Monday, November 30, 2009

The Sassy Curmudgeon's Holiday Gift Guide, Part 6: AnthropoloGeode or How I Learned To Stop Worrying and Get My F@#$ing Expensive Rocks Off

A Philadelphia correspondent just alerted me to something on the Anthropologie site. I might have seen it myself, but I've been avoiding Twee Heaven ever since I bought a shirt that:

A) has constrictive bat wings instead of arms; and
B) cost $98 and then immediately went on sale for less than half the price, but I couldn't return it because seriously I cannot move my arms. Send help.

Anyway, apparently Anthro has decided that it deals in rocks now. Yes, rocks. I guess this is good in one respect: Now crystal fiends can shop discreetly without having to walk into one of those weird stores like the one that just opened in my neighborhood called "Stoned," which I can't even bring myself to look at when I walk past because the inside looks like Prince's Purple Rain album ejaculated on everything and the name makes me cringe, thinking Dude, be cool.

So guess how much a quartz cluster costs at AnthropoloGee, I've Always Wanted To Eat My Cereal Out of a Wee Bowl Made of Felt*?

*no, for real

Have you guessed? $98. Now you tell me: Which of the below photos is the real crystal...

...and which is $1 worth of rock candy?

Similarly, who needs to pay $38 for pyrite...

When you can ball up a wad of tin foil for essentially the same effect?

A single $3.49 45-ft roll of Reynolds Wrap, and your Christmas shopping is done. Time for wine!

This "unearthed trivet" disk goes for $78...

...but I'm pretty sure I have a wizened, five-month old kiwi somewhere in my crisper that I can just lop in half. Instant glamour!

So there you have it: For $5, you can approximate $214 worth of merchandise. Just remember not to wrap the kiwi until right before you are ready to open gifts; it may disintegrate or start to smell. But at the end of the day, it's really the thought that counts.

Saturday, November 28, 2009

Time for Racist Reindeer Games

Well, Thanksgiving is over, and you know what that means: It's time to get my Christmas on.

Oh yeah, I'm gonna get my window lights on, gonna get my Vince Guaraldi Charlie Brown Christmas on, gonna get my gingerbread on, gonna get my carols on.

I'm still in Massachusetts with Jeff's family, so unfortunately I can't start immediately--at least, other than the Charlie Brown Christmas music, which is on my iPod and which always fucks up my shuffle. I'll be bopping down the streets of New York in July, feeling fly in my jean shorts, listening to "Get Out of My Dreams (Get Into My Car)" or some equally cheesy pop song that probably appeared in a Corey Haim vehicle, and all of a sudden I'll hear those little castrati voices singing "Hark! The Herald Angels Sing." Now, though, I will skip right to that shit. That and Frank Sinatra's smoky molasses bedroom voice making sweet, sweet love to "The Christmas Waltz": It's the time of year when the world falls in love...

Of course, the yuletide song that sticks with me the most is "Pablo The Reindeer." You won't be familiar with it unless you were a member of the glee club at a largely hispanic elementary school in the late 80s. And oh, you don't know what you were missing. There were some great things about being at a diverse school--we sang "Lift Ev'ry Voice" and the Spanish national anthem along with "The Star-Spangled Banner" at every assembly--but "Pablo," which we performed each year at the Christmas concert, was not one of them. Let's take a look at the lyrics, shall we?

When Santa goes to Mexico [Ed note: prounounced Me-hi-ko]
He takes a reindeer called Pablo
Pablo can sing and dance and play
He leads the reindeer all the way

Santa can't speak the Espanol
So he depends on good old Paul
All the muchachos love him so
Pablo the reindeer from Mexico

Without him (la la la la)
Santa would not know where he's going
Ay yi yi yi
Without him (la la la la)
He would not know if it was snowing
South of the border?

