Lesson #7 Will Have to Wait

Last night I joined about 6,000 other people to hear and see Barack Obama, when he visited our town railroad station on a "whistle stop" while traveling from Philadelphia to Harrisburg. He was due into the station at 6 pm and the gates opened at 4:00. I arrived at 3:50 and the grounds were already packed. All attendees had to go through "security checks," very similar to the airport routine, before entering. I was happy to see how thorough it was, as I have no desire to ever be anywhere near any kind of assassination attempt. Once we were cleared and admitted, all 6,000 of us had to stand in the hot sun for two hours, waiting for our hero to arrive. It was tedious and uncomfortable, but I found it interesting to observe the mix of people around me. There were all ages, from infant to aged, and every skin color from white-white to black-black. People seemed happy and excited. There was no feeling of discontent that I could discern, in spite of the long wait.

As 6 o'clock approached, the excitement grew. The train pulled into the station right on time, and the crowd starting humming..."He's here, he's here..." The M.C. of the event first introduced Senator Bob Casey, who spoke briefly, before he announced Senator Obama. When Obama strode onto the podium, the crowd went wild, cheering, whistling, and chanting, "O-bama, O-bama"

Obama smiled and waved, waved and smiled, and started speaking. I won't attempt to repeat anything he said, since any of you who are interested can hear his speeches on YouTube. I will just say that he had us in the palm of his hand, the entire 40 minutes of his speech. Even though it was the third speech he had given in the previous 4 hours, he was dynamic, articulate, and congenial. I liked almost everything he said, except a couple of things that were more to the left than I am. (It's late and I'm tired, so I'm not even going to try to go into any detail. Maybe on a later post.) The crowd cheered and clapped enthusiastically. The biggest applause, from me as well, erupted when he promised to get our troops out of Iraq by 2010. He made that promise at two different points in the speech. Afterwards, he waded into the crowd to shake hands.

I came away from the experience even more convinced than I was before that Obama is the best choice for President, of the three viable candidates. I believe his youth, vigor, intelligence and good nature can help him to be a strong leader and maybe even ease some of the terrible divisiveness that has plagued our great country for the past 8 years.

Lesson #6

Don't Go Anywhere Near Anyplace That Says "Singles" Anything

One day I saw in the newspaper a notice for a meeting of the local “Singles Club.” It sounded like a respectable place to meet people (read: men). Surely it wouldn’t be like a bar, full of unscrupulous creeps just waiting around to take advantage of a susceptible, lonely divorcee. A “club” suggests warm, friendly people, there to socialize with others in a safe environment. What could be safer than the Methodist Church basement on a Wednesday evening? I marked it on my calendar.

Wednesday evening, I hurried home from work to prepare for my big adventure. I looked in my closet for something to wear that would be flattering, but not overtly sexy. I didn’t want to be obvious in my attempt to be attractive. I decided on the black pants, fitted, but not too tight, and a red sweater. My reflection in the mirror stared back at me. “You’re forty years old, dummy. Don’t worry about looking too sexy. Just pray that you won’t be the oldest person in the room.”

I turned away from the mirror in a fit of self-doubt and decided to stay home. Just accept the fact that you’re going to be alone for the rest of your life, I told myself. It’s too late to put yourself out in the meat market.

No, silly! There are bound to some nice, older single men out there somewhere.

Yeah, but they’re all looking for younger women. Every old fart in the world probably thinks he can and should get an attractive younger woman.

But I’d be a “younger woman” to an older man!

Right…but you don’t want an older man, do you? You’d like a man younger than you, too.

Damn straight! And I’m not going to find one while sitting alone in this apartment. That settles it. I’m going to that Singles Club and test the waters. I have nothing to lose but what’s left of my pride.

I found the church, walked quickly to the door that displayed a sign marked “Singles Club Meeting.” Once inside, I saw what seemed to be a sea of women milling about, punctuated here and there by a man. The ratio seemed to be at least four to one. Wherever a man stood, he seemed to be surrounded by several women, hanging on his every word. I knew no one, of course, and busied myself by heading over to the refreshment area and accepting a cup of coffee from a smiling woman behind the table.

“Is this your first time here?” the woman asked.

“Yes, how can you tell?” (Is it the fact that I am sweating profusely? Or because my eyes are darting back and forth like a crazed animal caught in a leg trap?)

“Oh, you just look a little nervous. Relax. We don’t bite.”

I thanked her for the coffee and the advice, and walked back toward the center of the room. A loud voice announced that the meeting was to begin. Everyone moved to the next room, where several rows of folding chairs were arranged, facing a podium. I moved with the others and found a seat toward the back. To my great surprise, an attractive man sat down next to me. He smiled and introduced himself.

“Hi, I’m Mike. Is this your first time here?”

Good grief, I thought - is it written on my forehead? “I’m Z. Yes, it’s my first time. How did you know?”

“It’s written on your forehead.” He laughed at his little joke. “No, I just don’t remember seeing you here before, and I’m sure I would have remembered such a lovely lady, if I had.”

I could feel my cheeks burn. What a line, I thought. “I read about tonight’s speaker in the newspaper and thought it sounded interesting.”

“Financial Planning for Singles? Yeah, I guess it would be interesting to me too, if I had any finances left to plan with. But my ex-wife took care of that.”

The club president stepped up to the podium, welcomed the audience and introduced the speaker. I was vaguely aware that there was someone up there moving his lips and gesturing occasionally with his hands, but all I could think of was the man sitting next to me. He had positioned his chair so that it was against mine. Every few minutes he would move his leg in a way that it would brush, ever so slightly, against me. I glanced at him quickly, and saw him looking directly at me, smiling. I could feel his masculinity, his heat; or was it my heat? Oh my God, I’ve been without a man for too long.

