Good Housekeeping?

Those of you out there that know the Housewife, know her thinking on housework. Oil and water. I hate it all. I've never met a domestic chore that I like.

After a good couple of weeks in the studio, the Housewife had to make an appearance today to scrape off the crud.

I've included photos. Be damn glad I didn't take a "before" photo of the toilet.

What the heck is a laundry hamper? p.s. this is only a small portion of the dirties.

Which one is the dust bunny and which is the cat toy?

Answer: since I dug them both out from under a table,

they are both dust bunnies and according to the cat, the one on the left is more fun.

After laundry, bathroom cleaning and sweeping, I moved onto dusting. Somehow, it is a less productive use of time than watching paint dry. A complete waste of time, and I do know a great deal about wasting time. Dusting trumps all time wasting (non)activities.

And we're not even going into cooking. The Housewife does not go there! My cooking is generally unsatisfying and often dangerous to people and property. I've been relegated to clean up activities in my house.

And, hell, I just realized there's some ironing to do.

My blood pressure is up. Me feelings of adequacy are down.

How did those housewives of the past not just drop it all and run out in front of a bus?

Well, its lunch time. Soon all of this will be behind me for the next three weeks as the sh#t piles up around me once again. I'm going to enjoy wallowing in it. Until I don't.

Hey Paleface

Bigoted jackass, central Pennsylvania

It’s taken me a few days to get around to writing this. I’ve been dreading even thinking about this again, but here goes.

Each Wednesday afternoon, I take my daughter downtown for her ballet lesson. Then, for an hour, I loiter in the public library. Sometimes I peruse the new books, but usually, I bring a few things I need to catch up on. Like a good little writer, I always have a notebook and pen with me. Unlike a good little writer, I rarely put what I have in my notebook onto my blog. Each week, I encounter some type of strangeness at the library, and I always tell myself I will blog about it when I get home. There are thousands of stories in the library (excluding the ones in books), and sometimes there are so many choices of characters, that I can’t settle on one to write about. Until now.

I had seen this guy once before, as he almost ran me and my daughter down while leaving the library. This day he settled into a chair in front of me and I could see his backside in all of its glory.

Today, the asshole arrives wearing a red T-shirt. The same one he wore the last time I saw him. He sits down at a computer station, pulls out a plastic bag and spits into it. He carries with him a great variety of things: a large jar of juice, tote bag, extra clothing, and a Confederate flag. And the shirt – well I don’t know what is written on the front, but the back reads, in large white letters, “KEEP AMERICA WHITE.” He wears a baseball cap covered with buttons. One button is for Penn State, which is crossed out with a handmade red “X.” A Confederate flag button, several others than I do not wish to get close enough to read, and, naturally, one with a swastika. He completes the outfit with camouflage pants, a wardrobe staple of society outsiders.

So, here in the public library, is a walking potential hate crime. My entire body shakes just being near this person. I wonder just what the hell this intolerant bastard is looking up on the computer. How to make explosives. How to tie a noose. Checking his Google stats on his popularity among white supremacists. I’m guessing that this man has been on earth for at least forty years. I cannot believe that someone who would carry their hatred on their sleeve (and tote bag and hat and . . .), would not have committed a hate crime in all of those years. Someone has no doubt suffered at the hands of this man. I’m suffering just by looking at the back of his hateful body.

Hands trembling, I took a photo. I expected him to turn around and eat me upon hearing the iPhone cute photo-taking noise. I packed to leave unscathed. It was time to pick up my Chinese daughter from ballet. I’m just assuming he wouldn’t appreciate a bit of yellow mixed into his filthy whiteness. I’m glad that my daughter was not here to see this. Would it have been a hate crime to beat him with my umbrella? I so wanted to borrow a Sharpie marker from the librarian, write “Keep America Free from Asshole Bigots” on my own shirt, stand in front of him and clear my throat. However, I don’t think I could have managed that without throwing up. And I would have so loved to decorate his racist face and shirt with my lunch.

There’s always next time, I guess. And with a conveniently located public library, I’m sure that time won’t be too far off.

