Thanks, Mom

No matter what I think about it, Mother's Day happens. In fact, this year it happens tomorrow, and for the first time in a long while my one and only child is on the premises for the celebration, such as it is. If history is any teacher, the festivities will be brief and all but invisible. This is certainly my hope.  Actually, in the last day or two a rumor was floated about "breakfast in bed," but I am putting the kibosh on that since it surely signals the prone diner has the flu or a fever or consumption or worse and thus is unable to reach the dining room. Then there's the whole crumbs in the sheets, spilled juice and coffee on the duvet, etc. to deal with later. My own mother demanded the breakfast in bed treatment every year, along with the cards and the gifts and the flowers, I think because she wasn't ever truly convinced that having kids had been such a great idea, so for her, extra perks were necessary. This is one way I differ from her: My son surely knows by now that all I want for Mother's Day is his happiness.

Mothers are funny that way; they care so much more about their kids than non-mothers, including fathers, can comprehend. It's all biological, of course, and not a reflection of our deeper well of compassion or greater capacity for love. It's simply that we can't help it--kind of like how all Democrats think they're right about everything. Our kids are us, so we love them because we love ourselves--or should. So that diamond pendant that says "Mom" is just a waste of money, unless of course it's from Tiffany's and then it would cost way too much and cause severe guilt, not to mention there is no Tiffany's in Maine so one would have had to plan ahead and order it in advance and that is not happening around here, that's for damn sure, wouldn't that be nice--but anyway, I digress. What most moms want, and by that I mean me, is the assurance that bringing our kids into this world was a good thing for all concerned. A simple "Thanks, Mom" will suffice.

Democratic Delusions

I have not read any of the details--in fact have studiously avoided them--but still the latest dastardly news concerning Mitt Romney has infiltrated the protective moat around my brain, forcing me to confront the heinous fact that the presumed Republican candidate for the presidency, now age 65, was once a bully. Despite his having once served as Governor of Massachusetts, been the leader of a large corporation and run the 2000 Winter Olympics, he may have, at one time in his youth, "held someone down." It is also alleged that he "called people names."  Add this to the fact that he once attached a dog carrier to the roof of his car in order to transport the family dog on a vacation, and it is quite clear that the man must not be elected president. We cannot have such a man in the White House!

Naturally, my source was of the Democratic persuasion, and were we not total strangers surrounded by other people in a small room, I might have ever so gently reminded her that, back in the day, several women came forward to accuse Bill Clinton of sexual harassment and another one accused him of rape, and that never seemed to matter the teeniest, weeniest little bit to his loyal minions.

What makes those Democrats tick? Is it just John Stewart, or is there something else?

Dick Clark is Gone

The so-called Baby Boomer generation is big, beginning with those born in 1946 and ending with those born in 1964. My husband and I, while both included, are separated by a gulf of 11 years. That makes me a Golden Boomer while he is part of Generation Jones. We may as well be from different planets. Those front-enders like myself are a different breed entirely, and being with one of my own is among the most comfortable experiences I ever have. This must be true for everyone, whatever their age. I was a senior in high school when president Kennedy was assassinated; my husband was then six years old. As a teenager I was intrigued by Bobby Rydell, mildly interested in Fabian, amused by Frankie Avalon and deeply in love with Dion and all three Belmonts. When we met, Mitch had never heard of those people. I have tried to educate him, but it's hard to explain how great they sounded on those little 45s when he came of age listening to Chicago and the Grateful Dead through headphones.

Not that it matters, but he's never had Sen-Sen, that oddly sinful anise candy that somehow made you feel like a grown-up. Maybe it was the packaging, which was --and still is--reminiscent of condoms. Whatever the reason, seeing it today brings me right back to my youth. One time I gave some to Mitch and he spit it right out. I was almost insulted. But nothing illustrates the cultural chasm between us more than Dick Clark's long-running TV show, "American Bandstand." The burning question of who was better--Kenny and Arlene or Justine and Bob--filled long hours talking on the pink princess phone in my bedroom. (See photo)

Dick Clark died recently, sparking commentary about how New Year's Eve would never be the same without his annual TV coverage of the ball-dropping-in-Times Square mob scene. But for us Golden Boomers, Dick was all about a cool dance party in Philadelphia held every weekday afternoon. I still say, "It's got a good beat and you can dance to it" when I hear a new song that I like, but few people around me know what the heck I'm talking about.

