Ugh, Ugg

Ugh, Ugg

            Black ones. White ones. Tan ones. Brown ones. One fish. Two fish. Red Fish. Blue fish. To wear them up, or down, or up, or possibly….tucked in? The inevitable question. In fact, they’re everywhere. In the arctic snows of Alaska. In the beachy Californian sun. And yes, in the Midwest, where fashion is always a staple of utmost interest. Ugh...Ugg boots.

            Gaining popularity among adolescents as a “trendy” thing to wear, Ugg boots have not gone away. No, no, no. They are now everywhere, appearing on the feet of girls who are still eating sand on the playground all the way up to women who wish they were young enough to eat sand on the playground.

            How many alpacas and llamas will be shaved naked before we put a stop to this terrible crime of animal abuse? Because I guarantee that no llama would be caught dead in a pair of those boots. If he did, all of the other reindeer wouldn’t let poor llama join in any reindeer games, that’s for sure.

            And have you looked at the price tag for a pair of those shoes? I’ve never seen a set that sells for less than $200 retail. Hell, I’ll go out in the backyard now and shave my Labrador Retriever, Lassie, hot glue her yellow fur on the inside of a pair of boots I got at Goodwill and call it a day. It wouldn’t look that much different, right?

            The cold season is upon us, I’m afraid, and with it, more questionable fashion choices. When the frigid air hits, the brain freezes, too.

Well, I’m off to find Lassie….here doggy, doggy,

Perfect Vision

Execute, Explore, Experiment, Exile, Repeat

Why do we call a significant other whom we’re no longer with an “ex”? Is it because we’re "ex"tremely "ex"cited to be ride of them? Hardly. Ben and Jerry’s should give me a holiday bonus for all the "ex"cess pints of Chubby Hubby and Chunky Monkey I bought the year Jeff cheated on me with his co-worker, Fransisco.

Are we "ex"asperated? Most likely. I won’t even go into detail about Anthony, the "ex"cellent defense attorney and poor "ex"cuse of a boyfriend. I could barely ever get a word in to "ex"press myself, "ex"cept in bed. Oh wait, not even then. The time he answered his cell phone for the Japanese gangster was the worst. My patience for him had "ex"pired like a can of moldy, fishy tuna. I knew the relationship was doomed from then on. Every time he tried to get frisky, my head "ex"ploded, “Iie! Iie! No! No!”

Sometimes though, a break up is "ex"actly what we need. Take Bill, "ex"travagent in every way, yet completely "ex"hausting. I was accepted for a summer internship in New York City and quite frankly, "ex"ceptionally glad to be rid of him and let the relationship "ex"tinguish. A week in, he showed up at my doorstep and got down on one knee with a ring he’d gotten from a Cracker Jack box, eyes wide with "ex"pectations. Oh yeah, and did I mention that we’d been together for two weeks?! Goodbye Bill. That one taught me that I needed to be "ex"tra ready before getting into a serious relationship.

There are times when a fling turns out to be an "ex"periment. Tyler, what a sweetie. Always was on time. Always got me a dozen roses. And did I mention Tyler was absolutely gorgeous, "ex"uberant and "ex"otic? She will be a perfect match for someone someday. But not for me.

What’s so "ex"traordinary about love, anyway? Are we really "ex"traterrestrials who aren’t meant to stay together? Or do we "ex"pect to get hurt, so we stop trying? Humans do know a couple of facts. Love is "ex"emplary in its hold on our souls. Love is an "ex"halation of passion and companionship all at once. We must "ex"terminate those in our lives who don’t "ex"emplify our definition of what love is. But the truth is, no one can really "ex"plain why we call our past lovers “ex”s. We can only "ex"amine how we feel. And "ex"ercise after eating ten pints of Chunky Monkey ice cream.
Have "ex"ceedingly "ex"plosive "ex"cursions, all,
Perfect Vision

The Skies Are Full of 'Em

I squirm in this uncomfortable chair wishing I was anyplace but here. I'm completely bored. I've already looked at all the magazines. I bought some overpriced coffee. I even finished my book.

I am stranded in the threshold of hell. The airport.

Anyone who has had an extended layaway at an airport knows that besides watching planes fly high in the sky and sneaking a smoke in the bathroom, there's not much to keep one occupied. You have to make your own entertainment. Well, you're already stuck here until your flight leaves. Might as well make your time at the airport good by watching all the goons that walk by.

