by tess
Since my first day back from the weekend is Tuesday, it is essentially my Monday. So here are my erstwhile Monday morning thoughts.
Diet Pepsi doesn't taste the same now that it's in silver cans. At first I thought it was a different product - Pepsi Zero or One or whatever - but it's just Diet Pepsi re-marketed to silver-can-lovers and/or blue-can-haters ... apparently. Could this difference in taste be my imagination or did they re-formulate it? I don't know but I'm not happy about it. Those little baby cans are my lunchtime guilty pleasure. Okay, the eight ounces of DP along with a little baby can of Beefaroni. They could be marketed together as All the Sodium and Calories, Half the Pleasure! Now that's marketing that we can all embrace!
If we are to believe what we are told, then network owners only really care about the all-important 18-49 demographic. But if that's true, how then can you explain six painful years of Two and a Half Men? Not that Jon Cryer can't be brilliant, he can! (Might Friends have been a better show had his Chandler Bing audition tape arrived in time? Who knows? Who cares.) One thing is certain - where one finds a Sheen, one hears the distinctive, unpleasant sound of a straw draining an already-empty cup: a vortex of suckage.
I'm paraphrasing another blogger when I tell you that October on General Hospital can best be described thusly: Boring people saying boring stuff while wearing boring clothes. (Note: This isn't entirely unexpected as each month preceding a Sweeps Month focuses on exposition rather than action.) She also commented that the sole bright spot of the show was Liz's sweater. Exposition-laden or not, life is sub-awesome in old Port Chuckles when a gray polka dot sweater is the highlight of the month. But since we're talking about that sweater, I'll take this opportunity to share some thoughts. Admittedly I'm five years and 50 pounds past caring One Tiny Bit about fashion so my opinion matters not at all. Having said that, the aforementioned sweater fell just an inch or so above her shirt which is a peek-a-boo look I quite like - just a flash of a different color at the top and/or bottom of a garment adds visual interest and keeps the eye moving. On the other hand, I'm less than fond of a sweater that falls six or seven inches above a tee shirt when it's stretched across jeans. Not even heroin-chic models can rock that. Seriously, stretching a tight, hip-length tee shirt across jeans is an engraved invitation to a Look-at-my-ass-it's-the-size-of-the-Grand-Canyon! party.
Jori, a self-described biblio-fanatic and card shark who occasionally wastes valuable time reading my blog, recently shared:
"WRT being a spectator at the game of your own life - too true, too true. I'll not only see that metaphor but raise it! I compare living my life (or not!) to a motor coach ride through France (lovely trip, btw). I spent the entire fourteen days with my constant companions, Messrs. Fodor, Frommer, and Steves, nose buried deep in my guide books to ensure that I was quite prepared. As the driver would mention la Place Vendome coming up on the left, I'd check the books and my notes, then look up just in time to realize I'd completely missed it. C'est la vie. Or more accurately: Such is the life we've chosen, you and I."
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Stupid time change
by tess
I'm already dreading next week's time change. It's not that I flooooove getting up and driving to work when the moon is still bright and shiny, but the time change is so much worse.
1) I hate driving home in the dark. Especially in the rain. I can't see anything and everybody drives like maniacs. (Yes, I am aware that I sound like I'm 800 years old. Shut up.)
2) I hate resetting all the clocks and light timers - too much bending and stretching involved. The only good thing about changing the clocks is creating time zones. (Better because The Hubs doesn't aprove.) Within two square feet we have three time zones (stove vs. microwave vs. toaster oven), just across from the DVR, TV, and thermometer which have time zones of their own. Then of course there's my alarm clock (6 minutes fast) versus the bedroom TV (1 minute fast) versus The Hubs (4 minutes slow) - that's 10 minutes in 6 feet! Think if the whole world tried to operate like that! Oh wait, it does. I'm early and everyone else is late.
3) The cats don't know about the time change. That means they'll be getting up at 3:30 instead of 4:30. Note to cats: 3:30 AM isn't actually an early morning. It's a REALLY LATE last night when the bar slugs are still tearing apart their bathrooms looking for the stash of Chaser that will theoretically enable them to be ready for that 9:00 AM presentation. Good luck with that, kids!
I'm already dreading next week's time change. It's not that I flooooove getting up and driving to work when the moon is still bright and shiny, but the time change is so much worse.
1) I hate driving home in the dark. Especially in the rain. I can't see anything and everybody drives like maniacs. (Yes, I am aware that I sound like I'm 800 years old. Shut up.)
