What's Wrong With This Underwear?

By Mahlia Lindquist

My 21 year old daughter, Dylan, threw away my underwear last week. 

And not just old tattered undies from the 1990s, we are talking perfectly respectable briefs purchased this century. Some even within the past month. 

It started last week at the mall where a happy mother-daughter afternoon of lunch and shopping turned into an awkward intervention in the middle of ladies’ lingerie.

Dylan:  Um Mom, there’s something I’d like to talk to you about. I’ve been thinking. … Gosh this is really hard … Okay, I’ll just say it … Mom, er, you’d feel so much better about yourself if you wore pretty underwear 

Me: Awww, thank-you honey, but I actually feel okay about myself. 

Dylan: Sorry Mom, but only a person filled with self loathing wears Hanes ladies' cotton hip hugger briefs. They're hideous.

Being more of a shoe person when it comes to fashion, I admittedly don’t give much thought to underwear. So I considered my panty wardrobe. Not exactly cutting edge but not grannyish either. Functional and comfortable. Certainly not hideous.

Me: Young lady, that is an unkind thing to say to your mother. My underwear is NOT hideous. Besides, who cares? That’s why it’s call underwear, no one sees it. 

Dylan: Mom, remember, build it and they will come. 

Me:  Don’t you think that’s a weird and inappropriate thing to say to the person who gave you life? 

My appeals to Dylan’s filial sensibilities were of no consequence. In fact, she seemed to think it  her daughterly duty to convey the gravity of the situation, no matter how painful the telling might be. Again, I quote: “Mom, you are stylish enough on the outside, but your underwear situation is akin to a person who is superficially beautiful but harbors a black soul.

Yes, my daughter compared my underwear to a black soul. What seemed to me to be nondescript and inoffensive undergarments, to Dylan shocked the very conscience. 

So I relented as she led me to Victoria's Secret, a retailer she is well aware I abhor. A retailer I have taught her is part of an evil empire designed to perpetuate distorted, no make that f@#*ed up, notions of sex and the ideal woman. A retailer single handedly responsible for the felling of zillions of trees to publish it ubiquitous and misogynistic catalogues.

Yet, here I was, with my daughter in a Victoria's Secret, my equivalent of Dante's Lowest Circle of Hell.

There in hell, I got to thinking how I had utterly failed in passing on wholesome values to my progeny. How I was one of those dangerous and ineffective single moms that commentators warn are the bane of society. How I was a bad parent whose failures doomed  her daughters to lives of eating disorders.

I paused the self-flagellation long enough to wonder if Dylan wasn't right. Now that she mentioned it,  maybe I wasn't feeling so great about myself.  Perhaps new underwear would improve my self esteem!

Victoria's Secret was an experience, if nothing else. I was amazed by the dizzying array of bras, like the "Bombshell Add-2-Cups Multi-way Push-up" and the "So Obsessed Push-up." The selection of panties was just as exotic and overwhelming, and included variations of the "Cheeky," "Cheekini," "Cheekster" and "Itsy.

I was like one of the Beverly Hillbillies on her first day in civilization -- "look pa, their outhouse is inside the house!" 

At the same time, Dylan navigated the store with familiarity and ease, expertly sifting through and selecting panties she promised would change my life. Plainly, this was not my daughter's first Victoria’s Secret rodeo. I had the dazed, confused and anguished feeling of an Amish parent who has just discovered her child’s cell phone and stash of weed. 

As I came to my senses and examined  Dylan's choices, I momentarily rebelled:

Me: Seriously? One of these pairs has lace on the crotch. Everyone knows that lace is itchy and bad for the vagina. Plus these are thongs, which everyone also knows are unhygienic and only to be worn with clothing that is too tight across the ass in the first place.  

Dylan: Seriously? That’s ridiculous. I wear them every day [talk about an arrow to my heart] Trust me, you are going to feel soooooo much better. 

Me: But do we have to buy them at Victoria’s Secret, a company you are well aware objectifies women, plus is responsible for destroying huge swaths of forest so that its semi-pornographic catalogues featuring images of malnourished and photoshopped women can be delivered to billions of households around the globe?  Those catalogues send bad, bad messages to women that they are not good enough and create unrealistic expectations among young men.

Dylan: Exaggerate much? Plus, when it comes to  feeling beautiful, we sometimes have to compromise our principles. Your principled purchases are ugly. 

She had me there. Though loath to admit it,  if forced to choose between principles and pretty, I usually opt for pretty. 

And so I did. I bought buy five pairs of pretty panties, lovingly selected by my daughter to enhance my sense of well being.

