Monday, June 17, 2013

Bedroom Crime Scene

I hate hate hate bugs. So imagine my shock and horror when I walked into my bedroom and there on the floor was a crusty creature as big as a lobster.  Yes, I swear it was a lobster size insect.  I screamed.  It lay there.  I ran around in a circle not knowing what to do.  "Oh my God, oh my God" was all I could choke out as I spun around.  I called frantically for my trusty Yellow Lab "Potato" and his mighty Australian Shephard sidekick "Wiggie" for back-up.  Surely one of my furry boys would go after the giant bug and save the day.   "Wiggie, get 'em boy."   Nothing.  He took a sniff and left the room.  I thought I could appeal to Potatoe's love of anything edible.  "Go Potato go, he looks yummy. "  The dog would eat toxic waste yet could not work up an appetite for my uninvited guest.  I was cursed, totally grossed out and started to feel itchy.  But ah ha I had one last weapon in my animal arsenal...the cat! "Missie come quick I need your feline ferocity."  She stared at me and walked the other way. 

What was I to do?  Should I kill it or name it?  I had to get in my room to sleep. I thought about just packing up and moving.  My blood pressure was dropping rapidly yet knew I had to act.  It's lobster creature or me.  Which briefly reminded me of the scene in "Annie Hall" when the lobster got lose on the kitchen floor but that was funnier.   This felt more like "High Noon."  (If anyone reading is an insect hugger stop reading now. )   

I was barefoot.  I needed a weapon. A baseball bat would have been perfect or musket but no such luck, just a shoe was available.  It was me and the shoe poised to act.  I didn't know if my cute Kate Spade open toed sandal could crush the creature in one blow and I was couldn't.  Arghhhh.  It got ugly and quite messy but I perservered.  I had a crime scene on my hands.  Yes, I probably watch too much TV as I envisioned the police taping around the body and asking for witnesses.  I think the cat would squeel and send me off in an orange jump suit. 

As I threw out the untidy remains I sadly realized I would never be able to eat lobster again.

Wednesday, June 12, 2013

Outsmarted by My Phone

I confess, my new smart phone is smarter than I am. Yep, it's true, no contest.  Hands down the phone wins.  It doesn't matter that I went to college , was an English major and read a lot of books - no siree, symbolism, metaphors, similes, allegory have nothin' on my new shiny Galaxy s5.  It doesn't care that Moby Dick wasn't just a whale or poor Hester Prinn had to wear a scarlet letter or whether or not it was "the best or worst of times" nope the horrid little machine has made a mockery of me .  My brain is full of the wrong information.  And all these years I thought I was smart.  I'm so over.

Admittedly the pressure to posses a smart phone became too great.  I was laughed at by my peer group and even children under 12 because I didn't have one.  I began to feel unpopular which reminded me I wasn't picked for the cheerleading squad in high school although years of therapy helped.  Truthfully I was happy with my not-so-smart phone.  It had a keyboard that was like a typewriter not the surface of a skating rink like my new device.  My typing skills are useless as I miss every letter and have now resigned myself to the new spelling of my name - "Fsuj."  I have yet to figure out how to answer the phone and simply stare at it when it rings. As for all the pictures I planned on taking and sending to friends and family - not happening.  I saw myself in the view finder by mistake and needed a Valium.  I can "swipe" the screen and find technological happiness according to the critics.  Who are these people and shouldn't they get out more?

I have one more day to decide the fate of my Galaxy s5 and whether or not we have a future.  Tomorrow is the return deadline. The folks at the Verizon store hide shaking in the back when they see me, as I now spend all my free time there begging for help and counseling.  I feel like the techno Hamlet - "To return or not to return?" I believe my friend Gregg has a Vegas line going on the fate of the phone. Call me asap if you think you can help...but then again I don't know how to pick up.

