You Don't Sweat Much For A Fat Girl Part 6

Which brings me to The Real Housewives of New Jersey. Y'all I had to start watching that show every week because, well, my IQ was just too high. I mean seriously up there. What can I tell you? After watching every episode, I am now officially as dumb as that brown, particle-like stuff you find outside and don't want to track inside the house. Rhymes with "wirt," I think.

The housewives are completely diverse personalities-that is, if your idea of diversity is every woman is loud, catty, big-haired or big-"bubbied" (their favorite word for b.r.e.a.s.t.s, don'tchaknow) and they make Fran Drescher's nasal Nanny sound like James Earl Jones.

Let me give you the skinny, in case you decide to tune in for the next season.

First, there's Caroline, the matriarch type who is kind of a low talker compared to the others. I can never quite make out what she's saying but it sounds a lot like, "If that wh.o.r.e lays her hands on my precious son, Albie, I'm gonna dump her bony body in the Pine Barrens, I'm just saying, yada-yada, fughedabout.i.t, cannoli."

To which her sister-in-law and the designated peacemaker of the bunch, Jersey wife Jacqueline, will just say, "Anyways, who wants a mani-pedi and I really want to have a third baby despite the fact that I appear to binge-drink champagne in the middle of a Wednesday afternoon. Anyways, don't judge me!"

Dina has a bored-by-it-all tone and frequently kvetches that she doesn't "have time for all the drama." Which makes me want to point out that most folks who don't have time for drama don't say that in front of a roomful of TV lights and cameras. It's possible that big-sister Caroline low-talk threatened her into doing the show. Dina is more of a faux housewife because we rarely see Mr. Dina. He's more of an idea than an actual person, I think.

Formerly flat-chested Teresa spent the first four episodes talking about how her simpleton husband, Joe, liked her the way she was and that was good enough for her. But that doesn't make for interesting TV so fast-forward a few episodes and there's Joe telling Teresa's plastic surgeon that he'd like to see her with some "full Cs." Teresa giggles and agrees to all this and now no longer weeps while trying on bikinis with the girls in Atlantic City. Oy vey.

And finally there's faux wife Danielle, whom the others hate because they think she's too s.k.a.n.ky to hang out with women as cla.s.sy as they are. There's much sniping behind backs, tearful reconciliations, and then worse sniping than ever. It's middle school all over again only with way too much leopard furniture. So, yes, I are dumber now than when I started watching those Real Housewives. Mission accomplice, I always say.

And just when I thought the bar couldn't get any lower (a.s.suming Octomom doesn't get the show she dreams of), I discovered the show, My Monkey Baby. Not since the debut of I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant! have I been this excited.

This should answer, once and for all, those satellite TV ingrates who love to whine about how they have 856 channels and nothing to watch. I repeat: monkey babies.

Who could resist following the daily hijinks of Jessica Marie, a girl monkey with her own pink bedroom, designer clothes, toys, games, and makeup?

TLC, which used to stand for The Learning Channel but now stands for t.i.tillating Losers for Cash, follows quasiredneck couple Lori and Jim Johnson as they, seriously, examine the questions "How strong is the parent/monkey bond?" and, my personal favorite, "Can a monkey really be a child subst.i.tute?"

TLC, sounding downright journalistic, promises that My Monkey Baby explores "the real lives of people parenting monkeys in America." Thank the sweet Lord above that Walter Cronkite isn't alive to see this.

Standing in the canned ravioli aisle at a Tarzana Safeway wearing ratty bedroom scuffs, the Octomom is probably slapping her forehead.

"Monkey babies! Why didn't I think of that?"

Monkey mama Lori has two grown, human daughters of her own, but apparently they were much harder to hold down and administer blush and lipstick to.

"She loves it!" coos Lori, while Jessica Marie gazes stupidly at a tube of something that was probably tested on her long-lost cousin.

