How Many Sisters Does It Take To........

How do you make your birthday special and memorable? Make it a family event. Never a dull moment. At least not with my sisters. They were generous enough to take me away for one of my major milestones. We hadn't been away together since our 20's, so believe me; it was a long, overdue trip. The last time we were away together we went on a Club Med vacation at a time when we all were pretty wild. It was the era of drugs, sex and rock and roll, and we took full advantage of that. It was before we knew as much as we do now about STD's. Need I say more? This time was just a tad different though, but the fun factor was still there. It usually is when we're all together.

Let me just give you a quick glimpse into who we are. Both of my sisters are extremely successful business owners, and I have a successful career in advertising. But we are each on different levels of the economic ladder...and let's just say...I'm on the bottom rung of theirs. They need to extend their arms WAY down to reach me. But the positive side of that is I'm afraid of heights, so it’s a good thing I'm not up at the top near where they are. [Yeah...sure it is.] They are quite used to a lifestyle I will most likely never know as normal in my lifetime. [Although…at what age are you too old for a sugar daddy? Maybe there’s time!] When it comes to blue collar/middle class anything...it's a foreign language to them, whereas I'm just your average white collar, middle class person who can afford the necessities in life, with enough to enjoy the journey, but in a whole other stratosphere than they are. I've also lived in middle class, blue collar areas over the course of my adult life. They have not. I'm comfortable there as well as being comfortable in an upper middle class area. They would not be. It would be like living in a third world country to them where no English was spoken. See where I'm going with this?

They had asked me where I wanted to go for my birthday. 'Anywhere in the world...just pick a place.' How many times are you offered an incredible opportunity like that? So let’s see…Italy? France? Greece? Nope…San Diego. A place I have been to way too many times to even count and I lived there for a year. Why did I choose that, you ask? Because of my dog. My dog is on a restricted diet, takes quite a few meds and needs to be monitored, and I just couldn't leave her or entrust anyone with her. So I needed to go to a place that took dogs and was close enough where I wouldn't need to hop on a plane. The resort in San Diego allowed dogs and my sisters both have been there and liked the place, so off we went. (Am I crazy or just the best dog mom in the world? I'd like to think the latter.)

The first day we arrived, we checked in, had a late lunch, and went for massages. I've written about my massage experiences before so I won't get into details, but it was great. I could hardly move after...so I measured that as successful. The worse you feel, the better the masseuse. We showered and decided we would skip dinner and go to the movies.

Going to the movies with my one sister is an experience unto itself. Having gone with her quite often, I knew better than to sit next to her, so I let my other sister have the pleasure of sitting in the middle. When you do sit next to her she constantly whispers in your ear asking questions as if you’re not seeing the movie for the first time also. I wish I was as smart and intuitive as she thinks I am while watching a film I've never seen. Half the time I have no clue what's going on and wing it, hoping it will come together at the end. What I don’t do is constantly bug the shit out of the person next to me, so that they can’t enjoy the film because they are missing out on most of the dialogue because someone’s voice and breath are permeating their ear canal.

The closest theater we found was a Cinepolis...which none of us had ever been to and didn't know it was a different kind of theater. But when the admission ticket alone is $20, it had better be more than just a regular theater. If you've never been to one, you have to try it at least once. It's definitely the way to go if you can afford it. It's like watching in your living room, sitting in a luxurious Barcalounger [is that an oxymoron?] and being waited on. Except, of course, your dollar output is quite extraordinary. You have your own personal waiter and can order from a full menu and bar. The sequence of seats is two together, then an end table and another two seats, etc. My sisters sat together and I sat on the other side of the end table; which I came to find out made no difference. The movie started and I could hardly hear the dialogue on screen because of the outbursts coming from the peanut gallery next to me. My sister has to be the most animated viewer and the greatest audience member ever. Her reactions are as if the scene on screen is happening in real life and real time and she is witnessing a murder from across the street. Her gasps, her exclamations, her "OH NOOOOO's" are like listening to a child who doesn't know reality from make believe. She is truly a great audience. But for those of us sitting next to her? All I can say is my brother-in-law must be a saint. [But she is a crack up.]

