"The Housewives of Beverly Hills" Scared the Crap Out of Me

I never liked to watch scary TV when I was growing up. The most frightening I could tolerate was"The Twilight Zone." "Shock Theater" was out of the question as was anything with Frankenstein , The Mummy , or a monster who could later haunt me in my dreams. I had to face it, I was a scardy cat and wimp. Ixnay to creepy and freaky. I've been playing it safe ever since. No Freddy Kruger, or folks wielding a chain saw pass in front of these eyes. I thought I was safe until I mistakenly saw "The Housewives of Orange County" in their blindingly colored clothes, big nests of hair, and gigantic breasts. It was shock and not a lot of awe. I thankfully repressed the crazy woman tribe of Orange County but was on the treadmill at the gym last week and stumbled upon the equally frightening "Housewives of Beverly Hills."

I almost lost a limb watching the flashy trashy girls. I was staring so intently at them I forgot to keep my feet moving and started to fly off the machine. Happily I caught myself and didn't have to be hauled off in an ambulance and miss the show. Who are these women? This haunts me along with the thought that their plastic surgeons need to go back to medical school and consider a different specialty. I wanted to hide my eyes but couldn't. Oy! And for the life of me I don't know why they want such giant breasts. It seemed like they were always falling out of their tops and I could reach out and catch them. And why why why would you want your lips really big and puffy like marshmellows? Surprisingly no one had a lisp. I also can't imagine how they breathe in such tightly fitting clothes but somehow the girls manage. I could never hold my stomach in for more than 10 minutes at a stretch. They must have very good lungs.

The scariest part of the show however was how much money two of the wives spent on birthday parties for their respective two and four year old daughters. "Mom, why didn't you spend $60,000 for my fourth birthday, or the paltry sum of $12,000 for my second? All I got was pin the tail on the donkey and bingo. I would have loved a live petting zoo, cho cho train, $20,000 worth of flowers and a song composed just for me. Although it is really sad to peak as a female at the age of two or four.

The "Housewives of Beverly Hills" scared the crap out of me. I can't understand why or how they're on TV. So far none of the wives have caused me to wake up screaming but personally I have ruled out cosmetic surgery. I've also decided to rent "Friday the 13th" and "The Texas Chain Saw Massacre" as comic relief.

Confessions of a Texting Loser

Please don't text me. I'm constantly confused how to receive or respond to a message. I think my phone has a special tone when a text comes through but I'm not sure. I get jumpy and slightly sweaty when I hear the sound. "Why is someone texting me?" I groan in frustration. Then I irrationally yell at the phone, "Why couldn't you just call ?" I press every button in sight to find the screen with the teenie tiny symbols so I can locate the little picture that represents "texts." A half hour has gone by and I have to pee. If I get to the actual text without bursting into tears I pray it's something that doesn't require a response. That never happens. I'm tempted to call the person but realize a sign of personal growth would be to stop crying and text back.

Responding to a text gives me high anxiety. Last week I had to answer a message asap. It took seven attempts to try and spell out three words. "I'm riding Sunday" came out "Imridinsudy." I tried again. "Im rdhg stnday" I was proud I found the "space" key but started frantically pacing because I couldn't get any of the letters right. I was cracking under the pressure. I needed water and protein. I finally decided to reduce my answer to "yes" because it only had 3 letters and I could find them. I didn't care whether or not it made sense because at least it was a word. I felt alone and isolated in my technological inadequacy. Am I the only person in the world besides my 92 year old Mother who can't text?

I have to face it; I'm a talker not a texter. I watch the fingers of 10 year olds fly across the keys of their cell phones in total amazement. I see people walk and text and think they should be on "America's Got Talent." I'm a texting loser. Please I'm begging you only contact me if you want to talk. Hpythnksgvng!

"Peter Pan Come Get Me and Don't Forget the Fairy Dust"

Why was I in such a hurry to grow up? This question has haunted me because I recently saw a production of "Peter Pan." Maybe the flying boy who sprinkled fairy dust on the unsuspecting John, Michael, and Wendy was on to something when he declared, "I'll never grow up, not me." Peter may have wanted to stay young forever but I didn't. My urge to age started with shaving my legs. "Mom, please please, why can't I shave my legs yet?" It represented being a big girl and truthfully they looked gross with my white anklets. I also cried and cried to have a bra regardless of whether or not I needed one. I didn't, but how could I face being 12 and still in an undershirt? Decades later shaving my legs is a pain in the ass and sometimes I'm barely motivated enough to get to the second leg. I also can't help but wonder what was wrong with those nice comfy little undershirts? I hate bras and am forever squirming and pulling them down. I also long to be standing on the corner waiting for the summer camp bus. The thought brings tears to my eyes. What was my rush?

For some crazy reason I couldn't wait to be out of the house and on my own. Although I did grow up indoctrinated with the ill-conceived notion that I was going to marry a "prince" so naturally I was in a hurry. Me and my fabulously handsome wealthy guy would live happily ever after in the fantasy land of grown-ups. What was I smoking ? I won't answer that but, "Help! Peter Pan come get me!" Prince #1 didn't work out or Prince #2. It was a lot easier to have a relationship in sixth grade . I wonder if my grade school cutie Roger ever got married? I also read 36 books that year and haven't matched the number since - no time because I'm too busy working and when I have a moment I'm exhausted and asleep after two paragraphs. I repeat, what was my rush?

Mom and Dad, thanks for never making me take out the garbage, do laundry, yard work, pay for electricity, gas, the phone , my braces, taxes, or health care . Childhood definitely had its perks. "Peter Pan come get me and don't forget the fairy dust."

