I stumbled home from work at 9:00 p.m. last night and sitting in the family room were Mrs. Wife and two of her Consigliere from the Mommy Mafia. They were all drinking wine, eating little snacky things and watching/making fun of The Bachelor. There was hysterical laughter. The only thing missing was a young, shirtless cabana boy peeling the skins off grapes and fanning them with palm fronds.
The caporegime are all fantastically tan. They are bronzed suburban goddesses. During the week, they spend the sunny summer afternoons on the beach with the kiddies. They don’t fight shore traffic or beach crowds because all the commoners are at work.
I, on the other hand, spend my days in an office cubicle under a florescent light. I am pale, like a vampire, and the harsh white light accentuates all the imperfections in my skin. I was meditating on what a sweet life the Mommy Mafia leads and how I got myself into this mess.
The Mommy Mafia are a group of Jersey Shore stay-at-home moms whose sole responsibility it is to raise the children while their husbands drag their sorry asses off to work every day.
I have been schooled many times by stay-at-home moms who insist that raising children IS a job and a damn hard one at that. I concur. But there is something enviable about not having to be in an office for a specific number of hours on specific days of the week and see the same gaggle of people who you don’t really enjoy being around all that much. Especially during the summer months. At least the Mommy Mafia can have someone thrown out of the family. I’ve seen it done and it’s not pretty.
I’m not spewing negativity. I’m just sayin’.
This gem is from the New York Times:
South Carolina petitioned the Federal Communications Commission on Monday to protect the public safety by blocking signals from contraband cellphones emanating from prisons.
Of course, the scumbag lobbyists jumped into the fray with this line of nonsense:
Lobbyists for telecommunication companies say that any weakening of antijamming legislation could become a slippery slope that eventually could inappropriately limit cellphone use.
Why can’t they just come right out and say they’re worried that the industry’s revenue stream will be compromised? What is “inappropriate?” Washington lobbyists occupy the same rung on the moral ladder as old men who expose themselves on the subway.
Do you suppose I can get a paying gig as a jamming consultant/expert. I’ve got plenty of field knowledge that I would happily share.
* * *
In the gym locker room this morning I saw a man hold a hair dryer over his shoulder and dry his back hair.
Just a perfect day,
Problems all left alone.
I thought I was someone else,
Someone good.Taking off work on my birthday and spending the afternoon in Atlantic City shooting craps and being home in time to have dinner on the patio with the girls made me yearn for an early retirement.
After breakfast and birthday cards, I drove my another-year-older ass down to Atlantic City. Alone. I like being alone. I spent many, many years alone by choice. I’m pretty good company. You can put me in an empty room with a piece of string and I’d still manage to have a nice time. I miss being alone and sometimes I cut loose.A long time ago, Atlantic City was this:
I’m sorry to report that it has turned into this:
That town is a peroxide blond who can’t afford a new bottle. I am amazed at the dichotomy between the glamour depicted in the ad campaigns for Atlantic City and Las Vegas and the harsh reality. Those cities are successfully marketed as bastions of elegant sophistication. Beautiful, well dressed people frolic into the night. The reality couldn’t be more different.
Do you know who gambles in Atlantic City on a Wednesday afternoon? The downtrodden. The hand-to-mouthers. The people who are bankrolled with that month’s mortgage payment. I can’t explain its appeal. It’s like a horrifying traffic accident that I can’t take my eyes off of.
Good God almighty I love craps. I love it so much that I play it sparingly. I love how the points of the dice dig into my palm when I squeeze them. I love the clacking sound they make when shaken. I love the feel of the felt on the table. I love to rifle the chips in my hand and run my finger along the smooth edges of the wooden trays.
I like the lingo and the chatter by the stickman. (Six. Six. The number is six. Stevie Nicks. Pick up sticks. John Hicks and his Hot Licks. Put your money on the six.) They try to get you to bet the sucker bets. Sometimes I fall for it. I’m only human, after all.
I returned from the dark side of the moon in time to have dinner in the sunlight with my girls. While I was away, Mrs. Wife whipped up some ribs on the auld grill. I looked at The Daughters BBQ sauce-smeared faces and thought I could not be further away from where I was just a few hours ago.
I saw Our House, the latest comedy-drama by Theresa Rebeck at Playwrights Horizons. Rebeck is primarily a playwright, but she also wrote episodes for NYPD Blue, which I’m assuming provided her with a pretty healthy income. She burns so many bridges in Our House that I can only assume she never wants to work in TV again.
There are several plot strings but the funniest and most interesting (to me) was the biting parody of the real-life relationship between the skeevy CBS president Les Moonves and his young, hot employee, Julie Chen.
Ms. Chen was a B-list member of the CBS news team, which is an old and dignified news organization. After fucking old Les (he is old enough to be her father) she scored a plum position as host of Big Brother. It’s the oldest story in the oldest book.
There was a lot of gnashing of teeth in the newsroom over Moonves’s decision. The conflict of interest could damage the network’s journalistic integrity, but top-shelf sex will make a man do crazy things (see recent Republican foibles). One character in the play accused “Wes,” of “…thinking with is dick.” I‘ve done that myself once or twice.
The story has two great plot twists, but I found the casting and acting to be uneven. It’s always a shock to see sub-par acting being performed at an established company like Playwrights Horizons.
This fall you can see this guy…
and this guy…
…together on a Broadway stage in Keith Huff’s A Steady Rain. They both have stage credentials (Craig has acted for The Royal National Theater and Jackman won a Tony), so aside from the eye candy factor, it might be a pretty decent show.
I wish I looked like either one of them. I probably would have had a more interesting and varied sexual past.