Happy Birthday to me!
Still sick as can be.
I've coughed up a lung
which (trust me) ain't fun.
My day will be lacking
thanks to this darn hacking.
I'm chasing down pills,
with shots of NyQuil,
and wondering when
this "party" will end?
I still plan to eat
my Birthday Cake treat.
My lungs may be ill,
but my sweet tooth is swell.
I have just one wish
of the chef who will make
that yummy dish known
as the Birthday Cake.
It would be such a help
and serve as a plus
if the frosting is made
with Halls Mentho-Lyptus.
Friday, January 30, 2009
Thursday, January 1, 2009
CSI: Cootie Source Investigation
I am sick.
Stuffy head, aching body, hacking-out-my-lungs-till-I-break-a-rib sick. And in the midst of my coughing and sneezing and wading through a tsunami of tissues, I want to know just one thing:
WHO GAVE ME THEIR COOTIES?
Was it my co-worker, Terri? She came to work diligently every day in spite of admitting that she felt like death warmed over. But Terri was pretty good about lying low and keeping her distance, therefore she ranks low on my list of cootie suspects.
However, there was that incident last week when she overheard me complain about my dry sandpaper hands and shared her bottle of Aloe Vera hand lotion. I should have just thanked her and declined, but didn’t, which makes me a co-conspirator. Only an analysis of the hazmat (aka lotion dispenser) can confirm it as the site of the cootie transfer.
Or how about Pam? Could my best friend of over 30 years really be a part of the cootie conspiracy? When I said that her delicious cheese enchilada dinner was to die for, I didn’t mean it in the literal sense. But her dinner was almost two weeks ago and by then, Pam was in the final stages of The Bug and probably not contagious…or WAS she?
Only by obtaining a leftover enchilada and using a light-producing forensic tool such as luminol to reveal cootie traces would I be able to identify the source and confirm that my best friend was indeed the cootie culprit. But clever girl that she is, Pam has no doubt already consumed the evidence.
Then there’s Pat, my sister’s best friend and my surrogate sibling. Christmas Eve found Pat fighting The Bug when our family drove around town to admire holiday decorations. She sat next to me inside the crime scene (aka the SUV). Closed windows. Recycled air. Cootie breath. I don’t think I need to swab the inside of Pat’s mouth to place her high on my list of suspects. Sure, she’s sweet, kind, and thoughtful, but hey, isn’t it always the innocent ones that are most guilty?
And finally, there’s Deb. My “there-there” friend, I call her. Because no matter how distraught I may be over any given subject, Deb’s reassuring manner is like hot chicken soup on a cold winter day. But really, how well do we ever truly know a person? When I talked to Deb on the phone last week, she still had a hoarse, raspy voice, evidence of The Bug she’d been battling all month.
Here’s my theory.
What if my “there-there” friend somehow learned how to transmit cooties over fiber-optic cables? What if she wants to contaminate not just me, but eventually the entire world in her undying quest for world domination? What if the devious Deb is --OH MY GAWD -- ground zero for THE BUG?
I may be slightly feverish.
And just maybe imbibing in too much NyQuil.
Stuffy head, aching body, hacking-out-my-lungs-till-I-break-a-rib sick. And in the midst of my coughing and sneezing and wading through a tsunami of tissues, I want to know just one thing:
WHO GAVE ME THEIR COOTIES?
Was it my co-worker, Terri? She came to work diligently every day in spite of admitting that she felt like death warmed over. But Terri was pretty good about lying low and keeping her distance, therefore she ranks low on my list of cootie suspects.
However, there was that incident last week when she overheard me complain about my dry sandpaper hands and shared her bottle of Aloe Vera hand lotion. I should have just thanked her and declined, but didn’t, which makes me a co-conspirator. Only an analysis of the hazmat (aka lotion dispenser) can confirm it as the site of the cootie transfer.
Or how about Pam? Could my best friend of over 30 years really be a part of the cootie conspiracy? When I said that her delicious cheese enchilada dinner was to die for, I didn’t mean it in the literal sense. But her dinner was almost two weeks ago and by then, Pam was in the final stages of The Bug and probably not contagious…or WAS she?
