VOTING FOR DUMMIES: the fun and easy way to fill in the little ovals

             I’m getting pretty tired of Bill Clinton calling me.

           Also California Governor Jerry Brown. I get e-mails from Senator Sherrod Brown, Nancy Pelosi, John Kerry, Dick Durbin and I don’t recall who else except for President Obama. He and Michelle are constantly e-mailing me and while I’m flattered they contact ME, I only hear from them and the others when they need money. Where were they when my family needed an invitation to a Thanksgiving dinner, or I needed my overtime parking ticket excused, or when someone turned over my Do-Not-Call phone number to the Telemarketers of the World Association?

            But I hope after this week, the political giants will stop calling, writing and e-mailing me.

            I hold that good thought as I turn my attention to voting, and particularly voting in California, the effect of which is listed as a clinical disorder in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM).  I come from Oregon, birthplace of the Initiative and Referendum, where ballots had several straightforward issues such as Measure 1496:  “Do you want lumber companies destroying more forests?” and Measure 7209: “Should Bumble Bee Tuna label continue to show, considering the certain ecological damage,  a small bee with a chef’s hat?”

            At least when you go online for help understanding these types of ballot measures, my native state provides sites such as Oregonballot.com that immediately advises you on Oregon’s issues:

California Prop. 32
Real, Tough Campaign Reform That Cleans Up Sacramento
www.ReadItForYourself.org

            But we can’t go back to the past when times were simpler, and like many California voters, I must try to understand this election’s 11 important issues, called “propositions,” that are helpfully numbered Proposition 30 through Proposition 40. Apparently, the first 29 Propositions do not appear because of ballot space limitations.

            California tries to help voters understand the propositions by mailing out sample ballots and a simple brochure (“Official Voter Information Guide”) of 143 pages. The Guide includes an analysis of each of the propositions including its background and fiscal effects. This is followed by arguments in favor of the proposition, arguments against the proposition, then the rebuttal to argument in favor of the proposition, then the rebuttal to argument against the proposition, followed by counter-arguments to the rebuttal in favor of the proposition, counter-arguments to the rebuttal against the proposition, then the refutation to the counter-arguments to the rebuttal against the proposition and the refutation to the counter-arguments to the rebuttal in favor of the propositions. It’s that simple.

            For further clarity, each of these arguments may contain attention-grabbing capital letters  (“ELIMINATE THE LOOPHOLES,” “CREATES JOBS,” “SAY NO TO HIGHER TAXES,WASTEFUL SPENDING,” “YOU LIE!,” “SALE ENDS NOV. 30.”)

            As a tool to help California voters understand exactly what they’re voting for, however, the Guide falls short. Fortunately, after living in California 23 years, I’ve learned a fool-proof method so I can avoid reading and re-reading the propositions and stressing out:

            First, I rely on the Easy Voter Guide provided by the League of Women Voters, since the League studies many of the issues, but much more important, the Easy Voter Guide is 12 pages and in color. They also use the formal Roger Ebert/ Gene Siskel Thumbs Up and Thumbs Down Voting Icon. Then, when I’m in the voting booth, I apply the Anti-Obfuscation Rule: (You have five minutes here to look up “Obfuscation.”)

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            Now that you realize the problem, here’s the key to voting on the propositions:

         A YES vote means you don’t like the current law.

         A NO vote means you want to change the current law.

        That’s it—–Ninety percent (90%) of the time, the phrasing of the proposition will be the exact opposite of what you think it means.

            Also, you must vote even for those unknown candidates running for jobs you didn’t know existed, such as “Community College Trustee Area No. 11,” “Republican Central Committee Member,”  or “La Trene Sanitation District.”  If you leave these positions blank, your failure may cause Barack Obama or Mitt Romney to lose by one vote. This will require the Presidential election to be handed over to the current United States Supreme Court which will be the deciding body that declares the winner to be Al Gore.

 

LIVING A LIE: DARK SECRETS FROM MY YEARS IN THE SCOUTS (AND OTHER YOUTH GROUPS)

            The startling release of Boy Scout sexual abuse files by an attorney from my home town, of Portland, Oregon prompted me to review my own history as a youngster with youth organizations.  I recall certain experiences that caused profound psychological effects, possibly leading to what in the 80’s was popularly called “An Identity Crisis.”

            It’s difficult to imagine a kid wrestling with an identity crisis at such a young age, but I exhibited this possibility when, as a very young child, I planned to succeed cowgirl Dale Evans as Roy Rogers’ partner or be the next Lois Lane at the Daily Planet.  (In fact, for most of my life, I’ve lived a Walter Mitty existence. I’ve also imagined myself as Walter Mitty.)

            But the more significant psychological torment began when my parents told me I was to attend kindergarten at Portland’s new Meriwether Lewis Elementary School. Although this sounded promising, the Portland School Board at the time apparently lacked confidence in Lewis or perhaps its new students, since classes only went up through the 4^th grade.

            The following year after kindergarten, which I aced, the school boundary changed. I was placed in first grade at Duniway Elementary School, ten blocks in the other direction from my house.  I attended first and second grade at Duniway, an assuring stability, since I was assigned to the same kindly teacher for both grades, a Mrs. Vera Smith. She only punished me once by writing my name on the Utter Humiliation Board when she learned I’d been asking kids returning from receiving polio shots if the injections hurt. This offense was discovered after another student—Judy Cary— ratted me out. (I am hoping this disclosure and your sending this column to at least 100 people, will finally “out” Judy Cary as an informant.)

            When I was eligible for third grade, the school boundary changed again and I was enrolled once more in Lewis School. I attended for two years since Lewis tentatively began adding one new grade level a year.

            For fifth grade (you know what’s coming), the school boundary changed and I was back at Duniway School. I was there for four consecutive years, possibly because of the rumored assassination of the School Boundaries Clerk.

            This see-sawing of school attendance at different locations might have caused identity crises for many children, but I always knew I was either a Lewis student or a Duniway student, depending on who was asking. I also recognized the advantage of knowing more people I’d later see or avoid at the magnet high school. (For the record, I attended one year at that high school and then, maintaining my consistent pattern, attended another high school across the Willamette River in downtown Portland.)

            No, the identity crisis arrived because every time I changed schools (not counting high school), I needed to join a different youth organization.  In second grade at Duniway, my parents signed me up for Bluebirds, the youngest age group for what was then the Camp Fire Girls. Bluebirds wore cute uniforms—navy vests and skirts, baseball hats, blouses with Peter Pan collars.  As supervised by a stay-at-home mother, which 95% of mothers were at the time, our group mostly did small crafts like little leather coin purses “stitched” with shoelaces.