The following evening was a whole new experience. Not for me as much as for my sisters. I think the reactions from them were the highlight of my trip. One of my sisters was driving and the other was navigating by WAZE. My driving sister has a great sense of direction. My navigating sister is exactly like I am...we can't find our way out of a bathroom without directions, so she won't deviate from WAZE's directions, nor would I. The driving sister had looked up the directions to the restaurant before we left and knew how to go by her internal compass and by memorizing them. That, in itself, is a feat I can no longer accomplish. My navigating sister wanted to follow WAZE. It was two against one so my sister relented and went with WAZE directions. We were searching for a recommended 5-star restaurant on the beach. I can't tell you how many U-turns we made trying to get to the street WAZE told us we were looking for. Once on it...it led us down a narrow road towards the beach. We knew we were headed in the right direction because we were parallel to the ocean, only a few feet away, although the fact that it was more a dirt path than road was a little suspicious. Then, when we started seeing old RV's and campsites on either side of us, we were thinking that may not be exactly where we wanted to be. But WAZE insisted we were on the right path. 

Long-haired, toothless, tatted up guys; a beer in each hand or hands down their pants, were walking along the side of the road. My sisters were dying and I was cracking up. It was a picture out of Deliverance. They didn't know what to make of it and the further down the road we got, the better the sights and quite entertaining [for me.] It should have been titled, 'WalMart shoppers go camping.'

People were sitting around picnic tables, barbequing, laughing and having a good ol' time. Lights strung up at their campsites created a lovely ambience for dining under the stars at their aluminum picnic tables. Tatted up women who were wearing halters and shorts that should have never been squeezed into; their butt cracks showing and back boobs hanging over the halter; were walking around with babies attached to their hips. I think it's something my sisters have only seen in movies. I'm not sure they've ever seen an RV up close either...only on TV. One of my sisters said, “Let’s ask them if they know where it is.” OMG...seriously?? I was like, “You’re kidding, right? We are looking for a 5-star restaurant. What are the odds?” At the end of the road, no restaurant in sight. The WAZE woman then announced, "You have arrived at your destination." I was looking for the RV where Billy Bob and Mary Sue were standing outside with the welcome sign and a can of Spam. We U-turned again, stopped to call for directions, and eventually got there. Fortunately, dinner was worth the detour.

My birthday arrived the next day and I was doing something to make it as special and as memorable as possible. And again, we ended up on a road to nowhere. [I'm starting to question the validity of WAZE.] This time we were on a road comprised of junkyards containing smooshed up, compacted cars and automobile parts. You would think my sister had lived in an opaque bubble the last 30 years by her reaction to the automobile cemeteries. She was in awe. I swear…it’s like taking a little kid to the circus for the very first time. She was in shock that these places existed. I thought she was going to get out and see if she could purchase a large pile to use as art on her front lawn.

Again, after numerous U-turns, we called the place and got directions that actually took us to our destination. And there it was...heaven's gate. I dug out the email with the code they gave me to punch in to open the gate, and I did, and shockingly enough, it didn't open. Duh. You would think with 3 relatively intelligent women attempting to figure out how to open a gate, it wouldn't have taken us 15 minutes, but it did. My sister, who was reading the numbers to me, didn't realize that the pound sign was part of the code. In fact, she didn't know what a pound sign was. She just thought the number sign was telling you that they were numbers to punch in. [Because we wouldn't know that 1-2-3 were numbers without the # sign before them.] We're like the female version of Moe, Larry and Curly. Or Abbott and Costello plus one. Lucy and Ethyl with Mrs. McGillicuddy? Whoever we were...we couldn't get anything done on the first attempt. The majority of our vacation was spent figuring things out. Maybe we're not as smart as we thought we were.

I was so excited to be there I didn't care. We were there...and there was the plane. It was teenier than the one I jumped out of 40 years ago, but it would do the trick. My heart was pounding with anticipation and excitement all the while my sisters were trying to talk me out of it. After I signed all the waivers and disclaimers, (because you love thinking about that right before jumping out of a plane), I met my skydiving partner, Luke, who was a big, muscular hunk and then I knew I was in good hands. I was so glad I was going tandem and didn't need to think about anything but enjoying the jump. All I had to do was make sure HE knew the directions and could reach our target destination. And Luke knew the way. He was my hero for the day. He did give me the roller coaster version of parachuting, but I loved every minute of it. Especially when he got the directions right the first time out. [Whew!]

Could you imagine if my sisters and I were jumping together? We’d probably be somewhere in North Dakota dangling from some rock formation, still trying to get directions.

What Did You Call Me?

I have never been one who calls people by a nickname. I rarely even shorten someone’s name unless I am introduced to them using that name.  If your name is Michael, I will call you Michael. I won’t call you Mike, or Mikey, or any other form used, unless you go by that name full time. For instance, my first husband is Lawrence, but he goes by Larry, and that’s how I met him and it’s the only name I ever called him. The only time I used Lawrence was when I filed my divorce papers.

