As Good as It Gets

Not since my senior prom have I had this much cosmetic attention.

Today, I had a pedicure ("Japanese Rose Garden").  And a manicure.  ("Clear".  There is never any point to painting my fingernails in colors, since it wouldn't last through a single preparation of chicken Vesuvio.)

I had my eyebrows dyed, too, so that they are now visible without a blacklight.  And as the piece de resistance, I got my hair cut.  ("Gwyneth Paltrow!" exclaimed my husband.) 

As if. 

The reason for all the fuss?  Monday morning I fly out to the cicada-ridden East Coast of the United States for the week of my son's graduation from college (magna cum laude, thank you).  The events include various ceremonies and receptions, as well as a formal ball (!) on Friday night.  Which will probably translate into a lot of standing around, trying not to get too drunk.  But I will look fabulous doing it.  Oh, yes.  I will.  Or at least as fabulous as I can without surgical intervention.

And no sensible shoes.  I am not walking.  Anywhere.

I can say, without reservation, that I deserve this little lapse of fiscal accountability.  Because for a major part of the last 20 years, I have been taking care of old and/or sick people.  And I have earned a respite.

My father-in-law, my husband's maiden aunt, my son and now my mother, plus a two-year stint as a Certified Activities Director in a hospital.  Had I known that life was going to proffer me these opportunities, I would have studied nursing, although "nurse" was definitely last on my list of what I wanted to be when I grew up, there being no Disney Princess who got her start in nursing.

But life had other ideas.  It often does.  And life doesn't bother to ask you if you're "feeling it".  Which, for the most part, I was not.

This is why I haven't written anything lately on what it's like to be an underpaid and undervalued employee for a company that sucks.  Or on taking the train home at night with the lovebugs returning from "Jersey Boys" (this year it's "Oklahoma", thank God), or a Cubs game.

Being in the constant company of old and/or sick people tends not to be much fun.  As a result, there is often much crankiness that happens on both sides of the caregiving, requiring no small amount of enlightened thinking on the part of the caregiver, the caregive-ee being more or less exempt.  I've never been long on enlightened thinking, so it's been a bit of a bumpy road at times.  But I've learned a few things from my experiences over the years, such as:

1. Get over your childhood trauma.  Fast. 
2. Be ready for the role-reversal.  And the accompanying resentment;
3. Plan on gaining 10 lbs.  Your free-time will be spent too emotionally exhausted to do anything not totally self-indulgent.  Size up.  This is no time for discipline;
4. Go out every chance you get.  My current situation (mom) is within a block of two quality resale stores.  Can I get an "amen"?
5. Be prepared to take the blame.  For everything.  The Miami Heat's lack of bonhomie, even;
6. Don't try to make them happy.  You won't.  They don't feel good.  They're not happy;
7. Bribe your friends to put up with you.  Because you need them, a lot.  Because you'll be complaining.  A lot;
8. Learn to love television.  Even Fox News.  You have the right to go drink quietly in the corner during Hallmark Made-for-TV movies and episodes of "Katie";
9. Be flexible when it comes to personal grooming.  Theirs.  Not yours;
10. Learn to be quiet.  Sometimes it's your best defense.

I will be taking next week off.  Do not forsake me.  On Monday, I fly east and spend two glorious days by myself with a book, a bottle of wine, and a smoking section.  On Wednesday, my husband and daughter will come in by train, and together we will throw ourselves into a social whirl as Gatsby-esque as we are ever likely to encounter in this lifetime.  I am armed and ready to partake in the frivolity with my manicure, pedicure, eyebrows, Gwyneth Paltrow's hair, nice dresses, and cute shoes.  I will also be carrying a gorgeous Furla bag I found in a thrift store yesterday.  For 20 bucks. 

And that, my friends, is as good as it gets.

My Grey Hair, Part 5 - The Cure

I'm a little perturbed today.

 

I was all set to write an essay about having the trim on my house painted after three years of threatening my husband with divorce.  To be fair, the fact that our house (which resides on a very nice suburban block of more-or-less upscale homes) looks like the hideout in "Fargo" may not be entirely his fault.  I confess that my own DNA does not encode the genetic instructions for home decor, and marrying someone similarly afflicted may account for the ability of our marriage to withstand 32 years of jazz.