            Years later I began to notice most of the small crafts I’d made mysteriously disappeared, although my parents assured me my artwork was packed away for safekeeping. These were the same parents who assured me my duckling Peeper had been sent to a farm family for safekeeping. (For further information on Peeper’s fate, see the online San Francisco Chronicle, “Pet Birds, They’re Not What’s For Dinner.”   http://www.sfgate.com/homeandgarden/article/Pet-birds-they-re-not-what-s-for-dinner-2514578.php.)

            Back at Lewis School in third grade, I was compelled to enroll in the Brownies, then the youngest group of Girl Scouts. The Brownie Scout Handbook—–all youth organizations had handbooks—–showed little girls cavorting outdoors and inside, wearing light brown uniforms with beanies. Mostly we did small crafts under the guidance of a stay-at-home mother. (Please re-read last paragraph.)

            The following year at Lewis, I was formally invested (as the term was used) and became a Girl Scout, with a new green uniform and sash. I met the requirements of the Tenderfoot Rank and later the Second Class Rank, which sounded demeaning but allowed me to begin earning proficiency badges. I learned one particular life-long skill—-emptying a tuna fish can, filling it with paraffin, lighting a string attached to the paraffin, putting the tuna can inside an empty upside down 46-oz Hawaiian Punch juice can and cooking a small pancake on top. This is one of the skills I’d always list on college applications and computer dating forms.

            When I was back at Duniway, the predominant youth group was Camp Fire Girls. I didn’t dare reveal I’d been in the competing organization. For Girl Scouts I’d had to memorize the Girl Scout Promise, the Girl Scout Laws, the Girl Scout Motto, history of Girl Scouting, and the salute and handshake.  Now I had to mentally dismiss all that and immediately memorize the Camp Fire Girl lore and requirements, including  a progression of earned certificates—–Trail Seekers, Wood Gatherers, Fire Makers, and Torch Bearer.

            The language of the certificates reflected the organization’s interest in camping, but the stanzas contained formal, stilted verse. The Wood Gatherers’ pledge began “As faggots are brought to the fire firmly held by the sinews which bind them…” My sophisticated Las Vegas cousin had once used the word “faggots,” which he’d defined but perplexed me, so that I had a bizarre visual image whenever I said the Wood Gatherers’ pledge.  

            One of the goals of the Camp Fire Girls was to earn colored beads, each representing a different skill, such as a red bead for health, blue bead for nature, yellow for business, etc. The Camp Fire Girl Handbook was filled with pages and pages of activities you could do and the beads you’d earn. I’d confidently go through the handbook and, to the irritation of the other untalented girls, I’d check off most of activities in each section, confident I’d done them.

             The Camp Fire Group leader/mother was aghast at the number of my check marks, questioning my credibility. But I wasn’t deterred because I had visions of all the colorful beads strung and draping down my Indian ceremonial gown which my working mother would have to sew for me.

             The Camp Fire Girls helped establish early, in fact, my mother’s duty to perform sewing machine assignments not only for Camp Fire Girls, but also for my 7^th grade Home Economics (Home Ec) class when there were only three sewing machines per class that were bitterly contested by my classmates. Oddly, my mother never thanked me for giving her the opportunity to buy a treadle (foot-pumped) sewing machine so she could, for my Home Ec assignments, learn to sew a zipper in a skirt, stitch a blouse, and ultimately get to complete the skirt, all skills she should have acquired years before.

            The only time I recall having a male youth group leader was when the father of a classmate, the former Duniway principal Dr. Patton, took us up one weekend to the regional Camp Fire Girls resident camp, Camp Namanu.  My sister had stayed there one summer and reported she’d had a good time.  The rustic forested camp contained a meadow and ponds, and bordered the treacherous Sandy River. With the usual Portland overcast gloom, our Camp Fire Girls’ group planned several indoor activities for where we’d stay, a two story wooden lodge known as Kiwanis that had been built in the mid-1930’s. Our bunk beds were located on the second floor with its fenced balcony that overlooked the main floor. 

            Looking back at that weekend at the sleepaway camp when a man conducted our program, I can safely say I was never the same because of what he did. On Saturday night, the night before we left, Dr. Patton told us to go to bed and after we complied, giggling and goofing off even as we lay on our beds, he began to talk. He spoke slowly from below us, downstairs, describing in an unusually somber voice about the legend of an animal, a beast that used to roam the forest near Camp Namanu. 

            I couldn’t see anything out beyond our balcony except for the few lights that were still on in the lodge’s kitchen.  

            There were a few nervous titters from the girls. Then “Shhhhhhhh!!” “Be quiet, you guys!” and “Shut up!” “Shhhh it!” More giggles.

            A Varmint, Dr. Patton continued, was the creature who roamed the woods, drawn to campfires and voices. The smell of food, but especially human flesh. The Varmint, once seen, was described as “sort of like a wolf on all fours, but also like a werewolf, and he could scurry around quickly, sometimes noiselessly unless he was trapped, and then he’d smash and crash till he could leap and tear his way back into the woods.”

            I sensed an uneasy silence that descended on the girls, but secretly I scoffed. I knew and could tell a lot of ghost stories. Like the Walking Bloody Hand. I’d whisper to friends how the Walking Bloody Hand could find its way to a house, the house where YOU LIVE. And then it comes up the stairs, slowly, slowly, slowly toward your room. Now it’s getting closer. And closer… And closer.

            “And the Varmint has been seen not long ago,” Dr. Patton said, “possibly drinking at the river and scurrying through the brush. A cook here thought she saw it when she looked out the window one late afternoon.”

            I tried to pull the sleeping bag over my head, but it won’t go any further. I burrowed down, remembering the Walking Bloody Hand. And now it’s outside your door. And now the knob turns slowly, slowly. And now it’s inside your room….and walking to your bed…..blood is dripping…..

            I don’t remember my sister telling me about the Varmint. Why did she leave this part out? Dr. Patton’s just making this up, I know. I’ve never heard of a Varmint animal.

            “What was that noise?” Dr. Patton sounded startled. Uneasily I looked up from my bed and tried to see downstairs, but there was only the yellow glow of the kitchen light. Nearby, girls lay frozen or crammed deep in their sleeping bags. One had a pillow over her head.

            CRASH! BANG! BOOM! CRASH! CRASH!  Something was smashing its way below us, through what–? Pots and pans?– scrambling to get out of the building.

            Screams nearby.  My heart pounded. My stomach jumped into my colon.

            But Dr. Patton was still alive. I heard him laugh with gusto.

            Then I heard him reassemble and put away in cupboards the collection of pots and pans we hadn’t seen. He wished us a good night.

            When he turned out the kitchen light, I was deep in my sleeping bag, listening. That’s how I spent the night, listening.

            Decades later, re-reading about the Boy Scouts cover-ups of abuses, I’d have to say that the one male leader of my youth organization never laid a hand on me. But he still had a deleterious effect on my psyche.

            Proof? For one thing, from that night on, I always refused to wash any pots and pans.

