Thursday, December 22, 2005


Okay, here is my official holiday post. It will be followed in a few weeks with my post holiday post. That doesn't sound right, but I'm rolling with it. Moving on. So this year, I decided to make cookies for Christmas. I don't know what came over me except that I am sick of going to the wine store and tying ribbons around wine that I pick by price and foreign-ity of label, because I don't really know how any of it tastes. I know foregin-ity isn't a word, but I like it okay. Anyway, this year, I endeavored to actually use my oven, which I bought on craigslist for $75 bucks. I figured I should get my money's worth.

So I called up my mamacita and asked her how to make polvorones, aka the mexican wedding cookie aka the thing that makes me fatter every year especially when combined with tamales. She found a recipe from my cousin and so I was off to the store to buy the following:

1 5 pound bag of flour
1 5 pound bag of sugar
2 pounds of manteca aka lard
1 cookie sheet and one xmas bell cookie cutter because I don't cook



I got home, opened a beer, put on The Notebook and I was off to work. I mixed my 8 cups of flour with my 2 cups of sugar with my whopping 1 1/2 pounds of manteca together with my hands. It was gooshy. It smelled like refried beans. It was gross. I made some anis and cinnamon tea and put that in there with a questionable egg that was in my fridge. Do eggs go bad? I don't know. But it didn't smell bad so I went with it. Let other people get sick. Who cares.

I rolled out my dough and I started to cut the cookies. I put them on the sheet, baked them, rolled them in the sugar and voila - I had polvorones! Wow, who knew that baking could be so fulfilling? It was crazy. People should use their ovens more often.

Then it was time to taste test the polvorones. I took a little bite. Flakey. Sweet. Mixed with a little bit of....what is that taste....I can't quite fat. My polvorones tasted like dead pig. All I could taste was the manteca. I ate two and my stomach was a mess the rest of the night. I'm not used to eating all that manteca. It was really upsetting. I asked my mom to taste her polvorones. Do they taste like dead cow? No, she said. They taste like cookies. Maybe I was missing something because mine tasted like I was eating a dead pig rolled in sugar. I was angry.

I tried one the next day. Nope. Still tasted like dead animal.

I asked my mom what I should do. Should I go buy Shortening? The fat of the white people? Mexicans keep it real with Manteca. White people buy Crisco. She told me to try it.

So the next day, I opened another beer, turned on The Notebook again, and tried the process over, this time with shortening. It worked. My polvorones were fantastic. They didn't taste bad. They were delicious. So delicious that I wanted to eat them all. But I restrained.

I guess I'll just call my cookies polvoroneys because they have a little bit of white people in them. But I promise to never eat out of an Ortega Taco Kit. Then I'd be in trouble.

Stay tuned for next week when I give the recap of My Big Fat Mexican Christmas. Let's see who gets drunk by noon, let's see who doesn't show up, let's see who only brings 2 liters of sodas to the potluck. I hope the baby jesus doesn't cry.

If Rachel & Ryan can do can you!

This is for all my New York friends (you know how you are suckas) who are making the walking trek across the city due to the strike. Know that you are getting good cardio done. Know that you will have tight gluts. Know that you just might spot the cutest couple in the world. A little McGosling can always put a little hop in your step during that 6 mile walk to or from work. Normally, I complain about all the human contact that I am bombarded with on the streets of New York. But if I had to walk across the city and ran into these guys, I wouldn't mind so much. Hang in there guys!

Wednesday, December 14, 2005

Things That Make Me Cringe

The Cringe Factor is supremely underrated. When I watched the Ashlee Simpson snafu on SNL with my comadres, one of them, "The Baby", got so embarrassed for La Ashlee that she changed the channel and we missed half of the how-down dance. There is something about the Cringe Factor that is just emotionally indefinable. I mean, it's so spectacularly terrible that you can't believe your eyes, your brain doesn't know what to do, and there is a schism that often paralyzes you into half laughter, half open mouthed wonder.

