Themed Christmas trees

’Tis the season to be jolly…not to coordinate your tree with your great room décor.

A Christmas tree should be a joyous jumble of handmade ornaments, crude garlands, and twinkling lights.

What is should not be: an accessory. It should not be tricked out to match your couch or your carpet or your paint color. It shouldn’t be tastefully, blandly monochromatic. And it shouldn’t look like it belongs on the floor of your local Pottery Barn or Joann Fabrics. When my parents split, my mom left behind the handmade ornaments our family had made and accumulated over the years. Instead of ornaments made out of glitter and a green metal ashtray from McDonalds (remember those?), we had a fake flocked tree adorned with blue plaid bows and little white seagulls perched in wooden napkin rings. Color me Ebenezer, but this didn’t exactly read Christmas to me. It screamed “aisle 4 in Michaels Crafts,” not a place where I wanted to spend much time during the holidays, for fear of stabbing my eyes out with florist’s wire.

Please pull out all of your ornaments—the wonky handmade ones, the corny gifts, the big-ass, almost-to-scale Santa you bought on an ill-advised trip to a Christmas Shoppe—and lather up your tree the way God and the Von Trapp family intended.

(photo: barefootfloor.com)

Inexplicable bruises

I’m clumsy. That’s no surprise to anyone who knows about my inner ear imbalance. But riddle me Alzheimer’s: when exactly did I drive the back of my calf into a wall, causing it to look like a bruised pear? Did I fall on the inside of my forearm in the last 48 hours? And why exactly is my index finger puffed up?

I like things rough as much as the next gal, but it seems to me that I actually have to make contact with someone or something in order to sport a little friendly bruising. When a mysterious mark on my right earlobe appears, I think it’s time to install some motion-censor cameras because the only logical answer is paranormal activity.

(photo: prettyfeathers.com)

20-minute coffee prep

I don't know what's going on back there but this isn’t the Manhattan Project. It's a flippin' cup of coffee. While your coffee contraption looks like it was made by Skynet, I'm pretty sure it's not going to enable time travel. And it sure as hell isn't going to help me get back the 20 minutes I've been waiting patiently by the sugar station. What it—and you—are doing, however, is terminating my patience.

You don’t need to take the scenic route to get to my drink destination. Really. Just jump on the espressoway and knock that shit out. Don't wax rhapsodic about your special blend that was picked by monkeys on the north face of a mountain in Columbia. Don't spam me with your disdain for my decaf order. And while I appreciate your java jive, I don't need or want you to craft a flower or devil or my silhouette in my cappuccino's microfroth.

And when you take that long, you're setting up unreasonable expectations. If I don’t have an orgasm on my first foamy sip, your fine art of grinding, steaming, and frothing is lost on me. And that's truly a shame.

(photo: webdesignerdepot.com)

Old guy facelifts

It’s hard to watch any of the Kardashian divorce coverage. It’s not because Kim’s stunt disgusts me or that I think there’s no there there. It’s because of Bruce Jenner. 

I remember the ’76 Olympics. I remember Jenner taking a victory lap after winning the decathalon, fitting during a Bicentennial Year. Proud to be an American, I ate a lot of Wheaties with Jenner on the box.

Now, I sort of want to throw up my breakfast when I see Jenner doddering around the Kardashian klan. He looks like the grim reaper, the skin of his face pulled tightly over cheekbones and implants. And he’s not alone. Michael Douglas, Paul McCartney, and Steven Tyler are also part of the cryptkeeper club, not content to leave well enough alone and age gracefully, let alone move their face. These dudes are starting to look like ladies, and not in a good way. I’d punch them in the face, but I might shatter them.

(photo: celebritysmackblog.com)

Grocery go-carts

The grocery store is not an amusement park, nor is it a raceway. What it is, rather, is a clusterfuck, clogged with baby buggy bumper cars, grocery carts tricked out with a plastic toy car for your little one to lounge in while being chauffeured down the cereal aisle.
 

