I write about commercials a lot, I know. Here's the thing: ad men speak the hearts and minds of America. That's their job. They know us better than we know ourselves, and they use that knowledge to hypnotize us into a frenzy of purchasing:
"You have a problem with your dad? This nice, bearded, dad-ish-looking (but not too dad-ish because he's also kind of hot) guy will now sell you soap. Use the soap to wash away the metaphorical ickyness you feel about your dad, and you will feel better about that whole real-life problem thing."
That's fine - pensieve me to pieces, ad-men, because I want to be sold products that are appealing. I love soap! And psychological closure! I don't, however, like it when you sell a lifestyle that is in direct competition with me.
For instance, you know that ad where the guy - just your average dopey white dude - has a beautiful wife and healthy, happy kids and a ridiculously grand house in the suburbs that he surely got using his wife's money because he doesn't seem to ever go to work, just drives the kids around and barbecues?
You don't know which one I'm talking about? Come on, the one where the guy has all this, but he's still sad because something's...missing?
You still don't know? No? And the kids grow up, and fake iPhone commercial music plays in the background with hipsters going "Oh oh oh OH" and you maybe want to cry but you're not sure why? That one? You know! You don't?
TRICK QUESTION! You will never figure out which one I am talking about, America, because it is ALL OF THE ADS that are designed to appeal to my husband:
"Are you a man? Are you a man with ABSOLUTELY NO PROBLEMS because you are in the charge of the entire world? Buy this thing anyway - just in case."
The SadWhiteDude-ificiation of America continues. Cars, soaps, watches, cheeseburgers - it doesn't matter what the product is because the thing being sold is a man and the maintenance of his manliness. Man-tenance seemed silly but harmless, until I realized that somehow, some way, the thing getting in the way of every man's manliness - according to the commercials - is me. A man's living his life, growing chest hair, polishing guns, whatever, until some lady shows up. Then, like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz, she drops a cute farmhouse on his head, and it's all over for him (although, you know, he lives in the farmhouse with babies instead of shriveling up underneath).
There's a car commercial out now that exemplifies this whole "women are master hunters of the man beast" thing. The commercial tracks the relationship of a man with his automobiles. There are other human people somewhere in this guy's life, but they are irrelevant to his trajectory. He is a meteor of manliness streaking across the night sky in his shitty foreign car, and none may touch him in his glory. He gets his first car when he is 16 because, of course, privilege. Then he goes to college (like, of course! white dudes!) where he majors in grilling and pranking. Then marriage. There's a fleeting shot of a babe in a white dress; SHE DOES NOT MATTER. Then kids. Gotta drive them around for, like, ever. But then, THEN -- praise God who is clearly a dude -- those little turds go off somewhere, the wife is...out (shopping? who cares!), and Man Guyly can finally go back to driving his little red roadster, which is all he's wanted his whole life so leave me alone, okay? Gawd! The tagline is something like, "Be yourself again."
What kind of gaslighting has that babe in the white dress been running on this poor man for all of these years? Did she clunk him on the head each morning? Convince him his name was Darren? Force him to stay at home grilling all those nights when really all he wanted was a nice Panera salad?
In other words, how in the world did having a wife and kids and a billion new cars over the last 25 years stop this guy from feeling like "himself"? How much more himself would he have been living alone in his roadster on the edge of a picturesque cliff? Either this commercial is demented or I need to reevaluate my entire understanding of the man psyche.
"The old ball-and-chain" is a weird idea to be reintroducing to the American public right now. Poor old Man Guyly and his roadster do not have to sneak off to the Elk Club to get a little peace and quiet, and I'm not sitting at home in fluffy slippers fretting over whether he'll like my Jell-o salad. I'm not trying to be married to a guy who hides his true identity from me for decades or who turns into DadBot3000 (generic model, no upgrades) the moment our family gets too big for a two-seater coupe.
Yet, thus spake the ads, and thus my concern. Is this what dudes really feel like? As they circle the board in the Game of Life, do they feel not victory but
? If so, what can I possibly do to stop it?
