"More than anything embrace yourself. Know you are perfect, even with all your flaws and all your pettiness. Include that. Say, 'I am a fool and I'm also magnificent.' We're the whole deal. Leave nothing out."*

   By this point, anyone who could possibly give a shit knows that Valerie Harper is dying. Rhoda Morgenstern has a rare form of brain cancer and maybe only months to live. Shit.

   I think it’s great that her outlook on life is so positive and reassuring. She says things like, “We’re all terminal,” and “None of us are getting out of this alive” as precursors to things like “We all need to live in infinite possibility,” and “Don’t go to the funeral until the day of the funeral. Live this day.”

   But I’m so sad.

Rhoda and Mary. (Photo Source)

   As I’ve mentioned before, I grew up watching Valerie as Rhoda on The Mary Tyler Moore Show. And no, I didn’t grow up in the 70’s, but I did grow up watching—predominantly—reruns. This kept my parents from worrying about Ousia and I hearing the f-bomb or seeing boob shots. TV shows couldn’t get away with anything that wasn’t subtle back then, so you had to have life experience to understand any kind of tacit sexual or drug reference. I was little, so I understood neither. Not until I re-watched Season 5 of MTM a few months back did I grasp that these girls weren’t the saintly knitters and coffee drinkers that I thought they were. Seriously. I didn’t even get it 5 years ago. I’m a moron.

   But the thing about Rhoda was this: she was the girl you could maybe someday be, even if you didn't happen to be beautiful and flawless.

   I never felt pretty—then or now (I know, it’s crazy, right? I’m sooooo beautiful)—and Rhoda was always depicted as pretty Mary’s funny, dumpy sidekick. And men always ignored Rhoda to talk to Mary, to ask Mary out on dates, to flirt with Mary. I remember one episode in the first season where Rhoda introduces herself to Mary’s date, Howard Arnell. She says, “Allow me to introduce myself. I’m another person in the room.”(Meanwhile, Rhoda's date consists of a man she hit with her car and his wife, whom Rhoda didn't know existed when she asked the guy out.)

   But Rhoda was so much more real than Mary. She had neither the poise nor the self-control that Mary had, but she was interesting and funny and smart and inventive. She made me believe that the funny friend could be just as awesome, if not more awesome, than the pretty leading lady. At least, sometimes she could. I was hopeful.

(Photo)

   Quick aside: Valerie/Rhoda wasn’t the ug-o that everyone on the show pretended she was. It wasn't super apparent, especially when they dressed her in tablecloths or curtains or bulky sweatshirts or caftans. When they actually let her dress in nice clothes, you could see that she had a banging body. And her face was (and still is) beautiful. But, when you’re watching a good sitcom, you just blindly accept whatever they tell you. Mary’s the Mary and Rhoda’s the Rhoda. Mary has it going on, Rhoda is a comedy of errors. Mary will marry a crown head of Europe, Rhoda will eat 300 peanut butter cups and die.

   What does it mean to be the Rhoda? On The Mary Tyler Moore Show it meant constant bad dates, incessant failed diets, annoying, prying parents, a dead-end job and endless self-deprecation. But it meant something different to me (and a buttload of other people, I'm sure). Rhoda always turned a terrible situation into something tolerable or even funny. She dressed only to please herself and looked amazing as often as she looked insane. Rhoda talked to her houseplants and painted her apartment fuchsia and kept different flavors of Manischewitz from her mom on the shelf in the kitchenette. To me, Rhoda was much more interesting than Mary: she had character and chutzpah and she was always, always funny, even when she was down.** And she messed up all the time. Sure, Mary messed up, too. But with Mary it was always so adorable. With Rhoda, when she messed up, you got the feeling that she was going to go to the 7/11 and buy a huge supply of garbage and go eat it out of her lap. It seemed so much more realistic than going to bed at 9:30 in shortie pajamas, after allowing oneself only a moment or two of shame.

   As I’m writing this, I’m feeling a painful bump on my chin, which will most likely erupt into a huge zit sometime tomorrow. That shit never happened to Mary. But even if it did, Mary wouldn’t mention it. Rhoda would enter the room proclaiming it. 

