Tuesday, July 22, 2014


                                                How Many Bullets? So Little Time

     I fell down. Yup. Right on my buttocks. At my age, most would assume I couldn’t get up. The hostess in the restaurant was visibly concerned. I could see “Don’t Sue Us” all over her rosy cheeks (her face cheeks). 

     Mr. Wonderful just assumed it was due to my stilettos in the rain when I texted him. Well, guess what? I was barefoot. I respect my shoes, especially new hot ones that I just paid for. Not wanting to get them wet, I made the decision to carry them in one hand and hold my umbrella with the other. I made it through several puddles up to the front door of the establishment. I opened the door, and down I went. The cement hit me from below, and I could swear I bounced a couple of times. Not fun. Well, I did get up, and I learned a lesson: when you think you’re home free, maybe you’re not:)

     If I had been 25 or 30, no one would have flinched. But at my tender age (the one I was to celebrate over nachos with my friend), people automatically panic. I did. 

     The good news:  great nachos. Only thing missing was a Margarita. Unfortunately, I make it a practice not to drink before noon. My birthday lunch was fun, and as it was a gift from my friend, I especially savored every crunch.

     The after-dinner pain set in, and I was sure I would be plagued with back pain the rest of my days (which I have chosen not to count). This morning, I am 97% better, so I guess I’m out of the woods. Another bullet dodged. 

     Do you ever wonder how many bullets each of us gets? Do we all get the same amount? If you are a mean girl, do you get less? If you are a clergy person, do you get more? No clue. All I know is, I’ve used up a hellava lot of them, and I pray there are several more in reserve somewhere.

     After watching the tragic morning news, ready to celebrate my 71st birthday, I thank the Big Guy for the gifts of good health, the comfort of friends, and the crunch of a good nacho.

Sunday, July 20, 2014


What’s with pictures? Do you have friends who whip out their cells to show you ten of the last photos of their mangy pets or pint-sized children? That’s bad enough, but when you want to show them one measley photo of you in your new bikini, they look for one second and change the subject. What is that? 

What’s with the one-up? When I was thirty, my friends were climbing the corporate ladders. There were no ceilings, much less glass ones, and everyone was working their asses off. The trend then was to brag about a big raise or a new title or a much-wanted pregnancy. Fast forward forty years. Aren’t we over it? Nope, not a chance. Some people are one-upping on cruise ships, grandchildren, cholesterol counts and good genes. wft?

What’s with the real estate market? People don’t care anymore if you have a custom home. They don’t care that you have the best view on the block. They don’t give a damn about closets, cubbies, storage cabinets, garages, wine cellars. All they want to know is the price per square foot. Whaaat? Why don’t they just go buy a foreclosed concert hall?

What’s with pets? We know people in their eighties who are getting pets? Aren’t they pets themselves by now? Who wants to train some mongrel they saved from a tsunami to impress one’s friends? Why would they want to go pick up poo when they can barely get out of bed? Unconditional love. Hmm. What channel was that Humane Society program on?

No one has a landline anymore. No one, except us. The cord to our landline stretches from here to Nebraska. Mr. Wonderful thinks because it’s all neatly folded behind the receiver (does anyone even know what that is?), it’s not unsightly. Well, guess what. It is, and I hate it. Why do we keep it? It’s bundled. Bundled means if we get rid of the landline, we lose our refrigerator, stereo and sex toys. Hello? Yes, this is Mrs. Glamourpuss. No, we already gave at someone’s office. Bundle schmundle.

Defining “Status” these days includes what you DON’T have as well as what you do.
Here are things you don’t want to claim:
  1. landline (all right already)
  2. shag carpet
  3. cassette recorder
  4. radio
  5. i-pod
  6. recliner with viewable handle
  7. dried flowers
  8. TV tables
  9. car keys
  10. milk shoot

So do your guests really check to see if you dusted before your dinner party? Do they run their fingers along the baseboards to see if they’re pristine (like my mother said they would. Hah, she paid to have hers done.) Do they look in your shower to check the scum level? Do they look at your glass tables to be sure there are no streaks? Do they look behind your toaster when you’re small talking to someone else to see if you wiped up the toast crumbs from last Wednesday? If they do all these things, why on earth would you ever invite these people to your home? 

