Wednesday, June 24


My intentions were to write about the progress on the new house as it happened. I thought that it could be like your real-time window into the soul sucking process that it was and continues to be. However, because it was such an unforeseen pit of despair for my spirit and my wallet, it’s taking me longer than I expected to get the second and third parts of “Home Crap Home” up on the bloggedy-blog.

I’m not even going to mention the hoops that we’re going to have to jump through to get the internet out at this house. All I am going to say is that it’s going to have to be of the satellite variety and cost about five bagillion dollars a month. Every time I turn around, there is someone shaking me down for trash removal, propane or an internet connection and frankly, I'm about thiiiiiiis close to having a major fucking breakdown.

In all seriousness, when I called about setting up trash service, in the first twenty seconds of the conversation I heard the term “waste management” and I knew I was in trouble. I could just picture Adriana from The Sopranos sitting at her desk with her phone nestled under her chin filing her nails as she explained "the fees." See, there is the one time $35 account set up fee, then the charge for the actual can and pick up fee is $25 a month and it’s charged quarterly. Then there is the $3 invoice fee to print the invoice – quarterly. Then, there is the $12 environmental fee – quarterly. After that, I quit listening because in my head I was already making up other stuff like: “Then, there is the paying fee. This is the fee that you pay if you pay by check, cash or credit.” Now keep in mind, this is all in the most horribly offensive, mobbed up Italian accent humanly possible. “Then we have the waste fee, the management fee and the fee to manage the waste fee.” At this point, there would be a sniff. “Also please do not forget that we charge a service fee for our service and if you choose not to use our service we also charge a fee for that.”

So, in addition to the $40 a month to have garbage service, we now have to open a vein to get the Internet. And, there are a shit ton of wasps out there for no apparent reason and they all want to live as close to us as possible. That being said, until I can get the next installment up about the house oddessy, here is a picture of the P, who decided to get sick during the move, by the way. At least she’s still keepin’ it real by rockin' the Snow White shades, which, just as a p.s. I DID NOT buy for her as you all know my policy on Disney.

Tuesday, June 16


I got culture. On occasion, I have even been known to read things other than Star Weekly and Us Magazine. However, I do love anything that I can read cover-to-cover in 30 minutes flat. Plus, it makes me feel really smart, if not really fat and smart. Yet, I always find my way back to books. Most of mine are worn, torn and barely in one piece, but that's how you can tell that they are loved - like my cat. My Mom use to have this boyfriend that could never understand why anyone would read a book or watch a movie a second time. Besides being a huge douchebag, he didn’t have one book in his house. And frankly, I don’t trust people that don’t keep books around. Every time I move, I swear that I am going to purge my collection (really? I’m still hanging on to Blubber, really?). But somehow everyone always seems to make the cut.

Which brings me to one of my favorite books, Valley of the Dolls, just kidding. OK, not really. I love Dolls, but I am lucid enough to know the difference between Pop Culture and actual literary achievement. Lyon Burke aside, for some inexplicable reason I love the book The Age of Innocence by Edith Wharton. I take that back, I know exactly why I love it; it’s like reading an Us Magazine from the 1870s. But for some reason, everyone considers it a classic and not the juicy, gossipy, cotton candy it is. Also, if you want to start a fistfight with me, let’s discuss the casting of Winona Ryder in the role of May Welland in the Scorsese film. Man alive, that girl couldn’t act her way out of a paper bag, but I digress. I enjoyed The Age of Innocence so much that I decided to check another Edith Wharton book, The House of Mirth. I kinda knew the synopsis, but I love Wharton’s dissection of societal expectations and its realities, so I thought that I’d give The House a shot.

Wow. I tried, I really did, but not only was it boring, it was sooooo depressing and bleak. I mean, frankly if I wanted to be that bummed out, I'd just balance my checkbook. But this chick in the book could not catch a break and after about 70 pages I gave up. So that was that, and it just sat there on my bookshelf mocking me.

They made a movie out of it with Scully from The X-Files, and it was one of those that perpetually floated at the bottom of my Netflix queue. Then one rainy afternoon I saw that it was going to be on We or Oxygen or one of the estrogen channels. Right as I settled in to fold some laundry enjoy the Mirthiness, a little person that lives in my house decided that it was time to stop playing with her dollhouse and come fuck around in the laundry basket. Well, naturally it ended in tears, and as Mark came in with the “Boo Boo Bear,” another stupid thing that I wish I’d invented, I noticed that he too was being drawn into the shit storm that was Lily Bart’s crappy life.

