Malodorous Marketing

The agony of the antiperspirant. The demands of the deodorant. We all (well, except for those folks crushed up against me on a crowded subway, apparently) have faced the personal hygiene aisle. We’ve all stood, eyes glazing over, mesmerized by the colors, the swirls, the logos, the packaging – each crying out to be our choice to fend off possibly putrid pits. Over time, we tend to settle in and stick to our favorite brand. Have you dared to take a look around that aisle lately? Decided it was time for a new scent, perhaps? If you are even remotely considering this, here’s my advice… pack a lunch. You’re going to be there awhile. Actually, if you’re female, you might not need to brown bag it – just order in while you’re there. Lord knows the aisle certainly SOUNDS like a food court. Let’s see… on today’s menu, we have: Berry Sparkle, Peach Shimmer, Vanilla Sparkle and Pear Illusion. They all sound like those molded jello salads that my grandmother used to try to get me to eat at every family gathering. Giving it a fancy name wouldn’t get me to touch it THEN and I’m not likely to want to smell like it NOW. If a guy tells me that I smell good enough to eat…. well…. never mind where I was going with that. Let’s forge ahead, shall we? Women, in spite of our many advances, evidently remain very delicate creatures. They market us scents like Glacier Mist, Spring Breeze and Mystic Rain. Somehow, those seem to be offering me the chance to feel like Pocahontas, sitting in the cool shadows, pouring out my soul to Grandmother Willow. Then, there’s Moonlit Rose or Luminous Lily. Those confuse me – am I aspiring to be the perfect flower or are they dangling the promise of day-glo pits?? Man, I’d be a hit on the overnight train, wouldn’t I? “Excuse me, ma’am? I seem to be having a bit of trouble reading in this light… could you raise your arm a little higher and turn this way a little more? Thanks!” Then, if none of those options appeal, they’re set to release our escape hatch. Tropical Radiance, Botanical Silk and Tropical Satin may hope to evoke our secret desire to be sprawled naked on a remote beach, skin warming in the sun, being devotedly serviced by the ripped abs, toned thighs and bulging biceps of a god-like creature named Darian… or Pierce… or Steel … oh, who cares what his name is – we don’t plan to use it anyway! Now, if we’ve explored all those scents (or flavors??!) with a straight face and still haven’t found what we like, the marketing geniuses assume we must be Earth Mothers or the Corporate Beotch. They offer up more ambiguous attempts like Ambition, Genuine, and Optimism. So, we’re either supposed to take ourselves very seriously or not take ourselves seriously at all here. I guess the decision is ours alone. Finally, for those of us who presumably can’t figure out how to fight our way out of a soggy paper bag, they keep the old standbys – Regular and Unscented. If anyone knows what a “regular” smells like, please feel free to let me know. I look at those and stifle the urge to shriek, “A regular WHAT?” Venture over to the MANLY section of the aisle and you’ll see ego stroking in all its glory. You see, men don’t need to smell like food (clothing stains take care of that all by themselves) or flowers (heaven forbid!) and, in their minds, they ARE Darian or Pierce or Steel. They apparently just need affirmation that they are, indeed, the dominant gender, the coveted prize, teeming with testosterone and oozing raw power and sexuality. Yyyyyyyyeah. Anywayyyyyy. Men’s scents carry names like Pacific Surge, Arctic Force, Arctic Frost, Dynamic Pulse, Metallic Ice, Glacial Falls and Aqua Reef. WHAT… THE… HELL?! These aren’t scents. They’re freakin’ beer commercials. “Hey boys… drop that case of Arctic Force into them there Glacial Falls. Soon as they’re cold, we’ll crack some o’ that Pacific Surge over Metallic Ice and smoke us some Aqua Reef until we can’t feel our Dynamic Pulse. YEEEEEEE-HAWWWWWW!” Then, there’s a line that names its scents for the “important moments” in a man’s world – or at least that’s how I understand it. Ranging from Lucky Day to Midnight to First Move (man, I SO don’t want to know what THAT smells like) to After Hours, it seems like further reassurance to the fragile male ego that yes, if you use these products, you WILL get laid. I just hope they have little diagrams on the packaging that tells them where to apply the stuff. It won’t be a Lucky Day if it gets smeared under anything but their arms. Finally, there are products being marketed to really young guys… you know, those taking the fledgling steps in their manly evolution. Unwisely, they are being led to believe that “more is more” and these scents should be applied in the approximate thickness of wallpaper paste. Through names like Voodoo, Kilo, Tsunami, Orion and Apollo, I can only divine that you must apply a possibly forbidden fragrance in metric or monsoon proportions in order to guarantee that women at the International Space Station will smell you. Having been in the vicinity (aka THE SAME CITY) as a kid wearing this stuff, trust me when I say… THEY WILL. With all these choices, it really is a wonder that we don’t embark on our shopping trips with a folding chair and a cooler. I don’t need ‘em though. After considering all these possibilities – and the multitude of statements I can make by what I swipe across my pits - my choice is the ever-so-basic Baby Powder. They say that a newborn baby has the best smell in the world. I’m going out the way I came in.

