I was out at the local coffeeshop not caulking the bathtub in our guest bathroom when I ran into a friend who asked me why I wasn’t at home re-caulking the bathtub like I said I was going to be.

I’ve been avoiding re-caulking that bathtub for 6 weeks. I’ve spent more time talking about re-caulking the bathtub than any human ever spent actually re-caulking a bathtub.

All the messy stuff – the cleaning and scraping – has been done for ages. I just have to squoosh the caulk onto the places where you have to have caulk to, um, keep the bad things from happening. (Still not Martha Stewart, in case you were under the delusion I was actually getting the hang of this shit).

I told my friend I was off the home improvement hook because I’d taught our monkey butler how to caulk.

The woman at the next table flipped out, because caulk is toxic and I shouldn’t be letting an animal handle it without supervision.

I think any animal cruelty issues here would begin and end with the words “monkey butler,” but she left in a furious huff before I could explain that our monkey butler is, to the best of my knowledge, a complete figment of our imagination.

I think I should maybe try to remember to let Husband know that some of the neighbors may think we’re terrible people who have a monkey butler.

I’m starting to think that Popemania is making people a little crazier than usual. Soon after, while I was still at the coffee shop and still not caulking the bathtub, a person I’ve never laid eyes on before marched up to our table and accused me of breaking into a warehouse and stealing a copy of Jenny Lawson’s new book, because it’s not being released until tomorrow but I clearly had a copy right there in my non-caulking hands. (Wait…Was she suggesting that The Bloggess has her own warehouse? I really need to read her blog, don’t I?)

furiouslyImage: a not-stolen copy of Jenny Lawson’s
“Furiously Happy: A Funny Book About Horrible Things.”

I also think it would be awesome to have a monkey butler, even though Jungle Pete has been berating me about how this is a terrible idea since we were 12 years old. And he’s absolutely right, but I hate admitting he’s right.

I don’t actually hate admitting Jungle Pete is right, but originally there was a punchline that depended on a setup wherein I admitted to hating to admit I’m right to Jungle Pete. It wasn’t funny so I scrapped it. I don’t know why I left this part in the post. What can I say? I’ve spent the better part of the year desperately ill and then impatiently trying to recover and I may have broken the part of my brain that remembered how to blog.

I do, however, hate how much I secretly wish we had a monkey butler. Even though I think keeping captive primates in your home is a terrible thing.

(But…monkey butler).

In other news, I still haven’t cracked open The Bloggess’s new book, but it took less than 20 minutes to re-caulk the bathtub. It probably would have only taken 10 minutes, but I had to go upstairs to retrieve the paper towels and I procrastinated for a few more minutes by emptying the dishwasher.

Plus, I couldn’t avoid re-caulking any longer because we have a guest arriving on Wednesday (who isn’t the Pope) and who will probably want to take a shower or two sometime over the next week and probably wouldn’t be too keen on my caulk-avoiding alternate plan, which was to spray her with the hose in the backyard. With our luck, that would be the moment animal control shows up to investigate monkey butler allegations.

You know who annoys me more than newly converted Jesus freaks? Newly converted dieters. Today I was just trying to go to CVS to get some Tylenol when I was pounced on by “nutritional consultants” handing out samples of some new pom-soy-who knows what “nutrition” bar.

I declined and said, “I’d rather just eat the actual unprocessed fruit.”

I know this usually provokes a fracas, and I must admit I was a little feverish and I was looking to rumble.

Much to my contrarian chagrin, the perkier of the two woman didn’t take the bait! She actually agreed with me. I wondered if her corporate overlords know she’s saying such things?

At first.

Then she started yakking about the importance of eating a fruit or vegetable from as many colors of the rainbow as possible every day and how hard that can be and how her product can help fill those gaps when you just can’t find so much variety.

I’m not one to lose so easily, so I tried derailing her by asking whether bananas counted as white or yellow. I actually wonder about this, so it wasn’t completely combative of me. Then I brought up peaches. Pink? Yellow? What about the one I had with breakfast? It was pretty whitish inside, more of a cream than a true canary.

