minalisms

I’m so proud of myself for blogging regularly for the past two weeks that of course I hit a wall today. I’ve been reading news stories, eavesdropping on conversations and recalling what I did yesterday hoping that something would be worth addressing.

Then I was e-mailed a joke from a co-worker — my boss nonetheless — that gave me a great idea: Yeah, Weekend!, a joke-of-the-week that primes you for Saturday and Sunday.

Behold, the first edition:

I was in the pub yesterday when I realized I desperately needed to pass gas. The music was really, really loud, so I timed my farts with the beat.

After a couple of songs, I started to feel better. I finished my drink and noticed that everybody was staring at me.

Then I suddenly remembered that I was listening to my iPod.

Yeah, weekend!

Let me start by saying this: I loathe FOX News. My reaction to an episode of Glenn Beck is probably like what Rush Limbaugh’s reaction would be to an episode of the Rachel Maddow Show — I usually regard the coverage as a bunch of malarky.  I think, however, that President Obama has made a horrible decision to freeze out FOX from the White House press pool.

I understand the aggravation Obama must feel when the cable news network warps coverage to perpetuate rumors that he is the devil, but come on, Mr. President, aren’t you the uniter and not the divider? In this case, Obama looks like the bully.

This latest attack on FOX will do the president more harm than good; it’s already fodder for right-wingers used to calling him a commie. Such ongoing efforts to marginalize FOX will give die-hard critics and VOTERS good reason to judge him as an unreceptive leader, catering only to those who cater to him.

Prove that you’re better than that, Mr. President.

Media outlets, regardless of slant, deserve access to Obama. All it takes is him truthfully answering questions and letting media deliver as it may.

It’s not any president’s job to determine the validity of a news organization and its people because — like religion and politics — one person’s falsehoods are another person’s truths.

There used to be a time when my eyes would light up at the sight of 4-inch-high polka-dot stilettos in size 7. Or I’d see a heather gray pencil skirt that hugged me just right. Back then, a gold-and-silver beaded clutch within a pile of thrift-store rubbish was a treasure find, and my pursuit for the most glamorous shade of red lipstick was a worthy challenge.

(You know where I’m going with this, don’t you?)

I still have a majority of those items, but now I look at them with disdain because they remind me of diminishing youth — one that I don’t forsee returning.

I glance at the dusty stilettos quizzically, not daring to put them on and risk tripping and breaking my pelvis. The pencil skirt — well, that’s gone, donated in a clothing swap with friends who evidently have the discipline to keep their cute waistlines. God only knows why I’ve kept the red lipstick, which looked pretentious even in my early twenties.

But the clutch — I will never let that go. Because it’s still exquisite, despite its beads somewhat dull after years of handling.

Somebody call HGTV because I think I found my calling: Home Decorator.

It’s been almost a year since I began my search for the perfect pieces to style my home — think of it like the tale of Goldilocks, except that this Goldilocks carried a wallet.

Aside from the one time I scalded myself on a bowl of porridge too hot, I’d say the other bowls — the ones in the pretty kitchen within the fabulous house — are just right.

When I look in the mirror these days, I zero in on my raccoon eyes and flaky skin, which are likely a result of heredity and a fickle skincare regimen. Last night, staring at my reflection, I swore that the dark circles looked bigger, uglier.

Thus came urgency.

I reached to the right and grabbed my Bag o’ Tricks, a makeup bag containing dozens of free samples from Sephora — cleansers, face creams, masks, eye creams, moisturizers, lip balms, etc. — and pricey, half-used products long forgotten because oftentimes decluttering spaces simply involves stashing away clutter.

First I took out the facial cleansing pads and took them to task — a bit too eagerly — like sandpaper on plywood. Not surprisingly, my face reacted with redness.

After rinsing and patting dry, I pulled out a sample of eye cream, sternly directing it to “Do your job, you bastard,” prior to application.

Soon enough, it felt as though my eyeballs were on fire. But I muffled the sounds of anguish for the sake of my sleeping husband and concluded, “It must be working.”

When it was time to moisturize my face, I sifted through myriad packets and tubes until I came upon an “Extra Emollient Night Cream” that gave me flashes of soft, radiant skin. I ripped open the packet and slathered the squishy, pink jelly all over.

“This doesn’t feel right,” I thought, observing my varnished face and sticky palms. So I reviewed the packaging. This time I saw “Extra Emollient Night Cream for Hands.”

I thought about how sorely I failed every step of skin care, no longer dumbfounded about why I’m aging ungracefully. I considered washing the gunk off my face, but, tired and defeated, I walked my stinging eyes and red, greasy face to the bed, placed a towel over my pillow, and went to sleep.