Okay. Are you effing kidding me?

In an interview, singer Morrissey is quoted as saying, “It seems to me that Spacey has been attacked unnecessarily,” referring to recent sexual allegations against Kevin Spacey.

Morrissey claims the alleged victims knew exactly what was going on and chose to play along. Seriously? A 14-year-old knew what was going on and “chose” to “play along”? WTF is the matter with you? He wonders where the boy’s parents were and essentially says the kid knew when he went into the bedroom what would happen. Whether he did or didn’t isn’t even the point. It is ILLEGAL for a fucking 26-year-old to molest a 14-year-old. Period.

Morrissey goes on to basically say that Spacey (and Harvey Weinstein) are the victims here. Okay, whatever dude. You obviously live in a different kind of world than I do.

I have always loved Morrissey as an artist and musician. But this interview really makes me wonder what skeletons are in his closet.

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A creature was stirring…

Last night as I walked through the dining room toward the kitchen, out of the corner of my eye I spied our cat Star staring underneath the cabinet. Ah, shit. This could only mean one thing: there’s a critter under there.

I grab the flashlight, a plastic glove, and a small box, anticipating what lies ahead. I put the cat in a bedroom and closed the door. All I needed was for her get ahold of it before I did. Back to the task at hand, I moved a box aside to reveal the furry beast. He didn’t seem to mind being discovered. I assumed at this point that he was either petrified or maimed from Star having had her way with the little nugget for a few minutes before he was able to limp off to safety. Not the case. By the time I bent down with the box at the ready, he was gone. Dammit.

Currently, my dining room is a makeshift workshop for various simultaneously ongoing DIY projects. The fur nugget could be hiding in any number of places: in my toolbox, in my “tool shed” (built-in cabinet where I keep a small cache of tools), an empty box (of which there are several), or even in the adjacent sun room. I looked all over and could not locate him. Crap. Literally. Under the dining room table was a small, petrified CAT TURD. Wtf. With my gloved hand, I picked it up and disposed of it. I tried not to think about how there was a piece of poop in our dining room long enough to dry out without us smelling it. How could that even be?? Seriously. Poop. In the dining room.

Then I did what any sane, logical person would do: I let the cat out of the bedroom and went to Walgreen’s for chocolate.

When I returned, Star’s gaze was fixed under a bookcase in the sun room. She was like a statue. Great. I turned my back on the situation to let nature take its course. In the back of my mind, I rallied for the mouse to make his escape to the great outdoors from where he’d come, hoping his life would be spared. I sat down at the computer, facing the opposite direction, replaying Tom & Jerry episodes in my head. Jerry always gets away.

Within minutes, I heard the “eek eek eek” of the nugget, quickly followed by the cat racing into another room. I quickly turned around in my chair. Nothing. Neither was in sight. Where the hell? No signs in the sun room, dining room, living room, or hallway. Oh God. Please not in the kitchen.

Yes. In the kitchen. I turned on the light to find Star peering under the stove. Double dammit. I took her back to the bedroom and locked her away. Pulled the stove out and sure enough, there was the little beast, huddled in the corner, either dead or playing opossum. He looked enormous. Even with all the racket of moving the oven out, he didn’t budge. Maybe he wasn’t dead and he was just hoping to be rescued. Never fear, little dude. I’m definitely nicer than the cat.

I grabbed a new plastic glove, the box, and a Ziploc baggie. I had the thought that it’s cold out and he’s about to have a rude awakening to the frosty outdoors, so I cut off a little piece of pumpkin bread and put it in the baggie, along with a napkin, which he could use for bedding after he wiped his paws from his snack.

I bent down and put the box over him. He still didn’t move, but I could tell that he wasn’t dead. He was probably grateful. I slid a piece of cardboard under the box then guided him into the baggie. Once he was in, I zippered it shut and took it in to show my daughter how cute he was. “You’re ridiculous. Get that thing out of here.” Well, how rude.

I inspected him to see if he had any obvious injuries – not that it would have made any difference because I certainly wasn’t keeping him as a pet. There didn’t appear to be any blood. Out into the cold we went. I put the baggie down by the smashed pumpkins under the maple tree and opened it up. “If you know what’s good for you, you won’t come back.” I left him with his food and shelter and went back to the house.

Once inside, I scrubbed my hands, pushed the oven back, and went to bed. Peace and quiet.

This morning I went out to get the baggie and napkin out of the yard. My delicious pumpkin bread was still there. Ingrate.

Why “women of a certain age” should still wear makeup

I recently read an article proclaiming that women over 50 should go au naturel and ditch their makeup. Seriously? Clearly the author has never seen me “au naturel.” It ain’t pretty.

Of course the article featured photos of women who were beautiful without makeup. The truth of the matter is, though, that most of us who have worn makeup for years either aren’t More magazine cover material or we just feel better with makeup on – no matter what our age. Now I’m not saying you have to go all out Tammy Faye, but let’s be honest. If you’ve always worn makeup, the mere thought of going completely “nude,” which is pretty much what I would feel like if I went without makeup in public, can be downright horrifying.

Do you look like Gwyneth Paltrow? Go for it. Jennifer Aniston? Fine. Bitch. But the vast majority of us do not look like a walking beauty stick, so let’s be real here, people.

I can honestly say that even before it became “the thing” a few years ago, I started wearing less makeup – but I still don’t leave the house (for the most part) without some amount. And I sure as hell don’t go for a night out or even to work without my “new” basics. No one needs that jolt first thing in the morning when I walk through the office door.

There are all kinds of pointers, tips, guidelines, “rules,” and what have yous, about makeup for “mature women over 50.” (Let me take a moment right now for a little sidebar to address that phrase. That was in the title of an article. Some might read that and say mature=over 50, so why be redundant? Well, I take that statement as a personal disclaimer because as my mom pointed out just a few weeks ago, I’ve never grown up. So the makeup rules don’t count for me, and possibly you, regardless of the fact that I wouldn’t follow them anyway. And is 50 really considered that age of “maturity” that we all know they’re referring to? Whatever. All the way around.)

I’m not going to analyze whether to wear makeup. It makes no difference how I psychologize it or how anyone else pontificates about the whys and why nots. Here’s the thing. Women who wear makeup and who have always worn makeup usually do so either because they feel like they need to or because they like to. Either way, it doesn’t matter to me. If you wear makeup, what do I care? If you don’t wear makeup? Still don’t care. And why do you care what I care anyway? Why do you care what anyone else cares?? Fuck ‘em. That’s my rating on the caring scale. Big fat zero.

Bottom line? Do whatever the hell you want to do. Au naturel. Bare minimum. Lip gloss and mascara. Tinted moisturizer. Tammy Faye. Though I do feel obliged to point out that that is a look that only one woman can pull off. Her name is Tammy Faye, people. And guess what? She’s dead.

If ditching your makeup is liberating, more power to ya. Just wait til you ditch your bra. And I don’t mean just the minute you walk in the door from work or running errands all day with that thing stranglin’ the girls. I mean For. Fucking. Ever. Now that, ladies, is real liberation.

Be you.

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