The Lipstick Chronicles

F the Auld Lang Syne: New Years Resos Mancini Style

F the Auld Lang Syne: New Years Resos Mancini Style

Hi.  It's Me, Margie.  I totally feel like Bette Midler on the last Johnny Carson show.  It was actually the penultimate show, just like this blog.  (Penultimate is my word of the day - we are all helping our twin cousins Petey and Patty study for the SATs - God bless them, they don't have much Mancini blood in them plus those matching outfits in high school?  Weird, just saying.  Rocco can't even talk about it.)

It's New Year's Eve, and I already told the real true story about it and here is the link in case you don't remember: 

http://thelipstickchronicles.typepad.com/the_lipstick_chronicles/2010/12/margies-story-time-new-years.html

 This year, since it's our last blog here, mia famiglia decided we should all blog.  That was our first mistake.  Because everyone wanted in on the act, like this is the freaking Golden Globes or something, and more than one of them was hammer drunk when they wrote theirs, so don't say I didn't warn you.  And I know there is usually some limit on how long these things are supposed to be, but everyone knows size doesn't matter and sometimes longer is better regardless.  These are resolutions, Mancini Style.

From Cousin Rita:

Dear Writer Ladies, So, like, Margie says the blog thing is going kaput and it's not because of anything she did with the Steves in the closet or the time the Hazmat crew came that I'm not supposed to ever talk about with anyone, ever. I'd ask Officer Steve if that was true, but the last time I crossed her she reminded me about the thing that at the place with the whozit, and that is just another way of saying, shut up now if you ever want to borrow handcuffs that, like, really work. 

But I will tell you all a secret I swore on a mountain of cannoli I'd never tell, even bigger than the Hazmat secret. Margie really likes you ladies. Like, a lot. I think she kept all the Steves around to amuse herself when you all were busy in your offices, but she could have taken the Steves to a whole bunch more comfortable places, so it had to be she liked it there. She was, like, really serious about doing a good job and showing up on time and toning down the neon eye makeup and dressing extra classy. Sometimes we'd be at a club and she'd be texting herself reminders about toner and to bring the good coffee because there was going to be a special visitor the next day. By "special visitor" I mean a writer person, not a "special visitor" like a hot guy home on leave. Sometimes she told funny stories about what you said or what you did. Okay, yeah, so a lot of times she talked about bringing the wood chipper to work, but that was just her way of expressing aggravation. 

Me, though, I'm kind of mad at all of you, becuase now Margie will have all kinds of free time on her hands, and I will have to deal with her ALL THE TIME. So thanks for nothing, Writer Ladies. But, like, speaking of thanks, you all know I love my sailors, and I like to do my bit to keep them happy when they are in the home port. And, like, I'm real excited that all the troops will be coming home soon from that war. Some of them are not in such good shape, though. Some need new jobs. They need people to remember we were here all comfy and cozy while they were fighting in that hot ass place. So I think we should help out. That might mean writing some letters to politicians, which I like so hate to do because my talents lie elsewhere.

But if it helps to write a letter to some geezer in Congress or say thank you to the soldiers at the airport, or help them any way I can, let's all do that. It doesn't matter if they are Navy, Air Force, Army, or Coast Guard, they are all The Fleet to me.   

Keep the peace and help The Fleet. 

Love,Cousin Rita  

From Cousin Rocco:

Ciao Bellas!

I am just beside myself with grief here and need a trip to South Beach just to calm my nerves.  Not that I didn't already have plans to be in the parade.  Time is short, my flight is soon, and Her, Margie says if I don't do this fast, I will end up on the cutting room floor.  As always, I think of you, my lovlies, so here are some going-away tips from me:

Your stockings should never be darker than the bottom edge of your skirt.

Knock off handbags are gauche and I can spot them a mile away.  The fake is never beautiful.

No glove, no love.

Purple is still the new black.

When in doubt, ask yourself what Elizabeth Taylor would do (unless it's about marriage, then do the opposite).

There is no excuse for roots.  If you cannot afford good color at a decent salon, go natural.  When in doubt, if you've ever seen Linsay Lohan wearing that style of hair or anything else, do the opposite.  That poor bunny is just gone.  So sad; I blame the parents. But maybe that's me - my friend Dr. Shrink says my motto should be "If it's not one thing, it's your mother."

Never say goodbye.  It ruins the makeup, you look like a racoon and there aren't enough cucumbers or tea bags in the world to fix those eyes.  

In mixed company, never use the words cucumber and teabags in the same sentence unless you are making a grocery list.  Let's remain ladies!

From Cousin Rosie:

My New Year’s Resolutions,by Cousin Rosie, who is new to this because we didn’t do this back at the convent.

1.   Buy my herbs at the Italian Market, not from Margie’s visiting delivery-men friends.  UPS Steve’s special oregano tastes great in Mama’s sauce, but honestly, I’m starting to think there’s something strange about it.  The last time I made sauce, Nonna Sophia ate a whole tray of cannoli while she watched reruns of The Lawrence Welk show.  Nothing good can come from that.

2.   Stay away from Father Carm and all the nuns at the convent.  I went back last week, just for a little visit, and honest to God, you would never think nuns could behave like that.  I don’t know what Father Carm has been telling them all, but I heard one baby nun whisper to another baby nun that I killed Sister Marilyn.  I really thought we had cleared up that nonsense a while ago, but I guess not.  Probably she’s Father Carm’s new special nun.  Whatever.  Doesn’t matter to me because my last resolution is to…

3.   Say “yes” to Anthony!  Yes, TLC people, this is the official announcement!  Last night Anthony asked me to marry him, and I told him I would give him an answer today because I needed to think about it overnight.  Really I already knew that I was going to say yes, but after the thing with Father Carm, Margie and Rocco and Rita told me to always wait 24 hours before saying yes to anything with a man with a Roman Collar, so I did.  My cousins are so smart!  Love them!

