T.G.I.F...

... interpreted in dance by my Yo-Kids-splattered offspring.

De-Stressed at Bin 26

(photo: I see dead people, love)

Contrary to popular belief, the Big Dig is not the most stressful place to work in Boston, it's Bin 26 Enoteca on Charles Street. The Beacon Hill eatery appears to be operating under some sort of fascist regime. First, it's a lovely restaurant with a lot of unnecessary rules. Second, the staff is so riddled with anxiety about enforcing those rules that you'd swear they'd be shot on sight for giving someone the wrong bread basket. For awhile there, it appeared that this month's Suppah Club was going to be a bit of a pressure cooker.

Goy arrived first and bellied up to the bar to have a glass of red while she waited for the rest of us. The bartender shooed her away, informing her that patrons were not permitted to sit at the bar and have a glass of wine unless they were also eating. When she said she had dinner reservations and was simply waiting for friends, she was told she could have a glass of wine on the bench in the waiting area or sit by herself at the table for eight until the rest of the party arrived. Choosing the lesser of two discomforts, she took to the table, self-consciously flipping through the loose-leaf wine list. Cameo, LPD, Code Red and I arrived shortly thereafter -- our party of eight had dwindled to five having lost Paige to the Mung, Nic to temp single mamahood and Auntie to a work dinner in Connecticut. When we informed the hostess of this change, she nearly had a panic attack. She looked like crazy-eyed Jan from the Brady Bunch movie. Suddenly, high drama. Jan dashed into the dining room to reset our table. When we tried to follow her, she beat us back with an imaginary whip and chair -- back! back! --into the waiting area where we were forced to communicate with Goy through a granite laundry chute. By the time we were allowed to take our seats, we were all stressed out.

Luckily our easy-on-the-eyes waiter brought vino and a doting, laid-back vibe. He called everyone "love" -- and he wasn't even a Brit. From there on, the evening went from distressed to de-stressed. We got loud over a nosh of yellowfin tuna and some Fusilli Jerry walnut cream pasta. While LPD supsected our Tuscan Tomato Soup was just a warmed up jar of Classico, it wasn't half bad. Don't be surprised if we start serving up jarred spaghetti sauce as an appetizer soup at the next dinner party. Good times, burds.

I'd definitely go back to Bin 26 but I suggest they post a rulebook on their Web site to promote a stress-free dining experience for their customers. And maybe some in-house shiatsu for the uptight staff.

Nice Road Rage, Jackass

(New Road Rage flashcards help incite ignorant drivers, spread bad energy and ill will on the roads)

Yesterday, I kicked my morning off by witnessing a driver flipping off another, calling him a “fucking dildo” for trying to take a left turn in front of him in Queen Anne’s Corner. Letting the driver (the FD) make the turn probably would have set this guy back about five seconds but he wasn’t having it. Instead, the driver (the FD) had to try to back up onto Route 53, causing a chain reaction of angry horns and obscene gestures. Ah, there’s nothing like a road rage clusterfuck before 8 a.m.

I loathe road rage; I hate the whole concept of it. It’s just bad energy. It’s a form of aggression you’d never express if you were outside of your moving vehicle. For instance, if you’re walking down the street and someone weaves into your path, you usually do that awkward dance, smile and mutter “excuse me.” You’d never say, “Get out of my fucking way, asshole.” On the sidewalks, you never take it personally. You never believe that person is deliberately hindering you. Why is it so different on the roadways? I liken road rage to the vitriol spewed on message boards and online forums. If you go online to any forum – however innocuous -- there are always angry posters lurking on the boards. You can almost picture them at home, pounding on their keyboards, hurling crumbs and saliva at their computer screens. We get very brave online – and in our cars -- when we're anonymous and there is no imminent threat of bodily harm.

Of course, few people are immune to road rage. Everyone gets it in varying degrees; we're only human. It's impossible to be a Zen master on Route 93, for instance, when some self-important jackass on a cellphone starts weaving into your lane.

