Ick. Did you hear what Jessica Simpson said on Ellen the other day? No clue how they got on this subject, but apparently Simpson said she only brushes her teeth “maybe three times a week.” GROSSSSSS!!! It actually gives me goosebumps thinking about the nastiness of that. I couldn’t go 12 hours without brushing my teeth! Even if I ever felt too lazy to brush, after reading what all dental community has said about the perils of missing a brush (she’s really caused a backlash in oral hygiene!), I would never skip. In fact, it makes me want to buy a travel toothbrush for my purse — because you can never be too careful.
Apparently Jess doesn’t want to brush her teeth more than that several times per week because she doesn’t like them to “feel too slippery.” BARF BARF BARF. Um, note to you, Jess: Teeth SHOULD feel slippery! Not like sandpaper. I’m not kidding, as soon as I read about this, I immediately went into the bathroom and brushed, flossed, and used mouthwash. My teeth were slippery as hell and it was great. I even could have thanked my Sonicare system (probably the greatest toothbrush ever invented) because every time I brush it makes me feel like I just got back from the dentist.
The thing is, I really like Jessica Simpson, and am wondering — why in God’s name would she say something like this? Why do celebrities do this to themselves? It really makes me appreciate being a normal person!
“Thank you Larry King for making cougars seem like jailbait.”
“Thank you girls who wear jeans tucked into their boots for rocking a look that only seems appropriate on a German army base.”
“Thank you Kleenex lotion tissues for not telling anyone how you got the idea for combining Kleenex and lotion.”
Ah, the thank yous of Jimmy Fallon. I think it’s amazing that Jimmy is “writing” them week after week on his show. I put writing in quotation marks because I think he is just scribbling gibberish while he reads his thank yous aloud. But that’s okay! He is still bringing the art of sassy thank yous to a national television audience. It’s like when the milliners cry tears of joy because J-Lo and all the hipsters in Brooklyn are wearing fedoras. Jimmy Fallon is probably inspiring happy dances from calligraphers and stationary designers all over the world.
As you can see from some of his notes above, Jimmy likes to thank the sillies who inspire him daily. I really do think he is thankful to Larry King for promoting the art of cougar cheating and for Kleenex lotion tissues. Plus, his thank you notes are hilarious and genuine in one way or another. And with the amount he churns out, he’s got the makings of a very proper Southern belle!
Jimmy loves a creepy background visual while he thanks. I think perhaps Stacey and I should send him some more colorful stationary though. The classic ecru gets old so fast!
Oh six hours in stilettos to be screamed at in an Irish accent. Was it worth it? Tonight I went to the Atlantic Council’s star-studded awards. Both Bill Clinton and Bono were being honored so there was a packed house, a zillion politicos, and dozens of handlers who shoot flames at you if you look at their choice famous person the wrong way.
I was there filming for Washington Life television, which means I get to accost every recognizable person and try to get them to chat with me on camera. I tried to get Bono about 50 times. And while his handlers let me talk to the man with a lot of heart and bejeweled sunglasses, they wouldn’t let us film anything. Every time my camera guy would start, they would go insane, protest in their Irish accents, and wave four-leaf clovers. “Nooou, nooou, nooou!”
Luckily, Joe Scarborough and Mika Brzezinski were there and super duper nice. Joe talked to me on camera for a while and afterwards Mika and I gabbed about marathoning. She has a super slamming bod and definitely looks like she runs 100 miles a day. They were really normal and really really nice. While this is something I always appreciate in well-known people, I appreciate it even more when I am trying to get someone on camera.
So sadly, there will be no footage of me interviewing Bono, but I think my camera guy did get me begging his Irish entourage, which might be more entertaining. Nothing makes good reality TV like getting kicked to the curb. Bono, shmono. Thanks Morning Joe for not having scary handlers and being sweet as pie.
Joe Scarborough is so nice! I like famous people who don't have crazy Irish handlers.
The one thing I remember about being pregnant the last time, is that by the time my belly was big, I just felt like some gigantic gender neutral being toddling around. Like a huge mass of algae with a gut. Even though everyone said very nice things to me — except a few baggers at the grocery store that told me that looked I was “going to have enormous boy twins” — it still seemed like I was just a big ball of neuter. Yep, a big ball of neuter. That pretty much sums it up.
I know. It’s not rational – I mean, being pregnant is the one instance in life I should feel more feminine than ever before, but for some reason, I don’t. And this time around, though I’m just about three months pregnant, I already see my stomach beginning to resemble a snow globe. I don’t know what it is about my belly, but when it gets big like that, that old feeling comes back and I’m once again a bloated sexless entity. Like Barney.
