Carrie Sadshaw.

When you're getting limited-time-only, free HBO, sometimes you feel obligated to watch it. Even if the only thing on is this Sex in the City movie.

First of all, what the hell is the name of it? "Sex AND the city" or "IN the City"? It doesn't really matter because it sucks for many reasons. Not the least of which is this hideous Carrie Bradshaw character. Like, hideous. Personality-wise and aesthetically speaking. Listen, I'm all for unconventional beauty, and I loved SJP in Square Pegs, but I'm drawing the line here. And it's not helping that they're putting her in the world's most ridiculous outfits. I'm all for sartorial commentary, too, but come on. ENOUGH, ALREADY. Hooking up pajama bottoms, pearls, a t-shirt, stiletto ankle boots, a fur and a SPANGLED BEANIE? You lost me at the pearls.

Even more infuriating is the fact that this character is like, a loser. I'm sorry. It's true. Running after that creepy "Big" dude with the Count Chocula eyebrows and then being ecstatically happy with the pathetic scraps of attention he throws her way every now and again? GAG. The best part of the movie [SPOILER ALERT] is when she plans some cockamamie wedding that involves her wearing some dress that is like 150 sizes too big in the boobs and he leaves at the altar. YES! But then he wins her scrawny ass back by being too lazy to actually write her a love letter and just ripping off some famous ones from history, then sending them to her via EMAIL (!) with some lame ass note like, "Sorry I screwed up." And she's like, "He really does care." WHAT?! Because he sent a freakin' email containing plagiarized material?

I can't take it. Who am I supposed to relate to, here? What am I missing?

Spoils of War.

Been waiting for the opportunity to wash that man right out of your hair AND cash in during these Troubled Economic Times? You're in luck:



Um, what? There's a lot going on here. Let's review:
1. Talking dogs.
2. Talking dogs who get their hair did at "Le Bistro". A cafe/dog groomer? Does not meet the health code.
3. Talking dogs with bling.
4. Talking, web-savvy dogs.
5. Good-for-nothing oglers.
5. Talking, web-savvy dogs who control their masters and then benefit financially from the behavior of good-for-nothing oglers though the acquisition of bejeweled dog accessories.

The tag line "break up with his jewelry, too" was the only part of this I heard when I first encountered this commercial. I was like, "Why are these women dating men who wear so much jewelry? Who are they dating? Mr. T? Liberace?"

Lashing Out.

Is there an epidemic of "eyelash inadequacy" sweeping the nation? Are people gnashing their teeth and wailing because their eyelashes simply aren't long or thick enough? According to the drug company that makes "Latisse", yes.

"Inadequate" lashes? "Not enough lashes"? Why are they being so judgmental? I can see if you had to undergo chemo or something and lost your eyelashes. Or if your lids are like, stark raving nude. But to get a prescription to help you grow eyelashes thicker? Is that covered under your health insurance plan?

Let's take a look at the possible side effects:

May cause eyelid skin darkening which may be reversible, and there is potential for increased brown iris pigmentation which is likely to be permanent.

So basically, you use this stuff and you could end up looking like Randy Constan.

Edible Infants.

You know how they can take a picture now and stick it on a cake? Yeah, that's weird. Like it's Grandpa's 75th birthday and here you are at the family party, eating part of his chin or working your way through his right arm. Festive.

Well, that's nothing. Because I was recently made aware of the 100% horrifying marzipan babies phenomenon. Like, miniature, realistic-looking babies THAT ARE MADE OUT OF SUGAR AND ARE EDIBLE. And evidently, twisted freaks like to give them out to nosh upon at baby showers.

I have good news. Turns out, I'm like five years behind the times and this all turned out to be a nasty rumor. I Snopes-ed it out and they're actually just these weird little figurines that some artist makes. Which, really, is kind of bizarre enough in itself. Weirder still is that I checked out the website and for some reason (read: to make an extra buck), you can buy little outfits for these mini babies and dress them up. What is the scenario like where someone is sitting around doing that? At least they're not eating them, I guess.

Bathroom Attendance.

Oh, man. There are lots of crappy-ass jobs out there: crab fisherperson, proctologist, uninsured day-laborer... But one of the worst has to be that of bathroom attendant.

Ugh. The fact that someone has to spend their entire day in a public bathroom is almost too depressing to bear. I can think of fewer places I'd rather be. I mean, it beats like, living in a box or whatever worst case horrible situation you can think of, for sure, but man...

And as a human who needs to use the bathroom from time to time, I'm also kind of resentful that in order to attend to an unstoppable biological need, I am forced to be confronted with an awkward situation which ALSO includes tipping, to make it that much more awkward. Some people have "shy bladders", you know. If someone is in that bathroom with them, it just prolongs the transaction. And I can actually get my own paper towel, but I sincerely thank you for offering one to me. I'll also pass on the perfume, but thanks again. And if I'm at this event or whatever for longer than 2 hours, I'll probably be seeing you several times. Do we need to go through this dance each time? And should I leave a tip each time? I'm running out of singles.

I just hate everything about it. It gives me the sads. Thoughts?

Umbrella-ella-ella.

As if it's not bad enough trying to dodge becoming a cyclops via an errant umbrella spoke in the eyeball during a downpour, now chumps are using umbrellas to protect themselves from the sun. I place the blame for this alarming trend firmly on Jacko, who was fond of this type of nonsense.

Listen: if you're not sitting outdoors somewhere at a table with a hole in it or laying on a beach, there's no call for this type of behavior. And if you're going to insist on pulling a Morticia Aadams and strutting around with one of these damn parasols, how about not poking my eyes out while you protect your precious alabaster complexion?

Or better yet, put down the stupid umbrella, be normal and develop melanoma like the rest of us.

The Pro-NO-sal.

Don't you hate it when you go to a picturesque cabin with your hotass coworker who you're pretending to be married to so you can get a green card because you're Canadian and it turns out that you are both single and lonely and the only thing keeping you apart (besides you being a Canadian) is your pride and dedication to maintaining your reputation as a hard-edged businesswoman and then when you're in the cabin, you and your hotass coworker both suddenly - whoops!- find yourselves accidentally nude and on top of one another and then like, maybe Cloris Leachman or Murphy Brown pops her head in and says something bawdy and then you realize that you're really in love after all and screw the USA and its stupid green card laws, you're moving to Canada with your hotass coworker who is now your husband?

I hate when that happens.

You have now officially seen that new Sandy Bullock/Guy Who is Married to Scarlett Jojoba and Who is Ironically Canadian in Real Life movie. You're welcome.