I Hate New Year's Eve

Oh crap it's New Year's Eve. I can feel the pressure mounting. What am I doing? Where am I going? What will I wear? Does anyone like me? Is it too late to get a date? What if someone sees me home alone? Am I still in high school? Answers: nothing, nowhere, my pajamas, no, yes, yikes, and no. Why and when did this one night become a barometer of popularity ? And is there really such a thing as "popularity" once you're out of 12th grade? I long for the peace and quiet of 4th grade. I take that back, my last peaceful New Years was 2nd grade as if I recall correctly 3rd grade was the year I had a crush on Roger S. and realized he didn't like me. I was devastated and unpopular.

New Year's Eve is totally over-rated. Who can even stay up until midnight? I remember fondly when 12:00 a.m was a starting point. I wasn't tired, I was dressed and ready to go, go, go. Now I'm cranky and irritable if I'm up at 11:30. Who am I? The go go go girl has come and gone. I've morphed into "I'm tired and have to go home." Aside from my inability to remain conscious until midnight, the pressure to have fun is overwhelming. Does a good time involve party hats, noise makers and drugs once you're over 50? I look really bad in hats, most of my dates are hard of hearing so anything that makes noise is wasted, and the drug of choice is now an anti-inflamatory.

Only 14 hours and 10 minutes until midnight. I think I'll get a jump on the night and open a bottle of champagne now. I'll be asleep by noon. Happy New Year!

I Need New Years Resolutions Quick

Crap, another new year looms. It's resolution time again. The pressure to resolve something, anything ,mounts and I can't even remember what I resolved or didn't resolve last year. I know for certain I didn't vow to lose weight, but I think I did anyway. I'm sure this is a big bummer for people who have weight loss on the top of their list, but I recommend getting yourself in a state of high, mind bending anxiety and the pounds will melt away. Trust me on this and feel free to send any uneaten Twinkies, Hostess Cupcakes or Mounds bars my way. Uh oh, I'm pretty sure I said I would have a colonoscopy in 2009, but didn't. I bought a pair of silver Prada high heels instead. Colonoscopy? Prada? Colonoscopy? Prada? The shoes were cheaper.

Another year went by without having sex in the kitchen. I know, I know, it's on my list every year and I can't seem to get it checked off. I did however, see "Julie and Julia" which took place in the kitchen. I guess I should start taking applications in January and what if if I only interview men under 40? Hmmmmm 2010 is lookin' hopeful. Btw, Dan, don't worry you're safe. I could finally kick the "All My Children" habit or start a 12 step program for others like me. I know you're out there. I've given up on matching Erica Kane husband for husband. I don't have enough years left. I would however, like the name and phone number of her plastic surgeon because she's aging a hell or a lot better than I am. Curses. I'll never turn the channel.

There must be something to resolve. I could give up wine or whining. Why and whhhhhhhy? I could finally act like the Jewish Princess my mother dreamed I would become and shop "last call" at Neimans with her, but then I'd need to be medicated. I'm resolutionless with 3 days left. Help me!

Help bring Holiday Cheer to Elliot, my Yellow Lab

My Yellow Lab Elliot needs your help this holiday season. He wants a nice big crate so he never has to drive to Palm Springs with me again. He hates the car and knows I'm too cheap to buy the crate. He may not like airplanes either but I think it's safe to say he's willing to chance it. I saw daggers in his eyes as I packed suitcase after suitcase after suitcase. "Oy, she's leaving again? Didn't we just take this trip?" Poor thing perked up a little when he saw the bag of dog biscuits I had in my hand but it was short lived. When I opened the back door and told him to jump in he sat down. "Go Elliot go , I cheered. I promise we'll stop at nicer gas stations this year, and no more cheap motels either but please just jump in!" He didn't budge. I ran back to the house for half a chicken.

I was in tears and the dog was licking his lips. He loves chicken, especially my mother's but we had to get going and he didn't want to move his bootay. I admit the backseat wasn't inviting, as it's a little small for my beefy boy, but trading in the car would take too long. Crap. Maybe my tears worked or my trick of slowly pulling away without him , but he got up. We were out of the driveway 45 minutes behind schedule. Elliot is very particular , the exception being food. He would eat loose change if I wasn't too much of a tightwad to leave it laying around. Where he pees is another story.

Grass is his preferred surface. It must smell inviting and feel soft and cushy under his very sensitive feet. Once out of Illinois, Missouri and Oklahoma there was no more grass , just brush. "Pee for crying out loud," was the bubble over my head as I watched beefy boy gingerly place one paw at a time on the prickly ground trying to walk no less consider anything else. With each tiny step he held up a foot for me to wipe off . I think this added 5 hours to the trip. I tried to be patient yet longingly looked up at planes as they zoomed overhead. So this holiday season if you eat a chicken think of Elliot and help get him a crate.

How do you spell Hanukah?

"Baah Humbug!" There I said it. It's been roiling up inside of me for weeks and furthermore I feel as Jew it's perfectly acceptable language. After all only eight days in December are designated to me and quite honestly it's hard to keep track of when they start and end. To make matters even worse I don't have the necessary items to actually celebrate Hanukah, or is it spelled "Chanukah?" See I can't even spell the holiday no less partake. For starters I don't have a menorah (the spellling is impossible), a draidel, or the special menorah candles. Birthday candles do not fit in the holders, which is either a merchandising trick or I'm just a loser. Whatever the celebratory food is and I'm fairly certain it's not matzoh, I don't have that either. See how easy it is to get the holiday crankiness going?

Forget the eight days, eight gifts...how do you give a present to another Jew? This can be a nightmare. We are a group that can spot "re-gifting" at 50 feet. I would love to get rid of the little powder blue scarf I got last year but any self respecting JAP could sniff out the smell of the old box and have me shunned. I would be so busted. The gift idea is making me anxious and a little sweaty. I guess I could individually wrap my Xanax stash and give them as the gift that keeps on giving for about eight hours, but I don't like to share.

My nephew is having a Hanukah party and invited some "local Jews," he said. Maybe this is a solution , just post a sign in the neighborhood and see who shows up. In my neck of the woods it would be no one. I get to keep the Xanax

I did not have sex with Tiger Woods

I did not have sex with Tiger Woods. I'm beginning to feel quite alone. Every day or hour a new chickadee comes out of the woodwork. He's been a busy bee. I don't know if I ever slept with that many people in such a short period of time even in the the early '70s. I hope Mom isn't reading this. I wonder if Tiger would consider an older woman? He doesn't appear to be very discriminating which really must make his wife feel bad. If he had been fooling around with Condi Rice I think Elin and I would agree he was at least trying to challenge himself intellectually or get the inside scoop on W. and the invasion of Iraq. From what I've heard 24/7, he liked big breasted blonds, cocktail waitressess, porn stars, and to frequent Perkins .

Although I'm available I don't fit his profile. For starters no woman over 55 has been mentioned except his mother. I don't have big breasts and don't plan on buying them. This seems to be important. I am blond but only to someone who has cataracts. I like cocktails a lot but have never served one and really don't trust myself not to spill. As for porn star status or aspirations I'd have to say I'm too close to Social Security to risk a new career. Ixnay to Perkins no matter who I might wait on. Sorry Tiger there are too many items on the menu so I would never ever get an order right. I couldn't bear people screaming at me about eggs when they wanted meatloaf. "Eat the damn eggs." I also do not want a job that requires a uniform with a name tag.

It looks like I'm never going to have sex with Tiger. I probably will never play golf either.

How I Got the Black Eye or Happy Birthday Blues

Happy birthday to me, happy birthday to me, happy birthday dear me, happy birthday to me. Crap.

Celebrating my birthday in the emergency room sucked. A big fat hairy blond put me there. She was just a little too anxious to eat. "Hold on there fatty, you're gonna get food." If only I had a chance to say that. "Let me just step out of your way." Didn't have a chance to say or do that either. POW, right into the wall she shoved me, head first. And how did I go from standing to kneeling with my forehead smashed into the side of the barn so damn fast. Yep, Ginger the evil fat mare nailed me. She sure was anxious to beat me and her pasture mate to the feed tub. No birthday cake for her. I leaped to my feet just to be sure I could. Well that was the good news, although walking a straight line would have been a challenge. Crying was a good option right after I stopped swearing. Luckily I had my cell phone handy and could make out the numbers. Ambulance? Friend? Ambulance? Friend? Or should I just sit down under a tree and sob? Ambulance seemed so serious and even though I felt my injury was just that I was trying to avoid reality.

"Dan, come quick, the fat mare got me." With ice packs on my neck and head we hightailed it to the emergency room. Trust me, this was not a "destination" birthday. I did however thank everyone in the ER for celebrating with me and it was a good gag until the nurse in the CAT scan room spoke the real truth "this really sucks." Yes siree it sure did. The ER doc couldn't have been nicer or cuter, but too young for this birthday girl. The neck brace was a necessary touch but a bad bad fashion accessory. Dan and I watched the pathetic Bears game on the very nice flat screen TV they had in the ER cubicle. I highly recommend this hospital. As much as I enjoyed the accommodations I was a wreck waiting for the results of the CAT scan. Dan, ever the optimist was optimistic. I'm cursed with the "oy" gene and was nervous and sweaty. Some party. In what seemed like 15 hours but in fact was 45 minutes the nurse came in took off the cervical collar and gave me my birthday news, no concussion, and no neck fracture. I loved her. The doctor came and said good-bye. He was so cute, but I felt so old.

