Since my man is late coming to the membership of the eternal fraternity of the U.S. of A and citizenship therein, we’s having a cookout. Burning meat and blueberry pie, ain’t that America.

For Dave, my friend from ‘cross the pond–yeah, we beat your sorry red-coated asses and now we get to pollute and bomb whatever we want for democracy. Hoo-Rah!

Hope you is all having fun doing what you’re doing. Peace.

There’s a woman in my current acquaintance who I have thought deeply about despising for two facts introduced immediately upon meeting her.  Actually, one fact was presented to me before we met.

She’s a chick around my age, somewhere between my sister and me, I would guess.   This ballpark puts her definitively in what could be “my generation.”  Now, my generation came up and came to consciousness after Betty Freidan did a bit of writing and Germaine Greer shocked a few folks.  (I mention Germaine, ‘cuz the chick in question may not know about U.S. homegrown balls broads, like Betty or Gloria.)

So, I get told about her in advance and by way of introduction based on WHAT HER HUSBAND DOES FOR A LIVING.  I meet her and she tells me about herself based on WHAT HER HUSBAND DOES FOR A LIVING.  Go dig up Joan Crawford, because apparently 1948 is back in vogue again.

Seriously, who does that any more?  And, might I add, I don’t fucking care WHAT YOUR HUSBAND DOES FOR A LIVING, unless I were going to meet him (unlikely) or he was about to grant me three wishes.

The second fact was also told to me by someone else but then reiterated by the hausfrau in question.  Apparently, she’s a very intelligient woman with a vast wealth of experience.

Here’s the short version of the rant inside my head in response to hearing that uttered, “Not bloody fucking likely.”

Good to know I sit in the middle of the highest tech of the tech corridor in the world and apparently the wayback machine is set fully on and headed toward stupid.