let's be honest

What Did You Call Me?

2012-02-20T08:08:00.000-08:00

I have never been one who calls people by a nickname. I rarely even shorten someone’s name unless I am introduced to them using that name. If your name is Michael, I will call you Michael. I won’t call you Mike, or Mikey, or any other form used, unless you go by that name full time. For instance, my first husband is Lawrence, but he goes by Larry, and that’s how I met him and it’s the only name I ever called him. The only time I used Lawrence was when I filed my divorce papers.

But that’s not what bugs me. What bugs me are all the terms of endearment that people use for their spouses, family and friends. It’s just not sincere. It wouldn’t bother me if they only used them for that one particular person…but they don’t. They will call others they hardly know by the same nickname. So you’re going to call me ‘sweetheart’ but then call the waitress at Jerry’s Deli ‘sweetheart’, too? I don’t think so. And please don’t call me by a name you used to call your ex-wife or girlfriend. That would really make me feel so very special. Seriously?

It’s the same thing with people telling people ‘I love you’ way too easily now, to people they really don’t love. The kids say it to all their friends, and some they aren’t close to. It’s way overused and loses its meaning for the people you really do love. I remember my daughter asking me to tell one of her friends that I love her. I said, “But I don’t” and she said, “Say it anyway…everyone does.” I wouldn’t do it. Saying I love you is reserved for those who I really do love. That’s not a compromise I will ever make and I don’t understand why others do.

I remember when I met my first husband and he started calling me ‘honey’. It was so odd to me because no one in my family had ever used terms of endearment. My parents only used their respective given names when they spoke to each other and our given names when they spoke to us kids. Both my sisters’ names were one syllable, so you couldn’t even shorten theirs. Actually, in our family, syllables were added, instead of shortened. I think it was a Yiddish/Jewish thing my grandparents did. I was Jaimala, my sister Beth was Betāmela and my sister Pam was Pamela; although Pamela was actually her real name. But being young and naïve, or just plain stupid, and only knowing her as Pam, I didn’t realize her given name had an –ela at the end. She ‘changed’ it to her real full name about 15 years ago...from Pam to Pamela. I still call her Pam. After 40+ years it’s kinda hard to start calling someone by a whole new name. Well...new to me, and not gonna happen.

But back to the endearing terms…and my husband calling me ‘honey’. It took me quite a while to get used to that. And I just couldn’t find a word I wanted to call him. Well…at least not while I was in love. I would practice saying words in front of the mirror. “Hi honey.” “Hi sweetheart.” “Hi sweetie.” Nothing felt like it would just flow out of my mouth naturally. It just wasn’t for me. I felt so ridiculous saying words like that. I guess it’s all how you are raised? I’m not sure, but since I never heard it in my house growing up, it wasn’t ‘normal’ for it to pour out. I just wasn’t feeling it. I did get used to him calling me ‘honey’ and he never called anyone else ‘honey’ besides me, so it was ok. But I don’t remember ever having a nickname for him. I believe it just remained ‘Larry’. At least out loud.

My second husband had 80 gazillion names for me. And every single one of those…he used for others, too. It bugged the shit out of me. You may not call me ‘honey’ if you’re going to call Mildred, the 70 year old dry cleaner lady, ‘honey’, too. You may not call me ‘dear’. We are not in our 80’s yet. Do not call me ‘darling’. I’m not Doris Day and you’re definitely not James Garner and we are not living in 1963. And one of my most despised names of all…’Babe’. Do not ever call me ‘babe’. You’re not a construction worker whistling at me as I walk by…”Yo, Babe.” I am not a pig from a movie, nor am I some 20 something starring in a big screen feature film or a baseball player from the roaring 20's. Everyone uses ‘babe’ and it means nothing when everyone is using it. And I find it kind of demeaning for some reason. I want to feel special when someone calls me by a name other then my given name. It should mean something. I don’t want to be mixed in with everyone else you’re calling by that name. You may as well just call me Shirley. (“And don’t call me Shirley”).

I did start calling him ‘honey’ for some reason, and I kept saying it until it felt normal. Or as normal as it was going to feel for me, which still was more abnormal than normal; never natural. I do remember the term ‘shithead’ being used quite a bit. That felt natural. Would you consider that a term of endearment? Probably not, huh? Over the years there were a few other names, but nothing I would post here. But they did flow out just fine at the time.

I had a boyfriend for a while, who I called ‘Weenie’. Don’t ask me why, but that felt natural. He didn’t take to it too easily at first, but when I pointed out that it actually was MY term of endearment for him only, he grew accustomed to it. It had nothing to do with his little pecker…if that’s what you’re wondering. It had nothing to do with him being a pansy. It just felt right and it was indigenous to him only. How special would that make a person feel? Weenie...so cute.

There are only two people I have nicknames for…my daughters. And it’s the same for both and I never call anyone else by those names…’Sweetie’ or ‘Sweetie-pie’. I don’t know why those feel right but they do. Maybe because most of the time they are sweeties and my love is so deep. Although there are times I’d like to call them by other names…not so endearing…but I refrain because I’m supposed to set a good example. Aren’t I and do I have to? My girls know there are a couple of names I will not answer to. I will not answer to Mama. We are not in Little House on the Prairie nor are we in Tara. Actually, I think Mama is the only one I don’t like. I still love being called ‘Mommy’ no matter how old they get. It will always make me feel warm and fuzzy and that’s exactly what terms of endearment should do.

People have quite a few names for me that are variations of my given name. So that’s ok and kind of sweet. I will answer to Hymie (phonetically spelled for those of you who don’t speak Spanish and who obviously don’t live in L.A. then), Jai, Jaimala, Jame…and most forms thereof. I will also answer to ‘Love of my life’, ‘Woman of my dreams’, ’20 Million Dollar Winner of Publishers Clearing House Sweepstakes’. Or…Jaime, Jaime bo bamey, banana fanna fo famie, fee fy mo mamie…Jaime.

And that’s the name of the game……Babe.

Filing My Frickin' Federal Tax Forms (A Fare for Frequently Using the 'F' word)

2012-02-09T06:57:00.000-08:00

I just finished filing my taxes. As soon as my W-2 came in, I was on it. I used to have my accountant do them, but I decided I would do my own since they were so much simpler now. Simpler? That’s what they call simple? You have to be a f**king genius to know WTF they are asking. I’ve never seen anything more complicated in my entire life. I could probably cure cancer before I could figure out how to fill out a 1040 form.

I believe I am now qualified to work for the Internal Revenue Service. Ok...maybe Turbo Tax is the Einstein, but you still have to kind of have a clue what the hell they are asking. My Google was blowing up with all my questions. I couldn't even get past how many dependents I had. Seriously. In my eyes, my kids will always be my dependents because no matter how old they are...they still come to me for money. Doesn't that make them dependent on me? I believe so. But the government doesn't. I swear...I need to have a talk with the commissioner of the IRS regarding who's a dependent and who isn't.

I think I should be able to declare my dog. She costs me a fortune. They didn't ask about any pet dependents though, to my chagrin. I believe vet bills, pet food, doggie meds, grooming...all should be deductible. We ARE taking care of other living beings, are we not? I think we should be able to write them off. Obedience school should be as big a deduction as college. It's education, right? It wouldn't matter to me, though; because it’s obvious I never sent my dog to obedience school, in case you noticed how not well behaved she is. I don't want anyone disciplining my little pup...it makes me too upset. But had I, I would've liked it to have been deductible.

Some of the questions they ask are just mind boggling. I honestly have no clue what they are talking about. They start out saying "TurboTax makes doing your taxes easy, with step-by-step guidance, like a GPS." Like a GPS? I'm thinking GPS isn't an acronym for global positioning system. I believe it's saying..."Geez...Pretty [f**king] Stupid" trying to do your own taxes. But hey...I like to live dangerously. And hopefully legally. I guess I'll find out if they call for an audit. So off I went on the Turbo Tax Highway with my GPS.

I was lucky I could answer the 'Personal info' section. Just barely. "Tell us what happened to you last year." Seriously? You've got that much time to hear about my year? Oh...financially. I get it. I was almost ready to write my life story on my tax forms.

Do you think people lie on 'donations'? Like I can remember how many items of clothing I gave away, what sizes, and what price category they fell into. I've moved and cleaned out so many homes in the last few years, I've probably donated more than my net worth. But, by golly, I'm going to itemize how many shirts, jeans, shoes, purses and pajamas I donated and what were designer and non-designer. I'm sure that has to make a huge difference in my charitable donation deduction. And how many items of each? I admit...I'm a little anal about keeping records, but I have to say...I didn't itemize prior to handing my twenty-five GLAD trash bags full of clothes to the tatted up, long haired, drugged out Good Will guy, nor did he check off detailed items when he handed me the blank receipt for my records. According to my itemized receipt I filled out after I left there…I was the most generous benefactor they’ve ever seen…giving them everything I owned just short of my car.

'Did you have any medical bills?' Really? That's like asking me if I have a bowel movement every day. It's a love/hate thing. Of course I have medical bills. Unfortunately I have way too many and have frequent flyer miles at the doctor's office. Kind of like frequenting the toilet although you wish you didn't have to. This section took me a while, moaning and groaning, if you know what I mean.

'Did you purchase any eye glasses or contacts?' Of course I did...that's how I can read this mish mosh of a ridiculous tax return. How else can I tell what the hell you are trying to ask me if I didn't purchase f**king glasses? Maybe next year I can get x-ray glasses to see through what you are trying to ask. But thank you so much for letting me deduct them. I appreciate that and find it a little strange that they are deductible, but quite pleased. May I deduct my 10 sessions at the shrink that I will need after having a nervous breakdown from deciphering my tax returns, too, please?

Trying to figure out my filing status alone scares the shit out of me. It takes me 15 minutes to decipher if I'm still considered 'Head of Household' and every year they send me the frickin' questionnaire to be sure I still qualify. Do you see anyone else in this house who is the f**king head? And if you do...please tell me who because I would happily give up that title to them. In fact, I would be happy to become a dependent, just for a short time. But they don't consider my daughter, who lives with me full time, is a part time student, pays no rent, no food, does absolutely nothing around the house, to be my dependent because she made over $3,700? Are you kidding me? $3,700? How do they come up with that amount of money to give her independence from me? She made out like a bandit on her tax return though...while I got screwed! But again...$3,700? Why so little? $37,000 maybe...but $3,700? I'm stupefied.

The way they determine if one of your children is a dependent is if you can answer YES to six questions. Can I tell you how long it took me to figure out what the questions were asking, let alone if I met all six requirements? There were double negatives that I must have read 18 times to figure out if I did meet what it asked or not. And some of the questions were 3 parts and I couldn’t figure out if I met the one part to satisfy the other parts. And then if you satisfy that one, it had to be in conjunction with the others. I felt like I was doing a Rubik’s Cube. And believe me, I never solved it.

‘Do you own any property?’ If I still owned property I would have many more deductions and wouldn’t have fired my accountant who could figure out how to file my tax returns and charge me the $600 he charged me because he did my taxes because I owned property. Of course I don’t own property. Now I kinda wish I did. It sure would’ve made filing my taxes a lot simpler. At least for me.

Here Come Da Judge

2012-01-26T19:30:00.000-08:00

I started jury duty last week. Well...I started the process of jury duty. I just assumed I would sit there for the 8 hours required; read or be on the computer for the entire time, without being called in to go through voir dire, then leave and be done for a year. Boy was I wrong.

Prior to going to the courthouse, I made sure I had nothing in my purse or on my being that would set off any bells or sirens when going through the security check. I’m not sure why, but I did a survey of everything as if I would be flying the friendly skies. You would think I was leaving for a month with all the stuff I packed into my purse: water, protein bars, crackers, 5 hour energy drinks, [because for sure, I was going to need a few of those]; an extra sweater, magazines, a book. It appeared as if I was going on some expedition to the North Pole, because my bag was filled with the entire contents of my house. But I made sure I didn’t have any liquids over 3 ounces, nothing sharp, clean socks on my feet, my prescription drugs in the correct bottles, etc, etc. Then I remembered that it wasn’t necessary. I didn’t have to strip down, and I was allowed to bring in my coffee mug, a bottle of water, food, blah blah blah. The superior court is much less stringent then the airlines. Go figure. But for some reason, I went into panic mode going into a government building. It’s a good thing I don’t work there because I would need to take a valium to go into my office every day. I feel like you have to be on your best behavior so as not to get arrested for something. I was just going for jury duty yet I felt like I was going to be patted down, questioned for murder and sent off to prison; so I took my tweezers out of my make up bag.

I have received a summons for jury duty every year for the last 15 or so years. Whenever I go, I never run into anyone I know and by the 6th hour of sitting there alone, I'm ready to jump out of my skin from boredom, whether I’m reading a good book or not. The plastic squeaking chairs they provide are about as comfortable as lying naked on a bed of nails. By the time I leave, I walk out of there hunched over like a 90 year old woman; unless my numb, cramped legs give out on me first.

But this time I was looking forward to being alone. I was excited about having a day off work, starting a great book, listening to my iPod, writing my blog, and relaxing at the courthouse, comfortable or not. All alone in a sea of strangers and happy as a little clam. But as soon as I had gotten into the room with all the prospective jurors, signed in, and started walking to a seat isolated in the back of the room, I heard someone call my name. You have got to be kidding me. And it wasn't just some acquaintance I could say my hellos to and walk away; it was a friend of my daughters, who never lets a second go by without having diarrhea of the mouth. She called me over and asked me to sit with her. Really? Do I have to? Please NO (I whined to myself). And the minute I sat down, off we went on a never ending roller coaster of conversation. You know how those 20 somethings talk...‘like, um, ya know’ over and over and over. I was so happy when they called my name to report to a courtroom. My eardrums would get a chance to stop banging. I’d rather sit in the courtroom listening to the attorneys and judge than chatting it up with Napoleon Dynamite.

You know how I said I was looking forward to being alone in a sea of strangers? And you know how I said I never have run into anyone I know in the 15 plus years of jury duty? And you know how there are some days you're just not in a chatty mood? Well...forget all that. As soon as I entered the room where the jury would be selected, there were 3 more people I knew. Possible jury members on the same trial I would not be sitting in on. [Because I always get dismissed but have to sit through the process anyway, unfortunately.] So much for my time of introspection and solitude. Unknowingly, I had sat down next to one of those people I knew, and then discovered we were acquaintances. And once she realized who I was, she didn't shut up through the entire interrogation of the 18 people being questioned at the time. She kept commenting on all the questions the attorney was asking of them. It was like sitting in a movie theater where someone behind you keeps blabbing and narrating through the whole thing. "Will you please shut the f**k up, for crying out loud." I didn’t really say that but I can't tell you how much I wanted to turn to her and grab her lips shut. You would think my ignoring her would be a small hint. Uh uh. Nope. Not at all. She just kept blabbing away. I was quite embarrassed [embarrassment through association, I guess] because everyone kept looking back to see who it was. "It's not me, it's not me. Honest."

One of the other prospective jurors was my orthopedic surgeon. He was excused because he was needed in surgery the following week. Pshaw...what kind of excuse is that? Physician shit. I was thinking I could just ask the judge to discuss my issues with the doctor so he could vouch that the pain in my neck and back was good enough for me to get out of sitting on the jury. “Um, Judge…sidebar please? In your chambers?” But I didn't think that would go over too well in a court of law.

The other person I knew was a trainer at my gym. Well, she USED to be. And if you had seen her you would understand when I say USED to be. I don't think she's seen the inside of a gym in about 10 years. She’s definitely seen the inside of every candy wrapper though. I can’t imagine she’s still in that line of work. And if she is, she may want to re-think her career choice along with thinking about practicing what she was preaching. Geesh.