Excuse me, but while you're drivin' Miss Lazy, I’m trying to get to my Cocoa Puffs. Your bulbous pace car is cock-blocking my sugar addiction. This will not stand. Steer your fender extender to a less-trafficked aisle before I commit a moving violation of my own.
 

(Photo: raisingmaine.mainetoday.com)

White chocolate

Creamy? Yes.
Sugary? Yes.
Waste of space? Hell, yes.
Chocolate? Uh…..

I tend to be irritated by things I don’t understand. Quantum physics, Ulysses, the popularity of Snooki…

So you can imagine my apoplexy when I encounter white chocolate.

Apparently, it’s got cocoa butter in it. Big whoop. So does my body lotion, but I’m not going to snack on that, either. What it lacks is cocoa paste, liquor or power, not to mention flavor. White chocolate is the confectionery equivalent of The Hills. Pointless, flavorless, and mad white.


White chocolate isn't chocolate; it's a crime.

(photo: infobarrel.com)

Oatmeal raisin cookies

Mmm, a delicious golden-brown cookie, studded with scrumptuous bits and pieces. Just what the sweet tooth ordered. I reach for the treat, sink my teeth into its chewy goodness, and FREAK MY SHIT OUT.

Goddamn raisins.

As far as I’m concerned, a raisin is a poor man’s chocolate chip when it comes to an oatmeal cookie (and maybe everything else). I grew up eating my grandma’s cowboy cookie recipe, which my mother invariably burnt every time. However, dunked in ice-cold 2-percent, crispy chocolate-chip oatmeal cookies became sublimely soggy and the Hershey’s bittersweet chips made my little heart beat a little faster.

I have since perfected the recipe and it’s pretty much the only cookie I make. When I’m at a café or friend’s house, I am drawn to the plate of oatmeal cookies. Obviously, those little brown specs are chocolate chips. Why would you use anything else? More often than I’d like to admit, I feel betrayed by the baker, tricked by the bait-and-switch.

Chocolate always bests raisins in the Rochambeau of baked goods.

(photo: levainbakery.com)

Caricatures

Where do I even start?

First of all, a giant bobblehead on a tiny, wizened body is never a good look (just ask Lara Flynn Boyle). Our least-favorite features are blown up like a bad allergic reaction to shellfish, and the person sketching you is often wearing suspenders. Don’t let the sugar rush from the cotton candy cloud your judgment when you are walking down the midway. Your money would be better spent on Whac-a-mole. Do I have to draw you a picture? The only thing that looks worse than your caricature is your caricature after I punch it in its bulbous, pen-and-ink face.

(artwork: created by someone named Emet during lunch when I was an intern in Washington, DC. Clearly, I was bitchy even in 1988.)

White man’s overbite

Along with Baby Fish Mouth, this term was immortalized in the classic rom-com, When Harry Met Sally, more than 20 years ago. You’d think that we whities would have learned by now not to bite our lip in an attempt to look cool while boogie-ing to "I'm Too Sexy." Because there is no way to look cool while doing the sprinkler or the lawn mower while mouthing “I"m too sexy for my shirt, too sexy for my shirt.”

I’m all for unself-conscious dancing—there’s far too much attention to cool these days—but white man’s overbite is not an uninhibited maneuver. It’s studied and contrived and about as sexy as Jon Heder and Will Ferrell in Blades of Glory.

(photo: msjamiekeiles.tumblr.com)

People who don't scoop their poop

Unless you’re some fancy-pants lord who has traveled through time with your German Shorthair Pointer and can’t wrap your 19th-century mind around the idea of picking up after your pooch, you’d best find something with which to clean the sidewalk or I’m going to mop the floor with you. Caught unawares? Find a big leaf, trash, your hat, something.

