Saturday, January 24, 2015

     Imagine a world without commercials. The amount of television viewing would be cut by at least 50-70%. This means that for those of us fools who don’t record every program we watch, we would actually remember what happens between the red-lipped irritating Progressive bitch and the totally annoying lyrics of over-the-hill Kenny Rogers. 

     Mr. Wonderful would not moan and groan about the advertising executives being on crack, and I would not have to watch a woman leaking while I’m drinking my water with lemon at dinner. 

     We would miss the geico who makes us smile, but we would applaud the lack of scruffy-faced used-car salesmen and catsup-encrusted idiots eating the $5 bag of fast-food heart attack. 

     I would not shed any more tears at the curly Cheerios cherub pouring little “o”s on her Daddy’s chest. I would not have to imagine Rob Lowe looking like a total moron pushing--I-can’t-remember-what. 

     We would not have to continually adjust the volume on the remote as the commercials blare at 400 decibels while we’re waiting for Brian William’s happy news wrap-up.

     Most of our enlightened friends think our feckless way of entertaining ourselves is even more ridiculous than the ads we watch. They’re probably right, but we’re too busy taking our naps to remember to record the programs of the week. That’s assuming the recording mechanism isn’t malfunctioning and leaving us expelling expletives when the damn program freezes right before the climax. 

    What I occasionally wonder is where they find these actors whom they claim “are real people.” If these are real people, they must be desperate for a buck. The mahogany-desk high honchos must love hiring the has-beens like Robert Wagner, George Foreman and Henry Winkler whose Happy Days have long passed. These actors must be thrilled with the raise of the minimum wage. 

   What really irritates us most is the quantity of pharmaceuticals that constantly remind of us what part of our body will fall apart next. They have discovered parts of the body we didn’t even know we had. If the body part is healthy, the product will help us keep it that way. The downside is that the side effects will cause so many problems that you will forget the body part you were trying to protect. There are not enough shelves in most peoples’ bathrooms to store all the drugs recommended. The term drug-free is a joke. There are no “free” drugs. I know because a black sheep family member has become a millionaire selling them to unsuspecting, uninformed citizens. 

     I guess it’s time to give up some zzzzs and record all programs, but then you have to have the clicker in your hand every minute, and this prevents me from twirling my curls and texting my grandchildren. Ah, the sacrifices we must make. I think it’s just easier to read a book. Right now, though, I’m so exhausted writing all this, I need a nap.

Friday, January 23, 2015

                                                    WHAT’S UP, DOC?

     Who wants to go to a doctor’s office in the midst of a flu epidemic? Pas moi! As I walked into his office at 8:00 this morning for a simple blood test, a man wearing a medical mask walked out past me. Oh, my. I figured I had avoided the “bug” long enough to jump into the sports car a couple days from now for our month-long trip to Florida. I have washed my hands raw and handi-wiped my paws until I look like an albino kitten. I just want to get through a few more days until we arrive safely at our destination. Then I thought to myself, “If this is a national epidemic, I can still catch it in Florida. Duh.” Somehow, I have this fantasy of sliding into our hotel “safe.”

     I sat in the extra room hoping no sick fool would plop his tush in my territory, but no. Some feckless old fart (probably my age) came right in and sat across from me. I could hear the guy in the main room sniffling, and all I could think of was getting out of there fast. Anyway, the old fart sat there boldly, obviously unconcerned about my anxiety. I made no eye contact, as I certainly was not interested in chit-chatting with a squatter.

     Music to my ears came quickly: “Sandra,” the woman called. I escaped faster than air can leave a football and hightailed it into the blood-letting room. I climbed into the chair just in time for the broad bloodsucking broad to let out a resonating sneeze. wtf. (That’s English for “Bon Sang!”) She claimed there was some perfume scent in the air that was causing her nasal distress. Yeah, right. Now I was going to have her perfumed germs on the rubber arm-strangler as well as jumping off her latex gloves. Joy.

     She proceeded to take my blood and cheerfully wish me a good day. I dashed past the old fart, the drippy-nose nerd and clambered into my car. Frantically searching for the Handi-Wipes, I removed the cotton-ball-bandaid from my punctured vein and wiped down my entire body. I even wiped down the steering wheel and door handle in case some of her scent snuck into my vehicle. 

     Home in less than an hour, I quickly prepared my breakfast as the “fast” was slowly starving me. I inhaled my protein “Os” and peanut butter-slathered banana while listening to the Today Show hosts discuss deflated balls. The encore to the morning’s drama came as I tripped going down the steps carrying my breakfast tray and fell on my ass. My pride is congested.

