Sweet Lord, that’s a jumbo-sized newborn! I can see why Mom’s not smiling–or laughing-or jumping rope–or coughing–anymore. Unless that baby was delivered C-section, there’s a 99% of light bladder leakage in the forecast. Where is Whoopi Goldberg when you need her?
No one likes a fragile, underweight infant. A big chub is the picture of good health. But that double-digit pounded baby in the Mennen ad is intended to depict a newborn. Really? Here is the small print:
I think we’re gonna need a few more cans, Ma! There’s a lot of swaddling to be done…
According to the Guiness Book of World Records, the “heaviest baby born to a healthy mother was a boy weighing 10.2 kg (22 lb 8 oz) who was born to Sig. Carmelina Fedele (Italy) at Aversa, Italy in September 1955.” There’s no pic to back that up, but let’s just recognize that it’s even bigger than this one.
It’s straight to bottles for you, Michelin boy! Even La Leche League gave his mom a free pass on the nursing. Seriously, his arms look like little Pillsbury Crescent Rolls. Bless his heart.
I’m not saying the redheaded Mennen baby isn’t precious; with a good heavy lifting belt velcroed around my waist, I’d like to hold it as well. I’d just like a little more truth in advertising. BTW, I wonder what that now-fifty-five-year-old baby looks like? Could it be that that little porker was Kevin Bacon?
What do you think of when I say “wings”? Red Bull? Paul McCartney? The 90s NBC sitcom? Well, if you’re like most gluttonous Americans, probably these:
If you’re a lady between the ages of 13 and 49, currently bloated and irritable, craving chocolate and Pinot Grigio, it might mean this:
But if you don’t foresee buying many more of those boxes in your future, or you’re done with them entirely, “wings” might mean this most awesome of hairstyles. You probably attempted some semblance of it at one point.
I’m familiar with all of those wings, sometimes incorporating the three of them in the same moment. But never had I seen a power mower with wings until today.
The small print reads, “This giant of precison mowers…is the pride and joy of many men who mow grass for a living–and more than a few wealthy men who mow grass for fun.” For fun! Interpret as you will.
There are also scads of songs with “wings” in the titles. Broken wings, dove’s wings, eagle’s wings, little wings, silver wings, paper wings. But the song I never ever want to hear again, so help me God–not at a wedding or a funeral or a bris–is “Wind Beneath My Wings.” I can’t take it one more time. I really can’t.
INXS told us that, “We all have wings, but some of us don’t know why.” Does this gal know why? To fly from catwalk to catwalk? Those look heavy.
Wings have inspired quotes from Shakespeare to Charles Dickens, but only one as elegant and classy as Mae West could have confessed, “I’m no angel, but I’ve spread my wings a bit.” Which reminds me of this:
What’s the shelf life on that tat? A wee bit more than this unfortunate gal’s…
Ouch. Pass the blue cheese.
So whether you are right wing or left wing or a Detroit Red Wing, remember that we can all soar on wings like eagles. Or not.
It’s not too late to get your lady what she really wants for this inane Hallmark-induced holiday. Regardless of her age, her weight, or even her sign (which you probably don’t even know, you CAD), no woman can resist a box of panties. Just the thought of lying down on a yellow linoleum floor, surrounded by a veritable pinwheel of pastel-colored high-waisted granny panties gives me goose bumps. I know what I’m wearing under my Easter dress… Cupid, draw back your bow!
Look, Ma! I don’t have to do the wash for three weeks solid! Nevermind the scent from the hamper…
See how mesmerized she is as they swirl around her, like Snow White singing to the birds? The sheerish netting on the pair she is sporting is so seductive. Earl won’t be able to keep his hands off her once he steps down from his big rig. That’s sexy from the bottom of her bum to her naval. Nothing like scratchy fabric chafing her lower rib cage to put her in the mood for an amorous pretend holiday. Fasten your seatbelt, Earl!