Eminent Email

Have you ever had a hard time envisioning something? You know, rationalizing an idea that’s perfectly normal but just seems so…. well…. strange? I’ve been struggling with just that situation – ever since I found out that you can email the Pope! Yes, that’s right – the holiest of Fathers, the chieftain of the Church, his Eminence himself has an email address. I don’t know why I find this amusing – and startling, to a degree - but I really do. In spite of all the advances made in technology, there are always people that you don’t expect to be riding the wave. The current President of the United States, for one. I really never thought of Dubya as the type to be toting an iPod. Apparently, he received one as a gift from his daughters so that he could listen to music while he cycles. Probably helped him tune out Camp Casey, too. Music motivates the masses so why should he be immune? But he’s just so darn antiquated! I laughed out loud when they said one of the tunes on his playlist is “My Sharona.” I pretty much wore out my copy of that album as a teenager and the thought of Mr. President pumpin’ his little legs to the beat of The Knack just struck me funny. I almost felt bad when they said that one of his assistants is charged with downloading his music. I think he might want to leave that accomplishment off his resumé. Apparently, using technology and knowing HOW to use technology are two very separate things. Which brings me to the Pope. Try as I might, I can’t picture the man sifting through his inbox, boning up on the benefits of Viagra, deciding whether or not he should apply for his one-time free credit report or contemplating the current lack of calcium in his diet. I admit I’ve prayed for spam to die a painful death, Your Holiness, but it won’t happen in either of our lifetimes in spite of the fact that YOU’VE got some pretty lofty connections. Unless heaven’s hooked up with high-speed and a great firewall, I presume there will always and forever be an Official Papal Pop-up Blocker, additionally charged with Divine Deletions. All of this leads me to wonder exactly why one would be inclined to email the Pope. If something goes horribly wrong in my life, it’s unlikely that my first (or even my hundred and first!) thought would be, “Oh YEAH? We’ll just see about that! I’m going to email the Pope!” Do other people DO THIS??? “Dear Mr. Pope. My name is Johnny and I’m 9 years old. I want an Xbox. Can you or God email my mom and Santa Claus and tell them I can have one? Thank you very much” “Your Holiness: I’ve been playing the same lotto numbers for the past 47 years. I figure it’s about time I win. I think there’s somethin’ wrong with them machines droppin’ them balls. Please fix this by next week since I’m due to retire. Thank you very much” “Yo. Your Pope-ness! Put in a good word for me with the cute chick that sits in front of me in homeroom, aiiight? She won’t go wit’ me no matter what I do. Props to ma homey. You rock, dude. Rad hat. Thank you very much” There are dangers inherent in thinking we can “special order” guidance, understanding and intervention with the click of a few keys. This is THE POPE – not Miss Cleo! What’s next??? Pontiff by PayPal? Secure donations by Visa, MasterCard, American Express? Oh… my… word. I just checked. The official online home of The Pope is http://www.vatican.va. Not only do they accept the aforementioned credit cards – I forgot Diners! Ehhhhh….. forgive my discomfort with this whole idea. I do understand the value and importance of granting access to the masses. Using the technology available to us to reach out and touch every corner of the universe. It just reminds me far too much of Jim Carrey in “Bruce Almighty.” I guess I don’t want to wake up one day and find out that everyone else is praying by email and I’m still doing it the old-fashioned way. My dad used to tell me that a person didn’t have to go to a special building, at a special time, dress in a special way or only believe special things for their prayers to be heard. He said it was simply about faith. Regular, everyday, garden variety, unplugged faith… not fancy fonts and forwards. I’ll stick with that. Thank you very much.

