You Don't Sweat Much For A Fat Girl Part 11

Meat'normous? Now That's Just Wrong This Christmas, while watching that saptastic old movie, It's A Wonderful Life with Duh for the twentieth consecutive year, I was reminded of all the people I'm glad were born. As you know, Life is all about showing how one person's life, no matter how seemingly ordinary, can have extraordinary purpose and impact. I found myself particularly grateful for Dr. Jonas Salk for keeping us healthy and for Eric Clapton for giving us Layla and to Papa Murphy for inventing a decent take-and-bake pizza.

The movie, which usually puts me to sleep long before Zuzu gets her wings or whatever, could use some updating to make it more relevant. Blasphemy, you say? Mayhaps. But think of the fun we could have in the casting.

Obviously, our old pal Bernie Madoff would be a perfect sub for the movie's miserly cheat, Mr. Potter. He lived to screw the worker bees out of their hard-earned money despite the valiant efforts of sad-sack do-gooder George Bailey, portrayed so memorably by Jimmy Stewart.

I wouldn't want to recast George because, honestly, when Jimmy Stewart finally snaps and gets his drink on, beats up the newel, yells (rightfully, if you ask me) at his annoying-a.s.s kids, and chews out an innocent schoolteacher on that wacky tin can-and-string telephone, no one could do it better. To put it another way, for someone who's supposed to be so d.a.m.n nice and decent, George Bailey goes from zero to complete douche in record time.

Chinless wonder Joe Lieberman could reprise the role of Mr. Gower, the distracted druggist who couldn't concentrate on uninsured people who need medicine and instead, sent home a nice bag of poison for them to take.

Life is unwittingly hilarious in places. Every year, I wake up long enough to laugh out loud at the agonized look on George Bailey's face when he's told that, because he'd never been born, his beloved Mary was "an old maid, George."

This is revealed in the same horror-soaked tones as if she had succ.u.mbed to leprosy or become a Civil War reenactor. To underscore that, the lovely Donna Reed is given c.o.ke-bottle gla.s.ses to wear and stripped of all makeup. Because that's how all unmarried women looked back before Photoshop, I guess.

The other funny thing-though, again, unintentional-is the movie's nutty insistence that Pottersville was somehow inferior to Bedford Falls, a place so relentlessly pristine and virtuous that it would make Garrison Keillor's Lake Wobegon look like Amesterdam's fabled weed-and-wh.o.r.es district. Music, dancing, drinking, gambling? The residents of Pottersville appeared to be having, in redneck parlance, "a large time." Toss in a little Cirque du Soleil and some white tigers and it was practically Vegas.

George Bailey was kind but repressed and lacked balance in life. When his job tanked, thanks to the actions of his weepy, loony-tunes uncle (obviously we are casting Glenn Beck), he went apes.h.i.+t. If we learn nothing else from the movie, we should learn (1) that you can guilt trip a whole town into rescuing you from financial ruin if you haven't been too big of a sonovab.i.t.c.h and (2) sometimes you really do need to tell the kid banging on the piano to shut the h.e.l.l up.

My annual viewing of It's A Wonderful Life reminds me why Christmas is, like the song says, the most wonderful time for a beer. Three days before Christmas, I was once again doing the whole buying-and-wrapping-at-the-last-minute thing.

My friend, Claire, informed me that she'd finished shopping back in August.

"I did everything online," she chirped. Of course, I was too kind to point out that except for the homebound elderly who have no choice, no one should ever give every single person on their gift list a fleece hoodie from Lands' End. Where's the creativity in that? Still, I have to admit that it was smart to surf and click and smugly await deliveries at normal, non-Sopranos-like freight costs. Smart, but boring!

I wanted Claire to wait in line with me at Walmart, where there was a line of a couple dozen people smelling of cigarette smoke, fried fish, and desperation. Which, now that I think about it, is pretty much what it would smell like if you could bottle my twenties. Starter marriage, small town, long story, you get the idea.

And it never fails that when you finally get to the cas.h.i.+er, you're behind yet another grown adult who is slowly and laboriously writing out a check that is decorated with Disney characters. They must then fish out a couple of forms of ID while, once again, I scratch my noggin and wonder why they don't just use a debit card.

To these fellow travelers on life's journey, may I just say that I totally get that someone told you that someone told them that someone else told their cousin who once worked as a security guard at a bank that debit cards aren't safe and that there are hordes of crooks out there waiting to get ahold of your PIN and steal your ident.i.ty. But trust me, n.o.body really wants to be you. If you think about it, it's pretty egotistical of you to think so.

Face it. You're a woman in your fifties and you have Disney princesses parading across your antique legal tender. If somebody's going to get her ID stolen, it's probably somebody way cooler than you.

Back in August, when I should've begun my shopping, the merchandise selection was probably better. Those purple leopard-print UGGs the Princess was pining for somehow morphed into black vinyl closed-toe bedroom shoes with a nifty red-plaid lining. And, yes, she was p.i.s.sed. It didn't even help that I'd scrawled "Team Edward" on one toe and "Team Jacob" on the other. Nothing could quite eliminate that nursing home vibe. I was so busted.

