1. Gullible
2. A sucker
3. Bored
4. Need a hobby
5. Like to buy stuff

I am happy to serve as your personal guinea pig for the vast world of Made-for-TV and other questionable items found in stores and online. Below is a list of the most frequently requested items I’ve been asked to review (read: kick my own ass for buying). Please feel free to add suggestions to this post, and I’ll skip happily to the store in an attempt to give you the REAL review you won’t get from the manufacturer, complete with photos and video featuring me putting the goods to the test.

Check back soon for reviews on (not necessarily in this order):

1. The ShamWow (just reviewed it!)
2. Crayola 3D chalk (just reviewed it!)
3. Save-A-Blade
4. Flirty Girl Fitness DVDs
5. Jillian Michaels fitness DVDs
6. P90X fitness DVDs
7. AquaGlobe
8. Alba Sunless Tanner
9. Your Baby Can Read
10. Pampered Chef food chopper
11. Peticure
12. Children’s teeter totter (thank you, Johanna!)
13. Snuggie (Oh man)
14. Evercleanse (gulp…)
15. Various hair products
16. Underbed shoe thingy
17. Magic bullet
18. “No No” Hair remover
19. Green bags
20. Epila hair remover
21. PedEgg (looks sooo gross!)
22. Shark steam mop
23. Cellulite creams
24. Youthology (recently reviewed!)

Other suggestions? (Did I miss anything?) I’ll add anything you guys want!

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To those of you with kids: We are potty training my three year-old twins.
To those of you without kids: I invite you to imagine the horror. When you stop sobbing, go immediately to Target. Buy the largest box of condoms you can find. Carry them with you at all times. I would also advise some kind of backup method, like a chastity belt.

A doctor’s office is, in theory, a helpful little locale brimming with cheery personnel ready to assist you with their vast array of knowledge, and who will, in the gentlest of ways, tell you to stop being a ridiculous hypochondrial ass after you scare the crap out of yourself looking up symptoms on the Internet. Also my kids’ pediatrician has free stickers and toothbrushes.

So, after steam cleaning the carpet for the 22nd time in one day (oh yes, I kept a tally–how else am I supposed to use said experience to bribe the husband into providing backrubs and new shoes??), I decided to consult the “experts” about my situation.  My son, having happily let it rip through dozens of pairs of dinosaur and spaceship underpants, was mid-conversation with me sharing a very interesting yet disturbing observation about squirrels when suddenly I was standing, wet-socked, in another puddle. He smiled away, completely oblivious.

I decided therefore, after having a hysterical sobbing fit while stuffing my last pair of socks into the washing machine and muttering rhetorical conversations with myself like a lunatic, that maybe he just wasn’t ready for this adventure quite yet. Maybe I was being one of those horrid “What to Expect: The Toddler Years”-type moms and pushing him so we could check the potty-training box when he was just too little. I needed help, advice, a hug, and wine. Instead I made the now hugely laughable mistake of calling my twins’ pediatrician.

(I should note that I have reenacted the conversation below probably two dozen times–sometimes with added gestures–sometimes without, and it still makes me laugh. I challenge you to share with your fellow rockstar readers your own experiences with some of the ridiculous fools somehow slipping through the ‘you’re canned!’ cracks who should never be allowed to answer a hotline.)

Dr’s Office: “Hello, (I’m not sharing that, are you kidding?!)’s office.
Me: “Hi, I’m trying to reach the nurse’s helpline?” (See how friendly I am? And polite. A virtual Donna Reed.)
Dr’s Office: “Yeah, this is.”
Me: (Explains concerns) “So, based on that, I just want to know if you think physically he’s not ready to potty train. Should I stop and try again in a few months?”
…long pause…
Dr’s Office: “Um.”
…long pause…
Dr’s Office: “Can you hang on?”
Me:“Uh, ok.”
(at least five minutes passes)
Dr’s Office: (laughing) “Hi, it’s me. Well, (laughing), I talked to the nurse, and, what she said is, boys is gonna be slower!” (laughs)
Me: “What?”
Dr’s Office: “Oh, uh…”
(long pause)
Dr’s Office: “Hang on.”
(several minutes pass)
Dr’s Office: “Well. Um. Did you… well, you could maybe, you could give him something to read while he’s sitting there.”
Me: “What?”
(long pause)
Dr’s Office: “Oh. Um. Well, and… and you could, you know, you could offer… you could praise him.”
Me: “What?”
(very long pause)
Me: “Well, thank you for this advice. Bye.”

This was my DOCTOR’S OFFICE, friends. It was as if, perhaps, they were overstaffed that day and, I don’t know, just went outside and picked at random from the hallway traffic.

Epilogue: two months later, and my son is mostly potty-trained, and the doctor’s office closed for business on March 31.

I KNOW I’m not the only sucker having succumbed to the angelic promise of the “helpline”. Anyone sharing a bad customer service story will receive a personalized RockstarMama haiku in honor of your experience.

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That’s right, folks, you can’t get this special brand of saturated fat-based art just anywhwere–I’ve been to the Iowa State Fair.

I’m publishing this particular post on request of my wonderful husband (after all, I kind of owe him after the “Boys and Tools” article). “HEY!” You’re saying. “What’s with the setup? Just tell us something funny!” Well, settle down. I’m getting to it.

