Whatever Happened to Gloria Steinem?

I know, I know: If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all. But jeez, some people.

I just stumbled across a Facebook page for a young woman who calls herself a "plus-size burlesque model." There are tons, and I do mean tons, of picture of her HUGE BREASTS popping out of all sorts of ridiculous costumes, with her standing behind them. She can't be more than 25. And she has such a pretty face.

Where did she go wrong? What would she do if she got breast cancer? How can people sell themselves so short for their one and only lifetime? And why doesn't she lose about 150 pounds? (Plus-size my ass--fat is fat and that is that.) Morbidly obese women who lack self-esteem and pretend to love themselves "just the way they are," but then sell their freaky mounds of flesh for money, are sadly in need of help. What they don't need is Facebook freak show.

No Two Snowflakes are Alike

Today I did something I rarely do anymore and went into a Starbucks coffee shop for a non-fat, extra-hot, grande latte.  It's been almost a year since I've had one of those, but with overcast skies and a chill in the air, not to mention an intense feeling of sleep deprivation, a hit of caffeine seemed like just the ticket.

Several things had changed about the Starbucks experience since my last visit. First of all, my friendly barista did not ask for my name and so I just waited for them to call out the order. "Non-fat latte" did not have quite the same ring to it as "Andrea" would have, but still it tasted good.

Next, they have begun posting the calorie counts along with the prices on their salads and baked goods, making me think they would never sell any of the stuff now. I mean, a teeny little blueberry scone -- and I mean teeny, not one of those bulky triangular things you could use as a doorstop -- for 420 calories? No way, that's like a third of my daily allotment, I thought to myself.

But in line right behind me was a mother/daughter duo. The 20-something daughter peered into the pastry display case and pointed to the very same blueberry scone I had mentally rejected, reporting happily, "Oh, look that's only 420 calories. I'm getting one!" Her mother responded with a thumbs-up, saying, "Me too," and reminding me that it's a miracle we ever see eye-to-eye with anyone, ever.

Hating Haters Gonna Hate

Every so often a new word or phrase becomes insanely popular with the "masses," that collection of unthinking  people (often with leftist leanings) who eschew individual responsibility and instead act as one. This bugs the hell out of me.

For a while now it has been all the rage to answer any kind of criticism or observation that is counter to one's thinking with the vapid and virtually meaningless response, "Haters gonna hate." This is patently ridiculous since one might dislike one thing -- let's say Hillary Clinton's candidacy for president -- and still love many other things, like Greek olives, fuzzy slippers, Maine Coon cats, red wine, foggy mornings, newborn babies, flying First Class, the sound of peepers on a warm  night, the paintings of Matisse, autumn, "The Great Gatsby," classical music, Yellowstone National Park, the ocean, old movies, Thanksgiving dinner, oriental rugs, dahlias, kayaking, hot showers and so on.

Voicing criticism of a shady politician duping a willing, dumb public does not make one a hater, merely a discerning voter. The response to such comments should be more along the lines of, "Oh, I see your opinion differs from mine."

Just the Ticket for Hillary!

Even though I am not very politically savvy, I've come up with the perfect running mate to fill out the Democratic ticket for 2016. Finding just the perfect compliment for Hillary is tough since she is so, you know, supercalifragilisticexpialidocious. But I think I've done it!

He's handsome, young and wildly popular with the masses, who after all do the voting. Not only that, but he is just as dishonest as Hillary and so would have no trouble with the lying, cheating, email-erasing, server-wiping, evasive non-disclosing tactics and evil doings that would be the rule of the day during her administration. Best of all, Hillary, as we all know, although still (allegedly) female, has major balls, huge ones in fact, which is a good thing since this guy's are seriously small, you might even say deflated.

You're right, it's Tom Brady, the recently-disgraced-but-nobody-cares quarterback for the Boston Patriots who is also fabulously rich and married to a beautiful underwear model.  And their campaign slogan is a no-brainer. Here it is shown on a bumper sticker:
HILLARY AND TOM
We've Got Some Balls!

The Days of Our Lives

As a dear friend of mine is fond of saying, "There's no one right way to live." We all have freedom of choice. So just what do people do with their lives? That question plagues some people; I am one of them. On some days I have (mostly unimportant) things I must tend to, and thus have little time to wonder about the meaning of life. Then there are days, like when I am laid low for one reason or another (which seems to be happening more often the older I get), when all I have is time to wonder.

