let's be honest

'Old' Faithful? [rated R for language]

2014-10-16T10:03:00.000-07:00

"Oh...you said 'Geezer', not 'Geyser'?"

Am I becoming a crotchety old person who has no patience for much of anything anymore? Wait...did I just refer to myself as old? Geez. It's been on my mind lately because a few days ago I was asked by a college student if she could interview me on the subject of aging for one of her classes. Aging? Me? Why me? The nerve.

“What are you researching?” I asked. She wanted to see if people 'my age' become curmudgeonly as they get older. “Based on how you answer these questions, we can assess how far you have trodden down that road to crotchety.” Reluctantly, I agreed to be her subject. I had to prove to myself that I was not one of those blue-haired old ladies who you see portrayed smacking people with their cane or purse. Although, in my mind I wanted to rip the bitch's head off, so it makes one wonder.

Q: Is there always at least one…[or two…or multiple] things that bug the shit out of you about someone?
A: Are you f**king kidding me? Of course there are. I'm lucky if it's only one...and if so, then I consider that person my greatest friend ever. So basically...I have no friends.

Q: Do people, in your opinion, just get dumber?
A: Duh. I've become the smartest person I know. And I ain't no Einstein...So what does that tell you?

Q: Does poor grammar bother you, even on texts?
A: Ya think? It always has though; so that's not something new that has come with age. But poor grammar on a text doesn't bother me. See how non-crotchety that is?

Q: Do young adults who don't show respect to you, like you showed adults when you were younger, bother you?
A: Yes! When did that generational gap close? I mean I love being friends with my kids friends, but I'm still the parent...and although we are 'buds' there is still that fine line between respect and disrespect. But then I think...’Ugh...I sound like my parents generation. Times have changed, Jaime....C'mon’...and then I think again...'Nah...I deserve the respect. I earned the respect. And dammit...Don’t call me ‘Dude!’

Q: You're/your, there/they're/their, to/too...need I ask?
A: NOPE, you do not.

Q: Does it bother you when people are walking on the wrong side of the sidewalk, and don't move out of your way?
A: Absolutely...especially when I'm doing my daily speed walking. Where the hell do they think they are...f**king England? So I shove them off to the side into the bushes as I walk by.

Q: When you're sitting in an empty movie theater and people sit right in front of you...is that ok?

A: NO! Are you kidding me? I don't get it. There are 100+ seats...why do they have to sit directly in front of me, or next to me, or even in the 3 rows right around me? Makes no sense. And it's even ruder when the person is tall. I always check who is behind me before I sit down if I have a choice of other seats. It's called common courtesy. If those are the only seats they have to choose from then I'll give them a pass and not talk shit about them. [Although it's rare that I don't find a multitude of other things to talk shit about.]

Q: What about talking and eating in the theater?
A: Let's not go there...but just to be clear...I don't even like when people are talking during the trailers...it's like 'Shut the hell up already. Did you not see each other and talk for the last hour prior to the film rolling? Take it outside, motormouth.' Again...common courtesy. And if I hear their lips smack more than twice while eating...I start throwing things at them. There was a guy once who didn't appreciate my shoe making contact with his head.

Q: How do you feel about people talking with food in their mouths?
A: I could puke! Maybe what I should do is also talk with food in my mouth and let it spew from my lips at them. That may leave a lasting impression so that the next time they eat...they'll think twice about sharing the visual of the masticated food with their meal companions. I tend not to tell those people they have green stuff stuck in their teeth after they’re done eating.

Q: How much does it bother you when people are speaking so loudly to someone else, that you can't continue your own conversation because it's too distracting?
A: I understand that some people's voices carry louder than others...but I'm sure at some point in their lives, someone had to have told them how loud they are. Adjust your volume then...geez...do you want everyone to hear your conversation? I always feel like they want to be noticed. Shut up! Lower your frickin' voice or go talk in a padded cell somewhere in a straight jacket. Does that sound a little angry? Maybe a straight jacket is going too far.

Q: How about when you're lying on the beach and people walk by close enough for you to touch their feet?
A: Do people not know spatial courtesy? There are miles of beach around them, but they have to walk two inches from my head. I also love when they are walking in flip-flops and kicking up sand in my face. Oblivion is the new planet we’ve inhabited.

Q: Telemarketers...how do you handle them?
A: I've tried to pull a sort of Seinfeld...I've called them back to see how they like being bothered, but it goes directly to a recording saying that number is not a working number...so I'm actually pissed off twice at the same thing.

Q: When doctors make you wait for over 30 minutes...are you understanding?
A: What makes their time so much more precious than mine? Believe me...I appreciate all they do. But aside from their life savings skills and treatment of all sorts of diseases, and blah, blah, blah...my time is still precious to ME. We should start charging them a fee when they have to cancel our appointments because they are called into emergency surgery. So, no, I'm not very understanding. Maybe when I AM blue-haired and have too much time on my hands, I won't mind the reprieve from the assisted living place my kids are going to throw me into. Damn those kids. How could they?

Q: When you're in the middle of a conversation with someone and you see that they are not listening anymore, because they are preoccupied by someone else or a text...how does that make you feel?
A: Can I tell you how unbelievably disrespectful that is? At least say, "Can you hold that thought while I so rudely pay attention to something else I feel is more important than you are?" 'Yeah...sure you can...go f**k yourself.'

Q: Does the same apply when you're on a phone call and that person puts you on hold to take another call?
A: Absolutely...I don't understand why the other person's call is more important than mine...make them wait and leave a message and call them back. Do NOT put me on hold. Let it go to voice mail. So I let them answer their other call and then I hang up and don't answer when they call back.

Q: Do you lose patience with people when they're late or when they don't answer your texts and emails promptly?
A: You have no idea...my first husband was late for our very first date. He called to say he was going to be late, which, at the time, I thought was so sweet and thoughtful. That should have been my first hint of things to come. Over, and over, and over. I should learn to tell these people to arrive much earlier than is needed, but I don’t like to lie. And those who know me well enough would know I was lying and would be late anyway…so why bother. I always say I'm going to do that back to them so they can see how it feels, but I just can't bring myself to be late, or procrastinate answering someone's email or text. Sometimes it's just a burden being so perfect.

Q: How about people who drive too slowly? Either those you are with in the car, or those on the road in front of you.
A: Let's just say I'm surprised I haven't attempted road rage [mostly because I'm too chicken to suffer the consequences.] Ok...maybe a little road rage. But more in my own head than outwardly apparent. Ok...maybe a little apparent. A little tailgating; a little flashing the brights; a little flip of the bird; a swear word here and there. But I've never gotten out of my car and started screaming at anyone. Not that I can remember. I don't think.

Q: When people cancel plans at the last minute...how does it make you feel?
A: It depends on if it's a pattern or if it's an infrequent thing with that particular person. I can tell you I've stopped making plans with those who have done that more often than not. It's annoying and disrespectful and usually it's people who are not the most truthful. But mostly because.......I don't have enough people as back up to make other last minute plans with...(refer to my answer to the first question above.)

Q: Where do people who lie fit into your tolerance level?
A: There is no tolerance level.

Q: Does it piss you off when someone doesn’t thank you for doing a random act of kindness? Or for any favor you do?
A: You’re damn right it does…and the amount of times they thank you depends on what the act of kindness is. I'm not looking for accolades for anything I do, but, for instance, if you’re just letting someone in front of you while driving…they should thank you when you first let them in, then thank you again with the high wave, so you can see them in their rear window. If you take someone to dinner…minimum 3 thank yous. Maybe during dinner… “Thank you for having me,” and again right after dinner, as you’re walking out, “Thank you again,” and then as you hug good-bye, “Again…thank you so much. I had a great time.” And if someone doesn’t…make sure they know you noticed. "Oh...by the way...you're welcome [shithead]."

Q: When someone is in the crosswalk taking their time walking to the other side…do you wait patiently?
A: Yeah, of course I do. I mean I would rather shoot an arrow up their ass to speed up the process…but prison has never been on my bucket list.

Q: Does it annoy you when people stare at you?
A: I can't tell you how much. I start getting all paranoid like I have schmutz all over my face, or in my teeth; or that my hair is sticking straight up or out or all over the place. My mom and my dog do it all the time. When I call my mom out on it...she claims to not be staring at me, but through me while she's pondering the universe. When I tell my dog to stop, she cocks her head like she has no idea what I'm talking about. Yeah...sure she doesn't. So I walk away but she just follows me and keeps staring. When strangers do it, I pull out my can of mace and squirt them in the eye. [At least in my mind that's what I'm doing.]

Q: How does it make you feel when you see someone on a daily basis, while walking your dog, for instance, and they never acknowledge you?
A: Invisible. Then I do something similar, like I do to those who walk on the wrong side; I shove them into the street and yell out, “Do you see me now?” Hopefully the oncoming traffic sees them.

Q: Every person claims to have the worst memory as they age; and they all seem to want to outdo the other in how much they forget. How frustrating is it when you can’t recall things?
A: It’s horrible. I’m sorry…what was the question?

When the test was done I was thinking, 'So...not too bad, right? I still have a pretty high tolerance level for ignorant, self-centered, disrespectful, narcissistic, rude assholes...don't you think?'

And then I looked up at her face...

I think I got my answer.

Who You Calling Fugly?

2014-10-01T17:50:00.000-07:00

I miss my girls now that we don’t live together. Well...I miss certain things about them. What I don’t miss: the empty bank account, the dishes left in the sink, the clothes strewn in places I didn’t know existed, not knowing where they are in the middle of the night if they forget to call, that ‘time of the month’ when I wasn't sure exactly which personality I was dealing with…theirs or Satan. You get my drift. So wait…then why do I miss them? Oh yeah…

I miss seeing their faces every day and knowing what's going on in their lives on a minute by minute basis; which I’m sure they just loved anyway. I miss knowing how they feel at all times. I miss being their mommy. I’m still their mom...but I’m not their mommy anymore. They don't 'need' me to fix a boo-boo or feed them, or all those other things mommies do. I never in a million years thought I would want that role. I had sworn I was never having kids. I hate kids. Maybe hate is too strong a word. I really don't hate anything. Except lima beans. I hate lima beans. I could throw up every time I see a lima bean. You may as well give me a spoonful of vomit. But I digress. I extremely dislike other people's kids. I love my own kids, but not others. Unless they just kind of ignore me. Then I’m ok with them and can tolerate them. But don't let those little rug rats whine, or scream, or talk to me. Ick. I wonder how I’ll feel when I have grandchildren. I sure hope I feel differently about them than I do about those non-blood related kids.

When I was little I never said or thought, 'Oh...when I grow up I want to be a mommy.' Never. I was going to be a singer or dancer...although I could do neither. I just assumed I would be great at both when I became an adult. I’m not sure why I thought that…the innocence of youth I guess; but boy was I wrong. I mean...I have rhythm and can carry a tune...but that doesn't qualify me to star in my own one-woman show. [Although……maybe....] Oops…off track again. But wanting to be a mom? No way. Even when I was little, I didn't like littler kids. They were annoying. I don't think I was annoying as a little kid although my family may feel otherwise. Nah...I doubt it. I was pretty frickin' adorable. [click on video below]

I did figure I would get married when I grew up, but that was never a must either. So I decided to try it twice to be sure it wasn't for me. It wasn't.

However, when I met my first husband and saw him around other children, I thought he would make a great dad. He told me he wanted kids, and I loved him, so I wanted to give him a child or two. And since I loved him, I thought maybe I would want to be a mother to his children. And if I didn't like it...at least I knew they would have one parent who loved them and enjoyed being their parent, and he could do all the work. [Ha!] There was a lot of rationalizing before becoming pregnant. But maternal instinct? Cinderella’s stepmother was more suited than I was.

After 2 years of marriage we decided to try to get pregnant. I don't know if I should even use the word 'try' because when I decided I wanted to, I did on the first attempt. Both times. I knew my body so well that as soon as I knew I was ovulating it was like, "Ok...bedroom...NOW!" (I think I said that way more times during the month other than when I was ovulating...but he's a man...so naturally he happily went along with the obvious charade.) When we 'did it' on the actual ovulating day, I laid [lay?] on my back afterwards, for about 10 more minutes, with my legs up on the wall, so all his active, little spermies would swim on down to meet my eagerly awaiting eggs and boom! A production was in the making, and I was pregnant.

I was an emotional mess during the pregnancy, worrying that I wasn't going to love my baby. It was the easiest pregnancy, too...except for the 28 f**king hours of labor I endured...but the nine months leading up to those 28 f**king hours of labor were a breeze as far as pregnancies go. I was a little nauseated during the first trimester, but never threw up or had any problems. [Good thing no one put lima beans in front of me.] Of course, saltines were my best friend and I only gained 21 pounds, so I should have been thrilled about the whole journey. But what if I hated my child? I mean I hated kids. Oops...I mean I extremely disliked kids. What if I didn't love my child? It would make sense that since I didn't like kids I wouldn't like my own. How horrible would that be? So for nine months I was in panic mode that I was going to be the worst example of a mother ever. I was going to be written up in some magazine as number one on the top 10 list of not famous, worst moms. [Unless I ended up having that one-woman show…then I would be on the top 10 list of famous, worst moms.]

But when that peanut of a child erupted from my body to make her grand entrance into the world [after 28 f**king hours]...that was it. I was in love. There was no doubt in my mind that this girl had me in her clutches. That should have been my first indication as to what the rest of my life would be with her. She manipulated me from the minute she was born. And I wouldn't have it any other way. Well...maybe a little bit other way. But she was the best baby…never cried, happy, and absolutely beautiful.

My second pregnancy was totally the opposite. Thank god I didn't go through that one first or I never would have had a second. But I knew I wanted this child having known how much in love I was with my first. The pregnancy was the worst....I threw up for the entire nine months every single day. It was awful. And not at any particular time of day...it wasn't morning sickness with her, it was 24 hour sickness without one god damn day of reprieve. The only decent thing was I gained very little weight with her, too. Probably because I was too sick to eat much. No cravings with this one like my Italian craving during the first. I had a calzone every day for lunch and some other Italian dish for dinner. You would have thought my baby would come out singing the score to La Traviata.

The only craving I had with my second was to feel good. That’s all I wanted, but I think I had a better relationship with the Ty-D-Bol man than I did with my husband. In spite of that, I knew once she came out I would feel better and be totally in love for a second time.

My labor was only 6 hours, so although the first nine months were a nightmare, she was making labor much easier this time around. Don’t get me wrong...6 hours is like an eternity in labor hours...but compared to the 28 f**king hours with the first...six hours was a walk in the park. Well...not really. I still wanted to tear the f**king head off my husband, rip out his heart, and shove this baby up his ass. But all in all, it was much easier than my first one. I couldn't wait to see her.

And then..........holy shit. I almost passed out. Was that MY baby? No way...she was frickin' ugly. I had an ugly baby. I was devastated. How can I have an ugly baby? Impossible.

They must have switched it while I wasn't looking. [Obviously she took after her dad’s side.] I can't bond with a freakishly ugly baby. I thought all parents were blinded by their love and thought their baby was cute even though they could have a Shrek baby. Why wasn't I one of those parents who was in denial about how ugly their baby was?

How could this happen? I thought she would grow on me but she screamed her head off from the minute she was born for the next two years; mostly at night when I wanted to sleep, but still...for two straight years she got me up 3 times a night for two hours at a time. And I was a single mom because we divorced when she was nine months old. I probably should have rethought that one and waited until she stopped having screaming fits before filing for divorce.

For the first 6 months I had a hard time bonding with her. Probably from her crying and being sorta ugly. She was getting less ugly month by month but not less enough to make up for the temper that only a crotchety old man should have. She was the female version of a baby Walter Matthau.

But then she hit that 6 month mark when her adorable personality kicked in and she charmed me with her dimpled smile, and I was smitten. I fell in love for the 2nd time with a child. Who knew?

So aside from giving birth to Rosemary’s baby, motherhood is everything I never knew it could be. Do I miss those glory days of their youth? Absolutely. Would I want to go back and relive their childhood years? You have got to be f**king kidding me. I’m happy just the way we are. Except for that part about missing them...that will never change. Although, on second thought...I could just move in with them.........

How Many Sisters Does It Take To........

2014-09-16T18:01:00.000-07:00

How do you make your birthday special and memorable? Make it a family event. Never a dull moment. At least not with my sisters. They were generous enough to take me away for one of my major milestones. We hadn't been away together since our 20's, so believe me; it was a long, overdue trip. The last time we were away together we went on a Club Med vacation at a time when we all were pretty wild. It was the era of drugs, sex and rock and roll, and we took full advantage of that. It was before we knew as much as we do now about STD's. Need I say more? This time was just a tad different though, but the fun factor was still there. It usually is when we're all together.

Let me just give you a quick glimpse into who we are. Both of my sisters are extremely successful business owners, and I have a successful career in advertising. But we are each on different levels of the economic ladder...and let's just say...I'm on the bottom rung of theirs. They need to extend their arms WAY down to reach me. But the positive side of that is I'm afraid of heights, so it’s a good thing I'm not up at the top near where they are. [Yeah...sure it is.] They are quite used to a lifestyle I will most likely never know as normal in my lifetime. [Although…at what age are you too old for a sugar daddy? Maybe there’s time!] When it comes to blue collar/middle class anything...it's a foreign language to them, whereas I'm just your average white collar, middle class person who can afford the necessities in life, with enough to enjoy the journey, but in a whole other stratosphere than they are. I've also lived in middle class, blue collar areas over the course of my adult life. They have not. I'm comfortable there as well as being comfortable in an upper middle class area. They would not be. It would be like living in a third world country to them where no English was spoken. See where I'm going with this?

They had asked me where I wanted to go for my birthday. 'Anywhere in the world...just pick a place.' How many times are you offered an incredible opportunity like that? So let’s see…Italy? France? Greece? Nope…San Diego. A place I have been to way too many times to even count and I lived there for a year. Why did I choose that, you ask? Because of my dog. My dog is on a restricted diet, takes quite a few meds and needs to be monitored, and I just couldn't leave her or entrust anyone with her. So I needed to go to a place that took dogs and was close enough where I wouldn't need to hop on a plane. The resort in San Diego allowed dogs and my sisters both have been there and liked the place, so off we went. (Am I crazy or just the best dog mom in the world? I'd like to think the latter.)

The first day we arrived, we checked in, had a late lunch, and went for massages. I've written about my massage experiences before so I won't get into details, but it was great. I could hardly move after...so I measured that as successful. The worse you feel, the better the masseuse. We showered and decided we would skip dinner and go to the movies.

Going to the movies with my one sister is an experience unto itself. Having gone with her quite often, I knew better than to sit next to her, so I let my other sister have the pleasure of sitting in the middle. When you do sit next to her she constantly whispers in your ear asking questions as if you’re not seeing the movie for the first time also. I wish I was as smart and intuitive as she thinks I am while watching a film I've never seen. Half the time I have no clue what's going on and wing it, hoping it will come together at the end. What I don’t do is constantly bug the shit out of the person next to me, so that they can’t enjoy the film because they are missing out on most of the dialogue because someone’s voice and breath are permeating their ear canal.

