Barbies A Little Closer To Real People

 

For years Barbie and other doll brands have rarely reflected anything close to ethnic diversity, but for the last ten years there has been an extraordinary designer, Loanne Hizo Ostlie, who takes those same dolls and modifies them with extraordinary attention to detail. For the horndogs out there, she even created a spectacular little mermaid, photographed topless in one of the photos you can see. [No, not here.] On the other hand I didn't find any male action figures with full monties on display.

Check out the gallery HERE. 

Click on all the different brands of dolls [Barbie, Kelly, Skipper, etc.] to see the variety of ethnicities she has created. Her Ken doll transformations are also interesting, but, except for a few, I thought most of the "boys" looked like variations on Adam Lambert, Lance Bass, et al. But that's just me.

Two Countries Separated by a Common Language

To the liberal crowd on the Thames, the London Daily Mail is the Glen Beck/Nancy Grace/Bill O'Reilly of UK newspapers. To an outsider like me, it's great entertainment. Although sometimes I wish it came with subtitles.  


Over the holiday, the articles I read were a little more Martha Stewart and a little less tabloid sturm und drang. Behind the tawdry headlines that included "Mr. X, Soccer Boss in a Brothel" or "Sordid Secrets Behind the Door Marked Unit 1" or "Max Mosley, Abhorrent Behaviour and How the Law Protects the Rich and Powerful," plus standard fare like "Teenage Cocaine Addicts Rocket by 50%," there lurked the warm and fuzzy Christmas fare, such as the headline which beckoned the reader to "Try the Minst Pye from 1624." 


A 17th century recipe for mince pie is not an easy task when the main ingredient from those days was a Loin of Mutton, finely chopped. Not to mention certain directions from olden times which some people might misconstrue, such as ". . .the Raisons must be stoned. . ."


My favorite article was a parody of the Queen's yearly Christmas broadcast to her subjects, the traditional brief moment or two when she spreads royal tidings of joy to you and yours on the holiday. A Daily Mail wit [twit?] named Quentin Letts imagined what might happen if her Majesty were indisposed and her "politically incorrect" [their words] husband, Prince Phillip, took over responsibilities for the greeting. Here's a sample:


"All right, you loafers!  Eaten too much scoff, have you?  Hands out of pockets, stiffen those  spines. It may be Christmas, but that doesn't mean you can slacken. . ."


"In case you don't recognize me, I'm the other half, 'him indoors', the Greek looker who's always one step behind Lilibet, wearing the long face and trying not to sneeze from all the bouquets she is given. . ."


"There's going to be a General Election next year and that's always an amusing ritual, seeing the politicians get down and grovel. Not that we royals are allowed to vote. So much for Harriet Harman's Equalities Bill. 


"Did you know that harpie Harriet is related to the late fruitcake Lord Longford? Must run in the family. Whenever she comes to the palace, she always wants to know why there are no female footmen. I've told her we'll start employing them when Miss World is opened up to fellas."


[Harriet Harman is a Labour MP and Minister for Women and Equality, a Hillary Clinton of sorts, only not as goodlooking]


His royal pain in the ass finishes with a flourish:


". . .[N]ext year we're off to Canada for a state visit. . .It's always a pleasure to bait the Quebeckers by reminding them who's in charge. . ."


"Must say, I rather envy your lot in your toasty little bungalows. Roll on the revolution, say I. Wouldn't mind returning to civilian life in some ways. A chap can endure only so many greetings ceremonies by big-breasted native dancers outside a decrepit airport building in some rump-end of the Commonwealth before his thoughts turn to republicanism.


"Pull yourselves together and have a good one." 


Next time, I'll tell you how to use "wanker" correctly in a sentence. 

A Rose is a Rose on Boxing Day

December 26th, London patio [shot with my computer]

Trying to kill two subjects with one entry -- first, please note that roses continue to bloom here in jolly old England, even on the day after Christmas. Sure it gets down to 32 degrees F [0 C], but a hard freeze is rare. You know all those plants you carefully cultivate indoors, because they're too fragile to withstand a typical US winter? They're all over the place as hedges and decorative foliage in London, bright green and growing year round in the quaint outdoors. 


Second, the day after Christmas is Boxing Day in London, when the rich families used to box up food for the poor or everybody put out their gift boxes for pick up -- depending on who tells you the backstory. Does it matter? No. What matters is that in merry old England, Boxing Day is yet another holiday, so there are more PARTIES to attend and food to eat. Count me in. Even better, this year, because December 26th falls on a Saturday, Monday will also be a holiday. Oddly, since I'm from a country where stores pride themselves on staying open 24/7 from Labor Day until EVERYBODY BUYS SOMETHING, I find it unusual that lots of the London shopkeepers shut their stores on Christmas Eve and stay that way until well after January starts. When it comes to taking vacations or having a post-holiday sale, the Brits seem to opt for time off. 