Today I found a terribly cringe worthy moment online. Witness it ladies and gentleman. Clay Aikin's flirtation with heterosexuality. Poor Kelly Clarkson. I'm sure this cost her thousands in therapy bills.

Tuesday, December 13, 2005


I have no words. No words. Okay, maybe a few words. Like what the fuck is going on in this picture? Is that world so warped that this is appropriate public behavior? I don't know what to say, which is I guess appropriate, since Chaplin made silent movies. Oh. My. God. Seek. Help. Now. This is what happens when you don't listen to your trusted assistant. Where is Arlene, J.Lo? You need to keep that bitch as close as Jessica Simpson keeps CaCee Corncob. Buy her a car. Something. For the love of God, woman. You were busted already, but if there were any doubt before, it's over now. He's ruined you.



I've had a almost a week to sit with my feelings about King Kong. And you know what? It wasn't just that it wasn't my kind of movie. It was one person's kind of movie. It's the movie that smelly, IT, virgin nerds like. It's the kind of movie made for people who would rather live in a fantasy world and play Dungeons & Dragons and Magic: The Gathering at Comicon because they are so socially inept that they can't function in the real world with the rest of us. It's the kind of movie for people like that dork on Ain't It Cool News or Roger Ebert or that guy who sat next to you in science lab with boogers. It's the kind of movie that makes you think again when you sit in a movie theatre seat and things are sticky (ew!). So when people try and tell you that King Kong is some epic movie where they were just a little bored, but it was a Peter Jackson film, so it's okay that their ass fell asleep - well - they are lying to you! When you hear commercials with that "serious film voice over" voice, know that people are fucking with your head. It's hardly a serious movie, let alone a movie at all. What a load of crap! ARGH!!!

Friday, December 09, 2005

Kong Yawn

So my very nice friend invited me to see a preview screening of KING KONG. And while I would normally have no desire to see a movie about a big Ape, I went for the chicken wings and snacks that were provided before the show. Universal makes a mean peanut butter cookie, let me tell you.
So King Kong is probably one of the most anticipated movies of Christmas, along with the Chinese Geisha and the Gay Cowboys. You know that everyone is going to go on Christmas day to go see this big epic action film by the "DIRECTOR OF THE LORD OF THE RINGS!". Well I'm glad I got it over with because, damn, that movie was the most ridiculous waste of 3 hours and 10 minutes of my life next to my last visit to the DMV. Someone needs to have a talk with my boy Peter Jackson because he has been smoking the Hobbit Hooka too long and hard if he thinks that people want to sit through shit like that for that long. Here are some rules for PJ when he starts thinking about his next movie:

1. Long action sequences are boring. After 2 minutes, we get it. We don't need to drag it on for 10 minutes. I don't like to run that much, let alone watch other people do it.

2. Dialogue is a important. 10 minutes with no dialogue makes you, how should I put this delicately, FUCKING BORED! This isn't the age of silent film for the love of christ. Let the actors speak so that they can earn their salaries.

3. Jack Black is a comedian. Jack Black is not a dramatic actor. He just isn't. I love him in School of Rock, but I just can't take him seriously with that smirk on his face. Sorry.

4. A good wig maker will make or break your movie. When I have to see people's fake hair lines 40 feet high, it just takes me out of the movie. I have to be honest here. I can't stand looking at Naomi Watts with shitty hair. I'm sure that King Kong was annoyed by it too. I know he loved her so he moved past it. But why are you making the rest of us suffer? Take a cue from Nic Cage. He works that shit into his budgets.

5. Dudes climbing mountains isn't that interesting. When the hobbits climbed the mountains for a half an hour in the Lord of the Rings, I got really pissed. It made me mad. Why? Because I didn't pay to see a fucking nature documentary about Mount Everest! CGI alone, does not a good story make. So why do people have to be all up in the mountains again in King Kong? We've seen it. We've had our fill. For the love of God, move on. The rest of us have.

