Now with 15% More Bullsh*t!

I’m concerned about the manufacturers of beauty products. I’m worried they have completely broken ties with reality and the fancy their products capable of inducing the same state in their consumers.

Confused? Let’s press on.

I was mild-manneredly applying hand lotion at my desk today when I happened to flip the bottle around and read the description. I expected it to be something like … oh, say … “Hand Lotion Inside” or some other straightforward explanation befitting a product as simple as goop that de-scratchifies your palms.

Nay, dear readers. My sassy bottle of lotion, produced by a company who shall remain nameless, carried this little inscription:

“The scent of violets mingling with sweet pea petals is heaven on earth, and the inspiration for this delicate fragrance.”

“Heaven on earth,” you say? I was equally perplexed. I waited patiently to be transported Upstairs by my dab of peachy-pink goo, but to no avail. I was similarly disturbed by the thought of violets and sweet pea petals “mingling.” Made me rather uncomfortable.

Prodded on by this distressing discovery, I examined several other products that many of us probably have sitting on our bathroom vanities, dangling in our shower caddies, and perhaps nestled in tissue paper and a fetching gift bag awaiting Aunt Mildred’s birthday. I am here to report that beauty product marketers are crazy and their copywriters are feeding us B.S. by the pot-, tube-, and tubful. Observe:

The Perfume
“Stylish and lively, with a distinctive personality, this fragrance takes you on a journey through the pleasures and flavors of your childhood with a playful blend of vanilla and caramel.”

I think I prefer my eau de toilette without a snappy personality. I have enough trouble narrowing down my shoe choices, and I need no more opinions to muck everything up. Additionally, the flavors of my childhood bring to mind things like fishsticks and crayons, so no thank you there as well.

The Shower Gel
“Inspires your soul to sing with you in the shower. It’s sunshine in a bottle with a scent that is too uplifting for words. If you’ve been searching for an instant mood enhancer, look no further than our new signature scent shower gel.”

This one’s almost too intense to critique, but … hold the phone – “instant mood enhancer”? They’re selling foaming, liquid Paxil now?! Get Barton and Olsen on the horn immediately, because this is a million dollar opportunity. And Lohan, stop hocking ProActiv, for God’s sake, and jump on this band wagon tout suite, before Ritchie’s emaciated ass gets there first!

The ‘Nother Lotion
“Pink lotus petals enveloped by a golden piece of precious amber. Seductive. Rich. Beautiful.”

Let’s see here – petals … enveloped … by amber. Am I reading that right? So … a geode, essentially? So … chunky lotion. Uh huh. Furthermore, we’re all still aware that amber is hardened tree sap? We are? Oh …

Wow. Just ... Wow.

Obsession, I know thy name, and it is “DVR.”

Without realizing it, I have slipped past the point of sanity and am now 100% reliant on my DVR. My dependency was made evident when I was doing a quick scan of my scheduled series recordings.

There are at least 17, people. Seventeen. Count ‘em:

- LOST. I’m catching up on the second season and am as eager about the third season starting as a smackhead is at the sight of a bent spoon.
- Project Runway. Need I say more?
- Flavor of Love. You know a show is a trash-tastic good time when two girls get into a fist fight over a bed, a stripper gets loaded, AND a woman defecates on the floor all during the very first episode.
- Celebrity Fit Club. Tina Yothers shoveling horse crap for exercise? Yes, please.
- Lovespring International. A little-known, mostly improv show on Lifetime or Oxygen or one of those ultra-girly, let’s-talk-about-our-feelings networks.
- Three Moons over Milford. Kind of like The Gilmore Girls meets Charmed.
- Top Chef. New season starting soon! (I love you, Harold.)
- America’s Next Top Model. For added fun, tally the number of times someone says “fierce” or “you bettah work, bitch.” Extra points if it’s Tyra and she’s wearing a ridiculous wig (which is always).
- The Biggest Loser. Along the same lines as Celebrity Fit Club, but minus the celebrity part (sorry, Caroline Rhea).
- Good Eats. Oh, Alton Brown. Anyone who can make gluten interesting is okay by me.
- Ace of Cakes. The chef’s a total douche, but he makes cakes with fireworks in them. You must give credit where credit is due.
- Food Network Challenge. Wow. I watch the Food Network waaaaay too much.
- Queer Eye. Bringing much-needed fabulousness to the unwashed masses.
- Studio 60. It’s got Matthew Perry in it. That’s got to be a good thing, right?
- The Simpsons. Still going strong after 47 years.
- Family Guy. The Simpsons, but dirtier (yes, that’s possible).
- All-American Dad. I’m kind of meh about this one, but it follows so nicely after the last two.

