Things I Want to Punch in the Face

Gwyneth Paltrow’s un-selfconsciousness

2012-01-19T22:09:00.000-08:00

Darling girl of the flatironed hair and the clothes-hanger frame, I’ve defended you. I’ve often quite liked you as a person and an actress. I, for one, wasn’t happy to see your head gifted to Morgan Freeman in Seven. I think you are talented, chic, in tune. You even look good in a jumpsuit.

However.

No longer are you the Apple of my eye, a sartorial Moses leading us to the promised land where we vacation with Valentino, cook with Batali, and rock out with Beyoncé. What you are is delusional. You don’t have delusions of grandeur; rather, you—of the famous parents, even more famous godfather, and Spence pedigree—think you’re just like us plebs.

If only.

It started with goop, your unctuous, ooky website and e-newsletter that offers up your picks for a fabulous soup-to-nuts lifestyle. It continued with your self-congratulatory cookbook My Father’s Daughter. “We've got a wood-burning pizza oven in the garden—a luxury, I know, but it's one of the best investments I've ever made.” Fuck you and your macrobiotic, organic, Michael Pollan-approved diet. Now, you’ve launched goop city, an app of twee drawings and footage of you Julie McCoying it—in stilettos, no less—all over Manhattan.

Groucho Marx reputedly said, “I don't care to belong to a club that accepts people like me as members.” Well, Gwynnie, you already assume you’re a card-carrying member of Average Joe middle America. And I think you and I both know that a woman who sleeps with a rock star in her bed and an Oscar on the mantle is not exactly a mere mortal. Go back to Mount Olympus and leave us be with our Cheez Whiz.

People who stop at the top of escalators

2012-01-02T22:01:00.000-08:00

Um, excuse me. You there at the top of the escalator. No, not you. That guy. The completely unaware yambag checking his watch, looking at a map, looking anywhere but behind him. EXCUSE ME! I’m about to rear-end you, and not in a good way. Where the fuck do you think I and the rest of moving humanity queued up behind you are going to go?

Up your ass, that’s where. Escalators don’t break for boobs, Einstein, and neither does my ire. I’m going to create my own moving walkway and I’m going to call it “Your Back.” Are you listening now?

(photo: perezsolomon.com)

Themed Christmas trees

2011-12-19T22:50:00.000-08:00

’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

2011-12-11T21:53:00.001-08:00

I’m clumsy. That’sno surprise to anyone who knows about my inner ear imbalance. But riddle meAlzheimer’s: when exactly did I drive the back of my calf into a wall, causingit to look like a bruised pear? Did I fall on the inside of my forearm in thelast 48 hours? And why exactly is my index finger puffed up?

I like thingsrough as much as the next gal, but it seems to me that I actually have to makecontact 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 toinstall some motion-censor cameras because the only logical answer isparanormal activity.

(photo: prettyfeathers.com)

20-minute coffee prep

2011-11-21T22:19:00.001-08:00

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

2011-11-01T19:39:00.000-07:00

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

2011-10-20T23:05:00.000-07:00

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

2011-10-09T22:14:00.000-07:00

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

2011-09-29T23:29:00.000-07:00

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

2011-09-12T22:51:00.000-07:00

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

2011-08-22T18:13:00.000-07:00

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

2011-08-21T17:24:00.000-07:00

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

2011-07-31T21:43:00.000-07:00

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

2011-07-19T16:48:00.000-07:00

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

2011-07-09T23:47:00.001-07:00

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

2011-07-08T21:27:00.000-07:00

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

2011-07-04T00:00:00.000-07:00

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

2011-07-02T17:33:00.000-07:00

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

2011-06-19T22:59:00.000-07:00

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

2011-06-13T22:36:00.000-07:00

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

2011-06-05T23:24:00.000-07:00

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

2011-05-23T20:33:00.000-07:00

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

2011-05-15T16:01:00.000-07:00

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

2011-05-09T22:08:00.000-07:00

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

2011-04-10T17:41:00.000-07:00

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

2011-04-04T17:50:00.000-07:00

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

2011-03-20T19:27:00.000-07:00

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

2011-03-13T22:58:00.001-07:00

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

2011-02-25T17:54:00.000-08:00

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

2011-02-22T21:51:00.000-08:00

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

2011-02-10T16:06:00.000-08:00

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

2011-02-06T19:17:00.000-08:00

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

2011-01-28T00:19:00.000-08:00

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

2011-01-25T22:38:00.000-08:00

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

2011-01-16T14:09:00.000-08:00

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

2011-01-07T00:15:00.000-08:00

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)

Celebrity fragrance

2011-01-02T16:49:00.000-08:00

Britney, Jessica, and Mariah keep churning out stinkers, and I’m not talking about their singles. Divas keep littering cosmetic counters with hiddy scents that are not “reminscent of classic Hollywood allure,” like Forever Mariah Carey promises, but rather, call to mind “poorly dressed skank” or “botched boob job.” When we whiff “Fantasy,” are we supposed to forget about Britney’s barefoot excursions to gas station bathrooms, let alone her cooch flashing, head-shaving, paparazzi-attacking antics? Are we supposed to experience a flight of “Fancy” when sniffing the treacly trifle that arbiter of style Jessica Simpson approved between shopping at Fred Segal and getting a French mani? I can smell the marketing bullshit from here, which I guarantee is celebrifree airspace. Even if a scent doesn't induce the gag reflex, do you really want a bottle of Fergie's Outspoken embarrassing your dressing table? Stop putting money in Paris’s low-rise jeans and Jessica's ginormous Louis Vuitton bag and just say no to eau de ho.

(photo: bittenandbound.com)

Baby New Year

2010-12-31T00:01:00.000-08:00

Picking on Baby New Year is like shooting a guppy in a barrel. Three words have never been combined to such ridiculous effect (well, except maybe for Jar Jar Binks). A diapered baby with a pageant sash is the best we can come up for a spokesman at midnight on December 31? Baby should be snoozing in his crib, not hoovering Asti and twirling a noisemaker.

And don’t even get me started on Father Fucking Time. It’s past your bedtime, too, ding-dong. Drink some warm milk, wrap your beard around you like a wiry blanket, clap off the light, and call it a year.

(photo: handmadebymother.blogspot.com)

New Year's Eve

2010-12-29T17:41:00.000-08:00

My friends keep circling me, poking me to make a decision about New Year's Eve. I patiently, dare I say lovingly, explain that I don't do NYE. I threw in that bar towel several years ago.

What a well-meaning friend says: "Oh, we can do something low key, stay in the neighborhood and drink at a bar."

What I think: I'd rather claw my face off. Better yet, I'd rather beat that drunk on the bar with a noise-maker until he squeals.

