94 Days: Pantsasaurus
Happy Friday, lovelies! I don’t know what trouble you’re planning to get up to, but I plan on watching this stupidly catchy PSA about Dinosaurs wearing pants, and not letting bad people get anywhere near their personal bits. The chorus, of goodness the chorus...
What’s in your pants
Belongs only to you *clap clap*
Your pants cover up your private parts
Your private parts belong only to you *clap clap*
If someone asks to see, then tell ‘em NO.
Thank you, Britain’s National Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children, for getting that persistent ear worm stuck in my brain.
It’s been a week, hasn’t it? I’ve been vacillating between despair rage and fluffy bunny hop excitement and trust me, never the twain shall meet.
On one hand, there’s this - and I can’t believe I’m even surprised at this point - Trump's Economic Policy Team Boasts 3 Stephens, 2 Steves, 1 Steven, and No Women.
And on the other side of things, Obama wrote an essay for Glamour about his family and the job, and what it’s like to be a father, a President, and a feminist. He waxes on the unique challenged women face and how it’s "men’s responsibility to fight sexism too.” I know I’m playing right into the WH comms team play here, but I love this, and I loved it even more when I read that Sasha Obama has a summer job at a seafood shack in Martha’s Vineyard. Because even if your father is the feminist president of the free world, you WILL have a summer job. Sigh. I’m going to miss the Obamas.
So keep your head up folks, we’re almost at the weekend.
And to play us out...