Little Bo Peep is Losing Her Sheep!

I admit it : my political concerns have taken a backseat to a rising, quite pressing issue, that quite frankly, deserves far more national coverage than it is currently getting.

The particular breed of goats that produce (grow?!) cashmere are perishing, by the hundreds, due to unexpectedly heavy winter weather, blanketing their feeding pastures. 600 of them have already died, and thousands more will undoubtedly starve. Honestly! Here we are, worried about whether or not a black president faces a greater liklihood of assasignation from terrorists, when the worlds most limited source of luxury wool is dying! Perhaps, those non-cashmere wearing CA dwelling folk, whose coats surface in mere 50 degree temps might find this less worrisome: take if from me. From the frozen tundra of the Northeast. This is a great tragedy. A tragedy of monumental proportions.

We need to call in the Red Cross. The United Nations. A famous shepard. Something.

We, the greatest nation on Earth, (though doesn’t EVERY nation think they’re the greatest? I really don’t see, say, Germany running around saying we’re the freaking greatest nation on Earth, but I digress) need to step in here. Afterall, we’ll stick our Better Than Thou nose in just about any other crisis around the world with very little if any invitation, yet we’re just standing by, allowing all these lovely, soft, beautiful Sweaters To Be simply perish. Why is it that Brangalina can take on some small unpronouncable country and provide shelter, food, a sustainable economy source - yes, she is teaching them to grow sunflowers, and sell off the seeds - yet she refuses to step up to the plate and bring those goats to warmer, grass lined pastures - which is shocking because I KNOW that she wears cashmere.

The death and destruction of the worlds largest source of cashmere does, indeed, if one puts ones mind to it, have a political connection. Afterall, if the goats die, and sweaters become limited - coats as well, gloves, boot linings, scarves - then disease will spread through the now fully chilled population, causing higher incidence of influenza, a run on flu shots, resulting in a skyrocketing demand for hospitalized medical care, and, (see my point here?) dismantling the platform on which our Hopeful President’s To Be are currently parading.

Oh, fine. So maybe it’s the harsh winter weather freezing what’s left of my brain cells, leaving me locking into a conspiracy theory of my own making - but mark my words. Less cashmere = End of the World.

You know, with so many people up in arms over cloning beef cattle, perhaps, we should confine ourselves to cloning beings we’ve successfully cloned before, and, those that could powerfully, politically impact our world.

We should clone cashmere goats.

I’ll have the first ever head of cloned goats - Cardigan, and Pullover, who will in turn breed , Crew Neck, and his gay brother, Argyle. I will be elected the first woman president, who not only ended our national debate on reforming health care, but, be voted the best dressed president we’ve ever had.

And I’ll do it all, with my prize winning cloned cashmere goats

There are those moments, so spontaneously intriquing, mind-blowingly perfect, when someone steals your heart and breaks it at the same time, without even knowing it.

I’d given up on Valentine’s Day…there’s just sooo much pressure to perform, on both sides, that really, it can take the joy out of the best things, and suck them instead in the nether realm of Just Not Enough, It’s Valentine’s Day Dammit. I, personally, would like to skip that part. So I did. I sent valentine’s to Hunter and his classmates; I got a cutie non-threatening totally adorable one for M, left it in his mailbox. And….my work here was done.

H and I decided to whip up heart shaped mini-meatloaves for dinner (who doesn’t love a cutie shaped meatloaf I ask you!) with some veggies, a little fresh from the oven french bread….when I get the call, while perusing the meat display at the store. Did I get the email Valentine M sent? Why yes, but as it was so emotionally touching, I didn’t know quite how to respond, so I didn’t. He claims he understood; did H and I want to do dinner at his house, with a bottle of red, and maybe a snotty cocktail, build a fire, just hang for a bit? H jumped at the chance (he just adores hanging with M, and really, me too) so I gave in, grabbed some Dutch baking tins, and headed over. Sliced a little cheese, paraded around in my too big for me jeans, red shirt (in honor of the day, my only concession) and skipped the swirling notions of M having flowers, or something for me. Afterall, we’re just going really slowly, with no pressure. I’m good with that.

Mixing meatloaf, being the only portion of prep that I detest, had me hands deep in meatloafy stuff, when M asked me wine or cocktail? Told him I didn’t care; I was tired, a little pms-y, just surprise me. So he did.

He handed me a cut crystal rocks tumbler……with a Bulova, baby diamond studded watch in it. Irridescent dial face, that turns ever so slightly baby pink. He even had it sized, before bringing it home. So now, I’m not only speechless once, but twice. I cried. Nearly dropped the glass, thankfully not, as it was his grandmother’s, and I’ve no doubt she would rise from the grave to kill me!

The watch is so … me…. but it’s solid, and reliable…so like M.

Funny thing is, we spent the entire evening, H included, hanging out and laughing…I went to gather up our stuff and go home, H curled up in Conor’s bed upstairs, and insisted that he was spending the night. Bless his heart. He was “waaaaaayyyy toooooooo tired” to get in the car, and he likes it at M’s, the cat snugged in with him, so we stayed. Told M, as we crawled into bed after watching concerts on tv, sipping a bottle of wine, just chatting and laughing, that this was the best valentine’s day I think I”ve ever had - and no, it had nothing to do with the watch. I had a really great time, hanging out, with two guys, watching concerts, singing along, in front of a fire.

We may not know where we’re going, but well, we’re sure having a good time along the way.

Boxer briefs, come to mama

While tanning in a tanning salon isn’t really high on my list of priorities, I have indeed, as in yesterday, indulged in this particular past-time for two reasons: one, I’m leaving for that Mexican cruise next week, and, two, we all know that tanned fat looks way better than white, horrendously still doughy winter fat. While there, however, it occured to me, while stripping down, waiting for the lights to miraculously turn on, that I wasn’t at all clear what suit I intend to don, so, well, I totally nuded up.

News Flash: Laying baby white skin on a tanning bed will, indeed, result in burns to your nether regions. Not bad ones, mind, just mildly uncomfrotable - tolerable, say, if you’ve a job where you can stand the majority of the time. I however, have no such job. Mine involves long hours spent driving from one far off locale to another - so, when stepping into those totally cutie lace panties this am, I discovered, to my horror, that they were going to KILL me while I wore them. All. Day. Long.

Time runneth short ,as it tends to do in the morning in my house, especially on the ones where I need to make sure Fox has all his things for Fuckhead’s, so in my haste, I grabbed the softest looking panties I own.

But.

They were not panties.

At least, not MY panties.

Without realizing what I was doing, I slipping into a pair of M’s boxer briefs - smoothy cotton, tagless, and, low enough that it didn’t abrade my already chaffed ass! What comfort! What…dare I say it? Bliss! Oh sure, we women have accpeted the “boy shorts” which frankly, make my thighs look bigger than they are, and I don’t need any help, thank you very much. Plus. Those tend to ride up a bit. I don’t really care for that. M’s boxer briefs? Have remained exactly where they should, they’re soft, smooth, unbinding and unchafing, plus, I’m not getting my ass flossed by bits of lace or rayon.

I have seen the future ladies.

It’s the new Lissa Designed Boxer Brief for Women.

So there are some flaws….thery’re strangely roomy in the front; clearly, I’ll need to redesign that part. And, I’ll need far better patterns and colors; but other than that? They are perfect!!

Go on. Laugh it up.

That’s okay.

When I’m rolling in my boxer-brief millions, I’ll have proven you all wrong.

No, she’s not a freak. She’s a millionaire. With really comfy undies.