I started to feel guilty for being obnoxious and sounding self-righteous so I told them I’d spent the weekend subsisting on Guinness, tater tots, and chocolate. They giggled at my joke; they thought I was kidding. I wasn’t.

I also wasn’t kidding about eating actual fruit instead of pre-packaged snacks and this was making the Nutrition Specialists pouty and combative because I still wouldn’t try the snack sample.

The more she tried to make me eat the Soylent Pom, the more resistant I got.

Then the whole thing got derailed because someone else pointed out that you should never let your kids eat peaches because they’re a stone fruit and everyone knows that stone fruits cause ADHD. Or maybe Autism. Or maybe they just make them worse. Or maybe eating them makes the symptoms better.

Best not to take the chance. Make sure your children are terrified of peaches and apricots and cherries. One bite and their brains will implode. Or maybe explode. Just don’t take the chance.

Everyone seems to know this, with great certainty, even if they aren’t certain what they know. Everyone agreed it was something that started with “a” and that it was very, very bad. Apparently, giving little Jayden or Avery or Eithne stone fruits is now more dangerous than feeding them sugary breakfast cereals or letting them take a bath without water wings before they’re 18.

It always disturbs me when people are so adamant about eliminating a specific food or consuming a food based on vague health claims, even more so when they aren’t even sure why they’re doing it in the first place. Perhaps there’s a connection, I’m not an expert.

I wanted to shout a few disease names that started with “a” but I saw an opening and I took it, so I sprinted to my car and went home. They aren’t my kids and it isn’t my business, but the medical anthropologist in me still likes to stay aware of these wacky trends and the social and cultural implications of them.

Once I got home, I sat down with my macbook and tried to suss out the genesis of the stone fruit/ADHD or autism connection but quickly got distracted by Monsters Cereal, an entire blog devoted to Count Chocula, Franken Berry and Boo-Berry. Then I got sucked into the YouTube.

Then I got distracted by Breakfast of the Gods.

God bless the Internet. I feel better already.

disclaimer: I swear this post isn’t directed at any of our friends who teach Yoga. I point this out explicitly since I think 90% of our friends teach Yoga.

Having said that, last month’s Self magazine had an article, “Keeping up with the Yogis” that certainly reminded me of some people I’ve met.

More and more, I’ve noticed that people who practice yoga—which literally means “union”—are anything but united. They’re divisive and persnickety. Take one yogic experience I had in New York City several years ago. I was new to town and decided to check out a class offered a few blocks from my home. I walked in and headed for the studio when a guy snapped, “Excuse me,” in a tone of voice that clearly suggested I was the one who needed an excuse. Staring pointedly at my sneaker-clad feet, he said, “We don’t disrespect the earth by walking on it in our shoes.” I whipped mine off, but inside I was thinking, How the hell was I supposed to know?! Then I thought, Jeez, is it yogic to be so snooty to a newcomer? And disrespecting the earth? Puh-leeze. It’s linoleum.

Why would an activity that’s supposed to be noncompetitive and inward-focused turn people into such judgmental loons? My theory is that our culture has gotten so cutthroat that even spirituality has become competitive. And because many of us don’t belong to a tight-knit religious community, yoga has become a substitute for spirituality, a word thrown around like a medicine ball. Feeling spiritual used to mean more than simply treating one’s body like a temple; it suggested a call to social action, the determination to be a better person and, in some cases, to be closer to God.

Now there is only the body. And we persist in kicking each other’s asanas because we’ve convinced ourselves that exercise, which is not about fixing the world but about fixing one’s abs and thighs, is a higher form of truth.