2) I hate resetting all the clocks and light timers - too much bending and stretching involved. The only good thing about changing the clocks is creating time zones. (Better because The Hubs doesn't aprove.) Within two square feet we have three time zones (stove vs. microwave vs. toaster oven), just across from the DVR, TV, and thermometer which have time zones of their own. Then of course there's my alarm clock (6 minutes fast) versus the bedroom TV (1 minute fast) versus The Hubs (4 minutes slow) - that's 10 minutes in 6 feet! Think if the whole world tried to operate like that! Oh wait, it does. I'm early and everyone else is late.
3) The cats don't know about the time change. That means they'll be getting up at 3:30 instead of 4:30. Note to cats: 3:30 AM isn't actually an early morning. It's a REALLY LATE last night when the bar slugs are still tearing apart their bathrooms looking for the stash of Chaser that will theoretically enable them to be ready for that 9:00 AM presentation. Good luck with that, kids!
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
XX v. XY
by tess
Joe, a college friend whom I recently rediscovered, works in an industry with miniscule female representation. An Old Boys Club. His colleagues are interchangeable -- balding men between 50 and 60 who are struggling through their second sets of wife-cum-kids. Since South Florida is hardly the epicenter of this emergent-technologies-delivered-a-bullet-to-the-brain industry, most of the guys are grunting their last hurrah and hoping like hell that they can make it to retirement before right-sizing, reduction in force, foreclosure, and/or heart failure destroy what's left of their once-golden lives.
Now into this fraternal den of bears, insert one lone woman, Thwarta. Like her male colleagues, she's divorced, middle-aged, and hardly shy about expressing her opinions ... or scratching her balls. Universally vilified, Thwarta has come to represent, if not The EveryWoman, then certainly The EveryEx. Might The Boys respect her expertise more politely if she were one of The Guys? Probably not. But they might at least accept her input with less muttering and fewer harrumphs. Maybe.
Thwarta the EveryEx is ignored as much as possible and certainly not invited to eat or golf with the Men's Club. Not that she'd care to. Her lunch hours are spent adding eye of newt and hair of toad to the cauldron in her office, then she rides her perfectly-maintained, high-end broomstick straight back to her cave each evening.
It's during the five lunches Joe and The Guys share each week that the difference between men and women is most pronounced. It's not the food -- most are trying to take at least a modicum of interest in their hypertension and cholesterol. It's the conversation. Aside from the occasional mention of sports, lunch-chat is limited to work- and industry-related issues.
Certainly female colleagues frequently eat together and discuss their work --- and sports, too. But I would venture to guess that a half dozen women who eat together every day would be hard-pressed not to discuss what are clearly female-centric concerns -- like men, food, cramps, fashion, pets, undergarments, and kids. You know -- interesting things.
So it was particularly amusing when, apparently suffering from a sudden brain seizure, Joe filled a conversational void with the words:
"So last night on Real Housewives, Sherree said ...."
Poor Joe. Dressing-smeared lettuce, croutons, tomatoes, olives, chickpeas, and mushrooms came flying from every angle. His shirt is a vertiable cornucopia of salad bar stains. From now on NeNe, Kim, and Kandi will have to fend for themselves. A-Rod, Kobe, and Lance are apparently The New Black.
Joe, a college friend whom I recently rediscovered, works in an industry with miniscule female representation. An Old Boys Club. His colleagues are interchangeable -- balding men between 50 and 60 who are struggling through their second sets of wife-cum-kids. Since South Florida is hardly the epicenter of this emergent-technologies-delivered-a-bullet-to-the-brain industry, most of the guys are grunting their last hurrah and hoping like hell that they can make it to retirement before right-sizing, reduction in force, foreclosure, and/or heart failure destroy what's left of their once-golden lives.
Now into this fraternal den of bears, insert one lone woman, Thwarta. Like her male colleagues, she's divorced, middle-aged, and hardly shy about expressing her opinions ... or scratching her balls. Universally vilified, Thwarta has come to represent, if not The EveryWoman, then certainly The EveryEx. Might The Boys respect her expertise more politely if she were one of The Guys? Probably not. But they might at least accept her input with less muttering and fewer harrumphs. Maybe.
Thwarta the EveryEx is ignored as much as possible and certainly not invited to eat or golf with the Men's Club. Not that she'd care to. Her lunch hours are spent adding eye of newt and hair of toad to the cauldron in her office, then she rides her perfectly-maintained, high-end broomstick straight back to her cave each evening.
