Humor – Page 104 – I Don't Get It

Advertising Icon Transformation

courtesy of http://www.RedesignRevolution.com

I know, right? You’re already uncomfortable.

I love makeovers. LOVE them. And even though I love food, the makeovers are my favorite part of Rachael Ray’s show. And even though I love me some kooky, tipsy Kathy Lee and Hoda banter, my favorite part of Today is the ambush makeover. And don’t get me started on Clinton and Stacey spiffing stylistically-challenged folks up in straight leg, dark rinse trousers that elongate them.

So I understand the irresistible lure to fix the ugly and the outdated to market a product (although, apparently auto companies have not quite grasped that idea, and have actually gone in reverse for the past forty years, producing uglier, blander models, but that’s neither here nor there.) Successful advertising often requires changing with the times, and–in the case of the Quaker Oats Company–the need to stop offending particular groups. On her 100th anniversary, syrup icon Aunt Jemima received her latest makeover. I totally get the desire (read: pressure) to update her image, but do all transformations have to include a younger, thinner version?

Truth be told, I’m not digging this current Jemima. I’m not feeling the nurturing. Those pearl earrings are more for the boardroom than the kitchen. I’m not saying you need a do rag to cook, but I do have concerns that stray hairs from her more polished coif may find themselves in my pancake batter. And I just feel like if I asked her to whip me up some flapjacks, she might not be so keen on it. And before you call me racist, just know that the original Aunt Jemima, Nancy Green, actually was born into slavery in 1834, so the look was indicative of the time, like it or not. I imagine she did have the last laugh (all the way to the bank). Now onto a W.A.S.P.ier icon…

Unlike the changing Jemima faces, who–let’s remember were all paid to represent her–Betty Crocker was never a real person. Her name and face were contrived to appeal to homemakers. Well, I’m a homemaker, and I’m not down with any of these Betties. Talk about a lack of nurturing. The portraits all look so sterile. These faces don’t say yummy walnut brownies to me; they say news anchor or banker wife (or “no wire hangers!”). And I’m almost certain one of them is a Baxter-Birney. Next!

I think we can all agree the 2006 Sun Maid Raisin girl makeover was an epic failure. I prefer the happy Gilda Radner to this creepy CGI no-indentation-in-her-upper-lip-Julia-Roberts-smile Little Red Riding Hood. The cheerful immigrant girl was clearly up at the crack of dawn to pick grapes, but I doubt the “new and improved” Raisin Barbie would have stumbled home yet. And something about her armpit bothers me. And finally…

courtesy of www.businessinsider.com — courtesy of http://www.businessinsider.com

In retrospect, maybe the 70s Brawny dude does look like he did a little porn on the side, but at least he looks like a real guy. Depending on your age (white people) you either have an uncle or a brother who looked like this guy. And he probably had a name that rhymed with “hairy” to match: a good, solid era-specific name like Gary, Larry, or Barry. He changed the oil on his Camaro himself (while listening to his Boston eight-track), he drank beer out of cans–not bottles–and gave no thought to wine pairings and manscaping. This is the guy I want representing the durability and strength of my paper towel. This guy knows how to clean up a mess.

But the new effete guy? The one in the red plaid shirt that he just picked up from the dry cleaners? What’s his name? Perhaps it rhymes with “Aiden,” as in Brayden, Caden, or Jaden. How is he going to clean up spilled milk and vodka vomit if he just had his mani-pedi done? A Brawny guy should not know what exfoliating is, but Caden does. Honestly, I think fem queens will dig either one, depending on their preference for bears or not, and I’m certain the wording of “Pick A Size” beneath the blonder Tom Selleck is not lost on them. But speaking as a straight woman with an opinion, I say: If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.

Toss Up

The Not So Wonderful Wonder Bread

Browsing the dairy aisle today, I noticed the neon yellow tub of I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter! (yes, it has an exclamation point, as if Elaine Benes from Seinfeld had designed it). Not butter, you say? Really? Did you know they also sell Could it be Butter? (is that a rhetorical question?), as well as the not-so-grammatically correct Taste Like Butter, and You’d Think IT’S Butter! (again, the exclamation point for emphasis). Where is the label that says “I Don’t Believe For A Second It’s Butter”? I’d slap that right over each tub of Smart Balance or Country Crock (aptly named) or Parkay (mmm, mmm, vegetable oil spread). Reminds me of that Reddi Whip ad on tv where the waitress asks the customer if she prefers whipped cream or oil. Wouldn’t we all pick cream?