Hearing Crickets. . .

I'm guessing that is what my readers are thinking about my blog lately. I've been negligent. I could say I've been tending to other matters, but the fact is, I've been wasting as much time as usual on useless stuff.

I'm trying to enjoy autumn. It's beautiful here in Central Pennsylvania right now (and I so rarely say that). But this year is just not the same. I keep thinking back to this time last year. Sometime during October I went to visit my parents, not knowing it would be the last time I would see my mother in her own home.

Right now, the weather is beautiful. The windows are open and I'm listening to the crickets chirping. I hear footsteps shuffling through the leaves. Halloween is not even on my mind yet, but I am already dreading winter.

It's a long winter in these parts. I'm sure there are some Canadians out there rolling their eyes, but really . . .

I'm going to need some help getting through this winter.

Somebody, please help me think of something positive about 5-6 long, cold months. Please!

Oh, Hell No!

Sometimes, when I get bored, I Google my name.

Or if I really want to know what people are saying about me.

Regardless.

I was bored and curious so I Googled and discovered that a member of the Tea Party has my name.

The horror!!

I'm off to bathe and exfoliate and brush and floss and possibly treat myself for lice.

Brother Can You Spare a Dime*

*Or how about just 9 cents (for every dollar)

Yesterday morning, I went to the computer to see the news of the day. The hubby had apparently been up earlier and pulled up an article on GOP presidential candidate Herman Cain’s 9-9-9 plan. One would think that this would just be 666 upside down, but no, it’s much much much worse.

This oh-so-simple plan changes the corporate tax rate from 35% to 9%, swaps out the six-tier personal income tax system for a flat rate of 9% and creates a 9% national sales tax.

So who’s going to be paying for this country? Ah, the wealthy like to say that the country was built on their backs. They feel so responsible for the general prosperity of this country. Up until now. Since corporate heads and the wealthy (yeah, they’re pretty much the same) are going to be let off of the hook for putting gobs of money into the tax system for schools, police, roads, defense and all of that other expensive, government-provided stuff, who will have to pay for most of this? The working poor. And the working middle-class who are sliding their way downhill and landing on top of those working poor. Since the wealthiest 1% of Americans control 42% of this country’s financial wealth, each individual in that lower 99% will be doing most of the grunt work.

Those lowest on the working totem pole are paying 10% of their personal income in taxes. I guess there will be a bit of savings if that goes down to 9%. Think of what all of that extra money will buy. Perhaps these people will now be able to afford health insurance if their employer does not provide it. Yeah, I know. I was just making a joke. Now, if there is a nine percent national sales tax instead of personal income tax, any extra bucks are going to be snatched out of the hands of our poorest people. Herman Cain understands this. He knows that these people will be responsible for their own-decision making. He states his plan will be helping them out tremendously. Hey, you poor folks need a winter coat. That’s a good decision. Go on and buy one for every member of your family. And now, give the government an extra 9%. You don’t HAVE to buy those coats you know. Cain’s plan is here to help you responsibly make decisions. If you decide you don’t have the money, don’t spend the money. Ain’t Cain great? Cain thinks this plan will give Americans more freedom. What do you think?

What I did not see addressed in the 9-9-9 plan was what effect the national sales tax will have on individual state taxes. Will this replace the state taxes? I don’t think that’s what the states want. Each state varies in taxation on food and clothing. Will we be paying a national sales tax for these subsistence items? And what about those additional city taxes? Will these be eliminated or just tacked onto the national sales tax? How much are we going to be paying for each purchase in taxes?

Our country sees taxation as a crime. Our tax system has even been compared to slavery. Herman Cain, an African-American, has stated that our tax code is the 21^st century version of slavery. Does this make anyone other than me afraid of a hemorrhage? What the hell? Does this man know what slavery is? Didn’t any of his ancestors pass down some stories? My dictionary states that a slave is: a person who is the legal property of another and is forced to obey them, or a person who works very hard without proper remuneration or appreciation. It looks like definition two fits Cain’s 9-9-9 plan. Definition number 1 seems to be a perfect fit for one who is free to fuck over thousands of employees and purchase yachts and diamonds and designer clothing and mansions. Right?

