[Note: This entry was alternately titled, How Jenny Loses Her Male Readership in One Fell Swoop. Sorry gents, this article had to be written. You can check back in a few days.]
Rarely does product advertising annoy me enough to feel the need to write about it. Heck, I work in marketing, so I kind of like advertising. Usually I’m pretty oblivious to the nonstop onslaught of “New!” and “Reformulated!” and “Refreshing!” messages that bombard us on an hourly basis. But last week something happened to change all that. I went to my favorite store in the entire world, Target, to stock up on everything that one stocks up on when visiting said Mecca: cleaning supplies, laundry detergent, Kleenex, tube socks, clearance Halloween marshmallow Peeps, and, you know… feminine hygiene products.
So I’m in the feminine product aisle, which is oddly located right next to the electronics section. Come to think of it, maybe Target is trying to establish some sort of in-store matchmaking service. I can almost see it play out: I’m rushing out of the woman aisle, arms full of sanitary products, when I run head-on into a dashing young man who is walking out of the electronics department. We collide. A torrent of DVD’s, batteries, and FDS feminine deodorant spray rains down upon our heads. I nervously gather up my items, cheeks burning with embarrassment and intrigue. I look up. Our eyes meet. As he hands me my box of Tampax tampons, now in new Compak® design, our hands briefly touch. It’s electric. He leans in for a kiss and…
But I digress.
When I got home from Target and started putting away my purchases, reveling in all the money I saved by purchasing in bulk, I noticed a strange graphic on the box of Kotex feminine pads. (Sidebar – I think they finally stopped calling them sanitary napkins. Amen to that!) On the cover of the box, there’s a picture of the little package the pad comes in, with the word: “Ssshhh!” on it.
Ssshhh?

Wait a minute – did my Kotex pad just shush me? I look closer and notice that the text underneath the ssshhh says, “Quietest Pouch!” Well it’s high time someone got rid of those noisy pouches, always with the yak, yak, yak. Thank god, I can finally hear myself think above the din of menstruating women all across the world simultaneously ripping open their pads!
This still isn’t really making sense to me, so I flip the box over, hoping for some further explanation. I found what I was looking for – on the back, selling point #4 is “Quiet, cloth-like pouch for discretion.”
Discretion? When was the last time you were in a ladies room and came out of the stall only to see half a dozen women laughing and pointing and throwing tampons at you. (Okay, maybe if your name is Carrie, but she got them back. She got them real good.) How much more discrete can you get than a microthin little pink square that easily fits into your back pocket? I mean, it’s not like they used to install car alarms inside the pouches.
It’s yet another absurd advertising message designed to convince women that their monthly cycles are dirty and humiliating. Devil woman! You must be ashamed of this cycle that confounds the non-bleeders! How dare you flaunt your fertility with the deafening sounds of plastic packages opening in the ladies room!? Goody Jenny is a witch! She bleeds without dying! Burn her! Burn her!
I mean, granted, I agree that we need to exercise some modicum of discretion, just like you would with any bodily function that requires you to retire to the ladies room. It’s not like I’m suggesting women walk around all week and advertise their periods by dangling tampons from their ears and slapping pads all over their clothes like post-it notes.
But are these advertisers truly trying to suggest that in 2004, focus group studies showed that women’s #4 concern was the humiliating and reputation-sullying sound of plastic tearing as we opened our pads? Now, I realize I’ve only been dealing with this issue for the past 20 years or so, but if you’re opening up a pad, you’re pretty much either in your own home, or in some public ladies restroom, right? If you’re at home, who gives a rat’s ass, and if you’re in a ladies room, you’re in a room with other ladies. Who. Also. Use. These. Products!
Well I say, screw you, Madison Avenue marketing geniuses. You want to “ssshhh” me? I don’t think so. So I’m starting a new movement. Everything old is new again. That’s right. I’m bringing back the sanitary belt. Wear it loud, wear it proud! What’s that sticking out of your low rider jeans? Hint: it’s not a thong. You heard me! The belt is back!
We’ve come a long way, baby.