What I say: "Thanks but, um, no. I'm treating it like it's just another night."

What a soulful, enlightened friend suggests: "Come over to my house and we'll have a burning ceremony and set intentions for the new year."

What I think: While that sounds magical, waving around a sage stick still marks this as a special day, which, in my date book, it's not.

What I say: "Honey, I love you but I think I'll spend the evening journaling by myself. Maybe I'll even create a vision board for 2011."

Why do I want to punch December 31 right in the Dom-soaked digits? Read my post from last year. I'm THIS close to losing an eye from a champagne cork so NYE, you win the end-of-year cage fight. I'm tapping out.

(photo: kcnewyears.com)

Ebenezers

2010-12-24T11:38:00.000-08:00

My laundry list of holiday gripes is long and storied. Santa hats, lawn inflatables, poinsettas, theme sweaters, mall parking lots, antlers and shiz on the front of gas-sucking SUVs, year-round Christmas shoppes, year-round Christmas decorations, Wal-Mart…

However, I love Christmas. I love any opportunity to give and get a gift. I love bubble lights on a fresh tree and the looks of sugared-up delight on the faces of kids in pajamas with feet. I love Midnight Mass. I love the spirit of love and generosity that wells up within me when I’m surrounded by my closest friends during magical December dinner parties. I love the free-flowing booze that comes with any holiday party worth its salted rims. I love hot roast beast and cold rum cake.

So suck on it, you bah humbuggin’ Scrooges. You get back what you put out, so if you’re navigating the holidays with a stone-cold heart, you’re going to get a lump of coal in your stocking and a lump on your face from the Ghost of Christmas Present, which is what I’m calling my mittened right fist.

God bless us all, everyone.

(photo: cedmagic.com)

And the winner is…Sevara!

2010-12-18T01:11:00.000-08:00

With an embarrassment of riches, the likes of which have not been seen since Gywneth Paltrow’s guest spot on Glee, your entries made it almost impossible to pick a winner in the TIWTPITF festival of frights. From limp lawn inflatables and parking lot asswipes to forced office gift-giving, the holidays do indeed offer up a host of new things that deserve to be punched until they beg for fruitcake. Oh, I’ve got a gift for all these things and it’s called my left fist. And I have a gift for Sevara, who gets a copy of Beyond the Family Tree for her short list of TIWTPITF. Her first point made me laugh out loud, no small feat during December. Sevara, shoot me an e-mail here with your address and I’ll send out your copy in short order, hopefully in time to use it during your family gathering.

Thanks again everyone; your snark keeps me warm on cold nights.

Sevara said…

Yearly family card. Yes, I really wanted to know that your Johnny is making $100,000 a month, and that daughter Jenny just gave birth to the most beautiful baby girl. First of, fuck off. Don't tell me about your perfect family, because we all know that Johnny is an asshole, your family is in debt because you guys are keeping up with the Joneses, and your beautiful, smart, "cough" slut "cough" Jenny got knocked up by some idiot, who was obligated to marry her. Thanks for that fake pose you sent me and Merry Christmas to the Assholes.
Musux. It's the most annoying time of the year! I hate Rudolf, Santa, chestnuts, and all of the other X-mas music. And they start it in-mid October!
Gifts. Okay, I love giving gifts to people I love and enjoy spending time with, like, my family and friends. But other "friends" that believe they are the best people out there, and we are all are "so close". NOT! That is why I never return your calls, emails, texts—because I don't want to talk to you. And I don't want to get you a gift, either. I don't want to spend my money on you. I'd rather burn ten bucks in my fireplace than buy you shit from the dollar store.

Honorable mentions

Marissa said...
SECRET SANTA at work. I'm forced to spend forty hours of my life with people that, quite frankly, are not my cup of tea. The only reason I grace them with my presence is because some faceless dude is PAYING me to do so. That being said, why the hell would I go out of my way to do something special for the woman who is the very bane of my existence? Or the guy who not so quietly brags about his sexual conquests after a night of binge drinking? HUH? Why would I spend the money I'm being paid to share air space with these goons on gifts for them when I have a perfectly good box of used cat litter ready and available? Secret Santas in the workplace need a firm blow to the face with a yule log.

Shieldmaiden96 said...
Christmas letters (in cute fonts, on theme-appropriate laser printer paper) tucked in cards. We have one friend who writes a seven-paragraph Christmas letter every year. It's mostly to make sure we all know how fabulous, unusually advanced, and super-duper creative each and every one of his kids has become, and just how fan-diddly-tastic life is in their household. I hate his kids and I've never even met them.

KeriCan said...

Obligatory Christmas cards. Seriously, if you think your relationship with my family is close enough to warrant buying a card, locating our address after the umpteenth move, forking over for stamps, and hauling your ass to the post office, the least you could do is write a little message in the card. Just signing your name, or much worse, stamping your name, only makes me want to smack you the next time I see you. I don't give a crap about the cute illustration you picked out for this year; I'd rather get a little note, even typed if you must, about your life. Better yet, give up that glittery mess of a card and just call so we can have a meaningful conversation.

(photo: reserve123.com)

Post your own holiday PITF and win!

2010-12-11T00:57:00.000-08:00

As my gift to you, my beloved malcontents, I'll be giving away a signed copy of my new book, Beyond the Family Tree: A 21st-Century Guide to Exploring Your Roots and Creating Connections (which, believe you me, will come in handy around the dinner table). To win this decidedly un-TIWTPITF prize, simply draft a post of the thing that drives you batshit crazy around the holidays. Be it fruitcake, wreaths attached to car grilles, shoppers wearing santa hats or Quacker Factory holiday sweaters, let it rip. Post your rant in the comments section of this post. I'll pick a winner next week! Merry effin' Christmas!

Christmas muzak

2010-12-11T00:16:00.000-08:00

Grandma may have gotten run over by a reindeer, but I want to run the song over with a 3-ton truck. And don’t even get me started about that fucking drummer boy kid. “Pa rum pum pum pum”, really? Did an 18-month-old write this song?

Let’s face it: most Christmas songs blow dead reindeer. And the ones that are tolerable—preferably sung by Bing Crosby or Elvis—are so overplayed that I want to hang myself with my Christmas lights Hark, the herald angels suck.

Silent night? If only.

(photo: christmas.itbestshop.com)

The holidays?