Rhoda finally gets into Lotus position...then can't get out of it. (Photo)

   I make fun of myself a lot and have referred to myself as "a Rhoda" in the past. I think that’s a good thing, though I hadn't intended it as such. It's hard to have friends that are exquisite looking and disciplined and successful when you are none of those things. It takes courage to be okay with being...hmmm...unique? (I'm searching for a word somewhere between "special" and "pathetic.") Anyway...here’s to the ladies who don’t have it all together, don’t look exactly perfect, and don’t feel too bad about it, either. Sometimes celebrating the imperfections make those same imperfections look pretty sort-of amazing. Rhoda did that for the ladies, and I think it shows...in television, in literature, in movies and in life. 

   As for Valerie…she will be missed. She was responsible for Rhoda, after all. I talk about Rhoda like she was an actual person, but that's just because Valerie is and was such a great actress. But I won’t talk about it anymore, since she ain’t dead yet, and I'm not supposed to.

*The title quote is Valerie Harper.

**Did you know Valerie isn't Jewish? It SHOCKED me. Mostly because she was my first idea of what it meant to be a Jew. And now, having known a lot of Jewish people, I realize that she did it pretty authentically. Nice.

"You know what my Aunt Agnes says about men. 'Man is like the drifting snow. It comes down in small flurries and piles up against the door, and before long you can't get out of the house.'"*

   Why are people so concerned that I’m single? Do they think I’m sad and lonely? Are they embarrassed for me? Maybe they think I’m so awesome that it’s unbelievable that I should be going along in life without a man. That’s probably it. It is shocking that I’m not already married to a rich, handsome secret agent (or just engaged to and pregnant by a rich, handsome secret agent: that’s more in vogue right now). But on the other hand, who’s good enough for me? Right? Right? (Don't answer that.)

   For the record, I don’t mind being single. I don’t mind it at all. In fact I don’t mind it so much that the idea of being in a relationship terrifies and even sometimes horrifies me. Every time I’m in one, I start plotting ways to escape. I’m guessing, and feel free to correct me if I’m wrong, that if I were to meet someone who I actually WANTED to be in a relationship with, I wouldn’t immediately start making excuses to not hang out with him. Excuses like, “I have rabies/lice/gonorrhea/diarrhea,” or  “There’s a good chance my cousin might die, so I can’t see you for a few weeks while I go stay with her in the insane asylum.” I’m all, “Hey, look over there!” while I climb out the window onto the ladder I placed there before dinner. I’m just guessing this means I’m not totally sold on anybody just yet/maybe ever. I’m just guessing.

   I was out to drinks a couple weeks ago with one of my best friends. Her sister and her sister’s boyfriend were with us. The boyfriend was very eager to find my BFF a man. He suggested that they (he, his girlfriend, and my BFF) start going out every week and that he would help her get a boyfriend of her own. My BFF, sweetheart and open-minded person that she is said that sounded fine. She was very elegant about it.

   Inside my brain I was thinking, “Is that how this works?!? We're saying: Let’s not let this perfectly functioning, beautiful single woman waste away in singledom with only friends and the occasional hot date: let’s get her a man! NOW! Or she will DIE!!! Really??”

   It was nice that my BFF’s sister’s boyfriend (confused yet?) wanted to find my BFF a life partner/one-night-stand, but I also thought it was weird. I think, at least to a degree, it’s because he didn’t feel super comfortable about being out to drinks as a couple without another couple. It probably would’ve been more awkward if I hadn’t been there taking up the space where the other man should’ve been sitting. Or maybe that just made my BFF's singleness more obvious. Hmmm...

   My theory is that couples don’t like hanging out with single people. It makes them feel like they can’t be affectionate or talk about plans for the future or discuss all the boring crap they do together like watching their programs or walking their dogs or making quinoa and lentils to eat in front of a roaring computer or picking insects out of each others' hair. So that’s why they want the rest of us to get matched up, already. Because then us single folks will be fucking boring, too. Boring-ness for everyone!

   I’m kidding. To an extent.

