I Don't Get It

Swell Menu Art, Part I

Maxim’s Restaurant Francais in Houston, TX

I scored some super cute vintage menus at an estate sale several years ago and thought I would share, since I find them aesthetically superior to any contemporary art museum collection.

From Campy:

To Watercolor:

To bonafide art on this 1957 St. James’s Restaurant menu (Juillet-Aout only), just so you know the sardines are FRESH:

MÉHEUT Mathurin, Sardiniers démaillant la sardine

Note the selections on the reverse side, and that delicious Cafe Sanka takes ten minutes to prepare–for the finer palatte.

And lastly, Fortnum & Mason had a very Around The World in 80 Days feel to it.

Their menu included Sardines on a Raft, Hot Cheese Flan, Ovaltine, and Horlicks–of which I had never heard. Hungry yet?

Friends Don’t Let Friends Drink And Operate Chainsaws

I’ve heard of helping your buddies move and then sharing a case of beer, but this is a different breed of cat.

Here’s how I think it all went down. Dapper Dan left the firm early, but not before enlisting Kip and Truman from accounting as his partners in landscaping. They floored their Studebakers to suburbia with an urgency mandating no time to change out of their office duds or set their fedoras down. Curse you, early sunset! In the past two hours, Dan has felled a tree, while Kip and Truman have laid the steps along the pathway. Won’t Betty be surprised?

Now it’s time for a break. Kip raises his spade, and Dan tops off his (third) glass of sociable whiskey (it pairs well with Pall Malls). Don’t snag your trousers while you straddle that trunk. And save some Corby’s for the other two. You remember what happened last time, Dan.

One More Bottle Ought To Do It, Gramps

US Route 30 - Life Magazine - 1948 — US Route 30 – Life Magazine – 1948

I’m no mechanic, but I don’t think beer goes there…

In Pursuit of the Hairy-Nosed Wombat

Every American girl who ever saw Grease wanted to be Sandy Olsson, to look like her and speak in her cool Australian accent. Elementary school had taught us about the nation’s indigenous kangaroos and koala bears, so we knew it must be the coolest place on earth.

When Elle McPherson graced the covers of our magazines and Nicole Kidman our movie screens, we wondered if they only churned out attractive people. Even our own celebrities were not immune to their charms. We couldn’t figure out why anyone would ever want to leave happy smiley Dennis Quaid, but Meg Ryan did it for an Aussie. Then Hugh Jackman and Keith Urban showed up on our radar, and that was all she wrote. By the time Take Home Chef debuted on TLC, American women could only respond with, “Yes, please.” Have you not seen Curtis Stone?

So I did what anyone else would do: I Google Mapped the directions to see how far Sydney was from my home. Google gave me 187 steps, #81 being “Sail across the Pacific Ocean,” and the last being “Turn right onto George Street.” It says it would take 503 hours to travel the 15,000 plus miles. The Proclaimers said they would walk 500 miles, but even THEY would not walk 15,000. I would do anything for love, but I won’t do that. So it was decided. Australia was no longer my destination nation.

That was, until this morning, when Jack Hanna described the tough armored bum of a Tasmanian wombat, and I melted at the sight of its face. Look at that.

Then I found out wombats viciously maul people, probably because it is in their Australian blood to eliminate humans. What is up with that? But then I saw this picture, and I forgave them. I figured they must have been provoked. He’s clearly not ripping her face off.

However, I read Bill Bryson’s In A Sunburned Country, so I know Australia is chock-full of the world’s deadliest creatures. Bryson made it clear that venomous creatures lurk at every corner, waiting to fell you. No snorkeling at Batt Reef for me.

But then I saw THIS!

I’m so confused. Should I brave the outback and its lethal creatures or just stay home?