6. Colin Hanks sucks. He is ugly. He looks like his dad. He sounds like his dad. He walks like his dad. He probably bones like his dad. He probably only scores with ugly chicks. I'm over it. Why do people put this retard in their movies? He's so fucking annoying. I want to punch him in the face. Your face is stupid Colin. YOU HEAR ME?!

7. Naomi Watts needs motivation. I have to take a moment and give some props to Naomi Watts because sister acted on a gimble behind a greenscreen with a bunch of New Zealanders standing around eating craft service and somehow she had to get all up in her character and pretend she was falling in love with a big monkey who looks like my dog, Buddy. So props to you Naomi. But is it just me, or did you look the same in every scene?


In the end, I know I'm just not the right audience for this movie. I'm not making any illusions. The top of my Christmas Movie List right now includes The Family Stone, Rumor Has it, Syriana and Brokeback Mountain. I liked Peter Jackson circa Heavenly Creatures, but that's just me. I'm sure that Peter Jackson could give a flying fuck what I think of his movie and that it will rake in the bucks for Uni, but next time, I'll pass. Unless there's cookies.

Thursday, December 01, 2005

Jen Garner Explodes!

It's official after an 18 month gestation period, Jennifer Garner finally gave birth to a baby girl. After much speculation that she had actually swallowed Jennifer Lopez (using her unhingable man-jaw) and kept her prisoner in her belly, rumors were squelched when she actually birthed the Garner/Affleck Zygote named Violet on Thursday. Affleck was on hand with a bottle filled with Starbucks Vanilla Soy Lattes for both mom and baby. Marc Anthony cackled in evil laughter after fooling us all for so long.

Photo: A Socialite's Life

Friday, November 18, 2005

We Get It...Now Comb Your Hair

Michelle Rodriguez is bad. We know that. We get it Michelle. You’re a bad girl on and off the screen. You box, you surf, you race cars, you are on S.W.A.T. teams, and now you’re all agro on the deserted island of Lost. When I saw you on the island, I knew that something was up. You clenched your little horsy teeth and I knew you weren’t unhappy because you were eating mangos and needed a bath. It’s because you were up to no good. I still don’t trust you Michelle. You little Rambina, you. You’re a bad ass mofo who likes to kill innocent blonde white girls who’ve had a tough life. Now you’re going to try and move in on the Kate-Jack-Sawyer love triangle on the show. I ain’t having it. Why don’t you get with Claire or Sun. You know you like chicks. We all know you do. Stop lying to yourself. The island is all about starting over. Embrace the pooty. If you did, I bet you wouldn’t be so damn angry all the time. All suspicious and shit.

And while you’re at it, can’t you find some fucking coconut oil or something to put in your hair? You’re doing gelats a disservice by allowing the world to see your fly-aways. If it were me, I would have had that written into my contract. Why do you think Evangeline Lilly never looks busted? Because she regulated. You need to stop being all conspiracy theorist and start taking care of what’s important. Your looks. Pretty people don’t die on la isla bonita, only the ugly dispensable people do. I’m just sayin’.

Friday, November 04, 2005

Gwen Stefani: Chola Couture

Whud up peoples? Me, nada. Anyways so yeah, you seen that new video for “Luxurious” by my homegirl la Gwena? She’s all ruca’ed out and shit. Damn peoples, her eyebrows were all perfect and shit. She even had a tear drop on her eye like she was going to fill it in when her viejo Gavin was out on tour and left her all alonez. Chale, if my man did that to me I would be like “Fuck that, viejo. I know there’s all these hoodrats and scrapas out there trying to get wit-choo.” Nah, I ain’t having that. Those little putas better watch their backs cuz La Gwena would throw down, no joke. She has a big ole posse up in that video. The little japonesas are all up with do rags and shit in their little straight hair. Bien Harajuku. La Gwena even shows some respeto to Frida Kahlo in this one part with the dress and hair y todo. It’s perdy bad. She has this one shirts that has La Virgen on it that’s perdy cool pero, you have to be careful with that because your moms might not like you to be getting all sexy with La Virgen on your chess you knowz? Yeah so anyways, La Madonna better watch her back too with her little 80’s videos, because La Gwena is straight up Anaheims. Anaheims is hard core, don’t let El Mickey or La Minnie fool you foolio. Stoooopid. Homegirl La Gwena has shown her true placa on this one. Props to you Gwena. You’re my homegirl por vida. Punto.