Last night, the dude tore downstairs in an excited flurry as I was eating a cinnamon roll flavored pudding snack pack, waving a single sheet of paper and exclaiming, “I found the poem! You have to post this! Post it now! Now!”

My reluctance? The poem below is something I crafted nearly nine years ago out of sheer desperation when I was assigned to work a booth at the Iowa State Fair. Not a kissing booth or anything. But dudes… at 9AM, I peered out behind my little magazine stand to find a 300-pound farm boy in overalls and no shirt wearing one gray sock and gnawing on a gigantic turkey leg. Also, it’s just slightly unnerving with such a large amount of cattle all together in one place making all their “MOO” and other noises.

So, at the time, I scribbled this poem on the back of a pamphlet about raising sheep as I watched the parade of freaks pass by my little booth. The poem ended up in the newspaper and I had to later read it live on the radio. I have been told that each year it’s published for readers’ entertainment. And now for yours. The accompanying photos are for those of you who haven’t ventured to lovely Des Moines, Iowa, and if you don’t like the poem, you can blame my husband.

State fair, state fair
People in their underwear
Chicks with ratty ’80s hair
A big fat dude whose feet are bare
State fair, state fair

Mullet head, mullet head
Did you just roll out of bed?
Is your name Biff, Chuck or Jed?
Your hair looks like a squirrel that’s dead
Mullet head, mullet head

Corn dog, corn dog
Did this meat come from a hog?
Mystery stuff shaped like a log
My arteries will not unclog
Corn dog, corn dog

Funnel cake, funnel cake
Batter curled up like a snake
Wash it down with a beer or shake
And wonder why the tummy ache
Funnel cake, funnel cake

Giant pig, giant pig
How’d you get so freakin’ big?
Your larger than an offshore rig
You’d snap my leg just like a twig
Giant pig, giant pig

Midway, Midway
So many games still left to play
Sidewalk like a big ashtray
Might be time to call it a day
Midway, Midway

State fair, state fair
People in their underwear
Chicks with ratty ’80s hair
A big fat dude whose feet are bare
State fair, state fair

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9. Before I run out of power, I better plug this thing in.

8. Ugh, this upload is taking forever!

7. After I placed that ad, I’m certainly getting a lot of traffic.

6. Wow, the server went down. Now I’m really going to have to lay into our I.T. guy.

5. Do you mind if I jump on your laptop for a minute?

4. This one’s so big I’m going to have to stick it on my FTP.

3. Somebody hacked into my site last night, and I didn’t even know until it was over.

2. Hey, this new hard drive works really fast!

1. My inbox is full.

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My work digs feature a glorious cubeland a la Office Space, complete with all of the nutty characters and somehow-still-employed freaks a wannabe writer would ever need to fill cast spots on a mildly amusing sitcom. However, I’ve invested five years at this joint, and I’ve recently noticed that the five-year mark is right about when you start really wanting to kick everyone’s ass.

Since office beat-downs are likely frowned upon (although not specifically warned against in the company literature), I felt that drafting a few anonymous letters to a couple of my fellow cubies might be therapeutic. You might recognize some of these characters from your office… and if one of them is you, please stop being a shmuck and immediately go to the store and buy me cookies for having to tolerate you.

Dear Always Cutting Your Nails at Your Desk Guy,

If you spend another five minutes click-click-clicking away, I’m going to come over this cube wall and beat the shit out of you!!! WHY WHY WHY must you clip your nails in the office?! Do you not have a bathroom at home? If I ever see you with your shoe off and a pile of crescent-moon nails under your feet, I’m going to stick that nail clipper up your ass and then I’m going to hire an esthetician to come to my office with her bubbly water tub and ten of the latest OPI colors, since you’ve made it clear that office pedicures are acceptable.

Dear Riding Your Bike to Work Guy,

I heartily applaud your commitment to the environment. However, you smell like wet dog. Please purchase some high-quality deodorant or consider starting the day cooling off in a closet filled with 30 of those dangly car air-freshener trees. You may join us when you smell of lovely pine.

Dear Intern,

Yes, I realize we made you kill bugs, trim the bushes, trap moths, clean windows, investigate things that smelled bad, dash out into the street mid-day to retrieve project documents that blew out of our truck, chase and catch a rogue squirrel and always carry all the heavy stuff, but someday, when you’re stuck at a desk 24/7 dealing with budgets and clients and stress, you’ll realize this was the most fun you ever had.

Dear Walking Down the Hall With Your Rolled-up Newspaper Guy,

You aren’t fooling anyone. We all know you’re going to poop.

Dear Snot Problem,

Every day, I am bombarded by the audio-harassment of your respiratory sounds. These noises include, but are not limited to:

1. snorting
2. burping
3. coughing up phlegm
4. swallowing it
5. grunting
6. gagging
7. miscellaneous gurgly noises
8. juicy hiccups and noises i.e. “URP”
9. the hacking up of loogies
10. spitting
11. additional sounds of unidentified origin

At times, the quantity and quality of your bodily emittances (and, on occasion, the odors) are so hearty that it attracts the attention of passersby, who look at me with both horror and pity. Our office is not your personal bathroom or a barn. I think I speak for everyone when I say that we would appreciate it if, when the mood strikes to be hideously disgusting, you would mind please excusing yourself to the restroom to take care of whatever hygiene-based issue has come up, before I encase you in plastic sheeting and spray a crapload of Lysol on your phlegm-plagued ass. Dude. You’re foul.