The closest theater we found was a Cinepolis...which none of us had ever been to and didn't know it was a different kind of theater. But when the admission ticket alone is $20, it had better be more than just a regular theater. If you've never been to one, you have to try it at least once. It's definitely the way to go if you can afford it. It's like watching in your living room, sitting in a luxurious Barcalounger [is that an oxymoron?] and being waited on. Except, of course, your dollar output is quite extraordinary. You have your own personal waiter and can order from a full menu and bar. The sequence of seats is two together, then an end table and another two seats, etc. My sisters sat together and I sat on the other side of the end table; which I came to find out made no difference. The movie started and I could hardly hear the dialogue on screen because of the outbursts coming from the peanut gallery next to me. My sister has to be the most animated viewer and the greatest audience member ever. Her reactions are as if the scene on screen is happening in real life and real time and she is witnessing a murder from across the street. Her gasps, her exclamations, her "OH NOOOOO's" are like listening to a child who doesn't know reality from make believe. She is truly a great audience. But for those of us sitting next to her? All I can say is my brother-in-law must be a saint. [But she is a crack up.]

The following evening was a whole new experience. Not for me as much as for my sisters. I think the reactions from them were the highlight of my trip. One of my sisters was driving and the other was navigating by WAZE. My driving sister has a great sense of direction. My navigating sister is exactly like I am...we can't find our way out of a bathroom without directions, so she won't deviate from WAZE's directions, nor would I. The driving sister had looked up the directions to the restaurant before we left and knew how to go by her internal compass and by memorizing them. That, in itself, is a feat I can no longer accomplish. My navigating sister wanted to follow WAZE. It was two against one so my sister relented and went with WAZE directions. We were searching for a recommended 5-star restaurant on the beach. I can't tell you how many U-turns we made trying to get to the street WAZE told us we were looking for. Once on it...it led us down a narrow road towards the beach. We knew we were headed in the right direction because we were parallel to the ocean, only a few feet away, although the fact that it was more a dirt path than road was a little suspicious. Then, when we started seeing old RV's and campsites on either side of us, we were thinking that may not be exactly where we wanted to be. But WAZE insisted we were on the right path.

Long-haired, toothless, tatted up guys; a beer in each hand or hands down their pants, were walking along the side of the road. My sisters were dying and I was cracking up. It was a picture out of Deliverance. They didn't know what to make of it and the further down the road we got, the better the sights and quite entertaining [for me.] It should have been titled, 'WalMart shoppers go camping.'

People were sitting around picnic tables, barbequing, laughing and having a good ol' time. Lights strung up at their campsites created a lovely ambience for dining under the stars at their aluminum picnic tables. Tatted up women who were wearing halters and shorts that should have never been squeezed into; their butt cracks showing and back boobs hanging over the halter; were walking around with babies attached to their hips. I think it's something my sisters have only seen in movies. I'm not sure they've ever seen an RV up close either...only on TV. One of my sisters said, “Let’s ask them if they know where it is.” OMG...seriously?? I was like, “You’re kidding, right? We are looking for a 5-star restaurant. What are the odds?” At the end of the road, no restaurant in sight. The WAZE woman then announced, "You have arrived at your destination." I was looking for the RV where Billy Bob and Mary Sue were standing outside with the welcome sign and a can of Spam. We U-turned again, stopped to call for directions, and eventually got there. Fortunately, dinner was worth the detour.

My birthday arrived the next day and I was doing something to make it as special and as memorable as possible. And again, we ended up on a road to nowhere. [I'm starting to question the validity of WAZE.] This time we were on a road comprised of junkyards containing smooshed up, compacted cars and automobile parts. You would think my sister had lived in an opaque bubble the last 30 years by her reaction to the automobile cemeteries. She was in awe. I swear…it’s like taking a little kid to the circus for the very first time. She was in shock that these places existed. I thought she was going to get out and see if she could purchase a large pile to use as art on her front lawn.

Again, after numerous U-turns, we called the place and got directions that actually took us to our destination. And there it was...heaven's gate. I dug out the email with the code they gave me to punch in to open the gate, and I did, and shockingly enough, it didn't open. Duh. You would think with 3 relatively intelligent women attempting to figure out how to open a gate, it wouldn't have taken us 15 minutes, but it did. My sister, who was reading the numbers to me, didn't realize that the pound sign was part of the code. In fact, she didn't know what a pound sign was. She just thought the number sign was telling you that they were numbers to punch in. [Because we wouldn't know that 1-2-3 were numbers without the # sign before them.] We're like the female version of Moe, Larry and Curly. Or Abbott and Costello plus one. Lucy and Ethyl with Mrs. McGillicuddy? Whoever we were...we couldn't get anything done on the first attempt. The majority of our vacation was spent figuring things out. Maybe we're not as smart as we thought we were.

I was so excited to be there I didn't care. We were there...and there was the plane. It was teenier than the one I jumped out of 40 years ago, but it would do the trick. My heart was pounding with anticipation and excitement all the while my sisters were trying to talk me out of it. After I signed all the waivers and disclaimers, (because you love thinking about that right before jumping out of a plane), I met my skydiving partner, Luke, who was a big, muscular hunk and then I knew I was in good hands. I was so glad I was going tandem and didn't need to think about anything but enjoying the jump. All I had to do was make sure HE knew the directions and could reach our target destination. And Luke knew the way. He was my hero for the day. He did give me the roller coaster version of parachuting, but I loved every minute of it. Especially when he got the directions right the first time out. [Whew!]

Could you imagine if my sisters and I were jumping together? We’d probably be somewhere in North Dakota dangling from some rock formation, still trying to get directions.

My Road to Perdition?

2014-07-15T16:20:00.000-07:00

Have you ever had a stomach ache and hunger pains at the same time? (Or is it hunger pangs? Tomato, tomaaato.) I can never decide which to take care of first; however, the stomach ache usually wins out. After ingesting a few antacids, then a dozen more, I realize my efforts are futile, so it’s time to satisfy the hunger pains and hopefully the stomach ache will succumb. But here’s the problem that compounds it…almost everything I eat upsets my tummy. So satisfying the hunger only prolongs the pain. See where I’m in conflict?

But that’s not really what this is about. It’s about what I did the other day in an effort to resolve the problem, only to exacerbate it. I decided to let my daughter drive us to the restaurant. And I’m using ‘drive’ in the loosest of terms. ‘Drive’ shouldn’t even be in the same sentence. I decided to let her demolition derby us to our destination. Not only does she drive fast, she maneuvers the car like we’re in a high speed chase with sirens raging behind us, and she’s on the lam. She snakes her way in and out of lanes whether we are on the freeway or side streets, without a care in the world about who’s in her way. I’m not sure what her hurry is, but she always seems to be in one when she’s in the driver’s seat. [Sure wish she'd apply that to all other aspects of her life instead, if you catch my drift.]

I don’t know if you remember teaching your kids how to drive, but to this day, when they drive, I cover my eyes and avoid ever looking straight ahead at the road in front of me. I used to have to let their dad teach them to drive. When I would get in the car with them, I immediately lost patience. I’m not sure why, but we had barely left the driveway and I was already getting pissed off for something they hadn’t even done yet. I think my nerves were getting the better of me before they should’ve gotten the better of me. The anticipation of what they could do with a 3500 pound machine was too much for me to handle. We would be driving maybe 50 feet from home and I was yelling at them to slow down (from the 5 mph they were going) and telling them there was a stop sign ahead. As we approached the stop sign, I was yelling to ease their foot off the accelerator and we were still 25 feet away. I admit…I was the worst teacher ever, but was smart enough to bow out of teaching them. I probably should never be anyone’s passenger, either.

I have yet to mention my state of mind prior to the start of our long journey to hell. Upon approaching the car, I didn't even realize it was hers because the color was unrecognizable with the amount of dirt and dust covering it. It was a sort of grayish brown hue masking the maroon it actually was. The view out of the windshield was...well, there really wasn't a view. It was as if we were looking through glass blocks. You could see shapes, but nothing too clearly. Fortunately, headlights would shine through. At least I think that's what was shining through. Although…maybe it was heaven opening up to guide me through that very difficult time.

The interior? It was in there somewhere. I would get glimpses of it at times....like when she would swerve or make those sharp turns and stuff would fall over or go flying. Then I could kind of see the seat or the floor, but that was really the only way, once I was able to peel away the clothes that flew in my face. I don't believe she has any clothes left in her closet or drawers because the inside of her car looked like she had just had a rummage sale for every article of clothing she owned. She really doesn't need to pay rent at her house since pretty much everything she has is inside her car. Do you think if she went to city hall, they would issue her an address for that thing she refers to as her car? I would say it's more of a hoarder's apartment on wheels.

Surprisingly, it had no odor. With all the shit that she had in there, why it didn't reek was beyond me. It's not like there weren’t hundreds of old In-n-Out Burger wrappers or anything. There were plenty of those and every other fast food chain represented within the confines of her vehicle. Skepticism about entering her car was only a small percentage of the thoughts and feelings permeating through my body. I was hoping she had a hazmat suit buried in there somewhere.

I will never understand why people tear ass from a stop, speeding up to 60 mph, knowing there is another stop sign coming up in 300 feet, but there she went, flooring it, only to have to brake 5 seconds later. My heart? I believe it still resides in my chest, although it may have relocated to the other side. I had no idea it was able to pump that fast as it pushed its way up into my throat forcing me to spew out more swear words than I even knew I knew.

My knuckles were white holding on for dear life and all I heard going into my left ear was, “Mom, it’s fine. I know what I’m doing.” Yeah…sure you do, Destructo Woman. My right foot was cramping from pressing on the imaginary brake as she sped full force ahead and my hand was in a permanent clutching position, as if rigor mortis set in. I should have invested in a driver’s ed car so I could have master control from the passenger’s seat.

The sign would say:

And this is what she would see:

As we would drive by people she knew, she thought nothing of sticking her head out the window to yell to them, removing her eyeballs from watching the road in front of her. Helllloooooo....whole other world to focus on in the view out your windshield...which is directly at a zero degree angle. Turn your head back. I felt like going on Google maps and clicking the 'show traffic' link to point out just what was ahead of her. That would've given her a better idea than she was getting in person.

Since my eyes were constantly diverted to the right so as not to see what she was almost running into, I hadn't noticed that she was looking down at her iPod to look for another song to play. Can't you just turn on the radio like a normal human being? If I don't have permanent heart damage, I'll be shocked. [Not to mention ruptured eardrums and vocal chord nodules from yelling over the extraordinarily loud music.]

You would never know we were in the car by the way she was window shopping. "Look mom...will you buy me that dress?" Seriously? You're shopping while driving. First of all...how can you even see that far and…WHAT?? You’re SHOPPING WHILE DRIVING?? Who the hell is at the helm then? Apparently, she thought we were in one of those concept cars that drives itself. I certainly would've felt safer. I'll tell you what I WILL buy you...a bus pass.

I’m always happy when there’s traffic while she's at the wheel. That way I know she can’t exceed the speed limit [too much]. However, with traffic comes tailgating, and with tailgating comes heart failure. We should have just had the car in front of us hook us up to the back of their car. We all would have been safer that way. Why she’s never encountered road rage is beyond my understanding.

I was going to refrain from mentioning the 4 tickets she received within 6 weeks of each other but it’s just too unbelievable to omit, along with the fact that every time I see our car insurance bill, I go into cardiac arrest…but here are the facts:

Ticket #1: November 2013 – 56 mph in a 40 zone

Ticket #2: November 2013 [one week later] – 94 mph in a 65 zone…on the freeway to Vegas…what were the odds?

Ticket #3: December 2013 – again…56 mph in a 40 zone

Ticket #4: January 2014 – talking on her cell

There are now signs posted on those streets in her honor:

Well, we did finally arrive at our destination, and as she sped into a parking space, barely missing the cars on either side, the cramping in my stomach, legs, biceps, triceps, quads, and any other body part that stiffened during the ride, finally subsided as she came to an abrupt halt. I arrived in one piece without flat lining. Hallelujah! But I have to say...that was the longest four blocks I've ever experienced.

Last on the List...Heaven

2014-06-30T16:31:00.000-07:00

I think it’s ridiculous that we only have a finite amount of time on this earth. I have way too many things to do still, in too short a period of time left in this limited life span.

For instance…I’d love to sit down with a President. I don’t want to discuss politics since I’m politically ignorant...but I’d love to just talk about life. His/her life. My life. Life itself…over a bowl of Life...and double chocolate chip brownies. Then once the sugar high hits, a little karaoke and a disco dance-off.

I’ve yet to meet the man of my dreams. He’s supposedly out there. Just once I’d like to meet who Mr. Right is. That soul mate I’ve never found. Even if we don’t end up together…I’d love to just see who he is and decide if I agree with whoever said he’s my match made in heaven. Oh wait…maybe that’s what I have to wait for…heaven. Ahhhh…makes so much sense now why he’s nowhere to be found on earth.

Speaking of Earth. I’d love to take a trip to Pluto, see if anyone lives there, play a game of badminton with a Plutonian, then come back down to earth and declare Pluto a full size planet again. Can you imagine being 76 years old and finding out you’re not who you thought you were all those years? How humiliating for Pluto to get demoted. [I think ‘come back down to earth’ may be a significant phrase in this blog.]

I’d like to stop shaving and see how long the hair on my legs and armpits would get. It would be gross; but it would be interesting.

Just once…I’d love to make a million dollars…in one lump sum. I mean, I would take more if I could, but a million would do.

I want to go to a town of 25,000 people and see how long it would take to meet each person who lives there. I would prefer it be in Italy, but I would take any town in the USA if I had to. Maybe I should start with 10,000 people. That’s probably more attainable.

I want to have the ultimate orgasm. Whatever that is…I wanna have it. Multiple times.

I want to be a guest speaker at a college commencement and motivate graduates. I’d like to do that without shitting in my pants from fear of speaking in front of people.

I’d like to quarterback a pro-football team. [What’s more unlikely than me ever quarterbacking…is L.A. getting a home team; but that’s a whole other fantasy.] So the closest would be the Chargers. And I can’t get sacked. Or tackled. Or hurt in any way whatsoever.

I’d like to grace the cover of a magazine. It may be AARP but still…it’s a cover. I’d like to see if/what professionals would do to my hair and make-up to change my look and then how much would get photo-shopped.

Along those lines…I’d like to see what I would look like as a blonde, but I don’t want to dye my hair because I don’t want to wait for it to grow out when I don’t like it. You’re probably saying to yourself…”Why doesn’t she try a wig?” And my answer would be because it’s gross. The thought of putting on a wig that others have tried on creeps me out. Thoughts of lice come to mind. And believe me…having two girls with long hair down to their waists, who went to camp and caught lice every summer for 5 years…it’s not a memory I cherish. In fact…that’s something I’d like to find out in this lifetime…how the hell do those little suckers jump to someone else’s head and attach their eggs or nits or whatever the hell they’re called…to the root of someone’s hair and make it impossible to pick off. It’s absolutely mind boggling and repulsive…especially if they’ve hatched. Ok…reminiscing rant done. [I'd like to think this is what I would look like as a blonde, body included]

Overcoming my fears is something I’d like to do before I leave this earth. Of course, I’d like to overcome them without actually having to perform them in order to overcome them.

I would like to master the art of walking down the stairs in flip-flops without sounding like the Ohio State Marching Band just invaded my house.

I have a few discoveries I’d like to make. Like the phenomenon of traffic. If there’s no accident, how is there traffic? I understand one car driving slowly to cause traffic in one lane…but all the lanes at the same time? C’mon.

I want to figure out how bugs get into the globes that cover light bulbs in the ceiling.

I’d like to invent a substitute food for all animals to eat instead of them killing each other for sustenance. Something like baco bits…on a larger scale. Life-size bits. Maybe buffalo. That should stop that damn circle of life crap.

My bucket list has always consisted of going on an African safari. Maybe I could take those Buff bits I created and take them over there to spread around. Ok…quite unrealistic, but the safari part isn’t. Of course I couldn’t afford it until I get that million dollars.

I’ve pondered over the unknown quite often…on large and small scales…like how many blades of grass are on someone’s lawn. [I’ve thought about the whole planet but that was also, not too realistic.] Or how many strands of hair are on my head. Although that’s forever changing because…as of late…I think there’s more on the floor and in my brush than attached to my head.

When does a freckle appear? When I’m sleeping? Just all of a sudden it’s there? How did I not see it forming?

If you use a washcloth with soap, why do you have to wash a washcloth?

What's up with Europeans and their teeth?

And where are those f**king silver fish coming from? We see other bugs outside and know they come in through open doors or windows. But you never see a silver fish outside so how do they just appear? They’re disgusting.

I have yet to go hot air ballooning. I attempted to go twice. The first time the winds were too strong so they sent us home. The second time I was pregnant and they wouldn’t let me in the bucket. Apparently, delivering a baby on board wasn’t part of their duties. And along those lines of being airborne…zip-lining. That’s a definite one I’m doing. I just hope my limitations with my shoulders, neck, back and fear of heights don’t get in the way of me soaring across some jungle-like terrain 80 gazillion feet in the air. I think that’s where that ‘overcoming my fears’ thing would come in handy.

I would’ve liked to have met Sinatra and sang a duet with him, but I missed that opportunity. Although…you never know. Maybe…just maybe…he’s that match made in heaven I was referring to. And just maybe…he’s there at the bar hanging out with Ed McMahon, who’s been holding on to my million dollars all these years. But I think that discovery will remain last on my list.

Did You Swallow A Kardashian?

2014-04-25T18:58:00.000-07:00

I have a new pet peeve that absolutely drives me nuts...it's called ‘Vocal Fry.’ I can't believe I was able to describe it on Google well enough to get the exact technical term right away. Probably because millions are also wondering what the f**k it is. [I SO love Google] It's got to be the most irritating sound ever, although I’m sure I’ve complained about plenty of other irritating sounds that have bugged the shit out me; but this is the latest. In fact, it’s been around a couple of years already, so I guess it's not so new. You only hear it in 20 and 30 somethings; and only girls (I can't even call them women...real women don't talk like that.) It's that raspy, low, vibrating sound that comes out of their annoying little mouths when they're talking. It makes you wanna squeeze the shit out of their necks to bring the sound up and out of their throats, shoot it right past your ears without invading your aural senses, and be gone forever. I believe that's called strangling...which is exactly what I want to do to them whenever I hear them speak. I want to hold their vocal chords in place so tightly that they can't vibrate. Actually, holding them so they can't vocalize at all would be the best case scenario. That comes with the strangling motion, so a ‘2 for 1’...what a deal. Don’t get me wrong…I don’t want to go so far as to murder them…I just want to stop them from speaking while they’re in my presence.

