ManDaddy & daughter

ManDaddy, huh? Yes. At the risk of implying I’m taking a drastic shift in lifestyle toward playing sugar daddy to wide-eyed twinks or becoming the first gay WWE caricature, (there’s nothing wrong with either of those, I just wouldn’t be believable in those roles) ManDaddy is the perfect name for the title of my new role brought about by the arrival of my daughter. It both hints at the boys-will-be-boys rough-housing gone by that had to go back and grab some pine and wait for its turn at the plate and the inflated male bravado I will have to carry with me everywhere like a rabid pitbull to show any other males interested in my daughter on any level, that I am not a man to be trifled with.

But more than these things, it’s the name for the rare breed of father in Los Angeles. Between all the gluten-free nonsense, hyper awareness and kale-ingesting, arts-loving testicle havers, are there men in LA? Yes. We are here. And I’m using the Royal ‘we’ because we seem to be few and far between and if I do find MEN in Los Angeles who like MEN things, they boil over into more of the douche category and these things CAN BE MUTUALLY EXCLUSIVE! Just because I like sports doesn’t mean I’m a date-rapist. And just because I like beer doesn’t mean I’m looking for a fight. When I call myself ManDaddy, I don’t mean to say “I’M A MAN!! BICEPS! CARS! RAWRR!” but that I’m an actual man. I fix things sometimes and pretend I can or did when I can’t. I wear too much flannel, I’ve never considered saying no to fried things. I don’t divulge emotional information mostly because I can’t access it, I have so much hair on my body and don’t concern myself with grooming it to appear less manly, that seems like vandalism. And, I like sports and action movies and games that involve guns and music to get punched in the face to.

My wife is The Vegan and we’re a fun pair, partly because we’re sort of an odd pair. You’d think she’d be married to a sensitive, earthy, politically active, Prius driving yogi. Nope, she married a dude. And, as an actor, I don’t find a lot in common with my fellow thespians. Did you see the Kings game last night? Do you want to go to this show where we try to knock each other on the floor? And “do you want to do something dumb or go break something”? Seem to fall on deaf ears when asked of an evolved human being, such as the typical Los Angeles actor.

And this half-masculinity seems to be getting more and more prevalent in 2013. Now don’t get me wrong, some of these dudes are my best friends in town and we do have things in common we like, but I bet if I lived in Brando’s day we really would have had some wild times, wait…he was bisexual-see, this is what I’m talking about.

Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, my daughter. Now having wanted to have kids for as long as I could remember, I aspired to having a son. Not instead of or only, but having a son was the first thought I had about having kids and any thoughts that followed pertaining to having a girl were only scary and didn’t involve baseball or martial arts or any fun boy things. Not because girls can’t do those but…whatever…its not what I thought of. I thought of the calamitous prospect of having a daughter. What if a boy is mean to her or tries to take advantage of her? What if it embarrasses her that I disfigure that boy and go to jail? What if I can’t disfigure that boy and he takes advantage of me? So many hairy what ifs.

But my wife didn’t want to know what we were having. She wanted this more than I wanted to know so that was what was happening, we were going to be surprised. Sort of surprised. We knew it’d be a baby and Irish and have a melon for a head. But aside from that, submitting to the unknown eliminated a lot of the over analytical guesswork of preparing for one type of baby or another. If he’s a boy, how much do I let him cry before I feel weird, when do I teach him to fight, how soon is too soon to tell him how to overcome being socially awkward when talking to a girl by feigning misunderstood genius? All those things. Or, if it’s a girl, where is the gun store, are chastity belts real and can I buy them on Amazon, how much would Liam Neeson charge to be my personal trainer? All these things. But I was left free to get lost in the joy of a person joining our family.

Now that having a daughter has happened. Its very real and I know its meant to be this way, at 10 weeks of age, here’s what I know:

-Any differing parental philosophies my wife and I share look much smaller now that she’s a girl. My wife’s a girl, I figure she’s got her ear to the ground on female things, who am I to say its better to raise a girl this way when I ‘m so ungirly as I’ve mentioned in grave detail?

-I want her to be a musical prodigy. I wanted this for a son too but it seems even cooler now that I have a daughter for some reason. I love Heart. I love Stevie Nicks. I’m all for my daughter being cooler than kids her age for many reasons, why wouldn’t being a guitar virtuoso be one of them? She has to play guitar because it obscures the midriff. And if she could play some other instruments to obscure other uncomfortable parts for me of her body, that’d be great too. One-woman band!

-She won’t take shit from anyone. Not if she’s like her mother and that means I married the right woman. While we were dating there was a time when I made some shit errors, some more egregious than others but it was made clear she didn’t stand for that shit and refused to be treated that way and would tell me in graphic specifics the kind of shit she wouldn’t take and what would happen to the person trying to make her take said shit in various scenarios. She’s terrifying, she’s like Joe Pesci in Goodfellas. If you’re a woman that refuses to be mistreated and doesn’t let people walk all over you, you’re not a bitch you’re a person with self-respect. And that shit is attractive! My daughter will never not know what to say to a boy who wronged her or a friend that was mean to her. Her mother and I (who also doesn’t like to take shit from people, especially on the road) will let people know when they’re fucking up and she’ll be the one calling people out on their bullshit for herself or just standing up for a friend. She’s gonna rule the goddamn world.

-It’s getting better. My daughter came into the world right in maybe the middle of Tina Fey and Amy Poehler’s celebrity, she could see a woman president very soon. She could BE a woman president. No, she could be THE president and it wouldn’t be a big deal at all that she was a woman. She’s not fighting for women’s suffrage or begging to go have the opportunity to be educated. Maybe she’ll grow up to be the amazing kind of woman that helps women in places where they’re not allowed to be amazing.

-I’ll never negotiate the deal for her sex tape. And in that way, I’m already ahead of some fathers today.