Under the circumstances my birthday had a happy ending. Oh except for the multi-colored eye which magically appeared two days later and is still with me. My predominately black wardrobe sets it off nicely however and my bangs cover the lump on my forehead. I accept late presents/cards for up to a year.

Damn, nothing looks good with a black eye.

Anyone want my makep-up? I just bought a really nice new eye shadow by NARS called, "Star Violet." I have a lovely navy blue liner by Lancome, a Yves St. Laurent touche eclat radiant touch stick, Smashbox shimmery green eye shadow which looks excellent with the "Star Violet" and Clinique black mascara to perk up the old wilting lashes. I'll even throw in my NARS "Malibu" rouge as no one will be noticing how pastie white I look for a while. I almost forgot , take my fabulous new lipsticks "Mystic," a great color for everyday, and "Diva" a perfect red for dress up. Why am I being so generous, cheap as I am. Yes, I'm cheap that's not urban legend. I have a black eye. No make-up required, it's already a lovely shade of purple and green. It goes nicely with my blue pupil which is barely visable. I suggest looking away or screaming.

To think of the time I spent running from make-up counter to make-up counter at Bloomingdales and Nordstroms searching like a crazed lunatic for new eye and lip colors to perk me up. I was looking a bit cadaverous according to Mom, who btw is called by name at every cosmetic counter in the Chicagoland area. "It's Bea," they cheer as they run after her with new skin products promising "youth." Mom, has me in tow as we schlep from store to store. I had at least a dozen lipstick colors smeared on my face and hands in our search for the right shade. I couldn't find a color that matched my age, no less my skin tone. It was labor intensive, exhausting and sad. I sure looked bad in a large array of colors. Finally success was mine thanks to the sales girls at the NARS counter. She knew her stuff and whipped out the magic colors that brought my face back to life. Trumphantly tiny bags in hand I marched out of the store. Whoops, where's Mom? I had to drag her away from a scarf marked down 50%.

Sadly, I look in the mirror and realize nothing looks good with my green and purple swollen right eye, not even my left eye.

Viagra Tax or uh oh, quick call Capitol Hill

Hold on just one sec Mr. Lawmaker, rumor has it the health care bill might include a special tax on Botox. Getting rid of those nasty wrinkles and furrowed brows will be even more expensive. Looking pensive can be appropriate at times but not 24/7. Nancy Pelosi this is a tax that would wreak havoc on your face babycakes. Quick you might want to take Diane Feinstein with you to your dermatologist for a "perk me up" before it's too costly. Botox tax is disturbing and makes me wonder if it isn't just a teensie weensie bit discriminatory. Besides which in this economic downturn dermatologists are suffering too.

I can't help but wonder what's going on. In my opinion if the nasty folks on Capitol Hill are going to make women pay extra for vanity why not men? I say bring on the Viagra tax. If women have to age naturally so do men. Let's once again live by the laws of that trickster Mother Nature. It's a whole new way to go "green" and will be a hell of a lot cheaper. I'm sorry boys but erectile dysfunction over 50 isn't a medical condition it's called aging. I know there are serious conditions that beg these wonder drugs and if you have a note from your urologist you get the little blue pills with no extra tax. As for the rest, "put the special blue m&ms down" and party on.

Equal opportunity taxation sure is fun.

Geek Prince Rescue Me!

Help! I need a Geek Squad Prince Charming to come to my technological rescue. I'm weak, confused, dazed, and downright dumb. My life has been turned upside down because I have to format the book I'm writing. Format I say! I've been instructed to set the margins specifically: left 1 inch, right 1 inch, top 1 inch, bottom 1.25 inches, indent 5 spaces, double space and use Arial 11 point. It sounded simple, easy, no problema, unless you're a computer loser and that's me, computer loser. I've gone through a box of Kleenex sobbing as I struggle to format. The margins set and unset in the blink of an eye. Presto chango formatting gone and I resist the urge to throw my laptop out the window. Bye-bye little crazy making machine.

I miss my Smith Corona typewriter. Life was so simple then. I loved the click clack of the keys and the messy carbon paper that got all over my hands and clothes. I would scream, crumple it into a ball and throw it across the room because I couldn't line it up with the paper correctly. Simple. I had my little bottle of white-out that I could never apply thinly enough so I had a big blob over my typo. Simple. My typewriter was too big to take to Starbucks, but I didn't care. I could manually line up the margins and set tabs, no Word Perfect to make a fool of me or drive me to drink at 10:00 a.m. I hate change.

Geek Prince, if you're out there, call me. I'm sorry if I laughed and ignored you in high school, but I'm different now (kinda). Help me set the margins, and replace Word Perfect with Microsoft Word. I need you.

Please big fat man in a Jaguar don't arrest me

I was almost arrested...by a citizen. I thought that was an urban legend, not something that actually happened. I had just pulled into a parking space in a suburban mall to meet a friend for a dinner and drinks.
Whoops did I say "drinks"? Scratch that from the record. I did say suburbs however, as in a nice, polite, upscale community. A place where people shop, laugh, drink mocha skim lattes and mind their own business. This was my naive assumption. I got out of my car in front of the restaurant and this big old fat guy in a University of Illinois jacket was pointing his finger in my face yelling "you're drunk!" I looked around to find the person he was accusing because it couldn't be me. Yet, he was staring right at me. "Huh?"

"You're drunk and I called the police and gave them your license plate number". I think I lost consciousness for a second or two out of shock.

"Excuse me sir (I was trying polite as a tactic), I have no idea what you're talking about. I am not drunk."

"Yes, you are, I've been following you. First you passed me on the right and then you've been weaving all over the mall." I did pass him on the right because he took up two lanes pulling out of his parking spot and then stopped. Is that a crime? Get over it ,move on get out of my face and no spitting.

"The truth is sir I was totally lost and couldn't find the restaurant. I was confused about the address and desperately driving around the mall looking. I am absolutely not drunk."

"Tell your story to the police missie because you're shit faced, and I've called them." Hmmm I wonder how old he thought I was. I digress. Crap,why was I still being polite? I'm surprised he didn't whip out a plastic badge and toy gun. Civility had failed and I stood there with my jaw dropped, pacing neurotically, and a little sweaty as he pulled away.

I needed a drink. Damn, I couldn't drink the police were coming. Did I have to walk a line? Breathe into a can? Call a lawyer? I was confused, frantic, and sober. Curses. My dinner was ruined. I wasted $6.50 ordering a glass of Reisling and didn't drink it, but stared longingly. I picked at my salad waiting anxiously for a vice squad to burst into the restaurant and drag me out to the curb for questionning. I watch too much TV. I left the restaurant hungry, thirsty and still wondering why I was so polite.

I Love Wine and to Whine

"I'm mad as hell, and I'm not going to take this any more"! Howard Beale "Network"

Wine by the glass is too expensive! I'm sick of paying as much for a glass as for a bottle. Has anyone else noticed this bar/restaurant sleight of hand? Come on we're in a recession not the roaring 20s. I'd like to see a glass under $7.50. If by chance it is cheap we're not talkin' a tasty drinkable red or white, we're talkin' toxic waste. This financial crisis hurts my taste buds and wallet. I remember when a nice Pinot Noir was $5.50. Not any more babycakes. Got $9.00? I don't. Now I madly search the menu for a wine I can afford and don't care about the color, just the price . Tears well up in my eyes realizing beer would better serve my retirement. I hate beer and put my head down on the bar sobbing.

It was like a dream come true when I discovered Malbec; Argentinean, lovely and cheap. I stopped crying. At $6.00 a glass I could once again fantasize about retirement. I spotted it on enough menus to keep me happy, high, and able to leave a tip. I smirked as my friends ordered the expensive Pinot while I mumbled my Malbec order so they couldn't hear. The grape was mine alone. I rue the day someone said "I'll have what she's having." Curses. My secret wine find caught on and now it's at least $7.50 a glass. "I'll have an Amstel light."

My friend Jane turned me on to Reisling. I thought the grape was for wine wimps, losers with unsophisticated taste buds and restricted sinus passages. I was too good for the poor little grape BUT it was the cheapest glass on every menu. I could learn to love again and retire. Now I need your help. Please, I'm begging you order the Malbec.

Me and the Prince of Denmark

"To sleep, perchance to dream"... hold on there you wacky Prince of Denmark, if you could fall asleep why can't I? I don't have nearly as much on my mind as you did. I have mother issues but not as serious as yours. Mostly Mom wants to know what I'm wearing, where I'm going and who I'm with. She's also obsessed with a "facial mask" I should apply for my wrinkles but I'm sure your Mom wasn't as pesty about appearances. Of course you also weren't worried about a mortgage because you lived in a big old castle that was paid for. No loan defaults in your world right? I'm guessing you didn't have the rising cost of health care about which to wrack your brain, and my nagging dilemma of, "to get a colonoscopy or not to get a colonoscopy"? No wonder I can't sleep. Hamlet, dude step aside.

