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.

Wheelin' and Dealin'

In December of this year it will be my 10 year anniversary that I’m with my company. I can’t believe how fast 10 years has passed. It’s been a great decade working with all the people who have come and gone over the years. It was a company I had always wanted to work with because of their great reputation, honesty and integrity, and my dream came true.

In December of this year it will also be my 10 year anniversary that I have been making car payments for my 2003 GMC Envoy. WHAT???? Yes…that’s right…I believe I am now going to be inducted into the Guinness Book of World Records for the longest pay off on a car. Or maybe I am going to make a world record for the stupidest loan documents ever signed by one of the stupidest customers who ever bought a car. Those sales people must have been laughing their asses off when I walked out of that showroom. Maybe that’s why I had 5 salesmen helping me by the time I left. One by one they kept coming over…I’m sure because they couldn’t believe someone would actually pay the price I paid, and wanted to share it with each salesman. They wanted to witness the dumbest deal ever made by a car buyer.

I believe as I drove off the lot, my car depreciated over 50% because I’m quite confident I paid double what I really needed to pay. I probably paid the equivalent 10 years ago for a mid range SUV that someone today would pay for a small Learjet. Yup…35 years I’ve been in the negotiating business and a fine job I’ve been doing.

Why is it I can negotiate the rate down to where I need it to be for my job (albeit fair), but when it comes to negotiating for my own personal needs…rarely do I hold out. In fact…I don’t even wait to hear the starting price…I just offer up a rate and go from there. And I’m pretty sure the sellers absolutely adore me because I start way higher than they even were expecting to get. Yup…35 years as a negotiator. I would fire me if I wasn’t me.

My daughter’s lease was up on her car a couple of weeks ago. Over the last few months she’s been talking about what car she wanted to get, but the problem was she was way over her miles; there was a ding in the bumper; and the interior had some blemishes. I told her as long as you turn it in and lease another…it shouldn’t matter. They can roll the excess cost into the new lease. We weren’t sure if we could turn in her Mazda to a Honda dealer, since she wanted a new Honda, or if we had to turn it into Mazda. But we decided to go to Mazda first to see if there was a car she may want there, assuming we would get a better deal. Can I please tell you who my most hated negotiations are with? I was angry at the salesman for trying to rip me off before I even got on the lot. I had already conjured up in my head what he was going to do and say, while I was on the ride over there. By the time we drove up and the vultures were upon us, froth was coming out of my mouth. I was seething, ready to pounce......and up strolls the nicest car salesman I would ever have the pleasure of dealing with. At least that’s how he appeared. Not too pushy, not too scuzzy, almost normal. And almost normal for a car salesman, in my book, is like dealing with Mother Teresa.

I had warned my daughter not to act excited if she saw a car she really wanted. If they think they have you hooked, they’ll never negotiate. I also told her not to question anything I say, even if she knew it to be untrue. It was all part of the negotiation. Just let me do most of the talking and it should work out great. I know what I’m doing. I had 10 years to rectify my mistake. You can tell him what you’re looking for but nothing about price. Leave that up to me. And if we have to walk away, we will. They’re desperate. We would get a call later from them offering a better price.

"Hello ladies…how can I help you?" After I got done being creeped out, I contained my hiss, pulled in my claws and went through the whole spiel about the terms of the lease and if we had to, we would simply convert it into a loan so there won’t be any penalties, unless we could get a good deal on a new car and blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. Great way to start off our venture into sleaze-dom because he then knew he wasn’t dealing with a couple of ditzy ‘broads’ who didn’t know anything.

‘What size engine are you looking for?’ Huh? ‘Do you want a 4 cylinder or 6 cylinder?’ Huh? ‘Do you need 4-wheel drive?’ Huh? ‘Do you want automatic or manual?’ Automatic please (whew…knew that answer.) ‘What size wheels do you want?’ Huh? [Aren’t they pretty much all the same?] ‘What color would you like?’ NOW we’re talkin’. White, preferably.

