*Every once and a while I go back to Leaves of Grass, re-reading it for the umpteenth time, because it is beautiful, and powerful, and profound. It is a song, and a poem,an anthem, a celebration of life. Here is the first stanza…and if you’ve never read it, or any Whitman, I urge you to do so.
I celebrate myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.
I loafe and invite my soul,
I lean and loafe at my ease . . . . observing a spear of summer grass.
Houses and rooms are full of perfumes . . . . the shelves are crowded with perfumes,
I breathe the fragrance myself, and know it and like it,
The distillation would intoxicate me also, but I shall not let it.
The atmosphere is not a perfume . . . . it has no taste of the distillation . . . . it is odorless,
It is for my mouth forever . . . . I am in love with it,
I will go to the bank by the wood and become undisguised and naked,
I am mad for it to be in contact with me.
The smoke of my own breath,
Echos, ripples, and buzzed whispers . . . . loveroot, silkthread, crotch and vine,
My respiration and inspiration . . . . the beating of my heart . . . . the passing of blood and air through my lungs,
The sniff of green leaves and dry leaves, and of the shore and darkcolored sea- rocks, and of hay in the barn,
The sound of the belched words of my voice . . . . words loosed to the eddies of the wind,
A few light kisses . . . . a few embraces . . . . a reaching around of arms,
The play of shine and shade on the trees as the supple boughs wag,
The delight alone or in the rush of the streets, or along the fields and hillsides,
The feeling of health . . . . the full-noon trill . . . . the song of me rising from bed and meeting the sun.
*I have never killed anyone, but I have read some obituary notices with great satisfaction. – Clarence Darrow
The rematch begins again: grudges versus affirmations. This week for the ??th time in my life I have determined that holding anger and resentment toward other people is not good for my health, mental or physical, and that renting so much space out, for free, in my head to shitty humans is not worth it. This is not a revolutionary thought: I’ve known it for ages. Years. Decades. And, once again, I’ve been doing a few letting go exercises and affirmations to fina-fucking-ly let go, or, to be more accurate, at least improve the rent situation, lighten TF up, and start or continue the healing process. This takes the grudges down a notch or two, eliminating a few (knock wood), for the immediate moment, until the next time I initiate another conscious consciousness upgrade/rematch. Conscious as in it takes deliberate thought to alter my consciousness; it takes practice and hard work to get the grim nasties under control and out of my system.
It makes me giggle – shamefacedly!! – to admit that I hold grudges against a couple of people who are, ahem, no longer with us (and may they rest in peace), but in fact it also makes me giggle (truly, my bad) to admit how many grudges I hold. That list is loooooong, people. Why is that? Well, because I was in local politics, which is a teeming sewer, also, I’m a human-fucking-being, and lastly, humans are complicated hot messes, at best. I am also, no doubt about it, a stubborn, headstrong human bean, as well as being a challenge to the more conventional, an independent female with my own money, lots of opinions, and no discernible ‘job’ or ‘career’ or ‘sugar daddy/ husband/ breadwinner’. I have pressed buttons for a long ass time, as in most people have relatively strong reactions to and even stronger assumptions regarding Miss Thing over here, whether or not they’ve ever actually spoken to me. And, being unconventional in a conventional world, there are those who feel free to speak and/or act on their idiotic ‘disapproval’. Ralph Waldo Emerson said it best, ‘For non-conformity the world whips you with its displeasure’. Yeah. In rural America, that maxim is magnified by the short list of options available for those who never left or thought of leaving.
All that said, what I have been doing (again) is, while walking my dog in the mornings or swimming laps in the afternoons, dwelling on the people on my fuck you list, and consciously sending blessings their way. This is my standard blessing, which you are free to use, as I got it from – Eckhart Tolle? Liz Gilbert? Anne Lamott? The internet? – who knows, but it works for me. I even use it for myself, blessing myself, when I need to, when I am anxiety-ridden, not as often as in years past but, on occasion. Here it is: ‘may (so-and-so sonofadick) be happy, may they be heathy, may they ride the waves of their life, and may they find peace no matter what’. Sometimes I add ‘as far away from me as possible’ to the finding peace piece, because that’s a more honest affirmation, and isn’t honesty the best policy? Yes, yes, it is.