Filed under: General on November 15th, 2004 | Comments Off

I was already starving by 11:00am yesterday. After a few weeks of diligently packing a lunch, I quickly fell back into my old habits of infrequent grocery shopping and regular trips to the food court for lunch. I haven’t suffered too much for the past week and a half, though, because I’ve mainly been living off of old Halloween candy that all my co-workers keep bringing into the office in an effort to wean their children off their week-long sugar highs.
Last week there were some smashed Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups and a lot of Hershey’s Special Darks. Later there were the fruit flavored Tootsie Rolls, which I had never tried before. The orange ones were good, but tasted a little like baby aspirin. Mmm. Chalky. This week, all the hearty chocolate is gone, so I’m left with nothing but Smarties, which I love, but they aren’t very filling. And they make my belly burn if I eat too many of them.
Fearing the dreaded Smartie reflux, I headed out for lunch yesterday in search of some real sustenance. I went to the little deli near the office and ordered a turkey and swiss cheese sandwich on a hard roll. Oh, and some chips, please. The cashier said, “Did you want something to drink with that, sweetie?”
This caught me off guard a little, so I looked up from my wallet and saw the cashier giving me a warm smile that made her eyes crinkle. I smiled back and said, “Umm… sure. Medium Diet Pepsi, please?”
“No problem, sweetie. You have a nice day, now!”
I really didn’t want anything to drink. Hadn’t intended on ordering a soda. But I couldn’t help myself – she called me “sweetie” twice. Sure, I heard her say the same thing to all the customers behind me, but it wasn’t about being singled out. It was just the kindness in her voice when she said it. It was devoid of all irony.
The word just flowed so naturally off her tongue. I guess that’s her thing – she’s the “sweetie” woman. I envy her. I don’t have a thing. I wish I had a thing. Some thing that made people remember me and want to buy unnecessary sodas from me.
You have to be a certain kind of person to be able to get away with calling strangers affectionate little nicknames like that. I think you have to be really old or maybe from the south. Oddly, this woman was neither. She was just an average looking, somewhat pudgy woman with nice teeth and kind eyes. But she had sincerity on her side, so it worked for her.
I suppose I could just wait another 40 years to start referring to people as “doll,” but I’m not sure I have the patience. And a Midwestern accent does not register high enough on the charm scale to permit the use of “sugar.” Why did I have to be born in America’s Heartland?! Curse you, immigrant great grandparents! Why couldn’t you have settled in Kentucky?!
No wait, you didn’t know any better. And I don’t really do well with the heat. I’m sorry great grandparents – I take it all back.
Actually, I have no one to blame but myself. I had my shot and I blew it. All my talk about wiping the slate clean with this new job, parting my hair on the side, making up lies about my family, and I completely forgot about the rarest of rare opportunities we get when we start a new job: adopting an accent.
I mean, what was I thinking? I was going to waste my time pretending to be left handed, when I could have been speaking in an Irish brogue all along? Seriously – say this sentence aloud in your best Irish accent, and just try to tell me you don’t want to give me a raise:
“Marketing, this is Sinead. What’s that you say? You need me to get you the print schedules for all the new collateral pieces? Aye, I’ll do it straight away!”
Or perhaps French:
“Marketeeng, zis ees Marie-Claire. Comment? Oh la la – you need me to get you ze print schedule for all ze collateral piece? Okay, I’ll do it tout de suite!”
Or maybe Italian:
“Marketing, it’s Giovanna. What? You love me and think I’m bellissima so you’ll get the print schedules yourself? Bravo!”
God, what a fool I am! Another great opportunity slips through my grasp. But mark my words, if for some unforeseen reason, I someday have to work at a company other than this one, I won’t make that same mistake again.
No, someday I’ll have a thing of my own. Me and my accent, we’ll have a really cool thing together. We’ll call people “sweet pea” or “lamb” or “hon.” And we’ll make people smile and they’ll remember us because we looked them in the eyes with complete sincerity and we didn’t want anything from them when we called them “darling” and that made them feel special for just one minute. But we will never call anyone “sweetie.” We know perfection when we’ve seen it.