Well, TLC people, that’s all from me.  Hope you all have a happy and blessed New Year!  

Love,Cousin Rosie

From Pauletta, Guido and Lucca

Guido: Yinz asking us about resolutionance is a timely but troublesome coincidence.

Lucca: Resolutionance is all very well in books and movies, like at the end of ‘Christmas With Carol’ when Mr. Scrooch gives back the money he made from the three-card-monte stand outside his office.

Guido: Real world, it’s different.

Lucca: So while we wish yinz all well, nothin’ but the best, what’s done is done.

Guido: So what if it was youses? Now it’s ours. No give-back.

Lucca: No resolutionance.

Pauletta: Whattahell yinz two idjits talkin’ about? I think you confused ‘resolution’ with ‘restitution.’ Restitution, that’s the word for giving back what you shouldna took.

Lucca: OK, then, you so smart, what’s a resolution?

Pauletta: You promise youself you either gonna do something that’s better, or you resolve you gonna stop doin’ somethin’ worser.

Guido: We can do dat. Not hard. In fact, easy.

Lucca: Hunh??

Guido: Yeah. We resolve to not do no restitutionance.

Lucca: Oh. Yeah. ‘Cuz it never works out.

Guido: No, never. We just have to rob you again.

Pauletta: Gramma made me promise to watch outtfah yinz, or I’d be so gone to junior college . . .

And finally, from Me, Margie:

Forget the Auld Lang Syne crap.  Nobody even knows what that means.  What you really need to remember is that love can kick the hell out of hate.  Plus, hate is easy and love is hard.  Hopefully. Just saying.

Tell people you love them because you never know if it's the last time you will see them.  They could get hit by a bus or by Lucca.  It happens.

Remember the letter F: Family, Friends, Food, Fun and other F'y things.  All good.  You should do them all every day.  But not at the same time.  Or on camera.

Try everything once.  Otherwise, you could be missing out on what turns out to be your favorite (there is another F word, too).

Find time for stories (do you see how I keep using the letter F?  That's called sumbliminal massaging).  You can tell stories or read stories or pass along stories or buy stories in books.  Stories are made of words and words are important.  Some people say there are really no 'bad' words.  Maybe, but if you use certain words in front of me or my cousins, you are going to have a hard time sounding them out around all that wire.  Be nice.

So I guess this is it.  Thanks to all the Steves who helped us pack up and move everything from the, uh, storage area and into our new space, which is still under construction.  It's going to be fan-fucking-tastic because now we don't have to hide everything except for in that one room with the serious security system.  The Mancinis will be back!

Now say something nice and tell everyone your resolutions and don't drink and drive tonight.

 

 

Other Things to Be Mad About

Other Things to Be Mad About

By Me, Margie, who has investors 

Yeah, the blog is shutting down. Don't ask me, I just work here.  I mean worked here.  Apparently the artiste authors seem to think that writing books is their actual career.  Yeah, I know it is, but the Mancini's always respond with anger first and sort it out later.

Don't worry about Me, Margie. I have investors all lined up for a new venture.  I will have to move, because for some reason, the TLC lawyers don't want to sublet to me and my cousins. Something about an indemifyer bond or something - which you would think might be a fun thing but it just involves money and insurance.  I'll bet if they hired our new company for their next money insurance convention, we could teach them all kinds of fun bondy things.

There was no new blog up today so naturally, I had to FIX it and everything, which I ALWAYS do.  Plus, I don't like going to the new Mass with the Aunts.  They are threatening to go back to saying the whole thing in Latin and Father Oldschoolio, who is about 117 years old, might just do it.  Because the young priests just could not handle a bunch of angry Aunts in church.  Those poor kids don't even understand half the Italian that's already been directed at them.  Although, I think some of them may have watched "The Sopranos" because 'stunad' came through loud and clear.

The Aunts are ticked off in a big metaphysical-type way because they didn't like the change from Latin to English and now they are being told to change again.  I get that.  I personally like change, but I'm young and I think commando patches are great plus you can carry them in your purse and change them whenever you want.  Underwear-type things should be changed.  A lot.

Other things, not so much.  Like this blog.  I'm mad that it's ending.  This was one cushy job and we are going to have to be pretty damn creative to get everything out of that supply room.  I mean, lucky for me that I have so many friends in the packing and delivery business to help me move things at night.

This is a last-minute blog thing, so no story - hey - it's Saturday night - I have my own stories to act out. I mean make up.  Speaking of make up, that Geisha crap is like putty - next time I'm forgetting the authentic and just going with the white clown makeup.  Ahhhh - I know you are going to miss these important life tips.  Now I will have to write them down myself.  

Enough already - the sun is out and it's the last Sunday of Advent - and they are repeating that Michael Buble special on Wednesday night because my Uncle Sal accidentally deleted it when he taped some boxing thing and he is in the freeze zone with Aunt Toni until it comes back on and I think he actually went out and bought a whole new TV and DVR thing just for her because if there is one thing that makes him really mad it is no sex.  Which I can totally understand.

See how this works? We vent.  We don't keep things bottled up in our family - okay we do, but that's all in the wine cellars, and it is really just another anger management tool but that is a whole different story.

Your turn, my friends in cyberspace.  What makes you angry?  Also, I am looking for ideas for a business plan.  Apparently "Special Delivery Special Services" raises some kind of red flags for people.  Stunads.  How are we supposed to be job creators if we can't use our very special skills?

The Cuginas Mancini will be back before they change the locks - I think on New Years Eve.  Which will NOT be a live blog for obvious reasons. I mean just getting the national security clearance for all those SEALs would be a nightmare!

