Monthly Archives: February 2011

Things that make me go eeeeewwwweee…

As I may or may not have mentioned before, I am a total fatty.

Big fat fatty.

Okay, maybe it’s possible that while I am not anywhere close to slim, I’m also not anywhere close to the ginormous beast that I think I am. I’m overweight, but not obese (technically). I am also terribly fit. I lift and “jog” on the treadmill and haven’t done much Zumba since those dirty bastards at LA Fitness dropped the class, but  do have Zumba for Wii. Which, by the way, is quite fun but not the same as super cute Stacey the Zumba instructor and her step-tap routines to songs like “Single Ladies” and “Solo” and my personal favorite, “Sexy Chick.” I mean seriously, I have “Danza Kudro” on my MP3 player, and I don’t even know what language that is, let alone what it means. I think it’s Spanish, but I’m not even sure about that. It doesn’t help that he sings “Oy oy oy,” prompting me to think it could be Hebrew. Totally awesome Zumba dancing Hebrew! See, Zumba at home is not quite the same. But, I do work out quite a bit and I’m well aware that I need to better control my eating if I really want to drop the weight.

But those work outs come with a serious down side. And it’s the locker room.

For real, naked locker room wenches of the world, WHAT THE HELL?

This is my biggest issue with locker room nakedness: For whatever reason, women (and presumably, men) are under the impression that when they are in the locker room (or the more fashionably named “dressing room”) they are somehow magically transported to their own bedrooms. Walking around whilst naked nude, hands-up while blow drying hair swaying, stretch-marked boobies in the sauna, shower curtain ajar while pits are throughly cleaned, showing off that disastrous tattoo, bending over without proper undergarments — GROSS.

Here’s the thing: locker rooms are PUBLIC. Sure, they are segregated by gender. Sure, they are private in the sense that they are sectioned off from the rest of the gym. But they are still PUBLIC. Just like public bathrooms are public. Look, it even has he name PUBLIC in it. Perhaps it’s the closeness of the word public to pubic that distracts people. But when you remove your over-the-shoulder-boulder-holder and let those girls fly, here’s the thing: I CAN SEE YOUR BOOBS. And you know what? I DON’T WANT TO SEE YOUR BOOBS.

You know what I don’t want to see even more than I don’t want to see your boobs? Your pubic hair. Or your butt crack . Or any body part that might prompt grammar check to ask if you meant “Libya” or “Volvo.” I don’t want to see your junk!

What is up with this? What prompts these women to decide that heck, there’s no men around, so I might as well get naked? I mean, I understand being in your underwear. That’s pretty understandable as far as locker room standards. After all, you have to change your clothes sometimes and it’s clearly a bit more comfortable that if you have to show people yourself in your bra, those people are also women. But someone has GOT to explain to me the naked part. I mean, if the local grocery store had a “ladies only” day, would women suddenly start shopping all nude like? Is there no dress code at Curves or Women’s Workout World because they are women-only establishments, hence it’s boobs out 24/7? Was I doing something wrong all those years when I had female roommates and we WORE CLOTHES. I mean, like, every day, totally dressed, no matter how often the neighborhood teenagers told us we were fat lesbian whores (we were NOT fat, by the way).

Look, ladies, here’s the thing. If you toss your goods out, I’m going to stare at them. No because I’m one of the gays. But because they are RIGHT THERE. If you are shaking your little butt out in the open, I’m going to glance while thinking, “man, where does she SIT? She has no padding!” And if you are going to walk around showing off the patch of fur that God gave you (although he apparently forgot to give you the ability to use a razor), then you better believe I am going to glance at the goodies, if for no other reason than to hope you see me look at your vajayjay in horror and think to COVER IT UP.

Maybe I am looking at this all wrong. I mean, when I was 19, I decided to get a butterfly tattoo on my awesomely flat rock hard abs. And two pregnancies and 50 pounds later, that butterfly is a nearly indistinguishable moth. And let’s not forget, I’ve had two c-sections. Maybe I should be the one to start walking around with my kitty uncovered.

That will teach them.


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I’m strictly a female female

You said it, Peggy Lee.

I enjoy being a girl.

Confession time: I’ve noticed recently that there is a part of me that I like to hide and pull out only when convenient: my XX chromosome. For a woman who grew up a slight tomboy with three older sisters, moved around, Mary Tyler Moore-d my way in the big city (New Orleans, not Minneapolis), refused to call home (because that’s what independent women do!), became a single mother and was at one point convinced that I absolutely could raise a son without a husband… I sure do turn to the “oh jeeze, I’m just a little old girl, what do I know” act whenever I don’t really want to do something.

