Patsy Porco

Archive for 2018|Yearly archive page

The Case of the Missing Eggplants

In gardening, Humor on August 6, 2018 at 1:06 am

I was so proud of my garden this year. I had managed to grow eggplants, which I’ve never been able to do in the past.

This summer, I had at least 20 eggplants growing on two plants. They were small and didn’t seem to be getting any bigger so, a few days ago, I fed them plant food and waited.

Today, I went to check on them … and they were gone. One-hundred-percent missing. There wasn’t a trace of them. It was as if they had never existed.

Do eggplants regularly disappear? That would explain why I could never grow them. Maybe, in past years, they were there before I saw them and had vanished by the time I started looking for them.

Their giant leaves still exist, though. Only the eggplants are gone. We don’t have deer, just rabbits and squirrels. But even if they ate them, there’d be evidence, e.g., partly eaten eggplants lying all over the ground.

This is very perplexing. But, then again, so is my zucchini situation.

Everyone who grows zucchini says that they’re overwhelmed by the abundance of their harvest. I grew two zucchini. Two. I have several enormous plants that look very healthy but they don’t have any zucchini growing from them now that I picked the two that grew. I’m beginning to wonder if my zucchini disappeared, too.

My strawberries vanish regularly, but I blame that on birds. But I can’t blame birds for everything. Eggplants and zucchini wouldn’t fit in bird beaks, unless they were vulture beaks. I haven’t seen any vultures in my garden, though. If I did, I would have certainly taken a picture.

Speaking of pictures, I should have taken some of my eggplants—just to prove that they did exist and that I didn’t dream that I grew them.

The line between my real life and my dream life has been getting blurry lately.


Bye Bye


(Note to Grammar Purists: The plural of eggplant can be eggplant or eggplants. I didn’t understand the rule regarding when to use the former and when to use the latter, so I chose to use “eggplants” at every mention. Zucchini is the plural of zucchini.)



A Day at the Beach

In Humor on July 29, 2018 at 11:55 pm

Today was the first day I went to the beach this summer. I live along the Connecticut coastline and every town has its own beach, mine included, so I could have gone every single summer weekend, and even some weeknights, if I had wanted to. And I did want to. But the thought of packing a bag with everything I’d need, putting on sunscreen, carrying a beach chair, and driving to the beach always seemed like too much trouble.

But, today, I was determined to take advantage of our beautiful Calf Pasture Beach, so I gathered everything I’d need and drove the 4 miles to get there. The beach was packed, but there was still plenty of room on the sand for everyone. The sky was clear, the temperature was in the mid-80s, and the water was refreshingly cool, but not cold. It was a perfect beach day.

For two hours, I sunbathed, took dips in the Long Island Sound to cool off, bought an ice cream cone, and read. I sat as close to the water as I could, without getting wet.

While I was reading, I heard someone speaking very loudly. I looked over at the sound and saw an older man floating on his back in the very shallow water not far from the sand. I realized that it was the man who was speaking, and he was shouting the same words over and over at a young woman who stood near him in the water. I didn’t know what he was saying to her because he wasn’t speaking English.  The woman looked at him with no expression and walked away. When she passed me, I asked her if everything was okay. She told me that everything was fine and thanked me for my concern.

I decided that the man was probably unstable, so I went back to the book I was reading. After a few minutes, I heard a noise and looked over towards the water. The man was still floating on his back in the shallow water and was again yelling at someone, but now the tone of his voice had changed — to one of agony. I looked a little closer and noticed that he was talking to the same young woman who had acted like she didn’t know him. She had returned and appeared to be dragging the man out of the water by one leg, which only made him scream louder. This just seemed too odd to ignore, so I got up and went over to them.

