My Review of the 2011 Academy Awards...Stoned on Cold Medication and Feeling Kinda Mean...

Once upon a time.

I awoke from my malaise today.

Having been sick for four days, it was wonderful to see the sunshine but not so to see a giant rutabaga peering back at me from above the bathroom sink this morning. 

I was really out of it--head, chest, throat-- and, since Charlie is soon to arrive for spring break and I need to be in tip-top shape to clean, cook and spin gold from straw for his pleasure, I panicked and starting popping everything I've been hoarding in the medicine cabinet for the past fifteen years. 

As a result, for the next few days, I tried to change channels on the TV with the portable phone as well as communicate with my Aunt Alice by pressing the remote control against my face and shouting into it.

Cloudy thinking (Do I hate Justin Bieber or love him?), poor judgement (How do you remove a Youtube video, anyway?) and inability to get a good night's sleep, hence the root vegetable resemblance this morning, were other results of my free hand (blue ones, pink ones, white ones!) with the pills.

Were the Oscars on? 

Did I forget about them as I sat, for days, under the numbing weight of a 20 pound cat who believed it was his job to heal my ills by cutting off all blood circulation in my body above the kneecaps?

I must have missed them.

Or, at least, dozed off in front of them.

But I do have vague memories of certain things....

Was that the once dashing and handsome Kirk Douglas? He of the oft-imitated voice and chin cleft so dark and deep that you could scoop stem cells out of it with an ice-tea spoon, making a total fool of himself in front of millions? God, I hope not--he deserves better. 

Was that Melissa Leo, accepting an award for best supporting actress and wearing a dress constructed from left-over Christmas wrap, immediately dropping the F-bomb and pretending it was an accident? 

That was no accident. No one but Mickey Rourke drops the F-bomb so early in an acceptance speech. She wanted to pretend to be as tough as her character in the movie for which she won....and had to literally wrestle the award out of Kirk Douglas' chin. To be authentically profane, timing is crucial, Melissa...and you fell short. Please leave the F-bomb to the pros (That would be me--offering profanity consultation services on the side--both Pay Pal and Mastercard accepted).

High as a Kite.

Was I dreaming or did Anne Hathaway change dresses so many times that the obviously high James Franco (who apparently believed that delivering his every line with narrowed eyes made him seem intelligent) seemed to forget who she was halfway through the broadcast?

I demand to see his transcripts from NYU. And his SAT scores, thank you very much.

Why is Christian Bale so damn annoying--and what's with that Cockney accent? He grew up in a lovely resort town in England, not the seamy side of London. Why were Javier Bardem and Josh Brolin dressed as Good Humor men? Why did Cate Blanchett wear a dress with baby spit-up all over her shoulders?

Why did Scarlet Johanssen fight her way through a wind tunnel on the way to the theater and why would no one lend her a comb once she arrived? Why must Kevin Spacey insist on singing? More importantly why does Gwyneth Paltrow's family continue to allow her to sing? Don't they like her? 

And, since I may have hallucinated all this due to my heavy handedness with the meds, who was that old guy pretending to be Billy Crystal? Am I the only one who thought the hologram of Bob Hope at the podium was creepy bordering on terrifying? What planet is Randy Newman really from? Why is Mark Wahlberg always so angry and Justin Timberlake always so relaxed?

Was Helen Mirren storing nuts for the winter or did she get those poppin' new cheeks from the same doctor as did the other wise perfect and luminous Halle Berry?

And, most importantly, when did Warren Beatty die? I must have missed that news entirely.

Those who know me can guess my favorite moment of the show. 

It was, of course, when Tom Hooper, director of "The King's Speech," accepted the award for best movie and credited his mommy for discovering the story and suggesting it for his next project.

Leaning into the microphone, he advised the millions watching to "Always listen to your mother." Did you get that, Tom and Charlie? You total punks.

With that suggestion, Mr. Hooper may, indeed, have saved the world.