Eventually, the man behind the podium stopped moving his lips and after a polite smattering of applause, people started scooting back their chairs and standing up. Mike touched my hand and said, “Why don’t we just sit here for a while and talk? I’d like to get to know you.”
I hesitated for a moment, and then sat back down. “What would you like to know?” I asked. But I was thinking, I’m divorced, I haven’t been with a man since I left my husband a year ago, I’m horny and you’re looking real good to me right now.

Mike smiled and leaned back in his chair, pushing his hips forward slightly. “Oh, I don’t know…just who you are, what you do when you’re not attending meetings, things like that. But maybe this isn’t the best place to talk. Would you like to go somewhere for a drink? Or a cup of coffee?”

Other people in the room were drifting away. Apparently, the meeting was over. I felt nervous, wondering why he had chosen me to hit on, when there were so many other women there, younger and better-looking than I was. But I soldiered on. “Sure, coffee sounds good. I could meet you over at Denny’s. They’re open late.” My heart was pounding so hard that I wondered if drinking more caffeine would give me a heart attack.

“Why don’t we drive there together?” Mike offered. “I could bring you back here, afterwards, to get your car.”

His green eyes held me captive. I couldn’t look away. “Okay.” He extended his arm and we walked together to the exit.

We didn’t make it to Denny’s. When we got to Mike’s car, he said, “I have coffee at my place. Why don’t we just go there?”Alarm bells rang inside my skull, but I silenced them. “I can’t think of a single reason not to,” I said.

------------------------

The next morning, back in my own apartment, I could think of several reasons why I shouldn’t have.
Number one: I felt cheap. There had been no pretense of coffee drinking when we entered his apartment. We had immediately started kissing and tearing each other’s clothes off.

Number two: It wasn’t worth it. Wham, bam, thank you, Ma’am. Only he didn’t say thank you.

Number three: When it was over, he got out of bed and started getting dressed, explaining, “I don’t like to mess around afterwards. I better get you back to your car.”

Number four: He didn’t even ask me for my phone number.

And, number five: I had to go to work that morning and I felt like hell.

I headed for the shower and stood under the very hot water as long as I could stand it. I scrubbed every inch of myself with soap and a rough washcloth. When I came back into the bedroom, I saw the clothes I had worn the night before. I picked them up gingerly and carried them to the wastebasket, stuffed them all the way down and closed the lid.
I got dressed, drank a cup of tea (no more coffee, uh-uh, never) and went to work.

Lesson #5 Took a While to Sink In

I told my friend Cindy (who was as happy as an Eskimo in Miami, with her new boyfriend) what had happened, and she told me to give "The Jukebox" another try. "Don't be so sensitive!" she advised.

So back I went, into the fray. The lights must have been suitably dim this time, because a reasonably pleasant-seeming fellow asked me to dance, shortly after I sat down at a table. He was a good dancer and we chatted between numbers. He told me that he was newly single, as well. We sat at a table and each ordered a beer. We talked some more and then danced some more. I was actually enjoying myself. Then, as we were dancing a slow dance, he whispered into my ear, "Should we go now? Do you want to come with me to my place or should we go to yours?"

I was stunned. "I just met you! I'm not going to go home with you!"

He looked bewildered. "But I thought people come here to hook up with someone."

"Well, yeah, but not that fast! I came here to meet a man, not to be a pickup."

Mutually embarrassed, we drifted away from one another. I finished my beer and went home, but this time I didn't cry. It was time for a new plan.

Lesson #5 - Don't Go Anywhere Near Anything Calling Itself a "Singles Dance"

Okay, time for a new plan. I saw an ad in the paper for a "Singles Dance" at a place called "The Jukebox," on Friday night. I drove by it first, to check it out. It looked okay. Kind of a bar, restaurant, music place, in a decent neighborhood. Nothing to lose but my pride, I reasoned, so on Friday night I decked myself out in what I hoped was an attractive skirt, blouse and high heels (ugh) and placed myself on the meat market. I sat down at a table in a dimly lighted spot near the dance floor and ordered a Coke. I felt like a 40 year-old, nerdy teenager.

Much to my surprise, a youngish-looking guy came up and asked me to dance, before my Coke even arrived!

It was a slow dance, and he started talking, introducing himself and asking me various questions. "I'm Bob. What's your name?"

"I'm Zelda."

"How old are you?"

I was startled and annoyed by the impertinence of the question, so felt justified in lying. "Thirty-one." He seemed satisfied with that, and pulled me close to him as we continued dancing. Gradually, I became aware that he was leading us into a more brightly lit part of the dance floor. Then, he eased me away from him a bit and looked closely at my face.

"How old are you really?"

No, I didn't say, "Go fuck yourself, asshole!" But I wish I had. Instead, I excused myself, went back to the table to get my jacket, and drove home in a welter of tears.

Lesson #4: Don't Think You're Going to Find the Love of Your Life in a Bar

I was lonely. I was horny. I wanted a man. But, I had no idea how to meet men in a safe, respectable way. I went to a tavern, one Saturday evening, ostensibly to listen to the band. I stood at the bar, drinking a beer and watching the band, hoping some nice man would ask me to dance. I tried to look relaxed and worldly, but I was uncomfortable and unsure of myself, and I'm sure it showed. No one in the entire place paid any attention to me, and I left after a half-hour or so. I went back to my apartment and cried myself to sleep.