I'm sorry I said "stupidly." Wouldn't want to set Jim off. He gets a might riled if you call Jessica Marie a monkey.

"Don't call her that! She's my daughter one hundred percent!"

Given his propensity to wax philosophic over a cold 'un while a cigarette bounces up and down on his lip, who am I to argue? Maybe he has the DNA test to prove it.

I smell ratings bonanza here. No, sorry. That was just Jessica Marie flinging something. But I seriously believe that TLC could craft a TV special here that melds all of its best efforts from the TLC/Discovery family.

Those wacky Duggars (see "Legos.e.x," above) should add a few monkey babies to the mix. The only problem would be convincing the monkeys to give up their computer skills in favor of wearing gingham ap.r.o.ns and writing on a slate.

Or Jessica Marie, who wears pink sparkly tutus, I kid you not, could compete in the gruesomely watchable Toddlers & Tiaras, a show in which fathers of little-girl beauty pageant contestants dare to teach dance routines while claiming not to be gay at all.

If Jim, Jessica Marie's possible bio-dad, lurched around the corner in his wife beater at just the wrong time, those feisty Police Women of Broward County could wra.s.sle him to the ground and Tase him just like they do in every show. Carmindy, the comely makeup artist from What Not to Wear could then wax, well, everything.

Meanwhile, with Jon and Kate's little family off the air thanks to Jon's unfortunate penchant for cheatin', the good news is that Octomom might finally get her shot.

I imaging she's licking those inflated lips of hers over the prospect.

"Did someone call for a mother of multiples who has sleek Angelina Jolie-like hair? Because I had my eight all at one time, not just six like Kate Gosselin. I mean anyone could have six babies at one time. Please. I could do that while I'm checking out at Costco."

So Octonut may, at last, get her close-up. Like they always say, when one door closes, another eight or so open in the oversized custom maxi van provided by sponsors.

I'm sure the folks at TLC are only slightly jittery about replacing the Gosselins with a woman who thinks that Brad Pitt actually belongs to her, and I don't mean Ann Curry, bless her heart. (Note to NBC: Give Ann Curry a vacation. She touched Brad's face during an interview! The only people allowed to do that are Angelina and maybe George Clooney.) Meanwhile, sad Kate Gosselin hopes to rise like a publicity-crazed phoenix from the ashes of Jon's burned and slashed Ed Hardy T-s.h.i.+rts (could he possibly look like more of a doofus?). She's entertaining the notion of hosting a TV talk show, which would be perfect for viewers who find Tyra too intellectually challenging.

No offense, but really, what does Kate bring to the talk-show table? I'm picturing the first week of shows based on Kate's ideas ... .

Monday: Why Jon Cheated on Me With That s.k.a.n.k Tuesday: Jon's Hairplugs Look Stupid, Don't They?

Wednesday: Jon Gosselin's a bed wetter (and other fun facts) Thursday: All Eight Kids Tell Why They Hate Jon and Why They Think Our Bodyguard Is Way More Buff and Looks a Little Like Mark Harmon, Am I Right?"

Friday: Everybody Who Hates Jon Gets a Free Pontiac!

A talk show could also be problematic for Kate because she has a vexing habit of making up questions and answering them herself and calling that conversation: "Did I feel angered and betrayed by Jon's selfishness? You bet I did."

"Do I want dressing on the side? Yes, absolutely I do."

"Is it completely hypocritical to kvetch about the paparazzi while courting them at the same time? You betcha!"

Octomom, your moment is now. Seize the day, you crazy-a.s.s breed cow. And when you go into that meeting, you might want to take Caroline with you. Just saying.

11.

You Know You Want It: Snuggie's Embrace Will Melt You Here in the South, we don't really do cold. Cold weather is, frankly, unseemly. We have no desire to experience it and we even feel a tad dizzy and nauseous when confronted with the sight of Southerners wading through snow drifts on the nightly news, bundled in layers of clothes.