Pablo can do the cha-cha-cha
He makes the children laugh, ha ha
All of the children love him so
Pablo the reindeer from Mexico


[Then some lyrics I can't remember, but the song ends like so:]
All the muchachos shout Ole!
Pablo please hurry back they say

Yes, that's right. There was Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen, Comet, Cupid, Donner, Blitzen, Rudolph... and Pablo, the ESL reindeer, who only got trotted out for trips down Me-hi-ko way. Because Santa, although he manages to fit his chubby girth down chimneys and visit every child in the world in a single evening, simply cannot find the time to order Rosetta Stone from Nor does he know how to get anywhere other than within the borders of the continental United States. This song implies that when Santa approaches a foreign child, he begins to sweat, hastily tossing presents under the tree or cacti or whatever and then backing away shouting "MER-RY CHRIST-MAS!" at a decibel level that suggests the listener is deaf or in a coma.

Does this mean that there are other secret reindeer, too? When Santa goes to Iceland does he let Björn out of his cage? Does Kwame come to Africa and play the djembe? There is so much money to be made in follow-up songs...

I think I've found my calling.

Thursday, November 26, 2009

Thank God For Sparkle Vamps (and Life's Other Small Pleasures)

Last year I posted some thanks on the occasion of Thanksgiving, which is certainly not original but which seems appropriate, as I'm not yet jaded enough to offer a list of "No Thanks." While I do enjoy cultivating a persona as a sarcastic little misanthrope, I am in fact incredibly fortunate. I am loved and clothed and fed and employed, and The Huffington Post lets me write expletive-filled fashion diatribes that are published on the front page, right next to serious policy discussions. Despite a diet consisting mostly of candy and wine, I have my health (and, perhaps more surprisingly, most of my original teeth). And I am spending today in the company of beloved family, a very affectionate blind labrador, and an abundance of pies.

Now that I've gotten my attempt at sincerity out of the way, here are a few of the littler things I am thankful for this year:

I am thankful for President Barack Obama and his First Lady Michelle, not because of anything political but because the US now has the most smokin' hot first couple of any nation in the free world. Eat it Sarkozy--Carla carried you.

I am thankful for Megan Fox, not just because of her terminal case of verbal diarrhea that keeps the tabloids talking but also because of her freakish pygmy thumbs, which makes me think that God has a sense of humor.

I am thankful for Robert Pattinson, not because he sparkles in the sunlight and has launched a thousand fan sites, but because he makes me feel tan by comparison, and not my normal, skim milky color that causes my sun-loving grandmother to audibly gasp whenever she sees me.

I am thankful for my shower curtain, which is a collage of old movie stills and which ends up hanging just so that Cary Grant is always sort of creepily watching me suds up. (Although yesterday morning I realized that Shirley Temple --the child version--stares at me, too. Not okay.)

I am thankful for my mother, who thought to bring three bottles of wine and a box of Peppermint Bark on our drive to Massachusetts so that in case we got trapped in the car somehow, we would survive indulgently, for my father, from whom I inherited my writing skills (and my penchant for calling inanimate objects "assholes"), and for my sister, who is finally moving back to New York and who shows me how to watch TV shows on sketchy Japanese websites.

I am thankful for my endlessly patient, kind, and newly bearded husband, who finds it endearing that I eat off the floor and have a second grader's grasp of geography.

I am thankful for my extended Zorabedian family and their spastic, scatalogical charm, for my adorable new nephew, and for my beautiful, talented, hilarious friends and their partners, spouses, and children.

I am thankful for all of you--whether you're anonymous strangers or friends or acquaintances or secret enemies--who read this blog and who tell me I'm funny and who make me feel like it's sort of my job to write, which is my greatest wish fulfilled.

But most of all this Thanksgiving, I am thankful that Jonathan Safran Foer is not a guest at my house. Cause I'm about to go to town on a 23-lb turkey, and I don't take mine with a side of sanctimony.

Happy eating, y'all.