It seems that those days (years actually) of the great depression have been forgotten, much like the proper definitions for slavery. Yep, some of you have heard of that depression when people lost their homes and money and jobs and other such insignificant items. Actually, there are millions upon millions of Americans that are struggling with that now, right under the noses of those who will do anything to avoid paying their taxes. The greatest tax burden is borne by those on the bottom of the financial ladder. The poor and middle class are paying the greatest amount for others in similar situations. The taxes levied on the lowest paid individuals are going to pay for the education, police, roads, public transportation, food stamps, social services, etc. for other individual in the same financial boat. In other words, “Brother, can you spare a dime.”

Under Cain’s plan, it’s not only the poorest people that are asking for a little financial help from others, but the wealthiest in this country are asking the poorest, “brother, can you spare a dime.”*

*Actually, that just nine cents (for every dollar) under Cain’s plan.

Here are the lyrics from that good, 0ld-timey depression-era song:

They used to tell me I was building a dream
And so I followed the mob
When there was earth to plow or guns to bear
I was always there right on the job

They used to tell me I was building a dream
With peace and glory ahead
Why should I be standing in line
Just waiting for bread?

Once I built a railroad, I made it run
Made it race against time
Once I built a railroad, now it's done
Brother, can you spare a dime?

Once I built a tower up to the sun
Brick and rivet and lime
Once I built a tower, now it's done
Brother, can you spare a dime?

Once in khaki suits, gee we looked swell
Full of that Yankee-Doodly-dum
Half a million boots went sloggin' through Hell
And I was the kid with the drum

Say, don't you remember, they called me "Al"
It was "Al" all the time
Why don't you remember, I'm your pal
Say buddy, can you spare a dime?

Once in khaki suits, ah gee we looked swell
Full of that Yankee-Doodly-dum
Half a million boots went sloggin' through Hell
And I was the kid with the drum

Oh, say, don't you remember, they called me "Al"
It was "Al" all the time
Say, don't you remember, I'm your pal
Buddy, can you spare a dime?

E.Y Harburg and Jay Gorney

U R rly psng me off

Maybe I'm being a little too bitchy.

Could be because I rarely text and never twitter.

But holy crap, I can't take it when people cannot be bothered to type out words!

If you can't take the time to properly text or email me USING FULL WORDS, then I'm going to assume you really don't give a shit or your message is completely unimportant. I will not read what you have to say. If it's more difficult than reading Shakespeare, then I'm not going to do it.

I will not bother to figure out what the hell it is you are saying.

You. √

Ewe. √

U. Absolutely not. Unless you are making a U-turn. Or, if you must, driving a U-Haul.

And then there's R. Spell it dammit.

What is it that you are really trying to say? That you are too important to waste time typing (non)extraneous letters. That you are illiterate. That I am not good enough to read full words. That you are actually trying to piss me off.

What's even worse is trying to read teenage slang written in this freakin' code. I've got no chance of interpreting that, not that I really want to. It would be nice to understand my nieces' Facebook posts, but, well, I'm just too damn cranky and old so I'll just have to remain in the dark.

Am I the only freak left on the face of the earth that actually likes words? There are so many great ones: alleviate, Ethiopia, tangerine, Bossa Nova, sprocket, Alaska (until it was tainted by politics).

Am I in this boat alone?

Inspiration is Relative

A review of Barry Dixon’s new home design book, Inspirations.

I am a huge fan of home décor books. Perhaps I could be classified as obsessive. I rarely implement any of the ideas shown, either from lack of time, courage or funds. It is not often that I review books, but this time I feel I must speak (write), even though only my blog friends will ever read these words. This review is a bit strongly worded for Amazon.com.

