Troll

I'm sure that very few of you will believe this, but I'm actually not at ALL out going in person. I am awkward and shy until I am comfortable. Which usually works out fine because I'm a total eaves-dropper and not talking allows me to listen much more effectively.

However, being shy? And working in what essentially amounts to a nine hour improvisational play in front of between ten and twenty thousand people a day?

Yeah.

EXCELLENT PLAN, KIKI.

Especially when any number of thousands of cameras are around. It's pretty much like being a Disney character, but with out the big foam head for protection.

Not to mention that I? Am Crazy. Therefore, I'm always at least half convinced that I'm the subject of a photo so that later, they can be like OH MY GOD! This lady was HOMELY! She's TOTALLY the troll from that bridge! (I sit at the end of a bridge most of the day)Yes, I know. I understand that's Crazy. But still. That's why it's The Crazy. Because you think things that don't make a whole lot of sense. Unless, they really ARE thinking that and then I'm not Crazy! I'm right! HA!

It should also be noted that as part of being Not Brave, random bits of flattery leave me...flabbergasted. Yesterday (which was a Really. Long. Day. at the end of a Really. Long. Week.) I was kissed; cheek or hand, by no fewer than twenty random people. Not other players either, which I've come to accept at least some what gracefully (though there are no doubt other opinions about this) but random patrons, both costumed and not. One? Might have been a woman, which, I can't lie, was a little MORE flattering even.

Speaking of women. OH MY GOD. I don't know how many times I have to say this but, Fat Girls? There are flattering clothing options out there, I promise. There is no reason to wander around with your under butt dangling from beneath your cut-too-short sweat shorts. There is NO REASON for you to allow underbelly either. Skinny bitches? You're not exempt here either. Frozen Iguana invented mirrors for a reason. That reason is so I don't see you and have to physically suppress the need to shout OH HONEY, NO. NO. NO. NO.

Because I have to shout other very important things like "If you wish to continue to the joust, you will find easier passage to the right! The Right! No, M'Lord YOUR RIGHT" seventeen thousand times in five hours.

I seriously can not fathom why people feel the need to stand in a line when they can step TEN FEET and pass freely. Is there some sort of sub conscious need to line up behind others? I wonder, if I were to stand in front of a closed door alone, would people line up behind me?

I smell a new Operation Obnoxious....

(PS. Finally met Long Time Commenter Eric's lovely NEW fiance!)
(PPS. Having drinks with KWR221 tonight! Woot!)
(PPPS. No, I'm not REALLY Crazy. I'm insecure. But Crazy sounds far more dangerous and therefore hotter)

Cosmo Girl

When I was 13 I begged my mother for a subscription to Cosmo magazine. The campaign lasted days. Even though it's all ads for liquor and reproductions of 1960's Playboy layouts my Mormon mother caved provided I paid half.

I was a prodigious babysitter back in the day, so I readily handed over the $16 (four hours worth of snot-wiping, I'll have you know!) and filled out the little fall away card with my information.

It took FOREVER before the first magazine arrived and I eagerly devoured every page. Was I a Bad Girl? how well did I know him (him who? are you kidding me? Boys = cooties) should I buy the Calvin Klein or the Ann Taylor? Which better suited my lifestyle a chic urban condo or a sweet little cottage? Suddenly the world was more than ZumZum dresses and Brass Plum shoes. I cut up the pages and made huge collages of things that I would have in the great someday of the future. A vacation house! A BMW! A walk in closet full of shoes! An array of men with delicious accents!

Yeah. So. I live in a cookie cutter house in the suburbs, drive a 15 year old Ford Bronco (the OJ Simpson model) and have been married since I was 21.

But.

Some things have stuck with me in the intervening twenty years. Things that I didn't realize until just the other night as I stood in front of my (non-walk-in, overly crowded, messy) closet deciding what to wear. My choices include a collection of jeans and black shirts. Literally dozens of each.

Then, it hit me.

Cosmo.

In 1992 numerology was the Big. Thing. and Cosmo did a whole ten page spread about it. My number is a seven. Which is kind of awesome since my birthday is also the seventh (probably the only reason I remember it) and I've always considered that a profound number in my life. Not a lucky number, exactly, but certainly a portent of good luck. My happiest years have been lived in homes with a seven in the address. Some of my best years have had a seven in them. It's silly, but whatever. Anyway, this numerology article had things like "your best color" (navy), your best career (something creative (I'm an accountant...HAHA)), your best mate (bookworm), and so on. At some point the article said "people remember you for your unfailing ability to dress in a black teeshirt and perfectly fitted jeans every day and still look smashing" or something along that line.