 

Still, a suburban house is a different world from a Chicago apartment, and we have never perfected that particular transition, much - I'm sure - to the chagrin of our neighbors, who are probably not indifferent to their property values.  Truly, I was beginning to fear the possibility of being left a decapitated squirrel in our mailbox as fair warning.

 

But while Googling the phrase "curb appeal", I somehow sidetracked onto an article about how science has happened upon "a cure" for grey hair.  Three things crossed my mind:

1. "Oh, boy!"
2. "Gotta find something else to write about."
3. "Wait.  Why does grey hair need to be 'cured'"?

As a society, have we all come to the agreement that just being older than 40 is categorically a disease?  Will that lead to religious fanatics encouraging us to "pray away the grey"?  Are old people acceptable only so long as they pay tribute to young people by trying to look like them?  It is in tribute only, an acknowledgement of their superiority in social rank, much like a beta wolf licking the whiskers of the alpha.  Because - just so you know - old people do not look like young people no matter what they do, and they rarely look better for the effort. 

 

The article put hair dye manufacturers on notice, which may be premature.  Upon hearing of this scientific discovery, my husband commented, "That's nothing.  Wait until they invent a pill that makes you go blond."  And he has a point.  As soon as their natural hair color starts showing up again, women will promptly rush to change it.  So the hair dye manufacturers shouldn't lose any sleep.

 

The immense irony of it all is what the scientists have found to be the reason why hair turns grey.  Hair turns grey as a result of a massive accumulation of hydrogen peroxide.  Yes, that's the same hydrogen peroxide that has traditionally been used to bleach human hair.  How about that?   Human hair naturally bleaches itself as we grow older!  And yet...

 

...and yet, finishing that thought would make me despair for the whole of humanity.  Let me just reiterate that hair dye manufacturers don't need to worry about their paychecks.  I, however, do worry about any further developmental progress possibly being made on the part of the natives of this planet, and will add this to my list of why we are doomed.

 

Speaking of blond, I - who consider myself (erroneously, it seems) to be generally conversant with standard English - learned that "blond" is an adjective, the nouns being blond (masculine) and blonde (feminine).  The same is true of brunet/brunette.  Which explains what I have been considering to be an oddity of Spell Check.  Whenever something like this happens, I want to go back in time to correct all of my schoolwork.  I'm weird that way.

 

Too bad the same obsessive/compulsive impulse hasn't carried over to redecorating our house, although I finally see signs of it happening with my husband.  This morning he referred to his efforts to lose some weight as something to increase his "curb appeal". 

 

The neighbors will love that.

 

 

Ageing Gracefully

I ask myself, "Is such a thing possible?"  And hope the answer is, "Yes."  Longevity is a mixed blessing in most cases.  The good part is that you are still alive.  The bad part is that you are a hot mess. 

 

And that takes some getting used to.

 

The years that the modern sciences of health and nutrition have managed to add to our life expectancy are unfortunately tacked on to the end of our lives, as opposed to the middle part, which is arguably the more fun.  I suppose one could make a case - with the right diet, exercise, cosmetics, and/or surgical procedures - for 50 being the new 30, but anybody who takes this line of thinking for real is seriously delusional.  The young hipster at the bar who buys you a drink does not consider you attractive;  he considers you a potential sugar mama.  Or he wants to hit on your niece.  Or he's just really weird.  Lest we forget ourselves, let us pause here to give some consideration to the sagacity of Mother Nature's Grand Design.

 

Life, per Nature, can be divided into three main parts:

1. Youth, the years of learning;
2. Fertility, the years of breeding;
3. Old age, the years of wisdom.

As applied to the female sex, this translates into:

1. Childhood.  The search for a boyfriend.  Hopefully one who doesn't pull hair or spit a lot;
2. Motherhood.  The search for a lawful mate.  Hopefully one who is financially solvent.  And who doesn't pull hair and spit a lot;
3. Post-menopausehood.  The search for someone to express astonishment when you tell them how old you are.  Bonus points if this person doesn't pull hair or spit a lot.

As applied to the male sex, this translates into:

1. Childhood.  No Viagra;
2. Manhood.  No Viagra;
3. Geezerhood.  Viagra.  Should the opportunity present itself.  Which it won't.

Sucks, doesn't it?