Now, of course, I don’t really care about this too much, because having gone through pregnancy once before, I must say, the end result is SO worth it. Feeling like a fat sea sponge is a small price to pay for a perfect little baby, so trust me, I’m not that bothered. However, one’s vanity certainly takes a hit during pregnancy and in that respect, the only thing worse than feeling like an chubby eunuch, is feeling like an OLD chubby eunuch.
So when the cute little lady that washes my hair at the salon told me today that I didn’t look old enough to be having my second baby, I immediately loved her. Because when I said, “Oh, I’m 31″ and she snorted in disbelief, I felt like a young and shiny ball of neuter instead of an old crusty one with a forehead wrinkle and slight hints of crow’s feet. Yay.
We received the nicest letter at work yesterday from Mike Larosa and the folks at Bravo! Events by Design. Mike tells us that he has converted his office into Naked Thanks addicts! We are thrilled and so thankful for the wonderful, thoughtful note. You really made our day!
And while we are thanking awesome letter writers, we also received a response from Cathie Black, President of Hearst Magazines! Hand written and awfully nice. We are such fans!
Thanks everyone for the amazing notes. What an awesome way to end National Letter Writing Month!
The fabulous letter from Mike! Definitely the highlight of our day.
Ah, Iowa tests. I freaking loved those things as a kid. Most students got nervous to take them. I remember one kid always barfed in her pencil case on testing day and another who would pee by coat rack. Not me! I’d bounce out of bed and go tearing off to catch the bus to school when it was Iowa testing week. I don’t know what it was about having those two sharpened #2 pencils in my book bag — but I felt powerful. Even as a kid I knew I was a good standardized test taker — and who doesn’t like doing something their good at?
It’s funny though, because I’ve always been awful at math, horrible at languages, and borderline disabled in the sciences. I mean, I only passed high school biology because my friend Julie let me copy her lab book. Plus, common sense, um, well, that’s not my strong suit either. I think I flunked my driver’s ed course three times. So why I’m good at standardized tests? I don’t know. I actually think that I simply will myself to be, and therefore I am. But gotta love the Iowas, because for years, those puppies made me feel like I was a secret genius!
Even into my twenties, I still felt like my testing scores meant I was really really smart. I remember when I first married Grey, I definitely thought I was mentally superior. This was probably due to the fact that I scored higher than him on the SATs or something equally ridiculous. No more. Not only has he graduated from business school (I would have flunked out immediately), balanced our budget for years, (um, I can’t even properly work Excel), and served as my personal technology consultant (I honestly don’t know how to turn on our TV alone), but he also can do crafty things like change the brake pads on our car and rewire light fixtures. Last night, he even installed a new toilet in our bathroom!
Granted, sometimes Grey says things like, “Where are the vanilla envelopes?” and I laugh hysterically at his petty malapropisms, but I’m beginning to think a strong vocabulary does not a smart person make. Or a good score on something like the Iowas. And though I hope Ollie inherits my ability to shine on multiple choice tests and essay exams, I really hope he has his dad’s real world intelligence too!
Hell yeah! As a kid, Iowa testing week was better than watching Miss America, having Mexican pizza for lunch, playing kickball during gym, or prank calling the Principal.
On this day, Tuesday April 27th, 2010 AD, Peter of Peter Paul and Mary fame serenaded me in my boss’ kitchen. He also kissed my hands when they were in the prayer position and asked me if I attended summer camp. This all sounds a tad insane, so it might be easier if I give you a narrative:
SCENE: Sitting in CEO’s backyard talking about serious things and counting down the hours till 6 pm.
CEO: Puff the magic dragon
ME: Excuse me? (Here I was pretty sure he was covertly offering me pot).
CEO: Do you want to hear Puff the magic dragon?
ME: Err…(still pretty sure he is going to slip me some shwag).
CEO: Peter Yarrow from Peter, Paul, and Mary is in our kitchen. Do you think the editorial team wants him to sing Puff the magic dragon?
ME: Well…(I can pretty much see our exhausted editorial team not going for this feel good moment.)
CEO: How about you meet him?
ME: Okay!
This is when we enter the kitchen and Peter Yarrow is helping my CEO’s wife, who is also our Editor in Chief, cut up a roasted chicken and serve salad. That’s when my CEO suggests he sing to us all upstairs. Peter comes over to me, holds my hands that are folded in the prayer position, kisses them, then holds them individually and starts singing “Leaving on a jet plane,” while dancing back and forth with me. I of course start singing along, mentioning that his famous tune was our farewell song at my summer camp. While still singing, he asks if I still go to summer camp, to which I reply no, though I would absolutely love to trade in my job as a magazine journalist for professional creepy old camper.
