My REAL New Year's Resolutions

I don’t really understand why people make New Year’s resolutions. If you want to do something, why wait until the New Year? Why not just say, “I’m going to do this today?”  I guess it gives people something to look forward to, or actually, a reason to keep putting things off, is probably more of the reason, [Scarlett.] I don’t believe in making New Year’s resolutions, but if I did, I think my list would look something like this:

·         I won’t squeeze the toothpaste tube until I get out every last ounce of toothpaste. I believe I’m getting arthritis from rolling the tube as tight as I can get it, to make sure there’s nothing left. And trying to roll it down and hold the roll and get it on the toothbrush at the same time, is a feat in itself. I vow to not obsess over throwing out the tube with a drop left in it.

·         Along those lines…I won’t turn over the lotion bottle so the 3 drops of lotion left will fall to the opening, and then try to balance it on top of the new lotion bottle so it falls from the old used one into the new, full one. Half the time I overflow the new bottle and waste the lotion anyway.

·         I will take the phone with me to the bathroom when I go, because for some reason, my phone only rings when “doody” calls.

·         I will look through the peep hole when the door bell rings. The only time I open the door without knowing who it is, is when someone who I do not want to see, shows up.

·         I will stop making fun of all the men on all the dating sites and give more a chance to show me they aren’t the nerds I think they are. Wait…no I won’t. Who am I kidding?

·         I will stop thinking every ache and pain I get is life threatening. I’m only 58 for God’s sake. My time isn’t up yet.

·         I will accept the fact that my house will not always be spic and span when my kids are around. I won’t get OCD and upset with them while they’re home, and know that at some point they will walk out the door, and I can frantically clean up so that it’s neat and clean, at least for a short time, until they come back a couple of hours later and mess the whole thing up again. And that’s ok. Yes, that’s ok. It’s ok. ‘IT’S OK’…my new mantra.

·         When I walk my dog, I will accept that she pretends to pee 18 times although she’s really done after two squats. It’s only been 9 years and I still get impatient. I will be patient from now on, knowing it’s just habit, she’s getting older, and I love her to death so I accept her for who she is. Although I may still tug ever so lightly on the leash to guide her away from the frickin’ bush she’s been smelling for 10 minutes.

·         I will think about getting my smoke alarms fixed since I have pulled all but two out of the ceiling, because that incessant, blaring, deafening alarm sound at all hours of the night is enough to drive anyone to an asylum. And it sends my dog into a violently shaking, hiding in the closet, state of mind. I sure hope I never have a fire.

·         I won’t get upset when my DVR cuts off the last 2 minutes of a show right at the cliff hanger. I realize On Demand can resolve that problem, although it takes a week or so for the program to show up, and by that time who can remember what shows I’ve missed the last couple of minutes to, so I’ll never see it anyway and that pisses me off but I’m going to try not to get pissed. “Try” being the operative word here.

·         I will be sure to keep an extra roll of toilet paper in the bathroom at all times. Enough said.

·         I will not use that last piece of paper towel on the roll since you can’t really use it anyway because it’s got the glue or something sticky from the cardboard roll it’s attached to and it’s as hard as the cardboard itself. (Goes along with all the other things that I HAVE to use every last drop/piece of.)

·         I will turn the heat on when it’s freezing in my house without worrying about the extra $5 it may cost that month so that my nose isn’t frozen and my fingertips aren’t numb. It’s tough watching my daughter walk around shivering with goose bumps.  

·         I will stop looking in the mirror every half hour to see if my jowls have gotten longer.

·         I will get rid of those shoes I never wear that will never come back in style and are so uncomfortable that I never wore them anyway. Why I still keep them is beyond my comprehension. I will stop trying to comprehend.

·         I will throw out the water bottle that’s been sitting in my car for a week. Ok, a month. Maybe longer. Another thing I hate to discard before it’s empty.

·         I will buy a new can opener since the one I have is discerning about which cans it will open. That’s what I get for buying a can opener for $12.99 from Target.

·         I will stop trying to polish my nails with polish that’s so thick it forms strings from the brush to the bottle. I will throw it out, however hard that may be. (There’s a theme forming here…do you see it?)

·         I will try to love my ipad. Right now there’s no love developing for me. I don’t think I can turn my back on Windows.

·         I will move the things I use quite often from the top shelf to a shelf I can actually reach. [Or buy an additional step stool.]

·         I will write more blogs. I will not have writer’s block. I will try to be more creative. I will put together a book. I will love life. Oh wait…I ALREADY AM DOING ALL THAT!!

HAPPY NEW YEAR EVERYONE…MAY 2013 BRING YOU EVERYTHING YOU HOPE FOR!!

I Yam What I Yam

So there I was, in the kitchen, standing over a mixing bowl of God only knows what. It’s an odd sighting when I’m in the kitchen doing something other than looking for food in the fridge. I usually just stand there waiting for something to magically appear, while the cold escapes from the open door, but the shelves still remain empty. I figure if I stand there long enough, something will materialize that I’m not seeing. Sometimes I shut the door and open it again, giving the hidden food time to make its way to the front of the fridge. That rarely happens. Grocery shopping would probably rectify that problem. Short term, anyway.

