Keriosity

Among women, the “fat friend” technique is a seldom discussed practice of placing oneself in close proximity to a larger woman, in order to appear skinnier. (Awful and shallow, I know. Don’t tell me you’ve never done it.)

Since anorexia seems to be contagious among Hollywood Starlets, there is a severe shortage of “fat friends”. Starlets have begun substituting gigantic purses for “fat friends” - and you have to admit, they do make these teeny girls seem even teenier.

If I were to carry around a gargantuan bag, people would just think I’m carrying around a lot of snacks.

Cameron Diaz carries her giant bag low
to call attention to her long skinny legs.

To balance out the cost of their Louis Vuitton habits,
Jessica Simpson travels with Ashlee Simpson in her purse.
Thus requiring only 1 first-class ticket.

Venti bag and Venti starbucks.
Nicole Ritchie takes it to a new level
with the addition of more large items.

Big bag, big starbucks, big car, big hat,
big shirt, big glasses. Ashley Olsen has Nicole beat.

To call my husband a gadget-freak is like calling Bill Gates “well-off”.

If it has buttons, makes noise, contains a hard-drive, plays music, does something you don’t need like fax while recording your favorite TV show while creating an online grocery list based on your credit card receipts, or its name starts with a small “i“, he has it. He buys so many gizmos that we have started a hand-me-down system with our friends - a few of whom have developed some sort of sixth sense and are putting dibs on items as soon as UPS drops them at our door. (I’m guessing the UPS lady is in on the action too.)

I used to really fret about this addiction of his until he fell off the deep end and I determined that there was no saving him: I should just let him be. I came to this conclusion when someone asked me if Emil had bought the new iPod nano that had just come out the previous week and I had already acquired a nano hand-me-down. It was 7 days old. (He decided he didn’t like it in black.)

I am fully appreciative of these hand-me-downs. I have only had to ask for a new device twice: when we converted from PC to Mac and the time my worn out second-hand iPod broke. But - when the Pink Razr came out this week…I really really really really really wanted it. Badly.

Thank you, eBay! (and Emil!)

I received my Pink Razr before anyone who isn’t friends with Paris Hilton could even get their hands on it. It’s like Shocking Pink. You can see it glowing through the zipper of my purse. I’m a little suspicious that it might be a terrorist attempt to give girly girls radiation poisoning - but in the off chance that it’s not, I look totally cute talking on it!

So I went to the nail salon today for my bi-weekly acrylic fill. Because that’s what women in Orange County do. Acrylic nails that permanently look like French manicures (”forever French”) are to Orange County women what dark clothes and overcaffeination are to New York women. It’s part of the Branding.

There I was, getting my nails grinded down with the dremel, which is another sign that we let men off too easy in the grooming department. Forget waxing and tweezing and micro-dermabrasion - women let strangers (who don’ speak English well enough to understand “that hurts”) take power-tools to our fingertips. We actually do this. Men don’t brush their hair.

Ok - back to my story. I was getting power-sanded when my little pink phone started playing its jazzy little ringtone. I could tell that my nail girl, Kim, who never remembers my name, was making an annoyed face from behind her surgical mask. (They all wear masks. It makes me uneasy about the substance they are putting on my nails. But again - in the off chance that it’s non-carcinogenic, my nails look FAB!) I apologized, and retrieved my phone from my purse, but had missed the call.

Suddenly - all activity in the salon came to a stop. All rotary tools had ceased. All chitchat had been silenced. There were only the sounds of bubbling footbaths and awed gasps. I felt like C3PO in Star Wars Episode VI when the Ewoks first saw him - oh my god did I just say that for real? (We had a Star Wars marathon last week. Don’t ask.)

Finally, Kim pulled down her mask and said “Pinka Lay-za!” and the whole salon was on its feet. Everyone wanted to see it, hold it, and take pictures of it with their drab phones. People were calling other people to tell them that they were holding an actual Pink Razr in person.

My phone was like a god.

And I was like a ghetto Paris Hilton.

Kim asked, “Keli, you get it? Where?” Oh - I see! I’m “Keli” now! Not just a set of fingers that carries a wallet, huh? Well, well.

“eBay” I replied. “AAAH - EBAY! eBay! Chijidjogichimoogi eBay!” All the nail technicians started talking in Vietnamese and they all knew eBay. Of course. (and I love how spellchecker corrects the word “eBay”)

The O.C. Ladies of Leisure weren’t as outwardly enthusiastic. (They never show that much emotion. It’s the botox and boredom.) But they still wanted to see it. Some made jabs at my expense. “Oh is THIS what my TEENAGE daughter has been asking for?” If I were in New York, I SO would have flashed her and said “Uh huh and THIS is what your husband has been asking for!”- but this is Southern California and her 45-year old pair was perkier than mine. So I let it go with a “You should BOTH get one - I’m sure you look as young as her!” or are trying to in that outfit.

