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."