Note how carefree she has become, tossing her brassiere to the wind, strategically placing panties across her bosom, the way Peter Pan mermaids stuck adhesive starfish to their own chests. That mermaid may seem jubilant in this scene, but her joy masks the pain of knowing she will never, ever be able to wear boxed panties. Curse you, Neptune!
Can you really blame Selena for kicking this one to the curb? There is no way to justify this catastrophe of an ensemble. Does this really appeal to teen girls? Where is the shame in looking presentable? When did we decide to stop dressing nicely? Was it when ladies started burning their bras? Damn you, libbers!
Now this was appropriate garb in a high school cafeteria back in 1943. No hoochie mamas present, thank you.
This was how people dressed in Chicago to attend the movies in 1941. No, it wasn’t even Broadway.
Check out these folks riding bikes…
Even if they leaned forward toward the handle bars, there was no threat of whale tail in effect, no tawdry tramp stamp to mark them past their due date.
See how modestly these gals of the paper mill were attired ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY YEARS AGO? Say what you will about the ruffles that appear to be multiplying and about to attack her head; she’s quite fetching chilling on the railroad tracks. And what comportment!
Even Granny’s mowing outfit looks better than how people dress for church these days.
But this–this is the sad part. Even this GANG from 1916 looks sharp by today’s standards.
Minus the smokes (and the gun), that’s street urchin style! You can bet your bippy these kids were not of grand means, but they took the time to put an outfit together. What happened, America? What happened?
Crap Your Hands, Everybody! Everybody, Crap Your Hands! I think things were actually GAINED in translation. Hopefully, a kind stranger will inform him what a difference a letter can make on his sweater that appears to have been stitched in the style of a Quaker. But at some point, he can remove it and toss it in the Goodwill pile. This lady is not so fortunate.
This pic hails from the Hanzi Smatter blog, dedicated to the misuse of Chinese characters in western culture. The lady who owns this arm believed the Chinese symbol to mean “chi.” Maybe she identified with the idea of vitality and life force and energy. Well, it’s not chi, per that blogger. Sadly, the symbol translates to “rice.” Rice.
But not all is lost. I mean, rice is still consistent with the Asian theme. Toss it in with that eerie koi (not to be confused with Iriquois), and it might make a great meal! Maybe she could stir fry it in a mild chili sauce and fresh orange peel, like P.F. Chang’s hunan style hot fish. Yum! As Winnie the Pooh says, I feel a rumbly in my tumbly. Actually, it isn’t farfetched to be associating food service with this colorful sleeve, since the enormity of it excludes her from many upper level management jobs, save quirky ice cream and sub sandwich shops.
Should we cut her (and the thousands of others who failed to research the symbol they had permanently inked onto their skin) some slack? I mean, there ARE 50,000 characters in the Chinese language. One cannot assume that all tattoo artists are fluent, no? And P.S., simply branding your arm with symbols does not automatically induct you into the spiritually enlightened hall of fame. It doesn’t give you a rich tapestry of character and dimension. Not all Chinese people do Tai Chi and catch flies like Mr. Miyagi, philosophizing near lily pads. It doesn’t make you deep. In the case of rice-girl, it just makes her ignorant.
So what’s the flip-side? When Asian people see things written in English, do they assume it’s all trivial and frivolous? Everyone knows Americans are fun and hip because we’re constantly shouting black music. Even our President does it.
If you’ve ever made a trip to the Engrish site, you’ve seen how desperately Asian designers are in need of skilled translators. But really, why would you walk around, wearing something that makes no sense? How can you make a statement when you don’t know what the statement is?
Maybe they like America’s bold stance on immigration, so they put it on a shirt.
And who could argue that Pacino reeks of cool? Even if he commands you to say hello to the bad gay…
And check out this question for the Creator. Are you there, God? It’s me Chao-Xing.
My bet is he’s at the nearest head shop. Now this next one is complex.
First, and foremost, lollygag, unless it’s loitering in front of a 7-11. Second, repeat a random Wilson Phillips lyric. Next, the typical association of a foamy kitten and dwarf bravery, because those two go together like peanut butter and jelly. I hate to admit that dwarf bravery has NEVER shone on me. Not once.
