Men on Sale at Match.com

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

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

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

The sale ends in January but I have shopping fatigue. I hope Mom isn't too disappointed that I don't have the lung capacity or nerve to dive in the sale bin again.  And ironically I think I prefer Neimans.

Kim Kardashian Say It Isn't So!

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

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

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

Who Wants to be President?

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

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

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

My First Kiss, Fact or Fiction?

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

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

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

I Tried to Save the Economy

I tried to save the economy. President Obama and Ben Bernanke you can stop worrying because I decided to do my part and get out from under the bed where I've been hiding with my money and spend. I would unclench my fist full of dollars and help relieve the country of economic woe. I gassed up my little car and headed from Palm Springs to LA. to shop 'til I dropped. I had my Saks, Neimans, Barneys, Visa cards and cash ready to go. Unfortunately I got a little lost trying to find LA but pulling over on the shoulder of the interstate to scream and cry did not deter me for long. First stop - my friend Ginger's house to watch the final episode of "All My Children" - my idea of pre-shopping calisthenics.

After a sorrowful good-bye to Erica Kane we hightailed it out to purchase. I gleefully headed directly into Barney's Co-op. Yes it's the cheap sister store but still expensive. Armed with my charge card I was poised and ready as I made a bee-line to the shoes. There I held in my hand for what seemed like hours a beautiful pair of teal suede high heels - they brought tears to my eyes and the price struck fear in my heart. My first impulse to buy them was thwarted by the cheap little voice in my head stopping me. "Gail, don't be an idiot. You have no place to wear them and besides it's money better put towards a colonoscopy. Get a grip on yourself and step away from the shoes." Sadly I put them back. In JCrew I clutched the cutest pair of skinny orange corduroy jeans but ixnayed them in the end. "Sorry Mr.President and Ben Bernanke but I'm not crazy about ankle length." I remained empty handed. My friend Emily joined us for dinner and we drank two bottles of a pricey Russian River Pinot Noir. I'm counting that as part of my economic recovery plan.

Day two of "Operation Shop 'til I Drop aka Save the Economy" started at Neiman Marcus. Imagine my joy as I had not stepped foot in the "mother ship" since I left Chicago 10 months ago. I didn't know where to start. I did however stop dead in my tracks by a pair of black suede Gucci high heels. I could have been arrested for fondling them. It was love at first sight and "deja vu all over again" as the cheap little voice returned to haunt me. "Gail don't be a fool, do you really need a pair of shoes that cost more than your car?" I blew them a kiss good-bye. Emily and I scoured every inch of the store. I tried, I swear I tried to purchase but felt sweaty, feverish and began to develop a rash. Yet ever the soldier committed to the President and Ben B. and regardless of being very itchy, we went to Santa Monica to peruse the shops on Montana. I rifled through rack after rack of clothes but couldn't pull my Visa card out of my wallet. Had I Super Glued it in there? My only contribution to the economy was ordering a plain omelet with extra fruit instead of potatoes for lunch.

I'm back under the bed with my cash. "President Obama and Mr. B. please accept my apology for coming home empty handed. My economic recovery plan also failed but call me and I'll buy you a nice lunch."

Collecting Husbands and Stamps

I've had two husbands which at one time seemed like a lot. I have however, met men and women who are on their third , fourth and fifth spouse. It's a little jaw dropping but seeing as how everyone is living so much longer it's apparently possible to collect marriages like stamps. (Btw does anyone actually collect stamps anymore?) I feel thankful I got married in the 1970s and then again in the 80's as I never would have met either husband in 2011. Why? It is necessary to LOOK UP to meet someone. Has anyone else noticed that everyone is looking down texting or talking on their cell phone? Truthfully I'm shocked more folks haven't walked into oncoming traffic or trains. Everywhere I go men and women are yapping away on their phones probably complaining they never go out. Wake up all you 21st century dateless whiners - get a 20th century answering machine and leave the cell phone at home.

I admit this is much easier said than done but let me take you back to yesteryear. I met husband #1 in an age when phones plugged into a wall. The year was 1976 and the place Central Park . I was walking my Golden Retriever and he was out with his Golden Retriever. The dogs started playing and we started chit chatting. Now if either one of us had been on a cell phone or texting we would never have looked up long enough to have a conversation. I would have been on my tiny device bitching and moaning to a friend how I was dateless and my future husband would have gotten away. Husband #2 was trickier but again I was looking up. I was meeting my friend Ellen at the Museum of Modern Art when I realized I was a $1.00 short of the admission price. (Foolishly I couldn't resist a purse in the window of the Coach store on the way over.) Panicked, I knew I had to borrow money from a total stranger to get in. It was 1984 and phones were still attached to walls - no texting or calling her about my cash shortage. I looked around the lobby and decided if I had to make a complete fool of myself and beg for $$ I might as well pick the best looking man in sight. Voila I got the $1.00 and another husband. Yes, I paid him back.

It's 2017 and I find myself spending a lot of time looking down texting or talking and complaining about my paltry dating life. Obviously I am not taking my own advice.  I am so far behind the marital curve that I would have to live to 120 to catch up, if it's even possible. Truthfully I think there's only one answer. I think I'll collect stamps.

"I'll Have What She's Having"

I have a psychological disorder. Many of my friends have speculated this for years. And in my defense they were presumptuous. I've checked the "Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders" and my problem is not mentioned. It's either not officially recognized, not taken seriously by psychiatrists or I'm the first person to exhibit symptoms and give it a name. It falls under the general category of "envy" and it's not for a penis. I don't know what Freud was smoking when he thought up that idea. I've never wanted one of my own. A pair of Manolos or Jimmy Choos but not a penis. My problem is more troubling yet I'm too humiliated to seek counseling.

I have "order envy." Yes it's a real issue. I never order right in a restaurant. I look longingly at what is on everyone else's plate and despairingly at mine. It makes me sad and costs money. My friend Betsy has a perfect record when it comes to getting the best thing on the menu. It never fails I always want what she's having. So, why I don't follow her lead? This question haunts me. For example she gets a fresh farm veggie omelet and do I order the same thing? No, I ask for the turkey sandwich after sweating with indecision. Out comes her fluffy yummy looking eggs and my thinly sliced fake turkey. I'm green with envy as I pick at my loser choice and fight back tears.

"What are you getting?" is my restaurant mantra. I query everyone at the table and carefully consider their answers. The pressure mounts as I insist on ordering last and the waiter is impatiently hovering over me waiting for my selection and my friends are giving me dirty looks because they're hungry and I'm torn between Emily's choice of curried chicken, and Les's order of Trout. "I can't decide!" I want to shout and seek medical attention , but don't. Then it never fails the ill fated yet predictable words come out of my mouth. "I'll have the Salmon."

I Confess, I Am Not "Hip" Anymore

After 200 hours of watching coverage of Trump's first 100 days I decided I needed a break from talks of impeachment, collusion and Anderson Cooper. Btw, I am a little disappointed he has abandoned his signature hurricane gear, a yellow rain slicker for suits and skinny ties. I am jealous of his cheek bones however.   Regardless I decided to finally pick up the clicker and do a little channel surfing. I needed to seek refuge from the political maelstrom and hightailed it to a "Miami Crime Scene" and brutal "Cupcake War." This proved to be very bad thinking. On my travels up the dial I made an ill fated stop at the MTV Music Video Awards . Why? Why didn't I just keep going? Why did I leave Washington and Andersen regardless of what he was wearing?

It suddenly struck me; I had no idea who anyone was. Not one familiar face. Where's Elton John when you need him? Lady Gaga who I usually recognize by her life threateningly tall high heels was dressed like a man. Did she do this to screw with me? "For God's sake help me out and put on the giant shoes." I think I've become a loser. It was a night of reckoning. Did this happen in the blink of an eye? One day the audience is filled with the likes of The Grateful Dead, Neil Young, Bob Dylan, Eric Clapton et al and then poof they're gone , replaced by a group of pink haired girls and boys covered in ink. Where have I been? I should have known this day was coming as the people in "People" are total strangers to me now. They look so young any one of them could conceivably call me "Nana." This is very stressful. I need George Clooney to be the hottest man alive again. "George, quick put on a Speedo!"