And before you tell us in the comments that you only talk about exercise form X because it’s the best and you think everyone should know, do think about this:

More innocently, perhaps, when we natter on about the revelations of yoga, or any exercise fad, guess what? Everyone wants us to shut up. Because when you imply that there’s one correct way to do something (or when your husband goes on about the only way to clean one’s keyboard, not that I’m naming names) or you boast endlessly about a personal discovery (the way Tom Cruise raves about the virtues of Scientology), listeners cannot help but get hostile.

I’m not certain how long content stays up on the Self website and I didn’t want to lose those bits so I probably pulled out about a third of the article. Hopefully it will stay up in the free archives, it’s worth the read.

Cocktail hour. Watching a Friends rerun with Mom (Chandler and Joey get a chicken). Remembering how boring Friends got. Remembering my scrawled notes from our flight down, which I decipher for you now, because it’s better than watching television and dinner isn’t ready:

“I don’t hate many people. 2. Maybe 3. But I can tell, by the end of this flight, that I am going to hate Chandler. Chandler is sitting directly behind me. Chandler has to go potty. Chandler needs a tissue. Chandler needs to kick the back of my chair. Chandler needs his ipod. Chandler needs a tissue.

To which I would add: Chandler needs to chill the fuck out because we haven’t even pushed back from the gate yet.

Then I put my notebook away because my agitated scribbling was worrying the woman next to me, so the rest is vague reconstruction of the flight.

To be fair, I didn’t start out hating Chandler. I felt bad for the kid. I knew all of these things about him (knees to me vertebrae notwithstanding) because the woman he was travelling with made pronouncements about his welfare non-stop. I was willing to cut Chandler some slack. Until, that is, I turned around to give him The Death Stare for the kicking and realized that Chandler wasn’t a child. And he was reading the Wall Street Journal, so I doubt he was mentally incapacitated.

Chandler was a pussy-whipped, Dockers-wearing Yuppie.

That’s when I started to feel the hate.

This all went on a bit longer and then: Death Stare #2.

The second Death Stare was the charm and he seemed to develop a touch of self-awareness about where he was placing his knees. At least for 20 minutes.

The woman even lowered her voice, although that may have been coincidental. Soon I realized to my horror that we were seated in front of Chandlers Sr and Jr. And Jr was merely unconscious.

Somewhere over North Carolina, I decided I might not actually have to kill the Chandlers. I would instead pity the Chandlers, I decided somewhere over North Carolina. The fate of Mother of Chandler Jr/Wife of Chandler Sr was still on the table. But the Chandlers, they would be spared, I decided somewhere over North Carolina. Somewhere over North Carolina was also when the second valium kicked in.

Somewhere over South Carolina, Chandler Jr revived, there was a seat rodeo and Chandler, Jr ended up seated behind me.

That little bastard had on cleats, there’s no other explanation for how one human could be that annoying kicking the back of a seat.

On the upside, the prodigious amounts of gobby mucous issuing from his nose ended up in the hair of the woman next to me. She was travelling with a toddler so I figured she didn’t care. Woman with Chandlers didn’t seem to care, which perplexed me a bit, because it wasn’t like he did it once and stopped. Or that he sneezed quietly. It was a profound quantity of phlegm. It glimmered like gossamer in the woman’s frosted blonde updo (that may have also been the valium talking).

Despite the snotting and the horking and the smearing, Woman With Chandlers never stopped nagging. I’ve never heard anything like it.

Somewhere over Northern Florida I believe I was possessed by the disembodied spirit of a trucker. A steady stream of silent obscenities thrummed through my brain.

I wasn’t sure how much longer I was going to be able to keep from turning around and disemboweling one or all of them.

That’s when we hit massive turbulence of the kind that makes people shut up and make peace with their god. I love that kind of turbulence. It gets nice and quiet on the plane. People seem to be largely incapable of praying and pissing me off at the same time, and I’m good with that.

Home and garden tours are great fundraisers, but boy howdy can they bring bubbling to the surface all manner of class and racial tension. I bet if I bothered to research it I’d turn up all manner of interesting articles on the subject.

