Congratulations New York for proving people can work together to do the right thing when it counts!
Saturday, June 25, 2011
Monday, June 20, 2011
Friday, June 10, 2011
Breitbart in Newport Beach
Apparently Andrew Breitbart is in town, and since I'd never heard of him before he became the man who exposed Weiner's... well... the jokes are endless but suffice it to say that I really don't care who he is. But what was interesting to me was he's seen here talking about monetizing (that's earning money from) the photos leaked to him of Weiner's penis, and also, maybe more interesting is that he refers to it as "Blue-boy circa 2005", "homoerotic", and "grotesque".
I admit, I'm predisposed to hate this guy before he opens his mouth. He's kind of smug, and a little aw shucks it's just little old me, doing the job everyone else it too chicken shit to do. Is he getting paid to talk at a Newport Beach Golf Course? Maybe he's doing it out of the goodness of his heart, after all... Someone has to entertain people at golf courses.. What he's doing here is probably almost like.... community service right? And did you check out that PACKED parking lot? Wow. You couldn't get another car in there if you tried.
Do you buy him as a dogged pursuer of the truth? It can't possibly be that he's pretty pleased with himself to be at the center of a shitstorm of controversy holding damning evidence against a public figure and that he's milking every second of it. Not that he needs to do that. Apparently he's well connected and enjoys the friendship of shy conservative actors and stuff...
Do you buy him as a dogged pursuer of the truth? It can't possibly be that he's pretty pleased with himself to be at the center of a shitstorm of controversy holding damning evidence against a public figure and that he's milking every second of it. Not that he needs to do that. Apparently he's well connected and enjoys the friendship of shy conservative actors and stuff...
Now. I don't know about you but my husband happens to have a penis I'm QUITE FOND OF. It's not, as far as I know, in any photographs unless it's about six months old and lying on a bear skin rug. But I can honestly say if my husband were in an impish mood -- and be assured he gets those sometimes -- and he sent me a picture of his penis, in no way would that be considered by me to be either Blue Boy inspired, or homoerotic, or grotesque. What that would be is PRIVATE. It would also be ill-advised, stupid, and perhaps even pathological, requiring counseling. If he sent it to some other woman it could definitely be called suicidal.
But to call it homoerotic??? 'Scuse me? Isn't that just a little past punditry and into the territory of inflammatory?
Let there be no mistake about this. I know homoerotic. This is homoertic:
And the following are links to homoerotic images. Please don't follow these link if you do not want to see adult themed, sometimes graphic images.
http://purelyvintagegay.tumblr.com/
http://www.spaceandmotion.com/erotica-lesbian.htm
Andrew honey. Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar and what matters is who's smoking it.
Thursday, June 9, 2011
Sitting Pretty
Today is the day my obscenely expensive, ergonomic office chair will be delivered! I know this probably isn't going to be the panacea I imagined it would be when I ordered it -- at the time I was flat on my back and taking a course of prednisone and anti-inflammatory drugs because I couldn't stand up straight. I admit my sales resistance was low... :D
Probably, I will have to wait until my husband has time to assemble my chair. Unlike my father, my husband is really good at these things. He was the first man I ever met who could take something apart, fix it and put it back together without having extra bits left over. When we first met, he used to wonder why I sank into a deep depression when things didn't work, until he realized that when I was growing up, a broken washing machine or a car that needing fixing required an odyssey of epic proportions a la Homer, which always began with a trip to Dooley's hardware in Long Beach or Pep Boys and led into a weekend extravaganza that began with high hopes and ended in high drama, cursing, and physical comedy of the kind where --thankfully-- the emergency room was only infrequently required.
The fact that my husband is a competent, intelligent being took a long time to sink in. It's not that my dad wasn't either of those things -- he was. He was a great guy, a good provider, and a ferociously decent human being the likes of which I find fewer and fewer of in this world. But he enjoyed stretching his limits far into areas where he refused to do any research.
One of my mother's favorite stories is of how he and his pal Elton took their dates sailing -- even though neither of them had any skill in this area -- and the women, tired of their endless failure to get back (which could only be accomplished with much tricky tacking and tight sails as the wind was coming from shore) jumped from the small sailboat and swam it in by holding onto a rope.
I'd like to point out that in the fifties, this didn't seem to stop women from marrying their dates, as both couples ended up at the altar together. Seriously, can you picture ignoring that? Having to tow in a date's boat because he took you out into the ocean without knowing how to sail?
