What the hell is wrong with this country?

Time magazine’s cover (yeah, this is for all the hermits of the world who have had their electricity cut off) shows a pretty young mother whose son is feeding from one of her breasts. The overwhelming negative reaction has simply floored me.

The reaction has gone from “barf” to “I don’t want to see them.” Over 70% of people polled are grossed out about a woman showing her breasts on the cover of Time. Her three year old son is getting milk from his mother’s breast. It’s not like she is sharing some crack with her toddler. It’s milk! And her son does not appear to be malnourished. That is part of the function of the breasts.

Would we have gone to war if part of the nipple was exposed? What a bunch of boobs.

I can only imagine what the response would have been if they had used an overweight woman on the cover. The reaction would have been that only fat pigs whip it out in public. And don’t tell me it wouldn’t have been that kind of uproar. A bunch of hippie freaks who are trying to overthrow the government by exposing their breasts.

France is looking really good about now.

People were annoyed that this woman appears to be healthy and slender. We women cannot win. This country makes us feel like something is wrong with us all the time. That somehow our breasts are vile and not one of the most beautiful parts of our bodies.

Breasts are really quite stunning and should be revered and not reviled. Regardless of the size and shape, whether they are healthy or not, our breasts offer beauty and in some cases… life itself.

Are we so afraid of the human body? Are we afraid about how the body functions? (I know my family is, but that is another blog).  Are we just a bunch of puritanical and hypocritical misfits who feel the sight of a breast is a justified reason for the majority of Americans to have a meltdown? Grow up.

I can hear the comments already: the breast is not to be shown in public. Keep it behind closed doors. Breastfeeding should be done with the lights out. Nourishing your child after a certain age will lead them to the psychiatrist’s chair one day.

I like my breasts. I don’t need this country giving them an inferiority complex.

Hey, folks, Al Qaeda is looking to attack us again.

And just for the record –I wrote this blog while topless.

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True confession time. I don’t think I turned red by reading this book – I just needed a title for my article.

And for the record, I have never held a job where the words” Mistress” or “Darkness” were part of my job title. I am just saying that the book surprised me a little, but it wasn’t about the sex. And just for the record, there was a lot of sex happening in this book. I started smoking again.

What surprised me about Fifty Shades of Grey, which I avoided reading until I found out Amazon would send the book in a plain envelope and that the mailman was on strict orders not to giggle and tell all my neighbors, is that it is a sad book instead of being just a sex book.

Ah, the things we buy in order to do research.

Without giving too much of the storyline away…wait a sec, are people really reading this for the storyline?

Well, I did find one between the dominant and the submissive.

Do I continue or do I go get my masters in sexology first? Oh, screw it. I am almost done.

One of the main characters is a very broken person. And it is really troubling to see how any form of abuse on a young, inexperienced mind can lead to distorted views about sex and love making. Now I am not saying that pushing the envelope pass “vanilla” or “missionary” is a bad thing. Oh, no, not me. Let me just grab a cigarette. I am all for people having great sex. In fact, I would hope the majority of people are having just that (but I think they aren’t and that is why this book is so popular), but love making and inflicting real pain on someone’s body and psyche should never mix. Mrs. Robinson – you should be ashamed of yourself.

And in Fifty Shades of Grey, sex, emotional scarring along with an unhealthy dose of physical pain on an innocent and confused player was easily uncovered in between the sheets. 

Now I know I am only on book one and I am aware that my smoking addiction will be out of control by the time I get to book three, but I hope people reading this book will stop having sex for a minute and acknowledge that there is another story going on.

I doubt it.

So since this is my article, I figure I would mention my fantasy. Let me just put out my cigarette.

Before I go to that great “Oh, Baby, Baby” in the sky:

I would like to have a man come up and take me in his arms,

I would like the song, “Some Enchanted Evening” to be playing in the background. You can get it on Amazon – the new Broadway cast version with Paulo Szot handling the lead. Please buy it new – it’s only $12.21,

And I would like him not to step on my feet as we dance in a public place.

Fade to black.

Damn it. I am out of cigarettes.

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Thanks to the warm temperatures this winter in New York, I have been getting sick, I would say, every three to five minutes. On a particularly bad hair day, my friend Patty called and asked if I could bring my dog, Miz Ruby, to a puppy shower. I don’t like going to showers for two legged creatures, but then she said it was for the reality show they were part of. Patty, Patty, Patty – it is a good thing that I really like you. And then the next request was if Ruby had an outfit she could wear. The strength of our friendship was being tested as I informed my dear friend that my dog is a nudist, but that I would be attired in something chic and edgy. In other words, all black. I was not about to go in front of a TV camera and have it slap an extra 60 pounds on me. It is 60 lbs., right? Shut up.