-I’m an idiot and she knows! From the moment she was born, I feel this weird wisdom and superiority in her that makes me read into how she looks at me sometimes. And in case you had the thought, yep, that’s where I’m at. I read into looks my 2 month old baby gives me. I’m still in every sense the father and I come to her to soothe her and change her and play with her so my wife can take a one and a half minute shower. But I’m also the guy who’s new to her and she looks at me like WHAT ARE YOU DOING? WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU? And I can tell that’s never going to go away and I almost prefer it that way. Baby cool, man.

-This child’s smartassery will put Bill Murray’s to shame. I’m a comedian. Her mother is a comedian. Our friends are comedians. Our work is comedy. Its everything we are. We’re snobs about it, like we’re shitty about it sometimes. We secretly and shittily make fun of what makes ‘normal’ people laugh in social situations. She’ll never be interested in a Tyler Perry movie. We will have problems dealing with her biting wit with authority figures. She will be too smart for her own good. She will be charming and engaging but she will also be blunt and quick. Its terrifying. For a long time, I said I didn’t want to date funny girls. Not even comedians, just girls who were funny. Because they are no walk in the park to fight with because as funny people, they know how to sting , they know what to say to cut you open. All your repressed failure pressure points. And women are hard enough to fight with, add biting wit on top of it and it’s a great recipe for a frustrated caveman tantrum. Not only did I marry a funny girl, I married a comedienne and the funniest one I’ve ever met. I really stepped off the deep end. Its like I went to the auto lot not wanting to buy a car that was dangerous and I rode home terrified on the world’s fastest crotch rocket. Not wise. Then I procreated with that woman and made someone with just as much wit and sarcasm from my wife PLUS ME. I’m so fucked.

- Speaking of crotch rockets. Goldie will never be on a motorcycle. Some of my buddies have motorcycles and uh, yeah…she’s not allowed on a motorcycle.

-Meeting first dates will play out more like the The Most Dangerous Game.

-She’ll be well read. Her mom amassed a public library before we met. All those books often get in the way of all of my dumb man shit.

-My wife is a fucking superhero. Seriously. I was in the room. For 3 days. And after it I watched her heal herself like fucking Wolverine. And needless to say I’m even more terrified of her than I was before.

-I make cute babies.

Goldie Jeanne Truesdale

-I’m a good father.

-I also accidentally hit her head on a clothing rack trying to smell if she needed a change. She cried, I felt terrible.

-I’m not perfect.

-I’m a man.

Follow Mike on Twitter @MikeTruesdale

Are you a good bitch or a bad bitch? – Glinda, each day to her mirror

It is critical that all good bitches conduct a daily self-check for personality malignancies.  Start with the essential question:  good bitch?  Good to go.  Bad bitch?  Hate to burst your bitch bubble, but it’s time to reboot. Equally important, the good bitch needs to ward off bad bitch toxicity by staying in top fighting form. Here is a modest little bad bitch v. good bitch list to help you figure it all out:

Regarding heart: the bad bitch doesn’t realize you can get away with s#*t for brains, but you can’t have s$@t for a heart.
On wit: the bad bitch doesn’t understand you can snark away about your GF’s, but this must always spring from a smile.

Mean Girls

On aging: the bad bitch never outgrew being a mean girl.  If she was a mean girl in high school, chances are dangerously high that she is still a mean girl (even if “girl” is a bit of a stretch).  She should cease and desist if for no other reason than cosmetic: all that meanness will cause her to wither on the vine.
On being a friend: the bad bitch is incapable of supporting the women in her life.  She is a remorseless underminer who is clearly up to no good.  The good bitch instinctively knows that women are your very rock and foundation–with women you rock.
On substance: the bad bitch thinks she is the bee’s knees, but hasn’t learned that it’s above the knees and what’s inside the hive that counts.

On self-preservation: the bad bitch has a sumo-like drive to crush and squash.  She derives gleeful pleasure from this.  The good bitch must steel her pretty little self (frequently repeat the phrase: “pretty little self”) to withstand attack.  Kiai!!!!!!
On love: a bad bitch throws around the word “love” like a litterbug.  When she tosses it she does so either as a) a subversive tactic, or b) because she truly cannot grasp its meaning, but thinks wielding it casts her in a flattering light.
On core strength: a bad bitch has cruel streaks wider and more numerous than the highlights in her hair.  Emotional Spanx (think snappy thoughts like, “See ya, don’t have to be ya!”) are the good bitch’s chief form of protection.

Kim Kardashian and her booty

On an inflated sense of self: the bad bitch has a superiority complex as broad as her ass.  The good bitch knows that humor arises only from the acceptance and celebration of inferiority.
On imperfection: the bad bitch thinks that her version of perfect is the benchmark.  The good bitch accepts that her GF’s are perfectly imperfect.  As Voltaire said, “The Perfect is the enemy of the good,” or the good enough, or the mediocre, where most of us find ourselves.
On a clear conscience: the bad bitch is a back-stabber and a heart-stabber.  The good bitch is up front with her parries, feints, and thrusts and only uses a bouncy prop knife.
On random thoughts: I’ve always liked this quote: “Awake.  Love.  Think.  Speak.  Be walking trees.  Be talking beasts.  Be divine waters.”  (C.S. Lewis)  The good bitch should do more of that.  Just not on Hollywood Boulevard.

Human Chess

On joie de vivre: life is like a very long board game.  It should be a game, however, and therefore must be playful and fun.  The bad bitch sucks all the fun out of just about everything and never, ever sees the end game.  Yahtzee!  Oops, not a board game.  Check and mate!
On liquid refreshment: the bad bitch likes to surround herself with other bad bitches and bathe in bad juju.   The good bitch loves to sip the nectar of good life, good company, and good alcohol.   Remember, it is the company and the liquor cabinet you keep that sustain you.

On what came first: When my daughter The Bitch–who happens to be a very good bitch–was a little girl, there was a chicken coop at her preschool.  She and her GF named a hen Pecker because she pecked all the other hens.  Remember to ask yourself, whenever you feel the urge to scratch that bad bitch itch and cross over to the dark side, if you really want to be Pecker.

