Thursday, September 28, 2006

It's your time to shine!

I hate buying certain things. Every time I go to buy socks, underwear or deoderant I get pissed off. It's not so much the act of buying these things that bothers me, as it is the idea that I actually have to pay money for them. I really don't think I should have to pay more than a dollar for any of these products. I also think they should ideally come in bins which I can just shove my hand into and come out with a sock/underwear/deoderant supply for the next year.

Every time I go into Duane Reade and see some stupid stick of Secret with a $5.50 price tag, my vision blurs and I'm filled with rage. Unless it's a dire emergency, I cannot do it. I cannot perform the act of giving a surly drugstore employee an Abraham Lincoln and change so I can shove my baby-fresh PH-balanced purchase in my medicine cabinet and start my morning smelling like an infant in a clean diaper. Which leads me to do my shopping at the 99 cent store.

I love the 99 cent store with an almost sexual passion. I love the randomness of the Jesus figurines next to dinner plates next to toothpaste. It's a perfect storm of discounted crap and I adore it.

So after I tried to put on deoderant the other day and realized that I was doing nothing more than scraping plastic against my armpits, (which, blood? Does not keep you fresh) I knew it was time to make a trip to my favorite store.

Now the thing with buying deoderant at this particular store, is that they generally only have two kinds. Avon and Tussy. I had previously had a negative experience with Tussy. Turns out, buying deoderant because the name makes you giggle isn't the best idea, as you will end up wearing a scent that actually smells like sweaty armpits. I put it on and immediately felt and smelled like I had just run a 5k. It was the antithesis of deoderant. It was oderant.

So I went to the store intending to try the Avon, which I had avoided up to this point because of it's creepy ball applicator. At this point, I figured the creepy ball was preferable to smelling like a gym bag. I'm trying to decide between powder fresh and original when I spot something pink out of the corner of my eye.

"Well hello, Ladies Choice. How are you today?"

A lone stick of invisible solid had infiltrated my beloved store. I was excited. I checked around me to make sure no one else had their eye on my treasure. Relieved to see all of the other customers perusing the Goya beans and screwdrivers, I snatched it up.
I get home and get ready for the inaugural application of the deoderant I chose because I'm a lady. This is when I notice something important. It had sparkles. It said so right on the label. My deoderant has fucking glitter in it.

I was flabbergasted. I could only imagine the thought process. "Girls. Pink. Smell. Pretty. Flowers. Unicorns. Timberlake. Boobs. Stars. Sparkle! That's it. Fucking glitter! IN! THE! DEODERANT!"

Who needs this? Who is the person who is sitting at home, feeling badly about themselves because their armpits just aren't...shiny enough? Is this an actual demographic? Are there support groups? More importantly, did Ladies Choice advertise this innovation?


VO: The teenage years are difficult for everybody. Changing bodies and hormones can be especially tough on teenage girls.
MOTHER: Hey sweetie, is something bothering you?
DAUGHTER: No mom, everything's fine.
MOTHER: Come on, you know you can tell me anything.
DAUGHTER: It's nothing...It's just that--
MOTHER: I think I know what this is about. And don't worry, I had the same problems when I was your age.
MOTHER: Yes. It's your armpits, right? They just don't feel...pretty enough?
DAUGHTER: Yeah! How did you know?
MOTHER: Hey, I was a teenager once too, you know. All women have this problem. Of course, I wasn't as lucky as you are; I had to suffer in silence.
DAUGHTER: Lucky? How?
MOTHER: Well, you have Ladies Choice deoderant and anti-perspirent.
DAUGHTER: But I've been using deoderant for years and I still don't feel pretty enough.
MOTHER: Yes, but you've never used Ladies Choice. It has sparkles.
DAUGHTER: Sparkles?
MOTHER: Sparkles. Built right in.
DAUGHTER: Wow! I'm going to try it right now!


DAUGHTER: I feel so pretty. Thanks Mom!
MOM: Don't thank me, thank Ladies Choice.
MOM AND DAUGHTER: (To camera) Thanks Ladies Choice!
VO: Ladies Choice deoderant. It's your time to shine!

Tuesday, September 26, 2006

An open letter to the first three season premieres:

Dear anyone ever associated with The Office. I'm talking cast, writers, electricians, craft services folk, whomever:

Marry me.


Dear Marc Cherry,

You were kind of an absentee daddy on your show last season as the ratings and Emmy nominations (or lack thereof) showed us. So I understand that you're a little rusty; here's my suggestion: Netflix the first two seasons and watch them. Realize that Marcia Cross is only playing one character. Her name is Bree. Please write accordingly. Yes, she is an amazing actress who can play any number of roles. That doesn't mean that she should be playing all of those roles on your show. Rein it in, big guy.


Dear Shonda Rhimes,

I firmly believe that you spend every Sunday eating croissants at the Chateau Marmont with Zach Braff and fighting over who can pick the heartfelt indie song that will best represent the inner turmoil and perpetual late-twenties ennui with which you insist on saddling all of your characters. "You got your Shins in my Joseph Arthur!" "You got your Joseph Arthur in my Shins!"