For the love of all that’s good and holy (i.e. my shoes), at least pull your pooch off the sidewalk so a hapless passerby doesn’t step in your shit. It’s as though you are giving a giant steaming fecal finger to the rest of us, which not only merits a punch in your thoughtless face, but a flaming bag of Great Dane scat on your doorstep as well.

(photo: yourdailythread.com)

Cosby sweaters

It makes me angry when I see the world’s resources going to create bad fashion. This pretty much means I’m angry every time I watch a rerun of The Cosby Show. Not to knit pick, but Bill’s sweaters were hiddy in the 80s; in 2011, they’re downright offensive.

Pull on one of these Magic Eye rejects (is that Malcolm Jamal Warner I see when I stare at that Not-So-Fair Isle pattern on your chest?), and you’ll pretty much look like a walking Christmas ornament or a straight-up billboard for fugly. Rugs belong on the floor, not encasing your body in a hot mess of wool.

Navel lint

Cue bombchickabowbow porn music. Turn the lights down. It’s time to get busy. In other words, it’s ON.

And as I go south, it’s suddenly, screechingly OFF. Like nine kinds of OFF.

I was sorta hoping that your body would be a wonderland. Instead, it’s a toxic waste dump up in there. Are you hoarding food or insulating for a hard winter? 
Check your nooks and crannies, people. Smelly belly button crud is a definite downer, and will probably ensure that I’m not going to be traveling down your yummy trail.

Rinsing does not a shower make.

(photo: scienceblogs.com)

Knighted celebrities

Hey you, with the fancy title and doodad pinned to your chest:

Did you rescue a damsel in distress? Pull a sword out of a stone? Do battle in the name of the crown?

No? What's that, you say? You played a vixen on Dynasty and bear responsibility for introducing shoulder pads to the 1980s? Showed your power by "Stayin' Alive" on the airwaves in 1977? Make expensive handbags only royalty and maybe Oprah can afford?

When Joan Collins, The Brothers Gibb (who really are Knights in White Satin), and Anya Hindmarch are getting knighted, call me a dissenter but it sort of seems like the Queen is handing out Grand Cross stars right and left. Does she pick up the medals in the bulk aisle at Costco?

Sir Bono sounds like a fancy cut of bone-in meat at a steakhouse. Damn—ahem, Dame—Kylie Minogue apparently nabbed the Order of the British Empire for her "services to music." David Beckham, OBE? More like OMG. I think Henry Winkler is the bomb, but I don't see how the "thumbs up" merits a knighthood for the Fonz.

Your Majesty: I know it's fun to have some hip playmates who will show up at state functions wearing inappropriate clothing and serenade you with a rousing rendition of "Can't Get You Outta My Head," but you don't have to buy your way into the cool-kid crowd. Unless one of these celebrities figures out how to slay a dragon—and I'm not talking about kicking a mean drug habit or getting a full sleeve tattoo of Grendel—put down the medals and pick up the phone. I'm sure they'd come for the night.

(photo: blogs.sfweekly.com)

Calorie-laden beverages

I've long suspected Starbucks mochachocalattes are chock full of death but like most people, didn’t think that hoovering one once in a while was a big whoop.

I was reading my Glamour mag in the tub as I’m wont to do when I came across this atrosh fact (see photo). One 32-ounce Dunkin Donuts Coffee Coolatta® with cream plus whipped cream is—wait for it—904 calories and 57 grams of fat. NINE HUNDRED FOUR FATASS, ARTERY-CLOGGING, LOVE-HANDLE-INDUCING CALORIES! There’s not even any booze in it! A company has to work hard to add that many calories to a cup. If you’re on a diet and counting calories, that’s 3/4ths of your day’s total caloric intake. I’m all for personal responsibility, but chucklehead companies like Dunkin Donuts and Starbucks are reprehensible for putting this gutbomb on the menu.

