I love my dogs. I really do. But c’mon. They are DOGS. I realize that some folks see their furry friends as their children. I get it. I’ve never had children either. Lately, I’ve seen lots of situations and products that make me think, “wow – these people have more money than sense.” If I DID have children, I’m not sure there are a lot of these things that I’d experience with THEM. If you look in my blog archives from July of 2008, I went on a mini-rant about a lady at my nail salon that brought her dog in with her. PLEASE. Here are some actual “real-life-occurrences that just have no place with your pet:
Strollers – There’s a high-rise next to my office. Lots of people walk their dogs, as they should. However, as I drove into work, I spotted one lady with an old-fashioned, pram-style stroller. In the stroller were three – YES 3 – white, fluffy little dogs, just enjoying the ride and panting as if they were actually walking. Isn’t the purpose of a dog walk to “walk the dog?” I almost hit a fence! As we all know from my previous blog entries, there’s no stroller big enough on this planet to fit even ONE of my dogs, let alone one of them riding shotgun in a stroller.
High-End Mattresses – One of our local retailers is advertising Tempurpedic® mattresses on sale. Nothing wrong with that. The wrong part came when they started hyping their Tempurpedic® mattresses FOR DOGS. I can’t even afford one for myself – let alone provide one for my pets, who will promptly devour it as the large, foam rubber marshmallow it is. We’ve seen what Chip can do to a rose bush, so foam rubber is a piece of sponge cake to him.
Pet Clothes – If you live in the north or Midwest, and your pet needs to go outside in the dead of winter, then dog clothes (i.e. sweaters) serve a purpose. However, dressing your mastiff like Madonna or your Persian like Paris Hilton means there is a spark plug that’s not firing in your brain. Why don’t you put on a furry Chewbacca costume as you’re putting clothing on your pet…see how long you enjoy it?
Kitty Clothes – Oh please. Enough said. Good luck with those back claws.
Pet Swimming/Life Preservers – OK…these may have a place. Older or crippled animals would probably need these. But geesh – there’s a reason the swimming teacher called it “the dog paddle.” And if you’re afraid that Spot will jump off the Sea Ray, then leave him on dry land.
As ludicrous as these things are, I will however, give kudos to the companies and retailers for seeing their niches and jumping on them. And we wonder why people are worried about “the dumbing down of America?” I rest my case.
Friday, June 5, 2009
Monday, May 11, 2009
Keep Mom Away From My Hair!
I grew up in an era where women – my Mom specifically – went to the “Beauty Shop” once a week to have their hair shampooed and set. Mom’s day was Friday. Personally, I can’t imagine going 2 days without washing my hair – Mother did it for SEVEN DAYS, every single week. And in South Texas – the heat and humidity capital of the world, I might add. By Day 6, my Mom was crazed – scratching her scalp and trying to tease some last lift of life into a hairstyle that had been slept on for five nights.
That’s when she came looking for me. I think we suffered the payback for moms who didn’t have any daily control over their hairstyles. I was like a live doll whose hair my mom could play with. And she wasn’t really good at hair styling – face it, she had someone else do it for a reason. Hopefully, you were lucky and you had thick hair with lots of it. Not me.
Mom honestly taped bows to my head as an infant, because I had no hair. My current stylist has called my hair “chemically challenged” and he’s right. Think soft like corn silk – yes, like the stuff you pull out of an ear of corn. Think dental floss –stringy and easy to rip. Before you think this is beautiful or ethereal, stop. No barrettes; they don’t have enough to clip onto. Never a hip patch of leather with the stick through it like all the cool hippie girls wore. French braids? Ha – Sacré Bleu!
Join me in a stroll down follicle lane as I flashback - I'm sorry, relive - Homemade Hair Hell from the 60’s and 70’s, all instigated or endorsed by my Mom.
Dog Ears – Why would you give your daughter a hairstyle named for a canine? That’s just not right. And despite the fact my dad had several construction levels, my “ears” were never the same height – one was always slightly higher than the other. Plus - my hair was so short that I always had an inch or 2 of hair hanging down at the nape of my neck. Always a good look.