The only time Southerners like layers is when they're in the ruffled tulle of our wedding gowns (or perhaps in the sixteen-layer chocolate cakes our sainted grandmothers used to make). If we wanted snow and cold weather, we would move to someplace like Minnesota, which even native son Garrison Keillor describes as "a state where people's tongues are routinely frozen to metal objects."

Here in the middle of the coldest winter I can remember, the weather announcer has said that today's high will be seventeen. I want my mommy.

The only thing that's funny about this weather in our South is that it brings out the braggart in all the many thousands of Yankees who have moved here.

Oh, how they chuckle at our quaint complaints. The ruder ones are openly disdainful of our pouty reactions to this late unpleasantness.

"You call this cold?" one said to me. "Ha! When we lived in Buffalo, winters were so cold the flashers would stop women and show them a picture of themselves naked."

Yes, well, yok, yok, yok. All I know is, this morning, the weatherman said those two words that are like kryptonite to a Southerner: "Black ice."

The very name conjures images of church vans overturned on interstates, and sends s.h.i.+vers down our already s.h.i.+vered spines.

Here is a typical conversation between a Southern mama and her Southern daughter in the event of a prediction of the dreaded black ice from the TV weatherman: Mama: "You can't go out tonight. John Bob on Channel 7 says it's going to be real bad out there."

Daughter: "Oh, Mama, you're so silly. I'm going out tonight and you can't stop me. Now stop worrying!"

Mama (smiling slightly): "He said there would be ... black ice on the highways."

Daughter: "What y'all wanna watch on TV tonight?"

Northerners are unconcerned about black ice or anything else. To hear them tell it, our new Yankee-transplant neighbors never took their babies out in strollers. They simply balanced them on their feet, March of the Penguins-style, and went about their errands.

There was no mistaking the braggy tone of a transplant who moved here from North Dakota. He put his dog outside for a few minutes so it could do its business one night and it froze to death in mid p.o.o.p.

"Yah, sure, it froze to death right dere, you betcha."

Keeping all this in mind, you can just imagine the reaction of these newcomers when our local public schools delayed opening a couple of hours "on account of it being real cold." Yep, that's what they said in just those words.

I didn't see anything funny about that. It seemed like a perfectly acceptable reaction to me. We Southerners aren't built to endure cold. We are gentle creatures that look best in sundresses and skin that is dewy with humidity. I will never again complain about a brutal August heat. This morning, it was fifty-nine degrees in my living room and I made coffee while wearing gloves.

There's nothing wrong with my heating system. It's just, like the rest of us, utterly depressed by such ridiculous expectations. Our hands, feet, and faces are chapped, rough, and red. We are sleeping in, may G.o.d have mercy on our Southern souls, sweat pants.

Meanwhile, as far south as Orlando, there were reports of snow flurries. At Disney World, it was rumored that even Winnie the Pooh was finally contemplating putting on some pants, surely a sign of the end times.

There is one thing good to have come out of this awful cold snap we've experienced: The Snuggie.

When I opened the birthday gift from my mother-in-law a few months earlier, I had let loose with a sn.o.bby little chuckle. That was back in September when we were enjoying our normal 98 percent humidity. Good times.

"Wow," I said when I opened the box. Didn't see that one coming. A Snuggie. As seen on TV. My mother-in-law gave me a blanket with sleeves. I fretted that she was afraid I'd gained so much weight that I wouldn't be able to wear anything else, but she swore that wasn't so.

Still, a Snuggie just seemed so, I don't know, mediocre. What was I supposed to do? Wear it as I trudged through the sycamore leaves to the mailbox to see if my Cash 4 Gold check had arrived yet?

The Snuggie, like the ShamWow, was just such an infomercial hoot. You could combine the two and really have something, I told my m-i-l, a tad ungraciously, now that I think about it.

"Why not make a Snuggie entirely out of ShamWows, put it on, hose yourself down and then roll around the floor, cleaning as you go."

"Try it on," said my mother-in-law.

