So you know how celebrities have tired of the formerly super-hip trend of short nails with black polish and are now moving on to the current super-hip trend of short nails with white polish? Well, they can bite me because I’m completely in love with my own self-proclaimed trend of dark red polish. At first I used some crummy Revlon that chipped like a son of a gun, but yesterday I stumbled upon Essie’s Berry Hard.
It’s a shade darker than 8th grade’s “look I just colored my nails with this magic marker”, and shiny as hell. It hasn’t chipped yet and I’m on day three. My hands don’t even look like they belong to me. They look like they belong to a beautiful, charming vixen that Jude Law is completely in love with.
Even the lady getting her nails done next to me was jealous. I know this because she kept staring at my nails. Then she told her manicurist, “That’s really pretty. I’m jealous.”
Okay, fine. I made up that last part. But still, 77 Stars.
Friday, April 27, 2007
Thursday, April 26, 2007
As far as ad campaigns go, I think the robot really works. I did, after all, slow down my car to get a better look. I even got out and took a couple pictures. And if the rest of my friends weren't grown-ups, I probably would have tried to steal it. But, in the end, I didn't go inside, and I certainly didn't buy a new end table. Robots, cold and metallic, can't sell love seats.
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
There we were at Strawberry Fields just settling into the peacefulness—trying to avoid loose hair from the dirty transient combing his mane, strands floating by in a light wind—when the tour group of Canadians arrived. For a while I was simply enjoying the sound of their lilting French--still avoiding the flying hair, yes, but also checking out fashion trends.
Then I saw the Canadian version of Amel*, young and smoking, with a really cool jacket, and gorgeous in that golden-tinged nostalgia of memory flooding back.
Murph said it was time to go and I didn’t want to. Yes, we had been there too long, and yes, the transient was weird and scary with the hair brushing…but I couldn’t leave. It was Amel all over again and I was back in time. Forget Joe, the ring on my finger. I was back to senior year, recounting in impassioned diary entries all the times he smiled at me. I was back to thinking all day about what I would say to him after school. I was back to daydreaming in Pre-Calc and telling my sister’s boyfriend to ask him if he liked me or not.
Who cares if that canadien wasn’t the real Amel and he was probably just-turned eighteen and didn’t seem to speak English and I was married. Who cares if, for one moment, you can go back? (…sigh…)
I made Murph inconspicuously take a picture and then we left.
*Name has been changed.
I know I am not the first to think aviator sunglasses are cool. In fact, I am probably one of the last. But every summer, I buy a new pair of these gender-bending shades.
My newest pair takes up about half my face, just the way I like it. I spend significantly more time outside in the summer, and these large shades help keep the sun from burning my face and ultimately leading to wrinkles and cancer. When I told this to a guy the other day, he scoffed at me. He said he really hopes he has "laugh lines" because it means he lived a life filled with humor. Although I, too, would like a life filled with laughing, in the end I want to tell people about it, not have my wrinkly face do it for me.
I wish they were a little darker though. I don't get that intimidating cop look because people can still see where I am looking when they are within talking distance. This also detracts from my ability to check out guys unsuspectingly and ignore the kids I work with, uh, neither of which I actually do.
87 stars: Whenever I place them on top of my head, the nosepiece usually catches in my hair and inevitably rips a few strands out of my head. Also, you have to put up with a lot of Maverick jokes.
Saturday, April 21, 2007
I’m sure you’re expecting to read an “I love Netflix!” review because everyone loves Netflix and why would I go against the flow and report that Netflix really isn’t as fantastic as everyone says it is. So fine, I’m not (going to go against the flow) and I won’t (expose Netflix’s hideous flaws.)
…but come on, guys, it really isn’t. Don’t lie. You know you kept looking at your queue, same as me, when The Departed was listed as a “long wait” for weeks and weeks. Don’t deny it that the same thing happened with Blood Diamond. Sure, I’ll allow for the fact that maybe there is an inordinately large population of Leo-lovers surrounding my distribution center, but then it happened with Volver, too. Leo isn’t even in that.
My disappointment is probably my own fault, considering my expectation for their recommendation feature (a bunch of people with Tarantino-like movie brains personalizing your selection) is way higher than the most likely reality (a computer program that matches keywords and actors, recommending Son of the Mask and Are We There Yet?)
On the other hand they really do have anything, even Micki and Maude, which was my all-time favorite movie as a kid. Weird, I know, but I had a thing for Dudley Moore.
51 Stars. I’m sticking with it, since I’m still avoiding the late fees on my account at Blockbuster. Two years and counting, suckas.
Monday, April 16, 2007
0-10 Stars—Inedible, Un-useable, unwatchable, or rage-inducing.
11-20 Stars—All of the above…but also makes you think, “Do I want to eat another one/see it again?” or “Do I now feel better after crying/screaming/throwing things?”
