Elizabeth Cassidy | thesmartlyny.com

When Being Harassed Becomes a Pain

July 20, 2011 By Elizabeth Cassidy

A few months ago, I presented my thoughts about the recent tragedy in Arizona. I’d like to bring up two words again just so I am perfectly clear – “my thoughts”. Not yours, not yours either, but my thoughts. If people would like to get their thoughts out there and not trample mine – may I suggest that they set up their own blog.

I think I am entitled to my opinion and I do welcome hearing from people who don’t agree with me on different issues. I don’t live in a bubble where I think we all agree. But I do take issue when I get attacked about how I feel. Big time. I am the messenger of my thoughts. Challenge me on my beliefs but keep your freaking venom to yourself.

I was brought up by parents who believed that people should not die in war, live in fear, be discriminated against, be refused housing or an education, or being denied the right to marry the person they love. What a bunch of hippy freaks, eh? They were both young adults during World War II and I think that may have altered my father’s beliefs. He never served overseas (he used to tell us that my uncle and him chased the Nazis out of New Jersey) but he saw his father die a slow and painful death due to mustard gas that attacked and destroyed his lungs. And I learned to hate violence and man’s inability to live in peace early on because it killed my grandfather years before I was born.

So I was raised and surrounded by people who felt that we as human beings can and should do better. Oh, someone please report my parents to the authorities.

So when a young disturbed man walks in and buys a gun and then kills six innocent people, I can’t help but look around and wonder how much hate fueled his actions. I look around at our country and wonder why a mentally imbalanced person (who was kicked out of college for behavioral problems – and we have seen what disgruntled people can do when they go back and shoot up their job site or schools) can so easily purchase a gun with enough ammunition to reduce a city into a ghost town. And I question why certain politicians need to use a gun as a fashion accessory. I’ve yet to see a handgun compliment a pair of Christian Louboutin’s shoes.

And you know what – I am always going to question it.

I am not going to turn it off because someone told me I can leave the country. I am not going to turn it off because someone said I am hateful and mean. That remark really blew my mind. I was upset about a sweet little girl being slaughtered and I am hateful and mean. Perhaps their hat is cutting off the oxygen to their brain.

I don’t want to give them any more of my time. They are really not that important to me. Believe me. But my beliefs are. Just like theirs must be to them. And agreeing to never agree works just fine with me. But don’t ever think that they can harass me and think I will not call them out on it.

Filed Under: Opinion Tagged With: Arizona shhtings, beliefs, nazis, World War 1

Taking the bull out of bullying

July 5, 2011 By Elizabeth Cassidy

I am the first to admit that I was a bully as a child. This sweet little girl with the curly blond hair, who staged her own Broadway musical productions in her parent’s living room, used to tap dance around with her dark side. At the age of four, I decided that if anyone crossed my path that I would, without warning, bite them. Under the eye.

I would like to take this opportunity to apologize to all the kids in Bayside, New York who spent their summers with a band-aid under their eye. I am truly sorry. I also believe the statute of limitations has run out so don’t go hiring some lawyer. And besides, I am a creativity coach and the literal translation of this means “woman without money.”

Stock in Dial soap plummeted when I outgrew biting unsuspecting kids. But payback was a bitch. I became the one being stalked by two mean girls who were hell bent on making my life miserable in the fourth and fifth grade. And I had to live with it because people assumed it was just a phase they were going through – sacrificing young virgins on the playground?

I even became a pacifist who abhors any form of violence or cruelty on TV, in the movies or between Kathie Lee and Hoda. I wanted to show by example that I moved away my demons and became a productive person who wants to leave her mark on the world. My teeth need not apply.

Thinking I would ease into a bully-free life as an adult, I foolishly entered the job market. The thugs of yesteryear were now wearing suits and cheap shoes. And instead of threatening to tell everyone that I ate butter sandwiches (don’t knock it till you try it) these bullies held my paycheck ransom unless I played victim.

These overgrown bullies seem to have reached a level of authority by impressing the crap out of likeminded bullies or intimidating scaredy cats who were hiding out in a corner office. I spent several years dodging their acerbic barbs and threats because I needed the job. Life in a refrigerator box held no appeal to me. I will also admit that my job performance suffered because I could not thrive under a reign of terror. My colleagues and I were suffering from PTSD from Monday to Friday. And here I thought being a bully was just child’s play.