My second favorite moment was when Hilary Swank after being asked how many Oscars she's won to date, struck the floor twice with her left foot. Think about it.......ah, okay!

I can only hope I am feeling better for next year's Academy Awards so I can pay closer attention.

Fashion Week? FASHION WEEK?? I'll give you Fashion Week....

Epic or just scary?

Since I am such a fashion icon among my peers (peers, stop laughing), I have been keeping an eye on some of the developments of the recent Fashion Week in New York as well as what's been happening on the run way. 

I have learned, among other things, that lace is back (never knew it left), high-waisted pants for women will be popular again (I hear this was met with groans),the trench coat has been "reinvented" in dressy fabrics (the trench was actually developed by Burberry to wear in trenches during WWI)) and that "nearly every girl will spend her last spare hundred dollars on a pair of gorgeous shoes." 

Well, okay!

What woman doesn't love shoes? But, oddly, I can't seem to locate a "spare" hundred dollars.

And, despite my lingering status as a female, (strongly disputed by those who have heard me sneeze), if  I could, it wouldn't go toward shoes. It would go toward flea medication for the cats---spring is coming and we can't go through what we did last year, now can we?

An article from the snotty Wall Street Journal (which recently referred to Baskin Robbins ice cream as "low end," can you believe it?) also said that certain colors should make us feel "lyrical."

After I mopped up the coffee that shot out of my nose upon reading that, I looked up "lyrical" just to reinforce my annoyance.

Lyrical, these days, is being defined as "having the fluid substance of music and possessing the character of a songlike outpouring of the poet's own thoughts and feelings, as distinguished from the epic or dramatic."

What if I prefer feeling "epic" to "lyrical." In fact, I assure you that epic would mean more to me at this point in my life.

Lyrical is for Taylor Swift. Epic is for women who wear metal bras in German operas. Not that I wear a metal bra---yet. But, at this point--I would rather intimidate you than enchant you. Is that wrong?

It was also suggested that we forget about "kitten heels" and just "accept that it's time to master the art" of walking in stilettos . 

I have yet to, personally, find anyone who has truly mastered the art.

I could make more money than Michael Vick made with the dogs by pitting women against each other in stilettos. Wagers would be made on who could walk the farthest without turning an  ankle, extra points offered--of course--for snapping a bone or knocking out one's teeth. I sense there's a lot of money to be made here and, quite frankly, am very excited at the prospect.

I read also that Yacht club chic is all the rage and it was suggested that it would be wonderful to appear as if we had just stepped off a yacht at all times.

My friends would drop a net over me if I tried this...and I'll return the favor if any one of them ever shows up with gold buttons on their shoulders and wearing a jaunty cap. Consider yourselves warned, Ladies.

I've been sick since Friday and have been modeling a rotating set of sweats in a grey that is neither lyrical or epic. 

Wearing socks with grippy bottoms, I have still managed to turn my ankle and nearly plunge down the stairs, carrying hot tea and a toasted bialy, no less.

I have nothing in lace--unless you count that tattered tee I love to sleep in and if I have high-waisted anything it's because I kept a pair of jeans from the 70's to prove to total strangers (Hey, buddy, wanna see something unbelievable??) that this tuchas could once squeeze into something so small.

The idea of a satin trench coat is as preposterous to me as if Buzzy demanded a top hat....er, scratch that--Buzzy actually has demanded a top hat but you know what I mean.

Of course there are sour grapes on the menu as I sit here-- indulging in one of my favorite pastimes,reverse snobbery--in my mismatched regalia with tissues stuffed into my sleeves for future use. I look at the well-coordinated and trendy with admiration and am in awe of certain friends and relatives who take this stuff to heart and usually look great, as a result.

But Fashion Week is a figment for me...fun to read about but not nearly epic--or lyrical-- enough for most.

Beer Pong in the Oval Office

I read that President Obama, Vice President Biden and a select group of Democratic governors are scheduled to convene today in the White house to discuss ways to stimulate the economy and encourage job growth.

Yeah, right.