Only by obtaining a leftover enchilada and using a light-producing forensic tool such as luminol to reveal cootie traces would I be able to identify the source and confirm that my best friend was indeed the cootie culprit. But clever girl that she is, Pam has no doubt already consumed the evidence.
Then there’s Pat, my sister’s best friend and my surrogate sibling. Christmas Eve found Pat fighting The Bug when our family drove around town to admire holiday decorations. She sat next to me inside the crime scene (aka the SUV). Closed windows. Recycled air. Cootie breath. I don’t think I need to swab the inside of Pat’s mouth to place her high on my list of suspects. Sure, she’s sweet, kind, and thoughtful, but hey, isn’t it always the innocent ones that are most guilty?
And finally, there’s Deb. My “there-there” friend, I call her. Because no matter how distraught I may be over any given subject, Deb’s reassuring manner is like hot chicken soup on a cold winter day. But really, how well do we ever truly know a person? When I talked to Deb on the phone last week, she still had a hoarse, raspy voice, evidence of The Bug she’d been battling all month.
Here’s my theory.
What if my “there-there” friend somehow learned how to transmit cooties over fiber-optic cables? What if she wants to contaminate not just me, but eventually the entire world in her undying quest for world domination? What if the devious Deb is --OH MY GAWD -- ground zero for THE BUG?
I may be slightly feverish.
And just maybe imbibing in too much NyQuil.
Saturday, December 27, 2008
Oh, the Weather Outside is Frightful
Okay, I’d had enough. Really. Mild weather is nice, but this was getting ridiculous. Here it was, December and I was still wearing tired summer t-shirts and Capri pants. They were cute in May, but now they were faded and stained with margarita mix, cheese whiz and barbecue sauce from pool parties long past. I was more than ready to retire them, but couldn’t because once again, the forecast was for another record high.
"Might hit the 70’s!” the pregnant TV meteorologist exclaimed with glee.
I wanted to pummel her. And why are TV meteorologists always pregnant?
It’s not like I actually enjoy cold weather. Witness my trip to Alaska this past July, where every single picture depicts me as the Michelin Man, bundled in quadruple layers underneath my fur-lined parka. Only my eyes blinking “I am FREEZING” in Morse code are visible above the scarf that is wrapped up to my nose.
The temperature was 51 degrees.
And yet, in spite of being a native Californian and therefore a weather wimp, I embrace the iconic image of a Norman Rockwell winter: arctic winds, sub-zero temperatures, breath-taking ice storms and cozy snow days. I dream of donning festive scarves, cute caps and plush turtleneck sweaters. Watching house lights twinkle through the fog, ice skating on a nearby frozen lake and afterwards, sipping hot cocoa by a roaring fire or maybe stretched across the sofa, wrapped in a chenille blanket and enjoying a Gene Kelly marathon on AMC, snug as a bug while winter winds raged outside.
So optimist that I am, when autumn leaves began to fall, I hoped that California’s version of winter weather was right around the corner. I stocked up on hot cocoa, canned soup and scented candles. I replaced my cotton bed sheets with flannel ones, added an extra blanket and programmed my heater to kick on at 68 degrees. Happily, I resumed wearing my beloved winter jammies, the snuggly flannel ones that feel like clouds, even though my friend Dennis refers to them as “sex-repellant.”
I died.
My bedroom felt like a Finnish sauna. Nights were spent tossing and turning, spastically rolling around on flannel sheets that felt more like scratchy baking sheets straight from a 500 degree oven. I fanned across my bed, desperately seeking a cool spot while simultaneously ripping off the suffocating flannel strait jacket that I swear was emitting electrical currents throughout my body. Where did I get these jammies anyway, the gift shop at Guantánamo Bay?
