Author Archives: Little Miss Menopause

“You Don’t Bring Me Flowers Anymore…” (And Maybe That’s a Good Thing, Barbra??)

“Would you like ranch dressing or honey mustard with your Valentine’s bouquet?” Said No Florist Ever!

Patience! This is actually a post about Flowers and Valentine’s Day and Love — even though it starts out quoting an old sad song. Poor Neil, he really got admonished in this late 70’s popular ballad for not being romantic enough. Did you know that Streisand and Diamond each sang those same lyrics separately until their recordings were famously spliced together by different radio stations, creating unofficial duets, the success of which led to the studio bringing the two performers together for an official duet recording? Okay, back on topic.

Recently I did some crowdsourcing on Facebook and this was how I presented my subject.

Ladies, do you genuinely love getting flowers?? Or do you look at it as a “default gift” when your mate cannot think of anything else you might like? Men, do you think ALL women must like receiving flowers and so that’s the first thing you gravitate to for a nice gesture? Or is it out of sheer convenience/ease?

Out of 42 responses, only five females were not flower fans. Here were their comments:

No flowers for me . . . I would prefer to be taken to a field of daisies or have him plant some rose bushes for us to witness their growth, rather than pluck beauty from the earth to watch wither.

~Violet

Chocolates any time. Flowers, never! To me, I’m just waiting to see when they will be dead enough to throw away after making a mess on the counter.

~Lily

I have asthma. Flowers make me wheeze. Please bring me jewelry. Or coffee. Or a candle. Or a toy for my dog. Just not flowers!

~Jasmine

Honestly, they just don’t do a thing for me. It’s such an “I’m Going Thru The Motions” empty gesture. I’d much prefer something that has some meaning attached to it.

~Daisy

Okay, I hope there’s enough room for me to fully respond to your question. First off, the main reason I don’t care for a man giving me a bouquet is that after my father passed away I got lots of floral arrangements sent to the house, so I tend to associate them with funerals and the loss of a loved one — not to mention flowers themselves run through their life cycle extremely quickly and will die right before your very eyes, no matter HOW WELL you care for them. I once had a boyfriend who got flowers for me only after an argument … so when I’m not associating them with death, I’m linking them to quarrels, apologies, and/or multiple breakups! The tight plastic wrapping frustrates the heck out of me. Ouch! I’ve gotten stuck hard by roses while trying to arrange them. Speaking of water — I never have a vase I can safely reach. Twice I’ve fallen off barstools trying to get one out of an upper cabinet. The water gets all yucky and gross smelling if you don’t change it often and try washing the vase after it’s all gunked up with encrusted floral droppings. My kitties play with them, knocking them over or ingesting them. They can trigger my allergies. Flowers with yellow in them always stain everything they touch, including my granite kitchen countertops. And lastly, yes flowers do feel like a “generic” gift, leaving me to think “I guess he doesn’t know me well enough to pick out something more personalized.” See aren’t you sorry you asked me?

~Little Miss Menopause

 

Astute readers will notice I took the liberty of responding to my own crowdsourcing survey with quite a lengthy rant. (Talking to myself, nothing new here!) I also embedded a similar display of emotion in my novel as one of my main character’s personality traits. But would I ever directly tell a man I was seeing how I felt about receiving flowers? Never.

A man is conditioned to think all women love flowers and so in his mind, he’s done good! How could you fault a guy for that? How could you burst his romantic bubble by pricking it with a sharp rose thorn?

I bet there are a lot more women out there like me, secretly hiding the fact that flowers just don’t bring them as much joy (or any?) as the giver assumes they do. Perhaps (like me!) they’re also keeping silent so as not to hurt his feelings. Bottom line, what if all these men are bringing all these women flowers and nobody sincerely wants to give them and nobody sincerely wants to get them?

“A Rose by any other name … might just be a vicious cycle of poor communication and wasted $’s.”

I’ll leave you with my one amusing, touching, adorable tale of receiving flowers from my youngest son. Once Upon a Time on a Mother’s Day long ago an eight year-old boy waited until the last minute to get anything to show his adoration. Picking a bunch of last minute blooms from multiple neighbors’ gardens, he rushed into the kitchen to hastily try and find a suitable vase (remember they’re all stored inconveniently in the highest cabinets!) before his mother came downstairs that Sunday morning so he could shout, “Surprise!” Realizing his search was in vain, he grabbed the closest thing that emulated the shape of a vase. And that was the first, last and only time I’ve ever received flowers displayed in water (yes he remembered the water) sticking out of a Hamilton Beach Blender … of which he did thoughtfully unplug from the outlet.

Happy Valentine’s Day!

Female readers….hoping for flowers? Fess up in my comments section! Male readers… Is it a cop-out gift because you’re feeling lazy or do you truly believe there isn’t a woman alive who won’t swoon at posies? 

 

2020 Goal: Get Someone Who REALLY Dislikes Me To Fall In Love With Me!

This is it! This will be the year I seduce, lure, tempt, beguile, coax, and sweet-talk my standoffish (okay, not just standoffish, but really rotten and sometimes evil!) roommate into not just accepting me, but loving me completely, dare I say unconditionally? Because all the time we’ve been together so far, I’ve felt nothing but pure disdain.

It’s going to be an extremely difficult job, but I don’t care. None of the other advice from other people has ever worked. In fact most of the things I’ve read from the experts on how to handle this particular situation have said I should just “recognize, accept, deal with, try to tame, silence, ignore, chastise, or banish completely.”

But those ideas are just not working and the last one isn’t even feasible at all. When you encounter this particular determined personality type, they usually stay in your life forever — mainly out of sheer force of habit.

Oh it’s true — a few smart people have told me I should “Embrace!” or “Make friends with!” and I think they’re on the right track so that’s why I’m taking it one step further — and I’m about to inspire a mad, passionate love affair with . . .  my Inner Critic! (Herein known as ‘IC’)

I’ll start slowly as anyone who has tried to woo a reluctant someone knows to do….with a casual first date. And I’ll wait to make sure IC is in a good mood before I broach the idea.