There are three types of people you'll run into at an airport at any given time or location.

1. The Zombie in a Suit:
This is the guy who's here on business and has a million frequent flier miles racked up. He whips out his cell every two seconds. What he's doing on that cellphone to occupy his time is something I don't want to know. He probably knows the pilot by name and has canoodled with several of those perky flight attendants. He's suave and smooth, but way too suave and smooth. Don't let him near your girlfriend or your wallet.

2. The Parent Who's In Way Over Their Head:
Every mommy and daddy wants a vacation for their young ones to remember forever. So they pack up their sippy cups, Mickey Mouse ears and bottles of Advil to embark on a fabulous Disney World trip. What they didn't anticipate was the airport hassle. And that their kids would be a nuisance. To everyone within a twenty mile radius. I've got to give these troopers credit though. I wouldn't even think of totting two twin tornadoes to the airport with me in a million years. This pair get a gold star for having nerves of steel.

3. The Nervous Flier:
I spot one right now. Over there by the toilets. He's got one hand on the Pepto Bismol and the other on the blanket his Nana gave him when he was four. He hates flying and wishes he were anywhere other than here. His face is green and his eyes red from weeping last night.  If anyone in this airport needs a hug right now, it's this poor sap. I wonder what traumatizing experience pitted him against flying? Maybe his wife left him for a pilot? Or maybe he saw Cast Away? I make a mental note to slip the guy some vodka on my way to the loo.

Ding. Ding. Finally. My flight is boarding. I step in line behind the Zombie in a Business Suit and am ahead of the Parents Who Are In Way Over Their Heads. Mr. Nervous Flier is approaching and gives me a small grin. I return it. Then his face turns green and he spews chunks all over the ground at my feet.

Note to self: Never give another Nervous Flier vodka before boarding the plane.

Keep your eyes to the skies my friends,
Perfect Vision

No Tiger Blood, Just a Normal Guy

What with the Masters about to happen, I was just thinking about which golfer I'll be rooting for. To me the answer is obvious. Sure, this guy doesn't have tiger blood and he's not a warlock. And no, he is not a "frickin' rockstar from Mars." Actually, he's the kind of guy you look at and say, "He could be my next door neighbor." You could see him outside mowing the lawn, and he would be the guy who has a neighborhood barbeque. My favorite golfer of all time is Phil Mickelson.

In a golf world filled with pouting Tigers and cocky Bubba Watsons, Phil Mickelson is a breath of fresh air. The first time I saw him golf on television was a few years ago. He wasn't having the best game of his life, but hey, the guy knows how to handle himself and was just out to play. He lined up his shot and whams the ball into the air and plop. On the green.

What a pro.

But that's not what made me like him. Most golfers leave huge divots in the ground and let their caddies take care of it. But Phil, he walks over to the chunk of grass and dirt, picks it up, sets it back and stomps on it. Then he gives his caddy a thump on the back and a smile as they walk to the green. It was the subtlest of actions that made me take notice.

The guy is a class act.

Most people would curl up and give up in a time of personal crisis, but when Mickelson's wife and mother were diagnosed with cancer a couple years ago, he took time off to be with them. While Tiger Woods was under fire for his millions of mistresses and inevitable divorce, Phil was quietly taking care of his kin and being the ultimate family man. He's the guy you want to root for. Is he a perfect golfer? No way. But it's his flaws that humanize him and make him one of the best golfers of our time.

My eye is on you for the Masters this weekend Phil, even if you're not a "bitchin' rockstar from Mars,"
Perfect Vision

What's a Bieber?

Knock. Knock. I hear at the door.
"Who's there?" I ask.
"Chest hair." The voice replies.
"Chest hair who?" I inquire.
"Chest hair who plucked himself off Justin Bieber because he's embarrassed to be seen there."
I gasp and open the door to let that poor creature inside.

Unless you've been living under a rock for the last two years, odds are you probably know who and what a Justin Bieber is.

My first experience with the Biebs was at a roller skating rink. I'm wobbling along at my turtle's pace on those skates and Justin Bieber's "Baby" comes through the speakers. I look up above, wondering where on earth this racket is coming from, when all the sudden, a flock of screaming pubescent girls rampages past me like a frickin' stampede. Before I realize what's even going on, my feet flail around and I'm knocked over on my butt, banana peel style.

That, my friends, is called Bieber Fever, and it's the deadliest disease on this planet.

