The "prize" no woman wants

The whole world has now learned of (and jeered at) Wisconsin District Attorney Kenneth Kratz's "poor judgment."  It's taken a year, but now each and every one of his dozens of text messages to domestic abuse victim Stephanie Van Groll, part of an intense three-day campaign to get in her pants, have come to light. 

Kratz was supposed to be prosecuting the 26-year-old's boyfriend for domestic violence.  Instead, he regaled her with texted propositions, including these:

"Are you the kind of girl that likes secret contact with an older married elected DA ... the riskier the better?"

"Your low self-esteem and you fear you can't play in my big sandbox? Or???"

And my personal favorite: "I'm the atty. I have the $350,000 house. I have the 6-figure career. You may be the tall, young, hot nymph but I am the prize!"

Dear lord, if that's a prize, I may never eat Crackerjacks again. 

Shockingly, Kratz has been divorced three times since the mid-'90's. On top of his healthy self-esteem, the cretin apparently has no idea what women actually want.  A $350,000 house is nice, but only if there's not a wife currently living in it.  Six figures, you say?  How much is left after three divorces, assuming Wisconsin's joint marital property laws and the likelihood of child support?  I think a job at McDonald's could probably provide as much financial security, and I hear Ronald doesn't require lap dances or call you yucky things like "hot nymph."
 
I sincerely hope that none of you encounter similar blechxts, but knowing how attractive and intelligent the Snarklet readership is, we should make like Boy Scouts and Be Prepared.  It is only prudent that we formulate some basic responses that could be pre-programmed into our phones now (and perhaps shared with younger, more nymph-like siblings).  Please consider the following ideas and share your own suggestions under "Comments."
 
"Thanks, but I'm holding out for an internship with Letterman."
 
"UR icky. Leave me alone."
 
And the line that works in a surprising number of situations where scumbags attempt to over-inflate their attractiveness by calling attention to their financial assets: "Sorry about your penis!"  
 
Oh, and hell yeah.  Get over yourself Kratz, you're in the same category as Lindsey Lohan and the other losers.

Mortality bites

It's rare that mortality lands a square punch with me.  Death is one of those facts that I acknowledge with a sidelong glance.  Don't make eye contact, and maybe I won't be obliged to have a conversation. 

And yet it has been dogging me in small ways over the past several weeks.  Reminders of a beloved grandpa.  Questions from my kindergartner.  A conversation with a friend about becoming a widow (or widower), and whether remarriage is a prospect worth any consideration.  (We decided men should absolutely remarry. Women, maybe not.)  But these were glancing blows... uncomfortable momentary dialogues.  The intestinal flutter that a truly morbid thought can inspire.  But not ever really real. 

And then I got the text that my friend's father, who has been fighting cancer for over a year, died.  I tell you truly that the only thing that scares me more than my own death is losing a loved one.  I mean an utterly essential beloved: A child, a husband, a parent. 

This friend is a pretty tough woman.  She's not particularly into girl talk.  She's funny and sarcastic and totally together.  I don't think in ten years I ever once saw her cry.  Until her dad got sick. 

And now he's gone.  Her kid, just a year older than my daughter, just lost an amazing grandpa.  He's not going to be at her wedding or see her graduate college or even see what a beautiful girl she'll become.  My friend doesn't get to hug her dad again, or laugh with him.  And she was lucky - - she had a really great dad. 

I guess this is one of the reasons we have friends.  We learn from each other's experiences.  I will watch her walk through this unthinkable time, and be there for her to lean on if I can.  And because she'll have done it, I'll have the strength of knowing it's possible when it's my turn to face loss without the luxury of averting my eyes.   

On becoming a mistress

I was utterly surprised to learn about a rumor at my new workplace: That I slept my way to the top!  How delicious to be the focus of such juicy gossip! 

Dear snarkies, bear in mind that this is no glamorous, enviable job.  It's nice, to be sure, but it's not as though I'm making six figures or punching in at ten every morning.  I work hard, I make average bank, and up until recently, I've been a pretty anonymous worker bee.  I've been singled out for extra attention because someone who did not get my job has elected to sue my employer.  His argument is that I, a mere thirty-something girl, could not possibly be as qualified as he.  Because I work for an organization that's often in the press, his lawsuit made the news in a modest way... spawning the mistress theory. 

I won't waste your time with a laundry list of professional accomplishments (it's tempting though).  Nor will I deign to step up onto the soapbox of feminist indignity (I did that over cocktails with my friends last week).

My mother-in-law was furious!  "All they have to do is look at the pictures in your office to see what a great looking husband you've got!"  Really.  That was her reaction.  To come to the defense of her virile and indisputably attractive son.  Oye.

My friend Julie pointed out that I could possibly leverage this rumor into actually becoming a mistress, thereby cutting my house payment down to nothing and maybe getting some good lingerie in the bargain.  I'll have to talk it over with my husband. 

I have elected to stoically look for the silver lining in the situation.  And I found it: This rumor officially means I am still hot.

After all, no one gripes about tired-looking Susie with the wart on her chin sleeping her way up the ladder. I will cling to this rumor as a sort of unofficial poll of my peers that declares: "She is attractive enough that someone powerful and influential would like to take her to bed."  I'm nearly 40 with two small children.  I just traded up to the more powerful and effective wrinkle "serum" because the regular cream wasn't cutting it anymore.  This rumor is just what I needed to keep a little spring in my step!

I can already imagine, few years hence, when a new ridiculous lawsuit is filed and the rumors - - disappointingly - - will say instead that I bribed my way into a great job.  Or that it was nepotism.  Or blackmail.  I'll be able to look back at this time fondly and think to myself, "those were the days."

Mind games with Martha

So almost two years ago I filled out an online form, applying to become one of the coveted "Martha's Circle" blogs.  Yeah, THAT Martha.  Don't worry, snarklebuddies, it wasn't on behalf of this, my secretly-more-beloved blog.  It was for my initial online odyssey, a charming little corner of the Internet devoted to crafts and parties and handmade invitations and recipes.  I tell you, it was perfect for Martha's stupid effing Circle.

I never heard back.  My free time dwindled and my focus shifted gears to this blog.  And it was no big deal.

Except last week, I got an unexpected email from Martha!  (Well, one of her preppy minions, anyway.)

"You're currently being considered for Martha's Circle.  We apologize for the delay in evaluating your blog." 

Interesting.  So, they'll get there and discover that the most recent post was in April.  And, I can't imagine a blog with such a lapse in content will make the coveted cut.  Oh well.

I can't help but wonder if it was all just a test of our perfectionism.  If indeed it was a test, and not just the result of a huge backlog and harried, overworked staff, I applaud Martha for her devious brilliance.  What better way to blow the chaff from the golden, glowing wheat?  Those bloggers whose hearts are really in their work would have been happily puttering away all these months, continuing to devise clever new things to do with excess garden produce and showcasing delightfully charming invitations for baby christenings, irregardless of her notice.  Those lovely souls deserve to be part of The Circle more than I... who so quickly and easily slipped from grace and stumbled onto this path of sarcastic, sometimes unkind commentary instead.  Ahhh Martha.  Well played.

Exercise Haiku

One too many flights
of stairs I have now traveled
breathing heavily

Channeling Venus Williams

Who knew gentile tennis could bring you to your knees? I should mention that until now my tennis experience has consisted of a module in High School gym class, catching the pros in action on TV every once in a while, and sporadic volleying with friends the last session of which occurred about three years ago. That all changed last weekend thanks to a recent racquet acquisition and, as you might have guessed, a new boyfriend.

