One Size Fits All

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

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

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)