Guilty pleasures vol. nine: Lisa Robertson

Go ahead and watch the whole four and a half minutes.

Perky Bethany is the perfect foil for mama cat Lisa Robertson while she reveals three beauty buys that will turn your bathroom into a spa! I mean just watch this woman.

Behold the self deprecation ("I just turned 110"), the homoerotic overtones (falling in love with "Tatcha") and the riveting worldly mystique (an 85-year-old Geisha with perfect skin inspires an intrepid young she-entrepreneur). And all of it is perfectly delivered from the comfy confines of a snugly bathrobe.

Is that not pure genius?

Lisa's charm and humor knows no bounds. Once whilst selling a product that mitigates the dreaded heartbreak of lip color seeping into neighboring creases and wrinkles around the mouth, Lisa Robertson said, "At my age, my lipstick travels like it's got a passport." Honest to God--she said that. Why can't I say anything like that?

Lisa Robertson has more genius in her little finger than I have in my entire person.

In the clothing world of Lisa Robertson, everything is easy to wear. Trousers feature slimming details. Tunics have classic lines. All the while, values abound. Come on already, why the hell wouldn't you buy one in every color? Or three or four extras to give as gifts? After all, who doesn't need a flattering cardigan that's so goddamn easy to wear?

Last night, I watched Lisa Robertson hawking Philosophy Amazing Grace Perfumed Olive Oil Body Scrub. Why, for just three Easy Pay! Installments of $23.33 (plus tax and shipping), I can have this best-selling, classic, skin-smoothing body duo (in a soft floral fragrance) that was created to make a woman feel amazingly clean and beautifully feminine.

I am not shitting you.

Oh Lisa, I'll travel with your lipstick. I'll put my name on the waiting list. Enzyme powders, cleansing oils, sugar scrub ... I want it all and then some. Transform me into your ingénue, Lisa, and lead me through the gates of your silken cougar kingdom.

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Guilty pleasures vol. eight: Chex Mix

On occassion, the Goat will take pity on me due to a staggering work load and purchase a bag of Chex Mix, either the Cheddar or Bold Party variety. I have no experience with your Italian Herb and Parmesan, your (ahem) Cookies and Cream, or any other of the myriad Chex Mix flavors (although I admit I am intrigued by the Jalepeno Cheddar offering).

The pretzels inside packaged Chex Mix are simply dreadful. The "mini breadsticks" are unremarkable at best. I don't mind the rye chips in the Bold mix, but the real reason anyone eats Chex Mix is the Chex themselves. All that revolting chemical flavoring inundates the lattice work of each Chex bit and the result is a perverse junk food nirvana.

No one will argue that the boldness/cheddarness/saltiness of commercial Chex Mix has diminished over the years. Even so, the Chexiness of Chex Mix persists; and when there is a bag of the miserable stuff in the house, I am reduced to a shaking junkie, waking in the middle of the night to creep down the stairs and paw through the Chex Mix bag, cherry picking the devilish little squares, then returning to my nuptial bed amid the lingering scent of cheese powder.

So kill me already.

I avoid packaged Chex Mix with varying degrees of success. When I succumb, the experience is harrowing and riddled with guilt. I've even gone so far as to weigh the bag, in which only the sub-quality pretzels remain, and calculate how many calories I did not eat (See, Erin? It's not so bad.) before relegating the whole mess to the trash.

The following is a true story.

A few years ago in Sunday coupon circular, I came upon the "award winning" recipe for Buffalo Chex Mix and was intrigued much like a sex addict viewing a fresh dimpled face atop a predictable body clad in an equally predictable plaid mini kilt. My fate was sealed.

I purchased the ingredients (although I opted to omit the pretzels as all the higher quality twists seemed too large). I upped the volume of butter and hot sauce and added a few shakes of Lawry's Seasoned Salt. I followed the directions, mixing, tossing and microwaving. In the end, I had before me 10 to 12 cups of beauteous homemade Chex Mix.

It was immeasurably superior to the bagged garbage. It was crispy. It was salty. It was spicy. It was buttery. It was even wholesome--free from the noxious chemical flavorings in that nasty commercial stuff. No matter that it contained an entire package of ranch dressing mix--this was homemade!

I downed a few handfuls of my snack food Galatea, let it cool as directed, and then sealed it in a giant plastic container. I stepped into the rest of my life.

Or so I thought.

For now, dear reader, comes the terrible, terrible end, which unfurled like a hellish dream. That Chex Mix would not be denied. Chex Mix and coffee? Sure! After all, it's a bona-fide breakfast food.

