Don't Get Me Started with Linda Sharp

You’ve Got Male and You Can Have Him

(Note to male readers: I'm pissed, you may want to wear a cup...)

As a mother of three daughters, I am intensely aware of the challenges faced in raising "X" bearers vs those parents whose progeny have kickstands.

Face it, no matter how far feminism has tried to bring us, men still have a third leg up in this world. Whether it is jobs, power or simply perceived value, men still move through society with greater ease, and far less sexual prejudice, than do women.

Kind of amazing considering how stupid are the whole lot of them.

Yes, I said STUPID and yes, I said THE WHOLE LOT OF THEM.

Ask any of my daughters to complete the sentence, "Boys are ----" and they will immediately fill in that blank with the word STUPID.

To all the men reading this who now have their testes in a knot, stop being stupid and keep reading.

I am raising my daughters in a world still largely run by the male populace. It is a world that is f*cked up, pocked marked, war mongered, corrupted and diseased. A condition in which it has arrived at the hands of the men who have run it since God was a child.

And because of the obvious inequity, incompetence and flat out egocentric behaviors that have been demonstrated right down the line, I am fighting like hell to raise my daughters to be confident, intelligent, secure, self sufficient women who will never feel inferior to any man who crosses their paths.

They will grow up knowing they do not need a man to take care of them. They will grow up aware of every idiotic man who makes a headline for running a company or country into the ground. They will grow up understanding that they are capable of making strong, informed decisions - that their opinions matter. Most of all, they will grow up knowing that no man ever has the right to tell them what to do or to mete out any punishment upon them.

Enter our nominee for World’s Largest Piece of Human Shit 2005: Nazir Ahmed of Pakistan.

This past weekend, Nazir, one of the aforementioned stupid "Y" bearers of the world, slit the throats of not only his 25 year old stepsister, but his three young daughters (ages 8, 7 and 4) as well.

Reason?

Screw that - there is no reason.

Reason implies thought. Thought implies rationale. Rationale implies human being.

Nazir is shit. Shit does not think. Shit merely stinks up the nostrils of those exposed to it.

Nazir committed what is commonly referred to in his part of the world as an "honor killing". Yes, that old conservative Islamic religion just gathers more and more respect, doesn’t it? It is an accepted practice that allows for the murder of hundreds of females each year by male relatives intent on restoring some f*cked up notion of honor to the family.

Perhaps a female cousin was raped. Kill her.

Maybe someone has started a rumor, no fact, that an unmarried female has held hands with a male. Cut her throat.

Maybe a female relative accidentally let her veil slip in a public place. Kill the bitch.

Notice there is no mention of the male who raped, pillaged, looked, touched or gossiped about the woman in question.  Seems to me, in order to restore "honor", a few gonads should be offered up to old Mohammed...

In Nazir’s case, it was number two, a rumor about his stepsister and a purported "lover" (started by her husband, whom she had fled from due to severe, substantiated abuse) - no "lover" has ever been found or substantiated - that made him decide he needed to kill her in order to restore his family’s honor. And just to make sure his daughters did not grow up to commit adultery, he killed them too for good measure.

In. Front. Of. Their. Mother.

Yes, as he slit their throats, he paused in between each kill to threaten the terrified mother who was holding their infant son.

STUPID SACK OF SHIT.

He deserves to have his balls eaten off by feral pigs in the town square, then have his brain removed through his rectum with a pitchfork. And I would buy a plane ticket to watch.

This "man is better than woman" mentality is still prevalent throughout the world. Whether it is in severe cases such as Nazir’s in the Middle East, the wholesale kidnapping and rape of young girls sold into prostitution in Asia, the horrific genital mutilation/female circumcision wrought upon young girls in Africa, or less bloody, but no less serious violations right here in the United States where far too many men still rule the roost and control every breath their wives and girlfriends take - I have my work cut out for me in raising these daughters of mine.

I want opportunity for them. I want respect for them. I want them to laugh in the faces of any boys or men who dare drop a line like, "If you really loved me, you’d do it..." And should any man ever try to make them feel inferior or talk down to them? Well, good luck guys. They are only 13, 12 and 9, and already would look you right in your stupid sack of shit eyes and tell you exactly where to go.

