Tuesday, June 30, 2015

     3:48 a.m. Wide awake. No problem—-that’s almost six hours’ sleep, and I can hop back into my cocoon at 6:15ish when Mr. Wonderful emerges. One of the first things that occurs to me at about 3:49 is “What will I accomplish before going back to bed?” This early morning routine happens about a third of the time, and I’ve learned to just go with it. I hate tossing and turning, and once the wheels are in motion, there’s no stopping the wake-up train.

     I love breakfast and watching the news, but that usually only takes about 15-20 minutes, and that leaves almost two hours. I write a blog or two, organize my day/week, answer any late-night e-mails, check bills to pay, take a few minutes to see if those $240 sandals are on sale yet. Now I have about 1:45 left. 

     This morning, I stumbled on an article written by Elizabeth Gilbert, a published author and professional speaker. It had to do with the pressures women put on themselves. It took me back to the “Supermom Syndrome” of the 70s when we moms were trying to be everything to everyone and accomplish long lists of miraculous feats. Ms. Gilbert talks about the concept of how we women compare ourselves to one another, a self-defeating, frustrating habit that diminishes what we work so hard to achieve. She also discusses how we risk giving up completely because we try so hard to be so much. Here is a quote from her article.

“Let's just anticipate that we (all of us) will disappoint ourselves somehow. Go ahead and let it happen. Let somebody else be a better mother than you for one afternoon. Let somebody else go to art school. Let somebody else have a happy marriage, while you foolishly pick the wrong guy. (Hell, I've done it; it's survivable.) While you're at it, take the wrong job. Move to the wrong city. Lose your temper in front of the boss, quit training for that marathon, wolf down a truckload of cupcakes the day after you start your diet. Blow it all catastrophically, in fact, and then start over with good cheer. This is what we all must learn to do, for this is how maps get charted -- by taking wrong turns that lead to surprising passageways that open into spectacularly unexpected new worlds. So just march on. Future generations will thank you -- trust me -- for showing the way, for beating brave new footpaths out of wonky old mistakes.
Fall flat on your face if you must, but please, for the sake of us all, do not stop.”

     Through the years, as a mother, a teacher, a small business-owner, a wife, a divorcĂ©e, a public speaker, a musician, a retiree, I have been guilty of comparing, self-criticizing, feeling exhausted trying to live up to others’ as well as my own perfectionistic expectations. As I watch my daughters parent, work in professional careers, seek extra training to grow, try to keep everyone happy, I realize they face all the same pressures I put on myself so long ago. What I hope I modeled was what Elizabeth Gilbert addresses:  resilience. Somewhere along the way, despite all the muddled attempts, the rejections, the failures, the “wtf”s, I always seem to find the strength and energy to try again. I do see this in my daughters, and I am so proud. I don’t think they really consciously hear the words in their heads like I did (“Do more. Not Enough. Go beyond.”), they just keep going. The drive is in their blood, and for that, I beam and I fret. I see them do the same, but they never let worry or frustration stop them. We are not unflappable, but we are unstoppable. Seven grand-children are watching. It will be interesting to see if the legacy continues.

     Only 45 minutes before the cocoon will be vacated. Yay. 



Monday, June 29, 2015

     What I always loved about George Carlin’s humor was how he made us look at the world we think we know so well and see something totally different. He took a known and made us question it.
  1. Always do what's next.
       
2.  I’m in shape. Round is a shape.

3.  Think off-center.

4.  When someone asks you, “A penny for your thoughts,” and you put your two cents in, what happens to the other penny?


5.  When someone is impatient and says, “I haven’t got all day,” I always wonder, How can that be? How can you not have all day?


6.  Women like silent men, they think they’re listening.


7.  The day after tomorrow is the third day of the rest of your life.



     The truths I have found from Carlin’s wise words are as follows;

Silent men aren’t listening; they are repeating a mantra in their heads that translates, “Shut up, bitch.”

I can only think off-center. My brain has no center.

Some people say the obvious and think they are providing some incredible insight like,
“If it rains, maybe we should eat inside.”

The day after tomorrow is too far ahead to think about. 

I’m in shape, and no one really gives a damn.

When someone is impatient, I know I’m related.

Always do whatever requires the least thought and skill.

     
R.I.P., George. You are missed!