Through the years I’ve watched many private kerfluffles and behind the scenes skirmishes over a few of the local tours, but I always manage to stay out of it. That’s sort of easy, actually, since we’re The Wrong Kind of People.

I’m sure the people running the home and garden tour are very nice and decent people, but in recent years I’ve encountered some real ugliness amongst those who want to or are on the tour. My favorite are the neighbors who want to keep Jews from applying to be on the tour because, and I quote, “You know how cheap they are, they never take good care of their homes.” It’s sad when adults say it, but I had a runin with some neighborhood kids who, when caught wrecking something in our yard, repeated the same basic line.

Ironically, despite our (or, rather, Husband’s) cheap jewish ways, we have one of the nicer gardens in the neighborhood. Or so I’m told.

I mention this not to vent about anti-semitism, but because it’s time for the home and garden tour.

I probably shouldn’t have been encouraging hundreds of drunk and adventurous artists to feel free to campout out on our lawn…

postscript: I was at Costco today with the Bar Manager and saw a neighbor, who looked positively sick when she saw us buying 10 cases of beer and many cases of wine. I would have told her we weren’t really having a huge party but she ran off in a panic. Priceless. Almost made wading into the hell of costco on a weekend worthwhile.

[ed note: like everything prior to 2006 on this site, this one dates back to punkprincess.com, as you probably guessed from the title. Quoted articles are from the Washington Post but I’m having trouble finding the links again. The post goes on an excessive length because a linkback from washingtonpost.com had provoked an exciting series of exchanges between readers in the comments – sadly now lost]

Victoria’s Secret renovated their storefronts and placed provocative mannequins in the windows. Outrage ensued and a protest, boycott and picketline were announced for the day. This made the Bunny and I….really want to go shopping.

So today the Bunny and I spent 5 hours at Tyson’s Corner Mall, without a single incident. Actually, that’s not entirely true.

Our plan was to meet for coffee before the mall opened, scope out Victoria’s Secret and then prowl the mall. When I first arrived a woman in the parking lot asked me, “What time do you open?”

Having sex on the brain, I couldn’t quite grasp the meaning of her question. It seemed rather presumptuous. I stared at her for a moment and then asked for clarification. Turns out, she wasn’t propositioning me at all. She thought I was a MAC cosmetics counter girl and she wanted to know what time the store opened. It was odd. Odder still, since there isn’t a MAC at Tyson’s.

At any rate, we wandered the whole mall and saw many, many luridly dressed mannequins in “suggestive” poses. No one seemed to have a problem with any of those. Not even the ones at the stores specifically targeted at teen and pre-teen girls. Not even at the department store (was it Nordie’s or Lord and Taylor?) where the lingerie section and children’s sections were 3 feet apart (I measured while the Bunny took photos of the mannequin in the thigh-highs and thong thrusting her hips at the children’s mannequins across the aisle).

The window displays of teen/preteen-oriented retailers like Wet Seal (all g-strings on sale!) or Delias (nothing sexual about preteen lowrider jeans with the crotch bleached out!) may not be displayed in a manner that mimics the suburban ideal of a sex shop, but they’re not selling little girls images of ice cream and puppies.

The forbidden is appealling and sex sells. In the case of Victoria’s Secret – sex and a little safe controversy? That’s just got to just be a shareholders (wet) dream.

So far there’s been only a marginal stockprice increase today, and I doubt that’s about this one isolated incident. Limited sales overall are down 2% from last year at this time (even excluding the stores impacted by the hurricanes). If they can fan the flames of this a bit by taking the controversy nationwide, maybe get a boycott going in time for the Christmas shopping season, they could turn things around in no time.

At least for the Tyson’s store, a shot of cheap loud publicity has worked in the short term. There was a long line (52 people when I counted, again while the Bunny took pics) behind a velvet rope of shoppers anxious to enter the store. There was one protestor that I saw. She was holding an index card sized sign that read, Smut Peddlars.

