The Little Princess

My maid/housekeeper was away, back in her own country, and her substitute can clean, but is hopeless with entertaining. I have about 25 guests coming, good people, and I am not too worried, but I am a little behind schedule pretty much the entire event, as I try to greet guests and make them welcome, get the food out, keep the food coming, keep the coffee and tea ready and and and . . . you get the idea.

As the event neared to a close, one of my friends, the little Princess, is right by my side, clearing dishes, rinsing, bringing things from the salon to the kitchen – and this is a woman we all kid, we call her the little Princess because her husband adores her, and she never has to lift a finger.

“You don’t have to do this!” I exclaim, knowing once the last guest is gone, I can take my time, and it will all get done.

“”But you look so tired!” she exclaims in return.

I am puzzled. I don’t feel tired.

“I don’t FEEL tired,” I respond, and she says “But you have no lipstick, and your hair is all tangled . . .” and I realize to my utter horror that in my focus on getting everything ready for my guests, I forgot to put on any makeup, or to do my hair. I FORGOT!

I am still laughing at myself, partly in HORROR. How could I forget to comb my hair???

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Sunrise 17 December 2007

Look! Thick clouds! Maybe it’s THINKING about rain!

Pathetic and Divorce

When I saw this cartoon in the New Yorker, I laughed out loud. I have a friend whose husband is leaving her. No, that is not a laughing matter. He wants to be young again, he seeks (to no avail) younger girlfriends, and she has discovered he has a page on MySpace where he tries to make himself younger and cooler than he really is.

He is about to be wifeless, desperate to regain his lost youth, and pathetically eager to attract young women who really prefer hot young men. The “EEEEEEWWWWWWWWW Factor” is just too horrendous to contemplate.

He also has two teen aged sons. I can’t imagine how they must feel when they see Dad is leaving Mom, and has his own MySpace page.

Ya gotta love the The New Yorker.