Monthly Archives: January 2013

Backup plans in case writing doesn’t work out

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13

Okay, so I’ve written previously about my super heightened sense of smell.

But before we go there, I am in the best freaking mood today. Not to go on about the whole nasal surgery thing, but today I went in for a check up, and the doc did the face suck again. It was horribly unpleasant, but as soon as he finished, heavenly lights shone down, angels sang, and I made a squeeeeeee sound, because the pressure in my sinuses was blessedly relieved. Now nothing could dampen my mood, yippee!

And also, several people asked if my sense of smell was altered any, and the verdict seems to be that it is even more sensitive than before. That is probably not a good thing, but perhaps I can join the canine unit of my law enforcement agency? Because I’m pretty sure I could sniff out the most well-hidden of stashes. Instead of barking, or whatever it is drug dogs do, I’ll just point to the culprit and say, “Bust that bitch!”

It’s always good to have a fallback plan.

Anyway, I guess I should have started by saying I almost posted an open letter to the Asshats who run AT&T, but opted not to. Because really? No one cares. We all know AT&T doesn’t give two hoots about their customers. The same could be said for any phone and/or cable company. They are all evil mo-fos. That, by the way, has nothing to do with this post. In fact, the above was really just a side note in another post about me becoming a superhero that sniffs out corporate bullshit. During the writing of that post, I happened across an article on Cracked.com about six superhero powers that would suck. Smell, by the way, isn’t among them, which is probably because there isn’t a superhero whose only power is finely tuned olfactory perception.

Since I am an excellent procrastinator, I also read an article on 4 things that smell nothing like you’d expect. And that, my friends, is where I found the perfect job for me. Ladies and gentlemen, I am going to become a Smell Artist. Now, if you actually clicked on the link to the article and read it, and then by chance clicked on the link within the article where they talk about the scent artist, you will notice he’s a chemist. We’ve already established I’m not a scientist. However, my sense of smell is superlative, so I figure someone would have to hire me, right? Think of the aromatic masterpieces I could create! I mean, sure, I’d have to have a chemist help me, but whatever. All sorts of artists have assistants. Hell, Annie Leibovitz doesn’t do anything these days but click a button, her assistants do the lighting and camera settings and blah blah blah, but she has the vision. Just like me, except replace vision with smell.

It’s hard to say which of these careers would best suit me. Being a smell artist would give me license to be eccentric, and since I don’t have a license for that right now, people just call me weird. On the other hand, being part of the canine unit could come in handy. For example, due to the fact that I live in California, where there is an immense amount of weed smokin’, telling people I’m a non-canine drug sniffer for the po-po would be akin to saying I work for the IRS – it would surely cause everyone to take five steps back, and that’s perfect for me, because I like having my space. Perhaps I’ll join law enforcement for the benefits and moonlight as a smell artist.

Bam, I’ve got myself a new plan.

Somewhere in here there must be a chicken joke

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22

Yesterday my husband relayed a conversation that took place between several guys at work. It all started when a woman walked by and one of the men commented to the others, “Leggings are not pants.”

Even guys know it.

Anyway, the statement sparked a conversation about the trend, and the general consensus from the group was that they all felt the same way – leggings are not pants. That, however, is not what this post is about. One of the guys warned the others that, fashion aside, men had to be careful about leggings because some of them are designed to suck in, tighten, and shape the legs and ass. He followed with, “Once you get those things off, you might not be getting what you thought.”

In other words, shapewear.

I burst out laughing over the story, partly over my husband’s expression, but also because the group then had a conversation about the great success of the owner of Spanx, and how many women wear them. I think women typically believe men are oblivious to some of our stealthy feminine smoke and mirror tricks. Clearly that isn’t the case. Men have known we enhance ourselves for as long as we’ve had the tools to do so. However, the ways in which a woman can augment her appearance are certainly far greater than even a decade ago. Eyelash extensions, hair extensions, industrial strength shapewear – females have quite the arsenal. It used to be men only had to wonder if the rack they were staring at was real, or filled out with three inches of Victoria’s padding. Now it’s a whole different ballgame.

