"I didn't go to medical school for nothing," or "I'm not a cheerleader for a brandname drug, but I play one on TV."

I have railed against DTC pharmaceutical advertising for a while, as you probably know if you have ever watched prime time TV with me. But even as I find myself skeezed out by the bathtub people in the Cialis commercials, few of these ads bother me as much as birth control ads do.

Now, don't get me wrong. On principle, I think that if you're going to urge American men to Viva Viagra (okay, those ads bother me as much as birth control ads), someone had better be standing by to assure American women that they won't have to spend the rest of their lives barefoot and pregnant. I just happen to think that someone should be a doctor; call me crazy, I guess. But then again, maybe this is what the women's movement was all about-- equal rights, equal pay, equal airtime?

I digress. Given that I probably can't take down the entire DTC advertising structure all by myself today, I will temporarily allow that pharmaceutical advertising on TV is our reality. This assumption provides me a clever little segue into my actual point-- the degree to which birth control ads are or are not based in reality. First, let's remind ourselves about some terminology we take for granted-- birth control. The name suggests that the purpose is to control births, i.e., keep the user from getting prego. Simple enough. As a directly related effect, it also happens to regulate the menstrual cycle, which one probably expects when one ingests a very specific hormone regimen. But again, that's just related to the main issue-- birth control.

So why isn't this the focus of any advertising for the Pill? Wait a minute, did you see how I switched it up there? I didn't call it birth control; I called it the Pill. Because that's how it's advertised. We're not even supposed to remember that the point is contraception, as this video does a great job highlighting. We're supposed to think of the Pill as the silver bullet to make our skin better and mitigate our PMS surliness and give us the freedom to release balloons from the sunroof of a VW bug while driving in circles and listening to The Veronicas. Why is that, by the way? Is it some leftover relic of the Comstock Law? Is it because we're afraid of offending those morally opposed to contraception? Is it because, secretly, even the producers of birth control want us to be barefoot and pregnant? (Okay, that last one is pretty conspiracy theory-esque, but ask yourself how many major pharmaceutical companies are run by women. Furthermore, don't you sometimes wonder if it would be easier to meet and marry Mr. Right if you weren't a zit-covered, homicidal maniac? Yes, you.)

Anyway, this is all a very roundabout way of saying that when I saw the first ad correcting all the previous Yaz ads (you can read about it here) I was pretty pleased. First of all, that obnoxious woman "who didn't go to medical school for nothing" (as if anyone with an MD calls it "medical school" in conversation) comes right out and says that Yaz is birth control. Second of all, she clarifies the on-label uses and doesn't hype the off-label benefits. I have a lot of ambivalence about off-label uses of drugs in general, but I'm willing to let it slide a little bit with birth control because it's relatively inexpensive (cough, don't use Yaz, use a generic, cough). Still, the whole reason I find off-label use of anything conscionable is because it typically happens with a doctor's recommendation and oversight. Therefore, while I have a big problem with people with high cholesterol marching to their doctors and demanding Vytorin (sorry, I find their ads really visually clever), I have a bigger problem with women with pimples marching to their doctors and demanding hormones. Because we all know that Proactiv is the country's number one skin care solution. Trust us; we're Jessica Simpson and Alyssa Milano.

Finally, the Times article suggests that asking Bayer to pay $20 million to air the corrective ads amounts to a slap on the wrist in the world of DTC advertising. Agreed. But the average person who sees one of those ads probably isn't going to say to herself, "Hmm, I wonder how much that set them back... oh wait, drop in the bucket." Rather, I think she's going to say, "Hmm, it kind of sounds like they kind of lied to me." And if the new Yaz ads can do anything to undermine the credibility of DTC advertising overall, that's worth more than $20 million in my book.

Even Better than the Nurses

We all know I have some strong feelings on the topic of karaoke, but even I have not taken it to the point of physical violence. Apparently, I have more restraint than some.

Two of Kate's Great Loves Converge

Health care and karaoke-- in the form of a discussion of good karaoke songs for women with medium to low ranges (read: me)... on a nursing forum.

My favorite suggestion is from the contributor who suggests "getting a little loaded and singing Willie Nelson songs."