The article went on to pointedly emphasize that it was a "democrats only" event. Come on, guys, we all know what that means.

Beer Pong.

It's been a tough couple of weeks. The middle east, and with it our oil and security interests, is toppling like dominoes in a corn flakes commercial. State pensions are under siege. Somali pirates are killing Americans. The government may have to temporarily shut down and Hilary, that stubborn bitch, still refuses to cut her hair.



If the president runs off to Camp David for the weekend, even if he brings a big briefcase stuffed with what appear to be important papers (but are really copies of Mad magazine and xeroxed word searches) he will be lambasted by the media.



Michele is constantly yapping about her "guns," and buying belts, Sasha won't stop leaping in front of the camera and waving whenever there's a camera crew within ten feet and Bill O'Reilly keeps calling and hanging up........the man needs a break.

Michele: Good nutrition and belts! That is my platform as first lady!

So, the word goes out: Democrats only.

That is code for PAR-TAY! 

They arrive in dark suits, American flag pins securely anchored to their pin-striped lapels. They shake hands and pose for pictures, kicking Sasha out of the way with their wing-tips as she attempts, yet again, to jump into the photo. They answer a few questions and shuffle into the oval office.

Once inside, the fun begins. High fives are exchanged as they draw the drapes and change into cotton lounge pants and tee shirts. Bowls are filled with Laffy Taffy and Joe Biden slips a copy of "Super Troopers" into the blu-ray player.

He has trouble with the remote and is relieved of his duties. Later, after too much Laffy Taffy, he must be coaxed out of the bathroom where he has gone to sulk.

Red cups and ping pong balls are lined up on the president's desk which has been covered by a bed sheet taken from the Lincoln bedroom. The darts are laid out as a poster of Sarah Palin, in a red, white and blue bikini, is taped to the wall. The festivities begin with a game of Mad Libs using Glen Beck's name to fill in all the blanks.

Whoever wins beer pong later gets to drunk dial John Boehner. It's definitely going to be a fun night.

Do not be fooled, America-- this is what's going on in Washington, today. Your tax dollar paid for the jalapeno poppers.

Though you can't possibly have as much fun as President Obama will today, have a wonderful weekend, everyone. Thanks for reading and signing up this week. Stay dry and warm and see you on Monday morning!

Cinderblocks, and Many Other Things, Scare the Hell Out Of Me





My son Charlie writes a morning news letter that is dependably in people's email in-boxes between 8 and 9 a.m.

This morning, it's late.

Instead of thinking rational thoughts first like a) perhaps his computer fizzled out or b) the internet is down because he, in his carefree and wanton college lifestyle, neglected to pay the bill, I immediately jump to the conclusion that something has happened to him.

Immediately.

There is no slow elevation from a small ember of fear. It's a four alarm blaze right away.

I have always been like this.

Since I was a tiny girl, any aberration in routine or unexpected deviation meant that disaster had occured. Needless to say, this has exhausted those to whom I am close enough to reveal these fears.

If Seth doesn't call from the car on his way home, he is most certainly on the side of the road, hurled from his vehicle, unable to see because his glasses have been thrown from his face, one grasping claw outstretched to call me from the phone that is just inches beyond his reach. Oh, God.

When I was a little girl, if my mother was not where I thought she should be the minute I thought she should be there, I was absolutely positive that she'd fallen into some unseen crack in the earth or had been abducted by aliens....or, at the very worst, stepped through some portal leading into another dimension and would now exist only in a parallel universe.

I am not kidding. 

I read endless fairy tales and science fiction as a kid. I watched the Twilight Zone and the Outer Limits and occasionally got my hands on one of the then  popular--and not intended for impressionable minds--paperbacks with titles like "Stranger Than Fiction." I was a mess.

As I got older, while the fear of alien abduction remains (most specifically, I'm worried that I am an alien), my other fears have become more realistic--terrorism, random violence, nuclear melt-downs,car jackings and accidents, illness and, of course, wait for it.....Justin Bieber*.