Tuesday, November 24, 2009

The Sassy Curmudgeon's Holiday Gift Guide, Part 5: Tannenbaum Toppers

True story:

My great-aunt Pauline, who has since passed away, was an avid crossword puzzle fan. I never really knew her—I mostly remember that she had an almost cliché old person's house, with a squawking bird and actual circus peanuts in a candy dish and a TV that was always on at a maddeningly low volume—but she and my father spoke on a relatively regular basis, and she would sometimes call up with questions about crossword puzzle clues.

One afternoon some years ago my father received such a call:

AUNT PAULINE: "What do you call those little hats Jewish people wear? Ask your wife." [Ed. note: my mother is a half-blood, non-religious Jew]

DAD: "Uh... do you mean a yarmulke?"

AUNT PAULINE: "No, it's only four letters."

DAD: "Well, what's the clue?"

AUNT PAULINE: "Tannenbaum topper."

DAD: (struggling to hold back laughter) STAR. It's star. Tannenbaum means tree.

And people wonder why I don't identify more with my Jewish roots.

Anyway, if you've been reading my HuffPo recaps, you know that Project Runway Season 6 contestant Shirin Askari was partial to wearing yarmulke-like caps that I mocked probably more than was necessary.

And here is my payback: they're for sale.

Yes, these felt hats—perfect for Peter Pan's bar mitzvah, should he ever grow up—COULD BE YOURS AT THE CLICK OF A BUTTON!!! Just in time for Hannukah, or, as my Aunt Pauline might call it, Tannenbaum lights.


I don't watch music awards shows, but a commenter just wrote something about Carrie Underwood's AMA dress and I realized, shit, thanks to my HuffPo recaps I am sort of a fashion critic now, albeit a completely unqualified one. And I owe it to you guys to be a dick about other people's clothing choices. So thank you, commenter. You've inspired me to create a new category on the blog: Red Carpet Ridicule (my Emmy post was the unofficial first entry, I guess).

So, the AMAs. I don't really get what they are. How are they different from the Grammys? Other than being less important? Can someone school me in this? Irregardless, let's hit the carpet.

We'll start with Carrie. Here's the (it turns out quite astute) comment:

Sorry for the off topic comment, but I immediately thought of you when I saw the "Best Dressed" slide show for the American Music Awards on Huffington Post. Am I crazy or does the dress Carrie Underwood is wearing look almost exactly like the hideous and universally-panned dress Christopher designed for the divorcee challenge on Project Runway? Can you explain the difference to me so that I can understand how this style made the "Best Dressed" list?

Let's see, shall we?

Shiny, poochy, belted... it does bear a strong resemblance to Chris' disaster. Let's do a super-scientific side-by-side analysis...

Wow. Okay. The pictures don't lie. Someone's been sniffing the Jiffy Pop lately. Although I will hand it to Carrie that her dress is much more polished, and the nude pearlescent sheen suits her, against all odds. As to why it landed on the "Best Dressed" list, well, scroll down to see what she was up against.

That wasn't Ms. Underwood's only nod to ProjRun. Later, she performed onstage wearing this:

I can't tell if this is a Mandee's knock-off or a bona fide version of...

Carol Hannah Whitfield's opening Bryant Park dress. Right? Except with shorts that make it look like a Racine Belles uniform from A League of Their Own. Sigh. That's such a good movie.

(UPDATE: This is NOT Carol Hannah-sanctioned. And she hates the shorts, too.)

Anyway, Carrie ended up being the fashion winner of the evening, ice-dancer sparkle and all. How, you may ask, was this allowed to happen? Well, there are so many people to thank.

First, I'd like to thank Rihanna...

...for showing us that poster board and stencils can go a long way during a recession. This dress, however, raises some questions, including but not limited to:

-Do those rose cut-outs show us her, um, rosebush?
-What would an aerial view reveal?
-If unfurled, does this double as a Science Fair exhibit about fertilizer?

RiRi was even more revealing onstage later in the evening:

I hope that she's taking a moment to thank her waxer. Also, what's with the cigarette butts sticking out of her enormous cap sleeves?

