A Daily Dose of Zen Sarcasm!

Two Hundred and Thirty-Three

AC, originally uploaded by Madame Meow.

Happy birthday, dear adoptive country. You are loved.

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Right now, as Monsieur Meow reads Herr Meow a little book about America's birthday ("Daddy, what is "tax"?), and the sirens wail throughout the city, rescuing the hapless and the possibly burned, and our local PBS affiliate gets cheesy with the background music while the sky lights up my screen periodically from all the fireworks displays around, I am happy.

Happy, because birthdays are happy (even mine, exactly two months away).

Happy, because if some fireworks are good, then MORE fireworks are just awesome.

Happy, because it was a lovely, cool, wonderful day today.

Happy, because I no longer have a raging headache.

Happy, because some gentlemen some time ago decided that stupid over-taxation from far away reeeeeeally sucked.

Happy, because this truly is the best country in the world, and there is no other place I would be as honored or happy to call my home.

I love you, United States of America, from California to the New York island.

And There Was Much Merriment, and Bread Pudding

Glorious Ceiling, originally uploaded by Madame Meow.

In case you're not familiar with DC's Eastern Market, it is a lovely little building tucked in the heart of the Capitol Hill neighborhood, an anchor of bricks holding down 7th street SE, C street SE and North Carolina Avenue SE.

It was built in 1873 and designed by Adolph Cluss --no doubt, a man who was so named because he was born in a time where the name was just another Scandinavian name, and no more.

The building, though much loved, had become dilapidated and dirty.  And in the early hours of April 30th, 2007, it burned down, leaving little left but a smoldering hull of bricks, glass and debris.

Our collective community hearts broke.  Here is something I wrote that morning.

The picture above was taken on June 26th, the day that Eastern Market rose like a salmon-colored phoenix from the ashes of that fire two years ago. Shortly after taking it, I paused to wipe my face and a fellow patron, equally moved but not nearly as embarrassingly so asked me, "Are you crying?"

"Tears of joy," I grinned.

I am so glad you're back, dear friend.

__________

Some friends go away and come back --sometimes even better than when they left us, as is the case with Eastern Market, which is now air-conditioned, basemented, sky-lighted, properly-toileted, and originally-salmon-pinked on the inside.

And sometimes friends go away forever.

Last week we lost several famous people -- Ed McMahon, Farrah Fawcett, Michael Jackson, and even OxiClean guru Billy Mays (I love OxiClean.  I will forever remember Billy Mays's rough, loud voice whenever I make my laundry cleaner and brighter). In a local accident last week, we also lost nine lives in a senseless and preventable collision on the Red line.

Although death is an intrinsic part of life, it always catches us by surprise. Frankly, the responses to Michael Jackson's death to me have been a little over the top as it is my honest opinion that the genius who dazzled and entertained back in the eighties and early nineties was dead and gone almost ten years ago, and had been replaced by a ghostlike, eccentric and truly pathetic man-child who didn't see anything wrong with wearing pajamas to court after arriving three hours late.   But it is still sad to see someone go at only 50 years of age, with so much wasted potential. 

In my heart and mind, however, the deaths that made me saddest were those of the ordinary citizens of this adopted city with which I fell in love --a couple of whom happened to be neighbors; not the kind of close neighbors who may pick up your mail for a day or two, but the kind of neighbors you see parking their car and coming and going-- the kind that you probably take for granted and may view as background, until the day you realize that a freak accident means you'll never see them driving down the street ever again or waving a warm hello at you as you unload your grocery shopping.

I don't like to think that those mourning could have been us, as Rev. Mom happened to also be using the Red Line that day.  When death is truly close --not just fanatic-close-- your emotions become selfish and self-preserving and complicated.  It's no longer wistful or just plain emotional; suddenly, there is the mind-racing and the feeling that life will never be the same.

That is the thing about death: it's not personal, and yet it is extremely personal.  And as a friend said, death is only sad to those left behind. 

_________

But the upside of death is that, along with the sadness, new life comes along. This is not always obvious when a person, a beloved, or a friend is the one who passes away. But in the case of a building, it can be easy to see what happens when we are able to turn the corner and find there is much to celebrate and much to be grateful for.

I am grateful that Eastern Market is back.  And I am glad that I knew our neighbors, even if faintly.  And I am glad that there were kind and brave people who were willing to help or, in the case of the very brave Metro operator who applied the emergency brake that failed, willing to stare death down doing what was right.

