Nightmare on Tiger Street

As I read more about the Tiger Woods saga, it has become abundently clear that he is stonewalling the situation.

My stoic grandmother always said, "nothing good ever happens after 2:00 a.m." And while we may never find out what happened outside Tiger's house in the wee hours of November 27, there is plenty of web speculation to chew on.

Another of granny's favorite sayings was, "Shit happens. If you don't look down, you'll step in it."


Tiger, in many ways, really stepped in it. And his wife is pretty damn angry.

I know this because after 12 years of marriage and various domestic disagreements, a spouse does not swing a golf club in the early a.m. without just cause. Hell, my temper has flared over much stupider things and once impulsively kicked a hole in my bedroom wall with a clog....but that's another story for another day....

So, in the tongue and cheek vein of my "Sesame Street Layoffs" post and an "open letter from Barbara Walter's Vagina, The Cha-Cha Chow-enge," here's my view of what really happened:

All was quiet in the sprawling Florida home. The children, safely under the nanny's care, had long been bathed and put to bed miles away in the estate's southeast wing. The lights were dim. She sat alone at the sleek modern dining table. The places were still set with Hermes china - a gift from Oprah - featuring a tiger design and starched linen napkins featuring an embroidered entwined double E. "Elin and Eldrick....it really meant something...once," she sighed. Bacarat crystal golblets glinted in the mix of candle and moonlight that flooded into the room from the bare baywindow. Yet, even in the shadows she seethed. Perhaps it was the rumors of an affair or maybe just the effects of the Pinot Noir-fueled "American Psycho," "Saw III," and "Fatal Attraction" filmfest she insisted upon earlier in the evening. The regal profile and mantle of platinum hair was offset by the cold, hard stare in her eyes. The time on her Tag Heurer watch read 2:00 a.m.

"Where the fuck was he?" she thought. "Rvvhel!" (swedish for asshole) she muttered under her breathe as she fixed her eyes on the long, gated drive, looking for the tell-tale headlights of his Cadiallac Escalade. The Buick Enclave was already parked at the start of the front walk along the circular drive. It was packed and ready for an errant getaway. "I have had enough," she thought. "He will not make a rvvhel out of me!"

She could no longer sit, and strode down the long hallway to the garage. "Everything is set," she thought. The pristine, damask couches in the study had been stripped of their pillows and covered in layers of course canvas tarp, mylar and industrial plastic. "That is where he will see me," she told herself as she opened the door into the garage and scanned the wall for power tools. "Rvvhel knuller!" she breathed (asshole fucker) as she walked toward the DeWalt chainsaw. There, standing stoic and mocking underneath the horror movie weapon of choice, was his prized set of Nike Titanium golf clubs. These were no practice set, or reserves. Encased in a glowing halo of stainless steel, these clubs were the PGA equivalent to the holy grail. This was the set that had won countless titles and championships. The set that helped construct the large and looming ego that he could do no wrong.

Without a thought, she grabbed the driver with the largest, widest, sharpest head and resumed her perch in the dining room. Then, the gates opened. He killed the headlights and eased up the driveway. It was too much, and she snapped.

"Where the hell where you?" she screamed as she leapt out the front door, brandishing the driver high over her head. "Were you with HER! Were you with that jdvlar fitta hora ab ab ab?" she screamed (fucking c-word whore).

"Whoa! Whoa! Eels, baby. I was with the guys." he explained and opened the car door.

"On Thanksgiving? You shit, you should be with your family! Where were you? Where did you go? WHO WERE you with?"

"Jesus Christ, you Nordic bitch, I was with Shaq and Mike....we were watching the game. What the hell? I just lost track of time...and besides you said it was a silly American holiday...."

"YOU JUST lost track of time. You have a mother fucking Rolex watch for every day of the year and you LOST track of time?" She swung at him hard. Nearly missing his Nike Golf hat. She hit the hood of the car. "Your stupid fuckin' cheating friends." she cried and hit the grill. "Why can't you just hang out with that nice Bill Nye the science guy we met at the block party last year." She swung wildly, hitting him squarely on the shoulder.

"Ouch! That's the money arm you crazy motherfucking Dane. You better settle yourself down, you live in Tiger's Den, under Tiger's rule."

"Aggghhh....I'm SWEDISH, you ass!" She hit the windshield.

"Damn." he said and jumped back in the car, turning on the ignition and shifting to reverse. He hit the gas and didn't even look. Bam. Right into the Buick Enclave. Reverse again as she hit a quarter panel. Bam. "Shit." he thought as he backed through the gate and hit the fire hydrant across the street. She was foaming at the mouth, running after him.