"The Dating Game" Comes to Middle Age and the Radio

Remember the TV show "The Dating Game?" I used to watch and wish I was one of the hot bachelorettes who got asked those really dumb questions. Sadly I never was and didn't have a micro mini skirt anyway. But opportunity might be knocking as "Here Women Talk" is bringing the show back to us . They have "Tom" a 53 year old divorced guy ready, willing and anxious to stick his neck out to look for love . "Here Women Talk" is searching for dates for our boy Tom but as fate would have it, it's being reincarnated as a radio show! No one would ever date me if all they heard was my voice. They'd turn off the radio and run out of the room screaming and covering their ears. There's no way I'd be picked I'm afraid, but there must be a lot of women with melodious voices anxious to try their hand and play. In fact click this link if you want to vie for a date with Tom: http://herewomentalksocial.com/profile/TomDatingGame.com

I know my line of questioning Tom or any middle aged man would be much different now than it would have been in my twenties or thirties. Personally I'd need a lot more information... a lot more! "You're cute, I'll marry you" is over. My Dating Game would go something like this:

"Bachelor #1 - Do you have a financial statement handy for my perusal?"

"Bachelor #2 - How many times a day does your ex-wife call?"

"Bachelor #3 - How many hours of sports do you watch a day, month and calendar year?"

"Bachelor #1 How often do you talk to your Mother?"

"Bachelor #2 - What medications are you on? And are your joints real?

"Bachelor #3 - How many times a week, month or year would you want to have sex?"

"Bachelor #1 - How's your hearing?....I SAID, HOW'S YOUR HEARING?"

"Bachelor #2- On average how many times a night do you get up to pee?"

"Bachelor #3 - Do you fall asleep before, during, or after the news?"

I'm certain I'd end up unable or unwilling to chose #1,2, or 3. I'm picky, alone and ask too many questions. I can't wait however, to hear Tom and the crafty quiz he has for the bachelorettes. If you want to tune in to find out if our man finds a date here's the scoop: Monday Nov.22 : http://www.herewomentalk.com/ The John Banks Show "Bringing Man out of the Cave" 2:00- 3:00 est.

"Mirror Mirror on the Wall Am I My Mother After All?"

"Mirror mirror on the wall am I my Mother after all?" Crap. "How could this happen?" I sobbed. Except there I was in the bathroom holding one of the jars of face cream she gave me. I stared at it resistantly yet her words rang in my ears,

"Gail, this is very expensive and for your neck. Neck cream is important. It's from the "Sisley" counter at Neimans."

"Huh? Neck cream, there's special stuff just for the neck?" I'm thinking she's been tricked once again by one of her cosmetic gurus.

"Yes, you shouldn't ignore your neck," she insisted. I must admit her neck was lookin' pretty good. I took a quick peek at mine and almost screamed. Why didn't I have her neck? Could it be her magic cream produced results or was I getting Dad's turkey jowels? It was hard but I held back tears.

"Oh and here's some very expensive Sisley body cream for dry areas." Dry areas? Mom likes expensive, she thinks it means better. Admitedly, at 92 she's either a freak of nature or the damn products work. Curses!

I have bags of masks, lotions and potions she's given me over the years. I've never used them , rejecting the notion that they do anything, no less turn back the clock. Her fancy facial masks took too much time and looked really creepy. She however, held fast , regardless of my laughing at her face caked with some bank breaking formula. I can still conjure up the smell of Estee Lauder wafting from her bathroom when I was growing up. I would gag and run outside. I swore I'd never waste all that time on beauty.

Uh oh, it seems time has caught up with me. One day I have no wrinkles, a dewey complexion, and a jaw line and then poof...gone. What happened? Where was the "girl" in the mirror? I found myself asking the BIG question - could neck cream really help? Do those little jars Mom gave me hold the answer? I had to find out or drag all the mirrors out to the garbage. I slathered the slimey lotion on my neck and plastered my face with some creamy white stuff that smelled like weeds. I went to bed pretty slippery. I'm Mom.

Breaking News - There's Too Much Breaking News!

Growing up I had a little red leather diary. It was locked at all times. No one had the key except me. All my thoughts, dreams and childhood humiliations were safe from the outside world. In that red book I wrote - "Dear Diary: Roger talked to me today after school. I don't know if he likes me though because he walked home with Susan instead. What more can I do? Maybe I'll wear my best dress tomorrow and see what happens. I hate Susan." After each entry I would hide the secret book away so no one like my snoopy little sister could find it. Oh god if any of my thoughts got out I'd be ruined and could never go to school again.

What the hell happened to private thoughts? Just a week ago I announced on Twitter and Facebook that I can't find a bra I like. In fact "I hate my bra" has become an ongoing publically announced personal drama. Excuse me? I said that? Yes, I did. Not only that, but Saturday I mentioned to the entire world that I had an ice pack on my butt because I fell off my horse. HA! I've openly announced: how looking in the mirror scares the bejesus out of me, that I hate national holidays, don't know if I resemble Carrie Bradshaw or Roseanne, am the queen of one date, can't follow Mapquest directions, did not have sex with Tiger Woods, and that I ran into a man I dated who had no recollection of who I was! I also announced my mother's age. She wants to kill me. Nothing is sacred or secret. We have become the collective consciousness of the "National Enquirer."

There are no secrets. Zippo. How did this happen? It's 24/7 breaking news and personal exposure. I know too much about everyone, including people I don't know, don't want to know and will never meet. Why isn't this embarrassing? As I mentioned I'm as guilty as the gazillion folks on Twitter and Facebook. I doubt anyone, even my closest friends care about the fact that I can't find a new bra. Although if I did have sex with Tiger Woods they would want the details but alas I could only announce I was sitting on a bag of ice. Btw, that seemed to have helped. See I did it again. Who cares? I miss my little red diary with all my secrets locked safely away. Except if you do know where I can buy a bra Facebook or Tweet me.