Chex Mix, Chex Mix.

I'd be on my way from the upstairs to the laundry room and it would call. With Pavlovian loyalty, I'd drop the basket of clothing to retrieve a handful. Chex Mix ChexMix chexmix chexmixchexmixchexmix ...

I ate the entire mountain of the stuff in two days. By myself.

You cannot erase such a thing. You cannot correct it or reverse it. It just is. You own it. It becomes part of who you are. My only redemption in this sad story is in its singularity. Because while I have many times craved that Buffalo Chex Mix over the years, I've never made it since.

Onto today's embedded vid, which has nothing to do with the associated content ... or does it?

God give me strength.

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Holly Holy

You'll want to check the profound interpretive dance that starts at the 0.38 mark. For the bravest among us, there is further reading.

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Guilty pleasures vol. seven: Wikipedia

That I had already begun drafting this post when I casually tweeted about men excusing themselves to go see a man about a horse plays so beautifully into this guilty pleasure that I am obliged to mention it.

Because it didn't take long for someone out there in the land of responses to post a Wiki entry explaining the history of men, horses, dogs, seeing a man, and the act of relieving one's self. The link filled me with a sense of validation. To any who doubt my assertion, behold. Men really do say they gotta go see a man about a horse when they have to take a leak. 'Tis true. It says so on WIKI!

As if anyone should believe it just because some anonymous contributor entered it into Wiki.

No. Yes. Cut it out! Damn. Okay. I admit it: I cannot resist Wikipedia.

Imagine this: I am vacuous before my blinking cursor with only a formless idea languishing in my miserable brain. Eventually, I migrate to the Google text box. A few keystrokes later, Andy Capp's Hot Fries ride the Wikipedia train from Vague Memory Depot to the Station of Undeniable Relevance. Rasa von Werder transforms from a nebulous cartoon character to a copiously notable human being.

Yes Erin, there really is a connection between octopuses, the Zamboni machine and a man named Al.

Then the next hundred and fifty hours are mine and mine alone to cross check and verify, for therein lies my Wiki conundrum: Wikipedia gleefully offers these glittering jewels, but trusting them is a fool's game.

Oh despicable admission. Oh woeful lament. Oh godless plight! 

So goes the dubious love affair between Erin O'Brien, Girl Writer, and her seductively unreliable source. For the record, I've been kissing and telling on Wiki for quite a while. And if you decide to go slumming around over there, be careful. There's no telling who you might run into.

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Guilty pleasures vol. six: Steven Tyler

Come here Stevie baby and let me whisper in your ear.

I love your feathers and your big ol' stretchy mouth. I love that you wear fingernail polish and make up and sparkly clothes and tons of jewelry and still come off as being totally hetero. I love that you're 150 years old.

Kings and queens and guillotines.

Do I remember? Hell yes I remember. After all, I'm 100 years old.

I swear I cannot take my eyes from you whenever you tumble so gloriously through the electronic ether and into my living room via a magical LCD.

I love the way you call all those losers sweetheart on "American Idol." And those ensembles you wear? I should wear ensembles like that.

Sometimes I like to imagine you getting your hair done. Extensions and balayages and weaves. A clip-clip here and a clip-clip there. I like to imagine the way you regard your reflection with a studied critical eye as the obsequious stylist fusses away.

Goddamn how I dig you.

I don't think I ever loved you more, though, than when the fam and I were moving through the cavernous dusky rose portion of the queue for Disney's Rock 'n Roller Coaster and your screechy voice blasted from unseen speakers as the bovine-like crowd inched along.

Pink, it's my latest obsession.

Oh Stevie! Did you really just say that? You naughty naughty boy!

I love that your real last name is Tallarico. I love that you have a plumpo daughter and a non-plumpo daughter and that they're both famous hotties.

Hey! Wiki says that your dad was part German. So was my Mom! And your birthday is March 26. Mine is on March 31. OH MY GOD. Stevie--you Demon of Screamin' you--we are practically related.

If we, like, really knew each other, would you let me borrow some of your stuff, like, a skull necklace or one of your hats?

I so love you, baby.

*  *  *

Who do you like in the seventh?

* * *

You like people who say "great toe" instead of "big toe."

You know why you like Mrs. Robinson? You like Mrs. Robinson because she was the original cougar.

You know why you like Maggie Thatcher? You like Maggie Thatcher because she sent out the fleet.

You know why you like bunny dressage? You like bunny dressage because it's bunny dressage.