My latest RR incident happened a few months ago when I was dropping Caroline off at school. Sometimes the parking lot is full and a small traffic jam backs up onto the road. I was last in line, clearly waiting to get into the preschool lot when some pick up truck pulled up behind me and leaned on his horn. It was annoying the first time. Then he did it two more times and my Mama Bear switch went off. The pointy finger came out. I leaped out of the car, and stormed up to his window like a crazy person. “Would you prefer I just let my children out in the middle of the road so you can run them over!?? Asshole!!!” I got back into my car all shaky with adrenaline. Then Caroline said, “What’s wrong, Mama?” I was crushed. It was a stupid thing to do. Granted, the guy was being an asshole but I escalated the situation -- and worse, with my two kids in the car. I never should have gotten out of the car because some knuckle-dragging hothead couldn’t wait his turn.

Now, thanks to new Road Rage flashcards, you never have to get out of your car again to express your displeasure. With sentiments like: “I hope that cell phone gives you cancer,” “Get off my ass, motherfucker,” and “Why the fuck are you tapping your breaks,” road ragers can incite ignorant drivers and let them know once and for all that their driving skills are superior to everyone else’s. One card even shows a photo of a gun with the words “I wish this was real.” These cards are pretty funny in theory, but in practice – I’m not so sure. One day, you could flash your card at some loose cannon; a loose cannon who just happens to be transporting a carload of antique whale harpoons. Then who’s laughing? I’d prefer to hold up a card that simply says “sorry.” I’ve found it’s very disarming to hold up my hand and mouth “sorry” to an angry driver. Their “I’m-going- to-rip-your-arms-off-with-my-teeth” facial expression melts away instantly. They usually wave “it’s ok” and drive off. Situation defused. Unfortunately, when the shoe is on the other foot, I get more middle fingers than sorrys from offenders. But I like to think that’s what separates the good guys from the assholes.

Wow. This Was a Decade Ago?

Today marked the 10th anniversary of the day the Heaven's Gate cult shedded their "skin vehicles" and hitched a ride on the tail of the Hale Bopp Comet. It seems like only yesterday that Mikey C. arrived at the Warren Tavern sporting a photo of Marshall Applegate on the back of his jean jacket, sparking one of the most uproarious evenings of the late 90s. Where does the time go?

Suburban Stir Fry

March Madness took the form of the spontaneous good time in the burbs this weekend. Billy Dee, Brownguy and the Haleys joined us around a spicy pork stir-fry to watch basketball and officially kick off our campaign to get the Haleys to move to the South Shore.

We didn’t watch too much B-ball but viewed the Munchkinland snippet of the Wizard of Oz several times, courtesy of C & P who wanted to contort their faces like the Lollipop Guild.

So, we gathered round the kitchen bar -- snack plate central -- listening to Party Shuffle, enjoying a nosh of edamame, T-Bag’s guac -- and of course the spicy pork stir fry, the latest recipe pilfered from the Internets. Dawnie and I sipped everyone’s favorite pinot grigio from Northern Italy where the grapes are handpicked from vines nestled in the Dolomites. Did I mention two houses in our neigbhorhood are about to go on the market?

Caroline, a little obsessed with Brownguy, inquired about his new shoes and trip to LA the next day. Her first words upon waking up Sunday morning: "Mama, is Brownguy in California right now? What do you think he’s doing? Do you think he’s wearing his new shoes?

"Hey Paulie-what's in your treasure chest?"





"POOP!"

Another Reason I Can’t Get Any Work Done

Every afternoon this week, Vito has fallen asleep on my leg and laptop with his eyes open -- and has proceeded to snore like a drunk old man. Most pugs snore but portly pugs like Vito snore obscenely. And it’s getting worse. We’ve proven that dieting doesn’t work in this house where waffles magically fall to the floor. Long walks didn’t work either as I ended up having to carry Vito home most times because he conked out on the sidewalk and refused to budge. He’s 33 pounds of pure lard with a fresh new fat roll atop his head. While Vito maintains that he is big boned with a slow metabolism, he now officially has more fat rolls than Azamat from Borat.

Fronting with Coffee

I was bummed to miss Coffee-aoke with Vanilla Ice yesterday. As part of a springtime promotion, Dunkin' Donuts sponsored a creative karaoke competition in Copley Square inviting people to rewrite and perform “Ice, Ice, Baby” with Dunkin’ Donuts-themed lyrics.

I got as far as “If you got some Munchkins, yo I’ll eat some” and packed it in.

As part of the same promotion, Dunkin' is giving away free iced coffee all day today. For many, the first iced coffee of the season is one of the first rites of spring. Since I keep iced coffee in the rotation year round, my free cup this morning was purely ceremonial. Not to mention, it's 25 degrees outside right now.