No matter. Let's move on, and thank Alicia Keyes...

...for dusting off her Bedazzler and Spin-Art and finding a way to re-wear her old bridesmaid shoes from that hideous mid-90s wedding with the Titanic theme.

I'd also like to thank J-Lo...

For going the way of Gaga and scalping Janice from Dr. Teeth and the Electric Mayhem in order to fashion her skirt. In all honesty, she works it, but her eyes are pointing in different directions (as I've helpfully noted via Photoshop), which could be a smizing attempt gone awry.

If she is seeing double, though, it would explain the falling on her ass.

But hey, at least she was already wearing a pelvic cast.

Man, I should have written these down. So many people to thank for Carrie Underwood's fashion win. Oh! Kristen Bell.

Thank you, Veronic Mars, for wearing what amounts to a high-fashion tube top that—the Fug Girls point out—smacks of Crystal Barbie.

I'd also like to thank Nicole Kidman, for wearing a color combo that Benjamin Moore might whimsically call "Grandma's dust-ruffle" meets "rosacea."

Keith Urban is whispering, "Honey, this is a bad angle. Why don't you show some full-frontal action."


Um, no, not better. It doesn't even look good next to that stoned chick whose chest manages to look flat and saggy at the same time.

Speaking of which, what up, KHud.

Look, I know it's not the Golden Globes, but you could at least brush your hair.

In closing, I would like to issue a public service announcement to Val Kilmer:




Monday, November 23, 2009

Wishful Make-Upping

Well, it only took me four years to fuck with the HTML and dick around with Photoshop and make this blog look like Andie Walsh all dressed up for prom in something she sewed herself out of old car parts.

Anyway, this should hold me till I can get professionals to take a whack at it.

UPDATE: Tell me what you think in the lunchtime poll at right.
RE-UPDATE: Ok, fine, so y'all don't like it. I've removed the new header. Baby steps. I'm keeping the background, though—it's an original artwork by yours truly at age 4. And I hated all that white space...

Sunday, November 22, 2009


Are you there, God? It's Montgomery Clift. I'm gay!

While you all know that I love nothing more than oversharing on the internet, I must admit that there are a number of inconvenient things about having a blog.

For one thing, I can't bitch about anyone I know. I could get amazing comic mileage out of a number of events that I have been forbidden from ever sharing with the general public, and if I didn't care about embarrassing my immediate family (a la my patron saint David Sedaris) I could have a whole other blog devoted just to them. But I want my friends to like me at the end of the day, and I realize that my parents have public personas, not to mention private lives, and that they'd probably be, at best, pissed (and, at worst, deeply hurt) by their daughter plundering the family psyche for blog fodder.

And then, of course, there are my secrets. I basically live in fear of accidentally outing something on the blog that I haven't told someone in person yet. Jeff recently reminded me that I announced our engagement on the blog, and my defense for that gaffe is that I was drunk, and also that it was after midnight, and in my family if you are calling after midnight then someone's had an aneurysm.

But seriously, I've been thinking that when I get pregnant or get a promotion or have anything else major happen I'm going to have to make damn sure that I tell every one of my friends and family members before I tell you guys. And I know I'll forget someone and I'll have to hear about how they had to read my blog to find out about such-and-such until the end of time.

Then there are things that I've told some people but not others and I can't keep track of who knows what so I avoid it on the blog. I know that's super vague, so here's a juicy one (with apologies to my parents, who will be embarrassed even though this is not about them): I didn't lose my virginity until I was twenty, but I got tired of being a virgin and so a few months before I actually lost it I lied about losing it to a bunch of my friends. And the person I lied about was different than the person I actually lost it to (the lie was basically a wish fulfillment fantasy). And now I can't remember who knows the truth and who still believes the lie.


