Sin City needs to pump iron

Reruns, shmee-runs!

When the kids went out yesterday afternoon, Hubby and I locked the doors, turned down the lights, and … put in the DVD of Sin City.

Yowza! I’d heard it was violent and it was, but nobody told me about the Jiggle Factor. Let’s just say Hubby was enthralled. Lots of lucious boobalas and bottoms all over the screen—enough to make a forty-something housewife sigh as she remembers her forgotten resolution to work out regularly.

My favorite lines came from Marv:

Wendy: You could’ve taken my gun away from me any time you wanted to…

Marv: I probably would’ve had to paste you one getting the gun and I don’t hurt dames.

We need more movies that use the term “dames.”

Hubby’s Greatest Moment:

(Carla Gugino makes her appearance as the lesbian probation officer/pharmacist, wearing nothing but a thong and a concerned expression)

Hubby: Hmmm. That girl needs to do some squats.

Super Sabado: The man, he is IRKSOME

If I’ve learned one thing from my man’s recent knee surgery, it’s this:

The day he retires is the day I move out.

I mean, he’s sweet enough, all right. He’s my man, and he’s injured. I want to take care of him.

It’s just that… he can be so … ANNOYING.

BONNIE: Your omelet is right here, sweetie. And it’s a beauty. Here’s a fork and a napkin, too. You’re all set!

HUBBY: Thanks! It looks great! Um, you forgot the salt.

BONNIE: Right there beside you, dear.

HUBBY: Oh! Thanks. How about the pepper?

BONNIE: Next to the salt.

HUBBY: Boy, aren’t you efficient! Heh! And the coffee?

BONNIE: If that coffee pot was a snake, it woulda bit ya. Darling.

HUBBY: And the cream?


HUBBY: Huffy, huffy! Okay, I see it. Thanks. And now… I’m looking… I’m looking… I’m looking… but I don’t see what I’m looking for…

BONNIE: Just tell me! What is it you want now?

HUBBY: The tabasco sauce?

BONNIE: ARRRRRGHHHHHHHH! (goes the refrigerator, gets the tabasco sauce, and slams it on the TV tray)

HUBBY: What? What’d I do?

When he’s slaving away in the office, he comes home and the laundry is done, dinner is ready, and the sweatshirt he left on the floor has mysteriously made its way back to a hanger in the closet.

But for some reason he seems to feel that since he’s home and can watch the process, the magic won’t work. Therefore, the household is going to fall apart unless he tells me how to do everything.

HUBBY: I was afraid we wouldn’t get up in time today so I set the alarm.

BONNIE: Really? I didn’t hear the alarm go off.

HUBBY: That’s because we got up on time after all! But then I forgot to turn the alarm off. I think it’s going off now. Would you mind going upstairs and turning it off?

BONNIE: Sure! (starts upstairs)

HUBBY: (calling from downstairs) There’s a little slider button on top of the alarm clock, right now it’s slid over to the position marked ON. You just slide it to the left, to where it says OFF.

BONNIE: I’m gonna kill him.

Lucky for me, I have several hours a day out of the house, where I wait at the pool for swim practice to finish, otherwise I might’ve committed Hubbicide this week.

HUBBY: Where are you right now?

BONNIE: I’m at the pool. Why?

HUBBY: Oh, nothing. I’m just wondering… are we going to eat dinner tonight?

BONNIE: (growling)

HUBBY: What was that? I couldn’t hear what you said.

BONNIE: Of course we’re going to eat dinner! We eat dinner EVERY NIGHT!

HUBBY: How am I supposed to know that? You’re not home, nobody’s home, and nothing is cooking right now!

Oh lordy, I do hope I get a female judge.

Today’s Super Sabado is still about Continue reading “Super Sabado: The man, he is IRKSOME”

All I want for Christmas…

… is a man who can get stuff for himself.
Hubby's knee: before and after

That black thing he’s pointing at in the “After” picture is an electric refrigerated cast, a device my engineer hubby immediately declared to be a marvel of science. Then the nurse told him he gets to KEEP IT.

