Nair Fuss: Halloween Eggs, Aloe and Lanolin

Dear Internet,

Right now I'm just sitting in an uncomfortable rattan chair at my desk waiting for Mike to finish reading Karl Marx or some insane weirdo translation of an ancient Balinese text so that we can go get some pizza. I am also enjoying an ice cold can of Tecate, and the reason my Tecate is so cold is because I left it outside on the porch when Solomon and I decided it was high time he play in some snow. As self-proclaimed lover of Pabst Blue Ribbon, I'm pretty ticked off because all the stupid UofC undergraduates bought up every single 30 pack of PBR. I know this because I asked them if there were more cases somewhere in the back and they said NO. I'm one of the liquor store's best customers (that's not saying much since there are so many "good customers"), so I imagine they weren't lying to me. In any event, Solomon and Kitty just finished dinner and tonight's menu consisted of Friskies Ocean Whitefish & Tuna. Sally and Lola-Turned-Kitty have been eating this for a week now because cans of this particular flavor were on sale at CVS for 39 cents a piece. What a deal!

Anyway, today was mostly uneventful, aside from the fact that I learned that my company hasn't been taking Illinois state taxes out of my paycheck, and of course my Nair experience. The whole taxes issue isn't something I'm willing to deal with at this point, especially considering the Tecate because I'm likely to call Human Resources and ask when they gained an extra chromosome. What's more important is the Nair. I've been using Nair, which is a noxious depilatory hair removal cream, for several years now. According to Nair, it's for all seasons:

"Beneath all those extra layers of clothing is your bare skin dying to be set free. And yes, there are times, even in winter, when you're going to be wearing less. Whether it's hot-tubbing après-ski, a Pilates class or a romantic evening by the fire, always be ready. Besides, you deserve to look and feel as gorgeously smooth in January as you do in June."

The fact that Nair can be used all year long has never really been something I was worried about. I've never been sitting around in August wondering, should I be using this right now? It is hot and humid, perhaps I won't get the best results. Instead I was probably thinking, I hope this garbage works, after all, it is only Nair. So anyway, at 2:00 PM Central Time, after I had read Gorgeous Joe's first blog post, Harold's latest, had about a half dozen cigarettes, drank 3 cups of coffee and read Dan Savage's Sex Q&A in the Chicago Reader I decided it was high time to take a shower. And, of course, Nair.

First off, it's interesting that Nair is both a noun and a verb. It's sort of like Google in that way, but not really any others. It's also interesting that Nair is basically sulfuric acid, but you can buy it in a plastic container at your local drug store. Other than that, it's just your average beauty product. Your average beauty product that smells like eggs prepared for Devil's Night or Halloween gently masked by Aloe & Lanolin, Cocoa Butter, or Baby Oil. Your choice of barely distinguishable fake fragrance. More so, it's one of the most feared products on the market -- which explains the insane ritual I have concocted when using it.

Since the entire goal of using Nair is to remove hair, you need to be really careful you don't remove hair you don't want to remove. For instance,the hair from your head or eyebrows. Here is my recipe for proper Nair use, and therefore hair removal:

1. Obtain several yards of paper towels from the kitchen.

2. Separate said paper towels into two paper towel section pieces -- required, about 16.

3. Turn faucet on hot and keep running full blast. (I hope you don't have Alcatraz-style faucets.)

4. Secure head hair in pony tail holder, bobby pins, headband, and whatever other barrettes and/or claw clips you have.

5. Encase hand in paper towel and open cabinet containing Nair product. Remove Nair from cabinet.

6. Place recently used Nair paper towel into trash can, place new paper towel on basin, and squirt globs of Nair into your hand.

7. Rub palms together and, carefully, begin the application of Nair to desired body parts.

8. Following ten minutes of waiting, reading The New Yorker, and generally bumbling around hoping that you didn't get Nair anywhere else, begin removal. (Please note that the bottle says three minutes, but that only works for individuals of Swedish descent, AKA Vikings.)

9. Following thorough removal of Nair cream, wash hands as if you are going into surgery. (I learned how to thoroughly remove germs, bacteria, and Nair by watching Dr. Mark Green on ER, so for proper hand washing practices please see YouTube or Dr. BBChug.)