I find it calms me and makes my heart feel lighter. I guess? Usually, yeah, it does. Anyway, it definitely helps get me away from the well-trodden ruts of anger and resentment, ruts that lead nowhere, that are circular, that become over time ditches, potential sinkholes from which there might be no escape. And, this week, one of the people on that very active blessings list contacted me for the first time in two plus years to – okay, it was to ask for help – but, given she was one of my oldest friends, hey, give her the info she’s looking for, including my asked for opinion re: same, and keep moving, lightly, lightly. Happy to help, hope you’re well, buh-bye. I set the boundary, originally (she is tied at the hip to my gossipy, unfriendly AF sister-in-law), because enough already with the triangulation, JHFC, puh-leeze. I will, in turn, respect it, that boundary, because I set it (respect for self) for good reason, and having spent the last two plus years without that tied-at-the-hip incestuous nonsense in my life, oh, oh, oh, what a relief!
Pictured above: Clarence Darrow, Counsel for John T. Scopes, who comes up for Trial in Dayton, TN for teaching evolution in alleged violation of the law. (Photo by NY Daily News Archive) He was also attorney for Leopold and Loeb, another of his famous cases, and ‘trials of the century’. Great face, eh?
Because the universe has a devilish sense of humor, this morning I was given an opportunity to put the exercise of blessing a prick in immediate action, to not be a prick in return, to rise above it! Thank you for the opportunity, universe (insert eye-roll here____). I was walking the dog and thinking on my used to be grudge-y list, now the moveTFon list, and doing my blessings for each individual piece of shite human. My furry bundle of joy canine proceeded to poop on the verge of a town road about three miles from my house, one I have been using to change things up, largely because there are only four houses on it, and hardly ever any traffic to excite the chase in my 90-pounds of love, otherwise known as Diego the dog. So, he did the deed, and as one of the joys of rural life being not having to pick up poop on isolated public by-ways, I let it lie. Now, it was dumped in the grass by Diego about twenty feet from a parking spot belonging to a lady I know, slightly. She would not have reason to walk there, nor was the deposit close to her vehicle, her entryway or her bridge (you can only access her property across a lengthy footbridge). When I returned to my car, parked three-quarters of a mile from her house, about fifty minutes later at the end of our route, I found dog poop for the second day in a row on the ground next to where I would potentially step to get in my car. Oh. Yesterday’s ‘that’s another big dog who came through here not long after I parked’ naivete became ‘Oh, shit, Shirley carried the dog shit from up past her parking spot all this way yesterday and today to, to – to make a point?!’
The choice before me was stark: should I call her and give her hell, telling her what a petty cow she was, alternately pasting a note on the windshield of her truck – ‘get a life, bitch’, or, worse, toss poop onto her bridge when she’s not home – or… should I simply type up or write a note apologizing for my dogs indiscretions in the general region of her home (about 100 yards away, across the bridge and stream), including my cell number for future reference, adding that I hope, if she has a problem with my dog pooping on public by-ways ever again, she would call me to discuss it, or even stop by my house. I mean, after all, bitch, we have been acquainted for fifty-plus years. Oops. The funny thing is, yesterday I thought I was being paranoid, nah, nobody would put a big poop right by my car door on purpose!! And today, well, today I know better; today, shit still happens, and it’s up to me to decide how best to handle it. Jury’s still out because – I know I’m not the only one who walks my dog along that stretch – and, human that I am, it makes me laugh, thinking of the effort she has to go to, to do what she’s been doing – drive or walk a quick mile plus back and forth from her house – picking up dog shit out of the grassy verge to prove her point, which is in fact not an unreasonable one: clean up after your dog. We’ll see. Just because she’s petty cow doesn’t mean I have to be. May Shirley be happy, may she be healthy, may she ride the waves of her life, and may she find peace, no matter what.
Is it weird that I’m wondering what could possibly motivate someone to pick up poop – I mean I love my dog and all, but I don’t touch it unless I have to – and move it from one part of the road to another – besides petty spitefulness? Just let the rain take it, or push it over into the taller grass if the sight of it offends you, right? Oh well, back to work on the clash of values, the letting go, the championship bout between who I am and who I seek to be.
I imagine by the time I’m seventy, or eighty, all this stuff, any and all of my grudges, will seem like petty nonsense, right? Fingers crossed.
*Dogs never bite me – just humans. ~ Marilyn Monroe
He needs a haircut, don’t you agree? He’s not easy to catch in a still or semi-still moment for photos, believe me, and cutting his hair is a two-person job.