I remember pawing through my drawers, tossing pastel after pastel into the pile for Goodwill that afternoon. Trying on all my jeans, pinning and hemming until they looked custom made (hello, we was poo' folks.) and counting out my wads of one dollar bills. From that day on I've always chosen black when faced with which shirt to buy. I've gone through dozens of cuts and brands of jeans.

It's funny what sticks with you. The little one-off things that wiggle into your life and shape you.

I bet my mom is glad I chose that one and not the Why It's Okay To Be a Slut! article instead.

(ps. here's a link to a "100 things to do before you die" list similar to the one I tore out of Cosmo and carried around until that one time when I got really drunk, spilled Wild Turkey on myself, stripped to my skivvies in the communal laundry room and threw everything else including my wallet, keys (the washer locked during the cycle so I spent 30 minutes hiding behind a door while everyone else went to class), and six Jolly Rancher "fire" candies into the washing machine. The list never recovered, but I still ate the candy.

Tippy Tuesday

Yeah, I know. That title is annoying. Suck it.

Since several of you girls asked about what kind of bra I was modeling yesterday, I figured I'd do a post on a few of my favorite pieces of clothing. Pieces that you can afford. Not in the way that Glamour espouses the frugality of a $300 winter jacket, but in the use-your-lunch-money kind of way. Well, maybe two weeks worth of lunch money. I guess it depends if your lunch budget for the week is $50 or less.

I am extremely anal retentive about my bra's. I hate the ones that give you elbow boob, or wall eyed boobs, or quadro-boob or cone boob. I hate the ones that dig at your shoulder or have under wires that poke you in the armpit. But also, I'm cheap. So while I have in the past found a lovely $96 bra that fit perfectly, I didn't buy it because I'd never wear it for fear of wearing it out. I know, it doesn't make sense. But that's how I roll.

What I have found thanks to Cousin Bunny's recommendation, is the Victorias Secret Bio-Fit line. They come in a good range of sizes (32B-40DD) and HOLY TITTIES BATMAN do they look good! The cups are rounded in a natural looking way and they keep the twins up in a natural, but lifted place. If you buy the "Full Coverage UpLift" you can do pretty much anything without worrying about popping out. I bowl in mine and never have to readjust. But if you want some HELLO TITTIES cleavage, I liked the Demi. That's what I was wearing in yesterdays picture. If you've got good sized girls, you won't want to do a whole lot of bending at the waist, but who wants to do that ANYWAY? They are a little expensive, with an on-line price of $50, though I swear the one I bought was only $48 in the store.

This is the part where you need to pay attention kittens! Go to their web site and sign up for the catalogue and email updates. Yeah, yeah, spam, whatever. Once you're on their mailing list you'll begin to get their promotional mailings about once a month. The email is a little annoying at about 3x per week, but that's what Baby Jesus made Delete for. You'll likely get a coupon for free panties in the mail. USE IT. When you do, be sure to enter the email address you used when you signed up. You don't have to buy anything. Just hand them the coupon and walk out with panties. By putting in your email address at check out, they see you're an active shopper. The more you shop, the more often they send you free stuff. I get a free $9 pair of panties EVERY SINGLE MONTH. The coupon usually includes a $10 coupon for bra's also.

AND AND AND! Twice a year they have a HUGE sale. All the previous seasons colors and styles go on clearance. On average you'll find bra's about 1/2 of their retail price. BUT if you wait to the end of the sale (while the selection is of course not as good) they'll mark them down even further. I'm talking down to $9! I KNOW, RIGHT? You can't even get some crappy disposable Wal-Mart brand bra for that price!

However, speaking of Wal-Mart, did you know that they now carry BabyPhat silver label jeans? Before you even start, yeah, I know, GHETTO. But these jeans are made for the long legged! AND they go up to a size 18! All the stores in my area seem to carry them, so if you're looking for jeans it might be worth searching your local store. They run $25 and have two washes, distressed and dark. All the jean are boot cut. The only problem I have with them is that the juniors cut rides low and I feel like my ass crack is playing peek-a-boo with the world if I don't wear a longer shirt. Oh, one other slightly odd quirk, the available sizes are 0-15 juniors and 14-18 women's. I don't know why. They wear well and wash with minimal shrinkage and have perfect sized pockets to compliment your ass. I hate jeans with teeny-little pockets, don't you?

Lastly, liquid eye liner. First of all, WHAT THE FUCK, man? Do you have ANY IDEA how long it took to learn to apply that stuff? I'm giving mad props (that's how we talk in the ghetto) to the Emo kids for their eye-lining skills. Those little brushes are ridiculous. BUT I found an easier solution! The Revlon ColorStay liquid eye pen! I paid $7 and it's exactly like using a Sharpie. Hey. I bet I COULD just use a sharpie!