   I have great friends that are “couple friends.” Tom and Jess. Richie and Jerome. And they don’t seem to feel weird about me going out to dinner with them without an escort.

   And to be honest, if I really wanted a man I could find one. When you’re female, it’s relatively easy. It’s kind of like shooting fish in a barrel.** The problem is finding one that’s worth the trouble. See, other people are, in general, really annoying. And the older you get the harder it is to overlook certain shortcomings. What was attractive when I was 22 or 25 or even 27 is no longer attractive (e.g. unemployment, disgusting apartments, roommates, bad hygiene, etc.). And I just get pickier and pickier with time.

   I’ve been watching a lot of reruns of The Dick Van Dyke Show lately (who's boring now, bitches?) and Sally, played by the wonderful Rose Marie, gives me pause in nearly every episode. Now I’m pretty sure she’s supposed to be in her early 30’s on the show. She was, in fact, nearly 40 when the show began. And her character’s whole shtick is talking about how she’s not married and how she wants to be married and how she’ll go out with anyone, anytime, anywhere, just please let her get married. But here I’m looking at this woman who has an amazing job as a comedy writer on a hit sketch show, an apartment in Manhattan, a great group of friends, and a new man every week. I’m sorry, but Sally is living my dream. Is that sad? I mean, if she wants a diamond ring, she can buy one. If she wants a kid, she can rent one (adopt one?). If she wants to watch something on TV, she doesn’t have to ask anyone else’s opinion on the matter. If the kitchen’s a mess, it’s a mess she made so she can’t be too mad about it. She has the perfect life.

Sally Rogers at work on The Dick Van Dyke Show. (Photo Source)

   Oh sure, love is important, it is. I just feel like what most people are aiming for is “good enough.” I want way better than good enough, and I’m not really into the idea of settling. Most of my couple friends are in amazing relationships and can't seem to remember what it felt like to date the wrong person. And the wrong person is EVERYWHERE. Being single is preferable to the wrong person, can we agree?

   Once again I’m comparing myself in my head to my heroine, Mary Richards. She didn't want the wrong person. And yes, I’m probably more like Rhoda…but Rhoda got married, so...? 

*Sally Rogers on The Dick Van Dyke Show (Carl Reiner, 1961-1965).

**The expression “shooting fish in a barrel” had me confused for a long time. It has always seemed to me that shooting a fish would be rather hard, even within the small confines of a barrel.  Sort of like trying to dig eggshell out of an egg white. But the Interweb has informed me that it comes from the idea that even if you don’t hit a fish, the shock waves created by the bullet will probably kill at least one fish.

"You're having a lousy streak. I happen to be having a terrific streak. Soon the world will be back to normal. Tomorrow you will meet a crown head of Europe and marry. I will have a fat attack, eat 300 peanut butter cups, and die."*

   I thought that by the time I turned 30 I would have myself all figured out. I’m pretty sure I’ve brought this up before: I was convinced that 30 was the year when everything got settled.

   So…yeah…that didn’t happen. And that’s okay.

   Here’s something weird, though: a few days back, when I was still in Omaha, my youngest sister, Penelope, said the following: “Lacey’s the smart one; Lizzy’s the most fashionable; and I’m the nicest…?” I actually don’t know how the statement ended because I was immediately offended by not being considered the most fashionable (though I’m definitely not) and incredibly proud of being considered the smartest (also a stretch). Penelope probably said something to the effect of “the most ignored whilst handing out superlatives.” Sorry, P. (And for the record, Penelope: you are the weirdest, quirkiest, kindest and most original...among other traits.)

   Before I left Omaha, Ouisa gave me a pair of GORGEOUS brown leather, high-heeled boots that she said she could never wear because, at five-foot-ten, she feels too tall for three-inch heels. She described it as feeling like a “giraffe on roller skates.”

   And then my Aunt Mel had me over for coffee and we spent a good twenty minutes playing with a feature on a plastic surgeon’s website that allows you to see how you’d look with a few less chins, a bigger rack and Angelina Jolie’s lips. And Aunt Mel, despite being one of the most beautiful, smart and confident women I know, copped to feeling like she spends most of her day thinking about her meals and how much she’s exercised and if she should do 40 squats before bed to make up for the cream in her coffee.

