Today was overcast and rainy, a rare break from the sun this summer. It’s been hot and it’s been hotter and occasionally it’s been cooler, but mostly it’s been sunny. So I’ve been thinking more about the sun than I usually do in the summer.
Every day I marinate Kate in SPF 30, and she dutifully dabs it on her face. I do likewise. By the second day of this, she had turned her customary summer shade of Brown Bunny (love that cottontail!), and I’m only a few degrees behind. Today one of those freebie stay-healthy magazines arrived from our HMO, and I felt guilty. There were the usual warnings about sun exposure and wrinkles and cancer and the exhortation to go get a spray-on tan instead, and all the rest of it. I considered trading up to SPF 45, but honestly, my heart’s not in it. Brown Bunny looks good on my brown-eyed, brunette daughter. Her nose is dusted with freckles, her hair is acquiring a highlight job you couldn’t buy for any sum in a salon, and she looks…irresistible. How can something that makes her so beautiful be so wrong?
Well, the article will spell it out for you. I’ll keep coating her with sunblock, but it’s not exactly the equivalent of avoiding cigarettes. As for me, I think: What exactly am I preserving here? My skin was never that great to begin with. Might as well get as wizened as SPF 30 will allow.
Bloggage: Jon Carroll discusses his fear of flying in his usual just-right way, but includes details from the pre-9/11 skies that seem so long ago, it might as well have been the Middle Ages. In fact, I think it really was: Sometimes, on cross-country flights, I would repair to the bathroom for a little medicinal marijuana. I was nervous about getting caught, but it never happened. Maybe smoke detectors hadn’t been installed yet. Once, I came out of the bathroom just as a flight attendant was walking by. She looked at me; I looked at her.
“If you point the air blower at the sink and pull up the stopper,” she said, “you get a nice cross draft. There’s no odor to bother the next person.” I thanked her. Flying wasn’t just relaxed; it was enabling.
I remember when I used to ask for the smoking section. You met more interesting people there, I thought. Never mind the marijuana.
(I once knew a nurse who worked in a cancer ward, and had approximately the same attitude toward self-medicating patients — after visiting hours, anything went. “They have cancer,” she’d say. “And I’m going to tell them they can’t get high? Sorry, no.”)
Richard Cohen touches one of my deepest fears today — the way nothing dies on Google, and dammit, sometimes we wish it would.
I don’t know why this woman has a job. Every line of this lazy, wrong-headed, oversimplified piece o’ crap column is so wrong that if I were so inclined, I could take it apart piece by piece, the way you disassemble a chicken. But it’s late and I’m tired and I’m especially tired of her, so why bother? You can do it yourself.
You could sell snake oil, or you could sell celestial drops. Katherine Harris — yes, that one — is buying. Or was. You have to read it to believe.
Tomorrow’s forecast: Sunny. Time to break out the Coppertone. Again.