For the two years that I ran winter track in high school, our coach always warned us: "Laaaaaaaadies. Watch out for black ice. It'll get ya." We'd be out running in a group through the neighborhoods and someone would go down, a victim of black ice. I had a couple run-ins with black ice myself and knew our coach was right. Black ice was, and remains, treacherous.
There are many kinds of ice that instill in me a healthy fear: falling ice, cheesy ice breakers, Smirnoff ice, but I thought that black ice was the most fearsome of all. That was until recently, when walking home from work, I almost stumbled upon the most repugnant form of ice I've ever encountered and realized the unique possibility of an entirely new, entirely dreadful type of ice.
What's worse than black ice? Brown ice. What is brown ice? Definition time:
brown ice /braʊn aɪs/ n: frozen dog diahhrea
The poop I encountered looked like the pooch had a bad run-in with a Recker's Buffalo Chicken pizza and if you don't get that reference, consider yourself lucky. I haven't encountered any other patches of brown ice but the mere knowledge of its existence has me scared. I know how terrible it feels to step in dog poop while walking around the city. I also know how terrible it feels to slip and fall on black ice. I shudder to think of the pain and humiliation that would accompany slipping and falling on a patch of icy dog shit.
So, dear readers, beware of the dog on your block with digestive issues. I don't want that bitch, in all senses of the word, to have you slipping on brown ice this winter.
You're welcome.
Friday, December 17, 2010
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
Birds do it, bees do it.
Even educated fleas do it. Let's do it, let's do: God's work.
These days, it’s seems that there are a lot of people out there claiming to be doing “God’s work.”
In a speech at Fortune Magazine’s Most Powerful Women conference, famed financier Warren Buffett compared Wall Street to a church, stating that Wall Street “does a lot of good things and then it has this casino… It’s like a church that’s running raffles on the weekend.” While I heartily agree that Wall Street and those on it do a lot of good work, I hesitate to compare their operation to a church. I’d compare it more to chain restaurant, like the Olive Garden. On the surface, the Olive Garden provides a useful service, and all the breadsticks you can eat, to millions of customers. But if you dig a little deeper, you wonder who benefits the most from the Olive Garden: the millions of Americans who eat 10,000 extra calories worth of breadsticks in an outing and who have come to mistake the Olive Garden for fine Italian dining? Or the owners of the Olive Garden franchise?
Lloyd Blankfein, CEO of Goldman Sachs, went further in an article that appeared in The Times of London in 2009, claiming, perhaps facetiously, that at Goldman Sachs he was doing “God's work.” Whether said in jest or not, the mere mention of “God's work” from guy who raked in $53.4 million in 2006 alone seems a little over the top.
Other notable figures who claim to do or to have done God’s work recently include: Bishop Eddie Long, Pastor Terry Jones, and Heidi Montag, to name just a few. Considering this rag-tag crew responsible for “God's work,” I'm happy to count myself among those doing their own work and nobody else's. And I think that most of the people mentioned here should do the same. In the words of Russell Simmons: “Do you!”
And leave God’s work to God because the rest of you suck at it.
These days, it’s seems that there are a lot of people out there claiming to be doing “God’s work.”
In a speech at Fortune Magazine’s Most Powerful Women conference, famed financier Warren Buffett compared Wall Street to a church, stating that Wall Street “does a lot of good things and then it has this casino… It’s like a church that’s running raffles on the weekend.” While I heartily agree that Wall Street and those on it do a lot of good work, I hesitate to compare their operation to a church. I’d compare it more to chain restaurant, like the Olive Garden. On the surface, the Olive Garden provides a useful service, and all the breadsticks you can eat, to millions of customers. But if you dig a little deeper, you wonder who benefits the most from the Olive Garden: the millions of Americans who eat 10,000 extra calories worth of breadsticks in an outing and who have come to mistake the Olive Garden for fine Italian dining? Or the owners of the Olive Garden franchise?
Lloyd Blankfein, CEO of Goldman Sachs, went further in an article that appeared in The Times of London in 2009, claiming, perhaps facetiously, that at Goldman Sachs he was doing “God's work.” Whether said in jest or not, the mere mention of “God's work” from guy who raked in $53.4 million in 2006 alone seems a little over the top.
Other notable figures who claim to do or to have done God’s work recently include: Bishop Eddie Long, Pastor Terry Jones, and Heidi Montag, to name just a few. Considering this rag-tag crew responsible for “God's work,” I'm happy to count myself among those doing their own work and nobody else's. And I think that most of the people mentioned here should do the same. In the words of Russell Simmons: “Do you!”
And leave God’s work to God because the rest of you suck at it.
Monday, August 30, 2010
Where is the love?
My cousin got married recently. In the weeks leading up to the wedding, I complained endlessly about being stuck at the singles table at the reception. I have yet to experience a singles table as I've mostly attended family weddings where I end up sitting with my cousins. However, with more and more family members getting married, spots at the family table are becoming scarce. At this latest wedding, I thought my fear of being edged out by wives, husbands and fiancés was about to be realized but I was spared. There were enough seats for singles and couples a like at the “kids” table.
