muffy bolding

“Nice head, Jer…”

— Don Rickles, cracking wise in front of millions of viewers of the 2003 Muscular Dystrophy Labor Day telethon, after glancing over at 77 year-old Jerry Lewis’ monstrously bloated visage due to steroid medication taken for pulmonary fibrosis

oh…but i am.

the lovely miss rhonda has inspired me with a very…shall we say, in-depth, internal, past revelation about herself and a quite marvelously-shaped bottle of love’s baby soft cologne (my absolute fave scent, by the way; the cologne, not the muff which enjoyed it)

=;-)

which, of course, got me to pondering the following meme.

which, of course, WOULD ONLY, COULD ONLY be wrought forth from the sick mind and wicked hand of some twisted, perverse, audacious, godless, scandalous, completely shameless bitchhawg like myself.

so, here it is, ladies — leave your secrets and your dignity at the door, and answer the following tender question:

what is the strangest thing you have ever had in your muff?

ps) and just to “get a leg up” on all you oh, so honest mamas — and to get the ball rollin’ and the humiliation crackin’…i’ll start:

http://www.bigredtoybox.com/articles/stretchindex.shtml

BELIEVE IT.

and just how NOT shocking was THIS result?

please.

i live for books, baguettes, coffee, cigarettes, intrigue, cafe life, berets, really stinky cheese, contemptuous behavior, bidets, edith piaf, meaningless marches and demonstrations every five, and fake triangle moustaches etched on with a black sharpie pen.

i was fucking BORN to be a parisian.

You are a Parisian.

What’s your Inner European?
brought to you by Quizilla

Last Christmas, like I do every Christmas, I spent time reading local “Kids’ Letters to Santa Claus”. I always find this an intensely moving experience, as it is somehow — if even for just a moment — being allowed inside that most hopeful place of wishes and dreams and magic that exists in the heart of every child.

When reading these letters, you find yourself both stunned and humbled by the requests that some of these children make. And furthermore, I have found that the lower the income level of the child, the more profound, moving, and selfless these requests become; they are pure.

Some ask for toys or coats for younger brothers and sisters. Some ask for new shoes for mothers. Some ask just to know their fathers. Some even ask simply for food. They are each a wish, sent off into the sky, by someone who still believes in wishes.

But last year, one letter that moved me in particular was the request of a 10 year old boy named Juan. Juan asked for a Barbie doll for his little sister, a video game for his little brother…and for himself, for Christmas, he asked for school supplies.

School supplies.

I read that, and I wept. He didn’t ask for toys or gadgets or bikes or money. He asked for paper, pencils, rulers, felt-tip pens, notebooks, binders, and folders. He asked for what my children, what most children, take completely for granted. He asked for those things that would help him to learn and to more fully participate in his education.

Needless to say, I answered Juan’s call. I had to — because Juan was like me. The most important thing in the world to him was LEARNING.

And so, a few weeks ago, I was at Staples getting back-to-school supplies with my three children — and I thought of Juan. I wondered if he was getting back-to-school supplies, too. I wondered if his parents could afford to get him all that he needed for the new school year. And then, in between the backpacks and the slide-rules, IT HIT ME.

THE IDEA HIT ME.

Why not ask a large corporation like Staples to institute a program where kids-in-need could come at the end of the summer and register what they needed/wanted for school — and where moms like me, who were already there shopping for their own children — could add a binder here, or a calculator there to fulfill those wish-lists?

WHY NOT?

It wouldn’t hurt moms like me in the least — after all, what’s another $3 or $5 or $10 when we’re already dropping $100 or more?

It wouldn’t hurt Staples Corporation IN THE LEAST — after all, think of all the extra bidness and goodwill they would engender with the community by instituting such a program. They could even match a certain amount of the gifts dollar for dollar or notebook for notebook… and write it all off at tax time.

And last — and most importantly — there would be hundreds, if not thousands, of community children who would go to school on the first day, with confidence…emboldened by the fact that they have all the supplies and equipment they require to keep up with any other kid on campus — and to surpass them even, if they so choose. It would level the playing field. It would give them a fighting chance. It would help them learn — not just reading, writing, and ‘rithmetic…but that someone cared enough to help, and that, in turn, they should care enough to help someone else when they are able and called upon to do so in their own lives.

