Here are three new perplexions:
Women are familiar with those 4-inch foamy-spongy things that you put between your toes when you’re giving yourself a pedicure. They come in pairs. They’re supposed to keep the polish from smudging or traveling to another toe during the drying process. The handy devices are shaped like the letter E but they have five crosswise prongs instead of three. Has anyone in the foamy-sponge factory ever noticed that women have five toes? That works out to four between-toe spaces. Where are we supposed to put the fifth prong?
I’ve never understood why some death notices are written as if the deceased person were curled up in comfy leather chair on a fluffy cloud in the heavenly library, reading the morning paper. “You will be missed,” the notices say. “We have all benefitted from your lifetime of kindness and the way you cared for your family and
“Ah,” the deceased person sighs, “They liked me. They really, really liked me.”
In today’s movies and novels, hot romantic couplings are depicted in more vivid detail than when I was growing up. In the 50s, Doris Day and Rock Hudson realized they were meant for each other. They kissed, got married, then he carried her over the doorstep and headed for the bedroom as the screen went to black and the schmaltzy music crescendoed.
Today, we still get the relationship epiphany – that is, the exact moment when, after all the conflicts and missed chances, the
two lovers realize they were meant to be together. They race toward each other, embrace, kiss passionately and head for the bedroom as they tear at each others' clothing. He kicks off his shoes and drags one pantleg behind as the other scrunches down around the other ankle. She unzips her skirt and lets it slip seductively to the floor. She struggles to get her sweater over her head and shoulders while simultaneously unhooking her bra.
Why does this scene never turn into this? When she's half undressed, she suddenly stops and claps palm to forehead. “Shoot,” she says.“Not a good day for this. Sorry. I just got The Curse (or whatever women call it these days.)
Back in the 50s It was referred to as The Curse or That Time of the Month or other gross buzzwords that were more objectionable. In the 21st century, the heroine
of the novel or movie is clearly more apt to jump in the sack with her lover the exact moment she gets the urge. The epiphany. Why does The Curse never pose a problem?
Did you ever see a movie where the schmaltzy music stops, the woman slips her arms back into her sweater and says: “Put your
pants back on honey. Let’s have a glass of wine instead. Come back on Thursday.”
A perplexion, indeed.
Does anybody have some solutions? Answers? Suggestions?
More perplexions? Tell me about them. Go to the top of the
page, click on “more,” then on “guest book.”