I have to face it and confess - I am not "hip" anymore. I have tried , lord knows I have tried to keep up. I wear short skirts, have long hair, and still love to "hang out" but it's obviously not enough. Sadly it's possible I haven't been hip since 1974 when I went to a party at Jerry Garcia's ranch. My hip-o-meter has plunged to zero. "Lady Gaga please put on a dress and 9 inch heels again so I can recognize one person but don't ever call me Nana."

Summer Sundays Suck

It happens every week. It doesn't seem fair. It's Sunday again. I'm a bad Sunday person. In fact I hate Sunday - especially in the summer. Fall, Winter, and Spring Sundays at least have good TV: football, basketball, Desperate Housewives, Dexter etc. Summer has 150 baseball games and re-runs. This feels so wrong. In the past I spent Sundays reading the New York Times. That was until they raised the price to $500. I exaggerate but you catch my drift. The local paper takes under 10 minutes to read so I have 11 hours and 50 minutes left until I go to sleep. Now what? I also used to watch the morning political talk shows but by Sunday I can't handle any more bad news. I'd rather throw things at the TV than listen to the jabberwocky spewed from the mouths of pundits who obviously have no life.

Growing up I recall the "Sunday drive." We'd all jump in the car but I have no idea where we went. I remember spending Sunday at Kiddie Land but was afraid of the roller coaster and cried. Sunday at the bowling alley sounds familiar. Remember bowling? I was queen of the gutter ball and hated the shoes but it filled the afternoon. Miniature golf was another time killer yet tried my patience . Where was the damn hole? Proudly and sadly I think I set a record for highest score on the tiny course. I'd also hang with my girlfriends uptown at Leo and Lenny's Delicatessen. We drank chocolate phosphates, ate mounds of greasy french fries and tried to pick up boys. I now refer to those Sundays as "the good old days."

That brings me to this Sunday. I'm too big for Kiddie Land and might scare small children if I get in line with them, bowling would hurt my already compromised rotator cuff, miniature golf is too humiliating, and hanging at the delicatessen to pick up boys now means old men. I've finished my morning coffee and have NASCAR on my TV screen with the sound off. I think I'll drive to Oregon.

I Look Better in Dim Lighting

I just read an article that assured me I'll never be too old to look young. Plastic surgery is on the rise for septuagenarians, octogenarians and even nonagenarians. If you know what "nonagenarian" means without using "dictionary.com" I'll send you a gift bag. This is good news for my Mom, who actually is a nonagenarian. She is always looking in the mirror and shocked by her wrinkles. "Wow Mom, If I live to be your age I'll be shocked I still have a reflection." The good news for Mom is it's not too late for her to look 88 again. 84,685 surgical procedures were done on patients over 65 in just one calendar year.  Yep, it's true no one wants to age gracefully and cheaply. With folks living longer and remaining healthier they want their bodies in alignment with their mentality. Truthfully, I'm not sure any surgeon could make me look 18.

Are you tired of your slackened jowls, flabby underarms, droopy eyelids, turkey neck, perkless breasts, or mile wide thighs? Well don't despair, it's not too late no matter what your age to just say "no" to your body. I did read however, that older patients may take longer to heal and the results of plastic surgery may not last as long as in younger patients - but what the hell right? Isn't it worth your 401k to look 20 years younger for a month or two? I don't know about you but I'm sick of living in dim lighting. I want to uncover the mirrors and stop asking the maitre d' for the table in the corner.

Thankfully this news gives me years to decide what to do with my face. Should I take the plunge and hopefully look like I'm in my late forties again or wait another 15 years and ironically be thrilled to look exactly how I look now?

Text Me Please!

Bitch bitch bitch , moan moan, that's all my friends did about my refusing to text. I finally cracked. I succumbed to the pressure and bought a proper phone. Yep, out with my crappy flip phone and prehistoric texting capacity and in with a fancy little device with a real keyboard. One letter per key feels like a dream come true. I threw in the "I don't text" towel and jumped into the 21st century. No more leaving voice messages for this girl. No siree, I've joined the burgeoning ranks of "no human contact." It's fun and impersonal. Although just between us "call screening" is more fun. Sshhh don't tell my Mom that's what I do, she just thinks I'm always busy.

Armed with a real keyboard I'm ready on a moment's notice to get a text. Except all the bitchers and moaners have disappeared. Not one of the "I can't believe you don't text" folks is in sight. Poof, they've vanished into thin air. Now I'm lonely with an empty "in box." I keep waiting for their messages, but zippo. Send them please. I'm begging all of you; I need words! I'll even take monosyllables. And of course cash.

Ironically not only do I not get text messages - ever since my friend Kay taught me how to permanently get rid of my junk emails no one emails me either. Truthfully I don't long for the pesky Bra Genie or the people from Replacement Windows.com but do miss the embracing and melodious words, "you've got mail." I feel the pain and angst of the Maytag repairman. I wonder if he's single.

Lounge Lizards and Me

Reptiles creep me out. They are slimy, slithery and scary. As a child I was forced to go in the Reptile House at the zoo because my parents wouldn't let me wait outside alone. I was pissed. I walked around with my eyes squinted half shut. There were Lizards longer than my Dad's car and their skin looked a lot like Mom's purse. I thought as an adult I had left Lizards behind.

" Gail, it will be fun, get dressed and come with us to Sullivan's"my girlfriend Brenda pleaded.Sullivan's is a pick-up bar and restaurant. No one has ever picked me up in a bar. I was a bad bar person. I lacked the knack of casual conversation and was brunette. I always brought a book so I had something to do when I was passed by for a blond. I stayed home a lot.

"Please come it's happy hour so the food and drinks are half price," Brenda insisted.
"What time should we meet?" I'm genetically incapable of resisting half price. Thanks Dad.

Sullivan's was packed with men staring at scantily clad women. I was wearing a sweater so I knew I'd get plenty of reading done. As I scanned the crowded room I couldn't help but notice the average age of the men looked about 65. Shouldn't they be home collecting Social Security or making doctor's appointments? I had never seen older guys cruising for women. It was surreal. Where were the hotties with hair and flat abs? I witnessed a man at least 80 draped over a 50ish looking woman staring down her low cut dress at her breasts and never once coming up for air. I suddenly had the urge to read.

"Brenda do you smell something funny? My eyes are watering. And who are these guys?"
"These guys? They're a bunch of Lounge Lizards," she replied as she sniffed the air and made a face.
Crap, I was in a room of Reptiles.

"Hi girls," I heard from behind my stool. We both whipped around to see a man walking toward us. He stared at Brenda (she's blond) and casually put his arm on the back of her chair. I reached into my purse for my book. "What's going on ladies?" He wasn't talking to me. My eyes however were beginning to itch from the nasty cologne he was wearing. As he ogled Brenda I studied our guest Lizard. He was approx 65 with leathery skin from too much desert sun, wearing a green polyester shirt open to mid chest, his dull thinning blond hair was slicked straight back and glistening from too much gel. His eyes seemed to pop out of his head when he spoke. He looked slithery and like Mom's purse.

I scrutinized the room pretending to be Jane Goodall studying this animal called the Lounge Lizard in his natural habitat. I noticed they were resilient and when rejected did not pull out a book, but moved immediately on to the next woman. They were determined and undeterred creatures hell bent to find someone who accepted their offer of a free drink. It was a numbers game for these slithering creatures. They seemed to stalk their prey alone and had no compunction about budding in on a fellow predator's action. Crafty and rude they persevered. Meanwhile our slimy guy was moving closer and closer to Brenda's right ear.

"Want to have dinner with me Sunday night?" he whispered - I had to eavesdrop for the purpose of science.
"No thank you I have a boyfriend" she politely replied.
"I don't care, have dinner with me," he insisted. Like I said, resilient - but shouldn't a Mountain Lion come down and eat him now?

I quickly grew tired of studying Lizards and had finished my book. I decided next time I'd skip "happy hour" and go directly to the zoo.