It's during the five lunches Joe and The Guys share each week that the difference between men and women is most pronounced. It's not the food -- most are trying to take at least a modicum of interest in their hypertension and cholesterol. It's the conversation. Aside from the occasional mention of sports, lunch-chat is limited to work- and industry-related issues.
Certainly female colleagues frequently eat together and discuss their work --- and sports, too. But I would venture to guess that a half dozen women who eat together every day would be hard-pressed not to discuss what are clearly female-centric concerns -- like men, food, cramps, fashion, pets, undergarments, and kids. You know -- interesting things.
So it was particularly amusing when, apparently suffering from a sudden brain seizure, Joe filled a conversational void with the words:
"So last night on Real Housewives, Sherree said ...."
Poor Joe. Dressing-smeared lettuce, croutons, tomatoes, olives, chickpeas, and mushrooms came flying from every angle. His shirt is a vertiable cornucopia of salad bar stains. From now on NeNe, Kim, and Kandi will have to fend for themselves. A-Rod, Kobe, and Lance are apparently The New Black.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Ten Family Vacation Observations
- Yes, you can eat cheese and crackers every single day. Yes, there are consequences.
- Yes, you can indeed burn a magazine. You can ever burn it without tearing out each page, without making sure it's open, and without relighting it. You absolutely can burn a magazine by throwing it into the fire. No matter how much the others insist you cannot.
- When climbing a mountain, it's better to have a Sherpa than not.
- If you are going to know songs by Miley Cyrus, you really should have a tween.
- It takes about a two days away from the Internet and TV to see the absurdity of Hollywood Fame.
- In the absence of TV and Internet, entertainment can be found by fighting with family members. Topics include: politics, religion, or accusations of parents loving one sibling more than others. That last one can go on for years and years.
- After the sixty-sixth time you ask your mate if the animals miss you, you will be slapped. Stay with the evil look at 65.
- Everyone deserves to be messed with. For example, after stating over and over again that he was not going to take any of the extra bread back home, I snuck the last loaf of bread into my father's car. Bwahahhahaaaa.
- We paid more to board our dogs than to board ourselves for 9 days. No wonder they wept as we left the Dog Resort.
- There is nothing more satisfying than beating, no, creaming, your older brother in Trivial Pursuit.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
HGTV: 3 pet peeves
by tess
Before I begin ranting away, just a note to say that I've always been fond of the term "pet peeve." Not only am I a big fan of alliteration, but I quite enjoy the mental image of a vastly more attractive me sitting on a stunning sofa stroking my pet, Peeve, a la Dr. Evil.
Here then are three ways that HGTV families elicit the The Bitter Sigh of Contempt followed in short order by The Mocking Eyeroll of Aversion.
#1 - "We entertain a lot."
I will grant you, contrary to my own personal experience, that some people do frequently entertain. To quote someone near and dear to the black hole where my heart once beat, "it is statistically improbale" that Every Single Family Ever Shown on HGTV Entertains All the Time. And if these families do, in fact, entertain all the time, how are they then thrilled with the final result of two love seats and a chair? Sounds to me like reasonable seating for three and vastly uncomfortable seating for five. Sorry, that's no party! You're supposed to decorate your house the same way you buy your car - for the way you use it 90% of the time. Besides Heads of State, who entertains 90% of the time? And if you do? Then tell those freeloaders to GET OUT OF YOUR HOUSE! You're not entertaining, you're running an adult day care service with free snacks and TV! Get them off the couch and out the door. NOW!
#2 - "I need a crafts room for my scrapbooking."
Three simple words. NO. YOU. DON'T. Back away from the pinky sheers and stop buying those idiotic stencils, punchers, ribbons, stickers, and lace. "Oh, but Scrabooking can be traced back to the 16th century!" You know what? So can the Great Plague of London. That doesn't make it cool. And, by the way, in 1574, there is not a single recorded incident of a housewife demanding a Scrapper Room for her vast collection of rubber stamps. Now I'm not saying that drinking is a better hobby than scrapbooking.... Wait, yes, actually I am saying just that.