I asked if I could help and the man said, “YES” or something that started with “Y” and seemed affirmative. The young woman shrugged. I grabbed the man’s other leg and started to help the woman pull him out. This maneuver caused his head to descend lower into the water, which lapped over his face, making him choke and gag. Since preventing him from drowning seemed more important than pulling him out of the three inches of water he was lying in, I dropped his leg and elevated his head with my hand. Meanwhile, the young woman continued to hold his leg. She didn’t seem to be pulling anymore, just standing still with his leg in her hands. I suggested that she put down his leg so the man could try to sit up. He nodded in agreement. Once both of his legs were on the ground, we tried to help him into a sitting position. He cried out in pain and fell backwards. I grabbed his head again and kept it above the water.

At this point, a lot of things happened at once. A man came over and asked if he should call the lifeguard. I said yes. The lifeguard came running over from her chair. She was blonde, fit, very cute, and useless. “My supervisor will be right over,” she said.

While we waited for the supervisor to arrive, another woman came running over to see what was going on. She said she was an EMT and then started demanding answers to standard EMT questions: “What’s the man’s name? How old is he? Does he have a heart condition?” I had no idea. I looked over to ask the young woman if she knew anything, but she was gone. A crowd was assembling and she had retreated to the back of it.  I ran over to her and said, “Do you know this man?

“Yes,” she said. “He’s my father-in-law.”

Her father-in-law? I had so many questions for her, but this wasn’t the time. “What’s wrong with him?” I asked.

“He has a cramp in his leg,” she said.

“You’d better get back over there and answer some questions about him,” I said.

She looked like she was thinking over her options. “Go!” I said.

She strolled over to the EMT. Just then a bunch of teenaged lifeguards arrived in a Jeep. They jumped out and grabbed the man’s arms and legs and started to pull him out of the water. He started screaming again.

The EMT, who had managed to extract answers from the young woman, said, “He’s 65 and he says he has a leg cramp. I think it’s more than that,” she said. “Maybe a blood clot.”

I had to agree that it seemed more serious than a leg cramp, since he couldn’t sit up without howling his head off. But it was out of my hands now. I went back to my chair and watched as the lifeguards and EMT slid a surfboard under the man and carried him off like pallbearers at a beach funeral.

Once the excitement was over, the crowd dispersed.

I decided that it was a good time for me to leave, as well. A person can only take so much relaxation in one day.


Calf Pasture Beach, Norwalk, CT




Medical Karma

In colonoscopy, Humor on July 25, 2018 at 7:07 pm

I had a terrible sinus headache today. I also had an appointment to meet the doctor who would be performing my colonoscopy. He is in the same practice as my primary-care physician (medical lingo for “regular doctor”) but he’s a specialist and I had never met him before.

After the nurse had escorted me into a little room and had measured my weight and blood pressure, she left me alone after assuring me that the doctor would be with me shortly. Judging from my experience, I sincerely doubted it. So, I lay down on the white paper on the vinyl bed and closed my eyes.

The lights in the room were motion-activated and, since I wasn’t moving, they went off. That suited me fine because my head was pounding and light exacerbates my headaches.

After awhile – a long while – the door opened. I shot up into a sitting position and the lights went on. The doctor grabbed at his heart.

“Oh my God!” he said.

“What?” I asked.

“You scared me to death,” he said.

“I did?” I said. “Why?”

“I thought you were dead,” he said, shaking his head. “I walked into a room that was pitch black and saw you lying on the table. And then you popped up and the lights came on.”

He reached behind himself to make sure there was a chair, and sat down and put his head in his hands.

I laughed. And laughed. “You really thought I was dead?”

He took his head out of his hands and managed to produce a shaky chuckle. “You have to see it from my point of view. When I work at the hospital, I occasionally walk into a room and encounter a dead person. You were lying with your hands crossed over your chest in a dark room. What else would I think?”

“Wow,” I responded. “Did you ever find a dead person in one of your consultation rooms before?”

“No.” He shook his head. “But there’s a first time for everything.”

“I’m sorry I alarmed you,” I said.