But that’s not what bugs me. What bugs me are all the terms of endearment that people use for their spouses, family and friends. It’s just not sincere. It wouldn’t bother me if they only used them for that one particular person…but they don’t. They will call others they hardly know by the same nickname.  So you’re going to call me ‘sweetheart’ but then call the waitress at Jerry’s Deli ‘sweetheart’, too? I don’t think so. And please don’t call me by a name you used to call your ex-wife or girlfriend. That would really make me feel so very special. Seriously?

It’s the same thing with people telling people ‘I love you’ way too easily now, to people they really don’t love. The kids say it to all their friends, and some they aren’t close to. It’s way overused and loses its meaning for the people you really do love. I remember my daughter asking me to tell one of her friends that I love her. I said, “But I don’t” and she said, “Say it anyway…everyone does.” I wouldn’t do it. Saying I love you is reserved for those who I really do love. That’s not a compromise I will ever make and I don’t understand why others do.

I remember when I met my first husband and he started calling me ‘honey’. It was so odd to me because no one in my family had ever used terms of endearment. My parents only used their respective given names when they spoke to each other and our given names when they spoke to us kids. Both my sisters’ names were one syllable, so you couldn’t even shorten theirs. Actually, in our family, syllables were added, instead of shortened. I think it was a Yiddish/Jewish thing my grandparents did. I was Jaimala, my sister Beth was Betāmela and my sister Pam was Pamela; although Pamela was actually her real name. But being young and naïve, or just plain stupid, and only knowing her as Pam, I didn’t realize her given name had an –ela at the end. She ‘changed’ it to her real full name about 15 years ago...from Pam to Pamela. I still call her Pam. After 40+ years it’s kinda hard to start calling someone by a whole new name. Well...new to me, and not gonna happen.

But back to the endearing terms…and my husband calling me ‘honey’. It took me quite a while to get used to that. And I just couldn’t find a word I wanted to call him. Well…at least not while I was in love. I would practice saying words in front of the mirror. “Hi honey.” “Hi sweetheart.” “Hi sweetie.” Nothing felt like it would just flow out of my mouth naturally. It just wasn’t for me. I felt so ridiculous saying words like that. I guess it’s all how you are raised? I’m not sure, but since I never heard it in my house growing up, it wasn’t ‘normal’ for it to pour out. I just wasn’t feeling it. I did get used to him calling me ‘honey’ and he never called anyone else ‘honey’ besides me, so it was ok.  But I don’t remember ever having a nickname for him. I believe it just remained ‘Larry’.  At least out loud.

My second husband had 80 gazillion names for me.  And every single one of those…he used for others, too. It bugged the shit out of me. You may not call me ‘honey’ if you’re going to call Mildred, the 70 year old dry cleaner lady, ‘honey’, too. You may not call me ‘dear’.  We are not in our 80’s yet. Do not call me ‘darling’. I’m not Doris Day and you’re definitely not James Garner and we are not living in 1963.  And one of my most despised names of all…’Babe’. Do not ever call me ‘babe’. You’re not a construction worker whistling at me as I walk by…”Yo, Babe.” I am not a pig from a movie, nor am I some 20 something starring in a big screen feature film or a baseball player from the roaring 20's. Everyone uses ‘babe’ and it means nothing when everyone is using it. And I find it kind of demeaning for some reason. I want to feel special when someone calls me by a name other then my given name. It should mean something. I don’t want to be mixed in with everyone else you’re calling by that name. You may as well just call me Shirley. (“And don’t call me Shirley”).   

I did start calling him ‘honey’ for some reason, and I kept saying it until it felt normal. Or as normal as it was going to feel for me, which still was more abnormal than normal; never natural. I do remember the term ‘shithead’ being used quite a bit. That felt natural. Would you consider that a term of endearment? Probably not, huh? Over the years there were a few other names, but nothing I would post here. But they did flow out just fine at the time.

I had a boyfriend for a while, who I called ‘Weenie’. Don’t ask me why, but that felt natural. He didn’t take to it too easily at first, but when I pointed out that it actually was MY term of endearment for him only, he grew accustomed to it. It had nothing to do with his little pecker…if that’s what you’re wondering. It had nothing to do with him being a pansy. It just felt right and it was indigenous to him only. How special would that make a person feel? Weenie...so cute. 

There are only two people I have nicknames for…my daughters. And it’s the same for both and I never call anyone else by those names…’Sweetie’ or ‘Sweetie-pie’. I don’t know why those feel right but they do. Maybe because most of the time they are sweeties and my love is so deep. Although there are times I’d like to call them by other names…not so endearing…but I refrain because I’m supposed to set a good example. Aren’t I and do I have to? My girls know there are a couple of names I will not answer to. I will not answer to Mama. We are not in Little House on the Prairie nor are we in Tara. Actually, I think Mama is the only one I don’t like. I still love being called ‘Mommy’ no matter how old they get. It will always make me feel warm and fuzzy and that’s exactly what terms of endearment should do.

