Wait for your pitch, Hil

Oh, I hope Hillary Clinton isn't the VP nominee. Not because I think she would or wouldn't make a good VP. What this primary has taught me more than anything else is, whether it's long and drawn out or a race to a nomination, I really couldn't care less. It all degenerates to a cult of personality in the end, and doesn't amount to a hill of beans worth of difference between the candidates. The chatter debating Obama and Clinton has descended to the level of debating Team Anniston and Team Jolie. This election could have been covered as easily by US magazine as it was by Time. I paraphrase Sam from Burn Notice when I say "you know politicians; a bunch of bitchy little schoolgirls."

The reason that I hope that she isn't the VP nominee, is because of something I heard on a news network, which for the comfort of some readers shall remain nameless, but rhymes with PNN, last night. One of the talking heads pointed out that VP isn't the only job she could be offered. How about Supreme Court Justice? My eyes went twinkle. My lips went oooooooooooooo. Nice. Let's face it. She's qualified. In spades. And the potential this has to make the ultra-right foam at the mouth is absolutely limitless. Talk about throwing the cat amongst the pigeons. Bwah-ha-ha! And that's not a 4-year term. You can be on the Supreme Court until they pry that gavel from your cold dead hands.

Justice Clinton. Somehow that just reeks of . . . mmmm. . . justice? Plus, I'd love to see her and Scalia get in a fistfight. My money would be on Hil.

Not MY Parents

Okay, I've been seeing the commercials for the summer series Swingtown on CBS. Evidently it takes place in 1976, and is about a couple that moves to a cul-de in the burbs where they find wild and crazy '70s phenomena like open marriages, swinging and key parties. Call me Prudy, but I just don't think that kind of thing should be on TV. Not because it's sex and "dirty". (I'm all about that.) The Swining 70s are just kind of a gross subject.

Cause, let's do the math. Young adults. In 1976. They're talking about my generation's parents. eeeeewwwww! Okay. And I know it wasn't my parents. And I'm sure it wasn't your parents either. But we are all going to say that. And it did happen. It was somebody's parents getting freaky with the neighbors on the shag carpet down in the rumpus room under the lava lamp and the macrame owl while the Starland Vocal Band played on. Uh huh. Ew.

And it's not just that it was our parents. It's our generation's kids' grandparents. Their Grampy and Grammy getting naked in the hot tub with a glass of sangria and Mr. and Mrs. Applebaum. Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaggghh! CBS needs to take this filth off the air immediately. For the sake of the kids.

Get back to where you once belonged

I know I'm harping on this. I've blogged about it before. More than once. But I just can't stand the space invaders on the train. Especially in the seats. Standing it's more of a free-for-all. There are a limited number of places to hold on to, and somebody standing too close to grab a bar is better than them falling on top of you. But the seats? The contour of the seats indicate a clear definition of spacial boundaries. Mine. Yours. Maybe it gets back to territory wars in the back seat of the station wagon when I was a kid - "See this line on the seat? It's the line of death. Cross it and die." The backseat is like all land wars. The most bitter battles are fought over the smallest amount of territory. I could have childhood PTSD, and people crossing over on to my side of the train seat give me flashbacks. "In coming! We're being attacked! Return fire! Medic! Medic!"

Yesterday, this guy was sitting next to me, and no matter what I did, he ended up not just in my space, but pressed against me. Lightly, I'll admit. But still. Here's the thing - it's freaking hot outside. I've just hauled ass from my office, in the heat, to make it to the train and stood, in the heat, waiting for the train. Now, all I want to do is let the moderately cool air of the train circulate around me. He's disrupting my air flow. I am already warm and moist. Another warm and moist body helpful. At least not in this situation. I move. He moves. I move back behind his arm, he settles back in the chair. I lean against the wall, he sprawls out like the train bench seat is a freaking LaZBoy. Why do I never have a can of pepper spray when I really need it? I should have been born a hedgehog. Hedgehogs don't have these problems.

5 for Fashion

I may not be a fashion maven. I may not be a fashion icon. I may not even be fashionably unfashionable. But I do live by a fashion code. I have 5 immutable laws by which I live. Oh, sure, it's just fashion. You can play. But there are a few hard and fast rules of the road that I have collected along life’s hazardous runway. I give them to you as my little gift.

1. There’s only so far you should go for a look: Sure you can suffer for fashion. But here’s the thing, as good as those shoes look when you’re standing in front of your full-length mirror at 8:00am, how good will they look when you’re hobbling along like the undead at 3:00pm? Blood dripping from your shoe will kill any look. Sex and the City takes place in a magical land where Cosmos have no calories and Manolos don’t make you go “ow ow ow!” If you don’t live in this marvelous land of make believe, no your limits.
2. If a store does not have at least a 3-way mirror, they are virtually asking you to return anything you buy. Don’t feel guilty about it: Really, they are just setting themselves up for failure. Single mirrors lie. Either you will get home and do a thorough inspection with adequate reflection or, lacking those resources, you will ask a trusted friend, “Does this make my ass look fat?” And if you have to take it back, the additional paperwork they will have to do is in no way your fault.
3. Not everyone needs to see your underwear: In fact most people don’t. From thongs that say “howdy” from over the waistband of your low rise jeans to expensive “lingerie look” glad rags. Whether it’s underwear that was meant to be underwear, or a slinky satin Versace evening slip dress with corset boning and the finest lace trim, I say a difference that makes no difference is no difference. You’re still standing on the street corner in your skivvies.
4. When it comes to sweaters, you can never be too fluffy: Witness JoAnna Loudon (the lovely Mary Frann on Newhart). She was the goddess of the fluffy sweater. Okay, in retrospect, the shape of her sweaters was a little, shall we say, geometric in the extreme? (Shoulder pads from hell.) But the fluffiness? The fluffiness. Nobody has ever done it better.
5. If you are going to the beach, test your bathing suit for adequate tensile strength before you pack. Save yourself the heartache. No matter how traumatic it is to shop for a bathing suit, it is worse to end up washed ashore with your bottoms riding at half mast. Don’t ask me how I know this.

Ale Ale Ale

You know between the Dem primaries, cyclones, earthquakes, the raid on the polygamist compound, and about 30 other minor to major hullabaloos the last couple of months, I've been watching a lot of CNN. A lot. It's become music to clean my house to.

So, I'm watching the results in Puerto Rico yesterday. Hillary looked fab. And why shouldn't she win PR? San Juan is practically a suburb of NYC. And you have to love a political meeting that plays Ricky Martin's the Cup of Life. Frankly, I think this is an overlooked rally gem. "Here we go!" You can shake your bon bon and get your political freak on at the same time. Far bettter than Don't Stop Thinking About Tomorrow, which if I never hear again it will be too damn soon. Freaking Fleetwood Mac.

But anyway, before I got sidetracked by visions of Ricky Martin workin' it in flat front chinos and a tight ribbed shirt (ah, good times), my actual point was - Does Wolf Blitzer ever sleep? He's on CNN all the freakin' time. He's got the Situation Room. Then if there's an election he's tag teaming with Anderson Cooper. And it seems like he's on specials all weekend. I believe the word is "ubiquitous". The Wolf is a machine. I mean that literally. I'm starting to wonder if he was created in an advanced robotics lab at CNN. I'm kind of watching now to see if somebody accidentally bumps into him, and a maintenance panel falls off. Bet there's an Energizer battery in there. Ale Ale Ale.