Dear Just Heated Up My Very Spicy Meat-Filled Lunch,

The stink of your lunch is now in my hair. Dogs may likely attack me as I walk to my car thinking I have beef  and bleu cheese in my pockets. If you don’t start bringing salads, I’m going to take your stained tupperware lunch bins out of the community fridge and running them over in my car as a service to all.

Dear Front Desk Lady,

All I want is the phone number. I do not want to hear about your bunions.

Dear Farted in the Elevator and Then Got Out When I Got In,

For the love of God, you could’ve warned me. I was trapped in there for two floors.

Actually I oddly do feel better now. Huh!  Best similar letter-to-someone-at-your-office story posted below will receive, via email, a picture of me napping in the corner office when Corner Office Guy was at a meeting.

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(Names have been changed to minimize the mockery. And also, in the dark, it was hard to see who was talking.)

9:30 p.m. My living room.
Me: Hey, the lights went out.
Husband: Damn it, the TV went off.
Me: The bigger problem is that now I can’t find my drink.

9:33 p.m. My kitchen.
Husband: Hey, I know! I’ll get that big light we bought for emergencies!
Me: Ha! look at the picture my friend just emailed me. That’s so gross!
Husband: I’m going to lock your BlackBerry in a drawer. Gimmie it.
Me: Hell no. And if you try to take it, I will hide in dark corners and jump out and scare the crap out of you. Did you find that light yet? If we’re going to go outside with the neighbors, I want to make sure my hair doesn’t look like a jacked up bird’s nest.

Husband: Huh. I guess I never charged the battery on the light.
Me: HOLY CRAP. Whatever I just ate was NOT a french fry. Also I totally just stepped in something goopy. Mysterious goop; great. Did you find the light?
Husband: If I had the light, we could use it to look around for your brain.
Me: I need new socks. What the hell is all over the floor? Wait, what?
Husband: You heard me.
Me: But we could look around, I mean, for YOUR brain. And um…
Husband: Good comeback.
Me: Shuddup.

9:45 p.m. -Text sent via Verizon Wireless BlackBerry-
Me: It’s dark.
Neighbor Mark: Duh.
Me: Rude!
Mark: So?

9:49 p.m. -Text sent via Verizon Wireless BlackBerry–
Me: Hey, did your power go out? I think I just heard a coyote. Maybe they gnawed through the lines.
Neighbor Tim: It’s scary dark.
Me: Wuss.
Tim: You better shut it. Don’t make me come out there and kick your ass!
Me: Come on out then!
Tim: No way, it’s too dark and spooky.
Me: Wuss.

9:53 pm. My cul-de-sac.
Neighbor Emma: Oh my gosh! We should call Nevada Power!
Me: Yeah, I’m on hold right now.
Emma: You’re calling Nevada Power? She’s calling Nevada Power!
Neighor Dan: Someone better get in touch with Nevada Power about this.
Me: Yeah, I’m on hold with them right now. I just said that.
Neighbor Paul: Did anyone call Nevada Power?
Me: I’m on hold with them right now. Clearly nobody listens to me.
Neighbor Diane: Oh no! I was going to call Nevada Power, but my phone is dead!
Me: FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, I AM ON HOLD WITH THEM RIGHT NOW.
Neighbor Diane (under her breath): Bitch.
Husband: Hey, we should call Nevada Power. Who are you talking to?
Me: F*cking Pizza Hut.

10: 10 p.m. My bedroom.
Twin #1: Can we watch TV?
Me: The power’s out.
Twin #2: Oh. Can we watch Handy Manny?
Me: The power is out.
Twin #1: But can we watch Nemo? Can you get me some juice? I want juice. Will you turn on the light? I can’t see. Don’t poke me! Kailey is poking me. Stop poking me! Mommy, why did you turn the lights off? I’m thirsty. QUIT POKING!

10:16 p.m. Same locale.
Smoke detector: Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.
Husband: Oh no. I think the smoke detectors are somehow coordinated with the house power. They’re all going to start beeping! Great.
Me: Maybe the battery in that one is just dead.
(Later) Husband: Ok, it was just the battery.
Me: I am the awesome queen of home repairs! Please fashion me a cape, and/or crown.
Husband: Shut up.

10:21 p.m.
Nevada Power: Nevada Power?
Me: Hi, all the power is off in our whole community.
Nevada Power: Mountain’s Edge? We don’t have an estimated time that your power will be reinstated.
Me: Thanks for that.

Things that seem like a good idea in a blackout:

1. Shadow puppets. Problem: Too spooky.
2. Romantic candle-light fun time with husband. Problem: Children.
3. Going outside. Problem: Doesn’t really accomplish anything; plus, you’re obligated to socialize with annoying neighbors.
4. Drink beer left in fridge (absolutely unacceptable to waste beer). Problem: Later still too dark, and also now too drunk, to locate water and/or Tylenol.
5. Going to sleep. Problem: In the middle of the night, every single light, television and alarm in your house will simultaneously turn on at once and scare the sh1t out of you.

Other fun blackout resources:

• “Top 10 things to do in a blackout” by Farai Chideya
• “Things to do during a blackout”, Luggage Tuesdays
• “Things to do during a blackout”, Trinity Times
• “Lights out London”, HippyShopper
• “Top 10 things to do in a blackout”, Times Online

Got a good blackout story? Let’s hear it!