However, I was a tiny bit disappointed at being robbed of the opportunity to meet other young, eligible singles. It is sometimes difficult to meet members of the opposite sex so I’ve been analyzing my own successes (of which there happen to be few), and the successes of others people in order to deduce new, more reliable methods of meeting people. I think I've rounded out a few proven methods:
1. Gym volleyball class. Personally, I have 100% success rate at meeting potential boyfriends in gym volleyball classes. In high school and college, I met nice, smart boys when we played on the same team in gym volleyball. Perhaps they were impressed by my overhand serve, my unnecessary competitiveness in recreational sports, or the way I looked in sweat shorts. Whatever the reason, I succeeded meeting and dating boys from gym class. The downside to gym-volleyball facilitated relationships is that they didn’t work out long term.
2. Lifetime movie on-set romance. Turning to tabloids for examples of circumstances where love blossomed between two people, an obvious conclusion was starring in a Lifetime movie. Tori Spelling met Dean McDermott on the set of the Lifetime thriller Mind over Murder. Two divorces, four years, five dogs and two kids later, they're still going strong and even have their own reality show. Similarly, LeAnn Rimes and Eddie Cibrian met on the set of the Lifetime movie Northern Lights. Initially a hidden affair, their love has bloomed into a classic story of married man meets married girl, shenanigans and divorces ensue, resulting in along-lasting love. However, as noted, a hallmark of these Lifetime movie facilitated romances is both parties were married to other people at the time the romance started. Needing to be married first before I find my true love is more work than I'm willing to take on at the moment.
3. Go to an Ivy League university. Nothing beats the Sunday New York Times, home of the Sunday Styles and esteemed Wedding Announcements section. If there is anything I’ve learned from reading Times’ wedding announcements, its people that go to Ivy League universities get married. And the more Ivy League, or, if you must, Ivy plus universities you’ve attended, the more likely you are to meet a similarly high achiever looking to get hitched and get his name in the NY Times. Per my calculations, couples in the NY Times wedding section have on average at least 3 Ivy degrees between them. Sadly, Ivy admissions departments and rigorous academic standards stand in the way of my meeting the perfect Ivy League husband.
These are just a few good ideas. I'm sure there will be others. In the meantime, short of starring in Lifetime movie or graduating from two or more Ivy League universities, it looks like I have to brush up on my passing and find an adult volleyball league. Have your own ideas? Share them in the comments.
However, I was a tiny bit disappointed at being robbed of the opportunity to meet other young, eligible singles. It is sometimes difficult to meet members of the opposite sex so I’ve been analyzing my own successes (of which there happen to be few), and the successes of others people in order to deduce new, more reliable methods of meeting people. I think I've rounded out a few proven methods:
1. Gym volleyball class. Personally, I have 100% success rate at meeting potential boyfriends in gym volleyball classes. In high school and college, I met nice, smart boys when we played on the same team in gym volleyball. Perhaps they were impressed by my overhand serve, my unnecessary competitiveness in recreational sports, or the way I looked in sweat shorts. Whatever the reason, I succeeded meeting and dating boys from gym class. The downside to gym-volleyball facilitated relationships is that they didn’t work out long term.
2. Lifetime movie on-set romance. Turning to tabloids for examples of circumstances where love blossomed between two people, an obvious conclusion was starring in a Lifetime movie. Tori Spelling met Dean McDermott on the set of the Lifetime thriller Mind over Murder. Two divorces, four years, five dogs and two kids later, they're still going strong and even have their own reality show. Similarly, LeAnn Rimes and Eddie Cibrian met on the set of the Lifetime movie Northern Lights. Initially a hidden affair, their love has bloomed into a classic story of married man meets married girl, shenanigans and divorces ensue, resulting in a
3. Go to an Ivy League university. Nothing beats the Sunday New York Times, home of the Sunday Styles and esteemed Wedding Announcements section. If there is anything I’ve learned from reading Times’ wedding announcements, its people that go to Ivy League universities get married. And the more Ivy League, or, if you must, Ivy plus universities you’ve attended, the more likely you are to meet a similarly high achiever looking to get hitched and get his name in the NY Times. Per my calculations, couples in the NY Times wedding section have on average at least 3 Ivy degrees between them. Sadly, Ivy admissions departments and rigorous academic standards stand in the way of my meeting the perfect Ivy League husband.
These are just a few good ideas. I'm sure there will be others. In the meantime, short of starring in Lifetime movie or graduating from two or more Ivy League universities, it looks like I have to brush up on my passing and find an adult volleyball league. Have your own ideas? Share them in the comments.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
That's repeating, of course
Earlier I wrote about how in the last year I've levered up on my own blood. Well apparently I wasn't the only one who had a get-rich-over-56-day-periods-punctuated-by-needlesticks plan.
