The Hormone Free, Gluten Free, Paleo Friendly, Low Glycemic, Dairy Free, Best Sex of Your Life Diet

These days all the rage is to lose weight and look younger and have great sex and eat all you want and most of all, not harm the planet and avoid anything artificial and certainly don't pollute or hurt any animals in the process of becoming a better person. And above all else, eat Paleo. You know, like the cavemen did. Like those cavemen were so great, grunting at each other and inventing fire and scratching symbols into rocks with other rocks.

Through no fault of our own--actually it was my husband's fault since he joined CrossFit and ended up on some mailing list--we started receiving a magazine called Paleo Magazine: Modern Day Primal Living. It is a hoot and I suggest you run right out and get a copy to keep in the bathroom. All the ads for all the fattening foods just have the word Paleo in front of the foods, and then they are healthy. I mean really, what kind of a dummy would eat a regular brownie when he or she could eat a Paleo brownie?

The magazine tells you all about how to live a Paleo lifestyle. In a nutshell, and by the way nuts are very Paleo, this is how: You just say something about cave men or being primal or evolution or lacking gluten first, then eat it. Here are a few examples from ads in the magazine:

Delicious Paleo meals delivered right to your door, made with organic foods and primal integrity!

Release your Inner Caveman and evolve into your potential with our 100% Paleo diet-compliant Beef Jerky

Paleo Wraps: A convenient, tortilla alternative for your Paleo Lifestyle (shelf life nine months).

Primal Care Skin Balm is totally biologically compatible with your skin and has only two ingredients: Tallow from grass-fed buffalo and organic jojoba oil.

There are also ads for the following products: Paleo Eats; Paleo Simplified Energy Bar; Primal Pit Paste: The all-natural deodorant, killing the odor without killing your body; Caveman Cookies; Paleo Treats (not to be confused with Paleo Eats); Paleo Pasta; Steve's Paleogoods; Paleo Bread--Fulfills your craving for bread while living a Paleo lifestyle; Paleo People--Snacks you can evolve with; Paleo on the Go, delivering Gourmet Paleo Meals; and the Stone Age Diner.

Besides promoting a healthy, Paleo lifestyle, the magazine is also quite educational. For example, who knew cavemen used deodorant? I for one did not.

Some Memories Never Fade

Illustration by Gordon Studer

A long time ago, in what feels like a galaxy very far away, I lived in Berkeley, California. I rented a small house that I shared with a friend. In another house behind ours on the same property, our landlord lived with his wife and baby daughter. He was sort of a crazy dude about my age, who also worked as an auto mechanic. I can hardly remember anything about him, other than this one event that occupies quite a bit of real estate in my brain. It appears in multiple files under the letter "P," cropping up whenever I think about pornography, parenting, pot or policemen. As you can imagine, that can be several times a week in today's madcap society.

The guy--I don't even remember his name but somebody who reads this might--had a friend he wanted me to meet and invited me over to dinner for a "fix-up" one Friday night. When I arrived I was stunned to see a giant screen, the kind people used to show home movies on, set up at one end of the living room; projected onto it was a porno movie of the lowest caliber. I remember there was a plumber involved, and it was very explicit, showing all kinds of sodomy, etc. Despite that, nobody was looking at it. Besides me. I worried about the baby seeing those images. I asked my landlord's wife--I guess that would have made her my landlady--about it, and she said, "Oh, that's always on. Pete (or whatever is name was) finds it relaxing. It's like wallpaper; just ignore it."

My date arrived shortly after I did. He was a cop with the San Francisco police force who looked just like Robert Redford. I never much cared for Redford so that was not as big a deal to me as it might have been to some other women, but still, he wasn't ugly. And since I had never dated a cop it was sort of intriguing, at the same time being a major turn-off. I wondered what he would think of the pornographic wallpaper. Within minutes, after the introductions had been made, he offered everyone a joint of some "really good pot" and I realized he likely would not care. That was in 1982 and I still have not discarded that memory. But don't ask me what I did last weekend.

A Real Horror Show

When I was five I was called to the principal's office for a minor infraction. The night before the meeting, I quivered in fear. My mother told me to remember that nobody was any better than anyone, and that the principal was just another person, and that I should think of him sitting on the toilet, just like everyone else. I did. It worked! I've been doing that ever since, and have yet to meet anyone intimidating. Try it. Imagine the Pope, with his silken, embroidered robes, sitting on the toilet. Does he remove that pointy hat? Do his robes get all dirty from dragging on the floor? You see what happens.

