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Archive for June, 2010

Landon Donovan, America’s Tweetheart

Thursday, June 24th, 2010

It was 7 a.m., it was pre-coffee, and I was making scrambled eggs, treating  Oliver’s infected paw, on the phone with my N.Y. daugher re: travel plans, adding ingredients for turkey loaf to my mental grocery list, and stepping out to retrieve the newspaper, at which time the sprinklers popped up cheerfully to douse me. So when the vuvuzelas started, I was already in a state you might call irritable.

But then soccer took over. Tom and Nora have been obsessed with the World Cup, but I’ve been more, shall we say, aloof. (The most emotion I’ve displayed vis-à-vis the Cup is bitching about the vuvuzelas.) This morning, however, my family’s intense focus zapped me. I turned to the television and, within seconds, I was hooked.

I stood in my damp bathrobe and got acquainted with Landon Donovan, and life’s irritating factors evaporated. Even the vuvuzelas lost their edge.

After The Goal (note-to=self: get that YouTube vid on my iPhone), I skittered across Twitter and now I (along with 60,000 other stalkers) am following Landon. His tweet after the victory? “WOW!” (Well, whattya want, the Gettysburg address? The guy was pooped, for chrissakes.)

After the thrill of victory dimmed slightly, I got real and made a turkey loaf, fantasizing about tweeting old Landon a dinner invite, which would probably be his 59,999th offer of the day.  Maybe I’ll invite Stan McChrystal instead. Bet his dance card is empty.

 

It’s The Margaritas, Stupid!

Saturday, June 19th, 2010

It’s all over NPR. Google is making me stupid. But I mean, are they sure? Is that what’s doing it? Or is it, you know, other stuff? I did a scan of recent life activity to see what else might be causing my newfound stupidity.

Could it be: 1. All those vuvuzelas  2. Too many Stacy’s pita chips while watching the NBA 3. That second grapefruit margarita after Game 6 (or was it Game 7?).  4. Watching 40 minutes of Fox News by mistake  5.  Arguing with the mattress delivery dude about whether when they say noon to five that includes five-thirty.  6. Arguing with my daughter about proper etiquette for borrowing my white Splendid tee shirt  7. Riding seventeen floors on an elevator with a guy yelling into cell phone about the “Celtic bastards”  8. Arguing with Tom about the value of owning a smelly ’67 Mustang   9. Hearing Meg Whitman on the radio 10. Rearranging the bookshelf, and now not finding Proust, only Wally Lamb 11. The grapefruit margarita after US tied Slovenia

These things add up; they will dumb you down.  I know I was smarter before all this happened (although I felt better about my own IQ after hearing Barton apologize to BP).

So, I wouldn’t be so quick to blame Google. In fact, I got a smidge smarter yesterday when I learned, courtesy of Google, that the people who attend bingo games outnumber NBA attendees by 59 to 1. (Note-to-self: tweet Kobe about this.)

Grapefruit Margarita:

3 ounces grapefruit juice

2 ounces tequila

1 ounce Grand Marnier

1 tablespoon lime juice

Lime wedges

Pour all this stuff except the lime wedges in a cocktail shaker, add some ice cubes and shake 30 seconds. Pour into 2 glasses, or 1 glass if you’re livin’ large.

 

Carly Fiorina’s Bad Hair Day

Friday, June 11th, 2010

Carly Fiorina is having a bad hair day. Not because her hair looks bad, but because nobody likes her catty remarks about Barbara Boxer’s coif.  GOP senate candidate Carly, n capaign mode, didn’t realize her mike was on when she spoke about her passion for hamburgers, then switched topics to focus on her Democratic opponent. “God, what is that hair? Sooooooo yesterday.”

She sounded exactly like Kathy, a bitch I knew  in high school who made a habit of  dissing people’s hair (and shoes and body odor and athletic ability).  I was the subject of Kathy’s ridicule in tenth grade when my own bleach-streaked locks turned red and broke off.

Inspired by Carly’s remarks, I am making hamburgers tonight (sliders, to be exact). But in spite of her fondness for burgers, I am not inviting  Ms. F. to dinner because she’d have a field day with my hair. While not as stunningly bad as it was in bleachy high school days (it’s more bedhead than redhead, but closer to deadhead), today it is limp, useless.  If it were “sooooooo yesterday,” that would be an improvement.

So I will be avoiding Ms. Bitchorina today, and anyone else with an open mike.  I’ll invite some girlfriends over to share my sliders. I may be having a bad hair day, but I’m safe with my friends. They know that  dissing hair is just sooooooo tenth grade.

 

Obama In My Dreams

Wednesday, June 9th, 2010

Last night I dreamed that Obama, dressed impeccably in his usual suit, collapsed into my arms, weeping. “I’m overwhelmed by the Forces of Evil!” he sobbed. We were in a golf cart at the time. (Michelle was busy watching “The Aristocats” on TV.)

Pre-bedtime, I’d been reading the New York Times article about how the BP-inflicted chaos might  affect the presidency, which was, no doubt, the trigger for my midnight vision. If that oil keeps a-spillin’, my dream may become reality (although perhaps without yours truly and the golf cart.)

But that might not be such a bad thing, if the King of Cool were to show a little more spill-related rage, sweat, tears and teeth-gnashing. I know Maureen Dowd would like it, and she’s not alone. It wouldn’t hurt for us to see real evidence that Barry is feeling at as frustrated, saddened and helpless as we feel when we see the dead pelicans on TV every night. I mean, we know he feels the pain, we know he cares completely. But knowing is like dreaming. It’s a little insubstantial.

Misery loves company. So, come on Barack. Yes, you are being overwhelmed by the Forces of Evil. Go ahead. Make my dream come true. Let’s see some tear stains on that suit.

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