Will Hugh Hefner Explode From Too Much Viagra?

It's holiday time and one of my favorite things to do between Christmas and New Years is bitch and moan about how I hate the time between Christmas and New Years. Or I dutifully start my list of impossible to fulfill resolutions for the coming year. I'm a couple of years behind on resolution fulfillment starting with: complaining less, a colonoscopy, and sex in the kitchen. None of these seem to get accomplished and I'm not looking for kitchen volunteers at the moment. Just when I was going to start whining about my giftless Christmas and going to a few bad movies what flashed across my computer screen - HUGH HEFNER 84 ENGAGED TO 24 YEAR OLD. My head exploded - splat all over my keyboard. Santa gave Hef a 24 year old for Christmas? Hey big guy in the red suit and beard what am I chopped liver, where's my boy toy?

It just feels wrong doesn't it? I know I felt nauseated and lunged for the Tums before I made a bee line for the Kettle One. I guess this meant my Mom was out as a possible mate. I also thought Hef only dated in pairs of blondes. Had he slowed down or just lost count? Someone mentioned he was 60 when his fiance was born, but more critical to me is the question - were her PARENTS born when Kennedy was shot? Yes Hef's a rich high profile guy and the cash and publicity are tantalizing but our little missie has to pay the ridiculously high price of sex with an 84 year old when she should be out on the playground. The eewwwww factor looms large. And isn't Hef going to explode from all the Viagra? But aside from the sex which is very difficult to put aside I would never want a man who spends the greater part of his day and life in pajamas. I know I'd be screaming, "Get dressed already" at the top of my lungs.

I remain perplexed as the holiday season draws to a close and I still have to see "The Fighter" and get back to my list of resolutions, isn't Hef going to explode from all the Viagra?

Dressing for Successful Dating

I'm an unconcerned dresser. I get up in the morning throw gym shorts and a sweat shirt hoodie on over the boxer shorts and t-shirt in which I slept and think I'm presentable. It's a little scary but quick and also requires no thinking. Truthfully I'm in this snappy outfit until around noon. If I do have to go anywhere I usually put on jeans and a short or long sleeved t-shirt depending on the weather. Not a fashion statement but again, mindless. My Mother on the flipside spends half the day going from closet to closet to closet deciding what to wear. This includes her shoe, purse, and jewelry selection. I did not inherit these genes or impulses. When I visit her she stares at what I'm wearing and asks me if I want a piece of her clothing as a gift. It usually includes a cape. "No Mom I hate capes," I declare every time but she never remembers.

My laissez faire attitude towards dressing makes going on a date difficult, coupled with the problem that unlike Mom I only have one closet and it is half full. My friend Adria can attest to this as she stood in front of it one day screaming that "No self respecting Jewish Princess would have so little clothing." My deepest apologies to all the JAPS that I've failed. Yet even I don't go on a date in my gym shorts and hoodie so I have my work cut out for me when it comes time to get ready. It's hard to keep my head from exploding.

Saturday night it took six outfit changes to get out the door. White v-neck shirt with black skirt and little gray jacket was my initial instinct. Nope, wrong jacket and the skirt looked weird with the t-shirt. I flung it off. The black skirt with black top and black blazer I put on would only work if we were eating at a funeral home. Off it went. Little black cocktail dress?  Nope too dressy . Frustrated, I tossed it on the bed. Skinny jeans with white shirt and black blazer. Very Soho but not exactly right. I threw the shirt across the room; it landed on the dog who looked dizzy from the watching the flying clothes. I was close to tears but not close to dressed. I rummaged through the remaining things in my closet but it all became one black blur and I was running late. I desperately pulled out a tight black v-neck shirt, put the skinny jeans back on and black blazer.  Not bad, understated chic yet a touch  too morbid, but no longer cared.  I became worried I'd damage my rotator cuff from throwing clothes around. I gave a thumbs up to the dog and he followed me to the front door with the t-shirt draped on his head.  

I groaned as I stared back at the clothes strewn all over my room and couldn't help but wonder if dating was worth the clean up.

The Dinnerless Dinner Date or Hey Buddy I'm Hungry!

My last post "Going on a Date is Hard Work," agonized over the labor of pre-date preparation. HA! Today boys and girls I'm going to tell you how in truth that is the easy part. I went on a date that I've actually given a title - "my dinnerless dinner date." It left me surprised, cranky, and hungry. Meeting at 6:00p.m. at a restaurant I assumed meant food was involved. Wasn't that logical? I went through all the work of getting ready: showered, shaved both legs, washed my hair, put on make-up , tweezed both eyebrows, tried on three outfits until one finally made me stop crying, and looked in the mirror one last time which scared me but was necessary to make sure no tags were hanging out. I definitely was looking forward to drinks and food.

Next wrong assumption - if your date is sitting at a table and not the bar that indicates a meal. We ordered drinks and chit chatted. The waiter came and recited the specials. I listened like my life depended on it, my date seemed to be paying attention but shooed him away and said "maybe in a little while." Huh? A little while? I was starving and broke out into a small sweat. I called the waiter back and begged for bread in order to remain conscious. I ate the entire basket. I repeat, I ate the entire basket. Wasn't that a hint or did he hope I was full? He ordered another round of drinks but never picked up the menu. Ok, I should have said something or just grabbed the menu and hailed the waiter. I remained silent believing that was more polite. Yes Mom, sometimes I have manners. I was probably delirious.

Two hours later he asked for the check. The breadbasket was empty, I was crashing from carbo loading, and he thanked me for a nice evening. I had one last thought before I fainted - "were we on the same date?"

