Clint Made My Day

So he's sort of old, even for 82, I'll give you that. And a bit eccentric, as most of those super-talented, wildly creative Hollywood types are. But Clint Eastwood walked onstage at the Republican National Convention last week and got people talking, and they still are. Amid all of his entertaining tomfoolery and jokes, which offered a welcome breather from the somber and oh-so-serious tone of the parade of puffed-up politicians preceding him, Clint uttered one sterling truth that resonated throughout the land, no doubt, and I am paraphrasing here: "Our government works for us. If you hire someone and they don't do the job, you gotta let them go."

It's so clear-cut. Look around. Things are a mess. Who's in charge here?

The Special K Challenge: Hope and Change

The first day of a new month always feels good to dieters. Just like every Monday morning and New Year's Day, it holds the promise of those elusive twins we all constantly seek, hope and change. Laden with untapped will power, even though it is really just the day after yesterday, a new month is magical if only for a short period of time--sometimes just until later that same day. However, if we keep our minds insanely focused on that one thing only, it can last longer. After all, just look at Jennifer Hudson, the formerly fat singer who became a spokesperson for Weight Watchers and is now in our faces 24/7, showing off her new svelte body ad nauseum. (Enough already, Jennifer, we get it, you lost weight, you look fantastic, good for you--now shut up and sing.)

Anyway, this time, it being the first day of September, I am determined to harness the inherent power of this brand new, unused month. I have often joked that I have been trying to lose three pounds for the last five years, or maybe it's five pounds for the last three years. Whatever, it's ridiculous--after all, who's in charge here? So today, on this first day of September, I am taking the Special K Challenge and declaring war on those three or five pounds, and then some. By the time I cast my vote this November they will be gone, and by Inauguration Day next January, I'm hoping even more will be gone, including Barack and Michelle. (I can dream, can't I?)

What's So Funny

Earlier this week I interviewed for a sales position at the L. L. Bean store during the upcoming holiday season. Assuming I was a shoo-in, I was virtually stunned when I was not hired, for reasons unknown. Until yesterday, when I got a call from a nice lady from Human Resources. She was calling to "debrief," and also to get some feedback about their hiring process. I gladly obliged, sharing with her my thoughts that the whole thing reminded me of the time I tried out for the popular TV game show called Password, back when I was in college. I didn't get picked then either, having been deemed "too serious" and "very knowledgeable, but not sympathetic to audiences." And that was when I was only 20, and much better-looking.

Illustration by Paul Dwyer

This time it turned out that the main reason I wasn't chosen to stand on my feet all day long behind a cash register was because I was considered to be "too funny." Confused, since I had been raised to believe that laughter is the best medicine, I researched the concept of humor online and learned that people can be considered "funny" in the following ways: by behaving in an unusual manner, by being in an unusual place or by being the wrong size. Naturally I am wondering which one of those applies to me, and hoping it was not the one about size.

Apparently my "great humor" was thought to be "possibly too much" for the customers and my co-workers. However, the nice lady suggested--no, insisted--that I come in next week to the corporate headquarters and interview for a different job, as it was also noted on my chart that I was a "great candidate." Of course I'm going, if for no other reason than to see what kind of positions they offer where a sense of humor is permitted.

Pointless Political Analysis

Note the missing lips.

There are so many things I would not want to do for a living that it's impossible to list them all. But the top ten are easy: Soldier, beekeeper, prison guard, tax accountant, jockey, dog catcher, gynecologist, professional athlete, ballerina and politician. If I had to be any of them, I guess I would--except for the last. It seems to me that being a politician is about the worst job in the world.

Let's take a closer look: You have no privacy. You have total strangers dissecting every aspect of how you look, how you behave, who you are married to, and even how much you pay in taxes. The media whores -- dammit, I did it again, I mean hordes -- eat you for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Imagine having the likes of Gloria Borger and James Carville ripping you to shreds on CNN! Or worse, Rachel Maddow and Chris Matthews! It sucks, plain and simple. So who wants such a job? The power-hungry, the insecure, and the bossy, obnoxious know-it-alls. That's who we get to choose from at election time; no wonder it's so tough.