Uneven Bangs – If mommy can go to the beauty shop, then WHY COULDN’T I?!? Edward Scissorhands had nuthin’ on my mom! I ran when I saw her coming with the scissors. It always looked like my mom cut my bangs on a hill…and this was before punk ushered in asymmetrical hairstyles.
Braids – Obviously, French braiding was out. One has to have more than twenty hairs for that to work. And regular braids made me look like a low-rent Pippi Longstocking. Or Cindy Lou Who on crack.
Bad Perms – Probably the only good thing my mom did was not allowing me a perm back in the day. Sure, it would have added some body to my otherwise flat hair, but back then, there was a lot of room for error. And face it, she would have wanted to do it herself and that's an equation that would've scared Einstein – My Mom + The Home Perm = Burning Hair. So I’m lucky to have escaped this.
Sponge Rollers and Picks – Because my mom wouldn’t let me have a perm, this was the alternative. Obviously created by a man (or someone at Guantanamo Bay), you rolled your hair up wet, crammed a pick in to secure each roller AND you slept on them! Go to your pantry. Get 8 – 10 sheets of aluminum foil and scrunch each one up into a spiky ball. Put all the balls on your pillow and try to sleep on them.
Brain-Crushing Headbands – Speaking of torture, this is simply another device aimed at little girls. Teeny little comb-like spikes dig into your scalp. The 2 sides of the band methodically and slowly squeeze your temples until you start to see stars and pass out. If this didn’t get you to turn the volume down on Scooby-Doo, nothing would!
Palm Trees – I spent some of my younger days in Florida, and Floridians thought it was cute to put one pony tail smack-dab on top of your head and call it a palm tree, because of the way it fell on top like the fronds of a palm tree. This might have been cute when I was 2 – but not at 10.
Sun In – Ah, the beautiful glow of sun-kissed hair. Spray this on and you’ll become a real-live Malibu Barbie. NOT! You instantly become Carrot Top and the Hubble Telescope zones in on you, mistaking your head for the Red Planet Mars.
Asphyxiation with Aerosol Hair Spray – You want to know the REAL cause of global warming, Al Gore? It was my mother and her Final Net. It was like being in the house when the exterminator bombs for bugs. So breathing this in had to be good for us – it had to have killed some germs, right? And as an added bang for you thrill-seekers, my mom SMOKED while she shellacked her hair or my hair.
Bandanas – Who’d have ever thought that a cowboy accessory would make such a versatile hair helper? (insert sarcasm) You can roll it up and tie it off like a hairband. You can wear it in the “Bubushka” style, with the little flap falling over the crown of your head. You can go “Rosie the Riveter” style – which is what we used to call the current “doo-rag.” No matter how you wear it, you look like Britney Spears’ backwoods cousins, waiting for the tornado to take your trailer.
Rubber Bands vs. “Hair Bands” – We didn’t have to spend the whopping 29 cents on a package of cloth-covered, protective hair bands. Not when we got a daily newspaper – we had plenty of rubber bands in every color in the crayon box. So not only are you putting something in your hair that’s stained with newsprint ink and has been thrown in the street, the only way you can remove these from my hair was to cut them out or rip out a handful of hair with it.
You know – maybe Mom was onto someting…that weekly beauty shop visit doesn’t sound so bad after all!!!
That’s when she came looking for me. I think we suffered the payback for moms who didn’t have any daily control over their hairstyles. I was like a live doll whose hair my mom could play with. And she wasn’t really good at hair styling – face it, she had someone else do it for a reason. Hopefully, you were lucky and you had thick hair with lots of it. Not me.
Mom honestly taped bows to my head as an infant, because I had no hair. My current stylist has called my hair “chemically challenged” and he’s right. Think soft like corn silk – yes, like the stuff you pull out of an ear of corn. Think dental floss –stringy and easy to rip. Before you think this is beautiful or ethereal, stop. No barrettes; they don’t have enough to clip onto. Never a hip patch of leather with the stick through it like all the cool hippie girls wore. French braids? Ha – Sacré Bleu!
Join me in a stroll down follicle lane as I flashback - I'm sorry, relive - Homemade Hair Hell from the 60’s and 70’s, all instigated or endorsed by my Mom.
