I spent this entire week lying around the house with a terrible case of laryngitis and a cold I inherited from my daughter. It was so bad that my doctor told me to rest my vocal chords for several days. What did that mean to me? What it should mean to everyone. Just don’t talk. But you see, you don’t understand. I can’t handle that. I worked on hot-talk radio for over a year just because I like to talk. I’d talk to strangers at a race track, local politicians, Playboy models and strippers. It didn’t matter. Even now? During a conversation, I really have to be aware for how long I’ve talked … and talked… and talked. In fact, it took me over an hour to tell my husband that I wasn’t even allowed to talk. You see the pattern. Hmmm. Maybe that’s why I got the laryngitis in the first place. I’ll just keep telling myself it’s the virus.
Flat on my back in bed, my mouth was shut tight and my brain frying by the minute thanks to daytime TV consisting of soap operas, judge shows and reality reruns. I tried to pick up on the fictional dialog of Maria, the beloved wife of a psychiatrist who was cheating on him with her step-daughter’s husband only because she had lost her memory (for the third time this season) and thought she was actually a southern bell from the Civil War era. Yeah… um, that’s not happening for me. So instead, one rainy day, I ventured off to my mailbox to discover my own little treasure chest had been dropped off in the bin. What had arrived? My guilty pleasure. My escape from reality. My throat’s savior. Not a box of Hall’s cough drops. Even better. My monthly loot of glamour magazines!
Because of my love for the cosmetic, skin care and glamour industry, it’s only natural that one would assume that I am a collector of these monthly periodicals. Some come wrapped in plastic, others with special editions attached. But no matter what the title, who’s on the cover, what the season it is, or what the fashion faux pas of the month is, I’m sucked in. I usually run through each one first to see what catches my eye (pictures, products, models). Then a few days later, I go back to read the “How To’s” and “What’s Hot” tidbits. Then I research everything that jazzes me to see if it is something I want to invest in. Finally? It ends up in the library (aka: bathroom) and over the next month, it gets looked over at “convenient” times to see what I might have missed.
In my years of reading over my glam-rags, two things haven’t changed. And I wish I could say that they are good features. But they aren’t. In fact, they are annoying as hell. I keep hoping they will get better, but actually they have gotten worse. What are these little bothersome items? Let’s break them down, one at a time:
- 1. The perfume samples. The last thing a girl with a sinus infection wants to deal with while sick in bed is opening a relaxing magazine that inflicts a scent-induced sneezing spasm. What’s worse? I get sucked in every month. See when I get a magazine, the first thing I do is open the front cover. Immediately I can smell a fragrance that I love. Or so I think. So what do I do? I go hunting through the pages looking for this glorious perfume. I find the first sample. I tear back the little sticky flap and see if that’s it. Nope. Not that one. I keep going. I get to the next little peel-n-sniff sample. I peel back the corner. I inhale. Nope, that’s not it either. This continues for about two or three more before I realize two things:
- a. None of them are the aroma I enjoyed when I first opened the magazine. It most likely is a combination of ALL the little scents blended together into a big cluster-cologne that made the one I loved. Dammit. What a big frigging tease.
- b. I now have the headache from hell. My little annoyed nasal passages, at this point, couldn’t tell the difference between Gwen Stefani’s L L.A.M.B. perfume and Sassy Auburn’s LAMB dinner still in the fridge from last week. I could stick my head in a bag of coffee beans at this point and it wouldn’t matter. (Ferragamo Incanto’s) “Heaven” help me.
- 2. The endless subscription postcard insertions. There literally so many, I could use them all to wallpaper a New York City townhouse. Oh come on fashion magazines…give it up! I’m not an idiot. I know how to re-up. And if you think you are going to lure in the poor saps sitting in anyone’s waiting room that might not get your magazine already, you are sadly mistaken. They have all been thrown out. Like I did. When they fell all over my bedroom and living room floor the minute I opened up the magazine to sniff the first damn perfume sample! In my last magazine that came in the mail, I actually counted eight. Eight annoying, cluttering, postage-paid-but-who-cares postcards that I won’t even look at it. Why? Because I know what they are! Magazines should just do myself… and the earth!… a favor. Just send me a letter a month before my subscription runs out. Feel free to offer me a free tote bag or a cosmetic sampler and then… just then… will I consider it.
Thanks to my doctor’s advice, a hidden cell phone, and an occasional piece of packing tape across my mouth, I have managed to get most of my voice back. Just in time for football Sunday screaming. Maybe I’ll be daring and wear one of the magazine perfume samples during the game. I could choose that one I love, Marc Jacob’s “Daisy”. Or was it Armani’s “Diamonds”. Maybe it was Britney’s “Believe”. Or could it have been Paris’s “Fairy Dust”. Never mind. I am getting a headache just thinking about it.