From '40s wardrobes to '80s videos .... Billboard made a list of the 50 sexiest songs of all time and weirdly, Olivia Newton-John's "Physical" is number 1. You know what's even weirder than that? The video for "Physical" (it's the last one on that page). I may never be able to watch Grease again without picturing Sandy in her work-out clothes. Y'all have got to check this out.
Friday, February 12, 2010
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Julep: Marriage and Money
More years ago than we might care to admit, LoLa and I were sitting at the kitchen table of my childhood home, engaged in the deep philosophical conversation typical for smarty-pants girls soon headed off to college (or back to college, I can't remember exactly when this took place).
The topic du jour was this hypothetical: Say you had two wonderful fellows seeking your hand in marriage. One was a doctor or businessman or something else lucrative, who could support you and your hoped-for family in fine style. And he was a good guy, a nice person, but just, you know, kind of boring. The other was the opposite of boring: he was exciting and funny and someone you could talk to for hours. But although he had a job he loved and was good at - a musician, say, or a mechanic - he was clearly never going to bring home the bacon to any significant degree. Which should you choose? A family's financial stability, or the love of one's life?
Unbeknownst to us, as she bustled around doing something productive, the J-Mama was listening to us (and no doubt laughing at us). And as she left the kitchen, the J-Mama had the last word. She said, "Girls, marry for sex. You can make your own money."
I have never forgotten it, if only because it shocked the hell out of us and seemed so contrary to what anyone would expect a mother figure to advise. I'm thinking of it today because Mr. J and I met with our new financial planner. Although we've both known all along that I contribute the bulk of income to our family coffers, I don't think either of us realized before today exactly how much comes from me - and what seems like the more emotionally significant corollary, how little comes from him.
I truly do not care. I am blessed to have a career that I enjoy, I'm good at, and pays me quite well. I don't need a husband to support me financially. Mr. J supports me so much in so many ways that are more important to me. When we got to the car, I told him: "I really hope you know that your contribution to this marriage is not measured in dollars." And he said, "I sure hope so, or you'd have kicked me to the curb a long time ago!" In and of himself, I don't think Mr. J cares either. We're pretty good with thinking of it as "our money."
But there is still a lot of societal pressure on a man who is not the bread-winner. The new financial planner is a friend's husband. I 100% trust his discretion with the details of our finances. But I have to wonder if he and Mr. J will be as comfortable with each other with this information on the table. I never thought about that before we were sitting around today. When the topic came up, Mr. J and I both immediately started talking about these new commission-based things he has going that may mean he'll earn much more in the future, blah blah. And isn't that a little silly?
I have a great job and my husband is handy around the house, a wonderful cook, drives me to court appearances when the weather is bad, and sails a lot. And someday, when we have kids, he'll almost certainly be the stay-at-home parent. Why should we make excuses for it? And yet we do.
The topic du jour was this hypothetical: Say you had two wonderful fellows seeking your hand in marriage. One was a doctor or businessman or something else lucrative, who could support you and your hoped-for family in fine style. And he was a good guy, a nice person, but just, you know, kind of boring. The other was the opposite of boring: he was exciting and funny and someone you could talk to for hours. But although he had a job he loved and was good at - a musician, say, or a mechanic - he was clearly never going to bring home the bacon to any significant degree. Which should you choose? A family's financial stability, or the love of one's life?
Unbeknownst to us, as she bustled around doing something productive, the J-Mama was listening to us (and no doubt laughing at us). And as she left the kitchen, the J-Mama had the last word. She said, "Girls, marry for sex. You can make your own money."
I have never forgotten it, if only because it shocked the hell out of us and seemed so contrary to what anyone would expect a mother figure to advise. I'm thinking of it today because Mr. J and I met with our new financial planner. Although we've both known all along that I contribute the bulk of income to our family coffers, I don't think either of us realized before today exactly how much comes from me - and what seems like the more emotionally significant corollary, how little comes from him.
I truly do not care. I am blessed to have a career that I enjoy, I'm good at, and pays me quite well. I don't need a husband to support me financially. Mr. J supports me so much in so many ways that are more important to me. When we got to the car, I told him: "I really hope you know that your contribution to this marriage is not measured in dollars." And he said, "I sure hope so, or you'd have kicked me to the curb a long time ago!" In and of himself, I don't think Mr. J cares either. We're pretty good with thinking of it as "our money."
But there is still a lot of societal pressure on a man who is not the bread-winner. The new financial planner is a friend's husband. I 100% trust his discretion with the details of our finances. But I have to wonder if he and Mr. J will be as comfortable with each other with this information on the table. I never thought about that before we were sitting around today. When the topic came up, Mr. J and I both immediately started talking about these new commission-based things he has going that may mean he'll earn much more in the future, blah blah. And isn't that a little silly?