Monday, October 17, 2005

Um. No.

Ok, this is just wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. My eyes are burning. Ahhhhhh! Marc Anthony obviously is slipping Jennifer drugs or something because I seriously cannot even comprehend the seriously fucked up event occurring in this photo. He looks like he is going to get grease all over her! You see how his hand is all knotted up and he is shoving her to him? It's because she's afraid he's going to hit her. She's afraid of him gente. ASUSTADA! She should be afraid. She should be afraid for herself, her future, and her womb because if she grows a little sapo Anthony baby in there it' s going to come out a salamander and turn into a little frog. A greasy little frog that can dance, but a frog none the less. Rib-bit. Ugh. I just got the chills. Gross.

Friday, October 14, 2005

Anatomy of a Gelat Sweet 16

My Super Sweet Sixteen has been on my mind lately. A lot. A lot, a lot. And not in a good way. Last season it was all about Ava. Her dad “ruuuuuined her birthdayyyyy!” because he didn’t get her the Land Rover she demanded with a stomp and a pout. Hart came in a close second when his father instructed him to hire hookers off the street to populate his empty party. Insert sounds of crickets here. Then there was that girl from Roswell with the complex because people thought she was rancho and was going to only invite Mulder and Scully to her party. It was all very interesting. I watched it. I enjoyed it. I digested it….though sometimes it sat in my stomach like a rock for a while because I just couldn’t believe what my peeps were peepin’ when these little bitches were getting BMW’s at 16. I’m 29 and drive a Honda. Let’s keep it real.

But this year the tables were turned. Things changed. And you know why they changed? Because the Gelats got involved. That’s right. MTV finally decided to bring it home, show us where it all started, back to the peeps who really know how to throw a party….the parents of young latino girls.

This season we had the pleasure of meeting Lila and Janelle, Mexican and Cuban respectively. And these two little gelat princesas threw their parties in style. Let’s recap together what a real Super Sweet 16 should look like.

Anatomy of a Gelat Super Sweet 16

Your Father should be very mysterious and make ambiguous references to his work. We all know he is a drug dealer or Narco, but girl we won’t tell. Noticed how Lila lived in San Diego, very close to the border? We never saw her dad really. Her mom had very good taste and came from a wealthy family from the motherland. Wealthy Mexicans is a bit of an oxymoron on most days. But not when you are talking about wealthy Mexicans within close proximity to that big giant fence separating the United States from Mexico. For me, the private plane with the Mexican flag embossed on the side was a tell tale sign that these people don’t fuck around. Hmmm. Janelle lives in Florida. And while you might think that Florida is all about sunshine and sandy beaches. It’s also about snow, the kind that goes up your nose. Janelle’s dad kind of hung out and handed her large amounts of cash. He also had a hairy chest and rings. While not wholly incriminating, they make you wonder.

Be afraid of your moms. Be very afraid. You notice how all the other little brats on My Super Sweet 16 were all up in their mother’s grills, throwing fits and being little mocosas. Not Lila and Janelle. When they got out of line, one word from their mothers and that was it. They clammed up like little abalones. When Lila’s mom didn’t like the dress she picked out in Vegas, all she had to say was “I don like eet.” “But mammmmiiii!” “I say, I don like eet. No Lila!” Done and done. When Janelle tried to blame the hair dresser for the upsetting ponytails that her damas wore, she too gave a “But mammmmiiiii”…to which her mother replied “I don like them. They look like horses. Don’t blame the hair dresser, Janelle. Do them over. NOW!” Done and done.