With a nod to Jeff Foxworthy, you might be drinking your doom if…

• there’s whipped cream on top of cream
• the cup could be used as a planter or a punch bowl
• if the beverage® has a registered symbol after its name
  
• the beverage’s name is nothing found in a dictionary
• the drink contains nothing found in nature

I know this isn’t exactly a laff riot, but neither is your health.

Bounce houses

Need I say more?

Okay. The love child of an inflatable snow globe and a padded cell, bouncy castles are blow-up germ factories for both sugar-fueled kids and status-seeking parents. It never ends well.

Seeing as I usually got a cardboard box or an old refrigerator to play with as a kid, I’m clearly resentful that all these little princes and princesses get to yuck it up and take jumping on the bed to a escalated, extravagant extreme in a PVC palace that can be seen from space.

Duck face

I’ve done it. I don’t know why.

Maybe I was going for a Real Housewives blowfish look and was trying to mask my lack of Juvederm or lip implants. Maybe I was blowing a kiss to the cameraman. Maybe I was just knee-deep in gin.

Maybe, but more likely, I was going for sexy and thought duck face was a quick way to look like was I single and ready to mingle. Instead, I—and every other trout mouth out there—look like I have a bill instead of lips, like I’m ready to sample some sardines instead of a tasty man’s mouth.

I don’t want to ruffle any feathers but ladies, when a camera is pulled out, please remember “quack is whack.”

Uptalking

I'm not always the most tolerant gal, particularly when it comes to language. Lots of voices are like nails on the chalkboard to me (I’m looking at you, Real Housewife Teresa Guidice), but it particularly irks my shit when women end their sentences on the upswing, as though they are asking a QUESTION? As though they are unsure of what they’re SAYING? As though they are seeking APPROVAL? As though they are asking for someone to please, please punch them in the FACE?

If you want to be an insecure, infantilized girl, head to the Playboy Mansion and become a Stepford bunny. Until then, grow the fuck up and finish your sentences with a different type of emphasis.

(photo: cauldroncraftminiatures.blogspot.com)

Steampunk

I don’t want to belong to any club that would have me as a member. —Groucho Marx
Or this guy. —TIWTPITF


I like imagination. I like creativity. I don’t like this Victorian goth take on the renaissance faire. Instead of a jongleur in a jester’s cap, steampunkers strap on leather goggles and embrace a good Rube-Goldberg machine or Tesla coil for shits and giggles.

The thing is, the good old days weren’t always good, as Billy Joel would say. If you’re going to fire up some steam-powered contraptions using your erector set, you’d best showcase the tuberculosis and smallpox that rocked 19th-century Britain as well.

You aren’t edgy or alternative. You’re just a former LOTR/Star Wars/D&D fan dressed up as an H.G. Wells’ wet dream. Doff the leather waistcoat and travel back to the present before I engage in a little time travel of my own and sic a Morlock on you.

(photo: flickr.com/photos/nathaninsandiego)

Non-prescription eyeglasses

Guess what? I’m selfish.

I’m also blind as a bat. I’ve worn -13.5 Coke bottles over my eyes since second grade. Combine these two and it makes me blind with rage when I see hipsters trying to look emo, ironic, brainy, sexy librarianish, or Weezery by donning a pair of frames.

If you don’t need them as your third and fourth eye, if your peepers don’t look like tiny blinking specks or giant dilated saucers behind your lenses, back way from the Oliver Peoples and pass by Pearl Vision.

Buy a hat or get a tattoo, and let me have this.

(photo: loulove22.wordpress.com)

Pinky rings

Are you in da mob? The universal sign of mafia d-bag, pinky rings are the older generation’s equivalent of Ed Hardy gear. Klassy with a K, which come to think of it, also stands for kielbasa. Have you gotten so bloated that you have to wear your wedding ring on that sausage that doubles as a pinky?

Grease that digit up with some olive oil and yank that ring off and put it where it belongs: on the finger of a small, malnourished child.