To be clear: that, my friends, is a dating "red flag" moment.
At any rate, today my office chair will arrive and my husband will take out all the tiny, curious pieces of it and lay them out on the living room floor. The boys will crawl around on their hands and knees peering over what he's doing, probably, and he'll instruct them to make sure everything the manufacturer says is in the packages is actually there, by counting and checking off each little thing. He'll read the instructions more than once if they're not necessarily clear to him the first time. He'll get out his mechanical pencil and check off each thing as he does it. And in the end, my obscenely expensive office chair will be right there for my equally obscenely large a** -- excuse me, my derriere -- to sit in.
Somehow, once again I will manage to swallow down the annoying anxiety that always seems to hit my nervous system as he undertakes this, even though I KNOW that he will do a marvelous job. Old habits die hard. I was conditioned at an early age to sound the alarm if any man but a professional even looked at a tool belt.
It's my twenty-eighth wedding anniversary on Saturday, June 11. I can't speak for hubby, but for my part, I couldn't have done a better job choosing a spouse, and I know I couldn't have married a nicer guy. We're planning dinner out Saturday, and then a nice family barbecue on Sunday.
Bonus question. What's the one thing my husband is willing to pay someone else to assemble?
Answer: Barbecues. One gas barbecue was his limit.
I wonder if that's because they come in fifty billion annoying pieces and unlike an Ikea bookcase, if you get them wrong, there's always a chance they'll explode.
Probably, I will have to wait until my husband has time to assemble my chair. Unlike my father, my husband is really good at these things. He was the first man I ever met who could take something apart, fix it and put it back together without having extra bits left over. When we first met, he used to wonder why I sank into a deep depression when things didn't work, until he realized that when I was growing up, a broken washing machine or a car that needing fixing required an odyssey of epic proportions a la Homer, which always began with a trip to Dooley's hardware in Long Beach or Pep Boys and led into a weekend extravaganza that began with high hopes and ended in high drama, cursing, and physical comedy of the kind where --thankfully-- the emergency room was only infrequently required.
The fact that my husband is a competent, intelligent being took a long time to sink in. It's not that my dad wasn't either of those things -- he was. He was a great guy, a good provider, and a ferociously decent human being the likes of which I find fewer and fewer of in this world. But he enjoyed stretching his limits far into areas where he refused to do any research.
One of my mother's favorite stories is of how he and his pal Elton took their dates sailing -- even though neither of them had any skill in this area -- and the women, tired of their endless failure to get back (which could only be accomplished with much tricky tacking and tight sails as the wind was coming from shore) jumped from the small sailboat and swam it in by holding onto a rope.
I'd like to point out that in the fifties, this didn't seem to stop women from marrying their dates, as both couples ended up at the altar together. Seriously, can you picture ignoring that? Having to tow in a date's boat because he took you out into the ocean without knowing how to sail?
To be clear: that, my friends, is a dating "red flag" moment.
At any rate, today my office chair will arrive and my husband will take out all the tiny, curious pieces of it and lay them out on the living room floor. The boys will crawl around on their hands and knees peering over what he's doing, probably, and he'll instruct them to make sure everything the manufacturer says is in the packages is actually there, by counting and checking off each little thing. He'll read the instructions more than once if they're not necessarily clear to him the first time. He'll get out his mechanical pencil and check off each thing as he does it. And in the end, my obscenely expensive office chair will be right there for my equally obscenely large a** -- excuse me, my derriere -- to sit in.
Somehow, once again I will manage to swallow down the annoying anxiety that always seems to hit my nervous system as he undertakes this, even though I KNOW that he will do a marvelous job. Old habits die hard. I was conditioned at an early age to sound the alarm if any man but a professional even looked at a tool belt.
It's my twenty-eighth wedding anniversary on Saturday, June 11. I can't speak for hubby, but for my part, I couldn't have done a better job choosing a spouse, and I know I couldn't have married a nicer guy. We're planning dinner out Saturday, and then a nice family barbecue on Sunday.
Bonus question. What's the one thing my husband is willing to pay someone else to assemble?
Answer: Barbecues. One gas barbecue was his limit.
I wonder if that's because they come in fifty billion annoying pieces and unlike an Ikea bookcase, if you get them wrong, there's always a chance they'll explode.
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