Going on a Date is Hard Work

Going on a date is just too much work. Do men realize how much effort it takes to get out the door in order to have a drink with them? Which is why I never offer to pay. I really have no idea why I accept an invitation because inevitably when the time comes I just want to plop down in a chair with a glass of wine and veg out in front of the TV. "Crap it's 5:30 I have to start getting dressed." This is a laborious process. I have to shower and wash my hair which takes forever to blow dry. If I want to go curly I have to put in rollers and....I want to stay home. Should I shave my legs in the shower and wear a skirt or not bother and wear pants? This looms large. Yes, shaving means both legs which really gets tiresome. Where's my wine?

There is no way to expedite getting ready (although once I stopped myself short of blow drying my hair in the bathtub when I was running late). The labor doesn't cease after showering. I can't go out in public without a little make-up. Unfortunately this requires looking at myself very closely in the mirror and then I really want to stay home and drink. Back to my hair which is starting to frizz and wave so I have to drop the mascara and immediately blow dry. What should I wear begins to haunt me. I stare over at my closet knowing I don't have much from which to choose. Are jeans too casual? Is a skirt too dressy? Should I look sexy and wear a tank top under a jacket? Or cover up and look conservative? High heels? Flats? Crap I forget if he's short or tall . I longingly wonder what's on TV. Time is running out and I'm conflicted, confused and still have to tweeze my eyebrows.

I decide on my skinny jeans with a t-shirt and black blazer - hip yet classic. Flats in case he is under 5'6" although I love heels so that makes me sad. I put on lipstick as I run out the door so lord knows how that looks. Suddenly I remember the most labor intensive part is ahead of me - being on the date.

Ninety Five Year Old Man Looking for a Hook Up

I've come to the conclusion that men believe they are never too old to pick up women. This is unfortunate because at some point it's really creepy. I think there should be a cut-off age but sadly there isn't. I witnessed an ancient man hitting on women in a bar in Palm Desert, Ca on a Friday night. Now granted the average age out there is 65 but he hadn't seen that number in decades. There he sat wearing a straw hat, dark aviator sun glasses, white crew neck sweater, and black collared shirt looking exactly like Truman Capote. Nuzzled very close to him on his right was a plasticized 50ish buxom blonde in a tight, short, low cut white dress and push up bra. He looked like the cat that swallowed the canary or a boat load of Viagra. I was staring and he was grinning. I tried to avert my eyes but couldn't.  Inquisitive and incredulous I asked the waitress his age. "Oh he's 95. He's here all the time." I didn't know whether to applaud his temerity or order a shot of Pepto Bismol for my ensuing nausea. I could only conclude he must be the richest man west of the Mississippi.

I turned away to take a sip of my martini and when I looked back he had a new woman sitting on his left. In the blink of an eye another buxom blonde had materialized. My faux Truman Capote was double dipping. I pestered the waitress for more info "Who's the new woman and what's up with the first blonde?" She spilled the beans. "The one on his right is just his friend. He had me give his card to the other woman so she would join him." The card must read "I'm over 90, have a heart condition and money" because she had toddled over and plopped down next to him. Oh no, please stop, he was kissing her ear and nibbling on her neck. Again I couldn't look away - but wait, maybe he just fallen asleep. It seemed so wrong like catching your parents having sex when you were little. I needed medication and blinders.

Uh oh and oh no, the ancient guy was looking in my direction. I think he crooked his finger for me to come over. I grabbed the edge of the bar so I didn't faint. I must admit he was a nervy critter. I can't imagine hanging out in a bar at 95 cruising for young hotties which at that age would be 75 year olds. I think I'd rather be home watching "Sex and the City" re-runs and fantasizing about wearing high heels without falling.

Schlepping and Talking

I just finished schelpping from Chicago to California. Yep, I'm a cross country schlepper. I put on my rattiest comfy clothes, pulled my hair in a ponytail knowing with each day on the road my hair would get as ratty as my clothes and dragged my biggest suitcase filled to bursting out to the car. Uh oh the dog had my black bra in his mouth , it fell out the side of the bag. I hate the laborious drive West but my yellow Lab Elliot aka "Beefy Boy" hates it more. He watched me stuff his dog bed into the back seat and knew his fate for the next 72 hours had been sealed. "Sorry little buddy but we're in this together." I wish he knew how to drive or talk. He glared at me for a few seconds and then heaved his body onto the seat. I climbed behind the wheel and tried not to burst into tears - only 1900 miles to go.

The first 100 miles were a test of my will as I longed to turn back, call a cab and head for the airport. Invasive security checks or not it's a lot quicker than three days of endless interstate. Day one was driving hell. I stared and stared at the map praying I was getting closer but had only gained 50 miles. Staring only made me anxious and long for a martini. After I stopped hyperventilating realizing I wasn't even out of Illinois I started to wonder if I could talk on the phone the entire drive. I love the phone and my little black Samsung was filled with all my friend's numbers. It could take me three days to get from A to Z. I actually know a "Z" person. I could go alphabetically through my entire address book and stop crying. Yes! I would gab my way to California - it felt so right.

My Mother facilitated my goal of talking my way West by calling every two hours. "No Mom, I'm not tired. Yes, the dog is fine. I'm in Missouri. The weather? It's cloudy. Gotta go I'm still in the "A's." I looked longingly at the "Flip" video camera I had bought to chronicle my trip but realized being on the phone could bring me happiness. The only image I wish I had on film was the cash register girl in a small gas station/general store between Flagstaff and Phoenix Az who was wearing a holster with a small pistol. The sign on the door read "all employees are armed." Scary but I'm fast at the gas pump.

I would like to thank Emily, Don, Terry, Dennis, Jim, Neil, Bernie, and David for picking up when they knew it was me yet again as well everyone else who listened to me blab about nothing. Miraculously I achieved my goal of talking my way to California. I wonder if that gets my picture on a Wheaties box? Be grateful I didn't have your phone number.