You crash the party, you deal with moms. Lila’s mom had silver charms engraved in Mexico with numbers on them to denote people’s invitation to her daughter’s party. She then proceeded to stand at the door and bite every single one of them with her teeth to determine their authenticity. Ouch. Janelle’s mom told some little booty party crashers that they weren’t invited and they should leave, besides their outfits weren’t nice enough to get into the party anyway. Latino mothers have their standards!

All dancing will be choreographed. Gelats don’t like to make fools out of themselves. We all pride ourselves in our sense of rhythm. That’s why Janelle had some serious choreography going on in her quincieanera. There was a waltz, a salsa, a rumba. Those little latin hips were a shakin’. Lila’s mom hired a groupo from good old Tijuana, clad in silk lime green shirts to lead the whole party in choreographed fantastical joyousness.

Remember, this party is for your family, not you. Lila and Janelle’s parties were all about their extended families. All 100 of them. V.I.P. needs to be standing for Very Important Primos because that is who you are going to find drinking all your liquor and dancing on the tables. Your grandma may also decide to participate in the carousing after a few margaritas. Prepare yourself.

Now when I was of age and asked my mom if I was getting a quinceanera she turned to me and asked me if I wanted to go to college. I said yes. She then told me that there was no way in hell she was wasting her money on a stupid party for a fifteen year old girl. Done. End of conversation. So Lila and Janelle, I’d like to thank you for letting me live vicariously through you. I may not have a jet, my dad may not sell drugs, but I am afraid of my mom, have about a hundred primos, and dammit I can dance. So let’s see those little white girls on MTV top that bitches!

**Disclaimer: The Brown Office of Financial Aid would also like to extend it’s thanks to my mother for her checks. They’re scared of her too.**

Wednesday, September 14, 2005

That's right

for speaking the truth. The unspeakable inaction committed by our federal government after Hurricane Katrina serves only to underline the institutionalized racism and classism that perpetuates the systems of power in this country. People keep saying we need to stop playing the blame game. Well you know what, fuckers? I'm not ready to stop playing. I'm going to keep playing. And I'm not going to stop until people start paying some fucking attention to the injustice that has occurred. The blood of American citizens is on the hands of the Bush administration and every single person who profits from this administration's policies. Until the rest of us do something, this will only be the beginning. Don't let people push this under the rug. Talk about race, talk about class, because the reason that people died was because George W. Bush and the people that work for him have allowed American citizens to parish because they didn't think that they were important enough.


Since George is sending all of our tax money to Iraq, please consider donating to one of these organizations.

Friday, August 26, 2005

Operation Benetton

Word on the street is that little orphan Zahara isn't really that! The Sun says that she has a mommy in Addis Ababa (one of the coolest cities on the Amazing Race). So did Angelina abduct poor little Zahara so that she could make her part of her Benetton Live Doll Collection? Cause that would be fuuuucked up. Is she going to be hanging out with La Lohan and Rumor Willis soon? Cause, I do think she would look good in mukluks. Maddox is probably loving every minute of this. Zahara looks utterly confused and miserable. Pobrecita. Watch out Zahara because you might be over soon. Looking like Russian is the new Ethiopian is the new Cambodian.

Friday, August 19, 2005

Round 1: Longoria

Fire up the Gelat-O-Meter. What's this? Eva Longoria applying baby oil to her pompies, that's what it is. On the scale of all things old school gelat, Eva has taken the lead. Watch out Mendes because Longoria is taking the lead Bi-atch! Remember when your abuelita would get all mad at you for getting prietita during the summer? But you would slather yourself with Baby Oil and lay out in the santo sol in your front yard all damn day long, with minor breaks under the hose to cool off. Those were the days. You go, Eva. We ain't mad 'achta.

Battle of the Eva's

It feels like this year was the year of the Latina. While, J.Lo was busy getting married to the little sapo, Marc Anthony and Jessica Alba was being a self hater by talking about her “dark” Mexican Father, and Salma was off directing tv movies…two little girls named Eva hit the ground running. I have to say that I was really proud of all the fierce Latinas getting exposure. I mean, come on, Elizabeth Peña can’t be the only woman representing our Latinaness forever! I decided to check out the action.

