Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about etiquette. What is deemed appropriate and respectable and what is considered impolite, disrespectful or otherwise rude – these questions are plaguing me. Torment over my likely infringement of tried and true social practices handed down from Queen Victoria to Martha Stewart leave me drenched in anxiety. I fear Miss Manners or Dear Abby would scowl and wag their skinny index fingers at me in disapproval if they knew the secret I am all too ashamed to admit. What is that secret, you ask? I’m a bad, bad person. I’ve done terrible things.
After nearly six months post-nuptials Mr. Oz and I still have about half of our wedding thank you notes left to send. I am a thank you note offender. Bless me Father, for I have sinned . . . Can I just say twelve Hail Mary’s and six Our Father’s and get on with my penance already? I know I’m not Catholic, but with all the guilt I feel, I might as well be.
I’m usually fairly prompt about stuff, ya know. I hardly ever pay my bills late. When invited to a party, I’m usually one of those guests that show up a few minutes early or, at the very least, right on time. I try to bring the host or hostess a gift. Nice bottle of wine. A loaf of crusty bread . . . ya know, the good stuff. Beyond my natural proclivity for timeliness, I’m also pretty fond of writing notes. I like the feeling of pen on paper. The flow of ink, its stained impression on a blank canvas, always leaves me with a sense of contentment. Finally, I can speak for Mr. Oz and myself when I say that we really, really are appreciative for all the nice gifts and well wishes we received. So, what’s my deal? I just can’t seem to get my act together on this front. Why? Why do I find this so damn difficult?
In an attempt to give me the benefit of the doubt, you might consider the fact that we just don’t have the necessary supplies handy. Maybe we are fresh out of note cards or envelopes. The post office ran out of stamps. Alas, that is not the case. We have a stack of cards, plenty of envelopes and postage.
After some soul searching I’ve come to a single conclusion. In short, I blame technology.
If it weren’t for the speed and efficiency of email, my Facebook wall-to-walls, instant messaging, texts and cell phones, we would still live in an age where writing and mailing letters was both the preeminent and the most practical form of communication. The habit of physically scratching our fondest regards to loved ones and acquaintances would be so cemented into our everyday lives that posting another three dozen thank you cards would be a small task happily accomplished. Remember when we used to have pen pals? I do. I’d write a 4, 5, maybe 6 page letter on my fabulous pink, Strawberry Shortcake stationary. Shoot that bad boy off and wait patiently for a reply some 2 to 4 odd weeks later. I did this with joy in my heart knowing my words, the paragraphs I took such care in crafting, were winging their way across the continent. Today, writing letters blows. Who the hell cares anymore? I almost NEVER get a real letter in the mail. And, if I did, I wouldn’t know what to do with it. I’m surprised stationary stores and pens still exist. The US postal service is old school just barely hanging on to its last shred of dignity. Today, it’s all about faster, easier, sound bite comments sent through the Internet ether. Today we are all business. Yesterday we had heart. The romance is dead people.
I’m not here to make excuses for myself (o.k., well, only a little bit), but I’m telling you, we are all caught in the middle of a war between what was and what is and my wedding thank you notes just happen to be the casualties. The propriety and dignity of days gone by is slowly fading. Nostalgia is for suckers. If you are among those waiting for your thank you card, know that I will continue to fight the good fight until it rests safely in your mailbox. I won’t rest until this battle has been won!
Now, excuse me whilst I go download more IPhone apps. A girl has got to do, what a girl has got to do.
Saturday, October 18, 2008
Monday, October 13, 2008
I Got Specs Appeal
Accessories are fabulous. Would you agree?
If you follow my blog ramblings then it will come as no surprise that I loves me some purses, shoes and miscellaneous flair. Yes, I said flair but not like the TGI Friday's kind. Oh no. I hate THAT flair.
Whilst on my Staycation I undertook an epic quest to find the perfect pair of eyeglass frames. My criteria for this particular accessory was as follows:
A) Suits my face shape
B) Does not pinch or otherwise constrict my nose, ears or general facial area
C) Color and shape are befitting my personal taste and rock star lifestyle
D) NO Sarah Palin look-alike specs
E) Adds major DRAMA without tragic consequences or geek factor
F) Contains dark Harry Potter-like magic charms allowing me to conjure spirits from the outer dimension, banish unsightly back fat and fill my coffers with gold dabloons (ahoy matey).
