You Don't Sweat Much For A Fat Girl Part 9

Madoff isn't happy to be here in the Good Old North State, whose motto, incidentally, is Esse Quam Videri which might as well be "Baaaah, Ram, Ewe" for all I can remember from seventh-grade state history. But I think it had to do with being an upright soul. Which he clearly isn't.

Madoff was exiled to North Carolina despite repeated pleas to let him stay in a federal prison much closer to his Manhattan home. All y'all say "Awwwwww." What can I tell you, Bernie? Some things in life, like having to eat Fancy Feast and ramen noodles because somebody stole all your retirement savings, just aren't fair, are they?

Bright side: Your new digs near the Research Triangle Park (where we keep our smartest Yankees) are just a short ninety-minute drive down I-40 from The World's Largest Frying Pan. Not that you'll ever see it, bless your old-a.s.s thieving heart.

Bernie, while you will never get to enjoy all that our lovely state has to offer, that's certainly not true of your wife, Ruth. Why, pray tell, isn't the missus down here scoping out a new home? May I suggest the trailer park not far from Butner? It's the one where, not that long ago, one brother fatally stabbed another over who would get the last fried pork chop on the platter.

Yep, that sounds about right.

I don't feel a lot of sympathy for Ruth Madoff except when I see those photos of her leaving the prison on visiting day and see that her roots are clearly no longer being scrupulously maintained by Enrique of Park Avenue, or whomever, for more money than the average Family Dollar store manager makes in a year.

It wasn't just me who noticed that Ruth's roots were being neglected. The New York Times reported that she's been barred from her favorite salon as well as booted from her gym, personal florist, and even her favorite Italian bistro. Oh, no! Not the personal florist!

Well, it's like they say: When G.o.d closes one (cell) door, he just opens up a window. (Settle down, Bernie, I'm speaking metaphorically here.) If Ruth moves down here, she can get to know the floral stylists at the Piggly Wiggly grocery store closest to Butner. There, she will find a splendid selection of posies, some even accented by spray glitter at no additional charge! We Southerners have an irrational fondness for spray glitter, even those of us who like to pretend that we're above that sort of tacky display. You have not lived 'til you've seen my great Aunt Lu-Dean's holiday table with glitter-sprayed magnolia leaves glued to clothespins for place card holders.

It's a freakin' vision.

So, yes, Ruth, the Piggly Wiggly can answer your floral needs. Sure, you might think you don't like blue carnations now, but they'll grow on you and, best of all, they're just 50 cents apiece with your hawg heaven discount card!

If Ruth Madoff does decide to move to North Carolina to avoid those tiring trips to visit Bernie in the pokey, she will need to weigh in, sooner or later, on that most holy of matters in this state. We don't let just anybody in here. Well, sometimes we do. John Edwards' mistress is fluffing new pillows at her beach digs not far from here, bless her fornicatin' heart.

Ruth Madoff, Reille Hunter, and anyone else who moves to North Carolina will be allowed to settle in and get their bearings a little bit before someone, eventually, asks them that most important question: Do you prefer your barbecue with the pungent vinegar-based sauce of the Eastern part of the state or do you enjoy the odious tomato-based sauce favored by everyone else? What? Ruth Madoff doesn't eat barbecue on account of being Jewish? Holy Hada.s.sah, Batgirl! I smell deal breaker.

I have to give Ruth props for standing by her jerk-of-a-man despite constantly being photographed and scrutinized. A recent photo showed her clutching a Ziploc bag full of cash on her way out of Butner, reminding me of a scene in The Sopranos where it was clear that even though mobster Johnny Sack was in jail, he made sure his beloved Ginny would never be without cash.

Which is not to imply that Bernie Madoff has any ties to organized crime whatsoever. No, surely organized crime has some standards.

North Carolina seems to have had its share of the spotlight this year, but we lost out to Mississippi when it came to being host state for Tiger Woods' s.e.xual rehab clinic.

Too bad. We were going for the trifecta of creepy new residents but Mississippi snuck in there and stole Tiger from us with its much lauded Gentle Path s.e.x-addict program, which included, I kid you not, an obstacle course among the pine trees to "boost self-esteem."