After approximately an hour or so spent with the Mazda guy, we asked him, sheepishly, if we were able to go to Honda to turn in our car. He amazingly was honest and told us we could go anywhere we wanted to and turn it in. He didn’t act upset after spending the last 60+ minutes showing us the new models, going for a test drive, then losing the business. I was quite impressed. I have to admit…our local Mazda dealers have been nothing but gracious and very uncarsalesmanlike. Good for them! Unfortunately for them, they still didn’t get our business.

Thank God it was too late to head over to Honda. Even though it wasn’t a totally unpleasant experience at Mazda, it was still draining. Any time you have to deal with salespeople, it’s ad nauseam. But I had the next evening to look forward to with our Honda dealer. If they’re anything like the latest commercials…I probably will puke. They need a new ad agency.

The anticipation of doing that all over again pretty much ruined my next day. But hey…what are moms for? And since I AM a negotiator by trade…who better than good ol’ mom to work the deal? After a day of hard negotiating with my TV ad salespeople, why wouldn’t I look forward to a whole evening of it with the car sleaze-people, too?

"Hello ladies…what can I sell you today that you can’t afford?" Once again…the whole explanation of the lease, and turning it into a loan, etc. But this time we knew what we wanted. It was the car she had wanted so badly for the last couple of years, and there it was...exactly the one she was looking for; right model, right color, right everything. Now it was a matter of whether they could meet the monthly payment my daughter could afford. I was ready to haggle. I was ready to spar. I couldn't have been more prepared to break this guy down and get everything we wanted and then some. I gave my daughter the look of ‘remember what I told you. Don't say a word.’

"What kind of payment are you looking for?" And without hesitation, I opened my big mouth and said "We’ll take it!" And that was the last time I will EVER be allowed to go with anyone to buy a car again.

Grills Will Be Grills

As summer approaches, so does barbeque season. I love barbeque season, but I lost my Triton Grill in the divorce. I got the house…he got the Triton. I wonder who came out of that one the winner? [Although I paid him off for the house, he didn’t pay me for the barbeque.]

But I digress. I thought it was time to splurge for a new one. I didn’t want to go gas for fear of setting my house on fire with some gas explosion. I didn't want to go with another Triton because, well...it's just too expensive and let's be honest, way too much work. So I set out on a search for a simple user friendly one to serve enough family and friends during each get together. You know, one that uses charcoal and matches, so I can light my house on fire that way, instead.

Off to Target I went since I had a gift card I could apply to the cost. As soon as I got to the outdoor section I spotted the perfect one for my needs: easy to use, good size, great price and in stock. The only downside was I had to assemble it myself. But…no problema! I’m a pro when it comes to handy work. I can pretty much assemble anything. I’m a jack of all trades. I can snake a drain, change out a faucet, hang anything on the wall without it falling off, set up computers, TV’s. You name it…I can make it work. So a barbeque? Piece of cake. And it came in one compact box so no problem getting it in the car to come home. Looked simple enough.

I was so excited to have a barbeque again. I couldn’t wait to get it out of the box and set it up in time for our friends to come over later that day. After about eight minutes of wrestling with the packing tape that must’ve been super-glued to the box to hold it together, I finally got the box open and attempted to pull out all the contents, which seemed never ending. It was about another 8 minutes until I could loosen that first piece to get it out since it was so tightly packed in there. I grabbed 2 sides of the box with my hands, and took my foot to push the other side loose. It only took about 4 attempts until I finally got one piece free. Then it was clear sailing. We won’t talk about the bruises I got on my ass from losing my balance and falling over while trying to extract the pieces that were shoved in there like sardines cemented to the sides.

There were so many teeny bags filled with screws and washers and toggle bolts, and they kept coming and coming. Where the hell were these all going? It didn’t look that complex that I was going to need 500 pieces of hardware to put that thing together. There were leg bolts and handle bolts and damper bolts and winged nuts and lock nuts…and so many other nuts. Are you f**king kidding me? I wanted SIMPLE…but by the time I was done…I was a little nuts.