And yes, before you ask the stupid question, I have a husband whom I love very much. I am with him because I want to be with him, not because I need to be with him. That is a huge distinction. I know who I am in this marriage, who I am without him. I do not draw my identity from him or believe my world would implode were he to leave.

And yes, he loves me - because I am not a doormat, because I refuse to be told what to do, because I expect equality in our relationship. He is well aware that his daughters take a dim view of their testosterone burdened peers, and he also knows that his daughters are more grounded, confident and mature than any girls he knew when he was their ages. And if teaching them that "boys are stupid" is the key? Well, I daresay he is going to leave a comment after this blog endorsing my methodology.

My daughters are going to make a difference in this messed up world and when they do get ready to settle down with one of you? It will be because they want you, not because, even in any remote way, they need you.

You’ve Got Male - They’ve Got Brains.  Good luck.

What Can Brown Do For U-Haul?

I just saw the damndest thing.

Standing in my dining room, I caught a glimpse of it out of the corner of my eye.

Nooooooooo wayyyyyyyyyyyyyyy......

As it was moving, it quickly escaped the range of my peripheral vision and I ran through the house to the farthest window.

DAMN.

It might not be elephants flying, but Dumbo, it comes close. I have done seen about everything now because I have seen a UPS truck flying down the street trailing a U-haul.

Chocolate Fountains and singing deer heads aside, if that is not a testament to the gross consumerism of the season, I don’t know what is. I mean a UPS truck is not exactly a slacker in the size stakes. In fact, they are mini-warehouses on wheels, all packages filed, shelved, coded, scanned. So if there is a need to strap a U-haul to the back of one? Yes, Alan Greenspan, there is a Santa Claus. And his suit is surely black with the soot of profits rather than red with the blood of deficit depressed corporate executives.

I must pause here and ask the executives of UPS if they have ever considered buying their own trailers? While it would still be comical to see a UPS truck with a trailer hitch, at least if the trailer were a matching brown with a logo, it wouldn’t look like my gifts were heading to a Self Storage facility or beer stained dorm room.

But I digress...

I admit, seeing such a sight made me stop and question if, perhaps, all those people who rant and rave every year about how the true meaning of the season has gotten lost under piles of Tickle Me Elmos and iPods might be right. Have we really lost sight of the reason for the season? Are we all going to Hell for fighting over the last War of the Worlds DVD? Are we spending too much money and too little time enjoying the fellowship this season is meant to engender?

Nahhhhhhhhh.

Regardless of the holiday you celebrate at this time of the year - and to everyone who thinks THEIRS is the ONLY TRUE, CORRECT, DIVINELY SANCTIONED one, allow me to point out that all of these religious observances stem from the same small strip of land in the Middle East and it is not just coincidence that the dates coincide - all these celebrations are based in giving and love and sharing joy.

So if giving someone I love the joy of opening an electric potato peeler is wrong, I don’t wanna be right.

We shop, especially at this time of the year, because it makes us feel good to give. To give love. To give joy. To give smiles.

I freely admit that I am part of the UPS-needing-a-pull-trailer problem. From shopping online to shipping to relatives in other states, I was actually introduced to an entire UPS storeful of harried shippers as "Our Best, Most Frequent Customer" the other day. That, my friend, takes a lot of boxes.

So if you, too, happen to look out your window and spy the big brown turd on wheels pulling a U-haul this week, think of me. I have been doing a lot of shopping, and what with all those door buster sales, you never know if you'll be the lucky recipient of a singing deer head or one of those coveted chocolate fountains...

And to U-haulPS: Thank you for shipping my 23 boxes. It has been my joy to give you all my cash to ship everything to those I love.  Now go spend some of my money at Home Depot and paint those damned trailers.

The Yearly Holiday Gag, er, Brag Letter

Back by popular demand (yes, you ARE a demanding lot)...

As the holiday season unfolds, I invite you to kick back with some seriously spiked egg nog and a plate of sprinkle laden cookies and enjoy this excerpt from my latest book, co-authored with Shana McLean Moore, titled Femail: A Comic Collision In Cyberspace...

‘Tis the season for all things holiday oriented - the shopping, the decorating, making cookies, going to parties, lighting the tree and, of course, mailing the holiday cards. I am uplifted by all of the former, drinking in everything the season has to offer, from buttcrack of dawn sales to eating way too much raw cookie dough. It’s the latter - all those holiday cards - that drag me down. Not the numerous ones I have to send, but the ones I receive. Those beautiful Christmas cards containing pictures of children stuffed into satin, lace, and ties, families with mouths full of perfectly whitened teeth, and of course, the requisite "We are doing better than you are" letters... are you guilty?

