Brad Pitt and Chanel No. 5??

Okay, so Chanel No. 5 ads.   WHAT. THE. POOH.  Brad Pitt is the new face of Chanel No. 5?  My friend Meg said that it happened, but I thought she was high.   Brad Pitt?  Chanel No. 5?

And then I found it - a 31 second commercial that can make the most nonsensical hallucinogenic experience seem like watching the most simplistic inaugural address.

"It's not a journey;* every journey ends, but we go on.  The world turns and we turn with it.  Plans disappear, dreams take over."

My eyes rolled back in my head so far in disbelief, I almost gave myself a brain aneurysm.  My snorts of laughter almost choked me.   But then, somewhere around the 18 second mark...   Brad Pitt actually turns to the camera and looks directly... at ME.

"But wherever I go... there you are... "  

And there it is folks, that's where my near-hysterical scoffing got stuck in my throat.  Because when he looked into the camera and said those words?  I actually clenched.  With my girlie bits.  Dead serious.  My mouth got dry.  It was akin to Johnny Depp in Chocolate suggesting that he'd "come round sometime and get that squeak out of" Juliette Binoche's door.   But then?  Pitt looked away and the spell was completely broken with these words...

"My luck.  My fate.  My fortune.  Chanel No. 5.   Inevitable."

I had to watch it again.  It was like a train wreck.  Eye roll, eye roll, snort, scoff, eye roll, snort, snort, scoff, eye roll, eye roll, eye roll,  blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, eye roll...  OH. MY. BLESSED. GOD, blah, blah, blah, snort, scoff, snort, blah, blah, blah de freakin' blah.

Six times.  I have watched it six times.  And I gotta say that in the midst of those 27 painful - they paid him HOW MUCH?? - seconds?  The other  4 seconds where I'm pretty sure he's promising that he will leave Angelina Jolie for ME?   Effective advertising.  And you know how I know that?  Because I'm not even attracted to Brad Pitt.  I mean sure, when David and I play Would You Rather - we both pretty much get stuck at the "Would you rather have dinner with George Clooney and Brad Pitt?"  option, but that has everything to do with how much fun they are in the Oceans movies.  So I was a bit surprised that there was any attraction for me at all.  'Course, my period's due (again) and I am incredibly horny.

Chanel perfume ads always seem to be fashioned as cinematic melodramas from the 1940s.  And let's face it, Bette Davis did it so much better in Now Voyager.   

"Oh, Jerry, don't let's ask for the moon. We have the stars."   

You know why these ads don't work?  Because it's no longer 1979 and none of these spokespeople are Catherine Deneuve.  You have to be her to pull off that existential, melodramatic shit.   Although Audrey Tautou did a pretty good job in 2009.  So maybe what I should say is that you can't be American, or Australian, or British or a Russian immigrant to pull off a quintessentially French ad.  I think you have to be French.  Like with a capital "F" and italics, kind of French.

* and you just KNOW that there would have been a freaking semi-colon there!

Wedding Weekend Roundup

We're at another wedding this weekend with little time to write/edit (fingers crossed for sunshine around 3:00 p.m. for Pete & Kate),  so may I please direct your attention to these:

Shilling for Schools  (How to encourage our children to pimp)

YAY!!  YOGURT!!  (Another reason why I love my crazy daughter)

 

and

The Twitching Hours  (Me at my most logical)

For Your Sanitary Needs...

Yesterday I was in a public washroom.  In one of the stalls, someone had left a makeshift toilet seat cover made from artfully placed toilet paper.  Woman after woman turned away from that stall as if it the Black Death were in residence. I guess they all assumed that someone had done their business and then left the "seat cover" there. And I was thinking, what if this was a 'pay it forward' gift, left as a fresh offering for the next user?  What if it was a true moment of altruistic kindness?  Because logistically, I kind of think that if that toilet paper toilet seat cover had been used, wouldn't it have stuck to the ass of the person who had used it before?

I mean, I'm not sure, because, me, personally?  I have never used a toilet seat cover in my life.  I don't comprehend the whole idea of toilet seat covers.  All they make me think is Why??  What possible use do they serve?  I mean really?  What is your ass going to catch from a toilet seat?  If the seat is wet, can't a gal just wipe it off with a great wad of toilet paper?  You're washing your hands afterwards right?  'Cause if you're not washing your hands?  Then YOU are pretty much the Typhoid Mary, not someone who just haphazardly tinkled on the seat.

If you place toilet paper strategically over top of a sprinkled (with someone else's pee) toilet seat, is that now slightly wet toilet paper, not just going to stick to your ass?  And won't you have to pull that wet paper off your ass with bare hands? Unless you wear gloves in the stall - which begs a whole other set of questions if you're doing that.

This may be simplistic, but isn't the important part of your ass actually NOT on the seat, but rather suspended over the toilet bowl?  What are these toilet seat cover users afraid of exactly?  Are the cheeks of your ass going to catch a disease from a toilet seat? 

