gone pausal

Men on Sale at Match.com

2011-12-12T13:42:00.000-08:00

I hate to shop no less shopping during a big sale when the stores are mobbed with crazed/psycho bargain hunters. "Last Call" at Neimans almost sent me back to therapy. I was dazed, confused and sweaty rifling through the endless racks of merchandise and started to question my sexuality. My Mother however, is an "extreme" shopper. I witnessed her dive and actually disappear into a pile of clothes and appear 10 minutes later waving a black sweater. She has no fear and very good lung capacity. I am cheap which is a "Catch 22" as I disdain shopping yet tempted by a sale. So when I saw Match.com was running one I decided to try it again. Men on sale hmmmm, now that sounded a lot better than retail. In my experience I always ended up returning "full" priced men.

Yet in my heart of hearts, what could I expect from a "marked down" man? Was it "last call" at Match.com? Everyone must go to make room for the new Winter line of guys? I got nervous thinking the remainder bin would be filled with short, beefy, and bald. But like I said I'm cheap so I clicked "join." Any seasoned shopper would have rolled up her sleeves and started plowing through the racks and racks of men. Armed with antacids and Cabernet, I judiciously read through the emails that came my way. I mistrusted misspellings, poor sentence structure, and use of the so-called word "irregardless" as I knew these sale boys were not for an English major. I hand picked a few marked down guys and ventured out for wine/coffee. I hoped against all odds that there was a forgotten "Armani" man left at the bottom of the bin and if I could be like Mom and dive down there I'd find him.

Ah yes I quickly remembered why I don't shop sales. There was "Appetizer Man" who ate them all himself and didn't ask why I wasn't eating as he was too busy wanting to know if I had money or assets. "Mr. Cock-eyed Conservative" repeatedly called Berkeley, Bezerkely . "Goldfinger" who wore more jewelry than I have ever owned. "Mr. Whoopsie I Forgot" who wrote we had so much in common I should call him. I emailed back to remind him he took me out two years ago... damaged goods? I especially liked "No Eye Contact Man" who was so busy looking around he wouldn't have noticed had I left. I did get a lovely flattering note from a man my son's age. Not remotely tempting for fear he might slip and call me "Mom" - too Oedipal even for an English major.

The sale ends in January but I have shopping fatigue. I hope Mom isn't too disappointed that I don't have the lung capacity or nerve to dive in the sale bin again. Now where did I put the Tums?

Kim Kardashian Say It Isn't So!

2011-10-31T10:47:00.000-07:00

Uh oh I just read the breaking earth shattering news on my computer - Kim Kardashian and "what's his name" are filing for divorce. Shock and awe baby! Their four day romance had restored my faith in quick and inappropriate couplings. I was just going to join a dating service devoted to matching me with retired NBA or NFL stars. Yes siree I thought an aging hunched over 7 foot center or beefy ex 480 pound offensive lineman was just a click away. I'm a realist and know I don't have a snowball's chance in hell in snatching a current player when I'm in competition with a crafty giant breasted Kardashian. Kim darlin' maybe next time you should opt for an NHL player as you've dated or married your way through football and basketball. And let's face it "what's his name" was way too tall for you. It looked kind of goofy. Reggie Bush was more your size, and I bet you two had a lot in common.

I am so glad I didn't send a wedding gift as what a waste of money that would have been. I think it's only appropriate to return gifts from a marriage that lasts less than 73 days don't you? Although it could take years to return all the presents, but at least that will give Papa Bruce something to do. And btw, "Bruce, please no more plastic surgery and get a new colorist." I wonder if they'll split the giant diamond ring in half in the property settlement? Personally I thought it was too big and money better spent feeding a third world country.

Ryan Seacrest said, and after all he is like Walter Cronkite to an entire generation, that Kim didn't want to live in Minnesota. It's really hard to wear high heels in the snow which could have been a factor. Rumor has it the soon to be ex groom was surprised to learn she filed for divorce. Funny, because I wasn't. He said he'll do anything to save the marriage. Awwwww, that is so sweet but not happening. Another fairy tale wedding in the toilet. Is "happily ever after" only 72 days long? That does however take the pressure off "til death do us part."

Who Wants to be President?

2011-10-14T08:43:00.000-07:00

I'm for no one who is marching to the White House. Besides which isn't it too early to fill one's brain with political jabberwocky? I have enough things on my mind no less spend time remembering who is running for President and who changed their mind and decided to stay home with their family or get a really high paying job as a political analyst. It really isn't a job for a family person is it? We need more divorced candidates. Come to think of it being President is a crappy job. Face it everyone ends up hating you. We're fickle folks out here in the electorate....one false move and you're SOL. And the ultimate irony is if we do change our minds and applaud your accomplishments or think you weren't so bad after all.... you're dead. Ha! Except for Bill - let's all say a big collective "we're sorry" because face it, we miss him. I wonder if he needs a job.

I've lost track of who's running for President vs. who's running for cover. I think Michele and Sarah have left the building. Trust me girls shopping for cute winter clothes will be a lot more rewarding. Be sure and check out the skinny corduroy jeans at J.Crew. I bought them in two colors, but I digress. So who's left and who cares? I really like pizza so it's easy to remember the guy who knows a lot about crust and good toppings. I didn't do very well in high school biology dissecting a frog so anyone whose name is Newt I have to say a big slimy "no." That leaves us a Mormon and a Texan. Whoa buckaroos ain't we got fun? They both have a full head of hair and nice teeth. Although the Presidency is very hard on hair - it seems to fly off their heads. We do like young good looking candidates however so it could be a beauty contest that boils down to the swim suit competition.

There is one candidate for sure of course, the sitting President; although there was some teenie tiny rumor that Hillary could be in the wings. And is there a collective "We're sorry" for her also? I'm burying my head in the sand until the slug-fest for the Oval Office is over. In the meantime, some of you divorced folks think about running.

My First Kiss, Fact or Fiction?

2011-10-03T10:26:00.000-07:00

Do you remember your first kiss? I do. Or I thought I did. I would have sworn on a stack of bibles, testified in a court of law, taken a lie detector test, or bet my first born that my first real kiss was from Doug Croft. I'm embarrassed to admit that it didn't happen until high school as I was way behind the curve. There was a lot of kissing going on in middle school, just not with me. I was slow dancing but not kissing. Nope, it wasn't until Freshman year that I found myself in the "Oh my God I think he's going to kiss me" position. I was so nervous. Mr. First Kiss was adorable. I had a crush on him but never thought he'd reciprocate as he was an upper classman and hung out with cheerleaders. Oh how I longed to be a cheerleader as that was the sure fire route to popularity and kissing. Unfortunately I wasn't perky enough and truthfully this white girl couldn't jump.

I remember everything about that kiss. Doug drove me over to his house after school in his sexy little sports car which dazzled me. He took my hand and we walked around back to his swimming pool- the setting was very "Town and Country." Then in one instant as we stood by the pool he leaned down and kissed me. A moment I will never forget but a kiss I would. "Is this it? This is what all the hoopla is about? This is kissing on the lips? Ewwww," was the bubble over my head. I didn't chip any teeth which was a blessing because they were finally straight from years of braces. My lip wasn't bleeding either which was good as it could have stained the collar on my new Villager blouse. We never kissed again. And that's the story of my first kiss.

Not exactly- there is now evidence to the contrary. All the years of believing my first kiss was Doug Croft have been challenged. Harry Haskell has come forward out of the blue and claimed that he kissed me at a Bar Mitzvah party out on a golf course in 8th grade. What?! Au contraire I declared, but he begged to differ. To make matters more confusing he stated that he could produce a witness. Jonathan Tucker apparently was there and saw him kiss me which is kind of "Peeping Tom-ish" but also very CSI. Was my first kiss memory a myth? I have no"Town and Country" sexy sports car story if Harry is right. It will take a period of adjustment and perhaps medication or therapy to come to terms with the fact that my first kiss was really my second.

I Tried to Save the Economy

2011-09-25T16:48:00.000-07:00

I tried to save the economy. President Obama and Ben Bernanke you can stop worrying because I decided to do my part and get out from under the bed where I've been hiding with my money and spend. I would unclench my fist full of dollars and help relieve the country of economic woe. I gassed up my little car and headed from Palm Springs to LA. to shop 'til I dropped. I had my Saks, Neimans, Barneys, Visa cards and cash ready to go. Unfortunately I got a little lost trying to find LA but pulling over on the shoulder of the interstate to scream and cry did not deter me for long. First stop - my friend Ginger's house to watch the final episode of "All My Children" - my idea of pre-shopping calisthenics.

After a sorrowful good-bye to Erica Kane we hightailed it out to purchase. I gleefully headed directly into Barney's Co-op. Yes it's the cheap sister store but still expensive. Armed with my charge card I was poised and ready as I made a bee-line to the shoes. There I held in my hand for what seemed like hours a beautiful pair of teal suede high heels - they brought tears to my eyes and the price struck fear in my heart. My first impulse to buy them was thwarted by the cheap little voice in my head stopping me. "Gail, don't be an idiot. You have no place to wear them and besides it's money better put towards a colonoscopy. Get a grip on yourself and step away from the shoes." Sadly I put them back. In JCrew I clutched the cutest pair of skinny orange corduroy jeans but ixnayed them in the end. "Sorry Mr.President and Ben Bernanke but I'm not crazy about ankle length." I remained empty handed. My friend Emily joined us for dinner and we drank two bottles of a pricey Russian River Pinot Noir. I'm counting that as part of my economic recovery plan.

Day two of "Operation Shop 'til I Drop aka Save the Economy" started at Neiman Marcus. Imagine my joy as I had not stepped foot in the "mother ship" since I left Chicago 10 months ago. I didn't know where to start. I did however stop dead in my tracks by a pair of black suede Gucci high heels. I could have been arrested for fondling them. It was love at first sight and "deja vu all over again" as the cheap little voice returned to haunt me. "Gail don't be a fool, do you really need a pair of shoes that cost more than your car?" I blew them a kiss good-bye. Emily and I scoured every inch of the store. I tried, I swear I tried to purchase but felt sweaty, feverish and began to develop a rash. Yet ever the soldier committed to the President and Ben B. and regardless of being very itchy, we went to Santa Monica to peruse the shops on Montana. I rifled through rack after rack of clothes but couldn't pull my Visa card out of my wallet. Had I Super Glued it in there? My only contribution to the economy was ordering a plain omelet with extra fruit instead of potatoes for lunch.

I'm back under the bed with my cash. "President Obama and Mr. B. please accept my apology for coming home empty handed. My economic recovery plan also failed but call me and I'll buy you a nice lunch."

Collecting Husbands and Stamps

2011-09-12T14:57:00.000-07:00

I've had two husbands which at one time seemed like a lot. I have however, met men and women who are on their third , fourth and fifth spouse. It's a little jaw dropping but seeing as how everyone is living so much longer it's apparently possible to collect marriages like stamps. (Btw does anyone actually collect stamps anymore?) I feel thankful I got married in the 1970s and then again in the 80's as I never would have met either husband in 2011. Why? It is necessary to LOOK UP to meet someone. Has anyone else noticed that everyone is looking down texting or talking on their cell phone? Truthfully I'm shocked more folks haven't walked into oncoming traffic or trains. Everywhere I go men and women are yapping away on their phones probably complaining they never go out. Wake up all you 21st century dateless whiners - get a 20th century answering machine and leave the cell phone at home.

I admit this is much easier said than done but let me take you back to yesteryear. I met husband #1 in an age when phones plugged into a wall. The year was 1976 and the place Central Park . I was walking my Golden Retriever and he was out with his Golden Retriever. The dogs started playing and we started chit chatting. Now if either one of us had been on a cell phone or texting we would never have looked up long enough to have a conversation. I would have been on my tiny device bitching and moaning to a friend how I was dateless and my future husband would have gotten away. Husband #2 was trickier but again I was looking up. I was meeting my friend Ellen at the Museum of Modern Art when I realized I was a $1.00 short of the admission price. (Foolishly I couldn't resist a purse in the window of the Coach store on the way over.) Panicked, I knew I had to borrow money from a total stranger to get in. It was 1984 and phones were still attached to walls - no texting or calling her about my cash shortage. I looked around the lobby and decided if I had to make a complete fool of myself and beg for $$ I might as well pick the best looking man in sight. Voila I got the $1.00 and another husband. Yes, I paid him back.

It's 2011 and I find myself spending a lot of time looking down texting or talking and not taking my own advice. Truthfully I think there's only one answer. I think I'll collect stamps.

"I'll Have What She's Having"

2011-09-05T19:14:00.000-07:00

I have a psychological disorder. Many of my friends have speculated this for years. And in my defense they were presumptuous. I've checked the "Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders" and my problem is not mentioned. It's either not officially recognized, not taken seriously by psychiatrists or I'm the first person to exhibit symptoms and give it a name. It falls under the general category of "envy" and no it's not for a penis. I don't know what Freud was smoking when he thought up that idea. I've never wanted one of my own. A pair of Manolos or Jimmy Choos but not a penis. My problem is more troubling yet I'm too humiliated to seek counseling.

I have "order envy." Yes it's a real issue. I never order right in a restaurant. I look longingly at what is on everyone else's plate and despairingly at mine. It makes me sad and costs money. My friend Betsy has a perfect record when it comes to getting the best thing on the menu. It never fails I always want what she's having. So, why I don't follow her lead? This question haunts me. For example she gets a fresh farm veggie omelet and do I order the same thing? No, I ask for the turkey sandwich after sweating with indecision. Out comes her fluffy yummy looking eggs and my thinly sliced fake turkey. I'm green with envy as I pick at my loser choice and fight back tears.

"What are you getting?" is my restaurant mantra. I query everyone at the table and carefully consider their answers. The pressure mounts as I insist on ordering last and the waiter is impatiently hovering over me waiting for my selection and my friends are giving me dirty looks because they're hungry and I'm torn between Emily's choice of curried chicken, and Les's order of Trout. "I can't decide!" I want to shout and seek medical attention , but don't. Then it never fails the fatal yet predictable words come out of my mouth. "I'll have the Salmon."

I Confess, I Am Not "Hip" Anymore

2011-08-29T08:33:00.000-07:00

After 200 hours of watching coverage of Hurricane Irene I decided I needed a break from water, wind and Anderson Cooper. Btw, I was a little disappointed he wasn't in his signature hurricane gear, a yellow rain slicker. I decided to finally pick up the clicker and do a little channel surfing. I needed to seek refuge from the storm and hightailed it to a Miami crime scene and a brutal "Cupcake War." This proved to be very bad thinking. On my travels up the dial I made an ill fated stop at the MTV Music Video Awards . Why? Why didn't I just keep going? Why did I leave Irene? And Andersen regardless of what he was wearing?

It suddenly struck me; I had no idea who anyone was. Not one familiar face. Where's Elton John when you need him? Lady Gaga who I usually recognize by her life threateningly tall high heels was dressed like a man. Did she do this to screw with me? "For God's sake help me out and put on the giant shoes." Am I a loser? It was a night of reckoning. Did this happen in the blink of an eye? One day the audience is filled with the likes of The Grateful Dead, Neil Young, Bob Dylan, Eric Clapton et al and then poof they're gone , replaced by a group of pink haired girls and boys covered in ink. Where have I been? I should have known this day was coming as the people in "People" are total strangers to me now. They look so young any one of them could conceivably call me "Nana." This is very stressful. I need George Clooney to be the hottest man alive again. "George, put on a Speedo!"

I have to face it and confess - I am not "hip" anymore. I have tried , lord knows I have tried to keep up. I wear short skirts, have long hair, and still love to "hang out" but it's obviously not enough. Sadly, it's possible I haven't been hip since 1974 when I went to a party at Jerry Garcia's ranch. My hip-o-meter has plunged to zero. "Lady Gaga please put on a dress and 9 inch heels again so I can recognize one person under 30. And don't ever call me Nana."

Summer Sundays Suck

2011-08-21T08:07:00.000-07:00

It happens every week. It doesn't seem fair. It's Sunday again. I'm a bad Sunday person. In fact I hate Sunday - especially in the summer. Fall, Winter, and Spring Sundays at least have good TV: football, basketball, Desperate Housewives, Dexter etc. Summer has 150 baseball games and re-runs. This feels so wrong. In the past I spent Sundays reading the New York Times. That was until they raised the price to $500. I exaggerate but you catch my drift. The local paper takes under 10 minutes to read so I have 11 hours and 50 minutes left until I go to sleep. Now what? I also used to watch the morning political talk shows but by Sunday I can't handle any more bad news. I'd rather throw things at the TV than listen to the jabberwocky spewed from the mouths of pundits who obviously have no life.

Growing up I recall the "Sunday drive." We'd all jump in the car but I have no idea where we went. I remember spending Sunday at Kiddie Land but was afraid of the roller coaster and cried. Sunday at the bowling alley sounds familiar. Remember bowling? I was queen of the gutter ball and hated the shoes but it filled the afternoon. Miniature golf was another time killer yet tried my patience . Where was the damn hole? Proudly and sadly I think I set a record for highest score on the tiny course. I'd also hang with my girlfriends uptown at Leo and Lenny's Delicatessen. We drank chocolate phosphates, ate mounds of greasy french fries and tried to pick up boys. I now refer to those Sundays as "the good old days."

That brings me to this Sunday. I'm too big for Kiddie Land and might scare small children if I get in line with them, bowling would hurt my already compromised rotator cuff, miniature golf is too humiliating, and hanging at the delicatessen to pick up boys now means old men. I've finished my morning coffee and have NASCAR on my TV screen with the sound off. I think I'll drive to Oregon.

I Look Better in Dim Lighting

2011-08-12T13:40:00.000-07:00

I just read an article that assured me I'll never be too old to look young. Plastic surgery is on the rise for septuagenarians, octogenarians and even nonagenarians. If you know what "nonagenarian" means without using "dictionary.com" I'll send you a gift bag. This is good news for my Mom, who actually is a nonagenarian. She is always looking in the mirror and shocked by her wrinkles. "Wow Mom, If I live to be your age I'll be shocked I still have a reflection." The good news for Mom is it's not too late for her to look 78 again. 84,685 surgical procedures were done on patients over 65 in 2010. Yep, it's true no one wants to age gracefully and cheaply. With folks living longer and remaining healthier they want their bodies in alignment with their mentality. Truthfully, I'm not sure any surgeon could make me look 18.

Are you tired of your slackened jowls, flabby underarms, droopy eyelids, turkey neck, perkless breasts, or mile wide thighs? Well don't despair, it's not too late no matter what your age to just say "no" to your body. I did read however, that older patients may take longer to heal and the results of plastic surgery may not last as long as in younger patients - but what the hell right? Isn't it worth your 401k to look 20 years younger for a month or two? I don't know about you but I'm sick of living in dim lighting. I want to uncover the mirrors and stop asking the maitre d' for the table in the corner.

Thankfully this news gives me years to decide what to do with my face. Should I take the plunge in 2011 and hopefully look like I'm in my late forties again or wait another 15 years and ironically be thrilled to look exactly how I look now?

Text Me Please!

2011-08-04T13:16:00.000-07:00

Bitch bitch bitch , moan moan, that's all my friends did about my refusing to text. I finally cracked. I succumbed to the pressure and bought a proper phone. Yep, out with my crappy flip phone and prehistoric texting capacity and in with a fancy little device with a real keyboard. One letter per key feels like a dream come true. I threw in the "I don't text" towel and jumped into the 21st century. No more leaving voice messages for this girl. No siree, I've joined the burgeoning ranks of "no human contact." It's fun and impersonal. Although just between us "call screening" is more fun. Sshhh don't tell my Mom that's what I do, she just thinks I'm always busy.

Armed with a real keyboard I'm ready on a moment's notice to get a text. Except all the bitchers and moaners have disappeared. Not one of the "I can't believe you don't text" folks is in sight. Poof, they've vanished into thin air. Now I'm lonely with an empty "in box." I keep waiting for their messages, but zippo. Send them please. I'm begging all of you; I need words! I'll even take monosyllables. And of course cash.

Ironically not only do I not get text messages - ever since my friend Kay taught me how to permanently get rid of my junk emails no one emails me either. Truthfully I don't long for the pesky Bra Genie or the people from Replacement Windows.com but do miss the embracing and melodious words, "you've got mail." I feel the pain and angst of the Maytag repairman. I wonder if he's single.

Lounge Lizards and Me

2011-07-28T13:14:00.000-07:00

Reptiles creep me out. They are slimy, slithery and scary. As as child I was forced to go in the Reptile House at the zoo because my parents wouldn't let me wait outside alone. I was pissed. I walked around with my eyes squinted half shut. There were Lizards longer than my Dad's car and their skin looked a lot like Mom's purse. I thought as an adult I had left Lizards behind.

" Gail, it will be fun, get dressed and come with us to Sullivan's"my girlfriend Brenda pleaded.Sullivan's is a pick-up bar and restaurant. No one has ever picked me up in a bar. I was a bad bar person. I lacked the knack of casual conversation and was brunette. I always brought a book so I had something to do when I was passed by for a blond. I stayed home a lot.

"Please come it's happy hour so the food and drinks are half price," Brenda insisted.
"What time should we meet?" I'm genetically incapable of resisting half price. Thanks Dad.

Sullivan's was packed with men staring at scantily clad women. I was wearing a sweater so I knew I'd get plenty of reading done. As I scanned the crowded room I couldn't help but notice the average age of the men looked about 65. Shouldn't they be home collecting Social Security or making doctor's appointments? I had never seen older guys cruising for women. It was surreal. Where were the hotties with hair and flat abs? I witnessed a man at least 80 draped over a 50ish looking woman staring down her low cut dress at her breasts and never once coming up for air. I suddenly had the urge to read.

"Brenda do you smell something funny? My eyes are watering. And who are these guys?"
"These guys? They're a bunch of Lounge Lizards," she replied as she sniffed the air and made a face.
Crap, I was in a room of Reptiles.

"Hi girls," I heard from behind my stool. We both whipped around to see a man walking toward us. He stared at Brenda (she's blond) and casually put his arm on the back of her chair. I reached into my purse for my book. "What's going on ladies?" He wasn't talking to me. My eyes however were beginning to itch from the nasty cologne he was wearing. As he ogled Brenda I studied our guest Lizard. He was approx 65 with leathery skin from too much desert sun, wearing a green polyester shirt open to mid chest, his dull thinning blond hair was slicked straight back and glistening from too much gel. His eyes seemed to pop out of his head when he spoke. He looked slithery and like Mom's purse.

I scrutinized the room pretending to be Jane Goodall studying this animal called the Lounge Lizard in his natural habitat. I noticed they were resilient and when rejected did not pull out a book, but moved immediately on to the next woman. They were determined and undeterred creatures hell bent to find someone who accepted their offer of a free drink. It was a numbers game for these slithering creatures. They seemed to stalk their prey alone and had no compunction about budding in on a fellow predator's action. Crafty and rude they persevered. Meanwhile our slimy guy was moving closer and closer to Brenda's right ear.