Saturday morning started out with great promise. Shiny new equipment in hand, we went out to drill the basics of the games – swings, serves, and strategy. I think that it is fair to say that we provided a great deal of entertainment value for the surrounding neighborhood.

It was later that day when the trouble began. Apparently there is a certain level of conditioning involved in tennis and I do not yet have it. I found myself unable to lift all but the lightest of objects as my forearm violently protested. Two-handed drinking took on an entirely new meaning as every sip of water required a two-handed grip and nerves of steel as the glass wobbly lurched towards my mouth. Movement in general became slow and calculated. One would think that I had taken up some sort of full-body contact sport rather than something associated with country clubs and fashionable outfits.

All of which begs the question, how long does it take to get into tennis condition? Please, anyone. . .

Two Bad Tastes That Taste Bad Together

Well, someone has finally managed to make Vodka even more unappealing to me than ever. I dislike Vodka with a passion. To me it tastes like rubbing alcohol, and I much prefer the oh- so subtle herbal notes of a fine gin. Occasionally I can stomach the odd flavored vodka, but recently distilleries have gone a little off the rails looking for new and exciting flavors. I can get behind fruit. Who doesn’t love a refreshing splash of fruit in their cocktail? I understand how garlic flavored vodka could enhance a bloody mary. Herbal vodkas? Well that just brings me back to drinking gin. I can even get behind bacon flavored vodka because, let’s face it, everything is better with bacon. But an Alaskan distillery in Wasilla Alaska has managed to take the flavored vodka craze one step to far by presenting the world with salmon flavored vodka. There are so many things wrong with this concoction that I don’t know where to begin. Let me start by saying that I hate salmon. I always have and I always will. This is the last taste I want in my alcohol. In fact, add some grapefruit juice, and I would consider it the cocktail from hell. Putting my personal prejudices aside, I did and informal survey of people who like salmon, and they were beyond disgusted at this concept. Just the idea of salmon marinating in vodka in order to impart its flavor and aroma to the alcohol makes most people say ewwww!! Then we come to the color of this alcohol. Apparently imparting the unique fishy flavor to the liquor causes it to take on the pinkish, orangey hue of the salmon flesh. That, my friends, is just sick and wrong. Vodka should be clear unless it is in a dirty martini. I guess staring at Russia everyday can make you do some pretty crazy things.

Youth Culture Killed my Dog

Every few years the youth create and recreate the way our culture expresses itself verbally by creating new slang and phrases. Sometimes these words and phrases really catch on like "bling" or "p.h.a.t.". Well I say that you are never to old to impact pop culture, so today I created a new catch phrase. This phrase is "Hey, who peed in your Kool-Aid?". It is useful when someone is acting mean and crabby and taking out their bad mood on you for no good reason. If we all start using it right away it is sure to catch on! I, myself, expect to hear this phrase directed at me by my friends and family since I tend be a little dramatic with the mood swings. I would like to thank you in advance for your support.

A New Reason to Wine in Pennsyvania

I don’t know if it is an attempt to remove the messy human element from the liquor buying process or a novel way to fight unemployment by creating more useless government jobs, but Pennsylvania installed the country’s first wine kiosks in two supermarkets at the end of June. The kiosks will be open from 9 a.m. to 9 p.m. Monday thru Saturday. They will scan the customers ID and take a Breathalyzer reading. The photo on the ID will be matched with a video image of the customer at the kiosk. If the customer has a breath alcohol level of .02 or higher or the ID does not match the video image, they will be unable to by a bottle of wine. The best part is that the transaction will be monitored by a Liquor Control Board employee from a remote location. This employee will be tasked with confirming that the video matches the ID. The whole process is supposed to take twenty seconds.

My first question is why? Why does Pennsylvania need what essentially amounts to a very complicated vending machine to buy wine? Are Pennsylvanians tired of snooty wine stewards recommending fancy vintages? Do they just want to be able to buy their Ripple and TJ Swan’s in peace? Bob Marcus of the PLCB said, “We happen to be the first because we have the need. As a board, we really wanted to make this much more convenient for people.” So a giant machine that scans your ID and gives you a Breathalyzer while some nameless, faceless government employee watches you on video is more convenient? How do people in Pennsylvania buy wine normally? Where I come from, you walk into the liquor store/department and select a bottle of wine from a shelf/display. Then you walk over to the register and pay for it. Does wine buying in Pennsylvania involve some long, complicated and arcane ritual that takes days to complete?

My next question to the Pennsylvania Liquor Control Board is does this means they are hiring? Wisconsin is a very remote location from Pennsylvania and you are going to need a staff to monitor those video images. At least two people would be required to monitor the kiosks for 72 hours a week. I am sure that we could set up some sort of secure video feed to my home computer. I don’t want to move to Pennsylvania because apparently buying wine there is just too complicated.

A small town Independence Day

Another Independence Day has come and gone, and sparked in me the urge to write about why I love my small town existence.  Yes, the town in which I live has very few retail establishments and a whole lot of taverns.  Yes, I grocery shop at a store named "Piggly Wiggly."  And yes, the coffee shop would not exist were it not paired with the tanning salon.  (Guess which gets more business?)

And yet, there's no place I'd rather raise my family, and the 4th of July just underscores this fact. 

Despite the somewhat suffocating feeling that growing up in a tiny, hopelessly pedestrian community gave me, I'm choosing the same formative experience for my kids.  Partly because my job, as a parent, is to ensure that they want to get the hell out when they are old enough.  But more importantly, because having a real sense of place - - even a grudging one - - is critical to developing, in turn, a sense of self. 

I'm not suffering from the delusion that small town life has any fewer risks than life in the city.  We have drugs, bullies, and plenty of opportunity to screw up your life as a young person here in the sticks.  But there are also plenty of opportunities to do good, neat, inspired things here: like play football or star in the school play or take art classes.  And in a small town, I know from experience, you don't have to be particularly genius at any of these things in order to participate.  Frankly, there's nothing wrong with mediocrity in your youth... I'd rather have my kids take a swing at whatever appeals to them and not have to worry about being great in order to be on the starting team.

Now that I am older and have lived in a (somewhat) larger city for many years, and attended a big university, and traveled pretty extensively, I think having small-town roots served me well.  No matter where I go, I have a place that I definitely come from.  Being from a small town has not hindered my ability to appreciate the finer things in life, to mix and mingle with my sophisticated "betters," or to explore the world. 

While my small town seemed incredibly lame at 15, 16, 17, I'm now almost fiercely prideful of the things I once thought embarrassing. 

I like my 4th of July parade to feature primarily old tractors and dumpy floats cobbled together by a bunch of semi-enthusiastic 4-H'ers. I like my convertible-riding royalty to be a bit plump and pimply. And I really like that the sweaty, uninspired kids in the marching band are wearing the same polyester uniforms I remember donning a generation ago.

The corn and strawberries we eat were grown up the road.  Our politicians walk (democrats) or ride (republicans) down Main Street, waving and shaking hands with constituents who are probably mostly relatives.  We hang out our flags with unabashed sentimentality.

Our fireworks are not fancy, but the whole town comes out anyway.  And sprinkled in with the "ooohs" and "ahhhs" are a few drunken "yee-haws!" that remind me, like almost nothing else, of who I am and where I come from.