OK, so I was willing to give a little on that last one, but seriously, this was a tough job!
After trying on about a gazillion pairs of frames, annoying the store clerk with my continuous demands for "more drama" and eliminating nearly all of them due to their inability to make me look super cool and hot, I landed on these bad boys. What d'ya think?
I have to wait a week for the optician to grind down my lenses. Apparently I am almost legally blind (-925 if that means anything to ya) so I have to pay extra to have my lenses "thinned" out as much as possible. In exchange for this pricey add-on I get to avoid a major Coca-Cola bottle, inhumanely large googly eyeball effect. Yeah for me! I'm looking forward to the day when they make glasses with built in laser beams.
I'll post pictures of me sporting my new glasses so you can see the final effect. Sans laser beams, of course.
If you follow my blog ramblings then it will come as no surprise that I loves me some purses, shoes and miscellaneous flair. Yes, I said flair but not like the TGI Friday's kind. Oh no. I hate THAT flair.
Whilst on my Staycation I undertook an epic quest to find the perfect pair of eyeglass frames. My criteria for this particular accessory was as follows:
A) Suits my face shape
B) Does not pinch or otherwise constrict my nose, ears or general facial area
C) Color and shape are befitting my personal taste and rock star lifestyle
D) NO Sarah Palin look-alike specs
E) Adds major DRAMA without tragic consequences or geek factor
F) Contains dark Harry Potter-like magic charms allowing me to conjure spirits from the outer dimension, banish unsightly back fat and fill my coffers with gold dabloons (ahoy matey).
OK, so I was willing to give a little on that last one, but seriously, this was a tough job!
After trying on about a gazillion pairs of frames, annoying the store clerk with my continuous demands for "more drama" and eliminating nearly all of them due to their inability to make me look super cool and hot, I landed on these bad boys. What d'ya think?
I have to wait a week for the optician to grind down my lenses. Apparently I am almost legally blind (-925 if that means anything to ya) so I have to pay extra to have my lenses "thinned" out as much as possible. In exchange for this pricey add-on I get to avoid a major Coca-Cola bottle, inhumanely large googly eyeball effect. Yeah for me! I'm looking forward to the day when they make glasses with built in laser beams. I'll post pictures of me sporting my new glasses so you can see the final effect. Sans laser beams, of course.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
I Have A Dream
I'm looking for a little dream interpretation help from the blog-o-sphere. Usually, I don't remember my dreams, but last night was a notable exception. I must have left the zone of R.E.M sleep and, in the early morning hours, slipped into the fuzzy border town between full on slumber and wakefulness. It was in this fog of unconscious consciousness that I experienced what could only be considered an ominous and bizarre vision. Kick back and relax for I shall now try to describe this odd dream.
It began with me at work. I was roaming the hallway but there were no lights on. Everything was very dark, dim and shadowy. It didn't feel scary, just no lights. Then I noticed that everyone, including me, had green shirts on. All with varying shades and tones of green. Hmmmm. Suddenly, from out of nowhere, it was announced (or I just knew) we were celebrating a Jewish festival of sorts. There were large tour buses waiting outside to carry all employees to an undisclosed location to celebrate this festival. Again, it was declared (or I just knew) that Oprah Winfrey was scheduled to be at this festival. I walked outside and, on my way to the buses, I started to climb a rather large pyramid. Not sure why I had to do this or where the pyramid came from. The pyramid was rough and covered in rocks and sand. It was quite steep which made my climb very difficult. In fact, I could only walk half way up the side of the pyramid before I was forced to stop. I simply could not make it any higher. Then I looked up and saw that Oprah was at the top of the pyramid and she was walking down to greet me. We met at the half way point where Oprah proceeded to welcome me and give me a big, warm hug. It was AWESOME!