“You scared the crap out me,” he said. “By the way, nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you, too,” I said.

Later, when I was being given instructions on how to prepare for my colonoscopy, I thought it was only fair that I got to scare the crap out of him – considering what the horrible-tasting liquid he prescribed was going to do to me.

Dr. Sammarco





Waiting for Your Boaz

In Humor on July 24, 2018 at 1:05 am

I got a text today from my friend, Boaz. He was on an airplane and he said that everyone’s private TV screen featured a picture of one of the airline’s smiling flight attendants. Every passenger was looking at a different flight attendant, and he said that the woman in front of him had a picture of an attendant who looked just like me, so he got to stare at me for the whole flight.

“I’m sorry about that,” I texted.

“Why?” he texted back.

“Because you have to stare at my double, and my attractive days are behind me. ”

“That’s funny,” he texted, “because your attractive days are right in front of me.”

That’s Boaz for you. He always knows what to say to make you feel good about yourself.

I decided to call him later in the day. During the course of the conversation, he said, “You haven’t blogged in a long time.”

“Because my life is miserable and I have nothing funny to write about,” I replied.

“You could always write about me,” he suggested. “Then I’d be famous.”

“Yeah, right,” I said. “All 30 of my readers would know your name.”

“That’s 30 more people than know it now,” he said.

I had to laugh. Boaz has that effect on people. He always sees the positive side of life. The little daily nuisances that currently have me down – our dryer broke, our basement flooded, and a circuit died on our circuit board – are just minor annoyances to him. He prefers to think happy thoughts … even during the times when he’s tempted to ship his kids off to military school or strangle a coworker.

Everybody could use a Boaz in his or her life. Which reminds me: A few years ago, there was a meme that made the Facebook rounds. I sent it to Boaz, and he loved it. He said that the message was 100% accurate: everyone should wait for his or her Boaz.

It was just too bad that there was only one of him, he said.

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Author unknown

Guessing Games

In dogs, Humor on June 30, 2018 at 3:04 am

Today, my son and I decided to find out if our dog, Duke, can swim.

We’ve been deducing things about him since we adopted him in January from the Humane Society in Connecticut. When we got him, aside from his name, we were told only four things about him: that he came from “down South somewhere, probably,” since Duke was sent to them from a shelter in North Carolina; that he had a family for his first four years but they had to give him up for a reason the shelter volunteers either didn’t know, or did know and weren’t sharing with us; that he was extremely overweight, which we’d have to rectify; and that we had won the jackpot because of his sweet, playful nature. That was all of the information we got on him.

So, we’ve had our detective glasses on for five months. Through trial and error, we’ve discovered that: when he is in our fenced yard, if he can’t tunnel out or slam his body against the gate until it opens so he can escape, he will curl up patiently by the back door until we let him in; he will run out the front door if we accidentally leave it open and will probably get attacked by another dog, which will land him at the vet’s and us in the poorhouse; he will eat anything and everything including socks, which must be high in calories because he’s gaining weight instead of losing it; he hates cats and squirrels; he’s fascinated by bats; he thinks he’s a 110-pound lapdog; and his breakfast kibble gives him pause.

Every morning, he hesitates in front of his bowl, but not in the evening. We don’t know what he’s waiting for. I’ve given him permission to eat, I’ve said grace for him, and I’ve walked away. Walking away works the best. When I return, the food is always gone. Maybe he likes to eat his breakfast in peace.

We also had to narrow down his breeds by asking others what they thought he was. My friend, Christine, who has worked in shelters and has seen a lot of dogs, said she thought Duke was probably part malamute, lab, and German shepherd. Once I googled malamute, I could see why she decided on that breed. I think I see some shepherd in him, too, and labs look kind of generic, so I can’t come up with any evidence that he’s not one. Therefore, I’m inclined to agree with her.

