Last week I attended a dinner party. There were no children at the event, only “grownups”….well, some who acted like grownups.
Shortly after being seated, I looked around to see if anyone looked familiar. My attention was drawn to an older man sitting at a nearby table, picking his nose.
Actually, the short-fingered, over-weight, and balding man was seriously “digging and flicking”. Others at the table were talking, laughing, and ignoring him.
Fighting a strong urge to walk over and slap his hand away from his nose….I, instead, chose to study him. It became clear that the man-child was married to the woman across from him.
Apparently, the wife had learned to live with her husband’s nasty habit. Imagine being married to a man who picks his nose-- like a belligerent child--any time, any place!
If he “picks” at the table, that means he “picks” any where. If he picks it….there’s a strong possibility he also eats it and... If that isn’t enough to turn-you-off…then you have a caste-iron-stomach.
If he was married to me then... forget kissing, holding hands, and….everything that follows!
When I returned to college in the early nineties, I was “assigned” a seat in the Cafeteria at the “Dorm-Mothers” table. One of the women at my table, with large diamonds embracing each finger, bragged about receiving millions of dollars five years earlier, when her husband died.
She insisted the small salary she made as a Dorm-Mother was un-important. She claimed she just wanted to stay busy, feel useful, and serve as a role model for young women.
Well….after watching her after-the-meal-routine of using her long, manicured fingernail to carefully pick between all of her teeth, then either re-eating the “leftovers” or “flicking them” to the floor….I didn’t consider her a role model for anyone, especially not me.
We must never-ever let down our guard and display our private hygiene…in the public arena.
I will never forget my first “official” date after divorcing in 1973. My former sorority roommate at the U. of Arkansas insisted I have a blind date with her still- single brother. Not only had her brother recently graduated from medical school but, after seeing his photo, it was clear he had an undeniable WOW factor.
I was impressed with his looks, his slim and fit body, the way he dressed, but…also… his sleek, black Porsche. He announced he’d made reservations at Little Rock’s TOP OF THE ROCK Club….which made me believe he had good taste. Looking back, I had every reason to get excited about this, our first date.
We were the last people to enter the crowded elevator. There were at least eight others ahead of us but…they “tightened” their ranks to make room for the two of us. The elevator door had barely closed when it happened----when the horrific sound and ghastly smell overwhelmed everyone in that tiny steel box--when the realization that my date was passing gas—in public, on an elevator full of strangers, including me--- couldn’t be denied!
The embarrassing silence that followed those last few seconds of that elevator ride was extremely telling. When the doors opened on the TOP OF THE ROCK’S elegant décor and classic music….everyone rushed to leave the smelly incident behind. My once-promising evening had been soiled by my date’s poor manners. Nothing, not even a beautiful dinner with great dancing--or a good-looking date-- could erase the ghastly elevator incident.
Because he never referred to it or apologized for it, I knew my date had an entitled attitude; the attitude he could do what he wanted---when he wanted and---to Hell with those around him, including me.
After that fateful night, he never called and….I never again heard from his sister.
In my opinion, Live is simple if you respect others as well as yourself. Just live-life-like a grownup and practice basic manners. And, manners learned as a child, should never be forgotten; good manners should be practiced for a lifetime.
If you’re married…make-sure your husband or wife doesn’t share his/her nasty habits in public. If your mate didn’t receive the proper training as a child, then it’s your responsibility to properly train him/her as an adult.
No adult should purposely expels gas-- in public. If someone thinks its “cute”.... then they should think again. Farting in front of others is nothing more than a disrespectful/degrading act performed by someone who is desperate for attention and control.
I speak for almost every Lady and Gentleman when I say: Both Socially and Personally, no one should demonstrate the kind of bad manners I’ve documented above. Quite frankly, regardless of the situation, no adult with good taste and social manners.... wants to "see it, hear it, or smell it".
To finalize all the lessons-you-should-have-learned-as-a-child, this is my last reminder: Please don't leave the bathroom door open, forcing me or others to share your private moment.
I have no interesting in knowing that you don’t wash your hands when you’ve finished your business.
FOR ME, FATHER'S DAY....IS EVERY DAY. I LOVE YOU, DADDY.