I Have a Teenie Tiny Stalker

I'm being followed. Yes, it's true someone is after me. It's weird and also unnerving. However I no longer check under the bed or in my closet like I did when I was a little girl and was certain there was someone waiting to "get" me the minute I closed my eyes. Every morning when I wake up my stalker is there . Each day the first thing I do is drag my sleepy sorry ass to my computer to check my emails hoping against hope for some fun or riveting correspondence but nada. Instead there she is waiting like clockwork. Hmmmmm I wonder if she's in cahoots with my Mother? Nah, Mom likes to work alone. Poof on my screen appears yet another message from "The Bra Genie.com." I'd prefer she was in a bottle rather than my laptop.

I have no idea how the pesky nymph got my email address. Could she be in partnership with Window Replacement .com a company which also pops up in my emails and for some reason thinks I own a window? "I rent!" I want to yell at the screen but don't. The Bra Genie is much more persistent and obviously knows me a lot better. "It's true, little Genie I need bras, but what scares me is .... how did you find out?" I've tried on bras in every lingerie department from Neimans to Target. I'm a bra tire kicker. I've left dressing rooms piled with them in a myriad of colors, sizes and styles. They looked nice on the hangar but pinch, itch, or ride up. "Nope, nope, and nope," I've told countless sales ladies who shake their heads in despair and confusion as I marched out of the store empty handed. No bra for me. I long for the bras I burned back in the late sixties as I think those actually fit to say nothing of how a bra costs as much as a Honda now.

I couldn't wait to wear a bra when I was a young girl. I didn't care if I needed one or not, I just had to get out of undershirts. Now I'm a grown up with "The Bra Genie" haranguing me with the promise of comfort, no slipping straps and six for the price of three. "Get back in a damn bottle where you belong little creature and bring me Aladdin with a lamp and three wishes....none of which will be for a bra but one might be for a Honda."

Grocery Shopping Is Hard

I had no food in the refrigerator. That was not unusual . All I could possibly scrounge up for dinner was soggy lettuce with one wrinkled cherry tomato. This should have motivated me to go to the grocery store but didn't. I suffered from grocery shopping A.D.D. Yes it was true and I assumed rare. With determination and resolve I've tried to overcome my handicap. I was methodical and precision like in trying to conquer this problem. I always made a list of what I wanted to buy in order to stay "on message." I wrote it in my best penmanship so I could read it when I was in the store and not use illegibility as an excuse to flee. I've even attempted alphabetizing by food groups but lost interest. Like a soldier going into combat I packed up my purse and headed for my personal battlefield - the market.

List clutched in my fist I remained strong as I a grabbed a giant cart determined to fill it. I headed directly to the first item on my list, "milk", but felt the wine aisle call to me. I gazed longingly in that direction. I began to lose focus and little beads of sweat started to drip down my forehead. "I need milk, I need milk, I need milk," I repeated like a Bovine mantra. I arrived a little sweaty but wine free at my destination. I plucked a gallon of skim off the shelf and with one item down moved triumphantly to yogurt. My head felt hot and like it was about to explode as I stared at the varieties and flavors: low fat, non fat, Greek, fruit on bottom , fruit on top, granola topped, Boston Cream Pie, Key Lime Pie, Cherry, Strawberry Banana, Raspberry, Lemon, Vanilla, Blueberry, or Dreamsicle. I began to feel like I was in a bad dream-cycle and wanted to wake up anywhere there weren't cows.

I looked at the lonely gallon of milk in my basket and then my list. I felt tears well up in my eyes as I had aisles and food groups to go but my resolve was gone. I'd lost focus and my desire for dinner. I decided it wasn't worth standing in line to buy one item regardless of how tempted I was to to read the latest "People" magazine. I left the basket behind and went home. Admittedly I lost the battle but knew how to win the war.

"Is this Domino's? I'd like to order a small cheese pizza to be delivered."

R.I.P. My Prada Purse

I love my purse. My Prada bag goes with me everywhere and is one of my prize possessions. It is simple, beautiful, a leathery work of art and I did not pay retail for it. That would have required a bank loan or second mortgage. Fabulous and on sale it was a dream come true. Sadly regardless of my coddling and caretaking it is dying. My Prada bag is fading fast. The corners are ripping badly and no one can save it. I've thrown myself sobbing on the counters of shoemakers and saddle repair people from Chicago to Southern California begging them to bring my bag back to life but alas no one has hope. "Please save my precious Prada bag. Don't let it die." It's days are numbered as loose change will be falling out of the corners very soon. With dread in my heart I have to find a new love.

I thought my Mother, the Imelda Marcos of purses, might be able to console me in my despair. I don't understand why she needs so many as I love only one.
"Mom, what could possibly go with this?" I queried as I pulled a chartreuse leather clutch off a shelf in her closet.
"You know I forgot I had that, but I must say when I bought it the color was very popular. It was from Neimans." She snatched the purse out of my hands as if I would somehow damage it and put it back . There were so many piled up I had to save her from a large black purse falling on her head.
"Oh I love that bag, it's a Fendi you know," she remarked as I grabbed it out of the air. (No, I didn't know as I'm not in the purse "know.")
"Do you want it dear, its a Fendi," she repeated as if I didn't understand the significance of her offer. " They are very expenisive." And once again she repeated she bought it at Neimans. Mom must be the Warren Buffet of their purse department. Her Fendi bag was bigger than my Yellow Lab and for that matter my Mother. "No thanks you keep it," I said my head hung in handbag despair. It paled to my Prada.

I turned to my friend Adria for help. She told me she has approximately 75 purses. "Oh I rotate them with my winter and summer clothes. I have to bring the purse bins up and down from the basement every season." Excuse moi. Bins? Filled with purses? I was way behind the handbag curve in my peer group. I loved only one and she had bins. I felt desperately confused and wondered if there was anything more I could do to prolong the life of my Prada bag. Where will I go, what will I do and how much will it cost me? I fear it is only a matter of days until I will have to venture forth to Neimans, Nordstroms, Bloomingdales, Saks and perhaps as far as Bergdorfs to find love again hoping because of Mom I have a gene marked "handbag."

Natonal Holidays Got You Down? Eat Pez and Drink.

Bah Humbug another long holiday weekend looms on the horizon. Didn't we just have one? Personally I think they should be spaced much farther apart as once again the pressure to grill or be invited to a barbecue mounts. I don't have a grill or the mental fortitude to buy one when a deadline is involved. It makes me nervous and rashy to be in a rush. I have considered purchasing a small George Foreman model for the kitchen counter but I think size does matter on national holidays. Besides which even if I had a big snazzy tricked out Weber then I'd need guests to invite over. Is there a "guest" category on Craig's List? All my friends know they could be blown up or set on fire if I'm cooking. I can't send out invitations that say "wear fire retardant clothing."

I am a good guest however so if anyone needs an extra at their barbecue I'm available. Although please don't ask me to bring a "dish." I never know what that really means - a dish of what? And does preparing one require gingham clothing? Why can't I just bring a box of Oreos or pass out Pez? On second thought don't invite me. I'll have holiday fun by going to a parade with the dog. He loves marching bands and taking food from small children. I'll just be happy I'm not home blowing up the deck or setting my friends on fire.

I think it's best to be alone. I'll drink bottles of nice crispy Sauvignon Blanc, eat Pez, and read the back issues of "People" that I "borrowed" from my Dentist's office. Uh oh, he reads my blog.... I promise I'll bring them back on Tuesday. Call me if you want Pez.

"To Droid or Not to Droid?"

"To Droid or not to Droid that is the question. Whether 'tis nobler in my mind to suffer the slings, arrows, and anxiety attacks of learning new technology or take arms against it and by opposing stick with my antiquated flip phone." I don't think Hamlet suffered the way I am now that my AT&T contract is up and I am free to change carriers and devices. There are too many questions and no fool proof options for a techno-dummy like myself. It took me over a year to learn how to add new contacts to my address book. I still have no idea how to send a text . Btw the last one I wrote I had to do over six times until it read as English and not Jabberwocky. I tried to take a picture of my Yellow Lab"Beefy Boy" but ended up with a photo of my arm . Does it sound like I am prepared for more advanced technology?