Now Hubby believes there really is a Santa Claus, and her name is Rebecca of the Encinitas Surgery Center.

Hubby and I come into some serious pwnage

“So,” I told Hubby, “I asked Squirt if he turned his report and he tells me he forgot! AGAIN.”

“Are you telling me that boy missed another deadline? He’ll be kicked out of the program!”

“Nope. It turns out he was just kidding me. But holy cow, I really blew up at him.”

“Ha!” Hubby bellowed. “Face it, babe, you got pwned.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

“‘Pwned’? ‘PWNED’? You’re gonna use gamer lingo on ME? And whose side are you on, anyway?”

Hubby started to do a bobble thing with head as he wagged his finger at me. “Babe,” he said, “I am hippest of the hip. The coolest of the cool. And take it from me: you got pwned.”

What a turncoat. I mean, really, is it too much for me to expect my man to back me up when I need it? Especially when he supplied half the DNA to a kid who forgets deadlines as frequently as he scarfs down chow?

The kids came in at that moment so I could say no more, but the battle lines had been drawn.

Hubby knew it, too. He smiled.

I smiled right back. Heh! I’d show HIM pwning.

“So dad,” said Squirt, “Grandma just told me she’s mad because she lost money on you.”


“Yeah! Grandma says she bet Kat that you could figure out how to replace the fuses on the Halloween lights before Mom could, but Mom beat you to it and Grandma had to pay up.”

It took me some seconds to get past my mother-in-law’s lack of faith in my fuse-changing abilities. But then I realized my opportunity for retaliation had popped up much more quickly than I’d expected.

“Face it, babe,” I told Hubby, “you got PWNED.”

“Ugh! Mom!” said Tiger. “You can’t say ‘pwned’.”

“What?” I was indignant. “Why not?”

“You’re too—er, um… you just don’t know how to use it right.”

Hubby smiled. “Oh, she knows how to use it,” he said. “In fact, your mother was just telling me how SQUIRT PWNED HER YESTERDAY.”

Tiger cringed again. “Ugh! You shouldn’t use it, either, Dad.”

Hubby looked at me with raised eyebrows. He apparently expected the two of us to deal as allies against this blatant age discrimination. Yeah, right. Like I’d EVER collaborate with a traitor.

Hubby’s head began bobbling again. He wagged his finger at Tiger. “Yo, boy! In case you haven’t noticed, I am hippest of the hip. The coolest of the cool. And if I say you are pwned, YOU ARE PWNED.”

Squirt shuddered. “You’re right,” he told Tiger, “somehow it sounds wrong when they say it.”

“Hello!” thundered Hubby. “I am THE PWNER!”

The boys grimaced and squirmed. I have to admit, I was enjoying their ageist discomfort. Hubby was a turncoat, sure, but these pups were trying to curtail our right to free speech!

“Yeah!” I said, brushing aside my plot to leave Hubby to the teenage wolves. “You might say Dad is the original opPWNent.”

“Ha!” Hubby roared. “Good one, babe!” We high-fived each other. “Just call me MR. PWN!”

The boys rolled their eyes, but Hubby was just warming up. “I am the pwnER, not the pwnEE!”

“Look what you’ve started,” said Squirt.

“Right,” said Tiger, “like you didn’t pwn Mom in the first place.”

I am he,” Hubby proclaimed loud enough for the entire cul-de-sac to hear, “WHO PWNS UNCEASINGLY!

Indeed. The man may need to work on his marital teamwork skills, but when it comes to unceasing pwnage, nobody can squelch teen rebellion with it like he can.

Super Sabado: it’s October already?

A couple of years ago I wrote about our boys’ first piano recital, back when I thought recitals were pretty scary.

In fact, if you’d asked me back then to evaluate them on the Traumatic Events Stress Level Scale, I believe I would’ve rated piano recitals a little less stressful than, say, having to testify against a Mafia drug lord—but not by much.

Lucky for us, Hubby and I have attended so many piano recitals since then that the recital hall now seems just like home to us, except there are no size 13 footprints on the walls and there’s a lot less dog hair floating around.