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Merry Christmas Everyone!

Greetings once again from the Perfect Family -- Donald, Mary Lou, Thaddeus, Tiffany, and of course, Spartacus --say Woof, Spartacus! Woof!

See? He wishes you a Merry Christmas too!

Well, where to begin? Our lives are just so busy these days, what with Donald's new position of CEO-VP-CFO-DFHYTFGGFGFA for the conglomerate Big, More, & $$. He is constantly flying to exotic destinations to mastermind new deals and consult on an international level. Lucky me, Mary Lou, I get to go too! What wonderful people in Cairo! Although I still chafe from the camel ride. Donald was also recently elected President of his club, the venerable and very elite Richnsnobby. In his spare time he coaches Thaddeus' polo team.

Speaking of our wonderful son Thaddeus, he is now CAPTAIN of the polo team! We could not be prouder than the day he was crowned King of the Divets at the private school he attends, Betterthan University - BetterthanU, for short. He has made the dean's list once again and has his eye set on medical school. Earlier this year he received an award from the President's Council on Overachievement! Don't tell him, but we are getting him a BMW for Christmas! Sssshhhhhhhhh!! What a son! What parents, huh? Tee-hee!

Now, as for our lovely swan Tiffany? She is the apple of her Daddy's eye and the newly crowned Queen of the Turnip Bulbs for the year 2005. What an honor! Our little girl really blossomed after spending the summer at the Golden Boar Spa with Mommy! A little nip here, a little tuck there, and those other Turnip Bulb wannabes did not stand a chance! She will be dancing the part of the Swan Princess in her private school (Fatherhasmoolah Prep) Christmas ballet production! What a daughter! We would love to have you attend! Tickets are still available for only $150 a piece. How many shall we put you down for?

I, Mary Lou, continue to do my charity work for the Junior League. I will be heading up the committee in charge of our spring fundraiser, "Don't Wear THAT!". Monies will be used to help those poor souls who are walking Glamour DON'Ts. Such a worthy cause, I get choked up just writing about it. I will be the lead model on the catwalk during the fashion show portion of the event. Yes, I am still a size 2 and weigh in at 100 pounds. Don't you just hate me? Just teasing, ladies! I am busy, busy, busy planning our New Year’s trip to Tahiti. Don't worry, we will send you a postcard!

Now, we cannot forget to update you on Spartacus! He took the trophy for Best of Show at the National Kibble Competition! He was also given a citation from local officials after scaling a catwalk on a burning building and rescuing three helpless kittens. What a dog! Mommy just wuvs her wittle Spartacus!

We wish everyone a simply marvelous Holiday Season and hope your lives are as wonderful as ours in the new year! Toodles! (Say Woof Spartacus!) Woof! See, he says Bye too!

~~~~

My only thoughts when I read these tomes are: 1. My friends are liars, and 2. Why am I friends with liars? For once, I would love to see an honest assessment of some family’s lives in one of these updates. Tell me the truth because, honestly, no one lives such a wart-free existence . . .

~~~~

Hey Y’all,

Season’s Greetings from the Crankshaft Clan - Roy, Betty Jean, Junior, Mary Ellen and Gramma Ethel. Yep, that’s right, old Gramma E moved in with us mid-year when her eyesight started to wane and her bunions got so bad she could hardly walk. God love her, even half-blind, she totes her colostomy bag to church Bingo every Wednesday night. She won a coverall game just last week and came home $15.00 richer!

Roy is hanging in there. He ended up on disability for a few months at the beginning of the year when Precious, our pitbull, bit off one of Roy’s testicles. Wasn’t the dog’s fault though - Roy knows better than to walk around with a Slim Jim in his overall pockets. Might as well have been wearing beef jerky underwear. Wouldn’t you know? The doctors were right, his empty sac filled right up with fluid and now the only way to tell he is missing a testicle is that his scrotum hurts when it’s going to rain.

Junior got his driver’s license this year and is working part-time washing dishes at Outhouse Steakhouse to save up money for his own car. Shhhh, don’t tell him, but we got him one for Christmas! Roy found an ‘89 Yugo, with low miles and a rear spoiler on eBay! Can’t wait to see the look on Junior’s face!