#3 - "MYYYYYYYYYY"
No, not "Oh myyyyy, it's beautiful!" although that's sort of annoying unless it's a Candice Olson room in which case it's always true. No, I'm annoyed by the use (and it's always women!) of MYYYYYY kitchen. Not many things turn The Hubs from Phenomenally Patient Man (the guy who would rather be late to work than disturb the kitty sleeping near his briefcase) into Mr. Crabby Pants, but after a woman calls it MYYYYY kitchen ... Dr. Jekyll, please meet Mr. Hyde. It's not yooouuuuurrrr kitchen, it's the family's kitchen. More specifically, it's the kitchen belonging to the bank from whom you effectively rent your house until they decide to foreclose. In any case, unless you pay 100% of the mortgage/groceries and do 100% of the cooking, then it's not yooouuuurrrr kitchen. Similarly, there's MYYYYYYY closet. I get that women have lots of clothes. And I've admittedly claimed primary closet space ownership everywhere I've lived with The Hubs. But must it be a snarky joke Every Single Time we see a straight couple check out the master closet that it's heerrrrrrrr closet and that he'll get nothing and better like it? It's an old and disrespectful joke that's well past its prime. Perhaps it's time to move on.
Before I begin ranting away, just a note to say that I've always been fond of the term "pet peeve." Not only am I a big fan of alliteration, but I quite enjoy the mental image of a vastly more attractive me sitting on a stunning sofa stroking my pet, Peeve, a la Dr. Evil.
Here then are three ways that HGTV families elicit the The Bitter Sigh of Contempt followed in short order by The Mocking Eyeroll of Aversion.
#1 - "We entertain a lot."
I will grant you, contrary to my own personal experience, that some people do frequently entertain. To quote someone near and dear to the black hole where my heart once beat, "it is statistically improbale" that Every Single Family Ever Shown on HGTV Entertains All the Time. And if these families do, in fact, entertain all the time, how are they then thrilled with the final result of two love seats and a chair? Sounds to me like reasonable seating for three and vastly uncomfortable seating for five. Sorry, that's no party! You're supposed to decorate your house the same way you buy your car - for the way you use it 90% of the time. Besides Heads of State, who entertains 90% of the time? And if you do? Then tell those freeloaders to GET OUT OF YOUR HOUSE! You're not entertaining, you're running an adult day care service with free snacks and TV! Get them off the couch and out the door. NOW!
#2 - "I need a crafts room for my scrapbooking."
Three simple words. NO. YOU. DON'T. Back away from the pinky sheers and stop buying those idiotic stencils, punchers, ribbons, stickers, and lace. "Oh, but Scrabooking can be traced back to the 16th century!" You know what? So can the Great Plague of London. That doesn't make it cool. And, by the way, in 1574, there is not a single recorded incident of a housewife demanding a Scrapper Room for her vast collection of rubber stamps. Now I'm not saying that drinking is a better hobby than scrapbooking.... Wait, yes, actually I am saying just that.
#3 - "MYYYYYYYYYY"
No, not "Oh myyyyy, it's beautiful!" although that's sort of annoying unless it's a Candice Olson room in which case it's always true. No, I'm annoyed by the use (and it's always women!) of MYYYYYY kitchen. Not many things turn The Hubs from Phenomenally Patient Man (the guy who would rather be late to work than disturb the kitty sleeping near his briefcase) into Mr. Crabby Pants, but after a woman calls it MYYYYY kitchen ... Dr. Jekyll, please meet Mr. Hyde. It's not yooouuuuurrrr kitchen, it's the family's kitchen. More specifically, it's the kitchen belonging to the bank from whom you effectively rent your house until they decide to foreclose. In any case, unless you pay 100% of the mortgage/groceries and do 100% of the cooking, then it's not yooouuuurrrr kitchen. Similarly, there's MYYYYYYY closet. I get that women have lots of clothes. And I've admittedly claimed primary closet space ownership everywhere I've lived with The Hubs. But must it be a snarky joke Every Single Time we see a straight couple check out the master closet that it's heerrrrrrrr closet and that he'll get nothing and better like it? It's an old and disrespectful joke that's well past its prime. Perhaps it's time to move on.
Saturday, October 3, 2009
Do you have our card?
No. I don't.
I don't have your card. I do not want to be on your company email list so I can get insider information and advance notice for upcoming sales. If, by chance, I finally say yes, be assured it's because I am sick of being asked and it in no way indicates my preference for your store -- it's purely to avoid further pestering and wasted oxygen. In fact, I rather wish that, like many an annoying pop up window, you had a button I could click that says, "Please don't ask me again." I've considered getting a hat embroidered with, "Nope, don't have it; don't want it; don't ask about it." But I sense you would still ask.
