Wednesday, November 16, 2016

Hating the Hate

Whooosh! I am struggling right now. I mean, having a harder time than the time I was still trying to do my Sweat With Kayla burpee workout with a sprained big toe (i.e. VERY hard).

I've always considered myself someone who can deal with a normal amount of bullshit. Not too much bullshit, but a normal amount. I think what must be happening right now is that the bullshit has overloaded and spilled out of the dump truck, and is blocking every highway, street, road, sidewalk and footpath. What is up with all the Hate? It is Capital Letter Hate, and it is all over the place and I CANNOT DEAL WITH IT!

I keep my Instagram feed strictly tuned to Things That Give Me Warm Fuzzies. I do not follow any news there, I do not follow any Angry People there, I don't even really follow people I know, because they all have ups and downs and I just want Instagram to be UP UP UP. I follow museums. I follow make-up artists. I follow interior designers. I follow fashion people. And you know where the Hate is? It's freaking EVERYWHERE.

The most recent Hateful episode was seen on a post from The Zoe Report. You know, Rachel Zoe, that's BANANAS, and Shutting It Down, and fun and fashion, no? They posted something completely innocuous about a beauty product that Kate Middleton and Michelle Obama had apparently discussed, and Oh My God, there you go. Someone who follows The Zoe Report, and has a bikini-selfie as her profile photo and (of course) a private account, starts yelling about how those two women should never be mentioned in the same sentence (I'm paraphrasing), and how one of them (not the white one) should go away NOW.

I had a rage stroke, and every expletive I've ever heard in my life marched in a jolly parade across the wide screen of my brain.

I have had enough of this. I've just seen too much of it lately. The fiasco in Clay, West Virginia, was this exact thing, except exploded and exacerbated and eventually (I think) handled pretty well by the people (those two delightful ladies were, thankfully, fired from their positions, and I hope that one day they will understand why). But, Oh My God, so much WTF. I cannot understand this. Where is all this Hate coming from? What is wrong with these people? In what reality do these people think these kinds of comments are okay to say aloud? I can't do anything about the rats nest of bile and putridity (maybe not a word) that people have living inside their heads. But what makes them think those thoughts should be aired, and why do they even have those thoughts in the first place?

We all have hateful thoughts. We're human. When you do not use your turn signal, and pull in front of me on the road? My thoughts toward you are not kind. When you are in front of me at the store with twenty items in the "15 or less Express" lane? My thoughts toward you are not kind. When you have a delicious goat cheese appetizer on the menu, and then tell me you are suddenly out of the goat cheese? My thoughts toward you are not kind. But these are all actions. Careless, inconsiderate actions, that make me think the unkind thoughts. The Hate I'm seeing is based on literally nothing other than individual, deep-seated ignorance, fear and insecurity, and the Hateful People want to share that all with everyone else. I have no idea how to fix this. WHY ARE PEOPLE LIKE THIS?

Please, please, for the love of humanity, dig deep down inside yourself and ask yourself where the Hate is coming from. What is it really about? Read Eckhart Tolle. Read Louise Hay. Read the nice, uplifting parts of the Bible (not the scary stories about people marrying their siblings or killing their children). Try to find the Good in yourself, because, ultimately, that is what the Hate is about. It is about You.

Feel free to visit my "General Cuteness" Pinterest board if you are also suffering the rage strokes.

Saturday, October 29, 2016

Open Letter to Cubs Fans at Wrigley



I will preface this by saying that I am not a typical sports fan, per se, but I bleed Cubbie Blue. The past two games of this series have been rough. They have not been playing their very best, but if the Cubs lose this, you, as fans at Wrigley, will have to accept your fair share of the blame.

When the Cubs clinched the pennant they gave so much credit to "the fans." Everything came back to "the fans" - how great "the fans" have been, how loyal, how supportive. The fans, the fans, the fans.

Tuning in to the 6th inning tonight (after a birthday dinner for my sister at a restaurant that had no TV), I was in shock. Not so much by the score, but more by the hangdog expressions of all the faces in the stands. Chins in hands, droopy, pouty lips, depressed, dejected, defeated.

