Slacker Mom? Bitch, Pleeze!

My 36th birthday was Saturday.  Now that I’m one year older and that much closer to the wrong side of 40, I’m finding that when it comes to some of life's little nuances, like political correctness, I just don’t care. For example, I'm finding that my ability to self-edit before blurting out exactly what is on my mind is slipping.  You all know what I'm talking about...it's those times when you think “WTF Retard!” when the well intentioned mentally challenged grocery bagger stuffs your loaf of organic whole grain bread in between multiple juice box cartons, a large bottle of diet iced tea and a jar of black bean salsa to create one large, flat, oblong tortilla.  The vast majority of you would politely push your cart away while silently cussing a blue streak in your head.  But yesterday was one of those days, and in the 12 item or less line, I think I might have said it out loud.

As I stood there wondering, "Oops, did I just say that?"  I kept thinking of a Saturday Night Live skit that I watched over the weekend and have not gotten Angie Tempura, the “Bitch Pleeze Blogger”, out of my head.  I laugh every time I watch it and the response has become my unofficial slacker mom battle cry! 

Why? Bitch, pleeze!  It is an apt response for almost every friend, co-worker, family member and occasion.  One perfect, snarky little Hallmark-ism that just says, “Shut the fuck up,” but in a much nicer way.  And, it is VERY cathartic.  Just as the lector reads the petitions/intentions at church and the congregation responds with “amen” or “Lord, hear our prayer.”  So too should moms everywhere state “Bitch, pleeze!” in response to whining, nagging, complaining and utter stupidity.

For use with the kids:

“Why do you have to make me do ALL of my homework!"

“Bitch, pleeze!”

"Mommy...even though I just had a Pop Tart, 3 juice boxes, a twinkie and 10 mini pancakes, I'm STILL hungry"

“Bitch, pleeze!”

"I don't want to play outside, it's boring.  I'd rather watch High School Musical again."
“Bitch, pleeze!”

“Everyone in the fourth grade has a Nintendo DS, IPod, AmEx Platinum Card, Smart Car, Pony, and Snuggie, but me!”

“Bitch, pleeze!”

“Mommy, I didn’t make it to the potty in time!”

“Bitch, pleeze!”

For use with teachers /administrators:

“While your son tries hard, he needs to focus more on his classroom work and less time on farting noises.”

“Bitch, pleeze!”

“This is the Vice Principal.  There was a little incident in the lunch line this afternoon.  Your daughter told a little boy that he was only going to get coal in his stocking this Christmas.”

“Bitch, pleeze!”

For use with your husband / spouse:

“I thought I was going to get a birthday blow job?"

“Bitch, pleeze!”

“Can you take the kids out for the afternoon, I really need to focus on the football game I’m watching on TV!”

“Bitch, pleeze!”

It also works, I have found, for any "high priority email" with return receipt request and ASAP in the subject line, non-profit organization communications, neighbors that park on my lawn, phone solicitors from India, the cranky, sexually ambiguous mail lady who reads my People magazine, and my mother-in-law.

Got any good ones of your own to add to the list? 

What Is It About 5 Year-Olds & Poop?

“Get down!” I called after my 5 year-old son. He did not listen. As I called out again, he had already adeptly scaled the 5 foot post and rail fence, even though it was wrapped neatly on either side with heavy gauge chicken wire. He looked back at me with a triumphant “I’m king of the world!” smile as he balanced precariously in his shiny black penny loafers and newly pressed green corduroys, both last worn at Christmas. We were in Massachusetts for a blessing ceremony, the barn and animals were on the adjacent grounds. It proved to be too much of a novelty for my youngest child, who still desperately wants any kind of animal, other than one of the three god damn Webkinz he doesn't already have, to call his own pet.

“I’m going to name the big cow ‘Mommy,’” he proudly (and loudly) proclaimed as he pointed to the bored looking animal leaning up against the barn at the far end of the paddock. He seemed more and more wobbly as he strained to get a better look at the pig and the other animals. He was too busy naming the pig after his older brother and the chickens after preschool girlfriends to notice that the wire he was leaning on had begun to bend. He was now balancing his upper torso on the very top of the fence. Head, arms and chest flailing happily on the muddy barnyard side, high polished shoes and clean pants vaguely hanging on to the other.

