Monday, June 17, 2013

Bedroom Crime Scene

I hate hate hate bugs. So imagine my shock and horror when I walked into my bedroom and there on the floor was a crusty creature as big as a lobster.  Yes, I swear it was a lobster size insect.  I screamed.  It lay there.  I ran around in a circle not knowing what to do.  "Oh my God, oh my God" was all I could choke out as I spun around.  I called frantically for my trusty Yellow Lab "Potato" and his mighty Australian Shephard sidekick "Wiggie" for back-up.  Surely one of my furry boys would go after the giant bug and save the day.   "Wiggie, get 'em boy."   Nothing.  He took a sniff and left the room.  I thought I could appeal to Potatoe's love of anything edible.  "Go Potato go, he looks yummy. "  The dog would eat toxic waste yet could not work up an appetite for my uninvited guest.  I was cursed, totally grossed out and started to feel itchy.  But ah ha I had one last weapon in my animal arsenal...the cat! "Missie come quick I need your feline ferocity."  She stared at me and walked the other way. 

What was I to do?  Should I kill it or name it?  I had to get in my room to sleep. I thought about just packing up and moving.  My blood pressure was dropping rapidly yet knew I had to act.  It's lobster creature or me.  Which briefly reminded me of the scene in "Annie Hall" when the lobster got lose on the kitchen floor but that was funnier.   This felt more like "High Noon."  (If anyone reading is an insect hugger stop reading now. )   

I was barefoot.  I needed a weapon. A baseball bat would have been perfect or musket but no such luck, just a shoe was available.  It was me and the shoe poised to act.  I didn't know if my cute Kate Spade open toed sandal could crush the creature in one blow and I was couldn't.  Arghhhh.  It got ugly and quite messy but I perservered.  I had a crime scene on my hands.  Yes, I probably watch too much TV as I envisioned the police taping around the body and asking for witnesses.  I think the cat would squeel and send me off in an orange jump suit. 

As I threw out the untidy remains I sadly realized I would never be able to eat lobster again.

Wednesday, June 12, 2013

Outsmarted by My Phone

I confess, my new smart phone is smarter than I am. Yep, it's true, no contest.  Hands down the phone wins.  It doesn't matter that I went to college , was an English major and read a lot of books - no siree, symbolism, metaphors, similes, allegory have nothin' on my new shiny Galaxy s4.  It doesn't care that Moby Dick wasn't just a whale or poor Hester Prinn had to wear a scarlet letter or whether or not it was "the best or worst of times" nope the horrid little machine has made a mockery of me .  My brain is full of the wrong informtion.  And all these years I thought I was smart.  I'm so over.

Admitedly the pressure to posses a smart phone became too great.  I was laughed at by my peer group and even children under 12 because I didn't have one.  I began to feel unpopular which reminded me I wasn't picked for the cheerleading squad in high school although years of therapy helped.  Truthfully I was happy with my not-so-smart phone.  It had a keyboard that was like a typewriter not the surface of a skating rink like my new device.  My typing skills are useless as I miss every letter and have now resigned myself to the new spelling of my name - "Fsuj."  I have yet to figure out how to answer the phone and simply stare at it when it rings. As for all the pictures I planned on taking and sending to friends and family - not happening.  I saw myself in the view finder by mistake and needed a Valium.  I can "swipe" the screen and find technological happiness according to the critics.  Who are these people and shouldn't they get out more?

I have one more day to decide the fate of my Galaxy s4 and whether or not we have a future.  Tomorrow is the return deadline. The folks at the Verizon store hide shaking in the back when they see me, as I now spend all my free time there begging for help and counseling.  I feel like the techno Hamlet - "To return or not to return?" I believe my friend Gregg has a Vegas line going on the fate of the phone. Call me asap if you think you can help...but then again I don't know how to pick up.