Saturday, July 19, 2014

                                FOOT a tire?

     Whaaat? The latest on the silver scream is:  “Retirees who own BMWs are more unhapppy than those who own a Lexus.” I don’t think so.

     First of all, anyone who has to buy an effen vehicle to be “happy,” is pretty pathetic to begin with, and if you haven’t figured out how pathetic you are by the age of retirement, then you’re obviously the one full of gas, not your vehicle.

     Secondly, I have been retired for almost ten years, and I have owned both brands. I am happiest when my payment is low and my mileage is high. This disqualifies both vehicles. I do agree that the BMW is tight and the LEXUS is loose. For those who were lucky enough not to have their entire savings towed away in the financial wreck of 2008, you probably don’t even have a payment, so you should be ecstatic! 

     The best vehicle is the foot. The foot is free. It requires no petrol. It can go as fast or as slow as you wish and can be washed without hoses and sponges. It can be dirty and still function, and it does not need waxing. No insurance is necessary, and there is no license to renew. It never goes out of style and doesn’t have to be displayed in a showroom where gritty little anklebiters can put their sticky hands all over it. It doesn’t need a tune-up every 5000 miles. Color is not an option, and it always matches your elbows. Your happiness is not dependent on it, for it is controlled by the same part of the  body as the mouth. (We all know how happy our mouths are:)

BMW, LEXUS, FOOT? Your choice. 

Wednesday, July 16, 2014

                           39 THINGS FOR WHICH I AM THANKFUL as I begin my 7th decade on the planet

  1. A bed that’s so big I can’t see Mr. Wonderful in the dark.
  2. A tiny machine that makes white noise so even though I can’t see him, I don’t have to hear him:)
  3. Mr. Wonderful after 21 years:)
  4. A nice big Woman Cave to work out in, write silly blogs in, watch dumb TV programs in, use dangling prepositions in.
  5. No aches and pains.
  6. Having all my own teeth. (not that I’d really want someone else’s.)
  7. Still struttin’ in my stilettos.
  8. Still able to drive stick shift.
  9. My own pension.
  10. My own health insurance.
  11. My own car.
  12. My own toothbrush.
  13. Two beautiful, successful daughters.
  14. Ten lively, funny, bright and loving grand-children.
  15. Buster, Max and Lacey (my friends’ pets)
  16. Good eyes to lose myself in wonderful literature (both junk and literary)
  17. Strong hands to play Chopin and pick my thumb.
  18. Good legs that still turn heads (until they look up:)
  19. More energy than a 25-year-old:)
  20. Can still hear when my kids try to whisper.
  21. Good friends who validate me.
  22. An enemy or two who keep me humble.
  23. A creative crazy mind that keeps me laughing at myself.
  24. A facebook account that allows me the joy of watching my former students and their families.
  25. A couple of Michigan soul mates.
  26. Resilient toes.
  27. Vegetable steamer bags.
  28. Two for one Edy Carmel Delight Low-fat Ice cream 
  29. Scandal and Taye Diegs.
  30. Movies on Demand
  31. Eyelashes
  32. An occasional zit
  33. Still risking
  34. Brené Brown
  35. Rachmaninoff and Chopin
  36. Justin Timberlake
  37. Pink
  38. Obsession by Calvin Klein
  39. Vince Camuto

Monday, July 14, 2014


These were the words to a song I used to hum to in my youth. I say youth because at my age, it’s all about the silouette. Remember when they did that thing at school and you took home a black silouette of yourself, and your mom hung it on the ice box (oops, refrigerator). Well, that should have been my first clue that the silouette would play a major role in my life. 