“Get down!” I said for the third time. I was almost next to him, but not close enough if anything would happen. “Buddy, I can just see you going head-first into all of that mud.” He looked around, as if to survey the ground around him. It was a warmer than usual February day. A warm rain had fallen overnight, melting all remnants of snow.

He shot himself back up, upright, gave me a sheepish sideways glance and said, “It’s not just mud mommy, there’s poop, too.” And without missing a beat, he gracefully hopped down off the fence and was off if search of his siblings. I was left there with the animals thinking, if that had been any other kid, there would have been tears, dirty clothes and a long ride home.

But, I think my 5 year old philosopher nailed it, because, sometimes mud is mud and poop is poop…and sometimes, it is just mixed together.  And that is life!

Take the Baba Wawa Cha-Cha Chow-wenge

An open letter to MSNBC “Morning Joe” co-host, Mika Brzezinski, from Barbara Walters as part of a growing vibratory rift between the two powerhouses:


Dear Mika,

My good friend Fidel Castro once told me that "when it comes to sex toys, everyone is a comedian". So you can imagine how surprised I was at your utter distaste for my witty bon mot on Monday’s show. After all it is 2009 and we are living in a post-SITC (Sex In The City) world. Did Carrie Bradshaw and Samantha not teach you a thing or two about a well placed "rabbit"? No need for "Mr. Big" in this discussion, especially where my co-host Joy Behar is concerned....

Perhaps "stimulus" is on the tip of everyone's tongue these days, but in my experience when you get four cranky women grousing around a table and it’s only a matter of time before a vibrator rears is large pulsating head. Really, I mean what are Joe and Willie really going to gab with you about while sitting at the news desk? I’m going to guess the Seinfeld “swirl” move episode is not a topic of discussion.

Much ado about nothing has been made from a wise ass crack from Joy and my quick witted response. I didn’t even utter the big bad “v” word or "dildo", "schlong", or "mommy pleaser" for that matter. But as someone might cryptically ask “do you burn?” when asking if you smoke the reefer, I surmise that you have never “zzzzzzz-ed” a four-speed Joy Stick to Prince’s assless chapped Alphabet Street. It was my good friend, Cary Grant who once said that "making love was his favorite form of exercise"....I know that just the thought of this made me yell out "Judy, Judy, Judy" in the throes of passion more than one time...My other good friend, Alex Rodriguez once said he enjoyed making love, but "more when doing it with myself". I have first hand knowledge that his own line of sex toys, called the A-Prod will be debuting at Kabala Centers very soon -- and potentially in the "Spring Training Package" from Intimate Surprises.

Mika, you need to loosen up and get yourself a little better acquainted with your “lady business.” To start, I suggest you hand-pick a nickname. Just as Henry Kissinger once confided to me that he often referred to “little Henry” as “Shaft,” I have given my general vaginal area the nickname "Cha-Cha" or more formerly "Cha-Cha Wawa". Why "Cha-Cha" you might ask? I picked a moniker that would also provide a private homage to my favorite character from “Grease,” no not Kinicki, but Cha Cha DeGregoria, "the best dancer at St. Bernadette’s with the worst reputation". And if you knew me during the 60's and 70's, you'd know that Cha-Cha Wawa got around!

If all of this dick talk is making you consider changing your prudish ways, I suggest that you start slow in the personal massage department. I strongly recommend starting with the Jackhammer Jesus and one dollop of “Slick-uid” -- any more and your chooch will resemble a Six Flags log flume. Trust me....I still walk funny since I got a little over zealous with myself in 1987 after a late night of partying with Gary Coleman in Malibu....

As my friend the Dalai Lama once whispered to me, "a good orgasm will make you see dead people, curl your toes with delight, and realize in one brief moment of clarity what the numbers on Lost really meant".

