Random thought today (As I was listening to a bunch of music I have been introduced to over the past year...so maybe not so random.):
It takes a lot of experimenting and transitioning before you really find your niche.
I know this well because I used to listen to this:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zQcsNDqcyuw
P.S. Secretly, this still brings me delerious happiness to listen to.
P.S.S. This was my gateway music into R.E.M., The Cure, INXS, The Lemonheads......(???????)
P.S.S.S. My first concert was The Monkees (reunion) when I was in the sixth grade. Beat that.
Saturday, October 9, 2010
Thursday, October 7, 2010
I know its superficial....and there is nothing wrong with that
This morning I stood outside in my pajamas with my ever-present and absolutely necessary cup of coffee watching the bus stop until my eight-year-old was safely on his way to school. I was watching from a distance of course, having long ago been banished from actually going within a hundred feet of the bus stop. A bus stop restraining order, if you will. Not that I can blame the boy. I am pretty sure the only thing that will kill your third grade cool-quotient faster than bed-head-mom-in-holey-pajama-pants is eating your boogers. While I stood out in the early morning cold I saw something that made me smile and made me think a little.
There were two neighborhood girls having a chat. They were older than the bus stop kids- probably about seventh grade. One was dressed in jeans and a long sleeved t-shirt and tennis shoes and the other girl was dressed in a bright blue well-fitting t-shirt and shorty pink and blue plaid shorts (no shoes yet....). Keep in mind it was about 50 degrees outside this morning. My first thought was "Oh that girl is crazy! Its too cold for shorts!" (Yup. Mom-me totally got the best of me.) And then I saw the explanation for the craziness. Tennis shoe girl pulled out two pairs of earrings and the girls started holding them up with the pink and blue outfit and giggling and talking in that mile-a-minute way that only girls can do. Speech peppered with "Ohmygod's" and quick smiles and tripping breathlessness. My mom-shock at the inappropriateness of the outfit for the weather gave way to womanly familiarity with such girly preening.
I knew that woven into their laughter was the name of the boy that all of this preparation was for. I knew that they were devising scenarios to place shorts-girl in the boy's line of vision. I knew that there was nervousness and exhilarated excitement in abundance in that female twosome.
I remembered being the same age and doing the same thing. I remembered some of my very favorite outfits. There was the blue plaid shirt with snaps instead of buttons that I wore with a blue butterfly clip (for just one side of my hair) and about five strands of beads that were some sort of fad at the time- you wore them all twisted up and with various clips to hold them together. I remembered my very favorite jeans in the seventh grade- blue with a pink flower pattern on them and zippers and bows at the ankles. I remembered what I wore to my first boy/girl party and my very favorite Homecoming dress (black velvet with silver straps). I saw the simple truth in the tableau in front of me. Most women won't say it. We say we dress for ourselves or for other women. And yes, there is an element of that, but to leave it at just that is like saying that a peacock has its feathers because they make him feel special.
Gentlemen, we dress for you.
We dress for you, not because we expect you to remember our specific purple shirt or that our earrings complimented the tones of our shoes, but rather because we want to be a vision in your minds that lasts beyond the latest Black Keys song or the taco you had for lunch. We wear our feathers (sometimes figuratively, sometimes literally) and our glitter and our perfume because we want to capture your attention and imagination. We want to become a part of your memory, whether you end up knowing us in a real way or just as a misty aura of a woman.
And that, to my mind, is beautifully feminine.
There were two neighborhood girls having a chat. They were older than the bus stop kids- probably about seventh grade. One was dressed in jeans and a long sleeved t-shirt and tennis shoes and the other girl was dressed in a bright blue well-fitting t-shirt and shorty pink and blue plaid shorts (no shoes yet....). Keep in mind it was about 50 degrees outside this morning. My first thought was "Oh that girl is crazy! Its too cold for shorts!" (Yup. Mom-me totally got the best of me.) And then I saw the explanation for the craziness. Tennis shoe girl pulled out two pairs of earrings and the girls started holding them up with the pink and blue outfit and giggling and talking in that mile-a-minute way that only girls can do. Speech peppered with "Ohmygod's" and quick smiles and tripping breathlessness. My mom-shock at the inappropriateness of the outfit for the weather gave way to womanly familiarity with such girly preening.