Strangely enough I volunteered to make a dish for Thanksgiving dinner. I’m not quite sure I know what possessed me to volunteer…considering I don’t cook, let alone cook for 11 people. I guess since most of the guests were my family, I figured I should probably contribute. I couldn’t just say I would bring dessert…no…I had to offer to do something I had rarely done my entire life…follow a recipe. And when I say follow a recipe…I mean I had to Google half the ingredients to see exactly what they were in order to understand what the hell the recipe was asking for. And I was cooking something I would never eat if it was the last edible item on earth…sweet potato pudding. As a kid, I just picked off the half-burnt marshmallows when no one was looking, and shoved them in my mouth. I would wipe off the icky orange stuff first, though, before popping the fluff in my mouth. For some reason, the adults never questioned why my cheeks were so puffy after dinner. They probably knew I was storing the missing marshmallows for later, yet I thought I was being ever so sly.

But most people love sweet potato pudding…so I decided I would attempt to surprise myself and hopefully produce a dish that was somewhat edible. I was fortunate enough to run into a friend at the market while I was shopping for the necessary items for my cooking venture, since I hadn’t seen a sign for sweet potatoes and was wandering around like a prisoner looking for an escape route. I did see yams so I was able to ask her, without feeling like a total idiot, if they were the same thing. I thought they were, but she said yams were sweeter. I must say…I was quite proud of myself for knowing they were at least in the same family.

I gathered all the ingredients that the recipe I stole off the internet required, with a little help from my friend. Why I didn’t just ask my mom for her recipe is still baffling me. Everyone always raved about my mom’s sweet potato pudding, but no…I decided to seek out my own, being the risk taker that I am. I guess I wouldn’t know if it was good or not since I think sweet potatoes are gross anyway, so tasting the finished product would do me no good. Therefore, once that dish was finished…I wouldn’t know how it was until everyone started eating it. If they turned green or started barfing, I’d have my answer.

There were a few different recipes on line that I checked out. Based on the ingredients and difficulty level, I decided which one I would tackle. One of them had 2 teaspoons of grated orange peel. Huh? How does that one work? I can’t even picture that in my head. You peel an orange and grate the skin until it’s just like pencil shavings? Is that right? That wasn’t gonna happen. Way too much work and I would end up scraping off half my knuckles and instead of orange peel…it would be 2 teaspoons of shaved skin. I decided to save my guests from eating half my fingers so I used orange juice - store bought. I certainly wasn’t about to stand there and squeeze oranges. Wow…cooking sure is exhausting. Actually, just reading the recipe was exhausting.

Another one had 3 cups of mashed potatoes. Please tell me how I was supposed to know how many potatoes I needed to mash if they were telling me 3 cups, but not telling me how many potatoes that was? That meant that I had to guess how many potatoes to boil and then if I didn’t make enough, I’d have to do it all again and cook more to find out that I still may not have had enough? Couldn’t they just say ‘boil 5 potatoes’ for so and so amount? Wouldn’t that make more sense? Who do they think I am…Giada De Laurentiis? (Impressed that I even knew who that was? I didn't...I had to Google 'female cook.')

Well…I wasn’t about to take on that guessing game…so I just kept thinking, “What would Carol Brady do?”

She would ask Alice, but I didn’t have an Alice, so I just looked for the simplest recipe with the most ingredients that I knew of.  I mean…I don’t know a spice from an herb… [And I just had to Google that to see if there was even a difference between herbs and spices as I was writing this.] The only spices I know are salt, pepper, Posh and cinnamon. I wanted to find one which had an abundant amount of sugar and the least work possible. How can you go wrong when there’s sugar…and an ungodly amount at that? If it doesn’t taste like a side dish at least it will taste like dessert. So of course I looked for a recipe where everyone looks for recipes...

I boiled the 6 yams til they were 'mash' ready. I have to say...the smell was nauseating. I don't know how anyone eats that crap. I smashed the shit out of them...added the 18 lbs of white sugar; the 16 lbs of brown sugar; the 10 lbs of butter; a cup of OJ; a teaspoon of vanilla and 4 beaten eggs, which I beat the shit out of, too. I think cooking is just not my thing, but probably quite cathartic if you have some anger issues.

I spread it in a casserole dish (had to Google that, too) and shoved it in the oven. There was no direction on putting marshmallows on top so I decided to take an educated guess. HA! Educated guess when it comes to cooking for me is hilarious. You may as well ask me how to perform open heart surgery. That guess would probably be more accurate.

Once the timer went off, I took it from the oven and let it cool until we left. It looked like it may be good. Let’s just say it looked presentable and I didn’t make it look like someone threw up in a dish. That to me was success. [As was not grabbing it right from the oven with bare hands.]

Once we arrived at our dinner destination, I popped the casserole in the oven with 2 bags of marshmallows laid out perfectly on top. I think there were enough marshmallows...

We all sat down to dinner and everything was scrumptious. And my casserole? I can't begin to tell you what a hit it was. I even tasted it after much coaxing...and it was fabulous. I was actually eating yams. Shocking...just shocking! Shortly after though...