 

But this is what Nature intended, which is why she has preserved the fertility of the male way past any other useful purpose he might serve.  A woman past her fertile years is still a valuable commodity to have hanging around the Neolithic longhouse, contributing to the general welfare with her skills in childcare, food preparation, and herbology.  But once a man loses the edge off his hunting skills, there isn't a lot of reasons to keep feeding him, now is there?  Hence Nature, compassionately, allows for men to remain fertile, and to grow beards in order to look "distinguished" (i.e., "having a discernible jaw"), rather than old, thus remaining (marginally) attractive to the less-particular, but still fecund, females of the clan. 

 

Therefore, ageing gracefully has traditionally meant:

1. for women - being smart, helpful, and a good cook;
2. for men - facial hair, and the ability to remember to get in line for the mastodon roast.

One would like to think that Nature would have seen fit to bless men with enough intelligence to override the propagation drive and cozy up to the good cooks, and there actually may be something to this, since I have rarely known a good cook yet to be dumped by her husband.

 

Be that as it may, in modern times ageing gracefully presents a bit more of a challenge.  Thanks to scientific progress, we have more options, which raises the expectations and creates unachievable goals, at least as far as physical appearance is concerned, and more so for women, who will forever lack the ability to grow enough facial hair behind which to hide.   It is especially difficult for those female victims of the lackluster global economy who are limited to finding their fountain of youth at a drugstore, due to budgetary constraints.  To age gracefully, they must rely mostly on bravado.  And brains.  And a rock-solid sense of self-worth, what would be termed as "balls" in a beard-grower.

 

Which may ultimately be the best approach, albeit the most difficult.  One's physical appearance is only one of many aspects of our lives which require a greater degree of maintenance as we grow older.  In spite of the illusion created by expensive clothing and a great deal of attention from beauticians, plastic surgeons, and Photoshop, I'm willing to bet there isn't a celebrity over 50 who doesn't hit the red carpet hoping she remembered to slap on a panty liner before leaving the house.  And that's just for starters.  The bottom line, without inflicting too much information upon the reader, is this:  whereas regular bathing, a good moisturizer, glasses fashionable in this decade, and some eyebrow pencil can prevent you from frightening small children, it won't change you on the inside and it will not stop the inevitable.  It is the growing frequency of your visits with doctors and the "What did I come in here for?" moments that begin to eat at your soul. 

 

That, and the fact that you're shopping at Chico's.

 

Every day, everywhere, everyone faces some new aspect of their ageing selves.  The young, with anticipation.  Those no longer young, with some degree of panic and dread.  Fear of death?  Probably, although this seems to have been deflected towards a fear of losing the physical appearance of youth.  A losing battle, I say, and why should we be bothered with it in the first place?  Our society needs to turn off the Disney Channel and wake up to the reality that a lot of "older" people are drop-dead, freaking gorgeous.  In our own way.  And just how we are.  Which is not to say we can't apply certain enhancements, like everybody else, in order to celebrate our unique beauty.  We just need to understand the purpose, and to learn when to say - as one should do with smartphone apps - enough is enough. 

 

I think it's time for the revolution.  Or a dry martini.  The proper imbibing of which is done gracefully.  And, ideally, by a worldly and mysterious person.

 

Of a "certain age".

 

 

 

 

Not a Fan

I am finally at a computer with a functioning Internet connection after five days adrift - without a compass - on the sea of information which is Modern Life, completely at the mercy of Cable Network News, the pain of which has driven me to consider crocheting small dolls of Wolf Blitzer (shave, already!) and Anderson Cooper, into which I shall someday stick dull and rusty pins, just for having annoying voices.  For the elucidation of the uninitiated, these are the words of an addict in the throes of withdrawal.

My own fault, really.  My Internet provider said that my phone lines are so old that they no longer properly support the flow of information surging daily through my DSL line, and there is no other alternative except to install up-to-the-moment fiber optics (which will happen, hopefully, today) and go wireless.  My cousin Jerry says that's bullshit.  I may have to cede him the point on this one, and will gladly do so, because I do not wish to spend more than 30 seconds of my remaining life thinking about my Internet connection.  Of course, the crisis could have been averted in the first place, had I bothered to:

1. update my connection to wireless, sparing my children many long and frustrating hours wrestling with a router.  To them I send my apologies; and/or
2. schlep my laptop home from my mother's house, where I leave it for my lazy-ass convenience.

As of Sunday, I was left with two options:

1. Go back to my mother's; or
2. Go out and buy another laptop.

I'm sure you see my dilemma.