Unfortunately, for our TV viewing pleasure, Piper recovered pretty fast from her injury and started to un-do all the folding that I’d done. We tried to tag team it, with one-person paying attention to the movie and another watching the kid. The problem was Piper was being super loud and unless we wanted to create mass chaos in the house by raising the volume level of the TV to match hers, there was really no point in turning it up. As we tried to deal with the mess that our two-year-old had created, Gillian Anderson droned on next to a fire about hers. Also working against us was the death of our Tivo, so we had no pause or rewind to save us. At this point I decided to try and lip read, but that wasn’t going so well. “Did she just say something about an oral germ whore?”

Mark had been forced into dollhouse duty and he was making the daddy doll say things like “What just happened?” and “Why is she going in there?” All the while, I was trying to be nonchalant about watching the television. I’ve discovered that if Piper thinks you don’t care about something, you’re chances of actually getting to do it/see it/hear it improve dramatically.

When Piper's attention had shifted to terrorizing the cat, Mark escaped to join me on the couch. Expecting an update, I looked at him and said, “are you nuts? I can’t hear a thing. I think that she’s asking this lady for money but I’m not sure and she may be trying to marry this other guy, but it’s anybody’s guess.” The next thing I know, she's makin' hats and credits are rolling.

We tried to formulate plot points and figure out who characters were, but it was too late. Then, it was decided that to the casual observer, The House of Mirth looked like a historical drama, but it was actually a mystery movie. “It’s like Agatha Christie’s House of Mirth,” Mark said. I mean, I had an idea what the thing was about between the book and what little of the mystery movie I saw, but I my curiosity had been piqued. Did the movie version add robots? What about a car chase? Product placement? The mind reeled. I know what you're thinking, "just go read the book and all questions will be revealed." Yeah, you try reading that thing, I'll even exercise your arms and legs while you're in the coma.

Just about that time, I heard Mark yell from the other room, “I moved House of Mirth up on the Netflix list. I gotta find out what happened.” Now we just need to find a babysitter.


Friday, June 12

OH FOR F@$K'S SAKE! 6.12.09

I am going to keep this um, as anonymous as humanly possibly. There is a guy, let's call him Ted, who's "helping" us fix some issues with the drug den that we are semi-renovating (not on purpose, I assure you). We still need to install a smoke detector, because the dumbass renters that were in there ripped the old one out of the wall. I can only assume that this was because the battery was low and it began to beep. And beep, and beep. Most normal humans would have just gone and gotten a fucking battery, but remember that while cleaning this house, we've found teeth, so we aren't exactly dealing with Rhodes Scholars. They went to more trouble to get a chair and spend however many minutes prying this thing off the wall than to buy a square battery.

My only consolation is that it was probably like that Friends episode when Phoebe or whoever has the smoke detector that she can't get to stop beeping. Because you know that when they got the thing off the wall, it kept beeping for a while until Oooga Booga caveman figured out that he'd have to take out the battery and remove half of the wall.

So I mentioned to "Ted" that he needed to go and get a replacement for the smoke detector. Of course when I was talking to him, he was on his cell phone, in his car with the window rolled down, you know, whatever makes it harder. Here is how the conversation went:

"You still need to get the smoke detector," I said.
"Don't forget to go and get a new smoke detector," I said, louder.
"Wait, I can't here a thing. Let me roll my window up," Ted said. "Now what do I need to buy?"
I tried to steady my voice and suppress the rage. "A new smoke detector.Go buy."
"Oh, I'm seeing my guy on Friday."
I was confused. "What? Can't you just go to Home Depot?"
"No, I can get that for you on Friday, that's when I'm seeing my guy," Ted said.
That's when it dawned on me. Ted thought that I was talking in code. Ted thought that I wanted to buy weed. I scrambled. I wanted to clear this up as fast as possible, not only was I on my cell phone, but I was at work.
"No, no! I mean I really need a smoke detector! You know, fire, beep, beep!" I said.
Ted finally seemed to grasp what I was saying and told me to "just keep reminding him to get it." I could hear that Ted had rolled his car window back down, but before I got off the phone I decided to take a chance and mention that there was still a load of junk that needed to go to the dump.
I told Ted, "Hey do you think that you could take that stuff to the dump today?"
He said "I told you, I'm seeing my guy on Friday!"
This house is never going to be ready.



