Makes me wonder sometimes if I even see myself when I look in the mirror.
Archive for the 'Advertising' Category
Sounds great. Merry Christmas to both of us. AAAAaaaaaahhhhhhhh!
Wonder how Tracy feels about this.
Weird. Creepy. Ugly. and Stupid. It’s a four-fer!
Why wait any longer? Do what you’ve dreamed about for years: learn to play an instrument you love. Each set of 12 DVDs includes 18-22 hours of clear, easyto- follow instruction, tips, tricks, and secrets from expert musicians and teachers. (“Piano” features Scott Houston, Emmy®-winning host of the PBS series “The Piano Guy.”) You’ll start playing immediately, learn to play your favorite songs and different styles, even compose your own music-and save thousands of dollars on lessons.
Feeling. Suddenly. Superfluous.
Cuz love’s a contest and I win.
This one says it all.
[Walking to our car from a hockey game.]
Me: Brrrrrrshivershivershiverbrrrrrrrrshivershivershiverbrrrrrrrr. . .
Husband: What are you doing?
Me: I’m cold. It’s got to be in the single digits. It feels like my head’s going to explode.
Husband: What are you talking about? It’s 14˚ at the coldest; a nice, balmy, Canadian winter day
Me: Yeah, all true, except for that it’s definitely colder than 14˚, it’s anything but balmy, and we’re not in Canada.
Husband: We’ll see what the car shows for the temperature.
Me: Yeah, except it’s in a heated garage, so no pointing at it in the first 5 seconds and gloating.
[Arrive at car. Get into car. Start car. Handy little temperature indicator says it's 43˚ out. Husband points and gloats. I ignore him.]
[Drive a few miles. Temperature drops. 38˚ 32˚ 27˚ 18˚ 14˚. Husband points. I give him the universal sign for "Just wait a minute."
Temperature stops at 10˚. I point. Husband mutters: Your car’s wrong.]
Me: Okay, maybe not 8˚, but I was still closer than you were.
Husband: Yeah, one degree closer.
Me: I said it was 8˚, you said it was 14˚, how is 10 one degree closer? Is this how you do math in Canadia? (He loves it when I call it Canadia.)
Husband: It’s about how you figure out, not whether the answer is right or not.
Only Daughter [in back seat][did I mention Only Daughter was with us?] It’s dropped to 9!
Husband: Okay, now you’re one and a half degrees closer.
[Temperature drops to 7˚]
Me: Okay, NOW who’s closer?
Husband: I’m on a horse.
(It seems weird that we were at a hockey game last night, but Only Daughter’s youth choir was singing the national anthem, and we were still in town until this morning, and I think Dad would want us to keep on living, and laughing. Not sure how he would have felt about the gaps in Husband’s logic — even Only Daughter wanted to know what Husband being on a horse had to do with anything, especially since, clearly, he was not.)
If it doesn’t make you smile there’s something wrong with you.
Stole Found this at http://adpitch.wordpress.com/2012/06/20/coca-cola-cctv/#comment-800
Thanks for sharing!
(Husband says it just proves that I’m a sap. I say it’s the same thing.)
I cry every single time I see this.
Every. Single. Time.
Even Kias, the ultimate “family” car.
Am I the only one who’s tired of women’s bodies being used to sell EVERYTHING? I guess it’s supposed to be acceptable because he’s “only” dreaming, and he “rescues” his wife from the handsome interloper on the white horse at the end.
But still, what does this
have to do with owning a midsize sedan?
I know, I know, it’s advertising, the whole point of which is to convince us that if we buy this thing or use this shampoo we will be sexy and desirable;
(just look at the adoration with which she is gazing at him as he drives away in his stodgy-white-middle-aged-man car)
but I’M SO TIRED of women’s bodies being the primary selling point.
Besides, the premise is ridiculous. You’re a pasty-faced, middle-aged, middle class worker bee. She’s just not that into you.
I guess I could be comforted by the fact that the rest of this man-fantasy involves a giant sub sandwich and Motley Crue signaling their approval as he drives through their performance arena (likethatwouldeverhappen); and then some cowboy riding a rhino. . .a little bizarre, but logical in some kind of a surreal way.
I know, I should stop being such a feminist fuddy-duddy. Or maybe I should just stop watching television.