My Invite:

Dear IC,

I would like to invite you for a nice pasta dinner and some lovely conversation. Please let me know if you’d be receptive to this. 

Looking forward,

Stephanie

The Response:

Dear Stuffy Stephie (that’s IC’s nickname for me from when I was a young highly allergic child and was always congested)

You suck! You can’t cook to save your life and you shouldn’t be eating carbs because you’re fat. Plus I’m not wasting my time talking to someone who is completely unrealistic about their writing career taking off.”

Thanks but no thanks, Loser!

IC

So my Inner Critic was playing hard-to-get. This just served to fuel my fire and desire! And I decided to pull out all the stops and simply trap IC into not only a special dinner date, but an entire night of wonderful Self Care which I’d recently read about in Cosmopolitan magazine.

I cleaned my entire house even though IC decided to hide the vacuum from me and later on resorted to scattering white fluffy stuff all over the sofa, though that might’ve been my persian kitty.

I took great pains with my appearance and dressed nicely even while IC stared into the mirror and ran down the list of problems with my looks. 80’s outdated hair, check. Wrinkles, check. Large pores. Really? Yep, check. Upper arm flab, check. Sagging breasts, check. . . Okay IC is quite the scintillating conversationalist and I know it’s rude to interrupt, but I was determined to carry on. I put on my favorite song (Queen: Don’t Stop Me Now) and that seemed to change the mood of things somewhat as IC begrudgingly danced around my bedroom with me.

Ten minutes later, we were interrupted briefly when my friend Tiffany called to see if I wanted to go listen to her sing Karaoke. I told her I was actually on a “hot” date, which was true since IC and I were both perspiring from sweating to the oldies (the last two songs blasting — “She’s a Maniac” from the movie Flashdance, and “Let’s Get Physical” by Olivia Newton John) Tiffany asked if it was a sure thing? Without hesitation, I said “Ohhhh, definitely!” and she hung up sounding quite envious.

Of course my boyfriend called immediately after that (Tiffany can’t keep anything to herself) and said, “Tell the guy you’re with that I’m wishing him good luck – he’ll need it.” and I responded, “My date is actually a difficult and hard-to-please female” and without missing a beat he said, “Spending the night alone? Well let me know how that works out for ya,” and hung up. Gotta admire such confidence!

From there, things slowly went downhill. IC balked at my food, (calling it fattening and empty calories so we just drank a protein shake) fooled around with the remote control, (not finding Schitts Creek on Netflix or Handmaids Tale on Hulu to be the least bit interesting) and became contradictory when we talked about trying to write and submit a One Act play for a couple of local theaters.

But IC didn’t stop there in her efforts to sabotage the evening. She even had the nerve to make loud booing and hissing noises during the ultimate self-care part of the night…masturbation. (Uh…Cosmo magazine, remember?)

Undaunted, I asked IC out the next night to accompany me to an evening of Improv where I was supposed to go onstage and be funny with six other outgoing people. Turns out I excelled at that and they crowned me “Queen of Self-Deprecating Humor” (thanks to all the put-downs emanating from IC) and made me part of their team.

Make no mistake, I’m nowhere close to proposing a lifetime commitment yet, and IC will probably fling any future engagement ring across the room and spit the champagne into my face, but I’m very hopeful now that I’m getting strong indications that she’ll admire my creative writing if it’s for my suicide note, my will, my eulogy, my obituary, or even bad reviews of Tiffany’s karaoke singing. Also she’s dropping big hints that the following things really turn her on … a daily dose of the darkest chocolate, a white noise machine at night, and for some reason she really wants to ride along Route 66 on a Harley. Okay….whatever, girlfriend!

Managing Midlife Mustang Mania

 

I have never been what you’d call a “Car Person.” But I am very much a “Color Person” and quite partial to red. And I’m also a “Windblown Messy Hair Person.” Once you throw in my tendency to “put the cart before the horse” — this should easily explain justify why I recently walked into a used car dealership and instantly fell head-over-heels for a RED convertible Mustang.

But there’s no reasonable way to rationalize all the events that transpired from that moment on, so I just have to confess them to you…

It all began when the car salesman assured me it was perfectly fine to be  impulsive  spontaneous with this kind of purchase because they now offered a “No Risk 7 day All Money Returned Buyer’s Remorse Program.”

“Bitchin’” I said in an offhand sort of way, feeling comforted that nothing was cast in concrete. I really did say “bitchin’” because you see, I became 25 years-old whenever I was near that convertible. Visions of riding along the coast with the top down, wearing Jackie O sunglasses as the wind wolf-whistles through my wildly tousled tresses (which of course would be classically contained by a brightly colored Jackie O style scarf!) flashed through my mind.

Wait! Forget Jackie. I’d be a brunette Christie Brinkley in National Lampoon’s Vacation movie! I could vividly hear that familiar soundtrack during the iconic highway scene as I winked, shook out my hair, blew kisses, and seductively stepped on the gas, leaving behind some pathetic husband and his boring family sitting in their lame minivan in my dust.

Then the dealership clinched the deal by bringing out a gigantic fluffy yellow bow and placing it on the shiny hood of the car so now it became an actual present. And everybody knows you can’t look a gift horse (Mustang, remember?) in the mouth.

Was I falling in love with the car or just falling all over the car?

As I drove off in my new used MidlifeCrisisMobile, I felt strangely carefree and serene. And I swear I would never have entertained any regrets whatsoever if that tricky salesman hadn’t planted the words “Buyer’s Remorse” into my menopausal mush mind.

By the time I pulled into my driveway, 55 Year-Old “What Have I Done?” Stephanie took over and flooded me with sensibility  and good judgment (and also an unpleasant reminder that I had recently been in a serious automotive accident and my conservative four door sedan with all its updated features had allowed me to walk away with mere scratches and bruises) and so I immediately went inside to google “Mustang Safety Test Ratings” and saw it only received 4 * out of 5 *’s. This was a horse of a different color altogether.