Reading the morning paper provides few answers, since it only reports what people in our particular culture do with themselves. Those tribal people who click instead of talk are likely out chasing down dinner, but for the most part, what passes for living here in America is embarrassingly vapid. Mostly it's shopping, eating, cheering for athletes who earn millions of dollars by chasing some sort of little ball around a field and watching vitriolic politicians stab each other in the back.

Sometimes it's got to do with physical feats of skill and strength, which is at the very least healthier. Like for example, right now at least 1,600 people are planning to hike the Pacific Crest Trail made famous last year, first in a book and then a Hollywood movie ("Wild") starring actress Reese Witherspoon. The 2,650-mile trek from Mexico to Canada usually takes about five months. You just walk and walk and walk every day, and soak your feet each night, and then when it's all over you get to say you did it. It's sort of like climbing Mt. Everest but without the avalanches.

Here are some of the ways that some of the people I know are spending today:
Helping old people die
Selling used furniture
Designing junk mail
Serving food in restaurants
Raising other people's children
Selling advertising
Installing new hip joints
Painting a mural in an office
Planting vegetables
Getting to the airport on time
Walking dogs for money
Gluing tiles on cement walls
Nursing the sick
Touring factories in China
Doing yard work
Paying bills 
Editing the next #1 bestseller

So what are you doing today?






 

A Mysterious Disease

If one is rich and famous, can one still get hives? And if so, what would one do about it? I, being neither rich nor famous, can do nothing but itch. And wonder where they came from and why so many conditions exist that nobody knows the first thing about, but still they can put a man on the moon. If an astronaut got hives en route to the moon, would they come up with a treatment? The very thought is so horrible, of having hives inside of that big puffy suit they have to wear, that I'm sorry I brought it up.

Yes, I have hives, formally known as acute urticaria. And believe me, there is nothing cute about them. They arrived with little fanfare last night at about 8 pm, after I ate a virtuous dinner of a cup of vanilla yogurt with two large strawberries and several handfuls of roasted sunflower seeds, and not hurting anyone. And they are still here today, and I hate them. (If my hives were a person I would push him/her off a cliff.)

Research says they could be with me anywhere from one hour to six weeks. Since it is now tomorrow, I know for sure I don't have the one-hour kind. And though it is a stupid topic and not worthy of my time or yours, when one has hives one thinks of nothing but hives. Sometimes they are caused by eating certain foods, when that's what causes them. Foods you might be eating right now. Watch out, you might be next. Then you'll think back to this blog post and say, "Aha, I get it now."

Those Krazy Kardashians!

Based on the lack of clicks from yesterday's post, apparently nobody wants to read something called "Life is Difficult." So, this being my blog and me having total control, I am posting one with a title expressly aimed at getting people to click. If my theory is right, many more people will want to read about the superficial lives of Hollywood celebrities than the real lives of you and me. I am pretty excited to see the results and will discuss them in tomorrow's post.

Anyway, just as a little something for your trouble, it has come to my attention that the younger Kardashian daughters, whose last names are Jenner like their Dad/Mom, are trying to have their first names copyrighted for "entertainment purposes." Their names are Kylie and Kendall, so if you are pregnant don't name your newborn either of those or you might just end up in an ugly lawsuit.

Life Is Difficult

People endure such bizarre and random hardships, sometimes it's hard to know whether to laugh or cry. For example, of all the injurious lawsuits I am happy to not be embroiled in, the leader is called "Bladder Pelvic Mesh." It sounds funny, but you know it can't be.

As M. Scott Peck wrote in the first line of his best-selling book, "The Road Less Traveled," life is difficult. You've got to accept that truth, grasp it, even applaud it, and then move on, or you will always be suffering. I do know this much: I will likely live a fairly long time, even longer than I already have, based on what I call The Billy Joel Rule: Only the Good Die Young. I might add, also the Brilliant and the Super-talented. I am none of those.

Further evidence of this rule recently occurred with the death of David Goldberg, the 47-year-old CEO of an Internet company called SurveyMonkey, which is quite a big deal I have since learned. Ironically, he died while taking care of himself. On vacation with his family, David was exercising and slipped off a treadmill in a gym, hitting his head and bleeding from a traumatic brain injury. The father of two young children, his wife is also a big deal, being the COO of Facebook. Together the pair made millions, yet were by all accounts the nicest folks you'd ever want to meet.

