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 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 Match.com

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 Match.com 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 Match.com? 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?