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.

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.

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!

*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.)

My mom let me know that if I could do this, I might be married by now. Thanks for the hot tip, lady!

Mom’s Words of Wisdom: Why were we not told??? It is so easy. Women, all we need to do is this:

MamaL Travels with the Bitch to the Right Coast

(Hint:  These are all rhetorical questions.)

Who is the grouchiest (think Lizzie Borden…) in the morning after a 3-hour time change?

Who can singlehandedly consume an entire cheesecake lollipop tree at David Burke’s Townhouse Restaurant?

Who crushed big-time on the supremely darling and talented Andrew Rannells at Book of Mormon?

Who can crush her boyfriend after such eating habits as exhibited in previous dessert question?

Who would prefer to stand in line at Christian Louboutin than stand in line for Renaissance Portraits at the Met?

(But Mom, these ARE my running shoes!)

Who wonders which 4.5 inch heels to wear to walk twenty blocks while traveling companions are wearing running shoes?

Who tries every baked good in the continental breakfast buffet that has crois and sant in the name?

Who got to see a taping of SNL and didn’t take her mother—even though both, knowing absolutely zilch minus zilch about sports, are ‘uge fans of Charles Barkley?!?

Who relentlessly demanded to be taken to Shake Shack (as if there wasn’t enough physiognomical shaking going on…..)?

Who kept droning on about jogging in the park then kept sleeping through the jog portion of the day?

Who almost fell out of a cab but recovered by slithering out ass first because her dress was (way) too tight and (way, way) too short?

Who orders Moet when someone else is paying and tap water when left to her own billfold?

Who said her mother was a pretentious snob for wanting to see Seminar (would it be the same youngun’ who kept wondering how “affordable” Fifth Avenue apartment-dwelling would be)?

Who gets the flight-or-fight look when her mother begins telling a really good story to a stranger?

Who can plan the perfect not a $30 a day trip (please add umpteen zeroes)?

Who is grouchiest at midnight if she hasn’t had her every whim, calorie, and carat catered to?

Not her mother.  Bitch.

Bitches, my parents have officially invaded not only every aspect of my life, but now my site… Introducing my daddy’s first Parent-Noia post! I guess he’s finally getting me back for all the times I took my clothes off onstage in the name of “comedy.”

LIKE CUTTING YOUR OWN FIREWOOD, CREATE YOUR OWN COMEDY, IT’LL ENTERTAIN YOU TWICE.

My largely unsung role in the raising of the successful Bitch is probably for the best, since I have never been sure if my parenting style, formed by television of course, was going to work its magic. Trying to help the 5 yr old bitch find a way to laugh at not making the all-star squad is one early memory of pitch night for daddy.  “I think this is all my fault for not bringing enough orange slices.  You don’t want to be on the all-star squad—let’s go get a tattoo instead.” I knew she had the gift for timing when, holding my hand riding the escalator at Macy’s on Christmas Eve, she asked loudly, “Daddy, can I see your penis?” (I was shocked, and rather rotely answered, “Wait until we get home,” eliciting looks of concern from various up and down riders).

We would take airplane trips to Texas to visit grandparents, and the little Bitch tired quickly of the usual fluff and turned to dad for an “alternative” story.  Bone-tired and desperate, I weaved stories about children in other dimensions with their strange animals and alien lives, where being very bad was the norm and sometimes they grew sideways instead of up.  Killer bees played a prominent role, only because they were in the news quite often at the time.  I like to think this originated her appreciation of absurdity and nonlinear storytelling, and I know she will never keep bees.

Early exposure to humor as lifestyle came from the Bitch’s grandfather, when she was in a high chair.  He could make her laugh, showing her how to flip playing cards barroom-style on her tray, spinning up the energy level when he was supposed to be readying her for dinner. Grandpa would reward her with M&Ms if the Bitch could make a handlebar mustache on the metal shaving magnet man picture game—I don’t know if this taught “art as humor” or that candy should follow every project. Grandpa had one short-lived game, Pull the Placemat just out of little Bitch’s reach, eliciting squeals of laughter that suddenly became cries of anguish (even a good bit can be too long). The Bitch was clearly entertained by the looks given to Grandpa by Grandma and Mombitch, finding unexpected humor from family sharing love and passionate criticism at the same meal.

The young Bitch would test her imagination on friends, as a way of explaining our family’s unusual behavior. I used to watch TV without the sound for certain reasons (waking to the sudden shriek of commercials, for one).  The young Bitch, when confronted with this as she toured by me with a buddy , said simply, “He does that because he liked it better when he was little and TV didn’t have sound.”

Dadbitch’s addiction to unusual sounds was part of the Bitch’s unconventional musical upbringing—filling in the gaps between The Spice Girls and the Macarena, Dadbitch offered the Baja Marimba Band, Wes Harrison (sound effects genius), Leonard Nimoy’s Music from Outer Space, Marlboro Man/Alka Seltzer (No Matter What Shape Your Stomach’s In) and Other Great Commercial Jingle Music, and a small bit of Captain Beefheart. Knowing it was important to encourage a child to play a musical instrument,  I tried to interest the Bitch in the Maracas, thinking that it would be good exercise and set her apart from other college applicants later in life (wrong, there were several), but she ignored me and turned up the volume on her Walkman.

It was fun to read to the young Bitch, especially when I got to pick.  One early favorite that I think help set the tone for her future dark sketches was a  well-illustrated alphabet book, “Amphibagory” (“A is for Adam who fell down the stairs, B is for Basil, assaulted by bears…”). I tried to teach her how the children in England kept straight the wives of King Henry VIII (“divorced, died, beheaded”), but it lost traction when I tried to make a joke about comparing it to the wives of Mickey Rooney.  It was never easy to get the Bitch to put off her homework to work on one of our projects together, like removing paint from the floorboards or listening to old records. I recall telling her once that we had ordered robots to help with most of the housework, just be patient and work while we wait for delivery, but she knew none of her cool friends had any robots and No Way we were cool enough to have robots before them, so this backfired with a sting. She gave me the same look she does today when I suggest that soon robots will be writing comedy, but it is only a matter of time.

Dadbitch often needed humor to cover his mistakes. A crying little Bitch early one morning, a lone tooth and no money or note under her pillow from the forgetful Tooth Fairy.  I asked,  “Did you hold up your tooth and say, “My tooth is ready, Tooth Fairy,” before putting it under your pillow?”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“Well maybe the crazy Tooth Fairy just didn’t see it, so we’ll try that tonight and there will be no doubt it is going to happen. Meanwhile, let’s go get a tattoo.”

The note under little Bitch’s pillow the next morning read,  “I was very busy at an important meeting with the Queen of the Tooth Fairies but omg, I know I am late, and I am so sorry. So Double Money! Huge Fairy apologies (the strongest there is!) TF”

Perhaps there are better ways than comedy to teach life lessons. I don’t know. All I know is that the sight of my little Bitch with warm cocoa and marshmellows shooting from her nostrils in laughter at one of my faces, confirms to both of us that physical comedy is still the best comedy.  What more could a Dadbitch ask?