It's almost enough to make me want to go out and buy some stuff - you know, fun things, cars, cheeseburgers, make-up - just to improve my life a little bit. Just in case. So I can feel like myself again.
Showing posts with label relations. Show all posts
Showing posts with label relations. Show all posts
Tuesday, July 7, 2015
Tuesday, August 7, 2012
I'm taking Gerard to his first lobster boil.
“Now, you should know that this isn't the type of 'lobster boil' they have in Cape Cod.”
“I've never been to one of those either.”
“Good – those are dumb. All kinds of corn and potatoes rolling around, getting in your way. Those fancy pants think they are too good for a plain old lobster on a plate.”
My lobster is simple, approached the way my family has approached everything since the grands-peperes and grands-memeres crashed over the American border in a wave of French-Canadian immigration a century ago. My family has un-recipes: Corn – boil water, toss it in. Potatoes – bake. Boiled dinner – heat broth, add whatever you find in your fridge, wait.
Newspaper reports from the early 20th century widely assume that Franco-Americans are simpletons. Our highly literal interpretation of what we still call “a lobster boil,” adds some muscle to that idea: We take a lobster, and we boil it.
The boiled lobster is my summers, my birthdays, my family parties. It's so entrenched in my family's life processes that when we moved from Maine to South Carolina, there really was no question of where to have my first birthday south of the Mason-Dixon line -- it was Red Lobster or bust.
Six-year-old me had no idea the gasps of horror that this decision would elicit from foodies hearing this story years later.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
A night of flabbergastation
A few days ago, I saw a commercial for this stuff: http://tinyurl.com/yj9yypm
Yes, it IS a paint roller for your FACE.
How bad do you have to feel about yourself to get to the point where you're just like, "F it. I'm spackling the heck out of this!" ? Is this what we've come to, ladies? Just because we cannot ever, possibly, in a million bajillion years look as flawless as Miz Beyonce does in the commercial for these things doesn't mean we have to resort to construction-site levels of facial maintenance. She has make-up ARTISTS, after all, and it's obvious that, were one to paint one's face (or newly remodeled kitchen), one would choose an artist over one's untrained self any day.
This commercial came early in the exciting whirlwind that was "Watching the Golden Globes Alone While Eating Frosting." Apparently, I do not watch enough live television because "face spackling apparati" were among the least shocking things I saw that night.
For instance, I was also inordinately confused by the McDonald's commercial wherein a man woos his hot neighbor lady by asking her if she's heard about McDonald's breakfast. First of all, ew. Second of all, are you implying something about my weight, neighbor dude? Second, no, wait, third, a conversation about fast-food breakfast is not going ANYWHERE, no matter what delicious, greasy lies the McD's ad guys are feeding you.
What were you thinking, laundry-room guy? You NEVER just go up to a cute girl and say, "Hey, have you heard about McDonald's breakfast?" Because yes - she lives in America - of course she has heard of McDonald's breakfast! And once she tells you that, where do you go? "Oh, okay, so you know about sausage biscuits?" Yes. "And coffee? They have coffee now!" Yes. I read that in the Times last year - when it was actually new. "Oh, so, you know there's.." Eggs? Hashbrowns? Everything else that's served at fast food breakfast places around this great nation, with the notable exception of Chik-fil-A Chicken Biscuit, which is a genuine loss?!?!?! Yes! Yes, I know what breakfast is you dolt, now stop staring while I fold my underpants.
Yes, it IS a paint roller for your FACE.
How bad do you have to feel about yourself to get to the point where you're just like, "F it. I'm spackling the heck out of this!" ? Is this what we've come to, ladies? Just because we cannot ever, possibly, in a million bajillion years look as flawless as Miz Beyonce does in the commercial for these things doesn't mean we have to resort to construction-site levels of facial maintenance. She has make-up ARTISTS, after all, and it's obvious that, were one to paint one's face (or newly remodeled kitchen), one would choose an artist over one's untrained self any day.
This commercial came early in the exciting whirlwind that was "Watching the Golden Globes Alone While Eating Frosting." Apparently, I do not watch enough live television because "face spackling apparati" were among the least shocking things I saw that night.
