Whisker Wars

Yesterday the new issue of Rolling Stone Magazine arrived. Not for me of course.  I am not that cool. It arrived for my daughter Kara, who is spending the summer in Atlanta. But since she isn’t here to remind me how uncool I am and why I shouldn’t be reading it; for spite, and because the cover had a teaser about the upcoming season of True Blood that really interested me,  I read it.

Under the heading of Summer Cable Preview  I noticed a new documentary-series  on IFC called Whisker Wars. The first line of the article read: At last an in depth look at the world of competitive bearding. Huh?  What is competitive bearding? Oh I think I might know—it’s when several of my female friends and I lock ourselves in a room for a week without tweezers. I could be a champion of the consequences of that. No? Maybe it’s a Brazilian waxing competition between several high priced NYC salons? Oh wait…that would be competitive de-bearding…nevermind.

No it seems that competitive bearding is a follicular challenge (not my words). Some of the categories include (and this is a direct quote) Imperial Mustache and Full Beard Freestyle. So in essence it’s an international facial hair competition between a bunch of men who look a lot like ZZ Top—or Santa Claus. I am trying really hard not to judge these people but I just don’t get it. Although, I didn’t get those Tatoo/Ink shows either. But, I guess if you compare the bearded guys to the tattoo guys, at least the bearded guys can always shave to instantly conform to the real world. Tattoo removal?—not so quick and easy.

 I may just have to watch Whisker Wars to satisfy my curiosity.  I wonder if any other woman besides me will be watching? Hey, I know—Mrs. Claus will be watching—she obviously finds the look attractive. Maybe Santa might even get lucky that night.

Whisker Wars is on IFC Friday nights at 11 pm. I’ll bet Gillette isn’t the sponsor.

Menopause: Black Swan Style

My cousin Betty is 10 years older than I and since neither of us had a sister, we kind of adopted each other to fill the void.  As her “little sister”, she often coached me on things like motherhood and of course more recently, menopause. She would tell me that when her hormones surged, she could feel her evil twin (as she called it) emerge.

One of last year’s best motion pictures was The Black Swan. I loved it. It was dark, creepy, and suspenseful. The sounds effects alone made me squirm (ugh...like the sound of Natalie Portman’s toenail being ripped off).

Being the dramatic and weirdly imaginative person that I am, I believe this movie is actually an allegory for menopause. This is my version of menopause—black swan style:

I am Natalie Portman, dressed in all in white, hair neatly pulled up into a tight knot on top of my head. I am in point shoes, up on my toes with my wrists and hands flitting gracefully like little wings as I travel along on the stage of life. I am happy happy happy. My family and friends are in the audience admiring and encouraging my total loveliness. I am obedient and submissive.

But….up in the glass control room overlooking the stage lurks the stoner-y looking pituitary man.(I am not sure why I need him to be stoner-y looking but it is critical at least  that he be a man) In his control room he has  switches that look like huge glider-type dimmers. Each one regulates a different hormone: estrogen, progesterone, FSH, thyroxin and testosterone.  Wickedly, just to see what control he really has over me, in the middle of the act, he starts manipulating the switches. Some he cranks up, and others he cranks down….. Until it happens: the pretty little white swan (that would be me) turns ebony with giant glossy black wings. My pupils turn deep glowing crimson red and in a raspy defiant Darth Vader voice announce It’s my turn. The audience (my family and friends) gasps in disbelief. The evil stoner pituitary man takes another hit of weed and laughs ha ha ha in his control room. The good little white swan (my former self) falls to her death never to be resurrected again.

And that is what menopause is like Charlie Brown-- black swan style.

My Golf Rant

On the news tonight they showed a charity golf event. It was for the Blind Golf Association. Blind golfers are lined up to the ball by a seeing partner and wa-la they can play 18 holes of golf and do it well.

At my Country Club there is a gentleman who has a neuromuscular disease. This gentleman walks with a cane, has uncontrolled muscle movement, yet by concentrating and leaning in such a way, manages not only to hit the ball, but has won club championships in his flight.

Okay so I'll admit it. I hated golf and yes it was because I was not very good at it. And by all the aforementioned accounts, even blind people or people with with neuromuscular diseases can have a lower handicap than I did when I played. 

Golf is difficult and frustrating. It takes forever to play when you are playing it well, and when you play it badly, it seems even longer than that---like to infinity and beyond (to quote Buzz Lightyear).  Before every swing of the club you need a positive swing thought while remembering to keep your eye on the ball, not take too big of a back swing, not pull your arms in, hit squarely through the ball, and then finish in an awkward pose. Easy right? And the minute you think you have mastered the game, poof it falls apart. You can par one hole, and triple bogey the next and not be able to figure out why. And to have any degree of success, you literally need to make it a part-time job--no really, you need to spend at least 20 hours a week sometimes just to maintain your handicap. I was out to dinner the other night with two ladies who needed to go home early because they had work in the morning: i.e. their Friday morning golf game.

And then there are the golf outfits: heinous at best. I do not care how lean and svelt your body is, no one looks good in a collared golf shirt and bermuda shorts with front pockets. Add the saddle shoes with spikes and you have instant birth control. No man (except for the blind golfers I talked about before) will find you attractive. In my opinion, all lady golfers look like they play on the same team (so to speak)---you know, not that there is anything wrong with that--I am a fan of Lady Gaga afterall---gay is okay by me. I am just saying that women's golf attire isn't exactly feminine.  It's the kind of stuff Chaz Bono would wear and wear well.

So there you have it. My golf rant. And yet, when I walk by the first tee, smell the grass, feel the soft summer wind at my back, and look toward the flag, I miss playing---it's kind of like childbirth I guess. Maybe I should try a blindfold and a cane--my game couldn't be any worse I suppose.