The coolest thing about grandparents is when they're your own parents.

My mom is currently visiting my sister's family (they live across the country). In a clever attempt to keep us visiting, my sis went ahead and had some kids. It worked. I mean, we all lived in the same house for over 20 years. We've had enough face time and could care less at this point - that's what email is for. But the grandchildren/nephews? Where's my carry on?

It goes without saying that everyone loves when Grandma comes to visit, especially the Aunt from Philly. It means that's a weekend she doesn't have to worry about Grandma showing up at her house and rearranging her cabinets and linen closet and telling her she doesn't eat enough and maybe that picture belongs over there instead...

Anyway, I was talking to my mom on the phone a few days ago. While I forget the details of the conversation, there was a moment when she had to spell a word because my 6 year old nephew was in the room (obviously, the comment was about him). The thing is, my mother spells ridiculously fast. She does it with phone numbers, too. It drives me nuts. She'll say, "Call your Uncle Wally, his number is 4738782..." and she sounds like an auctioneer. What really sucks is that I have a unique problem with writing down numbers quickly - I transpose some into letters. I've actually written phone numbers down as: 342-N63F. Not only can't my brain keep up, but then it mocks me. It's a pain in the ass at work because it forces me to listen to voicemails at least 3 times to get a number for someone I don't even want to call back 9 out of Z times.

Okay, so anyway, I'm talking to my mom and she spells a word: RISFBAJCHU [as heard in my head] Wha? I'm like, "Ya gotta slow down. Now neither of us (me or the kid) knows what the hell you're talking about!"

My mother and I have this unspoken, mutual agreement to antagonize each other in these ways. Every so often I kidney punch her and check her pants to confirm she's not wearing "old lady" pants (the kind with the elastic band), and she returns the favor by rearranging my house, overfeeding my dog and spelling too fast. It's all about balance.

In her defense, though, I've put my mom through a lot. I remember when I was around 14 years old. I found a strange bump on my stomach and thought I had chicken pox or the plague or something equally dangerous. I found my mom in the kitchen and asked her to take a look at it. Unfortunately, I miscaluated on the shirt-lift and the situation quickly turned from "Hey, can you look at this?" to "WHOO! IT'S MARDI GRAS, BITCHES!"

She said it was a spider bite, I accepted that answer and we both know she didn't see anything except her own genetics staring her right in the face. Talk about awkward. But that's how we roll.

I guess the point of this blog is to remind you about Father's Day next weekend. If it wasn't for your mom, your dad wouldn't be a dad. If it wasn't for my dad, my mother would be Black Jack dealer in Atlantic City. But nooo, she had to go ahead and have that 3rd shot (at his suggestion) of Wild Turkey and well...here I am.


This blog is dedicated to the memory of William Allison (11/26/23 - 6/10/10). I wish I got to learn more about you, outside of you being in the Navy, being allergic to peanuts, loving cookies but most especially, for being the only guy to ask me what kind of panties I was wearing and not getting slapped for it. Rest in peace, dude. You earned it.

I took a personality test the other day. Turns out my main personality trait is being severely judgmental. Like I needed a test to tell me that.

I enjoy being judgmental. I'm not ashamed to admit it. It's what I do, but in my defense, I judge pretty much everything/everybody. That includes myself.

I judge my hair (awesome, as always). I judge my skin (I have freakishly large pores). I judge who I am as a person (highly judgmental yet utterly hysterical). And if there's something I don't like about myself, I try to fix it.

Several years ago I judged my internal organs. I felt I needed something to spruce them up, a "spring cleaning" if you will. My intestines felt a little sluggish, my spleen was a tad more worthless than usual. After much soul-searching (aka Googling), I discovered The Master Cleanse. Let me tell you all about it:

It is a concoction of purified water, lemon juice, maple syrup and cayenne pepper. It's the only substance you're allowed to consume for however many days you choose to be on the cleanse. If you stay on it long enough (they suggest at least 10 days) you go from being starving to being angry to feeling like you were dying, then hoping you were dying. But after that you'll start to feel like a million bucks. I couldn't make it beyond the third day, so I wouldn't know about that 'million bucks' thing. I would rather get punched in the ear 5 times a day by a pissed off anorexic (bony knuckles...ouch) than go through another cleanse.

Oh, and I just realized I lied. Aside from the random kitchen ingredients-mixture, every morning you have to chug 2 quarts of sea salt water. Now this is the tricky part - you're supposed to give yourself an hour to deal with the after-effects. In case you've considered a crazy crash diet to prep for that new Speedo you bought this summer, here's my story (or rather, warning):

Day 1 - I drank the rancid "lemonade" all day at work. I got home and drank some more. I was starving. I was moody. I was eyeballin' the dog. I was losing the will to live. I went to bed at 7:30pm.

Day 2 - Woke up and chugged 2 quarts of tepid (sea) salt water. It sucked, but it was doable. Wait an hour? For what? Or maybe I was supposed to drink it over the course of an hour...? I started getting ready for work. (45 minutes pass) My stomach begins gurgling. I barely make it to the bathroom in time.

20 minutes later I'm still on the can. Salt water is like nature's Draino. Note: If you're ever constipated, don't worry about eating fiber. Screw Activia. Chug 2 quarts of salt water.