I have a great job and my husband is handy around the house, a wonderful cook, drives me to court appearances when the weather is bad, and sails a lot. And someday, when we have kids, he'll almost certainly be the stay-at-home parent. Why should we make excuses for it? And yet we do.
Monday, February 8, 2010
Julep: Superbowl Shuffle
Just a brief note inspired by the football -- I love me those Manning boys, but yay Saints! -- or more precisely, by the ads.
I quite enjoyed the Volkswagen "punch buggy" ad, as well as the Doritos one with the little kid confronting his mom's date, the Google ad about finding love in Paris, and yes, the Budweiser Clydesdales. The Superbowl wouldn't be the same without a slightly schmaltzy beer ad about some other species of animal bonding with the Clydesdales.
But I could have done without all the ads full of unattractive people wearing too few clothes. I'm looking at you, Dockers, Career Builder, and whatever that awful Superbowl Shuffle ad was for. Frankly, I was no more happy about the ads full of attractive people in too few clothes. I watched the game with Mr. J's parents, and after the second Go-Daddy ad, I was starting to feel a little uncomfortable. I can't be the only person in the nation who doesn't care to watch trailers for soft-core porn amid the same people with whom she watches a football game.
And what was with all the misogyny? The overarching message of the Dove for Men, Dodge Charger and Flo TV ads ("women suck! They are holding you down, man!"): what's up with that? How about the Bridgestone ad that indicated one should hold on to one's tires and toss one's wife to a pack of scary-looking ruffians? Wow, that's ... kind of vicious.
Do the advertisers somehow not remember that 50% of the Superbowl audience is female? And for once, people are actually watching the ads?
I quite enjoyed the Volkswagen "punch buggy" ad, as well as the Doritos one with the little kid confronting his mom's date, the Google ad about finding love in Paris, and yes, the Budweiser Clydesdales. The Superbowl wouldn't be the same without a slightly schmaltzy beer ad about some other species of animal bonding with the Clydesdales.
But I could have done without all the ads full of unattractive people wearing too few clothes. I'm looking at you, Dockers, Career Builder, and whatever that awful Superbowl Shuffle ad was for. Frankly, I was no more happy about the ads full of attractive people in too few clothes. I watched the game with Mr. J's parents, and after the second Go-Daddy ad, I was starting to feel a little uncomfortable. I can't be the only person in the nation who doesn't care to watch trailers for soft-core porn amid the same people with whom she watches a football game.
And what was with all the misogyny? The overarching message of the Dove for Men, Dodge Charger and Flo TV ads ("women suck! They are holding you down, man!"): what's up with that? How about the Bridgestone ad that indicated one should hold on to one's tires and toss one's wife to a pack of scary-looking ruffians? Wow, that's ... kind of vicious.
Do the advertisers somehow not remember that 50% of the Superbowl audience is female? And for once, people are actually watching the ads?
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Twinkle: Just a Quick Observation
Just a quick rant, but why is Mr. Twinkle's family so freaking weird?
Today was pajama day at Twinklette's school, and so she wore her favorite pjs, which are lime green and have fairies on them. Because Twinklette loves everything fairy.
So we get to school, and Mr. Twinkle's cousin/Twinklette's teacher greets us. We're admiring everyone's pjs and Cousin says, "What's on your pjs, Twinklette? Butterflies? Ballarinas?" Twinklette knows good and well what's on there, but she stands silent on the issue so I say "I think they're fairies." Cousin looks baffled, like she's never heard of such utter ridiculousness, and says, "Ye-ah...they could be fairies..."
No...not could be. They are fairies. That's the whole entire reason why we bought them. When you see a picture of a girl in a dainty dress, with wings and a wand, what do you think it is? Not a butterfly! Did these people grow up under a rock, or what?
Today was pajama day at Twinklette's school, and so she wore her favorite pjs, which are lime green and have fairies on them. Because Twinklette loves everything fairy.
So we get to school, and Mr. Twinkle's cousin/Twinklette's teacher greets us. We're admiring everyone's pjs and Cousin says, "What's on your pjs, Twinklette? Butterflies? Ballarinas?" Twinklette knows good and well what's on there, but she stands silent on the issue so I say "I think they're fairies." Cousin looks baffled, like she's never heard of such utter ridiculousness, and says, "Ye-ah...they could be fairies..."
No...not could be. They are fairies. That's the whole entire reason why we bought them. When you see a picture of a girl in a dainty dress, with wings and a wand, what do you think it is? Not a butterfly! Did these people grow up under a rock, or what?
Monday, February 1, 2010
Dibbs: Honey, Get Some Stones
Oh, I'm not finished yet. One more thing.
I had my doctor's appointment today. That one. And can I tell you, some woman had the nerve to bring her husband up in there.
Let me explain, my doctor doesn't deliver any babies. There aren't any sweet ultrasounds to ooh and aah over. That I would understand. The only thing going on in that office is pure and utter humiliation.
