I'm Bringing Classy Back

I love Diane Keaton. I think she’s smart, talented, funny, and quirky. To some extent, I identify with her. Long before Annie Hall, I was dressing in a whacky blend of thrift shop finds and boyfriend casts-offs so felt her character in that movie was a soul sister. She’s also an outspoken proponent of aging without resorting to the needle and the knife, a view to which I also subscribe. Like her I am an atheist, have never been married or had kids (though she adopted late in life). She’s had relationships with a string of, well, interesting men, including Woody Allen, Warren Beatty, Al Pacino, and Keanu Reeves. As for me … eh, that’s a whole other blog.

So I was a bit dismayed last week when Diane detonated an f-bomb on Good Morning America. Not because it was on network television at eight in the morning and tender young minds could be corrupted: I’m sure they encounter far worse on the school bus every day. And there’s a snarky part of me that kind of likes to think about prissy moralists getting their knickers in a twist about it. It just wasn’t very classy. (Yeah, yeah, it's on YouTube if you must.)

I’m a big fan of the f word in its proper time and place. There’s nothing more satisfying when you stub a cold toe on the coffee table, get cut off in traffic, or want to demonstrate amazement as in, “what the f*%@ … ! Really, on occasion there’s nothing quite like a good f*%@.

My problem is that time and place thing. Maybe I’m over-reacting, but there’s been such a general de-classification of women in popular culture that I hate to see someone as classy as Diane Keaton perpetuating it. I’m getting so sick of turning on the TV I having vulgarity thrust at me from reality show harridans; half-dressed freak dancing video vixens; and, at least here in LA, cleavage-baring loud-mouthed anchors on morning news shows. Open any fashion magazine and you’re smacked in the face by naked women with their legs spread advertising handbags. What the f*%@! I could go on at length, but I trust you get the picture.

I’d love to see us all voluntarily adopt a position that’s a little less tawdry and a little more Audrey; to swap skanky for swanky. It’s a new day and cheap and nasty are soooo passé. So to get things rolling, I’ve written a new Classy Woman Ten Commandments.

1. You will respect yourself. You won’t get wasted, hook up with strangers, have unprotected sex, post nasty pictures of yourself on line, stay with abusive men, turn a blind eye to sexism or ageism, and generally act in ways that demonstrate you have no regard for yourself. You’re better than that. This commandment also extends to the way you dress: No more than one inch of cleavage before 7pm; no butt cracks on Main Street; and no bare midriffs over 35 (I don’t care if you do workout ).


2. You will not worship unworthy idols. Anyone who’s been arrested for drug possession or drunk driving, lost custody of their kids, been the star of a sex tape, been photographed with their lady parts on display in public is deserving of your compassion but not your admiration. Pick better role models for yourself and especially for your daughters.


3. You will not be a potty mouth. No classy woman will ever call another woman names: you know the ones I’m talking about. If someone’s acting in such a way that you think they deserve that kind of name-calling, then obviously they’ve not been classy-fied. Print out these commandments for them. You will also keep general swearing for those occasions when nothing else will do.


4. You will be tolerant of others. The planet is big enough to accommodate all of us and our differences. In fact, it’s a better place for it. So if someone doesn’t look, sound, dress, eat, play or believe like you, celebrate those differences and the rich diversity of our world. That’s how classy women roll.


5. You will respect your elders. They may be a burden, they may have done a lousy job raising you. So what? Make peace with it. If, like me, you’re in your 50s, there are a couple of generations behind us who think we’re really old! Chew on that the next time you’re tempted to get impatient with a parent or grandparent. You’ve probably done your best; so did they.


6. You will not hurt any living thing. That means no hitting, kicking, or throwing things, including harsh words. Classy women find other ways to express themselves or vent their frustration. Animals, plants, the Earth – remember, all living.


7. You will not covert other women’s’ men. If ever you find yourself tempted to flirt with a man who’s taken, put yourself in his wife/girlfriend’s place. How would you feel? Have a little class and look elsewhere. (Or at least wait until they break up!) This also extends to your BF’s gay BF. And keep your cougar claws off your friend/ neighbor/colleagues’ sons.