Then, the scene faded and I went back inside. I entered the ladies bathroom to "freshen up" before the festival. I was in one of the stalls and had just opened the door to exit when I saw a Latina woman with large spectacles standing in front of the sink. She was looking at herself in the mirror with her hands over her abdomen. She started talking about how she did not feel well. She kept repeating "I can't move. I can't move." Other women gathered around her to try and help. The woman said (or I just know) that she had recently given birth and was just now returning back to work. Suddenly, she pulled her hands away from her body and they were covered in blood. Her cries of "I can't move" continued. I was frozen and could not move.
Women ran out and called out for a doctor. There were doctors on one of the festival buses. Instead of doctors coming off the bus to help the woman, they pulled the woman onto the bus and placed her in the back on one of the long seats in a reclining position. Soon, the woman gave birth to ANOTHER baby. This baby was hiding inside her while the other baby, presumably its twin, was born weeks earlier. One of the doctors held the baby up by its feet. It looked blue and wrinkly. The baby began to cry.
I woke from my dream.
I ask you, what does this mean? The darkened workplace? The green shirts? The Jewish festival? The pyramid which I was only able to climb part of the way up? Oprah coming down to warmly greet me? The woman in the bathroom unable to move? My own paralysis when I saw her bloody hands? Then, the much delayed birth of the "other" twin? I wish I was making this up, but I am not.
Help. Someone once told me that every person or thing in a dream represents an aspect of the dreamer. If that is the case, I would be able to spot myself in all of these characters and places. Hmmmm. So, am I the green shirt? Am I the pyramid, the climber, Oprah or all of them combined? I'm sure I was the voyeur within the dream, but was I also the pregnant woman AND the new baby? I'm out of my league here people. Throw me some ideas.
Thanks.
It began with me at work. I was roaming the hallway but there were no lights on. Everything was very dark, dim and shadowy. It didn't feel scary, just no lights. Then I noticed that everyone, including me, had green shirts on. All with varying shades and tones of green. Hmmmm. Suddenly, from out of nowhere, it was announced (or I just knew) we were celebrating a Jewish festival of sorts. There were large tour buses waiting outside to carry all employees to an undisclosed location to celebrate this festival. Again, it was declared (or I just knew) that Oprah Winfrey was scheduled to be at this festival. I walked outside and, on my way to the buses, I started to climb a rather large pyramid. Not sure why I had to do this or where the pyramid came from. The pyramid was rough and covered in rocks and sand. It was quite steep which made my climb very difficult. In fact, I could only walk half way up the side of the pyramid before I was forced to stop. I simply could not make it any higher. Then I looked up and saw that Oprah was at the top of the pyramid and she was walking down to greet me. We met at the half way point where Oprah proceeded to welcome me and give me a big, warm hug. It was AWESOME!
Then, the scene faded and I went back inside. I entered the ladies bathroom to "freshen up" before the festival. I was in one of the stalls and had just opened the door to exit when I saw a Latina woman with large spectacles standing in front of the sink. She was looking at herself in the mirror with her hands over her abdomen. She started talking about how she did not feel well. She kept repeating "I can't move. I can't move." Other women gathered around her to try and help. The woman said (or I just know) that she had recently given birth and was just now returning back to work. Suddenly, she pulled her hands away from her body and they were covered in blood. Her cries of "I can't move" continued. I was frozen and could not move.
Women ran out and called out for a doctor. There were doctors on one of the festival buses. Instead of doctors coming off the bus to help the woman, they pulled the woman onto the bus and placed her in the back on one of the long seats in a reclining position. Soon, the woman gave birth to ANOTHER baby. This baby was hiding inside her while the other baby, presumably its twin, was born weeks earlier. One of the doctors held the baby up by its feet. It looked blue and wrinkly. The baby began to cry.
I woke from my dream.
I ask you, what does this mean? The darkened workplace? The green shirts? The Jewish festival? The pyramid which I was only able to climb part of the way up? Oprah coming down to warmly greet me? The woman in the bathroom unable to move? My own paralysis when I saw her bloody hands? Then, the much delayed birth of the "other" twin? I wish I was making this up, but I am not.