And as I lay there spread eagle on the cold, hard floor at that skating rink, I came to the conclusion that I would never be bitten by the Bieber Bug.

That's not to say that I despise the kid. He's like, what, 12? How can you hate someone who doesn't even have their big boy molars yet? Plus, he does kind of resemble a fluffy woodland creature, what with that high pitched voice and fluffy looking hair. And I do like squirrels....

However, I can't say I'm terribly impressed either. I read that interview he did in Rolling Stone. Scratch that. I should say I got halfway through that article before I put the magazine down to go pull my toenails off with a pair of pliers, because that activity was more intellectually enriching. I'm pretty sure the exact moment I stopped reading was when he used the word "mouses" instead of "mice." I rolled my eyes and thought to myself, "Maybe this kid shouldn't be paying so much money for hair gel. He could use some grammar lessons."

So as I sat on my sofa eating popcorn with the chest hair of Justin Bieber who came knocking at my door, I came to a decision. When the kid grows a chest hair that isn't afraid to be seen in public, I'll listen to his music.

Here's Looking At You Kid,
Perfect Vision

Don't Mess With My Ellen

Have you ever heard of the old lady who lived in the shoe? Well, try the old lady who lived at the gym. I go to the fitness center every day and see the same lady there. Every day. She never says hello, never acknowledges me in any way, just walks on her treadmill and rides her stationary bike.

And at this gym, there are two remotes to the television set in the treadmill and elliptical room. You would not believe the stupid things some people do to keep these remotes to their greedy selves. They put them in those little cup holders, hold them in their sweaty hands while they run and I swear I even saw a guy stuff a remote down his pants once.

It's intense.

So I'm on my elliptical machine and glance at the clock. Ellen Degeneres's show has been on for five whole minutes! Gasp. I proceed to look for one of the sought after remotes as the old lady I see every day gets off her machine and heads for the disinfecting wipes. It looks to me like she's done watching Oprah. Fist pump! I proceed to make my move and switch the channel to Ellen. Success, right?

WRONG!

This old lady marches to a different machine, sits down, huffs and puffs indignantly, and turns the channel back to Oprah. Without even looking at me. Not once. Meanwhile, here I am about to go all Jerry Springer on an eighty year old woman. Is it so much to ask to want to watch Ellen? She's a funny, super-hip lesbian. What's not to like?

Is it just me, or has gym etiquette been completely lost?

It seems like every time I go to the gym, there's some frazzled mommy with her screaming toddler on the track. Or some meat head lifting weights who forgets to use the disinfecting wipes to sop up his puddles of sweat. Or someone who drops a deuce in the locker room and forgets to flush. Seriously.

And if that little old lady tries to mess with my Ellen again, I wont hesitate to drop kick her in the teeth.

Lovingly Yours,
Perfect Vision

The Love, the Science and The Art

Do you ever get a sudden urge to do something when you think no one is watching? Like, you're sitting at the red light and you desperately want to dig for some gold in your nose? No one's looking right?
Or maybe you're strolling around the mall and pass by an unattended kiosk. And on that kiosk are rows upon rows of Snuggies in every shape and pattern imaginable. Your jaw drops. You wanted a Snuggie for Hanukkah but didn't get one and cried about it for weeks. Now is your shining moment of opportunity. Will anyone notice if you nab the red one? Well my friends, the answer is yes! People notice things. One thing I've observed about human beings is that we love to watch and analyze one another.

So maybe you think the little old lady in the neighboring car at that red light is retouching her lipstick, but odds are, she's peering around for anything and everything to report at her Sunday evening knitting club. And maybe you think no one will notice if you grab the much sought-after red Snuggie at the mall kiosk, but nuh-uh...Little Teddy Turner is with Mommy in Barnes and Noble and sees the whole dirty deal (and then tattles, because that's what kids do).

The fact is, people watching is something many of us have a love for. It's an exact science that doesn't develop overnight but grows like the fungus on that two year old sandwich under your bed. And most of all, people watching is a form of art. Not only do we spy on people, but other humans inspire us. Where do you think Lady Gaga thought of wearing her insane costumes? Why, Sir Elton John of course! We watch other people subconsciously without even realizing it, and those observations in turn influence our lives.

Alcoholics Anonymous? How about People Watchers Anonymous? Because that, my friends, is an addiction all in itself. Hi, my name is Perfect Vision and I am a People Watching Addict. There, I said it.

Now join the club.

The apple of your eye,
Perfect Vision