First Thing

Every morning without fail the desperate urge to pee wakes me.  Yeah, I know.  Not such an appetizing thought but that's what happens when you get old, have given birth to three ginormous babies (and one medium sized one), and have been denied access to your required bladder medication.  But ranting about the suckage of medical care for the poor is for another post.

Today I also had this ever so pressing question on what's left of my mind:  Did Jada Pinkett ever divorce what's his name?

And, yes. I think of her by her maiden name.  That antiquated, patriarchal means of referring to a woman's birth surname. (Another rant for another post I suppose.  No, I promise.)  And, yes, I truly couldn't immediately recalled her spouse's name.  It occurred to me later, but that doesn't really matter.

Being the 21st century girl I pretend to be I immediately looked it up in the ever so trusty Wikipedia.  HHHhhhhaaaaa.  The closest we have to accurate information in a pinch.  No.  The couple have not divorced.  But I found this horrifying photo:

From an attractive but probably over exercised and underweight lady Ms. Pinkett has become a scary looking visage.  I figure it is a result from plastic surgery gone dreadfully awry.  But even that isn't what caused me to read the attached article.

Rather it was a lambasting by Ms. Pinkett of the media for attacking her daughter's "buzz cut" hairdo.  Hurrah!  For the mom defending her child's decision, but she went further to (dare I say?) rant about how a woman's beauty is not related to outer appearance and that judging one by features is just plain wrong.

Then what is going on with her artificially sculpted face?!  If it came about another way then I will happily shut up.  But at the very least isn't Willow's mommy setting a mixed message?  Or maybe it's not the same to alter hair as opposed to bone structures?  I don't get it and I'm glad it's not my problem.

But I still had to pee.  Now there's a problem I'd like to trade for a new jaw line.  Does that makes sense?

Thanks Google Again

Happy birthday, Ada.

Now there's a mathematician worth emulating.

Screw her crazy family.

Oh, and best wishes to all sharing a December birth.

Still can't wait for this wretched month to be over.

Find The Academic

Subterranean Radio

Thursdays, 10pm to 1am

WRLR 98.3 FM

The best independent music the top 40's ignore

Local radio at the top of it's holiday game

Little Bitty Goody Goody

Yes, this was a cartoon from my childhood and consequently explains much.

The little goodies:

Simmering pot of oranges and cloves

Gold metallic rick rack

Completely unexpected floral arrangement from an amazingly thoughtful human

Stained glass

Very large rippled philodendron half price

Four new composition notebooks in four different colors
Palm cookies

Two more library books

Lee Krasner

Ice cubes

My black sweater

Voices from people I love

Fashion Nincompoop

Along with everything else, I envision myself as one of the great undiscovered fashion stylists of our time.  Being the relic that I am, and the self-proclaimed arbiter of good taste, and that I have frequently been labelled "all talk and no action" I can pretty much say whatever I want.  Slowly but surely I am closing my ears when that nagging childhood voice leaps in criticising every choice I make.

Gaining self confidence is tricky when most of one's developmental stages have already been achieved.  Still, it is a battle I choose to fight.  And I can hear the snide chuckling in the background.  Hopefully there will be enough "big words" in this post so that those saboteurs will be completely confused.  Anyway, I like to tell myself that I am gaining ground.  At least I know my choices are mine.

As a young lady I kind of missed out on fashion.  I was (and am to this day) the quintessential Fat Girl.  I cannot remember buying clothes off the rack; I sped past the available sizes in area department stores quite rapidly.   Luckily for me, Mommy Dearest was an accomplished seamstress and so I did have something of a wardrobe.

Skirts were required at church, of course, and at school too for most of my adolescence.  The dress code was relaxed for my final two years of high school.  These years were the transition from hosiery to panty hose.  Both were nightmares for fat girls.  Hosiery required girdles and garters and twisting stockings over bulging knees.  Panty hose could be sliced in two: one side of one pair yanked up on the right.  The other side from the other pair yanked up on the left.  A tight squeeze  but at least the crotch landed in the right place.  When a run or snag appeared, the damaged leg, so to speak, could be changed out for a leg from one of the remaining cut up pairs.

Runs were the death knell for stockings and panty hose.  Clear nail polish or hair spray could sometimes halt the progression of the run.  Or the ruined leg could be twisted even further so the (runned? ran?) area with the run was positioned on the inside of one's leg and would be further camouflaged by taking very small steps.  In any case a good girl, a nice girl, a stylish girl did NOT let herself be caught with runs in her stockings.  Which is why I've been so surprised to see photos like this:

This one is from the Sartorialist but Zana Bayne favors this look also.  And, I amaze myself sometimes, I don't hate it.  It makes me wish I could do my teens and twenties over again.  Im-poss-ee-blay!  I know.  I also can't help but wonder (thanks, Carrie) what their mothers must think.

Song For The Day

Putting My Foot Down

One of the aspects of life that is severely curtailed by poverty is the exercise of one's good taste.  Or in my case, excellent taste.  What the hell? Superb taste!

Yes, I have it and it's goddam time the world knows it.  I have suppressed the secret fashionista and hidden interior designer long enough.  Thanks to the interwebs (as Darling Eldest Daughter says) I can freely indulge my innate good sense of practically everything.

Today, as my first official entry, I highlight food.  Some things are just wrong.  Some combinations are perfection.  One must make careful choices, however.  For example:  Plain saltine crackers and cheddar cheese spread.  Delectable.  Between meal nibble.  Television snack.   Occasional light dinner substitute.

