I’m heartened to find that in this day and age of unrequited dreams and crushed hopes, there are those who continue to strive against all odds to accomplish their goals, however whimsical or strenuous or far-reaching they may be.
Take Donna Simpson. She currently weighs 600 pounds, or so she says, and she’s trying her durndest to win the Guinness Book of World Records‘ title of World’s Fattest Woman.
I am one of those contrarian peoples (or maybe just highly self-aware) who gets up in the morning and thinks, Oh, heavens to bejeezus no, it’s St. Patrick’s Day! That green dress I was planning on wearing must not touch my body, else people think I actually coordinated my outfit to the stinkin’ day!
See, technically, even though the YUDs think we’re part Irish (there’s an O’Connor in the family, going a fair ways back), there’s also that rumor that Mr. O’Connor was impotent. So we’re not really sure, we might be full-blown I-talians on that side of the family. Or anything else for that matter. I, for one, would prefer this mystery to remain a mystery…
YUD’s mother would like to point out that, in fact, she could NOT be Ali McGraw’s older sister unless there have been at work some bizarre time-machine machinations involving a DeLorean, a large supply of plutonium (compliments of your friendly neighborhood plutonium-suppliers), and, of course, the elegant brilliance of the flux capacitor. Or, at the very least, a time-traveling phone booth. That would so rock.
Now, does this look like a woman who just had brain surgery? Or more like Ali McGraw’s better-looking older sister, or perhaps a gypsy lady with really great teeth who you wouldn’t mind getting pickpocketed by, because oh, there would be LAUGHS?
Yes, this is YUD’s mother. We think she looks pretty stylin’ in her scarf. And skinny!
Today is a day of endings, of things I’ve always considered permanent being ripped from me, taken before their time (even if I haven’t thought about them much in the past couple of years, that doesn’t mean I’d forgotten them, and anyway, never you mind about that).
After waking to the news that the Coreys have been split asunder (and what does one do with just one? They’re like socks!) I have been texted by a friend that the gloriously faux-retro Comfort Diner located on 45th Street between 2nd and 3rd Aves in midtown M’hattan has shuttered. “This recession is ruining all my favorite things!” she says.
Perhaps I didn’t know him, exactly, but I did tear many a page featuring his boyish visage from the pages of my Tiger Beat and/or Bop magazines, and I stuck them to my walls (all the better to gaze at) despite my parents hating that they’d eventually have to repaint my glorious seafoam green room.
It’s true, Wil Wheaton was really my youthful crush of choice, and then of course I went the hair band route (in an attempt to bring me back to earth my mother once told me that my great unrequited love, Sebastian Bach, probably had so many zits that he couldn’t see himself in the mirror for all the pus he’d squeezed onto it. Thanks, Mom, for that!).