In my case, blessed Karma raised her perfectly manicured hand and bitch slapped the offenders. They lost their jobs. Sadly, it was not because the company became altruistic. Oh please. The economy took their power away. I would like to thank our country’s recession for lifting the chains off so many of my co-workers. As for me, I now work for myself and I have a time out corner at the ready in case I start to give myself some attitude.

Can we get rid of all the bullies in the workforce? I doubt it. Can we make them card carrying members of Bullies Anonymous? Yes and while we are at it, I say slap their pictures on milk cartons. Let our kids read about their dastardly deeds while chomping down on Captain Crunch. Let’s scare them into nice kids.

And if that doesn’t work, I will personally go into their offices and slap the ipads out of their hands, wipe the smug expressions off their faces and say, “I am your 2 o’clock meeting. I just came from my dentist’s office and my incisors can cut glass. Shall I make myself comfortable?”

Filed Under: Opinion, Parenting

I don’t want to be your Barbie doll. But I don’t want to be me either.

June 15, 2011 By Elizabeth Cassidy

I think we women have gotten exactly what others think we deserve. And they have been so successful at it because we never fight back.

Now I am not going to go into each black hole we have climbed into, every enemy we have given up our souls to, but I want to chew the fat for awhile about the world of body image – the lack of it, the self loathing that surrounds it and I really want to be perfectly honest with you all.

I would like to start of by saying that I am one of the lost souls. I will always live in that land of touching thighs and upper arms being mistaken for wind chimes in a sand storm. And I will always hate myself for falling short when it comes to beauty. Always. To say that my self image has impacted every aspect of my life is a no brainer. In fact, if I find out that my brain is carrying around a little fat, I will start to loathe it and will try to starve it.

I was taught to despise my body early on. My father was critical because I had not lost all the baby fat, so the first man I loved turned against me because of baby fat. I never got past it. I was around six. And they wondered why I didn’t stand up straight. If people couldn’t see my face, they couldn’t identify the cubby girl who walked in front of a speeding train. I daydreamed about leaving the world because I was a fat freak of nature. You told me I was and why would you lie to me?

Then I got a Barbie doll as a gift and realized that I would never have her heat seeking missile-like breasts. And I hated myself even more. So I received more Barbies for my birthday and Christmas. I don’t believe the intent was to scar me, but I believe self-administered electrical shock would have been less painful. At least I could have controlled the pain.

And the plastic bitch was blonde and my mousy dark blonde hair became my crown of thorns.

I came into my teen years and found myself living in the same world as Twiggy, the ultra thin English model. God must have really hated me. The message was loud and clear – If you wanted to be admired, adored and wealthy shrink back into the body of a six year old. I took on the challenge and did acquire a “moderate” starved look. Not good enough. But if you mixed enough booze with pills you could lose the weight and your stomach lining.

Success. Finally.

But my body decided to reject me like a transplanted hand as I got older. I could actually feel my skin trying to shrink back around my bones, but my fat was holding unto dear life and kept pushing out. It kept winning as my self esteem tanked. Over and over and over.

I am a failure. People only see my fat and are repulsed by it. If I am disgusted about myself, how could I expect others to embrace me? If they did they would feel the back fat. Disgusting.

I have not enjoyed my body at all. Okay, maybe for a total of 10 minutes. I pretended I was someone else. But I sometimes feel like a highly functional woman who is in search of a vein to open because I never measured up.

And I know I am not alone. I am one of the millions of women who can’t accept an extra 15 to 20 pounds on their bodies. Is this not freaking insane? I am embarrassed but I know one thing is for sure – I will never feel any better about myself until the weight comes off.

I will feel accepted. I will feel loved. And most important, I will feel worthy.

So here you go. I finally got honest about myself.

So every story like this needs a silver lining. And here it is:

Take it from someone who will die feeling like I missed my mark in my life. I fell short and for that I apologize to all I have met in my life. You deserved a better “me.”

From this day on, get off your fat asses or highly toned butts and say “ENOUGH.”

I would love to help, but I don’t know the first thing to do about accepting myself.

But you all better reject what society says is beautiful and you must redefine it. I can’t be saved, but you still have a chance to reclaim your life. Do it for every six year old girl who is looking at her baby fat while she has her finger down her throat.

If you don’t, then we women will have gotten exactly what others think we deserve.

Filed Under: Opinion, Spirituality

The sun. The surf. The skin cancer.

June 1, 2011 By Elizabeth Cassidy

As a young girl, I remember looking out the kitchen window and watching my father sunbath. He’d hold up a piece of aluminum foil under his chin and the sun would bake his fair, freckled face. The only thing that looked a bit out of place was that it was February and my father would be sitting in a foot of snow.

