I could hear the muffler-less El Camino headed my way. It started in the back of my throat and by the time the movie ended, (circa 2015), I knew they were moving back.

I could feel their every move as they worked their way in, with their ratty herculon sectional sofa, barcalounger and lava lamps. I never know how long they will stay -it could be days, but if they bring the extended family and really get entrenched- weeks.  Spring had sprung and like it or not, I had some new neighbors: The Mucus Family. Just like in the ubiquitous ads, these overbearing, unwanted, (and might I add; poorly dressed) green blobs were now squatters in my sinus cavity. You see, as a chronic sinus sufferer, I just feel better visualizing this problem in cartoon terms rather than medical terms. So now, when I get the inevitable case of springtime sinusitis, I think of it more as a home invasion. It is no longer just congestion that is causing my head to ache and my throat to hurt. Now it is that disgusting, yet oddly loveable, pot bellied; Mr. Mucus setting up that horrible, rag tag living room just above my eyes. I think he just crushed a Natty Bo can on the inside of my forehead. Meanwhile, that achy feeling in my cheeks is his hideous green wife in the bizarre white wedding dress, Mrs. Mucus, in the kitchen cooking dinner, which I am sure is fresh road kill. No wonder my teeth and gums hurt, that’s where that annoying baseball cap wearing, Mucus, Jr. is playing catch with Mr. Mucus, sporting their Team Mucus shirts. Just about the time I want to fall asleep, the entire family will show up for that obnoxious Mucus conga line. Ricky Ricardo has nothing on them as they bang out Babalu-cus on the bongos.

So, after the movie, Rebecca and I bellied up at the Urgent Care bar for an appointment with my specialist, Dr. Sam Adams. No, he only does the beer thing on the weekends. The good doctor wasn’t helping much as I could feel the Mucuses choreographing a musical in my inner ear. It was Les Miserables. I think it was the Mrs. belting out, “I Dreamed a Dream.” Or, it could have been Susan Boyle- she does need the work these days.

I got over my sinus shyness and decided to reveal my very strange coping mechanism to my friend Rebecca who had been consulting with her own specialist, Dr. Captain Morgan.  She was unfazed at my imaginary houseguests.

Rebecca: “There is something that has always bothered me about those commercials.”

Me: “Really?? An animated mucus family living setting up a house in someone’s sinuses seems completely normal to me.”

Rebecca: “But, what do you think happens to them?”

Me: “Who?”

Rebecca: “The family. I mean they move in, get settled and then they get evicted every time someone picks up a handkerchief.”

Me: “I dunno- maybe they go to a nice Kleenex shelter in a decorator box somewhere?”

Rebecca: “But they have a kid.”

Me: “What?! Yeah, a mucus kid. He’s as bad as they are.  Hmmm-we could call sinus social services! Who knows maybe a childless ENT will adopt him.  I kinda can’t believe we are talking about this.”

Rebecca: “I just don’t understand the ad campaign. It is one thing to have a villain like Mr. Mucus, but to give him a whole family- that keeps getting uprooted- I mean how is Mucinex the hero here? Do you think it is an allegory for something else? Like the breakdown of the American family?”

Me: “Oh. My. God.  And I am sure the Mrs. is a wonderful stay at home Mom who married that ne’er-do-well husband against her deeply religious parents wishes!  You got that prescription for medical marijuana didn’t you?”

Rebecca: “Ok, think about this- what if they had a dog? Then wouldn’t you feel bad about the dog being homeless?”

Me: “IF HE WAS A MUCUS DOG??” Honestly- this is so stupid that-“

Rebecca: (quietly) “Yes, even if he was a mucus dog. You would adopt him”.

I asked for the check- it was time to go home. I could feel the family loading the RV up to do some off-roading in adenoid country and I had to get to Rite Aide for an eviction notice.  Plus, Rebecca was starting to make a little too much sense.

My Real friends have fancy houses, beautiful clothes, personal chefs, nannies, and more clothing for their dogs than I will ever have in my paltry little closet.  But, in spite of their material wealth, their lives are about as dysfunctional and pointless as a visit from Comcast.  My Real friends live in different cities all over the country. They have been through infidelity, betrayal, bankruptcy, suicide, addiction, and heartbreaking lip injections.  Most of them are catty, two faced competitive shrews. God, I love them.