Later that week, Dylan asked if I didn't feel better wearing my new pretty underwear. I guiltily thought of the Hanes hidden beneath my skirt, but thought it best to just agree, "yes, totally, I feel like a new person."

The next day  Dylan stalked into my room with all 5 pairs of the new, obviously unworn, panties in hand.   "You've been wearing your old underwear!"  I made a mental note to self to remove the price tags next time and guiltily mumbled something about saving them for a special occasion. Dylan, a determined look to her brow, in turn mumbled something about this not being over.

The following morning I opened our trash can, and found what appeared to be all of my underwear covered by used coffee grounds and other refuse. I ran upstairs to check my drawers, and just as I feared, all that was left was the 5 pair of new panties.

My daughter reminded me of a vigilante who pours alcohol down the drain in hopes of stopping a loved one from drinking.

And it worked for the first four days. Having no other choice, I wore the new underwear. While not life altering, they were just as comfy as the Hanes. If me wearing pretty underwear made my daughter  happy, then I was happy.

But then, on the 5th day, only the pair I had been avoiding all week was left, the lace thong. Resigned, I put them on. Definitely not comfy. Plus, I was wearing a dress and felt completely exposed. The undergarment-naming geniuses at Victoria's Secret should have named these the "Feel Naked" line of panties.

Oh well, Dylan claims to wear them every day, maybe I would get used to it.... Except I didn't.

I came home that night and informed her that her "pretty" underwear definitely did not make me feel better. In fact, they were uncomfortable and I was feeling positively worse. And now, thanks to her vigilantism,  I didn't have any normal underwear to put on. 

She actually started to look a bit sheepish. But then, as I changed, her guilty look turned into mirth followed by uproarious laughter.

It turns out I had the underwear on backwards. It also turns out that in the case of thong underwear, the tag sometimes goes in the front, something even the Beverly Hillbillies could have figured out just by looking at them. 

Dylan took pity on her mom and pulled out a few pairs of my preferred panties that she had wisely kept in case of emergency. 

She asked if I recalled the time she was 14 and I took her to Nordstrom's to get fitted for a bra, despite her mortified tears of protest. 

How could I forget? It was a scene that she often claims scarred her for life.

"Here," she said as she handed me my Hanes, "I think we're even now."

Governor Rick Scott, A Real Tear Jerker

Florida Governor Rick Scott is one of my favorite topics. Like one of my favorite comedians, George Carlin, Governor Scott has a unique ability to make me want to laugh and cry at the same time. Governor Scott's comic genius is rooted in the fact that it is so effortless. He doesn't try to be funny, he just is. Similarly, he doesn't try to elicit tears, he just does. 

Fellow blogger, "Life in the Boomer Lane," also has visions of Rick Scott dancing in her head. She graciously allowed me to reprint her take on what an interview with Governor Scott on the topic of climate change would look like.

Readers who are like me will need a box of kleenex close by to wipe the inevitable tears of laughter, as well as the ones of outrage. 

Cheers,

Mahlia

An Interview With Rick Scott

By Life in the Boomer Lane

Although Life in the Boomer Lane might appear to be someone whose thoughts run no deeper than whatever will cause readers to spew coffee, she is, in fact, fairly appalled at the state of the planet. She is especially appalled by some of our elected officials and by those who wield enormous power, with little concern for the environmental wreckage they leave in their wake. Rick Scott’s recent decision to eliminate the phrases “climate change” and “global warming” from state documents caught her attention. After a period of teeth-gnashing, she decided to “interview” the Governor in order to get to the bottom of what could have been behind his misguided decision. 

LBL: It’s been quoted in numerous sources that officials at the Florida Department of Environmental Protection have been barred from using the phrases “climate change” and “global warming” in any official communications, emails, or reports. Is this true, Governor Scott?

GS: I have made it clear that I will not discuss anything that is not a true fact. And I will not allow state employees to do so, either. I’ve said over and over that I’m not a scientist. I have no opinions about this.

LBL: So, in other words, you don’t think climate change actually exists?

GS: Here in the Great State of Florida, we don’t believe in climate change. People move here from Minnesota because it’s warm. It’s what makes this state great. And it has stayed warm, in spite of all the hysterical environmentalists. We don’t hide from the sun, here. I haven’t heard of anyone moving from here to Minnesota. Case closed. (chuckles softly to himself)

LBL: But global warming doesn’t mean that everything is getting warmer. It means that all weather patterns are getting more dramatic. Our ecosystem is being disrupted.  We will all suffer the consequences.