(Warning: graphically descriptive passage to follow)
The only people who should be worried about the germs on the cheeks of their ass are the people who spend a lot of time touching their own ass cheeks.  Do they... I don't know, scratch or massage, or just generally play with their ass cheeks and then what?  Eat finger foods without washing their hands first?   shudder  These folks must be worried about what they're going to catch from the seat because they obviously devote considerable time to playing with their own asses.   Practically speaking, even if you had hemorrhoids, wouldn't they too, be over top of the toilet bowl, you know closer to... wait for it... ur...anus?  Wouldn't they?  And before you suggest them... ass cheek zits?  Think about it.  How hard would someone have to sit on a toilet seat to actually pop ass zits that just happened to be in a ring around their ass exactly where they would rest upon the toilet seat?  I'm just sayin' here.

A friend told me that she actually sits ON HER HANDS on the toilet seat.  I was dumbfounded, and it  must have shown on my face.  "But I wash my hands afterward!"  This makes it better how?!?  She would rather have her HANDS touch the seat upon which other peoples' asses had rested rather than her ass?  That makes aboslutely NO sense to me.  Then there's the camp that doesn't ever sit on the toilets, they just squat.  Which, to be fair, is probably great strength training for your legs.  Basically what it comes down to?  Wash your freaking hands. A lot.  Especially if they've come into contact with someone else's pee, or ass.  Washing your own ass would be a good thing too.

p.s. Do not even THINK about hinting that crabs are another reason to use a toilet seat cover.  This from the Centre for Disease Control:

"A common misconception is that pubic lice are spread easily by sitting on a toilet seat. This would be extremely rare because lice cannot live long away from a warm human body and they do not have feet designed to hold onto or walk on smooth surfaces such as toilet seats."

So unless crabs have secret sweat shops that make wee little suction cups for their feet - I think humans and our asses are safe sitting on a public toilet - sans covers.

Shilling for Schools

So it's that time of year where schools do their fundraising and your child gets to sell useless shit to your family and friends.  I'm sorry, that's unfair.  In the past couple of years, at Rissa's school, they've been selling magazine subscriptions which can actually be good things.  They make good Christmas presents and such.  Much better than selling chocolate bars or freaking candles.  She comes home with the special catalogue and I spend immeasurable time tittering over the titles.

There is a Canadian Stamp News and  Canadian Coin News.  There is Dog Fancy and Cat Fancy - which pretty much makes me think of animals dressing up in tuxedos and ballgowns - perhaps with accompanying capes.

Horses are apparently VERY big in the magazine world.  For instance, did you know there is a Canadian Horse Journal (Central & Atlantic Edition) AND a Canadian Horse Journal (Pacific & Prairie Edition)?  There is Horse & Rider, Horse Canada, Horse Country, Horse Illustrated, Horse Sport and Horses All.  I am not making this shit up.    Wait!  Wait!  There is also Western Horse Review!   Sadly I could not find neither Unicorn Style nor Dolphin Fancy - which I think would most definitely sell if all the horse stuff does.   Tween girls and closet stuffie collectors would totally eat that crap up!

My two favourites have to be PREDATOR XTREME  "Predator Xtreme's target audience consists of predator and varmint hunters."  Yes, you read that right "varmint hunters." Yep, Elmer Fudd has a magazine aimed at him.   AND... wait for it... GUN DOG "Tips Training and Expert Features."   And all I can picture is a Labradoodle with and AK-47.  "You'll never take me alive coppers!!"  I am supposed to be ordering magazines right now, and instead I'm making my way through the catalogue... and snorting with laughter... AGAIN.  Wait!  I just found FRANCE "The next best thing to being there."  Sometimes it really is the little things.

YAY!!! YOGURT!!!

We went grocery shopping today at the No Frills and it was an ADVENTURE.  I bribed Rissa to come by saying that she could pick out a treat.  First off, we had the turquoise shopping trolley on account of the fact that we walked.  Rissa was adamant that she pull it along "I..." she paused dramatically, "am a BIG girl!"  She might have then thrown in some jazz hands which sent the cart careening for a bit, but she managed to salvage the situation before she launched herself into traffic.

She was very helpful in the store.  Kept me on track because we were, after all, shopping between the hours of 3 and 5 p.m.

"So I was thinking Mummy..."

"Yes?"

"We already have a lot of treats at home, so I was wondering..." labrador retriever eyebrows "if... um... you know..." more labrador retriever eyebrows "I could pick out a treat the NEXT time we go shopping??"

"You're planning ahead."

"Yes, I am.  You know why?  Because... I ... am a BIG girl."  Toothy grin.

We managed to get home, Rissa dragging the full cart behind her, almost getting killed crossing Division Street, but refusing to allow me to help because, "I AM A BIG GIRL!!!!"

We unpacked the groceries and Rissa made her very excited baby giraffe noise when she lifted the yogurt out.  "Oohoohoohooohooohoooh."  She took the assortment of 16 yogurts and opened the cardboard covering with near reverence and an accompanying angelic "Aaaaaaah-aaaaaaaaah" noise.  She then snap-snapped the 2 tiers of 8 attached yogurts into 4 groups of 4 giving a maniacally-pleased laugh as she did so.  "Heeheeheeheehee."  Those 4 groups then became 8 groups of 2 with more self-satisfied giggling.  "Snap - Titter - Snap - Titter." 

