Hit Me With Your Best Cut

You know what I hate? Layers. More specifically, the fragility and precision of getting layers just right. I learned from a very early age that layers provide hair with lift. And lift, as we all know, detracts from a fat face. So, you're probably wondering why I hate layers if they are such a great panacea to my meaty mug. Well, too many layers can have an opposite effect. And before you know it, you have very little hair left and you're sporting a Pat Benetard. I got a Pat Benetard the other day at Toni & Guy. I know -- that place isn't cheap. Tell me about it. Why, then, when I asked my stylist to start my layers an inch from my crown, didn't she warn me of the impending doom? That's a great question.

I would like to see a sign posted in hair salons that reads: "As a general rule of thumb, if you are seeking a distance of more than 12-inches between your top and bottom layer, then you don't need a haircut as much as you need Jenny Craig."

This would save us fatties from exacerbating our bloated visages with Pat Benetards. It's difficult to style a Pat Benetard. That top layer -- the one that is only an inch from the crown -- gets all unruly. It takes on a crew-cut attitude -- more up than down -- and pretty soon your blow dryer has given you a square rim around your head. Voila! You're suddenly Fred Flinstone! So, you start smoothing it back down into place and you are actually happy to return to the stoner-esque Pat Benetard.

I really blame the stylists. Even though it's hard to hear it from a stylist, it is their cosmetological responsibility to lead us away from bad haircuts. I once had a stylist who told me my face was too "full" to pull off the cute bob picture that I was holding in my hand. I think I cried all the way home. And I'm pretty sure I never returned to her. But she fulfilled her responsibility. When a 300-pound woman comes in holding a picture of Kate Moss, someone needs to save her!

I'm learning to live with my Pat Benetard. The other day I feathered it and pretended I was Kristi McNichols in "Little Darlins." It was a blast. I also fluffed up my top layer and ran around the house yelling "yabba dabba doooooooooo." Who would have thought that the Pat Benetard would provide me with so much entertainment?

The Devil Invented the Digital Camera

You know what I hate? Digital Cameras. I mean, they offer some great features, such as the ability to take a picture and post it to your computer in a matter of minutes. I’m grateful for this. This allows me to share with you a picture of my 1 and ½ year old niece. Here she is.

I know, I know. She IS beautiful.

Unfortunately, this photo doesn’t do her justice. Why? Because it was taken with a Digital Camera!

Digital Camera companies need to stop marketing their products as baby, child or pet friendly. They are, indeed, NOT! By the time the dumbass camera actually takes the picture, the subject has pulled a Houdini and is nowhere to be found! Now, if you work in a morgue, or a home for senior citizens (preferably crippled ones), then by all means, the Digital Camera is right for you! If not, well, then, plan on a lot of pictures of ironing boards with two strands of blonde hair in the corner.

The Digital Camera companies hide the fact that their products are best suited for dead, comatose or otherwise lifeless subjects. Part of the scam is to plaster tons of pictures of kids, dogs and babies all over their sites. Case in point: This shot, from the KODAK website, of a little girl peering out from a swing-set. Now, what you can’t see (and what explains her slightly frightened look) is that her entire bottom half is duct-taped to the base of the nearest pole.

Here’s another one from Kodak. Ten minutes before this shot was taken, this kid was running all over that backyard. The best the professional photographers could get was a 1-inch square of the hat in the frame. So, they jammed her into this swing to keep her from going anywhere. You can tell something is awry by the way she has her hand held up. She’s like, “what the hell just happened here?”

Another thing I hate about Digital Cameras is that they take forever to load up each terrible picture you’ve taken. So, for example, you get the dog to sit and look cute, then you press the shutter button. In the 1.32-second delay between pushing the button and taking the picture, the dog gets up, and you end up with only a corner of the tail in the shot. Then, the dog goes over and starts snuggling the cat, so you run over to this calendar-quality photo-op and start pressing the shutter button over and over but nothing is happening. So, you look at the little window and see that the picture of the tail-tip is loading at a rate of 1-pixel per minute. By the time the load completes, the dog is done snuggling the cat and has begun to take a crap.

Arrgh! Another missed photo op – all because of the DEMON DIGITAL CAMERA.

I think we, as smart consumers, need to stand up for our rights! We need to burn our digital cameras and return to the days of the single lens reflex. Either that, or I recommend buying stock in a good duct-tape company.

