Same Sects Marriage? Oh Yeah.

Back in the day, when I was a "sweet young thang" and worked for Transamerica Airlines, I use to insist that my dream husband was a pilot. That’s because he’d be home half the week and away the other half -- the perfect arrangement to complement my desire for marriage coupled with my fierce streak of independence. “I love you, babe, now GET OUT.”

No wonder I never married.

Ah, but I’ve discovered that the ideal marriage is still within my grasp. Because aside from being totally hooked on the HBO series, Big Love, about a modern-day polygamist family, I’ve also learned about the concept of Sister Wives: multiple women married to the same man.

In Big Love, each of the three Sister Wives maintains her own home that opens up into a common backyard. The women, who share a genuine affection for one another, also share the highs and lows of marriage: cooking, errands, child-rearing, sorrows, celebrations – oh yes, and handsome hubby Bill, who juggles conjugal visits between the three women.

How COOL is that? Just imagine...all the joys of marriage coupled with the camaraderie of your best gal pals.

I want to be a Sister Wife!

I’d make a great one, really. I’m good at sharing and am pretty flexible, so swapping nights won’t be a problem, just so long as booty-calls don’t conflict with What Not To Wear on Friday nights. Although as a Sister Wife, I may be asked to don those Little House on the Prairie dresses favored by the Mormon Fundamentalist sects, in which case What Not To Wear will pretty much become a moot point since I’ll be doing all my shopping at The Vermont Country Store.

Ah, but fashion is a small price to pay for the perfect marriage. Look what I’d be getting in return: the companionship, intimacy and joys of a beloved husband. Not to mention someone who can handle all those household chores that single women so dread, like when the toilet backs up or the car starts making that funny noise under the hood. Yes, it’s nice to have a man around the house.

And on those days when I want nothing more than to be alone so I can hunker down with my latest issue of More magazine? Or when I have just one nerve left and he won't stop yapping about his golf game? No problem! I simply scoot him off to a Sister Wife who perhaps feels like having her own "hood" looked under, while I get to enjoy a peaceful, relaxing bubble bath. Pass the Champaign, please.

But wait, it gets even better. Say that I'm a lousy cook (mind you, just a hypothetical example that in no way supports the rumor that I once almost set fire to my kitchen trying to heat a frozen pizza, and if Pam or Deb or Richard or Deanna or Alisa or Frank or Jim or my mother or sister or Fire Engine #9 say otherwise, they're all just big fat liars).

What was I saying?

Oh yeah, pretend I'm a lousy cook. Hey, no big deal! Maybe I have a Sister Wife who makes a mean pot roast and besides, I have other talents to bring to our marriage, like my emi#@ nsectetuer and ad#!ipi#scing elit. And then there's xenean c#ur%sus orci suscipit urna! e%ne^an* lacinia.

Oh dear. My computer appears to be experiencing technical difficulties.

But really, are Sister Wives not the best arrangement ever?

So I'll continue hoping to one day meet my dream husband. It's not like I'm picky. All I want is a man who is kind, witty, tall, funny, loves dogs, bears a passing resemblance to George Clooney, and has a couple Sister Wives.

Sigh. Just call me a romanticist at heart.

The Blog is Back

Don’t you just hate it when someone starts a blog and then doesn’t keep it up?

Okay, guilty as charged, but the thing is, mom’s fractured kneecap put a crack in my own schedule. Between crazy-busy work, my usual two-hour commute, and tending to a laid-up mother, I haven’t had time to do much of anything; well, other than relive my carefree, decadent twenties through my favorite guilty pleasure—viewing music videos from the 1980s on YouTube. Aw, c’mon, admit it; videos from the likes of Thompson Twins and Sisters of Mercy rock!

Yeah, with laughter maybe, but hey, they’re a nice trip down memory lane. They remind me of a time when I naively believed that if I worked hard and was responsible about saving money, I might actually one day retire. Before I started looking like the Crypt Keeper, that is.