A while back, a controversial video surfaced of a woman dragging her child through a Verizon store with the help of one of those backpack leashes. As I watched this disengaged mother pull her limp child, I was horrified that I wasn’t horrified. Instead, I thought to myself “I totally get that.” Apparently the tyke wasn’t listening and decided to pull the old “go limp” maneuver that I myself perfected as a college student whenever someone tried to throw me out of a bar.

My former self would have been outraged that a mother would do that. However, my current self has actually hidden from Piper to make her think that I’ve left her behind. My former self thought that if I was in public and I knew your child’s name, you were doing something wrong. My current self would be able to retire many times over if I had a dime for the number of times I’ve been in public and said “Piper, Piper, Piper, Piper, Piper, Piper, Piper, Piper.” It’s safe to say that my former self was an idiot.

Someone once told me that, aside from Brook Shields and Tom Cruise, no one really talks about the dark side of motherhood. And they’re right. Remember in The Empire Strikes Back when Luke is hanging onto that upside down Space Needle thingy? His hand’s just been cut off and he’s all kinds of sweaty and windblown and the only one there to offer help is Daddy Darth Vader? He extends his hand, and says “join me.” And you can see the desperation on Luke’s face he ponders his choice between physical death and spiritual death. In the end, chooses to plummet into the darkness below.

You may be thinking, “wow, you sure have put a lot of thought into the Empire Strikes Back.” I find that scene pretty poignant, not only because of the limitations of Mark Hamill as an actor (everything was downhill after he starred in Sarah T. Portrait of a Teenage Alcoholic with Linda Blair), but because sometimes I truly believe that Piper is trying to take my spirit and to crush it. Those are the days when "there is no escape. Don't make me destroy you," sounds like sound parenting to me.

I know that if I really wanted to take some drastic steps, I could get this child under control. But like Luke, I choose instead to fall into the unknown hoping to come out on the other side. However, my unknown is actually going to my bedroom, locking the door, and reading celebrity gossip magazines. I don't know if that would have worked for Luke. It certainly would have put a different spin on the movie, but would have totally explained the gay-ness of Return of the Jedi.

In my scenario, reading gossip about Jennifer Aniston's potential love child, prevents me from embracing my inner Darth. I always try to remember that I am the adult, but there is just something about having a 3 year-old scream “you aren’t my friend anymore!” at the top of her lungs can drive you over the edge of your very own Space Needle thingy. Once after being told that “I was a bad mommy,” I actually gave Piper the finger. I threw my kid the Rockefeller. I figured that she doesn’t know what it means and lacks the dexterity to imitate it. It’s definitely better than the time I muttered “fuck you” under my breath, and as she walked away I heard “you fuck you.” You may send my Mother of the Year certificate to me via email.

But at the end of the day, I love my kid more than anything. I just hope that by the time we get along I'm not half man, half machine. Although it would be cool to have James Earl Jones as my voice. Everyone would do as I say.

Friday, June 5


Continuation of the animal thing from earlier. I don't know how to be brief. Deal.

My family was so bad at dealing with cartoon animals that you would think we’d have stayed away from the living, breathing kind, but oh no. Once over a few beers, my Dad and I figured up how many cats that I’d had, compared with how many cars he’d wrecked. I won by a nose.

Over the course of my childhood, I went through 16 cats. Either they got too cozy on wheels of the family cars, wandered into the dog’s pen or just decided that they were better off taking their chances in the wild. We had a couple of canine tragedies along the way, but thankfully, they were few and slightly more typical. Except for the time our black Labrador, Smut went missing. We searched for hours. Finally, we found him in the neighbor’s yard tied to a tree. Our neighbor was getting ready to shoot him with a bow and arrow, Nugent style. Apparently, she had some pet ducks and unbeknownst to us, Smut had been eating them. Grandma had had enough and was ready to take out the duck menace, when my Dad arrived. I think that it was one of the few times my Dad diffused a situation without using the word “motherfucker.”

Whenever one of my cats would wander off or meet an untimely end, my Dad would usually pat me on the head and say, “It’s just a cat. I’ll go out to the dumpster after dinner and get you a new one.” And he would. Cats were expendable in our household. But there was one instance when my parents really did try to spare my feelings when one of my cats did a disappearing act. I had a big, beautiful tabby cat named Mitchell that decided to go on a walkabout one day, "don't tell me what I can't do!" we heard him yelling as he ran down the dirt road from our house in one of those hind-leg kitty wheelchairs. Oh wait, that was Lost, nevermind.

