Don’t you understand? Education and experience doesn’t matter when it comes to being qualified for president. Entertainment value is all that matters. Think about what the most popular thing to do in America is: watching TV. And, what does America watch most? Duck Dynasty and The Kardashians. That right there should tell you where we’re headed. This country’s going down so get ready. This is why drugs should be legal. People need something to ease the fear of reality.
Ever wish you could cut and color your own hair? I was born with super fine hair and I’ve always wanted it to be thicker, maybe even wavy. Stylists have colored and permed it over the years but no one has every gotten it right – at least someone could have come closer to what I asked for.
It’s always cut too short (Not so short, please, I’ll be back in six weeks); caramel colored instead of just highlighted lightly with blonde – with bleach so it has more body (No caramel color, please; it doesn’t go with my skin color.); the grey/silver is covered (Please, I’m proud of it.); it’s parted on the wrong side (It naturally parts on the right, please.); the crown cowlick is always ignored and subsequently sticks up like Alfalfa (Please, please, please cut to calm my cowlick.); it’s styled by rolling it around a big round brush, repeatedly (… even though I prefer to style with my fingers, please; could you show me how to do that?) and, the bangs are chopped super short (I like my bangs, long, please.).
I’ve had stylists who cut my bangs right, left it a bit long, parted it properly, colored to my wishes, and even left my bangs long – just not all those skills in one person. It’s no wonder that I change stylists every year. No one ever gets it right.
It would be so much easier if I’d just been born with thick hair and no cowlicks.
Why is it we’re always born wanting something else?
Oh, F. I binged watch all eight episodes of Ripper Street, Season 3, in one weekend and now I have to wait a whole ‘nother year. Ugh, why do I do that? It’s like eating chocolate chip cookies, but at least you don’t have to wait a year before you can bake another batch..
What’s better here – a picture of the Ripper Street cast or a picture of chocolate chip cookies? Too bad I can’t find one of the Ripper Street cast eating chocolate chip cookies. With smell-o-vision
Nice post from a new blogger. My “black shoes” was a vinyl lunch box that mom made me carry to junior high every day, even though it was totally out of fashion. Most kids bought their lunch at the cafeteria (something we were too poor to do) or at least carried a sack lunch – but no *cringe* vinyl lunch box!
I never considered myself a popular kid in school. I blame this on the black shoes. They were boys shoes, clunky and black. I was diagnosed with flat feet. In the 50’s that would keep you out of the military as a man and as a woman, it would make it hard on me to carry all the weight of pregnancy. It was considered a pretty serious problem. My mother hauled me off to the podiatrist, who recommended exercises and orthotics. I faithfully did my exercises everyday – 20 toe raises and 20 foot curls. Looking down afterwards I would notice that they were still flat.
My mother wanted me to have sturdy shoes. I played hard and she wanted these shoes to last. I wanted the black & white oxfords. She headed for the boys shoes. “These,” she said, and pointed at the black boys shoes. No matter…
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Letters from a Murderer, A Jameson & Argenti Case, by John Matthews, is my current read. Some reasoned that Jack the Ripper’s killing spree in London ended because he moved to America. Based on that premise, this book continues his story in New York, in 1891. Finley Jameson, an aristocratic English pathologist, and Joseph Argenti, a streetwise New York cop form an unlikely team, tasked to solve a case with similarities to those of Jack the Ripper.
As the case evolves, another prostitute is murdered, and another.
A good “Sherlockian” read, despite different approaches and differing directives from employers in two countries, the detectives manage to work together. Agenti follows the evidence; Jameson takes a circuitous route, more like Sherlock Holmes might have. He also shares Holmes’ penchant for opium dens.
The “letters” of the title are a series of letters the killer addresses to Jameson after each murder, taunting him with his mistakes and promising to keep killing until he is captured.
It’s a good read. The Victorian setting is well presented and the sleuths are much like Holmes and Watson. Their partnership, while tetchy, shows the best of each man to the other’s dismay.
Best of all? I like how Matthews writes and he’s written six other books. I always love to discover a new writer and find they’ve written more books!
Prompt from A Daily Rhythm, Monday Musings, July 13.
Five things that drive me crazy:
1. Irregardless. It’s actually a word in the dictionary but it’s just so wrong that I dare you to use it in public.
2. These ones, those ones, and even worse, these here ones or those there ones. *cringe* Just say these ones or those ones and I’m sending my Sicilian relatives to your door.
3. “I know, right?” Quite popular these days and, thus, irritating as hell. Just leave it at home when you’re in public.
4. Their, there, and they’re. These are so easy that I’m flummoxed when I hear/here (another one) people mix them up.
5. Picky people who think they can makes lists of five things that everyone else should or shouldn’t do. Like me.
… two years ago and I just discovered him two nights ago.
I’m a junkie, no denying it. I will eat every M&M in the bowl, every ice cream bar in the fridge, and every peach on the tree, if left to my own will. I’ve recently discovered I can binge on TV, as well.