Once you grok that the choices are limited to the imperfect, it's easier to relax and enjoy the show. Last night I watched a bit of the Republicans Trumpeting in Tampa, and it was appalling and amusing at the same time. Mike Huckabee, who was once fat and then lost a lot of weight when he ran for and didn't get the nomination four years ago is fat again. I also am pretty sure his eyebrows are painted on. Anyway, he didn't do the party any favors with his fire and brimstone, evoking God and the big A and all. He comes off like a circus barker and I am guessing he is in it for the power. Also saw Condoleezza Rice, and I wondered why she has never fixed that gap in her teeth and also why her name has two Zs when one would suffice. Anyway, she is definitely black and definitely female, so there goes the argument that the Republicans are bigots who are at war with women.

Next came Paul Ryan, the actual nominee for Veep, and he looked like a kid who had gotten lost on his way to a Boy Scout meeting. "Golly gee, let's win this thing, we can do better," seemed to be his message, a combination of insecurity and bossy know-it-allness. The most fascinating thing about him is the fact that when he smiles or frowns, his lips disappear entirely and turn into a line on his face. (See photo.) I wonder what that means. Must watch CNN to find out.

Mitt Romney's Wife

I watched some of the Republican National Convention last night, and I'd like to talk about what really matters: Ann Romney, wife of the nominee, is 63, but she looked like a 25-year-old Miss America contestant while she was giving her speech, with camera close-ups dead-on center and unswerving. Then afterwards, when you saw her sitting in the audience with a side camera angle, it was like The Picture of Dorian Gray: her wrinkles were back! WTF? Did she have a pre-speech facelift that lasted only 45 minutes? Or maybe some last minute Botox injections? What was it? How did she do that? I want that. (But not if it hurts.)

Note to Self: Must Go Bear Hunting

This morning I went to an interview at L. L. Bean to be a "seasonal employee" at their Freeport store, just three miles from my home. I thought it would be a hoot and give me an up-close view of normal people, something I am not but hope to be someday. And even though I have been hired in the past by The Ronald McDonald House, The Washington Post, The Washington Star, The Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts, U.S. News & World Report, Time-Life Books, The Washington Times, The Oakland Tribune, The Deseret News, the Democratic National Committee, the U. S. Chamber of Commerce, The Corcoran School of Art, the Salt Lake City Public Schools, and various bookstores and department stores and garden shops and summer camps, I was not deemed worthy to sell clothing and tote bags and chocolate-covered maple candies and cookies in the shape of boots and moose to tourists in search of a take-home trinket or two.

The interview process was run like a game show. There were eight contestants, and we were all competing against one another. We each had to answer the same questions, which was easy if you were the first but harder if you came last since there was basically only one answer to the question, and seven people had already said it by the time it got me. Then you had to sell something to the group--I got a pair of socks--and also work as a team member to solve a problem. I'm pretty sure I passed all that with flying colors. Where I fell down was in describing my outdoor expertise, especially since one lady had just returned from a weekend of bear hunting with her husband and another guy spent a week ocean kayaking with his bird-watching wife, and a young woman was in Greece picking olives on organic farms for three months, and suddenly my oil paintings and vegetable garden did not seem very impressive. And then they asked us to describe a time in the past when we had worked on a computer and had to also answer phones and deal with customers at the same time, and I had nothing. Nada. Never. And I guess now I never will, since they said they "would not be offering me a position in their retail store," but suggested I apply to work in their corporate offices. Feh--been there, done that, not doing that.

So once again I failed as one of the masses, something I desperately want to experience. Maybe in my next life.

Drawing a Line

Ouch and yikes! Whatever was this lady thinking?

Two seemingly unrelated facts: Fact #1, whenever I inadvertently get ink on my skin--like if I drop a felt tip pen and it grazes my bare leg, or if I clumsily grab a Bic pen  and it makes a mark on my hand, I am on a tear to wash it off. It's bad enough that the once-pristine skin I arrived with as a baby has suffered so much abuse just by living, so I try  to treat it right by applying lotions and creams and salves and ointments as necessary. Fact #2, I fear pain. I also shun it, eschew it, and hide in closets from it, leaving even a nasty splinter just where it is until it works itself out, avoiding all injections unless I will die without them, and certainly only giving blood when it's immoral or illegal not to do so. These two facts combine to make me the opposite of a likely candidate for a tattoo, and may explain why I am stunned, repulsed, horrified and dismayed by their absurd rise in popularity lately.