Monday, February 25, 2013

I Out "Carried" Carrie Bradshaw

I out "Carried" Carrie Bradshaw.  Yep, I have left Carrie in the dust.  I admit I could never compete with her in the shoe department or was ever brave enough to wear some of her crazy looking outfits but now at long last Carrie has nothin' on me in the break-up arena.  Nope, I can now declare myself the winner and probably long term champion of ways in which to be dumped.  I remember the poor girl's plight when she woke up to a break-up post-it note from her boyfriend Berger.  Oh no not a post-it!  Who does that?  Who steals off in the wee hours of the morning leaving a tiny yellow piece of paper that reads "I can't do this."  A slam dunk of a break-up I'd say.  It left a pit in my stomach as I swore at him on my TV screen.  "You're an asshole, who does such a heartless, cowardly thing!?" My heart went out to her as our little Carrie was stunned and sickened by the short and hideous content stuck to her kitchen cabinet. My girl was in tears not knowing how it went so wrong so quickly.  Only 12 hours earlier they were a happy couple and then presto chango a post-it stated they were over.  It left me with a small rash yet incredibly relieved it was a TV show and not real life.

Real life is so much worse.  I didn't meet the young hot groovy Berger I met a 72 year old man with hair which is pretty much a perk past the age of 55.   He was in decent shape which translates into his stomach didn't hang too far over his belt.  Yet, he was smart, had a great laugh and seemed to love being in my company.  He followed me like a sweet odd puppy looking for home.  My Berger just wanted to do what I wanted to do when he wasn't golfing.  We ate , drank, and seemed pretty damn merry.  He grew on me as we laughed at the same things, had a similiar quirky outlook on life and he gave me piggy back rides which is a real deal closer for me. What did I miss? Was it something he said that should have flashed a giant warning "RUN GAIL RUN!"  While I ordered wine at dinner on date two he talked about sex.  Did I like sex?  Did I want to have sex? When were we going to have sex? Today, tomorrow, the next day? When, when when? I should have called a cab. 

Sex?  Of course I liked sex, I was a girl of the 1970s.  I was a bra burner, a hippy chick who appreciated a hot guy with a great pony tail and good weed.  Was my 72 year old Berger shittin' me?  But more importantly why was he obsessed with the subject?  Shouldn't he be worried about his cholesterol or cataracts?  And why didn't I stick to my "we need to know each other better" rule?  He wiggled his way into my life with words like "I'm absolutely crazy about you", "you make me happy", "you're good for me" and the phrase de resistance "I have never had such a great time with anyone."  Zing went my old heartstrings. 

I did what Carrie would have done - had sex. First time sex after the age of 55 does not resemble 29 year old sex.  Srambling for Viagra and Astro Glide  does not beg spontanaity.  I'm hoping he doesn't turn blue or have to be hospitalized with an erection that lasts more than four hours and he's complaining about the greasy lotion ruining his Egyptian cotton sheets. And getting a first look at  a 72 year old male body can also set back eroticism until  the shock wears off. It definitely makes me re-think the notion of senior citizen chemistry.  What are these old guys talking about in their insistence on this magical state - have they looked in the mirror lately?   You might say having sex is like riding a bike - except your fancy 10 speed has turned into a rusty old Schwinn.  Sex does not get better with age but if given time and caring it can be warmer more intimate and wonderful.  TIME!?  My old Berger didn't have time no matter how "absolutely crazy" he was about me or how "happy" I made him.  Time was not on my side.

While I thought our sex life was improving with every attempt he must have been thinking it was falling short of internet porn, which I think is the new standard by which women must perform.  Not being an aficianado of these sites I had no idea what my competition was and if I could possibly measure up.  I never had a chance.  My affection for him was growing with each date and I knew that good sex was on the horizon.  But my 72 year old Berger had no interest in "growing affection" he was on the hunt for a porn girl. I have to repeat...."has he looked in mirror lately?"  If so it's the magic kind. 

The rest of our relationship ironically was magic.  We cracked each other up, and actually ran around town like two adolescents ditching school.  I hadn't had that much out right fun with anyone in years.  If only I had a dollar for every time he told me how "absolutely crazy" he was about me I could have bought a pair of Carrie's fabulous Manolos.   I was happy and unprepared.  

It was a Tuesday at 4:45 when I got a text from old Berger.  He often texted me sweet messages during the day so expecting another cute note I hurriedly clicked to read it.  "I am abosolutely crazy about you but want to break up."  Take that Carrie Bradshaw!  I got you good.  Much like Carrie I practically stumbled to my knees.  Ambushed by my 72 year old Berger with the 21st century post-it...a text. 

