 Okay, so it's Defending the Caveman.
Man, as in Rob Becker, who wrote the play. Man as in
Paul Perroni, who performs it on — or pretty close to — Broadway.
But I am the woman whose life it changed the first time I
saw it, more than 10 years ago.
Here's the thing: you know how men leave their laundry on
the floor? And how pissed you get about that? Especially when they leave it
next to or on top of the hamper. Sigh. So close. (Can't they go the extra
inch?) And yet so far. (No, apparently they can't.)
Well, don't get your knickers in a knot, ladies, because
those are not just Jockey Shorts lying there. That's The Circle of Sacred
Underwear.
From the dawn of time, man has felt this
burning need to establish his territory. Modern man is no different, but doesn't have rocks and sticks , so he
uses underwear. Once you, as a woman, understand this, you will be truly
liberated. You will never pick up dirty shorts again. You will step over The
Circle. Carefully. Just in case.
This is great for your relationship and . . .
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So when you achieve it, you're practically speechless.
Words, as they say (using words, of course) cannot express such feelings. But
I'll try.
Would you believe that the very same person who couldn't
find anything in her own apartment (I've Lost It !) and threatened to hire the
detectives of Law & Order to find all the MII's (articles Missing In Inaction) has turned into a "Do I
really need this, no, I'll throw it out and make more room" kind of gal.
Who knew?
As a woman under the influence — of a Closet Cleaner named
Shirley — I have gone beyond mere clothes and shoes, and have even cleared out
the medicine chest over the sink, the one that contains no medicine but lots of
products from Clarins, YSL, Estee Lauder, and Chanel. A lot less than it was
yesterday, though. Plus, I found some nice peachy blush and the perfect eyebrow
pencil.
That's the thing about clearing things out: among all the
junk you should have thrown out ages ago, you find a treasure or two. And it's
free! This shopping in your closet philosophy is definitely an idea whose time
has come.
And now, in the interest of full disclosure, and because a picture is worth oh you know, I'm going
to show you my drawers . . .
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I've been called an aesthete. I've been called a lot worse, but let's not go there.
Since an aesthete is a person who loves beauty, you'd think that was a good thing. No way. Loving beauty is SO last century.
And it's not just this year. From the first time we were told to "let it all hang out," we have been on a slippery slope, slip-sliding away from beauty and moving towards a very unattractive world — although not without contradictions. At the moment, we are breathtakingly ambivalent about beauty, both chasing it and chasing it away.
 Sure, we love Angelina Jolie as the genetic wonder she is, and worship at her lips, if not her feet. As a couple, Brangelina wins first place in the Hubba Hubba Couples Olympics. We also forgive a lot if a person is good looking. Two words: Sarah Palin.
On the other hand, we're really into the ugly, the edgy, the uncomfortable. Take the movie, Precious. Critics loved it, warning that it's a difficult movie to watch. They say this as if you get extra points for looking at something disturbing.
You do get many politically correct points if you don't mention that its star is not merely overweight, but dangerously fat. Extra poundage isn't necessarily ugly; it can be attractive or at least comforting. Think of your favorite, always-struggling-with-her-weight, Aunt Sadie. We used to call it "pleasingly plump," and full-bodied women have been worshipped from prehistoric times to Christina Hendricks on current cover of New York Magazine. Talk about Hubba Hubba . . .
GO TO READ MORE
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 Dear Reader:
Guess what? Today is not just Valentine's day — it's the first anniversary of this blog!
A year ago today I launched something truly dangerous: A blog that wasn't about cats, politics, economics, celebrities, or the political economics of cats owned by celebrities.
Whoa! I have nothing against cats. I like them! They like me.
But I felt there was a place on the blogosphere for essays on a wide range of subjects linked only by the inescapable fact that I seem to see things in a manner somewhat askew. Rather like that sentence, if you get my drift.
 One of the first blogs, and still a favorite, is: I'VE LOST IT! about how the detectives of Law & Order should come to my apartment to find all those things that are missing, because these cops can toss a crib and find anything. Besides, who doesn't love Olivia?
Another was: OH, YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO TOSS COINS! about losing my  underwear near the Trevi Fountain in Rome. No, really.
Readers also liked IT'S CURTAINS FOR ME about my decorating disasters, and grown women wept over WITH A THONG IN MY HEART, about the heartbreak of buying a bathing suit.
Soon, comments started rolling in . . .
(Go to READ MORE)
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I love my book club.
That's The Geez Louise International Book Club to you, bub. AKA "GLIB."
And I beg to differ with Motoko Rich, who writes in the Times ("The Book Club With Just One Member"), that there is a "different class of reader" — people who are more serious about reading — who don't join book clubs. People who feel that "their relationship with a book is too intimate to share with others."
HA! Actually, I don't beg at all. I loudly proclaim my right — and the right of book clubbies everywhere — to differ like hell!
Our book club consists of the usual suspects: Louise (hence the Geez), Betsy, Sharon, Diana and me. We had Silvia, but when she moved back to Italy, we kept International in the title. Because we could. We are (or were) all involved with publishing — as writers, editors, consultants, and yes, even publishers. We all love books. We lived for them, literally.
 Like Ms Rich, as a child I read books by flashlight, or even the light of the radio. I knew there were secrets in those pages (They were!) that the grownups weren't telling me (They weren't!). The experience was all the more delicious for the naughtiness of it all.
But that was then, and this is now.
I still stay up late reading, but I use a book light. Now that I think of it, though. . . flashlights were a favorite prop of Nancy Drew, whose books my company produced for over a decade, although she usually used it for detective work.
Nancy very conveniently had no mother and a very indulgent father, so only Hannah the Housekeeper could stop her from staying up all night with her favorite novel. If Nancy had wanted to use a flashlight, Hannah would have brought some extra batteries and some freshly baked cookies. That women, bless her heart, was a real pushover.
Now, The New York Times may think that my love for Nancy (shared by Justice Sotomayer, among many, many other prominent women) makes me unserious about reading.
Unserious! Moi! You wouldn't say that if you saw my apartment . . (Go to Read More)
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