I'm Too Sexy for my Diapers...

Maybe it’s because I am an Aunt and not a mother. Maybe it’s because I am not pumped full of mommy hormones, but I find the new limited edition Jean Huggies weird and a little disturbing. The website uses the tag line “The coolest you will ever look pooping your pants.” They don’t look cool because a diaper is essentially puffy, unattractive underwear, and it does not matter what design you print on them, they look stupid. The disturbing part is the ad campaign. A baby strutting down the street with a shirt tucked into his diapers while people stare and sexy runway music plays. It borders on kiddie porn. Who is the demographic for this product anyway?

Cat Tales

There has been a great disturbance in my household resulting in icy looks and tension. I didn’t mean it to happen, but I’ve strayed and my cat knows it. One sniff of my clothes and she knew I had been unfaithful.

Yes, it’s true, when I was at my parents’ farm I snuggled Mittens the Kitten and now my cat is afraid that I’m thinking of trading her in for a younger model. Not that Mittens isn't terribly cute, and goodness knows she is, but to be honest I'm not looking to replace my cat, just give her a playmate.

My attention span for "chase the string" is just not that long and I've been thinking that if she had someone to play with who was willing to spend hours playing that she would be happier. As an oldest child, I fully understand that gaining a sibling means redistribution of toys (i.e. sharing) and other such joys, but there are upsides as well. Perhaps she isn't ready yet.

Apocalyptic grooming

Of the many changes I expect to be wrought by the apocalypse, I believe perhaps the most profound will be in the area of personal grooming. I'm not implying that radioactive wildlife or roaming bands of flesh-eating zombies (depending upon how exactly the horsemen ride in) are not profound changes. But I think, for those of us who plan on surviving the ordeal and building a successful new world order, it is perhaps the little things that will ultimately drive home how truly our lives have changed.

Grooming trends anticipated to drastically change.

1. Shaving. This tradition will clearly become arcane once no one has a boss to impress and mating prospects can be taken more or less for granted. Men can hack off their facial hair when it becomes cumbersome. Women will have no problem sporting short-shorts... and lush pelts.

2. Mani-pedis. The terms "cuticle," "French manicure" and "ped-egg" will quickly become obsolete and replaced by new trends, such as gnawing all fingernails to the quick with the exception of the "pointer" or "eviscerator" finger.

3. Bikini waxes. See the reference to pelts, above. And thongs? One day, we will look back at that trend with the same amazement we now reserve for great-great-grandma's bloomers. With barely-suppressed grins, we will shake our practical heads in amazement at a society that found this type of undergarment acceptable!

4. Styling products. I'm pretty sure no one is going to care if our hair is frizzy, or lank, or dull in the post-apocalyptic period.

5. Eyebrow waxing. In the new era, our eyebrows will cease being merely decorative and return to their original function: keeping sweat out of our eyes. The bushier the better.

Grooming needs that we should begin detailed manufacturing/stockpiling plans for immediately.

1. Deodorant. Just because the world as we know it has come to an end does not mean we can lower our standards in this arena and become dirty hippies who rely on the magical power of underarm "crystals" to cure our stink.

2. Feminine hygiene products. We all love to poke fun at their commercials, but these are an absolutely non-negotiable necessity. First person to develop a post-apocalyptic replacement product (because I'm assuming the run on drugstores is going to be fierce), wins the Nobel Prize.

3. Dental hygiene products. It is likely that sufficient substitutes can be created using available ingredients. Given all we know about proper dental care and the painful problems caused by lack of it, this is one grooming trend we cannot afford to let fall by the wayside.

4. Toilet paper. Is this technically a grooming product? We do not today think of it in those terms. However, I would argue that a lack of adequate, effective toilet paper would grow into a significant grooming issue rather quickly. Let's not trot down that path people. Add toilet paper (or an easily accessible substitute) to your personal list of apocalypse essentials.

These two lists are by no means comprehensive, and I welcome additions as we continue to formalize our comprehensive guide to planning for and ultimately embracing the apocalypse.

An Inconvenient Marriage

Aw, I know lots of folks like him.  And in a wonky, frumpy, muppet sort of way, he might just be loveable.  But no one gets to declare a divorce after 40 years and THAT KISS without a slight scalding from the snarks of the universe.

I liken Al Gore to many of the Hollywood starlets who seem to have it all, and yet are unlucky in love.  Or at least marriage.  (Just think of the beautiful Halle Berry, the likeable Sandra Bullock, the successful Jennifer Aniston.)  What does a guy have to do to hang on to his wife?  Win a Nobel Prize?  (Check.)  An Oscar?  (Check.)  Score the Vice Presidency?  (Check.)  The Presidency?  (Debatable Check.)  Be a kazillionaire?  (Check.)  Look good in flannel?  (Really Debatable Check.)

His kissing skills look like they could be on a long list of gripes that Tipper Gore has no doubt accumulated over the years.  ("It's like mashing my lips up against a bowling ball of lust," I can hear her muttering disdainfully to a girlfriend.)  But my real guess is that, despite her Mennonite-like love of censorship, at heart Tipper is a girl who just wants to have fun.

And being Al Gore's wife, let's face it, doesn't have "fun" written all over it.  I mean, she endured decades of elections, politics and living in the Washington fishbowl.  To be followed by that most harrowing of experiences: Running for the Presidency.  And losing in a horrible, controversial, drawn-out Supreme Court battle.  And instead of throwing in the towel and retiring to a life of golf and jet skis and whatever else the fabulously wealthy do once their political capital wears thin... Al decided to lick his wounds for a couple years and then start building up a whole new pile of political capital. 

Tipper had to have been, like, "Whoa.  I've been down this road.  For several hundred miles.  With very few pit stops.  Explain to me again exactly why you care what any of those jackasses thinks about you anymore?" 

And what was the answer?  I'm bored?  I've discovered I just don't like fun and leisure very much?  I've decided we need more money?

So The Inconvenient Truth and all the glory that went with it was spawned (actually, "stumbled onto" is my theory).  And Al launched himself into the stratosphere as an environmental icon for the ages. 

I can only imagine that the break was confirmed when it became clear that even this was not enough for the quiet egomaniac.

At this point, Tipper is tapping her foot impatiently, growling, "OK my dear.  You did it.  We have, like, three giant Oprah-sized mansions and a lot of fame and everybody thinks you are a rock star.  Can we please resume real life now?"

But real life, for Al, had become a blur of fast cars, California girls, and lines of ... er, well.  Maybe it wasn't that sordid.  But real life - - a marriage, family, jet skis, whatever - - clearly can't compete with the siren call of fame and accomplishment.  For Al, the inconvenient truth is that life, the quiet stuff that happens in between movie premieres and Supreme Court decisions, is no longer enough to hold his interest for long.

I never expected to like someone named Tipper, even a little bit.  But I'm with her on this one.  It would have been nice to see Al put her desires ahead of his own for a decade or two, instead of continually reinventing himself - - at the cost of his marriage - - on the world stage.   

A little support here?

Now that summer has arrived, I find myself daydreaming about the BP oil spill, and wondering what it would take to initiate a similar disaster here on the Great Lakes.  And the smaller lakes.  And the city pool... OK, pretty much anywhere I might be required to don a bathing suit in public. Would a manmade ecological nightmare consisting of giant globules of tar floating in the water and washing ashore be excuse enough to tell my kids, "Sorry, no swimming this summer"?

