Where Is The Hate Mail? Where is the Challenge?

Dissenting comments are not what they used to be. Since I slowed down with the World Famous Fashion Icon and Busy Mom Michelle Obama posts (due to extreme barfitude) the hate mail has become a disappointing trickle. Still, I take what I can get. Today a very mild comment flattering to MOO was left in the screening box. I felt I had to change it just to keep my hand in it.

  • Original comment: Michelle is such an intelligent, classy woman. Love the curly hair!
  • New improved comment:  Michelle is such an insmelligent, assy woman. Love the squirrely hair!

I know. I know. Insmelligent. You don’t have to tell me – I’m disappointed in myself about that one. Look, I can only work with what I have.

 

I Missed Blogging But Not Enough To Lose Sleep Over It

I was busy this week and didn’t have a chance to express my blog opinion about the president’s TV appearances. Man, what a crybaby bullshitter. Man, was he orange. He doesn’t look so good lately. I don’t think the handlers changed the make-up, I think his base color changed.

Also, how do you like this? Last night during the domestic tranquility portion of the evening, The Hub and I were watching TV and a Red Lobster commercial came on. I expressed interest in eating some lobster today and he enthusiastically agreed. So this morning, after reviewing the task list and the Lowe’s shopping list, I said we need to plan the time so that we are not rushed when leaving for the lobster dinner. Then the man I have been married to for 32 years starts quoting his long-dead father and tells me that night time talk has butter on it and when the sun shines the butter melts away. Which I guess means SAY ANYTHING. Which I guess means we aren’t going.

I hate to have a suspicious mind, but sometimes, I think he makes up these sayings to suit his contrary purpose.

I don’t care because I am going to have a hot dog with Sabrett’s Onion Sauce on it for breakfast and that’s all I care about now.

I’ll probably care about the lobster later.

When The Weeds Are Higher Than The Roses

It’s 7:30am and I’m still out on the deck. I’m delighted to report that the weather is not so humidly oppressive as to drive me back inside as it has been for the last – I can’t remember how long. Gawd, you should see the weeds around here. I can’t pull the weeds anymore because :

  • The lack of cartilage in my knees makes it impossible to stand and lean forward
  • I’ve been away on business trips since FOReverrr
  • I have other things to do. Like, I really should be vacuuming. Or goofing around on the internet.

I was discussing my weeding dilemma with the great minds of modern industry this week and they suggested that I get a stand-up dandelion digger. I don’t know. This is probably perfect for dandelions but it looks like trouble for a flower bed.

It’s a known personal defect that I want to tell you about my plane travel this week. This is the same kind of bore as when someone insists on telling you their latest fascinating dream or talks about their labor room experiences – it’s only meaningful to the speaker. I know that, and yet I forge ahead:   my travel, it was ghastly. Flying out on Monday there was a two hour weather delay announced after we taxied out towards the runaway. The flight was uneventful but it was 8 1/2 hours in seat 10D surrounded by ignorant Japanese tourists. I thought that was as bad as it was going to be, but the Friday flight got to the east coast the same time as a thunderific storm. We circled then diverted to Washington DC for refeuling. At this point, I have enough sense to avoid giving you the blow by blow but it will suffice to say that this 5 1/2 trip turned out to be 10 hours on the plane.

But that’s not the worst part. The worst part was the children. And the Democrats.

The children. The children who ran back and forth in the aisles while people were trying to stand and stretch. The children who held onto their father’s arms and jumped up and down with great thudding landings. The children who shrieked Haukna Matata in their wet-mouthed 3 year old dialect while the doting mother translated into understandable English. Naturally, the only lyric that the tot knew was “Hakuna Matata” which he interpreted in as many humorous ways as his little 3 year old brain could think of (3) and the mother dutifully translated every one every time. Over and over.

And the Democrats! Jebus. I made the mistake of turning on my BBerry and reading some headlines while we were refueling. No, that wasn’t the mistake – the mistake was saying out loud that the BBA had passed the House. “Oh, it did!” my seatmates excitedly asked. “Which one?”  So seriously underinformed.* This was my first clue that these were Democrats – no, this was the second clue. The first was the selfish lack of consideration for others around them. This news was worse for them than the news that the flight was interrupted for an undetermined period. The muttering, the head-shaking, the frightened questions their partners couldn’t begin to answer, and -hand to God – the Bush’s Fault mantra. Even the Swedish family behind me, whose younger members were pushing their way up and down the aisles to pass the time, were in on it.  I checked the BBerry again and the esteemed Senator Reid had already pulled the senatorial strings to have the bill killed, but I didn’t  announce that. Screw them.  Sooner or later, the adults are going to make you hush up and behave so you might as well start adjusting now. Hakuna matata, dudes.