It is a win-fucking-win proposition — and I am calling Staples Corporation first thing tomorrow morning to propose it.

Okay, kids — here’s a little game I’ve come up with, called: “Empty Your Purse, Baby”

So…grab your purses, backpacks, satchels, and diaperbags…and spill it, dames. And don’t hold back — in MY version of the game, you get extra points for bounced check notifications, denied credit apps, long-ignored electricity or telephone service shut-off notices, or vicious letters from collection agencies: =;-)

*A big, fat, 1970’s-kotex-lookin’, thick-ass, OLD SCHOOL black Nokia cell phone from about 2 years ago (which, as you well know, is an eternity in “cell phone years”). I actually got a nice, new, high-tech model but gave it to my 16 year old daughter to spare her the social mortification of carrying around the oversized ebony monstrosity with which I currently suffer. Of course, the difference is — I could give a rat’s ass. All I care is that I have a cell fucking phone at my disposal, for my sheer and utter convenience. I am a nasty, ugly, bitchhawg American — end of story, next fucking case.

*A scratched, gnarled little tub of Carmex floating free that is literally 3 or 4 years old — the closest I come to possessing real live girl cosmetics (aside from my tweezers, of course, which, like any good girl of Mediterranean descent, I CANNOT live without.)

*A handwritten note from Sarah Weddington, the courageous and charismatic attorney who argued and won the landmark Roe v. Wade case in 1973. I had the privilege of meeting with her in January at a big Roe v. Wade 30th anniversary shin-dig here in San Diego, put on by my beloved Planned Parenthood. The note, which is beyond precious to me, reads: “Muffy…all I can say is, I’m glad we’re on the same side!”

And, yes, I said I met her in January…and yes, it’s still in my purse. Does that tell you how badly I need to clean this bastard out? Does that make you really happy to know what a domestic fuck-up I am? Does it? Well…I must say, it’s really nice to finally know exactly what kind of mean, hateful, spiteful, gloating, schadenfreude-ridden hags frequent these pages. =;-)

*An ordinary wooden spoon you’d find in any ordinary kitchen in any ordinary city in America — except this one has “The Enforcer” written on the handle with a black Sharpie pen. No decent, self-respecting Italian mother would be caught dead without one…EVER. The beauty of the wooden spoon is, you never even really have to use it on an actual darling larvae ass — you just have to growl, “Hey, goddamnit…”, and when your misbehaving offspring stops dead in his/her tracks in response, you just stare them down like the crazed demon Pazuzu, and slowly reveal just the tip of the handle out the top of your purse. In other words, JUST SHOW WOOD. Works every goddamned time.

*A pin bearing the title of one of my most fave zine series ever, “A Beautiful Final Tribute” by beelavender (this is actually stuck to the outside of my purse). I likes it.

*An ancient, chalky tin of cinnamon Altoids that has seen much finer days.

*A brochure menu from an Italian restaurant here in San Diego called “Buca di Beppo”. I went there recently for the first time to celebrate the 12th birthday of my sweet middle girl child, and I gotta say I LOVED IT. So cheeseball, so yummy, so over-the-fucking-top-Sicilian kitsch. Turns out it’s a nationwide chain (which, in some instances, can be highly annoying and off-putting), however, this place is in such powerful, purposeful bad taste — with schlocky pictures of Sinatra, Rocky Marciano, Vince Lombardi, and Sophia Loren, et al, plastered over every square inch of available wall space, as well as the tackiest Romanesque statuary placed strategically throughout the joint. They serve southern Italian cuisine (read: the grub of the rough, sketchy Mafioso/Sicilan Trash caste, i.e, My Pipples) family style. The platter was huge, the sauce was garlicky, and the fucking meatballs were the size of my tits (and that’s sayin’ somethin’, believe you me…)

Home

*A cardboard tampon, with a tattered wrapper…from possibly before the Carter administration.

*Oddly enough, Rosanna Arquette’s address and phone numbers scrawled onto the back of a blue flyer I had for the recent San Diego Democratic Club blood drive (for which, due to a mild lupus flare, I was unfortunately unable to bleed). I was up in LA meeting with producers regarding the next two films with which I am involved, and we all met in the lounge at the Four Seasons Hotel — where, not too surprisingly, we lounged.