Seth has told me thousands of times that I should be more afraid of small unexpected stuff, thereby hoping to quell my more grandiose terrors.

His favorite example: I shouldn't fear flying because I could be puttering in the garden or prancing down a city street and a cinder block could fall on my head and kill me.

I have learned two things from this: Seth has an obsession with cinderblocks. He seems to believe that they are everywhere, waiting to fall on people's heads. The other thing this has taught me is to be terribly afraid of them. So, I've simply added cinderblocks to my list of things to fear.

What I experienced when the boys were late for dinner or missed their curfew, was so immense that it cannot be put into words. As was my gratitude and relief when they showed up with an excuse or reason for their tardiness.

It's a fact that women's brains have a larger portion devoted to anxiety and worry. I think I must have gotten in line twice when this was being distributed yet, somehow, entirely missed the "long legs and small nose" line.

So, Charlie just overslept this morning. I called him a minute ago and, upon picking up the phone, he didn't say hello, but simply said, "You thought I was dead, didn't you?"

Well, yes. But I'm very glad you're not, you sleepy smart ass.

*Are you not impressed that I managed to negatively insert Justin Bieber into a post again?

I have no fear of Hannibal.

Bed Etiquette

Just do not wake me....

I'm not talking about the naughty stuff, people.

There are plenty of web sources for that sort of thing and, frankly, I'm shocked that you would even think that this was on the agenda--this is not that sort of blog (yet). 

Here at "Susan Says..." we deal almost exclusively with dysfunction and hostility, proudly offering no solutions other than the creative use of profanity and unreasonable criticism for all. 

Today, I'm talking about civil and acceptable sleep behavior which, I fear, is often over-looked  in favor of racier avenues of thought..

I began thinking about this recently when I crept up to bed after Seth--who is up very early every morning--had already said goodnight and fallen asleep. 

Preparing to get into the bed, I took off my robe and tossing it onto what I hoped would be the edge of the dresser, accidentally knocked over several picture frames, a few bottles of assorted girlie stuff and a small lamp--all of which clattered about, rousing but not waking Seth from his slumber.

Instead of cutting my losses and slipping meekly under the covers, I straightened up the mess on the dresser--in the dark--and, seeking warmth in the chilly room, dove into bed jostling poor Seth who bounced skyward and, still without waking, mumbled somethig about Beyonce...or, was it Nancy Pelosi? I couldn't quite tell.

Ashamed, I vowed internally to be nice and quiet and not wake him up to chat as I occasionally do when the eleven o'clock news has been jarring and I need to talk it out. This is point one of your bed-iquette lesson:  Do not clatter, bounce or seek conversation.

Point two is that when the person with whom you share your mattress is emitting snores indistinguishable from an entire herd of terrified wildebeests upon realizing that they are about to be eaten by lions, do not smash bring your hand, palm down, on their face. Yes, it's very tempting but it can cause hard feelings that transcend the mystery of night and enter the arena of the following day. 

Instead, gently caress his/her shoulder and murmur into the sleeper's ear, "You are snoring like an entire herd of terrified wildebeests upon realizing that they are about to be eaten by lions. Please stop."  This, friends, is point two of lesson one: Be polite despite your impulses.

Part three and the last portion of your first day of Bed-iquette Class is simply to not become annoyed at your spouse's choice of sleep position....

If you walk into the bedroom after he or she has fallen asleep and the light is still on and their copy of "Great Speeches of the Twentieth Century" is left open on their stomach, just look away and turn off the light.

Do not be bothered that they sleep on their back, hands clasped behind their heads, a small smile upon their lips as they dream that they are Douglas MacArthur reassuring the Phillipines that he will, indeed, be back soon.

Simply get into bed and assume your own, much more normal, pose---that of a middle-aged, extremely short Scotty Pippin about to either sink a hook shot or hail a cab, depending on your frame of reference.

I'm sleeping right now--at the U.N.