In the 6th inning!

Now, I know the number 6 looks a lot like the number 9, but only if you're looking at it upside down. The 6th inning is not the 9th inning and there was no excuse for the gloom and doom that had descended over the entire stadium. NO EXCUSE! You are Cubs fans, watching the World Series, at Wrigley Field. What the hell is wrong with you?

You have a responsibility to rally the team, to show them all that loyalty and support they kept talking about in all those interviews. And no, I don't mean just standing up after Rondon has already pitched 2 strikes, and you haul your carcasses out of your seats and give some half-hearted hoots for the last (hopeful) strike.

In the 6th inning, when your beloved Cubs are down by 3 or 4 or 5, and Addison Russell steps into the batter's box, you get off your lazy kiesters and you get loud. You cheer, you holler, you clap, you roar, you bring Wrigley alive. Enthusiasm is palpable and contagious and can turn a temporary slump into a victory.

I was at a Cubs game, back in October of 1995, when they were playing the Houston Astros. I can't remember exact details, because the newspaper article is packed away with my yearbooks somewhere, but Cubs were down by like 6 or 7 or some ungodly number. Most of "the fans" had already left, but there were a handful of us still hanging around. My boyfriend asked, "Do you want to just go?" and I turned to him and said, "You do not leave a Cubs game before it's finished." He was from Pennsylvania, and didn't know any better, so we can't get too mad at him.

So it was around the 7th inning, and one of the infamous SuperFans that Chicago is known for - mustache and sunglasses in place, beer in hand - stood up, turned to our section and started hoisting his arms up and down and shouting, "Everybody UP! Everybody UP!" And, as you do when faced with a Chicago SuperFan, we got up. And we started to cheer and holler and clap and roar, in a sort of audible wave that built, and grew, and brought Wrigley alive. We stayed on our feet for every single batter, and kept the roar going. Our throats were raspy from the screaming, our hands stung from the clapping. And the Cubs started knocking hits out - out beyond the infield, out of reach of the outfielders, and out into the stands. You could feel the enthusiasm, and the Cubs could feel the enthusiasm, and it exploded into this growling, stomping thing that took out everything in its path, including the Astros. The Cubs rallied and came back to win the game. The details are in that newspaper article I can't find right now, but the title of the article was "Fans Win Game For Cubs."

If ever there was a time for a repeat of this, it is now. At Wrigley Field, in Game 5. Do you think the Cubs don't have what it takes to win? Because I think we've all seen that they really do. The question is, as fans at Wrigley, do you?

You don't let the stadium get all quiet, mopey and depressing. You don't leave before the game is over. And you most certainly don't give up in the 6th freaking inning. You give it everything you've got until the last pitch is thrown. The way you expect your team to do it. Cheer, holler, clap, roar, stomp, and bring Wrigley alive. Cleveland won't know what hit them.

Wednesday, October 5, 2016

On Reading

I used to read books all the way through, front to back, regardless of how much I was enjoying them. I don't do that anymore. Although I know how much work goes into writing a book, and I absolutely appreciate each and every author's efforts, I know I will enjoy my life more if I don't force myself to read things I'm not enjoying. I'm not in High School English anymore, and I don't have to write a report if I don't want to. If I like a book, I will rate it on Goodreads, because that is a fun space for me to keep track of books I've read and books I want to read. If I don't like a book, I just put it away and never mention it again, unless in absolutely private company where I can be honest and be assured no one's feelings are hurt. (OR if the author has passed away, in which case I will tell you that I thought The Bourne Identity was a terrible book, and Tony Gilroy was a magician with that screenplay because the movie is one of my absolute favorites.)

I have recently arrived at a First Time Experience where I started reading a book, and was really enjoying it, and then I reached the first, what I'm presuming to be quite major, plot twist. And I know that I can't read the rest of the book. Not because I don't think it's going to be good, because I know it is, but because I know that it will send me into the Ugly Cry. My Ugly Cry is on par with a violent illness, and no matter how temporary, it still means severe discomfort. All the blood in my body rushes up to my head, and, for some reason the front of my face. My nasal passages swell to four times their normal size, and my eyes do the same, rendering me both oxygen-deprived and blind. I savage entire boxes of tissues, leaving unruly, wet, cold Kleenex Mountains on the nightstand. And the resulting headache from all this covers my frontal lobe and crown and throbs on a level that would register on the Richter Scale.