And speaking of giant globules, let me rant a while about swimsuit manufacturers and their oh-so-flawed understanding of the female breast.  At least said breast(s) after the age of 20.  For the shrinking percentage of us who haven't had implants, that is. 

Breasts (mature, unenhanced, natural breasts), need support.

There, I have stated the obvious.  Now let me delve a little deeper.  (Stay with me swimsuit designers, here's where it gets interesting.)  Adequate support does not consist of a so-called "shelf bra," or an "extra panel," or even a flimsy underwire, especially when said underwire attaches to nothing more than a couple of ties that (is this a joke?) are supposed to tie around your neck.  Do you, swimsuit fashion elites, really expect me to lug a my breasts around for an entire day on a shoestring that is attached to my neck? 

Maybe I'm not shopping the right stores or catalogs.  Maybe I'm just not spending enough money.  (But $80 seems a ridiculous amount to spend on an "outfit" I detest.)  The only bathing suits that seem like they would do the trick up top are the skimpy two-pieces that look almost exactly like a colorful bra-and-panty set from Ms. Secret's.  Oh, they're cute.  But in providing reasonable bosom support, they overlook the fact that the rest of my body needs, shall we call it "special consideration," as well?  Perhaps I could wear a bikini-coverup combo on the tacit understanding that the coverup never comes off.

Or I could dive right into the skirted, blousy numbers intended for the grandma set.  (Not that either of the grandmas in my family would be caught dead in half of them.)  Really, these are my two choices at this stage in life.  I can either put more of my jiggly bits on unsupported display than I feel remotely comfortable with... or I can gratefully sink into several yards of floral flouncing designed to disguise my every human appendage.

In summary, swimwear manufacturers, the bathing suits you design are made for teenaged water nymps or water buffalo.  (No offense to wildlife intended.)  They make manmade natural disasters like the BP oil spill seem like attractive alternatives.  Can't you come up with something supportive, modest, attractive and just a little on the sly side when it comes to my imperfections? 

The price of ethics

Now, I know I'm not the first person to ponder the question, "At what price does someone forgo their ethics?", but I recently discovered that my price is $1.70.

See I shop at a grocery store that offers "perks" if you use one of their stupid cards. I faithfully have them scan my little savers card every time I shop. This earns me points. The points are good towards cash off the price of a gallon of gas. The gas station chain my grocery store has partnered with - you guessed it; BP.

Now, I can see several sides to this whole BP debacle, really I can. But I have personally landed on the side of snearing and tsk, tsk-ing at BP for being so irresponsible even a six year old could have figured out that if you build something you should have a contingency plan for when something big (fire, force of nature, and for our six year old possibly another kid) comes along to knock it down. Duh. Yes it's their fault. Yes it's their mess. Yes they should be responsible for cleaning it up. All of it.

So, I have been purposefully avoiding getting gas at BP as much as possible. Until today.

The last time I got groceries, I again handed over my saver card. The nice little check out girl handed me my receipt and specifically circled my points total shown at the bottom, "Ooo, you're up to $1.70 off a gallon of gas."

And so this morning friends, I caved. I needed gas in my car. I kept hearing perky little high-school checker girls voice in my head "$1.70 off a gallon of gas...", and my budget was crying out for some relief.

Yes, my ethics were bought for $1.70. I begrudgingly pulled into BP, swiped my tainted savers card, and proceeded to pay a mere $.95 a gallon for gas. I filled my tank.

Am I a bad person readers? Would you have caved into the siren song of a really good discount like I did? I would like to think that money is not a motivator, but alas it sure as hell got me to change my behavior.....

Salute to Margaret Sanger

Ah yes, the Birth Control Pill.  We are hearing much about it these days because the Pill has a birthday this month.  It is 50 years old, which means I'm old enough, and my mother was old enough, to enjoy its benefits.  (How well it worked for my mother is another story altogether.)

Still, I'd like to raise my glass and toast Margaret Sanger and the other visionaries who contributed to this most useful invention. 

Without the Pill, I wonder whether I'd have an advanced college degree or an interesting career.  (Yes, feminism was already on the rise and I am certainly not implying that the Pill alone made these things possible for me as a woman.  Still, the ability of women to take charge of family planning no doubt contributed.)

I also wonder just how many kids I'd have by now, and how old they would be.  I didn't marry until my late 20's, and I didn't have my first child until I was 30.  That's not unusual for college-educated women these days, though it's still a bit older than the national average.  And gads, who would those children be with?!  I was not necessarily promiscuous, but I certainly wasn't making the best choices in the man department at 20.  If puppy love (and all that it entails) had automatically resulted in children, my life would be different indeed.

Without a doubt I'm a better mother for having been able to wait on starting my family.  This isn't a knock on women who have children young.  I know several who had kids early and they are not only great mothers, but they also have put together great educations and careers.  For me personally, maturity and selflessness (two key ingredients for good parenting) blossomed a bit late.  Could I have sucked it up and tossed aside my independence, self-centeredness and general desire for fun if I'd needed to?  Probably.  But I love the fact that I got to be a single gal and all that entails for as long as I did.  Now that my life revolves around preschool, diapers and playdates, I can look back wistfully, but without regret.

Now if they would only invent a magic pill for some of life's other challenges. 

More reasons to like gum

I, for one, would enjoy my nightly dose of television a great deal more if gum-makers would air more commercials. 

Gum is one of those products where a :30 spot may actually matter.  I mean, a pack of gum costs what it costs.  (No way to battle on price.)  It all tastes about the same.  (Although they keep coming up with ridiculous flavors.  Pomegranate gum?  Blech.)  And it all performs the same basic function, although you can try to highlight different benefits to a small degree.  Like toothpaste, gum provides a perfect snapshot of why many product categories still need the added value a brand can infuse in order to differentiate themselves in the marketplace.

Plus, some of the ads are just plain entertaining. 

I like the Orbit ads with the cute British girl talking about how clean or dirty your mouth is.  ("Fabulous!")Because, hey, that's why I chew gum.  And if those scuzzy mud-wrestlers have twinkly smiles and fresh breath, then surely a piece of Orbit can help with my much-less-challenging oral hygiene.

I also like the Stride commercials where unsuspecting folks are forced in extreme ways to spit out their gum. Especially when the guy gets butted by the goat.  That's right up there with the best Superbowl ad this year in my book. 

I even like the over-engineered "5 Gum" ads, where they lower that person into a giant hair dryer, just to show you the goosebumps you'll get by chewing their minty flavor.  Now that's truly advertising the way I like it: a commercial that looks like it cost roughly the same amount of money as Ridley Scott's latest film... all to sell you a $1.29 product.  Woo hoo!

There are bad, boring gum ads.  And there are plenty of gum brands that don't even bother with television advertising.  And while a great ad will likely get me to try a new brand once... I tend to migrate back into familiar territory when grabbing a pack in the check-out aisle. 

Still, I'd like to salute the more creative chewing gum advertisers for providing more than just a useful, delicious, low-calorie product.  Thanks for going the extra mile and actually providing some entertaining advertising as well.