Read this, and watch the clips.
Take a good look at the young woman who is faulted for having “too big” of hips.
And then refuse to buy a single magazine with an underage, emaciated, and/or exploited female model in it.
Who knows, it might actually make a difference.
As Husband points out, girls make up 51% of the population.
How hard does one really need to look?
And am I the only one who’s offended by the use of the phrase “on the hunt”? Like for rabbits?
And what do you suppose the criteria is which one must meet in order to “represent the FOX Sports Detroit brand”?
Oh, never mind.
Started snowing at 9 a.m. yesterday and was still snowing when I went to bed.
Here is what greeted us when we awoke this morning.
So the heart is hiding the kiss, and the star is hiding. . .? Is it possible that no one in editing noticed that this was a little strange?
Reporting on the primary in Nevada included a photo from a “Pimping for (Ron) Paul” event. Seems like maybe Mr. Paul would ask them to please, maybe, come up with a different name? Or is he being ironic? I guess it’s possible that some politicians recognize that they are, basically, ahem, selling themselves to the highest bidder sotospeak. Maybe we should congratulate him on his honesty.
Speaking of honesty, do you trust this face?
Meh. Me, neither.
Dexter Dog loves peanut butter in his Kong, but I have a real problem with a) paying the boutique prices to buy it in those fancy spray cans and b) putting a knife back into a jar of peanut butter after having stuck it, peanut-butter-laden, into the center of the toy that my dog has licked the previous peanut butter out of. So, we bought Dexter Dog his own peanut butter. As part of my “Truth in Advertising” campaign:
Also, it’s January 11. Even the 12 days of Christmas were over 5 days ago. Unless you’re having a party, and we’re all invited, take down your Christmas lights.
I always wonder if these are the same people who were shopping for presents and listening to carols in October, or their “opposite.”
(Sorry about the previous one — I thought I had saved it to drafts while I tried to figure out what was wrong with the inserted graphic. Apparently it published itself. Imagine my surprise.)
Had taken a vow of electronic silence, but a couple things have come up today that I just can’t resist posting about.
First: Truth In Labeling
Good to know.
This made me curious, so I looked a little further:
Sheesh. Are we really this stupid?
In an “are we really this stupid”-related story, I ran across this article in last Sunday’s New York Times, about a woman and what she wore day by day as she went through her week. Apparently she’s quite wealthy, and philanthropic, and stylish, so, as my husband posits, we’re supposed to care.
Is this, really, “All the News That’s Fit to Print”? Or maybe, just a little more.
We decided that this was a good day to take Dexter for a walk. He does pretty well with his leash when we take him out to go “potty,” and we took him for a short walk yesterday, and after a little resistance he had trotted along quite happily. Not so today. By the time we realized that he really was quite overwhelmed and was not going to take a step of his own free will he had damaged the bottom of 3 of his 4 little paws, and is limping around all gingerly and pathetic. I feel absolutely terrible, but I’m also a little irritated, because his feet seem to feel fine enough when he wants to sniff the wheelbarrow, chew branches, and chase his purple monkey around the kitchen, but are apparently too sore for him to bear the leaves and stones when we take him out to pee. Does it say something about me that I’m always quite convinced that I’m being manipulated by a 10-week old puppy who looks like a cross between an Ewok and a baby polar bear? (Cynical, party of one.)
Anyway, the guilt is almost more than I can bear. I’m a terrible person.
But I still don’t care what Muffie wore, or to wear she wore it.
This is getting ridiculous.
Black Friday is now Black Thursday evening, and my husband saw people camped out in tents, on concrete LAST night outside a Best Buy.
Maybe it’s some kind of a joke.
Apparently this started like 12 days ago.
Didn’t the whole “Black Friday” thing originate as something to do on a long holiday weekend when you just couldn’t force yourself to eat yet another turkey sandwich or have another
raving argument conversation with your über-conservative brother-in-law? What about Thanksgiving? You know, friends, family, dry white meat, dressing that the kids will complain about (is that celery?), cooking a meal for 6 hours that takes everyone 10 minutes to eat, nobody wanting to do the dishes?
Brad Tuttle, writing for Time, suggests that perhaps Best Buy is paying them.
I guess that makes sense.
I think it all just makes us look that much more greedy and materialistic.