I could go on and tell you about the subsequent phone call but it's pointless as the message said it all.  My heart was broken.  The only consolation I had was realizing I out "Carried" Carrie Bradshaw.

Monday, December 12, 2011

Men on Sale at

I hate to shop no less shopping during a big sale when the stores are mobbed with crazed/psycho bargain hunters. "Last Call" at Neimans almost sent me back to therapy. I was dazed, confused and sweaty rifling through the endless racks of merchandise and started to question my sexuality. My Mother however, is an "extreme" shopper. I witnessed her dive and actually disappear into a pile of clothes and appear 10 minutes later waving a black sweater. She has no fear and very good lung capacity. I am cheap which is a "Catch 22" as I disdain shopping yet tempted by a sale. So when I saw was running one I decided to try it again. Men on sale hmmmm, now that sounded a lot better than retail. In my experience I always ended up returning "full" priced men.

Yet in my heart of hearts, what could I expect from a "marked down" man? Was it "last call" at Everyone must go to make room for the new Winter line of guys? I got nervous thinking the remainder bin would be filled with short, beefy, and bald. But like I said I'm cheap so I clicked "join." Any seasoned shopper would have rolled up her sleeves and started plowing through the racks and racks of men. Armed with antacids and Cabernet, I judiciously read through the emails that came my way. I mistrusted misspellings, poor sentence structure, and use of the so-called word "irregardless" as I knew these sale boys were not for an English major. I hand picked a few marked down guys and ventured out for wine/coffee. I hoped against all odds that there was a forgotten "Armani" man left at the bottom of the bin and if I could be like Mom and dive down there I'd find him.

Ah yes I quickly remembered why I don't shop sales. There was "Appetizer Man" who ate them all himself and didn't ask why I wasn't eating as he was too busy wanting to know if I had money or assets. "Mr. Cock-eyed Conservative" repeatedly called Berkeley, Bezerkely . "Goldfinger" who wore more jewelry than I have ever owned. "Mr. Whoopsie I Forgot" who wrote we had so much in common I should call him. I emailed back to remind him he took me out two years ago... damaged goods? I especially liked "No Eye Contact Man" who was so busy looking around he wouldn't have noticed had I left. I did get a lovely flattering note from a man my son's age. Not remotely tempting for fear he might slip and call me "Mom" - too Oedipal even for an English major.

The sale ends in January but I have shopping fatigue. I hope Mom isn't too disappointed that I don't have the lung capacity or nerve to dive in the sale bin again. Now where did I put the Tums?

Monday, October 31, 2011

Kim Kardashian Say It Isn't So!

Uh oh I just read the breaking earth shattering news on my computer - Kim Kardashian and "what's his name" are filing for divorce. Shock and awe baby! Their four day romance had restored my faith in quick and inappropriate couplings. I was just going to join a dating service devoted to matching me with retired NBA or NFL stars. Yes siree I thought an aging hunched over 7 foot center or beefy ex 480 pound offensive lineman was just a click away. I'm a realist and know I don't have a snowball's chance in hell in snatching a current player when I'm in competition with a crafty giant breasted Kardashian. Kim darlin' maybe next time you should opt for an NHL player as you've dated or married your way through football and basketball. And let's face it "what's his name" was way too tall for you. It looked kind of goofy. Reggie Bush was more your size, and I bet you two had a lot in common.

I am so glad I didn't send a wedding gift as what a waste of money that would have been. I think it's only appropriate to return gifts from a marriage that lasts less than 73 days don't you? Although it could take years to return all the presents, but at least that will give Papa Bruce something to do. And btw, "Bruce, please no more plastic surgery and get a new colorist." I wonder if they'll split the giant diamond ring in half in the property settlement? Personally I thought it was too big and money better spent feeding a third world country.

