Have Fear. The World Is Ending.

September 1, 2008 by  
Filed under Edit

Have you turned on the news lately? Neither have I. Actually, this isn’t true. I’ve become shamelessly addicted to CNN. And to the doom and gloom the actors (oops! I mean newscasters) are hurling our way.

The other evening I tuned in to Anderson Pooper on CNN. Now, I realize his real name is Anderson Cooper. I realize his mother is Gloria Vanderbilt and that many women find him attractive despite his awkward leprechaun ears and premature grey hair.

I also realize he is one of the few news anchors who look good in Prada. But I digress.

Within 30 seconds of flipping on the show, I was barraged with floods, hurricanes, tornadoes, political scandals and missing child reports. And the look on his face after the report? It’s almost as if he were enjoying it. To peddle fear is great power, isn’t it?

To add insult to injury, the next report focused on—and I bet you can guess—the OIL CRISIS!

That’s right, people. Apparently, we are embroiled in a full-on, balls to the wall OIL CRISIS!

As I’m sure you’ve noticed when filling up your tank, gas costs more these days. But this is not where it ends. The OIL CRISIS affects every industry in our lives.

According to Anderson, the OIL CRISIS is responsible for all of the following:

Airlines on the breach of bankruptcy;
Soaring food prices at your local grocery store;
The economy in shambles;
The real estate melt down;
and Angelina Jolie’s decision to send Pax to public school.

It’s gotten so bad that Anderson said—and I quote: “Americans are now being forced to choose whether to fill up their gas tank OR PUT FOOD ON THE TABLE.”

Wait. Stop the press, Anderson. Are you telling me Americans are choosing whether to drive their cars or eat? I don’t buy it. I mean, c’mon. I just saw a four-year-old talking on a cell phone.

I love your dress! And could you please pass the Bazooka?

Dear Ladies Who Lunch,

I love gum. Gum is playful, and I feel like a kid when I’m chewing it. In fact, as I’m writing this, I’m plowing through a pack of Dentyne Ice, Arctic Chill.

I started chewing gum a few years ago when I noticed hordes of thin, gorgeous Texas women chewing lots of it. That’s when it hit me. Gum is actually a meal replacement. That’s right. You heard it here first, folks. Gum is the best dieting tool around.

I mean, why else would all these fabulous Texas women be chewing gum all the time? Like, literally, all day long? It’s because gum is better than Atkins, and Weight Watchers, and those awful protein smoothie shakes that taste like cement.

Gum, I realized, is the key to being thin. Let me give you an example. Say you’ve just worked out for two hours. You’ve done the treadmill, the stair stepper and a round of weights. You are sweaty, fatigued and feeling pretty good about burning all those calories.

At this point, you can either go for a cheeseburger, fries and a “Diet” Coke (remember you’re trying to lose weight here) or opt for a nice, refreshing slice of gum. Ahhh, the joys of sliding a thin little wafer-sized slice of gum into your mouth. And then chewing on it for the next six to eight hours until the hunger pangs subside.

I typically opt for the cheeseburger. But these thin, gorgeous Texas broads—I have a sneaking suspicion they’re reaching into their purses for that dainty, sugar-free pack of Orbit.

And yet, despite the obvious merits of bubble gum (blowing big fat bubbles that get stuck on your face), there is one place you should never, ever, not in a million years, pop a slice of Big Red. Or Wrigley’s Spearmint. Or Freshen Up. It’s the Black Tie Affair.

Gowns and gum don’t mix, ladies. In fact, watching a Texas woman with her $10,000 custom-ordered Naeem Khan clinging to her perfectly sculpted figure while smacking on a piece of gum is enough for me to send the dogs after her. And that’s putting it mildly.

So why do I find myself at these black tie affairs with gorgeous, perfectly sculpted women popping their gum? I mean, can’t someone tell these ladies that everyone else ordered the burger?

I love your dress! And could you please pass the Bazooka?

August 1, 2008 by  
Filed under Edit

Dear Ladies Who Lunch,

I love gum. Gum is playful, and I feel like a kid when I’m chewing it. In fact, as I’m writing this, I’m plowing through a pack of Dentyne Ice, Arctic Chill.

I started chewing gum a few years ago when I noticed hordes of thin, gorgeous Texas women chewing lots of it. That’s when it hit me. Gum is actually a meal replacement. That’s right. You heard it here first, folks. Gum is the best dieting tool around.

I mean, why else would all these fabulous Texas women be chewing gum all the time? Like, literally, all day long? It’s because gum is better than Atkins, and Weight Watchers, and those awful protein smoothie shakes that taste like cement.