Help. Someone once told me that every person or thing in a dream represents an aspect of the dreamer. If that is the case, I would be able to spot myself in all of these characters and places. Hmmmm. So, am I the green shirt? Am I the pyramid, the climber, Oprah or all of them combined? I'm sure I was the voyeur within the dream, but was I also the pregnant woman AND the new baby? I'm out of my league here people. Throw me some ideas.
Thanks.
Thursday, October 9, 2008
Staycation Part Deux
The Staycation continues and what a glorious week it has been! In addition to hitting the gym and working on my fitness, I engaged in activities of leisure such as a blissful manicure and pedicure combo, happy hour at the Happy Gnome, shopping and lunch with friends. Ahhhhh . . . the good life.
When one has such a week of luxurious, carefree time on their hands, it is important to take advantage and attend to some medical and dental check-ups. Perfect health and wellness being right next to Godliness on the "Top 10 Aspirational Goals List" of 2008, I had to oblige and do my part. If you are wondering what #3 is, well, let's just say it might involve plastic surgery and a whole lot of suction . . . not going there right now. I'll leave that for my next Staycation.
In my quest for the holy grail of health, I took my first ever trip to the dermatologist. While I have never had the need or seen a reason to go to a skin specialist before, I was startled out of complacency by stories from friends and friends of friends. A fair-skinned lass with a sad history of blistering sunburns and biological predisposition to moles and freckles sealed the deal. When I made the appointment, I wasn't sure what to ask for? Should I request a check-up? A skin review? An ala carte special peel and graft? I just didn't have the lingo down at all. A colleague suggested I schedule a full body scan which, simply put, is a head to toe look at my epidermis. No stone was left unturned. After a thorough exam, I came to realize that I had a lot more going on in the skin department than I could have ever dreamed possible. What's that you say Dr. Cho? I have a touch of psoriasis on my scalp? Hmmm. I just thought it was a dry patch of skin. Guess not. Seasonal eczema on my hands? Check. Dermatitis with a "touch" of Rosacea on my face? Yep. Got it. Anything else? Well, just for fun let's throw in a couple suspicious looking moles that had to be removed. Good gravy and biscuits people. I'm a walking dermatological case study. Luckily the good doctor didn't diagnose Leprosy. This would have put me over the edge. No severely disfiguring and painful disease from biblical times, thankyouverymuch.
OK, so the whole mole removal thing was pretty easy. If others out there have experienced it, they can attest to this fact. A little shot of local anaesthetic and I didn't feel a thing. There was one slightly disturbing part -- the moment when my tiny wound was cauterized and the pungent smell of my own burning flesh hit my nostrils. Not good. Even worse was the thought, later provided by my darling sister . . . "just think, that was what you would smell if you were ever burned alive!" Great. Thanks!!
After my procedure, I had this compulsion to do a Google search on 'mole removal.' See I'm a bit of a hypochondriac and am always looking for the symptoms, signs and cautionary tales related to diseases and conditions which may or may not befall me. In my quick Internet query, I found a few interesting sites. One of which boasted this picture:
Ahhhhhhh!!!!! I meant mole on my skin, not mole in my garden. This was incredibly frightening. For a mere instant, I was worried my harmless skin moles may erupt and burst with sharp teethed, pointy nosed vermin like this. My anxiety released upon realizing Google was just confused. Whew. Relief. Then I pictured the movie Caddyshack. A golf course groundskeeper, played by a young Bill Murray, dueling it out with a wily gopher. In my mind, the gopher was transformed into his burrowing cousin, the mole. The mole became the small, dark dots on my skin and Dr. Cho was Bill Murray trying to eradicate them from reproducing and spreading their vermin seed across my torso, neck, arms and legs. AAAHHHHHHHHHHH.
The whole skin slicing, flesh burning, Internet searching, mole imagining, Caddyshack remembering was super trippy. Must have been a lethal combination of anaesthetic and Starbucks mocha in my system. Careful not to mix these boys and girls. It leads to bad, bad visuals.
When one has such a week of luxurious, carefree time on their hands, it is important to take advantage and attend to some medical and dental check-ups. Perfect health and wellness being right next to Godliness on the "Top 10 Aspirational Goals List" of 2008, I had to oblige and do my part. If you are wondering what #3 is, well, let's just say it might involve plastic surgery and a whole lot of suction . . . not going there right now. I'll leave that for my next Staycation.