It's not that I mind spending money on a new laptop, since the Internet is where I like to imagine I earn my livelihood, at least my future livelihood.  Hell, I could probably write it off on my taxes.  No, the issue I have with Option #2 is that it only solves half the problem.  The other half of the problem can only be solved by parking my unworthy carcass at some Free Wi-Fi coffee shop (probably a Starbucks), along with my fellow losers, taking up hours of undeserved space for the price (albeit over-price) of a cup of coffee. 

 

It surely should not take a genius to figure out what's wrong with the American economy.

 

And, speaking of the American economy, consider this:

1. Panera, a nationwide chain of Free Wi-Fi coffee shops, sells three sizes of coffee - small, medium, and large (with me so far?) at three different price points, according to size;
2. The coffee is self-serve;
3. Refills are free.

Think about that.  And when you figure out what is wrong with this picture, please write to President Obama.

 

The agonies of my withdrawal, added to thoughts of hours of Wi-Fi bondage, made me crabby last Sunday.  It's not that I mind the taste of Starbucks coffee; it's very good.  Nor do I object to the prices - I think Starbucks should charge a cover and have a two-drink minimum.  What made me crabby was the anticipation of sitting for hours in a suburban Starbucks on a Sunday, captive to the parade of local hipster families in their Sunday best (Lululemon for the moms, L.L. Bean - or Tommy Bahama, can't tell which - for the dads) along with their oversize brood of rambunctious, towheaded children (Zulily), ordering pretend-coffee imbibibles like venti (why is this Italian?), decaf (not coffee), no-foam (not a latte) lattes (it is true that they could stay home and not drink coffee).  They will inevitably glom onto other nuclei to discuss their latest "remodels" and vague notions of current events, while their children run aimlessly around tables, searching for an adult who will acknowledge them.  On weekdays, these selfsame children grace the premises in the company of their nannies (Kohl's).

 

Unthinkable.  So I stayed home and took advantage of my dour spirits, writing (in longhand, with pencil and paper) a list of things I don't like.  To be presented to the public at the earliest opportunity.

 

Which is today.  I'm back at Mom's.

 

My list (and I calculated it to be the short-list) consisted of 30 items, amendable whenever life provided the inspiration.  My rationale for being so appallingly negative was that I was performing a sort of exorcism, which would lead to my waking up someday a better person, pure of spirit and serenely simple-minded.  The kind of person who doesn't resent other people who eat fruit for dessert.

 

Today, being connected to the Internet and in a much better mood, I've reduced the list to five (not including Starbucks, CNN, and people who eat fruit for dessert).  In no particular order, they are:

1. Politicians.  I have never seen a politician who didn't remind me of a mean middle school English teacher.  The kind who gives too much homework and seems curiously unimpressed with anything you do.  The kind whose every action underlines the fact that they have better things they could be doing.  Much better;
2. Religion.  When invoked by politicians;
3. Talk shows.  Radio or TV, there seems to be no reason for the existence of talk shows except to present credible proof to the audience that most people are, indeed, morons, thus creating a sense of euphoria and relief in the illusion that the viewers/listeners are light-years more intelligent than any of the participants.  This illusion can be maintained only so long as the audience does not factor in the act of watching/listening to talk shows;
4. Condiment colors.  I include guacamole;
5. Forrest Gump.  Am I the only person who though this movie was a training video for creating the perfect Republican?

Enough.  But it was fun.  Especially the part about the paper and pencil.  Had I realized that the sheer physical act of writing was such an agreeable activity, my academic career would have turned out much differently.

 

Perhaps the truth is that I can allow myself the luxury of enjoyment since I am no longer required to hand in my essays to a middle school teacher.  Who would inevitably count the number of words, criticize my syntax, express a mild - and condescending - amusement, and then give me a "C".

 

The bitch.

 

 

What the World Needs Now

The passing of Margaret Thatcher last week got me thinking.

 

Actually, it wasn't just the death of Margaret Thatcher.  It was the death of Margaret Thatcher plus the NCAA women's basketball finals that had me wondering, again, what the world would be like if it were ruled by women.  Margaret Thatcher provided for me an example of leadership, and the basketball players provided an example of how one can play competitively and still be nice.  Especially nice in women's sports is a distinct lack of that hip-thrusting, Hulk-like, primal scream action male athletes seem to engage in at the slightest provocation.  Can you imagine the public clamor if female athletes routinely stuck their boobs out and howled at the moon?  The closest we've ever come -  thank God! - was when that silly soccer player "spontaneously" tore off her shirt at the women's World Cup final in 1999. 