Years later, my very handsome father was having cancerous growths cut away from his nearly perfect face.

As teenagers we would go to beach, pour baby oil all over our hair and bodies and cook. And we would be told that we looked healthy. I rarely got sunburns because I assumed that while I had my father’s surname, I had my mother’s Italian skin.

When I first moved to San Francisco I got what I called “a sun and wind burn by the bay” and it was beyond painful. I think I had a 3 inch square of skin that was not on fire and I had to try to sit and sleep while balancing on that patch of skin. And I waited for the blisters to abate so I could go to Golden Gate Park and play Frisbee and tempt the sun god once again.

Once I was settled back in New York City, my friends and I developed a ritual where we would mock the people with the real dark, unnatural looking tans. We were fashionable mole people who believed that the pasty, sickly look was healthy. And we were saving our skin but only traveling at night. I wasn’t sure if we were bats or vampires.

Two years ago, I made my way to my dermatologist’s office for my yearly, “I will show you my skin and you will tell me everything is fine” dance. I had this little growth that my seat belt was rubbing against and it was annoying me. My doctor took a little snip and assured me that it looked pretty harmless.

It’s wasn’t.

I had what is called squamous cell carcinoma. And it needed to be removed. When I got off the phone with my doctor, I googled skin cancer and according to eHealthMD: Squamous cell carcinoma is more serious because it does spread to vital organs inside the body. Spread occurs in a few cases in every 100. It does so slowly. At first cancer cells tend to spread only as far as the nearest lymph nodes structures, which filter out and trap the cancer cells. If spread has occurred, the affected lymph nodes can be removed before cancer spreads to vital organs.

I was kind of freaked out but hopeful because this cancer moves slowly. And I thanked my seat belt for making me notice what I thought was nothing. That “nothing” could have really messed up my life.

I was in my doctor’s office two days later and as I laid there on the table he asked me how I was. My response was that I had had so many traumatic things thrown my way. I had dodged a few life bullets, had suffered from physical and verbal abuse, had lousy bosses, really bad dates and for those reasons alone I thought I would not be visited by Cancer. How dare it mess with me. I looked up at him and said, “I have cancer. Damn.”

He had to cut deep into my collarbone and got it all. A lovely little scar is the headstone for what was my cancer. RIP because I don’t plan on you winning.

But I feel 100% confident that cancer and I will meet again one day.

I think that is why the universe gave us dermatologists. Don’t assume that odd little growth or that maddening age spot that wasn’t there before is harmless.

Mine was not harmless, but I came out the winner. This time.

Filed Under: Spirituality

A virgin in the world of veganism: Just be gentle with her

May 20, 2011 By Elizabeth Cassidy

I never shied away from a challenge. Well, that is not exactly true. I did turn down participating in the Iditarod. Even though I keep better in the cold, frostbitten is not my color. I sited religious reasons for not going out with a man who had a third nipple and I stopped eating a whole pizza with extra cheese and pepperoni at one sitting when I realized that going to work in one’s bathrobe was not acceptable business attire. But neither were trousers that you could not zip up.

About three weeks ago, I foolishly posted on Facebook that I could probably go vegan for a week. When the pressure from others commenting on my declaration became too great, so I convinced a blogging friend to go vegan with me for a week. I doubt I could go into the world of veganism by myself. So veggie burgers and beans, here we come.

Vegans do not eat meat, fish, or poultry nor do they use other animal products and by-products such as eggs, dairy products, honey, leather, fur, silk, wool, cosmetics, and soaps derived from animal products.

Okay, I am already in trouble. I can do all of that (I might be wearing plastic bags as sandals) but the elimination of my cosmetics might scare an organic bunch of carrots to death. I think I am going “lean into veganism” with a little eye shadow and lip gloss. But I will investigate cosmetics and soaps that are not derived from our four legged friends. I think I already use some items that would make a vegan proud.

One thing that did surprise me is that going vegan does not mean you have to fill up on sprouts and seaweed. You could, but you can add peanut butter, pasta, fruit, good old beans, popcorn and a lot more. And the dishes don’t look like all brown and nasty. Spices can go a long way to make it look, smell and taste great – repeat after me.

Tofu takes on the taste of anything you cook it with so I am going to try chocolate tofu with broccoli and cashews. First I got to find some vegan chocolate. And I will be searching high and low for vegan-friendly wine that compliments seitan, quinoa, or tempeh.