GS: Again, I’m not a scientist.  But I do invite those with adequate means to come to the Great State of Florida and play on our beaches, meet The Mouse, and watch dolphins try to survive in captivity.  We are here, living in Paradise, in spite of the doom and gloom that is being spouted about in other places.

LBL: But Florida is a state bordered on two huge bodies of water. Whether you personally believe in this or not, it’s been documented that sea levels are rising. Both the Atlantic coast and the gulf coasts are at risk. Are you concerned about this?

RS: I’m not an oceanographer, but I do know that here in the Great State of Florida, the last I checked, the beaches felt sandy and the water felt wet.  I’m not sure you can do better than that.

LBL: Are you aware that for the first time in history, California has instituted mandatory residential water restriction, in order to deal with the record-breaking drought. While lack of rain may not have been set off by climate change, scientists say that global warming is making the situation worse.

GS: I’m glad you brought this up, LBL.  I’m not a geographer, but I do know that California is really far away. I don’t believe anything I don’t see with my own eyes, and I sure don’t believe anything that takes place outside of Florida.

LBL: Are you aware that over 10,000 baby sea lions have washed up dead on a California island, with experts calling the unexplained deaths a “crisis” and “[Pups] are washing ashore at a rate so alarming, rescuers said Thursday, this year is the worst yet”.  It’s being blamed on rising sea temps.

GS: Ha, once again, California. I refuse to address myself to anything not in my home state. Most of my constituents don’t even know where California is.

LBL: OK, let’s talk Florida. Numerous high-rises are continuing to be built along the coast, with little consideration for the rising seas projected to frequently flood South Florida in the coming decades and to submerge much of it by the end of the century.

RS: I’m not a prognosticator, so I refuse to address myself to anything that might or might not happen in the future. And I’m not a longevity expert but I suspect that my constituents will all be dead by then.

LBL: With all due respect Governor,  have you read the latest issue of National Geographic? I’ll read from it directly: “Along with rising seas, Florida will be battered in the coming decades by extreme weather—dry-season drought and rainy-season deluges—the U.S. government’s National Climate Assessment predicts. Heat and drought threaten an agricultural industry that supplies the East Coast with winter vegetables, and they could undermine the three mainstays of Florida farming—tomatoes, sugarcane, and citrus. The rainy season will be stormier, with fiercer hurricanes and higher storm surges.”  A lot of this will be happening in the next 10 or 20 years. Won’t many of your constituents still be alive?

RS: Hey, this is the Great State of Florida. The median age is 102. I’m not a mathematician, but I  don’t think so. Anyway, it’s typical liberal schmutz. I’ve never trusted National Geographic.  They always have a least one photo of titties.

LBL:  You win.  Let’s talk Florida. Every day, tons of toxic waste is being dumped into St. Johns River, by the Koch Brothers company, Georgia-Pacific.  The Brothers put millions into your SuperPac. The St Johns is the longest river in Florida and the greatest recreational body of water in the state. You are the current chairperson of Florida’s Trustees of the Internal Improvement Trust Fund, and yet you refuse to investigate.

RS: I’m glad you brought up The Koch Brothers.  I’m not a citizenship expert, but I believe the Koch Brothers are outstanding citizens.  They always carry proper identification with them and have never falsified voting documents.  They stand for everything that is good and decent in America. If we follow them, the only things the government will have to pay for will be the prison system and national defense.  The rest is extraneous. I’m behind the guy who has 80 billion in his pocket, over the guy who has some schlub job and lives from paycheck to paycheck.

LBL: So, in other words, we have absolutely nothing to worry about.

RS: Only if you live in the Great State of Florida.

Thank-you Alabama

By Mahlia Lindquist

My former step father was from Geneva, Alabama, and growing up I spent holidays there with his family. With Alabamian Judge Roy Moore and his brave stance in defense of God in the news this week, I feel it high time I express proper appreciation for all that my step-family and other good people of Alabama have done for me.

Thank-you for teaching me about Yankees, and all the harm they have done. When I overheard you refer to my mom as a Yankee when she was out of earshot, I didn’t understand. My Alabama step-cousins helpfully explained that Yankees are bad people from the North. If you hadn’t taught me the truth, I would have foolishly gone through life thinking Yankees were nothing but a bunch of baseball players.

Thank-you for teaching me about Rocky Mountain Oysters. If you hadn’t served me that heaping plate of “chicken” when I was 13 and laughed uproariously as I turned a bilious green upon learning the truth, I would never have learned how to take a joke. I know now that you were laughing with me and not at me. 

