Michael Phelps, you should move to San Francisco.

Oh, are we still having that War on Drugs?

Funny, I thought we won that war. How silly of me.
So many wars, so little common sense.

***

This post is certainly one I had not expected to write because:

1. It's a rant and I dislike these kinds of posts immensely and avoid reading them at all costs, even when they are my own;
2. I don't take drugs and have never smoked pot, so I don't know what I'm talking about;
3. I'm tired and I'm supposed to be making some sauteed chicken breasts for dinner;
4. This isn't what I wanted to talk about, but...

I hate it when Google scans your email and "suggests" ads you might be interested in. Because I mentioned a bong in a previous post (green robe attained, fyi!), now Google thinks I would be most interested in reading about marijuana. Which I am not.

(However, if it wasn't for Google scanning my email and learning about my bacon fetish, I never would have stumbled across Baconnaise. So I guess this Orwellian email prying sometimes has its good points, too.)

***

This time I get a link leading to "CNN: Crime!" (the exclamation point and italics are mine) about Michael Phelps and his little indiscretion with a water pipe. Am I the only one who thought for now that perhaps as a nation, we might not for just a teensy moment be quite so Puritanical and retarded? (I realize I should stop using that word and it is terribly un-PC, but frankly I'm sick of being PC and I did see Tropic Thunder, which made that word funnily applicable again, in a very 7th grade way. We use the word in the privacy of our own home.)

***

I'm sorry, but this kid won a sh*tload of Olympic medals. And now sponsors might drop him? So what does this say about Mr. Phelps? That you can be an exceptional 23-year old young athlete and win a ton of Olympic medals and once in a while smoke pot? Do we have absolutely nothing else in this country to be concerned about? Don't sheriffs in South Carolina have much more major concerns in their jurisdictions? I bet they do if they looked around.

See, I'm ranting. I hate that. I should stop here and make my chicken breasts.

But all the same, I just hope upon hope that before I die (of natural causes many, many years from now) that America as a whole will give a sh*t about real education, literacy, healthcare, jobs, science, the arts, fair governance and not this crazy, ridiculous time and money wasting BS.

San Francisco is a town where you can get a contact high just walking down Market Street (near the Financial District, I might add) at 5pm on a Wednesday, and no one gives a hoot. I'm sorry, I really think we have bigger fish to fry than Olympic champions who actually could inspire more kids to be interested in swimming and getting some physical exercise than lighting a doobie.

End of rant. I'm going to chop mushrooms now. No more CNN for this girl.

Junkie

"My case is a species of madness, only that it is a derangement of the Volition, and not of the intellectual faculties." ~ Samuel Taylor Coleridge

***

When I sold my kit several years ago, I thought I had closed a chapter in my life. Well, I did. I walked away cold turkey and was glad about it. I was so burned out. I tried to stay away from the stores, the magazines, anywhere I might be tempted to relapse.

Until today, when apparently I'm off the wagon again.

***

This morning on the train into work (at 8:07 am, to be precise), I got a brilliant idea for a writing project, a book. At least, it's a brilliant idea to me. I had the kind of feeling that you get when you have a dream that's so clear and true that it keeps you going all day, like a muse has been whispering in your ear all night and you wake up with all kinds of aha's! and connections in your mind.

I'm not going to say too much yet, because you know how some of these brilliant ideas can be. You pursue them passionately to an unforseen dead end and then when you run out of steam, you realize that your idea wasn't really all that brilliant and you got all excited about nothing special.

So I'll tell you about the details if it looks like there's something to share details about.

***

When you're a makeup artist, you're a technique snob and product junkie, a review hound and an ingredients smartypants. You watch other artists work and appropriate their style, when you see them do something new you haven't tried yourself. You can't really go to school to learn how to be a makeup artist. In theory you can, but in reality, to succeed you need hundreds of hours of practice, on real human faces of every make and model. You pore over printed materials and you can pick up a Glamour magazine or Allure and, without reading the photo credits, you know which makeup artist did the cover model. You don't even care who's on the cover. You go gaga for the technique: if it's good, you go gaga. If there's a perceived flaw or mistake, you rip it up and you and your friends talk about how you could have done it better.

When you're a makeup artist, your kit is your most prized possession and it encompasses your ongoing quest for the Holy Grail. My kit was a classic silver metal train case, five compartments high and lined with black velvet, which doubled as a side table and I used to perch a small lamp on it when I wasn't using it. I needed to wear a wrist brace when transporting it to jobs because it was so heavy. I remember a lovely Nigerian taxi driver helping me at JFK Airport, who asked me if I was carrying bars of gold in the case because it was so heavy. A totally understandable question. When I told him the case was full of lipstick, he started laughing. I don't think he believed me.

When you're working, you try to make connections with account managers so you can get free product and then you never have to buy as much.

But you always end up buying stuff. Every artist says the same thing: Oh, but it's for my kit. If you say it's for your kit, then spending hundreds of dollars on shiny new packaging that's smooth and perfect under your fingertips, and subtle, finely milled powders that feel like silk, and soft sable brush hairs of every shape, and perfect bullets of lipstick full of pigment and sensual emollients, spending that money doesn't hurt so much. Because you're a pro, and you need whatever it is... for your kit. It's for my kit justifies a lot.

The truth is that it's never for the kit. It's for you and you just pretend like it's all business.

***

Pictured above, today's naughty haul at Sephora. Several months ago, I had heard a chorus of angels singing (in my head) when I first realized that now I can get YSL cosmetics there, and now I don't have to deal with the snobby clerks at Bloomingdales. Today's pile of beauty started because I got a gift card from my sister and because people keep asking me why I retired from being a makeup artist and all of a sudden I have a basket of items in my hand and in my head, it's all flowing back in a rush of creativity and memories.