On a serious note, I have been reading up on the subject of veganism and although I have heard about the horrors the animals go through just to make it to our dinner tables, reading it again with a slightly different mindset just breaks my heart. I look at my animals (six rescued cats and a yellow lab) and think if anyone ever hurt them they would have deal with me before I would call the authorities. So how can I care so deeply for my little furry family and keep this form of animal torture and killing going?

I don’t think I can.

Now will I change completely in a week? Doubt it, but I am going to try my best to end the slaughter and torture of animals that would have ended up in my grocery cart.

And I just found out that there is vegan Nutella!

Filed Under: Eco, Humor, Opinion, Spirituality

Is Romance dead or is it just sleeping it off in a twin bed?

May 10, 2011 By Elizabeth Cassidy

Is Romance in danger of joining the Tyrannosaurus? Is romance becoming something else we can live without?

A good friend of mine had just seen the musical “South Pacific.” I saw it on PBS about 6 months ago. We both talked about how much it made us cry. Not because there was a war going on or that Nellie thought Emile might be taken from her. It was the lyrics and the melodies that pulled at our emotions and made us both feel like we live in a world where romance is on life support.

How did that happen?

People say we can’t maintain that level of romantic love. So it just morphs into something else –is Apathy the new Romance of the 21^st Century?

If people can maintain angry and craziness without missing a beat, then why can’t they hold romance up there with all those other moods?

How come a bad mood trumps a good mood?

Some enchanted evening
Someone may be laughin’,
You may hear her laughin’
Across a crowded room
And night after night,
As strange as it seems
The sound of her laughter
Will sing in your dreams.

Some Enchanting Evening by Rodgers and Hammerstein

Words can change us. And a little melody behind it can transport us back in time to when we could not catch our breaths.

Where did you first meet him? Me – a bar.

What did he say to you? Me – who knows. It was loud and I was drinking.

How did he make you feel? Me – superior because I had great tickets to see the Rolling Stones and he didn’t.

Okay I may not be the best case study in the romance category. And this isn’t just about me. It’s about all of us.

I am all for feeling my knees weakening, my pulse racing (and not because of too much dark chocolate) and feeling a tad secretive because I have just the right amount of romance in my life.

I love watching Dancing with the Stars (and I do read the Republic of Plato during the commercial breaks) because there is something so romantic about 2 people playing a dance of seduction. Now if the husband showed up in sequins, I might not be able to maintain a straight face. But I would give him credit for trying. Okay, I am lying. He does not have the body for sequins.

I’m gonna take my time, she gon get hers before I
I’m gonna take it slow (woah woahh), I’m not gonna rush the stroke
If you don’t know by now, Doggy Dogg is a freak freak freeeeaak
I keep a bad bitch with me, 7 days out the week
And all that we ever do is play in the sheets sheet sheeeeettss
Smoke us a cigarette and go back to sleep

Sexual Eruption by Snoop Dogg

I don’t know. Is it me? I will admit I wore latex gloves when I typed in Snoop’s lyrics, but could this be causing the death of romance? I think if I ever woke up and found the Snoop in my bed, I’d take up smoking again.

What’s the solution? Maybe a little of Rodgers and Hammerstein and a pinch of Dogg.

Send a card, make the bed (better yet, change the sheets when they start standing up by themselves), go for a walk, hold hands, remember something cool about each other and don’t keep it to yourself.

Turn off you ipod, iphone, ipad, laptop, computer, bluetooth, blackberry and hold onto someone you like or even love.

We were meant to be touched and not texted.

Filed Under: Entertainment, Humor, Nostalgia, Opinion

Getting the Royal Rush from Will and Kate?

April 28, 2011 By Elizabeth Cassidy

As a young girl, the world of royalty fascinated me. So much so, that I actually told people that I had been kidnapped and was actually a member of Britain’s royal family. Hard to believe, but no one bought into that idea. So I continued to live with this very proper American family. In my heart, I thought it would just a matter of time before the truth came out – that I don’t dabble in reality all that much.

I, for one, love all the pomp and circumstance when it comes to the upcoming nuptial between Will and Kate. You know, that couple from two good gene pools (if you don’t include Charles’ side) who reside across the pond are getting married on Friday, April 29^th. That’s right. 4 AM EST. I’ll be up. If I got up for Diana and Charles, I can get up for Will and Kate. I am looking forward to it because my invite is still lost in the mail.