Days were no better. Oh sure, mornings would start out cool, foggy even, giving the false illusion of a real winter. And of course I would think, “Ha! Just goes to show what that pregnant meteorologist knows!” One morning it was even chilly enough to warrant wearing my luscious turtleneck, accessorized with the new scarf I‘d been eager to wear. And I felt so Vermont-ish and stylish and cute as I strolled over to Starbucks with my greyhound, Elvis, who was decked out in his own fleece-lined coat. We sat outside where I sipped my favorite winter beverage, a steaming peppermint mocha, while Elvis solicited affection from passing dog-lovers.
But all too soon the fog burned off and I found myself sweltering in the torturous vise of my turtleneck as people walked by in jogging shorts, halter tops and flip-flops. I couldn't enjoy my peppermint mocha, made salty by the sweat dripping off my brow, and even my gentle Elvis had this scowl on his face that said, “Remove the coat NOW or I go for the jugular.” Before I knew it, I was tossing my unfinished drink in the trash and we were both racing back home to rip off our winter gear before one of us suffered a heat stroke.
Ah, but this week my wish has finally been granted: California’s version of winter has arrived. Brisk and windy eye-watering, nose-running days have been in the low 50’s and frost-covered nights have dipped into the unthinkable 20’s, providing the perfect excuse to don my beloved winter fashions. I am ensconced in multiple layers of camisoles and cardigans. I am swaddled in a plethora of sweaters and scarves. I am cloaked. I am protected. I am prepared.
I am freezing. And longing for the t-shirt days of record highs as forecast by pregnant meteorologists.
"Might hit the 70’s!” the pregnant TV meteorologist exclaimed with glee.
I wanted to pummel her. And why are TV meteorologists always pregnant?
It’s not like I actually enjoy cold weather. Witness my trip to Alaska this past July, where every single picture depicts me as the Michelin Man, bundled in quadruple layers underneath my fur-lined parka. Only my eyes blinking “I am FREEZING” in Morse code are visible above the scarf that is wrapped up to my nose.
The temperature was 51 degrees.
And yet, in spite of being a native Californian and therefore a weather wimp, I embrace the iconic image of a Norman Rockwell winter: arctic winds, sub-zero temperatures, breath-taking ice storms and cozy snow days. I dream of donning festive scarves, cute caps and plush turtleneck sweaters. Watching house lights twinkle through the fog, ice skating on a nearby frozen lake and afterwards, sipping hot cocoa by a roaring fire or maybe stretched across the sofa, wrapped in a chenille blanket and enjoying a Gene Kelly marathon on AMC, snug as a bug while winter winds raged outside.
So optimist that I am, when autumn leaves began to fall, I hoped that California’s version of winter weather was right around the corner. I stocked up on hot cocoa, canned soup and scented candles. I replaced my cotton bed sheets with flannel ones, added an extra blanket and programmed my heater to kick on at 68 degrees. Happily, I resumed wearing my beloved winter jammies, the snuggly flannel ones that feel like clouds, even though my friend Dennis refers to them as “sex-repellant.”
I died.
My bedroom felt like a Finnish sauna. Nights were spent tossing and turning, spastically rolling around on flannel sheets that felt more like scratchy baking sheets straight from a 500 degree oven. I fanned across my bed, desperately seeking a cool spot while simultaneously ripping off the suffocating flannel strait jacket that I swear was emitting electrical currents throughout my body. Where did I get these jammies anyway, the gift shop at Guantánamo Bay?
Days were no better. Oh sure, mornings would start out cool, foggy even, giving the false illusion of a real winter. And of course I would think, “Ha! Just goes to show what that pregnant meteorologist knows!” One morning it was even chilly enough to warrant wearing my luscious turtleneck, accessorized with the new scarf I‘d been eager to wear. And I felt so Vermont-ish and stylish and cute as I strolled over to Starbucks with my greyhound, Elvis, who was decked out in his own fleece-lined coat. We sat outside where I sipped my favorite winter beverage, a steaming peppermint mocha, while Elvis solicited affection from passing dog-lovers.
