Yule Logs and Jingle Balls, I Mean Bells

     Due to an unpleasant turn of events, my darling husband Jeff is now sporting the one "manly accessory" you'll never see in a GQ Magazine: a catheter. Nothing says Happy Holidays like a good case of Urinary Retention, eh? But guess what? Man up and be a brave soldier, because you're killing me with all this whining, Buster.

     Now, we of the feminine persuasion all know that the very fact of being Male leaves one with very little Reserves of Strength when it comes to sickness of any kind: come on, we've all experienced the Man Cold: Worse. Cold. Ever. Men cave quickly, and go down heavy, straight to bed with lots of tissues and sad eyes, wishing their Mommy was there instead of you. Women, meanwhile, suck it up and Soldier On; who among us hasn't picked up kids from school, made dinner, helped with homework, and thrown kids in bed, all with the flu and a 103 degree fever?  The "Weaker Sex" my ass.

     So back to my husband and his Yule Log.

     Unfortunately, Jeff is your classic "I'm not going to make it!" patient; imminent death or at the very least, lots of drama, are his go-to moves. It's exhausting. I keep telling him, he can't die and leave me here with the dachshund (who naturally has no trouble peeing at all, anywhere she damn well feels like it.)

     OK, OK, so you have to wear a catheter; I personally would find that extremely helpful, since I wouldn't have to stop to pee while cleaning, cooking, shopping, and decorating. (And drinking. Don't forget about drinking.) He makes it sound like having that Thing in his Thing (technical, medical words that you probably don't understand) is a bad Thing... HA!

     Tomorrow we go back to the urologist. ("There's money in pee" is how Jeff describes each trip.) If the Good Doctor tells us that Jeff has to keep this Thing in, let me tell you, it's not going to be pretty. There will be hand wringing and teeth gnashing, and that'll be just me: you mean I have to put up with his whining for another week? (Yes, Jeff calls me "Florence Nightmare" and sometimes... it's spot on.)

     So since it's almost Christmas, here's my plan: if the catheter stays in, let's hang a little tinsel on the tubing.

     After all, he's already got the balls.
   
 

How Much Is That Doggie in the Window?

One 5 pound, black and tan, female mini dachshund: $800.00

One off-white crate, plus trip to return first crate (gray) which really didn't look good in the kitchen: $42.99
One super soft, comfy crate pad, off-white, to match the new crate: $15.99
Three fleece blankets to replace the off-white crate pad when the Dog chewed it up the first night: $45.00

Five different chew toys that squeak, made in USA, not China, because you really don't know what they put in their squeak toys: $ 35.00
Four "bully sticks", the only chew sticks that don't become lodged in the Dog's smaller-than-your-pinky finger esophagus, purchased after reading that squeaker toys are NOT SAFE, no matter what their country of origin: $29.00

One 20 pound bag of dog food that the Breeder suggested: $50.00
One 5 pound bag of all-natural, Much Better Dog Food that the nice man in the over-priced pet store insisted was the only type to insure that the Dog, well, grows normally: also $50.00

Three different types of "training treats", peanut butter, liver, and duck, so that God forbid the Dog doesn't get bored during the training process: $34.99

Five books with titles similar to Dachshunds For Dummies, all of which state the following: "The dachshund, and especially the mini dachshund, is one of the hardest dogs to train. House breaking this dog will kill you." (Or words to that effect.) $69.99

One package of paper towels: $14.99
(Repeat as needed.)
One container of Nature's Miracle Odor Neutralizer with Handy Sprayer for those Hard-to-Reach Spaces, like under the sofa where the Dog likes to hide and pee: $35.00
One package of "Training Pads", a.k.a. "Piddle Pads", for the days that the Dog refuses to squat outside due to the following weather conditions: rain, sleet, snow, fog, high humidity, and fairly brisk winds: $15.99
One roll of duct tape to secure the Piddle Pad to the floor so that the Dog stops running around with it in her teeth: $3.99

One Vet visit, with first check-up and shots: $145.00
(FYI: The Stool Sample requested by the Vet was no problem, as a small shit rolled right off the Piddle Pad when the Dog was running around the kitchen with the Pad in her teeth.)

Two extra-wide dog gates to confine the Dog in the kitchen: $210.00
A variety of suitcases, stools, and random pieces of wood to block off sections of both new gates, when it becomes instantly apparent that the Dog is small enough to squeeze between the bars of the new dog gates: free

One furtive, exploratory search on Google for Divorce Lawyers due to husband not helping enough: free

One case of wine, which will be helping me much, much more: priceless.

Stupid Stuff I Really Don't Get

     There are some things in this world that I really love. The fact that my 93 year old Aunt Babe got an XOXO tattoo on her wrist, that's one; that my 97 year old Aunt Lal (her sister), can still beat the pants off me in Scrabble, that's two. And, natch, there are things I absolutely hate, but I have neither the time nor the inclination to tackle them now; too depressing, and I'll watch the News if I want to be depressed. (Ebola Crisis, my ass: isn't it amazing that we Americans are all up in arms about Ebola only now, after it has flown across The Big Water, and landed deep in the heart of Texas? Why weren't we in crisis mode when it started killing people in Africa? I have this mental picture of Lady Liberty in a hazmat suit, holding a disclaimer instead of her tablet:

 "Yeah, you can still give me your tired and your poor, your huddled masses; just no 'bola, please."  

     But the really strange things in the world, the stupid stuff that makes no sense to me, are the things that make me cock my head to the side and rapidly blink: Why, I ask? What's THAT about?

     It's somewhat akin to my darling new dachshund, watching me work the $27.99 Pooper Scooper, picking up what she just lovingly deposited on the ground, and all the while I'm smiling and nodding and saying in a maniacal, Frankie Valli falsetto, "Good Girl to go out, YES, we go out, we're a good girl, yes we are, yes, yes!!!". She cocks her head. She Just. Doesn't. Get it. And so I've written a very short list of Stupid Stuff I Really Don't Get. Here it is. Feel free to cock your head to the side as you read:

    1. Soft Close Drawers. Why did someone take the time to invent this?  I would be personally very sorry if I no longer felt the great satisfaction that comes with a good drawer slam when I'm annoyed at someone I'm married to. You just don't get the drama with a soft close.
   