The Apocalyptic Economy: Investing in the Worst Case Scenario

When the sun rises on a blasted landscape teeming with disease and mutants trying to eat your brains, you are going have to decide what is really valuable to you and your survival. Sadly, it is not going to be that fancy sports car, those super sexy stilettos, or any of the toys that you own. Survival will depend upon arable land, drinkable water and the will and ability to fight for these things. The modern human all too often makes the mistake of valuing objects that are merely shiny and decorative rather than actually useful. Diamonds may be a girl's best friend, but in the event of world ending horror, they are only useful if they are a weapon. A nice sharp diamond dagger could really do some damage to a mutant's soft and dangly parts. Guns are all well and good, but you also need to stockpile ammo or have the ability to make your own. So in preparation for the worst case scenario, what is the most profitable way to spend your time and money?

The number one investments for those preparing for the collapse of society are weapons such as swords, knives, and spears and lessons on how to use them effectively. This will be essential to surviving long enough to reach a safe sanctuary and give you the ability to defend your limited resources and personal safety. For those with the ability to think on a grander scale, investing in several acres of land that is remote from major population centers and contains its own water source and fertile soil is the best investment you can make. It is a plus if the land contains natural features such as mountains that make it easily defensible.

Once you have your land you can start refining it to create your own post apocalyptic sanctuary. It would be wise to first create some sort of shelter. Either sturdy above ground dwellings or a network of underground bunkers would be good, but a mixture of both is optimal. Whatever you decide make sure it is self sustaining and completely off the grid. This includes a sanitation and water filtration system and the ability to generate your own energy through the use of solar panels or wind mills of some sort. Building a mill and a forge would also add value to your apocalyptic shangri-la.

Now that the compound is built you will need supplies. Stock up on canned food so that you give yourself time to grow crops. The apocalypse will not occur on your planting schedule. Make sure you have plenty of seed available to plant. Your next investment should be livestock of some kind. Now don't over do it on the livestock, you don't want to be struggling to feed five hundred head of cattle when supplies are scarce, but horses, cows, and chickens would be a beneficial addition to any compound. Simple medical supplies will also be useful but don't expect to be able to rely on modern medicine. It would be better to spend time and money studying natural herbal cures and obtaining as many of the necessary plants as possible. There will be no supply trucks so think self sustaining and renewable resources. Now the last and most important investment you can make for the doom of humankind may seem strange, but I urge you, nay implore you to stockpile salt. This versatile substance is necessary to preserve food and life, and in the post apocalyptic economy may become more valuable than gold. So when thinking about your future or lack thereof, I encourage you to rethink that great new IPO or ten thousand shares of Microsoft because when things get gritty those investments will make really great toilet paper.

What's wrong with this picture?

One of these things is not like the other,
one of them's different, can you tell?
Can you guess which kid is doin' his own thing?
Guess before my song is done....
(da,da, da, da, da-dah...)
And now my song is done.*

Can someone tell me when Time magazine became a tabloid? I'm so out of touch apparently.

(*I'd just like to thank the fine people at the Sesame Street Workshop for their classic lyrics. One of my fave's.)

What Are U Thinking?

Lately I have noticed these snarky little sarcastic commercials gracing the airwaves, and they seem to be about feminine hygiene products. While I applaud the tone of the commercials, I look at this new product line U by Kotex, and I have to ask what are you thinking? It seems they are attempting to make your menstrual cycle hip, cool and no big deal. Well I have news for you Kotex, a period will never be hip or cool and no amount of slick black packaging and day glow applicators are going to help. It is a physically and emotionally messy time in every woman's life and having neon colored tampons will do nothing to alleviate the mood swings, bloating and cramps. Why do you think the promise of fewer and lighter periods is a selling point for birth control pills?

The other problem I have with this product line is that they are so busy being cool that they never stop to explain why U by Kotex is better than other products. Why do you deserve my six bucks? There doesn't seem to be any meaningful innovation here, people. Where is the promise of leak guards and 360 degree protection? The best slogans they have to offer are "Later, Dullsville. Hello, Different." and "OOOH...It comes in my color". Who the hell cares? Its a period not a rave or a cool new accessory. I doubt many women and girls will be waving their feminine hygiene products around in public no matter how "cute" and "trendy" they are. Your period is not supposed to be fun and it is a big deal. Women need products that work not a neon party pack of funky colors.

Open Letter to Hollywood

Dear Hollywood,

Please explain to me how you have run completely out of ideas for new movies?

I guess being from the Midwest I have some idyllic vision of you being overwrought with would-be movie hacks spewing their 60 second elevator pitches every minute of every day. I simply can't imagine that my mental picture is that far off from the truth.

If this is so, then why oh why have you chosen to spew forth a barrage of 80's movie remakes? Are the up-and-coming movie writers of today really so pathetic that you have to make Clash of the Titans (again) and The A-Team (again, albeit this was a TV show and not a movie).

The original, and still best	I'm not sure if I should like you or not.

I mean, haven't any of you learned your lessons from the recent trips down memory lane -- G.I. Joe, Transformers (ok, toys from that era, but you see where I'm going), Fame and Indiana Jones...

Come on. You can't tell me that turning The Karate Kid (slated for 2010), Red Dawn (slated for 2010), Tron (slated for 2010), and The Highlander (slated for late 2010) into updated versions is going to do diddly squat for your sales, your image, or your prestige.

As a movie goer, and child of the 80's I'm pleading with you. Please either come up with new, original, decent stuff (com'on now I know you can do it...) or at the very, very least -- tread softly with my fond memories. I'm sick of having you ruin them with special effects and skankier actors.

Yours sincerely,
Disgruntled Gen-Xer

Get Over Yourselves Heidi Montag and Spencer Pratt

Okay. I know what you're thinking. This one is way too obvious. I mean if anyone needs a reality check it is this no talent plastic surgery whore and her sleazy douche bag of a husband. They are a prime example of reality stardom gone horribly wrong, and this nomination is more obvious than Ricky Martin's recent outburst from the closet (yes he's gay and we are all shocked). I mean this is the couple that over 90% of E! viewers said they no longer wanted to hear about on E! News. A certain feisty blond bombshell comedienne will only refer to them as Herpes 1 & 2 when forced by circumstance to mention them on her very popular late night talk show. They are ridiculous and everyone acknowledges it, and yet, like the hearty cockroach, they refuse to die. I felt compelled to make this nomination after getting wind of their latest stab at grabbing attention. It is in such poor taste and so insulting to a minority that has suffered quite enough at the hands of white people, that I could not let if pass without comment.

Spencer and Heidi have given themselves Native American names, and may I say that having discovered my own Native American Heritage a few years ago, I find that I am personally insulted by this pathetically transparent plea for attention. Heidi took the name White Wolf, and Spencer is Running Bear. They said that taking these names was a way to connect with their spirituality.

Wouldn't it solve everyone's problem if one or all of the remaining Native American tribes would declare war on Heidi and Spencer? At least this debacle has one consolation. Heidi and Spencer will surely no longer be welcome in any of the many Indian Casinos, the only place she ever had a snow ball's chance in hell of "singing". Then again, Native Americans truly have suffered enough.

On a separate note, I would like to say to all the previous nominees in this category, especially Lindsay Lohan, to take a good look at yourselves people because now you are in the same category as Heidi and Spencer.

Get over yourself UPS dude

Who is this UPS whiteboard dude, and why is this an actual national ad campaign? 

My theory is that the entire concept is a subtle ripoff of John Robbins and his utterly fantastic 70's PBS kids series "Cover to Cover."  Remember the show where the dark-haired guy would read you the story while drawing pictures of it?  Yeah.  It was cool.  The UPS guy decidedly is not.