Mi manchi, cari amichi.

 

 

 

Margie's Story Time: Sleeping Margie

Margie's Story Time: Sleeping Margie

By Me, Margie

It's time again for another tale from Margie's Big Book of Stories.  This one, like all the great stories in the world, has many lessons and if I were you I'd write them down because you are totally getting all of this for free.

It all started when one of my cousins returned from a trip to Coronado and decreed (that means rushed in, dropped her bags, and made a breathless announcement to the rest of us) that we were all getting our belly buttons pierced.

I barely looked up, because I was trying to finish a french pedicure and you have to focus or you'll mess it up.  It's this kind of ability to concentrate that would make me a great surgeon or maybe an astronaut, but alas I have to answer phones.  Which is why I am able to multitask and need my own office with a door.

Rocco was on board immediately.  He's been wanting us to get matching ink for ages, which I simply will not do while our Nonna is alive.  I mean, when you are blessed with a body like mine, all you need to decorate it au natural is, you know, another body, or maybe some red silk.  Anything else is overkill. Rita refuses to get a tattoo because she prefers to be covered in sailor.  That's right.  I could have said it but I am more clever than that, and I didn't even use a thesaurus, which is how I got Esteban the Phone Guy to help me set up my own private extension at the office that doesn't show up on the other phones.

Our cousin Rosie, who doesn't even have her ears pierced because of that thing when her mother sent her to the convent, was so excited, she was jumping up and down.  That girl is like a puppy.

I didn't even look up.  I just said:  "No. Way."  I didn't have to explain why.  I don't like needles.  Sure, I give blood, but that's a community service.  Plus, where else can you have someone warn you ahead of time: "You are going to feel a little prick."  

My other three cousins jumped on my laptop and started Googling or Binging or whatever to choose rings.  I focused on my last two toes.  Because that is where you can make a mistake, because you lose concentration and then you end up with a little toe that is all white and it ruins the whole damn thing.  It is this kind of single-mindedness that can sometimes lead to trouble and not just because you don't hear the doorknob until the door is totally open and you are busted.  Which is why I am getting Stephano the Locksmith to put a lock on my office door as soon as I get one.

By the time Stevie the Pizza Guy arrived (extra sausage) the three of them had changed subjects and were making fun of rich people's outfits.  We had to eat right away, because I had a dentist appointment in the morning and couldn't eat after 11.  This is because our dentist, who is also our cousin Dino, still uses the nitrous oxide, which is fantastic.  When Rosie was first in the convent and learning how to cross-stitch, she made him a sampler that says: "Just say N2O", which he has hanging in his private office, because he only uses it for family and he doesn't want anyone breaking in to get at it.  His office has a serious lock, and I took a picture of it with my phone so I could show Stephano.  Before they left, we confirmed that Rocco would take me to the dentist and Rita would pick me up.  No one lets Rosie drive yet. She's too easily distracted by the A&F billboards.

Everything seemed normal - I only had one cavity, so it was pretty quick, although it's hard to tell on the gas.  Before I knew it, I was in Rita's car having a nice Starbucks. It never even occurred to me to make sure Rita used my Gold Starbucks Card. Which should have been my first internal warning.

The next thing I knew, I was waking up in a strange bedroom.  Before I even opened my eyes, I realized there was something sticky on my stomach.  Uh oh.  Boys and girls, if you don't already know it, those two things at the same time can mean that something happened, and you need to proceed with caution.  Also - don't think that works because just ask our cousin Raven who had to get married in March - when no one wants to get married because the weather sucks and you can't get  a decent fresh bouquet to save your life.

Before I could even figure out which cousin to blame first, I heard Rosie whispering in the next room.  "I just love it, don't you?  Look at the way it bounces because it's happy!  I'm not even mad that it hurt even though you told me there was no way because the belly button is all scar tissue and has no nerve endings."  Boys and girls, I worry about Rosie.  Because that is just bullshit and she should know better than to listen to Rita and Rocco when they are on a mission.  Also, I could see that we needed to get Rita another book because she obviously didn't understand our illustrations with the half-peeled bananas.

When I was done rolling my eyes, I lifted my head up.  Sure enough, there was a gauze bandage taped to my stomach.  I am telling you, regardless of what is under there, if that tape messes up my tan lines, there is going to be hell to pay.  I took a moment to congratulate myself on the choice of the red silk set.  A lady does like to dress up for company, even if she is passed out and across town. It's just good manners, you know?

Just as I was gently peeling away a corner of the tape, Rosie bounced into the room with her t-shirt tied under her bra.  Good grief.  She had a cross hanging from her belly button.  It caught the light every time she moved. Swarvoski crystals, no doubt, because no way does that girl have the money for real ice. The way she was moving around, I was just happy it wasn't a bell.

Next came Rita and no surprise there, an anchor.  Same sparkle.  Rita has never been known for her subtlety.  Hers was bigger, no doubt because she was planning to replace it with a budweiser pin at the first opportunity.  I hoped the weight of it gave her a nasty scar.

Rocco brought up the rear, and I was afraid to look.  The possibilities were endless. It was an arrow. No crystals.  Just steel. He was carrying a glossy catalog with pictures of other charms. Good thing we have a cousin in the gold business who could get jewelry at cost.

I looked at them and they all took a big step back.  That's right.  Any Mancini worth her salt can fry a person at 20 feet with a look.  I learned mine from Uncle Sal, who is known in some circles at The Incinerator.  

"Now Margie," Rocco took point, palms up in a gesture of surrender, "if you don't like it, we can take it out right now and no one will ever know.  And it won't hurt a bit."  Where have I heard that one before?