There are people out there who love to cry with their books. "I love a good cry!" Their Good Cry must be something pleasant, like a bunny sneeze. With this book, I don't even want to chance that it might just be a Wee Good Cry, because I know it won't. The blurbs on the front and back of the book did try to warn me. "This unforgettable novel...doesn't just break your heart; it takes your heart and won't give it back." But I said "Pshhht. You don't know me." And I foolishly started to read.

I finished page eighty-five, also the end of Chapter 5, and I said to myself, "Ohhhhh no. I don't think I can proceed here." Because when you know that something is going to make you violently ill, you avoid it, right? Lactose-intolerant people do not dive willingly into the cheesecake (even though it's delicious). Celiac sufferers do not see a batch of chocolate-chip cookies and think, "Oh, absolutely" (even though they are delicious). People with nut allergies do not immerse themselves in a bathtub full of trail mix, because KNOWLEDGE. Knowing what I now know, at Chapter 5, about the characters in this book, I am 100% certain it will send me into the Ugly Cry, and I do not want to be in the Ugly Cry. The last time I made the mistake of reading something guaranteed to put me in Ugly Cry was this:

https://www.amazon.com/Completely-Beside-Ourselves-Faulkner-Award/dp/0399162097/ref=tmm_hrd_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=&sr=

And I only got halfway through the book.

For those of you who love a Good Cry! try that one, or this one, where I had to stop at page 85:

https://www.amazon.com/Completely-Beside-Ourselves-Faulkner-Award/dp/0399162097/ref=tmm_hrd_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=&sr=


Proceed at your own risk. And then please let me know how it ends! But only if your summary is not going to make me cry.

Sunday, September 25, 2016

The Edible Accessory

Just a mere ten days after I wrote about my black and white cookie problem, Etro sent their Spring/Summer 2017 collection down the runway in Milan. Coincidence?


I think not.

But those are still the wrong black and white cookies.

Thursday, September 15, 2016

The Importance of Naming Cookies

I frequently find myself at a loss for the official/proper name of random items, and have to rush to Google to figure out what the thing is called. It's most frustrating when said thing is a cookie. In the olden days, when I was temping in Seattle, I would work in various big, shiny office buildings which usually had a sundries shop on the ground level. That was, incidentally, how I learned what "sundries" were. In these sundries shops I would find delicious, individually-wrapped cookies, which I would refer to as "black and white cookies". "I'll be right back, I'm going to get a black and white cookie." One episode of Seinfeld discussed the importance of the black and white cookie. However, when Jerry purchased and bit into his black and white cookie, I noticed it was not the same black and white cookie as my black and white cookie.

The wrong black and white cookies
Having moved away from Seattle, it has been years since I've seen my black and white cookie. When I asked the Whole Foods bakery manager, he directed me to the Seinfeld black and white cookie. When I visited other bakeries, the same thing happened. I realized if I ever wanted to see one again, I might just have to make it myself. When I Googled "black and white cookie", the only results that came up were for Seinfeld's black and white cookie. So many results for the wrong black and white cookie. Pages and pages of wrong cookies. I became agitated, stressed, and eventually despondent. I wanted my black and white cookie. Where was my black and white cookie? Based on my unsuccessful Google results, I knew I must have been calling it the wrong thing, but I didn't know what the right thing would be.

I finally Googled "double chocolate chip cookie dipped in white chocolate," because that was exactly what my black and white cookie was. The first image result was perfect. THAT was my black and white cookie!

Hurrah!

But the link went to Ebay. I didn't want to buy a cookie from Ebay. The Ebay lister called them "Homemade White Chocolate Dipped Double Chocolate Chip Cookies!" That just takes so much longer to say than "black and white cookie," but if I wanted the right cookie, I was going to have to refer to it in the right way. Except that most of the other results were not for this type of cookie.