This young couple, who met at university, dated and sampled life on their own finally realized that they wanted to spend the rest of their lives together. And then the Queen informed them that they would have to do it front of millions of people who are sitting in front of their TVs attired only in their underwear. How cheeky is that?

You know how you can look at a couple and proclaim that, “they will be suing each other for divorce in six months?” I am rooting for them to make it to their golden anniversary. And then they can date other people. I’ll be dead. I won’t care.

Quite the love story for our time. No drug arrests, no hookers, no “winning,” and no tweets from either of them.

It’s not to say that being royal (or becoming one) does not come with it’s share of embarrassments – there’s a queen who doesn’t realize that clothes from the 1940s belong in a museum and not in her closet and then there are those wonderful, wacky and witless group of royal ancestors who should get their own show on Bravo: “Real Housewives of New Jersey Lose their Heads over Henry the Eighth.” Please God, I won’t ask for anything ever again.

But Kate and Will have risen above it all and are going to get married. In front of their family and friends and about a billion people. If a billion people are watching the nuptials, then one billion people are not fighting, killing or blowing up anything. How bloody good is that?

So if you don’t like all the coverage – rent a heart. You can return it on the 30^th and the world can go back to being a slightly horrible place again. Bah! Humbug!

But for one day, I’d like to believe that love can push hate into the background. Where is belongs.

Filed Under: Entertainment, Humor, Nostalgia

What I will miss when the world comes to an end

April 12, 2011 By Elizabeth Cassidy

A few weeks ago I wrote about what I wouldn’t miss when the world comes to an end. That Glenn Beck’s Fox show got dropped leads me to believe that I have some power. And I won’t abuse it … Sean Hannity – you are getting very tired.

Someone suggested (thanks DB) I write about what I will miss when the world comes to an end. Good point. I have to say this list might be harder to fill since I am not always feeling the love. And I mean that about myself and the world. OMG – I am a coach and I just admitted to being human. Hot damn. I just might be able to fill up this list.

1.) Not getting to spend time with my long list of interesting men. And by spending time, I don’t necessarily mean reading by the fireplace. Javier – call me. I hear the end is near.

2.) The possibility of …

3.) Watching kittens get their walking papers. And puppies who ice stake down the hall with wobbly legs.

4.) Putting words in a certain order that makes people laugh or think. Or think about laughing.

5.) Real passionate kisses from men who know how to kiss and don’t look at kissing as a way to wipe off a feature or two off your face. Call me old-fashioned.

6.) The chance to get back into that crocheted dress from the 1970s that I used to be able to wear without a bra. TMI? Perhaps.

7.) Being able to talk to my darling friend David who left us in 1997. I just think about him and he is all around me – messing with my hair. Hmmmm … maybe we will see each other again? That would be just lovely. Remember David – Karma means never having to miss you ever again.

8.) Linguine and clam sauce.

9.) The ocean. One of the few places where people aren’t staring at me and wondering how I forgot to exercise over the last few years. It happened, people, it just happened.

10.) Yelling at the Tea Party members. Who needs therapy with this crowd around?

11.) The chance to own a closet full Christian Louboutin heels.

12.) Seeing the people of the world living in peace. We didn’t even get close.

13.) Friends who keep secrets. On second thought, they will have to go with me. I don’t think I can trust anyone that much.

14.) My VHS and DVD copy of ‘The Way We Were.” Robert Redford in bed.

15.) Good wine. Bad wine. Any kind of wine.

16.) Giving Donald Trump a Mohawk and telling him “You’re fired.”

17.) Manhattan. You can keep the Bronx and Staten Island, too.

18.) Hearing the late Dr. Martin Luther King’s “I Have a Dream” speech.

19.) Concealer. Not that I ever needed it.

20.) Laughing so hard.

So what are you going to miss?

Visit Elizabeth’s site, My Views from the Edge at: My Views from the Edge

Filed Under: Entertainment, Humor, Nostalgia, Opinion

What I won’t miss when the world comes to an end

April 1, 2011 By Elizabeth Cassidy

I can’t help but think that this little planet earth might not be around for much longer. I don’t stay up at night shaking in my bed sheets, but I believe Mother Nature has grown bored with our inability to get along, to exercise regularly and to share the TV remote. You got to admit that the frisky Mamma has been working overtime lately.

The other day I was getting so overwhelmed by the news of the world that it got me thinking. What would I not miss if the world comes to an end? I have to say it was this first time in weeks that a smile graced my face.

