Flower Power

Yeah, we’ll maybe it’s more like your lunar eclipse dose of snark. I can’t be bothered with daily.

Anyhoo, I have been thinking this week about 2 important things: the floral print mafia, the global plot to reduce America to mediocrity, and their unlikely (but clearly asserted in this diatribe) connection.

Vera-BradleyFirst, the insidious threat that is gripping Southlake, Texas–the Vera Bradley lobby. Everywhere I go I’m assaulted by the quilted, technicolor menace. The latest uproar seems to be that teachers aren’t allowing VB totes in the classroom, claiming it is becoming too crowded and all that color is a strain on the eyes. That’s discrimination! Clearly, it is within my 11 year old’s rights to carry twice her own body weight in a yurt-sized cavity of cheerful daisies and snails! School board, what is your %$*@ing problem with daisies and snails? Don’t you have more important things to do, like solve the problem in the next segment? Haters.

Which brings me to my next point–the global subterfuge that is dumbing down America. We manage that fine on our own, thank you very much. I never realized how ridiculous the English language is until I tried to teach someone to read. Mind you, the child can read in Spanish just fine. Yes, I know it’s quaint that rough, bough, and cough don’t rhyme, or sound remotely alike, or make any sense whatsoever. And don’t get me started on the word “rhyme.” But think of all of the time wasted on spelling tests and spelling words. There is no such thing as a spelling test in a phonetic language because it is spelled the way it sounds. Always. (That’s actually the definition of phonetic). An hour a day on spelling, spelling tests, spell check, and spelling correction, over a lifetime of 85 years is over 31,000 hours wasted while Germans and Spaniards play their violins.

Imajin if we al wrot foneticlee and al the ours we wood sav–so manee more resipees on Pinterest!

Think about it. We could eliminate entire uses for letters. There is no point in a soft c, when you have a perfectly good s. There is no hard g because that’s what we have j for. And y is just a stupid letter. It’s the appendix of the alphabet. It offends my sense of efficiency to have all of this extraneous stuff. And why do we have the word extraneous at all, if extra suits just fine? And yet, these foreigners keep pushing it on us. They continue to learn English so we won’t catch on.

Don’t you see it? They have us cornered, spending all of our time learning how to spell with not even our Doodle Daisy Convertible Crossbody for consolation. Bastards.


Eric and I have been married 17 years, and yet there are still depths of Eric’s psyche that remain unplumbed. One of these is an unexplained aversion to Julianne Moore. Yes, the actress, and no, he doesn’t know her. And yet, he will go out of his way to avoid her movies, ads, etc. I decided to try to unearth the root cause.

She’s a good actress, that is not in dispute. But there is something about her near-translucent skin that is unnerving. I dug deeper. Her gums. There is something unnatural about her gums. Fair enough. See the picture? Weird gums. Non-existent gums. Like teeth coming out at  you with no warning.

So, I started examining my own celebrity aversions, and came up with the 2 people I really can’t stand and can’t really say why: Nicholas Cage and Cameron Diaz. With Nick, it’s got to be the hang-dog, mouth breathing. It worked in “Raising Arizona” but not since. Cameron is just someone I feel deserves a punch in the face. No particular reason–she could just do with one. Nickeron offspring would be the end of me.

According to the people at Morphthing.com, this is what a baby Camge would look like, receding hairline, mustache, angular jaw and all. See, already can’t close his/her mouth. Frightening!

So I asked Eric about his male star aversion, and he came up with…Stanley Tucci. Stanley Tucci? That’s what you come back with? That’s like saying you don’t like capers (which he doesn’t). They just don’t feature often enough to warrant a statement that you don’t like them. I sent him back for a better answer. He seconded his dad’s weird aversion to Al Pacino. Could celeb-aversion be hereditary? I see a pattern against mob movie character actors emerging.

I’m curious to know what inexplicable biases snooty readers have. You don’t need a justification. In fact, it’s better if you have no valid reason, whatsoever. Clearly Rachael Ray is odious and grating. That’s too easy. I need to know who you can’t abide on a visceral level, though they are probably a lovely person.

Angry gods

I have angered the gods. Specifically:

1. The god of Unsolicited Email

I don’t know who sold my information recently, but I am not interested in last minute cruises, Pamper’s coupons, discount pharmaceuticals, or making a contribution to your lizard rehabilitation sanctuary.

2. The god of Discontinued Patterns

I am like a divining rod for dinnerware patterns about to fail and become exorbitantly expensive. Every pattern I registered for as a giddy bride-to-be with exquisite taste, collected half of as wedding gifts, and entombed in bubble-wrap was summarily discontinued.

I have exactly enough to serve a dinner party of 12, as long as no one wants to eat at the same time and is not thirsty.

Just this week, I scored 5 dinner plates on ebay. Feeling flush with success, I checked out my silver pattern, which is actually still in production. Not that it matters, at $100 a fork and $639 a place-setting (used – no monograms; I’d even change my initials if I could get a deal on the ones with monograms). I’m not even looking for things like the Bonbon Spoon or the Crab-claw Cracker. I just want the basics, you know, the things that Dixie handles. I might even go for $100 if Towle made a sterling “spork.”