     2. Nostril Piercing. I'm sure this is the height of Cool, but why would someone subject their poor nostril to that? I actually can't look at that situation without tears forming in my eyes, in sympathy for the nostril. And how the hell does a person blow their nose without tears forming in their own eyes? Doesn't their tissue get all jammed up on the ring/jewel/beady thing? I know mine would, and I'd have a tiny piece of tissue hanging on the side of my nostril all day, and no one would tell me, and it'd be embarrassing, not Cool.
   
    3. Short-Sleeved Jackets. This phenomenon only occurs in women's clothes. Think about it: would you ever see a man's suit jacket with short sleeves? If you need to wear a jacket, ladies, it means you're chilly. Why would you buy one with only half a sleeve? It makes no sense.

     4. Extravagant Sides on Eyeglasses. There are glasses with loops and twirls, jewels, and even the designer's name in gold cursive: why would someone want to call that much attention to their temples? Remember: your temple's next-door neighbor is your crow's feet.

     5. Fake Vomit and Fake Poop. Seriously, I have never, ever, seen the humor here. But more than that, why would anyone want to pay good money for something fake, that every mother in the world gets to deal with every day-- for free?

     6. Hideously Horrible Halloween Costumes & Decor: I'll end this list with a nod toward the upcoming (so-called) holiday, Halloween, which I think (being a former teacher myself, so I can say it) was actually started by teachers long, long ago: the excitement and gaiety of September's Back To School Fun had already faded, and they, realizing that this was yet another year filled with the same old nonsense they put up with every year, thought up a day in October where they could wear crazy costumes and eat candy. Nowadays, however, it's not so much fun. Little Susie is dressed as a "dead cheerleader", and Mom takes the day off from work to come into school and help her put her "make-up" on, which mostly involves lots of fake blood. ( FYI, of course that means Mom can't take the day off next week to attend the Parent-Teacher Conferences...but we all have our priorities.)

     Lastly, (which is a fun word to write, almost as fun as the "neither/ nor" thing I had going in the first paragraph) why do some people decorate their homes with such pure sicko gruesomeness? The grisly front-porch scenes are so horrific, that real criminals can be seen sneaking right past. They're actually too afraid to break in, and these are real criminals, probably even Hardened Criminals.

     And I'll bet that as they cleverly side-step the fake poop, those real, hardened criminals will cock their heads to the side and blink rapidly because they, too, Just. Don't. Get it.

We're Havin' a Baby!

     No, not a real baby, silly: what the hell are you thinking? I'm 66 years old, and as maybe I've mentioned, one of my Edicts is  "Sex is For The Young." We're havin' a dog baby: a puppy, a mini dachshund puppy to be exact.

     Now, once upon a time, before I was married for the 2nd go-round, I'd made another Edict: "No More Men, No More Dogs." Then I met Jeffrey, and he swept me off my feet; or, as he likes to tell it, I flew by on my broom and he hopped on. (I knew there was a broom involved.) But after our last two dachshunds went to Doggie Heaven, (where they are, I'm sure, happily peeing and shitting on the floor, just like here on Earth) I held firm to a Partial Edict: "No More Dogs." That lasted about a month.

     I started looking at people with dogs like I look at supermodels: with undisguised jealousy, bordering on an eye-narrowing hatred. I really missed the snuggly, warm little body close to mine in bed (No, not Jeff; see Edict #1.) I did realize that we used a lot less paper towels, and the house smelled better. But we were missing something. A pooch. A hound. A weiner dog.

     Because for us, there is no other kind of dog.

     Oh, yeah, other dogs have all the great adjectives going for them: cute, protective, sweet, regal even. And if truth be told, lots of dogs are much more intelligent than a dachshund. But there is no other dog in the world that is funnier than a dachshund; no other dog will make you laugh as much. And that's just by standing still.

     So we read the books (Dog Training For Dummies was highly recommended by several people who know us well). We bought the crate, the food, and the outfits. (Oh come on; you didn't think there was going to be a mini dachshund without a skirt and matching hat, did you?) We'll get her in a few weeks: anticipation is running almost as high as when our grandchildren were born. (I said almost.) And yes, the puppy is a girl... her name will be Schotzie, which means "little treasure" in German.

     Hopefully we'll house-train this dog more successfully than the last two, who liked to leave "little treasures" on the rugs. (One of my dear aunts suggested that we go to "Dog Parenting Classes", so we don't "spoil" this dog. Wait: what?? How can we spend our money on Parenting Classes, when we're saving up for her piano lessons?)

     Not to mention how expensive a good Halloween Costume is these days at PetSmart.

     

   



   

   

Didn't Wanna Do Disney

     I can safely say I am not a Traveler. My niece Mailin is a Traveler; that kid thinks nothing of jumping on a plane, meeting two connecting planes, and arriving in places that have no indoor plumbing. She's awesome in her fearlessness and sense of adventure. Me? Not so much. Driving across a bridge is enough of an adventure for me.

     So when my daughter, her husband and two kids suggested I meet them in Disney for 4 days this August, I did not feel the Magic. I couldn't even picture myself in the Philadelphia airport, finding the right plane, and boarding it without throwing up. (It wasn't Root Canal Dread, but it was close.)

     But thanks to the magic of dramamine, I made it through the flight without too much drama, except for the guy standing in the boarding line, who, during a casual conversation about the ridiculousness of the security check-point, informed me he had the right to "bear arms".  Since he was wearing a very inappropriate (for his Body Type) muscle shirt, I naturally thought he meant "bare arms", and laughed politely. Apparently he was not kidding, and he informed me in that haughty/scary way people who like guns like to talk, and I smiled, looked away, and prayed that my seat was far, far away from him and his stupid biceps.

     DisneyDisneyDisneyDisney. Since my daughter Sam had expertly booked, scheduled, and orchestrated the entire trip, I just had to hold someone's little hand and follow along: it was pretty great. Oh, yeah, there were times I felt like I was walking the streets of Calcutta; that was because of the cheek-to-cheek crowds, not the ambiance. There were times I felt like I was walking in the Sahara Desert; again, not the ambiance, but the god-awful heat. And there were times when I was having a blast. The Disney people should really open a Training School for the world: those people really know how to do NICE, and they should run a facility where people who don't work at Disney could learn a thing or three. (I wouldn't last a day there; my sarcasm and snarky nature would get me expelled.)