In my quest for the holy grail of health, I took my first ever trip to the dermatologist. While I have never had the need or seen a reason to go to a skin specialist before, I was startled out of complacency by stories from friends and friends of friends. A fair-skinned lass with a sad history of blistering sunburns and biological predisposition to moles and freckles sealed the deal. When I made the appointment, I wasn't sure what to ask for? Should I request a check-up? A skin review? An ala carte special peel and graft? I just didn't have the lingo down at all. A colleague suggested I schedule a full body scan which, simply put, is a head to toe look at my epidermis. No stone was left unturned. After a thorough exam, I came to realize that I had a lot more going on in the skin department than I could have ever dreamed possible. What's that you say Dr. Cho? I have a touch of psoriasis on my scalp? Hmmm. I just thought it was a dry patch of skin. Guess not. Seasonal eczema on my hands? Check. Dermatitis with a "touch" of Rosacea on my face? Yep. Got it. Anything else? Well, just for fun let's throw in a couple suspicious looking moles that had to be removed. Good gravy and biscuits people. I'm a walking dermatological case study. Luckily the good doctor didn't diagnose Leprosy. This would have put me over the edge. No severely disfiguring and painful disease from biblical times, thankyouverymuch.
OK, so the whole mole removal thing was pretty easy. If others out there have experienced it, they can attest to this fact. A little shot of local anaesthetic and I didn't feel a thing. There was one slightly disturbing part -- the moment when my tiny wound was cauterized and the pungent smell of my own burning flesh hit my nostrils. Not good. Even worse was the thought, later provided by my darling sister . . . "just think, that was what you would smell if you were ever burned alive!" Great. Thanks!!
After my procedure, I had this compulsion to do a Google search on 'mole removal.' See I'm a bit of a hypochondriac and am always looking for the symptoms, signs and cautionary tales related to diseases and conditions which may or may not befall me. In my quick Internet query, I found a few interesting sites. One of which boasted this picture:
Ahhhhhhh!!!!! I meant mole on my skin, not mole in my garden. This was incredibly frightening. For a mere instant, I was worried my harmless skin moles may erupt and burst with sharp teethed, pointy nosed vermin like this. My anxiety released upon realizing Google was just confused. Whew. Relief. Then I pictured the movie Caddyshack. A golf course groundskeeper, played by a young Bill Murray, dueling it out with a wily gopher. In my mind, the gopher was transformed into his burrowing cousin, the mole. The mole became the small, dark dots on my skin and Dr. Cho was Bill Murray trying to eradicate them from reproducing and spreading their vermin seed across my torso, neck, arms and legs. AAAHHHHHHHHHHH.
The whole skin slicing, flesh burning, Internet searching, mole imagining, Caddyshack remembering was super trippy. Must have been a lethal combination of anaesthetic and Starbucks mocha in my system. Careful not to mix these boys and girls. It leads to bad, bad visuals.
Monday, October 6, 2008
My STAYcation
I will preface my post by saying that I am somebody who finds myself annoyed by people claiming to be super busy all the time. Everyone is tragically busy. I get it. It bugs! Here is just an example of what I'm talking about:
"Hey Sally (p.s. I don't really know a Sally), long time no see. How are you doing?"
Sally's response punctuated with eye rolling and deep sighs of exasperation, "Oh well, I just can't keep up. You know? Things are just CRAZY at work and with the kids and keeping the house clean and the laundry and then Fido needs to get his teeth cleaned and his coat groomed and then there's that family reunion and you know my aunt is going to make me plan the whole thing. I am just SO BUSY!"
My response -- notably with less enthusiasm and glee -- "Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. We should really get together sometime and catch up. I miss hanging out with you."
"That would be great. But, I just really have no idea when I could schedule something. There is just too much going on. How about we block some time in 2009 and play it by ear?"
"Sure. Sounds fantastic. I'll give you a call sometime after the New Year." Yeah right.