I knew that woven into their laughter was the name of the boy that all of this preparation was for. I knew that they were devising scenarios to place shorts-girl in the boy's line of vision. I knew that there was nervousness and exhilarated excitement in abundance in that female twosome.
I remembered being the same age and doing the same thing. I remembered some of my very favorite outfits. There was the blue plaid shirt with snaps instead of buttons that I wore with a blue butterfly clip (for just one side of my hair) and about five strands of beads that were some sort of fad at the time- you wore them all twisted up and with various clips to hold them together. I remembered my very favorite jeans in the seventh grade- blue with a pink flower pattern on them and zippers and bows at the ankles. I remembered what I wore to my first boy/girl party and my very favorite Homecoming dress (black velvet with silver straps). I saw the simple truth in the tableau in front of me. Most women won't say it. We say we dress for ourselves or for other women. And yes, there is an element of that, but to leave it at just that is like saying that a peacock has its feathers because they make him feel special.
Gentlemen, we dress for you.
We dress for you, not because we expect you to remember our specific purple shirt or that our earrings complimented the tones of our shoes, but rather because we want to be a vision in your minds that lasts beyond the latest Black Keys song or the taco you had for lunch. We wear our feathers (sometimes figuratively, sometimes literally) and our glitter and our perfume because we want to capture your attention and imagination. We want to become a part of your memory, whether you end up knowing us in a real way or just as a misty aura of a woman.
And that, to my mind, is beautifully feminine.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Soapbox city (days after everyone else got here)
Okay. So I know I am way behind the bandwagon here, but I can't help it. Bandwagons have never been my favorite mode of transportation and news bores me. Maybe if they had a mime or something instead of that annoying scroll bar thing on news stations I could totally get on board. *
I just read an article on the Gulf oil spill. Yup. Just now.
The spill started on April 20th and we just now got a cap on it? And the "long term plan" includes the words "jam it with dirt and cement."
I have this image in my head of the control room at BP (yes, in my head its this big room that is a cross between the command center of the Starship Enterprise and the control area of Houston in the movie Apollo 13) on the day of the explosion. It goes a little something like this:
*BOOM*
(Everyone stares at the giant IMAX-like screen that shows some live feed of the oil well that, up to that second, was doing absolutely nothing.)
"Holy shit! Did you see that?!"
"Oh my god! This is awful! What are we gonna do?!
"Run!"
"Pretend like we didn't see it!"
"Cover it with something!"
"Jam it with dirt and cement!"
That suggestion has to have been one of the first things said in the initial pandemonium. It is too stupid/simple/brilliant not to have been.
Some senator got BP to release live feed video of the spill, which has to be the environmental equivalent of watching paint dry. And nope, I can't be bothered to figure out exactly which one did because frankly, I don't care. You know the dude who did it is the same kind of dude who calls attention to his own farts just to have something to brag about. And I looked for the video of it online while I was writing this post. I found one that had a big headline "NOW WITH MUSIC". What???!!! It has some vaguely techno-ish Arabian-ish music and I swear I almost wet my pants I was laughing so hard. Here it is for your listening pleasure:
Right here.
See. You can't stop laughing either can you?
It makes me kinda sad that with all of the technology and "brilliant minds" that are supposed to be working on this it has taken this long to a) cap it, and b) decide that the best course of action is to plug it up. (I know, I know- its at the bottom of the ocean. Blah, blah, blah.)
I am kinda happy that there is a video feed of this though. I will admit that when they get done with all the testing and finally get around to "jamming it with dirt and cement" I plan on grabbing a snack and watching. Cuz that is gonna be one sweet-ass cement truck.
*disclaimer: If you think that this blog is supposed to be informative or even factually accurate, you may want to have your head examined.
I just read an article on the Gulf oil spill. Yup. Just now.
The spill started on April 20th and we just now got a cap on it? And the "long term plan" includes the words "jam it with dirt and cement."
I have this image in my head of the control room at BP (yes, in my head its this big room that is a cross between the command center of the Starship Enterprise and the control area of Houston in the movie Apollo 13) on the day of the explosion. It goes a little something like this:
*BOOM*
(Everyone stares at the giant IMAX-like screen that shows some live feed of the oil well that, up to that second, was doing absolutely nothing.)