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Either I’m part superhero, or I’m just a total jackass. Probably both.

In case you ever want to scare the crap out of me, and are making a list of ways to do so, here are some things to add:

1. Dogs (they snarl at me–ever seen Cujo?)
2. Mass quantities of insects (they could swarm you and eat you… SHUDDER)
3. The dark (someone could be hiding in a shadowy corner and leap out, boo-style. GAAA! Now I’m freaking myself out)
4. Moldy things (is there an official mold phobia? There’s just something creepy about that weird-colored fur… urp…)
5. Burglars

Yesterday afternoon, I’d just lovingly tucked my three year-old twins snugly into their cribs for a nap (Yes, I still put them in cribs. Got a problem with that? I will keep them contained for sleeping purposes as long as I can, peeps), and plopped, exhausted, at my desk. Just as I popped the Internet open and was writing a glowing post on Tamilee Webb’s website (she has THE BEST fitness DVD you can download called “I want those arms”. Not kidding. She kicks my ass but in a good way) when I suddenly heard what sounded like someone repeatedly and frantically pounding on my back door, trying to get in.

So I did what anyone would do in this situation. I froze and held my breath. Because that helps. Bonus points if you close your eyes or do any type of autonomic fist-clenching.

What happened to that old “fight or flight” thing people are always yammering about? My innate defense mechanism is more like that awkward bird that sticks its head in the sand and thinks that therefore he can’t be seen. You know. Like how you are somehow more protected if you’re under the covers. Head stuffed under the pillow too? You’re golden.

The knocking/pounding continued, getting louder and faster. Part of that could have been my heart, which was thumping like I was about to pop some kind of needed vessel (vessel? Are there vessels? Maybe “artery”).

I considered my options:

• Hide under desk
• Scream like a psycho
• Peek out window

I went with option #3, ripped the blinds up like they were on fire and plastered my face and hands to the glass. All very subtle.

But I didn’t see anything. And it was eerily quiet.

Suddenly, I heard the noises again, but this time they were coming from INSIDE the house. I almost threw up in my hand a little.

Here’s something helpful to do should you be faced with an actual emergency: CALL SOMEONE. I of course assumed that the wires to my phone had been cut, ’80s slasher movie-style. But the dial tone greeted me like a friendly savior. So I got the hubs on the line.

ME (whispering, breathless): “I think someone broke into the house! WTF?!”
HUSBAND (annoyed): “I can’t hear you.”
ME: Someone was pounding on the door!
HUSBAND: Why are you whispering?
ME: ARGH! Wait… there it is again…
HUSBAND: What are you talking about? What’s wrong with you now?
ME: SHH! I’m trying to listen.
HUSBAND: Baby, I’m at work, can I call you back?
ME: But! There was banging, and, oh forget it.

This Abbott and Costello skit went on for a while.

Look, friends, had I been alone in the house, I would’ve been locked in my room, hiding in the closet FOR SURE. But my babies were napping in their rooms, blissfully unaware of the potential impending doom and counting on me to protect them.

During the day, she’s just a mommy–master of soapy dishes, eater of snacks, cleaner of messes, afraid of dogs. But in dire circumstances demanding bravery she becomes (DA-DADA-DA!!!) SUPER ROCKSTARMAMA! I’m thinking I might get a cape. Or at least a theme song.

Here are more things not to do in a home invasion:

• Don’t start acting like an ass. For some reason, I began pacing upstairs in our loft, shouting things like “I DON’T WANNA HAVE TO COME DOWN THERE AND KICK THE CRAP OUT OF ANYBODY!!” (Felt all-powerful. Sounded… like a giant dork.)
• Don’t pick out some item with the intention of using it for clobbering purposes. I, of course, contemplated a weapon of choice. I considered grabbing one of the 15-pound weights I’ve been using for the “I want those arms” DVD. But then I thought, man, that’s heavy. (And thanks to Tamilee, I can barely bend my arms to lift the thing. Would’ve been ripped out of my hand and used against me in an anti-productive beating, for sure.)
• Don’t assume the family pet is going to help you. I decided to get the cat (I imagined him howling, pouncing, ripping intruders to shreds. The second I grabbed him, however, he started to meow and purr loudly, no doubt thinking–JACKPOT! Dinner time.)
• Don’t go downstairs. I went downstairs.

Folks, I’m not a big person. Maybe 5′5″ on my best day, and no Olympic shotput or discus throw medals hanging in the old closet. But for some asinine reason, I went down the stairs, unarmed, like a little champ, cat now trailing me and meowing, weaving in-between my legs and dragging his tail across my calves in an attempt to lure me toward the Cat Chow cabinet.

I hugged the wall Mission Impossible-style and leaped out into the dining room yelling “HA!” like a total douche. Nobody at the front door. Nobody at the back door. So for sure, I thought, they’re hiding. In retrospect–a burglar is going to hide from ME?!? Not likely. But Super RockstarMama (Da-dada-DA!) went bravely from room to room, opening closets, looking under beds, peeking into showers and behind bookcases. Nothing.

But then I heard the noises again. And this time, it sounded like they were coming from UPSTAIRS.