Dude. For starters, if there's anyone who can come out of the pine trees with a win, it's Tiger. Just ask Phil Mickelson. And self-esteem? I'm thinking that is soooo not a problem for him. Yes, yes, I get the whole poor little lonesome boy inside seeking validation in all the wrong places and a bevy of unresolved issues from growing up fast and famous, but have you seen Tiger's wife? Elin Woods has managed to do the impossible: make me feel genuinely sorry for a billionaire Swedish bikini model.

So, no, I don't buy it, Sigmund Floyd. I think Tiger's got s.e.x addiction the same way I got molten lava chocolate cake addiction. He loves it. It's awesome. It makes his thighs all dimply. Oh, sorry, maybe that was just the cake.

Tiger reportedly transformed his rehab crib to the tune of $100,000 in upgrades. (You really didn't expect him to do his "shame reduction" workshop with those drapes, now did you?) So this doesn't sound like a man with low self-esteem to me.

There was also buzz that when Tiger walked into a room at rehab, others were asked to leave immediately. Which must've made the whole group therapy a tad problematic.

"My name is Tiger Woods and I'm a s.e.x addict."

Silence.

The "body count" last I heard was fifteen, but it could still go higher. There are still a few precincts out in the hinterlands waiting to be counted, and don't forget, we still haven't heard from the Broward County lunchroom ladies. He's a playa, and shame on his married self, but addiction? I don't think so.

Of course, while womanizing wrongdoers John Edwards and Tiger Woods have apologized ad nauseum for their transgressions, there's really only one way they can rehab their images. Edwards thought rebuilding houses in Haiti would do the trick, and Tiger is blathering on about his foundation do-gooding, but that sort of penance is just so very last century. No, there is clearly only one true path to redemption. I am speaking of course of Dancing With the Stars.

Once I saw disgraced former congressman Tom DeLay bustin' a move on the show, I realized that's the next step for the hangdog Woods and Edwards and maybe even Elliot Spitzer and (yes, once more, give it up for ... ) Mark Sanford.

Somewhere Michael Vick's agent must be slapping himself upside the head and wondering why he didn't think of pitching his client to the DWTS producers. (Although they'd have to make sure that when Vick puts on the dog, he doesn't really ... well, you get the idea.) What better way to rehab a reeking image than to put on a zoot suit and murder the Charleston in front of G.o.d and Tom Bergeron?

DeLay bragged that he lost twelve pounds to get in shape for the show. How ironic. All that weight loss and he remains completely full of s.h.i.+t.

Opening up DWTS to famous disgraced womanizers would be a mite problematic, given the s.e.xy costumes worn by the professional partners. Tiger, ever conscious of holding on to whatever endors.e.m.e.nts he can, would have to announce that he resists arousal thanks to frequent meditative pauses sponsored by Cymbalta.

Edwards, whose tryst with Hunter, a videographer, included rumors of a (ick) s.e.x tape, would have to resist cutting the rug and asking, "Did you get that or do we need to go again? Cause, you know, I'm fine if we have to go again. Really? You got it? Are you sure?"

On second thought, maybe DWTS should stick with its traditional a.s.sortment of plucky downwardly mobile celebs who tend to get cast: Your Jane Seymours. Your Adam Carollas. Your Harry Hamlins. I kind of like seeing the cute kid from some '80s sitcom all grown up and fox-trotting in a game attempt to recapture the glory days of Urkel.

At least that would've prevented the likes of DeLay and famezilla Kate Gosselin from joining the scripted fun. It would've been much more gratifying to see tubby ex-hubby, Jon, doing his dance image-rehab. Can't you just see him s.h.i.+mmying in his little-boy tees while simultaneously smoking and leering at somebody's underage daughter in the front row? It'll be hard for Kate's partner to convince her that she doesn't get to lead. Kate has said she'll do what it takes to feed her family and, by G.o.d, if that means wearing glitzy dresses and working out with the hunk of the month, well, so be it.

She's a giver, that one.

