Friday, March 24, 2017

Big Pharma and Little Me

Help me, I'm an addict, a main liner, wide eyed, shaking and itchy waiting for my next fix.  Get those commercials about Viagra off my screen, as who has time for sex when there is 24/7 BREAKING NEWS?  And geez has it ever been more addicting?  Come on, this makes my Watergate years seem like "Introduction to Scandal 101." It's the big time baby. As terrified as I am of needles I have stuck the news needle in my arm and there is no emergency number to call or quick fix. Ironically, there is a drug that can save you from a heroin overdose, but has big Pharma come up with one for my addiction - no! Come on pharmaceutical boys I need an antidote. 

I admit I was in a weakened state as fatigue set in after 16 months on the campaign trail. And feeling so certain my girl would triumph, the plunge to her political death almost sent me to the ER.  Shock and dismay I'd say.  I sulked around in funerary attire for weeks and ate copious amounts of Oreos, which did not lessen my sadness but did ruin a perfectly good complexion.  I slapped myself into political alert after the inauguration.  Why was I licking my wounds and eating cookies when I should be safe guarding the country by watching news shows all day?  Dusk 'til dawn talking heads and the mind numbing, brain cell killing scroll at the bottom of the screen. 

I have too many friends now to keep track of: Brian Williams, Andersen Cooper, Van Jones (isn't he a hottie?), Don Lemon, David Gergen, Rachel Maddow, the ever enigmatic Greta Van Susteren (bi-political in my estimation) and scads of others. To say nothing of my personal spy operation over at FOX- very deep throat.  I have learned that news isn't always news but fake. And would you ever have guessed there's an alternative to reality without dropping acid? 

What ever happened to "no news is good news?"  There is no such thing as it bombards me every waking moment like a rapid fire machine gun: Obamacare, Trumpcare( he doesn't really care), Russian interference, pipelines, tax cuts, North Korea, China, wall building ( Mexico is never paying), Darth Vader (aka Steve Bannon), more military, less NPR; this is what my poor addled brain wakes up to and yet I lunge for the remote even before caffeine.

 I have searched the internet for a local exorcist to come free me of addiction as I fear a man of the clergy would be impotent in this area.  Hmmmm, Viagra? Big Pharma call me.

Thursday, March 9, 2017

A Little Dab'll Do Ya

I hate when I walk into a department store and the first thing that happens is sales people rushing towards me spraying bottles of perfume.  "No no, go away. Please, no perfume, it makes my eyes turn red and burn."  I frantically wave my hands in the air and run to the shoe department where my olfactory senses are safe.  My wallet is now in danger but I've spared my vision.  I never ever wear perfume; or at least not since high school when I would douse myself in Shalimar.  I can't help but wonder if that became a banned substance or an ingredient in Agent Orange?  At any rate ixnay to any odorous substance in my general vicinity.

I had a Match.com date recently who defied the laws of "a little dab'll do ya."  I sat down to have a drink with him in a local restaurant and was engulfed in a noxious cloud of cologne.  I think I went blind for a second.  He smiled, and  I tried not to have a seizure.  Why weren't his eyes red and watery but crystal clear and staring at my twitching upper lip.  I had no idea how long I could sit there without grabbing the nearest fire extinguisher and hosing him down so I stopped itching. Yes, I felt itchy.  Was the desire to coat himself in a foreign odor an evolutionary instinct so as to separate him from the apes?  And before that evening I would never date an ape, which I might now rethink.  Or could the act of swimming in cologne be an animal rite of sexual passage to insure fertility?  Whatever it is I was dying.  

I am not one to up and leave after 10 minutes regardless of a Match.com mismatch and have never used the pretend emergency phone call from a friend.  All I could do was take shallow breaths of air and drink.  He was a nice guy who happily showed me lovely pictures of his African safari and shared news of his upcoming surgery which interested me more, but put a hold on another date.  I politely opted out of a second glass of wine as I felt like my eyes were on fire and was becoming asthmatic.  He offered me a ride home because I had walked to the restaurant, but was terrified of getting in his car as being in an enclosed space would definitely ensure my having to take a shower strong enough to remove Plutonium.  

I walked home re-thinking my Match.com profile and decided to state that I was searching for a cologne free man or a primate.


Thursday, March 2, 2017

Mid Fork; a Tarnished Romance

I have no idea how to set a table.  Is the spoon the loner or paired with a fork?  And what about the knife? In a moment of table setting panic I feel like turning it on myself. Oh my God, what if there are two forks, then what - inside of the spoon, outside the knife? I'm dizzy and confused.  Uh oh, the napkin, who gets that?  The urge to sob into it seems like the proper use.  I'm getting a rash and holding inexplicable silverware.  I usually give up and throw myself on the mercy of the nearest human because EVERYONE  but me knows how to set a table. I've been instructed on numerous occasions and  just heard "blah, blah, blah". Going out to dinner is so much easier and doesn't require re-reading "When Bad Things Happen to Good People."

I  wasn't prepared for a fork to seek revenge or become an enemy agent.  Confused? So was I.  The surprise attack came on a vacation with my new boyfriend.  It started off however, with a really GOOD surprise ,a romantic mid Winter get away to La Jolla.  Adios, down parka ,down vest, neck warmer, scarf, hat, Timberland boots that weigh more than I do, and  pot holder style mittens.  The Michelin Man look soon to be replaced by skimpy cotton clothes - like a dream come true for this Winter hater.  The boyfriend even took me out shopping for lingerie, which seemed like a harbinger of desire.  

The airplane ride was uneventful, no reason to be anything but happy the Southern California coast was in my future.  I had brought enough clothing for a trip lasting a year,not 5 days, but "be prepared" was my fashion motto, picturing many outfit changes for all our fun filled activities.  We were staying at The Lodge at Torre Pines where one look at the green green golf course made me long to be a golfer and could I learn by dinner?  

With no time to unpack before our restaurant reservations I put on the outfit closest to the top of the giant pile in my suitcase, grabbed a pair of sexy high heels and headed down to the dining room.. Nothing unusual to report during the salad or first glass of wine, just idle chit chat about the lovely weather. The silverware seemed to be perfectly placed so I tried to take a mental picture for future reference (ha ha). Being someone who flunks idle chatter I changed the subject to something peripherally political?  I swear there was no mention of the name Trump.  We were in what I thought was the Trump Free Zone. I do however, remember using the words "weaponizing religion."  Now isn't that an interesting subject?  I thought so. Not when your partner thinks weapons aren't metaphors but real guns best used in a military context.  Bang!   

Can you say "conversational free fall?" There was no analogy, metaphor, parable, simile or part of speech that could change the course of events.  "I think you're taking this too seriously" did not work.  I could see the expression on his face morph into Darth Vadar, and his breathing became metallic.  I was not going over to the dark side so I gulped the remaining wine and glanced down at my Salmon.  When I looked up there was a fork coming at me loaded with medium rare Lamb Chop .Stop please stop, I promise I'll learn how to set a table.  Mid way across the table it came to a halt and he blurted out "This isn't going to work."  Huh?  Was I was officially on the shortest romantic get-away in history- less than 45 minutes?  I had no response other than to ask if the Lamb Chop was good. 

I got up, stared at the fork still hovered over the table, vowed to never learn its correct placement, , and took the next train to LA.