Dear Cough,

Please go away.

I haven’t been sick since May 2010.  I had bronchitis.  Maybe you remember? I sure do because I got dumped that week.  Since then, healthy as a horse!

That is, until last month when YOU came around.  Jerk.

I flew into Del Boca Vista and my throat started feeling a little funny.  Before long, I had coughing fits.  Hack, hack, hack, hack, haaaaack. Gasp for breath. Hack, hack.

Then came the chills.  Then the aches.  Never the green boogers. Then everything went away.

But YOU stuck around.

That was 4 weeks ago!  Officially, my lungs are clear and I had a severe upper respiratory infection.  Unofficially, I’ve got a huge pain in the ass.

I’ve taken full rounds of Delsym, Mucinex, Alleve Cold & Sinus, vitamin C, prescription cough pills AND cough syrup with Codeine, Z-packs, and more mentholated Halls than I can count.  That last one actually helps, for a minute (more on that below). 

Now, I’m on the Zyrtec.

Yes, I can hear you laughing.  I know it’s too early for seasonal allergies, but I’m at my wit’s end. I cough so much I’ve given myself a headache, which, incidentally, I treat with Advil liqui-gels. It doesn’t help that I’ve been on 5 flying germ farms (aka planes) during this time. And I had to give not one, but TWO, presentations in front of 100 people! Nothing says classy like coughing into a microphone.

But you knew that.

Also, attention makers of Pine Bros. chewy cough drops: You stink.  I don’t know why Martha Stewart is shilling for you.  I bought you in a haze of nostalgia and sickness and you did nothing but turn my tongue red.  You immediately disintegrate as though my saliva were made of acid.  And somehow you manage to both be bland AND taste horrible.  A rare skill.

I want my $4 back.

In other cough drop news, Luden’s you look and taste like a Jolly Rancher, which does nothing for me and rots my teeth. Riccola, you taste like a cherry covered in grass and you did zilch for my tickly throat.

My best bet is your archenemy, Hall’s.  I love you in all your sugar-free glory.  Keep fighting the good fight.

NOT in health,
The Girl Who Can’t Stop Coughing


tags: health, rants

Dear Verizon,

Remember back in 2011 when I wrote an open letter to Steve Jobs wishing he would allow you to carry the supercool  iPhone?  And remember when my wish came true and you totally stuffed it in AT&T's face?

(You're welcome, by the way.)

And recall, if you will, how I was a complete crazyperson who went online at 3am to order the moment it went on sale? 

Well, on Sept 20th, guess who was online once again at 3am to order the much-anticipated, highly-coveted, all-around-super shiny new toy known as the Gold iPhone 5S?

Me.

Well, Verizon, this time you stink.  Like a giant robot skunk. 

Buying the new gold iPhone from your website was a horrible experience.  And I'm not even talking about the fact that I slept on a loveseat next to my laptop and my wallet with the alarm on my original Verizon Wireless iPhone 4 set to wake me up to the sounds of Marimba at 2:55am. 

That sounds nutz. 

Nor, am I referring to the fact that I was still cozy and groggy at 3am so I was blinded by my laptop because I didn't get up to turn on a light.  No.

Here's why:

1. I was lured in with false promises of discounts.
When you called me TWELVE times a day for the last TWO months and neglected to leave a single message, and stalked me on my cell (once again messageless), AND bombed my inbox with lovenotes were you being coy?  You teased me with visions of $50 discounts.  You used the word "eligible."  And yet, not only did I pay full price, I was somehow charged a $30 network UPGRADE fee.  WTF VZW?

2. The ordering process was designed to trick me.
No way, you say?  Ok, then why did I find myself swept into a promotion that promised I would pay a mere $29 instead of $199?  And I could upgrade to a new phone any time I want?  Sounds good!  But the ridiculously small fine print explains if you take that friendly-sounding deal, you actually pay $29/mo for TWO YEARS, also known as SEVEN HUNDRED DOLLARS.  Why would I spend $700 to save $170?  I might be sleepy, but I'm not stupid.

3. You took away my unlimited data plan.
This was like a poke in the eye.  You hurled all kinds of confusing options at me.  They  had ambiguous names.  And fees.  But you were crystal clear about one thing -- by upgrading I was losing my unlimited data plan.  I guess the $17.1 BILLION you collected on services last quarter alone doesn't cut it. Thanks.

4. You gave me a shipping date, then postponed it.
So I got through all that nonsense and my order was received by 3:18am on 9/20.  I know this because you sent me an email at that exact time, indicating my new phone would ship by 9/24.  I was ok with that.  On 9/24, the only thing I received was another email from you with a delayed shipment notice.  And the new date was THIRTEEN DAYS LATER.  I'm sorry, did you not have enough inventory to fill 18 MINUTES worth of sales?  Who could possibly predict anybody would want this phone?!  Everyone.  This enraged me.

5. Your customer service person laughed when I called to complain.
After several automated prompts, I got to a person.  Somehow with all the technology you have, the account number I entered at the beginning of my call could not make the long journey to the man on the other end of the line.  So I gave it again.  And he pulled up my order.  Then he asked, "Which model did you order, ma'am?" When I told him the gold one, he laughed.  And not a chuckle, or a snort.  It was a belly laugh followed by this, "I call that one Willy Wonka's Golden Ticket.  You're lucky your order even went through.  People ordering now won't get their phones until NOVEMBER."  Comforting that I should feel lucky to spend $250 on a phone that's arriving late.

6. When it finally did come, your installation materials were not helpful.
Somehow it arrived later than scheduled, but earlier than delayed.  Stop playing with my emotions!  Now, here's a tip, marketer to marketer: when you enclose a giant red folder that shouts START HERE on the cover, the top page inside shouldn't be an ad for accessories to go with my new phone.  Maybe next time, follow this urgency with the thing I should actually read -- like the importance of backing up every last speck of my data.

7. THIS ONE'S FOR APPLE: Three words... Not. Gold. Enough.
75% of the back and the edges does not a gold iPhone make.  The minute I pop a case on this baby, it becomes a white phone.  Nobody tells you that.  I hate white phones, which is why I didn't buy one.  Also, it's super annoying that none of my old plugs fit, I dislike iOS7, and my music's all messed up.  But I like the new fingerprint thingy you added.


Ok, I know I'm whining here.  These are high-class problems.  I don't care. 

(Did I mention my diamond shoes are too tight?) 

Seriously, Verizon.  Get it together.

iThank you for not charging my minutes for this time,
Your (Formerly) #1 Verizon iPhone fan


tags: rants, shopping, technology

Beauty Truths Nobody Tells You

I was walking home from work last night, and a lady stopped me on the corner of 42nd and Madison.

She mumbled something and at first I pretended not to hear, as I often do when approached on the street by strangers.  But then the light changed and we were trapped together.