10. Begin shower, hair still secured with various accouterments. Once in shower, wash hands seven times or until completely satisfied that all Nair has been washed from your hands.

11. After 20 to 40 minutes you should be all set.

(Please note that there are several other components to this but in order to get pizza I will have to follow up in comments.)

If you're really wondering why I even bother with such nonsense, I'm afraid I can't answer that. Nair, by some stroke of God or something, actually does work, although I'm deathly afraid of it. It smells terrible, more so because of its added scent. I never understood why Nair's R&D team never realized it just wasn't worth it to make it smell good. I mean, it's for hair removal. Who really cares what it smells like? This is like eating and breathing.

Anyway, at this point in my day I'm hairless and we've ordered pizza over the Internet.

WWPOTATF,
Shelly

B-I-N-G-O and Metrics Was His Name-o!

Dear Internet,

On a conference call earlier in the week I had a horrifying flashback to my first corporate job. For the record, conference calls are the biggest waste of time and traditionally they're set up by people who don't have work to do and want to fill up their days with pointless blather on matters that don't concern anyone on the call but are, nonetheless, required to attend.

But anyway, getting back to my original point, I was on a conference call and someone said the phrase "client facing". I was immediately catapulted through space and time, leaving my home office only to find myself sitting in a conference room on the West Side of Manhattan, wearing ill-fitting tweed pants and a somewhat rumpled collared shirt, looking blankly at a wall thinking, what the hell does marketize mean? I sat there confused and figured I might as well travel back to the proper dimesion and get my game board out.

I reawoke to the same individual saying "leverage the invested stakeholders" and I was lost, and not just because I was busy IMing someone and checking my bank balance. I had no idea what that meant and I examined the recesses of my mind. This didn't really take too long, but by the time I was done, I wasn't sure how long I had had the phone on mute, if someone had asked me a question, or even what day it was.

"Leverage the invested stakeholders," to me means "I'm just saying words because I don't actually know what I'm talking about", which is just about what it translates to anyway. Everyone does it: I'm a culprit myself. When I'm unprepared I like to put together whole strings of words that have no meaning in the outside world because then people will think (perhaps) that I did a bunch of research and that my, ahem, game face is on.

So let me enlighten you to something that a former colleague of mine so gleefully and hysterically invited me to participate in: Buzzword Bingo.



Essentially a play on traditional Bingo, Buzzword Bingo is played in the office (or from home if the case may be) during meetings, conference calls, and webcasts, but rather than numbers and letters the game uses marketing and other business terms (AKA Buzzwords) as scoring mechanisms. As far as buzzwords go, marketing people are the worst. I should know, I am one. But really, there is no end in the level of fun you can have by yourself or with equally sardonic co-workers.

So this is how it works, and you're either in or you're out. By this I mean you are either going to be with the cool kids with game boards printed from the laser jet (PC LOAD LETTER!?) or you're going to be one of the jerks saying all the dumb non-words. Either way, bone up on the business lexicon or get out. Google "Buzzword Bingo" and find a few different game cards. Either for you or your co-workers. Then get on the call. As words are spoken, find them on your sheet and get to winnin'.


For the record, there are no prizes in Buzzword Bingo, unless your company has some type of pot or gambling system that mine wasn't forward-thinking enough to create, just the pure excitement of having known you are a better person for not having said the words. Unless of course you slip up and say them -- and who can blame you anyway? People, this is corporate: say strategize or pay the price.

To get you started, here are links to some of my favorite boards:

- IT Buzzwords
- Starbuck Marketing Buzzwords
- Original Edition

Yahtzee!
Shelly

Busta/Knight Rider

Dear Internet,

I'm convinced Beethoven would dig this if he were still around! Jump to 1:00 minute mark:



To all my dogs that stay blunted! Roll around in they five hunded

Do it in the Facebook. Do it in the Twitterer. But not with Barack on LinkedIn.