Filed under: General on November 11th, 2004 | Comments Off

Yesterday on my way home from the train station, I was walking to my car and thinking about whether or not I had any peanut butter left at home, when I was suddenly overcome by an excruciating headache. Of course, my immediate thought was that an aneurysm had burst, but then I looked up and saw a woman in front of me, and realized that it was her perfume. I had been walking downwind of her for about five minutes before it registered in my brain that it smelled like I had just taken a baseball bat to the perfume counter at Nordstrom’s.
How much perfume must you be wearing for it to leave an almost visible trail behind you on a windy fall day? A lot. I’d say at least three or four sprays worth. I had to speed up to a near power-walk stride in order to pass her before my olfactory glands exploded.
To be honest, I really don’t like perfume. Except on me, because it smells really nice when I wear it. This is because, much like a chemist, I understand the delicate balance that is in play when applying a foreign scent to one’s body. And even more importantly, I respect the rules of etiquette when it comes to wearing perfume. For the uninitiated, here are the general guidelines:

Filed under: General on November 9th, 2004 | Comments Off

I have a confession to make. My friends were somewhat shocked when I revealed this to them, although I didn’t think it would be quite as big a deal as it eventually became: I have never eaten at White Castle in my life. I must admit, though, that I contemplate it every time I drive by the one near my house.
I was driving around with Nat and Seamus a few weeks ago when I first shared this piece of information, and it sparked a debate that would have put Dick Cheney and John Edwards to shame. (John who? Edwards. He ran for Vice President a long time ago.)
Seamus was gung ho on introducing me to something called “a slider,” when Nat intervened and warned me that they’re called sliders because they shoot right through your intestines in about six seconds flat. Since the memory of my last gastrointestinal crisis is still somewhat fresh in my mind, I decided against the 30 for $15 bag of burgers. Thirty burgers? I mean, I realize that they’re kind of small, but what the hell am I going to do with thirty hamburgers? I suppose after I eat one or two of them, I could just throw the rest at cars to see if they stick.
Once I opted out of the slider, I found myself strangely intrigued by something called “Chicken Rings.” I really just got used to the concept of eating chicken fingers, so there’s something a little disturbing about imagining what part of the chicken the chicken ring comes from.
Well, for now both the slider and chicken ring will continue to remain a mystery. But if White Castle comes out with something called “Fish Necks,” I may finally have to cave in.

Filed under: General on November 8th, 2004 | Comments Off

On Halloween night, I hung out at a local bar in Milwaukee with my friend Kim. It was pretty crowded with party-goers, so we had to grab a little table at the back of the bar by the bathrooms. As we tossed back a few drinks and admired all the creative costumes, I noticed that when some people came out of the bathroom, they walked over to a sink by the bar to wash their hands.

I thought it seemed odd that people would come out of the bathroom to wash their hands, until I realized that they had no other choice. The bathrooms in the bar didn’t have sinks in them, so you had to go back into the bar area to actually wash your hands. Now, I’ve got to believe that there were some serious health code violations going on with that setup, but I used to frequent this bar, so I decided against turning them in.
I did, however, become mildly obsessed with watching everyone come out of the bathrooms to see who actually washed their hands after using the bathroom. The only people I saw consistently wash their hands were the two bartenders, and I’m sure that’s because their boss – thankfully – makes them do that before they squeeze limes into customers’ drinks.
Kim could see that I was distracted, so I told her about my startling observation. She didn’t seem overly concerned, so I leaned over the table and shouted over the music, “There have been studies done that show that something like only 40% of men wash their hands after they go to the bathroom! How disgusting is that!?”
Kim took a swig of her microbrew beer, smirked, and said, “40%? Really? And exactly what ‘studies’ are you referring to? Sounds really scientific…”
I told her that I didn’t remember where I heard that, but I knew I had heard it somewhere, and it might have been a Dateline NBC exposé where Stone Phillips put a hidden camera in the men’s room to watch people and then ambushed them as they walked out without washing their hands. Or something like that.
Kim still seemed dismissive, so I suggested doing a study of our own to prove my point. She scoffed at first, but then her competitive nature kicked in and she agreed to do it.
“But if you’re wrong, you have to buy the next round.”
“I already paid for the first one because you said you didn’t have any cash, but whatever. You’re on, Kim!”
Since I have a bit of marketing research in my background, I know the importance of conducting an unbiased study, so I quickly called my unbiased former co-worker who used to work in research. She rushed over to the bar to help me conduct an ad hoc research project.
After some brief discussion, my friend, the unbiased researcher, set up shop at our table, where she could observe the comings and goings of the men’s room without interruption. By the end of the evening, the findings she presented to us on a cocktail napkin were nothing less than astounding.

