Am I PMS ing or does anyone else find Rachel Ray psychotically perky?

The woman is too freaking happy all the fuckingtime. I understand that it’s her job and all to seem friendly, but come on. You know that sometimes she just had a really crappy day and would much rather come out on stage and tell everyone to just microwave some damn popcorn for dinner for all she cares. But she doesn’t, and I really don’t think it’s all the free Dunkin’ Donuts coffee or her Yum-O Sammies made with EVOO that are helping her muddle on through.

I think it’s something else.

I say there’s a recipe she’s not giving us.

I say she’s got the good stuff and she’s not sharing.

I think she’s cooking up a little crystal meth in the basement.

I’m no fashionista and I don’t pretend to be. In fact, most mornings I stand in front of my closet with tears of frustration forming in my eyes because I just don’t know what to wear. I do, however, take comfort in the fact that I’m at least clued in enough to know what NOT to wear.

I wish everyone knew as much…

Pajamas and slippers out in public. This pisses me off to no end. Have we really gotten so lazy as to be unable to put clothing on to leave the house? If this is where we’re at now, what happens in a couple of years after standards for appropriate pubic attire have gotten even lower? Are people just not going to bother wearing pants at all? The horror!!! We have to do something before it’s too late!!

Sweatpants with statements written across the ass. Why oh why do people feel the need to express themselves in this way? Do I want to know that your ass is JUICY or PINK or that you’re BARELY LEGAL? No. No I do not. TMI. If you’re ass is juicy, you’ve got real problems. Don’t advertise, seek help.

Uggs. The name says it all. The only thing worse than Uggs are Uggs worn with pajamas.

Mom Jeans. These pants are an atrocity embodying everything that was wrong with the 80’s in a single garment. What woman hating monster designed these bad boys? Even Miss Nicole Kidman herself could not pull off a pair of these pants! Complete with a boob-grazing, camel-toe-inducing 9 inch zipper and tapered leg they’re often paired with another of my favorites, the Theme Sweater.

Theme Sweaters. Usually cardigans with things like birds, apples, candy canes, or Disney characters on them. Weren’t these originally made for 3 year olds? Nothing says “I have the mentality of a preschooler” like wearing Winnie the Pooh on your boob!

Jeans that exacerbate and showcase the FUPA (aka gunt, aka muffin top, etc.). If this happens to you, perhaps you shouldn’t be wearing those jeans. Since you clearly enjoy calling attention to your less attractive features, I’m guessing that in the rear, you’re sporting a Whale Tail.

Whale Tails. Your ass called. It’s wondering where your pants went. Panties are called underwear for a reason. If thongs were meant to be outerwear then London Fog would be making them, but they’re not. Victoria’s Secret makes them instead. Note the word SECRET. That’s secret as in not public. Pull your pants up, whore.

Scrubs. Not a good look for doctors, not a good look for you. End of story.

Leggings. The bulging seams, the visible panty lines, those tell-tale cellulite dimples–if you’re pushing 300lbs and you’re wearing leggings, what the fuck are you thinking?

High-water pants, white sweat socks, black shoes. Potsie? Is that you?

There’s a lot more here that I’m sure I’m forgetting so I’m going to leave some room for the rest of you to share what makes you want to gouge your eyes out with a hanger.

Have a lovely day.

It’s almost Thanksgiving.

If my family is like yours, then you know that the holidays are a time when certain loved ones choose to unfurl their Freak Flags at the dinner table.

But what is it about the holidays that provoke such fucked up behavior? Is it the pressure of cooking the perfect turkey? Do such calamitous decisions such as whether or not to put mini marshmallows on top of the sweet potato casserole get people all worked up in a tizzy?

Whatever the reason, it’s the holidays and we’re all in misery.

Perhaps if we could actually choose the people at the table there wouldn’t be so many suicides during this time of year.

Bummer that we can’t though.

They’re family and we have to invite them.

For better or worse.

Here’s the parade of circus freaks coming to dinner at my house.

The Alcoholic: Okay, this is me. I assure you it’s the only way to survive Thanksgiving without being tempted to stuff the turkey with D-con.

The Party Pooper: This is the person who doesn’t understand or believe in holidays and would rather sit at home–just like every other day in his/her pathetic existence. They come so they can try to ruin it for the rest of us and hopefully score some leftovers in the meantime.

The Cry Baby: A close friend of the party pooper, they can often be seen moping in the corner together. This one always feels left out of every conversation, hates everything being served, and opts for bread and water (or as we like to call it The Prisoner’s Plate) instead.

Johnny Come Lately: Dinner is at 1. Johnny comes at 4:30. Johnny is a douche.

Debbie Downer: “Hey, did I tell you guys about my friend Gladys? Remember how her house burned down last year and the whole family had to live in their mini van for 6 months? Well, she just found out that she’s only got two months to live and her husband just found out he has anal cancer. So now their 3 blind children and 1 legged dog will all be orphans. Isn’t that soooo saaddd?”

The Unabomber: No one knows exactly what cousin Stu does, be we know it’s Not. Good. Anyone whose pocket contents include a piece of rope, duct tape and a hunting knife is highly suspect. Don’t let Stu anywhere near the electric carving knife. Just saying.

The Peace Keeper: He/she will willingly volunteer to sit in the uncomfortable chair, chop onions until eyes fall out, or sit next to the Unabomber.

The Tycoon: Such an important guy! Cell phone. Rings. Constantly. Loud conversations. Everyone forced to listen.

The Patient: When we’re not listening to the Tycoon’s business dealings, The Patient is more than happy to fill the dead air with stories about suspicious moles, gory spinal surgery, oozing pustules, bunions, urinary incontinence and chronic diarrhea.

Diarrhea forever! Mmmmm… please pass the gravy!

The Critic: ALWAYS has a comment: “These potatoes could have used more salt. What happened to the turkey? It’s so dry! You look different dear…have you gained weight?” Sit this one next to the Unabomber–and let him have that carving knife.

The Snot: “Well, we’ve just been having the hardest time getting the historical society to approve our architect’s plans for the new house in Nantucket. We’ve had to fly out almost every weekend in our private plane. Our children, you know, the Harvard educated lawyer and the MIT dot com-er, they’ve just been soooo busy with their careers that they hardly ever have any time to ski with us in the Alps anymore….Our son almost never gets to race his Audi…Ugh! I’m just so worn out! I hope things get better soon.”

Seriously people. Can you blame me for being The Alcoholic?

Happy Thanksgiving!

Now, where the hell did I put that bottle of wine…?