"To sleep perchance to dream of using the iPhone: ay there's the rub." Although the "rub" is really the touch pad. I tried one and almost needed to go back into therapy. It took me 45 minutes to spell Gail and not Hbjm. I think all those apps sure sound like fun but I hate games , don't mind asking for directions and like the Yellow Pages. Just as an experiment in terror I wandered in to my local Verizon store to look at all the slick little phones. Poor cute Brian waited on me. He was very patient and told me the story of how his Grandmother is technologically impaired also. "Do you think I'm old enough to be your Nana?" I shrieked. I burst into tears and said if there was a "Botox" app I'd take the phone. I left the store empty handed and hightailed it home to search for a plastic surgeon in the Yellow Pages.

A friend of mine told me he likes his Droid X so much that if he could have sex with it his life would be complete. This made me laugh and then ponder...is there an app for that?

Is My Mom Hef's Next Girlfriend?

Mom, Hugh Hefner is on the market again. This could be a big opportunity for you as maybe he's finally going to date age appropriate women. Yes, it's true his nuptuals to Crystal Harris the 25 year old fiance have been called off. No wedding bells for Hef - he probably couldn't hear them anyway so no biggie. Finally the child bride came to her senses and traded her rose colored glasses for a prescription pair. Our little girl must have tired of Dean Martin and Andy Williams which I think is programmed into all the bunny iPods . And no, Lady Gaga won't be recording "Moon River" any time soon so she made the right decision. Call me a cynic but I believe a 60 year age difference is too big a gap to bridge. Thankfully I no longer have that option unless anyone knows a single 120 year old - or did I meet him on Match recently?

Will Hef finally come to his senses and realize these youngins' are using him for free food, lodging, silicone and peroxide? If I were them I'd just Trick or Treat at the mansion and not move in. Do Hef and all the girls have fireside chats? Speaking of which does anyone but Hef recognize the initials FDR? Mom and Hef at least have that in common. She is also up on current events that don't involve the Jonas Brothers or Vampire movies. Mom also knows where the Middle East is which might be tricky for any of his girlies. Call me crazy but she seems like a better match for the old guy. My Mom also likes to spend half the day in her robe, so that's perfect.

I don't know about Crystal but I'm happy she doesn't have to have sex with Hef anymore. And I pray she doesn't tell that part of the story to "The Enquirer" because ewwwwww and this inquiring mind does not want to know. Besides which I was concerned for Hef's health as I believe it was only a matter of time unitl he exploded from all the Viagra .

"Hef think it over. My Mom could be perfect for you."

Is My Hair on Fire?

I am a weather phobe. There is not much about a weather report that doesn't scare the bejesus out of me. I considered the Channel 5 weatherman in Chicago a mortal enemy as he seemed to take joy in meteorological disaster. He always smiled when five feet of white white snow was headed my way. I was frantic realizing I could be trapped inside for days/weeks while he was grinning and collecting a pay check. Just once couldn't he feel my pain, burst into tears and run around screaming? He and I had to break-up as it was a dead end relationship. I headed for Palm Springs, CA to find weather love.

Ahhh balmy dry days and breezy idyllic nights were mine. The weatherman smiled because he reported good news. "Another day of 75 degrees. And the weekend looks just as pleasant." At last a relationship that had potential. I was anxiety free, no more weather trauma for this girl. Or so I thought. It's June and summer is coming. Ominous sounding numbers are on people's lips: 110, 115, 120 degrees. Words like "You can't touch the steering wheel without burning your hands" "The pool is too hot to swim." "I play golf at 4:00a.m." "You better slather your skin with cream or you'll look like a reptile by September. " I hate reptiles. I hate 4:00a.m. At 120 degrees can my hair catch on fire? And what about my Yellow Lab,"Beefy Boy?" How will he walk on boiling, bubbling pavement? He'll have to wear shoes.

It's inevitable, triple digit temperatures are coming and I feel my weather anxiety rising. I'm beginning to doubt the concept that "dry" heat is better. What does that really mean? I'll hardly notice my face is in flames? I can only conclude that "heat" is "snow" spelled differently.

Bluetooth Rehab Has Me Down

I am ready for bluetooth rehab. Ever since I got the ill fated ticket for driving and talking on my cell phone my life has been on tilt. I have bought and returned four different devices in the last two weeks. I got smart however after two and started purchasing them at different AT&T stores. I realized the sales people were running for cover when I walked in. I noticed the girl who sold me the first one beg for a lunch break when she saw me four days later. That was the longest time I kept a bluetooth - the shortest was 12 hours. And trust me when I say I have made a study of the ill conceived little pieces of plastic. "Hands free" has made me a stark raving dis-satisfied customer. "This is useless!" I sobbed to the sales person after three days with the "best on the market" piece of equipment that clipped to the visor. "I screamed at it the entire drive to L.A. and no one could hear me." He offered kleenex , my money back, and ran.

I decided to change methodology and go with one that hung behind my ear. It was groovy for three days; I was almost happy. Then it started talking to me and no, I was not having acid flashbacks. It said "low battery" over and over regardless of it being fully charged. I started talking back "You're fully charged! Stop saying that." I returned it as something told me conversing with inanimate objects requires medical attention. I obsessively canvassed all my friends, who sadly are no longer speaking to me, about what they used. I think John changed his phone number as I can't reach him. Next I tried a bluetooth that went in my ear. I hated it, too uncomfortable and I itched all over. I returned it at a distant location to avoid being recognized.

I thought about buying a new car that comes with built in "hands free" but even in my addled state $30,000 for bluetooth didn't seem cost effective. Although it would provide all new sales people which is tempting.

I Abdicated my Throne for a Bowl of Chili

My streak ended. It's a bittersweet moment when you break a streak regardless of the dubious achievement of having attained it. My "Queen of One Date" title has been revoked by virtue of the fact that I went on a second date. Curses! I had become royalty in my own mind, although I didn't have the appropriate clothes or jewelry. I think an Ermine collar on a red robe was necessary and a 20lb tiara. Not having been asked on a second date in six months my knee jerk reaction when suddenly and surprisingly invited was an immediate "yes." I should have deliberated far more carefully - weighed the options. Date? Queen status? It's not every girl that gets to be Royal even if it's for being a dating loser.

My "streak" ending date invited me over for turkey chili. Yes, read this and weep. I surrendered the crown for a lousy bowl of beans. I was also nervous about going over to a veritable stranger's house for a second date. I received endless warnings and advice: "don't go", "meet in a public place" and "bring mace, a gun, brass knuckles, or sharp stick." I was worried and weaponless but went. I arrived hungry and after the obligatory house tour I looked around for pre-dinner appetizers. Sweaty and a bit hypoglycemic I was desperate for a cracker. He handed me a glass of wine but zippo in the form of food. He wanted to talk about art, I wanted a vitamin B12 shot to stay conscious. Sadly and boringly I gave him the art history lecture I've heard myself say a million times being an art dealer for 24 years. I might have dozed off after Impressionism. I know I lost him during Warhol.

And speaking of Campbell soup cans I needed soup or anything as I was about to keel over. Finally I declared I wanted dinner. He took out two bowls and filled them with chili from a tiny pot on the stove- teenie tiny pot. Mr. Streak Breaker then put the pot in the sink as it was empty! Next he placed between us the smallest loaf of bread I've ever seen. I think I served bigger loaves when I played tea party with my dolls. I scarfed down the beans and two pieces of bread. There was nothing more, dinner over. Dessert was only something about which I could dream or stop and buy on my way home.

My title relinquished for a bowl of chili. I've asked my Gonepausal girls on Facebook if I could be granted an annulment of date two but the majority ruled it counted. I learned the hard way there is nothing like being a "Royal" regardless of how you get the crown.

"Can You Hear Me Now?" or " Make My Day"

"What did you say? I can barely hear you, it's all static."

