Conniving Woman Seeking Fallible Man

"Conniving women and fallible men"  This is how the commentator on Bob Edward's Weekend described the debacle of the Generals and The Women Who Email Them.

I don't believe there are many of us out here in the world that think Generals Petraeus and Allen had a big need for pen-pals -but I must say I am truly sick and tired of women getting all the shame when it comes to these affairs of powerful men and their inability to keep it in their pants.

Let's look at General P.  Just for giggles I did some fact checking.  First, I went to the dictionary for a little word check:

The General is:

fallible - wanting in moral strength, courage, or will; having the attributes of man as opposed to e.g. divine beings; "I'm only a fallible human"; "frail humanity" So if General P. is "only human" then we put the onus on his friend Ms. Brooks who is:   con·niv·ing 1. To cooperate secretly in an illegal or wrongful action; collude: The dealers connived with customs officials to bring in narcotics. 2. To scheme; plot. 3. To feign ignorance of or fail to take measures against a wrong, thus implying tacit encouragement or consent: The guards were suspected of conniving at the prisoner's escape. And what do we notice about the definition?  General "Can't Keep It In His Pants"  is a poor pitiful thing that lacks moral strength, courage or will.  While Ms. Broadwell is cooperating in secret acts, scheming,  plotting and giving tacit encouragement to Poor Fallible David.   Well, that made me giggle so much, I checked out The General's creds on that great encyclopedia in the sky...Wikipedia.   For a man wanting in moral strength, courage, or will, he certainly has been able to overcome  this handicap--graduated in the top 5% of his class at West Point, pretty much turned things around in Iraq-leading the 101st Airborne,  practically wrote the book on handling counterinsurgency in Mosul--a city of 2 million freakin' people, worked his way up to Four Star General of which there are only four--did you get that people--FOUR in the current Army!   And then, just to keep himself busy after retirement,  signed up to  run a little organization called the CIA.  (Or maybe Mrs. Petraeus didn't want him hanging around the house, telling her how make military corners when changing the sheets) I will refrain from making a snarky remark about this photo and it's possible meaning to the recent news reports.  Please feel free to make you own. So this man, who is obviously intelligent and disciplined meets up with a woman who connives him into being her pen pal and letting him write a story, a very personal story, it turns out,  about him.  And this makes him so happy that the General can't control his own little Private.   My whole point of this rant is that both people in this situation made bad, hurtful decisions, I'm guessing both are going to pay a pretty big price --professionally and personally. But why is the woman in this story conniving and The General--the Superstar, Four Star, Iraqi butt-kicking, CIA leading, man, being given a pass because he is "fallible"?   Words have power.  They are like the earwig, they enter into our brains and lay eggs of misconception,  misanthrope, and judgment.  Conniving woman, fallible man.  What did the earwigs leave in your brain?

In The End, The Dog Always Dies

Spoiler Alert!  The Dog Dies.

I refuse to watch dog movies and read dog books.  Because the dog always dies.  The formula is always the same with a few variations:   Variation 1: A)  Devoted dog.    B) Mistreated by evil owners.  C) Dog finds true love.   D) Dog dies.  OR  Variation 2:  A)  Stray Dog is a neurotic freak who slobbers on everyone, destroys house, eats the baby.  B) Family falls madly in love with the dog because he has such a great personality. C) Dog dies.   Variation 3:    A) Dog is a devoted, mind-reading pet who knows Jimmy is in the well.  B) Jimmy is saved.  C) Dog dies.

My story has several elements of all great dog stories.  Max was a filthy, white hair ball when I rescued him from being run over by a truck as he stood in the middle of the road.  At the time I took it that the poor creature was too scared to move.   Now I know he was actually in a staring match with the truck and was convinced he would win with his Voldemort-like powers.



After the rescue we took Max into our home.  The first few days were lovely. Except for the flea infestation.  And the fact that because he had been sucked on by so many tiny vampire fleas he was anemic and didn't have enough energy to eat through the front door as he did as soon as his iron levels were up.