That would be a look.

(PS. There's no pictures because I'm lazy. Click the links.)
(PPS. These aren't paid reviews. Although if someone would like to pay me to review there stuff either with cash or with free stuff, I'm totally down with that. Unless I have to say I like it even though I don't.)

Derailed

Earlier this week, when I was getting coffee at that exclusive little shop that I love *coughQTcough*, a man turns to me and says "you smell fantastic". It completely made my day. There is nothing quite like a genuine and unexpected compliment, is there?

Then, I had a super shitariffic week.

BUT THEN.

As you are all well aware, I have a tiny little addiction to my Blackberry. The first thing I do in the morning is turn it on and check my messages. Unlike Saint Dolly, who claims the first thing she does in the morning is get dressed and go home. (I want to BE Dolly Parton. Seriously. I love her. Probably more than I love that wicked temptress Oprah.) Where was I? Oh, yes, my Blackberry. The first few messages kind of set the tone for my day. For example today, Ash told me that I was an evil whore for telling him that Emily Deschanel is a vegan and then mentioning scary porcelain headed clown dolls come to life and kill people at night. This is why I love my friends. Especially the imaginary ones that live in my computer. Because who else would call you an evil whore but mean it with LOVE? Oh. Right. My sisters.

And then there was this comment left on a post I wrote back in April;

Anonymous said...
I found this site using Google And i want to thank you for your work. You have done really very good site. Great work, great site! Thank you!Sorry for offtopic

Thank you Anonymous, you totally made my day.

So here's what I think we should do today, I think that we should all make a conscious effort to give someone, a stranger maybe, a sincere compliment. I think we should all remember the courtesy wave. I think we should all remember that Nice Matters.

There you go.

I'm done being all preachy.

Now I want to know WHY THE FUCK I am the only person in my household that can fill the dogs water dish? SERIOUSLY. It's not that fucking hard. You put the bowl in the sink and fill it up. It's not like you have to milk a penguin or anything. It's water.

Also, my dogs are assholes. The puppy, who at two and a half probably isn't a puppy anymore but WHATEVER, has terrible dry skin, and our vet recommended that I put a tablespoon of olive oil on his food to try to alleviate it. It works, I don't know why. Now? Not one of those little fuckers will so much as touch their retardedly expensive dog food until I drizzle it with olive oil. What a bunch of fucking princesses. For the record? Rottweilers and Pit Bulls are a bunch of babies.

Don't you think that Facebook should have an "I hate you" button? or maybe a "stop bragging you bastard" button? And why do people do things like post a message to dead person? I've seen "Rest in Peace, Uncle Bob, you will be missed" or something similar more than once. Do you seriously think that Uncle Bob is sitting in Heaven checking his Facebook alerts? Basically, what you're saying is LOOK AT ME! SOMEONE I KNOW IS DEAD! I'M FUCKING SPECIAL! No, you're not. You're just as bad as the people that post updates that say things like "Betsy wonders why you did that?" Why who did what, you bitch? FUCKING SAY WHAT YOU MEAN. If you mean that Larry stole your boyfriend say "Betsy wonders why Larry is a such a back stabbing man stealing anus eater?". By leaving open ended, vague updates, you're CLEARLY just begging for people to comment and ask you why so that you can tell your victim story. I hate you.

Lastly, as I lay awake at 3:30 in the morning, it occurred to me that if you say the name "John" enough times in a row it stops sounding like a word and sounds like some kind of made up alien language. So do "prom" and "referee". Try it. Say each one like ten times in a row. Not even words anymore, right?

Wow. This post has just gone totally around the bend. Just like me. HIGH FIVE!

Xanax wishes and Buttercream dreams for a happy weekend, my kittens.

Dear ZDub

I have to confess. I am not fancy. I just LOOK fancy. Much like a poxed hooker.

My Blackberry is paid for by my work. My Starbucks mug was a bonus when I bought gift cards for a party last year. I was in line at QT for coffee. I bought those jeans at Goodwill for $1 and my sweater was a hand-me-up that M got from...somewhere. My Victoria's Secret panties were free with the coupon they send me every month and I bought the bra at the semi-annual sale. The headband was a spare bridesmaid gift from a wedding I officiated. I bought the Frye boots on eBay for about 40% of retail and my Coach bag came from the outlet. My big old truck is fifteen years old and hasn't been washed since I bought it.

Can we be friends again?

