If Betty could see this now

Does anyone besides me remember reading Betty Friedan's "The Feminine Mystique"? In the book, she describes women in the 1950s who had this feeling of restlessness, wanting something more but not knowing what it was. Some of them, established in a marriage and family, didn't know what to do so they had another baby. It wasn't quite what they were looking for, Friedan concluded, but it was what they knew.

I thought we'd come a longer way than that. But recently in New Jersey, a 60-year-old woman, Frieda Birnbaum, had twins.

What was she thinking?

I'm sorry, but I just don't get it. It's not like she had to answer a problem with no name. She's a psychologist. And she's not one of those women who longed to have a child but never did. She's got three. A son, 33, a daughter 29, and another son, 6.

To be honest, I wonder why she had the 6-year-old at an age when most women become grandmothers.

Birnbaum told Fox News she wanted her younger son to have siblings closer to his age and wanted to remove some of the stigma attached to older women giving birth. Stigma? I speak for the women who welcomed menopause; stigma my Aunt Fanny! It's time to find other things to do in the so-called golden years.

What about her older two kids? Do they want siblings so far from their own age?

And I can just hear the 6-year-old now. "Twins? Ah, gee Mom. I wanted a puppy. What am going to do with twins?"

What is SHE going to do with twins? Babies are hard work. When they start school, she'll be 66, if she survives their terrible twos. She and her husband of 38 years won't be around for their high school graduations most likely. Who's going to put those kids through college?

Who's going to teach them to drive when they're 16? Who's going to wait up all night for them to come home from their first date? At 60, she needs more naps than they do. When they need to be driven from school to activity to sport to the mall to heaven knows where else, will she still have an unrestricted driver's license? How will she remember when to pick them up from soccer practice, or where the soccer field is? We get forgetful as the years pile on.

She's 60 years old and facing years of changing diapers, cleaning up baby barf, getting up in the middle of the night with ear infections, tantrums, ad nauseum — times two.

Betty Friedan is spinning in her grave.

A new use for the internet

Many of us who are in our M&M years (between menopause and Medicare) tend to resist innovations. More likely we're baffled by them. That's why we have to find children to program our VCRs and unscramble our computer.

I recently stumbled across a technological advancement that is worth embracing — lovingly, with passion, remember passion?

Think fantasy sports teams. Sports enthusiasts put together teams they'd like to see playing, and go so far as to make up games and outcomes.

Makes sense. You've got the best of all teams, you control the plays, and it's all done in the air-conditioned comfort of your own home, most likely in your underwear.

Now mix in a little phone sex. From what I remember of the Clinton administration, he and Monica Lewinsky talked dirty to each other over the phone. It's not quite sinful, although it can get you into trouble. It depends on what the meaning of is is. Whatever.

So here's the deal. I stumbled across this when I was visiting a blog I occasionally log onto, and I think this is something M&M women will latch onto like fuzz on a cheap sweater.

Cyber food sex.

One blogger begins by inviting another to a virtual meal. "Come to my dining room for breakfast. We'll have rich, freshly ground, just-brewed, steaming Costa Rican coffee. Crisp, hot Belgian waffles, with juicy strawberry sauce laced with cinnamon and vanilla. Savor the maple-y goodness of crisp gourmet bacon."

Salivating yet? Breathing a little heavy maybe?

It gets better. Here's lunch: "Stop by chez moi, and I'll make you an omelet to die for — fresh, brown eggs whisked with a little cream, a little cracked black pepper, some chopped prociutto, succulent chopped green and red bell peppers, whipped into a soft frenzy and gently cooked until tender and lucious. Then some juicy, ripe, sweet melon slices, crusty, lusty Italian bread with sweet butter oozing as it melts..."

You get the picture.

Cyber food sex has definite advantages. There's no limit. You can indulge in an entire afternoon, or evening, in deep, rich, dark chocolate; light, lucious freshly-whipped cream; creamy, rich, decadent caramel — somebody stop me!

The only danger is sensory overload. There's no gristle in your steak because you have only the best cuts. The rice is never gluey and the lettuce never wilts. The tomatoes never have bad spots and they always taste like tomatoes should.

The oven always works, the microwave never explodes, and — best of all — there's never any cleanup, dirty dishes, or scorched pots.

You come away from the experience satisfied, looking forward to more, and you don't have to worry about your hips expanding.

So next time you see a woman of M&M age glued to her computer, a faraway look in her eye and a wistful smile on her face, you know what she's cooking up. And it's delicious!

Paris in the rain

Every now and then, when you feel that life is simply unjust and there is no fairness in this world, something happens that actually makes sense. It gives one hope - or at least makes one feel a little smug and self-righteous.

Paris Hilton is going to have to do some jail time.

I can't begin to describe how funny I find that. Everybody with a pulse knows that when your driver's license is suspended for DWI you can't drive and you certainly ought to be watching your intake of the sauce. You don't just go around boozing it up and driving like an idiot and getting busted again without some consequences. But Paris believes she's above all that. She says she didn't read the judgment leveled aginst her. She says she has "people who do that for her."

And now she's saying that 45 days in the slammer is "unjust." Can't you just imagine a petulent little girl, sticking out her lower lip in a pout and stamping her foot and whining: "It's not fair!"

Sorry, Paris. Life ain't fair. It rains on the just and the unjust, and you just got rained on. Sometimes the system works.

(Pardon me while I dissolve into fits of giggles.)

And don't you just love the judge? Not only did he say that the girl who is a living definition of vacuous has to do the time, if she doesn't, or if she follows through with an appeal, he's going to double the sentence.

Consider the possibilties here. Poor little rich girl goes to the slammer. She'll have to clean her own toilet. Wait'll she tastes jail food! Imagine if she has to share living quarters with street-wise ladies who behave pretty much like she does but without her money that has so far helped her get away with it. Someone who shops at thrift stores. Someone whose drugs of choice are of the street variety. A big broad who could body slam her just for funsies.

Don't you get the feeling that if you shined a flashlight in one of Paris Hilton's ears, the beam would come out the other ear?

The sad thing is that if she really does go to jail, it's not going to teach her what it should. Chances are it'll make her more famous for — what? Having no purpose in life other than to have a good time? Be a spoiled little rich girl who thinks she doesn't have to play by everyone else's rules? She'll come out unscathed and just go back to doing what she does best — whatever that is. Being a good bad example?

Now that's not fair!

(But let's hear it for the judge anyway!)