   So, okay, most of this is self-evident: women hate themselves. Yes, yes, everyone knows that. But I really don’t want to spend my life feeling like a fat, ugly cow when, in all actuality, I’ll probably be 87 some day (if I make it that long) and I’ll look back at pictures of myself now, at 30, and think: damn, I was pretty hot!

   So I’ve decided to make a conscious effort to quit hating how I look, despite the fact that I’m not 5’10, I’m not the stylish one, and I consistently appear to be 4-months-pregnant, despite the 9 million crunches I do every week. Life’s too short. And seeing how beautiful the women around me are, who also think they’re heinous trolls, I have an idea that I’m not as hideous as I think I am.

*From Rhoda, my soul sister on The Mary Tyler Moore Show,who always thought she was ugly but was truly beautiful all along...

"Who can turn the world on with her smile? Who can take a nothing day and suddenly make it all seem worthwhile? Well it's you, girl, and you should know it. With each glance and every little movement you show it."*

            I remember being approximately seven-years-old when I first saw Mary Richards hang her large, gold “M” in her new apartment on the first episode of The Mary Tyler Moore Show (I was watching it on Nick-at-Nite, not, like, on it's original air date, duh: I'm super young!). Her apartment was a fabulous studio with shag carpet, an enclosed kitchen, a tiny balcony and what appeared to be the world’s largest walk-in closest (which also seemed to house her bathroom).

            For many years I've thought about what kind of apartment I would have when I finally managed to afford to live on my own. I knew that there would definitely NOT be shag carpet (duh) and there would definitely be laundry and parking on the premises. And if I managed to finagle a balcony into the deal, so much the better.

            Alas, things have changed since the 70’s.

            I would like to show you the differences here.

            Example one: Mary Richard’s first apartment:

Good friend over to hang out whilst hostess does needlepoint
.

            Now, I make approximately the equivalent of what Mary was pulling down at the News Room as an associate producer at WJM over 40 years ago. Let’s forget for a second inflation and that her job was much more important and high-powered than mine. Not to mention the fact that she quickly became "best friends" with all of the people at the office (Ted, Lou, Murray, Gordy and even Sue Ann).

            Let’s also forget, for a minute, that Mary lived beneath Rhoda Morgenstern, who was perhaps THE BEST NEIGHBOR OF ALL TIME. I mean, how sweet would it be to have the funniest, goofiest and realist gal pal of all time living right upstairs? (And we’ll just as tactfully forget the fact that Phyllis and Lars lived downstairs.)

            But my life isn't like this at all! The more I look at apartments, the more convinced I am that it would be in my best interest to move to Minneapolis. In the 70’s. (My flux capacitor still isn't working...is anyone else's?)

            And there’s an additional problem: I have a large, purple “L” that I’d like to hang in my new apartment (should I ever find the proper abode). But think about it: how do you hang an “L”? There’s nothing for it to hang from, so I guess I’m going to have to bore holes in the wall and have it rest on screws. (Tacky.)

            Examples 2 through 4: here are some photos of the apartments I've found:

You can't even get the photos upright? Really?

         So, alas, my life isn't like Mary Richard's life...at all. Sigh. And that makes me sad. I can't hang my "L," I don't have a wise-cracking sidekick upstairs, hell, I don't even have a balcony/shag carpet/a really important job. In addition, this whack-job of a potential landlord can't even post photos of his (or her) available apartment in an upright fashion (literally and figuratively). 

                  I still love MTM and everything she stands for (powerful, single woman who doesn't need a man to make her feel worthwhile and who doesn't need a bedroom to make her apartment feel like home), but she kind of set the bar a little too high, didn't she? 

                  Fuck you, Mary Tyler Moore. (Aw man, I can't drop the f-bomb on Mary Tyler Moore. It's been tormenting me all day.) Darn you, Mary Tyler Moore (shake fist at sky). That feels much better.

*"Love Is All Around" The Mary Tyler Moore Show theme song by Paul Williams.