"I must be in a bad cell," I scream exasperatedly, wanting to pull my hair out or drive into a ditch.

Crap. Another conversation with someone bitching that they can't hear me. In complete frustration I rip the little black box that's supposed to keep me "hands free" off my visor, fling it on the seat, pick up my cell phone and call them back. It took me 15 tries to sync the freaking device with my phone and no one can hear me? Then who was I connected to? This scares and intrigues me. I'm trying to be"hands free" but people keep yelling "are you there?" which drives me nuts. I scream back those infamous words that have become more recognizable than "to be or not to be," - "CAN YOU HEAR ME NOW?" But no one can hear me now or any other time I use my Bluetooth device.

I've failed Bluetooth in a state where it's illegal to drive holding a cell phone. I had to choose between not talking or risk getting a ticket. I picked talking. My cell phone has become an extension of my head. I am always on it unless I'm showering. Don't ask the "sex" question. I try as best I can to have my hair cover the phone while driving. I constantly have my eyes peeled for police. If I spot a cop I throw the thing on the seat next to me or floor - so far so good. I made it 5 months and 12 days then I got sloppy. Damn. I was happily chit chatting with a friend when I slipped up. Totally out of character or my mind I was not on the look-out for police.

Flashing lights appeared in my side mirror and a motorcycle cop had me red handed. Geez. Too late to fling the phone, I pulled into a parking lot to take my punishment. "Ma'am," he started...."I know Officer, I politely interrupted, please understand I never talk and drive. I had to take the call because it was my Dad and he's really old and sick." "That's too bad" he replied sympathetically but it didn't fly. I should have burst into tears. I should have batted my eyes and flirtatiously promised never to do it again, but that hadn't worked in over 15 years. I should have bribed him except I wasn't in Chicago. I was doomed to $170 ticket hell. I hung my head in despair and financial ruin.

When the officer walked back to my car with the ticket he reassured me it wasn't a moving violation but an "infraction." All I knew was that I wasn't going to Saks any time soon. As he handed me the paperwork he shook his head and said, "You sure don't look the age on this license." Priceless!

"Mom I Could Have Been a Celebrity Chef!"

"Mom, with Mother's Day coming up I have to ask you something. Why didn't you teach me to cook?!" Do you realize that dreaming of being a Mousketeer was a total waste of my time? There was no future money in wearing a hat with ears or singing about the days of the week. In the end who cared that Monday meant "we're going to have a special guest?" A big waste of my youth and visions of fame and fortune. Nope, I should have taken my little plastic blue stove FAR more seriously. Instead of making Play Dough pink cookies with sprinkles I should have been considering the alternative of brioche with fresh jam. Damn. And why didn't we put up preserves instead of buying Welch's grape jelly? Or make cupcakes from scratch and ixnay the Hostess brand. Do you realize this could have started me on the road to becoming Martha Stewart? Why did I want to be Annette, I'm flat chested, it made no sense.

Mom, I could have been a celebrity chef if only you taught me to slice, dice, mince, chop, and puree. We should have been reading recipes not "Curious George" or "Heidi." Although the way Heidi layered her clothes she probably had potential to be on "Project Runway." But a monkey? Cooking is bigger than Hollywood. I think Mario Batali makes more money than Brad Pitt and no one even cares about his weight. And how about the Naked Chef- although I've never seen him naked but would like to. I could have been the one to make Coq au Vin naked first. Although on second thought too much pressure to shave my legs. At the very least I could have had a hot affair with my fav Anthony Bourdin in a meat locker. I still wouldn't rule that out.

Every hour of every day on every channel, what's on my TV screen Mom? Cooking shows that's what. They're even taking Erica Kane and "All My Children" away from me and replacing it with a freaking Viking stove and 5 minute Beef Bourguignon. Mom, Why didn't we make pie crust from scratch, pluck our own chickens,or have hens in the laundry room laying eggs for Eggs Benedict? Sadly and alas all I can make is reservations.


Happy Mother's to all and remember the wise words of Julia Child "If you're afraid of butter, use cream."

Deodorant, Tampax, Condoms, and Vibrators, Oh My!

Everyone's been embarrassed. It's embarrassing. Thankfully I've outgrown blushing, as that really added insult to injury. My face appearing like it was about to explode was not a good look for me. As I've gotten older the things about which I want to die a thousand deaths have changed. When I was a preteen I would perspire in my pretty party dresses at boy/girl parties. This was a particularly nasty sight when I was wearing light purple. I would sweat down to my waist and run in fright to the blow dryer in the bathroom and stand under it until all traces of perspiration were gone. Sometimes I'd miss the slow dances. Curses. I tried Mitchums deodorant which was supposed to block my sweat glands. I figured I would either die from toxic build-up or make it through a party without ruining my dress. I've outgrown this problem.

As if sweating wasn't bad enough the next life embarrassment was buying Tampax. It was a badge of honor and a source of horror. Yea I'm a big girl and damn there's a boy in the store and he'll see me buying the highly identifiable blue box. I'd hang out in the candy aisle until all traces of the opposite sex were gone and I could run to the check-out counter, pay and leave. I was relieved and a little sweaty but not bad. I think it's worse for men who are sent out with a grocery list and there right smack dab at #10 is Tampax. Sorry big guy, I feel your pain. It is however, no tougher than another embarrassing product - condoms.  I would stand for 30 minutes staring at the choices: lubricated, medicated, intoxicated, flavored, hypoallergenic, hallucinogenic, candy coated, colored, ribbed, satin smooth...the choices gave me a headache, which actually solved my problem and I went home.

I just read I can now buy a vibrator at my local CVS, Walgreens or Walmart. It's more convenient than finding a cute little sex toy boutique but a lot more public. "Attention CVS shoppers I'm over here in the vibrator section trying desperately to figure out which one to buy and if you have a favorite, meet me in aisle 6. And I'm also here for toothpaste." To make matters more uncomfortable and kind of a conflict of interest, the vibrator section is just to the left of condoms.   What I really need is a Xanax. 

Erica Kane Don't Leave Me!

Life as I know it is about to change. In fact life as I've known it since high school is now on permanent tilt. How this could happen stuns, amazes and bums me out. I am an "All My Children" junkie and have recently learned that ABC is going to pull the needle out of my arm and yank the show, sending me into serious Erica Kane withdrawal. Someone at the network should have had the presence of mind to realize a lot of us will need re-hab and arranged a place for us to to recover; or at least a spot where we could have a big group hug and good cry. What am I supposed to watch on the treadmill now for God's sake - another freaking cooking show? Wake up network kids, not everyone cooks or cares about Virgin olive oil. Aside from the fact that I think Anthony Bourdain is totally hot and would have sex with him I'm not interested in watching him comb the Earth for exotic food groups and tribal cafes.

My love of soap operas began back in junior year of high school with "The Young and the Restless." I ditched school a lot because it was on during French. My Mom was a "Y&R" fan long after I moved on to "Ryan's Hope." OMG the boys on that show were so cute I had to switch over. I might not have learned how to conjugate the verb "etre" but I knew who was having a child out of wedlock. My addiction continued in college where no one cared if I was in class or not so I schlepped to the student union every day to watch "All My Children." Although unable to conjugate verbs in French, I have been through the trials and tribulations of all of Erica Kane's marriages. Of course I had my favorite husbands but she divorced them anyway. I knew everyone in Pine Valley, a small New England town where the entire population was attractive. A great place to live if you were single. I had significant crushes on too many Pine Valley men to mention, many of whom came to tragic ends.

The real beauty of watching "All My Children" or any soap opera was that even if you missed one year or 5 years worth of episodes you could catch up in a day. Like magic you were transported back into the lives, loves, and insideous demise of all your old "friends." It was like going home or truthfully a lot better. I will really miss Erica as I always thought she and I were similar...it's not clear how except our hair color and length. I am way behind on the husband count and at the rate I'm dating will never catch up. And although we are close in age she looks waaaay better. My only wish is that before the show ends she release the name of her plastic surgeon. I feel she owes that to me, her dedicated fan.