He quickly tried to Twitter, "Wife is crazy, mad, hot, mess. Damn I'm turned on. Tiger Out." But before he hit send, she sent the driver crashing through the back window hitting him in the head. Trying to dodge the club, he veered and hit a tree.

As he was slumped over, she dropped the clubs and cried, "Oh Eldrick! Eldrick! Are you hurt? Can you hear me? I'm so sorry! Oh God, I'm so sorry."

"Fuck," he thought to himself, "crazy wife, broken golf clubs, two wrecked cars....Steel, I mean Shaq, where the hell are you man, hook a brother up...Fuck TMZ, the make-up sex on this one alone is gonna kill me...."

Harvest Blessings

Early on Thanksgiving mourn,
autumn's final blush fulfills
the legacy of settlers past.

Sparse are leaves upon the trees,
all lie abundant in the dewy grass.
Damp and cold and icy still
a lonely tern wavers across the muted umber sky.

Breathe deep the golden moment
let it seep down to your bones,

let it rush about in glorious waves,
revel in this state of grace.

God and country,
Family, friends and memories that are held most dear
Sing from the heart and broadly smile
for your blessings are infinite, mysterious

like morning stars faint upon dawn's breaking light.

The harvest table brims with love.
Look around to see,

share a legacy alit so bright.

With awe and wonder hold it close, never fade or forget each gift

with the passing day, the season's change. Let it endure.

For peace, prosperity and tranquility will prevail when each and every day becomes Thanksgiving again anew.

It's a Mad, Mad Maverick's World!

The Minivan Monologues is proud to present exclusive excerpts from Sarah Palin's much anticipated autobiography, "Going Commando." (Oops, my bad, "Going Rogue")

Chapter One: Humble Beginnings

"Come and listen to a story about a man named Jed. A poor mountaineer, barely kept his family fed. Then one day he was shootin' at some food and up through the ground came a bubblin' crude. Oil that is. Black Gold. Alaskan Tea. "

Chapter Two: Growing Alaskan Roots

"Well, the first thing you know it ol' Jed's a millionaire. Kinfolk said, 'Jed move away from there.' Said, 'Californy is the place you ought to be.' So, they loaded up the truck and moved to Beverly."

Chapter Three: The Veep Vetting Process

Hmmm...me thinks this story sounds vaguely familiar???

Where have you gone, Jethro Clampett,....I mean, Levi Johnston? Special interest groups and aerial bow hunters turn their lonely eyes to you....woo woo woo. Ellie Mae? Tripp? Trig? Track? Tuna Fish? Tonto? Tattoo? ....Are you there?....I think they all saw Hurricane Sarah comin', threw their shit in Fred Sanford's truck and "moved on up" to Green Acres. Amen!

The End.

Which Came First...the Mummy or the McMuffin?

Maybe it was my thoughts about holiday goodies creeping into my head, or perhaps it was the pending shortage of Eggo Waffles, but I found this interesting: USA Today reports that CT scans of mummies show that heart disease predates fast food by over 3,500 years. However, some local archeologists announced the surprising new finding of two previously unknown, unseen and unresearched hieroglyphics (pictured above) from the tomb of the ancient prince Grimacenkamen, outside of Cairo...thus cancelling out the "heart disease without fast food theory...."

The contradictory discoveries have left many doctors, scientists and historians to scratch their collective heads and ponder the age old question: which came first the Mummy or the McMuffin?

No word if this may lead to answers to the obvious follow up question regarding the possible links between the Shamrock Shake and St. Patrick.

Some Gifts Never Stop Giving...

Roses are nice....
But....

A vagina is forever!

Ode to Saturday Morning, 6 a.m.

Rain, rain go away...
don't want the kids inside all day!
Screaming, hitting, "it's no fair!"
Third time this morning had to stop 5 year-old from pulling oldest's hair.
Hubby is nestled up snug in bed, trying hard to ignore the chaos insuing as I get the kids fed.
Sitting with my coffee irked and annoyed, I have hit my limit...
"Everyone out of the house this instant!"
Out into the garage to make your clatter and when I've calmed down I'll explain what was the matter.
All I crave is 5 minutes peace - a time when the shouting, whining and cries of "Mommmeeeee" will cease.
Being a mom is 24/7 with nary a shot going straight to heaven.
The weekend has come and I feel I've earned a bit of a rest....
So, everyone, please shut the fuck up and stop being a pest!

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

If I Gave A Tweet...

Twitter confounds me. It's right up there with the fine line of the facebook status update - either mundane and boring or extremely witty and funny. There never really seems to be a middle ground...and for the most part, I thought that "tweets" were silly, narcissistic cyber shout-outs - the online equivalent of a blog's poor WT trailer livin' cousin.