        Do you think there may have been just a tad too much sugar? 

                                          And for their parting gifts...

Just in case! 

 

Bowl Me Over

I hadn’t really thought about it much since I was in college, but recently I was figuring out my 'bucket list.' One of the things that had been on it forever was seeing Barbra Streisand in concert. Stevie Wonder was also on it, (I actually told my first husband if he truly loved me, he would get Stevie to play at our wedding...I guess he didn't truly love me) but I got to see "Little" Stevie about 4 years ago and he definitely did not disappoint. Checked that one off.

Last weekend, I was able to cross Streisand off my list, too. Well...sort of. I did see Babs, but it was quite the journey getting to our seats.  Friday night traffic is crazy in L.A. no matter what, but on a holiday weekend...forget it.

I had to pick up my friend on the way, who lives only a half hour from me. A short hour and a f**king half later...I arrived at her door. We left immediately, still giving us an hour and a half to get to our seats. Traffic to the Hollywood Bowl was as expected, but what was not expected was the TWO f**king hour wait to get into the parking lot. TWO HOURS. Are you f**king kidding me? I’ve been waiting for this concert my entire life and the one concert that had a great opening act, too...I was going to be late for? I was hoping that there was some catastrophe going on for this hold up to be legit. I mean, I never really want someone to be hurt in any way...but when I have to sit in a TWO HOUR LINE to get into a parking lot...there had better be some major drama going on: a shooting, a robbery, car jacking...something worth the wait. But there wasn't. The only thing happening was they had people with no brain matter directing traffic. It’s not like the Hollywood Bowl hasn't been there for 80,000 years. You would think they would have this down to an exact science by now. But TWO F**KING HOURS IN LINE...are you kidding me?  There's just so much conversation you can have with your friend before you start thinking about abandoning her in the middle of traffic and booking it on foot to the Bowl. “Here’s your ticket...meet ya at the seats." She probably wouldn't be my friend too much longer. So I stayed. I was hoping if I complained enough she would tell me to just go and meet her there. No such luck.

When we finally got into the parking lot they directed us to an alternate lot that was on the other side of the freeway, up a hill, down the street and up another hill. There should have been a shuttle from that parking lot; you know...like the trams they have at Disneyland? But needless to say...there wasn't.  Twenty five minutes later, after our long trek of huffing and puffing, we made it into the Bowl. Not to our seats, mind you...just to the entrance of the Bowl. And can I tell you how much stuff we had to carry? Not to complain even more...[but I will]...we had blankets, and stadium seats, and water bottles and other necessities to keep us warm. I recently had shoulder surgery and couldn't really use my left arm. You don't realize just how heavy a water bottle is when you can hardly use or raise your arm. I couldn't even hold the blanket, or anything for that matter, so I was carrying everything with my other arm, which was about to fall off by the time we got there. I sure hope Babs appreciated all I went through to see her.

Not being a millionaire (shocking...I know), I couldn't afford the good seats that ranged from $400-800, so I got the cheap seats. Ya know...the ones that you have to watch the artist on the big screens instead of actually looking at the teensy, weensy ant you see on stage. Even the big screens looked like 13 inch TV's because we were so high up and far away. I'm not sure night-vision, high-powered binoculars would have done the job. For those of you who don't know, the Hollywood Bowl is built into a mountain. A very steep mountain and as we made it up to our seats, and up, and up and up...and as we were losing oxygen and I was praying I wouldn't pass out...we realized our seats were literally in the tree tops. Trees that had been there hundreds of years...and we were almost to their tops. I had wished I had one of those oxygen tanks on wheels strapped on with the hose sucked up by my nostrils.  But alas...we made it. [This was our view...]

We got to our 'bench' seats...(good thing we had our little cushions with us or my tushy bones wouldn't have been too happy on the wooden slats) and we made our way past all the people who had already been there for two hours. I love inching my way into the middle of a row of squished people. I never know which way to turn...would they rather have my boobs and crotch in their faces or my butt? It’s a toss up. I chose to have them view my ass as I proceeded to hit everyone in the row below, in the head, with my purse, as I squeezed past. They were all thrilled with our late arrival.

As soon as we sat down I heard Babs say..."We're going to take a short intermission. We'll be back in 20 minutes." It was intermission? Seriously? We missed the entire first half of the show?  You have got to be kidding me. I was livid. I have never been late to anything, let alone a concert. And this was my bucket list concert for God's sake! And to add to my frustration, the two elderly ladies sitting behind us started asking us a million questions as if we've known them for years. "Where have you been? Why are you so late? Where did you drive from?" Oh my god...they didn't stop talking for one minute. They were very sweet but we were trying to settle in and eat, because neither of us had eaten all day. So on top of being in pain from walking 10 miles from the car, carrying the entire contents of my house, hiking up the stairway to heaven to get to our seats, needing an iron lung to breathe, and going into hypoglycemic shock from lack of food...we had these two women leaning forward, right in our faces, hands patting our shoulders, like we were their grandkids. It would have been quite amusing if you didn't mind someone you had never met before, almost cheek to cheek in your personal space, leaning on your hair and pulling out a nice little chunk. I still am afraid to look at the back of my head to see if I have a bald spot.

