You Don't Sweat Much for a Fat Girl

by Rivenbark, Celia

  “I want bodyguards and an entourage like Fabolous!” I pouted to the driver that morning.

  “Who?” he asked. Oh, gawd. Could he be any more white and middle-aged male?

  “Duhhhhh. The guy with all the cars back there. And the entourage. I mean, no offense, but all I got is you.”

  “So what’s so bad about me?”

  “Nothing, really,” I said, sounding churlish even to my own ears. “But let’s just say that I don’t think Fabolous ever has to ride around with a hundred pounds of dog food in the back seat.”

  From the studio, we headed to a breakfast place, since the cruller was long gone, having been sweated away with the excitement of seeing a celebrity.

  I picked at my Greek omelet and home fries and felt a little better thinking about how Fab’s entourage wasn’t eating anything nearly as nice as I was, so maybe things weren’t so dreary after all.

  So, in honor of Fabolous, who has no idea I am even alive, much less in awe of sorta meeting him, I have written a rap song.

  ODE TO FABOLOUS …

  I saw U in the A.M.

  It was sorta surreal

  Hangin’ with your homeboys

  Damn! They love a fast-food meal

  CHORUS

  You say your pops was lousy

  The dude walked out on you

  If I could bust him in the jaw

  I’d do it, yeah, it’s true

  Yeah, I rock the Talbotwear

  Boucle jacket look so hot

  Judge not this book from cover, though

  You don’t know me from squat

  I’m old enough to be your moms

  But that don’t mean I’m dead

  Cuz cool is ageless, word it is

  And smarts is in your head

  CHORUS

  You say your pops was lousy

  The dude walked out on you

  If I could bust him in the jaw

  That’s just what I’d do.

  Copyright 2010 Talbot’s Petite Gun Party Records.

  10

  Loonies Litter Landscape of (snicker) The Learning Channel

  Octomom’s all over the TV again, and y’all have no idea how hard I’ve tried to avoid screaming, “You crazy bitch!” out loud every single time I see her give an interview.

  The pups are a year old as I write this, bless their tiny, still-developing hearts. I wish them lives of sunshine and rainbows and unlimited really good-quality ice cream, not the gummy cheap stuff, because, let’s face it, that nutty broodmare of a mama they got is likely to try again.

  I know, I know. It’s none of our business if she wants to keep that clown car of a uterus of hers on go. Right you are. So why does she make me crazy?

  Hmmmmm. OK, I got it! It’s because she’s still yakking about becoming a counselor.

  OK, she’s got fourteen kids, no job, and no husband, but she’s going to counsel others? This is like getting relationship advice from Chris Brown; in other words, a colossally bad idea.

  Could it only have been a year ago that we were introduced to Miz Thang and her sad family? Remember how her daddy crowed that a job had just opened up for him in Iraq so he wouldn’t be around to help out?

  I feel ya, dude. You have to be pretty desperate to flee sunny California for Iraq voluntarily. But I’m guessing he’d eat sand-and-mustard sandwiches for months rather than hang out in that loony bin.

  And poor Octomom’s mother is probably not far behind her husband. She’s probably browsing the help-wanted ads in the Kabul Penny Saver right about now.

  Remember, she said she was “upset” when she learned that there were eight buns in the oven and they’d all be living with her in a three-bedroom house.

  Upset?

  No. Upset is when you do that thing where you’re brushing your teeth and all of a sudden the brush goes up your nostril for no good reason. This is, well, bigger than upset.

  Truth is, I struggle with this whole subject a little because it’s tacky to poke fun at people who are, and I will use the clinical psychiatric term here, crazier’n a sprayed roach. It’s the same way I feel guilty looking at those “People of Walmart” photos that you see on the Internet. It’s not cool to make fun of pitiful people. You really think anyone who wasn’t batshit crazy would walk out of the house in a camouflage mankini and a Confederate flag ball cap to go buy some new furnace filters? No, he’s cray-cray.

  The only joy I got out of Octomom’s weird saga was how much it probably pissed off Kate Gosselin. Don’t you know she was freaking out about the possibility that Octoloon was going to inherit her show?

