As a lover of all things old and odd that can be found on Netflix, last night I started watching a 1976 mini-series based on the Irwin Shaw’s book, Rich Man Poor Man whichI vaguely remember reading as a teenager under a boyfriend’s recommendation. At one point, the father of the Jordache brothers accuses his wife of being an old-looking 40 year old. I gasped. 40? I thought she was meant to be 60. Without the benefits of filter lighting, fillers or cosmetic surgery, the actress looked all of her maybe 45 to 50 years but I assumed she was much older, conditioned as I am to see only wrinkle-free faces on the screen.
Tag: Body image
Do women in Italy wear underwear? an unknown person typed in a search engine and, somehow, landed on our blog. Among the more prosaic search terms that lead to Campari and Sofa, this question stood out. What prompted someone to wonder? Was it a woman embarking on her first trip to Italy, wishing to blend in with the locals? Or a man, plotting his way to second base on his upcoming vacation? And what kind of reputation do Italian women have? (for the record, I believe most do wear underwear. In fact, cute underwear stores abound).
Over the weekend camparigirl sent me an article from her beloved New Yorker about Joan Rivers. When Joan died, we marked her passing, as one should for any woman who forged her way through a male dominated profession – and noted that we both had some ambivalence in our feelings towards La Rivers. Claudia felt that Joan’s meaness “grated” and I just didn’t find her funny any more. The humour had become crass rather than sharp and incisive and her weird vendettas agains various famous people (Gwyneth Paltrow, Madonna) played out awkwardly on Fashion Police.
As news of her death spread through the media we got to see different sides to her – loyal, kind, generous and incredibly supportive of other comic’s professional aspirations. If she liked you – she would help as much as she could. If she didn’t, she didn’t waste any time burying you. She wasn’t afraid to say what she thought. And take the pummelling she would get as a result. Looking out for herself caused her to be banned from Late Night TV – when Johnny Carson blackballed her after he heard she’d accepted a job at another network. A ban that two subsequent Late Nite hosts (Jay Leno and Conan O’Brien) upheld. And which Jimmy Fallon broke only six months before she died. Talk about a vicious boy’s club.
I stand naked in front of the mirror, like I have done countless times since I can remember, checking for signs of aging, of diminishing returns on investment. I can be merciless, a trait I never dispense on others but that I apply to myself with superhuman ability: the frown line between my eyebrows is becoming a burrow; the laugh lines around my eyes have multiplied overnight; my boobs, they are still small; the skin around my biceps is sagging; the skin on my décolleté is crepe-y; there are thin blue veins on my legs that will become more noticeable as time goes by; tiny brown spots are starting to appear on my hands.
Those (five) of you who have been following this blog from day one might remember it all started with a rant on Full Hollywood waxes, wondering in the name of what should a woman submit herself to such torture. Well, ladies, the good news is that the all nude wax is on the way out, as attested by beauticians on both coasts, who have seen that particular business diminish by as much as 70%. We might have celebrities like Gwyneth Paltrow and Cameron Diaz who spoke out in favor of a more natural look to thank for but I would like to think women are coming to their senses.
We have a ‘normal’ history with food in sofafamily. We sat down to dinner together every night: with instructions to finish what was on our plates. Most times that wasn’t a problem. But there were certain things we hated. Most especially Chris, who wouldn’t eat veggies: spitting them into his napkin and hiding them down the back of the sofa. I loathed the ‘savoury-mince&rice/tinned-green-beans’ combo that would appear once a month. Couldn’t get it down my throat, the textures just freaked me out. Tears at the table.