Thank-you for not running my Jewish boyfriend out of town. Not knowing better, I  brought him to Thanksgiving dinner. I heard afterward that you all didn’t know what I was thinking bringing a Jew to dinner. Please forgive me, I was just 17. 

I also appreciate your teaching me that it's not taboo to refer to an African-American as nigger and that inter-racial marriage is not okay. Growing up in my Godless and liberal circles, I definitely was getting the wrong message.

And, now, your Judge Moore is out there fighting the good fight. 

That's Judge Roy Moore, the Chief Judge of the Alabama Supreme Court who directed state officials to ignore a federal court decision striking down Alabama's ban on same-sex marriage. I am filled with gratitude that he is unwilling to put the laws of man before God. 

Of course he shouldn’t bend to a silly federal court mandate striking down Alabama's ban on same-sex marriage.  Chief Moore is standing strong, even though he knows from personal experience that he is bound to lose. That experience was being removed from office for refusing to take down a 2-ton monument of the Ten Commandments in the state judicial building. 

Judge Moore is truly a hero, and though the left wing media holds him up in ridicule, I am sure that history will recognize him as the giant that he is.

As we all know, our founding fathers were God fearing dudes. They may have said separation of church and state, but they actually meant our country should be governed in accordance with a literal reading of the Old Testament.  I just hope that when Judge Moore is finished protecting the sanctity of marriage, he gets around to enforcing other Old Testament rules. Especially the ones prohibiting men with wounded penises, women with uncovered hair, and bastards from entering church.

Now, some may say that not everyone in Alabama deserves as much praise as Judge Moore and the good people I got to know in Geneva. After all, almost 5 million souls live there. They surely must include a fair share of homo loving liberals and spineless cretins willing to succumb to the pressures of a Washington controlled by Ivy League elitists.  

However, let's recognize that the majority of Alabamans are on the right side. They re-elected Judge Moore even after a panel of his peers deemed him unfit to be a judge. They also voted for Governor Bentley, who promised not to take legal action agains probate clerks who refuse to issue marriage licenses. They also elected Governor Fob James, who in the 1990s argued that the Bill of Rights did not apply to states. In fact, Alabama voters have a long history of electing leaders willing to stand up to the Federal government.

It's also important to recognize Alabama's long history of refusing to back down from its defense of Christian principles. 

Alabama's brave last stand in the 1960s against desegregation is legendary. Even more recently, Alabama became the last state in the country to overturn its ban on interracial marriage. Despite more than three decades having passed since the Supreme Court ruled such laws unconstitutional, more than 40 percent of Alabamians voted against taking it off the books.  

Thankfully, the law against sodomy, which is right up there with the mixing of the races, is still on the books. The law is unenforceable, but I appreciate that the citizens of Alabama want us to know where they stand. Symbols are important.

Importantly, Alabama can't be bought. Its leaders have taken a strong stand against the evils of socialism and federal interference by opting out of Medicaid expansion under Obamacare. The expansion would have provided health insurance coverage to thousands of its poor families, but no amount of federal money is worth selling out. 

Yes, my personal experience was with a small segment of Alabama's population thirty years ago, but the lessons I learned have stayed with me. They helped learn right from wrong. I have every reason to believe that the majority of Alabamans are still every bit as worthy of my gratitude.  

Go 'Bama!

How Young is Too Young?

By  Mahlia Lindquist

Men who date much younger women are like tone deaf singers at karaoke. Both remain blissfully unaware of others cringing on their behalf.  

Guys who parade around girlfriends young enough to be their daughters are often mocked, and are particular objects of derision for older women. However, I have never been in that camp. My attitude has always been a blend of "different strokes" and "who can blame them?" 

Women in their 20s and 30s are generally less cynical and opinionated than older ones. They also have less flab, fewer wrinkles, and no chin hairs. Age-wise they are at the sweet spot of being past the hormone induced craziness of adolescence and haven’t reached the hormone induced psychosis of menopause. 

Granted, objective and anecdotal evidence suggests that dating much younger women is highly overrated, but the older men who go for them don't necessarily deserve blanket ridicule.

Women don’t date much younger men because, statistically speaking, for them it’s usually not an option. Accordingly, mature women resent men who can date the young, along with the young ladies who they perceive as a threat. 

When it comes to younger guys who are not complete assholes, can form actual sentences and are otherwise socially acceptable, it makes sense that if women could, they would. Or at least some of them would. 

As for men who begrudge other men their pretty young things, perhaps they're jealous they don’t have the, ahem, resources to convince a 30 year old to endure the realities of an older dude. By realities, I mean the unsavory facts of life that women who get hitched to men their own age usually don’t experience until their 60s and 70s. 

