Denial - Probably Not a River in Egypt

Ah, denial. Nobody wants to think they look their age. After all, how many times have you heard someone observe how old everybody else looked at their high school reunion? Yeah, right.

And I'm no exception. I like to think that, at the very least, I look my age, give or take a year. But I wasn't quite prepared for the comment tossed my way this week.

I was performing a community service errand at a retirement center with two acquaintances, older women who are most definitely older than me. I mean, nobody would look at the three of us and think that we ever hung out together at an Osmond Brother concert in the '70's. One I might guess to be in her early-sixties, and the other hovers somewhere around my mother's age, which is 73. Both are nice looking ladies who take pride in their appearances; styled, highlighted hair, tasteful make-up, fashionable clothes.

But there is no mistaking either one for Britney Spears, know what I mean?

So there we were in the car, on our way back from the retirement center, making casual chit-chat about the residents we had met and the whole aging process. Then the older woman turns to me and without batting a carefully mascaraed-eye, casually quips, "You know, I'm probably older than you."

Excuse me? Probably? PROBABLY?

Is the sun probably hot? Are Siegfried & Roy probably more than just friends? Is somebody in this car probably in denial?

Which then begets the question (gulp): who?

This reminded me of an incident a couple years ago, when I was buying a bottle of wine at Cost Plus and was carded. Me, a 40-something year old woman carded! Chuckle, chuckle. I flashed my driver's license while inwardly relishing the moment and sending silent words of thanks to Oil of Olay.

Fast forward a few weeks later. I'm again at Cost Plus and see the same youthful checker at a different checkout stand. I'm about to bedazzle her with my oh-so youthful grin ("Hey peep, remember me? Isn't Justin Timberlake the bomb!") when I see that she's carding her current customer: a woman who I'm guessing first showed her ID when she cast her presidential vote...for Herbert friggin' Hoover.

Sigh.

Am I tossing the Oil of Olay? Probably.

Solicitors Not Welcome - Well, Maybe

The message is pretty clear, judging from all those "no soliciting signs" plastered across front doors; nobody likes door-to-door solicitors. Not that the signs make any difference. Persistent sales people still knock -knock-knock away, trying to sell everything from cookies and Christ to magazine subscriptions and gift wrapping paper.

I was prepared to say "no thanks" the minute I opened the door this morning and saw the young college student standing on my doorstep. Before she could even finish her sentence about getting scholarship points for each magazine sold, I told her I wasn't interested. Her face fell, but only briefly.

"Can I practice my speech anyway?" she asked hopefully. "We also get points on presentation and the more I practice, the better."

I could spare a few minutes, I figured. Besides, I felt sorry for the kid. It can't be easy spending a beautiful spring weekend getting the door repeatedly slammed in your face .

"Sure," I yawned.

So she rattled off her 3-minute spiel: how she was from Southern California, the cities this job was taking her to, and how her goal was to study Graphic Design at UCLA. I told her as a marketing writer, I work closely with graphic designers and rely on their talents to visually bring my words to life. Her eyes popped open and her jaw dropped to the ground.

"WOW!" she exclaimed. She responded as though I'd just said I partner with Monet or Van Gogh.

Then my oven buzzer went off and I excused myself for a minute. When I returned, I came back with a napkin holding a freshly baked, ooey-gooey chocolate chip cookie. "Take one for the road," I offered, "and good luck with your schooling."

Once again her jaw dropped open in utter amazement. As she eagerly took the cookie, she gushed, "You are SO like the nicest person I have ever met. Thank you!" Then we said goodbye and I closed the door.

What started out as a bothersome solicitor turned out to be a heart-warming encounter. Which just goes to show...you never know what might be knocking at your door.

Happy Square Root Day

In case you missed it, today is 3/3/9 ,which translates into 3x3=9. Whatever, you might say.

But these days, I think just about anything that doesn’t include sinking stocks is worth celebrating, dontcha think? So there you go…

Happy Square Root Day!

My New Favorite Saying

"When all is said and done,

much more is said than done."

How true is that? Borrowed from one my new favorite TV shows, the clever "Trust Me," Tuesday nights on TNT. If you haven't seen it yet, give it a try. Trust me.

Valentine Post-Mortem

I plumb forgot about Valentine's Day. Didn't even make a blip on my radar. I was reminded of the date only after getting a couple valentines in the mail; one from my favorite couple in the world, Deb and Richard, and the other from my dog. Such a thoughtful dog, no? Even if the envelope was a bit soggy with saliva.

But forgetting this date was a personal milestone. Because really, for single people Valentine's Day has the potential to be toxic, like sugar to a diabetic. In my younger, more naive days, I always felt such pressure: Gotta have a mate, gotta be in love, gotta have plans for romantic getaways and candle-lit dinners followed by oodles and oodles of hot n' heavy sex. With a George Clooney look-alike, of course.

Today, I'm not so picky. Cover me under your health insurance plan and baby, I'm yours.

But these two thoughtful cards did remind me of the date. Oh yeah, it's Valentine's Day. Hmmm, whaddya know.

That evening, I was invited to my best friend's home to join two other friends for a wonderful gourmet meal. Over a candle-lit dinner, our foursome shared concerns about the economy, critiqued Oscar-nominated movies, discussed problems at work and dreams for travel. We laughed, ate crab, drank wine and capped the evening with a decadent chocolate cake swimming in berries and whip creme.

And despite the absence of oodles of sex and with nary a glimpse of George Clooney, it was indeed a very fine evening. On Valentine's Day, no less. How'd ya like that?

But about that health insurance. If you have a plan, you may have my heart. Let's talk, shall we? Over a candle-lit dinner, of course.

The Most Pathetic Birthday Poem Ever

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.

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.