People have quite a few names for me that are variations of my given name. So that’s ok and kind of sweet. I will answer to Hymie (phonetically spelled for those of you who don’t speak Spanish and who obviously don’t live in L.A. then), Jai, Jaimala, Jame…and most forms thereof. I will also answer to ‘Love of my life’, ‘Woman of my dreams’, ’20 Million Dollar Winner of Publishers Clearing House Sweepstakes’.  Or…Jaime, Jaime bo bamey, banana fanna fo famie, fee fy mo mamie…Jaime. 

And that’s the name of the game……Babe.

Sister Act

I am so fortunate to have someone in my life who truly and deeply cares about me. No stipulations, all give, no take, no expectations. Just true, deep down, honest love. She has been my confidante, my sounding board, my mentor, my role model. She's been my best friend for as long as I can remember. We've had our 3 minute fights and then they were over. In fact, she used to be downright mean to me when we were kids and would give me Indian burns and rat me out to my parents. But I still worshipped her.

I would annoy the shit out of her as much as possible, so she turned me into her own personal slave. She would make me do the most ridiculous tasks, like call me into her room just to get her a pencil from her desk that was 3 feet away from her, while she sat there and waited for me to give it to her. She would make me test her on her school work every night, which I absolutely hated doing (and which is why she turned out to be the brains in the family). But for some reason, whatever she told me to do, I did...without questioning.

All I wanted to do was hang out with her and her cheerleader friends, and sometimes she would let me. I hated that I got her hand-me-down clothes even though I always wanted to wear them before they became hand-me-downs. I always had crushes on her boyfriends, just because they were her boyfriends. I thought she was the coolest, smartest person ever.

We've had some great times together in our adult years. We've taken a couple of trips to Mexico, which were pretty hilarious. (Club Med...Need I say more?). We got lost in Acapulco, walking around for about an hour, looking for a restaurant. When we finally decided to hop into a cab to take us there, the cab driver picked us up and drove a half block to the restaurant, not telling us it was 10 feet in front of us. And charged us!

She's been there for every major event in my life and my daughter's lives. And she's been there for me during every devastating event, too. I've hit some real bumps in the road throughout the course of my life and made some very stupid decisions and mistakes, but she never judged or preached, just supported...letting me know how true love is supposed to be. She's my big sister and my best friend. She's the one person whose sincerity, honesty, strength, loyalty and love I will never doubt. She's the most selfless, giving human being I know.

I love you Beth...I couldn't ask for anything more than what you've given me. You've been my rock.

This video has nothing to do with this blog...but I wanted to share:

Boo

I never understood what fear was as a kid. We were invincible until we hit our late 20’s, early 30’s…or until we had our own kids. Right? Then fear was all encompassing. I cannot believe what a fraidy-cat I became once my kids were born, and how annoyingly overprotective I could be.

As a child, I was willing to do anything and try everything. Nothing seemed to faze me because I didn’t know any better. But with experience, we know what’s ahead of us and what the possibilities are. Ignorance IS bliss.

In grammar school, I would always want to be the lead in our school plays. I had no problem getting up in front of an audience and acting out a role. I couldn’t wait to be in the limelight. (I don’t know how I was able to memorize lines back then. Nowadays, I have to look up someone’s 7 digit phone number 8 times before I can finally finish dialing it.)

I didn’t mind giving oral reports in high school. Piece of cake. But for some reason, once I hit my college years, fear set in and froze me from deep within. Getting up in front of a class of my peers tormented me for days prior to the big speech. I kept writing it and rewriting it hoping it wouldn’t sound stupid and hoping no one would ask any questions. It was like those dreams where we are standing naked on stage for all the world to see. And although my body may not have been naked, my soul was. And I didn’t like it one bit. Communications was probably not the best major for a person who feared public speaking. [Ya think?] I would try to speak on subjects I knew first hand thinking it would give me more confidence.  I would stand at the podium and do all I could to not have my legs give out from under me and keel over.  I tried to keep the thought of projectile vomiting out of my mind. But my voice would crack and I would shake so badly, that one time my grip on the podium was so tight, it started tipping over, and the guy sitting directly in front of me jumped out of his seat to push it back upright. Thank god for him or I would have face planted in his lap. I’m sure he was also saving himself from a little nut crushing. Talk about humiliation. Fortunately, I was concurrently showing a short film to complement that speech, distracting them from what just happened to me. On the positive side…I didn’t pee in my pants. And to my surprise…I aced the assignment.

