Memorial Day

Every Memorial Day it is the same thing. A soldier writes a touching tribute to a fallen comrade to remind us what this day is about, and someone takes Memorial Day as an opportunity to discuss their anti-war sentiments. War is a horrible thing. No one knows that better than a soldier. To blab your opinions and try to make them front and center on a day that is about honoring the fallen is without a doubt spectacularly selfish. Please feel free to run your mouth all other 364 days of the year, but on this day could you at least try to think of someone besides yourself?

Most of the people who fight in wars are not the people who make the decision to fight. Many of them are just kids -- poor kids who joined the military looking for a way out to make life better for themselves. Certainly, they feel a sense of honor, duty and pride in serving their country, but for the most part, they are not "the haves". These are the people we honor this day. The people who sacrificed and died so that we may live in a nation where less then one percent of the population serves in the military.

HOOAH!

THANK-YOU! THANK-YOU! THANK-YOU! THANK-YOU! THANK-YOU!

Bring Back the Hat!

As an American it is in my nature to never pay too much attention to royalty. Expecially British royalty. We fought a war to get away from them, after all. I was not awake at 0-dark-thirty Eastern time to watch the blessed nuptials. I rarely miss an opportunity to wear a tiara, but since I currently live in Georgia, I spent the greater part of Wednesday night and Thursday morning huddled in a centralized bathroom with three of four bored cats (one is an doofus and cannot be bought with treats) hoping Kelleywood would not be swept off the face of the earth by a rash of violent storms that swept through the South. In short, I was too damn tired to get up to watch a wedding that I knew would be played again, and again, and again all freakin' weekend long.

I had planned on playing it cool, but then my genetic heritage reared it's brightly plummed head. You see, I have a fourth great-grandfather (or perhaps fourth great-uncle. Haven't quite sorted all of that out yet.) who while fighting for the American Colonists found himself captured by Indians, who were league with the Crown, turned him over to the British. Grandpa (or Uncle Who's It) was transported to Canada as a British prisoner. Grandpa, I believe disliking the cold as much as his current kin, is RUMORED to have possibly, maybe, might have also fought for the British in order to secure his release. That combined with the genetic legacy of my German grandmother's pre-WWII hat delivery job in Berlin (which she liked very much, thank you) can explain my viseral reaction to the parade of hats going into that church where those people were getting married. (Note: If you want facts, Google. I was told my blog needed more pictures, less writing. Since people want pictures, why should I trouble myself with the damn facts? Unless you have been living under a rock for the past week, you know what wedding I am talking about.) OMG! I had forgotten all about THE HATS!



Good hats!



Bad hats!




Yellow Hats!



Camilla Hats!



Pink Hats!



Sister Hats!



Beige Hats! Violet Hats!



No Hats!
(Worse than Bad Hats!)



And Blue Hats!

There were SO many fabulous hats! I hope this signals the return of hats to fashionistas across the globe!