Barnacles

I think all young girls, say starting around 17 or 18 years old,
should be required by constitutional law to spend 20 hours a week
with an old woman at least 55 years old, not related, an anonymous
hag, someone who will tell them the truth and not sugarcoat it,
the truth about getting old.

Here's the deal. Yesterday, The Man mentioned to me that it was
the twentieth anniversary of the Loma Prieta Earthquake that shook
San Francisco and resulted in the horrendous collapse of the Bay
Bridge. We were there. We were in an Airporter Bus on The Golden
Gate Bridge, as a matter of fact, having just returned from visiting
family in The Land of O, for irony's sake!

I'll never forget, we were about two-thirds way across the Bridge
and the bus driver had just turned on the radio so that we could
all listen to Game Three of The World Series between the S.F. Giants
and the Oakland A's, a real hometown series. Suddenly, the bus
swerved sharply and we hit the curb, bouncing back into the traffic
lane. The Man looked out the window and saw a person on the Bridge
walkway thrown off balance trying to stay on his feet and not fall
over the side.

We were very lucky. We made it home safely. We lived on a boat and
so had nothing to worry about. No destruction or loss. We even had
earthquake supplies stored in a plastic tub thanks to my anal tendencies.

Well, anyway...it was a very drastic situation and we remember it well.
However, the shocking part is that it happened TWENTY YEARS AGO! I am
ten years older NOW, than The Man was THEN! Or, to put it another way,
I was one young hot chick and The Man was a galloping stud and what the
heck happened?!

I mean that earthquake feels like yesterday! Yet, here I am knitting
shawls, wondering if I have arthritic feet and thinking that Assisted
Living looks like fun.

Just last week I went to see a dermatologist. The Man has some moles and
bumps on his body that look like something the astronauts brought back
from the moon mission. Even wearing TWO pair of glasses I am unable
to determine if the entities growing on his legs and back are ornamental,
fungal or death stars. And (I shouldn't divulge this), but one of his
circular moles actually has a smiley face on it. I am not kidding!

MY obsession with HIS moles compelled ME to make appointments for US
to visit the dermatologist and to let him rake us over the dermatological
coals.

(Oh, wait, NOTE TO MYSELF: In my next life be a dermatologist...WHAT A
RACKET!!)

So, we went to the office and I went in first. The doctor was a young,
short, very clean looking guy. He had a younger resident working with
him. The nurse was there, too, which made for a happy and crowded
examination. I, naturally, was the only one wearing a paper gown. The
others were clothingly advantaged. But, we did okay. We made small
talk while the doctor started hunting for anomalies. He was very serious
and thorough. I asked him about the weird thing in my ear, the weirder
thing on my chest and the really weird thing on my backside. He glanced
at them all and proclaimed them to be age spots.

Age spots. How sad sounding. No smiley faces for me.

I asked him about the bright red dots that are spread across my torso
like constellations, a sprinkling of stars and planets floating along
in the Milky Way of my belly fat. These heavenly bodies are something
to behold. I thought the doctor might be impressed because up to this
point my examination was entirely unremarkable. (Another note to myself:
Never, NEVER try to impress a doctor! They are only impressed by things
that kill you...and half of the rest of the planet.)

He commented that, yes, I had quite a few of them. They're dead veins,
he said. Then, he added this immortal phrase: "You're covered with the
Barnacles of Age."

That's when I got to thinking. Why didn't anyone prepare me for this moment?

WHY DIDN'T ANYONE EVER TELL ME THAT ONE DAY I WOULD BE COVERED WITH
CRUSTACEANS!!!!

This is why I think every young girl should get a few lessons in what the
future holds.

Think about it, old women out there. Think about the pearls of wisdom
you could bestow on some young, naive, dumb-dumb girl who thinks she's
going to be soft and supple with silky shiny locks of grey-free hair
forever.

You're probably cackling, "The young won't listen, why bother!" Well,
I'm not so sure about that. It would depend on how you structure the
course. You can't be nice. You have to be stern and unrelenting. You
have to frequently shake your knarly, arthritic finger at them and make
them do homework and term papers on topics like The Sagging Chin and
Bladder Control. And part of the curriculum would be based on my award
winning textbook entitled: That's Not A Mole, That's a Barnacle On My Butt!



ADDENDUM: Oh, and just so you know, the dermatologist didn't say
ANYTHING to The Man about his assortment of bodily oddities which
brought us in to this den of insults in the first place! He didn't
mention the words "Age Spots" or "Barnacles," he didn't wince at
the obvious rotted bits hanging here and there, he didn't recoil
in horror when he got near The Man's toes.

Which is inspiration for my NEXT textbook: It's a Man's World,
Girlie, So Get Used To It!

The United Sachs of Goldman

I dragged The Man to the Regal Cinema for our 2009 film-viewing experience.
We went to see Michael Moore's latest documentary, "Capitalism: A Love Story,"
the inspiration for my title of this blog.

I don't do much political commentary here, but I would like to tell everyone
to see this film. Even if you're a RightWing/FundiChristian/HateRadiofreak,
go see this one. Oh, he does disparage George W. a few times, but...well...so.
Other than that, I think ALL OF THE PEOPLE should at least consider the
depressing realities that this documentary illustrates so well. I like Michael
Moore because the guy has cojones. I mean, who would stand in front of the
CitiBank building in New York City holding a large money sack demanding that
Citi give back the money it stole from the American tax payer. Or, who would
show up at A.I.G. to make a citizen's arrest on the C.E.O. Oh sure, he had a
camera crew with him and everyone knows who he is, but still. He's got guts.
He doesn't hide behind a microphone or in a sound studio. He puts himself out
there on the street, in people-who-matter's faces and I have respect for that
kind of bravery because I could NEVER do that. I much prefer weeny-bitching
in the safety and comfort of my own living room like, I suppose, most Americans
who are programmed to think things like, "Heaven forbid I should actually put
my self on the front line because, geewhiz, it might be dangerous and I might
get arrested and what would people think." Moore has none of these qualms.
I support him in his efforts and I admire his ability to put an interesting,
thought provoking, entertaining, emotional film together. He made me raise
my eyebrows with skepticism, struggle with understanding difficult concepts,
laugh out loud and seethe with rage. He made me proud of my country like I
haven't felt in a long time. And, he also made me cry for my country, which
is another thing I haven't done in a long time. As I left the theatre, I was
keenly aware of my fellow citizens. It was a strange sensation. I felt this
intense oneness with my fellow theatre-goers, like we were all comrades
fighting for the survival of our common ideals, like I wanted to shake their
hands and say hello to them, to connect somehow, to stand in the parking lot
singing "We Are The World" or something.