Somehow, magically, ordinary people gain superstar status and are considered to be better than the rest of us. Many of them have bodyguards to protect them from the adoring masses. I am still stymied over the success of singer Justin Bieber, comedienne Joy Behar and late-night talk show host Conan O'Brien, three celebrities who seem to lack anything special besides a good publicist. But the biggest mystery to me is that according to a new poll out yesterday, "six percent of likely New York Democratic voters think Anthony Weiner has really strong moral character." Now that's scary.

What's For Lunch?

Gregory Hines, 1946-2003

About an hour ago I was happily driving along listening to music on my car radio when it ended rather abruptly and the news came on. Or rather, the "breaking news." The breaking news today was that Barack Obama was having lunch with Hillary Clinton. They were going to "catch up" since they have not seen each other in awhile. They were going to eat grilled chicken and pasta jambalaya.

Here's what I have to say about that. I don't care, and it's none of my business, but I think it is tacky to serve Hillary pasta when she is obviously battling a weight problem. I also don't understand how that comes under the category of news, breaking or otherwise. Who needs to know that, besides the White House chef? Nobody, that's who. So what is news? Earthquakes, tornadoes, alien invasions, war, mass murder, epidemics, poison in the water, deaths of world leaders, the disappearance of Air Force One in flight, talking dogs. Certainly not lunch between any two people I can think of, unless of course it is me and Gregory Hines. Now that would be news. (He's dead.)

Politicians are not supposed to be celebrities. They are supposed to be civil servants. I hope they are not taking a long lunch, because Obama has a job and this is a work day.

It's a Wonder Anyone Gets Along

Choose one from each of the following pairs. Give yourself two points for each correct answer, one point if you fall somewhere in the middle. Remember, there is only one right answer!

introvert, extrovert

good, evil

love, hate

Christian, Jew

black, white

rich, poor

young, old

tall, short

Republican, Democrat

pothead, drunk

fat, thin

manic, depressed

gay, straight
parent, childless
smart, stupid

dead, alive

married, single

New Yorker, everyone else
cat person, dog person

vegetarian, carnivore
leader, follower
religious zealot, atheist 

Weiner's Complaint?

I never read Portnoy's Complaint, much to my husband's dismay. He still bugs me to read it every now and then, especially since I am Jewish and I have a son, and the book sits right there on our bookshelves. I tell him I am not interested in the whining of some sexually frustrated Mama's boy, even if he is a Jew. I tell him, you know, just because I'm Jewish it doesn't mean I embrace the whole thing. Like, for example, I have never been to Israel and, despite urging by my friend David who moved there years ago and swears I would love it, I am simply not interested. It seems too hot, too dry, and too full of people wearing drapery as clothing. Basically, if I might add without incurring the Wrath of Khan, it's too Jewish.

Until quite recently I have been proud of my Jewish heritage. We're smart, creative and funny, and we hardly ever become criminals. (Okay, there was Son of Sam, but accidents do happen.) Let's face it, without Jews the world would be a pretty dull place, not to mention wracked with disease. Imagine: No Mel Brooks or Woody Allen! The entire score of West Side Story-- gone! Polio rampant! No E=MC squared, whatever that means! No Hershey's Kisses! And of course, try to get through even one day without uttering, "Oy!"

But now we have Anthony Weiner and I must say, he's dragging us down. In fact, I am downright embarrassed to even be a Jew these days. I can't imagine what is wrong with the man; perhaps it is akin to the complaint Philip Roth describes in his novel about Portnoy. I might have to read that book after all, but believe me, I won't like it.

Be Sure to Read the Small Print

Illustration by Gordon Studer

Yesterday an FDA report was released saying, "there is adequate data to suggest that menthol use is likely associated with increased smoking initiation by younger people and that menthol smokers have a harder time quitting," so I suppose I could be sort of proud for giving them up seven years ago after smoking only menthol cigarettes since age17.

Now, staring me in the face is a full-page ad on the back of a magazine for Newport cigarettes. The big, bold orange headline says, "Newport pleasure!" above a photo of four attractive young people cavorting in the ocean with a beach ball. The two young women in bikinis and two young men in trunks all have beautiful bodies. Underneath are pictures of the four kinds of Newports that are available, all of which are deemed to be "Rich & Refreshing. The Perfect Menthol!" A line of almost invisible, teeny, tiny print at the bottom of the ad reads: "These cigarettes do not present a reduced risk of harm compared to other cigarettes."