But now, I’m guessing retirement isn’t going to happen anytime in the next quarter century; not if all those minus marks on my statements mean anything. Still, I’m trying to look at the bright side; maybe losing so much money isn’t a bad thing since there won’t be anything to steal when those nasty identity thieves try to pilfer my funds.

Oh yes, about that.

Last week I was alerted by a security firm hired by the headquarters of my employer. Seems a health vendor once used by my company experienced a teeny weeny itty bitty little “security breach.” And “minor details,” like my social security number, birth date and home address, may have been “compromised.” The letter was crafted so carefully and with so many euphemisms, for a minute I was almost expecting to read that I was the grand prize winner of a set of Ginzu Steak Knives or Encyclopedia Britannica. And then it sunk in.

Ah, but life still offers little pleasures. Like the chuckle I enjoyed today after reading John McCain’s proud announcement that he had received the endorsement of Dick Cheney. John, my good man, is this really something the public should know? It’s kind of like Martha Stewart being endorsed by Hannibal Lector.

But I digress.

For now, I'm going to forget about crashing stocks and identity thieves, and go indulge in another YouTube video. And I know just the one to watch. Don’t Worry, Be Happy.

Hey, it’s worth a shot.

Chaos Abounds: Part Two

For the very first time, Elvis, my greyhound has jumped on my bed. And I’m delighted, because unlike those owners who are always trying to push their hairy, stinky dogs off their beds and sofas, I wish my dog would lie alongside me. I’d love to stroke his velvety ears or lumpy head while dozing off or watching TV.

But no sooner is he on the bed than he lifts his leg and – what the hey - pees on my brand new duvet! He’s never peed inside the house before! I yank him off the bed, drag him down the stairs, and as I push him outside, I notice that my backyard looks different. Patio furniture has been rearranged, potted plants have been moved, and a dormant water fountain is not just running, but overflowing and flooding the patio; even my wind chimes are hanging from different locations. Huh?

Then I'm distracted by an odd sound in front of the house. So I return inside and open the front door, where I startle a shifty-looking man with a cable in his hand. Nearby, three other men are waiting for him. When I ask what they’re up to, he confesses they’re running a cable underneath my home so they can hack into my DSL and hijack my DirecTV. Then his friends push their way into my home.

In a panic, I grab my cell to dial the police. But apparently, my stupid cell is on the fritz because it keeps flashing hieroglyphics and lightening bolt-symbols on the display screen. So I use my landline to dial the operator and tell her it’s an emergency and to connect me with the police immediately. And she does so.

In San Diego.

I don’t friggin’ live in San Diego, I scream into the phone! I need the local police! And I keep trying to redial, but it’s useless because now my landline has locked up too. Meanwhile, strangers are multiplying as they invade my yard and crawl throughout every room in my home; some even sit at my kitchen table, helping themselves to a cup of coffee.

My heart is pounding so loudly and wildly, it feels like a jackhammer is about to rip right through my chest: I need the police! I need Jack Bauer! I need help and I’m gasping and panicking and can’t breathe and…

I wake up.

Elvis is snoring on the floor alongside my bed. In the golden haze of early morning sunshine, all is peaceful and quiet. Except for an odd sound: the pulsating, reverberating beat of Ricky Ricardo pounding out Babalu on his conga drums.

Oh. Wait. That’s my heart.

I try to go back to sleep, but that's pretty much a lost cause, what with Ricky in my chest and all. So I go downstairs to enjoy a soy latte and appreciate the serenity of my beautifully empty home.

And all is right and good with the world. For now.

A Day in the Life of Chaos

It's been crazy busy these past few months...sigh…and with no end in sight.

Work is always chaotic, but lately, things have kicked up a notch and I’m trying to keep my head above water, really I am. But with every breath I take, it seems I gulp a bit of water and sink a bit deeper and I’m starting to make sloppy mistakes. Little ones sure, but I swear, it’s the little ones, like dropped commas, that haunt me the most. As a marketing writer, of course they would. That’s like a surgeon leaving a sponge inside a patient, or an accountant who subtracts six from ten and gets three. But my brain is on overload and hey, it’s not a very big brain to begin with. Hear that sizzle? That's my brain. Fried.

