New slang

All over town (by town, I mean webernets) there are these hoards of people who lurk in the dark shadows of popular blogs and online publications, voraciously devouring every word written, waiting with bated breath to pounce on something... any small morsel they can concoct an elaborate vitriolic diatribe around in the comment section. This brand of feedback is almost always entirely indicative of their lack of comprehension of the writing's true content/purpose and generally serve to disparage the author in some ridiculous, single-minded way without addressing any larger issue.

Frequently rife with misspellings, poor sentence structure, and/or faulty grammar- these diarrhea-of-the-mouth style (for lack of a better expression) missives serve no purpose other than to chip away at the self-esteem of the writer (or worse, the subject of the post/story), while demonstrating the higher intelligence/morality/social standing of the commenter.

Ladies and gentlemen of the webernets, without further ado... allow me to introduce you to:

Netpicker (n) - Original Etymology, Nit Picker (n) 1951 - pedantic critic. Adopted for the web (or internet) in 2009. - Specifically characterizes an individual who seeks to criticize the work of another in the public forum of the comment section of any online published content with thinly-veiled attempts to elevate his/her own standing on unrelated grounds.

Synonyms: Hater (variant, "player" hater), troll, sniper, naysayer, @sshole, misanthrope.

I should add here that I've been very fortunate to avoid the steel gaze of most netpickers by flying largely under their radar with this fun little blog of mine. I've come up with this expression to put a name to the endless supply of jack@sses I come across while enjoying the work of other bloggers.

Most notably, I'm alarmed on a regular basis at just how many readers flock to Heather Armstrong's thoroughly amusing and insightful dooce.com, seemingly for the sole purpose of netpicking. She regularly posts excerpts of her most amusing hate e-mails and I applaud her for taking it all in stride. Netpickers should largely be ignored... but it's about time we put a name to their nasty little spiteful faces.

Is it just me...

Or are these two eerily similar?

(Comedian Joan Rivers of ABC's Celebrity Apprentice and the puppet face mask from the SAW movie franchise.)

This particular resemblance struck me as I watched the train wreck that is Donald Trump as he one by one, solicited opinions and feedback from booted contestants and then summarily insulted, cut off, or dismissed them entirely. How exactly, does anyone take that man seriously? ... And let's not even get into his hair.

Maybe

Again with the commercials. Since I watch an alarming number of self-improvement shows (thank you TLC), I inadvertently watch a lot of self-improvement commercials. Whitening toothpaste, self-tanning moisturizers, feminine odor powders, hair dye, and of course, makeup. So much makeup. Fortunately, I'm almost 100% impervious to makeup commercials. I wear makeup for work or for special events. I have some makeup I've owned for, ::gasp:: six, seven, eight years? I use the same brush for my concealer and my lip liner. I use hairspray to kill spiders, not fly aways. And... listen up world wide webernets: I did my own makeup, with the ages old aforementioned supplies, supplemented with free samples from Sephora... for the "most important day of my life" - my wedding.

And I'm starting to think that these companies are just blatantly lying about what their products do for you... specifically when it comes to anything that's supposed to defy your age or make any part of your face longer, smaller, shorter, whatever. Which is where I take a beef with Maybelline. They have this new "Maybelline Lash Stiletto" that claims to lengthen (or stretch... ouch!, depending on who you consult) your lashes seductively, give it a shiny patent finish and strengthen and condition your lashes.

First- who needs to "condition and strengthen" their lashes? Are men (or ladies) just rubbin' up on your lashes and getting pricked and scratched, poked in the eyes? Don't those things fall out, like, every two days? Why waste time conditioning? Second- a "shiny patent finish?" How the hell are you supposed to know? Those things are like, microscopic! That's like saying that spider's legs have a shiny patent finish. Who could possibly tell? And lastly, this "lengthening." I call BS. Perhaps the mascara has a super science ability to clump up on your lashes and back up on itself in a linear, uniform way, which gives the illusion of a lengthened lash to the naked eye. But I guess that would be too much of a mouthful for their gorgeous spokesperson de jour.