For instance, I was also inordinately confused by the McDonald's commercial wherein a man woos his hot neighbor lady by asking her if she's heard about McDonald's breakfast. First of all, ew. Second of all, are you implying something about my weight, neighbor dude? Second, no, wait, third, a conversation about fast-food breakfast is not going ANYWHERE, no matter what delicious, greasy lies the McD's ad guys are feeding you.
What were you thinking, laundry-room guy? You NEVER just go up to a cute girl and say, "Hey, have you heard about McDonald's breakfast?" Because yes - she lives in America - of course she has heard of McDonald's breakfast! And once she tells you that, where do you go? "Oh, okay, so you know about sausage biscuits?" Yes. "And coffee? They have coffee now!" Yes. I read that in the Times last year - when it was actually new. "Oh, so, you know there's.." Eggs? Hashbrowns? Everything else that's served at fast food breakfast places around this great nation, with the notable exception of Chik-fil-A Chicken Biscuit, which is a genuine loss?!?!?! Yes! Yes, I know what breakfast is you dolt, now stop staring while I fold my underpants.
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Thankful this story is not about me
A friend of mine is in the middle of training for his job. It's one of those training dealies where they make you go to a particular branch of the business - always in some godforsaken place where you would never actually go if you weren't being paid to do so - and they put you in a hotel - the only one for miles in said godforsaken place - until you truly learn what it is that you are supposed to be doing for them. Because they have cut you off from everything that could possibly be important to you - your real home, your family, friends and civilization - learning the job only takes about 6 or 7 weeks. So it's a good deal for them.
For my friend, it's slightly less of a good deal. Sure, he's getting some serious training to make him good at his job, and I'm sure his Hampton Inn Junior Executive Suite is very nice, only...he has to share it. He's a 29 year0old man, training for a management-level job, and he has a roommate. In a single.
Fortunately, my friend is a pretty happy dude, so this situation didn't really bother him much, until the day he was chatting with said roommate and his new boss, and they started discussing hobbies. The boss says,"You know, I like reading." Oh, that's nice. What do you like to read, mr. boss man? "You know, just stuff about serial killers."
[ROOMMATE]: "Wow - ME TOO!"
BOSS: "Oh yeah? Remember that time that John Wayne Gacy did such-and-such?"
ROOMMATE: "Classic."
...
And thus is my friend Chris doomed to sleeping with one eye open for the rest of his training period.
Rooming with someone is a lot like dating - if you are a normal human being, you know to hide certain things from the other person until they become more comfortable around you. Your complete knowledge of famed and lesser-known serial killers throughout history is one of those things.
Now, in the interest of Christopher's personal safety we are on a mission to find him something equally as creepy. The hope is that he can drive away the Dahmer-phile before something truly horrific happens.
So far, we've suggested that he start rabidly tearing through the Twilight series - not so much for the horror factor but because I would never trust a 29-year-old gentleman who reads softcore porn that magically hones in on some secret pleasure center in the tiny brains of adolescent girls.
Our other idea was to set him up with an "Adventures of Teletubbies" or some other 12-pager that only the very young or very simple would enjoy. We figure if just sits in a darkened corner, reading it over and over , and occasionally giggling to himself, "Not again, Tinky-winky!" he'll either scare the creepy roommate into submission or earn himself a lifelong weird-o friend.
For my friend, it's slightly less of a good deal. Sure, he's getting some serious training to make him good at his job, and I'm sure his Hampton Inn Junior Executive Suite is very nice, only...he has to share it. He's a 29 year0old man, training for a management-level job, and he has a roommate. In a single.
Fortunately, my friend is a pretty happy dude, so this situation didn't really bother him much, until the day he was chatting with said roommate and his new boss, and they started discussing hobbies. The boss says,"You know, I like reading." Oh, that's nice. What do you like to read, mr. boss man? "You know, just stuff about serial killers."
[ROOMMATE]: "Wow - ME TOO!"
BOSS: "Oh yeah? Remember that time that John Wayne Gacy did such-and-such?"
ROOMMATE: "Classic."
...
And thus is my friend Chris doomed to sleeping with one eye open for the rest of his training period.
