Your Girlfriend is Ugly

My dad gets a facebook page for about thirty seconds.

The following event took place on December 29th between the hours of 8:48pm and 9:01pm

"Lou."

"Yeah dad?"

"Shana said to make me a Facebook page."

"What?! Why?"

"She said you'd say that."

"Why do you want a Facebook page?"

"I don't. But Shana and your mothah ah doing eachothahs nails upstairs in my bedroom and I want to go to bed. She sent me down heah to hang out with you until they are done."

"Oooohkaay...So you want a page?"

"Well what do I have to do?"

"Here come look at my page dad."

He scuttled to the couch and sat down next to me.

"Well I can't see a damn thing."

I tilted my Mac Book towards him.

"Nope. Still can't see anything. It's too small. Wait. Wait a minute. Who's that with you in your profile picture??"

The picture he's referring to is me at a Drag bar hanging out with my dear friend Justin.

"That's Justin, dad."

"Oh."

"Ok so I'll type. You just tell me what you want in your profile."

I started to put his birthday information in and as I clicked on the drop down menu I was talking to myself.

"Wait. Hold on. You're putting my birthday up theah? I don't want everyone knowing how old I am!"

"Dad you don't have to display the year you were born."

"Ok. Ok."

"Ooookaaaay...so married to Donna Gr-"

"Waaaaaait a minute. Everyone's going to know that infahmation?"

"Dad! Everyone knows you're married to Mom!"

"Yeah but I don't want everyone knowing my business."

"Everyone already does!"

*grumble* *grumble*

"Ok. Political views. Republican."

"No! I'm an Independent."

"Fine. Religious views..."

"What?! I'm not answering all these goddamn questions! This is like a profile!"

"Uh yeah. Exactly."

"I don't want any of this stuff on heah."

"Then why do you want a page? What's the point?"

"I don't know. Shana told me to tell you to make me one."

"Well I don't know why you'd even bother if you're not going to put anything on here."

It was at this point that I realized that even if I did spend time making my dad a Facebook page he'd never go on it. So what was I doing??

"Ok dad. I'm going to delete your page."

"Ok. Goodnight."

"Night."

Southern hospitality with a side of yankee attitude.

I was in Georgia for the first time last week and I loved it. I want to move there. I can totally see myself opening up a little Bed & Breakfast and pimping around the downtown areas, buying cute things from the various mom and pop stores. 

It was love at first "Ya'll."  (Actually I'm not going to lie. I've had an affinity for Georgia ever since I saw Steel Magnolias for the fist time.) That and the speed limit is 75.

We stayed at a little B & B in Madison, GA called the Brady Inn. Peter and Karen who run the inn were totally adorable. If he weren't already married I'd proposition Peter myself. Seriously, you didn't taste his breakfast. The cheese grits were to DIE for.

Now, I'm not a big antiquer. I don't have the patience and usually everything I see is junk. However, we happened to walk by this one store and the Civil War-era rifles kind of caught my eye. So we popped into this shop located in downtown Madison. I was perusing the estate jewelry when I heard one of my fellow travelers exclaim, "Ask to see the Nazi drawer?!?! Where's the Nazi drawer? I wanna see it." 

"Well sugar it's right there in front of you." That was the voice of the little plump southern woman with silver hair and way too much blush who ran the antique shop. She was totally adorable but there was something strange about her plopping down a drawer full of "authentic" framed Hitler pictures and arm-bands supposedly worn by people in concentration camps and stating, "Now this here is neat."  

For the record she also had a drawer full of KKK paraphernalia; pictures of rallies and someone's membership card. This particular drawer was right next to the fossil of a dinosaur head. It was all kind of mind-blowing.

The rest of the trip was strictly work related. On the trip home I was waiting at my gate at the Atlanta airport, next to the Loudest Man in the entire airport.

Apparently he was from Honduras and visiting Miami, missed his flight to Boston so he had to fly to Atlanta and get on my flight to Boston. Lucky me.