2010-12-06T16:02:00.001-08:00

I don't need to tell you: The holidays offer all sorts of new opportunities to be monumentally annoyed. As wondrous as they can be, they can also fuckin' suck. Fellow shoppers, drunk relatives, escalating credit card bills, shipping charges, broken heirloom ornaments, pine needles on your carpet…

So, in the spirit of the season, I'm offering some ways to navigate the holidays without killing someone with a fruitcake. Check out my other blog, word., for ideas for gifts and gathering in a way that won't break the bank or your spirit. And if you need any no-brainer gifts, look no further than one of my humorous, heartfelt, or how-to books.

And if you need a laugh, a few classics:

Christmas stores

Year-round Christmas Decorations

Lactose intolerants in denial

2010-12-04T14:47:00.000-08:00

This anything-but-cheesey post comes from my brilliant and hilarious friend Karrie Kohlhaas (she's the force behind ThoughShot Consulting, in case you need any small-business consulting). I love it almost as much as I love cheese. Urp.

Your dairy air is dangerous. I know, you loooove ice cream and cottage cheese, but lactose transforms your insides into a Dr. Seussian smell factory. It's time to get real about your digestion, honey. Can't you feel the pressure against your abdominal wall as gasses mushroom and multiply within the twisting tubes of your inner world?

Don't you wonder why people steer clear of you?

Here's a clue: It's awkward to feel compelled to casually cover one's nose and mouth with the top of one's shirt when sharing a seat on the bus or standing behind you in line at the grocery store. This is not a personal health issue; you are an environmental hazard. Enzymes: get some, before the EPA classifies you as a SuperFund Project.

(photo: cvmbs.colostate.edu)

Books as décor

2010-12-02T21:11:00.000-08:00

"The more that you read, the more things you will know. The more you learn, the more places you'll go." — Dr. Seuss

You are what you read.

At least that’s what I hoped, when I was rocking Dr. Seuss as a five-year-old or Jane Austen as a 30-something lady.

But some folks don’t care what they read. They use books as props, buy or rent them by the foot from various companies, who will select them by color, style, or subject for you. I’ve even seen a company that sells you blocks of books that have been glued together, apparently to make it easier to move when dusting. And heck, they’ll always be lined up perfectly.

I just threw up a little in my mind.

My bookshelves offer a snapshot into my history, my interests, my (now vomit-covered) brain. They reflect my intellectual DNA (yes, even the Betty & Veronica collection) and it’s hard to imagine viewing my books only as squares and rectangles of color to accent my home. I’ve even seen books arranged spine IN, to create a swath of white along the shelves. I was confused. How are you supposed to figure out what book to read? Oh, right. They aren’t there to be read. They’re there for me to knock some Sense and Sensibility into your head.

(photo: littlegraypixel.blogspot.com)

Crunchy hair

2010-11-29T19:32:00.000-08:00

We always want what we don’t have. Curly-haired vixens always want to kick their corkscrews to the curb in favor of stick-straight hair, while those of us with only a hint of a limp wave want undulating, Keri Russell-like locks of love.

We spray, rub, and massage curl-enhancing unguents into our manes. We scrunch. We dry with a diffuser. And voilà! We achieve the follicular stuff of which pre-Raphaelite dreams are made. One problem: we could blind a passerby with our crunchy curls. More post- than pre-Perseus Medusa, our hair is a mass of stone-cold locks.

Put down the can, jar, and bottle and learn to love yourself, limp hair and all. You could poke an eye out.

(photo: omgihavethat.blogspot.com)

Katherine Heigl's roles

2010-11-18T17:36:00.000-08:00

Film, television, literature, and theater have long relied on stereotypes. And so does Katherine Heigl, who continually is cast as the gorge but constipated pill of a control freak.

Whether she’s wearing scrubs or her 27^th bridesmaid’s mess, The Ugly Truth is that she’s still a drag on my movie ticket. For the love of all that is good and holy, get this girl a three-dimensional role where she’s not sleeping with her Blackberry and jumbo bottle of Purell, with only a trainwreck of a man-baby possessing the ability to thaw her bland/blond sang-froid.

(photo: aceshowbiz.com)

Salon smocks

2010-11-15T13:41:00.000-08:00

A spa or salon is generally supposed to make you feel serene, zen, pampered, beautiful.

At least I expect this every time I walk through the doors, and then it quickly goes to shit. I become agitated and feel like a tub o’ lady lard.

The problem? The chintzy, flimsy smock I’m invariably expected to wear. While I’m a busty gal and currently a few pounds over my fighting weight, I always hope that the salon's robe is going to cover my ass, not to mention my glorious ta-tas.

Not so much. I’m expected to cloak myself in a black or iridescent flame-retarDONT kimono-type dealio, “cinched” with a thin fabric tie. Aside from being wildly unflattering (and yes, cold), the robe gapes before I even leave the dressing room, causing me to clutch at my chest in hopes of avoiding a Janet Jackson moment.

Add some snaps and buy a few bigger robes, you cheap fucks, before I flash my fist at you and smack your smock back to Asia, from where I'm sure you ordered it. Namaste.

(photo: bshtextiles.com)

Curling iron burns

2010-11-10T17:14:00.000-08:00

I’ve always wanted what I can’t have, and this certainly applies to my hair texture.

It started when I was 13. After an unfortunate attempt to rock a Dorothy Hamill wedge, I turned to the perm. In a word, oy. To amp up the foxy, I got a barrel curling iron to roll my bangs into a totally rad forehead awning…which I needed to cover up the burns I got every month or so from standing too close to the fire.

I eventually turned away from the 80s and curly hair and longed for stick-straight hair.

Enter the flat iron. Now, I smooth my locks and tamp down my cowlicks. In the process, I manage to regularly sear my skin, branding myself a dumbass. I currently have a mark on my neck that looks like Bill Compton has been snacking on my carotid artery. Call me crazy, but grown-ass women shouldn’t have vampire hickeys. Since I’m not going to embrace my natural beauty any time soon, Conair needs to invent an iron that doesn’t leave a mark of lame. In the meantime, I'm growing my hair out so I should be able to cover my cattle brand.

(photo: protechdesigns.net)

White guys with dreadlocks

2010-11-03T19:14:00.000-07:00

Hey you! Yeah, you with the dreadlock fountain sprouting from your head. Guess what, Medusa? You’re not cool or interesting or indie. You’re dirty. With dreads, you look like Sideshow Bob, not Bob Marley. Cut that shit off and stop co-opting someone else’s heritage and style.

Note: While I’m not crazy about dreads on any Caucasian, it’s the dudes I am most annoyed at.

(photo: mobyrebuttal.blogspot.com)

Jazz

2010-10-21T18:11:00.000-07:00

In general, I like to know where I’m going, be it a drive, a project, or a piece of music. Jazz fills me with agita. I don’t know when it’s going to end, I don’t know what the squirrelly fucker is going to pull next.