Dirty Laundry Is Not a Dinner Entree

I'm not great at doing laundry. Truthfully when I went off to college I had no idea how to wash or iron. I stood in front of the big white machines in the dorm and was clueless. Yes, I was spoiled and never had to do a load of wash on my own. Standing alone with my giant bag of dirty clothes was a challenge. I begged the nearest girl for help and stood by her side faithfully as I tried to memorize where to put the detergent and what dials to turn . I was a laundry loser. Little did I know there was a far far greater challenge ahead - the Mt. Everest of this process called ironing. I burned and peeled my nice Villager blouses off the iron. Everything ruined. I'd sprinkle and then sssssss the iron would make a giant burn mark on the tiny blue flowers. "To hell with this" I thought. I gave up and bought wash and wear turtle necks. I've since become far more proficient as a laundress but still don't really give a damn about the finer points, like separating whites, the various cycles, or the challenge of folding. I toss it in the drawers and slam them shut. No one knows what kind of chaos or mess is inside.

I firmly believe laundry is personal, especially when it's dirty. It should definitely remain out of sight. So imagine my surprise when I arrived at a small party and found out what they were serving for dinner was dirty laundry. I wanted to scream,

" But I'm a vegetarian!"

No one would have heard me for the, "Don't you ever call me cheap again!"

Uh oh trouble was brewing by the bar.

"This is not cheap wine and more to the point what do you ever buy?"

Whoopsie darlins' but YOU'VE GOT COMPANY! I'm over here and beginning to die a thousand deaths. The dirty laundry was being flung fast and furiously.

"I've helped support your children." (POW, BAM, WHACK!) and what have you ever done?"

I was getting nervous and itchy.

"Don't ever say that. And who cares about the wine, I was just kidding you."

But who's kidding who? No one was kidding. I felt like crawling under the table or praying I would vaporize.

I was hungry,but not for what they were serving. I wanted Salmon and a nice salad damn-it. Next time I think I'll just go to a laundromat and bring a sandwich.

Cut Me Off in Line and I'll Kick Your Ass

Uh oh it's really going to get crowded in your local plastic surgeon's office. I foresee lots of pushing, shoving, and bruising to get to the receptionist's desk as the number of men going for cosmetic procedures is increasing exponentially. Hard to believe because the culture always embraced the lines and wrinkles of men as dignified, handsome, or nicely weathered. Ha! If a woman is "nicely weathered" she's considered a body double for the Wicked Witch from "The Wizard of Oz." As for women looking dignified or handsome from aging, when was the last time Donald Trump or Rupert Murdoch married a dignified or handsome mature looking woman? Catch my drift kids? I admit I am surprised when I look in the mirror and have to stop myself from sobbing. I seem to have been replaced by some alternate form of life. "Mirror mirror on the wall what the hell happened?"

I am also surprised however, that men are beginning to get panicky when they look in the mirror. Are they finally realizing those jowels, lines, and turkey necks aren't nicely weathered and worn features but kinda scary? Welcome to my world little fellas! And FYI gym memberships and an exercise regimen does not help from the neck up. I see more and more burly boys in the cosmetic department as Calvin Klein et al are raking in the dough with the promise of age defying lotions and potions "especially" for men. Right. It's all the same snake oil darlins'. But why shouldn't your Neiman's bill be as big as mine?

The truth is needles filled with botox, plumper uppers, or a sharp scalpel and a hopefully steady surgeon's hand are really the only way to get rid of wear and tear. Personally I love that men are becoming afraid that "weathered" really means old looking and the standard of beauty they apply to women also applies to themselves. Lord have mercy, it does seem only fair. So little buddies save your $$$ because youth and beauty isn't cheap and whoever shoves me on the way to the receptionist's desk gets their ass kicked.

Someone Please "Card" Me!

I had a fake ID made when I was a senior in high school so I could be 21 and of legal drinking age. There was always someone who knew someone who had a friend who could either alter your driver's license or make some form of identification with a new date of birth. That sure was tricky and I probably drank and partied too much for my age. I was a little nervous when I was asked for my fake ID but tried to stand up straight and avert my eyes. I also wore a lot of make-up to appear older. Ha! When I could finally drink legally I thought it was great when I was carded because I looked too young to have a cocktail. One of my happiest days was when I was 30 and the bartender at the "Red Onion" in Los Angeles asked to see my driver's license. I wanted to marry the guy!

It seemed like a long time from 21 to the day the letter from AARP arrived inviting me to be a member. I shook and turned a pale shade of green holding the envelope in my sweaty hand. "Are they kidding? I can't possibly be a member, I didn't look AARPish," I thought as I ran to the nearest mirror to check. Nope still didn't look a day over 41. There was no way I was joining. I ripped up their literature for years rejecting the notion that it was a club in which I was eligible or wanted to be a member. That was until I realized I could get really good discounts with an AARP ID. The cheap side of me over-ruled the age phobe I had become.

Now I would do anything to be carded. Why is it no one demands an ID when I ask for the "senior" discount? There's not a movie theater in a 2,000 mile radius that wants to see if I'm really a senior. They just happily dispense a ticket without saying "Can I see your driver's license?" I walk away sad and drag myself to the cheap seat. The "senior" age varies depending on the venue so sometimes I really am lying. I want to yell "I'm not 65! I'm cheating! Can't you tell? Wanna see my driver's license?" But no one does.

Please, you don't have to marry me, just "card" me.

"No No Anything but the Car Keys!"

Happy 90th birthday Dad. He turned 90 even though he's been telling people for the last three years he's 90. He's the only person I know that lies in an upward direction. My Mother has been tweaking her age as long as I've known her. Rumor has it she has two drivers license with different ages. Knowing Mom she might even have more than one birth certificate. She's a trickster. I've followed faithfully in her footsteps since I was 40. Until 40 I bragged upwards every year as people never thought I looked my age. Thirty was a breeze - no problema for this girl. "Yep I'm 30 and I don't give a damn," was my attitude. Then along came 40 and I went into hiding right after the birthday cake. "I can't possibly be 40," I would cry myself to sleep. My friend Bob had to do an "age intervention." He dragged me out of bed to go drink.

I didn't give Dad a present yet because he returns all gifts, even pastries ,which I thought he couldn't bring back, but found a way. But I will say that the very best gift he received was from the Department of Motor Vehicles of Illinois. Ya gotta love their generosity. The DMV re-newed my Dad's driver's license for his birthday. Yea way to go! Now my present to everyone who lives near Dad is telling them to stay home and off the roads. This includes all the folks who like to shop at Nordstroms and Neiman Marcus because he drives my Mother there a lot to shop. Why don't we take his keys away you might ask yourself? We did and even sold his car but when no one was looking he tricked us and went out and bought a new one. He's crafty.

The worst part is I know the day will come when my son is standing in front of me requesting the car keys. "No anything but the keys!, I'll scream clutching them in my hand and running or by then crawling out the door. Take my good china that's never seen a morsel of food, my silver which is still in the tarnish proof packaging, my Tiffany wine and champagne glasses, but not the car." I'm sure he'll be gentle and consoling as he chases me down the street bribing me back with cab fares or a bus pass.   Will I hand them over? You bet your sweet ass I won't. So Dad on your 90th birthday all I can say is "run!"

A First Time for Everything

There's a first time for everything. Some first times you forget and some you never forget. I was thinking recently about my first kiss. That first kiss had so much potential but so little promise. He was darling and a year ahead of me in high school- yes I was behind the kissing curve because I am not counting any form of "spin the bottle" in sixth grade. Or Jimmy Adler's attempt in 3rd grade or BillyTauber's in 2nd. Nope my first kiss was tall, had dimples and I think a slightly cleft chin. Doug was very cute and more importantly popular which was a big deal. He drove me over to his house after school and we were out by his swimming pool (did I forget to mention rich?) and we were standing very very close when he leaned down and kissed me right on the lips. Let me take you inside the bubble over my head "Huh? This is kissing? Ewwww, bad." Thankfully I wasn't discouraged and went on to kiss again.