(photo: luxury4play.com)

Naked pregnancy portraits

You’re gorgeous and juicy, ladyfriend, but you’re not Demi Moore. I don’t want to see you naked when you’re not pregnant. I sure as shit don’t want to see you drop trou with a bun in the oven.

I don’t have a problem with you hiring Annie Leibovitz to capture this oh-so-important period in your life. Just don’t ask me to pore over the album, attend the portrait unveiling, or suffer your new two-for-one Facebook photo.

Treacly pregnancy photos bring navel gazing to a new level. Literally. In fact, your new outie is all you can see. Don't get me wrong: I can't wait to see the new addition to your family. In the meantime, just show me the sonogram.

(photo: virginmedia.com)

Boob sweat

It’s hot. I can tell this by the thermometer and by the sweat pooling under my breasts. Guys have their equivalent of this, which a friend nicknamed “ball soup.” I’m pretty sure no one would voluntarily choose to order this unappetizing dish off the men-u.

Bras help lift the ta-tas away from skin-on-skin action but if it’s hot and humid, they tend to chafe and add their own sort of frilly hell to the problem. Maybe the thing to do is create a new take on the headband. A band of absorbent terrycloth or newfangled wicking fabric around the torso could mop up tit sweat and keep my melons from rubbing me the wrong way.

(photo: guidespot.com)

Adult face painting

We get it. You like your team…a lot. In fact, we can tell that your blood runs maize and blue/red and white/dumb and dumber by the fevered look in your eyes. There’s no need to put any frosting on your crazy cake.

Unless you’re a five-year-old at a petting zoo, put away the warpaint. And kookaloo: You’re not Darth Maul, either. You’re just greasepainted gob who’s not Comiconning anyone.

(photo: terezowens.com)

Stuffed animals for grown-ups

When Jenny was a wittle gurl, she had a whole plush menagerie, including a stuffed lamb with a bell in his ear that she would prop next to the door when she went to bed. A makeshift alarm, she figured it would alert her to any monsters who might want to intrude on her Shawn Cassidy dreams.

Then she grew up and moved Lambie to the back 40 to make room for the plushies that errant boyfriends thought were a teenage dream. She got two different penguins and even a stuffed Cartman for a 30th birthday present. She repressed the memories of the giant crap-ass gorillas and ponies won at various county fairs and boardwalks. She developed a baseline criterion: If it had been touched by a carny, it went straight into a hazmat bag, not onto her bedspread.

Along with her nickname, Jenny’s stuffed animals are long gone. Call her crazy, but when she hugs something, she wants it to have a pulse. When she spies stuffed animals and squishy doo-dads lined up in someone’s rear window, her pulse quickens and she wants to bean that baby…bad. An animalcontent, she wants to punch the stuffing out of the grown-ups who think it’s cute to obscure their view with lions and tigers and bears, oh Ty. Speaking of which, she's going to go work out her aggression on the only sensible stuffed thing an adult should have: a punching bag.

(photo: makethelist.net)

Auto-Tune

I can’t sing. I learned this a long time ago, when folks used to turn around and stare at me during mass when I was trying to rock “Amazing Grace” or “Ave Maria.” My tone-deafness was driven home during high school. Whenever the spring musical rolled around, I was relegated to the chorus or the comic relief cameo—both decidedly non-singing roles—and asked to mouth along to the group numbers.

I had my “come to Jesus” moment about my vocal chords long ago. God blessed me with so many other talents that it’d just be greedy to wish for the voice of Aretha Franklin. And we all know that greed is one of the Seven Deadly Sins.

I accept my shortcomings. So too should singalings like Rebecca Black (who I think may be signaling the end of the world as she reaches new heights of insipidity), Kim Zolciak, and Ke$ha who can’t carry a tune. And shame on folks like Usher, Cher, and wil.i.am, who actually can sing. Back away from the audio processor or I might have to auto-turn my fist toward your voicebox.