     Sure, there was lots of walking and my feet hurt so much I was kind of crying, and some of the rides made me much, much woozier than I would've liked without a vodka tonic, but when my 9 year old granddaughter looked up at me and said "I'm having a super time, aren't you, Oma?" I had to answer "Absolutely!" And when we went on my favorite ride, "It's a Small World After All" , and my 5 year old grandson looked at me and said "Why does your neck jiggle like that?" ...well, that made it all worthwhile.

     It was a great adventure. And let's face it: inside plumbing is pretty magical, after all.

   

   

Cooking: Highly Overrated

    I've never been a good cook. A good cook always seems to A.) have interesting, even edible leftovers in the refrig, and B.) says things like "Cooking relaxes me." Cooking make me nervous, blindingly nervous; I am always out of some herb, which leads to needing a substitute herb, which leads to looking stuff up about herbs online. A tuna casserole could take me an hour and a half to put together.  And the only thing semi-interesting I have in my refrig is Portuguese white wine. (Thank God for that.) There's also some 1% milk, and some tired, pathetic asparagus I bought a week ago when I saw a recipe in a magazine, then forgot both the magazine it was in and the asparagus. I also have a couple of Paul Newman's salad dressings from 2010.

    Ina Garten: she probably has lots of cool leftovers she can haul out of her refrig, reheat and serve up as a supper for her fabulously wealthy husband, Jeffrey. I'm assuming he's fabulously wealthy because in all of her shows, Jeffrey drives home "from the city" on the weekends, and she has a wonderful roast chicken for him, and a "really fabulous blueberry crumble" for dessert. My husband (also named Jeff, but not Jeffrey; sometimes I call him Just Jeff, to annoy him) would drop dead if he walked in the door and the chicken wasn't a rotisserie chicken from the Shop Rite. And what the heck's a crumble? Of course, maybe I'd be happier about cooking if my husband only drove home only on weekends, and he was driving a BMW. I doubt it: I'd still be a terrible cook. But I'm pretty sure I'd be happier...

    Last night I tried to make a recipe called "Crustless Quiche". It called for evaporated milk; I bought condensed milk. I actually bought 4 cans of condensed milk, because at the Shop Rite, I didn't know that I only needed a half a cup for Crustless Quiche. (Who knew?) This mistake led me to the computer, where I spent an hour Googling evaporated vs. condensed milk, and learned a lot about this funny little milk that comes in the cute little cans, but decided in the end, what the hell, just use the 1% milk in the fridge. I also spent a great deal of time wiping off the baby bella mushrooms with a damp paper towel, because apparently mushrooms don't like to get all wet (which I can relate to, so I really didn't mind.) The frozen spinach was supposed to be thawed; I'd forgotten that, so I "quick-thawed" it by holding it under hot water, then squeezing the semi-frozen block of spinach dry (I swear the recipe called for that; why would I make that up?)

    Physically, my hands were now freezing, and mentally, I was extremely uncomfortable about the cleanliness of my baby bellas; how many deer feet had meandered over these fungi in the forest? Did raccoons touch them with their dirty, albeit adorable raccoon paws...or a body part much less adorable?

    As I was drinking quite a bit of wine by now, I decided to pour a little--oh, fine, a lot of wine, but my hands were basically frozen and the bottle slipped a little-- into the pan with the bellas and the spinach. I figured a little alcohol would take care of any forest contamination, and probably thaw any still-frozen chunks of spinach. Let me just add, it was now about 9 o'clock at night, and my husband, seeing that I was winging it pretty heavily, went out to get the paper, and after driving back home in his Ford Focus, asked:
 "Need a hand, Hon?"
    
    Hell no: I need Bobby Flay, more wine, and probably Take Out Chinese.

    Relaxed I was not. Pertinent questions raced through my mind:
Why didn't I just buy the damn rotisserie chicken and be done with it?
What the living hell was I going to do with 4 cans of condensed milk?
And wouldn't condensed milk, by definition, be milk that liquid has evaporated from, thereby making them one and the same?

    No matter. Wait till Jeff sees the fabulous dessert I've planned: Weight Watchers Mini Fudge Bars, 45 calories each.

    Take that, Ina.

    Messed up your dessert then called it a "crumble", huh? Can't fool me, sister.

The Fourth

     A startling thing happened to me on this past Fourth of July. I became a patriot. I was not snarky for even one single minute: it was miraculous. I had fun, damn it, and lots of it. It was a red, white and blue miracle, and, please, let me explain why this was so unusual for me...

     You see, past Fourth of Julys have not been as pride producing, as flag waving, or as non-snarky. Long, long ago, I was part owner of a motel in a shore town that shall remain nameless, but it is the actual Webster Definition of the word "tacky": seriously, look up the word tacky, you'll see the name of the town.  Our motel was a small but clean motel, but as the economy tanked, the clientele got less and less clean. They started drinking at about noon, after waking up on a pool chair from their previous night's bender, and by 3 o'clock in the afternoon they liked to draw signs in chalk on the sidewalk in front of our motel:

                                 YO!!   Go To Room 214 for a grate time!!!"

     (Their spelling, not mine. I have spell check.) And that was just the young ladies; the young gentlemen were checking their weapons in case someone undesirable came to Room 214, and by undesirable I mean they didn't have the prerequisite money or drugs. So The Fourth of July, like Labor Day, Memorial Weekend (and I still can't talk about Memorial Weekend without a facial tic) were especially horrific. Heinous Holidays.

    But that was then, and this is now. This year on the Fourth of July, for the first time in a really long time, I went to see the fireworks. The whole family went. While we waited for "dusk", I tried to explain what "dusk" meant to the 5 year old, and we sat on the ground on reusable plastic shopping bags because we forgot blankets and they were the only things in the car. The kids danced to the music (positively blaring from the speakers, but that didn't even bother me, which is really unusual...that's when I knew I must be experiencing a Patriotic High).  Next to us, to the great embarrassment of his children, one very tall white man tried to moonwalk on the grass, in sneakers.
It. Was. Delightful.