  (“At least Jon and I were married. I mean, excuse my language, but criminy!”)

  TLC loves freaky-big families. Low TV moment of the TLC week: When Jim Bob Duggar, daddy of nineteen and counting, advised his young bridegroom son that “sex is a lot like Legos.” I was hoping his bride-to-be would get wind of that and run like her clothes were on fire but, no. Like Legos? What does that even mean?

  So while I’m uncomfortable snickering at people photographed while looking tacky at Walmart, I’m fine with berating those who set themselves up for publicity.

  Which brings me to The Real Housewives of New Jersey. Y’all I had to start watching that show every week because, well, my IQ was just too high. I mean seriously up there. What can I tell you? After watching every episode, I am now officially as dumb as that brown, particle-like stuff you find outside and don’t want to track inside the house. Rhymes with “wirt,” I think.

  The housewives are completely diverse personalities—that is, if your idea of diversity is every woman is loud, catty, big-haired or big-“bubbied” (their favorite word for breasts, don’tchaknow) and they make Fran Drescher’s nasal Nanny sound like James Earl Jones.

  Let me give you the skinny, in case you decide to tune in for the next season.

  First, there’s Caroline, the matriarch type who is kind of a low talker compared to the others. I can never quite make out what she’s saying but it sounds a lot like, “If that whore lays her hands on my precious son, Albie, I’m gonna dump her bony body in the Pine Barrens, I’m just saying, yada-yada, fughedaboutit, cannoli.”

  To which her sister-in-law and the designated peacemaker of the bunch, Jersey wife Jacqueline, will just say, “Anyways, who wants a mani-pedi and I really want to have a third baby despite the fact that I appear to binge-drink champagne in the middle of a Wednesday afternoon. Anyways, don’t judge me!”

  Dina has a bored-by-it-all tone and frequently kvetches that she doesn’t “have time for all the drama.” Which makes me want to point out that most folks who don’t have time for drama don’t say that in front of a roomful of TV lights and cameras. It’s possible that big-sister Caroline low-talk threatened her into doing the show. Dina is more of a faux housewife because we rarely see Mr. Dina. He’s more of an idea than an actual person, I think.

  Formerly flat-chested Teresa spent the first four episodes talking about how her simpleton husband, Joe, liked her the way she was and that was good enough for her. But that doesn’t make for interesting TV so fast-forward a few episodes and there’s Joe telling Teresa’s plastic surgeon that he’d like to see her with some “full Cs.” Teresa giggles and agrees to all this and now no longer weeps while trying on bikinis with the girls in Atlantic City. Oy vey.

  And finally there’s faux wife Danielle, whom the others hate because they think she’s too skanky to hang out with women as classy as they are. There’s much sniping behind backs, tearful reconciliations, and then worse sniping than ever. It’s middle school all over again only with way too much leopard furniture. So, yes, I are dumber now than when I started watching those Real Housewives. Mission accomplice, I always say.

  And just when I thought the bar couldn’t get any lower (assuming Octomom doesn’t get the show she dreams of), I discovered the show, My Monkey Baby. Not since the debut of I Didn’t Know I Was Pregnant! have I been this excited.

  This should answer, on
ce and for all, those satellite TV ingrates who love to whine about how they have 856 channels and nothing to watch. I repeat: monkey babies.

  Who could resist following the daily hijinks of Jessica Marie, a girl monkey with her own pink bedroom, designer clothes, toys, games, and makeup?

  TLC, which used to stand for The Learning Channel but now stands for Titillating Losers for Cash, follows quasiredneck couple Lori and Jim Johnson as they, seriously, examine the questions “How strong is the parent/monkey bond?” and, my personal favorite, “Can a monkey really be a child substitute?”

  TLC, sounding downright journalistic, promises that My Monkey Baby explores “the real lives of people parenting monkeys in America.” Thank the sweet Lord above that Walter Cronkite isn’t alive to see this.

  Standing in the canned ravioli aisle at a Tarzana Safeway wearing ratty bedroom scuffs, the Octomom is probably slapping her forehead.

  “Monkey babies! Why didn’t I think of that?”