Luvyourbitchcuttingguts,

Kiki

Label Whore

Today, as I stood in line checking my Blackberry as I waited to use my Visa debit card to pay for my coffee in my refillable Starbucks environmentally friendly mug and my litre of SmartWater, I realized that I was wearing Gap jeans, a Lands End sweater, Frye boots, Victoria's Secret (matching, of course) bra and panties, a Gucci headband and holding a Coach purse. Inside which were the keys to my overly large, gas sucking American SUV. I suddenly realized I wanted to kick my own ass for being such a yuppie bitch.

Miss Behaving

I confess. I watch really, really bad reality television. The sort of TLC shows that make me scream at the television until someone takes away the remote and brings me a cold compress and a shot of Jameson's.

Shows like "My Monkey Baby" and "Love me Love my Doll" make my eye go all twitchy with the hilarious, awesome wrongness. "Obese and Pregnant" makes me stampy and "I Pooped a Baby" (aka: I didn't know I was pregnant, I think) makes me shrieky.

The one that REALLY does me in though is "Toddler and Tiara's". Don't get me wrong, I'm all for parading around in too much make up and inappropriate clothing and insisting that people tell me I'm beautiful. But I'm an adult. And frequently abusive to both controlled and legal substances. Asking a child, a wee impressionable (demon) darling to forfeit playing with Barbies in favor of being one is just...creepy.

Leaving aside the whole JonBennet Ramsey argument, I have to wonder what sort of fucked up psychology leads a parent (an unattractive, often over weight, definitely past her prime mother) to declare that one identical twin is "beautiful" and the other is not. THEY'RE IDENTICAL YOU TWAT.

It's the sort of rabid for fame mentality that leads to this . Not the web site, I don't mean, because THAT is rather brilliant, but the horrible objectification of children that leads both the kids and the parents to believe that they're not good enough as they are.

Not to mention how the really crap photoshop skills cause the kids to look like the spawn of Jessica Rabbit and Ronald McDonald.

Seriously. It's creepy. Especially the first one and the baby with the Wilma Flintsone updo. HOW CAN A BABY HAVE AN UPDO? With fucking pearls? What the fuck is WRONG with these parents?

Go check it out.

(thanks to CK for the link)

Then I vill KEELs you

I'm not NOT hiding in your closet with a butcher knife....

(p.s. wouldn't this picture be SO much cooler if I had fangs?)

What are you trying to say?

(in the middle of cleaning out the garage I discover I must run to Wal-Mart, I run inside to get my purse)

Me: Want to go with me?

M: Where are you going?

Me: Wal-Mart

M: Are you going dressed like that?

(looks down at baggy jeans and oversized Seahawks teeshirt)

Me: Yes.

M: Then no way.

Holla at my ladies!

I'm sure you're going to be all SHUT UP, BITCH when you're half way done reading this but whatever. I don't care. I'm whining anyway because this is my blog and I can so SUCK IT. HA! Just kidding! Don't suck it! Come back here! After I whine I'm going to tell you VALUABLE INFORMATION that you will want to know! Promise!

Sister Laura is getting married in October. Even though I totally told her that these things never end well and she should just shack up with him and then she's all "but I LOOOOOVEEEE him" so whatever, don't listen to me, see if I care. The wedding is at some super fancy place and so you know what that means. Pantyhose. I KNOW. The things I do for these girls, I tell ya. But it also means Fancy Dress. And do I OWN a fancy dress? No. Well, yes. But not one that fits. As well documented within the hallowed pages of this very blog, I'm a wee bit...what's the word? Oh yeah, FUCKING VAIN. I can admit it. I'm vain. Self centered. Stuck up. You get the idea. So I started shopping already for a dress to wear. Because I'm also cheap. No, let's make that "thrifty". No! Wait! Frugal! That sounds better. I'm vain and frugal! Yes! Anyhoodle, what the fuck was I rambling on about ? I DON'T KNOW EITHER. Oh, right. Dress. I went to Ross or as my dear friend Sonia likes to call it "Goodwill" to look for a dress and you know what? I found one! I KNOW. It's Calvin Klein lined knit with gores that give it a close fitting top, boat neck and full skirt. It's even black! SCORE! So I take my treasure, stroking it and calling it my precious and pretty much making out with it right there in the aisle and skip gleefully back to the dressing room to try it on so that I can admire myself and how pretty I am in it and you know what? IT DIDN'T FUCKING FIT. I'm not even making that up. It was too big. I know, right? The TRAUMA. But fuck you, it was traumatic! I wanted that dress! WANTED WANTED WANTED and it didn't fit. I was only SLIGHTLY consoled by it being too large, because really, what girl doesn't like things to be too big rather than too small (wink, wink!) but still. Damn.