 

SNOW JOB

            Fall is the time of year when a good friend, Virginia, occasionally asks me to accompany her to Lake Tahoe. In the past I’ve cheerfully thrown four suitcases together for the weekend trip and stayed at her luxurious home at a nearby resort called Northstar California.

            Virginia’s a talented lawyer, mother, wife, and Kiwanis-member who skis, swims, hikes, golfs, does mountain biking, zip lines and ropes courses, and when back home, sings in the congregation choir, plays the piano and cooks gourmet dinners. Her New Year’s goal is to climb partly up Mt. Everest and then serve an Asian-fusion lunch. In my opinion she could do a lot more, but she claims she has one bad knee.

            I used to be an athlete, as shown by with my 50-yard dash championship in elementary school, my summer camp plaque as one of the best all-around athletes, and the nickname “21-Point Trudi” for serving throughout an entire game of volleyball.  Nevertheless, because I am Virginia’s guest, I have to feign an impressive hobble and lack of stamina from a collection of ailments I conjured up from Merck’s Manual: hip osteoarthritis, a trick knee, ringworm, geographic tongue, IBS, peanut allergy, dropsy, vapours, and flaring adult acne. I could easily best Virginia in all her resort-related skills, but out of my desire not to humiliate her, I’ve downplayed my athleticism.

            I had this figured out the first time I went with her to Northstar where she walked me around the grounds of the resort, including the small thriving village reminiscent of Aspen, Colorado. (I’ve never been to Aspen, but Northstar looks like a movie studio’s reproduction of Aspen. This is all I have to say about reproduction.).

            Virginia stopped once on our walk to look up longingly at the ropes course, then realizing what she thought were my physical limitations, moved on to an activity she was certain I can do: Lifting weighty spoonfuls of a hot fudge sundae.

            One year she insisted encouragingly that we try the outdoor exercise course, following a path to exercises 1 through 20, short destinations that required sitting on sliver-ridden tree trunks, then stretching, standing, twisting, rolling into a ball and bouncing ourselves down the path. Virginia could dart from exercise to exercise. She’d pause to look back at me sympathetically while I feigned whole-body malfunction, including my tongue, which I stuck out sideways. I am certain I looked like a poster-child for any malady.  

            Finally Virginia figured the best she could do was take me swimming. I didn’t have to fake any illnesses or injuries for this. I watched her swim vigorously in the shallow lap lane next to me, and when she wasn’t looking, I took intermittent running leaps in the water to keep up with her. When she finally finished her laps, I paddled close-by, feigning exhaustion. She said she was impressed by how hard I’d swam, despite my physical limitations.  

            I had a sudden prickling of conscience. I wondered if prickling was a symptom of a real peanut allergy.

            Fortunately, Virginia never invites me to Northstar during winter since I’ve convinced her of my disabilities and she figures I couldn’t possibly ski. She’s right, but not for the reasons she thinks: Snow skiing was one of the only sports I couldn’t master.

            Growing up in Portland, I used to see kids at high school suddenly show up with crutches, casts, and canes, proudly reporting they’d earned their injuries by skiing at Mt. Hood.

            I was savvy enough to avoid the same outcome by sticking to summer sports. However, when I moved for a time to Denver, I feared I wouldn’t fit in, so I cravenly bought ski boots (which gave me a preview of walking with arthritic knees), skis (like walking with arthritic knees, legs and feet in slow motion), warm winter underwear and a downy pink ski suit that, when I wore it, resembled astronaut Neil Armstrong taking his first small step for mankind and falling down.

            While in Denver, I tried three times to ski after exhausting several instructors, including a bunny ski instructor. At Estes Park aka Hidden Springs Ski resort, I went for my first run not realizing the ground was icy. Estes Park didn’t have chair lifts, just t-bars or rope tow that I timidly approached, desperately clung to, frequently fell off and frantically hurled myself back onto as it (theoretically) pulled me along and up the slope. By the time I reached the top, I’d virtually walked sideways up the slope for almost the entire length of the rope tow.

            For the remainder of this ski trip, I skillfully though unintentionally practiced the first ski lesson, learning to fall.  I resembled a cartoon character whose feet flail and skid repeatedly, then crashes to the ground, legs splayed. I finally relaxed by telling myself that lying on the snow for protracted lengths of time is still considered skiing. 

            Hidden Springs would close not long after I was there, the staff and tow-rope unable to withstand any more like me. My second ski trip was to Winter Park which at least had some prestige. When I was dropped off the ski lift (another new experience), I practiced snowplough stops and occasionally stayed upright. Finally I was schussing cautiously down the beginner’s ski run until I noticed that the run– covered in wet snow– was a series of vertiginous concentric rings. All around me newbies began dropping and disappearing as I skied by.  It was soon apparent to us that if we did not ski in continual circles, we would ski right off the narrow run, down off a significant cliff and, if we survived, into a forest bear’s lair where she’d be tending her cubs and unwilling to call the Ski Patrol.

            Clearly I survived that run since I’m unashamedly writing about the experience. I had one additional ski trip where I skied in a blizzard or white-out conditions that descended as soon as I hit the slope (literally).  I even considered tubing, but that ended when, as I began to climb up the  sledding hill, I watched a series of tubers (mostly children as well as potatoes) careen into me, the human bowling pin.

            All these life experiences suggest that despite my athletic prowess, I was never intended for the cold and icy. Except, perhaps, in a mocha frappaccino.   

A MOVING EXPERIENCE – TEN AXIOMS OF MOVING TO A NEW RESIDENCE

1. Whatever is the most important to you will be missing at the new destination.

2. If a previously-owned home, condo or apartment, on your arrival the following will occur: the sink disposal will not turn on or be defective and/or sound like someone getting mutilated therein; the garage light will blow out; the upper deck wooden rails will be loose and dangerous unless you want to practice arm curls; the back wooden gate will be impossible to open because of warping and/or a broken lock; none of the bedrooms will have a ceiling light so plan to work on/in them only until sundown unless you get ASAP lamps or torchiers; the refrigerator will be smaller than the last place (and diminishes each time you move); the stairs/stairwell, if you have them, will be narrow; pantries/linen/clothes closets may be nonexistent or smaller than the previous place (see “refrigerator” above); storage space, although appearing to be greater because of any high-ceilings will actually be proportionately smaller, requiring bottles and containers to be squished against each other and will always fall domino-style when you need to reach into (eg) a cupboard.

3. The daily newspaper will not appear despite a change of address.

4. All microwaves operate differently at each residence.

5. Half of all former residents seem to prefer the garage to be the laundry room.

6. Shower stalls will uniformly be from the original construction of the house or give a good imitation of that, including sufficient mildew/mold or rust [eg, door hinges] for your child’s Science Fair project on “Household Toxic Growth.”

7. In California kitchens must be smaller with each successive move. (See “refrigerator” and “pantry/linen closet” above.)