WARNING: If anyone under the age of 18 is reading this right now, I’d like you to first have a parent or guardian send me an email giving me their consent before you continue. I promise you, this is not for the weak-stomached.
Unbiased Study of Men’s Post-Bathroom Hand Washing Practices
By: Unbiased Independent Research Firm

Methodology:
A random sample of men was observed entering and exiting the men’s restroom at [local bar]. Upon exiting the restroom, the researcher noted whether or not the men washed their hands before returning to the bar.
Sample Size:
N=5
Demographics:

Filed under: General on November 2nd, 2004 | Comments Off

Did you remember to save some daylight yesterday? I did. I saved 60 whole minutes of it, just like I do every year. But this time, I promised myself that I wouldn’t take this extra hour for granted. I would make the most out of every minute. So this year, I kept track of everything I did during my extra hour so that I could share it with the people closest to me:

Filed under: General on November 1st, 2004 | Comments Off

Yesterday morning, I awoke to the nostalgic sound of my favorite 80’s and 90’s music:
“…saw him dancing there by the record machine…”
[SNOOZE]
7 minutes later:
“…experience has made me rich and now they’re after me…”
[SNOOZE]
7 minutes later:
“…and she’s loving him with that body, I just know it…”
[SNOOZE]
7 minutes later:
Nothing.
7 minutes later:
Nothing.
Finally, my internal body clock kicked in and told me that something was amiss. Where were my tunes? I squinted at the clock to see what time it was and saw – nothing. No blurry numbers, no numbers at all. I flipped on my light and nothing happened.
I shot out of bed immediately, fearing that it might be 9:00am, but as I fumbled for my watch, I discovered that it was only 6:23am. But what had happened? Why didn’t my clock or my light or my computer work?
Oh god. The power is out. What am I going to do? How will I dry my hair? How will I iron my pants? How will I toast my poppy seed bagel? I can’t eat a raw bagel like some kind of savage!
It’s times like these that I really wish I had kept my Y2K readiness kit. I’m so hungry, and my throat is so dry! Boy, would some sweetened condensed milk and sardines taste good right about now.
I’ve always heard that you can really learn a lot about yourself in times of crisis, but I never knew how true that saying was until this exact moment. I learned quite a few things about myself, as I stumbled across my pitch black apartment like Mr. Magoo.
Mostly, I learned that I really like electricity. I had never really given it much thought prior to this moment, but I do. I really like it.
I also learned that unless you are adequately self-medicated, you should never, ever, look at yourself in the bathroom mirror using only the harsh glare of a flashlight. There’s really no effective way to use a flashlight to look at yourself, other than to slowly scan the surface of your face in a searchlight fashion, like a warden looking for an escaped prisoner. Or you can hold it under your chin like you’re telling a ghost story.
My god! I’m hideous! Why didn’t my friends ever tell me that I look like David Carradine? The unforgiving beam of the flashlight amplifies every pore, each wrinkle, and every imperfection in the skin. I quickly trashed the flashlight in favor of the adoring glow of a candle. Oh look! I’m lovely!
[Sidebar: I’d like to take a moment to thank my Aunt Therese – even though she doesn’t read my blog, or know what a blog is, or own a computer – for giving me candles for every major and minor holiday for the past twelve years. I never appreciated them as much as I did yesterday morning. Thanks to her thoughtfulness, I was able to find my way around the apartment by smell: lavender was the living room, cinnamon was the kitchen, vanilla was the bedroom, and so on. Thanks, Therese!]
Just as I started to make out my last will and testament, and size up my cats to determine which one I would eat first if the blackout continued much longer, I heard a strange sound. I think that my senses had become heightened due to sensory deprivation, so like a desert fox, I put my ears to the ground to trace the source of the sound. In addition to the gnawing of termites eating away at my floorboards, I also heard the mechanical whining of my DVD player turning back on.
The electricity is back on! I can see again! O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay! I ran around my apartment flipping on all of my appliances.
Toaster – works!
Hair dryer – works!
Computer – works!
Television – works!
Microwave – works!
Air conditioner – works!
Jack LaLanne Power Juicer – works!
I can’t recall the last time I felt this elated. I twirled around my apartment in a joyous interpretive dance, swaying and twisting to the dizzying hum of technology. And then, of course, I blew a fuse. But no matter! I knew that this new blackout was just a temporary one, ended quickly by the simple flip of a switch.
After thanking the electricity gods, I went back into the bathroom to touch up my hair, where I learned that you should never apply makeup by candlelight. I was shocked to see that I looked like I was auditioning for Victor/Victoria. Left half = man, right half = woman. Left side = Jason Robards, right side = two dollar whore. I quickly rebalanced my makeup, and was once again all woman.

