Phone cam round-up

An admirable full disclosure effort

Either a Poltergeist moment or a television that has behaved very badly

Alternative foundation display

Among other things, yes, I am!

Coffee machine that longs to one day become a boombox

Or FOUND COCKTAIL in another universe

Did the Slinky beget Hope Springs or vice versa? Fishing license, please.

Table for one

Gypsy Rose clothing will make you look like this ...

... housecoats from Kmart will make you look like this.

Dazzling jewelry display at the discount grocery

Voort+man=the world's most disturbing name for a cookie

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Correspondence from mother to daughter

Your humble hostess received the following correspondence from her mother at 12:22 p.m EST on June 6 in the Year Of Our Lord, 2011:

Hi you wonderful person,

Here is the address of the bra that I was talking about:
geniebra.com

The broads on the infomercial have big boobs and they look great in it.

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The world has a lot of reasons to love the Mom of O'Brien.

Hi Mom!

The gently used piece of tinfoil

Behold the gently used piece of tinfoil.

"Gently used" refers to bits of tinfoil (and yes, while at a party last weekend, I was looking for a bit of tinfoil to cover a piece of cake to take home to the Goat and, when I inquired, "do you have a piece of tinfoil?"I was met with the guffaws of at least one guest who informed me that tinfoil hadn't been made from tin in decades, to which I responded that I knew tinfoil is actually aluminum foil, but I call it tinfoil anyway and then I went on to search the drawer next to the icebox before retrieving my pocketbook, which was on the davenport, and setting out for home) that are used, but not used to capacity. Most people would simply throw such an item away, but I do not allow a gently used piece of tinfoil to go gentle into that goodnight.

The tinfoil pictured herein was initially used to cover a rectangular container onto which a grater fits. Having used the grater to grate cheddar cheese (for addition to mashed potatoes), and having intentionally grated extra (for my daughter to sprinkle on top of her cheddar mashed potatoes despite the cheese already in the potato dish), but having grated even more than she prefers, some grated cheddar remained in the container, which I duly covered with a piece of tinfoil.

Since the container is fairly deep, the tinfoil did not contact the leftover cheese. Hence, when I removed it to use the cheese in the composition of a grilled ham and cheddar sandwich a day or two later, I examined the foil, deemed it reusable, and set it aside.

The rest of the story has yet to play out, but is obvious enough. This piece of tinfoil will hang around for a day or two, irritating the hell out of me because, although it is obviously not a piece of trash, it looks like a piece of trash on the counter. Eventually, I'll get fed up with the situation and violently crumple the foil into a ball while muttering to myself, JeSUS enough already, and toss it into the trash.

The sad inevitable truth will unfold in the following several minutes, or maybe an hour. Either the Goat will wander in and ask for a piece of tinfoil to scrub the grill (As is abundantly apparent, I've got plenty of problems of my own. Ask him if you want details on how to use tinfoil to scrub your grill), or a leftover chicken leg will be relieved of its meat rendering it ready for discard, or some other use for a gently used piece of tinfoil will present itself. (I should duly note that, although I will happily wrap a gnawed chicken bone in a gently used piece of tinfoil and then discard it, I would never use a new piece of tinfoil for this purpose.) I wish things were different, but they are not. Life is this way and it will always be this way.

Thusly, I succumb.

* * *

A message from Princess Erin of Shitkanistan

I am moved to found a new country. I shall name it Shitkanistan.

In my new country of Shitkanistan, everyone will drink sauerkraut juice and wear comfortable shoes. Gooseliver and onion sandwiches will be popular. Women will wear men's socks and large competent brassieres.

Shitkanistanians shall be tolerant people. If the hockey people want to come over and throw octopuses around, they shall be welcome to do so. If Sarah Palin travels to our shores, the National Choir of Shitkanistan shall sing a stirring rendition of the Shitkanistan National Anthem upon her arrival. Then we shall offer her heaping platters of jellied pigs' feet and pickled eggs.

I shall name the capitol Rublinka. I shall live in the shining city of Rublinka, in a great palace with one hundred onion-shaped roofs, each swirled in shimmering stripes of gold and scarlet and azure blue.

Shitkanistanians shall enjoy certain entitlements, wondrous parks through which our swaddled tots may run and play, public steam rooms and mud baths, and free hair removal kits and breath lozenges.

Your Loyal Royal Hostess,

Princess Erin of Shitkanistan

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Cold and creamy

I am one of the last American women who uses cold cream. The store didn't have Pond's, so I bought Suave. I don't care. It's cold cream for chrissake.

I'm not going to tell you what I do with it. Me and the other seven women who still use cold cream are going to stay all mysterious about our cold cream secrets. We think it makes us sexy in a Playtex-18-Hour-Cross-Your-Heart bra kind of way.

For more important historical information about cold cream and how it defies radioactive dirt, I invite my readers to view this concise and entertaining footage:

A new bra day

I'm buying a big bra.

I want a big bra that's white with panels and thick straps and with a row of five hooks up the back. I don't care.

I want a bra that says "lock down." You buy a bra like this? You're talking containment device. Nothing's getting in or out of this baby without approval from management.

I remember when you used to buy bras in the basement of Halle's in the "Foundations" department where they had dubiously masculine women of a certain age who wore Sensible Shoes and would help you with "fittings." Those broads knew bras.

"You need support in the cup area," they'd say while hefting either of your boobs in their hands. And believe me, when you walked out of there, you had support in the cup area, baby.

I'm sick of trying to muscle these beauties into some tiny cocktail candy-ass jewelry bra that isn't even a bra. It's a string with some lace and I'm done dealing with anything like that.

Look at this silly bra with the beads. On the outside chance that I could fit one boob in there, I'd probably get all tangled with beads stuck in my armpit. I'd never get that bead-holder thingie around my neck the right way. I'd be getting all sweaty and frustrated, then my boob would pop out. It's dumb. The Sensible Shoe Foundation ladies didn't go bringing any bead bras like this into the fitting room.

And for those of you out there thinking, but Erin, this is clearly a boudoir bra designed to titillate and accentuate the female form, kiss my ass. When I go into the boudoir with intent. I'm not wearing any bra. I'm not wearing anything.

Big bras on sale from now on. That's it. That's who I am.