Recently, three separate females informed me that another woman disliked them… because they’re just so pretty. I refrained from saying “no, it’s definitely your personality she hates” or sending them this article
Have you ever played the ol’ Free Rice games? My favorite category is “Famous paintings”
Best and Worst Beach Bodies? Rosie Molinary said Basta!
The famous Sal answered my plea for cute vegan clothes— over two years ago, she recommended some low-heeled shoes to me. Essentially, Sal is a genie and I’ve used up two wishes.
(Look, you can buy your own! This is not a recommendation!)
My siblings and I used to love this cartoon— partly for its tunes and memorable imagery, partly because we weren’t allowed to watch most other movies on Sundays.
If you’re dying to see more, here you go: IIIIIIVVVI
In case you haven’t guessed or have repressed the memory, “The Original Top Ten” here refers to the Ten Commandments, each represented by a gold record and poppy song. Yes, yes, it’s all very tacky. But the Chums were voiced by Frankie Valli, Tony Orlando, Marilyn McCoo, Debby Boone, and Billy Preston. They improved matters somewhat.
Are you wondering how the Kingdom Chums explain “Thou shalt not commit adultery” in a G rated manner? With the song Be Loyal to the One You Love!
Readers, I could analyze this cartoon all the livelong day. Must all the female characters wear short skirts? If Petey and Annie are supposed to be model Christian children, why on EARTH are they so snide? Wouldn’t Annie’s voice make top-notch ipecac? How do the circular records fit in the heart-shaped carrying case? Why does Osborne get in more trouble for almost swearing than for planning to kill Petey? Is Petey’s delivery of the recurring line “uuuuuuunbelievable!” as bad as “excuuuuse me, princess,” or worse?
Notice that the only non-Christian character is also a thieving, lying bully who uses poor grammar, threatens to kill Petey AND incites the wrath of God by [almost] taking the lord’s name in vain. Charming. However, Petey does have one major weakness… I mean, apart from being verbally abusive. No spoilers here!
Did you grow up with the Kingdom Chums?
Also, would anyone care to analyze this with me, or shall we move on?
(While cleaning out my files, I found this snippet of fiction dated January 20, 2008. This one’s for Katie and Chrissy, the minds behind Far Away Literary Magazine.)
Rebobo is decidedly plain. She loves Jonagold, but knows he’s chasing a prettier girl. Rebobo can’t blame him, but begins avoiding mirrors with almost religious fanaticism.
Jonagold wants Daffodil, always has. Jonagold dreams of taking her sailing — but whenever he dares to talk to her, his knees buckle, his head swims, his heart fails. Jonagold sails alone, the wind in his hair, Daffodil’s name running through his mind for days on end.
And so it goes.
Daffodil could never trust a man; not after what happened with Lars. She’s only just beginning to smile again, and most days her smiles look strained.
Lars aches for Rebobo, and has tried to show her in a thousand, thousand ways…but she only has eyes for Jonagold.
We fall for the wrong people and risk our sorry, worthless necks trying to win their love. At no point do we glance back over one shoulder to see who has been adoring us from afar.
When I was thirteen or so, my mother went back to school. One day, waiting at the laundromat and lazily leafing through Mom’s textbooks, I read an intriguing essay: Judy Brady’s Why I Want a Wife. Much has changed since its initial publication in 1971. Much remains the same.
I lack Ms. Brady’s self-denial and restraint; I still want all three wives, even if Anna Russell stubbornly insists on remaining dead.
If you are familiar with Don Marquis, then you already know Archy (a free verse poet and cockroach) and Mehitabel (the alley cat/ alleged reincarnation of Cleopatra). If you haven’t read these stories, prayerfully consider combing your library— or at leastdonmarquis.com.
Here’s a Marquis favorite from Archy and Mehitabel, 1927:
i was talking to a moth the other evening he was trying to break into an electric light bulb and fry himself on the wires
why do you fellows pull this stunt i asked him because it is the conventional thing for moths or why if that had been an uncovered candle instead of an electric light bulb you would now be a small unsightly cinder have you no sense
plenty of it he answered but at times we get tired of using it we get bored with the routine and crave beauty and excitement fire is beautiful and we know that if we get too close it will kill us but what does that matter it is better to be happy for a moment and be burned up with beauty than to live a long time and be bored all the while so we wad all our life up into one little roll and then we shoot the roll that is what life is for it is better to be a part of beauty for one instant and then cease to exist than to exist forever and never be a part of beauty our attitude toward life is come easy go easy we are like human beings used to be before they became too civilized to enjoy themselves
and before i could argue him out of his philosophy he went and immolated himself on a patent cigar lighter i do not agree with him myself i would rather have half the happiness and twice the longevity
but at the same time i wish there was something i wanted as badly as he wanted to fry himself
Years ago (summer 2008?), I decided to get my right ear cartilage (“helix”) re-pierced. When I informed my friend Celia, she asked “Would you like me to come and hold your hand?”
