TV – Page 3 – I Don't Get It

What Would We Do, Baby, Without Us?

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So I’m watching–yes–another episode of the FINAL (gasp!) season of What Not To Wear, while wearing a crazy cute floral skirt and blouse myself, feeling confident and yet saddened by the former Jennifer Keaton of Family Ties fame, played by Miss Tina Yothers. First off, I can easily get past her substantial weight gain; we all get old and puffy (even Renee Zellweger at times). But I cannot get past her black Goth hair. Right now, she is telling Ted, the stylist, “Once you go black…” But, in this case, that is untrue. I had black hair when I was 17 years old, but I’m not 17 anymore. You CAN go back. I realize this is a free country, and I realize this is also a rerun, so I should have gotten over it by now, but I simply cannot. There is freedom, and then there is sanity. Freedom of fashion choice does not exclude one from the NEED to dress age-appropriately. Or wear age-appropriate hair. You might look pretty cute in pigtails or a Crissy Snow side-pony, but you wouldn’t go in public like that over the age of 12.

There are only four reasons to have black hair if you are a porcelain-skinned white girl like Miss Tina:

1) You were born with it.

2) You are Katy Perry (herself a natural blonde who will probably grow it back out once she matures).

3) You are Veronica from Archie comics.

4) You are Snow White.

Now back to Tina. For one thing, she says she hasn’t tried clothes on in a dressing room in “like five or six years.” WTH? Do you know many how styles have come and gone in six years? You think six years isn’t much? Think about your cell phone six years ago. Think about your laptop and your old beige monitor. Having kids is not an excuse for giving up. Don’t be that woman in pajamas at Wal-Mart. You are better than that. It’s not about being trendy or even about vanity; it’s about being the best version of yourself.

Tina, like another guest named Teresa (“T”) whom they tackled on Season 8, has a fear of wearing dresses. I DO NOT GET THIS!! Admittedly, T had some serious issues she needed to work through, regarding mandatory Catholic school uniforms or something like that, so now T is rebelling (too old to rebel) against society and now nobody tells T to put a dress on. In fact, T often gets mistaken for a male. She wears men’s clothing, wifebeaters, and Crocs. I wonder if she goes by “T” because the name “Teresa” is not masculine enough? All I know is T has a winning smile and lots of potential. Rejoice in what you are: a woman. And cute, too boot! You don’t have to prance around like Shania Twain, declaring, “Man, I feel like a woman!” But sweet Mary and Joseph, I think feminists go so far trying to be the Anti-Barbie that they might as well grow their armpit hair out and wear a cup. You can sit in the middle of the see saw, sweetie. You don’t have to soar to the end of the spectrum. T even admitted at the end of the show, “This process has shown me you can be powerful and still be soft.” What what?

And, yes, I understand that Jane Lynch and Ellen Degeneres are never going to be out buying A-line skirts and flouncy dresses, but why is this a hurdle for straight women? If you enjoy your femininity, why do you abhor dresses? Do you feel objectified or sexualized? Dresses are actually pretty freeing, and your thighs stay well-ventilated. Shallow or not, most women want to feel attractive. They want to have a good hair day more than they would EVER want world peace, and they want their lashes to look full and not to have raccoon circles under their eyes. You can talk a good game upside down about how you want equal pay for equal work, but you know a good support bra and panties that don’t ride up rank right up there, too. Keep this mantra in mind: It’s nearing the end of the show, and Tina is wearing a coral dress and a black blazer. She just said, “I feel like a woman…It’s beautiful, and I love it!” Yes! Victory! One week under the tutelage of Clint and Stacey, and her broken brain got unbroken. They fixed it, reprogrammed it to the default setting, which is XX chromosomes=embrace your womanhood. Look, it’s 2013. We’re not cattle rustlers in the Old West, forced to wear long, hot skirts in the heat and dust. You shouldn’t have to ride sidesaddle in a skirt. I get that. You should have the right to throw some trousers and chaps on.

But guess what? We can vote now, so go ahead and wear your clamdiggers and your slimming jeans and even your yoga pants with the holes in the crotch. But don’t walk into a clothing store, having already written off half the inventory. Rock a dress or skirt every now and again. There is a balance between Amish and skank. Find it. And BTW, it’s soooo much quicker to pee if you’re in a dress. Just lift and go.