I have to say, I’m kind of blue about this. Unlike PT Cruisers and mimes, I want to like jazz. I want to don a beret and sit in a dark club, nodding my head and saying things like, “Yeah, man” and “Dig that smooth groove.” I used to think I wasn’t smart enough to get jazz. Now I feel as if all the cool kids know the secret Herbie Hand(cock)shake and left me out of the Felonious Monk Memorial Clubhouse.

This only fuels my anger, which is swelling to the point where I want to give the David Brubeck Quartet a serious time out and inflict some damage on David Sanborn’s reed. Scat needs to scram. You dig, Dizzy?

(photo: triangleartsandentertainment.org)

Handlebar moustaches

2010-10-19T23:48:00.000-07:00

Back in the days of Victorian gents and Wild West outlaws, dudes waxed the ends of their bushy moustaches until they could poke a cowpoke in the eye. While an excellent way to mask a questionable cold sore, these crumb-catchers and coat-hangers have no place in modern society. We now have ample access to napkins, so I have to deduce that you’re trying to make a follicular style statement.

You are definitely making a statement, Wyatt Twerp, and it doesn’t say “steampunk.” It says, “steaming pile of oh HELL no.” Trim that fucker down into a lustrous Magnum, PI or I'm going to go Sweeney Todd with a straightedge. Now, that's steampunk.

And don't think you're off the hair hook, mutton chop sideburns, I'm coming for you next.

(photo: 39x21.blogspot.com)

TIWTPITF: The Indian version

2010-10-15T09:21:00.000-07:00

TIWTPITF goes international today. My friends Kathy and Dustin have been traveling through India and have compiled the following list of things they want to punch in the bindi. Namaste.

1. Indian light switches. You have to press them in a counter-intuitive way to turn them on, they're not marked so half of them do nothing, and there are a million switches on one plate. Well, maybe 8. But we counted 38 switches just in our room. You can't just plug something into an outlet. You have turn the switch to the outlet on. Otherwise, you'll be charging your camera battery for 8 hours and it won't do a damn thing.

2. Amul Butter. This is a popular company (and probably a monopoly). The butter comes in little single serving packages—you know, like at the pancake house. They're on the table for breakfast. The only thing is you can never open the fucking things. Wouldn't you think that the design to open them would be a no brainer? Usually one of the servers comes over and opens it for me. The helpless American.

3. Car horns. Obviously there is no regulation. They all sound differently: duck quacks, farts, musical, and screeching. It's the last that is the most horrible, especially when you're riding in an open tuk tuk and the horn blowing maniac is right next to you. They show no restraint or control.

Face tattoos

2010-10-13T15:08:00.000-07:00

I have nothing against tattoos or the people who have them. Really. But I do have to question someone’s intellect or blood alcohol content when they put their face under the needle (and I’m not talking about Botox).

A face tattoo doesn’t read “cool,” “edgy,” or “intimidating.” Nope. You know an inked-up face is really saying? “Unemployable.” Unless you’re a Maori warrior or Mike Tyson (who can pretty much do whatever he wants to his mug), a facial tat indicates that you’re independently wealthy and don’t need a job…or that you really, really, really like checkers.

(photo: findtattoodesigns.com)

Regional stereotypes

2010-10-07T14:47:00.000-07:00

I once had a friend—a bright guy with a phD—who tried to school me on Middle America. The problem was that he was also an East Coast snot who had never been to the Midwest and maybe not even a red state, unless you want to count a connecting flight through ATL.

I’m from the Midwest and those were my people about whom he was pontificating and, let’s be honest, judging. He needed to put a cork in it, stop thinking he knows it all because he reads the fivethirtyeight blog, and actually book at flight to somewhere that doesn’t come with a coastline.

If I bought into the gross regional stereotypes that abound, I’d believe that:

San Francisco is only populated with sex-crazed homosexuals in leather chaps and hippies who smell like 1969.
New Jersey residents are tanning-bed orange goombahs with mob ties.
The blindingly Caucasian Pac Northwest hugs trees while drinking coffee and wearing Birkenstocks.
Midwesterners love Jesus, potlucks, and red meat, not necessarily in that order.
New Englanders are frosty, repressed folks who never met a Polo shirt they didn’t like.
And, oh yeah, everyone from Texas is a gay-bashing redneck in an F150.

For every yahoo who fits neatly into a stereotype box, there’s another person standing by to debunk the myth. As much as Jersey Shore and The Real Housewives would have us believe that people are cardboard cartoon cutouts, most of us are a lot more interesting and multi-layered than that. I like potlucks AND I hug trees AND I’m curiously drawn to pickup trucks and anything Lacoste. I don’t have leather chaps, but I sure wish I did. The next time you want to judge someone because of where they’re from, just remember: Snookis are people, too (at least I think they are). Don’t hate The Situation for being from Jersey. Hate him for his atrocious performance on Dancing with the Stars, or because he's banking $5 million this year.

What misconceptions do people make about you?

(photo: blogstodiefor.com)

Convertible pants

2010-10-04T00:00:00.000-07:00

These days, versatility is key. I know this. I am on board, at least in theory. But you know what? When I buy something that does double or triple duty, like, say, a lipstick that doubles as a blush or a coffee table book that turns into a coffee table, I always end up using it in just one way. Take fug convertible pants, for instance.

Weekend warriors who spring for a pair of pants that convert to shorts by unzipping the legs always end up wearing the half-assed pants around town. This is gear, not clothing. If you’re living out of a backpack, throw those fuckers on. If you’re going to the farmer’s market or out to dinner, put something on that’s not in the middle of an identity crisis.

Neither stylish nor complementary, convertible pants are an example of least-common-denominator design. They are designed to be functional for everyone but universally unflattering. When wearing the pants, the zipper seams cut you off at the knees—if you’re lucky; more likely, they encircle your thigh—surely the feature we all long to showcase—at the widest point. If you do actually step out in the shorts, you’re likely to be asked to give a wildlife tour around the neighborhood, since you’ll be masquerading as a park ranger.

Stow these REI-sores in your 70 pack and instead pull out a pant or short that suits you. Just keep away from the Utilikilt.

(photo: outdoor-equip.com)

Adult acne

2010-09-28T19:43:00.000-07:00

I gotta level with you: puberty was fucking rough. I was taller than the boys in my fifth-grade class, my boobs reached double-D status around the same time, and my piss-poor eyesight resulted in Coke-bottle-thick glasses that made my eyes look like tiny green specks somewhere back there.

But the gods showed mercy. I didn’t have to deal with acne. Occasionally I had a zit that I dotted with Clearasil, but for the most part, my skin was my best feature, creamy and smooth like my favorite ice cream.