And while I do respect the sales associate who entices me not with potential emails to clog up my inbox but with instant savings ("You'll save 15%!!"), consider that even if I was tempted, the line of annoyed customers behind me prevents me from prolonging our little date at the register.
So, please. No more cards to save 5% off of every purchase. I'd rather save 5% of my time in your store but not being bothered about this. Or, instead of asking me this question like a metronome, you could replace the text with, "You look so thin today," or "You are going to adore those shoes," or even, "I like Popsicles and jelly beans."
Jamie's with me on this. Although his version of the rant is crankier. Yes. I swear it. The So Very Nice Boy really does turn into cranky pants at the check out.
I don't have your card. I do not want to be on your company email list so I can get insider information and advance notice for upcoming sales. If, by chance, I finally say yes, be assured it's because I am sick of being asked and it in no way indicates my preference for your store -- it's purely to avoid further pestering and wasted oxygen. In fact, I rather wish that, like many an annoying pop up window, you had a button I could click that says, "Please don't ask me again." I've considered getting a hat embroidered with, "Nope, don't have it; don't want it; don't ask about it." But I sense you would still ask.
And while I do respect the sales associate who entices me not with potential emails to clog up my inbox but with instant savings ("You'll save 15%!!"), consider that even if I was tempted, the line of annoyed customers behind me prevents me from prolonging our little date at the register.
So, please. No more cards to save 5% off of every purchase. I'd rather save 5% of my time in your store but not being bothered about this. Or, instead of asking me this question like a metronome, you could replace the text with, "You look so thin today," or "You are going to adore those shoes," or even, "I like Popsicles and jelly beans."
Jamie's with me on this. Although his version of the rant is crankier. Yes. I swear it. The So Very Nice Boy really does turn into cranky pants at the check out.
Friday, October 2, 2009
Opinions while watching MTV
I've seen many a nasty thing in my life. And I deal with it. Dog diarrhea? I deal with it. Mutilated rodents left on doorstep? I deal with it. The bathrooms of college boys? I deal with it. Cat puke all over the couch? I deal with it. I deal with many other such things and I move on.
But I'm seeing something on my televsion right now that I cannot let go: boys in skinny jeans. Friends, this is not the tight-ass jeans a la Steve Perry, this is not even the colorful spandex of David Lee Roth which somehow still didn't offend. No. This is some flabby boy in skin tight jeans who hasn't even had the foresight to put a sock in it. And if you don't get that, we can't be friends.
It's not just that I can clearly see this little boy has a teeny weewee. And I'm not even mentioning the comb-over done with a full head of hair (seriously?), but the pants can't be overlooked. Why would a man want to draw attention to his skinny legs and assless backside? I am not interested in how dainty his ankles are. I'm not impressed by grandpa butt. I'm offended by a lack of quads.
I understand trends. I get it. But here's the thing: look at cool men (and only a MAN can be cool). If you find a picture of Brad Pitt, George Clooney, Benjamin Bratt, Omar Epps, Taye Diggs, etc. etc. etc. in skinny jeans, I might change my mind. Otherwise, this offensive trend needs to END.
BTW, you would think that with his fame, money, and unbelievable embrace of all things metro-male, that faux-flat-haired Jonas could buy concealer so I don't have to look at his humongous zit when they interrupt my quality MTV time with sugarpop.
How many pairs of total-control panyhose does Beyonce have?
How come no one has commented on the C3PO outfit in her new video?
Why is Lil Wayne in every other video?
I think there's a chapstick shortage -- lots of big stars needing to lick their lips a lot.
I heard someone one say that if you find yourself singing and dancing in front of a triangle of dancers, you missed the point. The more I watch, the more I agree. Except for Michael. Of course.
Can someone explain to me how the pants stay up when the belt and waistline are actually below the boy's butt? And if you are going to show off your boxers, why do they always seem to be white? Why not Santas? Why not hearts? Why not Curious George peeking out to see what's what? White just reminds me of Army and Prison scenes when they hand out uniforms. Do women get granny panties? I've never seen that scene.
I don't care how raunchy and ridiculous she is, it doesn't get more fun than Lady GaGa. However, that bloody chest/eye thing at the MTV VMAs? Weird. Madge and her Like a Virgin? Edgy. I was going to cite some other edgy pop music iconic moment, but I got lost. Back to foot-on-piano (no pants). Weird. And yet I watch. Enthralled by the weird.
This is the fifth video in a row tha tthe woman wasn't wearing pants. When did pants go "out"?
