Things I Invent at My Day Job (II)

For those of you who missed it, Things I Invent at My Day Job (I) was a seriously funny blog that I wrote filled with ideas from my co-workers that I stole. Now I know what you're thinking. Are you funny, or is it just that you stole funny material from your co-workers? Listen hair splitters / knit pickers, if I write the blog filled with stolen material, then it's all mine.

So the much anticipated follow-up is here. Things I Invent at My Day Job Numero Dos. 

Large Print Cosmetics

Actually this one is my idea.  That's why it's not that funny, but incredibly practical. See the other day I was shaving my legs with conditioner - by mistake - and I realized how often these days I make the mistake of reaching for the wrong bottle of whatever cosmetic because I can't read the fine print.

This is what my labels will look like going forward. 

Shampoo

And...

Spackle

And...

Embalming Fluid

Realistic Fingernail Polish Names

Honestly I pity those poor fingernail polish namers. The pressure must be huge. Every season, something new. How many ways can you say pink? Here are a few real examples of fingernail polish names: muchi muchi (mauve pink), no pre-nup (sheer pink), exotic liras (decadent fuschia aka pink). Exotic liras is currently out of stock. I'm thinking that's an older pink name because liras don't exist anymore.

So at work we decided to start our own line of fingernail polishes that are realistically named so you know exactly what you're getting. First out of the chute from Julie was granny underpants. It's off white.

NB I just attended a Seth Godin webinar and he actually wrote a blog that appeared shortly after mine about not want to wear reading glasses to see the shampoo labels.

My Top 3 Things that You'll Never See on Goop

Honestly I don't visit goop often but I was pleasantly surprised to stop by today and see my twitter friend and fellow Texan @BreneBrown writing about vulnerability, the subject of her book Daring Greatly. I had originally planned to write a snarky blog about a few of my secret shames and how anti-goop they are - at least it seems to me.

In reading Brené's post, it occurred to me that maybe I should cut the snark and just put my crap out there. Just me daring to be vulnerable. And leave Gwyneth Paltrow alone. Because in all reality there is a really good chance that GP likes Fritos too. I mean who doesn't like Fritos?

So here are my top 3 things that Gwyneth Paltrow might possibly like as well but I really doubt they will ever be featured on goop.

Frito Pie

I love Frito Pie. They serve it in malls in Texas. I had a very interesting conversation with my Connecticut work girlfriends about Frito Pie. Turns out, they'd never even heard of it. What? When I was searching for Frito Pie images for this blog, I found out that people actually make it in the little Fritos bag. But I'm kicking it old school in a handy mall container. The recipe is super simple and involves only processed food. It's fantastic. Trust me.

• 4 cups Fritos

• 1 can (15 ounces) chili - no beans (Hormel preferred)

• 1 cup shredded Cheddar cheese
• 1/2 cup diced green chilies
• Sour cream, onions and salsa (optional)

Use the Fritos as your crust. Heat the chili and pour over the Fritos. Sprinkle cheese and other goodies you like on top. Grab a fork and some napkins. And a Zantac.

Spanx Bathing Suits

Obviously, it goes without saying, if you're eating Frito Pie you may at some point need to purchase a Spanx bathing suit. Spanx bathing suits can be any brand really. Miraclesuit is another one. Miraclesuit promises to make you look 10 pounds thinner in 10 seconds. I am so in on that.

There's only one small problem with Miraclesuit, Spanx bathing suits etc. It's like any malleable object you apply pressure to, for example silly putty. When you squeeze silly putty in your hand, it will seep through your fingers. The same holds true for flesh. Yes a Spanx bathing suit can create the illusion of a waist (finally, a waist!). But suddenly I have an ass too?  

RHO Name That City

My husband says that watching any of the Real Housewives of New York, Beverly Hills, Atlanta, New Jersey etc is like watching wrestling. It's like middle-aged woman wrestling. 

I disagree. There's something so mind numbing and yet reassuring about watching these shows. I love when one of the housewives tries to launch a singing career.  Here's a classic video of "Countess" LuAnn de Lesseps singing Money Can't Buy You Class. I had a cousin back in Texas named LuAnn. We called her Ludy. This LuAnn should've reconsidered the bustier that sort of - or alot - makes her look like a drag queen in this video.

NB: I wrote this blog several weeks ago and since then Gwyneth has come out to rag on herself about her worst Oscar outfits including that one that was like sweatshirt material.  You know I totally think that a gal who would wear sweats to the Oscars might go for a little Real Housewives and Frito Pie. 

NB2: I just checked back with goop and the site is currently featuring oyuna for goop - cashmere throws starting at just $900. Really?

March for Change -- Post 12/14

After the great blizzard Nemo (seriously the most ridiculous name), my mood was foul. I have grown to hate snow. Snow is the enemy. Snow causes back injuries from shoveling and broken hips from falling.

On Sunday morning, two days later, we woke up here in the Northeast to a day almost like a day out West. The sun was so bright it reflected off the icicles that were hanging everywhere. While we still had many more hours of shoveling to do, my mood lifted.