Rooming with someone is a lot like dating - if you are a normal human being, you know to hide certain things from the other person until they become more comfortable around you. Your complete knowledge of famed and lesser-known serial killers throughout history is one of those things.
Now, in the interest of Christopher's personal safety we are on a mission to find him something equally as creepy. The hope is that he can drive away the Dahmer-phile before something truly horrific happens.
So far, we've suggested that he start rabidly tearing through the Twilight series - not so much for the horror factor but because I would never trust a 29-year-old gentleman who reads softcore porn that magically hones in on some secret pleasure center in the tiny brains of adolescent girls.
Our other idea was to set him up with an "Adventures of Teletubbies" or some other 12-pager that only the very young or very simple would enjoy. We figure if just sits in a darkened corner, reading it over and over , and occasionally giggling to himself, "Not again, Tinky-winky!" he'll either scare the creepy roommate into submission or earn himself a lifelong weird-o friend.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Would a Darlene by any other name...
It's weird how much a name can mean.
When I was five or six years old, I really wanted my name to be Christina. I thought that was the prettiest, and that having such a name would equate to having a rainbow-colored glittery gown and possibly also being a mermaid. That's just what happens to people named Christina.
Kids with names like Bubba and Jeb have a different path carved out for them than kids who introduce themselves to their montessori school classmates as Zachariah and Llewellyn - who are themselves teased in high school by the Jasons and the Ashlees. Names mean something. It's not fair, and it's not right, but when was the last time you hired a lawyer named Tequila?
The importance of a name was cemented for me in high school. I went to private school in Georgia, which means I was surrounded by rich white people who had lived in the same town for generations. I guess those people eventually run out of inspiration for names, living in the same place for 8 thousand years, because a lot of recycling happens there (and believe me, not a lot of recycling happens in the south) - last names become first names, first names start to look like last names, middle names multiply, and everything is book-ended with numbers and honorifics. I actually went to school with a girl named Forrest (handed down by an extra-kind male relative, certainly), not to mention strapping young men with names like Mulford, Bentley and Johnson (heh).
These names were important to people in the south because they let everyone else know critical information, like who their momma's grand-pappy had been, and what buildings he owned (the name recycling extended to important landmarks, like highways and the local mental health center). Of course this public advertising of blood-lines still didn't stop some people from dating their cousins, but, we were on the Alabama border.
This past weekend, when I was back in the glorious south ruining Steeplechase (see other blog), we happened to tailgate next to a pretty rowdy crew. Four middle-aged women and one gray-haired man of indeterminate age and intelligence (he didn't say much and disappeared halfway through the day) had set up shop and were determined to keep the party going all. day. loooong. The ringleader, who started migrating over to our lot in the early afternoon, spent most of her time crowing such sweet nuggets of knowledge as:
"We're sorry, but we ain't sorry for nothing!"
and
"She didn't steal my third husband - I gave him to her!"
I imagined she had read these on a set of refrigerator magnets or embroidered pillows at some sassy southern gift store, but they suited her. She wasn't really talking to us - just yelling to the crowd at large - but I think she got her message across, especially the part about being "NEWLY DIVORCED" - which seemed more directed at my dad than some of the other comments.
Between the four of them, these wild southern women seemed to have had 27 husbands (though some may have been pass-alongs - do they only count once?), 18 houses and more than a few frozen margaritas. They ended the day by tickling my dad with sunflowers and then hugging it out with him - while my mom quickly ushered us all into the car.
Before my mom could close the car doors (and, believe me, she tried), this ringleader - she of the southern-fried aphorisms and the vodka soaked (but friendly!) embrace - poked her head in to say thanks for the fun time. My mom said, "you're welcome."
[silence. did i mention my mom is the only sober person here?]
Woman: "Are y'all putting up those pictures you took today? On the Facebook? They were soooo fun."
Mom, mentally: "The ones of you rubbing my husband with various flora?"
Mom, out loud, "Oh...I don't really DO Facebook."
[another attempt at driving away, with or without the woman hanging from the door]
Woman: "Oh, yeah, I understand that. Would y'all e-mail them to me?"
Mom: "Um, okay. What's your e-mail?"