He was flying stand-by. How do I know this? Because the was SHOUTINGinto his phone. Finally my flight boarded and I made my way to aisle 32. I was happily buckling my seat belt when I heard, "Escuse me. I sitting here."

Oh you've got to be kidding me. The Loudest Guy in the airport was now the Loudest Guy on the plane and sitting in the middle seat of my aisle:

Loudest Guy on the plane: "Yeah I'm on da flight back to Boston...No I'm in Atlanta...Yeah I saw my friend. Yeah I showed him a good time. Yeah I got him a woman. I got him lots of woman...No I didn't get myself any woman. Oh don't worry about me. I take care of myself."

Ew.

I put on my iPod and began flipping through my Us Weekly. Next thing I know there's a tapping on my shoulder. It was the Loudest Guy.

"Mmmm?"

"Escuse me. Can I borrow jer magazine?"

"Uuuuh...Er...sure..." I handed him over my already flipped through In Touch. I mean what was I going to say? I'd already read it and he couldn't use his phone for two hours. Plus anything to get him to not talk. Plus it was almost Christmas.

When we landed the Loudest Guy picked up right where he left off. But he got my suitcase down for me so I suppose he redeemed himself.

I'm definitely East Coast but I'm 83% sure that living in Georgia and planting Magnolia trees could knock some of the Yankee right out of me.

Now that's a muffin top!

I have just received the largest muffin I've ever seen in my life from one of my vendors:

Like. Whoah. How do you even go about making one of those? And imagine the amount of jam you'd have to use in order to enjoy this mountainous baked good?! I suppose you could actually experiment with various spreads since the landscape of this muffin is so vast.

Unfortunately I don't have enough coffee to wash left to wash this beast down. That, and it has raisins (blech). But its the thought that counts! And I'm sure someone will enjoy it!

Mmmm beefy.

I'm all for odd fragrances. I sometimes wear men's fragrances for myself and I'm a big fan of fragrance layering. But never once have I had the desire to smell like a burger.

Burger King has decided to launch a body spray, Flame. And yeah. It has that flame broiled essence that Burger King prides themselves on.

I'm sorry but isn't The King creepy enough??

GAH! I hate that guy.  

I'm just super curious to know what went down during that round table with the BK marketing team and the fragrance house. I'm guessing it went something like this:

"We really need to come up with a plan to bring people in."

"Yeah. The deliciousness and flam-broildness of our Whoppers just isn't enough anymore."

"People do love that Whopper huh?"

"I guess. I mean I've never tried it. More of a Wendy's guy myself."

"Oh yeah  me too. The frosty...."

"Soooo good!"

"SOOOOOOOOO GOOD! I dip my fries in it-"

"Guys. Can we get back on track?"

"Right. Ok so the Whopper is what people love. People love it so much they probably want to roll around with one."

"They'd probably want to smell like one."

"Ya think?"

"Yeah! Why not! I hear the Whopper is amazing! Why don't we create a body spray that smells like a burger!"

"BRILLIANT! I'm thinking the top notes can be grease, the middle notes a hint of lettuce, onions and tomato and we'll have a nice dry down of the flame broildness that Burger King is so well known for."

"We'll call it.....FLAME."

"Ooooooooooooooh."

I mean. I'm almost sure that's how they came up with this ludicrous idea.

Who wants to smell like beef?! If I leave a restaurant smelling like food, all I want to do is shower and wash my clothes. If this thing moves to ancillaries like body wash and body lotion I'm leaving the country.

Fun with Kinoki Foot pads!

Hi everyone!

I'm not here again BUT you can check me out over at Dailymakeover.com. In case you haven't been keeping up, Daily Makeover is an industry blog that I write for. This week my blog about the Kinoki Foot Pads was posted.

Go check it out. I guarantee you'll be running out to get a box of them to try for yourself.

Xx

*BOOOOOOOP* Leave a message!

I'm posted up over at Burt Reynold's Mustache today talking about how much I love Christmas.

Don't be all bah humbug! Go check it out.

