From the Desk of Miss Katharine Hepburn

Dear Readers,

I’m as pleased as punch to welcome you to my new lifestyle blog, HEP. Each month, I’ll deliver my tips for healthy living right to your in-box. Why anybody would need instruction in living is beyond me, but this is all the rage I’m told. You have to dispense advice whether you’re qualified to or not. I’m an actress, not a bloody pharmacist!

Our theme for this month is “Gratitude.” Oh, I’m grateful for many things. I’m grateful that I never had to make a movie with Sylvester Stallone, I’ll tell you that. He called me up once, he and the other lunk, Arnold What’s-His-Name, and they said, “Please Miss Hepburn, please be in our movie, The Expendables 3,” and I said, “Go sit on a tack!” I don’t know what the hell Hollywood is thinking with all the filth and the spaceships.

I’m supposed to tell you to follow us on Twitter. Hell of a waste of time, if you ask me. “Dear Twitter, I’m making a sandwich.” Well, sound the trumpets! If you see a Tweet from @KatetheGreat, you can bet your bottom dollar it’s written by Lance from the marketing department. I wash my hands of the whole foolish business. You’re on your own, Lance. Do you hear me?

Our fitness section is called BURN. Why BURN? Oh, for heaven’s sake, do I have to spell it out? Hep-BURN. Well, don’t blame me — I told Lance it was too subtle! Oh, I’ve been athletic my whole life. Nowadays it’s just a fad, you see, thanks to Jane Fonda. She irritated the hell out of me when we were making On Golden Pond. Always lugging that big pink step stool around, doing scissor kicks at the drop of a hat. And those preposterous shin warmers! I don’t believe in getting all gussied up like a circus trapeze artist just to do some calisthenics. All I’ve ever needed is a gray sweat suit from the army surplus store and a hobo bandanna to mop up the sweat. (Editor’s Note: She doesn’t mean that! Buy our exclusive HEP THE BURN yoga pants and running gear at Lululemon! — X0X, Lance)

I have a strict exercise regimen, and believe you me, I stick to it! That’s a quality sorely lacking in people nowadays, stick-to-it-iveness. I jump into the ice pool and swim 150 laps before dawn every morning, come out as invigorated as could be. Go to BURN to learn how to make your own ice pool. It’s common sense, for heaven’s sake! Blocks of ice, swimming pool, done! Then it’s time for the medicine ball. Young women today have never even seen a medicine ball, and it’s a goddamned shame. We’re selling them in the HEP shop for $299. The marketing people claim they’re handmade by women in a village in the Andes. The Andes! Snort! I made my own medicine ball out of a sack of rice and an old oilskin and it cost me forty-two cents! That’s Yankee ingenuity.

Lance wanted to include a parenting section called “Bringing Up Baby,” but I said, “Absolutely not!” I never felt the need to reproduce. I had my career and that was enough. Nowadays, there’s so much guilt. Women freezing their eggs, parents letting children make all the decisions. Have you seen the bicycle path in Central Park? It’s all gummed up with tricycles! Move to the right if you can’t pedal any faster! When I was a child, Mother taught me to be self-sufficient, and that was the greatest gift I’ve ever received. I birthed myself, not many people know that. Decided I’d had enough, slipped right out, chewed through the umbilical cord with my teeth and made myself a cup of hot cocoa. Self-reliance is a wonderful thing.

Now, I never gave a fig about fashion. A good pair of khakis, a black turtleneck, a starched white shirt — what the hell else do you need? You can buy all of those things at our advertising sponsor, The Gap. I personally haven’t shopped there since the time I got into a tug-of-war with Woody Allen over a half-priced bucket hat. Persistent little man. But that’s neither here nor there. A good sturdy clip to hold my top-knot in place and a splash of lipstick and I’m out the door. I have one tube of Max Factor Tru-Color that’s lasted me for sixty-three years. Does anyone know the meaning of thrift anymore?

I suppose you’ll want recipes. Well, I’m not a cook, you see. I don’t get the point of this hoopla over gluten and pampered chickens. And the Mason jars! Every time I see lemonade served in a Mason jar I think of Howard Hughes and it puts me off my meal. Plain food is the key. I’ve had the same cook for forty years, a dear man. He was once employed at the prison in Ossining. Lance thinks that readers want to be told what to eat. Well, that’s bunk! If you’re smart enough to operate a computer, then you’re damned well smart enough to feed yourself! Breakfast — a bowl of muesli and prune compote. What’s so hard about that? Lunch — same thing every day: a hard roll and a wedge of good sharp cheddar. Dinner — steamed cod, a potato and a parsnip.

Oh, I’m not without my vices, mind you. I enjoy a shot of Jameson’s in the evening. But all the trends that people go crazy for — the In-N-Out Burger and the Fiddle Faddle — well it’s a national disgrace! Food should be sustenance, not a hobby! Good riddance to all of that junk, I say. Except for Popeyes Fried Chicken. They do an exceptional Louisiana coating and the Combo Meal is good value for money.

I’ve had enough of this. Come back next time, or don’t, it’s all the same to me.

Kate