Tag Archives: Little Miss Menopause

Erotic (or Neurotic??) Photography!

     “Arch! Arch! Arch! And more Arch!”

Last week my therapist/life-coach emailed me some books to read and a few other suggestions for heightening my self-esteem, especially to target how I was feeling about my “ever-changing” menopausal body. Totally baffled by her first suggestion – “Buddha Photos,” I concluded her voice-to-text app must’ve garbled her words and she’d actually meant to say “Boudoir” Photos.

Oh. Wow. Really? Me gain confidence strutting around and modeling my own underwear — so dull and boring, even Victoria wouldn’t think to keep it Secret? Quite possibly! I mean c’mon, never say never, right?  Besides, what is it about a camera that makes something like this feel so alarming?

I soon found that it was what lurked behind the camera…. a live male photographer, that caused me to panic. But again, no worries — he immediately introduced his female assistant as my “Personal Posing Coach.” I promptly nicknamed her “The Naked Lady Whisperer” because whenever I attempted to emulate her moves, (which inevitably involved excruciating lower back and extreme derrière positioning) she’d lean into my ear murmuring, “1-2-3… Ready… Arch!”

Each time I tried and tried, but could not raise my eyebrows any higher.

During her additional choreography motions, (which trust me, would require a Cirque Du Soleil performer to ask for a spotter) the male photographer would loudly exclaim in his unusual accent, “Perfecto….Super Saxy!” and then click his camera hundreds of times appreciatively while she’d blush. Feeling grateful that this was at least heightening someone’s self-esteem, I considered leaving them alone together while I snuck out for lunch.

After getting into what they both referred to as “my makeup and hair” the entire photo session was now focused on morphing me into this “Super Saxy Woman” – i.e. the Innocent Girl Next Door, the Femme Fatale, and the Barely Legal Secretary. I wanted the emphasis to be more on the amazing props but they both kept an eagle eye on my body parts instead. “Point your feet!” Naked Lady Whisperer hissed into my ear, “Makes your legs appear longer and gives your photos polish.” Ugh…if only I’d thought to paint some on my ugly toes.

“Stop smiling with your teeth. Don’t say cheese!” they both shouted in unison. “Just slightly open your mouth, and look subtly suggestive.” When my stomach loudly growled, I thought it subtly suggested, “Order a large cheese pizza!” but I might’ve misheard it.

It quickly became obvious that for me to part my crimson chapped lips in what looked like a natural occurrence would take more of a miracle than Moses to part the Red Sea.

“Never mind…Go back to saying cheese!” they both shouted in unison. And that was the closest I got to pizza.

For the grand finale, they wheeled in a glossy black Steinway grand piano as Naked Lady Whisperer showed me the expected pose … gracefully straddled across the keys, blonde hair flowing, toes pointing, back-bending into what looked like the McDonalds’ golden arches.

Sure thing! I marveled at her flexibility and then immediately demanded a less strenuous instrument from their prop room. “Gosh! Wouldn’t my therapist/life-coach be extremely proud of my newfound assertiveness?” I thought out loud. “After all, didn’t advocating for yourself raise your self-esteem?”

When the day came to view my proofs, I summoned my therapist (whose idea this entire fiasco had been in the first place!) to assist with narrowing down the selections for ordering. We both agreed the one of me sound asleep (with my lips somehow subtly parted — yay!) holding a shiny brass Saxophone was indeed “Super Saxy.”

But it was at this point in the process when my confused therapist turned to me and confessed that there hadn’t been any typos or autocorrects in her original email. “Oh really?” I asked somewhat surprised. “But why would you have written ‘Buddha Photos?’ That makes no sense.”

It was then that I learned that the Buddha is always at peace with his rounded belly and she wanted me to look at lots and lots of pictures of him so I’d have a healthy role model. Oh brother!

Me finally taking the correct advice from my therapist!

Just so the day wasn’t a total loss, I ordered a 20 x 28 inch framed portrait of my favorite camera angle – a zoomed-in close-up of my naked left big toe, pointed and arched in all its glory. And looking extremely provocative.