Mary Ellen just may put this family on the map - she is in the running for the next season of The Biggest Loser! She’s always had stars in her eyes and may finally be able to put her lifelong love of Twinkies to good use. While she currently weighs in at 243, she has been packing on some extra pounds in the hopes the producers will be impressed when they make their final decision. If the "Loser" show doesn't pan out, she has an application in for The Swan. They could just suck all that lard right out, fix her bald spot and give her some front teeth at the same time. Stay tuned!

As for me, Betty Jean, I am still a stay-at-home mom, which works out well since Gramma needs her feet scraped twice a week to keep the bunions in check. I enjoy my scrapbooking and have started making curtains for folks from home. The extra money helps with Roy’s ball bills and I am trying to put a little away each week for a trip to the Poconos in 2005. I saw a picture of one of those heart shaped tubs years ago and have always wanted to take Roy there.

Anyway, we hope your family has had a good year and we wish you all a wonderful holiday season. Have to go now, Gramma’s colostomy bag is starting to leak.

~~~~

Now that’s what I call a family.

What’s A Body To Do?

Death is not exactly a topic people like to think about. It’s a messy, emotional, depressing subject. Sure, we all know it is the one big inevitability that ties us to every other creature on the planet, but even sharing that commonality with feral pigs, naked mole rats, and Paris Hilton doesn’t make too many people want to dwell on it.

I'm no different, however, I have given enough thought to my own end to have instructed my husband on what to do with my remains. Cremation, to begin with. I get cold easily and the idea of being stuck underground makes me shiver. That, plus the fact that we move alot and God knows I’d get planted and one day later my family would be waving goodbye to me from a United Van Lines truck. No, I prefer to be toted along - with the proviso that the “This End Up” label be strictly followed.

I also have asked the female members of my family to fork a few ounces of my smartash self out of the urn and have me turned into jewelry, a la Life Gems. For the uneducated, Life Gems is a company that can make actual gemstones out of a person’s remains. Rings, pendants - I just know my middle daughter the diva will make me into a tiara. Anyway, I think it’s kind of cool, they are not grossed out by the thought and I like knowing I would be there for important things like weddings, births, new Harry Potter movies...

Anyway, my point is, while I don’t exactly like to think about my death, I do have options for what becomes of me. Not so the people of Biritiba Mirim, Brazil.

It seems that the folks in this farming community not only don’t dwell on dying, they have no where to dwell when they do. With no more room to bury the dead, cremation against the law, and the addition of new cemeteries outlawed, a person is currently dead in the water as far as checking out of life goes.

Biritiba Mirim, located in the “green belt”, is a farming community with rich, dense, moist soil, producing fruits, vegetables and nearly 90% of the watercress consumed in Brazil (that’s a lot of finger sandwiches)... and a 2003 decree by Brazil's National Environment Council bars new or expanded cemeteries in so-called permanent preservation areas or in areas with high water tables.

Most of Biritiba Mirim sits above the underground water source for about 2 million people in Sao Paulo, with the rest covered by protected forest.

Environmental protection measures rule out cremation. So, literally, what’s a body to do?

That’s exactly what Mayor Roberto Pereira da Silva wants to know and has set forth a proposal to “deal” with the problem.

Dying is against the law.

Yes, that’s right. His proposal to the Town Council asks residents to "take good care of your health in order not to die" and warns that "infractors will be held responsible for their acts."

So, does that mean a bunch of corpses could eventually be arrested and stinking up the cellblock in Biritiba Mirim?

Not likely.

The mayor and his aides admit the proposal cannot be enforced, but rather put it forth to draw attention to the plight of the people in their town and 20 other surrounding towns facing similar issues.

More than 50,000 people are buried in the 3,500 crypts and tombs in Biritiba Mirim's municipal cemetery, and the cemetery ran out of space last month. Since November, 20 residents who have had the audacity to flout the law and die have been forced to share a crypt. But even that solution has limits.

No kidding, I don’t even like sharing a hospital room or having someone too close to me in the Walmart line.

The town, with the help of environmental specialists, has mapped out an area five times larger than the current cemetery, which they say would not impact the groundwater. However, until the Environmental Council decides to address the issue, people don’t have much choice but to eat their vegetables, take their vitamins and, well, breathe.