     The fireworks started: they were as loud and aah-inspiring as they were supposed to be, and even the musical accompaniment--everything from Kate Smith (God Bless America) to Katy Perry (Baby, You're a Firework)--was great. (I actually teared up a little during God Bless America, until my daughter leaned over and asked me if that was me singing. Smart-Ass Kid.) There was blue cotton candy, the kids got some stuck in their hair, and after the long walk back to the car, they fell asleep on the ride home. Perfect. A Perfect Holiday. We all agreed that we'll have to do it again sometime: how 'bout next year?  Maybe next year we'll remember the blankets. Meh... maybe not. As long as you've got Kate Smith, you don't need no stinkin' blankets.

     GBA, Kate. We had a grate time.

Celebrities 'R Us

    So I'm now going to break the first two Rules I made about my blog:
Rule #1. Never, ever, under any circumstances, mention the Kardashians. 
Rule #2. Never, ever, under any circumstances, mention Justin Bieber.  

    It all started yesterday when I was scrolling the channels and landed on the QVC channel, and there he was, no, not The Bieb: Bob Mackie. Yes, Bob Mackie, who at one time, made beautiful (for the 1960's and 70's) gowns for the likes of Carol Burnett, and later, even Cher (when Bob was obviously on something pretty strong, maybe even illegal.)

    On QVC, Bob was selling t-shirts. "And Ladies, It's my very own fun design, sizes small to XXXL!" The t-shirts had pictures of cats on the front. Seriously, cats... cats holding flowers and wearing hats, cats cavorting, cats smiling... cats. Bob himself looked like one of those guys you see at the library in the magazine room, reading a magazine about cats. He had on a shlumpy looking t-shirt, possibly a Member's Only Jacket, and too-long khaki pants, with sneaks. And that boy could hawk cat t-shirts like nobody's business: they were flying off the QVC rack.

    It made me wonder: why are we so obsessed with celebrities? (O.K., that's not a new thought: it's just my damn thought tonight, and it was Mackie that set me off.) Why would anyone, ever, in their Right Mind, buy a cat t-shirt just because it was made by Bob Mackie? And why do countless people, probably just as normal as you and I (cue the crazed laughter) watch a show about an entire family of loud-mouth whiners, whose only claim to fame is that they all have big asses? I'm sorry, Kardashians, but what have you-all done that has bettered the world? Why are people transfixed with these clowns? Why do people actually buy clothes that will allow them to have that same Packed-In-A-Sausage-Casing-Look? At least Mackie made something, and there are people out there, I'm thinking in Iowa, with an overwhelming desire to have that cat t-shirt, and damn it, they will buy it tonight, in 5 installments of $7.95 each.

    And then there's The Bieb. When I see The Bieb on TV, I have an uncontrollable desire to lunge for the screen, and probably do myself and the screen some harm (flat screens do not hold up well to a lunge, trust me.)  I want to slap the smug right off his little Bieb face. But he has legions of fans. Why?

    Probably, like they say, because It Takes All Kinds. Because I had not one, but two, Trini Lopez records, back in the Day. And I wear t-shirts with dachshunds on them, purchased from a special dachshund website, based in Iowa: those gals could sell me anything.

    And I haven't done much to better the world, either. I'm a pretty darn good whiner, and yes, you might say I do have a bit of a big ass. So maybe that's it: maybe we're obsessed with celebrities because they're just like us, but with way, way better cars, houses, and t-shirts.Yeah, that must be it.

    But I still want to slap Bieber. Please. Just once.

"Open Wide..."

    "Open wide!" Yes, that's what my dentist says, but I really wish my gynecologist said it, too: I mean, let's call a spade a spade: that's what I'm here for, isn't it? Let's not beat around the bush (can't believe I just wrote that) about my blood pressure, or his new recipe for cream of cauliflower soup: put the "paper gown" on, put my feet in the stirrups, and let's get it over with, Doc.

    I just got back from a visit to my gynecologist: he's a lovely, lovely man, very soft-spoken and compassionate, with a uniquely Jewish sense of life's realities. ("Yes, you could lose 5 pounds, but no more: you don't want to look gaunt.") And when I remind him that I'm only 5 feet, one inch high, he straightens up to his 5 feet, 3 inch height and says "What, that's not tall enough?"

    Two of my friends went with me. Nancy and Ali had appointments within 20 minutes of mine, 20 minutes of each other: we've done this for a few years now. We call it our "Gyno Party", and are totally unashamed of this, as corny (and by corny I mean weird and old-personish) as it is. Hey, if some guy, no matter how sweet and soft-spoken, is going to look up my hoo-ha...well, there'd better be shopping and lunch involved afterwards.

    So, after stripping naked, donning the paper gown ("paper gown":  best oxymoron ever), and putting my feet in the aforementioned stirrups, I always tell the doctor same joke: "If you hear a creak, Doc, it's just the Vault Door opening..." No, it's not particularly funny, but it helps me concentrate on something other than What's Going On Down There and What Will He Find? The Lost Continent of Atlantis, perhaps, or something even more sinister?

    My former gynecologist, a tall, icy blond, had a French Poodle who accompanied her into the exam room, and she talked to the poodle more than she talked to me. Now, I was a little skeeved out by this, and there are two reasons why I really had no business being skeeved:

#1. I love dogs, much, much more than I love gynecologists.
#2. I was in the doctor's exam room because I had a pretty embarrassing situation going on: a tick was stuck tight to my, as we say in elementary school, privates.

    As you can see, I was in no position to be skeeved out or judgmental towards anyone (or any dog.) But she was not amused by my Vault Door joke, and I changed gynecologists.  

    The hell with her and her French Poodle. If I really have to chat at the gynecologist's, I'd much rather talk about cream of cauliflower soup recipes, with someone my own height.



    

     

This Is Your Pilot Speaking...

    Fear of Flying doesn't even begin to cover it. Nightmare on Elm Street Meets Every Plane Catastrophe Ever is more like it. So when Jeff and I decide to fly from New Jersey to Minnesota for our niece's wedding, obviously I was under the influence of a LOT of wine.