In fact it provoked me to finally get a much needed pedicure!

Ladies: Have you or would you ever try boudoir photography? Men: What’s your opinion of receiving it as a gift?

               Just channel a pretzel!

“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? 

 

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!

 

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.

 

What NOT to Say to Someone With Writer’s Block!

You may have noticed the frequency of posts around here has dropped slightly plummeted drastically. Without a doubt, this is the longest case of Writer’s Block I’ve ever had. Aside from neglecting this blog, I can’t write my local humor column assignments, I can’t write freelance work for clients, I can’t continue another novel I’ve been excited about, I can’t journal, I can’t write a creative email to someone I really adore, nor a birthday card, nor create an excuse note for my child to get out of P.E. class — I cannot even make out a grocery list.

Regarding the last one, I literally sat and asked myself, “What’s another way of saying “Buy milk?” And it took me a really long time to come up with “Obtain pasteurized, homogenized cow’s juice.” And then I got grossed out and crossed it off.

And through it all, well-meaning family and friends aggravate me beyond belief with the things they say to me. So I’ve compiled a few. Ready?

NEVER EVER OFFER THESE SOLUTIONS….

“Just write about _________.”  And then blurt out the first random inane word that pops into your head. Like . . .  “Winklepickers!” or “Agastopia!” or “Tittynope!”

“Anything you write will be brilliant.” (Thanks Grandma, but now you’ve just ratcheted up expectations, so you may as well just cue my nervous breakdown.)

“Who can think with so much hair on their head? What you need is a sweet little pixie cut like I gave you when you were five, so I can see those pretty eyes and your thoughts will be able to flow more freely.” (Nice try, Mom.)

“Good sex has been preventing Writer’s Block for decades.” (Even though this won’t work, you may not care if he’s really good.)

“Ran out of material, did ya? I’m free to go to coffee and you can interview me.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself. You’re overestimating the consequences of this issue. Who actually reads what you write anyhow?” (I immediately introduced this individual to my Grandma.)

“All the greats were rejected before they had bestsellers. Google Margaret Mitchell and Gone With the Wind.” (Okay, what? You’re not even listening to me. You have to write something before it can be rejected.   I. Cannot. Write. A. Thing.)

“Take a hot bath.” (This same advice also came from this person after my marriage fell apart, after I cracked a rib, when I mentioned I wanted to eat a bunch of chocolate, when my dad passed away, when my house had a mold infestation, and when I’d get a HOT flash.)

“C’mon, whadya working on? How difficult can it be? I’ll write it for you lickety-split.”

“Your muse was abducted. She got into a car she thought was her Uber driver and was sold as a sex slave, but there’s a pregnant psychic in Rhode Island who was tracking her down using a secret code from her unborn baby’s kicks but yesterday the child entered this world and now you’ll just have to wait until she learns to talk.” (This person just called, thanking me for sharing that I had writer’s block, because they now have a three book contract.)

“Writer’s Block….pfffffft! There’s no such thing. It’s just something you made up in your head, dearie.” (I CANNOT make anything up in my head. That’s the problem.)

“So then start in the middle.” (This person used to tell me to start at the end and work backwards, but I slapped him.)

“Try my clever writing prompt …. Satan has instructed his incompetent younger brother, Stan, to open a milder version of Hell known as Heck. How does one end up there, and what punishments does Stan devise?” (Aw, just go to Heck!)

“Read books by Jane Austin. That always helped my Aunt Fran when she had any kind of feminine problem.”

“Just get rid of your inner critic.” (Yes, thank you. I’ll order her an Uber to Rhode Island)

“Write about having Writer’s Block.” (Seriously?? I’d sooner die.)

Of course! Just burn this candle….along with any putrid words you’ve managed to write.

Lessons I Learned From Going on Dates and Bringing my Toy!