And then I come home and pick up my mail. Every day there are reminders, so many reminders. From Kaiser: time for your annual mammogram! Time for your annual GYN! Hey, now that you’ve hit the half-a-century mark, you get to enjoy your very first colonocsopy—it’s time for that, too!

And letters from my Home Owners Association aka the Gestapo: Guess what you lucky homeowner: you are being assessed almost $1,000 because our building construction plan ran over budget and total blowhards that we are, we just took it upon ourselves to spend money we didn’t have rather than budget for it accordingly. So now each of you, the schmucks who voted us into office, owes us $1,000. Payable immediately, thank you very much.

And from Charles Schwab: remember that $140,000 you socked away for your retirement? Well, it’s now worth $62.58 and you get to retire, well, never. Sorry ‘bout that. Thank you for your business.

And my iPod died.

And did I mention my mom took a spill? Her naughty greyhound, Lucy, caught sight of a kitty and tried taking after it. But Lucy forgot that Mom was on the other end of the leash and said leash twisted around Mom’s ankles and knocked her to the ground. Pavement, of course. Nothing broke, thank God, but when you’re 72 years old, getting slapped in the face with concrete is no minor ordeal. Knees and elbows are stiff and swollen. Ribs are sore. Every step hurts. Crutches are needed. So now I’m running double-duty, driving the 20 miles round trip to walk Mom’s dogs, do her grocery shopping, run errands, prepare meals. Of which I’m more than pleased to do- I adore my mom. I just wish there were more hours in the day.

And in the meantime, the lower half of my face is still completely numb from the maxillofacial surgery I had seven months ago. My surgeon, Dr. Hottie, warned that nerve regeneration could take up to TWO years and so, I’m trying to keep the faith, and – ha – keep a stiff upper lip. But I’m not sure that anyone can truly understand how challenging it is to have a face that is completely, totally dead from the nose down. Friends swear they don’t notice any change in my speech and facial expressions and this comforts me because my face FEELS paralyzed. If you’ve ever had novacaine for a dental procedure and remember how discombobulated and weird and frozen your face felt, well, that’s mine, only ten times worse. For seven friggin’ months. Dead.

So having said all this, is it any wonder that last night I succumbed and hit the sauce? Yes, that’s right. I know it’s unhealthy and addictive and fattening, but I needed to drown my sorrows, so yes, I turned to the sauce.

Hot fudge, that is. And not the organic Chocolate Moo from Trader Joe that I enjoy sparingly once a week, but walloping servings of the ooey-gooey-million-calorie-per-teaspoon-clog-those-arteries-died-and-gone-to-heaven hot fudge. Poured in tsunami waves over two wading pool servings of mouth watering mint-chocolate chip ice cream. Oh, it was good. Evil. Delicious. Medicinal.

Because hey: a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do. And did I mention that its been crazy busy these past few months...sigh…and with no end in sight?

The Not-So-Fast and the Furious

There I was at the end of a long workday; sitting in my Toyota Rav4, crawling five miles per hour in that bottleneck stretch of freeway voted the sixth worst commute in the Bay Area, the infamous Highway 92 eastbound. But bad as it is, accidents are rare because traffic moves so slowly, there is usually plenty of time to react and prevent a fender bender.

Unless, that is, you happen to be the woman who was too busy yapping on her cell phone to notice that traffic had come to a dead halt; subsequently, she tapped the back fender of the car in front of her. Not hard, mind you. But enough to trigger her air bag,which exploded in her surprised face and imbedded her cell phone as a permanent earpiece.

I confess, it made me snort. Oh c’mon, who doesn’t like to see an inattentive driver get their comeuppance?

And that was me, trying to be attentive when I noticed a black Ford SUV to my right, slightly ahead, sloooowly drifting into my lane. Maybe I was in the driver’s blind spot. Maybe the driver hadn’t looked over his shoulder, maybe he hadn’t notice there wasn’t space to squeeze his behemoth vehicle into or hey, maybe he had just been discharged from a nearby clinic and was still under heavy sedation from his ice pick lobotomy.

