When I was a kid I used to hallucinate bugs in the bed. My mom would come into my room and I’d have torn everything off the bed down to the mattress, insisting there were bugs in the bed. I must have known this would happen some day; Last night I saw a huge roach in our bedroom. We stared each other down for a split second and I thought, “Slipper! Sneaker! Saucepan!” In my moment of incoherent hesitation it ran under the bedside table. I tried trapping it there but somehow it got out. I knew it had to have gone under the bed so I started taking everything out. (It’s totally packed with under-the-bed-storage boxes.) I saw him, he ran, I lost him. I got everything out from under the bed and he was nowhere. I shone the flashlight under everything.
My husband and I live with our baby in a one bedroom apartment. The baby, I should mention, slept soundly through everything, including my 20 minutes of stage-whispering on all fours, “you mother f**ker! I’m gonna kill you mother f**ker! You piece of s**t, where are you?”
I’m a good mom.
So now there was a roach in the room with us and the baby. My plan was to never sleep again.
I eventually talked myself down enough to go to bed but soon realized I’d forgotten to take my vitamins. I got up, shining my cell as a flashlight and there he was, running towards the changing table! I yelled, “YES!” Threw my under-the-bed storage box of christmas ornaments on him, went to get the cast iron pot (to overturn on him so my husband could kill him later of course), and when I got back and lifted the box of ornaments? GONE. He was back under the bed. So I just sat there waiting for him to come out again. Holding the pot. In my glider. It’s actually Johnny A’s glider. He and his lovely wife, Natasha, were kind enough to lend us theirs when we had a baby.
As I waited I wrote a panicked email to my Trophy Wives (wouldn’t you?) and the response I got from Johnny A was one for the books. Well, the blogs:
Let me know where and when I should report to jump that roach in the dark and beat him.
When Michael was a few months old, I woke up one morning and told Natasha about a dream I had had that night. There was a cockroach in Michael’s bassinette. I grabbed it with my bare hand and smashed it against the wall. I dragged my hand down the wall until the roach was obliterated. Then I went back to bed (without washing my hand!).
Natasha response? That wasn’t a dream.
Spinning class is just like Hollywood.
We are surrounded by beautiful people.
Some are new and don’t have the right shoes.
Some have been here for years and we’ll never keep up.
We open our eyes and realize we are the only ones standing while everyone else is sitting.
We don’t think we can make it, so we slow down, sit down, put our heads down, and tell ourselves, “all that matters is to keep pedaling.”
We’re sure everyone sees we’re off rhythm, overweight and out of practice.
But look around.
Everyone is concentrated only on themselves.
Making it through their own workout.
There are moments when everything clicks, we’re on pace, sweating and smiling.
There are moments when we hear a lyric from a familiar song as if for the first time.
There are moments where it suddenly feels effortless.
From the outside we look like people on stationary bikes,
Spinning our wheels.
With former senator Fred Thompson considering a run for the White House, the media has turned its attention to his wife, Jeri. Fred himself is 64 years old and Jeri’s an attractive 40. Trophy Wife is just one of several labels being put on her right now (and then there’s the erroneous claim that she’s a lawyer).
And so, to make sure there’s no confusion, I speak on behalf of the team when I say that Jeri Kehn Thompson is not a Trophy Wife. We respect her. We love what her husband does on Law & Order. We wish them both the best. But she is not now, nor ever has been, nor likely ever will be a member of the Trophy Wife cast.
On the subject of improv footwear, there’s the Converse Chuck Taylor All-Stars and then there’s everything else. Many an improv troupe logo is based on the design of these sneakers or their logo. Heck, on any given night, as many as 3 Trophy Wives might be wearing Chuck Taylors.
Chuck Taylors are fine shoes for the stage. But I want to talk about a few bright lights in the ‘everything else’ category of what to wear on your feet when you’re improvising. My sister bought me a pair of Nike Dunks for Christmas ’03.
They’re a mix of leather and suede. They don’t call attention to themselves and they’re very comfortable. They’re available ‘over-the-counter’ at finer shoe stores.
A few months ago, my friend Paul gave me a pair of Nike Bruin Air Maxes that he custom-designed on the Nike website.
