Trickle Down Economics
Enough about you, here's a little more about me:
Kristin Dunning is, or aspires to be, the Well Read Hostess. The WRH lives, geographically speaking, outside of Philadelphia. In her imagination, however, she breathes the rarified air of a place where she can spend her days reading and throwing fantastic parties. She does not particularly care for the word "Blog" and is considering offering a reward for the clever soul who comes up with a happy substitute. She is writing this "not-a-blog" because her brother basically double-dog dared her to.
Did somebody say bowling and tater tots?!
Oohhh! Shiny Things!
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Well Read Hostess
Saturday Snow
It's better with the sound off. I'm sure there's actually a way to record it without sound, but I was too busy not figuring out how to record it without sound.
Friday Fail
Things That Are Just Not Right
Do you know that Ryan Seacrest makes $45 million dollars to host American Idol? To stand there under the weight of his own hair product, holding a microphone, and asking insipid questions to desperate egomaniacs in sparkly attire? $45 million?
John Boehner's tan, to say nothing of the fact that you and I both know that how he says it is NOT the real way to pronounce his name, is just wrong wrong wrong. Dude is from Ohio! Get out of the tanning bed, or worse, stop flying to South Carolina every weekend to golf, and get your bronzed self back to work. If, as you say, Democrats are running the country into the ground, should you not be concentrating less on turning into an Oompa Loompa and more on, say, governing?
Yesterday, a colleague told me about a student who, when assigned a research project on evolution and creationism, opened up a computer and googled "God." Laugh or cry? Tough call.
Among the many misspellings of my name and the repeated expressions of interest in this Lauren Remington Platt socialite person I mentioned once about a year and a half ago, the following are google searches that landed people at Well Read Hostess:
boobs unbuttoned I don't even know what this means
wellreadhostess flowers yeah? where are they?
chuck me in the shallow water...bwah hahahhahaha
"high heels" messehostessen oy
dont you wish ur gf was hot like me probably also googles "god" hoping for edification
"have laryngitis" sick + "bad cold"
air hostess navel
apologize to hostess she likes gifts, too
blowing wind nice, very nice
come back for spank you very much I hope my mom isn't reading this
diabetic air hostess
diaper chick
earlobes different from each other
exuberance or lack of discipline I'm pretty sure this one was from a former elementary school teacher
haha youyou I dont like your girlfriend
how to unbutton pants with your teeth
i am lemonade
static cling skirt teacher (!)
trickle piss am i pregnant
what does the little chinese guy say
And speaking of the Googles, Google's new search suggestion thing is starting to freak me out. I think it's run by a whole herd of seventh grade boys. I started to type in "What are..." just to see what would pop up.
Besides, swine flu is so November, 2009.
As far as problems go this week, the weather is the most frustrating.
Lots of people look at this weather forecast and go, "Yippee!! Big fun snow for the weekend! It won't even interfere with work and kids' school!" Well. Bite me. This is akin to the punishment Tantalus was dealt in Hades if you are a teacher. Snow - lots of it - and dangerous road conditions beginning AFTER the school day on Friday and expected to clear by Monday. Grrrrrr....
Maybe next week I'll come back less grumpy.
But don't bet the farm on it, just in cases.*
*Name that movie reference. I'll make you cookies.
Do you know that Ryan Seacrest makes $45 million dollars to host American Idol? To stand there under the weight of his own hair product, holding a microphone, and asking insipid questions to desperate egomaniacs in sparkly attire? $45 million?
John Boehner's tan, to say nothing of the fact that you and I both know that how he says it is NOT the real way to pronounce his name, is just wrong wrong wrong. Dude is from Ohio! Get out of the tanning bed, or worse, stop flying to South Carolina every weekend to golf, and get your bronzed self back to work. If, as you say, Democrats are running the country into the ground, should you not be concentrating less on turning into an Oompa Loompa and more on, say, governing?
Yesterday, a colleague told me about a student who, when assigned a research project on evolution and creationism, opened up a computer and googled "God." Laugh or cry? Tough call.
Among the many misspellings of my name and the repeated expressions of interest in this Lauren Remington Platt socialite person I mentioned once about a year and a half ago, the following are google searches that landed people at Well Read Hostess:
boobs unbuttoned I don't even know what this means
wellreadhostess flowers yeah? where are they?
chuck me in the shallow water...bwah hahahhahaha
"high heels" messehostessen oy
dont you wish ur gf was hot like me probably also googles "god" hoping for edification
"have laryngitis" sick + "bad cold"
air hostess navel
apologize to hostess she likes gifts, too
blowing wind nice, very nice
come back for spank you very much I hope my mom isn't reading this
diabetic air hostess
diaper chick
earlobes different from each other
exuberance or lack of discipline I'm pretty sure this one was from a former elementary school teacher
haha youyou I dont like your girlfriend
how to unbutton pants with your teeth
i am lemonade
static cling skirt teacher (!)
trickle piss am i pregnant
what does the little chinese guy say
And speaking of the Googles, Google's new search suggestion thing is starting to freak me out. I think it's run by a whole herd of seventh grade boys. I started to type in "What are..." just to see what would pop up.
Besides, swine flu is so November, 2009.
As far as problems go this week, the weather is the most frustrating.
Lots of people look at this weather forecast and go, "Yippee!! Big fun snow for the weekend! It won't even interfere with work and kids' school!" Well. Bite me. This is akin to the punishment Tantalus was dealt in Hades if you are a teacher. Snow - lots of it - and dangerous road conditions beginning AFTER the school day on Friday and expected to clear by Monday. Grrrrrr....
Maybe next week I'll come back less grumpy.
But don't bet the farm on it, just in cases.*
*Name that movie reference. I'll make you cookies.
All the News That's Fit to Line the Litter Box
I've been really busy these days, and my routine is all off. This off-ness results in a great many consequences such as not showering and trying to convince my children that cereal is too dinner even if they've had it three nights in a row, one of which is that I haven't been reading the news with any kind of regularity.