Then I grew up and the universe decided to royally fuck me over. I take care of my skin better than ever. I pamper it, I eat well, I stay out of the sun. Washing my face is my favorite part of the day, sad as that sounds.

But regardless of my tender loving care, zits seem to pop up all over my face like a hormonal round of Whac-a-Mole. As soon as I hit one, another crops up on the other side of my nose, giving new meaning to “turn the other cheek.”

I’d lay waste to my epidermis with a Silkwood-grade spray of benzoyl peroxide but I’m pretty sure it would exacerbate the problem. So I’ll keep spackling away and trying not to look at the Fresnel lens on my forehead. Thankfully, my eyesight is holding steady at –11.5.

(And by the way, Proactiv is really, really bad for your skin.)

(photo: acneknower.com)

Proctor & Gamble

2010-09-17T14:04:00.000-07:00

Okay, it’s a toss-up with CBS. I’m pissed at them both. I love me some Tide and CSI, but my affection is seriously dulled by this bastardly duo, who have pulled the plug on As the World Turns today.

Fuckers.

The 12^th-longest-running show on TV, ATWT goes softly into that TV goodnight after 54 years. I have been watching for a good 30 of those. I escaped to Oakdale in my teens, picking up romantic allusions while my dance card remained empty. In my twenties, I went from watching alongside football players in my dorm lounge to roping my housemates into watching a taped episode after work. When I’ve gone through rough times, the show usually had a similar storyline going on to comfort me. If not, I would get caught up with the on/off/way off/coma/consciousness/back on relationships, villains who kept coming back from the dead (I'm talking about you, James Stenbeck), and wacky tacky fashions that Barbara and Carly kept turning out.

I’ve taped, DVRed, or watched the show in real time on and off for the past decade. As a freelance writer working for myself, I have often taken my lunch break and used the show as a palate cleanser in between writing jags.

So P&G, CBS, y’all can KMA. And if that’s not clear enough, GFY. RIP, my sweet soap.

For more on my love of ATWT and the lessons I’ve learned from the residents of Oakdale, check out my posts on the Huffington Post and Salon.

What long-running show have you watched over the years?

Dangerously polite motorists

2010-09-15T00:00:00.000-07:00

Scene: An outrageously hip woman (i.e. me) is waiting to cross the street mid-block. She’s waiting patiently, scouting out traffic to her left and right. She sees an opening after the next two cars to her left. Suddenly, the first car on her left brakes and motions for her to cross the street.

Guess what the pedestrian does?

She ducks for cover! Because the driver behind that braking car slams on HIS brakes and narrowly avoids rear-ending the polite bonehead. Plus, she’s slightly chagrined to be drawing all this vehicular attention when she was perfectly happy to wait until the traffic cleared.

And...SCENE.

I’ve wanted to punch these menaces to motorized society for a long time. Dumbasses are so busy looking forward through their windshield that they fail to look in their rear-view mirror at the pile-up they could potentially be creating. I’m not in any hurry. I’m not jogging in place or fidgeting. I’m clearly lazy; otherwise, I’d be trotting to the corner and jaywalking against the light within the white lines of the crosswalk.

When these Fail Earnharts slow for me, I want to reach through the open driver’s side window, grab the back of their head, and slam it against the dashboard, replicating the impact they’ll feel if the motorist behind them isn’t paying attention and rams into their mookmobile. That’s what I call driver’s ed.

What seemingly polite gesture do you want to smack the shit out of?

(photo: kentuckyaccidentnews.com)

Malapropisms and mispronunciations

2010-09-13T00:00:00.000-07:00

I’ve been a stickler for language since I was in 7^th grade, which means I’ve one persnickety fuck for decades. I try to tamp down my know-it-all-ness when a friend or relative mangles the mother tongue (luckily I surround myself with really smart people) but nevertheless, I internally cringe when someone busts out a malaprop or mispronounces a word.

There are words and phrase that have been around since the dawn of the OED, or at least since we’ve been alive. It’s harder to forgive the repeated slip of the tongue. That makes me think you just don’t give a rat’s ass.

In junior high, I did a paper on anorexia. I love my mother but to this day, she refers to it as “anorexis nervosis.” I can’t fix this, or her repeated use of “reinerate” (vs. reiterate) and “bookoo bucks." I still haven’t figured out what the eff she means when she breaks out “coup ferré.”

To me, the most oft-misused and ear-bleeding offense is “irregardless.” When I worked at a publishing company, the editors would roll our internal eyes every time the owner threw that out in a meeting. Let me reiterate: I worked at a PUBLISHING company. Dude should have known better. Better yet, dude should have been punched in the face.

And if I hear someone bust out "nuculur," I'm going to mushroom cloud all over them, regardless of whether they were once president.

What language offense most gripes your ass?

(photo: comiccoverage.typepad.com)

Crocs

2010-09-08T20:30:00.000-07:00

I used to think Birkenstocks were bad.

Then I got a load of Crocs. Shaped like a pair of kitchen or gardening clogs, or maybe a bludgeon (these clown shoes give new meaning to the term “clubbed foot”), Crocs have spread like a rubber foot fungus around the world. I suppose the holes in the Croslite upper are designed to help sweaty feet breathe, but I think they act as an odor diffuser.

Crocophiles also cry comfort about these eye blisters. I’m not buying it. There are thousands of footwear brands that are comfortable and don’t look like Fred Flintstone made them on his lunch break. The Dutch used to wear wooden boats on their feet because they didn’t have any other choice in material. What’s your excuse? Do you also wear your pajamas to do your grocery shopping?

The footwear equivalent of a white flag, Crocs pretty much announce that you’ve given up. So unless you want to stand trial for a serious fashion crime, you’d best beg for mercy and get yourself a pair of cute Earth Shoes.

(photo: melbourne.metblogs.com)

Teddy bear sweatshirts

2010-08-31T23:02:00.000-07:00

There are times when I miss my stuffed animals, sure. Usually, it’s when I’m sad and there’s no one with a heartbeat around to hug or punch in the face.

I’m sure as fuck sad when I spot one of these tragedies offending my sightline. Teddy bear and other novelty sweatshirts aren't adorable, they're unbearable. What possesses a grown-up to cling to a plush toy, let alone wear it proudly across her ta-tas? That’s what the fetal position is for, obvs.

The upshot? The only accessory you need is a thumb to suck.

(photo: docmae.com)

Cheap incense

2010-08-25T12:36:00.000-07:00

I was walking down the street, minding my own business, when WHAM! I was hit upside the nose with a brick wall of incense. It was streaming out of a new age shop like it was late for prayer circle.

