Are Scary Dystopian Tales Women’s New Reality?

I wish I had never watched “The Family” on Netflix and “The Handmaid’s Tale” on Hulu.

For those who haven’t viewed “The Family” it is a documentary about a conservative Christian group of men’s influence and power in government. A cult-like fraternity —the embodiment of misogyny — Duck Dynasty after a GQ makeover. The stable genius isn’t mentioned as a member; surprising considering the low threshold for admission.

Several current elected officials are members of this group. These fellows make political capital during the day by legislating restriction on lady parts and– ahem–take a different position after the sun goes down.

Watching all three seasons of “The Handmaid’s Tale,” left me in a state of panic. The government places more restrictions on my body than on assault weapons. Given the current attitude of the male senate, they’d fully support a Gilead like state. Mike Pence is a shoo-in for a commander slot.

At my age, I’d end up a Martha working in the kitchen or an Unwoman cleaning up nuclear waste. Either of those choices would be better than the handmaid’s job description. Aside from her obvious function, trudging around in a long red dress and ugly boots in the Texas heat would be akin to hell.

“The Handmaid’s Tale”, described as an American dystopian novel, isn’t a novel concept these days.

I’ll be watching all the old Frazier re-runs in the foreseeable future.

Emojis No More

I don’t like emojis. They are just a tad too precious for my taste, especially the ones with hearts. As a rule, I do not send emojis with text messages. 

Adding an emoji to a tweet would be proof positive that I am not cool. (Does anyone other than weather forecasters still use “cool” as a synonym?)

I never know which emoji to send as a response.

When I am having the crazies while texting do I add the one with crossed eyes or the grimacing one? Life is hard enough. I should not have to ponder this issue.

The tears of joy face confuses me; it could also mean laughing until I cry. I never know if I should send the yellow face sideways or the scrunchy face. To complicate matters, there are also cats who laugh, cry and do everything human emojis do.

How should I interpret the one with the blue face? Is the sender telling me I have committed an unforgivable blunder? I thought the red angry face emoji was for reprimands.

The human emojis really throw me for a loop. They are gender-specific, but without my glasses I can’t tell if it is a female or a male with a bad mullet.

They have an emoji for everything, even poo. Except for responding to political messages from those who lean to the hard right, I can’t think of an instance where they are appropriate. Note to self: Don’t even think about using the hand gesture emojis.

An offspring, who I will not identify, but she knows who she is, noted I am emoji deficient and sent me a link to a site on the web called emojipedia. The choices made my head spin.

I will remain uncool. There is no way I am going to spend time emoji searching.

I am declaring myself emoji free. I’ll just stick to four-letter expletives. They have served me well and eliminate confusion for everyone.

Native Origin of Dinner

Original post: August 2011.

Nutritionist tell us eating fish is healthy. Maybe; depends on the native origin of the fish.

Wild caught salmon is expensive, and I waiver between paying the mortgage or buying wild caught.

Farm raised salmon was an alternative until I read the fish are naturally gray, then dyed red to appear more appealing. Aside from questionable cosmetic enhancement, fish that swim up stream in the Pacific ocean have to be in better shape than those that loll around in a tank all day.

A grocery circular featuring a sale on sea scallops prompted a race to the store. My research on sea scallops indicates they are often carved from cod and passed off as sea scallops. I flatten my body against the meat case and peer at the scallops to see if their grain runs vertically and they are not cod in drag.

I try to make myself invisible while other shoppers  look at me as though I escaped from the asylum.

The store demo at the seafood counter was hawking monkfish as “poor man’s lobster.” He assured me it tasted exactly like lobster tail. Sure it does and rattlesnake meat taste exactly like chicken, but who wants to go there?

Shrimp is another matter entirely. If the price is too good to be true, the shrimp are native Indonesian. There’s nothing wrong with being from Indonesia, but shrimp making the journey may have experienced more trauma than I wish to ingest.

Much of the Tilapia at my supermarket comes from China. The possibility I might glow in the dark gives me a reason to eliminate that choice. I give up on the fish and head to the produce section.

Should I flip a coin and get the stuff from the farmer and hope I can get all the pesticide off, or should I get the organic and trust that it’s truly organic?

Too much information about food sources is depressing. I arrive home empty-handed, famished and call the pizza delivery guy.

Pizza is fish and lettuce free.

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