Candied violets are the Necco Wafers of the overbred.
~Fran Lebowitz, Metropolitan Life
Grannie’s candied violets courtesy eG Forums.
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Who put Stevie in charge?
Courtesy Last FM
Those of you who had progressed beyond teething rings and Cookie Monster by the tail end of the Seventies will probably recall the musical and sartorial splendor of Fleetwood Mac’s Stevie Nicks. In hindsight both are somewhat cringe-inducing, though to this day I maintain a soft spot for Tusk — it’s the brass section, I guess.
Honestly, guilty pleasure though the record most certainly is, it really gets the solo dance party started, at least after a few Saturday night Sazeracs anyway. Don’t believe me? Toss a couple back and have a look at Mick Fleetwood getting his groove on courtesy of the USC marching band. See if you don’t feel the urge to shake a tailfeather.
Anyways, if it’s all too far back in the murky past for you to recall, let me remind you that along about 1979, platform shoes, flowing raiments, floppy hats, tatty lace and Rapunzelesque locks were already a bit out of date, except on Steven Tyler and the occasional tranny, but our gal Stevie held on to them all well into the next decade, for better or worse.
Steve and the boys, dressed as girls, courtesy sweet-emotionn.tumblr.com.
Now owing to some “personal issues,” Stevie had largely disappeared from the musical/celebrity scene by about the mid to late Eighties, effectively ending her solo career, which I think we can all agree was really for the best. So imagine my surprise yesterday when I was out and about, shopping for suitable attire for an upcoming social event that’s not really formal, but just a little bit dressy — you know the kind of thing, and all I could find were Stevie’s cast off Welsh witch twirly skirts, princess-on-acid maxi dresses (no foundation garment possible with these) and impossible platform shoes.
A typical offering. Via bismilahirahmanirrahim.blogspot.com.
Apparently after all these years girlfriend has assumed control of the fashion industry! Rehab must have included some mixed martial arts training, because she has somehow managed to kick Anna Wintour’s bony backside to the curb, replacing the tasteful Jackie O sheath with the crochet mumu or mini as every gal’s must have wardrobe staple in the process.
Unfortunately, Stevie redux (the sequel) doesn’t look quite as fetching on the middle-aged frame as it did on the teenage one; however, lace minis and swirling maxis were literally all I could find that were fashion forward without being a little black dress, and so I came home empty-handed and more than a tad frustrated.
Granny suit and sensible shoes courtesy Duchess Whatsername and jezebel.com.
I ask you, why is it women over 40 (who are not Demi Moore) must choose between dressing like the Olsen twins or Duchess Whatsername Mrs. Prince Charles? Is there no middle ground?
And why can’t I find a pair of dress shoes that weigh less than fifty pounds? Owing to my lack of stature, I have had to get used to walking in a very high heel, and more often than not I do just fine. But these newfangled platforms are like cement mixers. Have you ever tried dragging a pair of them around? Sure they build up your calves after a couple of days, but really, I have time to separate my workout from my leisure activities, and I prefer to do so whenever possible. Who wants to feel the burn while walking from the table to the ladies room, I ask you?
The final injury is the hats. If the ladies at Bloomingdale’s are to be believed, we should all be topping off our hippie costumes with big floppy hats, a la Rachel Zoe, whom I now believe to be in cahoots with Stevie. Or maybe she IS Stevie. Have you ever seen them together? Think about it and get back to me.
Oh yeah, I could wear that. Via Trendmill.com.
Visual literacy, or how to tell if that guy in the next office is going to drive you out of your mind before he ever opens his mouth
Unless your photocopier is broken or you run a tanning salon, you probably won’t encounter this guy, but just in case you do…
You may not be able to judge a book by its cover, but it doesn’t take much more than a glance to get a good idea what the story’s all about. And so it is with new acquaintances, both social and professional. I find that being able to get a quick handle on new people is an extremely useful skill, as it helps you avoid the undesirable, the annoying and the certifiable before they can stake a claim on your time, your attention or your guest room.