In June, I received an email from the New York Blood Center, alerting me to changes in the Red Cell Advantage Program. Effective June 14, 2010:
1) Points earned for most donation procedures will be reduced.
2) Minimum points required for eligibility to redeem will increase from 400 to 600 points.
3) Points required for redemption to receive gifts or gift cards will increase.
All the penny-pinching, jelly-bean-hungry people exploiting this vein for their own financial gain caused hyperinflation on the blood market or, bloodflation.
Before bloodflation a Barbie in A Mermaid Tale Merliah Doll & Necklace cost me 431 points. On the open market, this doll sells for $14.99. After bloodflation, an equivalent Barbie doll, Barbie Sparkle Lights, also valued at $14.99, costs me 491 points.
So I did a little math to figure out just how much value my blood lost as result of bloodflation.
BEFORE:
AFTER :
[Ed. note: Some of you may be wondering about the sig figs on these calculations but they're really back of the envelope.]
Before June, my blood was worth roughly $5.51 a pint; after June, $4.84 a pint. The value of a pint of my blood dropped 67 cents, that's a 12.15% loss. And this only accounts for the loss in purchasing power of my earned points. It doesn’t take into account the loss of earning potential resulting from the reduction in points earned per donation.
Needless to say, I wish I had pulled my blood money out of the market sooner. Granted, I fared better than people heavily invested in the stock market, who on average lost 20-30% in their investments. But those people still have real money to show for themselves, even if it’s substantially less than what they started with. I just have hypothetical dollar values that I’ve assigned to my own blood
In June, I received an email from the New York Blood Center, alerting me to changes in the Red Cell Advantage Program. Effective June 14, 2010:
1) Points earned for most donation procedures will be reduced.
2) Minimum points required for eligibility to redeem will increase from 400 to 600 points.
3) Points required for redemption to receive gifts or gift cards will increase.
All the penny-pinching, jelly-bean-hungry people exploiting this vein for their own financial gain caused hyperinflation on the blood market or, bloodflation.
Before bloodflation a Barbie in A Mermaid Tale Merliah Doll & Necklace cost me 431 points. On the open market, this doll sells for $14.99. After bloodflation, an equivalent Barbie doll, Barbie Sparkle Lights, also valued at $14.99, costs me 491 points.
So I did a little math to figure out just how much value my blood lost as result of bloodflation.
BEFORE:
| $5.51 | |||||||
| 1 pint |
AFTER :
| $4.84 | |||||||
| 1 pint |
[Ed. note: Some of you may be wondering about the sig figs on these calculations but they're really back of the envelope.]
Before June, my blood was worth roughly $5.51 a pint; after June, $4.84 a pint. The value of a pint of my blood dropped 67 cents, that's a 12.15% loss. And this only accounts for the loss in purchasing power of my earned points. It doesn’t take into account the loss of earning potential resulting from the reduction in points earned per donation.
Needless to say, I wish I had pulled my blood money out of the market sooner. Granted, I fared better than people heavily invested in the stock market, who on average lost 20-30% in their investments. But those people still have real money to show for themselves, even if it’s substantially less than what they started with. I just have hypothetical dollar values that I’ve assigned to my own blood
Monday, August 16, 2010
Too many questions.
Recently I went to my doctor for a follow-up on some blood work relating to some headaches I'd had. I’m pretty sure that my headaches were caused by stress but I thought I’d get them checked out.
After shelling out my $20 co-pay, my doctor took approximately two minutes to go over my results with me. This consisted of her saying, “Everything looks great! I wish all my patients had results like these!” Then she shook her head and said, “Why are you having these headaches? Are you depressed?” I told her that I was pretty certain I wasn’t depressed and so she promptly closed up my file and told me she’d see me in September for my physical.
Needless to say the whole visit got me pretty fired up but what angered me the most was when she asked me, “Why are you having headaches? Are you depressed?”
Excuse me? I don’t know why I’m having the headaches. That’s why I’m here, asking you about my headaches, getting my blood taken to determine whether or not I have any sort of headache-causing deficiencies.
My (now former) doctor asked me an idiot question:
After shelling out my $20 co-pay, my doctor took approximately two minutes to go over my results with me. This consisted of her saying, “Everything looks great! I wish all my patients had results like these!” Then she shook her head and said, “Why are you having these headaches? Are you depressed?” I told her that I was pretty certain I wasn’t depressed and so she promptly closed up my file and told me she’d see me in September for my physical.
Needless to say the whole visit got me pretty fired up but what angered me the most was when she asked me, “Why are you having headaches? Are you depressed?”
Excuse me? I don’t know why I’m having the headaches. That’s why I’m here, asking you about my headaches, getting my blood taken to determine whether or not I have any sort of headache-causing deficiencies.
My (now former) doctor asked me an idiot question:
- Id·i·ot quest·ion /ideeәt kwéschәn/ n. a question to which the answer must necessarily begin with the statement: Idiot; usually posed by a person who should be answering the question instead of repeating it directly back to the person who asked it in the first place.
