Friday, March 11, 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!

The real 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.

Will as James.
 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 hit you with a coat hanger pimp, he just kinda took care of the transactions. I'm sure the interview is on Youtube or somewhere.

And I was all HUH?!

I used to think he just oozed failed actor, but it turns out he gave off the essence of smoooooooth pimp. I am now a huge fan.

And sure enough, another friend posted that he, too, had heard James Lipton was a pimp in Paris and so apparently this is old news that I never knew about but now I know and I just can't get over it so I'm sharing it with you because if James Lipton can be a pimp then YOU can be ANYTHING you put your mind to. The possibilities are endless.

Tuesday, March 8, 2011

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 of people?

V:  You wouldn't believe how cold I was.

Me:  I love you.

Monday, March 7, 2011

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 shook awake. I stared wide-eyed at V. "The kids are hungry."

Who the hell was this guy and why was he talking about children?

"Are you going to get up and make dinner?"

For the love. Now I remembered.

No. I'm dying. Make pork chops.

"I don't know how."

It says it right on the box.

He left me in peace. Twelve seconds later he returned.

"I don't understand it."

Read the box!

"I did. It says," (and this is where he lifted the box in front of him and read the instructions written on the box of Shake'n Bake, oblivious to the fact that I could give a rat's ass.) "....set the oven for 425 degrees, put the seasonings in the bag and then shake the pork chop in it."

That's all you do.

"Hold on. Let me turn the oven on first...." (and he ran out of the room to go turn the oven on so he could come back and harass me for just a little bit longer.) "Ok. The oven is set to 425. Now what?"

What does the box say?

"It says to put the seasonings in the bag; I get that, but how does it stick on the pork chops? Do I have to get it wet?"

Get. Dotter.   My voice is weak.


Get. Dotter.  I say again, gasping for breath.

"Dotter! Your mom wants you!"

The shy, little 9-year old peeks her head in the doorway. "Mom wants me? But she doesn't like to be bothered when she's sick."

Dotter. I'm dying. You must make the pork chops or the other children will starve. And so will Big V. Can you make the pork chops, honey? Can you fulfill your dying mother's wish?

"Sure. Is it Shake'n Bake? Because that's really easy."