Despite being neutered and only about 12 inches off the floor, he also had a powerful need to be the Alpha dog.  In order to assert his powers on our Whippet, who was twice as tall as fluff ball devil dog, Max decided to assert his Alpha powers by humping Lazer to death.  This would have been comical if you didn't have an ounce of empathy in your body.  Max would attach himself to any part of Lazer's body he could get hold of--kind of like a fluffy leech and go at it.  Lazer would stand, sit, or lay there looking like the picture the Private Investigator  takes of a husband caught in bed with another woman, all wide-eyed and guilty looking.   Part of the problem was that every time we would reprimand Max (re: yell STOP IT!) Lazer thought we were yelling at him. So while Max humped merrily away, Lazer obediently allowed Max to have his way with him.  Finally, I figured out that I was an hump-dog enabler.  I put both dogs together in the basement and stood at the top of the steps.  Sure enough, in a few minutes, without my interference, Lazer gave Max a good dog-thrashing. Which solved the problem with Lazer, but not with every other dog Max ever met.

In fact, one time, he got so Alpha-doggish that he actually created an erection that I thought might qualify him for that commercial about the 4 hour woodie.  So I did what the commercial suggested and called my Doctor.    Who, after she finished laughing at me--I mean, seriously  couldn't he have strangulated that thing?   Told me to put an ice pack on it.  So there I am, nice fall afternoon,  sitting on my front porch holding an ice back to the Fluff Balls private parts.  (Just in case you ever find yourself in a similar situation, it works)

Max truly was the most determined, contrary, stubborn dog I've ever owned.  Although I'm sure he thought he owned me.  He destroyed carpet when digging at it to get out of the house, he actually gnawed through a wire dog pen to escape. More than once got his teeth caught in the dog carrier door, trying to chew his way out.  Putting him any place he didn't want to be would guarantee barking that could last for hours. And it wasn't a melodious bark--it was that high-pitched, Alfred-Hitchcock, knife-stabbing bark.

But I used to be a sucker for making commitments to damaged goods.  So for 10 years and three husbands,  I have lived with the Little Shit Dog, as he affectionately became know in our family.  In fact, I would occasionally lay in bed, listening to his shower-scene bark and even more affectionately think--I wonder when that little shit is going to die?  Because, I mean, that is how the movie always ends, right?

I did not envision the dramatic way Max would engineer his own death.  We are having a renovation done on that back deck--all the decking was removed to make way for the new floor.  I opened the door to talk to the Flannel Shirt Guy who is doing our work and I felt Max brush by my leg-I threw my foot out to try and stop him, but...too late--I watched as he fell 10 feet to the ground.  I want you to know that to my credit, I did not think--well good, he died.  Because 1) I'm a really nice person  and 2) He didn't die.  No, Max would do this his way--as always, he refused to do what a normal dog would do and die sweetly in my arms at home.  Oh No...I had to take him to the Doggie ER--where I had to sign a DNR on my dog and then refuse to have the neurologist come look at him (There are people living down the street from me who probably can't get a neurologist to come look at them because they don't have health insurance--but I can get it for my dog!)

I refused all heroic measures.  Max's time had come--albeit in not the most natural way.  And in the end, I held the fluffy, stubborn little shit as they administered "the shot" and he died.  Just like that, the dog died.  And I cried.

Gift With Purchase

I'm thinking about make-up today.   My addiction to make-up began with Agnes Bottoms, who was our Avon Lady and my first dealer.

