Monday, August 29, 2011

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."

Sunday, August 21, 2011

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.

Friday, August 12, 2011

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 "" 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?

Thursday, August 4, 2011

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 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.