-

I decided to try again, at a different place...a fancier place, with a bigger dance floor and a better band. And this time, I decided to go with a friend of mine, so I wouldn't feel so alone and awkward. Cindy was also newly divorced and keenly interested in meeting someone. Unfortunately, Cindy was younger, better-looking and more self-confident than I was, so I was doomed from the start. We sat down at the crowded bar and ordered drinks. The only remaining empty seat was to my right. A nice-looking man, maybe in his late thirties, sat down. He looked past me, at Cindy, and spoke to her. She smiled at him, and answered. They talked back and forth, around me, until I finally stood up and said, "Here Cindy. Take this seat." And I moved over to where she had been. The happy couple then took to the dance floor, and I got up and went home.

To be continued...

Lesson #3: Don't Walk By Yourself In a Dicey Neighborhood After Dark

Not even if you're just going to the office to finish up some bookwork that is due tomorrow.

The office was on West King Street, not exactly a bad neighborhood, but not exactly good, either. It was about 9:00 pm, and I was still in my "don't give in to fear" mode, so of course I had to walk the mile and a half to my destination. You'd have to be a real woose to get in the car and drive that short distance. It turns out that a "not exactly bad neighborhood" looks a lot badder after dark, in spite of streetlights and lighted storefronts. So I was getting nervous, as I passed various shady-looking characters hanging around on street corners and in front of the neighborhood bar.

But! I must not give in to fear!! I am woman! I am strong! I was about two blocks from my destination when a young man, who looked like a good-natured, hippy type of guy, came up to me and said, "Ma'am, you should NOT be walking by yourself in this neighborhood. It's not safe. Where are you going? I'll stay with you until you get there." I was flabbergasted, but convinced.

He hooked his arm in mine and walked me to the door of the office. I thanked him, and then he told me to take a taxi when it was time to go home.

I did. And I remembered what he said, and never repeated that particular imprudent act. After all, even a cat has only nine lives, and I had already used up three of mine.

Lesson #2 - Don't Walk Through Alleys

I had lived in the country for the previous 14 years. It was scary living in the city, all by myself. I, however, was determined not to give in to fear, and ended up doing a lot of stupid things, just to show myself that I wasn't afraid, even if I was.

My apartment was one mile from the office where I worked. I had a car, but it was old and unreliable, and I enjoyed walking, so I always walked to and from work. I did not, however, enjoy walking down busy, noisy city streets, so whenever possible I took alley shortcuts. These alleys were not ugly, trashy, rat-infested alleys that you picture in big cities; they were more like driveways between the small backyards of row houses. So, it was pleasant, especially in the spring and summer, when there were flowers blooming. One day, I was walking home from work, about 4:30 pm, and was in an alley, about halfway between one street and the next. All of a sudden, with no warning, I felt someone grab my ass. I jumped and screamed. A young man, riding a bicycle, zipped by me and then stopped a few yards ahead of me. He was grinning, in what to me seemed a menacing way. I yelled, "Leave me alone! Get out of here!" He biked a few yards farther and stopped again, leering at me. I kept yelling, as loud as I could. He kept going a little farther and stopping again. Finally, we were getting close to the end of the alley, and he gave up and rode away, I thought. But, when I got to the sidewalk, I saw him about a half-block away.

So, there I was, only about five or six blocks from home, but I didn't dare go home, because the bastard might follow me and learn where I live. I kept walking, zig-zagging back and forth until I was sure I had lost him, and finally got home. I ran up the stairs to my apartment and closed and locked the door. I was so upset, I needed to talk to someone. I called my friend, Kerry, and was telling her, through my tears, what had happened. I became aware that my buttcheek, where the guy had grabbed me, was itching wildly and getting worse by the second. Finally, I had to say goodbye to Kerry and examine the offending body part. The whole cheek was inflamed, and covered with big, red welts! Hives! Somehow, my body reacted to the affront, just as it would to some kind of allergen. Crazy, huh? It subsided after a while, and I made the second of many vows to be more careful in the future.

Lesson #1: Don't Open the Door

Ok, where was I...oh yeah...lonely, miserable, depressed, stressed at work, yadda yadda. I'll just tell you about one frightening incident and then move on to religion, politics or the weather (everyone talks about it, but nobody does anything about it).

For the first few weeks in my new "home," I lived very minimally. I did nothing to embellish the apartment, not even hanging curtains or shades in the windows. I figured that since I was on the third floor, no one could see into the windows, so what the hell.

The apartment had only one entry door, at the top of the narrow stairway, which opened into my small kitchen. One night, I was sound asleep, and awoke to the sound of someone banging on my door. I was startled and disoriented, and called out, "Who is it?"

"It's your neighbor!"

My neighbor? Omigod, there must be a fire and he's here to tell me to get out, before it's too late! I jumped out of bed and, clad only in a prim (fortunately!) long flannel nightgown, I ran to the door and pulled it open. I saw a young man, casually leaning against the wall, smoking a cigarette.


He smiled and said, "I thought you might like to get acquainted with a neighbor."

I was speechless. Finally, I was able to say, "Why would you think that?"

"Because, for the past couple of weeks, I've been watching you walking around in your apartment, and it looked like you could use some company."

"It's the middle of the night! I don't want company in the middle of the night! Get out of here!" And I slammed the door shut and locked it. I was shaking with fear. What if he tried to break down the door? What if he sets a fire on the stairs? What if I die of terminal stupidity??

Fortunately, none of those things happened, and I never saw him again; not that I know of, anyway. And the very next day, I taped newspapers over all the windows. They looked nice with my cardboard kitchen table.

From Cinderella to Rapunzel

After five weeks of unsuccessfully looking for an apartment that I could afford and not despise, I had almost resigned myself to accepting something in a scary neighborhood and/or sharing it with various six-legged tenants. Then, on one of the happiest days of my life, I opened the morning paper, turned to the classifieds, and saw this ad: Cute, 3 rm apt, 3rd floor, nice neighborhood, $350/mo. Within an hour, I came, saw and conquered. It was not just "cute," it was in an old, Victorian style house, with just two other apts, one on the first floor and one on the second. It was freshly painted, had an old, claw-foot bathtub, and...AND...a TURRET in the corner of the living room, with lovely, big windows overlooking the street corner and neighborhood. I was in love!