After weeks of mourning my lost furry friend, my Mom and Dad surprised me when they "found" Mitchell. They proclaimed that all sadness could now end. Except for one thing, it wasn't Mitchell. They'd tried and failed at the classic parenting grift: getting another cat that looked like Mitchell and trying to pass him off, as if all tabby cats looked the same. Nice try, but just because I was four didn't mean I was a sucker. In my childish wisdom, I began to call him “Mitchell II.” They kept asking me why I was calling him Mitchell II and I just said "because he's not Mitchell." 

Through the years, we went through Mitchell III, Mitchell IV, etc., But it was Mitchell VII that has entered into Kitty Cat lore with his extraordinary struggle for life, and his untimely death. I hear that they are going to make a movie out of it called Mitchell:Swamp of Justice but they haven't decided if it's going to be on Lifetime: Television for Women or SciFi. Either way, it's going to be some goooooood watchin'. If it is on Lifetime I hope that they get Melissa Joan Hart to play my Mom, and if it's on SciFi I hope that it's Dina Meyer from Starship Troopers. I don't think that she's too busy these days. Maybe she can squeeze it in between Web of Desire and Saw IV.

Anyway, it started because we had Mitchell living illegally with us in our apartment in Raleigh. And while my Mom likes to think of herself as a bad-ass, the truth is, she's really not a rule breaker at heart. Having that cat in our apartment tore her nerves apart. It wasn't even like we weren't supposed to have animals, we just hadn't paid a pet deposit. But after four months of being completely preoccupied with the situation, writing scenarios in her head for the landlord of why we had this cat, she just couldn't take it anymore and we took the cat to her boyfriend's house in White Lake.

Now if you aren't from North Carolina, one thing that you need to be briefed on is that there are certain sections of our coastal areas that yes, may have a lake, but chances are also have a swamp directly across the road. So while the lake is really cool, it's best to have a lookout while everyone goes in for an afternoon swim. Usually, if you see something that looks like a tire floating in the water, it's not a tire and you should get out. When a coastal community lives with alligators (not to be confused with their more aggressive cousin, the Crocodile Dundee), occasionally things can go missing. Like small pets and everyone once and again a small child, but even the guys that hang around the gas station will tell you that almost never really happens all that often, except when it does.

So Mitchell really seemed to really like the lake house, hung out pretty close to Keanu and things were great for awhile. Well, apparently as Mitchell grew more comfortable in his new surroundings, he decided that it would be prudent to go exploring, and exploring he did a-go. And, like a dumb ass the first place he went was right across the street to the swamp. He did some cat stuff and climbed a tree and went out on a limb. And just like when stupid humans do it, that limb broke and dumped him right into alligator soup. Yet somehow, miraculously, Mitchell survived. He swam into the swamp onto land and found a safe place to cry. And cry, and cry and cry. You know, sound carries really well over stagnate water.

So now imagine as a kid trying to sleep listening to your cat crying that mournful cat cry from a swamp across the street. Now imagine my Mom trying to sleep and being constantly woke up by her daughter pleading to go and get him. "They're going to eat him, Mommy." I cried. "PLEASE!" At first she was very consoling, at 3 in the morning I think she was ready to shoot the cat to get him and me to shut up. Eventually, she shut the windows and turned on the air conditioner so we couldn't hear him. First thing in the morning though, she was greeted with "Mommy are you going to go get Mitchell? Please?" Finally after breakfast, my Mom and her boyfriend (who for the record, I adored) armed with only a raw hot dog and a pillowcase loaded themselves in the only vessel they had, a blow up raft and set off for the swamp and Operation Pet Rescue.

Those two paddled their way over there and they were both shaking so bad that they almost tipped themselves over a couple of times. The minute the raft hit the water a couple of gators popped up to see what was going on, but it was by no means a scene from Lake Placid. They seemed to be saying, "hey while you guys are here, could you shut that cat up? Thanks."

They finally reached where Mitchell was and my Mom lured him into the pillowcase with the hot dog. When he finally realized that he'd been captured, he freaked out. He looked a lot like a cartoon cat in a sack. Paws poking from every direction and my Mom holding the sack at arm's length. Over the water I heard her say "If this cat comes out of this bag, he's staying over here."