"But Meredith is scary and damaged!" I KNOW! Now I'm not one to endorse Fergie Ferg, but once, just once, I would not be adverse to seeing Meredith busting a move to "London Bridge--" If I didn't think her hips would immediately shatter and turn to dust.

Speaking of which, I was watching an old episode of House the other night, and they put this fat suit on a 10-year-old. It looked great; it had realistic-looking freckles and everything. I also watch CSI a lot and am often impressed/grossed out by the realism they are able to give their corpses. Your show has money; can't you do something about Ellen Pompeo?


Edit: In its neverending editing wisdom, Blogger is refusing to upload any picture of Ellen Pompeo. I tried a few different pictures several different ways, and none of them took. Blogger does not want to subject you to that unless you want to. Tell Blogger "thank you."

Blogger: The best editor I could hope for

So I was writing a post yesterday about my love of Fall and the season premieres of The Office, Desperate Housewives and Greys' Anatomy. The post ended up being a little on the long and bloated side and at one point trailed off into a conversation I had with someone about Pumpkin Spice Frappucinos. I read it over, wasn't thrilled with it, but thought it had some good points. I was posting the accompanying pictures when Blogger decided to eat the entire post.


I spent the next five minutes trying to make the post come back, which of course it didn't. I cursed myself for not saving a copy like I usually do. I debated whether or not I was going to rewrite it. Then I understood.

Blogger knew.

Blogger thought my post kind of sucked and said, as it picked its teeth, "I wasn't really feeling it."

Fair enough. Thank you for keeping my shit together, Blogger.

Next post: the severely truncated version of my season premiere post.

Monday, September 11, 2006

Ronald John Hemenway

Five years later, and we've gone on with our lives. We go to school, we go to work, we vote for the next American Idol. We are rarely faced with reminders of that morning, five years ago. For some people, though, the pain of that day is still fresh. It is something that they live with; it is a part of them.

On September 11, 2001, Ronald Hemenway, 37, went to work. He had a successful career as an electronics technician first class in the Navy, where he was known among his shipmates as being intelligent, mature, and having a great sense of humor. He would always joke around with his friends on the ship about being so hairy he needed to shave three times a day. His career in the Navy ultimately sent him from his home in Kansas City to the Pentagon.

An avid horse enthusiast, Hemenway bred horses before joining the Navy and still kept two at his parent's home in Kansas. Right before the attack on the Pentagon, Hemenway and his wife Marinella had been looking at property in Virginia in order to make a home for their horses and two children, Stefan and Desiree, who were only toddlers.

Stefan and Desiree are both in school now, starting the process of growing up. While their memories of their father may be dim, projects like 2,996 are keeping not only his memory alive, but the memories of all of the people who died on September 11, 2001. It's five years later. We've moved on, but we have not forgotten.

Friday, September 01, 2006

Okay. So if Suri turns out to be a puppet, MK overdoses on "anorexia," Leinart says he's not the dad, and Nicky gets knocked up by that elf, I'm good

I'm not going to try to do one of those, "I know I should write more, but I haven't been because of xyz and I promise I'll do better" posts, even though...yeah. Anyway, we're going to talk about when obsessions become tangible.

I love celebrity gossip. I know it's not important, that there are events in this world that usurp whether or not Suri Cruise a) exists, or b) was birthed by a glassy-eyed runaway deep inside the bowels of the celebrity center.* From what I understand, there's a war or two happening somewhere...over there, and the Silver Fox keeps on talking about some sort of water-damage in New Orleans. I don't know much about it, but he seems really worked up about it every night on CNN.

None of this, however, changes the fact that ohmygoddidyouhearjessicaisdatingjohnmayer? She has a creepy father, ditched her sweet, understanding husband, turned orange, and is dating a dude with fish lips--while her ex is dating a hot lady who regularly appears in Maxim. Delicious.

So when I heard about Fafarazzi, which is basically fantasy football for celebrities, I, of course, became immediately obsessed. Knowing nothing about fantasy sports, I of course, screwed up my first round draft picks and missed out on the sacred tabloid cows of Paris, Jessica and Lindsay. Little fake Cruise, however, has proven to be quite the boon. After an ill-advised and sentimental draft of Pete Wentz, I dropped him, along with Owen Wilson and others and shook up my roster last night. I'm currently third in my league, but only one point separates me from second.

I'm betting on some more Couric news leading up to her putting on her serious face and talking about explosions and stuff, John Mayer's side of the story/fan-saving denial, and I'm really hoping that the Go Fug Yourself girls are right about the less-skanky Hilton girl.

Obsession is bad enough, but when you're actively rooting for Maggie Gyllenhaal to be pregnant with her brother's kid just because the points that would garner would be phenomenal, your mental state is probably less than desirable. But seriously, Scarlett. Where's the sex tape?

*Seriously. There is no third option. It's one of the two.