Now Tina is looking in the mirror, giddy, saying, “I can’t believe I’m wearing a scarf.” There you go–she not only conquered the dress obstacle, but cruised right on into accessorizing. And that black hair might just be growing on me… Either way, It’s a new and improved Tina. You go, girl.

Total Yodel Recall

NBC has been advertising its new summer show, The Winner Is, all week, and as much as I enjoy Nick Lachey (and am glad for him that he finally became a daddy after a decade of waiting), I cannot take time out of the second half of my life to watch this. I spent last season cheering for Blake Shelton’s team on The Voice, and frankly, I’m exhausted. I had bristled at the thought of both Usher and Shakira as judges, but they won me over, and now I’d prefer to never see li’l Cee Lo or Diva Aguilera set foot on stage again. But I digress.

One of the clips NBC continues to pimp (while I’m TRYING to get my Hoda and Kathy Lee fix–all Kristen Wiig’s fault) of the new singing competition shows yodelers. Is this a new trend? Really? I was forced to watch Heidi Klum teach Bradley Cooper to yodel on The Tonight Show a couple months ago, and I’m pretty sure she did it again on America’s Got Talent last month. And is it NEWS that Jewel can yodel? Is it news she used to sleep in her car? I thought we all got the memo on that in 1995. I don’t need to hear her yodel again, with or without snaggletooth. I admit it’s preferable to hearing any of her hits, vacillating between her awkward lower register and what I like to refer to as her higher “toddler voice.” Her goo-goo ga-ga voice. Honestly, I’m yodeled out.

I do admit I was mildly amused by Jimmy Fallon and Brad Pitt’s yodeling skit last month, but mainly because they weren’t taking themselves too seriously. For my money, that’s his best acting job since Benjamin Button.

Look, unless you’re a singing cowboy (Roy Rogers or Gene Autry R.I.P.), leave yodeling alone. It’s not like it has lyrics the rest of us can sing along with. It’s not soothing, good to dance to, or helpful during a break-up. It’s like a gussied-up hog call. Don’t do it.

Let it go the way of country singer Slim Whitman, who passed away last month at the age of 90. Never heard of him? He was quite the yodeler. Per the New York Times article, “Michael Jackson named Mr. Whitman one of his 10 favorite vocalists. George Harrison credited him as an early influence. Paul McCartney said Mr. Whitman gave him the idea of playing the guitar left-handed.” And don’t even get me started on his impressive ‘stache.

Ferrah: The Arabic Word For Joy

In a couple of days, bloggers everywhere will be posting about the fourth anniversary of Michael Jackson’s passing. Many less will mention Farrah Fawcett, who passed on the same day. Farrah, who changed the spelling of her first name from Ferrah, was a hair and fashion icon to girls of the 1970s, despite the fact that she only spent one season on Charlie’s Angels. Although her legacy does not impact the world in the way that Jackson’s does, I wanted to give her a shout out.

We can see these images in our minds: Farrah with the healthy glow, Farrah on the skateboard, Farrah in the infamous Mexican blanket swimsuit poster, too cliche for me to post. Long before The Burning Bed, the ups and downs with long-time lover Ryan O’ Neal, and the crazy stint on Letterman–the same year she turned 50 and posed in Playboy–she was a stunner. And presumably sane.

Here is mid-1970s Farrah with Wella Balsam hair, voluminous and sexy enough to rock right now in 2013.

Early 1970s Farrah flashes her Ultra Brite smile.

Even before the feathered locks, 1960s Farrah was a beauty, .

Like so many others, cancer claimed you. So rest in peace, Farrah. The world has not forgotten you.

For a glimpse of her doing her best Marilyn Monroe voice, see her “cream” Joe Namath in his Noxzema commercial:

Truck Stop Weary, Numero Quatro

Sayre, OK 1988 from Marc Wise’s “Truck Stop”

Hands down, this is the guy. This is the guy you want leaning intimately into you, inviting you to be in cahoots with him, to share the secrets he’s learned on the road.

Forgive me. I was premature in my assumption. THIS is the guy.

Yes, the one with the mutton chops, driving his Rebel Flag-decked out Bandit up to California. Is he sucking a Lemonhead? Is he dipping Skoal? He’s a man of mystery. I just feel a strong sense of… Gary Sandy surrounding him. Yes, that’s it. He must be related to Gary Sandy. You know, Andy Travis from WKRP?

