Thank you, Patty Duke

"The Patty Duke Show" was one of my favorites. I remember watching it with my sister as we sat in front of the television wearing fluffy pink slippers that made us feel like teenagers, even though we were only in grade school. We wanted to be Cathy, who "lived most everywhere, from Zanzibar to Barclay Square" and idolized Patty, even though she only saw "the sights a girl can see from Brooklyn Heights" ... what a crazy pair.

Who doesn't remember every word of the opening song to "The Patty Duke Show"? The lyrics are 20 snappy lines emblazoned in our memory. (Click here and sing along.)

Meet Cathy, who's lived most everywhere, 
From Zanzibar to Berkeley Square. 
But Patty's only seen the sight. 
A girl can see from Brooklyn Heights -- 
What a crazy pair! 

But they're cousins, 
Identical cousins all the way. 
One pair of matching bookends, 
Different as night and day. 

Where Cathy adores a minuet, 
The Ballet Russes, and crepe suzette, 
Our Patty loves to rock and roll, 
A hot dog makes her lose control -- 
What a wild duet! 

Still, they're cousins, 
Identical cousins and you'll find, 
They laugh alike, they walk alike, 
At times they even talk alike -- 

You can lose your mind, 
When cousins are two of a kind.

We will miss Patty Duke, Oscar-winning actress and mental health advocate, for the joy she brought us every week in the nonsensical comedy about two identical cousins. We also honor Ms. Duke for her powerful, and unforgettable, performance as Helen Keller in "The Miracle Worker."

Thank you, Patty Duke.

Donald Trump Piñata (We're laughing AT him, not with him)

(Click arrow above for Trump left hanging.)

David Brooks's column today in The New York Times is aptly titled, "No, Not Trump, Not Ever."

Following are excerpts that address Trump, the man, the buffoon, the showoff, the bully ... and one of most un-presidential candidates in political history. 

"Donald Trump is epically unprepared to be president. He has no realistic policies, no advisers, no capacity to learn. His vast narcissism makes him a closed fortress. He doesn’t know what he doesn’t know and he’s uninterested in finding out. He insults the office Abraham Lincoln once occupied by running for it with less preparation than most of us would undertake to buy a sofa.

Trump is perhaps the most dishonest person to run for high office in our lifetimes. All politicians stretch the truth, but Trump has a steady obliviousness to accuracy.

This week, the Politico reporters Daniel Lippman, Darren Samuelsohn and Isaac Arnsdorf fact-checked 4.6 hours of Trump speeches and press conferences. They found more than five dozen untrue statements, or one every five minutes.

“His remarks represent an extraordinary mix of inaccurate claims about domestic and foreign policy and personal and professional boasts that rarely measure up when checked against primary sources,” they wrote.

He is a childish man He is an insecure boasting little boy whose desires were somehow arrested at age 12.
running for a job that requires maturity.

He surrounds himself with sycophants. “You can always tell when the king is here,” Trump’s butler told Jason Horowitz in a recent Times profile. He brags incessantly about his alleged prowess, like how far he can hit a golf ball. “Do I hit it long? Is Trump strong?” he asks.

As the founders would have understood, he is a threat to the long and glorious experiment of American self-government. He is precisely the kind of scapegoating, promise-making, fear-driving and deceiving demagogue they feared.

Trump’s supporters deserve respect. They are left out of this economy. But Trump himself? No, not Trump, not ever.

HUFFINGTON POST: "Car Talk: 'Running' Out of Gas"

My husband and I are trying to put this recent escapade in the rearview mirror because my declaration comes with a bit of embarrassment ... 

Click here for my new Huffington Post,  "Car Talk: 'Running' Out of Gas."

BIG NEWS!!!!! David Proposes!!

David proposed to Libby!!!!!   

Annaclaire writes from Grenada:

David called this evening to say he had "big news."

Indeed!

Welcome to the family, dear Libby!