I have turned down certain jobs just so I wouldn’t have to do presentations. I remember sitting in the conference room at my office one day, and I had recently accepted a management position. Each week we would have phone meetings with our clients. I said to my supervisor, “If you make me speak in this meeting, I will quit. I swear”. Luckily she knew me and liked me (and didn’t fire me), and all she did was have me introduce myself. That, alone, made me break out in huge red blotches all over my chest to match the colorful flush of my bright red face. And it was only a phone meeting. Could you imagine if it was in person? I’d most likely be passed out cold, sprawled out on the conference room table. I decided I wasn't cut out for management.

People have suggested taking a public speaking course. Seriously? Do you NOT have to get up in front of people to learn to publicly speak? What about fear of speaking in public do they not get? So why would I want to take a public speaking course if you have to speak in public to learn to speak in public? Geez….

I am claustrophobic. Claustrophobia is horrible. It pops up in places you wouldn’t think it could. For instance…during various sexual positions. [On the bottom, for example.] That tends to ruin the mood…don’t you think? Trust me…it does. Obviously, elevators are a huge problem. I’ve only been stuck in one once…but it was the most crowded elevator I had ever been in. It was at my daughter’s college on moving-in day and I have to believe every student attending her school was packed into that particular elevator. I’m sure the weight limit was far exceeded, as was my composure. I looked over at my daughter, [as if there was anything she could possibly do], and said, “If you don’t get me out of here, I will pull every piece of hair out of your head, in chunks. If you don’t get me out of here I will cut you off from every single dollar I was ever going to give you. [Like that was a big threat with all my millions]. If you don't get me out of here, I will....” She looked at me and said so serenely and quietly and so melodically…[that I wanted to shove my fist down her throat…] “Mom, calm down. Everything will be fine. Nothing is going to happen. MOM….BREATHE” as I was starting to lose consciousness.  When I came to, I was sitting on the floor leaning against the wall in her room. I lived! I was no longer a sardine. I made it out. I have no clue how but I did. Needless to say, I get many a great workout climbing stairs now. I only need resuscitation from too much aerobic exercise, instead of from hyperventilation.

I never understood how people are able to walk into a room full of strangers and immediately assimilate. I walk in, pivot around, and walk right back out, not knowing what to do with myself. I was never able to just go up to a group, or even just one person that I didn’t know and say, “Hi, I’m Jaime”, (in one of those annoyingly perky little voices,) for fear that they would look at me with a “who the f**k cares” attitude. And then what? Then what do you say? I have no problem talking to a person in line at the market…you can always talk about the food you’re buying and what you’re pigging out on or complain how slow the line is moving…but at a gathering, where there may not be a commonality, how do you begin a conversation? “So…what’s your sign?”, “You come here often?” “You want to get in my pants as much as I want to get in yours?” So I basically either hang out hugging the wall or avoid those situations altogether.

Heights make my stomach churn. If I have some protective wall or railing I’m usually ok, but there are times I look down over the banister in my house and get nauseated, worrying I’m going to fall over. I walk down the middle of the hallway just so one of my hallucinatory ghosts doesn’t push me over the side.

There was a time I couldn’t wait to learn to ride horses. I thought since I would have reins and a saddle to hold on to, I should be ok with the whole height thing. Who was I kidding? But I decided I was going to take riding lessons because I always loved horses and riding seemed so beautiful and liberating. A couple of friends and I went to Pepperdine University, where they were giving lessons, and where the terrain was spectacular. I asked for the smallest horse so they gave me one slightly larger than a pony. Probably smaller than a merry-go-round horse. But whoa…that was still quite a ways off the ground with no pole to hold on to. My first conquest…I got on the horse. Yay! That was a huge accomplishment. Then…I got off the horse. Then I told myself ‘suck it up and it will be fine…get back on the horse, you big wuss.’  [great pep talk] So I did. The instructor (who was a retired army drill sergeant) told us to give the horse a kick to get it going. Well…not on your life bub. I ain’t kicking no animal. So I sat in the saddle and rocked my body back and forth hoping the horse would understand what I was telling her to do. As she sat there, not budging an inch, the instructor kept yelling at me to give her a kick. “NO, I won’t kick her.” He then marched over on his horse and hit me on the head with his crop. “Now kick the god damned horse.” Just short of shitting in my pants, I gave her a little, teeny nudge and off we went. He must have been one helluva drill sergeant .