Gum, I realized, is the key to being thin. Let me give you an example. Say you’ve just worked out for two hours. You’ve done the treadmill, the stair stepper and a round of weights. You are sweaty, fatigued and feeling pretty good about burning all those calories.

At this point, you can either go for a cheeseburger, fries and a “Diet” Coke (remember you’re trying to lose weight here) or opt for a nice, refreshing slice of gum. Ahhh, the joys of sliding a thin little wafer-sized slice of gum into your mouth. And then chewing on it for the next six to eight hours until the hunger pangs subside.

I typically opt for the cheeseburger. But these thin, gorgeous Texas broads—I have a sneaking suspicion they’re reaching into their purses for that dainty, sugar-free pack of Orbit.

And yet, despite the obvious merits of bubble gum (blowing big fat bubbles that get stuck on your face), there is one place you should never, ever, not in a million years, pop a slice of Big Red. Or Wrigley’s Spearmint. Or Freshen Up. It’s the Black Tie Affair.

Gowns and gum don’t mix, ladies. In fact, watching a Texas woman with her $10,000 custom-ordered Naeem Khan clinging to her perfectly sculpted figure while smacking on a piece of gum is enough for me to send the dogs after her. And that’s putting it mildly.

So why do I find myself at these black tie affairs with gorgeous, perfectly sculpted women popping their gum? I mean, can’t someone tell these ladies that everyone else ordered the burger?

I Own a Ranch, Don’t You?

I’m a Texan. You may not think it at first glance. Sometimes I wear scarves tied tightly about the neck. Or flat, sensible shoes during the day. Even worse — I don’t wear makeup at the gym. Yes, I have the East Coast thing down to a tee. And I should. After all, I’ve spent the past 12 years hopping around New York, Boston and Washington, D.C. Let’s put it this way. When I order a bagel and schmear at Central Market, they still look at me kind of funny. But even after all my East-Coasting, I LOVE Texas. And Texans.

I love that Texans drink Red Bull before going to see Joel Osteen. (Helps the hangover.)

I love that Texans say neat phrases like, “Grandma may look old, but she’s gonna keep on keepin’ on.”

And I LOVE that Texans have ranches. Ah, the smell of a patent leather Manolo Blahnik setting foot on a ranch. But I have a beef, so to speak, with my fellow Lone Star state residents. OK, here goes …

Texans are using the word ranch much too liberally. Let me give you an example. A few weeks ago, I was invited to attend a certain “ranch” party.

“Wow, a ranch party,” I thought. “This should be a blast!” I quickly pulled out my black leather weekender bag and packed all the Western wear at my disposal:

My cowboy boots — hand-stitched Lucchese — hey, this ain’t my first rodeo, folks.

Jeans — the tight, slutty ones — perfect for a ranch party! I mean, what if Mr. Right is a cowboy?

A hat purchased from the Beretta gun store in Maryland — it’s an old hat, back from my staffer days when I worked on Capitol Hill. (P.S. Please don’t ask why I happened to be in the Beretta gun store in Maryland. It had to do with a member of Congress who needed some shells for skeet shooting, and I was sent to buy them. Because I’m that important.)

Mosquito repellant.

A digital camera — me as Georgia O’Keefe — taking landscape and flower shots of the “ranch.”

The invitation suggested an evening around the fire pit, a real barbecue and horseback riding.

A ranch party! Now, correct me if I’m wrong. In my mind, the word ranch evokes a certain image — an image of a large, to very large, to sickeningly large number of acres. Roaming on this tract of land should be cattle, deer, rattlesnakes, doves and wild hogs. And maybe a buffalo. There should be game fencing, hunting vehicles and a lovely limestone house done up in that chic Texas Hill Country style, complete with antlers hanging over the fireplace.

Pulling up to the “ranch,” I was greeted instead by a cottage — a cottage with a barbecue pit in the back, a quaint little swimming pool and a pony for children.

“Is this … the ranch?” I sputtered, hoping that I’d gotten the wrong house, the wrong town, the wrong invitation. “Yes, we just bought it last year! Tammy is thrilled because she gets to grow her own tomatoes!”

I remember swallowing hard. In the kitchen, there was a bag of Doritos. A blessing from God, I assume.

Everyone else at the ranch party was wearing regular clothes. Meanwhile, with my skintight jeans, boots and hat, I was doing my best Dolly Parton in “The Best Little Whorehouse” impression.

People stared. I tipped my hat, said “Howdy, folks!” and ate Doritos like it was my last meal.

