Say no to segues

I'm all for an "anyway," "and then," and "speaking of."

But when it comes to the mall cop method of transport, I say no. Sometimes walking is just a good idea.


p.s. thanks, Dlisted for the photo.

And the Paper Chase Continues

Green Economy vs Poopy Economy

It would seem toilet paper has gone the way of the holiday bonus, as today marks the end of the Seventh Generation quilted two-ply pape in my office bathroom, and the beginning of tissue-paper status wipery. Ah the brutality.

In a sign of stingy gifting to come, Duane Reade (yes, the pharmacy) is having friends and family discount days this month. If anyone's looking for ideas, I'm a fluffy Charmin girl, myself. Never one-ply. No butts about it.

Times is Hard

Of course synonyms for meltdown are inundating the airwaves and we all know the economy's in a slump. Don't worry, I'm not here to give some kind of personal finance advice, or wax economic on the latest bailout blunders. I am equally as ignorant and afraid as everyone else in the country. I have been noticing lately, though, some small and telling signs of these scary times.

"Let's not bring pen and paper into this."
Remember the Mitch Hedburg joke about receipts not being necessary during a doughnut transaction? Hilarious. But what about napkins? At Dunkin Donuts, and really, every New York City establishment, a stack of 15-or-so napkins came with every purchase. And any beverage (can of soda? bottle of water?) came in a brown paper bag with a straw. Excessive, maybe, but that's the New York way to which I've become accustomed. Those days are no more. Dunkins no longer gives napkins with a donut purchase. Not a one. And they don't keep their dispensers well stocked, so if you really want your paper prods, you've got to ask. Bodegas have put a cease and disist order on all straw-and-bag distribution, too. These may be slight, unimportant changes, but the absense of paper products in daily life is a noticable one. Espesh when one consumes doughnuts on the subway home from work, and ends up with sticky, glazy fingers. You're wrong, Mitch. Let's please bring some paper into this.

What changes have you seen in the way of everyday penny pinching?

If I Were a Rich Girl

Now that I have that song stuck in your head, I want to move on to jewelry. This matchstick neclace by Laure Lobdell has been stuck in my head ever since I saw it on notcot.com, my favorite fashion-hunting site. I don't know where they find some of their content, but the whole LL matchstick line (part of her Freebird collection) is adorable. Very punny.

Guess that's all for now, I just wanted to share the wealth. (or lack thereof).

Gummy Candy is Weird

I'm just chewing on some amazingly good Haribo gummy bears, and I got to ruminating on who came up with this weird ass food. I mean, candy? Makes sense. Gummies? Sure, why not. But who made the leap from chewing gum and such, to bears and worms made of dextrose (and other, harder to spell, things)?

When are bears and worms ever grouped together? What do they have in common that other animals are missing? And how were they chosen? I'm picturing a bunch of Willy Wonkas sitting around an edible conference table, gnawing on their seats, thinking aloud. "I like bears," says the challenged boy in the corner. "Well I like worms," a staffer plays along. Then, smushing a gummy gavel on the table, the CEO says, "bears and worms, then. Dogs or cats? Let's not get outlandish. And we'll make rats, but they have to be jumbo and only sold around halloween."

And that was that. Gummy goodness was poured into molds in the shape of bears and worms only, for the rest of eternity. Which is, coincidentally, exactly as long as I'll have them resting inside my digestive tract. That's how I see it, at least. It feels like the bears disagree, or maybe they're just having some kind of clear and yellow vs. red and green civil war in my belly. oh sweet, sweet pain.

Secret Clinical Strength is a Straight Lie

Now, don't get your pit-stains in a bunch thinking that I have some hyperactive sweat glands. I don't. I'm a lady, and anyway, I pretty much never get my heart pumping at a rate my body might confuse with exercise. But I saw the Secret Clinical Strength and was sold (mainly by the exclusive cardboard box packaging), on the thought that if it works for super sweaters, it would be super sweat-preventing on me.

Well I was right. This stuff is amazing. What's the lie, you wonder? The label says "advanced solid." I was pretty excited because I'm a strict solid-only user when it comes to deodorant. I don't like the tingly, earth-killing sensation of aerosol sprays and CAN NOT STAND the mushy gel that you "click" through slots atop the applicator. Guess what? That's what the "advanced solid" is. Looks like this clinical strength secret is so high powered, it advanced right past solid into a sticky gel form. Fun. Also you have to crank the applicator about 8 times to get the gel to come out for your first use, which means your extra expensive deo is actually only half the prod you'd get in a normal stick. [boo. hiss. don't they know it's a recession?!]

I guess if this were a consumer review, I'd still recommend the product. It works, and doesn't have an offensive 'spring rain baby powder fresh chamomile lavender' scent. But, damn, it's not a solid.

Why would they lie? Why, Secret?!

Our Democracy Needs Work

All across the country there are reports of displeased voters. A poor black neighborhood in Virginia had but one working voting machine (out of seven). In my office, two out of three registrants were forced to use provisional ballots because they weren't on "the list" even when they were brandishing their Acknowledgment Notices.

And to add insult to injury, the polling representative at one such place was being played by Hank Azaria (in the Bird Cage) only with a thicker neck and more body glitter. Wagging finger, lisping, and all, (s)he refused to call the county clerk to verify a voter's status (which upon later clarification, turns out to be an active registration).

What is going on?

