I ran across this poem at Slate several weeks ago and I thought it was just swell. If you'd like to hear the author (who is an awfully swell gal) read it, click here.
Me, when I write poetry it is nothing short of crappy and self-indulgent, and I am disinclined to submit you to it. That is, unless I find the poems I wrote as a final project for my 9th grade writing class.
I was in a pickle because I hadn't done anything for the final project and we were to either write an extensive essay on lord knows what, or submit a collection of 11 poems we had written over the term. I brewed myself I pot of coffee, sat down at the typewriter, and stayed up all night long and wrote a collection that I could turn in. I received an 'A' and laughed like a maniac. These poems are too embarrassing not to share. Alas, I know not where they are. My suspicions are that they now reside in a box somewhere in my mother's garage in California. If I find them, though, y'all will be the first to know.
There will be martinis tonight!
Breasts Like Martinis
by Jill McDonough
The bartender at Caesar's tells jokes we've heard a hundred times.
A shoelace walks into a bar, for example. I whisper
Sarah Evers told me that joke in sixth grade and Josey says
My brother Steve, 1982. A whore, a midget, a Chinaman,
nothing we haven't heard. Then a customer asks
Why are breasts like martinis? and they both start laughing.
They know this one, everybody knows this one, except
us. They don't even bother with the punch line. The bartender just says
Yeah, but I always said there should be a third one, on the back,
for dancing, dancing with the woman-shaped air behind the bar, his hand
on the breast on her back. So we figure three is too many,
one's not enough. Okay; we can do better than that. I like my breasts
like I like my martinis, we say: Small and bruised or big and dry. Perfect.
Overflowing. Reeking of juniper, spilling all over the bar.
When I have a migraine and she reaches for me, I say
Josey, my breasts are like martinis. She nods, solemn:
People should keep their goddamn hands off yours. How
could we tell these jokes to the bartender? We can't. He'll never know.
I say it after scrubbing the kitchen cabinets, and she gets it:
dirty and wet. Walking in the wind, Josey says My breasts
are like martinis and I hail a cab, know she means shaking, ice cold.
November 9, 2007
November 8, 2007
Slap My Ass and Call Me Sally
To say that I am not a morning person grossly underestimates how challenging the first light of day is for me. I am a good sleeper. Once I lay my wary head to rest, I slip into a deep and far away slumber that is rarely disturbed by little things like alarms, loud noises, shaking . . . you get the point. A well placed appendage will usually rouse me, but if you do manage to wake me, and don't have the appendage at the ready, my condolences to you, as I can be downright unpleasant.
I had the crazy early flight this morning. More than one person had doubts that I would be able to haul my arse out of bed to make it in time. I worked very late last night and had to clean up the digs (because I hate coming home from a trip to Casa de Chaos), do laundry and pack. Knowing that if I went to sleep, there would be no waking me, I took the trusty approach of staying up all night. My apartment hasn't been so clean in a very long time.
I am fortunate that I am one of those folks who can sleep on planes. Yet still, I'm about four hours short of rested.
After arriving and collecting my bag, I went to the auto rental desk to pick up my "mid size Taurus or similar" vehicle. The lovely Henrietta, who was helping me said, "Would a Mustang be OK?"
As I came to realize that I was being upgraded to a "sporty" car, I said, "Somehow, I'll muddle through with it."
Off I skipped to claim my shiny blue pony.
Generally speaking, Ford vehicles and I are in a fight. Dear Esmeralda has been an expensive lady to keep happy. Though when she's happy, she's swell enough. But as mentioned before, I will not be purchasing another Ford for myself.
The Mustang has a nice rumble under the hood. And it takes a mere tickling from the toe to her long skinny pedal on the right for her rumble to jump to a roar. Probably not the best thing for me to have in my sleep deficit state. Fun though.
I had the crazy early flight this morning. More than one person had doubts that I would be able to haul my arse out of bed to make it in time. I worked very late last night and had to clean up the digs (because I hate coming home from a trip to Casa de Chaos), do laundry and pack. Knowing that if I went to sleep, there would be no waking me, I took the trusty approach of staying up all night. My apartment hasn't been so clean in a very long time.
I am fortunate that I am one of those folks who can sleep on planes. Yet still, I'm about four hours short of rested.
After arriving and collecting my bag, I went to the auto rental desk to pick up my "mid size Taurus or similar" vehicle. The lovely Henrietta, who was helping me said, "Would a Mustang be OK?"
