Freaked out by Janice

I have a secret TV addiction. I actually have several including Teen Mom (first season not the new ones) and the one with LLCool J (don't need to know the name, Tivo takes care of that for me and really, it's not the plot I'm checking out). I generally have to hide in the bedroom to watch these shows, mostly because of the noises I make everytime LL comes onscreen. It makes Matt a bit uncomfortable and I do understand, I'm a loving wife if nothing else. (a sarcastic one too) Among my list of sad realityesque shows is Celebrity Rehab. I got stuck on it when I had surgery and couldn't get out of bed for a few weeks. There was a marathon one night and next thing I know, I find myself actually caring about what happens to Jeff Conaway. The drama just sucked me right in. Well done producers of crap TV! You have absolutely succeeded in lowering the iq of yet another viewer.
This most recent season brought the likes of Leif Garrett, some chick who is famous for losing a fiancee in 9/11 (not sure why she is considered a celebrity), an abnoxious spoiled rich boy, the crack whore mother of some chick I have never heard of, and at least one other random person. The most notable one of all was Janice Dickinson. I didn't even care about her drama, the show was mezmerizing due to her face. I've never seen anyone with so much bad plastic surgery. Even Michael Jackson looked normal compared to this crazy bitch! I'm not sure which was worse, the fact that she couldn't move any portion of her face when she cried or that she only had surgery on her face so her neck looked at least 50 years older than her cheeks. It was like one of those women that wears too much make up on her face but stops at the chin line and the colors of the skin are so far apart you could park a semi truck in the space between. I have to know, just who do you think you are fooling? Do you honestly believe that you look good that way? I can't imagine you have any real friends because real friends are supposed to tell you when you have begun to look abnormal. Janice has crossed the border into actually being terrifying at this point. Watching her was the TV equivilant to the accident on the freeway. I just couldn't stop myself but I also spent the entire time cringing and mumbling at the TV. I would fall asleep only to have dreams of giant lips flapping incessantly in my general direction. I'm not sure if she ever even actually spoke English, such was my focus on her face. I don't know how Dr. Drew or anyone in the facility could concentrate. I could never have been in there with her..I would have wanted to poke her face all the time. (with gloved hands of course, wouldn't want to catch that) I kept hoping that at some point her head would pop off and we would all see that she was only Animatronics gone awry.
     Not long after the season finale, I was watching TV (with Matt this time) and saw Olympia Dukakis in something and all I could think was, wow..she looks amazing! She didn't look all creepy and fake and I think she may not have had any work done. If she did, she knew that less is more and she had a hell of a doctor.
     Ladies, (and some gentlemen) I guess the moral of this story is please don't start messing with your bodies too much. You never know when the universe will say 'screw you for your vanity' and make you look like Janice Dickinson.
     (All that being said, I did have a nose job but in all fairness, I had broken it 4 times and couldn't breathe anymore. Also, it did come out worse than before)

Is there an etiquette?

