Product Review: Ped Egg

Before you judge me on the title of this post, let me tell you: I once was like you.  I saw a commercial for Ped Eggs when I was but a young lass, and I was disgusted, mostly because they show like five pounds of dead foot skin falling gleefully into the trash post-exfoliation.  I thought to myself: "Whose feet are that nasty that they would need that torture device to repair them?"

ME, THAT'S WHO.  I judged too soon.  My feet are disgusting.  Don't ever look at them.  Most of my relationships end when my boyfriend touches my feet for the first time.  You could grate the hardest of cheeses on the soles of my feet.  Yeah, yeah, I know I should go get a pedicure, but there are two hindrances.  Number one problem is that I'm very ticklish and once kicked the manicurist in the face when she attempted to wash my feet.  Number two is that I would not wish that world of nasty on anyone.  

I broke down the other day and got a Ped Egg from Bed, Bath, and Beyond.  I was embarrassed buying it, and I asked for a gift receipt to give the appearance that it was not me -- me with silky smooth ladyish feet -- that would be using it.

But my life has changed.  It's true what they say: it's so gentle it won't bust a balloon.  And I have to admit, there's something oddly liberating about dumping your excess skin into the trash.  I have been so happy with my purchase that I am considering becoming the new face -- or should I say foot -- of Ped Egg.  If you don't have one, go get one.  Best spent Hamilton of my life.  Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go exfoliate.

It comes in pink for all you biddies out there.

Cats vs. Dogs

When you meet someone for the first time, you probably ask what their name is, or what they do, or perhaps even their celebrity crush.  All this small talk gives the illusion that you are getting to know someone, but these things matter not.  There is only one question you need to ask to really cut to the core of someone, get a grasp on their soul and determine if a beautiful friendship is about to bloom.

"Are you a cat person or a dog person?"

If you say "dog," you're dead to me.  I believe humans are reflections of their pets of choice.  Think about the things that dogs do for entertainment: sniff other dogs butts, and spend repetitive hours running after a slobbery ball.  They love anyone who will touch their smelly fur, and they are also dumb.  I once saw a dog eat it's own crap.  When I go over to a friend's house, I expect to be greeted with a glass of wine, not a dog shoving its nose in my crotch for ten awkward minutes while I try to giggle nonchalantly and kick it away when the host's back is turned.

I'll admit I once told a boy I liked dogs better to appear fun-loving and cute.  But I'm older and wiser now and I know that no boy is ever worth lying about my affection for cats.  Cats, man!  They bury their own poop and they bathe themselves.  They don't need to be trained because they know everything.  Their favorite games are interactive and more hilarious than fetch.  Have you ever given a cat catnip?  Shown them a laser pointer?  Cats are descendants of saber tooth tigers, the originators of badasses.  Where do dogs come from?  Stupidland.  Dog-lovers, you can say cats are bitches all you want, and I'll be happy because at least that's one accurate thing that comes out of your mouth.  Cats are bitches, and that's why I love them.

Oh, what's that you're saying?  Dogs are men's best friends?  They love you unconditionally?  Well I don't look to my pets for unconditional love, and my best friend is a human, because I enjoy intellectually stimulating conversation and hygiene.

Cats, meow and forever.

Pinterest's Effect on Society: An Essay

Pinterest: the growing corner of the Internet that entraps female minds for hours on end with pictures of elegant wedding gowns and beaded DIY shorts and Neapolitan Rice Krispie treats.  It's no doubt that Pinterest has had positive impacts on Michael's craft supply sales and boyfriends' appetites worldwide, while simultaneously amassing traffic for wedding websites and middle-aged mom-bloggers (or moggers, as I affectionally call them).  But there are other effects, some adverse, others not.

Foremost, Pinterest creates false illusions in womans everywhere.  What are these false illusions?  Well for one, you can't paint your nails to look like they have sprinkles.  You just can't.

Not possible.

Do you have Thumbelina come paint your nails or something?

For another, Pinterest makes fiancés believe that their own weddings will be any thing like the ones featured in bridal magazines.   Let's be real, the backdrop of your wedding is not going to be a sunlit field framed by the Rocky Mountains.  It's going to be a 1970s Lutheran church with blue carpet because your mother won't let you have an outdoor wedding, and you can just forget about paper lanterns at the reception.  Fire freaking hazard.

More severely than that, Pinterest has taken hundreds of original and at times even funny ideas and made them commonplace.  A birth announcement such as the following was a great idea...until it was stolen by five thousand other expecting moms attempting to cover up their impending doom in a last show of comic relief.

Pinterest also makes me want to cook.  It makes me think I'm capable of whipping up a lemony pan-seared salmon with a crust made out of deliciousness and dill sauce in thirty minutes.  NEWS FLASH: I didn't know you could boil chicken until yesterday.   I have planned out meals to cook for my husband and three children.  Do you understand what I'm saying??  Pinterest makes even me want to have babies, and for that it should be condemned.