As I came to realize that I was being upgraded to a "sporty" car, I said, "Somehow, I'll muddle through with it."
Off I skipped to claim my shiny blue pony.
Generally speaking, Ford vehicles and I are in a fight. Dear Esmeralda has been an expensive lady to keep happy. Though when she's happy, she's swell enough. But as mentioned before, I will not be purchasing another Ford for myself.
The Mustang has a nice rumble under the hood. And it takes a mere tickling from the toe to her long skinny pedal on the right for her rumble to jump to a roar. Probably not the best thing for me to have in my sleep deficit state. Fun though.
November 7, 2007
From the Inbox
It's 8:20 and I'm still at the office. My flight to Texas leaves at 5:50 AM and I still have not done laundry nor packed. I don't foresee much sleep before I'm airborne. The friend who I'm visiting is not optimistic about me making the flight. Right now, I'm not too optimistic about it either.
So. Instead of writing something, I am once again tossing up something somewhat interesting and amusing that landed in my inbox. Whether any of it is true, I'm sure Snopes.com could tell you.
Enjoy.
If you yelled for 8 years, 7 months and 6 days you would have produced enough sound energy to heat one cup of coffee. (Hardly seems worth it.)
If you farted consistently for 6 years and 9 months, enough gas is produced to create the energy of an atomic bomb. (Now that's more like it!)
The human heart creates enough pressure when it pumps out to the body to squirt blood 30 feet. (O.M.G.!)
A pig's orgasm lasts 30 minutes. (In my next life, I want to be a pig.)
A cockroach will live nine days without its head before it starves to death.
(Creepy.) (I'm still not over the pig.)
Banging your head against a wall uses 150 calories a hour (Don't try this at home, maybe at work)
The male praying mantis cannot copulate while its head is attached to its body. The female initiates sex by ripping the male's head off. (Honey, I'm home. What the...?!)
The flea can jump 350 times its body length. It's like a human jumping the length of a football field. (30 minutes...lucky pig! Can you imagine?)
The catfish has over 27,000 taste buds. (What could be so tasty on the bottom of a pond?)
Some lions mate over 50 times a day. (I still want to be a pig in my next life...quality over quantity)
Butterflies taste with their feet. (Something I always wanted to know.)
The strongest muscle in the body is the tongue. (Hmmmmmm.....)
Right-handed people live, on average, nine years longer than left-handed people. (If you're ambidextrous, do you split the difference?)
Elephants are the only animals that cannot jump. (Okay, so that would be a good thing)
A cat's urine glows under a black light. (I wonder who was paid to figure that out?)
An ostrich's eye is bigger than its brain. (I know some people like that.)
Starfish have no brains (I know some people like that too.)
Polar bears are left-handed. (If they switch, they'll live a lot longer)
Humans and dolphins are the only species that have sex for pleasure.
(What about that pig??)
So. Instead of writing something, I am once again tossing up something somewhat interesting and amusing that landed in my inbox. Whether any of it is true, I'm sure Snopes.com could tell you.
Enjoy.
If you yelled for 8 years, 7 months and 6 days you would have produced enough sound energy to heat one cup of coffee. (Hardly seems worth it.)
If you farted consistently for 6 years and 9 months, enough gas is produced to create the energy of an atomic bomb. (Now that's more like it!)
The human heart creates enough pressure when it pumps out to the body to squirt blood 30 feet. (O.M.G.!)
A pig's orgasm lasts 30 minutes. (In my next life, I want to be a pig.)
A cockroach will live nine days without its head before it starves to death.
(Creepy.) (I'm still not over the pig.)
Banging your head against a wall uses 150 calories a hour (Don't try this at home, maybe at work)
The male praying mantis cannot copulate while its head is attached to its body. The female initiates sex by ripping the male's head off. (Honey, I'm home. What the...?!)
The flea can jump 350 times its body length. It's like a human jumping the length of a football field. (30 minutes...lucky pig! Can you imagine?)
The catfish has over 27,000 taste buds. (What could be so tasty on the bottom of a pond?)
Some lions mate over 50 times a day. (I still want to be a pig in my next life...quality over quantity)
Butterflies taste with their feet. (Something I always wanted to know.)
The strongest muscle in the body is the tongue. (Hmmmmmm.....)
Right-handed people live, on average, nine years longer than left-handed people. (If you're ambidextrous, do you split the difference?)
