« Pearls... | Main | Klymaxx »
May 05, 2005
Paulatics...
I’m so excited about the Paula Abdul scandal. I take interest in any mother fucker that dances provocatively with any animated cat. I’ve been feeling Paula Abdul for a long time. Like, genuinely think she's amazing. She’s no Mariah or anything, but I just like watching her and all her accessories and her greasy shoulders. I especially love it when she wears the fall. That hilariously no-matching mall kiosk ponytail that she attaches to the back of her head with Velcro. Love that. She’s the bomb. I told you I saw her in the airport once, right? Her weave was all scrappy and she was tiny tiny tiny, lugging her own bags. This had to have been pre-comeback.
Anyway, if you have no idea what I’m talking about, you’re the worst. Last night, on Prime Time Live, Corey Clark -- the biracial dude that was kicked off for not disclosing that he had a record during second place, that’s right second place runner-up Clay Aiken’s season of American Idol -- said that he and Paula Abdul had a straight up love affair. And this fool provided all kinds of evidence. The piece of paper her number was written on, drove us past her house in the hills, prescription cough medicines in her name, cell phone bills, clothing receipts. I believe him because no “naïve and perpetually broke” guy with the afro that he can’t seem to let go of (I know, for some reason several of the biracial multi-ethnic dudes I know, including my own brother, go through a phase where they just can’t let the afro go. Hi Justin Guarini and Quddus) could afford Fred Segal. Prime Time interviewed his little hood rat friends and they were all, “Yo, my homie is kicking it with Paula Abdul for reals…” This shit was edge of my seat type television. Nearly as good as The L Word maybe. Straight up riveting. I can’t wait to read all about it. Before it even came on, I told my friend that Corey should definitely write a song about this. And sure enough, he has and it’s called PAULATICS. Amazing.
I hope Paula finally gets the cover of Us Weekly because to be totally honest, the Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie story is tired. Duh. That’s just stupid. Any man that works with Gia is going to want to get with her. Wedding ring or not. That was stupid on Jennifer’s part. This is where I give the disclaimer saying don’t send me any hilarious hateful emails about adultery and the responsibilities of it and blah blah blah. I know all that shit and it doesn’t apply to people in glossy magazines because they don’t have cellulite somehow and they get away, every day, with wearing Juicy Couture sweat pants and Uggs so whatever.
Now, as I was saying, I would have never ever been confident enough to send my fine ass husband to the wolves like that. That’s where low self-esteem comes in handy. Confidence is cool and everything but fuck that. Angelina eats fire. You think Jennifer Aniston and her five-year marriage would stop her from getting at Brad? Please. Not with that cute little baby in tow either. Stupid. All stories in the Us Weekly are over. Yes, Mary Kate is eating. Good for her billionaire behind. Britney’s ass is pregnant (obviously) and I firmly believe that it is not cool to make fun of any pregnant lady’s outfits or hair. If and when I get pregnant, I know I won’t give a shit about anything but being comfortable and having someone, I don’t care who, in yelling distance. Give me the GOD DAMN COCONUT STICKY RICE you fuck!
In other news, I moved to Long Island last week.
It’s been 7 hours and 16 days. My furniture gets here today. I didn’t really have to bring my furniture because shit is fully furnished around these parts (and with great taste, might I add), but I brought it just in case shit goes awry. It won’t and I pray that it never does and I have all kinds of faith because he’s awesome, my boyfriend that I’m LIVING WITH, is awesome. Crazy shit, huh? Co-habitation. Wow. Anyway, I had to bring everything I care about just in case. If I have to get up on out I don’t want to be 30 living in an empty studio in Montauk, crying and shit. I want to at least have cable and artwork. I’ve always been a pessimist. It’s healthy for me. I would never tell Oprah that, but seriously, if everything was believed to be great all the damn time, what would I have to get excited about?
Oh, I’ll probably be writing about this living together business because that’s all I think about every day. That and what my plans are to avoid getting gigantic and super
unattractive. All the matchbooks in the world won’t help me get over the fact that everybody, even girls that are totally infatuated with their boyfriends, has to take shits at some point. I’m so scared of that entire issue. So what was I saying? Oh yes, working out. I keep looking at the pool. I want to swim the laps, I do, but no one knows CPR around here. I keep looking at the elliptical bike but why does it face the wall? I don’t want to look at the wall. And I see the Curves gym every day but I don’t have any friends. I made friends with a lovely 40-year-old Jewish lady named Roberta yesterday at the Thai restaurant. I took down her number. I have to start getting to know the neighbors, man. I don’t think she’ll want to hang out with me, but I’d kick it with her if she’d have me.
