Happy Halloween
Don’t fuck with me fellas. This ain’t my first time at the rodeo.
Cooking skillz
For two people who don’t watch television, Sam and I have been watching an awful lot of television. With the exception of football (not the American kind) and tennis and the soon-to-be Tour de France, most of what we watch could be considered shite. But one show we stumbled upon and that has completely enthralled us, is “Master Chef,” a cooking contest between everyday people, hosted by an etched and fidgety little dude named Gordon Ramsay. Apparently he’s big in the cooking world. Or, at least, he’s a behemoth in the television cooking world, because every other show seems to feature him yelling or gagging or throwing plates or being generally disgusted with the food he’s being served and/or the people making it. He moves his body through space like a hungry hyena. The way he cuts a piece of meat is demonic. He’s unsettling.
See what I mean? Dude’s not right. Still. I can’t. Stop. Watching.
But this entire post is one giant regression. What I really wanted to say is that, after watching a number of episodes of “Master Chef” and seeing these hobbyist cooks make dishes on the fly (people! Some chick made a flourless coffee-chocolate cake WITHOUT A GODDAMNED RECIPE last night!), I decided that I, too, could cook without measuring spoons.
During a commercial break, I went to the kitchen, where I layered some tortilla chips on a plate, dusted them with several handfuls of a Mexican Four Cheese Blend, and nuked them until they were blisteringly hot and snapping oil all over the inside of the microwave. Then I spooned on some Tostitos Chunky Salsa (medium heat) and served them to my husband, urging him to eat up before they cooled and resembled wet cardboard.
We ate my dish while watching Ramsay spit out a bite of cakey-flanish sort of stuff made with forty-seven layers of filo dough. And I felt righteously superior to the pompous kid who’d made it. And not because he looks exactly like my first serious boyfriend from high school, who ditched me one hour before his senior prom so he could go with his other girlfriend, that I didn’t know he had. A guy who is now a used car salesman. Not that it’s relevant. I’m just saying. None of this is why I felt awesome about my on-a-whim delicacy.
No, I felt awesome because my nachos were definitely better than whatever fetid substance Chef Ramsay had ejected from his mouth with the velocity of a Heimlich maneuver recipient. I could probably be on that show…
Men behaving disgustingly: About moral ambiguity and which sleazebag is sleazier
“Politicians got lipstick on the collar, the whole media startin’ to holler.
But I don’t give a fuck who they screwin’ in private. I wanna know who they screwin’ in
public. Robbin’, cheatin’, stealin,’ white collar criminal, McDonald eatin’. You deserve a
beatin.’ Send you home weepin’, with a fat bill for your Caribbean weekend.” –Michael
Franti
Oy vey. Has it been the season for awful behavior or what? Granted, it’s a numbingly
long season dating (at least) all the way back to, “It depends on what the definition
of is is,” to “I did nothing wrong at the Minneapolis airport,” continuing right on
past “I don’t know if that picture is me. It could well be. It looks like me. I don’t know
who that baby is. I have no idea what that picture is,” and directly into “I told my
wife about this event, which occurred over a decade ago.”
Blech. It leaves a taste in the mouth more unpleasant than semen, doesn’t it?
Last week, John Edwards was indicted on several counts, none of which include
being an anal goiter, which isn’t illegal. Unfortunately for Dominique Strauss-Kahn,
sexually assaulting maids is illegal. Luckily for Dominique Strauss-Kahn, when
you’re a rich white dude, you get to live in a $50,000 a month townhouse while you
await trial. Somehow I doubt Herman Cain would enjoy such privilege under the
same circumstances.
Capping off the recent spate of ewwww, gross! by lots of powerful men, was the
tweeted photo of Rep. Anthony Weiner’s semi-erect-in-boxer-briefs wiener. Or his
purported wiener, he said, denying any recollection of whether the protruding penis
picture was his. Which made perfect sense to me, since I have absolutely no idea if
my naked pictures of me are me.
I immediately attributed the partial peen (unsee! Unsee!) to James O’Keefe or
Andrew Breitbart, purely as a coping mechanism. What public narcissist
servant would be so obtuse as to take naked self-portraits in the current climate?
Note to future egomaniacal leaders: Don’t let your fetish photos fall into the wrong
hands (how did Breitbart get all these snapshots?).