Lipgloss containers

We always want what we can’t have, and what I want right now is that last dollop of lip gloss in the tube, just out of reach of my wand. No matter how I scrape the inside of the container, I can’t quite get enough to slick on my smacker.

What happens next is far from pretty.

It’s a little thing, really, but it bugs the shizz out of me. I pay good money for my shimmery tube of sexy (MAC’s Viva Glam V Lipglass, FYI) and I want every last drop of allure out of it. Whether it’s a tube with an application wand, a squeeze tube, or a bullet of lipstick, there’s always goo that goes to waste. Please come up with a new package for my smooch smack so we can kiss and make up.

(photo: dailymakeover.com)

One Size Fits All

I was recently in my favorite boutique trying on January clearance items, namely sweaters. So a “helpful” salesgirl the size of my pinky put a black cami in the dressing room to wear underneath some of the items with plunging V-necks.

One Size Fits All.

Uh huh. More like “One Size Fits Small.” The manufacturer left off a couple of letters and they left off a couple of inches of fabric. My boobs were bandaged tighter than Gwyneth’s in Shakespeare in Love.

On the other hand, some OSFA garments are like those thneeds from The Lorax, shapeless whatsits that swallow you up and are as flattering as wearing a Truffula tree.

Let’s implement a new rule, mmkay? If there’s a closure of any sort, there needs to be a few different size choices. In other words, unless you’re pushing Snuggies and shawls, you’d best give me more than a tourniquet-sized option, or I’m going to give you a reason to need a real tourniquet.

I’m all for egalitarianism, but it doesn’t apply to clothing.

(cartoon: www.toonpool.com)

Red-carpet interviews

I love watching gowns and jewels and gorgeous man candy during awards season. But I have to put the TV on mute because the brain-dead “interviewers” (cough “boxes of hair” cough) are doing anything but interviewing. You’d think that Billy Bush was assaulted by The Walking Dead. Over and over, I wait for a question, and this is what I hear:

"Your dress is amazing. It’s such a beautiful color."

"It must be amazing to work with Darren Aronofsky. I mean, he’s such a visionary."

"Your body is slammin’."

No questions are actually asked. A microphone invades the personal space of a celebrity, who is then supposed to do an impromptu stand-up routine while suffering fools in designer duds. If a question is actually posed, it’s claw-your-face-off, Seacrest-on-a-chalkboard banal. “Who are you excited to see tonight?” “Isn't James Franco just SO talented?”

Please, find your pulse and ask what we really want to know: Would you ever work a red carpet encased in an egg? To what tropical bird was your hairdresser paying homage? Did you have a colonic today to drop those last couple of pounds? Do you ever buy your own clothes or jewelry? Do you want to punch me in the face?

Childhood nicknames

My brothers used to call me Heifer Head, usually right before they thumped me in the head or beat me at canasta or cribbage. My 7-year-old admonition of "Words can hurt more than fists" didn't get me anywhere.

It gets better. Yeah, it gets better, primarily because we don’t live under the same roof as our siblings forever.

What nickname haunted your childhood nightmares? What low-forehead playground Monchhichi did you want to beat with your pogo stick?

Super Bowl halftime shows

Props to any artist who agrees to headline the Super Bowl halftime show. Even if they are getting paid a bajillion clams, it’s a losing proposition. The concert always sucks dirty pigskin.

Surrounded by hundreds of people in matching jumpsuits who were picked, not for their dancing prowess, but because they won a local radio contest, the performers lamely move around on death trap of a stage, trying to move through a medley of their most treacly hits as they screech toward the cheap seats and mug for the cameras.

First of all, when has a medley ever been good? Second, when have the singers ever sounded good? When one of the best halftime shows includes N’Sync and Britney, well… Super Bowl halftime shows are a study in lowest-common denominator performances. Performers and their body parts are picked based on their ability to offend the fewest number of people (Janet Jackson's right ta-ta was clearly an oversight). Consequently, you get a whole lot of Black-Eyed Cheese that doesn’t actually entertain anyone.

