Rosemary Boxer and Laura Thyme think YOU did it.
And this time Laura happens to be obsessed with snacks—or donkeys, or pastries, or theater, or maybe has insomnia, depending on which episode you’re watching.
I just finished watching a series on Netflix called “Rosemary & Thyme,” in which—and let the eye-rolling commence … right now!—a pair of GARDENING expert/enthusiasts named ROSEMARY Boxer and Laura THYME team up on landscaping jobs, which invariably end with a murder mystery attached.
I am a sucker for an old-fashioned murder mystery—and have been ever since I was in elementary school—and despite the groaner of a setup mentioned above, I burned through the first season in two days. I had been sort of under the weather, so watching episodes back-to-back offered an escapism and a reassuring sort of familiarity.
But after awhile, that familiarity turned into pure-on repetition. Despite nosing around and solving literally dozens of murders, the title duo are frustratingly stupid. They almost always decide to confront the villains in some isolated environment—scary downstairs cellar, for example, or abandoned country villa. Just two middle-aged lady gardeners popping up by themselves, accosting someone—who usually has killed AT LEAST TWO PEOPLE, and then somehow being saved by some sort of random coincidence.
Lately I’ve been thinking about a sentence that’s part of the preflight safety demonstration on airplanes: “Secure your own oxygen mask before assisting others.” And for that, I can thank Rose McGowan.
A few days ago, the actress told Bret Easton Ellis that she believed gay men were “just as misogynistic than straight men, if not more so.” This is mostly because she thinks they’ve been silent in supporting women’s causes, such as equal pay. “I see now people who have basically fought for the right to stand on top of a float wearing an orange Speedo and take molly,” she said.
My web browsing can be like a runaway train.
Yesterday I started researching when the video for the new Jessie J single “Burning Up” was going to be released … which led to something about her performing on the British version of X Factor even though she had just been quoted about how such shows are like veal farms … which led to X Factor judge Cheryl Fernandez-Versini, who used to be Cheryl Cole, so she must have gotten married … which led to trying to figure out who the heck Mr. Fernandez-Versini is … which led to … I came up for air 90 minutes later, blinking at how bright the outside light was, and way too conversant about what various British celebs had been snapped wearing as they toddled out of bars and clubs.
Similarly, a Reddit AMA led me to a different AMA, which led me to this advice column, which features my favorite quote of the day.
“You say there’s truly nothing like a beautiful face. That statement makes me imagine a giant plate of delicious nachos, a good book, and a cold beer. It makes me think about dogs with weird personalities, and funny children. It makes me think about the sound of rain on the roof when you’re taking a nap in the afternoon. Pretty faces can go f— themselves, compared to peanut butter cups.”
And I’m only “meh” on peanut butter cups.
Recently I’ve been playing a game called “That’s Not Where That Goes.” And by game I mean “never-ending loop of picking up after myself.”
The perk of—and the problem with—living by yourself is that things stay exactly where you last put them. So if I am too
tired LAZY to, say, put away my gym clothes and shoes after a workout, they can (and do) linger in the exact spot I kicked them off. Which in the case of the shoes can be literally inches away from where they’re supposed to go, as you can see from the photo at right.
Yesterday I folded laundry and instead of putting away the lone pair of underwear from the batch, I put them on top of the dresser. Because opening the drawer to put them inside just didn’t seem like the right thing to do. (I didn’t actually put them away until after I started typing this paragraph. I didn’t even have to get out of my swiveling desk chair to do it.)
I noticed that I was leaving an ever-increasing trail of detritus in my wake, to be picked up when it finally got big enough for me to pay attention to. Continue reading
Me, most of this week.
I think I now understand why most of those Real Housewives act so batty.
I took most of last week off, solely because I had use-it-or-lose-it vacation time to kill before early September. I didn’t have any actual vacation planned, or any milestone events (birthdays, weddings, anniversaries, funerals) to attend. Because I’m still trying to pay down debts, I decided to eschew any money-siphoning adventures in favor of just hanging out at home, under the premise that any day spent not-at-work is a welcome break.
“I’m going to be a lady of leisure this week!” I vowed.
Yeah, I don’t think I’m ready to join the Abnegation faction quite yet.
When I was growing up, my parents raised four kids on a truck driver’s salary. It’s sort of a marvel to me how much we did:
- Musical instruments and/or lessons: Mark: clarinet; Tina: drums; Tammy: French horn; me: piano.
- Sports activities and equipment, as desired/required: Powderpuff football for the girls; soccer and tennis lessons for me.
- Braces and headgear for three out of the four of us. (Curse Mark and his good teeth, which required only a retainer!)
- New clothes for school every year.
- Cars for every teen of driving age.
We had food in the refrigerator, presents on holidays and our own allowances, all in a house that was big enough for us to have our own bedrooms.
“How did you do that?” I asked my mom once, having realized that they managed all of this on less than I make right now.*
* Mitigating factor: CPI inflation. What my dad made in 1980 would translate to nearly three times that amount in 2014, so comparing his salary then to my salary now is deceptive.
“Well, we didn’t do anything,” she replied. And it made total sense.