The Matrix

Hey, here's an idea: If everyone stopped trying to be so damn happy, maybe we'd all feel better! Perhaps if we lowered our expectations and decided that life is to be lived whatever the heck it feels like, we would all instantly qualify as successful despite being miserable, suicidal, poor, diseased, lonely and depressed. Heck, I'll even throw in fat. Every one of us who is alive right now is fulfilling their function of breathing in and out, and thus is doing one heck of a great job at living. If I could just get this idea across to the millions of people who are currently miserable, suicidal, poor, diseased, lonely, depressed and fat, I could hit the big time. I could be the white Oprah! But wait-- that's wrong thinking. Happiness is not a goal. Living is breathing. I am breathing, I am living, I am life, this is what it is.

See, now I feel better about feeling bad because that's normal. I'm perfect. Try it.

Gays May Sleep Better, but What About Us?

I never knew the President reads my blog, but obviously he read the one I posted two days ago ("Do the Right Thing") about his wimpy stance on gay marriage, finally decided that supporting it really was the right thing to do. Okay, fine. Now what--will every gay person vote for him in November? If so, I guess he's got the election in the bag, since the opposition clearly feels otherwise. But how much does it matter, really, with so many other looming problems brewing? While all those gays are out getting married, those problems will continue to fester and eventually erupt. Task forces will be named; headlines will be written. Must we wait for disaster to strike before we right these egregious wrongs? Following are just a few issues, none of them having to do with sexuality, that kept me up last night, to the point where at three in the morning I went down to the kitchen and heated some milk, having heard that warm milk is soporific. It was, despite the scientific evidence against it, especially after I tossed in those two Lorazipams. Okay, and two Fig Newtons. Anyway, something must be done about the following egregious problems corroding our society:

1. The rules regarding handicapped bathrooms must be clarified. Signs should be posted inside all public restrooms stating that in the absence of a handicapped person, any able-bodied person may enter that particular extra-large, much better, New-York-City-studio-apartment-sized stall.This is especially true when a long line of people who desperately have to pee has formed, and yet still, those law-abiding, politically correct citizens stand there, legs crossed, fearful of the wrath of an angry God or inbound wheelchair.
2. Speed limit signs on all roads are currently meaningless. When we travel a road that says "SPEED LIMIT 65," my husband, responding to an internal radar device only men hear, interprets that to mean he can reach 78 mph and that he will be ticketed only if he reaches 80 mph.  All the cars passing me when I drive 65 seem to prove him right. So I believe that our road signs need to be changed to reflect reality, otherwise, to use a mixed metaphor, we are flying blind. Not counting the distribution of those annoying orange cones and barrels on roads where no work seems underway, which is surely a full-time job for many employees, what else is the Department of Transportation doing anyway? They've got time, believe me.
3. Mothers Day and Fathers Day are bad news, plain and simple. First of all, many perfectly wonderful moms and dads are already dead, so what the heck? Secondly, many of the living ones are child abusers, and it's hard to shop for them. Third, the whole scam is all about advertisers selling things and restaurants having Early Bird specials and forcing innocent people to eat Blooming Onions and buy roses. We need to put an end to meaningless holidays that only make people feel bad--especially the orphans, remember them? Seriously. My own mother died in 1981 so I've got nothing but a lump in my throat for a few days before, the day of, and the whole next day. (Thanks a lot, Hallmark.) And my son always feels guilty and never knows what to do about the whole situation. I know he loves me so I tell him to ignore it, but still he worries when he sees all the advertising for flowers, candy, cards, jewelry, and more. The president could put an end to this fiasco right now, and should.

So in case Obama thinks he's got the election in the bag now that he gave the thumbs-up to gay marriage, he better think again. Not everyone is happy.

Where Canned Chicken is King

Most likely, if you are old enough, you have had the dire experience of discovering a hornet's nest or bee hive while happily poking around in your garden or painting your porch; under the eaves is a common area for them to homestead. Finding a world of activity that poses a threat, yet is treacherous to remove so you just leave it there, knowing it's there, steering clear and trying not to bother them, is always a shock, and a bad one at that. It's best to just look away, go about your business and try to forget what you've seen.