Sunday, June 28, 2015

                                    
NEWS ALERT!

     Have you heard the latest? “Belfies” are in. Yup, “belfies.” These are selfies of the buttocks. Who knew? Why on earth would anyone take a photo of her butt? And how does one do that? Assuming you have butt-worthy material, how do you get yourself into a position to take a photo of said subject? People have way too much time on their hands.

     What has started this trend, or enhanced it, is that thongs are passĂ© (sales down 7%/high waisters up 17%), and granny panties are in. Yes, you read it correctly—granny panties. Omg. Apparently, someone in her twenties decided she was tired of fancy floss between her cheeks so has designed underwear that is actually comfortable. Now there’s a concept. 

     When men were interviewed on the streets, most did not like the idea of so much flesh being covered up, but one brave young guy said “If my girlfriend would be more comfortable, then I’m all for it.” Who assigned men to put a stamp of approval on our underwear? Obviously someone did, or lingerie stores would be out of business. Interesting how men are the ones behind? the inspiration of sexy underwear, but you rarely see a guy in a lingerie store, at least without an embarrassed smirk on his face. 

     A fascinating discovery caught my attention. Teenage girls have grown up with their moms wearing thongs. They don’t want to be like their moms, so they would rather wear pastel parachutes than wear thongs like mom. I love it. When I was rebelling against my mother, I never thought about her underwear. 

     Back to men. I think if men are going to design our clothes, they should have to test them. Let them walk around for 24 hours in a thong and a strapless bra, and then ask them what they think. Of course, they know that women are so lame that we do whatever it takes to please, so it wouldn’t matter. 

   Takes me back to a song my father used to sing:  “She’s got freckles on her butt, she’s so nice.” He’d be arrested singing this song, but if posted on a belfie, it would go viral.




Friday, June 26, 2015

BOOKS I WANT TO WRITE:

  1. If little girl puppies are so cute, why do they call them bitches?
  2. Who has the guts to write a handbook for men?
  3. Who invented human nature, and where are they now?
  4. Who said that women were supposed to cook?
  5. What joker told husbands that women need two dads?
  6. What arrogant man invented the double oven?
  7. Someone tell Spanx that girdles went out with reel to reel 
  8. Why I will never be as smart as my grandma
  9. When I grow up, I want to be an alcoholic
  10. Life sans cursive
  11. When will quiet and refined be back in style?
  12. Who were the dirty dozen, and what did they write?

BOOKS I HAVE STARTED BUT HAVE BEEN SHELVED DUE TO WRITER’S BLOCK:

  1. From Here to Maternity
  2. The Missin’ Dope
  3. Who’s Afraid of Virginia’s Wolf?
  4. True Grits
  5. A Wedge too Far
  6. To Kill a Tweet
  7. East of Hedon
  8. Return Boy
  9. The Hound and the Furry
  10. Pope and Maury

THE BOOK MY MOM WROTE:


Recipes Without Ingredients

Thursday, June 25, 2015

 






























Why this piece pisses me off:

First of all, this savvy woman thought to write it, and I didn’t.
Secondly, she is spot on about everything she says.
Thirdly, it is real and raw.
Fourthly, it is well written.
Fifthly, it covers all the bases.
Finally, she posted it, and I can’t steal it.

So, I will steal her idea, and I will write about my fridge.


My fridge is ugly. It is where you can see the absolute worst of my ability to cook and clean. I open it’s door when I’m mad, sad or being stubborn. So does he. When it is so uncooperative (not offering delicious treats with no calories), it makes me scream. I also see it, however, when it is sparkling clean (from Mr. W.’s hard rubbing), and I am so happy that he cleaned it that tears run down my face, and I laugh with glee. I see inside it at 3 a.m. when the world is asleep, and I’m snacking in my faded VS nightshirt crusty with yogurt spills. I get to see the inside of this fridge that no one else can, and it is not often very pretty. It hums just when Mr. W. lays down for his nap, but the sound does camouflage his farting while he’s fantasizing about some chick he saw in the SI swimsuit edition. It’s the random smells coming from the veggie bin or the cheese drawer that create frustration. The fridge is not a beautiful thing, but it is amazing. It’s good to know that some appliance sits in your house waiting for you to enjoy its comforts. It’s knowing it can’t up and walk out when you don’t wipe it off or get rid of the seven half-empty ice cream containers. It’s having it at your front and back at all times. It can’t fight back unless there’s a storm and the power goes out—normally, it keeps its cool. Some nights I’d just like to crawl right up there next to the Lactaid and cool down my temper. I can’t rub its back, but I often rub its front, and it shines back at me. At the end of the day, I can’t crawl into it with my best friend, but when Mr. W. is having one of his “moods,” I must admit, it is my surrogate best friend. My fridge is not beautiful, but next to Mr. Wonderful, it’s the back road to heaven.

