Sadly, Jane Wyatt passed from this mortal coil. But, damn, at 96 years, she sure had a long run.
I tip my hat to the woman who knew best, in that way women know better than their kindly well-meaning mates. Maybe with Donna Reed and Barbara Billingsley, aka Mrs. Cleaver, she was the seminal perfect woman. (Get it, huh, get it? I said “seminal” for like chicks.)
The construct was simple. They knew the inside skinny and every now and again the man would piss them the fuck off. Then, there would be some moral, metaphorical kind of doghouse. And, hangdog hubby would sit out the storm.
In the end, roses, candy maybe, a cheek smooch and some kind of santized grabass, and life was back on an even plain in a rainbow-studded horizon.
So, guess who spent a chunk of the weekend in the doghouse?
We’ve discovered the deeper, anxiety-ridden, ultimately Type A version of M. He got hired away by the major competitive force in the chosen area of his curren open source fanaticism, embedded technology. Everywhere there’s a chip and goddamnit someone needs to sell the OS and/or software that’s firing them chips into action.
In between his last gig, and the new, sweet promises of milk and honey from the real deal corporation, post-start up and with a current workable business plan, like money baby, bling, bling, he’s taken a couple of weeks. Turns out, he’s more neurotic than I am and that just fucking ain’t a ray of sunshine living. He’s grumpily unemployed and uncertain, despite knowing perfectly well what’s coming next. (OK, to be fair, new place, new people, new office, new rituals, all can stress you out like a motherfucker.)
Lot’s of sitcom variety bickering and if we had a stuffed closet, no doubt Fibber McGee would send it’s contents rattling to the floor.
Lots of fighting energy wasted. Perhaps the darkest hour being the ugly Madonna as African Mother “discussion.”
Formula being formula, by the end of a weekend, which to be fair had it’s high points, like a night out in SF and checking out a house for sale just a left turn and a couple of blocks away from the ghetto, I was pouting, he was doghouse living. (Of course, apart from his stress, there’s the added joy of my job. This week is kind of a test of my sense of humor and any shred of patience extraordinaire. I’d write more, but you know recividism in weblog land is pure boneheadedness.)
One thing about work, I’m learning my own version of a humble Buddhist existence with a dollop of twelve-steppiness. It takes a lot for me to sit by and just watch stupid unfold in it’s slow, creeping path and inevitable, inexhorable progress. To just nod and smile internally is surely a lesson and opportunity for growth.
Angry woman + embattled spousal equivalent = That which I had successfully dodged for over 42 years. Namely, the dozen long stems delivered to the desk.
The receptionists came up to my desk, beautiful vaseload of blooms in hand. I actually told him, “There must be a mistake, those aren’t for me.” He showed me the card.
D’oh. Mortification doesn’t really do justice for my peculiar sense of embarassed shyness while the chicks in the office took note. Inward pleasure I can do, but I’m downright Amish and looking for something “plain” on the showy side. Yup, that’s my secret freakishness.
The card said only, “By M.,” because he helped design the arrangement. (Try ‘splaining the M. appellation to people who cannot know the M. weblog chronicles even exist.)
I took some massively crappy photos. But, one’s kind of cool thanks to a little Photoshop doctoring and a gray background.
madge as an african mothe discuss
nope i might rant a bit mind
first off she bloody well lives here so coz she is a poncy fucking pop singer and worth millions she gets to ignore the immigration laws for the lil lost soul
second the lad has a perfectly good father who is now demanding his slice of the action ie gimmi that money (if he was so concerned for the kid why aint he looking after him
third why if she is so concerned about the plight of african kids cant she open and fund a orphanage and school in africa with her mega generouse attitude
if it was a bloke doing this the crys of peado would ring out wide and loud
rant done
please do feel free to take the stupid singer slut back and bury her in a tar pit
love dave
(this is an instruction not a platitude)
Roses ! I don’t care how Amish you are -That’s AWESOME !!!!!It’s not even a holiday or your birthday ! I’m getting weepy. . . .
Some asshole once told me that “studies showed” that divorce and death and job change all shared equal amounts of stress.
Who knows.
Anyway it’s become a fine line between Adopting someone as your own and taking them into your heart
…and…
puffing on a cigarette, pointing and saying, “How much for the little one in the back? No. Not that one. The other one.”
My dream is to start a De-doption agency.
When these kids lose their luster and start to ask questions, Rosie, Sharon, Meg and TomPuss etc will have had their fill.
This is where I come in.
I get paid huge money by the disgruntled celebrity, I find a GOOD home for the kid who also gets some parting cash, and then I construct a great story for the cebrity to use.
“Little Comquat was abducted by the French.”
Everybody’s happy.
I may have to work on some celebs….
“Um, Ms. O’Donell it’s only a matter of time before Parker writes a book. You said yourself how smart he is. How does the title NOT SO ROSIE make you feel?”
“Yes, I sense some French in the area.”
Then the handshake.
My slogan will be,
When it’s time to cut the cord…
Anyway, that’s one of my more sensible ideas.
Now.
Barbara Billingsly vs. Jane Wyatt
Which was the better lay? Not so sure.
Wyatt seemed very down to earth(dirty) but Billingsly had that coy “keeping a secret” look.
Could be a tie.
Hugh Beaumont if he wasn’t a sick pup, surely couldn’t have pleased the original Mrs. C. He was too tightly wrapped. Looked like a rumsoak.
Maybe it’s because his name was Cleaver that I think he’s twisted, but that guy always looked like he was standing on the corner of Rage and Cuckoo.
Robert what’s his name, on the other hand just seemed like a gentle soul.
So to recap… Mrs. Cleaver, dirty slut, yet unsatisfied.
Jane Wyatt, old school dirty girl with a willing boy toy.
Well that’s out of the way.
I’m done.
Hey, all three of my readers are back and commenting — Yay,
Welcome back. Hope you’re all cheery and shit these days, Dvae. I was remiss in not acknowledging your mention of a little bit of blues. As they say in the 12-bar old style bar room crying in your beer, “tell mama, all about it.”
As to Dvae’s point on Madonna should build an orphanage or school, she is. Check out
Freem, glad to see you back and willing to fuck dead old ladies.
And, dot, roses indeed.
she still clutters up the county i live in tho
please pass the vomit bucket