Americans have spent so much time thinking Asian culture has the answers, but what if they think WE’RE the deep ones?
Hung in the sky blessing. Need drift on the waves. Preach it, brother, preach. That reminds me, I need to rent “Point Break” again.
Who knew Americans had the secret of life? We had it all along! Honey Boo Boo and Mama June can testify.
Well, it is. And it’s way better than crapping your hands.
When did we all collectively decide that wrapping gifts was très passé and gift bags were en vogue? Sorry, that’s too much French; I suddenly feel the need to surrender to the enemy. The point is–was this a democratic decision or a hostile takeover? Freedom of choice or pressure to conform?
Technically, gift bags were introduced in 1987, but I never laid eyes on one until the 1990s. Apparently, it took off like gangbusters, and we all baaa’d like sheep and got on board the bandwagon. Was it sheer laziness that compelled us to simply toss our gifts on a bed of tissue, or did we want to stay on top of trends? Or was it like elections–we simply wanted change?
Just sit back with a mug of Sleepytime tea and visualize the o tannenbaum of your dreams: Does it stand proudly atop a slew of thoughtfully-wrapped red, green, silver, and gold boxes, some balanced and piled four gifts high? Or is it a one-level wasteland of crinkled Dollar Store gift bags with half-ply Charmin spilling out? I can tell you which option will grace the pages of Southern Living.
And as far as Christmas is concerned, how do we explain that Santa’s sack is full of gift bags? Certainly, the wind would catch them at some point, and they would float away into the wintry night sky. And who wants to picture Santa at his or her fireplace, daintily pulling gift bags out of his sack, preciously setting them under the prelit $300 Hobby Lobby “Douglas Fir?” Not I. I’ll take my Santa without cream and sugar, thank you.
And isn’t the part of the thrill of childhood ripping the paper to shreds? Just getting full-on Tasmanian Devil and taking out all your latent aggression from that stupid vocab test and that idiot who puts his mouth on the water fountain before you, and just tear into it like nobody’s business? Isn’t that what Christmas is all about, Charlie Brown?
But it’s not just the holidays. Have you ever celebrated a birthday party at a restaurant, and the official time for the guest of honor to open gifts has not arrived, so you’re sitting there, eating chips and salsa, drinking margarita after margarita, trying not to accidentally kick over the gift bag next to your stilettos, for fear that the innards will spill out all over the tiled floor? No need to fear with a wrapped gift. It’s spillproof.
And why should I have to spend $5 on a gift bag for a $10 gift? Yes, I’m cheap. Rare indeed is the friendship that mandates more than a $25 gift. You can see I’m not wealthy, or my site would be pimping 4×4 truck ads all up and down the margins. And P.S. does it REALLY matter to you what the gift TAG looks like? Or will it be discarded within seconds? If by chance, I have cutesie reindeer and snowman “to and from” stickers on hand, super. But if it’s not a holiday, you’re name is being written on top in Sharpie pen. Deal with it.
Furthermore, you can’t rip adhesive off a fabulous curlicue red bow and shove it on a gift bag. Some of those glue adhesives retain ever-stickable properties; you can use and reuse for up to threescore years. They look absurd on gift bags, but when centered on a wrapped gift–it’s like the porridge that Goldilocks ate. Just right. And don’t get me started on mylar pom poms…
Now if you’ve blogged long enough, you may have stumbled upon the sites of fashionistas who lose their religion over a pair of Jimmy Choos. That kind of enthusiasm is contagious. I wasn’t like that in my 20s. But wouldn’t it be awesome to go all ape$#%& over a pair of SHOES? I couldn’t dredge that up for a winning lottery ticket.
The closest I ever came to that level of irrepressable excitement was over a decade ago, on a visit to The Container Store. That’s right. It didn’t matter that the weather outside was frightful, because what I beheld was delightful–aisles (plural) of gift wrap tubes. In prints you’d never conceived of. Prints that blew my mind.