I ate my bagel, watched a few minutes of the Today Show, and checked my email, relieved that the world was once again back in synch. These were the longest and most terrifying 53 minutes I’ve ever endured. Oh sweet, sweet electricity. Please don’t ever leave me like that again. I promise, I’ll never take you for granted!

Filed under: General on October 29th, 2004 | Comments Off

Why must everyone learn things the hard way? Why can’t people just look at the critical mistakes their friends and family make and avoid these same pitfalls? Who among us will be the first to break this vicious cycle? These are some of the great unanswered and unanswerable questions that plague our society.
I just thought that Natasha was smarter than the rest of us. She’s witty, talented, driven – she has a bright future ahead of her. So why – after witnessing first-hand the trauma that defined my Internet dating experiences – why did she insist on signing up for match.com?
I feel like somehow I am to blame for this. Maybe I sugarcoated my online dating experiences too much. Maybe I sheltered her from the truth. But if I did, it was only to preserve the innocence that defines dear Natasha. I mean, didn’t I tell her about the guy who took me to the zoo and laughed maniacally as he told me about all the species of monkeys that are being poached to extinction? And then who, even more disturbingly, drank a 48-ounce bucket of Hi-C Fruit Punch in 30 seconds flat, leaving a thick red Kool-Aid mustache for all to admire?
I feel certain I must have shared these details, so where did I go wrong? What part of “red Kool-Aid mustache” did she not understand?
I guess it’s pointless to speculate, because regardless, the plan is in motion. Nat has been on match.com for only two weeks and already has five dates lined up. Fortunately, even though she chose to ignore my initial warnings about the dangers of cyber romance, she has sought my sage advice in the selection process.
In a bold move that illustrated Nat’s blind faith in my judgment, she gave me her match.com User ID and password. This was mainly a move done out of necessity since her dial-up connection is even slower than mine, and she needed me to update her profile.
Still, it’s kind of like she gave me power of attorney, so I’m taking this responsibility very seriously. I’ve found that I’m taking a much more strategic approach to furthering Nat’s social life than I did my own. To shelter her from the overwhelming flood of crazies who, for some reason, seem to be drawn to her profile, I’ve been logging into her account every few days and deleting anyone who seems slightly mentally unstable. Or who has really long hair. It’s just better this way. [Ed. note: I’m also deleting anyone I think would be better suited to me, but not before I jot down their User ID’s.]
These are some of the criteria I use to weed people out:

• Does he say he’s looking for a best friend and soul mate to spend every minute with?
• How many pictures of his dog did he post? Do they outnumber the pictures of himself?
• Did he leave the marital status field blank?
• Did he say “Go Cubbies!” more than once? (OK, that’s not to weed out crazies. Just people who would potentially annoy me.)
• Did he actually use the word “supposably” in his profile?

