I’m weary of women — smart women, the smartest women — branding what they hope will be cultural touchstones. Lean in. Bossy.
Trying too hard for a tipping point. Trying to make fetch happen.
Did they learn nothing from Mean Girls?
It’s not going to happen
And now I can put a name to the habit of skimming through something that has enough buzz that I pretend I know something about it: faking cultural literacy. Bitcoins. Twitter. Lots of stuff having to do with content marketing, which is what I actually do in life. And now I also know plenty of people ingest a headline, get the gist of content, whatever it is, and simply stop reading: too long, didn’t read. I’ll keep this short, for that reason.
Me, between gorgeous Lily and movie-star-looking Susie. A good night.
Excerpting from my horoscope I learn:
At 9 degrees of Libra we find a Fixed Star called Vindemiatrix, which traditional astrology calls the Widow Maker. This star is considered unfortunate or mischievous and is associated also with falsity and stealing. Beware alarmism – if you have a planet or angle at 9 degrees of Libra this does not mean that you are about to be bereaved or burgled! As always think symbolically.
Love the notion of a Fixed Star (hence initial caps) and even more a Widow Maker. Not sure I can honor the call to avoid alarmism. I think this is a perfect time to feel alarmed.
Took the first step toward retirement planning. Planner Jason estimates that I will need to save an additional* $21,514 per month for the next 12 years to meet my goal: retirement savings of $4,589,567.
Not helpful Planner Jason. Adding this to my list of Unhelpful Advice.
And pouring myself one of these.
Drink fewer of these
*Additional assumes that I’m saving even $1 per month. Also not happening, Planner Jason.
she’s still got it
You’ve seen her right? Pushing 90 but still coordinating her plaid handbag with her suede gloves, which she uses to shoo little children out of her way as she trundles down West End Avenue. Bad ass as all hell.
If, when reading your own blog, you realize that you are a victim in each and every one of your stories, perhaps you should consider wearing this name tag.
Does this happen in your family? In every family?
“Jokes” evolve around the foibles or character quirks of each and every family member. Janet’s a terrible driver. Susie’s a picky eater. Patty is hyper-organized; requested filing cabinets for her 7th or 8th birthday. Diane takes awful photos, just awful, eyes closed in every one.
But then the years go by, as years tend to do, and the quirks fall away. I’m not saying that other, more serious character flaws don’t develop, but these particular issues abate or disappear except — pay attention here — in the minds of the family members.
Today: Janet’s a good driver; Susie has published a dozen cookbooks; Diane looks like this in a photo (not a model but not terrible, am I right?). Patty, whatever, she is the subject of this rant so she’s still organized but also at fault as you soon shall see.
Overdue for a Keratin treatment but my eyes are open anyway.
This goes on Facebook, where all good family feuds take place these days, only to be tagged by Patty: That can’t be my sister, her eyes are open.
Then, this morning, Patty uploads a photo of our mother, eyes closed, with the caption: Annette Lilly, pulling a Diane diCostanzo. To which I want to reply: “really, again?” and “why post a photo of anyone with their eyes closed?” and “by the way there’s a space between the di and the Costanzo.”
I had a similar, in person, rant aimed at my sister-in-law (whom I love) and my mother (she of closed eyes; I also love her) who spent a day with me, gently ribbing me about my inability to take a good picture. At once point I rebuked: “how do you think I’m supposed to take a good photo if every time the camera’s put in my face someone reminds me what bad pictures I take?” That didn’t hit the mark so I unleashed a full-on tirade after my mother, jokingly, said in advance of taking my photo: “put your sunglasses on so no one can see that your eyes are closed.”
Oy.
Families.
Spleen emptied but still I wonder: why do the people who know/love you best insist on not letting go of old, hurtful jabs like these? They’re not funny, they’re no longer true, and they make people feel bad. (But not as bad as the spleen emptied by in this letter from someone named Aunt Gladys whom I never met and that’s probably a good thing.)