If I can see the sun, I'm okay.

After being socked in for the weekend, I completely forgot about Valentine's Day and a commitment I'd made in January to participate in something called the March for Change. To honor the two month anniversary of the Sandy Hook shooting in Newtown, a group of women initially (and men) decided to take action.

The events of 12/14/12 saddened us all. It didn't matter on that day how you felt about politics or guns or the 2nd Amendment. You were still someone's mother or father, someone's child, someone's sibling. I remember I took a half day off from work to do something -- I don't know what. I was listening to the radio on my way home and had to pull the car over I was so distraught. Then my mom called and my roommate from college who lives in Littleton, CO (home to Columbine). We all cried on that day. We cried during Christmas. We lit candles, sent teddy bears and generally did what any compassionate human being would do in the face of such terrible tragedy. There were so many acts of kindness from around the world, it seemed like it would just go on.

And then winter set it. The holidays were over. It's human nature to forget. I remember my friend Deb posted something on Facebook about a march and it stuck with me. Why not? It's been a long time since I got off my duff and did something about an issue, any issue.

As the day grew closer and closer, I started to think maybe this is silly. What does it matter if I go? Look at all these other women who have been lobbying State leaders and rallying buses and taking charge. So I'm going to show up in my lame green track suit jacket and that matters?

More than 5,500 women, men and children showed up today in Hartford. That's twice the crowd that was predicted. It was another beautiful sunny day. The snow was still on the ground but I had to take my coat off to stay cool. There were speeches from politicians on both sides of the issue. There were celebs (Christine Baranski, you rock). There were activists and organizers. But it was the families, of course, that got to me.

Henrietta Beckman from Mothers United Against Violence. She lost her son.  Colin Goddard who survived the shooting at Virginia Tech. Survivors from Aurora. A father who lost his 14 year-old, the same age as my son. He was stifling back tears.

Jillian Soto spoke about her older sister Victoria, a very brave teacher who died that day in her classroom trying to shield her students. She said, "Vicki was already my hero. She didn't have to die to be my hero."

And Veronique Pozner spoke about her six year-old son Noah who was murdered that day in Newtown. She reminded us of all the things he will never experience from middle school to dating, and marriage and kids. She said on this beautiful day, "Noah will never feel the sun on his face again."

She spoke of Noah not as a martyr but as a typical child full of energy and difficult questions and curiosity. From far away, I couldn't see it but she held up one of his last art projects for Thanksgiving. You know the one where kids trace their hand to make a turkey. And then Noah was asked to label each of the 5 feathers on the turkey with something he was grateful for that day. He wrote:

1. Electricity (possibly a reference to recent power outages after Hurricane Sandy)

2. Books

3. Friends

4. Family

And on the last feather, he wrote

5. The Life I Live

Less than one month later, Noah was killed.

Reading Between the Lines: Conversation with My 14 Year Old

My conversation with my son yesterday morning went something like this:

Him: Can I go to Kareem's birthday party tomorrow?

Me: Sure. What time?

Him: 12 am.

Me: 12 am? At night? Or do you mean pm in the afternoon?

Him: I think the one in the day time.

Me: Okay. But we need to get him a gift.

Him: (Pause)

Him: Okay because we're going to shoot guns.

Me: What?

Him: For the party, they're taking us to shoot guns.

Me: What?

Him: (looking exasperated) What?

Me: No. No way you're going to shoot guns with Kareem. I don't even know his parents.

Me: (I'm lying. I did meet his mom once and briefly spoke with his dad when he came to pick up Kareem. Mom is Lithuanian I think and his father is Egyptian)

Him: Fine.

Me: You can ask your dad but my answer is no.

Him: (walks off)

Me (now upstairs talking to my husband): Did you hear that conversation?

Other Him: No. What?

Me: He wanted to go to a birthday party for Kareem where they are going to shoot guns.

Other Him: Who's Kareem?

Me: You know Kareem. He came over here one time with Knife Boy. (Knife Boy. That's another interesting story. Gave my son a knife as a birthday gift.)

Other Him: I don't remember Kareem.

Me: Yes you do. You thought he was a girl. (Kareem is an extremely handsome kid with long, dark hair)

Other Him: Oh him. You know I think I actually called him a girl. I can't remember.

Me: Perfect.

Sometimes I think I'm going crazy. Literally. I later explained to Will that I can appreciate that he wants to go, but there's no way I'm letting my only child go shoot a gun with somebody I barely know. And yet here I am up at 5:49 am still thinking about it.

The First Day in a New School

On August 30th of 2012 my son started high school. He is a freshman. This reminded me of a funny story that I've often told, but never written.  It was my first day at a new middle school in Westport, CT. Here goes.

When I was in the 7th grade, we moved mid-year from San Marino, California to Westport, Connecticut. I suppose in some ways the two towns are similar, but geographically they couldn't be further apart. One is in sunny Southern Cal, the other in frosty New England. The fact that we moved to Connecticut during what is now known as "the Blizzard of 78" only exacerbated the situation.