The only good motherclucker I know: Gourdough’s Austin glazed donut topped with fried chicken topped with honey butter.

A bad bitch playlist:
Evil Woman (Larry Weiss or the covers by The Troggs or Canned Heat)
Evil Woman Blues (John Mayall, Peter Green, and the Bluesbreakers)
Season of the Witch (Donovan)
Heartless (Kanye West)
Big Bottom (Spinal Tap)
Hell on Heels (Pistol Annies)

A BAD BITCH QUICK CHECK

If you agree with any of the following statements, please consider a heart transplant:

You believe backs are made for climbing over.
You suspect everyone is in your sexual thrall.
You have an inner smile knowing your BFF is a hot mess.
You named both a pet and a body part after your nemesis.

You feel it is your mission to inspire others through the beauty of those selfies you snap and visually assault people with online (several times a day).
You bask in the fact that you are at least half goddess; but, you don’t care whether it’s your top or bottom half.
You think your bulimia projectile may be marketable.
You believe most people are eyesores.
You would gladly eat your inner circle at the first sign of an apocalypse, because they would want you to.
It’s a difficult responsibility, but sometimes (mostly) you have to hurt people with your honesty.
You treat your “friends” and dear hubby as minions and everyone else as creatures.
You think all your exes pine for you as ‘the one that got away.’ You have never once considered that they think, Oh boy, I sure dodged a bullet.

You are convinced beholders view your daughter as your sister and your BFF as your mother.
You think that when people cringe from you they are showing respect.
You fantasize about the glamorous places you would run off to with your BFF’s husband and the priceless expression on her face.
When asked, “If you were an animal what would you be?” the first two animals that come to mind are jackal and snake.
You don’t see significant differences between love and disdain and kindness and weakness.

You can’t help thinking you deserve a Beammer or a Bentley for your b’day.
You would rather have your heart be three sizes too small than your diamond.  Duh.
You give award-worthy performances pretending to like people until you have made up your mind about their usefulness.
As life of the party, you love to make a grand entrance then find the most central seat, even if it means inserting your ass where others are already planted.

You don’t think your plastic surgery makes you look somewhat alarmed.
Your hilarious sense of humor is limited to your own jokes.
You have conflicted feelings about world affairs: you sense you are supposed to feel something other than annoyance and inconvenience.
“Tacky” is your fave adjective for anything not yours.
You are a giver who gives until you are sure people aren’t looking.
You believe your GF’s always think wow at your utterances and never spare me.

You think that if you went to hell you would make it fun and all the angels would want to be there, too.

*Today’s Guest Bitch blog comes from my very own boyfriend, Tony Cavalero!*

Hey Dudes and Dudettes,

I’m popping my Bitch Humor cherry here, so I’m totally stoked but also a wee bit nervous… Bear with me, because we all know that I’m really just a dumb jock. But judge lest you not be judged by Sly Stallone, because he is the law:

I hope you enjoy… But first, lemme give you some backstory:

My mom and dad are both notorious exaggerators. My mom tells everyone that she’s best friends with a ghost and my dad tells everyone that Mark Hamill was his understudy in Camelot back in high school. But, I’ve seen the ghost of Mrs. Wilson too, and Mark did understud my dad (although he has yet to return one of my dad’s calls…) So, exaggerators? Or amazing truth-tellers? I follow in their footsteps with this tale:

(My point is, this story is as close to the actual events as my brain remembers.)

The year was 1998,

*SFX: Play Track – late 90’s compilation (Limp Bizkit, No Doubt, Master P, Puff Daddy, Third Eye Blind) while you read this

I was 13-year old freshman in high school; my brother Nick was a senior, captain of the football/winter track/lacrosse teams and a total STUD. He gave me pretty big shoes to fill – but that wasn’t too much of an issue, because I was 5’6’’ and weighed 215 lbs.  That’s right, there’s a reason I’m such a dickhead today: I was a total porker.

My weekly routine consisted of my brother introducing me to the beautiful senior girls like Pauline and Sarah with: “This is my little brother Tony. He weighs 215 pounds, and he does the best Chris Farley impression ever, which he’ll show you right now.” So then, of course, I’d have to do it. Like any solid performer, I’d commit 100%: “‘Oh, my pretty little pet, I love you. So, I stroke it, and I pet it, and I massage it. Hehe, I love it, I love my little naughty pet, you’re naughty! And then I take my naughty pet and I go (*tears dinner roll apart*) chhhhhhhh, chhhhhhhhh, OOOOHHHHHHH. I KILLED IT! I KILLED MY SALE! That’s when I blow it. That’s when people like us have got to forge ahead, Helen. Am I right?’” I was really fucking good at that impression, but needless to say it didn’t help me in the lady department.

And just an FYI, the impression doesn’t work as well now with my diamond-cut, shredded good looks; but anyways, that sets the picture for where I was at in that stage of my life.

One cool thing about being a chubby kid was that I could stand on a field and take up space… So I did! My fatness and leadership skills combined and next thing ya know, I was a captain of the freshman football team.  That’s right, starting center right in front of Mark Armentrout, that star quarterback. We ended up being a really good little team of idiots and somehow ended up being 6-1 with one game left to go. That last game of the season we play our arch-rivals, the Robinson Rams, at their house.  We won in epic fashion, 13-7, where Kahl Lombardi ran in a 60-yard touchdown with just minutes left.  It was a pretty amazing accomplishment for little fat Tony. And my Mommy’s way of congratulating me was by getting me whatever I wanted to eat after the game.

In perfect ‘husky’ fashion, I chose the fine dining restaurant McDonald’s, where they had just launched their SUPER SIZED promotion, lucky for me! So I proceeded to order super sized fries, a super sized strawberry milkshake, and a 20 piece Chicken McNuggets. Oh, those nuggets are tasty dipped in that milkshake…

However, I had to scarf down that meal in my mom’s station wagon because I was headed straight out to camp Sky Meadows for the fall Boy Scout ‘Camporee.’  I was very active in the scouts (Eagle Scout looked SICK on my college apps, btw). So, I laughed and chomped all the way to camp. Once I got there, my dad and all my buds happily greeted me. “Bye mom!” I exclaimed with little knowledge of the torture that would follow.

