Designer fakes

I approach Canal Street, heart beating, pulse racing, cash in hand. After much deliberation in a hole-in-the-wall shop, filled floor to ceiling with a jumble of snazzy handbags, most with zippers and hardware covered in protective plastic, I make my choice. I finally opt for a bright blue bag, that if I squinted at without my -11.5 prescription eyewear, vaguely sorta kinda looks like the Bizzarro version of the latest “it” bag.

I’m giddy.

For exactly 7 minutes.

That’s how long it take me to leave the shop and start walking up Broadway toward wherever I left my good taste.

I immediately regret the purchase, knowing that the faux-my-goodness bag into which I just transferred all my shit is a fraud, just like me. I can’t afford a crazy status bag and I’m not fooling anyone, least of all myself. I may be cash-poor but I feel downright cheap when I carry my giant Marc Facobs.

And you’re not fooling anyone either, ladyfriend.

If you’re carrying a Vuitton bag, chances are, you’re not riding the crosstown bus or jumping the turnstile. I don't know about you, but from now on, I'm taking the Jackson I would have spent on that close-but-no-cigar knockoff and putting it into something far more satisfying and always in style: the DVD set of Sex and the City, Season 3. That sort of fake Fendi action I can get behind.

The middle seat

I’ve booked the ticket, now I just have to pick my seat and wrap things up.

Uh oh.

The only seats available? 15E and 31B.

This can only mean one thing: the middle seat.

Fucking hell.

Whether I’m sandwiched between two big-ass loafs or wafer-thin Minnies, the problem is the same.

I’m trapped. God forbid I’m actually able to fall asleep. It’s only a matter of time before I lean right or left and drool on the Ed Hardy acolyte who’s hogging the armrest with his tattooed forearm.

If I am able to contort myself like a Cirque de Soliel freakasauras flex and pull out my laptop, I’m unable to move in my invisible straitjacket.

It nosedives from there. I spiral deep into my childhood, where I was left to straddle the hump in the backseat of the family car, trapped between my two older and decidedly ungenerous brothers. While my aisle mates are not likely to pinch or punch me, they are likely to irk me all the same with their superior seat assignments.

So I’m left with no choice but to land a solid punch to the middle seat’s face. Which is harder than it looks, considering I have no room to haul back and let it rip.

Fucking hell.

(photo: itinerantfan.wordpress.com)

Missionaries

DaddyGregor sent this to me and I couldn't have said it better myself…so I didn't.

If you come to my door on a 90-degree day, sweaty from peddling your white-shirted, black-trousered self all around my 'hood, and ask me where god is in my life, I am likely to say, "which one?"

Then, if you think I am a polytheist, I will take you on a road through the ins and outs of my multiple lives as a polygamist (just like your Mormon grandfather, perhaps…). Conversely, if you guess that I in fact already lead multiple lives, I correct you and then expound upon the various gods of Norse mythology and how I feel them acting in my day-to-day life. Why? Because religion is a personal thing and you are a complete stranger. So, if I am hardly likely to be swayed in my beliefs at this point, even by a close friend, it's a waste of my time for you to go a-working on my soul.

And if anyone is gonna waste my time, then I'm gonna be driving, be it the car or the conversation. It makes no difference to me.

(photo: mtbouldering.blogspot.com)

Hair extensions*

I blame Paris Hilton. Thanks to her, a whole generation of skanks and trophy wives with French tips and tennis bracelets have embraced a culture of fake. They’ve embraced hair extensions.

Hair has become an accessory, like a pair of earrings or shoes, that you can just don and doff at will. Hair used to be a gal’s crowning glory; now it’s just a stringy hat.

It used to be that people would hide the artificial, be it boobs, a tan, or hair. Bragging rights came from things being real. While Crystal Gayle’s hair could have been used to garrotte her, do you think she’d be caught dead with extensions? Her long hair was noteworthy because it was real.

Now Britney is shaving her head during a psychotic break and then getting terrible extensions knotted to her stubble. She isn’t fooling anyone and she doesn’t give a rat’s ass, which, come to think of it, is sort of what her hair looks like. Danielle Staub got beaded extensions for the current season of The Real Housewives of New Jersey. When Ashley pulled her hair at a country club, the defense was “I pulled her extensions so technically I didn’t touch her.” Fair enough. If you put in locks long enough to be a lever, be prepared for someone to pull it.