Running Out of Gas

I am one of those people who notices the small things.  Like a missing comma or someone's label sticking out. (See the Tale of Leona Helmsley's Label. Click here.) If I see a painting in someone's house that's hanging a tad low on one side, I'll give the opposite corner a gentle flick when no one is looking.

What I don't see is when the gas gauge in my car is on "EMPTY." Don't tell my husband, but today I got as low as only 6 miles reserve to get to a gas station. When I got into the car, I asked Siri how many miles it was to my home address.

"It's approximately 8 miles from here to that address," my male Siri said in his robotic Wales accent.

The meter said that I had 13 miles left in the gas tank. That means I had 5 miles leeway before my car ran out of gas on the side of the highway. Thinking strategically, I thought it best to not waste a single drop of gas. So I turned off the radio and heat. Unplugged my phone charger. Intermittently, I turned off the windshield wipers in the slight drizzle. (I didn't want to tax car's electrical system.)

I thought of turning off at an earlier exit, but once off that exit, I couldn't trust GPS would get me to the "nearest" gas station.

So I pulled not stops in trying to conserve gas. If you happened to have passed me on 287, yes, that was me driving 45-miles an hour in the far right lane. When I got to a hill, I used the force of gravity to coast down as long as I could.

As I drove slowly, I looked at the meter running so very low. I had four more exits to to. There was something thrilling going on: "Would I make it to a gas station?"

Then self-doubt blammed in. "How did I not see the warning signal and not fill up the car with gas this morning?"

Then, "OMG. My husband will kill me if he finds out I didn't pay heed to the warning light on the dashboard that I needed gas.

I finally/finally/finally coasted off at my exit, which, BTW, was gloriously down hill, so I didn't have to accelerate the gas pedal.

With just  a few tenths of a mile remaining, I saw the Shell sign in the distance. Still full of self-doubt as to whether I would make, I held my breath and continued blazingly into the night at the lightening speed of, now, 30 miles per hour.

By the time I drove into the station, my car was sputtering. Even the strength of the headlights was starting to wane.

I can tell if a font needs to be decreased, or a color needs to be hotter, but noticing that the gas tank is running on empty is not in my wheelhouse.

Number Your Blessings

As you know from a few posts ago, I just celebrated a whirlwind three weeks of birthday celebrations. One of the many wonderful and thoughtful gifts bestowed upon me from dear friends was a deliciously sybaritic facial and massage at a spa.

While chatting with the masseuse about my birthday (before she, literally, dug in with a firm Swedish massage), she commented astutely, "You are probably making a bucket list and saying to yourself, 'I need to this,' or 'I have to go there' ... but I bet you could make lists and lists of things you've accomplished."

I loved her perspective. Sort of the "glass half-empty" or the "glass half-full." Not only did I start thinking of the things I've accomplished thus far in my life but I also thought she had an interesting suggestion: make a list.

This is just a very, very, very short list of accomplishments for which I am proud. I encourage you to number yours as well.

1.    Nurturing a loving and bountiful marriage.

2.    Having two amazing children who are happy, self-confident and making their way in the world.

3.    Creating a sense of home for my husband and family.

4.    Putting up with my family’s shtick.

5.    After four eye operations, the ability to see the world a little differently.

6.    Learning to type (really fast).

7.    Finally, not being a wise guy about using sun lotion.

8.    Folding a fitted sheet with origami accuracy. (Thank you, Mom, for  teaching me  how to do this.)

9.    Speaking French and knowing swear words so that I almost sound like a local.

10.  The ability to make dinner out of practically anything in the refrigerator.

11.  Never losing my eyeglasses. (I still have the tortoise-shell cat-shaped  glasses that I wore in 2nd grade.)

12.  Using a fountain pen and angling my elbow in such a way that my hand  doesn’t  smear the words when I write thank-you notes.

