Yeah, we all know it’s bad. To punctuate, every day, we get a new photo of an anxious stockbroker.
As though we don’t know it’s *really, really* bad unless we see angst.
Behold, a symphony…
This post best viewed with the sound of “aaaaaaaaaagh” in the background:
These photos come from newspapers and a couple blogs all around the world. I’ve direct linked them so I’d imagine I’ll soon be asked to take them down…but for now, behold……
Just proving I am still shallow despite deep thinking earlier this week…:)
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BRIDGEPORT, Conn. – A Connecticut judge has given the brush-off to a blonde woman’s lawsuit claiming L’Oreal Inc. ruined her social life when she accidentally dyed her hair brunette with one of its products.
Charlotte Feeney of Stratford says she can never return to her natural blonde hue, a shock that left her so traumatized she needed anti-depressants.
She says she suffered headaches and anxiety, missed the attention that blondes receive and had to stay home and wear hats most of the time.
A Superior Court judge dismissed Feeney’s 2005 lawsuit Monday, saying she never proved her allegation that L’Oreal put brown hair dye in a box labeled as blonde. The company also had disputed the claim.
Feeney referred questions on Wednesday to her attorney, David Laudano, who has declined to comment.
Source
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Um…she can “never return” to her, um, “natural” blond color?
Cuz, uh, it doesn’t grow out of her head that way? Naturally?
(bwa hahahaha!)
Me thinks bimbo tried to carve out some dollars by doing an ‘at home’ dye job and jacked it up!
And home-squirrel had to wear hats most of the time? Wha? Because her widdle hairs were brown?
Oh please.
My naturally brown locks have scored me plenty of attention.
Miss Feeney, if you can’t work it being a brunette, then you’re doing it wrong.
That the word “maverick” was originally coined to apply to cattle that didn’t have a brand? Meaning they technically didn’t belong to anyone.
Is the heavy campaign usage a mis-application of the word? Oh I think so. Oh yes I very much do.
So does Terrellita Maverick. See, her ancestor, Samuel Augustus Maverick was a guy who “…was more interested in keeping track of the land he owned than the livestock on it…unbranded cattle, then, were called ‘Maverick’s.'”
Ms. Maverick isn’t buying it when John McCain uses the word to describe himself.
“‘He’s a Republican,’ she said. ‘He’s branded.'”
Next time McCain or Palin uses that word. Remember: cow.
Moo!
Image “Boo Moo” by Nick Piliero
Notes:
1. The good news is the word maverick didn’t crop up in last night’s debate.
2. One might think after the last two posts that I am an Obama supporter. I’m not. Call me undecided. A lot. And call me disappointed. As in where can I park a protest vote?
3. Political posts two days in a row. TGM might faint!
I know her. I’ve met her. I went to school with her. Worked with her. She was my neighbor. My friend. My sorority sister. At the market. The local WalMart. Friend of a friend.
Ok, not the exact woman, to be sure. But I know this woman. She exists in many forms. In many towns. In many lives.
I know this woman. When we were kids, she was the girl who was a little bit stronger, a little bit bigger and a little bit bossier than the rest of us. She organized us. Made us entrepreneurs with her Kool-Aid/bake sale/car wash moneymaking idea.
And we believed her ideas. In part because she was so convincing. But mostly because she’d punch us in the arm, hard, if we didn’t go along.
I know this woman. Her parents think the world of her. They brought her up competitive and strong. Her dad made sure she wasn’t a lightweight girl, but could stand her own with the boys. Her family took her to church and demanded she believe without question. And she did.
I know this woman. She did pretty well at school and even though she was kind of a bully, the teachers liked her because she was smart and worked hard. Teachers like someone who tries.
I know this woman. In high school, she was popular. Charming. Charismatic. And class president. We knew she would be a good leader. We knew because she told us so. And we believed her. Mostly because our arm still ached from the last time we’d dared to not go along.
She pounded her way up and down the basketball court, fiercely competitive. She’d take nothing less than a win because that’s how she was made. It wasn’t about the game. It was about winning.