Like an idiot, I hurled furiously up the staircase “nobody’s gonna hurt my babies!”-style. I bolted down the hallway–if I had been wearing a cape this would’ve been so much better–and flung open my baby girl’s door.

…Kailey was kicking the side of her crib, and the crib was knocking against the wall.

I’m a jackass.

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“Springing forward” has a deceptively cute name. What it should really be called is “Enjoy your dark-ass mornings from now on, sucka…”

Stumbling blindly down the hallway Monday morning in seemingly midnight conditions, I was forced to flip on the harsh overhead lights, which beamed like a spotlight on my white-ass legs.

Me: “Holy crap that’s bright. I can’t see. Oof. Was that the cat? …OH FOR THE LOVE OF GOD!! I’m hideous! GAAAAAAAA!”

My winter-pale legs shone back at me, random shadows produced by the harsh lighting doing me no favors. AACK!! The lumps! The bumps! The flab! That weird pudgy part at the top where your legs connect to your butt (I like to call this the “transitional area“)!  OH THE HORROR!!

I work out. I previously felt myself to be in decent shape (”felt myself?” Probably could have phrased that differently). But were I to parade these white blubbery stems into any springtime beach scenario, the crowds would part, the men would flee, the babies would cry. Some poor sucker would toss me a towel. I can’t go through that. Something must be done.

What’s more alluring than a product with “Magic” as part of the name?! Chugging a Rockstar (vital for mom survival), I desperately scoured the web with panicked fury in search of the elusive “Leg Magic.”  $200 and a 2-week delivery? P-HA! Silly Internet peeps are obviously not aware of my ADD-influenced immediate gratification needs. A helpful tip: You can pick this thing up at your local Target for half the price and take it home stat.

Tar-Jay is a magical place; I’m a long-time fan. They have all that fun crap near the entrance that you don’t really need but it only costs $1!  One visit to the popcorn stand and you have a decent shot that your kids will sit in the cart for at least a good five minutes, leaving a handy trail of salt and those brown unpopped seed deals in case you’re asked to leave the store when they pitch a toddler-style fit in the toy aisle when you won’t buy them a 50-gallon jug of bubbles. And decent bikinis on show if you don’t have winter flab legs.

I nearly giggled (I may have actually giggled; I can’t recall… I blame the Rockstar) hoisting the box awkwardly into my cart. Buying stuff is fun. Especially when you think your purchase is going to miraculously solve a nagging problem. The box is heavy, maybe 25 pounds, and long and inconvenient when you already have two kids in your cart. Even if you place the box gingerly over one child, it’s usually frowned upon. There’s a handy handle on the box made of that kind of plastic that slices the shit out of your palm. But I wasn’t about to ask a sales dude to help me: “Hi. I’m 30-something, post-preggo with twins, and this morning I realized my legs are disgusting. Could you help me carry this? And also get me some tampons, a Red Bull and some of that fancy anti-cellulite cream?” I’ll pass.

Back at home, it was as if the box glowed with hope. May have been the fact that the sun freakin’ finally came out. You hafta put it together, but I was determined to be unusually un-lazy and suck it up as I was pretty sure that if I waited for my husband to come home he would make me return it. P-HA! Husbands. Harder to crush my dreams of hot-ass quads when I’ve already sweated over the assembly, eaten the receipt and the box is in a dumpster. HEE HEE! Chicks are sneaky.

So, when you’ve successfully claimed your handyman (handychick) title, and are about to hop on, here’s what you’ll see (at right). The handles are fun-squishy. Love that.

The Leg Magic crew has provided a handy little knob thing that you can turn to adjust the height. “Oh, how lovely!” you may be saying. However the only two height choices for the handlebars are 2′ or 3′ off the pedals. Seems like odd choices. But that’s just me. What the heck?!? My thumb looks huge in that picture. The BlackBerry camera is like a funhouse mirror.

Other things I recommend:

1. Extra AAA batteries (my Leg Magic said they would be inside, but they weren’t)

2. Shoes (you can try it with socks, but you might fall on your ass. Shoes also provide necessary traction. The whole deal with the pedals will be slipperier than you think).

3. Headphones with some good tunes (mental note to add a “good workout tunes” blog post)

4. Orbit gum (no other reason than I like it. Try the Sweet Mint or Cinnamint flavors. Sweet gold for those of us with an oral fixation.)

A GOOD IDEA: Position this thing near your kitchen or bathroom counter. That way, you can put a book or magazine on the counter to read while using the thing.

Hoppin’ on like a badass, my legs shot out to the edges like I leaped onto ice and I was momentarily frightened that my undercarriage was about to be yanked into some kind of splits-like pose. As I’m not 16 anymore, this was worrisome. I’ve been pregnant, peeps. Sudden surprises like this can make a gal pee herself. I began excitedly pushing the button on the controller monitor thingy, only to discover that it seems to be unfortunately stuck on “stop”. Feeling like a jackass, I resorted to the MANUAL (guys, listen up!) but to no avail. The thing promises to measure your total reps, calories burned, and the time. That would have been useful. Guess I’ll just use my watch–oh yeah, goin’ old school!

Suggested use for this device is to slide your feet out and in (like in the commercial with the totally fit chick who makes me feel like 10 pounds of shit in a 5 pound bag) in “60 second bursts.” HA! Little do they know that I can conquer the elliptical for an hour! I am all-powerful! I’ll do 30 min and love it.