Do you like road trips ? Hell yes you like road trips.

You like guys with jumper cables and tow ropes. You like guys who drive "beaters."

You like Anderson Cooper but you don't want David Muir to know you like Anderson Cooper.

You like Charlie Sheen because ... oh yeah, you don't like Charlie Sheen.

You like birds that like goats.

You like chicks who practice Reiki and chicks who read palms. You like Wicca chicks.

You like William Shatner. You like Butterfinger Crisp bars. You don't know if William Shatner likes Butterfinger Crisp bars.

You like your adult content, but you don't want anyone to know you like your adult content.

You like Campbell's soup even though you don't like Campbell's soup.

You like alpacas. You like turtles.

Two ladies? You like two ladies. You like two ladies a lot.

You like clean sheet day but you don't like saying "clean sheet day" because it makes you sound like a reject from The Real Housewives of Dayton, Ohio.

You like guys who make a Bloody Mary with horseradish even though you don't like Bloody Marys.

You like signs.

Guilty pleasures vol. five: Ten terrible iPod admissions

Every time one of these beauties comes up on my iPod, I don't just let it play, I enjoy it. I've even been known to repeat them once or twice.

I know I'm letting you down and for that, I am sorry. But people, this is who you're dealing with.

*  *  *

1. I Think I Love You, The Partridge Family (You should know that I sing along with different lyrics.)

2. Sugar Sugar, The Archies (Pour a little sugar on it, baby? You don't have to ask twice.)

3. Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves, Cher (I swing back my mane-like hair and hold my wrist limply in front of me as I sing along to this one.)



4. Build me up Buttercup, The Foundations

5. Cherry, Cherry, Neil Diamond (But you already knew about this one.)

6. Carrie Anne, The Hollies (Baby, I know exactly what the attraction of what the older boys and prefects is, but let's keep the party polite.)



7. The Lament of the Cherokee Reservation Indian, The Raiders

8. Dizzy, Tommy Roe

9. Rollercoaster, The Ohio Players (Guilty pleasure or no guilty pleasure, the following footage is pure genius. You're welcome.)

10. Kung Fu Fighting, Carl Douglas

And oh hell, here's a bonus--and a painful, painful, painful one at that: Hungry Like the Wolf, Duran Duran

* * *

Guilty pleasures vol. four: Suze Orman

I love Suze Orman.

I am hypnotized by her white teeth and eyeballs. I'm dazzled by her orange John Boehner tan.

Have you seen the outfits this chick wears? Those shiny leather jackets. The yellows and oranges and purples. And dig the coordinated jewelry--two perfect gold drops at the ears and another at her throat. I can never figure that sort of shit out.

I totally love it when Suze calls people "girlfriend" or "boyfriend" --the way she grins and leans forward a little bit, like she's flirting, even though she hardly has any time on account of having to fit all the segments into her show. And that she flirts with everyone--chicks AND dudes--even though she's gay? I love that.

I love it when Suze talks directly to me via the camera, even though I'm not the poor schmuck who is a zillion dollars in debt, unemployed, and wants to take a $10,000 Paris vacation.

"You are DEE-NIED!"



I secretly want to be on the "How Am I Doing Segment," just so I could hear Suze give me a financial "A" and tell me I'm really fucking great. (Of course, I'd never actually go on for fear that she'd really give me a C+ or worse.)

Once Suze said this to a caller, "Get down and dirty with me, girlfriend!" with this sort of naughty look on her face and I thought that was great. Once she called a caller named Julie "Jules." Once she called a caller named Brittney "Brit."

I wonder if she'd call me "Er." I would so love that.

"Come on, Er, what do you want to buy?"

When Suze Orman talks about serious financial matters like Roth IRA's, my eyes glaze over and I stare at her hair. Her hair has so much hairspray on it, it looks like a helmet.

Shit. I need some hairspray like that.

On that "Can I Afford It" segment, I love it when Suze says, "show me the money, boyfriend!"

Suze Orman is from Illinois, but for some reason, I suspect she's part Canadian. I love that.

I love Suze Orman.

*  *  *

Guilty pleasures vol. three: Cool Whip

It would not have been difficult to prevent.

All I had to do was reach into the shopping cart and remove the offending tub in one definitive swoop. My husband (aka The Goat) had slipped it in there.

The Goat, at over six feet tall and composed mostly of muscle and goat fur, is entitled to such indulgences. Furthermore, he could eat buttered bacon every day of the week and it would not elevate his cholesterol. It's a little different for me (my cholesterol once clocked in over 350).