My (paltry) dating life offers another good example of an idiot question. I’ve tried my hand at a number of dating outlets, including speed dating. During one of my speed dates, the guy across from me asked me how I was still single. I assume he meant it as a compliment. He was implying that it should be impossible that a girl like me should be speed-dating in lame bar on a weeknight instead of out with her great boyfriend.
I gave him a lame reply and shoulder shrug. What I wanted to say was, “Idiot. If I knew why I was single, I wouldn’t still be single. I would have figured out my problem, fixed it, and found someone to date for more than five minutes at a time. Instead my major personality malfunction escapes me like some sort of dog whistle, audible only to decent single men in Manhattan in their mid-to-late twenties.” That fool asked me an idiot question.
Does asking an idiot question make you an idiot? Not necessarily, as I’m fairly certain that I’m guilty of asking idiot questions. However, asking idiot questions does make you a jackass in that particular situation. Have you been the victim of idiot questions? Share them in the comments.
Monday, July 12, 2010
Google is both a useful search engine and a source of humor
In attempting to locate a specific Kanye West blog entry to reference in my own previous blog, I Googled: WHY WON'T YOU LET ME BE GREAT. The Google function that attempted to guess what I was looking for as I was entering it provided me with the following list:
It made me laugh outloud at work, worry about getting in trouble with IT, and realize how concerned people are about their ipods. To offer my own answer to the most popular question: well, maybe the fact that you're consulting Google about your sex life has something to do with it.
It made me laugh outloud at work, worry about getting in trouble with IT, and realize how concerned people are about their ipods. To offer my own answer to the most popular question: well, maybe the fact that you're consulting Google about your sex life has something to do with it.
If you can tell me why the fen appears impassable* …
... well then okay, I won’t bother.
"WHY WON'T YOU LET ME BE GREAT!?!?!?" notorius ego-maniac Kanye West pleads with his fans on his blog. He needs to know why people are always trying to bring him down. As I close in on my quarter-life crisis, I’ve started to ask the opposite question of myself and my peers: WHY WON'T YOU LET YOURSELF BE REGULAR!?!?! In our lives why did people insist on building us up, when really we're just like everyone else? And why do we insist on believing in spite of all evidence to the contrary?
In college I babysat for a family with two little girls. I smiled when they told me what they wanted to be when they grew up: an astronaut, a gymnast, a singer, a veterinarian, a mom, and a teacher. I encouraged their unrealistic dreams and now I'm sorry that I did. I should have turned off A Bug's Life, sat them down, and told them the cold hard truth: you will not be all of the things you want to be. Truthfully, you might not be any of those things. Quit dreaming so big. Pick an average dream, preferably one that revolves around spending a lot of time in front of a computer, and then nail it.
One of the little girls was especially a dreamer. I should have looked her in the eye and said, “Listen Sally, I know that you're four and you think you're a good dancer. But you're not. Your technique is terrible and frankly, I don't know if the potential is there. So throw in the towel now before you actually start believing that you can be a dancer and a mom and a chef and a princess. Because you can't.”
Upon hearing this, she may have started crying, at which point I would have given her a cookie, teaching her another valuable life lesson: The easiest way to deal with disappointment is to eat your feelings.
Sure, deep down, I hope that one day soon Tina Fey will come across my humble blog and I'll be ‘discovered.’ However, in truth I know that the only people reading this are members of my own family and that I shouldn’t say anything too harsh about any of them or else my readership will plummet. So, while I wait for a call from Tina or, more likely, from my mom, I’m working on being content with never daring to pass the impassable fen or achieving anything that gives me a forum to ask thousands of fans: WHY WON'T YOU LET ME BE GREAT?!?!?!
I'm not Kanye West. I wear comfortable shoes when walking to work. I shop at a regular grocery store and frequently eat beans as a cost saving measure. Sure, famous high achievers put their pants on the same way that I do but just because we share this trait doesn't mean I'm anything other than regular. It just means there's really only one way to put on pants.
*This is the first line to Marianne Moore's poem I May, I Might, I Must, which I love.
"WHY WON'T YOU LET ME BE GREAT!?!?!?" notorius ego-maniac Kanye West pleads with his fans on his blog. He needs to know why people are always trying to bring him down. As I close in on my quarter-life crisis, I’ve started to ask the opposite question of myself and my peers: WHY WON'T YOU LET YOURSELF BE REGULAR!?!?! In our lives why did people insist on building us up, when really we're just like everyone else? And why do we insist on believing in spite of all evidence to the contrary?
In college I babysat for a family with two little girls. I smiled when they told me what they wanted to be when they grew up: an astronaut, a gymnast, a singer, a veterinarian, a mom, and a teacher. I encouraged their unrealistic dreams and now I'm sorry that I did. I should have turned off A Bug's Life, sat them down, and told them the cold hard truth: you will not be all of the things you want to be. Truthfully, you might not be any of those things. Quit dreaming so big. Pick an average dream, preferably one that revolves around spending a lot of time in front of a computer, and then nail it.