Imagine, then, my dismay upon discovering all of the following from various news outlets yesterday and the day before:
Rahm Emanuel, the hottest man to ever grace the office of White House Chief of Staff, called plans by liberal groups to run ads against some not-towing-the-liberal-agenda Democrats "F*&^ing retarded." Sarah Palin freaked out and called for Emanuel's ouster (I've got an ouster for you Rahm, baby) because she was offended on her son's behalf. Oh, I'm sorry, maybe not her son, but someone who came out of her vagina who is "one of god's children," she says. Does that mean he is her son? Or is he god's son? Or is she saying that gave birth to god's son? Like she's Mary??!!! I'm so confused. This woman makes no sense. You know why? Because she's F$%^ing retarded.
OK. It is not polite or respectful or sensitive to use a phrase like the one Emanuel used - or I, also, just used, and I'm feeling great shame, so save your hate mail. It's rhetoric. I'm trying to make a point here. Keep up - to describe the moronic plan proposed regarding ads attacking moderate Democrats. Or to describe anyone else. But are Americans so, fu...., um, er...ret..., ah...stupid that they are going to fall for Palin's sensitivity act? She who shoots wolves from airplanes? She who manipulates and threatens the clearly developmentally delayed boyfriend and now father of her daughter's child? She who, as reported by the Houston Chronicle, is currently campaigning on behalf of Rick Perry whose chief consultant (you know, sort of like Chief of Staff but with actual responsibilities) once said, "...speculation that recent decisions by Perry, including his mandate that middle-school girls be inoculated against a sexually transmitted virus linked to cervical cancer, are designed to raise the governor's profile nationally is' one of the most retarded things about the political observers in Texas.'" You know. Her??
Next up: Obama, for the second time, has used Las Vegas as an example of how people waste money. Obama said, "When times are tough, you tighten your belts. You don't go buying a boat when you can barely pay your mortgage. You don't blow a bunch of cash in Vegas when you're trying to save for college..." This prompted a stream of incoherent and ret....stupid vitriol from the mayor of Las Vegas, including this gem: “An apology won’t be acceptable this time,” Goodman said. "I don’t know where his vendetta comes from. We’re not going to let him make his bones lambasting Las Vegas.” The "this time" is a reference to an earlier "gaffe" when Obama suggested that failing corporations who received government bailout money should stop spending money hosting retreats in Las Vegas for employees. I know. OUTRAGEOUS.
Las Vegas, newsflash, your city has a reputation for being the place where people go to behave irresponsibly, hence your own advertising tagline, "What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas." You have legalized prostitution and you can gamble money away in gas stations, let alone the massive casinos designed for exactly that purpose. Just like Philadelphia has to deal with the fact that it has a (deserved and earned) reputation as a city that will not hesitate to throw an iceball with a battery hidden in it at your head if you make a bad call at an Eagles game, most people expect to be carjacked in Detroit, and a good many of us believe that most of the population of Utah has a stash of underaged wives in the basement, Las Vegas should be pretty well used to the fact that it's the Sin Capital of the country and if you go there, you will be wasting money. Mayor Whateverhisnameis tried to go on and on about all the wonderful things Las Vegas is other than the place where peopleincluding yours truly get drunk and throw money away Right. Google "museums in Las Vegas" and you get directions to the Liberace Museum, the Pinball Hall of Fame, the Neon Museum, and The Elvis-o-Rama Museum. Highbrow. Sophisticated. Puhleeze. Have you seen The Hangover? I'm pretty sure it's a documentary.
A woman in Wisconsin tied up a cheating boyfriend and glued his penis to his stomach. She had help from three other women. They aren't going to jail for this. I love the New York Post. Seriously. Love. It.
Finally, major news outlets are hammering away at these new reports and studies about how women are outearning men and generally feeling happier and more productive and yadda yadda. I'd go off full tilt boogie here, but Samantha Bee of the Daily Show took care of it for me.
Imagine, then, my dismay upon discovering all of the following from various news outlets yesterday and the day before:
Rahm Emanuel, the hottest man to ever grace the office of White House Chief of Staff, called plans by liberal groups to run ads against some not-towing-the-liberal-agenda Democrats "F*&^ing retarded." Sarah Palin freaked out and called for Emanuel's ouster (I've got an ouster for you Rahm, baby) because she was offended on her son's behalf. Oh, I'm sorry, maybe not her son, but someone who came out of her vagina who is "one of god's children," she says. Does that mean he is her son? Or is he god's son? Or is she saying that gave birth to god's son? Like she's Mary??!!! I'm so confused. This woman makes no sense. You know why? Because she's F$%^ing retarded.
OK. It is not polite or respectful or sensitive to use a phrase like the one Emanuel used - or I, also, just used, and I'm feeling great shame, so save your hate mail. It's rhetoric. I'm trying to make a point here. Keep up - to describe the moronic plan proposed regarding ads attacking moderate Democrats. Or to describe anyone else. But are Americans so, fu...., um, er...ret..., ah...stupid that they are going to fall for Palin's sensitivity act? She who shoots wolves from airplanes? She who manipulates and threatens the clearly developmentally delayed boyfriend and now father of her daughter's child? She who, as reported by the Houston Chronicle, is currently campaigning on behalf of Rick Perry whose chief consultant (you know, sort of like Chief of Staff but with actual responsibilities) once said, "...speculation that recent decisions by Perry, including his mandate that middle-school girls be inoculated against a sexually transmitted virus linked to cervical cancer, are designed to raise the governor's profile nationally is' one of the most retarded things about the political observers in Texas.'" You know. Her??
Next up: Obama, for the second time, has used Las Vegas as an example of how people waste money. Obama said, "When times are tough, you tighten your belts. You don't go buying a boat when you can barely pay your mortgage. You don't blow a bunch of cash in Vegas when you're trying to save for college..." This prompted a stream of incoherent and ret....stupid vitriol from the mayor of Las Vegas, including this gem: “An apology won’t be acceptable this time,” Goodman said. "I don’t know where his vendetta comes from. We’re not going to let him make his bones lambasting Las Vegas.” The "this time" is a reference to an earlier "gaffe" when Obama suggested that failing corporations who received government bailout money should stop spending money hosting retreats in Las Vegas for employees. I know. OUTRAGEOUS.