Bauble and The Beast

They’re scary! They evolve from something so meek and mild into something so truly horrifying! They trample over everything in their path, leaving nothing but pain and irreparable damage. As a society, we’re under constant attack but they peak in the summer months, swarming in droves. They are BRIDEZILLAS. Take my advice and run for cover. A friend of mine was in a wedding party recently. She talked excitedly about the beautiful color scheme, the lovely dresses… she was genuinely looking forward to the day. Until – without warning – she was trampled by a BRIDEZILLA. Formerly known as her SISTER. It’s amazing how a wedding can transform a person. And NOT in a good way. I swear those beasts sneak up on you when you least expect it. In my friend’s case, she found herself running over hell and high water to keep the BRIDEZILLA at bay. You see, you don’t have to feed these creatures. HELL NO. The last thing they want is food. Then their no-one-shall-DARE-to-look-better-than-me-on-MY DAY dress might require alteration (for probably the fiftieth time, since it takes that long to be obsessively perfect). What they want is SERVICE. From everybody! People, who in Pre-Wedding life were friends and relatives, suddenly morph into chauffeurs, maids, wedding planners, caterers, florists, graphic designers, craft gurus and more. BRIDEZILLAS ooze demands from every single pore. Don’t even think of refusing them. If you do, you are OFF THE TEAM. You’re benched. Your invitation will arrive without the lovely foil-lined envelope and reception card. You’ll be granted the privilege of watching her become “Mrs. I’m Now Better Than All My Friends” from the very last pew. All this because you dared to defy Her Brideness. Think I sound harsh? You can’t honestly tell me that you’ve never butted heads – or fake nails – with a BRIDEZILLA. About five years ago, in the course of my work, I had the … opportunity? … to host online discussions about weddings. I thought it would be fun. YEAH RIGHT. Ever tried to politely stand right in the middle of a heavyweight boxing match and not get pummelled? Ladies and gentlemen… in this corner, we have Beach Wedding Barbie. No one will outdo her barefoot-in-the-sand-at-dusk ceremony, lit only by the 17 million white candles placed ever so carefully by her bridesmaids earlier in the day. Her simple, handkerchief-hem dress might look like she picked it up for a song at a discount store summer sale but she really paid $14,000 because “she deserves it.” Somewhere under that scrap of fabric is a designer label that makes it all worthwhile. Beach Wedding Ken, in comparison, gets absolutely no say in what he wears. It’ll be handed to him 5 minutes before the ceremony so the dolt can’t get it dirty. Mothers of the bride and groom will be wearing totally unflattering muted colors since they must completely blend in to the sand and surf. They’re in attendance but no one should really SEE them. They fill out the photos. As do the bridesmaids, crammed into dresses (a) they might have considered wearing to their junior prom; (b) they wouldn’t consider wearing now, even to paint the garage; (c) chosen expressly by Beach Wedding Barbie to ensure that no one looks as good as she does on HER DAY. In the opposing corner, we have Tent Wedding Tina. Determined to outbest all comers with her organza-and-white-light-festooned ceremony, carefully crafted by bridesmaids hanging from precarious perches at tent-top earlier in the day. Her elaborate white gown, inlaid with a minimum of 50,000 seed pearls, sequins and appliqués, features a 25-foot train designed to be sure that every person in the immediate vicinity, as well as passing planes and aerial photographers, know that this is HER DAY. Tent Wedding Tom will be picture perfect in his Tina-chosen tuxedo, looking more elegant and important than he has ever looked in the past or can ever HOPE to look in the future. Mothers of the bride and groom, bridesmaids and groomsmen, will all wear black. Not only does Tent Wedding Tina assume that this will convey an air of sophistication and class but it ensures that SHE will be the only person actually visible as night falls. She and her diamond ring must be front and center as this is HER DAY and she deserves all the attention. In the middle of that mess was ME. Think people can’t fight online? I have never seen such vicious typing in my life. Sugar-coated, of course, by excessive use of words like darling, sweetie, honey… and bitch. Those women could change faces faster than Joan Rivers and her plastic surgeon. Under the guise of sharing their excitement about their weddings, these BRIDEZILLAS came into that room every day, determined to look more impressive, more “avant-garde,” and, yes, even more “Martha” than every other person there. They would talk about the regulars who weren’t there… laughing at their budgets (because real BRIDEZILLAS have no budget), giggling at their gowns, poo-pooing their pâtés. They even shared tips on how to manipulate their birth control pills so they wouldn’t have their period on their wedding day. Mother of the bride or groom wasn’t enough – they had to control Mother Nature too. The most frightening thing was that the majority were planning for weddings a year to two down the road. In fact, one “bride-to-be” wasn’t even ENGAGED. I wanted to call her boyfriend and offer him a ticket out of town. But I persevered. I offered invitation wordings, favor ideas, color counselling and moral support. I “ooooooooh’d and aaaaaaaaawed” and fussed over every miniscule detail they shared. I hosted my heiny off! Now, here’s the irony of the whole thing – I was in the middle of a divorce at the time. Touting how exciting it was to get married, how wonderful married life could be (which was all true… just not in my present tense!), all the while getting voicemail messages from my lawyer and threats from my… well, let’s not go there. What I really wanted to tell these BRIDEZILLAS, after giving them a good smack into reality, is that you can’t control everything. You can’t alienate and abuse people and expect them to take it just because it’s YOUR DAY. You don’t deserve unlimited use of your parents’ bank accounts and credit cards. Whether you want to accept it or not, you are NOT the center of the universe nor the first person (OR the last!) to get married. And then, the biggest bombshell…. THINGS WILL GO WRONG. No matter what you do, something always happens on your wedding day. I know this to be true. I speak from experience. At my first wedding, the organist was drunk. Yes, drunk. The minister neglected to let me in on the fact that the fellow had a drinking problem and they had given him the organist’s job to help keep him on the straight and narrow. Well, on my wedding day, he apparently headed straight for a narrow-necked bottle of vodka. In the video, you could clearly see him, up there in the choir box, arms a-flailin’ as he “conducted” the soloist. That poor singer, a very talented friend of my dad’s, was clearly shocked at this unnecessary “direction” but managed to get through the song with a straight face. Then, another piece of music, normally quite appropriate for church, started out sounding like a circus tune. OOOOOOM PA PA… OOOOOOM PA PA… every member of the wedding party’s shoulders were literally bouncing with stifled laughter. I mean, come ON! It was FUNNY! Any one of my BRIDEZILLAS would have sued, I’m quite sure. If even one future bride reads this: Please, please, PLEASE listen to me… marry for love, not for the wedding you believe “you deserve.” Placing a ring on your finger does not unleash your genetic transformation into a BRIDEZILLA. You allow that happen… and I advise against it. People WILL despise you. Some won’t even bother to hide it. I was blessed to have been given a second chance. My second wedding was small and personal. I knew what I wanted and I knew how to plan it. The people that mattered were there. In my heart, it was perfect. In reality, my husband-to-be was ready to throw up in the car because they got stuck in the Friday night, can’t-get-home-from-work-early-enough traffic jam and he thought he wouldn’t make it to the church on time (he did). My younger daughter, so overcome with happiness, sobbed her way through the entire ceremony – the red-eye in the photos isn’t from the camera. Rather than leaving the church in traditional order, with the bride and groom leading the way to the reception, our out of town guests followed the wrong person and got lost. We embarked on a search and rescue mission, connected by a chain of cell phones and local drivers, and started dinner a little late. THINGS… GO… WRONG. And yet, a year and a half later, I’m still here to tell you the story. Life did NOT end. People continue to get married. More BRIDEZILLAS continue to hatch. Imagine that. I got what “I deserved”… someone I love, who loves me back. At the end of the process, that’s all that matters. So, ladies, try not piss him off so bad in the Pre-Wedding phase that he doesn’t even recognize you Post-Wedding. ‘Cuz Post-Wedding = REAL LIFE – and that lasts a helluva lot longer than YOUR DAY. Oh… but do go ahead and figure out how to manipulate those birth control pills, if you want to. Take it from me – you really CAN get your period on your wedding day. * sighhhhhh *

Unhealthy Obsessions