Back away from the Jessica Simpson clip-in hairdon’t and work with what you’ve got. Short hair? Now, that’s hot. For reals.

(photo: jenniferlew.blogspot.com)

*This post only applies to white women. I’m totally down with weaves. And I have no beef with wigs.

Last-minute cancellations

Things happen. Viruses rear their ugly heads at the most inopportune time. Food poisoning, bad day at work, a hangnail, a new episode of Glee—shit comes up. And while this blog may be evidence to the contrary, I think I’m a pretty understanding gal. I don’t mind if you cancel because you were felled by a migraine (in fact, I did this a couple of days ago).

Just don’t make a habit of it.

But when you bail on me yet again an hour before a concert and leave me with an extra ticket, I am not quite so forgiving. When you blow off my party with a wuss text as things are getting under way, it’s not okay. When canceling late in the game becomes the rule rather than the exception, you either need a full medical workup and are possibly contagious or you’re just fucking lame.

Either way, not cool.

Man up. You made a commitment so unless you're suddenly puking in the ER, show up. Wear a face mask, stuff cough drops and Kleenex in your pocket, do what you have to do. Just don’t keep opting out at the 11^th hour, or I might have to opt out of our future plans to be friends.

(photo: onefinephilly.blogspot.com)

Petting zoos

Petting zoos chap my hide. Ever since I was a kid field tripping to Deer Forest and buying a cone of food pellets from a vending machine, I have been skeeved out by the sad congregation of random critters bleeting out a lethargic greeting.

Or maybe that llama is just pleading with me to put it out of its misery.

It may not be surrounded by water, but a petting zoo is an island of misfit farm animals. Sure, I’m a regular girl who lives for pony rides, but my dream doesn’t involve a bony nag tied to an creaking equestrian merry-go-round. I love deer…when they are happily springing away from me through the forest. I find sheep adorbs, but I don’t want to pet their fleece; I want to knit it. I’m interested in the cheese—not the e coli—that a molting goat is offering up.

The poo zoo review is in: this one's a stinker.

(photo: foodpoisoning.pritzkerlaw.com)

Beach makeup and jewelry

As the temperatures soar, I beeline to the beach. But instead of cooling off, my blood really starts to boil when I spot tantards, tricked out in full-on makeup and their entire jewelry box. Even if you happen to be a Kardashian sister or are filming a reality show, back away from the waterproof eyeliner and the gold bangles. (And if you are Snooki, start jackhammering that shit off before I do it for you.)

Wearing the complete cosmetic cornucopia—foundation, blush, bronzer, eye shadow, eye liner, mascara, lipliner, lipstick—is going to clog your pores, particularly if you add sunscreen into the mix. And when you wear a tangle of necklaces or a fistful of rings, you’re adding tan lines, dulling your baubles, and risking loss or damage.

Oh, and you look fekking dumb. You look like you’re trying too hard. Frankly, you look desperate. Sorry to put sand in your Spandex, but the beach is a place to chill and let your hair down. It’s not the place to show off your new Shimmer Brick and tennis bracelet.

Step away from the MAC and the Maybelline, and leave the ghetto gold back at the beach house. Real beach bunnies have the confidence to embrace the elements and their natural beauty. I learned that from Baywatch.

(photo: inquisitr.com)

Sharks

As I sit on an island soaking up 4^th of July rays, I think of the quintessential summer holiday weekend movie: Jaws.

And I get fucking pissed.

Thanks to Steven Spielberg, I’ve been afraid to go into the water—even Lake Michigan—for nigh on 35 years. The image of that drunk broad holding onto the buoy as she gets munched on is forever imprinted in my landlubber brain. I don’t fancy becoming Bruce’s next amuse bouche.

To paraphrase Brody, I’m gonna need a bigger fist. Because as I learned from The Worst-Case Scenario Survival Handbook, punching a shark in the eye or gill is the best way to go. Or I could just not go into the water…

(photo: numpanglewat.files.wordpress.com)