"Holy shit! Did you see that?!"
"Oh my god! This is awful! What are we gonna do?!
"Run!"
"Pretend like we didn't see it!"
"Cover it with something!"
"Jam it with dirt and cement!"
That suggestion has to have been one of the first things said in the initial pandemonium. It is too stupid/simple/brilliant not to have been.
Some senator got BP to release live feed video of the spill, which has to be the environmental equivalent of watching paint dry. And nope, I can't be bothered to figure out exactly which one did because frankly, I don't care. You know the dude who did it is the same kind of dude who calls attention to his own farts just to have something to brag about. And I looked for the video of it online while I was writing this post. I found one that had a big headline "NOW WITH MUSIC". What???!!! It has some vaguely techno-ish Arabian-ish music and I swear I almost wet my pants I was laughing so hard. Here it is for your listening pleasure:
Right here.
See. You can't stop laughing either can you?
It makes me kinda sad that with all of the technology and "brilliant minds" that are supposed to be working on this it has taken this long to a) cap it, and b) decide that the best course of action is to plug it up. (I know, I know- its at the bottom of the ocean. Blah, blah, blah.)
I am kinda happy that there is a video feed of this though. I will admit that when they get done with all the testing and finally get around to "jamming it with dirt and cement" I plan on grabbing a snack and watching. Cuz that is gonna be one sweet-ass cement truck.
*disclaimer: If you think that this blog is supposed to be informative or even factually accurate, you may want to have your head examined.
Friday, July 16, 2010
On call
By no means am I grossed out about body stuff. I have three kids for god's sake and a nurse for a mother. If anyone got over their icky feelings about talking about poop or pee or exactly where a boo-boo was, its me. I can explain the intricate workings of a tampon or catch an eruption of puke in my shirt or bare hands. I am not embarrassed by the words "penis" or "vagina" (though the word "stool" gives me the willies for some reason). I knew what would happen to my body during puberty long before any of my friends had ever thought the word "period." Okay- so maybe that was part my nurse-mom being responsible and maybe it was partly that I had my first period at age 11 and started shaving my legs in the fifth grade (I am a hairy beast, what can I say? Unfortunately, I fear my daughter will be following in my footsteps...) The point of all of this? The point is that even with all of this comfort level I was sadly unprepared for the phone call I received a few days ago.
My best friend, Chloe, just had a baby. Well- it was like three months ago but that is "just" enough. He is a wonderous little thing, all floppy limbs and beautiful in that wise-to-the-world-soul-on-fire kind of way. She already has two kids (the youngest of that set being four years old) and we laugh a lot about how much she feels like she has forgotten in the last four years. She will worry about how much he is eating, or not eating, or peeing, or crying... or whatever. Maybe that's just the way it is with newborns, no matter how experienced of a mama you are. I don't really remember- within three and a half years I had three kids. Those beginning days and months are safely locked in the part of my brain that protects me from trauma, I think.
So she worries. About everything. Even with her own body/psyche.
And she calls me.
Chloe: "Hey. The kids were exposed to Hand Foot and Mouth Disease at daycare. Is there a rash or something that you get on your butt?"
Me: (quickly looking up said disease online so that I may speak "intelligently" about it) "Yes! There is! Which child are we talking about here?"
Chloe: "Well, ummm..... its me....and I need someone to look at this...."
Me: "Its like midnight."
Yes- the thing that jumped into my head first was not that I was being asked to go look at my friend's ass, but rather that the ass-looking was to take place at such a late hour.
Chloe: "I know, but I need someone to see this! Its not really a rash, but more like a zit. But not a zit. But like a bump. But kinda not. I need you to come check."
Here's the real kicker.... I started considering it. If my friend was really in need, how could I not? And yet, on the other hand I was not really looking forward to the viewing.
Me: "Can't Martin check it out?" (My thought here being, as her boyfriend and father of the new little wonder in her life, he may be more, ahem, familiar with the area.)
Chloe: (in desperation) "He won't! And its like IN there!"