Shortly thereafter, my entire body started to became unhinged. It was like WrestleMania in my stomach. Within two hours I had already ruined three pairs of undergarments. That’s right, I crapped my pants. Many, many times. I was now borrowing pairs from my brother, who wasted no time in making fun of me. The word spread to all the scouts in my troop and everyone was teasing me, even the kid nicknamed ‘X-Files.’  I spent three hours sitting on an outhouse toilet seat, trying not to slip off from all the sweat.

After burning through six pairs of undies, I resorted to going commando in my teeny tiny scout shorts. I couldn’t believe that I was at an event for teenage boys and there was no Pepto Biz or Imodium AD within a 30-mile radius to stop me up. At the end of the day, I was 20 lbs lighter and dying for the madness to end.

Meanwhile, in the evening, all the leaders have a get-together called a ‘Cracker Barrel,’ where they have cheese and crackers. My dad had the brilliant idea to snag me a brick of cheese, tracked me down in the shitter, and said, “Here ya go bub, this’ll do the trick.’ I scarfed down that entire block of cheese… and low and behold, it worked! No more McPoopy.

I know this story is nasty, but whatever, sometimes life gets nasty. Moral of the story? Don’t slam down twenty nuggs, super sized fries, and a super sized shake. Or is there a deeper message? No, definitely not.

P.S. I wrestled the next year of high school and lost all that baby weight. However, I never got past my awkwardness with girls. Still have no idea how I ended up with this bitch. Boy am I lucky! Let’s just hope she never has to endure an episode like that frightful day back in ’98.

TONY CAVALERO

ABOUT THE GUEST BITCH:
Tony is totally awesome, but mainly because of his hilarious family and friends. He is an Eagle Scout, a Black Belt, and a proud graduate of the Virginia Military Institute. Tony is a member of the Groundlings Main Company and has performed in the Montreal Just For Laughs comedy festival–you can check him out on his zany YouTube page. Tony is also a founding member of the longform improvisational group Robert Downey Jr. Jr., whose monthly SaturdaySaturday shows are an LA Time’s Top Pick. Some of his credits include Warner Brothers’ AIM HIGH 2 and Robin Banks The Bank Roberts.

By Aysha Wax

As I glanced through Facebook last night after the Golden Globes, I noticed a lot of hateful people. What were they so mad about?  A movie that was robbed? A wardrobe malfunction? No, everyone was pissed off at Anne Hathaway. And let me be clear, they weren’t mad that she won the Golden Globe, (because everyone knows she is the Rawest Fantine in Les Mis) but they were annoyed at her presence at the awards show.

I take offense to this because as controversial as this is… I like Anne Hathaway. I know that it’s because people have told me that I look like her from the time, when I was in college. I have always felt like I needed to defend her horsey smile, because in turn I was defending mine. (Although, in truth I have the tiniest teeth. I would kill for a horse face!) I thought she was a good actress who worked hard and I absolutely love The Princess Diaries.

And Hollywood loves Anne Hathaway. I mean, if you get to be in a movie with Meryl Streep then they obviously like you. Also, speaking of The Devil Wears Prada, how awesome is her clothing montage where she looks elegant in about fifteen different outfits? Super awesome!  It is the montage that my New York fashion dreams are made of.

But something happened as Anne Hathaway made her ascension from Disney Princess to A-List Star.  She was trying way too hard!  Anne Hathaway wasn’t just a musical theater nerd she was THE musical theater nerd. Constantly, rubbing it in everyone’s face how much she liked things from SNL to Hugh Jackman. But let’s remember that this kind of intense attitude is what got her to where she is. This girl doesn’t do things half assed. Annie loves things and is that such a bad thing?  I know that Patton Oswalt is equally as passionate about Downton Abbey and nobody seems to be upset at him.

And I get it… her earnest, self-effacingness seems fake and put on.  Anne, just take a compliment. I saw her on The Daily Show the other night and as Jon Stewart lauded Miss Hathaway with compliments she could never quite take any of it in. So annoying.  Also, she just seems affected and fakey nice. But you know what, I would rather my starlets be kind than a complete bitch. I feel like our tabloid media cycle really values the bitchy, nonchalant, actresses like Jennifer Lawrence, Jennifer Lopez, and Jennifer Aniston. Basically, all the Jennifers. But, why can’t a powerful woman be sweet and nice?

I think all of this Hathaway Hate really crescendoed at the 2010 Oscars that she hosted with James Franco. Anne worked for three hours to keep that show afloat. She pushed, which she often does when she’s nervous.  But what would you do? James Franco gave up after ten minutes. I would have freaked out, too.

And the last thing I will say is that we all know she’s a great actress, so why can’t we divorce ourselves from what she’s like in real life? If you have seen Rachel Getting Married or Les Miserables you cannot deny that Anne Hathaway has talent. And even if you can’t stand her in real life, why does that have to influence how you feel about her onscreen?  Hollywood is full of assholes. I have served, interacted, or seen many actors act incredibly unsavory. One famous actress yelled at me for a half hour about a misplaced napkin, but I can still enjoy her onscreen.  You know why? Because when you are an actor you are playing a part. That is not who you are.  And I will say that the more successful actors/actresses I have met are the nicer ones. No one wants to deal with a crazy bitch all the time. (Case in Point: Lindsay Lohan).

So, I am fine with being unpopular by enjoying Anne Hathaway. She is my fellow brunette, big eyed, doppleganger and I will defend her no matter how rude it is when she thanks her agent during someone else’s speech.

Aysha Wax is a founding member of sketch troupe The Associates of Awesome and improv group Mission Improvable. Get to know her more intimately on her YouTube page, and follow her on Twitter @AyshaWax

Some Truly Wonderful Advice I (Freely) Gave the Bitch This Past Year Most of Which She Unwisely Chose to Ignore

Why don’t you check out my favorite flash sale website?  Don’t blame me for your twitchy-fingered impulse control and now bootie-ridden closet.