What I don't get is how they make it happen. It can't be something they consciously make themselves do to sound like that on purpose, can it? They're not smart enough to know how because if they were smart enough, they wouldn't want to sound like that. No one could do that all day long, every time they speak. It’s just not natural. They'd be so busy concentrating on how to sound like that, that they wouldn't be able to concentrate on what they're talking about. AHA...that's exactly it...that's why they sound so f**king dumb. It’s all coming together.

How does something like this just emerge? And why is it now THE way to speak? I don't get it. I understand how fashion trends get introduced. I may not like all the styles I see people wearing but at least I know how and why fads like that start. I understand how words and phrases catch on. The media enables that. None of that impacts my life. But guttural sounds? You can't just all of a sudden start changing how your vocal chords work, right? I know when you sing you can manipulate your voice...but that's just for the duration of the song. But in every day speech? How is that possible? And why would you? It’s so frickin’ annoying. Especially when it's in combo with the "UM" interjected after every other phrase.

You’re probably thinking this should not have any impact on my life either...but au contraire. It absolutely does. I have to listen to people talk like this all day long since my industry is comprised of many 20 something girls and they have adopted this new vocal speech pattern. Ugh...you could puke.

I find a lot of these vocal fry adoptees have also invaded the morning news shows; not the anchors so much, but the interviewees. I guess I could change the channel but it seems like most of these young ‘experts’ talk like this now, so even if I changed the station, I’d probably find the same thing on the others. And there are some topics I want to hear about, so I sit through their discussions while being tortured by their raspy hoarsey obnoxious voices....thinking 'hurry up, disseminate the information, and then shut the f**k up already. And you’re not a frickin' expert so stop thinking you are.’

And isn’t that a laugh in itself…experts…at the age of 28 or so. Everyone's an expert. They haven’t lived long enough to be experts, but they DO know everything. Just ask them. I think if they didn’t talk in this new ‘hip’ irritatingly disgusting voice, I wouldn’t give them such a bad rap. I’d allow them to think they are the experts.

I don't remember where I first noticed someone speaking like this...but now? I can't ever NOT hear it when it's there. And then I can't concentrate on anything BUT the way they're talking. Forget listening to the content of what they're saying. I’m screwed when I really need to absorb the information. Same thing when I hear someone constantly say 'UM'...O. M. F**KING. G. I may as well just leave the conversation because I will get just as much out of it as if I was never there. Well…technically, I do leave the conversation…in my head. I may physically be there but if they were really paying attention and looked deep into my eyes…they would see a blank look. And behind that blank look would be Mohammed Ali shadow boxing in my eye balls, gloves on, waiting to beat the shit out of whomever is in front of me aiming their vibrating, annoying, never ending, vocal fry in my direction.

Have you noticed another big trend that people have been using? They start every sentence with the word “So.” It doesn’t matter whether it should be there or not…that’s how they start every single sentence.

“Can you tell me how that works, Moonshadow?” (Moonshadow is a 20 something who was born to some actors who have to name their kids a ridiculous name in order to get the recognition of all their fans and the acting community.) And Moonshadow’s response…“So you take the blah blah blah and put it on the such and such, but I don’t really know how because I have ‘people’ who do that for me.”

“And how much does that cost, NorthStarWest?” “So it will cost you an arm and a leg…but that’s ok, because it’s worth every cent, [and I’m a trust fund baby who can afford pretty much anything I want anyway].”

“Can you start a sentence without using the word ‘So’, Mango-Tangerine?” “So I don’t think I can, but that’s ok, right?”

Did I mention while they are starting their sentences with the word ‘So’, they are also speaking with a vocal fry voice? My nerves are being severely tested.

SO back to the 'UM' users. Holy shit. Talk about being distractingly annoying. I end up sitting in meetings counting the number of 'UM's' one uses, as opposed to listening to what they're talking about. I think I got up to 67 'UM's' in one presentation that lasted only about 7 minutes. Can I tell you how f**king insufferable that is? I'd love to stick a pin in their most sensitive spot each time they say it so they experience the Pavlov (or should I say Perlov) conditioning. Eventually, after they have been poked enough, they'll learn to stop. (Or bodily fluids will start leaking out all the holes and they'll be so weak they won't be able to talk. Either way works for me.)

Tell me…how do you ‘wrap your head around’ something? Or your brain? I can wrap my arms around something, but as hard as I’ve tried to wrap my brain around something...just short of performing a lobotomy on myself...I believe that may be impossible. And how does someone come up with that visual to begin with, to mean what it means? They probably were on drugs when that phrase came to mind. There’s really no other explanation.

And why does everyone say 'love you' to everyone now...even those they barely know? Do they REALLY love them? Do they? I think not. It’s taken away the entire meaning behind the real emotion of love we feel. I remember years ago, one of my daughter's friends said 'love you' to me as she walked out the front door to leave. I just said 'Bye so and so' to whomever it was. And my daughter said to me, 'Say you love her, too, mom." I told her I wouldn't. I don't say love you to people I don't love. I refuse. So if by chance I tell you I love you...be excited…you'll know I mean it. Unless, of course, society said I’m supposed to feel love for you because of how you are related to me, but I don't, and I don't want you to know I don't. Then I may tell a little white lie.

So…to conclude…um…so I’m having a hard time wrapping my brain around this whole vocal fry craze, et al…but, um…I’m sure they will fade away. And, um, I’m sure there will be plenty of, um, other extremely irritating, um, trends that will materialize to take their place. Can't wait.

And lastly...I just want to say...I Love You all! I Love each and every single one of you, whoever you are.

This video will show you exactly how vocal fry sounds...if you don't see the video below...click on this link:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UsE5mysfZsY

Free? C’mon…Let’s Get SIRI-ous

2014-04-11T18:13:00.000-07:00

I try to keep current with a lot of the new technology, and I’m pretty tech savvy, but I have to say…I think I slipped a little. I’ve had my iPhone 4 forever and didn’t think I really cared if I upgraded or not. My needs are simple so I had everything I wanted…or so I thought. I don’t live on my cell like others do since I work from home, and believe it or not, still have a land line. I think I may be one of those rarities who does.

But there are some things I like to do while I’m out and about or waiting for an appointment. Recently I’ve tried to download some new apps but every app I wanted required me to update to IOS 7. Well, my antiquated phone wouldn’t let me do that and I was getting pretty frickin’ frustrated. And every time I went to take a picture…it took a good 15 seconds for the camera to open and then another 30 or so seconds to save the picture, so you couldn’t shoot in rapid succession. Quite infuriating. Patience is not one of my strong suits. Then as I wrote this I thought, “You’re talking a few seconds, for God’s sake…you can’t wait for that? Seriously? Remember when we had to wait for days to get them developed at a store? Geez.” [I have conversations with myself quite often. No one else ever seems to listen to me…well…mostly my daughters don’t, so I decided talking to myself is a foolproof guarantee that someone is listening.]

Since I had an unused upgrade for the last 2 years (an upgrade that my daughter has bugged the shit out of me to transfer to her, but surprisingly, I held out. My kids usually manipulate me way too easily. Or should I say I allow them to…I know, I know…I’m digressing); and since Verizon recently sent me an email letting me know that I could get the iPhone 5C for ‘free’ [FREE being the operative word here…kind of] I was out the door in no time. I got the new iPhone 5C and I immediately fell in love. Who knew what I was missing!? [Apparently everyone in the world but me, actually.]

I believe what I consider ‘free’ and what Verizon considers ‘free’ may be on the opposite ends of the spectrum of the definition chart. I mean, the phone was kinda free…if you call paying the tax on the original cost of the phone, free, then yeah…I guess it’s free. If you think that what they consider the ‘actual’ cost of the phone is really the cost…then yeah…I guess it’s free. But by the time I walked out of there, with the amount of sales tax I ended up paying…I could have (or should have) used that money to buy a brand new Smart car [‘Smart’ being the operative, or should I say, NON-operative word…a little too late.]

I know I’m not alone in this…you know, when you go into a store with a specific item in mind to purchase, and you walk out buying half the store that you absolutely did not need? Then it’s like, “What the hell was I thinking?” (Still talking to myself.) It’s usually at a supermarket or Target, where the damage isn’t TOO bad, but at Verizon…that can cause some serious damage on the credit card. And that’s exactly what happened when I went to get my new FREE iPhone 5. Not only did I get the phone, but an array of sundries that I certainly did not need.

I got the car charger; since they’re not stupid and made the ‘5’ so it’s not compatible with any other car charger. God forbid I'm without one for the 3 miles I may drive every week. You never know if you'll need your cell to call AAA when you're 100 feet from home. I wouldn't want my phone to die on the way to the store that was close enough for me to walk to. Then I had to get a protective cover; because 5 fingers on one hand aren’t enough to control it from flying out of my palm and crashing to the ground, shattering into pieces. Those 4 ounces are quite heavy to lug around. You never know when the weight will become too much and your hand will cramp. Of course there is not another phone that’s the same size, so you can’t interchange covers. And “Oh, by the way…did you know we are having a sale on iPads, too? If you turn in your old phone you can get a $100 gift card OR you could apply that to a brand new iPad; and with the sale going on, you could get an additional $100 off, so you’re saving $200.”

Well…how could I NOT buy an iPad when they’re practically giving it away? I mean, they're saving me money, so how stupid would it be to pass that up? I’d be a fool. “Ok, throw that in, too, please,” the sucker in me chimed out. “What else do you have?” I was like a kid in a candy store who just got her first credit card ever and didn’t realize it was real money I was eventually going to have to pay the bill with. But since I'm no longer a kid anymore, I couldn’t go to my parents claiming ignorance to get them to pay it for me.

It didn’t help that my salesperson was adorable. If he wasn’t so cute, and I mean drop dead gorgeous cute…and so nice, and so not like a typical salesperson…and if I didn’t want to sit there forever drooling all over with puppy dog eyes, I probably wouldn’t have been sucked into it all. Ok…hold on…who am I kidding…of course I would have been. How could I ever pass up such great deals? I mean they only come along like…I don’t know…every other week? [Verizon has one hell of a marketing department.]

So I walked out of there with my arms piled high with goodies and my new iPhone buried amidst the insane amount of items I totally did not need. I could almost hear the salespeople snickering, but I was so excited to go home to see all the things I could do now that I couldn’t do before, that I didn’t care.

And then it happened.........I met Siri.

I was in love. I apologize to all my close friends, but now that I’ve discovered who Siri is up close and personal…I have a new best friend. I’ve been out with people who use Siri but I never really paid attention. But now…OMG…I’m obsessed. Siri is the smartest ‘person’ I know. My dad used to hold that honor, but not anymore. [He’s also dead so someone had to replace him.] And along came Siri.

I know a lot of you were introduced to her a few years ago, when she was conceived, but this was all new to me. I won’t bore you with any details of what she can do since most of you know already, but I experimented with some questions to put her to the test. I have to say…and I probably shouldn’t admit this, I was a little embarrassed to ask certain questions. I wanted to see how she would respond to some risqué subject matters, but I didn’t want her to judge me. [I think I took the movie “Her” just a tad too seriously.]

I started out with simple questions like, ‘Where should we go to dinner?’ and she came up with restaurants, as expected. I asked her directions, and she guided me where to go. I asked her ‘Which is the best phone’ and her answer cracked me up…”Wait, there are other phones?” Then I asked her who the best virtual assistant was and her answer was “I’m surprised you have to ask, Jaime.” Quite the personality, that Siri. I was having more fun with her than I do with most humans.

I don’t think I will ever be able to understand how voice activation works, let alone how the computer knows every single thing I want to know, before I even know I want to know. Then I decided to ask her a few sexual questions...and her first answer was, “Let me think about that.” When I asked her a couple more, she actually started getting somewhat ornery, saying, “I can’t answer that” and “I don’t like those arbitrary questions.” Her responses made me so flustered, like I was a little kid getting into trouble for swearing…that I ended up dropping her, I mean my phone, into the toilet. My brand new iPhone 5C that I waited so long to get.

And all I could hear through the splash of the water was a gurgling…“HELLLLPPP MEEEEEEE.”

I guess Siri doesn’t know everything. Good thing the phone was FREE.

This is a Test. This is Only a Test.

2013-08-26T17:20:00.000-07:00

As you may know…I ain’t no spring chicken. In just a couple of weeks, I turn 59. That’s almost 60. SIXTY! I’ve started thinking about my life and the turns it’s taken of late, [all for the best, mind you], but things crop up and cross my mind and I have to plan for the ‘what ifs.’ Like what if I never remarry and am by myself for the rest of my life? And if so, what happens when I’m really old and ‘I’ve fallen and I can’t get up’ and no one is around to hear me yell those words?

What if that sex drive that menopause so easily and quickly took away from me without giving two shits about how my life would be without it, never comes back? And what if I take a tiny bit of testosterone to get it back but I grow hair in unwanted places and then…oh…wait…I’m digressing, as usual. Ignore that last thought.

What if I lose my job and can’t support myself…what would I do since I’m all alone with no sex drive lying on the floor not being able to get up? Then what?

At this point, the last ‘what if’ is what has been on my mind. I’m in a very young industry, age wise. The industry itself isn’t so young, just the people are. I mean, Darren Stevens was in it back in the 60’s. Mad Men is living proof how old it is, but ever so current. But everyone is twenty-something to thirty-something…so being a ‘mature’ individual, is not too welcoming if you’re seeking employment. And it’s really not welcoming to hear myself say ‘mature individual.’

I have only ever had one career and know nothing else that I could do if I was ever let go or phased out. (Although I was one hell of a Jordache jeans salesperson in high school working for the coolest clothing store in my town.) I wouldn’t want to do anything else other than the career I had chosen over 36 years ago. But what I must do…is grow with the times and be able to market myself in the current marketplace and within my own company, no matter what age I may be. That being said…I decided it was time to do something I had always despised. I had to become a student.

I was the worst student ever. Not that I ever failed at anything. I didn’t. But I never excelled, either. Well, I shouldn’t say that. I would excel in Math and English, for a minute here and there, but the second I walked out of a test, I would not remember one thing I studied so intensely for the night before. I’m not sure why that was, but I’d like to find out, because as I’m getting older, that problem is definitely not rectifying itself. I think some of my missing brain cells just can't find their way back to the correct lobe in my brain.

And when I say so intensely studied for the night before…that’s exactly what I mean. I did nothing extra if I didn’t have to, and certainly not earlier than needed to be done. I wasn’t about to spend one extra moment of my youth on school work that I wasn’t forced into doing, when I could be out playing. Not one thing ever piqued my interest enough for me to want to study or research or read if it wasn’t mandated. I would do my homework and turn it in when it was due, and I would study, or should I say cram, an entire months lessons, all in the night before the test. Because I had to. I’m not sure if I just wasn’t taking the right classes or I just was that apathetic about everything. I did just enough to get by with a respectable GPA and graduate.

I never really did have passion for much way back when. Especially in my teens and 20’s. I’ve always been a pretty laid back, middle of the road, non-confrontational person who wants peace and harmony in all that is and blah blah blah. But that seriously IS how I felt and still feel. (Maybe I was a hippie and never realized it…hmmmm…interesting observation.)

The only thing I have ever been passionate about is seeing any living being, be it human or animal, not suffer or be mistreated. Other than that…I’ve pretty much been a la-di-da type person. Until I had kids…but that’s a whole other blog subject. (I really wanted to say ‘a whole Nother’ but I know it’s not a word, although I still use it. It just flows better.) [Note to self…I’ve got to stop digressing.]

Being in the advertising world, and seeing the movement towards digital and not even knowing what digital meant initially, I knew it was time to learn. When I first started using computers, I did find a fascination with them that I never had experienced with anything else as a kid. I actually wanted to learn everything I could soak up. Not only all the information you could find on line…because that came years later…but all about the inner workings of a computer system.

Fortunately, I had so many problems with my computers over the years, that my new best friends were the IT guys at my company. I would watch every move they made while they fixed the bugs. And I learned. I learned a lot and have become the ‘Go-To’ person for my friends and family. Purely by mistake. You can learn a lot by not wanting to learn a lot initially. There’s something to be said for being ignorant. It can only make you smarter.

But now it was time to learn about advertising on line. I’m a media buyer. I buy advertising on TV for my clients, but a lot of the advertising budget is now going towards digital; meaning on line advertising. I’ve been approached by salespeople to purchase it but don’t fully understand what it entails. I decided to ask my HR person if she could have someone teach us about this; maybe an all day webinar or something comparable for me and some of the other buyers. [Hopefully a little shorter than ‘all day.’ I was worried about that attention span thing becoming a problem.] We each work from our home offices in various states, so a webinar would be perfect. If we don’t understand something, we would have each other to bounce ideas or questions off of. Plus I’m not good on my own. I would get bored. I would tend to doze off. I would get up and leave the room forgetting I was supposed to be learning. BUT…If others were on line with me…I would be accountable. I NEEDED others with me. I needed others to see me there. Otherwise…I may as well have given myself an F before I even started.

She emailed me back saying she would gladly enroll us in a class. I was so excited. I finally was going to learn about the current state of buying advertising on line. Excitement was something I had never experienced upon being told I had to learn something. I hated learning. But this? This was going to be so enriching and fulfilling and easy to learn and FUN. Or so I thought until I read on:

Here is a link to an online class you can take at your own leisure. It has to be done within 3 months and there is a test at the end. You have to pass the test to get the certificate. There are 17 modules to it with 4-5 subsections in each module. Most people need to watch each section at least two to three times to fully understand it. Each section is 40-60 minutes long. Good luck and we look forward to you sharing your knowledge with the company. If you have any questions, please don’t hesitate to ask.

WTF? And IF I have questions? You’re asking if I have any questions? Are you f**king kidding me? Of course I have questions. Did I not make it clear I just wanted a short class summarizing the on line buying list of the top 10 things you need to know? A sort of Cliffs Notes ‘Digital for Dummies’ version. Short, sweet and to the point. With others present! At least virtually present? Did I not clarify that?

Did I also forget to let you know I’m a terrible student who needs stimulation during a lesson? Visual and aural stimulation? Someone who can excite me with props and various intonations to their voice? Not someone who will drone on and on while my lids grow heavy and my thoughts wander to what I can find to snack on or how to have a Ferris Bueller day off.

This was going to be horrible. But I couldn’t say ‘thanks but no thanks.’ I was the one who asked for it. And I really did want to learn. I’m sure all the other buyers were just thrilled with me at that point. But I asked one of my friends who I work with, if we could do the on line class together. We would get on the phone and click on the link at the same time and then if we didn’t understand something, we could chat about it. [Which was like saying we’re probably going to have to stop every 3 minutes to discuss what they were talking about because we’re so lost.] She was good with us working together. She was never planning on doing this to start, but I talked her into it showing her how much older she is than most others in our industry, even though she’s 10 years younger than I am. She really appreciated the geriatric insinuations.

