Category Archives: husbands

An Open Letter to Susie Fogelson at the Food Network

Posted on by wiggles

Dear Ms. Fogelson,

May I call you Susie?

Suze, this letter is to inform you and your network that I will no longer be watching the Next Food Network Star.

Yeah, you should look unhappy, lady.

Watching you and your fellow judges select a man who make sandwiches, and only sandwiches, put the kibosh on my caring about any new shows you’re dishing up. As you gushed that you couldn’t wait to market his tag line that every meal can be a sandwich and every sandwich can be a meal, my heart sank.

A ten year old can make sandwiches. Nobody needs instruction, Jeff.

There stood sweet Susie Jimenez, ready to teach America to make Mexican home cooking, as runner up to some boob who’s one method of “cooking” is to slap stuff between two pieces of bread. As if it’s new or different or unknown to the population.

Shame, shame, shame.

And further shame for the inordinate amount of time spent garnering the opinions of Penny, the self styled Middle Eastern Mama, who clearly loathes other women. Even the judges saw her slow down while presumably “helping” Mary Beth during the Iron Chef challenge. Were you Jews so terrified of offending her that you leaned over backwards to solicit her ignorant comments?

Middle Eastern Monster

You claim to care deeply about the personal backgrounds of your contestants. You urge them to bare their emotional selves on camera. Which, by the way, Susie Jimenez did, to spectacular effect, as the daughter of migrant Mexican field workers. So, why is it, I wonder, I’ve never heard Bobby Flay mention a single thing about his personal life on Throwdown?

This food smells great. Maybe I should mention that my parents didn't own a barbeque when I was growing up. Nah.

I’m even considering not watching Chopped, just about the only show left on the “Food” Network that’s about the food.

By the way, I would have sent this screed to Bob Tuschman, but I assume he’s away having plastic surgery to repair his wayward jaw.

There’s No Safety in Numbers

Posted on by wiggles

As I’ve warned you all, I, Wiggles, have been let loose among the working masses. Perhaps the most alarming of my job responsibilities is that I manage the safe on Saturdays. Yup, they have seen fit to have me, who made up designs on the SAT answer sheet for the entire math section, hand out the big bucks and balance the accounts at day’s end.

My very first foray, I balanced within two bucks and change.

Boss Man:   That’s not bad.

Wiggles:       Are you kidding? It’s spectacular.

And it’s been downhill ever since. Last week, my initial go-round was off by $3,000.  Hmmm. Not good. In short order, I’d worked it down to a mere $1,500. discrepancy. And it’s stayed there all week, dammit. The good news is that my calculations purport that I handed out money that was not in the safe, which, I assume, is impossible. With numbers, who knows? Not me.

More experienced eyes than mine haven’t had any greater success unraveling this mystery. I’m just grateful I didn’t come up short the other way. For now, they’re still keeping my hand in their till.

I wonder if they’d reconsider if they knew the Lord & Master and I operate on his genius fiscal plan: The Field of Dreams Theory of Money: Spend It and It Will Come. In other words, we spend until it’s all gone.

Why I Hate Rob Marshall, And You Should, Too

Posted on by wiggles

Just the other night the Lord & Master and I settled in for a PBS special about the long and lovely career of Tony Bennett. Unfortunately, the minute the opening credits began, we knew we were in for a hour of craptainment courtesy of one Mr. Rob Marshall.

Perhaps you remember his bombastic efforts at the helm of the film version of Chicago? His genius idea for that mess was to have Roxie Hart “imagine” all the musical numbers, so the poor audience wouldn’t go mad wondering why people in a musical burst into song and dance numbers. Not to mention the gargantuan chuztpah of tossing out the original Bob Fosse choreography.

And I’m not even going to get into casting nonsinging actors in lead roles. Yes, I’m talking about you, Renee Zellweger. You who were too chicken to sing onstage at the Oscars because you knew you didn’t have the chops. True, it’s been a Hollywood specialty since the days of Natalie Wood – and Rita Moreno, (even though I loves ya, Rita) –  in West Side Story and Audrey Hepburn – a goddess, but not one who could carry a tune – in My Fair Lady.

Or maybe Nine? Granted, not a masterpiece of any sort even on Broadway. But leave it to the Marsh Man to use whiplash editing and weird casting to run the show into the ground. He has all the subtlety of a sledgehammer. Raul Julia must have been rolling over in his early grave, where I am sure the screeching of Kate Hudson, that blonde monument to nepotism, reached.

Out of sheer morbid curiosity we watched the Tony Bennett extravaganza, complete with Marshall’s signature cutesy stunt casting and overwrought production numbers. Whatever happened to pointing a camera at the man while he stands there and sings?