Certain places, I've come to realize, all have the same Eau de NO: head shops, belly dancing boutiques, new age bookstores, a free outdoor concert. Whether in stick or cone form, cheap incense smells like a love child sired by a hippie’s VW van and someone who’s all up in Bikram yoga’s grill.

Incense is used for meditation or ritual. Fine. I grew up with heavy incense being swung around in church, but at least it had a lot of room to dissipate. But when you are lighting up sandalpoop and franknoncense in your chockablock shop, I'm not feeling any closer to the Divine. I am, however, edging closer to unconsciousness.

Please stop buying your incense in bulk, else I might have to beat you with a bundle of joss sticks, all the while breathing through my mouth, of course.

And I'm not just blowing smoke.

Vera Bradley bags

2010-08-23T12:01:00.000-07:00

You wouldn’t think that Vera Bradley would scream “An American in Paris,” but when I was strolling the cobbled streets of the City of Lights, I was continually blinded by American tourists tricked out with Vera Bradley’s treacly quilted backpacks, suitcases, and totes who were looking for the nearest Starbucks.

It was at this point I adopted a Canadian accent when ordering up a café au lait.

Don’t get me wrong. J'adore quilts. But I like them on my bed, not on my shoulder or the overhead compartment. The accessory equivalent of a Beanie Baby, Vera Bradley bags are a paisley pastiche of granny not-so-chic, a five-year-old’s pajamas, and the clearance aisle at Linens N Things, with a bit of QVC's Quaker Factory thrown in.

If I had a fat quarter for every time I wanted to punch a Vera Bradley purse in the face, I’d have a queen-sized quilt.

(photo: only-designer-handbags.com)

Weather complaints

2010-08-19T12:36:00.000-07:00

There’s no hurricane, tsunami, or tornado on the horizon. It’s just hot or cold or rainy or fill in the blank. And I’m sick of it. Not the temperature, mind you, but the scads of people who continue to bitch about it.

I live in Seattle and it always surprises me when people repeatedly lament the rain. Um, we live in Seattle! And for those of you who spend your summer in Arizona, Texas or the deep south, were you expecting something other than getting fried like chicken?

Do you have a weather machine like Sean Connery in that beyond-thunderlame adaptation of The Avengers? No? Then stick a cork in it and suck it up. Harping about it is pointless. If you really want to change things, why not move away from my earshot to San Diego? Better yet, leave the planet. You don’t need an air conditioner in space.

(photo: weblogs.sun-sentinel.com)

Eat Pray Love merch

2010-08-10T23:38:00.000-07:00

Get a whiff of this: Fresh has created three perfumes to celebrate the release of Eat Pray Love, the movie that will almost certainly match the crazy success of Elizabeth Gilbert’s memoir of the same name. I love lasagna as much as the next gal, but I don’t want to smell like a primi piatti.

But wait, there’s more on the brandwagon: Home Shopping Network has created a “shopping experience” of vaguely ethnic crap inspired by Gilbert’s travels to Italy, India, and Bali. We don’t need to order up a handcarved horse bench from HSN; that’s what Pier 1 is for. How do you say “duh” in Balinese? From pasta makers to power beads, an Eat Pray Shop collection sort of seems—call me crazy—counter-intuitive to the spirit of the book.

What’s next? A Liz Gilbert action figure who comes with a pizza pie, yoga mat, and Brazilian husband who looks vaguely like Javier Bardem? Please, Viking Penguin or whoever is selling the ancillary rights, revoke this license to schill. The world doesn’t need another papasan chair littering grad student apartments and rummage sales.

(photo: fresh.com)

Designer luggage

2010-08-06T20:46:00.000-07:00

Status luggage is impractical, like penis-extender sportscar impractical. You might as well light wads of cash on fire. Your vintage Louis Vuitton train case and sleek Hermes carry-on are bound to get beat up and dragged around, much the way you deserve to be treated for buying such an unnecessary status symbol.

If I’m going to drop coin on a designer label, you can bet it’s going to be something I can drape close to my body and keep in my line of sight. While you may enjoy first-class treatment in the main cabin, your luggage doesn’t—it’s just targeted for pilfering by baggage handlers and then thrown into suitcase steerage with the rest of our lowly bags. Call me cuckoo crazy but I think luggage should be what you carry your money around in, not what you get carried away buying. Back away from the matching set of Gucci luggage and stick with the Samsonite. If you don’t, I have a sneaking suspicion that your luggage might not make it to your final destination.

(photo: handbags800.com)

Precious Moments

2010-08-01T21:52:00.001-07:00

These china clowns, cherubs, and rascals skipped through the nightmares of my youth and I’m still holding a grudge (when I’m not huddled in the fetal position). They traveled in big-eyed packs, alongside Love’s Baby Soft, window crystals, and rainbow stickers. They may have been pastel, but they were far from soothing.

Precious Moments really exploded when I was knee-sock-deep into Catholic school, so it was no surprise that I was initially drawn to their cheeky innocence. I had one particularly adorbs lamb that I lifted from a nativity scene. I wanted to hug it and kiss it and call it my own. After about five minutes, however, I moved onto Shaun Cassidy and put my porcelain pet out to pasture.

But that was not enough to corral the horror. Tears of a clown would rain down my face at the thought of the baby mimes and toddler princesses littering the Hallmark store at the Fairplain Plaza. What really gets my goat now is the thought of all these evil Enesco eyesores sitting on shelves and in cabinets around the world. I’ll finally give them an actual reason for those sad eyes: my hammer coming toward their shiny, happy faces.

(photo: carolscrafts.com)

Designer fakes

2010-07-29T16:16:00.000-07:00

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

2010-07-23T00:00:00.000-07:00

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

2010-07-22T01:00:00.000-07:00

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*

2010-07-20T10:25:00.000-07:00

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

2010-07-16T09:58:00.000-07:00

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

2010-07-13T18:20:00.000-07:00

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

2010-07-07T21:12:00.000-07:00

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

2010-07-03T17:31:00.000-07:00

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)

Kristen Stewart’s posture

2010-06-28T00:00:00.000-07:00

You’re gorgeous, young, and rich. You’re part of the biggest movie franchise around, save maybe Harry Potter. You have a vampire AND a werewolf fighting over you, for chrissakes. Life, unlike the Volturi, doesn’t suck.

Own it.

Stand up straight.

Every time I see you at an schmancy event, hunched over and rocking back and forth like a rhesus monkey who misses its mom, all I think is “Gollum in lipgloss.”

You’re all moody and shit, equating paparazzi photos of you to images of someone being raped. Newsflash, Bella, you don’t get to be emo in Proenza Schouler. You shouldn’t be pissy while getting oxygen facials, being adored by the world's 15 year olds, and macking on R-Patz.

