If I were on a diet, I’d really resent hearing about those “new” plans on the market that I’d already tried. I mean, how many spins can you put on low calorie, low fat, or low carbs? Apparently, like the universe, it’s endless.
Since I don’t do diets, yet need something to rail against (I am, after all, a professional whiner), what I do allow to bug me are all the “new” philosophies that I hear about— things that have been around forever— like “The Secret,” which had viewers of Oprah in a frenzy last year.
The Secret, I’m here to tell you, to save you the expense of buying the DVD, is simple: Everything in the universe is connected, especially your thoughts, so that what you think about directly affects your life. Put another way, you get what you ask the universe to give you.
It’s not like praying or begging, but like placing an order in a catalog. (And if the universe is explanding, as Woody Allen says it is, then the choice of goodies just keeps getting bigger.) Just as you would at www.gap.com (they don't call it the worldwide web for nothing), you have to be specific. I mean, you can't just order a T-shirt, you have to choose the color, size and length of sleeves.
Likewise, you can't be vague with the universe. Saying "I want to be happy" won't cut it. You have to spell out your request/order in some detail. And after that, you have to work, sometimes really hard, to achieve your goal. That's the price you pay. Shipping and tax included.
But if you do this, you will get what you want —and that's the best deal in the universe . . .
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Although baby, it's still cold out there, this is the first day of Spring, and that's as good a time as any to talk about the subjects of l-l-l-love and m-m-m-marriage. Which two things, I can now sincerely say — without bitterness (or stuttering) — are not always mutually exclusive.
It was not always thus. My romantic escapades often played out like the words of popular songs, and if you think about it, love songs are not generally all that cheery. As in "I've Got It Bad And That Ain't Good." Enough said. As for marriage, both the groom and I have more than our share of exes, although, to our knowledge, none of them live in Texas. A good thing too, because if we wanted to gather them all together (what a thought!), we'd have to rent out Yankee Stadium.
So, in a triumph of optimism over experience, or romance over reality, we tried again, and though they said it wouldn't last (actually, nobody said this, but it sounds good), more than a year later, we're still here, still not bitter — and that ain't bad.
And so, without further ado, click read more for a column I wrote for New York Woman and which I read to the assembled masses at the reception.
(Check out the shoes: they'll feature in a upcoming blog, Nothing Is Simple, about getting it all together for the w-w- w-wedding. St-st-st-still st-st-st-stuttering when I think about that.)
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 Ah, Rome, the Eternal City. Forget about San Francisco: you can leave your heart here faster than you can say Ciao, Baby!
I, however, held on to my heart, but left my underwear.
As you may know, I am capable of losing anything. Gloves, of course, and pens and pencils, cell phones, keys, wallets, and address books, not to mention money, checks, and laundry lists, plus scarves, hats, earrings. You know, the usual.
But am I satisfied with these paltry everyday items that any idiot could lose? Not I!
Perhaps I was cursed at birth by a vindictive gypsy (perhaps I’ve been watching too many operas), but I do have a deep and abiding talent for losing virtually any thing, any place, any time. In Put That Back! I told you about the time in college when I misplaced my senior thesis and had to rewrite it from scratch using my (barely legible) notes, and got a lower grade as a result. So young, so tragic.
But the thing that has captured most people’s imagination — and the incident they want to hear about — is that I once lost my underwear, right here, near the Trevi Fountain in Rome.
Let me explain!
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They wuz robbed!
Just before April Fool’s Day last year, thousands of people in Brooklyn thought they had won The Daily News lottery— which would have paid them $100,000 each— only to find out that the numbers were wrong because of a printing error. Ouch! The lawyer representing some of these non- winners (it would be cruel to call them losers, no?) sez it ain’t about the money, it’s about “the loss of a dream.” The New American Dream, to be specific, as Clyde Haberman of the New York Times calls it, the dream to win the lottery.
My take on all this is that the gulf between the haves and the have littles has grown so enormous that winning the lottery is the only way some people think they can ever make it. It does seem that just working hard and being thrifty (the Old American Dream, which is being downsized every day) won’t get you very far — you have to get a lucky break and have money handed to you in one nice big fat lump sum.
Fortunately for those who feel this way, the actual lottery is not the only way to hit the jackpot. The jury I was on awarded three million to a cop injured on the job, and while one person on the panel didn’t think this was enough, another wondered if the only way she could make enough money to get by was to get hurt and then make someone pay. It could be an accident of any kind, some sort of medical malpractice, or even a really, really hot cup of coffee. And if all that fails, there’s always Michael Jackson . . .
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I have a cleaning person (we don’t call them ladies any more, ladies ) named Eva, who is lovely and cleans up a storm. She hardly breaks anything, and if I left cash lying around, I would find it on my desk, the bills ironed, the coins polished and stacked in neat piles. She’s also reliable, shows up on time, and doesn’t drink the liquor.
So what could possibly be the problem? Well, you know that I MUST have something to complain about, every day if possible, but definitely on Tuesdays and Fridays when I write new posts, but honestly, there is an actual problem here, and it is simply this: she moves things . . .
 Real panic occurred the day she "straightened out" my jewelry, putting the antique ring given to me by a dear friend into the little mesh
pouch that holds a costume necklace and earrings that look, to be
honest, very much like the ring, which is the real thing. When it
wasn’t where it was supposed to be, and Eva was long gone, back to
her own digs presumably to happily rearrange her own things, I freaked. (“It’s in here someplace!” was absolutely no consolation.)
I was positive I had somehow lost it. . I am capable of losing
anything.
Did I ever tell you about the underwear I lost near the Spanish Steps
in Rome? No? Another time, another blog.
Promise.
Well, I found the ring. Phew! And Eva and I cleared it up about the other
rings and things, plus I got one of those cute little torso ladies (women? headless mannequins? trees in dresses? It's so hard to be politically correct these days!) that
hold your jewelry, so all is okay in the baubles and bangles department. But what about the rest of my life, you might ask . . .
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