She spoke again. "Where do you get your hair done?"

I looked around for a camera.  Was this a joke? 

The last time I got my hair cut was in August before I went to the White House.  The last time I colored it was last April (you may recall John Frieda did me wrong).  And you KNOW I've let a few grays slip past the goalie.

What could possibly be so appealing about my 'do?

She persisted, "Where did you get your ombre hair color done?" 

That made me laugh.

I leaned in and dropped a truth-bomb on her.  "You call it ombre, I call it roots.  I haven't dyed my hair in over a year -- this is what happens."

She looked confused.  Then the light changed and I walked away feeling all good that I just saved this chick $300 bucks on an expensive dye-job that she could get for free if she just neglected her locks like I do.

It got me thinking that there are tons of beauty truths out there that nobody tells you.  Now that I'm a beauty blogger too, I feel a quasi-professional duty to shed some light.

Ladies and gents... listen up:

• Don't Shave Between Your Eyebrows
  This goes for everybody.  It may seem efficient, but you are way better off plucking periodically so they don't all grow back at once.  Failure to do so will leave you looking like the love child of Frida Kahlo and Hugh Acheson (look it up).

• Hairy Guys Are a Good Thing
  Women are supposed to be the ones with a hair-free chest, not men.  I'll take a guy who looks like he's got a bath mat sewn to his chest over a guy who looks all creepy-smooth like a Ken doll.

• Many Women Do Not Wash Their Hair Every Day
  This is ok, it saves time and water and some hair looks better without a fresh wash.

• Many People Do Not Wash Their Hands After Using the Restroom
  This is NOT ok.  Beat it, Fecal Fingers!

• People Want to Know If They Have Food In Their Teeth
  Give it a minute to shake out naturally.  If that doesn't happen, stage an intervention.  Better to hear it now and suffer a mild humiliation, then go through the whole day with a hunk of spinach wedged between your choppers.  And while we're at it -- if you spy some nasal guacamole, for the love of Kleenex, speak up!

• Many Tattoos Look Silly When You Are Old
  That tribal band around your bicep.  That dainty butterfly on the small of your back.  That name written in pretty script on your wrist.  It all seems like a good idea when you're young.  But it's not really a long-term play.  Nobody likes a Gramp Stamp. 

• Most Women Can't Pull Off The Smokey Eye Look
  Sure, it looks great on the red carpet.  But in the real world, you look like a raccoon. Step away from the shadow and just say no.

• Fake Tans Always Look Fake.  Always.
  Nothing that comes from a bottle, spray can, or tanning bed can make you look like you spent a week at the beach.  It can, however, make you look like you spent a week at Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory scaring greedy kids.  Oompa loompa doopedy do.

• 99% of the Time, Plastic Surgery Also Looks Fake
  It's called plastic for a reason.  There's not much natural about it.  If it makes you feel better, go for it.  Live your life!  But if you really want to look younger, just cut bangs.  That does the trick.  Every.  Single.  Time.

Ahhh.  Doesn't that feel better?  Don't stop now -- tell me YOUR beauty truths below...


tags: beauty

This Is 40

As you may have noticed, I’ve been dragging my size 10 feet on writing the first blog post of 2013.  Why?

I’m in denial.

This is the year I turn 40 and it’s ALL I can think about.  

All.  I.  Can.  THINK.  About.  

It’s no longer “someday” or “eventually,”  it’s THIS YEAR.

Shit just got real.

When I was 20, I knew I’d be amazing at 40.  You would have loved future me (but secretly hated future me).  I was thin and beautiful and a CEO and rich and married to a boyishly-handsome man well over 6’ tall and a mother to two adorable cherubs and we all lived together in a marshmallow castle on the clouds.

Ah, youth.

When I look at my life today – on the brink of this terrifying age -- I feel many emotions about the new year.  Happy is not one of them.  I know what you’re thinking – it beats the alternative!  Age is just a number!  Forty is fabulous! 

Whatever.  I’m turning 40 and I can whine if I want to.

I don’t care about the physical aging part.  I’ve always looked younger than I am.  Most of my hair is still brown (pick a shade, any shade!).  I don’t really have wrinkles.  The few sad lonely eggs I have left in my ovaries that are rotting by the nanosecond certainly gives me pause, but I think what’s REALLY bugging me about facing a new decade is the disastrous state my life is in. 

I’m talking yellow caution tape, hazmat suit, toxic landfill-level disaster area.

My home?  A ridiculously overpriced rental – at this rate, I’ll never own.  Career?  Stuck in middle management – at this rate, I’ll never advance.  Relationship?  Single as single gets – at this rate, I’ll never marry.  Kids?  Negative – at this rate, I’ll never be a mom. 

I can’t even be a proper spinster!  I hate cats.

I’m halfway through life and nowhere near where I’m "supposed" to be.  I must be defective.  Just walk down the street – anybody with a left hand has a wedding ring on it.  Flip on the TV – anyone with a bank account owns a home.  I have a left hand!  AND a bank account (full of cobwebs).

Why can’t I get my act together? 

Is it bad luck?  I don't think so.  It's because I make bad decisions.  

Not "gas station sushi" type bad decisions, but right up there.  What’s worse, there are actual moments I can pinpoint when my life went off the rails.  If only my vision was as good as my hindsight, I’d be on easy street today (and have avoided a very regrettable perm).

I know I need to take the punch out of turning 40.  I need to do more of what makes me happy, and hope the rest falls into place.  I need to start making better decisions.  I've only felt this way once before.  Not shockingly, it was when I was turning 30.  At the time, I thought I needed to make changes in my home, my career, and my relationships -- so I did! 

Now, I’ve got 8 months to work on basically the same things.  Again.  Let’s see how far I can get by August… and if it's not meant to be, there’s nothing a bottle of birthday cake-flavored vodka and a week in bed can’t fix. 

An old lady needs her rest.

So, how have YOU handled milestone birthdays?  By kicking up your heels or by kicking and screaming?

 

tags:  holidays

Enough Is Enough

When a person runs someone over with a car, you don't blame the car, you blame the driver, right?  They were drunk/distracted/texting.  That's because a car isn't intended to be a weapon.  It gets you from Point A to Point B.  It has been misused if it kills someone.

A gun, though?  Yeah, that IS intended to be a weapon. 

Sure, it's used for target practice and skeet shooting.  But ultimately, it's meant to kill an animal/intruder/enemy/attacker.  Oh, and you can pick one up at Walmart or Kmart or any other Mart for as little as a 100 bucks -- along with pork chops and underpants.  Convenient. 

And insane!

You know what's hard to get?  Mental health counseling.  Restraining orders.  Help.

They also say now isn't the time to talk politics. Now is the time to grieve.

I beg to differ.

