You Don't Sweat Much For A Fat Girl Part 8

Be generous, Chinese grooms-to-be. Before your lotus flower can even mention something she'd like, antic.i.p.ate it and present it to her.

The world is her oyster now, big boy. Don't blow it unless you and your brothers want to be sitting at your mama's kitchen table clipping those Poligrip coupons out of the Sunday paper for a very, very long time to come. Think about it.

15.

c.r.a.ppy Science Fair Didn't Even Have Any Rides After six years of science fair projects, the Princess had never advanced beyond compet.i.tion in her own school. Not because her projects hadn't been exceptionally innovative, impeccably researched, and masterfully displayed, but rather because the judges were idiots.

Hey, I call 'em as I see 'em.

But this year would be different. This year, the Princess collaborated with a friend on an awesome project that involved building an incubator to grow germs and then proving that, yes, double-dipping chips and dips does transfer bacteria from one person to another. They even had a clever t.i.tle: "The George Costanza Project," named after the Seinfeld episode in which George gets in trouble for double-dipping at a party.

My partic.i.p.ation in this project was limited, as always, to driving to Staples and buying the trifold display board. I'm all about the science. As long as it isn't too science-y, you know.

The project turned out great (but then, they always did, year after year, see "idiots" above). But this year, something wonderful happened: The project was selected to compete at the county level!

OK, here's the thing: I've never been to a countywide science fair before. I mean, who goes to those things unless their kid is competing, right? Other than those wacky homeschoolers who like to go so they can snicker behind their hands at the pitiful public school kids' ideas of advanced science.

This countywide fair was, I have to say, quite an eye-opener. Turns out this is really kind of a big deal. To the parents. You've heard the term "helicopter parents" I'm sure. The trendy way to describe the current culture of parents overseeing everything even their adult children do? Well, these were more like Sikorsky Super Stallion helicopter parents.

Me? Not so much. I dumped the girls in the gym and immediately went in search of the $3 pizza slice I'd seen advertised out front.

I bought a slice and stood around observing some of the other parents. Who all seemed to know each other really well. The only thing missing was the secret handshake. There was a lot of "Hey! Great to see you again'!" but I had the feeling they probably kinda hated each other a little. There were clenched teeth, through which they would say things like, "Ohhhh, I hear that the judges are hoping for something along the lines of optimizing turbine blade efficiency by manipulating boundary layer separation but that's sooooooo 2009 in my opinion. What's your Andy Jr. doing?"

And this would be followed by discussions about winning projects of the past. Things like "national organics control aggregation of mercury sulfide nanoparticles in freshwater systems" and "functional genomic frameworks for chemotherapeutic drug improvement and identification."

OK, dipping a potato chip into some onion dip and then doing it again was starting to look pretty d.a.m.n lame at this point.

I wanted to join in all the "fun science talk" but was clearly out of my league. These parents were battle-scarred veterans of some weird science wars I'd never known anything about. Until that d.a.m.n potato chip landed me here and away from my planned normal evening of eating said chips and watching E! TV live from Sundance, where Jon Gosselin has now stepped into the role of "pudgy a.s.shole who shows up everywhere pretending to be actually famous" that was occupied at one time by Kato Kaelin.

Standing in the hallway, alone with my pizza, it was obvious that this was a middle-school clique of an entirely different kind. These parents were pretty d.a.m.n smart with all their talk of genomes and cantilevering.

I'm not for one minute implying that the kids don't do all their own work on these science fair projects. No, I'm just coming right out and saying it.

After a half hour or so, the judges walked toward the gym doors and there was a somewhat hysterical plea over the PA: "All parents must exit the gym, repeat, must exit the gym, in order for the judging to begin."

A couple of the moms looked as if they might have to be Tasered to get out of there as they fluffed with final details at their kid's display area. Almost every single kid with one of those hovering parents sat in a folding chair in front of his project, head buried in a book, oblivious to the fact that, apparently, his future, and perhaps the future of the entire free world, was on the line.

Finally, the fifteen or so judges filed into the gym, all wearing white lab coats and holding clipboards.

"Look! It's a nerd parade!" I squealed to the mom standing next to me. She walked away. If I'd been a science fair experiment, the t.i.tle would've been called "Corrosive Relations.h.i.+ps."