Update: Wishlist Bag-- What a Cold, Strange Trip It Has Been

So, Operations never wrote back to me about the demise of my bag in the plastic clutches of the ice cube maker, but that doesn't mean they did not respond. Today I peeked into the freezer, hoping that this might be the day that my manual dexterity and new biceps/triceps exercise would lead me to victory over my bag's frigid captor. Tragically, however, as I opened the freezer door and dodged the frozen pizza falling toward me, I realized that my bag was no longer a hostage-- it was a kidnapping victim. Yes, I checked behind the boxes of burritos and under that depressing popsicle from the ice cube tray. No sign of a struggle-- no scratches on the ice maker. A sad day indeed.

Or is it?

You see, in researching my initial post about my faithful little bag, I visited the ever-so-cloying Wishlist website, and I decided to have a look around. You can imagine what happened next. I mean, who am I to say no to a half-price Herve Chapelier bag and free shipping? It's an excellent deal on a fairly demure bag that is a good size for the days when I don't need to drag around a tote that is approximately the look and dimension of a spinnaker with handles. And besides, it's not terry cloth or the color of bubblegum. Sounds like a solid investment.

And as I walked back up to my office this morning, carrying the box containing my bag (I presumed), a thought dawned on me:

"I wonder if they gave me a new free Wishlist bag..."

So imagine my glee when there, under my delightfully tasteful and useful canvas tote, was the most godawful, heinous, garbage-bag-meets-gym-bag-hybrid-looking thing I have ever seen-- with Wishlist emblazoned in curly, pink script on each side.

It is seriously one of the trashiest things I have ever encountered in real life. I laughed when I saw it; it's that bad. But it zips closed and the handles are the right length-- i.e., they are short enough that they would never cause me to drag my zucchini on the ground or inadvertently feed it to a major appliance. So I sort of love it.

The universe is right again.

Kate's Friends Also Struggle

The following conversation happened between 11:20 and 11:25 p.m. Before I begin, I should note that the other party involved in this exchange has demonstrated his culinary talents many times before. That is not to say, however, that he doesn’t struggle every now and again. Not unlike some blog authors who drop pies and feed their grocery bags to ice cube makers (it’s still in there).

The premise: Strand and his friend are making dinner tonight. This is not unusual.

Strand: Um, do you have Cajun seasoning?
Me: Uhh, no… Why what are you trying to make?
Strand: What about onion powder?
Me: Oh, yeah, of course.
Strand: Garlic powder?
Me: Yes. I have onion powder. I have garlic powder. I have curry. I have coriander. I have pretty much any spice you would want. Everything except turmeric. I don’t have turmeric. Do you want me to bring paprika?
Strand: Maybe. Sure. Do you have chili powder?
Me: Everything except turmeric and chili powder.
Strand: Yeah, that’s okay; we’ll get it at Whole Foods. Next question: how do you bake with strawberries?
Me: [pausing to ask silently, “wtf?”] Uh, well, that might depend on what you want to do with them. What does the recipe say?
Strand: [avoiding the question] Like, if I’m using fresh strawberries, do I want them to be ripe?
Me: Oh. Yeah. But check the recipe, because you might need to macerate them a little first.
Strand: [pause] Did you just say a dirty word?
Me: Macerate? Mix them with some sugar and maybe a little hot water? To break them down?
Strand: Ohhhhh. Hmmm, macerate. Okay. [pause] What does rhubarb look like?
Me: [I offered to bake; why did they say no?] Umm… imagine big, magenta celery. Why? [I know why. This is not good.]
Strand: Magenta celery, okay. Would they have it at Whole Foods?
Me: Definitely… in several months.
Strand: Oh. Hmm. Okay.
Me: Are you sure you don’t want me to bring anything?
Strand: Just onion powder and garlic powder.

Freezer Watch-- Update: 10:57 a.m., January 14

Operations has not responded to my email. At all. Not even, "You've got to be kidding."

My bag is quite cold.

Freezer Watch-- Update: 10:08 a.m.

After pacing the hall for a few minutes, I was finally able to have the pantry to myself, but I was still unable to execute Operation Extrication. And I still don't understand how that thing works-- I thought I knew which way the cloth was wrapped around the little plastic thingies (I'm very technical), but I was only able to pull about half an inch of fabric out of the jaws of death.

Given that I don't want anyone to walk in there and see me with both my arms completely inside the freezer, defrosting their vegetarian burritos, it's time to ask for help.

TO: Operations
SUBJECT: 9th floor pantry freezer

Hi,

In the pantry on the 9th floor (next to the women's bathroom), someone put a canvas bag of groceries in the freezer, and now part of the bag is wrapped around/inside the ice maker. Is there any chance it would be possible to remove the bag, hopefully intact?

Thanks, and apologies for the bizarre request.