Journalist, Author & Syndicated Columnist
For those of you lucky enough to have loving, significant others, Valentine’s Day is a dream come true. But for the rest of us, it’s a dreaded night second only to New Year’s Eve. The expectations are so high that disappointment is as likely as anything else. Not only are we supposed to have a date, but it’s supposed to be with the perfect guy. And we can’t just go out for a nice meal. It has to be a special meal.
Rosa Parks. Martin Luther King. Malcolm X. Oprah Winfrey. They are all pioneers who have made an impact on American society. And all four most likely will make the final cut of “The 100 Most Influential African Americans of the 20th Century.”
People think that teen shows are just for teen viewers. But cop shows aren’t just for cops, just like doctor shows aren’t just for doctors. Between `Party of Five,’ `Dawson’s Creek’ and (the canceled) `My So-Called Life,’ American TV (programmers) have finally discovered that the lives of teenagers make for good television literature.
There’s one thing I don’t ever want to see in a women’s room — a man. Ever since “Ally McBeal” hit it big on Fox, talk around the water cooler has centered on two things: the brevity of our heroine’s hemline and the uncomfortable concept of the coed bathrooms that the attorneys share on the show.
Dumping your friends is different from losing touch. The latter is passive action that happens because one of you moves away, or he gets married, or she has a baby and is too busy to listen to you harp about a Kate Spade handbag that you absolutely have to have. Eventually, you run into each other again, exchange new numbers and addresses and make an effort to renew your friendship.
“Chink-a-Chink-a Chinaman sitting on a fence; Trying to make a dollar out of 59 cents.” My parents were mortified when their 5-year-old daughter came home from school singing this chant. My friends and I had learned to jump rope to this song from older kids who thought it would be fun to teach a bunch of kindergartners a thing or two. At the time, I had about as much concept of what a “Chink” was as I did the actual value of 59 cents. But I was too young to see past my parents’ forced smiles.
Seven years ago, I decided to take the plunge and invest in a home. The greedy part of me wanted a house with a huge lawn, 2-car garage and a roomy basement. Then I thought about mowing the lawn eight months out of the year and, worse yet, shoveling snow for the remainder. Suddenly, a condo sounded like a better alternative. So I checked out various developments and eventually arranged to put down a deposit on a unit. When I got there at the appointed time, I learned the broker had sold the plot of land she had promised to me.
When you’re a 20-year-old coed, you can barely hear your biological clock ticking. At that age, most young adults worry about summer jobs, graduating and trying not to get pregnant. But Sylvia Ann Hewlett’s book Creating a Life: Professional Women and the Quest for Children (Talk Miramax, $22) warns women of all ages that having babies must be timed at least as carefully as career choices.
There’s safety in numbers. That’s the only explanation I can come up with as to why a stadium full of 95 percent men would work itself up into a collective dither, trying to get the few women in the venue to expose their breasts. Hey – ever hear of Playboy? If any one of these lumbering morons was at a beach, or even a bar, there’s no way he would walk up to a girl and scream, “Show your – – – -!” at her.
Jim Ellison, whose catchy melodies and girl-crazy lyrics defined the Chicago pop group Material Issue, was found dead at his Chicago home early Thursday of carbon monoxide poisoning. He was 32.