* I can’t blame the poor things. Right now, I have the radio on NPR and they are quoting the NY Times as evidence of whatever phony bullshit story they are pushing today. That’s like having your cousin call you with a fake offer  while you have someone looking at the used car you are trying to unload. It’s information to sway decision-making but when you think take the time to analyze it, you realize that honesty doesn’t require collusion.

I’m So Tired That I Forgot I Had My Hair Tied Back With A Knee-High When the Room Service Guy Brought Dinner

Reflections on a tough travel day:

  • Newark -> LAX + 2 hours on the tarmac for weather delays = 8 1/2 hours in seat 10D.
  • I was surrounded by a gang of Asian tourists hereafter know as the Yapanese.  Man, were those people ignorant.
  • There was a seeing eye dog on the plane. In first class. He made far  less noise than the Yapanese.
  • My hotel room is right on the runway of LAX. I should have brought the old binocs with me, but I think I’ll just throw open wide the draperies and watch the jets from bed. Starting now.

Another Sad Goodbye

A stupid tree couldn’t take the heat anymore and came crashing down on my hosta bed, the centerpiece of which was my bird bath in the style of a tree trunk. It was a birthday present from my children to mark my 40th birthday. I loved it so much – I can’t believe I can’t put my finger on a picture of it at the moment. Here’s the now-squashed bird that sat in the center of it:

This is not the original birthday bird. The original one was leaner and more realistic. It held a little round thing in it’s pointy beak. I always thought it was a stone and that it represented Aesop’s fable about the crow that dropped pebbles into a water pitcher until the water level rose high enough for the crow to drink from it. Which was pretty damned sophisticated for something from the K Mart garden center. The original crow was a victim of harsh winter weather. It always fell over sideways when the water froze and that happened once too often. This bird never fell over but look how things ended up. You cannot change your destiny.

The whole thing was like a little petrified tree. The bowl was like a cross-cut of the tree trunk – you can see the “rings” and the “splits” in it here. Can you see the thick bark around the edges? The outside of the bowl and the entire base was realistically patterned to look like bark.

Ah me. I was just thinking this week that I was going to get rid of all the plants on the far side of the deck and move the birdbath over there to be a focal point in front of a curved line of Sunny Knock Outs. Life, eh? We make plans and God laughs.

stupid tree

Oh Hillary, You Are Breaking My Heart

The other day, I saw this photo at Michelle Obama’s Mirror. It was at the end of an image-intensive post that featured five full-sized and uncensored photographs of World Famous Fashion Icon and Busy Mom™ Michelle Obama’s grody armpits. This image is so disturbing that I haven’t give a second thought to the First Pits ever since.

Hillary herself admits that she has no style sense. (see here for example) I have some questions:

  • where are her advisers?
  • did she learn nothing from all the years that other people dressed her?
  • does she not have a mirror?
  • ever heard of a hair cut?
  • do you think that shirt was intended to have a cuff?

I work with a woman who told me she has no sense of color and cannot make a  match to save her life, no matter how much she reads about it or how much she tries to learn from others. And yet she always looks good. Know how she does it? She wears only solid colored pieces and they are all in neutrals.  Every top will coordinate with every bottom in her closet. She recognized her limitations, made a plan and stuck to it. Why can’t Hillary do that?

Hillary looked great when she was running for president. Her stylist developed a signature look for her that was flattering and appropriate: brightly colored jacket of a certain flattering cut, dark slacks, the occasional bold pantsuit. Her hairstyle didn’t change during the entire campaign, her jewelry was always chosen to complement the ensemble. She dressed that way for – how long? a year? – Why couldn’t she just stick to that basic plan? Apparently, none if it sunk in.

Now some might say that HRC is a serious woman and doesn’t/never did care about appearances. But I quite disagree. Look at this photo – she is making an effort here.

(+) she chose a tropical print for her arrival in Bali

(- ) she paired it with black slacks even though there is no black accent in the top

(+) she’s wearing necklace and earrings that match and are on their own tasteful

(-) the necklace and earrings have no reference to the main outfit

(++) bamboo bracelet! matches the theme, looks good!

(+) attempts hair control by using some kind of appliance. maybe a hairband?

(-) hair is just wrong from the get-go. lank, bad cut, unstyled. no hair appliance can help this.

But overall, it doesn’t work, does it? I’m thinking she allowed herself to believe that bright jacket = boldly patterned big shirt. I think that jewelry is from the campaign but that big clunky Wilma Flintstone stuff suits her better, after all. And I can’t help but think the stewardess gave her that bracelet as they were deplaning. Certainly, we’ve never seen the Hilz in bamboo before.

So, she’s trying and those around her are too intimidated to speak out. Sort of the Michael Jackson syndrome writ in polyester – as long as power and influence are  reflected onto them, why rock the boat?

I miss the old days when I could divine a message from her wardrobe choices. If this outfit holds a message about what’s really going on with her,  it’s tangled and mixed-up. Maybe that’s the message: gratified to be in an important position in the Obama administration, but nobody controls her.

Now it makes sense.