It's for my kit.

***

And then, just to prove that fate or fortune or whatever is truly shining on me and my brilliant idea today, my dearest dutchbaby (who knows exactly what I like) scored a bacon scented, bacon flavored lip balm from... you guessed it, the guys at Baconnaise!


Dutchbaby went to the wonderful Fancy Food Show here in town last week and met the proprietors of Baconnaise and now not only do I have the option of glossing my pout with YSL Rouge Pur no. 134, but I can also make my lips smell like bacon! (This is sounding a wee bit pornographic, I realize that now.)

Dogs and men are going to find me irresistable. And No, this one is not going in my kit.

The Gift

I think this is a good omen for the Staycation. It may even be a good omen for the new year, who can say.

When I got home last night this mysterious box was waiting for me on my desk.

But before I can tell you what was in the box, I have to tell you another story.

***

Once upon a time, in one of my other incarnations, I was the 1-800 skin care expert for a small natural skin care company. I was the person that you would speak to if you bought our products, used them unwisely or without reading the packaging, and then called the 1-800 number to complain.


(BTW, we had very nice products. The company no longer exists in its present form and was bought out by a much bigger company and everyone lost their jobs. But what I did learn was that 1. people are silly and have greatly exaggerated dreams of what a jar of face cream can do for them, 2. people don't read labels or instructions, and 3. when I say "people" in this instance, I mean women.)

Anyway, this is only part of the story. Because we were such a small company, when I was not on the phone with customers, it was part of my job to help figure out marketing angles for our products. The boss really wanted to get us written up in InStyle Magazine and other beauty mags (and to my credit, I once got us a mention in Harper's Bazaar by pulling a very large string from my days in the cosmetics world).

But more than anything else, the boss really really wanted us to get our products in those Oscar bags. You know, the bags full of shwag. Bags loaded with expensive skin care and fancy cell phones and jewelry, the bags they give to the presenters at the Oscars. Like Gwyneth Paltrow really needs your product. Or gives two hoots about it.

Anyway, we never did get our products into an Oscar bag. The closest we ever got was that a supposedly fancy shmancy salon in Beverly Hills stocked one of our facial masks for a while, but that's it.

The purpose of this post, however, is not to go on about the inner world of the skin care business. It's to tell you that I got my first piece of shwag. And unlike Gwyneth Paltrow, I'm going to keep my shwag and not give it to my personal trainer who will then give it to her assistant who will then sell it on eBay.

***

My schwag comes in the form of a jar. A jar... some of you might be savvy enough to guess what it is... are you guessing?... of Baconnaise!

SCORE!

One of the nice things that happens from time to time when you have a blog, besides the other nice things you might already know about (friends, connection, creative expression), is that you will get a random email from someone who found your blog because it mentioned them in a helpful way.

Which is why I got a very nice email from Dave, the self-described Bacontrepreneur of Baconsalt.com. When he offered me my very own jar of Baconnaise to try, of course I jumped up and down and was very excited about it. (In hindsight, I should have asked him for some food to go with the Baconnaise, because we have none and now I have to go to the store and get something to put the Baconnaise on, but that's entirely my fault and the way things roll in Casa Tangobaby and is not really his concern.)

***

For those of you who still are not quite sure what I'm talking about or don't remember reading my post about Baconnaise, let me tell you that Baconnaise a spread, thick like mayonnaise and smells like heavenly, delicious bacon. Ostensibly the idea is that you can put Baconnaise on sandwiches, burgers, etc., but I can see where I'd be sampling it out of the jar straight and also dipping vegetables I don't normally eat into it because it would even make celery taste good.

Despite the lack of things in the fridge to put my Baconnaise on, I found some Triscuits and did a taste test. And the findings? YUM!

YUM, like in:

1. I'm definitely going to the grocery store asap with the sole intent of procuring foodstuffs that I can put my Baconnaise on;
2. If I was a NASCAR, I would be the Baconnaise Car.
3. If Baconnaise was skin care, I would put it all over my body as a moisturizer because it's THAT GOOD, even though it doesn't say to do that on the label.

So, in conclusion, if I were you and I really liked bacon, I'd get a jar of Baconnaise, either by visiting their website or asking your local market to get some for you. And tell them tangobaby sent you. ;-)

And Dave, thank you for my treat/shwag. I promise to get some sandwich fixins asap and make a proper Baconnaise sandwich! I was just too excited to wait....

***

ps.: This is probably old news to some, but have you seen Gwyneth Paltrow's blog? "I have this incredible, blessed, sometimes difficult, very lucky, very unique life, and I've gotten to travel all over the place and to work and live in different cities...and sometimes friends need help finding a sink that looks midcentury." (You know I don't make this shit up.) This makes me dislike her even more than I already do, which I did not think was possible. Gwyneth, honey, leave the blogging to the little people, and you just go back to ironing your hair and making sure Madonna's okay.

pss.: I think I have scientifically proven that there is a Bacon Loving Gene (BLG). Very recently my niece, Little Curly Girl (LCG), was asked by her mother what her most favorite thing was in the whole, wide world. Being only 2.5 years old, of course she did not say her new baby sister, Princess Chubness. She answered "pudding." But when asked if there was anything she loved even more than pudding, LCG gave it some serious thought, and then said "Yes, bacon." So even though LCG is not a child that sprang from directly from my loins, we are related by blood and therefore I think I have proven the existence of the BLG. I am going to get LCG her own jar of Baconnaise to further my scientific research.