I asked one young woman whose arms and neck were covered with all sorts of flowers, hearts, dragons, snakes and swords, done in that dark green and blue and magenta and black that look like the onset of gangrene, why she chose to go that route. Her puzzling explanation: She wanted to set herself apart from others, to be special and unique. "Hey lady," I wanted to shout, "did you forget you have a face?" Naturally I didn't--I just paid for my bottle of water and pack of gum--this was in a convenience store, where apparently every employee needs several tattoos just to be hired--and left, then rushed home and sprinkled some Neutrogena Light Sesame Oil onto my arms and legs as a reward for being bare.

Admittedly some young women with tattoos look good now, but when they get to be grannies...oy vay.

Don't Worry, Be Happy

All kidding aside, this book helps!

Long ago, in my twenties--another lifetime, it seems-- I was married to someone else. This person was not big into compassion. When I admitted to being depressed and needing to talk, his sole recommendation was, "Cheer up!" At the time I thought that was stupid, superficial and actually impossible advice to follow. But now, according to an article in today's Wall Street Journal, it turns out to be exactly what one should do. Go figure.

According to several unnamed experts, whenever you are feeling down you should engage in "self-compassion" by being optimistic. (Hey, why didn't I think of that?) Among the suggested activities is the simple act of changing all your computer passwords to boost your self-esteem with self-affirming messages that you will read many times a day. You are also supposed to calmly tell yourself, "Stop," when you have negative thoughts, send yourself a Valentine's Day card on any day you please, and make a list each night of the good and bad things that happened that day; "The good list should get longer, and the bad shorter." Another expert--this one with a name and the author of a book called "Rainy Brain, Sunny Brain"-- advises you hold a pencil horizontally in your mouth to activate the same muscles that are used when smiling. Here is my list of the good and bad things so far for today:

BAD
1. Read a dumb article in the Wall Street Journal

GOOD
1. Had a great cup of coffee
2. Changed my computer password to "youareyoungthinandsexy"
3. Ordered several boxes of No. 2 yellow pencils
4. Cancelled subscription to Wall Street Journal

Political Parties Partying Hard

The Republican National Convention is scheduled to begin tomorrow in Tampa, a day late because of a hurricane that narrowly missed it. Too bad, if you ask me; I guess God is a Republican after all. But if a tornado rips through the Democratic Convention city of Charlotte, North Carolina next week, my belief in Him will be restored. Who knows, I might even start going to church every Sunday morning. Trust me; I earned my disdain for these gargantuan political parties honestly. In 1979 I began a year-long stint working for the Democratic National Committee in Washington, D.C., culminating in the Big Moment: The 1980 Democratic National Convention.

My job as a graphic designer was to help create and produce all the printed propaganda that would be distributed during the four-day event, including a book about the party's history, the daily convention newsletter and various pamphlets and flyers about Jimmy Carter, the incumbent, and the party's platform. I was over the moon with excitement, especially since at the time I still wore the blinders put on me at birth by my parents and had no idea there was anything else to be but a Democrat. To say that the 1980 convention "opened my eyes" is not only hackneyed, it's true.

Six weeks before the big event, the whole staff moved up to New York City and set up shop directly across from Madison Square Garden at New York's Statler Hotel, a one-time grand dame slowly sliding into rat-trap status when we arrived. Like my innocence, the Statler is long gone, and I think that very Convention took both of us down. As the girlfriend of a married man high on the organizational chart, one of my toughest jobs at the Convention was to make myself scarce whenever his wife flew into town--fortunately a rare occurrence. (Hey, I'm not proud, but after all, I was not married, and besides, his wife didn't understand him.) I also had to troop around the Garden helping figure out where things would go and how many balloons might fall here vs. there, and help out in the printing office and go out to a lot of clubs late at night in the big black limo provided by the D.N.C. for staff use. My alliance with A Big Guy at the Convention gave me access to some of the back room wheeling and dealing, mostly involving the illegal printing of extra floor passes for Teddy Kennedy's people to pressure the delegates, a few of the fancy parties with rich donors and richer food, and the persistent and ongoing snorting of cocaine in restaurant bathrooms. (That last thing didn't get talked about too much.)