I’m sure that I’m forgetting several. And rest assured that I will be setting recordings for American Idol, So You Think You Can Dance, Hell’s Kitchen, My Life on the D-List, The Office, and probably five or six more.

I need medication.

Boo-Hoo

Yesterday, I tried to help a coworker edit her bridesmaid’s speech for her little sister’s wedding. Her first stab was sweet and heartfelt and emotional (apparently, she cried during her practice run in front of 15 friends), which, to me, is most of what a toast to your baby sister’s triumphs should be. I think my friend was expecting her professional copywriter (cue scary, Psycho-style music and, perhaps, stabbing motions), to bash, slay, and dissect her earnest words.

I found her toast, written just as she would have charmingly said it to one close friend, a room full of acquaintances, or a stranger in a bar, to be an earnest and thoughtful speech about her clearly deep, altruistic love for both her sister and the man she has chosen to be her groom.

First and foremost, mazel tov to Dane and Katie.

Secondly, I thought this would be a good opportunity to raise my own premature glass to my personal muse, the girl/woman whom I think the most of in this entirely confused and misguided world.

(Mom, you should probably get your tissues ready now, or stop reading. Your choice.)

I have wanted you in my life since I was able to recognize that people other than me existed. (That took longer than you might expect, so don’t be too flattered.)

From then on, I always wanted a baby just like me (read: blond-haired, blue-eyed, and FABULOUS). But I was even luckier in that the gods of genealogy (thanks, Dr. Mendel) gave me something even more amazing: You.

You are just like me, but yet not at all. You are sarcastic and witty, but small and delicate. You are self-deprecating, yet feisty beyond words. You are everything that I hoped you’d be, so much more than I envisioned, and many things that I wish I was.

I have no doubts that you’ll achieve everything that you have in mind: with, without, or in spite of my help.

That said, I would lay down on tracks for you, swim shark-infested waters for you, and take another job at Advante for you. (Really, I would if you asked, but please … just don’t.)

You are someone that I am amazed by daily and someone to whom I can’t wait to introduce to my eventual children.

You are the best thing that has ever happened to me, regardless of who I meet and who I end up with in the long-term, we’re-together-forever-altogether-creepy-kind-of-way.

You are more important to me than you’ll ever know.

(Stop crying, Mom.)

They Tryin’ To Catch Me Ridin’ Dirty, Y’all

On my drive home from another pleasant yet uneventful day at my enjoyable yet unchallenging job, I was lost in a meditative state as I regarded the petulant sky, speckled gray and blue like the gloomiest of robin’s eggs.

I was chomping on a jawful of wintergreen and nodding along to Buttons when I glanced in my rearview. Jeez, I thought with a supreme eye roll, that a-hole behind me needs to back up off Mama’s ass.

Said a-hole clung to my bumper like a groupie on JT’s leather-clad elbow down my remaining few miles of highway and off onto my exit. As we sat silently at a stoplight (Buttons still popping), I inspected this character in my mirror.

Hmmm, that’s a lot of antennas, I thought. Lots of doodads on the console, too. And is that … a laptop on the dash? Hey, why is he putting on a wide-brimmed chapeau resembling a police hat?

That’s right. I got pulled over on an uber-active thoroughfare during downtown rush hour traffic. I’m the luckiest girl in the world!