It's a Paranoid Life

You know what I hate? That I'm so pathetic. Yes, it's true. While I might seem like I have some semblance of confidence, I actually don't. Being unemployed, while I truly enjoy it, is exacerbating my already low self-esteem. But I have a few things that help me feel as if I'm adding value in the world: my 'flourishing' garden that I worked so hard on (can you eat a cauliflower that's 1-inch in diameter??), spending extra time with my kids and MY BLOG. Yes, my blog is one of the more important things in my life. Sad, isn't it. Not as sad as the story I'm about to tell.

The story begins with the new "hit counter" that I placed on my blog. It appears in the right-hand column of my blog. It counts up the number of people who visit, so I don't have to guage my success in blogging on the number of comments posted. I've been watching that hit counter every day. Sometimes several times per day. Don't worry - I'm smart enough to deduct my own visits to the blog from my total. At any rate...on with my story.

Last Saturday, I moped around ALL DAY. Why? Because I learned that a member of my family HATES my blog. It really bothered me. I know it's a free country, but I believe that anyone who doesn't like my blog should be put in jail for treason. I started doing the "Mopey Popey" dance for my husband. Ladies -- do you know this dance? It goes something like this: "Put your bottom lip out, put your hand on hip, put your bottom lip out and say, 'this is a bunch of shit.' You do the mopey popey and you throw some breakables around, that's what it's all about."

Yeah, I was doing the "mopey popey" big-time on Saturday. Then Sunday came, and I felt a little bit better. I wiped the crusty sleep from eyes and logged into my blog. 97 visitors? Are you joking me? I couldn't believe my eyes! In one 24-hour period, I had almost doubled my traffic. In a fleeting moment of pure elation, I thought only of Oprah. You know how anyone mentioned by Oprah gets famous the very next day? For that fleeting moment, I thought maybe, just maybe Oprah had mentioned me on the TV. Like, maybe while talking to Jim Carrey, she says, "you're a funny guy....and so is this blog that I just happened to come across the other day...". Lame, I know. But I'm unemployed! My mind wanders into strange territory these days.

I also had two new 'Anonymous' comments. Seemed to be perfect strangers (one with bad grammar, but I was even willing to overlook this). I welcomed these new nameless visitors out loud!

Here's where the story gets sad. I ran in to tell my husband about my newfound success as a blogger. I ranted and raved and told him that my traffic had indeed DOUBLED overnight. I felt like those infomercials where the excitement could hardly be contained! Then I started to rationalize how the traffic doubled. Oprah was probably not the culprit. Who then? How did I suddenly get famous? I pondered and pontificated out loud, in front of my wide-eyed hubby. For a long while, he said nothing. Then...

"Honey," he said, eyes bowed like a puppy who's just eaten a sterling silver christmas present. "It was me."

"What was you?" I asked, hoping he'd tell me that he emailed every friend and colleauge from years gone by and invited them to read my blog.

"It was me who messed up your hit counter. I sat there last night and kept hitting refresh. I just wanted you to be happy."

He also confessed to the two new anonymous posts -- one of which he purposely added a grammatical mistake to put me off his trail.

So, there you have it. Sad. Pathetic. And most of all, my hit counter is forever inaccurate now.

Now, you can look at my husband's actions in one of two ways. 1) What a sweetheart. I don't deserve him. He just wants to make me happy for godsakes! or 2) So he lied to me? What the hell else has he fabricated in the name of "love"? Did I really lose 5 pounds or is that the work of a liar with a screwdriver and mechanical "scale" knowledge? Do the kids really think I'm a pretty mommy or has daddy included them in a little payola scandal? Two dollars for every compliment to mommy? One dollar per hug? 75 cents if you also include the word "love" during your hug? And what about these letters I get that say, "Valued Customer." Might they be forged documents? I just don't know WHAT to believe.

Oh well. In the end, I guess I should be happy that someone cares enough about me to go to all that trouble. But I'm still hoping Oprah mentions me on the air.

Testy Toasters (not THOSE kind of testies you perve)

You know what I hate? Toasters with an attitude. I have hated them since I was old enough to brown up some tasty latch-key kid Rainbo Bread as an afternoon snack.

The toaster I have right now, which wasn't cheap (those wide slots for bagels aren't for the impoverished), thinks it's the boss of the world. No matter what I set the "brown-o-meter" to, my toaster decides that a mild parch is sufficient. It's starting to piss me off!

When my toaster catapults a doughy white bagel at me, after I've set the meter to a crispy brown setting, I get really, really mad. Then I try to push the lever back down, but it won't stay. The toaster, in its "I rule the world" kind of way, is saying to me, "That bagel is crisp enough. Now move along, fatty!"

So, refusing to be outsmarted by a toaster, I hold the little lever down against its will. You know what happens now...because you've been wrestling with these same kind of testy toasters all your life, too. Yes, the toaster begins to honk. Or grind. Or whatever the hell it's doing in there.

