Childhood nicknames

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

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

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

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

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

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

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)