                                         
SEX after Seventy

     


     Now most of you reading this are only doing so to be polite. Who under sixty even cares who does what after 70? But since you have indulged said writer, I will deliver the goods (or goodies:) I have done some pick-up-on-random-throwaway-comments research on this subject.

     Sex after seventy ain’t for sissies. Many people have physical ailments at this age, none of which have to do with their sex organs necessarily. If a person has back issues, positions become an issue. Number 42, “the pretzel” becomes a major challenge. If a person has knee issues, then number 18 tends to lose its growl. 

     Memory becomes more and more of an issue as people age. Some can’t remember which night has been designated to do the “dirty,” and others can’t remember what the “dirty” is. Some remember what it is and what night it’s supposed to be, but they can’t remember what to wear or what’s where. Some have lost their hardware. 

     Sleep becomes an issue for the elderly; that is, some people can’t sleep. Tired becomes the norm, and energy is a word that is used only for Duke. This can be a problem if the condition is not shared by both people. For example, if one person is rarin’ to go, and the other is half asleep, the whole process gets tedious. 

     Foreplay becomes a thing of the past. Some don’t have the energy, while others don’t have the patience. Some seniors’ idea of foreplay is lighting the sex wick or turning down the bed. Oh yes, most over seventy prefer a bed. For some, this is a novel concept, and according to recent surveys, most miss their favorite spots: the floor, the back seat, the kitchen table or the hammock. 

   Taking the time and effort to set the mood becomes too much trouble. A romantic dinner out becomes applesauce and a half glass of wine. A sexy video becomes a Frank Sinatra cassette tape. The lingerie got sent to the Goodwill. Some homeless woman is trotting around the shelter in it getting her cup filled (soup cup).

     Finally, daylight sex is out of the question. First of all, most 70-somethings don’t want the other to see them too clearly, assuming they can still see. Secondly, nap time usually interferes with the sex hour, and thirdly, “Afternoon Delight” and “Quickie” are recipes in the senior cookbook. 

    Now not all seventy-year-olds have the above issues. Some of us are still virile, sexy, hot and horny.  We know because a couple of our friends just got arrested in their convertible on the 18th hole. 


   

Wednesday, June 24, 2015

     Did you ever wish you could take back something you said or did? For some reason, some random “take-back” thoughts surfaced during my recent meditation—the one where I wasn’t supposed to be having any thoughts.

     I remember several years ago, Mr. Wonderful and I were at a formal dinner dance at our country club. We had had a delightful evening, complete with more than sufficient quantities of alcohol. On our way out, there was an older, very attractive woman standing at the door waiting for her husband. I looked at her, gave her a big Cold Duck smile and intended to say, “I love your pretty face.” Instead, I said, “I love your funny face.” She was not amused.

     Then a few years ago, I had had a falling out with our next door neighbor. To try to patch up the misunderstanding (which was entirely hers btw), we invited them to dinner. Although the dinner was relatively pleasant, albeit sprinkled with tension, I made a statement that pretty much assured the end of our relationship. I told her about the Norah Ephron book I had just read, “I Hate My Neck.” In the book, Norah speaks of how we all have different shaped faces, and she pointed out the three most common ones:  the bird face, the horse face and the muffin face. I suggested that my neighbor had a muffin face. She didn’t think that was the least bit funny or interesting, and she never spoke to me again.

     Now sometimes other people say things that seemingly sound like compliments, but in retrospect, they turn out to be insults. One comment in particular came from a “friend” who said to me, “You are way too pretty to have all those wrinkles.” I came home after she said that, looked in the mirror, realized that she was right and proceeded to take serious measures to correct the problem. I have not spoken to her since, although she really did me a favor. I’m not mad at her, I just feel like she’s counting crows feet when she looks at me.


    Et vous?