After a few more minutes of convesation with words like "crack" and "taint" and instructions like "pop it" and "call the doctor" and questions like "can I have your cute black shoes with the super high heels when you die of a butt boil?" we came to the conclusion that it was a hemorrhoid. That's right. I diagnosed a hemorrhoid. Over the phone.
Ahhh....the little extras we sometimes get with the birth of a child.
Ahhh....the things we will do for our friends.
I am available for consultation by phone to anyone else with odd questions. But only between midnight and three a.m.
And I still super want those shoes.
My best friend, Chloe, just had a baby. Well- it was like three months ago but that is "just" enough. He is a wonderous little thing, all floppy limbs and beautiful in that wise-to-the-world-soul-on-fire kind of way. She already has two kids (the youngest of that set being four years old) and we laugh a lot about how much she feels like she has forgotten in the last four years. She will worry about how much he is eating, or not eating, or peeing, or crying... or whatever. Maybe that's just the way it is with newborns, no matter how experienced of a mama you are. I don't really remember- within three and a half years I had three kids. Those beginning days and months are safely locked in the part of my brain that protects me from trauma, I think.
So she worries. About everything. Even with her own body/psyche.
And she calls me.
Chloe: "Hey. The kids were exposed to Hand Foot and Mouth Disease at daycare. Is there a rash or something that you get on your butt?"
Me: (quickly looking up said disease online so that I may speak "intelligently" about it) "Yes! There is! Which child are we talking about here?"
Chloe: "Well, ummm..... its me....and I need someone to look at this...."
Me: "Its like midnight."
Yes- the thing that jumped into my head first was not that I was being asked to go look at my friend's ass, but rather that the ass-looking was to take place at such a late hour.
Chloe: "I know, but I need someone to see this! Its not really a rash, but more like a zit. But not a zit. But like a bump. But kinda not. I need you to come check."
Here's the real kicker.... I started considering it. If my friend was really in need, how could I not? And yet, on the other hand I was not really looking forward to the viewing.
Me: "Can't Martin check it out?" (My thought here being, as her boyfriend and father of the new little wonder in her life, he may be more, ahem, familiar with the area.)
Chloe: (in desperation) "He won't! And its like IN there!"
After a few more minutes of convesation with words like "crack" and "taint" and instructions like "pop it" and "call the doctor" and questions like "can I have your cute black shoes with the super high heels when you die of a butt boil?" we came to the conclusion that it was a hemorrhoid. That's right. I diagnosed a hemorrhoid. Over the phone.
Ahhh....the little extras we sometimes get with the birth of a child.
Ahhh....the things we will do for our friends.
I am available for consultation by phone to anyone else with odd questions. But only between midnight and three a.m.
And I still super want those shoes.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
My newish oldish gig
First let me say that I am possibly the flakiest blogger in the world. Soooo long between posts.... are you ready for a little rambling?
(In my head I just did a little "Let's get ready to Raaammble!!!" like that wrestling or boxing or whatever announcer. I am as lame as I am flaky.)
Okay- so I started this class last week to become a Pharmacy Technician. I have pretty much zero marketable skills when it comes to the job world, unless you count upselling from regular fries to cheese fries or convincing someone that Ketel One vodka is really better than the well shit (it is, by the way). And yes, I know that I have a job (thank you, Dad) but there are a few things up in the air with that. This just seemed like a good idea to do and I need job(s) to pay the bills until I can write the Great American Novel. At this stage of my life I am not allowed to say to people "I am a Writer and and Artist. I cannot be bothered with mundane things like dinner."
Unless, of course, I want to get all artsy-fartsy with some spaghetti and meatballs. Maybe throw a noodle scene in my story. Or make a sculpture. "On Top of Spaghetti: A commentary on the materialistic nature of Man".
Anyway, I started this class. And it is HARD. I should not be surprised, and I am not really. I mean its pharmacology (like my fancy new vocabulary?) shit and that stuff is not easy. Its only a 50 hour class and the sheer volume of information is slightly overwhelming. But when it is all over I get to add some letters to the end of my name. Sharon (legal last name here), CPhT. Impressive, right? The super funny thing is that I did this job when I was 16- waaay before there was this pesky licensing requirement. I am pretty sure that me at 16 doing this job was pure comedy gold.