Still, this relaxed attitude is not the good thing you might imagine it’d be.

HUBBY: (stage whispers) Gimme the programme, please.

(he reads it, looks at his watch, passes the programme back)

HUBBY: Goody. Only 40 more pieces to go.

Hubby’s one of those guys who can’t sit still, unlike me.

Me, I can sit for hours, as long as I’m in the shade and there is the promise of chocolate after. But Hubby—if Hubby sits for too long, he starts getting ideas.

BONNIE: (whispers) What did you just do?

HUBBY: Heh! I just called Tiger!

BONNIE: But he was playing his piece on stage!

HUBBY: Yeah! Heh! Too bad he turned his ringer off, hunh?

All practical joking aside, Hubby tends to squirm and fidget. And since he’s 6 foot 3 and almost 225 pounds, he squirms and fidgets in a most spectacular way.

(adult piano student turns the second page of a very long, classical piece and continues playing)

HUBBY: (sighs heavily and stretches his leg, which cracks loudly)  OW!

(several attendees turn and frown)


HUBBY: (rubbing leg)  Well, it HURT.

The good thing is, our piano teacher only has four recitals a year. The bad thing is, our piano teacher has four recitals a year.

(adult piano student turns the fourth page in her music booklet and continues playing)

HUBBY: (sighs heavily)

(other attendees turn and frown)

HUBBY: (stage whispers)  If she turns one more page, we’re outta here.

Today’s Super Sábado is Continue reading “Super Sabado: it’s October already?”

“My brother paid a dollar last night to see your underwear”

Flashback to the eighties, right? Cover of 'Sixteen Candles' DVD

“My brother paid a dollar last night to see your underwear” is an instantly recognizable line from Sixteen Candles, a movie I thought was reasonably funny when I saw it in 1984, but which definitely took on a sinister subtext after I viewed it as the mother of two teenage boys.

But we’re not going to talk about sinister subtexts. Not today, anyway.

Today, we’re going to talk about something that has caused extreme marital discord in our previously happy home. And just what would that something be, you ask?


Seriously. This is the stuff you argue about when you don’t have cable.

I say the line goes like this:

(Scene: the most popular girl in the school wakes up in the back of a convertible Rolls Royce with the geekiest kid in the school.)

Caroline: I’ll tell you where you are if you tell me who you are.

Ted: I’m Farmer Ted.

Caroline: You’re in the parking lot in front of my church.

Ted: You own a church?

Classic. It’s funny, see, because it’s such an outrageous response to “You’re in front of my church.”

Now, this is how Hubby says it goes:

Caroline: You’re in the parking lot in front of my church.

Ted: You go to church?

Pretty dull, if you ask me, but Hubby breaks up just thinking about it. He says it’s funnier because Ted is surprised that she goes to church.

What a noodle.

We replayed this one scene several times—our ears pressed to the speakers so we could hear every nuance—and I’m 100% certain my version is the one John Hughes gave to the world. Hubby scoffs.

The Internet is no help. There are 1060 references to “You go to church?” and only 40 Google references to “You own a church?” which for some reason Hubby takes as a mandate that he is right, but which really only tells me most of the world is deaf.

So I leave it with you. First, tell me which line is funnier.

Second, if you know the movie and don’t have to run down to Blockbuster to rent it, tell me what they are really saying. My marriage depends on it.

UPDATE: Hubby agrees that the line is “You own a church?” but that the issue is not what the line SAYS, but which line is FUNNIER.

And third, once you have kids, John Hughes’ comedies turn into horror flicks. Sorry, but that’s just the way it is.


The Curse of the Kitchen Island Cooktop

Picture of a singed container of yogurt, victim of our fire
YOGURT TELLS OF ORDEAL: “It was horrible, horrible!”.

Our kitchen island ought to be studied by world-class scientists of gravitational theory. Really, it should, because at any time you will find all sorts of stuff that’s mysteriously landed on it; stuff that no one ever remembers putting there!

