"Goodbye, Sex" (vintage essay)

“Sex and the City” was kind of like a bad boyfriend.  I fell for it in spite of myself.  Got hooked, was always a little jealous of what happened when I wasn’t around, couldn’t figure out the clothes, got fed up and I was the one to break it off, but I never got it out of my system.  And now that it’ll be over, finally over -- I’m relieved, I’m sad, and the one thing that I can’t let go: why wasn’t I ever on it??

 

I never even got an audition!  Sure, there were a few parts for lesbians of color, and one time an angry black sister of one of Samantha’s exotic boyfriends.  Hey,  didn’t Miranda’s boyfriend have an angry black sister?  And the thing is, “Sex and the City” is (well, was) a New York City show, and one of the greatest things about this city is its multiculturalism and the urban working girl friendships that cross over so many barriers.  They should have called it “Sex and the Segregated City.” 

Oh, forget it.  I’m still a little bitter.  I don’t want to talk about “Sex and the City.”  My real-life version of “Sex and the City” doesn’t look like that show.  A show called “I Thought That Check Cleared,” or “Oops, I Missed My Weigh-In.”  Or “Late and Cursing.”  Those would be the shows about my life.

Carrie’s “outfits?”  Half of those ensembles would have gotten her arrested on certain New York streets.  Her closet with $40,000 worth of shoes?  Are you kidding me?  And all those men, from captains of industry to schlubs, to choose from??  But despite all that, there was something about “Sex and the City” that got to me.  Those four women loved each other, and protected each other, and defended each other.  Through sickness and health, celebrations and cancer.  Sisterhood is powerful, and I could relate to that. 

And now, with the final episode looming, I’m hooked all over again, and wondering if Carrie will “make it after all,” like Mary Tyler Moore did over thirty years ago.  Mary Richards had a life, a challenging job she loved, dear friends, and men, but she was okay whether she had a man or not.  So what’s the lesson of “Sex and the City” all these years later?  That thin women can earn their own money, own their apartments, have fabulous wardrobes but still feel incomplete without a man?  I wonder if we’ve taken a step backward, but in more expensive shoes.

"Makeovers" (vintage essay that still applies)

Enough with the makeover shows. Let's just not watch them. They must be stopped.  Enough already with the tummy tucks, the hair extensions, the rhinoplasting, botox-injecting, breast-enhancing, life-coaching, and the on-air revealing.   And the high-fashion strutting.  And the sobbing. At least the Miss America pageant has a talent competition.  What is the “talent” here -- someone else’s idea of a person’s so-called ugliness and the success of their reconstructive so-called “beauty?”

I guess self-acceptance is out, and Stepford is in, huh?  It sure seems that way.  Can't we remember what’s real and what’s fake?  No one really looks like they do in a magazine, or on TV or in the movies.  No one gets up at the crack of dawn and looks crisp, flawless, and well rested.  None of the people that we may be measuring ourselves against even do their own makeup!  They have professionals by their side, trained and ready to hide their every wrinkle and pore.  Don’t get me wrong -- I like makeup, I love makeup artists, and I appreciate every ounce of concealer that makes me look that much less like I have Fred Flinstone’s five o’clock shadow.  But let’s face it.  There is so much more to us than how we look.  Frida Kahlo’s lack of eyebow definition didn’t stop her from becoming a brilliant artist.  And having one big, bushy eyebrow, a horrific combover, and his father’s real estate fortune to build on didn’t hurt Donald Trump, either.  I haven’t seen him on “The Swan.” 

By the way, I happen to like visible signs of aging.  Visible signs of aging have a strange way of reminding me that I’m alive.  When I stop having visible signs of aging, that’ll mean that I’m dead.  And that’s what Botox is.  Dead cells stuck in your face to freeze it.  I don’t think our human faces should be locked in like a lower interest rate -- I mean how young are we going for, anyway?  Thirty?  Twenty?  Twelve??

There are parents out there who have actually given their daughters boob jobs as graduation presents.  What happened to gift certificates?  And what enhancements are they giving their sons for graduation?  The mind boggles. Even one of the Olsen twins, who’ve built themselves a billion dollar empire by being cute, is dealing with an eating disorder.  If that’s not a sign that we’re all just a little bit too involved with how we look, then I don’t know what is.  And, by the way, “ugly” ducklings don’t get surgery.  They become swans when they grow up 

"Get A Dog"

“Get a dog.”

That’s the snide, world-weary comment I’ve gotten from more than one woman friend when I moan about not having a warm body in bed with me.  “It’s not just the sex,” I try to explain during those few times when I actually talk to anyone about men, sex, and men and sex, “it’s sleeping with someone.  Sometimes I just want to take a nap with the right man.  I just want to lean on him and feel his warmth, you know?”  

“Get a dog!”  

So I’m sitting here on another one of those gray, depressing days, with Jessie and George.  Rottweiller and Beagle.  My accidental pets, now my little family.  Both snoozing with me on the sofa.  George snores, loudly.  And at night, in bed, I sandwich myself between them and feel them breathe, and feel their warmth, and let them stretch and kick me in the back.  George does this more than Jessie does. George, beagle, stretches and then holds the stretch, so his stiff-armed paws poke me in the back, until he sighs and relaxes back into his doggie dream.  With Jessie it’s a little tremble in her back paws and a quiet growl while she’s in her canine REM phase.  I love to watch them sleep.  And between Jessie’s 86 pounds and George’s (I think he’s about 29), they weigh about as much as that Armenian triathelete.  And they’re much more comforting than he was.  A little conversation, couple of kisses, some thrusts, a groan, and he’d fall asleep.  And I, to be polite, would watch the clock for about 45 minutes so as not to jump up immediately and flee the scene.

"Get a dog."