For Duh there was, of course, only one choice by the time I got around to doing my Christmas shopping: Burger King's new Flame meat-scented cologne was a steal at just $3.99 plus tax. The silver spray bottle embossed with a red heart is perfect for any man who wants to wear, as Burger King brags, "the scent of seduction with a hint of flame-broiled meat." I swear I am not making this up.

You might wonder why Burger King is getting into the fragrance business, but I say why not? It's not like the whole fast-food thing has worked out that well for them.

Besides, Celine Dion and David Beckham sell their cheap smell'um at Walmart, so why not the ubiquitous and somewhat pervy Burger King? And Flame is a whole lot easier to say than something cla.s.sy that has inserts in fancy magazines like Acqua Di Gio Pour Homme, which, if my high school French is correct, and I'm fairly certain it is, means "Water of G.o.d for My Homies." Yeah, I'm bilingus.

Burger King saved my 98-percent-fat bacon by rolling out Flame in time for the holidays.

The commercial featured the comically big-headed, spray-tanned King peddling his cologne while wearing only a crown and a faux fur loincloth as Barry White-ish music plays in the background. Nah, none of that is weird.

And while some have said this cologne gig was just a clever Christmas marketing gimmick for BK, others actually like the smell of Flame. None other than The Honorable Kathie Lee Gifford herself squealed her approval after spritzing a reluctant cameraman with Flame on her After the Real Today Show, The Part That No One Watches. It's only a matter of time before Frank Gifford introduces his new signature scent for the holidays: Old Man's Stinky Football Jersey.

A lot of people find the King completely creepy but Burger King is loyal to its mascot and even exploits his royal weirdness. When he's not dousing himself in Flame and offering to "set the mood no matter what mood you're in the mood for" (say whaaaat?), the King is at the center of a breakfast menu ad campaign that includes, or did I just dream this, a commercial in which he crawls into bed with a startled young man and cheerfully offers him a "Meat'normous" sandwich.

Pa.s.s.

We shouldn't be surprised by the odd ad campaign, given an earlier one for Whopper Virgins, in which real-life Thai villagers, rural Romanian farmers, and tundra-dwellers from Greenland are asked to compare the Whopper to a Big Mac from McDonald's.

The commercials make me feel mildly uncomfortable, rather like the painful moments on Survivor when the air-headed contestants try to look honestly interested during the obligatory segment when they must interact with island natives and visit holy shrines and stuff.

In the BK commercials, the bemused villagers prefer the Whopper (duh) but I think that's probably only because somebody threw in a few cases of Flame.

So, Christmas was kind of a bust in the present department this year. Duh wasn't nearly as taken with the ironic nature of his gift as I thought he would be. And the Princess is still pouting over her nursing home-slash-vampire shoes.

As we gathered around the TV to watch Life yet again on Christmas night, I reminded both of them that Christmas isn't about presents. It's about being together as a family to celebrate Jesus' birth and to remember the true spirit of the season. Of course, this didn't go over as well as you might imagine, since I was, at that selfsame moment, absentmindedly twirling my present, a just over one full carat diamond eternity ring (Score! At last!) on my left ring finger. When I opened it on Christmas morning, the first thing I said to Duh, because we'd just seen the movie Blood Diamond and had discussed its globally and socially responsible message, was "Is this a blood diamond? Because I want to make absolutely sure that this is 100 percent cruelty-free before I put it on my hand." Duh looked real confused. Apparently he'd forgotten all about the movie in the week and a half since we'd seen it.

"I-I-I-'m not really sure ... . I guess so ... . I hope so ... ." He looked downright scared.

I let him twist in the wind for another second or so before I busted out laughing.

"Oh, honey, I'm just messin' wid ya. I don't care if you had to cut off Leo DiCaprio's head to get this thing, it's FREAKIN' GORGEOUS!!!"

Duh beamed and the smell of flame-broiled meat filled the living room. I'm pretty sure we can all agree on one thing: It's a wonderful thing that Duh was born.

Now, because I do want to give something to all y'all, I'm going to share my Can't Miss Christmas Morning Breakfast Strata recipe. Y'all know me: It's super good and super easy.

CHRISTMAS MORNING BREAKFAST STRATA-GY.

6 cups cubed French bread (1 loaf, usually)

1 pound sausage (I like Jimmy Dean sage but you can

use any flavor you prefer), cooked and drained

2 cups shredded sharp cheddar (just buy it pre-shredded; it's Christmas. Don't you have a bike to a.s.semble or something?)

2 green onions, chopped (yes, tops, too)

1 quart half-and-half

9 large eggs

1 teaspoon dry mustard

1 teaspoon salt

Pepper, hot sauce and/or Worcesters.h.i.+re sauce to taste

Grease a good-size rectangular ca.s.serole dish with b.u.t.ter. Spread bread cubes evenly in the dish. Top with (in order) sausage, cheese, and chopped onions, sprinkling each evenly over bread cubes.