We refused on principle by buying our new TV yesterday.* That’ll show ‘em.
* (the 2nd Olevia died a couple months ago — anybody know how I can get a piece of some class action lawsuit against this terrible company?)
And for your enjoyment, in honor of this family-based holiday: Ze Frank on Scrabble
There’s an ad much like this along the highway between my work and home (except it’s a really skinny girl with large breasts in a blue and white striped bikini, but I can’t find it online and I’m not inclined to take a picture with my cell phone while hurtling down the road at 70mph).
And I can never help but wonder about the OTHER non-invasive way to lose unwanted bulges — you know, eating healthfully and getting regular exercise?
Too much like work I guess.
Here are some of the before and after pictures:
Maybe it’s just me, but I can’t really see all that much difference, and certainly not enough to spend thousands of dollars on something I could accomplish by having one glass of wine with dinner instead of two and taking a 30 minute walk 5 days a week.
I certainly don’t see the miracle results implied by the billboard. I guess they don’t show a “before” so they’re not actually lying to us.
In my travels, I ran across this image, presumably of a woman before and after the coolsculpting (or some other plastic surgery) procedure.
Yeah, I’m totally convinced.
So, I blogged a few days ago about buying a couch.
On Tuesday, my husband and I went to get it.
We were very excited.
We brought it home, carried it into the house, unwrapped it from the sheets of foam, discovered that the legs were cleverly hidden inside a zippered pouch underneath, assembled it, and put it into place.
It looked very nice.
I arranged the pillows we had bought for it, and we stepped back to admire.
I then went into the kitchen to start preparations for my piano class, and Husband carried the sheets of foam to the dumpster after wrestling the old couch down to Second Son’s bedroom.
Twenty minutes later Husband was walking through the living room, and Sophie, our tiny Siamese, jumped down off the couch. He heard a ripping sound, and went over to look. One of her back claws had ripped a series of scratches/holes through what we had thought was leather to the polyester backing underneath.
Three important things have been learned this week:
“Bonded leather,” despite the similarity of the name to “leather,” is not.
Here’s the description of the couch from the Worldmarket website:
Here’s a description of “bonded leather” from Wikipedia:
I don’t suppose this is a commentary on the American family, and “daily family use” implies a family who won’t ever sit on the couch because they’re so busy volunteering at their local homeless shelter, raking their neighbor’s leaves and/or studying for their MBA?
WorldMarket apparently manipulates the comments/reviews portion of their website.
I wrote this review, on Tuesday, the 18th, on their website:
Your Rating: 1 stars
Headline: DO NOT BUY THIS COUCH
Cons : Tears Easily
Describe Yourself : Midrange Shopper
This couch was in our house for 30 minutes and had 4 scratches through the “leather” to the polyester underneath, a result of our 9 lb. Siamese cat jumping off it once. (She’s not “Wolverine.”) We were told on the phone that this does not qualify as “daily use,” and that they probably won’t be able to give us our money back.
Don’t be fooled — Bonded Leather is not leather, but a fancy name for cheap, useless vinyl. Am so upset I probably won’t buy anything from World Market for a long time.
This is the ONLY review of this couch on their website, also submitted on the 18th, which just appeared today:
You can be comforted by the possibility that they didn’t completely disregard my review. I noticed yesterday that items which, the day before we had bought the couch, had been described as “leather” are now labelled as “bicast leather” (another form of leather “product” that isn’t, really, leather). So apparently, the reviews come in handy for them to make sure they cover their proverbial a$&es in how they describe their items.
Store managers are a lot more willing to take returns when you talk to people at the corporate office.
And one thing, which I always knew, but apparently forgot:
If it sounds too good to be true, it probably is.
On a happy note, we found a beautiful Italian leather couch at a local furniture store which has been dramatically reduced, albeit still ~ 5 times what we paid for this plastic one, and which we can order in our choice of leather colors. I’ve always wanted a purple leather couch, and this is a gorgeous purple — not Barney purple, or Grape Nehi purple, but the color of a glass of a rich French burgundy wine.
This may end up being our Christmas present to each other.
The only bad part of it is, Husband has to wrestle the old couch back up to the living room for 8-10 weeks while we wait for the dream couch to arrive.
Received in the mail yesterday, a rather ominous and official looking notice.
