Tuesday, April 18, 2017

You're Never Too Old to be Ten Again

Ouch! Ouch! And OMG are you freaking kidding me?!  How and why are women submitting to what seems to be the "extreme sport" of beauty?  What's even crazier to me is why anyone would want to become prepubescent all over again. It was hard enough when I was wishing and hoping for breasts; obsessing that I would never have a reason to trade my little white undershirts for a bra.  To say nothing of the nightmare of wearing anklets before my Mother let me shave my legs. I felt doomed to a life in my bedroom.  After all I couldn't go to a boy/girl party looking more primate than Homo Sapien. Ah the wonderful childhood memories of hairy legs and a flat chest. Now decades later on the horizon lies a question I could never have imagined.

To Brazilian or not to Brazilian and am I really asking myself this question? Incidentally I don't mean a trip to Rio, or good strong cup of coffee. I am also not talking about the ridiculously expensive  but gloriously humidity defying Brazilian Blow-Out which btw my hair could use right now.  Oh no I am talking about the bikini wax gone rogue, the mother of all waxes, the kill me now waxing of all pubic hair. Whose idea was this?  Is Kate Moss behind the conspiracy as she looks oddly hairless?  

Decades after going thru puberty, I should now consider being 10 again?  Even more surprising was that a man told me about this new beauty regimen and yes I was dating him. "You talkin' to me Mister?"  I became weak, sweaty and oddly itchy.  A mind numbing bikini wax isn't enough?  Consensus, I desperately needed consensus! Was every woman hairless?  Did I miss the memo? Is this the new normal? I needed data quick!  I collected answers from my male inner circle regardless of my burning desire to ask every man and woman I saw in Starbucks.  A non fat grande mocha skim latte or Brazilian wax?

Data is a mixed blessing.  From my male friends I heard two words more associated with aviation than a beauty must - landing strip and runway. I wasn't deterred by my visual confusion or urge to book a vacation as I queried my women friends.  Oddly they were less adventurous and not venturing further north than a bikini wax.  Trying not to get arrested I looked around the locker room at the gym.. whew, filled with women afraid to fly.  Is a sign a "sign?"  I saw plastered in the window of a beauty salon - "Brazilian Waxing Special 30% off on Regular Price  $50 now $35... Only Tuesday." 

It was Wednesday.  

Wednesday, April 5, 2017

Sex, Prunes and the Sahara

Recently on a Match.com date a 76 year old man asked me if women over 60 still want to have sex.  Btw , just as a warning he stated on his profile that he was 66; funny math I'd say.  And men protest that women fudge the numbers! Geez. Hearing his query I had to wonder if he was having a stroke or was that his best "line" to get me in bed. Should I rip off my blouse and jump up yelling "yes, yes, yes I will prove we do" or call an ambulance?  I stared to see if his mouth was drooping as he continued to explain that his friends have told him menopausal and post menopausal women turn into shriveled up prunes drier than the Sahara. Hmmm his friends are well traveled and constipated. He also cited that he had never slept with a woman over 60 as his ex-wife was 20 years younger than he.  How's that for seduction?  Hot or not?

Mother Nature does play a cruel trick on women. Just when the kids are gone or we finally have some free time for hot sex our hormones say "hasta la bye-bye." Desire still reigns, but so long to dewy skin, thick hair,a waist line, a good night's sleep and yes, lubrication. Ouch.  I admit I wasn't prepared for this sleight of hand and shock with no "awe" seemed to be my future. To add insult to injury Big Pharma flooded the market with Blue M and M's (Viagra).  The years men were supposed to be in sexual sync with women were poof(!), gone in a nano second.  Prescriptions in hand the old guys came roaring back to life. A veritable stampede of bulging stomachs, balding heads, neckless, chinless, and wrinkled men were wondering if I was a dried up prune and if so, out of their way as younger models certainly were anxiously awaiting. Got big bucks boys?