Despondently, I searched the racks for a smaller size but NOOOOO of course not. But you know what I DID find?

It's a little slice if angels singing called an "Absession Tank". It's similar to a Yummie Tummie tank like this one




see that weird looking part in the middle? That's spandex, baby. As in The Miracle Smoother Of The Gods. You wear it just like a regular layering tank and it smooths out your fat rolls. I KNOW! Didn't I tell you that you would want to know this? The Yummie Tummie is WAY out of my price range at a retail price of $82 at Dillards. Seriously. It's amazing and all but not THAT amazing.

But the Absession tank? $9 at Ross. Right? So all you girls need to run right out to your nearest Ross and go look in the "Shapewear" section for these because it is SO worth you lunch money.


You're welcome. Anything to help you eat an extra doughnut.

Strong Enough For a Man

Hsb: Feel my face!

Me: (feels face)

Hsb: Smooth, right?

Me: yeah, actually, it's way smoother than usual.

Hsb: That's because I used one of your Venus Breeze refills! They fit my shavers handle. You should buy me some more of those.

Me: I'm pulling your man card.

Hsb: Who cares? I've got a face like a baby's butt

Me: Yes, yes you do.

Click/Slurp

Hiya Chickens!

Guess what NoBlog Sheila and I are doing? Taking pictures! Every day. I KNOW, right! We're participating in a project called Envisage (link under 'People I stalk'), where a bunch of women are submitting a picture a day (everyone elses pictures are better than mine, btw) to chronicle a year in their life. It's the second year of the project. Last years results were gorgeous.

I've created a page just for my pictures here .

Earl, who you'll notice has been added as a writer, is going to be a love and redesign my blog with tabs! and a header! and uh...whatever the hell else he decides to add. I'm the VISION here, people, not the talent.

So stay tuned for BIG! Exciting! Changes! WooHoo!

Speaking of exciting! Our winning Cinderella is I am Trish Marie! Whose wish made me all sniffly. Though that's not why she won. Here's what she wished for:

Well, hell. I wasn't going to be all sad and awwww, but then Vanessa K up there did it first. See, Emmi, my youngest daughter is deaf. She has cochlear implants, and she hears only with the processors on. But she can't wear them in water, and this kid LOVES the ocean. Like you wouldn't believe. So if I get to wish anything for one day, it would be for her to be able to swim in the ocean AND hear it. After that, I'll need that limitless credit card, and the ability to shit hundred dolloar bills. Although, imagine the paper cuts.

See? Now I wish I really did have magic powers, don't you?

Trish Marie email me your address please and I'll send your big winnings!

Happy Weekend, Kittens.

Worst. Kid. Ever.

(after noticing a particularly disheveled and unattractive woman dropping her children off at school)

Me: You're so lucky to have a pretty Mom.

M: I'm ADOPTED?

Me: I hate you.

M: I know.

Stuck

So remember that one time when you had a really shit day at work and you were all super stressed out about what to do about that one thing that was a really big deal and so then when you got home you took a Xanax and had a glass of wine and then you started feeling all mellow?

Then remember how you thought it would be a good idea to try and give yourself a "smokey eye" make over using that how to card you got from Sephora that said it was so easy? But maybe because your mom didn't teach you how to do make up or maybe because the "smokey eye" is only achievable by skinny jean wearing fifteen year old boys or maybe because you have to sacrifice baby penguins to the eye liner gods, but WHATEVER it totally didn't work and you just looked like you got punched in the face by Tyler Durden?

Remember how after that you thought it would be a good idea to have another glass of wine, because really, when ISN'T another glass of wine the answer? Then you tried to wash off that "smokey eye" only black eye shadow is no match for mere soap and the more you washed the more you looked like Rob Zombie?

So then after that you started rooting around under the bathroom sink, remember? Because there has to be some of that free gift with purchase eye make up remover in there somewhere, only instead all you could find was three pink foam rollers, a used Hannah Montana band aid and that home waxing kit that you ordered off of TV that time you got stuck hanging out at the United terminal for three days eating nothing but saltines and coffee and watching MSNBC.

Remember how you thought it would be a good idea to try it? Or maybe the wine thought it would be a good idea and totally talked you into because wine is a very fucked up friend and it has a sick sense of humor? But then, since you'd shaved your legs and pits that morning and that super evil eyebrowless waxing lady ripped out your Burt Reynolds on Saturday and so you have nothing to wax and then, you're standing there naked except for your Chuck Taylor's and you realize OMG! I'm going to wear a bathing suit in public in like three weeks, so I should start waxing my bikini line! Yes! Good idea! But, since you've had your hooha waxed before, you know that it hurts like a mother fucker so you take another Xanax and have another glass of wine and then you warm up the wax and smear in on your lady flower and press on the linen strips and

HOLY MARY MOTHER OF GOD THAT FUCKING HURT.