So, I eat my pasty bagel and decide to try again the next day.

Meat Market

You know what I hate? Fabricated Sinew. The makers of soy-based meat actually think vegetarians prefer to gnaw on rubbery manufactured grissle. Check out the picture of Yves' brand of "Ham." The little white spots are the faux fat particles. Disgusting, huh?

Nobody actually likes the fat in real meats. Fat particles are simply an unfortunate by-product of lazy-ass cows who refuse to take a walk now and then. So, why would a manufacturer replicate this disgusting symbol of bovine indolence in a vegetarian meat? They must know that there's a reason we vegetarians stopped eating meat.

I have some ideas to make the fake meat even more authentic and I'm going to write and suggest them to Yves. First of all, if they could replicate a vein, that would be sweet! Nothing fools your mind into thinking you're eating real meat more than biting into a rubbery artery. Second, some genetically engineered pig hair mixed into the blend would really authenticate the "ham". Last, but certainly not least, perhaps little fake hoof particles within the meat batter would jazz things up for us vegetarians who never get the pleasure of busting a bridge open with some unexpected hoof and bone action.

On a similar subject, somehow, our household of vegetarians got on a mailing list that yielded an invitation to a wonderful "Meat Market." I can't, for the life of me, figure out what we must have purchased or subscribed to that would result in our being on the "meat market mailing list." Maybe it's my husband's recent subscription to "Cops" magazine that did it. Cops do love their meat.

At first, I was disgusted by our invitation to the meat market. Then, as I continued to read, I realized that this was no ordinary meat market. It is actually a smorgasbord of useful vendors all conveniently located on one place. Not only can we cash our paycheck while there, but we can visit the Mexican pharmacy for some cheap Viagra and pick up a pinata for the next kids' birthday! What convenience! I'm wondering what other fun treats are in store for us at the Meat Market? A pedicure? Five-minute massage? Colonic Irrigation? Viva la Meat Market!

Juniors Department

You know what I hate? The Juniors Section at JCPenney. Why? Scroll down.

I know what you're asking yourself right now...is that a jacket or a festive halloween bustier? Judging from my pushed-down flatties, it's certainly not a bustier -- since there's clearly no "boost" or "bust" to speak of! It's a jacket, dammit. And it's a size "Large." I'm not a huge woman by any means, so why does a size "Large" fit me about as well as my daughter's Cabbage Patch Kid Clothes? It's because of the Juniors Department. I think we need to shut down this concept of Juniors having their own miniature clothing line with the same numbers-system as the Misses Department. You know what I mean -- I'm a size 12 in Misses, but the size 12 in Juniors can't be wedged past my calves without a crowbar. We've all been there.

Average-sized women enter the Juniors Dept feeling their weight is acceptable, and leave the Juniors Dept feeling like they want to cash in their 401K for some gastric bypass surgery. Why is everything so tiny? Who invented Juniors, anyway? I think I read once that it was Hitler. I'm sure it had something to do with his notion of the perfect woman -- white, blue-eyed and 83 pounds. He was an ass.

I like the clothes in the Juniors section at Penneys a lot better than those in the Misses section. Is it really fair that my options are either elastic-waisted pants and vests with teddy bears on them or skin-tight jackets that look like bustiers? I guess I should look at this new section called "Juniors Plus." That section is for all the 'gigantic' juniors weighing in the 100 - 120 range. Those fatties should be ashamed of themselves.

Who came up with the names of these departments, anyway? I always get confused with all the fancy department-store language. Misses, Women's, Petites, Juniors, Missy (some stores still use that one. Really.). If I were in the textiles industry, I'd open a store that "tells it like it is." Here would be my sections:

-- Regulars

-- Anorexics

-- Fatties

-- Near-Midgets

-- Missy (which I would keep, only you can't enter unless your name is Missy or Melissa. Then people will realize how dumb this naming convention is).

Would you know which section to go to based on my classifications? Exactly.

You know what else I hate? When you're all wound around in a department store going from one section of clothes to the other, when all of a sudden, you see something really cute and go to find your size and see that dreaded "P" behind it! Suddenly, you realize your fat and tall ass is standing in the Petites. This is especially embarrassing when you're made up of Amazon proportions (5' 9 and a half"). Not that I'd know. And did you ever notice that when you suddenly realize where you're standing, every little muchkin in that section seems to be watching you? And doesn't it seem like you grow a few hundred inches as you try to non-chalantly stroll on outta there like the Jolly Green Giant with bricks in his shoes? Petites shouldn't have their own section. It's too hard on tall people's self esteem. "Get a tailor you lazy asses."