The truth was, I wasn't used to the rarified air of the advanced compet.i.tion and it showed. The in-school contests were more laid back because almost n.o.body really expected to win. That's how you end up with my all-time favorite: "Meth: Friend or Foe," beautifully displayed for all the world and, most likely, Child Protective Services, to see.

The judging was followed by an open house and a.s.sembly for the awards ceremony. By this time, duh-hubby had gotten off work and was able to join me and several hundred other parents in the auditorium. I'd seen the compet.i.tion during a walk-through in the gym and was fairly certain that unless the Princess had cobbled together an atom splitter in the past ninety minutes, she was, I believe the scientific term is: "toast." I consoled myself with the knowledge that I'd TiVo-d Jon Gosselin at Sundance so the night really wasn't a total loss.

A very serious and sincere woman who looked a lot like Ms. Frizzle in The Magic School Bus books told us that she was in charge of this rodeo and there was much applause. A few of the parents stood up and applauded. "Suck ups" I said-coughed into my hand. Her a.s.sistant stood like Vanna White, repeatedly motioning to a table full of trophies in varying sizes.

Trophies that we d.a.m.n sure wouldn't be taking home.

The couple beside us, fortunately, were also first-timers.

"There's some weird s.h.i.+t goin' on up in here," the man said. I nodded in agreement.

Winners were announced in elementary, middle, and high school divisions, plus some kids won special trophies donated by local industries. One little girl, about eight years old, won four different trophies. Her parents squealed and did high fives. Every time. The couple beside me looked down at their daughter who was, at this point, sobbing into her best Sunday dress, having realized that she'd lost the elementary round.

"Take her for ice cream," I told my new friend.

"Only if I can get beer, too," he said grimly.

It's true, I thought to myself. All the good ones really are taken.

On the way out, there was some sobbing-by the parents. One parent comforted a distraught mom by saying that, "It's obvious that these judges had no clue what makes a good project at state!"

"Yeah," I said. "No clue! They got no clue!"

"That's right," she said, sniffling a bit. "What was your project?"

I'm not proud of what happened next. Why couldn't I have just been honest about the project that the Princesses had worked on for the better part of four weeks, taking breaks only long enough to talk for a few hours about how awesomely ripped Taylor Lautner is.

How could I fancy up this suddenly plain-Jane science fair project? I couldn't just talk about chips and dip and then redipping and how it's all icky and germy.

"Oh, my daughter and her friend tested the, uh, molecular structure, of the, uh, bacterium posterity of the random accelerated protein inhibitor, uh, rubric."

I've discovered that if you put "rubric" in any conversation, you automatically sound smarter. Try it.

While I thought that sounded pretty good for something on the fly, it was obvious that I was faking it. The woman nodded quickly, then skittered down the hall where she was comforted with a big hug from the mom of a little boy who had built a hand-blown gla.s.s harmonica and PowerPointed a presentation demonstrating how well he could play Canon in D on it. I knew the boy and knew that he had done every single bit of the work by himself. And he hadn't won. See idiot judges above.

As predicted, this would be the end of the line for our little family. Clutching the trifold board and accompanying handouts, we walked out of the auditorium and into the freezing February night. There was no time for regrets. The truth is, we lost to a kid whose project t.i.tle made us look at each other and say, "Do whaaaaat?" The little s.h.i.+t clearly deserved to win and advance to district, possibly even state, nation, and Interplanetary King of the Universe science fair.

Wrapping my arm around her shoulders, I looked the Princess in the eye.

She looked a little down, I thought.

"Don't worry, honey," I said. "We'll get 'em next year!"

"No we won't," she said.

"Yeah, I know."

16.

What's Farsi for "Stay Outta My Love Life"?

As a churchgoing woman, I'm getting more than a little tired of hearing about all these pastors who are instructing their congregations to, well, do it. And do it a lot.

As we Southern Methodists like to say, "Settle down, Reverend, you've done gone from preachin' into meddlin'.

It's a trend, hons, and I'm here to tell you that it's scarier than the words "First Dude Todd Palin." Nah, I'm kidding. Nothing's scarier than that. (Except, perhaps, that I just this morning learned that pumpernickel, which I love, is literally translated to mean "goblin who breaks wind." Scary, right?) But getting back to bidness, the a.s.sociated Press reports that ministers in Kansas, Florida, and Texas have asked, nay, instructed, ordained, and decreed, that their married congregants make hot monkey love for up to thirty days in a row.