What does taste like butter is Land O’ Lakes. Because it is butter. I reach for the yellow and red rectangles at the store, and I like the little kneeling Indian woman on it, P.C. or not, just like I like Aunt Jemima and I like Uncle Ben, who BTW was a real man. And yes, sometimes, I bust out singing the chorus to “Kaw-Liga” as I toss it in my cart. I don’t care if it’s high in saturated fats and leads to heart disease because I love it. We accept the universal truth that things that taste good are usually bad for us.

Except in the case of white bread. White bread is processed and flavorless and nasty, basically without merit. Growing up, the choices at restaurants were always, “white, wheat or rye,” and I would choose wheat or rye because white is devoid of joy. It’s not that it’s associated with bologna sandwiches and demographics that include Honey Boo Boo, and it’s not the snobbery of growing up in a Whole Foods culture; it’s just that it’s patently gross. And it has the added bonus of high starch that converts into sugar and bang–you’re Paula Deen with diabetes. And you didn’t even get any fiber to make you regular.

Every Sunday after church, we go out for barbeque. The cashier totals up the bill and then raises a loaf of white bread and asks how much we want. We get two slices per person, so that we can each construct a little brisket sandwich with pickles, onions, and barbeque sauce. There is no choice, not even in Whole Grain Hippietown. It’s white or nothing. And though I wish wish wish they would offer another option, I realize that would drive the price up, and I respect the right of the small businessman to make his own choices. And granted, they are not chintzy with the bread. I imagine if you requested an entire loaf, they’d throw it in the basket, but who on earth would? That’s what I don’t get.

As I bite into my brisket sandwich, the first thing that happens is the white bread comes into contact with saliva and immediately converts into a gummy paste that sticks to the top of my mouth. By the time my tongue has succeeded in prying it off, it is too tired to chew. I have to give my tongue a rest and sip iced tea for a solid minute, while my insulin levels spike and I try to avoid a coma.

Do people who like white bread only like it out of nostalgia, because they pledged allegiance to it in their childhood? Is it a comfortable memory, associated with pimento cheese sandwiches and mayonnaise? I’m not convinced it’s purely social strata. Maybe people who enjoy white bread are the same people who order cheese pizza with no toppings, or hamburgers, just meat and bun. People who insist on no variety, no spice of life. Now, look, it’s different if you have some sort of allergy that prevents you from eating wheat. But I’m talking in a world of pure freedom of choice, a world that offers rosemary sourdough and Jewish rye –why pick white?

Gee Your Hair Smells Terrific But For The Love Of All That Is Holy, Stop Touching It

I watch a lot of late night television. A lot. At the time it actually comes on. Late. I don’t record it or DVR it or whatever else people do these days. I simply know when shows come on, and then I sit in front of the television at that time and watch them. If I were too busy to do that, I would have to reassess my life. Many times, when Leno or Kimmel are on commercial, we turn the channel to Letterman, and my husband asks for the umpteenth time why he is still on the air. My hub has no memory of Dave’s heydey decades ago; all he sees is the crochety beige shell of a host who lost his humor and his sass well before the Towers fell. He’s like that cantankerous old ventriloquist dummy, Walter. Sometimes we think, “This will be the night that the Top Ten is actually funny.” But it never is. Never. I tell him I’m pretty sure they did a really funny list in 1993, but then I remember even Conan was funnier than Dave that year. Crap, that was twenty years ago. TWENTY. One score. Yeesh.

Nonetheless, Dave, Jay, Craig, Conan, and the two Jimmies have one thing in common: guests. They share the same guests. We see the same actors in different suits, night after night, promoting the same movie with the same clip and the same set-up that gets really old. But even this pales in comparison to what really gets my goat. And a week never goes by without it happening. Sometimes it happens twice in one night. And it’s never the actors, only the actresses. And no, it’s not their ridiculously short dresses that they intermittently tug down, as though they had NO IDEA how it would register on camera, as though a stylist strapped them down in a chair and dressed them against their will, never explaining how fabric bends when one moves from standing to sitting, or worse–some madman appeared just before they went on stage and hacked six inches off their dress with a cleaver. The nerve!

