Now that's a name for a post. But credit goes where credit is due: title complements of
"Come to us for all your colloquy needs."
Lots of things on my mind, unrelated all.
Hip Liz referred to a Steve Jobs commencement address and it got me to thinking. Three messages it had, each more trite and cliche than the last.
"You're gonna die."
"One thing leads to another."
"'Stay gold, Ponyboy. Stay gold.' And Johnny died."
Other than my guffawing at the notion that computers have pretty fonts because Jobs took a caligraphy course in college, it was a pretty good speech, despite the cliches. Why? Because of the cliches. Cliches are what they are: wonderful, concice euphanisms that speak to millions. Wonderful in speeches, not so wonderful in books. Oprah could be so lucky.
Oh, yeah, she is.
God, people are truly idiots, aren't they?
I wrote a post long ago about what not to do on blogs, and pictures are one of them. I specifically refer to pictures of oneself. Two things can happen, and only two things: Either you are way butt-fuglier than you think you are (99.999% chance of this one) or you are attractive and you have such a low self esteem that you rely on your good looks to get by, even on your friggin' blog.
Trust me, I'm hot. Way hot. Believe my words, because that's what blogs are about. Your blog isn't National Geographic, and it ain't the Times or the Post. We don't need a pic with your bi-line.
And, really, people, aren't we all beautiful on the inside?
Ok, not a good argument. But I think the ugly people in this world will find each other well enough.
And if you're a cute young thing... please please please take your pic off. We'll love you without your long blonde hair (actually we'll love you more) and that way no stalkers will get you.
As long as you didn't use your real name.
You didn't use your real name, did you?
Greg says I should write about my tan.
Ok, so I get tan in the summer. Really, truly dark tan. The tannest chic/dude at your pool? I'm darker, unless he's black. And, since the race card got played so early, for the record:
No, I have no known (key word: known) East Indian, West Indian, African, Oriental, Spanish, Native American, or South American blood running through my veins. I am 100% (recorded, anyway) Anglo. My features are white-white-whiiiite, all English, perhaps a touch of Irish ("But, Mum, those Catholic boys are so cute!"), right down to my future Celtic Knot tattoo.
However, the Brits did have an "Empire" such as it was, once upon a time. Mayhap some lonely young wife in an arranged marriage to an older British colonel, what? had a lovely, short-lived affair with the estate manager's native son and produced a dark-skinned "heir" who was raised in typical stiff-upper-lip, ignore-the-elephant-in-the-room British fashion. But, exotic looking as those mixed-race people are (exhibit A: Greg) and rich, too (the lucky bastard), he easily found a (several) willing, nice, wilting English flower to marry; with whom he spawned a recessive tanning gene into the old family line of which I am a beneficiary.
(Ok, Krypto, go. Keep your skills sharp over the summer on me.)
[Editor's note: Sex would like to hereby apologize for any of the "darker-skinned" races left out of her soliloquy. No offence was meant.]
But, do I like being tan? Well, duh. I look smokin' hot when I'm tan. I'm all Angelina-Jolie-exotic on your ass, minus the long legs, the big tits, and the accent. Brown skin, leopard print string bikini... oh, yeah...
and some of you (ok, one of you?) like smaller boobs, right?
I would also like to go on record as saying that I don't "try" to get this dark. I take my kids to the pool about four or five times a week and I get tan. I just do. I don't lay there soaking up rays, turning on the quarter hour and shifting my lounge with the sun to keep it even. I play with my kids and yell at them not to run and yank the younger out by her curls when she tries to drown herself and provide endless snacks and bitch to my friends about my so-called annoying life. (See, I'm not spoiled.) The only concession I do make to a "perfect tan" is to wear strapless bikini tops sometimes so that I don't have utterly white string bikini lines.
And do I ever think about my dark skin carressing the fair, pristine, young skin(s) of the blonde Twins?
Fuckin'A right I do.
Hey, I'm married. I'm not dead.
I miss Jack. I trust I'm not alone in this.