Smut peddlars? They sell underwear. Just like the store directly across the hall from them, Gap Body. And just like at least 2 dozen other stores in that same mall. Abercrombie and Fitch, which has been targeted for years for selling thongs for pre-teens, is also right across the hall – next door to Baby Gap.

Since the initial fracas, the mannequins at VS have now been reposed, but the window displays themselves are not contextually especially racy. The interpretation of the clean, minimalistic, windows at VS as anything like a redlight district is truly in the eye of very imaginative beholders.

The store itself isn’t really even very eyecatching. Had there not been such a crowd they needed a security guard, it would have blended in with the rest of the stores. The store is actually in an area of the mall with a narrow hallway, since the center of that hall is open-air (a railed off opening looking downstairs). Across from the store and on the other side of that opening, the store isn’t really that noticeable. In the bright lights of the mall, the neon isn’t all that eye-catching.

Yes, the windows look more Fredericks than “traditional” Victoria’s Secret – but why isn’t there an outcry about the racy window displays in the Pentagon City Frederick’s store? It’s been there forever and those windows are clearly visible from their prominent corner location and often feature mannequins in highly suggestive poses. The problem at Tyson’s seems to be that they hit a nerve – negative attitudes about the suggestion of girl-girl action with no male participant or viewer as presented in the original displays. Remember, lesbian sex for male voyeuristic pleasure is good.

Lesbians running loose on their own are bad, bad, bad.

Write that down, it will be on the quiz.

As we wandered the mall I made the Bunny stop and eavesdrop on the most promising debate I overheard but the women expressing their outrage were refusing to even go see the windows. Their minds were made up. It turned out to be a boring conversation so we moved on. They’d been told that the window displays heralded the end of civilization and that was good enough for them.

The “what about the children!” hysteria, whether concious or not, sounds mor like a cover. If it offends you personally, say so. Hiding behind “the children” is ridiculous. If they’re too young to be out on their own, then you control where they go and what they see. Those windows only become “dirty” to children when someone tells them they are. You don’t have to take psychology to figure that out. What’s the surest way to spark a child’s interest in something? Tell them it’s bad or wrong or evil and make a production over it. Come to think of it, this is the best way to spread hysteria among adults, to boot. There must be a hundred things a day that society pours into your child’s brain that are confusing or strange to their little minds. And what you tell them how you react, makes much more of an impression than the initial object or image.

If they’re old enough to be at the mall on their own, well, then there’s nothing at the mall they haven’t seen on network TV.

Still don’t like it? Vote with your dollars. Take your business elsewhere. Ban your children from the property. It’s a mall, not the (direct) product of your tax dollars. Hell, if you want to make a ruckus, knock yourselves out, but don’t claim to speak for everyone. Be honest, admit that you personally are offended, that’s your right. Just like it’s my right not to be offended.

Can you imagine what great publicity huge protests would be? The Victoria’s Secret image was getting a bit stodgy and dull. The “fashion show?” A bit of a non-issue these days. The catalog? Costing them a fortune to print and not really boosting their sales much, apparently. A boycott would be a real shot in the arm. Make the place hip and sexy and (safely) transgressive again. You can’t buy rebranding like that. A boycott would be akin to the RIAA slapping warning labels on record albums – which made any album with a parental warning sticker automatically better in the eyes of your average kid.

The show’s over folks.

Time for everyone to go find a new way to teach their kids that female sexuality is bad.

That is, when all is said and done, what’s at stake here: an image of women’s sexuality that is threatening to the straight and narrow. Unless you’re threatened by women, insecure about your own sexuality, or think women are by nature dirty there’s not a lot left to say.

I am not defending the Limited. In fact, I think that the warped body images the Victoria’s Secret catalog pushes are, well, warped and unhealthy. It pains me to defend this company in any way shape or form. But think about it – it’s interesting that when they present women as fluffy pink sex kittens or angels clearly meant for male pleasure it’s a-okay. But make the mannequins lifelike and, quite frankly, powerful and aggressive looking, and it’s suddenly a problem. The problem isn’t the company’s, it’s the viewers.