Las Vegas, newsflash, your city has a reputation for being the place where people go to behave irresponsibly, hence your own advertising tagline, "What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas." You have legalized prostitution and you can gamble money away in gas stations, let alone the massive casinos designed for exactly that purpose. Just like Philadelphia has to deal with the fact that it has a (deserved and earned) reputation as a city that will not hesitate to throw an iceball with a battery hidden in it at your head if you make a bad call at an Eagles game, most people expect to be carjacked in Detroit, and a good many of us believe that most of the population of Utah has a stash of underaged wives in the basement, Las Vegas should be pretty well used to the fact that it's the Sin Capital of the country and if you go there, you will be wasting money. Mayor Whateverhisnameis tried to go on and on about all the wonderful things Las Vegas is other than the place where people
A woman in Wisconsin tied up a cheating boyfriend and glued his penis to his stomach. She had help from three other women. They aren't going to jail for this. I love the New York Post. Seriously. Love. It.
Finally, major news outlets are hammering away at these new reports and studies about how women are outearning men and generally feeling happier and more productive and yadda yadda. I'd go off full tilt boogie here, but Samantha Bee of the Daily Show took care of it for me.
| The Daily Show With Jon Stewart | Mon - Thurs 11p / 10c | |||
| Male Inequality | ||||
| ||||
1) you'd better have done your homework and 2) If I show up at school tomorrow and there are swedish fish on my desk you are all in trouble. Your job is to pretend this doesn't exist. You dig?
I've got issues. Bear with me.
1) I was outed at the Institution (read: home for the dangerously youthful - yeah, I'm talking about you) where I work. It was an accidental outing, but an outing nonetheless. Students, MY students, have learned about the not-a-blog phenomenon known as Well Read Hostess. Seriously. That's enough. Go to bed. Come back when you are 18. So. Yeah. This is sort of a problem. Or could be. I like my lives like I like my peanut butter and jelly. Separate. Teaching life. Personal Life. Writing Life. That's three lives. Not 1/3 + 1/3 + 1/3 of ONE life. Also. I hate math.
2) I've been getting all kinds of flattering pats on the back and "Hey! Nifty's" from friends and strangers regarding La Princessa's birthday tea party. Some of these sweet words have been issued publicly, right here where we stand, virtually speaking. Others have come my way via the ancient and mysterious device we call the telephone, and mostly I've been getting a whole lot of emails. Let me just say the following: The only comment I found alarming was the one from my lovely friend who is the kind of writer I one day dream of becoming, the gist of which was that I might be setting the birthday party bar a little high. This strikes terror into my heart. It is so important to me to preach the gospel of Keeping It Real for the sake of our individual and collective sanities. I rant and rave about the way that women try to make it seem like the lives they lead are effortless and beautiful and peaceful and everyone eats all their vegetables at dinner so that those of us whose kids have never even seen a vegetable in the wild feel like crap about ourselves.
Please don't think that a tea party like that comes off easily and smoothly. I wasn't going to go here, but just so you know that it is never all wine and roses anywhere, no matter what it looks like, I'm going. I spent the day of that party in a hospital bed hooked up to IV fluids and narcotics to help me deal with the most unholy of migraine headaches. Probably brought on by the stress of party prep. So. Do I go to ridiculous lengths for my kids' birthdays? Yes. Is it always for them? No. Is it mostly for me? Yes. Is it worth missing the birthday party altogether so that my husband had to host 13 screaming 6 year old girls on his own (with massive help from the neighborsaintwoman)? NO. It's not. So. Great party. Looked beautiful. Fun to plan and put together. Kid loved it. But ladies. The bar is still not too high. I promise.
3) My dog is trying to kill me. Or I am trying to kill my dog. Or my dog is trying to make me kill her. Or something. Yesterday, after I got her home after chasing her down for an hour in the woods because she'd found the entire LEG of some formerly alive creature and wouldn't give it up or come near enough to me so that I could grab her, I was feeling very smugand also weeping and apologizing for yelling at my children in a very misguided episode of transference and got her home and dragged her sorry, deer carcass smelling self into the house and told her I didn't want to even LOOK at her for an hour. Which, you know, was effective. Because even though I sometimes think I speak Dog, my dog most assuredly does not speak CrazyAss Yelling Lady.
After awhile, I hear my childrenwho have decided that it's now safe to speak aloud in the house and that mommy isn't going to go all psycho about wire hangers anytime soon whispering. Whispering children = potential flooding in some part of the house or maybe even a small fire, so I went to investigate.
No flood. No fire.
Down comforter shredded and entire living room and formerly black now white and fluffy dog covered in feathers.
But no flood or fire.
Like this, except times a kabillion
4) Yesterday, a certain Mother of Brothers wrote about the Krave, defined as "Kraving(Krey-ving) – noun – a great or eager desire for food that society deems suitable only for children ages 12 and under. Due to potential ridicule, kravings are often satisfied in private. Related forms: to krave (verb)."
Here's what I regularly krave: cheerios and a lotta lotta sugar and whole milk, macaroni and cheese - Kraft only, and regular kind, no weird Pokemon or Barbie shapes, grape popsicles, swedish fish, those Keebler chocolate and graham cracker cookies, McDonald's cheeseburgers, and purple slurpees. The other thing I crave, notice lack of "K" because this isn't a kid Kraving, is this sandwich that only five people I have ever known will even consider eating: my grandmother, my mother, my father, my brother, and me. Describing this sandwich makes my husband gag and leave the room. But I'm telling you what, after the past few days, I'm ready to make a stack of these babies, load up on the swedish fish, find my entire collection of Janet EvanovichRanger the Hot Bounty Hunter Stephanie Plum mysteries, and take to my bed.