Anyway, I enjoyed my freebie this morning only to have my caffeine buzz vaporized by some bloviating poseur at Target. I was there buying a baby gift and a new laundry basket before settling into work. The check out lines are right next to the resident Starbucks. As I was being rung up, I saw two Target employees standing together outside the cafe. The woman was sipping a Dunkin' iced coffee (freebie). The man, at least six inches shorter than she, was getting all shrill.

“I don’t know how you can drink that swill! It's motor oil! It's motor oil! I guess I’m just a Starbucks snob.”

Don't you just hate this guy.

I wanted to trap homeboy under my new laundry basket and put a heavy rock on top of it.

First, it’s an unwritten law of nature: You cannot refer to yourself as a snob any more than you can assign yourself a nickname. Doing so is the calling card of the phony baloney. You're showing the world that you're desperate to play a role that does not come naturally.

The pointy finger started itching. I felt compelled to stand up for my embattled Dunkin' drinker, whose only response -- "you don't know nothin'" -- seemed unsatisfactory.

“Tiny Little Man,” I wanted to shout. “You probably drink freeze-dried Folger’s crystals with CoffeeMate when nobody’s looking.”

Of course, I wimped out and drowned my regrets in a second iced coffee (freebie) on the way home.

I’ve been on the Dunkin' since I was 12 and I still love it. Hot: Black w/ raw sugar. Iced: Skim milk w/Splenda. Don’t get me wrong. I love Starbucks too. In fact, I’m in favor of all things caffeinated: Iced coffee, lattes, espresso, cappuccino. Sometimes I even “celebrate the moments” with General Foods International Coffee.

For me, coffee is pretty egalitarian. There are some people who love their Dunkin' Donuts "Regulars" with tons of cream and sugar, and there are others who prefer the heavily-roasted flavor of a Starbucks "Cafe Americano."

But there are some one-dimensional types out there -- like homeboy at Target -- who use coffee to enhance their image because they lack substance. They believe bashing the more pedestrian Dunkin' Donuts somehow ups their cool quotient. It’s an offensive charade, especially to those of us who revere coffee for its intended purpose -- as the recreational drug of choice for sleep-deprived addicts.

I know ordering a “large regular” is not nearly as exotic as ordering “a venti-half-caf-no foam-one shot-skinny-soy macchiato” but a cup of Dunkin' Donuts coffee has never given me an inferiority complex. I love my Dunkies Iced. It’s unpretentious; it doesn’t try too hard to be something it’s not. We Dunkies drinkers are cool enough our own. We don’t have to front with coffee.

I think I’ll head out for a third!

Example #3589 of How the Fates Conspire to Make Me Look Like a White Trash Mama Despite all Efforts to the Contrary

("Scrumptious diaper, Paulie," notes Caroline.)

My parental humiliation has been well documented here in the Pointy Universe. Last week, Paulie told the cashier at Whole Foods that she had yellow teeth. A few months ago, Caroline walked up to a complete stranger at Hannaford’s and said, without warning, “My daddy farts in the grass." Both kids swear sometimes -- almost exclusively in crowded public places.

It's hard to predict the verbal outbursts but there are other times when I'm spaced out or sleep deprived and appear trailer trashy. Like the time Paulie’s pants fell down around his ankles in the parking lot at Marsh's and I had no idea until two dudes in a pick up truck started laughing their heads off. Then there was the time when I didn't realize that Caroline had taken off her shoes in the car. A passerby pointed out that my daughter was walking on the snow-covered sidewalk in her socks. Caroline thought it was hilarious. I was riddled with guilt.

The scene of the latest incident takes place at – you guessed it – the Assinippi General Store, where Paulie already has two priors. James and I dressed both kids in their pajamas for the night before I headed down the road to the Dell'Olios and he to a hockey game. This is important to note.: I dressed Carrie, James dressed Paulie. We swung into Assinippi to pick up some Cavit and a six-pack of O’Doul’s for Mama LPD.

Just as we thought we were going to escape without incident, Dee -- the store manager who always seems to be there when things go awry -- came over to us while we were checking out.