And so I mourn and celebrate this June of 2009, which will never again come, and I remember all the good that came of it.

__________

Celebrate with me: what were some notable things that happened to you this June?

All Hail, The MissTache

There have been some very turmoil-y days in the Meowhold.

For one, we are finally the owners of some sweet solar panels upon our roof. We will be living a little more off the grid and this is immensely exciting, especially to Monsieur Meow.  For me, to be perfectly honest, the most exciting part is not to have the incredibly nice guys who installed the solar panels going up and down the stairs a million times a day. 

Priorities, I suppose.

Herr Meow has finished his first year of slightly more serious school, and this was exciting too.  He celebrated by deciding he needed to walk home to a local restaurant... on his own.  We found him almost three blocks away from home, with his pail and shovel, determined to make it to the Argonaut.  I don't think I've ever been more scared of the unknown in my life.

Don Meow is now working on sprouting teeth --he is a consummate drooler-- and he's mastered rolling from back to tummy over the past two weeks.  He is a chuckler, too-- just tickle him a little bit and watch as he does that little stuck-clutch laugh that is so endearing in babies.  He's also managed to almost roll off the bed a couple of times: I give him a month.

Mademoiselle Gracie is a fit feline.  She is exceptionally tartar-free and she could stand to lose a few ounces-- but I think most females always feel that way.  I wish I could lose some more of that post-baby chunk myself.

I find it hard to write these days.

I sometimes fire up Ye Olde Typepad and stare at the blank screen for ages, not even feeling the faintest stirring to commit anything to paper.  I have been reading more, and my life feels like it's lived so intensely that I can hardly remember it; and yet, the blog remains sadly mute.

And it's not for a lack of things to write, either. 

For instance, the other day I saw a woman with an it-would-make-Burt-Reynolds-envious mustache.  It took me a few seconds to realize what the fuzzy worm that decorated her upper lip like a festive Christmas garland would a mantelpiece really was, since she was otherwise well-dressed and made-up, you see.  She even had panty hose on in the sticky southern heat of a few days ago.

Maybe that is a nasty statement: why should a well-dressed woman --or any woman, for that matter-- forego the pleasures of having an accessory that for some reason (androgens, perhaps?) has been viewed as exclusively male?

So I started to think that perhaps discriminating on the basis of mustache should be the next crusade for women.  Why should we be denied, if The Powers that Be gave us the wherewithal, to grow and properly maintain thick, luxuriant mustaches?  It wouldn't have to be something that produces a visceral, knee-jerk disgust reaction, you know.  It could be something beautiful and elaborate; something to coat with glittery mascara and to weave beads into.

Something to behold: a woman's beautiful lip fur.

Certainly, it's something to be grateful for: it seems to have been a remedy of sorts for this dull, low-hanging writer's block.

And They Are Making Me Thirsty For Some Sweet Tea, Too

Dear D.C. metro area,

I know you get very sensitive about this whole "being part of the South" bit.

I know that, this far north, it's a little sticky to talk about North versus South, because there is still that weird, generations-old animosity and ante- and postbellum hatred. 

While the south of the country has rich traditions, better taste in hats, politer manners and a greater knack for frying foods, there are other less-charming stereotypes that still hang on that hemisphere of the country, and I understand that proclaiming an affiliation to it makes you nervous. 

Your palms sweaty, you get dizzy with the Dixie flags dancing in your head; the ugliness makes you afraid.

The unsophisticated, vowel-abusing drawls make you run for the hills-- except that we're in a river basin and the nearest ones are nestled in the bosom of the lands whose latitudes you reject.

And yet, on a day like today where the skins of your people -- be they borne from your loins or not, like yours truly-- flush and bead with the sweat that can only come from that charming and overwhelming weather combination of heat and humidity that denies your latitudinal neutrality, there is little doubt as to where you stand in relation to the Mason-Dixon line.

In other words, it's Southern-muggy-warm today, and the lushness of the elms swaying in the breeze outside my window showcases it well.  And there is not a thing you can do to convince people that this is not the South-- at least weather-wise.

Your roots are showing, dear Washington, and they smell of Hush Puppies.

_________

Pee Ess: Go to my review blog to check out a great resource for moms, and have a great weekend!