However, I saw a commercial the other day that featured wolves, and I could’ve sworn he was in it. Maybe he was a TV wolf before we got him. The former owner is probably getting monthly residual checks while we’re getting shredded, slobbery socks tossed about our house, tumbleweeds of dog hair blowing around the legs of our furniture, and enormous veterinarian bills.

But, back to today. We noticed that Duke has webbed toes, so we assumed he could swim. So, we took him to the nearest public dock. When we got there, it was low tide. Duke was very interested in the thousands of suicidal oysters that had died on the rocks, but he shied away from the water. I eventually lured him in, but he wouldn’t go in further than his ankles. Then he took off running under piers and across jagged rocks, leading me and my son on a slippery chase across mossy stones and through sucking mud and stagnant green water.

When we finally caught him, we rinsed him off and took him home. We still don’t know if he can swim. He might never have seen large bodies of water before. This weekend, we’re going to take him to a lake where dogs are allowed to swim. Hopefully, he’ll see how easy it is and he’ll join the hordes of dogs chasing balls in the lake. Or, he won’t.

Either way, he’s going to wear water shoes. I don’t want him bleeding all over the kitchen floor again, like he did tonight. He must have cut his foot while running across the razor-edged rocks. I had to drug him with Benadryl so that I could clean his foot and wrap it in gauze. Of course, he tore off the gauze and dragged the blood-soaked wrappings across the rugs. So I was forced to make him a boot out of socks and a ribbon of medical tape. It took several tries to tie it on tight enough to keep him from pulling it off, but loose enough not to cut off his circulation.

It was good practice, though, because I’m going to have to make his water shoes out of socks and old tires, since I don’t know where to buy them. Hopefully his dog friends will be so busy making fun of his swimming that they won’t notice his shoes.

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Scores Best Left Unsettled

In bocce, Humor on June 7, 2018 at 8:52 pm

When I was growing up, my family belonged to Crispin Gardens Athletic Club, located in Pennypack Park in Northeast Philadelphia, where my family lived. My father and mother were very involved with the club, so, naturally, we kids were, too. Or, to be accurate, the first four of my parents’ children were involved. The other three were too young to play at the time we were members.

My two brothers were good at baseball and football, which were the two sports offered to boys. My younger sister and I were not good at softball or cheerleading, which were the sports available for girls. But that didn’t stop us from participating in both activities.

I was a cheerleader for 5-year-old football players. I could never figure out how to do a cartwheel so I got to cheerlead for kids who hadn’t figured out how to play football.

I also played softball. When I was in about fifth or sixth grade, my sister and I were on a team together. Neither of us ever got a hit. So, the two of us were traded by our team … for one girl from another team. Our neighbor, Mrs. Devine, who was a family friend, managed a team in the league and she took pity on us. She gave up one of her better players for the two of us.

We did her proud … once. When Mrs. Devine’s team played our former team, both my sister and I got hits, much to our former team’s dismay.

I think those hits were our only hits, but they came at the perfect time. And, to make our victory even sweeter, our new team beat out our old team to win the club’s World Series. There was probably a lesson there …  but it was for our former team, and I doubt they learned it. Little league managers can be ruthless.

There was another lesson taught that season and this one was for me. I was fiercely jealous of the girl who replaced my sister and me. She was a few years younger than I was, around my sister’s age. So, not only was she a better player than I was, she was younger. I was demoralized. I wished all kinds of evil on her. And then, within a few weeks, she was dead.

She was hit by a car driven by a young guy who lived across the street from us. I was overcome with guilt for wishing her ill. I was certain that I had caused her death. When I got a little older and realized that I probably had nothing to do with her dying (although, we’ll never really know how powerful thoughts can be), I resolved to not wish bad things on people, no matter how much I disliked them.

So, years passed and I joined the occasional team and was always the worst player. I couldn’t even successfully serve a plastic volleyball over a swimming pool net. But this year, my luck could be changing.


