Thank You, from the Bottoms of My Heart & Underwear

Dear Kotex,

The other day, in between bouts of crying over old Calvin & Hobbes comics, screaming obscenities at the neighbor’s dog, Lamaze-breathing my way through paralyzing cramps and consuming every pork product within reach of the couch I refused to leave because of my unshakable belief that the whole world did indeed really care about the monstrosity of a pimple that had sprouted on my chin, I was lamenting just how boring my period has become.

I mean, really. After thirty years, I have to admit the thrill is gone.

So I’m sure you can imagine my reaction to seeing a commercial from your “Take a Stand Against Bland” campaign. Yes, I’ve tried to assuage the boredom of this monthly burden with rollerblading, field frolicking, interpretive ice dance and many of the other activities my previous feminine protection products have assured me they laugh in the face of, but I hadn’t even considered the gathering of a group of my peers to vandalize public property while playing The Ettes at high volume as a possible course of curative action.

And, awesome as that is, it’s not even the part I’m really really excited about.

Just the idea that a piece of absorbent material glued to the crotch of my underwear that no one else ever sees and I myself spend most of the day wanting to not remember is there at all could have pretty colors and swirly designs is, frankly, something I never would have even hoped for.

And now, you have made it a reality. A reality that at long last explains the nagging sense of being somehow unfinished whenever I leave the house accessorized with only the basics of earrings, scarf, purse, anklet, toe ring, hair flower and whatever perfume I believe olfactorily continues my chosen color scheme.

Lo these many years, I have neglected to properly accessorize my vagina during the few days of the month when it is doing everything it can to remind me that it is still there for all of my carrying-on-the-human-race needs. The only comfort I can take is in the knowledge that I am not the only one, and that now, those days can easily be behind me forever.

I really don’t know how to thank you.

Sincerely,
A Consumer

POTENTIAL ICK-INDUCING “T.M.I. THING YOU DON’T LIKE TO THINK ABOUT BUT THAT I CONSIDER MEDICALLY NECESSARY TO MENTION” POST-SCRIPT:

If the unmitigated inanity of this entire concept isn’t enough to make you not use these products, please consider this; changes in the color of menstrual flow and/or vaginal discharge can be a sign that something is wrong and needs to be checked out. Not having these things on a solid white surface just makes them more difficult to recognize. For that reason, I personally consider these products unsafe and would not use them even if they weren’t such a blatant insult to my intelligence. I strongly urge anyone considering using these products to please keep that in mind.

Word of the Day - reBay

reBay (REE-bey) verb – to sell objects on eBay that were acquired on eBay and use the proceeds to purchase other objects on eBay

Examples

“I reBayed those red heels and got a really pretty hat.”

“I spent a little more for that dress than I had planned, but it’s okay, after the wedding I’m going to reBay it for new window treatments.”

“With all the weight I’m losing on the Orange Pith Plan, it seems like I’m reBaying my jeans every week! Thanks, Mother Nature!”

(If you would like to show your love of the environment and support of the arts all in one online shopping experience, please stop by my eBay store. The more I clear out, the more new stuff I can buy to be photographed in. And you’ll be pretty much single-handedly saving the planet at the same time. You like that, right? I know you do. Because you’re a good person.)

I Like Mick Jagger Better as a Woman

I am not a huge fan of the Rolling Stones. Truth be told, I am not even a moderate fan. What I do seem to be a huge fan of is covers of Rolling Stones songs by female vocalists. It began with Tori Amos covering “Angie”. It was solidified by The Sundays’ cover of “Wild Horses”. And as for “Miss You”? Sorry, boys, but that is a Jane Jensen song now. She owns it and you will never get it back.

Ever.

Dear Food Network Contestants...

Dear Food Network Contestants,

Contrary to the old axiom, there really is such a thing as bad publicity. The producers may not have explained this to you, but when you appear on programs like Cupcake Wars, Chopped, and Challenge, they tell people your name and the name of the establishment you represent. If you have a substantial private income, complete lack of regard for the opinions of others, and really only cook professionally for funsies, please feel free to stop reading here.