Tomorrow, I'll bring you excerpts from The Daily Mail. 

Hello Dolly!!

What did Christmas morning look like at your house? What did YOU look like? Here's my niece in D.C., posing with some of the designer clothes I sent to her.

Need a Smash and Grab?

A bunch of us gathered for tiddly winks and pizza at my daughter and son-in-law's cat and mouse the other night. The neighborhood grasshopper in front there invited me over to his own family's cat and mouse for a cup of Rosie Lee the next day. Me? I think he was elephant's from all the Britny Spears. I said I was going to take a ball of chalk on over, but I would need an Auntie Ella because tomorrow there was going to be pleasure and pain.

Ah, I love practicing my English on the Brits. 

Happy Christmas!!!!

International Woman of Mystery

I was wondering recently, when exactly does one become a drama queen? Is it when the drama takes place? Or only when you tell someone about it? I'm thinking drama queens need an audience. The audience decides whether your drama is worth a crown. But if a tree falls in the forest and there's no one around to hear it, is there any sound? So when the drama takes place but you don't tell anyone, is it no longer a drama? The following is sort of relevant to that. If I don't tell you what happened, does it go away?  Perhaps it's best not to overthink this.  


For the second time in my life my passport went missing. The first time, I had kept it tucked inside a large wallet, which I accidentally left on a table at a restaurant. I walked fifteen feet out the door, turned right back around to get it and the wallet was gone. I knew the restaurant owner and suggested that the busboy may have picked it up, since our plates, etc., were also gone, but no-o-o-o-o, she wouldn't even ask the guy.


I reported the loss that afternoon to the Chicago cops and a detective called me back. "Well, nobody can use it because it's yours," he said. You're kidding right? That was over twenty-five years ago.


Recently I discovered my passport had disappeared again, out of the secret luggage compartment where I kept it, along with the purse it was hidden in. Don't even think about making fun of me. No really. Just shut up. 


Since I have family living out of the country, who occasionally want me to visit as long as I don't stay too long, I filled out the paper work well over a month ago at my local P.O. for a new passport. I also decided to get one of those cards for traveling to Mexico and Canada.


I noticed right away that the passport personnel I had dealt with the last time were no longer working there. Instead of the well-coiffed Asian women in designer suits who spoke with British accents and took care of me from behind large desks in their private offices, I met with a frizzy blond-haired woman in jeans and a sweatshirt with distinct Chicago speech, who looked like a recovering meth addict.


"My passport is gone," I said to Martha the Meth-head, "I think it's been stolen. I need to replace it." I was mesmerized by her wild and woolly hair frizz, which had four inches of gray before it suddenly turned blond. 


I gave her the paperwork I had filled out, along with my birth certificate, all the while trying to figure out how long it had been since she'd done her roots. I also wrote a giant check to cover replacing my passport, getting the visa-like travel card for Canada and Mexico, and having everything expedited. 


After three weeks, I realized things weren't being expedited. So I stopped in at my post office on a recent Saturday to talk to Martha, who still looked like a Meth-head, and ask as nicely as I could, WTF?


She called the secret number for passports and got no answer.  I said, "If it's the state department; they probably don't work on Saturday." Duh. On Monday she reached them and then contacted me.


Apparently there's another form to fill out when your passport is lost or stolen. Martha neglected to have me do that. Her mistake. "I don't know why I forgot." Neither do I, especially since we'd had a long discussion about how my passport was stolen/lost/whatever. 


Turns out Martha also didn't mention that I could track the status of my passport online. I would have discovered there was a problem a lot sooner. Martha's mistake numero dos. 


Here's the best part: apparently the passport bureaucrats were going to SEND me a letter requesting the extra form. They couldn't CALL ME?!! They had MY phone number; not to mention they had the phone number of the post office, too. 


In fact, what was it about paying through the nose to have my passport expedited that made the passport peeps think that SENDING a letter would be timely? During Christmastime. When there are already a gazillion extra pieces of mail that have to be delivered. 


After meeting with Martha and overnighting the missing forms, I checked my passport status online and discovered that it was being processed and would arrive "overnight" within the next three days. 


Arrive overnight in three days. Our government at work. 


As if to mock me, the passport arrived in one day. But there was no visa-card to use for travel to Canada and Mexico. So I stopped by the post office one more time.  "I got my passport, but I didn't get my visa card. Could you check to see why?"