As a wife and mom, I think it’s natural that I spend a lot of time (ok, I admit it – a HELLUVA LOT OF TIME) worrying about the health of my husband and kids. I worry that my older daughter is too thin, my younger daughter is too heavy, my husband doesn’t eat right, maybe we need vitamins, perhaps flu shots would be a good idea, we all need to exercise more…. ARGH!!!!! I drive myself crazy. Oh – I better worry about THAT too. We get bombarded daily, in every form of media, about what’s good for us, what’s bad for us. We regularly hear about the “miracle du jour” and whether it’s broccoli, blueberries, tomatoes or poking ourselves in the eye repeatedly with a stick – we ALL try it at least once or twice. Thank goodness licking your own elbow doesn’t cure some disease because we all know it’s impossible to do that. OK……… STOP trying to lick your own elbow and let me explain. Good health doesn’t seem to run in my family. My father’s life ended with a massive heart attack at the age of 53. My mother succumbed, after the most courageous fight I’ve ever seen, to a rare form of cancer at the age of 63. My younger daughter stopped breathing, in my arms, at the age of 4 weeks. But! Thanks to infant CPR, that I swore up and down to the instructor I’d NEVER be able to perform on a real child (much less my OWN), she’s just fine and dandy today. This all taught me something. Some things you can help. Some things are just beyond your control. My problem is that I don’t always bother to distinguish between the two. Then, of course, we have the old wives’ tales about health. “Don’t go outside with wet hair – you’ll catch cold!!” FALSE. I know that colds are caused by viruses and I’ve yet to figure out how I’ll get one by washing my hair. Unless there’s something in that cheap shampoo I buy. Note to self: check label. Then there’s “Eating carrots will help you see better at night.” Ummmm NOPE. Well, wait now, they do contain Vitamin A and that’s good for your vision. But, I checked this one out and found its origins pretty amusing. Apparently, in WWII, the British started the rumor that their plane spotters were eating carrots to help improve their vision. What they were actually doing was concealing the truth about the invention of radar. I try not to make up “stories” to get my family to care about their health. I admit I’ve told them, on a few occasions, that cracking their knuckles will give them arthritis. I know that’s not true… but damn I HATE THAT SOUND! And, yes, I’ve told them not to sit so close to the TV. I know the most it’ll do is fatigue their eyes … but THEY GET IN THE WAY AND I CAN’T SEE THE SHOW. The one thing I haven’t been successful at curbing in this house is Playstation2. Blah. You see, I’m one of those funky sorts that can’t play those games because (a) I lack sufficient hand-eye coordination; (b) I lack any interest whatsoever in which button I should hit to jump/drop/shoot/disappear/smack the crap outta someone/whatEVER!; and (c) I truthfully feel nauseous if I spend too much time trying to watch other people playing a particularly active game. So I routinely tell them that they spend too much time in front of the TV when they should be doing something more productive. I generally get a “yeah yeah” from the husband and a “but Moooooooooooooom… I just got my TURRRRRNNNNN” from one of the kids. Then, I get frustrated. Imagine my surprise and delight when I read the following headline on MSN: “Man dies after 50 hours of computer games.” Well WAIT now. Of course I don’t mean I’m surprised and delighted that the poor man died! What I meant was – he gave me ammunition as a lovely parting gift! Seems a 28-year-old man named Lee in Seoul, South Korea sat in an Internet café for 50 straight hours playing a battle simulation game on a computer. He stopped only to use the restroom and to take brief naps on some sort of makeshift bed. He had even quit his job so he would have more time to play games! The daily paper reported that his mother had sent his former work associates to look for him when he failed to show up at home. At that point, he told them he would finish the game and go – but, instead, he died a few minutes later. Ostensibly, heart failure resulting from exhaustion. I hereby dictate that, if anyone under this roof is going to the Great Beyond as a result of exhaustion, it will be from one of two things: helping me out by doing too much housework or simply by having too much sex. Since these are both laughably impossible in my book, I plan to officially instate them as amusing-yet-totally-outrageous wives’ tales – the “old” being left out on purpose. On the other hand, I plan to use “playing too much Playstation will KILL YOU, YOU KNOW!” at every opportunity because I now have PROOF that it’s possible. Thank you, Lee. Rest in peace.

