Wednesday, August 03, 2005
While in Spain, Fritzi turned me onto a fabulous product: Johnson's Baby Oil Gel. While the makers of so-called invisible deodorants lie through their teeth about the way their products perform, Johnson's makes few claims about its baby oil gel other than it seals in moisture and is no-mess.
Oh how they under-sell!
In the week or two since I've been using it -- first Fritzi's, then my own (currently lost in my luggage so I bought another bottle yesterday) -- I have squirted a bit in my bath, rubbed it into my skin when it's still wet after a bath or shower, used it to remove eye makeup, massaged it onto my elbows and feet before bed, smoothed it into my cuticles, and worked a little bit into the roots of my hair after a day at the beach. And even though I remain the only person currently caressing my own skin, I am quite certain it's never been more soft or supple, from head to toe. Actually, that's not true -- my son commented on my soft skin earlier today when I gave him a hug while wearing a sundress.
And it comes in three varieties: lavender, aloe and chamomile. No, I am not on the Johnson's payroll. But I always like to hear about great products, and this is one of them. It's a product that can serve dozens of different purposes and it's cheap, cheap, cheap! I am not alone in my adoration of it -- here's another blogger who's waxed poetic about it as well in the middle of a harsh Canadian winter.
Tune in next Friday for next week's wonder product, and don't hesitate to tip RTK off to some of your favourite finds.
Tuesday, August 02, 2005
A month or so ago my mother called me up and annoyed me, which is nothing truly unusual. "I hope you're not flying through Heathrow,'' she said in an accusatory tone, and then clucked at me in shame when I confessed that yes, I was. "They lost Regis Philbin's luggage and he never got it back!!! I can't believe you're flying through Heathrow! Why would you have agreed to that?"
I asked her what possible purpose her call was serving other than to stress me out and make me feel bad about my apparently idiotic decision not to challenge British Airways on the lunacy of associating itself with the U.K.'s biggest airport.
If there's anything I hate, it's when my mother's right.
Because Fritzi and I are home from Espanya now, and our luggage is not. It is apparently languishing with 20,000 other pieces of "mishandled baggage" at Heathrow, possibly the most chaotic airport I have ever visited (and it wasn't two years ago when my husband and I were there, so go figure.) British Airways doesn't seem to care, is doing nothing to reassure us that maybe, one day, our luggage will make it across the Atlantic despite assurances initially that it would be put on the first BA flight to Toronto, and openly resent our phone calls asking what is up and how this has happened. They blame it on the busy summer travel season, a manpower shortage at the airport and the fact that you can only have one carry-on bag now at Heathrow, meaning people are having to check many more bags.
There is little comfort in knowing there are thousands of travellers around the world in the same boat as we are.
And while it's wrong to mourn the loss of material goods, I already pine for things I am fairly certain I will never see again.
Three of my favourite pairs of shoes.
All of my jauntiest summer outfits.
Every bathing suit I own, including a bikini that fit me perfectly.
All of my best lingerie, including about six fabulous bras and matching underwear.
A pretty negligee.
My new Vichy deodorant, which is really hard to find in North America and is cheaper in Europe.
My adorable Nike skort, something Nike doesn't make anymore but is so great for spinning
All the great clothes I bought for my kids as presents -- football jerseys, cute tops and bottoms at the Barcelona Mango outlet.
The best 2,000 pairs of tweezers I have ever owned.
All of my best toiletries, including a lovely Calvin Klein perfume.
That great pair of jeans I blogged about a few weeks ago.
I have my health and I am home safe with my children after pining for them while away. So I know I should be grateful. Nonetheless, it is distressing to lose your belongings and know they are sitting somewhere and will likely just be thrown out at one point because it will be cheaper for those incompetent arseholes running British Airways to just write a cheque rather than go to the bother of reuniting paying customers with their luggage.
I will never fly the airline again, and will do everything possible to stick to Gatwick the next time I go to the U.K. Who could imagine there was an airline on the planet that could make Air Canada look good?
What's worse than the actual loss of the luggage is the fact that it put a damper on a wonderful holiday. Fritzi and I had a blast. We were on a vacation high. And from the moment we touched down in Toronto, we have been dealing with the hassle of attempting to locate our luggage and negotiate British Airways red tape instead of basking in the glow of a fun-filled holiday. I have sat on hold for so many hours waiting for some snarky BA call-centre worker to snootily dismiss me that I have come to despise the British Airways theme song, a pretty classical piece called "The Flower Duet" that now makes me want to go postal when I hear it. Those pricks.
Monday, August 01, 2005
I was recently tagged by the lovely Beth of the fabulous blog Cup of Coffey to answer five random questions that may reveal disturbing truisms about me. Don't hate me because I love Little House on the Prairie.
So here are Beth's questions, with my answers, and then I will tag five others -- and you ladies likely know already who you are.
1. Who was your Tiger Beat crush?
This is a tough one for me. I didn't really go for teen heartthrobs. I was obsessed with Swedish athletes as a teenager -- namely, Bjorn Borg, the famous tennis legend, and Borje Salming, a sad-faced defenceman on the Toronto Maple Leafs. The only movie star I was insanely hot for was a young Richard Gere, but he really didn't grace the pages of Tiger Beat -- that was all Scott Baio, David Cassidy, Leif Garrett, Peter Brady territory, guys who didn't do much for me. (Strangely, however, I am now into the Scott Baio reality show and suddenly understand the massive chick appeal). My musical crush was Elvis Costello, way back when he was a skinny geek. Again, he didn't often show up in Tiger Beat. And yes, I still find all of those four -- Borg, Salming, Gere and Costello -- extremely cute, even though Salming looks like a Nordic basset hound.
2. You’re the new hot voice out there, and everyone wants to play with you. Who do you pick to play in your backup band?
Stuart Copeland on drums simply because he despises Sting and so do I, and they say the key to any happy relationship is disliking the same people. New Order's Peter Hook on bass because New Order is possibly the best bass band ever and he's the master. Noel Gallagher of Oasis or Johnny Marr of the Smiths on guitar -- I simply can't choose between the two. Zia McCabe, the girl from the Dandy Warhols, on keyboards because she is adorable and fantastic. Jeff Tweedy of Wilco singing backup and doing whatever else he wanted to do, actually. Same goes for Ryan Adams. And Prince.
3. What's your favourite curse word? How often do you use it?
I just can't get enough of the F-word, due mostly to its amazing versatility, and I use it far, far too often.
4. What’s your guilty pleasure TV show, the one you’re almost embarrassed to admit you watch?
Any country's version of America's Next Top Model, the Brady Bunch and Little House on the Prairie re-runs. What I wouldn't give to have my own prairie homestead with a cow to milk every morning, a pie to bake, a clothesline for my linens and a fire burning in the woodstove on a cold winter's morning while Pa and the young 'uns whittle and darn socks .... oh my ....
5. Which is your very favorite bauble?
The pretty two-stone ruby ring my late father gave me for my 16th birthday.