Woman: "Well, my name is Darlene and so it's...."
Darlene. God bless you, Darlene, and God bless the south, and God bless my mom for giving me the most boring name on the planet so that mean girls don't write blog posts about me.
When I was five or six years old, I really wanted my name to be Christina. I thought that was the prettiest, and that having such a name would equate to having a rainbow-colored glittery gown and possibly also being a mermaid. That's just what happens to people named Christina.
Kids with names like Bubba and Jeb have a different path carved out for them than kids who introduce themselves to their montessori school classmates as Zachariah and Llewellyn - who are themselves teased in high school by the Jasons and the Ashlees. Names mean something. It's not fair, and it's not right, but when was the last time you hired a lawyer named Tequila?
The importance of a name was cemented for me in high school. I went to private school in Georgia, which means I was surrounded by rich white people who had lived in the same town for generations. I guess those people eventually run out of inspiration for names, living in the same place for 8 thousand years, because a lot of recycling happens there (and believe me, not a lot of recycling happens in the south) - last names become first names, first names start to look like last names, middle names multiply, and everything is book-ended with numbers and honorifics. I actually went to school with a girl named Forrest (handed down by an extra-kind male relative, certainly), not to mention strapping young men with names like Mulford, Bentley and Johnson (heh).
These names were important to people in the south because they let everyone else know critical information, like who their momma's grand-pappy had been, and what buildings he owned (the name recycling extended to important landmarks, like highways and the local mental health center). Of course this public advertising of blood-lines still didn't stop some people from dating their cousins, but, we were on the Alabama border.
This past weekend, when I was back in the glorious south ruining Steeplechase (see other blog), we happened to tailgate next to a pretty rowdy crew. Four middle-aged women and one gray-haired man of indeterminate age and intelligence (he didn't say much and disappeared halfway through the day) had set up shop and were determined to keep the party going all. day. loooong. The ringleader, who started migrating over to our lot in the early afternoon, spent most of her time crowing such sweet nuggets of knowledge as:
"We're sorry, but we ain't sorry for nothing!"
and
"She didn't steal my third husband - I gave him to her!"
I imagined she had read these on a set of refrigerator magnets or embroidered pillows at some sassy southern gift store, but they suited her. She wasn't really talking to us - just yelling to the crowd at large - but I think she got her message across, especially the part about being "NEWLY DIVORCED" - which seemed more directed at my dad than some of the other comments.
Between the four of them, these wild southern women seemed to have had 27 husbands (though some may have been pass-alongs - do they only count once?), 18 houses and more than a few frozen margaritas. They ended the day by tickling my dad with sunflowers and then hugging it out with him - while my mom quickly ushered us all into the car.
Before my mom could close the car doors (and, believe me, she tried), this ringleader - she of the southern-fried aphorisms and the vodka soaked (but friendly!) embrace - poked her head in to say thanks for the fun time. My mom said, "you're welcome."
[silence. did i mention my mom is the only sober person here?]
Woman: "Are y'all putting up those pictures you took today? On the Facebook? They were soooo fun."
Mom, mentally: "The ones of you rubbing my husband with various flora?"
Mom, out loud, "Oh...I don't really DO Facebook."
[another attempt at driving away, with or without the woman hanging from the door]
Woman: "Oh, yeah, I understand that. Would y'all e-mail them to me?"
Mom: "Um, okay. What's your e-mail?"
Woman: "Well, my name is Darlene and so it's...."
Darlene. God bless you, Darlene, and God bless the south, and God bless my mom for giving me the most boring name on the planet so that mean girls don't write blog posts about me.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
I just realized that I use the word "sexy" in 83% of these entries
But don't worry! Such a realization will not deter me from exploring the VERY IMPORTANT TOPIC that is on hand today.
I have been living in New York Cit-ay for about 2 and a half glorious years now, and, after much careful observation and note-taking and rampant judging, I am ready to share with you my very deep thoughts on a disturbing trend: people reading erotica on the subway.