I finally relented and watched the abomination that is Hitch featuring Eva Mendes. Oh Eva, you look so cute in your Cover Girl commercials. And when you don’t speak, you pull off that mysterious latin thing so well. But then you open your mouth girl, and DAMN. SAG called and they want their equity card back, cause mija you can't act. I wonder how long it’s going to take for the heads of studios in town to figure out that while Latinos love to represent, we also recognize when one of our own has started to believe their own hype. Look at what happened to Timmy T. ¿Pues que mas quieres?

Eva Longoria on the other hand has risen from the ranks of Young and the Restless slutdom, to primetime Desperate Housewives slutdom. And while I read all the books about the Latin Spitfire too when I was in college, I have to say that Eva is doing Rita Hayworth proud, so I ain’t hatin’. Also, much love to ya, Eva, for handling the whole “we hate Latinos unless they are Jimmy Smits cause he’s only half so it’s ok” award snubs. Your time will come. Just stop dating famous people, for the love of God. Did you learn nothing from J.Lo?

So I feel like we have been presented with the two actresses, one slot conundrum. I have my popcorn with tapatio and my Fresca ready. I'm sitting on my couch and I'm waiting for the fur to fly.

Wednesday, August 10, 2005

She Lives!

After much speculation that Marc Anthony had stolen her eggs and dumped the body, we find that J.Lo is, in fact, still alive! Having undergone Botox treatment while locked away in her Rapunzel castle in Puerto Rico, I have to say that she bares a strangely familiar resemblance to Dayanara. Hmmmm.

Photo Courtesy of Pinkisthenewblog.

Palabra De La Semana: GELAT

Gelat: Expression referencing people of Latin American ancestry residing in the United States. From the English Gelatinous :Resembling gelatin; viscous. Of, relating to, or containing gelatin, Gelat serves as a cross cultural referential noun for the one thing that all Latinos have in common - their love of hair gel, dippity-do, or similar hardening hair products. Those that can rock the baby hair, pull that trensa so tight that they look chinita, or roll in a convertible without messing the stilo are particularly archetypical Gelats.

Synonyms: Hispanic (imposed by The Man) or Latino (fuck you to The Man).

Sentence: Hijole, Gelats across America are just as embarrassed of Jessica Alba as she is of herself. That Gelat is one self hater!

Wednesday, August 03, 2005

Fake Is the New Reality

bannerLaguna Beach you guilty little pleasure, you. I squint my eyes a little when I watch, because it makes it more real. When I see Morgan and Alex on a casual afternoon stroll at the beach, I feign surprise when they conveniently run into Jason and Talan running along the sand after a casual afternoon surf. When the kids go all the way to LA to bowl at Lucky Strike, I don’t wonder, “Who paid for their limo?". I just put it out of my mind and think, “Where is LC? Is she hurt that she wasn’t invited? Maybe she got a better invitation. Maybe she’s doing lines with Lo in her new bathroom.” When Kristen meets Stephen at Look Out Point and they have nothing to say to one another, I prefer to believe that it’s the tension of their strained relationship, rather than the fact that they have probably already had it out months ago when none of us were watching.

Why hire actors when you can get regular hotties to dish their personal dirt on national television? The kids from Laguna Beach are part of a new phenomena. Mark my words right now, fake is the new reality….and it’s so much better.

See what our friends at Gawker have to say about it HERE.

Monday, July 11, 2005

Patrick Swayze's Philosophies on Life

Inspired by a heady conversation with friends about the philosophies
on life we have learned from Sir Patrick Swayze's characters in modern
American cinema, we'd like to present:

Patrick Swayze's Philosophies on Life

Ghost: When someone tries to mug you, let them. If not, you'll die and have to watch Whoopie Goldberg French kiss your fiancé.

The Outsiders: It's hard to be poor and in a gang, even if you're
white. Also, don't go near fires.