Why don’t you try that cool fro’ yo’ place Menchie’s?  One small reminder: their slogan is “happiness in every cup,” not gallon.

Why don’t you dye your hair red?  Amy Adams, Emma Stone, various commercial icons, my golden retriever.  People will want to pat you on the head.  Plus, it goes really well with pale.

Why don’t you just adapt a book into a screenplay and win an Oscar like Jim Rash and Nat Faxon or Emma Thompson, or, I’m sure there are others?  Bingo.  Done.

Why don’t you produce and also cast me in my terrifying new screenplay “SGARY?”  (If you are too terrified, I can do a second draft.)  Hey, I’d like to go to Sundance, too.

Why don’t we go and see “Les Miserables?”  Movie lessons: you can never be too smug about your vocalizing techniques or your pores.

Why doesn’t your Herculean bf (who coincidentally does spot-on Eddie Redmayne and Russell Crowe imitations) become a UFC or World Wrestler Guy in his spare time?  It might be fun and he’s super-quick on his feet.

Why doesn’t your bf also take up polo?  If the cage match is not to his liking, he can always have a string of ponies because we like animals.

Why don’t you join Soul Cycle? (See #2 above.)  I think it combines exercise and  church. Salvation is only a short pedal and significant dinero away.

Why don’t you start your own business?  I don’t know why you think you can’t raise alpacas in H’wood.  I think I saw a miniature one the other day near Chateau Marmont.  Nothing cuter.  And, don’t ever sell yourself short.

Of course I love and accept you the way you are, wearing your booties and your frozen yogurt; but, wouldn’t it be fun to jazz everything up with a little red, while wielding your statuettes for writing and producing, unable to erase an entire musical from your psyche, with a brawny-battling-galloping-tuneful boy with most of his teeth, while saving your soul/ass, and joining the local Chamber?  2013 does not have to be dull.

13 year old me. What a perv.

A few years ago, my childhood bestie returned the below letter, penned by yours truly at the age of 13. I don’t remember being as sex-crazed as I obviously was, though I did engage in evening phone trysts with a boy in my 8^th grade class by simply moaning into the receiver, hoping that he would do the same in return. He did – and I liked it.

The sad part is is that I knew nothing about sex – I just imagined it to be really, really hot and romantic and full of orgasms. I now know better, unfortunately. Perhaps I will take a “lova” who will fulfill my wildest fantasies, or at the very least, take me to dinner and offer to pay. Enjoy. xxx

February 21, 1998

Dear Anabel,

I wrote you this letter to tell you that I am really happy that we’re best friends again. I missed not being friends with you a lot. You’re a really great person, Annie, and I hope we remain as close as we are for the rest of our lives, or however long we’re able to.

I majorly can not believe what an awesome convo we had last night, when we spent 2 hours on the phone together. That was like the best time or conversation that I’ve had in a long time. Ohhh my God!! I am like getting so majorly obsessed over Matt. He is sooo everything, just like Jake. Jake is so fine. His body is like the best. Cathy is sooo lucky.

Anyway back to Matt. His hands are like so strong, muscular, and best of all – big! I love the way that he smells, he smells sooo good! Ohhh my God, here I go again! I’d give anything just to be with him for just one night! I’d do anything with him, except sex because we’re way too young, plus an STD is definitely not what I need right now!!!

I can just picture it now…

Place: My house, preferably my steaming hot tub.

Who: Me, like 50 pounds lighter in a black string bikini. Ha. Yeah right!!!

Matt: Black thong. Either that or his birthday suit. Oh baby!!!

Anyway, there’s soft, sexy music playing in the background (preferably *BSB!)

The hot tub is so steamy and Matt’s in it, completely naked! Ahh!!! The lights are dimmed down to the point where it’s almost dark but you can still see Matt’s sexy…everything!

I walk into the room, hopefully looking half way decent in a black string bikini, carrying a single rose. I get into the hot tub and hand the rose to Matt. He starts to rub the rose down my chest and along my neckline. (Oh, by the way, at this point I’m on top of him in a straddled position!) I can feel his large, hard dick against me and it feels absolutely wonderful!

He slowly unties my bikini top and throws it to the floor beside the hot tub. His big muscular hands explore my breasts and I moan softly due to his perfect touch. We begin to kiss on the lips as he does this, and the taste of his sweet lips against mine is absolutely dreamy. He begins to move his hands around my waist and slowly down to between my legs. His strong fingers explore me down there too, as I lean back and moan loudly. Matt’s breathing really hard too, because he’s enjoying this sexual experience just as much as I am. I reach orgasm and I smile sweetly at Matt and kiss him gently on the lips.

We then get out of the hot tub and Matt wraps my body in one large towel along with his and kisses my neck. We then leave that room and go upstairs into the shower. We shower together for a long time because we still can’t keep our hands off each other.

We get out and Matt takes the courtesy of drying off my entire body with his tongue. I do the same to him, but stay in one particular area for a while, if you know what I mean.

We later make our way into my newly remodeled bedroom (exactly like yours!) where it smells like burning vanilla candles that have just been lit. We crawl under the covers and he wraps his strong arm around me. We fall asleep for a few hours, but I can’t sleep well, because I can’t believe how romantic the day and night had been with him.

When he wakes up, I feed him fresh chocolate-covered strawberries. He enjoys this too, but both of us would still like to be touched some more by each other. Since no one else is around at all, Matt and I venture outside to my swing. He gets on the swing first and I spider him (again). All of a sudden, there is a big gust of air and the swing goes high into the sky. We keep it in the air by humping each other, very, very hard.

We slow down after what seems like eternity and slowly walk onto the golf course. We play a very sexual game of hide and go seek, and I surprise him behind a tree with a very slow, romantic kiss. It begins to rain and we wrap our arms around each other as we continue to kiss passionately. We lie down on the wet grass and make love for hours.

