It’s not often that Philosophy, fancy lingerie, and mass transit collude to bring about romance. But they, and a cast including Monty Python, Martin Luther King, God, and an urbane jewel thief, at least once brought together two wildly mismatched souls. It all started, as things often do, with me being an idiot. Steeped in the irrational mythos of 1930s screwball romances and the dopey pre-Twilight pre-adolescent lessons gleaned from Wuthering Heights, I’ve taken many clichéd
I went to high school in nightgowns. Not just any nightgowns – fifty-years-old nightgowns. See, the “Love Boat” refugee and “Charlie’s Angels” wannabe looks that were so popular with the rest of the student body left me cold. They lacked charm, they lacked panache, they lacked bras. Nope, no blazers and bellbottoms for me. I was obsessed with old movies and I loved 1930’s lean swank, 40’s tailored chic, and the projectile va-va-va-voom of buxom 50’s styles. Women like Cla
The public debate surrounding Dylan Farrow-Woody Allen has kept me up nights. I’ve been immobilized by sadness, anger, and shame. For 40 years I’ve been terrified to write about this, and 40 years is a long time to be terrified. But now, maybe it’s been long enough. Both my parents are dead now. And it’s painfully obvious that the other people who might care about my talking about it do not care at all about me. It’s time to speak up for all the Dylan Farrows in the world.
The thing about hearts that love a lot, they just keep breaking. And this time it’s the ease and energy with which I love a lot of stuff a lot – weird, wonderful stuff – that’s doing me in. The last vestige of the big weekend Manhattan Flea Market, known as ‘The Garage", is closing this weekend. Back when I first came to the city in the early 80s, it was a massive outdoor weekly event for me and hundreds of other New Yorkers. In a half-dozen or so parking lots in the heart of
I didn’t think I’d ever be married, and I doubt anyone else did either. First, I am what people generously term, “a character.” (I don’t think I am, but maybe that’s the point.) Also, when you’re pushing fifty, live with 2 dogs and 4 parrots, your chances at finding Mr. Right, Mr. Asperger’s, or Mr. Anyone are, to put it kindly, slim. I’d been with my first boyfriend on and off for over 20 years, but we never married. Everyone assumed we ‘d be together until one of us died
You never think it’ll be you. After all, you seem sane (publicly). You think you’re pretty cool (privately). But then, one day you wake up and somehow, it’s happened. There’s no use denying it. You‘ve become crazy parrot lady. There’s no escaping the fact I’ve become one of those women you read about, often in conjunction with some sort of killing spree, or as the shut-in who dies and leaves 4 million dollars to her canary. I live with 2 dogs, 5 birds, and one husband. (I re
You take it for granted. You don’t know you do, but you do. Knowing where you came from, how you came to be in the world, how you came to have that laugh or those eyes. Maybe it doesn’t seem like a big deal to you, you don’t care. But it’s the luxury of not caring about something you have and can discard. For me, and lots of people like me, not knowing how or why you got here — it hurts. Without a backstory, a first act or a prologue, you feel just plopped down in the univers