Apparently my prudishness has become prunishness.  Armed with my game changing personal version of WD40 I would definitely say "yes" if I met an age appropriate man to whom I was attracted.  It's a lot like the vast empty desolate landscape of the Sahara out there in my man land.  Prune danish anyone?





Friday, March 24, 2017

Big Pharma and Little Me

Help me, I'm an addict, a main liner, wide eyed, shaking and itchy waiting for my next fix.  Get those commercials about Viagra off my screen, as who has time for sex when there is 24/7 BREAKING NEWS?  And geez has it ever been more addicting?  Come on, this makes my Watergate years seem like "Introduction to Scandal 101." It's the big time baby. As terrified as I am of needles I have stuck the news needle in my arm and there is no emergency number to call or quick fix. Ironically, there is a drug that can save you from a heroin overdose, but has big Pharma come up with one for my addiction - no! Come on pharmaceutical boys I need an antidote. 

I admit I was in a weakened state as fatigue set in after 16 months on the campaign trail. And feeling so certain my girl would triumph, the plunge to her political death almost sent me to the ER.  Shock and dismay I'd say.  I sulked around in funerary attire for weeks and ate copious amounts of Oreos, which did not lessen my sadness but did ruin a perfectly good complexion.  I slapped myself into political alert after the inauguration.  Why was I licking my wounds and eating cookies when I should be safe guarding the country by watching news shows all day?  Dusk 'til dawn talking heads and the mind numbing, brain cell killing scroll at the bottom of the screen. 

I have too many friends now to keep track of: Brian Williams, Andersen Cooper, Van Jones (isn't he a hottie?), Don Lemon, David Gergen, Rachel Maddow, the ever enigmatic Greta Van Susteren (bi-political in my estimation) and scads of others. To say nothing of my personal spy operation over at FOX- very deep throat.  I have learned that news isn't always news but fake. And would you ever have guessed there's an alternative to reality without dropping acid? 

What ever happened to "no news is good news?"  There is no such thing as it bombards me every waking moment like a rapid fire machine gun: Obamacare, Trumpcare( he doesn't really care), Russian interference, pipelines, tax cuts, North Korea, China, wall building ( Mexico is never paying), Darth Vader (aka Steve Bannon), more military, less NPR; this is what my poor addled brain wakes up to and yet I lunge for the remote even before caffeine.

 I have searched the internet for a local exorcist to come free me of addiction as I fear a man of the clergy would be impotent in this area.  Hmmmm, Viagra? Big Pharma call me.

Thursday, March 9, 2017

A Little Dab'll Do Ya

I hate when I walk into a department store and the first thing that happens is sales people rushing towards me spraying bottles of perfume.  "No no, go away. Please, no perfume, it makes my eyes turn red and burn."  I frantically wave my hands in the air and run to the shoe department where my olfactory senses are safe.  My wallet is now in danger but I've spared my vision.  I never ever wear perfume; or at least not since high school when I would douse myself in Shalimar.  I can't help but wonder if that became a banned substance or an ingredient in Agent Orange?  At any rate ixnay to any odorous substance in my general vicinity.

I had a Match.com date recently who defied the laws of "a little dab'll do ya."  I sat down to have a drink with him in a local restaurant and was engulfed in a noxious cloud of cologne.  I think I went blind for a second.  He smiled, and  I tried not to have a seizure.  Why weren't his eyes red and watery but crystal clear and staring at my twitching upper lip.  I had no idea how long I could sit there without grabbing the nearest fire extinguisher and hosing him down so I stopped itching. Yes, I felt itchy.  Was the desire to coat himself in a foreign odor an evolutionary instinct so as to separate him from the apes?  And before that evening I would never date an ape, which I might now rethink.  Or could the act of swimming in cologne be an animal rite of sexual passage to insure fertility?  Whatever it is I was dying.  

