white with red velour seats and a red leather dashboard. That thing was gangsta before gansta was gansta.* The deal was Tom would sell his old Honda CRX and give his dad the proceeds to pay for some of the new new pimp mobile. The CRX just needed a new battery, so Tom placed the old one in the back seat of the T-Bird to be recycled at the Pep Boys. This happened to be the same day that I would be meeting his mom for the first time. 

In preparation for the big night, I went to the mall and blew $68 on a Guess! cotton mini dress. (big bucks for me in 1991).  We were taking her to a nice steakhouse for her birthday and I wanted to make a great impression (hence the ultra expensive, designer dress). Ever the polite girlfriend I quickly jumped the back seat where the car battery had been sitting all day. In. The. Hot. Sun. I slid the battery over and sat back, making idle chit chat with Tom and his mom. Within minutes, I noticed a tingling sensation, not unlike a thousand scorpions biting my ass. The whole "battery thing" never registered as I hot-potatoed back in forth on alternate butt cheeks until we got to the restaurant. 

Dinner went great. The restaurant was packed and we sat at a table towards the center of the main room. Pleasantries were exchanged back and forth over Prime Rib and wine. My buns were still a tingling, but not quite so bad. It was sometime mid-cheesecake that I reached back for a quick scratch when I realized that, as far as my rear-end was concerned, the Guess dress was no more. Ok, now this was peculiar and bordering on horrific. My head did a quick 180 and looked down. My panties were still there, but barely. They were "hanging by a string." Literally. The dress had melted away on either butt cheek with a thin line of cloth left smack down the middle covering only my crack. Oh my god. I was wearing an assless dress. Brooke Hogan would have been proud.

I had no other recourse but to look at Tom and his mother and say, "Don't be alarmed but my dress is disintegrating and my butt is completely exposed." It took us Einsteins a while to put two and two together and deduct that my dress, panties and fleshy buttocks were slowly being eaten by battery acid. Tom's mother soon became my best pal and followed me (closely) to the bathroom. Since it was mid summer and no one had a sweater to "tie around" my waist we deducted that we needed to leave the restaurant before I was stark naked. We quickly paid the bill and walked out of there in a tight line like we were chain-ganged together. Back at the gansta car, the red velour seats had met the same fate as my Guess sundress. Tom's gansta mobile was know more of a ghetto mobile.  

Aside from Tom and his mother, I can't say for sure how many poor souls were exposed to my fleshy butt cheeks that night. I wish I could have apologized for ruining their appetites. Tom learned a valuable lesson that night and I lost a dress, but all was forgiven and my butt survived. -VAL

* Note: we are sooo not Gansta

I Got Nothin'

I'm getting ready to head out of town for a few days and Parker is up to her eyebrows in work so we got nothin today.  Instead, I thought I'd do the old cliche blog trick of posting funny random pictures from the web (I know original, huh). I will be up in LA so maybe something new and exciting will happen (like earlier in the week when Harrison Ford almost inadvertently killed me as a lookey-loo in a huge Infiniti SUV nearly plowed head-on to me while she was driving/oogling at him pulling out of Barney's being photographed by umpteen hundred photographers). At least Celebrity Rehab is on tonight - always good fodder for the blogging world.

 In the meantime, enjoy the freak show:

"I'll take the radioactive cheese omelet and a side of carcinogenic home fries."  Gordon Ramsey needs to get to this "Kitchen Nightmare" stat.

Courtney Love blogging at 2:00 am (seriously if you've ever read one of her blog entries, you'll get it).

Sweetie, I think you're doing it wrong.

This is the kind of shit Parker might have done to a rival back in college. Don't mess with Parker's man.

-val

Flirting with Larry King (and other Misadventures in Beverly Hills)

My kids and I just returned from a two day excursion in Beverly Hills, visiting my husband who has been working there for the past 10 months. While our visit was brief, it was not without excitement and harrowing adventures:

Monday 8:30 am - Breakfast with The King: When my kids are on vacation their hunger becomes exponentially larger with each passing day. You'd think I'd just plucked them from the most barren desert in Ethiopia where they have been living on 2 grains of rice and sips of trench water for the past 6 months. By 8:30 am on Monday morning the whining was unbearable. So we headed off to "Nate and Al's" a Beverly Hills Delicatessen which looks like it has been there since the beginning of time. It probably has considering that as soon as we walked in my daughter Ellie spotted Larry King in the corner (word on the street is Larry dines there every morning). We were sat catty-corner from Larry where I had a bird's-eye view of his every move. First of all, while it might not seem possible, Larry actually looks older in person. It was like watching the Cryptkeeper in a pink oxford eating oatmeal with his Entourage. My son accused me of "staring" at Larry King (I couldn't help myself - I watch his show almost every night). "I'm not staring, I was winking and making lovey-dovey eyes at him - but don't tell your dad," I retorted. I really didn't wink at Larry, although with that bony body and hunchbacked posture it was hard to resist.