For The Seafood Lover In You

Along with a handful of birthday greetings in my in-box today, was this inviting gem of an email, reminding me that “Lobster is back for a limited time.” Nevermind that I asked to be removed from their mailing list seven years ago. In their defense, the terms do say “Please allow 10 days as noted in the CAN-SPAM Law for Quiznos� to remove you from all future email advertisements.” Maybe it’s just taking longer than usual because of global warming or the recession or changing gun control laws.

Nevermind that my husband has a lobster allergy, so we never eat it at home. Nevermind that I don’t even eat lobster at RED LOBSTER (although I did enjoy a pre-Prom dinner there), due to the fact that I go into sodium chloride shock each time we take part of their salty cheddar bay biscuits.

In fact, it’s been so long since I partook of lobster, that I have no idea what it tastes like. No clue. But I can tell you that Quizno’s wouldn’t be my go-to place. Oh, heck, no. I would have warm lobster with butter sauce, not a mish-mash of mayo. And BTW, the bottom of the ad says it’s only 51% lobster. Why not 50%? So they could legitimately say the MAJORITY of it is lobster, by a percent? I suspect it’s like the “krab” at Subway, devoid of any “crab” at all.

Perhaps it’s even better than McDonald’s latest treat, fish bites.

Now, McDonald’s claims that these fried balls are made of tender, flaky wild-caught Alaskan Pollock. Isn’t this the same company whose jingle began, “Two ALL BEEF patties, special sauce…,” and then it turned out that the Big Mac was really just pink slime, and not so much of the all beef?

Maybe if I ever get up to Maine one day (or north of Dallas), I’ll stop inside some fisherman’s wharf where Rachael Ray once spent $20 on a po’ boy that made her giddy, and taste an authentic lobster dish. Until then, Quizno’s, I’ll pass on your former slogan: Eat Up.

I Want To Hold Your Hand (While I Sleep)

As if sea otters weren’t adorable enough, it turns out they hold hands while they sleep. According to Wikipedia, “sea otters tend to rest together in single-sex groups called rafts. A raft typically contains 10 to 100 animals, with male rafts being larger than female ones. The largest raft ever seen contained over 2000 sea otters.” I just got a cavity. Too sweet.

How is that even possible? I don’t mean the buoyancy or the fact that they have no blubber, and their thick fur keeps them warm. What I mean is–how can anyone sleep touching someone else? I know dog owners who let their dogs sleep not only in their bedroom (where the humans go), but on or even IN their beds. I’m sure some of you needy people who like animals better than people do this, don’t you? And you don’t think about how their little paws walk around in feces in the back yard? Don’t tell me your dog’s nasty genital-licking tongue is cleaner than my toilet. Just do not.

And you people who spoon each other–one of you doesn’t really enjoy that. Usually the man. He does that to appease you. Didn’t you see the Friends episode where Ross teaches Chandler the “hug ‘n’ roll”?

Last Sunday at church, they discussed Dr. Gary Smalley’s personality type test. Each of us falls into one of these categories, possibly two: a lion, an otter, a golden retriever, or a beaver. Evidently, a fellow blogger already posted their traits on his blog many, many moons ago, so you can find out more info at: http://weirdblog.wordpress.com/2007/02/22/personality-types-lion-beaver-otter-and-golden-retriever/.

The bottom line is that otters are outgoing and talkative, but unproductive and unstable. I would think any proficient writers would not be otters, or a post would rarely get published. Who needs to blog when you look like this?

Oh, my gosh, it doesn’t even look real. But I still wouldn’t hold its paw while I slept. I don’t even touch my husband’s paw while he sleeps. We have a glorious dividing line down the middle of our king-sized bed, with a strict code of conduct that entails neither shall cross the line unless to give a hearty shove to stop snoring, or to advise the other to grab the shot gun and start pouring bullets into intruders.

Another reason I could not be an otter is the violent mating. Sadistic male otters bite the female’s nose and often hold her underwater while getting busy, like some sick David Carradine foreplay gone wrong. Eventually, the wear and tear on her nose leads to permanent scarring, which leads less playful, more modest otters to identify her as easy. It’s like a scarlet letter for marine mammals.