This Is Why People Go Postal, Too.

I'm sure your local post office is a paragon of American efficiency and either small-town charm or big-city cool. 

I'm sure your post office gives you prompt service with a smile, and, no sooner have you walked in, than you're walking out with a tune streaming from your lips and a spring in your step.

Oh, and your mail, too.  Mail, stamps, etc. are the reasons to go to the post office in the first place.

My local post office?  Not so much.

_________

There is a saying attributed to John F. Kennedy about DC, which goes, "Washington is a city of Southern efficiency and Northern charm.," and I'm thinking he coined it while waiting for a package at the local post office.

In this particular outlet of the United States Postal Service, one can easily wait for three attendants who all look "free" for about twenty minutes and never get so much as a glance directed your way.  I'm not sure if there is an invisible leaden curtain that separates the workers from the customers, but I'm thinking it's got to be physically painful to interact through it.  No guesses on how they tolerate having to actually interact when they run out of excuses and call whoever is next in line, but I'm also thinking here that when they sadistically reveal that they cannot take credit cards as soon as you're about to walk forward because the gods smiled upon you and it's finally your turn and you'll be home in time to see your first grandchild being born, has got to do something with excising their revenge due to the comfort level thereof.

But truly, having to deal with long lines, long waiting times, dour-faced workers, beaten-up packages, and unbearable air-conditioning/central heating conditions is nothing compared to having to endure some of the patrons with which you end up suffering waiting through the long, arduous wait.

___________

The problem with braggarts is not that upon first hearing what they have to say, they make you jealous. 

After all, this is expected of braggarts: they are going to first shyly talk of whatever they think might make them awesomer than everyone else; and then they fill in the details so that you fully get the awesomeness picture in full, excruciating, every-shade-of-green highlights.

The problem is that, upon the tenth hearing or so, you end up wishing they were pimples so you could squish their heads with wild adolescent abandon and enjoy the sick moment when they would explode in a satisfying, if repulsive, jet of pus.

So it was with two particular women the other day at the aforementioned post office.

As usual, whoever was in charge of scheduling failed miserably and there were only two harried workers standing at the counter and looking intently st some obscure piece of bureaucracy, while a third one actually worked at the retail counter and made eye contact with people.  I am still not sure who dropped this Mother Teresa in that sea of uncaring, but I am grateful nonetheless.

This meant that two neighborhood doyennes-- both vying for title of "Longest and best-known resident of Capitol Hill" -- got to share their stories about how they knew more people and knew them longer and knew them better and knew the people who used to live before where people who have  lived there FOREVER live.

It was truly amazing to behold: the way these two women bitched back and forth at a volume that any well-meaning parent would have judged as "not your indoor voice" were it coming from his child about an inane subject that could be perhaps the stuff pissing contests are made on, but not much else.

My fellow patrons an had our ears hijacked by these two obnoxious people for what seemed like an eternity, having to endure their inanity and the self-importance with which they addressed each other for what seemed like hours and hours, just because many of us couldn't somehow pick up our packages electronically.    Although I must say, a part of me envied the ease with which they talked about the neighborhood and its inhabitants (and the way they didn't give a flying eff about said inhabitants either).

_______

I wish there were some sort of closure to this story-- that perhaps someone called them on their braggart rudeness; that the employees took advantage of their distraction to skip over them and help us quieter patrons; or that the Anacostia river grew to biblical proportions instantly and swallowed them whole leaving no trace;  but those things only happen in movies, or in our eager imaginations without fear of retaliation or jail time.

Instead, I realize why working at a post office must be such a drag, and why the internet is so popular.  And why it's important to sometimes, just sometimes, remember that others around you are paying attention, so you should strive to be kinder and quieter whenever you can.

Although I'm also starting to think that earplugs and noise-canceling headphones are possibly underrated when you must interact with annoying people.

Stop Pulling The Lemongrass Brocade Over Our Eyes

Dear fashion world at large,

I wondered how you were going to play it.  I wondered if you were going to be drinking deep from the fabled river in Egypt when it came to Michelle Obama's inauguration dress, or if you were actually going to call it as your eyes saw it-- which is to say, unflatteringly draped on the body of a woman who deserved to look better on her first day on the job.