Just calmly accept that your partner sleeps in the same position once favored by Muammar Qadaffi  who despite his current bravado now sleeps in the fetal position sucking his thumb....that is, if he sleeps at all these days. So, part three: Sleep and let sleep. What's it to you, anyway?

So, let's recap lesson one---no clattering and bouncing, face palming or resentment over the goddam arrogance of a subconsciously chosen position.

Stay tuned for Bed Ettiquette Part Deux in the coming days.

Until then, remember, although you don't really care about anyone else getting a good night's sleep, they feel the same exact way.

Oh, Seth, come back to bed.

Give Me Electricity or Give Me Death--Almost Literally.

This morning, just as I was about to start making the magical elixir of life, aka a pot of coffee, I heard it.

The click.

Then the beep of my carbon monoxide detector as it lost power. Then the silence. The power was out.

Those who know me are familiar with what happens next. I, literally, flip out. 

When the kids were little and my mother was around, I would control my irrational behavior to a point--participating in the family activities of lighting candles, telling stories in the dark and passing out whatever ice cream treat was in the freezer before it melted.

I could take this up to a point but would soon punctuate the festivities with bursts of hysteria, "What if the power never comes back on?" was a favorite refrain. Sometimes I would actually burst into tears as I suffered almost immediate withdrawal from the busy whirring of appliances. I'd hover by the television, trying to will it back to life like Uri Geller used to bend a fork.

I'd threaten to check into a motel. Run away. Put the house up for sale. Return to the city where this only happens once a decade. When the kids got older, we'd manually heave open the garage door and drive all over the neighborhood, curious to see where the line of darkness ended and blessed normalcy began again.

Today, upon hearing the dreaded click of disconnection and then the ensuing silence that settled about the house like a heavy blanket, I stood and blinked in disbelief. My cable box, dead and unlit, stared back.

The sun is brightly shining. There is no ice storm. No gale force winds. No lightening. Why, I asked the universe, WHY????

Since the phone goes dead when the power is off, I must resort to using my cell to call the power company. Since I forgot to recharge it, the cell is also dead. I do more staring. What to do?

I tear out into the garage and--get this--turn on the engine of the car to plug in the phone and make the call with the motor running. I never said I was smart, remember?

Of course, I have opened the small door (can't open the big doors since they are electrically operated) but by the time I get through to the cheerful automated whore on the other end, I have used up every combination of foul word mathematically possible and am, literally, starting to get nauseous from the carbon monoxide.

Usually it's a simple phone call.

Years ago, a caller would receive a little good-natured sympathy from a human at the end of the line but, lately, it's an electronic voice.

Today the voice has all the info wrong---address, phone number--so I wonder if I have been turned off as a result of mistaken identity. But I can't stay on the phone much longer. If there had been a parakeet in the garage, he would have already been feet up.

As the fumes build, I call Seth and ask him to make the phone call from work, running out to the driveway where I breathe fresh air to clear my lungs. I realize that I won't be able to post my blog, flush the toilet or wash my face (the water pumps are all electric) or brew coffee. I feel the old hysteria rising as I head back inside.

Just as I am about to start chewing on coffee beans and sniffing Sharpies, I start to feel calmer.

Suddenly the quiet of the house is less a threat than a tangible peacefulness. I am confused by this as rarely do I react to anything with calmness. My personal immaturity is legendary.

But the rage continues to dissipate and I pick up a book that I've been reading half-heartedly since last week.

Buzzy climbs into my lap and we sit for about an hour. The book transports me as Buzzy makes little running motions in his sleep (he is chasing a mouse-sized Justin Bieber in a dream, no doubt).

When the electricity clicks back on, I am startled. Back to my routine now, the enforced dreaminess of the power-outage is over....

Thank God. It wasn't as bad as I thought but this ain't Little House on the friggin' Praire, now is it?? Time for Cash Cab and coffee.

What? Did you think I was going soft on you, people? Not likely.

Today's Agenda: Hold Up Godiva Store With Banana

For some reason, I receive regular emails from Godiva chocolate.