Now that's what I call stretching the truth in advertising.

What About Us?

I just found out, sort of by accident while reading about something else, that there is an official term for people who are comfortable with their gender assigned at birth. If you are one of those people who does not want to alter your gender, you are cisgendered, which is the opposite of transgendered. This term exists so that transgendered people don't think they are in the wrong-- they're just another group of people.

Can political correctness get any more ridiculous? That's sort of like feeling sorry for people who can see just fine without glasses. Imagine the shame: they have perfect vision! No wonder they all run around in glasses with no prescription in them--they just want to be like everyone else. And what about this: I have always wanted better hair--smoother, and not frizzy in summer. Hey, don't laugh, I can't help it! It hurts--a lot--especially when I see those TV ads showing lustrous, silky hair. What about us, the ones with the frizzies? Are we ever given the respect we deserve? No, not at all. We are mocked, always mocked. We need a support group, and possibly our own public restroom.
 

Happy Friggin' Birthday, Again

Cakes are fattening, and at a certain point pose a fire hazard.

Birthdays are such a burden in a marriage. Not only do you get a year older, but if it's not your birthday you have to come up with a gift for your spouse. Why that is I'm not sure, since the celebrant did absolutely nothing of merit and was simply expelled from the birth canal many years ago, in this case more than half a century. Big deal, like he even had a choice. Plus the fact everyone hates getting older and would lie about their ages like we did years ago before that damned Internet made it impossible. It seems to me that birthdays should just come and go quietly without a peep, but thanks to Facebook that is also impossible, and Mitch being such a great guy, I'm betting he gets more than a few of those automatic "Happy Birthdays!" in his news stream tomorrow.

He's not getting this....

Yes, tomorrow is my husband's birthday. The only thing he wants is the same thing he always wants and never gets: a motorcycle. As usual I think of surprising him with one, and this year I even did some shopping around, but then I think how sad and ironic it would be if he were in a crash; how would I feel? On the one hand, if he died I would get quite a windfall from his life insurance policy, which pays double if the death is accidental. But what if he doesn't die and instead is simply maimed, or lingers in a vegetative state for years? Surely we can all agree that would be a bummer.

...or this.

So now I'm back to square one, wondering what to get for someone who already has everything. I could make a donation to his favorite charity, but let's face it, how much fun is that for the birthday boy? If it were winter I could get him a sweater--he does not own even one--but in summer, getting a sweater is a big fat drag and only spells delayed gratification. If he were a normal person I'd bake him a cheesecake or an apple pie, both of which are my specialty, but since he's committed to always "eating well," he'd likely take it as an insult.

I guess I'll do the usual out-to-dinner, bottle-of-fancy-wine and dumb-drugstore-greeting-cards and call it a day.

The Royal Pizza Face

The Duchess of Cambridge, who for some reason is still called Kate Middleton, is having her baby today. Or else she's already had it, since London is five hours later than we are. A giant pizza has been created in her honor by some important chef over there: a portrait, in tomato sauce, of the Prince and the Princess holding the Royal Baby. It's a plain pizza, with just red sauce and cheese. Further research led me to photos of the more detailed pizza that was made depicting the Royal Couple at their wedding last year, or whenever. That one had all sorts of vegetables and bits of ham and mushrooms and olives adding shading, and even though it was not flattering, still it was a pizza picture of the two of them. It made me suspect there is a mental illness afoot in Great Britain, possibly caused by something in the water, or maybe those greenish, hard-boiled eggs floating in giant jars of brine they have in all the pubs. How else to explain such things?

The estimated number of births worldwide is 252 per minute, or 4.2 births every second, yet only one of those babies will have its portrait in a pizza. It just doesn't seem fair. You'd think some other baby might be able to get like a big cupcake with its picture in frosting, or maybe peanut butter on bread--something. It just seems wrong that only one baby out of so many that are born should get the special honor of being depicted in food.

I asked my husband how he feels about all this and he said, dejectedly, "I haven't been doing my double-unders." I thought it was a British expression until he explained that double-unders are a CrossFit exercise he's not very good at that he was supposed to be practicing. (Sometimes Mitch can be so self-absorbed, it's not funny.)