But that’s not it. What chaps my hide is how often they touch their hair. I don’t mean once or twice. I mean every couple of seconds. Inhale, touch hair, exhale, be normal. Inhale, touch hair, exhale, sit still like a composed human being. And they try to play it off as though they weren’t doing it. Jay Leno will say a witty retort, and they will laugh nervously, and bang! There goes the hand up to the face. Half the time, their hair isn’t even IN their face to begin with. They just want to touch it, like they’re Kelly LeBrock and they just started using Pantene, and they can’t believe how touchable it is. It is so annoying. Sometimes they will take the same strand of hair and attempt to pull it back behind their right ear, but it’s just a TOUCH too short, and so it immediately falls forward, and yet they spend the entire segment, fiddling with it, yanking and falling, yanking and falling. Katie Holmes is the worst! And no, it doesn’t make you look cute and sweet and humble, and aw, shucks. It makes me wonder 1) why are you so damn insecure if you are a famous Hollywood actress millionaire or 2) you need to upgrade your Hold Control on your hairspray. Can I suggest TRESemme (ooh la la) extreme hold? That’s like five dollars at Walgreen’s, and that crap’s not moving. Not in a tsunami.

I’m not talking about hair twirling. It’s not just a casual, playful thing. It’s moving it back, moving it out of the face, pushing it away, over and over and over and over again. Mila Kunis. Demi Moore. It’s not sexy. It’s distracting. Don’t their publicists tell them to ix-nay the hair-touching after so many repeat offenses? Look, if you simply cannot control yourself, perhaps you should do what Scarlett Johansson so often does. Wear an updo with nary a tendril in sight. Pulled completely off the face. Then there’s nowhere to hide. And isn’t that the point? Aren’t talk shows for shameless self-promotion? If you still can’t fight the fixation, then just grab the water mug and sip. Some people do that a lot. Just don’t take it to extremes. Maybe you could tug on your earlobe like some hyperactive Carol Burnet. Bring that one back into vogue. Or rub that chin hair nub back and forth, the one you plucked three nights ago. Or–and this is crazy–you could simply fold your hands in your lap and act like a lady–and I can’t believe I’m saying this–like Britney Spears did on Kimmel last September. She kept her hands in her lap and off her face. She did have the world’s shortest oufit on, though. And she was all stiff, like maybe she needed to pee. But her hair looked fabulous, all Barbarella and sexpot. And she barely touched it at all. Go, Britney!

Melony Goodness

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.

Nose Rings

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

Generation Medication

My grandfather grew up during the Great Depression, and he fought in World War II. As of this moment, he is alive and lucid and self-sufficient and, per Tom Brokaw, a member of the “greatest generation any society has produced.” Mad props to Granddad. Since then, lesser generations have spawned the title of Baby Boomers, as well as Generations X, Y, and Z. But what comes after Z? Look, I’m no Tony Danza or Bruce Sprinsteen, but if I were the Boss, I would suggest this: Generation Medication.

Here’s the part where I’m supposed to fill you up with staggering statistics of how sales and consumption of prescription meds have increased exponentially over the past several decades, but you evidently have access to the internet, so you can do that yourself. But just to humor you, here goes: Back when flannel shirts and Nirvana were en vogue, 9 million prescriptions were written for anti-depressants alone. By 2009, more than 39 million were written. In 2000, pharmaceutical companies spent $2.5 billion on advertisements, and by 2003, it had increased to over $3 billion. That’s half a billion in three years, if I did my math right.

But you don’t need these statistics. You have friends whose kids are doped up due to ADD. Your parents might be struggling to afford all their meds, even generic ones. And heaven knows there are a handful of people at your job who are flat out crazy. You may thank God that they ARE medicated. You’ve overheard their phonecalls. And each of us knows someone who’s tried Viagra or Cialis. The point is, most of us are medicated. Even now I’m on a “severe cough and cold medicine,” and two hours into it, it has failed to relieve any symptoms. Granted, it’s not prescription strength.

I admit I have never been a fan of medication. Never even liked taking Advil or Tylenol, even when high school cramps clean laid me out, propped against the cool tile of a bathroom stall, begging sweet Jesus to take me, please take me. But when insomnia came knocking at my door several years ago, everything changed. Desperate for remedy, I discovered that doctors LOVE doling out meds, as well as mousepad and pen freebies, to make you feel that much more special. And when I called to tell them that the medicine, days later, had still failed to put me to sleep, they never apologized. They simply phoned in another med to try, at another $45 or $60 co-pay, depending on how desirable and recently released the med was.