Elephants are the only animals that cannot jump. (Okay, so that would be a good thing)
A cat's urine glows under a black light. (I wonder who was paid to figure that out?)
An ostrich's eye is bigger than its brain. (I know some people like that.)
Starfish have no brains (I know some people like that too.)
Polar bears are left-handed. (If they switch, they'll live a lot longer)
Humans and dolphins are the only species that have sex for pleasure.
(What about that pig??)
November 6, 2007
If You Remember the 60’s . . .
Confession: I don’t get the 60’s. Of course there is music from the 60’s that works for me, and there is the mighty automotive theme of yesterday’s post, but as a decade, I’ve never really gained the pop-culture appreciation that most people of my era have. I realize that I’ll be raising hackles on many people, but I don’t see it as a magical time. And truth be told, I wasn’t there. I was born in February of 1970, so my only real experience with the 60’s was conception and gestation. So clearly, I’m talking out of my bootie on this one.
I think feminism has done as much bad as good. Not that feminism was created in the 60’s, but great strides were made during that time.
Yes, I appreciate being able to wear trousers without sidelong glances or presumption that I’m a lesbian. Yes, it’s great that women can go without the constraints of a brassiere. [As a side note: I’m very pro-brassiere. I’m 37 years old and still have high and firm titties. It works for me. I know plenty of women who don’t enjoy such a fate and even rue casting aside their bras as their udders sail to lower and lower latitudes of their anatomy. Having said that, I haven’t borne children either, so my bosoms have mostly been used as modes of seduction and toys for boys. I’m a giver.] Yes, a lady can work in a man’s field. I do. It has ups and downs.
The downside of feminism is that it has bred a climate of political correctness, especially in fields that have any crossover with academia, which disallows fun and off-color joking. Shameful. People seem to be constantly censoring themselves out of saying the fun and amusing things that would make them much more interesting. One of the saddest results of this feminist movement is men who have had the backbone bullied out of them.
The whole free love, hippie peacenik thing: it tends to overlook balance in favor of happy, pretty, peace. Peace is flat without some complimentary aggression. Balance, friends, it soothes my soul.
To give fair credit, lots of good came from the 60’s. Music, writing, sex, tolerance, and surely a bunch of political stuff that I know virtually nothing about because I’m admittedly horrible about paying attention to history. And that makes up the theme of this post: in the end, I may not know what I’m talking about, and I wasn’t there.
I think feminism has done as much bad as good. Not that feminism was created in the 60’s, but great strides were made during that time.
Yes, I appreciate being able to wear trousers without sidelong glances or presumption that I’m a lesbian. Yes, it’s great that women can go without the constraints of a brassiere. [As a side note: I’m very pro-brassiere. I’m 37 years old and still have high and firm titties. It works for me. I know plenty of women who don’t enjoy such a fate and even rue casting aside their bras as their udders sail to lower and lower latitudes of their anatomy. Having said that, I haven’t borne children either, so my bosoms have mostly been used as modes of seduction and toys for boys. I’m a giver.] Yes, a lady can work in a man’s field. I do. It has ups and downs.
The downside of feminism is that it has bred a climate of political correctness, especially in fields that have any crossover with academia, which disallows fun and off-color joking. Shameful. People seem to be constantly censoring themselves out of saying the fun and amusing things that would make them much more interesting. One of the saddest results of this feminist movement is men who have had the backbone bullied out of them.
The whole free love, hippie peacenik thing: it tends to overlook balance in favor of happy, pretty, peace. Peace is flat without some complimentary aggression. Balance, friends, it soothes my soul.
To give fair credit, lots of good came from the 60’s. Music, writing, sex, tolerance, and surely a bunch of political stuff that I know virtually nothing about because I’m admittedly horrible about paying attention to history. And that makes up the theme of this post: in the end, I may not know what I’m talking about, and I wasn’t there.
November 5, 2007
The Gentle Purr of a Barracuda
Confession: I once dated a boy on the merit of the sound of his voice. He was decent enough looking, tall, and an interesting guy, but his voice is what really sold me. He is also one of the boys who I deflowered. Yet another younger man situation. He was a tender 19 to my worldly 23 years of age. He also drove a black 1966 Barracuda, which I didn’t know when I fell for his voice. To say that the sound of a Barracuda engine rumbling is exciting is putting it gently.
Doesn’t it just make your heart skip a beat?
The late 1960’s is an era of muscle cars and hotrods that really speak to me. That is the bulk of my affections for the 60’s. Which will bring me to a confession for tomorrow (see how I am milking two posts out of this!).
