Sunday, March 20, 2011


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, who actually can sing. Back away from the audio processor or I might have to auto-turn my fist toward your voicebox.

Sunday, March 13, 2011

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.