This struck me as a ridiculous offer. I was a big girl, past twenty. Do sturdy, strapping women need hands to hold?
QUITE POSSIBLY, YES. Even those sturdy, strapping who pay to have a hollow needle shoved through one ear can use a friendly hand. Celia has tattoos; she knows needles. That girl knows pain. Why did I doubt her wisdom?
While Celia (unseen here) was taking pictures, she was also letting me squeeze her free fingers to a sympathetic pulp. Observe that my “CHEESY RICE, THE PAIN!” expression appears identical to my “what a fabulous window treatment!’” face. No wonder I’m not an actor.
I learned a valuable lesson that day; sometimes, smart people bring a friend along. Before my next painful piercing, I preemptively called my friend H. and asked “Would you please come along and hold my hand?”
I shop alone and cry solo, but when needles are involved— I want wam-hearted company.
When do you go it alone, and when do you bring a friend?
My early-morning staring contest with Facebook was interrupted by a message from Bob Diven. This artist was shooting a short film in a theater downtown and wondered if I’d swing by to pick up a few “short and sweet” lines.
Would I ever! Wouldn’t you?
That’s how I spent Saturday afternoon sitting in an unfamiliar theater, surrounded by unfamiliar actors, hurriedly reading an unfamiliar script.
For those who don’t know, my boyfriend and his parents are Theater People. They write, direct, act, and basically take the world by storm.
I am not a Theater Person, but even the idea gets me giddy. True, I had a chorus part in a tiny production of Dido and Aeneus (which is still dear to me), but I knew nothing about acting. I somehow played Amahl in another bite-size production, Amahl and the Night Visitors. When I was stage manager for Man of La Mancha, I got to sit up in the control booth wearing massive headphones and watching OTHER people act. Was I jealous? Yes. Oh, yes.
Eventually, I took an acting class in college and had the time of my young life. One course did not an actor make, but I couldn’t justify taking another “fun” class. My dreams of acting got shelved again.
Despite having dated an actor for four years, I’ve only learned three things:
1) Think in “beats”
2) Be wary of parallel gestures
3) Stand where the lights burn your face
Happily, these three principles were more than enough to see me through my role on Saturday, which consisted of: A) delivering a few simple lines, B) improvising deliberately awkward conversations with the (adorable!) leading man, and C) looking depressed while staring into space. You’d think the role was written for me— I’ve been looking miserable and disgracing myself around attractive men for centuries.
The next day I returned to the theater (as mentioned), this time to play one of many wedding guests. Again, AIN’T NOBODY can surpass my skill in wearing dresses, eating cake, or eating cake while wearing a dress.
While it would be premature to prep for my Proust Questionnaire with James Lipton… … … what better way to invest a Saturday afternoon than by dusting off an old dream and acting like an actor?
Last Friday, I decided to walk to the store. Balmy weather, high spirits, I got plenty o’ nothin’ and nothin’s plenty for me. Life seemed so ginger peachy, I broke into a cheerful run.
Before I’d covered even two blocks, a police car drove past, made a U-turn, and pulled up next to me.
“Is everything alright?” he asked.
“Yes!” I answered, trying to look like an honest, upright citizen.
“Just running?”
“Yeah, just running.” In jeans and a dress shirt, suspiciously enough.
He drove away.
Now, being undeniably out of shape, I can’t run fast or far. But having told a law enforcement officer that I was out for a run, I felt morally obligated to keep running. Step after step, yard after yard, I huffed along. Jog jog jog, run run. Three or four police cars drove by—- or was it that same officer, checking on my story?
Three days later, my calves were still sore. Having pined for calf muscle lo these many years, this soreness inspired me to slap on some “sportswear” and go for a short run today. Having come this far, it was no trouble to do a few squats and lunges while making dinner— putting me back on the unfamiliar road to fitness.
Thanks, officer. Or, thanks, lifelong fear of being mistaken for a criminal. Whatever gets the ball rolling, right?
Friday, I busted out some pseudo-manstyle for a job interview. You could describe this outfit as two parts butch, one part femme. Face to face, you’d surely have spotted my makeup, girly shoes, fishnet trouser socks, and five earrings.
These trousers, my friend/ are blowin’ in the wind/ these trousers are blowin’ in the wind
Shirt – New York and Company, second-hand
Vest – Tahari, second-hand Trousers – Banana Republic, second-hand Bracelets – Ancient and second-hand
Tonight, I was an extra (“wedding guest”) in a film shoot. This look was two parts femme, one part butch. How so? Because in person, you can tell that I haven’t shaved my legs or underarms in weeks.