8. Toilets provided in the residence must be in size suitable for, and no taller than, a pre-school child. When an adult is seated, his/her knees will be well above the chest. The toilet seat itself will be designed for children under five and made of flexible plastic that bows on pressure to ensure near contact with water in the bowl.

9. There are no real “Garages.” There are only (esp. in California) large, separate, unheated rooms with concrete floors, spiderwebs, wooden boards and hot water heaters that are apparently for excess storage but mostly offer a couple of shelves and a vast central emptiness that will be filled with boxes of undetermined contents, empty boxes, boxes of old business papers or tax records, and miscellaneous tools, nails, screws, nuts, bolts, lightbulbs, arachnids and mud-covered garden implements. (See also # 5.)

10. Utilities: Your telephone, electric power (or gas), water or internet connection can’t be turned on because (a) a work order is required; (b) it’s a holiday/weekend/after 5:00 p.m. If you do have water, it’ll taste much worse with each successive house; if you have cable TV, your screen will show a blue screen with the writing– “One moment please.” “One moment please” will last for two weeks.

10(a). The axioms will be missing and no longer stocked at Home Depot.

…AND THEN I TOLD THE PRESIDENT…

            Since I spend half my time daydreaming, I was fascinated to learn that, according to a new study (1956), common daydreams involve sex, love, answering a telemarketer’s phone call by turning on a leaf blower, or floating naked down a river of melted chocolate chips with Captain Sully Sullenberger. But the most recurrent daydream is standing or sitting in front of a politician and giving her or him a piece of your mind, like the cerebral cortex or a temporal lobe.

            I, too, have daydreamed of meeting up with well-known politicians and giving them what-for. But I’ve actually spent considerable time with each of the following public servants who, if they are or were alive and under Congressional compulsion to testify, would admit they remember my contributions to their careers:

            The first President I met was John Kennedy, although when I met John he wasn’t yet President. He was a Massachusetts Senator and my mother was the administrative head of his campaign in Oregon. She opened my eyes to the valuable job of political office workers who, for their hours of exhaustive work, were given a handful of M&Ms— Plain not even Peanuts.

            So I began my political career, stuffing envelopes around the clock since someone’s Baby Ben sat in the middle of the circular table of leaflets.  

            A couple of years later I travelled back alone to Washington D.C. on my way to a national youth conference. During that trip I met Representative Stanley Tupper, a Republican from Maine who took me to lunch in the Senate Restaurant because, he exclaimed, I needed to order its Famous Senate Navy Bean Soup. Sitting with him among the country’s most powerful tourists, I advised Stan to oppose the Vietnam War and Barry Goldwater’s run for the Presidency. At my age, I was a prodigious reader and astute observer. I knew, for example, the capital of Maine—Augusta National. I also urged Stan to support the Voting Rights Act and co-sponsor a bill for seniors’ health (which, for want of a better term, I called “Medicare”).

            A few years later, when I studied American History Cliff Notes, I learned Rep. Tupper had followed my political advice, but hadn’t given me any public credit! No, after all the information and courageous guidance I’d provided, my only reward from him was a copy of The Congressional Cook Book. It contained a recipe for the Famous Senate Navy Bean Soup.

            Undeterred by this oversight, I worked one summer on the Hill (Capitol Hill) in the office of Oregon’s Democratic Congresswoman Edith Green. The office staff was manned, or more accurately  womanned, by all but one man.  Because the staff was preoccupied with administrative duties such as forging Mrs. Green’s signature on their drafted letters to constituents, I was able to ingratiate myself with Edith.

             Strictly on my advice, she drafted legislation to equalize pay between men and women, helped pass President Johnson’s anti-poverty legislation, and supported civil rights legislation. Once again, however, I didn’t get credit for these strategies, nor did she follow my counseling that the “Civil Rights Act” sounded much less compelling than the “Trudi York Civil Rights Act of 1964.” But Edith was considering, when I left at the end of summer, my idea for a bill to require that only white males show i.d. before voting in any election.

            One day at a staff meeting Edith growled that then-President Lyndon Johnson was a liar and couldn’t be trusted. Afterward I quietly reasoned with her to take time to really get to know him. Maybe, I said, the two of them could go a few times for coffee. I pointed out that although she was a Capricorn (stable, practical hard-working), and he was a Virgo (a tactician, a lover of cleanliness), no doubt they could find common ground on the subject of personal hygiene.  

            Another day when Edith and I were eating Famous Senate Bean Soup in the Senate Restaurant, I told her about water leaks and heating problems I was experiencing at my apartment. The apartment was located in a new high rise in the southwest section of Washington D.C, a rehabbed area where taxis still refused to drive after 9:00 p.m.  I told Edith that Congresswoman Bella Abzug lived in my apartment and, according to my sources, had complained about similar water leaks. Unlike most tenants, Bella had received prompt attention  and not because she was a Member of Congress, but because the landlord was unnerved by women who wore hats.

            “Oh, I know the place,” Edith said sympathetically after I described the apartment’s plumbing and heating problems. She rose and stepped out of our booth.  “Let me introduce you to Representative Jim Scheuer [rhymes with OY-er] from New York,” she said. “I believe he owns that building.  I’m sure he can help you.” 

            Democrat James Scheuer’s reputation was of a strong liberal whose legislative agenda included Head Start for early education, environmental protection and automotive safety. He also was pro-choice and supported repeal of laws limiting the trade of contraceptives. While I couldn’t take credit for his work—I’d already tried that—-  I was happy he’d surely help me with my apartment issues.  I watched as Edith led him over to our booth. His face seemed to light up as we shook hands.

            “Well, I’ll let you two talk,” she said, and left.

            Immediately Scheuer’s smile vanished. A scowl materialized in its place.

            “Now,” he said harshly, “what the HELL is this problem with your apartment in my building?”

            For ten minutes Scheuer filibustered on the finer qualities of his apartments. I’d forgotten the liberal public servant was a multimillionaire real estate developer and lawyer. Edith had also interrupted his lunch, which probably consisted of Senate Famous Navy Bean Soup and nails. Fortunately my apartment landlord fixed the leaks and heating elements a month later, about the time I started wearing a large-brimmed hat.

            I’ll only briefly mention my 1987 meeting with Oregon Governor Neil Goldschmidt who reviewed my resume at his State Capitol office and brainstormed with me ideas for jobs. In exchange, I offered the Governor the following suggestions to help diversify Oregon’s depressed economy: (1) Establish a typewriter factory since only India was producing them; (2) Create deep geologic nuclear waste disposals, which could be coupled with urban renewal; and (3) Consistent with Oregon’s environmental practices, build a plant for manufacturing flavored colonics.   

