Archive for the ‘Things that annoy Elleen’ Category

Dear Sec. Clinton,

As someone who is immensely proud that you – a strong, smart, kick-ass woman – are at the helm of one of the most important federal executive departments in our country, I absolutely hate it when people criticize your hair or wardrobe. It really irks me, because no one criticizes Robert Gates’ haircut or Eric Holder’s suits. People should not get away with that foolishness just because you are a woman. The Secretary of State has more important things to worry about than accessorizing, people! Dang!

But – and don’t get me wrong, everything I just said is true – I have to ask you, Sec. Clinton, what in the name of holy hell is this?!?

The only time my head looks like this is first thing in the morning when I’m only halfway done with the flatiron!

Sec. Clinton, I implore you – please do not ever attend a UN meeting looking like this. You represent the United States of America! Sheesh! Even Condi knew better than that!

Yours truly,



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Ok, so I alluded to this on my Facebook page a while back. But I’ll give you the full story here, because I’d like to hear people’s thoughts on just what I should do about the situation.

I love spa treatments – next to a vacation in some beachy land, going to the spa is my favorite way to unwind. And these financially perilous times will now require me to tighten the belt, and therefore stop going to the spa for a while.

So as an early birthday treat to myself, and because I was feeling particularly stressed, I went to the spa last Friday for a massage – one last hurrah before I curtailed my spa-going indefinitely.

I had a massage therapist I’d never seen before, which is normally fine for me. I’m not picky. But I soon wished I had been more discerning, because the massage was about as far from relaxing as it could possibly be.

It wasn’t so much the fact that it HURT like hell. I’m all for the deep-tissue massage – in fact, I prefer it – but when I am grinding my teeth and wincing in pain, I’m sorry Mr. Massage Man, you’re doing it wrong. And the proper response should not be: “This muscle is really tight. You need to stretch it out more.” Um, no. The proper response should be “Sorry,” followed by the application of less pressure. Learn it and live it.

And the worst part was not the fact that he took liberties to massage places that normally aren’t tackled in such sessions without asking me first – for example, the belly (?) – or that he commented on the fact that my stomach was growling. Sorry, dude, my tummy always makes noises. All day long. I wasn’t hungry. I was just alive. And anyway, who TALKS during a massage? I just want to zone out and silently imagine myself on a beach somewhere and just bliss out. I don’t want to hear about stuff your other clients told you. This is not a gossip session.

No, none of those things made me want my money back, although they certainly didn’t make me love the experience. The part that set my hair on end was the fact that the guy moaned and grunted throughout the whole thing!

He’d press down on me, and then MOAN! “Uuuuughhhhhhhh. Exhhhaaallllllllle. Uugggghhhhhhhh. Oooooooooohhhhhhhh.”

Ewwwwwwwwwwwwww!! To quote my favorite NYC housewife Bethenny: “What the Eff?!?! Holy inappropriateness!”

At first I tried to tune it out, thinking that he was probably unaware that he was doing it. But I couldn’t. It just reached unbelievable creepiness levels.

I am normally not at all self conscious during massages. It doesn’t matter what the gender of the therapist, I am usually completely comfortable lying there with nothing but a sheet over me. But this guy made me so acutely aware that my naked body was being touched by some overly vocal man whom I did not know, that I could not even begin to relax. It was awful. I left with far more tension than I came in with.

Anyway, I was so stunned that when the thing was finally over – it was the longest hour ever! – I just got dressed, ran to the counter, paid, and got the hell out.

So now I don’t know what to do. My first instinct was to send an anonymous email to the spa letting them know that my experience was really awful. If he made me uncomfortable, I can only imagine what more self-conscious clients might feel about Mr. Moany. And maybe he doesn’t even realize he does it, and a little heads up will make him stop.

My boyfriend had a different view. He said I should just ask for someone else next time, and not complain for fear that the poor guy might get fired or something.

So what would you do? Complain or no? Comment away!

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Ok, so having just spent 21 hours this past weekend either on a plane, in an airport, or in a taxi heading to or from an airport, I’ve recently spent lots of time with magazines.