As Officer Friendly sauntered up to my car, I decided to put my best foot forward. I turned down Buttons (much to my chagrin) and stuck my head out of my open window, trilling “Hi!” at him like a deranged songbird. Judging by his noticeable flinch, he’s not much of a chatter.

We exchanged pleasantries – well, mostly just “License and registration, please,” but you could tell he TOTALLY got me. “Sure,” I all but squealed, still intent on charming my way out of a ticket. I snapped open my wallet and retrieved my license with a photo taken so long ago that it features my fetching, Charlize-Theron-in-Mighty-Joe-Young hairdo that in no way resembles my current Shakira-in-her-Whenever, Wherever-days look.

I leaned down and pulled open the glovebox to obtain my registration, and wonder of wonders, a tampon rolls out.

Well, this is going swimmingly.

I handed over the paper, careful not to make eye contact with the tampon. Then the officer asked innocently, “So, which address is correct – the one on your license or the one on your registration?” I read out my current address with an impatient wave of my hand, not remembering which item is more up-to-date. “That address isn’t on either of these, ma’am.”

Oh, effing swell.

He retreated to his car to write my ticket as I sat wallowing in my inability to be cute and charming enough to weasel out of a well-deserved ticket. I watched as half of the city’s government workers rolled past me, rubbernecking to get a look at my criminal mug. The only thing that would have made it even more mortifying is if A) an ex-boyfriend, B) my boss, or C) my crazy, drunken ex-friend from college would have driven by, honked, and thrown a milkshake at me.

He came back, ticket in hand (sans handcuffs, though, so bully for me), reporting that the reason for my citation was that I had failed to renew my license plates when they expired two months prior. One can only assume my reminder for this was sent to my old address. Oops. I resisted the urge to thwack my palm into my forehead, as I’ve gotten busted for this little blunder before.

I leave you with this moral message: Always alert the damn DMV when you move, kids. Oh, and don’t try to sweet talk an unresponsive cop unless you’re really, REALLY cute. Or Paris Hilton.

I'm Strange, and Here's Why.

I’m anomalous. Don’t get me wrong – I’m sure that everyone is. But it is only until very recently that I have realized just how many ways in which I contradict myself. Observe a petite sampling …

- I won’t eat sausage because I think it’s gross, BUT I will eat yogurt that is literally months past its expiration date.
- My clothes are hung in Closet A, organized by color, type, and season; HOWEVER, my shoes are in a massive jumble on the floor of Closet B.
- I continue to buy milk on a regular basis because it’s good for me EVEN THOUGH I never drink it and it goes bad. Every. Single. Time.
- On my coffee table, I have a copy of Everything Is Illuminated AND a can of PBR. And a flyswatter.
- I make a daily check of Pink Is the New Blog AND The Chronicle of Higher Education. And Go Fug Yourself and CNN. And Natalie Dee and MarketingSherpa.
- I hate when people and things become predictable, AND YET change makes me apprehensive.
- I’m supposed to be writing a novel, but I’m too busy, NEVERTHELESS I can always find time for Flavor of Love.

See what I mean? Weird person. I feel this is less an indication of my depth and more a warning sign of ADHD.

Womp Womp

The dating scene in this town is a black hole and it's making a colossal sucking sound as it collapses in on itself.

Just wanted to get that out of the way.

But really. Something has happened to the men, and I really hope that it’s geographical and not developmental. They have turned into geishas – sitting coyly on barstools and smiling from behind their lashes while the women have been forced to become the necessary aggressors for the betterment of the human species.

And the bounty isn’t even worth it. Take a gander at some of the gems I’ve run across in the past few months. Names have been removed to protect the appalling:

Suitor #1 – Late 20s, worked in human resources. Meh. Just … kind of meh. On our first date he brought two different cell phones, saying one belonged to a … friend. That’s … weird. Also turns out that every girlfriend he’s ever had has gotten custody of his dog in the breakup. Not their dog, mind you. His dog (read: pushover). Things sputtered sluggishly to a lackluster stop after only a few mind-numbing dates.

Suitor #2 – Oy. I don’t even have the strength.