“Um, I don’t know if it’s one of your kids but there is like a HUGE puddle over there,” said Dee, pointing to a South America-shaped pool of urine in the wine aisle. For a moment, I stood dumbstruck -- no doubt looking like an Olsen twin with my storm trooper boots, enormous sunglasses and armload of booze. Then I went in for the bum check.

Caroline: Dry Tinkerbell undies. Paulie: Completely soaked. The worst part – it was neither a leaky diaper nor a deluged Pull-Up. There was no diaper there at all. Paulie was freeballing in his jammies. Either James forgot to put one on him or Paulie took it off himself (which he tends to do but usually announces it). Doesn't really matter. I was the one left holding the walnuts.

Dee swabbed the aisle and we fled to the Dell’Olios where I cleaned up Paulie and hung my head in shame.

Pull up a Chaise: Happy St. Paddy's.

(photo: It was really tough to find a parking spot in Southie on St. Paddy's, the day after a major snowstorm)

Yesterday, Mama-to-be Princessica picked me up around 12:30 and we headed into the city to meet with Cameo and Code Red for an Irish luncheon in Southie.

St. Patrick’s Day in Southie is never a quiet affair but we were determined to find a place that walked the line between “too crazy” and “just crazy enough” for a quick lunch. We walked up to The Playwright but it was oozing green beads and filthy mouths; Marlboro Light enthusiasts (*sigh*) spilled out onto the sidewalk talking about the muthafuckin’ wait for the bathroom line. Clearly a no-go. Should we flee to Amhreins? To Potbellies? To Lucky’s? Even though we assumed it’d be worse, we decided to mosey on down Broadway to the Boston Beer Garden. Pleasant surprise: It was crowded but not obnoxiously so.

(photo: Princessica and Cameo feeling the BBG. Annie and I were feeling it too but our digicam photo has vanished!)

We were seated at the BBG within 20 minutes and traded in the corned beef and green beer for turkey tips and pinot grigio. We also began harassing BG via text messaging as he was stuck at work and we were hoping to give him a reprieve from Fido slavery. His response: Just trying to tie up some loose ends so he could "sizzle up his moobs in Santa Monica next week."



Then, just as we were applauding ourselves for finding the exact niche we’d sought, a DJ from WZLX started screaming into his microphone about a Killian’s Red promotion. Scantily-clad -- albeit tired looking –“ Killian’s Girls" began trolling the bar handing out green beads. Next thing you knew, Journey songs were blaring from all corners of the restaurant. Suddenly, it was the exact opposite of the niche we’d sought. But, after a few glasses, we were into it.

After lunch, Cam and Code Red headed off to meet BG at the Quencher. Mama Jess and I headed back to the South Shore, whereupon 3/4s of the Jackson clan blew up the Dell’Olio’s house for some exquisite pulled pork sandwiches. YUMMY.

And Then There Were Two

Last Tuesday, we confirmed our reservations for 8 people at Dinero’s in Cohasset. Moments later, the worst Nor’easter of the season started barreling up the coast. We’d been looking forward to having dinner with the Drinans, the Nortons and the Nortons East but found our crowd dwindling by Friday afternoon as it started snowing sideways.

The Drinans lost their babysitter around midday, the Nortons lost theirs several hours later. While the freewheeling Nortons East did not require a sitter, they were nonetheless thwarted by the dreadful rush hour traffic that brought Boston to a stand still yesterday afternoon. Our sitters, Krissy & Matt – never short on fortitude -- were still ON, however, and when you have a sitter, you don’t cancel plans. Ever.

Still, I looked out the window and thought better of our restaurant choice. Maybe dining so close to the seashore in a blizzard wasn’t such a good idea. Instead of ending the evening with some crème brulee, we could end up swept out to sea, clutching a chair pad off Nantasket Beach. We decided to just go up the street to Fifty Three South and have dinner at the bar instead. But when we got there, it was closed. The parking lot wasn’t even plowed. This is almost unheard of for that restaurant, especially on a Friday night.

Is it really that bad outside? We looked around. There were no cars spinning out, no people trapped in snowbanks. What’s going on here?

We headed further down the road to Nino's. It was fantastic. We sat in a stone-walled corner with ceiling to floor windows and the snow swirling outside no longer seemed menacing but scenic. We indulged in some filet mignon and vino and then headed to Asian C for martinis.