 No.



 No.





What? No!

Urf. There needs to be a standardized, proper name for my black and white, white chocolate dipped double chocolate cookie.

This brings me to a recent conversation I had with my cousin-in-law, Sarah, who was rolling her eyes when I was trying to get her to say "macaron" instead of "macaroon". Yes, saying "macaron" makes you sound totally pretentious, and like you're trying to be all French and whatnot. But it is important, because a macaron is an entirely different cookie from the macaroon. I like them both, but if I'm having super-cravings for the wee French sandwich cookie and mistakenly say "I'm dying for a macaroon!" Some kind, thoughtful person might show up at my door with a small bag of these.


When I really wanted these.


All because I said it wrong. This is a widespread problem, evidenced in the Google results for "macaroon". There are bloggers all over the place, using "macaroon" incorrectly.

So, it's not only important to name the cookie, it's also important to pronounce that name correctly. The English language seems to be devolving into a grotesque mish-mosh of acronyms, slang, word-fragments and emojis. But, people, please. Please think of the cookies!


THE COOKIES!!!!!

Friday, June 24, 2016

Some Advice for the Traveling Girls

Traveling has become something of a bummer in recent years. No one dresses up anymore, you can't bring normal sized toiletries in your carry-on, you have to remove your shoes (!) and pass through the Star Trek Radiation Pod in order to be allowed to board an airplane. All the rules and regulations have been implemented in the name of safety. "Have a safe trip!" is an oft-used phrase when sending someone off. "Safe" is what we want to feel when leaving our comfort zones and traveling from point A to point B. But, what to do when your seatmate sees the trip less as a way to get from A to B, and more of an opportunity to work his way around the sexual bases with an unsuspecting stranger?

Two recent stories illuminate how unnecessarily creepy a necessary voyage can be, especially for women. One was about a sixteen year old girl who had fallen asleep on her flight, and had her creepy seatmate try to kiss her while she slept. This is not a Disney flight, and you, sir, are no Prince Charming. The other was about a thirteen year old girl who was trapped in the window seat, with the creepy seatmate next to her in the middle seat touching her inappropriately for roughly a half hour before the flight attendant noticed the girl was crying. These stories threw me into a stompy rage where I found myself screaming (inside my head) "WHAT IS WRONG WITH PEOPLE?" What's most unfortunate is that the villains of these stories are almost always men. So I find myself screaming "WHAT IS WRONG WITH MEN?" (again, still just inside my head). And I know, hashtag notallmen, but this kind of thing still happens way more often than it should (which is never).

Every woman I know has at least one story of trying to get from point A to point B and being harassed by a man. The comments sections of those two recent stories are rife with other stories of women I don't know, trying to get from point A to point B and being harassed by a man. THIS IS NOT GOOD FOR MY STOMPY RAGE.

Hyperbole and a Half (go buy her book, she's hilarious)
 
Your pepper spray is not allowed, your mace is not allowed, you may not have anything sharp onboard the flight (I once read of a woman who rode the train in India with a sharp fork she kept in her pocket). How are girls supposed to defend themselves in the tiny, cramped, uncomfortable space, where you can't even stretch out your legs, much less give a swift kick to the crotch? What to do?

Get loud. Get very, very loud. LOUD! Perverts dislike having attention drawn to them, probably because they know they're doing something wrong. Yell anything to get the attention of someone who will help you. "STOP!" is good, "PERVERT!" is better. An airplane is a vehicle for transportation, not a human petting zoo for the boundary-free male.

If your seatmate happens to be simply manspreading, you could always do this:


Hyperbole and a half

But maybe not that loud. Reserve the loud for when your safety is threatened, not just your legroom.

Tuesday, May 3, 2016

The Met Gala

Lauren Santo Domingo won the Met Gala this year:

(Photo courtesy of the New York Times)

It's not a contest. But she won anyway.

