Jersey.Girl.Genius

Trick or Teat

Yvette and I walked around The Halloween Superstore yesterday, looking for scary lawn accoutrement and one child-size pair of Harry Potter glasses. Since I can fit into a boy's size Hogwart's cape, I thought this might be a decent choice, come Halloween party time. One red and yellow scarf? Check. One black wizard cape? Check check. One pair of unattractive black wire frame glasses? Check plus. It's easy, it's recognizable and it's incredibly nerdy.

Yvette is still undecided about her costume and the superstore wasn't helping matters. She completely shot down the Bacon and Eggs couples costume party pack. I also wanted to be Tim Gunn and thought she'd make a fantastic Heidi Klum. Again, denied. So now I'm a prepubescent wizard geek and she's lacking inspiration.

According to the women's costume section, you're not properly costumed unless you are sporting significant cleveland. We're talking cleveland the size of Ohio - along with bare midriff. My Harry Potter costume ranks somewhere between negative 18 and negative 28 on the sex kitten scale. The only other costume I saw that comes close would be the female version of "DOG - The Bounty Hunter." Those ankle boots alone make me want to go into hiding.

The fact that I'll be sporting A) a boy's costume and B) will not show skin - won't win me any prizes. But how many 33 year-old women could trick or treat with the neighbors and go virtually undetected?

I say virtually, because I could say something other than "trick or treat" and ruin the whole guise. Something as innocent as "Shit. This Butterfinger will go straight to my ass" would mean the jig is up. I could probably step out and collect ring pops and candy corn till the cows come home. And when they do, they can have all of the nasty candy corn they want. I hate candy corn. Not quite a candy and nothing at all like corn, this treat needs a new name. Nasty Corn? How about the combination of the two - Norn.

In 7th Grade, I won a prize for Best Costume at good ol' Ben Franklin Middle School. Back in the days before PC was a household word, I came dressed as an "Alcoholic, Unemployed Newscaster." Wore a scary mask, stuffed a pillow under my shirt and walked around with a bottle in a brown bag all day. God bless the eighties. I think our costume choices need to take a cue from the 80's. Ugly witches, Scary Vampires, Bagladies, Hairy Cavewomen, Sarah Palin, you get the idea. In sharp contrast, here's a snapshot of the Halloween Superstore wall, brought to you by Dr. 90210:

For $45 you too can be a Galactic Princess! In the land of 10,000 Lakes, you're also entitled to frost bitten nipples, free of charge.

What's that you say? Feeling under the weather? Naughty Nurse Nancy is here to cure you of your latex allergy. (Best to seek advice on how to walk in these drag queen kicks from Miss J Alexander first. Looks like you'll be walking on the third floor with these on.)

This is a nice one that I call: Stop! Or I'll HOOCH! Sandy is right at home in this uniform, whether she's chasing down deadbeats or swinging her batons on the stripper pole. Let's face facts. If the PoPo of the female persuasion really dressed like this, I'd watch COPS on a daily basis. Bad Boys, Bad Boys, Whatchyagonnadoooo, Whatchyagonnadooo when they come for you. I know what I'd do - and I'm not telling.

Palindrones

A Palindrome is a word, phrase, number or sequence that can be read the same way in either direction.

A Palindrone is slightly different and refers to Sarah Palin's ability to talk out of both sides of her mouth and out of her ass simultaneously. While Gregorian monks have perfected the ability to chant in different octaves, Governor Palin has demonstrated incredible control over the sphincter, as evidenced here in her interview with a skeptical Katie Couric. Special thanks to Hays for bringing this gem to my attention.

That's right. She's just ill about the state of the economy. It's just too darn' tootin' that we've wound up in such a moose dressing of a mess now, oh deary deary me.

This has left me to ponder what exactly Alaska's finest is qualified to do? Here's my top three list. I aimed for a top ten, but was stumped after only a few plausible outcomes.

1. Serve up a Hot Breakfast at Denny's with a Side of Reindeer Sausage

She can memorize the daily specials and rattle them off like political talking points. I'd say thank you but no thank you to that Moons Over My-Hammy.

2. Become the new spokesperson for Lens Crafters.

Their slogan is "Glasses in About An Hour," which is about as long as it will take to cross the bridge to nowhere in order to binge drink, huff airplane glue and then eat paste with the 50 people who live there.

3. Get Stuffed into a Wood Chipper in a Cohen Brothers Movie

She's got the accent for it and isn't afraid to get her hands dirty. I hear it's really cheap to film in Russia, too, which (as we all know) is just a few miles from her own backyard. The future is bright, indeed.