Wait! During my recent New Year’s Resolutions, I had vowed not to let fear and worry rule my life anymore. I would just go out to my garage and take a peek at the beautiful Mustang to reinforce my decision about keeping her. Her! Yes…. Mustang Sally was the perfect name for my new car.

“All you want to do is ride around Sally, ride, Sally, ride!” I sang jubilantly.

And lo and behold, 25 year-old Stephanie fought to stay in charge most of the next 7 “Risk-Free” days with 55 year-old Stephanie trying to emerge here and there, but Aristotle Onassis and Chevy Chase would promptly put her back in her place.

On day six, 55 year-old Stephanie suddenly realized that there hadn’t been any kind of extended warranty and Sally was a 2014. Granted she was low mileage, but still I should have a longer protection plan than just the 90 days the used car lot made standard. I called back the man who sold me the car and let 55 year-old Stephanie explain that I wanted to modify the contract to include the extra coverage.

“No can do,” he said firmly. “You’ll have to come in tomorrow and completely return the car and repurchase it all over again, this time specifying that you want to add that in. Fortunately this can all be done because you’re still within your seven days,” he stated.

25 year-old Stephanie began to stress that in the few minutes the car was returned  (and before it could be repurchased) someone else might rush in and buy it for themselves. The thought caused me to toss and turn all night long, but 55 year-old Stephanie prudently said, “Hold your horses…If it’s meant to be, it will be.”

And the next day I did exactly that. As I gleefully signed the new contract (and as 25-year-old Stephanie sang, “Who’s tripping down the streets of the city,
smilin’ at everybody she sees? Who’s reachin’ out to capture a moment?
Everyone knows it’s WINDY!”)– the salesman confirmed that I now officially had an additional 7 days (for buyer’s remorse) which would start anew.

25 year-old S then asked a question that some might say was throwing caution to the WIND. (Perhaps all caution should be contained inside a Jackie O type scarf?) “If I’m mega certain that I want these rockin’ wheels, can’t I just sign a waiver saying I don’t need another seven days?” Both Stephanies simultaneously held their breath, awaiting his answer.

“No can do,” said the salesman with authority. “You’re required to take another seven days starting right now. But if I don’t see you back here at the end of that timeframe, the Mustang by default, will be ALL yours!” 25 year-old S high-fived him in her cool, awesome manner. 55 year-old S started to say, “Wild horses couldn’t keep me from returning. See you in another week!” but got too panicky from the images of rolling down an embankment in a convertible and instead wondered which doctor friend might prescribe some anti-anxiety drugs.

The top went up and down at every red light as we both struggled to maintain the power. And that’s when my 55 year-old self literally got a super strong second WIND. “Birds will poop on your head. A sudden unexpected cloudburst will drench your clothes and ruin the leather interior. You’ll get skin cancer and wrinkles with all that extra sunshine. And a terrorist could toss a ticking bomb into the backseat without you even hearing it cuz it’s so noisy in here with all the wind. Come to your senses and return this car right NOW!”

“OMG. You’re so old and stodgy, you should be Gone With the WIND,” taunted clever 25 year-old S. “Convertibles are fun, and sexy, and you’re gonna have the time of your life from now on!” and then she floored it, not even believing that cops gave bright red cars more speeding tickets. Next she played extra dirty by pointing out something practical — “with this older car, the payments and car insurance will actually both go down!”

All week long the battle for power waged on. Stephanie (25) would pull the prettiest scarves out of the dressing table and attempt to tie them around my hair in the most fashionable of styles, whilst Stephanie (55) would use them like a muzzle so her younger self couldn’t sing, “WIND Beneath my Wings” by Bette Middler and “Ride Like the WIND” by Christopher Cross.

I made Pros and Cons lists, asked puzzled friends for advice, and even called the car salesman up begging, “If you were me, what would you do?” He reminded me that he worked on commission and then announced if he were me, he’d order a straight jacket.

As a last resort, I told him I now wished to add roadside assistance to my contract, hoping he’d once again say I’d have to return it and repurchase it all over, thus buying myself another seven more days to mull things over. “No can do,” he said. “My manager is onto you, Sister.”

48 hours before my seven days were up, my well-meaning boyfriend lugged over a dozen Consumer Research and Car & Driver magazines plus a life-size dummy to do a crash test with. But I chastised him, “Remember? You’re just supposed to listen and empathize with my problem. You’re not supposed to try and fix it!”

He left discreetly humming, “The answer my friend is blowing in the WIND…”

And so (at the risk of beating a dead horse) I’m asking you, my faithful readers to cast your own vote in the comments below. Is a six year old red Mustang convertible appropriate for a 55-year old ambivalent quirky woman to be driving around town in? Would you leisurely stroll across the street in a crosswalk if you saw me rounding the corner, my 25 year-old self gunning the engine, “Dust in the WIND” by Kansas blasting from the stereo, as you hear someone shout, “Look! Is she going topless?!” whilst my 55 year-old self simultaneously pops valium like candy??

And in the end, I tuned in to my “Wisest All-Knowing Self” and as you can see — I most certainly did NOT get a red Mustang convertible.

 

An Ode To Tupperware

Leftovers, Leftovers, wherefore art thou?

I guess Saran Wrap is no longer highbrow.

Whoever invented this silly plastic container,

Certainly amassed a fortune with his no-brainer.

But then he created a lid that would burp,

Poor Reynolds Wrap, it would easily usurp.

Tupperware, how do I hate thee? Let me count the ways…

Distracting my sex life at night and darkening my days.

You discolor, you warp, you melt, and you crack

Then you lose yourself in the pantry, hiding in the back!

Or you tease me by playing shuffleboard inside my fridge,

Holding hostage a yummy pound cake baked by Pepperidge.

Your tops and bottoms never properly latch or attach,

Must I use a dating site to find your perfect match?

You always have the same size square body, with two different lips

What? You don’t think I can pack crackers in baggies with chip clips??

Or take Zip-Locks — they do their job silently. I guess that shouldn’t matter?

Try telling me that when I open my cupboard and to the floor you all scatter.

Once I was taunted into buying glass canisters with covers that hinged,

“We won’t get separated,” they promised, so I bought dozens. Oy, I binged!