So there I sat, listening to the attorneys voir diring (not sure that’s really the correct usage) the prospective jurors. All day Friday and again on Monday morning until finally they decided who they were keeping and who they were dismissing. To my amazement…they kept people I thought for sure were out the door. One was an ex-drug addict with prior arrests and jail time. You think he doesn’t have a small, little, teensy, weensy bias against the peace officers and the people of the court? I know he said he doesn’t…but seriously?

Once they had weeded out the rejects, they needed only one more person as the alternate. So they called up three more prospects. And there it was… “Will Jaime Perlov please have a seat up front?” HOLY SHIT! ME? Really? I’ve mentioned in previous blogs how petrified I am to speak in front of people. I mentioned in this blog how petrified I was to be in a government building for fear of getting accused of some major crime. Can you imagine how f**king mortified I was when they called me up? My worst fears coming true. I know, with no doubt in my mind, that you could see my pulse bulging out of my neck like some alien, and the bright, beet red blush on my cheeks. I’m surprised they didn’t have to scrape me off the floor. I could barely speak when I had to recite my name, where I was from, occupation, etc. They couldn’t have picked from the other sixty f**king people sitting there waiting?

I had memorized what I would say if I was called upon, so I gave my reasons, albeit with my voice jittering like someone was violently shaking me, but not one sentence came out of my mouth the way I had planned. And although my intentions came across the way I wanted, the defense attorney did everything she could to get me to say I would be able to give a fair verdict for the defendant. Well........NO I CAN’T. She asked me the same question worded 5 different ways and she got the same answer from me. “I can NOT be fair in my judgment.” I won’t go into my reasons for fear of offending some people and hurting others, but I used to be married to a cop. Enough said.

Every year that I am called for jury duty I give the same reasons and they dismiss me. So wouldn’t it make sense to not summons me back anymore? Wouldn’t it save everyone time and money? Aside from the fact that my attention span is the size of gnat’s brain cell? I know I wouldn’t want me on a jury if I was accused of some crime. The other jurors would have to recite everyone’s testimonies to me 18 times for me to absorb one tenth of them. So hopefully, not having me on the jury, and having the ex-drug addict who has no biases towards anybody (wink, wink), along with some other extremely unqualified, not very well educated jurors, the accused will get a fair trial. I’m so glad my life doesn’t rely upon others to judge. Although in our everyday life…aren’t we constantly being judged by some-one for some-thing?

You Are Getting Sleepy....................

2012-01-14T14:55:00.000-08:00

During the daytime, I have trouble staying awake. (zzzzzzzzzzzzz…oh sorry…I dozed off there for a second.) Years ago I had mono and ever since then, a couple of times each year, (zzzzzzzzzzzzzz…oops). So, as I was saying…a couple of times a year, I go through a two week period where I am tired all the time. But this last time, that two week period turned into a 10 month period. And the one time a day I would need a nap has turned into about 4 times a day. I think that’s kinda not normal. For the last few years I can’t concentrate on anything. And I mean nothing. I thought maybe I was just hanging around some extremely uninteresting people recently who couldn’t hold my attention, but they are the same people I’ve been hanging around with for many years, so I ruled that out. Unless, of course, they’ve always been boring and I just never noticed, and just maybe, as I’m getting older and wiser, I’m realizing I have some pretty f**king brain dead friends. But we can diagnose that at a later date.

I decided it was time to talk to the doctor to see what he thinks [not about my friends; about my sleepiness.] I had various prognoses in my mind as to what it could be. What I didn’t consider was something a petite, somewhat health conscious, exercise fanatic of the female persuasion would ever have. Sleep apnea. Doesn’t that belong to overweight, fast-food eating, non-exercising people of the hairy XY gender?

My doctor wants me to do a sleep study because he thinks I’m tired from not sleeping well [Ya think? Brilliant deduction on his part, I must say] and to determine if it is, in fact, sleep apnea. I told him sometimes I wake myself up because I stop breathing. I have a feeling that’s not really a good thing. And as he pointed out, very indicative of sleep apnea.

Here’s the thing though…I just can’t see myself going to some lab, in an 8’x10’ room, with monitors hooked up all over me; crawling into a strange bed, dressed in…I don’t know what? My PJ’s? And have 5 or more strangers staring at me for 8 hours? I don’t think so. If I couldn’t sleep soundly before, I definitely wouldn’t drop my lids in that situation. They would have to heavily drug me and I would think that may just throw off the whole study. If I have a problem sleeping under normal circumstances, how could they possibly think I could snooze with an audience?

And when do you arrive there? (To wherever ‘there’ is.) At like10AM? At 10PM? If you go early, do you get to eat meals and watch TV? Read? Party with the lab techs? What do you do the whole time you are waiting to go to sleep? Do they make you go to bed at a certain hour like a 5 year old? “Get into bed NOW.” Or is it at my own leisure? I mean, I can’t go to sleep on command. And then if I wake up in the middle of the night, what if I can’t fall back asleep? Can I get up? How do I go to the bathroom if I’m hooked up to major machinery? Will the wires that I’m dragging with me fall into the toilet? So many questions. Don’t stop me now…I’m on a roll.

I’ve seen those contraptions sleep apnea people wear at night…you know…the ones that look like you’re protected enough to walk into a nuclear power plant because nothing will penetrate that face mask? THAT helps you sleep better? That cumbersome 20 pound mask heavily situated on your face enables you to sleep more soundly? You may as well ask an elephant to sit on my face…that’s about as comfortable as that looks. And forget turning in any direction other than facing up towards the ceiling. You’d take your nose off if you turned on your side. And do you wake up with indentations all over your face from the weight of the harness your head is locked into?

So say I did decide to go to a sleep lab. There’s no way they are going to witness what I look like when I get into my own bed. No make-up on, my pajama bottoms pulled up to my waist with the top tucked in and the bottoms tucked into my socks. I’m a real looker. A sort of Urkel type. (And I wonder why I don’t have a man lying next to me…aside from the fact that I snore like a truck driver.)

And what if they find I do have sleep apnea? I’m going to hook myself up to that mask and nuclear testing safety gear and attach myself to some tank every night? Yeah…sure I am. Well…if I don’t have a man now, I’m sure as hell never going to have one EVER. “Hey honey…kiss me good-night before I plaster Chernobyl to my face.” He would probably be happy to not have my very feminine snore-a-thon in his ear anymore, but not so sure he would love the pumping sound that would come from the air shooting into my nasal cavity. I think it may just interfere with some romantic spontaneity.

So, I’m in a quandary. To get tested or to not get tested. I’m just not so sure I actually want to know because I’m not even close to wanting to wear that shit on my face. I think drugs are the way to go. Hey…I’m a child of the 60’s and 70’s…of course drugs are the way to go. Duh. Drugs to help me sleep through the night and drugs to help keep me awake during the day. And if I do have sleep apnea and stop breathing in my sleep…what better way to go than that? Isn't that everyone's dream?

Suck It

2012-01-09T16:13:00.000-08:00

Is having a gap between your two front teeth like having a built in straw?

What is the point of the straw? Is it to not get a liquid moustache when you drink? Why is it with some drinks we don’t use one but with others we do? I don’t use a straw when I drink water, yet I use one when I drink iced coffee. Why is that?

We always use one when we drink a milkshake yet it’s like trying to suck up a mattress through a pin hole. My head is ready to explode with all the attempted sucking I do to get one teensy drop into my mouth. Milkshakes are probably the one drink we should NOT use a straw for but we are never served one without. Most of the time I use the straw like a spoon; to scoop up little tastes of the shake and lick it off or suck out the bottom. If I just drink it straight from the cup, I inevitably end up with brain freeze. They may as well stick my head in a freezer with needles through my eyes and leave it there for an hour, because that's what it feels like.

I have yet to figure out how to correctly use the squirt bottle. A stream of liquid shooting into my mouth does not appeal to me. It never fails to go directly to the back of my throat and choke me. And if that doesn't happen, I always squirt way too much in so that my cheeks are puffed out like a chipmunk and half of it ends up coming out my nose. Very attractive.

I know that squirt bottles are probably the most sanitary way to drink because if used correctly, you shouldn't be touching any part with your lips; except in my case, where I cover the entire squirt part with my mouth and suck, since I can't figure out any other way. And when I push down the top to close it, I invariably end up pinching my finger or the fatty part of my palm. I actually don't like drinking out of bottles at all. I obviously have no clue how.

We drink soda with a straw. Is it so the bubbles burn the back of our throat instead of tickling our lips? I find carbonated drinks to be more painful then pleasurable, so I rarely drink them. I feel like a fire is ignited in my throat and I have swallowed a gallon of air tainted with acid; not to mention the variety of sounds and gurgles they stir up in our stomachs and the gasses that inevitably discharge through our asses. The negatives of carbonation so outweigh the positives that I don’t understand why they are so popular. [A little too much info?]

When I do drink soda out of a can, I rarely fail to cut my lip on the aluminum. Just a little slit, but enough to tell me that a straw would have been the better alternative. And try getting that tab off the can...seriously? If your nail isn't in the shape of a paint scraper, expect to take a good hour trying to lift the tab away from the top of the can. Can they make it any harder to lift it up? I make sure I haven't had a manicure close to the time of trying to open a can of soda because half my nail breaks off with the attempt. They may as well put a combination lock on it and have us guess the code. I think I would have better luck. A stick of dynamite, maybe?

My daughter drinks coffee out of a straw. She does that so as to not stain her perfectly straight, white, glistening teeth. I thought it was a great idea so I tried it. I couldn't talk for three days waiting for the blisters on my tongue to go away and the hanging skin from the burnt roof of my mouth to fall off. I thpoke with a lithp and it wathn't very pleathant, ethpethially thinth I thpeak on the phone all day for work.

I guess there’s an art to drinking. My daughter always tells me I don’t know how to drink out of a regular water bottle. I didn’t realize there could be a wrong way unless, of course, you are slurping so loudly that others can’t hear anything else but the slurp. I put my entire mouth over the opening (like I do with the squirt bottle), but she tells me I should cover only half; that way there is no backwash and therefore she will then drink out of my bottle. Maybe subconsciously I do it just so she won’t drink mine because, more often than not, she finishes it and I have to get another. [Notice I said I have to get another? God forbid she would replace it for me.] I’m not really sure I understand how no matter how you drink out of a bottle, there’s no residual little particles of food mixed in the water anyway, IF you are eating and drinking simultaneously. If you aren’t eating at the same time, and there ARE particles of something in the water…you may want to check your mouth for…God only knows what. But I know I wouldn’t want to share a drink with you.

And speaking of my daughter telling me I don't know how to drink...if I didn't know myself better, according to my kids, it would appear that I am about 5 years old not knowing much of anything. I sometimes wonder how I managed without them for the first 34 years of my life. Yes, it's true I haven't mastered the art of drinking; something you learn the minute you are born. Others can pretty much guess what I've been drinking by the colors outlining my upper lip. I haven't quite perfected the lip lift and curl, so as not to leave evidence on my mouth. Next to my bed, or on my desk, or anywhere around the house, sits my 26 year old plastic Dairy Queen Blizzard water cup. Most of the logo is faded away, it's aged a bit, but it gives me great comfort. I drink it without caring if I get a water moustache or if I dribble it down my shirt. I don't need a straw. I don't have to squirt. I don't ever cut my lip. I never choke. Maybe I am like a 5 year old, in dire need of drinking lessons...but all I have to say to that is "Suck it."

Swipe This

2012-01-03T10:30:00.000-08:00

I know it's been discussed, many times before, amongst a varied group of people. I think people from all over the world have been questioning this for decades: scholars and scientists, doctors and mathematicians, politicians and laborers, great leaders of the world. It probably should be called the 8th (or is it 9th) Wonder of the World. No one seems to understand the phenomenon. At some point this mystery WILL be solved...but has anyone yet figured out why, under penalty of law, we can NOT remove the mattress tag? I mean, of all things to not remove...why the mattress tag? What, in God’s name, could possibly happen to this mattress if we remove its tag? Almost everyone has a mattress and is completely annoyed by this indestructible piece of unrelenting paper, yet, to this day I won't remove it. It's almost like we feel there's some hidden alert on the tag and someone will come arrest us if we do. I'm waiting for my bed to get really old and hopefully, it will fall off. But as everyone knows...you can't keep a bed too long because after a few years, they say all these little bugs and mites are probably lurking around under your sheets. Really makes you want to crawl right in between those cozy covers. I pull down my comforter and sheets every night before I get into bed to make sure there are no little critters waiting for me to spoon in the wee hours of the morning.

Why can't clothing labels be made that don't scratch the shit out of you? There are instances where I've forgotten to cut out some labels and the entire time I am wearing that item...all I can do is concentrate on how f**king annoyed I am that I am spending the whole day scratching my neck. Why must they make labels out of porcupine quills, with thread that is made of some torturous wiry shit? They may as well take brush bristles and just attach them to the neckline of all clothing. If I do remember to cut out the label, sometimes I don't pull the whole thing off and leave the ends. Have you ever had the corners of labels left in your shirt, and they stab at you like daggers? Those little miniscule points, with the barbed wire thread piercing into your skin causing you to go to emergency for stitches. My skin is so raw from scratching by the end of the day; I can't wear anything around my neckline for a good week. Thank God for tank tops. Although I've had some tank tops with sharp nailed claws for labels that have put me in a tizzy because they fall at the center of my back where I can't reach. So I'm in my contortionist mode trying to get at the itch, pulling my shoulder and arms in ways they were not designed to move. Once I realize I'm going to fall short of reaching the itch by maybe a millimeter, I resort to corners of walls to rub up against, possibly looking like the biggest idiot anyone has ever seen.

And explain to me why ANY item would need that hard plastic wrapping that you need a blow torch to open? I can't tell you how many plastic cuts I've endured trying to open those. And those little slits in your fingers that look so innocent? They hurt like hell while leaving trails of blood all over the place. What could possibly be so precious that they need Ft. Knox protecting the merchandise? It can't be to deter theft. No one is going to spend time trying to open a stolen item inside the store...they will just take it home and spend four hours opening it at home. And if you don't have a super, duper hard core scissors to use...forget it. You're never getting that sucker open. Maybe if you have one of those huge paper slicers we used to have in Art Class...remember those...the ones that could cut through brick but we used it to cut one piece of paper? For THAT, we had the super deluxe guillotine. To cut through paper. But to cut these plastic protectors, we pull our hair out trying to figure out if there's some hidden secret that we just don't know about. And it's not only just for expensive items; it's for a variety of merchandise. Batteries, toys. Really? Toys? Why would they want children to have that hard plastic artillery? Maybe it's to keep them busy for hours on end trying to figure out how to get their toys out. Except it would probably backfire, because, like me, they probably start having tantrums. The whole thing is an enigma to me. WHY?? Someone please tell me WHY?

Does anyone understand the blob of cotton inside medicines and vitamins? Is it to hold the pills in place? Is it for absorption of whatever it should be absorbing? And if that's the case, then shouldn't we keep the cotton in all the time? It doesn't say that on the label. On the very flat, soft paper label that's on bottles. At least that label doesn't stab you. Although if it gets a little wet, it gets gooey from the glue that holds it on. But, back to the cotton. I have spent hours trying to pull cotton out of some bottles. They shove it in so tight in this huge ball that must have been cemented together. My fingers alone never have successfully freed it. I have tried pliers to tug it out only to pull out a small portion. I’ve pulled so hard my hand retracted back with such force, I hit myself in the face. And with each tug comes out this teensy little piece. I have tried my tweezers, thinking maybe doing it delicately will help and the cotton won't fight back so fiercely, but I got even smaller pieces with those. You think you have bought this huge bottle of vitamins only to find, after you finally get the bale of cotton out 2 hours later, that it's only filled up half way. I’ve worked that hard for 5 pills?