My opinion regarding any so-called trick, whether it’s something as simple as shapewear, or complicated, like plastic surgery, is that if it makes you feel better about yourself, then go for it. Personally, I am a huge fan of cosmetics. Lack of sleep? Under the weather? Too much Chinese food? No problem, I can paint on a false face of freshness and you’d never know I look like a zombie underneath. But for all my love of spackle, I have never worn any sort of Spanx or extensions. Not that I haven’t been tempted, it’s fear that keeps me from trying, because I am the person that would epically fail.  I’d be the chick in the photo with her Spanx clearly visible, or the eyelashes slightly askew, or chicken cutlets on the floor. Also, somewhere along the line I read a description of a Spanx-clad ass as being one continuous, albeit smooth, butt cheek. Something about that picture struck me as strange – I feel like I need two butt cheeks.

But anyway, back to chicken.

Years ago, I was going out for the evening with a roommate. As we were getting ready, she asked me if I wanted to wear some of her chicken cutlets (for the dudes out there, cutlets are silicone inserts that go in your bra, adding volume. They also make self-adhesive ones you can wear alone, no bra necessary). I eyeballed the pair in her hand, considering. Then she told me that several weeks earlier, while dancing with a guy at a club, one of her cutlets took a flying leap and splattered onto the floor between them. They both looked down, and he pointed to it and said, “Is that yours?” She did the only thing she could do, said no, and shimmied her way off the dance floor.

Any notion I had of trying out the cutlets was squashed upon hearing that tale, which was probably a good move. I doubt fate, or karma, or whatever it is that occasionally decides to make an example out of me would have been content with a cutlet on the floor. Oh no, uh-uh. I would have sneezed, or something, sending a cutlet flying across the room, and pegged some poor unsuspecting soul in the head with my bust enhancer.

So, I’m curious to hear your thoughts – one butt cheek or two?

Everyone calm the hell down

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6

We are not a family that does grocery shopping for the week. I always see folks with carts filled to the brim with stuff, but I just can’t do it. Number one, that would require me to push a cart around the store, and I refuse to do that, if I can’t fit what I need into a basket then I’m buying too much. And second, I have no clue as to what I might want to eat two days from now, and neither does my husband. Typically, if I buy food that isn’t meant to be consumed within the following 48 hours, it doesn’t get eaten – it’ll just sit there, slowly expiring, until I toss it in the trash. This of course means that I probably go to the grocery store four or five times a week – I suppose it takes more time than doing one round where I load up on stuff, but I’m usually in and out in a few minutes so it isn’t all that bad.

More trips to the store, however, also means more possibilities to run into weirdos and assholes.

Yesterday I didn’t make it to the market until early afternoon, a terrible time to shop, as the store is always filled with Sunday cart loaders. It wouldn’t be so bad, except for all the people in the habit of leaving their cart in the middle of an aisle while they wander off to find ketchup or whatever, leaving others to push carts out of the way to get at stuff. And then there are the Siamese Shoppers, couples that don’t split up in order to divide and conquer the store as quickly as possible, and instead stay attached at the hip while having a long and drawn out conversation about whether they should get skim or two percent.

Anyway, I wove my way around to get what I needed and then jumped in line. In general, I accept the fact that, no matter what, I will always choose the wrong line – it saves me from a lot of unnecessary frustration. This time was no different. The person in front of me unloaded a salad onto the conveyor, put a stick down behind it, and then spent a great deal of time choosing a pack of gum. I didn’t think much about it, and set my stuff down behind his salad. The cashier immediately turned on the conveyor, moving his item down the way so she could scan it. Then the guy got his panties in a knot because, as it turned out, he still had a basket in his hand filled with groceries. So one by one he hands over his things to the cashier to ring up, bitching the whole time, and alternating dirty looks between me and the checker.