All it took was one traditional Passover dinner when guests begged to take home

My brisket and matzo ball soup  (Cuz Jews won’t settle for ‘to-go’ styrofoam!)

Alas my new storage efforts had all been in vain — and I was feeling bereft,

What to do? File a lawsuit? Report to the cops this weird kinda theft?

And that’s when I heard your loud mocking — it was a clatter quite hearty,

And lo and behold, my friend decided to throw herself a Tupperware Party.

Ugh, are those still around? So I went and ate and laughed and invested,

And just like being overrun with ants, my kitchen was once again infested.

But never again will your evil dampen my well-intentioned food-saving morale,

Cuz you’re staying organized and sorted in this brand new Container Corral.

I like to think of it as my Personal Household Sanity Evolution

But don’t think I’m ever going to use any of you, that’s NOT my solution.

This is just the best way to torture you — make you squirm and wail

It’s my version of hell, your well-deserved punishment, your personal jail.

And when I sell my property and nosy neighbors come to open house to snoop

I’ll look like Martha Stewart, perfectly organized — hell yeah, that’s how low I’ll stoop!

 

How an Innocent Entertainment App On Your Phone Can Impact Your Relationship

Because I live in a large metropolitan area, there is an Entertainment App available for purchase called “The Seat Junky.” The premise/philosophy behind it is quite simple — basically events at local live venues (this does NOT work for movie theaters however) will take place regardless of how many tickets are sold, so they may as well have a full house (lots more applause, and hopefully more people to write positive reviews afterwards, right?) by giving away (yep, completely free!) tickets at the last minute once they project how many extra seats they will have.

The show MUST go on, right? (Side-Note: I sure wish cruise ships, airlines, and hotels also shared this perspective when they aren’t sold-out!!)

Now utilizing this app (to the fullest extent possible) requires a person to have major flexibility in their schedule, an open-mindedness to trying new things, and in my case… a full-blown case of OCD. The latter is because when things suddenly pop-up on this app (and that can happen any time of the day or night btw!) because there are no fees, they go LIKE THAT! Quicker than you just read my last sentence. I learned this the hard way by only logging on once a day and seeing “Sorry, Unavailable!” tags across all of the recent show listings.  And we’re talking wonderful broadway style musicals, stand-up comics, major concerts, symphonies, and anything else you can think of that someone might turn into a live theatrical experience.

If I didn’t know about the acronym FOMO (Fear Of Missing Out) before, I certainly do now, thanks to this App! Like clockwork first thing each morning, I would immediately log in to see if something new and exciting had come on. But then it “dawned” on me…normal people were literally logging in at “dawn!” In other words, my “first thing in the morning” wasn’t exactly what most people would deem “morning” due to my horrible insomnia. In fact my “first thing in the morning” (10 am) would be most people’s first “coffee break” at the office. And that’s why I was still finding those irritating “Sorry, Unavailable!” tags on all the offerings.

This would never do. Darn those Early Birds and their respective worms! So now during all hours of the night, I inexplicably startle awake with an uncontrollable obsession to check the app.

Last night at 3 a.m., I nabbed two tickets (the app always allows you to bring a guest!) to a play called “The Humans” (Now mind you, I’ve never in my entire theater-going life even heard of this show before, but the description said it was equally uproariously funny AND deeply chilling and there was no way I was letting those two simultaneous emotions pass me by!) and so after snatching them up (and gleefully witnessing that “Sorry, Unavailable!” tag appearing afterwards, (effectively taunting the rest of the app subscribers!) I felt totally victorious and triumphant. “Nah nah nah… They’re all Mine!”

Forgetting the late hour, I enthusiastically dialed my boyfriend.

Me: Hi. Oh! Did I wake you? Really?? Well, I’m sorry. But it’s important. I just wanna make sure you’re available to see “The Humans?” with me this Friday?

Him: (groggy) Which humans? Your kids? Because I’d say that’s a bit of a stretch if we’re talking about your teenage son.

Me: No no, not my family.

Him: Oh I get it. Is this another one of your ploys to get me to the animal shelter again to adopt a dog that you insist has a human soul, which you claim is evident by looking into his large expressive eyes.

Me: No, don’t be silly. It’s a show on our app.

Him: (Groaning) Not that app again, Stephanie. You can’t just keep willy nilly snapping up every new listing that comes on there just because it has unsold tickets.

Me: Did you just say “Willy Nilly?”

Him: Never mind that. Did it ever occur to you that there must be a good reason there are so many empty seats?

Me: Please? If I didn’t grab them, someone else would have.

Him: Is that so? Over Christmas you impulsively claimed two seats for a Sunday morning church service.

The preacher had let us bring our menorah and some latkes, but I guess that wasn’t the point. Perhaps it was getting out of hand? I was becoming (becoming??) competitive, compulsive, calculating, and basically dragging us to every show in town, including a lonely old man who managed to make a listing for bowling so he could have a few fans cheer him on in the ally. It had sounded like fun to me because he’d titled it, “That’s Just the Way I Roll — A One Man Show.”

After we hung up, I reluctantly released my seats for “The Humans” and was about to log out of the entertainment app (possibly for good?) when I suddenly noticed a description pop-up for a brand new show called, “The Addiction!” Synopsis: A pathetic woman becomes so addicted to an app for live theater events that she ruins her own relationship.” I was proud of myself, (and my boyfriend would be as well!) because I did NOT grab two tickets…

Instead, I wrote to the director and told him I was the perfect Understudy in case the star ever got ill.

Note: Post NOT sponsored by Seat Junky. Just my doing some penance for getting so crazy.

 

 

Favorite Fairytale Follow-ups!

Let’s play “Where Are They Today?” with a special focus on our Career Edition!