Whoa. Is it hot in here? I’m feeling faint, and it’s not a touch of Johnny Fever. Believe me. Okay, time to refocus. Surely, there’s some trucker in this book who can compete with an aging sitcom star.

Um. No. That is NOT the ticket. Perhaps this young fella?

His head says Yankee, but his body says Confederacy. Who has time for a cocksure whippersnapper with an identity complex? Not me. I haven’t got time for the pain. Okay, let’s spin the wheel. Surely there’s SOMEONE.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGHHHHH! Make it stop!

So Not Feeling 22

She’s on TV right this second, dancing in her new video, singing, “I don’t know about you, but I’m feeling 22.” And that’s great because she is 22. She doesn’t seem to DATE 22, but whatevs. It’s a free country.

Now, I’m not 22, so I don’t feel remotely 22. But here’s the thing I don’t get: I don’t feel the age that I am. I feel more like quadruple 22. Like a good solid 88. What’s up with that? It’s like middle age plus interest.

Now if I were 22, I might spin around dizzily and gloat about it as well. I graduated college at 22, so yay–one dream accomplished. Has it benefited me in any way? Well, that’s another post. I own a video of me at 22, tanned and fit, doing front handsprings in a blue gingham bikini on the back lawn of a lake house. So, yeah, 22 was pretty freaking great. Nicole Brown Simpson didn’t fare so well that year, but sometimes life sucks.

Taylor starts the song with these words:

It feels like a perfect night to dress up like hipsters
And make fun of our exes, uh uh uh uh
It feels like a perfect night for breakfast at midnight
To fall in love with strangers

Yeah, not so much for me. I have some reading glasses so that I can read the size 4 font on the Advil bottle, but I don’t possess any horn rim glasses, so I’m out on the hipster thing. And exes? Exes are something you bury deep in the recesses of the past, raised like Lazarus at the sound of arena rock songs, then quickly repressed again. Highway run… And breakfast at midnight? Well, that’s a good possibility, due to a decade of insomnia. But it won’t be eggs. Gotta watch my cholesterol. Hello, shredded wheat. And mercy, girl, don’t fall in love with strangers. Keep your knees together or you’ll find TROUBLE, TROUBLE, TROUBLE.

In the chorus, she sings, Everything will be alright if we just keep dancing like we’re 22. I did a lot of dancing at 22, but it wasn’t to pop country, Miss Swift. In fact, Shania Twain hadn’t even been invented yet. Back then, they showed videos on MTV. It was a very Gin Blossoms and Warren G time in history. When Tom Petty came on the radio, singing the verse, “Oh, my my, oh, hell, yes, honey, put on that party dress,” it was a joy. Pure joy. But you can’t dance to Mary Jane’s Last Dance. There was also a hit called Mmm Mmm Mmm Mmm. No lie. That was depressing. Can’t dance to that. And then there was this weird totally instrumental song that sounded like monks or something called Return to Innocence by Enigma. Can’t even sing to that. And lastly, the omnipresent little Lisa Loeb and all her nine stories, with her cat’s eye glasses, staring into the camera, singing Stay. Poutable, but not danceable.

So forgive me if I can’t dance like I’m 22. Or 32. But I have degenerative discs now, including torn and bulging ones. So I don’t know about you, but I should probably just sit this one out. Maybe in the new plush recliner. With a glass of moscato in my hand. Yes, that sounds like a plan.

Easy Breezy Caftan Fabulous!

This ad arrived in my mail today, in the stack with Pizza Hut and Ken’s Dressing coupons.

The model is pretty, but the throw rug in which she carved a neck hole is not. Here, you can see that the MSRP was $29.90 (oh, that’s ANOTHER thing I don’t get; why they can’t just list it as $30, like we’re going to dance a giddy jig for the dime saved!), but now it’s HALF PRICE! For only $14.95, you, too, can look like Mrs. Roper from Three’s Company.

Honestly, Stanley’s outfit is the nicest one in that pic. He could pass that one off today. The abdominal area of Crissy’s UPS jumpsuit is creating a curious diamond effect, like one of those God’s eyes we used to craft in summer camp. What you might not know is that Mrs. Roper’s caftan is constructed from the same material used to make Magic Eye 3-D pictures.