"How much money did you write the check for?"


"A boatload more than it was worth."


"Oh, well, you obviously didn't pay for the visa card, because that would have been $25 more." 


"But I told you I wanted that card."


"Well, the request wasn't made." 


You mean, YOU didn't make the request. 


Martha the Meth-head had made mistake number three. At this point, death was an option. But no, I decided to write an entry about this little drama for my blog. 


Ultimately, the mystery is how a woman like that manages to keep her job. 

Snowy Day

"You talkin' to me?"

I guess Washington, D.C., where three of my nieces and nephews reside, just got buried under a foot or two of white stuff. My brother obviously said, "Hey, snowboy, look at Daddy, I'm taking your picture!!" So Auntie Grandma could have a photo of his middle offspring, wearing one of the polar fleece hats I sent -- just in time, apparently. 

Waking Up and Smelling The Coffee

Let's say you've been in a coma for the last ten years, ever since Tiger won his first Masters' with a record score. Being a good friend, I offer to get you up to speed with all the celebrity/pro athlete gossip you missed, while you were sleeping.

So we play a game. I give you a hint and you try to guess who I'm talking about. You rip right through all the easy ones. The well-known baseball players who were juiced. The big-time actors who broke up with their wives. You're on a roll.

And then I throw you a curve. What pro athlete or celebrity got caught cheating on his wife? Oh, wait, sorry, that number is so large we'll be here for weeks. Let me narrow it down for you. What squeaky clean athlete or celebrity got married five years ago to a beautiful model, had two kids, and was cheating on her with not one, not two, but three women at least?

Besides most of pro sports, you ask? Right. That's still a huge group. So I try to get more specific -- He's African-American, his wife is Scandinavian, he plays golf. That should get it down to a manageable number.

And you say, "You're kidding. Is Sammy Davis still alive?"

So I just come out and tell you -- it's Tiger Woods.

And you look at me, shake your head, and say, "Tiger, huh? So?"

That seems to be the reaction from everyone since fire hydrant-gate. No outrage. No exasperation. Maybe a little disappointment. But, entitlement is one of the perks it seems.

His sponsors are backing him all the way. His wife is sticking around so far. Even one of his ladies is denying that anything went down, as it were. Clearly there will be no consequences, financial, legal, or otherwise, for Tiger Woods.

Maybe the Obama state dinner party crashers will get life with no parole. I can hope, can't I?

A Thousand Words in One Picture

World Headlines Distilled to a Single Word

Time for Mrs. Linklater to comment on something else besides her life of waiting around for car mechanics, electricians and plumbers. 

Beauty Queen who died after plastic surgery on her butt -- in a word: Badass.
Charley Weis -- in a word:  Finally.

Tiger Woods -- in a word: STUPID. STUPID. STUPID.  What? That's only one word. It just got typed a few extra times.

     Speaking of golf shafts, Mr. Woods, I guess all the rumors WERE true. I hope that $164 fine is all you have to fork out. I smell record-breaking divorce settlement.  

The White House Party Crashers -- in a word: LIARS. Put them to death. That'll teach people to fool the Secret Service.

     Can you feel the heat, Mr. and Mrs. Reality Show Wannabes? Your pants are on fire. Loved that red dress though. 

Ron Artest -- in a word: Certifiable. 

     Drinking cognac during half times when he was playing for the Bulls ['99-'02] is the least of his problems. I predict bi-polar disorder. Or is he just an asshole? 

Meredith Baxter -- in a word: Lesbian? Kidding?  

     Sorry, two words, but I couldn't help myself. She's an actress. She's ACT-ING. I'm thinking Anne Heche. 

     After three marriages and five children, 62-year old Ms. Baxter's chances of being a tried and true lesbo are as real as George Clooney's chances of getting married. Unless she does a Chaz Bono and decides what she really needs is a Full Monty.

Asian Carp threatening Great Lakes -- in a word: Sushi.

     These are the 100 pound fish that were brought in to keep the algae out of catfish ponds, but escaped into the waterways during some floods and started to scare the poop out of people with their weird habit of leaping out of the water, often right onto the deck of your boat. I figure all those NRA type folks fighting for the right to keep their guns could just use the fish for target shooting and this problem would be over. We'd also have a few less of those folks from the crossfire. A win-win for everybody.

Sarah Palin -- in a word: Underedumacated.

     She [or her ghostwriter] misquoted Native American activist, John Wooden Legs, in her book, Going Rogue. She cherrypicked a quote he made about the Cheyennes fighting for their lives as a quote by former UCLA basketball coach, John Wooden, about fighting for one's rights as an American. Lou Holtz has better material than that.