Take some calcium, hit a Pilates Reformer class, and stop looking like you’re itching to ring the bells of Notre Dame at twilight.

(photo: celebrity-mania.com)

Come visit the Facebook fan forum!

2010-06-24T15:35:00.000-07:00

TIWTPITF now has a Facebook fan page. I realized that the comments section of the blog really only scratches the surface of the things you'd really like to beat down. Come visit the PITF Facebook community and join the curmudgeonly confab.

City carriages

2010-06-24T00:00:00.000-07:00

While I’m not crazy about them, I can cope with seeing a quaint carriage rolling along a dappled Central Park path or through a tiny town’s historical festival. But when I’m on a bus that’s buzzing by a horse-drawn carriage that’s clopping along in the summer heat, pulling blithe tourists pointing out the Hard Rock Café, my heart sinks.

I don't mean to nag but horses and Hummers should not be sharing the roads. I cough up a black lung in the summer when I’m walking around an urban center for just an afternoon. I can only imagine what equine lungs inhale when Nelly is continually staring down the end of a exhaust pipe. Unless you plan on putting a surgical mask over her muzzle Michael Jackson style, she shouldn’t be pounding the pavement. I may not be a horse whisperer but I can hear her silent screams loud and clear.

(photo: latopdog.blogspot.com)

Foodies

2010-06-22T13:03:00.000-07:00

Don’t sniff it, don’t eyeball it, don’t comment on how it’s plated like a pagoda or a Zen garden, don’t detail the 39 steps it took to make it, don’t start comparing it to the meal you had at El Bulli, and don’t complain about the new chef while alternately giving me his culinary CV.

I don’t want to hear it. I just want to eat it.

I love food as much as the next person. I like food the way Homer likes his doughnuts and burgers and junk food aisle, oh my.

But a food snob I am not. You’ll never find me asking whether my Copper River salmon was gill-netted and bled and dressed on site. I’ll never lift a fiddlehead fern and wax rhapsodic about hunting the zenmai in East Asia during a trip with Anthony Bourdain. I’ll fork that fern and put it where it belongs: my belly.

Don’t put nettle pasta on a pedestal, put it in your piehole. After all, it’s food. You’re supposed to eat it, not dissect it.

Sometimes, I just want to eat a box of mac and cheese, and not the Annie’s kind. And I don’t need you to tell me how to zest it up with Emmentaler cheese and Linguiça. Don’t take the comfort out of my food or I might have to bust out the mandoline and create a new dish of hurt.

(photo: mmonroedesigninspiration.wordpress.com)

Excessive fragrance

2010-06-18T10:06:00.000-07:00

Back in the day, when fresh water and showerheads were a scarce commodity or nonexistent, folks covered their stank with aggressive oils and unguents that were slightly less overwhelming than the B.O. that comes from weeks of schvitzing and lord knows what else.

God bless the modern age and God bless the bathtub. We don’t have to mask our natural funk with a bucket of Estée Lauder’s newest eau de parfum. I don’t need to know you were in a room…three days after you bombed it with your Prince Matchabelli mushroom cloud. Your Wind Song stays on my mind…and my scent receptors.

Scent is like lingerie; only a chosen few (i.e. not your neighborhood) should have the privilege of experiencing it. A stripper once told me that she wears scented powder when she performs because as her body heats up, the scent is released and only those close to her can smell the faint fragrance. Hot.

Not so hot? Dudes doused in cologne. I can smell you too, preening across the room in your spendy CREED aftershave. I was assaulted by Drakkar Noir for pretty much all of the 80s. While all the alcohol in your cologne can be used to sterilize a wound or stoke a fire, it leaves me cold.

(photo: pocketchange.become.com)

Headbands

2010-06-14T15:43:00.001-07:00

The age of Aquarius is over, kids. And may the 80s rest in totally rad peace. I may want to get physical, but it won’t be while wearing an Olivia Newton-John headband. These headbands—I'm talking about the dumbass, hippie-dippy, Pocahontas ones that fit across your forehead—are only useful if you are playing tennis against Björn Borg in 1976. They aren’t fashionable, they are barely functional. This leaves me scratching my head, wondering why someone would follow in the misguided footsteps of Mischa Barton and the Sisters Kardashian and strap this sparkly tourniquet around her noggin. Are you trying to cover a zit or draw attention up and away from your muffin top? Compensating for a bad haircut?

Whatever the case, pull that thing off and use it to wrap a present instead of yourself. Looking at your headband is making me itch…or maybe it’s the acrylic legwarmers I suddenly felt the urge to pull on. If only I could find my Jane Fonda Workout Betamax…

(photo: www.mystyle.com/mystyle)

The Ikea habitrail

2010-06-09T05:00:00.000-07:00

Confession: My apartment is lousy with Ikea. But it’s not for any love for the brick-and-mortar store (or butik, to the Swedes out there).

Nr.

As I seek out my malm bureau, I realize I should have picked up a bag of meatballs from the giant cooler in the Swedish Food Market so I could leave a trail. Even with the help of the signage that seems to sprout around every corner like skinny kvart lampposts, I’m lost in the mousetrap, or should I say mouseträpp?

The Ikea habitrail is rivaled only by Gaylord Opryland Hotel, a distant second. They should just put a giant hamster wheel and a water dropper by the entrance and make it official. Clogged with kids hopped up on lingonberries and couples quarreling over the merits of vanvik vs. florö bedframes, the aisles of Ikea are sure to bring on a headache faster than the time it takes to fill up your cart with crap that’s not on your list. Instead of monster bags of tealights, Ikea should fill the endcaps with bins of ibuprofin. Ädvil is a name that would be right at home in this Swedish funhouse; just don’t forget the umlaut.

[Thanks to Dave Miller for this suggestion!]

(photo: tlc.howstuffworks.com)

Sidewalk cyclists

2010-06-07T05:00:00.000-07:00

I’ve been noticing something around my neighborhood. I can’t really help it, seeing as I have to weave and dodge, even when I’m on the supposed safety of the sidewalk.

Out of nowhere, a biker yells, “Left!” as he whizzes past me, narrowly avoiding a tree bed. He, however, cannot avoid my tire ire.

The thing that really chafes more than Lance Armstrong's saddle sores and sets me off on an epic tour de rants? There’s a bike lane on my street! What’s next, you greedy Spandexed asshelment? Pumping up your tires in my flowerbed?