For years, the framed picture of a steam engine hung on a prominent wall in my parents’ house. It featured an embroidered message: “Old Engineers Never Die, They Just Lose Their Steam.” I seldom looked at the picture; the phrase-- “lose their steam”-- was an insult to my father.
A Locomotive Engineer, my father had a perfect record with the Cotton Belt Railroad. No one was more committed to his job than my father. My father began every day with a determined “Full Steam Ahead”.
My father had a successful life but he never adjusted to retirement. He liked working….working hard, daily, was his world. And then, our family learned the tragic news that my father had dementia. It was heartbreaking to watch his questioning look; to see him confused so much of the time. My wonderful Daddy didn’t recognize many of those around him, including my mother, but….he never failed to recognize me-- call me by name. Every time I left him, it broke my heart.
The last time my father and I were together was Christmas, 1987. All day, I had a nagging premonition. When it was time to leave for the airport, return to my job in Erie, Pennsylvania, I gave Daddy one last hug. Holding him close, I told him again how much I loved him and promised to call as soon as my plane landed.
He cried, quietly, his tears marking my coat collar as he held on to me like a lifeline. Whispering, afraid my mother might hear, my wonderful father begged me not to leave him. It was as if he, too, sensed this would be our last time together. As the taxi backed out of the family driveway I lowered the window to say “I love you, Daddy”. Watching his unsteadiness as he struggled to return my wave, I knew for certain…..this would be our last shared moment.
Today, approaching a railroad crossing, bells began clacking….red lights started flashing…. and safety barriers dropped. Sitting in my car, I stared down the track at the approaching train. Decked out with flags, streamers, and banners, a restored locomotive came steaming, parading down the track--clickety-clack-clickety clack--moving toward some unnamed celebration. Out of respect for the historic engine, I opened the car door to stand at attention. The massive steam engine roared past, its train wheels clicking out its familiar sound, its steady, staccato rhythm. My heart pounded with childhood excitement as the antiquated train whistle blew a loud, continuous refrain.
All my life I’ve loved trains, but this train was no ordinary train; this train was special. Watching the steam engine, hearing the whistle, I remembered my father. For the first time since losing him, I felt a deep-down peace. I straightened my shoulders and stood tall, proud to remember my father’s life rather than his death. Smiling, I pictured the embroidered message “old engineers lose their steam.” Those words didn’t apply to my daddy--- the world’s greatest locomotive engineer and greatest father.
Listening to the final strains of the steam engine’s whistle as it faded into the distance, I noted the remarkable similarities between this steam locomotive and my father, Roy (R.B.) Miller. Both were classic and both would be forever-remembered as “powerful, on-track, and full of steam.”
I’m sharing exactly why I feel as I do about.... Webb Hubbell. Knowing his super ego and his controlling attitude, it’s quite possible big-man-on-campus Webb… could be Chelsea's father.
In my book “THE BEAUTY QUEEN”---I revealed how Webb Hubbell tried to get me fired in the early eighties when I hosted a radio talk show.
Webb was a Football “Star” at the University of Arkansas who married into a wealthy Arkansas family. I doubt any woman would have looked at him twice, had it not been for his claim-to-fame as a Razorback Football Player.
His big ego matched his big butt. In spite of not being good-looking….or a popular attorney, Webb thought of himself as a VIP. His father-in-law, Seth Ward, who had deep pockets and impressive connections, made sure that Webb received an invitation to join the state’s most prestigious group of lawyers…The Rose Law Firm. And that’s where Webb met Hillary Rodham Clinton.
None of the above is memorable or important until you fast-forward to the mid-to-late eighties, after I lost the 1984 Mayor’s race in Pine Bluff, and moved to Atlanta. In the meantime, my daughter, Rosemond, had attracted the attention of a lawyer in Little Rock named Tim. Despite the fact he was more than twenty years older, the handsome and single attorney was determined to win Rosemond’s heart.
As you know, timing is everything. Rosemond was too young to appreciate Tim’s excellent mind and promising future. She wasn’t the least impressed that Tim was a partner in the Rose Law Firm. Remember, this was late in the eighties. At that time, no one knew about my three month “encounter” with Bill Clinton…the terrible mistake I made shortly before becoming a Mayoral Candidate.