Ryan Seacrest said, and after all he is like Walter Cronkite to an entire generation, that Kim didn't want to live in Minnesota. It's really hard to wear high heels in the snow which could have been a factor. Rumor has it the soon to be ex groom was surprised to learn she filed for divorce. Funny, because I wasn't. He said he'll do anything to save the marriage. Awwwww, that is so sweet but not happening. Another fairy tale wedding in the toilet. Is "happily ever after" only 72 days long? That does however take the pressure off "til death do us part."

Friday, October 14, 2011

Who Wants to be President?

I'm for no one who is marching to the White House. Besides which isn't it too early to fill one's brain with political jabberwocky? I have enough things on my mind no less spend time remembering who is running for President and who changed their mind and decided to stay home with their family or get a really high paying job as a political analyst. It really isn't a job for a family person is it? We need more divorced candidates. Come to think of it being President is a crappy job. Face it everyone ends up hating you. We're fickle folks out here in the false move and you're SOL. And the ultimate irony is if we do change our minds and applaud your accomplishments or think you weren't so bad after all.... you're dead. Ha! Except for Bill - let's all say a big collective "we're sorry" because face it, we miss him. I wonder if he needs a job.

I've lost track of who's running for President vs. who's running for cover. I think Michele and Sarah have left the building. Trust me girls shopping for cute winter clothes will be a lot more rewarding. Be sure and check out the skinny corduroy jeans at J.Crew. I bought them in two colors, but I digress. So who's left and who cares? I really like pizza so it's easy to remember the guy who knows a lot about crust and good toppings. I didn't do very well in high school biology dissecting a frog so anyone whose name is Newt I have to say a big slimy "no." That leaves us a Mormon and a Texan. Whoa buckaroos ain't we got fun? They both have a full head of hair and nice teeth. Although the Presidency is very hard on hair - it seems to fly off their heads. We do like young good looking candidates however so it could be a beauty contest that boils down to the swim suit competition.

There is one candidate for sure of course, the sitting President; although there was some teenie tiny rumor that Hillary could be in the wings. And is there a collective "We're sorry" for her also? I'm burying my head in the sand until the slug-fest for the Oval Office is over. In the meantime, some of you divorced folks think about running.

Monday, October 3, 2011

My First Kiss, Fact or Fiction?

Do you remember your first kiss? I do. Or I thought I did. I would have sworn on a stack of bibles, testified in a court of law, taken a lie detector test, or bet my first born that my first real kiss was from Doug Croft. I'm embarrassed to admit that it didn't happen until high school as I was way behind the curve. There was a lot of kissing going on in middle school, just not with me. I was slow dancing but not kissing. Nope, it wasn't until Freshman year that I found myself in the "Oh my God I think he's going to kiss me" position. I was so nervous. Mr. First Kiss was adorable. I had a crush on him but never thought he'd reciprocate as he was an upper classman and hung out with cheerleaders. Oh how I longed to be a cheerleader as that was the sure fire route to popularity and kissing. Unfortunately I wasn't perky enough and truthfully this white girl couldn't jump.

I remember everything about that kiss. Doug drove me over to his house after school in his sexy little sports car which dazzled me. He took my hand and we walked around back to his swimming pool- the setting was very "Town and Country." Then in one instant as we stood by the pool he leaned down and kissed me. A moment I will never forget but a kiss I would. "Is this it? This is what all the hoopla is about? This is kissing on the lips? Ewwww," was the bubble over my head. I didn't chip any teeth which was a blessing because they were finally straight from years of braces. My lip wasn't bleeding either which was good as it could have stained the collar on my new Villager blouse. We never kissed again. And that's the story of my first kiss.

Not exactly- there is now evidence to the contrary. All the years of believing my first kiss was Doug Croft have been challenged. Harry Haskell has come forward out of the blue and claimed that he kissed me at a Bar Mitzvah party out on a golf course in 8th grade. What?! Au contraire I declared, but he begged to differ. To make matters more confusing he stated that he could produce a witness. Jonathan Tucker apparently was there and saw him kiss me which is kind of "Peeping Tom-ish" but also very CSI. Was my first kiss memory a myth? I have no"Town and Country" sexy sports car story if Harry is right. It will take a period of adjustment and perhaps medication or therapy to come to terms with the fact that my first kiss was really my second.