If not, please note that when you appear on national television and behave like a complete bitch/jackass/whiner/pretentious niche market detail-dropping whore/shit-talking back-stabbing unjustifiably cocky bastard with zero concern for health and safety issues, etc., people like me notice. When we notice, not only do we gift you with unflattering monikers such as ‘Bitchcake Von TwatWhistler’, ‘Douchewit McDouchington’ and ‘That Boston Skank’, we also remember your real name, your face, and the restaurant you work for. And add that restaurant to the list of places we will never ever go. And then tell our friends. Who may well in turn tell their friends. And so on.

Just something to think about.

Another thing you might want to think about; deliberately antagonizing Kerry Vincent is seldom a good idea. In fact, I can’t imagine the circumstance under which that would be a good idea. So let me amend that statement to read, deliberately antagonizing Kerry Vincent is NEVER a good idea. It will earn you nothing but an opportunity to look foolish.

And finally, when you don’t win a competition, please do not walk away saying that your loss was due to the fact that the judges didn’t “get” what you were doing. If they really didn’t “get” it, it isn’t because they’re stupid, uncreative and narrow-minded; rather, it’s very likely because not all of what went on in your head made it to the plate. But most of the time, they did indeed “get” it, it just might not have been as good as you thought it was. The ability to accept this gracefully, glean the constructive tidbits from the judge’s critiques, and apply that experience to future endeavors all add up to the state most commonly referred to as “having a pair”, the achievement of which will serve you well both in and out of the kitchen for years to come.

Sincerely,
A Viewer

Fun for the Whole Family!

It has come to my attention that there are some folks on the Internet who have had the tragically bad fortune to not be born into a life that includes magical wishing wells, the right to never ever have anything said to or about them or anyone they know that they or anyone they know might find the least bit offensive in any way, unlimited free ice cream cones, and a pony.

I know. It is very sad. I’ll give you all a moment to collect yourselves.

Now, before your overwhelming compassion and sympathy for these poor souls causes you to fall apart completely, know this; they aren’t just sitting back and taking it. Far be it from them to simply accept the hand that fate has dealt and not seek to improve their lot.

And bless their hearts, they do try. I can understand how nagging the Internet Police into deleting profiles, blog posts and photos that hurt your little feelings would seem like the way to make your life better. I’ve been known to buy truly unflattering shades of lipstick based on similar logic, so please know that I do feel the pain.

And yet... it doesn’t make them happy. Worse, this previously posted content returns. Complete, unedited, reposted again and again. A nightmare from which it seems there can be no escape!

But if you have found your way here, do not lose heart, little ones. There is another way. Instead of running yet another lap around the read/cry/nag/delete/repost/repeat track, you can break the cycle. You have the power. You can...

Get The Fuck Over Yourself.

“...really?” you ask.

Yes, I say.

“But HOW?!” you may wonder.

