Friday, October 24, 2014

     On “romantic nights,” some couples get in the mood with various tunes. Some may play them on the stereo, some on their i-pods and others maybe just sing them aloud at appropriate times. Here are some titles for those who need a little bit of inspiration. 


I Swear
So Many Ways
Ain’t We Got Fun?
Did I Shave My Legs for This?
Let it Be
More
I Gotta Feeling
Too Close
Fantasy
Help Me
It’s Not Unusual
Quando Quando Quando
My Prayer
The Lady is a Tramp
Cheek to Cheek
Tik Tok
Woomp (There It Is)
All Night Long
Ain’t No Mountain High Enough
Just In Time 
Stayin’ Alive


These are all legitimate tunes. Just sayin’.

                              I'm starting cycle thirty-eight of "What's Next?" Where are you?
                              What does it take? Courage? Fear? Ignorance? Focus? Despair?

Thursday, October 23, 2014

                                    the note
                                                by Sandra Moulin

It was a tiny piece of paper all crinkled up
I clutched it tightly as if by cornering it in my fist
the words would evaporate.
It was dark.
I couldn’t see her face
not that I wanted to
guilt coated every lie that escaped from her red lipstick
“You are my mother,” I cried.
“I would never do anything to jeopardize our family.
I love your father,” she said.
Sobs stuck in my throat
stars above the car twinkled out of context
someone’s romantic evening at the beach
a daughter confronting her mother on Christmas Eve.

The little chapel down the street was my refuge--a place where I cried and prayed
The short walk to the bar felt cold and damp in the winter mist
When I arrived, he looked beaten, defeated.
His beautiful wavy hair turned from pepper to salt overnight
I sat down at the bar next to him while he smoked one cigarette after another
I wanted to lift the veil of pain from his shoulders and send it sailing in the wind
These were the strong shoulders that used to carry me “horsey back” before bedtime when I was a little girl.
I wanted to see his hair turn back to pepper--his blue eyes regain their sparkle
I wanted to watch him walk tall, the spring back in his gait
I knew no words to restore his dignity.

Gone now their secrets buried in unspoken cadences
the rhythm of their long years together brought to a finale
questions left unanswered
somewhere in the legacy of betrayal and sadness
a love survived and played out its days.




Wednesday, October 22, 2014

                     



                                                    RANDOM REFLECTIONS

     Apparently, if you are/were a jock, you have a better than average chance of becoming a successful female role model, according to a recent study. Hmm. That sucks. I’m a mediocre golfer, a clumsy tennis player, a nervous cyclist, a slow runner and an awkward swimmer. Is sex a sport?

     I have always wanted to be famous enough that people would tweet hate messages about me. Indifference is suffocating.

     My body is so wrinkled that I have to iron myself before getting dressed in the morning.Gives a whole new meaning to “Iron, Man!”

     I wish I had enough money that I didn’t have to wait until the last squeeze to buy new toothpaste. Some of my friends buy two or three tubes at once. Now that is pure luxury.
Hmm. Maybe if I sacrificed a pair of Ivanka’s, I’d have enough. Toothpaste? Trump?

     I have worn stilettos for so many years that my big toes are headed north, and the rest of my toes are taking a detour to the east. 

     According to a recent survey, the average woman feels worse about her body when she compares herself to another average woman than if she compares herself to a celebrity. So, neighbor, with the perfect body, “I hate you.” I was doing well comparing myself to Betty White, but she’s the only star I know who is older than me. 

     I went to a meeting today where I found out that there are over 2000 kinds of shrimp. Do I care? People were fascinated. I did learn a lot, however, and it appears that my body is laced with mercury and antibiotics because I didn’t screen the fish I’ve been consuming for the past twenty-five years. Oops. It sure tasted good though. Oh well. At my age, it doesn’t matter what I’m laced with as long as it’s coated with buttery Chardonnay. 