REQUEST FOR ACTION – IMPORTANT VEHICLE INFORMATION ENCLOSED
WARNING: $2,000 FINE 5 YEARS IMPRISONMENT OR BOTH FOR ANY PERSON INTERFERING OR OBSTRUCTING WITH DELIVERY OF THIS LETTER
This must be serious. Another recall? More problems?
They’re selling me insurance.
First of all, shouldn’t there be some kind of a fine for pretending that your letter is delivering some kind of crucial or life-threatening information?
Secondly, do they really think that, now that they’ve manipulated me and/or treated me like I’m an intellectually-challenged four year old, I’m going to buy insurance from them?
Am I missing something? What’s unexpected about this? A dark-haired, blue-eyed, attractive man in a suit jacket in front of a darkened city skyline advertising men’s cologne. Are they being subtle/subtly clever, and whatever we imagine this is supposed to be what’s unexpected?
I don’t think so. I think that’s giving them too much credit.
And then there’s this one:
As you can see, the ad is touting their “quality” service, of such high quality that it will surpass even your highest expectations; I imagine this service comes at a price. I can’t help but wonder how much extra it costs for a seat inside the plane.
In my quest for that one, I found this one:
*Look how hard the poor girl has to work to stick out her “hip.”
I actually was a little disturbed the other day, as I was reading the front page section of last Sunday’s New York Times. On one side of the crease: Egypt’s Military Leader Testifies at Mubarak Trial, Bahrain Vote Erupts in Violence, Libyan Fighters Renew Attack on Qaddafi’s Hometown — facing page, find your magic in an extensive selection of Bella Bleu by Effy diamond and sapphire rings; next page: Monitoring Rights in Chechen Region, a Month at a Time — on same and facing page, Circa will take your unwanted diamonds off your hands and Macy’s will help you find your magic, yet again, this time through their Top Ten Origins skin-care products.
I can’t help but wonder if maybe we’re all just a little bit more than spoiled.
On the way to a rehearsal the other night, Only Daughter in the back seat as there would be no one at home with her, NPR is reporting on the new Kindle Fire® and we’re passing a homeless man with his walker and scraggly beard and cardboard sign. Only Daughter commented on how sad this juxtaposition made her feel, and wanted me to go back that way and give him the rest of her tuna salad and crackers but I would be late, and on the way home more than an hour later, so I didn’t.
I think I should have. I wish I would have. I wish I would have handed them over when we went by the first time, even if the green light at that ramp is only 10 seconds long and the drivers of the 25 cars in line behind me would have been ticked off and honking.
In a not-really-related story, Second Son has come back for his first weekend home since college started with “only” 2 loads of laundry (he’s learned, now that he’s paying for it himself, that he can actually wear something more than once) and the news that a) he’s perfectly fine using the community bathrooms (he’s a bit of a germaphobe/borderline OCD hand-washer) and b) he’s a rabid sports fan; but just for his college team. Husband: “The indoctrination starts early.” Something extra for all those tuition and room-and-board dollars.
If you actually vote for this guy.
I don’t know which is scarier: that someone actually thought this ad might be convincing of Rick Perry’s suitability for president, or the fact that I’m quite sure there are many MFA’s watching this, nodding their heads, saying things like “Yeah, son” or “Right on.”
Subtle it’s not — the horses! The waving flags!
I think I’m going to be sick.
Did anyone else notice this at the US Open?
An undesirable urge between Games to go out and buy a Mercedes?
Branding, branding everywhere.
The latest: on college campuses. The two noted culprits in a recent NY Times article: American Eagle and Target.
University of North Carolina vice chancellor Winston B. Crisp, commenting on the clothing retailer American Eagle paying people to wear company T-shirts and to “volunteer” to help freshman move into their dorm rooms : “They are not supposed to be using the opportunity to help people move in as a way of forwarding commercial ventures.” This spoken while he’s STANDING NEAR THE CASH REGISTERS AT TARGET while upperclassmen hand out free Vitamin Water and miscellaneous snacks to students who have been BUSED IN FOR FREE to a university-sponsored midnight “event” at a local Target store.
One presumes he spoke without irony, although the reporter of the article doesn’t weigh in on that.