Now you must know that Agnes Bottoms fully lived up to her name.  She was a lovely lady--but when you answered the door to "Ding-dong Avon calling..."  there was short, plump, Agnes, with her tight perm, house dress, white Keds,  and, as far as I could tell, not an ounce of make-up on.  She and my mother would visit for a while, then Agnes would slowly reach down into her bag and pull out what I had so eagerly been waiting for, a small turquoise plastic box containing my make-up crack-- teeny tiny little lipsticks about the size of a bullet.  Removing the top revealed a perfect cylinder of color, one  never to be found in nature, that tapered to a thin precise edge.  Lust.   I lusted after those samples, I wanted Pink Tinge, Copper Rosa, and Candy Pink to be for my lips only

Then came high school and the era of Electric Company Blues and Frosty pinks.  Agnes couldn't compete with Cybil Shepard on the cover of Seventeen.    I had to wait and go "to town" which meant a visit to Wee Discount to acquire  the objects of my desire.   One could spend hours agonizing over two different shades of Cover Girl foundation.  Once you bought it, you had to live with it, no returns allowed.  So I might spend half the year looking like an Ompa Loompa in my orange foundation and the other half looking like I'd just been to the mortician for a make-over.

But then, the magic happened again--I met my own updated version of Agnes--Ms Estee Lauder--the Queen of Gift with Purchase.  I was going to get my fix again!  Only this time this Purveyor of Pretty was sheathed in black, prancing about on 3 inch heels,  a sample of every product on her perfectly made up face.  GWP dealers were not nearly as homey and friendly as Agnes--I usually had to endure a disdainful once-over, a "consultation" which involved striping my face like a tiger to find just the right shade that would transform my imperfections into flawlessness. But at the end, there was the transaction--the sliding of a credit card across the glass counter, a rustle of tissue paper... and then....my very own tiny samples--a lipstick in a shade I would never wear, miniature eye shadows in the latest shade of blue, enough moisturizer to dampen a dimple--but it was all mine, to covet, collect and play with--until I needed my next GWP fix.















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Unchecked Baggage

I'm thinking about travel today.  These last few months have been full of travel for me.  Generally when I travel I am enjoying the ride....when things are going my way.  But my, let the airlines mess with my ability to get home just because I don’t follow rules that I didn’t even know about,  and I get a bit ugly.    Did you know that you can’t check a bag if you arrive at the bag check with under 45 min. left before the flight leaves?  Even if  it’s  44 minutes before the flight leaves?  Even if you try reasoning with the airline Nazi that you have a bag full of newly purchased Ikea treasures that must get home?  Then asked what one was supposed to do with said  unchecked bags?   Why, you are just supposed to lolly-gag down to the other end of the freakin’ airport and book another flight!  Why not just tell me to wait for the flying monkeys to come by?

Being the resourceful woman I am, it dawned on me that daughter Katy was flying out of the same helpful airport the next morning, so I oh so calmly called Bonus Daughter Beth, who had just dropped me off,  to haul ass back, which she did, and we dumped the uncheckable suitcase back into her car and then  I zipped into the security line—told my sad story to a nice man in blue who sent me to a nice woman in blue, who let me into the Magic Security Short Cut Passage to another Blue Man—and I’m thinking, Whooo Hoooo I got it going on now!  And then realized I was behind the Griswold Family.  Whooo Hoooo for them!  They’d never flown before!  Probably because they had passel of kids and had to save up all their box tops to afford the trip!  Did they know they needed to take off their shoes?  NO.  Did they know you have to take your laptop out and put it in its very own bin?  NO.  Did they really need 5 strollers and a baby buggy for this trip?  Apparently so.  So now, by the time I get up to the convertor belt, I’m stripped down to my Cuddle Duds.  Except for the stupid iphone that apparently someone put in my back pocket.  Which means when I get to the scanner I have to take this potentially explosive device back to the conveyor belt to be scanned.  And then I have to have the naked x-ray, which I could care less about, except that because I had held the dynamite iphone in my hand, I had to go over to another blue man and have my hands wiped down for explosives (if he’d wanted to check for explosives, he should have wiped down my forehead because by now I swear the top of my head is going to blow off! )  I go back to the conveyor belt, which should be belching out all my accouterments  but NO, the Happy Traveling family’s many bags have created a bolus in the bowels of the belt and nothing is coming out.  I’m considering crawling in after things and the line begins to move.  Finally I have my bags in my hands, my shoes on my feet-- and people, I don’t know what a 56 year old woman looks like running down the halls of SFO, but I’m sure it’s on the surveillance video.  I get to my gate.  Oh yes, they have boarded, oh yes, they have already shut the door and pulled the walk way away.  But the Nice Man radios the plane…..will they let me on?  We wait, and wait and wait just long enough that the top of my head is starting to itch with explosive powders again….and they open the door and let me run down the corridor—where they are pulling the steps back up to the plane, and I have to hand over my “carry-on” to be packed in the trunk or handed off to the flying monkeys--at this point I don't care.   Then, it’s penance time.  I  do the Walk of Shame—everyone on the plane knows it’s ALL MY FAULT that they have to sit there another 20 minutes waiting for take off.  And you know what?  I don’t care.  I’m in my seat. My belt in fastened. No body parts have exploded.  I’m heading home.