You know way back when we would actually purchase CD's rather than illegally download them for free from limewire or some other website we would rip off? Do you remember how long it would take to unwrap those frickin’ flattened out plastic boxes they came in? Just trying to find the elusive tab that was supposed to make it simple to open was a feat in itself. All you would have to do is unravel it by pulling on the ‘Where's Waldo’ tab. After 20 minutes of unsuccessfully searching, I would then try to peel off the cellophane from the folded over sides that were held together with industrial glue only to pull off nothing. So I would then try to bite the shit out of it spitting out all the little pieces of plastic wrap that were stuck to my tongue. Ptuey ptuey ptuey. And I didn't care where they landed because at that point the hammer was coming out. So as my naked toes are gathering little pieces of plastic between each one as I walk to where I have my ax to attempt to hack this half ounce piece of armor open...I look over and my dog had gotten hold of it and had the wrapping off within seconds. She misses no opportunity to turn any possession of mine into her plaything. Now that the wrapper was off it only took me another thirty minutes to get the little seal off that holds the cover together. You would think there was every government secret since WWI stored on my music CD because it was sealed so tightly, in so many different ways. Why could they possibly need a CD to be hermetically sealed?

Everything should just be in a simple, environmentally safe, clear covering so that we don’t have to be Houdini to figure out the escape route for the article we have purchased. Labels should all be stamped into our clothing…not sewn using barbed wire. And all those tags that are attached with little plastic strings...do we really need 5 different tags for one item of clothing that pretty much tell the same story? I’ve practically ripped teeth from my gums trying to bite off that plastic when I didn’t have a scissors.

I guess I will start wearing my clothes inside out and will purchase a complete set of power tools to open up all my items in their packages. I just hope I will be able to extricate my power tools from their own fortress. And now I’m sneaking out to cut the tag off of my mattress. If you don’t hear from me in the next few days…check the local jail.

(I’ll be the one scratching the back of my neck rubbing up against the wall.)

As Seen On TV

2011-12-29T22:03:00.000-08:00

Why is it that each year, as Christmas approaches, every item that you would never want to get and would give away in an instant, [as a white elephant gift, for sure] starts advertising on TV? The worst items for your home, for your wardrobe, for your spouse, for your friends...well...you get the idea. But are they only useful at Christmas time? You can't use them at other times of the year? My answer to that is...you can't use them EVER.

I mean...who wears Pajama Jeans? Have you ever seen these things? They are stretch pants made to look like jeans. Seriously? I have never seen an item of clothing uglier than the Pajama Jeans...except maybe the free shirt they also give you when you purchase a pair. It's a drab gray, stretchy-ish shirt; with zilch style...a style from I don't even know what era. Who comes up with this shit? And more than that...why would they come up with this shit? And why would they think any of it would sell? I wouldn't even wear the ‘jeans’ if we were back in the '60's when stretch pants were fashionable. I wouldn’t even wear them to bed.

Do you know one person who owns a Chia Pet? I was quite surprised to see it advertised again this year. I thought it went kaput last year. Wishful thinking. I figure there can't be anyone who actually buys this crap; but they did finally come out with new ones that are a little more current. Not that it makes them any more desirable...but at least we know the manufacturers are not just robots making these things by rote. They actually are alive and thinking...finally. Well…sorta. They have a Chia Obama, a Chia Shrek, a Chia SpongeBob, a blah blah blah...but I think my favorite is just the Chia head...for those who are 'follicly' challenged.

But the worst thing about this damn product? I can't get the f**king song out of my head. Any time I say or think "Chia Pet" I hear ‘Chi Chi Chi Chia Pet.’ Can you hear it now? It will be there, in your head, throughout the rest of this blog. You can thank me later.

Jane Seymour has a line of jewelry for Kay Jewelers. "Come see my 'Open Hearts' collection at Kay Jewelers." [Said with her English accent] Only at Christmas time? Doesn't she sell it throughout the rest of the year? Why would she only advertise at Christmas? And she chose the very chic jeweler...Kay? I think, but I’m not sure...that it just could be the K-Mart of jewelers. Oh! Maybe that's why it's called 'KAY' Jewelers. "K" Mart. Get it? A subsidiary, maybe? And after all these years...can't she come up with a new design? Any new design? It's been the same frickin' design for 15 years already. I mean how many f**king open hearts can you have? Any other collections there, Jane?

You know what's amazing...I actually know people with the Snuggie. Yup...people I know actually do own a Snuggie. Of course, I’m not friends with those people. I just know them. I don’t know if I could be associated with people who have consciously gone out and bought a Snuggie; especially those who leave their homes wearing them and partake in activities…such as this guy.

I’m sure many people have gone out and tackled fishing in their camouflage Snuggie. This way no one would notice them since they blend right in. This way they get all the fish. And on the website…they label it “Designer” Snuggie. OMG…I don’t even think I have words for what I’m feeling about that right now. But just in case you’re interested…they do have a sale going on as we speak.

I will never understand the fruitcake. Although it’s not advertised on TV…why is it that only at Christmas, it’s given as a present. And what is it anyway? Is it really made of fruit? Obviously I’ve never had any. The name alone turns me off; therefore I have never tasted one. But to this day, I don’t understand why it’s only given to people around the holidays. And who in God’s name came up with that idea. ‘Let’s give a fruitcake as a gift.’ Why would anyone think that’s a good gift? I would be embarrassed to hand someone a fruitcake. They would know, right off the bat, it’s a re-gift. Actually, I wouldn’t even give it as a re-gift.

And speaking of re-gifts…I also don’t really understand the re-gift. If I don’t like something, I’m certainly not going to give it to someone else so they can think I’m the one with bad taste. I only give things I like to people I like. I would give something I don’t like to someone I don’t like, but most likely, I wouldn’t be giving that someone I don’t like a present anyway, because I don’t like them.

Some people’s taste amazes me. I would love to know what goes through their heads when deciding what to give as a gift. I like to put a lot of thought into what I am purchasing for a particular person. I want to make it personal and I want them to love it. For the last 25 years I have been wondering about a gift my first husband and I received for our wedding. Not only was it strange, but the wrapping was the tackiest I have ever seen…ever. The present was a mold of a ship captain’s head. Yup…that’s right, our wedding gift was a ship captain’s head that you can hang on the wall. And it was wrapped in newspaper inside a yellow plastic bag. Do you think that may have been a re-gift? Of course, it wasn’t from someone on MY side of the family.

Last night my daughter’s friend mentioned getting a money tree as a gift. I love that idea. I don’t think you can go wrong with that gift. I mean…who doesn’t like money. And nowadays, who can’t use a little extra. They wrapped up different denominations of bills and tied them to branches of the tree. What a great idea. She said her boss gave her a tree worth $100.

Next year…my kids are going to get that as their gift. It will look something like this…

I HOPE THEY LIKE IT!

Skype Anyone?

2011-12-19T20:12:00.000-08:00

I have realized that if you don't really care about sex and physical intimacy...you never have to see anyone in person anymore to have a relationship. If you don't mind that tactile void in your life, our technology has taken care of our everyday needs and companionships.

I was skyping with my daughter the other day, and seeing her on camera, as opposed to just speaking on the phone, gave me such pleasure...as it always does. I love seeing her face and looking into her eyes because it feels like we are right there with each other...except for the fact that she can't just stretch out her hand for a twenty. Works for me. And my house stays so much cleaner. And my food bill is lower and there’s no sisterly fighting…oops…sorry. Got off track a little. But what really made me realize that you can be miles away from someone and still have a close relationship, was right after I disconnected with my daughter, an old high school friend skyped me. We had never skyped before. We haven't seen each other in almost 40 years. In fact, we weren't even really friends until facebook. But through the miracle of social networking, we have become pretty close. It's just so odd. There's so much about social networking that's odd [in a positive light] and that's what made me think about being in the same place at the same time with people. It's really not necessary. Don't get me wrong...I LOVE being in physical proximity to people because I'm a hugger and a toucher and I just love that touchy feely kind of thing. (Hence...why I have a dog...she doesn't put restrictions on my hugs.)

But since I live relatively far from so many of the people I care for the most, I think social networking has rescued, or has the potential to rescue, many lonely people. And it does give you that feeling of immediacy and being in the now with each other.

I mean, who needs a real date? If you don't give two shits about ever having sex again for the rest of your life; never having that man touch you like no one else ever has, with long, deep kisses, his muscular arms wrapped tightly...oh sorry...got off track once again...then you can just skype with someone at any time and call it a relationship. You can communicate as if you’re right there next to him. And look at how much cheaper it is [well, for him maybe]. It’s amazing. You could go to the movies, hold your phone up to the screen, and have him watch with you, without ever purchasing a second ticket.

You have a built in date! You can eat your popcorn, drink your diet coke, pig out on milk duds and raisinets, maybe a few nachos, and no one is the wiser. Then after, once you wipe the evidence off your face, and try to pick up your bloated body out of your seat, you can discuss and critique the film when it’s over. And he's not aware of how you just pigged out and ate yourself into oblivion. [Although I'm not quite sure how you can manage holding the phone and eating all that with only one hand, without spilling something all over you.] But I digress again.

Then, if you’re not really into him, you don’t have to make excuses about wanting to go home and not wanting to go out for coffee or dessert after; (God forbid going for dessert, after what you just ate in the theater, you porker), or going back to your place for a little hanky panky (although who could have sex after all that crap you just inhaled.) You just say, "Ok, I’ve gotta go now. Can't drive and skype.” And that saves you the embarrassment of not wanting to kiss good night, if in fact, you don’t want to. It’s almost too perfect. And if you really do like the person, then it just builds up the excitement for when you actually are physically together, but still giving you more time with each other while apart.

If you just decide to sit home at night...you can talk to any person you want for companionship because someone else is always at home on a Saturday night, too. (Aren't they?) You really never have to be alone. Then when someone asks, "What did you do this weekend?" You just say..."Oh, I had a date with 'fill in the blank.'"

If only the elderly would be more open to learning all the technology we have at our fingertips. Think of all the ways they could keep their brains stimulated and keep active. If their families couldn't visit them too often because of their busy schedules, or because they're too f**king selfish to think of their parents there all alone in the assisted living places, [where they're actually probably more active then three quarters of the people half their age]...they could take 5 minutes to skype and say hi. And look how much grandma would have to look forward to without nagging at her family to come see her, or instilling that guilt that so many parents try to do to their kids without actually thinking that's what they're doing. Well, maybe 'thinking' isn't the right word. Trying to 'mask' it behind something else, I would say is more the case. But whatever...it's a win-win for everyone. The grandkids don't have to sit there bored out of their minds, for God only knows how long...they can just pop their little dirty faces in the camera and yell, "hi gramma" and the adults can talk for a few. How much easier and better can it be? The grandparents don't have to worry about leaving early to avoid all the traffic, because as we all know...no matter what time they leave, they will for sure hit traffic. And then if they are stuck in traffic...oh my god...what if they have to pee? Or run out of gas so they need to get gas first but what if there's no gas station close by that may be 3 cents less than they can get at home, so they travel 20 miles out of their way to save 30 cents, although they just spent $5 traveling to find the cheaper gas station. So this way...everyone is where they want to be and no one can f**king complain about it. Geez. (Wow...I just got worked up more than I realized. I'm exhausted, and I didn't even have to visit anyone yet.)

Of course, there are always a few downfalls to skyping that sometimes get in the way; especially when you haven't seen someone in a very long time and plan to "meet" on camera. There's always that lovely camera angle that makes you look like you're eating your nose. Your nose could be the size of a peanut, but yet...there it is...making an anchor like shape on your face in conjunction with your mouth. It looks like a fat carrot hanging down covering half your top lip, if your head is the least bit tilted downward or the camera is up too high. If the camera angle is too low...you end up with the chin that looks like the length of California. Always attractive. And if you keep your head down...you get that rolly polly neck thing going with the rippling effect. So basically...you look like this:

And you probably would never hear back from that 'friend' you haven't seen in 20 years.

And if you are hanging out in your pajamas or other comfy, clown looking clothes, no make-up on, hair piled on top of your head in some big lumpy moppy thing, or hanging down all stringy, hoping no one, and I mean no one, would ever see you...

...then you hear that distinctive skype ring and think...oh shit. It's someone you really want to speak to. Do you pick up? I've sat debating long enough where it finally stopped ringing. So I ran into my bathroom, quickly dabbed on a little make-up, changed my shirt, [because no one can really see you below the shoulders if the camera is set up right], brushed my hair, and called back that person. "Oh...I see you just called. I didn't hear it...isn't that strange? I must've been downstairs."

Then there is the fib. Well, another fib. You tell the grandparents that their grandchildren aren't home at the time of the skyping, because you know the kids would rather not talk, so you help them out. But you didn't make them aware that you were saying that, so they walk in, in the middle of your conversation. "I thought the kids weren't there?" [Said with that sarcastic let's instill the guilt tone]. "They must've just walked in." Oops.

But the advantages far, far outweigh the disadvantages. It’s been unbelievably exciting to reconnect with so many friends after all these years and not only audibly, but visually. Although I have to say, sometimes maybe we are better off just leaving the visuals to our imagination. If you notice, you have that choice on skype…Answer with audio only. Answer with audio and video. Those skype inventors…they knew what they were doing when they came up with that option…they must’ve had some dog ass ugly friends and family. Oh sorry…did I say that out loud?

Stranger Things Have Happened

2011-12-03T17:28:00.000-08:00

I will never understand how people can pass you on the street, look right at you, and act as if you're not even there. Not a smile or a nod or a hello. Seriously? Maybe I’m overly nice, (well, duh) but I would never pass someone without some form of acknowledgement. Even if it's one of my various phony smiles.

I mean, we’re both occupying the same space for that one second in time. We’ve made a connection. How can you not recognize that person you’re sharing it with in some form of communication? It's just not right.

I live in a gated community...but we have no gates. (We would have gates if it was an actual gated community). It’s a small development, with a pool and recreation area located in the center of the complex. Everyone is out and about all the time, almost like a Stepford neighborhood.

They’re either gardening, pushing their kids in strollers, watching their older kids playing ball in the streets, or gossiping about God only knows what. If you’re outside at all, you know the people on your street. You see them all the time. You would think there would be a sense of camaraderie of sorts.

I walk my dog at least a couple of times a day and see my neighbors on a regular basis, but I can’t tell you how many people totally ignore me when I pass them. I just can’t figure out why anyone would choose to do that. There's one family where the entire family acts as if I'm invisible when I'm right in front of them, as they walk by with their dog. I smile, they don't. I say hi, they don't. Then when they get to the house next to mine, they have a full blown conversation with the dad, in his driveway. Are you f**king kidding me? I had originally thought that they treated everyone the same, until I witnessed them laughing and cajoling with the dad and his family. Pretty frickin' nervy, if you ask me. Well, you didn't ask me, but I'm telling you anyway.

The same thing happened with this guy who walks his dog by my house every day. I see him when I'm out with my dog or just when I'm outside my house doing whatever it is I'm doing. He either keeps his head down or looks straight ahead, knowing full well I'm there, but keeps walking. Sometimes he looks at me without even a curve of his lips in an upward movement, like he's looking right through me. It's mind blowing.

Then one day, I was standing there talking with one of my friendly neighbors and he starts having a conversation with her. And still doesn't acknowledge me, even after I said hello. Really? I'm starting to get a complex. I'm like the nicest, friendliest person I know. What is going on? Why don't these people see that?

There is a special connection with the people who live in the houses on either side of you. At least there should be. They are like family. They are like sisters because they’re so close to you; right next to you; side by side. They are your siblings and the houses surrounding them are like cousins. And the houses on the other streets are like cousins once removed. But we are all from the same family. The ‘Non-Gated Community’ family and family should acknowledge each other. Even if you don’t like each other, be cordial. You're distant cousins for God's sake. Aside from just being the respectful thing to do…you never know when you may need that person in an emergency. Why wouldn’t you want to be nice? It's hurtful.