What happened to the days when I woke up at the crack of noon? Granted I was 17 but I had stress then also. Was my blue Villager sweater back from the cleaners, did Roger like me or Joby? Crap, I forgot to finish my alegebra homework because I couldn't figure out the difference between x and y. On a more serious note did my parents notice the car smelled from cigarettes? Sadly, I wasn't invited to the Senior Prom but had a dress picked out. Tragically and worst of all I had a giant zit on my cheek. Face it those were real sleep busters, but regardless I dozed away. Lights off I'm dreaming like that wack-a-doodle Prince. Btw, Roger liked Joby ...I was crushed yet sleepy.

I listen to the commercials for sleep aids with the melodious voice over enticing me , "Come with us to a calm, peaceful, full night of sleep". "I'm coming, wait up, here I come" , I cry out to the TV. "Take me with you"! I long for sleep ... and oddly my blue Villager sweater.

Find My Glasses and get a Reward

Has anyone seen my glasses? Crap. I know they couldn't just up and walk away. Glasses can't walk right? Of course they can't, but I think there's a vacuum cleaner that can. Besides which my glasses were expensive. Tragically, I looked bad in every single pair except the $400 frames. I call them my "no more vacation" glasses. So now I can't see and the trip to Florida is off. Yes, I looked in the washing machine AND dryer, no glasses but I did find a blue hat that wasn't mine. Nope, not in the dishwasher which I should unload soon anyway. Hey, they were dirty so that was a reasonable option. I ripped apart the couch which I don't advise unless your dog is the same color. (Where do I keep the vacuum)? I haven't used the oven in 6 months but after my usual two glasses of wine it might seem logical.

My purse? Of course, of course! I ravaged it at least four times and vowed to never again buy one with so many compartments. They didn't turn up in the box with my new darling Kate Spade high heels, but it did make me long for a place to wear them. And wonder why I bought them. The refrigerator was a bust, but in desperate need of food. No wonder I'm always hungry. The garbage almost made sense but yuk. Under the bed, behind the bed, nope and nope. I promised however to vacuum before the week was up. A lightbulb when off! They were in a pocket. Yes, yes, yes... I was crazed and sweating when I concluded I had too many , or can you never have enough? Why was the dog staring at me in my wild search? He ate them. After all there's no homework.

The car, they absolutely had to be in the car because I need them to drive. Glove compartment, trunk, under the driver's seat, passenger seat, in the cushions , cupholders, nothing resembling glasses but I wondered if the Snickers bar wedged in the back was still edible. I knew the sticky candy cane in the cupholder wasn't. A friend of mine was at the airport and said he'd look but I hadn't been there in six months, and it reminded me of the vacation I wouldn't be taking.

Is this it? The moment that age had caught up with me? And how old am I? Thankfully I've forgotten.

Sex or the Internet; pick one

Sex or the internet? Hmmmm, which would you give up for two weeks? No really. I for one, have become an internet hermit and junkie, which is a disturbing thought and no, I don't have a beard the last I looked, but I need to re-check. Whew, back from the mirror, no beard, but I could use a hair cut. What season is it? Are short skirts in or out? How much is gas? If I pick sex I better shower. And btw if you're reading this you might consider showering more also. I used to have a life.

There was a time when I got up in the morning and got dressed but now my little laptop calls to me from my office. "Gail, I'm in here...come in....take a seat....maybe "YOU'VE GOT MAIL"! " Ahhhhh yes, yes, yes, yes, mail"! Is this the 21st century orgasm? I don't have to leave the tiny tantalizing little machine when I can get everything from refrigerators to tires to vibrators on line. I can even shop for dates and never actually have to go on one, which is a time saver. I love men I never have to meet ... so much easier to get along.

How did this happen to me? I was a free spirited hippy, a flower child, a vegetarian and totally anti-establishment. Now I'm in my green robe from Target hooked on technology. I can "google" every single ache and pain in my body. It's like a dream come true. I've spent hours just on my left knee. A diagnosis alludes me, but I'm getting close. And my cracking thumb is still ripe for researching. Is this turning you on too? Are my medical symptoms better than foreplay? Are the words "you've got mail" more exciting than that man/woman in your life? Is "Facebook" hotter than face time? Although I bet you could "Twitter" and have sex simultaneously but, THAT'S CHEATING. It's crunch time...no sex or no internet for two weeks. You go first.

Win $3,000, a trip to Paris or me.

I finally had to face it, no one wanted to fix me up. Crap. No matter how I begged, pleaded, threatened or bribed, the response was "I don't know anyone to fix you up with." Give me a break, not one of my family members, friends, or even my mailman (yes, I'm a loser and asked him), knew an unattached male. This couldn't be possible when half the adult population was divorced. The question that continued to haunt me was ,where was this half and how come no one knew them?

When I was in my twenties and lived in New York City every time I walked out the door I got a date. Men were everywhere. Of course my handy dandy Golden Retriever was a guy magnet, but my ego could take it. We were a package deal, love the dog, love me. It sure was fun being 24 yrs. old in New York. Flash forward 35 years and we're talkin' a whole new story. I walk outside and I'm invisible, except to people asking for money or directions. My apologies to that old guy I headed north instead of south. Even my super model yellow Lab doesn't help. I am so over! I was frantic to come up with something better than "do you know anyone to fix me up with?" I needed a new marketing plan.

I decided to focus on bribery. I offered a $3,000 vacation to the person (yes, including the mailman) who found me a long term man. What better investment than myself. I was convinced there was nothing like $$$$ to jolt my friends into action. Check book in hand I went off to offer the vacay to my girl Bobbi.

"What do you mean not enough money?" I practically spit out my mocha skim latte with extra foam hearing this, but couldn't afford to.

"No offense sweetie, but it doesn't really cover the kind of vacation I'm used to, besides I still don't know anyone. Gotta run and pick up the boys for soccer, then baseball, then dinner, homework, baths."

"Blah blah blah blah" was the bubble over my stymied head. I was shocked and despondent. What was I offering, chicken liver? Prison camp? I needed new friends with less income.

Bribery continued to fail at my entry level number. Finally and with great trepidation I ponied up a trip to Paris. If it was the George V my friends wanted in exchange for a man I would borrow the cash. I was an "upstart" company, all new businesses take out loans and then go bankrupt.

"Sorry kiddo, I just got back from Europe and I'm exhausted. Besides Mark and I don't know a single man."

"Nope, I wish I knew someone but I'm so busy with the kids."

"I never really meet anyone on my route except women."

Now what? Or, if not now, when? I was growing older by the minute, I needed help. Someone help me!

"Honey how about one of those dating sites? Someone at the beauty shop told me that her niece's best friend met her husband that way."

I hated the beauty shop tales my mother loved to weave. And her affinity for complete strangers always disturbed me.
"Sure mom, whatever. I bet they're really happy. Uh oh, gotta go."

Could Mom be right or finally have a story with merit? A dating site sounded so desperate and lonely. Yet, I was desperate and lonely. Besides it was a hell of a lot cheaper than my bankrupting offer of Paris.

I was weak, a bit hypoglycemic, and two glasses of a cheap California Cabernet under when I finally relented and turned on my computer to find love. And who was staring back at me but Dr. Phil. I think I screamed. He was the new spokesperson for Match.com. He looked happy. I was buzzed and he was bald. I began to feel a little dizzy and with my blood sugar level dropping rapidly a lightbulb went off....if all else failed I could date Dr. Phil. After a few non-lucid moments of pondering whether or not he was my type I put my spinning head down on the keyboard but not before I clicked "join now" and then fell asleep.

Baby Boomers,be afraid, be very afraid...and don't watch tv.

Fellow Baby Boomers be afraid, be very afraid. Madison Avenue is after us and they're getting too close for comfort. I'm trying as hard as I can to be strong and stay away from the tv, even though my little flat screen is oh so cute. Admitedly however, I'm weak, with little will power when it comes to "regularly scheduled programming". Sunday morning I tried as hard as humanly possible to turn my back on George Stephanopolis and his giant hair. I walked through my den head down putting one foot carefullly in front of the other. Coffee was the only thing on my mind. "I love coffee, I can't wait for my morning coffee....I love coffee, I can't wait"....oh who was I kidding? I grabbed the seven clickers it takes to turn on the tv. Crap, which stupid piece of plastic gets me a station? I had all seven in my hand ready to throw at the wall when it occured to me that would be counter-productive. I had a slight fever and mild delirium when George's face and hair finally appeared.

If only the morning was filled with my usual yelling and swearing at the screen but alas, it wasn't. The commercials are what freaked me out. They may as well have called my name.
"Gail, are you irritable because you're constipated"? "No, well sometimes, maybe, should I be"?
"Gail, are you sleepless? Do you toss and turn and rip the covers to shreds"? "Ok, yes, yes, a thousand times yes! What do I need....tell me, tell me"!
"Gail, would you like to flatten your flabby abs from pregnancy"? Oh God, they can see my abs....I sucked in my stomach and spit out my coffee.
"Gail, are you having trouble reading the menu and sorry you went out to dinner"? AH HA! At last....I got them! "I can read the menu", I sobbed.