My mom is an adventurous sort so she decided to take the train cross-country. The trip took her about 3 days as I recall. Then it took another day or two to get from the City to Connecticut because of the blizzard conditions. Normally my mom would get us ready for our fist day of school. In this instance, my dad had to stand in.

We did not have appropriate clothing for the East Coast. I had some cool Vans and OP shorts, but those shorts weren't going to help me now. My dad decided to take us to the Army/Navy store in downtown Westport to buy us clothes for the first day of school.  Interesting choice. I would say Guy Choice. He also cut my brother's hair. My poor brother.  At least he was still in elementary school.

I remember wearing my new camouflage painter pants and a dark brown jacket to my first day of 7th grade. I could have gone hunting later and passed stealthily through the woods without detection. 

Thank god we were moving from California with our camo clothes. There was a certain mystique about California girls that I vaguely recall being associated with episodes of James at 16. When I walked past the office in my new school, a fellow student winked at me. Marlon Acuna you know who you are.Thankfully the Connecticut kids were able to look past my camo suit. Or maybe they just couldn't see me?

Some of the kids did pick up on my fading Texas accent. Born in Arlington, TX. That's right. I grew up surrounded by cowboys like my Uncle David.

"What's a pin," they teased. A pen is a writing implement. A pin is something with a sharp point. Thank you for that insight. I really appreciate it. I learned to say ten not tin, and you guys not y'all. And a new one the kids in Connecticut were using - coming with? Meaning will you be joining us? Even Texans know you don't end a sentence with a preposition, y'all.

As I was wandering around the Internet looking for the perfect image for this blog, I stumbled upon Camoformal.com. That's right people. You can get hitched wearing a camouflage wedding dress. This is the most awesomest website in the WORLD. Makes me want to get married again so I can wear these...

PS. I think this foot model has mosquito bites from sleeping in the woods all night.

Eine Kleine Bikini

Before I get too far let me say this, I was right all along. When we left for Miami I brought my little bathing suits because even though I frankly would never be caught dead in a tiny bikini back home, I wear them freely when I travel. I just pretend I'm German. Luckily there are plenty of Germans in Miami as well as some rather hefty Latin Americans.

Everybody is fat now. I think there used to be a time when Americans were the the main fatties in the Universe, plus the Germans and pretty much anyone born in the former USSR. Now we are all fat, which is at once sort of reassuring, yet frightening. Even the gay guys in Miami are fat. I'm sure not all of them are. But the two gay guys I saw running down the beach this morning will never work in drag.

Which brings me back to my point. Before I left for Miami, I was discussing with the girls at work all the thongs I would be seeing. And I explained to them my bathing suit theory - that I'll wear whatever little bathing suit when I travel because I just pretend I'm German. Germans are constantly throwing on tiny bathing suits over their ample bodies and parading themselves around the beach. More often than not, they are also topless and their boobs meld into their stomachs. Their boobs and stomachs are as one.

I just need to remember a few key vocabulary words from 6th grade German class at Huntingdon Elementary School in San Marino, California.

-- Ja, das is wunderbar!
-- Ich heisse Becky.
-- Was machten Sie?

Etcetera, etcetera. Armed with my vocab and my bikini I am free to expose my nether regions to some much needed sun. It's a win for me, perhaps a lose for those around me. I don't know and I don't care.

What I remember when I travel is the person I can be, the person I am deep down inside. The person who thinks, "Hey I don't look too bad in this bikini."

PS I hate to break it to you girls but with a nice tan and a mojito, we all look good in a bikini. Go on, get one and a spray tan. I'll teach you some German.

PSS The secret to staying thin in Europe is smoking. Works well in the short-term but the long-term side effects are a killer.

PPSS I added this picture of the 86 year-old Duchess of Alba for Will the smartass.
This is for all the girls at work. Love beck

Inherently Unfair

My friend Julie and I were skimming the party photos in Greenwich Magazine today and had a revelation. We're not rich Greenwich housewives because we couldn't imagine marrying any of the men. These two (above) really aren't that bad. You should see the ones with toupées. I think Julie and I would make awesome rich Greenwich housewives. We could tell some seriously funny stories about going to the Big Y grocery in Monroe.

Unfortunately, the only guy we thought was attractive in Greenwich Magazine was a waiter. And let me tell you those photos go on and on and on. I mean there must've been 100+ photos. 
Now the women, that's another story. In fact, it's just unfair what you have to do as a woman to get a rich Greenwich husband.
I would commit hari-kari in my gigantic, Viking range, Sub-Zero kitted out kitchen if I had to wear one of those party dresses. I'd need judiciously placed fly paper to keep my hair from escaping a tight bun. Lipstck, mascara etc? Total disaster.

Greenwich, I'm out.

PS Our convo about the waiter went something like this. Finally. There's a cute one. Hold on. Why is he carrying a tray? Are those bacon-wrapped scallops? He appears to have some kind of biz logo on his shirt. Oh I get it. He's a waiter. Perfect.