So after a few weeks of screening out potential axe murderers, or just murderers of the English language, Nat and I have narrowed down our pool to a few key candidates. For ease of reference, I’ll call them:
1. Funny Guy
2. Artistic Guy
3. Sensitive Guy
4. Athletic Guy
5. Brainy Guy
So far, the only gaps I see in our strategy are Rich Guy and Foreign Guy, but I’m still looking.
This afternoon, Nat has a date with Sensitive Guy. I’m not sure how I feel about her decision to put Sensitive Guy in the starting lineup. Personally, I would have chosen Funny Guy or Athletic Guy to begin with, but I guess the girl’s got to trust her own instincts sometimes.
Nat also violated my Rule #4 of online dating by telling her date to meet her at her office before they head out to lunch. This could prove disastrous if Sensitive Guy transforms into Since Nat Won’t Return My Calls I’ll Surprise Her At Work With a Bouquet of Origami Lilies I Made After Yoga Class Guy. Because, as we all know, that guy often quickly morphs into Restraining Order Guy.
But, I can’t live Nat’s life for her. All I can do is give her roots and wings, hope for the best, and secretly manipulate as many variables as possible from behind the scenes. Like this lunch, for instance. Fortunately, Nat works fairly close to me, so I plan on taking an early lunch, buying a wig and fake goatee or perhaps a Van Dyke at Walgreen’s, and following them to the restaurant.
While incognito, I will be able to observe the date and objectively assess any abnormal behavior from either Nat or Sensitive Guy. In my disguise, I will also be able to finally solve the mystery that has haunted me for years when I stroll into the men’s room to find out once and for all what exactly these “urinal cakes” I’ve heard about really are. I mean, if anyone should be getting cake in the bathroom, it’s women.
But back to Nat, I plan on logging all my findings into a simple database I’ve developed, and after I run the data through a few quick regression models, each date will receive a weighted quantitative score. The higher the score, the higher the likelihood for future bliss. My own biggest mistake was letting emotion enter into romance – I won’t let Nat fall victim to this same error. She’s counting on me, and I’m not going to let her down!

Filed under: General on October 27th, 2004 | Comments Off

I have to apologize for my recent absenteeism, but unfortunately, I’ve been having some problems at home lately. There are some issues going on with my family that are sapping a lot of my emotional and mental energy right now, so I’m afraid I haven’t had much time for writing.
I knew that this might happen once I got back into the workforce and stopped being a stay-at-home-mom-without-children. It’s my twins. They’re just not adjusting well to my being away from them all day long. Aside from Judy’s bulimia, I’ve had to deal with a daily onslaught of problems from these two precocious four-year olds, and it’s sucking the very life out of me.
Every day I come home to something new. I take a deep breath as I slide the key into the back door, just wondering what hidden treasure I will find in my apartment that day. Yesterday it was an entire roll of paper towels shredded on my living room rug. The day before that it was the remnants of the laces from my tap shoes, still damp from cat spit. The day before that it was a pile of cat puke on the quilt on my bed. And today, I came home to discover that one of my cats had decided that his/her current litter box isn’t big enough, so he/she decided to leave a foul little gift for me on the kitchen floor.
I don’t need this. I work hard all day, busting my hump to keep a roof over their heads, catnip in their pipes, and food in their bowls, and this is how they repay me? With a pile of cat crap on my linoleum?
I am tempted to get us into some family counseling, but I know from past experience that the trauma of putting them into a cat carrier and driving them even for just a few minutes is enough to push me into Girl, Interrupted territory. I almost drove us all off a cliff when I had to make the two-hour trek with them in my car when I first moved to Chicago. Even though they were both doped up on kitty Xanax, they screamed for the entire trip and frantically clawed at the door of the cat carrier until I just about lost my mind. My right arm was almost shredded down to a bloody stump by the time I pulled up to my apartment. It’s just a good thing for all of us that there are no cliffs in Chicago.
I’m thinking that maybe I need a nanny to watch them while I’m away during the day. Even though I thought they were ready for it, they clearly aren’t adjusting well to being latch-key cats. I’m working on a formal job description for this position, but if you know anyone who might fit the bill, let me know. My sanity and blogging career may just depend on it!
Wanted: Experienced cat nanny to care for two rambunctious Siamese cats. Must be high-energy, caring, and resourceful. Ideal candidate will have experience dealing with feline eating disorders and ADHD. References required!

Filed under: General on October 22nd, 2004 | Comments Off

The bird slaughter continues:

Monday: Wren

When will it stop? When will the madness end? The strange thing is that this time, the bird was covered in a purple shroud and wearing tiny Nike running shoes. What could this possibly mean? And why would a bird need to wear running shoes? It just makes no sense. No sense at all.

I will not rest until this mystery is solved.

Filed under: General on October 19th, 2004 | Comments Off