Consumption

Voluspa's Malayan Coco Roll-On Perfume Oil

I really, really love using oils rather than alcohol-based perfumes.  This affair began in 2003, when I bought a random bottle of perfume oil from a hippie at the Portland Market, and discovered that what I'd really purchased was a couple ounces of spanish fly.  I was like the reverse Pepé Le Pew - people would actually follow me down the street to ask what I was wearing.  Strangers on the subway sniffed my neck.  And it led to me drunkenly and disgustedly dismissing a date at the Hub when he couldn't stop telling me how good I smelled.

"I know," Whiskey Janie replied instead of a polite "Thank you."

I mean, I DID know.  I could smell me.

"You don't understand," he said, eyes wild, practically drooling. "You smell REALLY, REALLY good." 

"Yeah, I know."

"No, I mean, so, soooooo good. It's amazing. I've never smelled anything like you." 

Cue bored eye roll and stool swivel - when tipsy, I was completely unsympathetic to the power this oil stuff wielded over others.

In the sober light of day, however, imagine my disappointment to find that before I could place an order for a lifetime supply, the hippie stand was out of business.  I horded that oil for another year, using sparingly, but I couldn't sit on it.  The world needed to smell it, and then I was out.  It still makes me sad to think of all the stuff left unconquered by the strategic application of that glorious oil.  What might have been.

Anyway,having grown attached to how close the scent clings with oil, I now keep my eyes peeled for them. Last Saturday before Miami lost to FSU, I felt sure of my impending doom and decided to conquer the pain by numbing my entire being with a xanax and 90-minute deep tissue massage at a nearby spa.  To my delight, they carry a line of candles and smelly things called Voluspa, and Voluspa makes some very pretty little oil-based roll-ons just PERFECTLY sized for a clutch.  They packaging caught my eye, and from a practical standpoint the bottle's screw-top is made well enough not to pop off and coat the contents of your purse in an aromatic slime you will never get rid off (this is key).  And then I smelled the Malayan Coco scent, and fell in love for real. 

Coconut's tough.  There's a verrrry fine line between smelling like cheap sunscreen and smelling like the promise of summer and everything good and tropical and lovely and moon-kissed. This Malayan Coco was musky enough to pull off the former thanks to notes of sandalwood and lemony hinoki wood, and I was sold.  It's not my beloved hippie oil, but it's a very nice runner-up.

$24ish | Voluspa

Panasonic Viera PZ85U

So we actually got married last weekend (hold for applause).

After you have declared your intention to wed your life ceases to be a series of random interactions and occurrences and the curtain opens on one of the most bizarre and lengthy pieces of theatre you will ever star in.  It's a little like The Truman Show, suddenly people you've never met seem to know you, and there are scripts everyone you meet follows.  Once you have accepted the starring role there are two main choruses, Those Who Have Had A Wedding of Their Own and Those Who Have Not.  The Those Who Haves mainly communicate by projecting their own experience on yours and aren't really speaking to you so much as reminiscing.  It's the Have Nots that are really disturbing, with their bank of appropriately timed throwaway questions.

One of my favorites kicked in about a month before the "big day."  So many people asked me if I was getting nervous I began to get nervous that there was something huge I had forgotten to be nervous about.  I haven't been to many weddings, are there usually firepits and endurance tests?  Did I slipup and invite Malcom McDowell's Caligula to the ceremony?  Am I fresh off boat from Ukraine to meet new American husband?

In the week plus since we've been married it's been, "So, do you feel any different?" and "How's Married Life?"  I have several quippy comebacks for this one such as "It's a lot like shackin' up only with more matching dishes," (for the latter) and "Well, my left hand is a bit heavier now that you mention it," (for the former).

But my favorite comeback is the one in response to "Where did you go for your honeymoon?"  I reply "HH Gregg to buy a giant plasma TV."   The way I see it, you go to the beach and get drunk and sexy for a week and that's it, but with a giant Teevee the honeymoon doesn't have to end anytime soon. 