Six of the Boccegaloops

Our city sponsors many spring and summer sports leagues that play on the courts and fields at Calf Pasture Beach in Norwalk, Connecticut. My husband and I are on a bocce team, Don Carmelo’s Boccegaloops. We were on it two years ago and the team came in last place. Our record wasn’t entirely due to my skill-less playing, but it certainly contributed. My husband persuaded me to play again this year. The team was happy to have us back, because of my husband’s skills, so we rejoined.

Last night, we had our first game and we won. And I didn’t stink. I credit the one practice we had a few weeks ago for turning the tide. I actually helped the team win. I wasn’t the best player (my husband and the other players were really good), but I wasn’t an embarrassment. And, I didn’t throw the ball wildly and crack any skulls. I kept the ball on the court and even got my red ball really close to the little white ball, the pallino, a few times, which is the object of the game.

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But what made me especially proud was that I didn’t wish any ill luck on a certain member of the opposing team. Others may have, but I didn’t. I did talk trash about her later, but I didn’t wish her any misfortune for her bad behavior.

It all started when our red ball and the opposing team’s green ball looked equidistant from the pallino. When that happens, you’re supposed to measure the distance between the closest green ball and the pallino and the closest red ball and the pallino, to see which ball is truly closest to the pallino.

We were winning 10-2 and the game ends when one team has 11 points. The head of the league came over and said that our ball was closer, so we were the winners. While gesticulating and jumping around in protest, a woman on the other team “accidentally” kicked our ball, making her ball look closer. Then she denied kicking it. But it was too late. We had won. And she was not happy.

Before she left, she shot us all a look that could kill. Some would call her look the “evil eye” or “malocchio.” She’s Italian so she probably knows how to activate it.

Anyway, I think my teammates and I would be wise to take precautions … at least until the league plays again next week. After then, she’ll probably despise another team and will have forgotten all about us.

I hope the evil eye loses its power once it’s transferred to someone else. If not, we’ll need to learn, and use, the fig and horned signs … and maybe stitch evil eye patches on our shirts.

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Strangely enough, possessing an evil eye repels any evil eyes that might be directed your way.


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A Good Way to Be

In Children, Humor on June 5, 2018 at 1:30 am

Whenever I sit on our sofa, I always lift the bottom cushions and check under them before sitting down. It’s become a habit, but tonight I caught myself doing it and wondered why I did it. Then I remembered.

I have a friend who is very smart and very introspective. Sometimes she’s so deep in her thoughts that you have to nudge her back to the conversation you’re having with her. She is also very calm amidst chaos. And that was a conscious choice she made.

She has experienced two life events that would send most of us into a tailspin, but she told me that she refused to allow them to interrupt her life. She said that she was available to support the people who were in trouble and she would continue to help them when they came out on the other side of their problems, but she would not obsess about their situations or let them interfere with her life.

She also doesn’t let the little annoyances, or alarming discoveries, in life get to her.

One day, she told me of a visit to her mother’s house. She said that she was sitting on the couch across from her mother, who was in an armchair. While talking, she slid her hand down the side of the couch between the cushion and the the arm. She felt something soft, so she lifted the cushion and found a family of mice. The surprising thing is that she found this to be interesting instead of horrifying. She told the story in a bemused fashion, as if it were odd that she didn’t find animals in her own furniture.

On another occasion, she told me that her son’s grade-school teacher sent a note home saying that she suspected that her son had worms. She called the teacher and asked why she thought this and the teacher said that the boy couldn’t sit still and was acting oddly. So, my friend took her son to his pediatrician and had him checked. He didn’t have worms after all, so he was sent back to school with a declaration of wormlessness from the doctor. Again, my friend didn’t get upset or mortified like most of us would have. She just did what she had to do, and told the story.

Years later, her younger son had the same teacher. He came home from school one day and said that the box of raisins that she had sent to school with him for recess had had worms in it. He took the box to the teacher and told her that he had inchworms that he wanted to show the class, since they sang the song “Inchworm.” The teacher told him that the the worms in his raisins weren’t inchworms and he should throw the raisins out. Being a very considerate teacher, she offered him an alternate snack from her supply closet.

