"Curators"

When strolling the galleries of museums both grand and intimate, I am always grateful for the discerning eye and expertise of curators even if I don’t always fancy the art itself.

In college, I interned at a terrific museum in Washington, DC devoted to art by women. I went on behind-the-scenes tours of other museums ranging from the National Gallery to the Corcoran, and sat down with curators for brown bag lunches to learn about what they do. I even helped take a Frankenthaler off the wall.

Respect, y’all.

But sadly the ranks of actual curators have been breached and sullied. Just like anyone can start a blog, print up 100 Moo cards, and call themselves a professional writer, so too can some yambag create a list of cured meats for a regional magazine or a collection of sunglasses or yoga pants for Piperlime.

So you eat a lot of sausage and like to shop. Do you have a PhD in anything remotely relevant? Is there any standard that makes you a bona fide expert in anything other than being obnoxious? And there’s the trend to call employees “content curators.” Call me crazy but in my day, that was an editor. So go ahead and offer your top ten list or opinion freely and often, but don’t call yourself a curator. The only thing you’re qualified to select and collect is my ire.

(Photo: http://ny.racked.com)

Unrealistic holiday gift guides

My last name is Worick, not Warbucks.

With that in mind, I'm exasperated each holiday season when the gift guides start appearing in magazines, catalogs and websites. I love the concept of a guide of the season's best picks for everyone on your list (I've even written a few myself). Thing is, my list doesn't include Kate Middleton or Oprah. Throughout the recession, I've expected to see dialed-down gift ideas, presents you can buy on the cheap or even make. Instead, we get suggestions like this, featured in the November issue of Lucky: "Brit designer Charlotte Olympia's cheeky little cat flats strike the perfect balance between playful and posh."

These shoes retail for $895.

Call me catty, but who is buying these shoes, for themselves or as gifts? When a gift guide recommends keeping bottles of Dom or a case of $60 Diptyque candles on hand to give to a hostess or letter carrier, I wonder who gifted the editor with a box of delusion?

Then there's the Neiman Marcus Christmas Book. For a cool $250,000, you can buy a dinner party for ten prepared by Chefs Daniel Boulud, Thomas Keller, Jerome Bocuse, and Richard Rosendale. What's a quarter of a mill for an unforgettable evening and a Christmas gift a loved one is sure to appreciate? I mean, who needs to retire, really? Tap that 401K and get your Bocuse d'Or on.

When I read these far-fetched gift guides, I'm constantly reminded of my anemic bank account and what a loser I clearly am (always an awesome attitude with which to enter suicide season, fa la la). I may be delusional myself, but I don't think most families are rocking a five- or six-figure budget for their Christmas list.

Until there are more articles like Real Simple's "50 Gifts Under $50," I'm going to scare up a French Laundry Cookbook or make salted caramels for the lucky ones on my list. Let's hope they appreciate the sentiment, if not the cents, behind the gift.

(photo: Neiman Marcus Christmas Book)

Push presents

I don't have kids. But I suspect if I was squeezing a baby out of my hoohah that that I'd focus on a short wish list, namely to 1) inflict some pain on my baby's father and 2) get a big fucking reward for my labors.

But then, as I held my little bundle of joy, I'd realize that my gift is wrapped in a blanket in my arms, not in a Tiffany ring box.

Push presents—gifts men give to their baby mamas—are increasing in popularity, as if people didn't have other things to spend their dough on, like diapers or postpartum clothes for your thinner frame. Speaking of skinny, Rachel Zoe received a 10-carat Neil Lane diamond ring for delivering Skyler. While it does seem miraculous that she was able to carry a baby to term with her Skeletor frame, a bauble like this is just downright icky. This sort of gross excess is one of the reasons why the rest of the world hates us. Well, that, our massive medal count, and Snooki (who, by the way, is asking Jionni for a gorilla-sized smoosh present for her mini-meatball).

Receiving a spendy gift that says, "Hey, nice womb!" or "Sorry the condom broke!" seems, shall we say, overkill? I don't know about you but I'd rather have the following gifts from my guy:

• middle of the night baby duty
• early morning baby duty
• midday baby duty
• round-the-clock diaper duty
• massage upon demand

Keep your fucking tennis bracelet and let me sleep through the night.

(photo: blog.emitations.com)

Platform shoes

To know me is to know I love shoes.