Have you ever gotten into an elevator and you are all alone, but on the next stop someone comes in, looks directly at you, and doesn’t even nod? Seriously? Did they not see me? I mean I'm right here. I'm right smack in the middle of the elevator in their line of vision as they walk in, and they act like I'm Casper. Then we stand there with the musak playing, or whatever it's called now, all fidgety and uncomfortable, acting like there's no one else in our space. C'mon people...I'm right here. Give me something.

I especially don't understand it when you have something in common with others and they still don't acknowledge you. I've been in doctor's waiting rooms the size of my closet, practically on top of the other patient waiting, and not a word. I'm ready to go sit on their lap and ask them to tell me about themselves but I contain myself. That may not be legal. Or at the very least, moral. But we have something in common, besides waiting an inordinately ridiculous amount of time to see the doctor. We have ailments. Why not discuss them to pass the time. Although I have to tell you, I did sit next to a very nice man who proceeded to tell me how his medicines are giving him a ton of gas and causing him constipation, which is giving him hemorrhoids that are really itchy. I responded, "Thanks for sharing" and the entire doctor's office, which was filled with about 20 waiting patients, cracked up. I think they were aghast that this man was divulging this deeply intimate, personal info to me, a complete stranger, within 5 seconds of us communicating and they were relieved that I said something. It didn't make him stop though. He proceeded to tell me ALL his problems but luckily he was called into the examining room shortly after. That loosened up the tension in the waiting room and people began to chat, which was very nice. A little too much information from that guy maybe, but nonetheless, it was better than sitting in that uncomfortable silence.

The veterinarian's office is a place where you would think people would be the friendliest. We all have a love for pets. Although I'm beginning to think some of these people would prefer not to have their pets at all...or shouldn't have them. But it's a built-in conversation piece; a common bond. As soon as I walk into the vets office, if a dog comes up to me, I pet it and practically drool all over it cause I love dogs so much. But some of these people are so rude. They pull their dogs away, even though I've made it perfectly clear that it's fine if they come up to me, yet they give ME a dirty look. I'm sorry...was I humping your dog and didn't realize it? Don't give ME the look. I'm the one being friendly back. Why wouldn't you love another dog lover? Well, maybe 'love' is too strong, but at least be cordial. I just don't get it. While I'm waiting I will try to stir up conversation asking questions about their dog but get one word answers. So I don't continue because I don't want to be annoying, (although if you ask my kids, I'm like the most annoying person on the planet...and proud of it!)

Maybe I'm just a chatty, friendly, annoying person. Or maybe too many people aren't. People walk around like they have blinders on. I don't understand it. Don't get me wrong...there are a ton of wonderfully, nice, welcoming people in this world. Strangers who do acknowledge your existence, just in passing. Strangers who do have conversations with you even though they've never seen you before. Strangers who just want to say...let's be strangers together...just for this moment in time.

Aren't there?

Oh...What a Tangled Web We Weave

2011-11-27T09:03:00.000-08:00

I’m sure I’m not the first to say…if you’re not Einstein, then you have not, nor will you ever master the science of Christmas light untangling. I have never in my entire life come across an art form such as the free form ball of lights. Most people plan to take a day to hang their lights with time for other activities they may want to do. I plan an entire day just to untangle those f**kin' strings of stress. The next day I save for hanging them, with time to spare for other things.

I usually take Thanksgiving weekend as the holiday lighting ritual. Thursday is turkey day. That’s just a day exclusively for eating and being with family. Friday is just for recovering from being with that family you only wanted to see once a year but over the holidays have to see them more often then you wanted. Oh, wait, oops…I mean Friday is for recovering from over-eating on Thursday; working out and resting from the meteoric caloric intake. Then Saturday is for the untangling ceremony. Come one, come all…let’s decipher the expert level Sudoku puzzle of Christmas lights. And Sunday is for hanging…[The lights, I mean.] I have decided I will never move from my house because I have masterfully hammered in thousands of nails to expertly place each strand of lights. Every nail has been strategically positioned so that the lights form a certain pattern to make anyone gasp in awe when they see them.

Unfortunately, Saturday has arrived…I drink my eight cups of coffee, gearing up for the very unpleasant task of the detangle. Then I take a valium to try to keep myself calm so the neighbors don’t hear me screaming and swearing eight hours into the task at hand, pulling and tugging and contorting, with lights hanging from my head. I take a deep breath and open up the enormous, chock full box of Christmas crap: lights, dancing Santa, wreaths, giant lighted Santa sleigh, mini lighted Christmas tree, and so on and so on. Nope…no sign of the Jew in this box…[My grandparents are turning in their graves.]

I pull out one string of lights and out come the entire contents of the box in one gigunda ball...everything included. The ornaments are hanging from the Santa, which is hanging from the sleigh, which is hanging from the extra large, lighted lollipops, which are attached to 10 strings of more lights. OY! I'm so happy it's 83 degrees and sunny on November 26th so that I can tan on the front lawn while I'm untangling Christmas paraphernalia. A little sunshine to an otherwise dreary undertaking. [Christmas in California just isn't the same as it is back east.]

OK, deep breath. And the untangling begins...the race is on to see if I can beat my time from last year. It's a little game I play with myself to help the time and frustration pass a little more smoothly. Doesn't really work. I've gotten some of the bigger pieces removed from the bundle of joy. I've set them in the garage so there is no chance of them getting caught back in the web of madness. I still have about 10 strings of Christmas lights yet to untangle...but finally it happens. Do you know what an accomplishment that is? I'm sure you do. It's like striving for the impossible and actually achieving it. It's like when you get a knot in your thinnest necklace while it's all tangled up with your other necklaces...and actually get them apart. Then with your stubby, little fingers, you get that microscopic knot out of the teeny, tiny links. I’m not sure why we have to get the knot out. Unless you have Superman vision, you would never notice it anyway, but you still have to remove that itsy bitsy teensy weensy miniscule knot. Welllllll...I did it! Night has fallen, meals have been eaten...[by others]...but by golly...I did it.

I placed all the strings in rows trying to remember which string goes on which part of the house and which strands go on the tree. Yep, that's right...not only does the good little Jew that I am put lights on the house...we also have a tree. What's Chanukah without Christmas lights and a Christmas tree? It's Chanukah...duh. Do you think my kids were a little confused growing up? We won't go there. That would be fodder for a whole other blog. (Note to self...blog on "How I f**ked up my kids.")

Hanging the lights is a feat. That fear of heights I've discussed in other blogs comes into play quite often on this holiday. The lights outlining the garage aren't too bad...I only need to go on the 2nd step of the step ladder, but even that makes me sick to my stomach. Fortunately, the girls didn't inherit that fear and have no problem standing next to me while I go up on that step trembling. They are there for support. The princesses don't do the actual work. They keep watch hoping they don't have to catch me if I get dizzy and fall. No...Just kidding...they do help with the lights. Sometimes. OK...rarely.

I finally attach one string to the nails around the door of the garage, get the extension cord all set up after trying to remember what cord goes into which outlet, plug in the lights and NADA. Nothing. Not one light goes on. Oh...that's right...I stupidly forgot to check each strand to see if they still work. Luckily I have so many extra ones that I can just switch it out. But still...nothing like making extra work for myself...because I'm not frustrated enough and not panicked enough about going back up on the ladder. Another OY.

Eventually it all gets done. Lights all working, flickering sequences adjusted to where I like them...looking unbelievably fantastic. I'm so excited it's done to the perfection I want. And now for the unveiling of this incredible undertaking that I call my masterpiece. I step back into the street so I can take it all in and........Check it out.......

Pretty frickin' impressive...dontcha think?

Country Strong

2011-11-20T16:03:00.000-08:00

How does a Jewish chick from NY end up at a country western club, dancing the two-step? In my wildest dreams, I never imagined I would be amongst the cowboy boot wearing, ten gallon hat toting, down home country western crowd. But there I was. And I have to admit...I quite enjoyed it.

There was a time, [actually that time was my entire life], that I couldn't stand country music. Loretta Lynn, Tammy Wynette, (ok...that's about all I know as far as singers go), with those twangy, annoying sounds emanating from their vocal cords was enough to drive me out of my mind. If ever that music came on the radio...it immediately was turned off. Not that it ever came on the radio intentionally...only if I was traveling to other parts of the country and it transitioned onto the station I had been bopping out to. I couldn't listen long enough to hear their tragic life stories that were the lyrics to their songs. Being so sheltered in my upper middle class neighborhood where I grew up, the only thing I knew from country was Hee Haw. And the only reason I knew about Hee Haw was because I would click past it on Sunday nights. Seeing Minnie Pearl in her gingham dresses, her hats with the price tag, and that god awful “how-deeee”, was enough to turn me off for 40+ years.

I could not relate to anything they would say or sing or wear; especially what they would wear. Those clothes...geez...who dresses like that? The frills, the aprons, the tight plaid shirts that were 2 sizes too small. And that hair. They had to have air pumps inside their bouffant to keep it up so high and wide. I mean...how much teasing could that have possibly taken to get their hair to have the volume of a hot air balloon? Can you imagine combing that out at night? I guess really all they had to do was remove it from their heads and set it on their styrofoam mannequin.

When my girls were younger, and I 'believed' I had a little more parental control, I would forbid that music in my house or in my car. I would make them listen with headphones, behind closed doors, with the volume way down. I didn't want one decibel floating down the hall into my inner ear.

But when they went away to college, and I did quite a lot more traveling in my car to visit them, I slowly allowed a country radio station to permeate the air waves in my vehicle. The first time I had no choice because it was all I could find on the radio when I had forgotten to bring my CD’s. And when one of the girls would be driving with me, I succumbed to her wishes. They seemed to have that power over me for some reason. The first few times I would try to tune it out. I don't want to say it was like nails on a chalkboard; however, it was just short of mental torture. But as time went on, I found myself less and less anxious while it was playing. I think what really turned me around, was going to see ‘Country Strong’, the movie. It wasn’t actually the music that I started liking, but one of the leads was just a tad good-looking and when he sang, you could melt.

After downloading all his songs from the movie and listening to them incessantly, the music kinda grew on me. And the more I drove up north through cattle country, the more I listened to Country. It’s nothing like what it was back when I was a kid. I think there was only one kind back then (horrible). But now it seems there are different genres. I guess the one I kind of like is Country-Pop.

My daughter’s birthday was last week and she wanted to go to the Cowboy Palace Saloon with all her friends, to dance. To LINE dance. And she asked me to go, too. Well…having taken Zumba for a couple of months, I figured, no problema! If I can somewhat move in Zumba, of course I could pick up line dancing and the two step and whatever other dances they do. Right? HA! Who was I kidding? It’s amazing how you can fool yourself into thinking you know how to do something and then realize how absolutely inept you really are. Those people had some real talent. What I couldn’t figure out is how they knew what dance to do when the band didn’t announce the dance. Do certain songs automatically go with certain dances? I’m still baffled. But I was so impressed. (Doesn’t take much).

And what an experience the whole night was. Forget about the dancing part…but walking into the place…it felt like I was on a whole different planet. I was in a world I had never entered before. I was in……..The Hee Haw Zone. Yee haaa. There were more false eyelashes, plaid shirts and boobs popping out then I had ever seen in one place. And as soon as we walked in, everyone turned and stared at us as we walked to our table. I’m sure it had nothing to do with us looking totally out of our element. I felt like the kids in ‘Animal House’ when they walked into the bar to see Otis Day and the Knights.

As we got settled in, the kids started dancing and picked up the moves immediately. When Waylon Jennings and Buck Owens asked me to dance, I graciously declined, but I did go out on the dance floor a few times, and believe me, it wasn’t pretty. If you’ve ever watched or experienced country western dancing, you will know that there are dances where they partner up and move in a circle around the circumference of the dance floor. And it’s a steady flow; everyone moving in sync with one another.

Well…not when I was on the dance floor. I slowed down just a little, trying to get into the rhythm of the song and trying to figure out the dance steps and…BOOM. A five couple pile up behind me. A domino effect...one by one, crashing into me. I decided it would be best for me to move into the inner circle where I didn’t have to move in step with anyone else.

But you know what was so incredible at that club? Everyone was so genuinely nice. It was like no other bar I had ever been in. Somewhere else, if you accidentally bumped into someone, they would give you a look or say something derogatory, but there…they were just good ol’ folk. No one made us feel out of place. No one snickered when I looked like a complete fool on the dance floor. And everyone, including the women, was more than happy to help us learn the dances. I really had entered the Hee Haw Zone. And although I never thought I would admit this to anyone…gosh darn it, I’m a country girl. I think my next vacation might just have to be to Dollywood!

And you know what’s frightening…I recognize songs now on the radio. And you know what else…I know the words. And lastly…I would like everyone to start calling me…Jaime Lou

Tunnel Vision

2011-11-06T09:49:00.000-08:00

I don't know if you've ever had the pleasure of an MRI, but for those of you who have, you may understand the fear I go through every time I have one. Especially if you are claustrophobic.

Last week I was going in for two MRIs...one on each shoulder. And that was just the beginning of my upcoming scans of various body parts. Being claustrophobic, I opted to be anesthetized. Well...it was actually not an option, it was a desperate plea to put me somewhere in between euphoria and complete oblivion. And the more drugs the better, but usually some heavy duty valium would suffice. Every so often they gave me an I.V. of whatever it was; but whatever it was...for the one second before I went into la la land...it was like the greatest.

I didn't need the anesthesia just for my fear of closed spaces, but knowing that I had to lie still for 20+ minutes per shoulder, would send my body into complete itch mode. I rarely have an itch. But knowing that I have to be immobile for any length of time...my brain decides to fool me into thinking every body part needs a little bit of scratching. And not only in the reachable areas, but in the middle of my back where no human arm could possibly get to. Maybe if I was an orangutan or a spider monkey, but since my arms are just a touch shorter, and my shoulder pain inhibits the radial reach...the middle of my back is in the outer limits. So therefore...bring on the drugs.

I should have known early that morning that the day was not going to go too smoothly. The imaging center was sending a car to pick me up, since no one could get away from work to give me a ride. The fact that they forgot about me and their car service never showed up, was an indication of things to come. Fortunately, my daughter was still home, so she ended up taking me. When I got there, they were so apologetic that they gave me a gift card to a local restaurant. Now THAT'S class. How often do you find someone in the medical field understanding that your time is just as important as theirs? I was quite impressed.

When I arrived, like always, I filled out that 800 page history of my entire life, even though I had just been there 6 months ago, and did it back then. I don't think my grandmother passing away 20 years ago has had any changes since then, unless she was resurrected. I've had no reversible surgeries in the last 6 months; my tonsils have not grown back, cysts that burst back in the 80’s, well...they still burst back then. So why I had to fill out this gigunda questionnaire again is beyond my comprehension. But hey, I just follow the rules.

They brought me into the back to get into the very fashionable gown that makes you feel like a toddler just learning to tie a bow. Why can't they just use snaps? Those are easy to deal with; definitely easier than a tie. It’s really quite difficult trying to tie a bow behind your back. And you wouldn't feel like a fool worried that your tushy may be sticking out the opening. Or at least put 5 ties on there instead of just the two...since the bottom one does absolutely nothing. They may as well just ask me to walk around naked, or in a sandwich board with big letters written across “CHECK OUT THE BUTT BEHIND ME.”

I was then taken into the anesthesiologist’s office so he could ask me if it was ok to have an I.V. instead of just the Valium pills. It would be quicker for sedation since we were running late because they neglected to pick me up. Well...duh...bring it on Doc. In fact...you could up the dosage if you really want it even faster. Except...I would really love to enjoy it so could you inject it a little slower so I can get like 10 seconds of euphoria before conking out?