We’re talking cell phones. Bookbags. Briefcases. Water bottles. Cold medicine. Swim trophies. Geometry homework. Snorkels. Baby wipes. Library books. And even pencil sharpeners! You name it, it arrives on the kitchen island all by itself, rarely leaving room for anything that might actually belong, you know, in a kitchen.

How or why this happens, I don’t know, but I’m confident it has absolutely nothing to do with my housekeeping skills. Rather, I feel very strongly it’s the result of some kind of curse.

The Curse of the Kitchen Island Cooktop

Once upon a time, a kitchen island cooktop rudely told a troll that his messy desk was a sign of a cluttered mind. So the troll cursed all kitchen island cooktops to be clutter landing pads forever and ever and ever. The end.

As a result, Hubby found no room on the kitchen island for his grocery bags when he came home from the store. A little peeved, he plopped everything down on the cooktop instead, not realizing he accidentally turned on the gas burner at the same time.

He didn’t notice anything burning because he immediately left to get more groceries out of his car. Our fire alarms didn’t clue him in either, because even though they’re really good at waking us up at 3 am to announce that their batteries need changing, it turns out they totally suck at reporting an actual fire.

The good news is that he came back in time to discover the flames before they burned down our kitchen island. The bad news is that his sushi was on fire, which, when you think about it, kind of defeats the whole purpose of sushi.

A picture of Bucky, the Siamese Cat
BUCKY THE CAT WITNESSED EVERYTHING: “Heck, yeah, it was pretty funny watching him dance around that cooktop with it on fire and all.”.

Hubby put out the fire but man, oh man, was he ever cranky about it when we finally came home from piano lessons.

“Why,” he asked, launching into Lecture Mode, “Why is this kitchen island never clear of clutter?” This question never troubled him before, of course, but apparently gained importance when his sushi went up in smoke.

As he developed his theme (“Why Your Cooktop Curse Theory Needs Some Work”) I realized that our kitchen table—only three feet away from the kitchen island—was absolutely clear of any clutter. I also realized that if I’d brought in the groceries, I would’ve unloaded them on the kitchen table.

That’s when I knew only I could truly understand the power of the Kitchen Island Cooktop Curse, which could trick my poor man into unloading groceries on the cooktop rather than on the table!

Poor guy. He may have saved our house from burning down, but he’s proved himself completely ineffective when it comes to household curse management.

Bikini bottom as toe ornament

The mail arrives… and I feel a great disturbance in the Force.

I hesitate in front of the mailbox. It seems to bulge with significance… with portent… with… with… well, it’s certainly bulging, that’s for damn sure.

Wah! There it is, between the gas and electric bill and the supermarket circular! The Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue!

Elsa Benitez, Veronica Varekova, Elle Macpherson, Rebecca Romjin, Rachel Hunter, Daniela Pestova, Yamila Diaz-Rahl, and Carolyn Murphy
Elsa Benitez, Veronica Varekova, Elle Macpherson, Rebecca Romjin, Rachel Hunter, Daniela Pestova, Yamila Diaz-Rahl, and Carolyn Murphy

Omigosh, look at those breasts! I guess the price is reasonable enough for what you get—and Hubby sure does love the big ones—I’ll have to think about getting some later.

Well, that’s enough of the chicken sale in the supermarket circular. It’s time to pore over the Swimsuit Issue!

Perhaps it is really the “Half-a-Swimsuit Issue,” as many of the ladies are topless, save for a floral lei or a string of beads, or artfully placed arms and hands. The structural engineering involved is mind-boggling.

And oh, my! One gal took off her swimsuit bottom, too. Rather than stretching across her lovely bum, it dangles seductively from her big toe. Another model wears nothing more than a few hibiscus blossoms and a dusting of sand. At least she looks warmer than the one wearing the diamond and platinum”$30 Million Bikini.”

Ah, so THAT’S what a Brazilian wax is all about. I wondered…

The Heidi Klum Body Paint is well done, very pretty; a spread inspired by “the glamour girls of old Hollywood.” Artistic and tasteful and…

Holy cow! Did Heidi Klum really give birth three months before these photos were taken? To her SECOND CHILD?