            But my favorite time with a politician was in a swimming pool in Palm Springs. I was swimming one afternoon at the former International Hotel, fitting my black swimsuit much more effectively than now, and performing an elegant dog paddle across the pool. I looked up and spotted a tall, half-naked man with graying hair and unmistakable lantern jaw. When he spoke to a woman nearby, his gravelly voice sounded as if he was chewing his words.

            Before long he flashed me a grin of recognition, dove in the water and swam over to the side of the pool where I was stationed.

            “Hello, Trudi,” he said.

             For an hour in the pool, Republican Governor Tom McCall and I talked politics. Before his wife Audrey whisked him out of the pool [“Tom, dear, time to go.”], Tom explained he wanted to make a memorable statement about preserving Oregon’s environment.

            In just a few minutes I created the catchy slogan he could use! Eagerly, he repeated it several times.

            Tom returned to Oregon and soon after made headlines by his humorous but pointed remarks for which he’d always be known:

                         “We want you to visit our State of Excitement often. Come again and again. But for heaven’s sake, don’t move here to live…”

                                                                                         Gov. Tom McCall

            This was MY idea! Once again a politician just had to embellish and tinker with my political genius and take credit for it.

            But when I left Tom on that day in Palm Springs, I’d given him the perfect slogan:

                         “Come to Oregon. Then get out.”

            All right, so it needed a little work.   

NAILED!

There are some things I am NOT willing to do for beauty. I watched my mother in her 80’s still going to an electrologist to remove persistent upper lip hair. Although my mother had an attractive, soft, billowy moustache, she finally saw an electrologist. Mom believed the ads that claimed “Electrolysis is permanent.” Since Mom saw the same electrologist for 40 years, that was clearly true.

As Mom described it, she sat in a chair with her hand in water so she could conduct electricity while the electrologist zapped her with an electric needle. Now I know electrolysis serve a valuable function, especially when they’re used to obtain prisoner confessions. But I’d rather use bleaching cream or Nair or a Lady Gillette Shaver or a curling iron on my upper lip hair than sit passively getting electrocuted for beauty.

I don’t mean to sound harsh. But I get upset when I think how much torture women go through to be attractive. For example, you and I know how women have been sold a bill of goods about getting frequent manicures and pedicures. I am proud to be known among my friends as the person whose broken nails and shredded cuticles reflect a worthy life of typing, dishwashing, hand washing, laundry, pet care, hand washing, child care, hand washing, car care, grocery shopping, and hand washing. In a pinch I can slap on some polish or perform a quick manicure such as carefully tearing off a partially torn nail or biting off the remainder of a bitten cuticle. But these didn’t require paying tuition to a cosmetology school!

Would you believe that in this weak U.S. economy, the Nail Industry is booming? Women are spending more money on their nails, using more daring shades and experimenting with nail art.  There’s a Nailympics every June where nail professionals from all over the world compete in events such as “Sculpture Acrylic,” “Fantasy Nail Art Competition,” “Stiletto Nails,” and “Neon Glitter Shellac Ingrown Toenails.”

I’m disturbed that even athletes are succumbing to this nail art trend. New York Yankees pitcher Russell Martin has posed for photos with his two-toned red and white or bright yellow nails. Holley Mangold, who at 350 pounds will compete as a super heavyweight in weightlifting at the London games, doesn‘t wear makeup while competing but does wear nails adorned with tiny barbells. Olympic swimming stars Bronte and Cate Campbell of Australia, the first swimming sisters in 40 years, wear 3-D nail art that shows Olympic rings, a Qantas kangaroo, a British flag, and Mel Gibson attending Yom Kippur services in Sydney.

Even President Obama’s campaign offers a nail polish set of red (“Red-y to Win”), white (Victory White) and Blue (Bo Blue). Mitt Romney who enjoys telling about his prank at a wedding—secretly painting the word “Help” in pink nail polish on the bottom of a groom’s shoe—will be releasing through his campaign five new OPI colors: “I’m Really Not a Weenie,” “WolfsBane Capital,” “This Item is No Longer Available,” “I’m Spartacus,” and “Famous Seamus Anus.”

O.k., sometimes even I have to break down and get a manicure or pedicure. There are so many nail salons, it’s hard to choose. Fortunately, most can handle a simple manicure. I do prepare, however. I have in mind the color choice for my nails, I remember to leave behind any jewelry, and at least a week before the appointment, I begin practicing with my Rosetta Stone language learning CD. I memorize a few simple Vietnamese phrases that anyone can learn to make the nail appointment go smoothly:

Bạn có thể loại bỏ các thanh lớp biểu bì? Nó sẽ không đi thêm nữa dưới móng tay của tôi.
(You can remove the cuticle stick. It will not go any further under my fingernail.)

Bạn có thể tắt ghế massage? Nó cảm thấy giống như một con sâu khổng lồ bò trên lưng tôi.
(Can you turn off the massage chair? It feels like a giant worm crawling on my back.)

Xin vui lòng đi dễ dàng với massage tay. Tôi dường như không thể cảm thấy ngón tay của tôi bây giờ.
(Please go easy with the hand massage. I cannot seem to feel my fingers now.)

And finally: Bạn đã sử dụng trong các spa chân, diệt khuẩn, diệt nấm và virucidal disinfectatnt? Tôi không muốn rời khỏi thẩm mỹ viện với một căn bệnh ăn thịt. Cảm ơn bạn.
(Have you used in the foot spa a bactericidal, fungicidal and virucidal disinfectant? I do not wish to leave the salon with a flesh eating disease.)

SURVIVING THE CINEMA (PART TWO)

Movie-goers seem to take in stride all the annoyances that accompany going out to see a show. The youngest generations have no inkling (since inklings are much costlier these days), that going to movies used to be a wholly different experience.

The neighborhood theater where I grew up in Portland was (and still is) a single screen, 675- seat cinema that opened in 1926. For 78 years, it’s kept the same name—the Moreland Theater. Technically there is no “Moreland” in Portland. The theater was located near two neighborhoods: Eastmoreland and Westmoreland. Residents of both areas stoutly claimed theirs was the best. Eastmoreland’s claim to fame was Reed College; the palatial homes; and lush Eastmoreland Golf Course. Westmoreland extolled their Duck Pond, the Rexall Drug Store, and Wilhelm’s Funeral Home. The Moreland Theater’s original owner, no doubt fearing urban warfare, was savvy enough to lop off “East” and “West” from the theater’s name.  Apparently there were still some residual hard feelings: “Reedies” rarely went to the Moreland. Neither did the ducks.

By the time I was old enough to attend movies, the Moreland was a “second-run theater,” showing films that were first shown exclusively in downtown Portland. Since the Moreland lacked the panache of a first-run theater, it charged less. Both the first run and second run theaters showed two films to the audience. “Starting times” weren’t honored as they are today: we’d often arrive in the middle of one of the movies, finish watching that film, then watch the second film.  When the first film replayed, we’d have to wait until we saw the portion we’d previously missed, and once caught up to the story, we’d leave.