We all know that the NYC Subway is a literal den (n. dark, underground place) of iniquity. However, while I may have adjusted to the idea that bums could pee on me while I'm down there, I will almost certainly see puke and old people are probably going to grope each other (actually, no, I'm still not okay with that last one), I cannot wrap my head around the idea that the guy sitting next to me on my commute is reading crazy SEXY tales of sexiness and intrigue.
Who is this fun for? Nothing against intrigue and sexiness (and probably also pirates and/or lesbians and/or piresbians. Wait, that's not in your erotica?), but how can you really let yourself get super-excited about your delightfully saucy pirate lesbians when you're on a crowded train?
The 8:45 AM F train doesn't seem the best environment for, um, immersing yourself in the story. How will you really give due attention to all the little nuances of the story - the literary easter eggs that I'm sure are hidden throughout the text? Also, how do you feel sexy on a train? All kinds of strangers are touching you, and not in an interesting, naughty way, but more like in a creepy, smelly way. I just don't know how people get in the mood for this sort of thing.
Maybe they actually started reading the night before - in their boudoir, draped in velvet, or whatever would be appropriate - and the story was just SO GOOD they couldn't wait to see what happened next. Like, does the lesbian pirate queen fall for the manly wiles of Raul, the secret castaway and the only man for miles? I MUST KNOW.
A sound theory, but it still doesn't explain why people feel the need to reach the end of their tale RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME. Have you people not heard of book covers? Paper bags? The kindle? Anything that will keep me from having to read titles like "Lesbian Pirates of the Future II: The Treasure is Buried Deeper This Time" first thing in the morning?
Or is that part of the excitement - knowing that people know what you're reading? Is it like the poor man's version of the Mile High Club, where the whole thrill is knowing that everyone else knows what you're doing, and that some poor sap has to sit next to you for the next three hours before landing in St. Louis?
What if it's more than just PART of the excitement, and some of these supposed erotica readers are actually deeply involved in "The Good Earth" but, for the sake of badassery and freaking others out, has replaced that book's cover with "Lesbian Pirates." Probably gives them more space on the crowded commute. In fact, next time you think you see me reading Head Bangers: An APF Sexcapade (Strebor Quickiez) by Zane, don't get freaked out -- I'm just trying to keep the real sickos from bugging me on my commute.
I have been living in New York Cit-ay for about 2 and a half glorious years now, and, after much careful observation and note-taking and rampant judging, I am ready to share with you my very deep thoughts on a disturbing trend: people reading erotica on the subway.
We all know that the NYC Subway is a literal den (n. dark, underground place) of iniquity. However, while I may have adjusted to the idea that bums could pee on me while I'm down there, I will almost certainly see puke and old people are probably going to grope each other (actually, no, I'm still not okay with that last one), I cannot wrap my head around the idea that the guy sitting next to me on my commute is reading crazy SEXY tales of sexiness and intrigue.
Who is this fun for? Nothing against intrigue and sexiness (and probably also pirates and/or lesbians and/or piresbians. Wait, that's not in your erotica?), but how can you really let yourself get super-excited about your delightfully saucy pirate lesbians when you're on a crowded train?
The 8:45 AM F train doesn't seem the best environment for, um, immersing yourself in the story. How will you really give due attention to all the little nuances of the story - the literary easter eggs that I'm sure are hidden throughout the text? Also, how do you feel sexy on a train? All kinds of strangers are touching you, and not in an interesting, naughty way, but more like in a creepy, smelly way. I just don't know how people get in the mood for this sort of thing.
Maybe they actually started reading the night before - in their boudoir, draped in velvet, or whatever would be appropriate - and the story was just SO GOOD they couldn't wait to see what happened next. Like, does the lesbian pirate queen fall for the manly wiles of Raul, the secret castaway and the only man for miles? I MUST KNOW.
A sound theory, but it still doesn't explain why people feel the need to reach the end of their tale RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME. Have you people not heard of book covers? Paper bags? The kindle? Anything that will keep me from having to read titles like "Lesbian Pirates of the Future II: The Treasure is Buried Deeper This Time" first thing in the morning?
Or is that part of the excitement - knowing that people know what you're reading? Is it like the poor man's version of the Mile High Club, where the whole thrill is knowing that everyone else knows what you're doing, and that some poor sap has to sit next to you for the next three hours before landing in St. Louis?