"Want to have dinner with me Sunday night?" he whispered - I had to eavesdrop for the purpose of science.
"No thank you I have a boyfriend" she politely replied.
"I don't care, have dinner with me," he insisted. Like I said, resilient - but shouldn't a Mountain Lion come down and eat him now?

I quickly grew tired of studying Lizards. I decided next time I'd skip "happy hour" and go directly to the zoo.

I Have a Teenie Tiny Stalker

2011-07-22T07:50:00.001-07:00

I'm being followed. Yes, it's true someone is after me. It's weird and also unnerving. However I no longer check under the bed or in my closet like I did when I was a little girl and was certain there was someone waiting to "get" me the minute I closed my eyes. Every morning when I wake up my stalker is there . Each day the first thing I do is drag my sleepy sorry ass to my computer to check my emails hoping against hope for some fun or riveting correspondence but nada. Instead there she is waiting like clockwork. Hmmmmm I wonder if she's in cahoots with my Mother? Nah, Mom likes to work alone. Poof on my screen appears yet another message from "The Bra Genie.com." I'd prefer she was in a bottle rather than my laptop.

I have no idea how the pesky nymph got my email address. Could she be in partnership with Window Replacement .com a company which also pops up in my emails and for some reason thinks I own a window? "I rent!" I want to yell at the screen but don't. The Bra Genie is much more persistent and obviously knows me a lot better. "It's true, little Genie I need bras, but what scares me is .... how did you find out?" I've tried on bras in every lingerie department from Neimans to Target. I'm a bra tire kicker. I've left dressing rooms piled with them in a myriad of colors, sizes and styles. They looked nice on the hangar but pinch, itch, or ride up. "Nope, nope, and nope," I've told countless sales ladies who shake their heads in despair and confusion as I marched out of the store empty handed. No bra for me. I long for the bras I burned back in the late sixties as I think those actually fit to say nothing of how a bra costs as much as a Honda in 2011.

I couldn't wait to wear a bra when I was a young girl. I didn't care if I needed one or not, I just had to get out of undershirts. Now I'm a grown up with "The Bra Genie" haranguing me with the promise of comfort, no slipping straps and six for the price of three. "Get back in a damn bottle where you belong little creature and bring me Aladdin with a lamp and three wishes....none of which will be for a bra but one might be for a Honda."

Grocery Shopping Is Hard

2011-07-15T12:41:00.000-07:00

I had no food in the refrigerator. That was not unusual . All I could possibly scrounge up for dinner was soggy lettuce with one wrinkled cherry tomato. This should have motivated me to go to the grocery store but didn't. I suffered from grocery shopping A.D.D. Yes it was true and I assumed rare. With determination and resolve I've tried to overcome my handicap. I was methodical and precision like in trying to conquer this problem. I always made a list of what I wanted to buy in order to stay "on message." I wrote it in my best penmanship so I could read it when I was in the store and not use illegibility as an excuse to flee. I've even attempted alphabetizing by food groups but lost interest. Like a soldier going into combat I packed up my purse and headed for my personal battlefield - the market.

List clutched in my fist I remained strong as I a grabbed a giant cart determined to fill it. I headed directly to the first item on my list, "milk", but felt the wine aisle call to me. I gazed longingly in that direction. I began to lose focus and little beads of sweat started to drip down my forehead. "I need milk, I need milk, I need milk," I repeated like a Bovine mantra. I arrived a little sweaty but wine free at my destination. I plucked a gallon of skim off the shelf and with one item down moved triumphantly to yogurt. My head felt hot and like it was about to explode as I stared at the varieties and flavors: low fat, non fat, Greek, fruit on bottom , fruit on top, granola topped, Boston Cream Pie, Key Lime Pie, Cherry, Strawberry Banana, Raspberry, Lemon, Vanilla, Blueberry, or Dreamsicle. I began to feel like I was in a bad dream-cycle and wanted to wake up anywhere there weren't cows.

I looked at the lonely gallon of milk in my basket and then my list. I felt tears well up in my eyes as I had aisles and food groups to go but my resolve was gone. I'd lost focus and my desire for dinner. I decided it wasn't worth standing in line to buy one item regardless of how tempted I was to to read the latest "People" magazine. I left the basket behind and went home. Admittedly I lost the battle but knew how to win the war.

"Is this Domino's? I'd like to order a small cheese pizza to be delivered."

R.I.P. My Prada Purse

2011-07-07T13:45:00.000-07:00

I love my purse. My Prada bag goes with me everywhere and is one of my prize possessions. It is simple, beautiful, a leathery work of art and I did not pay retail for it. That would have required a bank loan or second mortgage. Fabulous and on sale it was a dream come true. Sadly regardless of my coddling and caretaking it is dying. My Prada bag is fading fast. The corners are ripping badly and no one can save it. I've thrown myself sobbing on the counters of shoemakers and saddle repair people from Chicago to Southern California begging them to bring my bag back to life but alas no one has hope. "Please save my precious Prada bag. Don't let it die." It's days are numbered as loose change will be falling out of the corners very soon. With dread in my heart I have to find a new love.

I thought my Mother, the Imelda Marcos of purses, might be able to console me in my despair. I don't understand why she needs so many as I love only one.
"Mom, what could possibly go with this?" I queried as I pulled a chartreuse leather clutch off a shelf in her closet.
"You know I forgot I had that, but I must say when I bought it the color was very popular. It was from Neimans." She snatched the purse out of my hands as if I would somehow damage it and put it back . There were so many piled up I had to save her from a large black purse falling on her head.
"Oh I love that bag, it's a Fendi you know," she remarked as I grabbed it out of the air. (No, I didn't know as I'm not in the purse "know.")
"Do you want it dear, its a Fendi," she repeated as if I didn't understand the significance of her offer. " They are very expenisive." And once again she repeated she bought it at Neimans. Mom must be the Warren Buffet of their purse department. Her Fendi bag was bigger than my Yellow Lab and for that matter my Mother. "No thanks you keep it," I said my head hung in handbag despair. It paled to my Prada.

I turned to my friend Andrea for help. She told me she has approximately 75 purses. "Oh I rotate them with my winter and summer clothes. I have to bring the purse bins up and down from the basement every season." Excuse moi. Bins? Filled with purses? I was way behind the handbag curve in my peer group. I loved only one and she had bins. I felt desperately confused and wondered if there was anything more I could do to prolong the life of my Prada bag. Where wil I go, what will I do and how much will it cost me? I fear it is only a matter of days until I will have to venture forth to Neimans, Nordstroms, Bloomingdales, Saks and perhaps as far as Bergdorfs to find love again hoping thanks to Mom I have a gene marked "handbag."

Natonal Holidays Got You Down? Eat Pez and Drink.

2011-06-30T14:41:00.001-07:00

Bah Humbug another long holiday weekend looms on the horizon. Didn't we just have one? Personally I think they should be spaced much farther apart as once again the pressure to grill or be invited to a barbecue mounts. I don't have a grill or the mental fortitude to buy one when a deadline is involved. It makes me nervous and rashy to be in a rush. I have considered purchasing a small George Foreman model for the kitchen counter but I think size does matter on national holidays. Besides which even if I had a big snazzy tricked out Weber then I'd need guests to invite over. Is there a "guest" category on Craig's List? All my friends know they could be blown up or set on fire if I'm cooking. I can't send out invitations that say "wear fire retardant clothing."

I am a good guest however so if anyone needs an extra at their barbecue I'm available. Although please don't ask me to bring a "dish." I never know what that really means - a dish of what? And does preparing one require gingham clothing? Why can't I just bring a box of Oreos or pass out Pez? On second thought don't invite me. I'll have holiday fun by going to a parade with the dog. He loves marching bands and taking food from small children. I'll just be happy I'm not home blowing up the deck or setting my friends on fire.

I think it's best to be alone. I'll drink bottles of nice crispy Sauvignon Blanc, eat Pez, and read the back issues of "People" that I "borrowed" from my Dentist's office. Uh oh, he reads my blog.... I promise I'll bring them back on Tuesday. Happy 4th and call me if you want Pez.

"To Droid or Not to Droid?"

2011-06-22T09:52:00.000-07:00

"To Droid or not to Droid that is the question. Whether 'tis nobler in my mind to suffer the slings, arrows, and anxiety attacks of learning new technology or take arms against it and by opposing stick with my antiquated flip phone." I don't think Hamlet suffered the way I am now that my AT&T contract is up and I am free to change carriers and devices. There are too many questions and no fool proof options for a techno-dummy like myself. It took me over a year to learn how to add new contacts to my address book. I still have no idea how to send a text . Btw the last one I wrote I had to do over six times until it read as English and not Jabberwocky. I tried to take a picture of my Yellow Lab"Beefy Boy" but ended up with a photo of my arm . Does it sound like I am prepared for more advanced technology?

"To sleep perchance to dream of using the iPhone: ay there's the rub." Although the "rub" is really the touch pad. I tried one and almost needed to go back into therapy. It took me 45 minutes to spell Gail and not Hbjm. I think all those apps sure sound like fun but I hate games , don't mind asking for directions and like the Yellow Pages. Just as an experiment in terror I wandered in to my local Verizon store to look at all the slick little phones. Poor cute Brian waited on me. He was very patient and told me the story of how his Grandmother is technologically impaired also. "Do you think I'm old enough to be your Nana?" I shrieked. I burst into tears and said if there was a "Botox" app I'd take the phone. I left the store empty handed and hightailed it home to search for a plastic surgeon in the Yellow Pages.

A friend of mine told me he likes his Droid X so much that if he could have sex with it his life would be complete. This made me laugh and then ponder...is there an app for that?

Is My Mom Hef's Next Girlfriend?

2011-06-17T08:24:00.000-07:00

Mom, Hugh Hefner is on the market again. This could be a big opportunity for you as maybe he's finally going to date age appropriate women. Yes, it's true his nuptuals to Crystal Harris the 25 year old fiance have been called off. No wedding bells for Hef - he probably couldn't hear them anyway so no biggie. Finally the child bride came to her senses and traded her rose colored glasses for a prescription pair. Our little girl must have tired of Dean Martin and Andy Williams which I think is programmed into all the bunny iPods . And no, Lady Gaga won't be recording "Moon River" any time soon so she made the right decision. Call me a cynic but I believe a 60 year age difference is too big a gap to bridge. Thankfully I no longer have that option unless anyone knows a single 120 year old - or did I meet him on Match recently?

Will Hef finally come to his senses and realize these youngins' are using him for free food, lodging, silicone and peroxide? If I were them I'd just Trick or Treat at the mansion and not move in. Do Hef and all the girls have fireside chats? Speaking of which does anyone but Hef recognize the initials FDR? Mom and Hef at least have that in common. She is also up on current events that don't involve the Jonas Brothers or Vampire movies. Mom also knows where the Middle East is which might be tricky for any of his girlies. Call me crazy but she seems like a better match for the old guy. My Mom also likes to spend half the day in her robe, so that's perfect.

I don't know about Crystal but I'm happy she doesn't have to have sex with Hef anymore. And I pray she doesn't tell that part of the story to "The Enquirer" because ewwwwww and this inquiring mind does not want to know. Besides which I was concerned for Hef's health as I believe it was only a matter of time unitl he exploded from all the Viagra .

"Hef think it over. My Mom could be perfect for you."

Is My Hair on Fire?

2011-06-09T11:13:00.001-07:00

I am a weather phobe. There is not much about a weather report that doesn't scare the bejesus out of me. I considered the Channel 5 weatherman in Chicago a mortal enemy as he seemed to take joy in meteorological disaster. He always smiled when five feet of white white snow was headed my way. I was frantic realizing I could be trapped inside for days/weeks while he was grinning and collecting a pay check. Just once couldn't he feel my pain, burst into tears and run around screaming? He and I had to break-up as it was a dead end relationship. I headed for Palm Springs, CA to find weather love.

Ahhh balmy dry days and breezy idyllic nights were mine. The weatherman smiled because he reported good news. "Another day of 75 degrees. And the weekend looks just as pleasant." At last a relationship that had potential. I was anxiety free, no more weather trauma for this girl. Or so I thought. It's June and summer is coming. Ominous sounding numbers are on people's lips: 110, 115, 120 degrees. Words like "You can't touch the steering wheel without burning your hands" "The pool is too hot to swim." "I play golf at 4:00a.m." "You better slather your skin with cream or you'll look like a reptile by September. " I hate reptiles. I hate 4:00a.m. At 120 degrees can my hair catch on fire? And what about my Yellow Lab,"Beefy Boy?" How will he walk on boiling, bubbling pavement? He'll have to wear shoes.

It's inevitable, triple digit temperatures are coming and I feel my weather anxiety rising. I'm beginning to doubt the concept that "dry" heat is better. What does that really mean? I'll hardly notice my face is in flames? I can only conclude that "heat" is "snow" spelled differently.

Bluetooth Rehab Has Me Down

2011-06-01T09:30:00.000-07:00

I am ready for bluetooth rehab. Ever since I got the ill fated ticket for driving and talking on my cell phone my life has been on tilt. I have bought and returned four different devices in the last two weeks. I got smart however after two and started purchasing them at different AT&T stores. I realized the sales people were running for cover when I walked in. I noticed the girl who sold me the first one beg for a lunch break when she saw me four days later. That was the longest time I kept a bluetooth - the shortest was 12 hours. And trust me when I say I have made a study of the ill conceived little pieces of plastic. "Hands free" has made me a stark raving dis-satisfied customer. "This is useless!" I sobbed to the sales person after three days with the "best on the market" piece of equipment that clipped to the visor. "I screamed at it the entire drive to L.A. and no one could hear me." He offered kleenex , my money back, and ran.

I decided to change methodology and go with one that hung behind my ear. It was groovy for three days; I was almost happy. Then it started talking to me and no, I was not having acid flashbacks. It said "low battery" over and over regardless of it being fully charged. I started talking back "You're fully charged! Stop saying that." I returned it as something told me conversing with inanimate objects requires medical attention. I obsessively canvassed all my friends, who sadly are no longer speaking to me, about what they used. I think John changed his phone number as I can't reach him. Next I tried a bluetooth that went in my ear. I hated it, too uncomfortable and I itched all over. I returned it at a distant location to avoid being recognized.

I thought about buying a new car that comes with built in "hands free" but even in my addled state $30,000 for bluetooth didn't seem cost effective. Although it would provide all new sales people which is tempting.

I Abdicated my Throne for a Bowl of Chili

2011-05-26T07:23:00.000-07:00

My streak ended. It's a bittersweet moment when you break a streak regardless of the dubious achievement of having attained it. My "Queen of One Date" title has been revoked by virtue of the fact that I went on a second date. Curses! I had become royalty in my own mind, although I didn't have the appropriate clothes or jewelry. I think an Ermine collar on a red robe was necessary. Not having been asked on a second date in six months my knee jerk reaction when suddenly and surprisingly invited was an immediate "yes." I should have deliberated far more carefully - weighed the options. Date? Queen status? It's not every girl that gets to be Royal even if it's for being a dating loser.

My "streak" ending date invited me over for turkey chili. Yes, read this and weep I surrendered the crown for a lousy bowl of beans. I was also nervous about going over to a veritable stranger's house for a second date. I received endless warnings and advice: "don't go", "meet in a public place" and "bring mace, a gun, brass knuckles, or sharp stick." I was worried and weaponless but went. I arrived hungry and after the obligatory house tour I looked around for pre-dinner appetizers. Sweaty and a bit hypoglycemic I was desperate for a cracker. He handed me a glass of wine but zippo in the form of food. He wanted to talk about art, I wanted a vitamin B12 shot to stay conscious. Sadly and boringly I gave him the art history lecture I've heard myself say a million times being an art dealer for 24 years. I might have dozed off after Impressionism. I know I lost him during Andy Warhol.

And speaking of Campbell soup cans I needed soup or anything as I was about to keel over. Finally I declared I wanted dinner. He took out two bowls and filled them with chili from a tiny pot on the stove- teenie tiny pot. Mr. Streak Breaker then put the pot in the sink, as it was empty! Next he placed between us the smallest loaf of bread I've ever seen. I think I served bigger loaves when I played tea party with my dolls. I scarfed down the beans and two pieces of bread. There was nothing more, dinner over. Dessert was only something about which I could dream or stop and buy on my way home.

My title relinquished for a bowl of chili. I've asked my gonepausal girls on Facebook for an annulment of date two but the majority ruled it counted. I learned the hard way there is nothing like being a "Royal" regardless of how you get the crown.

"Can You Hear Me Now?" or " Make My Day"

2011-05-15T08:59:00.001-07:00

"What did you say? I can barely hear you, it's all static."

"I must be in a bad cell," I scream exasperatedly, wanting to pull my hair out or drive into a ditch.

Crap. Another conversation with someone bitching that they can't hear me. In complete frustration I rip the little black box that's supposed to keep me "hands free" off my visor, fling it on the seat, pick up my cell phone and call them back. It took me 15 tries to sync the freaking device with my phone and no one can hear me? Then who was I connected to? This scares and intrigues me. I'm trying to be"hands free" but people keep yelling "are you there?" which drives me nuts. I scream back those infamous words that have become more recognizable than "to be or not to be," - "CAN YOU HEAR ME NOW?" But no one can hear me now or any other time I use my Bluetooth device.

I've failed Bluetooth in a state where it's illegal to drive holding a cell phone. I had to choose between not talking or risk getting a ticket. I picked talking. My cell phone has become an extension of my head. I am always on it unless I'm showering. Don't ask the "sex" question. I try as best I can to have my hair cover the phone while driving. I constantly have my eyes peeled for police. If I spot a cop I throw the thing on the seat next to me or floor - so far so good. I made it 5 months and 12 days then I got sloppy. Damn. I was happily chit chatting with a friend when I slipped up. Totally out of character or my mind I was not on the look-out for police.

Flashing lights appeared in my side mirror and a motorcycle cop had me red handed. Geez. Too late to fling the phone, I pulled into a parking lot to take my punishment. "Ma'am," he started...."I know Officer, I politely interrupted, please understand I never talk and drive. I had to take the call because it was my Dad and he's really old and sick." "That's too bad" he replied sympathetically but it didn't fly. I should have burst into tears. I should have batted my eyes and flirtatiously promised never to do it again, but that hadn't worked in over 15 years. I should have bribed him except I wasn't in Chicago. I was doomed to $170 ticket hell. I hung my head in despair and financial ruin.

When the officer walked back to my car with the ticket he reassured me it wasn't a moving violation but an "infraction." All I knew was that I wasn't going to Saks any time soon. As he handed me the paperwork he shook his head and said, "You sure don't look the age on this license." Priceless!

"Mom I Could Have Been a Celebrity Chef!"

2011-05-05T08:24:00.000-07:00

"Mom, with Mother's Day coming up I have to ask you something. Why didn't you teach me to cook?!" Do you realize that dreaming of being a Mousketeer was a total waste of my time? There was no future money in wearing a hat with ears or singing about the days of the week. In the end who cared that Monday meant "we're going to have a special guest?" A big waste of my youth and visions of fame and fortune. Nope, I should have taken my little plastic blue stove FAR more seriously. Instead of making Play Dough pink cookies with sprinkles I should have been considering the alternative of brioche with fresh jam. Damn. And why didn't we put up preserves instead of buying Welch's grape jelly? Or make cupcakes from scratch and ixnay the Hostess brand. Do you realize this could have started me on the road to becoming Martha Stewart? Why did I want to be Annette, I'm flat chested, it made no sense.

Mom, I could have been a celebrity chef if only you taught me to slice, dice, mince, chop, and puree. We should have been reading recipes not "Curious George" or "Heidi." Although the way Heidi layered her clothes she probably had potential to be on "Project Runway." But a monkey? Cooking is bigger than Hollywood. I think Mario Batali makes more money than Brad Pitt and no one even cares about his weight. And how about the Naked Chef- although I've never seen him naked but would like to. I could have been the one to make Coq au Vin naked first. Although on second thought too much pressure to shave my legs. At the very least I could have had a hot affair with my fav Anthony Bourdin in a meat locker. I still wouldn't rule that out.

Every hour of every day on every channel, what's on my TV screen Mom? Cooking shows that's what. They're even taking Erica Kane and "All My Children" away from me and replacing it with a freaking Viking stove and 5 minute Beef Bourguignon. Mom, Why didn't we make pie crust from scratch, pluck our own chickens,or have hens in the laundry room laying eggs for Eggs Benedict? Sadly and alas all I can make is reservations.

Happy Mother's to all and remember the wise words of Julia Child "If you're afraid of butter, use cream."

Deodorant, Tampax, Condoms, and Vibrators, Oh My!

2011-04-26T08:08:00.000-07:00

Everyone's been embarrassed. It's embarrassing. Thankfully I've outgrown blushing, as that really added insult to injury. My face appearing like it was about to explode was not a good look for me. As I've gotten older the things about which I want to die a thousand deaths have changed. When I was a preteen I would perspire in my pretty party dresses at boy/girl parties. This was a particularly nasty sight when I was wearing light purple. I would sweat down to my waist and run in fright to the blow dryer in the bathroom and stand under it until all traces of perspiration were gone. Sometimes I'd miss the slow dances. Curses. I tried Mitchums deodorant which was supposed to block my sweat glands. I figured I would either die from toxic build-up or make it through a party without ruining my dress. I've outgrown this problem.

As if sweating wasn't bad enough the next life embarrassment was buying Tampax. It was a badge of honor and a source of horror. Yea I'm a big girl and damn there's a boy in the store and he'll see me buying the highly identifiable blue box. I'd hang out in the candy aisle until all traces of the opposite sex were gone and I could run to the check-out counter, pay and leave. Whew and a little sweaty but not bad. I think it's worse for men who are sent out with a grocery list and there right smack dab at #10 is Tampax. Sorry big guy, I feel your pain. It is however, no tougher than another embarrassing product - condoms. Oy. I would stand for 30 minutes staring at the choices: lubricated, medicated, intoxicated, flavored, hypoallergenic, hallucinogenic, candy coated, colored, ribbed, satin smooth...the choices gave me a headache, which actually solved my problem and I went home.

I just read I can now buy a vibrator at my local CVS, Walgreens or Walmart. It's more convenient than finding a cute little sex toy boutique but a lot more public. "Attention CVS shoppers I'm over here in the vibrator section trying desperately to figure out which one to buy and by the way I also need toothpaste." To make matters more uncomfortable the vibrator section is just to the left of condoms. I'm confused, blushing,and sweating all over again. I feel the need to talk the Pharmacist into slipping me a Xanax. There is only one more embarrassing product/stage left - now where do they keep the Metamucil?

Erica Kane Don't Leave Me!

2011-04-18T08:48:00.000-07:00

Life as I know it is about to change. In fact life as I've known it since high school is now on permanent tilt. How this could happen stuns, amazes and bums me out. I am an "All My Children" junkie and have recently learned that ABC is going to pull the needle out of my arm and yank the show, sending me into serious Erica Kane withdrawal. Someone at the network should have had the presence of mind to realize a lot of us will need re-hab and arranged a place for us to to recover; or at least a spot where we could have a big group hug and good cry. What am I supposed to watch on the treadmill now for God's sake - another freaking cooking show? Wake up network kids, not everyone cooks or cares about Virgin olive oil. Aside from the fact that I think Anthony Bourdain is totally hot and would have sex with him I'm not interested in watching him comb the Earth for exotic food groups and tribal cafes.