I no longer cared about George, his big hair, or his political opinions. I hated him and his lousy advertisers . I defiantly vowed to go out to dinner because I might be constipated, exhausted, and flabby but I COULD STILL READ THE MENU!

Why I Am Not a Cougar Woman

Grrrrrrrrrrr. I wish I was a Cougar Woman. I don't have the chutzpah to hunt younger men which bums me out. Cougar women how and where do you do this? Are you in caves out west; a feral group clad in animal hide feeding on unsuspecting bighorn sheep and flat abbed 35 year old boys with hair? Go girls, go! "Google" defines you as over the age of 40, financially independent , successful, confident, motivated, love your life and self. Are you having a membership drive or bake sale any time soon? Cougar women survive on a tasty cuisine of men at least 10 years younger. Yummy, but I've never been particularly adventurous about food. Curiously old men have preyed on younger women for years and they've been called "lucky" not some form of wild mountain cat. Rumor has it younger men are more energetic, fun, and trainable. The happy word is "trainable". Yet.... it sounds time consuming. I'm the lazy sort who always wonders when I get a new puppy why I just didn't buy a 2 year old dog. No muss, no fuss, they sit, stay and don't pee on the rug. I prefer this in a man also.

I dated younger and "trainable" once. He had all those good puppy qualities: cute, playful, energetic, youthful enthusiasm, stared at me adoringly and mindfully. Not bad huh? Was I crazy, what went wrong? For starters he never read one play by Shakespeare, one book by Hemingway, or F. Scott Fitzgerald, stared vacantly at me when I mentioned Hunter Thompson, no less William Burroughs or Jack Kerouac. No "Catcher in the Rye" in his personal history, or "Annie Hall" and "Easy Rider". Yes, there was a war in Vietnam and Watergate brought down a President named Nixon. "You were three when Kennedy was shot"?! Crap. My puppy man and I had very different life landmarks. Sadly, those aren't trainable. The flat abs were nice.

I confess I really do like puppies and will probably have another one regardless of the paper training, accidental peeing on the rug, and the time consuming lesson of "sit and stay". As for men...must come fully trained.

I Hate Reality TV More than The New Yorker

I hate, hate, hate reality tv. Yes, even more than The New Yorker and packing boxes. Reality television is like a virus, each night there's a new one infesting my living room...every hour , every channel, someone else's reality. My world is real enough, I don't need a total stranger's problems too. For God's sake who cared about the last "Survivor"? Trust me I have my own survival issues and they don't have to do with eating Scorpions in a bikini. My reality tv show would be called, "Crap my rent is due" or "Who wants my dental bill? Btw, is "The Bachelor" still looking for a wife? Now that is really depressing tv because if the nubile young creatures they prance in front of him can't get a man there's no hope for the rest of us. And girlies get a grip, ditch the bachelor and do some long range career planning. As for losing weight in prime time! Why why why is this a tv show and how did everyone get so fat? LISTEN UP, "Give back the double Mac with cheese and pull out of the drive thru line"! Or hand it to "America's Next Top Model". She scares me.

Hang on there just one sec. Hold your horses ,I have a great idea for Baby Boomer reality tv....."What Would You Trade to be 40 Again"? This is imaginative and very dark programming in my book. Hmmmmmmmm, let's think....there's Mom.... 40 sounds really good and looks even better: smooth skin, no wrinkles, no grey hair, I'd have hormones. That's a toughie. What about my Prada purse instead of Mom? And I'll throw in my Honda Civic. Catch my drift kiddies? Now that's reality tv with just a touch of "The Twilight Zone".

Truthfully, I'd like real people to get off my screen. Eat Scorpions, lose weight, find husbands, and become models on your own time. Now, I better call my Mom and tell her she can relax, the deal's off.

Dance of the Seven Plungers!

"They just don't make things the way the used to". Who said that? It couldn't have been me. No,no, no! I'm too young, too hip, too cool, too blond? Old people sit around and grouse about such things. My dad says that. Oh God, I've become my dad....quick the heavy drugs... take me back to the 70s. I'm kvetching about the good old days....who am I? I need an emergency trip to Neimans in order to get re-focused. "Mom where are you...? You don't care about the way things are made as long as they cost alot.....why am I Dad"?

I am here to say, on the day of my "old person" reckoning that they don't make plungers the way they used to. And yes, every household still needs a plunger regardless of whether you Facebook, Twitter, or use an iPhone. I am however, willing to admit that I'm a domestic loser. I was cleaning the toilet with one of those "thingies" that are on a wand. Now I ask you ,why do they have a "release" button if you can't flush the "thingie" down the damn toilet? WHY?!? Because it's got a hexagonal plastic center is the right answer. No sooner had I released and flushed than I knew. Duh! It will never make it. I ran for the plunger. "Ready, aim, PLUNGE"...I could save the day and the need for a $$$plumber. A plunger that turned inside out and didn't SNAP back into place was useless. Useless I say! The water was rising and my flimsy plunger remained inside out on a stick. The plungers from my childhood did not do this. I'm freaking out so Neil went and bought me another one. Again, "ready , aim, plunge"! CURSES! Who makes these things? General Motors? "This isn't a real plunger", I screamed and ran out the door.

I had to take matters into my own hands. Ace Hardware, plumbing aisle was my first stop. I ripped one off the shelf and practiced plunged. Yep, inside out....another fake plunger. Was the world coming to an end? I flung it back and hightailed it to the car. HOME DEPOT loomed on the horizon. If not there...where?! I put my head on the shoulder of the man in charge of plumbing equipment and sobbed about the good old days of heavy rubber plungers. He understood. He gently placed two types in my hands and told me one was a new plastic contraption that would never bring me happiness and the other exactly what I was looking for. I practiced plunged for 15 minutes and he was right. It snapped back every time. I stopped crying, thanked him and promised to send my friends to his aisle.

I arrived home victorious with my new heavy rubber, good old fashioned plunger. Neimans has never brought me that kind of joy.

Why did I burn my bras?

There's been an anthropological switcheroo! I just read according to the General Social Survey, which has tracked Americans' moods since 1972 women are getting sadder and men happier.  What happened? Why, why, why are we gloomy?  We fought so hard for liberation, please tell me we didn't burn all those bras in vain? Bras are so expensive now what was I thinking. More importantly, why did we want to become men when they never signed up to be more like women? That was probably a mistake. We've morphed into a new combination species. It's exhausting to be a man and woman simultaneously which is probably why we're down in the dumps. Instead of just cooking, cleaning, and raising children like our mothers.... we now go to work eight hours a day, cook, clean, and raise children. Wait, did I mention trying to keep a marriage or relationship on track also? Whew, I'm sweaty, exhausted and yes, too tired to have sex.

Men, on the other hand, seem to be happy with this switcheroo. Just a reminder however; separating the colored and white clothing really is essential , as pink, orange and light blue aren't a fun surprise with a brown skirt. But pedicures sure are nice aren't they? I want one too, but just can't find the time. I have friends I never see, older parents who need a ride to yet another doctor's appointment, a limping dog, aging horse, no food in the refrigerator, a tooth my dentist wants to yank, a $5,000 medical deductible, and a neck that's sinking faster than I am.

Wait a sec, a new neck and jawline would make me happy, but I'd have to work to 115 to afford it. Crap. Maybe buying some bras will perk me up. And can someone remind me why I ever set the old ones on fire?

Ask Gail Maria...almost anything.

Dear Gail Maria:
I like my boyfriend John but, to be honest, I'm much more intelligent than he is. He only went through high school and doesn't read much. Our conversations are stifled and at times he makes me uncomfortable in front of my friends. What should I do?
Thanks,
Miffed Michele

Dear Miffed:
I totally feel your pain. I'm smarter than most men also. Even ones that finished high school and college aren't necessarily intelligent. Perhaps it's because they think more about sex than culture. You know, the little brain/big brain dichotomy. That teenie weenie brain of theirs doesn't like to read or carry on an interesting conversation, if you catch my drift. As for making you uncomfortable in front of your friends, who I'm assuming are highly intelligent women, I say INTERRUPT him every chance you can. Trust me no one will notice. You might be hard pressed to find a man who meets your intellectual standards so I say hang in there and talk about transmission fluid or lawn mowers.
Sincerely,
Gail Maria

Dear Gail Maria:
I need help! My life sucks - I'm aging (if not already aged), I'm in a relationship where I'm making the most money, I haven't had a vacation in 3 years and my dog doesn't love me anymore. Any advice?
Best regards,
Unlucky Lucy

Dear Unlucky:
Your life seems like a good old country western song. I can hear Reba McEntire singing about it now and you might want to write to her also. First of all girlie trust me I know what it's like to age and it sucks, so you have reason to be concerned. And Lordy, Lordy if you're making more money than your man I say head for the hills. Who needs him if you're bringing in all the cash? Get out while you have any elasticity left in your skin! If he expects you to have sex too...smack him. As for your vacationless 3 years and a dog who doesn't love you...pack up asap and take the pooch. Relaxing on a pearlie white beach will be a good time for the two of you to re-bond. Run sister, run!
Sincerely,
Gail Maria