Recently I was at some friend's parents' house and I started to experience what I can 'burblegutts'. It actually came on just after lunch and continued until I arrived at the house (actually carried on for much longer but that is totally my fault). 'Burblegutts' is that moment when you feel your belly gurgle in preparation for the expelling of all that extra shit in the bowels. Clearly you have eaten something that your body does not want to store or use in any way. It starts with small bubbles in your stomach and moves down the bowel line letting you explore from the outside every inch of the miles of intestines you have. Often, there is some cramping, sometimes it is even severe. In this particular case, the one that inspired this moment of my life that you are reading about, I was sure I could hold it in until I made it home some hours later. I even mentioned to my husband that the urge was there (he is by now, totally familiar with my randomness) and his solution was that I should just 'go to the bathroom'. Ok, familiar is neat and all but realistic about me he is not. I can't just 'go to the bathroom'. It isn't that easy. With my level of OCD and my acceptance thereof, I have rituals. Or some need of comfort at the very least. I want some peace and quiet, none of which I can get in a strange home. Which bathroom is the best? Where am I least likely to be noticed? Is there reading material? Is there one of those weird grandparent style cushioned seats? Does it smell right? What if there is some restriction on the amount of toilet paper that can be flushed? What if someone tries to come in and then stands outside noticing how long I take? What if there isn't any toilet paper at all? What if I get locked in and have to call for help? It eventually got to a point that I couldn't wait any longer, much less make it home in time. I went back to my husband in a slightly panicky mood and basically whined at him like he could teleport me home with his desire to see me happy. (more likely his desire to see me gone) He told me to find a bathroom that wasn't in the main part of the house. This involves skulking about a strange home and not in a Sarah Winchester kind of way but in a 'I might find something out about these people I don't want to know' kind of way. What if they had a midget stored in a closet? What if the way to the secret dungeon was cloaked in what looked like a bathroom? What if they found me??!!! I finally caved in because my bowels insisted I do so. I walked up the stairs that seemed to elongate as I climbed, all the while completely aware that every friend in the room I left was watching and had begun counting the minutes. I made it to the top and was about to open the door to what I hoped was the bathroom (as all doors on the landing were closed) when I was beaten to the punch. The door opened, the right room, there the throne was, my salvation, and blocked by the owner of the home! God! I can't backtrack now. I must continue with my quest. I have already told my bowels that relief is imminent. There is no prariedogging this time. I had to go in as he exited. I was dripping in embarrassment and praying that nothing telling happened while I was 'working'. I finally sat on the hemorrhoid relieving seat and allowed the world to 'carry on'. I won't describe the deed as we have all been there at some point and really, it is just gross. But Oh!, the relief! I wish I could say it was epic or even extraordinary but sadly, I felt so rushed to simply push it all out that I'm not sure I was even done. I think had I been at home and willing to sit still for another 20 minutes, so much more could have been accomplished but sadly, I was in a strange home and had to close this deal as quickly as possible. By the time I got to the point where I could survive the evening, I knew that all the people I had been talking to prior were well aware of how long I had been gone and now I wished I could stay upstairs for the rest of the night.
So I ask you, my dear friends who tolerate my ramblings, what would you have done? Do you think that perhaps good host etiquette is to provide the 'shit' bathroom? Or maybe graciously ignore the 'shitter'? Or as a 'shitter' are your supposed to hold it? Go to the gas station maybe? Maybe there is some way to avoid this all together before you go to the party? Please, for the love of my sanity and sanitation, tell me!

Padma

So long, farewell, adieu,...it's time for you to go Padma. I used to think you were hot. I used to envy your style, your poise, your voice even. I would have slight pangs of jealousy when watching Top Chef with my husband knowing he probably wished I were just a bit more like you. You managed to make a huge scar look sexy. Heck, I even wanted you a bit. But something changed. I don't know if it was the baby or if there was some other monumental shift in the universe but I have to say, I'm over you and you need to go away. I realize now that your poise and style are actually manifestations of your shockingly huge ego. You've been stuffing yourself into these increasingly tight dresses as if to say 'hey, check out my new rack courtesy of baby', your voice is getting damned smarmy, and trust me, people are starting to notice the icy stares you give Gail. Where did you even come from? Have you ever even worked in a restaurant? What talent do you actually have that makes it ok for you to judge a cooking competition? I'm sure that being married to Salman Rushdie was not on the job application for Top Chef. If you insist on staying, could you at least do us the favor of shutting up? You did just fine before you started chiming in on everything as if you were the creator of all things food. Craftsteak might suck but at least Tom is an actual chef and he isn't all bitchy when he judges, realizing that there is a ton of pressure put on these constestants to cook under ridiculous situations that will never occur in 'real' life. I say we have a new show called Padma has to do every damned quick fire challenge ever created (and even some that haven't been thought of yet). If you can manage to complete even one, I might think about starting to like you again.