Road House: Being a bouncer is a tough job, but the only way Kelly Lynch is going to fuck you is if you have a great mullet.

Red Dawn: If the Russians come a knockin', take your friends into the forest (preferably the hot ones), name yourselves the Wolverines and
you can live off food from your daddy's feed store.

Point Break: Never trust a cop named Johnny Utah.

To Wong Foo: If you dress up in drag, Wesley Snipes will mistake you for his girlfriend and beat and sexually assault you.

Dirty Dancing: Shake your pelvis like Elvis, sleep with the summer camp guests, wear leather jackets and smoke, and don't make fun of Mr. Kellerman. Above all, "Join hands and hearts and voices; voices,hearts, and hands." And no one ever, ever, puts Baby in a corner.

Monday, April 25, 2005

Start Me Over

So I just quit my job. Let me tell you everyday that I woke up in the morning as an employed person, all I could dream about was the day that I would not have to go to work and could just sit around all day. Well, the moment has passed people. I know that it is all down hill from here on out because of one evil thing that those day people don’t tell you about. Daytime TV.

Like a Meth Addict to a pipe, I’m ready for my friends to call an intervention because I am addicted to this little show called Starting Over. Oh my god, that shit is addictive. It doesn’t help that it’s on every weekday in the middle of the day so my productivity or attempt at it can start until it’s over at 1pm. And let’s not forget that I missed the first two seasons, so I am catching up on those too. God dammit, can’t I get catch a break?

Everyday my little TV sings at 12 noon on the dot with the theme song and a voice over stating ominously “Life Has Never Been This Real”. Starting Over is feel good reality. It describes itself as follows:

STARTING OVER follows a diverse and ever-changing group of women as they attempt to make extraordinary changes in their lives -- all while living together under the same roof. The women are joined by two life coaches, Rhonda and Iyanla, who will help them define their goals and outline the steps needed to achieve those goals.

But it doesn’t stop there, people. These women live in a house in the Hills. Have a personal trainer, gym equipment, a psychiatrist, and plenty of personal problems. All of this combined with a whole lot of estrogen in small spaces makes for great drama, lots of crying, fighting, hugging, and evil manipulation. And like converts at a church tent revival, we get to witness the “healing”.

Let’s take a look at some of the current and past House Guests:

Vanessa: A gymnast and Olympic hopeful who blew it at Olympic trials, Vanessa wants to redefine who she is and in the process needs to lose her crazy pushy parents and emotionally abusive boyfriend.

Bethany: A sudden amnesic, Bethany struggles to deal with what caused her [insert southern accent here] "meemree" loss and gain a better self image. When asked what one thing she remembered about her past was, she said she knew she had never been kissed. So sad.

Cassie: A recovering alcoholic, Cassie struggles to reconnect with her son much to the dismay of his crazy adoptive mother.

Rachael: After her parent’s death, Rachael was shipped off to a home for girls by her evil aunt who kept all her trust money left by her mother.

Tess: Crazy woman hating bitch stirs the pot and tells the other women to stop being such haters because she is so beautiful. Get over yourself girl.

Towanda: Toni Braxton’s sister tries to get out of the shadow of her famous sibling. Or is it all just a show to launch her own career?

Oh it’s getting me all wound up. I can’t even express how delicious it all is. And when the Life Coaches, Iyanla Vanzant and Rhonda Britten take these women out of their comfort zones there are some tears. They challenge the women with exercises like when one house guest had to carry around a suit case with items representing her baggage for a week. They share their own personal life struggles. Iyanla lost a daughter to cancer at the age of 36. Rhonda’s own father killed her mother and then himself in front of 14 year old Rhonda. Can you believe that? It’s crazy. And here they are all glassy eyed, zen and centered.


I have a soft spot for Rhonda. She is so loving and kind. Or maybe the Botox just makes her look that way. In the end, I know it’s all bullshit, but I would like to believe that when she gently strokes Bethany’s arm after the tells her how she wants to choose a path of self forgiveness, that she really believes it. I want Rhonda to stroke my arm too. I want Rhonda to give me a hug. I want Rhonda to come to my living room and tell me it’ll be okay and drive me to the trainer and afterward we'll go get botox together at her Beverly Hills doctor's office. I want Rhonda to be my friend and that is why I have problems.