As with every new relationship there are ups and downs.  We unwrapped the first one we brought home to discover the screen was entirely busted.  After fretting for a night about having signed the receipt that we had inspected it and found it to be in good condition, we returned it to HH Gregg with ease, so thumbs up to them.  Once we got it home, the Husband (no it is not the first time I have said that and it does not freak me out stop asking) hopped on the ol' forums and discovered the "break-in period" of 100-200 hours, which we are still in, so we've got the color settings a little wonky and the contrast all low, but overall it still kicks the ass of anything I've ever had in my home before, especially when we crank up the PS3. 

My only regret is that we discovered ABC has a separate HD channel only moments AFTER the season premiere of Pushing Daisies was over, but marriage is all about sharing sorrows AND joys right?

Crate & Barrel MOST FEARSOME DISH TOWELS EVER

Woe betide ye dealing with Crate & Barrel's returns department.  I despaired of repacking my accidentally-Eurotrash limonade glasses in the unnecessarily complicated mechanism they arrived in, so THE DAY AFTER that post, I ran them to my nearest C&B store to rid myself of their tackiness.  I can't even begin to relate what I went through with their cashier despite having several receipts and having purchased these monstrosities less than a week earlier.  In short: 

"Sure, you can return these, no problem!"
[stares at register for forty seconds, unmoving]
"No, I'm sorry, you'll need to mail these."

"But it says right here on my receipt--"

"You'll need to mail these, ma'am."

[Repeat above exchange X4]

[Our Heroine leaves line in a huff, walks to next register, and switches on her thousand-wattest smile]

"Hiiiii, these are for a wedding gift and I'm so afraid they'll break in the mail!  Could you wrap them for me?"

So I leave the store, with a freshly wrapped box, MAIL THESE EFFING GLASSES BACK MY DAMN SELF, and only just today received my exchange prize....which was so worth the wait.  Which, as, you can see, is Saying Something.

I don't even like seafood, but aren't these TERRIFYING?  I almost tagged this post "wearable awesome", such is my love.

PB Classic Margarita Glasses

I'm getting married in less than two weeks.  I always knew people were supposed to give you stuff for the occasion, but I wasn't prepared for the sheer onslaught of free junk that accompanies this sort of thing.  People neither of you has ever met crawl out of the woodwork bearing gifts months before the event.   Once thing I'm glad I listened to my mother about was creating a registry or two.  If perfect strangers are going to insist on showering you with gifts, the least you can do is give them some hints. 
Now I'm your typical twenty-first century twenty-something in that I believe if it can't be done on the internet it's not worth doing, but mom insisted (quite correctly) that most people are afraid of the 'nets.  So against our better judgement we created a few lists down at the local malloporium.  While wandering around Pottery Barn a strange thing occurred to me: I majored in two things in college, glassblowing and margarita making and yet I own NO margarita glasses.  WHAT?  Not overly impressed by the very standard shape of the Pottery Barn designs, I set about an exhaustive search elseware, determined to find the perfect style; a wide rim for plenty of salt, a long, elegant stem,and a distinctive shape that says, "well yes, technically I AM a margarita glass but I am fresh off holiday in Scandinavia." 

In the end time and reality dictated I give in to convention.  My darling friends Jesse, Nathaniel, and Christina pitched in and showered all twelve and you know what?  They're pretty perfect actually.  Well balanced, salt-loving rim, just the right size to keep it cold.  And while four ultra-expensive elegant glasses are nice, there's something to be said for having a room full of people with matching glassware and not really worrying if one gets broken. 

So here's to the PB Classic Margarita Glass.  After the wedding is over I will devote my life to making good use of them. 

 

PB Classic Margarita Glass

$22 for a set of 6

NFL Mobile

  Don't laugh. What could be more consumpty than live fantasy football stats sent to your phone via text message?