I tried to sit up and winced.  No pain, my fine ass.  Someone had stuck a needle in my skin and then left something in there that was not part of the original equipment.  Plus, my mouth was all fuzzy. Rita rushed over with some water. "Dino said lots of water.  He, uh, was here a little bit ago when we couldn't get you to wake up.  I mean, I only gave you one Xanax which isn't even enough to get the Aunts to stop talking, so I guess you need to be more careful when you mix things but Dr. Etienne is on his way and he is going to check your vital signs and stuff."

"He can check my stuff too." smirked Rocco.  Rosie nodded and bounced away to get the door.  That girl needs to get better bras or she's going to hurt herself.

Etienne rushed in with his black doctor bag.  He says he only carries it for me, because I like surprises.  I guess most doctors don't use them any more which is a shame.  He took one look at me, propped up on my elbows with my jeans half open,  finished removing the bandages, and then sat back.  I was afraid to look.  But his eyes were very sparkly, and it wasn't just the reflection of the belly charm.  He didn't even turn around. He just said: "Get out.  She needs rest."  

"I am sleepy" I said, stretching and faking a small yawn.  "Uh huh," he said, leaning down to get a better look at my new, shiny gold letter M. "Hey! I observed - it's for Me, Margie." The Doctor didn't even look up.  He just said "Mmmmmmmm"  Then he licked his lips and said: "I think I need to check closely for any signs of infection. Nice tan. Lines."  Turns out it was a good idea I was already horizontal because, you know, doctors study anatomy and they know things.  Between gasps, I heard glasses clinking together in the next room and Rocco giggling: "The doctor is in."

The End.  Because the rest is private stuff which a lady does not tell unless there is lots of tequila involved.

This is such a good story that you get to pick your own moral:

1.  Never trust a cousin bearing Starbucks.

2. If anyone tells you it's not going to hurt, they are probably lying.  Your only option is to decide if the gain is worth the pain.

3. Always wear nice underwear because you never know who is going to see it.

4.  Beware of little pricks.  They can lead to big trouble.

 

 

 

 

 

Margie's Story Time: Flag Day

Margie's Story Time: Flag Day

By Me, Margie

Today is June 14th, which is Flag Day.  Most people don't even know what that is.  Lucky for you, I am here with the real story.

Once upon a time, there were a bunch of former Brits who came to America for various reasons.  Some came to avoid the religious oppression of their amoral yet devout monarchy (and if you think that shit ever ended wake up and smell the sharbat).  Some came for a new life and the promise of free land (many of those poor bastards ended up fighting in one war or another or in some coal mine because when they saw 'Free Tickets to New York' - they thought it was New York City, NY and not New York, West Virginia or whatever but that is a story for another blog). Many, to quote the officer and gentleman who is John Winger 'were kicked out of every decent country in the world'.  

By the late 1700s, the people over here were freakin furious and not going to take it any more.  If you have not read my former stories on these important historical events, you totally should. Here they are and I will wait until you finish.  I mean, I don't have time to repeat myself.  Margie's 4th of July Story

So the Patriots (not the cheaters from New England - want something for that burn, Belachick?) Are going to war and they really can't afford spiffy uniforms, like the Brits (this is what we call dumb luck, because you could see those red tunics from miles away and the dirty brown shirts not so much) so they decide to design a really cool flag. Naturally, either because most men are color blind, or because most men are really all about their penises (Really, Anthony?  You want to see something that will really get a woman's attention?  Come to my neighborhood, dumbshit) they could not agree on a flag.  I mean, the color combinations were just a puke-fest.  Lots of black with snakes (you don't have to be Anna Freud to figure that one out) and red with big fat crossed swords (paging Dr. Closet) and purple with an early sketch of the Washington Monument.  Duh.

Lucky for them, a woman named Bettina Rossini (yeah, they changed her parent's names at the intake center at Plymouth Rock or wherever when her family came over in the early 1700s and she was 2nd generation but that totally would have been her name) stepped in to settle the chaos.  She took the colors red and white from the coolest flag ever and then added blue, for purity because a lot of these guys were Puritans, which is also a blog for another day because it is just me or are the most self-righteous always the ones who turn out to be into the kinkiest shit?  Seriously - if you can't be bothered to learn to do it right, just stick to Missionary and be done with it, you pervs.

Still, the men kept arguing and she got so sick of it that she didn't even complain when their finished design involved, like, fifteen thousand different cut pieces and stars with freaking ten separate sides, as if sewing at those angles is a piece of damn scone or whatever especially when it's dark half the time and some 'nad keeps stopping in to make weiner jokes.  

Why didn't Bettina complain? Because she was just the supervisor. Know who did the real work on Old Glory?  That's right.  Raffaella Mancinnetta, one of my few ancestors who came here really early. How do you think I know the real story?  But no way were they going to give credit to some non-whitebread girl with big brown eyes, Mediterranean skin and a rack that could stop traffic.  And let me tell you, stopping traffic in those days was a much bigger thing because they didn't even have antilock break systems or anything.  Unless you count big piles of horse crap, which I totally do not and that is so gross I could never have lived back then just saying.

So we are very proud of our flag, no matter who actually made it. But the birth of the flag got no real formal respect (remember the rule - you only get real history props if you are on money or have a national holiday named after you - I mean, songs are great but you never know when poser pop star is going to butcher the thing) until the late 1800s - over 100 years after the actual flag was made. Some school teachers decided to commemorate June 14th - the day in 1777 they passed the resolution adopting the Stars and Stripes - and Flag Day was born.

On a really serious note, we take our Flag very seriously.  Some people even wanted to amend the Constitution to make it illegal to burn it.  We shouldn't need that.  Just use some damn common sense and common courtesy, asshats.  