Dear Internet,

It's pretty much a fact that everyone and their mother is all gaga over all of these social networking thingers. That's not really news. I don't partake beyond this, even though I briefly tried Twitter and have a LinkedIn page, I don't do the whole Facebook and MySpace thing. Really, I'm so out of touch I don't even know if people use MySpace anymore, but I don't really care either. The one component I do like about any of these things is the voyeurism. But that's a different story.

In any event, I've been listening to everyone talk about how awesome LinkedIn is, so I figured I'd try to boost my connections by linking with people who have a buttload of connections. (In Canada they say shitwhack, but I prefer buttload.) The main reason for this was because as I was looking people up I received messages like "Out of Your Network", which under normal circumstances would be fine, but this is the fucking Internet. In any event, I thought I had a foolproof plan: link in with the President of the United States, Barack Obama. I figured he knows a ton of people so he can help me meet my goals of 500+ business contacts too. Well, I was wrong. Dead wrong.



So I got really excited and prepared to submit my request to connect to Barack. I was really nervous about it -- I didn't want him to think I was some ass that was using him to build contacts on LinkedIn, which of course I was. So I carefully crafted a message:

Dear Mr. President,

As a supporter and fellow Democrat, I hope you will accept my request to connect on LinkedIn. Keep pushing those crazies in Congress!

Best,
Shelly

Then I battled how to try to connect with him. We never worked together for one. I do live on his street in Chicago, but that wasn't one of the radio button options available. I was too lazy to look up his White House email and we didn't go to college together. So what is a girl to do? Only request him on LinkedIn as a friend. So I did.

And I waited. And waited. And I'm still waiting. I don't really know why he or any of his jerk off staff members running social media down in Washington haven't responded. Am I not American enough? Are my credentials so crappy? Are they inundated with LinkedIn requests? Why is Facebook taking priority over the good of middle class business people? How can he not want to connect with me?

I am having a serious problem with this. I'm just trying to do what any good, hard working American would do, and relentlessly try to get as much out of the government as possible; if that means being friends on LinkedIn with Barack then I am going to do that. Well, my request is still open and unfulfilled. Thanks a lot. And furthermore, NO WE CAN'T.

To be totally honest, I really think it's Rahm Emanuel's fault. That son of a bitch. He's probably got the password and keeps the account on lock down because he doesn't want some awesome lady like me swooping in and becoming Chief of Staff. First off, enough of the M&Ms. I would have bowls of hot awesome popcorn around the White House, PBR on tap, and a hot dog (please, Chicago Style) guy roaming the halls outside of the Oval Office. This is obviously the fear, so Barack, I am making an appeal to you to take back your LinkedIn account and become my colleague.

WWPOTATF,
Shelly

It's crap. It's food. Maybe it's Tussin.

Dear Internet,

If there is anything I really can't do (and don't let this fool you, there are plenty) the biggest issue I have in life, aside from all the BS other stuff, is that I can't really follow traditional cooking concepts, ideas, themes, or recipes. I'm not saying that it's some Julie and Julia crap. It's not even that entertaining. My hallmark faux pas is burning garlic and/or adding too much flour to things.

Last night I made creamed spinach. Previously I had made a beautiful rue, and the resulting dinner (sirloin steak medium rare, creamed spinach ala Shelly ala Food Network, and mashies) was awesome. Last night, however, it tasted like I spilled a buttload of Robotussin, or perhaps Safetussin, into the rue itself. I'm not going to use fancy words like gamey or even light and poorly executed. This shit was shit.


And again tonight while I decided to play Holly Homemaker -- I cleaned the bathroom, hallway, living room, and kitchen -- I thought: what the hell, lemme make that Giada De Laurentiis recipe again, but without the peas and carrots.

Now we all know that Giada and I go way back, together like peas and carrots, but who would have thought that mascarpone and cream cheese was fucking abominable together without the peas and g-darn carrots. Not to mention the garlic I thought I would add because I'm Italian American. (Truth be told I'm only a quarter, so I should have realized this would be a major fuck up a while ago.)


Harold, my favorite gato omnivore, wouldn't even eat this garbage. Now all I'm left with is some Tecate. And some chips and sour cream. Thanks, Giada, you awful liar. That's my tomato blood on your hands.