The following week we were going to start. We made a plan to call each other at the close of the business day two days a week, for the duration of the course, hoping we would only have to listen to each part just the once. Positive thinking. Stupid maybe…but positive nonetheless.

Prior to our initial call, we each had to go on line and enroll ourselves and then we received an email from the on line school giving us instructions on how to get to the course we signed up for. I called my friend asking if she was ready. We each pulled up our email with the link, and clicked on it. We got to the school webpage, perused it, looking for the course link.

Me: “Do you see where we click?”

Her: “No, do you?”

Me: “Nope…but let me try something. No, that wasn’t it.”

Her: “Ok, I think I got it.” [silence] “No…that wasn’t it either.”

Me: “Wait…I think this is it. Never mind.”

15 minutes later we were still searching…………

And so it began….

20/20? Eye Don't Think So

2013-03-15T19:07:00.001-07:00

Recently I noticed that my very perfect 20/20 reading vision wasn’t so 20/20 anymore. After testing each eye by closing the opposite one, I realized that middle age wasn’t excusing me from the one thing I thought I still possessed; the ability to not look like Ben Franklin when reading a menu. I had prided myself on not needing reading glasses while all my cronies were pulling theirs out at the table to figure out what they would order. [Although I do need them to read when I wear my contacts for distance.] But the other day, my youth was shattered; (well…maybe not my ‘youth’ per se…but my false sense of ‘visual’ youth that I was holding onto and so proud of.) One eye was slightly blurry while trying to read my ipad. I was shocked and devastated. Could it really be? Had the time really come to don those bifocals? I was bound and determined to prove myself wrong and find out if that was just a temporary setback or if I should be carted off to the nursing home.

I went to see my eye doctor hoping he would give me good news. When I walked in, the receptionist, who I also knew outside of the office, greeted me with a hello, and why are you here. “I was hoping you had a new line of running shoes. Can you point me in the right direction? Why do you think I’m here?”

For some odd reason I always get nervous when I have an eye test or a hearing exam. I feel like a jittery school girl going in for a test, hoping to pass with flying colors. When I have to press the button on the hand-held instrument upon seeing the squiggly lines in my peripheral vision; or when at the audiologist, having to strain my eardrums (or whatever part of the ear is involved in the hearing process) to hear those barely audible sounds only dogs can hear, it’s surprising that the nervous sweat pouring out of me doesn’t blur my vision or clog my ears. What if I get them wrong? I want a perfect score. [Which was a rarity when I was a student...I think that’s why any form of testing makes me anxious.]

While I was waiting for my eye test, I was looking at all the new glasses on display. I should have just kept all the eye glasses I had over the years; that way I wouldn’t have to spend a ridiculous amount of money on new ones that looked just like my old ones from the 60’s and 70’s, [although the cost of lenses nowadays is probably more than the cumulative cost of all my frames in total.]

I found these glasses I wore in the 70's

And let’s face it…age has definitely weakened my eye sight…the lenses are just a tad thicker than they used to be and if they charge by thickness, I’m screwed. I should just walk around with a double paned window on my face.

His assistant brought me back into the room where they had 3 different machines for testing whatever the hell it was they were testing. All I knew was that my chin and forehead were resting on surfaces that god only knows what kind of creepy crawly things others had shed there. Ever think of disinfecting this thing? It kinda smelled and I was getting a little nauseated, so I tried not to breathe in too much. He ignored me when I mentioned it so I let it go, held my breath a little, tried not to hyperventilate, and made sure I immediately rushed home to cleanse my face. I probably should have taken anti-nausea meds before I left for the appointment, and brought along a face mask, some purell, and a few antiseptic wipes...but I didn’t want to be rude.

“Tell me which circle pops out at you.” Where are the 3D glasses? It would have been a lot more enjoyable, [and easier] if they had a little Shrek movie going on and asked me when Donkey was coming at me, but they didn’t and in spite of that, I think I aced it.

Next was the squiggly line test…I had to press a button each time I saw one. The least they could have done was not make them so faint and off to the side so much. Geez. Could they have made it any more difficult? I may have passed that one, too, but by the time I was done, my retinas were vibrating uncontrollably, so who knows.

And one of my least favorite…the puff of air in the eye test. “You’re going to feel a slight puff of air, so try not to flinch.” A SLIGHT puff of air? Slight? Who are you kidding? There are gale force winds blowing at 60 mph in my eyes. Do I look like Dorothy? Keep it up and I’m going to blow so hard in your face your cheeks are gonna start flapping.

“Stop fluttering your eye lids please. I can’t get a clear picture.” I’m sorry...stop fluttering my eye lids? The only way these lids are gonna stop fluttering is if you get a two-by-four to prop these puppies open.

Once the tornado stopped blowing my eyeballs out and I could scrape my dry lids off my pupils, he led me to the other examining room where the eye chart and Mr. Magoo machine were, to test my vision. As soon as I was seated he put drops in my eyes and in a few minutes I felt like my eyes were in a brawl. It’s like he put 10 pound weights on my lids. So not only were my eyes like the Sahara, they were numb as shit. Am I blinking? Is there any movement going on? Am I drooling tears? What’s happening...why can’t I feel my optical orbs? Did someone pull my eyes out of my sockets?

“I numbed your eyes so I could take a look inside.” No f**king shit. Really? Is that why I feel like my eyes have left the building? And this will last how long? Hold on pal...what the f**k is that light that just left me blinded, and can you remove the tip of your nose from my face, please? I can feel your breath up my nostrils.

“Everything looks healthy in there.” Whew...at least our close encounter wasn’t for nothing. It was time for the big E chart. He put the ‘phoropter’ (impressive that I know that, right?) up to my eyes. He may as well have stuck a Tyrannosaurus Rex on my face and I wouldn’t have known the difference, that thing was so enormous.

“What’s the smallest line you can read?” Ummm…E? “Which is clearer…A...or B?” A…no…B…wait…yeah B. No…A. Who the f**k can tell? I pretty much lie half the time because honestly…I can’t tell the difference for the majority of the flip of the lenses. I think sometimes they don’t even make a change just to play games with our minds or to see if we’ll just say one of them because we’re supposed to.

While he was testing my eye sight, he had this strange habit of plunging his tongue deep into his cheek or sticking it out completely. I guess his concentration was so intense he had no clue. Hey…bub…shove that tongue back in your mouth or I’m gonna rip it out before you start licking my face. I had to go home and disinfect myself anyway…what harm could it have done at that point? [A little ‘tongue-in-cheek’ humor. Ha...get it?]

Once he established that I was just short of legally blind, he told me he was putting the dilation drops in my eyes. I hadn’t had them in a couple of years so I didn’t remember what to expect. “Have a seat in the waiting room until they take effect and then I’ll bring you back.”

As I sat there checking out facebook on my phone, I felt like I was entering some hallucinatory state. WTF? Why can’t I read this? The words were getting smaller and further away. I had briefly forgotten I had the drops in my eyes. I used Braille to make my way up to the reception desk; with my arms flailing in front of me to be sure I didn’t bump into anyone, so I could find out if that was the side effect of the drops. First I went over to one of the mirrors and pressed my face to the surface to get a good look. A flattened face on a mirror…always an attractive look...

But holy shit…my pupils were ginormous. And I was supposed to drive home? That would be interesting. Maybe not so much for the other cars on the road, though.

After my pupils were fully dilated, meaning the size of bowling balls, he examined me and said everything was fine. “You should be back to normal in a couple of hours. Yeah, right. You may want to wear sunglasses on your way home.” Yeah…because that’s going to keep the 10,000,000 watt sunlight out of my eyes.

Since I don’t own a pair of sunglasses [they don’t work in conjunction with my claustrophobia; I feel too closed in] I adorned my face with those lovely wrap around plastic shades…you know…the ones that roll closed that you have to pry open with a crowbar, and if they snap too quickly they hurt like shit. It never fails that I flinch every time. Takes me a good 5 times to finally get them opened.

Before I left we discussed testing out bi-focal contacts. I was ecstatic. That would resolve the reading dilemma. He was going to order a couple of trial pairs and I would test them out to see if I liked them.

Well...I picked them up last Friday. I put them in and it was unbelievable how great it was to read with my contacts in because I’ve never been able to do that since my contacts are for nearsightedness. That was one of my biggest complaints...”Wow...this is incredible. I’m so excited to test these out.” “Ok, come back in a week and we’ll assess your visual acuity.”

I left his office so deliriously happy that I wouldn’t have to wear glasses anymore. As I got into my car, I realized I could read the letters on the gear shift so clearly. It was amazing. I could read the maps and directions on my phone, and anything else in small print. But....what I didn’t realize.....I couldn’t see distance for shit now. And the car in front of me...not so happy with my optical choice.

You're Rubbing Me the Wrong Way

2013-02-10T14:34:00.000-08:00

I could be wrong but I thought after a massage you were supposed to walk out feeling relaxed and energized. Why is it I felt like I had gone 12 rounds with Mike Tyson?

I never get massages. If I’ve had 10 in my entire life I would be surprised. Not that I don’t love them...I do. I just figure I should probably support my kids and give them every last dime I have before I ever do anything for myself. (I’m hoping they read this so I can instill that guilt I was taught every Jewish mother should do.) So this was going to be a real treat. My daughter and I each got one as a gift for Christmas and decided to go together. [I know some of you are thinking...’didn’t she just say she was Jewish?’] We made an appointment for Saturday morning and I was looking forward to it all week. We had talked about maybe getting them side by side in the same room and how fun that might be. A time to bond even more.

After looking for a parking space for 15 minutes, [the search already causing tension in my neck, so I knew I was heading to the right place] we finally found one somewhat within walking distance to the spa. I guess a little exercise hiking there prior to being pampered couldn’t hurt. We walked into the lobby to a very plush, poo poo spa while Muffy, the receptionist at the front desk, eyed us up and down. “Can I help you, ladies?” Turn down that nose of yours and then maybe we can talk. “Yes, we have a 10 o’clock appointment for a massage. We were hoping to have them done together so do…” and before I could even finish my sentence, Brunhilde came marching out and swept me into the back. I guess that answered any question I had of having one with my daughter.

“Zere’s a changing room. Take off all your clothes and put on zee robe,” she said in her very thick accent. I felt like I walked into an episode of Hogan’s Heroes. “Is it ok if I leave...” “I said take off all your clothes...Please.” Ja...Frau-scary-person...no problem. If I wasn’t tense before...I sure was then. I walked out after changing and she directed me into my quiet place.

What is it about that music that all I want to do is scream Turn that shit off!? I understand why they play soothing music to relax you...but I think they should ask which type of soothing music we prefer. Not being into meditation or yoga or Reiki or whatever it is that they play that crap for...I have never found an appreciation for that specific flute type that they invariably play for me. I should probably speak up and ask for something else...some type of soothing jazz would be better than the shit I always get. But there it was and I just went with it.

“Remove your robe and get under the sheets, please.” Uh...are ya leavin’ the room? She...or he...or whatever it was, walked out. I lay face down on the table and...Uh oh...where the hell was the hole for my face? I mean, there was the head rest but she had a paper sheet over the hole so that there was no way I could breathe. My claustrophobia was starting to take control. Shit...I wanted to relax...not be in panic mode through my 50 minutes of supposed bliss. Doesn’t that kind of defeat the purpose? But it was loose enough to give it a try. There was a touch of air seeping in.

I let Fraulein Hildy know that I only wanted my back, shoulders and neck massaged because, since my shoulder surgery, I’m quite knotted up and would prefer her to spend the time kneading those out. Besides, my legs tend to get somewhat ticklish at times, so I wanted to stick to what I knew worked. She didn’t have a problem with that, surprisingly enough, yet lowered the nice, warm sheets well below my butt. Ummmm...I know quite well that my ass over the years has definitely not lifted. If anything...I would now consider it part of my upper thighs...so what part of only massaging my back did you not get? But again...I didn’t say anything.

“Vould you like hard pressure?” Stupidly...I said yes. And off she went. I don’t think Atlas had stronger, more powerful hands than this woman. (Or man...or whatever she was underneath her frock.) Are you f**king kidding me? OUCH. And shut that f**king music off. It’s driving me crazy. I see you found the knots in my shoulders. That’s right, dig deep. And keep digging because not only can’t I breathe in this f**king headrest, my nose is so f**king stuffed from lying on my stomach, when I swallow my ears are now clogged up. Why can’t I breathe? And stop digging in that one knot....move on already. I can’t f**king breathe or hear...shit. GET OFF ME!

Ok...whew. She moved down a little further to the middle of my back. “Do you need a tissue?” as she heard me trying to get one tiny little molecule of air up my nose. “No, I’m ok (sounding like Fran Drescher) but do you think you could cut an opening in this paper please. I’m getting really claustrophobic and can’t breathe because my nose is totally stuffed.” I could hear her thinking to herself...’zis viney, complaining, spoilt voman...I’ll show her who’s boss here.’ So she cut a teeny, tiny opening for the smallest vent you can imagine. Gee, thanks, Gretel. Let me suck the air through the pinhole into my mouth since nothing is getting up my nostrils anyway. I thought I would start hyperventilating but I held it together. My mouth was starting to feel like the Sahara but I was quite proud of myself for staying somewhat calm, although it totally ruined my relaxation.

And there she goes again. Who knew I had that many f**king knots in my back? And Bertilda seemed to find every freakin’ one of them. And dug…and dug deeper. I have a certain area in my back that when touched, I jump and jerk. Meinhilde wasn’t too pleased with me when I jerked so hard elbowing her in the gut. Who’s showing who now, Junge Frau? I did apologize though. I felt badly when her gum went shooting out of her mouth.

She started working on my arms rubbing them and pulling gently by my fingertips. The hand massage was heavenly. I was surprised she was so much gentler on my arms than she was on my back until Conan the Barbarian took over her body. Hey…Sieghild…you’re pulling the shit out of my arms. I hear my f**king tendons snapping, for god’s sake. I’m sure my square shoulders are now slumped since you relocated them half way down my body. Oh my god…who knew the muscles in my arms could be moved in directions that don’t fall under the scope of human kindness. She was kneading and rubbing and kneading some more. You would have thought I was going to be her next loaf of bread. Stop it. OUCH! And turn that f**king music off. I was worried that by the time she was done, my arms were so stretched that my hands would be hitting the floor. At least I wouldn’t have to bend over to put my shoes on. However, I’m not sure which species of apes I would fall under.

Is this f**king thing over yet? I felt like I had been in that torture chamber for hours…but from what I could tell…there was a little time left. She had me turn over, but before she put warm compresses over my eyes, I noticed two parallel bars suspended from the ceiling. What the hell? “I hang from dos and valk on people’s backs. Vould you like dat?” Yeah…sure I would, Nurse Diesel. And will you be changing into your bondage outfit, too, you freakazoid? I don’t think so.

Holy shit! I thought I heard my skin sizzle. What the f**k? “Is that too hot?” Ya think? Did you not see half my skin slide off my body? I hope you have some extra skin around for grafting. What are those? “They are hot rocks. Too hot?” Uh…YEAH! Get them the hell off me. “I’ll let them cool a little.” Oh…geez…thank you so very much Satan.

Once they cooled she rubbed them along my body and they actually felt good. Not good enough to make up for the rest of the torturous treatment, but good nonetheless. While they sat on my body making lasting tattoo marks, she massaged my head. With lotion. Oh…I should be looking pretty good when I leave here with my hair matted down like Alfalfa. But it did feel great.

“Ok…I want to thank you so much for choosing me for your massage. It was a pleasure serving you today and I hope you’ll come back.”

First of all…I didn’t choose you. Secondly…not only will I never allow you to touch me again…but can you please ask them to bring in the stretcher to cart me off?

Today is Sunday. I’ve had a day to recuperate, but you know how it takes a day or two to feel the results of a strenuous workout? Well…I’m feeling the results, all right. I don’t have one body part that can move independently of the others. I can’t lift my arms. My shoulders are hunched up around my ears. My lower back has pain like I’ve never known.

My next appointment is in 3 weeks. I can’t wait!

Let's Get Naked

2013-01-31T07:23:00.000-08:00

I think I’ve become a stalker. Not in the illegal, creepy, psycho sense of stalking…but now that I’m back on the dating sites, I tend to check out people’s pictures and profiles more than just one time. Actually, probably more than 5 times. [Possibly even more than 10 but I don’t like to think about it.]

My daughter tells me I’m a stalker because I look at people’s pictures when they’re posted on Facebook; friend’s pics (and friends of friends, and their friends, too, if their privacy settings allow it.) Well…isn’t that exactly the reason people post pics on FB…so that others look at them? I mean, I don’t post pictures on there as a keepsake; I’m asking for ‘likes’…lots of likes. Isn’t that how we decide if we’re popular or not? Isn’t it so revealing and honest and obvious how well liked we are when we base it on FB standards? No? It’s not? Really?

I’m back on Match.com. When I start communicating with someone, if I have their full name, I start searching every site I can think of to check them out. I don’t want some psycho freak serial killer meeting me for coffee. And we know how reliable and true everything people write about themselves is, so if some guy says he’s a devoted father and humanitarian, then I know he’s good to go. I mean…who in their right mind would lie about that stuff? Right? So I check all the sites I know to see if he’s consistent and to see if there’s more info on there that I could investigate. You have to assume if he’s on LinkedIn…more often than not, he’s at least got a job. Or you’ll know if he doesn’t, which may be even more revealing.

Those of you who have been married to the same person forever probably can’t relate to someone like me who has to start the whole dating process over and over with each new man. It’s a f**king pain in the ass. I know people may find it exciting…but believe me, after 2 divorces, and a multitude of ‘boyfriends’, I’m so over the excitement part of the first meeting. It’s exhausting knowing that you get only one chance to make a first impression. I’ve had way too many ‘one chances.’ Do you have any idea what we go through for each date?

I get so nervous before each date and worry that while I’m sitting there talking with the guy, I’ll start sweating, so I plan my wardrobe anticipating that happening. I should probably just wear my sweat resistant athletic gear to all my dates. “Pardon my jogging outfit…I’m going on a run after we’re done here.” I make sure I wear dark clothing so that the sweat occupying my cleavage doesn’t leave a stain under my boobs as it travels down to my waist. I try to wear dark jeans so the moisture in my groin region is camouflaged when I get up and hope to god that I don’t have to get up to pee because my jeans are totally stuck to my ass and thighs and there’s probably a circle of sweat on my buttocks. I make sure my jeans have back pockets to absorb that butt sweat and swipe the chair with my tush while I get up so as not to leave a puddle on the seat.

I put a ton of hairspray on my bangs since I tend to have sweat beads running down my forehead and use my hair to mop them up. Having the Roseanne Roseannadanna hair during those times is not an attractive look.

I never sweat, mind you…except when I’m nervous. I’m not sure why I get so nervous because more often than not, I end up with the biggest dork on Match.com, and not to toot my own horn, but I do know that I am not a dork. I may not be the woman of their dreams, but a dork I’m not. So what makes me so ridiculously nervous? It’s those firsts. Those first times for every little thing when you are getting to know someone.