Maybe it's Maybelline? Maybe they made it up.

Do a what?

Okay... I'm home a lot. I mean- a LOT these days. And with my tonsils out, riding the crazy train to oxycodoneville most afternoons- there's not much that's safe to do without supervision except watch tv. A lot of tv. And I'm finally starting to wonder what the F is up with Daisy sour cream. Their whole campaign suggests you, "Do a dollop [of Daisy]" - implying sour cream can go with virtually everything and a generous "dollop" is the right size helping.

I'm sorry- do the folks at Daisy know what sour cream is? I think they may be in cahoots with those crazy high fructose corn syrup people (or maybe they've just been drinking it straight) because one of their main suggestions is dipping vegetables and potato chips into a plain bowl of sour cream. Have we heard of cholesterol?

Just checking.

Oh, and Semi-Homemade Cooking with Sandra Lee. Is this how America cooks? I mean- I guess I should be glad that people are getting into the kitchen, period- but what is up with her ingredient distribution? 70% store bought and 30% fresh? I think this just makes me sad. Most of the pleasure I derive from cooking comes from the magic of transforming basic, raw, ingredients into totally different, interesting, and complete meals. It's not even that starting with premade food feels a little like cheating because ultimately- it's not about how quickly you make it to the finish line- it's how you get there and if you enjoy yourself along the way. Don't people want to know what's in their food?

Argh. Enough ranting for the moment. It's hardly fair to welcome readers back with a big old complaint-fest. More random musings to follow. Oh, and I've abandoned the final chapter of my San Francisco trip for an unspecified amount of time. Travel notes don't seem to generate much conversation so I'm going to quit giving myself a hard time for not wrapping that up with a bow.

A few of my favorite things

All I want for Christmas is:

-More chocolate pudding and Saltines
-Dexter Season Three to be available on Netflix and sent immediately to my house
-A shovel
-A miter saw
-A pair of pajamas that have feet
-For the tonsil fairy to come and take mine out, quickly and painlessly in my sleep (I'll leave a fifty under the pillow for any takers... seriously.)

In Sickness and In Saltiness

**DISCLAIMER** This may not be suitable for the weak of stomach.**DISCLAIMER**

I cannot talk and so I write. Just a quick update to say that I am fine now but spent yesterday morning between Urgent Care and the Ear Nose and Throat doctor's office getting pricked, probed, swabbed, and stuck in between rounds of sickness. I do not have strep but my right tonsil was heavily inflamed and the ultimate choice was to use a needle to repeatedly probe the area for infection. This was not fun. It was better than my lancing experience in Korea but only by a bit- mostly being able to understand what the doctor was saying and the lack of a two inch scalpel made a significant difference.

I am on heavy meds- more oxycodone, amoxycillan, dexasomething or other (a steroid to reduce the swelling), and a ton of aspirin. I'm eating lots of pudding, softened saltines, yogurt, and soup and have stopped being sick to my stomach which is a huge relief. Mr.Mr. has been remarkable. He held my hand, rubbed my back, endured my panicky cries of "it's too hot! I'm going to throw up!" and didn't protest when I snapped at him out of exhaustion. I really did pick the best of them. He also has stocked the house with soft foods and is indulging my desire to watch a whole disc of Sex in the City and has agreed to any romantic comedies I want. And we all know that takes a much stronger stomach than watching your wife spit bile into a plastic tub after being stuck with a needle in the roll of flab above her backside.

I should be able to talk in a day or so, should be healed from the infection within two weeks and will see the doctor on New Year's Eve (...celebrate good comes, come on!) to check in on my progress. If I heal fast enough, I may be able to have my tonsils out in the middle or the end of the month of January. I'm hopeful that we can call it done as soon as possible.