Nonetheless, I acted as if I didn't notice and now we have a tub of Cool Whip sitting in the fridge. What can I do?

First, I outwardly (and I daresay pathetically) protested (Cool Whip! You bought Cool Whip?) while covertly getting accustomed to the idea of it. The assimilation period quickly dissolved into wanting to dunk something into it (it's Cool Whip for chrissake).

Hello Keebler fudge striped cookie (pictured above).

While chewing same, I made the ill-advised decision to read the ingredient list, which I do not recommend. Stay instead, dear reader, within the soft soma-like cloud of don't-ask-don't-tell denial. Enjoy this "rich & creamy" treat in blissful ignorance and abandon this post now.

**spoiler alert**

This stuff is made with hydrogenated oil. It's not even partially hydrogenated. This is whole-hog hydrogenated. It's like the Titanic tanking in your aorta. On top of that, it's loaded with high fructose corn syrup. But perhaps my favorite ingredient is: "beta carotene (color)."

What?

Um, Kraft Foods? THIS SHIT IS WHITE.

None of this deterred me from eating the goddamn fudge-striped cookie/Cool Whip monstrosity (and the two that immediately followed), but a few days later I also creating a hellish "sundae" with vanilla ice cream, crushed pretzels, coffee syrup, dry-roasted peanuts and yes, a massive dollop of Cool Whip.

The worst part of it is that the Cool Whip will linger in my cabinet long after as its fatty particles have firmly attached themselves to the walls of my arteries. Being a Woman in Cleveland, I have to save the empty Cool Whip container, into which I will deposit leftover potatoes, sausage and sauerkraut to dispatch to my father-in-law, who will dutifully return the container to me.

Said too-good-to-throw-away container activity will continue for six to 12 months (or longer), until the lid suffers a massive injury (read: crack) and I can finally recycle it (although my mother has been known to use tinfoil to cover a still-good-enough-to-use Cool Whip container that has lost its lid--I have not advanced to this level yet).

And that of course brings me to the dreaded Bag Disease.

* * *

Guilty pleasures vol. one: Mark Dacascos

Guilty pleasures vol. two: I am ... I said

* * *

Guilty pleasures vol. two: I am ... I said

I have four Neil Diamond selections in my iTunes library, which admittedly does not include the song referenced in today's post title, "I am ... I said," although that may change before the day is over. Indeed, when I decided to disclose this terrible truth and tell the world that I enjoy Neil Diamond in small doses, I purchased and downloaded "Cherry Cherry" by way of celebration, which I immediately played at full volume while dancing like a pixilated go-go girl has-been in the upstairs hall. My 12-year-old peered out at the spectacle from beneath her blanket of covers, terror flashing in her eyes.

I also have two cover selections from Mr. Diamond. They include his heart-wrenching version of "Mr. Bojangles" and one that showcases middle-aged white-guy angst with unmatched poignancy, "Both Sides Now." To hell with Judy Collins.

But it never, ever gets any better than "Holly Holy," wherein Diamond delivers lines like "Holly whole holy love," with the intensity of a man pulling a wooden stake from the bloodied and ragged flesh of his chest.



How fucking beautiful is that?

* * *

Guilty Pleasures, vol. one: Mark Dacascos

No, I did not watch him on Dancing with the Stars, nor am I familiar with any of his martial arts films. All I know of Mark Dacascos is that he's that hot Asian American "Chairman" guy on Iron Chef America, and every time he takes an orgiastic bite out of a ripe bell pepper, I swoon.

Look at that hair on his chest (!). Plus, he's straight, and he's one year older than me. I need a powder.

Mr. Dacascos, welcome to the short list.

I never tire of the secret ingredient announcement: tofu, honey, buffalo, coconut ... I want it all. Although I have to admit that "beer" was not his best moment.



Wouldn't it be great if one day Dacascos did as he always does and eyes the waiting chefs for a pregnant beat or two, ratcheting up the anticipation for that secret ingredient announcement, then triumphantly unveiled a massive bin of phalli while bellowing "Dildo!" as a prank of sorts.

Imagine the stunned look on Bobby Flay's face or Cat Cora's eyes flattening into slits as her tongue instinctively curls around the corner of her upper lip, visions of impromptu "recipes" filling her naughty mind.

That's how things would roll if I were in charge, people. I am so underutilized.

Bonus mandatory admission: I want to rub Mario Batali's belly: rub rub rub rub rub.

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