Bad Things Happen In Threes

This week a few sad events occurred as I sat back helpless wondering why the world could be so unfair and out of whack. First, the death of the iconic actress Bea Arthur was headline news across the land. As tragic as Bea’s passing was, it is safe to say that she lived a good, tall life and success never eluded the former star of Maude and Golden Girls, the latter being the single best sitcom to watch when you are a stoned, under achieving college freshman with no direction and a love of the aged and infirmed. On the other hand, her Maude character informs me to this day. I still think of Bea every time I put on an oversized, unflattering sundress or I find a stray, gray hair taunting me in the bathroom mirror or I want to tell a friend to fuck off, but lose the courage that Bea’s Golden Girl had in spades.

Then there is my beloved, delicioso Mexico. The screen saver on my computer features my favorite vacation spot, a tiny Mexican hotel in the Yucatan peninsula called Zamas on the Beach. I look at it every day, pining for the fresh fish and stupendous, homemade margaritas that Pablo would bring to us under our thatched umbrella as Dave and I sat childless, lazily watching the sand fleas collect on the local dogs. Every time I open up my laptop I fantasize about being there at that exact moment, only to hear the screech of a car nearly careening into the only tree in our rented, dilapidated yard or an outdated car alarm beeping because our local homeless guy peed on the hood of a 1998 Honda Accord or a shrill cry from the baby monitor that has kept me on my toes and unstable for over two years.

Now, because of the swine flu pandemic and the panic that is beginning to spread like syphilis at a Beverly Hills sweet sixteen party, I can only picture a vacation on my favorite beach happening in a Hazmat suit. What kind of tan could I really get if I was dressed for a lunar landing? Will wearing a paper surgical mask affect my ability to consume large amounts of cold beer and fruity drinks filled with exotic fruits of someone else’s labor? We were about to look into booking a nice five day stay and now have to resort to the worst fall back plan ever conceived, a week in New Jersey with Dave’s parents, a broken hot water heater and a fridge filled with expired lunch meats.

Lastly, in my obituary section, is the makeover that shocked the world. When Susan Boyle, the singing garden gnome, first came into my life via a Facebook posting of a YouTube video, she was all dump and frump with a caterpillar of facial hair crawling across her forehead only to be challenged to a duel by a wiry mop of hair that had never met a comb it couldn’t break. A voice of an angel and the face of a foot is what the world first saw. But now, after what must have been an army of very gay, very tired make up artists and stylists, Susan Boyle now looks like Billie Jean King after a weekend at Canyon Ranch. A Burberry scarf wearing, leather jacket sporting, eyebrow waxed ankle is still an ankle, just with better shoes on. I miss the simple Scottish terrier I first fell in love with. But, I may still buy her album, if she lets the stubble grow back.