I was quite pleased with myself that I was actually on a horse, riding. Well…I wouldn’t exactly call it riding. We couldn’t have gone any slower unless we were at a complete standstill, but that was good enough for me. We were walking on the trails and they kept getting narrower and narrower and my heart kept beating faster and faster. You have got to be kidding me. These were beginner trails? Ants couldn’t stay on these trails they were so narrow, and they wanted our horses to? It wasn’t long before my heart sank down to the pit of my stomach on its way out my ass. My horse’s back leg kept slipping off the trail and I was losing my balance. I proceeded into panic mode, but I gave it a couple of more feet before jumping off and running for my life. I was outta there. But before I left the grounds, I grabbed the crop out of Satan’s hand and broke it in half over my knee. I’ll teach you Mr. Svengali, drill sergeant, horse kicker guy.

After that experience…I decided to play it safe in the horse arena.

I won’t go into the other phobias I have or I may as well just make this into a book. But to sum it all up, here’s my list. I was amazed at all the classifications of fears:

Glossophobia speaking in public

Topophobia stage fright

Acrophobia  heights

Hydrophobia  water

Claustrophobia  confined spaces

And we all know I have this…I believe I’ve mentioned it just a few times…

Mageirocophobia  FEAR OF COOKING (LOVE this one!)

Good thing I don’t have this:

Logophobia  fear of words (or you probably wouldn't be reading this right now)

But this is my favorite…even though I’m not afflicted:

Hippopotomonstrosesquipedaliophobia  fear of long words…I’m still trying to pronounce it.

Up Close and Personal and Sometimes Kinda Gross

I have this habit, as I've had most of my life, of examining every single part of my body, from the very top of my head to the very tips of my toes. My sisters and I used to drive my mom crazy when we were little because after examining ourselves, we would examine each other. She used to tell us we were like monkeys. I guess monkeys are always picking at each other. Unless, of course, she meant we looked like monkeys. And if that's the case, then geez...thanks mom.

 

I’m not quite sure what the fascination is, but there definitely is this strange attraction to certain occurrences that happen to the body. Take peeling sun burns, for example. How fun is it to peel off the dead skin from someone's sun burnt body? I mean, it's f**king gross if you really think about what you're doing, yet...I have never met anyone that didn't get a certain thrill from seeing just how long of a piece you could peel at one time. I've had contests with friends over this. I think the only thing that makes you realize how disgusting it is, is when you release that last little piece from connecting to the skin and don't know what to do with it. So you roll it in a ball between your thumb and index finger, let your arm drop down to your side, and let it slide out of your hand hoping no one saw you do that. Til you leave the area and there's all these little skin wads rolled up in a small pile on the floor.

And who doesn't love popping pimples? Ok, probably most people don't. But just saying "popping pimples" is fun. I had this friend, or maybe it was my sister, who used to love popping people's pimples. Ohhh...that's even more fun to say..."popping people's pimples". Try saying that 5 times fast. Makes a fun sensation on your lips. But there I go digressing again...anyway...whoever it was used to get such a kick out of the squirt following the pop. And the further the squirt, especially onto the mirror...the bigger the gratification. Ew...now I'm even grossed out.

I was never a nail biter, but cuticles are a whole other story. Have you ever tried to bite cuticles without pulling huge chunks of skin from your fingers? And pull them off so delicately that the skin is still smooth, not needing to trim them with a cuticle scissors? Sometimes I would catch myself gnawing away, realizing people are looking at me like I'm a bunny rabbit nibbling on a carrot. But I have to admit, I love seeing that one little, itty, bitty piece of skin that needs that one teeny nibble to come off.

On one occasion, when my daughter was young, I was staring at her like I always did, and still do, because I continue to be so amazed, even to this day, that I produced this child. But anyway, I noticed a spot of dirt on her chin. She was young enough where she would still allow me to wipe stuff off her face, so I took a tissue to wipe it away. It wouldn't come off, so I licked my thumb, and like every child loves their mother to do, tried wiping it away with my spit. It still wasn't coming off. I kept rubbing and rubbing, thinking maybe she got ink on her face. Finally, she was like "Mom, will you stop already." She went to look in the mirror and when she came back, she said "Mom...it's a freckle."  "It's a frickin' freckle?" I said. Of course I had to rub it a few more times to be sure. And to this day, I still kid her about her 'frickin' freckle' just because that's another alliteration I absolutely love saying. Try it...Frickin' freckle. It's fun. Ok...maybe I need a life!

Another fun activity is trying to remove an ingrown hair. Not mentioning where this hair might be located on the body, have you ever tried squeezing an ingrown hair til it pops out? Oh my god...so much fun. And the real prize is when it finally does pop out...it  could be like an inch long. And you're thinking...ew...how did that happen? Nothing is supposed to be that long on THAT part of my body. I always worry what will happen to me when I'm old and can't take care of my personal hygiene on my own. I remember my grandmother, [may she rest in peace], was in the hospital, and she said to me, "No matter what happens, make sure I have no stray chin hairs."  That left an indelible mark in my memory bank. 