Not being a loser is all that matters. Losers are weak.
I know this woman. She was the go to, the clutch player, the one you’d turn to when you were in a bind because she could deliver. And she did.
I know this woman. Some girls hated her. She hated them back. Openly. If challenged, she’d rise to the fight. She wouldn’t stop until she won.
And she won. Because to her mind, there is no other way.
I know this woman. In college, she was unique. People couldn’t quite place that accent. “Why would a girl from where she’s from talk like that?” But her out-of-place accent was actually part of her charm.
She and I pledged together, wore the white robes, raised our hands, said the words and joined the club. But her aspirations were higher than mine.
I know this woman. She was president of the sorority/captain of the team/head of the club in a flash and she didn’t lead, she demanded. She didn’t take kindly to anyone who didn’t believe in her entirely. Follow her unquestioningly. Punishment for not following the path she demanded was swift.
She’s the woman who cornered me, told me if I didn’t snap to, follow her ways, do exactly as she said, she’d throw me out of the club/team/party.
And so I complied. Because I don’t play that way.
But she does.
I know this woman. She has beliefs. Strong beliefs. And will tell you exactly what she thinks about anything at any time whether it concerns her or not. Everyone else compares unfavorably because she’s the standard by which all are judged. And no one, but no one has got her beat.
I know this woman. I may not agree with her outlook on life, but I know her, and she can be a lot of fun. She can make me laugh, sometimes because she’s such a ham, and sometimes because she’s so damn backward. Her small town viewpoint applied to the big sky world, and anything that doesn’t fit her brick walled compartmentalized thinking doesn’t have a place in her world. Doesn’t belong. Should be gone.
I know this woman, and because I know her, I overlook her beliefs that disagree with mine because I know she’s earnest, at her heart.
Fiercely loyal to her family, her friends, her hometown. Almost blindsidedly so.
I know this woman. She doesn’t take no for an answer. I know her well enough to tell her when I think she’s in over her head. And she’ll listen because she likes me. Then she’ll punch me in the arm, hard, and tell me that I’m wrong.
And I’m wrong. Because her competitive side won’t ever let her believe she’s in over her head. That doesn’t apply. She always comes out on top.
I know this woman. No stranger to hard, backbreaking work, but also knows how to dress up and be pretty. She plays whatever game nets her what she wants.
I know this woman, and she’s not a manager, not a leader, she’s a “I’m going this way and rue the one who doesn’t follow me exactly.”
She often makes good decisions, but burns her followers in the process.
I know this woman. She takes the blame for nothing and is a master of subterfuge when the game’s on the line. And everything is a game.
To be won.
Yeah, I know this woman. I’ve seen her. Her kids bully my own. She’ll tell me all the ways I’ve failed to live up to her standards and I’ll think “oh, that’s just her…she doesn’t mean it” when she treats me bad again, then steps on my neck to take another step up.
Because she only looks up.
“There is a special place in hell for women who don’t help other women,” says Madeleine Albright, former U.S. Secretary of State.
Sure. And if she needs help, I’ll give it. But I know this woman. She doesn’t need it. She certainly doesn’t want it.
There’s also a special place in hell for someone who likes or dislikes someone based solely on gender/race/eye color/hair color/height or a thousand other “things we’re born with and can’t change.”
And likes and dislikes equal votes.
I vote for the candidate that I, in my own humblest of opinions, think is most qualified. I vote for who they are by their own choices, not by genetic design.
Oh yeah. I know this woman.
And because I know this woman, there is no way in hell I can vote for her.
ABQJournal columnist Thelma Domenici on the topic of political conversations:
“Every party to the conversation must be willing and able to listen long enough to hear what the other person is saying. No one should have an agenda ready with which to interrupt. It’s the interruptions that cause those emery board conversations that grate upon us so.”
Um hmm. Try having a political conversation with my dear (departed) rightward leaning father.
If only Thelma lived in my house back then….feh, he probably wouldn’t have listened to her either! :)