Read Online You Don't Sweat Much for a Fat Girl by Celia Rivenbark - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Celia Rivenbark
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personalities—that is, if your idea of diversity is every woman is loud, catty,
big-haired or big-“bubbied” (their favorite word for breasts, don’tchaknow) and they make Fran Drescher’s nasal Nanny sound like James Earl Jones.
Let me give you the skinny, in case you decide to tune in for the next season.
First, there’s Caroline, the matriarch type who is kind of a low talker compared to the others. I can never quite make out what she’s saying but it sounds a lot like, “If that whore lays her hands on my precious son, Albie, I’m gonna dump her bony body in the Pine Barrens, I’m just saying, yada-yada, fughedaboutit, cannoli.”
To which her sister-in-law and the designated peacemaker of the bunch, Jersey wife Jacqueline, will just say, “Anyways, who wants a mani-pedi and I really want to have a third baby despite the fact that I appear to binge-drink champagne in the middle of a Wednesday afternoon. Anyways, don’t judge me!”
Dina has a bored-by-it-all tone and frequently kvetches that she doesn’t “have time for all the drama.” Which makes me want to point out that most folks who don’t have time for drama don’t say that in front of a roomful of TV lights and cameras. It’s possible that big-sister Caroline low-talk threatened her into doing the show. Dina is more of a faux housewife because we rarely see Mr. Dina. He’s more of an idea than an actual person, I think.
Formerly flat-chested Teresa spent the first four episodes talking about how her simpleton husband, Joe, liked her the way she was and that was good enough for her. But that
doesn’t make for interesting TV so fast-forward a few episodes and there’s Joe telling Teresa’s plastic surgeon that he’d like to see her with some “full Cs.” Teresa giggles and agrees to all this and now no longer weeps while trying on bikinis with the girls in Atlantic City. Oy vey.
And finally there’s faux wife Danielle, whom the others hate because they think she’s too skanky to hang out with women as classy as they are. There’s much sniping behind backs, tearful reconciliations, and then worse sniping than ever. It’s middle school all over again only with way too much leopard furniture. So, yes, I are dumber now than when I started watching those Real Housewives. Mission accomplice, I always say.
And just when I thought the bar couldn’t get any lower (assuming Octomom doesn’t get the show she dreams of), I discovered the show, My Monkey Baby . Not since the debut of I Didn’t Know I Was Pregnant! have I been this excited.
This should answer, once and for all, those satellite TV ingrates who love to whine about how they have 856 channels and nothing to watch. I repeat: monkey babies.
Who could resist following the daily hijinks of Jessica Marie, a girl monkey with her own pink bedroom, designer clothes, toys, games, and makeup?
TLC, which used to stand for The Learning Channel but now stands for Titillating Losers for Cash, follows quasiredneck couple Lori and Jim Johnson as they, seriously, examine the questions “How strong is the parent/monkey bond?”
and, my personal favorite, “Can a monkey really be a child substitute?”
TLC, sounding downright journalistic, promises that My Monkey Baby explores “the real lives of people parenting monkeys in America.” Thank the sweet Lord above that Walter Cronkite isn’t alive to see this.
Standing in the canned ravioli aisle at a Tarzana Safeway wearing ratty bedroom scuffs, the Octomom is probably slapping her forehead.
“Monkey babies! Why didn’t I think of that?”
Monkey mama Lori has two grown, human daughters of her own, but apparently they were much harder to hold down and administer blush and lipstick to.
“She loves it!” coos Lori, while Jessica Marie gazes stupidly at a tube of something that was probably tested on her long-lost cousin.
I’m sorry I said “stupidly.” Wouldn’t want to set Jim off. He gets a might riled if you call Jessica
big-haired or big-“bubbied” (their favorite word for breasts, don’tchaknow) and they make Fran Drescher’s nasal Nanny sound like James Earl Jones.
Let me give you the skinny, in case you decide to tune in for the next season.
First, there’s Caroline, the matriarch type who is kind of a low talker compared to the others. I can never quite make out what she’s saying but it sounds a lot like, “If that whore lays her hands on my precious son, Albie, I’m gonna dump her bony body in the Pine Barrens, I’m just saying, yada-yada, fughedaboutit, cannoli.”
To which her sister-in-law and the designated peacemaker of the bunch, Jersey wife Jacqueline, will just say, “Anyways, who wants a mani-pedi and I really want to have a third baby despite the fact that I appear to binge-drink champagne in the middle of a Wednesday afternoon. Anyways, don’t judge me!”
Dina has a bored-by-it-all tone and frequently kvetches that she doesn’t “have time for all the drama.” Which makes me want to point out that most folks who don’t have time for drama don’t say that in front of a roomful of TV lights and cameras. It’s possible that big-sister Caroline low-talk threatened her into doing the show. Dina is more of a faux housewife because we rarely see Mr. Dina. He’s more of an idea than an actual person, I think.
Formerly flat-chested Teresa spent the first four episodes talking about how her simpleton husband, Joe, liked her the way she was and that was good enough for her. But that
doesn’t make for interesting TV so fast-forward a few episodes and there’s Joe telling Teresa’s plastic surgeon that he’d like to see her with some “full Cs.” Teresa giggles and agrees to all this and now no longer weeps while trying on bikinis with the girls in Atlantic City. Oy vey.
And finally there’s faux wife Danielle, whom the others hate because they think she’s too skanky to hang out with women as classy as they are. There’s much sniping behind backs, tearful reconciliations, and then worse sniping than ever. It’s middle school all over again only with way too much leopard furniture. So, yes, I are dumber now than when I started watching those Real Housewives. Mission accomplice, I always say.
And just when I thought the bar couldn’t get any lower (assuming Octomom doesn’t get the show she dreams of), I discovered the show, My Monkey Baby . Not since the debut of I Didn’t Know I Was Pregnant! have I been this excited.
This should answer, once and for all, those satellite TV ingrates who love to whine about how they have 856 channels and nothing to watch. I repeat: monkey babies.
Who could resist following the daily hijinks of Jessica Marie, a girl monkey with her own pink bedroom, designer clothes, toys, games, and makeup?
TLC, which used to stand for The Learning Channel but now stands for Titillating Losers for Cash, follows quasiredneck couple Lori and Jim Johnson as they, seriously, examine the questions “How strong is the parent/monkey bond?”
and, my personal favorite, “Can a monkey really be a child substitute?”
TLC, sounding downright journalistic, promises that My Monkey Baby explores “the real lives of people parenting monkeys in America.” Thank the sweet Lord above that Walter Cronkite isn’t alive to see this.
Standing in the canned ravioli aisle at a Tarzana Safeway wearing ratty bedroom scuffs, the Octomom is probably slapping her forehead.
“Monkey babies! Why didn’t I think of that?”
Monkey mama Lori has two grown, human daughters of her own, but apparently they were much harder to hold down and administer blush and lipstick to.
“She loves it!” coos Lori, while Jessica Marie gazes stupidly at a tube of something that was probably tested on her long-lost cousin.
I’m sorry I said “stupidly.” Wouldn’t want to set Jim off. He gets a might riled if you call Jessica
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