“Some ranch,” I thought. “This is more like a ranch-ette. Or ranch-ini. But it’s no ranch, ranch.” So please. I beg of you. The next time you leave for your quaint little country house on 15 cute acres, please do not say: “Tammy and I are takin’ the kids out to the ranch this weekend. We’re throwing a party on Saturday. Wanna come?” Instead, call a spade a spade. “Tammy and I are takin’ the kids out to our other house this weekend. It sits on 15 acres in the country, and we love it because we can barbecue.”

The word ranch does not mean HOUSE WITH EXTRA BIG BACKYARD. Granted, there are some large backyards in Texas. But, I ask you …

When did Texans become the type of people who drive Toyota Tercels but carry key rings that read, “Hey, my other car is a Porsche!”?

I Own a Ranch, Don’t You?

July 1, 2008 by  
Filed under Edit

I’m a Texan. You may not think it at first glance. Sometimes I wear scarves tied tightly about the neck. Or flat, sensible shoes during the day. Even worse — I don’t wear makeup at the gym. Yes, I have the East Coast thing down to a tee. And I should. After all, I’ve spent the past 12 years hopping around New York, Boston and Washington, D.C. Let’s put it this way. When I order a bagel and schmear at Central Market, they still look at me kind of funny. But even after all my East-Coasting, I LOVE Texas. And Texans.

I love that Texans drink Red Bull before going to see Joel Osteen. (Helps the hangover.)

I love that Texans say neat phrases like, “Grandma may look old, but she’s gonna keep on keepin’ on.”

And I LOVE that Texans have ranches. Ah, the smell of a patent leather Manolo Blahnik setting foot on a ranch. But I have a beef, so to speak, with my fellow Lone Star state residents. OK, here goes …

Texans are using the word ranch much too liberally. Let me give you an example. A few weeks ago, I was invited to attend a certain “ranch” party.

“Wow, a ranch party,” I thought. “This should be a blast!” I quickly pulled out my black leather weekender bag and packed all the Western wear at my disposal:

My cowboy boots — hand-stitched Lucchese — hey, this ain’t my first rodeo, folks.

Jeans — the tight, slutty ones — perfect for a ranch party! I mean, what if Mr. Right is a cowboy?

A hat purchased from the Beretta gun store in Maryland — it’s an old hat, back from my staffer days when I worked on Capitol Hill. (P.S. Please don’t ask why I happened to be in the Beretta gun store in Maryland. It had to do with a member of Congress who needed some shells for skeet shooting, and I was sent to buy them. Because I’m that important.)

Mosquito repellant.

A digital camera — me as Georgia O’Keefe — taking landscape and flower shots of the “ranch.”

The invitation suggested an evening around the fire pit, a real barbecue and horseback riding.

A ranch party! Now, correct me if I’m wrong. In my mind, the word ranch evokes a certain image — an image of a large, to very large, to sickeningly large number of acres. Roaming on this tract of land should be cattle, deer, rattlesnakes, doves and wild hogs. And maybe a buffalo. There should be game fencing, hunting vehicles and a lovely limestone house done up in that chic Texas Hill Country style, complete with antlers hanging over the fireplace.

Pulling up to the “ranch,” I was greeted instead by a cottage — a cottage with a barbecue pit in the back, a quaint little swimming pool and a pony for children.

“Is this … the ranch?” I sputtered, hoping that I’d gotten the wrong house, the wrong town, the wrong invitation. “Yes, we just bought it last year! Tammy is thrilled because she gets to grow her own tomatoes!”

I remember swallowing hard. In the kitchen, there was a bag of Doritos. A blessing from God, I assume.

Everyone else at the ranch party was wearing regular clothes. Meanwhile, with my skintight jeans, boots and hat, I was doing my best Dolly Parton in “The Best Little Whorehouse” impression.

People stared. I tipped my hat, said “Howdy, folks!” and ate Doritos like it was my last meal.

“Some ranch,” I thought. “This is more like a ranch-ette. Or ranch-ini. But it’s no ranch, ranch.” So please. I beg of you. The next time you leave for your quaint little country house on 15 cute acres, please do not say: “Tammy and I are takin’ the kids out to the ranch this weekend. We’re throwing a party on Saturday. Wanna come?” Instead, call a spade a spade. “Tammy and I are takin’ the kids out to our other house this weekend. It sits on 15 acres in the country, and we love it because we can barbecue.”

The word ranch does not mean HOUSE WITH EXTRA BIG BACKYARD. Granted, there are some large backyards in Texas. But, I ask you …

When did Texans become the type of people who drive Toyota Tercels but carry key rings that read, “Hey, my other car is a Porsche!”?

« Previous Page