8. You will not steal stuff. Classy women don’t just take what they want at the expense of others. This includes knowingly buying fake designer goods; bootlegging music and movies; not returning books you’ve borrowed; and cheating on your taxes. No, everybody doesn’t do it.


9. You will not spread rumors. Gossiping is a fun way to pass times with friends. But it turns ugly when you bad-mouth, lie or pass on things you’ve heard that might not be true. Classy women are compassionate and do not hurt peoples’ feelings.


10. You will not desire to be something you’re not. You won’t starve yourself into a size two or stuff your breasts with silicone to try and look like someone else. Classy women love themselves for who they are. They love their bodies for what they can do, not just for how they look.

On Being Nice

From this distance, I can say without false modesty that in my 20s I was a babe. I had long, dark wavy hair, saucer gray eyes, and a petite but curvy figure. I was even approached about doing a Playboy shoot but as I was still under the influence of my Catholic upbringing, I turned it down.

(That’s me around 1974. Take note Project Runway: I made that skirt out of an old pair of jeans and some scrap fabric!)

On one occasion, a new-ish boyfriend invited me to be his date at an advertising industry awards ceremony. He was up for an art directing prize. It was a black tie affair, and I splurged every penny I could afford on a new outfit. This was the hippy era, and I bought a long, grape-colored crepe dress. It had an empire waist and long bell-shaped sleeves.

At the dinner we sat at a round table with a group of Bob’s colleagues, including his 50ish boss and his wife. I was feeling fab in my new frock and proud of my long-haired, handsome date (who, unfortunately, didn’t win). Then, during a lull in the conversation, Mrs. Boss leaned across the table and said to me loudly and clearly, “You young girls are so lucky to be able to get away with those cheap little dresses. At my age I have to wear designer clothes to look good.”

I was gobsmacked. I was savvy enough to know this was all about her, but young enough to be deeply humiliated in front of my new boyfriend and hurt anyway. I held up at the dinner but burned with embarrassment and cried for days afterwards. Then I made one of those grand pronouncements that we tend to do when we’re young.

When I’m old, I will never, I swore, never ever be hurtful and rude to young women just because they are young.

I’ve long forgotten most of the portentous vows I made back then, but for some reason that one stuck with me. And believe me when I tell you, I’ve often had to remind myself about it in the last 10 years or so. Many times I’ve bitten back snippy remarks when some young thing in size two jeans has swished her hair in my face or a I’ve brought myself up short when I was about to reprimand a girl for her exposed belly ring.

But, dear reader, I’m about to crack. You see, I’ve become fixated by a young woman at the gym: let’s call her “Mandy.” She has a great body, fabulous hair and skin, works out really hard and is a favorite of all the instructors. At least once every class the teacher will give her an “atta girl.” In the meantime, I work my long-suffering heart out week after week and never get so much as an acknowledgement that I’m present. I get the feeling I could show up naked with sparklers in my ears and still not get noticed. And that’s why I almost called Mandy a “mirror hog” the other day. And why I still might do it, or worse, one day if I don’t get my rancor under control.

Because, see, it’s like this. On top of everything else, Mandy shows up in an adorable different exercise outfit almost every day. Never mind Lululemon and Juicy, who knew Prada, Chanel and Stella McCartney even made workout clothes and why would you want to sweat in them? And there I am in my Target and Ross Dress for Less gear. How come after 30 years, I’m still the one in the cheap little outfits? I’ve been nice: What went wrong? Does this make it okay for me to beat up on Mandy? Just asking.

Pick Your Poison

I’m so sick of this steroids-in-sports “scandal.” We live in a society where a woman can pump her chest full of silicone, her lines full of Botox, scour her skin with acids or burn it with lasers, whiten her teeth, get a fake tan, glue on false eyelashes and fingernails, add extensions to her dyed hair and take diet pills to make her thin and she’ll be called beautiful and featured on the cover of a magazine. But not before her image has been digitally altered to make her even more “perfect!” Yet let athletes pump their bodies with steroids or hormones to make them stronger and faster, and they’re called cheats.