I have somewhere in the neighborhood of 75 pairs, stored in clear boxes with laminated photos of them taped to their outside. I love, love, love them. I want to hug them and pet them and call them my own.

Most of all, I like to wear them. I love how long and sinuous my gams become when I slip into a stiletto, or how badass I feel when I zip up a pair of calf-hugging sky-high leather boots. Shoes can make me feel like a Hitchcock heroine, a dominatrix, or a straight-up lady. I’m down with all of that.

What I’m not down with is hobbling around like a 19^th-century Chinese woman with bound feet. 

Which is what platform shoes turn women into. I don’t care if you’re Beyoncé, Dita Von Teese, an elfin Olson Twin, or the celebutard du jour, there’s no way you can walk easily, let along comfortably or safely, in these mobile diases. When I slip into a spendy designer platform pump or a cheap hooker shoe, I might as well be toiling away inside a Pearl S. Buck novel, what with my crippled feet. They turn your dogs into horse's hooves.

And why is it so important to be six foot four? I have a hard enough time dating. I don’t need to elevate out prospective men with my glamazonian ways. Kick off these torture devices and kick them to the curb before you become an actual fashion victim.

(photo: compulsivestyle.com)

Premature holiday merch

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

It was the box of Cadbury Eggs.

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

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

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

Eat Pray Love merch

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)

The Ikea habitrail

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)

Swag bags

It’s awards show season and I’m pissed. No, not because The Squeakquel is getting shut out. It’s not the “In Memoriam” montages and laundry-list acceptance speeches, either. It’s those damn swag bags.

Does Kate Hudson really need a makeup case chock-full of some fancy-pants line only found at Fred Segal? What's Jennifer Lopez gonna do with another candle? Let’s be honest—she’s just going to give it to her nanny anyway if it’s not white. Does Johnny Depp want a free trip to Atlantis Paradise Island Resort & Casino? Cap’n Jack owns an island, for fuck’s sake!

Then there are the bottom-feeders like Paris Hilton and Tara Reid, who always seem to bluff their way into gift suites at Sundance or the Independent Spirit Awards so they can gobble up trampy low-rise denim, free Botox, and the newest gadget or handbag.

Fuck yeah, I’m jealous. I could use the hell out of Oliver Peoples sunglasses and some Paige denim (even if I can’t get my ass into a pair). But I can’t afford this stuff—Nicole Kidman can. Nic Cage once could. These stars, the ones who CAN pay for a phat dinner at Katsuya and an impromptu trip to Bali in their private plane, need to step away from the swag and leave it to those who really will appreciate the booty, namely me. If you don’t back away, I’m going to beat you with a fully loaded Tumi duffle bag. Take that, Drew Barrymore.

(photo: mmva.muchmusic.com)

Black Friday

I realize today has been called Black Friday for a few years but I don’t remember stores marketing the hell out of it like they have this holiday season. "Black Friday" evokes some sort of horrific tragedy, such as a massacre or deadly plague or the end of days. And yet, people are risking exposure to H1N1 and women who will cut you with their coupon if given a chance. Just for the sake of an extra 15-percent off.

Am I the only one who thinks this scenario is absoloonly nuts?

My friend Charyn calls this excruciating day “retail S&M.” If I want a little slap and tickle, I sure as shit am not going to look for it in the aisles of Wal-Mart on Whack Friday. Have you seen what’s lurking there? God invented the Internet so we can avoid hot strip-mall messes and crowded parking lots in favor of leftovers and online shopping. Duh.

While surfing the web, check out one of the websites devoted to Black Buyday and think about all the chumps who are breathing in stale air at the mall.

(Photo: walkwithlight.wordpress.com)

Christmas shoppes

I’m currently in Michigan. As a native, I can’t help but be assaulted by memories both good and bad, and by the Great Lake State’s many noteworthy attractions. One of these draws is Frankenmuth, a town where it’s Christmas 365 days a year. At least that’s what it’s known for. Hailed as Michigan’s Little Bavaria and THE place to pick up a new pair of lederhosen, I always word-associate it with frankincense, one of the Three Wise Men’s housewarming gifts.

But it’s Bronner’s (and its kissing cousins) that is the real Christmas culprit. This is the world’s largest Christmas shop(pe), guaranteed to bring out my inner hyperglycemic. I can taste the candy cane just thinking about the flocking, the commemorative glass ornaments, the Santa suits, and—sweet baby Jesus—the outdoor inflatables, lights, and holiday decor. Much like year-round Christmas decorations, these stores need to be packed up and stored somewhere out of my sight for 10 or 11 months of the year. I'm not a complete humbug hosebag. Come November, I'm happy to have Santa Clause come to town. But for the rest of the year, there’s no room at this inn for these not-so-little shops of holiday horrors.