Later on, we go back to my house to watch old romantic movies. He feeds me popcorn as we lay close on my sofa under blankets.

Due to the fact that Matt and I are both really tired, he decides to go home. Before he does, he holds me close and tells me that he loves me more than anything else in the world, next to his family. He embraces me in the most beautiful kiss ever and walks to his car. He drives away, blowing me kisses out the window. I realize that he is and forever will be my one true love.

Isn’t that or wouldn’t that be your best reality ever? I wish that one day happens between me and Matt and I, but who knows, maybe you’ll snag him before I do, Annie! I can’t get over how much I really do like him!

Love,

Jeanie

P.S. Sorry I didn’t write more, Annie, but it took me about 3 ½ hours to do what I did, plus about 2 ½ hours of daydreaming about Matt.

*The Backstreet Boys

A Storybook Marriage?  Nope, not at all.  What [insert husband’s first and last names here—always refer to husband by full name] and I have is a realllllllllllll marriage!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! –Ann R., Tampa, August, 2012

My daughter The Bitch asked for my tips on marriage after reaching the 30-year weather mark.  Apparently I am now an expert/grizzled survivor.  So here goes.  Will she listen?  Does she ever listen…..

Know what’s in store:  flat bellies will be subsumed by flat-ulence.

Two heads are better than one.  And by heads I, of course, mean bathrooms. (See above.)

It is better to be right than be happy.  That creed has always worked for me.  Right, Dear?

Watch each other’s back.  Even if it is covered by a pelt.  The hair on his head will colonize in other parts of his body.   Find that attractive.

Trust is definitely important, Sweetheart.  But, if I had a do-over?  Let’s be honest here:  a trust fund lasts forever.

Do not be careless with your love as some things are highly breakable.  Your husband must learn ASAP in the relationship that you are fragile crystal and that he is shatterproof lead.

Love is a crapshoot, a lottery, a lightning strike.  Be lucky.

Foster resilience.  He should not mind if you confuse his name for the dog’s repeatedly (a la Faye Dunaway in Chinatown).

He should order tofu because I like it and because it’s better for him.

Hold your tongue.  Until you can’t anymore.  Give it at least five minutes.  Okay, three minutes.  Okay, thirty seconds.

Fool your kids.  Fool yourself.  Be a fool for love.  Be foolish.  Be foolhardy.  Giddy?  Crazy?  Is dementia setting in?  Keep everyone guessing, especially your husband.

Keep his favorite foods ever at the ready in the freezer.  And be sure you can tell them apart from the freezer burn.

You will wake up one morning, and just like Jack Nicholson in About Schmidt (why are Jack Nicholson movies haunting my dreams today???), you will wonder who that old person is in bed with you.  And, why does he have that same bewildered expression on his face?  Be kind, and do not have a mirror over your bed.

React immediately and harshly if you do not like his gifts.  He will learn better next time.

He is my wrinkle buddy and I am his wrinklier buddy.

Teach your children by example.  Do not be afraid to employ somewhat controversial parenting methods.

Embrace and feed your children’s talented friends.  Pro bono, no no.  Quid pro quo: when they all become deservedly famous, and you are having difficulty feeding yourself, they will make you laugh, and you will forget that you are hungry.

Have a plan about aging.  Make sure you are a good actor so your mate can take care of you first.  Or, better yet, have a secret plan to move in with your children.

The Bitch was right: dance until the dogs laugh.

Laugh early.  Laugh often. Laugh late.  Laugh in your sleep.  Laugh hysterically.  Someone slap me.  Gently like a kiss.

Mom & Dad Bitch celebrating their 30th anniversary!

I used to be homeless. And by ‘used to be’ I mean four weeks ago, when I slept in a public restroom, a parking garage, a movie theatre and on the ground.

Just so you know, I do not have a drinking problem. I just like to party and have a good time. I feel like that’s an excuse one would give at an AA meeting, but I’m not totally sure because I’ve never been, because again – I do not have a drinking problem.

So four weeks ago, when I woke up on the ground…I asked myself, ‘How did I get here?’ ‘Why am I on the ground?’ ‘What time is it?’ ‘Where am I?’ and then I looked up and saw a public toilet bowl staring back at me.

One would think that inanimate objects such as a toilet bowl could not express shame, but this one did. It was ashamed and angry with me…for putting to waste two, sugar-rimmed watermelon martinis, a cucumber martini, and something else with vodka in it. But then I was like, “Fuck you, toilet bowl. You’re a toilet.” And I got up off the ground and stumbled to the mirror. Whenever I’m lost, I look for a mirror so I can be like, “Oh, there I am.” And there I was, still clothed. Thank God  – I like to take my clothes off when I’m drunk, as would recall a handful of fraternity boys from the University of Arizona circa 2004 – my slutty year.

Dried mascara oozed down my face, as though I had been violently throwing up or crying, probably both.  That’s when I remembered I had walked out on the last fifteen minutes of Magic Mike because my mouth started blubbering like it wanted to throw up. My mouth usually gets everything it wants – except for Channing Tatum’s peen.

I wiped the mascara tears from my face in what I now realized was the oddly quiet movie theatre bathroom. “Where is everyone?” I thought, not yet realizing everyone had gone home. And by everyone, I mean all of my ten friends who’d accompanied me to Magic Mike Ladies Night, the rest of Saturday night’s movie patrons, and the entire staff of the Arclight Hollywood. I was like Macaulay Culkin in Home Alone, but wasted Jeanie Bergen at the Arclight.

As I stood at the top of the stairs, both embarrassed and proud of myself for getting locked inside of the theatre, I spotted a giant clock. 2:45 a.m.  2:45 a.m.?! The movie had ended nearly three hours ago! That’s when I heard footsteps and spotted a man in a suit. Hoping he wasn’t a fancy rapist, I called out to him.

“Excuse me! I’ve been locked in. Can you help me?”

“How did that happen?” he demanded.