Whatever.

Meanwhile, the guy in line behind me was slowly building up to the world’s biggest conniption fit, because the man in front was taking so much time. He lined up his stuff into a compact formation, right behind the stick I put down. The entire time the dude in front of me was having a hissy fit, the one behind me was doing an antsy pants dance, and slowly pushed his items, and thus mine as well, forward onto the non-moving conveyor belt. Eventually he shoved everything so far forward that my items spilled off the belt, right in front of the cashier. By that time the grumpy man in front paid, gave one final harrumph at me and the checkout girl, and stomped off.

The cashier rang up my stuff, which didn’t take long as I only had three things, and then gave me the total. In the time it took for me to hand over the money and wait for my change, which was, oh, about ten seconds, the antsy man nearly blew his lid. It would have been funny, but he was literally about three inches away from me, and totally invading my personal bubble. Me putting my change away was the straw that broke the camel’s back, I guess, because he started making loud and insistent noises of disgust. I’m kind of surprised he didn’t explode. The moment I moved my wallet, he slammed down his backpack, triumphantly claiming the checkout line as his own.

Um, okay. I guess you win?

I walked to my car, wondering why people feel the need to freak out over absolutely nothing, and as I got in noticed a family directly across from me. For some unknown reason, one of them had on a horse head. They were all talking excitedly, a mile a minute, punctuated with hysterical laughter every ten seconds or so, and in general were having a grand time. It was totally awesome.

Thank God there are happy people out there to negate the dickery of other folks.

#marsupial

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18

I’ve always find it odd when Hollywood or the fashion world decide, simultaneously, that something is cool. The entertainment industry is notorious for that kind of crap, and they put things out in waves. Like all vampires, all the time, followed by non-stop zombies. Sometimes, however, they come out in pairs. Remember Deep Impact and Armageddon? Or how about two Snow White movies released within months of each other. Who thought that was a good idea? Even more recently, it was two films about Hitchcock – the HBO one, and then the good one.

Why?

It makes no sense to me. I really don’t believe two studios just so happened to receive two scripts about Snow White at the same time, and then just so happened to green light the projects. Nope, it has to be because Hollywood is filled with people who love nothing more than to talk about other people’s business (okay, that’s really more of a human condition, and not just confined to Hollywood, but you know what I’m saying).

Busybody1: Did you know so and so optioned a script about who cares?

Busybody 2: Oh-em-gee. Are you serious? So are we!

And then begins a mad rush to put the movie out first.

It happens all the time in fashion too. This season, for example, is all about graphic black and white prints in geometric silhouettes. And pretty much every designer is claiming the inspiration came from Edie Sedgwick. Really? Are they all that homogeneous? What happened to originality? I just don’t get it. For what reason did 75% of the fashion houses decide everyone should look like a barcode this spring? I suppose I can understand an across the board, ‘black and white stripes are in’, but the Edie Sedgwick thing seems so…random.

So all this got me to thinking, we should totally start doing this in the blogger world. But it can’t be something obvious, like a response to an article in the Huffington Post, because of course that’s going to garner 100,000 of more or less the exact same ranty-rants from the blogosphere. No, it needs to be something completely arbitrary. Like wallabies.

Next year's top male baby name? Joey.

Let’s all begin posting about our desperate desire for a marsupial pouch. It will be the next big trend in plastic surgery. Forget fillers, forget butt implants, the next big thing will be taking skin from our asses to create a pouch up front. I mean, think about it, how practical would a built in pouch be? I would never lose my keys again if I could simply store them in my pouch. Traveling? No more worrying about where to keep your passport, you’ve got built in storage.

The inspiration for The Pouch, of course, is Hollywood’s Aussie imports. Cate Blanchett, Hugh Jackman, Russell Crowe. Since we can’t get enough of them, let’s show our appreciation for the down under by sporting a pouch.

Because that makes total sense, right?