Friday, April 29, 2016

Project Runway - A Model UN


This is the best reality show of all time. I wish it were on year-round, but I have to be satisfied with Project Runway, and then offshoots (Under the Gunn, Project Runway Juniors, etc) to get me through the rest of the year. Project Runway AllStars is satisfying, because it's essentially the same as PR, just with a different host and judges. Alyssa Milano is a much cuddlier version of Heidi Klum, and Georgina Chapman and Isaac Mizrahi, as judges, have a knack for offering constructive and encouraging feedback without being hurtful.

The reality of the show is not forced. It's REAL. The designers have talent and vision and a tight time-frame in which to create designs, so the drama that comes out is genuine. I don't love drama for the sake of drama. When the designers are sleep-deprived and stressed it just happens. I prefer when it doesn't, which probably makes me an unlikely candidate for a reality show audience (an aside: I do love the drama on "Dateline", because Oh My God that sh*t is crazy, and really real).

I love how multi-cultural the designers are, and then how quickly you cease to notice that after the first episode. It's a racially-even playing field, which is not something you get to see on television very often.

This season of AllStars has one of my absolute favorite designers, Dom Streater. GOD ALMIGHTY she comes up with some of the most original and gorgeous designs, and I will love if she wins.

(She made this on last night's show and I WANT TO HAVE IT NOW!)

But, I also love the other two finalists, Kini Zamora and Ken Laurence.

The only thing I cringed about this season (tangent alert) was when Kini basically made part of Sam's outfit in the partner challenge, and Sam gave him no credit. This is a major pet peeve. You have to give credit where credit is due. Sam is a talented designer in his own right, but he really should have admitted to the judges that Kini made part of that look. Since he didn't, Kini got very prickly and the prickly carried over for the next several challenges. Then Kini and Sam were throwing all kinds of shade at each other during their single-camera confessionals, and in the workroom and I wanted to smack them both. Sam: APOLOGIZE TO KINI. Kini: BE THE BIGGER PERSON AND FOCUS ON YOUR WORK. (tangent finished)

Ken was drama personified in his Project Runway season, and he frightened me a little. His temper was off the charts. We see more of his personality in AllStars and I LOVE HIM.


He is hilarious and adorable, and I could listen to him say the words "Fabulous" and "Woman" on a perpetual loop, all day long. He says Fah-buh-lus, and Wuh-man. It is awesome. He brought a centimeter of drama when he called Sam out on his nonsense, flirting with the judges and letting his popularity carry him through challenges. But then, they resolved it. Like grown-ups! Sam actually admitted that he could be defensive and immature, and that takes a very big person to do. People on reality programs hate to show weakness, and most people see admitting faults as weakness, but it's really the opposite. Admitting when you've been less-than-admirable is actually quite admirable.

I like to think of PR & PRAS as tiny nations, where we could all learn a thing or two about how to interact and behave. For the most part, the designers, regardless of wildly different backgrounds and personalities, all come to genuinely respect and care for one another by the end of the season (and if they don't, they're doing it wrong and need to try again). In the single-camera confessionals, when I hear them praising their competitors and complimenting their work, it always makes me cry. The more diplomatic they are, the more I love the show. Don't listen to anyone who wants "more drama". Project Runway is better than that.

Monday, April 11, 2016

Our Lady of Perpetual Cat Ownership

Every day now seems to be National Something Day. National Secretaries Day, National Cheeseburger Day, National Talk Like a Pirate Day. Today would have been a major trigger for me. National Pet Day. Six weeks ago I took my little fur-monster, Herbie, to the vet.

 (This was when he was fat and happy)

He had been losing weight, and then just stopped eating altogether. The vet poked and prodded around, and said that he had a tumor, as well as issues with his kidneys. He was fourteen and a half, and the vet thought that was kind of "old age" for a cat anyway, but my last kitty cat had lived to be twenty-three. I had high hopes for all future pets. So optimistic, was I, that back in October I had ordered the 3-year rabies vaccine for Herb. It was not to be. So, armed with some prednilsone, and an appetite stimulant, Herb and I went back home. The vet had said the prednilsone might grant him an extra "couple of weeks". I was distraught. But, after starting the prednilsone, his appetite kind of came back on its own, and I didn't need the appetite stimulant.