We are at war x 3 (or is it 4 - I can't keep track of Yemen and those other places we seem to be bombing) and flying that flag is one way we show respect for our warriors in harm's way.  It would also be good if we showed them respect by taking better frigging care of them when they come home with injuries, some of which cannot be seen, so maybe if people in DC could stop obsessing with some guy's junk and maybe get some priorities, that would be good.

Because that is the only way we are going to live happily ever after.

Find a way to support our Vets and their families, along with our Gold Star families. Thank you.

The end.  

 

 

Summer Fun Tips from The Mancini Family

Summer Fun Tips from the Mancini Family

By Me, Margie

As usual, when something gets jinky around here, guess who has to fix it? ME, Margie.  So like the blog schedule got messed, and I get a post-it note saying "we need a blog for Sunday and don't leave early on Friday until you do one".   As if I didn't have an appointment for a mani-pedi this morning before my trip to California.  My cousin Rita started a very wonderful public service program called "Thank a SEAL" and she is taking a contingent of Mancini cousins out to Coronado (funded in part by the virgin plane people - thanks Virgins!).  Rocco is probably more excited than anyone, what with he calls the 'go ahead and tell me' policy finally adopted by the U.S. Military.

Our cugina Rosie is confused because Rita and Rocco keep using terms like diving and free-style and deep-end submersion and because Rita was on the swim team in high school before she entered the convent, she thought they meant, y'know, actual swimming.  I'm making her sit with Rita on the plane. 

So here are some quick Summer Fun Tips for all of you from all of us.  There are seven because seven is a lucky number and we hope you all get lucky too:

1. Big White Sunglasses: Out.  Thick Black Sunglasses (think Will Smith in Men in Black, now filming in New York and did you see that trailer of his?!): In.

2. Tanning Beds: BAD, BAD, BAD.  Beyond out.  Stupid and guess what?  You may look good now, but take a look at some of your older friends - they look like leather and not the fun kind.  Spray Tans: In.  But only if you have someone who is good with the airbrush and doesn't spray it on too thick.  Otherwise, you look like a leopard, and not in the fun way.

3. Waxing: in.  Those screwball at-home sugar and bogus laser treatments for hair removal: OUT. Leave it to the professionals, bellas.  Unless you think the splotch and blotch look is good for you.  And if you do, call Rocco, but not for the next two weeks.  He will be doing important social and human services work.

4. In Colors: all kinds of purple!  We love purple - it's the color of royalty.  Also blues and mango.  Out: those pukey greens and pucey yellows.  We never liked them.  They looked like phlegm. 

5.  In: Netflix.  Out: replacing your DVDs with Blu-rays.  Don't be dumb, like our cousin Rome, who is still trying to hold on to his beta-max tapes because he is convinced they are now retro and cool. Turns out they are also really easy to splice.  Our cousin Romulus says he can't wait until Rome pulls out the old tape of the Bing Crosby Christmas Special again this year.  He says it gives a whole new meaning to der bingler.

6. In: actually talking to other humans to their face.  Out: texting other people when you are having dinner with a fabulous person.  Not that this has ever happened to Me, Margie, but our cousin Rena reports that more than one phone has ended up in the fountain in the Trevi Room at the Sons of Italy Banquet Hall, Lounge and Gaming Center.  She didn't even have to do it.  Just remember - we always have another  cousin on staff somewhere and sometimes they are young, fast, and bussing tables anyway and oops, shit happens.  Unless you are texting Benny the Jewel to find out why the jewelry for your date didn't arrive on time, don't even think about it. 

7. Red, White and Blue: In, in and IN! (Rocco wrote that.  If he doesn't calm down before we get on the plane, I'm slipping an Atavan in his Bloody Mary.  I carry lots of medications because I help people and I usually know what's best for them even if they do not.  I probably should have been a doctor but it takes way too long and besides when you are a natural healer like me all you really need is a Gray's Anatomy coloring book, which I got when I was 7, and a key to the back door of a neighborhood pharmacy from an old boyfriend named Steve, which I got when I was 17.) Red white and blue are great colors and get this, you the people, anyone can be a true patriot even if they don't drink the same hot beverage as you.

Now, I MUST go finish packing. The weather in San Diego is not the same as New York.  I know this because last week I had a lovely date with Stefano, the Meateorologist.  The man is gifted.  He seems to know what is going to happen right before it does...especially the thunder and lightening.

Have any summer fun tips to share? 

 

It's the Year of the Rabbit!

It's the Year of the Rabbit

By Me, Margie

Salut!  Finally, a year that sounds like fun.  We are almost a week in to the Chinese New Year celebration, and it's about time for a happy one.  Rats, Pigs, Dogs - give me a break.  I deal with those every day on the train.  I don't need them as a theme.

Rabbits, on the other hand, are great.  First off, me and my cousins went straight to The Pink Pussycat. Turns out, someone is always improving on a good thing, so we all got new ones.  Except for Rita, who got a dolphin because she is completely gone on this sea thing.  At least we talked her into a waterproof one.  Sometimes, people just don't think things through.

Which reminds me of some serious advice many of you need to hear from someone who knows. Okay - I don't know, but my cousin Carol does.  Long time TLC readers may remember that my cousin Carol forgot to ask for a private TSA screening of her carry on bag, and had the fabulous experience of seeing two of the Aunts go completely red in the face when they looked up to see Carol's vibrator being waved around.  We are still not sure what upset them the most. It may have been that it was a color not found in nature.

You'd think that girl would learn.  But no.  Carol ended up in the hospital having unexpected surgery, and her MOM went to her apartment to get her toiletries and stuff.  Uh-oh.  She was still screaming when I got there.  I wasn't sure what the hell happened because she was incoherent when she called me.  They always call me.  Not sure why.