Of course all our hearts break over the senseless loss of ANY life, but now is EXACTLY the time to talk politics -- before this happens again.  I'm not naïve enough to think that repealing the 2nd Amendment will stop all gun violence.  It will stop law-abiding gun users, criminals will still do whatever they want because guess what?  They're criminals!  

But I do think the 2nd Amendment was written at a time when the "right to bear arms" meant defending yourself with a double-barrel shotgun from poachers stealing your land or grizzlies eating your kids and the nearest sheriff was hours away. 

This is not that time. 

Random gun violence is out of control, and our leaders have done nothing but wring their hands and stick their heads in the sand.  Think about it:  Colombine -- where 21 were wounded and 12 killed -- happened over 13 YEARS ago. What have we learned?  What have we fixed?

Nothing.

• 5 months ago, a man opened fire in a Colorado movie theater showing The Dark Knight -- 58 wounded, 12 killed
• 4 months ago, a man opened fire in a Wisconsin Sikh temple -- 4 wounded, 6 killed
• 3 DAYS AGO, a man opened fire in a crowded Oregon shopping mall -- 1 critically wounded, 2 killed
• And today, a man opened fire in a Connecticut elementary school -- 26 killed, 20 of them kids under the age of 10

Movie theaters?  Temples?  Malls?  Elementary schools?  The world's gone mad.

Massacres have become commonplace.  Enough is enough.

I honestly don't know how to solve this, but something has got to be done.  Quickly.  In 39 years, I have never signed a petition. 

I signed this one today.  Join me?

tags: politics

Please Fix Voting (It Is Broken)

See the girl in the middle of this photo? 

That's me, at age 17, in the lobby of Montville Township High School. (Go Mustangs!)

I'm all hopeful and smiley, sitting next to my BFF. Look at my hair! Total Jersey.

Now, look at the signs behind me.

Vote!

That was 1991. And I’ve voted in every presidential, senatorial, gubernatorial, and mayoral race since 1992.

Fast forward to today – Election Day 2012. My hair is flatter and my hope has been replaced by frustration.

But this post isn’t about WHO should be president for the next 4 years. It’s not even about urging citizens to exercise their right to vote (which they totally should). It’s about something bigger than electing the leader of the free world.

It’s about the process itself.

Our voting system is beyond broken. Somebody, please fix it.

This morning, I arrived at PS166 in midtown Manhattan at 8:45, and FINALLY cast my vote sometime around 11:15. For anybody who likes to count, that's two and a half hours later...

I know this year's election had extenuating circumstances from the hurricane.  But the length of time I waited didn't have to do with voter turnout.  It had inefficiency (and chaos) written all over it.  During this time I spent on disorganized lines, which snaked around city blocks, stairways, lunch tables, and a gymnasium, I saw the following:

• A guy that lives in my building who got tired of waiting on line was given a ballot in the middle of the gym. No ID check, no signing the book.  So much for registered voters.
• A guy was confused on how to fill the ballot out. He leaned over to the stranger next to him, who told him just to fill in the circle for Obama. He said ok. So much for no campaigning within 200ft of a polling place.
• A man and a woman sat together on a bench next to the check-in table for my district (#11). While I was showing my ID, he filled out his ballot. Then he filled HERS out while she stared off into space. When I told the volunteer (who sat 3ft from the couple) what I was witnessing, she shrugged. "Nothing I can do," she said. So much for election inspectors keeping things on the up-and-up.
• A volunteer who took my completed ballot reviewed all my choices, before the machine accepted my vote.  So much for privacy.

It should be easier to vote now than at any other time in history, but it’s not. We can do better than this!

Here's my 3-step fix:

1. Privatize:
It needs to be said.  Elections should be run by impartial voting agencies (preferably from the private sector), NOT elected officials. If the majority of the world runs this way, why can’t the USA?

2. Modernize:
I vote in NY, which recently upgraded from giant metal-lever voting machines circa 1950 to Scantron machines circa 1980. I took my SAT with those things! This is 2012, right? Why are we waiting on interminable lines? Why did someone steal the tethered pen in my voting “booth,” leaving me to root around in my purse to find nothing to write with but a tin of Altoids and a tampon? If I can deposit a check into my bank account using my cell phone, why can’t I vote online?  Get with the times!

3. Standardize:
Let's get the whole country on the same page. Primary elections? They should be held twice – once with all candidates, and once with the top 2 – simultaneously across the country, not winding down over months and months like a political game of chicken. Early voting? Every state should have it – or not – and for the same set amount of time. Machines? Everyone should use the same kind. Election Day? Should be a holiday so everyone can get there. And identification? Require it. You can’t get a beer without an ID!

Bonus: While I'm fixing stuff, let's get rid of the Electoral College and go to a popular vote so a handful of swing states aren't given the power to decide the fate of an election for the entire country. And every vote actually counts.

So, what do YOU think?  In pure democratic fashion, here's a poll.  On the internet.  What a concept...

poll by twiigs.com

tags: holidays, politics, polls

Dislike

You know, I love my social media.  I have Facebook open all day long.  For work.

Mostly.

And I pop on from time to time at home during nights and weekends too.

My favorite thing is seeing all the pics of people's kids (except when they’re on the potty – my eyes!), and their pets (eh…), and the cinnamon bun somebody just ate that looked EXACTLY like Justin Bieber (it was like his twin!!).

But there are a few types of people on Facebook that I kind of loathe.


Maybe you know these people too?

THE POLITICO
I would really like to still be friends with all my friends on Nov 7th. So PLEASE pipe down with the amateur political analysis, lame photo captions, misquoted soundbites, and insulting running commentary. They like their guy. I like my guy. Or maybe we even like the same guy. Just zip it! Binders and Big Bird and the 47%. Birth certificates and liberal media and apology tours. It’s all baloney. Jobs. Debt. Healthcare. Defense. We have some serious issues to vote on, and the guy who gets elected will be everybody’s President, not just the folks who voted for him. So take the passion to the polls and keep it out of my newsfeed. (And get off my lawn!)

THE RELENTLESS PROMOTER
I know a few people who have started small businesses. One friend from an old job launched a t-shirt company in India. Another friend from high school started a cookie company in Jersey. An old boss/dear friend created a magnificent motel in the Catskills. That’s all cool. I like their updates. What isn’t cool is the acquaintance -- also from an old job -- who does nothing but post 200 times/day about her clients. “Princess Sassafrass* (*not a real name) just wrote this charming blog post, read it now and laugh your tutu off!” “Princess Sassafrass is appearing at a bus stop in Boston – all my Beantown peeps, ride the bus and show some luv.” “Princess Sassafrass is walking for a cure, donate today to rid the world of sadness and meanies!” You know what? This clueless bozo has now signed me up for Princess Sassafrass’s email newsletter! That’s where I draw the line. UNSUBSCRIBE!

