Why Pick on Me

I don’t know why I find it funny that my bikini waxer has moral objections to Halloween. I mean, I get that there are many who object to it, but is it me, or is it oddly ironic that a woman who once considered creating bikini lines in the shape of Tiffany boxes is a born-again Christian who thinks Halloween is Satan’s holiday? I mean, not that people with such beliefs necessarily have any sort of objections to a well-groomed bikini line, but there’s something so overtly sexual about the procedure that it seems wholly incongruous with her position that masks are somehow the work of the devil, especially while her fingers are jammed in places where the sun doesn’t shine. Between this and her entirely tattooed-on face, she’s like an onion, I tell you! The layers, they just peel right off, revealing a Technicolor kaleidoscope of wonder and delight.

I’m telling you, she’s a little nuts, but I’m liking her more every day, even though the wax was boiling hot and also may have slipped into areas where the sun really and truly does not shine, under any circumstances at all.

This morning, by the way, I woke up at 5:45 a.m. and watched a full two hours of TV before I even bothered to shower, and it was heaven. I didn’t realize that mornings could be so deliciously glorious. I watched Grey’s Anatomy before sunrise! Desperate Housewives before breakfast! Yes, yes, I intended to run, but a fresh pot of coffee and a fully loaded TiVo beckoned. And I’m pretty sure this pushed me right into pathetic old lady territory, because I had lunch at 10:30, and was clamoring for dinner by 3.

Also, since it didn’t happen, I am free to tell you that we were thisclose to becoming a full-time (FULL. TIME.) Nielsen ratings family, box and all. They were “salivating” over the prospect of someone in our neighborhood in the 18-34 bracket, sans children, and were slated to come tomorrow at 5 p.m. to install the wiring. There were confidentiality agreements and everything! I wasn’t even allowed to tell you about it, lest they take away our privileges. We were the future of television! See you later, Private Practice! Adios, Are You Smarter Than a Fifth Grader!

And then I ruined it, and I’m heartbroken. Because of what I do for a living (media-related), I am unwelcome. Unwelcome! Uninvited! Private Practice could stay on the air for DECADES, and there’s nothing I can do about it, and it kills me. This means that Top Chef will be canceled, and it will be all my fault, and it certainly means that The Singing Bee is sticking around.

Also of the non-sequitur variety, I somehow stumbled upon a discussion about Jessica Seinfeld’s new book, Deceptively Delicious, and while seriously, I couldn’t care less who did it first (I think the plagiarism accusations are nothing more than a sly, effective marketing strategy from the Sneaky Chef peeps), and while yes, the idea of taking that much time to puree vegetables for the simplest of recipes is ridiculous, what I find *most* absurd about the arguments I’ve read is that people are all up in arms about the ’50s-style cover. Like a twinkly font and a wink is some kind of implication that we’re all supposed to be staying home like June Lockhart.

Which reminds me, have I ever told you about my twisted fantasy of being a stereotypical 1950s housewife, if only for a day? Don’t get me wrong — there are few people who are more driven than me when it comes to career, but there’s something exotically appealing about spending the day in a crinoline skirt and worrying about ring around the collar. And with that kind of outfit, who’s to say I wouldn’t wake up one day dreaming of the perfect recipe for tomato aspic that would wow my husband’s boss, who would, of course, be coming to our house for a dinner party where I would be sure to set out clean ashtrays and offer everyone a cigarette from a silver case.

I’m off to bed. Or at least I’m off to lay there like a bump on a pickle and watch the Red Sox.

Happy Thursday!

*The Standells. I originally had Dirty Water, but I panicked, because, what if I jinx it? WHAT IF THEN? I’m writing this in the middle of the game, so it’s not like an omen or anything, but it’s on my mind because freaking Fox won’t stop playing DW between innings, which is SO STUPID. STOP, FOX. STOP. It’s a song we ONLY PLAY WHEN WE WIN. And also, Joe Buck is a douchebag of the highest order. Does he want to have intimate relations with the entire Yankees organization? Why yes. Yes, he does, thank you for asking! THE YANKEES ARE OVER AND OUT OF THE PLAYOFFS. GET OVER IT, JOE. AND PLAY A DIFFERENT SONG WHILE YOU’RE AT IT.

21 comments October 24th, 2007