Why can't we all just get along? Why can't we all just carry out our god-given (or constitutional) right to vote, have it count, have the number totaled and have that number decide our president? I realize I'm skipping some electoral college intricacies, but you get my drift.

It's hard for me, the aforementioned marginalized voter, to swallow that these things happen. Instead I switch into paranoia that something corrupt is going on. That we, the young, new, and often colored, registrants are slipping through cracks. And in such a bright blue state as New York, one would assume that these things are handled the best way possible.

I guess I'm just rambling at this point and am not sure where to go with this. I just find it suspicious.

Here's a map of callers to the CNN voter helpline. The darker the color, the more complaints.

Things that make ya go hm, indeed.

http://www.cnn.com/ELECTION/2008/voter.hotline/

The Fekkai Coiff Line Smells Like A Highschool Boyfriend

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The results of this l'éloge de la coiffure is salon pro that only Fekkai (and Shu Uemura, but that's another post for another day) can achieve. But the scent? It's part Coolwater, part gimmicky shave gel of the late nineties, and part let's go back in time and make out in your basement. 

Obvi we'd have to go back in time, because making out in a basement now would be completely inappropriate. 

At first I was oddly attracted to my own hair when I applied a pea-sized dab of finishing cream as a test. Then I wondered, "my god, why would they make this stuff that's clearly for long-haired women, smell like a tomfool high school boy?" 

After this hair prod test drive resulted in an unintentional journey through the glory days of awkward teen behavior, I figured it out.  

Things that make ya go hm: Do you think the same evil marketing geniuses thought of this olfactory attack, as imagined the disapproving parent ad campaign for Gossip Girl? They both had the same affect on me, which is: totally working. 

The Dumbest Dummy that Ever Dumbed.

I know you've been waiting for me to chime in on the Charlotte Feeney of Connecticut case, since I'm a vocal supporter of blonde-bashing. (except Lyndsey Thompson, whom I love dearly).

Charlotte, let's call her Muffy because I just think that's what her real name is, sued L'Oreal in 2005 because they (in a like, huge conspiracy or something) slipped a bottle of brunette dye into her blond box. Then, when touching up her roots (allegedly) right before her B.F.F.s debutante gala (allegedly) she rinsed, and came up brown. Suicide attempts ensued (allegedly).

Muffy claimed in some court or another that her life was so ruined, her emotional makeup so damaged, that she not only needed antidepressents, but to (gasp) WEAR HATS for weeks after the mishap. Not only that, but she will "never be able to return to her natural blonde shade."

Some might argue that while blondes have more fun running around not being able to read, predicting the weather that's already happening, etc. Brunette just looks better. On pretty much everyone.

But what I'm hurting MY brain trying to figure out, is why she was taking a bottle to her mane at all if she was so intent on preserving her "natural" hue.

Hm, indeed.

P.S. The judge recognized this case for the load of garbage it is, and dismissed it like Muffy from class when she handed in homework written in glittery Bonne Belle chapstick.

Japan Thinks of Everything

I would like to say a big domo origato to Japan for their contribution to the world this week. No, I'm not referring to the nobel prize-winning physicists who have uncovered some likesuchas in particles, but to these guys:



Two adorable little monkeys who, in mimicking their owner's behavior, learned to serve beer and deliver hot towels. Seriously. First they beat us to the hydro-driven car, then they get the tiniest cell phones on planet earth, and now primate waiters? WHAT will Japan think of next.

Of course animal rights activists are gonna get alll upset about how this is unfair treatment of the poo-slinging little bastards. But riddle me this, PETA:

Is it crueler than shipping them off Gwen Stephanie to make some kind of camo-clad, Harajuku mockery of? I think not.

Resident Jew

Today is the eve of a major Jewish holiday. That's about all anyone knows who isn't an m.0.t. in their own right. That's where I come in, apparently, serving as the resident Jew. My job includes such tasks as recommending an apropos dessert to bring to a Rosh Hashanah dinner (apple dumplings, duh).

"Laura, I know this guy is Jewish and I want to say happy holidays. I mean, I can't say 'shalom,' right?" The answer to that is, of course you can. But you'll look a little ridiculous.

I love fielding these queries, as I'm almost excessively proud of my heritage, but how do others feel? Does a non-practicing Jew get hit with it this time of year? Do they feel out of place or weird responding? And what if someone hasn't openly claimed their faith. This strikes me as asking a bespectacled passerby where the nearest Apple store is, because they look "smart." Is that rude?

Stay tuned for the Christmas decorations in public spaces debate...

Just kidding.

The Starbucks Fruit & Nut Fiasco

Don't ask why I was inspired to buy a $3 (for as many ounces) pack of dried fruit and nuts at Starbucks today. But I was.

In the face of an economic meltdown, I feel required to tell you all not to buy this shit. Ever. It tastes like they took some perfectly good trail mix, sprayed it with industrial, imitation orange flavor and let it sit in a warehouse for a few years while brainstorming the perfect tagline. (They settled on: "a medley of sweet and savory." Of course.)

Now, finally, as a sidecar to their "perfect oatmeal," sbux has released this toxic catastrophe and I effing fell for it. Kinda makes you doubt my character, doesn't it?

Things that make ya say hm #1: Why do we buy everything Starbucks tells us to, even when it tastes like asscake?

I'm gonna ponder that while I sip on my double grande nonfat latte.