At 10 p.m., we were the *only* people there and were doted upon by a rambunctious Chinese bartender who was heavy into March Madness. He was completely bullshit he "gave six points to Virginia Tech!" He and James bonded over their brackets and made fun of my choosing Gonzaga in mine because I like the way the name sounded as well as the abbreviation "The Zags."

A great night all around, although our friends were missed.

Snow Schmo.

CREAM SHOP FRIDAY: Smell the Sludge, Write a Haiku

LPD officially launched Cream Shop Friday today by sending this photo around. The pic arrived via KW via Rich O. who holds this image in such high esteem, it's the wallpaper on his home computer.

This shithole pictured here is Kelleher’s in Westfield, Mass.

Behold the beveled glass windows, the filthy tattered awning, the massive dumpster just outside the doorway. From the outside, it looks like the kind of place where pool-table gang rapes are commonplace, a place where drunk townies stab outsiders with broken beer bottles. Actually, it looks like that kind of place on the inside too, but that’s beside the point.

The point is, it looks like a bar to avoid -- especially if you're a fresh-faced college student. Instead, we waited in line and paid $5 to get into this joint. And we’d STAY there until we were asked to leave. Once inside, we’d pound 50-cent drafts and Kool-Aid shots, and dance to tunes spun by a greasy throwback named Bruce Parker. And let’s not forget – although I’d like to – I would occasionally spin some tunes, much to the chagrin of line-dancing sluts who hated the Saturday Night Fever vibe I was trying to bring. (Fuck y’all) Anyway, every Saturday night, we’d show up here, get steaming drunk, dance to “Oh What A Night” at least twice, smoke on the fire escape and do some shots downstairs when the slow songs came on. Then, just as the sludge started to congeal on the floors, the lights would come up and we’d stumble out the front door and swarm the hot dog man. Wow. We were cool.

Spend some time in the Cream Shop today and send us some Kelleher's-inspired Haiku. Even if you’ve never been inside, just picture the worst dive you’ve ever been in and the imagery will jive.

LPD and I will go head-to-head to get the ball rolling:

1)
Beautiful shithole
I can almost smell the sludge
Bruce Parker’s greasy
-KJ

2) Who is that I see?
Outside wearing Girbaud pants?
LP dares to swipe
A townie's leather jacket
-LPD

3)
Hot dog man frenzy
Feel the sludge on your shoe-boots
Puke behind Baybanks
-KJ

4) Slow dancing upstairs.
Downstairs, Kool-Aid shots for all!
Closing time is here.
Let's all drink more at Church Street.
-LPD


Cream Shop Friday is a feature on this blog aimed at causing distraction.

Quizzilla De Bags

This week's deliciously insightful, slightly probing quizzilla questions come courtesy of the Bags family.

1) What is the most annoying TV ad, past or present?
I would say the “Head On -- Apply directly to the forehead” commercial but I think its intent is to annoy. That said, I cannot STAND that ridiculous Avis commercial where the misty-eyed corporate traveler falls in love with his rental car’s GPS system because it not only helps him avoid traffic jams but also found him some “awesome Chinese.” This foolish discourse is only made more horrendous by “Total Eclipse of the Heart” playing in the background.

2) When was the last time you were lectured by one of your parents and for what?
I wouldn't call it lecturing so much as a running dissertation to discredit my childcare abilities (or lack thereof) and my doctor’s diagnoses that, according to my mother, should be taken with a grain of salt. For instance, both kids were diagnosed with double ear infections recently. Her reaction: “Ear infections? I don’t think so. Look at their faces. They are clearly suffering from sinus infections. Where did your doctor get his degree? Target?” It’s important to note here, that my mother is a retired English school teacher and doesn’t have a degree in medicine. I recently reminded her that you can never give kids aspirin because of the threat of Reyes Syndrome. Her response: “Well, I don’t believe in that, but that's your call.” Hundreds of doctors and years of medical research to the contrary simply cannot stand. In all fairness, it’s not just my mother. I hear the same story from everyone I know whose parents are in their 60s. It’s completely generational – and apparently the generation that chain smoked and boozed it up during pregnancy have a corner on the facts. But as my parents start spending more time in Florida every year, they're softening a bit, This week, they didn't have an opinion on childcare. They were more interested on sharing the details of their excursion to a gay bar in Marina Del Ray to see a Frank Sinatra impersonator. I’m thisclose to getting them to the cabaret show at Jacques.