I found the whole mad scene depressing and decidedly unrelated to who would ultimately occupy the White House.  Always one to shield my eyes from roadside accidents and gruesome scenes in horror movies, I left my post after the opening night, suspecting that the drunken orgies were bound to worsen since all the hard work was over. With a last look at the crazy hats and jingoistic placards, bright lights and media whores--oops, I mean hordes-- and the insane posturing of little wigs hoping to grow into big wigs, I trained it back to Washington and an emergency shrink session to dissect my disappointment at the whole corrupt bacchanal. He shrugged and said, "I'm surprised you expected more," then suggested I read a book called "Men in Groups" by Lionel Tiger about male bonding. I didn't, but maybe I should.

Dogs Are People Too

Last night my husband and I made the dubious choice of going out for ice cream. I say "dubious" for two reasons: one, because that is exactly what it was, and two, the word gets too little use and it's a good one. We live about two miles from one of those soft-serve custard stands that is open only in summer, and so we feel almost as if it is our civic duty to frequent the establishment just to keep it in business for all the tourists, or so we tell ourselves.

Anyway, we went and had our fill, and it would have been a lovely outing except for one thing, and that was an adorable dog who was with a threesome at the outdoor table next to ours. One of those Little Orphan Annie dogs with the curly hair, he sat at military attention, staring straight into his owner's eyes, hoping, praying for a drop of whatever delectable treat she and her two teenage sons were enjoying. He got none, of course, despite my purposely audible observation that he looked like such a good dog and where was his treat, etc., etc. It got me wondering about the time-worn adage, "A dog is man's best friend." Look around and see how they get treated, and then consider if you would treat your best friend that way.

Begin your investigation at any supermarket parking lot, where the insistent howls, yelps, moans and whines from all the "best friends" locked inside cars, each with a window left open of course, fill the air. (I find that sound haunting me as I walk the aisles.) I no longer have a dog of my own--or a best friend--but when I did, I never locked either of them in the car for even a moment. You can also find Man's Best Friend tied up outside of shops and restaurants, or dragging along in the summer heat behind bikers and joggers or trapped in cages at the vet's office where they've been parked for a few days or weeks while the family goes on vacation.

Earlier this summer, on a particularly hot day, I took a walk with my neighbor and her "best friend." Polly had not brought a water bottle for herself and seemed fine, but the dog was clearly dehydrated after the first mile or so. I inquired about this, and Polly said, "Oh, he had a drink at home before we left. He's fine." (I gave him my water which he lapped up greedily.) I tell you, most dog owners give friendship a bad name.

Use Your Words, People

When I went to buy gas earlier I was in a pretty good mood. After all, nobody had shot at me, I had not been diagnosed with a disfiguring disease, and the number on the scale at my daily weigh-in was well below the danger zone. I had the radio on and one of my favorite songs was playing. I pulled up to the pump and turned off the engine, ready to jump out and pump, when I noticed that the driver facing me at the adjacent gas pump was just sitting there, head in hands, looking very upset. She made no move to get out and pump gas, and all of a sudden I thought she might be having a stroke or something, so I went over to investigate. It turned out to be someone I knew--not a friend really but certainly more than a casual acquaintance, as she had owned the cafe next door to my consignment shop where I had worked every day for almost a year, and I often had lunched at her place. "June, are you okay? Is anything wrong?" She was quite exasperated as she answered, "You pulled your car up so far I couldn't reach the pump. I was just waiting for you to pull back, but I was just waiting...."

I HATE THAT! It's like when you go into the supermarket and you are not paying attention to every single other person in the store and what their needs might be and you stop to get something off a shelf and inadvertently block someone who is trying to get past you, but they don't say anything like, "Excuse me, may I get past," or "Might I just scoot my cart by yours" or "I need to get by you" or ANY FUCKING THING AT ALL, they just stand there, pissed off and sighing, rolling their eyes, and then when you finally do notice, you have to APOLOGIZE like you committed a crime. What is the deal with that? As I always say in those situations, "Try talking...it works every time."

I think this is why there are so many random mass shootings lately.