They started the I.V. and la dee da; there I went into a little bit of heaven. I remember chatting up a storm for a few seconds and then the technician asked me what kind of music I wanted to hear with the headphones (to drown out the sonic boom sounds of the MRI machine that makes you feel like there's a jackhammer in your head). I responded with "My daughter recently got me into country music...so let's go with that." Huh? Did I just say country music? Are you f**king kidding me? I never listen to country...I used to ban it from playing in my house and car. But there it was...coming through the headphones straight into my cochlea. I listened to it all through the first MRI of my right shoulder. [I don't really remember but I'm assuming.] When they pulled me out of the tunnel, like I was human drawer, I said, "Did I ask you to play country music?" "Yes, you did." "Well...PLEASE GET IT OFF! Put on anything else...but no more country."

After a few minutes of them making sure the pictures were clear from the right shoulder, it was time for the left one. I was feeling good but I wasn't as foggy as I had been at the beginning, but still ok to go back into the miniscule hole of hell. I almost asked for more drugs because I didn't want it wearing off in the middle and my worst fear coming to fruition...being stuck in the coffin like machine looking up at the ceiling only 2 inches from my face. I kept drifting off becoming lucid every few minutes when all of a sudden...BOOM.

What the F***? Everything shut down...no more noise, no more lights, no more pounding, no more nothing. Not one sound. ‘Am I dreaming? Am I that drugged up that this could be all in my head or some practical joke?’ Panic was setting in quickly...I mean really quickly. That was a claustrophobe's worst nightmare and who else would it happen to? Suddenly...3 people came charging into the room, yelling to me "Don't worry...we're gonna get you out as fast as we can. Don't panic." Well...too late for that. That would have been 5 seconds ago. It took all three of them as they struggled to pull the table out from the tunnel since it usually slides out at the push of a button. And it wasn't an easy feat, but they did it. The high winds had blown out a power line. Really? Today? Of all days?

I sat there in the dark for what seemed like hours, but probably was only about 2 minutes. "Did you happen to finish the pictures?" "No...We still have about 10 minutes more to go. Can you handle it or did you want to come back another time?" Come back? Are you out of your frickin' mind? I don't think so. "No...I'm good. Let's finish it." Yeah...sure I was good. About as good as I would be if I stuck a fork in my eye.

Once the power came back on, into the mausoleum I went. I was still pretty doped up so back into la la land for a few more minutes, and then it was over. They got me up and off I went to get my clothes on. The driver was there waiting to take me home. We had about a 10 minute ride home on the freeway but because of the winds, there were power lines down, and tree branches all over the lanes, slowing down the traffic. We sat there for quite a while inching along, at a speed of about 5 miles per hour, when all of a sudden…

Sit Still, Wouldya? [An audio/video Interactive Blog]

2011-10-19T12:05:00.000-07:00

What do you do when you don't want to do anything but you want to do something? It's not really that I didn't WANT to do something, but my back had been in spasms for two days, so I just didn't feel good enough to do anything and knew that I shouldn't do anything, so as not to worsen my pain. But even when I don't want to do anything...I still have to do something. I'm not one to sit around even if I have nothing planned. I always find things to do around the house and if I don't...I concoct. But most of them require physical movement. There are not too many things you can do that allow you to just sit still...except reading, watching TV or sitting at the computer. But there is just so much of that you can do in a weekend. Believe me…I do my best to compete for the world’s record for most hours logged in on the computer and TV, but I do get to a point where my eyes are unfocusable (I made that word up) and I have to find other things.

My weekend started out pain free (or what I call pain free in my world since I’m never pain free.)So bright and early Saturday morning, I started doing chores. Laundry that hadn't been done for a couple of weeks had piled up so it was time for a little fluff and fold. Once my sheets were out of the dryer, I started making my bed...and...BOING!

Spasms galore. I could not straighten up. So with my spine at a 45 degree angle, I finished putting the sheets on, [because being the slightly obsessive neat freak that I am, I couldn’t leave my bed half made just because of some excruciating back spasms], then proceeded downstairs to ice my back. Try finding a comfortable position when every which way you move causes spasms. I tried every couch and chair in the house that I could find, and after about an hour of struggling to get up and down testing each one, I was exhausted. I finally decided on one, sat down, futzed around trying to find that perfect position, strategically placed pillows around me, placed the ice pack on my lower back…and… Ding Dong. Are you f**king kidding me? The doorbell rang.

If I wasn’t expecting a delivery I would have ignored it but I couldn’t. It only took me about 4 minutes to rock myself up out of the chair like an 80 year old and walk to the door.

Luckily I had a very patient FedEx person.

After about 4 hours of icing on and off, I was going nuts just sitting around once the spasms had subsided. The rest of my day consisted of various things I probably shouldn't have been doing. And of course I did things that required major physical twisting, which I never do on a daily or weekly basis. I pride myself on not being the brightest when it comes to physical limitations. I just go for it if it involves exercise or physical output, and I'm damn proud of it.

I'm not a sweeper. I'm not a fan of brooms. But there were leaves on the patio that were pissing me off because I had to traipse over them every day. Since I was having back problems, what better to do but sweep? I don't like dirty patios. I don't like dirty anything. So naturally, cleaning couldn't come at a more opportune time; when I should be doing nothing but resting my back. I made sure that I didn't sweep the entire patio though, so that my back didn't get too weary.

When I got inside, I noticed sand on the floor because my kids had been at the beach. Couldn't let that stay there, and since the broom was already in hand, I swept up the floor. I only did downstairs, though, so that my back didn't get too weary. Following the pattern here? But as I was walking up the stairs to get something, a few little dust bunnies popped out at me. Well…there’s no way that is going to be overlooked. So what’s the smartest thing to do? Get out the vacuum, of course. But I made sure I just used the portable one. Ya know…the one whose hose is so short you have to bend over and stay that way the whole time you’re vacuuming? Another ingenious idea by moi.

As I remained stuck in the prone position for the next 20 minutes, my dog came to visit me from underneath. Good thing she is small so that she could get below me. She didn’t really understand why my hands weren’t rubbing her tummy but rather perched against the wall holding up my body. As I climbed my hands up the wall slowly straightening my back, she decided it was a good time for humping. Never miss an opportunity to hump a leg. (watch this til the end).

I finally semi-straightened up but before I did, I noticed the moldings and the walls had some marks on them that just didn’t belong there. How bad could it be for my back to do a little eraser sponging along the walls? But not only did I notice the marks on the wall, but I noticed my dog could use a little trim on her bangs. What better to do then bend down again and pick up my 20 pound dog for a little hair styling? I know 20 pounds doesn’t sound like a lot, but in doggie pounds…that’s like 140.

Eventually, I smartened up and realized I was being way over zealous and thought a shower would be the last output of energy on my unplanned agenda. I was in desperate need from all the activity I wasn't supposed to be doing that day. Too bad I'm not a bath lover because as I stepped into the shower, I didn't notice the bar of soap laying on the bottom, and as I stepped in....

How was YOUR day?

Are You Who You Say You Are?

2011-10-12T15:53:00.000-07:00

Have you ever noticed how people in certain professions are so inept at their own when it comes to taking care of themselves? Like when you walk into a hair salon and not one hairdresser has well coiffed hair. We sit down in their chair...look up at them with puppy dog eyes begging them to make us beautiful, but secretly thinking “Please make me look nothing like you.” You then look over and see some of their co-workers with one side of their head shaved and the rest of their head donning various lengths and styles of hair. Like they couldn't decide what exactly they wanted to do at the time. Yet we are putting our trust in them to take scissors to our locks and style our hair...seriously? Are we nuts?

Then there are others with multiple colors of hair. What are they thinking? Very natural looking. I'd prefer not to look like I have multi-flavored cotton candy on my head. Maybe I'm just old fashioned and like to look a little more normal. I don’t mind blonde or red highlights, but a striped rainbow zebra head is a little more out there than I can handle. And some of those haircuts....yikes! Who comes up with those designs...people on acid? And what’s with foreign objects being weaved in? I would love to know who came up with the feather thing. Must’ve been an ornithologist, dontcha think?

But it's not even the outrageous colors or the ridiculous looking cuts...it's those with the greasy hair that looks like it hasn’t been washed in days. Or brushed........ever. Like they just woke up, got out of bed, and went to work with a matted down helmet head. Who knows what could be crawling around in there? And you're gonna shampoo MY head? [Can you please scrub your hands and clean under your nails before you begin? Better yet…wear gloves.] But once that head massage starts....all is forgotten. I'm in heaven....ahhhhh.

What about your manicurist? Have you ever had one with nails you would want on your own hands? When I used to get my nails done (you know...before my kids decided to suck my bank account dry and siphon every last drop out of it), I noticed my nail lady had the worst nails ever. Her cuticles needed trimming, her nails needed filing, the polish was chipped, they weren’t the cleanest…yet I allowed her to use a cuticle scissors on my very precious fingers. I just don't get that practice of taking care of others but not yourself? At least do it as PR for your own methods. Your own body should represent, in a positive light, the body part you are servicing on others. There are some with nails so long and fake looking you’d think they were used in a Miracle Blade infomercial. I’m not quite sure how they function in everyday life with those weapons, except for being able to scratch someone’s back from 10 feet away. How do they tend to their feminine needs without gouging themselves? Geesh and ewww.

Do you know any shrink that doesn’t go to a therapist for their own neuroses? And they even bring it up in YOUR session about what they discussed in theirs. Seriously? I feel so much more secure now putting my mental health into your neurotic hands. I'm not sure if it's mandatory but every single psychologist I know...and I know a lot (not from personal experience, in case you’re wondering...although I do have some) but I have a lot of friends and family who are shrinks and they all have their own shrinks. Doesn't that make you question their ability in problem solving and analytical thinking? So we are putting our mental health into the hands of someone who can't resolve their own mental health? Hmmmmm. Something to ponder.

I've noticed something quite interesting with some of the nurses I've known, which totally baffles me to this day. They are in a profession that stresses and demands health and sanitization. I've seen them at work and how obsessive they can be with cleanliness. But when I went to their homes, I wanted to puke. Oh my god! I had never seen such filth in my entire life. And clutter? It was just short of hoarding. I don't get it. How can you go from a totally sterilized environment to an almost uninhabitable home, knowing the health hazards? We are talking papers piled up three feet high on counters, floors, desks, tables, wherever; kitchen tables with layers of sticky goop and god only knows what else; bathrooms covered in…actually, I don’t even want to know. Tell me something...how do you not notice crumbs all over your floor as you're walking when little pieces are getting stuck between your toes, your feet are sticking to the ground and there’s crunching beneath the soles of your shoes? When your hand sticks to the table, do you not notice there may be some foreign substance you may have eaten 3 weeks ago still adhering to the surface? I’m not exaggerating…I had witnessed this first hand, and only one time because I never went back to any of their homes. I could vomit. I can only imagine what’s between the sheets and in the mattresses. No…I take that back. I can’t imagine.

And what about out of shape trainers? How can someone who is overweight and lacking in muscle tone profess to be an expert in health and physical training? Isn’t that an oxymoron? Yet, there are people who decide this is the person they want whipping them into shape. Really? What shape was it that you wanted to be whipped into? Pillsbury dough boy? Michelin tire man? And you’re paying this oxy-moron to help you get there?

So why do we trust these people? Because they are located inside the establishments that promote the service we came for? Of course…but it makes no sense. If you saw a doctor with scars all over his face…would you trust him as your plastic surgeon? Think about it. Not that a haircut or a manicure is life threatening…but let me tell you…one bad haircut can cause months of stress and agony. And then you would have to see one of those shrinks who needs his own shrink to get through a day in his life. And you would eat to suppress your unhappiness so you would have to go see one of those overweight trainers who can’t train himself. And then you would get your nails done because if your hair can’t look good right then, and your body isn’t in shape, at least your nails can be, so you would go see one of those butcher manicurists who doesn’t take the time to trim her own nails. And there you have it and that’s why these people are in business. They are all in cahoots with one another. The circle of life.

***All professionals represented in this blog are fictitious. Any resemblance to a person I may know is purely coincidental***

Did You Forget Something?

2011-09-17T12:18:00.000-07:00

Next Tuesday I leave for Vegas on a business trip. I decided I needed to get everything prepared this weekend so that I’m ready to go on Tuesday. You would think I was leaving the country for a year by the way I prepare for a 3 day trip. I’m not quite sure what it is about going away for just two nights that makes me feel like I need to tie up all loose ends and take care of certain chores prior to departing. I have a list the length of Long Island, just for this trip. I spent 2 hours in my closet configuring different outfits, knowing exactly what I will end up wearing…the same thing I wear to every business meeting I go to. I bring 10 wardrobe changes, and wear the same 2 outfits every time. I also bring an extra pair of pants and an extra pair of jeans, on top of the 10 wardrobe changes, in case I spill something on them and need to change. In all the trips I have ever gone on over the years, I have yet to have that happen. I don’t know what makes me think that all of a sudden, I will become a slobbering pig…but I guess it’s like our moms always told us as kids…wear clean underwear in case we’re in an accident and the EMT’s have to strip us down. [That would be the most action I’ve gotten in months…ok...maybe years!] God forbid our panties have a slight hole. [Which is kinda gross anyway. Socks, on the other hand, I have kept longer than maybe I should have.]

Working from home has its benefits and its downfalls. The benefits consist of never having to dress up or wear make-up or do my hair. But I always do get dressed, at least in my workout clothes, because staying in my pj’s just doesn’t do it for me. I have to feel presentable…just for myself. I put in my contacts and put make up on every day. But the downfall is my business attire is from the 90’s…back when I had to go into an office periodically. So when I do have to dress for a meeting, I never know if I’m in style, or quite the dork. It seems business clothes don’t really change too much, except for the accessories, so I’m hoping I am making a 'current' appearance. Actually, I think my clothes are now back in style so I should be good. Keep ‘em long enough, you look current once again.

But the lingering wardrobe choices are not even what amaze me about my preparation...nor are they what's time consuming. It's all the other details that I make priorities as if I was going to some foreign country for a lifetime instead of a neighboring state for a few days. I make sure all my bills are paid early...just in case. Just in case of what? Just in case I get detained at Southwest Airlines security at Las Vegas airport for a 4 ounce bottle of lotion, am thrown into jail for wanting soft skin, and as a result, I don't pay my American Express bill before the grace period ends? I know full well that my bills can wait until I return from the trip, yet I am compelled to take care of them prior to leaving.

I leave money for my girls even though if I was home for these 3 days, I wouldn’t be giving them any money for anything. Maybe it’s guilt money for leaving two grown-up girls alone in the house with the dog? They probably look forward to me going and think, “Oh good, we’re going to make $50 each when mom leaves just because she’s not home.”

I make sure I have all my chargers with me. I have my cell phone charger, my camera charger, my laptop charger, my ipod charger. I would rather have THIS charger with me, but he wasn’t available.

Twenty four hours prior to leaving, I print up my e ticket. Actually, I print up 2 copies, just in case I lose one. The problem with that is...I keep them BOTH in the same place. How sensible is that? I know how stupid that is...but do I still do it? Sure. Of course. Why wouldn't I? It just makes me feel better. And then I check my purse, no kidding, at least 50 times, to be sure my boarding pass and my driver's license are in there. I NEVER take my driver's license out of my wallet - EVER - so why do I still check my wallet 50 gazillion times to be sure it's still in there? I have temporary OCD about every single part of the travel adventure, prior to departure. I check my list over and over and over because I'm so worried I may forget something on there. You would think I was going to Gilligan's Island where there are no stores to buy something I may forget. My breath may smell for days if I forget my toothbrush because I'm sure no one in Vegas sells toothbrushes. I need like 10 valium before I leave on a trip because I’m always in panic mode that I’ll forget something.

I time the dying of my hair perfectly so that two days prior to the trip, those roots are ready to be tackled with. And I do it two days before so that one day before I leave, I can do my nails. I can’t do my nails before the dying because I may get dye under one of them or on my cuticles and I would have to re-polish them all over again. It’s an exact science, in case you were wondering.

I also make sure all my laundry gets done whether I need any of those clothes or not. And the dishwasher is put on…really? Why? I think…now I could be wrong…but I think I could be the Felix Unger of our time. And it’s quite disturbing.