There was a time when first meetings with men from online websites consisted solely of mundane beach walks and ho-hum coffee talks. But then I decided to make it more interesting and bring some “props.”  Here’s some of the takeaway and things I gleaned:

BUBBLES

From my purse I extracted two tiny vials of soap bubbles purchased from Target. This was not as bizarre as it sounds because we were sitting in a park.

HIM: Bubbles. Really??

Me: I think they’re fun! Let’s see who can blow and preserve the most by catching them on our wands.

HIM: Sure.

Me: Uh, could you stop intentionally poking my bubbles? That’s literally the opposite of what I suggested we do.

HIM: Just ten more?

Me: Really. It’s very important to me to see how long a beautiful but fragile bubble can last. Don’t you put stock in symbolism??

HIM: Sorry. I can’t seem to stop. Pop! Pop! Pop!

Little children began to gather around us, but the date actually ended when my dream bubble literally burst as it dawned on me that (after five days of non-stop compatible emailing) this was someone who was either mean-spirited or had a strange case of OCD and I should certainly “blow off” any further dates with him.

PLAY-DOH

From my purse, I deftly pulled out five mini canisters of that iconic children’s colored modeling compound and sniffed the distinctive scent (always takes me back fifty years!) then watched as the smile faded from my date’s face. I then proceeded to roll out a replica of his annoying frown using red Play-Doh and stuck it on the blue ball of Play-Doh, which now represented his dumb head! But he wouldn’t participate because he said he doesn’t like to get his hands dirty. Then he chastised me for combining the different colors together because (his words!) it will be hard to separate them and put them away neatly. The date ended when he inquired, “So how long have you been a preschool teacher?” And I responded, “I’m not. What an odd question. Whatever made you think I was?”

SILLY PUTTY

I withdrew from my purse (I know! I’ve got some great purse, huh?!) the classic red plastic egg which housed the addictive Silly Putty and handed it to my date to see how he’d use it. He was very enthusiastic! This was a great sign. Game on! But instead of pinching it, rolling it, or putting his thumb into it to make a hollow hole and then squeezing it tightly to produce the loudest, most satisfying cracking sound ever, he asked to see my drivers license. What?? Over and over he pressed the flat rubbery substance against my photo and after it magically transferred onto the Silly Putty, he’d distort my image by pulling it this way and that while murmuring things like, “Look! You’ve got the longest nose in the world. Honk honk!  And the skinniest neck, giraffe lady! Haha.” And “I’m gonna make your hair stick up even further than it actually does. Watch!” Game over. Date definitely over. PS. Even if he didn’t make my face look grotesquely cartoonish, he had some weird accent that made him refer to it as “Silly Potty” and there was only so much of that I could take.

JACKS

It did not help matters that my timing with this specific object was rather unfortunate because this guy’s name was actually “Jack” and he thought by picking this particular toy, I was insinuating that he was a “Player.” Sheesh, some people put too much stock in symbolism. He also kept asking, “What era did you grow up in? My great great great grandmother played Jacks.” There were too many “greats” in his sentence for my liking. Finally we lost the little red ball completely and he thought a better game was to see who could stand upon all the Jacks the longest (barefoot!) without grimacing.

LITE-BRITE

Remember this beloved contraption with the little colored pegs? I should have known how this would turn out when I texted my date, asking him to bring batteries so we could use my favorite “toy.” He immediately messaged back, “Oh, I’m on it, babe! And I can’t wait for you to be on it, too. Heh heh.” Words cannot describe how disappointed he was to see what I actually had in mind for a “toy” when we met in real life.  But my bigger mistake? Lite-Brite only works in a dim room. And therefore it was in the dark co-ed public restroom with the door locked, when my mind became fully illuminated that Lite-Brite should never be attempted with a Grope Dope.

SLINKY

This man used the wonderful metal spring to bind my wrists and ankles to the park bench and then stole my purse and cellphone while singing the original product jingle — “Slinky, Slinky, it’s fun for a girl and a boy.”