           [This is not my Nana…just in case you were thinking it was from my family album]

Eyebrow tweezing is an art in itself. I could spend hours on my eyebrows. If you pluck just one eyebrow hair out from the wrong place, it can reshape the entire brow. Just one hair has that much power. Then you have to rethink exactly what shape you may want your eyebrows to take on. If you pluck out that one hair from the arch, it could make a huge difference in your facial expression. You could have a look of surprise because the arch is now too high. There are various facial expressions you could take on with just the shaping of the brows. They have an incredible command of the face; those brows.

On to the really gross stuff. Nose blowing. How great does it feel when you are all stuffed up and want so badly to release all that gunk out of your nostrils...and then comes the blow of all blows. That one blow that jet propels all the mucous that was stuck onto the walls of your nose holes, into the tissue. Like a cannon ball...boom...there it is in huge chunks and you can finally breathe. Great feeling, huh? C'mon...admit it. As disgusting as it sounds, now that you think about it, seeing what's in that tissue...kind of orgasmic, no? 

Have you ever cut your toenails so short there is no room for the nail polish? So you have to paint the end of your toe to simulate the nail? This is a monthly routine I have to say, I absolutely hate. Cutting toe nails. I had a friend who got so upset with me while we were on vacation because I was cutting my toe nails in front of her. She didn't talk to me the rest of the day. I had to shut myself up in a hot, hotel room bathroom just to clip my nails. She has toes. She has toe nails. Does she shut her eyes when she's doing her own and wear ear plugs? She couldn't stand the sound of the clippers. I checked her toes to see if her nails were 8 inches long because I found it hard to believe she would let anyone give her a pedicure. She probably kicked the nail technician in the face every time she would hear the sound of the clippers. What's wrong with toes and feet? I know quite a few people who have a foot aversion. I, personally, happen to have adorable feet.

So there you have it…from head to toe. There are so many other places on my body that are picked on and picked at, but I don’t want to bore you with more details than necessary. Nor do I want to open myself up to more ridicule than I have already. People say to me they don’t understand how I can be so open about myself and events in my life, both in my relationships and in my blog. I find it liberating and exhilarating. What’s the point of being alive if you have no one to share yourself with. I’m an open book with nothing to hide. You either like me for who I am or you don’t. Being private is like living a jail sentence in solitary confinement. You’re stuck with your own thoughts, all stuffed inside, waiting to burst out…and in my case…I’d rather have diarrhea than constipation.

***please note...none of the pictures contained in this blog are family members***

Who You Callin' Trouble?

Over the years I have prided myself on being the poster child for the perfect daughter. Then I thought back to all the shenanigans I had pulled growing up and into my early adult years and realized I had been anything but. My parents didn't really know a lot of the stuff I did, so to this day, I still WAS the perfect child in their eyes. (Not as an adult...just as a kid). I never did anything illegal or dangerous...just enough to get me into trouble with those of authority. Because I was boy crazy as a young girl, my romantic antics were always getting me into hot water. And having the freedom from parents every summer…sometimes that hot water boiled over.

Summer camp...how I loved going to summer camp. Well...from 8 years old and on I loved it, but my parents decided at 6, I was old enough to attend the most religious Jewish camp there was on the entire earth. I don't think Israel had anything that intense. Now…please note...I had never once been to Temple, did not know one thing about our religion, yet for 8 weeks, 8 very long weeks, at 6 years old, during what should have been the most fun time of year for any child, we had to attend services, or some semblance of a service, every single morning and evening. Are you kidding me? And what was that language they were speaking during those services? I knew it was definitely not anything I had ever heard before. The guttural sounds that came from their throats sounded like they were gonna project loogies out onto our heads. I later found out that was Hebrew. And to this day, I still do not understand one word of it. Ok…maybe one word…Shalom. Oh yeah…and Mazel Tov. Oh…and L’chaim. (One of those loogie words I was referring to). But that’s about it.

Being so young, I was homesick every single minute of every hour of every day. My sister went to the same camp, but the camp was so enormous, I rarely got to see her, except when it was time for services. And even then, they wouldn't allow us to see each other. I would spot her from a distance and run up to her crying, just for a hug. Then I got into trouble. Just for hugging my sister. So I would sneak out in search of her... and that was my start to a life of crime and corruption.