Warmest Regards,

Barbara and Cha-Cha Wawa

When Sex is Spelled C-A-T

A cautionary tale....
March always inspires me to do a bit of spring cleaning. So earlier today, I decided to tackle the basement playroom. Just as I was about to throw a number of scattered magnetic letters into the donation pile for my son’s pre-school, a Christmas flashback quickly made me think again…

Perhaps it was the yuletide spirit, or just the thrill of getting caught wrapping the kids’ gifts, but this past Christmas Eve, my husband and I got a little busy tying other things up in bows. It was just after midnight and I had been moving bags of toys from the attic to the basement to be sorted, tagged and wrapped. I admit, it’s not the most clever, streamlined or efficient of processes, but as many things in our household go, it was a last minute cluster fuck.

Usually, I am on my own, toiling away wrapping gifts and stocking stuffers for the three children, plus my husband...while he would fall asleep on the couch amid an “A Christmas Story” marathon. This year, however, it was different. Maybe he was procrastinating wrapping the one box he usually puts all of my gifts in, the ones that don’t get wrapped for free at the local bookstore, or perhaps something in him stirred watching Will Ferrell in tights in “Elf” for the umpteenth time…whatever it was, I wasn’t going to question it. He decided to join me and it was much needed help – light at the end of the tunnel and I thought I’d finally go to bed on Christmas Eve long before the kids got up.

He looked boyishly handsome as he waded into the piles of gifts, but his countenance quickly grew grim almost stern. I could tell he was trying to estimate the amount of damage done on the credit card. But I had a plan for times such as this. Oh yes, I knew what I was doing - a playful tousle of the hair, a shy smile and passing squeeze of the hand, a quick shoulder rub – I was activating launch codes. Alpha! Tango! Rudolph! Foxtrot! Tired as I was, I stealth-fully sent out the message, either get a little nookie now or kill the mood until Easter with an argument over spending.

Hugging went to kissing to let’s just say "gettin’ it on" on the coffee table, which just hours before the kids had been making cookies for Santa out of play-doh. “Who’s your Santa?”my husband devilishly whispered as pushed my right leg up higher. “Ouch,” I thought, but it was a moment and I figured I’d go with it even if it wasn’t feeling quite right. “Who’s your Santa?” he asked again, pushing my leg higher. “Aghh, ride me, ride me like a reindeer,” I cried as a piercing, sharp pain shot up through my lower back. (Admittedly, now I cringe at this lame attempt at seasonal dirty talk...in the moment or not, "ride me like a reindeer," what was I thinking??? And ok, it's not quite the same as screaming "Oh Richie, fuck me like a cop, not a lawyer," like the divorce attorney instructed Russell Crowe's character in "American Gangster," please note that at the time I wasn't trying for bonus style points...) In the end, our holiday hijinx had been fun and fulfilling, but I was really hurting.

Afterward, as we laid there amid the strewn wrapping and packages, my husband looked at me and asked “Are you okay?”

“Yes," I said, "but, I think both you and the table did a number on my back.”

“Oh, sweetie, I’m so sorry,” he said then burst into hysterical laughter as I tried to get up. All he could do was point at my ass and giggle, “cat!”

"What the hell?" I thought as I stood up and twisted around to try to look at the right side of my ass….Then I saw the source of my pain. Three large magnetic letters were embedded in my backside, neatly spelling out “C-A-T.” (By the way, for those wondering, the letters are NOT included in the Intimate Surprises intro package at this time...) And when I gingerly picked them off, my husband howled again at the sight of what looked like a remedial tattoo and said, "At least the letters didn’t spell POOP!"

Moral of the story: Definitely think twice before getting busy in the playroom….and if you do, be careful not to donate anything that may or may not have been stuck to your ass …ho.ho.ho.

Obama Takes Off The Teflon & Bowls a Turkey

Has the media finally chipped away the smooth as silk image to unearth President Obama’s one true Achilles heel? Superman had Kryptonite. Bill Clinton had interns. George Washington had wooden teeth. Now, Obama has bowling.