  Monkey mama Lori has two grown, human daughters of her own, but apparently they were much harder to hold down and administer blush and lipstick to.

  “She loves it!” coos Lori, while Jessica Marie gazes stupidly at a tube of something that was probably tested on her long-lost cousin.

  I’m sorry I said “stupidly.” Wouldn’t want to set Jim off. He gets a might riled if you call Jessica Marie a monkey.

  “Don’t call her that! She’s my daughter one hundred percent!”

  Given his propensity to wax philosophic over a cold ’un while a cigarette bounces up and down on his lip, who am I to argue? Maybe he has the DNA test to prove it.

  I smell ratings bonanza here. No, sorry. That was just Jessica Marie flinging something. But I seriously believe that TLC could craft a TV special here that melds all of its best efforts from the TLC/Discovery family.

  Those wacky Duggars (see “Legosex,” above) should add a few monkey babies to the mix. The only problem would be convincing the monkeys to give up their computer skills in favor of wearing gingham aprons and writing on a slate.

  Or Jessica Marie, who wears pink sparkly tutus, I kid you not, could compete in the gruesomely watchable Toddlers & Tiaras, a show in which fathers of little-girl beauty pageant contestants dare to teach dance routines while claiming not to be gay at all.

  If Jim, Jessica Marie’s possible bio-dad, lurched around the corner in his wife beater at just the wrong time, those feisty Police Women of Broward County could wrassle him to the ground and Tase him just like they do in every show. Carmindy, the comely makeup artist from What Not to Wear could then wax, well, everything.

  Meanwhile, with Jon and Kate’s little family off the air thanks to Jon’s unfortunate penchant for cheatin’, the good news is that Octomom might finally get her shot.

  I imaging she’s licking those inflated lips of hers over the prospect.

  “Did someone call for a mother of multiples who has sleek Angelina Jolie-like hair? Because I had my eight all at one time, not just six like Kate Gosselin. I mean anyone could have six babies at one time. Please. I could do that while I’m checking out at Costco.”

  So Octonut may, at last, get her close-up. Like they always say, when one door closes, another eight or so open in the oversized custom maxi van provided by sponsors.

  I’m sure the folks at TLC are only slightly jittery about replacing the Gosselins with a woman who thinks that Brad Pitt actually belongs to her, and I don’t mean Ann Curry, bless her heart. (Note to NBC: Give Ann Curry a vacation. She touched Brad’s face during an interview! The only people allowed to do that are Angelina and maybe George Clooney.)

  Meanwhile, sad Kate Gosselin hopes to rise like a publicity-crazed phoenix from the ashes of Jon’s burned and slashed Ed Hardy T-shirts (could he possibly look like more of a doofus?). She’s entertaining the notion of hosting a TV talk show, which would be perfect for viewers who find Tyra too intellectually challenging.

  No offense, but really, what does Kate bring to the talk-show table? I’m picturing the first week of shows based on Kate’s ideas … .

  Monday: Why Jon Cheated on Me With That Skank

  Tuesday: Jon’s Hairplugs Look Stupid, Don’t They?

  Wednesday: Jon Gosselin’s a bed wetter (and other fun facts)

  Thursday: All Eight Kids Tell Why They Hate Jon and Why They Think Our Bodyguard Is Way More Buff and Looks a Little Like Mark Harmon, Am I Right?”

  Friday: Everybody Who Hates Jon Gets a Free Pontiac!

  A talk show could also be problematic for Kate because she has a vexing habit of making up questions and answering them herself and calling that conversation:

  “Did I feel angered and betrayed by Jon’s selfishness? You bet I did.”

  “Do I want dressing on the side? Yes, absolutely I do.”

  “Is it completely hypocritical to kvetch about the paparazzi while courting them at the same time? You betcha!”

  Octomom, your moment is now. Seize the day, you crazy-ass breed cow. And when you go into that meeting, you might want to take Caroline with you. Just saying.

  11

  You Know You Want It: Snuggie’s Embrace Will Melt You

  Here in the South, we don’t really do cold. Cold weather is, frankly, unseemly. We have no desire to experience it and we even feel a tad dizzy and nauseous when confronted with the sight of Southerners wading through snow drifts on the nightly news, bundled in layers of clothes.