Let's just say Carol and her boyfriend are very techy.  Kind of like those people who have to have the new smartphones just because they are new.  I tried to explain it that way to the Aunts.  See, by the time I got Carol's Mom, Aunt Elena, settled down, other Aunts arrived.  They must have some kind of 911 phone tree system.  Either that, or they've developed some kind of spyware that allows them to hear everything any of the cugina say to each other.

They weren't buying it.  Thank heaven they found a box of gloves right off the bat, because those women make the FDA look like muppets.  I have said it before and I will say it again.  The Aunts should be running things. 

There was a lot of whispering going on, which I think was designed to sound judgmental and appalled, but instead was clearly wisecracks about Carol's boyfriend and his, uh, blood pressure. One thing about the Aunts - they don't hear so good, so even their whispers are loud.

So here is the moral of the story.  Everyone needs a Designated Recon System.  I say system because you have to have a back up.  I mean, what if you get arrested and your first DR is with you?  Bad news for bunnies.  Because if you don't think at least one of those Aunts has figured out how to take photos with her phone, you would be so, so wrong. We know this because the Uncles were actually pointing and laughing at Carol and her boyfriend in the parking lot after church.  P.S. As if we're not friends with the staff at the Pussycat and they don't know a crew of Uncles when they see them try to sneak in.

Here is your resolution for the Year of the Rabbit.  Get a Designated Recon system in place.  Have at least one back-up.  Your Mother will thank you.  Happy New Year!

 

 

 

 

Margie's Story Time: New Years!

Margie's Story Time: New Years!

By Me, Margie with no help from anyone even though certain cousins promised to stop over and help write this but apparently are still recovering from the seven fishes because some stunad decided to pair a different drink with each one and certain other idiotas followed suit.  Stick with me I know better.  Just Saying.

Once upon a time, someone was inventing a calendar, and they picked names for months and numbers for dates.  It was pretty much based on the moon, as dictated by a monarch, which means half the time it makes no damn sense and the other half all you have to do is check the night sky to know what time of the month it is.  You can also check the volume of chocolate covered pretzels eaten by certain Aunts, but that is a different kind of story, isn't it?

So back in the old country, where the Julian calendar was mandated (heh - that is a good word for a laugh but it really means some king shoved it down the throats and/or up the asses of the regular people whether they liked it or not, but can also mean Rocco's holiday plans.  Hi Rocco and thanks for not helping) the ancestors of the brothers Hallmarkelloni and the sisters at Orientali Tradingina got together to bitch about how to drum up business, and holidays were born.  

Okay, I know what you are thinking - "Hey You, Margie - what were you, born in a barn?  Who do you think set up all those days where you have to go to church/make certain foods/have parades/raise money to build statues and go to church?"  Duh.  Like I don't know about the holy days and the Feasts.  (If you don't know what a Feast is, listen up - it's a tribute day for Saints.  Sure, you can make a pilgrimage to the town of their birth, but what they really want is old school tribute which means a statue of them, a parade named for them, or both.)

I mean, the only ones who really made out on the Feast Days were the church and the people who sold the food and the holy tchotchkes.  No offense to the Vatican kiosks, but most of that stuff looks like crap.  No offense x 2, and I am genuflecting just in case because I am not stupid and I like to plan for all contingencies, which, for some of my cousins who don't read much, means 'be ready for whatever shit is around the corner because you have no clue what it might be, unless its the Benadetti boys, in which case you know exactly what it is. And Rita says you're welcome.'  (Yeah, Rita, that just happened.  Maybe next time you'll help.)

Well, then the Zambellini family - who started making fireworks back when it was just black powder and fire, and not one of those kids has a full set of fingers to this day - because that is intelligent design at work - said 'Hey, we want a piece of this calendar vig too'.  No one said no to them because of all the fingers lost, no one ever lost their trigger finger and talk about unplanned 'accidents' and timely 'fires' ? Please, those people knew from staging.

And so December 31 was designated not only as the last day of the calendar year, but also a day to set off fireworks and send cards and buy jimcrack that had the current year on it so it was only useful for about ten hours, and then you had to buy all new stuff.  These people?  Genius.  I get a little choked up because I am just so damn proud of my heritage.  sniff.

Well, as you can imagine, it just rolled on like a tidal wave from there.  One year, the Porkarino family had a major livestock boom, and suddenly everyone had to make a pork dish or risk a whole year of bad luck.  And the Lentilano family accidentally planted all lentils and nothing else, so lentils became the official food of hoping for wealth/coins/whatever and everyone had to eat them on New Years or face personal and professional bankruptcy before the Feast of the Epiphany.  See, Connie Lentilano married Vinny Zambellini and the two families formed an alliance, so if you offended one, you offended the other and you don't have to be Michael Corleone to figure that one out.

Finally, there was a family that bought way too much red silk from China because a certain merchant cousin who was supposed to go over there and get lots of cool stuff spent his whole time getting to know a certain house of women and he had to buy whatever was out on the road that day when he sprinted for the last boat out before St. Rocco's day, because everyone knew if you wanted any shot at the black Friday shoppers, you had to start back by then.

When this stunad got back to Sicily, his cugina Maria met him at the dock, took one look and - in the way of so many of my motherline - came up with a genius idea.  And that is why everyone has to wear red underwear on New Years. Because it is a seriously major tradition and if you don't, the shores will run red with the blood of your family because Maria Mancini married the oldest Zambellini son (a total stud who was only missing his pinky finger so who cares) and that was that.

So - get ready for new years.  Order the pork and lentils.  Find a fireworks show. And for the sake of all humankind, wear red underwear. Because it's my family's tradition, plus it is totally hot.  And everyone wants to start their new year off with a bang.  Just saying.

The end, and you should totally be writing this stuff down.

Felice Anno Nuovo to all, and to all a really, really good night.  