30 minutes later and I'm peeling my butt cheeks off the toilet seat. My legs are numb. My mouth is dry and I'm sore in ways I never knew possible. I would have cried but the thought of more saline sickened me. I was fairly certain I lost 15 pounds and I think I passed my gallbladder during the ass explosion. Hesitantly, I get dressed and leave for work. I must have been totally cleaned out as there was no "activity" during my commute. Unfortunately, I was 15 minutes late and not about to tell my manager why. I mumbled something about menstration and a house fire and hoped he would drop it. He did.

I continued to drink the lemonade that day, and I had a bad case of Ring Around the Ass. I was bitchy and impatient, and sadly, no one at work noticed a difference in my demeanor.

I got home from work and went straight to bed. Let me tell you how hard it is to fall asleep with the sun in your face and birds chirping loudly. It's HARD. Now imagine you've been starved - a billion times harder.

Day 3 - I woke up late, skipped the salt water reverse enema. Started drinking my 'juice' at the office. 10am - bought a bag of chips. 12:17pm - Grabbed Wendy's for lunch...double burger with double cheese, all the fixin's, super sized fries and an extra large Frosty. The "cleanse" was officially over. The way I see it, if I'm going to feel like death warmed over and my ass is going to function as its own autonomous unit, I'm at least going to enjoy myself on the journey to self-destructon and body shut-down.

I don't know if this little story is enough to talk sense into you, but for your sake I hope you take my advice: Any diet/cleanse that can promise you will lose 20 pounds in 10 days is going to make you feel like horseshit on pavement in July. Don't do it. But if you decide to do it anyway, good luck. You're gonna need it. And be prepared to hate life. That's all I'm saying'...

Facebook spelled backwards is Koobecaf, which is a German word meaning “dumb.”

I firmly believe Facebook is stupid. It never ceases to amaze me how intense these online communities become and how people lose touch with themselves and reality every time they log in.

I have a business associate who, by all outward appearances, has his shit together. He is 36, a partial owner of a successful business, is very much involved in his local government, drives an environmentally-friendly SUV, owns his home and is decent-looking enough that I wouldn’t kick him out of bed for eating crackers. Yet the other day when I was talking to him about his recent break-up, he said (and I quote), “[My ex-girlfriend’s] Facebook status still says, In a Relationship, so I don’t know WHAT to think.” HUH? They hadn’t spoken in over 4 weeks, are you kidding me?!

As far as I’m concerned, his stock plummeted because of his dependence on Facebook. Unfortunately though, it seems more common that the only way we know where we stand with people is by checking their “status” online. (You have a raging case of herpes? When were you going to tell me?)

Good thing Facebook covers all bases – you can be Single, In a Relationship, Engaged, Married, or my favorite: It’s Complicated. Really? Is it complicated? And do you really want your 672 friends to know that you are still banging your ex while flirting with his best friend and trying to pick up that guy who works at Starbucks (you’re fairly certain he’s 18…)? It’s amazing the information people give out when they feel they are posting with a certain air of anonymity. The irony of the deep-thought status updates and personal insight is the 15 photo albums attached to a profile. Don’t post 37 pictures showing yourself at a party last Saturday, documenting your progression from sober to sloppy drunk and ending with you being passed out in the bushes with puke in your hair, and then post a quote from Nietzsche on Tuesday, waxing philosophical. That does not make you smart. It just means you know how to Google “intellectual quotes” and you’re an idiot.

And stop giving so much damn information about your daily, mundane life. I don’t care if you’re at Panera Bread and the guy in front of you can’t make up his mind. I don’t care that you got your period while you were stuck in traffic. In fact, I don’t even care that you have a busy weekend planned or that your kids are sick. I’d rather pull my toenails out than hear about how you don’t want to go to work tomorrow or how you’re having tacos for dinner (again). I could care less that you’re “in love” or that you won $2 on a scratch-off ticket. And guess what? I’m not alone. NO-ONE-CARES. Not one person. In fact, I bet you don’t even care; you just don’t get enough attention from society and this is your lame attempt to get into the spotlight. So stop it. Wear tight clothing, preferably spandex with animal prints if you need attention, and stop being boring online. Or maybe ask your mom to hug you more. Do whatever it takes if it’ll get you to shut the hell up already.

What started out as a simple social networking site to find people and keep in touch has mutated into an online monstrosity wrapped in narcissism. For a society so concerned about “Big Brother” and the government taking away certain privacies and privileges, we sure have no problem telling the online world that we’re at a Red Sox game, that we rented “True Romance” last night or that we’re going out Friday with our friends to PF Changs (mmm, lettuce wraps). The simple fact is, people spill their guts online and then get pissed at Facebook for selling their information to advertisers. Why? If you didn’t post that you were single then you wouldn’t get pop-up ads trying to connect you to local single people in your area. If you didn’t mention going to the gym last Wednesday at 5:23pm, Facebook probably wouldn’t have linked you to an advertiser who is pushing pills to “flatten your stomach.” This isn’t rocket science…it’s your own fault. You’re not that important…or interesting. Sorry to break it to you.

What we need is to make up our minds. In a society that only knows extremes, we need to pick a side – public or private. We can’t have it both ways. And besides, I’m sick of your stupid status updates. They suck.

Okay, I’m done preaching and insulting you, Kind Reader. Tune in next time for my views on teenage pregnancy and MTV shows that glorify it. In the meantime, I will be working until 4pm, then I’ll hit the gym until 5:30pm, maybe have tacos for dinner (again) and if I’m lucky, I’ll hang out with this guy I met while getting hot wings at my favorite bar – I’m pretty sure he’s 18…