Would Someone PLEASE Explain Kelly Ripa?

I've been home this week for Thanksgiving. Normally, I don't get to watch morning television. But this week I've been catching "Live with Regis and Kelly." And I'm puzzled. What is with Kelly Ripa?

I read in the media trades that the show is very popular, especially with women who are able to stay home in the mornings. Kelly fawns all over sweet, aging Regis like a granddaughter. Kelly is cute. Kelly is very fit. Kelly apparently is supermom and superwife. I think Kelly must appeal to a group of ladies who aspire to be like her -- and it must be a bigger group of women than the ones who think she is full of it. Obviously, I fall into the latter group.

I think Kelly is Regis's arm candy; a step up from Vanna White, except Vanna can spell. Kelly doesn't say anything compelling. She doesn't pose any thoughtful issues. I kid you not - the topic of conversation one morning this week was how Kelly and Reg decided to match their clothing colors. Did they steal that from Sesame Street? At least Kelly's husband Mark Consuelos is featured in a recurring bit on Oprah - Oprah's ranked a little higher in the Nielsen ratings.

I've seen the ads for various products that highlight Kelly as a overachieving robo-mom. I had seen Amy Pohler's portrayal of her on SNL and at the time I didn't get that Kelly's really like that. I laughed at the SNL "fake ad" that shows Kelly as a spokesmodel for haircolor laced with crack cocaine - implying that's how she makes it through each grueling day of TV fame, kids and family.

I will bet cold, hard cash that in reality, behind that perfect spouse and parent persona, there is a stable of employees who make sure her life runs smoothly. Or at least that's what I have to believe to not feel less accomplished, achieving and/or successful. Eeeek.

I guess I see now why my husband prefers talk radio...

The Mascara Conspiracy

Ads these days have so many disclaimers. “Do not expect these same results.” “Paid endorser.” “Professional driver on a closed course.” “Don’t try this at home.” Everything is designed and executed to protect the poor, unsuspecting consumer from either expecting to lose 50 pounds in 1 week if a certain tablet is ingested to believing they’ll learn Portugese after listening to a 3 CD-set.

Let’s talk cosmetics. If I’m not supposed to believe I can drive a new sports car on the ledge of a skyscraper 40 stories high, then WHY should I believe my skimpy little eyelashes will grow exponentially if I use mascara A versus B? Sure – it helps to wear it and my eyelashes actually show up.

But if I believe Cover Girl and use one of their latest mascara products, then the wooly bear caterpillars that crawled on Drew Barrymore’s eyelids should appear on mine. On TV, she bats those black, feathery-eyelashed lids in the ad and mysteriously, magically, my dining room set is dusted! In the magazine, they look like a fine grade of corduroy. They’re long enough and defined enough to rake leaves in my backyard with them.

For the record, I’m in advertising. I know she has a make-up artist who painstakingly painted each eyelash individually. I know about photo retouching. But it’s ridiculous and quite frankly, a lie. There are never any disclaimers on mascara ads and the photos, film footage and claims are as false as the lashes the models are wearing. If ever there were an appropriate time and place for the “Results not typical” line, it’s here.

Giving Tendonitis “The Boot”

I have been so very blessed with good health in my life. No broken bones, no sprains and very few stitches. Even the taking out of my teen-aged wisdom teeth took about 30 minutes from anesthesiology to a gauze-packed, incomprehensible speaking voice. When I think of all the bike spills, horse throws and tree falls I endured as a kid, I remind myself how lucky I am. At what point did my bones, joints and muscles start to bark back at me?

So last year, when the outside of my foot had a subtle, nagging pain, I went to a podiatrist. He informed me I had tendonitis. Tendonitis? What? Isn’t that an athletic disease? (All you people who know me can stop snickering now.) With all his years of medical study, years of residency and private practice -- and how does he figure this out? By looking at the bottom of my shoe heels. Thank you, Dr. Scholl.

Apparently, I pronate. Before you think I’m supporting some segment of the porn industry, it just means I roll out on the right side of my foot when I walk, thus putting pressure on the point where tendon meets bone. In defense of Dr. Happy Feet, he did also take x-rays and ordered an MRI on my ankle and foot area to confirm what my shoe heels told him. Not only did it confirm his initial diagnosis, but he believes I had a major – like “oh my gawd my foot” – foot injury in my life that might have weakened it. I know I’m a blonde, but that’s news to me.

He’s not quick to go to surgery, for which I’m very thankful. He exhausts – and below, you’ll see why I use “exhaust” – all options first. The tendonitis diagnosis led to three months of fun-filled foot frolicking:

Month 1. Wrap the foot/ankle and wear a Not-Ferragamo Walking Boot. But it might as well have had a Ferragamo logo on it to go with its $400 price tag. Zero to deductible met in .7 seconds. And on top of that, I found the exact boot on Walgreen’s website later for $70. Nah – there’s no price-gouging that would yield a healthcare crisis.

Month 1 – Part 2. Prescribes a TENS unit. There’s another $200 toward the deductible. TENS stands for Transcutaneous Electrical Nerve Stimulator – an electrode that attaches to my foot to shock the blood into flowing through my foot. Great…he’s giving this to a blonde who enjoys drinking wine in the evenings.

Month 2. Just walking on the boot is not making it any better. Let’s keep the boot and raise her a pair of crutches. Remember me? The one who’s never had a broken bone? I would have had more coordination in a hip-hop dance class.

Month 2 - Part 2. Prescribes shoe inserts supposedly designed to keep me from rolling out when I walk. Here’s another $300, complements of my healthcare provider. And they don’t work…to this DAY I’m still shaving off the outsides of my heels.

Month 3. Orders for physical therapy. Ten sessions of using my foot to “write” an imaginary alphabet in the air. Ten sessions of doing things with weights and rubber bands on my foot. Ten sessions designed to either (1) make it better or (2) make it worse – either way, it’s supposed to predict the next course of action.

After Month 3, I knew that if none of this worked, my next step would involve surgery. I didn’t need Dr. Metatarcel to tell me that. And quite honestly, my foot’s not in that much pain. So I just abandoned the whole production and decided to play my own doctor. Lose weight; watch how I walk; wear well-made shoes. So far so good.

Oh well, at least my foot does tell me when rain is coming, so that’s a bonus!