I didn’t become an anthropologist to study puberty rituals in New Guinea. Nope. My fascination focuses on the mind/body connections that drive members of our contemporary society to behave in ways that make no sense. Consider our compulsive, collective need to squeeze the life out of every minute of the day. We work cockamamie hours that make us sick and depressed and stay in hyper-alert mode until stress literally compromises our health. This is living? I can imagine Margaret’s reaction to people walking into traffic because they could neither pull their heads out of their asses nor their smart phones.
My eyes glaze over as I peruse my 2013 Medicare booklets and sleuth out changes. The literature arrives separately, adding to the government’s postage tab, and each is printed in HUGE type. Thankfully, I don’t need the kindergarten-sized font ‘cause Medicare already paid for my cataract surgeries, thank you very much. New perks associated with the Affordable Care Act are everywhere. It’s so exciting to see that these changes are continuing to unfold. Now, if somebody could just digitize this information and publish it via the Internet so my Medicare file doesn’t make me look like the consummate paper hoarder.
I enjoy watching “The Cycle,” an MSNBC news broadcast airing from Monday to Friday. Four politically astute panelists, Millennials all, report on current, trendy topics while offering great insights into the minds of 20- and 30-somethings. On yesterday’s broadcast, I learned that a survey taken of 800 NASCAR fans resulted in impressive polling numbers for President Obama. Well, shut my exhaust pipe. I discounted those sideliners as part of the NRA nation. My opinion of racecar enthusiasts has done a complete 360 thanks to The Cycle. Henceforth, I promise to acknowledge the existence of all NASCAR drivers—not just Danica Patrick.
Far be it from me to encourage pork consumption—after all, I made fun of the not-so-healthy virtues of Burger King bacon desserts in an earlier post. But, if you’re a fan of the other white meat, start hoarding. According to Britain’s National Pig Association, “a world shortage of pork and bacon next year is unavoidable.” Can’t live without ham, bacon and sausage? Hit up REI, Nitro Pack, MRE Depot and survivalist websites and retailers. They promise to stock plenty of preserved pig products. When Easter rolls around, remember that a tasty glaze can disguise even a reconstituted ham. Delish.
At sundown, the world stops for me. It’s Yom Kippur: God enscribes names of those who will live another year in the Book of Life tomorrow. I hope to earn last-minute brownie points from the Lord by fasting: Both my stomach and soul rest for 24 hours. I’m still haunted by the year I got the date wrong and ate my way through the holy day because my calendar (made in China) was incorrect. Guilt is a powerful thing. I’m taking no chances. I check four Internet sites to make sure I get it right: 6:42 p.m. Blessings all around.
I love award shows, but after watching this year’s Emmys, I lost patience and concluded that the event was nothing more than an opportunity to flaunt the Scarlet Letter. You read that right. That A is ruining my viewing pleasure. All I hear when winners make speeches is Awesome and Amazing. I start counting Awesomes and Amazings. When it gets to be six or more, I must surf. I can’t stand it. Won’t someone start charging winning celebs a quarter every time they utter one of these A words? We could use the funds to help pay down the deficit.
On some clinic days, crowds of rosary-toting folks do nothing more than block the sidewalks, pray and scream at patients as they arrive for pregnancy terminations. Occasionally, a guy with a hammer plants homemade crosses around the clinic’s periphery or hangs a giant photo of a saint on a neighboring tree. This week, a dude started throwing holy water against the clinic walls. Ever hyper-vigilant, staff suspected gasoline, called the cops and they gave the guy a trespass ticket. I usually get a second cup of coffee on my way home. This morning, I was wide-awake and needed none.
I know, I know. Women feel impelled to shave it off, camouflage it or, for heaven’s sake, rip it off with wax strips. Exactly who gave leg hair a bad rap? I’m no hippy leg hair enthusiast, by the way. I once fired up an Epilady while waiting for paramedics to pick me up after I cut a deep gash in my calf that required stitches. It’s hard to shave while bleeding profusely, but I did the job before the stretcher-bearing paramedics arrived. I give leg hair props for tenacity—they’re like crab grass. You can mow but you cannot vanquish.
This is the sixth year I’ve worked on the Eleanor Roosevelt Tea. Some things change. Some remain the same. My particular pet peeve is in the RSVP arena. Some invitees confirm early. Others wait until the last minute. I suspect this is done just in case something better comes along. To be fair, candidates running for office have crazy schedules, but how about the RSVPs who don’t bother to show? Eleanor would be appalled. In her time, an invitation was a highly coveted prize. It would be nice if people felt the same way about tea party invitations these days.
I watched a woman disgorge herself from her car in the garage yesterday and it brought to mind memories of life with a toddler, a baby and a mission. Wielding a collapsible stroller like Houdini, she artfully extricated both of the kids, a diaper bag, a tote holding the elder child’s stuff, her hobo purse and bags of groceries. A dog would have been a nice touch. The woman tethered everything/everyone together creatively and off they went in minutes. Did I actually go through that ritual every day for years? You bet. Who says multi-tasking is a new phenomenon?