Once we got him back to the house, Mitchell was one grateful kitty. He was very sweet and stayed right by the house...and that lasted all of about two weeks. He pulled his swamp stunt again one weekend and it replayed in pretty much the same way as before except my Mom flatly refused to be apart of Operation Pet Rescue II: Electric Boogaloo. So her boyfriend and one of his friends brought a cooler of Budweiser along for the ride (they actually loaded it into the raft and took it with them to have a beer break once they got into the swamp). And once again, Mitchell was rescued from certain death, this time a little slower and without dinner but he made it out alive, which was about all he could ask for at this point.

Lather, rinse and repeat. Mitchell had been sticking around the house for a good bit until one day I saw him dart across the road. "Oh no you don't," I said. Having been told that under no circumstances would there be any more rescues for this cat, I chased after him only to watch as he climbed an old tree on the edge of the swamp. Higher and higher Mitchell climbed until he reached a limb that seemed like a great place to perch and check out the neighborhood. The whole time he was climbing the tree, I was yelling after him, admonishing him "to remember what happened last time you did this." Just as that dumb-assed cat settled in, I heard the crack of old rotten wood giving way as it dumped the limb and Mitchell into the swamp. I stood there shaking my head waiting to lecture him when he came to the surface. But then there seemed to be a slight commotion under the surface of the water, and then quiet. I waited a while, but Mitchell never showed up for his lecture. It was one of the first times that I was actually pissed off at an animal for getting killed because of his pee brain. But that didn't mean that I wasn't upset. I ran home crying trying to tell the story through hyperventilation. My Mom was great about comforting me, but we both kind of agreed that it was bound to happen. Then, she said that after dinner she'd go to the dumpster and get me another cat. Enter Mitchell VIII.

Just as an end note, I am currently on Mitchell IX. He's outlasted every other Mitchell at 15 years old. I think a lot of that has to do with the fact that he's an indoor cat and isn't exposed to car engines, wheels, stray dogs, alligators, owls, barn fires and natural disasters, although he does battle a wicked case of hairballs. He's still pretty active, but he is a gigantic prick. No one likes him but me. You know the saying "the good die young and pricks live forever?" Well that was pretty much meant for Dick Cheney and Mitchell. He's that evil. When he was a kitten, my arms were so scratched that I looked like a heroin addict. He's a jerk, but occasionally, I do love him. My husband says after he dies, no more 'Mitchell.'



I love animals. I really do. You can ask anyone that knows me, and they’ll tell you if you’ve got a sad animal story, you’d just better hold it until I am out of the room, buddy. And then you'll say, “I’m not your ‘buddy,’ friend." To which I'll reply, “I’m not your ‘friend,’ pal.” Then we’ll glare at each other and walk away, stopping only to briefly look one more time at one another over our shoulder.

But really, I can’t watch anything on the Discovery Channel or Animal Planet and I have to be very careful about which Disney movies I watch. Once, while channel surfing, my husband and I caught one of those old Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom specials. It started great, like all nature shows do. It was about some place in Africa where once a year this fruit ripens and falls off trees onto the ground where it ferments. All the animals in this delightful place eat the fruit, get drunk and turn Africa into a virtual Rue Bourbon. Basically, it was a blooper reel of drunk animals falling into each other and passing out. In other words, it was hilarious.

Then, all of a sudden, Marlin Perkins takes on a dramatic tone and starts talking about some oncoming drought. Faster than you can say Jeff VanVonderen, I see families of disoriented animals dying on my television set. As my eyes started to well, Mark frantically searched for the remote. Tears began streaming down my face, as Marlin “animal killer” Perkins detailed the death of a baby duckling from dehydration. BabyDuckHaterPerkins then proceeded to show me his carcass covered in flies. “What kind of show is this?” I screamed at the TV. “Why couldn’t the camera crew just give him some water? You know they had some!” The TV then zoomed in on carnage of the entire dead duck clan. I wailed. At this point, Mark gave up looking for the remote and just charged the cable box, changing the channel manually. I think that he tried to calm me down with some “Circle of Life” talk, but soon realized that wasn’t the way to go.