Then one of the sweet, little, rambling, old ladies started telling us about the two girls that had "mistakenly" taken our seats prior to our arrival and how they wouldn't stop talking through the whole first half. "Why do they bother coming to a concert if they're going to talk during all the singing. They wouldn't shut up even after we told them to."  It took everything I had not to tell her to stop talking. Did she not notice she was the pot calling the kettle black? We comforted them by assuring them that we didn't talk while a concert was going on. They didn't have to worry. Needless to say, as soon as Barbra came back and started singing, grandma started belting out the song along with her. Are you f**king kidding me? Shut the f**k up! I didn't come here to listen to someone else sing. I wanna hear Babs...and ONLY Babs! Of course I didn't say that, but the words were doing all they could not to burst out from my lips. 

The rest of the concert was unbelievably great. I can't believe that at 70, [yes, that's right, she's 70]...her voice is still as amazing and pure as it was 30 years ago.  I was so thankful that Obama had won the election earlier in the week, because knowing how political she is, I knew if he hadn't won...we wouldn't be listening to a concert...we would have been listening to a political pundit.  But instead, I got to hear about an hour and a half of Streisand's voice. She definitely gave me what I went for.  I can't say the rest of the experience was what I went for. But it was an adventure that will not be forgotten for a very long time. And next time I decide to go to the Bowl for a concert...I won't go on a Friday, I won't go on a holiday weekend, and I'll leave my house the day before.

I think some of the other things on my bucket list would have been so much easier to accomplish. I'm sure I would have gotten there much quicker had I only moved my African safari to the top of my list.

Hair Me Out

Many moons ago, pre-marriages, pre-kidlets, pre-responsibility of anything or anyone except myself...I had a pretty luxurious life. I had the sports car of my dreams, I had expensive clothes, a great place to live, numerous vacations, and I pampered myself to the fullest. And by pampered, I mean tortured myself like every other woman trying to look like the perfect specimen that we weren’t, by removing all those embarrassing, unwanted ‘things’ sprouting from our bodies.

Once a month I would get my legs waxed and have a facial. And by facial…I don’t mean one of those little half hour ditties you get at a spa at a 5 star hotel. Those are for women who don’t want a real facial, but want to be able to say they are going to have a ‘treatment’ at the ‘spa’ on their vacations and end up getting a three finger massage on their cheeks for $200. 

My facials were two and a half hours of agonizing, excruciating, painful pleasure. I had to mentally prepare myself each time I would visit my facialist. It was an investment of time, because not only did I spend half the morning with her getting poked and prodded, but when I left there, I didn’t want to be seen for another 3 hours since I looked like a pitted tomato.

It would all start out so innocently. I would change into a robe, she'd wrap a towel tightly around my head, cutting off any circulation to my brain; catching my hair in all the tucks and folds; and I would lie back in her chair while she massaged my head, face, neck and shoulders for about 10-15 minutes. It was heavenly.  It almost made me forget why I was there. (Probably because I was brain dead for two hours from the tightly wrapped towel.)

When she was done with the best part of the whole procedure, she rolled over the little portable steamer by the side of my chair, and aimed it right in my face. For those of you who aren't claustrophobic, you may not be able to understand this, but having steam blowing forcefully in your face for 15 minutes is like having your head held in a flushing toilet bowl for... I don’t know how long...for…ever? As I gasped for air, praying it wouldn't last long, hoping I wouldn't pass out, I would forget I could just turn my head to one side, away from the steam, to take a breath. When it did occur to me to shift 45 degrees, I would take a breath big enough so I could hold it til the next one, with my cheeks puffed out, while I turned blue. I felt like I was being held hostage by my esthetician.

Once my pores were open wide enough to fit Jupiter inside, the eruptions began. I won't go into the gory details of her squeezing out all the impurities living deep beneath the surface of my facial orb, but if you know what Old Faithful is...you'll know what I'm talking about. She wore goggles and a mask. Need I say more?

After the excavations were finished; once the trenches were burrowed; following the shedding of the layers on my face, with her nail imprints firmly embedded in my cheeks... she then spread this putrid green mask over my forehead, nose, cheeks, chin and neck. My face became more and more rigid and my mouth was frozen in the middle of forming a word, as if I was blowing smoke rings, while the mask hardened.

When I tried talking, she couldn't understand a word I was saying.  "Ow uch onger?" I was trying to ask. "Huh?" She responded. "Ha uch loner?" I couldn’t get my lips closed. It was like one of those horrific dreams you have where you're trying to talk but no words are coming out as you lie in a coma fighting for your life. Ok...maybe that's being a little dramatic, but....nah...not being too dramatic. That's how it really was.

Once my face was fully formed into a stone cast resembling the Incredible Hulk, she dipped a towel in warm water and wiped away the Plaster of Paris holding my face together. It felt so great to get that shit off. I could breathe freely again. Good thing I had that towel wrapped around my hair to protect it because only about a pound of the crumbled mask got under there instead of all 5 lbs. And the Moe Howard flat helmet-head look has been a fashion statement for decades, hasn't it? 

