Webdame

Romance Pants

Wed, 03 Apr 2013 12:19:29 -0400

You can call them “Romance Pants”, but I call them the ultimate guy invention. Why waste time setting the mood unless you absolutely know you’re going to need it? And the fact that the pants “trigger” events with the undoing of the zipper instead of a kiss—total guy timing.

Hilarious.

Happily Ever After? A new spin on what happens after the altar

Tue, 19 Mar 2013 13:57:05 -0400

http://mashable.com/2013/03/14/disney-princesses-happily-ever-after/

Katherine Graham and Mammograms

Fri, 15 Mar 2013 16:21:23 -0400

Getting a mammogram gives new meaning to Mitchell’s threat about getting one’s tit caught in a wringer.

Women's History Month

Mon, 04 Mar 2013 15:01:30 -0500

For a start, we should probably be calling it Women’s Her-story month.

Twitter's photo tweets

Tue, 05 Feb 2013 14:14:20 -0500

Price of images drops below 1,000 words to 147 characters as Twitter amps up its photo and video sharing capabilities. Move follows trend of intertwined video and networking technologies.

Making Merry, 1961

Fri, 14 Dec 2012 09:53:53 -0500

Making Merry, 1961

Yeah, I still love Christmas

Fri, 14 Dec 2012 09:52:00 -0500

As a child, I had a very strong belief in Santa—so strong that when Sister Grace Miriam announced to our 3^rd grade class that there was no such thing as Santa I got into trouble telling her just how wrong she was. Looking back it’s amazing that I held on as long as I did, especially considering that the Christmas Eve I was six I awoke around midnight to a lot of loud, un-Santa-like laughter and shouts. My parents had gotten my sister and me a playhouse that year, a sizable one into which several kids could climb. It was made of cardboard and came with the kinds of flaps and inserts that have since made IKEA synonymous with multi-lingual swearing.

Several of the neighbors on our block had ended up in my parents’ living room late that night and had been enlisted to help build the house. The enticement was apparently a pitcher of manhattans. The bourbon cleared their heads enough to get them past the “insert flap A into point M”, but not enough to clarify where they should stand when inserting the flaps and the result was that Mr. S. and Mr. G. ended up inside the playhouse. The door was not big enough to let them crawl out. I believe it took another pitcher to get them out.

I thought of them the year George and I remembered at midnight that we had left the big present—a new television—at his apartment and we had to go out into the freezing cold to retrieve it. This was after hosting a lengthy Christmas Eve dinner party with a lot of champagne. The damn TV was so big that it wouldn’t fit in my car. We drove over to my parents and broke into their station wagon, only to discover that it was out of gas.

We ended up wrestling the TV out of the box in front of the apartment building and trying to shove it in the back seat. I said to him, “I feel as if we’re ripping off an appliance store.” We finally got it home and inside the living room, at which point George had had enough and went up to bed. It was 1:30 in the morning by then, so I pulled a blanket off the couch, threw it over the TV, put a bow on top and followed him upstairs.

In the morning Wally and the Snapper sarcastically said, “Nice wrapping job.” So the following Christmas when we bought them a huge set of free weights, George wrestled it to the front porch and left it with a note saying that union rules wouldn’t permit Santa to carry it in, let alone wrap it.

Anyway, despite surviving the playhouse and Sister Grace Miriam in 3^rd grade, I eventually learned the truth, and that Christmas Eve rolled around where I found myself outside the magic for the first time. The rule in our house was that when you stopped believing in Santa, you could stay up and be a Santa’s helper on Christmas Eve.

So I was up helping my parents lay out the many piles of gifts and after a while I wandered into the kitchen, where my grandmother was starting in on Christmas Day dinner for the 30 or so usual suspects. My grandmother was a Hallmark classic—white hair and a soft Irish accent and always cooking in the kitchen. I stood there without saying anything until she finally asked me what was wrong. I said, “It’s just not the same anymore since I don’t believe in Santa.” And she turned away from the stove and said to me, “I still believe.” And then she went back to the turkey. Just like that. No explanations. No deconstructions of the myth. Just, “I still believe.” In that moment she gave all the magic of Christmas back to me.

I think of her every Christmas Eve when I’m caught up in dinner and wrapping and finding enough triple A batteries at eleven at night. I look around at the dishes and the presents and wrapping paper and the lights on the tree and the stockings on the mantel and think, “I still believe.” And I do.

Excerpted from “The Home Fires Are Burning…My Feet!”

Career gal Barbara Stanwyck pretends to cook breakfast for her...