My love of soap operas began back in junior year of high school with "The Young and the Restless." I ditched school a lot because it was on during French. My Mom was a "Y&R" fan long after I moved on to "Ryan's Hope." OMG the boys on that show were so cute I had to switch over. I might not have learned how to conjugate the verb "etre" but I knew who was having a child out of wedlock. My addiction continued in college where no one cared if I was in class or not so I schlepped to the student union every day to watch "All My Children." Although unable to conjugate verbs in French, I have been through the trials and tribulations of all of Erica Kane's marriages. Of course I had my favorite husbands but she divorced them anyway. I knew everyone in Pine Valley, a small New England town where the entire population was attractive. A great place to live if you were single. I had significant crushes on too many Pine Valley men to mention, many of whom came to tragic ends.

The real beauty of watching "All My Children" or any soap opera was that even if you missed one year or 5 years worth of episodes you could catch up in a day. Like magic you were transported back into the lives, loves, and insideous demise of all your old "friends." It was like going home or truthfully a lot better. I will really miss Erica as I always thought she and I were similar...it's not clear how except our hair color and length. I am way behind on the husband count and at the rate I'm dating will never catch up. And although we are close in age she looks waaaay better. My only wish is that before the show ends she release the name of her plastic surgeon. I feel she owes that to me, her dedicated fan.

Dirty Laundry Is Not a Dinner Entree

2011-04-05T08:50:00.000-07:00

I'm not great at doing laundry. Truthfully when I went off to college I had no idea how to wash or iron. I stood in front of the big white machines in the dorm and was clueless. Yes, I was spoiled and never had to do a load of wash on my own. Standing alone with my giant bag of dirty clothes was a challenge. I begged the nearest girl for help and stood by her side faithfully as I tried to memorize where to put the detergent and what dials to turn . I was a laundry loser. Little did I know there was a far far greater challenge ahead - the Mt. Everest of this process called ironing. I burned and peeled my nice Villager blouses off the iron. Everything ruined. I'd sprinkle and then sssssss the iron would make a giant burn mark on the tiny blue flowers. "To hell with this" I thought. I gave up and bought wash and wear turtle necks. I've since become far more proficient as a laundress but still don't really give a damn about the finer points, like separating whites, the various cycles, or the challenge of folding. I toss it in the drawers and slam them shut. No one knows what kind of chaos or mess is inside.

I firmly believe laundry is personal, especially when it's dirty. It should definitely remain out of sight. So imagine my surprise when I arrived at a small party and found out what they were serving for dinner was dirty laundry. I wanted to scream,

" But I'm a vegetarian!"

No one would have heard me for the, "Don't you ever call me cheap again!"

Uh oh trouble was brewing by the bar.

"This is not cheap wine and more to the point what do you ever buy?"

Whoopsie darlins' but YOU'VE GOT COMPANY! I'm over here and beginning to die a thousand deaths. The dirty laundry was being flung fast and furiously.

"I've helped support your children." (POW, BAM, WHACK!) and what have you ever done?"

I was getting nervous and itchy.

"Don't ever say that. And who cares about the wine, I was just kidding you."

But who's kidding who? No one was kidding. I felt like crawling under the table or praying I would vaporize.

I was hungry,but not for what they were serving. I wanted Salmon and a nice salad damn-it. Next time I think I'll just go to a laundromat and bring a sandwich.

Cut Me Off in Line and I'll Kick Your Ass

2011-03-29T08:12:00.000-07:00

Uh oh it's really going to get crowded in your local plastic surgeon's office. I foresee lots of pushing, shoving, and bruising to get to the receptionist's desk as the number of men going for cosmetic procedures is increasing exponentially. Hard to believe because the culture always embraced the lines and wrinkles of men as dignified, handsome, or nicely weathered. Ha! If a woman is "nicely weathered" she's considered a body double for the Wicked Witch from "The Wizard of Oz." As for women looking dignified or handsome from aging, when was the last time Donald Trump or Rupert Murdoch married a dignified or handsome mature looking woman? Catch my drift kids? I admit I am surprised when I look in the mirror and have to stop myself from sobbing. I seem to have been replaced by some alternate form of life. "Mirror mirror on the wall what the hell happened?"

I am also surprised however, that men are beginning to get panicky when they look in the mirror. Are they finally realizing those jowels, lines, and turkey necks aren't nicely weathered and worn features but kinda scary? Welcome to my world little fellas! And FYI gym memberships and an exercise regimen does not help from the neck up. I see more and more burly boys in the cosmetic department as Calvin Klein et al are raking in the dough with the promise of age defying lotions and potions "especially" for men. Right. It's all the same snake oil darlins'. But why shouldn't your Neiman's bill be as big as mine?

The truth is needles filled with botox, plumper uppers, or a sharp scalpel and a hopefully steady surgeon's hand are really the only way to get rid of wear and tear. Personally I love that men are becoming afraid that "weathered" really means old looking and the standard of beauty they apply to women also applies to themselves. Lord have mercy, it does seem only fair. So little buddies save your $$$ because youth and beauty isn't cheap and whoever shoves me on the way to the receptionist's desk gets their ass kicked.

Someone Please "Card" Me!

2011-03-21T09:07:00.000-07:00

I had a fake ID made when I was a senior in high school so I could be 21 and of legal drinking age. There was always someone who knew someone who had a friend who could either alter your driver's license or make some form of identification with a new date of birth. That sure was tricky and I probably drank and partied too much for my age. I was a little nervous when I was asked for my fake ID but tried to stand up straight and avert my eyes. I also wore a lot of make-up to appear older. Ha! When I could finally drink legally I thought it was great when I was carded because I looked too young to have a cocktail. One of my happiest days was when I was 30 and the bartender at the "Red Onion" in Los Angeles asked to see my driver's license. I wanted to marry the guy!

It seemed like a long time from 21 to the day the letter from AARP arrived inviting me to be a member. I shook and turned a pale shade of green holding the envelope in my sweaty hand. "Are they kidding? I can't possibly be a member, I didn't look AARPish," I thought as I ran to the nearest mirror to check. Nope still didn't look a day over 41. There was no way I was joining. I ripped up their literature for years rejecting the notion that it was a club in which I was eligible or wanted to be a member. That was until I realized I could get really good discounts with an AARP ID. The cheap side of me over-ruled the age phobe I had become.

Now I would do anything to be carded. Why is it no one demands an ID when I ask for the "senior" discount? There's not a movie theater in a 2,000 mile radius that wants to see if I'm really a senior. They just happily dispense a ticket without saying "Can I see your driver's license?" I walk away sad and drag myself to the cheap seat. The "senior" age varies depending on the venue so sometimes I really am lying. I want to yell "I'm not 65! I'm cheating! Can't you tell? Wanna see my driver's license?" But no one does.

Please, you don't have to marry me, just "card" me.

"No No Anything but the Car Keys!"

2011-03-14T10:30:00.000-07:00

Happy 90th birthday Dad. He turned 90 last week even though he's been telling people for the last three years he's 90. He's the only person I know that lies in an upward direction. My Mother has been tweaking her age as long as I've known her. Rumor has it she even has two drivers license with different ages. Knowing Mom she might even have more than one birth certificate. She's a trickster. I've followed faithfully in her footsteps since I was 40. Until 40 I bragged upwards every year as people never thought I looked my age. Thirty was a breeze - no problema for this girl. "Yep I'm 30 and I don't give a damn," was my attitude. Then along came 40 and I went into hiding right after the birthday cake. "I can't possibly be 40," I would cry myself to sleep. My friend Bob had to do an "age intervention." He dragged me out of bed to go drink.

I didn't give Dad a present yet because he returns all gifts, even pastries ,which I thought he couldn't bring back, but found a way. But I will say that the very best gift he received was from the Department of Motor Vehicles of Illinois. Ya gotta love their generosity. The DMV re-newed my Dad's driver's license for his birthday. Yea way to go! Now my present to everyone who lives near Dad is telling you to stay home and off the roads. This includes all the folks who like to shop at Nordstroms and Neiman Marcus because he drives my Mother there a lot to shop. Why don't we take his keys away you might ask yourself? We did and even sold his car but when no one was looking he tricked us and went out and bought a new one. He's crafty.

The worst part is I know the day will come when my son is standing in front of me requesting the car keys. "No anything but the keys!, I'll scream clutching them in my hand and running(?) out the door. Take my good china that's never seen a morsel of food, my silver which is still in the tarnish proof packaging, my Tiffany wine and champagne glasses but not the car!" I'm sure he'll be gentle and consoling as he chases me down the street bribing me back with cab fares or a bus pass. Will I hand them over? You bet your sweet ass I won't. So Dad on your 90th birthday all I can say is "run!"

A First Time for Everything

2011-03-07T08:05:00.000-08:00

There's a first time for everything. Some first times you forget and some you never forget. I was thinking recently about my first kiss. That first kiss had so much potential but so little promise. He was darling and a year ahead of me in high school- yes I was behind the kissing curve because I am not counting any form of "spin the bottle" in sixth grade. Or Jimmy Adler's attempt in 3rd grade or BillyTauber's in 2nd. Nope my first kiss was tall, had dimples and I think a slightly cleft chin. Doug was very cute and more importantly popular which was a big deal. He drove me over to his house after school and we were out by his swimming pool (did I forget to mention rich?) and we were standing very very close when he leaned down and kissed me right on the lips. Let me take you inside the bubble over my head "Huh? This is kissing? Ewwww, bad." Thankfully I wasn't discouraged and went on to kiss again.

I have no recollection of what my first word was but knowing me it was probably "help." If I spoke more than one I have testimonials to the fact that they were most certainly "feed me, buy me." The first time my Dad took the training wheels off my bike and ran down the street holding on to the back of the seat while I steered and screamed ended abruptly when I tipped over to the right. I did however learn on the fourth , fifth or tenth attempt. I distinctly remember my first day of school because the bus driver couldn't find my house to bring me home and being four I had no idea where I lived. I never again liked school.

Adulthood brought firsts all over again. College produced one of life's biggest - sex. I will never forget and then again wish I could, that landmark night. He was a graduate student in art and almost a ringer for Bob Dylan. I stalked him for week as I decided he was the cool older mystery man I needed. It happened in his apartment over the local laundramat , which wasn't very romantic but I had to get the virginity noose off from around my neck. Like kissing I had the same "huh, this is it? ewww, bad" bubble over my head . Thankfully I wasn't discouraged and went on to have sex again....but not with him.

The firsts came fast and furiously after college: job, apartment, paycheck, marriage, child, and divorce. And then surprisingly a few "seconds" kicked in: marriage and divorce. I'm into the "thirds" stage of my life but at least I can ride a bike.

Who Are the People in "People?"

2011-02-28T11:28:00.001-08:00

It is shocking and deeply disturbing to admit that I no longer know anyone who is in "People" Magazine. I used to actually look forward to reading it in line at the grocery store. What better and cheaper way to pass the time behind someone whose cart is piled to overflowing than grabbing the "People" off the rack and finishing it before it's your turn? It was so entertaining that I didn't even start screaming and crying when folks pulled out coupons which took 30 minutes for the check-out girl to decipher. I loved a crowded grocery store. I also actually looked forward to the Dentist as God love him he keeps his subscription to "People" current. I have spent many happy hours in his waiting room catching up on back issues. I even read them between novocaine shots. Of course "People" magazine was a secret vice as I never ever confessed that I read it. I've been known to put it inside "The New Yorker" to protect my image. Don't ask what "image" - it just makes me feel better to think I have one to uphold.

Now I open the precious magazine and turn page after page after page and think to myself "who are these people?" I have no idea. Apparently they are famous but I have to ask myself , where , why, and how? It scares me that they are in movies and videos I've never heard of or seen. The "announcement" page makes me dive for the Kettle One or consider driving off a cliff as the people in the "birthday" paragraph are half my age. I could be everyone's Mother or worse Nana! Again I ask myself , who are these people and why don't I know them ? Where are the stars I used to love? Goldie Hawn come back darlin' I need you. Make a movie or music video with Harrison Ford so I can sleep at night.

I won't even start on the music videos I have never seen by artists whose names are just two letters both being consonants. Thankfully I know Lady GaGa but might have just spelled it wrong. I bet she's happy her Mom made her take piano lessons. I also hope Justin Bieber reaches puberty soon or he should seek medical attention. Mick Jagger are you listening....come back to me! Sadly I now stand in the grocery store line or sit in my Dentist's office tempted to pick up the "People" but knowing it will only serve to remind me that the pages are filled with stars who could call me Nana.

I Am Not a Bar Loser Anymore

2011-02-21T12:32:00.000-08:00

Pick- up bars were never my idea of a way to spend an evening. If I did go out with my friends to a bar I brought a book because men never cozied up to me. I was brunette. My girlfriends were blondes. They got all the attention and I was shoved out of the way on the race to get to them. So there I was the lone brunette with my head down reading. This actually was ok with me because I never took "bar speak" which I think consists mostly of monosyllables. I didn't develop the fine art of idle chit chat. My lightest subject was films by Truffaut. I was alone a lot. Every once in a while a guy would ask me what I was reading and I'd look up long enough to say "I love Salinger, do you?" Conversation over. Bars made me nervous and sweaty.

I spent no time between college and the present going to bars to meet the opposite sex. Unfortunately being single again I find myself facing that option. My skills however remain stuck at bringing reading material. Now it's mostly the New York Times which in an area as conservative/Republican as Palm Desert, CA leaves me alone on my bar stool. I am also still brunette in the land of blondes and relatively flat chested in a sea of cleavage. I made a brief attempt at becoming partially blond and buying a push up bra but apparently didn't fool anyone because I got a lot of reading done. I resigned myself to the fact that I was a bar loser.

Saturday night my lonely bar life changed. I went to "The Nest" in Palm Desert known for being the hottest, oldest and most raucus pick-up place in a 100 mile radius. Yep I'm talkin' old, as the male demographic is probably 60 - 95yrs. Honey, those 95 year olds loved me. Every bad toupee looked my way regardless of my brown hair and lack of cleavage. Even the comb overs were winking at me. I walked by a man who was asleep at a table and he woke up. I had no time to read or talk about foreign films as I was getting hit on from every direction. My head was spinning. I danced with a man who just had a knee and hip replaced ; he was a real tryer but unsteady and might have broken my little toe. I think a guy in a multi-colored sweater tried to sell me a cemetery plot but it was so noisy I could hardly hear him. I'm not exactly sure but I could have sworn I saw a man come out of the bathroom juggling a bottle of Viagra but it could have been Prevecor. The joint was jumpin'. I went from bar loser to the big time in no time.

I might go back but then again I might just have my toe x-rayed and retire a winner.

I Paid $38 for a Dinner Roll

2011-02-14T07:59:00.000-08:00

I hold a world's record. Yes proudly and sadly I hold the world's record for the highest price ever paid for a dinner roll. Not a Picasso, Monet, or Warhol but a puffy slightly stale white roll. It cost $38.00. I'm broken, bankrupt and still hungry. How could something like this happen to the cheapest woman alive? I went to a single's mixer. I have no idea what I was thinking or my better judgment was temporarily corrupted by the notion that someone would ask me to dance. It was called for 6:00 at a local country club. No one in their right mind arrives at a party at the exact time it starts. I was born and raised on the "fashionably late" side of life. I surmised my eta should be 7:00. I shaved both legs, wore a fabulous little black dress and tettered out of the house in my raspberry red Kate Spade high heels for the big event.

Always read an invitation carefully, which of course I didn't. Upon arrival I noticed the woman selling tickets was wearing a cowgirl outfit. "Oh no, was this a theme party?" I cried. She said it was a Texas Hold-um shindig but as I looked into the room thankfully no one was in western gear. I also noticed no one was standing up or mingling, just sitting sedately at tables talking amongst themselves. "Excuse me, but where's the party?" The women pointed to where I was looking. I was tempted to inquire if someone had died before I arrived which cast a pall over the group. I paid the $38 admittance charge asking one last time if I was headed in the right direction. She nodded. I felt ill. As I walked through the room I was certain I was at a wake. These can't be my "peeps" I cried to myself. Btw all the women were blond with life threatening cleavage. Was I in "The Twilight Zone?" "Rod Serling get out here and change everyone back."

I desperately needed a drink and headed to the bar. I plopped down next to a man sitting alone at the far end and quickly pulled out the pen and paper I had brought as a security blanket in case no one talked to me. It was time to write and drink. I spent another $8.00 for the house wine because the $38 didn't cover drinks. I determindly headed over to the buffet because my ticket $$ had to buy me something. Nope, don't eat meat so the hamburgers were out, as were the greasy acne causing french fries. The fried flattened chicken pieces were looking a little greenish so ixnay that food group. All that was left was a basket of dinner rolls. I picked one up and placed it on my giant plate. Slightly weak from hunger I walked back to the bar. It was now 8:00 and the room was growing empty. "Wait, I just got here, don't go," I thought about yelling. "I even shaved my legs!" I queried the man next to me who explained everyone arrived exactly at 6:00, mingled at the bar for twelve minutes and then sat down to eat. I think I burst into tears. "Who arrives on time? What happened to fashionably late? It's early and if you all go I paid $38 for a roll!" He tried to calm me down. Three people were dancing which actually hurt my eyes as I watched them. Does rhythm leave your body at 60? By 8:15 we were almost the last two standing or sitting as the case may be.

I walked despondantly to my car realizing I should have put another roll in my purse.

Have You Seen My Password?

2011-02-07T09:56:00.000-08:00

I am ready to pull my hair out, run around the house screaming or throw myself on the bed sobbing. On second thought I'd hate to ruin my hair as I just paid a fortune to get it cut. Running and screaming is a real possibility as is sobbing. What could drive me to such mania? What else - I can't remember the password for my MacBook. I feel on the verge of password insanity. I know I wrote it down on the notepad I brought to my last lesson at the Apple store. One of the Apple boy toys and I re-set my password and I specifically jotted it down so as not to forget it. HA! Ironically and tragically I forgot where I put the freaking pad! I've ripped my desk apart three times and nada. I just tore through every compartment in my car and zippo. I did find the lipstick I was looking for however which is a relief.

I am sick sick sick of this password world. Who's idea were all these codes? I need to blame someone. I've tried every combination of words I can think of to get into my MacBook. It does this crazy little shimmy shake denying me access. "Let me in, it's me, you stupid little white box! I hate you!" I'm out of control and developing a nasty itchy rash on my cheek. Now I have no computer access and need a Dermatologist. Sobbing seems more and more like a good plan. I find myself longing for the days of envelopes, stamps and good penmanship.

Alas my afternoon will be spent in the bright white Apple store on El Paseo at the mercy and schedule of the boys at the Genius Bar. "Oh little brainiac boy disciples of Steven Jobs help me find my way. I'm lost again, need your guidance and more importantly your pity." I'd like to just throw my MacBook at the wall and hope that would trigger it's memory of my password. Although that would feel cathartic, I stop to scratch my rash and think better of it. Once again I am reminded of the fact that I am a computer loser. With my head bowed in dismay I tuck the MacBook under my arm and head out into the world to find my password. I should pack a lunch.

A Brief History of Dating

2011-01-31T08:53:00.000-08:00

I have a long dating history. I was good at getting dates. It was almost a no brainer. I'd walk out the door and by the time I got back home I'd have met some cool guy who asked me out. Ok, I admit I usually had my cheat sheet with me, my dog, but the two of us were a dynamic date nabbing duo. Me and Jonah, my Golden Retriever, met my first husband in Central Park, easy as pie. Jonah had his eye on the prize that day. Thanks buddy. Whatever street the two of us sauntered down some New York cutie would stop, pet the dog, and ask me out. That was too easy. I met husband two without a critter in the lobby of the Museum of Modern Art. I had inadvertantly spent all but $2.00 on my way over at the Coach store on Madison Ave. and didn't have enough left to buy a ticket. I was meeting a friend and needed to think fast as I was late. Being resourceful I perused the ticket line and decided I had to borrow a dollar from someone until I found my girlfriend. A light when off in my head. Why not ask the best looking guy in sight for the temporary loan?! Husband #2 appeared. Voila.

Getting a date was not a problem whether serendipitously meeting in a coat room, bookstore, movie line, restaurant, or out running , by the time I got home the phone was ringing. I had confidence baby! On the other hand single men were everywhere. It was like fishing in a stocked pond. Boy oh boy do things change. I have dating whiplash. Where did the all the boys go Connie Francis? Now no matter where I walk even with my super model Yellow Lab "Elliot" aka "Potato" we never meet one single man. The dog gets a few pats on the head as he looks longingly at folks for food but zippo in the date catching department. I've tried hanging out in the produce aisle of the grocery store - it's a lonely place but I do like blueberries on sale. It has dawned on me that I should mozy over to the colon health aisle but can't figure out how I'd strike up a clever conversation.

With 50% of the population divorced you'd think a friend would fix me up but they don't. HA! This paucity of men has driven me to internet dating sites. I swear on Dr. Phil's life I've tried to be an honest responsible internet participant. I don't lie about my weight, height, and just a teenie weenie bit on my age. Teenie I say! I am not lying when I tell you everyone is lying. I've had a litany of goofy guys who spend hours talking or writing to me and then disappear. It couldn't have been anything I did as they never even met me. It's a gamble over in internet land - a giant roulette wheel and you can spin it forever. Meeting the old fashioned way seems to be a thing of the past. I'm not a gambler and anything that spins makes me dizzy. I'm back to thinking I'll take my chances outside with the dog.

Rebuttal Blog from Dennis - Why Men Don't Have Male Friends

2011-01-25T09:25:00.000-08:00

The answer always comes down to S-E-X!!! Yes, the scope of a man's friendship list is directly proportionate to the chances he has to engage in sex. Let me expound. The single man as defined by his "single" status usually has only one thing on his mind; Sex-how to get it, how soon will he get it and all the incumbant scenarios thereof. If he is a real multi-tasker, he can also squeeze in a nano second of thought about money and sports.

Let's start with the truly single man. He has lots of acquaintenances, but they are usually old friends from college or highschool and those slowly dwindle away due to time and marital status. As the single man navigates through life his focus becomes, the next woman in his life. This leaves a list of former girlfriends and their friends, along with any new targets of his affection. Ulterior motives are always the key component to the "friendship circle" for any single man. His intentions are to catch the ones he hasn't dated and to possibly reinvigorate the ones from his past. Single men have no problem sleeping with a woman even if there is no possibility of a future. They view their past loves as a "stepping stone" to that next great relationship. Sorry to disillusion you but that is just the way men are wired. The consequences of the "casual hookup" are never thought about until after the fact. The only other scenario is the BFF woman who can also serve as the portal to being fixed up with all her "hot" friends. Again, sex rears its ugly head.