  The only time Southerners like layers is when they’re in the ruffled tulle of our wedding gowns (or perhaps in the sixteen-layer chocolate cakes our sainted grandmothers used to make). If we wanted snow and cold weather, we would move to someplace like Minnesota, which even native son Garrison Keillor describes as “a state where people’s tongues are routinely frozen to metal objects.”

  Here in the middle of the coldest winter I can remember, the weather announcer has said that today’s high will be seventeen. I want my mommy.

  The only thing that’s funny about this weather in our South is that it brings out the braggart in all the many thousands of Yankees who have moved here.

  Oh, how they chuckle at our quaint complaints. The ruder ones are openly disdainful of our pouty reactions to this late unpleasantness.

  “You call this cold?” one said to me. “Ha! When we lived in Buffalo, winters were so cold the flashers would stop women and show them a picture of themselves naked.”

  Yes, well, yok, yok, yok. All I know is, this morning, the weatherman said those two words that are like kryptonite to a Southerner: “Black ice.”

  The very name conjures images of church vans overturned on interstates, and sends shivers down our already shivered spines.

  Here is a typical conversation between a Southern mama and her Southern daughter in the event of a prediction of the dreaded black ice from the TV weatherman:

  Mama: “You can’t go out tonight. John Bob on Channel 7 says it’s going to be real bad out there.”

  Daughter: “Oh, Mama, you’re so silly. I’m going out tonight and you can’t stop me. Now stop worrying!”

  Mama (smiling slightly): “He said there would be … black ice on the highways.”

  Daughter: “What y’all wanna watch on TV tonight?”

  Northerners are unconcerned about black ice or anything else. To hear them tell it, our new Yankee-transplant neighbors never took their babies out in strollers. They simply balanced them on their feet, March of the Penguins-style, and went about their errands.

  There was no mistaking the braggy tone of a transplant who moved here from North Dakota. He put his dog outside for a few minutes so it could do its business one night and it froze to death in mid poop.

  “Yah, sure, it froze to death right dere, you betcha.”

  Keeping all this in mind, you can just imagine the reaction of these newcomers when our local public schools delayed opening a couple of hours “on account of it being real cold.” Yep, that’s what they said in just those words.

  I didn’t see
anything funny about that. It seemed like a perfectly acceptable reaction to me. We Southerners aren’t built to endure cold. We are gentle creatures that look best in sundresses and skin that is dewy with humidity. I will never again complain about a brutal August heat. This morning, it was fifty-nine degrees in my living room and I made coffee while wearing gloves.

  There’s nothing wrong with my heating system. It’s just, like the rest of us, utterly depressed by such ridiculous expectations. Our hands, feet, and faces are chapped, rough, and red. We are sleeping in, may God have mercy on our Southern souls, sweat pants.

  Meanwhile, as far south as Orlando, there were reports of snow flurries. At Disney World, it was rumored that even Winnie the Pooh was finally contemplating putting on some pants, surely a sign of the end times.

  There is one thing good to have come out of this awful cold snap we’ve experienced: The Snuggie.

  When I opened the birthday gift from my mother-in-law a few months earlier, I had let loose with a snobby little chuckle. That was back in September when we were enjoying our normal 98 percent humidity. Good times.

  “Wow,” I said when I opened the box. Didn’t see that one coming. A Snuggie. As seen on TV. My mother-in-law gave me a blanket with sleeves. I fretted that she was afraid I’d gained so much weight that I wouldn’t be able to wear anything else, but she swore that wasn’t so.

  Still, a Snuggie just seemed so, I don’t know, mediocre. What was I supposed to do? Wear it as I trudged through the sycamore leaves to the mailbox to see if my Cash 4 Gold check had arrived yet?

  The Snuggie, like the ShamWow, was just such an infomercial hoot. You could combine the two and really have something, I told my m-i-l, a tad ungraciously, now that I think about it.

  “Why not make a Snuggie entirely out of ShamWows, put it on, hose yourself down and then roll around the floor, cleaning as you go.”