Sex in The City, A Real Review from a Fashion Hungry Girl

A few weeks ago I saw Sex in the City2 with a group of girlfriends.  We LOVED it.  Heeee-larious!  And the clothing—frickin’ wow-A!  Loved it. Now, that said, I have read so many reviews that pan this movie as “politically incorrect,” “offensive,” “raunchy,” “blah, blah, blah.”  Many of these reviewers are men and are the same people who heralded movies and television like The Hangover, The Wedding Crashers, The Office and Arrested Development.  Talk about Politically Incorrect, Offensive and HILARIOUS!  Is this a double standard for female comedy?  Men can get away with scatological, sexist, stupid humor yet women have to play it safe?  Another reviewer said it was strange to take the foursome to the Middle East to unfold the story.  Can you say “willing suspension of disbelief”?  Well, all I can say is it was much more believable than many other movies that require you to forget all about reality, e.g. Avatar, Ocean’s 11, Thelma and Louise.  Sex and the City 2 reminded me of a feel good movie that entertains, along the lines of Jack Lemmon, Tony Cutis and Marilyn Monroe in Some Like it Hot, or Shirley McClain and Bob Hope in The Apartment.  These movies are meant to make you laugh out loud.   

I loved my girls on the big screen; I loved their fashion, their raunchy talk and their touching conversations (sometimes motherhood just sucks).  I say “back off boys” and suspend disbelief because this movie rocks, especially for those girls jonesin’ for a fashion pick-me-up!

Phone Love

I recently broke up with Blackberry.  We were together for five long, mostly beautiful years.  It’s not that he wasn’t good to me; in fact he was generous, reliable and trustworthy.  You know—Canadian.  In the end, however, I came to the conclusion that BB, (that was my nickname for him), was too serious and kind of boring.  I thought I could do better.  I guess I just didn’t appreciate what I had.  And truth be told the last year we were together I wasn’t entirely faithful.   Don’t get me wrong, I kept my clothes on, but my eyes and heart were wandering.  I watched as other women cavorted around town, hand and hand with i-phone the new wunderkid from Silicon Valley.  Sexy, youthful women laughing, taking pictures and texting.  My old, staid, BB stood by proudly as I stared longingly at the happy healthy people holding hands.  I can’t imagine he didn’t see the breakup coming.

So now, I’m dating again.  O.K. well dating is probably a little misleading.   I am in a “new relationship” with i-phone—we live together.   I fell hard and just like that (snapping fingers) I kicked BB out of my life and I let i-phone move in with all his apps.  I didn’t even look at his references or demand a demo.   I was told by a reliable source that our relationship would be a snap, a plug and play kinda deal, I should have known better. 

As you can imagine our relationship started out a little rocky, after all we hardly knew each other.   I am on a PC and he never lets me forget it.  I suppose I should have looked into that little fact before I decided to let him move in. 

But he’s sexy.  You know in that “I’m a savant from Stanford” sort of way.  That snarky “I’m smarter and more attractive, so you better keep up,” kind of way?   It can get a little intimidating.  But, like most creative types he’s sensitive to the touch, a nartist really, (that’s part artist, part narcissist).  It’s all about him—every time I go to make a call or send an e-mail he presents me with all kinds of complicated options, “hey try this,”  “what about this?”  All I want to do is make a simple call or send a text but when I touch his shiny screen he quivers and suddenly we’re somewhere else.  He doesn’t know it but I’ve had to call the experts on more than one occasion. 

Between you and me, all the funky new moves he wants me to learn make me a little nervous. I’m not entirely sure I’m up to the challenge.  You know teaching and old dog new tricks. He keeps telling me I need to work on my touch and my voice control.  Just yesterday he said that he’d like to employ the mega pixel camera into our love life.  Next he’s going to be trying to convince me that we need the compass in our bedroom.   BB wasn’t demanding at all, he just liked me to hold on tight and keep him warm.  i-phone?  He’s a live wire.  But I guess I asked for it. 

 My friends tell me not to worry.  They assure me that one day it will hit me smack dab in the face and I will be in love.  I too am hopeful that our relationship will blossom into something very deep and meaningful; otherwise I may be crawling back on my knees and begging BB to take me back.

Is That Someone’s Liver I Smell?

I got a promotional e-mail today from Desert Sun. They are celebrating Cinco de Mayo and their four year anniversary with an amazing offer, a free tan with a ten tan punch card. I don’t know if premature death is worth it. It’s dangerous business,

Four years ago Desert Sun, opened across the street from my office. I watched the opening festivities from afar; balloons, and streamers festooned the entrance, the neon logo shone like a beacon in the gray mist of February. Scantily clad Pamela Anderson look-alike’s managed the door wearing little more than bikinis and cover ups to show off their bronzed bodies. If a person wasn’t familiar with the new retail on the block they might have mistaken the excitement for an adult only movie premiere. Or a casting call for a new reality porn show. Oversized sandwich boards and six foot banners gave potential customers incentives to Sun Your Buns. Ten Tans Free with the Purchase of a Lifetime Membership. What would that person look like when their life was over I wondered? Free Bronzing Lotion with Ten Tan Package. Special lotion? Can’t a person just pack their own Nivea?