So... unless you plan to draw something more valuable on your whiteboard, can narrate an interesting children's book instead of a clumsy ad pitch, and get a big boy haircut while you're at it: UPS dude, you can just join Lindsay Lohan in getting over yourself. 

Paying a consultant to state the obvious

In the process of wrapping up a five-year consulting business (entirely small time consulting, but nonetheless successful), I stumbled upon another Universal Truth. 

Companies invariably value the opinion of The Consultant over the expertise of their own employees.

Why is this?  The employees I have encountered are plugged in to the corporate culture, the overall industry, and the day-to-day challenges facing a given organization in a way that The Consultant can never be. 

Yes, The Consultant sometimes has the advantage of seeing things from the outside.  They're not in the trenches every day, absorbed in deadlines and details.  The Consultant sometimes has a "best practices" advantage in their area of expertise... having worked, I imagine, with many similar organizations facing the same issues.  The Consultant is not bogged down by whatever culture, operational heirarchies, territorial issues and sacred cows that work together to create the landscape that employees have no choice but to operate within.

All too often, however, The Consultant is given an inordinate amount of credence simply for stating the obvious. 

I wonder how many employers could save a buck - - and quite possibly end up with even stronger results - - if they empowered their own key leaders to become "consultant for a month."  Seriously.  Take the everyday workload and set it aside at a feasible time, and grant the right employees an opportunity to share their insight. 

I know there are many companies where this wouldn't work.  Not every employee, even a great one, can think out of the box.  Or even wants to.  But some of the places I've encountered would do well to plug into what their own people have been telling them all along, instead of bringing in a fancypants outsider to pitch the same ideas.

That said, it's been a fanstastic ride, and having the freedom to be the person charged with thinking creatively about organizational issues has suited me perfectly.  I applaud any employer willing to listen and make changes - - wherever the source of their guidance.  The people I've worked for have been amazing, and I highly recommend consulting as an interesting and challenging line of work. 

Ultimately, I hope my stint as The Consultant makes me a better employee, now that I'm taking off my fancy pants and leaping back over to the other side of the fence.

Death is stalking us all

It’s a rarely disputed fact that we are all on our way to becoming our parents, right? The only real debate seems to be the timing. And how hard to fight it.

I liken the aging process to an insidious creep. It’s the tiger silently following you through the jungle. You know it’s there, and it’s scary as hell, but just keep on walking because you don’t really have a choice.

So those rare moments when the “you’re old!” tiger leaps out of the underbrush, claws glistening, are really, really disconcerting.  Here is a small collection of recent “tiger” moments I’ve experienced lately:

• Thinking how cool it is that my tots are rocking out to “my” music (instead of Barney) in the car… only to realize my previously razor-cool alternative/death metal is now being played on the station one step away from easy listening.
• Being shocked - - shocked! - - by what teenagers are wearing these days, even though I strutted around the same hooker borderlands right into my mid-20’s.
• Realizing I actually don’t want a tattoo that badly, after all.
• Learning that makeup isn’t the magical answer it used to be. Instead of a fun option that can make me look extra-fancy, it’s quickly becoming the thin line separating my morning face from that of an embalmed corpse.
• Having way too many of those “my generation was so much more __________” moments. I mean, we listened to the best music, were the most anti-establishment (in our disorganized slacker way), wore the coolest clothes, and had the best time ever. And who the hell do these kids think they are, anyway?

No I won't be your "Fan" on Facebook - Stop bugging me!

Lately, I’ve noticed my local news programs touting their Facebook pages at every opportunity and repeatedly asking viewers to be their “Fan.” You mean it's not enough for you that I am up a 6 am enduring your insipid banter and not hurling large objects at the TV screen? You exist on my TV for the purpose of providing me with a weather forecast and assuring me that the apocalypse has not or is not occurring. I need both these things to start my day with confidence. I don’t need you to plead with me, like the pathetic cross eyed kid in grade school who creeped everyone out by rocking back and forth at his desk eating paste and boogers, to be your friend. I mean it is starting to sound rather desperate, this lunge towards social marketing. Just because you have a page on a social networking site, it doesn’t make you cool. It is definitely not cool to beg for attention either.

To be fair, my distaste for this marketing tactic may have a little to do with my own personality. As very smart and slightly awkward child, I was an outsider in my small town. I pissed off my peers by being smarter than them and at the same time I was pathetic at sports. I never felt like I belonged, and I decided early on that belonging wasn’t cool. I became devoted to the things on the fringes. I liked the weird music, the books that were different, and the arty films. When one of my obsessions hit the main stream, I would lose interest in it completely. Like it became tainted by the masses and suddenly become uncool. It had “sold-out” for the sake of popularity.

I was a drama kid and later, a Theatre Major in college. I never wanted to join a group or allow people to label me according to my interests. Thankfully I have grown out of most of these tendencies. Although I still can’t bring myself to commit to a political party. Still there is one little black corner of my heart that finds this lust for popularity and acceptance very distasteful. A little room with black walls, lots of candles, music by XTC and a shrine to River Phoenix.

It is for this reason that I have resisted the internet, cell phones, and mp3 players. Eventually I will adopt the technology, but I have to plant my Army surplus combat boots somewhere and pick a line I won’t cross.

So that is why, local news and corporate entities, I will never be your Fan on Facebook.

Surviving the Apocalypse: What do You Bring to the Party?

As anyone who follows this blog knows, the apocalypse could occur at any moment. We here at Snarklet feel that being prepared is our best defense against impending doom. When the crap hits the fan, it is important that you bring some skills to the party. In the aftermath of a civilization destroying event, the fact that you can text 90 “words” per minute will not save your ass from marauding hordes of mutants, feed and hydrate your family, or help rebuild society and preserve human culture. You don't survive the apocalypse by collecting bottle caps. Think low tech skills like the ability to grow crops, hunt and cook food, make clothing, and defend others, because these skills will be difference between you gaining a place in the new world order or gaining a place on a roasting spit.

I myself can cook and knit, and more importantly I have friends and family. I know at least two black belts, two experienced construction workers (one with an engineering degree), two health care professionals, six avid gardeners, two people with access to lots of land/livestock, and someone who spins her own yarn. In fact, my friend Jane, the spinner, may just be the future of the human race. Jane can garden, cook, sew, knit and now, spin her own yarn. (We are expecting a loom to show up any day now.) She runs and bikes daily and is in phenomenal shape. We know she can kick all of our combined butts (with the possible exception of the black belts), and should any one of us become a threat to the new world order, she would not hesitate to take us down.

So take a look around at yourself, your family, and your friends. What do you bring to the apocalypse? How can you contribute to rebuilding society? Even my brother, the sweetest and gentlest man I know, possesses a talent for music and math that will allow us preserve those skill sets for the next generation. So the next time you start feeling really good about your McMansion in the suburbs, your fancy cars, your high powered corporate job, and your spoiled whiny 2.5 kids, ask yourself what you would bring to the Armageddon fiesta and who would you invite?

Get Over Yourself: Kate Gosselin

Ok, first off I'm just going to say that I have been marginally entertained by "John & Kate Plus 8" back when the show used to be about the kids. Remember them? (that question was for you Kate and John...) But since the switch to focusing more on the parents and their drama I have, for the most part, tuned them out as mere white noise.

But, after seeing what Kate said about being on Dancing with the Stars (another show I don't watch, by the way), I have to add her to the "Get over yourself" list.