THE HUMBLE BRAGGART
(This one might seem strange coming from me. After all, this is a personal blog.  I may as well be a 12-year-old with a diary, bacne, and a poster of Edward Cullen over my bed. But stick with me for a sec…)  “Ugh, I hate being inconvenienced by my brownstone reno #guessitstakeoutagain.” “Man, am I jetlagged from the trip to Tahiti #somebodygatorademe.” “Sucks when you don’t look as good as your bookcover #shouldawashedmyhair.” I’m sick to death of all this false modesty. No more: “Waaah, my diamond shoes are too tight.” Don’t be coy! I only want to see: “Eff-yeah! I’m so RICH I wear diamonds on my FEET. Boom.” Sure, I’ll still unfriend you, but I won’t want to give you a wedgie (though I *may* steal a shoe).


Maybe I’m cranky. Hey, did I mention, last week I had a meeting at Facebook’s Madison Ave offices? I was totally overdressed, sipping on free lemonade, contemplating the writing on the wall. It said, “Proceed and Be Bold.” So I stuck my resume in their binder.

Kidding... but annoying, right? Told ya!


Alright, rant over.  Tell me how YOU handle these folks...

poll by twiigs.com

tags: politics, polls, technology

I Am Not a Wen Girl

I hate being pampered.

There, I said it.

I know.  People looove that stuff.  Probably you do, too! 

YOU are normal.  But I just say no to manicures, pedicures, massages, facials, scrubs, mud baths, waxes, and spray tans.  Don't get me wrong -- I don't roam the Earth looking all raggedy.  I just handle this stuff on my own because being touched by strangers totally stresses me out. 

The ONLY salon treatment I love?  Getting my hair washed. 

Oh, I could sit in that awkward position, staring at the ceiling for hours!  I ignore the wet black towel draped around my neck.  I don't care if they get soap in my ears.  I laugh when they splash me in the eye.  I don't even flinch when the water is too cold or too hot. 

Just scrub-a-dub-dub.

Since I'm not in the salon very often, I try to recreate a hair washing oasis in my own shower.  To this end, I keep a variety of shampoos, conditioners, and 2-in-1s in stock. 

When I saw a late-nite infomercial for Wen, the revolutionary cleansing conditioner by celebrity stylist, Chaz Dean, I was immediately intrigued.  Do I know that dude?  No!  But I'm helpless to resist a good infomercial.  Seriously.  With each flip of Alyssa Milano's bouncy, shiny hair, mine felt more dry, frizzy, and dull.  This 80s teen queen/Wen Girl wouldn't steer me wrong.

They said it works on the first try!  Just one magical bottle was supposed to replace my shampoo, conditioner, deep conditioner, detangler, and leave-in conditioner. 

I don't even use half that crap, but who cares?  Was Wen ("new" spelled backwards) the secret to great hair?

I had to find out.

I went directly to their website to order, but it was a recurring charge -- a bottle every 60 days -- like a DVD club for your head.  What if I didn't like it? I am lazy about managing my finances, no doubt I'd have spent $250 on a gallon of the stuff before I ever got around to stopping it.  I know my limits.  That was not for me. 

Then I saw Sephora sold individual kits.  Yet another reason I love that store... 

It arrived a few days later and I was super excited to unlock some gorgeous hair.  I waited for a weekend so I could spend more time than I do on a typical weekday (which is about 7 minutes, including the time I spend washing it). 

I wet my hair thoroughly.  I took 10 pumps of this cleansing conditioner in my hands and rubbed them together.  I worked it deep into my hair, from root to tip.  I left it in for at least 5 minutes to really soak it in there.  Then I rinsed.  I even patted my hair dry to keep it smooth.  Finally, I blow-dried it with a round brush just like they do in the salon.

Now, I know you know what's coming...

I didn't like it. 

Here's why:

1) Bad Smell: I understand they came out with other scents like fig, lavender, and pomegranate, but I went with the original.  Sweet almond mint.  One of the things I love when I use a great shampoo is smelling it all day long as my hair bounces around.  This was a wave of menthol -- like a cough drop a grandpa would keep in his shirt pocket along with a hankie.  Nobody wants to be a Sucrets head.


2) No Lather: THIS IS THE BEST PART OF SHAMPOO!  This thing was like smearing pudding on my head.  Even the commercial got a little foam.  But for me?  No bubbles.  No froth.  Just a gunky lump.  I know it's called a cleansing conditioner, and not shampoo, but I really think they forgot the cleansing part.  Without the lather, you don't feel clean.


3) Limp Locks: I have pretty thick hair but somehow, using Wen made it stringy and kind of oily-looking.  Not the desired effect. 


In short: My hair looked better before. 


I guess it's been a rough year for my mane.  I don't know if it can stand any more experiments, so maybe I should just stick with shampoos I truly love: Frederick Fekkai Glossing, Neutrogena Anti-Residue, Organix Moroccan Oil, Herbal Essences Hello Hydration 2-in-1, and Suave Naturals.

Unless YOU use something better?  (Shhh.  Don't tell my hair, but I'm all ears...)


tags: beauty, commercials, shopping

 

Going for Gold

I can’t get into the Olympics.

There, I said it.

I know, I know!  I should feel SOME Team USA pride, and on a macro level, of course, I do!

But on an everyday basis, I know more about the scandals than I do about the scores. Like the Ralph Lauren team uniform brouhaha. And the sea of empty seats in the stadiums. And the Queen Mum’s preoccupation with her fingernails during the opening ceremony. And the fact that NBC’s broadcast delays, spoilers, and idiotic commentary has everyone in an uproar (#nbcfail).

Now, I know I’m not the sportiest gal you ever met, but I did think I had a handle on the types of competitions that were worthy of this world stage.

I was wrong.

Can someone PLEASE explain when Badminton and Trampoline became Olympic sports?

Every block in America has that house with a trampoline in the yard. It's right next store to the house with burn marks on the garage from a deep-fried turkey, down the street from the one with a hole in the roof from wayward DIY fireworks.

The everyday appeal of “sports” like Badminton and Trampoline have inspired me to develop my own list of competitions that I could do around the house. 

Olympics Selection Committee, are you listening?

I know I could bring home a bronze, silver, or gold medal with these beauties:

Competitive Gift Wrapping
Qualifications: If you’ve ever received a gift from me, you know.

Parallel Parking
Qualifications: I’m an excellent driver, and I say that without the slightest trace of irony.

DVR Programming
Qualifications: My DVR is a symphony of carefully orchestrated network and cable television shows.

Googling
Qualifications: I'm an ugly typist but I can find anything in 30 seconds flat.

Shower Re-grouting
Qualifications: I love the smell of fresh caulk in the morning.

