Oh, The Indignities of Travel . . .
The e-mail message I sent from Rome was brief: Bring Colace.
The reply from New York equally succinct: Relief is on the way!
If this isn't the most effective communication in
the history of the Internet, I'll eat my cappello.
So what's the story behind these messages between the
Old Country and the New World? Isn't Italy famous for great gelato and naked statues? Pizza
and piazzas? Pizza in the piazza? What does Colace have to do it? Aspetta, my friend, aspetta.
 First of all, when the travelers in question are not twenty,
Colace is not the only indignity. It begins with the irony of the luggage. You
can lift less, but you need more. Your little kit with aspirin and toothpaste
has slowly evolved into a bewildering assortment of items.
Glasses for reading, a pair for TV, so that with your sunglasses you have three pairs to lose; your contact lenses, their
case(s) and solution(s); your prescription medicines plus the painkiller of
your choice, maybe that new stuff you rub directly into your forehead. Or wherever.
You need shampoo and a good conditioner (your hair is
dryer), gel or spray (it's unruly too), and something fairly serious for sleep. Don't
forget the tweezers for geezers, because you've taken to
sprouting hairs in places other than your eyebrows. Not really all that attractive.
If you're a woman . . .
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 The warning signs of a Bad Dating Situation (or BADS) are like the
clues in a cheesy detective story: obvious to everyone but the victim.
Let's face it, this guy is wrong
for you, probably for the planet as a whole, but you, my sweet, are in
total denial. If this were a song parody, it'd go something like, "You've got the
BADS and that ain't good. . ."
BADS from my own checkered past include the boyfriend who neither the
bartender at my favorite place nor the owner of my favorite restaurant liked.
These people know people. They asked me pointed questions about the guy which I dodged,
fudged, evaded, and generally ignored. Not smart.
This so-called boyfriend, who turned out to be married (which he only
admitted after I got suspicious when he could never see me on weekends), swore
that his marriage was for all intents and purposes over, and that he was only
living in the same house with his wife because of the children. Any of this
sound familiar?
One night, when we were sitting at one of those cosy little
tables in the corner, he literally leaped out of his seat when he saw someone
he knew from his other life enter the restaurant.
I should have leaped, too, and run, not walked, to
the nearest exit. Period, end of story. Which was one of his favorite
expressions. But I didn't. And all I'll say about the rest of the story is that
it did not have a happy ending . . .
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IS PRIVACY DEAD?
You have to ask?
With a few clicks on Google or Bing, you can find out almost anything about almost anyone.
Isn't it amazing just how much dirt we all seem to crave -and of course, the media loves giving it to us. Sure, if you're a celbrity, you give up privacy. But really! Long before the ghoulish media coverage of Michael Jackson's death, I realized that privacy was dead.
It was back in the '90s, when the Pope's colon surgery was reported by the media in excruciating detail.There was even a diagram of his insides in The New York Times. Sorry, folks, but that was TMI! People! We're talking about a very private orifice of the Holy Father. (I usually phrase that a bit more coarsely, but you get my drift.) privacylips.jpg
 knew then that nothing was sacred (literally), and it's only gotten worse. Yeah, sure, some of this information is good: Katie Couric let us watch her colonoscopy and that inspired many people to get tested. (The words "inspired" and "colonoscopy" are not usually found in the same sentence.) But really, I don't have to hear about everyone's, celebs and non-celebs alike. It's bad enough that I have to get these things myself; I wish that people would respect their own privacy and not tell me all the delightful details.
(Unless, of course, you write a blog, then anything goes: See The Genie Is Out of the Orifice.)
When it comes to privacy, there's a minefield out there - even for us mere mortals - and some of it is our own damn fault . . .
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 Wanna buy an apartment in New York? The good news is: prices are down and so are mortgage rates. The bad news is, you're going to need a letter of recommendation.
Here in the Big Apple, you not only have to plunk down an obscene amount of money for a space you'd laugh at if you didn't know better, you also have to get past the dreaded coop board. Basically, you have to prove that you're financially stable and are not a lunatic. Except in certain buildings on Fifth Avenue where you have to prove you're not Madonna and you are descended from the Mayflower. Not the hotel.
A coop board can refuse you for any reason, even if your finances are in order and you're not a rock star who shows up at the interview wearing leather, in August, and asks how many amps he can plug in without cutting off the electricty, which would plunge the building into total darkness, as if he cared.
The only safe question to ask, I have found, is which is the best Chinese takeout in the neighborhood. This will provoke a lively debate among the board members and will get the attention off you, no matter what your finances are, when your grandparents got off the boat, and what you're wearing. Yes, Chinese takeout is the ticket.
But even if you get through the interview with flying chopsticks, you still have to provide at least one letter of recommendation. When I was buying my first apartment, a friend wrote the following one for me. I didn't use it, for reasons that will become obvious, but I have saved it for all these years just for this moment . . .
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What do women want? Love? Sure. Money? Of course. Cosmetics? Now you're talking! Rita Rudner nails it in her very funny routine about those “free gifts” — you know the ones, where you buy something you don’t need to get a bunch of things you don’t want.
 It's twue, so twue.
I can rationalize falling for this a few summers ago because I was recovering from surgery, and hey, a girl needs a "free gift” at a time like that. As we know, I can rationalize anything, but honestly, that ad was too enticing. The cutest little cosmetic case in pink and white checks filled with goodies like summer blush (I needed that: It was summer! I was pale!) plus various and sundry beauty aids with intriguing names promising miraculous results. We do so live in hope.
My grandmother believed that all the dishwashing liquids, shampoos, and just about any product in a bottle, were all exactly the same thing in different colors with different names. I do wonder myself about New Dawn Dishwashing Liquid versus Herbal Essence Shampoo (they’re even the same color), and I am totally baffled by all those skin creams.
Do I really need a different moisturizer for my eyes, my throat, my t-zone, the rest of my face? For summer, winter, spring, or summer, night or day? Light, extra light, rich, super rich, fabulously firming, with aloe, lanolin, collagen, gentian, pearl drops of moisture, invigorating enzymes, hydrating hormones and unspecified ingredients that revitalize, rejuvenate, relax, and restore?
And yet.
I love those little kits with the goodies . . .
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