Or, another example--I'm working on an essay about my ridiculous lack of athletic ability (and its underlying cause, my extreme laziness) and I found myself structuring the entire piece around something that I realize I've never really admitted to anyone. Again, apologies mom and dad. Remember that time senior year when I twisted my ankle during a cross country race and I went to a doctor that you probably paid for and I got an air cast (that I think is still sitting in a drawer somewhere in my old bedroom) and wore it diligently for weeks because I was such a trooper?

Yeah. I, um, faked that twisted ankle. I hated track, but I was a total coward and also my coach was so scary that I thought telling her I wanted to quit the track team would be like a made man telling Vito Corleone that he wanted to stop whacking people. I needed a way out, so I faked the injury.

But, you know, it takes a lot of willpower to throw yourself down a rocky hill, especially when you're only wearing a tissue-thin tank top and a pair of shorts with built-in underpants. So you can be proud of that, plus my stick-to-itiveness. I wore that air cast everywhere.

I'll stop now before I inadvertently reveal that Jeff and I are double beards.

P.S. You can visit my Dad's blog, where he somehow refrains from telling the entire world the personal details of his life or embarrassing his children, here.


Saturday, November 21, 2009

Pilgrimage to Mecca Necco

How many times have I written on this blog about candy? Let me count:

Three times a lady.
Also, here, here, and here.

Anyway, a lot.

I LOVE CANDY. Who doesn't, you might ask? Well, some people. And if you are one of those people, you can stop here; you're not invited to the rest of this post.

So there is this place in Manhattan called Economy Candy. It sells all kinds of candy, especially old retro stuff and hard-to-find candy. Somehow I have never been--possibly because I don't know if I could stand it--but I've been sick, and Jeff decided I needed a pick-me-up.

Clearly, it was working even before we left Brooklyn:

We walked down Atlantic Avenue en route to the Brooklyn Bridge, and I have to take a moment to show you this:

I'd like to see the original Carpet Warehouse. Does this really burn their ass? Also, why not just say "Best Carpet Warehouse"? Aim high!

We got to the bridge and Jeff was all, "Let me take your picture!" and I'm all, "I am on my way to get CANDY, why are you making me stand still?"

We burned our little buns off power walking across the bridge and through the many smells of Chinatown. But finally, Economy Candy was in sight.

I pretty much blacked out after Jeff took that photo. I barely remember being inside. Luckily, we have proof:

After we left my adrenaline rush ended and I could barely walk to the subway. But we made it home and Jeff suggested we do a video blog showing off our $35 worth of candy.

It is like 8 minutes long, consider yourself warned. Sorry. We were really excited. If you don't want to watch it (I don't blame you) a list of our booty can be found below.

Charleston Chews (3--one of each flavor)
Runts (1)
Big League Chew (1)
Now and Laters (1)
Pop Rocks (pack of 3)
Dinosaur eggs (2)
Gummy rat (1--ew)
Candy cigarettes (1)
Giant pixy stix (1)
Abba Zabba (1)
Mary Janes (15--mini sized)
Candy necklace (1)
Sifer's Valomilk (1)
Mallo Cups (1)
Doscher's Famous Strawberry French chew (1)
Candy buttons (1 strip)
Bit-O-Honey (1)
Sugar Daddy (1)
Clark bar (1)
Cherry Mash (1)
Warheads (1 pack)
Push Pop (1, watermelon)
Jawbreaker (1)
Wax lips (1)
Was mustache (1)

I'll blog again in a few months once I come down from my sugar high.

Thursday, November 19, 2009

The Sassy Curmudgeon's Casting Couch

I've boasted before on this blog about being awesome at casting celebrity biopics, which admittedly is one of the lamest savant abilities ever. But I can't help it. For instance, I'm an avid fan of Dexter and of The Office, and recently I got to thinking that John Krasinski and Jennifer Carpenter are MADE to play brother and sister in something.

I mean, right? If I hadn't seen them both on the Emmy red carpet this year I would have thought they were the same person. Anyway, someone should write a screwball comedy for them in which she's the Joan to his John Cusack. Get on this, Hollywood.