OH HELL NO.They are NOT KIDDING about the 60 seconds. At first, it is “la-dee-da” easy. Then I got my ass handed to me. Hit that 45 second mark and you start making faces like a kid trying to poop.After a minute of slidey fun, I hoisted myself off the thing and circled it, panting, like some kind of animal sizing up its prey. I may have actually talked shit to it. But we’ll keep that between ourselves.

A surprise: This thing burns the hell out of your inner thighs. It’s easy to slide your feet to the outside. Hard part is pulling them back in. I didn’t really feel it in my outer thighs or butt as promised. But my inner thighs were on fire (sounds dirty).

More tips:

• The best thing to do with the Leg Magic is to leave it somewhere you are often. I left it in the kitchen for the rest of the day, and accumulated maybe 10 min total (a back-pattingly good job according to the manual, especially for a rookie) of 60-second “bursts”. Probably also stopped me from shoveling a poptart parade in the old piehole.
• Hey, folks, it doesn’t work on carpet! I planted this thing in front of the TV (hello, obvious choice), jumped on, started to slide out the footpads and–BOOF!–right into the carpet. Sucks.
• If you put the leg magic in an upstairs bathroom with linoleum flooring, it will be SO LOUD you’ll probably get calls from next door asking you to please quit it with the electric saw. Best place is downstairs, on tile or wood flooring.

The next day: Inner thigh soreness continues, a sign it could be working. I’m determined to keep it up, so an update will follow in a few wks.

GOOD STUFF

• Seems to work the inner thighs pretty well. And I’ll keep you posted.
• The 60-sec “burst” thing (there’s something I don’t like about the word “burst”) is tolerable.
• Claims to burn about 10 cal/min, which is approx the same as jumping rope (don’t get me started on the evil jump rope). **Here’s a handy chart of calories burned during similar activities. Love that they have a column called “Sex: Active” on there. As opposed to when you just lie there flipping channels.
• Better price deals locally, so don’t order it online unless you live in BFE. The official site does have a $15 free trial w/a money-back guarantee for 30 days, but then you hafta plunk down 3 more $150 payments later on. And you know your ass will be too lazy to send it back. Oh wait, maybe that’s just me.
• And look how little and cute it is when you fold it up for storage! Awww…

BAD STUFF

• Customer service sucks. I sent a cheery email regarding my probs with the controller thing and never received a response. Bastards!
• It’s about $100, which is a sizable investment.
• I kind of feel like a tool using it in front of my husband, who just shakes his head. And could be dangerous for little kiddos.

RockstarMama Rating: B-. (Not too bad considering the way I ripped the SMOOTH AWAY a new one!But it’s only gonna work unless you do it reguarly, peeps. I’m going to try it for the rest of the month and I’ll post an update then.)

A final bonus for my loyal readers: Here’s a pic I took leaning over the handlebar thingies upside-down with my BlackBerry. This is not recommended. About a second after I snapped the pic, I pitched forward and fell in a thundering mom pile right on my face like a huge uncoordinated a-hole. I did that for you, baby! But don’t try that at home.

Who else has tried it? What did you think? And I’m up for any other product reviews–send me your suggestions!

Check out my review of the ShamWow

NEW review of Crayola’s 3D chalk!

NEW review of YOUTHOLOGY…

Read my reivew of Smooth Away!

Got something you’d like me to review? Submit your ideas here!

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Is anyone else concerned about the nut injury potential of a NAKED BIKE RIDE?! I mean, isn’t the bicycle seat already generally known as the most uncomfortable ass-bruising item available in the sporting world?

Nonetheless, this March, naked Aussies will bare their cheeks and take to the streets to promote causes of choice–everything from protecting this ball we call earth to bike/pedestrian safety. Yes, I said ball. Come on! It’s too easy.

According to the World Naked Bike Ride Australia website, here’s the event’s overall mission statement:

“To peacefully expose (heh heh, they said ‘expose’) the vulerability of cyclists, humanity and nature in the face of cars, aggression, consumerism and non-renewable energy.”

Well, and stripping down in the middle of the day.

The au-natural event is billed as the “biggest naked protest in the world.”  It should also be noted that participants are allowed to get as bare as they dare. And, of course, body art is encouraged (shouldn’t it be?).

Still a little confused? Oddly intrigued?

NAKED BIKE RIDE FAQ:

1. Won’t I hurt myself?
2. Is it legal to be naked in public?
3. Do I have to ride a bike?
4. Do I have to be completely bare-assed?
5. What if I look like crap naked?
6. Should I wear shoes?
7. I’m concerned about my nuts.
8. How should I decorate myself?
9. Are sickos going to take my pic and spread it around the web?
10. Can I just come and watch?
11. What’s the girl-to-guy ratio?

If you’re down under and not concerned about squashing any of your down under bits, here’s the schedule of events (not native? Here’s a map of Australia for the geographically-impaired):

• Adeliade: 3/9
• Byron Bay: 3/14
• Melbourne: 3/15
• Nimbin: 3/7
• Brisbane: 3/21
• Canberra: 3/15
• Newcastle: 3/14
• Sydney: 3/15

Organizers are still needed to pull together nakey rides in these locales in June:

1. Broome
2. Cairns
3. Hobart
4. Perth

Is the suck-ass economy prohibiting your plane fare purchase? Well, you’re in luck! I mean, you can’t possibly think the Aussies are hogging this bare-ass fun all to themselves. B-Day suit bike rides are held each year in 70 cities and 20 countries throughout the world. You heard me right.