Lohan Confirms: She Digs Skeletor

The Belfast Telegraph went out on a limb today and announced that Lindsay Lohan confirmed she was a lesbian. On the heels of Gaiken's announcement yesterday, it would appear as if everything's coming up rainbows.

Not so fast,Telegraph.

Here we see a feeble Samantha Ronson trying to catch up with Lohan on set. She looks like she's got the scurvy, lads.

Last time I checked, an innocent Ronson romp does not a lesbo make. I once swore off eating meat for an entire week - that doesn't make me a vegetarian. It's not that I don't want to make room for her in the parade, it's just that I don't really buy the whole lesbo-transformation is all. I should consult with Betty Ford to see if Skeletor Woship is part of Step Eleven. Whatever keeps her off the smack is fine in my book.

You can listen to Lohan's non-confession and decide for yourself, by playing the Loveline clip below.

According to Lohan, she's been with Ronson a really long time. Maybe celebrity hook-ups are calculated in dog years now? That would mean that her 6 months with Skeletor on Snake Mountain is really the equivalent of 6 years and 3 months. Now that's a long time.

I think Lohan might be a Celesbian. She might even be a more frightening subset of the Celesbian: The Hechebian. One day she's with Bozo Skinny Jeans, the next, she's on a bender in the desert, looking for her spaceship Andromeda. Not long after that, she's hooking up with the Dolly Grip and naming her baby Cricket Banjo Lohan. I smell a new E True Hollywood Story. Oh happy day.

Twittering Project Runway

I've just joined twitter to see what all of the twitteratti is about. I have (0) followers. I think it's better to be a leader anyhow.

I'll be conducting a live Twitter experiment this evening, when I'll be Twittering Project Runway. You can follow my commentary here: Jersey.Girl.Genius Twits Up The Runway.

Twit you later,
JGG

Gaiken Like Me

BREAKING NEWS from the crew here at Jersey.Girl.Genius.

In a stunning turn of events, singer and American Idol fan favorite Clay Aiken has just come out of the closet. Quoted in my favorite crack mag People, Gaiken stated that he expects the news may overwhelm some of his fans.

Overwhelm? Perhaps. If you were raised by wolves and like to tay in da win. Or, if you live in Elmore City, Oklahoma, your daddy's a preacher man and the town has just banned dancing and rock music.

I was shocked to learn that he's a Born Again Christian, however. Isn't he breaking a thousand evangelical laws like thou shalt not use hair extensions and thou shalt not perform musical theater? Not to mention the dreaded thou shalt not aspire to look like chastity bono and/or Entertainment Tonight's Cojo. I think it's time to play a little game that I call: Spot The Real Gaiken

Is it exhibit A:

Exhibit B:

Exhibit C:

Exhibit D:

Exhibit E:

I'll select one winner at random, who will receive a $50 gift certificate to International Male. Be sure to include your pick in the comments section.

Granny Get Your Gun

I just read a curious little news item about an elderly woman in Maryland who fought off an intruder with a reacher.

No juicy details were given - only that she was able to "repel him" with her reaching device used to grab cans off of high shelves. Sadly, he did flee with her purse. She should have hurled that can of baked beans at him instead. Naturally, the fuzzy details have left me feeling somewhat unsatisfied. What kind of burglar would be scared off by a rubber squeeze? I have a feeling that granny skipped her meds, stored some stale pieces of bread in her purse and attracted nesting squirrels disguised as burglars. Or hit men. You make the call. Mark my word, it will all be revealed in time.

I once considered getting a reacher of my own or a preschool looking step stool in the kitchen. Then I met Yvette, who is able to retrieve the crock pot from the highest cabinet with use of her monkey arms. Oh happy day. Yet one more benefit to being coupled. There are so many other perks that often go unnoticed. I thought they deserved a little shout out.

1. Folding Sheets.

It's nice to have someone who'll step foot into the dark, musty basement with you in the first place. The fact that you can stand in front of the dryer together and fold king-sized flat and fitted sheets is a nice bonus. Folding sheets solo sucks. It's not easy to do without plopping your clean, Downy Ball loveliness on the ground. And when you're a shorty like me, there's not as much distance between torso and skanky basement floor. I don't know about your basement, but in our condo there are lint and dust balls that blow around like tumbleweeds. One false move and that drop to the floor will render your sheets un-sleepable. Best to bring a partner with you to ensure proper foldage.