One of the little girls was especially a dreamer. I should have looked her in the eye and said, “Listen Sally, I know that you're four and you think you're a good dancer. But you're not. Your technique is terrible and frankly, I don't know if the potential is there. So throw in the towel now before you actually start believing that you can be a dancer and a mom and a chef and a princess. Because you can't.”
Upon hearing this, she may have started crying, at which point I would have given her a cookie, teaching her another valuable life lesson: The easiest way to deal with disappointment is to eat your feelings.
Sure, deep down, I hope that one day soon Tina Fey will come across my humble blog and I'll be ‘discovered.’ However, in truth I know that the only people reading this are members of my own family and that I shouldn’t say anything too harsh about any of them or else my readership will plummet. So, while I wait for a call from Tina or, more likely, from my mom, I’m working on being content with never daring to pass the impassable fen or achieving anything that gives me a forum to ask thousands of fans: WHY WON'T YOU LET ME BE GREAT?!?!?!
I'm not Kanye West. I wear comfortable shoes when walking to work. I shop at a regular grocery store and frequently eat beans as a cost saving measure. Sure, famous high achievers put their pants on the same way that I do but just because we share this trait doesn't mean I'm anything other than regular. It just means there's really only one way to put on pants.
*This is the first line to Marianne Moore's poem I May, I Might, I Must, which I love.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
What’s more frightening than seeing a bunch of cops running in the same direction?
Seeing a bunch of cops conspicuously not running in the same direction.
There are some events I never want to witness as I'm waiting in line for my morning coffee. One is an adult wearing Winnie the Pooh clothing. Few things put me in a bad mood faster than adults who wear cutesy clothing inappropriate for anyone over the age of five. Another event I don’t want witness is every cop in the train station running past me toward the nearest exit, walkie-talkies crackling. Alarm bells!
But what’s worse than these two scenarios? Seeing every cop in a hundred-yard radius not running to the nearest exit, walkie-talkies crackling. This restrained-run shuffle is meant to get a person, in this case a police officer, to certain location as quickly as possible without alerting the general public that said officer needs to get somewhere urgently. It fails on both accounts. Shuffling is not the fastest way to get somewhere, running is; additionally, as soon as I see a cop shuffling I know shit is going down, something serious too. If it was just a fight happening or an unruly bum, the cops wouldn’t care if I knew or didn’t know. But knowing that the cop doesn’t want me to know what’s happening scares me.
I know this move. I’ve employed it myself when a new checkout line opens up. I run-shuffle towards it, hoping that others won’t notice the new line and try to cut in front of me as I’m cutting in front of hordes of other shoppers. When I see cops shuffling by me, I know they’re hiding something and it makes me anxious.
It’s almost enough to make me I want to stop one of the shuffling cops and ask, “Where are you not running off to?” but I don't want to get out of the coffee line. Some might say a thing scarier than seeing a bunch of cops not running in the same direction is seeing me in the AM if I haven’t had coffee.
There are some events I never want to witness as I'm waiting in line for my morning coffee. One is an adult wearing Winnie the Pooh clothing. Few things put me in a bad mood faster than adults who wear cutesy clothing inappropriate for anyone over the age of five. Another event I don’t want witness is every cop in the train station running past me toward the nearest exit, walkie-talkies crackling. Alarm bells!
But what’s worse than these two scenarios? Seeing every cop in a hundred-yard radius not running to the nearest exit, walkie-talkies crackling. This restrained-run shuffle is meant to get a person, in this case a police officer, to certain location as quickly as possible without alerting the general public that said officer needs to get somewhere urgently. It fails on both accounts. Shuffling is not the fastest way to get somewhere, running is; additionally, as soon as I see a cop shuffling I know shit is going down, something serious too. If it was just a fight happening or an unruly bum, the cops wouldn’t care if I knew or didn’t know. But knowing that the cop doesn’t want me to know what’s happening scares me.
I know this move. I’ve employed it myself when a new checkout line opens up. I run-shuffle towards it, hoping that others won’t notice the new line and try to cut in front of me as I’m cutting in front of hordes of other shoppers. When I see cops shuffling by me, I know they’re hiding something and it makes me anxious.
It’s almost enough to make me I want to stop one of the shuffling cops and ask, “Where are you not running off to?” but I don't want to get out of the coffee line. Some might say a thing scarier than seeing a bunch of cops not running in the same direction is seeing me in the AM if I haven’t had coffee.
Friday, May 28, 2010
Introducing absorbent fit blue jeans.
I have often wondered, “What do babies think about all the time? Colors? The discovery of their own hands? Eating?”
Now I know one less thought burning a hole in a baby's brain: “I wish I could poop in something that looks like jeans, instead of pooping into something that is obviously a diaper.” Huggies has introduced Diaper Jeans.