29 and Holding?

Let’s get right to the nitty gritty. I’m 40 – how old are you? Oh, really? Now, how about the truth? What is it with people and age? Young people want to be older, older people want to be younger. We become legal, birthdays become outlawed. Can someone clarify this for me? It’s like someone flips off the switch on the flashing “Happy Birthday” sign! Where’s the fun in THAT? My husband says that I don’t have a problem with my age because I don’t look my age. Well, bless his heart for saying so but that’s not the reason. The way I see it, I’ve clocked a lot of difficult miles getting this far and I’m proud of every one of them. Sure, I’d love to still feel the thrill of being a 20-something – or even a 30-something, for that matter – but I’m firmly wedged into the luge with the “BIG 4-0” on the side, barrelling down the run to 41. OK, so the ride isn’t nearly as exhilarating as it must be for those racers – but leave it to me to pick a metaphor that allows me to be lying down. One of my favorite comedians, George Carlin, does a routine about age and points out how, when we’re young, we age in “halves.” We proudly say “I’m 4½!!!!” We can’t wait to get to the next year. I can unequivocally state that I am NOT 40½. Just 40 is fine, thanks. I draw the line at aging in fractions. When I get to my next birthday, tack on another whole number and give me cake. I don’t NEED cake, by any stretch of the imagination, but I figure I’ve made it through another year, relatively unscathed, so I’ve EARNED cake. Oh – and flip on that flashing “Happy Birthday” sign while you’re at it. So, we went out for dinner the other night. Both of our daughters took the time to dress nicely, each wearing a sundress and sandals. I did their hair and they looked lovely. I could tell they felt really good – and quite grown up – going to the restaurant for a late meal. We got there and the hostess showed us to our table. As we sat down, she promptly placed a puzzle booklet and packet of crayons in front of my younger daughter. I felt the hairs stand up on the back of my neck. She’ll be 12 in two short months. She doesn’t order from the Children’s Menu. She doesn’t need a booster seat to reach the table. She entertains US at dinner – we don’t need to amuse HER. I think I caught myself actually praying that she wouldn’t toss the items right back at the hostess with a “PUH-LEASE!” I shouldn’t have worried. She accepted them graciously, looked at me and said, “You know, Mom, I don’t usually get this stuff anymore but I can probably find something I can do while I’m waiting for my food.” Whew! Then, at the end of the evening, doesn’t the waiter come over and plunk what looked like a pirate’s chest on the table. It was full of little toys! Thinking my luck was running out, I couldn’t help but wonder why he thought she’d want one of those plastic trinkets. He had just cleared away her plate… from her seafood platter… which was exactly the same meal I had eaten… and HER plate was CLEAN. She looked at me, I looked at her… and she opened the box. Out tumbled goofy sunglasses, ball and string games… nothing even close to appropriate for her. Then she saw it. A frog. That squeaks. Considering the other options, she quietly said, “I always did like frogs – and this one looks pretty realistic.” He rode home on her lap in the back seat. I never asked if it bothered her to be taken for younger than her real age. I just thanked my lucky stars that she has manners. She doesn’t realize it yet but, as she inches through those oh-so-grown-up teenage years, she’s got an ace in the hole. Maybe someday down the road, when she’s around 40, people will tell her that she “doesn’t look a day over 32.” She can thank her lucky stars she has good genes.