The sandwich:
toasted white bread
mayonnaise (has to be Hellmans - that's Best Foods to you California people)
cheddar cheese
lettuce
ready? ready?
peanut butter.
SO. Good.
Another note: If there is so much as one peanut butter, cheese, lettuce, and mayo sandwich on my desk tomorrow, nobody leaves class until you've all taken a bite. I kid you not.
1) I was outed at the Institution (read: home for the dangerously youthful - yeah, I'm talking about you) where I work. It was an accidental outing, but an outing nonetheless. Students, MY students, have learned about the not-a-blog phenomenon known as Well Read Hostess. Seriously. That's enough. Go to bed. Come back when you are 18. So. Yeah. This is sort of a problem. Or could be. I like my lives like I like my peanut butter and jelly. Separate. Teaching life. Personal Life. Writing Life. That's three lives. Not 1/3 + 1/3 + 1/3 of ONE life. Also. I hate math.
2) I've been getting all kinds of flattering pats on the back and "Hey! Nifty's" from friends and strangers regarding La Princessa's birthday tea party. Some of these sweet words have been issued publicly, right here where we stand, virtually speaking. Others have come my way via the ancient and mysterious device we call the telephone, and mostly I've been getting a whole lot of emails. Let me just say the following: The only comment I found alarming was the one from my lovely friend who is the kind of writer I one day dream of becoming, the gist of which was that I might be setting the birthday party bar a little high. This strikes terror into my heart. It is so important to me to preach the gospel of Keeping It Real for the sake of our individual and collective sanities. I rant and rave about the way that women try to make it seem like the lives they lead are effortless and beautiful and peaceful and everyone eats all their vegetables at dinner so that those of us whose kids have never even seen a vegetable in the wild feel like crap about ourselves.
Please don't think that a tea party like that comes off easily and smoothly. I wasn't going to go here, but just so you know that it is never all wine and roses anywhere, no matter what it looks like, I'm going. I spent the day of that party in a hospital bed hooked up to IV fluids and narcotics to help me deal with the most unholy of migraine headaches. Probably brought on by the stress of party prep. So. Do I go to ridiculous lengths for my kids' birthdays? Yes. Is it always for them? No. Is it mostly for me? Yes. Is it worth missing the birthday party altogether so that my husband had to host 13 screaming 6 year old girls on his own (with massive help from the neighborsaintwoman)? NO. It's not. So. Great party. Looked beautiful. Fun to plan and put together. Kid loved it. But ladies. The bar is still not too high. I promise.
3) My dog is trying to kill me. Or I am trying to kill my dog. Or my dog is trying to make me kill her. Or something. Yesterday, after I got her home after chasing her down for an hour in the woods because she'd found the entire LEG of some formerly alive creature and wouldn't give it up or come near enough to me so that I could grab her, I was feeling very smug
After awhile, I hear my children
No flood. No fire.
Down comforter shredded and entire living room and formerly black now white and fluffy dog covered in feathers.
But no flood or fire.
4) Yesterday, a certain Mother of Brothers wrote about the Krave, defined as "Kraving(Krey-ving) – noun – a great or eager desire for food that society deems suitable only for children ages 12 and under. Due to potential ridicule, kravings are often satisfied in private. Related forms: to krave (verb)."
Here's what I regularly krave: cheerios and a lotta lotta sugar and whole milk, macaroni and cheese - Kraft only, and regular kind, no weird Pokemon or Barbie shapes, grape popsicles, swedish fish, those Keebler chocolate and graham cracker cookies, McDonald's cheeseburgers, and purple slurpees. The other thing I crave, notice lack of "K" because this isn't a kid Kraving, is this sandwich that only five people I have ever known will even consider eating: my grandmother, my mother, my father, my brother, and me. Describing this sandwich makes my husband gag and leave the room. But I'm telling you what, after the past few days, I'm ready to make a stack of these babies, load up on the swedish fish, find my entire collection of Janet Evanovich
The sandwich:
toasted white bread
mayonnaise (has to be Hellmans - that's Best Foods to you California people)
cheddar cheese
lettuce
ready? ready?
peanut butter.
SO. Good.
Another note: If there is so much as one peanut butter, cheese, lettuce, and mayo sandwich on my desk tomorrow, nobody leaves class until you've all taken a bite. I kid you not.
Mad as a Hatter
My friends and family are by now used to the ridiculous lengths to which I will go to ensure that my daughter, my second born, has special birthday parties. This obsession tradition began when she was one, and I threw her an "It's all about me" party. The child has the double-edged sword of brothers - older and mild and beautiful and inquisitive - he's wonderful things to everybody, including her, but this often meant that when she, as an infant, sat in her baby carrier from which we rarely ever removed her because she'd both scream and then, ya know, need to be held she took a decided back seat to him, who was busy being older and mild and beautiful and inquisitive and interactive in a way that infants are not. e.g. potted plants. So. The first birthday party was admittedly over the top, but satisfying in the way that only $250 plus you've spent on shortbread cookies with her image painted on them, t-shirts with her face on them for all guests, and custom CDs as party favors featuring all of the lullabies we sang her when she was first born can be.
I think "we," and by "we" I mean "everybody but me," expected that I'd lower the bar a bit by now.
Not so much.
She's six. She wanted a tea party.
A tea party she got.
The invitations:
And yes, they were all different.
The scene:
The table:
the place settings:
And, of course, the cake:
by guess who...hint: not me.
It was a good party. Next year...I'm thinking an Indian theme - elephants, the Taj Mahal, belly dancers, mehndi, that kind of thing.
"The Hatter opened his eyes very wide on hearing this; but all he said was, "Why is a raven like a writing-desk?"
"Come, we shall have some fun now!" thought Alice. "I'm glad they've begun asking riddles. — I believe I can guess that," she added aloud.
"Do you mean that you think you can find out the answer to it?" said the March Hare.
"Exactly so," said Alice.
"Then you should say what you mean," the March Hare went on.
"I do," Alice hastily replied; "at least--at least I mean what I say--that's the same thing, you know."
