Yeah.
I seriously got that in my fortune cookie after eating kung pao shrimp. I have the image of an elderly Asian man being equal parts pushy and confusing.
Category: Pics
Eye of the Beholder
I like how this yearbook just cuts to the chase: Pretty Girls. So there. It’s not open for discussion. And Sugie Smulcher signed her name for emphasis. Say that aloud. Sugie Smulcher. Rolls right off the tongue.
Other yearbooks try to be creative with their beauty queen section, like this classy illustration preceding the portraits.
Some editors refer to them as queens.
Others refer to them as “sweethearts.”
I doubt this girl’s destiny included being a farmer’s wife, but she took the title of FFA (Future Farmers of America) sweetheart. If she’s not a vision in lace, I don’t know what is.
“Put your hand on a hot stove for a minute and it seems like an hour. Sit with a pretty girl for an hour, and it seems like a minute.”–Albert Einstein
Now that’s science!
Dead But Dead, Actually
Sorry.
I had to go there.
Latin is a dead language, no?
I See Dead People
To be fair, all these people are dead. It was 91 years ago that this shot was taken. Little Miss Mary Pickford in her ringlets and sailor dress makes the shot. Sorry if these pics are enormous, but you have to high-res these son-of-a-guns to see the details.
Remember when you were a freshman, and they called you “fish”? Well, evidently that term has been around for awhile.
I love the front-row girl with the double sunflowers.
There were three rooms total of fish in this 1923 class. Most of them are solemn-faced, but I see one with a mischievous smile. I think he’s pulling the hair of the scowling girl in front of him.
You probably think I’m the crazy yearbook lady by now. What do I care about these dead people, long forgotten? Their families didn’t even care to keep their yearbooks. But there is so much history packed into these volumes, young people of every era in all manner of style and economic background. And sometimes the cover itself is so beautiful, I wouldn’t think of setting it at the curb on Trash Day.
Another Pleasant Valley Sunday
Trail Driver 1939
I saw this today on Traces of Texas, and it was too cool not to share.
Half A World Ago
He must have stood there with that bag of white bread for nearly twenty minutes, hoping the rain would pass, wishing the ducks would come. But they never did. They never did.
That Really Chaps My Hide
I’m not mincing words today. If you have dropped your phone in a toilet, you are a dolt.
Times I have taken a phone into a public bathroom: ZERO
Why are any of you doing this? Who feels compelled to chat whilst voiding? (Don’t you hate that term when the doctor asks how often you void? Yeesh.) Women, aren’t your phones in your purse? Men, perhaps your phone is too big if it’s falling out of your small pockets. It’s not that smart if it keeps diving into a toilet bowl, is it?
Times I have dropped said phone in a toilet: ZERO
ZERO! Don’t get me wrong; I love multi-tasking, but this is not the time for it. Slow down, peeps. Don’t tinkle and text.
The truth is numbers one and two have really been getting some screen time lately in this country. I don’t think the nation has been so excited about elimination since Mr. Hankey, the Christmas Poo.
I don’t need to “enjoy the go.” I get in and get out. I have never taken reading material into a bathroom to spend time in there. Many folks have. More power to you. Maybe that’s really enjoying the go. I enjoy getting out. And by the way, I don’t need a cheeky British woman to talk to me about my bum. I don’t need an intervention to discuss the Cottonelle Care Routine.
But I do need a decent roll of tissue because dammit, this is America. Public restrooms are the worst. I realize they have to keep costs down, but don’t they realize if they only offer one-ply (I usually refer to it as “half-ply”) tissue, we’re just going to spend twice as long, spinning/yanking/tugging it down in three inch increments, like a nipped-out cat–until it falls to the floor like a cascading waterfall. I know you’ve heard people in adjacent stalls, struggling to liberate the paper from its receptacle. It sounds like the dryer when he-who-shall-not-be-named leaves his Leatherman in his blue jeans pockets. Don’t they realize less than a foot can take of care of business if it’s a decent quality tissue?
Perhaps you’ve heard about the conditions in Sochi. Evidently, some journalists found signs in their bathrooms saying: “Please do not flush toilet paper down the toilet! Put it in the bin provided.” No no no no! The toilet is a receptacle for waste. That includes paper. If your poo can go down it, so can paper. If not, you need to get another toilet. Because that is the toilet’s job. It takes the bad things away.
If you are a lady, you have no doubt squeezed into a public bathroom stall and no sooner hung your purse up on the hook (if there is a hook, God willing), when a sign screams at you, “No feminine products in the toilet!” And then an apologetic thesis paper follows on their pathetic septic system. Sorry, no dice. Items once in the body do NOT need to accumulate in tin bins or trash cans. That is nasty. N-A-S-T-Y. Public restrooms are a festering cesspool enough without the stench of rotting deer carcass hitting you in the face when all you wanted was to wash the gasoline off your hands. I am not down with septic tanks, people. Get with the city sewer system. Now that’s alliteration!
So why am I on my soapbox about this? Glad you asked. Well, last week I purchased a package of Charmin, and when I got it home and put it the RIGHT way (with the tissue OVER instead of under), I realized it was a transparent, scratchy Third World excuse for tissue. We subsequently checked all the rolls, and they were all like that. I made a call to Proctor & Gamble tout suite, as the squeaky wheel gets the grease, and my CSR sent a coupon to replace the purposefully cheapskate damaged product. So yesterday, I’m at the store, and after directing an elderly woman to the fabric softener (aisle 14), I realize I have a choice betwixt ultra-strong or ultra-soft.