But all too soon the fog burned off and I found myself sweltering in the torturous vise of my turtleneck as people walked by in jogging shorts, halter tops and flip-flops. I couldn't enjoy my peppermint mocha, made salty by the sweat dripping off my brow, and even my gentle Elvis had this scowl on his face that said, “Remove the coat NOW or I go for the jugular.” Before I knew it, I was tossing my unfinished drink in the trash and we were both racing back home to rip off our winter gear before one of us suffered a heat stroke.
Ah, but this week my wish has finally been granted: California’s version of winter has arrived. Brisk and windy eye-watering, nose-running days have been in the low 50’s and frost-covered nights have dipped into the unthinkable 20’s, providing the perfect excuse to don my beloved winter fashions. I am ensconced in multiple layers of camisoles and cardigans. I am swaddled in a plethora of sweaters and scarves. I am cloaked. I am protected. I am prepared.
I am freezing. And longing for the t-shirt days of record highs as forecast by pregnant meteorologists.
Sunday, December 7, 2008
A Devil of a Time
How does a tree figure into Christmas?
Seriously. I don’t recall any Douglas firs next to the Christ child’s manger. The Wise Men didn’t come bearing frankincense, myrrh and tinsel. So how did a tree become associated with a religious holiday?
I’ll tell you how: Satan.
That’s right. It had to be Beelzebub who realized this Christian holiday was getting a bit out of hand. Too much love. Joy. Happiness. Gag. So he introduced the notion that a decorated tree might be a nice spot under which to place our presents. In honor of the beloved Christ child, of course.
What a swell idea.
This explains why I have a devil of a time manipulating a 6-foot noble fir into a Toyota trunk. And why it takes 30 attempts, littered with a few unChristmas-like words, to get it out again with branches and dignity intact.
I drag it to my condo, leaving behind a trail of needles that enables me to find my way back to the car to retrieve the branches that remain in my trunk. They’re wedged between the spare tire and the stack of newspapers for recycling. The branches will go back on the tree.
Two words: glue gun.
After tangoing with the tree, knocking pictures off the walls and trinkets off shelves, after leaving a path of destruction from my front door to the living room, after responding to my neighbor’s 911 call that no, I am not being attacked by a home intruder, I finally finagle the son-of-a-birch on a stand that is missing one leg. I prop it in a corner and use a folded “Is Martha Stewart Living?” magazine as a makeshift fourth leg. I wrestle with a tangled with of lights that, glory be, actually work!
Until they’re on the tree, that is.
I use my grandmother’s wedding dress as a tree skirt because I can’t find the tree skirt I bought at Macy’s for $75. I locate the ornament hooks only after I step on them in my bare feet. My hair is standing on end from tree sap. The tree is leaning precariously toward the west and my condo looks like it imploded broccoli.
I am not in a Christmas kind of mood.
But the holiday spirit blossoms when I remember ‘tis the season of giving. I wrap gifts for my loved ones, wasting three feet of imported designer paper on a box that contains a tie tack. I curl ribbon until it disintegrates into dust. I cut my carpet along with the wrapping paper. I curse the Rubik’s Cube courtesy boxes from Nordstrom. I swear as I manipulate my body into yoga-type positions in order to lovingly wrap, tie and finish these receptacles of torture.
Hours later, boxes that look like bad origami sit nestled beneath the tree, which has shifted considerably towards the setting sun. I sit back, tired but satisfied. I admire my decorated tree and the handiwork beneath. The specialty gift-wrap. The silk ribbons. The gold-plated gift tags.
Which I forgot to label.
Then the tree falls.
Ah yes, it’s Christmas once again. I know full well that I’m in for my traditional yuletide of suffering, torture and abuse. Yet still I continue to put myself through the agony of Christmas trees and the wrath of wrapping.
I don’t know the devil why.
Saturday, November 22, 2008
Run for Your Life, it's the Holiday Season
So I bought this gorgeous black leather jacket and was dying to wear it; instead, it hung in my closet for months. That’s because - darn this California weather- it wasn’t cold enough to warrant even a sweater. But last year, on Thanksgiving Day, I noted a modest chill in the air and thought, alleluia! I get to finally wear my sleek new jacket.
