Manatee Insanity

Target should not have to apologize for stocking a plus-sized dress in “manatee grey.”  If you get offended by that, you need to toughen up.  Manatees ARE a greyish hue.   Target has every right to label it what they will.  People get pissy about the craziest things.  I’m sure their intention was not to make plus-sized ladies feel like manatees, but guess what?  If you’re in the “Women’s” section, and not “Misses,” then you ARE fat.  So am I.  Nobody has a cow when they call it “cow print” skirt.  Suck it up, fatties.  I do.

What Target should be apologizing for is not playing music in their stores, for making what was once a pleasurable shopping experience more like a visit to a ghost town or a cemetery.  That’s what Target should fix.  Turn the music on.  And here’s another bone of contention: stop selling Starbucks coffee next to the watches and scarves. Yeah, their coffee is okay, but it’s not $4 okay. It’s about $2 okay. So how they’ve got the country fooled into dropping its disposable income into their cash registers is beyond me. Especially in a recession. I don’t get it.  Trade it out for a Dunkin Donuts.  At least you won’t feel raped when you leave the big red dot.

I buy my own coffee beans at the grocery store for $8.99/pound, grind it fresh in the morning, and it lasts over a week. It smells good, it tastes good, and it’s worth the price. But in the name of discipline, I’m trying to cut back, drinking more Sleepytime hot tea with honey, and less coffee with peppermint mocha creamer.  I’ve got a nice big mug; small mugs don’t do it for me. The problem is it’s covered with snowmen. Cute, but not appropriate for springtime. So for Mother’s Day, I think I’d like this:


And so what if it looks like me in a jacuzzi?  Sometimes I do resemble a sea cow.  So does most of the country.  Get over it.


Manly Mane O’ Glory

Three months into blogging, clearly there is plenty that I don’t get.  My inability to grasp things may allow endless blogging fodder for years to come.  Here’s one such item: The site has existed since I was in my TWENTIES.  It was a hoot back then, if for nothing more than the sheer volume of men who actually did resemble Kenny Rogers.  Please tell me how this site can remain up for soooo long, and yet there is no site yet devoted to Barry Gibb’s glorious lionesque mane?

If you don’t know who Barry Gibb is, I forgive you.  I do resent, however, having to explain that he was the eldest of the three Brothers Gibb, which consisted of his twin brothers, Robin & Maurice, now both deceased.  They peaked with the disco soundtrack of Saturday Night Fever, gracing the cover in tight white suits.  Say what you will about disco (R.I.P.), but they sold a crapload of records, over 220 million. That’s more books than any of us can hope to publish.  Combined.  And they wrote all their own songs, as well as hits by other artists, including “Grease” and “Islands In The Stream.”  No kidding.

But it’s not their tight three part harmonies that deserve a website; it’s the tresses of the elder brother.  Barry’s hair was glorious from the get-go.  Even in the late 60s, he was rocking Elvis sideburns with style (and a white suit).

Like Samson and his strength, so, too, was Barry’s sexiness connected to his lovely locks.   Here he is all Farrah Fawcett, minus the Mexican blanket.

Is it any wonder children purchased these lunchboxes in droves?

Note the halo effect, as though he were the archangel Barry.  Perhaps that’s just the heat generated from his Saturday Night Fever.

And just when you thought he couldn’t feather it anymore–BAM!–superultrafeathered. In combination with the brooding bedtime eyes, gold chain, and chest hair, you can almost imagine the puddles of testosterone seeping out of his pores.

And this?  This is how Grizzly Adams saw himself in dreams.

Here we see the Bee Gees with younger brother, Andy, a solo artist in his own right, also deceased.  Even with Andy’s good looks, his hair was still no match for the wild and woolly Barry Gibb.  You can see it in Barry’s stance; he knows he is the alpha Gibb.

You know, this pic has got me wondering–if men receive their hair pattern gene from their maternal grandfather, how could one brother be bald and one brother be blessed with a thickness and volume of crown otherwise unknown to man?  Don’t they all have the same maternal grandfather?  I am vexed.

Time has thinned his mane and turned it silver, but a trace of its glory exists.  Not enough for me to add it to this fine collection of pictures, but you get the point.  You had a good run, Barry.  Longer than most of us could ever dream of.  And that’s no Jive Talkin’.