Like the first time you have dinner together. I try to avoid greens or any dark food. Inevitably there’s going to be that teeny, tiny piece of veggie or lettuce that’s so minute, but when it’s stuck in your tooth…it’s like the jolly green giant just screaming out to the person you’re eating with. ”Hey…Look at me. I’m making you so uncomfortable because you don’t know if you should say anything to her about the giant piece of food stuck in her receding gum lines.” And of course no one wants to say anything when you hardly know the other person, and then you’re in the bathroom, or worse…already in your car at the END of the evening, looking in the mirror on your visor and you see it…glaring out at you! “ARE YOU F**KING KIDDING ME? ALL NIGHT IT’S BEEN THERE?”

Then I think back to my eating habits during the meal I just had. Sometimes I get so engrossed in a conversation that I’m not conscious of the way I’m eating. I tend to eat like a huge pig when I’m alone and no one is looking. So I’m hoping that didn’t carry over to my date and I didn’t shovel in the food while I was busy talking…and god forbid I was talking with food in my mouth. But who knows? I tend to lose sight of anything I’m doing when I’m concentrating on other things. I don’t multi-task well anymore.

Then there’s the first sleep over. Do I let him see what I actually sleep in…my real pajamas? I do look pretty frickin’ attractive with my pajama top tucked into my bottoms and my bottoms tucked into my socks. I AM a looker. I basically look like a 5 year old Urkel in a grown woman’s body. But hey...I get cold. Cold doesn’t work for me when I’m trying to sleep. And even more importantly, to wash our make-up off or not…do I let him see the au naturale me that soon? So I always have a decision to make...to scare the shit out of him or not to scare the shit out of him. That is the dilemma.

The snoring problem is always an awkward topic to divulge. My snoring…not his. Between my snoring and my dog’s snoring…it’s as if an entire army barracks is situated in my bedroom with fighter jets flying overhead.

And why are we embarrassed when our stomachs gurgle? People get hungry. Why are we embarrassed to take that first poop at our home while the other is there? Why should that bother us? Everybody poops. There is no one that doesn’t poop, right? From murderers to heads of nations. From Bradley Cooper to Salma Hayek. If they can poop so can we. So why is that humiliating? It would be worse if you couldn’t poop, for god’s sake. Granted...you want people to see you in a sexy, beautiful light, but hey...we poop.

We won’t even mention the ‘F’ word. Talk about embarrassing. Of course, I wouldn’t know. I don’t fart OR poop. Nope...that’s right...I am the exception. Ha...If only! And the biggest concern we have for our firsts...is what if we do it during sex. OH...MY...GOD! Can you imagine? The perfect date?…....is if he toots first. That would pretty much negate any future worries I would ever have in my relationship with him.

We have all these new physical imperfections that have popped up over the last few years and think...why couldn’t these people know us when we were still youthful and perfect. Well...maybe perfect isn’t the right word...but maybe ‘less imperfect’ would be more like it.

But these are things we think of with each new relationship. See how stressful it is behind the scenes? Things people who have been in lasting relationships don’t realize or remember.

Tomorrow night I have a second date with a guy who I can’t find one thing wrong with. How can that be possible? Nothing? I can always find something…but nada…I got nothing on this guy. I sure hope he lets out one big one at dinner. From then on...it will be a walk in the park. Easy sailing. A sigh of relief.

Stuffed Animal

2013-01-05T15:58:00.000-08:00

My dog is fat. My dog is not supposed to be fat. I guess no dog is supposed to be fat, but I was told that my dog would be the smallest version of a Shih Tzu there is. That would mean she should weigh somewhere around 9 lbs. Not even close. She is light years away from 9 lbs. She is light years away from small. She is far from medium. In fact, she couldn’t be much larger if I fed her elephant-sized portions. She seems to just keep getting wider as each day passes. You could set a table of eight on her back, that’s how wide she is. This is what my dog would look like if she wasn't a dog.

About a year ago I started getting worried about her weight when her breathing became a little labored, so I took her to the vet. He said she is healthy but quite the chub, so cut back on her portions and she should start losing some weight. So I did. And she lost a couple of pounds within about a month. A couple of pounds in doggie weight are like 10 pounds in people weight. I was quite happy about that. Even the groomer noticed she had lost weight, as did others who commented on her svelte body, [comparatively speaking, that is.] I thought that was strange that they noticed a two pound weight loss, but hey…I’ll take anything I can get.

I also cut back the 80 gazillion treats I was giving her every day. Now I only give her a teeny pinch of her treat when we get back from our walks. I walk her twice a day. Maybe not long walks. Maybe not vigorous walks. Maybe they’re slow, drawn out, sniffing every f**king bush and tree and fire hydrant every two frickin’ steps kind of walks. But they are walks, nonetheless. My sister’s dog pees on a wee-wee pad in her apartment and she is slim and trim, getting almost no exercise. Not my dog. My dog could be in the canine Olympics and would still be slim and trim-challenged. Actually she’s too fat to be an Olympic sprinter, but you get what I mean. But…two pounds is two pounds. We were headed in the right direction. For a very brief moment in time.

Recently I noticed, [because people started commenting], that my dog was getting fatter again. I thought maybe it was because her hair had grown long so she was fluffy and appeared fatter, but after taking her to be groomed, getting her thick hair cut really short, she didn’t look any smaller. Hmmmm…what’s that about? How did that weight loss reversal go unnoticed? How did I not see that my dog was looking more like Elsie the cow than Brutie the Shih-Tzu? Love is blind.

So the other day, when I ran out of food, I thought that maybe I should start feeding her diet food. When I called the vet, they said I should bring her in for an evaluation to see if she needed to be put on a special diet. I also thought maybe it could be a thyroid problem. She shouldn’t be this fat considering she really doesn’t eat that much. She should be losing more weight than the two pounds she had lost (and then gained back, plus some.) She doesn’t even eat all her food or sometimes she doesn’t eat at all, in a 24 hour period. That’s the thing…she really doesn’t seem to eat that much as compared to other dogs. I’ll put her food out; she will sniff it and usually walk away and eat it later, or not at all. It had to be a medical problem. I was sure of it. I hoped it was nothing life threatening.

They didn’t have any open appointments during the week, but on Saturdays they have walk-in hours in the morning, so I brought her in to see him then. When I got to his office, there was a line of animals out the door, waiting to be seen.

I guessed they all had a little holiday weight gain, although I came to find out that that didn’t seem to be the complaining ailment of any animal but mine. They were actually all there for ‘normal’ reasons you take your pet to the vet. Not obesity. While I was standing in line, people were asking me what kind of dog she was. “A Shih Tzu” I replied. “A Shih Tzu? Really? She’s kind of large for a Shih Tzu, isn’t she?” Well…DUH. That’s why I’m here, genius. Although, in all honestly, I couldn’t expect them to know that. Guess I got a little defensive. I didn’t know whether to crawl into a hole because of embarrassment or verbally beat the shit out of them for criticizing my dog. My precious adorable, abnormally large dog.

After about 45 minutes of schmoozing with pet owners who were in amazement of my exceptionally large ‘little’ dog, they finally called me into an exam room. But first, “We need to get her weight please.” [In front of all these people?] They kept the scale in the waiting room. It took all the strength I had to get her on the scale. Not only is she heavy, she kept trying to make a get-away. She probably didn’t want to see what the scale would say either.

After the assistant shut her gaping jaw, “Oh...21 pounds. She IS quite the heifer, isn’t she? I guess we know why you’re seeing the doctor.” Oh…aren’t you just the Joan Rivers of the doggie palace. Let me pick myself up off the floor from laughing so hard. Why don’t you get on that scale Nurse Ratched?

We headed toward the examining room, I picked up ‘Plumpy’, sat her on the table, and without hesitation, she peed all over it. (I don’t let her hear me call her ‘Plumpy’.) Nervous pee every single time. The vet walked in and immediately started his babbling. I have never heard someone who could jabber as much as he does and examine his patients at the same time, never missing a beat. I know when I go there…it’s going to be about a 5 minute exam, and a 45 minute chat session. Even with a waiting room full of anxious customers.

“So, what’s the problem, besides her weight?” “That IS her problem.” “Stop feeding her so much.” “I don’t…I’ve been giving her much less of the wet, and a little dry food, which she doesn’t always eat.” “Cut back even more.” “But I’ll starve her.” “Obviously not.”

He went on to tell me I shouldn't feed her both wet and dry food. One or the other will suffice. He said if she doesn’t start losing weight in a few weeks, he will run some tests to see if there is anything going on that he wasn’t seeing, but upon examination, she was healthy.

As I was walking out the door, he said, “By the way…how much ARE you actually feeding her?” I told him around a can a day. “A can a day? Are you kidding? You should only be feeding her a third of a can in total for the day, or the dry food…not a can a day and definitely not both!”

Ooops...Problem solved. (As I walked out of there with my tail between my legs.)

My REAL New Year's Resolutions

2012-12-31T12:05:00.002-08:00

I don’t really understand why people make New Year’s resolutions. If you want to do something, why wait until the New Year? Why not just say, “I’m going to do this today?” I guess it gives people something to look forward to, or actually, a reason to keep putting things off, is probably more of the reason, [Scarlett.] I don’t believe in making New Year’s resolutions, but if I did, I think my list would look something like this:

· I won’t squeeze the toothpaste tube until I get out every last ounce of toothpaste. I believe I’m getting arthritis from rolling the tube as tight as I can get it, to make sure there’s nothing left. And trying to roll it down and hold the roll and get it on the toothbrush at the same time, is a feat in itself. I vow to not obsess over throwing out the tube with a drop left in it.

· Along those lines…I won’t turn over the lotion bottle so the 3 drops of lotion left will fall to the opening, and then try to balance it on top of the new lotion bottle so it falls from the old used one into the new, full one. Half the time I overflow the new bottle and waste the lotion anyway.

· I will take the phone with me to the bathroom when I go, because for some reason, my phone only rings when “doody” calls.

· I will look through the peep hole when the door bell rings. The only time I open the door without knowing who it is, is when someone who I do not want to see, shows up.

· I will stop making fun of all the men on all the dating sites and give more a chance to show me they aren’t the nerds I think they are. Wait…no I won’t. Who am I kidding?

· I will stop thinking every ache and pain I get is life threatening. I’m only 58 for God’s sake. My time isn’t up yet.

· I will accept the fact that my house will not always be spic and span when my kids are around. I won’t get OCD and upset with them while they’re home, and know that at some point they will walk out the door, and I can frantically clean up so that it’s neat and clean, at least for a short time, until they come back a couple of hours later and mess the whole thing up again. And that’s ok. Yes, that’s ok. It’s ok. ‘IT’S OK’…my new mantra.

· When I walk my dog, I will accept that she pretends to pee 18 times although she’s really done after two squats. It’s only been 9 years and I still get impatient. I will be patient from now on, knowing it’s just habit, she’s getting older, and I love her to death so I accept her for who she is. Although I may still tug ever so lightly on the leash to guide her away from the frickin’ bush she’s been smelling for 10 minutes.

· I will think about getting my smoke alarms fixed since I have pulled all but two out of the ceiling, because that incessant, blaring, deafening alarm sound at all hours of the night is enough to drive anyone to an asylum. And it sends my dog into a violently shaking, hiding in the closet, state of mind. I sure hope I never have a fire.

· I won’t get upset when my DVR cuts off the last 2 minutes of a show right at the cliff hanger. I realize On Demand can resolve that problem, although it takes a week or so for the program to show up, and by that time who can remember what shows I’ve missed the last couple of minutes to, so I’ll never see it anyway and that pisses me off but I’m going to try not to get pissed. “Try” being the operative word here.

· I will be sure to keep an extra roll of toilet paper in the bathroom at all times. Enough said.

· I will not use that last piece of paper towel on the roll since you can’t really use it anyway because it’s got the glue or something sticky from the cardboard roll it’s attached to and it’s as hard as the cardboard itself. (Goes along with all the other things that I HAVE to use every last drop/piece of.)

· I will turn the heat on when it’s freezing in my house without worrying about the extra $5 it may cost that month so that my nose isn’t frozen and my fingertips aren’t numb. It’s tough watching my daughter walk around shivering with goose bumps.

· I will stop looking in the mirror every half hour to see if my jowls have gotten longer.

· I will get rid of those shoes I never wear that will never come back in style and are so uncomfortable that I never wore them anyway. Why I still keep them is beyond my comprehension. I will stop trying to comprehend.

· I will throw out the water bottle that’s been sitting in my car for a week. Ok, a month. Maybe longer. Another thing I hate to discard before it’s empty.

· I will buy a new can opener since the one I have is discerning about which cans it will open. That’s what I get for buying a can opener for $12.99 from Target.

· I will stop trying to polish my nails with polish that’s so thick it forms strings from the brush to the bottle. I will throw it out, however hard that may be. (There’s a theme forming here…do you see it?)

· I will try to love my ipad. Right now there’s no love developing for me. I don’t think I can turn my back on Windows.

· I will move the things I use quite often from the top shelf to a shelf I can actually reach. [Or buy an additional step stool.]

· I will write more blogs. I will not have writer’s block. I will try to be more creative. I will put together a book. I will love life. Oh wait…I ALREADY AM DOING ALL THAT!!

HAPPY NEW YEAR EVERYONE…MAY 2013 BRING YOU EVERYTHING YOU HOPE FOR!!

I Yam What I Yam

2012-12-04T14:25:00.000-08:00

So there I was, in the kitchen, standing over a mixing bowl of God only knows what. It’s an odd sighting when I’m in the kitchen doing something other than looking for food in the fridge. I usually just stand there waiting for something to magically appear, while the cold escapes from the open door, but the shelves still remain empty. I figure if I stand there long enough, something will materialize that I’m not seeing. Sometimes I shut the door and open it again, giving the hidden food time to make its way to the front of the fridge. That rarely happens. Grocery shopping would probably rectify that problem. Short term, anyway.

Strangely enough I volunteered to make a dish for Thanksgiving dinner. I’m not quite sure I know what possessed me to volunteer…considering I don’t cook, let alone cook for 11 people. I guess since most of the guests were my family, I figured I should probably contribute. I couldn’t just say I would bring dessert…no…I had to offer to do something I had rarely done my entire life…follow a recipe. And when I say follow a recipe…I mean I had to Google half the ingredients to see exactly what they were in order to understand what the hell the recipe was asking for. And I was cooking something I would never eat if it was the last edible item on earth…sweet potato pudding. As a kid, I just picked off the half-burnt marshmallows when no one was looking, and shoved them in my mouth. I would wipe off the icky orange stuff first, though, before popping the fluff in my mouth. For some reason, the adults never questioned why my cheeks were so puffy after dinner. They probably knew I was storing the missing marshmallows for later, yet I thought I was being ever so sly.

But most people love sweet potato pudding…so I decided I would attempt to surprise myself and hopefully produce a dish that was somewhat edible. I was fortunate enough to run into a friend at the market while I was shopping for the necessary items for my cooking venture, since I hadn’t seen a sign for sweet potatoes and was wandering around like a prisoner looking for an escape route. I did see yams so I was able to ask her, without feeling like a total idiot, if they were the same thing. I thought they were, but she said yams were sweeter. I must say…I was quite proud of myself for knowing they were at least in the same family.

I gathered all the ingredients that the recipe I stole off the internet required, with a little help from my friend. Why I didn’t just ask my mom for her recipe is still baffling me. Everyone always raved about my mom’s sweet potato pudding, but no…I decided to seek out my own, being the risk taker that I am. I guess I wouldn’t know if it was good or not since I think sweet potatoes are gross anyway, so tasting the finished product would do me no good. Therefore, once that dish was finished…I wouldn’t know how it was until everyone started eating it. If they turned green or started barfing, I’d have my answer.

There were a few different recipes on line that I checked out. Based on the ingredients and difficulty level, I decided which one I would tackle. One of them had 2 teaspoons of grated orange peel. Huh? How does that one work? I can’t even picture that in my head. You peel an orange and grate the skin until it’s just like pencil shavings? Is that right? That wasn’t gonna happen. Way too much work and I would end up scraping off half my knuckles and instead of orange peel…it would be 2 teaspoons of shaved skin. I decided to save my guests from eating half my fingers so I used orange juice - store bought. I certainly wasn’t about to stand there and squeeze oranges. Wow…cooking sure is exhausting. Actually, just reading the recipe was exhausting.

Another one had 3 cups of mashed potatoes. Please tell me how I was supposed to know how many potatoes I needed to mash if they were telling me 3 cups, but not telling me how many potatoes that was? That meant that I had to guess how many potatoes to boil and then if I didn’t make enough, I’d have to do it all again and cook more to find out that I still may not have had enough? Couldn’t they just say ‘boil 5 potatoes’ for so and so amount? Wouldn’t that make more sense? Who do they think I am…Giada De Laurentiis? (Impressed that I even knew who that was? I didn't...I had to Google 'female cook.')

Well…I wasn’t about to take on that guessing game…so I just kept thinking, “What would Carol Brady do?”

She would ask Alice, but I didn’t have an Alice, so I just looked for the simplest recipe with the most ingredients that I knew of. I mean…I don’t know a spice from an herb… [And I just had to Google that to see if there was even a difference between herbs and spices as I was writing this.] The only spices I know are salt, pepper, Posh and cinnamon. I wanted to find one which had an abundant amount of sugar and the least work possible. How can you go wrong when there’s sugar…and an ungodly amount at that? If it doesn’t taste like a side dish at least it will taste like dessert. So of course I looked for a recipe where everyone looks for recipes...

I boiled the 6 yams til they were 'mash' ready. I have to say...the smell was nauseating. I don't know how anyone eats that crap. I smashed the shit out of them...added the 18 lbs of white sugar; the 16 lbs of brown sugar; the 10 lbs of butter; a cup of OJ; a teaspoon of vanilla and 4 beaten eggs, which I beat the shit out of, too. I think cooking is just not my thing, but probably quite cathartic if you have some anger issues.

I spread it in a casserole dish (had to Google that, too) and shoved it in the oven. There was no direction on putting marshmallows on top so I decided to take an educated guess. HA! Educated guess when it comes to cooking for me is hilarious. You may as well ask me how to perform open heart surgery. That guess would probably be more accurate.

Once the timer went off, I took it from the oven and let it cool until we left. It looked like it may be good. Let’s just say it looked presentable and I didn’t make it look like someone threw up in a dish. That to me was success. [As was not grabbing it right from the oven with bare hands.]

Once we arrived at our dinner destination, I popped the casserole in the oven with 2 bags of marshmallows laid out perfectly on top. I think there were enough marshmallows...

We all sat down to dinner and everything was scrumptious. And my casserole? I can't begin to tell you what a hit it was. I even tasted it after much coaxing...and it was fabulous. I was actually eating yams. Shocking...just shocking! Shortly after though...