Well, it is a skill, a skill that must be learned like any other. But when learning is fun, it hardly feels like work at all! Let’s play a game!

~~~
Six Degrees of Get The Fuck Over Yourself

Begin at “Of course I can’t just NOT read blogs/belong to online groups/view photo albums that offend me!” From this point of unjustifiable indignation, continue onward over the steppingstones of denial, uncertainty, understanding, acceptance and indifference.

Win by avoiding reading something that offends you, in six steps or less.
~~~

~~~
Trivial Pursuit – The ‘Get The Fuck Over Yourself’ Edition

- Science & Nature – What substance is it that compels you to read things you know you don’t like?
- History – How long have you been reading these things, and why haven’t you stopped yet?
- People & Places – Why do you visit places where blogs and photos are posted by people that you know you don’t like?
- Art & Entertainment – Aren’t there any blogs and photos you do like that you could be looking at?
- Sports & Leisure – Don’t you have anything better to do with your free time?

Win by answering all of these questions without stomping your feet and throwing things.
~~~

~~~
SORRY! But You Really Need To Get The Fuck Over Yourself!

Run around the Internet with four pretty, brightly-colored fake profiles. Report lots of blogs and photos. Say “Sorry!” as often and sarcastically as possible. Move forward. Move backward. Move sideways. Say “Sorry!” again, repeatedly. Make no sense whatsoever.

Win by not playing anymore.
~~~

~~~
Stratego Away and Get The Fuck Over Yourself

You have an army of friends that you’ve never met and that may in fact only be three people with far too much time on their hands, but they look really intimidating when displayed on your profile. Decide that someone is your enemy because their blog or photo offended you. Attack them. Act surprised when the whole thing blows up in your face. Repeat.

Win by admitting you can’t win.
~~~

~~~
Monopoleeze Just Get The Fuck Over Yourself

Go around to a bunch of profiles that have offended you in the past and report them. Rent out Top Friend spots on your profile to people who promise to report the profiles that offend you in return for reporting other profiles that you’ve never even seen but that offended someone you don’t know but who has rented a Top Friend spot on your profile. Don’t notice that you’re just going around in a big square doing the same thing over and over and over and over and over.

Win by noticing that you’re just going around in a big square doing the same thing over and over and over and over and over.
~~~

~~~
Clue – Get One and Get The Fuck Over Yourself

After your seventeenth successful deletion of a complete stranger’s profile, someone has crept into your profile and murdered any chance you had of being viewed as something other than a whiny troublemaker who has no understanding of the concept of personal responsibility. Was it a Top Blogger, in the General Discussion Forum, with A Vicious Rumor? A Neglected Friend, in a Romance & Relationships Group, with Personal Information? That One Chick You Keep Poking, in ‘Café World’, with The Truth About How Much All Those Pokes Bug Her?

Win by discovering that it was You, in Your House, with Your Own Annoying Stupidity.
~~~

~~~
Life – Get the Fuck Over Yourself and Get One

Put a notebook next to your computer, and keep track of all the time you spend reading blogs you don’t like, leaving comments on photos you don’t like stating how much you don’t like them, telling all your friends how much you don’t like those blogs and photos, and sending repeated requests to the Internet Police to have those blogs and photos deleted. At the end of one week, add up all that time and figure out how many other things you could have done in that same amount of time, like cleaning your closets, taking your dog to the park, detailing your car, talking to people you actually know, going to the gym or remembering your mother’s birthday.

Win by actually doing some of those things instead of reading blogs you don’t like, leaving comments on photos you don’t like stating how much you don’t like them, telling all your friends how much you don’t like those blogs and photos, and sending repeated requests to the Internet Police to have those blogs and photos deleted.
~~~

Now, wasn’t that fun?

(This post is dedicated to Eric Brooks, The Official Naked Nurse, The Great State of MANtana, Jesus for Hookers, Randi Athenas, and anyone else who got caught in the Mass Facebook Profile Deletion Spree of April 2011)

My Favorite Warnings: Prescription Drug Edition

-NASONEX, for the treatment of nasal allergy symptoms including congestion, sneezing, itchy nose or runny nose.

“The most common side effects include headache, viral infection, sore throat, nosebleeds and coughing.”

But they’re different headaches, sore throat, nosebleeds and coughing than those your allergies would cause. Different and preferable.


-RECLAST, for the treatment of postmenopausal osteoporosis.

“Do not use if you are nursing, pregnant, or may become pregnant.”

I’m sorry, this is to treat what kind of osteoporosis again?


-NEXIUM, for the treatment of the symptoms of acid reflux disease

“Side effects include headache, diarrhea, abdominal pain, nausea, and sleepiness.”

But at least you won’t have heartburn anymore.


And last but far from least, just one version of a warning that can be found on just about every drug on the market today:

-PREVACID, for the treatment of frequent heartburn. Active ingredient: Lansoprazole 15 mg

“Warning: Do not use if you are allergic to Lansoprazole”

Yeah...

Costco: Redefining “Almost Out”

Determining whether or not you are “almost out” of something is an equation based on personal needs and uses; how much of said thing you have on hand and how much time historically it takes you to use remaining quantity of said thing.

For instance, if you are single, living alone and usually have macaroni & cheese once a week, being down to your last two boxes of macaroni & cheese is not “almost out”. If you have three kids under the age of ten and are down to your last two boxes of macaroni & cheese, we’ll hold on while you go to the store.

Back? All right then. If you’re like me, you like to plan your shopping at least a few hours in advance and try to do it at roughly the same time, be it once a week, twice, or every afternoon at 3:30 after you pick up the kids. This is basic shopping math

and should hold true under pretty much any circumstances. But recently I have noticed a subtle force at work attempting to undermine in my head the veracity of this simple equation; the perception of “almost out” based on quantity remaining vs. quantity originally purchased.

I’ve always appreciated the reasoning behind buying in bulk whenever possible. So when my mom got a Costco account and invited me and my sister to accompany her on her weekly excursions, I was all for it. I knew it would mean making some changes, namely figuring out how to store 900 square feet of barbecue sauce and fabric softener sheets in an 800 square foot apartment, but I have a balcony and am not particularly attached to most of my furniture anyway.