In between multiple hour naps, too much Stacey and Clinton, formulaic home decorating shows on A&E, HGTV, and OPB- I'll try and wrap up some long overdue posts and also write about a few other things I've been mulling over for the last week. I hope you're all doing well this crazy holiday season. Through snow or wind, sleet or hail- the New Year is coming and based on this year's cumulative, collective experiences- it can only get better from here. Right?

...I'll cross my fingers just in case.

Shock and awe

I know this is a completely negative entry but I really can't resist. You've been warned- this is tirade territory... enter at your own risk.

That being said: My mother always told me never to say "hate" - but I hate American Apparel. I remember the days when the aura around AA was so bright you needed a pinhole camera so as not to burn your eyes... when they were lauded as the best, reasonably priced, non-sweatshop provider of American-made wearables.

And it's been well documented that the owner of the company (Dov Charney) makes no bones about sexualizing his workforce and objectifying women in general. Countless magazines have interviewed him in various states of undress and he has been involved in at least five lawsuits with former employees. People are aware of this.

But what adds insult to injury is that on top of all of the disgusting, back-office issues that swirl around American Apparel like a filthy tornado of shame- they make really crappy, ugly clothes. I walked into their Capital Hill store recently out of curiosity and was faced almost immediately with a guy in (what looked like) 70's gym shorts, a t-shirt, a bandana-style scarf around his neck and a terry-cloth headband. He was an employee. Venturing downstairs to the women's department I encountered two women, equally barely dressed. Also employees. One wore a cotton/lycra dress with a severe v-neck, dropping below her chest line and moon boots. The other sported gold lame hot shorts that exposed the thigh and actual bottom of the backside, paired with a massively open-neck shirt hanging precariously off one shoulder.

And now they're marketing this crap as "back to school" fashion? I'm no prude and I enjoy baring a little skin here and there but come on? How is it that this loathsome company has bewitched 20 and early 30-somethings to buy and wear their clothes with such a debaucherous back story and an obvious lack of taste?

... Really?

I mean, really.

Okay.

I'm done.

Good vs. Evil

Mr.Mr. and I recently rented The King of Kong: a Fistful of Quarters on the recommendation of a friequaintance (that's a half friend, half acquaintance) and man, do you HAVE to see this movie. The documentary revolves around a series of events in arcade gaming history in 2003 when average-joe, Steve Weibe challenged old school super-geek, Billy Mitchell to a Donkey Kong duel for the Guinness Book of World Records title of Top Scorer.

Suffice to say I haven't seen a bad guy like Billy Mitchell in a long time. He manages to pull off a cocky swagger despite his manly mullet and conspires to thrash the hopes of Wiebe at every turn; stooping to manipulative and calculated maneuvers that will make your stomach turn. His uberAmerican attitude is rivaled in strangeness only by his peculiar line of business selling hot sauces under someone else's name. Totally weird.

Weibe on the other hand is the clear underdog cum hero. He is honest, hard-working, and supported by an adorable family of wife and kids whose desire to see him succeed is unrivaled even by Steve's own ambitions. Plus, I love that he's a local.  I've been fighting the urge to send him a postcard that reads, "Billy Mitchell is a douche bag.  You rule."

Adding insult to injury

Nothing says "Happy Monday" like a probe down your nose.

Notice I didn't say "up my nose." The fact is, the "up" portion of your nose is just a way station to the long dive into your esophagus. How do I know this? Because bright and early on Monday morning I visited the friendly neighborhood Otolaryngologist who did just that. After asking me a barrage of questions about my sleeping, eating and breathing habits/problems, he used a device that vaguely resembled one of those paint guns used by airbrushed t-shirt vendors in malls across the country, to spray an anesthetic into my nose and down my throat. Small piece of advice? Avoid this process if you can. The anesthetic tastes of concentrated mold and the entire process is like shooting milk out your nose... in reverse. Not cool.

