A Time for Change

The modern Calendar is ridden with days recognizing diversity. "International Women's Rights Day"--March 8. "Human Rights Day"--December 10. "Religious Freedom Day"--January 14. Black History Month--the entire month of February.

I have no qualms with the above "holidays," nor do I propose an abridgment thereof. I speak on behalf of a different problem--a growing bigotry that shows no sign of quenching:

I am, of course, referring to the rising population of Americans who are, quite willingly, LACTOSE intolerant.

I first realized the problem when I walked into my local Wild Oats, the aisles of organic groceries sprinkled with cartons claiming to be "dairy free."

I was shocked, to say the least, at the presence of so many openly prejudiced people. They stood there in line, their carts brimming with "soy-based" and "lactose-free" products.

And yesterday, as I ordered lunch from a local deli, the woman behind me said, without checking to see what dairy products might be offended: "Excuse me, is there cream in that sauce? I'm lactose intolerant."

The hum of the busy deli didn't even slow as her abrasive sentence filled the air with her prevailing bigotry.

So, with the interest of cows and farmers firmly in my heart, I propose tomorrow--March 27, 2008--as the first annual "National Lactose Tolerence" day.

Let's celebrate with ice cream.

Un-Fortunate Fool

Were I a superstitious person, I'd stop typing right now and spend the rest of the afternoon combing the internet for directions on crafting a fail-proof noose, followed by scouting for large oak trees with sturdy branches.

You see, dear readers, I am not destiny's most favored child.

As a girl of ten I was first warned of my impending misery at an elementary school carnival. I'd like to thank the faculty and staff at Southgate elementary school for employing an "authentic" palm reader. The plump, beaded gypsy gave me the following bits of good news:

1. My life, though "intense," would be relatively short.
2. My first marriage would end, quite swiftly, in divorce.

I brushed her off, knowing that long life and happy ending were in store for me.

Fifteen years later, I tried again. A self-taught coworker peered at my palm and, with a grimace, stated:

"Well, it appears that your life line is short and your love line is broken. I'd give you another five years and six or seven more relationship failures."

Well, one always needs a third opinion, so I solicited the help of a roommate's friend--the granddaughter of a voodoo priestess. This shed a bit more light (or darkness?) on the subject of my fortune:

"Yes, your life will be very short. I see three substantial relationships for you. All are intense and strong, but end quite abruptly. The third will end in either his death or yours."

As for children?

"Four. Only three will live. I'm sorry to say you will lose your first."

Do not feel sorry for me, readers. I plan to live my last five years to the fullest. I expect to see you all at the funeral of my firstborn.

Luckily, I've been looking for more reasons to stay in bed all day.

A wee bit 'o eye candy . . .

Alright, so I usually don't go out of my way to plug a particular movie (I save my endorsements for prescription painkillers and narcotics), but last night I was particularly touched by a little Irish ditty called 'Dear Frankie.' If you haven't seen it, do. As you might derive from the above photo, I spent the bulk of the night in intermittent tears, torn up by such weighty issues as childhood hope, heartbreaking loss and how freaking hot Gerard Butler is.

I think my most profound comment on the film came when, racked with tears, I stuttered, "He's just this sweet, broken child who only wants to be loved. . . and Gerard. . . is just. . . so, so, hot."

As you can see:

"Et Tu, Chica?"

One thing is for certain: March is for betrayal. And Shakespeare fans take note: The Ides of March will swiftly be upon us. But if your good conscience or your new white carpeting prevents you from stabbing your best friend repeatedly in the back like our dear friend Brutus, I have compiled the follow methods of swiftly ending friendships. Put these into practice and soon you'll have the betrayal skills of a Roman assassin:

1. Every time you see her, give her a visual once-over and thoughfully say, "Hmm... what can we do about your outfit?"

2. Start out most sentences with, "Oh, your boyfriend wanted me to tell you. . ."

3. Ask her if you can borrow her favorite dress--for an 80's dance party.

4. Accept invitations with the qualifier, "love to, unless someone else calls me."

5. Ask for directions to her boyfriend's house.

6. For her birthday, give her a mirror with a note attached: "Hope this helps."

7. Tell her that she always reminded you of Margaret Thatcher.

8. Lose her sweater and then complain about the stress of having to look for it.

9. Run over her cat with your car and then reflect, "I like to believe that everything happens for a reason."

10. Cry for hours in her presence about your lack of friends.

11. Leave random, thoughtful notes on her car--reminding her to pick up your dry-cleaning.

12. Ask her repeatedly if she really thinks her boyfriend loves her.

13. Follow each of her actions with questions such as, "Are you going to eat that?" "Are you going to wear that?" "Did you just say that?" etc.

14. Ask her if the two of you can pretend not to be friends in public.

15. Create dating profiles for her on various sites under the screen name, "Blatant Desperation."


And beware, my friends, the Ides of March.