But gift bags don’t make me giddy. Now I understand their merits–when you care enough to regift the very best–if you have occasion for an enormous monkey-themed baby shower bag, or enough friends who appreciate “Feliz Cumpleanos” bags in fishing village hues. The tissue, however, cannot be recycled. Once it’s been tugged out, it’s DOA. The smoothness is gone, and it just looks trashy. Oh, I’m sure you’ve tried it. Maybe you thought you got away with it. But they knew. They knew.
I pulled this ad out of my Vanity Fair magazine and set it on the coffee table for further inspection, as it seemed curious to me on several levels. My son walked by and asked why a scorned Taylor Swift was lying near the remote and tub of coconut oil, and I explained that Miss Swift, fickle as she may be, is nothing if not ladylike–nay, princesslike–and would not be caught dead in a bedazzed jungle cat motif.
This honor goes to Karlie Kloss, the Juicy Couture model for the Fall 2012 campaign. Now when I hear Juicy Couture, for some reason, the Brit’s voice pops into my head singing in her stilted robotic voice: I’m Mrs. Lifestyles Of The Rich & Famous (You want a piece of me?) I’m Mrs. Oh-My-God, That Britney’s Shameless (You want a piece of me?). No, thank you, we do not (and apparently, neither does Jason Trawick). The point is, Juicy Couture brings to mind velour tracksuits.
So there we have a JC designer wedged between JLo and The (Green) Material Girl. Are these the best examples of juicy derrieres? One of them has an ample booty, and one of them has a boney booty, but neither of them can claim “juicy” anymore. Perhaps Madonna could suggest that her designer daughter, Lola, start a line of clothing for post-menopausal women, with a more accurate label. Something like “Wither Couture.”
To dry up or shrivel from or as if from loss of moisture.
To lose freshness; droop.
But back to Miss Kloss, the anti-withered. In fact, she’s not even legal to imbibe yet, at least not in the States. I’m no Anna Wintour, so I can’t tell you what they WANT this ad to say to the consumer. But I can tell you what a common woman between the age of Britney and Madonna sees when she looks at this ad.
Either her teeth are clenched as part of her snarly little sneer, or she better hop on over to the orthodontist tout de suite regarding that underbite.
Why is she wearing a dog collar? Those genuine diamelles look heavy and will smack her in the face the next time she bends down to adjust her stiletto.
Is this bedhead or a mousse commercial or are we supposed to think she just had sex at the seaside pavilion in the background with a former pro-surfer-turned-hobo?
That upturned eyebrow is laden with disdain. Don’t you peer at me through those nerdy girl glasses (do they even have lenses?). I think if we panned out of this shot, she’d have an empty gin bottle in her hand (minor in possession!), ready to smack us. This is all very Louisville-slugger-to-both-headlights, if you get my drift.
Why is she wearing a presumably faux fur jacket at the beach? Is she cold from detox chills?
What is up with the leopard/cheetah with palm trees sprouting out of his head? Animal cruelty alert! Just try to look into his clear blue eyes without turning away. That ferocious cat seems to understand the mysteries of the world. Or maybe he’s slowly choking to death in the deathgrip of that Charming Charlie’s choke collar. Either way, this is all reminding me of the feng shui woman yesterday who told me the best way to cure my insomnia was to rid the bedroom of animal prints, including animal print sheets (who has THOSE?) because they are too “energizing.” If Karlie did, in fact, pass out drunk on her jacket in that pavilion, the animal print seems to have done more enervating than energizing.
Animals, animals, animals! Where is Hal Linden when I need him?
And just in case you missed the animal references, here she is ON ALL FOURS in a leopard-print jumpsuit hoodie monstrosity, cavorting on the sand after she had her Gatorade to rehydrate. Who’s a happy girl now? Who’s a happy girl?
More than anything, this reminded me of my college roommate’s cat, Misery, when she was in heat, rump raised and ready to rumble. I think I’ll take my couture pulp-free this year, perhaps altogether juice-free. Lola, have you got any etchings done yet??