When down to the yogurt duos, she had 8 different ways so separate them: 

Like castanets - "Ssssnap!" 

Over her head, with a flourish - "SNAP!" 

The reveal of a magic trick - "TA-DA! SNAP!" 

Covertly, behind her back - "Snap." 

To the side with a cackle -"heh-heh-heh - SSSSSSSNAP!!"   

Nearly silent, underneath her shirt - "..." 

Meticulously - "s...s....s...nap!"

Nonchalantly, while looking the opposite direction -  "snap"  

Then it was time to colour coordinate her yogurt.  And yes, according to the ROYGBIV spectrum.  I adore my child.

Apparently I DON'T learn...

Okay, so I might need a babysitter.  I know that I keep posting that I don't, but I think maybe... I do.  My hips are hurting... AGAIN... Because why?  Because I jogged on the treadmill and now my arthritis/bursitis is acting up.  (And yes, I'm only 44 freaking years of age, but I was a gymnast, hence the 72 year old hips.)  Last week, when I jogged on the treadmill, they hurt and David said, "You probably shouldn't jog any more."  So leading up to the weekend I totally didn't jog.  Now some of that is because I just didn't have the time to do anything, but I was trying to make sure that I'd be able to dance at the wedding on Saturday, because it would suck not to be able to dance at one of your best friends' weddings.  So I left off the jogging and was able to dance.  YAY!  

But today I jogged again.  I could lie and say that I was just testing to see if my hips hurt EVERY time I jogged, but I won't do that.  I was jogging to burn more calories.  I only had one episode of Buffy on the media player and that only last 41 minutes, so I figured I'd up the cardio ante by jogging.  I kind of thought, if I only jog every other time, maybe I can manage it.  I was wrong.  This is me admitting that I'm wrong.  See that?  Gold freaking star for Heather.

I was wrong on Saturday too.  I ate the wrong food.  With full knowledge of my blood sugar issues, I might have eaten, um, two pieces of wedding cake, and then for the late-night snack, I might have had um, two pieces of Pizza Hut pizza and maybe, a, uh... lemon square.   (The cake part was totally understandable and you would have done it too.  Usually wedding cake sucks!!! But this cake was SO good!   JULIA IS AN AMAZING BAKER!  After the first piece, the 2nd piece just called to me in a siren voice that made me lose my mind a bit.)

I'm pretty sure it's the Pizza Hut pizzas' fault.  Because Pizza Hut pizza is basically pizza toppings slathered onto deep fried white bread - which is apparently my nemesis.  You'd figure that it'd be something WAY more dangerous, involving, say, throwing stars and maybe a mace, but, no it's white bread. That, combined with being exhausted was a bad combo.  There are good combos.  Like ham and pineapple on a thin crust gluten-free pizza or Gene Kelly & Donald O'Connor, but me tired and eating the wrong foods is pretty much a recipe for falling into near hypo-glycemic shock.

The wedding was divided into two camps  One camp thought that maybe I'd just heard that someone had died.  Any light in my eyes faded and I spent a lot of time trying not to cry. I think I might have been mourning the passing of my common sense.  And then the other camp was all, "Look at the drunken Matron of Honour - poor thing can't hold her liquor."  Which, by the way, I totally can, and if I could have actually articulated more than two words together I would have told them that. "I'm Danish by God - I can drink anyone here under the table!  Pass me that bottle of Aquavit!  Skol!!" But when you're basically drunk on sugar, you're pretty much screwed until you can reboot, which for me means having something sweet like orange juice along with some protein and a place to sleep.  It was such a bad sugar crash that I actually allowed David, Rissa and the groom to pretty much carry me to the car.   And this from a gal who refuses help at the best of times.

So, if you see me in public, veering towards slices of deep dish pizza or late night baked goods, lay a hand upon my arm and say "Remember the wedding?"  It might just be enough to keep me in line.

BLARGH!

WARNING: LANGUAGE

Rissa was snuggled into her bed.  I was lying beside her.  From the main floor we heard David:

"BLAAAAARGH!!!!!!  SON OF A FUCKING BITCH!!! ARGH!!  FUUUUUUUUUUCK!!!!!"

Followed by "I'm FINE!. FUCK!!!  I'M FINE!"

David stomp, stomp stomps back up the stairs.   "Grumble, grumble, grumble..." 

"What happened?" I asked, maintaining a straight face.

"I stubbed both my toes...  at the SAME time... grumble, grumble...."

Rissa and I say nothing. I can taste blood in my mouth from the effort.   David stomps back to the study.

"Daddy sometimes over-reacts to pain," Rissa observes.

"Sometimes," I agree.  "I think you should tell him that.  Go ahead." I make a you do it motion with my chin.

"Nuh-unh.  You!" she says, pointing at me.

"No way.  You!"  I point back.

"Mummy you just have the right rhythm for it."

"The right rhythm?"

"Yeah, your rhythm is all... thump ba da thump, ba da boomp... booomp...    booomp...  snooooooore...  See?  your rhythm is so relaxed it's almost ASLEEP.  You should totally be the one to tell him.  You're a calming influence.  Me? Not so much."