I fed him deli turkey, tuna, whatever he wanted to eat, and he did put some weight back on. The vet called to check in on him the following Monday, and I was happy to report he was doing well. I had decided to just watch him carefully, and at the first sign of trauma or physical difficulty to call an in-home euthanasia vet. I did not want him to suffer at all. I got another four weeks of Healthy-ish Herbie, during which time his litter box habits were the best I'd ever seen from him. (He used to communicate in angry poops left around the house).

When I saw his hind legs start to wobble a bit when he went down steps, I knew his time was limited. No suffering for the baby! On a Friday, I called and scheduled the euthanasia appointment for the following Monday. I then made sure his last weekend was awesome. He got pork chops and lamb and junky Fancy Feast in gravy. I would lift him up onto the bed, and then down onto the floor, so he didn't have to try to jump. Sunday night, I didn't catch him in time before he tried to jump up onto the bed by himself. His claws caught the corner and he pulled himself up, and then his body started to convulse. I grabbed him and put him back on the floor, tucking his body in, because I felt like he might have stretched the organs or something. I didn't know - it was just an instinctive reaction, and the convulsions stopped. But seeing that was traumatizing, and I knew I had made the right decision for Monday. It was time to put him down. On Monday I took him outside and let him wander around and eat as much grass as he wanted, and then sat petting him until the vet arrived.

I was grateful for the four weeks of time to get used to the idea that he wouldn't be around. I cried at the first diagnosis, and one or two nights afterward, but then I would look at Herb, who wasn't suffering and just hanging out doing his kitty-thing, and I realized that I didn't really need to get upset until he actually died. What was the point of all the crying if he's right there next to me, pushing his whiskers against my shoulder and purring? He was still there. Once he was euthanized, though, I cried a lot. The Ugly Cry. Red-faced, puffy-eyed, numerous boxes of tissues destroyed crying.

The next day I drove about 40 minutes south to a cat rescue organization, and adopted a sweet little 4.5 year old longhaired girl named Minnie.



You can't do this with people, which is why losing a family member/friend is so much more devastating. But there are homeless animals everywhere, in need of care and love. You do need to make sure you connect with the animal, and I just knew Minnie was right. A furry, snuggly, purr-monster is something I have to have. She is the best: super affectionate, talks to me in her little mewly voice, and has the best litter box habits. When I'm reading, she shoves herself into the crook of my elbow and stretches her dainty paws out over my shoulder, then curls up and falls asleep. Without her, I'm sure I would have had further sobbing episodes as I drove past the vet clinic, where Herb used to go, or the pet food store, where I used to buy his fancy organic food (which apparently did not keep him from getting cancer), or when I looked at his scratching post and toys (which Minnie is enjoying), and definitely today, on National Pet Day.

I've had kitties since I was five years old. Mercy, I got as a kitten when I was five and named her all by myself, after my mom said "No" to naming her Cindy. Mercy had feline leukemia, and died my first year away at college. Kitty overlapped Mercy a little: I got her for my 13th birthday from two school friends. Kitty was the one who lived to be twenty-three. Then came Herb and his sister Laverne. I, sadly, had to surrender Laverne after a few years because I was afraid Herb was going to kill her - he was really Alpha and really possessive.

I am the Constant Cat Lady. I will, however, take solace in comparison. At the check-in counter at the Humane Society, the desk clerk asks you several questions, including, "How many pets do you currently have at home?" While I was sitting and waiting to see the cats, a woman came in and her answer to that question was, "Five cats, two dogs".



I patted myself on the back for not being a cat-hoarder. Oh, now wait. That sounds like I'm being judgemental. I am! Five cats is too many. Unless you have a farm.

I don't have a farm. And one cat is plenty for me.

My mom once said, "I can't picture you without a cat." And now she won't have to. R.I.P. to my little Herbie, and Happy National Pet Day to pet owners, everywhere!

Sunday, April 10, 2016

My Happy Golden Years with Dateline

I don't know why everyone's so desperate to recapture their youth, or stay young, or whatever. Getting older is awesome. You get to complain more, you get to ignore all the improvements and updates in technology, and you get to watch 'Murder, She Wrote' and 'Dateline' as much as you want.