Since my face looked like a porcupine missing its quills, I didn’t want to walk the streets to my car, having people wonder if I had really bad acupuncture, so I decided I would get my legs waxed that day, too, to give my skin time to heal. Normally I would get my legs waxed on a different day than the facial, but that night I had a formal affair to go to so I had it done all at once. Why not just have four consecutive hours of torture instead of spreading it out over a couple of days? 

Having my legs waxed was something I did for only about a year. The problem with waxing...you have to let the hair grow to a certain length before you can wax again, otherwise it won't rip the hair from the follicle deep inside if it's too short. If you don’t mind looking like a gorilla for a few weeks, then you’ll have no problem. But I had to let the hair on my legs grow like an inch. An inch of hair on your legs is like wearing a clinging chimp hanging from your knees. 

I looked like a freak in shorts…and forget what I looked like in a bikini…

You had to time your waxing around your menstrual cycle or you were screwed. If you did it while you had your period, you may as well have had a kidney ripped out of you using an ice pick, as it wouldn't have hurt half as much as getting your bikini line waxed at that "time of the month." And ankles? Forget about it...ankles were the most sensitive. I’d rather just chop off the bottom half of my calves in order to avoid waxing around the ankles.

I have a friend who used to get her armpits waxed. Her ARMPITS! Have you seen armpits waiting patiently to be waxed? Not a pretty sight. I couldn’t really understand why anyone would want to get their pits waxed when the time in between waxing was so attractive.

But those days of pampering are long gone…no more facials; no more waxing; no more manicures or pedicures; no more being queen for a day. Anyway, being pampered is too exhausting…said no one…ever. Nowadays I just walk around being au natural…appearing as nature wanted me to appear…I can’t say I’m not upset I don’t have the means to do that anymore and not upset that I have spent every last dime on my kids…but I make do with what I have, and I guess I look ok…here’s the latest picture I had taken…

I think I could give Sofia Vergara a run for her money, don't you?

Vagina Dialogues

Over the course of one’s lifetime, we end up going to many kinds of doctors. I know I have seen pretty much every specialist out there. We women seem to have it much worse than the men. I know…I know, guys...you get your prostate checked and yada yada yada...and I’m sure getting your balls squeezed for 3 nano-seconds while coughing is ten times worse than giving birth. We feel very sorry for you. But let me tell you...going to the gynecologist is not only humiliating [not quite as humiliating as the proctologist, mind you, but humiliating nonetheless], but it is also the gateway to so many other kinds of exams and more. 

Yesterday, I was fortunate enough to have my six month checkup with my gyno. I happen to love my gyno...she's thorough, knowledgeable, young and chatty. Quite chatty. I tend to wonder if she's paying attention to what she's doing while her hands are halfway up my hoohoo and she's chatting away inside my vagina.

But before I even get to see her, I have to get on the exam table while her nurse takes my vitals. I always wondered why blood pressure and temperature are the two standard measurements they take in every office no matter what kind of doctor you're visiting. If I'm visiting the orthopedist, what's he going to do if I have a fever? Put me in a neck brace? I think I'll have to check that one out on Google. Or I guess I could just ask my daughter since she's a medical assistant and in nursing school. It's the simple, logical things that I tend not to think of right away. I frighten myself sometimes.

"Take off all your clothes and put the top on, open to the front please, and drape the other across your lap. You can leave your socks on if you'd like." It's a look we all want to have at some point. Naked, wearing athletic socks.

I don't know about you, but I unknowingly get nervous in the doctor's office and the longer I sit there, the more I start sweating, and when my bare bottom is sitting on that examining table paper, my tushy starts to stick to it.  I try to lean to one side and then the other, to lift up off the paper, but little pieces break off on each cheek and by the time the doctor comes in, I have an entire paper roll stuck to my butt. 

Sometimes I wait so long for the doctor to come in, I start to check things out: test my reflexes with the little knee knocker thingie; take a few gloves and shove them in my purse, [for reasons unbeknownst even to me]; search the drawers for anything of interest; take my own blood pressure, [just because I feel grown up using the stethoscope]; and read all the back, knee, neck, organ and shoulder diagrams. Sometimes I go to the doctor just to catch up on my medical reading; although many of the diagrams are way out of my league and totally baffle me.

Finally the doctor comes in and after she's done picking the paper out of my nether region, she comes at me with the Jaws of Life. "You're going to feel a little pinch." A LITTLE pinch? You may as well attach a lobster claw down there. That clench would be less of a pinch then the instrument she's using. How wide do you need it? I'm not delivering twins here. When she spoke I could hear an echo. 

"Now you'll feel a little scraping." You peeling paint in there? What the hell are you doing? I'd like to keep just a small part of my uterus, or cervix or whatever the hell you're excavating, if you don't mind. Is there a construction site in there?

It's not like I haven't had this done 50 times before, but each time seems just a tad worse than the last. I guess as you get older, and as you see less and less activity...anything shoved up there is a little shocking to the system. 