Once a woman has passed the “perfect skin,” “beautiful complexion,” “youthful look” of her existence (btw, I missed all those), she must resort to the silouette. The silouette camouflages all wrinkles, brown spots, zits (if you’re young enought to have any), blemishes, bags, tiny lines, caverns. The silouette just gives the viewer the outline of your face and body. This may sound simple until one looks at one’s profile. We are still not home free, ladies. We must still fit in the super perfect “great for your age” mold, or we are dismissed as “wtfc.” 

I have taken to silouettes lately, but not just for the above reasons. You don’t have to have perfect hair. In fact, in the photo above, you can see that there are some model-type fly-aways that give the form the natural look---just messy enough to leave the house and not an issue for the silouette shoot.

Taking photos from the back is also very helful for us seasoned beauties unless we’re trying to build a booty. Hmm. That gives me an idea: The Build-the-Booty Store. I remember when I didn’t know what a booty was; I thought it was a sock for babies. Duh.
Anyway, I had an enormous one years ago that I used to hide with sweatshirts, but one day it just fell off. (wtf) So now, in my final days, I need to grow a new one. Seems pointless, but what else will I do with my time?

Anyway, I’m just hangin’ out here building my booty hummin’ “Silouette, silouette, silouette, silouette, silouette, da da da daaa da. . . “ (Who wrote the lyrics to this song, 
Morris Albert?)

*Morris Albert wrote Feelings, whoa whoa whoa feelings:)

Sunday, July 13, 2014


I recently read a blurb on the Internet citing stats about whether “YOU KNOW YOU’RE A GROWN-UP.” I still do not aspire to this designation, but I couldn’t contain my curiosity. A couple of the quotes stopped me in my tracks.

“The average American spends 33 minutes per day cooking.” Hmm. I am about 26 minutes behind on this one. For all those who are reading those things called “recipes,” you should know that I am taking my nap while Mr. Wonderful heats up the grill and scrounges in the blue drawer for some decent veggie to throw on the plates. I usually make my lettuce salad the week before to save time. The lettuce looks so pretty with a brown border and some little dots on the leaves.

The next stat concerned how much the average person has in his checking account. $3100. Hmm. Checking account as of today,”12.46.” I have only gotten the “you-have-no-money-moron” ALERT twice this week. No worries. Payday is the 25th---I have it covered. Only thirteen more days and no luncheons planned. Just think. All of those who have $2087.54 more than yours truly are getting no-zero-zip interest, and they probably have several luncheons planned.

The most frightening stat had to do with people whose adult children are unemployed and have moved home. Something like 44% of them found comfort and beer back at the old homestead. I have no desire to share my stash with my adult kids. At the very least, they would have to make my salads, cook some recipes (if they can find any) and be responsible for cleaning the house and doing the lawn. If they awaken me during my nap, they would have to find shelter elsewhere.

Just sayin’. 

Saturday, July 12, 2014




     Anyone need some anger? I have an arsenal here that I am more than willing to rent out for a small fee. I’ve been storing it up for a long time, and it is even available in special sealed-tight compartments that can be delivered right to your doorstep free of charge.

     To make it more user-friendly, I have divided it into categories:  rage, resentment, hostility and JPP (Just Plain Pissed!). The compartments can be ordered in quantities from one-month, one-week or week-end marathon supplies. The containers are air-tight, and most are not bigger than a Jiffy jar. 

     When you are through with your supply, just rinse out the jar with a little vodka, and send it back (postage-free) with your next order. You may pay by credit card or personal check. If your check bounces, however, you don’t want to know the consequences. 

     To order online, simply go to P.O. com, and you will see a wide range of options for every need. 

     There are some side-effects to these products. It is possible to lose all your friends, piss off your spouse, scare the beejeebees out of your kids, be ousted from your country club and not be allowed to vote in political elections. Just sayin’.

     I have included a few testimonials for your perusal:

Jaques Colère, Lyon, France:  “Formidable!”

Mary Ellen Volatile:  “Best day of my life when my fourth Rage Jar arrived. Feeling cleansed.”

Murray Irrytable:  “I’ve been into the Resentment for months now, and I’m really owning it.”

GET YOURS TODAY. Do not delay. Set yourself free from contentment, peace of mind, tranquility. Get into the hard stuff now.