I left the salon feeling like the most popular girl in school. All the nail technicians know my name. The O.C. Ladies want to be me. I have the most fabulous phone ever. And yet I still feel empty, as all popular girls do, because deep down I know that they are totally using me for my phone.

Like I care. I have a Pink Raaaaazr! I have Pinka Laaaaaay-za!

I shop, therefore I am.

I am Woman, see me shop.

You see these little mantras embroidered onto pillows, or stenciled on bookmarks, or bedazzled onto anything fabric, which I guess is evidence that women truly do love to shop and that some of this shopping takes place at craft stores. I am not like these women - neither in their love of shopping nor embroidered mantras.

I am somewhat of an enigma. I am a woman. I hate to shop. There are a few of us out there. We keep this shameful secret to ourselves mostly. The few times we confide in friends or coworkers usually results in the other person insisting that they can miraculously fix us by forcing us to go on a shopping spree. How a “spree” would fix my hatred of shopping is something I will never understand. If your friend disliked the ocean, would you take her 10 miles out on a sailboat and toss her in? Of course you would! It makes perfect sense!

I’m not exactly sure how shopping and I became estranged because I used to enjoy it quite a bit. I remember shopping for school clothes with my mom and sisters, and even though we had to be cost-conscious and sometimes that meant sticking to the clearance rack - it was fun. Picking out new things, trying everything on, seeing how many different outfits I could arrange from just a few pieces, bringing everything home and deciding which clothes I would wear first - it was an adventure. I loved it! I continued to love it for many years.

Then somewhere along the way, things changed. I started to dread shopping. Now I almost never go. When did this happen? I think it was right around the time that some marketing genius who failed geometry came up with the SIZE 0. I blame him. (Yeah, you heard me. Him.)

Size Zero. That means no size. There are so many things wrong with this concept that I don’t even know where to start. First of all, what does this say to the person who is the size zero? “You are nothing.”  That’s not very nice. And what about the rest of us who are on our life-long quest to be a smaller size? What are we really striving for - to be nothing? Think about this: we can never attain the goal of nothing. We have already failed. (Which proves my theory that it’s a “him” who did this. Only a man would send us on this self-defeating quest. We would never do this to ourselves. Our self-defeating quests always involve chocolate.)

Retailers are doing a real number on women’s self esteem, pun intended. Men don’t realize this because their sizes make sense. Small. Medium. Large. And pant sizes are actual measurements. Not some random made-up mystery number that, by the way, changes from store to store and from generation to generation. (Marilyn Monroe was a size 16. That’ a today’s size 12.) Adding to the confusion, some stores use European sizes, British sizes, or Italian sizes. (Personally, I don’t like the Italian sizes because those numbers are gigantic!)

Here’s how we can solve the problem once and for all: Get rid of all the numbers. From now on, sizes will be reassigned like this:

0 will now be Feisty
2 will be Hottie
4 will be Minx
6 will be Vamp
8 will be Temptress
10 will be Vixen
12 will be Tigress
14 will be Diva
16 will be Ultimate Sex Goddess…and so on.

Ladies, doesn’t that make you feel better about your size already?

No more will you say “I need all new clothes! I went from a size 6 to a size 10!”

Now, the new improved you will declare “I must go shopping! I was a vamp, but now I’m a vixen!

Just saying it makes you feel sexier doesn’t it? Aren’t we silly to be so obsessed with a number?

As a bonus - it will be less awkward to give old clothes away if you’ve lost weight. That’s always been a tricky situation, hasn’t it.? Rather than appearing to suggest that the new skinny you doesn’t need your fat clothes and maybe your friend could wear them (see? tricky!), you can say “Gee Sue, you’re a temptress right? This skirt would look fabulous on you!”

The system works on so many levels. Notice how the smaller sizes are actually less interesting? Do you want to be a mere Feisty girl or the Ultimate Sex Goddess? Tigresses, be proud! Divas, flaunt those sexy curves!

This is a great idea! This is right up there with my idea for a cross-promotional campaign for Hershey’s and Tampax. (We buy them at the same time anyway, right? Just package them together.)

I feel better already. I am minx, soon I’ll shop. Now I just need a bedazzler…