Snow White: This fair maiden no longer has skin as white as snow since she overcooked herself in a tanning salon to prepare herself for the huntsmen, (the Queen’s hunky assistant who saved Snow White’s life by hiding her in a forest, instead of killing her) on their wedding day. Ms. White now works in the field of sleep disorders (actually many Fairytale characters find the subject of sleep to be the bane of their existence!) and runs a clinic specializing in insomnia, oversleeping, nightmares, and F.F.F. (FatalFlawFruit) which is a common syndrome rendering victims helpless if they should fall into a deadly slumber after biting a Red Delicious apple. The handsome prince, (whom Snow divorced after trying to make her marriage work for 2.5 years) is currently a member of a 12-Step group for people compelled to kiss the lips of individuals impersonating corpses in glass coffins. It’s called “Dead End Relationships Anonymous.” (As of yet, there are no specific 12-Step groups to address the addictions of the individuals inside those glass coffins.) Meanwhile the seven dwarf miners saved up all their sick and vacation days and so it’s — Off to Bali they go!

Cinderella: Cindy has designed an entire line of shatterproof acrylic shoes, after getting a shard of glass deeply embedded in her heel from those fateful slippers. Her unique tagline is, “From flip-flops to stilettos, one thing is perfectly clear . . . someone with a foot-fetish will need to be transparent about it from the very start!” Her two wicked step-sisters briefly dabbled as adult film stars, but eventually settled into a housecleaning business called “The Merry (Scary!) Maids” and they have a sideline company throwing fancy balls and inviting everyone with the exception of Cinderella. So far they’ve dribbled lacy basketballs, rolled sequined bowling balls, hit velvet tennis balls, and kicked pearlized footballs in front of appreciative audiences whilst Cinderella remained banished from every court. Instead Cindy contents herself staying home watching her handsome prince bake pumpkin pies whilst trying to control their rodent problem with humane traps.

Sleeping Beauty: This ambitious early-riser (who only answers to Aurora now) finally cured her narcolepsy at Snow White’s Sleeping Disorder clinic, and has a lot more on her mind these days than just pricking fingers. She sews elaborate baby christening gowns and shows up at the events to monitor the blessings that guests bestow on the innocent little tykes. The gift of Song, the gift of Beauty, the gift of Charm, the gift of Huggies diapers are all permitted, but lest someone try to utter “the gift of a Spindle on a Spinning Wheel,” and you haven’t seen real revenge until you’ve seen this slumbering beauty wake up on the wrong side of the bed. Like Snow White, Sleeping Beauty also divorced her prince of a husband because she couldn’t get past his dragon breath which he unfortunately picked up whilst slaying one in her honor. Meanwhile Flora, Fauna, and Merryweather have taken their bumbling stand-up comedy on cruise ships, billing themselves as the “The Three Stooges Wearing Rouges” going extra heavy with blush on their cheeks. It’s really quite humorous how they make-up this work! Evil Maleficent never responded to the official “What are you up to these days?” survey, but she is thought to have gotten involved in the movie sequel industry.

Rapunzel: Rest a-sheared, today we find Rapunzel straightening out her life and towering over the other princesses on Amazon simply by marketing a reformulated ladder she calls “Hairway To Heaven” and you can guess what it’s made out of! Handymen the world over are loving this new shiny, full of body, replenishing way to climb up on rooftops, change ceiling lightbulbs, and hang Christmas decorations under any condition(ers). See you on QVC Rapunzel!

Rumplestiltskin: This conniving shyster went from spinning straw to gold to writing legit Baby Naming books which consistently rank in the top three on the New York Times Bestseller List. His secret? He takes three common words and strings them together (Rumple/Stilt/Skin) until they sound so exotic and mysterious that even a Queen might not guess the name. Rip/Van/Winkle was a big fan until he fell into such a lengthy sleep that a good samaritan brought him to . . . (wait for it!) Snow White’s Sleep Disorder clinic. . . where he met up with The Princess and the Pea (who was there successfully curing her inability to get a good night’s rest on green produce!) and the rest they say, is Happily-Ever-After History!

Always Snoozing! These former lazy princesses have awakened to bigger and better things!

That Time God Left Me a Voicemail

It all began when my cellular device accidentally went through the washing machine for an entire 60-minute cycle. I couldn’t believe what I had done when I spied its bright pink case as I transferred the rest of the bedsheets into the dryer. Nooooo! I disliked Siri, but tumble-drying her seemed a bit harsh, so I plucked out my smartphone and immediately submerged it into a bag of rice, remembering reading that was the recipe to resuscitate it after drowning.

As luck (my luck at least!) would have it, a grain of rice wedged itself into the speaker’s tiny crevice and thus began my intricate surgery with tweezers, needles, safety pins, and the sharp metal teeth of a lice comb….yes ewww! With zero success, I resigned myself to having a working phone but without any sound, while my wisecracking teenager suggested I run it through the washing machine to dislodge the rice.

For days I learned to make do. I changed my outgoing message so it advised people to please text or email me instead. For the stubborn few that refused to do that, I relied heavily on the transcription my cellphone would type out for me as it played back someone’s totally garbled, muffled voicemail. Yesterday came this surprising and miraculous interpretation:

Yes, this is God calling on Wednesday afternoon. I understand you’re dissatisfied with the service you’ve been receiving. I’ll try you again soon to discuss.

Seriously? Oh my God! How did he get my number? (And I hope my number isn’t up!) I wouldn’t say I was ‘dissatisfied’ with his service, but a few more of my prayers could’ve easily been answered. And when I said “God bless you” to my kids after they sneezed, he might’ve done a little something extra for them, I mean it’s not like they’re adults wanting a new car or a job — they’d be totally thrilled with a silly party favor or discovering an extra cookie on their life path.

I looked at my incoming log to see about getting back to him (how can you ignore God’s calling??) fully expecting it to be listed as “Blocked” or “Unknown Caller” but there was an actual 1-800 number. Just like God to arrange to be reachable to the masses toll-free! But then I realized with the rice jamming my speaker, there still wouldn’t be clear audio, and I’d hate to keep saying “Pardon?” and wasting God’s time in case he wasn’t enrolled in the unlimited minutes plan.

