In New Mexico, we have to drive everywhere. We live miles from anyplace, but now we’re staying at my mother-in-law’s place on Sunset Boulevard in Pacific Palisades, and we can walk everywhere: grocery store, drugstore, bookstore, restaurants, library, park, church, anywhere we want to go. Because we walk, I only buy the groceries we need for the day instead of stocking up on as much non-perishable stuff as will fit in my car the way I do back home. It’s a very different lifestyle. If I ever live in a big city again, I think I’d like to live someplace where I could walk instead of drive. Before we bought a house and had kids, my husband and I had an apartment in Westwood and I walked to the gym, to Borders, to restaurants and movie theaters. It was great. We both really missed that apartment once we became suburban homeowners. For one thing, our house was about a mile from Palisades village (whereas MIL’s apartment is right in the village) and for another, the Palisades shuts down a lot earlier than Westwood, which right next to UCLA.
It’s still hot, but now that I’ve been shopping and bought some dresses and sandals, I’m loving it. The past few days spent sweltering in too-hot clothes made me realize just how spoiled we are these days. A hundred years ago women had to wear long sleeves and petticoats and corsets and stockings and all the rest even when it was a hundred degrees, and here I was grumbling because I didn’t have any open-toed shoes to wear when it was 85. Pathetic, I know.
The news…where to begin?
First off, I’m awfully glad the people whose plane crashed in the Hudson are all okay, and I think the pilot is one heck of a wonderful guy, but I still find myself wondering just why every newscast on every channel has to spend hour after hour after endless hour interviewing people who were on that plane. “You got your feet wet while you were standing on the wing? My God! Your ankles must have been freezing! Do you think it was a miracle that you survived?” “Yes, I do. I was sure I was going to die when I felt that cold water on my ankles, but then I saw all the ferries coming to pick us up and I just knew then that God had a special plan for me. Okay, I gotta run now. I have two more news shows to do before I call it a night.”
What on earth is Mr. I Am the Change You Need thinking? Tim Geithner is going to be the head of the Treasury Dept. and therefore the top dog at the IRS and the guy can’t even figure out how to pay his own taxes? That tells us either that the tax code is so completely FUBAR that we ought to just repeal the 16th Amendment right now, or that Mr. Geithner is so completely unqualified for this job that Mr. Obama should have dropped him faster than he dropped Bill Richardson. I’ve always said that Barack Obama was a smart guy, but honestly, if he can’t see that a guy who doesn’t pay his own taxes shouldn’t be the head of the IRS, well, maybe he isn’t quite as smart as all the fawning press has made him out to be.
Bail-outs and bail-out money. Dear Lord, where do I begin? I feel as though I’m living in some horrible parallel universe where all the apparently rational people cannot see what is so utterly, tragically obvious. I can’t comment on this business coherently, because what’s the point? I can’t use profanity, since I try to be ladylike, so I’ll let Ace do it for me.
Uh oh. I hear my three eldest offspring coming. That means my internet time is up. Just as well. Thinking about the bail-out morass gives me one of those throbbing, pounding headaches that no amount of analgesic and caffeine can cure.