I don’t know about you, but I have never in my life felt that I needed stronger tissue, that perhaps it was lacking in strength. A rough tissue is not what I need. Plush, perhaps. Not strong. And what exactly makes the difference? What do they add to one that they don’t add to the other? Why not marry the two? Sweet AND sour. Black AND tan. Why can’t it be both things? Sorry if this has been offensive, but I have to add this as yet another thing I DON’T GET.
Poetry In Motion
Oh, my goodness. This is too much for a Monday. It’s like West Side Story meets yoga meets Lionel Richie’s ballerina girl meets Mr. Roboto.
I do not like her rigid pose
I do not like her see-through clothes
I do not like her pointed feet
I really think that girl should eat
May I suggest some lean red meat?
With green eggs, it is quite a treat
Would you like them in Oklahoma?
No, I prefer them in a coma
I do not like their warrior stance
I do not like their modern dance
I do not want to have to watch
I think we should Febreze her crotch
I do not like that high slit skirt
I do not like boys’ groins that hurt
I do not like that turtleneck
I do not like it for a sec
I do not like them, Sam-I-am
I’d rather eat a can of Spam
And pour it in a cereal bowl
That precooked gelatinous pork bumhole
I do not like them here or there
I do not like them anywhere
Brown Paper Packages Tied Up With String
Aging is no picnic, unless your picnic has ants, and it’s raining. Then it is indeed a picnic. My birthday is coming up this month, and while I usually have no desire for presents or acknowledgements of the slow decline into degeneration, this year I have seen some things to add to my wishlist.
First, I want this sweater. I knew of poodle skirts, but not poodle sweaters! Of course, it would look a lot better if I were flatchested, but who cares if its little paws tuck underneath my bosom?
Second, I want this shirt.
Well, now that I think about it, it would look too busy on me. I guess what I really want is to SEE someone wearing that shirt in person, so my jaw can drop in awesome wonder as I marvel at it.
Also, I want a good great blow-out. No, it’s not the female counterpart to what fellas want. It requires a blowdryer. Yeah, I’ve had decent ones, but not Tony-the-Tiger GUH-REAT ones. Well, I did that one time in Texarkana nearly 20 years ago (I still remember the car honks I got while pumping gas afterward. I can hear Bruce Springsteen singing “Glory Days” as I type…) Anyway, I want to look beautiful, kind of like this:
I want everyone I encounter on that day to tell me not only does my blow-out look gorgeous, but that I could pass for being in my 30s as in days of yore. Also, they will complain that they had to go hunting for their college thesaurus last night in order to find enough kind words to say about me. I will be both fetching and prepossessing all day long.
I will also receive various dark chocolate assortments, with nougats and cremes and nuts, but they will have no calories and no chemicals. And no birthday cards! Cards are a waste of $3. Just give me a $1 dollar bill and write “happy birthday” in the corner. Good enough. And nothing with glitter! Glitter is for hookers and showgirls and burlesque dancers and people who still wear tube tops. Ick.
Then we will all gather ’round and make a toast to another year of not being dead. Bartender, 7-Up all around! You know what Granny says:
But most of all, I want to never forget how blessed I am–with family, friends, a house with room to breathe, and all my WordPress blogger buddies!
Cheers!
The Year David Schwimmer Was Born
Honestly, I don’t care when he was born, but bless his heart, I doubt he’s seen his name in print in nigh on a decade, so this is just a charity shout out. And he was indeed born in 1966, which we’ll be criticizing in about a minute.
Look, it’s true the temperature has increased twenty degrees since yesterday, it’s sunny, and I even got an overpriced game of bowling in, but mercy, I’m Old Man Grumpus today! I’m off soda and wine this weekend, so all I can think to perk myself up is to mock others’ hair. So take a seat on the shallow and petty bus, and here we go.
First off, the 80s get a bad rap as the “big hair” decade, but can we talk about this structure for a sec? That is a seriously strong neck, y’all.
I know, I know: the higher the hair, the closer to Jesus. But this is a stairway to heaven, friends. This rivals even the most Florence Jean Castleberries of the world. I didn’t know you could have several SETS of bangs. Bangs upon bangs, like the cedar shingles on the treehouse built on last night’s Treehouse Masters, a show on Animal Planet that has absolutely nothing to do with animals, and lots to do with an attention-deficit host named Pete. Oops, I got a case of the ADD myself there. Deep breath.
Linda’s bangs are tall as well, but bleached and ratty, complimented by eyeliner that says, “Yes, I will sneak out at night to drink Boone’s with you.” You know now that I think about it, I think she’s that blonde girl in the B52’s. I’m gonna have to google that.
Now this one here is working some kind of Coalminer’s Daughter thing with the whole Loretta Lynn/Kentucky Waterfall hairdo. She’s cute as a button but that is some strange styling.
I left this person’s name purposely off because…Well, because…that’s just manners. Moving on to this fellow…
I know, right? Wow. Like the elusive jackalope or the Giant Crocostempy, this is a rare find: the male double part. And don’t argue with him. He is Who is Who, and that is that, my friends.
Enjoy this Double Creature Feature. Evidently a lot of effort was put into these looks. Hair was pulled and prodded and flipped and cursed in the name of the Almighty, but where is the joy, ladies? Suzanne looks like she’s got a switchblade behind her back, and Frances just caught a whiff of polecat cologne but she’s too polite to gossip about it.
Here is the big winner:
With black eyebrows and her post-Marilyn Monroe combover, dainty features, and slim neck, there is no denying that Connie Jo is the bee’s knees.
You know what, y’all? I feel a ton better now. I really do. I just needed to get that out of my system.
Can I Get A Carry-Out?
I call this one the poor man’s “Donald” shot, since it reminds me of the street photography he takes.
I Don't Get It 