Cross dressing: all the rage with none of the revelation

Cross-dressing, men dressing as women, is the in thing these days, the media's newest obsession.

It's on all the talk shows; it's the linchpin of the hottest movie; it's even the theme of the Institute of Contemporary Art's new show "Dress Codes."

From androgyny to hodgepodgegyny, it's just a great, big, anything-goes, totally Mardi Gras world.

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Suburbs still fulfill the dream

New to this city, to this country, he wanted to know about suburbs. What they are, exactly? What they are like?

"They're safer than cities, are they not?" he asked. And though I said, yes, they are, I didn't explain that this is not their essence; that suburbs weren't born out of a need for safety. Suburbs, after all, have their roots, not in today's fears, but in yesterday's dreams.

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Everyone loses the `game' of sex

"History is not a random sequence of unrelated events. Everything affects and is affected by everything else. This is never clear in the present. Only time can sort out events. It is then in perspective that patterns emerge." - William Manchester

Patterns:

A man, about 55, walks into a restaurant. He's wearing a topcoat, a suit and a tie; he goes to the bar and orders a beer.

He's on his way out of the restaurant when he stops and asks the hostess, a young woman of 21, if Leeanne is working today. The hostess says she's new and doesn't know, but she'll check. She walks over to her manager, then returns and tells the man that Leeanne has moved to Florida.

"I wish I were in Florida, too," the hostess adds.

The man looks her up and down - she's wearing black heels, black nylons, a black skirt, white blouse and black blazer.

Then he says, "A little number like you could do well with the older guys in Florida. All you'd have to do is take your panties off."

The hostess is stunned. But all she can do is glare.

"Hey! Don't get offended," he says. "I'm just tellin' ya the truth."

He looks her up and down again, then walks out.

The hostess is my daughter. She tells me this story long-distance from school.

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Bigotry in uniform can't stand

It doesn't do any good to scream at someone and tell him he's wrong. Yell, and a wall gets built. Deride, and it's the same thing. You have to be reasonable, understanding and incredibly patient if you ever intend to enlighten a person and lead him to change his mind.

It would, therefore, be stupid and counterproductive for me to make any blanket negative statement about heterosexual men.

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Cooking `miracle' turns sour

After The Miracle, I envisioned myself a cook. For days when I looked into the mirror, I saw Julia Child. I dreamed about scallions and leeks. I pored over the food section in the papers. I cut out recipes. I actually thought about subscribing to Gourmet magazine. I believed I was a changed woman.

The Miracle had convinced me. I'd had a dinner party, and it had been a success. The smoke alarm hadn't gone off. No one left the table with stomach cramps. I didn't have to serve Tums for after-dinner mints. I'd done the impossible: I'd cooked a meal people had actually swallowed and enjoyed.

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Education: The great divide

It's the first capitulation. Totally understandable. Maybe even warranted. But it's a surrender, nonetheless, of ideals and perhaps even goals.

President-elect Bill Clinton has decided to send his only child, Chelsea, to private school. Who can blame him? Who, in his position, wouldn't do the same? He is the president. She is his daughter. Why shouldn't she have the best?

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Greats of the 20th century

A little house-cleaning before the new year begins. Way back in September, I wrote a what-do-you-think column. Who, I asked, has made the greatest contribution to the 20th century?

People I had already spoken with had mentioned Gandhi, Pope John XXIII, John Kennedy, Winston Churchill, Martin Luther King, Jonas Salk, Henry Ford, Mother Teresa, and Albert Schweitzer. I gave my vote to Walt Disney. But I wanted to know what you thought, and I asked you to write. And you did.

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A Child's Joy

She was just a baby, maybe a year old, sitting in the back seat of a car traveling along Route 128 a week ago. I never saw her before and I'll probably never see her again. I know nothing about her - not her name or where she lives, or where she was going, or whom she was with, though I assume the woman driving was her mother.

I only glanced at her as I was speeding past. But the glimpse made me smile and pause and reflect. It makes me smile still, days later, because she was so full of naked wonder that it was like walking along a street in the cold past a store whose door opens briefly and blankets you with warmth.

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No more noodle necklaces

My daughter, the 21-year-old, calls them "noodle necklace gifts," the Christmas presents you open every year that you have to pretend to like.

"You know how in school little kids make necklaces out of noodles and bring them home and wrap them up and give to their mothers on Christmas day and mothers act as if they're the best present ever?"

I know. We all know. A noodle necklace from a child is a great gift, a combination of ziti, glue and love. But a noodle necklace from a boyfriend or a husband, a grown man who's supposed to be perceptive and warm and considerate - this is a whole other story.

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Mr. C sings for her - always

"Is he still handsome?" That's what people always ask. That and "How old is he?" and "Can he still sing?" and "Is he really as nice as he seems?"

Yes, he's handsome. He has thick gray hair, twinkley eyes, a great smile and a younger man's trim build.

How old is he? He's 30-50, my sister-in-law would say. Eighty is how the world translates it. But the number deceives.

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Guys, offer a holiday hand

t arrived in the mail, compliments of a good friend. "Christmas Ease -287 Top Tips for a Delightful Stress-Free Holiday" by Michelle West, certainly piqued my interest, but it was, I thought smugly, just a bit premature. It was only October when I found it in my mailbox. The days were still balmy. Leaves clung to the trees. Roses bloomed on the vine. Christmas was eons away.

I stacked the book on top of another my friend sent, on how to get rid of cellulite. I realize now that if I'd opened both when they arrived I would not be in the shape I'm in today.

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Money doesn't buy manners

So there you are at the theater, with your family, having spent a couple hundred dollars for the privilege of sitting in the rear of a balcony, now called a mezzanine, because at $55 a seat, mezzanine has a far sweeter sound. The French word is elegant - and also deluding.

But you don't care, because this is a Special Occasion. You're here to relax, to enjoy yourself and become immersed in the performance.

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Look how sensitive we have become to the sounds around us

The noise has stopped, finally. Or is it only an intermission?

I look out the window and see the men across the street, talking together. Half the yard is still covered with leaves. They and The Machine have been working for hours. The whining, unremitting drone awakened me early, far too early on a non-work day. The sound was like pain. I wanted to run from it. But I couldn't. It filled the house. It filled me.

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The Waltons may be fictional, but loyal fans don't think so

The Waltons may be fictional, but loyal fans don't think so

Fact and fiction. They blend. A person steps into the sun at high noon and he and his shadow are one. Both exist. Both are seperate entities, but for a moment they merge.

Schuyler, population 400, is fact. It's a tiny town nestled among the mountains in Nelson County, Virginia. Walton's Mountain is but a shadow of Schuyler, a creation of its most famous son, novelist and screen writer Earl Hamner.

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It's after the birth of a child when the worries really begin

I phoned her the other day to ask how her pregnancy is coming along.

"I'll be glad when it's over," she said in a weary voice. "I'm a nervous wreck. There are so many things that can go wrong. I can't wait for this baby to be born."

My friend is having her second child, but this is her third pregnancy. A year ago she miscarried, so all during the early weeks of this pregnancy the possibility that she might again miscarry kept her joy on hold.

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Looking for someone to blame

t shouldn't have happened. This is an unarguable fact. Julie Tobin, of West Roxbury, should be alive, not dead.

She was killed on Sept. 6, 1987. The 17-year-old had spent the afternoon at a family reunion of a friend held at Norwood Country Club. Shortly after midnight, she left the reunion on foot and was standing in the breakdown lane of Route 1 talking to some friends in a van when she suddenly ran around the front of the van and onto the road. She was hit by a car and died the next day.

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