But really, the probe wasn't the worst of it. What really frosted me was that right before he shoved that thing with the articulated tip into one of my few facial orifices, he cocks his head to the right, narrows his eyes ever so slightly and asks, "Did you know your nose is crooked?" WHAT? Is it not enough that you're about to challenge my very strong gag reflex and take an intimate look at my inner workings a la Dennis Quaid in Innerspace? Do you really have to draw attention to a flaw that by your estimation is not only a) totally normal but b) not at ALL related to any of the problems I came to see you for? Really.

Someone needs to work on their bedside manner.

Happy 5th of July!

All I can say is thank god the fourth is over. I love me some hamburgers, chips and brownies. I even enjoy the occasional sonic boom of fireworks overhead (though I could do without the black clouds that follow) but Jesus Christ on a popsicle stick- if I have to endure another night of boozed up bozos shooting off firecrackers in the street at 1:30am, I'm gonna lose it. Last time I checked, the right to set fires and shoot explosives into the air in the narrow corridor of buildings on a busy city street is not listed in the Declaration of Independence or the Constitution.

Apart from the fact that celebrating our "independence" is about as meaningful these days as celebrating our ability to pick our noses, the combination of alcohol and fire is undoubtedly the only surefire way to lose your eyebrows and a a limb... and I saw the two ambulances across the street last night to prove it. Now let's get on with the rest of the year, shall we?

We interrupt this program

...To bring you something completely different.

My endocrinologist shares an office space with about five skibbidyjillion obstetricians and gynecologists, all of whom I presume work with "the pregnant folk."  And apparently all pregnant women love free crap so there's always some new pregnancy calendar,* formula carrying bag or otherwise Simulac branded knickknack lying around where the magazines are laid out.  So last time I was in I picked up a copy of "Pregnancy & Newborn" thinking it would be a nice thing to pass along to my sister-in-law who's expecting in late November.  Mind you, I suspected this monthly "magazine" was more than likely an adverzine designed to push all manner of product into the hands of unsuspecting mothers-to-be, but I picked it up anyway.  And was I ever right.  

Only I never expected just what level of wacko stuff the baby-machine has come up with lately.  I give you Exhibit A: The Easy Expression Bustier.

Allow me to state very clearly that I am super-pro breast feeding.  So it's not the act of expressing milk that bothers me at all.  And as a professional female I'm all for hands-free multi-tasking.  But seriously?  This contraption resembles an industrial cow milker a little too closely for comfort.  I think the denim dress shirt really tops it all off though.  It really says, "I am a very busy woman who works in a business-casual atmosphere and I my schedule is very, very full."  I think it would have been even better if they had gone the extra mile and put her in front of a computer in a cubicle, typing away while wearing a phone headset to demonstrate just how convenient and discreet the design of this fetching maternal undergarment really is.

Oh, and please excuse the drama of the last post.  It's not to say I'm not still thinking about the subject matter but I think maybe it got a little too woe-is-me even for my tastes.  

*Oh, and non-pregnant people love free stuff too because I once took home a pregnancy calendar thinking it would be a nice solution to my problem of lacking a small, non-bulky planner.  Wrong.  Unless you like your calendar pages to be peppered with an index of pregnancy terms and photos of fetuses.  That experience taught me that there are some free things that are really not worth taking.

Aren't "we" special?

As someone who's been cautioned once or twice against being too direct- I've found myself playing passive altogether too often lately. I noticed it first some time ago when in an email to a coworker at the corporate office, I said something to the effect of, "If we could get this profile updated to reflect the change in status, that would be great!" We? I can't do a damn thing about updating the profile... I don't even work in that database. Hell- that database is 3,000 miles from where I sit. You are responsible for that task. ...But I totally softened it. Maybe I was trying to come across as more of a "team player," by implying that we can do it together! Yeah. I still can't do a damn thing about it and it's still your job. Oh, and I actually can't continue working on that item until your part has been completed.