Could it be that I signed up for it when in the Godiva store at the mall?

It's true that I often just pop in to stare at the strawberries. They hate it when I fog up the glass cases with my breath.

Perhaps, one of their smocked employees wheedled my email address from me but I have no conscious memory of it.

While I consistently refuse to give out my email address to retailers, once over the thresh hold of the Godiva store and under the spell of the sights and smells of the chocolate, I'd give them my ATM card password if they asked for it.

God, I hope they never asked for it. That could explain.........never mind.

I never buy Godiva for myself. While it is unspeakably luscious, it is also unspeakably expensive so I purchase it only for special people's special occasions (inaugurations, coronations, papal installations, stays of execution, etc.).

Today's email, however, combined the words peanut, pretzel and bark in the same sentence and now I cannot think of anything else. Midde East imploding, ah well. Give me sweet, salty, chocolaty......

This comes up right away in Google images when you type in "banana gun."

I asked Seth to restrain me with Bungee cords to keep me from driving to the mall and holding up the Godiva store with a banana but I managed to break free.

Then, before he left for a haircut, he tried duct tape but that is easily chewed through. I think he may have taken my car keys with him so it seems I'll be walking (which means I'll probably eat my weapon, the banana, along the way.....or, if I can hold out, I could force them to dip it in chocolate).

See you later, everyone...have a wonderful weekend!  Thanks to my readers and followers (sign up to the right), old and new. I appreciate your visiting this blog and I will try save some peanut, pretzel bark for all of you...but it's a long walk home from the mall so I'm not making any promises.

See you all after the holiday weekend!

Here Comes the Sun!

Must they insult us as well?

I've been feeling a little blue lately.

Shuffling around the house glumly, I haven't been myself for a while.

I didn't realize how down I've been until Seth suggested that we go to a local Indian restaurant for dinner.

Seth does not like Indian food...therefore we do not go. I have to wait until a friend is available or I visit the boys in DC where Seth, out-numbered and physically intimidated, will resentfully agree.

Once there, he will grudgingly push lamb curry through the tiny button hole he makes his mouth into when he doesn't like his food. Admitting tiny pieces one by one, he watches us clapping our Nan about joyfully, chomping vindaloos, biryanis and tikas to our hearts content.

Seth only invites me out for Indian if he is worried about me. Usually, I am in the car and waiting, tail a-wag, before he's finished speaking but this time I declined. Going out would have meant putting on shoes, for God sake. Too much work.

The two rooms in which I spend most of my time, the family room  (euphemism for dungeon basement) and the kitchen, are both very dark, allowing in minimal natural light. Plus it's been a difficult winter with lots of enforced indoor time if you are a delicate flower such as myself. I realized that I may have a touch of "seasonal affective disorder."

Scientifically speaking, SAD (clever bastards) is a syndrome in which your brain doesn't produce enough "happy juice." Since there is naturally less sunshine in the winter and we spend more time indoors unless we are lumberjacks (who have other problems--sharpening axes, finding a flattering plaid,etc), many of us experience this disorder.

So, a few days ago I decided to do something to increase the happy juice production in my brain....but what?

God forbid I should take a walk--that would involve the actual movement of limbs and might improve my general health, stimulate my metabolism and lower my blood pressure. No walk.

Instead, I shoveled off a small spot on the back deck, wrapped myself in a series of sweatshirt jackets, slapped sunscreen on my age spots, put bags from Target over my shoes, said, "See ya, wouldn't want to be be ya" to Buzzy (he hates it when I say that) and went to sit in the sunshine for a half hour.

 I wore no hat so the sun could shine directly upon my happy gland. Again, sorry for being so technical.

I did this for three days in a row. And I'll be damned if I haven't been feeling a little better.

Combining this strategy with putting a firm limit on how much news I watch during the day and how many books about the holocaust I read (who knew there were so many), I may be back to normal..... just in time for my spring blues.