For the younger woman in it for the long haul, these facts of life will include, but not be limited to, wrinkles, balding, a butt that gets flatter as the stomach gets rounder, viagra dependency, and ear hair. 

Absent a perfectly timed fatal car crash, having a much older partner will also mean having to deal with unpleasantness such as cancer, heart disease, and hip surgery. 

Then there's the potential aggravation of kids from a former marriage, a heinous ex-wife who still gets alimony and, horror of horrors, being called grandma at age 35 when the step-children start breeding. 

Older men may also balk at the prospect of more children, or not be able to have them, so the serious minded younger woman must engage in a cost-benefit analysis: is it worth having to shop for Depends at a stage of life when she should be buying Pampers?  For someone without resources, it makes total sense.

I have always looked at these issues as an interested bystander. 

Since divorcing, I haven't sought the attentions of anyone so young that it might scandalize my kids. Not that I am adverse to embarrassing them. It’s just that being part of a culture where it is generally not an option to date a man young enough to be my son, I unconsciously stick to men within a decade of my age. 

At the same time, I am happy to cheer on guys and the occasional women who are comfortable having daily conversation with someone who has never heard of Fleetwood Mac, or Earth Wind and Fire. 

Recently, I had an unexpected and unsolicited glimpse into their world.

It was with a young man named Mark. He stood over me on an airport shuttle in the midst of my ravenous assault on a veggie sub. Hoping he would move to the next aisle, I pretended not to see him and stayed on task. However, he continued to hover, smiling, until I reluctantly moved the bag on the seat next to me. 

As he settled in, I silently prayed for the silent type. It had been a long food deprived flight, and I was not in the mood to make nice. But, alas, despite my aloofness, Mark cheerfully chatted away.

He was funny, smart, attractive, and we had many common interests. Like me, he wasted time writing blog posts that hardly anyone reads, and he even liked Fleetwood Mac! I was especially charmed that he was more amused than disgusted by my chowing down like a labrador who hasn’t eaten in a week. 

He seemed on the younger side but, maybe not that young, whatever that means. It felt like we were contemporaries. 

When the ride ended and he suggested we continue our conversation over drinks, I was game.  It was a complete blast and time flew. After a couple of hours, we said good-bye and promised to read each other’s blog (hi Mark!)  

Later that night I received a text from him that was completely unintelligible. It included unfamiliar acronyms and words like “chill” and “kick it”  -- terms that may as well have been Arabic, but which I’ve heard my kids use. 

It dawned on me that maybe Mark and I were not exactly contemporaries. 

Our specific ages never came up, but I had talked to Mark of my daughter in college, working in Miami in the late 1980s, and visiting Berlin before the wall went down, so to me it seemed obvious. Not to mention that I look exactly like what I am, a middle aged woman.

Not so with Mark. His look was more ambiguous and he hadn't referred to experiences that would suggest his age. I figured early 40s.

I read Mark's text to my daughter who translated: “mom, he’s totally into you and wants to know if you want to go out." She added, "you should totally go.” 

So much for the pleasure of scandalizing my children. 

Yet, I hesitated. Mark was obviously younger than me but, hey, he was a Fleetwood Mac fan, so he couldn’t be that young. 

It was a lovely evening. Mark was fun, thoughtful, and one of the nicest people ever. However, as the night progressed, being with Mark felt like communing with a native of a remote island who speaks a different language — exotic and interesting, but someone who would always seem foreign. 

That night with Mark, I learned what that young means to me.  

I don't know Mark's exact age and I actually don't want to know. I cringe every time I think about it. But he is not in his 40s ...  or probably even in his 30s. The light finally went off as Mark described a bar that he and his friends went to the previous night:  

The music was great, but we left early because everyone there was like in their 40s and 50s! 

I nodded sympathetically, “yeah that sounds, like, totally lame.”  

Later, as we said good-bye, I casually asked Mark, 

Hey, what did you say the name of that place was? The one with the great music and people in their 40s and 50s?

Gawd, what I would give for the blissful unawareness of the tone deaf karaoke singer.

Curiosity, Mars and Mammograms

By Mahlia Lindquist

I read that NASA's Curiosity recently discovered evidence of life on Mars. Wow! Extraterrestrials on Mars are even more monumental than a bald British Royal and his hat wearing wife’s first visit to NYC. Yet, I scanned the article with only mild interest.