So I dragged my sorry assed body, along with my lovely yellow lab, to the festivities by the water. In a gift bag on the passenger seat were four little booties for Winnie, the pregnant dog. I was too embarrassed to buy them, so I gave Ruby my credit card and she took care of it while I sat in the getaway car. She lifted a pack of gum, but I made her return it for a sugar free version.

The reality show is Ice loves Coco. Rapper  Ice-T and his wife Coco. Ice didn’t show up. He is no fool. He used the excuse that he had to work on his other TV show. I think he knew I had ten new rap songs that I wanted him to use on his next album. Why don’t people believe that white women of a certain age can write rap? Because we can’t.

And then things got a little surreal. 

There was Spartacus, Ice and Coco’s English bull dog, who impregnated Patty and John’s sweet Winnie. This little canine stud muffin ran around showing off his enormous intellect while peeing on anything that moved or was nailed to floor. I have to say I was a tad stunned…if your animal comes into someone’s home and pees with abandon; wouldn’t you feel a little ashamed and offer to clean it up? Not on this reality show.  I want to come back as a dog and call on some ex-boyfriends.

I just adored Coco’s publicist, Soulgee, but something dark and evil in me came out when he started to fret big time about being afraid of dogs – big hairy ones like my yellow lab. You know – those killer yellow labs that run in vicious packs and can cut a man in half by just thinking about it. Yes, those killer labs. Hide the children. Here was my chance to make it big in Hollywood. My assignment, if I chose to accept it, was to get Soulgee to move past his fears and feed Ruby (Killer) a dog treat. Lights, action, camera. After 74 takes, Soulgee put a treat near Ruby’s mouth and I hid my concealed weapon again and went back to thinking that he is just adorable. So much for the “real” in reality shows, eh?

And then there was the issue of breasts. Not mine (although they are fabulous) but Coco’s. Not being a man, I don’t know what you can do with breasts that substantial. I found myself staring at them (a lot) and was so glad that Coco didn’t come over to tell me that her face was up here. That would have been humiliating, but I think if you pump your boobs up that big, you want everyone to gaze at them. Even little old me.

Coco is a lovely woman who seems to embrace her life with Ice. I enjoyed chatting with her and I would like to encourage her to start her own line of clothing. I think “My Clothes Get Under My Skin” has a delightful ring to it because if her clothes got any tighter, they would have to be surgically placed under her skin. I think a can or two of spray paint would produce the same effect.

After sitting near someone who kept repeating the same mantra about dogs, I decided it was time to bid adieu.

I let Ruby drive home. There was something rather potent in those doggie treats that left me hallucinating about going home to Kansas.

The puppy shower episode ran and Miz Ruby kept showing up in the segment. How nice for her. The bitch.

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I would like to say that Part 1 was such an enormous success that doing Part 2 is a no-brainer. I would like to say that, but I can’t. I am on this honesty trip and I do hope it derails soon so I can go back to lying like a rug. 

Or like a politician. Why do people bother to become politicians? Everybody pretty much hates them. To me, it would be like wanting to go back to grade school so that the creepy kid Al could chase me down the hall and then pounce on me and knock the wind out of me. He’d then just leave me there so Loretta and Maddia could spit on me. Yes, I am going back as soon as I can. I just hope they are all sharing a cell with a politician. They deserve each other.

Why am I the only person in the universe who regularly attends a Zen meditation group where the teacher does not like me? I don’t snore during meditation (or any other time if you are keeping track), I have never kicked anyone while they were reaching Nirvana and I never questioned whether Buddha should be attending a Weight Watchers’ meeting. I am a really nice person who is just looking for two hours a week where she can slow down her breathing. What would Siddhārtha Gautama do?

I was walking out of a store recently and a woman walked past me and said, “love you.” I thought it was so nice and I said “love you, too.” And she looked at me as if I had carrots growing out of the top of my head. Next time that happens, I will just make the person a salad.

Neon green and pink are some of the hot colors for summer. I am not sure I want to be picked up by Google Earth unless there is dinner and dancing involved.

Arizona just passed a law (I know they are a bunch of jokesters…right?) that pregnancy starts two weeks before conception. Yes, I know. Please read it again. That would make my birthday May 15^th which means I would not be a Gemini. So I want to ask Arizona’s Republican Governor Jan Brewer - what am I supposed to do with all my other personalities? They are waiting for an answer before we all move to Europe because this is becoming a very hostile place for women.

This is the God’s honest truth. I got this email from Emily: I hope you are in atmosphere of peace and love. It was very great to me when i found your contact in my searching for a responsible and reliable person to have a good friendship with and I found a great spark in my heart despite that I have not seen you in person, but there was a feeling that really gave me a nice pleasure to communicate with you and see how the sun will shines like, I am looking for someone who is comfortable around children.