In the days leading up to his admission, Weiner said he was hiring his own
investigative team. This tack worked out well for the Catholic Church when its
own recent investigation into sexual abuse by priests finally cleared up that whole
mishegoss. It’s all in the past now, they say. And it wasn’t celibacy that made ‘em
do it, neither. It was the 60’s. All that goddamned bra burning free love had
repercussions, people.
Mmmhmm. And Eddie Murphy was just giving the transvestite hooker a ride home.
Prior to Weiner’s pathetic confession and bare-chested-and flexing-screen shots, CNN’s Piers
Morgan launched his own investigation into Cock Shot 2011 (I wrote this before Jon Stewart used it, by the way) by consulting, via
phone with Rudy Giuliani, a leading expert on ewww, gross!
The former mayor of New York—notorious for a moral turpitude desperately out
of sync with the family values mantra of his party—should have recused himself.
That would have been classy. But Giuliani is klassy and instead offered a breathless
condemnation of Weiner; his exasperation must have left righteous spittle all over
his Blackberry.
Klassier still was Giuliani’s response to Morgan’s next line of questioning, which
focused on whether New Jersey Governor Chris Christie’s use of state police
helicopters to get to his kid’s baseball games was also inappropriate. (Christie has
since written a personal check as reimbursement. A true mensch, that one.)
Giuliani had no problem with Christie using taxpayer money this way. Yet, his
opposing opinions on the two sets of circumstances revealed the size of his moral
yard stick, if you know what I’m sayin’. And I think we’ve all seen just about enough
of that.
Christie had to get to the games, he said. It’s clear Christie is a devoted family man, he
said. The helicopter was going to be up there in the air anyway, he said. Well played,
Rudy. Well played.
Unfortunately, Piers Morgan missed this opportunity to remind viewers that this
mini-Newt-Gingrich—who was fucking his communications director before he was
fucking Judith Nathan, all while married to Donna Hannover who he was fucking
while married to his second-cousin-first wife—used lots of taxpayer money to visit
his mistress (which one, I’m not exactly sure). Also not included as a credibility
asterisk, was the fact that Giuliani’s then-lover, now-third wife began getting city-
provided chauffeur services from the NYPD well before he admitted to his affair.
But, hey. Giuliani didn’t take phone pics of his penie and send them across the
Internet (that we know of). He didn’t have a love child with a maid (that we know
of). And something I bet he’d consider evidence of his upstanding character: He
didn’t sexually assault any maids (that we know of). Bonus points for him!
Obviously, there is a difference between a rapist and your everyday despicable
prick. But the news is ugly enough to make Octomom’s new bikini pictures look hot,
and that’s saying something. Have you seen them yet? She’s all chiseled, tucked,
pulled, plumped and Botoxed within an inch of where her hymen used to be,
wearing an animal print bikini, and kneel-squatting in ocean foam like she’s trying
to alleviate a months-long bout of constipation. She’s holding her hair up with one
hand, and with the other, she’s dragging behind her what I can only presume is a
brown, soggy burp cloth. It’s not sexy. It’s horrifying.
But it’s better than an imperious Rudy Giuliani pretending he has any moral
authority whatsoever. And it’s way, way better than these self-enamored,
impervious fucksticks flashing their fuck sticks all about town and thinking they
aren’t going to get caught.
GGGOOOAAAALLLLL! Urging American soccer haters to reconsider their position
It’s a slippery slope being a fan of The Beautiful Game. One day, you’re minding your own business, blowing the blood vessels in your eyeballs by blowing your much-maligned vuvuzela. There you are, rooting for France, throwing back mojitos at Vagabond during lunch in South Park on a Thursday, alongside the business set, who’ve sneaked away from their jobs because 90 minutes of footie and a cocktail will bring them a sliver of joy in the drudgery of an otherwise craperrific day in a whole endless string of them. Soon, you find yourself so charmed by the exuberant fans of the other team that you bid adieu to Handball Henri to jump up and down and shout “Viva Mexico!” with everyone else in the place.
You’re caught up in the thrill, and your little world is cracked open wide by the immediate connection between you and human beings of every culture on the planet. You’re excited for Mexico, sure, but now you really can’t wait to root, root, root for the home team the following morning. And the next thing you know, you find out you’re a traitor to America. Huh?