So then remember how you looked at that linen strip and you're all THE HELL MAN? there wasn't a single freaking pube stuck to it. But the box of wine was all, try again! So you applied more wax and pressed the strip more firmly and then ripped it even faster and

SWEET STRIPED KITTENS THAT FUCKING HURT, with the hurting and the OW OW OW.

And you know what? STILL NOT A FUCKING PUBE removed because apparently you have SUPER PUBES who are growing straight out of your bones and then you get all stubborn because you're a)Irish and b) a little drunk so you decided to try it one more time. Then you drain that box of wine right into that 7-11 cup and keep sipping from the bendy straw and you apply the wax again and rip it off AND IT STILL DOESN'T WORK BECAUSE IT'S GARBAGE, that's why.

Then do you remember how you tried to use that eensy-weensy "skin soothing" wet nap that the evil hairless tv slut said would remove all traces of the wax and leave you porn star smooth? Remember how it DIDN'T FUCKING WORK? So you tried Vaseline and baby oil and nail polish remover and peanut butter and then you're all MOTHER FUCKER. So you pulled your clothes back on and drove all super careful to CVS even though you're pretty sure the bus driver who honked at you was the Terminator and was trying to kill you. Despite the fact that you just broke a shit load of laws you managed waddle into CVS and buy mineral oil only OF COURSE their credit card system was down and you had no cash so you had to pay with the dimes from your ash tray but whatever; you get it and you drive home and you don't even hit that big chicken that was wandering in the roadway.

Remember how after that you go back into the bathroom and take off your jeans and try to take off your Hanes Her Way only they are TOTALLY FUCKING STUCK to your cooch? Like, permanently bonded. Like, the harder you pull the more convinced you are that you're going to wind up on "Real Stories of the ER" and you're going to be that woman and someone will recognize you and you'll get on Oprah only not because she finally acknowledges that you're her best friend but because she's having a show about people who are completely incompetent. So you grab those panties and you give them a yank and every single freaking curly on your lady flower rips straight out by the roots and GREAT CESAR'S GHOST you have to grab the counter to keep from passing out?

Yeah, that sucked.

Vanity

Because there aren't enough pictures of me on the Interwebs.

Ouiser Says

Is it too damn much to ask for a hair volumizer that doesn't make my hair crunchy or sticky or weird smelling or greasy looking?

I mean COME ON. NASA announced today that one of the astronauts has worn the same underpants for a month thanks to a technological advancement that makes them repel odors and no one can manage to find a way to make my poor, flat hair look just a wee bit less sad?

Seriously. Unacceptable.

Think on it Thursday: Why the British don't fix their teeth

Sigurd the Mighty, a Norse Earl of Orkney in the late 9th century, died after he beheaded an enemy in battle and tied the head to his horse's saddle. One the ride home, his leg was grazed by one of the head's protruding teeth, and he died of a blood infection.

Beige

Look at me, reviewing shit again.

Yesterday dawned bright and early and after much Facebook wall discussion I braved the WalGreens and bought hair dye and dyed my hair MUCH darker. Which all the boys at work noticed and my husband didn't.

Then, after work, I took myself out for a pedicure, because nothing does a body good quite the same way as a hot stone foot massage and BRIGHT pink toenails.

For the hell out it I stopped at Old Navy were I found an adorable pair of rockabilly chic skinny leg dark wash capri's on sale for $15. These to replace the pair I had on that made me look like TweedleDum.

On the way home, killing time as I waited for my husband to leave home for his class, I stopped at Target, where I amused myself reading the backs of novels and trying on clothes meant for teenagers. As luck would have it I actually managed to remember BEFORE I left the store that we were out of a few things like deodorant and shaving cream and other odds and ends that you never think about until you're out of them and one leg is shaved and you're all MOTHER FUCKER and then you have to use your ridiculously expensive hair conditioner on the other leg.

As I contemplated toothpaste brands, mint levels and claims of whitening I spied these bad boys

Now, I've tried just about every brand of at-home whitening out there. I've tried Crest White Strips, both dissolving and regular (waste of time) Colgate whitening gel (tastes gross) and on and on. The problem with all of them is that you have to use them twice a day for like two weeks.

And I? Do not have that kind of attention span. Two hours though, I can do. Because TLC had back-to-back episodes of "I didn't know I was pregnant" or as CK's adorable friend Brenda calls it "I Pooped a Baby".

