Friday, February 25, 2011
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.
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
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?
Thursday, February 10, 2011
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?
Sunday, February 6, 2011
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.