We commenced with the small talk. She began..."So, how have you been? Anything new going on?" Since her head is staring right into my vaginal cavity I assume she's asking the question regarding my vaginal activity. Since those lips don't really speak for themselves I thought I would answer for them. "Can't say there's been too much action going on." (But thank you so much for reminding me.) "Yes, I can see that...that's not exactly what I was asking." You can see that? What the hell else can you see in there? China? Are my car keys in there...they've been missing? "I was asking about your health...how have you been feeling...you ok? Anything bothering you?"

Oh...you mean aside from the fact that I've been celibate for the last two years, can't remember what a penis looks like and once tried to pick up a cross dresser? (Not really....I made that last one up.) I'm good...if you want to call newly formed jowls, saggy skin, creaky bones, shoulder pain, neck pain, back pain, blurred vision and memory loss, good.  Then I'm great! Couldn't be any better. 

"It's that time of year for your mammogram and bone density tests." Oh, yippee. I always look so forward to being reminded of all the testing that only the aging have to do. Should we throw in another colonoscopy while we're at it?  That's always one of the small pleasures for the over 50 bunch. “Would you like to have them at the same time?” No, thanks, I think one test at a time is plenty. I don’t want to glow from the radiation when I walk out.

“I see you have your gym clothes with you…are you going to work out after?” If I can get my legs closed after you get that crowbar out of me, yes, it’s a good possibility. Of course, I’m now 8 inches wider down there, so let’s hope nothing falls out. I’ll try not to push or exert too much.

“Well…everything looks good. I’ll call you when we get the results back and please remember to set up your tests. You don’t want to put those off.” I don't? Yes I do. "You can get dressed now and I'll see you in 6 months. Good seeing you." 

I got dressed, walked out to the reception area, paid my co-pay, got a few samples from the doctor and left. On my way out to the parking lot, I passed by a few people, nodded hello, just happy I was done with that visit, and took off in my car to the gym. When I got there, I had to pee so badly, I barely made it to the bathroom...and the gym was packed. I was hoping the bathrooms weren't all taken. I walked into the locker room and as I passed by the mirror...there it was...examining table paper hanging out of my gym shorts. And no one at the doctor's office thought it was worth mentioning? I now belong to a new gym.





 

Olympic Junkie

I don’t think I have moved from my 'Barcalounger' parked in front of the TV since the Olympics started. I have my computer on my lap, my snack table to my right, visitors from time to time, and the fridge within viewing range from the TV. I'm set. I’ll admit, I’ve taken bathroom breaks, (although I have considered investing in a porta-potty); took a little time for work (hence...I have kept my job); gone to the gym during the break between the afternoon events and prime time; and have taken a few hours off for some shut eye between 12AM and 6AM (while DVR'ing anything that was new). Other than that…I’m glued to every single event going on.

No…that’s not true. There are some on the other NBC Networks that I’m not watching. For instance…Skeet shooting…or whatever that ‘sport’ is called that the woman from the U.S., who won gold in the last 5 Olympics, was in…I couldn’t give a shit…although I'm happy that she's shooting at clay and not ducks or deer. I’m really happy for her that she set a record. In that respect, I get pleasure. The personal goals that people set and achieve, I find fascinating and awe inspiring. But there are just some sports that are not made for spectating. 

Road Cycling (not to be confused with Track cycling)...I don't understand how anyone could sit and watch road cycling. It's got to be the most boring sport to see on TV. I'm sure it's not boring to those who partake in that as an extra-curricular activity...but to those of us who could never find comfort on a banana seat...it's torturous to sit through, physically and mentally. You can almost get sympathy crotch pains while snoozing...oops...I mean watching...and waiting for each cyclist to reach the finish line. I like to see side-by-side competition to know exactly where everyone is. Not each person being timed one at a time. BOOORRRIIINNGGG.

Archery is almost like watching someone peel paint off a wall. Unless you're participating, watching it is a snore-fest. (Not that participating in paint peeling is something you want to mark down in your calendar.) I had never felt more uncoordinated years ago when I tried to shoot the arrow at the target. There I stood…feet apart at an archery stance…whatever that may be…bow and arrow in hand. I pulled back on the bow, attempting to keep the arrow steady between my fingers, aimed at the target with one eye closed (which may have been my problem right there), released…and whoosh…it hit the person behind me. Yes...that's right...backfired over my shoulder at the person waiting to go next. I would have made the worst cupid. Archery is a dangerous sport.

And what good is fencing if you can't actually penetrate the person you are dueling? Do they wear armor under their outfits? I don't think I’ve encountered one person who knows the first thing about fencing. Who fences? Do you know anyone? Have you ever seen it offered in any venue or area where you live? Who does that? I wouldn't know one rule to follow if I witnessed a duel. [I'm assuming it's called a duel.] I have no clue what makes a winner in fencing…whoever gets the most slashes? So honestly...who gives a shit? Is the U.S. even in the competition at the Olympics or is it other countries that partake in this weapon toting sport?  

Boxing is a sport that I will never understand...EVER. What pleasure can you possibly get from being punched in the face over and over and over? You know your nose will eventually be broken, and inevitably a concussion is waiting in the wings (or the ring)…a no brainer. Literally. I like to keep my facial features in the same vicinity they started out in when I was born and my brain cells unscrambled…although it may be too late for the latter.

