Friday, July 17, 2009


Okay, so I'm watching Better Off Ted last night, and I came to a conclusion. If you're not watching this show . . . why the hell are you not watching this show? It's just damn funny.

And I'll state for the record that I hate The Office. It makes me sad in a desperate, existential angst-ridden, "I suspect that they're laughing at me, not with me" kind of way.

But BOT is like Dilbert with a touch of Monty Python and just a soupcon of Moonlighting, and fly-bys from the Big Bang Theory. The joke last night about the syphillitic conquistadors was immaculate in execution, like a perfect amuse bouche of humor. It was so good it should have been topped with caviar and a drizzle of truffle oil (I may be watching too much Top Chef Masters).

And if tongue-in-cheek humor isn't enough, the guy who plays Ted has possibly the best set of shoulder to ever grace the TV set. He dodges being too good looking by just barely that much. So come on. Why aren't you watching this show?

Thursday, July 16, 2009

Put your hands up and step away from the tweezers

I'm sorry. I'm just going to have to put the kibosh on this. If you were thinking of going for this look, either by completely removing your eyebrows or by bleaching them into non-existence, I'm sorry. You're just going to have to make a different fashion statement. Because, I'm just not going to let this happen. It is disallowed. Negated. Stopped. Full stopped. Arrested. Don't make me draw eyebrows back on you. Cause I'll make one of them look really, really surprised, and put the other on at a funny angle. Funny to me, not to you.

People walking around with no eyebrows. I mean to tell you. I just never heard of such a thing. Walking around like a plucked chicken. Or the evil henchman in a 80s sci-fi movie. There are people with diseases that wished they had eyebrows and these ninnies are taking them off on purpose. I do not think so. Trying to slip that by me. Well, it ain't gonna happen. I said "no."

I said "NO!"


I was reading with some relief this article proclaiming that, in spite of the rumors (started by Kate Gosselin, I suspect), this hair-d'oh is not sweeping the nation. Hallelujah. I was afraid somebody I know might get this whack job and I'd have to say how cute it was. You have to. Once somebody's done something this irretrievable to their head, all you can do is like like a dog. In fact, I'd like Snopes to investigate exactly how many people got this I-stood-with-my-back-too-close-to-the-oscillating-fan coiffure. I have enough faith in humanity to say, not many. Don't let me down.

But as I was reading, my eyes kept straying back to the picture. Who does that remind me of? It's right there. So familiar. What? What? What? That's it! You know that Cosmo computer makeover program? The one where you upload your picture, or pick a face that's like yours. Then you can try on different hairstyles, colors, makeups, all with no risk. But somehow you always look like a clown whore - Boobles the Sexworker. This hair looks just like one of those hyper-highlighted hair dos that is in that program that you try on and just laugh yourself silly, and make a jpeg of it to send all your friends - with the message title "LOL: If I ever do this to my head, PLEASE have me medicated."

Pizza Pizza

It’s a sad moment when you realize that you can’t share something with a friend. I don’t mean personal stuff. I could tell my friend M just about anything. I mean we can’t share a pizza. We’re talking about ordering a pizza for movie night. Sounds simple right?

She doesn’t want green pepper. Okay, green pepper is usually the only thing that’s consistent on my pizza order. But that’s fine. I can do any of the other veggies. She actually doesn’t want any veggies. Meat combo. The only meat I like is Canadian bacon. Which doesn’t work because she’s looking for a pizza that will drip down her arm. And I didn’t flinch. I didn’t let it show on my face. But eeeeuuuuuhhhh. My stomach would be jacked up for days. Don’t worry, tum-tee. I won’t let it happen. I didn’t bring up artichoke, and thank the marinara gods she had the good sense not to even whisper the word “anchovies”. I love her like a sister. But I might have had to punch her in the face for that. Not on my watch. Not. On. My. Watch.

There’s something so basic about pizza and friendship. It’s that negotiation: if I give up my jalapeños, and you give up pineapple, that leaves us with a black olive and mushroom that we can eat together. When it goes right, it’s the easiest food on the planet. If you put the box between you, you don’t even need plates. But when it’s wrong, and you get down to banging a shoe on the table over pepperoni, the ease just evaporates.

And you can get a half & half. But there’s just something kind of sad about that. A visible 38th parallel, where diplomacy has broken down and we can’t reach a truce. Sometimes you can be friends with someone, and never truly understand their taste. Wonder how she’d feel about a nice plate of nachos.

Wednesday, July 15, 2009

Give in to the impulse buy

Okay, last week, while I was having my giggle fit at Target, I went into that glassy eyed, I’ll-buy-that-for-a-dollar. They could have sold me the Brooklyn Bridge it’d had a little red clearance sticker on it. Zippo candle lighter? Sure. Sword and sorcery flick starring Colin Firth? I believe I will. Frog socks? Get in the cart! All part of my effort to stimulate the economy. You’re welcome, America.

And then I was in the lingerie department (and if the stock includes Fruit of the Loom granny panties, can it really be considered a “lingerie” department? I guess “Underwear” or “Drawers” would look kind of déclassé hanging from the ceiling), when I was next to the bra accessories end-cap. You know, strap extenders, pasties, chicken cutlets. And I spotted a knock off version of those plastic doo-dads they have on the TV that hook the straps of your bra together in the back. Given my heavy duty case of shopper’s fugue, it was inevitable that they would go home with me – you will be mine, oh, yes, you will be mine.