Wed, 12 Dec 2012 14:56:16 -0500

Career gal Barbara Stanwyck pretends to cook breakfast for her guests.

Hallmark and Lifetime Christmas Movies--The Originals

Wed, 12 Dec 2012 14:55:23 -0500

I became addicted to Hallmark and Lifetime Christmas movies during a major snowstorm 3 years ago.

Admit it, you watch them, too. Everyone does!

They’re fabulously narcotic and one day the NSF or someone will fund a study about why these sopoforic films are so habit forming.

This year I’ve noticed a lot of the Hallmark movies seem to riff on themes found in theatrical movies (okay, maybe rip off is a better term, but really, so not in keeping with the gingerbread sentiments of the channel).

The other night I actually swicthed over to an airing of “Miracle on 34th Street” on AMC and by the time the movie cycled thru a 2nd time, I realized that in fact, yes! “Miracle” is the ORIGINAL Hallmark/Lifetime Christmas movie.

Just think—a single, career-driven mom who doesn’t believe in Christmas, is brought to her senses with the help of a magic, spiritual advisor (Santa, in this case) AND lands the man in the apartment next door.

I pointed this out to my friend Rebecca, who got me hooked on these to begin with and she agreed and then pointed out that “Christmas in Connecticut” was an even earlier Hallmark entrant—single career driven gal engages in fall marriage for the holidays, only to fall head over heels in love by Christmas morning.

And she can’t even cook.

Top 5 Signs My Sons Were Home for Thanksgiving

Mon, 26 Nov 2012 11:38:17 -0500

5. I established a beach head in the kitchen on Wednesday night.

4. I am intimately familiar with the BCS standings.

3. We put up the Christmas lights, and a lot of duct tape was involved.

2. I know who Johnny Football is.

And the number 1 sign my sons were home this holiday weekend:

1. I found a beer bottle in the dishwasher on Saturday morning!

Fairy Tale Heroines--in Therapy

Wed, 07 Nov 2012 15:34:48 -0500

For afficionados of fairy tales, “Dysfuntion” is a funny riff on familiar heroines, all at a group therapy session.

The boys on the bus and the women under it

Tue, 16 Oct 2012 14:07:00 -0400

Four years ago I split with the Democratic party over their blatantly sexist treatment of Hillary Clinton. From the gerrymandering in Florida and Michigan, to the DNC’s silent, complicit tolerance of the ugly remarks about Clinton in the media, the Dems showed how little they cared about the rights of women.

Four weeks ago I said to another feminist friend of mine, well, I guess I’m voting for Obama this time because Romney has a bad track record with women’s rights.

Then Obama threw Hillary under the bus this morning.

The man who’s all about taking ownership of the killing of Bin Laden is sudddenly—on of a foreign policy debate—is suddenly, the morning of a foreign policy debate, letting the girl take the responsibility for his screw-up in Libya.

I may not have liked George Bush,but he would never have treated Condoleeza Rice this way. Obama and the Demos seem totally willing, however, to sacrifice women at the drop of a hat. Then they try to scare me about Romney and women’s rights.

Here’s the reality. No president can de-fund Planned Parenthood. That’s a congressional item and a state issue. No president can take away my right to choose—that’s a Supreme court play—and a state issue. If I want to defend my rights—and funding for PP—then I need to get active on the state level, where these issues really get decided.

Yes, you may say, but the President sets the agenda. Indeed, s/he does. And this president has shown me clearly,over and over, exactly what his agenda for women is by how he is willing to treat women on a day to day basis. And I refuse to support it. Mitt, you now have this feminist’s vote.

Monday Night Raw

Tue, 25 Sep 2012 13:56:35 -0400

Last night I watched WWE’s Monday Night Raw (I think that’s what it’s called) on USA.

More than the sneakers piled by the front door and the 20% increase in the grocery bill, watching WWE—and discussing the narrative plotlines—lets me know that , yes, I do have a son living in my house again:)

Video: Lean and Mean--and Made to Fit the Medium

Thu, 13 Sep 2012 10:29:27 -0400

What’s the difference between over-produced and under-produced when it comes to your video content?

A production that’s made to fit the medium.

I first saw this animation in 1999 and it fit the then-dominant dial-up medium. Thirteen years later it still holds up, because it was professionally produced and delivered its message in under three minutes.

Plus, it’s funny: http://www.transience.com.au/teetering.html

How Lovely to be a Woman!

Fri, 07 Sep 2012 12:35:50 -0400

How Lovely to be a Woman!