 I want to be interested in this astounding discovery. We are talking cosmic consequences here. Perhaps a review of mistakes made when Columbus “discovered” America is in order.  A discussion of the precautionary principal and whether it should be considered in the context of Mars. Or at least, a brief pause to marvel over the spectacular scientific achievements that have allowed man to go from cave dweller to Mars tourist in just 200,000 years.

But the truth is, the prospect of life on Mars did not rock my world. The only topic I am even less curious about is British royalty.

While I can live with my indifference to Prince William and Kate, my indifference to life on Mars is worrisome. That's because one of my core values is curiosity about things that matter. Like Mars. Also, I enjoy the company of bright, curious people and believe curiosity is key to longevity and happiness. 

This got me to thinking about what, if anything, rouses my curiosity these days. Nothing came to mind. Just a big fat blank.


"I must be curious about something," I thought, as I searched my web search history for clues: 

Easy recipes for vegan butternut squash soup
Iphone 6 cracked screen
80s dance workout music
Romantic comedies on Netflix
Mammograms and dense breasts

Argh. Rather than exploring life’s big questions, I am occupied with drivel -- soup, phones, bad 80s music, bad movies and breasts.

Especially breasts.

The breast thing was brought on by my annual mammogram, always a painful, degrading, yet fascinating experience. When I say fascinating, I mean in the way of a huge whitehead pimple, or say... the  human Barbi. A morbid fascination, if you will.

Most medical exams allow for a semblance of dignity. The nurse provides a paper gown and steps out while the patient changes. Next, the doctor politely knocks, and during the exam pushes the gown up, over and around sensitive areas.

Not so with my mammogram.  I was herded into a cold room dominated by a looming contraption manned by a portly technician. Without looking up from her paperwork, the technician commanded that I strip from the waist up. She did not bother with niceties such as an introduction, nor did she discretely step out while I disrobed.

After giving birth twice, decades of PAP smears and a pelvic ultrasound, I’ve lost all sense of modesty. However, this exchange seemed particularly barbaric. I shudder at the memory of the ultrasound, from which I still suffer  PTSD, but at least that technician said hello before probing my insides.  

Determined to inject a sliver of of humanity into our exchange, I asked this one her name as I went about the business of baring my breasts.  She looked up at my chest briefly muttered “Carmen,” then mumbled something about “medium” while taking notes.

Medium? Now this peaked my curiosity.

It also triggered an irrational, bizarro wish for Carmen to say something like, "wow, you have great tits." Coming from her, a bona fide expert in the field, it would have meant a lot.

I casually asked Carmen if medium referred to size. Ignoring my question, she scrutinized my chest and asked if I had implants. Perhaps she hadn't heard the question, and so  I persisted. "Are you suggesting it looks like I've had implants?"

Carmen was having none of it. She looked back to her notes and snapped, “I am not suggesting anything sweetheart, I am just asking if you have had implants.” 

"No," I sheepishly replied.

Now, I am vain, shameless and, as previously discussed, perhaps a tad crazy.  However, I am not completely daft. I get that, like radiologists who ask even withered crones if they are pregnant, and bouncers who demand ID from the most obviously ancient bar patrons, Carmen’s question was no testament to my youthful appearance. So even if she was the type to dish out false compliments and said, “honey, you look as pert as a swimsuit model,” I wouldn’t have believed her.

But still... a sweet gesture as I stood there exposed under the harsh light in all my middle-aged droopiness would have been nice. 

Carmen led me to the monster machine and adjusted the height. Without warning, she roughly lifted my right breast onto a plate and lowered a second plate to flatten it. The breast flattened and spread beyond the boundaries of the two plates. Frowning, Carmen raised the upper plate a fraction and shoved my wayward parts into compliance.

Her bedside manner brought to mind a butcher handling a piece of meat.

Fascinated, I disassociated from my breasts and looked down at them with wonder. They were separate beings. Shape changing aliens from a horror show, now the shape, thickness and color of pancakes.

I asked Carmen about her work. For a moment she lit up, actually looked at my face, and said she loves her job. As a person who has never liked a job, I am always interested (and envious) when others do. Even more interesting was someone who loves a profession that entails smashing breasts beyond recognition while the attached person winces and looks on in horror.

As I waited to speak with the radiologist, I did the numbers. For over 20 years, Carmen has done 30 mammograms a day, five days a week. This means she has seen and smashed over 100,000 sets and 200,000 individual breasts. This also means that more than 100,000 women have greeted Carmen with the enthusiasm of a dog for the groomer.

Looking at the math and specifics of Carmen's work, her sustained enthusiasm for mammography is truly a portrait of either a saint or a sadist. 