I commend Huggies for bringing jeans to one of the last jean-starved populations in the US. After all, Chihuahuas have been wearing little jeans for years. But I don’t think we should limit babies to these high-waisted Mom diaper jeans. The media is merciless toward those who wear bad jeans. Jessica Simpson and President Obama are both still working to recover their fashion reputations in the wake of particularly bad pairs of jeans. Your baby isn’t the leader of the free world, let alone an MTV reality star, can you imagine the backlash he or she might suffer?
Let’s really have some fun with these jean diapers. Lowering the apparent waistband of the jean diapers and coloring the remaining band of material a flesh tone would enable jean variations to make your baby funnier and more stylish.
Diaper makers could offer:
Plumber Butt Diaper Jeans, where the jeans appear to droop on the baby’s butt, exposing a little bit of drawn on butt crack;
Hip Hop Diaper Jeans, where the jeans sag to the middle of the baby’s butt, exposing the baby’s also imaginary boxers;
Low-Rise Diaper Jeans, where the flesh tone band extends even further down for a more seductive look.
Low-Rise Diaper Jeans would open the door for Tramp Stamp Diaper Jeans, where it would appear that your baby had a lower back tattoo peaking out from above the waistband, something beautiful and meaningful like a butterfly or a sun. Or Exposed Thong Diaper Jeans, where it would appear that your baby’s thong was rising above the waistband of her jeans, or his jeans, depending on how progressive your baby is. Pair this with a little baby crop-top and a mini Ed Hardy Trucker hat, and your baby is ready for MTV’s Jersey Shore.
Now I know one less thought burning a hole in a baby's brain: “I wish I could poop in something that looks like jeans, instead of pooping into something that is obviously a diaper.” Huggies has introduced Diaper Jeans.
I commend Huggies for bringing jeans to one of the last jean-starved populations in the US. After all, Chihuahuas have been wearing little jeans for years. But I don’t think we should limit babies to these high-waisted Mom diaper jeans. The media is merciless toward those who wear bad jeans. Jessica Simpson and President Obama are both still working to recover their fashion reputations in the wake of particularly bad pairs of jeans. Your baby isn’t the leader of the free world, let alone an MTV reality star, can you imagine the backlash he or she might suffer?
Let’s really have some fun with these jean diapers. Lowering the apparent waistband of the jean diapers and coloring the remaining band of material a flesh tone would enable jean variations to make your baby funnier and more stylish.
Diaper makers could offer:
Plumber Butt Diaper Jeans, where the jeans appear to droop on the baby’s butt, exposing a little bit of drawn on butt crack;
Hip Hop Diaper Jeans, where the jeans sag to the middle of the baby’s butt, exposing the baby’s also imaginary boxers;
Low-Rise Diaper Jeans, where the flesh tone band extends even further down for a more seductive look.
Low-Rise Diaper Jeans would open the door for Tramp Stamp Diaper Jeans, where it would appear that your baby had a lower back tattoo peaking out from above the waistband, something beautiful and meaningful like a butterfly or a sun. Or Exposed Thong Diaper Jeans, where it would appear that your baby’s thong was rising above the waistband of her jeans, or his jeans, depending on how progressive your baby is. Pair this with a little baby crop-top and a mini Ed Hardy Trucker hat, and your baby is ready for MTV’s Jersey Shore.
Monday, May 24, 2010
Who can take a sunrise, sprinkle it in dew, cover it in chocolate and a miracle or two?
The sandwich shop in the lobby of my office building has an amazing candy selection. During a recent mid-afternoon sugar run, I discovered Pretzel M&M’s. An M&M comprised of a pretzel piece inside a chocolate coating inside a candy shell. I was blown away.
What’s next for M&M's? Will they capitalize on the fusion of M&M candies and snack foods and create a Cheetoh M&M? Perhaps they’ll follow food fads and introduce Bacon M&M's to be usurped by Pork Belly M&M's when trend shifts.
They could use their current flavors as building blocks, launching a Chocoholic M&M: a dark chocolate M&M inside a milk chocolate M&M; or a Hope you don't have a peanut allergy M&M: a peanut M&M inside a peanut butter M&M.
Before encountering Pretzel M&M's I truly believed Combos had taken pretzels to the limits of their possibility. Now M&M’s have the potential to take pretzels a step further which brings me to my personal suggestion for the next M&M: a Don't read the ingredients list M&M: a Pizzeria Pretzel Combo inside a Peanut Butter M&M.
What’s next for M&M's? Will they capitalize on the fusion of M&M candies and snack foods and create a Cheetoh M&M? Perhaps they’ll follow food fads and introduce Bacon M&M's to be usurped by Pork Belly M&M's when trend shifts.
They could use their current flavors as building blocks, launching a Chocoholic M&M: a dark chocolate M&M inside a milk chocolate M&M; or a Hope you don't have a peanut allergy M&M: a peanut M&M inside a peanut butter M&M.