Monday, October 20, 2014

             No Longer Brothers

young refuse to watch the news
old folk watch and fear
what will become of all of us?
death lurks
far and near

has it always been like this?
were we just too busy to see?
now that we’ve gone global
we don’t feel free to be

worry serves no purpose
power in too many hands
we used to focus on family
now there are so many lands

people kill to claim their right
to worship as they please
how could any god or God
condone death and disease?

yesterday’s horrific news 
is today on page eleven
one more tragic story told
we see it 24/7

how not to panic, live in terror
of heinous acts unimaginable
how can we focus on our joy
when hate is so unfathomable

stay in the moment, so we’re told
easier said than done
when respect is gone and conscience lost
it’s all about the gun

so sad it’s come to this these days
sons cry out for mothers
battlefields in hazmat suits
what happened to "We are brothers."












Sunday, October 19, 2014

                        



                                                      Praise Propofol


     Based on my recent comments about modesty, a concept that disappeared with VCRs and landlines, I must relate my experience at the endoscopy center last week.

      Let me first say, I will never again, that’s n - e - v - e - r drink a drop of Gatorade. Secondly, I will be sure not to make eye contact with any health care workers in a health care facility. Finally, I will take my I-pod along so I cannot hear the conversations of other patients waiting in their half-draped cubicles.

     “Shall I take off my drawers?” I hear the 20-something guy say across the aisle. I look away visualizing what I could have seen for myself, Lord forbid. Who was I to talk? I jumped out from under my baked blanket and over the raised metal railing of my operating cart, grabbing the glucose bag in one hand and holding my gown shut with the other. I kept my eyes floor-ward as I raced to the facility. Whew.

     In the operating room, a nice tech assistant cuddles up to my cart and says, “So what do you do, Miss?” omg. I do not want to discuss my personal life while I am in this compromised position. Praying that the propofol kicks in quickly, I mutter, “I’m a humorist.” A confused look on his big round face, he says, “What’s that?” “Come on drugs,” I think. “Kick in. Kick in.” Short story, long--he will buy my books on Amazon.
Good night, world.

     The following day, I wake up with an orange-carbonated-propofol hangover. Bonus:  a runny nose. I never blow my nose. I rarely sneeze, and if I do, it’s a minimum of 15 times. So a runny nose is a new phenomenon for me. wtf. How can I be perfectly healthy one day, and after a simple procedure wake up bloated like the Goodyear blimp, wiping my chin?  I resisted the temptation to call the doctor. “Wait until tomorrow. Tough it out.” 

     In the meantime, I make the mistake of going online to check out the post-op symptoms. Seventy-four people wrote in that they had runny noses that lasted at least four to six months. Joy. Others commented that their digestive tracks did not recover for at least six weeks. omg. Shoot me now.

    Three days post-op, I am just fine, tyvm. My doctor is a saint, and I have sent a thank you to Puffs for getting me through another life crisis.


Saturday, October 18, 2014

                                             
MODESTY - Passé?

     I was brought up in a generation in which we never discussed certain topics. Such things as bathroom habits and hygiene, private body parts, sexual habits, family financial business, religious attitudes, political views---all of these were private and not for discussion beyond the dining room table. 

     In my generation, many mothers didn’t explain the birds and bees to their children because they were too embarrassed. We were left to discover bits and pieces from our enlightened friends whose parents actually talked about such things. 

     We didn’t run around the house naked. Our naked bodies were not to be seen by anyone until we were married, and I learned that you could get pregnant by sitting on the wrong toilet.  My father told me that if I got pregnant before marriage, he would disown me. 

     Imagine, therefore, people of my generation watching commercials for ED, bladder leakage and “bum” habits. Have you seen the latter? This morning while I was watching the news, a commercial appeared with a woman in a nail salon interviewing clients about their private business. The proper-English-speaking lady holds a roll of toilet paper in one hand and some “matching” wipes in the other and asks each client, “What do you do about your bum?” Are you effen kiddin’ me? One client says, “If you don’t have a clean bum, where are you?” omg. 

     My mother was appalled when people kissed on the big screen. What would she have said about this? I cannot imagine what five years will bring us. Will we be seeing polyps dancing into the horizon after viewing someone’s colonoscopy? Will we see witness a ten-year study of dog “crottes” to determine the health of our pets? Will “porn” be just ho-hum programming? 

     The whole thing makes me want to . . . never mind.