I re-recorded my outgoing message, this time with a emphatic plea. “Hi this is Stephanie, but Good Lord please PLEASE text me because my speaker is broken!” I then excitedly entered God’s phone number into my contacts with his name in all capital letters followed by three exclamation points. (Three seemed like an appropriate number because of all that trinity stuff, even though I’m Jewish.) I also decided to give God his own ring-tone as well — The William Tell Overture.

And sure enough this time he followed directions and my screen lit up with a text from “GOD!!!”  Here is an exact replication of our text chat.

“GOD!!!” — Hi. When is a good time to pop on over?

(Good heavens! I needed time to clean up my house and maybe cook something spectacular to serve. Wow just think ….soon I’ll be serving God.)

Me: Gosh, um well about how long do you think you’ll stay?

GOD!!! — With any luck at all, it won’t take long.

Me: Oh I don’t think you’ll need luck. I have total faith in you.

GOD!!! — How refreshing. A month ago you cursed me out.

Me: If I EVER did that, I want to humbly apologize. I beg of you.

GOD!!! — You’re forgiven. That’s just the way I roll. But with a few quick adjustments, you’ll be good to go watching Life Time in a flash!

Me: Oh no! I don’t want to watch my Life flash before my eyes. I know what that means.

GOD!!! — No worries! But if there’s a man, he’ll be glad I’m stopping over before the big fight tonight.

Me: (bashfully) Oh God, there IS a special guy in my life right now. All thanks to you. And I appreciate your heads up that there will be a fight. We never argue, but I’ll bake some brownies to appease him just in case.

GOD!!! — Sure, whatever.

(Wait till my kids hear that they’re in such good company saying, “whatever!” and “No worries!”)

As I nervously awaited God’s visit, my mother called. I answered on the first ring and told her I was tied up writing an article I was about to submit to Redbook magazine. As an atheist, I knew she’d never believe I would be busy entertaining God. My cell rang again and I let it go into voicemail but quickly glanced at the transcript to make sure it wasn’t God calling to say he was caught in traffic.

“Hi, it’s your Dom. I’m wondering if you’re still tied up? I want to discuss your submission.”

What kind of a kinky message was this?  Wait. A. Second. It was becoming clear to me now. My cell’s transcribing app had mistakenly typed the word “Dom” instead of “Mom.”

And that’s why just three minutes later, after the door knocked loudly three (of course three!) times, I was completely prepared to see standing on my doorstep not God (in the flesh!) but instead …. Rod, (acting a little fresh!) that obnoxious millennial worker from my local cable company here to fix my poor television reception.

 

Creating a Fight to Make Sure You Argue Effectively!

Well, well well …. you knew one day it would come to this, right? In my defense, the problem is that I read too much. If only my eyes hadn’t landed on the glaring headline, “All Couples Fight, but Here’s How Successful Couples Do It!”

ALL couples?? Gulp. I grew immediately panic-stricken when I realized there hadn’t been any arguments in the new relationship I was in. Not. A. Single. One. What was wrong with us? How would we ever know if we were a successful couple? We have been putting all this time and energy into having a stress-free relationship and now that was going to be counterproductive.

We’d never even had a slight disagreement about something as innocuous as our food preferences. One of us will say, “Mushrooms are a fungus and I can’t stand them or anyone who eats them.” And the other will nod empathetically and say, “The world will not be safe until mushrooms are eradicated!” and then we’ll order a plain cheese pizza to seal our bond over the common enemy.

At first I tried to calm down by reminding myself this article was just click-bait or an urban legend. But Snopes confirmed it to be true. In fact, there were links to other supporting evidence like, “Couples Who Argue Together, Stay Together, Research Finds.”  OMG! You cannot state, “Research Finds” blatantly in your title if research does not actually find it! My new boyfriend and I were doomed.

Unless I acted prudently and propelled us quickly and effectively down the road of quarreling. But how? And over what? It should happen organically and naturally, I thought. Fortunately that’s exactly the point when this surfaced in my newsfeed. “4 Fights Every Couple Must Get Through Because They’ll Actually Bring You Closer.”

Aha…a roadmap! We could make up for lost time by closely following the steps to these four recommended fights all in one day. I quickly committed the article to memory and dialed my boyfriend’s number. “Play it cool, Stephanie” I chastised myself. “Ease into it.”

Me: Hi. How are you? I don’t want to have any children. I think the world isn’t a good place to bring kids into.

Him: But what will you do with the six you already have? Also you’re 55 years old.

Me: (flustered) I am not.

Him: Are so.

Me: Am not.

Him: Are so.

Things were going along swimmingly like this for several hours until he finally conceded that I looked more like I was in my mid-forties and so obviously my Match profile must’ve had a typo — then he gallantly apologized. He hung up after saying he adored me. Well that qualified as completing our first official fight, but there still were three more arguments to get through. I dialed him back.

Me: I’m not feeling heard by you.

Him: Shouldn’t you say something first so I can hear it?

Me: That’s not how I mean the word ‘heard.’

Him: Oh! Herd? Where would you like me to herd you? We could go to dinner or a movie with a very large group of people? We could visit sheep? We could…

Me: (exasperated) I mean that you don’t listen to me.

Him: (Silence)

Me: Hello? Are you there?

Him: Yes. I’m listening.

Me: Our communication styles are totally different.

Him: Still listening.

Me: See? You never participate by volunteering your point of view. You just sit there quietly, only focused on listening to me.

This argument got completed and checked off the list in record time! He told me I wasn’t making any sense and then we were off to the races with things really escalating and it ended with him suggesting we see a therapist. Yes! We should go immediately and as luck would have it, tonight there was an opening. Because at this point, I was more than grateful to have a counselor guide us through the other two disagreements more professionally.

Me: I’m dissatisfied with the frequency we have intimate relations.

Him: Completely the first time I’m hearing this from her.

Therapist: Stephanie, would you like to have intimate relations more or less than you’re currently having them?

Me: (Damn my menopausal memory. Quickly trying to google that last article to find the answer) Uh, um….well… Give me just a second to decide.

Therapist: While she’s thinking it over, are there any other issues you’re having?

Him: None. Prior to today, we had zero trouble.

Therapist: Interesting. Stephanie would you agree that you haven’t had any problems until just now?