Yeah, yeah. We are all busy, right? I mean, isn't all relative to your particular point of reference? But, seriously folks. We all need to lay off the verbal diarrhea about our insanely busy lives. Enough is enough. I've had it. I say this with total love and compassion for those bogged down professionals and the over-stressed moms out there, cuz lord knows I don't know how you all do it. And, I'm not offering up this up as smug criticism or somehow trying to compete and say that no one can possibly be as busy as me. Not the case and not true. What I am offering is a social commentary around "busy" as a topic of casual conversation. People, this subject is officially played out. It's SO 1990's. I firmly believe "being busy" is today's catch all discussion starter (and ender) on par with "how's the weather?" It has lost all meaning and distinction given the fact that 9 out of 10 people are too damn busy give a damn.
OK, that was the preamble. Now on to the full amble:
I've decided to stop with all the busy-ness. No more running 100 miles an hour, spinning my wheels just to take two steps forward and then three steps back. The rat race has got me down my friends. Yes, I'm writing in ambiguous metaphors, but this seems very appropriate as my life lately could be viewed as a metaphor of the non-stop, go, go, go times we all live in. Today, I have decided to call a cease fire on the battlefield if only for a brief moment. I'm hitting the 'pause' button on the fast forward button of life and changing the frequency from commercial free, heart thumping, adrenaline rushing thrash rock to a calmer, more soothing station -- this week, I'm tuning into the easy listening and acoustic channels. Yep, still using the metaphors . . .
OK, all vague references aside, I needed some down time. Luckily about 2 months ago I blocked a week on my work calendar as I had the forethought to realize I might need to recharge and reconnect. I am taking, what the popular media has coined, a Staycation. A Staycation is a form of vacation, but instead of vacating for warmer climes or new adventures, one stays put. I am going nowhere fast and I am really enjoying myself. After only one full day of my first ever Staycation, I've made it to the gym, paid all my bills, made a dental appointment, did some grocery shopping, lounged about and did some pleasure reading and prepared a delicious homecooked meal which included . . . drumroll . . . fresh baked bread! Watch out Martha Stewart. I'm comin to getchya. I'm not exactly sure what tomorrow has in store for me which is precisely the point. Sure, I have some loose plans like maybe a manicure and pedicure, but no real deadlines or pressing concerns.
I could get used to this.
"Hey Sally (p.s. I don't really know a Sally), long time no see. How are you doing?"
Sally's response punctuated with eye rolling and deep sighs of exasperation, "Oh well, I just can't keep up. You know? Things are just CRAZY at work and with the kids and keeping the house clean and the laundry and then Fido needs to get his teeth cleaned and his coat groomed and then there's that family reunion and you know my aunt is going to make me plan the whole thing. I am just SO BUSY!"
My response -- notably with less enthusiasm and glee -- "Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. We should really get together sometime and catch up. I miss hanging out with you."
"That would be great. But, I just really have no idea when I could schedule something. There is just too much going on. How about we block some time in 2009 and play it by ear?"
"Sure. Sounds fantastic. I'll give you a call sometime after the New Year." Yeah right.
Yeah, yeah. We are all busy, right? I mean, isn't all relative to your particular point of reference? But, seriously folks. We all need to lay off the verbal diarrhea about our insanely busy lives. Enough is enough. I've had it. I say this with total love and compassion for those bogged down professionals and the over-stressed moms out there, cuz lord knows I don't know how you all do it. And, I'm not offering up this up as smug criticism or somehow trying to compete and say that no one can possibly be as busy as me. Not the case and not true. What I am offering is a social commentary around "busy" as a topic of casual conversation. People, this subject is officially played out. It's SO 1990's. I firmly believe "being busy" is today's catch all discussion starter (and ender) on par with "how's the weather?" It has lost all meaning and distinction given the fact that 9 out of 10 people are too damn busy give a damn.
OK, that was the preamble. Now on to the full amble:
I've decided to stop with all the busy-ness. No more running 100 miles an hour, spinning my wheels just to take two steps forward and then three steps back. The rat race has got me down my friends. Yes, I'm writing in ambiguous metaphors, but this seems very appropriate as my life lately could be viewed as a metaphor of the non-stop, go, go, go times we all live in. Today, I have decided to call a cease fire on the battlefield if only for a brief moment. I'm hitting the 'pause' button on the fast forward button of life and changing the frequency from commercial free, heart thumping, adrenaline rushing thrash rock to a calmer, more soothing station -- this week, I'm tuning into the easy listening and acoustic channels. Yep, still using the metaphors . . .