And all these workout boards!  Give me a break.  Why are you going to feed me pictures of blueberry cheesecake slices right next to some hoe with a six-pack ("feed me"...see what I did there)?  What kind of sick joke is that?  Pinterest is like Girl Scouts.  It's a place for crafts and recipes and dresses, not hardcoreness, and when girls try to make it be about hardcoreness it just becomes stupid and the opposite of hardcore.  I don't care what your ten-minute ab workout is, I care about how you made your own chalkboard paint and whether or not it's perfect for the kids.  It's. That. Simple.

No it's not.

Pinterest, I appreciate what you're doing.  You've taught me how to make old T-shirts into dresses that look like a six-year-old made it, and for that I'm grateful.  But stop feeding me lies about easy cinnamon roll recipes and ways to transform my butt by doing five jumping jacks a day.

Also, don't automatically make me follow people from high school.  It's weird.

Fifty Shades of Dumb and Stupid

If you haven't heard of this summer's literary phenomenon, Fifty Shades of Grey, then you are lucky.  Do not let this blog post pique your interest, because this book does not deserve it.  Also do not get me started on this terrible reflection of American culture and how some broad got depressingly rich off seventh-grade-level writing.  Oh whoops, too late I'm already started.  


First of all, a quick Google search tells me the writer goes by the pen name E.L. James, which in itself is just outrageous.  Unless your initials are J.K. and your last name is Rowling or if they spell something funny no one is allowed to go by them.  It's not mysterious so cut it out.  


But this is not my main qualm.  I wasted seven whole minutes of my life reading 11 pages of this nonsense before I figured out a) the entire plot and b) that I could just as easily read the same quality of writing on some teen girl fan fiction website, which I never have, never do, or never will.  Then I burned the book and have been pondering ever since how she wrote TWO MORE BOOKS after that and people still read them.  What's more, this lady is REAPING the benefits of less-than-mediocre writing just because hormonal biddies all over the country are getting hot and bothered over some inexplicably rich creep who preys on an awkward college girl who apparently never got invited to play Seven Minutes in Heaven in middle school.  Take note people, according to the July Cosmo issue reading erotic words is to women as watching porn is to men, so I guess that's the way to go if you're looking to make it big in the book-writing world.  


No, I haven't read the whole thing, nay, even a quarter of it, but that doesn't stop me for judging those who do.  If I see you reading this book I will slap it up out of your hands and into your face because that's what you deserve for supporting this literary and cultural decline.  Not only does it reinforce the idea that women are submissive, IT SUCKS and I could write a better book if I threw a box of word magnets at my refrigerator and wrote them down.  So for your own sake, either put it away, get a Kindle so I can't tell what you're reading, or for Christ's sake get a boyfriend.

For the record, "New York Times Bestseller" does not make a book worth reading.

Why Being a Baby is Awesome

People who try and tell you your twenties is the best time of your life are big fat liars.  Nor is it the carefree days of kindergarten, nor your thirties when you're starting a family (yeah right, no one says that).  It's not even post-retirement when you get to go to Alaska for 3 weeks or get the Early Bird Special at Golden Corral.  No no, the best time in your life is without a doubt ... babyhood.

THINK ABOUT IT.  Babies do not have to walk anywhere.  They are pushed around in a personalized stroller that, in this day and age, most likely comes with built-in toys.  If they're not riding along in their chariot, they're being held and carried around and cooed at.  The best part?  Even though they're not doing one single bit of physical activity, it doesn't even matter if they get fat because people will just think they're more cute.  It's fine when a 6-month-old has fat rolls on her forearms, but it's gross when I do??  What gives?!  Excuse the hell out of me for not having lost my baby fat yet.

And then we have the whole "eating" aspect.  They don't have to feed themselves, and yes, while their food probably tastes like mashed snails they don't even care because they're infants!  When they get food on their face people think it's adorable and their mom cleans it up.  When I get food on my face no one says anything all day until my boyfriend tries to discreetly remove left-over chocolate from my chin while lying to me that I'm beautiful (he means "disgusting").  THEN, when the food comes out the other end they don't even have to clean up after themselves.  They can poop anytime, anywhere, and it is totally normal ... not to mention convenient for them.


One last point in favor of babies.  If they don't want to wear clothes, they sure as hell don't have to, but you know what happened the last time I tried to run giddy and naked through the sprinkler?  Someone tackled me and put me in jail.  Just kidding, that never happened, but if it did I'm sure that would be the outcome.

I guess my point is that even though we all want to, acting like a baby is just not acceptable anymore, but that won't stop me from trying.