Great. If I opened it, there would be no way I could return it "Good idea!" I said, with way more enthusiasm than I felt.

The box was sealed up with tape so I had to use scissors to get it open. When I finally succeeded, the Snuggie immediately expanded like a life raft, filling my mother-in-law's den and threatening to knock duh-hubby's portrait off the wall, along with the collection of candles flickering below.

Not sure why that irritates my sisters-in-law so much.

"Wow!" I said. If this thing didn't work as a cozy coverup, it would make a fabulous drop cloth for, uh, Switzerland.

Because of its enormousness, it took me a few seconds to locate the Snuggie's actual sleeves. I haven't been this kerflum-moxed by an article of clothing since I bought my first thong. Also my last, since you ask.

While the whole family watched, I put the Snuggie on as best I could and figured I'd just model it quickly and give everybody a good laugh.

Except that's not how it went.

Snuggie had me in its warm embrace. It was like those "rebirth" blankets you hear about people using to recreate the womb experience, except without all the gooey placenta c.r.a.p.

No! It was nothing like that. The Snuggie wasn't some crackpot psychology experiment; it was the real deal. I never wanted to take it off. I would wear my Snuggie everywhere I went, conducting my daily errands-bank, grocery store, post office, driving by the gym-all while wrapped, nay, swaddled in this marvelous monklike monstrosity.

I take back every hateful thing I ever said, thought, or wrote about the Snuggie. Because, the truth is, there's nothing worse than criticizing something you've never even tried. (I'm remembering you, deep-fried Oreos.) Now that we're freezing every day, the Snuggie has changed my life, forcing me to feel adrift and helpless for forty minutes every week as I wait for it to finally emerge from the dryer. Lucky dryer.

So look elsewhere if you want to deride the Snuggie or mock its cheesy advertising campaign. The Snuggie is a gift from G.o.d. OK, actually Walgreens, but still.

Snuggie has sustained me through this coldest of winters. I even bought one for Duh and the Princess so the three of us could sit around the fireplace decked out in our fleecy companions. For our Christmas card this year, we even posed in front of the tree in our matching Snuggies.

Oh, I know what you're thinking ... why not just put your robe on backwards you idiot? And you shouldn't call me an idiot by the way. What can I say? It's just not the same. The Snuggie knows what it's doing. All hail the Snuggie. And what it's doing is suffocating you with softness and warmth. Why do you think people wear them to ball games? What? They don't do that? It's just something the infomercial says?

Whatever. The Snuggie has made this wretched cold weather almost bearable. And for that I will endure your ceaseless jokes about monasteries and cults and all the rest of it.

I will read your belittling comments while using the adorable book light that came free with the Snuggie, along with the warm sock-booties that also came with.

Wearing the Snuggie is the only thing that has helped me survive this brutal Donner partystyle winter. As a matter of fact, if the Donner party had had Snuggies, they might not have turned on one another in such dramatic and distasteful fas.h.i.+on. Oh, they would've been hungry, all right. But they would've been warm. And given the choice, this belle chooses warmth.

12.

Happy 50th Birthday, Barbie! Midge Has Your Back (Stabbed) Barbie and I are the same age, give or take a couple of years, so I've always felt that we were kind of like soul sistahs.

Granted, she's pretty and vapid and I'm just vapid, but we do share a love for our convertibles, and a certain bottle-blonde bond.

People who aren't as beautiful or popular as Barbie, not to name names but Midge, have always bad-mouthed her. It's just that ol' green-eyed monster, if you ask me. Frankly, Barbie and I are used to that stuff.

You'd think that now that Barbie is fifty, all that animosity would settle down a bit. But then I stumble across this letter written by that jealous Midge to Barbie on the occasion of her fiftieth birthday and I realize that things are worse than ever ... .