RDJ is that You? My son went off to spend the day at work with his dad (I hope he didn't blab about my flirtation with Larry King) while Ellie and I decided to do some old fashion shopping (window shopping) in Bev. Hills. As we made our way down Beverly Blvd. I made eye contact with Robert Downey Jr as he enjoyed a coffee at an outdoor cafe. OK, I'm like 99% is was Robert Downey Jr. (maybe his twin brother or some douchebag fanatic who's impersonating RDJ on the streets of 90210). I didn't want to stop or stare, so I continued to strut on by Mr. Ironman acting like I wasn't impressed.

The $250 Hat: Me and Ellie made our way to Barney's (3rd floor, trendy section) where amongst the Marc Jacobs, Tahari and Ella Moss, we were able to find three Splendid t-shirts on sale that we gobbled up like cheap tee-shirt junkies. As Tad, our salesman started to ring me up, I noticed the most adorable black hat - it literally called out to me like the Sirens in Homer's "The Odyssey". When I put it on my head I swear sparkles glittered in the mirror - the black wool cap with patent leather strap made me look like a really cute limo driver. My husband Tom has always said he loves me in hats, so I knew this was a must have. Until I saw the $250 price tag. Holy shit - this cap was made with probably $10 worth of wool, $0.95 of silk lining and perhaps $4 for the patent-leather piping. I guess the "Lanvin" tag accounted for the other  $235.05. "God Dammit! Why couldn't I be born a trust-fund baby," I murmured as Tad rang me up for the $123 worth of over-priced tee shirts. 

The Rodeo Strut: I was crushed about the over-priced limo must-have-cap and figured I could head back up Rodeo and cross over to Beverly where I had seen The Gap. Surely they would have a cheaper version of the hat I so coveted. Still high off my tee-shirt coup, and the Larry King, Robert Downey Jr. encounters, I strutted down Rodeo like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman (except I wasn't wearing hooker clothes and shiny plastic boots). I guess I had it coming, acting all confident with my Barney's shopping bag, in my new Citizens of Humanity jeans and black high wedge sandals. Clearly I am no Victoria Beckham as I strutted down Rodeo Drive and promptly tripped on a curb landing face first smack in front of the Louis Vuitton Store. I landed with a huge thud as my Barney's bag flew 100 feet in front of me. I got up with a nice new rip in the knee of my jeans and (unbeknownst to me until 20 minutes later) a large black smudge across the bridge of my nose. Classy.

There's No Fast Food in Beverly Hills: Later that day, after mending my scraped knee and cleaning the scuff off my nose - the Ethiopians grew painfully hungry once more. No matter that we were in walking distance of Spago and hundreds of other great eateries - no goat's cheese pizza or lobster hoagies would not suffice - they wanted hamburgers, the kind you get from a drive thru. Finding a McDonald's or Burger King in Beverly Hills is like trying to find a bottle of nail polish in KD Lang's vanity (i.e. it's nonexistent). Two miles (yet worlds away) outside of Beverly Hills we found a Burger King and you'd think my children had spotted a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow. In retrospect I'm glad we found that Burger King because otherwise I would never have come face to face with a man who was clearly the love-child of Rick James and Little Richard. Imagine Rick James' face (complete with 70's porno-stache) adorned with one of Little Richard's finest wigs and you get the picture. I'm not kidding - a little girl actually snuck up behind him, touched his "hair" (which looked like a bouffant of shiny black cotton candy) and ran away giggling. It took every ounce of restraint not to yell out "I'm Rick James, bitch" as I exited with my Whopper Jr. and Dr. Pepper.

Pig Pen - Is that You? On our way back to the hotel, we were stopped at a light and who should cross our path but my faithful old hobo "Pig Pen" (see story below). Clearly the $5 I had given him last week was not used for any personal grooming products like shampoo or a razor. Pig Pen was as dirty and disorientated as ever. Call me pessimistic, but I think "Pig Pen" might be on the sauce.

No, I'm not "Anybody": We eventually made it back to our hotel where we were greeted in the front drive by three losers in Ed Hardy shirts and knit skull caps who were clearly paparazzi looking for their next meal ticket. As I exited my car and walked through the lobby, I noticed them with their mysterious satchels following me.  As I waited for the elevator, I could hear them whispering and out of the corner of my eye could swear they were pointing at me. "Oh my god, I thought. They think I am someone famous." (I know - conceited much?)  Apparently, they had only gotten a good look at the back of my  head and ultra-blond hair. They probably thought I was Hayden Panetterie's mom or Blair from "The Facts of Life". An elevator eventually opened and as I headed in and turned around one of them ran up to me and we came face to face. His grin slowly turned to a look of grave disappointment as I asked him if he was getting on he said, "No thanks, we'll catch the next one." Clearly, he had just realized that I was a "nobody". The sad "loser" sound effect from a seventies game show rang in my head (Wah wah wahhhhhh) as I headed up to my room for a well-deserved nap. 