Before encountering Pretzel M&M's I truly believed Combos had taken pretzels to the limits of their possibility. Now M&M’s have the potential to take pretzels a step further which brings me to my personal suggestion for the next M&M: a Don't read the ingredients list M&M: a Pizzeria Pretzel Combo inside a Peanut Butter M&M.
Monday, May 17, 2010
Little white [meat] lies
Recently I saw a commercial for Wendy’s boneless chicken wings. The commercial boasts of spicy chipotle chicken wings made from 100% all-white meat chicken breast.
Breast? Did I miss something?
A chicken wing made of chicken breast. If it’s made of breast, how can it be a wing? Unless a chicken wing is to a square what a chicken breast is to a rectangle in the statement: every square is a rectangle, not every rectangle is a square, isn’t a chicken wing necessarily not a chicken breast?
Clearly, belief in the wing-ness of the boneless chicken wing was suspended when the bones disappeared but to build a pitch for a wing based on it’s originating from the breast seems laughable.
Boneless wings are not wings. So what are these boneless, breaded, bite-sized chicken items? They’re chicken nuggets; chicken nuggets for adults.
Adults love chicken nuggets. I don’t understand the need to mask our love of chicken nuggets by renaming them boneless chicken wings. It’s ineffective and it’s unnecessary. There are some things children can and should outgrow: diapers, inability to color within lines, corduroy overalls; a love of chicken nuggets does not have to be one these things.
Breast? Did I miss something?
A chicken wing made of chicken breast. If it’s made of breast, how can it be a wing? Unless a chicken wing is to a square what a chicken breast is to a rectangle in the statement: every square is a rectangle, not every rectangle is a square, isn’t a chicken wing necessarily not a chicken breast?
Clearly, belief in the wing-ness of the boneless chicken wing was suspended when the bones disappeared but to build a pitch for a wing based on it’s originating from the breast seems laughable.
Boneless wings are not wings. So what are these boneless, breaded, bite-sized chicken items? They’re chicken nuggets; chicken nuggets for adults.
Adults love chicken nuggets. I don’t understand the need to mask our love of chicken nuggets by renaming them boneless chicken wings. It’s ineffective and it’s unnecessary. There are some things children can and should outgrow: diapers, inability to color within lines, corduroy overalls; a love of chicken nuggets does not have to be one these things.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
How do you measure, measure a year?
When the cast of Rent sings about measuring a year in love, it’s endearing and heart warming. What better way to reflect upon a year than by recounting all the ways you've given and received and shared love?
When your aunt measures a year in love, namely, whether or not in the last year you've found a person to love you, or at least a person who likes you enough to attend a family function with you, it is less heart warming and more gut checking.
Easter 2009 my aunt declared, for whose benefit I'm still not sure, that the next year was going to be ‘my year.’ Between Easter 2009 and Easter 2010, I was going to meet someone. Until she mentioned it, I didn’t even realize I was in need of ‘a year,’ a year especially different from the previous year(s) I’d had. I was just coasting along thinking that it was perfectly normal to attend Easter parties solo and eat a two-person helping of ham. From a food service perspective, it was like I had a partner.
When Ash Wednesday rolled around this year and other people were thoughtfully considering what to give up during Lent, I was thinking, "Shit, I only have 40 days left in ‘my year.’ Three-hundred and twenty-five days wasted and all I had left was a forty day sprint.
It would be fitting to say that the remaining forty days were a time of fasting and false temptation and that at the end of them, I was delivered from singledom, a perfectly boyfriendable boy coming to my rescue like angels coming down from heaven.
Instead, the remaining forty days passed liked the preceding 325, and to be quite honest, like all the days in all the years preceding ‘my year.’ At the family Easter party I ate a double helping of ham and had an Easter Egg hunt with my two-year-old cousin. If I measure ‘my year’ by my aunt’s standard, it was probably a failure; if I measure it by the cast of Rent’s standard, it was an overall success; if I measure it by my own standard: ham consumption and successful Easter Egg hunts, it was the best year on record.
When your aunt measures a year in love, namely, whether or not in the last year you've found a person to love you, or at least a person who likes you enough to attend a family function with you, it is less heart warming and more gut checking.
Easter 2009 my aunt declared, for whose benefit I'm still not sure, that the next year was going to be ‘my year.’ Between Easter 2009 and Easter 2010, I was going to meet someone. Until she mentioned it, I didn’t even realize I was in need of ‘a year,’ a year especially different from the previous year(s) I’d had. I was just coasting along thinking that it was perfectly normal to attend Easter parties solo and eat a two-person helping of ham. From a food service perspective, it was like I had a partner.
When Ash Wednesday rolled around this year and other people were thoughtfully considering what to give up during Lent, I was thinking, "Shit, I only have 40 days left in ‘my year.’ Three-hundred and twenty-five days wasted and all I had left was a forty day sprint.
It would be fitting to say that the remaining forty days were a time of fasting and false temptation and that at the end of them, I was delivered from singledom, a perfectly boyfriendable boy coming to my rescue like angels coming down from heaven.