 

 

 

 

Too Many Steves: A Modern Fairy Tale by Me, Margie

Too Many Steves: A Modern Fairy Tale by Me, Margie*

*This tale has been rated "A" - Appropriate for All Ages and generally Awesome.

Once upon a time, there was a princess.  She was brilliant, beautiful, nice, kind, and built like a brick house.  Want to guess her name?

The Princess had many friends - both boys and girls.  The Princess also had many cousins, because she came from a big royal family who owned lots of castles with plenty of room for privacy.  The Princess knew, mainly from watching ads for politicians, that it was not a good idea to marry one of your cousins.  In fact, the Princess, who didn't miss much, figured the whole concept of the intra-famiglia amore was to blame for many stupid decisions across the globe, mostly having to do with who had the biggest weapons.  But that is a tale for another day, isn't it?

As soon as the Princess started dating - which means going out at night with someone you want to kiss and not having parents or little brothers or sisters tagging along - she realized that she needed a way to be sure she never went on a date with any of her cousins.  So she sat down with her cousin, Prince Rocco, and they hacked into the family ancestry data, and sorted out all the names of all the cousins. As luck would have it, they only needed to find the boys' names, because they were the interesting ones.  Once they had the list, they sorted it by name.It took a long, long time to print, and Prince Rocco had to pop out to the royal print shop to get more ink.  There were many, many names. Matthews, Marks, Lukes, Johns, Josephs, Anthonys, Francis', and on and on.

But there was one name missing from all the cuginos: Steve.  Badda-Bing!  We have a winner!  So both the Princess and the Prince agreed that they would choose among all the Steves, each unto his preference.

And so the Princess was very happy dating only Steves (or Stefans, or Estebans, or Etiennes, or Stevies) and the bonus was that she was never worried about calling anyone the wrong name at one of the very special times, because here is an important lesson for life:  When you are having a special kind of hug with a special friend, you might as well have someone dump an ice bucket right at the flashpoint area if you happen - totally by accident- to yell the wrong name.  Because the result is the same: game over.  Do Not Pass Go.  Do not collect 200 anything.  Or even one.

So you would think this would have a happy ending, right?  Not so much.  Because the Princess and the Prince got a little too cocky.  Which means prideful, which is a deadly sin for real.  They started dating more than one Steve at a time.  In fact, the people who worked at the Princess' office started assigning numbers to the Steves, and then some smartass put pictures up on the place where the Princess blogged, and the Steves eventually saw all the pictures of the other Steves, and it was a big messy cluster fracas and not the good kind either because boys can be totally dumb if they think they can just hit whatever's passing by but the girls are supposed to be truly one and only for them which makes no sense especially if they weren't even having special hug time or anything and what - I'm supposed to be a monk-ess or something I don't think so.

By the time the word got out around the kingdom, that the Prince and Princess were only dating the Steves, two things happened right away:

1.  The Steves who already went on a date with either of them threw a total snit; and

2.  About a hundred thousand guys showed up at the royal court house to change their names to Steve.

Sigh.  There was unrest in the kingdom (which Prince Rocco says should be called a queendom, and he is perfectly correct, as usual) and the Princess and the Prince got called into the royal chamber, where the king and queen gave them a big lecture and told them to cut the crap and maybe not go out every night any way because no one was getting any sleep with all the ruckus when they came home at a time which was also a prime number.

And so the Prince and the Princess had to go old school and just get DNA and bloodwork from their potential dates, which is a good idea because you shouldn't really believe someone if they tell you they've never had any kind of special disease because people lie especially if they want you to hug them in that special way.

And they lived happily ever after.  The end.

 

 

 

Margie's Story Time: Labor Day

Margie's Story Time: Labor Day

By Me, Margie

I was going to write on the Mancini Book of Sextiquette, but the rest of these tarts have been sexing up the place, so I will save that one for later because if any of you think I am a follower, not a leader, you need to wake up and smell the espresso.  Plus, my cousins are still trying to put some of the rules in words I can actually use in this public type forum.  So we are going to talk about the upcoming long weekend and the reason behind it.

Okay, work is good. That is the whole point of Labor Day and obviously some stunads need the reminder because this reality TV bullshit where people get paid for doing nothing but doing dumbass stuff in front of a camera that they would normally do at home is a plague.

Labor Day started back in the 1800s - if you try to look it up, you will see they have conflicting stories about it.  Silly.  I know what actually happened, even though only a few of my own family were here that long ago.

Which reminds me that any of you asshole elitist WASP types who think the "illegal aliens" are to blame for everything from the syph to the Senate, you need to get your heads out of wherever they are (probably up the ass of someone you hate in public when you're at your KKK meetings, you down-low dipshits, but that is another story.)

My family is still coming here - and we are sending our own cousins out to your stupid fucking wars, just like you pricks did to the Irish when those poor schmucks landed in New York.  Hey, I saw "Gangs of New York" - I know the facts.  And if you would like to come up in my neighborhood and start asking my people for their papers, you are in for some unexpected answers.  Because unless you can trace your flabby-assed, pasty-faced roots back to the Mohawk, or the Sioux, or some other Native American tribe, you can kiss our mediterranean olive asses - if you can get to them while you're still ambulatory.  I just learned that word and I like it because it makes it very clear there is going to be EMTs if you're not nice.

Back to the story.

Once upon a time, right here in the US of A, where we claim freedom is sacred, the powerful (read: anglo saxon men) treated the less powerful (that would be the rest of the people) like shit.  Some Bosses were decent but most were greed-infested scum. They had the less powerful do all the real work. It was basically a massive slavery program - and I say slaves because even if they weren't in actual chains, they were treated as if they were and if you think that whole 'sold my soul to the company store' thing is just a song, wake up.  No offense to actual slaves, who will get their own story sometime soon, but for a general idea, check out my Passover Story.