Now, let's look at the other side of the coin - the married or committed man. He has a woman in his life and more importantly, the regularity of "sex." Therefore, his scope of friends is not limited to women but rather a plethora of men friends. This fellow has the all important component of a "main squeeze." His friends consist of , 1) the mates of the couples that he and his partner socialize with 2) his beer-guzzling macho friends who accompany him on the proverbial "mans weekends" in Vegas, skiing or fishing(ha). However, these excursions consist of drinking and ooglng women that they have virtually no chance of ever connecting with. Probably their boorish behavior is the key ingredient for their failure to connect. The re-enforcement of their behavior is the main bonding agent. Plus the fact that unless they totally screw up there are no consequences from the "little woman" for their weekend of debauchery which includes getting drunk and pretending that all they women they see will want them.

To summarize, the friendship list of males is directly related to what their marital or relationship status is at the time. Single = women friends. Attached = male friends. I neither defend or subscribe to these theories but am just the reporter of things as I see them. So please remember "don't shoot the messenger," just use the info to your advantage.

Dennis, Rancho Mirage, CA

Why Don't Men have Male Friends?

2011-01-24T08:37:00.001-08:00

"I have no male friends." I can't count the number of times I've heard a man say that.

"Huh?" I always respond. How is it possible that men rarely if ever have male pals? And why are they always smiling when they proclaim this like it's a badge of honor? I stare wide eyed at the man who just proudly made the statement and think I would never admit it even under oath.

"How is that possible?" I always ask.

"I only have female friends." This is always the answer.

"Why, what's wrong with men?" Again always my next question.

"Well women are easier to talk to. I don't know. I just like being with women better."

"What's wrong with talking to other men?" What's wrong with this picture?

"What am I supposed to talk to them about?" Am I supposed to answer that? Do I look like a therapist?

I'm suspicious, very suspicious. Why can't they have the same conversation with a man that they have with a woman? Women want men to have friends of the same gender. I don't think men get this. Besides which, and here's where I'm sure I'll be tarred and feathered...are men capable of being a woman's friend void of any sexual motivation or desire? HA!

I say it's possible but not probable. I'll even go so far as to admit that my closest male friends and I have, "been there done that". We've been lovers and passed into the land of friends or at one time rejected the sexual possibility but liked each other's company enough to morph into buddies. Sex was a moot issue. I believe this the key to the male/female friendship.

On the flipside there are men who have so many male pals that women are always on the back burner. Been there done that also. In one case my boyfriend came over to happily announce he was planning a vacation to Las Vegas. I'm thinking "YES!" We had never been away together and what a great idea. I was psyched until he told me he was going with his best friend Jim. "Sounds like fun, and I never want to see you again," I said as I kicked his sorry ass out the door.

I'm ready, willing and prepared to hear from men on this subject. Give me your best shot. Women give me more ammo.

Further Evidence I've Become My Mother

2011-01-17T09:37:00.000-08:00

"Hi Jesse, it's Mom, so how are you? Busy at the hospital? That's good I hope. I'm fine. I've been working hard on my blog and my Facebook page is really growing. Oh, and now I have a weekly radio show. It's called "YAK." Great name isn't it? The weather has been nice and warm. Ethan, Colby and Ross were here last week . We all went out to dinner..... (20 minutes later )... Well be sure and call me when you get this message." I hung up and ran directly for the Kettle One. OMG, it's undeniable and the evidence continues to mount - I'm becoming my Mother!

It drives me nuts when I walk in her house and she's on the phone chatting for 30 minutes before she speaks the tell tale words, " Ok darling call me when you get this message." "Mother, who talks to an answering machine that long?! No one in their right mind has a conversation with a machine." I shake my head in disbelief. She wags a finger of disapproval at me and asks if I'm staying for dinner. I've tried to listen to the endless messages she leaves me but after 10 minutes I'm tired of holding the phone to my ear. Although she has devised a foolproof method of making me pay attention until the end. It never fails her very last sentence is always "Gail, I have bad news call me." Her alternative ending is even trappier, "Gail , I have medical news call me right away." OY!

My son and I chuckle about the narratives she's capable of leaving on a machine. In truth after you listen to one there is no need to call back as she's already brought you up to speed. I was convinced I could never ever leave a 20 minute message - until I did. As hard as I try not to become like Mom, is it possible that's impossible?

My New Life of Dating Guppies

2011-01-10T09:47:00.000-08:00

Middle age dating sucks. The days of "there are plenty of fish in the sea" have turned into "there are approximately four guppies in a toxic pond floating on their side." Ha! Sadly, even dating guppies requires time and energy. I've already bemoaned how much effort it takes to get ready: showering, hair washing, blow drying, make-up, picking an outfit, shoes, and purse, to say nothing of the ever present dilemma - to shave or not to shave my legs. Whew, that's a lot of work and the reward is a man I met on-line because no one fixes me up. Yep, not one friend knows an available man. Fifty percent of the population is divorced and yet no one knows these people. This continues to puzzle me.

The only place to get a date these days is on an interent site, which at best is a crap shoot. I hate to gamble but I like to go out. I pick and choose as carefully as I can short of hiring a detective to pre-screen for me. Lately however, the best part of dating cyber-men has been coming home and thinking up fun nicknames for them. My evenings out have run the gamut from trying to stay awake to being taken on a dinner date without dinner. This could be depressing but for the joy of giving each of them a little pet name: Mr. Dinnerless Dinner Date, Mr. 1973, Mr. Sweatpants are for the Treadmill, Mr. Wake Me when the Check Comes, and Mr. Not Quite Divorced. This last nickname did not bring me joy.

"Gail, Mr. Not Quite Divorced falls in the same category as being a little bit pregnant," my girlfriend Terry pointed out. Exactly. I couldn't help but wonder, did he forget he was still married? Is that a big "whoopsie?" His profile status said "divorced." Although if he wrote "not quite divorced" he'd be alone a lot. I think "Mr Not Quite Divorced" needs to come with a notarized letter from his almost ex wife stating that unless hell freezes over there is no way in this life or any other she would take him back....and yet even that could be iffy. Nope a "not quite divorced guppy" needs to swim in the "still married" pond. Thankfully I didn't shave my legs.

Requiem for a Laptop

2011-01-03T09:31:00.000-08:00

2011 was not even 12 hours old when disaster struck. I abandoned any thoughts of my New Year's resolutions earlier than planned and switched into a state of high anxiety. The day started out innocently enough - I dragged my sleepy sorry self over to my desk and turned on my laptop. I turned on my laptop....I turned on my laptop......I screamed, "Why won't it start?" Beefy Boy had no clue, got up and stood by his bowl. I stared at the little machine as if magically I could will it on. Ever so slowly it flickered into existence but wouldn't connect to the internet. I plugged and unplugged every cord connected to the metal box. I did a virus check. I de-fragged. I have no idea what that meant but it sounded crucial. I clicked on all the icons that looked helpful and then I went searching for a baseball bat. "Work or die!" I yelled.

I was in techno-meltdown. I was short of breath and patience. I didn't know what I needed first: drugs, a martini , an Emergency Room, or Bill Gates. My friend Dennis tried to calm me down and suggested I take it to "Best Buy" for a check up. "Check up, I think it needs life support" I cried as I grabbed my laptop and hightailed it to the car. I was tempted to tie it to the bumper and drag it behind me. Thankfully even in my psycho state I knew that might feel cathartic but was counter-productive. I ran into the store mowing down everyone in my path. "Heads up I have a dying laptop."

I threw myself and the computer on the Geek Squad counter and burst into tears. "Help me Geeek man, I can't get on the internet, my Dell is trying to die." He ignored my histrionics and looked at the machine with consideration. "Ma'am this laptop is at least 5 years old." Uh oh, that sounded fatal. "Have you ever changed the battery or AC cord?" "No," I blushed in my techno-ignorance. "Well you should have by now. You could try that and we could give it a thorough check-up but that's a band-aid and not a cure." Not a cure? I needed a cure, a vaccine, a pill, a transplant. "I suggest you're better off putting the money in a new laptop." I think I lost consciousness. "New....computer...."I stuttered, as I saw the room start to spin. "Yes Ma'am." I wasn't ready to let my little Dell go - it was my first. A new computer might make my head explode. I just learned to copy and paste on this one. I finally figured out the paper clip symbol stands for "attach" and can actually do it without crying. Only last week I learned you could have more than one window open at a time.

Is there liturgy for a laptop at the end? And how long after it's demise is it appropriate to buy a new one?

Will Hugh Hefner Explode From Too Much Viagra?

2010-12-28T08:20:00.001-08:00

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

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

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

Dressing for Successful Dating or Don't Ask Me

2010-12-20T08:59:00.000-08:00

I'm an unconcerned dresser. I get up in the morning throw gym shorts and a sweat shirt hoodie on over the boxer shorts and t-shirt in which I slept and think I'm presentable. It's scary but quick and requires no thinking. Truthfully I'm in this snappy outfit until around noon. If I do have to go anywhere I usually put on jeans and a short or long sleeved t-shirt depending on the weather. Not a fashionable statement but again, mindless. My Mother on the flipside spends half the morning going from closet to closet to closet deciding what to wear. This includes her shoe and purse selection. I did not inherit these genes. When I visit her she stares at what I'm wearing and asks me if I want a piece of her clothing as a gift. It usually comes with a cape. "No Mom I hate capes," I whine every time and head for the fridge.

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

Saturday night it took six outfit changes to get out the door. White v-neck shirt with black skirt and little gray jacket was my initial instinct. Nope, wrong jacket and the skirt looked weird with the t-shirt. I flung it off. The black skirt with black top and black blazer I tried on next would only work if we were eating at a funeral parlor. Off it went. Little black cocktail-ish dress? Nah too dressy . I whipped it onto the bed. Skinny jeans with white shirt and black blazer. Very Soho but not exactly right. I threw the shirt across the room - it landed on the dog who looked dizzy from the watching the flying clothes. I was close to tears but not close to being dressed. I rummaged through the remaining things in my closet but it all became one black blur and I was running late. I desperately pulled out a tight black v-neck shirt, put the skinny jeans back on and black blazer. Hmmm, not bad, understated yet chic and besides which I was worried I'd damaged my rotator cuff from throwing clothes around. I gave a thumbs up to "Beefy Boy" and he followed me with t-shirt still draped on his head.

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

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

2010-12-14T07:51:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

Going on a Date is Hard Work

2010-12-10T09:16:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

Ninety Four Year Old Man Looking for a Hook Up. Interested?

2010-12-06T10:02:00.002-08:00

I've come to the conclusion that men are never too old to pick up women. This is unfortunate because at some point it's really creepy. I think there should be a cut-off age but sadly there isn't. I witnessed a really really old guy hitting on women in a bar in Palm Desert, Ca on Friday night. Now granted the average age out here is over 65 but he hadn't seen that number in decades. There he sat wearing a straw hat, dark aviator sun glasses, white crew neck sweater, and black collared shirt looking exactly like Truman Capote. Nuzzled very close to him on his right was a plasticized 50ish buxom blonde in a tight, short, low cut white dress and push up bra. He looked like the cat that swallowed the canary or a boat load of Viagra. I was staring and he was grinning. I tried to turn away but couldn't. Being inquisitive and incredulous I asked the waitress his age. "Oh he's 94. He's here all the time." I didn't know whether to applaud his temerity or order a shot of Pepto Bismol for my creeping nausea. I could only conclude he must be the richest man west of the Mississippi.

I turned away to take a sip of my wine and when I looked back he had another woman sitting on his left. In the blink of an eye Bea Arthur's double had materialized. My faux Truman Capote was double dipping. I pestered the waitress for more info "Who's that new woman and what's up with the blonde?" She spilled the beans. "The blonde is just his friend. He had me give his card to the other woman so she would join him." The card must read "I'm over 85, have a chronic cough and extremely wealthy" because she had mosied over and plopped down next to him. Oh no he was kissing her ear and nibbling on her neck. Again I couldn't look away but wanted to. Or had he just fallen asleep? It seemed so wrong like catching your parents kiss when you were little. Ewwwwww.

Uh oh and oh no, the old guy was looking in my direction. I think he crooked his finger for me to come over. I grabbed the edge of the bar so I didn't faint. I must admit he was a nervy critter. I can't imagine hanging out in a bar at 94 cruising for young hotties which at that age would be 75 year olds. I think I'd be home watching "Sex and the City" re-runs and dreaming about wearing high heels without falling.

Schlepping and Talking

2010-12-03T08:46:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

"The Housewives of Beverly Hills" Scared the Crap Out of Me

2010-11-29T06:55:00.000-08:00

I never liked to watch scary TV when I was growing up. The most frightening I could tolerate was"The Twilight Zone." "Shock Theater" was out of the question as was anything with Frankenstein , The Mummy , or a monster who could later haunt me in my dreams. I had to face it, I was a scardy cat and wimp. Ixnay to creepy and freaky. I've been playing it safe ever since. No Freddy Kruger, or folks wielding a chain saw pass in front of these eyes. I thought I was safe until I mistakenly saw "The Housewives of Orange County" in their blindingly colored clothes, big nests of hair, and gigantic breasts. It was shock and not a lot of awe. I thankfully repressed the crazy woman tribe of Orange County but was on the treadmill at the gym last week and stumbled upon the equally frightening "Housewives of Beverly Hills."

I almost lost a limb watching the flashy trashy girls. I was staring so intently at them I forgot to keep my feet moving and started to fly off the machine. Happily I caught myself and didn't have to be hauled off in an ambulance and miss the show. Who are these women? This haunts me along with the thought that their plastic surgeons need to go back to medical school and consider a different specialty. I wanted to hide my eyes but couldn't. Oy! And for the life of me I don't know why they want such giant breasts. It seemed like they were always falling out of their tops and I could reach out and catch them. And why why why would you want your lips really big and puffy like marshmellows? Surprisingly no one had a lisp. I also can't imagine how they breathe in such tightly fitting clothes but somehow the girls manage. I could never hold my stomach in for more than 10 minutes at a stretch. They must have very good lungs.

The scariest part of the show however was how much money two of the wives spent on birthday parties for their respective two and four year old daughters. "Mom, why didn't you spend $60,000 for my fourth birthday, or the paltry sum of $12,000 for my second? All I got was pin the tail on the donkey and bingo. I would have loved a live petting zoo, cho cho train, $20,000 worth of flowers and a song composed just for me. Although it is really sad to peak as a female at the age of two or four.

The "Housewives of Beverly Hills" scared the crap out of me. I can't understand why or how they're on TV. So far none of the wives have caused me to wake up screaming but personally I have ruled out cosmetic surgery. I've also decided to rent "Friday the 13th" and "The Texas Chain Saw Massacre" as comic relief.

Confessions of a Texting Loser

2010-11-23T07:41:00.000-08:00

Please don't text me. I'm constantly confused how to receive or respond to a message. I think my phone has a special tone when a text comes through but I'm not sure. I get jumpy and slightly sweaty when I hear the sound. "Why is someone texting me?" I groan in frustration. Then I irrationally yell at the phone, "Why couldn't you just call ?" I press every button in sight to find the screen with the teenie tiny symbols so I can locate the little picture that represents "texts." A half hour has gone by and I have to pee. If I get to the actual text without bursting into tears I pray it's something that doesn't require a response. That never happens. I'm tempted to call the person but realize a sign of personal growth would be to stop crying and text back.

Responding to a text gives me high anxiety. Last week I had to answer a message asap. It took seven attempts to try and spell out three words. "I'm riding Sunday" came out "Imridinsudy." I tried again. "Im rdhg stnday" I was proud I found the "space" key but started frantically pacing because I couldn't get any of the letters right. I was cracking under the pressure. I needed water and protein. I finally decided to reduce my answer to "yes" because it only had 3 letters and I could find them. I didn't care whether or not it made sense because at least it was a word. I felt alone and isolated in my technological inadequacy. Am I the only person in the world besides my 92 year old Mother who can't text?

I have to face it; I'm a talker not a texter. I watch the fingers of 10 year olds fly across the keys of their cell phones in total amazement. I see people walk and text and think they should be on "America's Got Talent." I'm a texting loser. Please I'm begging you only contact me if you want to talk. Hpythnksgvng!

"Peter Pan Come Get Me and Don't Forget the Fairy Dust"

2010-11-18T07:05:00.000-08:00

Why was I in such a hurry to grow up? This question has haunted me because I recently saw a production of "Peter Pan." Maybe the flying boy who sprinkled fairy dust on the unsuspecting John, Michael, and Wendy was on to something when he declared, "I'll never grow up, not me." Peter may have wanted to stay young forever but I didn't. My urge to age started with shaving my legs. "Mom, please please, why can't I shave my legs yet?" It represented being a big girl and truthfully they looked gross with my white anklets. I also cried and cried to have a bra regardless of whether or not I needed one. I didn't, but how could I face being 12 and still in an undershirt? Decades later shaving my legs is a pain in the ass and sometimes I'm barely motivated enough to get to the second leg. I also can't help but wonder what was wrong with those nice comfy little undershirts? I hate bras and am forever squirming and pulling them down. I also long to be standing on the corner waiting for the summer camp bus. The thought brings tears to my eyes. What was my rush?

For some crazy reason I couldn't wait to be out of the house and on my own. Although I did grow up indoctrinated with the ill-conceived notion that I was going to marry a "prince" so naturally I was in a hurry. Me and my fabulously handsome wealthy guy would live happily ever after in the fantasy land of grown-ups. What was I smoking ? I won't answer that but, "Help! Peter Pan come get me!" Prince #1 didn't work out or Prince #2. It was a lot easier to have a relationship in sixth grade . I wonder if my grade school cutie Roger ever got married? I also read 36 books that year and haven't matched the number since - no time because I'm too busy working and when I have a moment I'm exhausted and asleep after two paragraphs. I repeat, what was my rush?

Mom and Dad, thanks for never making me take out the garbage, do laundry, yard work, pay for electricity, gas, the phone , my braces, taxes, or health care . Childhood definitely had its perks. "Peter Pan come get me and don't forget the fairy dust."

"The Dating Game" Comes to Middle Age and the Radio

2010-11-13T10:24:00.001-08:00

Remember the TV show "The Dating Game?" I used to watch and wish I was one of the hot bachelorettes who got asked those really dumb questions. Sadly I never was and didn't have a micro mini skirt anyway. But opportunity might be knocking as "Here Women Talk" is bringing the show back to us . They have "Tom" a 53 year old divorced guy ready, willing and anxious to stick his neck out to look for love . "Here Women Talk" is searching for dates for our boy Tom but as fate would have it, it's being reincarnated as a radio show! No one would ever date me if all they heard was my voice. They'd turn off the radio and run out of the room screaming and covering their ears. There's no way I'd be picked I'm afraid, but there must be a lot of women with melodious voices anxious to try their hand and play. In fact click this link if you want to vie for a date with Tom: http://herewomentalksocial.com/profile/TomDatingGame.com

I know my line of questioning Tom or any middle aged man would be much different now than it would have been in my twenties or thirties. Personally I'd need a lot more information... a lot more! "You're cute, I'll marry you" is over. My Dating Game would go something like this:

"Bachelor #1 - Do you have a financial statement handy for my perusal?"

"Bachelor #2 - How many times a day does your ex-wife call?"

"Bachelor #3 - How many hours of sports do you watch a day, month and calendar year?"

"Bachelor #1 How often do you talk to your Mother?"

"Bachelor #2 - What medications are you on? And are your joints real?

"Bachelor #3 - How many times a week, month or year would you want to have sex?"

"Bachelor #1 - How's your hearing?....I SAID, HOW'S YOUR HEARING?"

"Bachelor #2- On average how many times a night do you get up to pee?"

"Bachelor #3 - Do you fall asleep before, during, or after the news?"

I'm certain I'd end up unable or unwilling to chose #1,2, or 3. I'm picky, alone and ask too many questions. I can't wait however, to hear Tom and the crafty quiz he has for the bachelorettes. If you want to tune in to find out if our man finds a date here's the scoop: Monday Nov.22 : http://www.herewomentalk.com/ The John Banks Show "Bringing Man out of the Cave" 2:00- 3:00 est.

"Mirror Mirror on the Wall Am I My Mother After All?"

2010-11-08T07:47:00.000-08:00

"Mirror mirror on the wall am I my Mother after all?" Crap. "How could this happen?" I sobbed. Except there I was in the bathroom holding one of the jars of face cream she gave me. I stared at it resistantly yet her words rang in my ears,

"Gail, this is very expensive and for your neck. Neck cream is important. It's from the "Sisley" counter at Neimans."

"Huh? Neck cream, there's special stuff just for the neck?" I'm thinking she's been tricked once again by one of her cosmetic gurus.

"Yes, you shouldn't ignore your neck," she insisted. I must admit her neck was lookin' pretty good. I took a quick peek at mine and almost screamed. Why didn't I have her neck? Could it be her magic cream produced results or was I getting Dad's turkey jowels? It was hard but I held back tears.

"Oh and here's some very expensive Sisley body cream for dry areas." Dry areas? Mom likes expensive, she thinks it means better. Admitedly, at 92 she's either a freak of nature or the damn products work. Curses!

I have bags of masks, lotions and potions she's given me over the years. I've never used them , rejecting the notion that they do anything, no less turn back the clock. Her fancy facial masks took too much time and looked really creepy. She however, held fast , regardless of my laughing at her face caked with some bank breaking formula. I can still conjure up the smell of Estee Lauder wafting from her bathroom when I was growing up. I would gag and run outside. I swore I'd never waste all that time on beauty.

Uh oh, it seems time has caught up with me. One day I have no wrinkles, a dewey complexion, and a jaw line and then poof...gone. What happened? Where was the "girl" in the mirror? I found myself asking the BIG question - could neck cream really help? Do those little jars Mom gave me hold the answer? I had to find out or drag all the mirrors out to the garbage. I slathered the slimey lotion on my neck and plastered my face with some creamy white stuff that smelled like weeds. I went to bed pretty slippery. I'm Mom.

Breaking News - There's Too Much Breaking News!

2010-11-01T07:20:00.000-07:00

Growing up I had a little red leather diary. It was locked at all times. No one had the key except me. All my thoughts, dreams and childhood humiliations were safe from the outside world. In that red book I wrote - "Dear Diary: Roger talked to me today after school. I don't know if he likes me though because he walked home with Susan instead. What more can I do? Maybe I'll wear my best dress tomorrow and see what happens. I hate Susan." After each entry I would hide the secret book away so no one like my snoopy little sister could find it. Oh god if any of my thoughts got out I'd be ruined and could never go to school again.

What the hell happened to private thoughts? Just a week ago I announced on Twitter and Facebook that I can't find a bra I like. In fact "I hate my bra" has become an ongoing publically announced personal drama. Excuse me? I said that? Yes, I did. Not only that, but Saturday I mentioned to the entire world that I had an ice pack on my butt because I fell off my horse. HA! I've openly announced: how looking in the mirror scares the bejesus out of me, that I hate national holidays, don't know if I resemble Carrie Bradshaw or Roseanne, am the queen of one date, can't follow Mapquest directions, did not have sex with Tiger Woods, and that I ran into a man I dated who had no recollection of who I was! I also announced my mother's age. She wants to kill me. Nothing is sacred or secret. We have become the collective consciousness of the "National Enquirer."