I am not one to up and leave after 10 minutes regardless of a Match.com mismatch and have never used the pretend emergency phone call from a friend.  All I could do was take shallow breaths of air and drink.  He was a nice guy who happily showed me lovely pictures of his African safari and shared news of his upcoming surgery which interested me more, but put a hold on another date.  I politely opted out of a second glass of wine as I felt like my eyes were on fire and was becoming asthmatic.  He offered me a ride home because I had walked to the restaurant, but was terrified of getting in his car as being in an enclosed space would definitely ensure my having to take a shower strong enough to remove Plutonium.  

I walked home re-thinking my Match.com profile and decided to state that I was searching for a cologne free man or a primate.


Thursday, March 2, 2017

Mid Fork; a Tarnished Romance

I have no idea how to set a table.  Is the spoon the loner or paired with a fork?  And what about the knife? In a moment of table setting panic I feel like turning it on myself. Oh my God, what if there are two forks, then what - inside of the spoon, outside the knife? I'm dizzy and confused.  Uh oh, the napkin, who gets that?  The urge to sob into it seems like the proper use.  I'm getting a rash and holding inexplicable silverware.  I usually give up and throw myself on the mercy of the nearest human because EVERYONE  but me knows how to set a table. I've been instructed on numerous occasions and  just heard "blah, blah, blah". Going out to dinner is so much easier and doesn't require re-reading "When Bad Things Happen to Good People."

I  wasn't prepared for a fork to seek revenge or become an enemy agent.  Confused? So was I.  The surprise attack came on a vacation with my new boyfriend.  It started off however, with a really GOOD surprise ,a romantic mid Winter get away to La Jolla.  Adios, down parka ,down vest, neck warmer, scarf, hat, Timberland boots that weigh more than I do, and  pot holder style mittens.  The Michelin Man look soon to be replaced by skimpy cotton clothes - like a dream come true for this Winter hater.  The boyfriend even took me out shopping for lingerie, which seemed like a harbinger of desire.  

The airplane ride was uneventful, no reason to be anything but happy the Southern California coast was in my future.  I had brought enough clothing for a trip lasting a year,not 5 days, but "be prepared" was my fashion motto, picturing many outfit changes for all our fun filled activities.  We were staying at The Lodge at Torre Pines where one look at the green green golf course made me long to be a golfer and could I learn by dinner?  

With no time to unpack before our restaurant reservations I put on the outfit closest to the top of the giant pile in my suitcase, grabbed a pair of sexy high heels and headed down to the dining room.. Nothing unusual to report during the salad or first glass of wine, just idle chit chat about the lovely weather. The silverware seemed to be perfectly placed so I tried to take a mental picture for future reference (ha ha). Being someone who flunks idle chatter I changed the subject to something peripherally political?  I swear there was no mention of the name Trump.  We were in what I thought was the Trump Free Zone. I do however, remember using the words "weaponizing religion."  Now isn't that an interesting subject?  I thought so. Not when your partner thinks weapons aren't metaphors but real guns best used in a military context.  Bang!   

Can you say "conversational free fall?" There was no analogy, metaphor, parable, simile or part of speech that could change the course of events.  "I think you're taking this too seriously" did not work.  I could see the expression on his face morph into Darth Vadar, and his breathing became metallic.  I was not going over to the dark side so I gulped the remaining wine and glanced down at my Salmon.  When I looked up there was a fork coming at me loaded with medium rare Lamb Chop .Stop please stop, I promise I'll learn how to set a table.  Mid way across the table it came to a halt and he blurted out "This isn't going to work."  Huh?  Was I was officially on the shortest romantic get-away in history- less than 45 minutes?  I had no response other than to ask if the Lamb Chop was good. 

I got up, stared at the fork still hovered over the table, vowed to never learn its correct placement, , and took the next train to LA.




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 right....it 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 s5.  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 information.  And all these years I thought I was smart.  I'm so over.

Admittedly 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 s5 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.