Gotta say – genius. Those things are amazing. For a two-bit piece of plastic, it may be up there with the Salk vaccine as far as things that save civilization. Or save me a little annoyance, which in my world view is pretty much equal. Basically they turn any bra into a racer-back. BUT, a racer-back with a back closure. As I said, genius. Cause I hate front closure bras. Unless you actually are exactly the size on the tag, front closure bras never fit right (and really, do they make humans in 2-inch size increments?). So, using these little plastic hooks (that really are that easy to put in – believe the hype) I get that critical 3-hook fudge space, for things like water retention and Blue Bell Ice Cream consumption, but I’m not losing my bra straps over my shoulders. I don’t know who invented these things, but I’m thinking of starting some Nobel Prize winner buzz. Who do you suppose I’d talk to to get that going?

Well, there ya go

Okay, there. You see what happens? Everybody knew that woman shouldn't a been having babies at 66. She lied to get pregnant, because the clinic's maximum age was 55 (say what?), and if she'd told them she was 66, they would have known she was out of her pea-pickin mind - move it along, Gran-Gran. There's just stuff that you shouldn't do after a certain age. But people just seem to think they can beat the clock. I'll be the one that gets away with it.

And it's not just women. Steve McNair? You know everybody was wondering what the hell happened when he died. Then it came out the girlfriend was 20. Mmmmmmhmmm. You take the kind of person who wants to be an NFL WAG (and I'm not saying they're all unstable flake-a-zoids, I'm just saying statistically . . . ), then drop the age down to barely legal and still riding the hormone hurricane? You've got someone that Mr. 35-year Old Ex-Football Player should have had the sense not to mess with.

Not that he deserved to end up dead for it. And neither did the Granny-Mama. And most of the time, the penalty for not acting your age isn't death. Usually you just look silly. Like 50-year old women wearing mini-skirts, or 60-something men saying "duder" (heard it recently - it scared me). And silly isn't usually fatal. So we're tempted. We hear time's swift chariot, and get all panicky. But it's ancient wisdom. To everything there is a season. A time to reap, a time to sow. And a time to shut the old uterus down and move on.

Tuesday, July 14, 2009

Looks just like Auntie

Most of the time I'm able to resist the impulse to post the cute picture of my nieces and nephews. 90% of the time, other people don't think they are as cute as you do. Aunties are under a cosmic law that they have a fiduciary responsibility to find everything the itty-bitties do adorable. And I try not to draw others into the madness. And I've resisted so many times. You're welcome.

But there's just no denying this. It is empircially cute. Oh, I just can't help it. Look at that face!!

Monday, July 13, 2009

Yeah, and Ken left Barbie, too

Echoing what Dallas Cowboys fans probably will think of this event (Jessica Simpson is considered something of a jinx), I'm going to have to echo their applause. Well done, Mr. Romo. When your TWENTY-NINE-YEAR-OLD girlfriend has a BARBIE themed birthday, it's time to make like Lee Nails and press on.

I mean, between the unabashed meddling of Daddy Joe Simpson, having to make polite conversation with Ashley Simpson and her doofus husband, and the derision of your colleagues, you have suffered enough. I would bet good money that Jessica has a pillow in her bedroom that says "Princess" in rhinestones. Gooood money. Big money. And that should have been your first clue to head for the exit. But you were dazzled. She's a pretty, hometown girl. I can see why you would try to make that one work.

But at the point where there are plans being made for a BARBIE themed TWENTY-NINTH BIRTHDAY party, that's just got to be the hot pink icing on break-up flavored cake. Time to stick a fork in it, my friend.

Late Bloomer

While sitting with a friend at the bar on Friday night, it occurred to me that, yes, with the coming of 40, I’ve finally hit the age where all those things that people have told me “You’ll be grateful for that later in life” are all starting to pay off.

Like having fair skin. I’m fair to the point of phosphorescence. And I’ve avoided the sun like a vampire on spring break, just because I go from zero to sunburn in minutes. And all these years, I’d have loved to have had golden, sun-kissed, beach goddess skin. But fish belly white has kind of been my lot in life. But now, I probably look a few years younger because I haven’t had all that sun damage. Sweet. Not that it was any real comfort to me when I was 17, but didn't work out so bad after all.

And I don’t know how many times older women told me, “You’ll be glad of the small cup size when you get older.” And after years of not finding bras that fit, or shirts, or bathing suits, or formal dresses, and having to pay for my own drinks, dammit, I kind of finally actually am pretty happy with how things have turned out. My boobs may be small, but they’re almost in the same place as they were when I first got them. Never having flunked the pencil test, I can tell gravity, “Poof, be gone! You have no power here.”

And there are lots of other little things that are kind of turning up jackpot late in the game. I’ve had crow’s feet since I was 18, so the wrinkle creep isn’t quite as traumatic as it would have been. Mousey brown hair doesn’t show gray. I’ve never been able to rely on my looks to get by, so I’m not trying to develop a brain, a personality and a sense of humor at this late date.

Dang, I think I’ve finally reached cruising altitude.

TIME: Quotes of the Day