Getting a girl's vote--a political primer

Fri, 07 Sep 2012 12:34:00 -0400

I know it’s lovely to be a woman (especially a mom-woman), because the Republicans and Democrats have spent the last two weeks showing me—and all the ladies—a lot of love.

The Republicans showed their love by, once again, being very concerned with my vagina and by having Ann Romney give an impromptu shout-out to women, whom she admits to loving.

The Democrats showed their love by, once again, being concerned with who’s concerned about my vagina, and by sending out Michelle Obama as mom-in-chief in a dress that, OMG! No one can stop talking about! I mean, pink! And those nails!

See, they do understand what concerns us women most!

So ladies in dresses took to the national stage to tell us ladies in the audience what great husbands they have, while the only woman with enough balls to fill a pair of trousers was off commanding the international stage.

But back to the love part.

All this love is designed to make me feel that, yes! They will all call me the morning after the election is over. But they won’t.

The Republicans won’t call because—despite Olympia Snowe, Kay Bailey Hutchinson, seven female governors and a track record of putting a woman on the national ticket just four years ago—they are still far too up inside my female parts to be able to think of me as a whole person. Plus Mitt’s undying commitment to the conservative faction in Israel makes me nervous because, let’s be honest, the conservatives over there have been selling special eyeglasses to keep men from seeing women who are “indecently” dressed.

The Democrats won’t call because let’s be honest—if they really loved me, they would not have stolen the primary from a woman four years by gerrymandering the results in two states, forcing a man on me, and then telling me to lie back and enjoy it, which is kind of like a definition of rape.

You know what’s really lovely? To be taken seriously as a voter. Politicians may bond with men over sports teams and beer, but they try to win their votes by discussing jobs and the economy because they know that’s what most guys are thinking about.

Well, guess what? So are the women. And we’re a lot more concerned about those issues than dresses and nail polish and what a great husband the candidate is. Frankly, I don’t care. FDR, whose name was invoked recently, was a lousy husband. So was JFK. We don’t need to love them because we’re not marrying them. Someone else already did.

You want my vote in November? You’ll have to prove you really love me—keep the roses and end the recession.

My Summer Reading List--Broccoli with Ranch

Wed, 29 Aug 2012 09:32:00 -0400

We have a term for books, TV and films that are good for you—broccoli. As in, you should consume it because it’s good for you, no matter what it tastes like.

My sons were never big broccoli eaters when they were little. Then we met George and he solved that problem by purchasing ranch dressing, which he would put out next to the broccoli, in a dipping bowl. Et, voila as they say in France (where I’ve never been served broccoli, ever, by the way).

At any rate, I avoid broccoli media because my parents went through a phase when I was little, of only letting us watch documentaries and PBS on TV. And while I admire Jacques Cousteau, to this day the sound of his voice on TV sends me screaming out of the room.

I justified this avoidance because I do a lot of heavy reading. I actually once went through a two year period where I didn’t read any fiction at all. I especially tend to indulge in the summer, losing myself in 400 page historical biographies, because long summer evenings are perfect for having the time to follow the thread.

Not this summer though. I actually had planned out my summer reading list—I was going to tackle the Hapsburgs and their dynasties. I pre-ordered several books on Amazon and at my library. I took them to the beach in June. I got about 50 pages in and stopped. Not that the Hapsburgs aren’t interesting—they’re fascinating. And the description of the battle prep between them and the Ottomans was incredible.

But it all just felt like broccoli, with no ranch dressing on the side. So instead I subsisted on a diet of detective novels—and it was great. I read thru Tana French, and every Robert Crais I could get my hands on. I re-read Lee Child and there was a spy novel in there somewhere, too. I varied my diet by dipping into some Jennifer Weiner, a book about Celts, a funny detective/murder/art history book set in 1890’s Paris, and “Windy City”, a political comedy with a bit of mystery as well.

I flew like I blew off my summer reading list, just like my sons used to do in school:)

The days are getting shorter now and it’s cooler and I’ve checked out a book about Cromwell for post-Labor Day. But between now and then, there’s one more detective novel on my bedside table. Some may think of it as empty brain calories, but trust me, ranch never tasted so good!

A Moveable Feast

Thu, 23 Aug 2012 14:13:06 -0400

Thirty-three years ago, in the waning days of summer, I got on a plane and went to France. I flew on a DC-9 and it was the summer they kept blowing up. “Don’t worry,” my father reassured me, “By the time you leave, they’ll be the safest planes around.”

