Aim High, Ladies

There is this sitcom that airs after my daily Frasier repeats (my new obsession - I never got involved during its 35 year run so imagine my glee when I realized I'm in love and have 300,000 episodes to watch in outdated bliss!) called Still Standing. This show is the WOR-st. It has that now-accepted setup of Fat Husband and Hot Wife, which I find ridiculous and offensive and also sort of personally frightening. He's always bumbling around, yelling at the game and doublefisting beers while she gives him stale sass, and covers up his domestic blunders. Not exactly the shoot-for-the-stars message I'm looking for whilst eating a Butterfinger and job hunting in my underwear.

Who watches, much less enjoys, this nonsense? There was actually an episode on today (I caught the beginning - just the beginning!) about the Fat Husband not wanting the Cool Teenager to go to therapy because that was "admitting your problems to a stranger." I think this was supposed to be touching in a blue collar sort of way, but again - following Frasier? Who is in charge of programming at this station?

In a related note, but noted with a much kinder keyboard, there's a current contestant on American Idol who is...husky and teetering on cartoonish, but has (to his surprise as much as ours) snagged a hot blond wife. For some reason, this warms my black heart instead of making me crumble my Butterfinger in rage. Go figure.

But I Still Don't Like Hugs at the End of the Half Hour

Either it's my recent move to the headquarters of Wake Up San Francisco or my recent you're-definitely-an-adult-now birthday or a combination of the two, but lately I find myself slowly morphing into Danny Tanner.

You know sometimes when you're by yourself watching Arrested Development or Spinal Tap or even HGTV for that matter, and you catch a glimpse of yourself in the window and realize you have a huge, creepy smile on your face? That happened to me today when I went down to the mailbox and received my first issue of Living. I'm frightened by the domestic bliss I felt.

Yesterday I manically DustBusted every inch of my apartment, foam at the corners of my mouth. It was like that spooky song in Sweeney Todd (I know, I know obscure musical references border on torture, but humor me) where Sweeney goes on and on about the razor being an extension of his arm. That was the DustBuster and me. We were one.

When I get back to my car (that's Jack-Jack to you) after leaving it for awhile, I notice new specks of dirt on it. I actually reenact Danny's little schtick from the show's intro when he's wiping down his car and smiling like an idiot.

The only thing left is snagging my own talk show. And John Stamos moving in. I'm working on it.

Ten Things I Learned in Tahoe

1.) It's not against the law to wake up at 8 a.m. while on vacation.

2.) "Snowboarding" actually means snowboarding, not sipping fluff-filled hot chocolate by a crackling fire, holding hands, and gazing into each other's eyes.

3.) Confirming popular belief, instructors use the word "totally" as a substitution for all affirmative exclamations. Example? Me: "I can't do this!" Him: "Totally. I mean - you totally can."

4.) There are no rules on the slopes; there are "responsibilities". I'm not sure what these exactly are, although I think one of them entails screaming out tips ("Hey! Keep your back straight!") while you pass talented, but perhaps very slow, learners.

5.) In the words of our instructor, my boyfriend is "the best student I've ever had" and "the most natural student I've ever had" as well as "the most incredible student I've ever had."

6.) Really old people go skiing. According to the ones sitting next to me at lunch, they're also really into racing each other, but "let the slow ones win."

7.) If you scream "OW! My knees are BROKEN!" while mountain rescue people speed past you, they won't stop. I'm not sure what they're specifically looking for.

8.) Those bib-style pants I used to wear when I was 12 are pretty fetching, but tend to ride up in places that aren't polite to discuss in mixed company.

9.) My new hero is a 5 year old girl who yelled at her meddling father: "YOU! Get out of my way so I can see what I'm doing. NOW."

10.) Guns don't kill people. Strategically placed trash cans kill people.

The Best of the Rest

Enough, American Idol, enough. As with Ms. Spears, I spend valuable free time defending you to the educated and cynical masses, but I'm seriously considering changing my vote - so to speak.

For the fourth week in a row you are presenting me with the most vile programming this side of VH1's Best of the 90's series. FYI, Simon Fuller: hours upon hours of auditioning fools does not a good television show make. I was jazzed to think this week we'd finally advance to Hollywood and the beginning of the actual competition, but alas, no. Last night we were treated to more special friends singing their faces off in San Antonio (a hotbed of hidden vocal talent, I'm sure) and tonight there's an auditions finale called "The Best of the Rest". As if an entire month of this shizz were not adequate (Adequite? Adiquite? Damn you, Lohan!) and we're just thirsting for an ineptly edited montage of "Black Horse and the Cherry Tree".

I've never blindly erased AI from my DVR without a second glance, but I did so last night. And I will continue to do so until I see a strong turnaround from my good friends behind the table. But meanwhile...Josh Holloway and his dimples are back in Oahu tonight and my thumb is firmly fixed on the rewind button.

Back in Love Again

I had just about sworn off Britney. What with her renewed interest in Marbies, those inexcusable nappy extensions, her sudden conversion to Judaism after dating the spookiest guy since K Fed (Did ya'll see his commercial during the Superbowl? Comedy gold.) and no Jayden James sightings, I couldn't see a reason for my undying support to continue.

But then this popped up and I fell hard. Again. How can you resist a chick worth a supposed 100 mill who wants to pump her own gas, but doesn't know how? And pees (multiple times) in the pit of scum that is a gas station bathroom? What about that cute little shuffle/jog she does? Or how she puts on the paparazzi dude's coat? Swoon! What doesn't kill us makes us stronger, Brit. I think we might be together forever.

Blush: I Wish I Needed It

The title pretty much says it all.

Most women have one type of makeup they refuse to leave the house without. For my grandmother it's lipstick. For my mother it's blush. Growing up, blush was the only makeup I ever saw her religiously apply before facing the wilds of small town Massachusetts. So to me, blush = necessary to grownuphood. The little brush and the little mirror and the chalky smell and the swirly circular application that must be finessed - such a complex little universe! But sadly, unless something is terribly wrong with my health or sleep, I tend to look a bit like Mary Poppins.

At summer camp, this fellow Mean Girl and I once read another camper's diary. I know, I know. But I'm sure we had a really good reason. On one of the pages she listed everyone in the cabin with a quick description following their name. "Heidi: Funny. Jess: Quiet. Amy: Rosy cheeks." That's it?! That's all I got? La-ame.

I've tried many times to deny the truth of the matter. I read beauty blogs about blush and ask other people what they use. I try to figure out if I have cool or warm undertones to match the shade to my skin. I apply powder to my face to make it paler so then I can make my cheeks pink on top of it. Pathetic.

Recently, I bought the blush I've spent hours reading about, a Nars blush called Orgasm, aptly named for the lovely fresh-faced glow I imagine it gives the user. I like to open the container, barely touch the brush into it and swirl it onto my cheeks just to make me feel all growed up. But this won't cut it long term, so I'm working up a pitch for Nars or Almay or - lawd - even Wet 'n Wild if they'll take it: a blush that looks pink but goes on clear, with tiny mirror, little cute brush, and chalky smell intact. Kind of the equivalent of candy lipstick, but without the calories. Brills.