I should have known this week was cursed on Monday. It took forever to get out of the house — forgot this, oops I need to put something in the crockpot, etc. And I lost my wallet. It fell out of my pocket as I was putting the dry cleaning into the car, part of my super-efficient early-Monday, after-workout routine. The good news is, it was found by a nice older man who was trying to find me in the White Pages (HA HA HA HA HA) when I realized what I’d done and raced back to the dry cleaner.
Some would see that as a glass-half-full good omen for the week, along with the chicken soup that turned out fine after I threw it together in the crockpot practically on my way out the door.
But I woke up Tuesday sick, and remain sick. Half a cold, kinda-fever, GI discomfort, nothing specific, just general malaise. (I’m the only person in the world who gets sick after eating chicken soup, evidently.) I relocated to Kate’s bed when Alan woke me at 3 a.m. to inform me I was snoring loud enough to wake the dead in cemeteries miles away. It was Kate’s bed instead of the guest room, because that bed is still strewn with tax documents, for the returns I have yet to finish.
So not a great week. so far. I have hopes for the remainder, as soon as I get this little mixed salad of bloggage served:
The Trumps — and the U.S. government, because who are we kidding about who paid for this — have access to the greatest photographers on the planet, and this is what some Belgian
guy woman serves up for the first lady’s official portrait:
Of course Twitter is beside itself over this. Glamour Shots has been invoked, as has Olan Mills. I keep looking at it, wondering why a 46-year-old woman with classic Slavic bone structure and piercing blue eyes, not to mention access to the finest makeup and makeup artists in New York City, would approve a soft-lens product that you’d use on a pimply 17-year-old for her senior picture. I wonder if that’s a layer of subtext, the fogging of the lens that symbolizes her fundamental iciness and, shall we say, lack of enthusiasm for her new job. I’m fascinated by the background, which doesn’t say White House at all. (Although I think it is the White House; that looks like the window over the door on the Pennsylvania Avenue side.) And of course I see that Natasha always puts her hands in show-the-diamond position, her way of saying it was all worth it, all the humiliation, all the cheating, all the nights spent next to an old man who, having caught you, now barely acknowledges your existence, because this is her ring, and not yours.
Like I said, I’ve been sick. My mind gets sorta weird when its feverish. UPDATE: As usual, Robin Givhan has something smarter to say.
Also, there is this, and it is funny.
Back to work. Yes, I’m working. You think a sick day means couch time and Netflix? Ha ha ha ha ha.