And I was feeling pretty stylish until my sister admired it. “That’s a beautiful chocolate color,” she exclaimed.
Uh, no sis, are you color blind? My jacket is black. But upon closer inspection, after going outside and scrutinizing the jacket under the blinding glare of the midday sun, and after closely comparing it with my black shoes and black purse, and squinting my eyes and praying that perhaps this was just a light shade of black, I had to concede my sister was right: however subtle, the jacket was indeed dark brown.
Darn! This meant if I wanted the black jacket, I’d have to return to the store to exchange this one. And I realized with a sickened knot in my stomach that since today was Thanksgiving, that could only mean one thing: tomorrow was Black Friday. Stores would be swamped with stampeding hordes of manic bug-eyed bargain-seekers, items would be flying off the racks, and any chance I had of finding my coveted black jacket meant I’d have to face the throngs and go to the store.
Early. On Black Friday.
Now once upon a time I enjoyed shopping on this day, long before it was so dubiously dubbed Black Friday. Stores opened early, featured tempting sales, and people flocked to the shops to admire the decorations, get in the spirit of Christmas, and pick up some bargains in the process. It was a nice way to launch the holidays while burning off pumpkin pie calories.
Not anymore. Today, the day after Thanksgiving has come to signify a putrid partnership of retail greed coupled with consumer gluttony. It’s morphed from representing the start of the holiday season into the lead story on the 6:00 news featuring a mosh pit of rabid, robotic, drooling crowds charging a jam-packed Walmart at 4:00 am, groping for anything that might be on sale. Need a Garfield Chia Kit or an old CD by Kevin Federline? Who the hell cares? Grab it dude, because it’s 50 percent off! I’ve come to dread the onset of Christmas because these inevitable scenes of wanton vulgarity sadden and repulse me. And every year, I vow to never, ever set foot in a store on Black Friday. Or any day even close to it.
So I had to ask myself: how badly did I want this black jacket? I considered stabbing myself in the eyeballs because then I’d have more pressing concerns than the color of my clothes. Instead, I strategized: on Black Friday, which venue nearest my home might draw the lesser crowd? The enclosed shopping mall 15 minutes south or the outdoor shopping plaza 15 minutes north? I rubbed my lucky Rabbit’s Foot, threw salt over my shoulder, crossed my fingers, opted for the latter and hoped for the best.
And that is how, at 9:00 am on Black Friday, I found myself in Dante’s Inferno, aka the dreaded department store. But there were no carnivorous crowds jamming elbows into rib cages. No eager sales clerks hovering over me in anticipation of a coveted commission. Not only did I find the last black leather jacket on the rack, it was an additional $50 off, which made my venture just a bit sweeter. Since the crowds were lighter than expected, I decided to walk around and do some shopping myself, maybe grab a hot chocolate and engage in a little people-watching. Hey, there was even that long-awaited nip in the air: I could don my new jacket!
Strolling through the plaza, I admired festive window decorations while enjoying carols piped through outdoor speakers. Sales clerks weren’t pushy, but pleasant. Shoppers were cheery, courteous and kind, opening doors, saying “thank you,” smiling. Frequent exclamations of “Merry Christmas” rang through the air and not once did I see anyone rushing, ramming or shoving. This was the day after Thanksgiving as I remembered it. Before shopping malls mutated into bottomless chasms and big-box stores encouraged mindless masses to run amuck in search of a penny saved.
I snuggled my scarf a bit tighter around my neck and sat near an outdoor fountain, sipping my steaming peppermint mocha while absorbing the view before me: parents leading their excited toddler to see Santa; the Golden retriever wearing an elf cap; and the 16-foot Christmas tree newly adorned with ornaments the size of cantaloupes. I relished the bite in the air and the joy of the season. Such an unexpected surprise this day turned out to be. I reveled in the moment, my cynicism melting and the holiday spirit dawning as subtle as…
…well, as subtle as a brown leather jacket.