Diego, it turns out, is a Spanish form of the English name James and has the same meaning, which is “supplanter”. It is also associated with the Spanish word for “Saint”, which is “Santo” – all of which is hilarious for a number of reasons, one of which is that he ain’t no saint, but he sure is a supplanter, having replaced and upended my perviously peaceful life with a heckin’ load of work, chaos, outdoor time, and fun.
This next photo is Diego in his favorite awake spot inside the house, by the French doors where he can supervise the movement of various birds, the woodchuck that lives in the stone wall, and my neighbors. This photo also almost, almost captures the length of his lil leggums, which ain’t lil, a’tall. Sigh. 90 pounds of pure furry love!
“All this might be an illusion but all the same I cannot question the things I have experienced. Memories belong in this category.” ~ Shohei Ooka
Living in New York City, or, I suppose, any large and densely packed metro area, laundry – as in access to washers and dryers – is a thing, a challenge, an inconvenience, a marker of how much cashola you have. Rich folks have w’s and d’s in their large, rich people flats; they send out, to specialist cleaners – his shirts, jackets, and pants, her blouses and dresses – among other items; their staff (housekeeper, cleaning women) will wash the rest, including the unmentionables. Being not rich-y-rich, not even close, I still find it quite thrilling that I can, even over two decades after leaving NYC, wash my own clothes and everything else that needs washing in my own home, whenever I want (whenever I want!!!) because I have my very own washer and dryer. In my house, at my permanent disposal. Oh joy! Oh rapture! Basic/major appliances on hand and always ready: what a gift, and I am grateful AF.
Carrying even one bag of laundry several blocks is such a specific sweaty task, even in, maybe especially in winter (sweating while also freezing and slipping around, anyone?). When I lived in the East Village, the walk was about four blocks up 2nd Avenue to a reasonably clean spot, but the laundromat closest to me in my next neighborhood on the Upper West Side was another whole story. On Columbus Avenue between 103rd and 104th streets, it was – I kid you not – scary: dark, ancient, with worn and dirty walls scarred by graffiti half-heartedly wiped away, and yellowed by age inadequate florescent lighting over-head. I went there for a couple of years, the whole process took about 3.5 hours, and you dared not leave your wash unattended, so it was time to read and people watch, if you were brave enough to look at the other patrons, because looking at someone could be taken as an insult, an intrusion, a judgement in that place, that neighborhood, during those early years of the 1980s.
The woman who ran the place, owned it too, I guess, would do your wash for a fee, but I found her so terrifying I rarely approached her for any cause. A chain smoker, she had a backroom she might’ve lived in, not sure, and she was big, foul mouthed, and very, very angry, it seemed to me, all the time. Just asking her for change to use her machines was a challenge, kind of like asking an alligator to share its dinner? Doesn’t she want me to spend my money here, so – making change would seem like part of the service? But no, for gawd knows what reason, it infuriated her. She was like the mom in fairy tales who is actually a monster with a lashing pointed tail hidden under the tent dress she wore, the kind who eats little kids, including her own. And if you’ve never had your wet wash dumped out of a dryer you’ve fed several dollars into, dumped right out onto the questionably clean floor, as I did after stepping away for five minutes, you haven’t lived.
Not as close by was another much smaller, cleaner, less worn laundromat run by a man who was short and skinny, always on the move; he was always smiling, too. That seemed a bit suspect, but still, I stopped by one day – it was an extra whole and very long block away from my apartment, so it was unlikely I’d use it – yet it seemed he truly was genuinely nice, the atmosphere was one of cheery industry, women chatting with one another primarily in Spanish or what I assumed was Mandarin, and, in this place, everyone seemed to be taking care of one another, less piranha feeding frenzy-like, more controlled chaos only there was clearly order, and kindness, if you stuck around, which I did. Eventually, because I noticed he also did people’s laundry for them, I asked how much would it cost for him to do mine? For that bag? For this bag full. Five dollars. No way. Five dollars? Five dollars. Okay! I always gave him ten.
He was really nice, and getting someone who was kind to do my laundry was really, really, really nice. Heading off to college at eighteen, I didn’t know how to do ‘the wash’, because my mother was a fucking freak who treated her washer and dryer like they were her most precious possessions, the family jewels of a weirdly specific sort. Hers. Twice in my life she physically attacked me for attempting to use her washer, and while she was happy to instruct my sisters in how to do wash, and did my brother’s laundry until the day his domestic cat of a wife took over, she absolutely refused to teach me. I don’t know all of the reasons why that was, but in general she liked to stymie me, however and whenever she could. No problem, how hard can it be? It’swash…everyone does it (well, everyone except my brother).