Lightly mix together half-and-half, eggs, mustard, salt, and spices. Pour liquid mixture over bread/sausage/cheese, cover with foil and let sit in fridge overnight. Preheat oven to 350 degrees and bake, lightly covered with foil, for about 45 minutes. Cut into squares and serve with fruit (I like those big bowls of presliced fruit from Costco) and store-bought miniature cinnamon m.u.f.fins. Low effort, big raves, trust me.

Serves 8-10

22.

I Dreamed A Dream That My Lashes Were Long I get a little cheesed every time I think about Susan Boyle, the Scottish singing sensation. I'm not mad at her, of course. What bugs me is how everybody was so surprised that a matronly chick in a dowdy lace dress could sing pretty.

Not since Gomer Pyle's singing genius was discovered while changing a tire in Mayberry have so many been so shocked that a homely person could make beautiful music.

But, really, why?

Why were so many people so surprised that a plump middle-aged woman of daffy disposition could have real talent? Beauty and talent don't always, or even often, go together. (See Simpson, comma, Jessica; bless her heart.) With her bushy brows arching toward heaven, Susan Boyle sang her lumpy a.s.s off and a British talent-show judge proclaimed that it was the surprise of his life.

Why is that?

Say what you will about Mick Jagger, whom I adore, but he ain't purty. He's a wormy looking little fella with tragic features but, sha-zam, is he talented! And, to most, a s.e.xy senior. Cause he's a boy.

The way the Brits carried on so about Susan Boyle's bold decision to commit the offense of SWU (Singing While Unattractive) was tiresome, but it would've been even worse if she'd made her debut on American Idol, I suppose.

Randy: "Dang, that was good! Holler at cha! Little pitchy and you're no looker and it was the wrong song choice, but it was good! Dawg."

Paula: "Oh my goodness, you just came out there and really, well, the angels and the ozone and everything just really brought together a thing that is, well, just such a thing that is just so beautiful in a sort of symbiotic eternity. And you can't help how you look."

Kara: "Can anybody please just p.r.o.nounce my name right? Please? My name? Anybody? Oh, and you on stage? Yeah, I really think that you should know that I prefer my contestants to be hot eighteen-year-old guys so, uh, yeah, well, this was kind of a time-waster for me."

Simon: "Look, the elephant in the room is, well, it's b.l.o.o.d.y her. The bottom line is this woman is painfully, undeniably, and unalterably unattractive, and we live in a shallow culture that simply can't support a woman who chooses to wear such a ghastly Kmart frock to perform in a nationally televised performance where I'm forced to look at her."

It's regrettable that women have to worry so much about appearance. Even Ellen DeGeneres, who replaced poor Paula, freeing her to pursue other projects, is obsessed with her looks, otherwise why would she agree to be the newest spokesmodel for CoverGirl cosmetics? (BTW, "pursuing other projects" is Hollywood-speak for rehab followed by another painful reality show.) It's a little curious. Ellen never seemed to care about conventional stuff like foundation and powder. She was the comedic version of Susan Boyle, talented without fretting about the whole looks thing.

But turns out she was a little worried about it and now, suddenly, she's everywhere, on magazines, the sides of buses, on TV, yakking about CoverGirl's new Simply Ageless Foundation.

I usually pay big bucks for department store foundation so this was pretty tempting, the notion that I could use something to give me a flawless face that was available at CVS and cost less than a medium pizza. Ellen told me it was so, and she wouldn't lie, would she? Besides, who among us doesn't want to look like a fifty-year-old lesbian?

If this cheap drugstore foundation was responsible for Ellen's glowing skin, then that was good enough for me. Not to mention Susan Boyle, but only if she wants to gussy up a bit. She could still sing the paint off the walls.

I don't have a great set of pipes going for me so I cling to the little things. Which is why I couldn't wait to get Simply Ageless home. It was so cute in its little purple compact with a swirl of white antiaging goo mixed right in.

Unfortunately, I couldn't get the d.a.m.n thing open. After about fifteen minutes, I finally pried the bottom section open and a cute little white applicator sponge rolled out. OK ... but how to get the foundation part open?

The CoverGirl Web site was there to help. At first, I felt pretty stupid being unable to open a simple compact but then I saw "How to Open Simply Ageless" as a clickable link at the Web site so I figured there were hundreds, if not thousands, of middle-aged women out there frustrated as h.e.l.l in their pursuit to look like Ellen DeGeneres.

There were three steps, mostly involving twisting counter-clockwise, clockwise, rotating bottoms and tops, and quoting Chaucer while balancing plates on a stick and scratching your a.s.s.

I was kidding about the Chaucer part. 'Nother words: I just couldn't get the d.a.m.n thing open. I imagine Susan Boyle would've given the whole project about six seconds before hollering "b.o.l.l.o.c.ks!" and gone out to shear the sheep or rethatch the roof or whatever people do in Scotland when they're not singing on the telly or carping about the weather.

After a few more minutes of wrestling with the compact, I broke down and called the toll-free CoverGirl help line, where a perky sounding beauty consultant said she'd be happy to help once I described my dilemma.

"You have to turn it counter-clockwise on the clear part while grasping the bottom purple part."

"Do I have to do the Chaucer part now?"

"Excuse me?"