Dance nails, dance.

Hey Boys…..

Your chest-firming, ab-tastic tees are available for pre-order now! Um, yay?

Check out the Before and After. Riiiight. His pants also seem to fit better in the After photo, am I to assume that this body sculpting Spanxy also knows how to tailor slacks? Oh boy!

via StyleClicker

I’m ready for clogs. And I know my mother is going to told-you-so me for months, but it might be worth it.

via xkcd.

If only I had a car. And if only I was young enough to get away with bumper stickers.

My senior year of college a homeless man took refuge in my apartment’s laundry room. This was unnerving for a variety of reasons. The biggest was that we shared a common wall.

My current issue is not who is living in my laundry room, but what is actually in there.

There are 100 units in my building, ranging from studios to 2-bedrooms (but we all know that means Convertible to 3). For the purpose of this, let’s estimate that 150 people live in my building.

According to a ridiculous (and probably unproven) statistic I found online, the average person does around 3 loads per week. I personally find this number a bit high, but I also don’t do my laundry every week…and I fill those babies to the brim. So I’m going to arbitrarily say that it’s 2 loads.

But let’s go with this math for a second. 150 people, who manage to get down to the laundry room once a week to do their 2 loads. That’s 300 loads a week. Let’s also ignore for a moment that the laundry room is connected to the boiler room, so at any given time it’s at least 100 degrees or more, and let’s also forget the fact that the number of washers and dryers is unequal. Yes, you read that correctly. So if there are X washers, there are X-1 dryers, which means there’s always a pile-up.

So how many washers would there have to be in order for there to be enough for us to do our weekly 300 loads?

Wrong Answer: This building has 4, and an animal lives in one of them.

Last month, with absolutely no financial backing to warrant such a splurge, I went for it. The airline upgrade.

I’m not embarrassed to say it: I’ve always flown coach. 99% percent of the time I fly it’s JFK-LAX, or some variation of that, which makes a mileage upgrade next to impossible. JFK-LAX makes finding any semblance of peace and happiness next to impossible.

Two weeks ago I headed to LAX on a balmy Wednesday morning, walked up to the Virgin America check-in counter (also a rarity for me: checking bags!) and routinely asked if there were any upgrade seats available for purchase.

There were.
First Class.

I giggled and smiled my way through the terminal, and joyously rose to my feet when prompted to join my other privileged airline-goers, happily ignoring the recently detained passenger who had, just moments ago, flung open a restricted door and waved a t-shirt above his head like a helicopter.

I took my seat. Row 1. Seat 1.

Next to me sat an incredibly relaxed man in a freshly pressed bespoke suit. He was obviously a regular, so I had to play it cool. (Whatever that meant.) I fought hard to mask the smiles and giddiness associated with my big cozy seat and newfound rank in life the air. I stared out of the window during takeoff, and kept thinking about one thing:

I wonder how big the bathrooms are.

Botox, the next terrorist threat?

“It is the only profit-making venture for terrorists that can also potentially yield a weapon of mass destruction,” said Kenneth Coleman, a physician and biodefense expert.

How is this any scarier than paralyzing your face with botulism toxins? The chemicals may wind up in your brain anyway, so who cares what the knock-off suppliers are putting in it.

I can’t wait for spring colors.

Computer love.

Some sort of broken down party bus. ChiGoogle?