OK, all vague references aside, I needed some down time. Luckily about 2 months ago I blocked a week on my work calendar as I had the forethought to realize I might need to recharge and reconnect. I am taking, what the popular media has coined, a Staycation. A Staycation is a form of vacation, but instead of vacating for warmer climes or new adventures, one stays put. I am going nowhere fast and I am really enjoying myself. After only one full day of my first ever Staycation, I've made it to the gym, paid all my bills, made a dental appointment, did some grocery shopping, lounged about and did some pleasure reading and prepared a delicious homecooked meal which included . . . drumroll . . . fresh baked bread! Watch out Martha Stewart. I'm comin to getchya. I'm not exactly sure what tomorrow has in store for me which is precisely the point. Sure, I have some loose plans like maybe a manicure and pedicure, but no real deadlines or pressing concerns.
I could get used to this.
Saturday, September 27, 2008
In Da Club
There are all kinds of addictions. I believe we all have at least one addiction and the only thing that separates us is the fact that some addictions are more socially or morally acceptable than others. I've watched enough episodes of the A&E show Intervention to see the similarities (and glaring distinctions) between some of the more "popular" compulsions. You know, the ones that require months at rehab, 12 step programs and complete reformation. I'm not too interested in blogging about these, more serious issues today. Nope. Instead, I'm here to make a confession of my own. I, ladies and gents, have a bit of a problem. My name is Mrs. Oz and I am addicted to:
I'm pretty sure if Costco isn't already on the list of "Stuff White People Like" it will be there soon. In my line of work I am well steeped in all things consumer and marketing related so I can usually see through the tricks and trappings of retail. I can sniff a gimmick from a mile away. That being said, I'm a HUGE sucker for Costco. We have one in my hood so Mr. Oz and I probably take a trip there once every few weeks. Today was sample day. Score! The end of each aisle held some tasty treat for us to try. Waffle fries w/ white cheddar, bacon spreadin goodness . . . Wolfgang Puck pizza . . . heat and eat meatballs . . . yogurt . . . fresh grilled salmon. Hell yeah. We practically had our lunch consumed by the end of our visit. While the product demos are exciting and oh so yummy, they are really not the reason for my addiction. I love the treasure hunt adventure of finding something new AND getting a sweet deal. Those folks at Costco are mighty smart. They know how to keep it fresh by mixing up the usual favorites with brand new gadgets, sauces, clothes, books and the like. Damn I love Costco. Lest you think this is all about the food. Here's my latest purchase -- a beautiful and abundant pot of firey orange mums for the front patio. How Fall-tastic and Autumn-riffic is this?
OK, OK. I also bought 2 bags of Pirate's Booty, some of those Wolfgang Puck pizzas and a pile of strawberries, blueberries and avocados. What? I don't think I need an intervention from discount, warehouse shopping . . . do you? If I had to stop, I'm sure I could do it. But, why would I want to or need to?
I'm pretty sure if Costco isn't already on the list of "Stuff White People Like" it will be there soon. In my line of work I am well steeped in all things consumer and marketing related so I can usually see through the tricks and trappings of retail. I can sniff a gimmick from a mile away. That being said, I'm a HUGE sucker for Costco. We have one in my hood so Mr. Oz and I probably take a trip there once every few weeks. Today was sample day. Score! The end of each aisle held some tasty treat for us to try. Waffle fries w/ white cheddar, bacon spreadin goodness . . . Wolfgang Puck pizza . . . heat and eat meatballs . . . yogurt . . . fresh grilled salmon. Hell yeah. We practically had our lunch consumed by the end of our visit. While the product demos are exciting and oh so yummy, they are really not the reason for my addiction. I love the treasure hunt adventure of finding something new AND getting a sweet deal. Those folks at Costco are mighty smart. They know how to keep it fresh by mixing up the usual favorites with brand new gadgets, sauces, clothes, books and the like. Damn I love Costco. Lest you think this is all about the food. Here's my latest purchase -- a beautiful and abundant pot of firey orange mums for the front patio. How Fall-tastic and Autumn-riffic is this?