So…aside from the few agonizing, death defying, ho hum, mundane events, I LOVE the Olympics. I love everything about them. Seeing the athleticism that some of these people display is incomprehensible to me. And I was a decent athlete at one point in my life. I was never great at any one sport, but I was above average in most. But when I look at these men and women competing…it’s just mind boggling to think they can achieve some of the feats they attempt.

Yeah…I’m going to walk across a 4 inch piece of wood 4 feet off the ground without falling flat on my face. I can’t even walk across my kitchen floor on flat feet without losing my balance.

And who says to themselves that they are going to jump so high in the air giving them  enough time up there to do a back handspring, into a back somersault, doing a double, double, into a front handspring, into a full twisting double back and so on and so on. Are you f**king kidding me? I can barely do a cartwheel. And I could never do a handstand, so please tell me how those guys can hold up their entire body weight on the rings and the pommel horse. They’re freaks of nature.  

I once tried diving off a high platform board when I was a kid. I take that back. I once attempted to jump off a high platform board when I was a kid. I don’t dive. And I guess I shouldn’t say I ‘attempted’ because I actually did jump. Keep in mind I’m not a swimmer at all. I have a fear of water. I am afraid of heights. So WTF was I doing jumping off a high board, you may ask? I would try almost anything when I was a kid…but do you have any idea how far away the water seems when you are 32+ feet in the air? As I was coming down my legs were flailing about, waiting to feel contact with the water under my feet and all of a sudden…a cramp in the arch of my foot. My whole left foot cramped up and when I hit the water, not only could I not pinch my nose closed, like I always did when I went under, but I choked on the water that I sucked up through my nostrils and couldn’t move because of the cramping. It was a wonderfully educational experience. Educational in the sense that I knew I would never attempt anything so stupid again in my entire life. That one incident gave me a great appreciation of the divers in the Olympics. Not only are they graceful and beautiful to watch…they are brave young men and women.

Aside from all the events I absolutely love to watch and admire, there are some things that baffle me and disturb me. For instance…I think they should have left Ryan Seacrest out of the Olympics. This is the world’s greatest sporting event. They have great sports commentators. Leave the commentating to those men and women who have spent their lives doing what they do best and let Ryan keep making his millions doing the reality shows and gossipy things. NBC didn’t need him and it bugs me that they even thought they needed him for ratings. The Olympics speak for themselves…they didn’t need Seacrest to do the job.

When our athletes are on the podium accepting their medals, why are they wearing grey? Seriously? That makes absolutely no sense. Shouldn’t they be in Red, White or Blue? Grey isn’t bold. Grey says blah and we can’t make a decision. Grey is middle of the road…not black or white. And grey is NOT a color of the U.S.A. So who decided on that for the podium outfit? And we won’t even discuss the opening ceremony outfits. Or the opening ceremony itself. Another snooze-fest.

One thing I absolutely do not understand…how do the athletes not let the cameras that are right in their faces, break their concentration? And when they’re upset after they screw up… and the cameras stay focused on them during their time of despair…how do they keep their composure and not want to just yell “Get the f**k out of my face”? The cameras are everywhere…how does that not impinge on their focus?

I would have loved to have gone to London to watch some of the events. I remember when it was in L.A. in 1984. I was so excited I was going to get to see the Olympics in person. I got to go to the Coliseum to see track and field; my apartment was along the marathon route so I stood outside and cheered the runners; but my all time favorite was getting to go to a gymnastics event at UCLA. I was so excited I could barely contain myself. My friends and I talked about it for months before the day came. We dressed in our red, white and blues, made sure we had our tickets and binoculars, and were betting on which gymnasts we would get to see…Bart Conner or Mary Lou Retton. It took us a while to find parking but we went so early to be sure we didn’t miss a thing, that it didn’t matter. We got to our seats, sat there about 45 minutes or so, and then out came the gymnasts. We couldn’t wait to see which ones were competing that day when all of a sudden…….they raised up these sticks with ribbons. Are you f**king kidding me? We got tickets for the first ever Olympic debut of Rhythmic Gymnastics and not one of us noticed that stamped on our tickets.

                                                 SERIOUSLY?

And the Search Begins

I think I’m over being single. Not that I would want to be married again. No thank you. Not that I mind having the choice to do whatever I want whenever I want.  The only person who has to agree with me is me. And not that I mind never worrying about upsetting someone and getting into an argument. I’m not confrontational so it’s nice not to have to confront; especially when it’s over the most insignificant, ridiculous topics and half the time you are arguing just because you somehow ended up there and can’t find your way out. I don’t mind not being accountable to anyone as to where I am going or what I am doing. Being single can be quite liberating.

With that said…what I do mind…is being frickin’ bored.  Living in the middle of suburbia where the median age is 38 and 95% of the males even close to my age are married, and the other 5% are not married for very obvious reasons, makes for a difficult social life. The few single friends I have live in other states; some on the other coast, but those that live in California, may as well live in other states since they are too far to commute to anyway.