When I ran out of clean clothes my first semester at Syracuse U., I took that same future five dollars’ worth canvas bag, my bottles of detergent and bleach (that’s what you use, right?) to the laundry room on the first floor, where I was thrilled to be able to fit all the clothes in a single machine (because why not,right?). Hooray! I added detergent and bleach (that’s what you do, right?), and – turning my back on the machine to read a history assignment – discovered thirty minutes later that I had a washing machine full of Pesto Bismol pink clothing, except my jeans and corduroys, which were chock full of pink and white spots and streaks. What. The. Hell. I figured out that a red cotton skirt I owned, which was no longer entirely red, had ‘shared’ its color because…bleach, I guessed? Shared. Oops. Straight from the washer into the garbage can, except for the salvageable bits I could still possibly wear. Thank goodness most of my clothes came from the thrift shop, although I did mourn a few I had bought new with my own money. Better luck next time? There was another, older student in the laundry room that day, while I waited for her to leave the room (no way was I going to take the puke-pink wash out in front of her), and for my machine to finish its cycle, I watched her separate her whites from her colored clothing, and put bleach in with the whites, and the whites only. Oops.
One day, less than a decade later, and after several years of using the laundromat with the always moving and smiling man, I came back from a midtown audition appointment, dressed in a billowing pale green skirt, white striped silk-ish blouse I still miss, and heels. It must’ve been for a soap, the audition, and as it was a hot summer day, I exited the 103rd street subway at the farthest north end to reduce my outside walk by a block. The steps at the 104th street exit are very steep, and I joined a wall-to-wall crowd slowly making its way upstairs like little sardines in a pack. As we began to gain sunlight, I was hit on the back of the head with rocks, twice, and found that I was bleeding; several of others in the group were hit also, and, looking up, I saw a group of young boys’ heads around the metal barrier above the stairs. Hurt and angry, when I got to the street level, I gave those little shits hell, and then proceeded to walk to the Post Office on 104th street to get some stamps. I was shaken, and still angry, and the heat that day was oppressive – but the bleeding was minimal and I would soon be home, after all. The boys, however, had decided to follow me, and as I made my way down the block a few catcalls followed me as well, nothing new in that, but what was new were pieces of street garbage zinging past my head, or not, hitting my back and legs. Ridiculous. Thankfully, respite was close, so, hastening my steps, it was done and over, and I was safely inside the P.O. While standing on line to get my stamps, a young girl approached me – warning me – that I shouldn’t go out there, because now there was a bunch of boys who were waiting for me, and I was going to get hurt, really hurt. I was stunned, disbelieving – what?! Is this my own special Lord of the Flies moment, or what? She had to be kidding?!
She was not.
As I finished at the window, I noticed a gaggle of small boys had entered the Post Office; they were whispering together, and were clearly keeping me in their sights. Fun stuff. Why, of all days, today, when I was in heels, FFS? Heels, and a billowing skirt. Why of all days had I decided to be a snarky cow, correcting children not my own, with whom I didn’t have a relationship, most of whom were kids of color, when I looked like the epitome of an entitled white lady, which I was, and am, but argh. For whatever reason (denial?) I didn’t reach out to anyone else in the Post Office; it couldn’t be that bad, right? So out I went, walking as fast as possible down the street while again, cans and bottles, rocks and whatever came to hand, began raining down on me from behind, several landing, mostly on my legs, back, and shoulders. I started running as best I could in my cursed heels, making it to the laundromat about a city block away where I threw myself on the mercy of my – acquaintance, the guy who did my laundry, a man who was not much bigger than the kids who were harassing me, if that.