Think about it. When we become tiny little particles floating around the Milky Way, there will be no more:

Taxes
Boxed wine
Glenn Back
Fat free food
Water retention
Knock knock jokes
Charlie Sheen (ahhh…I just want to stay here for a minute)
Scales that lie
Paper cuts
Computer hackers (there is a special place in hell for them).
Songs about women and trucks
Certain shades of pink
A generation who feels they are just entitled to it all (while not doing a damn thing)
Snakes
Vomit of any kind – not that there is good vomit, but my cats like to leave it so I can find it with my bare feet.
Car repairs that you have to sell an organ to finance
Men who say they will call, but never do. Hey Hackers – please make some room.
Public bathrooms
Dressing rooms lighting
Making lists

So I have done my job with making the end sound a little sweeter.

What’s on your list?

Filed Under: Humor, Opinion, Spirituality

How Can I Get Old If I Refuse To Grow Up?

March 14, 2011 By Elizabeth Cassidy

I have been saying for years that growing up, getting old and slipping into sensible shoes is someone else’s future. Not mine. No levelheaded hair styles for me, and while I am at it, lose the “can I help you ma’am?” attitude. If I needed help, I would call upon any one of my admirers once those silly restraining orders against me have been lifted.

So the other day, I am going about my fantasy life and this little ditty shows up in my email box. I asked if the sender wanted to be identified and she foolishly said, “I don’t care.” So, this is Esme, my oldest friend. We have known each other since we were three when I came flying out of my parent’s house to inform Esme and her mother to stay off my property. The police report noted that I spat at Esme, but I think that was a gross exaggeration. At that age, I was still drooling on myself.

“You know what else I hate? Getting ready for bed. Between the going to the bathroom, brushing my teeth, using the water pic, going to the bathroom, removing the makeup- without which I can’t leave the house anymore- cleansing my face, going to the bathroom, applying numerous anti aging moisturizers, layer by layer because I figure if one doesn’t work, there are 10 more on top to cover for it, going to the bathroom, taking all my various medications and constipation remedies, checking the door and going to the bathroom, it takes me an hour and I’m already tired when I started. There is nothing good that I can think of about getting old.

I forgot to mention, I have to wear glasses if I want to see anyone more than 15 feet away from me and even in the last row of the movies, where I have to sit. They’re very stylish- Do you know how freaking old I feel? This is besides the other glasses that I have to wear if I’m interested in reading anything- like the labels on the increasing medications that I take – do you know how freaking old I feel?

Just a thought…….”

My, she does go on, doesn’t she? I have to admit I laughed my butt off and then I had to go the bathroom. The power of suggestion is very strong.

I am not immune when it comes to reaching my next birthday. Several years ago, I had to start to take Synthroid because I have a thyroid that refused to get down and give me 50 sit ups. I asked for how long I would have to take this medication and the doctor said “forever.” I started to cry. So I am not Superwoman. I have to call my doctor out on this one. She told me I would start to lose those stubborn (fill in blank) pounds that were hanging around. Oh, really. Does it say big, fat liar on your diploma?

And I do find it a little insulting when I go to a new doctor and they ask how many meds I am on and say “two.” They look at me as if this poor dear is losing it. How about good genes?

For as long as I have known Esme, and when we are not in a wine induced haze, we are sarcastic, intelligent, humorous, catty and self deprecating. The latter is to keep those aging police from coming to round us up. We kill them all with our charm. Charm doesn’t age. Nor does it get brown spots. And in my world those damn spots are freckles. End of story. Oh, but before I really end it, the two of us can hold our own in a room filled with 30 and 40 year olds. Well, as long as they are men.

I can’t help Esme when it comes to wearing eyeglasses. I just look at them as accessories that keep me from falling down the stairs. Sort of like earrings with radar.

Same goes with constipation remedies. To know my family, is to know that we do not have bodily functions. It was never discussed amongst my people. I see the ads for the whole assortment of things our bodies do or don’t do and wonder who are these people who take such things and why do they not live in my village?

So in closing, I want to say to all…what was I talking about?

Not!

Nature gives you the face you have at twenty; it is up to you to merit the face you have at fifty.
- – - – Coco Chanel

The photo above was taken before everyone started to use Botox. I do miss the waxed lips days. (we do not dress alike -I was living in NY and Esme was living in Italy so there were enough miles between us.)

Filed Under: Entertainment, Humor, Nostalgia, Opinion Tagged With: Botox, Coco Chanel, Esme, getting old, Italy, not growing up, nthroid, sensible shoes, Thyroid