So far, I’ve walked the dog. Ordered lots of sushi. Had quiet nervous breakdowns in the downstairs bathroom that I believe might even be soundproof while the dryer is running. Walked the biggest mall in the land a couple times and called Coral about 90,000 times. I used to avoid my mom’s phone calls for most of my mornings but now I take them all so that’s better of me, I guess. She just asks so many fucking questions and when I give the answers she doesn’t respond with the normal response. Example:
Mom: How is the move?
Beloved Favorite Daughter: It went pretty smoothly actually. I’ll be back in LA for work a couple times this month so I didn’t really have that leaving my home anxiety. And my lovely boyfriend has been super sweet and accommodating so it’s been nice.
Mom: I make a turkey.
See what I mean?
In a couple days I’m bringing him home to meet my family. I know right? Move in with him before he meets my dad. I’m hoping I can just glide past that little detail, like Shorty just won’t notice. I hope I haven’t hurt his feelings. He’d never say and I’d never know if I had. My mom is so excited she went on a little expedition and CAUGHT the fish she’s going to serve! He’s a vegetarian which for some reason offends her but she is all excited about the two dozen crabs she’s about to go to town on. I personally can’t wait. I love to see the crab juice shoot people in the eye and then I really love to see them play that off.
I have an ulcer leading up to this event. Shorty and Mercy and my boyfriend in one room?
Hardcore shit.
He offered to get a hotel so that we don’t disturb the flow of the family but I was like don’t suggest that. It would break her heart. Sure enough, he suggested it and my mom was all stank because she just got a new BED IN A BAG for the guest bedroom. If there’s one thing my mother loves to collect, it’s the tackiest, shitty no thread count sheet sets from JCPenney which she calls JCP Penney by the way. I don’t know if it’s a residual effect from her impoverished upbringing but dude, mom, we have so many sheets. We have twin sheet sets without a single twin bed in the house. “Iss good por dee picnic…” What picnic though? If I can pry the PlayStation control from my dad’s hands and get him to a picnic, then I’m an A-list celebrity.
I can already see what’s going to happen and since I’m prepared, I’ll be less devastated. Every accomplishment whether it be winning a spelling bee or getting my period has and will always live on in my mother’s mind and she finds any way to unknowingly embarrass me. On Saturday morning, around 7 am, my mom and dad will be sitting at the edge of the bed that my boyfriend and I are sleeping in with all our clothes on, snacking on bacon talking about, “What’s the game plan for today, son?”
When he doesn’t respond with a plan because he doesn’t know anything about Tampa, my dad will suggest that we all get our lazy asses up even though it’s so early, eat some breakfast (probably my mom’s famous corned beef and cabbage with rice – it’s really just ground up Spam and excuse me, but I love Spam even in its rhombus shape) and then Mercy will chime in all unnecessarily and invite him to the mall. We’ll go to the mall and she will showcase my television career to anyone who’ll listen, occasionally pulling a TV Guide from 1912 with MY autograph to my mother on the cover, to show as proof that I was once a popular “star” of MTV and now the “most pamous one on dat Girls Behaving Badly show, you know dat one?” even though I’m so not. When she’s done doing that, she’ll start bragging about my boyfriend’s music career, saying the name of the band wrong and exaggerating his successes. “He win dat Grammy a couple time, I tink, right?” He was nominated once, and not even for music, but fine, for my mother, he won the Grammy 9 times and he knows Beyonce and he’s been on tour with Journey.
My dad will be arms crossed the entire time, giving off terribly unapproachable body language even though he’s the most adorable man alive. If my boyfriend is smart enough to bring up things my dad is interested in like bowling, name-embroidered t-shirts, John Madden football, getting my mom to stop “making commentary”, beer and its easy consumption pre-high blood pressure, sciatica, diabetes and the long list of other real or fake diseases he believes he suffers from, he’ll loosen up. But we’ll see.
I’ll try my hardest to remember all the details and keep you posted. This is where I realize I’m really old because the highlight of all my days is observing my parents and delighting in the fact that they are alive and well and still happily annoying each other. I guess when you approach 30 that’s all you start to care about in the careful effort to not care about having babies. I will skulk away from the computer now and beg myself to not watch The View but the Fuse videos instead. I know who The Bravery is, and yes, I maybe like that new System of a Down song. I am still cool and I am still with it so whatever.
Paula Abdul, girl, we’ll get through this together.
Posted by melissah at May 5, 2005 11:06 AM