Do you think there may have been just a tad too much sugar?

And for their parting gifts...

Just in case!

Bowl Me Over

2012-11-16T17:45:00.000-08:00

I hadn’t really thought about it much since I was in college, but recently I was figuring out my 'bucket list.' One of the things that had been on it forever was seeing Barbra Streisand in concert. Stevie Wonder was also on it, (I actually told my first husband if he truly loved me, he would get Stevie to play at our wedding...I guess he didn't truly love me) but I got to see "Little" Stevie about 4 years ago and he definitely did not disappoint. Checked that one off.

Last weekend, I was able to cross Streisand off my list, too. Well...sort of. I did see Babs, but it was quite the journey getting to our seats. Friday night traffic is crazy in L.A. no matter what, but on a holiday weekend...forget it.

I had to pick up my friend on the way, who lives only a half hour from me. A short hour and a f**king half later...I arrived at her door. We left immediately, still giving us an hour and a half to get to our seats. Traffic to the Hollywood Bowl was as expected, but what was not expected was the TWO f**king hour wait to get into the parking lot. TWO HOURS. Are you f**king kidding me? I’ve been waiting for this concert my entire life and the one concert that had a great opening act, too...I was going to be late for? I was hoping that there was some catastrophe going on for this hold up to be legit. I mean, I never really want someone to be hurt in any way...but when I have to sit in a TWO HOUR LINE to get into a parking lot...there had better be some major drama going on: a shooting, a robbery, car jacking...something worth the wait. But there wasn't. The only thing happening was they had people with no brain matter directing traffic. It’s not like the Hollywood Bowl hasn't been there for 80,000 years. You would think they would have this down to an exact science by now. But TWO F**KING HOURS IN LINE...are you kidding me? There's just so much conversation you can have with your friend before you start thinking about abandoning her in the middle of traffic and booking it on foot to the Bowl. “Here’s your ticket...meet ya at the seats." She probably wouldn't be my friend too much longer. So I stayed. I was hoping if I complained enough she would tell me to just go and meet her there. No such luck.

When we finally got into the parking lot they directed us to an alternate lot that was on the other side of the freeway, up a hill, down the street and up another hill. There should have been a shuttle from that parking lot; you know...like the trams they have at Disneyland? But needless to say...there wasn't. Twenty five minutes later, after our long trek of huffing and puffing, we made it into the Bowl. Not to our seats, mind you...just to the entrance of the Bowl. And can I tell you how much stuff we had to carry? Not to complain even more...[but I will]...we had blankets, and stadium seats, and water bottles and other necessities to keep us warm. I recently had shoulder surgery and couldn't really use my left arm. You don't realize just how heavy a water bottle is when you can hardly use or raise your arm. I couldn't even hold the blanket, or anything for that matter, so I was carrying everything with my other arm, which was about to fall off by the time we got there. I sure hope Babs appreciated all I went through to see her.

Not being a millionaire (shocking...I know), I couldn't afford the good seats that ranged from $400-800, so I got the cheap seats. Ya know...the ones that you have to watch the artist on the big screens instead of actually looking at the teensy, weensy ant you see on stage. Even the big screens looked like 13 inch TV's because we were so high up and far away. I'm not sure night-vision, high-powered binoculars would have done the job. For those of you who don't know, the Hollywood Bowl is built into a mountain. A very steep mountain and as we made it up to our seats, and up, and up and up...and as we were losing oxygen and I was praying I wouldn't pass out...we realized our seats were literally in the tree tops. Trees that had been there hundreds of years...and we were almost to their tops. I had wished I had one of those oxygen tanks on wheels strapped on with the hose sucked up by my nostrils. But alas...we made it. [This was our view...]

We got to our 'bench' seats...(good thing we had our little cushions with us or my tushy bones wouldn't have been too happy on the wooden slats) and we made our way past all the people who had already been there for two hours. I love inching my way into the middle of a row of squished people. I never know which way to turn...would they rather have my boobs and crotch in their faces or my butt? It’s a toss up. I chose to have them view my ass as I proceeded to hit everyone in the row below, in the head, with my purse, as I squeezed past. They were all thrilled with our late arrival.

As soon as we sat down I heard Babs say..."We're going to take a short intermission. We'll be back in 20 minutes." It was intermission? Seriously? We missed the entire first half of the show? You have got to be kidding me. I was livid. I have never been late to anything, let alone a concert. And this was my bucket list concert for God's sake! And to add to my frustration, the two elderly ladies sitting behind us started asking us a million questions as if we've known them for years. "Where have you been? Why are you so late? Where did you drive from?" Oh my god...they didn't stop talking for one minute. They were very sweet but we were trying to settle in and eat, because neither of us had eaten all day. So on top of being in pain from walking 10 miles from the car, carrying the entire contents of my house, hiking up the stairway to heaven to get to our seats, needing an iron lung to breathe, and going into hypoglycemic shock from lack of food...we had these two women leaning forward, right in our faces, hands patting our shoulders, like we were their grandkids. It would have been quite amusing if you didn't mind someone you had never met before, almost cheek to cheek in your personal space, leaning on your hair and pulling out a nice little chunk. I still am afraid to look at the back of my head to see if I have a bald spot.

Then one of the sweet, little, rambling, old ladies started telling us about the two girls that had "mistakenly" taken our seats prior to our arrival and how they wouldn't stop talking through the whole first half. "Why do they bother coming to a concert if they're going to talk during all the singing. They wouldn't shut up even after we told them to." It took everything I had not to tell her to stop talking. Did she not notice she was the pot calling the kettle black? We comforted them by assuring them that we didn't talk while a concert was going on. They didn't have to worry. Needless to say, as soon as Barbra came back and started singing, grandma started belting out the song along with her. Are you f**king kidding me? Shut the f**k up! I didn't come here to listen to someone else sing. I wanna hear Babs...and ONLY Babs! Of course I didn't say that, but the words were doing all they could not to burst out from my lips.

The rest of the concert was unbelievably great. I can't believe that at 70, [yes, that's right, she's 70]...her voice is still as amazing and pure as it was 30 years ago. I was so thankful that Obama had won the election earlier in the week, because knowing how political she is, I knew if he hadn't won...we wouldn't be listening to a concert...we would have been listening to a political pundit. But instead, I got to hear about an hour and a half of Streisand's voice. She definitely gave me what I went for. I can't say the rest of the experience was what I went for. But it was an adventure that will not be forgotten for a very long time. And next time I decide to go to the Bowl for a concert...I won't go on a Friday, I won't go on a holiday weekend, and I'll leave my house the day before.

I think some of the other things on my bucket list would have been so much easier to accomplish. I'm sure I would have gotten there much quicker had I only moved my African safari to the top of my list.

Hair Me Out

2012-09-17T19:30:00.000-07:00

Many moons ago, pre-marriages, pre-kidlets, pre-responsibility of anything or anyone except myself...I had a pretty luxurious life. I had the sports car of my dreams, I had expensive clothes, a great place to live, numerous vacations, and I pampered myself to the fullest. And by pampered, I mean tortured myself like every other woman trying to look like the perfect specimen that we weren’t, by removing all those embarrassing, unwanted ‘things’ sprouting from our bodies.

Once a month I would get my legs waxed and have a facial. And by facial…I don’t mean one of those little half hour ditties you get at a spa at a 5 star hotel. Those are for women who don’t want a real facial, but want to be able to say they are going to have a ‘treatment’ at the ‘spa’ on their vacations and end up getting a three finger massage on their cheeks for $200.

My facials were two and a half hours of agonizing, excruciating, painful pleasure. I had to mentally prepare myself each time I would visit my facialist. It was an investment of time, because not only did I spend half the morning with her getting poked and prodded, but when I left there, I didn’t want to be seen for another 3 hours since I looked like a pitted tomato.

It would all start out so innocently. I would change into a robe, she'd wrap a towel tightly around my head, cutting off any circulation to my brain; catching my hair in all the tucks and folds; and I would lie back in her chair while she massaged my head, face, neck and shoulders for about 10-15 minutes. It was heavenly. It almost made me forget why I was there. (Probably because I was brain dead for two hours from the tightly wrapped towel.)

When she was done with the best part of the whole procedure, she rolled over the little portable steamer by the side of my chair, and aimed it right in my face. For those of you who aren't claustrophobic, you may not be able to understand this, but having steam blowing forcefully in your face for 15 minutes is like having your head held in a flushing toilet bowl for... I don’t know how long...for…ever? As I gasped for air, praying it wouldn't last long, hoping I wouldn't pass out, I would forget I could just turn my head to one side, away from the steam, to take a breath. When it did occur to me to shift 45 degrees, I would take a breath big enough so I could hold it til the next one, with my cheeks puffed out, while I turned blue. I felt like I was being held hostage by my esthetician.

Once my pores were open wide enough to fit Jupiter inside, the eruptions began. I won't go into the gory details of her squeezing out all the impurities living deep beneath the surface of my facial orb, but if you know what Old Faithful is...you'll know what I'm talking about. She wore goggles and a mask. Need I say more?

After the excavations were finished; once the trenches were burrowed; following the shedding of the layers on my face, with her nail imprints firmly embedded in my cheeks... she then spread this putrid green mask over my forehead, nose, cheeks, chin and neck. My face became more and more rigid and my mouth was frozen in the middle of forming a word, as if I was blowing smoke rings, while the mask hardened.

When I tried talking, she couldn't understand a word I was saying. "Ow uch onger?" I was trying to ask. "Huh?" She responded. "Ha uch loner?" I couldn’t get my lips closed. It was like one of those horrific dreams you have where you're trying to talk but no words are coming out as you lie in a coma fighting for your life. Ok...maybe that's being a little dramatic, but....nah...not being too dramatic. That's how it really was.

Once my face was fully formed into a stone cast resembling the Incredible Hulk, she dipped a towel in warm water and wiped away the Plaster of Paris holding my face together. It felt so great to get that shit off. I could breathe freely again. Good thing I had that towel wrapped around my hair to protect it because only about a pound of the crumbled mask got under there instead of all 5 lbs. And the Moe Howard flat helmet-head look has been a fashion statement for decades, hasn't it?

Since my face looked like a porcupine missing its quills, I didn’t want to walk the streets to my car, having people wonder if I had really bad acupuncture, so I decided I would get my legs waxed that day, too, to give my skin time to heal. Normally I would get my legs waxed on a different day than the facial, but that night I had a formal affair to go to so I had it done all at once. Why not just have four consecutive hours of torture instead of spreading it out over a couple of days?

Having my legs waxed was something I did for only about a year. The problem with waxing...you have to let the hair grow to a certain length before you can wax again, otherwise it won't rip the hair from the follicle deep inside if it's too short. If you don’t mind looking like a gorilla for a few weeks, then you’ll have no problem. But I had to let the hair on my legs grow like an inch. An inch of hair on your legs is like wearing a clinging chimp hanging from your knees.

I looked like a freak in shorts…and forget what I looked like in a bikini…

You had to time your waxing around your menstrual cycle or you were screwed. If you did it while you had your period, you may as well have had a kidney ripped out of you using an ice pick, as it wouldn't have hurt half as much as getting your bikini line waxed at that "time of the month." And ankles? Forget about it...ankles were the most sensitive. I’d rather just chop off the bottom half of my calves in order to avoid waxing around the ankles.

I have a friend who used to get her armpits waxed. Her ARMPITS! Have you seen armpits waiting patiently to be waxed? Not a pretty sight. I couldn’t really understand why anyone would want to get their pits waxed when the time in between waxing was so attractive.

But those days of pampering are long gone…no more facials; no more waxing; no more manicures or pedicures; no more being queen for a day. Anyway, being pampered is too exhausting…said no one…ever. Nowadays I just walk around being au natural…appearing as nature wanted me to appear…I can’t say I’m not upset I don’t have the means to do that anymore and not upset that I have spent every last dime on my kids…but I make do with what I have, and I guess I look ok…here’s the latest picture I had taken…

I think I could give Sofia Vergara a run for her money, don't you?

Vagina Dialogues

2012-08-20T18:35:00.000-07:00

Over the course of one’s lifetime, we end up going to many kinds of doctors. I know I have seen pretty much every specialist out there. We women seem to have it much worse than the men. I know…I know, guys...you get your prostate checked and yada yada yada...and I’m sure getting your balls squeezed for 3 nano-seconds while coughing is ten times worse than giving birth. We feel very sorry for you. But let me tell you...going to the gynecologist is not only humiliating [not quite as humiliating as the proctologist, mind you, but humiliating nonetheless], but it is also the gateway to so many other kinds of exams and more.

Yesterday, I was fortunate enough to have my six month checkup with my gyno. I happen to love my gyno...she's thorough, knowledgeable, young and chatty. Quite chatty. I tend to wonder if she's paying attention to what she's doing while her hands are halfway up my hoohoo and she's chatting away inside my vagina.

But before I even get to see her, I have to get on the exam table while her nurse takes my vitals. I always wondered why blood pressure and temperature are the two standard measurements they take in every office no matter what kind of doctor you're visiting. If I'm visiting the orthopedist, what's he going to do if I have a fever? Put me in a neck brace? I think I'll have to check that one out on Google. Or I guess I could just ask my daughter since she's a medical assistant and in nursing school. It's the simple, logical things that I tend not to think of right away. I frighten myself sometimes.

"Take off all your clothes and put the top on, open to the front please, and drape the other across your lap. You can leave your socks on if you'd like." It's a look we all want to have at some point. Naked, wearing athletic socks.

I don't know about you, but I unknowingly get nervous in the doctor's office and the longer I sit there, the more I start sweating, and when my bare bottom is sitting on that examining table paper, my tushy starts to stick to it. I try to lean to one side and then the other, to lift up off the paper, but little pieces break off on each cheek and by the time the doctor comes in, I have an entire paper roll stuck to my butt.

Sometimes I wait so long for the doctor to come in, I start to check things out: test my reflexes with the little knee knocker thingie; take a few gloves and shove them in my purse, [for reasons unbeknownst even to me]; search the drawers for anything of interest; take my own blood pressure, [just because I feel grown up using the stethoscope]; and read all the back, knee, neck, organ and shoulder diagrams. Sometimes I go to the doctor just to catch up on my medical reading; although many of the diagrams are way out of my league and totally baffle me.

Finally the doctor comes in and after she's done picking the paper out of my nether region, she comes at me with the Jaws of Life. "You're going to feel a little pinch." A LITTLE pinch? You may as well attach a lobster claw down there. That clench would be less of a pinch then the instrument she's using. How wide do you need it? I'm not delivering twins here. When she spoke I could hear an echo.

"Now you'll feel a little scraping." You peeling paint in there? What the hell are you doing? I'd like to keep just a small part of my uterus, or cervix or whatever the hell you're excavating, if you don't mind. Is there a construction site in there?

It's not like I haven't had this done 50 times before, but each time seems just a tad worse than the last. I guess as you get older, and as you see less and less activity...anything shoved up there is a little shocking to the system.

We commenced with the small talk. She began..."So, how have you been? Anything new going on?" Since her head is staring right into my vaginal cavity I assume she's asking the question regarding my vaginal activity. Since those lips don't really speak for themselves I thought I would answer for them. "Can't say there's been too much action going on." (But thank you so much for reminding me.) "Yes, I can see that...that's not exactly what I was asking." You can see that? What the hell else can you see in there? China? Are my car keys in there...they've been missing? "I was asking about your health...how have you been feeling...you ok? Anything bothering you?"

Oh...you mean aside from the fact that I've been celibate for the last two years, can't remember what a penis looks like and once tried to pick up a cross dresser? (Not really....I made that last one up.) I'm good...if you want to call newly formed jowls, saggy skin, creaky bones, shoulder pain, neck pain, back pain, blurred vision and memory loss, good. Then I'm great! Couldn't be any better.

"It's that time of year for your mammogram and bone density tests." Oh, yippee. I always look so forward to being reminded of all the testing that only the aging have to do. Should we throw in another colonoscopy while we're at it? That's always one of the small pleasures for the over 50 bunch. “Would you like to have them at the same time?” No, thanks, I think one test at a time is plenty. I don’t want to glow from the radiation when I walk out.

“I see you have your gym clothes with you…are you going to work out after?” If I can get my legs closed after you get that crowbar out of me, yes, it’s a good possibility. Of course, I’m now 8 inches wider down there, so let’s hope nothing falls out. I’ll try not to push or exert too much.

“Well…everything looks good. I’ll call you when we get the results back and please remember to set up your tests. You don’t want to put those off.” I don't? Yes I do. "You can get dressed now and I'll see you in 6 months. Good seeing you."

I got dressed, walked out to the reception area, paid my co-pay, got a few samples from the doctor and left. On my way out to the parking lot, I passed by a few people, nodded hello, just happy I was done with that visit, and took off in my car to the gym. When I got there, I had to pee so badly, I barely made it to the bathroom...and the gym was packed. I was hoping the bathrooms weren't all taken. I walked into the locker room and as I passed by the mirror...there it was...examining table paper hanging out of my gym shorts. And no one at the doctor's office thought it was worth mentioning? I now belong to a new gym.

Olympic Junkie

2012-08-02T18:39:00.003-07:00

I don’t think I have moved from my 'Barcalounger' parked in front of the TV since the Olympics started. I have my computer on my lap, my snack table to my right, visitors from time to time, and the fridge within viewing range from the TV. I'm set. I’ll admit, I’ve taken bathroom breaks, (although I have considered investing in a porta-potty); took a little time for work (hence...I have kept my job); gone to the gym during the break between the afternoon events and prime time; and have taken a few hours off for some shut eye between 12AM and 6AM (while DVR'ing anything that was new). Other than that…I’m glued to every single event going on.

No…that’s not true. There are some on the other NBC Networks that I’m not watching. For instance…Skeet shooting…or whatever that ‘sport’ is called that the woman from the U.S., who won gold in the last 5 Olympics, was in…I couldn’t give a shit…although I'm happy that she's shooting at clay and not ducks or deer. I’m really happy for her that she set a record. In that respect, I get pleasure. The personal goals that people set and achieve, I find fascinating and awe inspiring. But there are just some sports that are not made for spectating.

Road Cycling (not to be confused with Track cycling)...I don't understand how anyone could sit and watch road cycling. It's got to be the most boring sport to see on TV. I'm sure it's not boring to those who partake in that as an extra-curricular activity...but to those of us who could never find comfort on a banana seat...it's torturous to sit through, physically and mentally. You can almost get sympathy crotch pains while snoozing...oops...I mean watching...and waiting for each cyclist to reach the finish line. I like to see side-by-side competition to know exactly where everyone is. Not each person being timed one at a time. BOOORRRIIINNGGG.