There are no secrets. Zippo. How did this happen? It's 24/7 breaking news and personal exposure. I know too much about everyone, including people I don't know, don't want to know and will never meet. Why isn't this embarrassing? As I mentioned I'm as guilty as the gazillion folks on Twitter and Facebook. I doubt anyone, even my closest friends care about the fact that I can't find a new bra. Although if I did have sex with Tiger Woods they would want the details but alas I could only announce I was sitting on a bag of ice. Btw, that seemed to have helped. See I did it again. Who cares? I miss my little red diary with all my secrets locked safely away. Except if you do know where I can buy a bra Facebook or Tweet me.

Japenese Food is Complicated but Colorful

2010-10-29T08:24:00.000-07:00

I love Japanese food but it's confusing. "Let's go for Japanese!" sends chills down my spine and I feel a nervous rash breaking out on my cheek. Japanese food sure looks fun though doesn't it? It's fresh (hopefully), colorful, and groovy to eat. I'm handy with the chopsticks and don't mind resorting to my fingers if I can't grab something and it falls on my plate. Admitedly, I'm totally excited until I read the menu. Then my brain starts to hurt. OMG what do all these crazy combinations mean, and do they really eat avocadoes in Japan? Why, does every roll include the California fruit? Are the Japanese longing to surf and drink a hearty Cabernet also?

I spend more time decifering the menu than eating. Thankfully some Japanese restaurants come with cheat sheets so I can match the name of the mysterious fish to a picture. I have to make absolutely certain I'm not eating anything that has legs. Creepy! No legs for this girl. I study the menu like it's an SAT exam and everyone else is happily ready to order. This makes me anxious and I feel my rash getting bigger. My friends rattle out what they want and I'm still at "huh?" The waitress stares at me and I start asking questions like "Are you sure this doesn't have legs? "No ma'am no legs," she reassures me but what if she's just saying that? I'm torn between seven different varieties of rolls and 12 kinds of sushi. I'm crazily reading and matching tekka-maki, kappa-maki, hamaguri and, tamago with pictures. I want to blurt out "I'll have a turkey burger" but know that will ruin everyone's evening. I swig down my large size Saki to relieve the pressure I'm under and promise myself from now on I'll only go out for Italian.

Ultimately I always place the same sushi order : 3 salmon, 2 tuna, 1 yellow tail, 1 shrimp and 1 tamago. I eat every last piece of fish and grain of rice. I'm still hungry but thankfully my rash is gone. Later that night I order a pizza.

"Tell" Even if Your Best Friend Doesn't Ask

2010-10-26T07:35:00.000-07:00

"I didn't want to hurt your feelings, but I never thought he was right for you." Excuse me?! How many people have heard that before? And even worse it was your best friend who finally spit it out. Your closest friend in the world with whom you've shared every secret except that incredibly freaking important one. My question is why why why don't the folks that didn't want to "hurt your feelings" speak up sooner? Wouldn't it have been so much better to hear these opinions before the devastating break-up? When you were so blinded by love, lust, or infatuation that you couldn't think or see straight maybe a word or two of warning from a friend would have been nice! If that doesn't work a quick slap across the face is tasteless but appropriate.

My Dad has come up with some doozies as I sat in the living room sobbing. "He was a freeloader." Oh that's comforting, as I lunged for another Kleenex. "Dad, what does that mean?" I doubted it would make me happier but I was curious. "Didn't you see how he always ate so much food when he was at a family function." Huh? "He never stopped eating." "Dad he could afford food," I choked out as I didn't want to think I spent four years with someone who only liked me for the free meals. "Mom, what did you think?" "He was too Gentile." I was speechless and looked around for a bible. I think a big chocolate cake would have been more comforting.

I admit it would be hard to tell a friend you think their significant other treats them badly or worse is cheating on them. How do you start that conversation? "I can't believe how cold and snowy it's been this winter. I really need a vacation and think you should come with me because your husband is having an affair." Do not say this in a public place and immediately administer a Valium. As difficult as it is to believe, "I didn't want to hurt your feelings but...." is a much harder pill to swallow.

I'm Sorry Bergdorfs but I LOVE TARGET

2010-10-22T06:48:00.000-07:00

I love Target. I know I've said it before and I'm saying it again - Target is the new Bergdorfs. If you're feeling every so slightly pinched for cash and your t-shirts have tiny little rips under the arms like mine don't despair. Jump in the car and head out to that really cool giant T . Last night I was running around the t-shirt department laughing and throwing shirt after shirt in my cart. Take that Bergdorfs; they were cute, almost cotton, long sleeved, short sleeved and only $10. I was wiping away tears. I can't remember the last time I was that happy before the cocktail hour. I wasn't done, no siree. I needed boxer shorts to sleep in as mine have been washed so many times I only had one pair left that hadn't desintegrated. My original plan was the Gap, but be still my heart! An entire rack of boxers for - drum roll - $5.00 a pair. I think I fainted. I hope Bill Clinton knows about this bargain.

I had to face it, I may love the Gap for jeans but ixnay to the $15 boxers. It was then I spotted racks and racks of bras. Ah ha! Could it be I would finally find one I liked and it would be really cheap? I had recently bought a bra I hated and have yet to figure out another use for it. Any ideas? It's possibly small enough to be a rainhat for a cat . Although the lingerie department was terribly tempting my "shopping meter" was up. I had already stayed 30 minutes longer than I've ever spent in any store except The Wine Discount Warehouse.

As I pulled money out of my wallet to pay I spotted my Saks, Bergdorfs, Neimans, and Bloomdales charge cards. I longed for those stores for a brief moment and then got over it.

Wedding Announcements Can Ruin a Perfectly Nice Sunday

2010-10-18T10:49:00.001-07:00

My sister Terry is mad and on the warpath again. It happens every Monday like clockwork. The phone rings and,

"Do you want to feel really bad about yourself... and not only yourself but your kids?" She doesn't stop for me to respond but continues, "I hate the bridal announcements in the Sunday New York Times. Every week it makes me crazy. I mean, who are these people?"

Sadly, I know exactly what she's talking about and how she feels. Reading about the brides, grooms AND their parents could send me to therapy or a cocktail lounge on an emergency basis. Each bride or groom has: saved the lives of hundreds of homeless people by the age of 20, climbed Mt. Everest more than once, earned a Ph.d in English and Microbiology, created a software program during their senior year at an Ivy League school and sold it for $50million , lived in a tent in the subSahara tending to draught victims or is "on track" to be the youngest Senator in U.S. history. Who are these kids?

It gets worse. The parents of these wunderkind are weapons of ego destruction. Both Mother and Father alike have: cured some form of Cancer, discovered a new gene therapy that will eradicate all diseases that start with the letter "M", produced seven Oscar winning movies, run the campaigns of three Presidents , written a Pulitzer prize winning novel which was turned into a film that grossed $300 million, helped get Nelson Mandella released from prison, or knows Oprah. I have weekly self loathing and throw the bridal section in the garbage without bothering to re-cycle. I'm frantic and need medication.

Between us, Terry and I have three wedding announcements yet to be announced. We've wracked our collective brains as to what we could proclaim in the paper. So far we've come up with: worked selling shoes for a day, candy striper for one semester senior year in high school (with pictures to prove it), grocery store check-out girl at 16, pizza waitress for 4 hours and 15 minutes in college, waited tables for one lunch hour shift after college, changes the oil every 3,000 miles and in 2009 learned to "copy and paste" on a laptop.

We have six days until the next wedding announcements are released. That's not enough time to even get to the base camp of Mt. Everest but it is enough time to wash the car.

Wanted: A Giant Pedestal for my Next Date

2010-10-15T06:57:00.000-07:00

I have a lovely white pedestal and can't decide what to put on it: a flowering plant, a sculpture, a pre-Columbian pot or a man. This is a big problem because recently I read in order to secure a date, or maintain a relationship I need to put a man up there. Of course this would beg a lot more care and feeding than my other options. To say nothing of the fact that the man unlike the pre-Columbian pot would probably complain . There's a rumor that men are fed up and tired from hoisting women up on pedestals when they were in their twenties. They are mad, and "won't take it anymore." Whoa fellas get a grip. Unless you're in back spasm or have Carpal Tunnel Syndrome I'd say settle down and take a Flexoril. My understanding is these men are now demanding equal pedestal time from women or, out you go! "Hey baby move over or jump off." I bought my pedestal at a re-sale shop so I don't know if it will hold anything over 40 lbs. I'll be dateless but plants are nice.

Truthfully and this is where I'm confused I don't remember spending anytime on a pedestal in my twenties...or thirties or forties...or ...I'm going to stop there for the sake of vanity. Nope, I've been a ground dweller for as long as I can remember. I missed the ancient "pedestal era" and now I have to deal with the backlash? I asked my 33 year old son if he got tired of putting women on pedestals in his twenties. "Mom, what are you talking about? Pedestal? What does that mean?" I decided to ask my 43 year old web-site helper, "Michael, are you tired from putting women....." He stared at me like I was Anita Bryant. My girlfriend Renee said she never met a pedestal bearing man and wanted to know where to find one asap. Too late darlin'.

So what's going on? What is it men want? The word "pedestal" belongs in the dictionary not in a relationship. Call me heretical but I'm from the age of "equals." I think I'll water my plant now.

Men Can't Live Alone -True, False or Urban Legend?

2010-10-11T08:04:00.000-07:00

Boys and girls prepare for battle. My friend Jack says he's tired of women always going on and on about how they are better at living alone than men. "Blah, blah, blah, blah," is apparently all he hears when women start the "men can't live alone conversation." "I've heard it so many times it's taken on mythic proportions," he explained. I think I've made the statement myself I told him, because so many of the widowers or divorcees I've met are re-married in a nano-second. What's wrong with being without a partner for a day or two as long as you have food and water?

"Women always say they can be alone because they have friends to fill their lives. They think men don't and therefore are lonely," he continued. But hang on for his next claim and be ready to take up arms, "Men don't live alone because they don't have to. Most of the women I've dated wanted to live with me." HA! Pistols drawn I say we meet at high noon or the OK Coral. Are the numbers so disproportionate that a man can pick a partner off the "woman tree" out back? I know I can live alone, or almost alone because I've always had a dog. "Beefy Boy" is exceptional company and stares at me adoringly - especially when I'm eating. I also lived solo during my years with Thurber, my Doberman. He did tend to scare dates away but I said they weren't my type if they couldn't get past his grinning white teeth at the top of the stairs.

I think living alone is a blessing and a curse. I think living with someone is a blessing and a curse. Do men have a bigger dating pool from which to chose and can therefore decide in a nano second to no longer be alone? Should women stop stating so assuredly that "men can't live alone?" Shockingly, this Ms. Know-It-All doesn't know. Do you?

World's Shortest Blog or Sam What Are You Thinking?

2010-10-08T07:23:00.000-07:00

They're baaaaaack ...... together.

Is there a therapist who can explain this to me? I'm confused. Are you?

He's Baaaaaaack - No Not Michael Jordan!

2010-10-04T07:25:00.000-07:00

Just when I thought my guy Sam was engaged and off the dating market...he's baaaaaack. Admitedly not as huge an announcement as the return of Michael Jordan but surprising none-the-less. "Wow cute engaged guy what happened?" I was finally beginning to believe that maybe there really is "someone for everyone" as my Mom likes to say or "it only takes one" as my Dad espouses as he stares at me. Sorry folks but my boy Sam is single again after only a few engaged weeks. Whoa that's a mind bender. Thankfully I didn't buy a gift or send a card because then I'd definitely be really sad. I'm cheap we know that. I was excited after what seemed like 300 years on Match.com. that his search for the "right" woman came to an end. I think the site should provide tenure status for people who have been members for over ten years. Free membership for the tenured or at least a health care plan.

Here's the problem in mid-life dating - who really is that person sitting across the table? I went out with a man who seemed perfect for me. He was successful , we laughed, shared the same politics, he was tall... all good until he had the fifth glass of wine. Then my cutie turned into psycho drunk and I was his target. Hey buddy back off and so long Mr. Perfect. Or how about the lawyer I dated with the fabulous second home which he admitted quite happily was owned by the bank because he stopped paying his mortgage so his wife couldn't get it in their divorce settlement. Impressive thinking and bye-bye Mr. Sleezy. And just for giggles, the professor who mentioned with pride the best year of his marriage was the one in which his wife was dying. Uh oh would we only find happiness if he outlived me? Not ready to sign up for that tour of duty, adios Dr. Demento.

Is it necessary to do a complete background check before the first date? By 50 we have so much baggage that a team of Sherpas to schlep it around is pretty much mandatory. (And sadly the closest I'll get to my fantasy of climbing Mt. Everest.) Seeing as how I need to hire a private investigator in order to go on a date I sure hope Match.com likes my tenure idea.

Mirror Mirror on the Wall I'm so Screwed

2010-09-28T07:07:00.000-07:00

OMG just when I thought getting up and looking in the mirror couldn't get any worse I've discovered everyone I know may soon be able to see me first thing in the morning too. Confused? I'm innocently having a nice dinner with my friend Jay and his IT guy Anthony when I noticed they're on the phone to each other. Yes we're all at the same table but they were playing with their new fun toy iPhone4. All of a sudden Jay shoves the little device at me and says "Look, 'Face Time' - it's the future." Lord have mercy on my soul there's his face on the screen and then Anthony's who he was calling. I might have burst into tears or spit out my taco I can't remember. DO YOU KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS? If people can see me when we're on the phone? It means I will need make-up on, hair combed, and in presentable clothes from the minute I wake up until the second I fall asleep. No more ripped gray gym shorts , ratty ponytail, or yesterday's mascara running down my face in the morning. Who am I kidding, that's how I spend half the day. Life in my schleppy clothes will be over. It's like a dagger in my heart.

I'll be visable 24/7! That is a personal nightmare. It will be hell and I love to talk on the phone. If "Face Time" is the future I won't be taking or making calls. What will I do? I'd need help - a live in make-up artist and hair stylist ready to go go go the minute I get up. "Oh god the phone's ringing!" I run to the mirror and realize there is no freaking way I can answer. I grab a cocktail dress out of my closet and put it on over my boxer shorts and ripped t-shirt. But wait, I wore that dress yesterday on the phone. I fling the dress and myself on the bed and start sobbing. I want desperately to answer, I feel the need to talk but can't let anyone see me like this. The pressure and stress mount. I CAN'T TAKE IT. I throw the phone across the room and long for the days of my powder blue princess phone. It's 9:00 a.m.and I'm making a martini to calm my jangled nerves. I hate the future.

My dinner with Jay and IT boy Anthony was ruined. I was reeling from the stress of "Face Time" and a bad taco. Don't call me and I promise not to call you.

Twitter or Neiman Marcus?

2010-09-22T08:04:00.000-07:00

My name is Gail Maria Forrest and I'm a "Twitterholic." There I've said it. Yet strangely I don't feel any better, probably because I'm blogging and not "tweeting." Yes, I'm the same person who thought "Twitter" was a neurological condition and anyone who "tweeted" should seek immediate medical attention or take up residence in a bird sanctuary. I felt inept, lonely and useless because I had no ability to participate in the new "social media" world. I could barely figure out Facebook. The pressure of finding "friends" made me anxious and break-out. What if you have no friends? Or just three and they're not Facebooking -is it a new verb? What if you have a page that's blank except for your lone photo? OMG what is worse than that except being back in high school? And what about the pictures and photo albums everyone posts? I'm a photo album loser and don't have a digital camera. My last camera was a Brownie.

I had to take serious stock of myself ... if I couldn't Facebook how could I possibly join "Twitter?" A site that demands you express yourself in 140 characters. "Hey, I have a lot to say I absolutely refuse to shorten my sentences and write in morse code (I just aged myself). As fate and horror would have it my literary agent Laurie told me I had to hightail it into the 21st century join Twitter and have followers. It sounded scary and oddly liturgical. Martini in hand www.gonepausal.com joined.

I've become a Twitter junkie. It's fun, it's easy and who needs 140 characters? It's too many. I can now express myself in under 100. Sometimes I have 130 left over. I wonder if you can sell them on eBay? I have 450 "followers" and thankfully they never want to come over. I'm tweeting with people I've never met from countries I've never heard of. It's endlessly entertaining and time filling. I can barely pull the Twitter needle out of my arm long enough to walk "Beefy Boy." He hates Twitter. I've stopped longing to go shoe shopping. The Mother Ship, Neiman Marcus calls to me from right up Michigan Ave. but the Twitter force is strong. (Sounds like Star Wars doesn't it?) Thankfully I may be Twitterish but not I'm not crazy...."I'm coming!"

Dating Tips For Those Seeking Immediate Answers

2010-09-17T08:59:00.000-07:00

My friend Charlie approaches finding a mate like a job interview. I think this is a little harsh as not everyone gives good "interview." I happen to be a great interview and not so good once I get the job. Go ahead and ask my ex-hubbies. I think don't think they'd provide me with a letter of recommendation. F##k 'em if they can't take a joke. Charlie on the other hand, takes his hiring process very seriously. He's just short of handing out a questonnaire like you get in the doctor's office.

"Charlie darlin' don't you think it's a little pre-mature on the first date to ask someone so many questions? You don't take their blood pressure do you?"

"I think it's good to know right off the bat whether we have compatible life styles." Hmmmm and girls beware I think it's like the dreaded "pop quiz."

"Well what's on this life style list?" I was curious to see if I would pass or fail because I'm the competive type.

"I need to know if they're still working or retired. I'm retired so I can't be tied down with a woman who works and can't travel. (Uh oh I've got one wrong already. )

"Ok, what else is on the test or ah hem , 'interview' ?"

"There's the dog vs. cat issue because my dog doesn't get along with cats. That also begs if she like dogs because I'm not getting rid of "Hobo." Well I'm on his side. Ixnay to dog haters. My "Beefy Boy" stays - dog haters go.
"Common interests, are big, he continued uncoaxed. Absolutely no golfers because I don't play and they tend to always be out on the course. And I can't tolerate the endless golf talk."
Personally I don't play golf but like to watch the game on TV, so I don't know if I got the question right or wrong.

"I also want to know if they're a morning person or a night person. I'm a daytime guy and don't want to start the day at the crack of noon and be up until all hours." Two wrong for this girl. I'm rarin' to go anytime after 11:00 a.m.

"Any more biggies for your unsuspecting victims.... I mean dates?"

"Compatible sex."

"Well that's not a question. Isn't it more like an action verb?"

"It's good to find out quickly. Why continue if the sex isn't good?"

"I'm curious.....do men ever think sex is bad? (this is a great question, isn't it?)

"I once broke up with a woman in bed. (I think I lost consciousness for a second) She didn't move. Just laid there. (Was she filing her nails? ha ha, old joke) I told her right then we were not going to be a match."

I have no idea whether I'd pass or fail that last question. It's personal not business. I can't help but wonder if Charlie has the right approach. Maybe I should work up a questionnaire and hand it to a date...it would save a lot of conversation and I could file my nails.

"Kloutless" in Chicago

2010-09-14T12:17:00.000-07:00

My day is ruined. I just learned that I have no "Klout" and no I didn't spell it wrong. What's "klout" you ask? I have no freaking idea except I have zero. I was meeting with my social media girl Leyla www.leyaruinseverything.com as she was trying to help me become more savvy about networking www.gonepausal.com across the wide world of the internet. She said we should check my "klout" status on Twitter. "Ok, darlin' whatever you just said, I'll do."

On August 18 my literary agent told me I should have more "followers" on Twitter. I'm still not sure why but I have subsequently become a Twitter junkie. Junkie I say! I have to pull the Twitter needle out of my arm in order to leave the house. In fact right after I finish this post I may check myself into Twitter re-hab if there is such a thing. Today I am proud to announce I have 335 people following me. Alas,keep in mind Oprah has approx 14 million. My girl Leya has thousands. I'm a person who only learned how to "copy and paste" last April so in effect I'm a 21st century loser. Naturally I was a little nervous about Leyla checking my "klout." It sounded sci-fi scary and possibly expensive if it sent me back into therapy. We were at Starbucks so I grabbed another sample of spicy pumpkin latte and fidgeted as she spun her way around the internet.

I'm "Kloutless" it turned out. I think she noticed I was getting a rash on my face as she immediately said,"You probably haven't been 'tweeting' long enough." OMG I was unpopular! I was in high school all over again. I was totally devastated yet still had no idea what"klout" meant and why it was spelled with a "k." "But Leya I love Twitter and they don't love me."

She assured me my score would increase the longer I used the site. I was stunned and over caffeineated. My head felt like it might spin off and my rash was worsening. I packed up my little laptop and vowed to try some of the Twitter tricks she taught me right after I called a therapist.

Breaking News - A Confirmed Bachelor is Off the Market

2010-09-10T06:59:00.001-07:00

Hang on boys and girls it's "Anything can happen week." Just when I thought my friend Sam was a man determined to never take a woman on more than two dates, what does the old boy do? He gets engaged. Yep, single girls cry your eyes out because he is officially OFF THE MARKET. Either that or I'm living in the movie "Groundhog Day" because every morning I get up, he's still engaged. I pinch myself to make certain I'm awake yet have black and blue marks running down both arms. There are just not enough colloquialisms to cover this event: "Will miracles never cease, Holy Cow Batman, Jiminy Cricket, what's up Doc?!...." Having known our bachelor Sam for many years my personal comment is "holy shit."

Sam helped keep Match.com. and eHarmony in business. He dated a lot of women and trust me they all liked him. Our boy is a 60 year old cutie, which is not an oxymoron in this case. He is a really good listener and women love love love that because we're always bitching and moaning men don't pay attention. He is what I call a "fun boy." On a date this is a really good quality. Oh and no middle age paunch. Aren't you lovin' him too? I never thought he would settle down because - why? Yet after two months of dating Jennifer I got an email that read ,"We're engaged." Two months! Dr. Phil stop screaming and waving red flags. I immediately emailed back "You're kidding?" I was thinking "you're crazy." Two months , who does that except on TV? "The Bachelor" takes longer to decide.

I'm happy for him because I was exhausted. I couldn't keep up with hearing about his evenings. There definitely comes a point when a man's been single too long. The girl chatter becomes, "He's dated every woman in a tri-state area." My personal theory is one random day a man wakes up and suddenly says "I think I'll get married today." Whereas women are always on relationship "alert" and weighing their options.

Sam and Jennifer are in engagement heaven. Rings and things are in the air. Their endless smiling is almost annoying. Yet I still wake up wondering if I'm in the movie "Groundhog Day."

I Failed "Mapquest"

2010-09-07T06:12:00.000-07:00

I am directionally challenged, in other words, I always get lost. When I have to go somewhere new I take copious notes on how to get there. I make little arrows and never abreviate words so as not to get confused later. I never understood how to use a compass back in the "stone age" of my youth and could only determine "North, South, East, and West because I knew that Lake Michigan was East. I pretend I know where the North Star is. My car does not have a GPS which I always confuse with an APB. I do however, know how to "Mapquest." Ha!

