Saturday, September 25, 2004


Too Much Information, Too Goddamned Girly.*

I should have a T-shirt that says, "My doctor put me on fucking Tequin and all I got was this lousy yeast infection." Not only did I pay $61.95--with insurance, thank you--for the privilege of eliminating a bacterial superinfection in my sinuses, but I get the added joy of trying to figure out which over-the-counter yeast infection remedy is comparable to bribing a Diflucan from the pharmacist at work. Not that I'd ever do that, or that he'd ever comply, you understand; this is merely an intellectual exercise.

The bacteria are gone, thank the gods, which means I'm left to deal only with the viral infection that started it all. I still have to finish the fucking Tequin, but at least I'm not running a high fever. I'm only producing amounts of snot that would make even the most hardened otolaryngologist quail. And I'm coughing like Mimi from "La Boheme," a reference that exactly none of my coworkers got today at work. Sucks to be the only one who can both sing "Mi chiamo Mimi" and get the joke.

Because I know how to have Big Fun on a Saturday night, I bought the following things at the grocery store this evening:

1. A bottle of Toad Hollow chardonnay. Not a bad little wine, even if it tastes like it's been stirred with a 2 x 4. The oak is pronounced.

2. Copies of "Scientific American" and "Allure: The Best Beauty Issue".

3. Generic miconazole cream.

4. Shoe polish (liquid) which I promptly squirted all over my kitchen table (not a big deal) and my carpet (a slightly bigger deal). However, my shoes are now shiny and scuff-free.

Allure's advertising-driven editorials tell me that Neutrogena has come up with some product that makes it possible to plane several layers of skin off your face--without redness or irritation!--while Maybelline has come up with a product that replicates the look and feel of the skin you've just removed. There's also a full-page ad for something called Brava, a breast-enhancement system.

This Brava thing deserves a paragraph of its own. Going to the website will give you no solid information on price, use, or configuration of the product, but it will provide scary hints as to all three.

Brava seems to be some sort of suction-based device that yanks on breast tissue until it expands and fills out. Why this is a good idea, or one which even the most desperate woman would consider, escapes me. Anyhow, you're supposed to strap on the Brava cups ("They're huge! They cover your whole chest!" says one review) in the privacy of your own home ("You can be as discrete [sic] as you like" says another) and then wait for the miracle to happen. In between uses, there are handy tips on reducing skin irritation (use cortisone cream) and fitting the product (strap the cups on with cut-up pantyhose). There's even an 800 number to call for help with financing.

Financing. For a pair of hollow half-globes that yank your tits out of shape until they give in. There is so much wrong with this that I don't know where to start.

Tomorrow morning, once I've got a little more energy, I'm going to attack the remaining shoe polish stain with rubbing alcohol (thanks, Beloved Sister!) and read "Scientific American." You just can't get the same effect from articles on the evolutionary benefits of siblings as you can from articles on peeling off bits of skin and self-curling mascara.

*Anybody who complains about the unusual Personal Squick Factor of this post can reference Belle, Diablo, Joe, or The Good Wife and kiss my ass. Thank you and good night.

No comments: