Pinky rings

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

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

(photo: luxury4play.com)

Naked pregnancy portraits

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

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

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

(photo: virginmedia.com)

Boob sweat

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

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

(photo: guidespot.com)

Adult face painting

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

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

(photo: terezowens.com)

Stuffed animals for grown-ups

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

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

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

(photo: makethelist.net)

Auto-Tune

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

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

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

Lipgloss containers

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

What happens next is far from pretty.

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

(photo: dailymakeover.com)