Then we made a bunch of declarations about my dental preferences. "I think we decided the floss with the sort of spongy, ropey feel was the best..." Hmmm. Was the dental hygienist in the bathroom with me, both of us in our pajamas with morning breath? And did we look at each other with two-fisted flossy grins in appreciation of the gentle dental scrubbing we experienced from said floss? I don't think so. What's the deal there? I couldn't' admit the flat ribbon floss my friendly hygienist (shout out to Nancy at Dr. Felix's office!) suggested wasn't really my thing? Was I afraid my shunning her recommendation would jeopardize our regular six month hook up? Please.

The final straw was really when we decided on what type of medical care I should receive. "I think we decided it would be alright for me to go off the methimazole because we felt I was doing a lot better." Last I checked the only degree hanging on my wall (or boxed up at my Mom's house, actually) is for something totally non-scientific like Art. Under that there profile section, do you see "Salty, Phd?" Didn't think so. (Besides, if I was going to be a "PhD," I would totally go for the gold and add, "Esq." Go big or go home, really.) In this case I think the ubiquitous "we" has more to do with not wanting to seem presumptuous or like I remember our last office visit better than he does. But seriously- I usually do! I can't tell you how many times the doctor sits there staring at his new Dell flat screen that's supposed to tell them everything their paper charts used to say and they're asking, "Now it looks like I saw you back in ...?" or "Now are you still on the XYZ medication?" You should know this! It is not my personal responsibility to lay out my medical history every time we meet. WTF?

So folks, I think we need to work on this. Well, specifically I need to work on this. But in this case, I really do mean "we" because I hear people do it all the time. But I think if we all made an effort to take a little more ownership of our jobs, our actions, our mistakes... all of the things each of us really is in control of and accountable for, we'd be communicating an awful lot better.

The happiest hour and equal opportunity hand drying

Last week Mr.Mr. and I stopped by the Oceanaire on the way home from work for a quick sampling of their happy hour menu.  We bellied up to the galvanized steel counter next to a heaping display of shellfish on ice and prepared to be fed.  Now it should be said that those of you who enjoy the feeling of raw oysters sliding around in your mouth like limp, slippery innards- will LOVE the Oceanaire's happy hour.  All six+ varieties can be purchased per piece at between $1 and $1.25 or as part of a larger sampler.  Mr.Mr. describes them as "light, cool, crisp and buttery all at the same time."  He adds "they have a whole host of subtleties most foods don't have and they give you a sort of high... an oyster high."  An oyster high?  Riiiiight.  I describe oysters as, "gag-inducing, gross and not worth the shells they live in."  

So I had a caesar salad and fries.  And a cosmopolitan.  The salad was pretty standard faire 

and strangely, served in one of those patchwork veneer bowls you see in college cafeterias the world over.  Sub par presentation for the stately Oceanaire, if you ask me.  But it was in the fries, that the meal was redeemed.  Sadly, this out of focus photo from the crackberry does no justice to the massive pile of seasoned and salted, garlicky shoestring fries that I undertook as my main course.

We managed to drop about $40.00 which is a bit steep for happy hour but our tab included the aforementioned pile o'fries, salad, cosmo, two stella artois, six oysters on the half shell and free bread.  The cosmo was actually the most expensive item of them all at a whopping $7.00.  That'll teach me to drink like a girl. Just kidding.  Well- mostly.

Where the Oceanaire really surprised me was the bathroom.  With a set of oval mirrors hanging over identical porcelain pedestal sinks, they lured me in with free mouthwash in faceted glass (glass!) bottles, moisturizer and a can of AquaNet.  Man do I love free hairspray.  (Okay that one really is a joke.)  And the subway tiled walls and solid wood stalls were rather classy.  But as I indulged in the extra space provided by the handicapped stall (complete with its own sink) , I noticed the neat stacks of hand towels displayed on a modern glass shelf were at least two and a half feet from the top of the sink.  

