October 1st, 2013
I once thought I might trick my children into eating green food by reading them Dr. Seuss’s Green Eggs and Ham while serving them an egg dish chockablock with green vegetables. (See the recipe below.) Well, they loved the book.
What was I thinking? At that time, my children only ate white food: spaghetti, mashed potatoes, milk, and chicken and bread. No amount of high-minded literature would change their food-i-tude.
Turns out Ted Cruz also thought he could use that charming children’s book as a tool to fool. Apparently he figured if he read that text during that filibuster last week he would trick us into liking him.
But just as my children are no fools, neither are we.
To paraphrase the good Dr., we do not like him here or there.We do not like him anywhere. Read More »
September 30th, 2013
My husband is an avid football fan, and in an effort to spend more couch time with him, I’m trying to get a handle on the sport.
Last Monday, for example, I struggled to remember (rather than ask Tom for the eight-hundredth time) whether that night’s game was pro or college ball. (I recently learned that there is an order to this, rules as to who plays when.)
I’m developing a system for keeping it straight. If the teams are called the Packers, the Saints or the Steelers, I’m golden: I know it’s pro. If they are things like Badgers or Ducks or other varmints, I smell college. But I was thrown recently when I learned of school teams called the Tide and the Trojans. Maybe there are so many damn college tams they ran out of appropriate animals. Nobody wants to be called the Sloths or the Titmice, so they eschewed the whole critter thing and opted for macho names invoking the ocean’s motion and condoms. Read More »
September 12th, 2013
The other day I went to my doctor to get an injection in my left eye.
This is standard treatment for patients with macular degeneration or, in my case, PXE, to prevent or stop a fluid leak that damages central vision. I’d had many such shots, but not for a while: I’d forgotten what they are like.
As I waited my turn for the needle, I mentally whined about what I was in for. I don’t know about you, but I have found that getting an eye shot does not pop up when you Google “fun stuff to do in LA.” Read More »
August 1st, 2013
For those of you who would just as soon forget how old you are, AARP has taken on the job of reminding you. Using privacy-invasion skills that surpass even the NSA’s, the Association for the Annoyance of Retired People—you’re pretty sure that’s what the acronym stands for—knows your age and address before you’ve even heard of them.
How does AARP know where we live? The must have that FBI equipment that can locate a concealed criminal by reading his/her body heat. That’d be a no-brainer tool for finding menopausal women.
Whatever their method, the day you turn 55, not a minute later, you receive a letter from them welcoming you to the age when everything turns to shit. You see the word “retirement” on the envelope along with images of laughing people who are much older than you believe you are and you tear the letter into tiny pieces which flutter to the ground along with your expletives. Read More »
July 22nd, 2013
A new study shows that when a dieter is tempted to eat a high-calorie treat, they can ease the craving by drawing a picture of that food item.
This is swell in theory, but who draws that well?
I was longing for a big, fat slice of the carrot cake I got my mother for her birthday. I reined myself in and drew a picture of it, birthday candles, decorative flowers and all. What I drew looked like the front end of an ocean liner, which might have satisfied me if I wanted to chew on the Titanic, but didn’t help me much in the baked goods department. Read More »
May 31st, 2013
I saw the Rolling Stones in concert at Madison Square Garden about forty years ago. I saw them again last month at the Staples Center. I found that, in many ways, going Rolling at 60-ish is a very different experience from what it was at 20-ish.
1. You do not stand in line in the rain for 13 hours to buy nosebleed seats. You purchase prime seating on Stub Hub and pay as much as you would for an Armani handbag.
2. You go to the concert carrying an Armani handbag. (Okay, you got it on sale but still.)
Read More »
May 26th, 2013
She happened to die the same week as Maggie Thatcher and Lilli Pulitzer, which meant there was not enough focus on the passing of Annette Funicello.
Attention must be paid.
I think it was around 1953 when my father brought home our first television set, at which time, my siblings and I began what was to be a life-long relationship with the wonderful world of Disney.
Programming was limited back then, to be sure. There was a circus show (whose star was a blonde lady in a red sequined leotard). There was a show with a trio of amusing sock puppets and another with a duo of not so-amusing clowns, and then there was the one that was the real life-changer: The Mickey Mouse Club.
Read More »
April 8th, 2013
I’d like to take a moment to reflect on mirrors.
I’m talking specifically about those 3-way ones. Who thought it was a good idea to install them in every dressing room in Bloomingdale’s? I guarantee you it was not a woman over fifty.
Let’s be honest. The only people who LIKE looking at themselves in a 3-way are those who have flawless bodies and those who have learned to embrace their flaws. These two groups together equal maybe .01% of the population. That leaves the other 99.99% of us reluctant to shop at Bloomingdales.
On a recent trip to the store, I tried on a dress that, in Mirror 1 (head-on) looked fabulous. I was imagining wearing it to great effect on some red carpet when I made the mistake of adjusting Mirrors 2 and 3 for a look at the rear. I rarely get such an accurate view, so I was startled to notice that some shape-shifting had taken place behind my back. (Not in a good way.) Read More »
March 20th, 2013
It doesn’t happen often but it did the other day, while I was engaged in a bunch of crucial activities. Just as I was applying a “miracle” spray to my ballet flats in hopes of stretching them, half-listening to a Rosetta Stone Spanish lesson, washing dog toys on the “sanitary” cycle and roasting walnuts in the oven, the doorbell rang.
In my usual reaction to sudden interruption I said, “What the f___?” I slipped into the damp, chemical-smelly flats and went to the door. Read More »
March 9th, 2013
I like to call myself a domestic goddess. This makes me feel better when I have to clean up the dog vomit or wait six hours for the cable guy. While I spin around the house attending to such details, my husband goes out into the world to pursue what I’m pretty sure are crucial and fascinating things.
When he comes home at day’s end, I consider it share time. The way I figure it, it’s his house too. It would be unfair to withhold updates on the dog’s digestive complaints or the cable guy’s indifference. Read More »