Me: Shoot. Don’t you get internet up here on the eighth floor? What’s your wi-fi password?

Therapist: Would you like to answer that last question, Stephanie?

Me: Well just going from sheer memory, there was one final 4th argument. Let me see….oh yes…one of us inherited a ton of money from the recent death of a parent and now we’re disagreeing on whether that money should go in our joint bank account.

Therapist: I’m very sorry for your loss. And that’s a super common argument for married couples to have.

Him: We’re not married.

Me: Are so.

Him: Are not.

Me: Are so.

Him: Are so.

Me: Are not . . .

Again, I was extraordinarily pleased with the expediency of our getting through all four of the recommended arguments in less than 24 hours, when suddenly the therapist intervened.

Therapist: I’m afraid you’ll have to continue this super UNcommon argument on your own time. Our session is over and I’m meeting my own husband for a delicious mushroom pizza!

In that instant my boyfriend and I both made equally intense expressions of disgust and revulsion. We linked our arms together and shot daggers with both sets of our extremely compatible eyes toward our mutual enemy, as we went home to partake in extremely satisfying intimate relations at just the right frequency.

READERS: What’s your opinion? Does every couple argue? And is how well you argue predictive of the future quality of your relationship? And most importantly, are you a mushroom lover?

Confusion! Is This a Public Blog or My Personal Diary?

The best (and worst!) gift I ever received was on my twelve birthday when my mother gave me a rainbow unicorn sequined covered diary with a tiny padlock and key and told me it was to record all my private thoughts. Looking back, perhaps she never uttered the word “private?” That would make sense and would explain why on the inside first page I had scrawled, “If found, please return to Stephanie at the following address:______. Under no circumstances should this diary be opened because it contains all my best secrets!”

On the back inside cover I’d painstakingly written, “Like what you’ve read? Are you an editor, publisher or producer? If so, we should talk!” And then printed my phone number with instructions to call collect. Obviously I thought my future huge royalties would cover any long distance charges. Hey, I was nobody’s fool! I’d heard of Go Ask Alice whose druggie days detailed in her entries were made public after she overdosed, and of course The Diary of Anne Frank which was immortalized in libraries forever. I just planned on having fame happen to me without the death part.

During the next five years, I used my diary for composing awful poetry, true confessions, angry tirades, fantasy crushes, and to trick nosy people like my brother (who I was certain was reading it while I was out on dates) into believing that our mother was planning to take him to Disneyland if he treated me a lot nicer. (Yes I stole that idea from a Brady Bunch episode.)

My mother also confiscated my diary during some particularly angsty teenage turbulence and took it to a psychiatrist, using it as evidence to obtain a prescription for Prozac for me.

This little journal of mine was also the impetus which had me wondering what other diarists were writing behind their own locks and keys? And that was the start of my digging into the dresser drawers of my cousins during family gatherings, my friends’ closets when I was invited to their home after school — often turning up paragraphs that were about me, saying some not so nice things. One or two diary authors even had the nerve to write, “That Stephanie sure has become a prying busybody!” Hmmph, can you imagine?  So that’s what people really thought, but wouldn’t say so to my face!

My snooping addiction continued on for decades and I suppose I must now formally apologize to all the mothers/wives of the children I supervised and whose lingerie chests I rummaged through after I tucked their kids into bed and found their treasure trove of R-rated paraphernalia, amongst a few diaries, which contained absolutely nothing about me — and wouldn’t it have been awfully strange if they HAD written about their awkward babysitter? So please forgive me, ladies!

I soon graduated from ‘Diary Invading’ to ‘Eavesdropping’ and I accomplished that by quietly listening in on extensions of landline telephones, putting my ear to the walls of closed doors, and even playing messages left on other people’s answering machines by obtaining their 3-digit remote codes which were stamped underneath. But who could blame me? By that time I had learned that you never knew what anyone truly thought of you unless you investigated thoroughly. You can read about my spying sprees  HERE and  HERE.

Fast forward to present day and this blog. I sometimes find myself elaborately filtering my content (just as I strategically planned out what I’d put in my diary all those years ago) by calculating who exactly my readers will be. Many times I’ll edit and delete confidential truths that would make me feel extremely vulnerable and exposed if ex-husbands, old boyfriends, relatives, girlfriends, or my own children perused my posts. And they definitely do! Other times I get extremely brave and throw caution to the wind like THIS ONE.

In fact, the reactions of followers who know me in real life never ceases to amaze me no matter how careful I am. Some are furious when something they’ve said gets incorporated into an article, yet there’s nothing attributing the cleverness of the remark to them. (I’ve started accommodating them with footnotes and bibliographies.) Then there’s my 1st ex-husband who doesn’t waste his “valuable” time reading here, but will often send me cease and desist letters because a mutual friend has told him, “Uh oh. Stephanie’s at it again, saying negative things about your engineering personality being as much fun as getting a cavity filled after getting your appendix removed.” I’ll manage to convince him that the insult was really aimed toward dentists and surgeons, because how could anyone ever disparage his “sparkling” disposition?? He’ll agree wholeheartedly and we’ll hang up wishing each other well.

Here are other typical responses from people I’m connected to:

My Mom — I don’t do those controlling things you say I do in your blog. I hope your readers know what a wild imagination you have! By the way, a little Prozac would help you settle down.

My 2nd Ex-Husband — Remember…our divorce decree specifically states on page 7, paragraph 12 that from this date forward, I am to be hereby referenced solely as “1st-ex-husband, The Engineer” in all of your publications.

Boyfriend — You’re taking notes in your head about our date tonight, aren’t you? Here, let me open the car door for you. Let me get the check. I didn’t realize you were allergic to daffodils. Next time, roses for sure. My name is spelled with a G not a J for Yelp review purposes.

Daughter — Thanks a lot, Mom. I just failed my Department of Motor Vehicles exam because the test driver who took me out is a follower of your blog and read this POST!

Son — My seventh grade teacher reads your blog regularly but still marked me as an unexcused absence yesterday for Rosh Hashanah. Can you write one of your really long and boring,  um… humorous posts about Judaism and make sure it spells out that I was dutifully sitting next to you in synagogue yesterday? Thanks and Shalom, Mom!

