Housekeeping Ain't No Joke.

When Bondi Jane Handy became involved in a new hobby it usually meant she'd devote a few weeks to learning the fundamentals and then her focus would wane, but when she took up Asian papier-mâché Bocce at the local "Y" nothing could dim her enthusiasm. Every day Bondi could be found down at the "Y" either looking for a pick-up game or practicing her technique by the hour. All other social contacts had long since been severed: no one bothered to look for Bondi at the twice monthly neighborhood Tuesday morning coffee klatch or even remembered that she had once been the guiding light of the West Scefell Box Lunch Fund Raiser For Aboriginal Redemption. However, when her house keeping standards began to threaten local property values, many of her friends and loved ones felt that it might be past time to say something about her misplaced priorities.

Where Are We Going & Why Are We In This Handbasket?

I saw a girl today. She had teased out 80’s hair. She was wearing a Playboy logo t-shirt. She had makeup on. She was all of eight years old.

Let me repeat that - Eight. Years. Old . . . Playboy. Logo.

I almost threw up.

I’ve been thinking, all day, about that girl and the idiot she probably still calls mommy. What kind of person let’s their child out of the house like that? No. Wait. What kind of person buys clothes like that for their child period? Is it not hard enough to be a little kid? Are there not dangers on every street corner? What? Is she afraid that there just aren’t enough pedophiles to go around so she better tart her baby up so she’ll be sure to get their attention? Stellar. Fantastic plan. Nice to see people are taking tips from the Ramsey family play book. Way to hustle!

I’ve been trying to convince myself that this isn’t as horrible and offensive as it, clearly, is. I reminded myself, repeatedly, that I’ve been wearing cosmetics since I was five and nothing horrifying ever happened to me. I must, I reasoned, be overreacting. But, no, I can’t buy that.

For one thing until I was thirteen I was only allowed to wear makeup at home (playing dress up) or on stage (so that my flat, white face could be seen in the theatre). Even on stage there were limits. I was allowed, as I recall, powder, pale pink lipstick, blush, mascara and a light gold eye shadow (I have small squinty eyes that would otherwise have been lost in the cheap seats). I’m pretty sure the effect, from the audience, was that I wasn’t wearing any makeup at all. PS? My face got washed the minute the show was over and I wasn’t allowed to sing age inappropriate songs or, it must be said, dress like a hooker.

What is going on? Every time I go to look at outfits for my little cousin, who’s three, I’m astounded and stupefied by the clothes made for little girls. Short shorts? Check. Mini skirts? Check. Lucite kitten heels (go to Target or Payless, if I’m lyin’ I’m flyin’)? Check. Tops and dresses with low or no backs? Check and check!

Why can’t kids just be kids anymore? Why must they be dressed not just as little adults but as the trashiest saddest segment of society? Whatever happened to overalls and dresses with smocking? Since when do kids want to be “sexy”? That’s sick. And, even if your child said that they wanted to dress like a Playboy “bunny”, why would you let them? In short, why do people think it’s cute and/or appropriate to dress their daughters like sex workers? When did that become an acceptable option? Oh, wait. It’s not. And, just so everybody knows, it never will be.

YUMMO!!!!!!!!!

I love the following website almost too much.

http://community.livejournal.com/rachael_ray_sux

Good-bye. I am leaving because I am bored.

Today was so slow I almost lost my will to live. In order to get prepared for that I wrote out a will before I slipped into the stupor.

I, Dark Fury, being of sound mind and body (eh.) do hereby bequeath my worldly goods in the following manner.

To Olivia I leave all the paper backs that are not covered under any other bequest, cds and any dvd my mother doesn't wish to keep.

To Katherine I leave all my hard back books as those are in better condition than the paper and I know she's a stickler.

To Elisa I leave all my jewelry (outside of the pearls which are a family heirloom and if they, mistakenly, turn up on her person will result in an ass kicking from the entire Fury/Garcia family).

To Erin I leave all my baking equipment, children's books and 80's depression rock cds.

The rest of my worldly goods shall be cremated with me along with my cat and any friends who wish to cover themselves in clarified butter and throw themselves on the flames to show their affection and true dejection at my passing...no pressure....

Unfortunately, for you lot, I recovered around 4:15 and the crisis passed. Maybe next time.

Red Pump Society

Oh, My G-d, Shoes!

One pair for every day . . . .

And One For Special Occasions....Like A Tuesday.

The Ballad Of The Snubbly Brothers

After a brisk row on the river the Snubbly brothers liked to get dressed up and go in to town for a fine dinner and maybe a show, if there happened to be anything playing that all three could agree on. The twins, Phimble and Pahlavi, didn't mind the general stir that always accompanied these excursions but their older brother, Claudio, really loved the spotlight. Claudio longed for the day when he'd be discovered but he'd given up explaining his hopes and dreams to his brothers.

In the past, when he'd tried to tell them of his yearnings, they'd listened to him kindly but he could tell they were really more interested in the motor cross race on the television. Yes, it was true, the twins lived for sport and Claudio longed for drama. Where it would all end no one could tell.

If only the probate judge would finally resolve the various issues surrounding their father's estate each brother could afford to strike out on his own and try for the elusive brass ring of LIFE.