Tyson’s boosted their traffic (and branded themselves as being highly moral and sensitive to the public), Victoria’s Secret gets tons of free advertising, and capitalism trundled forward. Everybody wins.

I can’t believe I’m defending Victoria’s Secret’s image of women, gender, and sexuality.

The world has turned inside out and the apocalypse is certainly nigh.

I need a drink.

The November 12th issue of the New Yorker features a particularly good “annals of retail” column by Caitlin Flanagan. Titled “Bringing Up Baby – Anxious parents spend thousands,” the article chronicles the thing I find even more amusing than the stupid shit people buy their pets, namely – the stupid shit people buy for their babies.

Well, not so much for the babies as for mommy and daddy…much of this stuff is about ego – is the 2800 dollar stroller really better than the 98 dollar one?. Plenty of these products are also gobbled up in the name of “safety” because, of course, before the advent of baby safety products babies didn’t survive to their first birthday.*

Make no mistake, babies are indeed fragile little creatures and tragic things do happen to them, but new parents, I’m talking to you. You need to get a fucking grip and you need to do it right now.

My favorite hot new product is the backseat baby safety monitor. Here’s a link to one if you don’t know what I’m talking about.

So yes, instead of looking in the rearview mirror to make sure that The Precious is still strapped in his carseat, you can stare at a monitor on the dashboard. Frankly, I find the ear-splitting squawking to be a sign that the little beast is still there, but what do I know?

Here’s the deal, kids: if you’re going to get into a vehicle (most likely an SUV) with someone who’s enamored with one of these backseat gizmos, you damned well better bring extra diapers. Not for the kid – for yourself. This should be obvious to people who buy these things, but apparently is not, so I’ll spell it out here: If you, the driver, are staring at a video monitor on your dashboard you aren’t watching the road, you moron.

The de rigeur item in my neighborhood these days is a pram from the Silver Cross line. (Also mentioned in the article, by the way). Silver cross actually has two lines, the “lifestyle line” and the “heritage line.” These things cost thousands of dollars and the new mommies nearly go nuts at the coffeeshop trying to keep an eye on their spawn and their pricey stroller at the same time. These strollers cost more than my car is worth. It’s completely insane. Here’s the thing: the babies really, really don’t seem to care.

Why do I care? Because I have to listen to these same people go on and on to me about how worried they are about paying tuition when their little pooter is ready for school. And I have to paste a sympathetic expression on my face while my brain is practially shouting, “Why not check your ego, put the 3 grand into google stock or mutual funds or even, you know, a savings account. Something so you can, you know, start saving some money for the spawn’s schooling, if you’re that worried?”

But what do I know?

Before I go, I have a little request for new parents – aside from the request to stop trying to kill me when we’re in the car with your spawn. It’ simple, really. For the sake of your children, please stop putting those bubblewrap covers on every fixture in your house. Someday, your spawn is going to go to college, move out of the house, go to prison, or otherwise engage in an activity that will require bathing outside your safety-sealed environment. Our medical system is stretched enough without the prospect of every 18 year old in America needing medical attention their first week out of the nest because they are incapable of functioning in a non-padded environment.

Please, folks. Do it for the children.

*Yes, you know it’s not true. I know it’s not true. Yuppies with too much cash seem to be able to ignore reality and believe anything you tell them. Hell, we survived lawn darts. Today’s children apparently burst into flames when exposed to tap water. Who knew?

Dogs are wonderful. I love dogs. It’s their owners I worry about. Neuticles and
doggles and jog a dogs, what more could your dog need?

Maybe your dog needs a vintage mink sleigh bed.

Our neighborhood has the requisite barkery to ensure the local pooches get fresh and organic treats, which is apparently very important to animals who consider catpoop a delicacy.

Del Ray’s yappy hour is only a few years old, but the one at the Holiday Inn in Old Town has been going on twice a week for years (decades, I’m told, but have never verified this).