    I step into the plane, trying to look cool. I am not cool, I am catatonic. The Fight Attendant smiles at me, but I see nothing but the fear that is shining in her eyes: she knows this plane's going down. Okay, I also see that she is wearing WAY too much eye makeup for 2:00 in the afternoon, and her pants are at least twice as snug as mine. Good. Starting to feel better already.

    I avoid eye contact with every one who's boarding the plane, because I know the Crazy Plane Bomber is scoping out all of us, looking for the weakest person that he can use as a hostage.  I will NOT be the Weak Link. I button up my Lands' End jacket, turning it into a sort of Comfort Coat, like the ones they put on dogs during a thunderstorm. I'm so hot I could pass out.

    The plane takes off, and because my husband sprang for First Class seats (to keep me from peeing my pants in the middle seat, which I swore I would), the Flight Attendant (Ms. Uber Tight Pants) immediately asks me if I want a drink. "Shit, yeah!" I hear myself say, then add to soften that faux pas, "HA! Oh, no, no, not right yet..." Jeff orders a Bloody Mary, which I try not to read too much into. I relax. I take a sip of his drink, and look at Ms. Uber Tight Pants. She looks relaxed. (I like to gauge my panic on how panic-stricken the Flight Attendants look.)

     Right about then, Jeff asks me to hold onto his drink: he's going to the bathroom. I balance his glass on my "lap tray", feigning nonchalance: I fly all the time, and I am very, very cosmopolitan, despite the fact that I am wearing a Lands' End Jacket as a strait jacket/ Canine Comfort Coat. The captain's voice comes on the loud speaker. He's got a folksy, "I'm-from-Hotel-6, and-we'll-leave-the-lights-on-for-ya" kind of voice:

    "This is your pilot speaking, folks, and we're experiencing a bit of bumpy air, so we're climbing to 35 thousand gazillion feet in order to avoid the turbulence that will make you lunge for your Airsickness Bags. Keep your seat belts on so that we can identify the bodies when we plummet those 35 thousand gazillion feet to Earth. "

    I know he didn't say all of that, but he was thinking it. I looked at Ms. U. Tight Pants; she looks okay, but uncomfortable. Could be the pants. And as I stare at her, and listen to the Pilot, the glass-- filled with a very cold, icy Bloody Mary-- slowly slides down the lap tray, and without fanfare, slips off the tray, and lands in my lap. The Fight Attendant blinks at it.

    "Oooops," she smiles, "Do you think he might want another Bloody Mary?"

    Thoughts run through my head, most of them unprintable... basically what I want to spit out is this: "My crotch is full of ice, tomato juice, and lime: how 'bout a freakin' napkin, rhymes with Witch?"

    I (shakily, bravely, amazingly) just ask for some napkins, and she brings me a paper towel. One. I head to the bathroom, which is the size of my microwave. While I try to get more paper towels out of the dispenser on the wall, the entire dispenser falls off the wall and onto the floor. I'm now sweating profusely, I smell like tomato juice, and there are lime fragments all over my crotch. I will NOT pick up that paper towel dispenser from the disgusting floor: I will NOT be the Weak Link. Somehow, I leave the bathroom with my head high, and the paper towel dispenser still on the floor.

    Jeff looks at me as I sit down. He's drinking his (fresh) Bloody Mary. "Isn't this fun?" he smiles. "I told you, there's nothing to be afraid of...hey, Hon? Aren't you hot in that jacket?"
    





 

Chee Whiz

So this morning I went to Qi  (pronounced "chee") Gong (pronounced "gong") at my local library. I was late (natch), so I drove 70 miles an hour, trying to keep my head from exploding as I pulled into the parking lot on three wheels.

Why was I late? My biggest concern was my outfit: what does Grasshopper wear to Tai Chi/Qigong? I settled on black pull-on pants and what I like to think is my non-old-person t-shirt but translates into something from the 80's. I hoped I looked like Gloria Estefan in her Miami Sound Machine days. 

Not to worry:  as I walked into the building, I noticed the other gals ahead of me: lots of  pull-on pants, lots of sweatshirts with kittens frolicking on the fronts. I was definitely feeling cooler, but my jog/skip to catch up lessened that feeling exponentially.

The room was filled with gray haired women, all of them already sitting on their chairs. I, who had been jog/skipping to get there on time, was breathing so freaking stressfully, I couldn't be calmed down by a Jedi Master, much less Mr. Myagi. ("Use head for something other than target, Daniel.") And because the room was dimly lit (to protect the "chi", I guess, or just to keep the kittens quiet), I was squinting while still of course trying to smile: let's face it, I looked completely crazed.

"Pull yourself together, Grasshopper", I said, hopefully to myself. I took a chair from the back and sat down. The scraping and squeaking of the chair was horrifying.

"It is time to quiet ourselves and become The Turtle" intoned our group leader. "Quietly heal your mind for six minutes."

Now, I don't know if you've ever actually sat. still. for six minutes, but it is a long, long ass amount of time. I peeked at the gal next to me; she looked asleep. I tried to quiet my mind, but it kept talking. I peeked at the gal in front of me: seriously, where did she get a shirt that ugly? There was a man to the left; I believe he had actually passed out. I tried to think kind thoughts. I couldn't do it. I thought about writing this blog; that seemed so shallow, to use this lovely situation to write a snarky, sarcastic blog...

"Open your eyes, and breathe, breathe deeply. Now that we have healed our minds, we are ready to heal our bodies."

I knew I was doomed. We stood up, and proceeded to go through the 5 Qigong something or others that control/make up/bounce off our bodies. What the heck? I couldn't concentrate. I had no concept or left hand over the right, palm up, palm down, turn left, inhale, exhale. Basically I just tried to look very, very serene. I tried to look like a very, very serene turtle.

I tried to remember if I passed a Starbucks on the way here. I knew suddenly that I'd be playing some Miami Sound Machine on the way home, or maybe even going way back to ABBA...Chee whiz! I knew I was more of a Dancing Queen than a Grasshopper!  

"You can dance, you can jive, havin' the time of your liiiiiife...
 See that girl, watch that scene, digging the Dancing Queen..."

Warren Piece

By the time I was 8 years old, I knew I sucked at Math. It was a fact, a part of me, like being a short, middle child, with a phobic fear of crickets. I abhorred math; to this day, I still have trouble with the 9 times table. I have to start at 9 x 5, and work my way up or down. (God help me if I ever forget what 9 x 5 is...it's 46, right?)