I landed in Paris, solo. The plan—if there was one—was to spend several days hanging out in Paris, finding my way around, before I headed down to my school in Angers, in the Loire Valley. My sister, who was babysitting in Spain, would join me at some point. That was the only plan I had. I had no real idea what I would do in Paris by myself, but I went anyway.

When I got off the plane, I haltingly asked for directions to the bus that would take me the center of Paris. I took the wrong bus and ended up in a depot on the outskirts of Paris. I waited patiently for an irate French woman to finish berating the counter people in the bus terminal and then slowly explained my situation. The irate French woman took one look at me, twenty-one and lost in Paris with a backpack, and said, “Come with me!”

Her name was Francoise and she was in her mid-twenties. Though only a few years older than me she seemed sophisticated beyond her years. On the way back into the city she ran errands, pointed out landmarks and kept up a steady stream of information in rapid fire French, including relevant slang and necessary swear words. Francoise was a school teacher, and for her apparently, everything was a learning experience. When we finally got to the hostel, she looked at the bunk beds jammed against each other pursed her lips disapprovingly. “I will come back,” she threatened. What did I know? And really, what did it matter? It was Paris. The sun did not set until almost ten o’clock that night and I ate dinner with some red-headed American college boy on the sidewalks of the Boulevard St. Michel.

The next morning I learned to drink coffee out of a bowl and then took some Madelines down to a quai along the Seine. The sun warmed the mossy gray steps as I ate the cookies and watched the flat boats slip along in the water. I smelled green dankness and diesel and yeasty baking bread. To this day, that is still the essence of Paris for me.

True to her word, Francoise returned before lunch and insisted I pack up and come stay with her and her boyfriend and his nephew. I explained about my sister—no matter! She would come, too! We went.

I have no idea what inspired her to take me in like that, but she took my sister and I everywhere. She led us to hidden churches, parked on sidewalks—engaging in constant heated dialectic with the police over her decision to do so—and taught us to swear in rapid-fire French. Our last night in Paris, my sister and I treated Francoise to dinner in Montmartre, and it involved a lot of wine and an in-depth discussion of whether or not she should leave her current boyfriend and go live in Martinique with another boyfriend. Well past midnight she decided we had to see the Moulin Rouge and so we drove up and down one way streets the wrong way because she couldn’t quite remember where it was. As she drove she taught us to sing “La Marseillaise” (I still know every word). We were inevitably pulled over by yet another cop. Francoise cued us to continue singing as she rolled down the window, and told the policeman that les Americaines could sing the Marseillaise, at which point we sang very loudly. He was impressed with our pronunciation and let us go.

The next day Francoise dropped us at the train station. My sister was headed to the airport and back to the States; I was headed to a school where I knew no one. I cried on the train, sitting on the scratchy, navy blue seat. The old woman next to me peeled an orange and placed a few sections at a time in the palm of my hand, patting my arm gently.

My first morning in Angers I woke early. There was a mist on the field outside my window and I got lost in the medieval streets trying to find my way toward the university. I stopped at a boulangerie with a dark green door, for a pain au chocolat, then crossed the street to walk on a narrow sidewalk in the sun. I had no idea where I was going, but I walked until I got there, surrounded by the smell of fall all around me. Every August now, when I smell the first hint of cool autumn in the air, I think of Angers and Paris and the lovely anticipation of the unknown.

This morning I woke up late and was running to catch a train when a traffic light forced me to stand still. I smelled gasoline from the car engines, and the scent of September was in the cool morning air. After I boarded the train, I found myself across the aisle from an old woman and she reminded me suddenly of the old woman on the train from Angers to Paris. By some odd chance and at that moment someone two rows forward peeled an orange. I leaned back into the scratchy blue Amtrak seats and laughed.

Sometimes even the well-known can have elements of the unknown, and if we’re lucky we can get lost there again, if only for a little while.

Women on the Political Stage and TV Screen

Wed, 22 Aug 2012 14:20:58 -0400

Guest post over on Women & Hollywood: Nature vs. Nuke

To Essay or not essay. That is the question.

Mon, 13 Aug 2012 13:19:39 -0400

The Snapper has an essay due for an application for a semester abroad program and it’s brought to mind the horror of all those college admission essays—and the irony of the word essay. In French, essayer means to try. But in the case of college admission essays, it means everyone but the student tries. The parent essays to get the student to start drafting the essay, the guidance counselor essays to get the student to finish the essay on time and the student…essays not much at all. J’essaie, nous essayons, il n’essaie pas. Which in French means, the parent needs a drink.