Fridge Organizing
Qualifications: I believe tastes go together, so the salsa and the strawberry jelly shouldn’t share a shelf.

Laundry Folding
Qualifications: My first high school job was at The Gap – I can fold a tshirt like nobody’s business.

Taxicab Hailing
Qualifications: I can distinguish between an available, taken, off duty, and off duty but might still take you cab.


Slap on a jaunty beret and play along! What Faux-lympic sports would YOU excel in?


tags: sports

Something Foul Is Afoot

The unofficial start to summer is upon us, and that can mean only one thing.

Feet.

Sure, it ALSO means sunshine and ice cream, sprinklers and rainbows. But mostly, it’s time to unleash your pasty white dogs. This is my least favorite aspect of the season.

Let's face facts: Most of us should never allow our feet to see the light of day.

Case in point: I got in the elevator the other day at work, next to a guy in Tevas. I won’t go into all the things wrong with that statement, except to say that the posh company I work for is also home to the world’s top fashion magazines.

Frankly, I’m amazed he made it past security in those sweaty hogs.

Anyway, his feet were crazy looking.  I've never seen anything like them.

His toes were so flat and spread apart that you could literally fit another toe inbetween each one. It’s like they knew how ugly they looked, they got scared, they tried to get as far away from the next one as possible, and then they all got run over by a truck.

But the worst part was his toenails. They were approximately 64% longer than my fingernails.

Hey, could someone hold my hair for a sec?

BARF.

Anyway, it’s no wonder he had sandals on, because there is no way regular shoes could contain those funky toes.

In light of this unwanted encounter, I feel I am doing a public service by addressing summer feet now, before they get totally out of hand.

For the love of Dr. Scholl, hide your peds if they fit ANY of the following categories:

>> Frat Feet: are covered in bar sludge/beer from the night before
>> Jesus Feet: have dirty soles from walking barefoot in public
>> Middle Finger Feet: have a 2nd toe that is longer than the big toe
>> Shrimp Cocktail Feet: have toes that curl under from being jammed into small shoes
>> Nibble Feet: have toenails that look chewed on
>> Athlete Feet: have black and/or missing toenails
>> Troll Feet: are disfigured by bunions or corns
>> Ogre Feet: (see Troll Feet, add toe jam)
>> Finger Toes Feet: are so long they look like they could hold a knife and fork
>> Bearded Feet: are hairy
>> Weepy Feet: have so much chipped polish they are crying out for a pedicure
>> Sock Booger Feet: have pieces of lint stuck to them, lodged between toes
>> Smeet: are smelly feet


Be thankful I spared you a picture of my own feet in this post and went with my sandals instead.  Nobody needs to see that, primarily because my feet fit no less than 3 of the categories above (Middle Finger + Shrimp Cocktail + Troll). 

Embarrassing, but true.

Are you close-minded about open-toed shoes?  Kick your foot phobias below (toe-suckers need not reply -- save YOUR fetishes for a shrink).   

PS: NEVER EVER EVER do a Google image search for feet.  I can't even.  Just trust me.  Don't. 


tags: gross

Flight Plan

I’ve taken a bunch of trips over the last month – Los Angeles, Atlanta, and of course, Del Boca Vista. That's over 9K miles flown on Delta, American, United, and my beloved Jet Blue.

All this time in the sky has reminded me how much I love to travel. And how I really need to get my 50 state road trip back on track so my buddy, Jodi, and I can explore another new city.

And, how neurotic I can be.

Surely it can’t come as a surprise that the girl who has a pre-date ritual which involves dumping (clean) undies on her couch, might also pack a few quirks in her carryon…

For instance, I lay everything out 2 days before every trip so I have at least 1 day to remember the things I forgot. Also, I’d sooner ride in the luggage compartment than check a bag.

Ok, that doesn’t sound too bad. Still within the range of normal, right?

Now, run these through your security scanner:

In the Air:

• I require a window seat, because I hate getting up for people
• I am afraid that if I get up and walk around the plane, my weight will throw it off its course and we’ll go down
• I avoid going to the restroom because I fear a change in cabin pressure will suction my ass to the seat
• I avoid talking to the person sitting next to me
• I am incapable of sleeping in public, so I never nap on planes
• I don’t ever drink alcohol in-flight because I feel I need my wits about me at all times
• I never touch the tray or the materials in the seat pocket because I’m convinced they are covered in microscopic fecal matter

In the Hotel Room:

• I immediately strip the bed of blankets, throw pillows, and anything else not regularly washed
• I inspect every inch of the bed and the shower for stray hairs
• I order extra towels, as I require a minimum of 3 bath towels after I shower
• I locate the hairdryer and check the accuracy of the clock on the nightstand
• I grab a glass, but I never drink out of it – I use it to hold my jewelry
• My bare feet never touch the floor. NEVER.
• I disinfect the remote (oh my Lord of the Rings, you do NOT want to know what lurks on those buttons)
• I check the adjoining room lock(s) and flip the latch on my door so no one can ambush me in the middle of the night
• I read the room service menu, even if I’m not ordering, so I know what food I can get in a hunger emergency

These are just the things I'm aware of.  Imagine all the things I don't even know I'm doing! 

So, am I flying solo on this?  Do YOU step off the plane and scrub your skin raw with antibacterial soap and a wire BBQ brush?

Check YOUR travel neuroses below...


tags: travel

Dear John Frieda,

About a week ago, my nearly 3-year-old niece was brushing my hair. Well, really, poking my head with a small white plastic comb.

But she had the idea.

We were chatting, and I was asking her questions. Was my hair long or short? “Long.” Straight or curly? “Straight.” She may be a hairstyling GENIUS once she gets the whole combing thing down.

Anyway, when I asked her what color my hair was, she sweetly said, “Brown.”

She paused for a second, then added, “and white.”

Hilarious, but ouch!

I DO yank my gray (grey?) hairs out, but a few must have slipped past the goalie (go Rangers!). I've been to salons here and there to dye my hair when I felt like a change. But I never loved the results -- or the $250 price tag. So I began to DIY when the mood struck.

What my niece was trying to tell me was the L’Oreal Feria Natural Light Brown #60 (with 3x the highlights!) I applied around Thanksgiving had grown out.  I had roots down to my ears.  And not the sexy kind that they now call "ombre."  This was ugly.

She was right!  I needed a hair-ntervention.

Fast-forward to Wednesday night. I was on the phone with my mom watching Revenge and your John Frieda commercial came on. It was a sign from the Advertising Gods!

Huzzah!

I went to your website. I took your color quiz. I believed I could achieve true salon-quality color at home. With a foam!

I wasn’t going for anything crazy. Just a nice shade of brown that was a better version of my natural color. I’ll admit, I was indecisive in the hair care aisle at my local CVS. So I bought 2 of the shades your picker recommended.