I understand I'm the only single one here, and I anticipate the arguments I might hear, so I will now counter them.
1) Her husband needed to understand her condition and the prognosis.//Sorry, sugar. The doctor gives a folder of reading material an inch thick. He can read it. Better yet, read it together. You can bond.
2) They only have one car. They need to ride together.//Nope. The office is located in a plush, new hospital. Wait in the lobby. It's lovely.
3) She needs moral support.//Well, don't we all, but you don't see anybody else up there with a man. It's embarrassing, what's going on in there. No one wants to look some man in the face and think he knows what's going on with her. It's like a little sisterhood. We all "man up," if you will, and take it like grown-ups. She can, too.
I know that guy had to be so embarrassed. He sort of stared at his lap. She just chattered along, blissfully ignoring the glares of the other patients. Oy, I just can't think about it anymore.
I had my doctor's appointment today. That one. And can I tell you, some woman had the nerve to bring her husband up in there.
Let me explain, my doctor doesn't deliver any babies. There aren't any sweet ultrasounds to ooh and aah over. That I would understand. The only thing going on in that office is pure and utter humiliation.
I understand I'm the only single one here, and I anticipate the arguments I might hear, so I will now counter them.
1) Her husband needed to understand her condition and the prognosis.//Sorry, sugar. The doctor gives a folder of reading material an inch thick. He can read it. Better yet, read it together. You can bond.
2) They only have one car. They need to ride together.//Nope. The office is located in a plush, new hospital. Wait in the lobby. It's lovely.
3) She needs moral support.//Well, don't we all, but you don't see anybody else up there with a man. It's embarrassing, what's going on in there. No one wants to look some man in the face and think he knows what's going on with her. It's like a little sisterhood. We all "man up," if you will, and take it like grown-ups. She can, too.
I know that guy had to be so embarrassed. He sort of stared at his lap. She just chattered along, blissfully ignoring the glares of the other patients. Oy, I just can't think about it anymore.
All Hat, No Cattle: Dibbs
Okay, Ladies, the bitching is about to commence. Sorry.
I know I volunteered to chair this silent auction, and until last week, I honestly haven't minded. Asking for things isn't a strength of mine. This has been quite the character-building experience. I'm pretty good at it.
(BTW, thank you, Julep and Twinkle, for your kind donations. And Twinkle, thank you for the procurement road trip. I hope Twinklette enjoys the distillery.)
Here's the thing: We started this little venture in June. We had our first procurement meeting in September. At that point people pledged their items. It's February 2. Now is not the time to tell me, "I might be able to get it to you by Thursday." Or, "I don't know how much the gift certificate is worth." What? Call the damn place! I'm not the only one who knows how to use a phone.
You'll understand when you hear the worst culprit. She marked her name beside ten items. She promised to take care of those items. "Don't worry, Dibbs," she said. "These are under control." When I asked her about them, she sent a spreadsheet of her progress each time. Great. A spreadsheet don't buy Mama new shoes. Now she's between the Pro Bowl and the Super Bowl and I've got nothin'. The only blessing is the YWC won't listen to her talk about pillars, connectivity, or Zoomerangs, and she's no longer employed by KFC.
I just don't know how much more of this stress I can take. You should see my skin. But I can't talk anymore. I have to drive to the 'burbs and pick up an Arbonne basket. Toodles.
I know I volunteered to chair this silent auction, and until last week, I honestly haven't minded. Asking for things isn't a strength of mine. This has been quite the character-building experience. I'm pretty good at it.
(BTW, thank you, Julep and Twinkle, for your kind donations. And Twinkle, thank you for the procurement road trip. I hope Twinklette enjoys the distillery.)
Here's the thing: We started this little venture in June. We had our first procurement meeting in September. At that point people pledged their items. It's February 2. Now is not the time to tell me, "I might be able to get it to you by Thursday." Or, "I don't know how much the gift certificate is worth." What? Call the damn place! I'm not the only one who knows how to use a phone.
You'll understand when you hear the worst culprit. She marked her name beside ten items. She promised to take care of those items. "Don't worry, Dibbs," she said. "These are under control." When I asked her about them, she sent a spreadsheet of her progress each time. Great. A spreadsheet don't buy Mama new shoes. Now she's between the Pro Bowl and the Super Bowl and I've got nothin'. The only blessing is the YWC won't listen to her talk about pillars, connectivity, or Zoomerangs, and she's no longer employed by KFC.
I just don't know how much more of this stress I can take. You should see my skin. But I can't talk anymore. I have to drive to the 'burbs and pick up an Arbonne basket. Toodles.
Julep: So this is fun ...
Check out this poll from 1941 about the items and quantities in a "co-ed's" wardrobe.
Now I have to get to work - late start today due to a morning errand I will blog about later. I know, you're all on the edges of your seats.
Now I have to get to work - late start today due to a morning errand I will blog about later. I know, you're all on the edges of your seats.
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