Next to the phrase "nest of crickets", the words "Word Problems", to this day, make me want to run screaming from the room; once, in 4th grade, I did just that, and hid in the coat room for an hour. Being such a stellar student, no one actually missed me; I just got hungry for lunch and came out, nonchalantly wearing my coat.

Remember Nancy Kerrigan after she got whacked in the knee by Tanya Harding, wailing on the floor: "WHHYYY??? WHHHHYYY??". That heart-rendering drama show was actually first enacted by me, during the Math portion of The Iowa Test in 1958, when I read these words: 

If a train leaves Paddington Station at 2:25 on Wednesday, going 125 miles per hour through dense fog, what time would it arrive in Petticoat Junction, 58 miles away?

"WHHHYYYY? WHHHYYY?" Followed closely by "WHO CARES???"

Now, my father was a "Math Person", and although I know he thought the sun rose and set with me, I also know that he could never understand why his middle child was so damn stupid in math. I'd stare at a problem he was trying to explain, and see fairies dancing with dachshunds. He looked in my eyes, and could see the fairies dancing. I smiled. The dachshunds were so cute!

Here's the thing, though: I was an excellent reader. Loved to read: reading was my thing, fairly genius ability at reading, I think.  My father knew this, and was very proud (probably relieved that his only daughter, with absolutely no skills in long division, wouldn't be left homeless and destitute after all, as it appeared she did know how to read.)

But after the results of the Iowa Test came home, I needed to strengthen my status as Favorite Child, so I asked my father what book was the longest book he ever read; he told me, and I went directly to the library. I looked everywhere for this book, and finally went to the front desk, annoyed now because this search was severely cutting into my Nancy Drew and the Secret at Blackbird Pond reading time:

Me (petulantly, age 8): "I'm looking for a book, I think it's a biography, but I can't find it: can you please help me?" (Although petulant, I was also polite, this being the beginning of the "I have always relied on the kindness of strangers" phase of my life, as popularized by Scarlett O'Hara.)

Librarian (unimpressed, age 100): "What is the name of the book? Who is it about? " (Librarians obviously never used contractions when speaking, back in The Day.)

Me: "Warren Piece".

Librarian: "Never heard of it."

Now I knew this librarian chick had the Dewey Decimal System in her soul; she may even have had it tattooed somewhere on her body, she was Just. That. Good. So if she never heard of it, it just wasn't a freaking book. I told my father that later.

 "Dad!" (petulant doesn't even begin to cover it) "Warren Piece isn't the name of a real book, and WHHYYYY, WHHYYYY did you embarrass me like that?"

In response, I believe he sent me to my room to practice the 9 times table.

Hashtag: CrazyGoNuts

The world is full of Crazy, and any of us here on Earth is bound to step in Crazy at some point. I know I have. Here are two (very unrelated) examples of the kind of Crazy that gets the added descriptive title of CrazyGoNuts. You also might find these examples under this heading:
 Can You Top This? Honestly, I Don't Think You'll Be Able To.

The first example is something I recently saw while watching NOVA: the Nature Series, (and by that I mean The Voice: The Elimination Round.) The commercial came on, and there was Regular Old Ordinary Mom, playing a board game with her children. (Right there, you have to know that this Mom was suspect. The too-big smile, the wink at the child, the playing of a board game: she was obviously on leave from The Asylum for the day.) Then the announcer showed us the name of the game: Doggie Poo. Of course I was busy pouring myself another glass of wine when the damn commercial was on, so I missed the finer points of the game, but suffice it to say, the little plastic dog released a pellet of shit, I mean poo, and I'm not sure if that meant you won the game or lost the game, but everyone was having a really great time. (Hey: who wouldn't?!)

Mr. Webster, bless his alphabetical heart, has a word for this: scatology, the study of, or obsession with, excrement. Look it up. It's under "s", not "poo."

The second Crazy also deals with a bodily function. (Yes, I know some things should remain private: I'm just reporting on them.)  An acquaintance of mine recently met a wonderful man online. He was from Tunisia. She went over there, they were in love, they married, they came back to the U.S.A. All was happy happy joy joy. However, it came out in conversation, that Fred (no, of course it's not his real name; I think his real name is probably more Tunisianish, don't you?) had a hard time finding work in the States because his job back in Tunisia was "fertilizing the palm trees." What this actually meant was that he humped the palm trees until he, in Fred's own words, "spilled his manly juices on them."

Now, I'm not sure the fellas down at Scott's Weed 'N Feed know about that idea. They probably should go look at those palm trees in Tunisia; I bet they're happy little trees. I just hope someone's picking up all those Playboy Magazines at the base of each tree.

Hashtag: OMG.

Hashtag: You really can't top that, can you?

Social (In)Security

My husband Jeff and I recently had to go to our local Social Security office; needless to say, there really wasn't anything social about this call. We had been given information from another office that we weren't too sure about; the young woman who'd helped us there was not 100% clear. (Considering the fact that we were there because we are old, I thought she could have been more clear. )

Anyway, off we go to our local office to try to clarify this situation. A young man called our number. He, not for nothing, was wearing an old sweatshirt decorated with an eagle surrounded by feathers, and as he was as pasty-faced as I am, was NOT a Native American. He rather superciliously (for someone wearing a sweatshirt) informed us that we could not talk to him about it, we had to talk to our "original server", back in the other office. He gave us some information (that turned out to be wrong), and we left feeling very insecure, unsettled, and somewhat guilty for being so confused, a.k.a. stupid.

We went home, and we called our "original server". The message machine let us know that she was no longer "dealing with any cases unless your name starts with M through P". Since ours doesn't, we went back to our local office the very next day.

It was 9 A.M., and no one else was in the office except a Security Guard who, it's pretty fair to say, has seen his share of Big Macs, and Chief Raggedy-Ass Sweatshirt. He called our number, and we walked to his "office", which meant we sat in chairs facing him, with a sheet of glass protecting him from us. (A speaker was positioned in the glass so we could, in fact, communicate with him, although my husband continued to talk a little too loud; maybe he wasn't sure if the Chief spoke English or Lenni Lenape.)