13.  Never giving up on at least thinking about running the NYC Marathon.

14.  Setting the table with near-perfection. (Thank you, Mr. Carson, from  “Downton  Abbey,” for all of the tips.)

15.  Singing in-tune (when no one is around.)

16.  Checking Facebook only once or twice (every hour).

17.  Paring down and getting rid of notes from my Flemish painting class in college.

18. Knowing a good fashion find. (Thank you, Betty Moodie, my editor at Glamour, for  being a mentor.)
19. Staying in contact with two best friends from third grade.

20.  Knowing all of the words to "American Pie."

And the list goes on ...

"Downton Abbey" Takes Its Final Bow

How will this marvelous series button up the story line/s tonight?

Here are a few conjectures. (Top row, left to right):

Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Carson get pregnant.

Thomas will get the BF he has long needed. (His character has so mellowed out from the PITA gossip-boy he was in the beginning, hasn't he? And, we are happy he stopped smoking.)

Mr. Molsley leaves housework behind to become a full-time teacher so that he can get summers off.

Daisy teaches the guy to her left how to read and they open an independent school in Fairfield County.

Mrs. Patmore marries the pig farmer and they successfully augment their business by selling sow's-ear purses.

Mr. Bates and Anna open a night club.

Sprat teaches Grandmama how to Charleston and her life takes a new turn. 

Cora and Robert keep waiting for the next meal.

Mary gets a new wardrobe to carry her through. To where, we're not sure. Hollywood?

Edith stops the doe-eye stare. The Marquess comes back to marry her and Marigold learns to talk.

Isobel Crawley marries Dr. Clarkson and, after a long honeymoon in St. Barth's, make their home in Brooklyn.

Bottom row (left to right):

Mary's son is hardly seen in the picture above because he is hardly seen out of the nursery. (I'm not even sure he has a name.)

Marigold - See Edith (above).

Bring out the crumpets! Sound the trumpets! "Downton Abbey" closes the doors to the romance and intrigue of this beloved PBS series. Its devoted viewers (me and millions of others) will soon have nothing -- absolutely nothing -- to do on Sunday evenings.

Trump and Liberace: Twins Separated at Birth?

Along with their adorable smiles, slitty eyes and cut-from-the-same-cookie-cutter noses, 

Trump and Liberace have another unmistakable bonding factor ... 

Their hair.

Rubio and Trump: Grow up, already

Trump's and Rubio's behavior at the Republican debates on Fox this evening was repulsive. They were like two insolent brothers giving one another the na-na-na-boo-boo. One talked over the other, they raised their voices, attacked one another ... if they were my sons, I would have said, "Go up to your room! And don't come down until you can talk civilly to one another. If you can't do at least that, how you can expect there to be peace in the world?" 

Getting even more fired up, I would add, "YOU'RE GROUNDED!! No more campaigning trails until you clean up your act. NOW GO TO YOUR ROOMS!!! And DON'T COME OUT until I tell you to!"

Rubio and Trump turned around and all I could hear were their size-12 shoes clumping up the stairs, and the slamming of doors. 

G R O W  U P, A L R E A D Y for crying out loud. We're talking about the welfare of our great country. Stop the frikkin' bickering and chicanery.

Pamela Kogen, my talented and incredible sister, has a new exhibit at Princeton

To see more of Pamela's portfolio of work, click here ... and forever be inspired.

Leap Year + Bissextus: A Happy Coupling of Gregorian Figures

February 29th is that extra day added to the calendar every fourth year (except those evenly divisible by 400). To many, this brings up the word bissextus?  (I know, I know. It's 2016. Nobody cares anymore.)

Here's the skinny so you're in the know four years from now:

Bissext, or bissextus (Lat. bis, twice; sextus, sixth) is the day which is added to the Gregorian calendar every fourth year (except those evenly divisible by 100, unless they are divisible by 400) to compensate for the six hour difference in length between the common 365 day year and the actual length of the solar year. In modern usage, with the exception of ecclesiastical calendars, the intercalary day is added for convenience at the end of the month of February, as February 29, and years in which February has twenty-nine days are called "bissextile," or leap years.