That otter is to’ up from the flo’ up. Somebody, fetch her some Neosporin before they start yelling, “Get thee to a nunnery!”

Otters can be so cruel.

Oppa Chunky-Style

Sweet Lord, that’s a jumbo-sized newborn! I can see why Mom’s not smiling–or laughing-or jumping rope–or coughing–anymore. Unless that baby was delivered C-section, there’s a 99% of light bladder leakage in the forecast. Where is Whoopi Goldberg when you need her?

No one likes a fragile, underweight infant. A big chub is the picture of good health. But that double-digit pounded baby in the Mennen ad is intended to depict a newborn. Really? Here is the small print:

I think we’re gonna need a few more cans, Ma! There’s a lot of swaddling to be done…

According to the Guiness Book of World Records, the “heaviest baby born to a healthy mother was a boy weighing 10.2 kg (22 lb 8 oz) who was born to Sig. Carmelina Fedele (Italy) at Aversa, Italy in September 1955.” There’s no pic to back that up, but let’s just recognize that it’s even bigger than this one.

It’s straight to bottles for you, Michelin boy! Even La Leche League gave his mom a free pass on the nursing. Seriously, his arms look like little Pillsbury Crescent Rolls. Bless his heart.

I’m not saying the redheaded Mennen baby isn’t precious; with a good heavy lifting belt velcroed around my waist, I’d like to hold it as well. I’d just like a little more truth in advertising. BTW, I wonder what that now-fifty-five-year-old baby looks like? Could it be that that little porker was Kevin Bacon?

Wing Droppings

What do you think of when I say “wings”? Red Bull? Paul McCartney? The 90s NBC sitcom? Well, if you’re like most gluttonous Americans, probably these:

If you’re a lady between the ages of 13 and 49, currently bloated and irritable, craving chocolate and Pinot Grigio, it might mean this:

But if you don’t foresee buying many more of those boxes in your future, or you’re done with them entirely, “wings” might mean this most awesome of hairstyles. You probably attempted some semblance of it at one point.

http://homesteadinghousewife.blogspot.com

I’m familiar with all of those wings, sometimes incorporating the three of them in the same moment. But never had I seen a power mower with wings until today.

The small print reads, “This giant of precison mowers…is the pride and joy of many men who mow grass for a living–and more than a few wealthy men who mow grass for fun.” For fun! Interpret as you will.

There are also scads of songs with “wings” in the titles. Broken wings, dove’s wings, eagle’s wings, little wings, silver wings, paper wings. But the song I never ever want to hear again, so help me God–not at a wedding or a funeral or a bris–is “Wind Beneath My Wings.” I can’t take it one more time. I really can’t.

INXS told us that, “We all have wings, but some of us don’t know why.” Does this gal know why? To fly from catwalk to catwalk? Those look heavy.

Victoria's Secret model Candice Swanepoel during the 2009 Victoria's Secret Fashion Show — Victoria’s Secret model Candice Swanepoel during the 2009 Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show

Wings have inspired quotes from Shakespeare to Charles Dickens, but only one as elegant and classy as Mae West could have confessed, “I’m no angel, but I’ve spread my wings a bit.” Which reminds me of this:

What’s the shelf life on that tat? A wee bit more than this unfortunate gal’s…

Ouch. Pass the blue cheese.

So whether you are right wing or left wing or a Detroit Red Wing, remember that we can all soar on wings like eagles. Or not.

Life Is Like A Box Of Panties

It’s not too late to get your lady what she really wants for this inane Hallmark-induced holiday. Regardless of her age, her weight, or even her sign (which you probably don’t even know, you CAD), no woman can resist a box of panties. Just the thought of lying down on a yellow linoleum floor, surrounded by a veritable pinwheel of pastel-colored high-waisted granny panties gives me goose bumps. I know what I’m wearing under my Easter dress… Cupid, draw back your bow!