Out he went without hesitation, returning a few minutes later – the boys having been scattered by – whatever he did; I was much too freaked out to watch, or witness. I was merely, hugely grateful. Was it five minutes, or ten, when he came back? I don’t know, but he told me it was okay, he’d dealt with it, and that I was free to take as much time as I needed before heading home. He knew these kinds of things, and how they can happen, but assured me they wouldn’t bother me again. He said he wasn’t afraid of bullies, and the only way to deal with them was to show no fear, ever. They were cowards, and easily – although I know he didn’t use this word – cowed. He then showed me what I had noticed before, but had never dared ask about: the tattoo on his arm, a series of numbers, telling me it was a souvenir of the concentration camp he’d lived in, and survived, as a child in Poland. I had seen it, of course, and thought that’s what it was, from the Holocaust, but who could I ask if I was too shy to ask him, which I was, same with my wondering where he was originally from, his accent having given his foreign birth away. He laughed, flexing his muscle on that same arm, laughing at – at himself? At life? At triumphing over the gang of kids? At surviving? He explained that this, this time in the camps in Poland, was why he was so short, he was starving there for years, before the liberation, but he had lived. And this was why he came to New York, to America, to be free, and safe, where he could work hard and make a life for himself after seeing the very worst of human behavior. He was forever grateful, and now, nothing scared him, certainly not a bunch of little kid bullies from around the block.
After that, we were friends, not sharing lunch and gossip friends, but friends, even though we never knew one another’s names. I stopped by to say hello whenever I was over that way, and bought him a gift for the holidays, grateful he was there, grateful, period. After that, he was my hero, for many reasons, and I loved him for his always smiling, always moving self. Those boys never glommed together again, that I knew, but I continued to look up every time I used that subway exit, just in case, and I stopped wearing heels to and from auditions, carrying them in my bag while sporting sneakers, ready, always, to run if I had to.
My friend the laundry man died of a heart attack on the job, about eighteen months later. I don’t know how old he was, but he could not have been much more than fifty, and it was terrible, a tragedy. I found out when I brought a bag of laundry for washing; there were women weeping in the narrow space, hugging one another, mourning him in Spanish, and Mandarin, English, too – enough for me to find out what had happened. No one there that day knew of his family, or who to contact; his body had been taken away by ambulance that morning; no one was in charge, everyone was in charge. I felt ashamed I never asked his name, or if he had family living. It seemed too personal, possibly too painful. But, I should’ve asked. Not long after that, I moved to mid-town. He had lived nearly thirty years in the U.S., spending his days in a long, narrow room filled with women and children and the noise of the washers and dryers, and he was always smiling.
In case you live under a rock and were unaware that 81-year-old Martha Stewart is this year’s Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Cover Model, now you know, and – you’re welcome. Or, whatever. Personally, I am a fan of Martha’s, a woman not unlike Hillary Clinton with regard to the outsized hatred she’s engendered in her life, although I’m not a watcher or reader of her shows, her books, her magazine, what have you (in fact, does she even have a show or magazine anymore?) so, basically, I’m not a fan fan. I simply admire her for being a smart, successful business woman with a great sense of humor, one who knows how to use the media in support of her businesses. Martha is also admirable for her resilience, for having survived, and thrived, despite pissing off a lot of tweeny lil men, enough to end up in prison for a pretty slim case of insider trading of a type that is so common in certain circles in NYC, and elsewhere, if the authorities wanted to they could spend all day and night every day prosecuting it. But, they don’t, and for good reason.
As for Sports Illustrated. Who cares? Oh right, a lot of people do. I guess? A lot of men do. First of all, the magazine should be called Men’s Sports Illustrated, because the number of women and girls whose photos and stories inhabit the pages – even a half century after Title IX was passed – are miniscule. Miniscule. Tiny. Itty-bitty. Small. Few and far between. So, let’s be honest and call it like it is: Men’s Sports Illustrated. That a nearly nude 18 – 28-year-old female graces the cover annually, usually, creating that year’s best-selling issue – pardon me, 18 – 28-year old primarily white female – is y’know, not a big deal unless I guess you’re either the female in question ($$ka-ching! $$) or a person who enjoys looking at nearly naked females, and given the ubiquity of naked women and girls on the internet (so I’ve heard), maybe it’s time to move on? Maybe?
For a millennium, men have held the majority of the buying and selling power in the world, but people like Martha Stewart have been changing that for some time now, and – a recommended read – Rebecca Traister’s All the SingleLadies outlines how that rising demographic of successful, experienced, often well-educated, working, middle and upper-class women are changing the overall paradigm, and not a minute too soon. I started The First Time Project because I was sick to death of reading and seeing stories of male sexual initiation. FFS, not another one! And, in the culture at large, women and girls are waking up to the power of having our own: our own money, stock portfolios, businesses, homes, investments, representation, ideas, choices, desires – and our own stories told, respected, believed, and acted upon. Do we still have a long way to go? Fuck yeah, we do.