 

The question of what a world ruled by women would be like is one that may very well may die in obscurity along with the human race in some (hopefully) distant apocalyptic future.  At least, that's how it's going to be if our brand-new Pope has anything to say in the matter.  Recently, Francis I has picked up the mantle of scolding nuns, so no progress there, in case you were looking for it.  This champion of social justice apparently draws the line at "women", preferring to assign them "alien" status.  Not unusual.  Many a time I have witnessed a glazing-over of the mind, in otherwise socially progressive men, when it comes to the topic of women in power.

 

Why?  Probably because it conjures up some truly frightening images. 

 

Which brings me back to Margaret Thatcher.  And Indira Ghandi, Golda Meier, Angela Merkel, Park Geun-hye, Janet Napolitano, and - to a lesser extent - Nancy Pelosi, who has recently redeemed herself somewhat by finally getting over her Lucille Bluth crush.  To her credit, Christine Lagarde wears earrings, scarves, lip gloss, and the occasional leather jacket, without any visible loss of scariness.  Sarah Palin, on whom the jury's still out, is another notable exception.

 

Still, even Sarah's hair went into Iron Maiden-mode during her campaign for the Vice Presidency, the intended message being, "Don't even THINK about it, buster." 

 

To what end, and to whose advantage?  What, exactly, is achieved by spraying one's hair into a helmet and wearing a boucle suit?  What is it about looking like a defrocked Salvation Army bell-ringer that says, "formidable"?  Maybe the whole point is that a woman seeking power feels that, in order to be taken seriously, she needs to distance herself from being an object of sexual desire for men, evidently by looking as masculine as possible without crossing the line into same-sex date-bait territory (which could, though misguided, explain the prevalence of pastel boucle).  Never mind that it seems to be highly desirable for a male leader to look - and act, up to and including tweeting pictures of his wang all over creation - like a total stud.   We have here a serious double-standard, and kudos to Hillary for side-stepping the whole issue by choosing to look like a normal person these days, one who appears entirely at home drinking beer out of the bottle in a Colombian bar.  Let's hope she's onto something.

 

Personally, when I think of women ruling the world, I envision a very different type of woman than those described in the preceding paragraphs.  I think of the Motherly Type, because I  believe this is what we need.  Not the "yes, dear", ditzy, Aunt Bea-kind of Motherly Type, but the multi-tasking, take-charge, "don't make me come in there" Motherly Type, the kind of woman who has no time to "do" her hair or put up with much nonsense, yet who appreciates cute flats and MAC lipstick, and who understands the deep-seated human need for cookies.

 

The type who can't be frightened, because she has children. 

 

This kind of world leader would knit at international summit conferences, and have no problem giving a speech telling the young women of the world that if they've been engaged for more than a year then their boyfriends are losers, and they are idiots for putting up with them.

 

This kind of world leader would grab those Wall Street dickheads by the ear and make them write "I must not be a greedy bastard" a thousand times (in cursive), put all their money in a virtual "charity" jar, and then mow the lawn.

 

And as for Kim Jong-un, he would receive a good swat on the seat of the pants - just to get his attention - and be made to stand in the corner (the one by Vladivostok), and think about how important it is to play well with others.  I mean, I've just about had it with you, young man.

 

It won't happen, of course, because Motherly Types tend to be busy being mothers, which doesn't leave much time for networking, fund-raising, or golf.  Most of them wouldn't be caught dead in a pastel boucle suit, or hairspray, and a "play group" is no substitute for Skull and Bones.

 

But wouldn't it be nice?

 

Silver Linings

My husband is a television addict.

 

Not that we watch a lot of television, we don't.  But once he turns on the TV to watch some sports event, or to check the weather, or to catch an episode of Pardon the Interruption or The Daily Show, he is treading in dangerous waters.  He inevitably will start surfing the channels and, like a very young child on his first trip to the toy store, he is immediately and thoroughly enthralled with everything he sees.  American Idol, NASCAR racing, reruns of "Gunsmoke", no matter.  It is all new and wonderfully exotic to him, which is why I have suspected for years that he is merely the host body to a curious alien and not really the man I married at all.  I think there have been books written and movies made on this very subject, mostly treating it as science fiction, which - I promise you - it is not.