Look, Ma! I don’t have to do the wash for three weeks solid! Nevermind the scent from the hamper…

See how mesmerized she is as they swirl around her, like Snow White singing to the birds? The sheerish netting on the pair she is sporting is so seductive. Earl won’t be able to keep his hands off her once he steps down from his big rig. That’s sexy from the bottom of her bum to her naval. Nothing like scratchy fabric chafing her lower rib cage to put her in the mood for an amorous pretend holiday. Fasten your seatbelt, Earl!

Note how carefree she has become, tossing her brassiere to the wind, strategically placing panties across her bosom, the way Peter Pan mermaids stuck adhesive starfish to their own chests. That mermaid may seem jubilant in this scene, but her joy masks the pain of knowing she will never, ever be able to wear boxed panties. Curse you, Neptune!

Crouching Cody, Hidden Dragon

“Another day on the river brings another opportunity for rescue.”

Well, it’s tit for tat night, and since the hub had to endure the Grammy Red Carpet on Sunday, I am gamely watching my second hour of Discovery Channel’s Dual Survivor. Crouching Cody is present and accounted for, but his former partner, Dave Canterbury, has vanished (due to an embellished resume), replaced with special ops Joe Teti, a younger model. Joe’s beard has less grey than Dave’s, and he wears a ball cap while Cody dons his same old purple do rag. From my perspective, Joe is the boy, and Cody is the girl.

I don’t care about survival or knives or knots. All I see is the patriot and the hippie. Joe is a bit of an eager beaver. He needs to pace himself. He also drank his urine twice in a row, and that’s a no-no. Cody builds the fires. Actually, Joe built a fire tonight with a battery and a gum wrapper on his second try. Yay, Joe! But it was Cody who pointed out that they couldn’t sleep in a baobob tree due to risk of contracting the bubonic plague. Duh, Joe.

If it were me, lost in the wilderness, I would just lay down and die and wait to float up to heaven. I’ve got nothing to prove. Let that hippo trample me. But if I had to be dually surviving with one of those guys, Joe seems the obvious choice. Cody rubs me the wrong way. It’s not just his Sequoia-sized thighs. Even his voice irritates me. And he looks like a steroided lesbian bodybuilder who you only have to look at to know her voice is crazy low. And what is up with all this squatting??

I can think of a handful of men with whom I’d rather be bludgeoned to death than stuck on a desert island: Kevin Smith, Quentin Tarantino, and Michael Moore, for starters. And Cody is not nearly repulsive enough to join the ranks of that trio. Not even close. It’s just a certain je ne sais quoi. I can’t put my finger on it.

Now I know full well that shoeless Cody could provide for me. I’m not against collecting rainwater and composting waste. He’s certainly proven he’s got skills. I imagine those bare feet can tread lightly and those butch arms can carry a big whittled stick. And, really, it should be kind of a turn-on to see him construct a bamboo spear to provide us with a fresh fish dinner, but then again, he’s wearing a handkerchief on his head, and tossing his long braids about. And don’t get me started on his Daisy Dukes.

Tonight I looked at Cody’s left hand and noted there wasn’t a ring. It must be hard to court a woman and start a family when you live off the grid, far from shopping centers and coffee shops.

Truth be told, I’d rather be stuck on that island with Myke Hawke (don’t say that one too quickly) of Discovery Channel’s defunct Man, Woman, Wild. Now that might be worth surviving.

pic courtesy of fellow blogger at protrailtools.wordpress.com

Lookin’ Like A Fool With Your Pants On The Ground

Can you really blame Selena for kicking this one to the curb? There is no way to justify this catastrophe of an ensemble. Does this really appeal to teen girls? Where is the shame in looking presentable? When did we decide to stop dressing nicely? Was it when ladies started burning their bras? Damn you, libbers!

Now this was appropriate garb in a high school cafeteria back in 1943. No hoochie mamas present, thank you.

all BxW pics courtesy of www.shorpy.com — all BxW pics courtesy of http://www.shorpy.com

This was how people dressed in Chicago to attend the movies in 1941. No, it wasn’t even Broadway.