Instead, the remaining forty days passed liked the preceding 325, and to be quite honest, like all the days in all the years preceding ‘my year.’ At the family Easter party I ate a double helping of ham and had an Easter Egg hunt with my two-year-old cousin. If I measure ‘my year’ by my aunt’s standard, it was probably a failure; if I measure it by the cast of Rent’s standard, it was an overall success; if I measure it by my own standard: ham consumption and successful Easter Egg hunts, it was the best year on record.
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Blood money. Literally.
I’m a regular blood donor. I try to donate about every eight weeks, give or take a time or two when I sleep through my 7:40 am donation appointment. I donate for a number of reasons, chief among them the endless supply jelly beans I’m encouraged to eat afterward.
The latest incentive to fuel my blood donation is the New York Blood Center rewards points program. Every time I donate blood, I earn Red Cell Advantage points, double points during critical need periods. I can then redeem these points for any number of fabulous rewards:
Logitech V220 Cordless Optical Mouse for Notebooks (Dark Silver): 630 Points
Barbie in A Mermaid Tale Merliah Doll & Necklace: 431 points
Mucinex DM Expectorant & Cough Suppressant, Extended-Release Bi-Layer Tablets, 40-Count Box: 513 points
Recently I realized that I can redeem my Red Cell Advantage points for Macy’s gift cards. I’ve been thinking I could use the gift card to buy myself a great new pair of sunglasses. I’m looking forward to having cool new sunglasses and also to when someone comments on my sunglasses.
Other Person: “Oh, nice sunglasses. Are they new?”
Me: “Yeah, they are new. I bought them with my own blood.”
However, with a number of friends and family members getting married in the coming year, I’m thinking maybe it would be wiser to parlay my blood into wedding gifts: Congratulations! I’m 5-pints-worth of blood happy for you!
Additionally, if I donate platelets during the month of May, I can send a dozen roses, vase not included, to my favorite person. So, if you happen to stop by apartment some day in May and spy a dozen pink roses, don’t fool yourself into thinking that I suddenly found a boyfriend who sends me roses out of the blue. Know instead that I used my own blood to send my favorite person a beautiful bouquet, me.
The latest incentive to fuel my blood donation is the New York Blood Center rewards points program. Every time I donate blood, I earn Red Cell Advantage points, double points during critical need periods. I can then redeem these points for any number of fabulous rewards:
Logitech V220 Cordless Optical Mouse for Notebooks (Dark Silver): 630 Points
Barbie in A Mermaid Tale Merliah Doll & Necklace: 431 points
Mucinex DM Expectorant & Cough Suppressant, Extended-Release Bi-Layer Tablets, 40-Count Box: 513 points
Recently I realized that I can redeem my Red Cell Advantage points for Macy’s gift cards. I’ve been thinking I could use the gift card to buy myself a great new pair of sunglasses. I’m looking forward to having cool new sunglasses and also to when someone comments on my sunglasses.
Other Person: “Oh, nice sunglasses. Are they new?”
Me: “Yeah, they are new. I bought them with my own blood.”
However, with a number of friends and family members getting married in the coming year, I’m thinking maybe it would be wiser to parlay my blood into wedding gifts: Congratulations! I’m 5-pints-worth of blood happy for you!
Additionally, if I donate platelets during the month of May, I can send a dozen roses, vase not included, to my favorite person. So, if you happen to stop by apartment some day in May and spy a dozen pink roses, don’t fool yourself into thinking that I suddenly found a boyfriend who sends me roses out of the blue. Know instead that I used my own blood to send my favorite person a beautiful bouquet, me.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Pre-first and first things
“The first thing to say is that you’ve got to start getting up things to say for yourself, if you want to hold your own. And the pre-first thing to say is that you gotta have an own to hold.”
Robert Frost said this as a guest lecturer at Dartmouth College in 1949. Sixty years later, I’m finding it inspiration to get up my own rigmarole.
This is an attempt to hold my own by first trying to figure the own I’m wanting to hold. Working backwards, maybe I’ll figure out some things to say for myself. I'd like to say I'm inspired entirely by Robert Frost and others of his caliber but I'm as likely to quote Teresa Guidice as I am one of the most beloved American poets.
“You see, you’ve got to get up a rigmarole. Don’t be afraid of the word. Get up a rigmarole.”
Here goes.
Robert Frost said this as a guest lecturer at Dartmouth College in 1949. Sixty years later, I’m finding it inspiration to get up my own rigmarole.
This is an attempt to hold my own by first trying to figure the own I’m wanting to hold. Working backwards, maybe I’ll figure out some things to say for myself. I'd like to say I'm inspired entirely by Robert Frost and others of his caliber but I'm as likely to quote Teresa Guidice as I am one of the most beloved American poets.
“You see, you’ve got to get up a rigmarole. Don’t be afraid of the word. Get up a rigmarole.”
Here goes.
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