Robin Givhan in particular gave us a saccharine whopper, confusing the importance of the husband's moment with the relevance of a dress that made his wife look big, bulky, dowdy, and --yes, I will say it-- FRUMPY.

(sorry-- WaPo online is subscription, but it's worth it)

(And P.S. to Ms. Givhan: most women LIKE looking pretty.  Next thing we know, you'll be writing about how lukewarm water is made by mixing hot and cold water.  Earth-shattering, I know.  Please credit me as a source if you go with that lead.)

___________

Michelle Obama has shown us a few things about herself in these whirlwind months:

1. She has a nice, healthy-looking body and buff arms;

2. She's taller than her husband, at least in moderate heels;

3. She can look quite good in her clothes;

4. But every once in a while she can pick some sublimely, unflatteringly ugly dresses (see her horrid Black Widow Spider fiasco that she wore the night Obama won the election).

So let's get one thing out of the way: I bear no ill-will against Michelle Obama as a possible fashion icon.  I think she brings new blood to the office of First Lady, and I look forward to seeing her style develop as she becomes more comfortable in her role. 

Let's get another thing out of the way as well: one man's bane is another man's blessing.  In other words, what some may think is ugly or unflattering, others may find beautiful, harmonious and complimentary.  This is why art --and make no mistake, that fashion is a big part of art-- is so subjective and hard to categorize. 

But there are a few things most people can agree upon.  I will also list these:

a. Fit is an essential part of any outfit.  Bad fit= bad outfit, regardless of how pretty the materials or the colors may be.

b. Certain colors look better on people, more so than others.  This is known as the Color Me Beautiful principle.  Some may deride it, but people who look good in jewel tones should not try to go with drab colors, and vice versa, and that is a fact.  Yes.  I said "fact."

c. A person who normally looks good in clothes but suddenly looks dumpy in her clothes should blame the clothes and not herself.  She should also stay away from those kinds of clothes (paging Isabel Toledo and issuing her a restraining order against her sewing machine).

___________

So back to Michelle Obama emerging from the Capitol yesterday:

I was disappointed.

I could definitely see the merits of wanting to wear a cheerful shade of lemongrassy yellow on a cold winter's day; however, there are several points wrong with her choice, the first of which was that the color DID NOT LOOK GOOD ON HER.

It was a shade that was neither here nor there-- neither really yellow nor really gold, and definitely not green enough. Certainly not even in the ballpark of Pantone's color of the year --mimosa yellow, and possibly a much better choice of a bright, delightful yellow for our new First Lady. The diamanté collar ornament thingy was a bit over the top for morning, but it was kind of cute and did not bug me.  What bugged me was that HER OUTFIT MADE HER LOOK FAT.

Fat.  Bulky.  Dumpy.  Like the Michelle-in woman.  Padded.  Oversized.  Possibly warm, thank goodness, because it was cold yesterday.  But yeah-- I said it: she looked BIG.

Michelle Obama is a brickhouse to begin with: she is not a petite Laura Bush type, who in my opinion looked elegant and understated  in a lovely shade of gray (which I'm sure many people found boring).  She can and should wear tailored outfits that show off her shape, but without dipping into no-pantyhose, skirt-way-too-high, and boots-way-too-young-for-her Jill Biden territory.  But her dress made her look like she had been padded, and not just for warmth.  Add to this her impressive height, and you have something in which she would and did look uncomfortable for a good part of the day.  You don't need to be a body language expert to see that in many of the official pictures of the day, Mrs. Obama is seem trying to blend into the background and diminish her shape-- something she was not trying to do with her far-prettier inaugural ball dress.

So, no.  Please don't try to sell to people with eyes that Mrs. Obama looked awesome while holding that Lincoln Bible: it's unfair to her, and to the many sartorial possibilities yet to happen through her.

She can look better than that, and I hope she does, because fashion is supposed to be fun and because being about ten years younger than the outgoing First Lady and much more statuesque than, say, Mrs. Clinton (not to mention less padded in the saddlebag area) gives her a great advantage and plenty of unexplored places to go, fashion-wise.

Just, please-- let us all stay away from the Nile.

Excitement

Decked Out , originally uploaded by Madame Meow.

Today is an exciting day. The photo above I snapped a few days ago, when the Capitol was not teeming with the activity that surges around it and on it today.

The guns are still smoking, having just welcomed our forty-fourth President. I could hear them by opening my window, and it was a wonderfully, thrillingly surreal moment.