Let’s get this straight. King Solomon starts out on the right track. He builds a temple, he moves the ark of the convenant to it, he dedicates it. Good, good, good. Then he starts accumulating riches and signing treaties right and left, and each time he puts his John Hancock down, a lesser king gives his daughter in marriage. Badda-bing, badda-boom, Solomon’s got a piping hot, fresh, new wife. Nevermind that Moses’ law said in plain Hebrew that a king shall not “multiply wives to himself.” Solomon was multiplying wives like nobody’s business.
God already told him that his wives would lead him astray and turn his heart to false gods, and son of a gun, if the Lord wasn’t right. So how is this man wise? 1 Kings 10 tells us that “the whole world sought audience with Solomon to hear the wisdom God had put in his heart.” Yet one chapter later, it states that Solomon loved many foreign women. Hold up. First off, nobody “loves many women,” foreign or not. At least not at the same time. That is not love. Even Willie Nelson and Julio Iglesias could tell you that.
Just dealing with two lovers is hard enough. Ask Mary McGregor; she was torn between two lovers, feelin’ like a fool. Even she had the decency to know that “lovin’ you both is breakin’ all the rules.” You hear that, Solomon?
You either love Pharoah’s daughter or you don’t. If I were her, I would be all, “Don’t come in here, telling me you just married some Ammonite skank. I’m not trying to hear that. And don’t be defiling our kingdom with those nasty Edomites and Sidonians. If you so much as lay a hand on a Hittite, you’re never touching me again. I don’t care if you are a king. Israelite, please.” I would have told him to put everything he owns in a box to the left.
And then he’d be all, “Don’t hate the player; hate the game.” But the player tallied up 700 hundred wives and 300 hundred concubines. And really, what’s the difference? Wives get gold nameplates on their desks? Actually, concubines have lower social rank, which prevents them from marrying. So Pharoah’s daughter was right; it WAS slumming. But I’m sure all one thousand of them got along hunky dory. Just watch one episode of TLC’s “Sister Wives” and see how that plays out. Everyone wins with fundamentalist Mormons and polygamy!
Look how happy Ken and Barbie–I mean Kody and Meri–were back in the day. She had no idea what was coming. Although, to be honest, I can’t say that I could have resisted his Pepsodent smile myself. Three wives and seventeen children later, it hit him! “Oh, snap! This didn’t work out well for Solomon, and he was the wisest dude ever.”
God schooled Solomon in 1 Kings 11: “Since this is your attitude and you have not kept my covenant and my decrees, which I commanded you, I will most certainly tear the kingdom away from you and give it to one of your subordinates. Nevertheless, for the sake of David your father, I will not do it during your lifetime. I will tear it out of the hand of your son.” And he did.
So the lesson here is one man, one woman. Ideally, ’til death do you part. But WWMRD? I’ll tell you what Mickey Rooney would do. He would marry and divorce and marry and divorce until he racked up eight wives total (so far). Talk about a player! I realize everyone loved Andy Hardy, but this man is ONE INCH SHORTER than Dudley Moore. He must seriously have it going on. Five foot two!! And at 92, he’s bound to have shrunk. Discs degenerate, people.
God bless you, Mickey. Now let’s just do a quick run-through of the ladies you managed to get to say “yes” when you bent your knee, from most recent back to WWII (in which you served). Jan Chamberlin (m. 1978), Carolyn Hockett (m. 1969–1975), Marge Lane (m. 1966–1967), Carolyn Mitchell (m. 1958–1966), Elaine Devry (m. 1952–1958), Martha Vickers (m. 1949–1951), B. J. Baker (m. 1944–1949), Ava Gardner (m. 1942–1943). Well, at least he finally figured it out. He’s been with his current wife longer than the other seven wives combined. An old dog CAN learn new tricks.
He explained, “When I say I do,’ the Justice of the Peace replies, ‘I know, I know.’ I’m the only man in the world whose marriage license reads, ‘To Whom it May Concern.’ But to have been married eight times is not normal. That’s only halfway intelligent.” My point exactly.
