Monday, March 1, 2010
Sometimes I face the blank screen and think maybe I’ve given one too many shakes to the spice jar. Nothing left in the noggin but a whiff of expired powder that can only be excavated with a magnifying glass and dental pic.
And I weep.
Then I think, screw it, let me bore you bitches one more time. (We agreed at a party recently that “bitches” is now unisex, and a perfectly acceptable substitute for “guys” and a more than acceptable substitute for – blech -- gals.)
Speaking of which …
When someone refers to me as lady, as in “This lady is asking for help with furnace filters on aisle 2,” I feel like Ethyl Barrymore, pulling her stole tight around her neck until the fox heads bobble, waving her cane, hairpins flying off her steely gray bun as she stamps her sensibly-shod foot.
“See here, I’m Mrs. Montague-St. John-Smythe, and I want to see your best filter!”
Customer, okay. Woman, fine. But lady? That chaps my woolen underwear.
I’m cranky. That’s what happens when we don’t get enough sun around here. Cranky enough to admit to lots of stuff festering in that spice jar – Like, how much I hate California native plants. There, I’ve said it, and there’s no going back.
Just because you tuck a few redwood chips around those wizened stems doesn’t mean they still aren’t a bunch of weeds. I guarantee that everyone who landscapes with California natives carries a sanctimonious canvas tote into Trader Joes and stuffs it with soymilk and raw almonds before firing up the Prius and plowing into the nearest retaining wall.
And you know what else gives me a run in my blue stockings? Now everyone’s talking about Obama’s medical exam, how the doctors say he should stop smoking and drinking. What, you want to be led by some nicotine-deprived maniac who needs a belt or two? I want my president to have every comfort at his disposal as he considers the future of the western world.
What else, what else. I’m fearless. I’m rolling up my tweed sleeves and pouring a sherry. I’m not afraid to tell anyone anything right now, so long as it’s not to their face.