Why in a Mall?

In January I blogged about the incredibly stealthy I.M.M. (Israeli Mall Militia) whose members used guerilla warfare to assault unsuspecting shoppers in my local mall, convincing them to purchase over-priced hand care products.

Since then the I.M.M. have closed camp and moved on. They have been replaced with the kinder, gentler, and oxymoronish C.M.M. (Chinese Mall Masseuse-men). 

At the risk of being called a massage snob, I simply can't imagine enjoying a massage in the middle of the mall between Hollister's and Auntie Ann's pretzels. Who can relax while hearing sounds like, "Mom, why can't I get a that shirt?... Pleeeeeeeeeeease?" 

OK, so maybe I'm not the target market. Perhaps they are attempting to attract male drag-alongs who don't have the stamina of their female counterparts.

But do they have to be so close to Auntie Ann's? Let's just say that seeing some guy getting his hairy bare foot massaged within steps of the Auntie Ann Pretzel line can make one change her mind about that sesame pretzel.

Of course, it could be worse.

The Eyebrow Threaders kiosk is about 30 feet down the mall from the CMM. What are Eyebrow Threaders, you may ask? Well, remember cat's cradle, the game you played with strings when you were a kid? It's just like that, only you place your eyebrow in the middle of the string in order to remove unwanted hairs. 

Eyebrow threading originated in India and involves twisting a piece of cotton thread into a double strand. This double stranded thread is used to pick up a line of hair and then remove it, creating a very clean, precise hairline. 

Ouch. 

The hair removal technique is not just for the eyebrows: threading can be used to remove other facial and body hair as well. Double ouch.

Thankfully, only facial hair can be removed in the mall kiosk.

While doing research for this blog, I found "how to" directions for Eyebrow Threading. I've decided to try it out as part of a future blog. 

I just need a volunteer.

Wax Mouth Disguises

When I told my friend Becca that I was thinking about blogging about wax mouth disguises she looked at me like I'd grown another head.

"Come on!" I said in disbelief. "You never heard of wax lips? How about wax mustaches? Tell me you've never heard of wax buck teeth?"

She just shook her head pathetically, silently counting her blessings that she didn't know me as a child. She had never experienced this entertaining yet extremely functional "candy".

I did some wax lip research (because I'm a Nerdling, and that's what I do). I discovered that wax lips, like me, originated in Buffalo, NY! And here's what they say about Wack-o-wax lips on their web site:

Cherry-flavored Wack-O-Wax Lips encourage “play with your food” fun whenever the mood strikes. Whether at parties, holiday gatherings, or just goofing around with friends, they’re the all-time favorite “Play Now, Chew Later” wax treat.

The mood struck so I got my hands on a hodge-podge of wax delicacies, including Wack-O-Wax lips. I decided to conduct my own ethnographic research with this "Play Now, Chew Later" wax treat. Would my wax lips be an effective disguise? Would my neighbors recognize me at the pool? I put on my costume.

My husband convinced me not to leave the house. He told me I looked like Angelina Jolie's deceased great grandmother.

I disagreed. In fact I feared I was not sufficiently incognito with just the lips. I dug deeper in my box of baby boomer candy and came up with an enhancement to my disguise. Add the wax mustache.

Maybe it's me, but I think the wax mustache looks fake.

Down at the bottom of the barrel of baby boomer candy was the absolute perfect addition to my wax teeth disguise. I drilled a hole in my lips with a corkscrew and inserted a candy cigarette. Nobody would ever recognize me at the pool like this:

Except for one teeny tiny problem. I live in South Carolina. It's July. My lips will probably melt by the time I get there.

So I decided to advance from the "play now" to the "chew later" phase of the game.

It had been decades since I last chewed wax lips. And the only thing I remember about chewing wax lips is having a very sore jaw upon completion.

I took a bite. My Wack-O-Wax lips tasted like nasty cherry wax. Actually, let me amend that statement. They tasted like nasty Benedryl flavored cherry wax. I know they are edible, since the package has a nutritional label (15 calories). But try as I might, I could not bring myself to swallow the red waxy glop.

I guess I'll just pack up my wax lips disguise until it gets a bit cooler around here.... perhaps around the end of October (Halloween). Except for one other teeny tiny problem. 

Test Driving the Wine Rack

As I prepared to take my dog Kevin for a walk this morning in the sweltering heat it occurred to me that my recent "Wine Rack" purchase might make the walk more enjoyable. For those of you not familiar with this item, the Wine Rack is a drink dispensing sports bra that is advertised to increase your bust line by 2 cup sizes. 

My Wine Rack arrived in the mail earlier this week in an innocuous brown envelope containing a sports bra and a plastic canteen with a long tube (straw) attached. At the end of the tube is a twist-top to be used to open and close the straw. It came with no directions (or warning labels).