Smells Like Orville Redenbacher

At one of our favorite Mexican restaurants, the bathroom soap leaves something to be desired.  Each time I wash my hands before eating, the smell emanating from my fingers makes me not want to reach for the chips and salsa.  It’s like I need another soap to wash the smell of that one off.   I have never understood this concept.  Why would any eatery offer a soap that smells to high heaven, that reeks of Texaco restroom (which is the scent of cherry poop), that does everything to quell one’s hunger at a restaurant?  Isn’t the point to increase one’s appetite?  To that end, I have discovered this today.  I think this would do well to increase the sales of not only appetizers, but buttered popcorn Jelly Bellies at the Walgreen’s down the road, once one departs said restaurant.

If I’d just scrubbed with that, I’d be sniffing my knuckles right and left.  While we’re on the topic, I’ll share this trivia tidbit: El Senor Redenbacher died in his condo jacuzzi, after suffering a heart attack and subsequently drowning.  Did you know that?

So maybe popcorn’s not your bag, baby.  Perhaps you don’t want to smell like a cinema lobby.  Well, sophisticated gentleman, this might be for you.

Mmmm.  Forget Axe For Men; let me smell some merlot on his palms.  And BTW, I hate the UB40 song Red Red Wine.  I just feel like I need to put that out there, so that you know this pic is in no way an endorsement for such a wretched song, but more an endorsement of alcoholism.

And remember, The Mayo Clinic advises you to rub your hands vigorously for at least 20 seconds while washing, no matter how long the line of impatient patrons standing behind you.  If we all work together, we can fight germs and bacteria.

So You Think You Want A Boob Job?

tori spelling

What ARE those?  Isn’t Tori Spelling a millionaire several times over?  Can’t she afford a nice rack?  What was wrong with her old one?

And Victoria Beckham, it’s bad enough that your smile’s been broken for twenty years, but what sort of atrocity is this?  You look like the rough draft of Madame Tussaud’s wax version of Kate Gosling.

I mean, don’t these women have access to the BEST of the BEST?  What kind of botched job would I wind up with, if THEIR doctors are the best in their field?

Really, Jewel?  That’s not very bohemian and down to earth of you.  I thought you lived on a ranch with your cowboy husband; you don’t have to subscribe to the L.A. ideal.  Honestly.

Super Hero Hype & Celebrity Gossipshow

Super Hero Hype & Celebrity Gossipshow

Oh, Tara Reid.  I have no words.

My advice to starlets: don’t do it.  But if you must, you must increase your bust, go small, like Cameron Diaz.

You’ll thank yourself when you’re 55.

Tranny Shoes: A Likely Story

I did some more investigating about Einstein (to go with today’s earlier post), and discovered this site,, where Ron Rothman explains, “Some of you might be aware of the relationship between the great scientist, Albert Einstein and my grandfather, David Rothman…Some of you are aware of their initial meeting and how Einstein came into the store looking for ‘Sundials,’ in his thick German accent really asking for sandals. My Grandfather mistook his asking for sundials and took him out to the back yard to show him the only sundial he had, his. Upon realizing his mistake, they proceeded to go back to the store where Einstein bought a pair of sandals that my grandfather had on the shelf…

“As Einstein came in asking for the shoes and after the misunderstanding about what he wanted, he was taken into the store to find that the only pair left which would fit was a woman’s size 11. Between the combination of Einstein’s embarrassment about the sundial incident and my Grandfather’s enthusiasm to make a sale to the great scientist, Einstein bought these beach shoes with grace.”

Fine.  Whatever.  But how do you explain him reclining in these (do my eyes deceive me?) stilettos?

And, P.S. Einstein, you do not look remotely like Burt Reynolds did in the Cosmo centerfold.


Sitting Pretty

Hey, Einstein, why are you wearing ladies’ sandals?  It’s the theory of RELATIVITY, not femininity.

And what about Marion Morrison, the butchest guy of all time?  The virtual paragon of manhood?  What is this get-up?  No, I won’t mess with The Duke.  After all, he said, “I don’t have to assert my virility. I think my career has shown that I’m not exactly a pantywaist.”

Okay, you two, you can keep your man cards.  But it takes a REAL man to sit patiently through this.

I hope he had a steady hand…