Eventually, a harried woman in a white coat came in and hurriedly explained that my mammogram doesn’t show cancer. Before I had time to be relieved, she also said  I have "dense breasts" and recommended a follow up ultrasound.

Now, I have been called dense before, but no one has ever accused me of having dense breasts. Before I could ask what that even means, the radiologist had moved on to the next patient.  

No matter, a quick Google search revealed a plethora of fascinating information. 

To wit:

• 40% of women have dense breast tissue
• those with high density are four to six times more likely to get breast cancer
• mammograms miss 50% of cancers in dense breasts

And these are just a few of the many dense breast fun facts now at my fingertips.

While slightly disturbed about my own dense situation, I am pleased to have my curiosity mojo back I am officially ready for the next dinner party. I may not care about Mars, William or Kate, but if you want to talk dense breasts, come sit next to me.

On Buddhism and Being a Bitch

                                                                                             

By Mahlia Lindquist

Every morning I do a short meditation and set an intention for the day. The intention is always the same: Mahlia, don't be such a bitch.

I’ve been doing this on and off since I started attending workshops at the Shambhala Center in Boulder over ten years ago. The workshops all have similar themes, such as the value of mindfulness, acceptance, non-attachment, generosity, kindness, compassion, and contentment. 

The basic message is that the world is a better place when we all play nice. In Buddhist talk it’s called “non-aggression.” 

Another Buddhist tenet is Karma. According to the law of Karma what we think and do will come back to us in this or another life. Gawd, I hope not.

While skeptical about Karma, I agree wholeheartedly that non-aggression is a good thing. Unfortunately, it's a challenge for me because I’m pretty sure non-aggression precludes being bitchy.

Due to my natural disposition, combined with the ravages of menopause, I am no more able to go through an entire day without being a bitch than endure a day without coffee and wine. The only difference being that whilst I don't see the point to a caffeine/alcohol free day, I am curious what it feels like to be sweet for an entire 24 hour period. 

Yet, after ten long years of starting the morning with an intention of sweetness, I can’t get it right. I think my many years of failure has something to do with the fact that most humans are basically jerks.

(See? I can’t even manage to keep my blog posts bitch-free.)

Other than the human race, nothing makes me crankier than meditation retreats. The workshops are sort of like the gym, dull. However, in both cases, showing up takes the edge off my edge, and so I show up.

The theme of my first retreat was “Basic Goodness.” Like most Shambhala workshops, this one involved a lot of sitting and breathing. At some point over these weekends, the teacher meets with each student privately to see how things are going. But, the teachers don’t actually ask the question right off.  They beat around the bush, like one of those maddening Zen koans (you know, “if a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?”)

When it was my turn, an assistant led me into the “sanctuary”  (a fancy Buddhist term for the type of room common folk refer to as an “office.”) The teacher, Walter, motioned for me to sit down and then ... absolutely nothing. Nary a word. He just looked at me expectantly.

Conversation being one of my few core competencies, I normally help out in these ackward situations, but after sitting around all weekend I wasn’t in the mood. Besides, something about this dude’s attitude struck me as aggressive. 

And so I just stared back, my face a mask of blank but roiling with annoyance inside.  Each minute felt like an hour. 

During those eternal moments, my thoughts took a violent turn: Could I whack Walter over the head with the marble Buddha head on the desk and make my escape? If caught, would Shambhala notions of forgiveness mean Walter wouldn’t press charges?  Maybe it would knock some sense in to him so that he would act normal?

So far, my propensity for crazy bitchiness has been limited to ugly thoughts and tough talk, so I did not actually bitch slap Walter. I just stared back as my mind carried on like an episode of Criminal Minds.  

Suddenly, a voice outside the ones in my head: “So, how’s it going?”

Walter spoke!

Gratefully abandoning my criminal mind, I considered the question. The truth was that “it” wasn’t “going” anywhere. After sitting around and basically examining my belly button all weekend, I expected a wondrous epiphany. I had paid my $90 by god, and I wanted my enlightenment. 

I didn’t experience an epiphany or feel enlightened. I just felt bitchy. 

I tried to explain to Walter,  

Well, crossing the street today, a Hummer passed in front of me, and my first thought was, ‘asshole,’ so things are pretty much status quo from when I started sitting around and breathing at the Shambhala Center two days ago. In short, this whole weekend seems like a colossal waste of time and money.

A few more moments of our mute stand-off. Then Walter smiled broadly and said, “Yes, exactly! People who buy hummers are real assholes. Now we’re getting somewhere! " He looked at his watch, "Mahlia, it was lovely to chat with you, but our time is up. Will you please send in the next student?”