Then of course, while Peter is twirling me around, my CEO and Editor in Chief chime in and I’m pretty sure their baby garbled something too. It was like the Newport Folk Festival 2010 had a love child with my workday.
Perhaps not everyone’s jobs include a serenade from a folk star. Mine don’t usually. But I must say, it made a boring old Tuesday a heck of a lot more interesting!
I have this on vinyl. Blowin’ in the wind still reminds me of being 14 and peeved that I couldn’t run around in bellbottoms in the mud because I came of age in the boring old ’90s rather than the flower power “clothing optional” era.
This is Peter today. He's a hell of a serenader, so if you're having a tough day, I recommend requesting a ditty. From what I could tell about his lunch plate, he likes chicken.
Tonight I saw a side of our fine American politicians that is seldom seen. The side that wears sparkly robes and crowns. Every year the Shakespeare Theatre here in DC puts on a show called Will on the Hill. It’s when normally straight-laced politicians don Shakespearean garb over their power suits and poke fun at our system of government and themselves. The mag where Stacey and I toil sponsored it this year, so I was able to watch the stars of CSPAN find their inner Hamlet.
I was actually in stitches for most of the play. I mean when Rep. Jesse Jackson Jr. tickled Rep. Jim McDermott and then McDermott protested in rhyme, I was on the floor. But no one got me guffawing like Dick Lugar. The man from Indiana was a one man comedy act. First, he let the whole congressional cast make fun of his “advanced age” and then he spoke Elizabethan english slow as molasses. Plus, he played the vice president and joked about going to bed at 7:30 and taking humanitarian missions to St. Barts. And then he laughed at himself whenever he did something funny. You could really tell he was having a cracker jack time up there on stage.
I think the best part of the night, besides slugging white wine and watching Congresswoman Shelley Berkley say “that’s how we roll in the Department of Agriculture,” was watching people with really serious jobs do something rather silly. And wear sparkly outfits.
Can you imagine this man wearing a floor length purple sparkly cape? Well, he did tonight and it was a thing of beauty. Senator Lugar, you look dashing in lavendar!
As part of our new plan to rent out our house, we’re doing things like getting the tub re-glazed, throwing on some new paint, and just spiffying the place up a bit. So we bought another toilet for the downstairs bathroom. And since today was rainy and gross outside, Ollie amused himself indoors by playing on the new potty. He even hugged it and told it “night night” when it was time for him to go to bed. Over the course of the day, the toilet had become like his new best friend.
So when he wakes up tomorrow and realizes there’s no longer a toilet bowl in our living room, I guarantee shit’s going to hit the fan (no pun intended). He already has a fascination with the “live” toilets in the house — I’ll find him splashing around in them at least once per day — but this is not a hobby I’m trying to encourage. So when he realizes he can’t play on, in, and around the pot all day, he’s going to be PISSED.
I guess we’ll just have to do something really fun to make up for the fact that his new buddy is now permanently bolted down in the bathroom and will never again be as clean as it was coming right out of the cardboard box we bought it in. I mean, the only reason I even let him play on it was because there was no spec of poo or pee anywhere on it since it was factory fresh. However, I’m beginning to wonder if letting hims stick his feet in the bowl and eat cheerios from the basin was sending the right message. Just in case, I better keep the doors to the bathrooms closed tomorrow….
Calling all gay couples, retired military bachelors, spinsters with no pets, and traveling salesmen! Since we hadn’t had any bites on our house, Grey and I finally decided to take it off the market and just rent it out until the market rebounds a bit more. As much as I wanted to unload this beeotch, keeping it and having a renter help us pay off the mortgage seems much more fiscally responsible than selling it for dirt cheap.
So now that it’s time to go dig up St. Joe and his severed head out of the yard, we also need to start hunting for a perfect tenant. Ideally, we’d like someone totally anal retentive about cleanliness and disgusted by keg parties, animal fur, and strong smelling food. Hoarders and and anyone with extremely wild and destructive children need not apply.
Even though finding someone to rent our house will be a certain amount of work, I’m just so happy the place finally doesn’t have to be show-ready 24/7. Keeping it clean all the time was getting SOOOOO old. I honestly felt I’d spontaneously burst into flames if I had to wipe down the counters and mop the floors one more time. Plumping the couch pillows yet again may have sent me into a fit of insanity. Making the bed made my brain hurt. Even flushing the toilet was starting to really piss me off. And yes, I know we’re going to have to clean it up before potential tenants do a walk through, but at least we can decide when they come through and we won’t be at some Realtor’s 15-minute mercy to show the place. YAY!
Well, I’m off to go bask in my own filth and throw some pork rinds on the floor and smear the walls with Crisco!
I thanked men in government in two days -- I'm feeling very DC-ish. Oh well...Yay, Ben!
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