Doesn’t it just make your heart skip a beat?The late 1960’s is an era of muscle cars and hotrods that really speak to me. That is the bulk of my affections for the 60’s. Which will bring me to a confession for tomorrow (see how I am milking two posts out of this!).
November 4, 2007
Tejas
Once again, I am going to a wedding. Thankfully, not mine. This time around, I will be travelling to a little country north of the Mexican border commonly known to people in the know as Tejas. A State the rest of the world knows as Texas. A very good friend of mine, who is probably the smartest person I know (she got her Ph.D. in atmospheric sciences because she though it would be fun to figure stuff out using non-linear math, for the love of Einstein!) , is getting married to a native son of Texas. The good news is that she is of the "unconventional bride" mindset. She is also absolutely wacky-doodle about Star Wars so I am hoping that some non-traditional thematic undertones will present themselves at the reception.
This is the first wedding in years that I have not been dreading. There will be lots of brainiacs and geeks in attendance, and her family is a total kick in the seat so I anticipate that it will be thoroughly entertaining.
The other slice of good news about this whole affair is that I will be flying into Austin, Texas where I will have some quality time with my best friend, Miss M. Can I tell y'all that this lady feeds my soul? She does. She's also the subject of this post. To say that we are intimate friends, puts it gently. We shall laugh, we shall cry, we shall drink red wine by the cowboy hat full, and we shall likely smoke cigarettes like bad girls. Self-destructive, sure, but that is what being reunited with good friends is all about.
The bad news is that I must post to this here blog every day. That, dear friends, will be challenging. Don't get me wrong, I am up to it. Just don't expect any miraculous feats of authorship to cross your screen. Though tall tales from Tejas may be entertaining and littered with alliteration.
This is the first wedding in years that I have not been dreading. There will be lots of brainiacs and geeks in attendance, and her family is a total kick in the seat so I anticipate that it will be thoroughly entertaining.
The other slice of good news about this whole affair is that I will be flying into Austin, Texas where I will have some quality time with my best friend, Miss M. Can I tell y'all that this lady feeds my soul? She does. She's also the subject of this post. To say that we are intimate friends, puts it gently. We shall laugh, we shall cry, we shall drink red wine by the cowboy hat full, and we shall likely smoke cigarettes like bad girls. Self-destructive, sure, but that is what being reunited with good friends is all about.
The bad news is that I must post to this here blog every day. That, dear friends, will be challenging. Don't get me wrong, I am up to it. Just don't expect any miraculous feats of authorship to cross your screen. Though tall tales from Tejas may be entertaining and littered with alliteration.
November 3, 2007
Artsy Fartsy Saturday
There are artists studios housed in old industrial warehouses along the Charles River in Waltham, Massachusetts, the town I now call home. Every year during the first weekend in November, the studios are opened to the public so that one may venture in and see the work as it is created and have a voyeuristic view into the loft life of a bunch of artists. This being the first week of November, the Waltham Mills Artist Association shindig is on.
While a goodly portion of New England is sniveling and whining because it's raining, I'm thrilled and have taken it as a glorious opportunity to get out of the house and enjoy this place for one of the driving reasons I moved here from sunny California. The icing on the cake about the weather is that the studios were not too crowded. I’m not a fan of crowds, especially when perusing art.
I like art to be pretty, or disturbing in a provocative way, but not a contrived way. Having the artists on hand to pick their brains as pieces are encountered is particularly cool. Unless upon walking into their studio, you realize that their art is horrid and you want to get out without having to talk to them. Some sad little worlds are not even worth trying to understand. I make a lousy patron of the arts.
While popping from studio to studio all afternoon, I came across several artists whose work appealed greatly to me. There is a photographer (Sam Laundon) who does interesting work with digitally coloring photographs. I came across an oil artist (Emilia Carbone) whose paintings are a divine mix of pretty and sordid. She does great things with light and is clearly very influenced by Edward Hopper. Oddly, I like Edward Hopper, but he does not really send me over the moon. Kind of like the Beatles and Bruce Springsteen: I like them, but I greatly prefer to listen to bands that are influenced by them than to have to listen to them any more.
What effected me more than anything was this piece by Michael B. Wilson:
While a goodly portion of New England is sniveling and whining because it's raining, I'm thrilled and have taken it as a glorious opportunity to get out of the house and enjoy this place for one of the driving reasons I moved here from sunny California. The icing on the cake about the weather is that the studios were not too crowded. I’m not a fan of crowds, especially when perusing art.
