The Way Things Are






Indeed…there are mannequin hijinx afoot
2005-11-30, 1:01 p.m.

Indeed…there are mannequin hijinx afoot. Big, big plans for the mannequin. The only thing crazier than my mother-in-law and her unnatural mannequin love is MY obsession with my mother-in-law’s craziness.

Of course, all of the mischief will be documented thoroughly with pictures. DW’s on board, and considering he doesn’t even know about this journal and thinks that people writing in their diaries on the internet for other people to read is “the dumbest fucking thing [he’s] ever heard of”, he’s being a good sport in my plans to instigate a practical joke WAR upon his parents. He thinks his mother is crazy, too, and that’s one of the reasons we are soulmates, just like Bill and Monica.

As long as we keep it the fun kind of crazy, I’m all good with it. Remember: Fun crazy=good. Scary crazy=bad.

So. Do you watch The Biggest Loser? We do. We like it. We like it because it’s not about some artificially-created situation like Survivor or that Amazing Race bullshit (boooo-RING), but rather about some real folks with a real –live problem, who are working their asses off to turn things around. It’s not voyeuristic or terribly sensationalistic, nor is it obviously edited to give the illusion of drama where none may exist. Not terribly so, anyway.

It’s feel-good stuff. Although that Caroline Rhea needs to run out and get herself a personality with a little warmth and flexibility in it. She’s a bit, ah, wooden. Stiff. Cold. As stiff, wooden and cold as a mannequin left out on the front porch in the dead of winter.

I digress! We watched The Biggest Loser two-hour finale last night, and The Biggest Irony is that that’s the longest time I have spent immobile on the couch watching TV in I-don’t-know-when. Two hours. At least I wasn’t snacking on Oreos like DW, who said his aspiration is to be The Biggest Gainer. I asked him if he might want to be a coach on that reality show.

He demonstrated his coaching abilities for me. “Eat! EAT! Eat, dammit. Come on, you pussy. EAT!”

At one point during the show, we showed off our round, fat bellies to each other, much to Lil Guy’s delight.


Four years ago, DW was blowing the leaves off the driveway, and pointed the leaf blower at me. My shirt blew up, and the flubber on my belly undulated and shimmied under the force of the air. Lil Guy just laaaaughed and laaaaughed, the little shit, and to this day, it remains one of his favorite childhood memories.

Last night’s belly display brought it all back to him: “Mom, remember when DW blew the leaf blower at you stomach, and it was all blubbery?”

“That’s like your most prized childhood memory, isn’t it?”

“Well, yeah! It was funny. Remember how your belly just went bluh bluh bluh bluh bluh?”


Chickens, that’s about as much substance as you are going to get from me today. I have some actual work to do, some with actual deadlines, none with any seeming actual importance, at least not to me, and much to all of your chagrin, I will be out of town tomorrow and Friday. I’m going to DC (yay!) to meet with an attorney (boo!) in a work-related matter (bleh!), traveling with my colleague Mike whose goal in life seems to be to slowly drive me insane with his incessant chatter consisting of run-on sentences that have nothing to do with anything that ever did or ever will happen. (yeah, yeah, pot meet kettle)

It’s going to take all I have not to drone back to him about (1) the fibrocystic changes in my breasts (2) the interstitial cystitis that causes my wonky bladder (3) shoes (4) reality TV, especially Clean Sweep (5) my sex life with my sweet DishWasher (6) freecell solitaire strategery and (7) mannequins.

This is my mannequin face. Have I beaten this to death yet?

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