Then I read an article on TechCrunch regarding a Twitter account called "Shitmydadsays." The posts made me laugh so hard, I nearly peed my pants. With a lot of inspiration and an econo box of Depends, I composed the following "bon mots" as if I really gave a tweet - therefore, if I twittered this is what I'd say:

• I hate it when people stop me to say, "Wow! You look really great today." Then, I have to respond, "Thanks, I finally took a shower."

• Happy Birthday! I heard you're turning 40, but want to hear the best part...I'm not!

• Met a friend for coffee. First thing I said was, "I got dressed today...what the fuck happened to you?"

• If men can come up with remedies for conditions like Erectile Dysfunction, why the hell can't they fix "Man Boobs?"

• Am dropping the kids off at the pool...no shit...literally - I AM AT THE POOL...with the kids.

• Now that I've had three kids, I really should've rethought the location of that "Hamburgler" tattoo...

• WTF!!! WR R HR SPX? (Where are her spanx?)

• Too much green. Too much pink. Too matchy-matchy is what I think.

• Just fucked my husband...will he just get the hell off of me already!

• Why does Eli Manning always look like he was beaten with an ugly stick?

• Just farted in Starbucks and blamed it on the 5 year-old.

• Not all soccer moms are angry and vulgar...just me.

And the list could go on....because this is kinda fun...and because I have so much stuff pent up in my head....and because you know you want to....you can now follow me on twitter here.

All Roads Lead to a Good Moisterizer...

Much to my husband's chagrin, I am nothing if not predictable. For example, when there are two roads diverged at a major intersection...I will inevitablely travel the path to the closest retail shopping establishment.

So...as I sat at the stop light this morning, I had a major decision to make: Turn right in the direction of the car dealership to once and for all take care of the burnt out tail and brake lights on my car......or turn left into the town center to pick-up my much needed deep hydrating boutique moisterizer.

As the light changed, there was no hesitation. Despite my husband's almost hourly chorus of nagging emails, tweets, voicemails, texts and instant messages regarding the car - my actions were intuitive. I made a beeline for the "chi-chi," "fru-fru" cosmetics store. The sentiment, "A good moisterizer is better than any vitamin," echoed through my head. It sounded like some glorious and sage advice that had once rolled off the tongues of Diana Vreeland, Coco Chanel, Jaqueline Kennedy Onassis, or at the very least, RuPaul. Yet, it was simply copy for a new skincare product advertised in a recent SELF magazine.

"Moisterizer!" "Vitamin!" "Brakelight!" The words riccocheted through my thoughts like ping pong balls. As I eased my car into a prime parking spot in front of Pottery Barn, I knew that what I was about to do was no small feat. To pull off the equivalent of a cosmetics "quickie," I had to be a woman on a mission - get in, get the goods and get out....without any upsell and purchase of additional products and services.

As I strode confidently across the street, just steps from the open shop door, the bark ring tone on my iPhone rang out. Shit! My husband! Damnit! I stood holding the barking phone as other shoppers gawked and stepped out of my way. "I will DEAL with the car, LATER!" I think I angrily said ou tloud and let the call slink into voicemail. But there would be no message, because, like clockwork, in five minutes, the phone would bark again.

It was now or never. I had a strict timetable to keep surrounding bus schedules and soccer practice. Circling back with kids in tow, was really not the best case scenario. The last time I drug the five-year-old, aka The Crazy Man, along on my quest for the perfect skinny jeans, he discovered eight new GapBody fragrances and to spite me, sprayed them all on his hair - at once. We both left the store smelling like potent combinations of Designer Imposters cologne, Deep Woods Off, rose hips and wet dog. On rainy days, when the lingering smell can be detected in the car, I am reminded of his hijinx and how it touched off everyone's allergies.

When all was said and done, I was able to pull off an impressive trifecta: got the moisterizer, got the car fixed AND got everyone to their practices reasonably on-time. But later, I knew I would have to patiently listen to my husband's monotonous "man-trum" (man tantrum) over car maintenance and why he didn't appreciate my cavialier attitude about brakelight safety. I knew that while, he wouldn't understand it, the explanation was elementary...While you can't go too far on the road less traveled without brakelights, you do, however, have a much better chance of talking yourself out of a fine, ticket or warning with glowing, dewy, well-moisterized skin.

In a Bloggin' State of Mind

Last June, I jinxed myself. As I sat at the kitchen table on a lazy Sunday morning, sipping coffee and blocking out the sounds of arguing children, I read a New York Times article about the inordinate number of blogs that go fallow...abandoned forever in cyberspace with a tell-tale dateline/time of death and cingular, often arcane final headline such as, "I'm a playa, I'm a playa," "Looooooook at ma thingy," "Photos of the world's largest cookie cutter collection," and "Won't post again until we all get free weed."