Dog Ears – Why would you give your daughter a hairstyle named for a canine? That’s just not right. And despite the fact my dad had several construction levels, my “ears” were never the same height – one was always slightly higher than the other. Plus - my hair was so short that I always had an inch or 2 of hair hanging down at the nape of my neck. Always a good look.
Uneven Bangs – If mommy can go to the beauty shop, then WHY COULDN’T I?!? Edward Scissorhands had nuthin’ on my mom! I ran when I saw her coming with the scissors. It always looked like my mom cut my bangs on a hill…and this was before punk ushered in asymmetrical hairstyles.
Braids – Obviously, French braiding was out. One has to have more than twenty hairs for that to work. And regular braids made me look like a low-rent Pippi Longstocking. Or Cindy Lou Who on crack.
Bad Perms – Probably the only good thing my mom did was not allowing me a perm back in the day. Sure, it would have added some body to my otherwise flat hair, but back then, there was a lot of room for error. And face it, she would have wanted to do it herself and that's an equation that would've scared Einstein – My Mom + The Home Perm = Burning Hair. So I’m lucky to have escaped this.
Sponge Rollers and Picks – Because my mom wouldn’t let me have a perm, this was the alternative. Obviously created by a man (or someone at Guantanamo Bay), you rolled your hair up wet, crammed a pick in to secure each roller AND you slept on them! Go to your pantry. Get 8 – 10 sheets of aluminum foil and scrunch each one up into a spiky ball. Put all the balls on your pillow and try to sleep on them.
Brain-Crushing Headbands – Speaking of torture, this is simply another device aimed at little girls. Teeny little comb-like spikes dig into your scalp. The 2 sides of the band methodically and slowly squeeze your temples until you start to see stars and pass out. If this didn’t get you to turn the volume down on Scooby-Doo, nothing would!
Palm Trees – I spent some of my younger days in Florida, and Floridians thought it was cute to put one pony tail smack-dab on top of your head and call it a palm tree, because of the way it fell on top like the fronds of a palm tree. This might have been cute when I was 2 – but not at 10.
Sun In – Ah, the beautiful glow of sun-kissed hair. Spray this on and you’ll become a real-live Malibu Barbie. NOT! You instantly become Carrot Top and the Hubble Telescope zones in on you, mistaking your head for the Red Planet Mars.
Asphyxiation with Aerosol Hair Spray – You want to know the REAL cause of global warming, Al Gore? It was my mother and her Final Net. It was like being in the house when the exterminator bombs for bugs. So breathing this in had to be good for us – it had to have killed some germs, right? And as an added bang for you thrill-seekers, my mom SMOKED while she shellacked her hair or my hair.
Bandanas – Who’d have ever thought that a cowboy accessory would make such a versatile hair helper? (insert sarcasm) You can roll it up and tie it off like a hairband. You can wear it in the “Bubushka” style, with the little flap falling over the crown of your head. You can go “Rosie the Riveter” style – which is what we used to call the current “doo-rag.” No matter how you wear it, you look like Britney Spears’ backwoods cousins, waiting for the tornado to take your trailer.
Rubber Bands vs. “Hair Bands” – We didn’t have to spend the whopping 29 cents on a package of cloth-covered, protective hair bands. Not when we got a daily newspaper – we had plenty of rubber bands in every color in the crayon box. So not only are you putting something in your hair that’s stained with newsprint ink and has been thrown in the street, the only way you can remove these from my hair was to cut them out or rip out a handful of hair with it.
You know – maybe Mom was onto someting…that weekly beauty shop visit doesn’t sound so bad after all!!!
Monday, December 15, 2008
Language Mangling (Would These Be Cases of "Mangluage?")
We live in a world where, instead of reading a finely-crafted story, people see movies to experience literature. Cliff Notes are considered too long a read. E-mailing replaces letter-writing. Texting rules; and it comes with its own dialect. We have lost most all appreciation for grammar, oratory and the written word – and it shows.
I have a list of pet peeves as they relate to grammar and pronunciation. Despite the fact I own a library of dictionaries, Roget’s Thesaurus and several editions of the AP Stylebook, I’m still reasonably hip for a word geek. I can live with (and use) things like “LOL,” “BTW” and “ASAP.” I understand a few lines of “text-ese.” I catch myself using bad grammar more often than I want to admit, but hopefully not in my professional life.
