Monthly Archives: March 2012
My good pal, Peter Kevin Connell over at Today in Heritage History has seen fit to bestow upon me the coveted (and first-ever!) Poofy Shirt Award for my winning caption of the photo above. I’ll bet you’re wondering about the comic gem that took the prize. To find, you’ll need to scoot on over to Kevin’s excellent site for my caption and all the other extremely amusing entries.
Mr. Slattern and I have retired to the beautiful Bahamas for a few days of liver straining R&R. I was going to unplug and hold off posting till we returned, but I have made such an exciting discovery, that I cannot wait.
The clever distillers at Ricardo here in the islands produce flavored rums, and with the help of Sammy, Eleuthera’s best bartender, we are working our way through the full range. Watch this space for many exciting potions for your punchbowl. (Don’t worry, we’re writing them down rather than relying on memory, which in these circumstances, can be a bit flukey.)
C’mon ladies, let’s send the surrender T-shirt to sartorial oblivion.
Spring approaches and my sisters and I are contemplating a change of habit, specifically those of us in cooler climes are about to undertake the semi-annual, seismic shift from wool to cotton, from boots to sandals and, sadly, from cake to cucumbers — all in the name of spring fashion. As our toes yearn for liberation and our limbs again seek the sun, I am once more reminded of the question that springs to mind every year along about this time.
Ladies, why oh why do you continue to buy these?
There’s really only one reason companies keep making these things you know: women keep buying them. Open a closet or dresser, and I’ll bet if you see one, there are ten more lurking nearby in a range of glorious colors and splatter patterns, depending on where the coffee/red wine/baby spew tends to land first (chest, mid-section, lap). I can’t even bear to think about the striped ones.
If you own one or more of these, I’m guessing that once the mercury starts to rise you wear them a lot. After all they’re marketed as “wardrobe staples,” right? They go gardening and shopping, get thrown in the suitcase for summer vacation, and even appear regularly at the office and social gatherings. Tell me I’m wrong. Please?
Well, I’m sorry, but I’ve got to get this off my chest, so you’d best buckle up.
Even if you look better than the perky model, I guarantee that the surrender t-shirt does absolutely nothing for you. It is just not possible. See photo above.
Which brings me to the name. Why surrender T-shirts you ask? Because when you wear them, this is the message you send the world: I give up. I feel unattractive and will never look good again. All I care about is taking care of my kids/fifteen cats/elderly and incontinent parents. I have no life. I surrender. If you’re reading this blog, I am willing to wager a significant sum that that’s not who you are.
Before you argue with me, hear me out. I’ve heard the justifications for these horror shows a hundred times. “Ooh but they’re so comfortable and cool. They go with everything. They hide my trouble spots. Cotton breathes, you know.”
Bullshit. These things are shapeless, frumpy and unflattering and they make anyone who wears them look like Charlie Brown in drag. Trust me, other than slapping an extra ten pounds and another 15 years on you, they do nothing for you, or anyone.
Still not convinced? Time for some tough love.
Still resisting? In that case you leave me no choice but the nuclear option, God forgive me.
Just so you know, this is how a cotton T-shirt should fit:
And yes, you have to look like Angie if you’re going to rock the body armor and firearms as accessories.
C’mon ladies, let’s put the surrender t-shirt manufacturers out of business and this wretched item out of its misery once and for all. Are you with me? OK, go to your dressers and pull out every one of those horror shows and destroy them immediately. Either cut them into dust rags or set them on fire so that you’re not tempted to resurrect them in a moment of weakness. Do not save them for gardening or house painting. And for the love of God, don’t give them to charity. Poor people have enough problems.
Oh yes they did.
Video evidence of the most bizarre duet ever (other than when Bing Crosby and David Bowie got their groove on for Christmas). I can’t even begin to comment, mostly because my thumb’s in my mouth and it feels much safer over here in the corner.
Hold on to your pancakes, folks.
Oh that sounds like fun, doesn’t it?
Because, I suppose, I am a glutton for punishment, I recently signed up for regular updates from the Martha Stewart death star. These come in the form of emails flogging this or that new
moneymaking scheme product or the latest edition of her magazine. Obviously I don’t subscribe, but I have been known to pick up an issue of MS Living occasionally, say in the dentist’s office while cooling my heels until the Novocaine and gas take effect. I would flip through it in the checkout line at the grocery store, but Fairway doesn’t sell magazines — reason number 217 to love hate them.
The latest missive touts an app for making cocktails especially for girls’ night. Wow, I’ll bet Martha frequently invites a bunch of her besties over on a Friday night and really lets her freak flag fly. Can you imagine? Bong hits, Aretha records, Beyoncé impersonations, midnight tattooing excursions and of course, crazy new cocktails like the Roget Colada (a pina colada with a generous bump of cheap champagne — thanks, Karen!) or the Dublin Goes South version of Fat Ass in a Glass (Kahlua, Bailey’s Irish Cream and tequila — the loser of the chugging contest eats the worm!).
Oh right, sorry, that was MY girls’ night.
At Martha’s they probably get all crazy and crochet with gloves on (to make it extra challenging) or add racy captions to their scrapbooking projects (“Is that Bill the beach bum or Bill’s beach bum?!?!? Haha!”) or sit around in their housecoats without their Spanx, all the while sipping perfectly blended Cosmopolitans (two if that crazy moon is full) from tasteful vintage stemware while nibbling chocolate covered wasabi soya nuts (Golly that’s spicy!). Pure Martha madness I am sure.
I see that the app also includes a special bonus, recipes for “perfectly paired bar snacks,” for the hostess with the mostess. Think about it, how much fun would it be to slave away in the kitchen creating beautiful trays of savory snacks so that your drunken gal pals could snarf them up while boozing it up WITHOUT YOU because you’re busy dipping strawberries, baking goat cheese and carmelized onion mini tarts, and filling deviled eggs from a fucking pastry bag? I’ll tell you how much fun it would be: NONE, less than none. It would be a fun vacuum, that’s what. It would suck all the fun out of you and every member of your family for the rest of your natural lives. Now, it’s not that I don’t love collapsing in an exhausted, sobbing heap on my kitchen floor, stone cold sober, while my buddies dance the night away, fueled by the constant stream of snacks that made it possible to rave all night long, but I do on occasion tire of enjoying myself so very much.
So, listen up, Martha! The whole point of girls’ night is to get a load on and eat greasy takeout food followed by a whole cake, which you then attempt to dance off while playing “What I Like About You” on an endless loop. There SHOULD be vomiting, and if there isn’t, you’re not trying hard enough.
And finally people, if you need an app to make a cocktail, you should seriously re-assess your life. So anyways…