I had been waiting for just the right time to test drive it. Since it was 10:00 in the morning, I decided to pilot my Wine Rack using Diet Coke, rather than wine. 

So, I filled the plastic boob shaped canteen with Diet Coke. "This is fabulous!", I thought. "How easy can you get?"

Next I put the sports bra on and attempted to situate the Diet Coke-filled falsies in place. 

Then came my first ah-ha. It would probably be more natural looking (and feeling), if I hadn't filled them to the tip-top.

My second ah-ha followed. Chilled beverages really cooled down my rack. 

I looked a little unnatural, but I wasn't planning to leave the house in just my Wine Rack. I pulled a t-shirt over my head and strung the drinking tube through my sleeve. I looked in the mirror and nodded my approval. I was definitely looking hot.

Then I untwisted the twist-top to take a sip of my Diet Coke. 

It was like a fire hydrant going off in my mouth. I raced to the bathroom sink as fast as I could, further shaking up the bottles, as Diet Coke squirted out of my nose, my ears and my eyeballs. It was like taking a shower in Diet Coke. 

Third ah-ha: the Wine Rack is not appropriate for drinking carbonated beverages. Especially when filled to the tip-top and shaken up. (I can only imagine what would have happened if I had been practicing my pogo-stick/jump rope trick at the time). 

In the end, I was completely covered in Diet Coke. Apparently Kevin was embarrassed by the scene I caused and refused to go on a walk with me. 

To hell with him.  I sat on the porch and finished my drink.  It was too hot to walk the dog anyhow.

Do I really look that bad?

My vanity has been exposed. Let me explain.

I recently started filming for a movie that is being shot in the Columbia area. The film is about a priest getting married in a future where Catholic priests are allowed to wed. I play the role of Imogene, an uptight, staunch, conservative Catholic who is opposed to this new liberty and basically makes life miserable for a priest and his new wife. I am in about 8 scenes that are spread throughout the script.

I read my scenes, but never actually read the whole script...until yesterday.

I was a initially a little concerned about my costuming. Black is not a good color for me and I wear the same ugly black dress in every single scene. My hair is always pulled into a tight bun. When not in an animated rage, I have a permanent scowl on my face. And, of course, Imogene would never wear makeup.

Yesterday I got to set a bit early (wearing my ugly black dress and my scowl.) I saw a script laying around and decided to read it from start to finish.

And the story and scenes all started coming together:

• "So, that's why I was standing on Washington street ranting about the Pope!"
• "Oh! I see! I was to have been ranting to a news camera!"  (How'd I miss that?)

I kept reading. What's this? The next scene had two drunks in a bar looking up at the TV news. 

Drunk # 1 says, "That woman's uglier than a kick in the prunes"

I slowly raised my head and said, "Hey! - that's me he's talking about! I'm not uglier than a kick in the prunes, am I?" I had been wearing my black dress, no makeup and my hair pulled back in a bun. And, of course, I was scowling. But uglier than a kick in the prunes?

One of my cast mates told me not to worry, because the guy was drunk. He told me I'm way better looking than a kick in the prunes.

But when I told my husband, he reminded me that to drunks, every woman looks way more attractive than they really are. "So," I said, "does that mean I'm WAY uglier than a kick in the prunes?"

Then I remembered the first costume I ever wore on a stage, playing the Stepmother in Cinderella. Actually, the costumes weren't too bad.  It was the road-kill wig that about pushed me over the edge.

My ego survived that show in tact. I guess I'll survive this as well.  

Drop It!

I wish I had a dollar for every time I've told Kevin to drop it. "It" can be anything from a piece of dental floss to a bathing suit. In fact, in the past hour I've told him to drop a baby doll coat, a used Kleenex, a pencil, a price tag, 3 socks, a wash cloth, a worm (from outside), a pack of post-it-notes, a pencil and a wii-charger.

And the only thing he dropped during that hour was the worm. Why'd he drop the worm? Was it because it tasted bad? Because it fought back? Slipped out of his mouth?

Nah. It's because he was on a leash and couldn't run from me.

Kevin will NEVER drop on command if he's in the house. He'll look you in the eye, give you his best Hannibal Lecter look, and run under a bed snickering. Since I haven't been able to fit under a bed in years, he has found this to be a particularly effective (and entertaining) game.

In all honesty, if what's in his mouth is not likely to harm him (e.g. Kleenex, washcloth, sock) I do not engage in the hunt. I used to be able to apply the 'strike from above' maneuver, which involved telling him to drop it on one side of the bed and stealthily crawling over the bed and catching him, unsuspecting, from behind.

Kevin's gotten wise to that.

If Kevin's got something like a razor or a can of lighting fluid in his mouth I have to bring out the big guns: a broom, tear gas and several assistants to capture him on the other side of the bed. (This is not a one-person job.)