I planted myself cross-legged on the kitchen floor, surrounded by all those parts and pieces. I started reading the directions and was immediately lost. I lined up the bags numerically, since they each had a number with their parts inside that corresponded to various diagrams. And when I say ‘various’ diagrams…we’re talking about 20 different steps. Staying organized lasted just about until I opened the first bag and then the contents ended up all smushed together in one pile. The bags were so tiny with zip-locked closures, it took me about 4 minutes to get each one open trying to separate the top flaps and another two minutes to get each piece out of its teeny, tiny frickin’ bag. My pinkie couldn’t fit inside any of these bags and they expected each piece to come out the pinhead opening? I had no clue I would be in a wrestling match with barbeque parts.

The first step was to attach the legs to the bottom bowl. Seemed easy enough (yeah…sure it did) until I realized I couldn’t hold up the bottom bowl, put the leg through a leg bowl, then through the bowl hole while trying to screw a bolt with two washers to a winged nut. Huh? First of all…how do you balance a bowl that you’re trying to attach the first leg to if there are no other legs to balance it to begin with? I couldn’t turn it upside down because I couldn’t get my hand underneath it without scratching the shit out of my arm to grab the bolt through the hole on the other side. So I sat there with my legs bent up to my chest, trying to hold the leg of the barbeque between my knees and balance the bowl on top. The bowl leg kept slipping out from between my knees and the bowl was starting to get a little heavy. Trying to hold up the bowl while feeling around for the dropped leg and bolts, was a feat in itself. I felt sweat dripping down my face and neck, and my back was killing me from trying to balance myself while balancing the barbeque. I didn’t think to maybe lean against the wall to help balance my own body. I’m not sure how many times or how long it took to attach each leg, but I worked it out. I’m a genius. Or an idiot, depending on how you look at it. Probably would have been smarter to work on it with another person. 

Attaching the cover to the bottom bowl was no easier. Another balancing act except this time, you had to try to attach two moving hinges from the bottom to the top. They kept bending one way when you needed them to bend another way, and at one point, they were so loose the whole thing came apart. Again…patience and perseverance prevailed! Not to mention the dents and scratches that now are a permanent part of my wood floors.

About two and a half hours later (yes…that’s right…two and a half f**king hours later)…TAA- DAAA. Finito! It’s amazing how incredible you feel when you succeed at such a difficult undertaking. And it was truly beautiful. I was so proud. I'm sure everyone will be quite impressed.

Me not being the cook, as most people know…I left the chicken prep to my daughter. I had bought a couple of packages of breasts and as I showered (since I had worked up such a sweat putting that f**king thing together) she prepped them and I paid no attention to what she was doing.

Once our friends arrived, I lit the grill in anticipation of a yummy dinner: Chicken, hamburgers and hotdogs, along with various sides. We were about 10 people and everyone was starving. The coals only took about 20 minutes to get hot and then she brought out the chicken. Who the hell bought chicken breasts the size of Jupiter?

OMG, seriously? I could only fit 3 on the grill at a time. The barbeque was just a tad smaller than I realized. The breasts were so thick…they took about 45 minutes to cook the first batch. I was able to stick a couple of hot dogs on there, too, balancing them on the rim of the grill hoping they wouldn’t fall off. Fortunately, nobody saw me pick them up off the ground when that didn’t work out and put them back on the grill. [The 5 second rule, right?]

By 10PM, [about 3 hours later], we finally finished dinner. The people who ate first were already hungry for another meal by the time we wrapped it up. But my barbeque DOES looks pretty impressive…dontcha think?

Maybe next time I'll invite fewer people...or buy smaller breasts. But there's no f**king way I'm getting a bigger barbeque…especially one that says ‘Assembly Required.’