The line that struck me in David's Wikipedia biography, which I read after hearing of his strange accidental passing, was said by a friend: "One of the truly great people on the planet, Dave was of almost unimaginably remarkable character." How sad that such a man died so young, and for no good reason.

Pretend to Think Spring!

Several weeks ago I ran into a married couple I particularly despise.  There was a time when I pretended to like them for business reasons, but it was always an act. Still, in a civilized society acting is commonplace, and so even though our business ties were severed long ago, I did the polite thing and said hello. To my shock and awe they froze me out, with the wife saying coldly, "You and I have nothing to say to one another." I was stunned, mostly because it was the first time I had ever known her to be right about anything. I walked away, relieved to not have to put on a charade and impressed that she had the chutzpah to say what she did.

If only people were honest about their feelings all the time, life would be so much easier. Instead, pretense is the rule of the day. For example, I could use this forum to write about how I can barely crawl this morning because I walked so much when I was in Manhattan last weekend that I seem to have blown out my knee and can hardly hobble over to the freezer to get a new ice pack. But I won't because that's boring and somewhat of a bummer. Instead I will say that it's a glorious day here in southern Maine, with flowers finally blooming and the sun shining and balmy breezes blowing. Birds are singing, bees pollinating. What a great day to be alive!

The Circus is Coming, the Circus is Coming!

The 2016 presidential hopefuls in full election regalia.

Things are going downhill fast for the Democrats. Unless they pull someone out of that hat where they got Obama last time, our next president will be one of these eager Republican wannabes who are crawling out of the woodwork and flying to their day in the sun faster than the ladybugs in my house that, cooped up all winter, are now excitedly zooming out any open door or window. Just today, two new clown noses were thrown into the ring, and word is there are more to come later this week.

Meanwhile, back at her $2.85 million mansion (just one of her mansions remember) on Embassy Row in Washington, poor Hillary sits, and from the looks of her lately she's got a bag of Fritos on her lap. Her luxurious 5,152 square foot home has four bedrooms and seven bathrooms. Again with all the bathrooms; Chelsea's Manhattan apartment has five and a half of them! What's up with that; are they a family of binge-purgers? (Bill has been looking awfully thin of late.)

Admit it: lying, scheming Hillary looks even worse next to some of these Republicans, each of whom has more to offer. Dr. Ben Carson is waaaaay blacker, Carly Fiorina is a ton better-looking, Jeb Bush is much more ethical (and has a Latino wife!), and Marco Rubio, rumored to be joining the cast, obviously has her beat in the ethnicity department, not to mention she's old enough to be his mother. Mike Huckabee has a powerful and fervent religious nut base, and Chris Christie is even fatter than Hillary, just in case her hidden agenda is to go for the dumpy, frumpy matron vote, which is no small constituency these days, let's be honest.

All in all it's shaping up to be quite a circus for the rest of us to watch. Should be a good time!

Back to My Roots

Dinner in a crazy place.

View from my hotel room.

A trip to New York City puts it all in perspective. It's noisy, crowded. Piles of garbage bags line the sidewalks. Traffic clogs the streets. Restaurants are full, with TV sets blaring from all corners, and music videos playing on huge screens, making conversation impossible. Yet they attract hordes of young people who desperately want to be "out" instead of home alone with their own thoughts. The cafe we squeezed into served unrecognizable foods, some too spicy to actually eat, others too scary-looking.

We just arrived here yesterday so it's too soon to pass judgement, but it seems to me that the city of my birth has gotten even fuller over the years, quite a feat for such a tiny island. It blocks out more sky with newer, higher buildings, obliterates empty space with more shops and restaurants and cafes and bistros and street vendors, and there's noticeably more garbage, everywhere.

There is still sky somewhere.

We are staying in a "4-star" hotel, which is the least number of stars my travel-savvy husband finds acceptable, yet it is still what Bette Davis must have meant when she famously uttered the line, "What a dump!" I won't name names, but let's just say that the still-warm chocolate-chip cookie you are handed at check-in is the high point. (The low point was the shower this morning that felt more like being spat upon by a giant.)

I know: here she goes again, complain, complain. But we are seeing a "smash" Broadway show later today and I have high hopes for a good time. And the weather is perfect. And best of all, the whole place makes me miss Maine.