No post today; the spinster knee must spend some time burning in the icy purgatorial fires of an MRI tube, the nearest one of which with an available appointment is all the way the heck in midtown Austin (midtown Austin is spitting distance from Cottonmouth County, but only if the spitter is 55 miles tall). Thus is today a Day of Travel and Knee Agony, rather than of Blogging and Lobe Agony.
But I cannot put off a moment longer the heartfelt expression of my aversion to the 10 minutes of jewelry store TV commercials that seem to bookend each 5-minute segment of all my favorite shows.
By “favorite shows” I mean the gruesome displays of megatheocorporatocracy-affirming propaganda at which I am compelled to stare, slack-jawed in mesmerized horror, while the aforementioned knee takes a load off on a pile of comfy pillows. For the last couple of days the incredulous spinster eyes could not be pried from reruns of a British show called “Top Gear.” “Top Gear” features 3 jokey middle-aged automobile-worshiping dude-brat bros chasing around gorgeous European countryside in Porsches and Bugatti Veyrons. The captivating thing about “Top Gear” is the astonishing degree to which the world — a man’s world — is these dudes’ oyster. “Hey, let’s have a minivan race from Rome to Minsk!” And off they go. Not an iota of estrogen for miles. The equation: smart-alecky English dudes with arrested development + cars (- women) = total freedom.
But I digress.
The jewelry store commercials advertise diamond jewelry for women. The jewelry chains are different but their ads share two common threads. The first common thread is that the jewelry is cloying and butt-ugly. Seriously. Why would anyone voluntarily suspend this monstrosity from a chain around her personal neck?
The second common thread is the image of the under-35-year-old woman overwhelmed with joy and surprise. She is overwhelmed because, against all odds, she is the recipient of diamonds! Everything about her body language says “I am so grateful that you, the dude who porks me, has decided that I am worth diamonds. I am your slave eternally.” My favorite (and by “favorite” I mean “least favorite”) example portrays one particularly verklempt girl opening her little velvet box with disbelieving hands and whimpering over and over, as though in some sort of fit, “Oh my gosh. Oh my gosh.”
Yes, the big moment has finally arrived, the moment she was trained for and has awaited since the cradle: some dude has chucked a rock at her. According to the Global Accords Governing Fair Use of Women, she is now putty in his hands. Once she puts the diamond on she will never take it off, signaling to the world that she is a dude’s highly valued property. Men are traditionally expected to spend 3 months salary on it.
She does not, however, ask to see the diamond’s certificate of origin, because it means little or nothing in her young life if the symbol of her enslavement to the culture of domination was ever used to fund death squads in Sierra Leone.
The equation: woman + butt-ugly diamond jewelry from a chain store = megatheocorporatocratic dream fulfilled.
“Oh my gosh” photo from YouTube.
Ugly-ass pendant photo from Kay Jewelers website.