Suitor #3 – Early 20s, very cute. First presented himself to be an artist aspiring to become a physicist. Was regrettably revealed to be a stoner house painter aspiring to obtain an electrician’s degree from community college. That’s … not even close to the same thing. Also lived in his parents’ basement. Called me almost daily for three weeks after our first and only date (that I cut mercifully short with the help of a wing-gal). My theory is that after every phone call, the one responsible brain cell was smoked into oblivion, leaving his impaired compatriots to look at each other in a haze and question, “Dude. When was the last time we called Kathrin?”

Suitor #4 – Early 30s, also very cute, funny, smart, and had a great job. Looked good on paper. Also called nonstop, completely wigging me out and making me glad I never gave him a last name so as to facilitate his obvious stalker tendencies. When he tried to strong-arm me into a date over text message, I had to tell him that he’d come on way too strong and was kind of creepy. That one never even got out of the gate, and if you see him, please don't give him my address.

Suitor #5 – Late 20s, cute, good job, blah blah blah. He called. I called. After a week he called again. After another week I called again. After another two weeks he called again. I never called again.

BOOOOOOOOO. It’s time to move.

Dr. Phil Says, "Eat More Cinnamon Toast"

“You are livin’ right, girl.”

This adorable phrase was uttered to me this morning by a co-worker as I stood in her cube on my way to the kitchen, Hot Pocket in hand. Seemed like a small thing at the time, but it has stuck with me throughout the day.

Here’s why: The reason said co-worker looked up at me from her mint green, lumbar-supporting desk chair and said these kind, almost wistful words with such sincerity had to do with the plastic baggie I was clutching in my other, non-Hot Pocket hand. No, don’t get excited; it’s nothing really juicy.

I was holding two slices of brown sugar-cinnamon toast. That’s all. Picked up on a whim at the grocery store, mostly because the loaf was on sale, and hell, who couldn’t use more delicious breakfast items in their life?

“I never think to get nice things like that for myself.”

I walked to the kitchen and toasted them, and the whole room filled up with that smell you all remember from when you were a kid, like today would be special because you were getting dessert for breakfast. (I must point out that the reason the scent permeated the whole kitchen is due to a new rule at my office that the kitchen door must stay closed at all times so "food smells don’t leak into the hallway." Odd, right? But I digress.)

As I sat there enveloped by the sweet, sweet delish-ery, I thought about the little things that people don’t do for themselves for the silliest reasons. Too many calories. I already have enough ass fat. It’s almost bikini season (hah! Can’t use that one anymore).

So next time you’re at the grocery store, buy a loaf of raisin bread, a little brie, or a bottle of champagne. Because I think that if we treated ourselves like that more often, we’d all be livin’ right.

Newsflash: It's Still Just a Dog

You know what scares me? No, way worse than clowns. Dog park people.

That’s right. But let’s be clear – I’m all for people who love their animals. Hell, let ‘em ride in the front seat, slap little bandanas with bones printed on them around their necks, and feed ‘em some bacon straight from your plate. Fine by me.

But do not let yourself waiver over the line into the Creepy Dog Park Person who rattles on about Pookie’s likes (e.g. strawberry fro-yo) and dislikes (e.g. Leno) for as long as the person next to you can stand it or until they punch you in the face. Whichever happens first (I’m going with the latter).

Take, for example, this cross-section of humanity that I stumbled across on my semi-weekly trip to the dog park. (NOTE: Mere attendance at the dog park does not qualify one for creepy status. Moving on.)

Let’s start with El Creepy Dog Park Guy:
- Appearance (7 out of 10 possible Creep Points) - Long, wavy, frizzed-out mullet topped by a Planet Hollywood baseball cap. Tie-dyed T-shirt stretched over rotund beer belly. Faded gray running shorts. Timberland’s (likely not for fashion, but for muddin’).
- Behavior (9 out of 10 possible Creep Points) - This guy’s M.O. was to pick up everyone else’s dogs’ droppings before we could get to them. How … odd.