When I thought things couldn’t possible deteriorate any further, the sleepwalking songstress herself, Diana Krall, did her patented flat, whispered massacre of melody. It seems to me the least a singer can do is remain awake while in the act of singing. This Ms. Krall refuses to do. Her popularity mystifies me. I can only hope her twin boys drive her crazy when she isn’t catching a nap onstage.

See, her eyes are shut. Awake and sing, dammit!

Colonel Sanders, D.D.S.

Posted on by wiggles

I’ve dubbed the Lord & Master the King of Oral Lowgeine, since he’s considered a miracle by his dentist and periodontist. (Though I remained stunned that they once administered an IV during his teeth cleaning.) For well over a decade he’s maintained his oral health by barely brushing and never flossing. “I have a strong gag reflex,” he’s whimpered whenever trying out the latest flossing gizmo I’ve foisted upon him. Of course, a few teeth have fallen by the wayside over the years, replaced by a series of crowns. He’s in need of a new one as I write, though he’s said he’s going to “skip it,” against the advice of our dentist. Soon I’ll have to remind him (as in nag) that the alternative actually will be worse than the annoyance and expense of the procedure.

It’s a testament to the extraordinarily hardworking genes his mother, Old Ironsides, passed on that the L&M has such good dental and heart health. At the ripe of old age of 91, she still had all her choppers – and a full head of hair – and her heart had built its own bypass. (FYI, dental health is directly linked to one’s heart condition. That’s why I, the daughter of a woman who diagnosed her own open heart surgery, brush and floss madly all day long. And take 80 mg of Simvastatin.)

Imagine my post-dinner surprise last night when my hubby casually extracted a KFC spork, their ingenious spoon/fork combo, from its plastic wrap and steadily worked it between his teeth. Then he tenderly replaced it for future use. I guess he found the one dental instrument that doesn’t choke him.

Whatever works, my one of a kind fellow. And hats off to you, Colonel Sanders.

Can You See Me Now?

Posted on by wiggles

Our mother Jeanne just keeps surprising me.

When it comes to the Lord & Master, she’s always been a tad flirtatious. They’re actually closer in age than he & I are, but, still. After he took her with us to Italy, she purred to me on the phone, “Be sure to say ‘hi’ to the L&M. [long pause] My boyfriend.”

“Mah, do you realize whom you’re talking to?”

It’s just creepy to hear my own mother call my husband her boyfriend.

But she managed to top that this weekend with the following, which is a direct quote, folks:

“I have to call the Lord & Master. But I can’t do it now ’cause I’m not dressed.”

Jeanne, he doesn’t posses superpowers. He cannot see you over the telephone. Believe me, he parades around in his comfy house clothes all day long. Even when he’s squawking on the horn.

Dial away, dear vixen mammy. Clothes optional.

Filthy Lucre

Posted on by wiggles

Now that I, Wiggles, have entered the American workforce, I am learning its hazards. Particularly, how truly dirty money is. I spend my work days counting out large amounts of good old cash to many (presumably grateful) folks. The upshot of rifling these bills has been a hellacious cold. I guess the hand sanitizer at the counter isn’t just for the customers.

Of course, the Lord & Master does not see my runny nose and post-Nyquil wooziness as an impediment to his own carnal pleasures. Especially with Hot Pants arriving by the weekend, he requested, ever so gallantly, that I fulfill my marital obligations. So I did. Never mind that I had a tissue wadded up my right nostril. I did what had to be done.

I am Woman, hear me sneeze.

My Husband Is Ruining This Blog

Posted on by wiggles

Time was, I could plop down at my computer and expose the Lord & Master’s most recent outrageous escapade. No more. Inexplicably, we have dived headlong into a giant vat of love and goodwill that, while undeniably enjoyable, leaves me without any juicy digs to aim at my Bigger Half. How could he be so cruel?

Whatever happened to the man who had a complete meltdown in a classroom of kindergarteners when we arrived at the requested hour for a kiddie performance by Sassafrass and her fellow little folk only to find it had just finished? No youngster could have thrown a finer hissy fit: yelling, throwing his arms in the air, red faced, belittling the teachers. I do believe the words “You are so stupid!” were flung about.

Whatever happened to the man who later that same day accused me of “not taking my side,” to which I replied, “The fact that you were technically right was obliterated by the way you behaved.” This made no sense to him. We proceeded to build our Home Depot garage storage shelves while mutually simmering with disdain for one another.