Dear Gail Maria:
I recently went out with a woman who I was only mildly attracted to. We ended up having sex. When I left she asked when we would see each other again, and so I felt pressured to make another date. The truth is however, that I was stupid to have had sex in the first place because I didn't really like her. It was casual and I should never have let it happen. Now I want to break the date, but worry about hurting her feelings. Should I be honest and cancel or go and then tell her? Looking for your guidance.
Thanks,
Awkward in Ann Arbor

Dear Awkward:
Ouch babe! When will men ever learn that for women it's not casual, it's personal. "PERSONAL" I say. Casual sex has been out since the last time you took a hit off a hash pipe. Poor dear. Well, at least you got the "stupid" part right...yes you were. Next time turn your horny wayward thoughts to baseball or a new power washer from Home Depot. As for the date, break it. So much better than the hideous moment you mention to her during dessert, as she's eating a yummy creme brulee that you're not interested in a relationship and she has to spit it out or choke it down . Nasty either way and risky unless you have a reliable dry cleaner. I suggest next time you click your Cole Hahns together and say "there's no such thing as casual sex, there's no such thing as casual sex".
Sincerely,
Gail Maria

Bad Date Hall of Fame Awards

I have a Bad Date Hall of Fame, aka my personal pantheon of duds.  I'm not happy to make this announcement as obviously it means I had a really crappy time and wasted a perfectly good evening I could have spent with a box of Raisinettes watching "America's Got Talent". I don't hold a yearly induction ceremony, but sometimes it is quite a struggle determining who will raise up the "best bad date statue" on December 31st. Sadly there's usually a runner-up candidate, and as a safety net a third runner up, so my voting can go right down to the wire.  One year there was a man I fondly referred to as Hannibal Lecter, but I still had my liver, so he didn't make the final cut. He tried so hard to win but only one prize per year.

I'd like to remind my new inductee that women have been given the right to vote. There have been 3 women Secretaries of State, 1 Speaker of the House,1 Oprah, 3 Supreme Court Justices, 1 President of Harvard , catch my drift? The best advice to my dud date is to let the woman you're out with speak. We are a legitimate gender and can kick some serious ass.

I met my award winning date at a bar for a drink and from the moment I arrived he did not stop talking. Yap, yap, yap, yap and not about politics, sports, movies, or even weather, which would have been comic relief and perhaps interesting. His favorite subject was himself. Ironically, a movie did come to mind "My Dinner with Andre". Andre Gregory wove tales of his adventures both spiritual and real while Wallace Shawn sat at dinner and listened. His life journey was mesmerizing and the time flew as he talked. That was not my evening. It didn't even seem to matter if I was there. I began to wonder if I was. Didn't he notice I had not said a word for two hours and btw it felt like six. You know you are having a really bad time if fainting becomes a reasonable option as a way to end the evening. I thought about screaming "just shut up" at the top of my lungs, I thought about it a lot. I realized however, as I listened to the life story of every single boring family member, why bother straining my voice, as someday I might go on a date where I needed it. When the bartender brought the final bill I ripped my half out of my wallet, said thank you and ran to my car. Maybe "America's Got Talent" was still on and I had Raisinettes.

"Mr. I'm So Interesting" congratulations you won.

Relationship "Deal Breakers" or Living Alone

Let's face it boys and girls we all have relationship "deal breakers", either in the form of a laundry list or one teenie weenie idiosyncratic thing about another person that drives us craaaaazy! Oh I know it's hard to confess but let's be honest...it's true. Sadly, I probably have more deal breakers than years left. My buddy Gary recently told me how he narrows down his prospective mates. Smokers are out, out, out, even those trying to quit. Ixnay to anyone bearing cigarettes, nicotene patches, or anything that emits smoke. Ok, I can relate. He lost me on the toilet paper and paper towel criteria...whoa G. that's a toughie for some poor unsuspecting date just trying to help out around the house. Does she put the paper on the roll so it comes off the top or bottom!!? Wow, never gave that a thought. Top is the correct answer! Interesting, but he'll be alone. Although personally I like the paper to come from the bottom. Hmmmmm. Nope, my list is too long already. As for which way shirts face on the hangers...I suggest Gary seek counseling immediately.

I confess I'm a laundry list dater. Bad shoes are a big no-no in my book. My shoe scrutinizing eyes go right to some poor guys feet. I'm from the loafer/top sider days and I'm stickin' to it. Oh and absolutely no sandals; that's the worst. I don't care if it's 120 degrees outside, shoes baby shoes! Now for the nitty gritty...if you own anything that ticks, destroy it or don't call. Have an over head fan that whirs too loud and incessantly, you're out. One snore, no matter how faint and we can say good-bye at 3:00 a.m. Shhhhhhhh. And I'm tired of talkng about politics, blah, blah, blah, no political opinions welcome....gone fishing....closed for business until much further notice. I don't go on many dates.

Ok, I confessed and obviously I'll end up alone. Now send me your "deal breakers" .... I won't tell.

Call 911 and get a husband!

"What would you do if you found me face down on the bathroom floor"?

A 68 yr.old man I was dating asked me this over a perfectly nice glass of Cabernet. Whoa, talk about ruining a moment and my next sip. I could have spit it out and I hate wasting wine. As for his question..."huh", was my first and probably best response. "What would you do if you found me face down on the bathroom floor", he repeated. Why not the kitchen, I pondered? It suddenly hit me, he was serious and there was probably a right answer. Oh Lord was this a test of my emergency medical skills or a MARRIAGE PROPOSAL? Did I want to marry him and could I get him off the floor in time for the Justice of the Peace to arrive before his lawyer with a pre-nup?! Crap. "Ummmmm", I stalled for time , composure and another glass of wine.

Then it dawned on me. Duh! This is how men over 60 propose. If you answer right you get the ring! Fear of commitment has been replaced by fear of "face down". Wow, talk about a light bulb moment. Rick a 65 year old man I met told me he was "sick, sick, sick" of dating. He didn't want to spend another moment alone....37years was enough. He was ready to marry for the fourth time , hell bent from the tone of his voice. Hang on there little buddy, after 37 years of dating, why now? Could it be fear of "face down"? Think of how many men are out there living in terror! If you have any nursing skills/instincts or know CPR now is the time to find a husband. And if you want Rick's phone number let me know. Fyi his 3rd marriage lasted 9 days.

I answered the "face down" question incorrectly so I'm still unmarried..."Call a travel agent" was funny but not the response he was looking for. I can only deduce "dial 911 and administer CPR until the ambulance arrives" gets the ring.

Labor Day or laborious day?

No, no, not another holiday weekend! These are a special kind of torture for me. PRESSURE, I can't stand the societal pressure to use a grill. A grill must symbolize something, but what? It also begs blowing up the house by mistake. If I had a handy dandy barbeque I'd have to invite people over which requires cleaning and appetizers. This sounds less and less like a celebration and more like pergatory with every added chore. Shouldn't a holiday really be where you sit around alone in a messy house, read back issues of "People", eat potato chips out of the bag and drink wine from a plastic cup? No cheeriness required. This also eliminates the risk of ptomaine/salmonella from nasty yet traditional holiday foods like 8 hour old cole slaw , undercooked chicken, or the dreaded hot dog on a stick. What's in a hot dog anyway and why a stick?

Is there a parade on Labor Day, I can't remember? Although this year with such high unemployment I can't imagine there would be many marchers. As well as it being potentially dangerous for the lone employed person walking down the middle of the street waving a tiny flag. I'm not a parade person even in a low unemployment economy. Although I do like one that has a giant inflated Mickey Mouse and Willard Scott.

Crap, the looooong holiday weekend looms ahead ... I feel the tension rising. Should I lock the door, pull down the shades, break out the back issues of "People" and hope I have enough chips and wine to make it to Tuesday? That sounds so right.

COYOTE UGLY... The Women's Version

A. and I were talking about men ....

"A. do you think you could have sex with that guy Larry I introduced you to? I mean what would it take? Oh God could you imagine him with no clothes"? (yes women think these things).

She screamed and then slyly remarked, "Is he rich"?

I thought about it..."He's got money....how much would you need"?

Again she pondered and squirmed.

Let me describe Larry. He looks very similar to a lawn gnome: same height, coloring, clothes, and sadly physique. But before I come off as all that's evil in the world...he's a very nice guy. Nice I say!)

A. looked thoughtful , "How rich and do you have any Quaaludes"? I could tell the wheels were turning in her head.

"How many would you want"? Truthfully I hadn't seen any since 1983 but I thought we were on to something.

"Well, she demurred, if he's really really rich, maybe 1 drink and 2 Quaaludes. I'd need to be close to unconscious...oh and an engagement ring".

Wow, A. very nice thinking and kudos for planning ahead. This is how she and I devised the female version of "COYOTE UGLY". And there are no "bags" or messy "arm chewing" involved!