So here is my reality: my Real friends aren’t really real. Look, sit down- you’re probably not going to like this. So, I’ll do it quick, like ripping off a Band-Aid. Then it won’t hurt so much –my Real friends are actually the Real-Housewives-of-whatever-city-Bravo-blows-into.  Yes, those Real “Housewives”- an interesting title, considering the only broom these women use are the ones they fly in on. This is one of those reality shows that cause people to act like you’re talking about rickets or whooping cough or some other horrible childhood disease when you bring it up. Here, let me help you get your eyes back to the front of your face, after rolling them so far back that you looked like you were having a seizure.  Just get it out of your system. Tell me how disappointed and shocked you are by my bad taste. Ask me if I went to college or spent my parent’s money on fries. Tell me that shows like these are symptomatic of the collapse of the entertainment industry and responsible for the dumbing down of a nation. And, I in turn, will hang my head – only to hide me mouthing, “Blah, blah, blah..Whatever!” right back to you. 

It all started at a nail salon on York Road. To take my mind off Wolverine getting her talons shaved in the chair next to mine, I shifted my focus to the television. A group of housewives from New Jersey, all related, were screaming obscenities at each other, arguing about who loved their families the most.  It was like the Sopranos meets “Little Women”- except Meg has breast implants, Amy is orange from her spray tan, and Beth wears six inch heels- to the beach. (Jo didn’t make the cast-you figure it out). I was repelled at first- after all it was New Jersey. But, I couldn’t stop watching. They were real.. and They. Were. Spectacular. I was hooked.

Like any addict, I needed some enablers. I started to ask around, quietly, to see if anyone else was hitting the Housewives pipe.  Most denied it, but sometimes I could get a closeted fan to come clean.  A simple test question usually smoked them out.  Like, “What was the name of that song Melissa recorded?”  If the answer, “On Display!!” came up within 10 seconds or less: BUSTED!  And then it would all come out – like two people lost in sea of PBS pretentiousness had just found each other. We would talk about our Real friends like they were well, REAL friends. Caroline and her obsession with her sons! How both Joes look like they are on steroids! What about those rumors about Jacqueline being a stripper before she met her husband!  Girl squealing at our super guilt free gossip session follows all of this.

After the New Jersey ladies bid Bravo adieu, I spent a few seconds in mourning but had to move on quickly. So I loaded up the DVR and I moved to Bev-er-ly! Hills, that is!  Swimmin’ pools! Bigger boobs!

From there I found Real friends all over the country! New York, D.C., Atlanta and Orange County.  It was like having friends without having to bother with all the extra stuff- like talking to each other. 

Maybe some day Bravo will get smart and make Baltimore its next stop on the Housewives train. I know some local women that would be perfect for the show. Just think, if I actually knew them I could have Real friends and real, Real friends! 

I used to love TLC – The Learning Channel, the model for educational TV. Remember how it began by enlightening us about everything from strange, far away lands to basic household repairs? Check out some of their current educational content like;  “I Didn’t Know I Was Pregnant”; in one episode, a woman thought her stomach cramps were just caused by bad pizza, until that big push and little DiGiorno appeared!  Seems a different kind of pepperoni was to blame. So what did we learn?  Apparently that you can be dangerously out of touch with your body but still be a great mom!

“My Strange Addiction”, is a show about bizarre addicts who compulsively eat things like, dryer sheets, rolls of toilet paper and sleep with their blow dryers. Let’s hope the sequel is, “My Strange Padded Cell”. And don’t forget to grab your notebooks and tune into “Little Chocolatiers”; a show simply about Little People trying to keep up with the very big demands of their chocolate factory.  After just one episode watching these tiny sweet makers go through their day-to-day operations and you’ll be an expert on: the stepladder.

Wanna work in TV? Just follow the formula- pick a group of people that everyone stayed away from in high school and put them in situations that no one cares about. For extra credit make the show’s title a wacky play on words like the ones premiering this month on my own TV network: WTF.