The night before I leave, I print up directions to Burbank airport. I even print up the map, although I couldn’t read a map to save my life. But you never know when you will need a map to a place you have been to at least 100 times. I know the way to the airport and I have never seen so many signs guiding you along the way, almost screaming at you where the airport is, yet I still print up directions. And again, I check my purse 80 times to be sure the directions I do not need at all, are in there.

I wake up about 2 hours earlier than I need to, and the night before, I check my alarm about 10 times to be sure it’s set correctly. Of course, I barely sleep during the night because I’m so worried I won’t wake up in time to leave in time to catch my plane in time, even though I give myself more than enough time needed. I am so exhausted planning and preparing for this 3 day trip, that by the time I actually get there, I will probably plop down in my hotel room, fall asleep, and miss my first few meetings. Ahhh…something else to worry about.

Will You Please Shut Up!

2011-08-31T11:07:00.000-07:00

Working from home, I have the pleasure of listening to the environmental sounds of my neighborhood. For most of my life, I hadn't realized that the most obscure sounds could be so irritating to me. But recently, I find myself screaming out "Will you shut the f**k up already!" Every day, every single f**king day, seven f**king days a week, the street cleaner arrives without fail, at 620 in the f**king morning. At least on weekdays, I am already up working at my desk by that time. But I will be sitting there and realize something is really unnerving me. I look out my window and there it is. That damn ugly looking street cleaning machine. It's that steady sound of the vacuum engine that drives me crazy. I always loved watching the Zamboni clean the ice...but this...this irritates the shit out of me. And on Saturday and Sunday? Are you f**king kidding me? At least they could start cleaning the streets at eight or nine AM on the weekends, not 6:20AM. You'd think we lived in the middle of some war torn country...I mean...how much crap can accumulate on the street in 24 hours. They can't possibly be picking up enough trash to warrant this annoyance 7 days a week.

I think there is a bird in cahoots with the street cleaners to drive me nuts. I have a bird outside my window that has the most irritating chirp I've ever heard. And God forbid it chirps when I'm awake. Nooo...it decides to give me a wakeup call at five in the morning. Most birds have a sweet, melodious sound, but this one gives a crow a run for its money. Fran Drescher and Janice from 'Friends' sound like Simon and Garfunkel compared to this bird. I'm almost ready to take a rubber band and sling it at that winged hyena, but I'm not a violent person. (And I know it would backfire and hit me in the face instead.) Unfortunately, living in southern California...flying further south isn't much of an option, therefore, it never leaves.

I was sitting at my desk, concentrating on work, and I kept hearing these rustling sounds in my back yard. I looked out the window for several days and couldn't figure out where they were coming from, but the sound was driving me nuts. When I walked outside, I noticed the wood chips from around the perimeter of the yard were scattered all over the patio. I didn't see anyone or anything lurking (happy to report), so I kept sweeping the chips back into their flower beds. I would go out a little later after hearing the sounds again, and the same thing. This kept happening over about a month's time. I finally saw two birds pecking at the ground and making the mess. They kept coming back and doing this over and over all day long for weeks. I would run downstairs and out the door, chasing them and shooing them away, but they always returned when I wasn't looking. And I would continue to sweep the patio over and over and over. It was becoming really annoying and I have the blisters on my hands from sweeping so much, to prove it. I obviously didn't frighten them away; instead, I think it became a game to them. Eventually they stopped their pecking and scattering...probably after I put that electric shock sensor in the chips. (Just kidding)

I have yet to understand why they can't come up with a muffler for the leaf blower. They can muffle the sound of a car engine (I'm assuming that's what a muffler does?), they can muffle the sound of a gunshot, but they can't muffle a leaf blower? I have to imagine that gardeners will eventually go deaf at some point in their life, or they will be shot dead first by those of us who morph into psycho neurotic assassins while listening to them. I'm thinking of cutting down every single tree that surrounds my house within a mile radius, but I'm afraid I would probably be arrested.

What is it about boys and their cars? Why do they believe that the louder the car, the more appealing it is? Seriously? I can tell you, without a doubt, that the louder the car, the further away I want to get from that person. How do they handle the noise? Especially on a motorcycle? Maybe they are all gardeners and are already deaf from the leaf blowers. I can barely stand the noise from my hair dryer while I’m drying my hair. I tried putting ear muffs on, but the band across the top of my head kinda got in the way of the styling process. I’m almost ready to leave my hair in one big frizz ball just to avoid the hair dryer noise.

I have never met a smoke alarm that I didn’t want to beat the shit out of. After moving into the house I am currently living in, there was a mass conspiracy amongst the smoke alarms to not only scare the crap out of me, but to drive me straight out of bed almost jumping out the window in the middle of the night. Every once in a while they would give me that lovely little chirping warning that something was amiss, but most of the time, they would go off suddenly…all at once, with that deafening shrill never ending siren sound . I have spent so much money on replacing batteries only to find out that the battery has nothing to do with their incessant screeching. I have literally pulled most of them out of the ceiling and still they insist on beeping. And the description of ‘beeping’ is being quite kind. I cannot understand what it is that keeps them going and going even after they’ve been disconnected. I have taken hammers to them and beaten them to death and they still keep going. I have thrown them in the trash outside and the neighbors have complained about the high pitched noise coming from my side yard. I waited for the trash men to come and personally handed them all the alarms and told them to take them away as far as they could. I was able to track their garbage route for the next 20 minutes by the screaming of my smoke alarms. In fact…I think I still hear them calling out to me…’help meeeee’…..I just hope I never have a fire in my house because I will now have nothing to warn me. Except the heat and flames, of course, but I think I’ll take my chances.

Why is it that I can hear all the noises I have no interest in hearing, yet I can’t hear my own kids when they talk to me? “What? What did you say? Can you speak up and stop mumbling. Slow down. I can’t understand a word you’re saying.” I mean…who talks that fast? And why is it they can all understand each other but parents can’t? That’s why I like texting. I can understand them when they talk. And the silence of it…well…that speaks for itself.

Sister Act

2011-08-21T20:01:00.000-07:00

I am so fortunate to have someone in my life who truly and deeply cares about me. No stipulations, all give, no take, no expectations. Just true, deep down, honest love. She has been my confidante, my sounding board, my mentor, my role model. She's been my best friend for as long as I can remember. We've had our 3 minute fights and then they were over. In fact, she used to be downright mean to me when we were kids and would give me Indian burns and rat me out to my parents. But I still worshipped her.

I would annoy the shit out of her as much as possible, so she turned me into her own personal slave. She would make me do the most ridiculous tasks, like call me into her room just to get her a pencil from her desk that was 3 feet away from her, while she sat there and waited for me to give it to her. She would make me test her on her school work every night, which I absolutely hated doing (and which is why she turned out to be the brains in the family). But for some reason, whatever she told me to do, I did...without questioning.

All I wanted to do was hang out with her and her cheerleader friends, and sometimes she would let me. I hated that I got her hand-me-down clothes even though I always wanted to wear them before they became hand-me-downs. I always had crushes on her boyfriends, just because they were her boyfriends. I thought she was the coolest, smartest person ever.

We've had some great times together in our adult years. We've taken a couple of trips to Mexico, which were pretty hilarious. (Club Med...Need I say more?). We got lost in Acapulco, walking around for about an hour, looking for a restaurant. When we finally decided to hop into a cab to take us there, the cab driver picked us up and drove a half block to the restaurant, not telling us it was 10 feet in front of us. And charged us!

She's been there for every major event in my life and my daughter's lives. And she's been there for me during every devastating event, too. I've hit some real bumps in the road throughout the course of my life and made some very stupid decisions and mistakes, but she never judged or preached, just supported...letting me know how true love is supposed to be. She's my big sister and my best friend. She's the one person whose sincerity, honesty, strength, loyalty and love I will never doubt. She's the most selfless, giving human being I know.

I love you Beth...I couldn't ask for anything more than what you've given me. You've been my rock.

This video has nothing to do with this blog...but I wanted to share:

Boo

2011-08-12T21:08:00.000-07:00

I never understood what fear was as a kid. We were invincible until we hit our late 20’s, early 30’s…or until we had our own kids. Right? Then fear was all encompassing. I cannot believe what a fraidy-cat I became once my kids were born, and how annoyingly overprotective I could be.

As a child, I was willing to do anything and try everything. Nothing seemed to faze me because I didn’t know any better. But with experience, we know what’s ahead of us and what the possibilities are. Ignorance IS bliss.

In grammar school, I would always want to be the lead in our school plays. I had no problem getting up in front of an audience and acting out a role. I couldn’t wait to be in the limelight. (I don’t know how I was able to memorize lines back then. Nowadays, I have to look up someone’s 7 digit phone number 8 times before I can finally finish dialing it.)

I didn’t mind giving oral reports in high school. Piece of cake. But for some reason, once I hit my college years, fear set in and froze me from deep within. Getting up in front of a class of my peers tormented me for days prior to the big speech. I kept writing it and rewriting it hoping it wouldn’t sound stupid and hoping no one would ask any questions. It was like those dreams where we are standing naked on stage for all the world to see. And although my body may not have been naked, my soul was. And I didn’t like it one bit. Communications was probably not the best major for a person who feared public speaking. [Ya think?] I would try to speak on subjects I knew first hand thinking it would give me more confidence. I would stand at the podium and do all I could to not have my legs give out from under me and keel over. I tried to keep the thought of projectile vomiting out of my mind. But my voice would crack and I would shake so badly, that one time my grip on the podium was so tight, it started tipping over, and the guy sitting directly in front of me jumped out of his seat to push it back upright. Thank god for him or I would have face planted in his lap. I’m sure he was also saving himself from a little nut crushing. Talk about humiliation. Fortunately, I was concurrently showing a short film to complement that speech, distracting them from what just happened to me. On the positive side…I didn’t pee in my pants. And to my surprise…I aced the assignment.

I have turned down certain jobs just so I wouldn’t have to do presentations. I remember sitting in the conference room at my office one day, and I had recently accepted a management position. Each week we would have phone meetings with our clients. I said to my supervisor, “If you make me speak in this meeting, I will quit. I swear”. Luckily she knew me and liked me (and didn’t fire me), and all she did was have me introduce myself. That, alone, made me break out in huge red blotches all over my chest to match the colorful flush of my bright red face. And it was only a phone meeting. Could you imagine if it was in person? I’d most likely be passed out cold, sprawled out on the conference room table. I decided I wasn't cut out for management.

People have suggested taking a public speaking course. Seriously? Do you NOT have to get up in front of people to learn to publicly speak? What about fear of speaking in public do they not get? So why would I want to take a public speaking course if you have to speak in public to learn to speak in public? Geez….

I am claustrophobic. Claustrophobia is horrible. It pops up in places you wouldn’t think it could. For instance…during various sexual positions. [On the bottom, for example.] That tends to ruin the mood…don’t you think? Trust me…it does. Obviously, elevators are a huge problem. I’ve only been stuck in one once…but it was the most crowded elevator I had ever been in. It was at my daughter’s college on moving-in day and I have to believe every student attending her school was packed into that particular elevator. I’m sure the weight limit was far exceeded, as was my composure. I looked over at my daughter, [as if there was anything she could possibly do], and said, “If you don’t get me out of here, I will pull every piece of hair out of your head, in chunks. If you don’t get me out of here I will cut you off from every single dollar I was ever going to give you. [Like that was a big threat with all my millions]. If you don't get me out of here, I will....” She looked at me and said so serenely and quietly and so melodically…[that I wanted to shove my fist down her throat…] “Mom, calm down. Everything will be fine. Nothing is going to happen. MOM….BREATHE” as I was starting to lose consciousness. When I came to, I was sitting on the floor leaning against the wall in her room. I lived! I was no longer a sardine. I made it out. I have no clue how but I did. Needless to say, I get many a great workout climbing stairs now. I only need resuscitation from too much aerobic exercise, instead of from hyperventilation.

I never understood how people are able to walk into a room full of strangers and immediately assimilate. I walk in, pivot around, and walk right back out, not knowing what to do with myself. I was never able to just go up to a group, or even just one person that I didn’t know and say, “Hi, I’m Jaime”, (in one of those annoyingly perky little voices,) for fear that they would look at me with a “who the f**k cares” attitude. And then what? Then what do you say? I have no problem talking to a person in line at the market…you can always talk about the food you’re buying and what you’re pigging out on or complain how slow the line is moving…but at a gathering, where there may not be a commonality, how do you begin a conversation? “So…what’s your sign?”, “You come here often?” “You want to get in my pants as much as I want to get in yours?” So I basically either hang out hugging the wall or avoid those situations altogether.

Heights make my stomach churn. If I have some protective wall or railing I’m usually ok, but there are times I look down over the banister in my house and get nauseated, worrying I’m going to fall over. I walk down the middle of the hallway just so one of my hallucinatory ghosts doesn’t push me over the side.

There was a time I couldn’t wait to learn to ride horses. I thought since I would have reins and a saddle to hold on to, I should be ok with the whole height thing. Who was I kidding? But I decided I was going to take riding lessons because I always loved horses and riding seemed so beautiful and liberating. A couple of friends and I went to Pepperdine University, where they were giving lessons, and where the terrain was spectacular. I asked for the smallest horse so they gave me one slightly larger than a pony. Probably smaller than a merry-go-round horse. But whoa…that was still quite a ways off the ground with no pole to hold on to. My first conquest…I got on the horse. Yay! That was a huge accomplishment. Then…I got off the horse. Then I told myself ‘suck it up and it will be fine…get back on the horse, you big wuss.’ [great pep talk] So I did. The instructor (who was a retired army drill sergeant) told us to give the horse a kick to get it going. Well…not on your life bub. I ain’t kicking no animal. So I sat in the saddle and rocked my body back and forth hoping the horse would understand what I was telling her to do. As she sat there, not budging an inch, the instructor kept yelling at me to give her a kick. “NO, I won’t kick her.” He then marched over on his horse and hit me on the head with his crop. “Now kick the god damned horse.” Just short of shitting in my pants, I gave her a little, teeny nudge and off we went. He must have been one helluva drill sergeant .

I was quite pleased with myself that I was actually on a horse, riding. Well…I wouldn’t exactly call it riding. We couldn’t have gone any slower unless we were at a complete standstill, but that was good enough for me. We were walking on the trails and they kept getting narrower and narrower and my heart kept beating faster and faster. You have got to be kidding me. These were beginner trails? Ants couldn’t stay on these trails they were so narrow, and they wanted our horses to? It wasn’t long before my heart sank down to the pit of my stomach on its way out my ass. My horse’s back leg kept slipping off the trail and I was losing my balance. I proceeded into panic mode, but I gave it a couple of more feet before jumping off and running for my life. I was outta there. But before I left the grounds, I grabbed the crop out of Satan’s hand and broke it in half over my knee. I’ll teach you Mr. Svengali, drill sergeant, horse kicker guy.

After that experience…I decided to play it safe in the horse arena.

I won’t go into the other phobias I have or I may as well just make this into a book. But to sum it all up, here’s my list. I was amazed at all the classifications of fears:

Glossophobia speaking in public

Topophobia stage fright

Acrophobia heights

Hydrophobia water

Claustrophobia confined spaces

And we all know I have this…I believe I’ve mentioned it just a few times…

Mageirocophobia FEAR OF COOKING (LOVE this one!)