Dear Barbie, OMG! I can't believe you're the big 5-0! One minute you're pursuing your many fascinating careers and patiently ignoring snippy comments about your fabulous figure, and the next minute there you are, spending another Sadday night with Ken, watching wra.s.slin' on TV and drinking that new Budweiser with the lime already in it. So highfalutin' and just like the two of y'all to choose the fancy beer. Don't think I ever forgot how snotty you were when I offered you some Jeno's Pizza Rolls when you were visiting my less-than-Dream House. You and Ken can eat that rolled-up bait you like so much on your own time.

Oh, Barbie, I didn't mean to go off on a rant. That's not the purpose of my greeting. I just wanted to say, as your lifelong friend, the one with the also-ran spouse, Alan, I, Midge, just want to say, "Welcome to my world!" Have you seen the parody of you as Cougar Barbie on YouTube? What do you mean, what is YouTube? Girrrrrl, you have gotta get out more. Things have changed a lot since you came along in '59.

I have to admit, every time I heard some little s.h.i.+t pout on Christmas morning because Santa brought me or Skipper or Christie instead of YOU, wonderful YOU, it did chafe a bit. OK, more than a bit. I swear there was a time back in the mid-'70s when I toyed with asking G.I. Joe (who, incidentally, like my Alan, prefers a real woman with red hair, freckles, and a wardrobe of dowdy floral s.h.i.+fts) to, well, accidentally on purpose toss a grenade into your Dream House or at least tamper with the brakes on that ridiculous Pepto-Bismol convertible of yours.

Oh, don't look so surprised. You made life insufferable for the rest of us with your perfect proportions. Remember how you'd be wearing your black tulle "Nightclub Singer" evening gown and I'd be wearing, let's see, oh, yes, I remember now, PLAID CULOTTES. And who names their clothes anyway? You think I fling open my closet door (which is bifold and never works right 'cause that's all we're allowed to have here in the trailer-home park) and say, "Oh, I think I'll wear my 'Singing in the Shower' today or maybe my 'Dreamy Delight' or my 'Gold 'n' Glamour'?" Oh h.e.l.l to the no. I'm lucky if I can find something that doesn't have spit-up from the grandbaby all over it. And, since you ask, he is, in fact, a b.a.s.t.a.r.d. Oh, I can just see your nose crawl right up your face when I say that.

But here's the thing: I don't care what you think. You're too old to threaten me and mine anymore. I'm glad we've got lil Deavis Ray the b.a.s.t.a.r.d in our lives now. He's just turned 3 and me and Alan have been trying to potty train him. Funny story about that: See, Deavis Ray finally used the potty for Numero Dos, as we like to call it because we believe it's very important that Deavis be fluent in at least 2 languages. This was a real big deal, it being the first time and all, but I was at the Big Lots buying some old-a.s.s frosted flakes and missed the whole entire thing. I haven't been this disappointed since Alan lost our Lynyrd Skynyrd Tribute Band tickets in a poker game. But my Alan came up with a solution and he sent me a picture to my phone-not of Deavis Ray on the little plastic potty like most people, no. He sent me a picture of the d.a.m.n poo sitting in the potty by itself. Men just don't pay much attention to presentation sometimes.

Of course, Ken would've known better than to do that. I know you're thinking that. But then, Ken always was "artistic" wasn't he? And by artistic, I mean he was gay as a circus tent in a field of flowers. Just saying.

So you're 50 now and not even a grandmama like me. The way me and Alan see it, it's time to finally just tell you the truth. Which, unlike your Malibu-tan face, is going to be completely unvarnished. Here goes: Girl, we all hated you. Even Becky, the one in the wheelchair. In fact, she hated you the most. Hahahahahahahahaha! There. I feel so much better already. The free shrink down at the welfare office told me that I should save myself another stroke by confronting problems (you) and not just stewing in my own juices. She's a pretty good shrink, although I don't think she's good with money because Alan says she's down at the Internet sweepstakes cafe almost as often as he is! Oh, shut up! Alan's gonna win that Pot O' Gold one day, just watch.