But things happen everyday which make me cringe, and everyday the public is more accepting of it. The “dumbing down of America,” I’ve heard it labeled. As I remember back to my college journalism classes, where a misspelled proper name or incorrect fact resulted in an automatic failing grade, here are the things that drive me nuts:
Mangle #1: “Less” versus “Fewer”
Less refers to quantity or bulk; fewer refers to individual quantity. “I had less than $10 in my pocket” versus “I had fewer than 10 one-dollar bills.” This is abused ALL THE TIME. When I called out its incorrectness to a radio producer, the reply was, well that’s how my listeners talk, so it makes them more comfortable to hear it that way.
Mangle #2: “You and me” versus “You and I” versus “ANYONE and me or I”
I can’t even write these without my computer’s Spelling/Grammar Check kicking in. Say the sentence in your head without the other person in the equation: “Sally and me want to go to the store.” Did Me want to go to the store or did I want to? Go with what makes sense. Wait – that implies that one has sense.
Mangle #3: Know Your City
I can only speak for my hometown, but if you’re going to be a broadcaster somewhere, for goodness sake, learn to pronounce things properly. The names of streets; politician names; area cities and towns. In Houston, on every TV station, there’s at least one anchor who can’t get it right. “Hiram Clark Blvd.” is not “Here-am” and our Texas senator is Hutchison – not Hutch-in-son.
Mangle #4: “Electorial” College
It’s Elec-tor-al. There’s no “I” in it. Enough said.
Mangle #5: “Good” versus “Well”
This is my pet peeve because it totally confuses me. From the AP Stylebook: Good should not be used as an adverb. “Good” is an adjective that means “as it should be or above average.” As an adjective, “well” means “suitable, proper or healthy.” As an adverb, “well” means “in a satisfactory way or skillfully.” I feel good = I am in good health. But if I feel well, I don’t know if my sense of touch is working properly or my skin is soft and supple. Hmmm. When your head stops spinning, please proceed to #6.
Mangle #6: “My Bad”
On the heels of good, well or indifferent, I can’t stop this one. It’s too ingrained into everyday life. Technically, it’s not incorrect. It’s just me. I hate the fact apologizing for a slight error (and sometimes large errors) is replaced with this flippant “I could not care less” response. The lack of sincerity is just one more pebble in the rockslide that is good manners.
Oh well, I guess one can chalk it all up to laziness – not looking something up; not checking facts; a lack of doing one’s research. But hey – we’ve elected politicians who can’t spell “potato” and can’t pronounce “nuclear,” so I think I’m ranting for nothing! But if you have Mangluage Pet Peeves of your own, please feel free to comment!
I have a list of pet peeves as they relate to grammar and pronunciation. Despite the fact I own a library of dictionaries, Roget’s Thesaurus and several editions of the AP Stylebook, I’m still reasonably hip for a word geek. I can live with (and use) things like “LOL,” “BTW” and “ASAP.” I understand a few lines of “text-ese.” I catch myself using bad grammar more often than I want to admit, but hopefully not in my professional life.
But things happen everyday which make me cringe, and everyday the public is more accepting of it. The “dumbing down of America,” I’ve heard it labeled. As I remember back to my college journalism classes, where a misspelled proper name or incorrect fact resulted in an automatic failing grade, here are the things that drive me nuts:
Mangle #1: “Less” versus “Fewer”
Less refers to quantity or bulk; fewer refers to individual quantity. “I had less than $10 in my pocket” versus “I had fewer than 10 one-dollar bills.” This is abused ALL THE TIME. When I called out its incorrectness to a radio producer, the reply was, well that’s how my listeners talk, so it makes them more comfortable to hear it that way.
Mangle #2: “You and me” versus “You and I” versus “ANYONE and me or I”
I can’t even write these without my computer’s Spelling/Grammar Check kicking in. Say the sentence in your head without the other person in the equation: “Sally and me want to go to the store.” Did Me want to go to the store or did I want to? Go with what makes sense. Wait – that implies that one has sense.
Mangle #3: Know Your City
I can only speak for my hometown, but if you’re going to be a broadcaster somewhere, for goodness sake, learn to pronounce things properly. The names of streets; politician names; area cities and towns. In Houston, on every TV station, there’s at least one anchor who can’t get it right. “Hiram Clark Blvd.” is not “Here-am” and our Texas senator is Hutchison – not Hutch-in-son.