The one rule is as follows:  ALWAYS APPLY CHEESE TOPPING TO THE SALTED SIDE OF THE CRACKER!  Anything else is a crime in Foodie Land.  As self-appointed arbiter of all things tasteful I have spoken.  I will be watching.

Recycle/Upcycle

Dancing Daughter emailed this photo to me last week.

Little beauties in some of her old recital costumes.

They don't quite have the cleavage; but I spy a  Hollywood smile in there.

Expanding My Cultural Horizons

I think I was a Finn in another life.  Finnish?  Finnlander?  Finnlandian?  I mean no disrespect.

Blog trolling and I often find myself in a sea of grotesquely long words and absolutely stunning photographs.  I am drawn to the bright, no nonsense, in your face colors of the clothing and interiors pictured on these blogs.  I'll get to that in a minute.

But here's a tip:  Don't bother with the google translator widget.  It takes days to figure out how to install the damn thing and then this is an example of what you get as translation:

Playing in the park got wet today and it's pretty litimäräksi pikkunen maple had dropped almost all the bright yellow leaves. Synkästä säästä huolimatta oli hyvä tunnelma. Gloomy weather, the atmosphere was good.

What?  I give.  Anyway the photos on this particular blog are so special I decided to fore go trying to grasp any context.  The blogger does reuse pictures very often; and so I skip around a lot.  What I love:


The clothing.  Particularly the kids' stuff.  Hand knitted, bulky sweaters and scarves.  Big, big buttons.  The yarns, from what I can determine, look REAL.  No acrylic blends.  These are seriously warm garments.  It's Finland!





The colors.  The winters there last forever, right?  So it makes sense that homes are filled with saturated color.  Cups, carpets, cutting boards, slip covers, bulletin boards, plates, baskets.  On and on.  All bright.  White, WHITE walls and cabinets.  And NOTHING CLASHES!  An orange sideboard.  A green step stool.  No muted earth tones here. I adore it!

This particular blogger posts all kinds of scary, threatening warnings about reposting her stuff.  I've submitted "requests", but the language difference hinders the process.  I'm choosing to be daring.

Let The Boys Have The Dance Floor

But Damn!

Those Girls can SANG!!!

SATC

In the poverty stricken boredom of my Golden Years I have plenty of time on my hands.  Recently I have been strolling down the virtual memory lane provided by YouTube and old Sex and the City videos.

I never watched the program while it was airing on prime time.  I didn't ever have cable or a satellite.  Once at Baby Sister's she showed me a few episodes she had taped (remember that?) and asked me to guess which character I thought she'd be.  I got it wrong.  Anyway.  The women all seemed self-absorbed with boring, improbable problems;  and the men weren't all that interesting either.  I took a  pass.

Then a few years later Angry Sister, who was a dear friend at the time, loaned me her fuzzy pink slip cased collection of every single SATC episode.  Well!  This show was a bit of a hoot.  Yes, the women were all shallow and self-absorbed;  but the story line was a bit more intriguing than I had originally thought.  And the friendship the main characters shared was something I wanted to learn more about.  I confess.  I watched a lot.  Over and over.

More than anything I fell in love with Carrie's apartment.  The teenyness.  The apparent style choices made over time. If I lived anywhere at anytime I'd want that apartment.  If it was real of course.  Now where I live bears no resemblance to Casa Carrie.  I do have a white chair that I use as a nightstand.  And I do not own a television either.  And I have WAY more plants.

Least favorite girl:  Samantha.  Sorry.  I hated all the huge earrings.  Her sexual bluntness in conversation just seemed rude to me.  And I refuse to believe that so very many 19-25 year old boy/men could be so powerfully attracted to a 45-50+ woman.  Even one as stylish and well cared for as Ms. Jones.  However her sweaty breast cancer speech makes up for a lot of her objectionable stuff.  When the gal in the audience takes her wig off and points...that is a POWA FULL moment.

What, then is the point?  Nothing really.  I like the show in the little YouTube snatches (Oh, there is a bad joke waiting to happen.) And I like that such a successful program showcased women almost exclusively.  Don't go there for realism.  New York is only affordable for the imaginary.  These ladies do not take public transportation, do much laundry, gain weight, or show much concern for issues outside their immediate realm.  Shoes?  Seriously?  It's fantasy.  I'm really old and I finally figured that out.

But, hey!  Do NOT  make another movie!  It will suck.  That is all.  Oh, and I NEVER liked Big!

Paulina Poriskova, Edweard Muybridge, And AJS

Every year on my Darling Daughters' birthdays I try to write an appropriate post.

One that will let them know how special and treasured they are;

how their presence has enriched my life and

quite literally made the entire  planet a better place.

I believe this.

Today is this One's birthday.

Not my first born.

The first one I was allowed to keep and bring home however.

Always considered a great gift from whatever spiritual authority is in charge.

She was a challenging infant, toddler, child, and adolescent.

My Experimental Baby.

She ran away a few times.

This is her on her wedding day.

She was majestic that day and she is more remarkable now.

I think she has stopped running.

Happy Birthday, Beets!

Every Day Should Be Women's Day!

We SO rock!

This is excellent, of course, and in my usual curmudgeony fashion I am compelled to add:

Where are the women of color?

Where are the elder ladies?

and

Please, may we have a link to the artists?

Thank you.

Now, do it again.

Please.

Because He Is A Robot

His audio/verbal programming has probably malfunctioned.

Please call in the Fashion Computer Geek Department or whomever handles that sort of glitch.

Anyway, do something so he keeps his mouth closed.

Designing, yes.

Social criticism,no.