We told him our sad story about not having a name that started with M through P, and he listened intently, blinking his eyes rather rapidly (I thought), then said "Well, I can't help you with your problem, because you have to make an appointment to discuss this."  I looked around the room; there was, still, no one else there. I raised my voice, and stated the obvious. There's. Nobody. Else. Here. I then used my sweetest smile, although Jeff told me later I had a rather pronounced facial tic going, and suggested "How's about you help us now, since there's no one else here?"

"No," he blinked, "you really have to have an appointment. It's the Rule."

Time stood still. I looked over at the Security Guard, who was watching the Today Show. The glass partition was an impediment, but I really thought I could find a way around it. I felt lightheaded; I wanted to revert to base, impolite behavior and call this kid a name, like Chief Whackjob, but I held my tongue. After a minute, he gave us our new appointment:

"You can come in tomorrow at 9 A.M."

I looked again at the Security Guard; he was pretty fat, and Matt Lauer and the Today Show Gang were being particularly enchanting... I knew I could get my hands around this kid's skinny neck before the Guard even got up from his chair. I stared at him, and in my most defiant, middle-income, retired lady manner  said,

"Seriously?"

I actually half rose in my chair. Jeff put one restraining hand on my knee; he was more in tune with the fact that the Security Guard also half rose in his chair, and was now much more interested in what I was doing than what Al Roker was doing. I sat back down: did Security Guards have a license to Bear Arms? Probably. Hey, if this idiotic, Native American Wannabe could make us come back in 24 hours to do the exact same thing he could do right the heck now, well, fatso over there could be packing something Smith and Wesson-ish, am I right?

But, there's a happy ending to this tale, and it is this: when we went back the next day, our appointment wasn't with Chief NumbNuts. Instead, a very knowledgeable and understanding woman helped us through the quagmire, and I even got a chance to tattle on the Chief, as he had indeed given us the wrong information. So there.

I had to resist the urge, on the way out, to walk by his "office"/glass partition and tell him to Number 1, get your facts straight, and #2, lose the eagle sweatshirt and wear a shirt and tie; you're a Public Servant, damn it. I had to resist because the Security Guard was now watching me constantly, with his hand resting on something, and I'm pretty sure it wasn't a Happy Meal.

Urologists, Podiatrists, Gynecologists, Oh My

As you get older, you find yourself seeing a variety of physicians, not because you want to, but because, well, you're old. You're falling apart. Things that used to work just fine are now...not. You find yourself using onomatopoetic words like creaking and popping; you hear yourself saying "My (fill in the blank) is KILLING me!" with great frequency. It kind of sucks.

So, I go to the doctor, and as I sit there waiting for him/her, I look around the room, carefully noticing the corners of the room and the baseboards to see if they're clean, because this is as important to me as that framed graduation announcement from Johns Hopkins or God forbid, some ridiculous school I never heard of (Wait, he only went THERE?). And then I start to wonder why this person chose this line of work in the first place.

I mean, on Choose Your Specialty Day at Doctor School, did he sit around and think, "Yeah, I'd like to look up people's asses all day..." or "Yeah, I think I can help all Womenkind by putting their feet up in stirrups and peering into their coochies..." and then there are the Foot Doctors...

Podiatrists, natch, had a foot fetish going for years, way before they got into Foot Doctor School. Otherwise, how do you explain someone willingly  touching, or should we just say it, wanting to fondle feet all day long? (And these are not "foot model" feet, by any means.) I can't even stand looking at my own feet, and don't even get me started on my husband's feet; he begged me to cut his toenails once, and I reminded him I had a pre-nup with this very clause.

It all makes for interesting thinking as you wait for whatever Specialty you need to see. It'll take your mind off the fact that the next person who comes into the room is going to look at parts of you that will never, ever see the sun shine: and this person actually chose to look there, over and over, for the rest of his life. Oh my.

Creepy, but God bless. You're a better man than I am, Gunga Din...no matter what crummy school you went to, you rock.

Showers: Wedding and Baby

As far as parties go, I don't think there's anything more boring than a Baby Shower or Wedding Shower.
This whole tradition has morphed into written invitations, renting a venue, catering the gig, and of course, buying the gift:  it's kind of crazy. Hallmark set the Standard years ago: let's use this momentous occasion to eek out as much cash as we can, in the name of Love.

Don't get me wrong. I think it's lovely to give someone a gift when he/she is getting married or having a baby. But why do large groups of women have to be corralled into a restaurant or someone's too small living room, and watch for what seems like a freaking eternity while the guest of honor opens every single present? And you can't tell me that everyone's not thinking the same thing: is my gift big/cool/unique enough, compared to all those others? 

And when that many women (and let's face it, it's almost exclusively women, because women have always been the Gatherers, while the Hunters are obviously allowed to stay home, hunting for TV shows) get together in one room, other comparisons are palpable. Oh come on, you don't think other women are looking you over to see what you're wearing, how high your heels are, and why in God's name you are wearing your hair like that...

Get serious. I've seen The Glance, and so have you. The quick uptoyourheadthendowntoyourshoes glance that lasts a nano second. The visual equivalent of an airport metal detector, or the pat down in Women's Prison. (Maybe I'm overly sensitive because at the last shower I attended, my 97 year old aunt leaned over and whispered, "We're the only ones in the room with gray hair". Or maybe I've just binge watched too many episodes of Orange is the New Black.)

But I digress.

So yes, people should get gifts when they get married, or have babies: they are certainly Gift Appropriate Occasions, as they both mark happy days and sleepless nights: major lifestyle changes. But come on: just give them the gift already! Have a party, too, if you want, but don't make us sit there while you open every stinkin gift. Play music, serve lots of wine, and we won't get bored, we'll have loads of fun.

And if we get The Glance, we'll give it right the hell back.

Marriage Vows: Promises or Guidelines?

Everyone knows that Marriage Vows are archaic; that’s why so many people embarrass themselves by trying to write their own. (Hey, maybe if we reword this, and throw in this romantic/New Age/Dr. Seussical poem, it’ll seem less of a promise, more of just a Guideline...)

Please.