Recently when I was visiting my son in Seattle I boldly decided to take his car and venture into downtown to meet a friend . I was nervous and realized there was a chance I could end up in Idaho. I "Mapquested" the directions and clutched them in my sweaty hand as I drove. I was desperately looking for the first turn off the highway... and looking and looking. Uh oh, I began to realize I had gone too far as the giant cruise ships to Alaska were on my right and I had lost sight of the skyline. I knew I didn't want to go to Alaska because I hate snow and had to get off the road. Crap. I wildly drove back towards the city - or so I thought. When I ended up in the parking lot of Safeco Field I was screwed and 12 hours early for the game. I then did what no man dares to do,

"Excuse me, sir, could you tell me how to get to ...." I jumped out of my car and asked for directions.

I was back on track - but not for long. Five minutes and six blocks later I was lost.

"Excuse me sir, could you tell me how to get to...." Yep, I jumped out again. I stared with awe and wonderment at the guy who whipped out his iPhone for directional help. For a delusional moment I dreamed I could learn to use the slick little phone and then woke up.

I only got lost twice getting back to my son's apartment. Sadly and shamefully , the second time was in his parking garage.

Tale of a Labor Day Hermit - Bah Humbug

2010-09-03T06:44:00.000-07:00

OMG, not another holiday weekend?! These are a special kind of torture for me. Pressure, I can't stand the societal pressure to grill. A grill must symbolize something, but what? It also begs blowing up the house because of my complete ineptitude with large equipment. If I had a handy dandy barbeque I'd have to invite people over which requires cleaning and appetizers. This sounds less and less like a celebration and more like pergatory. Shouldn't a holiday really be where you sit around alone in a messy house, reading back issues of "People", eating potato chips out of the bag and drinking wine from a plastic cup? No cheeriness required. This also eliminates the risk of ptomaine/salmonella from nasty yet traditional holiday foods like eight hour old cole slaw, undercooked chicken, or the dreaded hot dog on a stick. What's in a hot dog anyway and why a stick?

Is there a parade on Labor Day, I can't remember. Although this year with such high unemployment I can't imagine there would be many marchers. As well as it being potentially dangerous for the lone employed person walking down the middle of the street waving a tiny flag. I'm not a parade person even in a high employment economy. Although I do like one that has a giant inflated Mickey Mouse or Willard Scott.

Crap, the long holiday weekend looms. I feel my anxiety rising. Should I lock the door, pull down the shades, break out the stack of "People" and hope I have enough chips and wine to make it to Tuesday? That sounds so right.

I'm a Packing Loser

2010-08-25T16:01:00.000-07:00

Packing is a skill. I'm a packing loser. Regardless of how short or long the trip I'm equally dazed and anxious. First of all I have to decide which suitcase best suits my needs. But what are my needs? This begs other larger life issues so I try not to be too caffeinated at this point or my head starts spinning around like Linda Blair in the "Exorcist." I recently had to pack for an eight day trip to Seattle. How much clothing does eight days require? This question overwhelmed me as I stood in front of my closet. My first reaction was to burst into tears and throw myself on the bed. I resisted and instead stared into the black void of my wardrobe.

Weather is a big factor when packing. Seattle could be hot, cold, rainy, or all three at once. Oy! I reconsidered crying. I decided to start with something simple, underwear. Eight days , eight pairs...unless I went running or worked out, then I needed sixteen. I began flinging them out of the dresser drawer and ran short at 12. In defeat I went back to my closet. One black sweater, four black tops , one black jacket, one blueish black jacket, one strapless black dress, one black dress with sleeves, one pair of black pants, whoops, forgot the black tops for under the jackets, one black skirt....my mood was getting blacker by the minute. I felt desperate for color. Ah ha, white! I pulled out every white thing in my closet. My bed was piled with possibilities. The trick was to eliminate, eliminate, eliminate! And was it too early for a martini?

Stumped, I considered calling Mom or fashion guru Karen for help, but didn't. I was a grown up and could pack without counsel. I maturely decided to take everything. OMG, I forgot shoes. I madly flung five pairs on the bed. I now had only one suitcase that fit the bill, the GIGANTIC black one! It took sitting and bouncing on it to get it to close. I was sweating and my leg was bleeding but I was determined. Yes, my entire closet was in the suitcase. I was prepared for any event from black tie to climbing Mt. Ranier. The bag was so bulky and heavy that it nearly snapped my wrist when it flipped over as I pulled it.

I wore two things in eight days and am considering seeing a therapist about packing anxiety.

I Flunked Public Transportation

2010-08-19T09:54:00.001-07:00

I am bad at public transportation. In the city I walk , drive or take a cab. When my friend Sandy mentioned how easy it was to get around by bus or train all I heard was "blah, blah, blah, blah." I practically stamped my foot and said "you can't make me." "TAXI!" is one of my favorite words - except they are getting pricey and I'm cheap. One Friday night in a moment of financial panic and feeling uncharacteristically reckless I decided to take the bus to meet friends for dinner. I thought it would be frugal, fun and fantastical to use the handy bus pass Sandy bought me. He went so far as to demonstrate how to put the card in the machine when you get on the bus. What was I, a dope? I think I dozed off . "Whatever," I finally muttered in recognition of his "show and tell" moment.

I was all dressed up and sweating in my cute little black dress as I stood in the heat waiting for the Michigan Avenue bus. I longed for my air conditioned car because all I could think about was how much it would cost to get the dress cleaned. I clutched my plastic pass ready to simply slip it into the machine when I got on the bus. "Easy as pie" I thought as the metal box sucked it in. I waited for it to come back....and waited.....and waited.

"Excuse me , Ma'am, I said to the driver, my card didn't come back."

"That's because you put it in the wrong slot. It's not comin' back."

"But, but, that card had $18.00 left on it." I might have sobbed or swooned; I can't remember.

"Not any more, that card is gone. "

I stared at her in disbelief. I was taking the most expensive bus ride in the history of Michigan Avenue.

"Well how much does it cost to get back later?" I whispered as I felt feverish and desperately in need of two martinis.

"Here's a pass , this will get you home." She must have realized I was dazed and confused and didn't want to call for medical back-up.

I was devastated to say nothing of the $$$ I was out. I flunked public transportation. Shoulders stooped I slunk down into a seat. I peeked around to see how many people had witnessed my stupidity. Thankfully no one was snickering or telling their children, "that's what you get for not paying attention to what you're doing." I know I learned a lesson.

"TAXI!"

Uh oh, Where's My Underwear?

2010-08-16T06:38:00.000-07:00

"Why do women leave their panties in my bed?" my friend Steve asked me as he waved a teenie tiny pair of leopard undies in his hand. Hmmmm, he posed a good question. I wasn't crazy about the animal print pair he was holding but I think that was irrelevant. My best guess was that he had quite a collection knowing his dating schedule. I was tempted to see if there were any I liked better but didn't. Steve looked puzzled and I was too. I can't remember leaving that personal a piece of clothing behind. Let's face it, a woman would definitely realize pretty quickly she wasn't wearing underwear. I'm always cold so I would be running around like a chicken with it's head cut off flinging covers, blankets, pillows, and clothes before I went home "commando."

"Do they leave bras or just undies?" I was on the case like Inspector Clouseau.

"No, just panties."

"Interesting." I had no answer but decided to shop for better lingerie later.

"I mean, do they expect me to wash them?" He looked serious and a little nervous.

"I'd say that would be asking a lot. Besides, I'd be very picky about the detergent and hate smelly fabric softener."

I suddenly had an epiphany - could leaving something so personal behind be like a dog marking it's territory? Ah Ha!

Steve however, was more interested in the immediacy of the issue.

"Is there proper etiquette for returning them?" He flung the leopard undies in his pile of laundry which was more than I would do.

"Well you have a few choices depending on your feelings I surmised and rubbed my chin.

1) Regular mail, if you're in no hurry to see her again. I think that makes a statement of ambivilence or good-bye.

2) Fed-ex , which provides you with options depending on your feelings: overnight, standard, or ground.

3) A messenger says you definitely want to see her soon.

4) A messenger with flowers says you love the leopard print and her."

Steve looked pensive as if mulling over the choices.

" Thanks, I'm going biking."

He was out the door and I was left wondering what laundry detergent he would use.

"Hot", Not "Formerly Hot" For Me

2010-08-10T06:09:00.000-07:00

Ha! Now I've heard everything. Women in their 30s and 40s are lamenting their new status as "formerly hot." Bummer girlies but you ain't seen nothin' yet. Author Stephanie Dolgoff in her book "My Formerly Hot Life: Dispatches From Just the Other Side of Young" declares that women in their late 30s and early 40s fall into a new category: adult 'tweens, not quite middle-aged, but no longer reckless, restless, or gravity defying." Their new title is: "Formerlies. " Give me a moment to weep for these poor creatures. Boo hoo. Now Stephanie, get a freaking grip. Be hot as long as you can. Squeeze yourself into your "formerly" clothes because menopause is lurking and then you'll be formenting not lamenting. Trust me you'll never get those outfits on again. Better yet, let's trade places - I'll be 40 and you can officially be menopausal me. What fun. Maybe you'll be less confused about what is appropriate to wear or what shoes to buy. I'll trade your Dolce and Gabanna dress and uncomfortable Jimmy Choos for my comfy flats and baggy gym shorts. Happier?

I don't get it. I'd happily take back 40 with my dewey complexion, uncolored hair, and sex drive. Hey "formerlies" wait for the day sex moves from the top of the "to do" list to after taking out the garbage and re-tiling the bathroom floor. According to the girls it's a big relief not to be ogled by strange men on the street. Hello! Someone please ogle me. Just one teenie tiny ogle would make my day. I remember the time construction workers turned their heads in unison when I walked by. Now I turn and stare at them and in their eyes I'm "Nana."

Who wants to be a "formerly?" I don't ever admit my age no less give myself a title. I love cute little dresses and skinny jeans. Is there really an over 30 dress code? I don't think so. I adore high heels and they come in handy standing on a chair changing the batteries to the smoke alarm. I haven't tried re-tiling in them yet. I'm back to the brown hair of my youth and think it looks fab regardless of the endless trips to cover my gray roots. I never care if "below the knee" skirts are in; I like short. Call me crazy or delusional. I'll take delusional over "formerly" any day. And Stephanie, call me for a reality check.

My Plane Ride to New York or It's Faster to Drive

2010-08-05T18:35:00.000-07:00

"We're running low on fuel and will be landing at Kennedy instead of LaGuardia," the pilot announced. Excuse me!? I was packing up the $24.00 worth of magazines I bought for the ride from Chicago to New York thinking we were almost at our destination. I was wrong. Yes, $24.00 and yes I had buyer's remorse 3 pages into this week's "People." But more to the point "We're running out of what?!" Who says that even if it is true? I thought I was on American Airlines not "Air Holy Crap!" Shouldn't that be the bubble over the pilot's head and not a public service announcement? I believe in conserving gas also but at sea level not 32,000 feet. Was this part of the economic recovery package? I pinched myself to see if I was dreaming. Damn, I was awake.

"Right after we fuel up at Kennedy we'll hopefully be leaving for La Guardia," the pilot said as we started to descend. "Hopefully," as in maybe we won't be leaving? Meanwhile across the aisle a man was having cardiac problems and using the oxygen mask that never comes down except in the pre-flight demonstration. My head was spinning; we were low on fuel and a man was in cardiac arrest. I love New York. The minute we landed paramedics rushed on to the plane to take away my aisle mate. "Good luck little buddy." The passengers however, were growing restless and wanted off. I heard folks bitching and moaning all around me. They must have come to my conclusion; it was faster to walk to Manhattan than wait for fuel and the flight back to LaGuardia. Everyone with carry on luggage fled. I had checked my bag. I vowed to never "check" again but in the meantime I was trapped and sober.

"Ladies and gentleman , the pilot was back on the speaker system, we need to consider re-balancing the aircraft because so many passengers disembarked." I never took physics so imagine my imagination. The plane would take off titlted to the right unless me and the 12 other folks who were left played musical seats. I think I briefly lost consciousness.

Self rightousely I announced to the flight attendant I needed a drink, a free drink. The airlines may have taken my sanity but they were not taking my money. I think she needed a cocktail also as she happily broke out the wine. I scarfed down as many glasses as I could on the 13 minute flight to LaGaurdia. Time was not on my side, but I'm a competitor. Uh oh the plane was tipping - or was that me? As I walked off when we arrived I stared at the pilot who scared the bejesus out of me. Next time I'm driving.

Starbucks? Betty Ford? Tale of a personal dilemma

2010-07-27T18:59:00.001-07:00

I'm boycotting Starbucks. It's either that or go into a 12 step program for "buyer's remorse," which I don't think the Betty Ford Clinic recognizes yet as addictive or risky behavior. Sadly I beg to differ, as a trip to my local Starbucks yesterday made me spend a few moments alone in the car holding my empty plastic cup and feeling dangerously remorseful. Why you ask? Please ask. It was hot, I was thirsty and had time to kill between the Dentist and the Dermatologist - where I was NOT getting Botox. I stopped in Starbucks for a drink. I couldn't decide what I wanted and the barrista asked over and over , "Can I take your order?" The pressure was killing me. I had no clue what I wanted because the drink menu is in an enigmatic language they didn't offer in school. I started to get a little nervous and sweaty. Since I didn't have a quick answer to her persistant line of questionning I considered leaving - but felt it would be a sign of personal growth to stay.

"I'll have a tall chai tea latte with soy milk," I finally blurted out. Oy, I was one of those crazy people who had to have special milk. I checked to see if I had a fever.

"That will be $3.71," she said and smiled. I stared. Was it too late to leave? $3.71! Huh? And should I have called Ben Bernake? Interest rates are at 0% , how could my tea be so freaking costly?

I think I turned a soy milk shade of white as I reached into my wallet for the astronomical sum. I ordered tea not drugs. I felt like bolting for the door .... but paid. The barrista handed me my drink and I left with my head hung in financial shame. But before I even reached my car which was parked right outside I had finished the drink. Three teenie tiny sips on the straw and presto chango all I had left in the cup was ice. All the precious chai tea and special milk were gone. Vanished! Three itty bitty sips and there was only ice? I'm bad at math but I figured I had 50cents worth of chai and $3.21 worth of ice. I thought ice was free? I sat in my car contemplating going back and demanding a re-fill or making an impromptu "Boycott Starbucks" sign out of a scrap of paper I had in the glove compartment and spending the rest of the afternoon marching in front of the store. The nostalgia of picketing almost got the better of me but I opted for buyer's remorse.

In an effort to cheer myself up I saved $1.00 by taking back roads home instead of the tollway.

Obituary for a Cell Phone

2010-07-22T06:49:00.000-07:00

OMG, it was a nightmare, a special 21st century nightmare. "Oh no, this can't be happening. Not to me! I don't deserve it. I gave at the office....well I would have given at the office if I went to an office. I gave at church, whoops, I'm Jewish. I'm a good person. Or am I? I love puppies. I promise to go to temple for the High Holidays. (When are they?) The next telemarketer who calls me I'll invite over for a nice glass of Sauvignon Blanc instead of hanging up. I'll do anything but please little cell phone don't be dead. WAKE UP!!" I screamed shaking the tiny silver object in my sweaty hand. I was panicked and my face started to itch.

I always take my cell phone out runing with me. Why? In case I have a heart attack of course. Truthfully, I'm looking for any excuse to stop and wait longingly for the phone to ring so I can walk, talk and end the torture. Ok, ok, I know that isn't the point but I do not feel the need to run every single step. Whew, that was purging. It was very hot and ridiculously humid that fateful day. I ran with the cell phone in my sweating hand waiting desperately for it to ring. Ah ha, a mile up the lakefront call #1 . "Hey Patrick".....blah blah blah. A ten minute chit chat with the phone held up to my sweaty ear. I wiped off the phone three times during the call. It was another 2 miles before my second "time-out." "Hi Adria, what's up?" I continued to wipe the phone off knowing perfectly well water damage is THE KISS OF DEATH for my dandy little device. Admitedly there was call three and four.

A mile from home I decided to call Sandy. I flipped open the phone and the screen was blank. I think my heart stopped. Oh God the heart attack was coming and the phone didn't work! I frantically pressed every button, wiped it dry on my sweaty t-shirt, shook it, stared at it, thought about throwing it on the ground and jumping on it....even in my addled state I knew that would be counterproductive and stopped myself. "Work!" I pleaded. I"ve kept you from large bodies of water, I don't deserve this." I stood frozen in panic on the corner of Columbus Drive and Madison. I had a mile to go and a dead phone clutched in my hand. Life was almost not worth living...except I had a really fab party to go to that night and was going to wear my cute little black strapless dress and Kate Spade red high heels. I reconsidered.

Sadly, I spent the rest of the afternoon cell phone shopping. It took three stores and four hours before I held a new shiney blue device in my hand. Unfortunately, "Can you hear me now?" took on a whole new meaning. No one could hear me. I'm on my third phone. I've kept the old one hoping it will miraculously come back from the dead. Maybe if I give at the office...or about those High Holidays?

To Tattoo or Not to Tattoo?

2010-07-15T07:11:00.001-07:00

"To tattoo or not to tattoo?" that is the question. Everywhere I go and everyone I see has one or more. Not just a teenie tiny picture of a daisy on their shoulder, but arms , legs, and torsos covered in colorful ink. Who needs to go to The Art Institute? It's cheaper to stand on Michigan Ave. and look at the walking people paintings. Truthfully I'm kinda jealous. Or am I? That's another good question. I haven't seen see an 80 year old woman with a pirate on her upper arm yet but I bet she's out there. Maybe I could convince my Mom to get a tattoo. She is a fashionista and determined even at 92 to keep up with the most current trends. "But Mom, Angelina Jolie is covered in them and here she is in "Vogue" wearing a Valentino dress too." Mom could be persuaded especially if they had a fancy little tattoo counter at Neimans. Maybe we could have a mother/daughter tattoo experience and then a nice lunch.

It seems very hip and cool to be one of the tattooed generation. I used to be hip and cool but it only involved long hair, bell bottoms and a joint, not ink applied with a needle! Oh God I'm a needle phobe. Do they have defibrillators at tattoo parlors? And what would I want inscribed and where on my body would I want it? My head is about to explode from all the questions. "Does anyone know where I left my cell phone?" might be a good choice for a tattoo as it would solve my "hip" dilemma as well as help me find the damn phone. Ixnay to a flower image as I don't need a further reminder that mine are always on the brink of death. "Stand up straight" would be a tribute to Mom as would "Do you like your hair that color?"

It might be fun to be one of the tattooed folks as my hipness level unfortunately dropped along with my hormones a while back. I might get some colored pens and experiment at home before I commit to anything permanent. I'm open to suggestions.

I was Delusional not Memorable

2010-07-12T06:57:00.000-07:00

I thought I was memorable. I was delusional. Ha! It wasn't a pleasant discovery but I had to face it - not everyone I dated remembered me. This disappointing realization all started with an afternoon run. Unlike some joggers I do not consider my running clothes a fashion statement. They are old, ratty and gray. Nor do I comb my hair but put it up in a messy ponytail . No make-up either which is not a good look at my age. Lately I put on sunscreen so my face has a Kabuki white palor. Most of the time I've shaved my legs. I'm explaining all of this to make myself feel better. Bottom line I looked like crap even before I was out the door. It has been hideously hot and humid this summer in Chicago - another excuse but true. It only took 1/8 of a mile before I was soaked in sweat. This included my hair which morphed from ponytail to rat's tail after three blocks.

I was 2 1/2 miles into my run with sweat pouring down my face, legs, and arms when I found myself waiting for a light to turn green behind a tall thin man. The back of his blond head look oddly familiar so I took a step in front of him, turned and stared. Yep, I knew him! He was a man I had gone out with quite a few years ago. Having a big mouth and an addled sense of self confidence considering how sweaty I was I blurted out,

"Don't I know you?!" He looked at me, stared and said nothing.

"I know you, " I insisted. Silence.

"Aren't you an architect?" I couldn't stop myself even after the light turned. I kept walking waiting for him to remember me too.

"Yes," he mouthed and glanced down at me.

"I'm not trying to accost you but I definitely know you." I was like a bulldog on a pant leg although he looked at me like I was an alien from a distant planet. We kept walking and I kept talking.

"Didn't you live in Barrington and collect cars?" I quizzed as I sweated and walked next to him. Poor guy I was dripping on his clean blue shirt.

"Yes" was his answer but nothing more. Ok, I was disturbing his peace. But how did I remember him and he didn't have a freaking clue who I was? Finally I had to say it regardless of my now very self conscious state. I gritted my teeth and blurted out,

"DIDN'T WE DATE?" Naturally I was dressed better and not sweating when we went out but was I that unrecognizable? I didn't know if I wanted his anwer, a plastic surgeon, or a therapist. Although a martini might have been good.

We walked along for a few blocks and he became increasingly chatty but I could tell he still didn't know who I was. Thankfully when I got home the dog remembered me. My ego had been bruised but I didn't call a plastic surgeon or therapist. The martini was helpful however.

I Need a Push-up Bra

2010-07-06T07:06:00.000-07:00

Damn. I missed the "Cougar" convention that was held right here in Chicago. Now that could have filled some of the long holiday weekend . Instead of worrying about getting corn on the cob stuck between my teeth or choking on a hot dog and no one knowing the Heimlich Maneuver, I could have stood in front of my closet and fretted over the fact I didn't have a dress low cut enough to attract a "cub." A what you ask? I learned watching a news feed about the event that a "cub" is a man under forty. That's what the Cougar women are huntin' for - the little cubbies. They sure looked cute, fit , trim, sexy and smiley. Who wouldn't want one ; they're like puppies. "I'll take that one and that one and that shy one in the corner." Wow it's like ordering from the Neiman Marcus Christmas catalogue, only better and cheaper.

I don't know if I have what it takes to be a "Cougar" however. I think a push-up bra is a staple from what I could tell on the news. And is it necessary to have something to "push up?" In fact my Mom recently asked when we were out shopping, "Gail, what happened to your breasts? I remember you used to have them." Is there an answer to that question? I sure hope not. I also noticed the Cougar women wore a lot of make-up which looked nice but "uh oh" again. I've never had the patience or mental fortitude to look in the mirror long enough to apply much make-up. In fact these days I try to do it fast and blindfolded. And then there's the wardrobe issue. How many low cut dresses would I need to catch a "cub" and can you also wear them to the gym?

The convention sure looked like fun. Everyone was drinking and laughing. I hate cash bars however, so if you had to pay over $5.00 for a drink I would have been cranky and sulky. It was better I stayed home and worried about corn on the cob and hot dogs.

This Holiday Weekend Invite Me Over PLEASE!

2010-06-28T06:50:00.000-07:00

Uh oh another national holiday weekend looms on the horizon. Curses! This doesn't make me joyful. Didn't we just have one? (" No Mom, I don't mean Mother's Day." ) Personally I'd prefer they weren't so close together. I need time to relax and recuperate from the stress of the last holiday. I don't have a grill which is a long weekend requirement. Even if I did I'd be very nervous about blowing up the house, myself, and my guests. Speaking of "guests" I don't have those either , which brings me to my next problem - the stress of finding guests. I wonder if they have an "available guests" category on Craig's List? And would they work for free or require a salary and health care?