Certain right-wing fundies have been studying their talking points again and collectively smearing the World Cup, the U.S. men’s soccer team and, presumably, the ubiquitous soccer mom. In recent weeks, these vocal, elitist xenophobes have called soccer “a poor man’s or poor woman’s sport,” one that liberals “jam… down our throat” as part of the “browning of America.” Because baseball is stacked with freckle-faced redheads.
“It doesn’t matter how you try to sell it to us,” said Glenn Beck in one of his tirades. “It doesn’t matter how many celebrities you get. It doesn’t matter how many bars open early. It doesn’t matter how many beer commercials they run: We don’t want the World Cup. We don’t like the World Cup. We don’t like soccer. We want nothing to do with it.” Beck the Troglodyte went on to mention the hooliganism perpetrated by hooligans before offering proof of our more civilized society: “I haven’t seen the baseball riots.” Apparently, the ever-present bench brawl doesn’t factor into Beck’s we’re-superior equation of sports-etiquette.
Oh, Glenn, you cotton-headed ninny muggins! You make me want to get all Zizou on your ass.
Have you never heard of the Cleveland Indians’ Ten-Cent Beer Night riot of 1974? What about Disco Demolition Night of 1979? Or does your selective comprehension of history exclude the events of history?
I would think you, of all people, would be incensed that fans rioted against an honest-to-God homegrown genre of music at Comiskey Park. What’s more American than disco? Thanks to disco, “YMCA” is played at stadiums (and weddings and bat-mitzvahs) all across your favorite country. And Gary Glitter may have been disco in costume only (and British, to boot), but he gave the American fans you hold up as examples of refined behavior the never-ending opportunity to drunkenly chant duhn-duhn-duuuunh-duh-HAY!-duhn-duhn-duhn-duhn-duhn-duuuuhn-duhn-HAY!
Frankly, that and the apathetic wave are more annoying than one honking vuvuzela blown into your ear at close range.
Also, news flash: America’s favorite pastime wasn’t even invented by Americans. The English invented it. Football? English blokes. Basketball? Wave to Canada, Glenn. You can probably see the socialists from your porch. OK, how about golf? you might ask. Well, other than not being invented in America, there’s little agreement as to its origins. I’d put my money on China since the Chinese make all our shit.
With a need for stop-start-stop action as desperate as the tea baggers’ need for spell check on protest signs, the Glenn Beckians don’t have the attention span for a sport with no commercial breaks. A Wall Street Journal study of four NFL games from last season found the average amount of play time was 11 minutes. In essence, an American football game is a three-hour block of beer-gulping, ball-scratching, slow-it-down-so-I-can-grasp-it time for Neanderthals who only understand domination and a playbook.
And fútbol? With one 15-minute half separating 90 minutes of non-stop running, this difficult sport has more intensity, agility, athleticism, power, control, finesse, creativity, innovation, nuance, grace and true teamwork than any other sport I can think of. Ours is definitely not the best team on Earth, but the U.S. men’s soccer team is the best of us, and any bloviating ethnocentrist in a Brooks Brothers suit should be able to get behind that team, which last Friday played a match complete with America’s favorite dramatic elements:
After an excruciating first half, the U.S. came back (overcoming hardship) from a debilitating 0-2 deficit to Slovenia, the smallest country competing (David and Goliath). Landon Donovan (the boy next door) patiently crafted the first goal just minutes into the second half, and the way the ball left his toe, soared across the field and into the corner of the net was nearly lyrical (the hero comes through).
Michael Bradley, the coach’s son (hello, Lifetime Television for women) tied things up with a second goal. Our goalkeeper, Tim Howard (one of the best in the world), dove and leapt to stop several dangerous attacks. And what should have been the third and winning goal (defying the odds) was taken away as quickly as it had happened (heartbreak) by a call so egregious (disbelief) that the announcers apologized and the rookie ref may be expelled from all future matches (vindication). Now the question remains: Can the U.S. overcome such a psychological test and advance to the next round? If we didn’t adore this kind of drama, Extreme Makeover: Home Edition wouldn’t exist.
The U.S. finishes the first round the day this issue hits the street. Whatever happens, the tournament continues until July 11. C’mon. Blow that vuvuzela. Even if it’s just to annoy your dogmatic neighbors.
(As published on June 23, 2010 in San Diego CityBeat.)
It might just be all about the hokey pokey!