Whatever happened to the man who later that night refused to get on the phone and apologize to the Judaic Studies teacher, a mild mannered Israeli woman, who was still shocked by his childish and outrageous conduct?

Whatever happened to the man about whom the American born regular kindergarten teacher said to me, “So, your husband’s from New York?”

Alas, he has been secretly replaced by a kind, quiet, thoughtful, romantic spouse. How dare he. This is not the man I married.

Now what am I going to blog about?

Wiggles Gets a Job

Posted on by wiggles

I never thought I’d be writing this sentence.

Nor would anyone for whom I’ve worked in the past.

For a while I worked for a lawyer whom I worshipped. I was young, and, to my mind, he was everything a man should be: hardworking, family loving, loyal, smart, kind. (The template for my very own wonderful Lord & Master.) Having me on the payroll was a true act of charity. If I actually worked for more than a half hour a day I’d be shocked. Somehow I’d cobble together a timesheet distributing the hours of my day among his vast array of clients, but, in all honesty, I never really did anything. My all-time favorite task was being sent on an hour’s drive (each way!) to record title in Worcester, MA. All alone in my tin can Chevette (that I bought new, thanks to the folly of asking Bob for car advice), driving, radio blasting – that was my idea of a perfect assignment. Once, I fell asleep during a real estate closing meeting and he had to kick me under the table to bring me back to consciousness. And I was crazy about him, and his secretary. Just not so crazy about doing anything productive.

You cannot begin to imagine the slacker I was at the job I had before that – being in charge of Radcliffe Alumnae Club activities. I loathed the job, the coworkers, and especially the boss – a twit who’d somehow managed to attend Radcliffe herself. She was such a party force at her reunions that she became head of all alumnae affairs. She looked like a very wrinkled version of The Grinch with a college scarf jauntily tied around her neck. I did so little to hide my boredom. Zero follow through. I’d be told to contact the Club President in D.C., but I’d never call her. Mainly, I spent my time with an earpiece plugged into my radio, which broadcast the audio portion of my favorite soap operas. To sound busy, I’d type the dialogue as the actors spouted it. That IBM selectric sure sounded busy!

Somehow, in my mind, work symbolized drudgery, something to be finished off as quickly as possible so the fun could start. On top of that crackerjack mindset, I have an astonishing ability to screw up. I misread; I misinterpret; I miscalculate. Working on a freelance magazine article for Seventeen, I dutifully taped all my interviews. Oh, yeah, did I mention that I rewound and taped over each previous interview in some insane mania for not “wasting” too many minicassettes? It escaped me completely that the purpose of having all the interviews on tape was to verify the interviewees statements. Just a minor instance, my friends. Common sense and I have never been on close terms.

So, imagine my shock that someone is willing to hire me. At a very good salary, no less. To train me. To have me grow with their business. Wisely, they’re edging me in slowly. I’ve had a solid week off since my first day, which is just about enough time for me to recover from the exhaustion of being conscious and upright for eight straight hours.

All I need to do is grow up, wake up, remain awake, pay attention. And breathe. Wish me – and them – luck.

I’ll keep you posted.

Do I See a Waltz?

Posted on by wiggles

No, I don’t. Not a waltz or a rhumba or a jive. My cable box has chosen to implode mere hours before the finale of Dancing With the Stars. This has placed me into the unenviable position of requesting that the Lord & Master put my guilty pleasure onto his DVR. Giving him ample opportunity to snigger as I watch Kirstie Alley, Chelsea Kane (a Disney cutie pie), and Hines the Football Player finish out the toe tapping season.

I love that Kirstie has told the press her current dress size is, and I quote, “a stretchy six.” Wow. It’s powers of delusion like that that bring a smile to my face. And I know what I’m talking about. I’ve been dodging my own Weight Watchers meetings for close to a month now. Crap, I even bought a glass bottle six-pack of Cokes. Smoooth. Coke is the Devil, but at least I know I’m a sinner.

When I was back in Hackensack the current DWTS hoedown had just begun. I soundly lost in my vain attempt to woo Daddy away from his devotion to Turner Classic and CNN, specifically, his Man Crush, Elliott Spitzer. (Bob prefers his humiliated public figures to be Ivy League, you know.) Most of his comments are softly whispered and unintelligible. But to my request that we tune in to the Hollywood hoofing, he rang out clear as a bell: “You’ve got to be kidding me, Wiggles.”  Rex Harrison couldn’t have enunciated more clearly.

Why doesn’t anyone else appreciate D-list talent sweating through choreographed routines in sequins and spray tans? I’m a trash TV queen stuck in a family of culture vultures.