I like art to be pretty, or disturbing in a provocative way, but not a contrived way. Having the artists on hand to pick their brains as pieces are encountered is particularly cool. Unless upon walking into their studio, you realize that their art is horrid and you want to get out without having to talk to them. Some sad little worlds are not even worth trying to understand. I make a lousy patron of the arts.
While popping from studio to studio all afternoon, I came across several artists whose work appealed greatly to me. There is a photographer (Sam Laundon) who does interesting work with digitally coloring photographs. I came across an oil artist (Emilia Carbone) whose paintings are a divine mix of pretty and sordid. She does great things with light and is clearly very influenced by Edward Hopper. Oddly, I like Edward Hopper, but he does not really send me over the moon. Kind of like the Beatles and Bruce Springsteen: I like them, but I greatly prefer to listen to bands that are influenced by them than to have to listen to them any more.
What effected me more than anything was this piece by Michael B. Wilson:
I think there is something that is going on between the beautiful delicate nature of the rose and the beautiful robust nature of the train. Both with a distinctly appealing aesthetic, both with the potential for great power, yet each with distinctly different morphologies. I liked it so much that I offered to hand knit a sweater for it because I seriously can not afford the painting. He didn’t fall for it. A girl can try, though.
There were several other artists who had incredible work and I didn’t even make it to all the studios. Looking at art is exhausting. I think I have to go back tomorrow for another dose.
I don’t understand how people go on big museum tours and hit one after another cramming all sorts of art down their throats at breakneck speed. I’ve always liked digestion time. I was fortunate to have grown up in Santa Barbara because there is a huge art scene there. From the Santa Barbara Museum of Art (which is phenomenal for the size of the town) to the grass roots artisans, there was always a gallery to go to, and usually for free. As a kid, I would kill time just getting lost in an installation at the museum or one of the many galleries at the public library. Without even realizing it, I developed an awareness of and appreciation for art.
Let’s hope that I’m done being deep for the month.
Fucking Hell
After unsuccessfully trying to sign in to Bolgger . . . All. Day. Long. Yesterday. I went with the back up plan of posting on my NaBloPoMo Ning page so I could maintain compliance with posting every day of November. Even got a comment there (Thanks Aliblahblah!) so I'm still in the running to complete the daily blogging shenanigans. Phew! Anyhow, the following is what was posted yesterday.
As A Backup Plan
Fucking Blogger!
Since Blogger is not letting me post . . . so far . . . I'm going to post here because I am nothing if not a follow through girl.
And pardon the crappy factor of this post. I'm desperate and busy and the wheels are already coming off the bus with the blog every day effort. Dammitt!!
My day started with having to be at an EPA laboratory at 8 AM. Now, you see, I am not by any stretch of the imagination a morning person. In fact, I'm a lucky if I can make it to the office by 10 AM person. So, having a 45 minute drive before touring an EPA facility first thing in the morning was less than superfantastic.
Neither here nor there . . . The reason I was touring this building is because it features "green design and construction". I'm environmentally conscious. I'm even an environmental consultant by profession. However, I'm not much of a drum banger for the cause. It's not that I don't care, it's more that it bores me. Sure, everything is wrecked environmentally and things need to be done to make it better, but to me, the subject matter is about as tedious as watching news reports about another Goddamned car bombing in the Middle East. And to me, that spells out extremely tedious. And honestly, sea level rising resulting in Florida becoming largely submerged does not break my heart. At all. (Many apologies to the lovely people of the Sunshine State)
So, the building I toured this morning was the EPA's New England Regional Laboratory Green Building. Which, I'll have you know, is very cool. It's recieved a boatload of awards for being so freaking green and it touts a net 30% savings on energy expenditure all around as a result of how damned green it is. Some of it's features include: energy efficiency, water efficiency, solar power, green power, landscape design (xeriscaping), waste handling, and utilization of environmentally preferable materials. Check out the brochure. You know you want to, you don't really have anything better to do with your time.
The long and short of it is that although energy efficiency and green construction isn't the most scintillating subject to muse over, but my apathetic ass was able to see that there is much that can be done that makes a positive impact on the environment and the wallet without too much effort on my end. Much of it seems to be as simple as thinking things through before you take a trip to the hardware or garden shop. Blah blah blah.