2. Double Parking

I always curse people when they selfishly plant themselves on a busy street, hazards flashing, while their precious companion runs to drop off the dry cleaning, the movie rental, the post office parcel or to retrieve a nice tall skim latte on a rainy day. I curse them openly - yet practice the same kind of parking entitlement every now and again. Yet another overlooked aspect to being coupled, your faithful companion will dart through traffic, dodging raindrops, to return carrying your caffeinated item and (every now and again) a slice of lemon poppy seed cake. Heaven. Pure heaven. Now if you were single, you'd have to haul your lazy ass to the closest parking lot, walk three blocks in the rain and arrive looking like the Unibomber in your drenched hoodie and maniacal looking bed head.

3. Practicing Voodoo on The Neighbors

No one likes to be a hater all alone, which is why tag-team hatred feels so good. Five words of advice for you, if ever considering the purchase of a swank condominium: Never Buy The Lower Unit. On any given evening, our upstairs neighbors might be bowling, breeding cloven hoof animals, rearranging furniture, dropping barbells or playing leap frog above us. Truly, it's anyone's guess. It's refreshing not to have to be the bad guy all the time, which is why we take turns imagining the myriad ways in which they might suffer an untimely end. Death by poisonous blow dart is this week's winner. Know any ninja assassins who were recently laid off from Lehman Brothers? I'd like to befriend them.

Emmy Awards Snoozefestapalooza

The Emmy's reached a new all-time low for me last night. Was the entire show written by drunk monkeys? Heidi Klum should never use the word dude again. She also looked far better in that suit than the sequin short shorts. Keep your pants on, Heidi. Whoever made the sequin break-away number should go up to the workroom immediately, pack up his or her things and say goodbye to fashion.

While I was thrilled to see personal faves Tina Fey and MadMen walk away with the goods, the hosts and hostess left little to be desired. Scratch that. The hosts and hostess were horrible. It was truly a show about nothing. If only Seinfeld had hosted instead. No one does nothing better than Jerry!

Some horrifying highlights:

1. Enlarged Balls.

While Ryan Seacrest was interviewing Steve Carell on the red carpet, Carell told Seacrest to ask him whatever he wanted to know. Ryan uttered only two words in response to this: ENLARGED balls.

Carell looked completely thrown. Enlarged balls? What the heck does that mean? Apparently it was the excuse that Carell used not to come to work one day. The fact that Seacrest knew about this inside joke and also chose to hurl it out there on live TV was a stunner.

2. Josh Groban singing The Jeffersons theme.

This little skit was a train wreck to begin with, but was punctuated by Groban's reminding us that he's really, really white. I didn't want to move on up after that performance. It barely made me want to move my ass down the block to check out the J. Crew sale.

3. Geriatric Reunion Show - With Facelifts

I will have nightmares about The Laugh In Segment. It went on forever and I felt like I was watching my nephew's preschool play - hoping that everyone would remember their lines and keep from wetting themselves in the process. Lily Tomlin was the only sane person up there. Where do they find these people? They really dug into the scary hasbeen closet for this one.

Did I spy Ed McMahon for a millisecond, during White Groban's medley? If so, he looked like the Crypt Keeper from Tales from the Crypt.

Mary Tyler Moore resembled a Close Encounters alien from the neck down, while sporting more face lifts than Joan Rivers from the chin up. I want someone to make her a nice, warm, Wolfgang Puck meal. STAT.

Don Rickles and William Shatner must be on the same medication - both looked equally puffy, sweaty and jacked up. I cringed when I saw either one of them, worried that they would forget where they were and start ordering martinis.

4. The Miniseries & The Recount

I hate it when shows win that I've never seen or heard of. And then they win again and again and again. What is this Recount you speak of? And how is it that Judi Dench is in every single miniseries or made for TV movie nominated? How can she be in Wales and Trenton NJ, filming simultaneously? Does the Dame have a twin? They should just axe that category all together and just hand out an award to Dame Judy annually instead. Dame Judy and or Helen Mirren, who are apparently the only two actresses capable of playing royalty.

You know it's a bad show when the only bright spot is a bag of prunes used as a metaphor for our current administration. Seems fitting, however; since this year was all about celebrating the old folks. I think Metamucil should sponsor next year's show.

Office Talk

I've been blissfully consulting for two years and managed to escape the everyday goings on that an office setting provided. If there were a Kinsey type scale that measured a company's capacity for corporate bullshit, my former employer would probably rank somewhere around 2.5. They'd once experimented with corporate culture but realized it just wasn't their bag.