Now I totally get that you'd do that in Kansas, because once basketball season winds down, really, what else is there to do? Take your time answering that; I'll wait. Still waiting. But Florida? Did they shut down Disney and n.o.body told me?

In Texas, the Reverend Ed Young has challenged couples in his Dallas church to have seven straight days of s.e.x. Upon hearing this, a Tampa minister said he'd recommend thirty straight days of s.e.x. Big D, indeed. I'm guessing Rev. Young will up the ante to "Every married couple will have s.e.x every day for ten years period, so nanny nanny boo boo, stick your head in doo doo."

And while I like a little healthy compet.i.tion in most things, this seems more than a tad intrusive. Here's how I look at it: At my church, we recently had a contest between all the Sunday school cla.s.ses to see which cla.s.s could bring in the most cans of soup for the local food pantry. Bottom line: I don't think the homeless give a happy d.a.m.n if a bunch of Methodists they don't even know personally are feet-to-Jesus thirty days a month just because the preacher says we should be, but I'm pretty sure they're fired up about those twenty-four hundred cans of soup.

Pastor Bob is a fine fella in every way (except a pesky allegiance to the vile Duke Blue Devils, owing to an unfortunate stint at divinity school there), but I can tell you that if he ever stood up in the pulpit and instructed us to "get busy," I'd run outta there like my clothes were on fire.

So, yes, I'm grateful not to be in the Kansas congregation of the Reverend Timmy Gibson, who recently asked his church members to have s.e.x every day during the month of February. I'm guessing he selected February because it's the month of love, also groundhogs, but I'm guessing he was thinking about love.

The icky thing was he didn't call it s.e.x. He called it "hanky-panky."

Hanky-panky?

This calls to mind the practiced faux blush of Bob Eubanks, host of the old Newlywed Game back in the '70s. (Quick aside: Remember the cla.s.sic question when ol' Bob asked, "Gentlemen, what do you think your wife would say would be the most unusual place you've ever made whoopee?" and, sure enough, one of the more candid husbands proudly held up a card that read, "In the b.u.t.t.") Indeed.

You're probably wondering why preachers care so much about their paris.h.i.+oners' s.e.x life when there are obviously so many more pressing problems that the world's spiritual leaders need to address. And by spiritual leaders, I'm not talking about that loony Pat Robertson who thinks the Haitians deserve to die in earthquakes because they sold their souls to the devil. What a tool.

The answer is simple: These ministers believe that all marriages will improve through better intimacy.

That's right. Nothing says better intimacy quite like duty s.e.x, am I right?

Rev. Gibson defends the trend by saying that s.e.x is a topic that should be talked about from a biblical perspective.

Verily, I say to thee, it is not. s.e.x is a topic that should be talked about between two consenting adults after a couple of gla.s.ses of decent grocery store wine and maybe a foot ma.s.sage.

Look it up. I think it's in Ephesians somewhere.

This sort of foolishness gives religion a bad name. The same way that Mark Sanford did. (Yes, yes, I'm not ready to leave him quite yet. He is, after all, the one who said he wished he'd kept his "genie in the bottle," which was simply too delicious to resist making fun of.) Sanford, or Dope Pius, as I like to call him, tried to put a religious spin on his affair with the Argentinean Hoochita. When he visited her in New York, they went to church and took along his spiritual advisor.

Sanford's affair, then, is somehow a spiritual, G.o.d-sanctioned tryst? To hear him tell it, it was the same old tired story that so many of us have lived: You go to Uruguay with a bunch of your congressmen friends, you decide to go clubbing, you lock eyes across the dance floor with a woman with teasing tan lines, and you spend the rest of the evening murdering the salsa as only a middle-aged white man can.

Yes, clearly, so far it's G.o.d's will. Sanford eventually took Hoochita, his announced "soul mate" (pausing to gag a little here) to church services. In his defense, Sanford did ask his wife, Jenny, to join them on this trip, but she wisely took a pa.s.s, perhaps quas.h.i.+ng forever Sanford's hopes for a threesome and the chance to write the letter he'd always dreamed of writing: "Dear Penthouse Forum, I'm the embattled governor of a small Southern state and I never thought this would happen to me ... ."