I remember that my friend grimaced when she wondered if this teacher now thought of her family every time she saw worms. But then she laughed at the coincidence and put the incident aside.

I find her company to be very soothing. Nothing is a disaster to her, just something to endure and examine later. She might be on to something.

worm in apple

Pretend this apple is a raisin.

Let Me Lead!

In dance, Humor on June 3, 2018 at 9:17 pm

My husband and I took an hour-long dance lesson at a local Fred Astaire Dance Studio this past week.

A beautiful, young, Russian dancer, Tatiana, taught us the steps to the foxtrot, the rumba, and the merengue. I didn’t think my husband would enjoy the lessons but he surprised me. When Tatiana told me that my husband would lead every dance, his eyes twinkled. When we coupled up to dance and I automatically started to push him around the dance floor, he would stop dancing and say, “Let me lead!”

Tatiana, probably tired of my resistance, told me that I had to suppress my urge to run the show and allow my husband to take charge. That was really hard for me. But I tried. Like learning dance steps, I realized that learning to surrender control to another person takes time and practice.

When we got home, we practiced everything we had learned. Dancing on our own, without supervision, was the most difficult part of the dance lesson. Neither one of us could remember the order of the steps to the three dances, or even the actual steps.

At first, I thought that we had just wasted an hour of our life. But I had to concede that it was an enjoyable hour. So, even if we still couldn’t dance, we did have fun together, as well as a topic to dine out on, so it wasn’t a waste of time at all.

And, best of all, since we forgot all of the dance steps, we also can forget the part about my husband leading.


Wash Away Your Fat and Freckles

In advertising, Humor on May 29, 2018 at 1:28 pm

I was going to blog about my recent uncovering of a universal truth that could change the lives of everyone forever. I also planned to request credit for my discovery, along with the requisite fame and riches that would be expected to accompany a revelation that will add my name to the list of the other “great thinkers of all time.”

However, as I wrote, it became apparent that I couldn’t say for certain that somebody else hadn’t divined my secret first. I haven’t read the writings of all (or actually, any) of my fellow great thinkers, so I can’t say with certainty that my brainchild hadn’t been discussed before today, and, most importantly, I have no clinical-trial evidence to prove that my discovery works, which is mandatory for being taken seriously in 2018.

So, I scrapped my original post about my secret, and read up on the history of baseless advertising.

Beginning around the 1920s, many advertisers began placing print and radio ads that claimed that their products had amazing powers, and no proof of their assertions was required by law. All an advertiser needed was money. For decades, advertisers made all kinds of unfounded claims and consumers bought them, literally.

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“One to three cakes usually accomplish the purpose.”

Cigarette ads were everywhere. Babies and doctors recommended them. And if a movie actor recommended a certain brand, they had to be good, right?

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Unlike today, advertisers didn’t have to be politically correct. They could insult your body and your skin with impunity. Nowadays, advertisers have to be more circumspect about how they make you feel less than perfect.

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In the 1970s or 1980s, freckles were identified as skin damage, but back in the day, they were just called ugly. Ads for getting rid of them were ubiquitous.

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No claim by an advertiser was too outrageous. Lysol, which is used to clean toilets, was advertised to women for feminine hygiene use. And the ads implied that if women didn’t start using it, their husbands would be put off by their smell and leave them.

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Pitney-Bowes even suggested that murdering a woman might be defensible, under the right circumstances … such as her refusing to use a postage meter.

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I’m not sure what they’re selling here.

Judging these advertisements with a 2018 perspective, we wonder how consumers could take them seriously. But the beginning of the 20th century was the Wild West of advertising and no claim was too wild. And no laws protected consumers. And consumers believed what they read. Or maybe it was just hope that the products did what they were purported to do. Advertisers have always exploited human insecurities to sell products.