Good thing I don’t have this:

Logophobia fear of words (or you probably wouldn't be reading this right now)

But this is my favorite…even though I’m not afflicted:

Hippopotomonstrosesquipedaliophobia fear of long words…I’m still trying to pronounce it.

ra-TATTOO-e

2011-08-02T14:57:00.000-07:00

I frequently think about what I would get if I was to get a tattoo. Not that I'm planning on it, mind you, but it's crossed my mind a number of times...especially when my girls discuss what theirs will be. My youngest daughter already has two. She had to wait to get her first on her 18^th birthday, because I was not going to approve her getting one [at all] and she needed my written permission as a minor. She described what she had wanted and I had to admit it sounded kind of cute. A little design that I figured wouldn't be too intrusive and mostly hidden on her body. But I certainly was not going to be the one to take her and watch some tatted up, drug addicted, Harley riding, strung out, motha frickin’ gang member inflicting pain on my little girl, in some hole in the wall storefront. So she went with her dad, [I think], and some friends and had it done. I expected her to come home with some colorful, playful little piece of art adorning her hip, hidden by her jeans. Boy was I way off target. This thing was gigunda. I mean gi-normous. I mean, if you had to compare it to something, I'd say Texas has nothing over this thing. This tattoo would cover the entire body of a Tyrannosaurus Rex when it was pregnant. And hidden? I think not. It is smack in the middle of her back, between her waist and her shoulder blade, towards the side. So you don't actually see it when she's dressed, but you certainly can't miss it in a bathing suit. It screams out to you...Yoo hoo...here I am. Your eyes are immediately drawn to it and glued on it. Obviously she went in there with one idea in mind and came out with another. Or so I thought. Or so she led me to believe because she knows me oh so well and didn't want me to go into panic mode had I known what she really was going to get…a tattoo the size of an IMAX theater screen.

The next one she got, she got without telling me beforehand. She just nonchalantly posted it on facebook for all to see. I always check out her pictures on FB and usually can tell what I'm looking at. But this one kept me staring for about 5 minutes. It's like...'What the hell is it? Are there letters? Is it a word? Where is it? Is it some secret code she is sending her friends?' My face was practically up against the screen trying to figure it out. Then it hit me. Another tattoo. Was that on her finger? I immediately called her and she told me, yes, it was indeed a tattoo. It said 'Shine'. I must say...you can't be more positive than that. And it really was cute. And her hands are still the size of a 5 year old so it looks adorable. OMG...I actually like a tattoo. Who have I become? I don't know if I know me anymore. Who woulda thunk?

What I don't understand, is how does anyone willingly allow another person to take a needle and engrave their skin to the point of having a picture permanently embedded? I have never seen it done in person, but just the thought of it creeps me out. I have no problems with needles. I never wince when I get a shot or get blood drawn (actually, the rubber tourniquet they tie around my arm hurts more while it’s squeezing and twisting the shit out of my skin then the needle does), but taking one and drawing on my body for what must seem like eternity, has the same appeal to me as falling down an elevator shaft. How my kids have no problem with it is beyond me. I used to hear about it for days when they were due for shots. I almost had to drug them to get them to the doctor for the millisecond the injection took. But for this...no problem? How does that make sense? I just can't understand lying there, being calm, while someone takes this dentist's drill and chisels out your skin, scarring you for life. Ewww...gives me the willies.

You look at some of these kids with their entire arm or leg covered with tattoos and wonder how they will feel about it when they're 50 or older. I wonder if, when the skin starts sagging, the happy faces will turn into frowns. A ‘d' will turn into a 'q'. And a picture of a naked woman with perky little tits will then have boobs down to her waist. People's tattoos will need plastic surgery.

Ok...so what would I get if I did get a tattoo? Well...I've thought about Tweety. How cute would a teeny tiny Tweety bird look on some part of my body? Adorable, right? Ok...so I am 50 something years old. So I still have this affection for a cartoon character. So what. It's Tweety bird…C'mon.

I thought about my favorite quote..."Don't cry because it's over, Smile because it happened". But I realize that it would probably wrap around whatever part of my body I have it carved out of, and I don't want to be wearing a permanent belt of letters. So I'll just keep that quote in my head and heart instead.

This could be me but without the crack showing

I could just do my initials. JPBSP...but if I remarry (yet again), I would have to go back to add another letter. No way am I going through that torture twice. So the question would be, do I get the initials, or do I get married again? What a real dilemma that is.

So here’s what I decided. There really is no decision. I was never going to get one. But if I did…this is what it would look like:

I could dress myself in my tattoo…

And no one would notice the saggy skin, boobs, and every other body part drooping under the designs. But hopefully the tattoo would make me look like this:

And if that's the case...Mr. tatted up, drug addicted, Harley riding, strung out, motha frickin’ gang member...here I come!

Tell me...if you were to get a tattoo...what would you get?

Up Close and Personal and Sometimes Kinda Gross

2011-07-23T23:09:00.000-07:00

I have this habit, as I've had most of my life, of examining every single part of my body, from the very top of my head to the very tips of my toes. My sisters and I used to drive my mom crazy when we were little because after examining ourselves, we would examine each other. She used to tell us we were like monkeys. I guess monkeys are always picking at each other. Unless, of course, she meant we looked like monkeys. And if that's the case, then geez...thanks mom.

I’m not quite sure what the fascination is, but there definitely is this strange attraction to certain occurrences that happen to the body. Take peeling sun burns, for example. How fun is it to peel off the dead skin from someone's sun burnt body? I mean, it's f**king gross if you really think about what you're doing, yet...I have never met anyone that didn't get a certain thrill from seeing just how long of a piece you could peel at one time. I've had contests with friends over this. I think the only thing that makes you realize how disgusting it is, is when you release that last little piece from connecting to the skin and don't know what to do with it. So you roll it in a ball between your thumb and index finger, let your arm drop down to your side, and let it slide out of your hand hoping no one saw you do that. Til you leave the area and there's all these little skin wads rolled up in a small pile on the floor.

And who doesn't love popping pimples? Ok, probably most people don't. But just saying "popping pimples" is fun. I had this friend, or maybe it was my sister, who used to love popping people's pimples. Ohhh...that's even more fun to say..."popping people's pimples". Try saying that 5 times fast. Makes a fun sensation on your lips. But there I go digressing again...anyway...whoever it was used to get such a kick out of the squirt following the pop. And the further the squirt, especially onto the mirror...the bigger the gratification. Ew...now I'm even grossed out.

I was never a nail biter, but cuticles are a whole other story. Have you ever tried to bite cuticles without pulling huge chunks of skin from your fingers? And pull them off so delicately that the skin is still smooth, not needing to trim them with a cuticle scissors? Sometimes I would catch myself gnawing away, realizing people are looking at me like I'm a bunny rabbit nibbling on a carrot. But I have to admit, I love seeing that one little, itty, bitty piece of skin that needs that one teeny nibble to come off.

On one occasion, when my daughter was young, I was staring at her like I always did, and still do, because I continue to be so amazed, even to this day, that I produced this child. But anyway, I noticed a spot of dirt on her chin. She was young enough where she would still allow me to wipe stuff off her face, so I took a tissue to wipe it away. It wouldn't come off, so I licked my thumb, and like every child loves their mother to do, tried wiping it away with my spit. It still wasn't coming off. I kept rubbing and rubbing, thinking maybe she got ink on her face. Finally, she was like "Mom, will you stop already." She went to look in the mirror and when she came back, she said "Mom...it's a freckle." "It's a frickin' freckle?" I said. Of course I had to rub it a few more times to be sure. And to this day, I still kid her about her 'frickin' freckle' just because that's another alliteration I absolutely love saying. Try it...Frickin' freckle. It's fun. Ok...maybe I need a life!

Another fun activity is trying to remove an ingrown hair. Not mentioning where this hair might be located on the body, have you ever tried squeezing an ingrown hair til it pops out? Oh my god...so much fun. And the real prize is when it finally does pop out...it could be like an inch long. And you're thinking...ew...how did that happen? Nothing is supposed to be that long on THAT part of my body. I always worry what will happen to me when I'm old and can't take care of my personal hygiene on my own. I remember my grandmother, [may she rest in peace], was in the hospital, and she said to me, "No matter what happens, make sure I have no stray chin hairs." That left an indelible mark in my memory bank.

[This is not my Nana…just in case you were thinking it was from my family album]

Eyebrow tweezing is an art in itself. I could spend hours on my eyebrows. If you pluck just one eyebrow hair out from the wrong place, it can reshape the entire brow. Just one hair has that much power. Then you have to rethink exactly what shape you may want your eyebrows to take on. If you pluck out that one hair from the arch, it could make a huge difference in your facial expression. You could have a look of surprise because the arch is now too high. There are various facial expressions you could take on with just the shaping of the brows. They have an incredible command of the face; those brows.

On to the really gross stuff. Nose blowing. How great does it feel when you are all stuffed up and want so badly to release all that gunk out of your nostrils...and then comes the blow of all blows. That one blow that jet propels all the mucous that was stuck onto the walls of your nose holes, into the tissue. Like a cannon ball...boom...there it is in huge chunks and you can finally breathe. Great feeling, huh? C'mon...admit it. As disgusting as it sounds, now that you think about it, seeing what's in that tissue...kind of orgasmic, no?

Have you ever cut your toenails so short there is no room for the nail polish? So you have to paint the end of your toe to simulate the nail? This is a monthly routine I have to say, I absolutely hate. Cutting toe nails. I had a friend who got so upset with me while we were on vacation because I was cutting my toe nails in front of her. She didn't talk to me the rest of the day. I had to shut myself up in a hot, hotel room bathroom just to clip my nails. She has toes. She has toe nails. Does she shut her eyes when she's doing her own and wear ear plugs? She couldn't stand the sound of the clippers. I checked her toes to see if her nails were 8 inches long because I found it hard to believe she would let anyone give her a pedicure. She probably kicked the nail technician in the face every time she would hear the sound of the clippers. What's wrong with toes and feet? I know quite a few people who have a foot aversion. I, personally, happen to have adorable feet.

So there you have it…from head to toe. There are so many other places on my body that are picked on and picked at, but I don’t want to bore you with more details than necessary. Nor do I want to open myself up to more ridicule than I have already. People say to me they don’t understand how I can be so open about myself and events in my life, both in my relationships and in my blog. I find it liberating and exhilarating. What’s the point of being alive if you have no one to share yourself with. I’m an open book with nothing to hide. You either like me for who I am or you don’t. Being private is like living a jail sentence in solitary confinement. You’re stuck with your own thoughts, all stuffed inside, waiting to burst out…and in my case…I’d rather have diarrhea than constipation.

***please note...none of the pictures contained in this blog are family members***

Who You Callin' Trouble?

2011-07-17T18:50:00.000-07:00

Over the years I have prided myself on being the poster child for the perfect daughter. Then I thought back to all the shenanigans I had pulled growing up and into my early adult years and realized I had been anything but. My parents didn't really know a lot of the stuff I did, so to this day, I still WAS the perfect child in their eyes. (Not as an adult...just as a kid). I never did anything illegal or dangerous...just enough to get me into trouble with those of authority. Because I was boy crazy as a young girl, my romantic antics were always getting me into hot water. And having the freedom from parents every summer…sometimes that hot water boiled over.

Summer camp...how I loved going to summer camp. Well...from 8 years old and on I loved it, but my parents decided at 6, I was old enough to attend the most religious Jewish camp there was on the entire earth. I don't think Israel had anything that intense. Now…please note...I had never once been to Temple, did not know one thing about our religion, yet for 8 weeks, 8 very long weeks, at 6 years old, during what should have been the most fun time of year for any child, we had to attend services, or some semblance of a service, every single morning and evening. Are you kidding me? And what was that language they were speaking during those services? I knew it was definitely not anything I had ever heard before. The guttural sounds that came from their throats sounded like they were gonna project loogies out onto our heads. I later found out that was Hebrew. And to this day, I still do not understand one word of it. Ok…maybe one word…Shalom. Oh yeah…and Mazel Tov. Oh…and L’chaim. (One of those loogie words I was referring to). But that’s about it.

Being so young, I was homesick every single minute of every hour of every day. My sister went to the same camp, but the camp was so enormous, I rarely got to see her, except when it was time for services. And even then, they wouldn't allow us to see each other. I would spot her from a distance and run up to her crying, just for a hug. Then I got into trouble. Just for hugging my sister. So I would sneak out in search of her... and that was my start to a life of crime and corruption.

I stayed home the following summer. My whining and tirades were enough to convince my parents that a summer at the beach would be much more peaceful than daily phone calls from Jewish central complaining about their kid undermining camp rules. But the summer after that...off to another camp, which I went to for the next 5 summers, and those were the greatest. That’s not to say I didn't get into trouble...of course I did. I discovered boys. And there were lots of them. And they all needed my attention. Jock during the day, stealth boy hunter at night. Well, maybe not so stealth. I had a secret mission almost every night, and that was to find the boy's cabin holding hostage my boy du jour. Of course I never actually made it all the way to the boy's end of the camp. Those prison lights they had spotlighting me as I was sneaking my way across, made me fall to the ground and confess all my sins. And each time I got caught, I had to run circles around the tennis courts, sometimes in the rain, for hours on end. Just walking and running and walking and running, sometimes soaking wet. That stopped my antics…for maybe a minute.

My boy crazed phase didn’t diminish any by the time I went on my teen tour across the country at 14. But the price I had to pay was a little harsher. And more often. There were 100 kids: 50 boys, 50 girls, and 20 counselors. 100 teenage kids with screaming, raging hormones. We toured the U.S. in vans towing Apache tent trailers. 10 kids to a trailer. That summer I discovered the wild side that had been dormant within for my first 13 years of life. Although I am usually the one to follow all the rules, [because I’m such a chicken-shit], that summer showcased the womanly beast within. (As womanly as you can get at 14). My best friend and I were always looking for ways each night to get away from our girls’ group and go visit the boys. We would make it just so far, for just so long, and then bam! They always found us. I guess after a few times, a pattern is formed; conditioning, so to speak. It wasn’t real hard for the counselors to figure out where we would be. They just had to figure out which trailer we’d be in. And to our dismay…they always did.

The retribution for our first offense wasn’t too extreme. They figured if we were okay sneaking out of our trailer at night to visit the boys in their trailers, then we would be ok sleeping outside of the trailer, too. They did allow us to use our sleeping bags, but we had to sleep on the rocky pavement with no cushions underneath or any protection overhead. Needless to say, they were very restless nights. And since we were so restless, we made sure everyone could hear just how restless we were, therefore making it a little more fun for us.

Because sleeping on rocks certainly was not going to deter us from doing it again, when the next time came to slipping out ‘ever so quietly’, we found out that we were not ‘ever so quiet’. When they caught us, they came up with the notion that keeping us from going to a Dodger game in L.A., would cause us to cease and desist the next time we had the urge. Yeah…I don’t think so. So, of course, we went again a few nights later. We thought we had gotten away with it the third time…but noooo. Not even close. It still baffles me why the boys never got into trouble. I mean, I know we were the ones who snuck out to go to them, but they never told us to go away because they didn’t want to get into trouble themselves. They sat and talked with us and hung out just as much as we did. But we paid the price. And that third time was a doozy. We had to miss going to Disneyland. Not only did they keep us from the happiest place on earth, but we had to do the laundry of every single person in the entire camp while they were off to see Tinkerbell. Eight hours of laundry. Eight hours straight of laundry! In a creepy, sleazy laundromat in L.A. Did I mention it was eight hours of washing and drying and folding everybody’s disgustingly dirty laundry? We were going crazy sitting there between loads imagining everyone else screaming as they went down the spirals of the Matterhorn, shaking hands with Mickey and Goofy, and singing ‘It’s a Small World’ 80 gazillion times because they couldn’t get the song out of their heads. We really did pay the price that time. Eight frickin’ hours worth!

After that, we decided we didn’t want to miss out on any other great adventures, so we followed all (most) of the rules and got to go on every excursion for the rest of the summer. Unfortunately, we had chosen to get grounded in the most fun state we visited…but I still got to have my first make-out session with a boy. We snuck out behind the trees in Yosemite National Park, so therefore, California wasn’t a complete bust.

And I proceeded to make out in every state we drove through on our way back east. What a learning experience my summer of 14 turned out to be. In so many ways.