The next hurdle to overcome was to beg the ex for some furniture and a few basic household items. I ended up with a sofabed, a small chest, a desk, a rocking chair, and a few kitchen utensils. No kitchen table. But I was okay with that. I got a sturdy cardboard box and used it for a table. I enjoyed sitting on the floor and eating my meals on the box. I felt like a pioneer. The most important and exhilarating feature of my new life was that I could do anything I wanted, any time I wanted and any way I wanted, with no oppressive, glowering man imposing his will on me.



FREE AT LAST! FREE AT LAST! GREAT GAWD AL... Wait a minute...I'm all alone...

Regarding the soggy saga of my quest for independence, I will add this entertaining side note. While I was still staying at the boarding house, my husband, having grown very tired of having to prepare his own meals, washing his own dishes, doing his own laundry, etc, contacted me. He was very nice, and suggested we get together for the weekend and see if we could "work things out." I was so lonely and miserable, I agreed. We met at a restaurant, had a reasonably pleasant dinner, and went back to "his" (formerly "our") house. It seemed so warm and cozy, and Husband was being so pleasant, as he coaxed me into returning, that I agreed.

The next morning I telephoned my best friend and told her what was happening. She sounded alarmed. "Are you sure you want to do that?"

"I guess so."

"Well, tell him that if you come back, things will have to change!"

I hung up the phone and turned to Husband. "If I come back, things will have to change!"

An all-too-familiar black scowl enveloped his face. "You're damned right things will have to change!!"

I grabbed my purse, hat and coat and left his sorry ass forever.

FREE AT LAST, FREE AT LAST, GREAT GOD ALMIGHTY I'M FREE AT LAST!

Leaving Home

The sumptious Miss Smack wrote recently about her incredibly courageous flight from her parents' home, with only the clothes on her back, at the tender age of 18.

Her story made me think of my own flight to freedom, at the much more advanced age of 40. Oh sure, I had left my parents' home at 18, but it was to get married.

I was then subjected, for the next 22 years, to the total domination of my egotistic, misogynistic, selfish, uncompromising husband. I felt that I had no value except as a sex receptor, maidservant, and mother to his two children. Nothing I wanted mattered in the least to him, if it conflicted in any way with what he wanted. I gained one or two vertebrae in my backbone in the later years, when I rebelled in order to go back to college and get my degree, and one other time when I took the kids to a big, once in a lifetime family reunion and was gone for two weeks. I could write a goddamn BOOK about how the kids and I were made to suffer for our little escapade, but I won't do it here. But I was determined to stay with him until the kids were on their own and I could support myself.

Then...I found Pan-man and lost my mind.

I snuck around for almost a year, meeting the lust-god whenever and however I could, crazy with wanting him. I tried not to get caught, because I wasn't ready financially to be on my own, yet. Eventually, my luck ran out and I was caught with my pants down. Fortunately, the kids had already left home, so my sordid affair didn't affect anyone but my husband and me. Husband kicked me out, with only "the clothes on my back" (hey, Smackie) and what I could throw into a suitcase. I stayed with my best friend for two weeks (she told me that I had to leave when the two weeks were up) and then in a boarding house for another month until I could find a place to rent. In the meantime, my father commited suicide and Pan-man dumped me.

Okay, this is getting really depressing, so I'll talk later about my newfound liberation and the experience of being on my own for the first time in my life.

MEMEMEMEMEMEME

Dr. Zaius tagged me with the following ape assignment:

A. List seven random things about yourself that people may not know.
B. Link the person who sent this to you, and leave a comment on their blog so that their readers
can visit yours.
C. Post the rules on your blog.
D. Tag 7 random people at the end of your post, linking their blog.
E. Let each person know that they have been tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.

Since my inner ape admires and adores the Doctor, I will do his bidding, without further ado.

1. I have only the most tenuous grip on sanity. I am virtually hanging by my tail.
2. In spite of acknowledging this, I have decided that I no longer need to take Zoloft, and have been attempting to wean myself off of it.
3. My newfound mental clarity has enabled me to understand that my husband is an asshole. His hurtful words spurt from his orifice, like puffs of noxious gas.
4. I also understand that he has no control over his condition. It is a consequence of his being full of shit.
5. I used to think that it was my fault somehow. Now I know that it is not.
6. I intend to develop a virtual "gas mask" that will enable me to live in the same nest with him, without having to inhale the fumes.
7. I like bananas.


Now I must tag seven simians. So sorry if you'd rather stay sheltered, sweethearts.
Kelso
Katie
DCup
DCap
Fransheis
Pharmacist
Randalleaux

This Says it All

Okay, Dcup didn't tag me, but she inspired me. On March 8 she wrote her own minimalist memoir. "A stripped down tale of this life in six words." She invited five "tagees" to write theirs too.
Here are the rules:
1. Write your own six word memoir.
2. Post it on your blog and include a visual illustration if you’d like.
3. Link to the person that tagged you in your post.
4. Tag five more blogs with links.
5. And don’t forget to leave a comment on the tagged blogs with an invitation to play!

So...uninvited party crasher that I am, I will now play the game. Here is MY life in six words:

Always scared, I did it anyway.

Okay, how about YOU, electro-kevin, Katie, Mr. Bananas, Dr. Monkey, Josh, and Miss Smack ?

Today I am in glowing, robust good health!

