And The Winner Is …

poll results

I was really hoping to discuss gin but w/e the people have spoken.

The reason I don’t blog about World Famous Fashion Icon And Busy Mom™ Michelle Obama anymore is because … well, there are actually three reasons:

  1. We are no longer subjected to the daily media fest declaring her to be beautiful and stylish and so I no longer feel the need to correct the false narrative.
  2. More and more people are starting to realize on their own that she’s not exactly beautiful inside or out.

…but the main reason I don’t blog about her anymore is …

3.  She is so predictable that she’s actually boring.

At this point, I don’t think there’s a soul in the world who doesn’t expect her to show up 90% of the time dressed like an oversized clown and dressed for the other 10%  in fabulous and expensive couture. And there’s no doubt at all who’s will predominated for which outfit selection:  MOO herself or or her handlers.

Is there anyone who is surprised that her choice if she could be anyone else in the world is the overpainted underdressed overtressed  product of lifelong focused marketing efforts that panders to the lowest common denominator. I can totally imagine MOO lost in contemplative reverie, wishing that she had a sister that would pummel old Barry in a private elevator.

And yes she is going to eat all the grease while preaching the opposite, she is going to vacation in luxury settings for extended periods on the tax payer’s dime; she is going to look bored or irritated at official photo-ops. It’s all her standard behavior. It might be newsworthy if she made extemporaneous remarks that weren’t filled with slang, grammatical errors or snide swipes at her husband. But, if history is any indicator, that’s not going to happen. I do notice that she’s not constantly lip-licking anymore so they must have changed her meds and that is only mildly interesting to me.

Nope. She is an awful specimen as First Ladies go. You want to occupy yourself with a fascinating First Lady? Here your most fascinating First Lady: Jacqueline Kennedy. And her lover Rudolph Nureyev! (note: “Bobby Kennedy and Rudi kissing each other passionately in a booth”. The mind boggles!)

Old Jackie was no shy flower. While America as a whole considered her to be the nation’s symbolic Madonna, she was hiding away in her White House bedroom to smoke cigarettes , drink vodka and produce piles of correspondence to her friends complaining that she didn’t want to see ” fat little women hopping around in the same dresses” as hers.

If we must talk about First Ladies who are products of main stream media fantasy and entirely different in reality, the let’s talk about Jackie. At least she had style. For real, not trumped up adoration for questionable wardrobe choices. Despite Jackie’s wishes to be unique, every female age 12 and up no matter their race or creed swarmed the streets of America wearing a pillbox hat as soon as they possibly could. And when Jackie showed up for Mass in a lace mantilla, that was the beginning of the end for the American millinery business. I have yet to see in any airport or major gathering a single female sporting a boob belt. There was, I will admit,  a brief fascination with big 3-D fabric flowers on cardigans, but that ended quickly once the ladies realized that it looked like shit for the birds.

This is how we were then:

jackie-kennedy-had-a-signature-style

My guess is two double vodkas went down PDQ after this.

This is how we are now: 

My guess is it took two vodka martinis before this event.

My guess is it took two vodka martinis went down before this. And then some champagne after, with a little bit of lobster to snack on.

 

 

Let’s Ask Suzette A Question

The question with the most votes by 9am Saturday morning will be answered in full on this blog.

I Tried To Deny My Gift

Ok, look. I’ve been a little depressed about the whole Hillary situation.

Why is she acting so dumb and ruining her own chances to be a presidential candidate in the next go-round? It’s almost like it’s purposeful and she really doesn’t want to do it. Or that she knows she is unfit* and does not want her lack to get onto the historic record of her public career? I was really looking forward to getting back into analysis of the political messages contained in her wardrobe as she moved herself back into he national spotlight. But the way things were going – the stupid dead broke comment, the bad reviews of the latest book, the connecting the dots of her performance as SoS and the resulting disaster in the Mideast -it just looked like none of us were going to have the pleasure of having her as the candidate.

It was too sad to bear. Never mind the subtle-to-wicked progression of calculated swipes at the Obmamas – we were also to be denied Grandma Hillary trotting out Chelsea’s offspring. No play dates -yea, no betrothal! – with her grandchild and her godchild, no clever references to her status as loyal but  publicly wronged wife, no ChelseaCare which would be some rehashed thing related to maternal health and would wipe the goddam Obama right out of ObamaCare. What a world that would have been.