Does Martha Stewart’s appearance on the cover of SI’s breathlessly anticipated swimsuit issue change anything? Maybe, maybe not. But it is a conversation starter, and conversations are good, ain’t dey? Yes, yes dey are. For example, answer this: why the fuck is there a swimsuit issue, at all? And if so, why not a mostly naked man at least every other year, arising from the surf in Hawaii or whatever TF they shoot these things. I could go for that. Would advertisers flee? Would reader-subscribers? We won’t know until it’s tried, now will we? Mix it TF up. And of course we can discuss the male gaze, the taken for granted, assumed male point of view, and gaaaaaaaze. Who is holding the camera, who is editing these magazines with their dearth of female athletes portrayed, who is determining what and who is newsworthy in a world that is – however incrementally – changing; this is a subject for conversation, for discussion, for consciousness raising – the late 1960s equivalent of ‘woke’.
I’ve also seen the response on social media to the cover, which response and conversation has tended to revolve around Martha’s ‘work’, as in Botox, face lifts, filler – as well as the amount of retouching required, retouching the editors do even to the 18-28-year-olds, btw, because no woman, not one, is perfect until she’s been heavily retouched. Interesting word that: re-touched, touched again. Hey, the most beautiful person I have ever known was my grandma, a woman I was named after and adored, a woman who adored me, although in a hands-off way because she and my grandfather believed in treating their grandchildren equally, as in equally hands-off. Sigh. Still, she was pretty special and – she had a face that most closely resembled a horse, or a mule – not, by any means, standard issue pretty. But oh, she was gorgeous, highly intelligent, with a lovely sense of humor. She was also incredibly patient and kind. I never, ever heard a word against anyone, ever, come out of her mouth. I intend to grow old as gracefully and naturally as my grandma, who was a role model extraordinaire – except perhaps for aping the whole not a bad word spoken part, which is probably, mostly not possible, but I’m trying! I might, I just might have a dollop of my to-the-grave grudge-holding paternal grandfather in me. I might. And, once again, other pals of mine are going another route, as they are free to choose for themselves how to age, and hooray for that. One good friend had some kind of Botox-like injection to her upper lip, and was unable to drink through a straw for a week, which made us both laugh, as she so loves her big slurpy iced coffee drinks.
We all have to find our own way, and make our own choices, in a world that is often very cruel, very unforgiving and harsh, toward women as they age. As we raise our personal consciousnesses, as we let go of the ideas we had of ourselves as we once were, as we let go of cultural expectations, of fear, and of our precious egos (William Saroyan on the subject of aging, and death: everybody has to do it, but I always believed an exception would be made in my case), we make our way toward a wrinkled no matter what end. No one gets out of here alive, and no one really wants to get out young, regardless of the beautiful corpse concept. And truthfully, we are the same at age six as we are at age sixty, or ninety; our character, our temperament, our spirit, remains the same.
Robert DeNiro just had another child with his current partner at 79. Seventy-nine. Whatever. What’s sauce for the goose…
And if we must continue these outdated, ridiculous traditions, ones like an annual partly naked person on a sports magazine’s cover, let’s at least change it up, of which this latest gambit is step one. If we must, and – must we? Since Covid, since the weird last several years, can we not upend and alter a number of ancient, creaking, stale and moldy traditions – like inequality and unequal outcomes in healthcare and housing, like crippling student debt, like overpaying CEOs, while underpaying workers, teachers and nurses, like not having universal healthcare in the U.S., like not having paid family leave mandated federally, like paying too much for prescription drugs, like a broken congress, like the filibuster, like having only nine justices on the Supreme Court when we no longer have nine courts of appeals, but thirteen – and don’t you think thirteen is a nice uneven number? Ah! A woman can dream. The tradition of wedding bouquets and father of the bride dances can be toileted as well, in my opinion, as for white lace or satin dresses – puhleeeze – but I won’t get my hopes up, at least not for another decade or so.
Hey, I say go for it, Miss Kostyra (Martha’s maiden name), do whatever floats your boat. She certainly can take the heat she is getting; she has handled it well for decades. Practically my favorite thing about Martha Stewart is that she is, actually, friends with Snoop Dogg, which is perfect. And she did start her career as a model, back in the day. Jersey Girls Rule.
Here’s a link (below) to a survey of how many/often women – sans the swimsuit issue – have been featured on SI’s covers, it’s from 2013 but I figure nothing mich has changed since then, but again – a woman can hope.