That may be a slight exaggeration, but compared to a couple of days ago, it's relatively true. I attribute my quick recovery, at least in part, to the well-wishes of my blogging buddies, creepy, distributorcap, fingers, gorilla bananas, and Dr. Zaius. Thank you, one and all!

My euphoria had a bit of a backslide this evening, when I was watching the news on tv. First it was all about "Punch and Judy" on the campaign trail, hitting each other with rhetorical clubs. The most egregious nastiness was spread by a couple of their staffers. I am anxious for the whole primary mess to be over and to see who is the last man/woman standing. Then, I hope the "winner" will give the "loser" a hand up and invite him/her to be his/her running mate. It's hard to imagine "Judy" accepting the number two position, but I think "Punch" might be willing.

We'll see.

Then, of course, it was all about the "looming recession." Okay, it's been almost 30 years since I got my B.A. in Economics, but I'm still going to vent about what I feel is a self-fulfilling prophecy in the works. That is, if people are bombarded every day with "the sky is falling" bad news about the economy, they're going to get nervous, and even if THEY still have a job, they're going to stop buying things and hunker down, their bosses are going to get nervous and change their minds about expanding the shop and buying that new machinery, nervous traders are going to sell stock, and flee to gold, etc. ad nauseum. I believe that the economy's condition could have been more accurately referred to as a "cyclical correction," which would not have been as frightening and less likely to exacerbate the situation.

Also, the whole "housing crisis" business is making me crazy! People! The continuing rise in prices of homes for the past few years was UNSUSTAINABLE! Increased demand pushed prices up so high that most people simply could not afford them, but they still wanted to buy a house, so the mortgage companies "helped" the buyers by finagling various methods (especially the nefarious "adjustable rate" mortgages) to make the initial payments seem manageable. Now, I'm not just blaming the financiers. People should not enter into a financial contract of that magnitude without thoroughly understanding what they are getting into! They should also not buy a house until they can afford it. Sorry, all you newly-weds. Try RENTING for the first few years, like we old farts did, back in the stone age. Okay, I'm getting off-message here. My point is that when prices get so high that almost no one can buy them, the prices will...and did...drop. It's called a "correction," not a depression.

Geez, I've got cramps in my fingers.

I'm sick. I've been sick for the past four days. I'm sick of being sick! Everything hurts except my hair and fingernails. They probably hurt too, but the signals they send to my brain are too weak to be heard over all the other body parts clamoring for attention. Not only that, but I'm sure my muscles are starting to atrophy, since I've missed two of my every-other-day gym workouts and haven't been able to go for my customary three-mile-a-day walks. The only good thing is that I have very little appetite, so I haven't gained any weight yet. Oh...there's one more good thing - I don't have to feel guilty for lying around reading and doing sudoku puzzles all day long.

How can I be sick, anyway? You should see how healthy I eat! Whole grains, fruit, vegetables, lean meat, walnuts, dark chocolate (I am soooooo glad that some form of chocolate has been deemed GOOD FOR YOU!), skim milk for chrissake! And exercise? I beat myself up at the gym for 1 1/2 hours three times a week. I walk briskly 2 or 3 miles a day. I don't smoke or drink (much).

Shit. Maybe this is the reason:

See what I'm doing with my "extra day?" I'm looking at more entertaining ads from the '30s. One of my favorites is this reassurance from the medical front.
-
Hey, if DOCTORS smoke Camels, they must be safe, right? Is that a real doctor in the photo, or is he just playing one on camera? Who cares?
Pass me a stogie, Doc.




And then, we have these care-free guys, cheerfully pointing out the likelihood of

your imminent death, so don't worry -be happy! Smoke your face off!



And if you're STILL not convinced, especially you men out there
who might be having a little difficulty leading a lady into temptation,
check out this sure-fire trick:

-

Don't try it with me, though, or I'll snatch that Tipalet out of your hand and grind it into your eyeballs. Smoking CAN be dangerous to your health!

Okay, all you frustrated dieters out there. Here's the answer to your prayers. Just swallow a few "sanitized TAPE WORMS" and you can eat to your heart's content. Your squirmy little friends will gobble up that cake and ice cream, those greasy burgers and fries, the extra-cheese-and-sausage pizza and everything else you shovel down your gaping maw. Of course, the devious little devils will grow a LOT over time, but YOU will shrink, so not to worry. Place your order now!

Okay, now that you've shrunk down to your desired size,

you can indulge in that treat you've always wanted: LARD! You can have buckets of lard! Gallons of lard! Lardy, Lardy! Lard have mercy! I feel a gigantic orgasm coming on, just thinking about it! Of course, that cute guy in those sexy swim trucks doesn't hurt, either. Mmmm, mmm, good. Oily, slippery, sliding, in...out, in...out... Oh, wait, where was I?

Kids say the darndest things, according to several bloggers I've been reading lately. I just finished reading a beautiful post by west coast walker in which he recounts the story of his four-year-old son asking him "Where is the wall at the end of the world?" Mr. Walker was impressed by the "matter of fact" way the boy asked the question.

Of course, this reminded me immediately of a question my son (Precious) asked me, when he was about 5 or 6 years old. We had recently covered, in a very sketchy way, the subject of how the baby gets into the mommy's tummy and the role of the daddy in the scenario..Precious liked to cogitate on the mysteries of life and work up his own theories. Then he would present his hypothesis to me, often with a follow-up question. So, on this particular day, I was expecting something, because he had been sitting quietly for several minutes, deep in thought. I was sitting at the table, drinking a cup of coffee and reading. Precious spoke. "Mama, I know the daddy's seed floats through the air, from the daddy to the mommy [note: That is NOT what I had told him. ], but what happens if somebody else gets in the way?"