And I was feeling pretty stylish until my sister admired it. “That’s a beautiful chocolate color,” she exclaimed.
Uh, no sis, are you color blind? My jacket is black. But upon closer inspection, after going outside and scrutinizing the jacket under the blinding glare of the midday sun, and after closely comparing it with my black shoes and black purse, and squinting my eyes and praying that perhaps this was just a light shade of black, I had to concede my sister was right: however subtle, the jacket was indeed dark brown.
Darn! This meant if I wanted the black jacket, I’d have to return to the store to exchange this one. And I realized with a sickened knot in my stomach that since today was Thanksgiving, that could only mean one thing: tomorrow was Black Friday. Stores would be swamped with stampeding hordes of manic bug-eyed bargain-seekers, items would be flying off the racks, and any chance I had of finding my coveted black jacket meant I’d have to face the throngs and go to the store.
Early. On Black Friday.
Now once upon a time I enjoyed shopping on this day, long before it was so dubiously dubbed Black Friday. Stores opened early, featured tempting sales, and people flocked to the shops to admire the decorations, get in the spirit of Christmas, and pick up some bargains in the process. It was a nice way to launch the holidays while burning off pumpkin pie calories.
Not anymore. Today, the day after Thanksgiving has come to signify a putrid partnership of retail greed coupled with consumer gluttony. It’s morphed from representing the start of the holiday season into the lead story on the 6:00 news featuring a mosh pit of rabid, robotic, drooling crowds charging a jam-packed Walmart at 4:00 am, groping for anything that might be on sale. Need a Garfield Chia Kit or an old CD by Kevin Federline? Who the hell cares? Grab it dude, because it’s 50 percent off! I’ve come to dread the onset of Christmas because these inevitable scenes of wanton vulgarity sadden and repulse me. And every year, I vow to never, ever set foot in a store on Black Friday. Or any day even close to it.
So I had to ask myself: how badly did I want this black jacket? I considered stabbing myself in the eyeballs because then I’d have more pressing concerns than the color of my clothes. Instead, I strategized: on Black Friday, which venue nearest my home might draw the lesser crowd? The enclosed shopping mall 15 minutes south or the outdoor shopping plaza 15 minutes north? I rubbed my lucky Rabbit’s Foot, threw salt over my shoulder, crossed my fingers, opted for the latter and hoped for the best.
And that is how, at 9:00 am on Black Friday, I found myself in Dante’s Inferno, aka the dreaded department store. But there were no carnivorous crowds jamming elbows into rib cages. No eager sales clerks hovering over me in anticipation of a coveted commission. Not only did I find the last black leather jacket on the rack, it was an additional $50 off, which made my venture just a bit sweeter. Since the crowds were lighter than expected, I decided to walk around and do some shopping myself, maybe grab a hot chocolate and engage in a little people-watching. Hey, there was even that long-awaited nip in the air: I could don my new jacket!
Strolling through the plaza, I admired festive window decorations while enjoying carols piped through outdoor speakers. Sales clerks weren’t pushy, but pleasant. Shoppers were cheery, courteous and kind, opening doors, saying “thank you,” smiling. Frequent exclamations of “Merry Christmas” rang through the air and not once did I see anyone rushing, ramming or shoving. This was the day after Thanksgiving as I remembered it. Before shopping malls mutated into bottomless chasms and big-box stores encouraged mindless masses to run amuck in search of a penny saved.
I snuggled my scarf a bit tighter around my neck and sat near an outdoor fountain, sipping my steaming peppermint mocha while absorbing the view before me: parents leading their excited toddler to see Santa; the Golden retriever wearing an elf cap; and the 16-foot Christmas tree newly adorned with ornaments the size of cantaloupes. I relished the bite in the air and the joy of the season. Such an unexpected surprise this day turned out to be. I reveled in the moment, my cynicism melting and the holiday spirit dawning as subtle as…
…well, as subtle as a brown leather jacket.
Saturday, November 8, 2008
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).
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.
Saturday, November 1, 2008
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.
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.
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