Like The Queen
Whatever happens to strike my fancy, but surely some sort of fiber content.


Bess, if you're getting old, than so am I, because the thoughts the spam you received engendered in you are the same for me.

I don't think the spammers know or care who we are and what our demographics are. Otherwise, I'd not be getting advertisements offering to enlarge or otherwise enhance a certain anatomical part I do not have.

By Blogger fillyjonk, at 9:48 AM  

Heck, ain't seen nothin'! I get our firm's e-mail on my computer, and you have no idea what spammers think an incorporated company looks like/is capable of in the Sexually Weird department!!

By Blogger Margaret, at 10:56 AM  

If that's your rational for "you know you're old when" then I've been old since I was 17... ick to all that stuff.

No, they neither know nor care who you are... and double ick to them sending it.

By Blogger Amie, at 11:45 AM  

Yes, you're old when "Make love like a RockStar" conjures up frighting images of a gasping, sweaty Keith Richards. Remember Bloom County? Isn't Keith Richards like the human Bill the Cat? Aaaack! (Apologies to the young ones going "Huh?" - Google it, you'll get my point.)

Along with women who do nothing but complain about men, let me add "women who do nothing but complain about their rotten kids." Especially when it's pre-emptive complaining - endless eye-rolling about how rotten he's going to be as a teenager. Yes, I'm sure he will be, now. People will live down to your expectations.

By Blogger Catherine, at 6:14 PM  

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Monday, June 21, 2004  

WARNING - 2 rantoliscious posts


Found in my email this morning. make love like a RockStar

You know you are getting old when the images this engenders are horrifying, not stimulating. This particular bit of spam caught my eye just because it did prompt disgusting images of drugged-out, tattooed, sweaty bodies jerking and twitching in hotel rooms.

So. I figure every demographic about me is already known by the great digital spyware machine. The guys who send this crap out have to know I’m a hair-dyeing, granny-aged librarian who knits, fer cryin’ out loud! Why do they spam me with this. I’m never going to click onto their site. I’m always going to hate them. They get relegated to my trash bin, but since I also designate all e-mail that's not from personal friends, as trash, and I like some junk mail, (like adds from some yarn shops), I always do at least read off the subject headings in the trash bin.

Are 100% of all commercial sites run by people who share DNA with hackers and virus creators? That’s the only assumption I can make. It ought to be easy to use all this spy gathered data they have about me to put me in the correct target group. I suppose these ad-execs with pierced brains just figure no work at all is easier than smart work.




I was watching Monarch of the Glen - British TV on CD. I usually love the quality of BBC's programming. But why oh why is it considered a. funny, b. appropriate, c. normal, for women to be mean and men to be weak or batty? I am sick, sick, sick, of bitchy women who make nasty quippy comments about how crappy men are. I’m made equally nauseous by watching bumbling men blink helpless eyes at these verbal thrusts, then offer up juvenile “yeah, well, same to you” responses. This show could be fantastic - a man trying to blend his family history with the modern world. It could deal with our longings for a slower pace or throw our fears of sucking technology into bas relief. It could even just be a boy meets girl sort of love story. Instead it’s just an opportunity for cardboard cutouts of women portrayed as real stinkers and men as major losers.

This literary trend is particularly hard for me when it comes to the written word, because I have to buy thousands of dollars worth of fiction every year and 99% of it is about this type of woman relating to that type of man. It’s become so ubiquitous - the mean woman/weak (but sensitive) man combo - like supersized fast food or manufacturer’s rebates - that I have almost completely quit reading fiction. My moment of crisis climaxed with Barbara Kingsolver’s Animal Dreams, when I identified the exact outline of my disgust, and I’ve been floating fiction-free ever since. Any time I read a book review that says “crisp snappy dialogue” I know that means she’s going to be saying 40 versions of “Men are Pigs”, and when it continues with “probing the psyche of the modern man” I know he’s going to be a guy who wishes he were, not just a woman, but a Stepford wife. Ick Yuck. Who are these people who like to read this stuff? Am I so completely within my pod I haven’t a clue? The library patrons seem, for the most part, fairly normal people. Perhaps all this dysfunctional little game playing in fiction feeds some pre-teen wound the great masses are carrying around within. Sheesh - I’d have been divorced fifty times over, not just from BD, but from any man I’d have found desirable, if I’d been so snappy and adaptive and dishonest.


I had ment to begin today with an apologia to the Dads of my life since I wrote nary a word about Father’s Day yesterday. It’s not a holiday we are particularly into, at our house, none of the HalmarkCard-Days are. Our big thing is Birthdays and Christmas, of course, and anniversaries. But I do send my own dad a card and I did indulge BD with all my attention, though he gets a lot of it most of the time. We spent the day from lunch/breakfast, about 12:30, till 8, outdoors. First we took a magnificent 2 hour hike through the woods and fields (I even went through White Oak Swamp a little ways, to check out the cypress trees, now becoming part of the top storey, though not the whole trek, since I was wearing shorts). The dogs have cleaned out the bunnies in the west field, but they treed a groundhog and jumped several deer. The sun shining through the forest canopy made the leaves shimmer like so many emeralds. Time to walk and talk, that’s what we had. Then it was out on the river, to watch the waves change color from brown to green to amethyst, beneath dancing breezes.

This new boat, tentatively called the Lucky Boy, took us smoothly down to Lowrey’s Point. This is where the H family (that’s us) used to spend their summer vacation. I became a part of the family near the end of this routine, because the same summer we moved to the farm, Grandma bought the house in town, and from then on, she spent the summers, playing house mother to all her grandchildren. I wanted to see the changes, since Isabell really trashed the point last summer. I think every cottage there was destroyed - certainly all the construction is new, not repair work. Best of all, the ride is so smooth that knitting-on-board is a real option, so next time we take a long trip, I think I’ll take along some small project; socks, perhaps.

I did get in some knitting, though. Moving up the back shoulders of the lace mohair. I regret to say it won’t be finished this Saturday (shame on me) but it at least be further along.

Yikes! Almost 9:00! Time to dress for work. Ta.

posted by Bess | 8:30 AM