Drug and alcohol free - cute guy, having sex with him wouldn't be a problem. Call me asap if you know this man. I want him too.

1 Drink - not bad looking, but not attractive enough to be completely sober.

1 Drink 1 Quaalude - you're horny and he's all you got, but it could be worse.

1 Drink 2 Quaaludes - worse but he's rich and it could mean a nice vacation next winter.

1 drink 2 Quaaludes and an engagement ring - Lord have mercy on your soul and eyes, but he's extremely rich. Retirement and a personal staff are in your future. Oh and a tasty little Mercedes, as well as a Bergdorfs card and unlimited checking account, no questions asked. You would however need a good pharmacist.

"LAWN GNOME UGLY".... fair is fair.

Woodstock ; the wonder years

"By the time we got to Woodstock we were half a million strong and everywhere was a song and a celebration". (Joni Mitchell "Woodstock")

Crap, the 40th anniversary of Woodstock; am I that old? I just glanced in a mirror and the answer is "yes" and "ugh". I am growing my hair long again, and absolutely, I think middle aged women can have long hair no matter what they say on the morning talk shows. I probably won't be wearing bell bottoms any time soon regardless of their being back in style. Now that's a really bad look over 50 and has anyone noticed how expensive blue jeans are? I could have a case of a lovely Sauvignon Blanc for the same price. The wine wins.

Sex, drugs, and rock and roll baby, remember!? Was Woodstock the "good old days"? l'll be honest and trust me this is hard to confess but I would no longer want to be drenching wet for 3 days, sleeping on the hard ground, peeing in a bush, and stuck in traffic for 12 hours even if Jimi Hendrix and Janis Joplin came back from the dead. Whoa, is there any of the hippy chick left in me? I recently spent two days and searched every street fair between Seattle and Portland for a tie dyed hoodie. Hippy or slave to fashion? As for drugs....pass the Advil. Or is your drug of choice Aleve? And for God's sake, turn the music down. I like quiet. Wow, I've become a nerd!

As for sex...mercy! Men, pull in those stomachs and stop wearing ankle length pants. Not a seductive look. Lordy those hippy boys were cute: pony tails, flat abs, low riding jeans... and they could hear. It didn't take much imagination to picture having sex with one of them. Now I sit across from a date at dinner and visualizing sex ruins a perfectly good piece of Chilean sea bass. Quick a drink! There's obviously not much hippy left in this chick. Peace and love.

Hot or Not; dating over 55

I have to  face it dating over the age of 55 is a huge freaking bummer. Sadly there is not even one lone "hottie" left in the demographic.  And humbly I include myself in the "not a hottie" population. Wasn't that a fun part of going out? Remember the mind boggling, take your breath away chemistry?!  Today chemistry only reminds me of a class I dropped junior year in high school. Now a man with hair and not looking like they swallowed a beach ball is a date to remember. I've come to prefer the shaved head look, as it's far better than three or four greasy strands draped across the top. Hot or not? How about hearing aids , are they a turn on? I remind myself it's better than yelling across the table. At least those men want to hear what you're saying.  Is that the new "hot?"

I went on a date with a man who talked the entire evening about himself, non-stop. Every sentence began with "I, I , I, I". I think I fell asleep. He didn't notice. Hot or not? But he had hair and no hearing aids...good date/bad date? That's tough and a very close call.  My friend Jay says, "It's a numbers game, you gotta kiss a lot of frogs". I was very bad at math so the idea of numbers makes me sweaty . And frogs conjure up the image of some biblical plague for which I'm not vaccinated and would need better health insurance. On second thought are frogs good listeners? Jon tells me I'm too picky, although this advice comes from a man who only wants to date women less than 105 pounds with small breasts. I consider his remark and think his options are limited and jail bait. Jon, wake up! And put the Twinkie down if a thin woman is high on the priority list as she won't be a big eater. Ixnay to double standards big guy.

I don't think dating via "frog kissing" is for me, although I did get an A- in biology, and my teacher was a hottie. Now he's probably bald and hard of hearing or deceased.  Is it too late to try and pass chemistry?

Michael Vick; still a dog killer in my book

This is not my usual funny blog.

Oh for God's sake who in their right mind believed a word Michael Vick said on 60 Minutes last night? I didn't believe him for 60 seconds. Are we really supposed to think he transformed from a dog killer to ASPCA spokesperson? Now I may have had a few glasses of a lovely reisling .... but he's lying. He has image shapers, lawyers, public relations gurus...I didn't see any dogs sitting at his side licking his hand. I still cringe visualizing the images of the starving/dying dogs he left behind when the mediocre quarterback from Virginia Tech/Atlanta Falcons went to prison. He might have been "rehabilitated" ,but some of those dogs never will be. Sorry big guy, you are behind dogs on my priority list. Oh, you've found Jesus? Yea! Whoppee do! I HATE THAT. Bullshit religious hypocrisy and convenience. Let's leave the Lord out of this Mr. Vick. After all who saved your helpless dogs?!

Obviously this pisses me off. He was temporarily re-instated to the NFL and the Eagles fans will probably embrace his sorry ass if they win games with him at the helm...how quickly fans forget when they get the big "win". How we love our sports heroes regardless of their transgressions. Trust me there is no bigger sports freak than I am but this guy is a loser in my book. Let's see how long he loves his furry friends...one game...two games..and entire season? Sorry ASPCA, next season you'll need a new ambassador.

Should we let him off the hook? I say he should be allowed back in the work force...bag boy , paper boy, Home Depot inventory boy...but the NFL? Forgive a spoiled brat athlete who kills dogs for "sport". Wow, it sure is fun to watch dogs die! Personally this breaks my heart. My heart does not break or bleed for Michael Vick.

Get Me to the Ashram not the Nunnery

My friend Rick thinks I'm sounding "grouchy". I wonder if that's his nice way of saying I've become a raving bitch? I am a getting a little testy! I'm sick of the ranting about cash for clunkers, btw I need cash, but don't own a clunker so I'm still strapped for $$$. The health care tirades are actually starting to give me hives, so should I or shouldn't I call a doctor? MY NERVES ARE SHATTERED and who's going to refill my Xanax? I need peace, love, 1966! Is Jimi Hendrix dead? Get me to an ashram or yoga retreat asap. I read the places are bulging at the seams with cranky folk just like me. Adria, stop jumping up and down on your computer keyboard and join me. We need quiet, shhhhhhh.... and cheap room and board.

I could meditate. No one laugh. I read that at the Himalayan Institute's 28 day self-transformation program the day begins with 6:00 a.m. meditation. Excuse me? I couldn't possibly start self transformation that early. I can't begin transforming until 10:30 after 3 cups of coffee and a quick application of eye shadow. The day continues with hatha yoga classes, breathing and relaxation practicums and about four hours of light chores like making beds and chopping vegetables. Oy and what's a "practicum"? As for "light" chores... those aren't light! I feel crankiness returning. I hate making beds and absolutely do not do "hospital corners". Chopping? I don't want to chop. Do I look like freaking Jooolia Child? I'm starting to itch again. I need different chores, like selecting a nice Sauvignon Blanc for dinner. Oh and I don't share, so no bunking with others. OMMMMMMM!

I feel more relaxed already. Maybe thinking about self transformation and meditation is good enough. Now where's my eye shadow?

"Princess Stripped of Crown"! or I hate to shop.

I hate clothes shopping. I know, I know, I also hate "The New Yorker" and packing boxes. There must be something I like...but I digress. Shopping is at the top of my 'most dreaded' list. This is no more evident than looking in my closet, where my friend Adria recently spent about 30 seconds before she started screaming. "Is this it?! Where are the rest of your clothes?" Sheepishly I stammered, "I don't know....oh wait... there are few things in my office closet ". I took her hand, marched her there, and stood with my head down so as not to witness her expression. "Are you kidding?! There's no such thing as a Jewish princess with so little clothing"! Crap. I was busted and demoted. I felt ashamed and questioned the validity of my DNA. She was right, I was a disgrace to my "title" and mother. Mom btw, could dress the entire third world with the clothes in her closet she has never worn.

I was determined to prove Adria wrong. I was a Jewish Princess! With trepidation and medication I set forth. First stop, JCrew , where I had my friend K on speaker phone. "Now go to the back of the store and look at the "minis"....so cute", she commanded. "Then you definitely need the little blue pin striped jacket with the rolled up cuffs....oh, and ask the salesmen to show you the jeans in all those great colors". Click. I was overwhelmed and had started to itch. What "cuffs", what "minis"? I left the store in tears, searching desperately for the meds. "I am a Jewish princess... I know I am... I know I am".

I set out again the very next day with my mother in tow. After all why not bring along the Czar of shopping as support. Store one, I stayed long enough to try on two pairs of pants. My shopping A.D.D. kicked in and we left. Store two, I didn't get as far as a dressing room before I dragged my mother by the hand out the door. "MOM, let's go, I hate everything"! I'm not sure she was completely in the car before I pulled away from the curb. Store three, same scenario, only this time faster. Mom was getting dizzy from our pace. I offered her the meds. Store four I was dazed and prepared to face my fate...I wasn't a Princess because I didn't have a wardrobe worthy of the crown. Then like a "once upon a time" moment, I spotted a consignment rack. Thanks to a quaking economy a sexy little black dress called to me and I grabbed it. "Mine"! Was I on a roll? A fabulous jacket was next; so cool, so soft, so cheap! I was suddenly giddy. I did it...I shopped and purchased. The crown was mine!