I don't know many wheelchair bound folks but I can tell you those chairs don't come with go-go-gadget arms, helper monkeys  or Claw(tm) devices to grab crap from up high.  What were they thinking?  Just another disappointing instance where form kicks function's butt yet again.  

Oh, and I left a couple of hand towels on the safety rail just in case.

The hardest word

...Is not "sorry." It's not even "thank you." It's "congratulations."

I don't make my living being an artist but I consider myself to be creative. And I spent four years studying fine art at a small liberal arts college so I'd like to think my $130k wasn't spent completely in vain. But it's not where I typically look for success. In fact, up until recently, I didn't put much stock in creating work regularly, let alone pursuing opportunities to show or sell. Sure, there were plenty more "serious" art students who worked alongside me, painstakingly trying to capture the sag of a 70 year old's backside, reproducing famous works of the masters and trying to stay awake as the slow click of the slide projector advanced through 500 years of art history. And some of them even enjoyed a modicum of success in the form of a professor's praise or spots in the student shows. But seven years later, at least a few of my classmates are enjoying a whole different kind of success.

One former art classmate has sold a number of paintings for well over a $1,000.00 a piece. $1,000.00. ...Apart from being 10 times $100.00 (holy crap), that's also almost one month's rent. One. Month. Another former fellow resident assistant is coming out with a book in a couple of months. A book! With pages! And when I read this online I kind of wanted to throw up in my hand. I wanted to scoff out loud, make all kinds of justifications and blow it off as some sort of fluke.

What the hell?

I remind myself at this point that I don't ever need to be famous. Then I also remind myself that the pressure of having to make a living on my creative work would likely drive me insane. And despite that I still feel like it must be a mistake that someone wants to buy a bunch of crappy abstract corporate art or pay to read a bunch of personal development affirmations.

Should I ask it again? ...What the hell is my problem?

The reason I bring this up is not to convince you I'm a petty, jealous, insufferable brat (though admittedly I'd be convinced at this point). The thing is I know I'm not the only person out there who has a hard time swallowing their peers' achievements. I know I'm not the only one who actually feels less successful when confronted with other's success. I've read "Art & Fear." I even tried to read it a second time (though it's a bit too touchy-feely in tone, I actually liked it quite a bit). I've consulted my husband, family and professional mentors. And the best thing I can come up with at this point, is that I have to fake until I make it. I need to get into a habit of applauding the successes of my peers... even if I don't understand why I haven't achieved an iota of the same. Because it's not as simple as I'd like it to be. And feeling like crap is really only so much fun.

So I'm gonna say it. I'm gonna put it out there on the webernets for anyone and everyone to see. Loud and clear.

Congratulations.

...And you know they cache this crap so there's no way I can take it back.

Economic measures

Gather 'round everybody, I've got big news! Our economy sucks!

That's right, I'm finally feeling the pinch. High unemployment, rising costs of fuel, and for Christ's sake the price of a chocolate chip cookie at the bakery went up 33% last week! What the hell is happening? What's worse is that for some reason all I want to do is spend money. All the time. Go out to lunch? Sure! Grab a drink at happy hour? Why not?! Buy fifty dollars worth of small art on Etsy and bid on a couple of Ebay auctions? Let's do it! ...I mean those are just examples of things that I might have done recently. You know... hypotheticals. Right.

So I'm trying to curb all that excess spending by remembering this clever rhyme: "Use it up, wear it out, make it do, or do without."

I read it somewhere in a craftster string about recycling materials and despite my swiss cheese brain, it's managed to stick. So here are a few of the things I'm doing to cut costs lately:

• Not buy any more art paper and only use what I already have in new projects
  
• Finally send in the mac rebate from Mr.Mr.'s Christmas present
  
• Completely use up the samples I got at Sephora of the new Stila concealer ($22) and foundation ($32) I'm lusting after... any maybe go back for some more before buying
  
• Find recipes that use the stock items we already have in our cupboards
  
• Watch only Netflix videos and stop impulse-renting from Hollywood Video when I 'm impatient
  
• Consider repricing some of my artwork to sell faster on Etsy
  
• Bring some clothes to the secondhand stores to try and sell some items
  

What measures are you taking to ease the squeeze?

