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.

My REAL New Year's Resolutions

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I Yam What I Yam

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                                          And for their parting gifts...

Just in case! 

 

Bowl Me Over

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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?

Filing My Frickin' Federal Tax Forms (A Fare for Frequently Using the 'F' word)

I just finished filing my taxes. As soon as my W-2 came in, I was on it. I used to have my accountant do them, but I decided I would do my own since they were so much simpler now. Simpler? That’s what they call simple? You have to be a f**king genius to know WTF they are asking. I’ve never seen anything more complicated in my entire life. I could probably cure cancer before I could figure out how to fill out a 1040 form.

I believe I am now qualified to work for the Internal Revenue Service. Ok...maybe Turbo Tax is the Einstein, but you still have to kind of have a clue what the hell they are asking. My Google was blowing up with all my questions. I couldn't even get past how many dependents I had. Seriously. In my eyes, my kids will always be my dependents because no matter how old they are...they still come to me for money. Doesn't that make them dependent on me? I believe so. But the government doesn't. I swear...I need to have a talk with the commissioner of the IRS regarding who's a dependent and who isn't.

I think I should be able to declare my dog. She costs me a fortune. They didn't ask about any pet dependents though, to my chagrin. I believe vet bills, pet food, doggie meds, grooming...all should be deductible. We ARE taking care of other living beings, are we not? I think we should be able to write them off. Obedience school should be as big a deduction as college. It's education, right? It wouldn't matter to me, though; because it’s obvious I never sent my dog to obedience school, in case you noticed how not well behaved she is. I don't want anyone disciplining my little pup...it makes me too upset. But had I, I would've liked it to have been deductible.

Some of the questions they ask are just mind boggling. I honestly have no clue what they are talking about. They start out saying "TurboTax makes doing your taxes easy, with step-by-step guidance, like a GPS." Like a GPS? I'm thinking GPS isn't an acronym for global positioning system. I believe it's saying..."Geez...Pretty [f**king] Stupid" trying to do your own taxes. But hey...I like to live dangerously. And hopefully legally. I guess I'll find out if they call for an audit. So off I went on the Turbo Tax Highway with my GPS.

I was lucky I could answer the 'Personal info' section. Just barely. "Tell us what happened to you last year." Seriously? You've got that much time to hear about my year? Oh...financially. I get it. I was almost ready to write my life story on my tax forms.

Do you think people lie on 'donations'? Like I can remember how many items of clothing I gave away, what sizes, and what price category they fell into. I've moved and cleaned out so many homes in the last few years, I've probably donated more than my net worth. But, by golly, I'm going to itemize how many shirts, jeans, shoes, purses and pajamas I donated and what were designer and non-designer. I'm sure that has to make a huge difference in my charitable donation deduction. And how many items of each? I admit...I'm a little anal about keeping records, but I have to say...I didn't itemize prior to handing my twenty-five GLAD trash bags full of clothes to the tatted up, long haired, drugged out Good Will guy, nor did he check off detailed items when he handed me the blank receipt for my records. According to my itemized receipt I filled out after I left there…I was the most generous benefactor they’ve ever seen…giving them everything I owned just short of my car.

'Did you have any medical bills?' Really? That's like asking me if I have a bowel movement every day. It's a love/hate thing. Of course I have medical bills. Unfortunately I have way too many and have frequent flyer miles at the doctor's office. Kind of like frequenting the toilet although you wish you didn't have to. This section took me a while, moaning and groaning, if you know what I mean.  

'Did you purchase any eye glasses or contacts?' Of course I did...that's how I can read this mish mosh of a ridiculous tax return. How else can I tell what the hell you are trying to ask me if I didn't purchase f**king glasses? Maybe next year I can get x-ray glasses to see through what you are trying to ask. But thank you so much for letting me deduct them. I appreciate that and find it a little strange that they are deductible, but quite pleased. May I deduct my 10 sessions at the shrink that I will need after having a nervous breakdown from deciphering my tax returns, too, please?  

Trying to figure out my filing status alone scares the shit out of me. It takes me 15 minutes to decipher if I'm still considered 'Head of Household' and every year they send me the frickin' questionnaire to be sure I still qualify. Do you see anyone else in this house who is the f**king head? And if you do...please tell me who because I would happily give up that title to them. In fact, I would be happy to become a dependent, just for a short time. But they don't consider my daughter, who lives with me full time, is a part time student, pays no rent, no food, does absolutely nothing around the house, to be my dependent because she made over $3,700? Are you kidding me? $3,700? How do they come up with that amount of money to give her independence from me? She made out like a bandit on her tax return though...while I got screwed! But again...$3,700? Why so little? $37,000 maybe...but $3,700? I'm stupefied.

The way they determine if one of your children is a dependent is if you can answer YES to six questions. Can I tell you how long it took me to figure out what the questions were asking, let alone if I met all six requirements? There were double negatives that I must have read 18 times to figure out if I did meet what it asked or not. And some of the questions were 3 parts and I couldn’t figure out if I met the one part to satisfy the other parts. And then if you satisfy that one, it had to be in conjunction with the others. I felt like I was doing a Rubik’s Cube. And believe me, I never solved it.

‘Do you own any property?’ If I still owned property I would have many more deductions and wouldn’t have fired my accountant who could figure out how to file my tax returns and charge me the $600 he charged me because he did my taxes because I owned property. Of course I don’t own property. Now I kinda wish I did. It sure would’ve made filing my taxes a lot simpler. At least for me.