 Sometimes we weren’t able to sit through the part we’d missed, but only watched part of the part we missed. This partial-viewing of the first half of the film leaves a gap in the story that can have serious consequences. One can go through an entire life wondering why, for example, at the beginning of Some Like it Hot, Tony Curtis and Jack Lemmon are men, but in the second half of the film the two are now women, running around in hosiery and high heels. Were they closet transvestites? And why in Peter Pan, the British children Wendy, John and Michael are at home in their beds at the beginning of the film, but in the second half they’re flying in their nightgowns and pajamas over a strange island and a PIRATE SHIP? What happened in the missed part? Is this really a science fiction film? How can they fly? Was this an off-shore English island? What are Indians doing in Britain?

Since partial viewing of a film and making it up later was the accepted pattern, it meant the 1950s and early 1960s audiences were a lot more in motion than today’s and more tolerant of strangers frequently blocking their view. Because of this repeated phenomena, I still am uncertain whether Messala or Ben-Hur won the chariot race in Ben-Hur. I presume it was Messala since the name is currently the 409,462th most popular name in the U.S., shared by two people in Pennsylvania. I do not know any Ben-Hurs. (I did know a Ben Hurson, so perhaps in a Naturalization First, his immigrant parents lengthened rather than shortened the original name.)

[Pretend there is a transition sentence here.] When you entered the Moreland you immediately selected your candy and soft drink, the real reason to go to the movies. Always standing next to the candy counter was a smiling, middle-aged, slightly stout woman holding a leash that led to an exceptionally gigantic German Shepherd. The woman was Mrs. Cockerline who owned the theater and ran it smoothly with the assistance of her German Shepherd “Rommel” and her sister—–Mrs. Cockerline’s sister, not the dog, although possibly he cashiered when they were short handed.

 Completing this triumvirate of management was a 30-ish dark-haired, dark-eyed man whose impressive looks reminded me of a character in a movie—–the robot Gort in The Day the Earth Stood Still. His name was Gene and like Gort, he may have been seven feet tall.  Holding a flashlight that measured a foot and a half—coincidentally the length of his feet—- Gene led you to your seat, even in the dark. Those who could afford it were shown the “Loge” seats, the restricted area behind velvet ropes in the back of the theater with its plush, wider seats. The higher floor beneath the Loge section allowed the occupants of Loge seats to tower above those in Coach seats. This layout suggested that, had those in Coach done better in school, they, too, could’ve been seated in the Loge.

            Concerns with seating aside, movie-goers at the Moreland weren’t bombarded by Coke, Volvo and other commercials, pre-previews or inane Hollywood quizzes (“Which male star of The Avengers had breast implants in 2004?”) that are common today before the feature film. Basically you stared at a screen with hallucinatory color patterns that changed shaped repeatedly. That was it. Fortunately the newsreels and cartoons snapped you back to reality. Or seeing the glare from Gene’s flashlight in the dark as he raced down the aisle—-as fast as a seven footer can race which, like Gort, was more of a trudge-—to rout misbehaving kids or people who talked during a film.

            Gene was aware that 7^th and 8^th graders flocked to the Moreland on Friday nights to observe their more sophisticated peers making out: The couples usually sat on the left side of the theater, ten rows back from the screen, and silhouetted against the screen just enough to promote speculation about their activities. Surprisingly, Gene never exercised his moral authority by rousting the lovebirds, possibly because they and their Friday night spectators were good for business. However, these pre-teen pairs would suffer a lifetime of loss, uncertainty and ridicule for missing large chunks of the films they were attending. Imagine trying to join or keep up with a conversation of your friends about North By Northwest when you were “too busy” at the movie and missed blocks to time. How could you comment on the famous film when all you saw were a few scattered scenes: Cary Grant’s character’s suddenly being drunk and almost driving off a cliff, then taking the train where people are killed, then being chased by an airplane, then walking along the stone nose of Teddy Roosevelt at Mount Rushmore. Possibly you could safely venture to your friends that in your opinion, Cary Grant appeared to have suicidal tendencies.  

            It is unfortunate that Gene isn’t around today to teach ushering skills and theater management to the cineplex moguls and their employees. Every time I see and hear the warning on the screen about not texting or talking during a movie—-“Don’t be the one we have to ask to leave the theater, because WE WILL”—-I fantasize how Gene would’ve handled today’s movie texters or foul-mouthed, popcorn-throwing kids: Imagine a seven foot colossus holding a foot and a half long flashlight, with a German Shepherd by his side, lurching down the aisle to set someone straight, establish order, or kick the offender out.

            The enticing possibilities would be enough to make you give up NetFlix.    

 

 

SURVIVING THE CINEMA (PART ONE)

Wacko children’s behavior is in the news again. And not only the four students on the bus who bullied a woman bus driver. In Kent, Washington a group of boys at a movie theater were talking and throwing popcorn during the film “Titanic.”  A 21-year-old man jumped over his seat in front of them and slapped the nearest boy—age 10—bloodying his nose and knocking out a tooth.

The online comments about that event could be grouped into 15 common reactions:

-It’s the mother’s fault.
-It’s the kids’ fault.
-The kid deserves it.
-The kid should be slapped.
-It’s society’s fault because of lack of f—ing civility.
-Slap the mother.
-Management should have been notified.
-Management won’t do anything.
-Slap the manager.
-It was dark so the kids might have looked older.
-The popcorn wasn’t good.
-Neither were the M&Ms.
-The ushers are too overworked to police the kids.
-The ushers missed the sticky spot on the floor the last time we went to the movies.
-Slap the ushers.

Movie violence—by which I mean violence from the movie audience—is one more headache for theater-goers these days. It’s hard enough to find a movie everyone can agree on. (“Do you guys wanna see ‘Machete Man’ or that new chick flick ‘Fifty Shades of Grey Poupon?’”) Then there’s the non-existent parking, sold-out performances, high altitude stadium seating, and the high cost of concessions like a drink and popcorn.

Everyone knows, for example, that theaters make their real money on the snacks. What is less known is how the theaters have devised methods consistent with the laws of physics to ensure return trips to the concession stand —-beyond serving salty popcorn to encourage beverage sales.

The theaters provide a cardboard tray to carry your goodies. When manufactured, the cardboard tray had a planned obsolesce of five minutes. With its two large holes and an adjacent flat-bottomed rectangular holder, the tray is designed to carry one or two drinks that must be hammered into the cardboard holes. No matter: The drinks will, as planned, immediately fall over, requiring another trip to the concession stand for new drinks. Savvy movie-goers know the drinks can stay upright, but only if the adjoining flat-bottomed side of the tray is counterbalanced with 10 boxes of Milk Duds or 12 boxes of Junior Mints or 48 bags of M&M Peanuts.  [Editor’s note: The latter is considered by the latest American nutrition Food Pyramid to be equal to the recommended two servings from the “Nuts, Etc.” group.]