No matter what your political penchant, hailing a new chief is an exciting event, and further proof that our country is a country of the people, and of change.

May we look upon this day with happiness be able to recall it when we hear our wonderful, strong country criticized or slandered.

May there be forgiveness in our heart, and may today's crisp air and blue skies prove a winsome herald to our new Commander in Chief.

The Best Part of Wonking Up

When I first started dating Monsieur Meow, I remember --now fondly-- one of my first foot-in-mouth moments with him. 

It was the moment wherein I declared that I couldn't believe any sentient human would watch C-SPAN for fun.  And then he told me about all his favorite C-SPAN shows.

And then he tuned the TV to "Washington Journal." 

And I seriously wondered if life was trying to test me.

___________

But really, "Washington Journal" isn't so bad.  Actually, it's quite entertaining.

Between you and me and the world at large?   It's possibly one of the most brilliant and unintendedly funniest shows on television.

And I am forever grateful to my sweet husband, he who's expanded my weltanschauung in ways I never really thought relevant or possible for me.  Also, am grateful that he was able to put my less-than-flattering comments about C-SPAN behind us.

__________

Back to "Washington Journal": chances are that you're not familiar with the show because, hello?  It's C-SPAN and most people don't really watch C-SPAN on Saturday morning at 7 am (or, really, at any other time of day, unless they are Monsieur Meow). 

The show takes place in a bare-bones studio, whose only decoration is a large picture window featuring a gorgeous angle of the United States Capitol and which allows you to see the sunrise and the change of the seasons in DC (this is possibly my favorite part of the show).  For periods of time --I believe they are half-hour segments-- there is only a host sitting comfortably at a desk and reading newspaper headlines from around the country and sometimes from abroad, as long as they cover American politics.  In zen-like motions, he guides us through highlighted passages, many of which relate to a topic of the day.  This is possibly the cushiest job in the world: reading pre-highlighted newspapers.  You don't even have to memorize a line!  The stuff is all in front of you!  How hard can it be?

Of course, the host does penance in other ways; you see, this is also a call-in show.  I am pretty convinced that the hosts for this show are selected on their ability to hold a pretty damn good poker face for long periods of time.  (Memo to self: Never invite a WJ host to a poker party.)

The host periodically repeats the phone numbers you can call if you would like to opine on the main topic of the day.  There are three lines: one for Independents, one for Democrats and one for Republicans.  It does not escape my notice that the line for Independents was a total afterthought.  Behold:

(202) 737-0002  Democrats
(202) 737-0001  Republicans
(202) 628-0205  Independents

Whatever happened to 737-0003?  Tsk, tsk.

At certain intervals, the host is joined by one of several guests --politicians, economists, policymakers and other notables-- to help discuss a tailored topic fitting the abilities of the guest or the topic of the day (it varies).  Just to give you an idea of what the topic of the day may be, today's is about the economic stimulus package planned in addition to the current stimulus package approved by congress.  Civic life and the internet is the topic hosted by the guest currently, and he's fielding his share of very old people who are not quite sure that the Internets really have a role in politics.  The guest nearly loses his composure on a couple of occasions-- his mouth twitches, hand goes to his mouth.  Solid gold.

And then we get the crazy people.  Oh, the crazy people are the best thing ever: like the lady who just called and sang something about "poor Georgie, Obama will pardon you"; or the caller who refused to tackle the subject of the day until the host agreed that C-SPAN's assertion that it's paid for by the cable industry really truly means that C-SPAN is actually funded by cable subscribers, which means that we all pay for C-SPAN whether we like it or not.  These are the best moments of the show: totally bizarro and unscripted and hilarious--especially when you look at the host and he's trying valiantly to keep his composure in the face of someone who's hijacked the phone line for five straight minutes to basically be heard about ANYTHING.

And finally, there is the rare glimpses of someone who seems to understand the question and deliver a thoughtful and thought-provoking comment.  These are the moments that make the show truly worth watching: the moments that remind you why this is a country that thrives on discourse and on the freedom of speech.

But for the main part, "Washington Journal" is nothing but hours upon hours of delightful, unscripted mayhem, punctuated by the dignified calm of the host.  It's that quiet, resigned desperation that makes this show an undiscovered hit-- a rare gem that allows us to watch a broad swath of America undisturbed and unburdened by the shackles of thought.
Needless to say, I am a total convert, and I think you should be, too.