“I fell asleep in the theatre” …bathroom, I forgot to add.

I explained to him that I didn’t have my phone or my purse or money or any other proof that I wasn’t the transient I appeared to be. He called for a cab, which after a minute, I decided was taking too long.

“I’m going back to the theatre I was in to look for my purse,” I informed him, which was half-true. I mostly intended to sit down, especially after climbing the escalator back to Theatre 8. It had been turned off, being that it was 3 a.m. and I was the only patron still roaming around. It was like climbing the real stairs.

“Ow, my thighs,” I said, so irritated.

I went into the middle of the theatre (pretty sure it wasn’t even the one I had originally been in) and sat down. It was much more comfortable than the bathroom floor. So naturally, I fell back asleep. When I woke up, I was like, “Oh shoot. The cab,” and wobbled back down the defunct escalator to the lobby.

“Ma’am!” the guy in the suit beckoned. “You need to wait outside.”

“No. That’s unsafe,” I replied, as if passing out in the bathroom were any safer. To be totally honest with you, I’m not even 100% sure if I was in the women’s room or the men’s room. My giney wasn’t sore, so I’m guessing the women’s room.

“You could have been hate fucked in an alley,” said the guy I was seeing, though he told me he didn’t want to see me anymore after my Magic Mike escapade, claiming something about “timing” and “boopity boppity boo.” Who knows – I deleted the text.

Granted, he and my friends had formed a search party, calling area hospitals and trying to file a missing persons report in the middle of the night. A private detective was also involved at some point, according to the Facebook wall on my Magic Mike Ladies Night event page, where everyone rallied to find the details of my whereabouts…from the comfort of their homes.

Eventually, the cab picked me up from the Arclight at 3:30 a.m. and drove me home. I didn’t have any money, so I gave the cab driver my phone number and said: “Call me tomorrow.” He didn’t call, so I guess the ride was free. I wonder if he caught a glimpse of my giney, as I was wearing a dress with no underwear, which was particularly fun when I later tried to scale a wall into the apartment complex of the guy I am no longer seeing. (I frolicked to his place when I couldn’t get into my own, which makes sense because I didn’t have a key. Or any hope.)

(Editor’s Note: This is not Jeanie, it is an internet picture. The wall she scaled was bigger/more impressive.)

By then it was 5 a.m. and my upper body strength was failing me as I tried to lift myself onto a balcony from the garden trellis in which I was dangling. I eventually gave up and went to sleep on the floor of his parking garage, with what I’m guessing was rat poop. An hour later, I tried to get into his apartment complex again. I do not give up, you guys. I used the call box out front to see if anyone would let me in.

After about 45 minutes, his neighbor answered and let me in to the building. I had to knock on his door for a good while, and eventually he woke up when I began pummeling his window. He opened the door, glad to see that I had survived what I’m hoping was my first and last night of homelessness. Then he asked me how I got into his apartment complex.

“Someone let me in,” I said. I’m glad I didn’t have to follow with, “And by someone, I mean the garden trellis.”

Me. 3pm the next day.

When I moved in with my fiancé a while back, we struck a deal: I agreed to allow a TV in my home IF he agreed to no meat in our home.  I’m passionate about veganism.  The fiancé is passionate about television.  I don’t like having a TV because I experience it as a poison box, yelling at me from my own apartment, brainwashing me to be dull, greedy, and compliant.  Much like carcass, I don’t want the media in my sacred space.  I never turn the TV on, in stark contrast to Mike, my fianc- last night at dinner I discovered fianc- while annoying in its overused abbrev-ed state, it’s a wonderful way to say the word “fiancé” without the discomfort of using the word “fiancé”.

Though I admit, of late, I have been so much more impressed with TV than films: Game of Thrones, Dexter, Louie, Veep, Breaking Bad… However, of all these amazing shows, the only one I get a real rock hard steady boner for is Teen Mom, followed closely by 16 & Pregnant.

Teen Mom, from what I understand, isn’t “quality television,” but that doesn’t bother me at all.  I watch it firstly for the babies, I love babies like a crazy lady that steals babies from hospitals, but doesn’t… yet.

I like the babies in 16 & Pregnant, when they’re so wrinkled, crusty, and useless that my ovaries ache. I like them the first season when they do nothing but cry and drink and sigh so much, they remind me of when I was single.  And in season two I love them so much I cant stand it because now they talk.  And guess what they say ALL THE TIME?  ”I love you so much.”  “SO MUCH” — ANYONE CAN SAY I LOVE YOU, BUT THEY ALL ADD THE ‘SO MUCH’ AND IT’S TOO MUCH!!!!! Next, I watch it for the grandma’s — the grandmothers on the show are a colorful assortment of toothless 30-something’s in desperate relationships with meth dealers or coal miners.  Each with a more surprising facial piercing than the next.  Where will they think of next?  Last, I watch for the teen moms.  Some I like, some I love to hate, and all I totally resent for having a baby.  No fair.

I watch that fucking show, and I can hardly bear how legitimately jealous of the teen moms I feel.  They choose some of the sickest humans for that show, and still all I think is how truly unjust that they get to have a baby and I don’t.  Where’s my fucking baby?

Hey! I graduated from high school: where’s my baby prize?  I didn’t have unprotected sex with a puberty monster!  May I have my baby prize now?  Never once have I spent a paycheck on Ed Hardy car seat covers:  and THE UNIVERSE FORGOT TO BRING ME MY BABY PRIZE!!!!!!

IIIIIII wanna have a baby.  I’ve wanted to have a baby since I was one of those adorable toddlers pretending to mother a doll.  Turns out, all you have to do is have sex with an idiot — any idiot with at least 82 acne pustules and a DUI — and you win a baby prize.  If I had known, in high school, that I could have a baby and be on a reality show that paid the bills for my baby, my goals would have been precisely to have a baby and be on a reality show that paid the bills for my baby.  And I would be more successful than I am now: which is to say, baby-less, baby-void, and utterly lacking in baby.