Sometime in the not-so-distant past someone made a snide and off-handed remark about how easy and boring my job must be and then went on to ask how I could keep from becoming brain-dead after so long working in a library, going so far as to suggest that librarian’s salaries are a waste of tax dollars.

I have a fun job and a great boss. Some parts of it can be very tedious, but it’s never the same two days in a row. It also requires critical thinking, diplomacy, and social skills – it’s not mindlessly sitting at a desk staring into space or reading a book all day. I’ve had the job for ten years now and there’s always something new to learn. Could I do with fewer meetings? Sure, who couldn’t?

I kept trying to say as much, but the person said, “Yeah, right,” in a really snide way each time. I don’t like the person so I blew it off, but it pissed me off all over again this morning when a coworker was talking about her intense dread over going home for the holidays because her family is incredibly shallow and only values money, brand names, consumer goods. A group of us tried to cheer her up, pointing out how their constant sneering at her job and inability to form opinions on other people based on anything other than the brands they wear is a pretty pathetic form of arrested development and she should view her time with them as an important cautionary tale, or maybe a reminder of why she lives far away.

But I’m about to digress into a generalized tirade about rude, materialistic and judgmental people, when the original post was supposed to be about, oh, wait, rude, materialistic and judgmental people.

So yeah, I get it that there are people who don’t respect the choices of anyone other than themselves. They don’t understand I have actual responsibilities and a staff to supervise. I have a lot of flexibility – but I also have to work early, late and on weekends. I got 2 free college degrees courtesy of this job and I have no student loan debt. I get loads of vacation and I can have lunch or coffee with Husband every single day if I want to. I work with some annoying people, but I also work with some of the greatest people in the world.

Plus, my office is cold and dark, except when it’s really hot. Wait, why is that a good thing? I don’t think it is so I better quit while I’m ahead.

What I’m saying is, happy holidays and don’t let your family drive you insane. Instead of taking the bait, try this: paste a Mona Lisa smile on your face and just stare intently at them no matter what they say to you.

Reply, “How very interesting,” or “How so?” whenever a response seems to be required. Repeated often enough, these phrases will eventually fill them with self-doubt and discomfort and hopefully they’ll go annoy someone else.

You could also get a jump-start on the New Year’s Resolutionaries at the gym and go burn off that aggression in a way that won’t land you in jail.

Alternately, you could end every sentence with, “…as it is written” while carrying around a copy of Dianetics or some other such tome that spooks your family.

Any one of these approaches should buy you peace and quiet in no time.

Merry Christmas!

This post is part of the corrupted archives restoration and includes the old comments as text at the bottom of the post. Sorry if this is confusing.

What’s that? You’re still using Johnson and Johnson products on your baby? You must really suck or something. I don’t think we can be friends anymore.

After reading a recent article in the Washington Post I’ve seen the error of my ways and will never put such banal products in shower baskets for my new-mommy friends ever again.

“Going Goo-Ga for Kiddie Chic: The New Baby Brand Names: Bulgari, Burberry, Bobbi Brown” explains the rapidly expanding market in chic skincare products for infants.

I think this was my favorite part:

Burberry released its Baby Touch perfume, costing $24 to $38, this year, part of a full baby line, said a New York-based spokeswoman. The company declined to comment on sales projections, but industry sources have forecast $9 million to $17 million in worldwide sales for the first year.
Another firm, Swiss-based Laboratoires Valmont, plans to introduce its four-year-old baby line, Soin de Fee, in the United States next month. The five-item line, which includes $30 Anti Stress Serum and $43 Baby Cream, will be sold in a limited number of spas and salons, said spokeswoman Charlotte Coutrot.

Anti-stress serum? What in the hell does a baby need a 30 dollar anti-stress serum for? I thought we had that covered. I was operating under the silly impression that mushy food, clean diapers, and the act of bobbing around the house making idiotic cooing sounds while contorting your face into equally idiotic expressions were the primary ingerdients in the anti-stress arsenal for your average baby. Clearly, I was mistaken. For starters, I forgot that the babies of the wealthy and foolish are never, ever average.