Kathie Lee Gifford makes me want to throw up

Watching Kathie Lee Gifford on the Today show is like watching a train wreck in slow motion. It's painful and regularly induces a series of involuntary spasms manifested as full body cringing. What's worse is that in her catty, pastel-clad hostile takeover she's taken Hoda Kotb hostage and using her Malibu-mom mind control to zap any intellect from her victim. What were they thinking?
Recently in the blogosphere, there was press of her poor handling of the mommy-blogger contingent as she forced Heather Armstrong (aka Dooce) out on the ledge of the very precarious question of the web vs. family privacy. Yet sadly, Kathie Lee mismanages every guest in ways you wouldn't even imagine. She makes inappropriate and demeaning comments, such as the one today when she implied her guest (a Men's magazine editor) had nothing of value to say but was "nice to look at." Excuse me, what? Has this "fourth hour" of the Today show been renamed, "Cougar Hour?" For real. During the same segment they were showcasing men's swimsuits meant to be age-appropriate and when faced with a early twenties-type dressed in Old Navy board shorts, KLG remarks "Old Navy has the coolest stuff... and at the greatest prices" - and while attempting to appear attentive her eyes shift away from the young model in a way that says, "my line with WalMart tanked but I'm open for endorsement opportunities, hint, hint... anyone at Old Navy listening?" It's obscene. Again, I feel really bad for Hoda Kotb. It's like a magnetic field swirls around Kathie Lee and anyone within five feet turns into a blathering idiot. At one point Hoda actually lifted the mic toward an attractive model in short trunks to ask if the shorts were comfortable. He of course said so, to which Hoda replies, "hehe, I just wanted to hear him talk."

Please, powers that be at NBC: cut and RUN. This woman is a banshee. She has dumbed-down your demographic and added the equivalent of a low-fat, Country-Tyme iced-tea sweetened with Xylitol and Splenda to your lineup. Dump her and allow Hoda to go into rehabilitation so she can reactivate the other 90% of her brain Kathie Lee voraciously sucked out.
Image courtesy of thestreet.com.

Why buy a condo anywhere else? (Ting!)

One of the local comercials that quickly infiltrated my brain like the nauseating earworm it is, is the ubiquitous Sleep Country promo. The slightly husky chanteuse ponders, "Sleep Country, U.S.A-A., Why buy a mat-tress a-nywh-ere else?" followed immediately by that sound clip advertisers use to denote shiny, white teeth or sparkling clean toilet bowls. And lately, I can't help but sing to myself a slightly adjusted version that makes me equally as nauseated: Crane City, U.S.A-A., Why buy a con-do a-nywh-ere else? What's up with you, Seattle?

This image, care of Beaster725 very clearly demonstrates the construction madness that has overcome the city. I count not one, not two, not three, but FOUR cranes in the one photo alone. What's worse is that on the average day I can see (from the 7th floor) between 6 and 14 cranes towering above the skyline.

How is this even possible? The Dow is down, gas is up and the next thing you know, people will be researching milk as an alternative fuel since it's the only thing still cheaper than oil. Homes are no longer lingering on the market, they're withering. So riddle me this: who, exactly are all these condos being built for? And of these new developments I've spotted at least two Senior Living centers a mere fifth of a mile apart from each other among them. Aren't senior citizens on average, less well-off than younger people and don't they hate things like city noise and... and... AND? Come on.

If anyone has some insight on this, please... pray tell.

Are puffy sleeves over yet?

Seriously? Barf. When did prairie chic takeover and can it be done? Now?