Archery is almost like watching someone peel paint off a wall. Unless you're participating, watching it is a snore-fest. (Not that participating in paint peeling is something you want to mark down in your calendar.) I had never felt more uncoordinated years ago when I tried to shoot the arrow at the target. There I stood…feet apart at an archery stance…whatever that may be…bow and arrow in hand. I pulled back on the bow, attempting to keep the arrow steady between my fingers, aimed at the target with one eye closed (which may have been my problem right there), released…and whoosh…it hit the person behind me. Yes...that's right...backfired over my shoulder at the person waiting to go next. I would have made the worst cupid. Archery is a dangerous sport.

And what good is fencing if you can't actually penetrate the person you are dueling? Do they wear armor under their outfits? I don't think I’ve encountered one person who knows the first thing about fencing. Who fences? Do you know anyone? Have you ever seen it offered in any venue or area where you live? Who does that? I wouldn't know one rule to follow if I witnessed a duel. [I'm assuming it's called a duel.] I have no clue what makes a winner in fencing…whoever gets the most slashes? So honestly...who gives a shit? Is the U.S. even in the competition at the Olympics or is it other countries that partake in this weapon toting sport?

Boxing is a sport that I will never understand...EVER. What pleasure can you possibly get from being punched in the face over and over and over? You know your nose will eventually be broken, and inevitably a concussion is waiting in the wings (or the ring)…a no brainer. Literally. I like to keep my facial features in the same vicinity they started out in when I was born and my brain cells unscrambled…although it may be too late for the latter.

So…aside from the few agonizing, death defying, ho hum, mundane events, I LOVE the Olympics. I love everything about them. Seeing the athleticism that some of these people display is incomprehensible to me. And I was a decent athlete at one point in my life. I was never great at any one sport, but I was above average in most. But when I look at these men and women competing…it’s just mind boggling to think they can achieve some of the feats they attempt.

Yeah…I’m going to walk across a 4 inch piece of wood 4 feet off the ground without falling flat on my face. I can’t even walk across my kitchen floor on flat feet without losing my balance.

And who says to themselves that they are going to jump so high in the air giving them enough time up there to do a back handspring, into a back somersault, doing a double, double, into a front handspring, into a full twisting double back and so on and so on. Are you f**king kidding me? I can barely do a cartwheel. And I could never do a handstand, so please tell me how those guys can hold up their entire body weight on the rings and the pommel horse. They’re freaks of nature.

I once tried diving off a high platform board when I was a kid. I take that back. I once attempted to jump off a high platform board when I was a kid. I don’t dive. And I guess I shouldn’t say I ‘attempted’ because I actually did jump. Keep in mind I’m not a swimmer at all. I have a fear of water. I am afraid of heights. So WTF was I doing jumping off a high board, you may ask? I would try almost anything when I was a kid…but do you have any idea how far away the water seems when you are 32+ feet in the air? As I was coming down my legs were flailing about, waiting to feel contact with the water under my feet and all of a sudden…a cramp in the arch of my foot. My whole left foot cramped up and when I hit the water, not only could I not pinch my nose closed, like I always did when I went under, but I choked on the water that I sucked up through my nostrils and couldn’t move because of the cramping. It was a wonderfully educational experience. Educational in the sense that I knew I would never attempt anything so stupid again in my entire life. That one incident gave me a great appreciation of the divers in the Olympics. Not only are they graceful and beautiful to watch…they are brave young men and women.

Aside from all the events I absolutely love to watch and admire, there are some things that baffle me and disturb me. For instance…I think they should have left Ryan Seacrest out of the Olympics. This is the world’s greatest sporting event. They have great sports commentators. Leave the commentating to those men and women who have spent their lives doing what they do best and let Ryan keep making his millions doing the reality shows and gossipy things. NBC didn’t need him and it bugs me that they even thought they needed him for ratings. The Olympics speak for themselves…they didn’t need Seacrest to do the job.

When our athletes are on the podium accepting their medals, why are they wearing grey? Seriously? That makes absolutely no sense. Shouldn’t they be in Red, White or Blue? Grey isn’t bold. Grey says blah and we can’t make a decision. Grey is middle of the road…not black or white. And grey is NOT a color of the U.S.A. So who decided on that for the podium outfit? And we won’t even discuss the opening ceremony outfits. Or the opening ceremony itself. Another snooze-fest.

One thing I absolutely do not understand…how do the athletes not let the cameras that are right in their faces, break their concentration? And when they’re upset after they screw up… and the cameras stay focused on them during their time of despair…how do they keep their composure and not want to just yell “Get the f**k out of my face”? The cameras are everywhere…how does that not impinge on their focus?

I would have loved to have gone to London to watch some of the events. I remember when it was in L.A. in 1984. I was so excited I was going to get to see the Olympics in person. I got to go to the Coliseum to see track and field; my apartment was along the marathon route so I stood outside and cheered the runners; but my all time favorite was getting to go to a gymnastics event at UCLA. I was so excited I could barely contain myself. My friends and I talked about it for months before the day came. We dressed in our red, white and blues, made sure we had our tickets and binoculars, and were betting on which gymnasts we would get to see…Bart Conner or Mary Lou Retton. It took us a while to find parking but we went so early to be sure we didn’t miss a thing, that it didn’t matter. We got to our seats, sat there about 45 minutes or so, and then out came the gymnasts. We couldn’t wait to see which ones were competing that day when all of a sudden…….they raised up these sticks with ribbons. Are you f**king kidding me? We got tickets for the first ever Olympic debut of Rhythmic Gymnastics and not one of us noticed that stamped on our tickets.

SERIOUSLY?

And the Search Begins

2012-07-15T22:37:00.000-07:00

I think I’m over being single. Not that I would want to be married again. No thank you. Not that I mind having the choice to do whatever I want whenever I want. The only person who has to agree with me is me. And not that I mind never worrying about upsetting someone and getting into an argument. I’m not confrontational so it’s nice not to have to confront; especially when it’s over the most insignificant, ridiculous topics and half the time you are arguing just because you somehow ended up there and can’t find your way out. I don’t mind not being accountable to anyone as to where I am going or what I am doing. Being single can be quite liberating.

With that said…what I do mind…is being frickin’ bored. Living in the middle of suburbia where the median age is 38 and 95% of the males even close to my age are married, and the other 5% are not married for very obvious reasons, makes for a difficult social life. The few single friends I have live in other states; some on the other coast, but those that live in California, may as well live in other states since they are too far to commute to anyway.

I’m not the type to go exploring by myself, for various reasons. One…I get lost in my own house. Two…it’s more fun with someone else. Three…I get lost. And four…I get lost. I tend to have slight panic attacks when I get lost. Yes…even with my talking GPS. I will go to the movies by myself, as long as I know how to get to the theater. Luckily there are a few close by so at least I can be current on my films. I’m not one to join clubs and organizations by myself. I’m basically pretty shy. I know…hard to believe…but I am. So when I have to go to a function where I don’t know anyone, those panic attacks tend to rear up again. So where does one go when one is shy and living in some god forsaken-out of the city lights-Stepford wives community?

MATCH.COM baby! Here I come. [Again.] I was on Match about 3 or 4 years ago and unfortunately, so were many of the men I am seeing on there now. There is a small, new crop, but the ripe ones are few and far between. Needless to say, I happened upon many who made me stop and say… “Are you f**king kidding me?” Who would write this shit? And some of the pictures…’YOU think that this is your BEST picture you could post?’ If that’s their best, I can only imagine what they look like in person. And why would someone post as his profile picture, one of himself with his head in a fake shark’s mouth with the stupidest looking expression he could make? That’s the first impression he wants to make?

I would love to put their pictures on here so you could see exactly what I’m talking about…but you never know who knows who and I wouldn’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings. At least not to their face. I would rather just talk about them anonymously and write about them hoping it’s no one who reads this. And if it is…maybe this will be a helpful guide to a good match.com profile.

I love when they post one not-so-great pic of themselves and 8 different shots of their pet. Wow…that’s one good looking dog…I think I’ll send him a ‘Wink’. I sure hope he brings his owner with him on our date.

Then there are those who post landscapes. Why? I don’t need to see where you’ve been on vacation and where I probably won’t go if we start dating since you’ve already been there. How is that going to impress me? Now…10 pictures of your cars and motorcycles? THAT impresses me. I need to know just what options I will have for transportation once we start dating. And if there’s a bike amongst them that I don’t like…well…that’s a deal breaker. I mean…a Honda, not a Harley? Forget you. And there better be tattoos to go along with that bike.

One of my favorites is always the one who poses with his shirt off in the majority of his pictures. A little impressed with yourself, are ya? Well...that is the one thing that does NOT impress me. I will move right along because most likely they look in the mirror way too much for my liking. I don’t care how great a body you have…keep it dressed for the Match site, wouldya? There is a guy I know at my gym who has gained quite a bit of weight but his profile pic is from when he was buff. I would hate to be the date who finds out exactly what he now looks like. Keep the pics current. I wouldn’t want some guy to think he was meeting me the way I looked ten years ago. I may not have gained any weight, but I sure had gravity make its mark. I think the look of disappointment would be worse than him passing me by on the website. I don’t get why guys do that. We are going to notice that there’s a 60 pound surplus once we see you in person guys!

There was a man who was posing in a Speedo. A 60 something guy, and he wasn’t European. Granted, for his age…he looked good. But who would go out with someone who wears a Speedo if he isn’t swimming for an Olympic Gold Medal.

Another turn off for me is when I see guys my age who are ‘seeking’ women 25-40. Twenty-five? Are you f**king kidding me? What could you possibly have in common with a 25 year old besides the fact that she may be friends with your daughter? What will you talk about…what she has planned now that she graduated college? And do you think she will be into your sagging you know what, or do you think it may be your inflated bank account? I don’t know…what do you think? I’m sure it will be the hanging skin that turns her on.

One guy wrote in his profile ‘You must have great legs and wear short dresses. That is a requirement.’ WHAT? Do you think he may be a little shallow and a tad hypercritical if your body isn’t perfect? And if someone in her 50’s is wearing a mini-skirt…I don’t care how great her body is…she should have a ‘Glamour NO’ tattooed on her back. There are just some things certain people shouldn’t do. But hey…there is someone for everyone. It’s what makes us all individuals…good taste or not. And what woman would actually read that and say…”That guy is for me”?

I got an email from a not-so-great-looking guy yesterday. The subject line said “Would love to start a conversation with you.” I thought…good opening line. Then I saw his picture. That blew it for me because he was just not my type. The Larry Fine hairdo (of Moe, Larry, and Curly fame) and Andy Rooney eyebrows just didn’t cut it for me. But if that wasn’t enough on its own (not to sound shallow myself, but there does have to be some chemistry)…the body of the email said, “You MUST call me. I don’t do email” and he gave me his number. Really? I MUST call you? Oh, sure I will, Master. You just sit by that phone and wait for my call. I’ll be right on that.

I don’t mind when they say that if you do or don’t believe in something, or want something they don’t have, move on to the next person. When you say it in a nice way…it’s letting someone know not to waste either person’s time. I happen to appreciate that. What I don’t appreciate is when it’s someone that I would love to meet, but there’s that one stipulation that prohibits it. Ya know…like being a good Catholic girl. Well…I can’t fake that. Or being 5’9” or taller. Can’t fake that either. Or having no children. Nope…can't fake that. Or being sexual. Now THAT I can fake.

Wheelin' and Dealin'

2012-07-01T17:30:00.000-07:00

In December of this year it will be my 10 year anniversary that I’m with my company. I can’t believe how fast 10 years has passed. It’s been a great decade working with all the people who have come and gone over the years. It was a company I had always wanted to work with because of their great reputation, honesty and integrity, and my dream came true.

In December of this year it will also be my 10 year anniversary that I have been making car payments for my 2003 GMC Envoy. WHAT???? Yes…that’s right…I believe I am now going to be inducted into the Guinness Book of World Records for the longest pay off on a car. Or maybe I am going to make a world record for the stupidest loan documents ever signed by one of the stupidest customers who ever bought a car. Those sales people must have been laughing their asses off when I walked out of that showroom. Maybe that’s why I had 5 salesmen helping me by the time I left. One by one they kept coming over…I’m sure because they couldn’t believe someone would actually pay the price I paid, and wanted to share it with each salesman. They wanted to witness the dumbest deal ever made by a car buyer.

I believe as I drove off the lot, my car depreciated over 50% because I’m quite confident I paid double what I really needed to pay. I probably paid the equivalent 10 years ago for a mid range SUV that someone today would pay for a small Learjet. Yup…35 years I’ve been in the negotiating business and a fine job I’ve been doing.

Why is it I can negotiate the rate down to where I need it to be for my job (albeit fair), but when it comes to negotiating for my own personal needs…rarely do I hold out. In fact…I don’t even wait to hear the starting price…I just offer up a rate and go from there. And I’m pretty sure the sellers absolutely adore me because I start way higher than they even were expecting to get. Yup…35 years as a negotiator. I would fire me if I wasn’t me.

My daughter’s lease was up on her car a couple of weeks ago. Over the last few months she’s been talking about what car she wanted to get, but the problem was she was way over her miles; there was a ding in the bumper; and the interior had some blemishes. I told her as long as you turn it in and lease another…it shouldn’t matter. They can roll the excess cost into the new lease. We weren’t sure if we could turn in her Mazda to a Honda dealer, since she wanted a new Honda, or if we had to turn it into Mazda. But we decided to go to Mazda first to see if there was a car she may want there, assuming we would get a better deal. Can I please tell you who my most hated negotiations are with? I was angry at the salesman for trying to rip me off before I even got on the lot. I had already conjured up in my head what he was going to do and say, while I was on the ride over there. By the time we drove up and the vultures were upon us, froth was coming out of my mouth. I was seething, ready to pounce......and up strolls the nicest car salesman I would ever have the pleasure of dealing with. At least that’s how he appeared. Not too pushy, not too scuzzy, almost normal. And almost normal for a car salesman, in my book, is like dealing with Mother Teresa.

I had warned my daughter not to act excited if she saw a car she really wanted. If they think they have you hooked, they’ll never negotiate. I also told her not to question anything I say, even if she knew it to be untrue. It was all part of the negotiation. Just let me do most of the talking and it should work out great. I know what I’m doing. I had 10 years to rectify my mistake. You can tell him what you’re looking for but nothing about price. Leave that up to me. And if we have to walk away, we will. They’re desperate. We would get a call later from them offering a better price.

"Hello ladies…how can I help you?" After I got done being creeped out, I contained my hiss, pulled in my claws and went through the whole spiel about the terms of the lease and if we had to, we would simply convert it into a loan so there won’t be any penalties, unless we could get a good deal on a new car and blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. Great way to start off our venture into sleaze-dom because he then knew he wasn’t dealing with a couple of ditzy ‘broads’ who didn’t know anything.

‘What size engine are you looking for?’ Huh? ‘Do you want a 4 cylinder or 6 cylinder?’ Huh? ‘Do you need 4-wheel drive?’ Huh? ‘Do you want automatic or manual?’ Automatic please (whew…knew that answer.) ‘What size wheels do you want?’ Huh? [Aren’t they pretty much all the same?] ‘What color would you like?’ NOW we’re talkin’. White, preferably.

After approximately an hour or so spent with the Mazda guy, we asked him, sheepishly, if we were able to go to Honda to turn in our car. He amazingly was honest and told us we could go anywhere we wanted to and turn it in. He didn’t act upset after spending the last 60+ minutes showing us the new models, going for a test drive, then losing the business. I was quite impressed. I have to admit…our local Mazda dealers have been nothing but gracious and very uncarsalesmanlike. Good for them! Unfortunately for them, they still didn’t get our business.

Thank God it was too late to head over to Honda. Even though it wasn’t a totally unpleasant experience at Mazda, it was still draining. Any time you have to deal with salespeople, it’s ad nauseam. But I had the next evening to look forward to with our Honda dealer. If they’re anything like the latest commercials…I probably will puke. They need a new ad agency.

The anticipation of doing that all over again pretty much ruined my next day. But hey…what are moms for? And since I AM a negotiator by trade…who better than good ol’ mom to work the deal? After a day of hard negotiating with my TV ad salespeople, why wouldn’t I look forward to a whole evening of it with the car sleaze-people, too?

"Hello ladies…what can I sell you today that you can’t afford?" Once again…the whole explanation of the lease, and turning it into a loan, etc. But this time we knew what we wanted. It was the car she had wanted so badly for the last couple of years, and there it was...exactly the one she was looking for; right model, right color, right everything. Now it was a matter of whether they could meet the monthly payment my daughter could afford. I was ready to haggle. I was ready to spar. I couldn't have been more prepared to break this guy down and get everything we wanted and then some. I gave my daughter the look of ‘remember what I told you. Don't say a word.’

"What kind of payment are you looking for?" And without hesitation, I opened my big mouth and said "We’ll take it!" And that was the last time I will EVER be allowed to go with anyone to buy a car again.

Grills Will Be Grills

2012-06-03T13:13:00.000-07:00

As summer approaches, so does barbeque season. I love barbeque season, but I lost my Triton Grill in the divorce. I got the house…he got the Triton. I wonder who came out of that one the winner? [Although I paid him off for the house, he didn’t pay me for the barbeque.]

But I digress. I thought it was time to splurge for a new one. I didn’t want to go gas for fear of setting my house on fire with some gas explosion. I didn't want to go with another Triton because, well...it's just too expensive and let's be honest, way too much work. So I set out on a search for a simple user friendly one to serve enough family and friends during each get together. You know, one that uses charcoal and matches, so I can light my house on fire that way, instead.

Off to Target I went since I had a gift card I could apply to the cost. As soon as I got to the outdoor section I spotted the perfect one for my needs: easy to use, good size, great price and in stock. The only downside was I had to assemble it myself. But…no problema! I’m a pro when it comes to handy work. I can pretty much assemble anything. I’m a jack of all trades. I can snake a drain, change out a faucet, hang anything on the wall without it falling off, set up computers, TV’s. You name it…I can make it work. So a barbeque? Piece of cake. And it came in one compact box so no problem getting it in the car to come home. Looked simple enough.

I was so excited to have a barbeque again. I couldn’t wait to get it out of the box and set it up in time for our friends to come over later that day. After about eight minutes of wrestling with the packing tape that must’ve been super-glued to the box to hold it together, I finally got the box open and attempted to pull out all the contents, which seemed never ending. It was about another 8 minutes until I could loosen that first piece to get it out since it was so tightly packed in there. I grabbed 2 sides of the box with my hands, and took my foot to push the other side loose. It only took about 4 attempts until I finally got one piece free. Then it was clear sailing. We won’t talk about the bruises I got on my ass from losing my balance and falling over while trying to extract the pieces that were shoved in there like sardines cemented to the sides.

There were so many teeny bags filled with screws and washers and toggle bolts, and they kept coming and coming. Where the hell were these all going? It didn’t look that complex that I was going to need 500 pieces of hardware to put that thing together. There were leg bolts and handle bolts and damper bolts and winged nuts and lock nuts…and so many other nuts. Are you f**king kidding me? I wanted SIMPLE…but by the time I was done…I was a little nuts.

