Thursday, July 28, 2011

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.

Friday, July 22, 2011

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" 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."

Friday, July 15, 2011

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."

Thursday, July 7, 2011

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."