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Monday, June 11, 2012
The Plight of the Romney Woman
As i sat in my tiny studio apartment watching a sixty-second documentary, my heart went out to a woman who was utterly destroyed by the Obama administration, and wasn't afraid to speak out on the subject. There she sat, in her lovely two-story home which had a flawlessly landscaped yard outside and a kitchen to die for on the inside, pouring her heart out over her lovely Lenox china. It seemed that the children she'd been able to afford to put through university educations had not been able to find jobs. Worse yet, these children and their children were underfoot again because they couldn't find jobs that met their socio-economic requirements. To top it all off, the woman aged fifteen years before our very eyes in the course of sixty seconds. If she'd had more time, she probably would have crumbled into grave dust as she downgraded from a Jaguar to a Jetta. I don't think i would have been able to bear it.
Good Lord, what does this country expect our children to do nowdays? Actually go out and accept any honest work they can find?! That's ludicrous! Next thing you know we'll be asking them to take responsibility for their own finances and debt accumulation! Can you imagine the shame of having to spend Christmas in Vale instead of Gstaad?! What's this world come to?
I don't know how this woman sleeps at night anymore. The poor dear probably lies awake worrying herself sick until her health care covered prescription of Ambien kicks in. She may have to let go of one of the under-gardeners to make up for the increased amount of sessions she now requires at the psychologists office. Two things she desperately needs are a weekend at Elizabeth Arden and a first-rate colourist. If this keeps up she may also need corrective vision laser surgery as well because she might have to actually research investment analysts to find one who graduated from Yale instead of Harvard. Oh, the injustice of it all!
Well, i'll keep my fingers crossed for the poor dear and hope she finds a way to carry on. At least i can take comfort in the suspicion that she probably managed to cover her personal masseuse for the year with her earnings from the ad...um... documentary.
Lily Robertson, who has nothing but sympathy for the delusional until they start voting, can be reached at canopicjargon@gmail.com,on Facebook, or right here in front of everyone.
Saturday, June 9, 2012
Saving Dad's Butt
Ladies, it's almost Father's day and perhaps you're still wondering what to get for the man who sired your children. I'm here to help. Regardless of your economic status, this is the item every man should have, and you can help yourself by gifting him with this item on your own terms. It's a win-win.
The man-cave used to be called the garage. It was his sanctuary. It was the place he could go kid and wife free. He had rules for his garage. We didn't touch his tools without permission, and God save us if we put one back in the wrong place or left a mess he didn't make. Whether it was full of boxes and cans that were tagged and categorized or just crammed into odd spaces, he knew his territory and could usually find anything in the garage at a moment's notice. He hid his girly magazines in there. He designed and built tools that would help you get things off the top shelf or open stubborn jars when he wasn't home. Sometimes he would just turn on a power tool and let it run so he could make you think he was working on something while he cleared his head. Power tools can sound far more soothing than a pack of shrieking toddlers. Unfortunately, there's been a decline in garage ownership.
For many, the sanctuary moved into the house. It didn't involve tools. It involved the ugliest, most offensive piece of furniture ever created, and i'm including Byzantine torture benches in this equation. It never went with anything else in your home, and he'd rather sell you and the kids than get rid of it. It was ugly, but it was also the most comfortable place on earth. It said, "There, there. You've worked hard all day. I understand." He could lean back in it and it would elevate both his aching feet and his soul. He would frequently examine the back of his eyelids in it while snoring like a psychotic buzz saw. Sometimes we'd let him stay there all night because he just looked so happy. But damn, that thing was hideous!
Somewhere along the line, men became interior decorators and found themselves in the unique position of understanding the needs of both men and women. We need our home to look like we didn't pick up random pieces of furniture off the sidewalk the day after college got out for the summer. Men need a chiropractor/foot-lifter/sprawling device that gently embraces them and doesn't ask them to take out the trash. Luckily, there is such a thing. Men speak its name with reverence: La-Z-Boy. When their friends come over they show them off. "Sweet living room ride, dude!" And now these chairs come in every size, shape, colour, pattern and texture imaginable to designers. They come in both standard and automatic. Best of all, they feel exactly the same as they did when they were ugly.
Save your egg money. Get financing. Have bake sales. Extreme coupon for a few months. If you're a young bride, this is especially important because if you don't get him this chair, one of his friends will upgrade his nasty chair and you'll end up with a castoff, hideous and possibly smelly fixture in your living room that you'll have a hell of a time removing. They may seem a little pricey, but they cost far less than a divorce lawyer. When you've had enough of his nonsense, you can park him in it and go do your own thing without worrying about him destroying the house while unattended. This one material object will also secure his lifelong appreciation for you, as long as you never try to sit in it.
Lily Robertson, who is in no way affilliated with this chair, misses her dad but not his insanely ugly butt cradle. She can be reached at canopicjargon@gmail.com or you can just rant about how sexist this is right here.
The man-cave used to be called the garage. It was his sanctuary. It was the place he could go kid and wife free. He had rules for his garage. We didn't touch his tools without permission, and God save us if we put one back in the wrong place or left a mess he didn't make. Whether it was full of boxes and cans that were tagged and categorized or just crammed into odd spaces, he knew his territory and could usually find anything in the garage at a moment's notice. He hid his girly magazines in there. He designed and built tools that would help you get things off the top shelf or open stubborn jars when he wasn't home. Sometimes he would just turn on a power tool and let it run so he could make you think he was working on something while he cleared his head. Power tools can sound far more soothing than a pack of shrieking toddlers. Unfortunately, there's been a decline in garage ownership.
For many, the sanctuary moved into the house. It didn't involve tools. It involved the ugliest, most offensive piece of furniture ever created, and i'm including Byzantine torture benches in this equation. It never went with anything else in your home, and he'd rather sell you and the kids than get rid of it. It was ugly, but it was also the most comfortable place on earth. It said, "There, there. You've worked hard all day. I understand." He could lean back in it and it would elevate both his aching feet and his soul. He would frequently examine the back of his eyelids in it while snoring like a psychotic buzz saw. Sometimes we'd let him stay there all night because he just looked so happy. But damn, that thing was hideous!
Somewhere along the line, men became interior decorators and found themselves in the unique position of understanding the needs of both men and women. We need our home to look like we didn't pick up random pieces of furniture off the sidewalk the day after college got out for the summer. Men need a chiropractor/foot-lifter/sprawling device that gently embraces them and doesn't ask them to take out the trash. Luckily, there is such a thing. Men speak its name with reverence: La-Z-Boy. When their friends come over they show them off. "Sweet living room ride, dude!" And now these chairs come in every size, shape, colour, pattern and texture imaginable to designers. They come in both standard and automatic. Best of all, they feel exactly the same as they did when they were ugly.
Save your egg money. Get financing. Have bake sales. Extreme coupon for a few months. If you're a young bride, this is especially important because if you don't get him this chair, one of his friends will upgrade his nasty chair and you'll end up with a castoff, hideous and possibly smelly fixture in your living room that you'll have a hell of a time removing. They may seem a little pricey, but they cost far less than a divorce lawyer. When you've had enough of his nonsense, you can park him in it and go do your own thing without worrying about him destroying the house while unattended. This one material object will also secure his lifelong appreciation for you, as long as you never try to sit in it.
Lily Robertson, who is in no way affilliated with this chair, misses her dad but not his insanely ugly butt cradle. She can be reached at canopicjargon@gmail.com or you can just rant about how sexist this is right here.
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