I planted myself cross-legged on the kitchen floor, surrounded by all those parts and pieces. I started reading the directions and was immediately lost. I lined up the bags numerically, since they each had a number with their parts inside that corresponded to various diagrams. And when I say ‘various’ diagrams…we’re talking about 20 different steps. Staying organized lasted just about until I opened the first bag and then the contents ended up all smushed together in one pile. The bags were so tiny with zip-locked closures, it took me about 4 minutes to get each one open trying to separate the top flaps and another two minutes to get each piece out of its teeny, tiny frickin’ bag. My pinkie couldn’t fit inside any of these bags and they expected each piece to come out the pinhead opening? I had no clue I would be in a wrestling match with barbeque parts.

The first step was to attach the legs to the bottom bowl. Seemed easy enough (yeah…sure it did) until I realized I couldn’t hold up the bottom bowl, put the leg through a leg bowl, then through the bowl hole while trying to screw a bolt with two washers to a winged nut. Huh? First of all…how do you balance a bowl that you’re trying to attach the first leg to if there are no other legs to balance it to begin with? I couldn’t turn it upside down because I couldn’t get my hand underneath it without scratching the shit out of my arm to grab the bolt through the hole on the other side. So I sat there with my legs bent up to my chest, trying to hold the leg of the barbeque between my knees and balance the bowl on top. The bowl leg kept slipping out from between my knees and the bowl was starting to get a little heavy. Trying to hold up the bowl while feeling around for the dropped leg and bolts, was a feat in itself. I felt sweat dripping down my face and neck, and my back was killing me from trying to balance myself while balancing the barbeque. I didn’t think to maybe lean against the wall to help balance my own body. I’m not sure how many times or how long it took to attach each leg, but I worked it out. I’m a genius. Or an idiot, depending on how you look at it. Probably would have been smarter to work on it with another person.

Attaching the cover to the bottom bowl was no easier. Another balancing act except this time, you had to try to attach two moving hinges from the bottom to the top. They kept bending one way when you needed them to bend another way, and at one point, they were so loose the whole thing came apart. Again…patience and perseverance prevailed! Not to mention the dents and scratches that now are a permanent part of my wood floors.

About two and a half hours later (yes…that’s right…two and a half f**king hours later)…TAA- DAAA. Finito! It’s amazing how incredible you feel when you succeed at such a difficult undertaking. And it was truly beautiful. I was so proud. I'm sure everyone will be quite impressed.

Me not being the cook, as most people know…I left the chicken prep to my daughter. I had bought a couple of packages of breasts and as I showered (since I had worked up such a sweat putting that f**king thing together) she prepped them and I paid no attention to what she was doing.

Once our friends arrived, I lit the grill in anticipation of a yummy dinner: Chicken, hamburgers and hotdogs, along with various sides. We were about 10 people and everyone was starving. The coals only took about 20 minutes to get hot and then she brought out the chicken. Who the hell bought chicken breasts the size of Jupiter?

OMG, seriously? I could only fit 3 on the grill at a time. The barbeque was just a tad smaller than I realized. The breasts were so thick…they took about 45 minutes to cook the first batch. I was able to stick a couple of hot dogs on there, too, balancing them on the rim of the grill hoping they wouldn’t fall off. Fortunately, nobody saw me pick them up off the ground when that didn’t work out and put them back on the grill. [The 5 second rule, right?]

By 10PM, [about 3 hours later], we finally finished dinner. The people who ate first were already hungry for another meal by the time we wrapped it up. But my barbeque DOES looks pretty impressive…dontcha think?

Maybe next time I'll invite fewer people...or buy smaller breasts. But there's no f**king way I'm getting a bigger barbeque…especially one that says ‘Assembly Required.’

Dirty Laundry

2012-05-07T18:06:00.000-07:00

It was frightening. It was one of the biggest things I had ever seen. I didn't know what to do or how to protect myself without being overpowered and engulfed. So I took a deep breath and decided to go for it. I was so proud of myself for being so brave. I hadn't tested my fears in a long time…but it was time. And that's why I decided the day had arrived; for I was now entering......the Wal-Mart zone.

Yes, that's right. I was a Wal-Mart virgin. And now I know why. They always say ‘Try something once.’ [Whoever ‘they’ are?] And ‘Don't knock it til you try it.’ Well....I can honestly say…once was one time too many. That was the first and only time I will ever show my face in there. Everything they say about it; all the fun they poke at the Wal-Mart people....could never begin to really show the enormity of the sideshow you actually witness. It really is like entering the Twilight Zone. I had no idea what I would encounter. I had assumed it would be like Target. A mish-mosh of lots of stuff, but clean, organized, and easy to navigate. But when I walked into Wal-Mart, I was completely overwhelmed. I had never seen so much crap piled into one store in my entire life; with so many narrow aisles, you’d have to be the size of toothpick to fit through them. Costco couldn’t hold a candle to the inventory at Wal-Mart. Costco is like a Caribbean vacation compared to that. And the amount of people inside…I felt like I was in a crowded subway in New York at rush hour. Except maybe in another universe. I walked around for close to an hour looking for what I went there for. Actually I was pushed and shoved as I attempted to walk around on my quest to find what I was looking for. Finally I found a salesperson after about 40 minutes of searching through a sea of circus freaks.

“Excuse me. Do you sell washing machines?” "¿Como?" “Do you sell washers?” "¿Qué?" "¿Habla Inglés?" “No. Lo siento.” "¿Dondé esta el washingó machinó?” “No sé.” Oh brother.** My search continued.

I believe it was 'wear your clothes ten sizes too small' day at Wal-Mart. Do they not sell sizes over a 4 there? Are there fun house mirrors in the dressing rooms so they can't tell what they actually look like? Or for that matter, are there mirrors at all? Do they not see what we see? Glamour and Weight Watchers should have had booths set up. They would have had a field day. It’s definitely a place to go to see the ‘Before’ people. Quite enjoyable for those of us who are avid people watchers.

After spending almost an hour searching for a washing machine, I finally found an English speaking salesperson who informed me that they don’t carry large appliances. Are you f**king kidding me? Although, I have to say she was quite helpful suggesting other stores where I could find them, not too far from there. It was unfortunate I didn’t know that prior to entering that sardine like claustrophobic nightmare. I’m just thankful I made it out alive. My Spanish is much improved, though.

Next stop…Best Buy. The used car salesman-like vultures swooped in on me like they hadn’t seen a customer or had a sale in a decade. Which…with the economy the way it is…maybe they hadn’t. Three of them lunged at me all at once. I’m not sure how they decided who would be lucky enough to help me, but two of them backed off while the third creepy looking guy decided to help. “Welcome to Best Buy. How may I swindle you today?”

Have you ever spontaneously gone out and bought a washing machine? I would have never believed there were so many options on something that you simply are using to get your clothes clean. I’m not buying a rocket ship here. I just wanted a f**king washing machine. I didn’t investigate the options before I went out to buy one. Big mistake. Mine went kaput after 26 years and I just wanted to replace it. I didn’t realize I needed to study up and research this prior to purchase.

1 Top load or front load? – Who gives a shit? I guess top load so I don’t break my back bending down to front load. Does it really make a difference?

2 How many wash and spin cycles? – Huh? I couldn't care less how many cycles...How about enough to get them clean?

3 Drum Capacity – Um…bongos or steel?

4 Spin speed? – Fast enough to spin out the water…that will work. Why would there even be more than one speed? I'd prefer not to have to twist and wring them out myself so as fast as it can go please.

5 Delay start? – Delay start? Why would I need to set it to start at a later time? Who’s going to be there to put the clothes in the dryer if I wait til later when I'm not home? Do you have that option, too? Someone to do the laundry for me? A personal laundress, maybe? Yes...thank you. I'll take the laundress option.

6 Balance system? – Well of course I want it balanced…I would prefer it didn’t bounce across the house into another room. Unless it plans on picking up the other dirty clothes still left all over the floor from my kids, while it’s making the rounds of the house.

7 Noise reduction? – That would be nice. I would appreciate not having to scream over the sound of my washing machine. That may be somewhat annoying.

8 Hoses included? Don't you kinda need the hoses to deliver the water into the tub to wash the clothes? Of course I want the f**king hoses. Who wouldn't? Is there such a thing as washers that don’t utilize H₂O?

9 Agitator? – Uh…yes, yes I am. I won’t be once you stop asking me a million questions.

10 What color? - Do you still have that avocado green we had back in the 70’s? That was an interior designers dream. I'll take that one please.

11 Price? - Oh...that. How about 'buy one item, get the second one free?' If I buy a laundry basket, could you throw in the washer? NO? Okay then...Let's keep it cheap…under $500. I don't think I need the drum thrown in. I can just listen to my iPod.

I guess $500 is not a realistic price for a washing machine if you actually want it to wash your clothes. The salesman looked at me like I was crazy and steered me in the direction of the computer. "Well, ma'am...This is what you can get for under $500...

"I wish you the best of luck."

**Please note…I have no problem with people moving to the U.S. from other countries. My problem is…if you are living in this country, and working in this country, please speak the language of this country. That language is English.

Halo or Hell-No

2012-04-22T13:44:00.000-07:00

I know I am an extremely sensitive person. I can’t help it. I get upset when I see someone eating a meal by themselves at a restaurant. I’ve been known to tear up when I see an elderly person having dinner all alone. I rarely think it’s by choice. I don’t even like seeing one of my kids sitting downstairs in the kitchen eating by herself. Sometimes I’ll just go downstairs to keep her company. I don’t know why I get like that, but I do. I’m so overly sensitive that I find some commercials to be real tearjerkers.

I think it’s mean to train animals. We don’t know that they actually want to be doing whatever it is you’re teaching them to do. People think it’s cute, but the animal itself may not like it. I think we should train them to be safe…but not to do tricks just for human amusement. On the Today Show last week, they were showing the world’s smallest puppy that was born a couple of weeks ago. They were holding her up and she was adorable. But as I sat there watching, I had tears in my eyes because the poor little thing was shaking uncontrollably. Then they decided it would be cute to put her in a coffee mug. I didn’t think that was cute at all. I think cuddling her would have been much sweeter and not so insensitive.

When I have taken trips up north, while driving through farming areas, all I can think about when I see the thousands of cattle grazing, is that they have no clue that they are next in line to be someone's dinner. How sad is that? If they knew...they'd be running towards the freeway for a ride. And if I had the means, I would think about picking up a couple and taking them to safety.

When I was a kid and my grandparents would come to visit, my grandfather, who spoke hardly any English, would go sit by himself in the family room. Not being able to verbally communicate with him, I would go sit next to him on the couch, take his hand, and keep him company. In silence.

I like helping people whenever I can…especially the elderly and children. I know I’m not alone when it comes to doing and feeling this way…thank God. But I do get overly upset when I see any kind of suffering or bad behavior towards others. And I end up dwelling on it. That’s why I could never work in a nursing home or children’s hospital. I would be boo-hooing the entire time, not being helpful to anyone. I would be sad 24 hours a day. If I could, I would adopt every abandoned animal out there; but that's obviously not realistic…I'm just giving you an idea of my depth of compassion.

But here’s the thing…as caring and loving as I am towards people and animals…especially those in need…I can tell you this for sure. If I’m sitting in the emergency exit row of an airplane, and there is an actual emergency…there’s no f**king way I’m helping anyone else off that plane before I bail. I don't give a shit how in need they are. Sure…c’mon people. You all exit before me. Let me help you deplane first and hopefully there will still be time for me to get off before we go spiraling down or blow up and burn. Or maybe we won't really crash that hard, so I'll just stand at the exit and make sure YOU are all safe. Are you f**king kidding me? I'm going to be the first one to grab that flotation device from under the seat, strap it on and jump. I didn't sit through 18,000 hours of flight attendants boring us to death on what to do in case of an emergency, all for nothing. I'm not waiting for any person, baby or animal to go before me. My own kids will have to push me aside to get there first. Ok...maybe I would shove my own kids and dog out the exit door before me; [and hopefully they'll have on their flotation devices that I’m sure will lighten the blow of any major fall from 30,000 feet in the air…IF we are flying over a body of water]...but that's about it. Everyone else...they're on their own! I'd love to say I'm that benevolent, but who would I be kidding? It just ain't gonna happen.

Do airlines actually think if someone is sitting in the emergency exit row they are going to wait for everyone else to get off? I don’t think so. It's almost laughable. The only reason anyone sits in that row is for the leg room. I have never sat there because I'm just that altruistic and want to be sure everyone is safe. Geez...if I didn’t have long legs I wouldn’t be sitting there at all. And the other thing…if we’re on our way down…does anyone actually believe I’m better qualified to help people than the flight attendant or pilot, just because I’m sitting in the emergency exit row? And do we actually believe if we ARE on our way down…other than a miracle…that there is a point to the emergency exit anyway? And one more thing…why are there not parachutes under our seats instead of flotation devices? Wouldn’t that make more sense?

I used to work for one of the largest advertising agencies in the world. Our offices were so big that we elected fire marshals in various sections of the hallways on each floor of our building. I was one of those ‘lucky’ enough to be appointed. Each fire marshal had to get CPR and First Aid certifications before we could take on this very important responsibility. I felt honored that my group elected me. Yeah…sure I did. I’m no idiot…I realized they did that because they didn't want to have that weight on their own shoulders. I find it hard to believe that any of them thought I would actually wait for them to all exit the building before I bee-lined for the exit myself. Little did they know that I was quite the sprinter and although I knew how to save lives after getting certified, I also knew where to direct everyone in case of fire or earthquake, and could get there faster than anyone else. If there was an emergency...they would probably see me flying by them out those exits thinking to themselves…"Who was that speed racer?" Screw getting them out of there first. If I wanted to be that hero...I would've become a firefighter or police officer. But I'm an ad exec...who's quite the chicken. And who wants to live a long life.

Living in suburbia for so many years now, and being one of the lucky few who works from home, I had been chosen by my neighbors as the ‘look out’ person. Like I’m actually going to sit lurking out the window all day spying on the gas and electric company personnel, or the landscapers, to be sure they are legit. First of all…that would mean moving my office to the front of the house. Secondly, I do actually work when I’m supposed to be working. Thirdly, I have the attention span of a gnat. And lastly…if there was someone taking furniture, electronic equipment or anything, for that matter…I would look up at them, put my head back down, and go back to work. Kinda like hearing a car alarm…who knows if it’s actually a break in…and frankly…who gives a shit? They didn't really pick the right person for the job.

So there you have it. I'm quite the contradiction. I have that little Devil on one shoulder and little Angel on the other, sparring back and forth, "Save 'em" "F**k 'em", "Save 'em", "F**k 'em". And all I have to say is...it would behoove you to stay on my good side. Well...in the event you ever need my flotation device.

I know emergency exits are only used once on the ground…but a little artistic license necessary

Baby, It's Cold Inside

2012-03-30T20:48:00.002-07:00

I am so over winter. I know it’s spring, although you couldn’t tell from the weather. I know I live in southern California, but this week has been extremely cold here and as luck would have it, on the rare occasion when we do need to use our heat, mine is on the fritz. I know you’re saying, ‘big deal…it’s southern California,’ but let me tell you…37 degrees is 37 degrees, no matter where you live. When you’re blowing ‘steam’ out of your mouth INSIDE your house…you’ve got major problems.

Have you ever sat on your toilet seat in 37 degree weather when the heat wasn’t blasting? It’s no day in the park. Well…maybe in Gorky Park. I jumped up so fast my pee almost came shooting out of my nose. My buns are frostbitten. Just the thought of baring any of my body parts in this igloo is devastating. I’m afraid what would happen if I did start peeing…could be painful. I'd probably be the first woman ever with icicles coming out of her WooWoo.

Within 5 minutes of pouring my coffee, I have to re-heat it in the microwave or dump it. I am going through a pot of coffee an hour. And quite a good workout on the stairs. I’m surprised I’m not drinking iced coffee by the time I get from the kitchen upstairs to my office. I’m basically using my coffee mug as a hand warmer for the 3 minutes it’s piping hot.

I would wear gloves but since I’m working, I can’t use the keyboard with gloves on. Well, I guess I could, but nothing I would type would make any sense. Not that it does half the time anyway. A space heater would probably be helpful, but since we don’t normally need one, I don’t have one hanging around the house. I am using a heating pad as a thermal blanket across my lap to keep my body temperature from going into hypothermia. I think they should make body suits out of heating pads. That would solve my problem. [I believe I hear “Shark Tank” calling my name.]

I don’t need ice in my water to keep it cold…it’s pretty much icing over as we speak. My nose is running, forming icicles as it drips down my face. I just suck on those instead of taking my hands out from under the blanket to lift the iced water to my mouth; which if my lips weren’t frozen shut; maybe I would be able to sip from the cup. I have so many blankets wrapped around me I can barely lift my arms anyway. I swaddled myself so tightly into the blankets; I have to wait for my daughter to get home to unravel me.

My eyelashes have frost on them. I tried doing my make up earlier but the liquid mascara is now a solid. I sure hope I don’t have to cry for any reason…or those tears are going to be a bitch to get off my face.

I could probably take my blow dryer and melt them off. Actually…I should probably just get my blow dryer [or two or three], hook them up on the wall near my desk and let the heat blast at me. Hmmmm….that’s a thought…maybe after I invent the heating pad body suit.

My dog looks like a taxidermist got a hold of her and stuffed her. She is planted on the rug with all four legs pointing up, not moving [except for the periodic violent shaking from having doggiethermia.] Her coat of fur isn’t doing the trick for her, either. She started to lick herself and her tongue got stuck to her HooHoo.

The water doesn’t come out of the faucet anymore. Just stops mid stream like an ice sculpture. The bristles on my toothbrush have hardened like the wires in the brush you clean a barbeque with. That was pleasant to discover AFTER I started brushing my teeth. Frozen bristles and tooth enamel don’t do well together. It’s a little rough and gritty when I run my tongue over my teeth.

I use a step ladder now to get onto my bed. I put on so many additional comforters; I’ve added 18 inches to the height. Sometimes, when I want a little more exercise, I actually get a running start at the other end of the hallway, run down into my bedroom, and then fling myself onto the bed. Of course, when you’re dressed in as much ski gear as possible, looking like you're in a sumo wrestling suit, your flexibility is somewhat limited. So each time I do that, I hope I don’t keep rolling over and off the other end of the bed.

Of course with all the covers I temporarily have on my bed, I’m lucky I wake up in the morning and don’t suffocate during the night. I’m surprised the weight hasn’t pressed on my chest so hard and that I can actually breathe. I honestly don’t understand how I survived growing up on the east coast in cold weather. I’m a cold weather wimp. I freeze when the temperature is in the 60’s, let alone the 30’s and 40’s.

Do you think I’ve lived in sunny, southern California too long? Do you think that as I’m sitting here, I’m wondering just why I haven’t called in a heating and ventilation technician to find out WTF is wrong? Gotta go make a call. Thanks for letting me ‘Vent.’

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.