In one of the most blatant examples of spin I’ve heard recently, employees such as T-shirt clad movers are referred to as “brand ambassadors.” There are also such jobs available for companies such as HP, where part of your job is to plant yourself in a prominent location with your HP laptop and engage those around you in casual conversation, while working in positive references to your
hardware computer equipment.
(Phew. Glad I caught that. For a minute there I sounded like I was talking about Ladies’ Night at the local pub. Or was I. . .?)
And then we have what might be one of the most
stupidest naive people left on the planet: “When you know that the company is not just there to get your money, they’re actually willing to, like, help you as an individual in whatever way possible, it makes you respect them a lot more. . . I’m definitely going to give American Eagle, like, a second thought when I go by next time.” This spoken by 20-year old Kiley Pontrelli, who volunteered along with her sorority to help the American Eagle employees help freshman move in.
Yeah, you’re probably right, Kiley. AE just wants to, like, help.
Taking female competitiveness to a new level, and yours for only $198, not only do you appear to be elegantly and effortlessly “put together,” but you will revel in the memories of being a pampered infant where your every needs were met and no one expected more from you than to babble, drool, smile occasionally, and poop on a regular basis.
Oh, and everyone else is, apparently, em-bar-ass-ingly naked, making you, in comparison, not only better dressed, but not evidently “cuckoo.”
What more does a person need from a sweater?
The real problem is, it’s kind of a pretty sweater, and they have some other very lovely, interesting things, but this kind of behavior just can’t be encouraged.
Or is it more something like this?
I posted about this just the other day, but now it’s getting even weirder.
My dentist wants me to “like” him on facebook.
I guess I could look at it as a member of a misunderstood and unappreciated profession trying to redeem himself — “I’m likable, really I am!” — as no one really seems to like to go to the dentist, myself included. And even if I liked him, (which I don’t, really, I barely know him), does that mean I have to “like” him?
(In a barely related story, I actually think dentistry is quite possibly one of the most ingenious scams ever visited upon mankind, as a dentist can tell you, for example, that your child has “suspicious” areas on his or her teeth which really should be tended to, as the dentist points at ambiguous gray spots on your child’s Xrays that look an awful lot like a lot of other spots on other of your child’s teeth on the Xrays, and you nod sagely [the emperor has no clothes] and agree because god forbid you look stupid or be an inadequate parent and cynically refuse to take care of your child’s teeth.
I also think that dental insurance has been the one of the worst things that could happen to the average consumer – have any of you been given a reduced rate for procedures because you don’t have insurance? They try to spin this as aren’t-they-considerate-they-are-giving-you-a-break, but it seems to be more like stores that mark their goods up 25% and then have a 15% off sale. Some insurance companies are countering the possibility that they’re being scammed by limiting what they’re willing to pay for a given procedure, but the last two dentists I’ve dealt with merely passed the excess on to me.)
What I really see it as, (remember what “it” was?), is a perversion of what most of us understand to be facebook’s “mission,”* and a descent into rampant and shameless self-promotion/advertising. You know how most people can’t stand to watch network TV anymore, because for every 19.3 minutes of “entertainment” (and I’m using that term loosely, considering the state of 99.99999% of what’s on television) you have to slog through 11.7 minutes of commercials? Pretty soon we won’t be able to check what our barely-acquaintances are eating for dinner without paging through 3 pages of status updates from our dentists, acupuncturists, internists, and the postman.
Do you think, if I do “like” them on facebook, they’ll at least stop scamming/overcharging me?
*Have any of you actually seen facebook’s mission statement? Maybe I’m missing the point entirely, and it was just to make a boatload of money, in which case it’s not a perversion at all.
So, I’m on the Weather Channel website, tracking the big storms moving through the midwest while we sit under threatening skies, and my step daughter drives through another cell of storms north of Chicago.
On the right of the page I notice this woman:
with the advertising tag “How to Sleep Through The Night.”
Naturally, I’m curious about what a woman with ginormous breasts has to tell me about this, as, I imagine, any normal person would be.
No sign of HER anywhere.
I feel cheated, and ashamed.
In retaliation I’m going to show THEM and not read the article.
Here’s “Emily” before using ReJuv’s miracle-working face cream:
And here’s “Emily” after:
If you’re interested, you can click on either picture to get directly to the webpage.
Another benefit of this miracle-working cream, one which is not disclosed on the label, is that it apparently also changes the user’s eye color.