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It’s really too bad that inventions and discoveries are now regulated by intrusive government agencies. We would all be better off today if I could disclose my secret. But if I did, I’d probably be prosecuted for false advertising, because you just know that some crank would say that my “thing” didn’t work for him or her. And then I’d get arrested.

I’d rather take my life-changing revelation to my grave rather than to a jail cell.



Photo credits were impossible to trace. I obtained most of the pictures from this Google page of old ads.

Royal (Wedding) Ruminations

In Humor, r, Royal Wedding on May 20, 2018 at 12:35 pm

Princess Diana had to have a virginity test before she could marry Prince Charles in 1981. All the while, Charles was carrying on an affair with the married Camilla Parker-Bowles.

Kate Middleton and Meghan Markle lived with their fiancés before marriage. How things have changed in a not-very-long time. But that’s how progress works. One day you’re riding in a horse and carriage and a few years later you’re in a horseless carriage, and then an airplane … and then a horse and carriage again, but only if you’re the bride and groom leaving the church after your royal wedding in 2018.

The largest stride in progress has to do with Meghan’s being biracial. Now, every young girl, no matter what her racial composition is, can dream of becoming a princess, or whatever she wants to be. It was a long time coming. Even longer than it took Mattel to recognize that girls come in colors other than white. And for Crayola to acknowledge that “flesh tone” isn’t peach for half the world. And for cosmetic companies to make foundation that was darker than beige.

I am glad that Queen Elizabeth relaxed her standards. It couldn’t have been easy. She was raised in a much different time, when royal rules were strict … and when you broke them, you were discreet. Rumors abound about royal bed hopping and wedding vows that were ignored once the wedding dust settled. But misbehaving was done on the down low. Your friends and family knew, but they weren’t talking.

So, it’s probably better that everything is out in the open. Allowing Kate and William and Meghan and Harry to live together prior to marriage protected them all from learning later that their spouse had someone on the side. I don’t know how Diana didn’t know about Camilla. She probably did, but expected Charles to give Camilla up once they were married. She didn’t fully comprehend how the palace operated. But she was young.

Kate and Meghan were much older than Diana when they married (Kate was 29 and Meghan was 36, while Diana was 20). They knew more about the world than she did; plus, the world had changed enormously since 1981 when Diana and Charles tied the knot.

What intrigued me the most about the wedding of Meghan and Harry was Meghan’s wedding dress. It was beautiful, of course, albeit excessively plain and severely tailored. But that wasn’t what shocked me. What made me look twice was that it was pure white.

Screen Shot 2018-05-20 at 8.18.21 PMWhen I got married in 1991, the old notion that white dresses were for virgins had been discarded. But white dresses were still for first marriages. Not anymore. Meghan is in her second marriage, which is another giant leap for progress in the royal-thinking department. But, really, how could Queen Elizabeth say that Harry couldn’t marry a divorced woman when her own son, the next in line to the throne, is married to a divorced woman? She couldn’t.

The irony here is that Queen Elizabeth became queen much earlier than she should have, if at all, because her uncle, King Edward VIII, wasn’t allowed to be king and be married to a divorced woman who had a living ex-husband. Since King Edward was determined to marry twice-divorced Wallis Simpson, who had two living ex-husbands, he abdicated the throne to Queen Elizabeth’s father, King George VI.

Now, Queen Elizabeth’s son, Prince Charles, who is married to a divorced woman with a living ex-husband, will presumably be king. Prince Charles is really lucky that the rules changed since 1936.

Prince Charles is in a tight spot, though. He probably loves his mother and doesn’t want her to die, but it wouldn’t be surprising if he wished she would step aside and let him become king before he gets much older. He’s going to be 70 on November 14, 2018.

Queen Elizabeth is probably going to live forever and never step aside, though, in order to thwart Camilla. I wouldn’t blame her.

Camilla looks like a royal pain.

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