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Showing posts from March 6, 2011

If James Lipton can be a pimp, YOU can be ANYTHING!

Last night I happened upon a rerun of Saturday Night Live where Will Ferrell pretends he's James Lipton, the old dude from Inside the Actor's Studio and I died because (1) Will Ferrell is funny, and (2) James Lipton is funny - even though he doesn't try to be, you know?

And as I was dying Big V was all I don't get why that's funny and who is he pretending to be anyway? And I was all he's JAMES LIPTON!

But Big V had never heard of James Lipton because he's never heard of anyone who hasn't ever played in a professional sport; such is life with V. Still, I couldn't stop laughing.

 And then I posted a question on Facebook wondering whether or not James Lipton was on Twitter because I'd really like to follow a guy like James Lipton and a friend of mine responded:

Did you know he was a pimp? Not like a pretend pimp, but a real, actual pimp in Paris?
And I was all HUH?!

I saw an interview with him about it. It was so weird. He wasn't like a hi…

The surest way to recover from sickness is to work on your blackmail.

Big V succumbed to the plague which meant I could finally take advantage of that whole blackmail plan I've been busy devising in my spare time.

Me:  What the hell are you wearing?
V:  I had to go ref that tournament today ... I puked twice in the locker room between games.
Me: What the hell are you wearing?
V:  My head feels like it's going to explode; my body feels like someone ran over it with a truck.
Me: What the hell are you wearing?
V:  I keep getting light headed and dizzy; I think I'm dying.
Me: What the hell are you wearing?
V:  I'm so cold. I can't believe how cold I am.
Me: What the hell are you wearing?
V:  But I knew I had to ref and I didn't have any long sleeved white shirts, so I grabbed this one from your closet - I was so cold - and I asked if I could wear it while I reffed the games and they let me.
Me: Wait... so you wore my maternity turtleneck over your official ref uniform all day long while you reffed a basketball tournament in front of hundreds …

Let it be known I do not Shake'n Bake on my death bed.

How do I do sick? I crawl into the darkness of my room, zip myself into a sleeping bag before piling dozens of heavy blankets and down comforters over me, take a swig of NyQuil and sleep. I sleep and sleep and sleep until I need to pee and/or vomit at which time I will crawl into the bathroom before retreating to the quiet safety of my darkened room.

I like to be alone.

I like to be unbothered.

I like to maintain my NyQuil-induced drug haze in silent isolation.

Knowing I had to somehow care for my family despite having contracted the bubonic plague (it's the curse of Motherhood; I'm sure you know it all too well) I managed to pull a pack of pork chops out of the freezer and placed them next to a box of Shake'n Bake. They'd be thawed by the time Big V returned from work. The family would not starve. I am a good woman.

I took another heavy dose of NyQuil and jumped willingly into the crazy dreams the black licorice meds produced.

"Hey. Hey!" I was being shoo…