OK, OK. I also bought 2 bags of Pirate's Booty, some of those Wolfgang Puck pizzas and a pile of strawberries, blueberries and avocados. What? I don't think I need an intervention from discount, warehouse shopping . . . do you? If I had to stop, I'm sure I could do it. But, why would I want to or need to?
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
The Dog Ate My Homework
There is a lot to worry about these days. We have a war based on false pretenses still raging in Iraq. Our economy is in the crapper and shows no real signs of ceasing its plummet. David Duchoveny is suffering from a terrible sex addiction and I can't get the smell of rotten fruit out of my refrigerator. BUT, thank goodness we have someone like John McCain running for President of the U.S. I'm sure he can save us from at least one of these disastrous events -- my bet is he can help cure David Duchovney of his porn induced malady.
So, I'm being sarcastic. I'm not a McCain fan. Really. But, you have to admit this so-called Maverick does seem to be sporting a pair. Why do I say this? Well, only someone with balls of steel would try a stunt like this.
C'mon! Seriously? First it was the old "we need to postpone the RNC because of Hurricane Gustav" excuse so he didn't have to reveal himself as the boring, crusty, worn out, just following Bush's footsteps, non-change agent that he is. Naysayers (and Republican lovers) can cry foul at my cynisism and try to tell me that McCain really did care about the impending natural disaster. His heart went out to those poor Gulf Coast citizens. I politely disagree.
Now, we are led to believe that he truly has the best interests of the nation at heart and, as such, wants to suspend his campaign to focus on the financial crisis. Dude. Obviously, McCain is just looking to duck out of the debates with Obama and he's pulling the well oiled "the dog ate my homework" trick. I guess in this case, it is more like "the Wall Street Bankers shat in my underwear" excuse.
While I could really take this whole decision to task and claim McCain was scared to face Obama in a debate, I won't. No. I will take a different approach. Here are two examples of McCain threatening to hold his proverbial breathe until crap blows over and things get better. Well, guess what Johnny? Stuff just doesn't go away. Crisis is always on the verge of breaking out. Bad stuff will continue to happen. I don't think I'm interested in a president who just stays put and closes the door hoping that others will make it better while he waits it out. Now is the right time to have a debate and talk about how the next president needs to get us out of this mess. Now is the perfect time to engage in a dialogue and then action. Now is not the time for "the dog ate my homework" excuse. Sorry Maverick. You suck.
So, I'm being sarcastic. I'm not a McCain fan. Really. But, you have to admit this so-called Maverick does seem to be sporting a pair. Why do I say this? Well, only someone with balls of steel would try a stunt like this.
C'mon! Seriously? First it was the old "we need to postpone the RNC because of Hurricane Gustav" excuse so he didn't have to reveal himself as the boring, crusty, worn out, just following Bush's footsteps, non-change agent that he is. Naysayers (and Republican lovers) can cry foul at my cynisism and try to tell me that McCain really did care about the impending natural disaster. His heart went out to those poor Gulf Coast citizens. I politely disagree.
Now, we are led to believe that he truly has the best interests of the nation at heart and, as such, wants to suspend his campaign to focus on the financial crisis. Dude. Obviously, McCain is just looking to duck out of the debates with Obama and he's pulling the well oiled "the dog ate my homework" trick. I guess in this case, it is more like "the Wall Street Bankers shat in my underwear" excuse.
While I could really take this whole decision to task and claim McCain was scared to face Obama in a debate, I won't. No. I will take a different approach. Here are two examples of McCain threatening to hold his proverbial breathe until crap blows over and things get better. Well, guess what Johnny? Stuff just doesn't go away. Crisis is always on the verge of breaking out. Bad stuff will continue to happen. I don't think I'm interested in a president who just stays put and closes the door hoping that others will make it better while he waits it out. Now is the right time to have a debate and talk about how the next president needs to get us out of this mess. Now is the perfect time to engage in a dialogue and then action. Now is not the time for "the dog ate my homework" excuse. Sorry Maverick. You suck.
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