I worked for this little neighborhood pharmacist, Mr. D., who still called his helpers his "girls" and kept Coke syrup in his stockroom. Once I had a little tummy ache and he gave me some. Yum. I worked after school and on Saturday mornings counting out pills to fill prescription requirements and stocking shelves with things like sunscreen and support stockings. But the most harrowing part of the job was doing deliveries....
Mr. D had a ninety-something-year-old father who was in a nursing home. Mr. D. filled all of his prescriptions every month and then had one of his "girls" drive them to the nursing home. In his delivery car. This huge whale-y boat of a vehicle with no power steering or fancy ABS system. It was white with a maroon velour interior and a shiny tan steering wheel. It was both terrifying and embarrassing to drive, especially for the newly-minted driver that I was. It was long, long, long and I hit curbs every time I tried to make a turn. I quickly learned the purpose of pumping brakes. The front seat didn't move forward and I am kind of a shorty- so being "on the edge of my seat" was a literal thing for me in that car. Did I mention that I worked there over the winter? Scary, I know. I prayed every time I went into work that there were no deliveries that day. I begged to be allowed to drive my own car, to no avail.
I still cringe when I think of that delivery system. Cringe with me, will you?
I learned a lot at that job. I learned how to pay attention to details, how to be respectful and courteous in the face of cranky customers, and how to properly ask for time off from your job (it is NOT "Hey, I won't be here tomorrow." I pass that little life lesson on to all of you. You are welcome.).
But most importantly, I think, I learned how to keep a car from fishtailing on an icy road.
(In my head I just did a little "Let's get ready to Raaammble!!!" like that wrestling or boxing or whatever announcer. I am as lame as I am flaky.)
Okay- so I started this class last week to become a Pharmacy Technician. I have pretty much zero marketable skills when it comes to the job world, unless you count upselling from regular fries to cheese fries or convincing someone that Ketel One vodka is really better than the well shit (it is, by the way). And yes, I know that I have a job (thank you, Dad) but there are a few things up in the air with that. This just seemed like a good idea to do and I need job(s) to pay the bills until I can write the Great American Novel. At this stage of my life I am not allowed to say to people "I am a Writer and and Artist. I cannot be bothered with mundane things like dinner."
Unless, of course, I want to get all artsy-fartsy with some spaghetti and meatballs. Maybe throw a noodle scene in my story. Or make a sculpture. "On Top of Spaghetti: A commentary on the materialistic nature of Man".
Anyway, I started this class. And it is HARD. I should not be surprised, and I am not really. I mean its pharmacology (like my fancy new vocabulary?) shit and that stuff is not easy. Its only a 50 hour class and the sheer volume of information is slightly overwhelming. But when it is all over I get to add some letters to the end of my name. Sharon (legal last name here), CPhT. Impressive, right? The super funny thing is that I did this job when I was 16- waaay before there was this pesky licensing requirement. I am pretty sure that me at 16 doing this job was pure comedy gold.
I worked for this little neighborhood pharmacist, Mr. D., who still called his helpers his "girls" and kept Coke syrup in his stockroom. Once I had a little tummy ache and he gave me some. Yum. I worked after school and on Saturday mornings counting out pills to fill prescription requirements and stocking shelves with things like sunscreen and support stockings. But the most harrowing part of the job was doing deliveries....
Mr. D had a ninety-something-year-old father who was in a nursing home. Mr. D. filled all of his prescriptions every month and then had one of his "girls" drive them to the nursing home. In his delivery car. This huge whale-y boat of a vehicle with no power steering or fancy ABS system. It was white with a maroon velour interior and a shiny tan steering wheel. It was both terrifying and embarrassing to drive, especially for the newly-minted driver that I was. It was long, long, long and I hit curbs every time I tried to make a turn. I quickly learned the purpose of pumping brakes. The front seat didn't move forward and I am kind of a shorty- so being "on the edge of my seat" was a literal thing for me in that car. Did I mention that I worked there over the winter? Scary, I know. I prayed every time I went into work that there were no deliveries that day. I begged to be allowed to drive my own car, to no avail.