I did. And they helped.

???

You know when you’ve been standing on the bank line for what seems like an eternity, and no, "I'm not making a straight deposit, I’ll be wanting cash back, thanks," so you have to stand there, and what are all those people doing behind the glass?  Shuffling around?  Picking lottery numbers?  And you watch as the teller is finally free, so you take a step towards her window without waiting for her "next in line, please," and without looking up, she slides a sign behind the glass (“Closed,” “Next Window Please,” "Ha Ha Sucker").  And you're just standing there, and she gets ready for lunch, and where there were three tellers now there’s only one, and that one just went "in the back" to get something, and now there’s none, and you’re standing there, and someone comes back into the line that was "here before, they told me to come to the front of the line," and you nod, cursing under your breath, why didn't I bring a newspaper?  And now that person in front of you is reaching her pocketbook for paper-clipped item after paper-clipped item, and she's thinking aloud about how she'll need to do a currency transfer, and then a teller appears then goes into the safe deposit box area?  And you feel like crying?

Sweet things

I don't think that extra-creamy milk chocolate bar (on sale at the dollar store, but the expiration date was still good) is helping my Weight Watcher's points total today, but since I'm not counting points -- why worry?  Can't quite bring myself to jot down everything I eat and  I keep thinking about the Captain Crunch (Regular, of course, not Peanut Butter or Crunch Berry) that's on sale at Pathmark this week.  It's the one cereal that doesn't sog quite so fast, and that crunch really means a lot to me.  I thought I was going to grow out of liking this stuff.  When?  I frankly can't imagine life without bubble gum of Nestle's (mini) $100,000 bars (lower in fat, by the way.  "Lower in fat" than what?  Pure fat, probably).    Staggering over to Curves now.

More confusion

Just saw yet another Cialis (erectile dysfunction) commercial.   They'll probably develop a Cialis chewing gum by next week, while the mysteries of cancer, AIDS, and so many other fatal diseases go unsolved.  Good to know the pharmaceutical companies have our scientific priorities in order. And by the way -- what exactly is romantic about two people sitting next to each other in separate bathtubs?   Are they soaking in the afterglow?  Anybody?

"Lucy? You've got some 'splanin' to do!"

I'm confused.  

Eric Mangini did a so-so job of coaching the Jets for the last what, two seasons?  Three? 

He's fired...and is up for another coaching job with the Cleveland Browns?  

How does that work?  

Isn't being fired a bad thing?  Doesn't that mean you, uh, didn't do such a swell job?

Remember Larry Brown and the Knicks?  

The Knicks stunk, they hired Larry Brown for 3 years and big bucks, they still stunk, they fired Larry Brown,  they still paid Larry Brown almost all of the 3 years worth of big bucks anyway. 

How do so many big-league coaches, inept CEO's,  cruddy Bush administration idiots, and other "captains of industry" continually fail UPWARD?  And/or get the Presidential Medal of Freedom, or a big fat raise/settlement/severance package as a reward for their sub-par work?

More importantly, how can all of us get these jobs?  Right now?? 

And while we're at it, can someone stop asking Carly Fiorina's opinion...about ANYTHING?

She did a lousy job at Hewlett-Packard, many thousands lost their jobs,  the stock value took a dive; she was basically fired, she walked away with more than $30 million bucks in "bonuses" (aren't bonuses supposed to be for doing good work??); then is hired as an economic wonk by the McCain campaign (and why not -- she had such great credentials).  And then, she did her best work: stating that neither McCain, Palin, or Obama could be a CEO.  "In (her) opinion."  

Huh?  What exactly is her opinion worth?  In any event, there she was -- Carly Fiorina, on "Meet The Press" a few weeks ago.  What value (get it?  "Value."  A monetary reference). 

What value is there in anything she says, or Alan Greenspan (another so-called brainiac who was asleep at the wheel but still got like a $10 million dollar advance for his biography, but was dumbfounded at the recent tanking of the economy) or any of the various jackasses that ran so many companies into the ground, fired the real working people, and walked away with big severance packages and a clear conscience.  Why should any of them be on any network, or quoted in any newspaper or magazine ever again?  Why should they make money on the lecture circuit?  Saying what?  "How Incompetence Pays," maybe.  Yee Gods.  Don't give these criminals any airtime.

Speaking of criminals, Bernard Madoff is still under "house arrest" in his luxurious Park Avenue apartment.  And he sent upwards of a million bucks in jewels to friends and family.  Jewels he bought with, well you know, other people's money.  They're gonna have to start calling this a "Madoff scheme," because Ponzi didn't even come close to Madoff's $50 billion dollar thievery.  Please, somebody, anybody, take this guy to Riker's Island RIGHT NOW.  I can't breathe thinking of the poor suckers that are in a holding cell having jumped a turnstile or something and this crook -- total CROOK -- continues to use other people's money to get high-powered lawyers who...what?  What do these rich lawyers do that the court-appointed lawyers don't?  Do they have some sort of checkout code that gets their clients special treatment?  Like Gap points or something?  Is there a special word, handshake, flower-in-the-lapel thing that signals to the judges "oh, he's wealthy and definitely a flight risk, so I'll let him stay in his cushy surroundings, but he won't be able to go out to dinner or the opera.  Yeah.  That'll show him."  

By the way (since that was way too long a paragraph), does anyone who lives in any "project" or regular working-class home EVER get house arrest?  I'd think house arrest would be most effective if one lived in a crappy house, right?  A place so bad that prison would be a step up, don'tcha think? 

Oops.  Computer's out of power.  If I've misspelled names, I apologize.  More later.  

Happy New Year, and I know Barack Obama is just one man, but he and his beautiful family already make the United States of America look a whole lot cooler.  YES we DID!