An invitation to my newly opened “core” club
No “initiation” fees, no membership fee. You’re welcome to bring your gadgets, but please don’t “talk” on them while talking to me. I’ll feed you, make you coffee, share our latest under-$7.99/bottle wine discovery, and even do the dishes afterwards. You can dry, but only if you want to. I might commiserate over facial blemishes, but only if they are actually visible under natural light. If you are taking your family to any exotic country via your own private Gulfstream, I will NOT commiserate about the difficulties of modern travel. Your difficulties are not mine. I just flew coach, had someone’s chair back resting on my forehead all the way over the Atlantic, and was asked please not to use the bathroom in the middle of the plane anymore.
I can’t help but wonder if you or your spouse or your parents or whoever has earned all this money you apparently have, if any of you have actually done anything worthwhile for society. Some kind of contribution — cured cancer, invented a clean alternative energy source, taught first graders how to read. Somehow I doubt it.
I guess I shouldn’t be so hasty to judge. Some of the more exclusive clubs do go to great lengths to make sure you don’t have to stoop so low as to pop your own pimple. They will apparently even run out and buy your favorite beer at the corner store if one of their bartenders is a victim of his own bad judgment and they run out (I wonder what the price differential for that turns out to be; anybody want to guess? And I guess, once you earn a certain amount of money, it’s unreasonable to GO TO THE STORE YOURSELF).
But really, those luxuries are really just your rights once you are earning, on average, $13 million a year. Not really that much more than the rest of us. Last year, for example, I made how much you make in, just a minute, I have to get out my calculator. . . .hmmm, like a day and a half or something. Not really that far at all.
Whatever. We won’t run out for your favorite beer, but in the summer we usually have a few Coronas in the fridge, and a couple kinds we made ourselves in the basement — right now I think there are Viennese lager and a stout, but I might be wrong. There is a cat. She sheds, and is a little evil, but she’s very cuddly, and most people aren’t allergic.
There’s also a snake (in a tank in my daughter’s room), and, well, full disclosure requires that I point out that there are also a couple children. And a fish. But I have two tomato plants that the deer haven’t eaten yet, and the basil looks like it might do something this year, and the light, about 45 minutes before sunset, when it slants through the trees behind the house, is quite lovely.
I might ask if I can try on your Manolo Blahniks, since I really like shoes, and could never spend that much on a pair. Plus I have wide feet, and a bad back, so I probably won’t steal them or anything. But you’re probably privileged, and entitled, and snooty, and I’m generally intolerant of all of those things, so maybe it’s better if you just go to your club and I’ll just stay home.
Never mind. Sorry to bother you.
Oh, and NYTimes, what’s up with the “precious” writing? “. . .honeyed streaks conjured by some magician at Frédéric Fekkai”? “It was the handbag that told the story, of course, as a handbag often does”? Seriously? I can’t tell if I’m reading an article, or ad copy. I expect better from you. Please try harder.
So I’m enjoying a quiet day at home, after a couple weeks of extreme busy-ness and yesterday’s Great Strawberry Project, (which involved picking and processing more than 30 lbs of strawberries,) leafing through the Sunday New York Times Magazine reading about the imminent demise of the lightbulb and looking for the crossword puzzle, when I encounter page 59, “Luxury Property Showcase.”
First offer is “The Bellingrath on Peachtree” –
Located in Atlanta’s epicenter, eight stunning 7,000+sf four-story residences, including private garden courtyards & terraces, 12′ ceilings, dramatic atrium stairwells, highest quality appliances and state-of-the-art security, starting at a reasonable $1,800,000. According to the “lots available/sold” graphic on the website, there are still some available, so remember the adage that he who hesitates is lost. If only it weren’t one of eight; it’s quite unreasonable to be expected to spend that kind of money to live in a house that looks just like seven others; kind of like wearing the same dress as someone else to the Oscars.
Next we have Old-World luxury meeting modern lifestyle made manifest in an Italian Cabinet Masters custom-built 6500 sf home, with European elegance demonstrated by its marble floors and custom mahogany “appointments,” (as in doctor’s? dentist? psychiatrist?) and including spectacular views of the Great South Bay (in Bay Shore/Islip, wherever that is). As if that isn’t enough to set your real-estate salivary glands adrool, it’s also a “nautical dream,” with 540′ of bulkhead, boat slips, jet ski lifts AND a heated pool and spa. All this can be yours for a mere $2,400,000.