When I casually asked Tim what it was like having Hillary in the office beside him, he rolled his eyes and said “Hillary is really lazy and doesn’t know anything about being a lawyer. She likes the title but despises the work.
What’s really embarrassing is when she comes in my office and tries to flirt….hoping I’ll agree to finish her paperwork. Several times she’s perched on the corner of my desk, trying to look sexy…and suggesting she would “reward” me….if I’d assume her workload.”
On another occasion, Tim volunteered that Hillary and Bill spent very little time together. It seems they stayed busy promoting themselves. Hillary liked serving on the Board for corporations, like Walmart, while Bill enjoyed entertaining celebrities and making speeches. Both were heavily-involved with politics and long-term fundraising.
When I asked if Hillary had convinced him to be her “secretary”... Tim laughed and said, NO but….she did persuade Webb to help her and now….he’s making Hillary “look good”. Tim indicated that oddly-enough, Webb enjoyed spending time with Hillary.
So, there you have it. Do I believe that Webb could have fathered a child with Hillary? Absolutely. Do I know Hillary well enough to believe she would have sex in exchange for Webb’s ability to hide her ineptness? Absolutely.
As adults, we know when a man and a woman unite in sex, there’s always the possibility that a pregnancy can result. And…that leads me to state, emphatically, that I believe Chelsea is living-proof of Hillary’s “payback” to Webb.
PS..Soon after marrying, Bill experienced the real Hillary. Their sex life became non-existent but that created a serious problem. Political experts said their political future depended on them looking like a family. With her eye on "bigger things", Hillary was able to merge work and play to create her very-own political manifesto.
I decided to "redesign" the classic old saying to fit the occasion: "Oh, what a tangled "Web" we weave.... when we allow a Donkey to impregnate us for political power; to forever-deceive."
Several weeks ago, Media Headlines everywhere announced that: “The Miss America competition scrapped the swimsuit competition and will no longer judge contestants based on their looks."
"We are no longer a pageant. We are a competition. We will no longer judge our candidates on their outward physical appearance," Gretchen Carlson, former Miss America and chair of the organization's board of trustees, broke the news on Good Morning America today.
The contest is also "revamping" the evening gown portion of the event, Carlson added. "We're no longer judging women when they come out in their chosen attire, their eveningwear. Whatever they choose to do, it's going to be what comes out of their mouth that we're interested in when they talk about their social impact initiatives," she said.
The changes are official starting with the next Miss America competition on September 9 in Atlantic City, NJ.”
And now...my thoughts:
Gretchen Carlson, the 1989 Miss America winner from Minnesota, was never my choice for MISS AMERICA. Her talent was weak, she was never pretty (she resembles a Pekinese), didn’t have a pinup-body in swimsuit and, when she walked around the stage in high heels, she looked/acted like a cowgirl wearing cheap boots and trying to rope a calf. BUT, in spite of her total lack of WOW...I had to admire her guts.
Last year, all-ready-wealthy Gretchen was awarded more than 20 million....after winning a sexual-harassment lawsuit against her FOX AND FRIENDS boss. Now, she's crowned herself as the spokesperson for "all victims" of unwanted male attention-- including rape, touching, fondling, suggestive comments/looks, and all the endless reasons female victims are, officially ,"victimized".
Having considered herself a victim-- to the tune of millions—Gretchen will now be the official ME-TOO Promoter. These days, playing the role of “victim” is extremely popular and, in many cases, quite lucrative. In my opinion, most of these so-called victims are liars, opportunists, pretend-crybabies, and most are looking for fame and fortune.
I'm glad I have my memories from the long-ago past. Every day, more and more liberals are re-writing history and destroying what many of us refer to as our classic/traditional memories—like The Miss America Pageant.
In a few months, when Gretchen and her pink-pussie-hat-brigade eliminate both the evening gown and swimsuit competition….the Miss America “Competition” will be nothing more than a parade of look-alikes….act-alikes….and talentless wannabes.
The heavily-scripted performance will be racially-balanced, politically-correct, universally-acceptable…and miserably boring. Most of us won’t be anywhere near the TV on September 9, 2018, for this so-called: NEW Miss America Competition.
Watching something struggle to breath, gasp for air, while knowing Death is imminent....well....Dying is just too painful to watch.