And then …. just as I was losing my last hope … she comes along and does this:

Chelsea Clinton Graduates From Oxford University, Britain - 10 May 2014

BOOM bah BOOM bah BOOM bah BOOM bah BOOM

Here she is dressed in a full length leather coat , coincidentally the color of a tank, IN AUGUST as she practically plows forward. Look at the strained cords of her instep and tell me that’s not a firm purposeful stride meant to strike fear into the hearts of those one the sidelines and to propel her forward towards an endpoint of her own choosing. Hillary, you magnificent bastard. Even with your brain damage, all the tanks in Patton’s army put together were  not as fearsome as you are now.

She is the master of keeping people off balance. I can see now that her present strategy is “a little bit of this/a little bit of that”. In the same week that she criticized Obama for his Mideast mess – a mess that so obviously reveals the heavy hand of Hillary herself stirring up the couscous but let’s not mention that – she gets all dolled up and goes out to strut her stuff in this get up:

article-2720212-205E75F700000578-857_306x642

yoiky ploiky!

The internet is positively creaking under the load of the many remarks that have been made  about this event, mostly centering on that muu muu or the brazen flaunting of her cankles, and people – this is exactly why you need me to get back in the game. The guys might not have landed on it but every lady who sees this image zeros in on the main message and that is that she’s not going to run. Evidence? No bra.

Going out in public with no bra is a very clear indicator of a woman’s state of mind. You don’t see  nancy Pelosi running around without a bra. Running around, yes. Running around without a bra, no. And you’re not going to catch World Famous Fashion Icon And Busy Mom Michelle Obama™ as God made her (= no falsies), either.  But here Hillary is telling us that she doesn’t care and she  is giving up.

But is she really? Look at that frock again. She’s wearing owning! a frock which is assumed to be of Hawaiian origin (message: Aloha to your legacy, Barry, once I take over.)  Now look again. The neckline trim is not muumuu-ish at all. In fact, it’s quite galabeya- like (message: Not to worry, habibis. Jiddah’s got your back.)

Oh gawd, isn’t she wonderful? She’s running, she’s not running, she’s bullying, she’s reassuring – all in one modest garment. And she’s doing it without make up, coiffure or accessories!

* Assignment: Discuss in what ways Hillary Rodham Clinton is unfit for the Presidency of the United States.

Old Lady

Shortly after we moved here about 28 years ago, I noticed an old lady walking on my street. The street is a cul de sac with only 10 houses on it, so the only walkers were the mail man and mothers taking their young children up to the school bus stop on the corner. Aside from the fact that she had no actual business walking here, she was noticeable for the striking if petite figure she cut.

She was small and light, very trim and erect. Her dark gray hair was always in a smooth chin length bob. Her customary outfit, which is not one you’d immediately associate with an old lady , was a hot pink tshirt with 3/4 sleeves and a pair of white capri pants. She wore these over plain white sneakers with thin white crew socks that were probably expensive and purchased one pair at a time instead of  in a six pack. If it was winter, the shirt and the pants were full length and a light vest and scarf were added. Every day no matter the weather she wore enormous Jackie O sunglasses.

I think her face was beautiful although I never really got a good look at it. She would move with a very quick purposeful stride down one side of my street and back up the other. Her arms were bent at the elbow and she would pump them as she walked in a very graceful way. Her arm movements were smooth and controlled, not like that crazy asymetrical thrusting you sometimes see. Her little boobs were the absolute definition of “pert” and they never changed locations. Now that my own body parts are moving south, I can look back and understand that she was wearing a padded bar or maybe even those pointy foam rubber pointy we used to call falsies.

I didn’t see her everyday but I did see her out walking up and down my street as recently as 2 years ago. She was clipping along at her customary pace and her hair was a much lighter shade of gray. She lived, I came to find out, on the street behind us with a very tall and burly white haired Irishman. I never in all the years we’re here saw in in any other setting. Not on a different street, not in the supermarket or in church and not at the polling place.

Was she old when we moved her or just middle aged with gray hair? Either way, that would make her either old or very old right now. I fully expect that at any time, I could look outside and I’d see her on my street again. And I wouldn’t be surprised.