What the ad doesn’t mention, but is included on the website, is the fact that there is also an indoor waterfall. Almost enough to make you overlook the fact that the house appears to be three separate houses which have, perhaps as a result of global warming, melted together.
I’ll skip over the details of the listings for East Islip/The Moorings (the South Shore’s “most exclusive gated community” [got to keep out the riff-raff, you know -- like those people who pay less than a million five for their homes], and “closer than the Hamptons,” which allows you to be “on year-long holiday,” $3,400,000) and Newport, Rhode Island’s “Fairholme” (4+ acres, carriage house, Horace Trumbauer ballroom and staff wing [the indoor version of the gated community; wouldn't want them using your toilet or anything], $17,900,000) to get to. . .
A “Classic Estate” adjacent to the Arizona Biltmore Hotel — 6-bedroom, French Country manor with guest house, 14,000 sf, stunning wine cellar, indoor and outdoor fireplaces, outdoor kitchen, swimming pool and 4-car garage. Was $14,000,000, recently reduced to $10,000,000. Details can be viewed at http://www.mansions4less.com. I’m not making this up.
Looking for a hotel to book in Pisa, and ran across one of the shortest and most descriptive explanations of a hotel I’ve ever read, from Rick Steves’ Italy book: “Hotel Villa Kinzica, with 30 tired but decent rooms and indifferent management is just steps away from the Field of Miracles.”
Almost makes me want to stay there just to see what “tired but decent” means exactly. The pictures look nice.
Tags: Blatz, cocaine tooth drops, cream of wheat, dolce & gabbana, hoover, lane bryant, midol, misogyny, Motorola, offensive advertising, skechers, skol, stupid Christmas presents for women
A friend of mine with a unique sense of humor sent me a link of old advertising clips for my amusement.
I laughed a little, but mostly felt a kind of sick horror, like how one feels when passing a car that’s upside down in the median, wheels still spinning, or on the shoulder surrounded by fire trucks and ambulii and stretchers.
They seem to fall into a few very distinct categories.
Aren’t We Glad We Know Better
So what if the alcohol consumption interferes with their ability to learn to read later, or to form emotional attachments; at least we can count on those pesky little critters to sleep through the night!
It’s hard to know for sure, since when I zoom in it gets quite blurry, but I believe the claims include that it will help you get your homework done properly, AND strengthen family ties. What’s not to like?
Of course we don’t really know if the ingredients help cure your toothache, but you’re so flippin’ high, who cares?
What We Didn’t Realize We Wanted
Yeah, because my primary concern when I’m suffering from the myriad adverse physical affects of PMS is whether I’m GOOD TO BE AROUND.
Sorry; I’m so offended I have absolutely nothing to say. Those of you who know me well will probably be flummoxed by this, but I’m flummoxed by that.
And then we have the best-represented category of all:
Women’s primary objective is to appear to be sexually appealing to you (men) while performing her housewifely duties
(ugh; I’m feeling a little queasy)
The answer to your question, honey, is that you’re actually a lazy whimp, and I am enervated by the smell of dust and burning bacon.
Seriously? Is anyone believing this crap? She WON’T be happier with a Hoover, she’d be happier with a man who could get off his fat lazy ass and pick up some of the potato chip crumbs he’s managed to scatter around himself while watching Monday Night Football. How did man survive the 1950s? If I’d have been there, there would have been some serious trouble.
(Gag.) O, but look how happy they both are; this must be true.
First of all, could this BE more patronizing? Cry a little? Just a little? What are we, five?
And secondly, um, no.
Try these instead:
And then there’s this one. Inexplicable.
Praise be we all know so much better now.
But wait, it gets better.
On the back label:
“Go ahead and throw a Tempra Tantrum tonight by drinking in the passion, flavor, style, and emotion that embodies modern Spain. As a new generation global vintner, I love to blend international varietals with the quintessentially Spanish Tempranillo grape for a wine that is vibrant, plush, and in a word — sexy. I have a passion for innovative winemaking, and my 2008 Tempranillo/Grenache is crafted from my family’s low-yielding vineyards in a modern New World style. Critics call it a “Best Value,” but I call it an expression of my life.”