Check out these folks riding bikes…

Even if they leaned forward toward the handle bars, there was no threat of whale tail in effect, no tawdry tramp stamp to mark them past their due date.

See how modestly these gals of the paper mill were attired ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY YEARS AGO? Say what you will about the ruffles that appear to be multiplying and about to attack her head; she’s quite fetching chilling on the railroad tracks. And what comportment!

Even Granny’s mowing outfit looks better than how people dress for church these days.

But this–this is the sad part. Even this GANG from 1916 looks sharp by today’s standards.

Minus the smokes (and the gun), that’s street urchin style! You can bet your bippy these kids were not of grand means, but they took the time to put an outfit together. What happened, America? What happened?

Frankie Says Crap Your Hands

Crap Your Hands, Everybody! Everybody, Crap Your Hands! I think things were actually GAINED in translation. Hopefully, a kind stranger will inform him what a difference a letter can make on his sweater that appears to have been stitched in the style of a Quaker. But at some point, he can remove it and toss it in the Goodwill pile. This lady is not so fortunate.

This pic hails from the Hanzi Smatter blog, dedicated to the misuse of Chinese characters in western culture. The lady who owns this arm believed the Chinese symbol to mean “chi.” Maybe she identified with the idea of vitality and life force and energy. Well, it’s not chi, per that blogger. Sadly, the symbol translates to “rice.” Rice.

But not all is lost. I mean, rice is still consistent with the Asian theme. Toss it in with that eerie koi (not to be confused with Iriquois), and it might make a great meal! Maybe she could stir fry it in a mild chili sauce and fresh orange peel, like P.F. Chang’s hunan style hot fish. Yum! As Winnie the Pooh says, I feel a rumbly in my tumbly. Actually, it isn’t farfetched to be associating food service with this colorful sleeve, since the enormity of it excludes her from many upper level management jobs, save quirky ice cream and sub sandwich shops.

Should we cut her (and the thousands of others who failed to research the symbol they had permanently inked onto their skin) some slack? I mean, there ARE 50,000 characters in the Chinese language. One cannot assume that all tattoo artists are fluent, no? And P.S., simply branding your arm with symbols does not automatically induct you into the spiritually enlightened hall of fame. It doesn’t give you a rich tapestry of character and dimension. Not all Chinese people do Tai Chi and catch flies like Mr. Miyagi, philosophizing near lily pads. It doesn’t make you deep. In the case of rice-girl, it just makes her ignorant.

So what’s the flip-side? When Asian people see things written in English, do they assume it’s all trivial and frivolous? Everyone knows Americans are fun and hip because we’re constantly shouting black music. Even our President does it.

If you’ve ever made a trip to the Engrish site, you’ve seen how desperately Asian designers are in need of skilled translators. But really, why would you walk around, wearing something that makes no sense? How can you make a statement when you don’t know what the statement is?

Maybe they like America’s bold stance on immigration, so they put it on a shirt.

Guatemara??

And who could argue that Pacino reeks of cool? Even if he commands you to say hello to the bad gay…

And check out this question for the Creator. Are you there, God? It’s me Chao-Xing.

My bet is he’s at the nearest head shop. Now this next one is complex.

First, and foremost, lollygag, unless it’s loitering in front of a 7-11. Second, repeat a random Wilson Phillips lyric. Next, the typical association of a foamy kitten and dwarf bravery, because those two go together like peanut butter and jelly. I hate to admit that dwarf bravery has NEVER shone on me. Not once.

Americans have spent so much time thinking Asian culture has the answers, but what if they think WE’RE the deep ones?

Hung in the sky blessing. Need drift on the waves. Preach it, brother, preach. That reminds me, I need to rent “Point Break” again.

Who knew Americans had the secret of life? We had it all along! Honey Boo Boo and Mama June can testify.

Well, it is. And it’s way better than crapping your hands.

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