In the meantime, Mayor da Silva simply hopes more people don’t die, or at the very least, if they do, he hopes they have relatives willing to let them move in and hang out for a while. Just prop Grandpa up on the couch, tie Grandma Milly to a rocking chair...

Hmmmm, I am seeing a whole burgeoning market for taxidermists in Brazil...

Word to my family - don’t you dare stuff my ass like some Billy Bass singing fish or hang me over the fireplace like Bambi’s dad. Anything short of making me into the Hope diamond and I will haunt you so bad from the grave that you’ll wish you were the one who kicked.

I’m dead serious.

My Stupidity: More Than Skin Deep

I have often been lauded for my willingness to “put myself out there”, to bare the idiocy that is my soul, to offer myself up as a cautionary tale for others to follow.

If you’ve read me long enough, you’ve learned valuable lessons along the lines of: when you eat part of your own tooth, seeing the dentist is something to do sooner rather than later, and that you should never, ever, not in a million years, consume a pound of sugar-free jelly beans and wash them down with orange juice.

And while I manage to make fun of my many foibles, I am here today to share something not so humorous, but more important than anything I have ever written.

(Although the warning about the jelly beans and OJ cannot be stressed enough.)

You see, like most people my age, my body is beginning to fall apart. It seems that my flesh actually hears the tick of the clock as it is approaching 40, and has decided that all alarm bells shall begin ringing and that the disintegration shall officially commence.

I can handle this decline in terms of irregular periods that make me feel like a defective typewriter, night sweats that turn me into a human pot roast au jus, and crows feet that must be frozen into submission with Botox.

But for the past week, I have been on an emotional roller coaster, a ride full of recriminations that has taken me into the darkest tunnels of my mind. All because, during my yearly exam last month, my doctor found some “spots” - as in “they look cancerous, get these checked out immediately”.

Since I always tell you people the truth when I write, I will own up to actually knowing about two of them, but being too scared to see a doctor. YES, I realize how incredibly stupid that is, that with three young children I deserve to be reamed out by a rhinocerus, and I acknowledge that I am the first to preach “the questions are always scarier than the answers”, but sometimes fear is a fairly debilitating emotion.

The one my OBGYN was most concerned about is on my lower back - an area I typically have no opportunity, or reason, to peruse (makes me rethink my aversion to yoga). A large, uneven, spotted mole - it did not bode well - (and while I would have to check with Jeff Corwin, I doubt that large, uneven, spotted moles bode well out in the wild either.)

I promised to call a dermatologist immediately - the promise being the easy part.

Unfortunately, I happen to live in one of the vainer states in the Union, a state where the Botox River runs freely, women routinely get their cellulite massaged away and Restylane fills every nook and cranny in their faces. Texas is simply not the place to have an immediate dermatological crisis and I ended up calling no less than twenty offices - all of them unable to see me until February in 2006.

Cancer not being something to sit on - I declined those offices.  In this case, fear had finally mobilized my sorry spotted ass, and I kept making calls. I eventually found one who could see me within a week. Not surprisingly, her office does not cater to the Botox-Restylane-Laser crowd - she is strictly medical.

Fast forward a week and there I was, butt naked, in a stance reminiscent of the Da Vinci man, standing in front of this stranger. Bright side - she did not find anything I was not already aware of, dark side - she froze two areas and biopsied the other two.

For those who view biopsy as a scary, shadowy word, let me just say, while it is not caramel-candy-bar- pleasant, it is not chocolate-covered-cockroach-hideous either. You are numbed up and it takes very little time for them to shave off a deli-thin slice of your flesh to send to the lab.

My family and I then began the wait for results.

I kept trying to console myself with the fact that my father has had 15-20 skin cancers removed from his body (he resembles Swiss Cheese) and my sister has had one removed as well, and they are both doing just fine. But in my darker moments, I would morbidly mull thoughts like, “It would be my luck - they both look like walking gallons of milk - whiter than white - and I, of the darker pigment, will get the melanoma death sentence.“

I thought back over the endless hours I spent baking in the sun during my youth - covered in baby oil, like some human Butterball. I considered the years I have languished in tanning beds, pulling the top down over me like some People Panini.

Mostly what I did, was look at my daughters. The fear of being taken away from them at 13, 12 and 9 was crushing. My mind ran down paths so dark I sometimes lost my breath. And again and again and again, I kicked my own ass (I don’t do yoga, but I am limber) for not checking myself regularly.