Ever since then, the minute, née, the second there is even a hint of animal shenanigans on the TeeVee, it doesn’t matter where in the house he is, I hear “TURN THE CHANNEL!” almost immediately. Those Sarah McLachlan ASPCA commercials? “TURN THE CHANNEL!” Promo for Animal Cops: Detroit? “TURN THE CHANNEL!” Commercial for any Disney movie? “TURN THE CHANNEL!” Yeah, you heard that right. I don’t do Disney. Frankly, I think that Disney is a little rough. I mean, did you see Finding Nemo? I don’t want to spoil anything for you here, but were you aware that Nemo’s Mom and siblings got fucking eaten in the first 30 seconds of the movie? That’s not even accounting for some of the incredibly twisted and sad old school stuff they pawned off on us as kids. Not just cartoons, I’m looking at you Dumbo, but live action movies like Old Yeller and Where the Red Fern Grows. What the fuck was going on in the 50s & 60s?

But yeah, when I went to see The Lion King, it was pretty great being in the audience with about 100 totally freaked out kids when they killed off Simba’s Dad. Smooth move, Ex-Lax. And yes, I cried. Well, it was sad. And when Simba thought it was his fault, and then there was that shitty Elton John song, well it was just too much to take.

I will say that I don’t think that my animosity toward Disney is all Walt’s fault. I think that it may, it MAY have something to do with the Bambi incident of ’77. Disney re-released this beloved, screwed up classic and my Mom thought it would be a great idea to take me to see it. Because you know, I was so good with dealing with animal tragedy, real, imagined and cartooned. Everything was going OK until the end when the fuck-nuts at Disney decided to shoot Bambi’s Mom. Which made me cry, because I was a little kid, and they killed Bambi’s Mom. But being four and wrapped up in my own problems as little kids are prone to be, I failed to noticed the meltdown that my own, very much alive Mother was having in the seat next to me. See, my parents were going through a separation during the time frame of Disney’s re-release (I don’t think that one had anything to do with the other) and I guess that Linda was harboring some complex feelings about the whole thing. Because after Bambi’s Dad came galloping through the forest to save the day, the next thing I knew, my Mom was standing up in the theater screaming at the screen. “Well now you come back! You sonofabitch! Now, after the baby’s been fed and the diapers have been changed, now you come back! Well I don’t think so!” My Mom snatched me up out of my seat and we left the theater with Thumper, Bambi and that sonofabitch Dad of his looking back at us. I really don’t know exactly how Bambi ends, I just sort of assumed that it kind of ended there.

Needless to say, after that I tended to shy away from Disney. I was never very fond of Mickey or Minnie. I always thought it was freaky to wear their ears on my head and I never, ever dreamt of going to Disney Land or World when I was a kid. Maybe I just thought of it as a place where you got on “It’s a Small World” and your Mom yelled at all the characters as you zoomed by. As an adult, I just resent Disney because they took great fairy tales by Hans Christian Andersen and the Brothers Grimm and made them into happy-slappy movies with sleeping bag tie-ins. If you get a chance, read the real Little Mermaid or Snow White and Rose Red. That’s right, bitch had a sister. And let me tell you, the ending’s aren’t the same, but they are wonderfully twisted. Not Crispin Glover reading Jack and Jill twisted, but twisted. But I shouldn’t be too hard on Disney, they do love to kill off the parents of main characters afterall.

Believe it or not, this entry doesn’t end here, but I’d really like to hold your attention, so I’ll post the rest in a couple of days and I swear it won’t be about Disney.

Tuesday, June 2

OH FOR F@$K'S SAKE! 6.05.09

Let me preface this with, I’m not stupid and I like Chelsea Handler, or should I say, I did. While I will give her mad props for the title of her book, Are You There, Vodka? It’s Me, Chelsea, at being super clever at combing my two loves, booze and Judy Blume, the Chelsea of yore was way funnier in 10 second clips on other shows.
I’ve seen her around for awhile now on different shows bringing the funny, but since Chelsea Lately, she’s been getting a lot of press. I was reading one such article the other day when I saw something that made me stop. Collaborate and listen. According to various sources, Chelsea claims to be 34 years old. 34. 1975. I don’t think that age really defines a persons, something that I keep saying more and more the older that I get. But 34? Come the fuck on! That mean, that's younger than me! I don’t think so. I think that girlfriend got some Botox and some good lighting and shaved about 8 years off her birth certificate. I get that Hollywood can be rough and ages can be tweaked a little, but let’s stay in the ball park here. Every time I watch her show, I look at her and think, 34? Yeah right! It’s like watching The Real Housewives of… and seeing those women that are supposedly way younger than me, too. I don’t know if it’s because I’m not slathered in makeup, or maybe I’m just highly delusional, or maybe being poor is good for the complexion.

But bottom line, Chelsea Handler ain’t 34. Now, pass the Vodka.