A summer flashback to July 30, 2009. Fashions . . . if they can be called such . . . haven't changed much in the last ten years or so, and I would hazard that they've not improved, based on this writing.
Summer has been here for several weeks now. Any time of year is good for thoughts worthy of great pondering, but for some reason, this summer has really brought out the Big Thinks.
I'm not a big fan of the "If you've got it, flaunt it" philosophy, primarily because whether or not you've got "it" is such a difficult thing to pinpoint. Beauty, as it should be, is in the eye of the beholder - and everyone has different standards of beauty. This is a good thing.
That said, I must say that my standards of beauty do not include cuppeths that overfloweth on a daily basis in public places. Perhaps it is the places I shop. Walmart has never been the harbinger of fashion based solely on those who shop there. I can say this, because I shop there now and then and am definitely not fashionable.
Why is it though, whenever I'm at that particular place of business in the summer months, all I see are Titties on Parade? Nearly every female shopper under the age of 50 is showing off The Girls in some ridiculously low-cut tank top. On some women, regardless of breast size, the tank tops barely cover their chests.
I don't care how firm The Girls are, I don't care how saggy The Girls are, nor how large or small or in-between. Women, PUT SOME CLOTHES ON BEFORE YOU GO IN PUBLIC, PLEASE.
I felt sorely in need of antiseptic eye wash by the time I left the store.
On the topic of overwhelming cleavage, let's turn our attention to cleavage at the other end of the body.
I'll say it for a hundredth time: butt cleavage is not attractive. It's only cute on babies, and it happens on babies only because when they start to become ambulatory, their diapers tend to start sagging and show off those cute little baby buns.
If you're not diapered AND learning to walk AND under the age of three, knock it off with the butt cleavage already. I don't care if you're in tip-top physical condition, I have no desire to see the crack of your ass every time you bend over, sit down, or stand up straight or whatever. I don't care if you have a tattoo (tramp stamp?) that you want to show off. I don't care if you want to show off the latest color of your "underwear" (whale tail?). PULL UP YOUR DAMNED PANTS, PLEASE.
And parents, get your little girls some pants that cover their heinies, please. Your little girls are definitely jail bait until the age of 16 in most states, and pants that cover butt cleavage are definitely available if you look for them. I know, because I've purchased them and my daughter wears them. Try Kohl's, Sears/Land's End catalogs, and there are some WalMart brands that cover underage female tushies.
On that note, you might invest in suspenders for your young boys, too. They really need to pull up their pants.
Before I close this section on fashion, or my own lack thereof seeing as the things I'm complaining about seem to be current fashion anymore, can we stop with the flip-flops, please? Back in the dinosaur age, when I was a kid, we called them "thongs." Now, however, "thongs" refer to that piece of dental floss that separates butt cheeks, which is supposed to double as underwear. Anyway - can we quit wearing thongs to church and school, and in the workplace?
I'm feeling rather harassed by the lawn chemical companies in our neighborhood. Every other day this spring there was a flier in my newspaper box or hanging from the mailbox or doorknob advertising the special deals from some lawn spraying company. Each company claimed to maintain the lawns of all my neighbors, and would, for the low low price of something-99 help eradicate the weeds in my front yard with regular treatment.
I finally called the lawn company who left the most fliers at my house and demanded they remove me from the list. They were instructed to think of my home as No. 12 Grimmald Place, London, England. For those not in the know, this is the address of Sirius Black, of the Harry Potter novels - to Muggle eyes (humans with non-magical powers) the house did not exist - it was just an empty lot between two known addresses.
When distributing their notices, the lawn company was instructed to pretend my house did not exist. Pass me by completely. I am too cheap, and too broke, to afford a lawn care service to do something I can get my husband to do for free: take care of the weeds. Not to mention every solicitor has ignored the signs posted on my door which read "NO SALES."
Plus, during those really hot weeks we always get in Michigan, when my front lawn looks like a Triscuit, the weeds are the only greenery out there. They're natural. They're not overwhelming. I pull them (yes, PULL them, by HAND) when I feel like it, and now and then they get the chemical treatment from hubby. And frankly, if my neighbors hate the sight of what they perceive to be my weed-infested lawn, then they can pay for the maintenance of it.
Overall, our neighborhood is a pretty quiet place. On a clear day, we can hear the football team practice, the band playing during football season, other sporting events. In the spring and through fall, we hear mowers regularly. I hate hearing them at 9 at night, however. I know people work some odd shifts, but the mowers I hear belong to those who are retired. 9 p.m. for lawn mowing? Come on, people. You can do better than that.
Dogs bark, too. There are two that live on the street behind us. The dogs don't bark until someone mows their lawn, which in this neighborhood, is about every half hour. One dog owner mowed her lawn in stops and starts for about three hours. Mow ten minutes, stop for fifteen. Mow ten minutes, stop for fifteen. The dog barked incessantly. I was ready to hop the fence, Superman style, and finish her lawn mowing duties for her.
It was only my inability to hop a chain link fence without catching my shorts that stopped me.
Others like to burn things.
I don't know who it is in the neighborhood, but it never fails that on the really nice days when one can open windows and enjoy a breeze, some nitwit has to start the burn barrel going. Naturally, the wind blows my way and then my rooms start to smell like smoke. I wish our area would enforce a burn time. For instance, save the burning for the hours of 4 pm to 10 pm. You know, when certain retirees like to mow their lawns and make dogs bark.
Well, summer is still in full force here and we're all glad of it. Winters in Michigan are long, and soon enough we'll be in "pre-winter" (fall, to the non-Michiganders or Michiganians). I'm contemplating donating suspenders to the elementary schools in my area for the start of the school year. They might be needed more than pencils and crayons. As for the offenders who show too much cleavage in any area? I may have to pay, on the sly, a few delinquents to carefully aim juicy spit wads. A few episodes of cleaning that off of your body might make a person think twice about what kind of skin they expose during the times they're in public.
Until then, I'm going to enjoy the smell of freshly cut grass and the green of my lawn weeds.
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