"Not the same thing a bit!" said the Hatter. "You might just as well say that 'I see what I eat' is the same thing as 'I eat what I see'!"
"You might just as well say," added the March Hare, "that 'I like what I get' is the same thing as 'I get what I like'!"
This isn't really the time or place, but I can't not do it: TWGH - as always, everybody's hero. Christina - good neighbors yes, but GREAT friends.
I think "we," and by "we" I mean "everybody but me," expected that I'd lower the bar a bit by now.
Not so much.
She's six. She wanted a tea party.
A tea party she got.
The invitations:
And yes, they were all different.
The scene:
The table:
the place settings:
And, of course, the cake:
by guess who...hint: not me.
It was a good party. Next year...I'm thinking an Indian theme - elephants, the Taj Mahal, belly dancers, mehndi, that kind of thing.
"The Hatter opened his eyes very wide on hearing this; but all he said was, "Why is a raven like a writing-desk?"
"Come, we shall have some fun now!" thought Alice. "I'm glad they've begun asking riddles. — I believe I can guess that," she added aloud.
"Do you mean that you think you can find out the answer to it?" said the March Hare.
"Exactly so," said Alice.
"Then you should say what you mean," the March Hare went on.
"I do," Alice hastily replied; "at least--at least I mean what I say--that's the same thing, you know."
"Not the same thing a bit!" said the Hatter. "You might just as well say that 'I see what I eat' is the same thing as 'I eat what I see'!"
"You might just as well say," added the March Hare, "that 'I like what I get' is the same thing as 'I get what I like'!"
This isn't really the time or place, but I can't not do it: TWGH - as always, everybody's hero. Christina - good neighbors yes, but GREAT friends.
The Lady Doth Protest Too Much
**new link added - actual words written by a smart person! who does research! and knows stuff!
John McCain issued a formal response to Obama's reiteration of his plan to repeal Don't Ask Don't Tell.
"In his State of the Union address, President Obama asked Congress to repeal the ‘Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell’ policy. I am immensely proud of, and thankful for, every American who wears the uniform of our country, especially at a time of war, and I believe it would be a mistake to repeal the policy.
This successful policy has been in effect for over 15 years, and it is well understood and predominantly supported by our military at all levels. We have the best trained, best equipped, and most professional force in the history of our country, and the men and women in uniform are performing heroically in two wars. At a time when our armed forces are fighting and sacrificing on the battlefield, now is not the time to abandon the policy."
But apparently, in the haste to get McCain's response published in a timely manner, his people forgot to include the ENTIRE statement, which I, cutting edge bloggy journalista, have managed to acquire from my top secret sourcesotherwise known as the voices in my head.
Here it is, in its entirety:
"In his State of the Union address, President Obama asked Congress torepeal the ‘Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell’ policy. I am immensely proud of, andthankful for, every American who wears the uniform of our country except for the gay ones because they have those gay cooties that glow in the dark and make them easy to spot by the enemy on nightraids,especially at a time of war which, if were President instead of Obama, would be ALL the time, and I believe it would be a mistake torepeal the policy because I am a huge bigot.
This successful policy, and by successful I mean of course in terms of the way that we have both been able to kiss up to the religious "Right" and also send as many young men and women as we can get our hands on - metaphorically speaking - to try to get cheap oil even if they have to die trying has been in effect forover 15 years, and it is well understood and predominantly supported byour military except the ones with even the tiniest shred of intelligence or dignity or life experience at all levels. We have the best trained, best equipped,and most professional force of closeted homosexuals who are forced to deny their very identities so that old, white men like me can be more comfortable watching parades in the history of our country, and the menand women in uniform are performing heroically in two wars. At a timewhen our armed forces are fighting and sacrificing on the battlefield,now is not the time to abandon the policy because , as I believe I have already stated and now illustrated, I am a huge bigot. Thank you, God Bless You, and God Bless the United Straights of America."
Maureen Dowd, who, let's be honest, sometimes makes even the most liberal among us (that would be me, I'm afraid,) go "HUH? Say wha now?" took up this issue today in the NYTimes. Go there. Read it. Don't be lazy. Do it. NOW.
Seriously. What are you waiting for?
John McCain issued a formal response to Obama's reiteration of his plan to repeal Don't Ask Don't Tell.
"In his State of the Union address, President Obama asked Congress to repeal the ‘Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell’ policy. I am immensely proud of, and thankful for, every American who wears the uniform of our country, especially at a time of war, and I believe it would be a mistake to repeal the policy.
This successful policy has been in effect for over 15 years, and it is well understood and predominantly supported by our military at all levels. We have the best trained, best equipped, and most professional force in the history of our country, and the men and women in uniform are performing heroically in two wars. At a time when our armed forces are fighting and sacrificing on the battlefield, now is not the time to abandon the policy."
But apparently, in the haste to get McCain's response published in a timely manner, his people forgot to include the ENTIRE statement, which I, cutting edge bloggy journalista, have managed to acquire from my top secret sources
Here it is, in its entirety:
"In his State of the Union address, President Obama asked Congress torepeal the ‘Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell’ policy. I am immensely proud of, andthankful for, every American who wears the uniform of our country except for the gay ones because they have those gay cooties that glow in the dark and make them easy to spot by the enemy on nightraids,especially at a time of war which, if were President instead of Obama, would be ALL the time, and I believe it would be a mistake torepeal the policy because I am a huge bigot.
This successful policy, and by successful I mean of course in terms of the way that we have both been able to kiss up to the religious "Right" and also send as many young men and women as we can get our hands on - metaphorically speaking - to try to get cheap oil even if they have to die trying has been in effect forover 15 years, and it is well understood and predominantly supported byour military except the ones with even the tiniest shred of intelligence or dignity or life experience at all levels. We have the best trained, best equipped,and most professional force of closeted homosexuals who are forced to deny their very identities so that old, white men like me can be more comfortable watching parades in the history of our country, and the menand women in uniform are performing heroically in two wars. At a timewhen our armed forces are fighting and sacrificing on the battlefield,now is not the time to abandon the policy because , as I believe I have already stated and now illustrated, I am a huge bigot. Thank you, God Bless You, and God Bless the United Straights of America."