The West Coast is useful for many things, like eternal sunshine and animatronic dinosaurs, but very, very bad for football fans.  I like to sleep in a little on the weekends, and fall asleep to a late game in the Pacific timezone.  Nothing doing.  Indianapolis is doomed to 1:00 kickoffs on CBS, meaning not only do I only see the national games (thank you, Colts, for playing well enough to rate more than a handful of night games a year), even when they're on TV it conflicts with the farmers' market, brunch, walks of shame, you name it.

Enter NFL Mobile.  It's only available to Sprint customers, but it's absolutely the best feature they offer--and it's free if you already have a data plan (who doesn't?).  There are customizable alerts by conference, by team, and by player, which can be further narrowed down into quarters, scores, and injuries.  I can't see my boys in blue every Sunday, but I can hop on the subway and bop down to Hollywood & Vine without worrying about missing any action--big play replays are also available, although you need a smartphone to get anything out of it.  My favorite feature, the fantasy tracker, also keeps me from needing to shell out for premium stat tracking on Yahoo--you can plug in your entire roster in their surprisingly non-pesky interface, and get alerts for only those players.  A little simple math and I know exactly where I am in the standings without spending a sunny California Sunday in front of the laptop peering at a pirated Slingbox stream from Taipei.

NFL Mobile | Sprint | Free with data plan

Skechers' TEC-9 Mary Janes

That's not the real name of these shoes.  They're called "Bikers", which is ridiculous, as they're completely unsuitable for any sort of two-wheeled activity, but they're f'ing gangbusters for absolutely everything else. 

I bought my first pair in 2006 when I wanted some stage combat shoes that I could flit around in with some support without feeling like my twinkle toes were encased in concrete blocks.  They've been everywhere with me since.  There's sand nestled in that first pair from every beach on the West Coast, Seattle to San Diego.   

I'm firmly convinced that all girls of sufficient badassery should own multiple pairs of these.  At casual glance, they're demure as can be, right up until they kick your ass...sound like anyone you know?  I have to be on about my third pair of these suckers in three years, and that's just counting the black ones.  They don't fall apart, it's just that I wear them all the time. 

My chosen model is a little different from the ones pictured at left--they've got the same sneaker base, but a mesh, fishnet-looking top and two zigzag straps across the middle of each foot.  They're go-anywhere, do-anything kicks. Slip them on with your swingy cocktail dress when you're planning a bender and worried about walking as far as the train station.  Strap in after sliding into your favorite jeans and hit the ballpark.  And yes, they're good for rapier-dagger work, too.

SKECHERS.com | Bikers-Capper | $55

Crate & Barrel BAD IDEA GLASSES

Crate & Barrel sells something called "Dizzy Cocktail glasses".  Somehow, these are not them:

I bought these because they were $4 each, I had broken all six of my last rocks glasses in an unfortunate fire escape incident, and I thought they'd be good for a laugh.  As you can see, the bottoms are rounded, and when placed on a flat surface, they roll around.  This is a TERRIBLE, TERRIBLE IDEA.  Perhaps this is why they've been discontinued from C&B's website.  I'm hanging onto them, though, out of a kind of horrified fascination.

Opposite of success story #2:  I also picked up a few of these, thinking from the eensy picture that they kind of had a Mason jar aesthetic to them.  I missed the part where they cleverly have citrus-related words inscribed on them in Italian, so it's really more of a Euro-jackhole vibe.  These were promptly returned. 

Mrs. Meyer's Clean Day

I'm a pretty big fan of the environment but these days I'm generally wary of any product that claims to be green. I think people so desperately want to feel good about themselves without actually doing any work that we've come to the point where there is bottled water that claims to be greener than other brands. It's WATER in a DISPOSABLE BOTTLE, ain't nothing green about it folks. So while Mrs. Meyer's Clean Day products are purported to be green, I don't know the science, and I don't care to. To me the fact that they may or may not be better for the environment snoozes in the back seat of a Hummer driven by Works Great that is zooming down the Smells Amazing highway. I discovered this stuff while housesitting for a particularly neat freaky friend. I must have scrubbed his sink every day during the two weeks I was there just because I wanted to use the surface scrub that much. It's like Comet without the Listerine and vomit references. I love love love the Lemon Verbena, but the other scents are awesome too. I'm currently doing laundry with the Lavender and it induces the happy just as effectively.