I'm also not a parade person although Beefy Boy sees them as an opportunity to get attention especially if I put him in a monogrammed hat. I view them as crowded and too colorful. I long for the giant inflated Mickey Mouse from the Macy's Day parade. No Mickey no me. Bands and Boy Scout troops marching down the street wreak havoc with traffic . What if someone invites me over for a July 4th party and I can't get there? I think I dreamt this and woke up in a sweat longing for corn on the cob.

The holiday is getting closer and closer and my stress level is mounting with each passing day. I'm out of meds but consider buying a grill instead as a symbol of personal growth and to help pick up the economy. But if you are having a picnic or party I'm available.

Tales from the Queen of Gridlock

2010-06-25T06:24:00.000-07:00

CRAAAAAAAAAP! I mean OMMMMMMM! It's summer and every single solitary road I take is under construction. I'm the Queen of Gridlock. Cars piled up for miles in every direction. I make a quick u-turn to escape and curses, I'm not only stuck again but lost. No, I don't have a GPS but I do remember the lake is East. Except I've driven so far off the lake I am convinced South is East. Unfortunately I never hung around the Girl Scouts long enough to get a "wilderness badge" so I'm challanged on any survival techniques I might need if I'm in the car a minute longer! I did sell a lot of cookies however. Craaaaap, get me out of this traffic! Beefy Boy doesn't care how long we're stuck as long as the air conditioning is on and he can nap. I wish he could drive so I could take a Valium.

It took me 30 minutes to drive 8 blocks up Michigan Avenue. Even when the lights turned green I couldn't move. "The freaking light is green for God's sake....go!" Nope. I desperately tried to remember the words from my friend Jamie Lerner's peaceful wonderful book "The Ever-Loving Essence of You"(www.jamie-lerner.com) where she explores the option of enjoying what's going on around you as opposed to fighting it. Ok Jamie I took your advice and decided to take a deep breath and study the advertisement on the bus sitting next to me. I spent approx. 41 seconds lovingly reading about shinier hair before I started screaming. I was moments from getting out of the car and jumping up and down in complete and utter frustration. OMMMMM! I might however, try the hair care product when I calm down enough to shower.

Yesterday I was stuck in gridlocked traffic so close to home I could see my apartment. So near and yet so far I burst into tears. I thought about leaving the car and walking the rest of the way but couldn't wake Beefy Boy. It took twenty minutes to turn the corner - I was sweating , swearing and had developed a rash on my cheek from nerves. Like I said "craaaaaap....I mean ommmmm."

Father's Day is too Hard or Dad Likes Cake

2010-06-21T06:27:00.001-07:00

Father's Day just doesn't have the pomp and circumstance of Mother's Day. Mother's Day gets more media coverage than a lunar landing although I don't think we go to the moon anymore, but I could be wrong. One giant step for Mom and one teenie tiny one for Dad. Mother's Day is a cash cow for Hallmark and 1 -800- flowers. Dads just don't rake in the $$$ . I know it's a dark day of guilt if I don't arrive at Mom's door with something in a Neiman's , Tiffany's, or Bloomie's bag - or teeter in with a flowering plant the size of a building. "Here Mom, Happy Mother's Day," I groaned as I fell over. "Thank you dear," she said and left me on the floor to go open my sister's present in Saks packaging.

It's hard to shop for Dad. He doesn't like much. For 25 straight years I bought him a tie for Father's Day. Stripes, solids, patterned or knit, he returned every one. I was relentless and undeterred and continued my search for one he'd keep. Never happened. I finally gave up and switched to books. That didn't work either, as we didn't have the same taste in reading. He'd open the package, grunt and put it down. Mom at least gushed upon opening. I almost bought him a bottle of his favorite wine, Mogan David, but my regular wine salesman stared at me in disbelief and disappointment; I broke out in a rash and had to leave the store.

What did Dad really like? This question plagued me. Then like a dream come true I remembered. He liked to eat cake. And candy when there's no cake. I'd come bearing cakes from bakeries as far west as Iowa. "Too dry," he'd discern and push the plate away after one bite. Curses! I switched to exotic chocolate which cost more than my new Kate Spade shoes. "Bitter, not sweet enough," he said as he wrapped it back in the foil. I ate the tasty chocolate and sadly returned the shoes.

This Father's Day I came bearing Twinkies and a Snickers bar wearing a new pair of shoes.

My Life as a Fish or Make it Stop Raining!

2010-06-15T06:16:00.001-07:00

I have developed very small gills behind each ear and every day my skin gets increasingly scaly. I think I'm de-evolving in order to survive. Thanks Mother Nature for turning me into a fish to weather the Chicago weather. I'm not looking forward to fins but at this point, what the hell. I might look better as an amphibian than I look with my puffy frizzy hair from the rain and humidity. Every day it's the same from my mortal enemy the weatherman - "Rain tomorrow morning . Rain into the evening and overnight. Rain again the next morning into the afternoon. A thunderstorm at night and possibly the next morning. It's going to be wet out there," he says with a big old grin on his face. I resist the urge to throw my pasta primavera at the TV because it is tastier than fish food.

I used to only hate him in winter. He is really at his best then. "A storm is coming, run, hide, don't go to the airport, stay off the roads, buy a sled and 8 barking Huskies. It's going to snow for the next 112 hours; people could be buried alive if they don't have emergency kits in their car. (my emergency kit has a hair dryer and lipstick). It's big , it's white, it's coming to your neighborhood!" I burst into tears before I ate an entire bag of Oreos for comfort. Does this man have friends?

I should have been a Meteorologist. I'm a drama queen with a touch of the morbid. How hard could it be for pity's sake? I'd be a little more direct with the viewing audience however. Why sugar coat the forecast by smiling. "The weather today will suck. If you have frizzy or curly hair stay home or wear a hat as the humidity will be 95%. You probably won't look good again until the weekend. If you have a comb over I'd suggest staying home also as the winds are going to be gusty and it could be embarrassing. Just remember folks I'll look as bad as the rest of you so I feel your pain." Isn't that a lot better? No smiling or ridiculous atmospheric charts with wavy lines .

It's dreary dreary dreary again today. I need anxiety medication and a long sleeve shirt to cover the scales. My hair has taken on a giant life of it's own and has become resistant to all forms of calming shampoo. I wonder if super glue can double as conditioner? Like I said in my forecast, I probably won't look good again until the weekend.

I Want to go to Summer Camp!

2010-06-08T08:44:00.001-07:00

It's no fair there's no summer camp for adults. I miss it. It made getting dressed in the morning easy - just pull on my Tamarak or Sunshine Valley t-shirt and a pair of shorts and voila I was ready to go. Now I stare at my closet, can't find anything to wear and realize if I don't go shopping soon it will be winter. I loved waiting for the big yellow bus to pull up to the corner toting my lunch bag filled with yet another peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Mom wasn't very clever with the food, but she did spend endless time braiding my hair or putting it into pigtails. I however, was very particular and they had to be perfectly even or I'd stamp my foot and whine. I tortured her. The camp bus was much more fun than my bus ride up Michigan Ave. No one sings.

At camp the fun never stopped. I learned the dog paddle at Sunshine Valley which was not efficient but at least I didn't drown. It was Tamarak where I learned to swim better but no one could ever get me to dive. I was a chicken shit and stood at the side of the pool contemplating my death. I liked arts and craft hour, which I can't find time for anymore and don't know where to buy crafts. Making pink and blue lanyard key chains in the "square" stitch was my favorite. The "circle" stitch nearly drove me to drink as a 9 yr. old. I couldn't master it and again did a lot of whining. I loved horseback riding and never wanted to get off the horse. Yep, I whined to stay on. I think the counselors hated me. I sucked at archery. The arrow was forever falling off the bow. When I could get it to fly it landed one foot away. My adult camp would not include archery. It will however include daily S'mores. OMG I loved them. I tried to make them at home but Mom didn't like me setting sticks on fire in the kitchen as the marshmellows dripped into the burner on the stove. I didn't whine, I ran!

It's almost summer and there will not be a big yellow bus at the corner coming to take me away for a day of fun fun fun. Crap. I burst into a camp song once in a while but stop when I see people cringing. I've bought the ingredients for S'mores but worry about setting the house on fire. I do need a new keychain however and vow to spend the summer drinking and mastering the "circle" stitch.

Al and Tipper Say It Isn't So or Another Role Model Bites the Dust

2010-06-04T06:12:00.000-07:00

Crap. Bad news on the role model front again. First our boy Tiger ,king of golf, darling of advertisers, loving father and husband bites the dust - HARD. That seemed to be a toughie for the public. Next the odd, but seeemingly sweet marriage of Sandra and her tatooed man became road kill. And now, all "can a marriage last?" bets are off with the announcement of Al and Tipper seeking a divorce. Is there no marital hope left? Al and Tipper, regardless of one's political affiliation appeared to be a perfectly matched and married couple. What the hell happened kids? If the two of you can't keep it together what hope do I have? Twice divorced I need encouragement not validation.

The Gores were married for 40 years, that's a really long time and I'm certain they don't have a pre-nup. Divorce lawyers must be calling day and night. Some nice hourly billing to be had! But seriously Tipper, if you're looking for a new man, take my advice, don't join an internet dating site. The guys are all lying about their height, and if they're wearing a baseball cap in their profile picture they have male patterned baldness. Al, you're so rich I don't think you'll have much trouble finding a young hot chickidee, but she may think "global warming" means a vacay to Aruba.

I read in the Wall Street Journal article "'Til 40 Years Do Us Part" that the break-up of a 30 or 40 year marriage has become common. (Fortunately I can no longer ever be married for that long unless I tie the knot later today and live to be 100. ) "If I don't go now I'll never go" is one reason for a long term marriage to end, along with, "the kids were all we had in common" , career women no longer being financially dependent on their spouse , and Viagra, which apparently gives a man the confidence to find a new partner. Uh oh the Viagra factor again- another set-back for Mother Nature, but boom for divorce attorneys.

Let's face it 30/40 years is a hell of a long time to spend with one person. Sometimes I find an hour way too long. "For better or for worse, in sickness and in health, til death do us part, as long as you both shall live," - hang on there just one sec, perhaps we should re-think those weighty vows before the final "I do." Maybe "I hope so" or "I'll try my best" would be more realistic. "I'll get back to you" would be my answer the next time.

Relationship Advice from My Guest Blogger - Dennis

2010-05-29T09:19:00.000-07:00

I've reached my writing apex. What an honor as Gail is one of my favs and a very funny and talented lady. So boys and girls, you'll just have to put up with me for one day and Gail will return to regale you with her wit and humor.

FINDING MS. RIGHT IN MIDDLE AGE

OK so the the first number in your age is a 5 or a 6. I know that seems harsh but it is not the end of the world unless you damn well have decided to throw in the towel. I'm here to tell you that is not the way to find your "soulmate". By the same token, you cannot just sit in front of the TV and wait for the doorbell to ring and hope that Penelope Cruz or Selma Hayak will be there saying "I'm here my love, take me". Sorry kids it doesn't happen that way. Nor can you just pick out anyone on the street and decide they are the "right" person for you. I really don't know the exact formula for finding Ms. Right; if I did then my name would be above Bill Gates on the Forbes Richest list.

I do know this however; things have changed and you aren't going to look across a crowded bar and get the "hot blonde" to go home with you with a wink and a smile. Again, not going to happen. No my friends, at this stage in life you are going to have to use wit, charm, humor and most importantly the ability to LISTEN! We all like to think we are 35 again and can charm our way into a ladies heart in 5 minutes; a la Agent 007. And forget about the 30 something hottie you've fantasized about. Unless your bank account has well over 7 figures of discretionary funds you have nothing in common with her. Now, here is the good part. If you meet that person with the ever illusive "chemistry", you actually are going to really enjoy talking to her and responding to her. SEX will not be the "be-all and end-all." Don't get me wrong, it's still terrific and an integral component, but you will actually enjoy hugging and kissing as an important part of the relationship. Instead of the conversation being blah, blah, blah when do I get to see you naked, you will ACTUALLY want to talk. Conversations that were once 5 or 10 minutes will go to 1 or 2 hours with no pauses- trust me .

OK, those men out there that are now getting up muttering "this guy is nuts and needs to make his appointment for a "Sex Change", sit your asses down. I'm a 6' tall black belt in Karate and I will come after you and take you kicking and screaming into the 21st century. Otherwise it's going to be you and the TV or People magazine as your steady companion. And ladies, you are not escaping unscathed. We are a bit older and slower. If you see that guy who might be "it" try engaging him. We cannot do this all without encouragement. OK enough of the sermon. Now everyone out there, get up off your butts and try going to the gym, or even dressing in the morning; anything to make you feel better about yourself. If you do others will feel the same about you.

I found the lady of my dreams and I intend to tell her every day how much I care. Here's the rub, it isn't work. It's a pleasure. Thanks again for putting up with me. Gail will return, I promise. Good luck.

Dennis in Palm Springs

Relationship Deal Makers vs. Breakers

2010-05-25T07:01:00.000-07:00

Got relationship deal "makers?" I'm not talking deal "breakers", that's a no brainer. It's simple to bitch and moan about someone's fatal flaw(s). I'm an expert. I go crazy if someone smokes - sorry smokers but you're out. I also say ixnay to bad shoes. My eyes go straight to a man's shoes and yes sometimes I stare incredulously at their choice and feel slightly nauseous. Snoring drives me up the wall and out the door. This eliminates almost everyone. Gary says adios to women who put the toilet paper roll on so the paper comes off the bottom. He's alone. John dismisses women who repeat themselves. I'm a repeater, so I'm off his list. I think he'll be lonely also. It's easy to find fault isn't it?

Relationship deal makers are harder. I asked my friend Steve for his deal maker. He's a professional dater so has a lot of experience in the field.

"Hmmmm, I want a woman who adores me and wants to be with me.....but when I find a woman who does that I say "What are we, joined at the hip?" Uh oh Steve, that's a big problem. His deal maker is also a breaker - whoops and troublesome.

I asked a man my girlfriend Brenda and I met at a bar last month. He was hot after Brenda. I was ignored and bored so I asked him what he was looking for in a woman as an experiment in bar chit chat. He stared at me.
"Oh the list is too long," he tried to dismiss my question. But like I said I was bored so I persisted.

"Well then, just give me the most important."

"Ok ok, the most important thing is that she's blond." I was out, but Brenda was still in. I'd say he has a lot of choices and should probably narrow it down. He told us he'd been out with 40 women since January. I'm assuming all blond. He's still available.

This just in from Dennis in Palm Springs.

"That's easy, I want someone who "gets" me." I asked him to explain "gets."

"You know someone who likes my humor and how I think and who's intelligent." Thankfully he didn't mention blond. He doesn't date much but he is funny. Let me know if you want his phone number.

But Dan might have said it best. He's a little annoyed because I asked him to repeat it so many times.

" Bottom line, the best deal maker is the absence of deal breakers."

I Will Not be THE NEXT AMERICAN IDOL

2010-05-21T10:34:00.000-07:00

Uh oh, next Wednesday night at 9:00 my TV addled brain will have to go "cold turkey." Crap, I might have to go outside and play. It's season finale time once again. I've already reluctantly said good-bye to the wacky women of Wisteria Lane. They always look so neat and clean, I have no idea why they're desperate. They'd hate my baggy gym shorts and Target t-shirts. I'm also way too flat chested to live in their hood. "Brothers and Sisters" ended badly for a few members of the hyper neurotic, self obsessed Walker family. Truthfully I will miss Rob Lowe - he is a total hottie and I looked forward to drooling over him every week. Maybe he'll come back from the dead. Sally Field doesn't annoy me as much as she annoys some of my friends but unfortunately she does remind me that both of us need a face lift.

Be still my nerves and heart as I watched two hours of a killing rampage on the Grey's Anatomy finale. Crazy man on the loose with a gun and in his path is McDreamy?! "No, for God's sake don't shoot the cute guy." How many cute guys can I lose in one season? As for our little Meredith, she was willing to take a bullet for her man - wow and can't say I would have done the same thing. The most devastating is yet to come for poor TV addicted me - the final two hours of "24!" I'm not ready. I feel weak and my blood sugar is dropping rapidly. "Don't take Jack Bauer from me. Fox Network, I'll do anything , including watch Fox News!" Jack has had another exhausting, bloody, life threatening day in which he will once again save the country and world. I can't wait for Monday night and simultaneously dread it. Emily, I'll be calling you by hour 23 for emotional support.

As fate would have it this year I became an American Idol junkie. Curses! I can't explain how it happened, probably boredom on Tuesday night, but I got the fever. Next Wednesday at 8:00 CST I will finally know - WHO WILL BE THE NEXT AMERICAN IDOL. It's down to my two favorites: the little hottie Lee or the Janis Joplin like Crystal. I'm a wreck. Adria voted 6 times for Lee last week. I refuse to text in my vote - too expensive. Next year I must be careful to never be home on Tuesday night or I'll have to go into TV re-hab. And so another season is almost over and I'll have to find a life. I'm available for parties and ship christenings.

The Baby Boomers leave Mick Jagger for Fred Astaire!

2010-05-17T09:37:00.001-07:00

"Gotta Dance! Gotta Dance!" Hang on just one second, stop the music - everyone I run into is taking dancing lessons. And I'm not talking rock and roll ; I'm talking sway and dip. It seems the hard core rockers have turned from Mick Jagger swagger to Fred Astaire flair. What happened kids? Have we become old fuddy duddies or have tennis elbows and arthritic knees finally taken a toll? The baby boomers have turned in their rackets and Nikes for ballroom attire. All my friends are off to dance studios for fun and exercise and I'm still wrapping my knees in Ace bandages and limping and groaning my way up the lakefront. I guess I gotta dance too.

I remember the dancing lessons we had to take in 5th grade. The Box Step was the entry level move. I wasn't very good at geometry so forming a box with my feet was confusing. I made Jimmy Adler trip and fall when I moved my right foot forward instead of my left. Whoops and thankfully his cast was only on for a few weeks. I was much more adept at the Cha Cha. One, two, cha cha cha - that was easy to remember and didn't require geometry. I also was quite a good jitter bugger. Of course this depended on someone actually asking me to dance. There was absolutely nothing worse than being the only one not dancing - a 5th grade girl's biggest nightmare. It still strikes terror in my heart just thinking about it, which makes me not want to dance ever again.

I recently met a bellydancing Veterinarian. She told me it's a great way to dance yourself into shape. "Do you dance for the dogs?" I was dying to ask her but didn't. It sounded to me however, like a great way to put your back in spasm and need a Chiropractor. Is pole dancing still a craze? I was really really bad at gymnastics and fell off the rope more than I ever climbed it so I'm certain pole dancing would land me in the emergency room. Ballroom dancing sounds safe and I doubt they start with the Box Step anymore so my fear of geometry would be irrelevant. It's probably decent exercise and not too hard on your knees until the Tango at which time I would quit anyway because I'm sure I'd trip and fall in the requisite high heels and also look bad in a black veil.

I'm happy so many people are Fox Trotting for fun and sport but until I hear that Mick Jagger is doing the Waltz there are no dancing lessons in my future.

Babysitting Dad aka Watching" Bonanza"

2010-05-07T08:21:00.000-07:00

I was never a babysitter growing up. Either I didn't like small children or no one trusted me with theirs. Although, as I look back it would have been a nice way to earn some extra cash, as my allowance was 25cents which got me a coke and no fries. I was always mooching fries off my friend's plates at the local deli . I became impervious to the dirty looks and "hey, buy your own." I could take the nasty comments but not the thought of entertaining little kids, herding them into bed and then sitting in a big old house until their parents returned. That sounded difficult and I was certain the Boston Strangler was lurking outside waiting for me to be alone in the living room. Nope, no babysitting for this girl, I wanted to live to get my braces off and shave my legs.

Flash forward 50 years and I'm called to duty. Yes siree, I'm older, not afraid of the Boston Strangler but Freddie Kruger, no longer yearn for french fries, have straight teeth, usually shave my legs, and have been called upon to babysit my father. My Mother was off to New York and didn't want to leave the poor guy alone. She's 92 and hopping a plane to visit her brother. Dad's 89 and likes TV. "Go Mom go", I'm thinking as I watched her spend hour upon hour deciding how many outfits to pack , what shoes to schlep and of course make the laborious decision of what jewelry to bring. Meanwhile back in the living room, my babysitting project is asleep in the black leather chair with a Bonanza episode blaring. "Bye Mom, I hope you wear everything."

Dad didn't do much. My job consisted of watching him move from chair to chair to chair. Uh oh, where'd he go? I lost him - but would ultimately find him in a different room in a chair....asleep. He also frequented the refrigerator a lot. He's a big juice drinker. He likes to mix concoctions of pineapple, apple, orange, pomegranite, pear, peach, and apricot juice. Yuk, but it could prove profitable. "Dad, maybe you should open a juice bar?" He wasn't interested. I desperately tried to tempt him with a glass of wine at dinner to perk things up. "Is that Mogan David?" he would grumble. "No, try it, just take a sip," I would urge. He would take less than a sip and spit it out. "It's horrible, I only like Mogan David." "But Dad it isn't Passover," I pleaded. I didn't know if I was doing a good job. My Mother called almost every two hours to check my work. "I think he's asleep," was my usual response. "Mom did you wear the black dress with the red jacket yet?" I liked to keep the conversation interesting for her since Dad was unavailable.

I don't think my Dad would recommend me as a sitter. We didn't do many fun activities. I still remain confused as to what the job "babysitter" really means. Surprisingly, I did realize that it is never too late to catch up on old Bonanza episodes.

My 19th Nervous Breakdown or I need a 10 yr. old.

2010-05-04T06:48:00.000-07:00

Here comes my 19th nervous breakdown - the really bad insidious kind that no form of therapy or medication can fix or subdue. Handfulls of Xanax don't help and in a moment of total frustration I flushed the tiny pills down the toilet. I ran for the $25 bottle of Cabernet and in a nano second of lucidity thought better of it. I was having the big 21st century drug resistant meltdown. This condition doesn't affect small children, teenagers or young adults . No, the complete and total destruction of one's sanity and ability to cope is the hardest and deadliest on the the baby boomers. It's chronic, and there appears to be no cure for, 'WHAT IS WRONG WITH MY FREAKING COMPUTER?" "Work you little black monster in a box! You're supposed to be wireless....PICK UP THE DAMN SIGNAL," I sobbed and threw myself on the couch rolling in technological agony.

I had to call someone. I needed help. I needed computer boy Devon in Palm Springs asap. I ran for my cell phone. Oh God, I couldn''t dial out, there was no signal! Where was the damn signal? I needed bars....where were the little black bars? I don't have a landline. Everything about me is wireless. I needed wires! I needed to be connected to a wall , not the air. The wall is better, I trust the wall not mystery waves! Again I headed for the Cabernet, but thankfully stopped myself. I took a deep breath to control my hyperventilating. I'd watch TV for a little while and tackle the phone and computer later. It's the last season of 24 and maybe Jack Bauer saving the country would calm my nerves. Crap, there were three clickers. I picked one up and pressed "on." Nothing. I tried again. A blank screen stared back at me. My right arm started to itch just a little . I grabbed another and tried again and again and again. Nothing, nothing, and nothing. I frantically took the last one and pressed every button to no avail. Not the TV! I needed Jack Bauer to save me too! I wanted to throw the clickers against wall but threw myself instead - cheaper.