Visit the World Naked Bike Ride official site to find an event near you!

Want to learn more? (Sicko… lol) The World Naked Ride website has all you need to know (and see) and more about the history of in-the-buff-biking.

So, if you have the balls, strip off those clothes and grab your wheels. And maybe a helmet and some sunscreen. Hooray for naked!

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As a chick, there is a never-ending, arduous battle to be smooth and hair-free in most places. American society has determined that the high-priority targets are:

1. Legs
2. Underarms
3. Bikini line

A number of options exist for your hair removal needs. Traditional choices include:

• Shave it
• Wax it
• Zap it
• Burn it off with chemicals
• Pluck it
• F*ck it

These, of course, range from annoying (shaving) to soul-suckingly agonizing (waxing). Nonetheless, we’re expected to keep doing it… for no real reason except “cuz the other kids do it” (damn peer pressure).  And so, like suckers, we repeatedly torment ourselves for at best a several-day hiatus of non-neanderthal smoothness. Unless of course if you happen to come across, say, a cool breeze… ever gotten out of the shower after 20 minutes of meticulous and lathery hair removal–foot lodged in the soap dish, bending and squatting at inexplicable angles–and it just happens to be cold in the bathroom? Oh yeah. Goosebumps for two seconds and all that shit pops back like you have cha-cha-cha chia legs.

Enter the Smooth Away.

No razor. No hot gooey wax to rip from your skin. No pointy, pokey tweezers. No flesh-searing chemicals.

Commercial lady, fresh from the shower in one of those impossibly plush spa robes beams euphorically as she gently brushes the little pink and gray pad along her legs, revealing a silky hairless glow. Easy! Safe! Painless! Random chick on the street, with a simple stroke of the pad, reveals a broad, smooth hairless area on her lower arm. It looks… so easy! So fast! And you’re telling me I don’t have to shave?? I must have it!!

Smooth Away can conveniently be found at your local Walgreens or similar establishment. I think I actually startled a little old lady buying milk and walnuts proclaiming “THEY HAVE THE SMOOTH AWAY!!!” as I flung it over my head, waving it victory flag-style like an ass.

And for about $10, it was mine. Muhahahaha! Goodbye, stupid razors!

Back in the privacy of my own bathroom, I giggled like a pothead as I caressed my new purchase.

Inside the box, a weird plastic green pouch was found. I flipped open the pouch to find stuff that looked familiar–the pink thingies and the gray thingies from TV, and a giant warning sign, which basically said to make sure your skin doesn’t have any lotion on it prior to use. What it should have said was: “Please step away from the Smooth Away. Close the weird plastic green pouch. Chuck it directly into the garbage and go buy some razors.” THAT would have been a good warning.

Not deterred, I eagerly applied the gray sticker thing to the pink plastic thing and prepared to be amazed. Huh. So, it’s basically like a really fine piece of sandpaper. You’d think that would have stopped me. Nope. Towelled up like the lady on the commercial, I began to gently rub the Smooth Away on my left underarm. Yeah, it didn’t just look like sandpaper, it felt like sandpaper. Abrasive. Irritating. Sort of like scrubbing your armpit with a Brillo pad.

Well it hurts like f*ck, it must be working, right? Wrong. I peered cautiously onto the affected area, to only find it red and looking a bit like rugburn. The hairs? Still there. Crap.

Pour glass of wine.

Try again.

Here’s something else they don’t tell you. Since it doesn’t work right away, you actually have to buff the hell out of even the smallest patch of hair for a LONG TIME before any of the hairs start to disappear.  Oh… oh the friction.  So, after a valiant attempt, my poor pit was left red and raw, with patchy bits of hair in places. The worst part? Now I actually still had to shave, and I was now shaving an area the Smooth Away had “exfoliated” (read: scraped the skin off) I slathered my abused underarm in thick lotion and finished the wine.

Determined not to be outdone by the Smooth Away, I made a secondary attempt on my lower leg with the larger pink pad. Dudes. It’s as if I am completely incapable of learning my lesson.

WTH?! This is a tragedy on many levels.

As if it’s not hard enough to have to shave, pluck and wax; now we are encouraged to rub something on our skin that is meant to even out wood. Somewhere, some Smooth Away exec is rich and laughing at us. While this product may come in handy in a torture situation in the kit next to the bamboo shoots and hot pokers, it should never be used on a human woman. Or man.

Save your money. Buy stock in Nair.

Check out my review of the ShamWow!

NEW post: YOUTHOLOGY, does it work?

NEW review of Crayola 3D chalk!

Read my review of the Leg Magic!

Got something else you’d like me to review? Submit your suggestions here.

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Senator Edward Kennedy is being awarded an honorary knighthood from Britain.

Is it just me, or was anybody else surprised to discover that peeps are still being knighted? It conjures up this medieval image including horses, suits of armor, a lavish feast including whole turkey legs (like at the county fair) and people wearing velvet… perhaps even some type of joust.

Since obviously I’m far-removed here in the sparkly lights of Las Vegas from jolly ol’ England, my curiousity prompted me to do some spy-style investigative digging to discover the answers to the FAQ most non-Brits have regarding this apparently still popular tradition. So here’s your Beginner’s Guide to Knighthood. Let’s rock.

