One day, Donald Trump will be gone. Whether you love him or loathe him, there will come a time when he will no longer fill the horizon, and he will be greatly missed and greatly remembered and greatly examined. It’s undeniable that he’s left a mark, and it will hurt when he’s gone. Things will feel different, and you know how much we hate change.
There is a new parlor game going around the internet this week, and it’s in the form of a question to be posed to the ladies. You’re in the forest, alone. Which would you rather run into: a man or a bear? A grizzly man or a startled bear? Will bear spray always work? Both can climb trees and run fast and are usually of superior strength … so guess which creature most of the women chose?
Sure, maybe some of the ladies were just being contrary, but there’s a sad feeling of truthiness about their choice. You know it means something when it’s proliferating on a T-shirt and, as the internet continues to flourish and the news industry continues to fracture, I find that I’m getting my best info from unstable and unreliable and even unusual sources. It’s sometimes nothing more than pure gossip and blind items from darkened whistleblowers and reformed criminals, but if you’re a true news hound and you know fact from fiction, you can survive a rabbit hole and sometimes even sniff out promising truffles.
I’ve been reluctant to show you this photo of our beloved gentle little lovable Harvey, but it’s so darn interesting. It’s a side of our pet that we never see. Ever. That’s why I’m fascinated with the way his little nose crumples up and his tongue curls and his vampire fangs are unfurled. His curious eyes have become deep pools of hatred because he is afraid, very afraid of strangers. I have seen his eyes as black as this when he is planning a harmless attack, and I know how to take cover fast. I am not afraid.
A long, long time ago, when I needed it most, my aunt-in-law Ida told me how to stop worrying about disasterous things that can go wrong. Don’t worry about fires, tornadoes, stray bumps in the night, nuclear bombs. Don’t worry: Instead, make elaborate plans. Spare no detail as you plan your escape from whatever horror keeps you awake at night. Consider buying equipment, containers; even weaponry.
It is said that you replace almost all your bodily cells every seven years, and that you become, in essence, a whole new person, tip to toe. However, up in the attic of your brain, your memories are the sole exception to the 7-year purge, remaining intact and fragile and forever multiplying in quiet dusty half-forgotten heaps.
If you chart your own history and look at what you were doing at ages 7, 14, 21, or 28, you will notice profound changes. For example, I turned 21 in 1968 when my handsome husband came home from a difficult tour in Viet Nam. By the time I was 28, my next handsome husband was making scrambled eggs in my smooth cast iron pan. And so it goes.
I won’t bore you with the details, but it gets worse as you get older. Time speeds up and you – as if enchanted – turn corners and open doors, collecting memories and mementoes, never to regain or even understand the past. And now, in 2024, I have just turned 77; it’s my eleventh turning amid crowded mental stacks, and there is some trepidation.
In the Dominion vs. Fox lawsuit, the salary of Maria Bartiromo is listed at $10 million per year, and no matter the small print, $10 million is a whole lot of money. Since she’s being accused, basically, of being really bad at her job, I can’t help but wonder how she came to earn so much money … and then I remembered my one and only image of Maria … which is indelible. She is wearing a bright red dress, low-cut and draped, and she remains forever as a luscious background for one of Donald Trump’s more memorable speeches.
That’s $5 million per smooth commodious bauble, and would she have earned as much if she had been wearing a dark suit and power scarf? I’ve written about this Helen-of-Troy phenomenon a few other times in this blog: once when John John and Carolyn were killed in a plane crash, and once when Sarah Palin was ascendant, and once when Melania wore a particularly fetching jacket that cost more than any boomer’s first house. The cultural Eye of Sauron scans the population looking for the pretty people it likes to eat for brunch, and there’s always someone new and tasty on the menu. 🐔