This tanning phenomena has been troubling me since the place opened. It’s May and everyone in my neighborhood is Tan. Or rather all the people in my neighborhood under the age of fifty are tan and have been every day since the rain set in last November. It wouldn’t be something to notice if I lived say, in Palm Dessert or Miami Beach, but I don’t. I live in Seattle, where the old saying goes “in Seattle people don’t tan…they rust.” And for the record, in 2009 so far, we have had approx. 5 sunny days with temperatures over fifty degrees, the rest has been rainy and cold, but who’s counting? Nasty weather combined with the recession, swine flu and the increasingly popular “staycation” I doubt anyone is traveling to get a tan.

The tannies are ubiquitous; they’re in the grocery store, at the local Starbucks and at the school auction. It’s all I can do to keep myself from pulling our favorite babysitter aside and giving her a lecture…something akin to…”listen missy, lay off that tanning bed you’re starting to look like an Umpa Lumpa. I want to grab that cute little check-out girl in the market by the cheeks and tell her “sure you look cute now but how about in ten years when your sun kissed face looks like a wrinkled Louis Vuitton handbag.” And then there’s the twentyish barista who can’t stop himself from calling me, “Hon.” He’s so tan I can smell it.

When I mention the smell to my friend Diana she tells me a story that sounds more urban myth than fact. Something about a very tan woman, let’s call her Laurena, waking up one day to the smell of tangy, burnt flesh. On close inspection Laurena discovers that the odor is emanating from her very tan body. Naturally, she goes to see her Doctor. He sniffs Laurena’s body, pokes and prods her abdomen and finally breaks the news to her that all that tanning has actually melted her innards—which explains the stench. I ask Diana, “Did she die?” She responds, “Not really sure, she was a friend of a friend’s cat sitter. I don’t really know her personally. But it’s true.”

Hmmm. Since hearing that story I notice that my local Starbucks barista smells suspiciously like cooked liver.

P.S. Lying in a tanning bed damages your skin and can lead to skin cancer. Now you know. Check out the skin cancer physicians website for more information on the dangers of tanning.

The Oversaturation of the Obamas

The Obamas are everywhere, which is making me nervous.  I mean I loved or love the guy, not sure where I stand now.  Mark Twain said it best: Familiarity breeds contempt. Don’t get me wrong, he’s likable and a whole lot easier on the eyes and ears than that guy we used to have….what was his name?  On second thought, don’t remind me. 

During his first 100 days the Obamas have been plastered on the cover of Oprah, Men’s Health, Men’s Vogue, US Weekly, People Magazine, Vanity Fair, Time, Newsweek, Ebony and The Economist just to name a few, and it makes me uneasy.  I think there should be a presidential rule, no covers of magazines that tout hair growth products or weight loss pills, no magazines that dedicate more than a page of news to a famous breakup, cosmetic surgery innovation or dramatic weight loss before and after story. Birds of a feather flock together.  In the marketing world we call it “managing your brand.”   In my world I call it raising the bar.

Type Barack Obama into You Tube search and you get 194,000 videos.   Turn on CNN, and it’s all Obama all the time.  And it’s not just the news, he’s spending time on Jay Leno while Michelle’s on Oprah, I am beginning to wonder if they have body doubles.  The Obamas and their people are so busy courting the press and sitting for the camera that it makes me wonder when and how do they get the real work done?  It also makes me wonder does the guy sleep or eat.   When does Mr. O have alone time where he can sit quietly, sip on a glass of something or other and ponder the big questions?  After all, isn’t that what we’re paying him for?

When I see the Obama family playing to the crowds through the very media vehicles that helped to get us twisted in this consumer obsessed cycle in the first place, I want to cringe.  It all seems so contrived, so staged.  Wasn’t Obama supposed to be the “real thing?”  By the way, Michelle, there is no way we are buying the fact that you garden in black boots, a short skirt and tights.  Give us a little credit.   

Who are the Obama’s pandering to with their perpetual cheer, constant smiles and tireless attempts at creating the vision of “the all American Family?”    Aren’t these the people who are supposed to help us make a tactical and cultural shift, one that leaves us less enamored with media messages and mass consumerism and more focused on what matters?  Aren’t we supposed to be drawing together to become more mindful caring human beings who want to save the earth from corporate and environmental disaster?   I seriously doubt that anyone voted for the guy in order to disect the

minutia of his life—our worries are much bigger than that.

For the record I don’t care about the dog, the schools, the Easter Egg Hunt or the March Madness bracket.  In fact I think those are red herrings.  Let’s focus on the country and not the side show that is the first family.  It’s been 100 days now of media saturation, and that’s enough.  I am fearful that we’re about to reach the crescendo, the proverbial tipping point where all this love for the man turns into something else, like resentment, suspicion or lack of confidence.   There is something to be said for a little distance, a little mystery.  I once heard a quote, something like “There are times when silence has the loudest voice.”

So, message to the Obama family:  Get off the cover of the glossies, get back to work and get some sleep would you?