Sure it was a little more expensive, but I’m worth it (sorry, L’Oreal).

One was medium brown with warm tones (Brilliant Brunette Medium Golden Brown #5G). The other had neutral tones (Brilliant Brunette Medium Natural Brown #5N).

Typing it now, this seems like a meaningless distinction.  But it seemed important at the time.

Anyway, at 11pm last night, after a WILD Saturday evening of L&L (laundry & Lifetime), I made the game-time decision to apply #5G to my head.

I poured the “colourant” bottle into the developer bottle, taking great care not to shake it, as instructed. I gently tilted the bottle no more than 5x to combine the dye. I squeezed tennis-ball-sized blobs of foam into my gloved hand, starting at the root. I applied the whole bottle in this fashion, and gently massaged it in to avoid tangles. I waited 20 minutes for the color to develop. I hopped in the shower and rinsed my hair with lukewarm water until it ran clean. I applied the ultra-nourishing conditioner, and let its healing Babassu oil and rice milk soak in for 5 whole minutes.

Then I dried my hair.

You know what? THIS IS NOT MEDIUM GOLDEN BROWN!

Also, I think “Babassu" oil is a made up name!

The first clue I’d gone offtrack was the reddish hue the dye had when it came in contact with my forehead. Hmmm. Next, was the foam’s refusal to stay white and foamy on my head, like it is the diagrams.

Instead mine was like… creamy dirt.

Okaaaay. The final clue was the jet-black appearance of my wet hair. I know, hair is always darker when wet, but this was a shade I’ve never seen before.

Uh oh.

No medium. No gold. No brown.

This shade is more like brownish-black with a flourish of burgundy when the light hits it a certain way.

Truth be told, I might actually like it. Now my ample brows match my hair. I have no more roots or grays, which was the original goal.  And my eyes look a little greener.  But this was a very RISKY game to play, Johnny Boy!!

Particularly since I’m headed to LA tomorrow on business, and I don’t own any hats.

So, would I have achieved a different result with #5N? Maybe. But I’ll never find out. I’m through with YOU, Mr. Frieda!  There is nothing precise about this color.

Sincerely,
(Formerly Golden) Brown-Haired Girl

PS: L’Oreal, my hair is very sorry it cheated on you. It won’t happen again.


tags: beauty

Creepy Peeper

I’m stuck at home (as I’m sure many of you are), thanks to a total jerk of a gal named Irene. If you want to read about HER, hop on Facebook or Twitter.

Here, I’ve decided to discuss the creepy Peeping Tom who lives across the way. My windows are like his personal giant movie screen.

I first noticed him a few months ago. It was hard not to, really, since his apt is directly across the street, on the same floor as mine. He used to hang out over his terrace (occasionally eating a banana or what appeared to be a bowl of soup) to watch me.  For hours. Like a 200lb paperweight.

And he wasn’t shy about staring. I felt like a brisket.

At first I thought, this guy can’t possibly be looking into my tiny 550 sqft studio. There must be a naked pilates session happening in the apartment directly above mine. And then he waved.

At me.

Since I didn’t reciprocate his friendly gesture, he retreated to his living room, where I could see him perched on the arm of his couch like a large bird. There he sat, night after night, with all the lights on and the terrace door open.  He doesn't appear to have much in the way of furniture. 

Recently, I’ve noticed his apartment goes completely dark around 8:30ish. I don’t know what he’s doing in there, but I can only imagine it involves a telescope that rivals the Hubble in both size and intensity.

But what a blockbuster movie he’s watching!

I mean, who can resist when I get home at night, tie my hair up in a ponytail and change (behind a closed bathroom door) into sweatpants? Who wouldn’t want to be a fly on the wall as I bask in the soft glow of a laptop while paying bills, or catching up on work, or blogging? And really, how could you NOT be riveted as I devour microwave dinners at my coffee table and burn through marathons of bad reality TV on my DVR?

Needless to say, this is the most boring pervert ever.

So, before the inevitable happens and he fashions a 3-piece skin suit from my flesh, I would like to publicly establish my wish that Tiffani (hold the Amber) Thiessen play me in the made-for-TV movie. I’d like it to follow in the grand cinematic tradition set by Mother, May I Sleep with Danger, Baby Monitor: Sound of Fear, and Do You Know the Muffin Man?

Please also cast Tracy Gold as his nosy neighbor who reports a foul odor and Kelly Lynch as the detective who shoots from the hip and goes with her gut. And Tori Spelling should make a guest-starring appearance as the jealous co-worker who openly wishes I would just disappear.

Every thriller needs a red herring.

As for the Creepy Peeper, they should find someone stubby like Jason Alexander. But my story might be too pedestrian for him.  So lock Joey Lawrence in a closet full of Whoppers for a month.  He'll pop out all pale and bloated and will be perfect for the part.

Whoa. 

So before this hurricane knocks out the electricity... tell me, who'd play you in the Lifetime movie of YOUR life?


tags: city life, entertainment

Hot Mess

I’m not saying it was hot today or anything, but I think a pigeon spontaneously combusted outside my window.

I saw a ton of pics on Facebook with the temperature on people's phones and in their cars.  It was 103, after all.  So you may wonder why you’re looking at a medicine cabinet? Well, for starters, it’s MY medicine cabinet.

You may also wonder why it’s jam-packed with 10 deodorants? That’s because I think I might smell. I don’t believe I stink or reek (yet). But I’m pretty certain I smell. I mean, who can possibly stay fresh in this heat?

I have become a Crazy Deodorant Lady.

I'm obsessed. The human underarm is like a Petri dish. It’s loaded with bacteria. Sure, I’ve tried your typical girlie deodorants. Secret, Dove, Ban, Degree, Lady Speed Stick.

Child’s play.

So I upgraded to clinical strength – the kind you practically need a prescription to buy.

Sniff, sniiiiiff.  Nope. Still smelly.

How could this BE? I shave and shower! Daily! Since when is that not enough?

(Side note: While I'm oversharing, I should also mention I have sensitive pits. I once tried Tom’s all-natural deodorant, which had an apricot flair and was supposed to be gentle. And it was. So gentle, in fact, that I would have had similar success rubbing an actual apricot under my arms. Turns out aluminum is a pretty important ingredient. Won't make THAT mistake again.)

So, back to the medicine cabinet. 

You might also be wondering why I have Degree man deodorant in there? It's because I believe I have found the solution to my problem. See the cap? That’s Bear Grylls’ mug on there – he's the Man vs Wild guy on the Discovery Channel. That dude’s climbed Everest, eaten snakes, wrestled alligators, drank urine, given himself a guano enema AND used the corpse of a dead sheep for a sleeping bag.