Paul’s a designer and a serious runner so he knows how to put together a good sneaker. The Bruins are a little more comfortable and plush than the store-bought Dunks. Also, the soft-tumbled full-grain leather is elegant without being flashy. And they remind me of the UCLA Bruins, the greatest program in college basketball.
Incase you haven’t already seen this…
It is Trophy Wife’s solemn vow that we will never, ever, subject you to such a profane and uncalled for display at one of our shows…unless Jill is involved…You know what? Bring your cameras just incase.
This November 3rd will mark a great turning point in American popular culture. A turning point that will polarize an entire generation. On this day, the film Borat: Cultural Learnings of America For Make Benefit Glorious Nation of Kazakhstan – the docu-comedy based around the fish-out-of-water adventures of an awkward Eastern European correspondent created by Sacha Baron Cohen – opens nationwide – and will no doubt quickly be lumped in the same company as Old School, Anchorman, Wedding Crashers, and Chappelle’s Show.
The reason I include Borat in the same league as those other contemporary comedic gems is because, much like its brethren, the opening of the Borat movie will expose Cohen’s comedy to a much broader audience than his HBO television show ever did. And while I look forward to seeing the film (any movie that makes Larry David laugh uncontrollably in a preview screening is something I want to see), I simultaneously dread the inevitable co-opting and bastardization of the character’s unique phrases and mannerisms by the fly-over states. Soon, every Midwest frat boy with a white hat curved “just so” will be launching into what they assume to be a perfect Borat imitation. “Is Nice!” is bound to become the next “I’m Rick James, bitch!” Like a horde of slack-jawed zombies slowly lumbering toward me, this type of mindless regurgitation makes me want to swat people in the head with a baseball bat.
But even worse than the mindless, endless repetition of the unwashed masses will be the smaller group of “comedy snobs.” These Borat fans who, as soon as the character’s catchphrases enter the greater social lexicon, will abandon the character they previously championed, and spurn all those who now enjoy it as “fucking posers.” These are the same people who now hate Dane Cook because he plays to sold-out crowds at the Boston Garden. The same people who now hate Zach Braff because Garden State turned the rest of the nation on to all that shitty “indie” music they were supposedly listening to five years ago. I’m sorry, but funny is funny. And what these people don’t realize, though, is that by asserting the superiority of their early adoptorism, they’re actually being bigger douchebags than the Johnny Come Lately’s they despise. If they could step outside of themselves for a minute and hear what they sound like to everyone else, they’d want to swat themselves in the head with a baseball bat.
While I’m sure the comedy snobs will disagree, I like to think I fit somewhere in between these two camps. I’ve seen Borat before – but only a handful of sketches on YouTube. And I like Borat. I think the character is funny in a way that Cohen’s other big character, Ali G, just isn’t. So I’m planning to see the movie when it opens. But that’s it. I’m not planning to quote it endlessly when out at the bar. I’m not planning to bash it along with the rest of my comedy snob friends. And I’m certainly not planning to buy the ironic “Is Nice!” t-shirt that Snorg Tees will eventually be putting out.
But I am planning on sitting back and watching it polarize an entire generation. Which, ultimately, is what Borat is supposed to do. Right?
If you’ve been following the plight of the Ancient Mariner over the course of the last week or so, you know that, up to this point, several attempts to post this sexual practice on Urbandictionary.com have been unsuccessful. Until today. Trophy Wife Zabeth was able to get a definition through and on the site. Good news right? Wrong. It’s the wrong definition. What Zabeth has actually posted is Kevin’s definition of a “Houdini”. A definition which gave birth to the Ancient mariner. You see, a key manuver has been reversed in the two, namely, when the clam chowder is thrown. In the case of the “McShane Houdini” the chowder comes first, followed by a surprise nut to the brow. The Mariner, however, places the chowder as the surprise. This replacing of the usual money shot with a hearty seafood soup is what makes the Mariner the Mariner.
I find it hard to believe that Zabeth would make this mistake, although according to the site, she posted it.
Is someone posing as Zabeth?
Could this be the ellusive “Sid” at work…not in a good way.
Or maybe they’re both in cahoots with the Urbandictionary.com.
Regardless, the definition has now entered the cultural lexicon…the wrong definition.
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