Father Cutie Watch: Update

In a surprise move, Father C. went Catholic Lite. Color me shocked. I didn't even know it was trade season. Who do you suppose they got? Some of those Episcopalians are still pissed about the gay thing. Maybe they got an archbishop and two virgin novitiates to be named at a later date.

And I could point out, he's still cute out of uniform. But, come on, not as cute.

A malfunctioning BS detector

I thought for sure this was a prank. That somebody was goofing on me. I mean first, there was Brooke Shields in it. And she’d done those commercials about having babies just so that you can buy a fancy car. She does deadpan well. I thought she was just jerking our collective chains again.

And I mean the product – a prescription treatment for stumpy eyelashes. Or as they put it “inadequate or insufficient lashes.” Oh, yeah. Nothing snotty about that at all. But if you have “inadequate lashes” there’s this stuff called “mascara.” Been around forever. Or eyeliner, which as been around since before forever (Cleopatra, anyone?). Or extensions (weird, but true). Or dyeing. All sorts of things that aren’t medical intervention. So, it must be Brooke goofing on me again.

But apparently . . . http://www.latisse.com/Default.aspx?return=true

F’reals. It looks like it’s totally true. With a diagnosis (“hypotrichosis”) and clinical studies and FDA approval and everything. Oh, and adverse reactions, too. Like “Most common adverse events (incidence approximately 3% - 4%) are eye pruritus [that’s itching], conjunctival hyperemia [bloodshot], and skin hyperpigmentation.”

Okay, while this isn’t quite as bizarre as injecting a toxin into your head, or putting foreign objects in your boobs, this just seems to be a slight overreaction to what is, in my truly humble opinion, a very minor flaw. Like buying a lion because you have a mouse problem.

Falling off the horse

That’s the thing about good habits. You identify what you need to do. You work for it. You struggle for it. Day after day. Make it a habit. Make it something that if you didn’t do it, you’d feel like you’d missed something. Hit. Hit it hard.

And then you slip. And you feel funny. Something’s missing. Oh, that’s it.

But then you only feel funny for a few days. It nags, it bothers. But then it goes away. And you’re right back to your old habits. Old habits are stronger than good habits. And it’s almost harder to re-start a good habit than it was to start it in the first place. Doesn’t matter if it makes you feel better. Doesn’t matter if it’s good for you.

Being good is hard.

As my mother would say, Oh, piffle-doodle

Okay, I watched Mental last night. I was kind of curious. I mean, it really couldn’t be as clueless as the title implied. I mean, people in stressful occupations sometimes have jargon that covers the brutality of their daily lives. Cops have been known to use the term “floater.” Disrespectful, sure. But gallows humor has its purpose. So I thought maybe the use of “mental” was something along those lines for people who work in the psychiatric field.

I’m thinking maybe not. Any relation this show has to real people in the mental health profession is about as relevant as 50s safety movies that recommended hiding under a table in the event of a nuclear attack. The main plot line involves the new “maverick” (and I’m really starting to hate that word) clinic head recommending that a schizophrenic go off his meds and just “see what happens.” Umm. Isn’t a big problem with schizophrenics trying to get them to stay on their meds? So that they don’t have naked psychotic breaks in a hospital ward and threaten people with folding chairs? Oh, right. He’s a maverick. They do things different. Seriously, was this show produced by Tom Cruise?

And of course, the naked psychotic man gives Dr. Maverick a chance to get his kit off and show off that he ain’t just a pretty face. He’s also a hot bod. Well, thank god. I know that’s always the first thing I look for in good psychiatric care. [And by the way, note to whoever came up with this steaming pile of a show: Your character is a flaming rip off of Greg House, who is on your own network. House is a flaming rip off of Sherlock Holmes. That's a rip off of a rip off, if you're counting.]

Really, I’m as distrustful of the medical establishment, Dr. Feelgood, here’s a pill, pharmaceutical intervention mainstream as anybody. But this was the most errant nonsense that I’ve ever seen on a medical program. As far as the true to life details of mental illness, this show made The Bob Newhart Show look like reality TV.

Flying Dervish

Well, it was one of those long weekends where I was too busy, got nothing accomplished, ran around like a mad thing, then at the end, when I added it all up, got more done than I expected.

Part of it is that I ran out to my parents house to get it ready for them coming home. They've been out taking care of my brother's family with the new baby (young Cameron, who I mentally call Cam-a-ROON, thanks, RuPaul). So they've spent months taking care of others, and I'm sure they're just exhausted (though they'd never complain). So, my sister, my friend T, and I all went out to get the yard spruced up, the house aired and the refrigerator cleaned out. Luckily, T knows her way around the garden, so I just let her tell me which to pull, what to cut and what goes in which bed. And my sister gets a certain amount of joy from throwing away expired food items. So basically, all I had to do was follow orders.

I also got my re-fitted pantry painted out. It was this yellowy-beigey-creamy color that never looked completely clean. So, while everything was out, I slapped a nice coat of bright white Kilz. It looks so nice and fresh. It's amazing how cheery a spotless pantry can make you feel. I still need to reinstall my wire pantry drawers, but I feel more like I'm on the way.

And on Sunday night I went to see Lost In the Stars over at Theatre Three. The style wasn't really my taste. I like a big show tune and a little bit of hoofing. This was serious, dramatic, real art kind of a musical. And the lyrics were close to opera in their complexity. Except for three songs (the title number, a naughty ditty about fruit and something called Big Mole), they weren't anything that I'd hum. But I did like the show. I'm a huge sucker for a redemption story. And one of the youngest actors was absolutely FANTASTIC. He sang that Big Mole song like he was the second coming of Ben Vereen. I couldn't have been more impressed.

And I did a big cookout over at T's house. Surf and turf, with fruit tart for dessert. Actually, all I contributed to that was an empty stomach. I owe T big for everything she did over this weekend.

And sprinkled in there was a little shopping, cleaning out my own refrigerator, a few hours at work, building an ark, hammering out a Middle East peace treaty and curing Swine Flu. Busy, busy, busy. Okay. Maybe I didn't get as much accomplished as all that. But still. Not bad for getting nothing done.