I’m all a-twitter to find out my favorite family is not available just on, well, Twitter, anymore. No, not the Hiltons; their poorer relations, Queen Elizabeth and the gang. The British branch of the family creeper vine has signed up for a Flickr account.
These days the chances are good that you can flip through the Internet like it was a trashy magazine and find a picture of Camilla ears deep in a liplock with Bonnie Prince Charlie. How’s that for a picture? Emotional Ipecac without a prescription.
But I have to wonder. How many pictures of Queen Elizabeth in Joker makeup and patent leather pocketbook does the world need? If the desire of the royals is to reach the people, they need to stock up on a few more candid shots like the ones of Diana clad in modest, but transparent, work garb that made the public fall in love with the innocence of the young girl.
Somehow a candid shot of Camilla in a see-through skirt does nothing short of making me want indulge in the use of OSHA-approved optical rinse and pop a blindfold over my mind’s eye. I’d rather see an exposé on the Queen’s Corgis.
It’s not that I’m not a fan of the Royal Family. I was up at dawn when Diana married Charles, and I followed Andrew and Fergie’s wedding like a play by play announcer at the SuperBowl.
But these days there aren’t many faces in the royal family that are photographer-friendly. So those of us around the globe who are putting our faith in the “picture is worth a thousand words” school of thought agree.
If it’s not the new princess the Royal Family is flaunting in its electronic photo album, we’d rather have a speech. So bring on Princess Catherine.
Because if all the shots are of Camilla, the Kodak Moments are going to the dogs.
Laugh
Showing posts with label royalty. Show all posts
Showing posts with label royalty. Show all posts
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Friday, April 22, 2011
Footprints
It wasn’t so hard to recycle when the boys were small. It really wasn’t any trouble to toss the glass juice bottles in one bin and the pamphlets for weight loss programs I’d decided not to try in another. But now that they’re big enough to leave six month old soda cans in places I can’t reach, the job is a little tougher.
My first instinct was to don a HazMat suit and spray their room with that industrial strength foam they use to clean up chemical spills. However, I decided that this wasn’t the example I wanted to set. First of all they’d both want to be the next to wear the suit and the first to spray their brother. I decided on another tactic: put them in charge.
Son Number Two, Destructo the Younger, flattens cardboard boxes and maintains order in the mixed paper box. Each warlord, er, boy, gets to enforce rules governing his domain (By royal decree, crushed cans go in the Christmas coffee can painted like a Gingerbread Man and flattened boxes go upright in their own tall kitchen trash can--I guess vertical is the new green.)
I let the oldest, Destructo the First on the Scene, be in charge of can smashing. There’s not a piece of recyclable aluminum that’s safe when he tours the house looking for additions to fill his container.
From what I can tell, we’re doing well on the recycling, but it sure looks like we’re leaving one heckuva carbonated footprint.
My first instinct was to don a HazMat suit and spray their room with that industrial strength foam they use to clean up chemical spills. However, I decided that this wasn’t the example I wanted to set. First of all they’d both want to be the next to wear the suit and the first to spray their brother. I decided on another tactic: put them in charge.
Son Number Two, Destructo the Younger, flattens cardboard boxes and maintains order in the mixed paper box. Each warlord, er, boy, gets to enforce rules governing his domain (By royal decree, crushed cans go in the Christmas coffee can painted like a Gingerbread Man and flattened boxes go upright in their own tall kitchen trash can--I guess vertical is the new green.)
I let the oldest, Destructo the First on the Scene, be in charge of can smashing. There’s not a piece of recyclable aluminum that’s safe when he tours the house looking for additions to fill his container.
From what I can tell, we’re doing well on the recycling, but it sure looks like we’re leaving one heckuva carbonated footprint.
Saturday, April 9, 2011
The Royal I in London
Ten Reasons Why I Should Be the BBC Correspondent to cover the British Royal Wedding. 1. I have a hat.
2. I have a son named William.
3. I could help with the reception. The Queen should not have to go her entire life without tasting my wings. I also cut the crust off sandwiches.
