This article from the Financial Times has apparently been around for a few months, but I just came across it recently. Do I even need to detail how ridiculous I find it to be, an impassioned plea that we should see how difficult a fictional family of four named the Joneses have it because they only make $250K a year?
Okay, fine—I’ll even agree that judging by today’s standards, the Joneses are not technically rich. But I think they can probably afford to pay their fair share of taxes without whining about how hard their life is. I think, judging by some of their expenses, they can even afford to pay an increase in taxes, which is the whole point of this stupid article--a false argument against increased taxes for the Joneses, because they are just barely getting by.
Just barely getting by, mind you, even though they live “reasonably well—but not extravagantly—in a three- or four-bedroom home valued around $750,000.” The author would also like you to know that the Joneses don’t take lavish vacations, that they don’t belong to a country club, and they don’t own a second home. They don’t even get to grocery shop at high-end markets, the poor dears, but I guess are stuck shopping at Costco or something. As the author points out, “even if they’re in the top 5 percent of earners,” they are NOT wealthy.
4.14.2011
4.11.2011
4.10.2011
One of the Many Reasons Why I Don't Eat at Applebee's
Does it make me a bad person that I found this story mildly amusing, considering that the kid was okay and everything?
Applebee's sorry after tot served booze in sippy cup
The only thing I'm really confused about is how anyone could mistake pre-made margaritas for apple juice, even if the container was mislabelled as such. I mean, last time I checked, apple juice and margaritas look (and smell) nothing alike
Applebee's sorry after tot served booze in sippy cup
The only thing I'm really confused about is how anyone could mistake pre-made margaritas for apple juice, even if the container was mislabelled as such. I mean, last time I checked, apple juice and margaritas look (and smell) nothing alike
4.07.2011
04.07.02
Dear K:
Happy ninth anniversary. It's not one of the big, monumental number anniversaries, and it falls on a Thursday, so there will be no celebration, as you're working while I'm home with Emmeline. But still, it's our anniversary, and I love you.
I don't know about you, but it's sometimes very hard for me to believe that we've been together for over 16 years now. Oftentimes, it doesn't seem like we're old enough to have been together that long. (I try not to think about the fact that I'm almost 42, and usually can, except for when I count the number of years we've been together.) I think we both know that we've had our challenges in the past and will continue to have them in the future. But at the same time, at the end of the day, I know we've both shown our commitment to this relationship and to each other, and I take a lot of comfort in that.
Happy ninth anniversary. It's not one of the big, monumental number anniversaries, and it falls on a Thursday, so there will be no celebration, as you're working while I'm home with Emmeline. But still, it's our anniversary, and I love you.
I don't know about you, but it's sometimes very hard for me to believe that we've been together for over 16 years now. Oftentimes, it doesn't seem like we're old enough to have been together that long. (I try not to think about the fact that I'm almost 42, and usually can, except for when I count the number of years we've been together.) I think we both know that we've had our challenges in the past and will continue to have them in the future. But at the same time, at the end of the day, I know we've both shown our commitment to this relationship and to each other, and I take a lot of comfort in that.
4.03.2011
A Letter to My Daughter, 04.11
Dear Emmeline:
Okay, six-year-old, this is it. You're officially not a baby anymore at all. Except for when you still are. Except for the words that you still mix up on a consistent basis, which never cease to crack me up. "Sanimitizer" for sanitizer. "Coffee" for copy. (As in, "Mommy, don't coffee my paper!") "Andylance" for ambulance. (I like to think that you named that one after me.)
You're all grown up. Except for when you try your hardest not to suck your thumb but can't quite succeed. The dentist told you that if you stopped sucking your thumb right now, you probably won't need braces. So you're trying. Really hard. But it's still difficult for you. I keep telling you stories about how I sucked my thumb until I was seven and then had to wear braces for almost five years. I tell you in great detail about braces, trying to scare the hell out of you--but in a good way. (I don't tell you this part, because I don't want to scare the hell out of you, but I'll never forget the thing they called "the whacker," which the orthodontist used to put metal bands all the way around my teeth. It felt about as good as it sounds. You're fortunate in that now they just glue the braces to the front of your teeth. Orthodontia has, apparently, come a long way in the last 30 years.)
You're almost grown up. I taught you how to tie your shoes recently (which, I have to add, was a challenge, since I'm left-handed and you're not), and you've been practicing diligently ever since.
Okay, six-year-old, this is it. You're officially not a baby anymore at all. Except for when you still are. Except for the words that you still mix up on a consistent basis, which never cease to crack me up. "Sanimitizer" for sanitizer. "Coffee" for copy. (As in, "Mommy, don't coffee my paper!") "Andylance" for ambulance. (I like to think that you named that one after me.)