And look! There’s Elle, for crying out loud, looking just like she did in the 80s. I always suspected she was really a gorgeous space alien who left her mother ship for a lucrative modeling contract. I’ll finally be proven right, too, when she’s featured in the 2046 Swimsuit Issue.

Cough, cough, HACK! What is THIS advertisement selling? A “vibrating ring”? With a “small battery in a soft casing”?


I looked through the magazine twice, but no athlete’s wives. Bummer! I always liked those. And only one representative of a real female athlete: Maria Sharapova. She looks better than any of these supermodels.

Picture of Maria Sharapova
The best figure in the whole magazine: Maria Sharapova. Why doesn’t Sports Illustrated show us more than one female sports figures per swimsuit issue?

The articles are all so-so. Carla Campbell feels her lips “are very sensual.” Petra Nemcova has recovered from her life-threatening injuries during the Christmas 2004 tsunami—and she looks stunning in that Beach Bunny bikini. Bahamas tree frogs prefer toilets to trees… Yadda, yadda, yadda.

I’m done. Back to the supermarket circular.

When Hubby comes home I discreetly give him his mail. Do I feel insecure? Tubby? Unattractive in comparison to the beauties in those pages?

You bet.

I later find Hubby in bed, reading the regular Sports Illustrated with “Flying Tomato” Shaun White on the cover.

“Where’s the Swimsuit Issue?” I ask.

“Eh, those gals need to work out a bit. Too skinny. No muscle tone.”

Is it any wonder why I love this man?

, , , ,

Doesn’t the Freedom of Information Act apply here?

Plan A: Keep the Lines of Communication Open

“Just talk to your kids,” say the experts. “Be there for them. Listen to what they have to say.”

All righty then.

Bonnie: So, Tiger, your dad heard you say something about a dance.

Tiger: Eh.

Bonnie: Your dad’s not sure if you’re actually going to a dance, or if you were just mentioning a dance, you know, in conversation.

Tiger: Eh.

Bonnie: You know, if you are going to a dance, you’ll need transportation and a suit, or maybe even a tuxedo, and a corsage for your date….if you are going to a dance, I mean. If you are, just let us know.

(a moment of silence)

So, Tiger, are you going to a dance?

Tiger: Arrrgh! I feel like I’m being interrogated!

Note to the Experts: Keeping the lines of communication open with my firstborn is like keeping the lines of communication open with a rock. You can ask a rock whatever you want, but it’s probably not going to tell you anything. And if it were to open its mouth and share, the shock just might give you a heart attack.

Time for Plan B.

Plan B: Turn to Outside Sources

Hubby: Did the neighbors know anything?

Bonnie: They sure did! Didi says it’s a formal, so Tiger’ll need a tux and a corsage for his date. And get this—he and his friends are splitting the cost of a limo!

Hubby: A limo! (clutches his wallet protectively) But who’s he going with?

Bonnie: Didi didn’t get the gal’s name, but Tiger told her she’s nice. How about that? Tiger’s first dance! Who did you take to your first dance?

Hubby: (opens his laptop) I don’t remember.

Hubby has a very selective memory. He could never remember anything about his ex-girlfriends, even though we kept running into them when we first started dating. Let’s just say the rock didn’t fall far from the non communicative boulder.

(Bonnie’s evil eye finally bores through Hubby’s laptop screen)

Hubby: I think Tiger’s just being shy. That’s why he’s not telling us anything.

Bonnie: Well, he better get over it soon! We’ll need at least a week’s lead time to rent a tux. By the way, don’t you think it’s odd that all our neighbors know more about this date than we do?

Hubby: (shrugs)

Great. Well, Hubby’s ex-girlfriends were one topic I could overlook, but I haven’t been laundering Tiger’s underwear all these years just so I’d have to pry all the details about his first dance from the neighbors.

Time for Plan C.

Plan C: Internet Research

Bonnie: Who needs the neighbors when we’ve got! What do you want to know? It’s all here in the comments section!

Hubby: (perks up) Hello! Who’s the girl?

Bonnie: Her name is Sweetie Pie. She’s into sports and 4H Club…

Hubby: Excellent, excellent…

Bonnie: …and here’s her picture. Isn’t she cute?