 

Especially dangerous is C-SPAN, a news channel featuring lectures and discussions on political events by reasonably intelligent and articulate people, people smart enough to remain obscure.  Since my husband has been retired for 18 years and lives in the suburbs, his opportunities to listen to reasonably intelligent and articulate people (aside from myself) are few and far between, and he tends to become overstimulated from the experience, shouting his agreement or disapproval at the screen and coming away from it with a powerful need to start calling people to share his new discoveries.  Only recently, he began a telephone campaign to find out if his friends knew about "Downton Abbey", not a news show, really, and not on C-SPAN, but definitely involving intelligent-sounding people (please note that ALL Americans think ALL British people are intelligent).  I managed to stop him after his third call, informing him that he was, perhaps, the last human being on the planet who didn't know about "Downton Abbey".  I think this persuaded The Alien within, who does not seem eager to blow his cover.

 

There is no escape for me.  My husband keeps the volume blasting, because he doesn't know how to work the remote. 

 

Thus I was greeted this morning, right out of the shower, by the dulcet tones of David Stockman, emanating from my living room.  My first thought was, "Who is that very angry man in my living room?"  Then I realized that The Alien was watching TV again and, rather than leave him to his own devices on a Sunday morning where a televangelist may be lurking on any channel, I decided to join him.

 

For those of you who came to this planet on the same mothership as my husband, David Stockman is one seriously cranky old geezer who used to work for Ronald Reagan, resigned, and - apparently - has gone on to earn his living by incessantly berating the world for being stupid assholes.  I must say that I found much to be enjoyed in his rants today, which were delivered in the same manner one would like to adopt for speaking to one's boss, if there be a God of Justice.

 

I was enjoying the eloquence of Mr. Stockman's insults, and having a perfectly jolly good time, until he began talking about unemployment.

 

To paraphrase:  If we would just get rid of pesky things like minimum wage (I remember those days, Mr. Stockman, I made seventy-five cents an hour), then the "market" would set the value on labor and there would be a job for anyone who wants one...at the "right" wage. 

 

He then went on to talk about how a $7/hr job could be subsidized (because, obviously, even the biggest moron in the world, excluding the CEOs of major corporations, knows one can't exist on $7/hr in the United States of America) by tax credits of a sort, and some mysterious method funded by the middle class, who have "an obligation" to help those less fortunate...or maybe I was having a seizure and hallucinating at this point.  If so, my apologies to David Stockman, but I don't think he was being particularly coherent, although he did manage to stir up a bit of nostalgia for the 19th century.

 

At any rate,  Mr. Stockman thinks that we have some BIG problems which are going to make some TERRIBLE trouble, in the VERY near future, he was ABSOLUTELY definite about that, and he seemed to know A LOT about the subject, so I was left with the impression that things aren't going to get any better any time soon.

 

A depressing thought.

 

But every cloud can have a silver lining, and here's to hoping that the government imposes an austerity measure that helps me lose ten pounds.

 

Other silver linings from the news around the world:

1. It appears that Iran is beginning to take seriously the need for nuclear negotiations.  Probably Ahmadinejad has been observing the antics of Kim Jong-un, and has decided, "Whoa!  Don't be that guy!"
2. In Venezuela, the presidential race has gone from the sublime to the ridiculous, with the acting-President threatening those who vote against him with a 16th century curse.  The upside is that the majority of voting Venezuelans will undoubtedly interpret this comment to mean that the acting-President is a nutbar, and vote for the other candidate, who's a real looker;
3. Target Corporation has apologized (to whom?  Adele?) for calling one of the colors of a plus-size dress on their website, "Manatee Grey".  There's no silver lining here, I just think it's hilarious, and I'm maybe five pounds away from officially being fat.  For the record, Kim Kardashian is not fat, she is pregnant.  And it seems to be a real pregnancy, not some Hollywood cyber-pregnancy where the mother-to-be increases her dietary intake by ingesting an occasional prenatal "gummy" vitamin.  Don't worry, there will be plenty of time to make fun of Kim Kardashian when she starts dressing her kid funny.

Last, but not least, also in the news is NASA's plan to "lasso" an asteroid and maneuver it next to the moon, which sounds to me like an investment of $100 million to satisfy the global need to find parking.  The silver lining here is it brought to my awareness the B612 Foundation, a non-profit organization "concerned about dangerous space rocks".