3) When is the last time you had the bed spins?
After LPD’s Boston Marathon fundraiser a few years ago. The bed spins were preceded by the High Street spins and the cab spins. Nic and I drank three apple martinis a piece before the doors even opened. What a tawdry sideshow to behold.

4) Is Dice-K's gyroball fact or fiction?
I hope it exists as long as it’s in the hands of the good guys. In anyone else’s hands, I hope the gyroball proves itself to be as life-like as Godzilla or the Smog Monster.

5) Will Tom Brady's love child be a boy or girl?
If it turns out he’s knocked up both girlfriends, maybe he’ll get one of each.

OMFG...It's Actually Happened.

A few weeks ago, I was being completely facetious when I suggested that someone like Ricky Schroeder would be the next bizarre casting decision on 24. SO -- who pops up at CTU tonight but Little Lord Fauntleroy himself. I swear I had NO CLUE that he was going to be on the show. I haven't read anything or heard a peep about this -- which explains my incoherent outburst this evening. I was jumping up and down like a chimp, pointing at the TV in total disbelief over seeing the Ricker on screen. It was a total Chocolate Babies moment and I’m relishing it right now.

BEATLEJUICE: What to do now?

(Brad Delp, lead singer of the bands Boston and Beatlejuice, was found dead in his New Hampshire home on Friday.)



Tears. While I was never a big fan of Boston, I always loved going to see Beatlejuice at Johnny D's in Davis Square -- a venue the band has played numerous times since forming in 1996. I was on Johnny D's Web site just last week because I was in need of a fix. B-Juice -- one of the best Beatles cover bands of all time -- was actually scheduled to play there tonight. Sadness.

"We're really kind of walking around in a daze," Johnny D's booking agent, Dana Westove told the Globe last night.

Each of its more than 50 appearances was sold out and we were among them many times. Whenever we saw them, we transformed Johnny D's into a scene straight out of Jesus Camp. Total worship, wholly deserved.

According to the Globe:

Though some fans were initially drawn by Mr. Delp's Boston fame, they came back for the group's ebullient performances, in which he always dedicated "All You Need Is Love" to the lovers in the audience.

"Not only was the band really sharp, but Brad had this uncanny way of becoming John Lennon, and Paul McCartney and Harrison too," said Westover, who called Mr. Delp 'a dear friend' to the club. He planned to have a tribute to him at the venue last night.

"I think everyone who hears this news today, the first thing they think is, 'Oh my God, he was such a nice guy.' " Westover said. He was "one of the most congenial guys I ever met."

I love that observation. The music industry -- actually, any industry today -- is so packed with egos and self-important assholes. I think Brad Delp is being paid the highest compliment being recognized as not only a rock star, but a decent, down-to-earth person.

What to do now?

Click here to read Steve Morse's moving piece on Delp.

Cream Shop Friday: The New Tom Brady!

(Jan Brady used a curly black wig to transform her image. Will it work for Tom?)

Before he started working on his own twisted version of the Brady Bunch, Tom was a white bread midwestern boy whose downhome family values were so superior, he was invited to sit among George W’s posse of slack-jawed evangelicals at the State of the Union address a few years ago. He was a devout, God-fearing Catholic boy (he’s visited the POPE for goodness’ sake.) He was an immaculate role model who floated above us, sprinkling fairy dust on all who looked up to him.

Now he's facing an image problem of K-Fed-ian proportions. Brady’s balls of fury (with apologies to WMD) not only impregnated his ex-girlfriend Bridget Moynahan, but are rumored to have knocked up current flame Gisele Bundchen too. In less than three weeks, Brady's image has plummeted from that of Golden Boy to Baby Daddy.

Worse, he is now an official member of the unholy hypocrites.

Granted, he's not nearly as bad as Ted Haggard, the mega-church preacher who made a career of bashing gay people but conveniently neglected to mention his penchant for meth-fueled rendezvous with male prostitutes. (BTW, after 21 days of “restoration counseling,” Haggard proclaims he is now “100 percent heterosexual.” Heh.) Brady is also not on par with Fatty McButterpants himself -- Newt Gingrich -- who called out Bill Clinton for his fellatio-tinged morals but was having a full-blown – no pun intended -- extramarital affair at the same time.

But, like so many holy rollers before him, Brady has proven himself to be to "good" to be true.