God — Hello down there, Stephanie D. Lewis! What in God’s My Name do you think you’re doing? You’ve reduced me to a mere online presence just to get published  HERE in The Huffington Post? You don’t think I’m a subject matter worthy of at least something people hold tangibly in their hands and often find in hotels? Like People Magazine??!

Writers: Do you ever modify your blog posts based on who you think could be out there reading? Or do you just write whatever you want, no holds barred? Readers: Do you get annoyed when you show up in someone’s writing?

How Can You Want What You Already Have?

Many readers individually messaged me to journey further into my last blog post “What Happens When the Honeymoon Phase is Over?”

So awaaaaay we go . . .

  1. You’re eating your third pralines and cream ice-cream cone. It’s your favorite flavor and you’ve had a real craving because it’s been forever since you treated yourself to it. How many licks into it do you still really and truly have strong interest for it? Maybe a bag of salty Lays potato chips is starting to sound better right about now?
  2. You always wanted to be a novelist. It was your life’s dream. And now you’ve put out three books — congratulations on achieving your goal! Ho hum, now it’s feeling kinda old hat. What’s next on your bucket list? Becoming a literary agent … a professional who helps others reach their own writing goals. Now THAT sounds fascinating, right?
  3. You’re in a relationship with someone you thought was highly intriguing, rather mysterious, and definitely “hard-to-get.” But they finally noticed you and now you’ve settled in for a monogamous commitment. How is it then that your bedroom life has become a predictable yawn, and why do your eyes zero in on the next elusive stranger who happens to flit by?

Of course the common thread in all three scenarios is … Desire. What propels it and what causes it to dissipate? Is a burning desire as simple as wanting what we cannot have? “The grass is always greener” or “The Forbidden Fruit?” Lets take that last phrase literally for a moment. If you hear a newsflash that after tomorrow bananas will be outlawed, what will go through your head? Yes, it will soon be illegal to grow them, ingest them, or use them in slapstick comedy … so of course what will you suddenly want more than anything, starting tomorrow? Even if you never really cared for them in the first place. That’s right….get peeling! Cuz you’re about to go bananas for bananas.

Every failed dieter knows this lesson when their “Last Supper” on Sunday night consists of everything the new diet deems “off-limits” come Monday morning.

Impending scarcity leads to desire!

But what can lead to maintaining desire?? Is it as simple as remembering that “Variety is the spice of life?” Sticking with the banana metaphor here — let’s say bananas actually have always been your all-time favorite food. And some new wacky reality television gameshow will pay you to eat nothing but bananas. In fact each day that you consume only bananas, you’ll earn a hundred dollars. (Being paid to eat your favorite food? Piece of cake! Or banana cream pie!) But I’ll wager you won’t leave the show with anywhere close to a thousand bucks in your pocket. And what do you wanna bet that you split (banana split?) even sooner than a week? Yes bananas quickly became extremely Dole dull, didn’t they?

Feast or Famine!

So if desire (and lack thereof) is predicated on levels of deprivation and/or abundance, is it possible to sustain our hunger, yearning, aching, lusting, hankering, coveting something (or someone) once we secure it? I’m going to go out on a limb here by stating that we attempt to maintain passion and desire by the unconscious act of pushing away the things that we really want, keeping ourselves in a constant state of arousal? Psychologists take note: maybe it’s not the “fear of failure” that causes us to self-sabotage after-all? Maybe it’s just the brain’s way of keeping us interested.

Still not convinced? Why does a dog bury a bone when he knows it’s possible to indulgently sleep with the bone 24/7 in its bed or doghouse. But nooooooo. The dog hides the bone from himself so it has some distance from the bone and can sorely miss the bone. Later it becomes a thrilling surprise to happen to be digging in the backyard garden and whoa… would you look at that? It’s baaaaaack! Alright don’t go Googling this because you’ll find some silly explanation about how dogs need to instinctively protect their food from other predators because it hearkens back to the days before they were domesticated. Just do me a favor and stick with me on this.

However if you think my theories are for the dogs, let me get more human with you. On this blog it’s no secret my life romances haven’t sustained themselves longer than ten years. Early in my first marriage as a young and immature woman, I actually created arguments out of thin air with my new husband. I couldn’t figure out why I did this repeatedly until it dawned on me that our reconciliation was super exciting to me. I would bring myself to the brink of “losing something” so I could reawaken my desire for it once again and have the challenge (and satisfaction) of earning it back. Makeup sex anyone?

Only slightly more mature, I enter into a second marriage secretly thrilled that this husband travels frequently for business so I’ll have time and space to actually pine for him. Whenever he returned, things instantly became new and fresh again! Judaism understands how physical separation enhances a marriage, and actually will sometimes promote it as a side benefit to Family Purity Laws. Curious? Read more HERE.

In my next long-term relationship, (where I somehow manage to grow even more selfish and immature) I calmly ended things after they became overly predictable and lackluster some five years later. But this time, rather than trying to manipulate and trick desire into coming back . . . surprise (!) — desire had its own way with me when I least expected it. And was it ever painful.

Because another woman found my carelessly discarded ex-boyfriend to be the answer to her dreams and quickly nabbed him, my sudden reignited passion for him went through the roof, and let me just say that I became extremely physically ill realizing how playing mind-games and trying to control and manipulate had backfired on me big time. I then proceeded to (single-handedly!) help all the authors of books titled, “How to Get Your Ex Back, Even If You Were the One Who Broke Up” send their kids to college. Not a proud moment.

Does Stephanie ever stop riding a Streetcar Named Desire?

I will abruptly end here without telling you the answer (so your desire for me to post more about this topic stays heightened?) but I want to leave you with a terrific video from Esther Perel that has over 3.5 million views and counting. Click on THIS (but be sure and skip the ad, sorry!) and then leave me a comment with your thoughts. And I hereby promise to always want you as a follower, even if you already are one!

                                       Where did I purposely bury my heart’s desire????