Shaken not deterred!

My friend Rick needs help. He isn't stressed out like me about the real meaning of Twitter, cryptic messages on his Facebook wall, or whether or not texting brings happiness...no, no, no poor Rick has fear of restaurants. (I love restaurants; it means I'm not cooking). He is terrified of being seated. This is a phobia about which I know nothing nor have I done any reading; it's new and it's true. Apparently the sign "Please Wait to be Seated" strikes fear in his heart. Whoa Rick, get a grip babe, it's just a sign. "And put the Valium away, it will spoil your appetite." I've dined with him, and have seen how shaken he gets being lead to a table. He turns a grayish white and gets a little sweaty across the eyebrow area. Quick Towelettes!

"The table for two we're headed for is really a table for six because the couples on either side of us are six inches away. Why don't we just ask for a red checkered tablecloth and call it a friggin' picnic"? Rick's testy! I totally agree with him but wish he'd stop sweating. "And look our neighbors hate us...I can see it in their eyes". On second thought , maybe it was time for the Valium! I hate being squished next to strangers cramped against a wall also, especially when the rest of the dining area is EMPTY! This pisses me off...who are these people resting their elbows on my table!? Oh God, what if they talk to me?! I'm moments away from hearing about their son's soccer game. I rip the Valium away from Rick...."don't hog the drugs".

Unlike Rick I have no fear of a maitre d. Oh they can be huffy but I'm a Jewish Princess, I've been trained for just this type of dining warfare. "Excuse me, but we need a different table, I insisted. How about the booth over on the other side of the room"? I glared .... he glared. Rick was that grayish white color. "Of course ma'am". Yes! Truimphantly we walk to our neighbor free table. Rick's still shaken and I'm still wondering if texting brings happiness.

"Uh oh, it's Mom again"

I'm a call screener. Sorry for any of you who call me, but it's true. Don't be sad, 99% of the time I pick up because who am I kidding , I'm desperate for real time conversation. No, I don't text....I TALK! Fyi text messages get left unread. My nerves are ususally too jangled to push the tiny letters to text back. I tried it on my son's Iphone and started crying when he stopped me from throwing it out the car window. "Mom, you'll get it, just be patient", he said as he grabbed my arm. PATIENT! PATIENT!? My fingers missed every letter I aimed for...my texting career came to an end.

I try as hard as I psychologically can to pick up the phone when my Mom calls. She calls a lot. She's 91 so there's always the guilty tug of war with myself when I see her on caller ID. Not again!? I'm tempted to screen but... what if she fell down, fell over, was gasping for breath, drove into a building (true)....but she just called 15 minutes ago about needing a manicure.... so it's nothing.....but what if it's something.....nah, it's nothing..... but what if? My head is spinning ....I'm a Jew, I pick up.

"Gail, Gail"! Crap, she was really gasping for breath this time. I go into emergency voice mode, "Mom, what? WHAT"?! "There's bad news". Oy. "What do you mean"? "I'm at the beauty shop". She's having a heart attack at the beauty shop? "It's Liz, she's leaving....Friday is her last day". "Huh"? "If you need color, make an appointment immediately"! "Huh"? "Are your roots grey because she's moving to Tampa". I stared at the phone in my shaking hand and vowed to screen more carefully. "Bye Mom". Nerves shattered I burst into tears. Call me if you know a good colorist, I promise to pick up.

I Also Hate Packing Boxes!

Let's face it moving sucks. First of all, it forces me to take a good hard look at all the crap I've acquired and schlepped from place to place because I refuse to admit it's crap. Why , why, why do I still have madras bermudas in my closet and a mink coat with one arm? If anyone wants either item please let me know asap. I'm a little afraid to move the coat however, for fear of it becoming a vest. I have shoes that are too small which make me wonder if they ever fit, and if they didn't why I bought them. I have a small red purse. Huh? I have two white blouses that haven't been white since 1998 and whoops, my friend Ellen's University of Wisconsin sweatshirt that I forgot to return in 1973.

I've become an expert at packing up a kitchen. Yep, I'm fast, I'm good and have a low breakage record. My biggest weakness is the tape gun . Not a pretty sight. I've yet to master weilding tape and holding the bottom of the carton closed. Ok, I scream a lot and have on occasion thrown the box down and stomped on it. Fyi, crying doesn't help either. And "just say no" to taping and drinking. Stacking up boxes filled with pots and pans I don't use and the really really expensive china that has never seen a meal makes me ponder why I even need a kitchen. I don't have the time or enough medication to explore that .

Once I start I'm a packing machine. Onward, tape gun in hand, I invade my office. Recklessly I throw away a Village Voice from 1972. I have no idea why I saved it which scares me but I toss it anyway. Pictures, books,
#2 pencils, my old Filofax all go in boxes. A lone coaster doesn't make the cut, or pictures of me with short hair. I vow to never move again. At least not until I use the china.

I've been Facebooked!

I'm sick of Facebook. There I said it. I admitted I hate the New Yorker and now I confess I'm sick of Facebook. "Enemy combatant" status I assume. Is there a site for "internet public enemies" and do they post pictures? I'd prefer if they use one from 10 or more years ago. Crap, what if they put my age? I'm so busted. Regardless, I have to say if I get another message from one of my "friends" on Facebook, I'm throwing my computer out the window. Sorry little buddies, but I just don't know what I'm supposed to do with you. To say nothing of the fact that I don't know who half of you are. And where were you when I really needed friends.....in high school!

Life has sure changed since the answering machine. It brings tears to my eyes to think of how excited I used to be to hear who called. "Erase/play" were such fun buttons. Next came the 10lb cell phone, which I couldn't afford or lift to my ear. I was shocked the day a friend called and said he was "on the corner of Michigan Ave. and Erie". Whoa! We're talkin' NASA! And then one of the bigger days of my life; I got a car phone. Ok, I have a small pathetic life. I HAD A CAR PHONE, could it get any better?

No, just more complicated. Now I'm a freaking slave to a cell phone, Twitter and Facebook. Leaving the cell phone behind by mistake gives me anxiety and a rash. I've destroyed purses ripping them apart seam by seam seaching desperately for the tiny object. "I know it's in here" I scream, throwing lipstick, my wallet,7 pens, and house keys on the floor of my car. Then I burst into tears. I need meds. Twitter, makes me nervous. Who's following me, who am I following, where are we going, aren't we there yet and did anyone bring a map? I have a "wall" thanks to Facebook. I write stupid things on it. I dread looking at it empty. Did I need a wall? No... I need a couch.

Walter Cronkite vs. Michael Jackson

Does anyone know if there's a lottery for tickets to Walter Cronkite's funeral? I'd really really like to go and don't know if there's the crazed frenzy for seats like there was for Michael Jackson. Not one news channel has interrupted regularly scheduled programming regarding his life or funeral....I'd call that irony. Will there be a moment of silence in Congress? Hello Nancy Pelosi, if you gave Michael a minute,(?????) how about Walter as a token for the rest of us? Lord knows the CBS evening news hasn't been the same since he retired. Is it presumptuous to say that although he couldn't "moonwalk" or write music, he did help change the face of the Viet Nam War? Again ironically .... how many generations remember that war vs. Michael Jackson?

I had different kinds of heroes, Walter being one of them. My mother and I once stood next to him on the corner of 57th street and Park Avenue in New York City and giggled like two silly school girls. I think I left a scar where I poked her in the ribs when I spotted him. "Oh my God, oh my God, Mother, it's Walter Cronkite....no don't talk to him"! I had to yank her back on the curb to get her under control. I was also in the elevator at Rockefeller Plaza with Chet Huntley many many many years ago... DOES ANYONE BUT ME REMEMBER HIM? I almost fainted when I saw the man. I loved him too. I don't remember a lottery system for his funeral either or 24/7 coverage.

I've had the tv on for 2 hours of morning programming and not one segment about Walter Cronkite's life or death. There was however, a rather lengthy piece on the custody of Michael Jackson's children. Who are we?

I HATE "THE NEW YORKER"

I have a secret. It's too shameful to admit. I can hardly spit it out but maybe it will be purging. I'll try...bear with me....I dread getting "The New Yorker". Oh Lord, I've said it, be merciful. It was a huge mistake, like my second divorce attorney. When I see yet another one in my mailbox my stomach sinks, my blood pressure rises and I get a rash. "Crap, not 'The New Yorker' again, I cry out!" The mailman thinks I'm nuts. "Didn't they just send one?! Why isn't this freaking subscription up already"? I'm tempted to throw it away, but stop myself and instead make a solemn vow I'll read it. Yes, more than just the cartoons. The subscription seemed like a good idea at the time. My Mother was taking a course on the magazine and my son was an avid reader. I felt stupid when they talked about articles and I had no knowledge of the subjects. I had to have in.