Take today for example. Ding-dong, someone is at my home. And it’s like, 2:30 and I want to walk over to get Hank from school and I am not interested in whatever anyone has. So I open the door and Comcast guy is standing there.

“Well hello, ma’am, I’m Comcast guy, and I’m just visiting homes today to see if blah bleee da blurb bleebity blah blah blah.”

Now, I’m thinking, go away. Unless your Comcast offer comes with $10,000 cash and guaranteed safe liposuction rear-and-belly reducer and the Lego Deathstar (because I am not spending a house payment on that toy, no matter how much the boys want it), forget it! Go. Away. Now. But for some reason, I — Marney — the woman who is never short of creative words to let people in on what she is thinking — cannot just say it.

“Oh, you know, my husband, he takes care of all that!” I say. I may have even twirled my hair when I did it. And you know what? It worked. Off Comcast went to the next house while I slipped on my sneakers and headed out the door.

I did the same thing last week with the people who wanted us to use their lawn service. “Oh, jeeze, I don’t know WHAT my husband would want.” And the guy at Sears trying to sell me a refrigerator, when all I was doing was looking because ours works just fine and dandy: “Well, I doubt my husband would let me even have a new fridge.” LET? I really said that! Then there was the time the guy at the gym tried to talk me into getting a personal trainer: “Oh, gosh, I don’t know if I can do that, my husband takes care of the bills.” Uh…. no he doesn’t. Jim doesn’t even know where the checkbook is, let alone how much money is in it or what bill is due when. The list of things I am perfectly capable of doing yet still rarely do include:

  • killing a spider
  • carrying something heavy
  • anything involving electronics
  • hanging a picture
  • painting
  • changing the furnace filter
  • being the driver on an extended trip
  • settle a hotel bill
  • anything involving automobile maintenance, including changing wiper blades, getting a new battery or picking out new tires
  • killing spiders (worth a second mention, because I really am not afraid of spiders)

Remember — I am absolutely CAPABLE of these things. And there was a time when I wouldn’t just say, sure I can do that, but rather, I would INSIST that I do it. I remember when I was younger, thinking, I don’t need a man! I can do this all myself. And you know what? I think I could. For God’s sake, I managed to kill roaches that were flying at me in New Orleans with my bare hands, but I scream “Jiiiiiimmmmmmmm!” when a tiny little house spider is on the wall. I don’t know, just something about having a husband who will also do these things is so….


I use my husband’s perceived dominant XY as an excuse to cling to the perception that XX is meek and cute and just a GIRL. I fear that the sisterhood might reject me for it. I mean, all those years and all those fights for equal rights, and I won’t kill a damn spider! When the truth of it is, I LIKE chivalry. I like having someone who opens my doors and kills those pesky spiders. And it works to my advantage, as well. I can do things like look at a new car or browse the aisles at the Home Depot for paint samples or light fixtures, and when someone approaches me I’m all sing-songy and “ooohhhhhh, I’m just getting ideas” and they leave me the hell alone! Who doesn’t love that?

It’s not one way, either. There are plenty of things Jim can do that he just doesn’t: laundry, making beds, cooking. But I actually like doing those things, too. There are plenty of times when he can pull out the “oh my wife makes that decision” card to get out of making a choice. And not too long ago, realizing that I did indeed have to have a toilet that flushed, I fixed the snapped stopper in the tank. Even though we all know that’s man’s work.

I think I am overall a fairly strong person. But when it comes to using what the good Lord gave you….

When I have a brand new hairdo
With my eyelashes all in curl,
I float as the clouds on air do,
I enjoy being a girl!


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I’m irritated!

I’m feeling a little like Peter Griffin these days, seeing as pretty much everything chaps my hide. It’s because I am cold. So ever freaking cold. There is no remedy for my cold.

My new cozy socks — worthless.

My snuggie — worthless.

Kicking the heat up a good ten degrees — worthless, except for making my husband’s eyes bulge out of his skull when he spots it. So kind of worth the comedy of that, but mostly worthless.

Snuggling up to my husband — worthless. It doesn’t matter that his farts are warm, they are still farts.