At first glance–this looks like a family of five enjoying watermelon, right? That’s what I thought. But the more I look at it, it looks like enormous Vlasic pickle spears, the kind that would go swimmingly with a pastrami on rye. But that would imply they had barrels to pickle what was conceivably the largest cucumber ever grown, so I’ll assume it’s watermelon.
Being sick for a week now has made me realize that I took for granted two very dear senses: smelling and tasting, neither of which I’ve been able to do in seven days. If I’d have known that Chuy’s Combo #4 was going to be the last thing I tasted in 2012, I would have relished it more. I also realize that although the decongestants, antihistamines, zinc lozenges, Airborne powders, neti pots, steam baths, shots of Tabasco, 147 wasabi peas, and one hot rum toddy have put not a dent in this sickness, at least I have Kleenex and/or Puffs to contend with the sniffles. After blowing your nose nonstop, the skin on your nostrils begins to get raw and dry up and flake off. The only thing that could have made it more painful would have been a nose ring.
I suppose if you have a nose ring, you could take it in and out at your leisure, but my question is: why ever put it in at all? And no, earrings are not the same thing. The holes in my ears do not aid in respiration. They do not have cause to ooze with fluids, such as noses do. I have always felt that one should draw as little attention to the nose as possible. Don’t pick it in public, wipe it carefully on the DL, don’t attach things to it that reflect light and consequently may cause a stranger to think you need a handkerchief. And don’t tell me that it doesn’t hurt, like those of you who say tattoos don’t hurt. Don’t wear that like a badge of honor. It is precisely because that nasal tissue is so sensitive that rings were placed inside bull’s noses in the first place, to make them compliant and easily led when someone yanked the ring. To boot, only the bulls who are handled OFTEN require such rings. By that logic, does wearing a nose ring imply a man or woman is handled often as well? Does it imply they will be used to breed repeatedly or be displayed at livestock shows?
Every generation has its trends. You get your nose ring, so you’re part of the group, the group that rebels against conservative values. The group that allows you to display your individuality and raise your flag of noncomformity, to the extent that you all agree on what exactly the new conformity is. It’s the same idea every decade: ducktails and leather jackets in 50s greaser culture, tie-dyed shirts and long hair and bellbottoms for hippies, mohawks and punk rock. So now we’re in the nose ring phase? This is what’s edgy? Are young adults doing this more out of a desire to showcase traditions of Indian and Asian culture or because they saw Miley Cyrus wearing a nose stud?
Maybe the level of risk is what makes it cool? Just humor the fuddy-duddy, because I don’t get it. I’ve never been a fan of infection, permanent scarring, or getting my clothes caught on my facial accessories and having them yanked off in a bloody mess. It seems less about individuality and more like the exact opposite: to reveal yourself as a sheep able to follow trends and mimic celebrity. Baaaaa. All well and good then; at least it’s easily undone. Better to go through a phase without obvious permanent mutilation. Reference the booming tattoo removal industry. The lovely Megan Fox has almost entirely removed the Marilyn Monroe tat with which she so identified in her youth. Fifty/Fiddy Cent says his motive for tat removal is to encourage his acting career and prevent hours in the makeup chair. And then of course, there will always be love gone wrong. Johnny Depps disappearing his Winonas, Angelina Jolie disappearing her Billy Bobs. We have all been young and passionate and believed THIS IS THE ONE, THIS IS FOREVER, or I WILL NEVER GET TIRED OF SEEING THAT CHINESE SYMBOL ON MY CHEST (which, as it turns out, meant something entirely different). But of course we do. Nothing has that sort of staying power, unless it’s along the lines of U.S.M.C. I won’t wear those Gap jeans from 1999, so I sure as heck wouldn’t want to carry around ink from then. But again, I am not a Millenial.
Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, right? I behold nose rings as icky, plain and simple. But thank God we live in a free society, full of choices, where we can do to our skin as we like, be it permanent or temporary. Blessed are we to have many different ideas of beauty–although. let’s be frank–many women still want to look like Jennifer Aniston, even if she is in her 40s. And you don’t see her rocking a nose ring