Next we come to La Creepy Dog Park Gal:
- Appearance (8 out of 10 possible Creep Points) - Short, scraggly, I-dyed-this-mess-at-home-using-Chlorox-and-lemon-juice hair. Long, shapeless, faded sundress. No attempt at a bra. Deerskin slippers trimmed in beaver fur that kept attracting mulch bits, which she would then whack off with a stick.
- Behavior (14 out of 10 possible Creep Points) - She enjoyed screaming her dogs’ names with no regard for purpose or volume. As in, “CiCi!! BooBoo!!!” bellowed at 312 decibels, after which she would look around aimlessly (nowhere near her dogs) and titter to herself. It was almost as if she was trying to trick them, but they weren’t fooled. She had also ostensibly been taking Caninese language lessons, because she made valiant attempts to speak to all the animals in their own tongue. This hobby was made evident by her tendency to howl stridently at them and mimic their barks as they ran past her and toward their owners, terrified for their lives.

My own dog was noticeably embarrassed for them and came to me for comfort every time one of them would draw near. I tried to reassure her, but as I am not fluent in Caninese, I was depressingly unsuccessful.

Perhaps it’s time to find a new dog park. Or perhaps I needn't return to one ever, ever again.

Snoozefest 2006

So, MTV’s Video Music Awards were on last night. And may I just say ZZZZZZZzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

How boring. How utterly, utterly boring.

Jack Black? Yawn. Jessica Simpson? Dumb as ever and twice as tedious. And the Raconteurs were out of tune most of the night.

I don't know about you guys, but I like my Paris Hiltons so wasted they can't speak and my Lil' Kims barely capable of hanging onto their clothing. Alas, the world has gone crazy and neither of those things happened (at least on camera).

So to pass the time, I started jotting down my immediate reactions to many of the “celebrities” and fame junkies as they hit the stage (some of them quite literally). And here they are for you, with obvious ones such as “Why isn’t Justin Timberlake my boyfriend?” extracted:

1. No one told me James Blunt was British. How did I not know this?
2. Lil' Kim? This bears repeating: If we can’t see your boobs then we are not interested.
3. What was up with the ersatz pirate ensemble on that guy from Outkast? Billowy white button-down and skinny jeans tucked into knee-high red leather boots? I think not.
4. The Rock should either go bald or spiky. The slicked back look just makes him seem greasy. And kind of smarmy, too. Not a good combo.
5. I’ve figured it out: Shakira is boneless. Her hips have been lying to us all this time.
6. One of these three things is happening: 1) L.L. and 50 are perpetually hammered; 2) I am perpetually hammered; or 3) we don’t even speak the same language anymore. Because I caught 0% of what they just said.
7. Nelly Furtado completely gave up her actual singing talent in favor of slinking around stage half-dressed and half-whispering. Sad times for The Feminist Movement.
8. Lil' Jon’s done lost his damn mind. Even more. He's still quite crunk, though.
9. Did one of Luda’s dancers just fall down during the routine? (Upon further inspection: Oh yeah. Yeah, she did. Right in the front, too.)
10. Jessica Simpson may have actually had laryngitis. And she’s also still dead from the neck up.
11. Chris Brown is gh-h-h-h-h-h-hetto.
12. God love you, OK GO. God love you and bless you and your freakishly hot white boy rhythm. And your treadmills.
13. Are Shaun White and Carrot Top actually the same person? Think about it – have you ever seen them in the same place?
14. Someone please stop Paris Hilton. Just stop her. Or give her a large cocktail. Either way.
15. Hi, John Norris? Hang it up, ho. It’s over. You look ridiculous.
16. T.I. looks like a golfer. That ain’t street.
17. Shouldn’t Abigail Breslin be able to read already? She stumbled over the word “avenged.” This saddens me.
18. Christ, the Federlines are trash-tastic. And not in the good, Kayne-from-Project-Runway way. Just trashy.
19. SHUT UP, MISSY. I, my friend, can stand the rain.
20. My DVR elected not to record the final thirty minutes of the show. Thank God. Apparently, it was bored out of its mind, too.