The first thing you do is mold the little mouth trays. Which was easy enough. Then, you fill them with the gel, also, easy. Then you stick them in your mouth and wait 20 minutes. Take them out, wait ten and repeat three more times until you've gone 2 hours.

The gel wasn't too icky tasting, and the trays were comfortable enough and the time limit was even reasonable. But my results? Eh. I wouldn't say my teeth were "noticeably whiter" when I was done. And this morning? OH MY LORD. My teeth are KILLING me. My gums are KILLING me. My tongue feels like I scorched it. I tried to drink a glass of ice water and it was TORTURE. Now, while I was doing the process, I didn't have any tenderness. It seems to have developed overnight. The instructions do say that some people develop short term sensitivity and that it goes away, so I'm not too worried, but DAMN. OW.

Price: $19

Worth: $8

Verdict: Skip it unless you have a coupon.

PS. Thank you everyone for your comments and advice yesterday. Even those of you that suggested things of questionable moral and legal nature. Loves you all!

Toasted

As a general rule, when I find something amazing, that works as described and isn't very expensive, I keep that shit to myself. Because I don't want y'all to be thinner AND prettier than me.

However, today I am feeling generous. Or I might just be whacked out on Xanax, but either way, I'm feeling like sharing and except for that one time where I spent a ton of money on crap that turned out to be totally useless and is now filling up the cabinet under my bathroom sink, except the Bumpit, which was kind of awesome and now my kid has totally stolen it because she's like that, that's not a situation that happens very often. You can probably blame my mother for that because she used to make me share EVERYTHING with my sisters and now she's not the boss of me and I don't have to share so I totally don't except, like now, when I do.

Or will, if I can ever remember what the fuck it was I was going to tell y'all about. Oh, right. I remember now.

Ahem.

So, being a ginger kid, I'm pretty pale all the time. Even though I live in the desert. Actually, ESPECIALLY because I live in the desert. It's too damn hot to go outside, thusly I spend all summer curled up on the couch watching Bravo and pretending it's winter instead of lying about sunning myself into a deliciously bronzed state of skin cancer.

However, next weekend I'm going to Vegas (again. This time with my husband though, so it's not like it's going to be any fun) and am planning on joining some friends for a kind of fancy dinner that I plan (hahahah) on wearing a skirt to. If I can find a skirt that fits. Given that Vegas is the same temperature as Phoenix (which is fucking hot) (lots of parenthetical remarks today. I blame public education for this) I have no intention of wearing nylons. But then again, I don't want to scare the shit out of the astronauts when the sun reflects off my ghost white legs.

So, I thought, why not give self tanner a try. But then I remembered that the LAST time I tried that I looked like a wood grained Oompa Loompa and while that's a look that Karl Lagerfeld can rock, I just haven't got the leathery face for it. So THEN I thought about going to one of those spray tan places, but allegedly the product they use makes you smell like Frito's and also it's like $50 and quite frankly, I'm far stingier than I am vain which means that's not going to happen.

Just when I was about to give up I spotted this stuff.



It's only $7 at WalMart and also it CLAIMS that it "reduces the appearance of cellulite" while giving you "a natural glow" over the course of a week. Smooth tan thighs? I'm SO IN. I tossed it in my basket and happily went home to try it.

The directions? Fairly specific. They want you to use it after a shower and after a shave and you have to rub it in using circles and then wait until it dries before you get dressed. So you don't stain your clothes, I guess.

The first day I felt a little tingle, but didn't see results. The second day, my ankle looked kind of dirty. The third day I forgot to apply it and the fourth day I applied it, but didn't bother to shave my legs.

By the fifth day though? I actually had a little color! Not noticeable "HELLO, Lindsey "Fake n' Bake" Lohan" color, but just enough of a tint that I no longer glowed in the dark. By the eighth day the color of my legs matched the color of my farmers tan arms so that I was uniformly not pale and also not tan. The color isn't oraganey at all, it's kind of a pale nut brown. Very flattering and not at all fakey looking.

Also? My thighs? Somewhat less lumpy looking. NO SHIT. I'm as shocked as you are. I have no intention of running about in short shorts or anything, but they look decidedly better. To me at least. No one else see them, so it's possible that my head meds are giving me delusions of sexiness, but who cares?

I'm TAN, bitches.

Ranties

One of the questions I get asked a lot is if I'm LOVING all the shopping I get to do as I shrink. And the answer?

NO. No, I am not.

It's not that I don't love shopping and it's not even that I don't love the fact that I can now buy pants in the Juniors department instead of the dark and spidery corner known as "Women's". It's not like I don't enjoy that the selection available to me now involves more than giant pastel tee shirts with screen printed kittens who sport clever sayings like "I don't DO mornings". It's not even like I don't enjoy that my ass no longer has it's own zip code.