I still cringe when I think of that delivery system. Cringe with me, will you?
I learned a lot at that job. I learned how to pay attention to details, how to be respectful and courteous in the face of cranky customers, and how to properly ask for time off from your job (it is NOT "Hey, I won't be here tomorrow." I pass that little life lesson on to all of you. You are welcome.).
But most importantly, I think, I learned how to keep a car from fishtailing on an icy road.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
This one goes out to the ones I've loved.....
If you love something let it go.
We have all heard these words of wisdom before, usually when we are in the throes of heartbreak- at the exact moment when those words mean absolutely nothing to us.
The truth is that people walk in and out of our lives all the time. We let loves walk out, we redefine family relationships and drift away from friends. We even actively work to make this happen with our children. We teach them the skills they will need to survive on their own. Experts tell us that when our children test their boundaries we are actually doing our jobs as parents correctly. We go into the job knowing that someday they will strike out on their own and leave us behind.
There are hurts in each of these leavings. Our children push us away and it digs into our hearts that our babies don't need us as desperately anymore. We realize we haven't spoken to our best friend in weeks/months/years and it tears at us that the inside jokes may not be funny anymore and instead of "What are you doing today," we are left with "Once we did things together." A love leaves us and we crumble a little with the knowledge that we gave a stranger a piece of our heart only to have it handed back for not fitting quite right against theirs.
But here is the thing... do we ever really let go of the people who were important to us? The people we love poke us and sting us and stab us and stretch us and grow us. Our ties to them stretch like rubber bands and our relationships are redefined and readjusted. They become a part of our story. Do we not hold them in our hearts? We can remember the way they looked when they laughed. We can still hear their voices in our minds in quiet moments. A sight or a scent in a crowded room can take us back to a specific moment in time entangled with the memory of that person. We don't need their permission to love them, we just do. Maybe the only thing we need to know is not that they loved us, but that we loved them.
I was issued a challenge this week regarding the idea of letting someone go. Not so much with the first part of the saying- letting go is something we do when we have no other choice. When those that we love have already gone. The challenge comes with the second part of the saying: "If it comes back to you, its yours forever." I am not really sure that anything can ever be yours forever. Relationships are fluid, not solid and guaranteed. Maybe we can love someone enough to let them go....
But can we love someone enough to let them come back?
We have all heard these words of wisdom before, usually when we are in the throes of heartbreak- at the exact moment when those words mean absolutely nothing to us.
The truth is that people walk in and out of our lives all the time. We let loves walk out, we redefine family relationships and drift away from friends. We even actively work to make this happen with our children. We teach them the skills they will need to survive on their own. Experts tell us that when our children test their boundaries we are actually doing our jobs as parents correctly. We go into the job knowing that someday they will strike out on their own and leave us behind.
There are hurts in each of these leavings. Our children push us away and it digs into our hearts that our babies don't need us as desperately anymore. We realize we haven't spoken to our best friend in weeks/months/years and it tears at us that the inside jokes may not be funny anymore and instead of "What are you doing today," we are left with "Once we did things together." A love leaves us and we crumble a little with the knowledge that we gave a stranger a piece of our heart only to have it handed back for not fitting quite right against theirs.
But here is the thing... do we ever really let go of the people who were important to us? The people we love poke us and sting us and stab us and stretch us and grow us. Our ties to them stretch like rubber bands and our relationships are redefined and readjusted. They become a part of our story. Do we not hold them in our hearts? We can remember the way they looked when they laughed. We can still hear their voices in our minds in quiet moments. A sight or a scent in a crowded room can take us back to a specific moment in time entangled with the memory of that person. We don't need their permission to love them, we just do. Maybe the only thing we need to know is not that they loved us, but that we loved them.
I was issued a challenge this week regarding the idea of letting someone go. Not so much with the first part of the saying- letting go is something we do when we have no other choice. When those that we love have already gone. The challenge comes with the second part of the saying: "If it comes back to you, its yours forever." I am not really sure that anything can ever be yours forever. Relationships are fluid, not solid and guaranteed. Maybe we can love someone enough to let them go....
But can we love someone enough to let them come back?
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Have your credit card ready...
