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Month: January 2019

Super Short Hairstyle

Judy Dench is the only woman of a certain age who can rock a super short hairstyle. I learned this the hard way after my stylist scalped me; a process not unlike dethatching grass.

The androgynous look does zip for mature women. Had I worn a white tee shirt, with a pack of Marlboro reds tucked in the sleeve I could have passed for a teamster trucker. I looked like Freddy Krueger’s deranged grandmother.

I live in Texas. Fall out from the previous legislative session and the “bathroom bill” had the potential to make it extremely hazardous to answer natures call with this hairstyle. To be on the safe side I carried my birth certificate to avoid being hassled in the restroom.

A quick look in the mirror confirmed wearing jeans was a nonstarter. A mad dash to the mall’s nearest cosmetic counter was in order. I was humbled by the cosmetic associate’s effort to smother laughter, while she rang up an impressive amount of dollars on my credit card.

The harsh light of my bathroom mirror confirmed I had been duped. The cosmetic improvements of red lipstick, pink eye shadow, and false eyelashes made me look like a drag queen reject. I was unable to duplicate the tricky turban wrap, and the huge loop earrings bounced off my shoulders.

Google is a lifesaver; they have an answer for everything. I discovered a delightful YouTube drag queen makeup tutorial, but my appearance failed to live up to those standards. I looked like an oversized garden gnome.

After a few days, cabin fever set in and I ventured out to run errands. The pharmacy tech suggested it might be time to check in with the doctor for overdue labs. I tried to ignore the check out person at the supermarket chewing her bottom lip as she sacked my groceries.

Worn out from futile attempts to deny the obvious, I returned the make-up with a middle finger salute to the cosmetic associate as I left. She gave me a nasty look, but it’s okay. The salespeople at the local sporting goods store loved it when I purchased their entire stock of wool beanies.

This has been a season of discovery for me. I discovered mature women should never ever attempt to wear wool beanies, if they don’t want to be directed to the Salvation Army shelter.

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Even Dogs Don’t Like Trump

Many of the past presidents had dogs. The Obama’s had Bo, Bush 2 had Barney and Bush 1’s Millie wrote a book. Who can forget LBJ’s beagles? Even that nasty Nixon had Checkers (the dog died before Nixon became President and was spared any association with Watergate.) The Kennedys dog, Pushinka was a gift from Premier Khrushchev.

Why the doesn’t the current occupant of the oval office have a dog? This is an American tradition.

The other curious thing is that no one ever writes about Trump enjoying quality time with his near and dear. You’d think Fox and Friends would be all over that. (Given his history, there may be a good reason for not publicizing those he considers near and dear.)

Aside from photos of him and a stony-faced Melania with clenched jaw and angry eyes, there is no hint of any sort of connection. You never read about Kennedy-type picnics and touch football games or photo ops like Obama with his girls at a bookstore.

Maybe his family doesn’t like him either. Could it be he is the male counterpart of “Mommy Dearest” or perhaps the Trump dynasty is more like the “Running with Scissors” family.

Unlike his predecessors, Trump does not have a dog.

One cannot say with any degree of certainty that Trump doesn’t like dogs; I’m betting dogs don’t like him.

If you want to know the true character of an individual, put a dog in the room with that person. Dogs have higher standards than many humans and refuse to have anything to do with flawed individuals. There is no greater endorsement of personal character than the devotion of a dog.

We have some clues about what Trump may have given Putin, but why did Putin not follow the tradition of Premier Khrushchev and present the Donald with a dog?

I wonder if anyone on Mueller’s investigative team has considered putting a dog in the room with Trump.

Mary Margaret

Written by Mary Margaret

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Women and Deathbed Declarations

Women who make deathbed declarations of their failure to reach their potential have been in the news lately. Is this a last-ditch effort to vent, cast guilt on a spouse, or a warning to their daughters? Suppressing their goals/ambitions for those of their husband seems to be a common thread.

As mother’s birthday of January 15th neared, I reflected on her legacy and the parallel of these women and their stories. There was none. I am grateful.

No one could ever accuse mother of being subservient to anyone.

She was opinionated, over the top and quite vocal about not being “any man’s slave.” A study in illogicality; a housewife who elevated the domestic arts to an impossibly high standard and later a working mom.

Political correctness was never a problem for her, but her failure to adhere to it was a burden for me. Drama and chaos followed her like her Estee Lauder Youth Dew perfume.

Confronting her male supervisors at work about inequality came easily to her. Most of the time she won her issue, possibly in part because they wanted to escape.

This was during the fifties and I was in high school struggling through home economics, a required subject for girls. (Boys got to take woodwork which I would have preferred.) I hated the class; my home’s role model did not reflect the values of that time, i.e. making sure hubby was happy, blah, blah, blah. And, when it came to cooking, mother was a far superior cook to the textbook sawdust recipes we were supposed to re-create in class.

Much later, as life events unfolded, it became evident that home economics class propaganda missed the mark, but mother was spot on. Her opposition to submission instilled in me a resilience when I would need it most.

If Mother had deathbed declarations, she kept them to herself.

Some of her escapades, we laugh about, and others; we give her a “Bless her heart” pass.

Life for a woman during an era and in a region where feminism did not yet have a name had to be frustrating for someone like my mother. For those who believe the pink pussy hats are too much; well, you didn’t know my mother.

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The Likability Factor is Male Imposed Criteria That Needs to Cease

Please explain to me how likability influences political choices. This question seems to arise only when it is a woman who is considering running for political office.

I wonder if a female version of Trump, who had the same personal behavior/history and competence, could garner the same measure of devotion by the MAGA crowd. I’m thinking probably not. (At the moment, aside from Roseanne Barr, I can’t think of a female public figure who shares the same qualities/abilities as Trump.)

Here we are in 2019, contemplating possible candidates for the 2020 presidential election and if the candidate is a woman, the first question posed “Is she likable?”

Why is the emphasis on being likable?  When a woman announces she is running for public office, the focus is not on qualifications and experience, but her likability.  In the last presidential election, Hillary Clinton, plagued by the likability factor, was savaged by her use of the word, “deplorable.” Judging from clips of Trump rallies, she was spot on. Even worse, Trump basked in the admiration of those who carried the banner for his low standards.

Would a female candidate for the supreme court who displayed the same angry, hysterical, red-faced, tearful temperament as Justice Kavanaugh, been confirmed? Not a chance.

We elected a male television personality, despite his record of a flawed value system and appalling personal behavior, and rejected a highly qualified woman because she was not considered “likable.”

If there is an experienced, qualified female candidate for the next presidential election, I hope the next journalist or television newscaster who utters the “L” word, has to ghostwrite Trump’s next book, “The Art of Screwing Over an Entire Country.

These are Mary Margaret’s thoughts

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