In an interview with Access Hollywood, she claims she is dancing for all the moms out there...

Kate also added that she would be dancing for moms across America. "All the moms out there, this is for you," she said before her Viennese waltz. "Wish me luck."

Really. Really.

Let me tell you, as a mom - this is the last thing we need. Thanks Kate, but I really don't need you or your high-priced extensions being shoved around a dance floor poorly on national TV to be done -- for me. I'd say you and your over-bleached new teeth need to maybe just get a little grip first before you go spouting off about representing any moms anywhere. Please keep in mind you have now been added to a category you share with Lindsay Lohan, and you have 8 children to teach by example.

So, yes, I wholeheartedly feel that she's due for a strong does of getting over herself.

A Cougar Moment

The other day I had a little sneak peek into the world of cougars – no, it wasn’t an episode of Nature, it was the other much more dangerous kind of cougar. At this point I feel obligated to point out that while I have no issues with ladies dating much younger men, it isn’t what I’m looking for personally. Let’s just say that I’m just not that into babysitting.

My introduction into the cougar scene began with a routine shopping trip. I walked into the store and was greeted by the clerk who was either a freshman in collage or 12, I wasn’t quite sure. Yeah, that would make him old enough to be my much younger cousin or something. Anyway, he was able to find the first item on my list, but was a little stumped trying to find the exercise bands I needed. At this point, he volunteered to track some down that he had at home. Hmm, awkward. . .Before he could volunteer contact info I sputtered out thanks and hastily confessed that I had something at home that might work as a substitute, paid my bill and headed out.

Now some may argue that I was a bit bedraggled and it may have actually have been pity on his part, but choose to believe that I was being hit on. Some of you may call that denial; I call it my cougar moment.

'Other women' who just don't measure up

The latest celebrity sex scandal has me wondering, more than ever, about 'other women.'  Why have so many high-profile men with exceptional wives cheated with such lowbrow mistresses?

It has to be really kinky sex. 

(And I am not talking about mildly kinky. I mean really kinky - like, you'd have to pay a woman to perform that act.)

I mean, I can't actually think of a single other category in which "Bombshell" McGee can compete with Sandra. 

Dear god, can you imagine the horror of knowing that every time (probably forevermore) someone googles your name, pictures of this tramp will pop up?

Not to mention Tiger's string of mentally deficient not-quite-whores compared to the stunning, seemingly intelligent Elin. 

Or, say, Elliot Spitzer's actual whore.  (Yes, she's trying to reinvent herself as an advice columnist, but I'm going to be uncharitable and still think of her as a whore.  And not even a very pretty one.)

This is quite good news for most of us, actually.  I am pretty sure the percentage of men who demand truly kinky sex has got to be minute.  And a large number of the uber-kinkies are probably overindulged Hollywood (or Washington) jerks.

In other words, probably not your husband or mine. 

Of course, if kinky sex were the only reason men cheated, we'd all have installed dominatrix dens in our basements by now.  Heck, I'd rather don some latex and grab a whip than go through a nasty divorce.

We average chicks still have to worry about infidelity.  But if we ever find ourselves stuck in an unfortunate situation with an 'other woman,' let's at least hope she's not a clueless, unattractive, overly made-up (botoxed-up, implanted-up, tattooed-up) prostitute.

Now, go kiss your husbands.

 

What is Fisher Price thinking?

Perhaps this might become a new category - What are/were they thinking? - but I had to at least share this one, as I find it to be so bizarre.

With or without children, I think this one is weird. I myself, having one of those kids, have been previewing a few toddler items that one will need and came across this little number...


First off, I do not now, nor ever want to poop in a place that has a smirky grin like that. Seriously, do they think this will make it easier for a toddler? As a kid/first time pooper, wouldn't you be more scared of something with a face and than without? The product description from the Fisher Price web site is as follows:

There’s a fun clicking sound when you push down the handle. There’s even a toilet paper holder. With songs to learn and encouraging phrases and sounds to discover, the Cheer for Me! Potty really does make potty training fun! Because it looks similar to a real toilet, it encourages kids to make the transition to the grown up “potty”. Requires 3 AA batteries."
What!? Songs and "encouraging phrases". What exactly are those like, "Good job, now push that poo out!" And why exactly is potty in quotes? And let me tell you - if I have to use 3 AA batteries in anything that's this close to my babies ass I have more than one concern about said product. Do they really think all that makes "potty training fun!"

Now, normally I'm a big fan of Fisher Price, but on this one I have to give them a huge heartfelt - What Were They Thinking.

Why Brunettes will kick the asses of Blonds and Redheads any day

So, it has come to my attention that the blonds and redheads out there seem to think life revolves around their hair colors. Bah! For them, I'm sure it does....

As a brunette you see, we are indeed too busy with our high-powered everything to devote much time to the paltry musings of the less pigmentally-endowed. But as the previous post has basically double-dog dared me to, I must respond.

You see, brunettes are the ones you don't want to mess with. Brunettes are always cast as the heroine, weather it be in action or fantasy or comedy or love. Brunettes embody mystique, femininity and strength all in one. We are alluring, charming, deeply intense and ridiculously funny all at once.

See what I mean.

As for that, we are also the ones you want to be sitting next to in say, a disaster such as armageddon or machines turning on us. While there are several brunette femme fatales, there are equally as many with killer sweet moves:







Yes people, being a brunette means you are able to be as coy as Hepburn, alluring as Loren, as funny as Tina Fey, and as kick-your-ass-into-next-week as Linda Hamilton. We can bring home the bacon and fry it up in a pan. And if we're too damn tired after work to do that, we can easily get our significant others to do so for us with nothing more than a coy wink or if needed, "the look".

I say being a brunette is by far the most intriguing of all the coiffure shades.

Blond ambition

As a natural born blonde, I felt the need to respond to the earlier post extolling the virtues of redheads. Let me make it clear that I have nothing against red hair or the ginger people, as they are sometimes called. I myself have been a redhead from time to time, courtesy of our friends at Clairol.

Although my hair has not retained its flaxen shade, I still feel that I am at heart a blonde. When I say blonde, I am not referring to the bleached bubble heads with fake tits that reside mostly in the universe of porn and girly magazines. I mean the blondes of old Hollywood like Jean Harlow, Marlene Dietrich, Mae West, Greta Garbo, and Marilyn Monroe. These women were sexy, feisty, sultry, funny and smart. These women were the blondes that had more fun, and they made blonde look good. But like everything else that becomes popular and copied, every bimbo with a bottle of bleach decided she could be a blond.

Sorry girls, it doesn’t work that way. Blond is not a hair color. It’s a state of mind.

You have to be smart and witty without being too obvious and smug. A great blond is bubbly and fun without being clueless. She has confidence and respect for herself and others.
I look at the famous blondes today and I can’t help feeling let down. Britney Spears and Jessica Simpson give blond a bad name with their vapid antics and marginal talent. Madonna is a great performer and is mostly known for being blond, but there is something a little too brittle and calculated about her, like a brunette that is trying too hard.

Then there are the blondes that give me hope. Ellen DeGeneres, Drew Barrymore, Chelsea Handler, Martha Stewart and Ru Paul are my favorite modern day blondes. So when you think of blond, think of these ladies and “lady” instead of the bimbos that decorate the world of smut.

Being blond isn’t easy, but if you can pull it off, if you are up to the challenge, it is a hell of a good time.