Mangle #4: “Electorial” College
It’s Elec-tor-al. There’s no “I” in it. Enough said.
Mangle #5: “Good” versus “Well”
This is my pet peeve because it totally confuses me. From the AP Stylebook: Good should not be used as an adverb. “Good” is an adjective that means “as it should be or above average.” As an adjective, “well” means “suitable, proper or healthy.” As an adverb, “well” means “in a satisfactory way or skillfully.” I feel good = I am in good health. But if I feel well, I don’t know if my sense of touch is working properly or my skin is soft and supple. Hmmm. When your head stops spinning, please proceed to #6.
Mangle #6: “My Bad”
On the heels of good, well or indifferent, I can’t stop this one. It’s too ingrained into everyday life. Technically, it’s not incorrect. It’s just me. I hate the fact apologizing for a slight error (and sometimes large errors) is replaced with this flippant “I could not care less” response. The lack of sincerity is just one more pebble in the rockslide that is good manners.
Oh well, I guess one can chalk it all up to laziness – not looking something up; not checking facts; a lack of doing one’s research. But hey – we’ve elected politicians who can’t spell “potato” and can’t pronounce “nuclear,” so I think I’m ranting for nothing! But if you have Mangluage Pet Peeves of your own, please feel free to comment!
Thursday, December 4, 2008
It’s the holiday season, and we are increasingly reminded to share goodwill to all men (and women, of course). We are encouraged to remember those who aren’t lucky enough to have the blessings that most of us have. Each day on my commute to or from work, it’s VERY easy for me to remember these holiday sentiments and send comforting thoughts to these less-fortunate drivers:
-- The person who’s gold-packaged, silver-rimmed Escalade is stylish, but sadly didn’t come with a working blinker.
-- The middle-aged businessman whose heinous disfigurement of a Bluetooth ear and a GPS keypad attached to his right hand rend him powerless to understand the concept of “Exit Left.”
-- The dyslexic Mercedes driver who can’t seem to distinguish one lane from another.
-- The schizophrenic teen girl whose selves don’t know whether to listen to ColdPlay, Lil Wayne or Katy Perry – or text her friend to help her decide.
-- The learning-disabled driver of a BMW 7 Series who isn't aware that his performance auto will easily achieve the speed limit.
-- The mom in the fully-loaded Navigator, whose dangerous stress level is accelerated by apparent multi-tasking: opening/closing the sun roof while talking on her cell phone as she sips her Diet Coke® and changes her precious baby’s DVD from Elmo to Dora.
At this charitable time of year, let’s all try to embrace the spirit of the holidays and help these people. And while you’re at it, please say a prayer that this Escape Hybrid-driving, hair-pulling, patience-challenged, stifled-screaming blonde woman gets to work (or back home) in one piece!
-- The person who’s gold-packaged, silver-rimmed Escalade is stylish, but sadly didn’t come with a working blinker.
-- The middle-aged businessman whose heinous disfigurement of a Bluetooth ear and a GPS keypad attached to his right hand rend him powerless to understand the concept of “Exit Left.”
-- The dyslexic Mercedes driver who can’t seem to distinguish one lane from another.
-- The schizophrenic teen girl whose selves don’t know whether to listen to ColdPlay, Lil Wayne or Katy Perry – or text her friend to help her decide.
-- The learning-disabled driver of a BMW 7 Series who isn't aware that his performance auto will easily achieve the speed limit.
-- The mom in the fully-loaded Navigator, whose dangerous stress level is accelerated by apparent multi-tasking: opening/closing the sun roof while talking on her cell phone as she sips her Diet Coke® and changes her precious baby’s DVD from Elmo to Dora.
At this charitable time of year, let’s all try to embrace the spirit of the holidays and help these people. And while you’re at it, please say a prayer that this Escape Hybrid-driving, hair-pulling, patience-challenged, stifled-screaming blonde woman gets to work (or back home) in one piece!
Friday, November 28, 2008
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...
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...
Friday, November 21, 2008
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.
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.
Monday, November 3, 2008
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!
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!
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