Dear Emily, I hate kids. The sun has gone in and my check for $10,000 would bounce.  All my best, The peace and love bitch.

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Some people wait till all the people involved in their lives are dead before writing a salacious tell all while the rest of these so-called authors write them for the money, publicity and morning talk show appearances.

In the last month or so, two books came out that I am not sure really needed to be written. Okay, a lot of books shouldn’t be written much less published and I don’t think my gripe with these two is because they got published and I didn’t. Yet. I keep telling myself that.

Hiding from Reality: My Story of Love, Loss, and Finding the Courage Within vs. Once Upon a Secret: My Affair with President John F. Kennedy and Its Aftermath (What happened to short titles?)

I could almost forgive Taylor Armstrong of the classless Housewives of Beverly Hills for writing her book, Hiding from Reality: My Story of Love, Loss, and Finding the Courage Within. I could almost forgive her until I read some of the scathing reviews that pretty much pointed to the fact that the book was written with a box of Crayolas. Are copyeditors banned from Beverly Hills? I guess their shoes don’t go with excess and gossip.

From what I am reading from the reviews it seems that there are a lot of incidences of “domestic abuse” that can be explained away as the result of plastic surgery (even Angelia Jolie wouldn’t want her lips to be THAT big) and that kind of makes my skin crawl. Is she making money off the millions of women who really do suffer from violence in the home? Major shame on her and her publisher if that is the case. Did they forget to fact check? I get it, dead husbands tell no lies.

But I think there must be some truth to the different forms of violence allegedly beaten into her by her late husband because where there is smoke, there is fire. And I have to admit my shame – I did watch some of the episodes to see for myself if I thought something was going on…like the truth. I think if there was no physical violence than there must have been some verbal and emotional abuse because Taylor Armstrong was imploding all over the place while saying she still loved her husband who took his own life. Between stone cold reality and total fabrication is her truth. And it was very painful to watch, but I think reading the book might rival having root canal performed by a crack crazed monkey.

But if one woman walks away, if one woman makes call to a domestic abuse hotline and if one woman and her children leave to start over somewhere else then maybe the publicity about this book might do some good. Just don’t read the book. Women being abused have got their own history that needs to change and don’t have any time to waste.

Maybe next time leave the crayolas at home and let someone else write a book on surviving abuse. We shouldn’t be going nutty over the lack of writing skills. It takes away from the story which is men beating up women and how that shit has got to stop.

 Once Upon a Secret: My Affair with President John F. Kennedy and Its Aftermath by Mimi Alford. How much do I despise this book? If I could write the word “hate” on every grain of sand on this planet…well, let’s say that it would be a start.

When I first heard about this book I felt a little sick. And after I forced myself to listen to interviews with this woman, I felt violated. You aren’t telling us anything new. You are just giving us some graphic details. And if I catch my mother reading this book –you are going to have to call her to explain some of the stuff you wrote.

We all know that most politicians are dogs in expensive suits. President Kennedy was quite the busy guy. We all know that now. So why did Ms. Alford think she needed to write this book? She said it was liberating to tell her truth. So every fifty years you come clean? Who cares?

As a young girl, I admired President Kennedy and his stunning wife, Jackie. I was so excited to think that my president wanted all of us to pitch in and make a difference in this country and in the world. I couldn’t wait to grow up. If the gentlemen’s agreement between the White House and the press still stood, we never would have known that Kennedy had little regard for his wedding vows and women.

Power is still the greatest aphrodisiac and Ms. Alford took a sip that lasted for 18 months. So when did she know that having sex with one of the most powerful married men in the world might be a no no? Oh, that is right – fifty years later when she got herself a book deal.

 Alford said author Robert Dallek “outed” her in his book,  An Unfinished Life: John F. Kennedy, 1917–1963 which was published in 2004. I must have missed the news that day because Alford didn’t come up on my radar until about a month ago.

To Ms. Alford I would say that bearing your soul is what you do in confession or with some girlfriends.

Some things are sacred. Like a little girl’s admiration for her president. As an adult, I know he was far from perfect. I would have divorced the lying dog. But hearing that someone else is coming out to free their soul by telling us the imitate details is really none of our business. The details were so intimate that Meredith Viera made Alford read them herself during the Rock Center interview. Smart move on Meredith’s part – no one wants to get their mouth washed out with soap.

I wish I had the opportunity to tell Mimi Alford to please wait until my great, great grand nieces and nephews were dead. I say that because I really would have liked to have been long gone before this masterpiece showed up in our bookstores.

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