That pairing seemed so magical that I thought I'd put my dunce cap on and start brainstorming some other celebrity matches made in heaven...


The project: A remake of 1988's genius twin mix-up comedy Big Business in which Bardem and Morgan star as two sets of identical twins separated at birth by a humorous accident. One set would be Spanish and one set American, so that both actors would have the opportunity to use their natural accents AND try something new. The climactic scene in which they meet again would take place at Bed Bath and Beyond in a display full of mirrors. Comedy gold!


The project: If you watch Glee (and you should—I'm starting a backlash against the backlash), you know that Lea Michele's character, Rachel, has two fathers and that her birth mother has not yet appeared on the show. My vote for a sweeps guest appearance is Idina Menzel, a Broadway veteran who not only sings like a diva but looks like she could be Michele's biological mom (if she had her at 15...)


The project: Um... something with sisters who are totally, bat-shit crazy?


The project: Fuck you, Edward Cullen! Who needs tall, sparkly and handsome when you could have these pocket-sized morsels of two-for-one, blue-eyed, ass-kicking fantasy goodness? How about some Harry Potter-meets-Frodo action? Harry could end up in Mordor or Frodo could replace that horrible Jar Jar Binks-esque Dobby the House Elf as Harry's new slave. Or Harry could have a long-lost brother, Barry Potter. J.K. Rowling, you have a new series to write.

Other fun pairings:
-Robert Downey, Jr. and Tom Hulce (now Tom Hulce looks like Richard Dreyfuss, but in his Amadeus heyday he was a dead wringer for RDJ. To this day, every time I watch Parenthood I think, Robert Downey, Jr. is in this? for a split second.
-John Cusack and Ellen Page: The father-daughter duo of my dreams!
-RuPaul, Tyra Banks, and Wendy Williams for a modern revival of Chekhov's Three Sisters. If you think that's inconceivable you are just being racist.

Oh, this is so much fun. Someone please make this my job.

Wednesday, November 18, 2009

282Good 2Be 4Gotten

This weekend—when I wasn't mulling over my former secret life as a prostitute or trying on hairpieces—I went to a bar in my neighborhood to meet up with members of my elementary school class. When I told other friends that I was going to a grade school reunion, they looked at me like I was nuts. But believe it or not, Brooklyn can feel like a small town to those of us who grew up here, and the families of my classmates were (like the Manzo family on The Real Housewives of New Jersey) thick as thieves. As I've written before, our community was tight-knit. Our mothers still run into each other on the street or at the grocery store and gossip about our jobs, kids, marriages, overall health, and sexual orientation, reporting back to us breathlessly. So that, combined with Facebook updates, made us feel like we hadn't strayed too far from the squat little building on 6th Avenue in Park Slope that held us all prisoner taught and nurtured us up until 1992, when we graduated and went off to middle school.

P.S. 282, July 2009

Here we are in our heyday, circa 1989...

And here we are twenty years later, some of us married, some of us parents, all of us a little fatter (but also feet taller), and still kids at heart.

One person missing from the second photo is Abibio "Troy" Sandy (far left in the first photo, in the hat), who passed away in July, and whose death was one of the reasons for our reunion.

We missed you, Abibio.

There was a whole lot of love in that beer garden.

It was especially nice to get UTAH back together.

UTAH in correct order: Una, Tara, Adrianna, Halima

There's something so deeply moving about being reunited with people who knew you as a child, before you knew heartbreak or worry lines or the term "stressed out." These people knew me just when I was beginning to know myself, and I'll always love them.


Tuesday, November 17, 2009

I Wants To Be A Millionaire!

Just like stupid racists, stupid spammers never cease to amuse.

Check out the email I just got (title: GOOD NEWS):

This is the saddest excuse for an email scam I have ever seen. Dr. Olu Philips, the Nigerian diplomat I am currently helping to transfer $31.5 million into the US, would be ashamed. First of all, why not make up a bank? WHY THE SENATE?