On to my crystal. Waterford never discontinues a pattern. They simply “archive” it. For $200 I could special order an Irishman to blow me another footed iced beverage, delivered in 6-9 months. Blow me another, is right. If I have a party, exactly 7 of you can have champagne, 4 of you wine, and 4 of you water or iced tea, but not both.

3. The god of Lame Injuries

I smashed my pinkie into a countertop a month ago, and it still hurts. I decided to tape it to the finger next door in hopes that it will stop that awful snapping noise. And now I’m forced to explain that I just smashed my pinkie into a countertop.

Eject Reject

Each day with children is an adventure, but when you’ve got one that’s not of your biological issue, then it’s a mini-psychology experiment in nature vs. nurture.

I discovered something today. Emetophobia (that is the fear of or anxiety around vomiting) is inherited. I have a nonchalant barfer. That doesn’t even compute in my mind. How could you not care, or even notice? Apparently it involves sitting up briefly, rolling to the other side of the bed, and going back to sleep. It didn’t even warrant a mention. Luckily it was laundry day. Well, not lucky for me.

I don’t see how it’s even possible. My post-purge involves highly specialized rituals of intermittent sobbing and wailing, bathing, gargling, disinfecting, laying just so with a hot water bottle, propping my head up with extra pillows, and lying ever-so still.

I am a sympathetic vomiter, too. Just writing about it is making me nauseous.

It must be nice not to be impacted by it at all, but I do wonder if lack of trepidation in this area will make shots of Creme de Menthe seem like a good idea?



So I’ve been busy aging over here. Today I’m 40, and I did the whole Facebook countdown of all the things that are so awesome about being 40–you know, the cosmic Hallmark ones…friends, family, health, etc. And I busted out a super-awesome yoga pose to prove 40 is all that. (WordPress apparently can’t handle a portrait image–it’s a known issue, but if I can balance on my forearms, you can turn your head to the right.)

And one day in, I think it is. But I have some questions for those of you on this side…

  1. Does “hip replacement” refer to the old woman who sneaked in my room and traded out her old lady hips for mine?
  2. Is it unhealthy that a new mattress has changed my life so much that I have named her Gigi and made provisions in my will for her?
  3. Is there anything better than a Chobani in the fridge? Except for a Pomegranate one. I can’t eat that unless I’m near floss. The seeds get stuck under my new crown.
  4. Do I have to stop wearing socks, because the indentation in my leg never seems to go away?
  5. Why are my feet shrinking? Is that why old ladies fall down so much?
  6. Do I have to like Jazz now and vote Republican?
  7. When do I get to say to someone, “Listen here, Little Miss…”
  8. Do I now have to start timing when I eat certain foods, knowing “I will be up all night”?
  9. Do I need to start asking my doctor if things “are right for me”?
  10. When should “Bootylicious” be replaced as my theme song?
  11. Now, can I order a Bloody Mary without weird looks?
  12. Do I automatically get issued a red hat?
  13. Do I have to wear a red hat? I can’t really pull off hats.
  14. Must I now own a sweater vest?
  15. And finally, where’s my cake?

A Cup of B, anyone?

I’m about to turn 40, and it’s hard to keep up. There are all kinds of things I can do to better my appearance…grow hair where I want it but don’t have it, remove hair where I have it but don’t want it, plump up saggy places with fat, tighten up places that have too much fat, curl straight lashes, straighten curly locks, get darker skin and lighter hair.

I don’t have a plastic surgeon. I barely have a dermatologist, and that was for the 15 year old pencil lead in lodged in my shoulder. Long story.

Anyway, I generally assume that everyone is the same age I am, has their natural hair color and original equipment. It saves a lot of time that way. So, I’m continually taken-aback at who has had what tucked, lifted, lowered, implanted, removed, injected, and sculpted. I guess all of those plastic surgeons in my town aren’t skin grafting for burn victims after all.

I don’t know if I can’t bring myself to care, or I just can’t figure out where to start. I’ve done the basics–had braces, colored my hair and had it Keratin-treated. And sure, there are some things about my physical appearance that are considered standard deviation or two off the ideal. I have scrawny eyebrows, a bulb of a nose, skin the color of a night-crawler, and can’t fill out a bikini top. Maybe I’m just rationalizing, but translucent skin doesn’t get leathery, eyebrow waxing is time consuming and painful, I have a great sense of smell, and an over-abundant chest gets in the way of yoga. I spend most of my time trying to tamp down what I have under enough lycra anyway. I don’t need something hitting me in the face during headstand.

Maybe I’m too afraid to be off cycle…I’ll work up my nerve, spend a fortune, and enjoy a long recovery only to find out night-crawler is back in. Most likely, I’d hate to be that person that had something go terribly wrong. I don’t want my kids to know that I died from a cankle-ectomy, or have that face that can only register a constant state of surprise and have to adjust my vocabulary to match. Every response would have to be, “Really? You went to the post office? I just can’t imagine!”