Maureen Dowd, who, let's be honest, sometimes makes even the most liberal among us (that would be me, I'm afraid,) go "HUH? Say wha now?" took up this issue today in the NYTimes. Go there. Read it. Don't be lazy. Do it. NOW.
Seriously. What are you waiting for?
The Ice Queen Cometh
Once upon a time, in a magical land far, far away called The Poconos (new family song: "You can't pick your nose in the Po-co-nos"), the royal family decided to go skiing for a day.
The King has always been an excellent skier - technically skilled and beautiful to watch. The Queen, not so much, but she has fun and doesn't fall too often and doesn't get afraid of big drops (but Lord Have Mercy, how she hates the bumps). The Prince and the Princess first learned to ski in an even MORE magical land even farther away called Aspen because they have a fairy godmother who has a condo and lets them come visit. The Prince and Princess proclaim that they love to ski and swear up and down that they will not complain about the copious gear and apparatus with which they must contend when they partake in The Skiing.
And NO, that isn't me on the ground back there!
Still and yet, Princes will be Princes, and sometimes even Princes will be Punks, and those Punks can get down and dirty into some Funks, because apparently I am now channeling Dr. Seuss, but also because they don't like the way their long underwear is hurting them under their ski pants. Punks can get more Punky when they have not been properly fed and watered, also. Alas, when nothing available and presented to His Highness meets his approval, feeding and watering can be a challenge. Sadly, the Palace Chef had taken the weekend off and the Prince's options were limited to "Eat THIS or THIS."
Princesses will, inevitably, be Princesses. The most princessy of all Princesses will elevate Princessiness to new heights when her boots are "SQUANCHING" her delicate feet and her the sleeves of her shirt will not stay DOWN in her jacket but instead insist on riding UP near her elbows and it feels "YUCKY." And then the tears begin, and once Princess tears begin, they can be very hard to stop. If you have can utter any magic incantations just in the nick of time, you might be able to quell the tide of tears, but you will be left with a whiny residue for about an hour and a half.
The King and Queen, having cajoled the Punk and the Princess onto the lift and up the hill, pointed everybody's skis downward, and gave those who needed it a hearty shove. For a full forty minutes, all was joy and laughter in the kingdom.
Until the Princess decided that she was hungry and the Punk decided he had to use the bathroom but he didn't feel like taking off all his clothes so just forget it. Much hilarity ensued, and by "hilarity," of course, I mean "whingeing" and "bitching" and "pouting" and "backtalking."
The King and The Queen were starting to lose theirshit patience. The King managed to convey to the Punk and the Princess the importance of "going with the flow" and "having fun" and "not getting the snot beaten out of them in public by their parents." The Queen was too irritated to say much, although the Court Jester reported later that she was muttering things like, "ungrateful little wretches...they are spoiled rotten and always want more more more and never say please and never say thank you and this is the LAST time I take them anywhere fun...and they'd better change their attitudes double quick or ELSE." That Court Jester never misses a thing. (Note to self: Have Court Jester killed).
The Princess and the Punk were having a very difficult time getting their acts together. Worse yet, the Queen was so aggravated by the behavior of her offspring that she was rapidly becoming toxic. After a few more runs, and a few more tears, and some more whining, and some more muttering, and some more arm waving, and some more stomping about, the King decided to hit the top of the mountain for some solo skiing. The Queen agreed to bring the Princess and the Punk into the lodge for a snack.
The Princess and the Punk attacked their hot chocolate and brownies and the best gd Rice Krispie treats any person, royal or otherwise, has ever had the pleasure of enjoying. The Queen sat back, letting them be princessy and punky, and they weren't bothering anyone, and they weren't hurting each other, and they asked now and again if the queen would help with a sock adjustment or a long underwear fix or a hair re-do, and the Queen, now more relaxed and calm, was happy to help. And the Queen realized something.
Sometimes, the Princess and the Punk are just being who they are, and it's the Queen who has to adjust her attitude and her expectations.
That lady behind me had a stack of junky magazines, a diet coke, and a mess of
cookies. I think she had the right plan.
And they all skied for the rest of the day happily ever after.
The King has always been an excellent skier - technically skilled and beautiful to watch. The Queen, not so much, but she has fun and doesn't fall too often and doesn't get afraid of big drops (but Lord Have Mercy, how she hates the bumps). The Prince and the Princess first learned to ski in an even MORE magical land even farther away called Aspen because they have a fairy godmother who has a condo and lets them come visit. The Prince and Princess proclaim that they love to ski and swear up and down that they will not complain about the copious gear and apparatus with which they must contend when they partake in The Skiing.
And NO, that isn't me on the ground back there!
Still and yet, Princes will be Princes, and sometimes even Princes will be Punks, and those Punks can get down and dirty into some Funks, because apparently I am now channeling Dr. Seuss, but also because they don't like the way their long underwear is hurting them under their ski pants. Punks can get more Punky when they have not been properly fed and watered, also. Alas, when nothing available and presented to His Highness meets his approval, feeding and watering can be a challenge. Sadly, the Palace Chef had taken the weekend off and the Prince's options were limited to "Eat THIS or THIS."
Princesses will, inevitably, be Princesses. The most princessy of all Princesses will elevate Princessiness to new heights when her boots are "SQUANCHING" her delicate feet and her the sleeves of her shirt will not stay DOWN in her jacket but instead insist on riding UP near her elbows and it feels "YUCKY." And then the tears begin, and once Princess tears begin, they can be very hard to stop. If you have can utter any magic incantations just in the nick of time, you might be able to quell the tide of tears, but you will be left with a whiny residue for about an hour and a half.
The King and Queen, having cajoled the Punk and the Princess onto the lift and up the hill, pointed everybody's skis downward, and gave those who needed it a hearty shove. For a full forty minutes, all was joy and laughter in the kingdom.