Does the official Senate secretary really use Gmail? Is this the mock Senate of Butte High School in Montana? And yes, I used that as an example because Butte is always funny. It's like butt!

I love—LOVE—that the return address is Senate's official Mail and that the official Senate email is

Also, since when did Joe Biden step down as President of the Senate? Who is this this David Mark? And why is there a period after his name? Is that something you can change, like when you get married? If so, can I have an exclamation point attached to mine?

Finally, who is issuing ATM cards with million-dollar balances? Is someone from Goldman Sachs trying to offload their Christmas bonus?

I guess these scammers realized that if they were to create a mock government email address or claim to be Joe Biden, they would probably get convicted of a felony. Still, spell check exists for a reason. And no one uses Yahoo anymore (except my husband, who charmingly prefers to stay about 10 years in the technological past. OMG. Maybe David Mark is Jeff. I'm sorry I didn't give you laundry money, baby, but you can just ask.)

Sunday, November 15, 2009

Sunday Funday: K-Hole Finds

So of course I spent the better part of this weekend cleaning the apartment, since without fail I wake up on Saturday morning to the bleak realization that all week I have been throwing shit into the sink hoping that it will disintegrate and disappear down the drain so I don't have to deal with it and also haphazardly flinging my underwear onto every single surface I can find. For his part, Jeff is constantly cultivating a pile of urban compost made up of receipts, almost-empty gum packs, and loose pennies, which he moves from table to table around the house, trying to find the right ecosystem, I guess, in which it will thrive.

Anyway, I started on the dishes but was soon distracted by rearranging my closet. I've been keeping a straw hamper in the back that holds all of the junk I clean from other places in the house but that I inexplicably don't want to throw away. Today I decided to do an archeological excavation.

Here's a fun relic: a bag of freeze-dried flower petals and a veil that I bought for my wedding but never used. I don't even remember buying these, although this blog tells a different story.

I've never used ketamine, but I definitely fell into a bridal K-hole for, like, six months in which I ordered stencils and labels and eight different pairs of shoes online, basically without even realizing it.

Speaking of K-holes, I also found what I thought was an old gym bag stuffed at the bottom of the hamper. I opened it warily, fearing two year-old sweaty gym socks, but instead this is what I found:

-A lace garter with a tiny pouch attached
-A paperback copy of Anthony Bourdain's Kitchen Confidential

Um, did I ho for cash to pay for my all my unused wedding accoutrements? I have no idea what I was doing with these things in one bag. That foundation's not even my color. Could the CIA have tapped me, Alias-style, to infiltrate a fancy restaurant that was really a cover for an international terrorist organization and seduce the sous chef while my partner, hopefully still played by Michael Vartan, collected computer files?

If you have any information, please email me immediately.

Saturday, November 14, 2009

She Bangs

So my Around the Way Girl bangs from the Jessica Simpson fake hair collection finally arrived, two weeks after Halloween. WEAVE FAIL.

Here is how they look not attached to a head:

Here is how they look on a model:

And here is how they look on me:

Not so hot. Ignore the lemon-sucking look on my face; I am just looking at myself in the Photobooth window and realizing that I have SDS, or Shannen Doherty Syndrome, in which one's eyes are wildly asymmetrical. I'm not just being mean, either. Look.

I wouldn't be so worried except that side effects of SDS can include marrying and subsequently trying to run over a Hamilton. Anyway, at least the bangs come with payot!

If I wear my hair down, I can use them next year for a Joey Ramone costume!

To get my money's worth I'll have to find other uses for them. Maybe a dastardly mustache?

Or sexy chest hair?

I'm sure they'll come in handy sometime... Jeff and I own two mullet wigs, and let me tell you, they are so useful after we've had a few. MacGyver and Kate Gosselin really liven up a dinner party!
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