the slack daily

2012!

New Year's was spent as it has been for the past three years: no makeup, in my PJs, drinking champagne, and livetweeting the Twilight Zone Marathon.

Sidenote: I am going to be FORTY this year. When did that happen?

 

Daisy was bored by it all.

 

We were asleep before midnight.

Hope you had the holiday you wanted. As for us, we have a fridge full of Italian food and a group of friends coming over to eat it. (Which is precisely the holiday I wanted.)

I'd like to be here more this year, but as always, you can find me on Tumblr and Twitter.

How am I Married?

Last night, Will turned off the light and crawled into bed. I turned to him.

Can I ask you a question?

Sure, he said.

It's the kind of question where I feel like I can only ask you, I told him. The kind where it's one of those things I should know for sure but I have some doubts and I'm embarrassed that I don't know by now so I can only admit it to you.

It's okay, he said. Just ask me.

I took a deep breath.

Notorious B.I.G.and Biggie Smalls - that was the same guy, right?

...

Ladies & Gentlemen, my Husband.

Follow Will and Rob Delaney on Twitter.

While Watching "Switched at Birth."

Will: So, wait. When were they switched?

Me: At birth.

Will: Do they ever say that?

Me: It’s called “Switched at Birth.”

Five Movies I Don't Want to See on my DVR.

Note: This post initially was published a couple of years ago on the comedy blog Pointless Banter, which Bobby Finstock traded for a "gently used" copy of Ted Bundy's address book.

The other day I was scrolling through the “to-do” list on our DVR to make sure that the LOST premiere would be recorded when I came across the following movie title, scheduled to record the next morning:

How to Murder Your Wife.

Will and I have an open relationship. Not meaning that we bone other people, but we’re pretty communicative about our thoughts and our feelings and all that sappy bullshit that you hear on Oprah (if I watched Oprah. Okay, I watched Oprah that once, but I was young and needed the morale boost.)

We’ve only been married nineteen months, so I’m sure this will eventually harden into a crust of resentment and rage.

Give us time.

But this got me to thinking about other things I don’t want to see showing up on my DVR:

 

Reversal of Fortune

Jeremy Irons gets an Oscar for being a possible-wife-murderer. This is not a good precedent for those of the wifely persuasion. 

I could fall into a persistent vegetative state by staring at Jeremy Irons' forehead.

 

Side note: I used to have a MAD CRUSH on Jeremy Irons, and now he's playing Pope Alexander VI in "The Borgias" and it's a little skeevy for this Catholic girl to have a crush on a Pope, although that particular pope would've been waaaaay into it.

 

The Lizzie McGuire Movie.

During my tenure on Lizzie McGuire, I discovered that the late-night airings were almost always our highest-rated shows. I don’t like to think about that too much.

 

Dirty Dancing, set for “Save Until I Delete.”

One could make an argument for a Swayze revival – now that we know he’s suffering from pancreatic cancer, he’s suddenly everyone’s new best friend (Christopher Reeve flashbacks, anyone?) and not the guy who did “Father Hood.” (Sigh. RIP, Mr. Swayze.)

Can I call you Baby? That’s what my father calls me!

 

Beaches.

Spoiler alert: she dies in the end. Girls in high school were obsessed with this movie. Watching the first few scenes made me wish I had been diagnosed with a terminal illness just to escape watching it.

 
"Some friendships last forever." That sounds like a threat.

Top Gun, cued up to the beach volleyball scene.

I don't want my husband asking me to be his Wingman, I want him to want to have sex with someone who has breasts. And I’m not talking about Goose - I'm talking about me.

 

It's weird to think there was a time when Tom Cruise wasn't crazy.

 

Anything you'd be freaked out to see on the DVR?

What's a Girl Like Me Doin' in a Place Like This? Club 33

It starts with finding the door.

A few weeks ago, Will scored a reservation to Disneyland's uber-exclusive Club 33. At first I thought it was a joke. I wrote for a hit series for the Disney Channel and even though we begged and pleaded, we couldn't get in. Flash forward ten years and my husband and I are weaving through the throngs of tourists to do our "test run."

You see, Club 33 has rules. A dress code. And they expect you to be on time.

We found the door in New Orleans Square, tucked next to the Blue Bayou Restaurant.

Test run.

A few hours later we were back, dressed in our finery. Here's the thing: you don't see a lot of finery in Disneyland. We received more than a few raised eyebrows as we wandered through the park (me in my flip-flops and dress, as I tucked my fancy shoes in my purse. So it wasn't as fine as it could have been.)

When we returned, a couple of tourists were taking a picture in front of the sign. We waited until they were done, then stepped forward. They grabbed each other and gasped

THEY'RE GOING INSIDE!

Except that we weren't going inside, not just yet. Because we were at least ten minutes early. So we took a photo instead.

Goin' to the Show.

By this time, a small crowd had assembled, all whispering they're going to ring the bell! He's going to ring the bell! I wondered if they were going to break into a musical song-and-dance number, and if that was part of the Club 33 experience.

(It wasn't.)

Will rang the bell and the door opened. He gave his name. The door closed.

A hush fell over the crowd.

