Monday, November 15, 2010


I just got back from attending a conference in Washington, DC, where I attended seminars on extremely wonky topics, like the schedules for state payback of federal loans for insolvent unemployment insurance trust funds. There was another conference held in the same hotel that took the opposite approach with this breakout session:

It turns out that Mary Foley has a whole "Living Like your Nail Color" enterprise, with a radio show, book, and even a blog, with topics like "What Base Coat Teaches Us About Life." I have exactly one bottle of nail polish, which I do not use on my nails. And I'm sad to say that I do not EVEN USE a base coat when using the nail polish to stop the runs in my tights, which means that I will not be able to use the base coat as a foundation for happy, healthy nails, just like we need a foundation for a happy, healthy life, according to Mary Foley. You have to admit that her presentation looks interesting, and maybe next year my conference organizers can take a page out of her book and offer a seminar on "Living Like Your Rate of Assumed 30-Year Return on Forward Funded State Pension Liabilities."

My inner lesbian does not like making fun of women, though, so I'm going to move on to the next obvious topic, which is Donald Rumsfeld. The American Spectator was holding a conference in the same hotel, and he was apparently on the premises. Several of my colleagues saw him, although I did not. I wish I had, mostly just so I could give independent confirmation back to David that the man still freely walks the earth and hasn't been chained to an anthill and covered with syrup as he deserves. (The fake, high-fructose kind of syrup. The real maple kind is too good for him.)

I realize you can't see his thighs
On a related note, when I was in Washington, DC a few weeks ago, David came with me and we stayed in a hotel very near a medical facility named after Ronald Reagan. David made me promise that if he had a heart attack while we were there, I would grab the steering wheel out of the ambulance driver's hands to make sure he was not taken to that hospital. I'm not sure where the closest hospital named after Jimmy Carter is, but if we needed to drive all the way to Georgia then that's where David wanted to go.

This time my mom watched the kids while I was at the conference. She also took me shopping, as she usually does. We got several zip-up fleece sleepers for Baby W, the kind with feet. These were desperately needed because I've decided that pants for babies are bullshit, man, just bullshit. How are you supposed to put pants on someone who can't stand up? It doesn't help that Baby W's thighs are nearly the size of my neck, and rippled with the fat that cascades down his legs. His thighs are like magnificent waterfalls of blubber. Thighs like that deserve to roam free and not be penned up in a pair of corduroys.

I'm glad to be out of the travelling mode and I'm looking forward to staying home for the next few weeks. The first thing I need to do is buy some nail polish. We're supposed to Live Like Our Nail Color, and the Wisconsin winters are way to cold for me to go around naked.

1 comment:

  1. Just last night at an intimate dinner party I unsnapped Zadie's overalls to show off her thighs. While I was at it, I gave the belly up for admiration as well, but it is her thighs that make me the happiest. They are gorgeous. We've given up on anything with a waistband due to the thigh-belly combo, and in fact have been dressing her in the Halloween tiger suit pretty often for the benefit of attached feet (and adorable ears).