The call from the doctor came late yesterday and when I say that upon seeing the number flash on my cell, I have never wanted to NOT answer my phone more - it is a serious, serious understatement - think "Bill Clinton likes women."

The upshot? One of the biopsies came back as Basal Cell Carcinoma. Yes, I have cancer.  And I am HAPPY.

Happy, you ask? Yes, VERY HAPPY.

I do have cancer, but if you’re going to get skin cancer, this is the one you want - the Lamborghini of cancers. Basal Cell is treatable/removable and does not metastize throughout your body.

The large spot on my back? Not cancer, but there were enough abnormal cells to warrant it’s eviction from my body. So I am now scheduled for two separate procedures to remove them both.  I am not especially looking forward to being cut on, but given the alternative?  Some stitches, a little discomfort and a couple small scars are a fabulous Christmas gift.

All that being said, I am still trying to get used to saying the words, “I have skin cancer.” Not because they are particularly difficult syllables to wrap my tongue around, but because I no longer feel invincible. This Type A personality of mine has taken a direct hit.

I pride myself on taking care of my body, exercising, eating well, etc - and to have something like this growing on it, well, it makes me realize that there are some things I simply cannot control. (For the record, I no longer sleep in tanning beds and am a big fan of SPF.)

That’s not to say I can’t be more diligent, which is the point of this long blog. I should have been looking and when I knew there was something abnormal, I should have immediately called a doctor. I will not make that mistake again. I might not be able to control cancer, but I sure as hell can keep malignant stupidity from growing inside my brain.

You can too. Check yourself often. Have someone check areas you cannot clearly see. If it looks wrong, it is worth the phone call. I dodged the bullet this time. But thousands of people each year do not - dying from malignant melanoma.

So consider me the new poster child for Skin Cancer prevention and look for me in a public service announcement soon. I’ll be the naked one looking backwards at my reflection asking, “Have YOU looked at your ass in a mirror lately?”

P.S. Feel free to leave a comment and ream me out (rhinocerus optional) - I deserve it.

Diversity, Tolerance & Respect : The New Gold, Frankincense & Myrrh?

Note:  While I wrote this piece in the months following 9/11, I receive roughly 50 requests for reprint for it each holiday season from around the world, so I thought I would dust it off and share it with you...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Mom, I don’t get why we can’t call it a Christmas party at school?"

The question was posed by my daughter as she handed me the note from school. A tactfully worded, politically correct, try-to-offend-no-one letter explaining what type of festivities would be celebrated in each class before the December break. Not the Christmas break. Not the Hanukkah or Kwanza break - the December break. Chances are your school age child will be bringing home a similar note this month.

Chances are also that you, like me, can remember back when we were in grade school and it was simply called a Christmas party and a Christmas break. It did not matter what religious affiliations comprised the classroom, the majority simply ruled, and the silent few who did not celebrate the holidays with Santa and the North Star were still made to draw Christmas trees, sing carols and help make paper chains to decorate the classrooms.

We’ve come a long way, baby. Or have we?

The holiday season is ripe with opportunities to talk with your child about the differences that make the world an interesting place to live. But how to discuss with your child why Santa may stop at your house, but not at your Jewish neighbors? Why a Menorah and draidle are significant to some children, but not others? Or why his African American best friend celebrates not only the birth of Jesus, but the seven principles of Kwanza?

For some reason, leading a discussion on another faith, religion or ideology is frightening to many people, especially parents. Perhaps it is the feeling of being disloyal to their own belief system. Perhaps they are afraid they will inadvertently cause their child to question the way they are being raised. Actually, the most likely answer is ignorance. Human beings are inherently frightened of that which is unfamiliar, new or different - especially in the realm of religion. So instead of doing some research and becoming educated, we will cling even stronger to that which we know. Unfortunately this is exactly how prejudices are developed and perpetuated and passed on to our children.

As September 11^th illustrated so graphically, nothing good comes of ignorance, intolerance, and zero respect. And while that violence was so unimaginable, so unspeakable, and over four years later, still so hard to fathom, perhaps it is 9/11 that will give people the courage to talk, discuss, learn about one another.