I will, I will, I will! weigh in on the UCSD PR nightmare that seems to get worse with each day, and which makes me want to bubble-wrap my little girl before I launch her into the dangerous territory of adulthood. But for now, I’m busy faxing and re-faxing and re-faxing again, reams of paper. I make love to a fax machine every day and quite frankly, this has got me wondering—as I fix another god^$(#(@ * motherf!*%$#^$#%^&$%! blasted paper jam—at the meaning of my life.
On Monday, I decided it was meaningless and cried twice. On Tuesday, I confirmed it was meaningless, and cried three times. I mean, holy smokes, folks: I DO NOT CRY AT WORK. It’s against my personal code of conduct. And the a realization that my career consists of minute-to-minute use of a nearly obsolete technology is that much more humiliating.
But. I can write! Right? That’s got too count for something. No?
So in the midst of all this faxing and crying and crying and faxing and feeling generally boxed in, I continued to vent my frustrations about John Mayer. You see, it’s more advisable for me to aim my freak-out at him, than it is my lovely husband. Fewer repercussions, if you know what I’m saying. Plus, Sam’s a terrific guy while Mayer is….well. You just need to head on over to Culture Lust and read on.
Dear Dodge (in the words of Jerry Garcia): That’s right! The women are SMARTER!
My friend Melanie wrote a short post at The Women’s Colony this week about the stereotyping portrayed in some of the Superbowl commercials. Then, my current columnist du jour, the delectible, naughty, rib-crushingly smart Mark Morford—who, were I not betrothed, I would love to devour slowly and in small increments using an espresso spoon just to make it last longer—wrote more extensively on the topic. Mr. Morford: Je t’adore. Especially when you wear your faux cat fur jacket.
Anyway, here is one video that both Melanie and Morford found offensive:
And then, today, because certain women are extra incredibly bad ass, there is this response, which earned a raucous standing O in this house. Enjoy, and happy weekend.
Dear John Mayer,
When Playboy asked you whether black women “throw themselves” at you, you said:
“I don’t think I open myself to it. My dick is sort of like a white supremacist. I’ve got a Benetton heart and a fuckin’ David Duke cock. I’m going to start dating separately from my dick.”
Well, jeeze. This is awkward but…dude! You said that—among many other inane things— OUT LOUD. To a reporter. And anyway, do you really think your racist dick is the reason black women don’t dig you?
The Benetton folks must be cringing.
Honey, you are an affront to frat boys everywhere and that’s a damn near impossible feat. You are not smart. You are not cute. You are not deep. You are not intellectual or witty or cool or hip or dope or fly or whatever it is you fancy yourself to be. You have a small, small, small brain and a very big mouth. You are a self-important asshat raised to the 11th power, quadrupled by dickheadery, topped with three servings of phony and one heaping scoop of overcompensation.
Do humanity a favor, John Mayer, and please stop talking. Just shut the fuck up and go far away. Make that annual Mayercraft Cruise of yours permanent. Put on your Gopher-from-The-Love-Boat costume, set your vessel on starboard tack and make a bee line for an iceberg.
Just…yeah. Don’t come back.
xoxox,
~aaryn
Dichotomy: Heidi Montag journeys to become ‘the best me’ while thousands die beneath rubble
An acquaintance of mine blogged recently about some things she’s sick and tired of, and her post inspired me to account for a few of my own. As I racked up my itemized list of grievances, the worst earthquake in 200 years struck the poorest country in the Western Hemisphere. Oh, Haiti. How you put things in such clear perspective for the rest of us.
On Jan. 12, 2010, this list might have been just a bunch of snark. Today, it’s down right absurd. That being said, here are a few things that I am really friggin’ sick and tired of:
1. Carrie Prejean. San Diego’s crown jewel—and the boobs that beauty-pageant officials cruelly forced on her—simply will not go away. Prejean and her erect right nipple were spotted frolicking in a Hawaiian ocean with her boyfriend du jour last week and made the headlines alongside “Thousands Feared Dead.” Since when did 15 minutes become 15 years?
2. Adam Lambert. OK, I’m not sick of Adam Lambert, per se; he’s the anti-Carrie Prejean, a guy with actual talent who used his celebrity to encourage his fans to donate to Haitian relief. So I root for him. I’m more sick of the hullabaloo over his American Music Awards performance, for which he is now on a World Apology Tour. I watched his three minutes on the AMA’s via YouTube. That he nearly finger fucked one of his female dancers was surprising. But kissing a boy? Bitch, please. He should have shoved his tongue down Carrie Prejean’s throat if he wanted to be outrageous.