Controversy stemmed from whether or not the staff lunches on Wednesdays could include a vegetarian option - or if the lounge could be turned into a nap room. I was asked to consider a Feng Shui color pallet for my office, comply with barefoot editors with hairy man toes and co-workers who opted for an ergonomic alternative to the Herman Miller office chair: Gaiam yoga balls.

Given the fact that I sprug myself from inter-office chatter, I find that I'm extra sensitive to officeisms these days. Like an expat who returns to her country to find that her people talk funny, I'm picking up on all sorts of goodies that once seemed as normal as patchouli scented marketing meetings. I think that some of the lingo has its place - a kind of short-hand that says, hey man, "I'm right on top of that Rose," secret-handshake style. When officeisms start to creep outside of the workplace and into non-work-life conversation, it's probably intervention time.

Some common offenders to be on the lookout for:

1. The Download and The Upload.

There's often lots of uploading talk during and downloading done after meetings, via inter-office email, and is actually code word for: we'll get back to you when we have our shit together.

2. Next steps.

Every office has the let's talk about "next steps" fan. The taskmaster, the whip cracker, the up-your-ass to pay your portion of the birthday gift for a coworker and sign that damn card and pass it on already. Mr. Next Steps can also be spotted in sports arenas starting the wave.

3. Action items.

Not to be confused with Mr. Next Steps, Mr. Action Items isn't a take charge kind of guy. He delegates. He lives to delegate and to define your role. Mr. Action Items can usually be found at office parties standing under his Successories poster or nursing a warm Amstel Light and talking about the importance of work life balance, of which he has none.

4. Synergy.

Oh beloved synergy. Seems as though everyone's looking for you. Often sought-after when trying to sell someone something they don't actually need, synergy makes even the most sensitive of ponytail heroes look like blue chip tycoons. Whip out the synergy and some clients might think you're after a soul connection with their brand. Some might think you're just a douche bag. Please note. If this word appears anywhere near your first date scenario, you should run for the hills.

5. Lighting & Putting Out Fires

There is so much fire hurling danger these days, I need a flame retardant suit when I step back into an office. Those who light fires are usually procrastinators. They rarely set themselves ablaze. It's ironically not often the responsibility of the fire starter to get (said) job done initially. He or she has a warm heart, a desire to lead and is often guided by a higher power in their quest for instant bonfire gratification: money. Fire starters should not be confused with Fire Extinguishers, who are closely related to Mr. Action Items. Extinguishers have over-inflated egoes and a warped sense of hierarchy. Extinguishers can often be seen making photo copies of the company's organizational chart to give away to loved ones in the annual Holiday letter, written from the perspective of their dog.

Just trying to think outside of the box, push the needle and give you the heads up so you can get your ducks in a row and stop the insanity.

-JGG

Prince Pumps for Shorty

My girlfriend is tall. This is Yvette.

She's 5'8 without her girl shoes on, while I stand at 5 foot 2 ... and a half. That half means a lot to me. Pathetic, I know. Like some old balding guy clinging to the last three strands of a greasy comb-over.

And this is me. Doing my best Zoolander.

At my little brother's wedding last summer, my mom kindly referred to us as Tomcat and Nicole. Yvette was wearing heels and I was wearing ... my jack purcells. In situations like these, when Y is in her formal snazzy gear, I tend to feel a whole lot like young Filipino singing sensation Charice, nuzzled up next to Oprah's big giving bosom. The height difference is much more noticeable when she adds two or three inches to the mix, which means that I barely clear the boobal region.

I'm not complaining. Although it would be nice to dance cheek to cheek every now and again, which is why I'm looking into buying some prince pumps. WWTD? What Would Tomcat Do?

In other news, found some disturbing pictures of the World's Leggiest Woman and the World's Shortest Man today, who teamed up to support the launch of Guinness Book's new edition. Whoever lined up this shot should be fired. Wonder if Svetlana was wearing panties?

He Pingping is just over 2 feet tall, while Svetlana's legs alone are twice his size. How do you say:

For the love of god, please don't look up, Pingping! in Mandarin?

And I thought that Yvette and I had problems. At least my shoes don't curl up at the toe.

Joe and The Working Girl

After a long, long day, I finally shut off the computer and took in tonight's episode of Project Runway. The season 5 designers were asked to create a new look for women just entering the work force. Some of the designers were just a tad confused as to which work force they were getting these ladies all dolled up for.

Banker, Lawyer, Graphic Designer - a job's a job.