I organized cabinets and closets, bought stackable racks for canned goods, put shelves wherever shelves could be put. I prepared for a life of buying in bulk much the same way people prepare to bring newborns home; knowing much of the future of my household would revolve around this thing I had decided to do, that there would be moments when I wondered why I ever thought I could handle it or that it would be a good idea, but that at the end of the day it would prove to be the right thing and make me really really happy.

Among the first purchases of my BIB career was a 36 roll pack of toilet paper. Fortunately, the rolls were individually wrapped, so I could split the package up and stash them wherever they fit. Yes, twelve rolls of toilet paper and a decorative bath towel do make a very attractive ottoman, but more important is the peace of mind that comes from knowing it’s entirely possible that you will never ever have to ever buy household paper products ever again as long as you live.

Flash forward the amount of time it takes to use 30 rolls of toilet paper, to a Costco Eve, as I am writing out my shopping list and say to myself “oh, need to get toilet paper, we’re almost out”. And there, like so many cherry blossoms on a breezy late spring afternoon, the memories of years I spent buying toilet paper in 4-packs broke free from my mind and simply drifted away.

I have since managed to reclaim some of those lost years. I understand once again that, for a two person household, having six rolls of toilet paper is okay. My hands no longer tremble when I notice we are down to our last pound of rice. I still sometimes feel compelled to buy another two-pack of 40 oz bottles of Ranch dressing as soon as we open the second one, but I’m working through that. I am. And I’m getting there.

Really.

Pinup Lifestyle Photo Contest

Jerry and I have a photo entered in the Pinup Lifestyle "Hollywood Glam" contest. It looks like this

and we'd be ever so appreciative if you would vote for it HERE. And then ask a bunch of people you know to do the same. No registration necessary, and you get a total of five votes in this contest, which you will need every one of because there is some amazing photography competing for each.

Well, each of the remaining four, anyway. We want one. After that, you are free to vote... freely.

If you are a fan of pinup-style photography, culture, etc., you should also consider joining Pinup Lifestyle. It's a fantastic network where you will find not only the best and latest in pinup photos, but also enjoy discussions with like-minded folks about cars, tattoos, shoes, makeup, patriotism, more shoes, food, movies, other shoes, and so much more.

And in the section where they ask how you heard about the site, tell them Harlean Carpenter sent you. If I refer enough people, I think I get some shoes.

Miracle Whip: Sandwich Salvation or Satan’s Semen?

Just when you thought it was safe to say that America is about as determinedly divided as it can get, what with the political, sexual, racial, religious, Edward vs. Jacobness of it all, yet another line has recently been drawn in the sands of our lives. A line unlike any before. A line that will impact not only our lives, not only the lives of our children, but may ultimately be the deciding factor in whether or not we ever eat sandwiches again.

This line has been drawn by the makers of Miracle Whip. Seems to me the question of “Are you Miracle Whip?” is destined to meet with a pretty massive amount of physiological evidence resoundingly to the contrary amongst their target audience, but I’ll let that be their problem to solve when and how they see fit. For now, down the gauntlet has been thrown and it is demanded of each of us to decide: LOVE IT OR HATE IT?

And since this is clearly really really important, I’ve been trying. I have. And the only conclusion I’ve been able to reach troubles me deeply, but I’ve yet to find my way through, over or around it. Because, much as it shames and pains me to admit, the truth is...

I don’t care.

Seriously.

I’ve had Miracle Whip. And I find the difference between it and mayonnaise to be about as bold and compelling as the difference between different brands of plain old mayonnaise. Yes, I can taste the difference between Kraft, Best Foods and knock-off bargain brands of mayo as easily as I can taste the difference between mayo and Miracle Whip. And none of those differences has been dramatic enough to send me, fragile psyche first, down a nightmarish spiral of sandwich spread terror that I might be so doomed as to ever have to set taste bud on it again. Nor have they ever inspired me to take up arms and pledge my life in their defense screaming all the while “they can take our freedom, but they will never take OUR LUNCH!”

