Friday, September 19, 2008

Date Night; Family Secrets (Friday Roundup)

I Have a Date With Jim Gaffigan ... At 8 p.m., I will be under the same roof (of the Alabama Theatre) as my secret boyfriend, Jim Gaffigan, who sent me an e-mail earlier this week. A portion of that e-mail follows:

I love you and Waffle House,


Maybe if I play my cards right, I will also get DINNER. Perhaps a waffle and hashbrowns, scattered, smothered AND covered. I will be one lucky girl. And a cheap date. Gosh, I love Waffle House.

For our date tonight, Jim Gaffigan will probably be dressed casually in jeans, t-shirt and worn jacket. I, however, don't have a thing to wear.


Oh, Get Over It ... I know some of you read that installment above and might have felt a little judgmental about my admission of having a Secret Boyfriend, a term I should credit to Mrs. G. But quit being so sanctimonious. We all have them. I would like to take you back a couple of decades and point out that ours is not the first generation to have Secret Boyfriends.

While Tom Brokaw co-hosted The Today Show with Jane Pauley in the late '70s and early '80s, my mother sat on the edge of the couch each morning, eating breakfast and drooling. For six solid years. It was a pathetic scene to behold. Tom Brokaw could have sat in front of the camera counting to 100,000 and picking his nose, and my mother wouldn't have budged.

Tom Brokaw co-hosted The Today Show from 1976-82, which equates to six years of early morning lust and desire on the part of my mother. Whatever.

She frequently claimed that if Tom Brokaw ever knocked on our front door, she would be out of there, leaving us and our father behind. (The apple does not fall far from the tree, as I have felt the same way about Brian Williams. Mercy.) So, you could say, the longevity of my parents' 44-year marriage is due in large part to Tom Brokaw never showing up on our doorstep to sweep my mother off her feet.


It's the weekend. Go on a date. Have a few laughs with your Secret (or Real) Boyfriend. Spend $3.50 at Waffle House. Watch The Nightly News...

Tuesday, September 16, 2008

Where Headaches Come From

Earlier this week, I apparently slept with my right ear completely parallel to my shoulder and woke up to the most excruciating pain in the neck you could imagine. By midday, I considered investing in a neck brace, or halo, but ultimately decided against both. By 6 p.m., I thought, "Well, I cry about once every three years. Maybe it's that time."

When bedtime rolled around and I was suffering a straight-up PINCHED NERVE that certainly warranted a pain block or (even better) a chunky Lortab, I instead campaigned for the Sympathy Vote, which is what women are supposed to be good at winning. Because we're so overworked and stressed and all. And my goodness, why don't you just sit down -- better yet, LIE down, because you look exhausted, and clearly you don't feel like bossing everyone around and cleaning up after people who, honestly, should have the good sense to clean up after themselves.

Chances of earning the Sympathy Vote are increased with the proper attire. For the Sympathy Vote portion of this competition, I chose a pair of the most unattractive sleep pants ever made and a t-shirt that fits nobody in this house -- because nobody in this house weighs 350 lbs. For effect, I applied an excessive amount of acne medicine and pulled my hair into an unfortunate-looking ponytail.

I held one hand on my forehead, the other around the side of my neck, walked out of the bathroom and to my side of the bed. As I walked, I said, "Gosh, I sure wish you were a chiropractor."

He never looked up from his book, but said, without pause of any kind, "Gosh, I sure wish you were an exotic dancer."