You see there are thousands of people who are devotees of Starting Over. Most of them middle aged women and gay men. The Life Coaches go on tours to cities across the country and people flock to their seminars. They sit on a stage and hash out all of their life problems in front of a few hundred people on a prefab mall stage for the one small hope that Rhonda will stroke their arm and tell them that it’s going to be okay.

The New York Times calls Starting Over the “gold standard” for reality programming. There must be something in the flash cuts or my water because I think the New York Times is right. For those of us who can’t afford real therapy or have run out of our Cobra, I just have one thing to say: Rhonda, start me over.

Monday, January 03, 2005

Drop By

I’ve never understood why people in small towns just drop by. Who invited you? Why in your right mind, do you think it’s a good idea to, just see if your favorite Aunt or Uncle is at home? Would you want people to drop by your house if you were sitting in your pajamas and drinking tea before bedtime? Or worst yet, what if you were torn from the depths of a late morning sleep by the doorbell and an unapologetic smile from the person on the other side of the door who fails to notice your bedhead and laganas?

This Thanksgiving and Christmas, I was reintroduced to the personal intrusion of the drop by. Man oh man, I never really though much about people just stopping by unannounced, but the holidays can magnify rudeness like big pores on your nose. The first drop by was courtesy of my uncle at 7 o’clock in the AM. Oh yes, you read that right. 7AM. He just stops on by because, you know, most people are awake on a Saturday at 7AM. And my dad welcomes him with open arms and they have coffee and chat away the morning in the loudest voices possible so we can all share the wonderment of the ’57 Chevy repair job that they saw on Monster Garage.

The next day, my dad’s primos called at 10AM to say that they were on their way over to say hi with family visiting from Texas. They called yes, but they were already on their way with a car load of people, from Texas no less, just to say hi. Three hours, two pots of coffee, and a banana nut loaf later they left. Then the neighbor stops by to chat with my dad about his tractor. Is it working? Is the engine still freezing up? How is the disk? Who fucking cares? Leave! No one invited you over shit head! We have things to do. I had about a half a pint of nice in me and I used that up with the cousins from Texas so you are shit out of luck.

Often times the people who do the drop bys also are prone to the early morning phone call. While some consider it slightly less intrusive, I find that the piercing ring of a phone at 6am, raises my level of anger just as much as the doorbell. You don’t call people unless it is between the hours of 9am and 10pm. That is just the rule! How dare you call someone at 6am? Are you kidding me right now? And it’s not even family from different time zones who are the worst offenders. Often it is people in the same town, city, state or municipality. Do you get up at 5am and twiddle your thumbs for an hour and pace back and forth in your living room waiting for the minute hand to click click click over to the 6 and the 12 so that it’s ok to call? Because let me tell you something, it’s not ok. When you hear the groggy voice on the other end of the phone, that is when you apologize and make a mental note that the Rodriquez household doesn’t get up as early as you. Then you don’t do it again. Don’t do it again, or else I’m going to have to go to your house and rip the phone out of the wall.

My parents have also become victim of the drive thru. When people drive by your house and into the driveway to take a better look to see if you are home. They look suspicious, drive suspiciously slow, often have unidentifiable cars, and generally drive you to dive behind the sofa to hide from the proverbial doorbell ring that might come if they see you sitting in the living room in your pajamas. On the four days I was home for Thanksgiving, my parents were the victims of no less than 4 drive bys. What is wrong with you people? Do you have no manners? I am the Queen of my castle and if I could I would build a mote. Stop dropping by and do one thing for me….call between the hours of 9am and 10am and see if it would be okay if you dropped by 2 days from now to say hi and offer to bring a snack. Then maybe we can talk. Otherwise, fuck off. I’m sleeping.