Oh really? The last time I was in an office with graphic designers, I didn't spy any Marshall's looking pinstripes. I did spy a lot of Stan Smiths, I'm a creative person eyewear and nicely weathered cardigans with just the slightest bit of pill. Bankers, at least the ones that I see when I stroll up to US Bank, would look very out of place with a MacBook and the latest issue of Metropolis.

Suede the Skittle Dipped Leprechaun referred to himself in the third person only three times, while Kenley found giddy solace in a miniature version of her overly cocky, vintage self. I used to like Kenley. I think I'd like her more if she were sent for some speech therapy and emerged sounding less like a k'fetching yenta who smokes filterless camels, lives by the sea in Boca and mows down pedestrians at street festivals in her Lark mobile.

Please note. If you've TIVO'd tonight's episode and haven't yet realized who got the AUF, you might want to stop here or risk spoiling some of the best, bitchy judging of the entire season. Some highlights:

Nina Garcia was left speechless by Suede's hot tranny pirate sleeve mess. She mentioned having many issues with the outfit. I believe I heard "tip" and "iceberg" and then her refusal to waste another breath on the matter.

Korto wasn't smiling. But she did whip out one sassy looking burlap jacket.

Michael Kors thought Joe's pinstriped suit cliche looked very Working Girl, ala 1988. Those shoulder pads didn't work for Melanie either. Let the river run, I say.

Jerrell was wearing his Puck garnish once again during the runway show. He looked like he was abducted by Peter Pan's gay twin and then turned into Sprout on the flight home.

In what should really have been a double elimination, Suede was spared. Joe, the lone heterosexual mullet, was sent to pack up his sewing machine and say adios to the Blue Fly accessory wall. There were considerable taste issues with Joe from the get go. But just as every episode of The Real World has a formula ...

One gay and or asian
Bigoted white guy from small southern town with bad teeth and hair who voted for Bush
Brothers or BFFs from Boston with wicked bad accents
Mormom girl, engaged to high school sweetheart
Alcoholic
Ivy league Abercrombie Hot guy
Clueless, big breasted girl next door with boyfriend (that she will invite to the house, cheat on, cry to and then beg for forgiveness)

I believe Project Runway's formula called for one jersey looking heterosexual male this season. It's the only logical reason why producers would keep Mr. Faris around as long as they did. Maybe they had a hetero quota to meet? Perhaps they were fearing the faggy wrath and thought they'd toss us a testosterone filled bone? I have to say, Joe's bone was more reminiscent of Lane Bryant women on a bender than anything else. The producers were not doing us any favors by keeping him around. I hope he returns with much less hair for the reunion special.

Auf Wiedersehen, Joe.

A Sole Only A Mother Could Love

I was browsing around on Zappos last night, searching for the perfect pair of shoes to wear with my new suit, when I came across a shoe that made me stop cold in my tracks. Transfixed by its near penis-like reflection, I found it more and more difficult to get the dreadful Bloch shoe out of my mind. I then had a nightmare that I woke on Christmas morning to find my stocking overflowing with these wretched looking things ...

What is the mysterious Bloch woman like? Where does she live? Does she bathe? Is she still a virgin at 87? And more importantly, why don't her friends stop her from going out of the house wearing these puffy phallic footies?

After consulting with Y as to whether or not these shoes were indeed a little granny after too much eggnog, she concurred. She also pointed out that the name "Jazzsoft" should have tipped me off to the fact that these are, um, dancing shoes. Who knew? I didn't see Marlee scooting around the dance floor in these fuglies when she was on Dancing With The Stars.

During my fruitless quest for new kicks, I also came across these gems, which I now refer to as MWN. My Worst Nightmare.

For only $692, you too can own a pair of Alejandro Ingelmo General Zod shoes.

Here we have something that the Abominable Snowman might wear. In San Juan. On a chilly night. With a jean jacket and matching jeans.

Alas, my aforementioned quest for the perfect shoe continues. Will keep you posted on any new & exciting developments.

Pound Sand

Looks like Misty May-Treanor and Kerri Walsh have been making the talk show rounds as of late. I spotted them on Letterman and again on Ellen via Tivo, my reliable old friend. On the off-chance that you do not own a television and were not held captive by eight hours of Olympic coverage per day last month, Misty May and Kerri Walsh are beach volleyball players.

My interest in watching beach volleyball ranks somewhere between making a godseye and getting a bikini wax. I'm not overly enthusiastic about it. These two wedgies, however; are complete lunatics about their sport. From what I can gather, neither is the sharpest tool in the shed either.