Most articles in these magazines – mostly of the fashion and gossip variety – have included articles on American actresses. (Even in Paris, I kid you not, 95 percent of people on magazine covers are American actresses! The first face that greeted me in Charles de Gaulle airport? Angelina Jolie. The second? Anne Hathaway. Really!

ahathawayAnyway, speaking of Miss H, I have read at least four magazine articles and seen a couple of TV interviews with her recently, and there is one constant topic of convo for her, aside from her new movie: her ex-boyfriend-turned-convict.

Now, I know, that situation has gotta suck for her, right? You were once in love with a dude, turns out he’s cheating the Catholic Church and other rich people, he sorta blames it on you, because he wanted to impress you because you’re a movie star…. Totally sucks! I get it.

So you know what you should do now? Shut up about it! Seriously. Shut up! I can see addressing the issue a time or two after the whole thing goes down. Anne, you did that on Letterman. I thought you handled it with grace and humor and I gave you props. But now? You can’t shut up about it.

In Vogue you’re saying stuff like: “It’s not a part of my life anymore” and “It’s a complicated situation that has the ability to define me in ways I am not comfortable with.”

But then you say stupid crap that keeps it going, like: “I can go on a date in this [DVF dress]. Oh, my God. That’s such a weird thought!” Ugh.

Hmm, how about: “This is so cute!”?? Because you are a successful, famous woman who is getting Oscar buzz, not some twit defined by the fact that you just broke up with somebody! You know what? Everyone has had a breakup situation that sucks. Don’t be the dope that wears it on her forehead for the rest of her life!

janistonOh, and don’t get me started on Jennifer Aniston. This trick is trying to make a career out of getting cheated on and dumped by Brangelina. I know – the situation must have sucked. If Angelina stole away my man with her weird, blood-wearing, hexy, puffy-lipped voodoo I’d probably be crushed and angry too. For a while. A few weeks. A month. Two months, maybe.

Jen, that sh*# happened four years ago! And about 17 kids ago! Get the #@&% over it! And for crying out loud, even if you are not over it, stop stalking about it – at least to reporters. Call up Courtney and Coco and cry to them! Make John Mayer play Your Body Is A Wonderland and swear that he wrote it about you. Something. Damn!

That joke you made about you and Brangelina’s UN family troupe going to the Hamptons? Not funny. Sad. Yes. Sad. Focus on something else – maybe, like, your career? The last time I saw one of your movies of my own free volition was The Good Girl. I will see Marly and Me, but trust: it’s because of the dog, not you.

Your co-star got up and walked out of an interview when a reporter alluded to his alleged suicide attempt. You should take note. Stipulate in your contract that when a reporter says so much as “Bra-” or “Ang-” that you reserve the right to throw Smart Water in their face and walk the $&%# out. Just put your foot down already. You can do it.

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Ugh. What a mess.

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This crap makes my blood boil. People wonder why some girls feel bad about themselves. It’s because people are idiots.

I was a bit peeved at the whole Beyoncé L’Oreal ad brouhaha bubbled up. For those who missed it, a new L’Oreal haircolor ad came out last week showing the singer looking about as washed out as Photoshopably possible. Seriously, from the shots I saw on the internet, it would make anyone go: “Oh, who’s the blond white girl? She’s cute! Oh, waitaminute – it’s BEY!”

Some people were outraged. I was just sort of sad. I mean, I’ve already known that color consciousness was alive and well in this country, living as that little, lesser known cousin of racism that no one in the family talks about. People of many races all around the world – the USA included – pay big cash for skin lightening products. (I personally prefer to lie out in the sun until I’m the color of a Hersey’s dark chocolate, but that’s just me). And I’ve always known that the lighter-is-better idea has been pushed by Madison Avenue forever. Usually it’s a bit more subtle, but hey!

L’Oreal denied whitewashing Mrs. Z. I didn’t know for sure if something fishy was afoot or not, so I let it go.

So anyway, I get my Essence magazine in the mail yesterday, and I see the ad for the first time in print, as opposed to online. And I think, “Oh, this isn’t bad. It’s fine! Beyoncé looks totally normal. She is a lighter sistah, after all, and she’s always done the blonde haircolor. Her hair looks a bit more blonde than usual, but it’s a haircolor ad, for goodness sakes! I’m officially no longer offended by L’Oreal.”