Thursday, January 22, 2015

     I am being shoe-stalked. No matter what document I open, what program I access, there are beautiful shoes (usually on sale) staring at me from the screen. They are calling out to me, “Fifi,you can’t pass this one up. Order now!” In the past, I have passed up opportunities to satisfy my shoe fetish because I was following the Susie Orman evil dictate differentiating “want” from “need.” (She probably couldn’t walk in my shoes.) After I was strong and didn’t purchase whatever beauties were calling, I went back at a later date, and they were either sold out or not available in my size. 

     Now it really doesn’t matter how many pairs of shoes I have. Men always joke with each other growling, “She’s got more shoes than Bill Cosby has excuses.” Quantity is not the issue; it’s the crime of the unnecessary purchase. “Not necessary” to a man means he doesn’t want to pay for it/them. As I pay for all my own clothing and shoes, Mr. Wonderful can’t open his pie hole one tiny crack. This has nothing to do with my shoe stalking dilemma, however.

Wednesday, January 21, 2015

     Have you ever considered what you might have said to someone when you were seven? Did you call a playmate a bad word? Did you use words you didn’t understand? I remember calling my best girlfriend’s neighbor a “whore.” I was ten. I had no idea what that meant. My friend and I hung over the backyard fence and yelled it at the neighbor’s shrubs. The story of the fallout from that experience still haunts me today. Seriously, folks, unless NASA was recording everything we said in our pre-pubescent years, how is it that thirty years after the fact, a person can be publicly scrutinized and harassed as a result? 

     Mark Wahlberg apparently said some bad things when he was a kid. So did I. I’m sure other stars “borrowed” their mother’s Miracle bras or helped themselves to the family car for a little fun at the Big Boy drive through. But come on, people, that was then, and this is now. If, however, years ago, you were sexually abusing women and paying them off to keep them quiet, that’s another story.

     I have wracked my brain trying to remember all the bad words, slurs, inappropriate comments I made from the age of two to fourteen, but for the life of me, I can’t remember many. I do recall being sent to my room and losing my “privileges” for smacking my bratty sister around occasionally. I recall being “grounded” as a teen for sassing my mean who “sacrificed her life to buy me nice clothes.” Yeah, right. She sacrificed so she could take another cruise to Hawaii with my Dad. Fortunately, for me, these careless syllables don’t matter, as I’m not famous (well, at least not to anyone but my seven-year-old grand-daughter.)

     Wow, how times have changed. Instead of parents grounding their kids or taking away their toys, they now lock them in basements and deny them food. This morning, a news story revealed a father in Montana who made his son stand on a major street with a poster in his hand saying, “I’m 14. I stole the family car and lied.” What? Yup. The Dad was sitting in a folding chair behind the kid who was standing at the curb. Public humiliation, including international coverage of his poster art should not leave any scars.

     The only way to play it safe these days is to zip your mouth and hide under your bed. 

     What’s this?  Deflated balls? Now I’ve heard everything. Eleven out of 12 balls? I am not sure I would recognize a deflated ball if I saw one. How is it different? This is one bizarre twist on balls. I do ball twists, but, alas, that’s a different thing.

     I tried to ask Mr. Wonderful if he was aware of the deflated-ball syndrome. He gave me “the look.” 

     And what about my hero, the drop-dead-gorgeous Tom Brady? How could Tom agree to such a thing? I wonder if Gisele asked him about the deflating thing? I doubt it.

Tuesday, January 20, 2015


     I had lunch with a friend today who just got a rescue pet. I am so happy for him, as he lost his pet of many years last year, and he was devastated. I remember when I was a kid losing our cocker spaniel to a semi in front of our house. I mourned for weeks. His new dog had obviously been abused, he said, based on his skittish behavior and cowering in the corners of his office. I can’t imagine. This got us to talking about why so many people have dogs these days. I shared my philosophy that dogs are unconditional love, and that as the economy struggles and there’s terror lurching everywhere, a wagging tail and a lick on the face is a huge comfort when one walks in the door. 

     My friend shared with me that things are very different now. When you apply for a rescue pet, they have to do a complete criminal check on you that includes a call to your vet and a house visit. This got me to thinking that this concept would be dynamite for women looking for a recycled man.

     They have rescue pet organizations. Maybe I should start a “Rescue Man” business. Before any woman can walk down the aisle with the guy, he should have a background check including a written recommendation from his ex, a thorough inspection of his living quarters, his history with pets and close scrutiny of his underwear drawer and his cyber “trash” file. This could save many second, third and even fourth divorces. 

Just sayin’.

Monday, January 19, 2015


Martin Luther King believed that Silence was one of the worst sins. I choose to give a voice to beautiful music, a tribute to the composer and a thank you to my "safe" audience. Dare to try. Dare greatly to try more than once.