Cyclists want it both ways. They want to right to ride on the street—which they have, by the way. In fact, cyclists are legally supposed to ride in the road. But they also reserve the right to jump the sidewalk and draft behind a stroller when the mood hits. Sorry, but it’s called a sideWALK, not a sidePEDAL. Keep your wheels on the road. If you continue to want your cake and eat it too, you are destined to either find yourself on a 4-wheeler in the ER or be named as the defendant in a hit-and-pedal. Regardless, you will shoot to the top of my cycle list.

Darla's punch list

2010-06-04T15:00:00.000-07:00

This list comes to us from Darla, who writes Scrappin Blog!

People who cheat on their spouses.
People who attempt to seduce a married person.
People who have no respect for the sanctity of marriage.
Swingers.
People who lie.
People who think that anything and everything is forgivable.
People and businesses who waste your time.
Businesses that overcharge you.
People and employers who cheat you out of money you're owed.
People who have loud car stereos and don't have the courtesy to turn it down when you're stuck next to them at a red light.

(photo: http://scrappinalrad.blogspot.com)

Reader's Digest gives TIWTPITF a shout out!

2010-06-03T22:01:00.000-07:00

In the June/July 2010 issue, Reader's Digest names the four funniest bloggers in America and, yep, TIWTPITF made the list! Check it out and congrats to the other bloggers. In particular, RD dug our post on Shoeless Households.

What have been your favorite posts? And what have we not yet hit that we desperately need to whack, crack, and smack?

Heather's punch list

2010-06-03T21:03:00.000-07:00

People who say "disorientated" or "vunerable."
People who cut off or tailgate people driving with trailers. Do you not realize that I am twice your size and will crush you because I can't stop that fast? And don't get me started about banging up my horses in the trailer because I have to make like the Starship Enterprise and perform evasive maneuvers to avoid your stupid ass! Hurt my horses and you'll wish all I did was punch you in the face! And no, just because I have this big-ass trailer, I will not help you move!
People who always have to 'one-up' you in conversation.
Bright yellow vehicles of any kind—especially trucks or Hummers. Do you really need to be that ostentatious? Or do you just lose your car in the parking lot all the time and thought it might help?
People who leave drawers and cupboard doors just barely open. Does it really take that much more effort to close it the rest of the way?
People who tailgate and tag on to the car in front of them as the light is turning red so they don't have to sit through another light cycle. This is especially bad with unprotected left turn lanes. Seriously?! You weren't even anywhere CLOSE to being in the intersection already! There's no way you fooled anyone here. Where's the cop when you need him?
Parents who don't discipline their kids or follow through with any discipline they do hand out. This is especially bad in any retail setting. "I'm gonna count to three. I mean it. I'm really going to count this time! Do you want me to start counting? Is that what you want?" Oh, please count! For God's sake, PLEASE COUNT! I'm dying to see what happens when you count!
Reality TV. Enough said.
People who leave long-ass boring messages on your voicemail. Do you really think I have the time to listen to four minutes of you repeating or explaining or just talking to yourself? You're lucky if I didn't delete it after 10 seconds.
People who insist on doing things the hard way. I am efficient at a lot of things. If I offer an idea on how to do something easier and faster, its probably going to be a good one. Just try it out instead of wasting everyone's time doing something we could have already had done three hours ago!

And one more:

People who move every piece of crap they own and THEN do a Goodwill donation! SERIOUSLY? Go through your crap BEFORE you make all your friends and family help you move it, and THEN move! I will gladly take everything you don't want to the trash or donation if it means we don't have to pack it up and move it all the way across three counties to your new place and then take it to toss or give away! (Am I the only one I know who ever thinks of this)

(photo: www.groovythemes.com)

Mushy ice cream

2010-05-31T11:18:00.001-07:00

I like my ice cream like I like my men: sweet, satisfying, and firm.

It always stumps me when folks take ice cream out to soften before serving. So you might sprain your wrist scooping out some rock-hard Rocky Road. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. And the reward is a bowl or cone of delicious, headache-inducing ice cream.

When it starts melting as soon as it hits the bowl or dripping down the cone, it’s dead to me. Okay, that’s an exaggeration. I’ll still suck it down through a straw, but I won’t be happy about it. If I wanted a milkshake, I would have gotten the blender out. If I wanted soft-serve, I would beeline to the closest DQ. Ice cream is supposed to be hard and cold—after all, it’s called ICE cream. The harder it is to begin with, the slower I can eat it. If it's already at a mushy stage when it hits the bowl, it's just going to dissolve into a puddle of dairy unless I shovel it into my piehole stat.

It may go without saying, but I'll have my scoop of ice cream next to my warm piece of pie, thank you. Better yet, can you put it in a separate bowl?

(photo: http://www.flickr.com/photos/moonfever0)

Olympic mascots

2010-05-25T12:25:00.001-07:00

The 2012 London Olympic Games just revealed their official mascots and they are as misguided as The Office's David Brent.

From the country that gave us, in the words of Hugh Grant’s prime minister in Love Actually, “Shakespeare, Churchill, the Beatles, Sean Connery, Harry Potter. David Beckham's right foot. David Beckham's left foot, come to that,” I expected more. I expected something other than the mutant babies of some Teletubby inbreeding.

One critic called them computerized Smurfs for the iPhone generation. That’s an insult to Papa Smurf and the rest of Smurf village, but I will admit that the mascots’ giant eyes do look like a trackpad or webcam. Gargamel wouldn’t stalk these pansy-assed iShmoos if you paid him.

Named Wenlock and Mandeville, because apparently these mascots need another reason for a serious beating, the two mascots join an already silly group that includes a humanized snowball, ice cube, and snowflake from the ’06 Turin Winter Olympics; a cubist Catalan Sheepdog from the ’92 Barcelona Summer Olympics; and Sondre, a troll amputee from the ’94 Lillehammer Winter Paraolympics. Here’s an idea: instead of designing by focus group and political correctness, kick the mascots to the curb and celebrate the city and the athletes who will be gathering to compete instead. Or just use David Beckham’s right foot.

Scrabble

2010-05-20T21:01:00.000-07:00

I suck at Scrabble. I mean, I suck dead bear dry. I don’t know if I get too caught up in trying to wow everyone with an OED-worthy word. Maybe I’m fixated on the triple-word score. Whatever the case, I get a serious ass-whupping every time, usually by a 7th grader or a great-grandparent.

I want to punch Scrabble and its smug 10-point Z tiles right where it counts—namely those 101 2-letter words—because they are a reminder of how inept I am. I like to avoid humiliation at all costs, so why would I belly up to the coffee table and let my friends and family in on the fact that my English degree was a waste, along with that dictionary I got for my 16^th birthday? What good is it knowing big words when I get routinely trounced by xi, qi, and do re mi?

I may not get the triple-letter score but I do have a five-fingered fist that will produce a five-point word. In a word, OW.