I've not seen An Inconvenient Truth. I hear it's great, but I'd rather watch something that is fun and interesting. I usually get into arguments with people who are patently 'green'. I see their point and I get it, often moreso than they do. I just can not resist the role of Devil's advocate. Plus, imagine Florida being a thing of the past . . .
Still . . . the whole of it bores me, but it's worth thinking through. Thus endith my contradiction stew. I've come 'round and banged the drum. Don't expect to hear any more from me on the environment.
Since Blogger is not letting me post . . . so far . . . I'm going to post here because I am nothing if not a follow through girl.
And pardon the crappy factor of this post. I'm desperate and busy and the wheels are already coming off the bus with the blog every day effort. Dammitt!!
My day started with having to be at an EPA laboratory at 8 AM. Now, you see, I am not by any stretch of the imagination a morning person. In fact, I'm a lucky if I can make it to the office by 10 AM person. So, having a 45 minute drive before touring an EPA facility first thing in the morning was less than superfantastic.
Neither here nor there . . . The reason I was touring this building is because it features "green design and construction". I'm environmentally conscious. I'm even an environmental consultant by profession. However, I'm not much of a drum banger for the cause. It's not that I don't care, it's more that it bores me. Sure, everything is wrecked environmentally and things need to be done to make it better, but to me, the subject matter is about as tedious as watching news reports about another Goddamned car bombing in the Middle East. And to me, that spells out extremely tedious. And honestly, sea level rising resulting in Florida becoming largely submerged does not break my heart. At all. (Many apologies to the lovely people of the Sunshine State)
So, the building I toured this morning was the EPA's New England Regional Laboratory Green Building. Which, I'll have you know, is very cool. It's recieved a boatload of awards for being so freaking green and it touts a net 30% savings on energy expenditure all around as a result of how damned green it is. Some of it's features include: energy efficiency, water efficiency, solar power, green power, landscape design (xeriscaping), waste handling, and utilization of environmentally preferable materials. Check out the brochure. You know you want to, you don't really have anything better to do with your time.
The long and short of it is that although energy efficiency and green construction isn't the most scintillating subject to muse over, but my apathetic ass was able to see that there is much that can be done that makes a positive impact on the environment and the wallet without too much effort on my end. Much of it seems to be as simple as thinking things through before you take a trip to the hardware or garden shop. Blah blah blah.
I've not seen An Inconvenient Truth. I hear it's great, but I'd rather watch something that is fun and interesting. I usually get into arguments with people who are patently 'green'. I see their point and I get it, often moreso than they do. I just can not resist the role of Devil's advocate. Plus, imagine Florida being a thing of the past . . .
Still . . . the whole of it bores me, but it's worth thinking through. Thus endith my contradiction stew. I've come 'round and banged the drum. Don't expect to hear any more from me on the environment.
November 1, 2007
Show Me Yer Neck
Confession: I love the feel of a kiss on the neck. It takes my breath away. For that matter, I love having a hand around my neck. I like pretty much anything on my neck with the exception of turtlenecks. Which I don’t like at all. I especially like pearls on my neck. Diamonds are cute too, but they have lost their appeal at the ham hands of the bling bling crowd.
And about turtle necks . . .
People who live in cold climates really seem to like them, but they look so horrible and feel so stifling, I don’t understand how anyone can bear it. They are kind of like shorts in that very few people look good in them, yet so many insist upon wearing them. It seems that warmth can be effectively achieved with a scarf and layers. And guess what: with layers, when you go indoors, you can remove them according to conditions and let the skin on your neck and chest breathe.
Imagine.
For those who think that turtlenecks are real swell, you can have them. All of them. Just try to avoid wearing them in public, because they are even difficult to look at. Not as bad as seeing someone walking down the street with their zipper down, of course, but close.
Guess who woke up surly.
And about turtle necks . . .
People who live in cold climates really seem to like them, but they look so horrible and feel so stifling, I don’t understand how anyone can bear it. They are kind of like shorts in that very few people look good in them, yet so many insist upon wearing them. It seems that warmth can be effectively achieved with a scarf and layers. And guess what: with layers, when you go indoors, you can remove them according to conditions and let the skin on your neck and chest breathe.
Imagine.
For those who think that turtlenecks are real swell, you can have them. All of them. Just try to avoid wearing them in public, because they are even difficult to look at. Not as bad as seeing someone walking down the street with their zipper down, of course, but close.
Guess who woke up surly.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