Often spotted around Beijing wearing "crazy" wigs, sunglasses and drinking beer from an old school helmet, tailgate style, I wondered if their insanity stemmed from the fact that they were simply wasted? Not so. After their gold winning match, sly commentators gave us a glimpse into their diminished mental capacity.

Commentator: Congratulations you two! You've just won Olympic gold again. The first women's team to repeat in back to back Olympics. How do you feel? Can you put it into words?

MM & KW: We have to thank Mr. Bush. Without you, none of this would be possible. We love you Mr. President!

That's right. The tools thanked George W. Bush. They squealed that if it weren't for him, none of their success would be possible. Now just how in the bloody hell did GWB turn these women into Olympic gold medalists?

By critiquing their form and giving them gentle, non-lecherous pats on the bottom of course. It's a damn good thing he was there - all 14 days - or Misty might have suffered from the dreaded burnt ass cheek syndrome, effecting one in five pro volleyball players. All hail the monkey.

Michael Jackson's Big Bang

Nerds around the world are rejoicing today.

According to the BBC, scientists have hailed a successful switch-on for an enormous experiment which will recreate the conditions a few moments after the Big Bang. You can read the full article here if you feel like getting your geek on.

I caught a documentary about the Large Hadron Collider (LHC) on Nova a year or so ago and was struck by the scale and astronomical cost of the project, which has now reached several billion dollars. Hmm, let's see. What should we do here .... fart around with the idea of shooting particles at each other for 13 years or invest in universal health care? Now there's a quandary.

One of the stated World of Warcraft type goals of the project is to isolate the particle called the Higgs boson or God Particle. According to the theory, particles acquire their mass through interactions with an all-pervading field carried by the Higgs.
Oh boy! We'll get to see ol' Higgsyboy in action! Wooohoooo! Getting excited yet??? Me neither.

What would get me excited, however; is if someone could please take Michael Jackson's $1.5 million dollar grundies off of Ebay and place them inside of the Hadron Collider. This way, we could really see what the conditions were like in his pants during his infamous 2003 trial. What would we find? Quarks, Leptons, Leprechauns, Unicorns, Llama hair, Purple Clovers, Bubbles the Chimp, three white sequins, a tube of bleaching cream and a small sip of Pepsi. Now that would make some good baaad TV.

Lipsticks, Pigs and Sephorgasms

"Barack Obama today accused the McCain campaign of underhanded tactics in portraying his "lipstick on a pig" remarks about the Republican ticket as a misogynistic attack on vice-presidential nominee Sarah Palin."

As I'm sure many of you are already aware, pigs have been all over the news lately. Pigs wearing makeup. Well, at least there have been references to them getting all dolled up, which has just recently made me crave bacon in a serious way.

What's this you say? Lipstick on a pig? I thought we'd moved beyond testing cosmetics on animals. WWARD? What Would Anita Roddick Do?

I happen to think that adding a little lipstick now and again is a perfectly acceptable ritual, unless that lipstick comes from a tube purchased in 1952 and sports the name Cotton Candy. I have a relative who shall remain nameless and (thankfully) doesn't own a computer, who has been wearing the same lipstick as far back as I can remember. The bee hive do, the pointy cone shaped bra, the cotton candy lips, the plastic slip covers on couches that precede my birth. Clearly, the cosmetics industry has failed to reach some of our dearest baby boomers with a campaign compelling enough to make them think twice about that Korean War makeup stash they have hidden under the sink in the bathroom.

When it comes to lipstick and make-up, I'm certainly not an expert. I let Yvette pluck my eyebrows because she seems to crave this activity. And hey, let's face it, who wants to walk around with a unibrow? Always looking to pluck, tweeze, squeeze and preen, I sometimes feel like I have my very own live-in, silverback gorilla.

Yvette is a Sephoraholic. When we venture out shopping, I find myself sitting on the bench outside with all the other shopping bag burdened dads and husbands, playing with my crackberry, wondering what could possibly be so fascinating about Stila eye shadow or Bobby Brown shimmer brick. Just mentioning the word Sephora can cause a Sephorgasm. One must be careful while shopping w/ Sephoraholics that this kind of euphoria doesn't get out of hand. Worse yet, if you venture into Sephora without knowing what you're doing, you could be in for some serious shwag.

I once fell victim to a snappy dresser named Michael. He was adorned with a 007 looking wicked fanny pack/makeup tool belt that featured brushes lined up side by side in ascending height order. I spent close to $400 while walking around with my personal stylist, who was so incredibly fabulous to assist me with my holiday purchase. I described Yvette's best assets and wound up with a basket of treats so intoxicating, she wasn't able to speak for an hour while she played with all of her loot.