My capers continued throughout the rest of my teenage years well into my 20’s…and 30’s…and even my 40’s. Of course they got a little less innocent as the years progressed, but those are for another blog.

So what does a 50 something do nowadays to release that little girl, boy crazed, troublemaker within? A few tips for creating some middle-aged excitement that doesn’t necessarily have to do with the opposite sex:

Take more than the 6 items of clothing allowed into the dressing room
Talk the waiter into giving you a breakfast burrito even though it’s after 11AM
Use an expired coupon
Go through the 15 item express lane with 16 items
Or sneak into the dressing room for a quickie with Gunther…the hunky manager

Now...THAT's trouble!

Unfinished Business

2011-07-07T15:25:00.000-07:00

As I sit here on a Sunday morning, sipping my coffee, watching Wimbledon, I think back to all the things I have I left unfinished over the years because I just wasn't that good at them. I wasn't bad...but I wasn't great. I am the epitome of 'jack of all trades, master of none.' And quite frankly...that really pisses me off.

As a kid, I was a pretty good tennis player. I could rally with the best of them. But my serve, well...that sucked. You can't be a great tennis player if you serve like a 5 year old (unless, of course, you're a 3 year old). I could teach you how to serve; I just couldn't actually demonstrate it. When I was in college, I decided to stay there over the summer breaks. Aside from working on campus, I got a job with Parks and Rec as their tennis instructor. How I pulled that one off is beyond me. Actually, I know how I pulled it off...they never asked for my credentials. All I had to do was tell them I knew how to play and presto! Had the job. Obviously they didn't see too many tennis pros coming through their doors. When I took my first group of suckers, oops, sorry…novices, to the courts, I showed them all the basics of tennis. That was easy since I had been playing for over 15 years at that point. When it came to the serve, I was able to talk them through the technique; kind of a ‘tell’ without the ‘show’, but then they asked me to actually serve. [Like with a real ball?] Not wanting to embarrass myself, I told them I had a bad shoulder and didn't want to injure it any more by lifting my arm. Did they not notice that I lifted my arm as I was explaining it? Did they think the ball would be too heavy to actually throw it up in the air? Whatever they believed…they didn’t question it, so each week, I had a new ailment. It's amazing to me that no one caught on to my charade. But I managed to make it through the entire summer with no one ever catching on. Maybe I should have gone into politics?

Drawing is another half-assed talent I have. I can look at a picture or object and then draw it on paper. As a kid, I decorated many things with my favorite cartoon characters. I'm an expert at Tweety-Pie. I had a bulletin board that I drew characters all around the frame. I was so proud of that. I had Tweety and Bugs and Daffy and Sylvester, but when I left for college, my mom decided I didn't need my bulletin board anymore and got rid of it. I remember coming home during one break to find quite a few things missing from my childhood, because she thought I didn't need or want them anymore. Really? That was one of my most favorite accomplished pieces of artwork I ever did...gone. But I gave up on my drawing because I couldn't create...I could only copy. It's not very satisfying when you can't create something on paper but you see it in your head. In fact it's downright frustrating. So...my tendency...give it up. My lack of patience abounds. If I can't perfect it right away...don't bother to persevere...just give up. Great words to live by, right? Nope. Thank god I didn't impart that on my children. In fact, I made sure I taught them to do as I say, not as I do.

Photography was also something I tinkered with. I thought I was pretty good until I took a class and realized how much I didn't know; lens speed and F-stop and aperture…really? I don’t think so. Point and click. That’s all I needed to know. So naturally, knowing I would have to sit in a classroom for too many hours over too many weeks, I gave that up, also. After 16 years of schooling, I realized how much I hate learning. Well...I don't hate learning, per se...I just can't stand sitting in an organized environment and having to concentrate at somebody else's pace. I love learning on my own, at my own pace. Then it's not like it's really learning but it's knowledge absorption without realizing you are actually soaking it all in. I try to trick my mind and so far, so good. I'm pretty gullible, so I believe my own bullshit. A self guided tour; trial and error...that's the way for me to learn. So I took decent pictures kinda…if you didn’t mind out-of-focus, in the dark, heads cut off. Since everything is automatic now...I didn't waste my time learning things I never would have used in the future. Pretty incredible forward thinking on my part, I think.

I took piano lessons when I was about 10 years old. I think I may have lasted about a year but when I wasn't playing Mozart's Requiem Mass in D minor by then, I decided to call that quits, too. I took it up again in my 30's thinking maybe I would have a little more patience. That time I lasted 6 weeks. I decided that piano teachers didn't really understand the mind of an impatient musician. We don't want to learn the fundamentals of music. We don't want to learn to read music. Show us what keys to place our fingers on for the songs we want to learn...and we are good to go. For some reason my piano teacher took offense to that and dropped me as his student. Therefore, I can't count that as me quitting since he was the one to end that relationship. And then I got an instruction booklet that matched letters to keys...'Play by letters', so to speak…so I guess you could say that made me a musician? No? But I was playing, so…yes?

I also dabbled with the violin in 4^th grade, and only because I wanted to emulate my older sister. She was pretty good. Well, she may not have been but in my mind, she was always the best at everything. Have you ever heard someone who has no idea what they’re doing while playing a stringed instrument? I, myself, tried pressing my hands as hard as I could to cover my ears to block out the sound…and I was the one playing. Violin lessons lasted two whole weeks. I decided when the neighborhood dogs started howling while I was playing, that wasn’t a good sign.

I also experimented with the guitar and ukulele. I have to say...I was pretty impressive with my rendition of the Hukilau song on the Uke. OK…that about covers the extent of my talent on those two instruments. Learn to play the Hukilau in one easy lesson. That should be the mission statement for learning every instrument…One Easy Lesson.

I’ve been writing for as long as I can remember. At 14, I started keeping a diary every day. I wanted to chronicle my summer journey across country. I kept writing in my journal on a daily basis ever since then. I’ve always loved writing [obviously], but when I look back to some of the crap I wrote in college for my writing courses, I wonder how the hell my professors thought that was “A” work. I wonder how I thought that it was any good. In fact, I look at some of my past blogs and still wonder…..

So there you have it. I never achieved Steffi Graf status in tennis, I’ll never paint like Georgia O’Keeffe, I’ll never play the violin like Itzhak Perlman, Schroeder far outperforms me on piano, Annie Leibovitz will always capture a better image than I can, but one thing I know for sure, with 100% certainty, as far as writing goes, I WILL definitely be the next………

Jaime Perlov.

Close Call

2011-06-29T16:35:00.000-07:00

It’s a good thing my daughter is a Certified Nurse's Assistant, because when I fainted on Sunday, she knew exactly what to do. Aside from catching me before I hit the floor, she kept saying over and over to sit down and put my head between my knees. (Which, by the way, really does work). Of course, I had no idea she was saying anything because I had already blacked out, but she gave me a second by second replay later on. Not sure why it happened; dehydration and/or lack of food while in the sun, I assume, but it made me reflect back to all the times I came close to death. Three, to be exact. I hopefully have 6 more lives to go because I'm not counting this last episode as a near death experience. But let me tell you, fainting is not fun. It's very strange to not remember those few seconds when you have left consciousness.

But I do recall my near death experiences. And I mean really near...like another 20 minutes and I would have been gone. For good. Adios. Arrivederci, Au Revoir, Hasta la vista baby.

The first time was back in my 20’s. It was a normal workday and I was at my office sitting at my desk, doing my job, when all of a sudden the pain going through my abdomen was excruciating. I figured I just had a really bad stomach ache and lay on the floor doubled over in pain for 4 hours. That’s right…four hours. Why is it that we don’t call our doctors right away because we don’t want to ‘bother’ them, in case it’s a false alarm? How ridiculous is that? When the pain started spasming through my rectum (sorry to be so graphic), I decided gas was not the diagnosis of the day and realized it was time to make that call. He wasted no time in telling me to meet him in the emergency room. He also wasted no time in taking out a 15 inch needle and shooting it into my cervix. ARE YOU F**KING KIDDING ME?!?!? What would a good word be for 10 times worse than excruciating? I don’t know…let me see…ummmmm…there is none?? Torturous comes to mind but that’s not horrible enough. Labor pains are a minor annoyance compared to that pain. And not only did he do it once…he did it 3 times. “Just to be sure”. And it was like a boomerang. He shot it in and out it came. In…out…in…out. Good thing my legs were strapped in or a swift kick in the face wouldn’t have been out of the question. In fact, it would have been an absolute sure thing. In fact, maybe I would have aimed lower just so he could experience a quarter of the pain he was inflicting on me.

I was taken into the operating room within minutes having internal bleeding. They cut me open as if I was having a c-section and stitched up my burst cysts on my ovaries. Cysts have been the bane of my existence my entire life. A little one here, a big one there, and never do they come quietly. Geez…there’s got to be something they can come up with to catch these little suckers before they catch you.

My biggest mistake was coming home from the hospital with 20 staples in my tummy and watching ‘Airplane’. You can NOT laugh with 20 staples in your stomach. After about 5 minutes of trying to hold my incision together, the T.V. was turned off.

My next almost jump into the netherworld kept me from work for 8 weeks. Every time I stood up I would black out and get headaches that I can only assume mimic migraines. Whoa…that wasn’t fun. To this day…no clue where the internal bleeding was coming from. But after a lot of iron pills, a lot of rest, and time to recoup, I was fit as a fiddle. Fit as a fiddle…what the hell is that supposed to mean anyway. Fiddles are fit? They’re inanimate. How can they be fit? If I was inanimate, I would make myself fit, too. With a D cup for my boobs and a 22 inch waist, blue eyes, no cellulite and never age past 34. Anyway…as always, I digress. But have you ever taken an inordinate amount of iron and realized what a number that does on your stomach? That’s fodder for a whole other blog.

My last near death excursion to hell (or maybe heaven? Nah…probably hell) was quite a bit more dramatic at the onset. It was like one of those scenes in the movies where someone is on the ground, dragging themselves towards a phone, trying to get help, after they’ve been shot. It was around midnight and I had gone downstairs to use the bathroom so I didn’t wake my husband, since I wasn’t feeling too well. I was nauseous and feeling a little weak. Once I saw the blood pour out of me, I crawled out of the bathroom to the stairs. There I was…pulling myself up the stairs to yell to him, but I had no strength to do either. So I hung on, draped across about 5 steps, for a minute or two, and finally got the words out, in a barely audible voice. “Help me.” How he heard me is beyond my comprehension, but he jumped out of bed and within seconds we were in the car on the way to emergency. Have you ever been in a cop car on a high speed chase? Well, this was as close as you could get. Two bleeding ulcers later, and a shitload of blood transfused, and I was on the road to recovery. It was a hard lesson to learn that taking too many anti-inflammatory pills could burn holes in your stomach. Having a tube stuck down your throat into your duodenum isn’t the most pleasant either. But who the f**k cared…I was in a twilight haze and happy as a clam to be on the operating table. Cauterize all you want, doc. Close up those suckers. But keep me anesthetized! Woohoo. There’s something to be said for anesthesia.

And speaking of happy as a clam. What the hell does that one mean? Clams are happy? How do you know clams are happy? Is it because their shells look like they’re smiling?

[I think I’m going to coin a phrase. First I want to know where ‘coin a phrase’ came from. Who coins phrases? How does coin and phrase end up in the same thought?]

Life. How I cherish my life. After these 3 near death experiences, (actually 5 because I almost drowned twice as a toddler), I never take anything for granted nor do I take chances. My doctors are on speed dial. I’m a member of ‘Life Alert’, I’m having a tracking device implanted in my body, I have a list of all my meds and medical history permanently tattooed on my chest, I’ve map quested every hospital within 50 miles, I’ve friended every fireman, health care provider and medical assistant I could find. I have a siren with blinking lights in my glove compartment, and I visit the doctor on a weekly basis. Just for the hell of it. Medical paranoia has now become a part of my makeup but who cares. I’d rather be a hypochondriac then dead. Welcome to MY world!

Open Wide

2011-06-20T16:37:00.000-07:00

Have you ever had a tooth pulled? I've had more teeth pulled than I have left in my mouth. Last week I had another molar extracted. A little laughing gas, a lot of novocaine, and 5 minutes later...toothless. Just like that. I never had laughing gas before so I was a little worried what words might come out of my mouth since I had no idea what state it would put me in. Who knew what kind of propositions and gestures I would offer the oral surgeon. Luckily, I was a good girl. At least I think I was. Ok...maybe not so much. Ok...sue me...he was adorable...I couldn't help myself!

Trying to drink from a glass with some novocaine left in your mouth is a pretty humorous feat. I wasn't really paying attention but when my shirt started getting soaking wet...I realized I was drooling down my chin for the last 20 minutes. I'm surprised any of the water made it into my mouth and down my throat. My numb, droopy lip and lack of facial muscle control should have been an indication that I still had no feeling in my face.

Chewing on dry gauze is like nails on a chalk board combined with chewing chalk and licking the black board. I cringed every time I would have to replace the piece of gauze in the socket. And they don't give you 'hole- appropriate' sizes...they give you huge squares so that you look like you are chewing on golf balls...and it sticks half way down your throat so you are gagging most of the time. And the feeling of chewing dry gauze is just....ugh...I can't even think about it anymore.

Trying to talk with a new crater in your mouth ith challenging. The air that now flowth through your teeth, or lack thereof, causeth a lovely lithping thound. A bit Thylvethter-like.

It takes a little getting used to but eventually you realize you will not need to hire a speech therapist. You do ultimately figure out how to redirect the air so your tongue hits your palate behind your front teeth and your speech sounds normal. Or so you think, until someone is staring at you with head cocked, brows furrowed, scratching their chin, trying to figure out what you are saying.

Eating food also has its challenges. Now that I have very few molars left, conquering mastication is a victory. Of course, most of my food ends up in my digestive tract in whole pieces. I can now trace the incredibly large chunks of food as they meander through my colon, following the large lump down my body to its destination. It's very alien-like. Actually, it’s pretty creepy. It has finally dawned on me why I have so many digestive problems. Duh.

I assume that over the next few years all the roots of my teeth will slowly get weaker and worn down, and one by one, they will be removed from my mouth. First will be the few remaining molars. Then each tooth, from the back forward, will disappear until I am totally gumming it.

Another chapter in the aging process. ‘Like sands through the hourglass, so are the days of our lives.’

Hide and Seek

2011-06-13T20:35:00.000-07:00

While I was visiting my sister in N.Y. last week I had a few incidences with her so called daughter that I wasn't thrilled about. She would take liberties with my stuff that I would never allow in my house. I would find things missing from my suitcase and couldn't figure out where they had disappeared. A couple of shirts and other items were nowhere to be found. I thought how could she just take them without asking? Pretty rude if you ask me. Even my socks were missing and I was thinking...ew...why would she want my socks...especially after I wore them. I found some of my things after a day or two stuffed behind the couch cushions, under the couch, and hidden in the closets. Did she think I wouldn't find them there? I was starting to get really angry. I asked my sister to please talk to her, but it didn't seem to help at all.

One night she snuck into my bed and snuggled up to me. I couldn't fall back asleep and kept pushing her over but she would continue to move closer to me again. It was becoming really annoying. Maybe that was her way of asking for my forgiveness, but it wasn't really working for me.

When I went to brush my teeth the next morning, I found my toothbrush on the floor. Seriously? What could she have possibly been thinking to take my toothbrush and then leave it on the bathroom floor? She had absolutely no respect for my belongings. I checked my toiletry bag to see if she had taken anything from that, especially my medications, and luckily she hadn't gotten to those, but she did manage to take my hair brush and some of my make-up brushes.

One afternoon a friend of hers had come over, and it seemed like more of my things had disappeared into the black hole. It was like a conspiracy between the two of them.

Finally I had had enough. I decided I needed to have a sit down and tell her exactly how I felt. When I could finally get her to stay and listen, she looked up at me with those big brown eyes…

↓

And that was the end of that.

conspiring

innocence