For now I can eat cinnamon and enjoy a slight allergenic effect of puffy lips and wait until the lumpy, pasty Rubens ideal makes a comeback. I can at least enjoy getting to lumpy via Thin Mints.


I just found out Northwestern is playing in a bowl game–the 10th time in school history! And it’s in Houston, close enough to travel. And it’s a team that doesn’t tend to show up for the second half! And it’s the Meineke Car Care Bowl?

I hate to tell Meineke this, but hosting NU in your bowl is pretty much the kiss of death for your company. Last year we were at the Ticket City Bowl. Ever hear of them? Exactly.

I’m just wondering who the bowl committee turned down in favor of Meineke. Was Chess King too demanding? Couldn’t get the Head-On, the roll on headache relief people on board?

I’m sure Meineke is full of nice people and a decent business model, but I would have liked to have been in that marketing meeting, trying to get the corporate executives on board. “I know, we can sponsor a bowl game with 2 mediocre teams and triangulate our prime demographic, people who drive cars!” On second thought, I’m sure anyone watching it will find it’s as good a time as any to get an oil change and rotate the tires about 4 minutes in.

One of Meineke’s tag lines is “we know exhaust.” So do I, Meineke. So, do I.

Umm, Go Cats?

Snooty Slack

It has been kindly brought to my attention that my posts have been non-existent of late. Apparently I’m not meeting your needs. You’re so demanding. Though I get hundreds of page hits and regular readers, few will deign to grace my blog with the crumbs of a comment. Even fewer sign up to receive a feed, “like” snooty on Facebook, or acknowledge sometimes I just need a hug. Well, ok, I don’t really do hugs, but you get the point.

I’m BUSY, people. Don’t get all up in my stuff about it. This blogging thing isn’t paying the bills. Though your lack of attention renders you completely unworthy, I’ve been thinking about you. I’ve been on week-long reconnaissance tour of the midwest, scouring for snoot nuggets. Prepare to be snooted.


Color me Noncommittal

I have a jacket that was clearly advertised as “eggplant,” and yet I cannot wear it within the Texas state limits without either being accused of or praised for (depending on your viewpoint) attending Texas A&M University (insert faint whooping, or whatever it is they do when they hear/read/think of the revered name with misty eyes). Let’s be clear: I am protecting myself from the elements, not making a statement of allegiance.

Rule: you may not co-opt an entire color for your cause, worthy or silly.

If I wear pink, then I’m allied with fighting breast cancer. Ok, fine. Then that must mean if I wear any other color that I’m secretly hoping for breast cancer to wipe out womanhood (and a small percentage of males), and I’m the single worst person on the planet. Wear eggplant, and I not only wish horrible things on billions of people, but I went to A&M to boot. Double tragedy! It’s too much pressure to send the right message. Dressing in the morning will be paralyzing.

On second thought, I’m going to amend the rule slightly to, “You may not co-opt a color for your cause, worthy or silly, unless no one cares.” I call this the University of Texas clause. If there is absolutely no danger of wearing or displaying that particular color by choice under any other circumstance, then fine. UT, I think you’re safe with the burnt orange. Godspeed.

Last edit, “You may not co-opt a fake color for your cause, worth or silly, unless no one cares.” I’m talking to you, Michigan. Really, it’s yellow. Not maize, yellow. You didn’t get all fancy with blue, why did you insist on tricking up the yellow? And really, how badass do you feel in maize? It’s not working for you.

So, let’s see, I’ve offended everyone in Texas, half of Michigan (elated the other half, if they are able to read after all), and basically all women, fathers, brothers, sons, husbands, and house pets–all before 10 am. Good work.

Repeat Offender

I know what you’re thinking…why be a hater? I mean, I know what you’re thinking, and I’m asking you why are you hating on my volcano of spite? Get your own!

This personality quirk is finally paying off for me. I didn’t ever win the Good Spirit award at St. James Episcopal school in all of my elementary years. (Note: this was not the school at which I peed on the floor to make a point. This was a different school, altogether. I was not judged as having “good spirit” dry pants notwithstanding. Perhaps had they known my track record, they would have found me positively sunny.)

I was made the skunk in the ballet recital at whom all the other dancers turned up their cute animal noses and said “pee-ew!”. That was actually in the choreography. They are lucky I’m not the Unabomber. I did get asked to play the Queen of Hearts in “Alice in Wonderland” without an audition. I was what you might call a sullen child. I did have a few teachers ask me if I were on drugs, come to think of it. I wasn’t unhappy, just keenly aware of what was ridiculous or annoying and had the good sense to point it out. Someone actually wrote in my yearbook that I was “a mean, little wrangler, but a cool girl” and that I should “stay smart.” Not “stay sweet.” I required adjustment to the sign-off cliche!

But what might be vaguely creepy on an 8-year-old makes for good holiday letters and blog content. So, chances are I will offend you at some point. You may be a Nascar-loving, marathon-running, silver-lining type. You may not be asked to guest blog…just sayin’. But I will at least poke fun at myself 10-12% of the time.