Toward the end of his taped appearance with Jay Leno on “The Tonight Show,” Obama compared his bowling talents to the Special Olympics. It’s not really a stretch, considering how bad he sucks at bowling, but if I was a Special Olympics athlete, I’d be pretty damned pissed. Danny Duval, a Special Olympian from Missouri, bowled a 231 in the 2006 Games in Iowa -- that’s 200 points more than what the President scored almost a year ago while bowling on the campaign trail.  Mr. President, your bowling isn't like Special Olympics, but more akin to Laff-A-Lympics.

Making light of the physically and/or mentally challenged by comparing them to his remedial bowling abilities, marks a low point for the President’s first 59 days in the White House. Frankly, I think there is just one way to make the pending furor go away --  a bowl-off. Just like the “Thrilla in Manila,” the “Woweey at the White House Alley” will serve to entertain the nation and divert attention from the Sesame Street layoffs, the Snuggie, John Stewart’s feud with Jim Cramer, and Lindsay Lohan. Danny’s got your number, Mr. President…it’s just a matter of time before he packs up his “special” balls and hits the Beltway with one objective – to take you down.

What I loved was that in an attempt at damage control, the White House immediately issued the following statement: "The president made an off-hand remark making fun of his own bowling that was in no way intended to disparage the Special Olympics. He thinks the Special Olympics is a wonderful program that gives an opportunity for people with disabilities from around the world."  Really....I was actually disappointed that the White House, riding the wave from the confirmation of O'Bama's Irishness, didn't take this opportunity to say that his being "bowling challenged" is evidence of a physical disability....

The amazing thing about this entire scenario is the timeline – first cable news outlets leaked the comments from the live feed, then maniacal web outrage ensued and finally the White House statement - the remark was effectively wrapped in a neat little “swept under the rug” package, all before the show aired. Apparently Obama has Teflon-coated bowling shoes. Why did the White House have to issue a statement, anyway….hmmm…could this be “Bowling Gate?” Bryant Gumbel, I smell an HBO “Real Sports” expose in the works.

In a few days, I'm sure we will be able to look back on this blip with more clarity and appreciate it for what it is – it’s bowling for Christ’s sake! Bowling! And the ability to bowl isn’t really even a skill – it’s like eating with chopsticks or tying your shoes – if you don't practice enough, you ultimately look stupid trying. It is an activity that you can do while drinking beer, has obnoxiously large, heavy balls, is virtually impossible to look cool doing, has doublewide gutters, shoes that even Payless wouldn’t sell, and hell, was the backdrop for most plotlines of "Laverne and Shirley". 

So what if Barack Obama can’t bowl? Do we really want the leader of our nation to be an elite bowler? What does that say about us as a nation, anyway? And besides, the last truly avid White House bowler was Nixon…and we all know how well that administration went over.....

Lost Money Recently? Then, You’ve Been “Bernie-d”

Bernie Madoff jokes are less than a dime a dozen, no pun intended, and not really funny. Most of them start with “Bernie Madoff walked into a bar with a priest, a rabbi and a minister….and then walked out with all their money…” While I haven’t been able to uncover a truly laughable, G-rated one, I have become enthralled with the entire Madoff saga.

Today, Madoff’s lawyers will be back in court to appeal a federal judge’s ruling to have him await his June sentencing in jail. The attorneys will argue that Madoff be allowed stay under house arrest in relative comfort, quietly overlooking Central Park in his tony Park Avenue apartment. I didn’t realize that Chanel made ankle bracelets, did you?

I have become fascinated with the video footage and photos of Madoff that seem to run on the internet and on cable news channels in a continuous 24 hour loop (even more so than the stories about the damn wacko chimp that turned all Hannibal Lecter a few weeks back). He is somewhat of an enigma - part villain, part mastermind, part-raging egomanic - in his natty suits and silk ties or quilted country car coat, always topped off with a well-coiffed silvery mane of hair. Hair that has been groomed with the best hot oil treatments and jojoba shampoos that money, not his money, but money could buy. Hair, that makes all of Vice President Biden’s hair plugs envious enough to stand on end and salute. His expression is almost always the same, grim, but not rueful. If you look at the images long enough, you detect a faint, smirking, half-smile. If you look at the images and happen to be drunk, you may think you are looking at one of our Founding Fathers, oddly enough....