And so am I, so I'm now going to share with y'all a recipe for that b.u.t.ter pecan cake I mentioned earlier. It's perfect for picnics, potlucks or, yes, even the pokey.

SUPER-EASY b.u.t.tER-PECAN POUND CAKE.

4 eggs

1 cup milk

2/3 cup vegetable oil

1 teaspoon vanilla

1 cup chopped pecans, divided

1 box b.u.t.ter pecan cake mix

1 can coconut-pecan frosting

Preheat oven to 350 degrees (325 for dark pans). Grease and flour a tube or Bundt pan. (Or cheat and use Baker's Joy like I do.) Mix eggs, milk, oil, vanilla and half the pecans together. Add cake mix and beat well. Fold the can of frosting into the cake mixture and stir until incorporated. Pour the remaining pecans into the bottom of the pan. Pour cake batter over top. Bake 1 hour (or longer, until cake springs back when you touch it).

Note: This cake is very rich and dense, so a little goes a long way. It has a from-scratch taste so people will think you went to a lot of trouble. Don't tell 'em any different.

18.

Bad Economy Waste-es My Time and Disgust-es Me Now comes the sad(ish) news that Reader's Digest has declared bankruptcy, a phrase that never fails to crack me up ever since I saw Michael Scott, the wrenchingly dim boss on The Office walk around solemnly and loudly announcing "I declare bankruptcy!" thinking that was all there was to it.

Oh, if only.

Many teams of lawyers will be working to prop up the world's most reliable magazine-slash-coaster to make it profitable again.

I hope it works because it's powerfully depressing to think that, one day in the near future, toilet tanks across this great land will sit unadorned.

Ah, Reader's Digest. A magazine that earned a solid following for many decades for leaving stuff out.

It's puzzling in the same way that decaf often costs more than regular and sugar-free m.u.f.fins are always more expensive. But when it comes to the information age, we can't get enough and maybe that's why we should've realized Reader's Digest's days were numbered.

(Although, it must be said that its retelling of the moldy cla.s.sics in condensed book form are awesome. Here's a synopsis of Romeo and Juliet RD-style: "Couple contends with bickering parents who oppose their romance; both die.") With its comforting penchant for articles like "Seven Ways to Keep Your Bird Safer!" you have to wonder if the original article contained three other really important ways that you'll never know about.

Condensation may not be the best thing in all cases but I've got a soft spot for Reader's Digest ever since they paid me $100 for a joke I submitted many years ago.

I don't remember what the joke was but I remember being giddy when the check came and I could officially add "magazine contributor" to a resume that, at the time, had "fry cook" as its most impressive entry.

And I loved the way humor was such a large part of the magazine. Humor doesn't get a lot of love in the magazine world. At least not the intentional kind. I still can't stop laughing at Levi Johnston's photo spread in Playgirl, but I don't think that was supposed to be funny.

And anytime I read a recipe in Bon Appet.i.t that contains more than thirty-five ingredients, I downright guffaw. And then there are the unintentionally hilarious headlines in all those women's magazines that are forever trying to balance naughty and nice and failing on both counts. That's how you end up with headlines like "Ten Erotic Uses For Your Crock Pot (Think Long and Slow!)"

Reader's Digest can't get enough of the kidding around with its faithful little ditties found in "Humor in Uniform," "Life in These United States," and so many other blurbs and funnies sprinkled throughout like fake cheese on popcorn.

I read recently that it's virtually impossible these days to get a humor piece accepted by the New Yorker because the head of the editorial department, Sn.o.bby McPruneface, doesn't value humor as a genre. I got news for the New Yorker: I don't even get half those black-and-white cartoons you're so d.a.m.n proud of.

Reader's Digest, on the other hand, was always the voice of the common man, the first place one could go for a quick quip that would be suitable for retelling at Rotary Club without even making the waitress blush. The headquarters is in Pleasantville, for G.o.d's sake. How can you get any more American than that?

Reader's Digest thinks it may be able to revamp its loser image by going digital, but I'm not sure that'll work since most people don't want to take their laptops into the bathroom. You can't really read RD anywhere else. It just wouldn't be right.