Somehow, I managed to swallow most of my coffee before bursting out laughing. He looked perplexed and embarrassed. "What's so funny?"

"I'm sorry, Precious. Don't worry about it. No one else can get in the way, because the mommy and daddy are alone when it happens."

That satisfied him for the time being. But when Hubby got home and I told him the story, he laughed and said, "When Precious grows up, he'll find out that you fibbed. Sometimes somebody else DOES get in the way."

While reading a post by dcup regarding sheltering her son from porn, I was reminded of an incident in my parenting past.

One day, I was in the den, ironing clothes and listening to the radio. My seven-year-old son was playing with his Legos nearby. The news was being broadcast, and the announcer launched into a story about a serial rapist who had been apprehended that day. There was considerable detail about the number of victims and the circumstances, and I was hoping desperately that my son was not listening. My "birds and bees" policy with both my kids was to answer their questions truthfully, as they came up, but not to go further than the question warrented. Needless to say, the question of "rape" had never been raised, and I wasn't eager to have to explain it. So, I just kept looking at the ironing board and hoping, hoping there would be no questions from my precious little boy.

Indeed, there was no question. But there was a statement. Precious looked up at me and said, "Wow, he sure was a horny guy!"

Pretty Ugly

I feel pret-ty, oh so pret-ty...
No! You're ugly!
Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.
Pretty is as pretty does.
Beauty is only skin deep; ugly goes clear to the bone.
Maybe plastic surgery would help.
She already had plastic surgery.
Oh...sorry...
My dog doesn't care what I look like. He loves me, as long as I feed him and take him for walks.
My cat doesn't care what I look like. She loves me, as long as I feed her and cater to her every whim.
Blind people don't care what I look like, as long as I stay far enough away so they can't feel my face.
Kind people pretend not to notice what I look like.
Cruel people stare.
I say, "Fuck you all! I don't care what I look like."

Eat or Be Eaten

Last night, Hubby and I watched a fascinating show on Animal Planet. It was called "Blue World" (I think, but don't quote me) and involved some men in a diving bell photographing life in the deep, deep, really deep ocean. That "life" was very strange-looking and very scary. BIG TEETH being a common feature. I'm talking about teeth SO BIG that the ugly critters couldn't even close their mouths. But boy-oh-boy could they catch unwary passers-by! SNAP! All gone. Since there is no light at all down there, some of the creatures had developed various forms of phosphorescent emanations to attract prey. There were exactly two occupations down there. The primary one was eating and the secondary one was reproducing. Well, I should probably say there were three occupations, if you count "trying not to be eaten" as one of them.

So, that got me to thinking about life on dry land, and wondering if there is really any difference between us humans and those primitive marine animals. Okay, I know you're waiting anxiously for my conclusion, so I'll tell you right now: The answer is NO! Think about it. We want to eat and we want to fuck. Everything we do boils down to that. We fight over territory so we can have more to eat and to eat fancier than the next guy and to have more people to fuck. We adorn ourselves and perform in various ways (think show business and sports) so we can get more people to fuck us or want to fuck us. We work to accumulate wealth and power so we can eat better and fuck more than the other guy. We try to live longer so we can eat more and fuck more. What have I left out? Oh, yeah, the part about trying not to be eaten, but that's basically so we can live longer so we can eat more and fuck more.

Hmmmm....I have just thought of one really big difference, at least in Western so-called civilization, and it is the paradoxical fact that the more we eat, the fatter we get, and consequently the less people want to fuck us!

I just may have to do a little more research on this subject.

There was only one thing on my to-do list today: "Post something in blog." Sounds simple, doesn't it? But today is one of those increasingly frequent times when I have nothing to say. I am SICK OF POLITICS. My libido is undetectable. I am not angry with anyone except politicians, but I'm SICK OF POLITICS, so that anger is not eligible for venting. I am not particularly happy about anything, either. So...what should I do?

I can hear Hubby laughing, in the other room. He is listening to Howard Stern, on the radio. Oh my. Howie must be really, really funny. Hubby is laughing more than I've heard him for a long time. The only thing that I find amusing about Howie is his hair. How can a grown man be seen in public with those silly little curls hanging down in his face like that? If I were to see him in person, I would hit him with a tranquilizing dart and shave his head. Okay, okay, I wouldn't really. But I would have a good time fantasizing about it.
Let's see...where was I? I could write about my aches and pains. That should keep vast numbers of readers on the edge of their seats. I went to the gym today and beat myself up for 1 1/2 hours. Now everything hurts, especially my left arm and shoulder, because I just HAD TO increase the weights by 10% and add reps too, just to show myself how tough I am. FUCK THAT! I'm not tough, I'm stupid. No, not stupid...foolish. Maybe I should do brain exercises.

Wow! I have completed 3 scintillating paragraphs! So - picture me happily crossing off that chore on my list, dancing around the room and singing "Hava Nagila."

Don't worry, children, the Chinese people will loan us money for you to spend on trinkets (many of which will have been imported from China).

That's how I feel about the CRAZY,STUPID, IRRESPONSIBLE ECONOMIC STINKULUS PLAN the idiots in Washington have dreamed up. They are acting like the country is in the middle of a full-fledged economic meltdown. IT IS NOT! It is simply in a "as you sow, so shall you reap" slowdown. A lot of people borrowed more than they should have, banks LOANED those people more than they should have, home prices rose higher than was reasonable, because for a while demand was outstripping supply, and now it's time to pay the piper. In my opinion, we should learn our lessons, limp a little, and recover naturally.

