Let’s admit to the passage of time, begrudgingly, albeit truthfully while at times unbeknownst to us–because, let’s face it, as seniors (or those yet on the verge) a handful of you might have actually been at Woodstock or places where the love and smoke might have fogged the memories a bit more than just the dreaded menopause alone, so what more can be said or recollected? Yours truly, was too young to have been there, but I’ve lived long enough on the planet to have heard stories.
I’m inclined to cop to having lived long enough to mourn the absence from my TV screen of the dearly missed–but never forgotten! (despite the memory-erasing effects of estrogen dominance, as I type this)–Patsy and Edina from my TV screen. How am I to face the world of what troubled these ne’er do wells, ne’er grow-up, laughably-hip, coked-out, Stollied-out, Not-Ready-For-Desilu-Production heroines of mine without them? The brilliant originator and writer of Absolutely Fabulous, creator of these two floozies we loved to laugh at, Jennifer Saunders, tackled this dreaded encroachment of time onto our senses that universally unites us chicks as we stumble about on the planet–at the end of the day–in one of Patsy’s and Eddie’s more memorable and hysterical episodes titled, “Menopause.” As you can imagine, our heroines went fiercely kicking and screaming all the way into that night.
I drown my sorrow not in a bottle nor with a toke–because I’m frankly just a social drinker that can get deathly pukey and spew out overly sentimental recollections of Bowie and can further assure you that my two pale attempts at smoking hashish (more the rage in my native environs) made me paranoid and timid–the latter, remaining a character trait that some of my past editors wished had actually stuck.
What possible perks may be found in teetering on the verge of seniority–a fate that is dreaded and refuted most, perhaps, in our Real Housewives of All Delusions And Perdition Shows as evidenced on Bravo TV? Well, unlike some of you, it seems safe to conclude that none of these chicks were actually at Woodstock. Also, most of you might have self-awareness enough to resist succumbing to the needle and scalpel only to come out at the other end of the ether looking like a duck with cat eyes and a perpetually fixed Joker grin.
Yes, Kit Kats, even my recollections of something as complexly mysterious and achingly poignant as time and its inevitable passing–the stuff that consumes some of my more laudable heroes like Stephen Hawking and Michio Kaku–brings me back to my addiction with TV shows and faded memories of glam concerts washed up on a shore where all things ephemeral inevitably end up–much like bottles with faded, unread letters in them.