Why do people forward political emails, especially when they know your views are 360 degrees apart? Maybe they believe you’ll eventually cave if they assault you with enough propaganda. Or, maybe they believe this breaking news flash will push all your hot buttons and you will be converted.
A friend emailed a political video that tilted so far right it screamed fringe lunatic. When I checked out the site, a picture that was appallingly obscene appeared. The source for this innovative political commentary was a porn site! I ran my antivirus program twice, got antibacterial wipes for my keyboard, monitor, and Pepto for my nausea.
I kept a wary eye out for the internet police, thinking they might come to arrest me at any minute for visiting such a salacious site.
I choose to believe the friend innocently forwarded the video without checking the source. Nevertheless, I have a visual of this person sitting disheveled and bleary-eyed, looking at porn all day while dribbling Cheeto crumbs in the keyboard.
Another political email arrived with the subject line screaming “Government Gone Wild.” This timely message convinced me its sender’s credibility had also gone wild. A self-proclaimed financial guru had all the answers to government waste. When I googled him, I discovered he is a real estate shark from Florida accused of deceptive trade practices and a professional poker player.
People who want to “take back our country” are most often the originator of email of this type. I am scared to death of information grounded in porn and unethical real estate transactions.
I wish they would take back their email.
Summer is fast approaching. It is the most dreaded season of the year for those of us who are a bit fluffy and seasoned. To add to my dismay, I opened the morning news to discover a twelve year old, wearing a swimsuit, advertised in the Misses section of the store.
I think most women dread this time of year and the annual swimsuit purchase. Even my skinny friends manage to conjure up an eighth of an inch of cellulose that manages to triple in size in the dressing room mirror. Locating a suit that conceals a shape reminiscent of a ’57 Studebaker is next to impossible. Forget what you read about skirted suits; they conceal nothing. You look like a beach umbrella gone rogue. The high cut leg is touted as slimming. Wanna bet? They display more of the thighs you wanted to hide in the first place. A patterned midriff style does not conceal love handles. You look like a blob wearing your Aunt Gertie’s 1948 sofa throw.
Settling for a completely black number that covers most of the horrors, you proceed to the dressing room. Once you have stripped down to the point where you can try on the suit, you notice a warning posted on the dressing room wall….”These rooms are monitored.” Oh please God, say it isn’t so. A total stranger is watching everything you so desperately want to conceal. Someone is actually going to see you struggle, without a shoehorn, to get the blasted suit on and in place.Where oh where is the camera? Oh, it’s that little black glass do-hickey up in the ceiling where you can’t reach it or cover it with an item of clothing you just removed. I imagine someone in a cube in India bent double with laughter at my tortured attempts to wriggle into a new swimsuit. At least if you go to the beach or the pool you can hide under a huge beach towel until you are in the water.
Facing the horror of the swimsuit try on is an exercise in character development for women of a certain age. We are never going to look like that mal-nourished waif in the swimsuit advertisement.I’m hitting the pool as soon as the clock strikes midnight!
Last week on my trek to purchase groceries, I could not locate the Blue Plate mayo. My heart sank. This was worse than giving up cigarettes. I actually panicked. I eased my knobby knees to the lower shelf to paw among the goods. What a relief. There it was, tucked behind several other brands.
I grew up in a household that did not use mayonnaise. Our family used Miracle Stuff, which is akin to glue according to my taste buds. My grandmother introduced me to the joy of Blue Plate mayonnaise. Her culinary skills could morph Blue Plate into hollandaise sauce, dressing for potato salad and sandwiches. Once you’ve tasted Blue Plate you’re an addict for life.
Wouldn’t you know the Yankee I married preferred Miracle Stuff. I discovered he used ketchup on ham and hot dogs. This insult to hot dogs was compounded by the addition of sweet relish. No self-respecting southerner uses anything but mustard on ham. We know ketchup belongs on meatloaf and French fries, but not ham. Sweet relish and ketchup on a hotdog is heresy.
Blue Plate was not widely available where we lived, so I plodded along for years using the other mayo along with Miracle Stuff until on a visit to Biloxi, Miss I rediscovered Blue Plate. Appearing in big bold letters on the menu “made with Blue Plate Mayonnaise”. It was Nirvana. Tasted just as good as I remembered and I gained ten pounds.
Once you have had Blue Plate, nothing else will do. To the other addict who hid the Blue Plate: I thank you for not buying the last jar, but in the spirit of sharing hid it instead.