Until the Princess decided that she was hungry and the Punk decided he had to use the bathroom but he didn't feel like taking off all his clothes so just forget it. Much hilarity ensued, and by "hilarity," of course, I mean "whingeing" and "bitching" and "pouting" and "backtalking."
The King and The Queen were starting to lose their
The Princess and the Punk were having a very difficult time getting their acts together. Worse yet, the Queen was so aggravated by the behavior of her offspring that she was rapidly becoming toxic. After a few more runs, and a few more tears, and some more whining, and some more muttering, and some more arm waving, and some more stomping about, the King decided to hit the top of the mountain for some solo skiing. The Queen agreed to bring the Princess and the Punk into the lodge for a snack.
The Princess and the Punk attacked their hot chocolate and brownies and the best gd Rice Krispie treats any person, royal or otherwise, has ever had the pleasure of enjoying. The Queen sat back, letting them be princessy and punky, and they weren't bothering anyone, and they weren't hurting each other, and they asked now and again if the queen would help with a sock adjustment or a long underwear fix or a hair re-do, and the Queen, now more relaxed and calm, was happy to help. And the Queen realized something.
Sometimes, the Princess and the Punk are just being who they are, and it's the Queen who has to adjust her attitude and her expectations.
That lady behind me had a stack of junky magazines, a diet coke, and a mess of
cookies. I think she had the right plan.
And they all skied for the rest of the day happily ever after.
Things that Go WTF In the Night
Last night my daughter told me that she couldn't sleep because she was "afraid for rattlesnakes." I'm assuming she meant that she was feeling afraid "about" rattlesnakes, as opposed to "for" rattlesnakes, but I didn't belabor the point. For one thing, I didn't think it was entirely appropriate to reassure her that the rattlesnake population in North America is actually thriving and quite resilient.
Today I got an email from the kids' youth soccer league announcing a benefit event to raise money for a Genocide Intervention project. When I forwarded it to TWGH with my standard "?" indicating, "should we/shouldn't we?", he replied that he thought we might take a pass on this one as he wasn't really looking forward to teaching our 6 year old about genocide.
I told him I'm holding out for the genital mutilation lacrosse fundraiser this spring, anyway.
Today I got an email from the kids' youth soccer league announcing a benefit event to raise money for a Genocide Intervention project. When I forwarded it to TWGH with my standard "?" indicating, "should we/shouldn't we?", he replied that he thought we might take a pass on this one as he wasn't really looking forward to teaching our 6 year old about genocide.
I told him I'm holding out for the genital mutilation lacrosse fundraiser this spring, anyway.
I'll Bet John Roberts Has Dick Cheney Hiding Under His Robes
In other news today...
The FDA has issued new recommendations for children's breakfast. On the menu? Fruit Loops, Mountain Dew, and crack cocaine.
Also, the EPA has set forth a new legislative agenda intended to require that American Corporations up their dioxin output and that American citizens cease all toilet/sewer use and begin pooping on the sidewalks in front of their houses.
The ATF will begin its new program of distributing handguns to preteens tomorrow afternoon.
Seriously. What. The. You know.
I just got this nifty little update from the NYTimes:
"Breaking News Alert
The New York Times
Thu, January 21, 2010 -- 10:11 AM ET
-----
Supreme Court Rejects Campaign Spending Limits
The Supreme Court has ruled that corporations may spend
freely to support or oppose candidates for president and
Congress, easing decades-old limits on their participation in
federal campaigns.
The court on Thursday overturned a 20-year-old ruling that
said corporations can be prohibited from using money from
their general treasuries to pay for campaign ads. The
decision almost certainly will also allow labor unions to
participate more freely in campaigns and threatens similar
limits imposed by 24 states.
The justices also struck down part of the landmark
McCain-Feingold campaign finance bill that barred union-
and corporate-paid issue ads in the closing days of election
campaigns." *
And this is because...what? We think that there isn't ENOUGH corporate and soft money influence on campaigns and that American politicians aren't likely to sell out to the highest bidder?
I'm moving to New Zealand. It's embarrassing to be an American sometimes.
*link to Wikipedia mine, not theirs. They actually do legitimate research.
Keeping Up With the Joneses...if the Joneses have an inordinate amount of time to spend on reading for pleasure
In addition to The Progress Paradox: How Life Gets Better While People Feel Worse
by Gregg Easterbrook, the latest Virtually Well Read selection, which I'm reading (and by "reading" I mean "regarding with every intention of reading as it lies, provocatively, on my bedside table"), my list of Desirable and Yummy Books grows and grows.
Today I heard an interview with Tad Friend on "Radio Times," a locally produced NPR talk show, which is wonderful except for the call-in feature because 9 times out 10 the buffoon who calls in is awkward or ill-informed to the point that I contemplate driving off the road and smashing my car purposefully into a telephone pole so I no longer have to listen to it. What am I talking about? Tad Friend wrote Cheerful Money: Me, My Family, and the Last Days of Wasp Splendor
. I grew up in the same town as Tad Friend, although our experiences - familial, social and educational - were miles apart. I've been hearing about this book for awhile, and I've even read a few reviews. I'd decided that it was kind of smug and self-serving and a little too self-aggrandizing, but after hearing the interview, I've changed my mind. Now I want to read it. It's uncomfortable for me to even think about the topic of this book because it seems weird to be referring to oneself as a LABEL: WASP. White Anglo Saxon Protestant. However, if the shoe fits. And a great deal of what I heard him describe about his own family could just have well been about my own, I'm looking at you, too, in-laws.
Here on Earth
, by Alice Hoffman. I'm not sure where I just heard about this, although I'm damn sure it wasn't Oprah. I've read Alice Hoffman before. She's a sort of modern, chick-lit Gabriel Garcia Marquez. Of course, in going to get the link for the book, I just now discover that it's an Oprah book club selection. Of course. About Here on Earth, Library Journal writes, "As this novel opens, March Murray Cooper returns to her hometown, ostensibly to bury the woman who raised her but needing to resolve the unfinished business of her youthful love for Hollis, from whom she has been separated for years...Hoffman...takes great care here to examine the many facets of love and relationships, turning them like a prism to reflect on March and Hollis. Hoffman's evocative language and her lyrical descriptions of place contrast sharply with the emotional scars that her characters must uncover and bear. Her novel is a haunting tale of a woman lost in and to love; it will enthrall the reader from beginning to end." I'm curious about what "lost in and to love" looks like.