Does my tendency to take others at face value make me a bad person? Nah, shallow maybe, but not bad. What it does make me is a happier person – one who rarely has to duck a neighbor, hide behind a newspaper in the employee cafeteria, or make good on a threat to file a restraining order, though of course that misunderstanding with Anthony Bourdain did involve an order of protection…sadly, not on my behalf, but we’re well past all that now. At least I am. I’m not so sure about Tony.
Anyways, for those of you who are not familiar with the more common hallmarks of the crazy and/or obnoxious and what they communicate, here’s a little primer on how to pick out some of the most easily recognized signifiers that say, “back away now while you still can.” An ounce of prevention, as they say, is worth a pound of Tums.
via wikimedia.org
Blond Dreads
“I hate my parents almost as much as I resent my trust fund. Sooner or later I’ll hate you, too.”
*
via Wikimedia.org
Birkenstocks
“High heels reduce women to sex objects. I refuse to be objectified.”
*
via wikimedia.org
French Manicure
“How’m I suppostah know wheah ya’ check is?
I’ll ax Mistah Nussbaum when he gets back, ahright?”
*
Courtesy youjustmademylist.com
Scraggly, Bald Ponytail
“I still got it, baby. You want some?”
*
Courtesy zimbio.com
Adult GRRanimals
“My wife dresses me (so I behave like an adolescent).”
*
Courtesy mashable.com
Hideous, Inappropriate Footwear
“I dress myself (and I just made ten trillion dollars off an idea I stole).”
Giada is BUSTED!
Giada admits she doesn’t eat. Told ya’.
At about 90 seconds into the interview, she spills (the teaspoonful of lettuce in) her guts to Chelsea Handler.
I have long maintained you can’t trust the food of a skinny cook. They don’t eat; they couldn’t. Witness Sandra Lee, who obviously lives on White Zin, canned peas and sweet guv love. In the unlikely event she does nibble a corner of that Kwanzaa cake, I have no doubt she runs for the ladies’ and gacks it up almost immediately. Come to think of it, who could blame her?
“Another strand of linguine? Heavens no. I’ll blow up like Ina.”
Giada, too, has always been suspect in my book. Some would say that even a normal size body would be dwarfed by a head that big, but I don’t think it’s merely a question of scale. She’s just plain skinny, and the only way to achieve that is by not eating.
I’ve tried a couple of her recipes, and they’re middling at best, though they do require plenty of effort (bonus!). This just doesn’t work for me. Except as a weight loss tool. Clearly, however, it’s working for Giada.
So while you may mock Paula, Nigella and Mario, at least you can trust them to turn out food you want to eat. And you know you want to eat the deep fried cheesecake.
Ditto normal sized chefs. Jamie Oliver is trustworthy provided you can get over the lisp and the herbs (that’s right Joe Hoover, I said ERBS, not Herbth). Anthony Bourdain, though lean, gobbles steak and potatoes with relish, and Julia Child will always be the goddess of my prep station.
Sooner or later, we must all accept that weight loss comes from eating small portions of foods we only half like (or nothing at all), while skipping the ones we do. Just ask Giada.
Kitchen Slattern 
When we’re in charge, things are going to change around here
Jun 19
Posted by WSW
Some thoughts on Viagra, Oreos and war as a dance fight
That’s right, I’m talking to YOU.
An acquaintance once shared a piercing insight with me, namely that a woman would never have invented Viagra or its evil twin Cialis. Rather than addressing erectile dysfunction, she pointed out, a modern day Madame Curie would almost certainly have taken on the larger, more pressing problem of masculine inability to pick up dirty undershorts, socks and T-shirts from the floor and transfer them to the hamper. Among the fairer sex, it is well known that the repetitive act of relocating well worn, often soiled undergarments is a surefire libido killer in women. As a result, Viagra becomes about as useful as sneakers on a fish, and the only thing the suddenly tumescent spouse is likely to be able to use that thing for is a place to hang his damp bath towel.