MAGIC 8-BALL

What do you do with a guy who cannot understand that you can only ask a Magic 8-Ball “yes or no” questions? This isn’t a difficult concept, seriously! Yet he kept asking it things like, “What will Stephanie be like in bed?” and “How many times will Stephanie climax?” and “Where’s the most unique place we’ll do it?” Finally, out of frustration I shouted, “No!  Don’t you get it? You can’t ask stuff like that. You have to ask something like, “Will Stephanie sleep with me even though I’m a complete idiot?” He was thrilled this suggestion came directly from me and made this exact inquiry three different times, claiming the answers in a row were, “It is decidedly so” and “Without a doubt!” and “You may rely on it” but then he’d shake the black ball up really quickly before I could verify any of that. Which was a moot point anyhow because “my sources (AND my senses!) said “No f*#@ing way.”

Barbie & Ken Dolls

Really I thought these toys would have zero chance of coming out of my purse, but to my surprise his reaction was, “Cool. How about we use them to act out different gender issues and dating challenges by utilizing their bodies and our voices.” Creative. I’m liking it! Then he actually suggests that he’ll be Barbie (It was really a Midge doll, but did he need to know that?) and use her to depict the type of woman he likes to be with. This oughta be interesting. And then he tells me to be Ken. Ha. Fat chance. But hey, if I can learn some telltale things, it’s probably worth talking in an embarrassingly deep voice.

Ken: Hey baby. How about you and I play a little Lite-Brite in the public bathroom??

Barbie: I don’t do sexual innuendo. Let’s grab a salad and see the live version of Les Miserábles.

(Salad, not pizza? And OMG that’s my absolute favorite show! Nobody ever wants to see that show. This guy has potential.) 

Ken: Are you sure? Okay hop in and we’ll take the “scenic” route. Heh heh.

Barbie: Sorry. I don’t let guys I’ve just met drive me places. I make it a rule to meet them there.

Ken: (slaps Barbie’s ass) Hard to get! That gets me hard.

Barbie (slaps Ken’s face)

Ken: Man, you’re a prudish bitch.

Barbie: Yeah. And quirky too. But I’m sure they’ll be another Bimbo err Barbie who will be into it with you. Good luck with your herpes.

Quirky? It’s like someone gave this guy the CliffNotes on me before he arrived. Immediately I snatch the dolls and stuff them away in my bag, and pull out this favorite childhood toy instead.

Because finally I found someone who’s a barrel of fun and perhaps a guy I’ll truly want to have a little monkey business with. 😉

Readers: What’s your favorite Childhood Toy? Leave it in the comments!

My Success Story: Author Goes Door-To-Door!

Well it’s not exactly as “successful” as my blog title makes it sound. For years I’ve walked 11 miles every day for health/fitness reasons, so when I saw the local ad (Wanted: Individual to hang notepads in plastic bags on doorknobs, $15/hr) I realized I could get paid for the same exercise I already do anyhow for free! The real-estate agent told me how quiet and peaceful it would be, walking through serene neighborhoods. He said I could listen to podcasts or music and never have to talk to anyone like typical door-to-door salesmen do. What could be better?

I’ve never had more conversations with so many strangers in my entire life.

With telephones, people have Caller ID and they know it’s you before they answer. Similarly, everyone has video cameras mounted on front porches and apparently they see me coming a mile away. Ever tentatively reach out to unobtrusively put something on someone’s front-door when suddenly it’s abruptly yanked open and they shout in your face, “Whadya want?”

Me: Hi! I have this handy little notepad for you.

Man: What am I gonna do with that?

Me: Well um, you could um make your grocery list on it.

Man: Not a shopper.

Me: Uh, ever play Boggle? You could scribble four and five letter words on it before the timer runs out.

Man: No.

Me: To-Do Lists?

Man: Hate em.

Me: To-Don’t lists??

Man: What do you do with your notepad?

Me: I’m a writer so I jot story ideas on it.

Man: And I should give a sh*t about that because…?