Mrs. Meyer's Clean Day

LUSH Bath Bombs

We're back to the LUSH well already, but I can't go any longer without talking about their most glorious offering, the Bath Bomb. 

While studying abroad a few years ago, I took a nasty fall and sliced my leg open deep enough to need oodles of stitches--and couldn't get the bandages wet for six weeks.  SIX.  WEEKS.  After some horrifying experiments with plastic wrap and trying to shower with one foot in the awesome claw tub in our flat, I resorted to baths. 

Everything LUSH sells is fantastic, but these little darlings are simply genius.  (Pictured at left:  The Big Blue.)  They're packed full of herbs, dried flowers, extracts, and occasionally glitter (watch out for that--sometimes it's buried in the middle and it's ground very fine and you won't notice your lovely sheen until your bedmate lifts a shimmering gold limb in disgust and stalks from the room to go rinse off). 

Instructions:  Drop one (1) bomb in a full tub of water and observe as it fizzes and shoots around and makes bubbles and smells divine and try very hard not to clap like a seven-year-old.

[Warning:  No matter how much fun it looks like, do not climb into the tub until the fizzing is finished.  Any glee you may feel at the sensation of the bubbles whisking around your toes will be overshadowed by the fear that the ball of bicarbonate will go zooming straight into your nethers.]

They'll run you $5-8ish depending on how big they are and what's in them.  You can get them via the website, but you're better off finding one of their stores and sniffing through the bins yourself.  And blowing your entire paycheck on bath toys for grown-ass women.

I, Too, Sing ARE YOU READY FOR SOME FOOTBAW

I've gone extremely girly for the last two weeks, and that's fine. I am in fact a female, and therefore enjoy all the privileges of dousing myself in liquid honeysuckle and behaving like Belle Watling on a bender. However, the siren song of Footbaw is beginning to echo in my ears, and it must be obeyed.

Although Brett Favre is giving his all for ruining the preseason today, there is a ray of hope. A ray with piercing cornflower eyes, tumbling locks of purest gold, and a demented, godless smile on his Viking face. A ray named Jeremy Shockey.

Shockey (28; I had no idea! He's timeless) is a four-time Pro Bowler and is the sole reason the New York Giants made it to the playoffs. His off-field activities include drinking, whoring, Americaning (it's a word! He went to the U, BABY!), and poking Tom Coughlin with a stick until he cries. He used to shoot his older friends with a BB gun to make them pay attention to him (FACT!). Under normal circumstances, the utilization of a gay slur would make my eyes swell with furious tears; when Shockey calls Bill Parcells a homo, the tears are of unmitigated adoration. Does this make me a bad person? Yes. Do I care? No. I AM WOMAN.

The point of all this is to say that Jeremy Shockey--volatile, mentally unbalanced, gleefully anarchic Jeremy Shockey--has been traded to the New Orleans Saints. He is now playing football in the most corrupt city in the world, where he can rampage through the French Quarter with hand grenades and hurricanes in his clenched fists, demanding that every woman he sees immediately disrobes before him, snorting uncontrollably while he shovels fried dough into his gaping maw. If you can think of a better scenario for the National Football League or humanity, please let me know immediately.

Buy this jersey, belt it, and wear it with some gold lame underwear. Then take a casual stroll through the Quarter at three in the morning. If you feel you must, spritz yourself lightly with HGH and tiger musk. The pieces should fall into place from there.

FREEDOM ISN'T FREE WHERE'S MY DRINK