“American Midol”:  Watch as these hormonal honeys try to out cry, out rage, out bloat and out irrational each other over five days of hell leading to the finale: “But I’m Sooooooooo Faaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat!” wailing contest.

“The Real Housewives of Lancaster County”: Hold onto your buggy reins and watch the Shoo Fly Pie really fly when these Amish divas compete to be the plainest. Episode one: Jebediah’s wife, Kate, accuses Ezekiel’s wife, Kate, of purposely wearing the same bonnet to the local barn raising.

“Dancing With the Lards” Celebrity heavy weights cut a (very durable) rug to get back their fifteen minutes. Sally Struthers, Jon Lovitz, and the entire cast of the The Facts of Life compete in dances revised for their girth. Like, the “(Very) Slow Waltz”, and the “Twist”, followed immediately by, the “Shout”. It’ll be absolutely flabulous!

“Lease a Gibbon”: Think your job is so easy that even a monkey can do it? Here’s your chance to have a trained monkey come out and take your place for a day. (Not applicable to surgeons).  Politicians strongly encouraged to apply.

You go right ahead and think that these shows are just not TV worthy. Go ahead. Then remember how many shows there are about New Jersey and get back to me. 

To help me prepare for this I turned to the world’s largest employment website, Monster.com for advice, where I found this all important nugget:
“One major complaint among recruiters is when a candidate is not completely truthful; small lies are all too common in the world of recruitment.” Keeping that in mind, I decided to try answering ten of their one hundred potential interview questions-truthfully.

1.Give me an example of a time that you felt you went above and beyond the call of duty at work:
When a burrito caught on fire in the microwave, I screamed for someone to get it out.

2.What are your strengths?
I am double jointed, always carry a bottle opener and if I cut my hair and gained 200 pounds, I could pass for Chaz Bono.

3.Weaknesses?
I hate all sports that involve a ball, occasionally feel the need to read the instructions on the shampoo bottle and I don’t find didgeridoo music “hauntingly beautiful”. 

4.What irritates you most about other people?
The sound of their blood circulating through their body. 

5. Describe how you would handle a situation if you were required to finish multiple tasks by the end of the day, and there was no conceivable way that you could finish them.
I would have a relaxing cup of grande Ex-lax-accino.  Early dismissal for me-and hilarity for my co-workers would ensue.

6.Tell me one thing about yourself you wouldn’t want me to know.
I had a third nipple removed in 1987.

7. What do you see yourself doing within the first 30 days of this job?
Trying to figure out if it is too soon to call in sick.

8. List five words that describe your character.
I. want. to. go. home.

9. How would you go about establishing your credibility quickly with the team?
By promising to never, ever to refer to them as “the team”.

10. Tell me 5 ways to use a pencil other than writing.
Bend over. Five times.

Only ninety more questions to go! Next step: wardrobe.  Monster says, “You’re going to be judged -at least partially - by how you look”.  Check. Better get that bathrobe belt in the wash.

Why is it that we are no longer allowed to text and drive but it’s perfectly legal for someone to use the rear end of their car to tell me to “Eschew Obfuscation”?  I nearly hit 3 city buses trying look up both words on dicitionary.com. 

Several drivers aggressively honked as I sat transfixed at a green light staring at a car that instructed me to “Practice random acts of kindness and senseless acts of beauty.”  Ignoring their random acts of rudeness, I was paralyzed- unable to figure out what a “senseless” act of beauty was. Painting the nails of a six toed cat while riding a unicorn? Giving yourself a bikini wax while skydiving? Guess I should have peeled off and applied a “Keep honking- I’m reloading”, sticker on my car’s backside to shut them up.

Helpful Hint #2: Whatever you think is funny at first- will get painfully less funny each and every time you see it. “Driver carries no cash- he’s married”, might get a chuckle in September-but by November you and your divorce attorney are giving your bumper a shower in “goo gone”.  And, “I’ve got a perfect body but it’s in the trunk and beginning to stink”, seems devilish cute- until that cop who takes himself way too seriously, pulls you over to look in the trunk and finds your “medical marijuana”.  Yes, I’ll admit it, “Fat people are harder to kidnap”, is amusingly clever, until you walk out to the parking lot on a lunch date with your chubby co-worker.