If it’s good enough for THAT guy, it should be able to handle my 20 minute walk to work.

Let’s pray it does the trick. If not, I will have no other choice but to resort to this… (and you know how I love infomercials -- no, really, I do -- I'm helpless to resist):





I'm particularly horrified by "Lanny F." and his "odors in special places."

So, is this TMI about BO? Do YOU have any secrets for smelling sweet in this heat?  Don't make me sweat it out.

Share below...


tags: commercials, gross, health

Fly The Friendly Skies

I flew home from Del Boca Vista today, after spending a long weekend with the 'rents. I head south every other month to take my mom to her dr appointments, and while I wish it were under different circumstances, I love our visits because I miss them a ton.
 
Last time I was in town, back in April, my mom loaded me up with random groceries because she thinks the prices in NYC are too high.  And they are!  But unfortunately, I got stopped by Orlando International Airport Security for smuggling 2 very dangerous substances: Nutella and Laughing Cow Cheese.
 
I’m not joking.
 
They pulled me off the line, rifled through my bag, and confiscated these items. Why? Because cream-like substances can be used to make a bomb.
 
Oh please.
 
If I knew how to make a bomb using a jar of hazelnut spread and 2 wheels of Swiss, I’d take that evil genius and apply it to MUCH more worthwhile pursuits. Like hacking into the Powerball drawing, so I can quit flying commercial.

At the time, I was given 3 options from the humorless attendant:
1) Go back outside and check my bag
2) Throw these perfectly good, unopened items in the trash
3) Eat them on the spot

Let me repeat that last one... EAT them. On the spot.  Like I was just going to pop a squat in the middle of effing security to enjoy a picnic consisting of an entire JAR of Nutella and SIXTEEN wedges of cheese!

Morons.

Pissed, I wound up going with Door #2: The trash bin.  I hope they picked it out after I stormed off and THEY ate it and it gave them diarrhea for days. 

This time, I was traveling without any contraband. I breezed through the black diamond lane, reserved for only the most experienced of frequent flyers. When I got to security, I saw they are now using one of those full body scan machines that caused all that nakedness and radiation uproar over the holidays. Remember that? 

I took my shoes off, and narrowly avoided stepping on a bandaid that was stuck to the rug.  Gross.  Then I was instructed to stand facing the machine with my legs spread apart and my arms in the air for this virtual frisking.

Keep in mind, this is the most action I've had in a looong time.  So the only thought going through my head was: Am I wearing nice undies?  I concentrated to try and mentally feel what kind I had on, but it was impossible.

Try it yourself. Without using your hands. It really can't be done.

Anyway, I passed the test and eventually I boarded the plane. A woman and her lap child were sitting in my seat. 9F. I said, “That’s my seat.” Then I glanced at the 2 other kids sitting next to her, and I immediately offered to take her seat, 9A.

Well, let me just say no good deed goes unpunished...

No sooner do I sit down in the window seat, than a young girl sat down on the aisle. She showed me her seat assignment, 9B (aka the middle).  Said she was saving a seat for her friend, like it’s her spot on the lunchline. Her name was Chanel. I resisted the urge to introduce myself as Gucci.

She looked at me with dead doll eyes and I see she’s in a sorority. I say this not because of her vapid gaze (though that certainly didn’t help), but because of the small purple pillow she was clutching. Stitched to the front were letters I couldn't read. Alpha Delta Pi Phi Sigma. Omega Lambda Beta. Kappa Theta. Epsilon.

(I have no idea if those were her letters, they're just the only Greek letter names I know. And I’m not even really sure about that last one.)

Next, her friend, presumably named Prada, scurried in and sat down -- which would have been fine if that aisle seat didn’t actually belong to anyone. But it did.

Moments later, a dad in a Ben & Jerry’s Phish Food t-shirt, said, “That’s MY seat.”

Doll Eyes filled him in, and he said, “That’s cool.” He seemed down with a trade and strapped himself into 10D, another aisle seat, a row back. Well, that just happened to be the seat of a passive aggressive off-duty flight attendant.

She said, “That’s MY seat.” Papa Bear explained the seat assignment roulette we were playing.  She grunted, and grabbed her tote, accidentally knocking an old lady in the head.

Well, this Granny wasn't having it. And getting smacked upside the noggin did not sit well with her. She began to growl and mumble obscenities, one of which was NOT whippersnappers.

About 5 minutes later our actual flight attendant informed Papa Bear that he’s seated in an extra legroom seat and that'll be $45 bucks, thankyouverymuch. That went over like a fart in church. Mellow Yellow turns beet red. He glares at Chanele and Prada, and insists on a new seat with a regular amount of legroom. He gets 8C, and then settles down.

For now.

The girls in my row were blathering on and on about getting to England. I wondered if they boarded the wrong plane because MY ass was headed back to New York.  Then Chanel tapped me on the shoulder. She asked if I knew how "American text message minutes" convert when traveling overseas. Like unit measurements of time were somehow different across the pond?

I wanted to take their heads and clack them together.

Listen, I'm not trying to be mean.  Really, I'm not.  I’m sure the jello shots and jalapeno poppers at Tipsy’s last night were hella good, but come ON.

We were on the runway waiting for takeoff when Prada got the munchies. She put a bagel directly on the tray table. ON the tray table! No buffer.

I nearly fainted.

Let me just state for the record that there is ZERO chance I would ingest ANYthing that touched an airplane tray table. There is not enough disinfectant on the planet to make that ok.  That thing has more germs than the monkeyhouse at the zoo.

Chanel seemed unfazed. Perhaps they had super immune systems, due to all kegstands and spit-swapping, but I haven’t done that (in years).

Papa Bear was having none of it.  He turned around to inform the girls -- perfect strangers, mind you -- that we hadn't taken off yet, so they shouldn’t be using their tray tables. They flipped him off.

All this drama was suddenly making me hungry too. I spread out a napkin nest on my lap, took a small brown bag out of my purse, and ate a croissant using the bag as a barrier between my breakfast and my potentially dirty hands.

So I'm munching away.  And while I couldn’t feel my underwear, I absolutely COULD feel the giant, flaky hunk of pastry that fell down my shirt and nestled into my cleavage. But rather than fish it out, I decided to save it for later incase I got hungry in the taxi.

It’s not like anyone was going to see my bra at that point. I’d already gotten to 3rd base with the TSA.


tags: travel

Red Means Go

So I kinda got hit by a car this morning.

I get it, I’m impatient. I cross in the middle of the street. I walk against the light.  But this one was not my fault.
 
I left my apt on my usual commute.  As I rounded the corner of 42nd and 2nd, I was greeted by a small festival going on in PIX Plaza.  I already been tipped off because I saw it on TV a few minutes earlier, while I was getting ready for work. 

Confession:
I have a longstanding love affair with Channel 11 morning "news."  There, I said it!