As I filled Hubby in on all the pertinent details, I wondered what the experts would think of my methods. Maybe they’d think I was too nosy. Maybe they’d think Tiger’s first dance was none of my business.

Then again, I don’t see any experts helping me do my kids’ stinky laundry, so who cares what they think, anyway?

Abandon all hope, ye who let Hubby drive

The road to Hell is paved by men who refuse to ask for directions. It’s true — I read about it in college. Some guy named Dante spelled it all out.

“Hubby,” I said, with just a hint of urgency in the old vocal cords, “We’ve been driving for hours. I need a restroom.”

He grunted. I took this as a positive sign.

“And maybe,” I added sweetly, “Maybe while I’m using the restroom, you could ask the gas station attendant if this is the right road?”

His knuckles whitened over the steering wheel. “You can hold it, Hon,” he said. “Just a little longer.”

“Forget the directions!” I said, with true desperation. “Just the ladies’ room. I swear!”

“It’s only a little farther. Hang in there!”

I hung. In no time at all the road went from asphalt to dirt. Hubby’s knuckles relaxed. “There you are! The camp road!” He glanced at me and added, “you can go behind those bushes, if you really need to.”

If I were a man, sure, I’d stop to go behind some roadside bushes. All men have to do is unzip, aim, shake, and they’re done. But we ladies, ay yi yi! We ladies.

In order to go behind some bushes we’ve got a lot more undressing to do, and a bit of squatting to do, and unless we’ve packed a box of tissues, we’ve got a little air-drying to do — none of which can be done quickly. Neither can it be done nonchalantly as we whistle and rock back and forth on our heels, despite what they think. Face it, guys: we’re plumbed differently.

“No,” I said.

“Okay, but it may take some time, now that we’ve hit the camp road.”

“What? You said we were almost there!”

“I said ‘it was only a little farther…’ until we hit the camp road.”

I didn’t argue — I needed to save all my energy to hold back the flow, so to speak. I did some anti-moisture visualizations: the little boy with his finger in the dike… nope, way too weird.

The Sahara Desert: dry, sandy, void of any moisture whatsoever… yikes! Never use the word “void” when you’re trying to hold things in.

Okay, okay… breathe deep. Death Valley, the hottest, driest place in North America…

About a half-hour later my visions of low humidity were interupted by the dirt camp road turning into a rocky camp road.

“Yowza, Hubby,” I gasped after a really good lurch, “maybe those bushes are a good idea after all.”

“Too late,” he growled, “we’re almost there.”

“Hubby,” I warned him, “You’re about to do a little swimming, whether you like it or not.”

He hit the gas pedal and the van shot forward. We entered a nightmare of potholes, sinkholes, and unexpected speed bumps until Hubby finally skidded to a halt in front of the check-in kiosk. I climbed into Hubby’s lap and shouted at the man in the ranger hat.

“Ladies room! NOW!”

He pointed at a little building a short distance away. I rolled back into my seat, opened the door and leapt out of the van. As I sprinted to the restroom I dodged a woman whose dog was lifting his leg on a tree. “If only it were that easy for us gals,” called the woman, sympathetically.

No time to answer — I kicked open the bathroom door, shot into a stall, fumbled with my clothing and made it… just… in… time…


“Hey, baby,” called Hubby from outside the restroom. “We haven’t met yet, but maybe we could — you know… Oh!” His voice lowered slightly. “Excuse me, ma’am, didn’t see you with your dog there.”

I had the whole weekend to plot my revenge; preliminary plans already included a bowl of warm water in the middle of the night. Nah, I decided as I washed my hands, that just meant more laundry when I got home.

“As I was saying,” continued Hubby outside, “Lotsa ladies are lining up here hoping to get a chance with me! Better to decide soon if you wanna share a tent. Whadaya say?”

Better to leave it to a Higher Power. After all, if Dante was right, one day Hubby’d be a helpless passenger on an never-ending road — you know, with no restrooms, bushes, or zippable pants. It’s true — I read about it in college.