But NOOOOOOO! It's an election year. The politicians must assign blame! They must "remedy" the situation! Too bad that their to-do list does not include taking a crash course in Economics. How can anyone possibly think that our economy will be helped by the government playing Santa Claus and handing out $1,200 checks to every couple with annual income up to $150,000. I'm simplifying the formula, but you can look up the details on line, if you have the stomach for it. Do they really think that couples with an annual income of $150,000 (or even $100,000) are going to rush right out to K-Mart and spend their $1,200 for more crap, which most of us have too much of anyway? I would have been happy to go along with the proposals to extend UC benefits and food stamps for the people who are struggling to get by. But those ideas were dead in the water, thanks to Republican opposition. I'd also be supportive of job training programs or even public works projects, if they were well thought out and needed (think crumbling infrastructure).

I wouldn't be so incensed if the federal government were running a budget surplus. But we are in hock up to Uncle Sam's hat brim! We're going to have to borrow the money for those rebates. And so much of the U.S. borrowing is from foreigners (think China and Japan). What kind of example does that set for our overcharged, underinformed citizenry?

Okay. I'm done.

GOGO, MINI SHOWERS

One of my favorite apes, Dr. Zaius, mentioned that he is intrigued by stories about women showering, and if the story involves mini-skirts and go-go boots, that would be even better. Well, Dr. Z, this is your lucky day. I just happen to have such a story, just for you.

>One New Year's Eve, about umpty years ago, I was invited to a costume party. I decided to go, dressed as Nancy Sinatra. Since I never throw anything away, I knew I still had some of my 70's clothing tucked away. After a trip to the attic which led to a walk down Memory Lane, I managed to find my old, white go-go boots (still quite shiny!) and a couple of mini-skirts (still very short). I chose the red one, and then managed to come up with a tight (tighter than it used to be...) red and white striped blouse. I was plotzing! I squeezed into the skirt and blouse, pulled on those cool boots, unfurled my red mane, applied a lot of mascara and lipstick and was ready to rock and roll! Notice that I did not mention squeezing into any underwear. Now it's hard to imagine how I could have forgotten such an important garment, especially since I was wearing a goddamned MINI-SKIRT, but I did.

>So...I got to the party, the host, Jerry (masquerading as Tom Jones), greeted me with a "Hi Nancy!" Then, "Hey everybody, Nancy Sinatra is here!" All the cats, clowns, cowboys and one large condom came to check me out. There was a chorus of "Hey Nancy, are those boots made for walking?"

>"No way," sez I. "These boots are made for rocking!" In no time, the music (good ol' rock 'n' roll, of course) was turned up loud and Tom Jones and I led the crowd onto the dance floor. I was feeling like a "wild and crazy" gal and was giving those boots a real workout. Then, all of a sudden, one of the buckles on the left boot came loose. I BENT OVER to fix it. The music stopped, there was a hush, then gasps, then laughter. I stood up quickly. "What? What's wrong?"

>My friend Sally stopped laughing long enough to say, "Nancy, I believe you have a wardrobe malfunction." She pointed to my hips.

>I reached down and felt my naked rear. "OH MY GOD!" Tears sprang to my eyes, making my mascara run, everyone was laughing, Sally came over to me and pushed a drink into my hand, I chugged it down, asked for another, the music started up again and I felt much better. We all started dancing again. Someone shouted, "Red Rover, Red Rover, why don't you bend over!" I said, "Give me another drink, and maybe I will!" Another drink, another dance, and then I heard myself say, "These boots are made for walking and this SKIRT IS MADE FOR HIKING!" And I hiked it up, just a bit. Oh my, the hoots and hollers.

Then it was midnight and the champagne came out. Corks were popping, wine was squirting, and spirits were soaring. It was hot and humid in the room, and I was sweating like a racehorse. "You need a shower," Tom Jones declared, and grabbed a bottle of champagne. He shook it up, pulled out the cork and aimed the mouth of the bottle at me. A spray of tiny bubbles, cool, wet and delicious, engulfed me. I shrieked, then laughed, then licked my lips and grabbed the bottle from him. I drank a few swigs and poured the last few drops down the front of my blouse. The cold liquid made my nipples stand out like a couple of marbles. I rubbed my breasts and gyrated to the music. I felt Tom close behind me, his Dick was hard, and he wrapped his Hairy arms around me. Several other merrymakers decided they needed showers too, and before long we had all popped our corks.

Sigh. Good times.

Lady Not Waiting

Yesterday, I read a post in some male's blog (I have tried to remember whose, but I just can't, dammit) that described him being in a men's bathroom when a woman walked in, looked neither to the right nor the left, entered a stall, did her business, and walked out again. The blogger could understand what made the woman do this, because the line outside the WOMAN'S restroom was about a mile long, and the interloper didn't have the time or the bladder capacity to wait.

Being a woman myself, I could certainly sympathize with all the women in that line. And this story reminded me of the one time in my life when I decided to say, "Fuck the line! I'm going in!" This happened about ten summers ago, when I was attending an outdoor music festival in upper NY state. I don't remember where, but it was in some meadow somewhere and it was not Woodstock. A couple girlfriends and I were sharing a tent and a campfire, but all restroom activities depended on a row of outdoor, unisex johns, and for bathing purposes there were two trailer-type structures, one for each gender, with showers and dressing areas inside. The men's trailer never had a line, but the women's ALWAYS had a long line. For the first two days, I was able to hold off on the showering, telling myself, I'm here for the music and the dancing, not to wait in line for an hour. But after two days of dancing, in very hot, humid weather, it was clear that if I expected to get any kind of dance partner, I would have to take the plunge. My favorite band, Skylines, was going to take the stage at 1:oo pm, so I headed for the shower trailers at 11:45. As usual, the women's had a line from here to Timbuktu, and the men's had none. I stood in that goddamned line, clutching my soap, towel and change of clothes, for an hour, as the line inched up at a snail's pace. In the meantime, dozens of men darted in and out of their showers, as though they were on greased skids! There was never a line, because all men have to do is slip off their clothes, jump in the shower, soap quickly, rinse quickly, dry barely, throw on their clothes and leave. The whole process takes about 45 seconds.