I just bought Food Rules: An Eater's Manual
by Michael Pollan. It took about half an hour to read, and I'm now a proud Vegan who will only eat organic plant matter that has fallen naturally to earth rather than being viciously torn from its motherplant or motherearth by tainted human hands. Except for cheese. I really like cheese. And really good steaks. I like them, too. Also, I'm a huge fan of fresh baguettes with European butter. Sometimes, too, a fried egg sandwich really hits the spot. And what's a fried egg sandwich without bacon? I'm not a very good Vegan. Pollan writes 60 rules for healthy and sustainable eating. They are stated in plain terms, no science speak or jargon, they are straightforward, and they are thought provoking. The 60 rules can be categorized under one of three governing rules: Eat food. Not too much. Mostly plants. I'm trying. Although I'm putting a lot of emphasis on "mostly."
My English Teacher Nerd Page a Day Calendar yesterday alerted me to a book by Russell Banks that I've never seen before called The Reserve
and describes it thusly: "Set in a playground of the rich in the Adirondacks during the 1930's, The Reserve is a big, ripping, cinematic melodrama. A sultry (people, places, things defined as sultry = inherently wonderful) divorcee and a left-leaning, Hemingwayesque artist (my kind of dude) light up the big screen in the reader's mind with a torrid (!!) saga of romance, scandal, and homicide." Yes, please!
The Privileges
by Jonathan Dee was reviewed in last Sunday's New York Times. You can read the review for yourself. But it sounds like a deeply satisfying mid-winter weekend read. A little schadenfreude to keep you warm, perhaps?
Nude Reading At Studio Fire by Bernard Hall*
*Notice, it doesn't say, Kristin Reading at Studio Fire. Although I like that rug.
Notice also copyright thing there. Oops.
by Gregg Easterbrook, the latest Virtually Well Read selection, which I'm reading (and by "reading" I mean "regarding with every intention of reading as it lies, provocatively, on my bedside table"), my list of Desirable and Yummy Books grows and grows.Today I heard an interview with Tad Friend on "Radio Times," a locally produced NPR talk show, which is wonderful except for the call-in feature because 9 times out 10 the buffoon who calls in is awkward or ill-informed to the point that I contemplate driving off the road and smashing my car purposefully into a telephone pole so I no longer have to listen to it. What am I talking about? Tad Friend wrote Cheerful Money: Me, My Family, and the Last Days of Wasp Splendor
. I grew up in the same town as Tad Friend, although our experiences - familial, social and educational - were miles apart. I've been hearing about this book for awhile, and I've even read a few reviews. I'd decided that it was kind of smug and self-serving and a little too self-aggrandizing, but after hearing the interview, I've changed my mind. Now I want to read it. It's uncomfortable for me to even think about the topic of this book because it seems weird to be referring to oneself as a LABEL: WASP. White Anglo Saxon Protestant. However, if the shoe fits. And a great deal of what I heard him describe about his own family could just have well been about my own, I'm looking at you, too, in-laws. Here on Earth
, by Alice Hoffman. I'm not sure where I just heard about this, although I'm damn sure it wasn't Oprah. I've read Alice Hoffman before. She's a sort of modern, chick-lit Gabriel Garcia Marquez. Of course, in going to get the link for the book, I just now discover that it's an Oprah book club selection. Of course. About Here on Earth, Library Journal writes, "As this novel opens, March Murray Cooper returns to her hometown, ostensibly to bury the woman who raised her but needing to resolve the unfinished business of her youthful love for Hollis, from whom she has been separated for years...Hoffman...takes great care here to examine the many facets of love and relationships, turning them like a prism to reflect on March and Hollis. Hoffman's evocative language and her lyrical descriptions of place contrast sharply with the emotional scars that her characters must uncover and bear. Her novel is a haunting tale of a woman lost in and to love; it will enthrall the reader from beginning to end." I'm curious about what "lost in and to love" looks like. I just bought Food Rules: An Eater's Manual
by Michael Pollan. It took about half an hour to read, and I'm now a proud Vegan who will only eat organic plant matter that has fallen naturally to earth rather than being viciously torn from its motherplant or motherearth by tainted human hands. Except for cheese. I really like cheese. And really good steaks. I like them, too. Also, I'm a huge fan of fresh baguettes with European butter. Sometimes, too, a fried egg sandwich really hits the spot. And what's a fried egg sandwich without bacon? I'm not a very good Vegan. Pollan writes 60 rules for healthy and sustainable eating. They are stated in plain terms, no science speak or jargon, they are straightforward, and they are thought provoking. The 60 rules can be categorized under one of three governing rules: Eat food. Not too much. Mostly plants. I'm trying. Although I'm putting a lot of emphasis on "mostly."My English Teacher Nerd Page a Day Calendar yesterday alerted me to a book by Russell Banks that I've never seen before called The Reserve
and describes it thusly: "Set in a playground of the rich in the Adirondacks during the 1930's, The Reserve is a big, ripping, cinematic melodrama. A sultry (people, places, things defined as sultry = inherently wonderful) divorcee and a left-leaning, Hemingwayesque artist (my kind of dude) light up the big screen in the reader's mind with a torrid (!!) saga of romance, scandal, and homicide." Yes, please!The Privileges
by Jonathan Dee was reviewed in last Sunday's New York Times. You can read the review for yourself. But it sounds like a deeply satisfying mid-winter weekend read. A little schadenfreude to keep you warm, perhaps?Nude Reading At Studio Fire by Bernard Hall*
*Notice, it doesn't say, Kristin Reading at Studio Fire. Although I like that rug.
Notice also copyright thing there. Oops.