It doesn’t matter what you write, what you say, or what you do or do not promise. When push comes to shove, and by push comes to shove I mean when one of you gets a stomach bug that sticks around for way, way, way longer than 24 hours, will the Lovelight still shine in your eyes?

                       “Till Death, or Bodily Fluids, Do Us Part.”

And how about camping? Come on: women who say they like camping are freaking lying through their teeth. If He wanted us to camp, why did God tell Howard Johnson to create motels and serve up an awesome hot dog that we all know wasn’t cooked on a Coleman Stove?

I mean, if you are a nomad, living in the desert, and you have a tent, that’s fine. But I’ll never, ever promise to vacation in something made of canvas, or on wheels: for me, RV stands for Really Vicious, because that’s what I’ll become if forced to vacation in one.

Right now, my cousin and her husband are on a two month trip in an RV, with a living space that measures about 9 feet by 20 feet.  With an 80 pound black lab. They truly are an extremely fun, intelligent, and adventurous couple: their dog is also very fun. But for me, spending that amount of time, in that small of a space with my Beloved, would be like, seriously, Dante’s 10th circle of hell.

                      “Til Death, or You Buy a Coleman Stove, Do Us Part.”

Ok, call me jaded. Call me anti-wedding poetry, call me a Camping Hater. Call me whatever the hell you want, just know this: I think those vows really are just guidelines, with plenty of room for interpretation, and by interpretation, I mean when horrible things happen, what is really meant by   “obey”? (I love you, yes, but while you’re puking, I’m going to TJ Maxx: clean up after yourself, OK?)

So during your wedding ceremony, when it’s time for the Vows, how about you cross your fingers behind all that white tulle you’ve got on, and instead of saying “I do”,  shrug and say ... “Yeah, I guess so...”

Music will play, people will cry: I’ll be crying, because I cry at every wedding, even strangers’ weddings on TV; Pachelbel’s Canon in D Major plays, and I’m sobbing.

If I find out you’re going camping on your honeymoon, I’ll cry even harder. And you can bet that somewhere in heaven, Howard Johnson is crying too.

Cleavage

Here’s the thing: there are two types of Cleavage Situations today. There’s the Look At Me, I  have Boobs!Cleavage, and the I’m Boney but Beautiful! Cleavage. I’m not a fan of either. I mean, come on, Big Cleavage is an artificial body part, because it’s not really there unless you make it:. squeeze some fatty parts together and there it is, big cleavage. Wait, you’re a model/actress, with no fatty parts? Then I’m sure you’re not at all artificial.

And guess what? Cleavage Situations are freaking everywhere. In the category of Look at Me! I Have Boobs!: Giada cooks her chicken parm with cleavage; my banker talks about money with cleavage, and the news chicks often like to talk about the fires and shootings with their cleavage. Why? Are we supposed to look at your pushed together breast crack, or listen to your fascinating information about ingredients/moneymarkets/shootings? (Confusing for us, isn’t it?)

And the I’m Boney but Beautiful! Category isn’t much better. OK, I’ll come clean: In 6th grade, Gary Hammerslag said that I was “a carpenter’s dream: flat as a board.” I hated Gary for a while, but then I realized that my boobs (hopefully) would grow (a bit), but he would always be an ass. But did I ever put my boney nonbreasts out there on display? Of course not: my clothes all had a little something called fronts. But these days, it seems the more drop dead gorgeous a model or actress is, the more Chestbone Structure we see. It reminds me of the story The Emperor’s New Clothes...no one has the nerve to tell these beautiful, famous women that they’re missing the front of their dress; people are too busy fawning over them.

So here’s what I’d like to say to both categories of misguided women: cover the hell up. So you’ve got tits, or you don’t got tits...why do you have to show us?  Go about your business, (whatever it might be), avoid the fawning masses, and above all, avoid Gary Hammerslag.

He’s probably still an ass.

Beatitudes for Blogging

So here I am, writing my first blog. In a word... intimidating.

   There will be mind meandering, word wandering, and probably way too much time talking about myself. Or more to the point, it’s my take on things, my Point of View...oh let’s face it, it just makes me feel more productive than sitting around all day watching episodes of “Property Brothers” (which one do you like better, Jonathan or Drew?) and it’s also my  Johnny-come-lately attempt to embrace the Computer Age. (Better late than never, my father used to say; my mother used to say, "Sometimes for fashion, you have to suffer" ...but that’s a thought for another day…)

I’ll try really hard not to let my Stupid air out too much; people don’t need to read my Stupid, they have their own perfectly good Stupid.

I’ll try not to curse. 

I’ll misuse colons and semicolons constantly, but I do LOVE me some capitals, and italics can never be used enough, don’t you think?

I intend to enjoy myself, as opposed to edit myself; hell, I do that enough in Real Life, why should I do that here? 

I’ll try not to curse. 

I’ll write about friends and family, whether they like it or not, and the dead will rise again, since I’ll write about them, too. They won’t critique me like my friends and family will, and I’m relieved about that: 

Blessed are the dead, because they can’t critique your blog.

Nothing like a Beatitude to wrap up your very first blog.

    Before I sign off, I want to give a shout out to my new Library Tech Guy, Jeff, who has the most amazing ability to teach an old dog new tricks without once laughing at said dog, not even smirking, although he started rolling up newspaper once. This exchange was at our first meeting:

Me: ( sounding like I was at an AA meeting) Hi, my name is Susan, and I’m a non blogger.

Jeff: O.K., great, let’s get you set up! Have you thought of a name for your blog?

Me: (cagey) Yeah, I have a few. (Read off several half-assed names from my list,)

Jeff: Good, good, which one are you going to use, then?

Me: (staring at list, which only has half-assed names) Not sure…

Very long pause, at which time I picture myself running crazily from the room; I picture myself  back on my couch, watching Property Brothers and drinking wine and eating Cheez-its: what was I thinking, trying to enter this world? I was like Ma Kettle trying to hang out with the Klingons.

Jeff: Hey! How ‘bout we try this...

    And he led me calmly and matter-of-factly through the wilderness: not a single smirk was seen, although I’m pretty sure I heard a snort from the girl at the desk across the room.

Blessed are the Geeks, for their earnestness will forever be a strong, kind light in the scary mysteries of technology.

Thank you, Jeff. See you next time.