So my street was obviously making BIG headlines today, what with it being National Donut Day and all.  PIX was giving away Entenmann's donuts and collecting donations for the Salvation Army in the plaza.  I dropped a buck in the bucket and grabbed myself a chocolate frosted. 

You know the one?  With the yellow cake inside? 

Yum.

Anyway, with both my belly and my soul feeling good, I continued on 42nd Street towards 3rd Ave.  Aside from the sweet start, it was a normal morning as I walked passed the Helmsley Hotel, a Pax deli, and a Gap.  I stopped when I reached the corner, waiting for the light to change.

As it turned from green to yellow, I stepped off the curb.  Just then, a white BMW with Virginia plates started to speed up, clearly trying to beat the light.

You think you know what's going to happen next, don't you?  Not so fast...

The driver (a lady) must have had second thoughts when the light turned red because she jams on the brakes, which landed her right on top of the crosswalk.  Actually, she was about 3 feet past the crosswalk.  Since she was blocking the walkway, I went behind her car rather than face oncoming traffic.  That was my mistake.

Realizing she overshot the line, she flips the car into reverse and hits the gas.  Ok.  Except I'm sandwiched right between her car and a Moishe's moving truck.  Along with 4 other pedestrians. 

Who DOES that?

Assholes, that's who! 

So everybody scatters, but I'm too close to jump and she kinda backs into me.  Not OVER me, luckily.  But let's just say her back bumper and my thigh are now well acquainted.  So I bang repeatedly on her back window and say something profane (the likes of which the Salvation Army would not approve).

She sticks her hand through her sunroof and shouts, "Sorry," then runs the light anyway by making a right turn on red (a no-no in NYC), and disappears on 42nd.  Somebody caught her plate number, but I didn't bother to stick around.  I had a meeting starting in 10 minutes, and was already behind because I'd stopped for a donut.

So, that was my adventure for today.  Be careful out there, friends! 

And while you're on the equally dangerous sidewalks of New York, you might as well keep your eyes peeled for these jerks too:

• People who don’t look in same the direction they’re walking
• People who randomly stop in the middle of the sidewalk
• People who walk and wave their cigarettes around
• People who walk and pause to drink hot coffee
• People who walk and type

After all, getting rear-ended by a tourist holding a lit cigarette and a steamy cup of joe could end far worse than my little bumper mishap!


tags: city life

Dear Steve Jobs,

There’s a lot going on in the world these days. 100,000 fish just dropped dead in Arkansas. Australia is under water. Snowmageddon paralyzed the whole eastern seaboard last week. Brad Womack is back as the Bachelor.

But I’m laser-focused on one thing: Verizon getting the iPhone.

I check the news daily and I read discussion boards I don’t really even understand, desperately searching for kernels of information, rumors, whispers, and other assorted propaganda. I’ve asked sweet baby Jesus. I’ve asked Santa Claus. And now I’m asking you…

When are you releasing a Verzon iPhone?

I know you handed over the iPad. It's not enough. I need the phone. Just give me a date! We all know it’s coming! But WHEN?? I can’t wait much longer.

Do you SEE the ridiculous junk I’m still carrying in the hopes that my dream phone is right around the corner? It might as well be a tin can and a string.

I bought my Motorola Razr like 6 YEARS ago because I saw it on Entourage and thought it was cool. Even Johnny Drama has moved on by now! And don’t even get me started on my iPod. It belongs in a museum at this point. Plus the battery dies whenever it’s cold outside.

Like now.


It’s not right to make me suffer this way!

Verizon telemarketers don’t even bother to call me anymore to upgrade. Even THEY think I am a lost cause and they have horribly low standards. I see their flashy commercials, but I am not tempted. Incredible?  Ha!  I say Droid Schmoid. I’m holding out for the iPhone. And only YOU can make that happen.

I long for the day that I can download useless apps. I vow to cherish every swipe of my shiny new iTunes library. And I will honor my awesome video chat capabilities by putting on lip gloss before every single call I make.  That's a promise.

I will, in fact, marry my Verizon iPhone.

You know, the Consumer Electronics Expo starts on Thursday. Might that be a convenient time for you to steal the spotlight with this exciting news? I hear Verizon’s CEO is a keynote speaker. I’m sure he’d share the mic with you. Maybe give him a call. From your iPhone.

Otherwise, I think your birthday is coming up. Please, please, please take pity and give yourself the gift of ME. And roughly 90MM other Verizon Wireless customers.

But mostly, me.

iThank you for your time,
Your #1 Verizon iPhone Fan

 
tags: pop culture, shopping

Adios 2010

I am soooo ready to kiss 2010 goodbye.

Mwah.

What was supposed to be my best year ever turned out to be total crap. Dumped?  Check.  Homeless?  Yup.  Poorer?  You betcha!  2011’s got to be better, right?

(gulp... right?!)

Here are the important steps I'll be taking tonight to ensure that it is…

Watching Andy Cohen on Bravo
I cannot handle ringing in New Year’s Rockin’ Eve with pre-recorded musical guests and plastic Ryan Seacrest. And I'm sorry but watching Dick Clark struggle to speak brings me down. So I’m switching things up this year with Bravo and the irresistible Andy Cohen. He's not lighting a tired old ball -- he's dropping a blonde wig.  Plus, it's cable, so there's a good chance he will be counting down to midnight as he should be. Tipsy.

Eating 12 Grapes at Midnight
Following a tradition that started in Spain over 100 years ago, I am going to eat 1 grape for each tick of the clock so I can have good luck every month of the year. By the last stroke of midnight, I will have eaten 12. I wonder if it applies to anything eaten 12 at a time? Like Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups? Ham sandwiches?  I’m guessing no. But either way, it’s a good thing I have no one to kiss. My mouth will be too busy eating my future.

Reading My 2011 Horoscope
It seems that my life (and yours!) should unclench in the New Year.  Thanks to Jupiter, Uranus, the Moon, Venus, Pisces and a purple unicorn at the end of a rainbow, we’ll all get relief from our romantic worries. Then the Sun, Saturn, Mars, Capricorn, and the two-timing Moon and Venus get in on the action so our money problems ease up too. It’s comforting to know the trust issues and debt that I acquired as parting gifts in 2010 won’t stick around.

Wearing Bright Undies
Some people slip into sequined dresses, others sport tuxedos. Me? I’ll do like they do in South America and slap on some brightly colored underpants. Most popular is red to attract love, or yellow for prosperity. Maybe I'll wear both. Do you think size matters? If so, count me in for a scuba suit.


I think I’ll stop short of plucking all my eyelashes out and making a wish on each one. But I’m pretty much game for anything else.

Got any other crazy suggestions for good luck? Add them below!


tags: entertainment, food, holidays