The articles are too long. And can anyone really see the print? A lethal combination for someone in a hurry with the attention span of a near sighted gnat. I always take a cursory look, a "yes", "no" as to what I want to read. Admitedly, and this is a tough admission I ixnay most of the magazine. It just doesn't seem that interesting. There I confess "IT DOESN'T SEEM THAT INTERESTING". Oh God, I'm an idiot. I had so much promise too. Wait a minute, hold on just one sec, for the record I did read a very long article on John Currin. I also entered the cartoon caption contest twice. I thought I'd win. I lost. Right now I have one "New Yorker" by my bed, one in my car and one on the floor of the bathroom. They're like roaches.

I've done this before. I subscribed to "The New York Review of Books" years ago. Each week I excitedly looked through the newest arrival and then put it in a drawer next to my bed for leisure reading. Fifty two weeks later I had a fire hazard. It was a day of intellectual reckoning when I threw them all away. I did it without therapy. I'm looking forward to the week my subscription to "The New Yorker" ends. I may have a little party. Cash bar, no food...maybe I do have promise.

Peeing in a cup; a tragic female dilemma

It's really hard to pee in a cup. If there's a trick to it, I'm clueless. This creates enormous anxiety when I go to the doctor and the first place they point me is the bathroom. Oh God, not the cup! Anything but the cup! And why, why, why are they so small? Come on now Doc, it's not a precise activity for us females, how about a bowl? Men have it much easier, even with shaky hands I can't imagine it has a high degree of difficulty. All they have to do is stay awake and keep their eyes open.

I found myself taking the dreaded walk to the bathroom at my Internist's office yesterday. You'd think after years of experience at the Ob-Gyn, I'd have some level of skill and accuracy. Nope. So there I was reading the directions on the wall. This was the first time I've ever seen such specific instructions. My Gynecologist's nurse says "there's the cup, pee, and leave it on the shelf". Now I was staring at a step by step list of what to do. I'm not good at following rules and felt panicked. There was a lovely basket of tiny cups with little blue lids; a nice Martha Stewart touch. "Martha I need help babe! Is your aim better than mine?" And is there a class I can take? There was also a bowl of packaged towelettes for pre-peeing purposes. I couldn't get one of the tightly sealed packets opened. I grew anxious and looked around for the Xanax basket. When I finally tore it open with my teeth, the towel dropped on the floor. My first instinct was to just pick it up and continue....I opened another one. In my rush to get done, I dropped the cup I was holding. My first instinct was to just pick it up...

Profusely sweating and slightly dizzy, but with new cup in hand, I was ready. I always think I'm in the correct general area but it's really hit or miss. "Miss" really sucks. And yes, I've missed. Obviously I know instantly. It is a sad, pitiful and embarrassing moment. Thank God I'm alone. I pray I'm not the only one who has this problem. Yesterday I was lucky, first time on target. I did have to write my name on the label twice as my nerves were still jangled and I couldn't remember how to spell "Gail". Finally and triumphantly I placed the cup on the shelf. I was proud. Now I can relax until Sept. when I'm due for my Ob-Gyn check-up. And "no" I don't practice between appointments.

Dad, poor dad, I've caught him watching porn and I'm feeling so sad.

Do you watch porn? I don't. Does your dad? Mine does. And, is there psychological well being after catching your dad in the act? I read it's the largest industry on the internet, which surprised me for some reason. Was I thinking it was really Oprah? Sorry babe, the people like porn better. It appears millions of men/women are turning in at all hours of the day and night. Is there an appropriate snack food? I dated a man who sat bleary eyed in fron of his computer screen checking out the free sites. He was too cheap to pay, so who needed him anyway, right? Would you call this a hobby? Would you list it on a resume under "outside activities"? My dad's retired, so he doesn't have the resume dilemma. Whew!

I never knock when I visit my parents, everyone in the family has a key, so per usual I walked in unannounced, dog in tow, at approx 3:00 p.m.
There's dad in his giant lounge chair watching tv, and straight ahead on the screen was a porno movie. My dad is 89. What happened to Little Joe
on "Bonanza"? Where's "The Sound of Music"? There's not a Von Trapp Family Singer in sight, just a blow job. Holy crap. I was torn between bursting into laughter and running out of the room screaming as I throw back Valium and rip out my pocket Freud. Well he saw me and jumped up as fast as he could (not fast enough), and fumbled with the clicker to get it off the screen. This took a lifetime. I looked down, and mumbled something about taking the dog out on the deck for air. It was me who needed the oxygen.

What does a daughter do next? Stay? Go? Ask him who his favorite porn star is? Call a care giver for myself? "Oh my God, oh my God" was all I could choke out as I paced the deck. Why me? Why not my sister? Why did she get special dispensation? I'm older I have less time to live joyfully! I had to call her and ruin her life too. Denial was my only move, and coincidentally it was my dad's. He appeared on the deck with the same resolve...what movie? We made our usual "weather" small talk and then I fled.

I couldn't dial my sister fast enough. "Answer already"!!! I'm screaming and pounding the phone on the dashboard like that will make her pick up. I got her machine. Damn. I couldn't be alone with this information, I had to tell someone, or everyone. I thought seriously about confiding in the guy behind the counter at the 7-11 when I stopped for a soda. Could he double as a counselor or exorcist? And why the hell wasn't my sister returning my call?? I ixnayed the clerk and called my friend Dan. I made his day. He laughed non-stop for ten minutes. I finally joined in and tears were streaming down my face I was laughing or crying so hard. Then he abruptly stopped and proclaimed, "I'll pay for the first three hours of analysis."

In the aftermath of my trauma I discovered that my tale of Freudian horror made a great story. Everyone loved it. Dad was cheered on by my friends. I'm shocked and they're awed. Hey, what if it was your dad? Mine was a geriatric hero; near icon status in his demographic. I just can't get the "go dad" out yet.

Michael Jackson vs. Farrah Faucet

No, I am not in Los Angeles trying desperately to win the Michael Jackson funeral seat lottery. And can someone please tell me why, why, why this event has 24 hour non stop news coverage? I want Martha Stewart and her tips for cutting doily roses back on my screen. I've never bought a lottery ticket in my life and really don't feel the urge to start now, especially when the prize isn't $300 million but a seat at a funeral. I didn't hear one peep about him in the last 15 years which didn't involve a creepy child sleep-over and now the world is in mourning.... Huh?

Admitedly he was a musical innovator. My son watched "Thriller" every single solitary day for months on end regardless of my screaming that the beginning scared the crap out of me. I grew up bopping around the living room to the Jackson Five, wishing me and my sister also had an act. As for "moonwalking" , I tried, tripped, and gave up, but was totally envious of anyone who could. Truthfully I always wore two white gloves, and never ever wanted a jacket with epaulets but I'm a conservative dresser.

Poor Farrah Faucet had to die on the same day as Michael. Now that's just bad luck. No one's even mentioned the poor dear and I think her Charlie's Angel hair was bigger than "moonwalking". Every girl in America wanted her blond "do"....and fab body. She deserves a little more posthumous attention in my book. Personally I can't wait for this media circus to be over. Is it funeral burn-out or am I just getting old?

What's so Happy about "Happy Hour"?

I confess it was heartbreaking. Call me shallow, superficial, vain, and obviously delusional, but I never thought a bartender could ruin my life. I was happily sitting at the bar of my Seattle hotel, sipping a mediocre yet expensive Sauvignon Blanc, looking out at the incredible view across the water and gleefully anticipating my longed for salmon dinner. I had a new shiney cell phone, and hallelujah the 2,200 mile schlep across country was behind me. I was in a cute little black dress, strappy high heels, had put on make-up, blown dry my hair,and shaved my legs, yes, both of them...sometimes I lose interest by the second one. I'm thinkin' I looked pretty cute.

Then it struck me. Exactly like the moment I realized no one called me "miss" anymore...one day out of the freaking clear blue I was "ma'am". Wham! Pow, right in the kisser, I'm dubbed "ma'am". "You talkin' to me"? I'm not a "ma'am", I' CAN'T BE "MA'AM"! Aren't I too young? Quick a mirror, I needed a mirror, the witness protection program, a plastic surgeon! My mother is a "ma'am". That older woman over there, but not me! Crap. The loss of "miss" was a milestone. Do men suffer this way?

After ordering my second glass of wine, three twenty something blond girls walked up to the bar to pay their tab. Ok, ok, I admit, they were "hotties". I would kill for their wrinkle free complexions and perky skin tone. The bartender proceeded to tell them about "happy hour and free champagne on Saturday", practically pleading with them to come back and bring their friends. "Excuse me, I'll still be at the hotel on Saturday", I wanted to blurt out. What was I "chopped liver"? What about me? Was I invisible or remind him of mom? This couldn't be happening.... I was too old for happy hour!? Quick more wine. Suddenly I had lost my desire for salmon. Oy! Then the bartender turned to me and smiled....ah ha, he obviously forgot to tell me.... I felt relieved and much much better... all that anxiety for nothing. "Ma'am would you like to close out your tab"?