Original “Sound of Music” Baroness Eleanor Parker Dies at 91

A mere four days after The Sound of Music Live! broadcast.

Coincidence? I think not.

Now that's a Baroness.

So long, farewell, auf Wiedersehen, adieu.

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Jesus Gives Carrie Underwood Two Thumbs Down, Too

Probably shielding his eyes from Carrie's bad acting.

Probably shielding his eyes from Carrie’s bad acting.

Carrie Underwood responded to scathing reviews and internet buzzkill with a tweet:  “Mean people need Jesus.”

Sweetie, Jesus isn’t blind or deaf. He agrees with the rest of us – you can’t act. The truth is the truth. “Mean” has nothing to do with it.

Shoot, girl, you should be able to get a good, teary country song out of the whole deal.

Mah Suggests I Write to Suze Orman

While chatting up Our Mother on the telephone, I entertained her with tales of the Lord & Master’s and my many fiduciary blunders – mortgage under water, interest-only payments on line of credit, foolishly sending Sassafrass to NYU – one of the top ten most expensive schools in the country – leaving us enslaved to one Miss Sallie Mae. You know, fun stuff designed to get her mind of being housebound, diabetic, and facing increasing dementia.

And, let’s not forget, Hot Pants & I shepherded Bob and Jeanne through their very own personal bankruptcy. It’s a toss-up whether the finest moment during that hoopla was (1) H.P. finally locating a folder marked “I.R.S.” inside of which she found not a single thing or (2) Daddy’s approach to the bench in court accompanying himself with a fart for each lurching step he took. As their lawyer said, “Well, this’ll be a first.”

She zeroed in on the solution immediately.  “You should write to Suze Orman. She can fix this.”

“I’ve seen a lotta Money Morons in my day, and you’re right up there with the worst.” Hell, if I’m gonna mess up, I’m gonna go all out!

Oh, Mah, I wish it were true. Yet here I sit on another gorgeous spring day in San Francisco, doomed to be stuck in paradise. Until Wells Fargo repossesses.

So, here goes:

Dear Ms. Ormon: 

My mother wants you to undo the craptastic financial dilemma in which I find myself. Please help.

Sincerely,

Another Idiot Who Used Her Home Equity Like an ATM.

I can hear ol’ Suze lecturing me right now. “Use of your credit card – Denied. Using electricity and heat in “your” home – Denied. Eating – Denied.”

Is 50 The New 42?

It is, if you ask my friend Amanda from the dog run. When I told her I was 50, she said she couldn’t believe it and that she thought I was in my early 40s. And it had the ring of truth when she said it! She thought I looked like this!!

It was a real shot in the arm, as Jeanne would say, because I have been feeling older….like, who are these whippersnappers they keep talking about on FASHION POLICE?  Where has my waist disappeared to? What the hell is an Icloud and can I see it from a plane?

I sorta have been feeling like this

These are just some of the questions that plague me. But at least people think I’m 42. Whoohoo!!

 

“Girls” Is NOT the “New” “Sex & the City”

And THIS is NOT the "new" Carrie Bradshaw.

I watched. I shuddered. I can hold my tongue no more.

Girls, the heavily promoted new HBO series following the escapades of a quartet of twentysomething young women, has been heaped with praise. Its more accurate title should have been American Horror Story, but, unfortunately, that was taken.

Lena Dunham, its producer, writer, star, and, apparently, wardrobe mistress & (non) makeup artist, has created “people” so vacuous, aimless, self deluded, and aggresively unattractive – and I mean that literally – that I am agog at the this pointless exercise. It’s like a female, un-hot version of Entourage, minus the much-missed Jeremy Piven pizzazz.

When Ms. Dunham’s character accosts her parents, who’ve informed her they no longer will support her while she writes her Great American Novel, with her “manuscript” she proffers what appears to be about a dozen pages. Possibly hand written. Oi.

No wonder my daughter Sassafrass cannot find friends her own age. These girls chase after boys who are obviously uninterested in them, have meaningless, joyless sex (and I’m all for meaningless sex, but, dammit, it better be joyful), and sit around talking idly and taking baths together. First, Sassy has no interest in propping up the male ego. (Of any age bracket) Second, she’s pursuing her dreams by working like a one-armed paper hanger seven days a week. Third, when she presents herself to the public, she wears clothes that fit & flatter and makeup.

"Though art as lovely as a summer's day...."

These girls make me feel sad. Where’s their self-respect? Their gratitude? Their sense of fun? I’m fairly certain none of them have ever seen an episode of Sex & the City. They oughta.

To quote Our Mother Jeanne, "None of us is so beautiful that she couldn't use a little makeup."

How Did I Get Baby Jane’s Hands?

So pretty in the bottle; so scary on the hand.

I don’t know whatever happened to Baby Jane, but it seems her hands have landed on my body. I scooped up the latest from L’Oreal: a bottle of L’Orange, thinking myself in the thick of the Spring 2012 color block stampede. Alas, the result was more horror show than haute chic.

Forgive me, ladies.

I’m a Weight Watchers Dropout

Who can resist the power of frozen Girl Scout Thin Mint cookies? Not I, said the not so little Wiggles.

The good news:  I’ve kept off 30 or so pounds for over three years.

The bad news:  The siren song of sweet and salty snacks keeps ringing in my ears. I consider the fact that carbs are bad for me to be proof positive – as if I needed any – that there is no god.

Mmmmmm. Chips.

When I was in college and weighed so little that they turned me away at the blood donation drive, I could regularly devour an entire large bag of Lay’s Classics, no problem, no weight gain, no nothing. Those were, indeed, The Days.

Not to mention my late-in-life munchies issue as I continue my intergalactic journeys courtesy of medical marijuana baked goodies.

I’m truly at a crossroads. I don’t want to be a roly poly. I certainly don’t want to be pre-diabetic, let alone full blown diabetic. I could do without open heart surgery. You know, those pesky medical issues fueled by obesity.

But, gosh, as I begin the long slide down toward the Big D, shouldn’t I be having some fun? And shouldn’t some of that fun come from the delectable chewing of bread, pasta, potatoes and such? Cause, really, isn’t food one of life’s grandest pleasures?

Or should I keep my big mouth shut and maintain a body like this? The eternally unsmiling Victoria Beckham, mother of four, best know for her high fashion line and not having eaten in decades. What’s it all about, V.B.? Is it just for the proteins we live?