3. Speaking of outrageous, how about Heidi Montag’s 10-hour, 10-procedure plastic surgery? At 23 years old, this talentless, soulless fame-whore has finally chiseled away her self-proclaimed “ugly duckling” looks for something a little more Barbie. I guess she didn’t get the memo that beauty comes from the inside. Too bad for her, there’s no surgery to fix inner ugly.
4. The goddamned pandas. The adult pandas, the baby pandas, whatever. Seriously. I. Am. Over. It. Panda-cam? Bo-ring. The giant panda exhibit at the zoo? Zzzzzzzzzzzzz. The line to get into the panda exhibit at the zoo? Biggest scam they have going. I like to go through the exhibit of always-snoozing pandas just to eavesdrop on disappointed tourists. I watch as they try to navigate their double-wide strollers along the narrow passage, keep the kids from swinging on the railings and strain to hear the barrage of panda factoids whispered over a microphone by zoo employees. “All they do is sleep” and “We should have gone to SeaWorld” are two of my favorite overheards.
5. Christmas decorations left up after Jan. 1. Look, I know it’s festive and romantic and twinkly and Christ-y, but FYI to my neighbors with the giant corner window: We’re pushing February here. It’s time to let go. The tree must come down. The electric moving snowman, too.
6. Shitty customer service. Hey, Tom, at Fairlane Cleaners. If you melt the buttons off my sweater without first warning me that the buttons might melt off my sweater, it’s your fault, and I do not appreciate a lecture about why it’s my fault.
7. The orange construction cones left behind by the company that made my neighborhood sidewalks wheelchair friendly more than a month ago. Way to find conscientious contractors, city of San Diego! It’s nice that the physically disabled have better access, but is it really that hard to clean up your mess?
8. Oversharing via Twitter. Tila Tequila, Courtney Love and Lindsay Lohan can tweet “the truth hurts” or “it’s the truth” or “the truth will come out” all they want. They’re still abominable, individually and collectively, and no amount of truth-telling will change that. Unplug, ladies, unplug.
9. Athletes and crocodile tears. Mark McGuire, I’m talking to you.
10. Liars who lie and know they lie and don’t get called on their lies by people who perpetuate their lies. Two recent lies that come to mind: “We had no domestic attacks under Bush,” by liar Rudy Guiliani and “We did not have a terrorist attack on our country during President Bush’s term,” by liar Dana Perino.
11. Not Of This World window decals. If you’re not of this world, what world are you of, exactly? I can only assume you’re of the world that teaches you how to expertly snake parking spaces from me at the library. Obviously, being Not of This World anoints you with VIP status, and your need to check out that book trumps the fact that I was waiting patiently—indicator on—for that space. Peace to you, brother. I don’t care what world you’re from: I would help your sorry ass in a crisis.
12. Pat Robertson and Rush Limbaugh. Your responses to this particular human emergency were predictable and nothing short of vile. You are worms, both of you, which is a bitter insult to worms the world over. Keith Olbermann said it better: “Mr. Robertson, Mr. Limbaugh, your lives are not worth those of the lowest, meanest, poorest of those victims still lying under the rubble in Haiti tonight.”
Aaaand just like that, I’m back to Haiti. I can’t not think about Haiti for very long, the devastation and the heartbreak and the unimaginable horror those people have endured—continue to endure—all while life here hums right along. It’s senseless and unfair that the sun should rise and set on two places not so far apart and yet everything is terrifically lopsided. I feel helpless and frustrated. So I donate a few bucks and make a few jokes to feel normal. I go to the gym and the bank and the grocery store. I play with my child who tonight sleeps safely under layers of blankets and a solid roof, unlike thousands and thousands of Haitian children just like her. All I can do is not linger too long on the images and be extremely thankful for my plain luck of geography.
And when it all gets to be too much, when things get really low, that panda-cam sure can take the edge off the overwhelming sense of hopelessness.
(Image from Reuters)
(As published—sans photos— today in San Diego CityBeat.)
Burn ‘em all: From training bra to sleeper bra, we’ve come a long way, baby
It was the image of the bra on my computer screen that caught my attention. I was sure, on first glance, that the lady mannequin was wearing it backwards, what with the way her aerodynamic ta-tas were left uncovered by the absence of fabric that normally holds them in place.