Sorrow, regret and remorse are not adjectives I would use to describe Mr. Madoff. Relief, pure and simple, is what I read; relief that the hoax that he knowingly started is finally over. And when you think about it, what does he really have to be remorseful for? His victims were duped for two simple reasons: he did not provide the proper amount of information regarding his investing methodologies and his victims didn’t ask. While the story seems Machiavellian under the current economic conditions, I am reminded of Robert Frost’s iconic poem, “The Road Not Taken.”

The life lesson that we need to take away from this sad story and pass on to our children, is to always travel on “the road not taken.” Teach your children to be their own person, to ask questions and demand answers. Teach them that it is okay to not follow the crowd and to trust their inner voice. Fill them up with enough encouragement and resolve to make their own choices. Empower them to choose their own fate and not have fate choose them, as the latter was the case with so many of Madoff’s victims. Kids today, more than ever, need to be better equipped to withstand peer pressure that will flow over from adolescent choices to adult choices and then ultimately, to family choices.

My heart goes out to victims like Holocaust survivor and Nobel Laureate, Elie Wiesel, who lost not only his own fortune, but $15 million from his foundation’s fortune. Many blindly trusted Bernie due to a shared religious heritage, but a crook is a crook regardless of religion. It makes you wonder if more people had stopped to kick the tires, would they have acted differently before freely handing over their bank accounts? We are all familiar with the first and last lines of Frost’s prose, “Two roads diverged in a yellow wood…I took the road less traveled by, And that has made all the difference.” Bernie did not take the road less traveled and neither did his victims.

O'Bama Go Bragh?

Even on St. Patrick’s Day, we can’t ALL really be Irish, can we?

Apparently, we can…recent published accounts claim that President Barack Obama has Irish roots. The tiny village of Moneygall, population just under 300, has laid claim to the title of ancestral home of President Barack Obama. Town officials claim that Obama’s great-great-great maternal grandfather lived there until he left Ireland for the United States at the age of 19. Apparently, this was 160 years ago, and the country that brought us “Waking Ned Devine,” claims to have uncovered “official looking” documentation to prove it.

While casting Barack in “Famine, The Musical” would be a bit of a stretch as only 1 percent of the current Irish population is black. It’s not that far-fetched that he is indeed Irish, because what isn’t he these days? Savior of the economy, beacon of hope for our nation, Norman Rockwell-esque family man, lover of Michelle and according to his Joint Congressional address possible curer of cancer…it was only a matter of time before the blarney was out of the bag regarding his Irish ancestry. After all, I tell my children that they are a melting pot; that their ancestors hail from Ireland, Cuba, Italy, Scotland, Russia, Germany and the Ukraine. (Of course, I am very, VERY quick to point out that the best part of them and majority of their heritage hails from the West Coast of Ireland, but that is beside the point.)

And who doesn’t want to be Irish? According to the last census, 34.5 million people in the U.S. claim they have Irish ancestry. This statistic is approximately 9 times the actual population of Ireland, (somewhere over 4 million). Perhaps this is a new kind of Chicago/Irish math, because the numbers don’t seem to jibe with the approximately 2 million Irish who immigrated to American during the height of the famine in the mid-1800’s. If the stats are true, than one thing is certain: the Irish are one horny, mother fucking lot (and clearly do not stay at the Holiday Inn Express!). They reproduced like rabbits, or like wire hangers in a coat closet….throw one in and 25 come out….but maybe it’s just the Catholic ones.

Yet, this great “mick” love affair was not always the case. Even if your only exposure to Irish history has been the be gosh and be goragh “Far and Away,” the Lucky Charms leprechaun or Colin Farrell, you know at various points in time nobody gave a shit about the Irish. But I must admit, that I’ve always loved my Irish heritage. I’ve never once woken up and wished to be Dutch, Swedish or even Japanese. There is no secret handshake, special way to order a pint or VIP access to “Riverdance.” I have tried to proudly teach my children about all the branches in our family tree, with special attention to the clan from County Mayo. No matter hard hard I try, however, my 8 year old son wants nothing of it.  For some reason, much to my chagrin, he is absolutely convinced that he is the only one in our family that is French.