What in the hell Walter was talking about? Was he talking about buddhism, karma and/or being a bitch? I still don't know.

What I do know, is that on the off chance that Karma is a thing, for me it is going to be a bitch. Just to cover my bases, tomorrow my sincere intention is not to be such a bitch.

Hot and Crazy, It's In Our DNA

By Mahlia Lindquist

The ideal female is "smokin' hot" and only a little deranged. 

That's what I learned from the wildly popular Hot Crazy Matrix YouTube video.

In the video, “the Expert” instructs men how to select a woman. He uses a graph with one axis for “hot” and the other for “crazy.” The hot axis is scaled 1-10 and the crazy axis ranges 4-10 because women less than a 4 crazy simply don’t exist. 

Women, on the other hand, rate men based on looks and money. If rich enough, a woman will go for a guy regardless of any shortcomings. Yes, ladies, that means we are all prostitutes whose services, for the right price, can be bought.  

As an aside, given that he is a self-satisfied, squat little troll, hopefully he has a lot of money. That dude is not getting any action for free without a fight. 

Is the video sexist? Definitely. 

Offensive? Most certainly.

  

It is obviously meant as a joke, but is it funny? Oh yeah.

Of course, I am a less than evolved barometer of humor. I’ve already admitted in a previous post to laughing the day our dog was almost eaten. Dumb blonde jokes crack me up. I chuckle just thinking about the scene in RV, where the dad gets sprayed with poop, and nothing cheers me up like the tampon-in-the nose scene from She’s the Man. 

If a guy doesn't think A Christmas Story and Zoolander are hysterical, sex is out of the question and probably even friendship.  

Yes, I have the sensibility of an average 14 year old boy. 

Humor is often used as a cloak to express socially inappropriate and hateful beliefs. We all know someone who denies being a loathsome racist because, hey, that one about the nigger and the jew was just a joke, come on, lighten up. 

Is the hot/crazy video in that category of ugly humor? 

I don’t think racist jokes are amusing, and have been accused of sanctimony for not seeing the humor in another Pollack remark. Yet, I can’t help but laugh at the Hot/Crazy Matrix, which seems to demean and objectify women. As a woman and mother of two girls I must be crazy for not being outraged.

But then again, humor is also often used to state uncomfortable universal truths. Maybe I am not seething with righteous indignation because I unconsciously suspect the Expert is right. Perhaps something about XX chromosomes really do make women act nutty. 

If so, does that mean men are genetically predisposed to be attracted to crazy? Have unhinged females, somewhere in the process of natural selection, helped insure the survival of the species? Do males flock to crazy chicks in the same way some claim to be evolutionarily programmed to spread their seed?

If yes, that explains a lot.

Although I may have a stunted sense of humor, I’ve never considered myself crazy. As the voice of reason, I thought basic sanity to be one of my more appealing qualities. However, if nature dictates that men are actually only attracted to women with a certain threshold of luny, that means I do not fall anywhere on the hot/crazy matrix. It means I am a genetic freak. Oy!!

All this thinking about crazy was making me crazy, I needed an expert opinion, pronto. 

John is an old friend and long-time single guy with a history of dating crazed women. Definitely an authority. Wanting an honest answer, I waited to ask him one night after he had a couple of cocktails.

 “Is it true, are men turned on by crazy women?” I asked.  John hesitated, as if deciding whether to divulge a trade secret. It took awhile, but he eventually came out with it, “well, um, yeah, sure, crazy is sort of sexy.”

The revelation was sobering, and yet a relief. 

This explained a lot, such as my ex-husband’s preference for certifiably insane women. I had always thought he was the unbalanced one. But no, it was me. I was the one lacking. Of course, I was missing the crazy gene!  

The Expert teaches that any guy who thinks he’s dating a woman who is hot and not crazy must actually be dating a “trannie.” Oh, the horror. As a 100% sane female, I was in the same category as transexuals, except for the hot part. Nothing against transexuals, but for a woman, this is not good news.

As I sat with John and considered my newly discovered defect, I could tell he was considering whether to say more. I waited, too distraught about being sane to talk anyway.  

Finally, with all due sincerity, John quietly said, “Mahlia … if it makes you feel any better, you are definitely a 4 crazy, maybe even higher.

“Phew." I smiled.  "I feel better already”.

P.S.  My description of the Expert was unkind. Of course, my comments about him being troll-like and all were meant in good fun, just like his video. In fact, I'm sure that deep down he is a nice person. If he's not rich, I wish him the best of luck in finding a smokin' hot crazy woman who is missing the superficial, greedy, user gene that the rest of us girls have.