In answering my daughter’s single question, I was amazed to see how many more tumbled out of her. She was genuinely intrigued and wanted to learn more about other celebrations. I admit that my personal knowledge was limited, so we hopped onto the Internet and both began to explore and educate ourselves. We Googled Hanukkah and read everything from history to how to play Draidle. We moved on to Kwanzaa and Ramadan and even surfed information about Santa in other countries.

I am happy to report that my daughter’s scope of the world has been widened and, I hate to admit it, but at thirty nine years of age, mine has been too. I realized that in teaching her about other religions and celebrations, I had not weakened her beliefs, I had simply expanded her understanding of other people.

So this holiday season, give your child the gift of knowledge. When they ask the questions, don’t be afraid to give them the answers. Children are not born with prejudice, just beautiful, open minds. And diversity, tolerance and respect just may be the "gold, frankincense and myrrh" that we give to their generation.

Happy Holidays!

Big, Fat, Greek Wedding

My how time does fly. It seems just yesterday that I was stealing my mom’s Enquirer and reading about the heart attack and death of tragic Greek heiress, Christina Onassis, daughter of tragic-to-look-at Greek billionaire, Ari.

Oh come on - admit it - that man even gave “oily Greeks” the heeby jeebies.

When Christina, who had a long history of self destructive / self indulgent behavior, died, she left behind a King Midas fortune and a three year old daughter named Athina. Athina became the personification of “poor, little rich girl” - a motherless child destined to inherit over two billion dollars when she turned 18.

She did that two years ago.

$2.7 billion to be exact.

Now despite her legacy and trust funded wealth, Athina managed to live a fairly quiet, peaceable, non tabloid life with her father and his family in Switzerland while growing up. Seriously, compared to tiara trash like Paris Hilton, most people would go “Athina, who?”

Well, quiet, unostentatious living was given the heave-ho this past weekend when Athina married Brazilian Olympic equestrian, Alvaro Afonso de Miranda, 12 years her senior. With a guest list as long as some small town phone books, a dress that could be sold to house a family of four, and enough champagne to float a battleship, grandeur was the name of the game.

Unfortunately, the cynic in me has started the clock running on the marriage - will it last? How long will it last? Does extravagance = marital security? Does more actually mean more?

Sadly, in terms of celebrity nuptials, money cannot buy happiness - the tabloids are littered with the dead marriages of the rich and famous - the most current being the vapid Jessica Simpson and her equally shallow hubby Nick Lachey who indulged in a Cinderella affair when they got hitched and lasted less than three years.

But back to Athina’s shindig. I thought it might be interesting to juxtapose it against my own wedding which took place almost 15 years ago on the island of Kauai (don‘t get excited, we lived there at the time), cost next to nothing (he worked for hotel where we got married) and as it is still going strong (more in love than when we said our vows), proves that sometimes less truly is more...

Athina: 750 guests in attendance

Linda: 6 people in attendance and three of them were the minister, the guitar player and the catering manager.

Athina: $70,000 Valentino bridal gown

Linda: $45 department store dress - bought on sale. Gloves from JC Penney catalog. Flowers left over from previous wedding that morning.

Athina: 400 security personnel

Linda: Zero. But then again, I was not then, nor am I now worth $2.7 BILLION. If I were, I supposed you’d see me wrapped head to toe in bodyguards too.

Athina: $1,200 for hair/make-up

Linda: $5 for box of Clairol Starlight Blonde Haircolor / $20 for blush, mascara and lip gloss

Athina: 1,000 bottle of Veuve Cliquot champagne - if you cannot pronounce it, you cannot afford to drink it.

Linda: 2 bottles of something fizzy - could have been Pepsi in a fancy bottle

Athina: 20 years old

Linda: 24 years old - don’t let anybody kid you - four years in your 20s makes a helluva big difference in maturity.

Athina: Age of groom - 32, divorced, one child (6 years old)

Linda: Age of groom - 32, single, had not been able to find anyone to put up with his array of shit before me.

Athina: Had dated new husband for 3 years, meaning they began their relationship when she was only 17 - always a good sign...in Appalachia, maybe.

Linda: Had dated husband for 2 years, meaning we began when I was 22 and had spent years dating and discarding a series of males, not to mention living on my own, before deciding I was ready for the big “I do”.

I wish Athina well in her new marriage.  I really do. Maybe she will prove to be the exception and not the rule - who knows?