Spring blues are very tricky because they are a result of the joy at watching the earth naturally renew itself after months of dormancy. First one feels almost unbearably happy but then remembering that happiness is both fleeting and unsustainable, plunges into total despair. Summer blues, based almost entirely upon how one's legs look in a skort*, can be problematic, as well.

I think I'm heading back to the basement.

* I just received not one but two phonecalls from men telling me that I misspelled "skirt." All the women know that I meant to write skort. I have included a link so that men can learn what a skort is.

Illegal Tobacco, Legal Marijuana and Mail Order Urine....A Rare Political Statement from Our Board of Directors.

I may have to take up smoking cigarettes.

I have always been very anti-smoking. I hated the smoke-saturated smells of my home as a child, choked on second-hand smoke in public places and drove my older son insane, during his brief stint as a cool high school smoker, by going through his pockets daily and viciously mangling any tobacco products I found. 

Yet, I acknowledge, in the growing police state that this country is apparently becoming, that as bad a decision as it may be to smoke, it is your right to do so.

Hospitals in Florida, Massachusetts, Ohio, Pennsylvania and Texas, to name a few, will no longer hire you, despite your qualifications for a job, if you are a smoker. Please read that again because it sounds unbelievable.......but it's true. Treating tobacco as an illegal narcotic, they will also perform urine testing and fire you if nicotine is detected.

If this happens, don't worry, I promise to immediately set up shop selling my own nicotine-free urine, at competitive rates for smokers to present to employers on testing days.

I am a prolific pee-er so there will be plenty for everyone. I will set up mail-order using Pay-Pal and provide micro-wave safe containers with clearly written instructions for warming to body temperature. I will name this enterprise "Susan Pees..." Finally an opportunity to make the millions of which I dream!! You can contact me through this blog or check for groupons daily.

What the heck is happening? While smoking is a destructive and damaging habit, is it not a personal choice? Who among us, who can read or has ever watched television, hasn't been barraged with increasingly disturbing visuals about the dangers of smoking. We get it! We really do.

And hey, Tobacco companies---I am not defending you. We know you put stuff in the cigarettes to hook people quickly, that you were aware very early on that your product was bad for our health and that you shamelessly market to kids. But I am worried about state governments getting crazy...and you just happen to be the issue of the moment.

What's next? If they see you sniffing your Sharpie in your cubicle, you're out? If you include something delicious but non-nutritive like a slice of bologna in your sandwich, you're gone? Soon salting our food will be a no-no or listening to Kenny G. music will be against the law. Or eating chocolate or having too many cats.....Oh-oh.

I am, personally, very grateful that people are no longer allowed to smoke in theaters and restaurants but the Dictator of New York City, Michael Bloomberg, has made it illegal to smoke, outdoors, in public parks or on beaches!

This, of course, after changing the law that prevented a mayoral candidate from seeking a third term in office so he, himself, could run again. It must be good to be king.

Honestly, I can't imagine New York police enforcing this craziness but come end-of-month-revenue frenzies, cops will ticket their grandmas, so who knows?*

In a country that demands racial and gender equality, why is it acceptable to mandate discriminatory laws against the obese or smokers? And, if you're an obese smoker, don't even bother getting out of bed this morning. Just light up right there and I'll bring you a bologna sandwich later.

All this in a country where states (including some where hospitals will no longer hire smokers) are pushing for the right to legalize marijuana. Go figure.

Once it's legalized there will be no place to smoke it.

So, I suggest writing to your congressmen and ask them where you can smoke your legalized pot. Blast your Kenny G music, too....it's still a free country. Isn't it?

*My son (pictured below) just informed me that Bloomberg has specifically stated that the NYPD will not be enforcing this law but that it will left to park rangers, etc. I really like the line about cops ticketing their grandmas so I'm leaving it in.....what are they gonna do, arrest me?

My son in high school.

My Extremely Nasty Review of the Grammy Awards

Scary....

Did anyone see the Grammys the other night?