The theater industry also knows a bag of popcorn, whatever its size, can’t remain upright in the cardboard tray. The tray is designed to make a fool of you for putting the popcorn bag on it, and waiting for you to take five steps back toward your movie auditorium before the popcorn falls over, a colorful light yellow cascade pouring down onto the carpeted floor and necessitating another trip to the concession stand.

Nor will the popcorn stand up on the floor below your seat: Management counts on you or another theater-goer to kick it over. Hence, a return trip to the concession stand. For similar reasons, the theater concession people heap the popcorn well beyond the top of your bag. Under the Legos Law of Physics, the uppermost popcorn, already slippery from butter and moving around nervously, must yield to the mass of popcorn beneath. The upper popcorn will always fall out of the bag ignoring the flailing human hands, and spill onto the carpet, leaving a quarter of the original popcorn. This requires, especially if it’s date night, an investment in more time at the concession stand.

Customers should take heart if they forego the theater popcorn since it averages 1500 mg sodium per serving and 60 grams of fat. Theater popcorn is, in fact, frequently used at San Quentin as an alternative to lethal injection.

With all that expense and inconvenience, at least theater restrooms are not hard to find. In any cineplex, they are always located on the exact opposite side of the building from your auditorium. If you’re under time constraints during or before a movie, you must add 20 minutes to the restroom trip, the length of time the modern automatic tap fixtures take to approve your hands and turn on the water.  I have observed restrooms with five sinks, one woman at each sink, holding their hands below the motion sensor automatic tap and simultaneously waving, shaking or fluttering their hands, even pantomiming hand-washing where there’s no water flow — deranged behavior now common enough to be recognized as a psychiatric condition in the DSM 5.

When you finally get settled in your seat, you must lower the bars on each side of your chair so you can put a surviving beverage in the drink hole of one bar and rest your arm on the other bar, unless the viewer next to you has already claimed it, which is a certainty.

Finally the previews begin—generally around 15—-and then the Feature Presentation, which opens with a familiar studio icon (the MGM lion, the Universal world globe, the Columbia torch woman, etc), followed by approximately 10 scenes that appear to be the beginning of the feature film. Oddly, none of these scenes relate to each other or make sense. That’s because these “scenes” are really the flashy icons of the film’s production partners (like DreamWorks, Village Roadshow, Spyglass, etc.)

By the time you’ve sat patiently through all the previews and film production company icons, you’ll need to go out to the lobby again for another bag of popcorn, and to use the restroom with the automatic taps.

Plan to miss the opening 45 minutes of the film.

CHEESY GOATS

I was astounded to learn recently that Yale University was named for the Hebrew word “Yael” meaning “mountain goat.” Yale has tried to deny the derivation of its name, claiming “Yale” is Welsh for “fertile,” but that’s even worse. I wonder if years ago high school graduates like Dick Cheney, George W. Bush and Anthony Scalia, who later attended Yale, would’ve applied to a college named “Fertile Mountain Goat University.”

Goats serve an extremely important function in the animal kingdom, but I don’t remember what it is. They were one of the first animals domesticated, which is why early man corrected that mistake by inventing the cow. Goats’ eyes are notable because their pupils are shaped like tiny dark Posturepedic mattresses, which in zoological terms is called “weird.” They have scraggly beards reminiscent of cowboys in western movies who wore bandanas over their mouths to conceal their identity and avoid spreading germs. As to their mating habits (the goats, not the cowboys) it’s fair to say that rabbits breed like goats.

Goats are on my mind because they’re in the news once again and no one seems the wiser about their deviltry. In Simsbury, Connecticut, four pygmy goats were found on the roof of a high school and graduating seniors were blamed for the “prank.” The principal of this high school downplayed the appearance of roof goats, but in other cities where students are blamed for goats found wandering school hallways, administrators have demanded they be castrated. It’s unclear whether this means the goats or the students or both. 

We have only to look at the U.S., Canada and Britain to realize goats have craftily legitimized Goat-Roofing for grass-covered buildings like Lars Johnson’s Swedish Restaurant in Wisconsin, the Tiger Mountain Market in Georgia, The Old Country Market in Coombs, B.C. and Goats on the Roof, in Northumberland, United Kingdom.  Goats would have us believe that, because they’re high spirited, intelligent and curious animals who can climb and hold their balance in the most precarious places (including trees), they are extremely effective biological control agents who clear unwanted vegetation. The unvarnished truth is that roof goats are an environmental hazard that occurs whenever they fall off the roof onto a customer.

If I sound annoyed with goats, it’s because their smiley faces conceal the cagey, conniving, conspiratorial, cunning, clandesti [editor’s note: thesaurus missing a page here] animals they are. The first time I met a goat I was five years old in Vancouver, B.C. in Stanley Park, visiting the petting zoo. A friendly goat wagged his tail, a trait they have in common with dogs, and lowered his head to be petted or to butt me the hell out of the park, I wasn’t sure. After years of studying goat motivation, I know now that the Stanley Park goat was trying to infect me with Petting Zoo E-Coli.

Goats have even been involved in doping schemes: this year two tested positive at the Colorado State Fair because of an additive in their feed that promotes muscle growth. (The two teenagers showing the goats were cleared.) But the most calculating goat I’ve known—Willy— belongs to my friends Tula and Terry McAvoy who live with their goats near the Sierras in Northern California. Willy is a Boer goat which is a humungous goat even for a goat, or as a neighbor boy said, “Never seen one as big as Willy. But that’s ‘cause we eat ours before they’re a year old.”

The McAvoys acquired Willy and his sister Ellie at the same time. Willy and Ellie appeared to get along with each other and two other goats named Pickles and Mrs. Chlamydia*  (*Spelled like the STD. Tula: “I thought that was such a pretty name.”)

One day Terry discovered the corpse of a goat at the bottom of the steep grassy hill that slopes behind their house. The goat had been dinner for a mountain lion or coyote. Over the next few weeks, Terry discovered other goat corpses in the same place which he dubbed the “Chute of Death” and the “Killing Fields.” Willy’s sister Ellie, in fact, was consumed by a predator in the Chute of Death.

 Willy appeared to mourn his sister’s loss by bleating pathetically and following Terry and Tula around. One day when Terry and Nancy were away, he stood in the middle of the road that fronts their home. Fortunately, a neighbor found him and returned him and the suicide note of a cloven hoof print.

          The McAvoys earnestly spent more time with Willy and let him listen to talk radio, including programs on investing in the stock market, politics, and menopause. However, they soon found Willy once again deciding to end it all—this time by chewing the siding of their house. Concerned, the McAvoys acquired another goat—Georgie—as a companion for Willy, but within a few weeks Georgie met his demise in the Chute of Death. The determined McAvoys next bought two sheep for Willy’s diversion. The sheep ended up in the Chute of Death not long after settling in.