Caftans look like nightgowns. They’re hiding something, and not a delightful surprise. Something post-menopausal. Something in a hazy shade of winter.

This looks like the precursor to Snuggies; it’s enveloping the both of them.

So, anyway, I went online to the http://www.fourcorners.com website, and discovered that this lovely safari caftan, modeled by Amy Poehler, is marked down even FURTHER, to $3.95. Well, bust my buttons! For the price of an order of cheese sticks, I can score “an elegant, figure-flattering” piece of silk-like material. Four dollars isn’t even the tax you paid on your last dress.

One of the selling points beside this ad says “So versatile around the house and yard!” Really? Is that appropriate to wear to go check the mail? To walk Timmy to the bus stop for school? To do some hedge-trimming?

It also says, “Perfect for lounging or entertaining at home – even pretty enough for candlelight dinners!” I don’t know about you, but my entertaining does not involve caftans. Let’s invite all the neighbors to investigate what’s underneath this tent of a dress–lions, and tigers and bears. Oh, my–that’s not a bear!

And lest you think you can do better than four smackeroos, let me clue you in on something. This here “double-ruffle MuuMuu” costs a whopping $58.00. But Imelda Marcos is loaded, so she can afford it.

I know, I know, a MuuMuu is for a cow-cow, but this woman (not really Imelda) is (probably) not overweight. Granted, it might look better draping a window or serving as a bed skirt, but let’s not overlook the fact that the neckline is elasticized, for nights when she’s feeling sassy and wants to wear it off the shoulder. But please don’t do that, because either your bra straps will show (and we all know strapless bras are a joke), or you’ll be unsupported , and neither is acceptable. Not even in the land of luaus and lava.

Crouching Cody, Hidden Dragon

“Another day on the river brings another opportunity for rescue.”

Well, it’s tit for tat night, and since the hub had to endure the Grammy Red Carpet on Sunday, I am gamely watching my second hour of Discovery Channel’s Dual Survivor. Crouching Cody is present and accounted for, but his former partner, Dave Canterbury, has vanished (due to an embellished resume), replaced with special ops Joe Teti, a younger model. Joe’s beard has less grey than Dave’s, and he wears a ball cap while Cody dons his same old purple do rag. From my perspective, Joe is the boy, and Cody is the girl.

I don’t care about survival or knives or knots. All I see is the patriot and the hippie. Joe is a bit of an eager beaver. He needs to pace himself. He also drank his urine twice in a row, and that’s a no-no. Cody builds the fires. Actually, Joe built a fire tonight with a battery and a gum wrapper on his second try. Yay, Joe! But it was Cody who pointed out that they couldn’t sleep in a baobob tree due to risk of contracting the bubonic plague. Duh, Joe.

If it were me, lost in the wilderness, I would just lay down and die and wait to float up to heaven. I’ve got nothing to prove. Let that hippo trample me. But if I had to be dually surviving with one of those guys, Joe seems the obvious choice. Cody rubs me the wrong way. It’s not just his Sequoia-sized thighs. Even his voice irritates me. And he looks like a steroided lesbian bodybuilder who you only have to look at to know her voice is crazy low. And what is up with all this squatting??

I can think of a handful of men with whom I’d rather be bludgeoned to death than stuck on a desert island: Kevin Smith, Quentin Tarantino, and Michael Moore, for starters. And Cody is not nearly repulsive enough to join the ranks of that trio. Not even close. It’s just a certain je ne sais quoi. I can’t put my finger on it.

Now I know full well that shoeless Cody could provide for me. I’m not against collecting rainwater and composting waste. He’s certainly proven he’s got skills. I imagine those bare feet can tread lightly and those butch arms can carry a big whittled stick. And, really, it should be kind of a turn-on to see him construct a bamboo spear to provide us with a fresh fish dinner, but then again, he’s wearing a handkerchief on his head, and tossing his long braids about. And don’t get me started on his Daisy Dukes.

Tonight I looked at Cody’s left hand and noted there wasn’t a ring. It must be hard to court a woman and start a family when you live off the grid, far from shopping centers and coffee shops.

Truth be told, I’d rather be stuck on that island with Myke Hawke (don’t say that one too quickly) of Discovery Channel’s defunct Man, Woman, Wild. Now that might be worth surviving.

pic courtesy of fellow blogger at protrailtools.wordpress.com

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.

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