I spent hours reading the drug information sheets, becoming well-acquainted with their side effects, many of which contradicted each other, like constipation AND diarrhea. And almost all the side effects included death. Really? Isn’t death enough of a deterrent for anyone to opt against a drug? In addition, I began to discover that many of the drugs I took weren’t even intended to cure insomnia; that was just a common side effect. I became so familiar with these drugs that when I discovered a blue drug rep pen on stage at church during last week’s band practice, I couldn’t help but yell out, “Whose Seroquel pen is this? Which one of you bipolar schizophrenic freaks is on Seroquel?”

After a year of dozens of medications, including Lunesta, which offered an aftertaste kin to fresh acidic wretch, and Ambien, which actually gave me six hours of sleep for a few weeks, but with the added bonus of vise grip headaches, I officially gave up on western medicine. And all of the doctors and pharmacists who lied to me. But I am in the minority. Drugs are so prevalent, so commonplace, that I think I can safely assume that the new generation will be entirely medicated. Maybe they will name their kids Zocor and Zestril to make a little side cash. Farfetched, you say? Remember those kids in the U.K. who sold their space face to advertisers to pay off their student loan debt?

I am reminded of all the tobacco ads I used to see in print. In my teens, there was an ad for Newport cigarettes that portrayed two men carrying a pole, with a woman hanging upsidedown from it, one arm dangling down to the ground (read into that what you will). The intention, I suppose–like all Newport ads–was to show friends and lovers (almost always young and vibrant) “alive with pleasure.” I’ve done a lot of things in my life, but it has never even occurred to me to catch a free ride on a pole being schlepped by two buddies, especially since I know the intense pain of bulging discs that could cause. But at some point in my adult life, cigarette ads disappeared from magazines.

There was a lull. And then suddenly, out of nowhere, prescription drug ads appeared, or DTC (Direct-To-Consumer) ads, intended to appeal directly to patients, rather than doctors. All we had to do was fall prey to the ad with the lady spinning on a hilltop of flowers, mention the name to our doctor, and the bottle was in our hands faster than you can say, “Why didn’t I buy stock in Walgreen’s twenty years ago?” It was great for drugstores, great for doctors who declined to educate themselves, choosing instead to memorize and spout off the pharmaceutical company literature, and seemingly great for the consumer, because we got to self-diagnose and self-medicate, and frankly, alcohol hasn’t been doing the trick. I admit it’s easy to get caught up in it: The actors singing “CELEBRATE! CELEBREX!” are enough to make anyone wish he had arthritis.

Pick up any magazine, from Bon Appetit to The Family Handyman, and you will be barraged with DTC ads. And not just one page ads, like the cigarettes used to be. No, thanks to the good people at Pfizer, these are three and four page ads. And who doesn’t want their magazine full of filler trash? Who wouldn’t want to spend an afternoon reading about NSAIDS and Botox? Frankly, I wouldn’t be surprised to open up a new Bible and find Humira ads tucked between Galatians and Ephesians–for when a miracle just isn’t enough.

But as for me and my home, we will steer our kids away from medications that address the symptoms, but rarely the cause. I want my kids to know emotions are natural, depression is natural, pain is natural. Does it suck? Yes. But the answer isn’t always pills. Don’t get me wrong; drugs are not innately evil. Drug companies, perhaps, but not drugs. I know a little girl who is alive today due to the grace of God and the miracle of modern medicine. Her medicines don’t clutter the pages of my Marie Claire. The issue here is so many medicines being overprescribed, unnecessary, and ill-researched. And what about user error? Check out the stats on prescription drug-related suicides and accidental overdoses. Now that’s a bitter pill to swallow.

Guy Fieri and Odium Ova

The truth is, I couldn’t find a word meaning hatred of eggs.