For now, bless G.o.d, the little magazine is safe thanks to declaring bankruptcy (laughing again) but if all the legal team's grand plans fail, this coffee-ringed staple of so many homes will disappear like Jell-O 1-2-3 mix and we'll have to find somewhere else to read those somewhat hysterical articles like "Eight Medical Myths!" and "Hero Pet of the Year!"

Call me thickheaded, but even with all the signs the economy was failing-double-digit unemployment, frozen credit, housing foreclosures in the thousands, a stock market in free-fall, I never really understood the depths of the recession until I read about Reader's Digest and, perhaps more importantly, when Days of Our Lives fired founding couple, John Black and Dr. Marlena Evans.

Paul Krugman's thoughtful op-ed pieces on the economy never even fazed me. Ditto my nightly hit of Marketplace, a thoughty economy-based show on NPR. It never hit home until Salem's wise and loving and occasionally-during-sweeps-months demon-possessed psychiatrist and her studly husband got the ax.

As everyone knows (except, possibly, readers of the New Yorker), John and Marlena were the unrivaled first couple of soap opera land for decades.

In a horrible injustice, the actors who portray Marlena and John were let go because they were at the top of the pay scale.

Ever since their absence, we fans have been subjected to an exceedingly icksome parade of truly bad young actors who probably just work for weed.

Why do I care so much about two TV stars that I don't even know? After all, a.s.suming they haven't gone all crazy Fantasia and squandered their money on white sofas and no-account cousins, John and Marlena should live out their lives in financial security that the rest of us can only dream about.

So it's not that I'm worried that they'll have to resort to putting on pizza-slice costumes and dance about by the side of the road to lure business. They won't be like my poor laid-off friend, Lanny Ray, who swears he's so poor he can't even afford to go to the Rug Doctor.

But to me, the loss of John and Marlena (as well as the potential loss of Reader's Digest) are two of our most important economic indicators. When networks treat soap opera royalty like Marlena and John this way, there can be no hope whatsoever for the rest of us. We are all mere weeks away from wearing our barrel-and-suspenders recessionista look on public transportation.

So, yes, I get it now. Thanks to these two longtime staples of my admittedly incredibly mediocre life.

John and Marlena have demonstrated what months of NPR, CNBC, and egghead op-ed articles by Pulitzer Prizewinning economists could not. We. Are. Doomed. As Lanny Ray would say, "The whole sitchy-ation waste-es my time and disgust-es me."

I should've seen this coming. Didn't I see all the obvious product placement tricks on DOOL over the past year? I specifically remember Sami Brady commenting rather clumsily to her current lover about the awesome dirt-busting ability of her new Swiffer and I immediately drove to the store and bought the regular and the Swiffer WetJet. Sami said they worked. And if you can't trust a former death row inmate who posed as a man in Desert Storm and later gave birth to twins with two different fathers like a d.a.m.n Labrador retriever, who can you trust?

I thought that by now Marlena and John would be back, that the sponsors would realize that they must do what they could to retain Marlena (the divine Deirdre Hall) even if it meant that she would have to occasionally stare into the camera and say things like, "You know, ladies, when I need a smart pantsuit that won't break the bank, I like to shop at Kohl's. You'll find it at the intersection of value and style." She could wink, even. And then go right back into the waiting arms of John Black.

Oh, cruel economy. How can there ever be DOOL without them? Even as their too-long bedroom scenes began to feel about as s.e.xy as watching your parents make out, we still adored them through all their myriad kidnappings, lost-at-seas, brainwas.h.i.+ngs, buried alives, exorcisms, and divorces. Sometimes all within the s.p.a.ce of a few minutes.

The sour U.S. economy has managed to do what Days bad guy Stefano DiMeara has tried to do for more than thirty years: eliminate the Wonder Couple.

In a world that can so casually toss aside Reader's Digest and John and Marlena, apparently nothing is sacred.

May G.o.d have mercy on us all.

19.

Menopause Spurs Thoughts of Death and Turkey Right now, since you ask, I'm what is known as perimenopausal. "Peri," some of you may know, is a Latin prefix meaning "SHUT YOUR FLIPPIN' PIE HOLE."