 

Which made me laugh.  Just wait until The Alien finds out about this!

 

 

 

Good Times

One of the secrets of growing old graciously (as opposed to growing old like a diseased cat) is to check in with young people, now and then, to find out what's going on with the part of the world that still wakes up every morning expecting to be better looking.

 

To achieve this, if we have planned our lives correctly and if we are lucky, we have children.  Children do the job of letting us know that we are (were, and probably always will be) losers, methodically deflating one's overblown sense of self-worth acquired from what we (often incorrectly) deem to be successful parenting.  Then, after the garment rendings and mea culpas, our children proceed  - with a little prompting, and as a kindness - to share with us some of the highlights of the modern age, if only in hope that they will never find themselves in a position to care for someone whose last point of reference was sometime back in late 1968.

 

These interactions can be painful or sad or joyful or hilarious, based on the events and discussions that prompt them.  They can even be entertaining, as exemplified by a new reality (I don't even bother to put that in quotes anymore) TV show, "Forever Young" which, judging by the promotional commercials, only exists to offer proof that both old and young people can be astoundingly annoying, as demonstrated by the hilarious high jinks that ensue on an episode where an old person tries to teach a young person how to use a typewriter.  (Listen.  Geezer.  No point to that.  Typewriters sucked.  Move on.)

 

Holidays are a good time to take advantage of these opportunities for personal development.  Children are summoned to the ancestral home, and subjected to a kind of thralldom for a period of time determined partly on how far away they live and partly on how intolerable the family to which they are held in thrall.  But there is good food to be had in even the most dysfunctional of families, and this can inspire a child to reciprocate the enjoyment of such food by "doing time" with Mom and/or Dad.  Optimally, this is when Mom and Dad share more of life's many little lessons and, in return, the children provide Mom and Dad with some Continuing Education on Popular Culture.

 

Which is why "Thrift Shop" is my new favorite song.

 

This past Easter weekend brought both my daughter and son home, some of which was stressful but most of which was hilarious, getting off on the right foot with an observation about Black History Month in the suburb where I live, which made milk come out of my child's nose.

 

Some more fun from the weekend:

1. A contemplation of which preposition should follow the term "throw shade" i.e., throw shade at?  Throw shade on?  Throw shade about?  My kids didn't know.  They are now officially adults;
2. A discussion of the definition of a city, more specifically, could Richmond, Virginia be considered one?  It has more than a million people.  I said that means they have a Thai restaurant.  My son pointed out that it is probably a bad one;
3. An update on the ongoing plot of "Girls", provided by my daughter with deadly precision, which sounds like "Friends" with deep issues and boobs, and apparently speaks to a generation of introspective young Americans with questionable self-images and hangovers from Disney movies;
4. A dismissal of everything in the United States north of Milwaukee, Wisconsin as "the states Canada didn't want";
5. A historical retrospective on how Sly and the Family Stone saved Caucasian Americans from folk music.  Before Sly, things looked grim.  Even Dylan going electric couldn't keep Joan Baez at a comfortable distance.

And some conversations about food, always a hot topic in an Italian household:

1. A debate on healthy food "makeovers".  Should this apply to mac and cheese?   We decided that no, healthy mac and cheese is linguine with a little olive oil and grated romano.   Some foods are conducive to makeovers (Coke Zero, french fries, stuff with chocolate in it), and some are not.  Mac and cheese is not.  If you want to eat mac and cheese, you need to man-up;
2. A conclusion that the Irish have no cuisine to speak of, which is okay because they know it.  But the Polish insist that they do have a cuisine, which is not okay, because they don't.  At least not one that doesn't rely upon pickling spices;
3. A lament about my son's friend at school, who just got back from France, and who talks about missing French cooking.  The "friend" has gone so far as to declare that Italian food is just cooking some vegetables in a pan, which rankles my son, who is a very good cook and a sensitive person, and who has a suitably profane response to that (if only in his mind).  But it is my contention that my son is getting what he deserves for attending a hallowed East Coast institution of higher learning where people always "just got back" from places like "France".

For the finale:

 

While attempting to navigate a particularly perilous on-ramp to the highway going to the airport this morning, my husband commented, "This is so bad!  I can't understand why I've never seen an accident here.  I mean, where are the bodies?"

 

To which my son replied, "They hide the bodies.  This is Illinois."

 

Good times. 

 

I hope my children don't mind that I took notes.