-val

Your Welcome Homeless Dude

This morning I was in LA and stopped off at 7-11 for a healthy breakfast with my kids (I had a 32 oz Big Gulp, Daniel had the vitamin-enriched 'Hot Fudge Sundae' flavored Pop Tarts and Ellie opted for the always nutritious "Funions".) It's amazing we didn't run into Britney Spears at the Slurpee machine. 

As we got into the car, ready to depart with our tasty treasures, a decrepit old hobo walked by. This guy really was the epitome of "hobo"; he put the stank in the word "stank". Imagine Pig Pen from "Peanuts" at the age of 68 with a full beard, wearing a jacket covered with decades of dirt. As I sucked down my ice cold Pepsi, I felt a twang of humanity and (could  it be?) pity. "Give him some money," my kids begged me, as he shuffled towards the garbage can, pulled out a discarded stryofoam cup of coffee and began to drink from it. Maybe I had an Obama spread-the-wealth moment, or was feeling guilty after having just checked out of a 4-star Beverly Hills hotel and having had a $22 Kobe beef burger for dinner the night before, so I jumped out of the car and motioned  for him to come over to me. I handed him a $5 bill and said, "Here sir, go get yourself a cup of coffee." He looked up at me with the longest most repulsive snot rocket dangling from his right nostril, deeply embedded in his filthy beard. He grabbed the $5 bill and mumbled what I think might have been a "thank you." 

Afraid that his snot-rocket might contain a highly-contagious strain of the bird-flu, I quickly scrambled back in the car and watched him shuffle away with his new-found wealth. I expected him to saunter into the 7-11 for a hot cup of Joe, but alas, Pig Pen ran back to the garbage can where for all I know he threw the $5 away in exchange for a half-eaten hot dog. Your Welcome, homeless dude. 

-Val

I'll Never Complain About My Thighs Again

I will never complain about my thighs again (at least for the next week). Has this woman's legs been injected with Jello gelatin and coagulated Crisco oil? I look like Kate Moss circa 1992 compared to this lovely temptress.   (You may want to turn down the volume so you don't have to listen to the accompanying krunk rap song).

-val

Let's Do the Time Warp

I recently discovered that every Saturday my local cable station runs a marathon of 70's Saturday morning shows. I could barely contain my excitement when I caught the last 15 minutes of "Land of the Lost"and quickly dragged my kids in the room to see the 1970's state-of-the-art special effects. 

While my kids enjoy the modern conveniences of their personal Apple laptops, cell phones, texting their friends, X Box 360 and over 300 cable stations at their disposable (while constantly complaining that they are "bored"), those of us who were raised in the seventies had little more than the shows of wunder-producers Sid & Marty Krofft  ("Land of the Lost", "H.R. Puffinstuff", "The Bugaloos", etc.), Roller Skates and Pong to entertain us.

My kids sat, mesmerized by the crappy production value of "Land of the Lost," amazed at the complex plot that revolved around Marshall, Will, Holly and that sexy little ape-man "Chaka"as they tried to survive in their Styrofoam prehistoric land fending off giant claymation dinosaurs. Honestly, watching that 1972 episode of Land of the Lost made the Power Rangers look like a Steven Spielberg production. Also, is it me or does Chaka look like he's jacking off (or should I say "spanking the monkey" in the above picture? 

I like to compare my experience of watching television in the seventies to my parents having to "walk 5 miles barefoot in the snow" to school every day: Sure it was  tortuous, but looking back on it now somehow brings fond memories of sitting in front of my parents 400 lb. Zenith console television,  wearing footie pajamas that could erupt in flames at any second, while eating Quisp cereal and reveling in shows that were clearly written, produced and acted by people who were comletely high on cocaine. Case in point, "The Krofft Supershow. " When the intro to this show came on (right after the riveting end of "Land of the Lost") my kids mouths practically dropped to the floor. The glitter and satin were blinding. (click here for a link to the opening to the Krofft Supershow intro). It's ironic that this show first aired on September 11, 1976 (9/11 - a day of terror in more ways than one). Shockingly the Krofft Supershow only lasted one year. As for "Land of the Lost"? It is currently in production as a major motion picture starring Will Ferrell. I will be first in line.

-Val