Whatever. Said driver was about to clip the right corner of my car. Even if I braked, he would still hit me because honestly, there was NO room.

So I gave a few frantic taps on my horn. Not a loud, rude, “YouAreSuchAnIdiot” foghorn kind of blast, but a “Hey hey hey, you’re about to cause us both a pain in the neck” type of warning. Said driver heeded the horn and moved back into his lane.

Crisis averted. Or so I thought.

Because just seconds later I pulled up alongside the driver, prepared to give a little "no hard feelings" wave, and was greeted with an unexpected sight: a sweet-looking, professionally-dressed young woman, sticking her head out the window and shooting bullets with her eyes while flipping me the bird with both hands. My passenger window was rolled up so I was spared her screaming words. However, if my lip-reading skills are as good as I think they are, I’m pretty sure she wasn’t wishing me “luck.”

What the hey? She performed a careless maneuver, she almost hit me and I’m the bad guy here? And I was reminded of an article I read that mourned the death of driver’s training as part of the high school curriculum. Most schools discontinued the program in the mid-eighties due to budget cutbacks. As a result, drivers are now getting their version of driver’s ed through games like Grand Theft Auto and movies like The Fast and the Furious. Sure, they're learning the logistics of operating a car, but is anyone teaching the importance of simple courtesies, like turn signals, hand waves, and the zipper method for merging? 900-pound vehicals are being propelled by hot-headed Road Warriors and it’s every man for himself.

And, so it seems, every woman. Even sweet-looking, professional ones.

Karaoke, Scary-oke

There might be just one person in the world who sings worse than my sister, Jennifer, and that would be me. Although it could be a toss-up, since we’re both painfully tone deaf. And equally unfortunate since we both love music. But her husband loves to sing and he’s good, which is why we found ourselves frequenting Karaoke nights on our recent family cruise to Alaska.

There we sat in the Jammers lounge, paying $7.50 for watered-down drinks and kicking back to talented versions of “Friends in Low Places” and “Dream On,” alongside skin-crawling renditions of “Love Shack” and “You Light Up My Life.” Trapped at sea with fellow passengers plied with alcohol and giddy with freedom: prime conditions for offering Karaoke at its best and worst.

And after three chocolate martinies, I was ready to contribute to the worst.

“Let’s sing,” I whispered to Jennifer. She couldn’t have looked more aghast if I had belched “God Save the Queen” in front of her Majesty herself.

“No way!” she emphatically proclaimed. But I noticed that, like me, she was on her third drink and therefore might be persuaded with the right song. And I knew just the song. I moved in for the kill.

“We can do it!” I pleaded. “We’ll sing ‘Henry the Eighth’! It’s a short song and we know all the words.”

How could we not? The 1910 drinking song, made popular in 1965 by the British band, Herman’s Hermits, was one of our childhood favorites and featured just nine short lines. Sung with a Cockney accent, could any song be simpler? Or more fun?

I'm Henery the Eighth, I am!

Henery the Eighth I am! I am!

I got married to the widow next door,

She's been married seven times before.

And every one was an Henery (HENERY!)

She wouldn't have a Willie or a Sam (OR A SAM!)

I'm her eighth old man named Henery

Henery the Eighth I am.

Second verse, same as the first!

Ah, there it was. I KNEW that look. Her resolve was weakening, but still she tried resisting. “It probably isn’t offered on the playlist,” she argued. That was all I needed. I raced to the program guide located next to the bar (coincidence? I think not) and scanned the pages. I returned to our table, triumphant. “We’re signed up!” I informed her. But then it was my turn to panic. “Oh no! I only know the first verse.”

Jennifer gave me this look that said, “You are such an idiot!" She reminded me of the song’s last line: “Second verse same as the first!”

Oh yeah. And then our names were called. And we would have been fine.

For it IS a simple song and hamming it up with Cockney accents, we were clearly having fun. Well, maybe too much fun. Because just a couple lines into the song, we broke into an uncontrollable fit of the giggles. And anyone who knows and loves my sister knows one dreaded, horrible fact.