You know it’s way too damn cold when the forecast predicts a high of 27, and you can’t wait for that welcome warmth. Jim said that my complaining about the cold is no different than the people who complain about the heat in July, the people who make me insane. And you know what? He is totally wrong. It’s not the same. It’s just not.

Since I’ve been stuck inside shivering and downing coffee and leaving a Marney-size permanent imprint on the sofa, I have begun to get more and more irritated by the things that keep me company. Meaning, the people who visit me on my television set and the tiny electronic friends (fiends?) who live inside my laptop.

Here are the things that — due to this irritable cold — really chap my hide:

*Toilet paper commercials — There’s a new commercial on these days. It’s a bunch of women talking about how their toilet paper isn’t just supposed to get you clean, it has to KEEP you clean. And one of the women, raising up both her hands, declares, “It has to keep my hands clean!” Seriously, if you cannot wipe your own butt without getting actual dookie all over your hands, you are a moron. If you cannot wipe your ass without getting it on your fingers, you need lessons, not new toilet paper.

*Feminine hygiene commercials — Here’s another one. It’s three women. One of them turns away, ashamed, while the other two continue on with their conversation. Then the voiceover says something along the lines of “I had to learn the hard way about feminine odor.” WHAT THE HELL DOES THAT MEAN? Is she saying that here she was, having a little get-together with the girls, and suddenly they were like, “Hey Sandy, hate to tell you this, but you have a little crotch-rot going on” so Sandy turned away embarrassed. So she bought some special soap and now she’s no longer a social pariah? Because at the end of the commercial, the three women are enjoying each other’s company again. Dude…. GROSS GROSS GROSS. There’s a word for those women — skank. And they don’t have friends who politely tell them to wash their cooch. They have men who leave without paying. That’s how they know.

*SAG awards — These were on last week. And I was strangely compelled to watch. And was I ever mad, because the hardest working woman in show business was not honored even one little time. Her:

She is EVERYWHERE. Need those removable hooks for your holiday decorations? She’s got them. Need investment advice? SO DOES SHE. Carpets? Draperies? She’s your gal. Potting soil that feeds your plants for you? She’ll recommend it. For God’s sake, she’s the wife of the Whopper in the Burger King ads. Once she told me how awesome KY lubricants are for your love life. And she’s the official lady spokesperson for the Shakeweight.

Someone explain to me why this woman does not have a SAG award!

Her name is Erica Shaffer, by the way. And according to her resume, in addition to her acting chops, she can salsa dance and do a cockney accent and lists herself as an “expert” in teleprompter. So seriously, SAG, show this lady some love. She deserves a little statue too.

*Mark Zuckerberg — Two things dude: 1-Quit making “updates” and “changes” to Facebook. Stop it. Stop it now. 2-You are a multi-gizzilionaire. Do something about your hair. Head pubes are not now nor will they ever be in style. Fix it. So stop fixing Facebook, start fixing your hair. Got it?

*Media Matters & MSNBC — Look, I’m a good lefty liberal. I find Sarah Palin intolerable and GleN Beck moronic and Bill O’Reilly and Sean Hannity are shameful to the great Irish people. But ENOUGH already. Media Matters used to just be a media watchdog website, and they held everyone’s feet to the fire. They regularly tore down people like Chris Matthews and ABC News and EVERYONE who uttered something that could have been proven to be wrong or exaggerated. But now it’s just a crusade on why we should all hate Fox News. MSNBC regularly hosts Media Matters editors as their guests. It’s no different from Fox. It’s really not. It’s just the other side, and it’s just as unfair and unbalanced. When you stop reporting the news and start reporting on the other people who report the news, you’re not really a journalist anymore.

*Buffering — Jim thinks this belongs in the Tournament of Bad. He is right. I do not have the patience to wait for you to buffer. Just show me the damn videos.

*Paid programming — Please just play Law & Order. It’s too hard to wake up and dig the remote out from under my husband’s butt to flip the channel. And by that time I am fully awake and then I WANT a steam mop or an indestructible frying pan or those same hair extensions that all the stars are wearing. There’s 20 years of Law & Order episodes out there, and I really didn’t pay much attention during the years when they thought to make one of the detectives a woman or when the guy from Crime Story took over for poor dead Jerry Orbach. Play those episodes instead.


This morning, Hank said to me, “Mom, you are cranky.” And is he ever right. I am cranky. And cold. Too damn cold.

Please come spring. Because right now, old man winter really chaps my hide.


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