C*nt Never Could

Holy shitwads, y’all! Gwenyth Paltrow appeared on Chelsea Lately—the only late, late night talk show with a woman behind the main desk—a couple of nights ago. This is, apparently, BIG news. Or the uproar could be that while on the show, Gwynnie called her grandmother a really, realllllly nasty name for the female genitalia. In case you are too chaste to know what the word is, then I’ll give you a hint, and perhaps you’d like to tell me what the fuck you’re doing reading this in the first place. Hm? Nothing? Mm-hmm.

For you sheltered mama’s boys, the word that Ms. Paltrow said begins with a “c.” It rhymes with “cunt.” Do you think you have it figured out? I’ll give you a sec. Thaaaaaat’s it. Yeah. Gwyn called her own grandmother that derogatory name because she was trying to riff off some stupid shit that Chelsea said about her grandma, which wasn’t even funny like 90% of what Chelsea says.

Well, my grandmother could kick both their grandmas’ asses in the kitchen; she smoked Marlboro Reds for sixty-five years; and she said things like, “Cain’t never could,” which means “Stop yer fucking bitching and whining and saying, ‘I can’t,’ and just do the goddamned thing I told you to do.” Whatever she told me to do generally concerned picking shit out of the garden in the Georgia heat and then shelling it for dinner as if I didn’t have better things to do in the air conditioned den where the t.v. was. “Peas cain’t shell themselves,” she’d bleat. To which I’d think, “Cain’t never could, you fucking peas.” I never said anything out loud, or I sure as shit wouldn’t be here whining today.

The thing that gets me about Gwyneth Paltrow’s c-word utterance is that every damned body is so shocked. Is there really anyone who still believes in the sparkling, studio-spun celebrity persona? Rock Hudson screwed boys, people. The jig’s been up for years. Gwyneth does not shit diamonds or have gold for blood. She isn’t immortal, as far as I know, and she calls her grandmother a cunt. She is one of the greatest actors I’ve ever seen, but since when does pretending well mean you’re better than everyone else? Shit. If that’s all it takes, where’s my fucking limo?  I’ve been married four previous times. Don’t tell me I cain’t act.

Not By the Hair of My Chinny-Chin-Chins

My poor daughters. If they are anything like me, they will realize one day while in the middle of watching some cleverly penned half-hour of workplace comedy that they have multiple facial hairs that did not get proper permission before sprouting from their secret lairs. I discovered my chin-buddies because of the following conversation:

My grandmother, Kitty, to my mother, Charlotte: “Chaaaaahlotte, pull this hay-uh fuh me. I cain’t see up under thay-uh.” She juts out her chin for better viewing.

My mother: “Pull mine first.”

Holy shitballs. If both of them have one…My twenty-year-old self hightailed it to the nearest mirror and strained to see what lurked beneath my jiggly jaw line. And there it was! The fucker had been there so long it was spiraling. Spiraling, people. I almost puked. I snatched that sumbitch out of my fatty flesh faster than a naked toddler wandering in traffic ends up at DFACS.

I have a right to know, and I want to know NOW. Why, why, why if hair has to go away as we age, why can’t all the hair in my legs fall out? Or the mustache hair? Why can’t that go? Shit. I can donate the hair on my face to Locks of Love, but I look like a seventy-year-old man at the crown. There are only so many ways a girl can pull off a comb-over.

You know what adds insult to injury? I have to lift and separate my chins to find those little follicle-fucking bastards these days. God forbid anyone catches me laughing in a picture. I tend to pull back my head so that there’s no neck within 500 yards. The only discernible features are teeth and eye slits floating in a puddle of flesh, barely visible. They are eclipsed by the shadow of my monster chin hair.