As for me, I will encourage my own daughters to take the simple approach, too, when they are ready to wed - sure, because I am the cheapest woman alive, but mostly because romance and a happy marriage do not require an audience. They do not survive based on huge parties or hand beaded wedding gowns. And they certainly do not endure in direct proportion to the price paid for them in the beginning.

That being said - after fifteen years, with three children and a whole lot of living behind us, my still wonderfully romantic husband has arranged a vow renewal in front of my relatives during a family reunion cruise next month on our anniversary. Sure, it’s on The Big Red Boat, and costs roughly $1,000, but this many years in - I think my Big, Fat Disney Vow Renewal is a pretty safe investment.

Opa!

Face To Face

Like most people, I have a love/hate relationship with the medical community.

No great fan of pharmaceutical companies and their David Copperfieldian magic that allows them to invisibly and simultaneously bend me over while emptying my pocketbook, I do, however, admire the chemical sleight of hand researchers are able to perform as they eradicate plagues and vaccinate me against viruses.

I don’t like going to the doctor, but support stem cell research.

I hate HMO’s, but don’t know what I would do without my PPO.

I hate taking horse sized pills, but would gladly swallow a horse if doctors told me it would cure cellulite.

And I despise the specter of my yearly speculum exam, but gladly pay for the results it yields.

Yes, as much as I hate the costs and the needle-like pains in the ass, I equally marvel at what clinicians, doctors, surgeons and scientists can do. And while I hope that I never have to personally partake of some of the extreme medicine available, it is comforting to know it’s out there if I ever need it.

Which brings us to today’s headline story of the woman in France who has received the first ever partial face transplant.

Yes, facial transplant.

In a groundbreaking surgery, doctors used donated facial tissue to reconstruct the patient’s face, which had been devastated by a horrific dog mauling, to such a degree, that conventional surgeries were not viable options.

As hospital director Philippe Domy said, the surgery was required because "we are in an exceptional situation that required an exceptional response."

The operation was done by Dr. Jean-Michel Dubernard and Dr. Bernard Devauchelle, the donated areas coming from a brain dead woman, with the permission of her family who also donated many of her organs that others might live.

Now while I agree that, being the “first”, this operation does have an unfortunately Frankensteinian aura - face it (no pun intended), we humans are a very skittish bunch with an 8 year old mentality - I completely support what these doctors have been able to do.

They have taken their extraordinary surgical skills and knowledge and given this woman a shot at living the rest of her life with some semblance of facial normalcy and self esteem. Were I in her shoes, I would get down on my knees and kiss the ones on the doctor’s feet.

So I am stymied, and more than a little pissed off, at the outrage and shouts that this was somehow unethical, coming from other physicians and, of course, the conservative right.

I fail to see, in a world where we routinely play musical internal organs in order to prolong and enhance someone’s life, that this is somehow beyond the pale. So we can’t exactly see a transplanted kidney or heart - out of sight, out of mind, does not change the fact that it is a body part from someone else.

And how is it unethical or wrong, when all parties involved were completely aware of what was being attempted? The doctors were not looking for publicity - they are getting it now though because “eeeewwww, look what they did” is the juvenile response from the media and we terminal adolescents.

The woman involved did not ask to have her face eaten off, nor did she seek the media spotlight she is now going to have to fight - it’s not exactly the same one shone on people like Jennifer Aniston or Charlize Theron. People Magazine will be courting her for the circus freakshow element, not because she is gorgeous, vapid and pampered. And she did not do this on a whim either. She completely understood the surgery and accepted all of the consequences, including the risk of rejection and of failure, the risk of immune suppression treatments and the need to take them for life.

Finally, the family of the deceased woman donated her face (nose, lips and partial cheek) out of the same sense of hope with which they donated her organs - that they might help someone else.

That is NOT unethical behavior.

Then again, it is easy for people to decry what they don’t have a personal need for. It’s really easy to scream NO against stem cell research - until you are diagnosed with Parkinson’s or sever your spinal cord - then those microscopic cells look a whole lot more like cures than kids.

I daresay, that if any of these dashing French doctors, who are currently bashing the surgery, lost their face in a freak weed wacker accident, they would be stalking the ICUs for someone who may not need their visage much longer.

After all, that invisible je ne sais quoi can only get you so far with the ladies.