Make no mistake, I’m not in favor of any of this. I’d no more like to see some loved one of mine take steroids than I would inject my face with muscle-paralyzing de-natured toxins. But that’s my choice and I absolutely respect other’s entitlement to make a different choice. (Oh, and didn’t we women fight tooth and nail back in the 70s for the right to make choices about our own bodies without interference from various institutions? Just asking.)

I believe it’s human nature to want to constantly improve ourselves and our performance. If that wasn’t true we’d still be slithering around in the slime. The motto of the Olympics is “swifter, higher, stronger” for heaven’s sake. Do they seriously think that if humans have found a way to achieve that they won’t take it? We as spectators demand that athletes constantly improve their performance and break records to thrill us. Then when we find out they’ve given themselves an edge beyond wearing the most technologically advanced shoes and clothing (for which they’re often outrageously paid), we excoriate and humiliate them. Meanwhile, an admitted anabolic steriod user is the popular governor of a large Western state!

Well, people, the cat’s out of the bag. The milk’s spilt. The toothpaste is out of the tube. The barn door’s open and the horse is gone. Steroids are in sports. Get over it. And while you’re engaged in making sure your kids know that doped baseball players aren’t good role models, just also make sure to point out that the same is true of women with breasts the consistency of baseballs.

For an interesting perspective on the subject, read this story from the LA Weekly.

She’s So Fine

A recent headline in the newspaper stopped me in my tracks. It read, “Male chimps will fight over older females.” Scientists have determined that we humans share something like 99 percent of our DNA with chimpanzees. Now, thanks to this study out of Boson University, we know what that critical 1 percent represents. When did you last hear of any human males coming to blows over an “older” female?

(This dishy chimp is from the fabulous book Creature by Andrew Zuckerman (c) )

At this point, and in the interests of full disclosure, I should state that if I were of the simian persuasion, knuckle-dragging Romeos would be hurting each other to win my affections. As it is, the last time two guys threw down over me someone’s butterfly-collared disco shirt got all bloodied; and let me tell you, it’s hard to wash that stuff out of polyester. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a proponent of brawling. The last thing I want is a couple of geezers going all Rocky Balboa over me. I’m strictly of the “make love not war” generation and get hives when people just raise their voices. It’s simply that the notion that any men would think mature women viable enough to fight over is staggering. As it is, I have nightmares of waking up with the house surrounded by the LAAP (LA Age Police): metrosexual men in Diesel-designed uniforms and Gucci aviator sunglasses bearing megaphones. “Lady, just get the Botox or we’ll be forced to bus you to the Arizona border, where we’ll set you free to roam with your own kind.”

The article went on to say that the male chimps prefer the older females because they are more dominant socially and have access to better food. If that’s the sum of what they have to offer, we homo sapien broads have it all over our chimp sisters. So as a public service to the men out there, allow me to enumerate some of the reasons you should be fighting over us.

• Most of our baggage has been lost in transit. We can easily shoulder what’s left.


• We don’t need to read Cosmo for the sex tips.


• We’re the last generation who can cook like your mother. The pot roast stops here.


• We can afford to call a plumber, an exterminator, or a moving company.


• If you say the words Paris Hilton to us, our response is: “Cool, I’ll go pack. And I know this great little bistro in Montmartre.”


• Acne and angst are sooooo last century.


• Our biological clocks have stopped ticking. (Bonus: We’ll never send you on an emergency tampon run.)


• We’re perfectly capable of occupying ourselves while you watch a game.


• We’ve grown into Chanel No. 5.


• The kids are grown so we can take off for the weekend on a whim.


• We’ve been there, done that, and can make a funny story out of most of it.


• We still get mad, schoolgirl crushes. But we’ll never drive by your place to see if you’re home.


• If you don’t hit it off with one of us, we have loads of friends to fix you up with.


• Finally, to borrow L’Oreal Preference's slogan, “… because we’re worth it.”