I usually subscribe to a “live and let live” philosophy. However, the uber-religious tend to be very judgmental by nature, claiming that anyone who does not believe exactly as they do is a sinner. I despise that kind of provincial thinking, so I can’t help but pile on St. Tom.

In all fairness, the list of people who WOULDN’T want to have Tom Brady’s baby is short one -- Most of my friends would, James would, I would, and I know JAL would. Face it, when someone says “You’re the man,” the man they are referring to is Tom Brady. You can understand how looking at him may make someone ease up on the birth control -- consciously or subconsciously.

But the current rumors make him look like much less of a man. The rumor that Tom dumped Bridget Moynahan *because* she was pregnant then took up with a much younger Gisele because she was *not* (and probably did not want to be any time soon): Caddish.

So, with Gisele rumored to be PG as well, what now? If he moves on to another hot-looking babe, won’t that make him look even worse?

To be pondered in the Cream Shop: What will Tom Brady’s proverbial black wig be? If you were Tom’s PR/image consultant, what would you advise him to do? Claim true love ala Brad Pitt and settle down with Gisele even though he’s not ready? Convert to Mormonism and marry them both? Go to rehab for sexual addiction? Tearful repentance at a mega-church? Or do nothing -- “I’m Tom Brady for fuck’s sake.” You be the judge.

*Fabulous artwork courtesy of T-Bag.

Cellar Dwellers

I feel like I’ve neglected the PU this week. I am on zero sleep. For the past six nights, James and I have been locked in a fierce, all-night game of Whack-a-Mole. While it may sound fun and even a little dirty, I assure you it is neither. The kids are the would-be moles -- as one falls asleep, the other one pops up. Throw Vito into the mix and you get the idea. All three of them have us by the balls.

Caroline has been roaming around the house in the middle of the night since she could walk. Unfortunately Paulie started following in her footsteps this week. Each night has been almost identical:

1 a.m. I go to bed.

1:55 a.m. I fall asleep.

2 a.m.-ish For reasons unknown, Paulie wakes up and starts barking out unreasonable requests: Mama, can I go downstairs? Mama, can I have some juice, Mama, can I watch Max & Ruby? Mama, can you hold me? James and I take turns changing his diaper and giving him a watered-down Madras (Paulie will only drink orange & cranberry juice mixed together) and get him back to sleep.

3 a.m.-ish In all the commotion, Caroline – of course – wakes up and starts demanding some milk. If we deny the request, *she knows* all she has to do is start crying. *She knows* we’ll do anything to keep Paulie asleep so we can go back to bed. So I get her some milk. It’s 3 a.m., I’d get her a beer if she asked me for it if it meant she’d go back to bed without incident.

4 a.m.-ish We finally get Caroline back to sleep and Vito starts whining and scratching at the door to have a wee -- his Pavlovian reaction to the diaper-changing, juice-fetching bustle that normally happens much later in the morning. I head back downstairs and let him out. I stand shivering in the doorway, watching him, just in case I have to chase away any coyotes with a hockey stick.

4:15 a.m-ish As I head back upstairs, Caroline is walking downstairs. I bring her back to her bed where she proceeds to cough and toss and turn for the next hour.

5:15-ish - 6 a.m. SLEEEEEEPING.

6 a.m. Time to get up.

So, we’ve averaged about 30-45 minutes of sleep a night and the mental and physical effects of sleep deprivation are really starting to manifest.

Earlier today, I caught myself staring into space for I don’t know how long. I think I actually fell asleep sitting up with my eyes open.

On Tuesday, I decided to warm up the car before taking Caroline to school. When we were ready to go, I proceeded to tear the house apart looking for my car keys for at least 20 minutes before realizing they were already in the ignition.

Yesterday, I was heading to the post office but ended up at Whole Foods.

James, who refers to this week of all-nighters as “a kick in the teeth,” is not faring much better. He just proposed that, starting tonight, we take turns sleeping on the couch in the cellar. He figures at least one of us would get a good night’s sleep. So, this is what it’s all come down to. We got through the round-the-clock feedings and diaper changes, through teething and separation anxiety and now almost four years later we’re taking turns sleeping in the cellar. A small price to pay, I guess, for one’s sanity. Either that, or my family is totally gaslighting me.