What if it's more than just PART of the excitement, and some of these supposed erotica readers are actually deeply involved in "The Good Earth" but, for the sake of badassery and freaking others out, has replaced that book's cover with "Lesbian Pirates." Probably gives them more space on the crowded commute. In fact, next time you think you see me reading Head Bangers: An APF Sexcapade (Strebor Quickiez) by Zane, don't get freaked out -- I'm just trying to keep the real sickos from bugging me on my commute.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
I WILL get this job
This morning, I was indulging in a favorite pastime of the unemployed. Can you guess what it was? Yes, I was sitting, unshowered, at my kitchen table. And yes, I may have been using the internet and drinking coffee. I was not using recreational drugs or drinking a beer or curled in the fetal position under every blanket I own, but those are all very good guesses.
More importantly, I was perusing Craigslist! For Jobs! Isn't that quaint and so very unemployed of me?
And I think all of my unemployment problems are solved because look what I found:
Date: 2009-08-25, 11:10AM EDT
Reply to: info@sexification.com [Errors when replying to ads?]
Hello Hello
I just started a new site about 2 months ago. www.Sexification.com. It's doing very well. Around 200-250 readers a day, and growing. We have had a few good women columnist, but I'm looking to expand and maybe hire a stable women columnist that the readers can relate to and build a relationship with.
It goes on, mostly filling in two paragraphs of space with the word SEXIFICATION all in caps like that. I will remember this space-filling technique for my next 5-page essay assignment.
Guys, I don't know what SEXIFICATION is, but I think I can do it. I am stable, so, yay, first requirement fulfilled. I will oh-so-calmly and non-eratically perform SEXIFICATION on you, as a sexy women columnist. I don't know if that's a columnist for women or just little old me with multiple personalities (all sexxxxy), but I will soon find out, if I e-mail info@sexification.com. My first point of business will be to suggest that they change that e-mail to SEXinfo@sexificiation.com. See? -- Sexified.
More importantly, I was perusing Craigslist! For Jobs! Isn't that quaint and so very unemployed of me?
And I think all of my unemployment problems are solved because look what I found:
Sexy Woman Columnist Needed (Union Square)
Date: 2009-08-25, 11:10AM EDT
Reply to: info@sexification.com [Errors when replying to ads?]
Hello Hello
I just started a new site about 2 months ago. www.Sexification.com. It's doing very well. Around 200-250 readers a day, and growing. We have had a few good women columnist, but I'm looking to expand and maybe hire a stable women columnist that the readers can relate to and build a relationship with.
It goes on, mostly filling in two paragraphs of space with the word SEXIFICATION all in caps like that. I will remember this space-filling technique for my next 5-page essay assignment.
Guys, I don't know what SEXIFICATION is, but I think I can do it. I am stable, so, yay, first requirement fulfilled. I will oh-so-calmly and non-eratically perform SEXIFICATION on you, as a sexy women columnist. I don't know if that's a columnist for women or just little old me with multiple personalities (all sexxxxy), but I will soon find out, if I e-mail info@sexification.com. My first point of business will be to suggest that they change that e-mail to SEXinfo@sexificiation.com. See? -- Sexified.
Saturday, March 14, 2009
USAUSAUSAUSA
I was walking past our friendly neighborhood porn store the other day, when a sign in the window caught my eye.
No, it was not the poster for Pirates II: Stagnetti's Revenge (a real movie -- whose title I googled for you, dear readers, to avoid the mistake of calling it Pirates II: [Some sort of pun about treasure chests], which would not have been very classy of me.).
The sign -- very small and handwritten on a scrap of cardboard -- said simply "European DVD on sale." This aroused [teeheehee] my curiosity. "Which European DVD?" I asked myself. "Of all the wonderful pornographic cinema exported by our dear trade partners across the sea, which classic film has, fortuitously, become affordable to even the poorest of nudie-film connoisseurs?"