How, how, how have I lived this long without 'Dateline'? How? I am completely obsessed with this show, and this obsession is not making me a better person. I've been doing my part with all the introspective self-improvement, and appreciating the present moment, and have developed a profound love for Eckhart Tolle and everything he stands for. And then I forget all of that the moment the shaky photo frames appear on the television screen, accompanied by a heavy-handed ominous musical score.

'Dateline''s tagline is "Don't watch alone" exclamation point. This is nonsense. You can totally watch the show alone, because it's not that kind of scary. What you should not do is watch the show with me, because I am that kind of scary. Let me count the ways:

1) I become enraged if Keith Morrison is not hosting (but then calm down, because the other people are fine; just less hilariously over-the-top).
2) I start yelling, "The husband (or wife) did it!" before Lester Holt has even introduced the subject matter.
3) If the husband or wife did not do it, the rage returns and I start yelling at 'Dateline'. I genuinely want the husband or wife to have done it.
4) I yell at the incompetent sheriff, detective, local investigator, the accused, friends/family of the accused, prosecuting attorney, defense attorney, and/or jury, depending on who is being the most idiotic. Sometimes, it is all of them.
5) I find myself unconcerned with the welfare of the characters if they are rednecks (it's okay, they won't read this).
6) I am ten times more upset if an animal is killed, along with the victim.

This is not me at my best self.

But, Eckhart Tolle would say, "Resist nothing", and that includes the lure of the shaky photo frames, the ominous music, and Keith Morrison's exaggerated eyebrow furrowing and melodramatic suppositions.

Tuesday, March 1, 2016

In the Olden Days

It has been four years since I've blogged here, and in those years I've ceased to think of myself as a blogger. That word has managed to morph into its own legitimate occupation, which seems crazy to me, and I wonder if I had kept at it, consistently, would the Firmdale Properties be asking me to write fabulous blurbs and copy for them and offering to fly me to London to stay at all of their hotels?



The word itself still makes me laugh. Blogger. Because it rhymes with "logger" and I immediately imagine a log-rolling scenario with 20-something hipsters in wool slouch-hats tapping away at their i-Devices while their skinny-jean-clad legs flail and scramble back and forth in an attempt to keep them from falling into the water.


 (But picture them holding i-Pads and little laptops.)

I have officially reached the age where I don't "get" the kids these days. All the social media stuff and the acronyms and short attention-spans just make my eyes roll, and they've been rolling so hard for so long I think I need bifocals now.

My beloved fashion magazines now put Nickelodeon and Disney stars on the covers, and ask me to scan my phone or visit the website to read more about whatever article I'm trying to read. Magazine people: I read the magazines so I don't have to stare at the glowing computer screen. They're doing studies. It's not so good for you, all the time. And, just when I was thinking I was finally ready to graduate to More magazine? You know, the one for (old) women of style and substance? They folded. After the April 2016 issue, it will be no More.



Then there's the TV. NOT NETFLIX, JUST REGULAR OLD-TIMEY TELEVISION. I am issuing an official challenge the judges on "Project Runway" to praise a look without referring to it as "young and fresh". I dare you. There are other adjectives that don't exclude seven other decades of demographic. Nina Garcia is fifty years old, for the love of Lanvin. And I like that! I'm afraid the producers might try to replace her with some eleven year-old with an "on fleek" podcast. (And, for the record, "on fleek" sounds like Gretchen Wieners was finally successful in making one of her phrases happen.) Fashion is not the exclusive domain of the young.


Urf. I've gone all ranty now (GET OFF MY LAWN!). It's not that I think Millennials, and whatever they're calling the ones younger than that (Mini-llennials?), don't have anything important to contribute. I just really miss hearing from people older and wiser than me. I want to see some "60 over 60" lists, talking about awesome achievements that have been made after people hit middle age. I'm sure the stories are out there, somewhere, but finding them is like finding healthy food at a grocery store that isn't Trader Joe's or Whole Foods. You have to read the tiny print on all the labels for ingredients. And I often forget my bifocals.

You should call more often. Sincerely,
Grandma Gretta