I Went & Saw The Worst Clown Ever And All I Got Was This Stupid Hangover

Yeah, I’ve got nothing else. That sentence just came to me and I needed to use it. I did, however, see the worst clown ever last night and I do, in fact, have a hangover today. So, all in all that one sentence told the whole story. I am nothing if not succinct.

On the up side the burlesque itself wasn’t half bad (The best part, for me, were the performers shoes. I need to know if there’s a secret burlesque girl catalogue where I can find those shoes. They were fab.) and I got to see friends I rarely see. So, all in all, a good evening.

In conclusion I know that seven cocktails in three hours is too many but, in my defense, the clown made me do it.

PS The world's most perfect hangover cure is tomato & basil bisque, eight glasses of water, a cup of English Breakfast tea and a slice of quiche. I shit you not. Who knew?

Three (3) Random Things

Did you ever really look forward to something? To the point where you became almost convinced that it couldn’t be as great as you thought it would be? Did you fear disappointment? Did you try not to get your hopes up? Did you tell yourself that you wouldn’t like it half as much as you thought? Did you?

I did.

No fear. “Gone, Baby, Gone” is a winner.

Only one thing makes no sense. There’s a line at the end…

“I feel like 9/11 right now!”

What the hell does that mean? I have no idea but, all in all, the dialogue is good so I’m letting that go . . . .

Seriously, what does that mean? No. I’m letting it go.
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In other news did you know that you could open a vein with a piece of paper? Me neither! Not till today when I had a paper cut so severe that people were standing around and talking about the fact that I might need stitches. I didn’t but, still, that’s pretty jacked up.
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I just reread “Persuasion”. Sigh. That’s all.

I think I’ll read “Mansfield Park” again. I don’t care for the main characters as much as, well, any of Miss Austen’s other characters but I’m going to give it another go. I’m older now. Maybe that will make a difference?

AURGH!!!!!!!

Bill Clinton was at Mary Wash today. He had a town hall meeting from 12:15 - 2:15. I was at work.

This makes me sad.

Feel my pain.

People (Don't Always) Make Me Sad

5 Words . . . .

"Dorothy Mantooth is a saint!"

2 more words . . . .

Like Everest.

That's all.

Writing is a socially acceptable form of schizophrenia. ~E.L. Doctorow

If you are looking for the truth stop here. If you yearn for a tale of justice and good triumphing over evil or a love story of epic proportions then this is not the one for you. This is not a love story. It is not a glorious biography of a plucky young person who rises above all the great tragedies of the world to save a person, family, village or country. No. This is not that story.

Or is it? Any story, after all, is every story. There is nothing new under the sun. The horrible, debilitatingly vile thing that happened to you has happened in the exact same way to countless others. If that thought depresses you just remember that every glorious triumph is also a shared experience. If that depresses you then you’re an asshole.

But let us leave these ruminations for another time . . . .

It was a bright and sunny day. The clouds frolicked across the sky like wee little lambkins. A breeze, reminiscent of thyme and honeysuckle, blew gently over the clipped and manicured lawns. In short, it would seem, God was in his heaven and all was right with the world. Which just goes to show that people who put their faith in foreshadowing are suckers.

Not, you understand, that anything particularly nasty or horrible was about to happen. No. Not a bit. But, as Dorothy Parker pointed out, it’s the messes that kill us. The ordinary every day horrors. The three horsemen of the apocalypse are not, as others would have you believe, War, Famine and Plague. They are Boredom, Apathy and Regret. They come on pale horses to rob us slowly. At least War and Plague (usually) have the decency to kill ya’ quick. But, as I say, it was a fine day which served to show up the little woes of the woman sitting on the grass in sharp relief.

Not that she had much to be woeful about. The good fairies that are genetics had given her quite a few christening gifts. She was bright, moderately talented in various artistic fields and, in the right light or frame of mind, rather attractive in a strange, can’t quite put your finger on it kind of a way. And, if, on occasion, she was left to wonder why she was only moderately talented instead of a flaming genius or why she wasn’t blessed with the stunning good looks of the “Wow, buddy! Got to get me some of that” variety, well, what’s a picnic without a couple of ants?

On this morning the picnic was covered in honey and the ants were the kind that bite. Hard.

Wrong Crowd, Bub.

I, yet again, don't blog enough so here ya' go....

Things, Places or People That Are Mentioned To Me That I Have No Interest In Or Actively Dislike.

1. Stephen King
I do not read Stephen King. No. Seriously. Nothing. That man is not right in the head. If he moved into my neighborhood I’d move. I may never go to Maine because of him. I’m just sayin’.

2. Those Friggin’ Hobbit Movies
I enjoy the books. I’ll have to be content with that because those movies are boring as ass. If you’d like to know how I feel about them in detail rent “Clerks II”. Randal takes the words right out of my mouth.

3. Lost
I don’t get it. Sorry. Maybe I’m defective. I don’t know. I’m willing to consider that it’s the best show ever and I just don’t get it. Who knows?

4. Star Wars
Yes, I’ve seen them all. Yes, I enjoy the first three. Other than that? Who cares? I am, however, interested in laughing at the freaks who sleep out for tickets and dress up. They make me giggle.

5. Football
I don’t know who won the Super Bowl. I don’t care who won the Super Bowl. I will never care about the Super Bowl. Ever. You want to talk to me about baseball? OK. Hockey? Less interested but still there. Football? I think Berke Breathed (Bloom County) sums it up best, “if mad at pig eat pig!”

That’s all for now.