          The McAvoys began to notice Willy never went down the hill through the Killing Fields. At first they thought Willy sensed danger down the hill, but they wondered why other livestock blithely pranced their way down the Chute of Death. Their suspicions were further aroused when, after returning from a business trip, they found Willy missing. They learned a neighborhood girl had discovered Willy out in the middle of the road pretending to eat a partially empty tin can of spoiled tuna. She walked him to her house a couple of blocks away where after two weeks, the returning McAvoys found him.

          Willie was in “sort of a trance,” Tula said later, but in a momentous epiphany, she realized how clueless she’d been to the scheming goat and his nefarious plans: The neighbors where Willy had stayed for two weeks grew and sold marijuana plants. Momentarily conceding Willy had outwitted them and possibly was an accessory to the murder of a dozen sheep, the McAvoys left Willy at the growers’ for two more weeks, where he stayed mellow, wooing the barbed wire fence. When they brought him back —they’d ruled out heaving him down the Chute of Death—-Willy discovered six new goats instructed to keep their slitted weird eyes on him. Since that time, no McAvoy livestock have been harmed or lured down the Chute of Death.

This story reminds me that it’s no accident Christian folk tradition in Europe associated goats with Satan. In medieval times the Catholic Church had the good sense and PR advice not to designate a specific “patron saint of goats,” although supposedly goats have St. Isadore as the patron saint of farmers and livestock. I did check an alphabetical online list to make certain there was no “patron saints of goats.”

Fortunately, the only “g” listing identified St. Blaise as the “patron saint of goiters.”

HAVING A FIT!

Every time I see one of Miley Cyrus’s breasts fall out, or nearly fall out, of her low-cut dress, I am moved to tears. I also feel the same way when I see the exposed breasts of any number of great dramatic actresses like Tori Spelling, Selena Gomez, Janet Jackson, Nicki Minaj and Khloe Kardashion.

I understand their passionate desire for breasts dangling free from confinement. I, too, have actually liberated my breasts at times

 I remember, as a flat child resembling the neighborhood boys, I was alarmed when my mother pointed to her chest and promised, “Someday soon, you’ll look like Mommy.” I didn’t want that to happen because as a vigorous, athletic youngster who preferred pants to dresses, I didn’t want my running and jumping skills impeded by two giant pods growing on my chest. I’d seen what giant pods could do in Invasion of the Body Snatchers and I didn’t want to find myself duplicated while I slept and left without enough emotion to punch out my sister.

And why, I wondered, did I have to wear a bra, that confining undergarment for the only part of a human body—or so I thought—-that needed support?

The answer was, genetics and environment: I’d come from a long line of big-busted women, such as my grandmother who grew up in Czarist Russia. She’d developed impressive pectorals running regularly from the murderous Cossacks. By the time Grandma emigrated to America, she was short, sturdy and compact, with a solid bosom that resembled a large loaf of Russian rye. Her “loaf” doubled as a battering ram when undesirables like landlords and relatives came to call.  

Eventually I developed my own small loaf of Russian rye (to continue a pitiful metaphor). While I had no choice but to yield to family pressure to encase my “loaf” in white cotton fabric, I grew up wondering if my chest could ever be free. That opportunity came during the 1960s when I was at college.

I knew that the students who marched and marched were protesting for freedom, so I took off my restrictive undergarments like bras and girdles. For several weeks I timidly walked around UCLA’s campus wearing a dark navy see-through blouse. Possibly I wore pants. I was “Free at Last!” (!)  from my bra because designer Rudi Gernreich had created a topless swim suit that was fashionable and being topless was “in.”

Within a short time, however, I restored my bra to its proper place on me because I tired of people, particularly men, failing to meet my gaze when I talked to them.

The other problem with bras, besides enslavement, was the fittings. When I was young, the department store bra fitter resembled a jail matron, but she knew how to fit women of any size and shape. She measured you with a tape encircling your waist and then across the chest itself. She’d select multiple bras, then follow you into a dressing room, adjusted the straps and the band, had you bend over (“Shake yourself into the cups, dearie”) and always reminded you to hook the bra on the middle hook. Those bras lasted for 30 years. If washed, probably one year.

I was recently reminded of my old fitter when I went to Snortstrum (pseudonym for a local department store) for a new bra. The contemporary fitters are an enormous improvement over the old fitters. First, most appear to be 16. If asked to fit you, they may stare longingly at your chest, either in admiration or horror. Frequently that visual assessment is all they need to bring you several bras with feminine names like “18722261D” and sizes like 32AAAA. When I asked my fitter to bring a tape measure, she travelled up and down the hallway to the dressing rooms, banging on locked doors to find an unoccupied room which elicited several shouts from inside the rooms such as “Occupied!,” “What?,” “Huh?” and “Quit it, Justin!”

 After doing a single waist measurement, she left me in a room and returned a few minutes later with a handful of bras that resembled training bras. After she agreed to adjust the first bra, she commanded that I bend over and then lift each breast into the bra cup as she hooked the band on the first hook.

 I am not used to lifting up each breast in this manner. While the breasts are used to being shaken into a bra—they’ve always enjoyed the exercise and the independence of dropping themselves in— I now have to privately speak to each of them and promise my assistance will be minimal. The smaller right breast will be particularly offended because it’ll hear me explain to the fitter, “I hope this bra fits o.k. My right side is smaller.” Hearing that, the smaller breast has been known to sulk, then move itself around in the cup in clever defiant ways, one moment making me look sunk in, the next as if it’s pouring over the top.

How lucky men are not to need fittings for undergarments! When I learned men also had bouncing body parts that needed support from athletic supporters aka “Jock Straps,” I thought for sure that males had to endure a similar humiliating custom of tape measuring. But no: Packaged jockstraps are fairly consistent in design with variations in width of waistband and fabrics. There are colorful swim jocks, hockey jocks, fashion jocks and minimal exotic jocks made from materials like leather, chain mail and dental floss. Instead of names like “18722261D,” men get to wear jockstraps that enhance their self esteem with names like “Male Power,” “Nasty Pig,” “Commando,” “X-rated Maximizer,” “Out Front,” and “Ballz-out.”

There are even bras for cars that don’t require measurement hassles—“Front-end bras,” including full, sport and T-style made of stretchy vinyl that attaches to the front of a car to protect the bumper, hood, and sides of the fender. Ironically, from some of these cars with front-end bras emerge great dramatic actresses like Brittany Spears, Bethenny Frankel, Sofia Vergara and—Miley Cyrus!—minus their underpants.

I detect a pattern here among the great young dramatic actresses. With all the pressures of stardom, they are clearly prone to “wardrobe malfunctions.” It would be much easier on them, much simpler, and more understandable to the public if the actresses would just arrive, wherever they go, totally naked.