Xx

Kooky commute

I've been commuting from the 'burbs now for about a week. It's been OK so far. No real crazy traffic jams to speak of, except today when a Lexus was just parked in the middle lane of the Northern Expressway with its hazards on. Like honestly. If you break down why can't you just mosey on over to the break-down lane?

Anyway, like I said the commute has been pretty low-key, except for yesterday. I was tooling down the SE Expressway when all of a sudden traffic stopped. "It's 3pm. Why the EFF is there traffic??" I said aloud. I dialed 511 to get a traffic update and Lt. Governor Tim Murray was no help ("ALL CLEAR ON BOTH SIDES OF THE EXPRESSWAY FOLKS!!!") so I continued to inch along. Thank God Suzi has heated seats!

Around exit 11 I noticed smoke in the air. Now I know it's bad to say this but whenever there's traffic at a random time of day I think to myself, "There better be a body." Whatever! If I'm going to sit in traffic for two hours it better be because something interesting happened and not because some jackass forgot to fill his gas tank!

As I inched closer to the swirling black clouds of smoke I got a quick glimpse of flames. A car on fire and no fire trucks in sight! This must've just happened...

Finally I was parallel with the accident. The crazy flames were lapping all around the edges and roof of the now crispy car. I fumbled inside my purse for my work camera phone to take a picture but then I realized that it was in a bag in my back seat. (GAH!) I stared a little bit longer until I realized that traffic hadn't moved for a few minutes. This is when I started to have a slight panic attack. I was maybe twenty yards away from a car engulfed in flames. What if the gas tank started leaking and the car exploded? What if flaming debris landed on Suzi? I was just about to ask my self "What Would Jack Bauer Do??" when traffic picked up and I was on my way to the Braintree split and home.

Until the Santa Claus on a motorcycle delayed my commute even further.

I had just gotten on I-95 South when I noticed the flashing lights behind me.

Merrrrr. I maneuvered Suzi from the fast lane to the middle lane to allow for the Statie to pimp by. And pimp by he did, along with a Santa and an elf sharing a motorcycle, three trucks filled with Christmas trees, a few other dudes dressed in leather on motorcycles and about six other State Troopers.

First of all, if you're Santa, wouldn't you want to be in like a Lincoln Navigator with presidential tinted windows? That way you don't get hounded by little kids demanding Wiis and iPhones for Christmas. I wouldn't think Santa would be blowing by on his Harley for everyone to see. And second of all are SIX Staties really necessary? Is this where my suburban tax dollars are now headed? To Santa's police escorts?

Thanks to Santa's pomp and circumstating down 95 S, I'm asking for a couple of extra gas cards in my stocking this Christmas.

Observing men who groom

Today I stepped out at lunch to get a manicure. After I picked my cullah (OPI's You Don't Know Jacques) I settled into the chair and the manicurist began cutting away at my dry cuticles.

About 10 minutes went by and I heard a male voice ask, "Can I get a pedakewah?" (That's pedicure btw. Remember, we're in Boston.)

I glanced behind me and saw a typical Southie dude: Adidas workout pants, hoodie with a beater underneath and a worn Red Sox hat

Good for him! I thought to myself. I have seen my share of dude feet and let me tell you something; guys need to get pedis just as much as women. There is nothing worse than a guy who walks around with Velociraptor toes.

 

Ouch.

The dude's pedicure progressed and I went back to inspecting my newly shorn cuticles. "Umm...you missed my thumb."

"Oh sorry."

*ring ring ring* It was dude's cell phone. I looked over and he was right in the middle of having the dead skin on the bottom of his feet sloughed off (bar-none the most ticklish part of the pedicure).

"Hello?"

.............

"Nothing dude what ah you doing?"

...............

"Dude I'm just hanging out what ah you doing?"

.................

Sounds like Dude on the other end of the phone is super curious to know what Pedicure Dude is up to. At this point the lady conducting the dude's pedicure started to speak very loudly in her native tongue. Then the rest of the salon chimed in and it was almost like I was back in China! Phone dude must've asked where the EFF Dude was because Pedicure dude replied, "Dude I'm just hanging out....No I'm not in Chinatown!"