Oh, well guess what? L’Oreal apparently made a DARKER VERSION OF THE AD FOR ESSENCE!!!! What the hell kind of effed up horse crap is that?!?! The Beyoncé that is brown enough for the black folks is too dark for the rest of America? Here is the side-by-side comparison from Jezebel:

Oh. I. Am. Pissed. OFF! I have used Feria haircolor for years. Not anymore! Hello Miss Clairol! Idiots!

This whole thing comes on the heels of me being totally pissed off at China for telling a cute little girl with an angelic voice that she’s not cute enough to sing at the Olympics, so they hire a little girl they say is cuter to lip sync. Saying it’s a matter of national pride. Yeah, what a thing to be proud of!! Idiots. Can you imagine how that little girl, who thought she was going to sing at the opening ceremonies, felt when she was told someone else was going and moving their lips to her voice? What the hell is wrong with people?!?!

You, little girl, are beautiful, and let no one tell you otherwise.

And all you brown skinned little girls, you are gorgeous too! Remember that people spend billions on tanning products. You get it for free. Work it! L’Oreal’s ad people can kiss my very brown bottom.

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I am tired, hot and exasperated.

Tired because my day started out very early in a very jarring fashion – with a fire alarm at the hotel.

So there were, my boyfriend and I, trying to get dressed, get our dog leashed and walk down a whole buncha flights of stairs just a few hours after we went to bed last night. Our poor pooch didn’t know what the heck was going on – he was little freaked out at the stairs to nowhere at first (this is a dog that refused to go up or down stairs in our house for weeks when we first got him) but he eventually made it down and into the hot, humid morning air with us.

I had hoped to sleep in a little on our last morning in the hotel, and though that didn’t happen, I was still excited to go home. We’d gotten the call from the utility company that the lights were back on in our house! We packed up, checked out of the hotel, and headed to our house to drop off our bags and our puppy, and then go catch an afternoon baseball game at Nationals Park.

We walked into the house. The electricity was on, but the temperature inside the place was 87, according to the thermostat.

I went and checked the controls. The AC was indeed on. Air was blowing through the blowers. Unfortunately it was not cool air. The temperature outside hovered at around 92. A five degree differential was simply not going to do.

We called a repairman, who came out and checked the system, and proclaimed it to be working perfectly. He said that because the house sat powerless for three days in scorching heat, the bricks and walls were really hot and it would take more than 24 hours to cool it down. The house will be cool by Monday, he said.

To me, that sounds like total crap – I’ve been in hot houses, like when my family went out of town for a week and turned the AC off while we were gone. It was hot. And when we got home, we turned the AC on and guess what happened? It got cool!

He said the real cooling would occur in the nighttime hours. It is now almost midnight, and it is still 78 degrees in the living room, and the bedrooms upstairs are at least 10 degrees hotter. This after days of living like a refugee and not being able to sleep in my own bed since Tuesday night. I’m home, but I’m hot. And I’m exasperated because I just want this friggin’ nightmare to end!

If it is any warmer than 70 in this joint when I wake up in the morning, the air conditioning company is getting an early morning wake-up call from me. This @*% is bananas.

Oh, and it’s supposed to be near 100 degrees tomorrow. Awesome!

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Ok, we already knew that the clothing company that Beyoncé and her mother hath wrought doesn’t have good advertising stylists. (Something makes me guess that Mama Knowles probably assumes that role, and that is not a good thing). I give you Exhibit A and Exhibit B to make my point:


Bad. Very very bad. But I did not think the Powers that Bey would do something like teeter dangerously close to promoting kiddy hookerdom. But apparently I was wrong:

Lawwwwd Hammercy! I mean, seriously, WHAT?!?!

UPDATE: Hold up – is the little girl at the piano wearing hooker boots?! I just noticed that. I’m not sure, but they look like white boots with gold buttons on the side and a wooden heel as big is the ones on my shoes. Maybe it’s part of the pants? That’s what I’m hoping. Because dayumm…

Now I do not have children, so I ask my friends who do (or soon will): do you look at this and think, “Ooo! Let me buy this for my baby! That’s exactly the look I wanted for her! Little Lady of the Night! The red hooker pumps were the deal clincher!” Good grief!

Bey: you are definitely looking so crazy right now. Jay: please don’t let your little baby Beys or Hovs dress like this. Please.

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