Lotta rigs .... (Rig = publically inappropriate outfit due to tragic decisions of fit, coverage, clashing style/color/texture; Lady Gaga wears rigs. The Olsen Twins: rigs; Gretchen on a Sunday afternoon when she's not leaving the house: rig; certain people I know cleaning the house on a Tuesday afternoon: naked).
Watch enough commercials and you will find that "European" is supposed to equal expensive, refined, cutting edge. I've been to Europe. Italy. And I can tell you one thing: they don't use shower curtains. So I'm not sure I believe they have refined the art of aging when they haven't seem to master how to take a shower AND keep dry clothes in the same room. Just sayin'.
Smooth Away is really just sand paper. Superfine crystals = Sandpaper. How stupid do they think I am? Wait. I think they believe I'm 15. It occurs to me that I might no longer be in the MTV demographic, even though I am the MTV generation.
I'm increasingly afraid of the super-white teeth.
Did I just see a pasty white guy with shaved armpits? Holy shit. I can't watch this stuff.
I think I've pretty much cleared up just how cool I am....
But I'm seeing something on my televsion right now that I cannot let go: boys in skinny jeans. Friends, this is not the tight-ass jeans a la Steve Perry, this is not even the colorful spandex of David Lee Roth which somehow still didn't offend. No. This is some flabby boy in skin tight jeans who hasn't even had the foresight to put a sock in it. And if you don't get that, we can't be friends.
It's not just that I can clearly see this little boy has a teeny weewee. And I'm not even mentioning the comb-over done with a full head of hair (seriously?), but the pants can't be overlooked. Why would a man want to draw attention to his skinny legs and assless backside? I am not interested in how dainty his ankles are. I'm not impressed by grandpa butt. I'm offended by a lack of quads.
I understand trends. I get it. But here's the thing: look at cool men (and only a MAN can be cool). If you find a picture of Brad Pitt, George Clooney, Benjamin Bratt, Omar Epps, Taye Diggs, etc. etc. etc. in skinny jeans, I might change my mind. Otherwise, this offensive trend needs to END.
BTW, you would think that with his fame, money, and unbelievable embrace of all things metro-male, that faux-flat-haired Jonas could buy concealer so I don't have to look at his humongous zit when they interrupt my quality MTV time with sugarpop.
How many pairs of total-control panyhose does Beyonce have?
How come no one has commented on the C3PO outfit in her new video?
Why is Lil Wayne in every other video?
I think there's a chapstick shortage -- lots of big stars needing to lick their lips a lot.
I heard someone one say that if you find yourself singing and dancing in front of a triangle of dancers, you missed the point. The more I watch, the more I agree. Except for Michael. Of course.
Can someone explain to me how the pants stay up when the belt and waistline are actually below the boy's butt? And if you are going to show off your boxers, why do they always seem to be white? Why not Santas? Why not hearts? Why not Curious George peeking out to see what's what? White just reminds me of Army and Prison scenes when they hand out uniforms. Do women get granny panties? I've never seen that scene.
I don't care how raunchy and ridiculous she is, it doesn't get more fun than Lady GaGa. However, that bloody chest/eye thing at the MTV VMAs? Weird. Madge and her Like a Virgin? Edgy. I was going to cite some other edgy pop music iconic moment, but I got lost. Back to foot-on-piano (no pants). Weird. And yet I watch. Enthralled by the weird.
This is the fifth video in a row tha tthe woman wasn't wearing pants. When did pants go "out"?
Lotta rigs .... (Rig = publically inappropriate outfit due to tragic decisions of fit, coverage, clashing style/color/texture; Lady Gaga wears rigs. The Olsen Twins: rigs; Gretchen on a Sunday afternoon when she's not leaving the house: rig; certain people I know cleaning the house on a Tuesday afternoon: naked).
Watch enough commercials and you will find that "European" is supposed to equal expensive, refined, cutting edge. I've been to Europe. Italy. And I can tell you one thing: they don't use shower curtains. So I'm not sure I believe they have refined the art of aging when they haven't seem to master how to take a shower AND keep dry clothes in the same room. Just sayin'.
Smooth Away is really just sand paper. Superfine crystals = Sandpaper. How stupid do they think I am? Wait. I think they believe I'm 15. It occurs to me that I might no longer be in the MTV demographic, even though I am the MTV generation.
I'm increasingly afraid of the super-white teeth.
Did I just see a pasty white guy with shaved armpits? Holy shit. I can't watch this stuff.
I think I've pretty much cleared up just how cool I am....
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