Just read that Ellen DeGeneres will be the new face of CoverGirl Cosmetics. I'm not sure if this is truth or fiction, but it's certainly interesting. Will Ellen make me put down that crackberry, ditch the shopped out hubbies and walk through Sephora? This remains to be seen. If she can get my rellie to put down that Cotton Candy lipstick, she deserves every dollar they are paying her.

Death Metal At 35,000 Feet

Two hours into my flight back home and the guy behind me has his iPod BLASTING. It could practically be a sing along, if I liked death metal and knew any of the three words to the songs. At first, I thought someone was playing Guitar Hero. The mind numbing chord progressions and four minute guitar solos were making me dizzy.

I can feel him head banging in his seat. I want to turn around and yank those fu**ing ear buds right out of his deaf ears. What’s the point of having earphones if half the plane can hear your crap?

The captain of this flight was one of the chipper, gung-ho variety. Pointing out our exact route prior to take off, when we’ll be flying over which monument, the things that I could care less about. Everything looks the same at 35,000 feet. The hoover dam? Teeny weeny itsy bitsy ants. If he chimed in to tell us that we no longer had to pay for blankets and pillows, or that there would now be free food for everyone (and I'm not talking about a slim jim and some pringles) he'd have my undivided attention.

Captain Overzealous: We recognize here at Northwest Airlines that it’s not only our pleasure to have you on board; it’s also our privilege.

You bet your ass it’s your privilege. I had to sit next to a guy who whipped out Q-tips, stuck them inside a gooey tube of Neosporin and then shoved the Q-tips up his nose, one nostril at a time. He made no attempt to hide this nasty pre-takeoff ritual. He just kept swirling away, as if he was merely brushing some lint off his jacket.

When did they stop boarding the plane by row number? First class first, women with small children, gold/silver/platinum elite members, then the back of the plane to front. This trip, they boarded all of the underlings at the same time, which made for a chaotic mad dash. Now that most domestic airlines are charging $25 to check any luggage, the line of mad dashers were all squeezing and jockeying with one goal in mind:

I’m finding a goddamn compartment for my carry on before you are. Even if it’s over-sized, I’m carrying this shit on. If I could just board first, I’ll take my time and really shove it in there. Move it!

The Jersey in me comes out every now and again. Waiting in line at the DMV, at airport ticket counters when my flight has been delayed or canceled and when giant sweaty deaf men seated behind me listen to Death Metal as if its docked in the frickin’ Bose iPod station.

Excuse me, would you mind turning that down? (gesturing to my ears) I was sleeping and it actually woke me up. You must go to a lot of loud live shows or play in a band …

Mr. Sweaty Lip Deaf Metal didn’t actually speak to me. He looked at me like I had just eaten his last Flaming Hot Cheeto. He then shifted himself in his seat, nodded once and then pulled his black baseball cap down to cover his eyes.

The Mini Bio

Still in SF, stuffing L'Occitane soaps and lotions into my bag faster than they can turn down my sheets. Y needs to get her L'Occitane on, you see. I was given strict instructions to pocket whatever crack was available in my hotel room. I'll come home smelling like lavender and figs but I refuse to pilfer the Bonnet de Douche.

When was the last time you wore a shower cap?

My mom used to have a lime green one that hung on the wall outside of the shower. Can't say that I ever used it, nor do I recall her using it. Very peculiar. She must have bought it at a second hand store and thought it might come in handy at some point. If you haven't already listened to the kind of voice mail that my mom is capable of, I highly suggest The QVC Intervention, where you can hear a real live excerpt. It will help to get an audible on what's to come.

Whenever my mom has a story to tell about someone I don't know, she slips into what I refer to as the mini bio, so that she can get me caught up. Like so:

Honey, did I tell you what happened to Lois at work? She's around my age. She sits next to me, so sweet, she wouldn't hurt a fly. Dresses a little frumpy, one of her kids is blind in his right eye, her husband has been on disability for a million years, I'm not sure what the story is there. Anyway, she got into a fight with one of the partners and wound up throwing a paper weight across the room. You know, one of those heavy muthahs, with the fake snow inside?

She must think that the story would lose some edge, had I not known her husband was on disability. Either way, Lois threw a paper weight across the room. Now you don't hear that everyday.