But then, I wondered, Why promote a European DVD? We are in a national economic crisis, Serendib Video Place! Why not promote a good ol' American-made porno? Lord knows our proud porn-trepeneurs right here in the States could use a little help these days. Are our American "hot chicks" not good enough for you? Is there no demand for videos of strapping young PATRIOTS in action? I find that HARD TO BELIEVE.
Obviously, Serendib has some sort of unsavory deal happening -- probably with the French. So I urge you, my fellow Americans, do your part. Support the country. Buy American -- I promise Pirates II will not disappoint. There are probably explosions AS WELL AS sex. That's the American way.
No, it was not the poster for Pirates II: Stagnetti's Revenge (a real movie -- whose title I googled for you, dear readers, to avoid the mistake of calling it Pirates II: [Some sort of pun about treasure chests], which would not have been very classy of me.).
The sign -- very small and handwritten on a scrap of cardboard -- said simply "European DVD on sale." This aroused [teeheehee] my curiosity. "Which European DVD?" I asked myself. "Of all the wonderful pornographic cinema exported by our dear trade partners across the sea, which classic film has, fortuitously, become affordable to even the poorest of nudie-film connoisseurs?"
But then, I wondered, Why promote a European DVD? We are in a national economic crisis, Serendib Video Place! Why not promote a good ol' American-made porno? Lord knows our proud porn-trepeneurs right here in the States could use a little help these days. Are our American "hot chicks" not good enough for you? Is there no demand for videos of strapping young PATRIOTS in action? I find that HARD TO BELIEVE.
Obviously, Serendib has some sort of unsavory deal happening -- probably with the French. So I urge you, my fellow Americans, do your part. Support the country. Buy American -- I promise Pirates II will not disappoint. There are probably explosions AS WELL AS sex. That's the American way.
Monday, August 11, 2008
How I Amuse Myself at Work
An actual e-mail that I received at work:
Lauren,
Lauren,
25 years ago the quintessential homemaker was June Cleaver, but today it could very well be Bobby Flay—a fact that seems obvious in today’s gender blurred generation (check out your local grocer over the weekend: over 40% of its shoppers are men buying cooking or cleaning supplies).
So why aren’t household brands marketing to men? A special report in Adweek examines the issues and facts. Among the highlights:
· A A recent survey found men neck-and-neck with women in purchasing household items including cleaning products, home décor, child-care products and cooking utilities.
.......Wonkity wonkwonk blaghier sdkhaohf;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;
Don't worry readers! I wouldn't really make you read the whole thing! Instead, I'll break it down into bite-size bits of rancor (Ranc-os! Like a fun snack!), just for you:"25 years ago the quintessential homemaker was June Cleaver, but today it could very well be Bobby Flay..."
Holy hell! Mentioning Bobby Flay in the very first sentence? Janice (I've decided that's the PR person's name), why would you do that to me? Personal biases aside, I don't think anyone EVER has thought, "Oh, Bobby Flay -- that's a freakin' great homemaker guy." Alton Brown, perhaps, but Grilly McSmug over there, I think not.
"today’s gender blurred generation"
Jan, I don't even know what this means.
"companies tend to eschew marketing to men"
I just wanted to point out here that Jan used the word "eschew." Someone's been using her SAT prep flashcards...
"testosterone appealing aspects: emphasizing size, power and length – even for vacuum cleaners or cooking utensils."
Heh. Phallic references. Fine, Jan, I'll forgive the Flay reference -- I'm kind of enjoying this.
"In a 2007 survey on relationships, participants rated 'sharing household chores' as a top priority for a healthy couple, with only 'faithfulness' and 'a happy sexual relationship' ranking above."
Annnnd I totally take that back. Not enjoyable. Are you kidding me, Jan? Priorities = 1) security, 2) orgasms and 3) only vacuuming half the time?
"The days of froufrou sheets and frilly pillowcases are gone..."
Hi. I'm a woman. I enjoy ruffly things, the color pink, and being repressed -- just like all you other lady people out there!
"Former New York Times media writer Andrew Adam Newman presents new data..."
And she ends it with a zinger. The Times? Seriously, Janice? Did you just build a little window into my brain, see everything I loathe and create a press release around it for your own amusement? We are done, Jan -- done.
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