My Heroes Rescue Animals

The photo above is the very elegant back of an acquaintance of mine, Caroline Paul.  You notice how I didn't say "friend" because, truly, that would be stretching it.  She and I are part of the same clique of fabulous folks but I dare say that she doesn't know my name.   

Caroline is roughly six feet tall and absolutely gorgeous -- I know, you're thinking, "Sure, sure she's gorgeous."  But dig this: her twin sister had a recurring role on Bay Watch.  She's that kind of gorgeous. 

She was one of the first female San Francisco fire fighters.  She hang glides.  She graduated from Stanford.  She is a documentary film maker and a published author.  She has (surreptitiously) climbed one of the towers on the Golden Gate bridge.  At Night.  She is, as they say, RIPPED.  She is the person I'd very much like to be in my next life.

I never knew she had this tattoo until last Sunday when we both attended a formal affair.  After I found out the translation and story behind her tattoo, I was moved beyond words.

In her own words:

"It says 'My Heroes Rescue Animals,' in Arabic.

It's for my brother, who is an animal rights activist, member of the underground Animal Liberation Front, now in prison for burning (yes) a horse slaughterhouse.  The Arabic is because the U.S. Government tried (but failed) to call him a terrorist and sentence him under the new terrorist laws."

So long, Chaz, you big fat gun loving creep.

So old Charleton Heston kicked the bucket last night it seems.  You can't help wondering if they had to pry his gun out of his cold, dead hand.  When a jerk like old Chuckie dies, I always smile to myself and think, It couldn't happen to a nicer guy.  

Chronicling the Already Absurd

This is a term my dear husband coined for a certain type of comedy.  It applies to a comic pointing out, say, that Arnold Schwarzenegger was on the President's Council on Fitness or that Elvis Presley was part of Nixon's drug task force.  Or that Arnold is governor of California. Something that is true, yet obviously ridiculous or blatantly ironic.  Just pointing it out isn't a punchline, it's a premise.

Chronicling the Absurd is also what my husband is doing when he photographs my outfits (as opposed to me without my outfit which is a whole different thing) when we come home from an evening out.  The picture above was taken last Saturday when we returned from seeing the Kronos Quartet (who were astonishingly wonderful -- I guess I'm the last to know -- and I plan to elaborate).  

I'm wearing a see-through mesh top over a velvet bra, a wacky homemade scarf with multi-colored applied felt flowers held in place with a vintage pin, chunky platform boots, a super low slung soft gray skirt with big pockets and even bigger buttons, cream colored over-the-knee socks scrunched down, and leg warmers with rosette decorations over brown fishnet tights.  Oh and the bangs are a clip on wig.  Or I guess a "wiglet".  So, too much?

I thought the shot turned out cool despite my tendency for red eye, so I decided to place it here as a record for the future of the sort of weird things I once wore and thought were perfectly reasonable.  

For all you who're thinking it, I do realize that at age 45 I'm nearing (or perhaps past?) the age when I should stop exposing my abdomen to the public or displaying my underwear through a sheer top.  I swear I still feel like I can carry it off.  But what if I'm wrong?  How will I know when it's over?  I'm sure no one will tell me.  I know I wouldn't tell someone.  Ah, well, I'd rather be Betsy Johnson/Bettie Page than Betsy Ross/Betty Crocker.  I've always imagined I'd turn out to be that old lady in the leopard print stretch pants not the one in the Chevy Suburban with the poodle perm and the smock that says "World's Best Grandma!" in calico applique.

But, please, if you ever see me in the latest version of the pastel velour Juicy Couture tracksuit paired with spanking white trainers and a big diamond wedding set, just club me to death right there.

OK, this is beneath me but here I go...

Are these two wearing the same dress?  Somebody named Kate Walsh and the always lovely Diane Lane.  Maybe they're just similar?  If there was one restrained jersey column dress on the red carpet there was ten billion so forgive me if I begin to blur.  

And what's with the Tarzan?  I thought that Nancy Reagan effectively killed that look when she put her brittle x-ray of a body into that Galanos number at the 1981 inaugural ball (please, Nancy, learn from always impeccably turned out Helen Mirren, there are some styles more appropriate for a lady of a certain age).  But no, everybody who wasn't in the Strapless Mafia at this year's Academy Awards was sporting one of these toga-esque asymmetrical tubes.  Not to my taste, but at least they were slightly better than the army of strapless gowns, the bodices of which seemed to fall into two categories: overly constructed causing the rigid piece to wear the woman (plus double as a kevlar bullet proof vest!) vs. digging into even the firmest flesh in an attempt to stay up (thus giving its wearer four bosoms like a cow).  Good lord, is there some law against straps?  Must we deny gravity?

Thank heavens for the individuality of Marion Cotillard 

in that equally fun and ravishing mermaid gown that must have been hand crafted right on her body by Jean Paul Gautier.  

The color was luminous on her (why did so many brunettes insist on wearing black which generally did nothing for them?) and the cut was flattering and sexy.  Most surprising of all the dress actually looked soft and comfortable sans the stays, elastic, duct tape and wire involved in so many others.  Leave it to the cute French girl!

Other thoughts on the Oscars and then I won't ever mention anything so trite again, I swear:  Julie Christie should have had that Best Actress award for the haunting Away From Her.  No matter how many times it's said, Clooney is just too fabulous to be true.  Who knew Javier Bardem was so devilishly handsome once he lost that hairdo I had in 8th grade (and he escorted his mother who is lovely and way cool with all that silver jewelry!)?

OK, that's it!  I won't bring any of this up again!

I made Mrs. Beavers blog!

OK, not a big claim to fame but I read and admire a very smart and funny blog written by my good friend who posts under the pseudonym Mrs. Clyde Beavers and she quoted me there so I'm delighted.  Sue me.  I do get happy and excited about things, even small things.  I also get sad about things.   I'm not bland.  I don't have a great deadpan.  I experience and express emotion.  Unlike most young people these days.  Which leads me to the quote in Mrs. Beavers' blog:

As my pal Allison said, "I disliked Juno because I have no interest in young people." Allison thinks that Today's Kids are too cool to be excited about anything, and she blames this on Fonzie. Allison is a smart lady and her Fonzie thesis intrigues me.

Since Mrs. Beavers has been so kind as to give my off hand remark the status of a thesis, I'd like to expand on it.

To be continued...

For only $100. a week you can BORROW one of these hideous handbags!

Yes, folks, I know it seems just too good to be true but, dig, for what might otherwise pass for a mortgage payment on a condo in Austin, this swell company will lend you a perfectly ghastly looking designer pocketbook.  Sure, you have to give it back.  And no, it's not tax deductible.  Well OK, you could sponsor fourteen Ethiopian orphans for the same dough, but hey, what's that when you could walk around swinging one of these monstrosities off of your arm? 

Won't your friends be just green with envy when they see you with a different gawd awful purse every week?  HA!  Well, so what if you have to eat dog food when you're 80?  There's nothing more fun and spunky than spending more on a rented bag than you put in your 401K!