Miracle Whip has a Facebook page where you can “Join the Debate”. Unfortunately, I can’t, because the only two choices are, as previously stated, love it or hate it. But if they ever get around to adding the “do not give two shits, half a fuck, the right cheek of a rat’s ass or any combination thereof” option, I’ll be sure to chime in.

The Lucky Spatula & Other Reasons I’ll Never be on ‘Worst Cooks In America’

Once upon a time in the early 60’s, my mother bought a set of Ecko utensils. They looked like this

and some of them are still alive today, proudly carrying on in my mother’s current kitchen, reminders of simpler times and other kitchens, having survived not only the 60’s but the learning to cook of more than a few children, myself included. The spatula, sadly, has passed on to wherever it may be that loyal kitchen tools go, but surprisingly recently. As in, about 6 months ago, when it was over 40 years old. But it will live on, in my memory and in the memories of my mother and siblings, forever as the Lucky Spatula.

As you may gather from the photo, this Ecko utensil set was stainless steel with black plastic handles. But not just any plastic; 1960’s plastic. And they don’t make plastic like that anymore. They don’t have to. Most of the original stuff is still around. The 60’s did not fuck around with any tree-hugging biodegradable-in-your-lifetime green-going plastic. They built their plastic to last, and saved their greenness and tree hugging for where it would be best appreciated; in meadows, where there were trees.

But even the most hardcore and determined of plastics can fall prey to the striking of a handle against an unyielding surface at precisely the wrong angle, and such was the fate of the Lucky Spatula. At some point in the early 70’s, its majestic black plastic beauty was reduced to a mere nub, with a stainless steel rectangular protrusion to remind us of its former glory.

So naturally, I thought it was fantastic. A spatula with an actual kid-sized handle. The best thing that could happen to an eight-year-old learning to cook.

Now, before I go any further, I should probably explain something. This was me around the time I was learning to cook

and needless to say, the burden of rampant popularity amongst my peers wasn’t something with which I fought a daily battle. Yes, I was a nerd. I loved to read. Anything I could get my hands on. So imagine the mental process tripped by the reading of the following statement

“IF YOU CAN READ, YOU CAN COOK”

in the introduction of this 1973 classic:

Well then, I could cook. At that point, it was just a matter of proving it. And prove it I did, with the Lucky Spatula at my side all the while, like some kind of mass-produced culinary Jesus; long before I was even old enough to understand that peanut butter & jelly sandwiches were assembled and not born, it had been sacrificed for my kitchen sins, and I had only to forgive myself. Just knowing that I was using a tool that was already broken gifted me with a freedom that, looking back, I may not have ever learned to cook without. After all, what was I going to do, break something?

Flash forward past ragingly successful scrambled eggs, French toast from my father’s recipe (the one thing even my mom admits that my dad makes better than anyone in the world), a really questionable attempt at chicken a l’orange, and a pink thing that was supposed to be sugared popcorn, and I found myself viewing the trials and tribulations of Chefs Anne Burrell and Robert Irvine as they attempted to coax edible foodstuffs from a group of individuals dubbed the Worst Cooks in America.

(On a side note, I totally called Joshie to win when there were still 8 recruits in the running. I know passion for food when I see it)

And while I was by turns amused and enthralled by the journey of these individuals, and never shy about cheering them on in their endeavors, beneath it all was an emotion I didn’t identify until the third or fourth episode of the show I watched.

Then I realized what it was. I was a little sad. Sad for complete strangers that I have never and likely will never meet, sad that they had never known the liberation of the Lucky Spatula, or whatever in their lives would have been its equivalent; sad that not everyone finds the thing that gives them the freedom to fail in the kitchen, and consequently the freedom to try again, as many times as it takes, sad that they had never known the joy of learning to cook at a young age, and had that skill to carry with them throughout the rest of their lives.

Sad, and at the same time grateful. Grateful that I had a mother who was frugal enough to hang onto a spatula with a broken handle, and realistic enough to understand that her kids needed to really screw things up in the kitchen before they would ever get them right.

Or maybe that’s why she kept it. By the time I was old enough to reach the stove, the Lucky Spatula was as broken as it was going to get. Even I couldn’t break it again.

But, before I got those scrambled eggs right, God knows I tried.

(This post is dedicated with love to my mom, who was supportive enough to not ever tell me that someone coming home from the hospital after a bout with appendicitis does not want to immediately be confronted with a ten-year-old’s rendition of chicken a l’orange.)