Celebrities 'R Us

    So I'm now going to break the first two Rules I made about my blog:
Rule #1. Never, ever, under any circumstances, mention the Kardashians. 
Rule #2. Never, ever, under any circumstances, mention Justin Bieber.  

    It all started yesterday when I was scrolling the channels and landed on the QVC channel, and there he was, no, not The Bieb: Bob Mackie. Yes, Bob Mackie, who at one time, made beautiful (for the 1960's and 70's) gowns for the likes of Carol Burnett, and later, even Cher (when Bob was obviously on something pretty strong, maybe even illegal.)

    On QVC, Bob was selling t-shirts. "And Ladies, It's my very own fun design, sizes small to XXXL!" The t-shirts had pictures of cats on the front. Seriously, cats... cats holding flowers and wearing hats, cats cavorting, cats smiling... cats. Bob himself looked like one of those guys you see at the library in the magazine room, reading a magazine about cats. He had on a shlumpy looking t-shirt, possibly a Member's Only Jacket, and too-long khaki pants, with sneaks. And that boy could hawk cat t-shirts like nobody's business: they were flying off the QVC rack.

    It made me wonder: why are we so obsessed with celebrities? (O.K., that's not a new thought: it's just my damn thought tonight, and it was Mackie that set me off.) Why would anyone, ever, in their Right Mind, buy a cat t-shirt just because it was made by Bob Mackie? And why do countless people, probably just as normal as you and I (cue the crazed laughter) watch a show about an entire family of loud-mouth whiners, whose only claim to fame is that they all have big asses? I'm sorry, Kardashians, but what have you-all done that has bettered the world? Why are people transfixed with these clowns? Why do people actually buy clothes that will allow them to have that same Packed-In-A-Sausage-Casing-Look? At least Mackie made something, and there are people out there, I'm thinking in Iowa, with an overwhelming desire to have that cat t-shirt, and damn it, they will buy it tonight, in 5 installments of $7.95 each.

    And then there's The Bieb. When I see The Bieb on TV, I have an uncontrollable desire to lunge for the screen, and probably do myself and the screen some harm (flat screens do not hold up well to a lunge, trust me.)  I want to slap the smug right off his little Bieb face. But he has legions of fans. Why?

    Probably, like they say, because It Takes All Kinds. Because I had not one, but two, Trini Lopez records, back in the Day. And I wear t-shirts with dachshunds on them, purchased from a special dachshund website, based in Iowa: those gals could sell me anything.

    And I haven't done much to better the world, either. I'm a pretty darn good whiner, and yes, you might say I do have a bit of a big ass. So maybe that's it: maybe we're obsessed with celebrities because they're just like us, but with way, way better cars, houses, and t-shirts.Yeah, that must be it.

    But I still want to slap Bieber. Please. Just once.

"Open Wide..."

    "Open wide!" Yes, that's what my dentist says, but I really wish my gynecologist said it, too: I mean, let's call a spade a spade: that's what I'm here for, isn't it? Let's not beat around the bush (can't believe I just wrote that) about my blood pressure, or his new recipe for cream of cauliflower soup: put the "paper gown" on, put my feet in the stirrups, and let's get it over with, Doc.

    I just got back from a visit to my gynecologist: he's a lovely, lovely man, very soft-spoken and compassionate, with a uniquely Jewish sense of life's realities. ("Yes, you could lose 5 pounds, but no more: you don't want to look gaunt.") And when I remind him that I'm only 5 feet, one inch high, he straightens up to his 5 feet, 3 inch height and says "What, that's not tall enough?"

    Two of my friends went with me. Nancy and Ali had appointments within 20 minutes of mine, 20 minutes of each other: we've done this for a few years now. We call it our "Gyno Party", and are totally unashamed of this, as corny (and by corny I mean weird and old-personish) as it is. Hey, if some guy, no matter how sweet and soft-spoken, is going to look up my hoo-ha...well, there'd better be shopping and lunch involved afterwards.

    So, after stripping naked, donning the paper gown ("paper gown":  best oxymoron ever), and putting my feet in the aforementioned stirrups, I always tell the doctor same joke: "If you hear a creak, Doc, it's just the Vault Door opening..." No, it's not particularly funny, but it helps me concentrate on something other than What's Going On Down There and What Will He Find? The Lost Continent of Atlantis, perhaps, or something even more sinister?

    My former gynecologist, a tall, icy blond, had a French Poodle who accompanied her into the exam room, and she talked to the poodle more than she talked to me. Now, I was a little skeeved out by this, and there are two reasons why I really had no business being skeeved:

#1. I love dogs, much, much more than I love gynecologists.
#2. I was in the doctor's exam room because I had a pretty embarrassing situation going on: a tick was stuck tight to my, as we say in elementary school, privates.

    As you can see, I was in no position to be skeeved out or judgmental towards anyone (or any dog.) But she was not amused by my Vault Door joke, and I changed gynecologists.  

    The hell with her and her French Poodle. If I really have to chat at the gynecologist's, I'd much rather talk about cream of cauliflower soup recipes, with someone my own height.