White Teeth -- Madison Avenue Strikes Again

Beauty is, as the adage goes, in the eye of the beholder.  Blond, brunette, milky skin, freckles, chipmunk cheeks, willowy -- it's easy to find someone who agrees these traits are either attractive or not so much. And, they provide a pretty clear description. I could probably find someone at the airport given this basic information.

You rarely hear anything about dental status added to the list. So how did Americans become obsessed with white teeth?  Check out any pharmacy and you'll go dizzy over the choices in teeth whiteners.  TV commercials abound with women fretting that they don't have time to whiten before a big date.

Chalk it up as yet another project of Madison Avenue trying to define how we ought to look -- right up there with having firm, tight skin and nary a strand of grey.

A European once told me he could always spot an American.  I thought he'd comment on our volume or the socks with sandals get-up -- both understandable targets.  But he surprised me by saying we all have such white teeth. 

Can you become obsessed with whitening?  Addicted even? No one wants to look like they've spent months with Captain Jack Sparrow gnawing on bugs and berries, but there's no need to blind someone either. To paraphrase an old joke, you really want to help the over-whitener, but you'd miss using them as a night light.

End of Days -- Hooey or Holy?

In a few hours life as we know it could be over -- if you believe that today the rapture begins. Logically I think it's a load of hooey but I also feel a scintilla of emotion that keeps asking whether it's possible.

On a purely superficial level I'm going to be ticked off -- I just had my hair done. It's kind of like washing your car right before it rains. Of course if it really is the end,  I'm going out looking utterly fabulous.

I've hardly lived a sin-free life but I've been a fairly good person. Am I rapture material?  Questionable.  I don't think I was given the holy gene.  Twelve years of Catholic school, including daily Mass and family rosaries after dinner didn't make a spiritual dent.  While high school friends joined the convent, I stood in front of the bathroom mirror with a towel framing my face proving I would make an extremely homely nun.  Again, no holy gene.  And when I questioned why the pope didn't sell his million dollar art collection and make a donation to the poor, the vein in dad's neck swelled to "call 911" proportions.  Maybe my holy gene is recessive.

Less than two hours to go.  Hope to see you back here next week, but just in case -- tata and thanks for reading.

Words from the Wrinkle Expert

You've probably heard by now about the mother who injects her eight year old beauty-pageant-loving daughter with botox.  Are you in the outraged camp or the smaller, but still vocal, so what camp?  I'm in the "what the hell is she thinking" camp myself.  The mom was on the morning shows pointing out all those disgusting wrinkles on the little girl's face.  Frankly, she must use a Hubble telescope lens because I certainly couldn't see any creases.

I am nearing sixty-five and consider myself somewhat of an expert on wrinkles by virtue of having more than my share -- what comes after gazillion?  Crow's feet?  Check. Looks like an entire flock of birds have found a home.  Laugh lines?  Check.  But I no longer see any humor in them. 

And now that you got me started -- what's with all the age spots?  When I was younger I had lots of freckles. Now they've morphed into these masses of brown splotches so I look like a dalmatian, albeit an oddly colored one.  Some day I'm going to connect all the dots, mix in a few wrinkles, and see what comes up. That could be the beginning of an entire new geezer art form.  At least this kind of body art would put the wrinkles to good use.



 

Did We See The Same Movie?

Personal policy:  Never read reviews before seeing a movie. Better to go in cold and form your own opinions.

Sadly, this policy is based on personal experience. I feel duped  when I blindly believe a four-star rating only to realize that sitting in the dentist chair would be more entertaining.  Did we really see the same movie?

I listen intently for the depth of character the reviewer wrote about at length. We're an hour into the film and, so far, the kiddies end of the pool is deeper than anyone in the film. 


"Gripping story line" -- this from a male critic whose intellectual  faculties have shut down due to the abundance of cleavage on screen.  "Great acting" -- also written in a cleavage induced stupor.  "A laugh-fest" -- again, let's go with the all-powerful cleavage.

What qualifications does it take to be a movie critic?  Are they film school grads, serious movie buffs or is it people sitting in their pajamas surrounded by their twelve cats pounding out an opinion on their laptop? 

Unfortunately, some of the more frequently read critics can make or break a movie with a few good praises or pans.  They see so many movies I imagine they have to write the review immediately lest they mix up characters and plot.  Envision Scarlett O'Hara skipping down the yellow brick road.


I check the newspaper for what's playing, not for what I should see.  I choose a movie based on the actors and subject matter.  Gotta be honest here though -- a few scenes showing a cute little butt never hurts.