I am a sucker. I am an advertiser's wet dream. If it can be advertised, I can be convinced that I want to buy it or beg for it for a gift. I am especially susceptible to late night infomercials.
Debbie Meyer Green Bags? Of course! Who doesn't want to keep their produce brand-spankin'-fresh?! I am fully convinced that these special bags will make my strawberries last until the end of time, unless I remember I have them in the fridge and eat them all in one sitting.
The Bumpit? Yes! I want it! I even have it! Sadly, it does not work. I am truly disappointed. Nevermind the fact that I have never nor will I ever actually leave the house with any sort of hill or mountain sculpted into my hair.... the models on the commercial seemed so happy. So put together- which is totally my fantasy. I am one of those women who always looks like she could have used an extra five minutes to get ready. Disheveled is my norm. Anything to help it not be like that would be welcome. Next I am gonna try the InStyler. If Allure magazine says its good then it has to be, right?
I can totally see the use for the Kangaroo carrier to make switching purses that much easier. At three in the morning the Neckline Slimmer makes sense and I am a huge fan of Proactive though I do not possess the pimply face that the product requires. I can kick the asses of all the PX90 people and I dream of having closets thoroughly organized with those special hangers and Space Bags and the Flip Fold.
Oh these advertisers have me by a choke-hold. My late night brain wants it all. (My late night brain also thinks that there is a chance in hell that someday I will hit the winning lottery numbers...)
But the other night I found my Holy Grail of late night infomercial products. The EZ Egg Cracker. Its not so much that I have the obviously huge problem of cracking and separating eggs that this product promises to alleviate. Its the "free gift" that comes with it. An egg scrambler that you use to scramble the eggs IN THE SHELL. Just poke this little probe into the bottom of the egg and press a button and egg innards are whipped and mixed. I MUST have this. And not so much because I spend my mornings bitching and moaning that the scrambling process takes just too much time and muscle....no... what I want to do is steal into your house (yes, yours) and prescramble all of your eggs. I want the media to pick up this story- a rash of home invasions where the only damage done was creating morning convenience.
I wanna be called The Scrambler.
Or maybe the Egg-sistentialist.
Sigh. I need help. And a Jupiter Jack.
Debbie Meyer Green Bags? Of course! Who doesn't want to keep their produce brand-spankin'-fresh?! I am fully convinced that these special bags will make my strawberries last until the end of time, unless I remember I have them in the fridge and eat them all in one sitting.
The Bumpit? Yes! I want it! I even have it! Sadly, it does not work. I am truly disappointed. Nevermind the fact that I have never nor will I ever actually leave the house with any sort of hill or mountain sculpted into my hair.... the models on the commercial seemed so happy. So put together- which is totally my fantasy. I am one of those women who always looks like she could have used an extra five minutes to get ready. Disheveled is my norm. Anything to help it not be like that would be welcome. Next I am gonna try the InStyler. If Allure magazine says its good then it has to be, right?
I can totally see the use for the Kangaroo carrier to make switching purses that much easier. At three in the morning the Neckline Slimmer makes sense and I am a huge fan of Proactive though I do not possess the pimply face that the product requires. I can kick the asses of all the PX90 people and I dream of having closets thoroughly organized with those special hangers and Space Bags and the Flip Fold.
Oh these advertisers have me by a choke-hold. My late night brain wants it all. (My late night brain also thinks that there is a chance in hell that someday I will hit the winning lottery numbers...)
But the other night I found my Holy Grail of late night infomercial products. The EZ Egg Cracker. Its not so much that I have the obviously huge problem of cracking and separating eggs that this product promises to alleviate. Its the "free gift" that comes with it. An egg scrambler that you use to scramble the eggs IN THE SHELL. Just poke this little probe into the bottom of the egg and press a button and egg innards are whipped and mixed. I MUST have this. And not so much because I spend my mornings bitching and moaning that the scrambling process takes just too much time and muscle....no... what I want to do is steal into your house (yes, yours) and prescramble all of your eggs. I want the media to pick up this story- a rash of home invasions where the only damage done was creating morning convenience.
I wanna be called The Scrambler.
Or maybe the Egg-sistentialist.
Sigh. I need help. And a Jupiter Jack.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)