I sat bolt upright, slapped the paper down on the table and announced, to no one in particular (as my husband is VERY good at blocking me out), and said, "This will SOOO not happen to me!"

Then the writer's block hit.

In reality, blogging is hard work. It is hard to be consistently witty and relevant and at the same time self-depricating while you wear your inner most thoughts on your sleeve. Yet, what is even harder, however, is learning to live with what you've put out there for all to read, reference, comment on, and email to friends.

I have, more or less, reconciled myself with the fact that I have willingly given a multitude of eyes and ears a peek into my life and bedroom. Therefore, the full scope of my online musings/actions never really registered with me.

Until....I ran into a friend and former colleague of my husband at the grocery store. There I was, at the deli counter, scolding my 5 year-old for sitting on the kaiser rolls - (Why do they keep them so low? Do the supermarket powers-that-be not realize that small children will want to stack them like legos to use as a step ladder?) - He came up to me with a big hug and kiss.....

"Hey," I said, "How are you?" and continued with the usual pleasantries about work and his wife. When the conversation had run its course, he just gave me a wink and a sly smile and said, "Oh you...how's it going...haven't checked your....(slight pause)...monologues...in awhile."

The full gravity and reality of what I was putting out there hit me in that instant. For a split second I couldn't move, paralyzed like a deer in headlights. It must have flashed across my face before I could recover, because he then gamely gave me a playful, "knowing" punch on the arm and said, "Ahhh...that hubby of yours....give him my best." Then he was gone.

As I turned back to order my salty meats, I felt both oddly violated and flirted with at the same time. Never, in all of my months of silly stories and vivid description, had I ever once stopped to think about how someone's view of me could be altered - for better or worse - regarding the stories I chose to share. And never had I given a moments thought to the typical male perspective on it all.

In my mind, my audience has always been smart, savvy modern women. Those with or without children, who wear many hats - mother, daughter, wife, friend, lover, teacher, sister, aunt, neighbor - and were fraught with many of the same issues prevalent in my life. I was never really trying to be provactive, just timely and topical and above all else funny. The only guy, I thought, that really read my posts was my husband....if he laughed, not a little tee hee, but a full, throaty, showing all his teeth, clapping his hands laugh - then I knew it was good - be it obnoxious, ridiculous, voyeristic or over the top.

But then, I am one to naively stand at the early morning school bus stop in my flannel pajamas amid a group of husbands waiting with their children then scurrying off to work and think no one notices.....or is offended, annoyed or even oddly turned-on.

Whether in a conversation or a blog post, I've always sacraficed social convention for a punchline. To me, funny is sexy. (Come on, would Paulie Shore have gotten any ass in his lifetime if he wasn't funny?....okay maybe funny is sexy doesn't apply to the Weasel...) And when the timing is right I will go in for a laugh, like a skilled boxer who has perfected her upper left hook. Most don't expect that it is coming and the mousey, four-eyed girl always walks away with the biggest laughs.

But then after my panic at the deli counter, I stopped. I stopped writing. I stopped sharing. I closed down. My opinions felt irrelevent and tired. Plus, I was a bit scared of the monsterous, over-sexed online corner I had become to believe I had painted myself into. Was that wave and smile from the neighbor that I knew read my blog really mean, "Hi! How are you?" Or was it really, "Oh yeah, she's a horny mother fuckin' freak!"

Then school started and we stopped eating lunch meat. The quick uptick in the family schedule left me cranky and tired and without time to myself. Without time to think, to write and to be circumspect about it all and my thoughts were relegated to the daily ebb and flow of email responses. And as I religiously checked my inbox, I began to get increasingly annoyed by the sheer speed in which some people could crank out responses. And not just a phoned in WTF LOL half email/half tweet, but the long circuituous way that they got to their point. I was so jealous of their use of words and quick chirpy verse.

What pushed me off the ledge, however, was a series of novellas written and sent by a soccer coach. His emails were like long idle walks down a country road, meandering yet quaint and full of Norman Rockwellian antecodes. He prattled on about the joy of autum and mulling spices, crisp leaf peeping and soccer playing weather, the unabridged history of the soccer ball (Who knew they were once oblong rocks?), seminole moments in Pele's athletic career (Where would Brazilian soccer be if he hadn't flunked out of law school?), and the unconfirmed story that Posh has been secretly drugging Becks with low doses of Viagra.

I was dumbfounded. As I hit delete, I may have even thrown up in my mouth. This person had written more in one email, than I had blogged about in months.....hmmm....dare I start looking into guest bloggers? Nah......because, just as Jay-Z raps that "I'll be hood forever," the allure of an online persona will always lead me back and compell me to share my voice and hopefully a laugh about life, love, sex and the insanity of it all.