When Jennifer laughs, she pees. And audience or not, this was no exception. She started to keel over and cross her legs and oh my gawd, Houston, we have a problem.

“I’VE GOT TO PEE!” she gasped through a flurry of giggles, forgetting that a mike was at her mouth. With one hand I yanked the mike to prevent any future shipboard announcements and with the other, held tight to her arm as she tried to exit the stage.

“Oh no you don’t, sister!” I gasped back in-between “Henery’s,” laughing so hard I wasn’t sure I wouldn’t wet my own drawers. “You’re not leaving me here alone!”

And remain she did. Not that she had much choice, given my iron-clad grip on her arm. We managed to finish the song to a thunderous ear-bursting round of applause, although I suspect the adulations might have had more to do with our impromptu side show. And yes indeedy, Jennifer did pee her pants. I can reveal this only because I would have done the same if not for my obviously fused-at-the-knees stance onstage. If it was obvious that the Mitchell sisters can’t sing, it’s now been made equally apparent that we also have weak bladders.

And know how to make our mark. Certainly in more ways than one.

Happy birthday, sis!

Not Ready to be the Mama of Obama

Okay, I’m about to reveal my issue with Barack Obama.

It’s not because he won the Democratic nomination over my preferred candidate, Hillary Clinton and it’s not because he is African-American (puh-leeeze). It’s not because he likes some rap (hey, I’ve been known to get jiggy wit it), or because some have accused him of straddling the fence over Israeli/Palestine relations. Unfounded, I think. It has nothing to do with his supposed “lack” of experience, nor do I care about his one-time refusal to wear a flag pin. Big whoop. And finally, my concern doesn’t stem from his long-term affiliation with a whack-job pastor, although, I confess, that one did make me raise an eyebrow.

No, my bugaboo with Barack is far more serious. And worse, not only is his transgression unforgivable, but it is absolutely irrevocable. However attractive his other attributes, and there are many, I’ll admit, there’s not a thing our newly minted Democratic nominee can do to change this one fatal flaw.

The man is younger than me.

Bear in mind, just a little. A scant three years, seven months, which translates into 1,305 days or 31,479 hours (31,503 hours in a Leap Year) according to the Gregorian calendar, defined as the average interval between vernal equinoxes equaling 365 days, 5 hours, 49 minutes (365.2424 Universal days) per year, or a mere 1,890409.7 minutes per the current official definition of the second, which is the time it takes for 9,192,631 770 oscillations of the Cesium atom at zero magnetic field, based upon our 43-month age difference.

Not that I’ve given this much thought, mind you.

But hey, you have to appreciate my concern. My entire life, world leaders have always been wrinkly old crones sporting bow ties, support hose and shellacked hair. Even the handsome and charismatic John F. Kennedy looked like the Crypt Keeper to my five-year old eyes.

Now, suddenly, we have a presidential nominee who is younger than me. This is a milestone moment, folks, and not one that I can easily ignore. When police began looking like extras from Disney’s High School Musical, I was fine. When doctors started resembling Doogie Howser, M.D., I l could look the other way. It was tough enough getting slammed with my first “ma’am,” or finding my childhood Chatty Cathy and Little Kiddle dolls for sale at antique fairs.

But when our future Commander in Chief is too young to know the words to the theme song from The Banana Splits Adventure Hour? I’m sorry, that’s where I may have to draw the line. Barack Obama could turn water into Boone’s Farm Strawberry Wine -- not that such a young ‘un would know what this is -- and he still couldn’t compensate for his one unforgivable offense:

Making me feel old.

However, there is one way our youthful Senator might make amends. Are you listening, Barack? I’m going to tell you how to reach out to people like me, who are still trying to adjust to that ultimate f-bomb (turning fifty). Okay, so maybe you can’t join your older constituents in a rousing rendition of The Monkee's “Last Train to Clarksville,” but I’m thinking a complimentary shot of Botox at the poll booth could help bring about a change we all believe in: cosmetic, maybe, but what the heck.

I’d give the kid my vote.