But quite the opposite from being worn backwards, this cupless bra was intentional: La Decollette is the brainchild of a Brit who grew tired of waking to the horror of chest wrinkles. I just call them chinkles. It’s easier.
In case you’re my editor—or a gay man or a carefree, 20-something co-ed who rightly has no idea what I’m talking about—chinkles are caused after years of side sleeping (sun damage doesn’t help). It’s when uninhibited boobs collide in the night, the result being a series of jagged, vertical lines decorating the décolletage. Be warned, oh young ’uns, and start sleeping on your backs ASAP.
Chinkles are just another in the laundry list of aging women’s battles, and now, for £45 ($80), Rachel de Boer is offering all of us a way to fight back in the form of a revolutionary bra to be worn at night. Never mind that you could jump down from the treadmill, towel off, spin your sports bra around and have the exact same thing—minus two cute bows. The bigger issue here is: Dear Lord!—who wants to wear a bra when she’s sleeping? The first thing I do when I walk through the door at the end of a busy day is the magic bra-through-the-shirt-sleeve routine. The second thing I do is toss it with one quick motion as far away from my body as possible, flinging it to the floor where it will stay until I need to use it again in the morning.
Don’t get me wrong. I adore a lacy lovely every now and then, especially when wrapped with a bow and left tucked in my lingerie drawer for my private discovery.
But overall, I have a general disdain for bras, and whenever I go shopping for one, I can’t help but think of what a rush I was in to need one way back in 1981 when I was but a wee dork. A flat-chested, braces-having, Mork from Ork suspender-wearing dork.
As it happens, my next-door neighbor Heidi was not any of those things. We were the same age, but, somehow, she was light-years ahead in pretty much every way. She was sophisticated, worldly, beautiful and developed. More than anything, I wanted to be like her. If Heidi was serious, I was serious. If Heidi swung her pigtail when she walked, I swung my pigtail when I walked. Heidi was on track to become a concert violinist, so I convinced my mother to buy me a violin. Today, Heidi plays Carnegie Hall and I? Well. I know who Itzhak Perlman is.
At age 11, though, what I wanted more than anything was Heidi’s boobs. One could argue that, had I chosen to practice the violin even 30 minutes each day, I might have been able to give a recital of “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star” at our local library within the month. But there was no amount of I must! I must! I must increase my bust! chanting that was going to give me the result I wanted, the result that wouldn’t happen for another grueling four years. Thanks, mom, for the biology.
Since my exercises were fruitless, I had my mother take me to buy what was then called a training bra and what I hope, for the sake of my daughter, is no longer called a training bra. The fitting was humiliating, first because there was nothing to fit and next because some orange-haired nana at Girls World with chinkles all up and down her giant exposed bosom, was charged with measuring and pulling and tugging and analyzing, all while my mother looked on. Good times.
I came away with three training bras, not one of which you could tell I was wearing when I was fully clothed. So I took to wearing very tight Izod shirts over my very sophisticated I’m-growing-up bras, which I wore all the time, even when I slept—ahead of my time, I was—and which very nearly brings me full circle. I always made sure a strap was somehow exposed, not a lot, just a smidge, because I’m classy like that. And then, because a bra should be filled, I took to stuffing it with neatly folded layers of toilet paper that left my “breasts” looking less like budding orbs and more like Tefillin you see strapped to the foreheads of Rabbis the world over. That I went out in public with my shoulders thrown back, unapologetic and prouder than hell was nothing short of foreshadowing. Of what, I will leave up to you, Reader.
And now I find myself today looking at what the Daily Express calls a “revolutionary bra designed for women who suffer from wrinkles between their breasts,” and I’m scratching my head. I’m no longer the girl with the boxy breasts that could put an eye out, and I’m not yet the poster woman for the anti-chinkle bra. I’ve been one and the other may be my fate—I am a side sleeper, after all. But do I really want to sleep in a bra at night simply so that my breasts don’t flop over on each other? What if this revolutionary bra causes them to slide into my armpits? What then, I ask? What. Then.
The women of Holland may have bought into the gimmick, but this girl’s jury is still out. If I do decide to give it a go, barring an offer of a free product for testing, I’ll give my $14.99 Target sports bra a spin around the mattress.
(As published today in San Diego CityBeat.)