Womb Raider: A Psychoanalysis

Angelina Jolie needs help. It is clear she's suffering from a serious addiction to adopting orphans from the world's shitholes. Last week, an adoption agency in Vietnam announced she has filed papers to adopt a little Vietnamese playmate for her son. Someone needs to stage an intervention...and soon!


Pointy Note: I can’t even mention Brad Pitt here without going off on a tangent. So let's just say he seems like an emasculated pull toy who is likely locked in bat powder-lined closet in NOLA, only rolled out for diaper changes and staged family photo ops.


Back to Jolie: Does anyone else sense a Mommie Dearest theme happening here? When Joan Crawford was the Queen Whore of Hollywood, she decided to adopt some kids to soften her image. She proceeded to pimp out the kids for publicity whenever it served her needs but had little use for them otherwise.


In the late 90s, Jolie was the reigning psychoslut in Hollywood. With vials of blood and tats galore, she loved regaling the media with tales of how she used knives during sex. On the red carpet at the Golden Globes, she and Billy Boy Thornton told reporters they’d screwed in the limo on the way there. A few years earlier, she practically dry humped her own brother at the Oscars. Suddenly, she was box office poison.

Then, she adopts Maddox from Cambodia. When crazy-as-hell Billy Bob leaves because even he can't handle her lunacy, Jolie emerges as a martyred single mother dedicated to a noble humanitarian mission. Her career shows signs of life again.

Around the same time, Brad Pitt was wimpering on all of the talk shows about wanting to be a father. Looking for a father figure, Jolie reportedly used Maddox on the set of Mr. & Mrs. Smith to mesmerize Pitt into seeing what a caring earth mother she was. Joan Crawford apparently snagged one of her husbands by dangling her adopted kids and dreams of "the perfect family" before him.

When suspicions arise that Jolie and Pitt are having an affair on the set, Jolie gets up on her soapbox ranting about how she'd never be attracted to a man who would cheat on his wife because her father cheated on her mother. So, when she becomes pregnant with Brad's child while he's still married to Jennifer Aniston, she needs a distraction from her own hypocrisy...and fast. So she snaps up an Ethiopian kid before news of the pregnancy gets out. Her image remains one of humanitarian instead of homewrecker. The next thing you know, she's dressing and speaking like Gwyneth Paltrow and her career is hitting a high point.

[Personally, I preferred Jolie when she was bat shit crazy.]

Now, with her recent spate of bad press, she’s adopting yet another impoverished kid, this time from Vietnam. By doing so, she is telling the world to cut her some slack because her reserves of altruism and selflessness are even deeper than one could have imagined.

Of course, many people do exactly what Jolie does every day without their own camera crews paid to photograph them in flattering lighting and perfect lipgloss.

I predict it's only a matter of time before current It-Whore Paris Hilton goes the Mommie Dearest route and starts collecting little Russian babies with little furry Russian hats.

Check out this hilarious video spoof "Womb Raider" where Jolie invades third world villages, stealing children from unsuspecting families. "Run! Angelina is coming!" Asian school children scream as they duck for cover." Priceless.

Random Quizzilla

1) What was a funny word you said as a child (such as "pasketti" for "spaghetti")?
I used to call thunder “BAHnoo.”

2) Do you have a scar anywhere on your body? If so, what caused it?
I’ve got several. I have a pretty substantial one my left side from a spinal fusion I had when I was 15. It’s faded a lot over the years. I used to love to tell people who inquired about it that I “got knifed.” I have a small six-inch C-section scar courtesy of the wee brown ones – it’s barely noticeable anymore. I’ve also got a tiny three-inch scar caused by a flying Dr. Scholl’s Exersole sandal and a small one on my right knee that I got after falling off my bike when I was nine.

3) Have you ever seen a tornado (in real life)?
No, but I am dying to. Obviously, I don’t want to be hit by one or anything but I am a certified storm whore and can't get enough of big-ass thunderstorms. One day, I hope to convince my family to join me on a Stormchasing vacation on tornado alley. It's gotta be more fun than Disney World.

4) Are you a dog person or a cat person? What does the answer say about you?
I'm definitely a dog person but I like cats too. I think it says I'm a spaz.

5) Fill in the blank: I have always thought __make(s) me look __.
I have always thought that bangs make me look like Pat Benatar. But I watched the Devil Wears Prada last night and now I want them. Someone PLEASE talk me out of it.