We talked, in depth, about her extraordinary documentary, “Searching for Debra Winger”, in which she brings to the surface all of the difficulties and discrimination that actresses face in Hollywood as they cross the terrifying threshold of 40 — as artists, mothers, and women — and are then basically abandoned for younger, perkier models with none of the glorious depth or experience that a woman attains JUST BY PUTTING HER GODDAMNED TIME IN ON THIS PLANET.

On a more personal note, she is suffering from a newly broken heart (younger man, musician bastard, wandering eye) and was a complete and total darling — so open, so honest, and so engaging. And for the record, she is the loving and devoted mama of a 9 year old girl, her tits are absolutely real, and, broken heart or not, she looks positively radiant. And further, she doesn’t know it yet, but I am writing a FAB part for her in the next film.

As for her contact information…that is so we can “do lunch”. How fucking perfectly, annoyingly Hollywood of me; sometimes I disgust even myself.

So…what should I wear?

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/low/entertainment/1992668.stm

*11 pens, littered throughout…all different sizes, shapes, and flow-types — some purchased, some inherited, and some purposefully stolen from doctor’s offices and pharmacies (rather an ongoing fetish of mine, now that I think of it). The one thing they all have in common, though: BLACK INK. I absolutely insist. Is there any other kind?

*A color brochure from my hotel in Romania — the Hotel Lebada, just outside Bucharest. My film set and home away from home for the entire month of May of this year.

God, how I miss it — legions of non-filtered cigarettes blazing at every meal, and every one of those meals consisting in large part of some sort of fatty extraneous ham product. Lemme tell you, kids, these motherfuckers LOVE they ham.

The women wear hideous 70’s hooker clothing (they think it looks good), and have the absolute bar-none worst hair dye jobs the world has ever seen (they think it looks good) — and sweet jesus how I miss them all. What glorious, generous, gracious, and passionate people. The one consolation I have to soothe my aching heart is that we are going back to film there again next year, to work, once more, with the finest film crew ever…EVER.

http://domino2.kappa.ro/clienti/lebada/home.nsf

http://www.hotelnet.ro/hotels/bucharest/lebada.htm

*A punch-foil packet of some sort of pain reliever I got in London last year at Boot’s Pharmacy. They have this truly bizarre moratorium there on selling aspirin in amounts of any more than like 16 at a time. It seems that when those zany, rainy, insany Brits get their mitts on any more than that at one time, they immediately try to kill themselves — hence the governmentally imposed limit. Interesting, that.

Christ…now that I dump all this horseshit out onto the bed and just look at it — I realize that I REALLY REALLY REALLY need to clean this bastard OUT.

*sigh*

And now, to task I be, Gentle Readers…to task.

Sweet Jesus — last night I had this REALLY HOT dream…where I was bangin’ around with (get ready) DAVID FUCKING CASSIDY.

And now, despite all of my attempts to get on with my day of packing and moving and moving and packing…I just can’t seem to get ol’ Keith Partridge out of my head. I love the way his hair feathered SO exquisitely and poofed into those two little bouffant bumps up on top of his head, and the way his hip-huggers…well…hugged his hips.

I have a David Cassidy hangover.

And you know what? FUCK IT — I am just gonna get out my old Partridge Family albums (I’m packing them today, anyway) and go with it…and revel in the one extraordinary night we had alone together.

I think I love you, David Cassidy.

*passionately kissing my pillowcase…like I did when I was 11*

I’m sleeping
And right in the middle of a good dream
Then all at once I wake up
From something that keeps knocking at my brain
Before I go insane
I hold my pillow to my head
And spring up in my bed
Screaming out the words I dread ….
“I think I love you!” (I think I love you)

I think I love you!
So what am I so afraid of?
I’m afraid that I’m not sure of
A love there is no cure for
I think I love you
Isn’t that what life is made of?
Though it worries me to say
I’ve never felt this way

No, apparently he is alive and well and coming through loud and clear in really cheesy Time-Life music compilations. If there IS a God, may he help us all to survive such mass cultural horrors.