If you continue to flaunt their bubble lights and Christopher Radko ornaments in July, I'm going to transform all of your Santa suits into sexy devil costumes for Halloween and sneak into your shop(pe) after hours and plug in every single indoor and outdoor strand of Christmas lights. If I don't take out a city grid, expect a massive electricity bill. It's my present to you, because I'm thoughtful that way.

(photo: bronners.com)

Mirrorless dressing rooms

Mirror, mirror, on the wall, should I buy this dress? What's your call?

Cricket, cricket.

Oh, right. There's no mirror in here. Not even a fat or funhouse mirror.

Question, crappy clothing store: When you don’t outfit your dressing room with a mirror, are you trying to be merciful, preventing me from seeing muffin top, camel toe, or uniboob? Methinks not.

I think you have something more insidious in mind.

Here I am, stuck in the crawlspace of a dressing room, shimmying into some garment. Call me crazy, but if I miraculously manage to zip, hook, and button everything, I’d like to see what I look like in it. But if I slink out to eyeball the damage, sycophantic sales associates pounce on me, doing their best to convince me that the sausage casing look is the new black.

Yeah, no.

To be fair, there might be other reasons you decided to trick out your boutique or store with closets instead of dressing rooms. You might have broken your last mirror and are only two years into your seven years of bad luck. Maybe you're Medusa and want to make sure no one has a reflective surface when you're trying to turn them to stone. You might just be cheap.

But I think the most likely reason that the mirror has no places is that you’re trying to be wily, flushing me out of the retail brush so you can get me in your sights and kill me with false compliments.

It's time to fight back. The pacifist's way of getting even would be to just boycott your boutique. But where's the fun in that? I think I should call upon the evil queen from Snow White, who knows a thing or two about the power of reflection. She can offer you up some shiny poison apples. Better yet, she can turn you into a wizened old witch in a bad dress and hair desperately in need of conditioner. You will be resigned to a lifetime of looking like ass, and you won't be able to fix it, since mirrors seem to be nonexistent in your world. Reflect on that.

(photo: marys-view.blogspot.com/2008_06_01_archive.html)

SkyMall

Three hours into a flight from hell, a Meerkat Gang Sculpture is starting to look pretty damn good. In fact, I don’t know how I ever lived without it. What's happening to me? Who am I?

The trip starts out okay: I’ve taken my Dramamine, and I’ve got snacklets, an aisle seat, plenty of reading material, my iBook, and some sort of craft project.

Then it all goes to shit.

The seats are too small to pull out my laptop or knit, let alone stretch my legs. The guy next to me smells like 1969 and the overhead vent is not assuaging the stench. The three year old behind me is taking great delight in kicking my seatback while crying without pause. I plow through my rag mags in short order. Clearly, there’s nothing left to live for…so I pull out the SkyMall catalog.

When, at 30,000 feet, I think I've hit rock bottom, things gets worse. I feel very 1993 Franklin Covey as I contemplate a framed print of a Zen garden. Ooh, where do I swipe my card? Oh wait, here’s a light therapy system! For only $399.95, I can make my frown turn upside down in rainy Seattle! A plantar fasciitis kit? Now you’re just freakin’ my shit out, SkyMaul—you’re reaching into my soul and uncovering my deepest desires. In fact, I think I just might— Holy fuck, a watch winder! If only there was an automatic piehole feeder and a bum wiper, I could just throw in the towel.

Before I give up on life and go down the battery-operated rabbit hole, I need to do one last thing: unleash a can of whoop ass on this twisted love child of QVC and Lillian Vernon. A few repurposed items should do the trick.

I don a Doolittle & Loafmore sweatshirt and LED lighted safety glasses and get to business. I collect a plane's worth of DieMall catalogs in a NFL hammock. I heap them into a copper fire pit and crumple up a wall-size crossword puzzle as tinder. With my Swarovski lighter, I torch the hot mess. No number of indoor hoses and plant waterers can help you now. Go back from whence you came, demon catalog, and take Hammacher Schlemmer and its schtupid name with you.

But leave the snow cone cart.