The door opened again, a tiny bit wider.

Welcome to Club 33, the voice said.

I have been lucky enough in my life (and my career) to attend events and activities that many people do not. But I was never so excited as I was walking into Club 33. The dark wood, the clink of glassware, the servers who don't blink twice as you gawk at everything around you.

Is this your first time? our server asked.

How could you tell? I responded.

We started off with a cocktail (a Manhattan for Will, a Kir Royale for me) and then ordered the tasting menu (with the wine pairing, natch.) The food was good. It wasn't the best meal I've ever had, but you understood it was all about the experience...

I didn't take photos for most of the meal, preferring to just live in the moment rather than document it.

But I did take a picture of the toilet on request. Because I'm classy like that.

Two hours later we finished up with some espresso and looked out the window, realizing we were going ot have to return to earth with the mere mortals.

It's going to suck to be a regular person again, Will said.

But it was sure fun while it lasted.

I Look Good for 39.

I don't know what it is, but I can't stand living where we're living anymore. The lack of electrical outlets, the mold that grows back in the shower (which has two settings: super-fucking-hot and rendering-flesh-from-your-skin-hot), the wood counter tops which are softening with age, the formica counter tops that were installed last year that pool water in random places, the cabinets that are hanging on by a solitary hinge, threatening to tumble at any moment and take us with them....

But then I come back to the rent. The rent is cheap. And the place is big.

We can save for a house! I keep telling myself. But even though the market is prime for buying, we're still not in a position to do so.

I have always had an internal cut-off point. That cut-off point is 40.

I can't live there when I'm 40, I told Will the other night. We'll either have to be ready to buy or just bite the bullet and rent a nicer place that's fit for humans to live in.

I've been thinking the same thing, he told me. That means we have a little over a year.

A little over a year?

Because you're turning 39 this year.

I raised an eyebrow.

Wait! he realized. You're turning 38! We have an extra year!

No matter how much older you try to make me, you know you're probably dying first, I reminded him.

I should be so lucky.

 

Photo © Lisa Jane Persky

The Marriage Trap

Last night, over drinks and dinner at the The Thrilling Adventure and Supernatural Suspense Hour with our friends Bronwen and Jay, Will told me that he looked just like Hayley Mills. To the point where his mom would call him Pollyanna.

To say that I am shocked and dismayed that he would wait nearly three years before sharing this with me is disheartening. I'm three YEARS behind on Hayley Mills jokes. Like things aren't crazy enough with the holidays.

Tom Scharpling Owes Me Dinner.

A couple of months ago, after a long day of work, Will said he'd take care of dinner. It was a Tuesday, and if you've been married to Will as long as I have (and if you have, that sounds like something I should know, so speak up) that means it's Best Show with Tom Scharpling on WFMU night.

Will put a frozen pizza in the oven and pointed his browser to WFMU.org. I sat down next to him on the couch with Daisy in my lap. After a few minutes I asked if I should check on the pizza.

I set the timer, he promised me.

I went back to petting the dog and reading a book, not minding the time. Until something started to burn about twenty minutes later. Will jumped up and ran to the kitchen.

I guess I forgot to set the timer, he said as the smell of burnt pizza filled the apartment.

...

Last night, we replayed the same scenario, except that while the opening notes of The Best Show theme song streamed through the Mac's speakers, I was busy making dinner. I chopped zucchini, sliced onion, crushed garlic and tossed it with some olive oil and chicken pesto sausage and dumped it in a pyrex baking dish to roast in the oven for an hour.

I joined Will on the couch and we listened. (And I inadvertently christened myself the Teflon Vagina.)

After thirty minutes I got up to check on dinner, taking the pyrex out of the oven and giving it a good stir. I opened the oven, retriever my mitts, and grabbed the dish to stick it back in the oven for another thirty minutes.

Except that in-between grabbing the dish and placing it in the oven, my brain decided to concentrate on the voice coming out speakers instead of the 375-degree firestorm in front of me.

I placed the dish halfway on the oven rack, where it slipped and dumped half of its contents on the oven door.

I salvaged a third of our dinner and made the rest up with wine.

And decided that cooking and the Best Show don't mix.

Check out The Best Show every Tuesday from 8pm-11pm EST on wfmu.org
The Best Fans can be found on the The Best Show homepage & message board.
Catch up with previous shows by checking out the archives. Or even the special archive. If you dare.

The Price is Right.

Tiger Woods is reportedly offering his wife, Elin Nordegren 80 million dollars to stay with him for seven years.

Regardless of what you think of the whole Tiger Woods brouhaha (and I wonder why haven't celebrities figured out by now that if you cheat you will get caught? It's not if you get caught...it's when) 80 million dollars is a serious chunk of change.

On our honeymoon (BTW, I seriously recommend honeymoons...I think we'll be taking one every couple of years, if not every year) Will asked me if I'd marry him again. 

This was a serious question to consider, now that I knew that the going rate for Elin was 80 million bucks over seven, I could figure my worth accordingly.

When I married Will, I got four crates of records, a box of Jo-Jos, and a three years' worth of podcasts from Scharpling's Best Show on WFMU.

I still came out ahead.