You may be wondering how a 9-pound puppy is able to get at all these things. Well, Kevin not your ordinary puppy. He's crafty, cunning and duplicitous.

And he's fast. Imagine the Road Runner employed as a ball boy in a tennis match.

For example: Kevin stands guard from his lair beneath the bed. He observes a pair of bare feet walking into the room and hears the sock drawer opening. He stays frozen and watches as the victim sits on the floor to put her socks on. She places one sock on the floor while she begins to puts the other sock on. He knows the exact point at which the victim's hands are pulling sock #1 over her heal. CHARGE!

Success. Sock under bed (with the rest of his bootie).

I was thinking that we should send Kevin back to PetSmart for grad school. Or perhaps he would be better suited for the military or the CIA - or politics. Anything to keep him from what appears to be his destiny: a life of crime.

What a Gal!

I have been listening to David Sedaris' Live at Carnegy Hall CD in my car this week. The CD included a story he wrote about Stadium Pal, "the discrete portable restroom system for men". It's basically an external catheter worn like a condom. As David Sedaris described his trial usage of the Stadium Pal, I found myself laughing so hard in the car that I could have used one. (But since I don't have a penis, that would not be possible.)

When I returned home I decided to see if this story was fiction, or if there really was such a product. I googled ''Stadium Pal'', hit "I feel lucky" and found myself at www.biorelief.com.

Not only is Stadium Pal a real product, but there is a female version of it: Stadium Gal.

I feel it is my duty, as the Nerdling to sample products for my readers. The convenience of the product is a definite plus for me, given my pea sized bladder. On the other hand, having a Stadium Gal would significantly reduce my step count, and getting 11,000 steps a day is important to me. But after reading more about the product details, I regret to say I will not be test driving the Stadium Gal.

Let's start at the top. The Urinary Pouch looks a bit clunky to me. It apparently stays in place with adhesives that are provided. Considering that tearing a band aid off my arm brings tears to my eyes, I cannot imagine removing the Stadium Gal Urinary Pouch after a long football game.

 It's one thing for a man to have a bulge in his pants, but I don't want any rumors circulating about me. The Stadium Gal is advertised to be 'totally discrete, completely hidden beneath loose fitting jeans or pants', but come on! Parachute pants went out of style in the 80s.

Aside from the collection area of the system, the Stadium Gal works just like the Stadium Pal. It has the same Convenience Drain that connects to the leg bag system (worn on the inner calf). I suspect that they had some problems with valve crimping in the Stadium Pal system, but no worries here! The Gal has a softer material that eliminates valve crimps (and possible septic system back-ups).

Nope. I will not be trying out the Stadium Gal.

But I won't let you down, readers. While doing research for the Stadium Gal I came upon a product that I am willing to test drive: the Wine Rack. It's similar to the Stadium Gal, but at the other end of the assembly line, so to speak. It's basically a sports bra with a hidden polyurathane bladder that holds up to 25oz. of your favorite beverage that you drink through an attached drinking tube. According to the promotional materials, "The Wine Rack will turn an A cup in to double Ds and sport your favorite beverage for yourself and your friends"

I'll let you know when it gets here.

Hanky Panky

I was originally going to write this week's blog about hankies. You may think this is a bad topic for my blog, but it snot. (Sorry, couldn't resist!)

My Dad carried one his whole life (well, not the same one), as did just about all men of his generation. He lived in a pre-germaphobe society with no hang-ups over blowing your nose into a cloth and reusing it throughout the day. Users had no second thoughts about putting snot filled hankies into washing machines.

Men's hankies were typically large white squares of cotton fabric that were folded up and stuffed in their pockets. Women's 'handkerchiefs' often had embroidered edges and flowers. Some were monogrammed.

I ask you. Who would want to blow their nose into one of these? "Ick".

When I was a kid, I honed my ironing skills on my Dad's hankies. In fact, most of his hankies had brown triangular stains on them as a result. And I could make my Dad's hankies dance. Know how? By putting a little boogie in them.

Pa-dum-dum.

As I was researching this topic I discovered that the history of Kleenex is a much more interesting topic than hankies.

In the 1920's, one of Kimberly-Clark's products was Kotex (without adhesive strips, as we all know). Because the topic of feminine pads was taboo, they were not able to successfully market the product and had an excess inventory of 'creped wadding'. They looked for another use for this fluffy material and in 1924 they developed a socially acceptable sister product they called Kleenex, which was positioned as a disposable cloth to be used for removing make up with cold cream.

Leave it to consumers to develop their own use for the product. By 1926 Kimberly-Clark began receiving letters from customers telling them that they used Kleenex as disposable handkerchiefs. The light bulb went off and the rest is history. Kleenex is now the number one facial tissue in the world and hankies are all but obsolete.

Thank goodness. On a related note, do you know the difference between boogers and broccoli?

Kids don't each broccoli.

Pa-dum-dum.