21-45 Stars—Causes much annoyance, but the knowledge of the experience might come in handy in the future.
46-60 Stars—The zoo is probably more interesting. But if the zoo is closed…
61-70 Stars—I’m definitely going to tell my friends about this, leaving out the part where I ______.
71-80 Stars—Why doesn’t anyone else realize how cool this is?
81-90 Stars—I love it so much I want to take it out behind the school and impregnate it.
91-100 Stars—Without this, life is stale and useless. I have finally found meaning.
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
Since I’m finishing my book at home I’m often in contact with these guys (so far, not one female—despite other numerous faults, USPS is much more gender-friendly.) They are all pretty much the same—they ring my doorbell like ten times in a row and then the package is for the person upstairs/next door/never heard of ‘em.
Today when the dude asked for Joe I said, “That’s my husband.” I signed with the cool white pencil my loopy C, he asked me to spell my last name and I did.
“That’s not his name,” he said. I said, “I know. I didn’t take his name.”
He said, “You just can’t appreciate the man's name.”
I wish the exchange didn’t end here, but it did. It was cold and I didn’t have on socks, so I smiled and closed the door.
41 Stars. Whatever, my name is easier to spell and you’re a moron.
Friday, April 6, 2007
Even without the fact that, watching it, Joe and I got completely nostalgic for Philly, the movie was pretty damn good. Vintage Stallone lookin’ all old and awesome at once. But then—I don’t even want to say it—it’s at the part of the fight where everything goes slo-mo and you can hear Rocky’s thoughts and he says, “What was it that I told the kid? [so the audience knows he is remembering] It ain’t about how hard you hit but how hard you can get hit and keep moving forward” [so the audience knows he’s going to keep standing and make it through Adrian’s death.]
Who authorized this? Who thought it was a better idea than, say, layering the scene or inserting a simple voice over flashback? I would have gotten the significance, as would any semi-intelligent person that has ever watched movies that weren’t silent films. All it succeeded in doing was turning the end of Rocky into a Jean-Claude Van Damme movie, when there shouldn’t even be a comparison between Rocky and Van Damme. Rocky is about love and honor and revenge and inner demons, and Van Damme is about revenge and honor and….okay, fine. But the difference is that Rocky really means it. Van Damme just sucks.
57 Stars. It didn’t completely ruin the movie, which says something. (And Little Marie was pretty good.)
Thursday, April 5, 2007
She named her child Audio Science. I’m not even one of those people hating on quirky baby names. AUDIO SCIENCE. Look, Gwyneth can do it and it’s cute because she’s Gwyneth. Her mother is Blythe Danner and she was once engaged to Brad Pitt. But the only credit to Sossamon is that she played opposite Heath Ledger in a movie no one watched but me. (And James Van der Beek, but that movie was actually kind of good since it was based on the Bret Easton Ellis novel.) I mean, is this because she sidelines as a DJ?
The final score comes down to this: the other ones (Apple, Moses, Coco, Grier) are passable cute. Audio Science? No. Blanket Prince Jackson? No (even though your father is a sad, self-destructing dance/music genius that we mourn everyday.)
3 Stars. Possible face-saving nicknames: Auddie, A-Sci, Dio
Wednesday, April 4, 2007
Despite the many prescription medications for migraines, the only thing that has ever worked for me is the all powerful Excedrin Migraine and a nap in the dark. Along with the two painkillers each pill contains a massive amount of caffeine listed as a painkiller aid. Soon after taking the recommended dosage, that caffeine is coursing through my body, giving me the shakes and making me believe I can conquer anything. However, the debilitating pain in my head has not yet subsided. That usually takes another 20-40 minutes. Falling asleep immediately is crucial.
The full list of recommendations packaged inside the box tell you not to take the pills if this is the "worst headache you have ever experienced.” It's a migraine. I am in so much pain I can barely open the child-proof bottle, let alone decipher whether or not the throbbing I feel is worse than the last time I almost passed out from the pain.
90 stars. It gets rid of the pain, fast. If only there was something to counterbalance the caffeine shakes.
Tuesday, April 3, 2007
I mean, I don’t even eat Hostess. Ever. I’m way too snotty. But little cakes with frosting are now only 100 calories? (I’m not remotely aware of the science of calories; how many are a lot? I could probably look it up, but it’s easier to take the word of the guy/gal who designed the Hostess box.)
The cakes are tiny, about the size of a silver dollar or a big roach, with cream filling and packaged in threes. They are moist in a way those preserved, packaged goods are, that makes you realize the ingredients are going to be weird stuff (polydextrose, agar, glycerin—can you even eat that?—cottonseed fiber). They take about 5 seconds to eat, then an hour later you get a headache.
11 Stars. I think I’m going to stick with fat free Jello pudding. It’s classier, and I don’t feel ashamed to put it on the conveyor belt, or tell the cashier it’s for my fat brother.