You're all grown up. Except for when you try your hardest not to suck your thumb but can't quite succeed. The dentist told you that if you stopped sucking your thumb right now, you probably won't need braces. So you're trying. Really hard. But it's still difficult for you. I keep telling you stories about how I sucked my thumb until I was seven and then had to wear braces for almost five years. I tell you in great detail about braces, trying to scare the hell out of you--but in a good way. (I don't tell you this part, because I don't want to scare the hell out of you, but I'll never forget the thing they called "the whacker," which the orthodontist used to put metal bands all the way around my teeth. It felt about as good as it sounds. You're fortunate in that now they just glue the braces to the front of your teeth. Orthodontia has, apparently, come a long way in the last 30 years.)
You're almost grown up. I taught you how to tie your shoes recently (which, I have to add, was a challenge, since I'm left-handed and you're not), and you've been practicing diligently ever since.
Rolling in the Deep
Every once in awhile, a song comes along that I just fall in love with immediately and have to listen to over and over again. Last time it happened was about four years ago, when "Hate Me" by Blue October came out. It was right around the time that we were making preparations to move back into our house, after we rebuilt after Katrina. I listened to that song over and over again while I packed, blasting it from the headphones of my i-pod until I knew every word of it by heart.
My latest obsession is "Rolling in the Deep" by Adele. Good God, what a voice that girl has on her. I don't know all of the words yet, but I'm working on it. And yes, all of the songs that I latch onto like this have to do with broken hearts, self loathing, pain, etc. Go figure.
There's a fire starting in my heart,
reaching a fever pitch and it's bringing me out the dark.
Finally, I can see you crystal clear.
Go ahead and sell me out and I'll lay your shit bare.
See how I'll leave with every piece of you.
Don't underestimate the things that I will do.
There's a fire starting in my heart,
reaching a fever pitch and it's bringing me out the dark.
The scars of your love remind me of us.
They keep me thinking that we almost had it all.
The scars of your love, they leave me breathless.
I can't help feeling we could have had it all, rolling in the deep.
You had my heart inside of your hands, and you played it to the beat.
Baby, I have no story to be told.
But I've heard one on you and I'm gonna make your head burn.
Think of me in the depths of your despair.
Make a home down there, as mine sure won't be shared.
The scars of your love remind me of us.
They keep me thinking that we almost had it all.
The scars of your love, they leave me breathless.
I can't help feeling we could have had it all, rolling in the deep.
You had my heart inside of your hands and you played it to the beat.
Could have had it all, rolling in the deep.
You had my heart inside of your hands, but you played it with a beating.
Throw your soul through every open door.
Count your blessings to find what you look for.
Turn my sorrow into treasured gold.
You'll pay me back in kind and reap just what you've sown.
We could have had it all, rolling in the deep.
You had my heart inside of your hands and you played it to the beat.
My latest obsession is "Rolling in the Deep" by Adele. Good God, what a voice that girl has on her. I don't know all of the words yet, but I'm working on it. And yes, all of the songs that I latch onto like this have to do with broken hearts, self loathing, pain, etc. Go figure.
There's a fire starting in my heart,
reaching a fever pitch and it's bringing me out the dark.
Finally, I can see you crystal clear.
Go ahead and sell me out and I'll lay your shit bare.
See how I'll leave with every piece of you.
Don't underestimate the things that I will do.
There's a fire starting in my heart,
reaching a fever pitch and it's bringing me out the dark.
The scars of your love remind me of us.
They keep me thinking that we almost had it all.
The scars of your love, they leave me breathless.
I can't help feeling we could have had it all, rolling in the deep.
You had my heart inside of your hands, and you played it to the beat.
Baby, I have no story to be told.
But I've heard one on you and I'm gonna make your head burn.
Think of me in the depths of your despair.
Make a home down there, as mine sure won't be shared.
The scars of your love remind me of us.
They keep me thinking that we almost had it all.
The scars of your love, they leave me breathless.
I can't help feeling we could have had it all, rolling in the deep.
You had my heart inside of your hands and you played it to the beat.
Could have had it all, rolling in the deep.
You had my heart inside of your hands, but you played it with a beating.
Throw your soul through every open door.
Count your blessings to find what you look for.
Turn my sorrow into treasured gold.
You'll pay me back in kind and reap just what you've sown.
We could have had it all, rolling in the deep.
You had my heart inside of your hands and you played it to the beat.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)