4. I sometimes drink tea, and once had a crumpet, which I ate incorrectly.
5. I can use the word blimey correctly in a sentence. ("Blimey!")
6. I am an expert on royalty, having often been described as a royal pain.
7. I have seen an entire episode of Dr. Who. I can also quote appropriate lines from Monty Python and the Holy Grail and am prepared to do so in an audition. (I will provide my own coconuts.)
8. I would fit right in overseas as long as I didn’t have to eat kidneys. Or anything the British describe as “pudding.”
9. Beside Camilla, I would look like Princess Diana. A Diana that had to shop in the petite chubby section and wear stretchy pants, but princess material nonetheless.
10. I own a tiara. (Target. $5.99)
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Thanks for No Memories
It’s nice to know that, having lived for half a century, I’ve attained royal status. After all, you like to feel like you’ve accomplished something besides housebreaking the puppy and making sandwiches for four million school lunches during all those years.
Among my set, I’m known as the Post-It Queen. My subjects are thousands of brightly colored sticky notes that remind me not to forget to get gas, pick up the dog at the vet, or buy more sticky notes.
It’s not that my memory is fading, it’s. . .well I’ve forgotten exactly what it is, but I have a plastic tiara on my desk to remind me of what counts. Actually, it can be quite beneficial to be forgetful, particularly when it comes to lunches with people you don’t really care for or foolish promises you’ve made to small children.
However, I read in the paper a while back, I can’t recall exactly when or which one, about a lady that remembers everything, and I mean everything, about her life, from the time she was about eight years old. I don’t envy her. There are things I did when I was eight years old that I would just as soon remain shrouded in the mists of time or at least hidden behind the hot pants at the back of the closet.
Also you have to wonder. Does she ever misplace her car keys or does she just have to remember back to juggling all those grocery bags when she came in and march right back to find them still hanging in the lock?
Does she have to relive that awful time in junior high when she tucked her dress into the back of her pantyhose during the bathroom break after sixth period and strolled down the front hall to the gymnasium affording everyone from the substitute shop teacher to the assistant principal a view of her flowered Fruit of the Looms?
Personally if I have to choose, I’d rather rely on a Hello Kitty sticky note that says Buy Buns than have instant access to every memory that I created before I became royalty. Hindsight may be 20/20, but there are times I’d rather lose my glasses for good than see the flooded toilets and wardrobe malfunctions I’ve left in my majestic wake.
But I would like to know what happened to my car keys.
Among my set, I’m known as the Post-It Queen. My subjects are thousands of brightly colored sticky notes that remind me not to forget to get gas, pick up the dog at the vet, or buy more sticky notes.
It’s not that my memory is fading, it’s. . .well I’ve forgotten exactly what it is, but I have a plastic tiara on my desk to remind me of what counts. Actually, it can be quite beneficial to be forgetful, particularly when it comes to lunches with people you don’t really care for or foolish promises you’ve made to small children.
However, I read in the paper a while back, I can’t recall exactly when or which one, about a lady that remembers everything, and I mean everything, about her life, from the time she was about eight years old. I don’t envy her. There are things I did when I was eight years old that I would just as soon remain shrouded in the mists of time or at least hidden behind the hot pants at the back of the closet.
Also you have to wonder. Does she ever misplace her car keys or does she just have to remember back to juggling all those grocery bags when she came in and march right back to find them still hanging in the lock?
Does she have to relive that awful time in junior high when she tucked her dress into the back of her pantyhose during the bathroom break after sixth period and strolled down the front hall to the gymnasium affording everyone from the substitute shop teacher to the assistant principal a view of her flowered Fruit of the Looms?
Personally if I have to choose, I’d rather rely on a Hello Kitty sticky note that says Buy Buns than have instant access to every memory that I created before I became royalty. Hindsight may be 20/20, but there are times I’d rather lose my glasses for good than see the flooded toilets and wardrobe malfunctions I’ve left in my majestic wake.
But I would like to know what happened to my car keys.
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