My prediction for Super Bowl XLVI: Katy Perry in Daisy Dukes and a whole lot of fireworks. A word of advice, though: skip the whipped-cream boob gun.

(photo: honeymag.com)

Prolific dead people

I see dead people…everywhere.

As if I didn’t already have enough self-loathing, dead people are churning out more stuff than I am. Tupac seems to have a new album of unreleased tracks dropping every other year. Michael Jackson had barely settled into his cryogenic chamber before the posthumous output kicked in. Jeff Buckley and Stieg Larsson didn’t cash in until they checked out. Like another day at the office, the late David Foster Wallace has yet another new book coming out that none of us will be smart enough to understand. In a creepy turn of events, Nat King Cole duetted with his daughter Natalie from beyond the grave, even managing to join her during a live performance. They may have flatlined, but the status quo seems curiously unchanged.

I think I’m a pretty useful member of society. I knock out words, articles, blogs, books. I create. But I’m a sad-ass somnambulant snail compared with these pulseless workaholics. Why do I even try when I’m getting lapped by corpses? Please folks, give it a rest.

Premature holiday merch

I walked into my local grocery store the first week in January and saw something deeply disturbing. No, it wasn’t the boxes of Sweethearts or the heart-shaped box of chocolates so big it could double as a sled.

It was the box of Cadbury Eggs.

It was the first week of January. Easter falls on April 24.

I adore these fondant treats…around Easter. I’ll break any lenten chocolate ban for a gooey Cadbury Egg. However, getting thrown into a palette of Valentine’s Day candy (which the checker told me was the case) doesn’t exactly invoke feelings of love. In fact, quite the opposite. I want to beat Cadbury until it oozes Caramello.

Every year, folks yammer on about the Christmas candy and decorations they see popping up at Rite-Aid in October. Uh, they show up at the exact same time every year, Einsteins…which is far too early. Send the rotten eggs packing and shove those candy canes up your North Pole. Let’s get through one holiday before exploiting the next.

Snowbrellas

As a Midwest gal now living in Seattle, I’ve learned a few things. Like, for example, that umbrellas are for rain, not sunny days and certainly not blizzards. If you live in a place that gets blanketed with snow, you should be prepared to have a few bad hair days. There’s this newfangled invention called a hat. Have you heard of it? Use one, embrace your limp locks, and take consolation in the fact that everyone else’s head looks like flat ass, too.

Just don’t pop up your parasol and take a stroll in your winter wonderland. I might have to grab your umbrella and beat you around the head, which I guarantee will give you flat hair.

(photo: cheekyumbrella.com)

Bridesmaids dresses

You can wear it again! Um, yeah, for Halloween!
The color is universally flattering! If you’re from Mars.
The silhouette is slimming! Just like a 4-person tent.
The price is reasonable! If you’re Oprah.

I have to say that I’m pretty lucky. I’ve been a bridesmaid three times and have always managed to dodge the tulle bullet. The first two dresses, while not my taste, were inexpensive and the third I got to pick out myself. Others have not been so lucky.

Most gals I know have been maids to a few brides, women, who prior to becoming engaged, were reasonable, smart, and kind. Then they get a ring on their finger and a veiled and gartered beast is awakened. Taste goes down the toilet, along with any regard for their girlfriends. Who cares that Diane looks dreadful in chartreuse or that Sandy is a little too Rubenesque to pull off a peplum? These friends, if they’re genuine, will damn well stuff their bits and pieces into that sherbet-colored confection and smile until the last note of the chicken dance wafts through the hall!

Karma’s a bitch, and so is the maid of honor’s toast.

What’s the most atrocious bridesmaid’s dress you’ve ever donned?

(photo: thegloss.com/odds-and-ends/gallery-these-10-bridesmaid-dresses-are-uglier-than-yours/gallery-page/9/#gallery)