It's more that OH MY GOD do you realize that you have to replace EVERYTHING you own when you lose this much weight? I have so far replaced jeans, of course, shirts a little less (baggy is a look, right?), shorts, obviously, but now I've had to start replacing things you wouldn't think of. Things like underwear.

I don't know about you guys, but I'm the kind of girl who's super picky about my drawers. I have..correction HAD...two or maybe three brands and styles of panties that I know will cover and stay put and not ride up or slide down, won't pinch or bind or give crazy panty lines or anything heinous like that. But OF COURSE those brands and that style? Do not come in the size I need. Which means I now have a drawer full of panties that creep up and down and twist side to side as their tent like proportions flap in the breeze until they are completely bunched up under my ass so that it looks like I've got a roll of paper towels under my butt cheeks. Of course, in addition to being unattractive it's also uncomfortable so I'd spend half the day digging at my ass like I've contracted Parishiltonitis about my lady bits.

Tres Secksi.

After weeks of this exercise in nonsense and armed with a Victoria's Secret coupon I decided to bite the bullet and buy new panties. Only you know what? The idea of trying on panties before you buy them is just....weird. Panties are meant to come three to a bag, all hermetically sealed and emblazoned with a logo featuring fruit and prepubescent girls with no hips and winning smiles. Frugality being both one of my virtues and also one of my vices, I couldn't pass up getting panties that usually retail for $18 at 5-for-$25. Also I figured "what the hell?" I might get laid more frequently if I wasn't wearing Bea Aurthur's Signature Line of Panties.

Standing before giant vats of panties, I began to sort through the bin labeled L/XL figuring that I might be able to find a few pairs that were not too grandma and not too hooker. As I pulled out one lime green thong after high cut see through lace after hipster Pink boy shorts after another I came to the sinking realization that VS thinks I need to spend my days looking like a transvestite stripper underneath my sensible ($1atgoodwillthankyouverymuch) Levi's and Old Navy perfect tee's. Seriously, there wasn't a single pair of panties in that pile that had more than 6 square inches of fabric. And my ass? FAR TOO LARGE for that kind of nonsense.

So I handed my coupon to the hipster in the neon jeans beside me and headed to Target.

Now, if you've never been fat you may not realize that when you ARE fat, you get like three options for panties. You can have the kind that go up to your navel, the kind that reach all the way up to your armpits or "boy shorts" which are neither boyish nor shorts like. However, if you're NOT fat?

Sweet Baby Jesus, the choices.

High cut, low cut, briefs, bikini, boy shorts, hipsters, ultra low hipster, hipster thongs, high cut thongs, string bikini's, string thongs, seamless, wicking, anti-bacterial (side note: GROSS), second skin, cotton, poly cotton, silk, lace, cotton and lace, lace and silk, "satin", embroidered, screen printed, embroidered with screen print in seamless cotton silk, baby seal skin, micro fiber....seriously who the hell needs that many fucking choices? I just want panties that cover my ass, don't give me camel toe, don't creep, don't slide, and don't give me swamp ass. I don't want neon pink sparkles that spell out "SASSY" and I don't care if they have a pocket for my...whatever the hell one puts in a pocket the size of a quarter...bus fare? Gum? Wet-naps? I don't need them to be "innovative" and I don't care if they're endorsed by Bruce Willis's big headed daughter.

And the sizing? Seriously? Corresponds to NOTHING. Why can't women's undies be like men's? No more random size "7" that really equals pants size "12" but only if that designer decided that a size 12 has hips 38-40 inches instead of the other designers who think your hips will be 40-44 or 32-90 or whatever the fuck they think women want to hear. Why can't they be size 36? As in, your hips are 36" plus or minus two inches, thank you come again? Especially, when after reading the packaging you determine that you wear size X because you fit into parameters Y&Z only to get home and discover either you have shrunk three inches around or they think you want your panties to be "blousey" because that is SUCH an attractive look?

Which is why, if I get into an accident the ER doctor is going to push me out into the hall with a note that says "DO NOT TREAT. DISOBEYED HER GRAM AND ISN'T WEARING ANY PANTIES AT ALL" where I will be mocked by all and sundry as I lay dying, commando, thanks to mass retailers refusal to provide me with some damn underwear that is made of cotton, is pleasantly fitted without being tight, doesn't climb up my ass and isn't covered with cartoon characters.

So consider yourself warned; if you DON'T eat that cheeseburger, large onion rings and milk shake for lunch you're going to die. You're welcome.