Religion and s.e.x shouldn't be discussed in public, not by preachers and certainly not by lovesick Southern governors who are thinking with only one branch of government, if you get my drift.

Mingling s.e.x and religion is bad enough, but when it's used for national security, things get really squirrely.

When the CIA realized they needed Taliban information, they came up with a plan to bribe the old warlords-whose religion encourages them to have many young wives-with v.i.a.g.r.a.

You thought money and guns would be sufficient? That's so 2002.

For someone like me, whose knowledge of CIA covert operations comes exclusively from Get Smart (the old TV show and the movie, so it's not like I'm a complete moron), this was quite a revelation.

Sneaking little blue pills to the p.o.o.ped old Afghan chieftains would've never occurred to me. If I wanted to get some Taliban intelligence, I would have, like any good daughter of the South, shown up with bribery in the form of an attractively garnished deviled egg plate or perhaps a red velvet cake.

Since the Afghan chieftains have many wives, per their wacko religion, and some of those wives are distressingly young, the CIA decided to get in bed with, so to speak, the old warlords and give 'em something they couldn't get anywhere else.

"We wanted to keep them firmly on our side," a CIA agent said, with nary a hint of irony.

Before v.i.a.g.r.a became the bartering tool of choice, the CIA had been using less inventive strategies, such as trading tooth extractions for Taliban supply route information. Now to you and me, who are used to getting our teeth removed in sanitary offices by men and women with many boats and homes to pay for, this doesn't seem like all that big of a deal, but you have to remember that things are a bit more primitive in Afghanistan. Their oral surgeons usually have only one boat to pay for at most.

Clearly v.i.a.g.r.a is a lot more fun than getting your teeth yanked out of your head with implements most likely involving slammed doors and long pieces of string.

Yes, a lot more fun. Said the old Afghan chieftains after a few days of Love, American Style: "Me likey." Or something like that. Gawd, it's not like I can speak Farsi, I mean except for basic stuff like "Where is the bathroom?" or "Do y'all have a Pizza s.l.u.t up in here?" Important s.h.i.+t like that.

Thanks to American ingenuity, the Afghan bigwigs have a spring in their steps and the newly dissed Taliban is left scratching its collective turban and wondering what the h.e.l.l went wrong with their supply routes.

Hey! Maybe this is the way to finally lure Osama out of the hills at long last. Just leave a trail of little blue pills at the mouth of his cave and he'll follow them all the way into the waiting paddy wagon.

Mission freakin' accomplished.

Of course, while some have praised the CIA's brilliant plan, no one has really spoken up for the young wives, who, bless their hearts, were probably thrilled that their husband didn't have any lead in his pencil, so to speak. Now that they have his CIA-induced groove back, the wives will be expected to service the old goats. Since many, if not all, of these young wives aren't exactly the result of a committed, caring relations.h.i.+p involving mutual love and respect, this introduces a major ick factor into the entire arrangement.

No matter whether it's coming from a pulpit in Kansas or a CIA operative knocking on a tent door with a gleam in his eye, mixing religious beliefs and mooney-gooney isn't good for anybody.

And, in the long run, it's even scarier than pumpernickel.

17.

Give Us Your Poor, Your Tired, Your Kinda Creepy Ma.s.ses As I write this, Bernie Madoff is getting settled into his new prison-home just up the road from me here in North Carolina. I'm tempted to make him a banana pudding or something.

And by "something," I mean a layer cake made entirely of poo.

When new neighbors move to "the southern part of heaven," we generally go to great pains to make them feel welcome. Usually, we'll give them a couple of days to settle in, and then we'll show up with a b.u.t.ter pecan pound cake, still warm from the oven, or perhaps pimento cheese made from some long-dead aunt's secret recipe. (The secret is usually a splash of Grand Marnier, but don't tell anyone I told you.) But Madoff's swindling of the innocent and the greedy alike to the tune of $50 billion has left me feeling less than charitable when it comes to welcoming our new and most infamous resident. Other North Carolinians feel the same way. Truth be told, I don't think Madoff could be any more reviled if he'd shown up at Butner Federal Correctional Complex toting an oil portrait of William Tec.u.mseh Sherman to hang on his cell wall.