Now I’m not saying there was anything wrong with the wine — it was actually quite delicious — one might even say “vibrant,” although I’m not sure I agree with “plush.” And sexy? What makes a wine sexy? I guess if I drink enough. . . (at first I wrote “I guess if I have drink enough.” I guess that means I have.)
But the self-consciously self-promoting rhetoric is perhaps laid on a bit thick to go with my Greek burger and sweet potato fries, although it wasn’t bad with the Lindt dark-chocolate-with-a-touch-of-sea-salt.
The conversation at dinner went something like this.
Husband: I can’t read this label without my glasses.
Me: I’ll read it.
Husband: You can’t read that.
I read it.
Husband: But the wine’s really good; I’m going back tomorrow to buy a case.
Me: But that will only encourage him!
I don’t get this ad.
Is this supposed to make me want to go there?
It’s a naked woman in a cage.
First of all, she’s way prettier than I am, which means my husband will be looking at her instead of me.
Secondly, she’s in a cage.
I’d rather see the amenities, the beach, maybe a picture or two of the cabana boys.
Check this out. That’s WAY better
Got a catalog in the mail the other day — no surprise there. But it’s for bras. And the name of the company is “Bounce.”
This doesn’t stop making me smile.
I was reading the New York Times after a particularly long day and I encountered a Versace ad that I wanted to post — 2 vacant-eyed women, apparently starving. Lacking even the strength to hold their mouths closed.
Alas, the ad is not to be found online, and I’m afraid if I try to scan it it won’t show up well, as it is in black and white.
(October 10: found it!):
I did find myself on a trip through the strangely-thematic surreal. Let me share some of the landmarks along the way.
Firstly, we have women disguising the fact that they are naked by hiding behind their voluminous handbags:
I think her handbag may weigh more than she does; she also looks as if she may be inside the handbag; then again, I may be wrong.
There also seems to be a theme where we are apparently supposed to be noticing the woman’s shoe as she is stepping into her clothing. This photo spread kills the proverbial two birds, by having her hide one of her (naked) legs behind her purse while stepping into her dress with the other leg. And look! she’s managed to accomplish her task, and is now fully clothed in the picture on the right. Good for her.
Now I don’t know about how models do it, but I tend to put my shoes on last, and have not usually picked up my purse until after the belt is on. Maybe it’s just me.
Then we have the group shots.
I’m not even going to presume what the women on the left are doing, but the one in the middle looks like she’s trying to work in her workout during the shoot, (poor lunging form, btw), Stephanie has longer legs than I am tall, and Claudia really needs to pee. Maybe we could take 5?
Now how about the men.
My son plays a game with pictures of his band on facebook called “what is ____ looking at?” Maybe there’s a giant spider on the floor or something. But do any of us know any men who would do this willingly? I guess they’re pretty well paid, but does that make them “prostitutes”? I can’t really figure out what market Versace is trying to reach with this one, but I guess that’s their marketing department’s problem.
Nothing wrong with this one; at least not as far as I can tell, although I’m not sure what we’re supposed to make of the hands in underwear/handcuffs. Hmmm. . .
So what are we supposed to make of this?
This just makes me want to cry.
Men get to be strong, muscular, virile; women are wisps, hiding behind our handbags, not allowed to go to the bathroom.
This commercial just came on: Symbicort to treat your asthma symptoms.
Warning: “Taking Symbicort may increase your risk of dying from asthma-related symptoms.”
Why do taxicabs have their phone numbers written on the outside of their cars? If you see one drive by and you’re standing on the street, you’re not going to call them on the phone — you’re going to hold your arm up and yell “taxi.” If you see one drive by and you’re in a car, you’re already in a car. What are you going to do, say to your husband/girlfriend/child, “Oh, never mind, I can call that cab. Just leave me here by the side of the road.”
I’m looking and looking online to post a picture of Jamie Bochert in Marc Jacobs sunglasses in the newest edition of Vogue. No luck.
Needless to say, I just don’t get it.
She looks okay here:
but in almost every other picture I find of her she looks like a man
or like she wants to be in Kiss
or like the Wicked Witch of the West.
Forget about looking for women with normal bodies, shouldn’t models at least be attractive? She frightens me.
Maybe it’s just me.