I have no recollection of what my first word was but knowing me it was probably "help." If I spoke more than one I have testimonials to the fact that they were most certainly "feed me, buy me." The first time my Dad took the training wheels off my bike and ran down the street holding on to the back of the seat while I steered and screamed ended abruptly when I tipped over to the right. I did however learn on the fourth , fifth or tenth attempt. I distinctly remember my first day of school because the bus driver couldn't find my house to bring me home and being four I had no idea where I lived. I never again liked school.

Adulthood brought firsts all over again. College produced one of life's biggest - sex. I will never forget and then again wish I could, that landmark night. He was a graduate student in art and almost a ringer for Bob Dylan. I stalked him for week as I decided he was the cool older mystery man I needed. It happened in his apartment over the local laundramat , which wasn't very romantic but I had to get the virginity noose off from around my neck. Like kissing I had the same "huh, this is it? ewww, bad" bubble over my head . Thankfully I wasn't discouraged and went on to have sex again....but not with him.

The firsts came fast and furiously after college: job, apartment, paycheck, marriage, child, and divorce. And then surprisingly a few "seconds" kicked in: marriage and divorce. I'm into the "thirds" stage of my life but at least I can ride a bike.

Who Are the People in "People?"

It is shocking and deeply disturbing to admit that I no longer know anyone who is in "People" Magazine. I used to actually look forward to reading it in line at the grocery store. What better and cheaper way to pass the time behind someone whose cart is piled to overflowing than grabbing the "People" off the rack and finishing it before it's your turn? It was so entertaining that I didn't even start screaming and crying when folks pulled out coupons which took 30 minutes for the check-out girl to decipher. I loved a crowded grocery store. I also actually looked forward to the Dentist as God love him he keeps his subscription to "People" current. I have spent many happy hours in his waiting room catching up on back issues. I even read them between Novocaine shots. Of course "People" magazine was a secret vice as I never ever confessed that I read it. I've been known to put it inside "The New Yorker" to protect my image. Don't ask what "image" - it just makes me feel better to think I have one to uphold.

Now I open the precious magazine and turn page after page after page and think to myself "who are these people?" I have no idea. Apparently they are famous but I have to ask myself , where , why, and how? It scares me that they are in movies and videos I've never heard of or seen. The "announcement" page makes me dive for the Kettle One or consider driving off a cliff as the people in the "birthday" paragraph are half my age. I could be everyone's Mother or worse Nana! Again I ask myself , who are these people and why don't I know them ? Where are the stars I used to love? Faye Dunaway come back darlin' I need you. Make a movie or music video with Harrison Ford so I can sleep at night.

I won't even start on the music videos I have never seen by artists whose names are just two letters both being consonants. Thankfully I know Lady GaGa but might have just spelled it wrong. I bet she's happy her Mom made her take piano lessons. I also hope Justin Bieber reaches puberty soon or he should seek medical attention. Mick Jagger come back to me but please stop having children with women younger than your other children.  Sadly I now stand in the grocery store line or sit in my Dentist's office tempted to pick up the "People" but knowing it will only serve to remind me that the pages are filled with stars who could call me Nana.

I Am Not a Bar Loser Anymore

Pick- up bars were never my idea of a way to spend an evening. If I did go out with my friends to a bar I brought a book because men never cozied up to me. I was brunette. My girlfriends were blondes. They got all the attention and I was shoved out of the way on the race to get to them. So there I was the lone brunette with my head down reading. This actually was ok with me because I never took "bar speak" which I think consists mostly of monosyllables. I didn't develop the fine art of idle chit chat. My lightest subject was films by Truffaut. I was alone a lot. Every once in a while a guy would ask me what I was reading and I'd look up long enough to say "I love Salinger, do you?" Conversation over. Bars made me nervous and sweaty.

I spent no time between college and the present going to bars to meet the opposite sex. Unfortunately being single again after two marriages I find myself facing that option. My skills however remain back at bringing reading material. Now it's mostly the New York Times which in an area as conservative/Republican as Palm Desert, CA leaves me alone on my bar stool. I am also still brunette in the land of blondes and relatively flat chested in a sea of cleavage. I made a brief attempt at becoming partially blond and buying a push up bra but apparently didn't fool anyone because I got a lot of reading done. I resigned myself to the fact that I was a bar loser.

Saturday night my lonely bar life changed. I went to "The Nest" in Palm Desert known for being the hottest, oldest and most raucous pick-up place in a 100 mile radius. Yep I'm talkin' old, as the male demographic is probably 60-95yrs. Honey, those 95 year olds loved me. Every bad toupee looked my way regardless of my brown hair and lack of cleavage. Even the comb overs were winking at me. I walked by a man who was asleep at a table and he woke up to check me out.  I had no time to read or talk about foreign films as I was getting hit on from every direction. My head was spinning. I danced with a man who just had a knee and hip replaced ; he was a real trier but unsteady and might have broken my little toe. I think a guy in a multi-colored sweater tried to sell me a cemetery plot but it was so noisy I could hardly hear him. I'm not exactly sure but I could have sworn I saw a man come out of the bathroom juggling a bottle of Viagra but it could have been Prevecor. The joint was jumping. I went from bar loser to the big time in no time.

I might go back but first I have to get my toe x-rayed .

I Paid $38 for a Dinner Roll

I hold a world's record. Yes proudly and sadly I hold the world's record for the highest price ever paid for a dinner roll. Not a Picasso, Monet, or Warhol but a puffy slightly stale white roll. It cost $38.00. I'm broken, bankrupt and still hungry. How could something like this happen to the cheapest woman alive? I went to a single's mixer. I have no idea what I was thinking or my better judgment was temporarily corrupted by the outlandish notion that someone would ask me to dance. It was called for 6:00 at a local country club. No one in their right mind arrives at a party at the exact time it starts right? I was born and raised on the "fashionably late" side of life. I surmised my eta should be 7:00. I shaved both legs, wore a fabulous little black dress and whobbled out of the house in my raspberry red Kate Spade high heels for the big event.

Always read an invitation carefully, which of course I didn't. Upon arrival I noticed the woman selling tickets was wearing a cowgirl outfit. "Oh no, was this a theme party?" I cried. She said it was a Texas Hold-um shindig but as I looked into the room thankfully no one was in western gear. I also noticed no one was standing up or mingling, just sitting sedately at tables talking amongst themselves. "Excuse me, but where's the party?" The women pointed to where I was looking. I was tempted to inquire if someone had died before I arrived which cast a pall over the group. I paid the $38 admittance charge asking one last time if I was headed in the right direction. She nodded. I felt ill. As I walked through the room I was certain I was at a wake. These can't be my "peeps" I cried to myself. Btw all the women were blond with life threatening cleavage. Was I in "The Twilight Zone?" "Rod Serling get out here and change everyone back."

I desperately needed a drink and headed to the bar. I plopped down next to a man sitting alone at the far end and quickly pulled out the pen and paper I had brought as a security blanket in case no one talked to me. It was time to write and drink. I spent another $8.00 for the house wine because the $38 didn't cover drinks. I determinedly headed over to the buffet because my ticket had to buy me something. Nope, don't eat meat so the hamburgers were out, as were the greasy acne causing french fries. The fried flattened chicken pieces were looking greenish so ixnay that food group. All that was left was a basket of dinner rolls. I picked one up and placed it on my giant plate. Slightly weak from hunger I walked back to the bar. It was now 8:00 and the room was growing empty. "Wait, I just got here, don't go," I thought about yelling. "I even shaved my legs!" I queried the man next to me who explained everyone arrived exactly at 6:00, mingled at the bar for twelve minutes and then sat down to eat. I think I burst into tears. "Who arrives on time? What happened to fashionably late? It's early and if you all go I paid $38 for a roll!" He tried to calm me down. Three people were dancing which actually hurt my eyes as I watched them. Does rhythm leave your body at 60? By 8:15 we were almost the last two standing or sitting as the case may be.

I walked despondently to my car realizing I should have put at least a dozen rolls in my purse and only needed to shave one leg.

Have You Seen My Password?