Monday, February 25, 2013

I Out "Carried" Carrie Bradshaw

I out "Carried" Carrie Bradshaw.  Yep, I have left Carrie in the dust.  I admit I could never compete with her in the shoe department or was ever brave enough to wear some of her crazy looking outfits but now at long last Carrie has nothin' on me in the break-up arena.  Nope, I can now declare myself the winner and probably long term champion of ways in which to be dumped.  I remember the poor girl's plight when she woke up to a break-up post-it note from her boyfriend Berger.  Oh no not a post-it!  Who does that?  Who steals off in the wee hours of the morning leaving a tiny yellow piece of paper that reads "I can't do this."  A slam dunk of a break-up I'd say.  It left a pit in my stomach as I swore at him on my TV screen.  "You're an asshole, who does such a heartless, cowardly thing!?" My heart went out to her as our little Carrie was stunned and sickened by the short and hideous content stuck to her kitchen cabinet. My girl was in tears not knowing how it went so wrong so quickly.  Only 12 hours earlier they were a happy couple and then presto chango a post-it stated they were over.  It left me with a small rash yet incredibly relieved it was a TV show and not real life.

Real life is so much worse.  I didn't meet the young hot groovy Berger I met a 72 year old man with hair which is pretty much a perk past the age of 55.   He was in decent shape which translates into his stomach didn't hang too far over his belt.  Yet, he was smart, had a great laugh and seemed to love being in my company.  He followed me like a sweet odd puppy looking for home.  My Berger just wanted to do what I wanted to do when he wasn't golfing.  We ate , drank, and seemed pretty damn merry.  He grew on me as we laughed at the same things, had a similiar quirky outlook on life and he gave me piggy back rides which is a real deal closer for me. What did I miss? Was it something he said that should have flashed a giant warning "RUN GAIL RUN!"  While I ordered wine at dinner on date two he talked about sex.  Did I like sex?  Did I want to have sex? When were we going to have sex? Today, tomorrow, the next day? When, when when? I should have called a cab. 

Sex?  Of course I liked sex, I was a girl of the 1970s.  I was a bra burner, a hippy chick who appreciated a hot guy with a great pony tail and good weed.  Was my 72 year old Berger shittin' me?  But more importantly why was he obsessed with the subject?  Shouldn't he be worried about his cholesterol or cataracts?  And why didn't I stick to my "we need to know each other better" rule?  He wiggled his way into my life with words like "I'm absolutely crazy about you", "you make me happy", "you're good for me" and the phrase de resistance "I have never had such a great time with anyone."  Zing went my old heartstrings. 

I did what Carrie would have done - had sex. First time sex after the age of 55 does not resemble 29 year old sex.  Srambling for Viagra and Astro Glide  does not beg spontanaity.  I'm hoping he doesn't turn blue or have to be hospitalized with an erection that lasts more than four hours and he's complaining about the greasy lotion ruining his Egyptian cotton sheets. And getting a first look at  a 72 year old male body can also set back eroticism until  the shock wears off. It definitely makes me re-think the notion of senior citizen chemistry.  What are these old guys talking about in their insistence on this magical state - have they looked in the mirror lately?   You might say having sex is like riding a bike - except your fancy 10 speed has turned into a rusty old Schwinn.  Sex does not get better with age but if given time and caring it can be warmer more intimate and wonderful.  TIME!?  My old Berger didn't have time no matter how "absolutely crazy" he was about me or how "happy" I made him.  Time was not on my side.

While I thought our sex life was improving with every attempt he must have been thinking it was falling short of internet porn, which I think is the new standard by which women must perform.  Not being an aficianado of these sites I had no idea what my competition was and if I could possibly measure up.  I never had a chance.  My affection for him was growing with each date and I knew that good sex was on the horizon.  But my 72 year old Berger had no interest in "growing affection" he was on the hunt for a porn girl. I have to repeat...."has he looked in mirror lately?"  If so it's the magic kind. 

The rest of our relationship ironically was magic.  We cracked each other up, and actually ran around town like two adolescents ditching school.  I hadn't had that much out right fun with anyone in years.  If only I had a dollar for every time he told me how "absolutely crazy" he was about me I could have bought a pair of Carrie's fabulous Manolos.   I was happy and unprepared.  

It was a Tuesday at 4:45 when I got a text from old Berger.  He often texted me sweet messages during the day so expecting another cute note I hurriedly clicked to read it.  "I am abosolutely crazy about you but want to break up."  Take that Carrie Bradshaw!  I got you good.  Much like Carrie I practically stumbled to my knees.  Ambushed by my 72 year old Berger with the 21st century post-it...a text. 

I could go on and tell you about the subsequent phone call but it's pointless as the message said it all.  My heart was broken.  The only consolation I had was realizing I out "Carried" Carrie Bradshaw.