The Presidential election is just getting started and I am already irritated. I can take the viciousness, the lying, and even the crushing feeling of futility in knowing that a box of Honey Bunches of Oats could be elected and nothing much will change. I just can’t take seeing a parade of losers displayed on at least fifty percent of bumpers for another four years. Just scream your political opinions out the car window at every stoplight!  Whip your head right out on Charles Street and scream, “Tell Barack I’m Baroke!” Yell: “Tea Parties are for children-grow up!” all the way down the JFX.  It’s far more creative without having to give your Prius a tattoo.

If you really think it is necessary to advertise to the world that you’re a proud parent of anyone from your honor roll drag queen son to a neutered corgi named JoJo, or that you live so far in the country your zip code is EIEIO, do me a favor and tweet about it.  That way your six followers who might actually care that you call Possum, “the other white meat” can retweet it to their 3 friends and so on.  Who knows you may start a club or a revolution. And I can avoid you without having to change lanes on the Internet superhighway or on York Road.

It all started when I was on a marathon-shopping trip with my friend Molly.  I was carrying a purse that weighed more than my car, causing one shoulder to hang about 20 inches lower than the other. My legs and feet felt so tired and heavy that I had to ride the escalator sitting down. So imagine my devastation when I realized that not only had I just purchased enough eyeliner at the MAC store for a KISS reunion, but also I was now at one end of the mall and my car was parked at the other. I considered crawling or rolling my body the length of the mall. I thought about streaking through the food court, my naked body covered only with waffle fries from Chick Fil A, forcing mall security to golf cart me back to my car. And, as I was about to bribe the 97 pound Molly to be my human rickshaw back to Nordstrom by promising her a lifetime supply of Auntie Anne’s pretzels, my gazillion dollar idea came to me: Adult Strollers. 

Now you stop it right there.  I know what you are thinking, in your whiney, jealous, nay-saying voice…”That’s already been invented”- (and here is where your voice gets all scoldy) “it’s called… a wheelchair.” May I remind you that wheelchairs and electric scooters are for those who have unfortunately fallen victim to injury, illness or old age.  Adult strollers are limited to those, who like myself, have fallen victim to something far more prevalent: laziness. Got it?

Just think, these grown up strollers would be lightweight, cheap and totally portable.  Not like the horrifying kid strollers that require an MIT degree to assemble, an additional 3 hours to get in and out of a minivan, and a feature length DVD for you to watch as you wait through this endless torture for your parking space.

Whoever decided that a chauffeured stroll is only for whiny, little junior?  Come on-admit it-aren’t you sick of those smug faces looking up at you from their little four wheeled thrones, feeling so superior, as they shake their sippy cups and cheerios in victory as they whiz past you?

Consider this, too: there is no law against drinking and pushing!  You can go to the neighborhood block party have 12 mojitos and have someone drunker than you push you home. What’s the worst that could happen? You end up in Dundalk with a flat tire?

And forget about practical and comfortable (read: UGLY) footwear!  Go ahead and choo, choo, choose your 6 inch Jimmy Choos from your closet and wheel your way to the Raven’s game.

And, it’s good for business!  If someone else does the pushing, I am far more likely to buy a ticket to events that practically require cross-country training to attend. (Hey, Ren Fest, I’m talkin’ to you!)  Everyone wins.

Before you start going all Thomas Edison on me, calling this a dumb and unnecessary invention- you should research some of the latest innovations to come out of our brilliant forward thinking, society- like: The Handerpants- underpants for your hands.  Or, Cat Duster Slippers- so kitty can do a little floor cleaning for you while he sulks around the house. And lest we forget the Face/Butt towel- a towel conveniently marked so you never, ever, get confused about what section of towel should be used and where. 

The only problem I have now is the name. I thought about the Tushe Wagon or Heiny Hauler but they are all too cutesy.  I hate cute. We have a chair for anyone who can’t manage to sit upright while watching reruns of Sports Center, called a Lazy Boy, a spinning shelf for those too lazy to say, “pass the salt”, called a Lazy Susan. So let’s call this brilliant and overdue invention what it is- an Adult Stroller Solution or Lazy A.S.S.