Hang up that towel! via blokeshealth.com
For obvious reasons, I often recall this conversation while sorting the laundry, and recently as I was working my way through about six weeks’ worth of washing, I had ample opportunity to consider the question of how our world would be different if women had done the bulk of the inventing over the years.
Now, before my male readers jump ship and go searching for more testerone-friendly surroundings, let me just say that I have no plans to turn this into a husband bashing extravaganza, unless of course I decide to whip up another batch of Bloody Marys before I get to the end of this post. In that case, all bets are off, grammar rules become suggestions and I can’t guarantee we won’t also end up discussing Emeril, Fairway or the New York Yankees in terms that are at best pejorative, or at worst obscene. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
I hate guys. Via my hero.com.
I like guys. I really do. In fact, I have always tended to avoid anything with a feminist label, starting with Virginia Woolf and continuing through the ass-frying ill humor of Gloria Steinem and right on up to the droning, whining sanctimony of the Women’s Studies majors of today. Though I remember clearly the era of bra burning and Women’s Lib, with the exception of Bella Abzug’s hats, I have always found it all too boring and annoying to even contemplate. Call me an ingrate; I’ve been called far worse and occasionally will even answer to the name.
Anyhoo, where was I? Oh yes, Madame Curie, Viagra, undershorts. So I have concluded that daily life would be subtly, yet measurably different had women been doing the inventing over the years. For example:
Light bulbs
First of all, any wattage higher than 60 would never have been invented, and if it had, the bulbs would be in use in operating rooms and holding cells exclusively. The notion of domestic overhead fixtures would have been dismissed outright as the product of diseased minds. Why? Because stark 150 watt bulbs are absolutely disastrous for all but the youngest female face. I haven’t screwed in anything higher than 60 watts in my house for years, and we may be on the cusp of a general downgrade to 40 watts in the not too distant future. If my eyebags get any more ruched, it may come to a candles-only policy in the evening. Eventually Mr. Slattern will have to learn to read Braille or start wearing a petzl around the house.
If only Mr. Gravity had been stopped before the scalpel was applied. Via plasticsurgerybest.blogspot.com.
Gravity
Now I realize Isaac Newton only discovered the principle of gravity, but I think we can agree his time might have been better spent trying to reverse it. One look at my jawline is proof enough. If only he’d brought his work home, I think Mrs. Newton might have been able to offer some gentle suggestions and guidance as to the direction his work might take for the betterment of mankind. If so, asses might be riding a bit higher in midlife and millions of tragic face, brow and breast lifts could well have been avoided.
Oreos = Health Food
If women ran the food industry, they would have long since developed a harmless and effective way to remove the carbs and calories from sugary treats, so that spending Saturday night with a pound of thin mints or a cherry cheesecake would be the same as a week at a
fat farmspa. Also, there would be no “cool ranch” anything, and beef jerky would be sold in the pet food aisle.And what exactly am I supposed to wear with these?
via foottalk
Bowling
It would never have existed – at all – and we’d all have been spared the sight of hideous bowling shirts and the horror of rented shoes. If by some quirk the game had been invented by a woman, the shoes at least would come only in black (slingbacks with a kitten heel I think), teams would wear matching caftans and champagne would be sold at a modest mark-up in the bar.
The Theory of War
Forget Sun Tzu. Left to us, war, territorial disputes and power struggles would be resolved by either 1) dance fighting, 2) fashion supremacy, or 3) a series of cutting remarks. Failing that, we’d dress the combatants in formal attire and lock them in a small overheated den with their mothers in law for a few days while The Wheel of Fortune played on a continuous loop. That, my friends, is deterrence that works.
Dance fight! Courtesy britannica.com
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Posted in Commentary, The Slattern Speaks
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Tags: Bloody Mary, Cocktails, Humor, Light bulbs, Oreos, Petzel, viagra