 

 

The Wages of Sin Is 10 Bucks

At least in New Jersey, it is. Speaking as a person who paid $10.00 for an espresso martini last night, this article resonated with me:

Where Do Cocktail Prices Come From?

link via Maggie’s Farm, always my first read of the day

And I had that espresso martini in a burger joint in Bumville, NJ not in a swanky Manhattan lounge. I used my unofficial and uncredentialed but avidly pursued status as a Booze Detector to determine that there was precious little actual booze in the thing, if any at all.

That’s what I get for veering from my usual practice of ordering drinks made from nothing except booze and ice. Here’s last night’s photo of the boozeless $10.00 concoction.

unnamed (1)

We continue to go to that place because:

  • Sami thinks they have the best burgers in NJ
  • They make a Sweet Rob Roy on the rocks exactly as it should be and they do it without needing an explanation from us.
  • It’s on our drive home from Philadelphia

Lesson learned. From now on, it’s an extra dry gin martini straight up in the approximate vicinity of a big green olive speared on a plastic cocktail stirrer. Maybe a bottled beer once in a while.

Being Cranky

Question from the comments: “Going on a fortnight now. How many assburns did you take?”

Answer: “Not nearly enough!”

 

From Our Department of Too Much Free Time: Please know that I have no bleeding or clotting issues. It’s just something that I think about a lot. I used to stop at least once a day to listen to my own heartbeat so I could tell if I was going to have a heart attack or not. So far so good. Recently, I’ve transferred that health focus to my blood vessels and now I stop to  evaluate if they are about to burst or clog up.

Other than that, I have been very busy being cranky. I spent a year in Denver last week where it was high 90s every day, interrupted by spectacular lightning displays and serious but brief downpours. I do not care to relive that week here – and believe me, you don’t want me to. Many hours were spent debating if the final word selection should be “experince”  or “expertise” –  but I will tell you about the plane trip back to NJ:

#1. My flight was one of those where they use some seats for crew going to their next departure or connecting location. There were at least a dozen United people on this flight. I know how many there were because when I got to the gate, they were all sitting in the handicapped seats near the jetway door. And they did not move when they saw me and subsequently 3 other gimps headed towards them. And they all had feedbags from various airport food places and they stared at all passersby and gimps who were looking for a seat while they chewed their cuds.

#2. I had a good aisle seat and the seat next to me was occupied by a <20 y/o guy who carted on multiple back packs, game systems, food and beverage items and placed them on the floor between his feet. Then he promptly fell asleep and stayed asleep for the whole flight. Somewhere along the line, he slumped against me. I didn’t mind that so much but every now and then he would start twitching  – more like seizing – and then wildly scratch his scalp before going inert again. I was worried that head lice were going to jump onto my brand new Land’s End Supima Cardigan. Or I would have been worried if I didn’t have $17.98 worth of gin in front of me. Fun Fact:  $17.98 worth of gin = (2) 2 oz. bottles on an airplane.

#3. The stew from First Class made regular trips back into the steerage cabin to give things like full unopened bottles of water and warm cookies to her pals among  the crew members seated there. The crew was  scattered all though the plane so it was obvious to all paying fliers what was going on. No pretense was made nor effort to be circumspect about it. Just brazen insider advantage. Check your privilege, United crew with connections to the good stuff! Or at least make some small effort to hide it.

I have other complaints hardly worth mentioning okay I will mention them the TV controller in my seat was broken and I was in the mood to watch trash tv while sipping on $17.98 worth of gin and also there was an entire troop or whatever you call it of Eagle Scouts on the plane who were the very opposite of helpful to mature business women with bad knees.

The end of the evening was remarkable in that I am still alive. My cab driver was a young guy who was in a rush to meet his friend “before the store closed” so the trip down the parkway was done at 85 mph for the most part with bursts up to 95. One minute I was standing at the baggage carousel in Terminal C and 20 minutes later, I was at my own front door. The trip usually takes 35-40 minutes. I had to ask him to slow down, which he kindly did – to about 78. The most exciting part was when he scared himself as we flew over bumpy pavement patches and he confided in me that he thought the tires were going to blow and that’s why he switched lanes back there and if they did blow it wouldn’t have been his fault it would have been the fault of the cab company who gave him a van with tires that could blow.

Anyway, I’m back home working like a dog on a soft chair in an air conditioned room. I also went to a dinner dance on Saturday night where I limped across the dance floor once or twice, made my husband leave early against his will and then grabbed an extra  party favor on my way out the door.