Written by the lovely, blond-at-heart MK Jensen.  Still waiting on commentary from the brunette corner.  They're probably too busy with their high-powered careers.

Get over yourself Congress

A fresh nomination for people who need to get over themselves: The United States Congress – both houses.

Seriously can you people just do your damn jobs for once? Stop with your conniving and filibustering. It’s not about you, you arrogant bastards! At time when this country needs you to be at your best you are giving it your worst. We need health care, we need jobs, and we need to fix the financial system. We do not need petty backstabbing and political maneuvering. If being put in the same category as Lindsay Lohan is not a wake up call, then you really need to get over yourselves.

Special thanks to an opinionated MK Jensen for this submission.

Get over yourself Lindsay Lohan

Today we introduce a delightful new category, and invite you to submit your own nominations.  The first-ever "Get over yourself" nominee is: Lindsay Lohan.

She is suing E-Trade for $100 million dollars for their ad that includes a “milkaholic” baby named Lindsay. She has compared herself with Oprah and Madonna in terms of one name recognition. Really Lindsay Lohan? A sexually confused former child star that has more in common at this point with Gary Coleman is on the same level as Oprah or Madonna. What was the last movie you were in? Your biggest claim to fame lately is a line of leggings and you were banned from Fashion Week in New York. Seriously Lohan, get over yourself.

Excellent new category suggested by contributer MK Jensen.

Men who are actually sexier once they open their mouths and begin to speak

My nomination in this category is Mr. Jon Stewart of Comedy Central’s Daily Show with John Stewart.

While a bit on the short side and slightly balding, Mr. Stewart’s sense of humor and quick wit make him the perfect anchor for a faux news show that pokes fun at all aspects of society. Combine this wit with interviews of celebrities, authors, political pundits and elected representatives that are not only entertaining but also thoughtful and enlightening, and Mr. Stewart’s sex appeal increases exponentially.

He is respectful without pandering to his guests and is the first to admit his own ignorance. Sometimes he is even the unlikely voice of reason, unafraid to ask any political extremist the kind of questions that occur to those with less colorful points of view.

While poking fun at everyone else he is the first to laugh at himself, and this combination of confidence, humility and puckish glee is what makes him, in my humble opinion, actually sexier when he opens his mouth.

Contributed by MK Jensen.

Mustache migration

At our annual tradeshow earlier this week, I was delighted to reconnect with some colleagues I haven't seen in a few years.  These are people who serve on our board of directors, putting them into that shadowy territory where "boss" and "friend" meet.  No, they're not exactly friends.  I mind my P's and Q's, and so do they.  But I've known most of them almost 10 years now, and I genuinely like them. 

However, there was one startling observation to be made: The mustaches are migrating.

And, I must add, at risk of crossing into totally unprofessional territory, it is to good effect.  One or two of these gentlemen were practically unrecognizable without their trademark facial hair.  They were handsome older fellows to begin with, but they looked markedly younger with their new, fresh faces.  These guys are in their 50's and 60's... and their mustaches suited them well.  But now they look, well, modern.  More approachable.  Dare I say charmingly vulnerable?

And so it is with some apprehension that I confess the men of my own generation are suddenly exhibiting a strange fascination with facial hair.  Mustaches in particular.  Large, porn-star-from-the-70's mustaches to be truly precise.

For example: Would you trust this man with your children?

Because teach, my friends, is what this person does for a living.  I've disguised his identity here not so much for his own sake, but for the sake of my dear sister, who is married to him.

Apparently all the teachers in their school (well, the male ones) decided to grow extremely large, extremely sleazy mustaches this year.  Just in time for YEARBOOK PHOTOS.  Yes, this picture has been immortalized.

And it's not just my brother in law.  My husband is just dying for his own pimp-stache.  As are others in his circle.  I am beginning to wonder if mustaches are some sort of crafty alien parasite that feeds off of bored, impressionable young men, discarding their prey once they reach a certain age.

Whatever the reason, I seem to have a front-row ticket to the great crossroads of migration from one generation to the next.  It's quite a treat.  Pull up a chair, take a look around the next multi-generational party you attend, and let me know if you spot a similar phenomenon.

Oscar observations

I'll preface this by saying I don't always watch the Oscars... and I don't usually stay up late enough to watch them all the way through. (Hey, my children are young enough that sleep has been the bigger priority for a few years now.) Last night, however, I made it from the first red carpet interview to the last farewell from Steve Martin and Alec Baldwin.

There weren't any real surprises last night, but plenty to snark about. For example:

I wondered why they opened the field for Best Picture up to ten movies when there really might as well have been only three in the running. How many times last night did someone (the announcer, the presenter, etc., etc.) "The first movie directed by a woman, the first movie directed by an African-American, and oh, Avatar." The little snippets introducing the ten nominees throughout the evening were marginally interesting, but after a while became more promotional nonsense than real substance. And what is with that District 9 film anyway? (Yes, I basically live under a cinematological rock most of the year.) Is it supposed to be funny? Scary? Both? Why is it set in South Africa?

Could they have found someone besides Babs to award Best Director? Was I the only person to find her in-your-face feminism annoying? I'm tickled that a woman director won, but I'm pretty sure she would have preferred to have been acknowledged for being the BEST DIRECTOR. Period. Pointing out her sex over and over during the actual ceremony, I felt, demeaned the achievement somewhat. Maybe I'm a post-modern feminist. I don't feel the need to rub it in everyone's faces when a woman does well. I am grateful to Barbara Streisand and other women who broke down innumerable barriers... but their attitude seems embarrassingly askew in today's reality. Kind of like your grandmother using the word "negro." It's not wrong, per-se. She's trying to be polite and correct. But it's just underlining how out of touch she really is.

Did anyone else find the large woman in purple (best documentary short), grating? She sort of barged onto the stage, interrupted her colleague, and launched into a well-meant-but-still-strange lecture. I found myself wondering who, exactly, she was. And what it must have been like to make a motion picture in her company. Even a short.

Was there any question at all that Sandra Bullock had Best Actress wrapped up? It reminded me of the night Julia Roberts won. She looked so stunning, they might as well have just handed her the statuette as she arrived. More power to her. She always comes across as a nice gal.

ABC's red carpet coverage prior to the formal show? Really uncomfortable to watch. I was trying my hardest to place the stunning mannequin spanxed into that unbecoming sequin gown (Kathy Ireland). She looked gorgeous, but was not well suited to celebrity interviews. Unless all you're looking for is a very sincere "Have fun in there [celebrity]." And that Sherri (?) from The View? Obnoxious is only acceptable when paired with funny. And hitting on George Clooney in front of his date wasn't really very funny. He didn't think so. His date didn't think so. And I'm pretty sure, cute as George is, that joke is not at all funny anymore. The other red carpet guy, editor of something or other, was perfect.

I'm looking forward to the best and worst dressed reviews. I didn't spot too many disasters. Sarah Jessica Parker stood out from the crowd in a good way. Demi Moore stood out in her own mutton-as-lamb way... too fussy a dress, too high a heel, too much (over tanned) leg, and tuck those annoying curling-ironed tendrils behind your ear you twit, you're wearing great earrings.

Finally, did anyone really expect Avatar to win either big award? I mean, I thoroughly loved the movie. But I felt, as did most of the academy apparently, that given 10 years, a staff of thousands to carry out my tiniest demand, and a practically unlimited budget, I probably could have done as good.