What’s an honorary knight?

An honorary knighthood is a super fancy-pants award given to “deserving” individuals who are not citizens of a “Commonwealth realm” (part of the British Empire). There’s no limited number of titles they can hand out (woohoo!), but an an honorary knight, you can’t be snooty and call yourself “Sir” or “Dame”, which is probably half the fun. Disapointing. You do get some fancy initials after your name though, so that’s something.

How are they chosen?

Recipients are chosen by the Soverign, also known as the ‘fountain of honour’ (I’m not kidding), acting upon the advice of the Prime Minister. Other ways to get knighted: get one of your posse to submit a private nom to the Prime Minister’s Office, or get someone more important in your country to you to recommend you to the Foreign Secretary. Certain honors are also awarded at the personal discretion of the monarch. Complicated enough?

Is there a ceremony? A medal of some sort? Do they touch you with that sword like in the movies?

Oh hell yeah. I mean, what would be the point otherwise? Honors are usually conferred 2x/year… on the Sovereign’s official birthday, and at the New Year. Prepare for an elaborate ceremony, including the well-known “knighting” portion, in which the Sovereign taps the recipient on the shoulder with a ceremonial sword in what is called the accolade. So awesome. Make sure to refer to your ceremony program and don’t be in the restroom during that part. Would really suck.

What other folks have been knighted lately?

• Rudy Giuliani
• Steven Spielberg
• Bill Gates
• Bob Hope
• George H.W. Bush
• Ronald Reagan
• Colin Powell
• Billy Graham
• Bono

Do some freaks ever lose their knighthood? Can it be taken away?

Oh yeah. Plus, some have even refused it and others have given it back. “Thanks for the title! Later beeatches.”

How can I become an honorary knight?

The British honors system is a means of awarding merit for those who are deserving, either for achievement or service to the country. There are numerous levels of importance and a bunch of categories, including entertainment, politics, broadcasting, and more. I say, pick a category and get to achieving or else start snuggling up to the Sovereign.

Got more questions? Post ‘em here in what shall be henceforth known as the RockstarMama honorary knighthood knowledge hub. Happy Knighting Day.

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1. Bus station
2. Gyration
3. Lactation
4. Secret military operation
5. Constipation
6. Flatulation
7. Artificial insemination
8. Exfoliation
9. Ultraviolet radiation
10. National Aeronautics and Space Administration

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The glitz, the glamour, the unaffordable couture, the stars, the gossip, the little gold man… what more can a girl ask for?  Stay tuned for RockstarMamaOnline.com’s live Oscars blog.

————————————————————-

WOOHOO!! It’s 3PST.  Live from the red carpet, it’s Seacrest and that tan chick from E!

OH THE GLAMOUR:

• There must be a 12-step program available to separate Sarah Jessica Parker from those big-ass belts.
• A quick stop at the glue-gun store got Natalie Portman’s hairstylers ready for tonight’s festivities. Evan Rachel Wood’s peeps tailed her and also picked up some spackle. **After further review, all the chicks’ hair looks oddly spackled. WTF?!
• Heidi Klum seems to have won some type of pageant–her dress has an odd girl scout-style sash…
• Attacked by foil? Snowed on? Miley Cyrus sports a weird apron-like petal dress…

WOOHOO! Check out E!’s Red Carpet Pose-Off…

WHAT THE:

• Where did Jennifer Grey’s eyes go? They appear to have been squished vertically. Very confusing.
• OH DEAR GOD!! If anyone has switched to the TV Guide Network, a fresh-from-the-med-spa Lisa Rinna is showing off the plumpest, most immobile face on the red carpet. And that’s saying something. In addition, she has applied the “deep mohagany” spray tan. Holy crap.
• This just in–Josh Brolin is not A-List enough to have his own hair/beard stylist. Either that or he was just in a fight with stray dogs.
• Is it just me? Twilight’s Robert Pattinson looks exactly like Marcel from Bravo’s Top Chef!
• Matthew Broderick–Ferris!  Still looks like a little boy in an old dude costume. Hilarious. I want to pinch his cheeks and give him a lollypop.
• Daaaamn. Brad and Angie, damn it, look fab. Red carpet hotties! If Brad doesn’t shave soon I’m going to cry.
• A poor striped animal of some sort has died to provide Whoopie Goldberg her outfit.
• SJP’s boobs! OMG!!!!!!! They tried to jump out and smack me. It’s just so wrong.

OOPS:

• Awww, Phoebe Cates brought her dad. Oh wait…
• Seems like maybe I got lost and ended up on the grecian channel. What’s with all the one-shoulder toga-style stuff and the crazy molded hairstyles?
• More of Goldie Hawn’s boobs are falling out the sides than in the middle area.

Man, I love Steve Martin. Has anybody seen or read Shopgirl? I downloaded it once, but the download was corrupt. Stupid ebook reader.

Oh, Oscars 2009… if only there was more red carpet action and less actual odd broadcasted Wolverine showtune numbers.

CHECK OUT THE COMPLETE LIST OF WINNERS!

But now the fun part… fashion analysis by the weekly mags. Don’t forget to visit your local retailer for even more dress-aster-related fun.

Did anybody actually stay up for the entire show? Got comments? Let’s hear ‘em!

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