Chair Therapy

Today I am thinking about Clint Eastwood.  As a yellow-dog Democrat,  (Which in case you don't have this particular idiom in your neck of the woods, means I'd rather vote for an old yeller dog than a Republican)  I think we owe Clint a great big thank you for completely making everyone forget what Mitt Romney said.  But, generally speaking, I am not going to be talking politics here, because 1) I'm not going to change your mind and 2) I'm not going to change your mind.

But I keep seeing good old Clint up there on the national stage talking to an empty chair.  And I figured he had to be pretty ticked off at President Obama to feel the need for some public political therapy by talking an inanimate object.  And then I thought, maybe we should all get a chair and keep it in our closet, or basement--if you prefer your privacy, or if you are like Clint, you could put it out in the driveway, or on the deck.  One of those nice folding camp chairs might be handy.  Someone pisses you off by running that red light.  Pull over, get out your camp chair and give it what for.   Carry it in to work on bad days as a way to give notice you are not to be messed with.

The key is to pick the right person to sit in your chair.  The nice thing is, you can rotate people though on a needs-be basis.  I have some ex-husbands, a couple bosses and a few philandering ex-friends I might have given a good tongue-lashing to at one time.  Today, I am feeling very benevolent and can't think of anyone to put in the 'bad" chair.  So maybe, we could switch things up  and sometimes put someone in our chair that has earned our kind, loving words. And then better yet--after you practice on the chair--actually tell the person.  That, in fact, should be the way to make someone's day.

Today I'm thinking about hair.  What better reason than to start a self-indulgent pursuit like a personal blog than to cogitate on one's own hair?  I recently posted pics on my FB page of all my elementary school pictures.  Horrified friends could not imagine why I would subject myself to such public self-flagellation.  (And I haven't even read 50 Shades Grey--which I am sure has nothing to do with hair color)  It is fascinating to look at one's hair history.  The inappropriately named Pixie Cut--which made me look more like a deranged leprechaun than a darling little pixie.  The Flip--a hair style made to defy physics--I mean, does anyone's hair naturally just grow straight down then suddenly do a curl up at just the very ends--like gutters at your shoulders, ready to catch rain water.  Then there was the long, straight, hippy hair.  This was pre Chi Straighteners and curling irons. (and just tell me why the hell it took so long to invent those?  I mean, that is NOT rocket science).  To achieve the cool Cher look, it took either a half of a tub of Dippety Do or laying your head on an ironing board as if submitting to  human sacrifice  and literally ironing your waves away.

My own personal Hair Armageddon had to be The Perm.  About every 6 weeks I would subject myself to the potions concocted by Rita and come out looking like Richard Simmons with breasts.  And I thought I looked good!  I liked the simplicity of The Perm --just wash and Poof!

Below is a nice example of a combo disaster--perm, scotch tape bangs (you know what I mean, your Mom scotch taped your wet bangs down on your forehead so she could get a straight cut as she gnawed away at your hair with dull scissors) and the super cool head band.

The result of all these hair disasters?  At 56 I will pay any price to a hairdresser that can cut and color my hair into something that people will not point and laugh at.  Today.   In  20 years, I'll probably again be wondering, "What was I thinking?"