Women, on the other manicured hand, screw around washing their hair, putting conditioner on their hair, shave everything south of their chin, use different kinds of soap for each part of their bodies, rinse everything for several minutes, trim their toenails, irrigate their sinuses, contemplate their navels and THEN, when they finally get out of the shower, they have to dry every crevice of their bodies, while STILL STANDING IN THE SHOWER STALL, then finally get out and spend another 1/2 hour in front of the fucking mirrors, drying their hair, putting on makeup and who knows what else. In the meantime, I had started talking to the woman ahead of me in the line, and we managed to work ourselves up to a fever pitch of indignation over the unfairness of the situation. We were angry with the women ahead of us, for their lack of consideration for their sweaty sisters still in line, and we were angry with the men for being so lucky as to be men. Then...with time running out, and fueled with anxiety about the possiblility of missing my favorite band, I got the brilliant idea that we (my new friend and I) could just run over to the men's trailer, which seemed to be empty at the moment, take a quick, man-style shower, and run out again, taking care of any details back at our tents. She would stand guard while I went in, and I would do the same for her. So, we dashed over, I entered the door, ran to a stall and started showering. I heard a commotion outside, so got out of the shower, just as my friend was yelling, "You can't go in. Zelda is in there." Then a male voice said, "Like hell I can't! This is the men's shower." Then more male voices, "We're coming in, ready or not!"

So there I was, naked as a jaybird, while four burly young men stormed the gate, and looked me up and down as I tried to pull my clothes over my still-wet body, while apologizing profusely for my rash behaviour. It did occur to me that they might wish to detain me, so I was frightened, as well as embarrassed. I dashed for the exit, and saw my "lookout" skittering back to the now-even-longer women's line. As I was hurrying to the pavillion, I saw some friends coming toward me. One of them said, "Oh Zelda! You missed the Skylines! Where were you?"

Where, indeed.

Can you stand one more meme? I'm sorry, but it's SO much easier than coming up with my own ideas. And I like this one that editorjdc dropped on me, because in spite of the brazen declaration in my profile, I do have a few Regrets. And a whole lot of Non-Regrets. Let's see if I can come up with five of each.

1R: I regret getting married when I was barely 18 years old and getting pregnant immediately.

1NR: I do not, however, regret having given birth to the two loving, smart, sweet, talented, beautiful children who resulted from that union.

2R: I regret having had to drop out of college after only one year, because of that early marriage.

2NR: I do not regret defying my husband and returning to school when I was in my 30's and graduating magna cum laude.

>3R: I regret that I allowed myself to be bullied and oppressed by my husband for 20 years.
3NR: I do not regret having finally worked up the nerve to leave him and make my own way.

4R: I regret that I was so lonely and naive when I was making my own way, because I was victimized by unscrupulous, predatory men, more than once.

4NR: I do not regret exacting my revenge on some of them.

5R: I regret that I didn't meet my sweet second hubby sooner.

5NR: I do not regret that we have been happily married for seven lovely years.

Tag, I'm It! (or one of several "its")

The lovely Randall at the inappropriately named L'ennui mélodieux (ennui has no place in his place) has suggested that I resurrect 5 old posts on these subjects:

Family Okay, so this isn't exactly warm and fuzzy, but it's exemplery.

Friendship Some of my best friends are bananas...

Self This covers everything.

Love This is as good as it gets nowadays.

Anything Now I know better.

The thoughtful and talented Randall also suggested that I (and other tagees) tag 5 of our other "friends," with the same request, so I, his dutiful minion, will happily oblige.

Katie? Kevin? Kelso? Captain? Miss Smack?

I have been inspired by "Pissed off Patricia" to make some predictions for the fledgling year, 2008.

Okay, I have dug my genuine, Madam Z crystal ball out of the ash heap and dusted it off with the tattered hem of my genuine, Madam Z gypsy skirt. It is sitting on my dusty old desk, right next to the computer. I am stroking it with one hand, while I type with the other.

Something is coming into focus...it looks like a calendar...AH-HA! I predict that February will have 29 days! Now...some kind of almanac? Yes! I predict it will be cold in Canada for most of those 29 days. Okay, now some simian-like features are forming...here it is...I predict that GWB will say something REALLY STUPID practically every single day in 2008 and every day after that, as long as he lives.

What?? You knew that already? What are you, Kreskin or somethin'? Well, what about this?

1. Next year at this time, we all will be another year older and many of us will be deeper in debt.

2. China's athletes will outshine all other competitors in the 2008 Olympics, because they have developed a tolerance for their heavily polluted air.

3. Home prices in the U.S. will continue to fall, until they reach the point that people can AFFORD TO BUY THEM with the wages they earn, WHICH DID NOT INCREASE AT THE SAME CRAZY RATE that housing prices increased!

4. Someone will discover that flatulence is primarily responsible for global warming.

5. Bloggers and other comedians will finally tire of making fun of GWB. Oh wait...that's a little fuzzy...maybe that'll happen in 2010.

6. A Chinese cargo ship carrying lead-covered toys to the U.S. will sink, because of the extra weight.

7. "Illegal immigrants" currently working their butts off in the fields and factories of the U.S. will get tired of being persecuted and say "Fuck you!" and go back home, leaving Americans wondering how the hell the work's going to get done now.

8. As American armed forces become more stressed and stretched, there will be talk in Bushville about renewing the draft.

Okay, this is too depressing. The crystal ball just went black.