Breaking plates, pots, and pans,
Shelly

Detroit I Can Hear You Calling My Name, Or At Least I Can See You In An Ad Campaign

Dear Internet,

So this is old news, but I’m going with it anyway. CNN Money came up with this idea to have some of Detroit’s ad agencies (mind you, some of these are the biggest MadMen agencies worldwide) to design campaigns to entice people to come and invest in Motor City’s future. Called Selling Detroit, this contest convinced the creative minds of McCann Erickson, GlobalHue, Doner, Campbell-Ewald, and Leo Burnett to get to their storyboarding (separately of course) and come up with a way to, well, sell Detroit to potential investors.

Now the idea is all well and good, aside from the fact that this isn’t really any kind of real incentive. I appreciate the creative drive nonetheless; or at least the realization that marketing and advertising are important on some level, even if it is just for awareness. But whatever. The point is that the five agencies came up with things that no one, let alone investors, will really relate to.

Let’s talk about Detroit for a minute. Detroit is a Midwestern US city that has been plagued by financial misfortune, job loss, cold weather and darkness. But it also has a rich history and birthed some of the greatest rock and roll – hence, Kiss’ Detroit Rock City – and some exciting nicknames (Thank you, Wikipedia):

• Arsenal of Democracy
• The D
• D-Town
• Hockeytown
• Rock City
• The 3-1-3

The home of Motown, Ford, GM, and MC5, Detroit is the only true American city. You can argue for New York, Chicago, LA, Hotlanta, and Baltimore all you want, but I’m not buying. Detroit was built on the concept of American Capitalism and then fell apart as a result of it. Per Jack White,

“Three motors moved us forward,
Leaving smaller engines to wither,
the aluminum, and torpedo,
Monuments to unclaimed dreaming.
Foundry’s piston tempest captured,
Forward pushing workers raptured,
Frescoed families strife fractured,
Encased by factory’s glass ceiling.”

And therefore, these agencies need to appeal to something more universally American: freedom.

The best of the five ads – some of which make almost no sense to your average American – is one with Kid Rock (#5, Leo Burnett). And F Kid Rock. He’s crap, and if you like him, so are you. The concept is high and appeals to what Detroit could do – creativity, talent, fame – and offers some hope to someone reading the ad:

“If you’re looking for a place to make the most of your artistic talent, start your career in Detroit. Art can’t help itself from happening here.”

But Kid Rock? Are you f-ing kidding me? Maybe if you went wild and conjured the spirit of Detroit – Smokey Robinson, Diana Ross, Stevie Wonder, Iggy Pop, Eminem, The White Stripes (I could continue on into eternity) – and how some of these people changed the face of music, not to mention American culture, then maybe we can talk. My personal opinion is that anyone who likes Kid Rock is not the type of person willing to go to the frontier, start a business, give people jobs, and help to build Detroit’s new economy.

In the coming days, I'm going to make a real campaign. Without that douchebag Kid Rock. But here's one for a sample:




Keeping it real,
Shelly

Pajamas You Live In. Jeans You Sleep In... By Yourself.

Dear Internet,

I see you've been listening to my prayers. Now, finally, you have come up with the perfect combination of two very American things: sweat pants and jeans. And guess how they have been so creatively branded? Brilliantly so: Pajama Jeans.

With Valentine's Day just around the corner, I really can think of no better gift than a pair of sweat pants that look like jeans. Really, this solves all of my problems. For example, if we go out for all-you-can-eat sushi again, I don't need to worry about rushing home to put on a pair of sweat pants -- I can wear these tucked into my riding boots. I'll be stylish, sporty and comfortable all at the same time.

Again, if I ride my bike, when it finally gets warm again, I can pop a pair of these on, and perhaps one of the heather gray t-shirts Pajama Jeans is offering, and hop on my Chicago Schwinn. I can just imagine racing up the bike path, gazing at Lake Michigan, and turning heads because I look fantastic in my jeans, er... PAJAMA JEANS. Another benefit: my ass won't hurt nearly as much because I'm wearing sweat pants disguised as jeans instead of my skinny jeans on a road bike!

Enough of this denim exhaustion here. Pajama Jeans it is. And get on your bikes and ride!

Keeping it real sans denim,
Shelly