I am ready to pull my hair out, run around the house screaming or throw myself on the bed sobbing. On second thought I'd hate to ruin my hair as I just paid a fortune to get it cut. Running and screaming is a real possibility as is sobbing. What could drive me to such mania? What else - I can't remember the password for my MacBook. I felt on the verge of password insanity. I know I wrote it down on the notepad I brought to my last lesson at the Apple store. One of the Apple boy toys and I re-set my password and I specifically jotted it down on a note pad so as not to forget it. Ironically and tragically I forgot where I put the damn pad! I've ripped my desk apart three times and nada. I just tore through every compartment in my car and zippo. I did find the lipstick I was looking for however which is a relief and it is still a good color for me.

I am sick sick sick of this password world. Who's idea were all these codes? I need to blame someone, anyone,or everyone. I've tried every combination of words I can think of to get into my MacBook. It does this crazy little shimmy shake denying me access. "Let me in, it's me, you stupid little white box! I hate you!" I'm out of control and developing a nasty itchy rash on my cheek. Now I have no computer access and need a Dermatologist. Sobbing seems more and more like a good plan. I find myself longing for the days of envelopes, stamps and good penmanship.

Alas my afternoon will be spent in the bright white Apple store on El Paseo at the mercy and schedule of the boys at the Genius Bar. "Oh little brainiac boy disciples of Steven Jobs help me find my way. I'm lost again, need your guidance and more importantly your pity." I'd like to just throw my MacBook at the wall and hope that would trigger it's memory of my password. Although that would feel cathartic, I stop to scratch my rash and think better of it. Once again I am reminded of the fact that I am a computer loser. With my head bowed in dismay I tuck the MacBook under my arm and head out into the big bad world to find my password. 

A Brief History of Dating

I have a long dating history. I was good at getting dates. It was almost a no brainer. I'd walk out the door and by the time I got back home I'd have met some cool guy who asked me out. Ok, I admit I usually had my cheat sheet with me, my dog, but the two of us were a dynamic date nabbing duo. Me and Jonah, my Golden Retriever, met my first husband in Central Park, easy as pie. Jonah had his eye on the prize that day. Thanks buddy. Whatever street the two of us sauntered down some New York cutie would stop, pet the dog, and ask me out. That was too easy. I met husband two without a critter in the lobby of the Museum of Modern Art. I had inadvertantly spent all but $2.00 on my way over at the Coach store on Madison Ave. and didn't have enough left to buy a ticket. I was meeting a friend and needed to think fast as I was late. Being resourceful I perused the ticket line and decided I had to borrow a dollar from someone until I found my girlfriend. A light when off in my head. Why not ask the best looking guy in sight for the temporary loan?! Husband #2 appeared. Voila.

Getting a date was not a problem whether serendipitously meeting in a coat room, bookstore, movie line, restaurant, or out running , by the time I got home the phone was ringing. I had confidence baby! On the other hand single men were everywhere. It was like fishing in a stocked pond. Boy oh boy do things change. I have dating whiplash. Where did the all the boys go Connie Francis? Now no matter where I walk even with my super model Yellow Lab "Elliot" aka "Potato" we never meet one single man. The dog gets a few pats on the head as he looks longingly at folks for food but zippo in the date catching department. I've tried hanging out in the produce aisle of the grocery store - it's a lonely place but I do like blueberries on sale. It has dawned on me that I should mozy over to the colon health aisle but can't figure out how I'd strike up a clever conversation.

With 50% of the population divorced you'd think a friend would fix me up but they don't. HA! This paucity of men has driven me to internet dating sites. I swear on Dr. Phil's life I've tried to be an honest responsible internet participant. I don't lie about my weight, height, and just a teenie weenie bit on my age. Teenie I say! I am not lying when I tell you everyone is lying. I've had a litany of goofy guys who spend hours talking or writing to me and then disappear. It couldn't have been anything I did as they never even met me. It's a gamble over in internet land - a giant roulette wheel and you can spin it forever. Meeting the old fashioned way seems to be a thing of the past. I'm not a gambler and anything that spins makes me dizzy. I'm back to thinking I'll take my chances outside with the dog.

Rebuttal Blog from Dennis - Why Men Don't Have Male Friends

The answer always comes down to S-E-X!!! Yes, the scope of a man's friendship list is directly proportionate to the chances he has to engage in sex. Let me expound. The single man as defined by his "single" status usually has only one thing on his mind; Sex-how to get it, how soon will he get it and all the incumbant scenarios thereof. If he is a real multi-tasker, he can also squeeze in a nano second of thought about money and sports.

Let's start with the truly single man. He has lots of acquaintenances, but they are usually old friends from college or highschool and those slowly dwindle away due to time and marital status. As the single man navigates through life his focus becomes, the next woman in his life. This leaves a list of former girlfriends and their friends, along with any new targets of his affection. Ulterior motives are always the key component to the "friendship circle" for any single man. His intentions are to catch the ones he hasn't dated and to possibly reinvigorate the ones from his past. Single men have no problem sleeping with a woman even if there is no possibility of a future. They view their past loves as a "stepping stone" to that next great relationship. Sorry to disillusion you but that is just the way men are wired. The consequences of the "casual hookup" are never thought about until after the fact. The only other scenario is the BFF woman who can also serve as the portal to being fixed up with all her "hot" friends. Again, sex rears its ugly head.

Now, let's look at the other side of the coin - the married or committed man. He has a woman in his life and more importantly, the regularity of "sex." Therefore, his scope of friends is not limited to women but rather a plethora of men friends. This fellow has the all important component of a "main squeeze." His friends consist of , 1) the mates of the couples that he and his partner socialize with 2) his beer-guzzling macho friends who accompany him on the proverbial "mans weekends" in Vegas, skiing or fishing(ha). However, these excursions consist of drinking and ooglng women that they have virtually no chance of ever connecting with. Probably their boorish behavior is the key ingredient for their failure to connect. The re-enforcement of their behavior is the main bonding agent. Plus the fact that unless they totally screw up there are no consequences from the "little woman" for their weekend of debauchery which includes getting drunk and pretending that all they women they see will want them.

To summarize, the friendship list of males is directly related to what their marital or relationship status is at the time. Single = women friends. Attached = male friends. I neither defend or subscribe to these theories but am just the reporter of things as I see them. So please remember "don't shoot the messenger," just use the info to your advantage.

Dennis, Rancho Mirage, CA

Why Don't Men have Male Friends?

"I have no male friends." I can't count the number of times I've heard a man say that.

"Huh?" I always respond. How is it possible that men rarely if ever have male pals? And why are they always smiling when they proclaim this like it's a badge of honor? I stare wide eyed at the man who just proudly made the statement and think I would never admit it even under oath.

"How is that possible?" I always ask.

"I only have female friends." This is always the answer.

"Why, what's wrong with men?" Again always my next question.

"Well women are easier to talk to. I don't know. I just like being with women better."

"What's wrong with talking to other men?" What's wrong with this picture?

"What am I supposed to talk to them about?" Am I supposed to answer that? Do I look like a therapist?

I'm suspicious, very suspicious. Why can't they have the same conversation with a man that they have with a woman? Women want men to have friends of the same gender. I don't think men get this. Besides which, and here's where I'm sure I'll be tarred and feathered...are men capable of being a woman's friend void of any sexual motivation or desire? HA!

I say it's possible but not probable. I'll even go so far as to admit that my closest male friends and I have, "been there done that". We've been lovers and passed into the land of friends or at one time rejected the sexual possibility but liked each other's company enough to morph into buddies. Sex was a moot issue. I believe this the key to the male/female friendship.

On the flipside there are men who have so many male pals that women are always on the back burner. Been there done that also. In one case my boyfriend came over to happily announce he was planning a vacation to Las Vegas. I'm thinking "YES!" We had never been away together and what a great idea. I was psyched until he told me he was going with his best friend Jim. "Sounds like fun, and I never want to see you again," I said as I kicked his sorry ass out the door.

I'm ready, willing and prepared to hear from men on this subject. Give me your best shot. Women give me more ammo.