The funkiest and most unpredictable of all the mainstream award extravaganzas, Sunday's show--though interminably long--did not disappoint.

As I watched the red carpet festivities, I was taken, as always, with how handsome Ricky Martin is. Gay, straight---who cares. He was a feast for the eyes in a dark jacket and narrow tie. Suddenly, the camera pulled away revealing skin tight silver pants with untied combat boots. Space aliens tend to tie their shoes lest they trip leaving their Scientology meetings but my sources also tell me that space chic is always a fashion mistake unless you actually are a space alien (like the Kardashians).

Those pants might have been more appropriate had he arrived in the "egg" that transported Lady Gaga (whose greatest contribution to actual music is the rhyming of the syllables "ga" and "ra") to the evening's event. 

Carried by a small army of latex-wrapped zombies, Gaga arrived encased in a womb-like pod that, literally, required piped-in oxygen to prevent her from suffocating (although word on the street is that she doesn't actually need oxygen to survive). I have no choice but to assume that her earth parents gave her absolutely no attention,whatsoever, as a child

Scarier....

And, why is Eminem so angry all the time? I know nothing of his personal life but he seems like the type who, if witnessing someone choking in a restaurant, wouldn't give them the Heimlich despite knowing how. Then he'd write some mean rap song about it with the chorus:

"What were you thinkin'

with that giant bite of chicken

Now you gonna die, bitch, die!!"

Barbra Streisand, wearing something salvaged from an Atlanta attic before Sherman and his troops marched through, proved to America that women really shouldn't wear their hair long after 60, that Dr. Frankenstein must have performed her recent neck-tightening because I swear, I could see the bolts and, most unfortunately, that she is losing her voice. Lea Michele of Glee is probably behind all of this.

That spooky little chimpanzee, Justin Bieber, wore a cream-colored velvet suit, two sizes too big. When my boys were little, I'd buy them winter jackets with plenty of extra room so they'd get more than just one season out of them. Someone should remind Justin's parents that he's rich now--they don't have to do that anymore.

He lost "best new artist" to someone no one's ever heard of  and, apparently, enraged and technically savvy Bieber-ists vandalized the newcomer's Wikipedia page in pre-adolescent vengeance.

Scariest.

Bob Dylan who hasn't sounded like a human being for many years now no longer looks like one. He keeps popping up at these events and no one dares turn him away because it's too scary to actually look at him directly. Before anyone can run to fetch an exorcist, he's up on stage performing with the one acoustic band on the bill. 

Cee-Lo Green's record label clearly wants to destroy his career because they dressed him like a giant chicken and made him sing with puppets. There's a rumor circulating that one of those puppets (probably the anorexic one singing off-key) was actually Gywneth Paltrow. Frank Perdue reportedly loved the performance.

Mick Jagger was my favorite. The man is nearly 70 years old and, though a little stiff, pouted and strutted across the stage just like he did 40 years ago. The only difference is that, upon completing his performance, he was immediately placed in Lady Gaga's egg which they'd filled with ice and Tiger Balm.

To her credit, Gaga was honored to allow them to transform it into Mick's recovery pod in which, I'm sure he's resting still, monitored by his 65 year old groupies and crunching on Advil like potato chips until he feels better.

To my alarm, I have discovered that I like Katy Perry, wish I had hair and tiny hands like Bruno Mars and while I love Will Smith, am very afraid of his wife and children. P. Diddy has reclaimed his former identity of Puff Daddy for reasons inexplicable to mere mortals, Jennifer Hudson thinks she's the next Aretha and Christina Aguilera is going to, single handedly, play the part of all the munchkins in a new 3-D slasher version of the Wizard of Oz.

My indie-loving sons were very happy with Arcade Fire's win for album of the year but when I called them, specifically to discuss Ricky Martin's pants, we compared notes on many of the evening's performances. 

While I had their attention, I took the opportunity to warn them that if they ever find themselves eating in the same restaurant as Eminem to chew their food very carefully or they'd be sorry.....