Happy (cold) Saturday!

Opening Doors, Elbowing Ribcages, Since 1976

One of the more useful signs I've ever seen was at the Phoenix International Airport.

By the way,the airport's lofty little name, Sky Harbor, makes it sound more like you're flying into some sort of futuristic town where the denizens float away in soaring, airborne jet skis instead of being greeted by ten months of wilting heat.  I find it both lovely and alluring, and totally stupid to be honest. 

I mean, Sky Harbor?  Cheesy.

But I digress.

The sign was posted above the automatic pedestrian walks that speed up movement for (some of) the once and future passengers.  It actually appeared more than once  --that is to say, it figured prominently along all the pedestrian ramps through which I walked and happened to look up-- and it was clear and legible to those who are readers of English (and really, with a domestic 99% literacy rate, almost no United States citizen should have a problem with that).

It said simply, "Walk on left-- Stand on right."  And it was beautiful.

__________

Every day, thousands of clueless Americans (and others from abroad) flood tourist spots far and wide such as the nation's capital.  And every day, the locals groan, bitch, and passively-aggressively resort to vicious muttering and elbowing because that über-nincompoop turd-for-brains dared STAND on the left side of the escalator and now you have to wait six minutes until the next train.

But tell me: where has WMATA helpfully placed the sign above the escalator, instructing the populace to stand on the right side and let the Speedy McSpeedersons trot on the left?

Yeah.  Nowhere.

Instead, the closest instruction is to be found snarkily displayed as a pseudo dictionary entry bearing the moniker, "Escalefter" within the actual train cars-- the one place where it's guaranteed not to be seen by those who need it most.

Yes, Escalefter is totally cute and definitely hip, but do you really think the tourist brood of eight that is busily folding the Smithsonian pamphlet while nearly running over your foot with the DuoGlider that was being pushed by the eight-year old (who incidentally was the only one not crying) is going to notice that? 

Or do you think that said brood will, say,  stop to read the tiny print that tells you that you should not expect the ticket to pop out the top of the turnstile thingy but back through the same slot you just pushed it through when you're going through the handicapped turnstile (naturally, the only one that's wide enough to accomodate the aforementioned Strollerzilla)?

NO.

(Incidentally, the same goes for the gaggle of teenagers and the coven of camera fiends who shoot everywhere with the flash on and the rather large family who's trying to figure out which way is the White House.  The answer is always NO when you're dealing with tourists.)
________

So you see, tourists are annoying and that is a fact that cannot be denied.  As a matter of fact, tourists --especially the more clueless among them-- should be giggled about and ridiculed sotto voce often and with gusto. 

But it's also a good thing to realize that there are less subtle ways to help these poor souls who've checked their brains in with at the airport and they never submitted a lost luggage claim form upon arrival: there are nice, crisp, clear signs that could be posted everywhere so as to make it even easier to loudly, passively-aggressively point out that, HELLO?  CAN'T SOME PEOPLE READ A GODDAMN SIGN AROUND HERE?!

You're welcome.

Chill Pills, Aisle 13

"By the way, when you close out the cash register tonight, you're gonna be $1.42 over.  JUST SO YOU KNOW."

Dramatic pause.  Everyone stops

"Because that's what you owe me. $1.42."

She proceeds to defiantly thrust the receipt in the cashier's face and point out the egregious mistake.

The cashier, unfazed, apologizes but makes her wait for her coveted less-than-two-dollars.  She doesn't make eye contact.  She just seethes as she calmly rings up my groceries.

Meanwhile, receipt-lady just seethes as well and holds a cashier, a bagger, another cashier who was helping the other cashier out and me, the next patron in line, hostage to her anger.

As the cash register opens, the cashier pulls out the paltry sum and hands it over.  The woman almost snatches the change out of her hands and turns her heel.

That was so uncomfortable I just had to tell you guys out there in blogland.
__________

Yes, I know it's a whole buck forty-two.  But aren't there nicer ways to point out that someone has made a relatively trivial mistake?  It's not like the bagger placed a ripe watermelon on top of her eggs, you know. 

The cashier made a mistake that can't even get anyone a meal at McDonalds, and yet this was no laughing matter.

Maybe she had a case of the Mondays.