I want this site to die. I want everything about it to die.
I am sure I have mentioned it before. I don't care if it is run by well meaning and sensible ladies somewhere. I don't care if it is run by a conglomeration of smug psychoanalysts or canny businessmen or both. I want it to curl up and die and take everything that it represents with it.
I want to find the woman who is sad enough to pay almost $100 (!) for unfashionable jeans that may make her look 5 pounds smaller, because moving around a tiny portion of body mass is certainly her key to spiritual fulfillment.
I want to take the ace bandage and clay 'detox' kit, that will presumably drain you of a tiny portion of body mass, wrap the bandages tightly around a smug psychoanalyst and choke them with the damp clay.
Being a woman of a certain age (I perversely love that phrase, but let's get into my contradictions some other time, I'm on a roll), I take this shit highly personally.
When you get four or five crows' feet, or maybe notice a bit of displaced flesh when you rise out of bed in the morning, high-waisted wide-leg jeans with pumps may seem like a good idea.
They're not. Snap out of it. I don't care if you have to dump some bourbon in your morning Folgers. Spend the $100 on quality booze rather than overpriced, tired lycra and inferior denim.
You will be better for it.
*All of the above also applies to the Quacker Factory and Denim & Co. If you are awake at stupid hours and enjoy staring slackjawed at Home Shopping Hostesses, you will know of what I speak. However, even QVC doesn't seem so sad in comparison; just weirdly earnest. And at least you can embrace your inner tunic for about $40. The only thing I hate worse than burying yourself alive is being ripped off in the process.