My siblings and I talk about how hilarious this is, when she launches into the mini bio. She knows she does it, because I've imitated her to her face, which had her rolling. As much as I poke fun at the Ginbomb, I think she's onto something here...

Inspired by her snippets, I think I'm going to start reviewing movies without seeing them, based on the trailer alone. I could use the mini bio method - to warn potential moviegoers of sure to be flops before they spend their hard earned cash on a total piece of sh**.

Nights in Rodanthe:
She's an older woman, attractive, reddish hair, whose husband has been a complete pig womanizer. Apparently, hubby now wants to take her back. Red helps out a friend by running a fancy ocean-side inn for a weekend, meets Richard Gere, bonds with Gere for his affection for J. Crew hoodies, Banana Republic good-looks and his quiet intensity that involves pseudo flirting on a beach. Must love dogs and equally unrealistic and sappy films based on traveling to Tuscany to find oneself.

Death Race:
Like Mad Max, Beyond Thunderdome, but without the Thunderdome. Joan Allen plays a prison warden in the distant future. She already looks about a hundred years old and is seriously malnourished. Sunken in cheeks, bulging eyes. She gets her jollies off on putting together a "race to the death" and allows some of her inmates to participate. Lots of sweating, car flipping, shooting, cursing, explosions and oh yes, lots of driving.

Beverly Hills Chihuahua:
Some Paris Hilton type must lose her pocket pal that winds up mingling with the Huas from the other side of the tracks. All of the Cesar Milan sounding miniatures probably take Tinkerbell under their wing and start behaving badly together. I see potential for shoplifting along Rodeo, dog romance between Taco and Tinkerbell and two hours of pure, unimaginative crap that can only be appreciated by some (less gifted) children 3 and under.

Death of a Laptop, R.I.P.

The Apple Genius Bar should offer free therapy sessions. There was no hand holding, no "I think you should sit down for this one," no box of tissues at the ready. Where's the bedside manner, geniuses? Just because you're a level 70 elf paladin in World Of Warcraft does not mean that you get a free pass when it comes to showing empathy for real human beings. Elf paladins weep for their fallen brethren. Where were my tears, elfie? I could have used a cuddle. At the very least, you could have offered up a Howie Mandel knuckle punch.

On Monday evening, September 1, at approximately 7PM in the evening, my precious 4-year old Powerbook G4 laptop died. The signs were there for months, but I was in denial. The on again, off again emphysema wheeze-rattle of the fan. The freezing up, the curt booting me off-line and nagging inability to handle even the smallest of downloads without bitching and moaning and spinning. My computer was four years old. In technoweenie years, that's about 104. I should have replaced her long ago but was determined to get my money's worth. All $3800 of it. It was a slow death and a painful one at that. Data recovery specialists charge anywhere from $500 to $2500 to return all of your precious files unscathed, depending on the severity of the issue. My lovely had a hard drive mechanical failure paired with broken fan disease. They will have to rebuild it in order to deliver my goodies in one piece. If you build it, they will pay.

When I'm not writing about looking like Encino Man in a Michael Kors mule, I work as a sales & marketing strategist. For some of my clients, I'm also engaged in new business development. My network is my livelihood, you see - my lists of prospects worth its weight in gold. Which is exactly how much it will cost you if you do not back up your damn computer. STAT. You've been warned! Learn from my pain, people.

Stop reading this right now and go backup your computer. You'll be grateful that you did. My last backup was six months ago. Within a 24 hour period I've recovered almost all of what I've lost and now have a brand new shiny toy to play with that makes my former computer look like a geriatric mess. I love my new MacBook. In fact, I'm feeling quite attached already. She's a good egg.

Dear MacBook,

Although you're not as big as my last computer, you're feisty. I'll give you that. You have a built in camera, which means that friends and family and (ack!) clients can check in on me at any time to find that I'm working from the comfort of my couch in the shirt that I slept in, braless, sporting bed head that makes me look like some yet to be discovered arctic, baby bird.

I promise to treat you like a princess. I will always put you in your sleeve and will never, ever, drink Earl Gray tea in your presence, or carelessly drop toast crumbs on your touch pad. You will remain smudge free for as long as I can manage not to lose the nice cloth the apple folks gave me. I will not drop you, shake you or secretly pine for a MacBook Air. While watching porn, I will not curse your short battery life. (just checking to see if you were still with me here.) what? porn? me? who? nahhhhh.....

Signing off from an over-sized King at the Palomar Hotel in SF. I highly recommend this place. You can request a goldfish for the duration of your stay. So I did. Hoping he has a long, wheeze free life inside the bowl.