Me:  You’re right. You could just throw it in the garbage.

Man: (brightening) Yeah, I could do that! Give it here.

Three houses later I encounter a landscaper who delightedly asks how I like the paver stones he’s bordering the lawn with? I point out eight are slightly crooked. He frowns, grabs my notepad and scrawls, “OCD!” We develop a “don’t ask, don’t tell” relationship and I go on my merry way.

Around the block is a lonely mailman with a leg injury who needs someone to complain to that physical therapy isn’t helping him and then inquires if it would be okay to toss packages onto porches, thereby saving himself the pain of walking up steps? Sure. “The Postman Always Flings Twice!”

Tons of people have their garage doors open. I’ve never really noticed how many folks spend quality time out there, amongst their cars, their lawnmowers, and their bikes just sort of hanging out, puttering around. A couple engages in a sex act while leaning against bags of Round-Up and I think about leaving a notepad on their door titling it, “Garage Fantasies and Role-Plays We’ve Yet To Try” but wisely decide not to.

As I nonchalantly slink by these homes with their open garage doors (in order not to disturb the occupants and avoid further human interaction) nine times out of ten they call me over.

Woman: Hey! Whatcha got there? Why you passing my house? I want one.

Me: Oh just some silly notepads. You don’t really need any. Totally useless.

Woman: I’ll give you a dollar for two.

Me: They’re complimentary. They have advertising on them.

Woman: $30 for the entire stack. And how much for your backpack? I’m having a garage sale this Saturday. I could put that out as well.

Me: Really? Do you want my sweater too? Five bucks.

But it’s at the next house where all the trouble starts in front of a cute birdbath.

Husband: Which broker are you distributing for?

Me: Century 21.

Wife: We’re Nationwide Realtors. How much they paying you?

Me: $15 an hour. Under the table.

Wife: $22.50 an hour under the table and also under four dining room chairs!

Me: Really??!

Husband: Only if you retrace your steps and replace their crummy notepads with our awesome bookmarks.

I imagine re-encountering the grumpy guy, the limping mailman, the garage sale girl, the landscaper, the sex addicts, and I start to feel exhausted.

Me: Can I just put your bookmarks inside a novel I wrote and leave it as a package deal for $20?

Wife: Sure, why not?

Taking a cue from the mailman, I march back to my car (where the trunk holds boxes of my extra novels which are doing nothing) and proceed to throw my books from the driver’s window onto the front steps of hundreds of homes, yelling all the while, “Read this! It’s a best-seller. Oh yeah and check out the free bookmark!”

And that could be part of the reason I’m now referred to as the “Drive-By Shouter” but at least I don’t have to talk to anyone in person. And so much for getting paid to exercise.

What I Wouldn’t Give For a Rhyme

 

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It’s more challenging than playing Gin and waiting for your right card,

Finding a rhyme for poems is frustrating and just so very  …. difficult.

 

Sometimes I come incredibly close, both in syllables and in the sound,

But the words seem awkward or gross, and rhymes are never….discovered.

 

Other bloggers have a gift, they just immediately know how to rhyme.

Quick, fast and swift — perfect couplets every single …. duration.

 

They don’t have to Google or force ’em — they never struggle or strain.

Cheater’s dictionaries,  I don’t endorse ’em, so I just rack my …. mind.

 

Maybe I should write free-verse for adults, more sophisticated, I know,

Who needs matchy kiddy jingles? Just be loose and let the words … stream.

 

Here’s to non-rhyming grown-up topics like death, taxes and lovers’ scorn,

Maybe even controversial issues like politics, war, and stuff you find in porn.

 

Hey!  Did you see that?  Once I stopped trying, it suddenly occurred on its own,

I don’t mean to boast or brag, but it’s obvious dear reader, I’m finally in the zone.

 

Look out Shel Silverstein and Dr. Seuss — your competition is gonna be rough,

You could just make an excuse, cuz next to me you’re both just a cream … pastry.

 

Oh no, now it’s gone! But you can bet I’m not goin’ down without the good fight.