The Worker bees died left, right and center, and were always getting hurt and none of the Boss families gave a shit.  All in the name of making money for the Boss.  There were no unions.  There were no safety rules. There was nobody checking on their fellow humans.  And the money kept coming and the men kept dying. Railroads, coal mines, factories, steel mills, banks, office buildings - all the things that built our country came on the backs and the blood of people who were barely paid enough to survive.  It's sickening and embarrassing and on everyone.

It took all the way to the late 1800s for these men to get enough swat together to start unions.  Know what kind of radical-assed ideas they were trying to promote? An end to child labor, work shifts that didn't last more than like 20 hours at a time, and actual safety rules.  The gall!  Commies!

You can imagine the reception they got from the Bosses.  It did not include little crumpets, cucumber sandwiches, and high tea.  It included paid thugs with bats, clubs and guns.  At the beginning, the workers counted on the government to protect them - you know - the police and marshals and others who were paid and vowed to 'protect and serve'.  Jokes.  They only protected the people who paid them in cash behind the building and basically let the thugs beat the living daylights out of anyone who wasn't wearing a suit and tie.  The whole thing is a disgrace, and I spit upon them.

Then, some guys in New York got together and decided we need a day to honor those "who from rude nature have delved and carved all the grandeur we behold."  Which, in plain words means: "Who do you think built all this crap? Next time you walk down the damn street, remember it was this big crowd of people who built your shit, and we're not going away, so snap the hell out of it, jack."  New York was the first state to Labor Day adopt it, and other states began to follow.

By that time, some really bad shit was going on because the workers were starting to stand up for themselves against the Bosses, who, in typical piggish fashion, refused to even negotiate and continued to hire thugs and killers to try to stop them. I'm guessing that those paid criminals are probably the same breed who are making the same pig noises today about the 14th Amendment, but I could be wrong.  The message is the same: "I got mine, go fuck yourself you can't have any."

The President at the time - a guy named Cleveland - had a total freak and wanted to make sure the Gov didn't appear to be on the wrong side of this fight, so he pushed to make Labor Day a national holiday.  It was a nice move.  Maybe some federal and state mandates on gawddamn safety regs and union support would have been nice too, huh Grover? 

So now the first Monday in September is Labor Day.  And next week, we need to take some time to remember that, instead of just focusing on the sales, the unofficial beginning of football season, and back to school.  Because, get a clue - we wouldn't have stores or stadiums or schools or people answering phones without the workers.

The end.

Now it is your turn to tell your family's labor stories.

All Sex Toy Engineers to the Gulf: STAT!

All Sex Toy Engineers to the Gulf: STAT

Who else would write this but Me, Margie

Let's get f'n real here, people.  This 'oil leak' with the 'plumes' sounds like something fixable.  Turns out, this mess is a bona fide MoFo catastrophe.  The wankers who are supposed to be in charge all say they have their 'best people working on it" - which always reminds me of that scene at the end of the first (and best) Indiana Jones where the Ark of the Covenant ends up in a damn warehouse with Jimmy Hoffa, the cure for cramps, condoms that really work and the real James Bond.  Don't ask me how I know things. People share.

I mean - who didn't feel better when they heard Kevin Costner was on the case?  Give me a damn break. I thought the guy was finally going to issue a public mea culpa for 'Waterworld' and that clueless accent in 'Robin Hood'.  But no - he was just selling stuff.

Check it, citizens - this major trauma - brought to you by your dear friends at Halliburton, Transocean and British Petroleum (yeah, I said it - what are you going to do ya slimy bastards?) is beyond out of control, with no real solutions on the Horizon. 

I don't know why I have to be the one to fix everything, but here's what you need to do:  Get the sex toy people on this problem.  I mean, not only are these people creative as hell, but they've been dealing with holes that need to be filled and stuff that flies out since the cave drawing days.  Those weren't goddesses they were drawing, you dopes - they were early inflatable prototypes.  Don't act all shocked.  Anyone with half a brain and more than two hormones has already been expecting those words since the title of this blog.

Sure - I gotta give it up to Disney for the Anamatronics - some of those Presidents look like they could walk off the stage (or fall off. heh.) Plus, do not tell me they haven't been propping up a Dick Cheney robot for years.  That guy is half a breath from Weekend at Bernies but he still looks the same.  Puh-leeze.  Not all of us are dumb.  But the real pioneers are refining robots that not only look and sound real, but can actually do something to help.

Then there is that bigass Halogen Collider or whatever.  I'm sure it figures out a lot of science stuff, but what has it done for me lately?  Nuthin.  On the other hand, the new batch of sex toys is something to be proud about.  These inventors not only have the pulse of the pop culture, but the rhythm of life too - and the results can be, y'know, powerful.

Got someone who is too hot to handle?  Pick up this ice vibe.  I mean, we've all used ice, but this thing just takes it to a another techy step without the messy meltage.

The new sexbots are scary real - and you can even get costumes for them.  Not that I need them, but hell, anything could happen and it's good to know you have several lines of defense.

I don't happen to be into the electricity thing (hey, I'm young, I can only do so much on any given weekend) but if you are, there is now a home system that looks like it'll start more than one kind of spark, baby.  So put away the car batteries and power tools (unless you are using them with attachments, which is a whole nother show of brilliance) and take advantage of modern technology.

Here is my favorite new one for the man flying solo - and it is right at the tip of the hottest thing this summer.  Wanna add some Vamp to your fantasies?  Here ya go.  

All we need to do is apply this kind of brainpower and drive to the Gulf and we'll either get that thing to stop putting out, or at least figure out a way to harness all that liquid safely in no time.

Now that we have that solved, I am off on vacation.  Everybody needs to re-charge their batteries, right?