What brought this on is that I just saw a really disturbing commercial that showed all of these creepy teens at various Christian rock concerts — everybody sweaty and glistening with enlightenment…swaying to and fro with their eyes closed (quite apt symbolism there, actually) and their open hands upturned…I guess waiting to be filled with the Holy Spirit, or the riches of the Kingdom of God, or the dick of the pious teen dude standing next to them whilst they bask gloriously in the light of the Lord, or something.

These poor, poor fucks. When they get to the end of their miserable lives and FINALLY realize that THIS is heaven…THIS PLACE IS HEAVEN and that every moment they have the privilege of drawing breath, and eating Mexi-Melts at Taco Bell, and guzzling a really good cup o’ coffee, and arguing politics and literature with their friends, and fucking under a down blanket in the wintertime with old Radiohead on the cd player, and eating Jiffy-Pop and watching old “Young Ones” videos with their kids, and getting a stack of new zines in their PO box, and finding that PERFECT old polyester dress and Ethel Mertz pair of shoes at a thrift store, and the smell of fresh cilantro, Downy fabric softener, and their son’s head — is a gift from the universe…they are gonna be so fucking sorry they pledged to live those precious lives according to the tenets of some miserable, ridiculous, judgemental, inherently evil, NOT-EVEN-ANY-FUN cult of NO-talent meathooks.

By the way, if you’re feeling uninspired and interested in ordering the CD compilation and wanna bask in the light a little yourself, it can be found in the “Worship Together” collection at:

http://www.timelife.com

As for me, since I am still neck-deep in moving boxes and Windex cocktails, I shall let the darling Friedrich speak for me on the subject:

“I call Christianity the one great curse, the one great intrinsic depravity, the one great instinct for revenge for which no expedient is sufficiently poisonous, secret, subterranean, petty — I call it the one mortal blemish of mankind.”
–Friedrich Nietzsche

Hear, Hear, Herr Nietzsche!

If you weren’t already long-dead, and rotting and stinking in the earth, I’d blow you for your words of wisdom, Good Sir.

Oh, yeah…and I also thought that Foster Farms was a home for unwanted chickens.

At the grocery store, I would always PLEAD with my mother to buy the Foster Farms brand chicken — as I genuinely believed that they had already been rejected by their own mothers and forced to live in a chicken foster home…so the VERY least we could do was bring them home with us. I simply could not bear for them to be abandoned to the tender mercies of our grocer’s freezer for even a single moment longer than necessary.

You can’t MAKE shit like this up.

“By and large, mothers and housewives are the only workers who do not have regular time off. They are the great vacationless class.”

— Anne Morrow Lindbergh (1907- )

Okay…do you all know that song, “Drops of Jupiter” by Train? Yeah, the one where those guys try their asses off to approximate the sound and soul of The Black Crowes — which isn’t really saying much, if you think about it. It was popular like ten years ago, or something.

Well, anyway — there is a line in that song that apparently goes:

“Did you make it to the Milky Way to see the lights all faded
And that heaven is overrated?”

Well, for the LONGEST GODDAMNED TIME, I honest to christ thought that that line was instead the following (and would sing it out LOUD AND PROUD because it just amused me no end):

“Did you make it to the Milky Way to see the lights all faded
and Van Halen is overrated?”

AND VAN HALEN IS OVERRATED

Yeah, yeah, yeah…I am WELL aware that I am a ridiculous jackass, and when my husband heard me singing along one day in the car — singing along MY WAY, that is — he nearly busted a fucking cute jew-boy gut laughing at me.

But you know what? My reasoning was this: If a song contains the UTTERLY ludicrous, NO-talent, 21st century, BAD pop culture phrases:

“She checks out Mozart while she does tae-bo…”

“Can you imagine no love, pride, deep-fried chicken…”

“The best soy latte that you ever had and me…”

Then I see ZERO fucking outrageousness in it also containing the phrase, “Van Halen is overrated…”

And, yes…when I first heard it (or misheard it, rather), I must admit to having felt just AWFUL for poor ol’ Van Halen. To be publicly humiliated by Kurt Cobain the way they were was one thing — because there was almost a cool veneer to being on the receiving end of the infamous Cobain Disdain.

But to be MOLDED by those fucking NO-talent meathooks in Train, for chrissake?

Why, it’s almost too much to bear.

I do believe I shall be forced to seek solace in the best soy latte that I’ll ever have…and thee.