Nothing worked that was supposed to. I was in a technological vortex: no computer, phone, or TV. I couldn't stop scratching my itching right arm. I needed help. Who could rescue me from the vortex? Where's a 10 year old when you need one?

Am I Carrie Bradshaw or Roseanne?

2010-04-29T08:44:00.000-07:00

I hate moving but decided after 30 years in the suburbs of Chicago to be a city girl again. Yea, I'm a decrepit Carrie Bradshaw! Unfortunately, once the initial "oh goody I love my new apartment " passed, which took 30 seconds, I looked around at the boxes filled with my papers from 1975 and suitcases stuffed with clothes I stopped wearing four years ago and anxiety gripped me by the throat. Help, I can't breathe! Why did I move? Maybe I'm not Carrie, maybe I'm Roseanne! I couldn't unpack; I could only stand panic struck surrounded by my belongings and hyperventilate. Where were the smelling salts, and did I ever own any? More importantly where did I put the emergency Sauvignon Blanc? I considered calling an ambulance. I needed to rest somewhere peaceful with nurses administering medication. That sounded a lot better than staring at a pair of hiking boots sitting on top of a box. I haven't hiked in 4 years. The last time I tried it I saw a man attacked by a cactus. I like cars.

I have 14 new keys and a fob that open a dozen doors to get in my building. This makes me sweat and very very nervous. I like one key. And for God's sake what does "fob" mean? I envision standing outside at midnight madly trying key after key after fob to no avail and then pounding on the door . It won't help, but will make me feel pro-active, along with bursting into tears. Why did I move?

And uh oh, where did I put the dog? "Beefy Boy, where are you?" He glared at me from behind a pile of boxes. Thankfully he can't talk. He hates moving as much as cross country car trips. I think he wanted to stay in Santa Fe. He might like city living however- more people, more attention. I resigned myself to unpacking but not before I found the emergency bottle of wine. I've carefully labeled all the keys and wonder if the "fob" can double as a Ninja device for protection. It's possible I'll like being an aged slightly arthritic Carrie Bradshaw and ripped open the box labeled "high heels."

Day Three: Gail, Emily, Beefy Boy Elliot, Alfred Hitchcock, and Truman Capote Spend the Night Together

2010-04-23T06:54:00.000-07:00

"Oh my God, what is that smell?" Nebraska. Me, Emily and Beefy Boy Elliot were gasping for air. Yes siree, cattle lining the landscape are lovely to behold but, do not under any circumstances open the window of your car. For that matter just hold your breath across the state because even sealed in my little Honda going 75mph it was nasty. "Hold on only 700 more miles to Iowa," I choked out. Seeing as how we were in cattle country a big old steak was probably what we should have ordered at dinner in North Platte but by 7:00p.m. we had our fill of beef and ordered salad.

"Welcome to Iowa" was a welcome relief. The pancake flat landscape of Nebraska was behind us and we were joyful to see rolling hills and it didn't smell. We pulled into Iowa City in time for al fresco dining on the pedestrian mall. Beefy Boy loves outdoor dining but not Japanese food so he missed out on some really good sushi.

There is no LaQuinta in Iowa City so we were stumped as to where to spend the night that would also take Beefy Boy. We pulled into a Travel Lodge which looked ok in the dark. "Nope, no problem with the dog. I won't even make you put down a deposit," the clerk behind the desk drolled. Luck seemed to be on our side. We drove around to the very very very back of the motel to our room- a long creepy way from the front desk. We were on the ground floor and faced a swamp. Loud music was coming from a pick-up truck parked three doors down. Two guys sat on the back of the truck facing their open motel room. "Emily, what are they doing? Who sits outside the room?" It was just us, them and a swamp....in the dark dark night. As we schlepped our stuff from the car we continued to stare at our neighbors. "Gail, did you ever read "In Cold Blood?" "I saw the movie" I whispered. I was thinking more about a different movie however,"Psycho." We stood stone still in our room afraid to move. "We're the only ones back here," I mumbled and couldn't get Norman Bates off of my mind. "We have a dog, aren't people afraid of dogs?" I was desperate . We both burst out laughing watching Beefy Boy already sound asleep on the floor. "Elliot! Elliot up boy, guard the door." He opened one eye and then closed it.

There is only one option when you can't get Norman Bates off your mind. "Quick, Emily move that big chair over in front of the door." But we had two doors, curses! "I'll put the desk chair at the other one." Nope, not barricaded well enough we thought and eyed the furnishings. We quickly piled all our suitcases against the doors. "What about the dresser?" I thought that seemed logical. Uh oh, we had a window too - well at least we'd hear it break and could hightail it out a door...if we could unbarricade it fast enough. All the blood had drained from my face and the rash I developed on the closed interstate in Arizona started to itch again. Alfred Hitchcock and Truman Capote had ruined my life. I vowed to stop reading and going to movies. We eventually fell asleep because staring at the window became tiring.

We woke up the next morning.

Thelma, Louise, and Beefy Boy Elliot - Day two

2010-04-20T07:09:00.000-07:00

"Yep, you could have been on the interstate all night. Only the back way 'round from Phoenix could've saved ya and that's windy as hell too," we heard from the cashier at the gas station half way back to Flagstaff. "Twenty car pile-up a week ago, coulda been out there all night, uh huh." I started scratching again just hearing the story. Me, Beefy Boy, and Emily were free and hadn't been arrested for our illegal turn on I40 but we were also heading in the wrong direction. I held back tears. We needed cocktails and ointment for my rash.

When the alarm went off at 5:30 a.m. at the Flagstaff LaQuinta, I thrashed around cursing the hour. "Emily, Emily!" She didn't budge, nor did Beefy Boy who was planted at her side on the other bed. "We gotta go, 7 hours to Santa Fe...think of the turquoise, silver and shopping ... we could get there by noon," I groaned. I'm not sure but I think we slept in our clothes. I also think we were still wearing them as we dragged ourselves to the car.

Charm oooozed from every little adobe building in Old Santa Fe and there was turquoise and silver jewelry as far as the eye could see. Every store was loaded with the stuff. We measured the afternoon in bracelets. "How much is this one?" That was all either of us said for 5 hours. "That's $250" was always the answer. "Huh?" was always my response. Every freaking piece of jewelry no matter how big, small or beaded was at least $250! It's cheaper at Neiman Marcus was all I could think. (Which reminded me I had to return a pair of shoes). "This little silver bracelet with one teenie weenie piece of turquoise is $250?" I said to a local Indian displaying his things on a blanket in the square. I thought he was my one shot at a cheaper price seeing as how he had no overhead. He nodded. I stared. Even Beefy Boy stared. I sadly realized I could only afford the local "charm." Thankfully, we cheered ourselves up from shopping despair with spicey southwestern crab cakes and a bottle of red Zinfindel.

We were exhausted, bracelet-less and still in yesterday's clothes when we dragged ourselves back to the LaQuina Inn at the outer edge of town. It looked dicey but doable given we had been up for 15 hours. Nothing like what was in our motel future! Stay tuned for Gail, Emily and Beefy Boy in motel terror.

The Interstate Day from Hell or Gail, Emily and Beefy Boy Elliot Day One

2010-04-17T06:53:00.000-07:00

Who are those people who love the open road? They must have a special "inner peace" and "solitude" gene. I have the special "when are we going to get there" variety which forces me to constantly look at the odometer and clock . "Crap, it's only been 12 minutes since we left Palm Springs that can't be right." Oh it was right all right as I held back tears. With my beefy boy Lab sprawled out in the back seat staring straight ahead I sensed he was also thinking it had been hours and wanted out. Only 1,996 miles to Chicago I winced and scratched at a nervous rash I had developed. My first stop was the Phoenix airport to pick up my girlfriend Emily who reluctantly agreed to make the "fun" cross country trip with me.

Could her plane being two hours late from LAX be a harbinger of what was to come? Nah. Our first destination was part of the "fun" I promised her. I know I lied. Santa Fe would be our one and only happy place and we were going to spend a day and two nights there. The promise of silver and turquoise jewelry was only 7 hours away. Yipee and holy crap I could hardly hang on to the steering wheel as we made our way across I40 in Arizona. Whoa little Honda! My car was being blown across the interstate. "Sure is windy out here," I declared taking on a John Wayne old West twang for some unexplainable reason . Tumble weed flew across the road and I could barely steer in a straight line. "What the....." The interstate traffic came to a dead stop 15 miles from Winslow Arizona. Dead as a doornail stop. I started to itch again. As far as the eye could see in front and piling up behind us trucks and cars were at a standstill. This was not like Chicago rush hour traffic, we were in the middle of freaking nowhere going nowhere.

Emily yelled out to the trucker next to us "Excuse me sir... SIR! SIR DO YOU KNOW WHAT'S GOING ON?" His 18 wheeler towered above us and he shouted down, "Seems they closed the interstate 'cause of the wind and dust. Might not open until 7:00 p.m." I have never itched so much in my life. "That's over 7 hours from now," I moaned and scratched. "We can't sit here for that long...oh God I have to pee already." I got out of the car to talk to the folks who were milling around , while Emily called her sister to help us. She lives in Boston. "Yep, looks like the interstate is closed until the wind dies down," the guy three cars ahead confirmed. I felt faint, sweaty and slightly nauseous. I was only certain of one thing at that moment - he might sit out here for 7 hours but I sure as hell wasn't planning on it. I called the Winslow Police Department for advice. "Ma'am you're just going to have to wait, " a woman drawled. Last week the dust and wind was so bad there was a 20 car pile-up. Couldn't see a foot in front of you." "Well....well what if I just go across the culvert and turn around?" I implored. "Ma'am , ma'am, listen to me, you'll be arrested!" Only if I get caught, I theorized. I eyed the ditch I had to cross to escape. Could my little Civic make it? And why why why wasn't anyone else heading back to Flagstaff like I wanted to do? "Emily we have to get out of here and it's now or none of us will pee for 7 hours." I think the dog agreed.

The car had to make it. I no longer cared about being arrested, I just wanted out of the 15 mile line of vehicles. As I was agonizing over our escape I saw a car enact my plan. Hell if he could do it I could. "Here we go Thelma" I laughed as I turned the wheel and jammed my foot on the gas. Go little Honda go! Down the culvert and up the other side we flew. "Whoa Nelly!" (I was still being John Wayne). We were on our way in the opposite direction of Chicago but we didn't care. Only two things were important now - not seeing a Sheriff's car chasing me and a bottle of wine in Flagstaff.

Stay tuned for more cross country adventures of Gail, Emily and beefy boy Elliot.

I hate road trips and so does the dog.

2010-04-11T13:52:00.000-07:00

There is no way to make the 2,000 mile car ride back to Chicago from Palm Springs short. It's endless, it's painful, it's boring and it starts tomorrow. I've spent four days mopping, sweeping, washing, wiping, and vacuuming my way out the door. No cleaning service for this girl. Yep, I saved myself $90.00. It wasn't worth it but it's in my DNA, thanks Dad. I've given serious thought to wrapping my yellow lab in scotch tape so he stops shedding until we leave but I didn't. I'm bad with a tape gun. My dog hates road trips so I'm sneaking the suitcases to the car while he's not looking. "Sorry beefy boy, time to leave. And keep your hair on."

I want to thank my friend Emily for reluctantly offering to drive with me. She didn't really want to but I cried and cried until she gave in. I think I told her it would be fun. I lied. I was desperate. I thought about making the drive alone but realized I'd need so much medication I'd be asleep and unable to steer. I could have talked on the phone for the entire 2,000 miles but after day one I don't think anyone would take my calls. I'd be whining and complaining and finally friendless.

I'm set to wake up at 4:45 a.m. which can't possibly be a time of day. I tested two alarm clocks to make sure they're working which isn't normal but felt necessary. I have a list of things not to forget which includes the dog, given the early hour. Sadly, I placed my Arctic parka on the front seat because it isn't warm in Chicago until mid June or sometimes July. Crap. I think I need a drink. Uh oh, the dog just saw me sneak out with his bed and glared. I think he needs a drink. I resist the urge to fill his bowl with a nice California Chardonnay. I pour myself an extra large glass instead and decide to vacuum again.

18 seconds of fame on a bad hair day

2010-04-06T07:56:00.000-07:00

I had 18 seconds of fame. Unfortunately they came when I looked like crap. I was out for a run heading down the main street of Palm Springs when a news crew stopped me. "Ma'm would you mind if we asked you a few questions?" Moi?! Really me? It's never me, it's always the person five steps ahead of me. Wow at last it was me! I was happy to be interviewed but not when I was in gym clothes, had sweat pouring down my t-shirt, no make-up on, my hair in a ratty ponytail and wearing my nerdy sunglasses. "Sure", I replied but , could I go home and fix my hair first?" They stared. I laughed and said I was kidding. I wasn't. They were from Channel 2 news and asked me questions about the Dinah Shore Golf Tournament that was in town for the weekend. "Does Palm Springs seem more crowded than usual?" "Does it help the economy?" "Do the crowded restaurants bother you?" All I could think about was my hair. And if I smelled.

I tried to be clever but probably wasn't. I would have preferred questions on health care or mid-term elections but I figured as long as the camera was rolling I should be happy. So it wasn't a "Meet the Press" moment, I was on TV.....with no lipstick or eye liner. I'm sorry Mom, you were right never leave the house without full make-up. Crap. They took my name and I started to jog away when it dawned on me I didn't ask when the piece would run. I was too busy thinking about my hair. And if I sounded whiney. I always sound whiney. Why did I stop for a news crew when I had bad bangs?

To watch or not to watch, this plagued me. I had become Hamlet without the good perks like a castle. I called my sister immediately. "Oh my God Terry I was just interviewed for TV, I screamed . But you watch for me I can't." "Are you crazy you have to watch." "I can't. Once I see how bad I looked and how whiney I sounded I'll never go out in public again. I'll become a hermit. I don't want to stay inside the rest of my life." I think I needed a Xanax. "I'll tivo it", she calmy responded. Whatever that meant. I didn't watch. I can't afford therapy. According to Andy Warhol I have 14 minutes and 42 seconds of fame left, hopefully I will be dressed better, and wearing lipstick.

Are we celebrity addicted?

2010-04-02T08:13:00.000-07:00

It's baaaack! And I'm am so over it. Lo and behold Tiger Wood's sex life is back in the news. Just when I thought it was really disturbing to hear about pedophile priests there was more gossip about our lothario golfer instead. Huh? Initially, I was as riveted as the rest of the world to his cheatin' ways but enough is enough. (Btw that goes for the tattooed hubby of Sandra Bullock.) I was groggy and drinking my morning coffee when I heard on TV more than I ever wanted to know about anyone's sex life including my own. Thanks to another blabbing ex I now know every room in Tiger's house in which they had sex. Yes, including the kitchen which is still my New Year's resolution. It woke me up and grossed me out. Isn't there a war or two somewhere about which to be concerned? And I repeat,what about the pedophile priest cover-up? Our boys Tiger and Jesse pale in comparison to the magnitude of that news.

Are we celebrity addicted? The badder they are the better we like it. Bring on those lying cheating stars and "make my day." Poor Sandra. Bad Jesse. Wow sports fans Tiger isn't a great guy after all . Quick, Twitter! It was Tiger bashing day on 1010 radio yesterday afternoon ....why? In my book he's been bashed to the point of blah blah blah blah. Truthfully, I'm anxious to see the guy tee-up at Augusta next week. I'm ready to move on, but sadly the press isn't. We forgave Nixon and have turned the other cheek to Bill Clinton's dalliances so if history repeats itself, which it usually does, we will forgive Tiger.

As for the damage those priests have done, that is unforgivable.

Queen of One Date Tells All

2010-03-25T08:07:00.000-07:00

"Sam, you have to help me!" I cried into the phone.
"What is it babe, try and calm down and tell me what's wrong."
"I don't get it , I've become the "QUEEN OF ONE DATE." Yep I gave myself a new title, "Jewish Princess" was out. Although I liked the promotion to Queen, the rest of it sucked.
"What are you talking about?"
"Well, I think that kind of sums it up. I never get asked on a second date. One date and I'm out. I don't get it, no one calls again. Why? What should I do? Or what can I do?"
"Don't talk," he responded without hesitation.
"Huh?" Was he talking to me or about me?
"Don't talk when you go out with these men. Just listen."
"Huh?"
"Let the guy talk his brains out, don't compete with him."
"I don't get it, just sit there like a lump?"
"Just sit there and smile. Or ask a question."
"Huh?"
"Ask a question about him. Men like soft and sweet."
"Excuse me?" I think all the blood was rushing dangerously to my head.
"Gail, you don't get it." He was right I was faint and didn't get it.
"What about a conversation?" I whispered as I began to lose consciousness.
"Men have competition all day in business and don't want it with a woman during down time."
"Is a conversation competition?"
"See how you are? You're challenging me and I'm giving you advice." He was serious. I stepped out onto the patio for air.
"So we're talking about an evening where I'm just smiling and asking my date questions about himself? There's no conversation where two people equally exchange thoughts. Is that what you're saying?"
"That's what I'm saying honey."
"And if I do that I'll get to go on a second date?"
"That's right."
"Well, thanks for the advice."
"Let me know how it goes."

I laid down on the patio in order not to faint. As I stared up at the dark sky I realized I couldn't follow Sam's advice. Could he really be right? I had to chose a vow of smiling silence or forever maintain my title of "Queen of One Date?"

I decided to stop dating.

Being Sandra Bullock

2010-03-19T09:21:00.000-07:00

More bad news for the country and I'm not talking about health care, settlements in East Jerusalem, or a surge in Afghanistan. The announcement scrolled across my computer screen and stopped me mid click. Sandra Bullock is leaving her husband Jesse because he's cheated on her. How much more can I take?! Her tattooed boy has been out carousing. Hang on there you randy muscle man, what was wrong with Sandra? And if not Sandra who? I'm wracking my addled brain to come up with hotter and prettier than our little Oscar winner. There's no topping a hottie with a gold statuette in her hand. Cheating on fabulously beautiful women has become epidemic and personally it's detrimental to my mental health. I need a drink and a lot of medication. I haven't yet recovered from the reality of Tiger Woods sneaking around on that beauty queen Elin. She is so pretty it brings tears to my eyes. If Sandra and Elin can't keep their men home what chance do I have? None. Not a shot in hell. I looked in the mirror this morning and the only thing me, Elin and Sandra have in common is ....nothing. Maybe we use the same toothpaste.

What about the wedding vows boys? I had a feeling they weren't for the faint of heart. Those are some serious ass questions with no wiggle room. Everyone just blurts out "I do" and runs for the martini bar. Maybe Tiger and Jesse should have answered, " Hmmm , I'll get back to you" or "what if a hot cocktail waitress wants me?" Even more disturbing is our little beauties Sandra and Elin weren't even sick or in bad health so how hard could it be for the boys to stick around? And doesn't "as long as you both shall live" give you a headache? That's a real toughie for half the population. Let's re-phrase that to say "as long as I want to." This would save lying, legal fees and fist fights over People Magazine and The Enquirer in the grocery store check-out line.

What is it men want? This confuses me more than the health care bill.

"But Mom I am standing up straight" I cried.

2010-03-12T07:36:00.000-08:00

Uh oh I'm not standing up straight. My Mom just came to Palm Springs to visit and reminded me of this. "Gail, I was noticing at dinner that you weren't standing up straight. You really should , you look so much prettier when you do." "Yes I was," I insisted as I glared at her. Apparently she either likes to nag me or it's really true because I've been hearing about it for over 50 years. Growing up it used to drive me crazy, "stand up straight" over and over and over. "Ok, ok, I hear you," I'd snip back and then slouch. I never understood why it was such a big deal. And how "straight" is straight enough? This question haunted me. She had eyes like an Eagle. Although she didn't let me shave my legs and to me that was far more noticeable than my posture. "But Mom, I sobbed, everyone shaves their legs....please." I was twelve with hairy legs wearing white anklet socks and party shoes....a really bad look and no one ever asked me to dance. Nope, my lack of dancing didn't matter, it was all about standing up straight.

I've spent years of my life ignoring her words and focusing on shaving my legs, which btw is tiring and really boring after one leg. Truthfully however, I think about posture more and more these days as a doctor friend of mine told me the way to stay youthful looking is to stand up straight. His words struck me , unlike Mom's. Was he onto something? Is that the key? I thought it was a face lift but posture is cheaper. I'm in desperate need of "youthful" and started lifting weights to stregthen my droopy shoulders. I'm trying the least expensive route first but have started a plastic surgery fund with the money I'm saving by not taking the tollway.

Mom's words were discouraging as I was convinced I had resolved my posture issues. I still wasn't standing up straight enough for her and hung my head in despair. It was then like a dream come true she changed the subject, "Gail when was the last time you had your roots done?"

Help my house is surrounded by the Starbuck's Police!

2010-03-06T17:42:00.000-08:00

I'm a heretic. I did something unheard of, veritably blasphemous. I don't think there were any witnesses, although I can't be certain. I had to do it. Regardless of whether or not the economy is getting stonger I'm not. I'm still cheap, and unable to resist a bargain no matter how irreverent. I was in need of coffee and because the little brown beans have taken on religious significance as well as social status I always reach for a pound of Starbucks or Peets. The blends continue to confuse me but I usually pick a country I'd like to visit like Columbia, France, or Kenya and remind myself that buying the mindbendingly expensive roast is cheaper than a plane ticket, but not much. So there I was ready to break the bank for beans when I see a much cheaper option. Oh no, oh no , a brand I've never heard of at $5.99 for 12 ounces - be still my heart.

Does anyone else think coffee drinks have taken over our minds, sanity and wallets? What ever happened to Maxwell House and "good to the last drop?" Mom used to make it every morning and I loved the blue blue can. Who can forget Mrs. Folger regardless of her bad hairdo and pathetic taste in clothes? Personally I loved "Chock Full O'Nuts" or was I nuts? Now it's every man for themselves in the line at Starbucks. I've witnessed the madness and yes paid $50 for an expresso. I don't even understand what anyone's ordering. Are they speaking a romance language or Latin? All that comes to my mind is "huh?" Ironically no one is even happy about their order. They're angrily pushing and shoving me aside or sending back a "grande" because they ordered a "venti." I'm thinkin' they're over-caffeinated before the caffeine. "Excuse me but the Valium line is to the right."

I'm also wondering whether nonfat whip cream is an oxymoron? Have the real stuff for God's sake , it's all fattening. I love the order of "grande, but a little less than "grande" with latte but not too latte, half steamed, half air, half nonfat, half mocha and that's "to go." Personally I think it's all the same drink. I bought the coffee for $5.99. I'm richer and a trendsetter yet stare at the cheap little bag of beans and realize I'm not ready or determined enough. What time does Starbucks open?