Out of five stars, I award this book three. How could that be for such a lovely coffee table book? Well, in this tome chock full of props (also called accessories) such a book would not show up on one of the perfectly orchestrated coffee tables dotted throughout the book. Little of real life is depicted in these pages. However, the book is full of thick pages, large clear photos and details on where the moneyed set can purchase the accoutrements of luxury living.

Before purchasing the book, I did view a few pages through Amazon, but did not get into the “meat” of the book until it arrived. When I talk about meat here, it is as if I was looking though one of the manse’s many French doors, watching a couple with lovely, possessionless children eat filet mignon in the expanse of their 30-foot-long dining room while standing out in the rain eating a bologna sandwich filched from a dumpster.

Some of the “family” homes shown in the pages are quite a curiosity for someone that has a family of their own. One in particular really makes me shake my head and laugh sadly. The claim is that the home is designed for a growing family. Somehow that makes me think of young children. I could be wrong. Perhaps the residents are just growing more portly. Before extensive renovations, the home had been described as stately. That encourages me to think that it might of had a surplus of square footage. Well, I’m an idiot then, because the house required the addition of a two-level living room and two new wings. The original living room, no doubt bigger than my original (and only) living room is now an intimate reception room. The original dining room (in a bow to modesty?) remained intact, although, one can dine in a new supper room. Perhaps there are separate rooms for breakfast and lunch and, why the hell not, a late night snack. I suppose if one were to feel peckish while reading, they could have a tray brought into the two-story library. In the evening the master and mistress of the house can retire to their own studies, dressing rooms and bathrooms before traveling on to the master bedroom. When it is time for the family to gather together, they can do so in the informal family quarters in the southern wing of the home.

And so on.

If that home is not to your liking, you can read about the Charlotte Chateau. This home, in the narrative, is described as a castle. Mr. Dixon worked with a local architect (after the first architect was canned) in adjusting the scale of the rooms “in an effort to make them smaller and more inviting.” Why the hell these rooms weren’t made smaller and more inviting to begin with is not explained. Maybe it pleases the owner to know that the footprint of the average American home can fit inside the master bath. And my thinking is that if you have to add a niche to the bedroom to create a focal point, then the room must be too damn large. In my home (and so many others), the bed IS the focal point. In my “master” bedroom, the bed IS the room.

Imagine a world where the sharing of a bathroom is out of the question, even among married couples. Hell, aside from the sharing of a richly draped colossal bed, hubby and wife have plenty of room to roam and never have to cross paths. Children (invisible I suppose) can range about like antelope on the savannah. Plenty of room, just don’t leave out one toy, book, shoe or drawing. One kitchen stove costs more than a lifetime of motor vehicles for an average family. And I don’t think I need to mention the colossal size of the kitchen. But I did. Ah, the joy and beauty (and complete fucking uselessness) of a foyer that could house 3 or 4 extended third-world families.

And then there is the family residing in one of Washington, D.C.’s ritzier suburbs. The owner’s house was just too modestly scaled and, well, the decision was made to scrap that house and start anew. With, of course, yet another kitchen that would put the Hogwarts’ dining hall on the same level as a lower-east-side-tenement kitchen. Naturally, his and her master baths and dressing rooms (with fireplaces) are mandatory. As is the series of guest suites. Yep, plural.

There is one relatively modest abode – a Chicago apartment “in a downtown Michigan Avenue high-rise with sweeping views of the city and Lake Michigan.” Actually, this is a second home , so once inside any restrictions on real estate are covered up with silk draperies and hand painted-wallpapers. I still would not be able to afford a sconce or decorative pillow in this dwelling. Not even for my first (and only) home.

And I have to pass along the most ridiculous decorating tip ever: “Upholster kitchen walls and ceilings with fabrics and textures to absorb street noise and make the room more inviting.” That idea is as practical as the purchase of a fur-lined pot.


At this book’s completion, I am not left with the desire to tear down my modest home and build a mansion with rooms assigned for each moment’s task. I no longer have the desire to upgrade my sheets, hang a painting or clean out my kitchen drawers (although such mundane things were not mentioned in this book). At the end, I just found myself chanting, “tax the rich tax the rich tax the rich.”