This post is not to slam the Captain of Flavor Town (the media has done that enough lately), his spiky bleached highlights, or his two different shirt styles (the Charlie Sheen character on 2 1/2 Men, which is essentially the Kramer shirt from Seinfeld–or the one with flames that always makes me want to launch into a rendition of “Greased Lightning.”) I genuinely enjoy the show, and I don’t want Food Network to “disappear it” the way they did Throwdown with Bobby Flay. At the end of each show, Bobby would inquire, “Ask yourself this? Are you ready for a throwdown?” I speak for many American women, when I answer affirmatively. Yes, Bobby. Yes, we are.

Sorry, back to Guy. My concern is that a purported connoisseur of diners, one-third of the show’s title on Triple D, should love eggs. Not even just LIKE eggs, but love eggs. Incredible, edible eggs are what make or break a diner. How can one so vocal of his abhorrence of them possibly assess the merits of any establishment whose reputation rests on its ability to prepare eggs?

egg tomato.gif

Does he have a right to detest eggs? Absolutely. Everyone out there loathes something. I’m not keen on ketchup-swathed meatloaf or plastic-y processed Kraft Singles. And I imagine there exists a Gentile somewhere who doesn’t like bacon, perish the thought. I suppose my beef with Guy is that eggs are so versatile. I get it if you don’t like sunny side up, if you don’t want a runny yolk hardening up in seconds on your plate. And I accept that egg dishes cool down very quickly, so you’ve got to shake a tailfeather if you’re going to consume them, and not dawdle about. But there are so many options, so much variety to choose from. It’s the first question your waitress asks. “How do you like your eggs?” Scrambled, hardboiled, poached, over easy, over hard. Oh, what about eggs in a nest? Where you put the egg inside the toast? I’ve seen this done with a heartshaped egg inside the bread. Just precious.

Maybe I didn’t grow up in Flavor Town, but I did grow up in Austin, aka Brunch City, USA. Every weekend, we ate brunch. It was a given. We never tolerated a restaurant waiting list (we’d stomp right back to the Nissan Sentra and go elsewhere), unless it was for The Omelettry. It was worth the wait, worth the smell of patchouli wafting off aging hippies reading The Chronicle under ball moss-infested oak trees, worth the teensy graffiti-riddled bathroom with Jenny’s number on the stall. A broccoli sour cream omelette with gingerbread pancakes! Or maybe migas? Scrambled eggs with onions, tomatoes, cilantro, jalapenos, cheese, and tortilla strips, with a side of black beans and home fries. THAT is what’s really money, Guy! Eggs.

Nevermind how protein-packed eggs are or however high in cholesterol, and ignore the superiority of free-range chickens; it’s about TASTE. Why would anyone’s tastebuds say no to eggs? Even my eyes love eggs. I’ve actually ripped a page out of Martha Stewart Living just because the photograph of deviled eggs was so simplisticly beautiful: just smooth scooped-out egg white filled with gorgeous pilloy yolk, sprinkled with paprika. Sigh. Even my April 2011 Food Network Magazine has a two page spread of “All-Star Deviled Eggs,” with recipes from a dozen notable chefs. Guess who’s not represented? Go figure.

Nonetheless, Guy has a standing invitation to my home for brunch. He can fuel up on bacon, biscuits, and hash browns, and wash it down with freshly-ground coffee. And when I try to entice him with a plate of delicious Tex-Mex migas and he politely declines, I won’t be offended. Flabbergasted, but not offended.

Egg Nog

It’s only December 29, four days after Christmas. Our tree is still up, the lights on our house are still blinking. But the grocery store today posted this sign on a refrigerated shelf: “Sorry–no more egg nog. It’s out of season.” How long was the season? Did it end at midnight Christmas day? I realize that the demand for eggnog gradually increases throughout the holiday season, but surely they could stock it up to New Year’s Eve? This graph from www.slate.com shows sales clearly decreasing, yet still existent.

What if Ted Danson, Jude Law, or Mary Tyler Moore wanted to celebrate their birthdays today with some egg nog and brandy? This is America, after all. That shouldn’t be too much too ask. What is wrong with a little residual Christmas spirit? We showed up at Hobby Lobby on the morning of the 26th, just HOURS after Christmas had ended, and employees were frantically tossing reindeer and snowmen aside to make way for red sequined hearts for Valentine’s Day. Valentine’s Day! That’s not until the month after next. And don’t get me started on how insignificant THAT holiday is. The pressure to effectively yet forcibly express your love through Russell Stover boxed chocolates. I’d rather drink egg nog.

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