Phone Dude finally gave up and the conversation progressed into plans for later tonight ("We're going to the Hahp dude") and game time on Sunday ("I don't know dude. Ask ya motha she always knows that shit.")

I felt bad that Pedicure dude just couldn't tell Phone Dude what he was really doing. What was he afraid of? That Phone Dude would mock him on the playground? Slight grooming is the least guys can do after what us women go through. I get my lip waxed every week so that I don't look like Tom Selleck yet I have to hear a story from my friend who was dating a guy who was so hairy that when she put her arm around his waist she could feel the tufts of his back hair through his shirt. She said it was like a little springy cushion separating his skin from the actually clothing.

EFFING NASTY. Get a razor. Here you can have mine, it's pink.

Guys need to not be afraid to groom. Don't worry about that stupid metro-sexual label. No one pays attention to that anyway. Just be afraid of what your girlfriend will with-hold if you decide that trimming down your ball hair really isn't your "thing."

Local sayings

A couple of weeks ago I was hanging out with LK and my sister. We had just finished our delicious dinner of cheap Mexican food and were washing it down with a nice bottle of Riesling when the topic of teeth came up. I'm sure I mentioned something about how petrified I get when I go to the dentist and my sister regaled us with the tale of how she broke her tooth when she was a teenager.

"I was divin' into my friends below ground pool and I came up too close to the edge and cracked my front tooth. They had to bond it but then that shit the bed."

I leaned back in my chair, laced my hands behind my head and breathed, "Shit the bed. Such a good term."

"Right? It is SUCH a good saying!"

"Is it a Boston thing though? I remember saying it to one of my New York friends and they were like 'huh? shit the what?' So I think it might be Boston only."

"Maybe. But it's funny because it's not like something actually shits the bed. Like it's not like there is shit anywhere."

"Right. And you have to use the term in very specific situations. For example, when your car dies. You say to your coworker, 'Yeah I was late to work today because my car shit the bed.' And your coworker totally gets it!"

"Or my watch shit the bed."

"My Cell phone shit the bed!"

"This chair just shit the bed!"

It is at this point that I realize I need my own reality show.

I'll have REMINDER post-it notes everywhere now.

Tuesday was the first time I'd commuted from the burbs to Boston in a while. Previously I lived four minutes from my office. You can imagine how convenient that was. Forget lunch at home? No worries! Hop in the car and be back to your desk in less than 10. Oversleep because you were up until 4am rooting on the Red Sox with a guy who's name you think was Ted? No problem! Run a brush through your hair and be at the office in 5 minutes.

No more of that tom-foolery for me. With a looming 35-40 minute drive I need to be prepared. I'm talking clothes picked out the night before and three alarms set to go off promptly at 7:30.

So in the morning I woke up, did my thing, drank my OJ with ice and packed my car. I was acutely aware that I had my red Longchamp bag containing my work laptop and notebook in my hand and that I placed it in my car. I saw with my own two eyes that the red bag was in my trunk. But while I was tooling down I-95 N, I started to get snervous and think, "Oh dear God. Did I really put my bag in the trunk? Am I SURE?????? What if I didn't and I only imagined that it was in there. Or what if it fell out?! What if I get all the way to Boston and my laptop isn't THERE???!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

I looked to my right and cut across three lanes of traffic, skidding to a stop in the breakdown lane. As various trucks with Wide Loads whizzed by me I kicked open my door and stepped one distressed brown leather bootie-clad foot onto the gravel. I teetered to the back of my already popped truck and my eye immediately went to the red bag that contained my lap top.

Phew.

For good measure I opened it up JUST to make sure that the laptop was in there.

It was.

I teetered back to my drivers side door and slid in, right before I got a honk from one of those huge 18-wheelers.

I made the horn honking motion -arm at 90 degree angle, hand balled into a fist, move angled arm up and down like you're honking a horn- for fun.