I stayed home the following summer. My whining and tirades were enough to convince my parents that a summer at the beach would be much more peaceful than daily phone calls from Jewish central complaining about their kid undermining camp rules. But the summer after that...off to another camp, which I went to for the next 5 summers, and those were the greatest. That’s not to say I didn't get into trouble...of course I did. I discovered boys. And there were lots of them. And they all needed my attention. Jock during the day, stealth boy hunter at night. Well, maybe not so stealth. I had a secret mission almost every night, and that was to find the boy's cabin holding hostage my boy du jour. Of course I never actually made it all the way to the boy's end of the camp. Those prison lights they had spotlighting me as I was sneaking my way across, made me fall to the ground and confess all my sins. And each time I got caught, I had to run circles around the tennis courts, sometimes in the rain, for hours on end. Just walking and running and walking and running, sometimes soaking wet. That stopped my antics…for maybe a minute.

My boy crazed phase didn’t diminish any by the time I went on my teen tour across the country at 14. But the price I had to pay was a little harsher. And more often. There were 100 kids: 50 boys, 50 girls, and 20 counselors. 100 teenage kids with screaming, raging hormones. We toured the U.S. in vans towing Apache tent trailers. 10 kids to a trailer. That summer I discovered the wild side that had been dormant within for my first 13 years of life. Although I am usually the one to follow all the rules, [because I’m such a chicken-shit], that summer showcased the womanly beast within. (As womanly as you can get at 14). My best friend and I were always looking for ways each night to get away from our girls’ group and go visit the boys. We would make it just so far, for just so long, and then bam! They always found us. I guess after a few times, a pattern is formed; conditioning, so to speak. It wasn’t real hard for the counselors to figure out where we would be. They just had to figure out which trailer we’d be in. And to our dismay…they always did.

The retribution for our first offense wasn’t too extreme. They figured if we were okay sneaking out of our trailer at night to visit the boys in their trailers, then we would be ok sleeping outside of the trailer, too. They did allow us to use our sleeping bags, but we had to sleep on the rocky pavement with no cushions underneath or any protection overhead. Needless to say, they were very restless nights. And since we were so restless, we made sure everyone could hear just how restless we were, therefore making it a little more fun for us.

Because sleeping on rocks certainly was not going to deter us from doing it again, when the next time came to slipping out ‘ever so quietly’, we found out that we were not ‘ever so quiet’. When they caught us, they came up with the notion that keeping us from going to a Dodger game in L.A., would cause us to cease and desist the next time we had the urge. Yeah…I don’t think so. So, of course, we went again a few nights later. We thought we had gotten away with it the third time…but noooo. Not even close. It still baffles me why the boys never got into trouble. I mean, I know we were the ones who snuck out to go to them, but they never told us to go away because they didn’t want to get into trouble themselves. They sat and talked with us and hung out just as much as we did. But we paid the price. And that third time was a doozy. We had to miss going to Disneyland. Not only did they keep us from the happiest place on earth, but we had to do the laundry of every single person in the entire camp while they were off to see Tinkerbell. Eight hours of laundry. Eight hours straight of laundry! In a creepy, sleazy laundromat in L.A. Did I mention it was eight hours of washing and drying and folding everybody’s disgustingly dirty laundry? We were going crazy sitting there between loads imagining everyone else screaming as they went down the spirals of the Matterhorn, shaking hands with Mickey and Goofy, and singing ‘It’s a Small World’ 80 gazillion times because they couldn’t get the song out of their heads. We really did pay the price that time. Eight frickin’ hours worth!

After that, we decided we didn’t want to miss out on any other great adventures, so we followed all (most) of the rules and got to go on every excursion for the rest of the summer. Unfortunately, we had chosen to get grounded in the most fun state we visited…but I still got to have my first make-out session with a boy. We snuck out behind the trees in Yosemite National Park, so therefore, California wasn’t a complete bust.

And I proceeded to make out in every state we drove through on our way back east. What a learning experience my summer of 14 turned out to be. In so many ways.

My capers continued throughout the rest of my teenage years well into my 20’s…and 30’s…and even my 40’s. Of course they got a little less innocent as the years progressed, but those are for another blog.

So what does a 50 something do nowadays to release that little girl, boy crazed, troublemaker within? A few tips for creating some middle-aged excitement that doesn’t necessarily have to do with the opposite sex:

1. Take more than the 6 items of clothing allowed into the dressing room
2. Talk the waiter into giving you a breakfast burrito even though it’s after 11AM
3. Use an expired coupon
4. Go through the 15 item express lane with 16 items
5. Or sneak into the dressing room for a quickie with Gunther…the hunky manager

Now...THAT's trouble!