Seriously, there are some things worse than death. And if I’m ever caught doing them, it means I’m ready to go and helping me along would be a mercy.
For starters, I will never, ever dress my cats in cute little pet clothes in either a vain attempt to anthropomorphize them into child substitutes or just because I’m bored. (Hank’s black leatherette walking vest does not count.
It serves a purpose and besides, he looks really hot in it.) With the possible exception of Halloween, (I once saw a French Bulldog dressed as a bumblebee and didn’t gag), there’s no excuse to tart your pets up like little pimps and hos. And trust me, your Lhasa Apso does not look cute in that Burberry raincoat and booties, no matter what they told you at Pour La Pooch. The other dogs laugh at him on those play dates you arrange at the pet park, and one of these nights he’s going to rip your throat out while you sleep. When I dress Hank and Maude as Romeo and Juliet, or even put cute little knit sweaters on their backs, just kill me now, before they do.
And speaking of matching outfits, the husband and I have a pact that we will never, ever, dress in coordinated ‘his/hers’ ensembles.
When the photos came back from a trip we took to New England a few years ago, we realized that, for shame, we had come uncomfortably close. We took a blood oath and swore, never again, not even by accident. If you should see us dressed alike, just kill us both, or better yet, force us to wear matching “I’m With Stupid” t-shirts in public for the rest of our lives.
I will never paint little designs on my fingernails, not itty bitty flowers, not butterflies, and certainly not tiger stripes. Nor will I set my manicured and extended talons with tiny rhinestones, sequins or bits of glitter. If I’m feeling particularly frisky, I may go French, and that's plenty nail art for me. So if you ever see me with a bouquet on my fingertips instead of in them, just kill me now. That goes for my toes too.
Call me a food snob, but if at all possible, with the exception of sushi bars, I try never to eat in restaurants that have color photos of the food on the menu. Sometimes it may be unavoidable, say when eating with a group of less particular tastes, or in a foreign country where otherwise you wouldn’t have any idea what you were ordering. However, if you should happen to see me eating in a Denny’s, actually enjoying the Grand Slam breakfast, or the like, on my own time and my own dime, just kill me now. The food would probably do it pretty soon anyway.
Hey, I’m all for growing old, especially considering the alternative, but I will never, ever, join an organization with advanced age as a prerequisite. The AARP is wasting postage, and possibly precious resources, sending me harassing mailers, likewise the Gray Panthers, Angry Old Farts, and Grandmothers for Peace (although I may agree with their causes). But the most objectionable, by far, is The Red Hat Society.
Yeah, yeah, I know, wearing a red hat with a purple outfit is somehow supposed to be empowering, but let’s face it, almost nobody actually looks good in purple, especially white women of a certain age. (Our black red hat sisters fare slightly better, but it's still not a good look.) And unless you’re a Vegas showgirl or a major league baseball player, that goes double for the red hat. These are the kind of women who give menopause a bad name, and they deserve to die.
And the same thing goes for the Bloomer Girls too.
You want empowerment? Read a book, take a yoga class, learn to sky dive, get a hormone patch and a shot of Botox and steal your daughter’s boyfriend, but for God’s sake don’t plop a red hat on top of your head and troop en masse to the nearest shopping mall.
I must admit, however, if it were red shoes they were wearing, all bets might be off.
And speaking of matching outfits, the husband and I have a pact that we will never, ever, dress in coordinated ‘his/hers’ ensembles.
When the photos came back from a trip we took to New England a few years ago, we realized that, for shame, we had come uncomfortably close. We took a blood oath and swore, never again, not even by accident. If you should see us dressed alike, just kill us both, or better yet, force us to wear matching “I’m With Stupid” t-shirts in public for the rest of our lives.
I will never paint little designs on my fingernails, not itty bitty flowers, not butterflies, and certainly not tiger stripes. Nor will I set my manicured and extended talons with tiny rhinestones, sequins or bits of glitter. If I’m feeling particularly frisky, I may go French, and that's plenty nail art for me. So if you ever see me with a bouquet on my fingertips instead of in them, just kill me now. That goes for my toes too.
Call me a food snob, but if at all possible, with the exception of sushi bars, I try never to eat in restaurants that have color photos of the food on the menu. Sometimes it may be unavoidable, say when eating with a group of less particular tastes, or in a foreign country where otherwise you wouldn’t have any idea what you were ordering. However, if you should happen to see me eating in a Denny’s, actually enjoying the Grand Slam breakfast, or the like, on my own time and my own dime, just kill me now. The food would probably do it pretty soon anyway.
Hey, I’m all for growing old, especially considering the alternative, but I will never, ever, join an organization with advanced age as a prerequisite. The AARP is wasting postage, and possibly precious resources, sending me harassing mailers, likewise the Gray Panthers, Angry Old Farts, and Grandmothers for Peace (although I may agree with their causes). But the most objectionable, by far, is The Red Hat Society.
Yeah, yeah, I know, wearing a red hat with a purple outfit is somehow supposed to be empowering, but let’s face it, almost nobody actually looks good in purple, especially white women of a certain age. (Our black red hat sisters fare slightly better, but it's still not a good look.) And unless you’re a Vegas showgirl or a major league baseball player, that goes double for the red hat. These are the kind of women who give menopause a bad name, and they deserve to die.And the same thing goes for the Bloomer Girls too.
You want empowerment? Read a book, take a yoga class, learn to sky dive, get a hormone patch and a shot of Botox and steal your daughter’s boyfriend, but for God’s sake don’t plop a red hat on top of your head and troop en masse to the nearest shopping mall.I must admit, however, if it were red shoes they were wearing, all bets might be off.
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