Category Archives: Lady Rage

I Know, Cute Right?

So I got a haircut last week. It’s taken me a while to blog about it or take a picture of it (normally the first thing my sister and I do when we get a new hairdo) but today I realized my hair was kind of cute.

At first, as soon as my hairdresser was done cutting and styling I hated it. I hated it so much I came close to tears, but I smiled and tipped her (because she did a good job objectively speaking) and left the salon. My friend smiled and told me I looked cute. I just kept smoothing down various sections. You see, I am curesed when it comes to stylists. Male stylists love to play with my hair. They part it on one side, then the other. They scrunch up the curls while it’s wet then blow it out and flat iron me to silky perfection. Ahh…

Female hairstylists? Female stylists that aren’t my sister? Bitches. They barely speak English, they never quite do what I ask for and then they style me so I look like I’m about to accept a Country Music Award for Best New Artist. Yeah, that’s right. Down to the exact reward.

Today, however I woke up and took down the braids I slept in and my hair was adorable. Then I got dressed in an outfit to match my new boots – every girl does it. You know you do. Anyway, I decided to take a half-hour and straighten my hair and realized that my new ‘do is actually very cute.

That's right. Even the bangs are working!

So, I guess the moral may be that you can’t judge a haircut by the style foisted on you by a tiny Asian stylist, but the moral I’m taking away is this: DON’T GIVE JENNY BIG HAIR! SHE HATES IT!!


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Did you ever notice??

There are moments in life that make you realize how un-adult you are. Sometimes it’s a large event like going to Disneyland. I’ve been. Sometimes it’s getting that easy-bake oven you’ve wanted since you were five. I had one so I’m good. So were the cakes. Every now and then it’s something simple and horrifying. A cockroach.

For my money there is nothing more terrifying than a cockroach- no matter the size- and I don’t care what kind it is, how rare it is or how nice it might look with rhinestones and a leash (thanks Tyra Banks for THAT nightmare fuel). A roach is a roach and unless it’s the ass end of a joint that bastard has to die. The un-adult problem starts once it’s dead because then I have a tiny icky body to dispose of and no husband or sister around to take care of it for me. So here I am with a dead cockroach that needs disposing of and I’m alone.

The solution was a well placed paper towel and the trashcan pressed against the counter. Well, to be honest it also involved my dish gloves and a cardboard box so I wouldn’t have to touch the paper towels covering the bug as I slid the bastard bug into the trash.

Of course, the biggest problem with seeing and killing a roach is that it’s just the tip of the icky iceberg. Now I must clean, bleach and scrub every surface in my kitchen. This includes clearing out every drawer and cabinet , buying even more bug traps and spraying every crack with buggy death in a bottle. The only thing that would make it all better would be new PopD podcasts since I’ve recently re-read every Crusie novel and you can’t read while you scrub. I suppose I could get some books on tape, but a man reading Krentz is the best I’ve ever heard and frankly you haven’t lived until you’ve heard a man in his sixties reading the female dialogue in a sassy romance novel.

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Lady Rage Rises Again!

I think I may have to beg an artist to create a rendition of my alter ego, Lady Rage. I need a visual representation of my feminist rage.

Okay, there’s a lot wrong with this commercial – starting with the fact that it’s for McDonalds. But the thing that has Lady Rage rearing her head and lightning flying from her fingertips (you know, just a suggestion for her pose random artist reading this) is the litany of cutesy nicknames this crazy-eyes chick keeps tossing at her boyfriend.

I’m NOT saying that women never make up a nickname for their man. I have a couple for my hubby – that I won’t share because he reads this sometimes and would yell at me. My point here, though, is that I only have a very few and all of them have a history or a story behind them. They aren’t just random or chosen because they sound cute, which seems to be the case here.

I can only assume this commercial was written without the influence of a woman and is the newest in the “man-cave” movement. I don’t think I need to Lady Rage for another four hundred words on my issues with this movement, but I would like to make a plea┬áthat male writers please leave their think tanks and go outside. Talk to a woman. A real woman, not one of those 800-number ladies, and please realize that we aren’t all psycho hose-beasts. Please. Don’t force Lady Rage to take over my body.

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Physically restraining my inner feminist

So, Dr Pepper has a new commercial out for their tasty tasty new soda:


Second thought: Maybe I should lay off the caffeine. Maybe the doctor gave that no caffeine order for a reason other than the one she told me…

Third thought: My can is empty. I should go grab another soda.

I realize that this marketing ploy is no different from the Axe, Old Spice or Captain Morgan commercials that have been flooding the market for years. So why does this commercial make my inner Women’s Studies Major with hairy legs want to bust out her whip of emancipation? I think it’s because these commercials suggest that because the soda is ten calories per can that no woman will drink it. Because of ten calories.

I had a mini peach pie for lunch. With a Dr Pepper 10. Fuck you commercial.

The biggest issue I have with advertising campaigns like this is shit like this:

“TEN Man-ments?” There it is. That’s what makes me want to punch a Dr Pepper can (after I empty it, of course) and then stomp on it. I hate, HATE, this “return to manliness” craze that’s been sweeping the nation and the media. Man caves, twelve channels of nothing but football, “man-sized” servings of whatever. I’m sick of it. You know who was a real man? This son of a bitch:

In case you didn’t click on the photo to read the article for yourself, this man was a Jewish photographer on the frontlines during World War II. I’m willing to bet he never had a man cave. There is no man cave big enough for his balls.

Listen, I’m not saying that it wasn’t a funny commercial. I laughed my butt off when I saw it the first time! What I am saying is that I doubt this “return to manliness” movement is a step in the right direction. It’s not a return to men being men and accepting responsibility, protecting their hearth and home or returning to the values and ethics that our rose-colored glasses allow us to attribute to men in ages past. This is just a cry for men to be more dudely, crush beer cans against their foreheads while filming drunken antics for Tosh.0 and Web Soup.

Which I watch with glee.

I can’t help feeling, though, that there needs to be less man cave action and more emphasis on men (and women! Get off your Desperate Housewife/Sex in the City laurels there ladies!) becoming MEN. Not dudes, not guys but men. Someone who’ll keep their word, do the right thing and occasionally suffer through “Down With Love” when their lady’s in the mood to watch it.

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