10-Foot Pole

In the first few months after I moved to the U.S., I remember asking a girl out on a date.  When she agreed, I asked where I could pick her up.

“I’ll meet you there,” was her response.

Needless to say, I was a little mystified.  “No, I don’t mind picking you up,” I insisted.

“Well, I’d feel more comfortable just driving to wherever we’ll be meeting up.”  Then she added, “That way, if we’re not having a good time, we’re each just free to go.”

Wow.  That was interesting, and very enlightening.  Basically, what she was doing was hedging her bets — and from her body language, the unspoken message was that she was likewise uncomfortable in having me learn where she lived.

Culture shock, on my part.

Faced with that rudeness, I’m afraid I was rude in return.  “Tell you what:  let’s just go in three cars, to make it even more inconvenient.”

Needless to say, nothing ever came of the whole thing.  I later learned that at the time I asked her out, she was a couple months pregnant.  Bullet, dodged.

So you can imagine my surprise when I read this little story:

“One of my rules is, if a man doesn’t at least offer to send you a car for the date, whether you take it or not, no date!” said Savannah Pagnozzi, a Big Apple lifestyle influencer. “No. Absolutely not. We don’t do that.”

Look, I get it, when it comes to NYfC.  It’s not the easiest place to get around — I mean, forget about driving anywhere, whether it’s to pick up your date or even to get to the rendezvous.  And I could certainly see getting a car (Uber, cab, whatever) to take you to her place to pick her up.  That’s the gentlemanly thing to do.  But what this NYfC bint wants is to have a chauffeured drive to the place and  — no doubt — another carriage to take Princess home as well.

The sheer effrontery of this, from a woman who is at best marginally attractive (in Manhattan;  in L.A. or Dallas, she wouldn’t get a second look) just takes my breath away.  No doubt, she’ll probably want to see a personal financial statement from him during that first date as well.

Ladies, just remember:  if you’re not bringing much to the party, so to speak, you’re not really in any position to make demands of a first date.  To be blunt, you have no room to feel entitled just because you have a vagina — and especially so if it’s a well-trodden path, so to speak.

As for the guys:  take a hard pass when you’re confronted by this kind of attitude.

Good News

Here’s one side benefit from the emergence of Ozempic et al.:

For a very long time, bariatric surgery, in which doctors removed a portion of the stomach, was the standard procedure for helping patients lose weight and manage obesity, alongside metabolic disorders such as diabetes, high blood pressure, and high cholesterol. However, ever since GLP-1 medications like Ozempic became available on the market, there has been a shift in how people seek to lose weight.

I just wish this stuff had been around all those years ago, before I had my bariatric (gastric band) surgery.  I don’t often regret my important decisions, mostly because I’ve given them a considerable amount of thought before making them;  but having a plastic sphincter installed at the top of my stomach — thus reducing the amount of food one can swallow — was easily the stupidest thing I’ve ever done.

Executive summary:  it took away one of my few pleasures in life.  And yes, I could probably have had the thing removed (probably not now, it’s been too long), but at the time I had no health insurance (and the removal probably wouldn’t have been covered anyway) so here I am, some eighteen years later, still stuck with the damn thing.

And still unable to swallow a decent mouthful of delicious food.

And yes, I’m back on Ozempic, because (as I discovered) it did change my attitude towards food and the quantities thereof while I was taking it.  I thought this attitude would persist after I stopped taking it, but it didn’t:  in the year after losing some fifty pounds, I put about ten pounds back on.  And so here I am, back to the weekly prick in the stomach, at about $50 a pop for the 0.25mg privilege.

Fach.

Just don’t expect me to feel any sympathy for the bariatric surgeons as they see their income shrink.

No Authority

I’m getting really sick of the judiciary usurping the Constitutional power of the POTUS.  Here’s the latest little tick on the hide of our republic:

A federal judge, appointed by former President Barack Obama, has blocked President Donald Trump’s administration from halting legal immigration and asylum applications from nearly 40 countries deemed “high-risk” by officials.

“Each of the Challenged Policies — the Global Asylum Hold Policy, the Benefits Hold Policy, the Comprehensive Re-Review Policy, and the Country-Specific Factors Policy — are declared unlawful and are hereby VACATED and SET ASIDE,” McConnell wrote in his ruling.

See, I thought that we Americans — and most especially the President — could absolutely decide who and who not to allow into the country.

Needless to say, the aforementioned judge is not only an Obama pustule, but also resident in Rhode Island (as if we needed any more proof of his Leftism).

I’m curious as to what grounds this creep used to classify all those policies as “illegal” — I’m hoping that one of my Powdered Wig Readers will be sufficiently interested to cast an eye on the actual ruling and decipher it for us.

Also just out of curiosity:  how many federal judges has Trump appointed in the past eighteen months?  Because that seems to be the only (legal) way we can overwhelm assholes like this from subverting the Executive.

Note that I’m not advocating this:

… although some might.

On The Reading Shelf This Week

(links in pics, if you want to dive in with me)


“The First Hero of World War II and How the FBI Outwitted and Destroyed a Nazi Spy Ring” — who could resist reading about the FBI, back when they were an actual counter-espionage force rather than somewhere for  Aldrich Ames  Robert Hanssen to sell out his country?


I’ve never dived into the Italian campaign in any depth before;  it’s time.  And Holland is one of my favorite WWII historians.


Let’s see what real climate change was all about.

Classic Modern Beauty: Ingrid Boulting

She started off as a ballet dancer, but during the Swinging Sixties Ingrid Boulting found her niche as one of the miniskirted models in the Twiggy/Jean Shrimpton genre:

Note the period’s dramatic style:

 

She’s often described as “South African”, but that’s just an accident of birth. Her parents were both Brits, and went back to Britishland soon after she was born.

Apparently, she’s now a yoga teacher in Southern California.