I had this experience recently, only it wasn't bees or wasps or a nest of carpenter ants that I found, it was people. My accidental foray into the land of smiley faces and !!!!! and Mouthwatering Mondays occurred while I was stupidly wandering the Internet without a map and fell upon a recipe for Frito Salad. I couldn't believe that grown adults eat that way. Delving further, I found that it was actually among the healthiest recipes out there, and truly the tip of an iceberg. America isn't the fattest nation for lack of trying. There are hundreds of food blogs celebrating things like Chunky Chicken Enchilada Dip ("I use canned chicken and nobody can tell!") and Taco Surprise and Creamy Potato Soup. Many of the recipes feature copious amounts of cream cheese, sour cream, mayonnaise, cheddar cheese, bacon, butter, flour, tacos, chips and tortillas. They receive accolades from scads of people in the comments section, who write things like "Yum!" and "this sounds so yummy delicious!!" and "fabulous!!!!" Scariest are things like "My two-year old can't get enough of this! :-)"

I was stunned, literally. Somehow I thought that everyone was, if not already on the healthy eating bus at least buying a ticket and trying to board. After all, the First Lady is all over this, what with the revamping of school lunches and the whole "get moving an hour a day" business. Plus, I live with a rabid health nut who steers clear of  all processed foods, and our visiting son has been known to call a bowl of steamed spinach and alfalfa sprouts "breakfast." I grew up never having a sip of soda in a household managed by a skinny mother who was a vegetarian and possible anorexic, alongside my fat sister who got that way by sneaking food on the outside. So to discover a world where people happily eat bad stuff and unabashedly call it good is a shock from which I am still recovering.

Don't get me wrong: I've been known to eat whipped cream straight from the aerosol can, and chocolate chip cookies are not long for this world if I'm alone with them. But I always feel guilty about it, and I assumed everyone else did too. Apparently not. Now that I know how to find it, I keep going back to that hornet's nest under the eaves. I've got to look away. It's fascinating, but hideous.

Do the Right Thing

Illustration by Danny Hellman

Imagine you are the current president of the United States. Secretly you support a particular issue--say gay marriage to pick something at random -- but you fear that by condoning it you will turn off many people you actually disagree with but who still control a lot of votes. This is a problem. You really want to make a difference, and your opponent is clearly against the hypothetical issue in question, so you know if he wins the election you will have lost this opportunity to right a wrong. But you also really want to get re-elected so you can continue to fly around the world for free in your own fancy private jet, eat fabulous foods cooked by celebrity chefs for free, throw big parties at your house and invite anyone you want, never have to look for parking, meet tons of Hollywood celebrities and have them think you are cool, play a lot of golf whenever and wherever you damn well please, dress your wife in fancy designer dresses at no cost to you, never carry a wallet and go to Martha's Vineyard a couple more times on the taxpayer's dime. Oy, such a dilemma!

Suddenly the time of re-election is drawing nigh and the people are clamoring for an answer. You would do one of the following:
1. Change the law while you still have the power to do so. Feel good about yourself and confident that you made the right decision, knowing that if you did nothing else of merit during your entire administration, at least you did that.
2. Start dangling the promise of changing the law in front of the voters, saying things like "our work is not finished" and "things will get better in 2013," hoping that they will bring you back for a second chance to do it, even though you have had over three years to do it and you haven't done it.
3. Send your lackey, the vice-president, on a speaking tour to clarify that you really, really are in favor of it and that you really, really will make it legal in 2013, right after they re-elect you.

This is American politics at its worst and most obvious.

Stamp Out Frito Salad

The World Wide Web is sometimes awesome, often scary and always interesting. It's also a great place for cowards to feel better about themselves. They can hide behind false names and false photos and confront people they would otherwise never meet. This happens from time to time right here on my blog in the comments feature. Just today I received another anonymous comment that infers I suck. Meanie Anonymous doesn't sign his or her name and enter into a dialog; it's more of a hit and run situation. This is a shame, since the opportunity exists to really change people's minds, even mine. In order to take full advantage of that opportunity whenever I pick an Internet fight, I always sign my real name.

One thing I like to do is try to convince others to eat more healthily and not get too fat, which can lead to heart disease, diabetes, high blood pressure, diverticulitis and all sorts of other problems. Today I stumbled upon a recipe, written by the mother of a young child living in Utah, for something she calls Frito Salad. Right away you know there is a problem: Fritos and salad were never intended to marry. The combining of canned corn with lots of cheese and mayonnaise, then topping it all with Fritos and calling it a salad when it is actually the unappetizing mess you see pictured here is taking artistic license too far, in my humble opinion. I left a comment for the recipe's author saying that "this looks like something my dog threw up," which is mean I know but at least I did sign my real name. I think everyone who reads this blog today and agrees with my assessment of how it looks should go directly to 2crafty4myskirt.blogspot.com and suggest the woman stop feeding this junk to her husband and child. (They don't even like it; she says quite candidly that there are always leftovers, and that she makes them eat it again the next day!)