I’m not the type to go exploring by myself, for various reasons. One…I get lost in my own house. Two…it’s more fun with someone else. Three…I get lost. And four…I get lost. I tend to have slight panic attacks when I get lost. Yes…even with my talking GPS. I will go to the movies by myself, as long as I know how to get to the theater. Luckily there are a few close by so at least I can be current on my films. I’m not one to join clubs and organizations by myself. I’m basically pretty shy. I know…hard to believe…but I am. So when I have to go to a function where I don’t know anyone, those panic attacks tend to rear up again.  So where does one go when one is shy and living in some god forsaken-out of the city lights-Stepford wives community?

MATCH.COM baby! Here I come. [Again.] I was on Match about 3 or 4 years ago and unfortunately, so were many of the men I am seeing on there now. There is a small, new crop, but the ripe ones are few and far between. Needless to say, I happened upon many who made me stop and say… “Are you f**king kidding me?” Who would write this shit? And some of the pictures…’YOU think that this is your BEST picture you could post?’ If that’s their best, I can only imagine what they look like in person. And why would someone post as his profile picture, one of himself with his head in a fake shark’s mouth with the stupidest looking expression he could make? That’s the first impression he wants to make?

I would love to put their pictures on here so you could see exactly what I’m talking about…but you never know who knows who and I wouldn’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings. At least not to their face. I would rather just talk about them anonymously and write about them hoping it’s no one who reads this. And if it is…maybe this will be a helpful guide to a good match.com profile.

I love when they post one not-so-great pic of themselves and 8 different shots of their pet. Wow…that’s one good looking dog…I think I’ll send him a ‘Wink’. I sure hope he brings his owner with him on our date.

Then there are those who post landscapes. Why? I don’t need to see where you’ve been on vacation and where I probably won’t go if we start dating since you’ve already been there. How is that going to impress me?  Now…10 pictures of your cars and motorcycles? THAT impresses me. I need to know just what options I will have for transportation once we start dating. And if there’s a bike amongst them that I don’t like…well…that’s a deal breaker. I mean…a Honda, not a Harley? Forget you. And there better be tattoos to go along with that bike.

One of my favorites is always the one who poses with his shirt off in the majority of his pictures. A little impressed with yourself, are ya? Well...that is the one thing that does NOT impress me. I will move right along because most likely they look in the mirror way too much for my liking. I don’t care how great a body you have…keep it dressed for the Match site, wouldya? There is a guy I know at my gym who has gained quite a bit of weight but his profile pic is from when he was buff. I would hate to be the date who finds out exactly what he now looks like. Keep the pics current. I wouldn’t want some guy to think he was meeting me the way I looked ten years ago. I may not have gained any weight, but I sure had gravity make its mark. I think the look of disappointment would be worse than him passing me by on the website. I don’t get why guys do that. We are going to notice that there’s a 60 pound surplus once we see you in person guys!  

There was a man who was posing in a Speedo. A 60 something guy, and he wasn’t European. Granted, for his age…he looked good. But who would go out with someone who wears a Speedo if he isn’t swimming for an Olympic Gold Medal.  

Another turn off for me is when I see guys my age who are ‘seeking’ women 25-40. Twenty-five? Are you f**king kidding me? What could you possibly have in common with a 25 year old besides the fact that she may be friends with your daughter? What will you talk about…what she has planned now that she graduated college? And do you think she will be into your sagging you know what, or do you think it may be your inflated bank account? I don’t know…what do you think? I’m sure it will be the hanging skin that turns her on.

One guy wrote in his profile ‘You must have great legs and wear short dresses. That is a requirement.’ WHAT? Do you think he may be a little shallow and a tad hypercritical if your body isn’t perfect? And if someone in her 50’s is wearing a mini-skirt…I don’t care how great her body is…she should have a ‘Glamour NO’ tattooed on her back. There are just some things certain people shouldn’t do. But hey…there is someone for everyone. It’s what makes us all individuals…good taste or not. And what woman would actually read that and say…”That guy is for me”?

I got an email from a not-so-great-looking guy yesterday. The subject line said “Would love to start a conversation with you.” I thought…good opening line. Then I saw his picture. That blew it for me because he was just not my type. The Larry Fine hairdo (of Moe, Larry, and Curly fame) and Andy Rooney eyebrows just didn’t cut it for me. But if that wasn’t enough on its own (not to sound shallow myself, but there does have to be some chemistry)…the body of the email said, “You MUST call me. I don’t do email” and he gave me his number. Really? I MUST call you? Oh, sure I will, Master. You just sit by that phone and wait for my call. I’ll be right on that.  

I don’t mind when they say that if you do or don’t believe in something, or want something they don’t have, move on to the next person. When you say it in a nice way…it’s letting someone know not to waste either person’s time. I happen to appreciate that. What I don’t appreciate is when it’s someone that I would love to meet, but there’s that one stipulation that prohibits it. Ya know…like being a good Catholic girl. Well…I can’t fake that. Or being 5’9” or taller. Can’t fake that either.  Or having no children. Nope…can't fake that. Or being sexual. Now THAT I can fake.