I watch Teen Mom and tell my fiancé very sincerely that if I had known this was an option available to me, I would have done this.  (And he still wants to marry me.)  Um, you can just get pregnant and drop out of high school?  Where do I sign up?  Unfortunately for me and my sad life, I was born to overprotective parents, sent to prep school, and given a sailboat. I never even had a chance.

Very sadly, as a result of being baby starved for so long, I developed a pretty serious coping mechanism, called a baby stash.   A baby stash, for those of you with balanced hormones, is what I call the closet in which I keep one hundred items: organic, green, recycled baby shit I’ve bought on sale from various health food marts.  Lots of cloth diapers, lots of onesies, blankets, BPA free bottles, organic cotton stuffed animals… but they’re all discounted!  Most of them were on sale!  Some of them somewhat significantly! That’s my justification.  Normal, right?  Mike, my fianc- (has it caught on yet?  I thought I smelled a wild fire!) found my baby stash several months into dating.  We’d already moved in together, so I stuffed the stash in a bag and hid it in the back seat of my car, so he wouldn’t know for sure I had problems.  But he found it searching for a sweatshirt for me.  (Bet I wouldn’t be so fucking cold all the time if I had a baby in my tummy.  UUGGGHHH.)

I have a pinterest board pissility titled ‘NO FAIR’ and it’s all pictures of babies. I don’t want to make you look at pictures of my dog either, but I don’t have a baby so… Not all dog people are baby people without a baby, but I sure am.  I’ve got three dogs.  I got the first two when I was living alone at 19, and the third about two years later. So, I did manage to find SOME way to be a mother of 3 by age 21. I guess this is just how its gonna be until I have a tiny human baby of my very own. Mike already can’t share anybody’s baby news with me without my going “uuuuuuuuuuuhhhhhhhhhh, are you seeeeriiiiooooouuuuus…”, I sometimes buy dollar store pregnancy tests to prep for the day I miss my period like a happy earthquake kit, and I’ve strongly considered buying my own ultrasound machine just to take a look-see at what’s happening, but you know what they say, ‘a watched pot never boils.’ So I guess I have to be surprised like everyone else. What a crock of flaming bullshit. Luckily for me, Mike’s favorite movie is Raising Arizona, so I won’t have to do too much mental ninjitsu to convince him to steal some overworked mother’s septuplet.  Maybe I’ll get my wish after all…

*The Bitch’s note: This was written by my mom, Laura Baria (from the icon pic, it could be her, my dad, or their dogs, so just thought I should clarify).  I feel like it really sheds light on why I am the way I am. Read on…

Q:  What’s white, floats, and drinks anything out of a coconut?

A:  The Bitch on vacay.

I had the distinctive experience of journeying 4,000 miles with the Bitch recently.  That’s nothing, you say, between the in-flight movies and beverage cart rounds, and with paradise as the destination–I should bottle my complaints.  But, you haven’t been wedged next to her mai tai guzzling mass for eight hours, listening to her “I SO NEEDED THIS VACATION” rants and rages, when she wasn’t sleeping it off and drooling on your whole right side and all over herself.  We are talking 4,000 PMS, or as-the-Bitch-flies, miles, a distance reserved for martyrs and masochists.

When we arrived, she shed her clothing and donned her swimsuit while I Purelled off inflight saliva.  Did the fact that the swimsuit cost more than our flight over matter to her?  No, she felt pretty.  As she had been so carefully taught, she slathered on her sunscreen (good girl), then plopped on her sunglasses that cost more than our return flight, and put on her chic sombrero to explore the resort.  When she returned to our hut, she was sipping from a coconut, looking only slightly wilted, melted, and striped in zinc oxide sweat streaks from the tropical heat, but still demanding a photo of the moment (a trend that would continue throughout the trip…), “Take my picture!  I love this drink!”

She set up an exhausting schedule for us of eating, drinking, snorkeling, repeat.  I have to say, it was really fun.  For herself, she also scheduled spa visits, like lava pit pit acne scrubs, waterfall deep tissue pummeling, and rum soaks.  After those, she looked particularly relaxed.  We called those the really good times, unfortunately, short in duration.

What did she eat?  She channeled the great philosopher Epicurus and tried everything.  Her faves were down home fare like pineapple rice, truffle fries, and red tuna—and, yes, as I’ve mentioned before, encompassed both her portions and yours, as in, “You’re not going to eat that, are you?”  No one can hold a fork or chopstick more menacingly, not even Hannibal Lecter.

How did she keep us entertained?  By doing impressions of us—my germaphobia and jet lag are always good for a few laughs, as are her dad’s warbled theme song (suggested by the location) outbursts.  Who knew I had such a funny walk?  Then we could do ones of her, like her alien blubbering when she swam with/away from the sting rays.  We felt sorry for her hapless boyfriend, who was forced to lift her quivering pineapple ass, while she flapped and thrashed far more than the harmless rays. Thank gawd he works out, someone mouthed.

Between taking pictures of her (she also liked to paddle board by out of virtually nowhere, strike a pose, and have us run for the camera), counting discarded coconuts, and applying sunscreen, the week went by all too quickly.  All but one of us was sunburned, all but one of us wasn’t hungover, and it seemed too easy to guess who had gained the most from the trip.  We all had.  We could wax poetic about the memories to cost ratio.  We could recall sunsets and the lips of clams in the most vivid of colors. We could fight over who would sit by the Bitch on the return trip (her boyfriend lost that wet battle).   We could imagine distant ukuleles playing us home.

Some many hours later, out of the haze over the Pacific and the haze in our souls, we emerged into a blinding new day at LAX.  There was something both majestic and frightening about the sunlight glinting off the Bitch’s princessly pallor.  Suddenly, she darted, (as in mowed us down,) for the nearest Taco Bell kiosk.   We exchanged weary glances. The PMS and vacation week had come to an official end, but not the Bitch’s appetite or desire for attention.

Mom & I on vacay (Yes, she is both wearing a life vest, and saluting you.)