You might say I’m tenacious, stubborn, relentless. And you’d be exactly ….correct!

Leave a link to your favorite blogging poet in today’s comment section!

 

Do You Recycle, Reuse, Repeat Yourself in Future Relationships??

 

“I used to have a lot of close connections. But they lived in Connecticut so I cut them off. Get it? Connect-I-Cut?”

Noooo! If I EVER hear that stale old line uttered again, I may have to pour grated parmesan over the head of the speaker, because that’s how cheesy I find it.

Unfortunately the speaker was my 1st husband. This was a husband who told the exact same jokes and one-liners for the entire decade of our marriage and expressed great disappointment that I didn’t giggle just as heartily after hearing them the millionth time as I did when we were first dating. But I was the dutiful wife and thus we had an agreement —  at any get-together, party, or date-night out with another couple, I’d laugh hysterically at his stuff, dab my eyes with a napkin, pretending to catch my breath so I could sputter, “Ohhhh. Isn’t he hilarious? Such a card!”

This set him up for his next line which was, “Yeah, but instead of the Jack of Spades, I’m the Jack of all Trades!” And he’d launch into his many talents and skills. Pleeeease!

“Look, either get some exciting new material or get a new audience,” I’d say, stifling a yawn once we were home together alone in our bed. (Note: I may or may NOT have been referring to his comedy routine.)

He chose the latter option. We divorced.

My second husband and I were together for many years and like any couple we developed our own routines and distinctive little ways of relating to one another that I called, MMM (“Memorable Marriage Minutia.”)

Examples would be a) Taking a Selfie of ourselves with our eyes closed while each person held up a number of fingers behind the other person’s head. When we’d look at the photo, if we each had the same number of fingers we “won” and rewarded ourself with a nice dinner out or a picnic on the beach. b) If there was just one piece of our favorite food left on a plate, we’d split in half, in half, in half and so on until there was the tiniest of crumbs too infinitesimal to split in half — and then we’d play rock/paper/scissors to see who got it. c) I’d write messages to him on the outside of his banana peel in his lunch.

(Hey! I didn’t say these were sane rituals, just OURS.)

Fast forward to our breakup and I’m walking down our same favorite sandy shoreline exactly one year later (What? It’s not like he was awarded the entire beach in our divorce agreement!) when I spot two people taking a Selfie by their picnic basket. Wait! Are they actually holding their fingers up behind each other? As I suspiciously head closer, they sprawl out on their blanket and a lively game of rock/paper/scissors ensues. Really??? I wait until my ex loses (he always picks “paper!”) and run up to them shouting, “Noooo! That’s mine. I copyrighted that. What do you need, a patent? A registered trademark? You can’t steal that!” I am (of course!) pointing to the banana with the Sharpie scribbled writing that’s grasped in her hand as they look incredulously at me.

Sheesh. C’mon folks! Don’t recycle. Can nothing be reinvented for the new person in your life? Maybe I should teach a class called, “How to Have an Original New Relationship!” I’ll walk around during test days and chastise, “Don’t look at each other’s papers, ya bunch of copycat romantic wannabes!”

Fittingly, last night I was dining in a quiet Italian restaurant at a secluded booth with a date of my own (trying to create a new fun little tradition between us regarding the bill the waitress had just set on the table!) when what familiar snatch of dialogue should I hear floating through the air?

“Did I ever tell you about my close connections in Connecticut?”

That was it! I couldn’t help myself. As my 1st ex-husband’s latest girlfriend stared with astonishment, I proceeded to dump powdered parmesan cheese all over his head. She burst out laughing and said, “Ugh. Thank you for finally silencing the “Jack of all Trades.”

I have a feeling I just laid the groundwork for their own future unique ritual — albeit a remarkably cheesy one.

READERS: Do you have secret little rites or actions you do with someone special in your life? Don’t share them in the comments section….someone will surely refurbish, revamp, and reclaim them as their own! 🙂