(newsflash: no matter how well-off you are, your baby still looks like Winston Churchill. Deal with it)

And what need, may I ask, does a baby have for 38 dollars/ounce baby perfume? Babies are supposed to smell like babies, are they not? I guess when you forgo the usual baby-type products for lilac-scented wrinkle creams (hint: babies are naturally wrinkly, they grow out of it) you have to buy special baby-scent so your baby will smell like a baby?

I could take this to it’s logical conclusion by asking if Calvin Klein is working on a special fragrance line called “oatmeal” or “poopy diaper” but I’ll show some self-restraint.

Incidentally, I’ve seen several of these 300 dollar Kate Spade baby bags. (matching stroller only $350 more).After a few weeks they look just as ratty as the 20 dollar ones from Target. It’s probably wrong of me to be amused by this, but it’s probably also wrong to use your child as a fashion accessory. But there again, what do I know?

Posted by skarlet at October 7, 2002 06:00 PM | TrackBack
I take issue only with the thought that a newborn resembles Winston; I’ve never seen a baby with a cigar.

Posted by: Linkmeister at October 7, 2002 07:24 PM
Sent the link on to Max’s parents. ;)

Posted by: Faith at October 7, 2002 10:45 PM
My son’s feet stink. I just always spray a bit of Acqua Di Gio on them before we head out.

I’m kidding.

Posted by: melly at October 7, 2002 10:58 PM
my son’s feet have smelled really bad since he was just a tiny guy. my daughter was forever sniffing his toesies and saying, they smell like vinegar!

and they did. and that’s ok.

i kinda feel sorry for the designer babies.

Posted by: kd at October 7, 2002 11:32 PM
According to my father, I looked like Edward G. Robinson, not Winston Churchill, when I popped outta the womb. Gee. Thanks, Dad. :P

And what? I still use Johnson and Johnson products for ME. Baby shampoo is the BEST for getting your eye makeup off — washes it all off, and…’no more tears’! Yay!

Maybe the anti-stress serum is actually for them moms? Eek.

Posted by: Jen at October 8, 2002 11:14 AM
Well then Faith you did this to yourself. *giggle* No more quick and cheap baby gifts from Old Navy, you’re going to have to hit the Burberry counter from now on. Don’t come complaining to me! ;)

Posted by: skarlet at October 8, 2002 11:32 AM
$300 baby bags?
Damn. I’m not going to be able to wrap my brain around this concept…
But that was a great article. I can’t wait to see how many of these products they’re still selling in a year…

Posted by: batgrl at October 8, 2002 01:41 PM
$300 baby bags?
Damn. I’m not going to be able to wrap my brain around this concept…
But that was a great article. I can’t wait to see how many of these products they’re still selling in a year…

Posted by: batgrl at October 8, 2002 01:41 PM

Posted by: batgrl at October 8, 2002 01:42 PM
I admit that I wouldn’t buy a $300 baby bag. But my sister has two Kate Spade ones and has been making noises about the Burberry one for the past two years.

Of course, she gets all her KS at a deep discount (75% off), so there’s no money thing there. She is a bit of a label whore, though.

The perfume is just as sad as the pet perfume. Some things just don’t go together. I still haven’t read that article, btw, but I did set it aside to send to my sister last week. ggl.

Posted by: bunny at October 9, 2002 06:23 AM
Hello Bunny. And how does your sister get 75% off KS goods? Hmmmm? Sweetie? Darling? Hannukah is approaching and I’m nearly hysterical coming up with an appropriate mother-in-law gift. The DVD sets of the Sopranos are just not coming out fast enough, damnit.

Posted by: skarlet at October 9, 2002 12:41 PM
Bunny’ darling, pet perfume can be a very good thing. Especially when your dog’s new nickname has become Stink Bomb.

Posted by: Faith at October 9, 2002 08:35 PM