Adding your voice would be taking one small step for man and a giant leap for all mankind. There are only so many meals in a lifetime; make sure Frito Salad is not one of yours.

Born Too Late

Dolly Parton and her breasts.

As a friend of mine pointed out recently, there must be one heck of an ad agency in charge of the bullying account. Bullying is big! Today it commands the respect of our government, all the way to the president. (Last October Obama released an anti-bullying video in which he lamented the deaths of teenagers who were bullied for being gay and took their own lives.)

 There are books about it--3,028 in paperback, 805 hard cover and 702 for Kindle to be exact. TV shows condemn it and national organizations work to stamp it out. In 2006, National Bullying Prevention Month was inaugurated.This was not always true; in the old days, bullying was compulsory for any self-respecting young man and nobody took it too seriously. Kids who got picked on were on their own and guess what--we survived.

I speak from experience. When I was in the 4th grade, my breasts showed up. By 5th grade I was wearing a C-cup, and by the time I entered junior high I could have understudied for Dolly Parton in "9 to 5." (See photo) Naturally, the prepubescent and already pubescent boys had a grand old time: hooting and hollering, calling me names, and doing their favorite thing, which was chasing me home from school like the prey in a foxhunt, pushing me down on the ground and snapping the back of my bra. In the school halls, the most obnoxious among them would shout "Here they come!" as I approached. I was often asked if I needed help carrying them.

The teachers did nothing, except for the male teachers who leered. There were no special meetings called. My mother told me to get over it and focus on a time, a few years later, when those same boys would beg me for a date. Nobody called it bullying. I did not commit suicide, threaten suicide, or even contemplate suicide. What I did was hate those boys and hunch over a lot.

Today the treatment I received would be called bullying. There would be closed-door meetings and seminars on how to stop the adolescent boys from tormenting the (big-breasted) adolescent girls. There would be posters and an ad campaign. I would stay home from school. I might make a tearful video and post it on YouTube. My parents would get a lawyer and sue somebody, possibly the school and the parents of the bullying boys. They would win a big settlement that would pay for my breast reduction surgery. Today I would have better posture and fewer backaches.

Family Misfortunes

We all get some good stuff and some bad stuff at birth. Intelligence, beauty, personality, health and talent are randomly distributed among the population, and thus randomly passed on genetically. Other things that shape our lives, besides our own free will, are family wealth, dynamics and members. If you actually enjoy being a part of your particular family, give yourself 1000 Life Points and a gold star and consider yourself one of God's chosen few. I personally did quite poorly in that department. On a scale of 1 to 10 I'd rate my family a 3, and that's on a good day, and have spent all my life wishing it had been otherwise. Naturally there are a few gems among the muck and mud--a cousin here, an uncle there--but taken as a whole, my family has been neither my long nor strong suit.

Now, as the unfolding dramas of my few remaining family members continue to play out, with weary soldiers lining up for another battle, I'm wondering if I might make some money off the whole lot of them with a gigantic, juicy novel, after which I could cash out and flee to Mexico, since what I did get at birth was talent, and I can write like the dickens when I want. It would have to be a fantasy of course, since if I told a straightforward account of my relatives and their twisted souls and floundering fortunes, any sane reader would toss it aside in disgust muttering, "How preposterous, that would never happen!" For now, I'll just go make some lunch. I may vacuum.

Don't Tell Me

A phone call from my ex-husband this morning crystallized three facts for me:
1. Everyone has problems. (See photo)
2. They like to describe those problems in stunning detail.
3. I no longer want to hear about them.

At this late stage in my life--eligible for Medicare--I am starting to understand the reason for psychiatrists and psychologists to exist. Go tell them your problems. Yes, it'll cost you, but I can't do it anymore. Sorry, but the doctor is Out. I am still up for a good conversation--you pick the topic--or a rousing board game, or let's go out to eat or go hiking or biking or whatever. But those one-sided monologues concerning the slings and arrows of your outrageous fortunes are no longer invited. I'd much rather argue over politics.