We Interrupt This Blog . . .

SleepComitFinal_web
There may be an official ordinance about posting unfunny things on a humor blog, but I’ll accept a warning citation. Ironic short stories are my original genre of writing and several readers have encouraged me to share more widely here. Back to regularly scheduled chuckles soon! Thank you.

Going Up, Going Down, Going Thru, Going Under!

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Wow, I’m really going under tonight.

I’ve seen this hypnotist’s show before and figure I can trust him just fine to put me under. The only embarrassing part of the act was when he made the women on stage believe they were doing a striptease for their husbands. But even that I can handle, I reassure myself. Besides it might actually help Dennis see me in a new light. Lately he’s been restless, telling me I hold him back, I’m too safe, don’t take enough risks, and I’m not living life boldly enough. “Carpe Diem,” he’ll say as if mocking Robin William’s character in the movie, only I know he really means it. So in less than one hour, I will seize the day, and the night, and my husband’s respect.

All by announcing I am pregnant when it’s my turn in the spotlight.

“The rabbit died,” said that nasally nurse with the goofy sense of humor on the phone yesterday, and it had taken me a few seconds to reconcile her morbid, archaic expression with the fact that I finally had wondrous life growing inside of me after three years of fertility futility. No more temperature taking, ovulation kits, semen analysis, uterine biopsies, and standing on my head after lovemaking.

Dennis pays for our two tickets with a credit card that I strongly suspect will be declined. It’s the third one we’ve exceeded our limit on since he lost his job at the architectural firm. But I’m right behind him, expediently holding two twenty dollar bills so his red-face embarrassment will be short lived. That’s what a good wife does after all. But it’s dark by the box office and so I miss his grateful expression as we’re unexpectedly ushered into an elevator behind two perfectly proportioned blondes. The more platinum of the two drawls, “Going up,” while pushing a button with her fuchsia fingernail.

Both young women follow us into the theatre and meld their lithe bodies into chairs directly next to us. I notice the taller one lets her high-heeled encased ankle graze my husband’s pant leg as she deeply crosses her exposed thighs. But I turn my attention to the overhead banner that proclaims, “The Hip Hypnotist. Is it your turn to surrender?” And another sign to the right that advertises, “Enjoy yourself at our show… you ARE our show!” I squeeze my husband’s hand with affectionate anticipation knowing how pleased he’ll be to see me up on stage as a vivacious volunteer. And the grand finale when the hypnotist asks each participant to tell the audience something they would never guess, something shocking…well, I can’t think of a more fun and bold way to break the news of the baby. I only hope I won’t be too deeply hypnotized to appreciate Denny’s pride.

I’m immediately reassured when a slide show flashes on a big screen monitor explaining that being hypnotized is relaxing, enjoyable, and further elaborating that the subjects will be alert at all times to what is going on around them. And how it only serves to bring everyone into a deeper state of reflection where inhibitions will be tempered. This sounds like exactly what I need. Denny’s biggest complaint? I’m too uptight, too in control, and far too anxious. To have any fun.

I’m not expecting such a frenzied rush to the stage when the MC invites people up and I’m nearly trampled trying to grab a chair in the line-up. I’m relieved to see that I’m seated between two conservative, stuffy looking gentlemen so I feel very at home even though the lights are painfully bright. I glance back into the second row, my hand shielding my eyes as they strain to seek out my husband from the crowd. I am rewarded to see him nod appreciatively. “Just wait,” I say silently, “if you think this is good, you just wait.”

I gently flutter my eyelids closed as instructed and feel a certain warmth radiating from my toes on upward. I speculate if this is the heat the Hip Hypnotist suggests I’ll be feeling, or if I’m just flushing with embarrassment wondering if people think my hairstyle is dated. “Don’t analyze,” I chide myself, “Just go with the flow.” But what is that soft background music? It almost sounds like the instrumental part of The Doors, Light My Fire. I love playing Name That Tune.

All at once, Hip’s voice seems to come to me from everywhere and nowhere, soaking through my ears, dripping into my mind’s eye where it paints delicate pictures with watercolor words. “A river of thought,” he murmurs. “A stream of consciousness,” the voice drones, “a trickle of trivia…” Did we pay our water bill this month I wonder, and visualize the online automatic withdrawal system that I recently activated. But Hip’s gentle touch on my shoulder distracts me from this mundane image as he calmly states that each time he taps me, I will be filled with a deeper and deeper sense of tranquility. I crack one eyelid partway open, then quickly admonish myself in my former preschool teacher’s voice, “no peeking.” But now Hip is counting backwards from ten to one and when he’s done, we’re supposed to open our eyes and find that we’re in a fantasy field of flowers.

Someone lowers the lights and fades the music and I’m horrified to realize I feel no different at all. I am exactly the same. Three, two, one. A panicky sensation grips my throat and I begin to sneeze in succession, four, five times, something I always do when I’m edgy. But nobody says, “bless you” and I realize everyone around me is probably too busy frolicking in their lovely imaginary meadows. And here I am, stuck — trapped inside the same old self-conscious, timid, awkward wallflower persona on this stage while Hip heads toward me with efficient strides, probably to test my level of hypnotization, if that’s even a word. To add to my mortification, the prim looking man seated on my left lowers his face with drowsy oblivion deeply into my lap. Obviously looking to graze in MY greener pastures.

Hip the Hypnotist seems entirely satisfied to raise my arm up and watch it droop down again, apparently checking the “floppy factor,” a true litmus test for hypnotists. He then nods approvingly, gesturing toward me and egging the audience into rapturous applause.

“One more thing,” Hip adds when the clapping dies down, “If at any time during our show, someone next to you in the first ten rows appears to have gone under, please raise your hand and one of our lovely assistants will escort them on stage to join our act. It happens more than you’d think!”

Still alarmed that I’m not under some spell or feeling any different at all, I think back to when I saw this show before. What’s next? What the hell is next? Oh, we stink, we really stink. That’s right. I can fake that. I quickly remember all the things I’ve pretended in my life. Pretended to be asleep when Dennis came to bed, pretended I liked his mother’s obnoxious perfume, and pretended I had my doctorate degree when I was around the snooty women at my husband’s X-mas party. I begin to hold my nose and fan the air, looking suspiciously at the man to my right as Hip insists our neighbor hasn’t showered in weeks. The audience barely chuckles and out of the corner of my eye I think I see Dennis yawn and glance sideways at Blondie next to him.

Next we’re given the choice to be jockeys or thoroughbreds in the Kentucky Derby and I have to make a quick decision which one would be less embarrassing. I’m self-conscious about my size so I decide to be a horse rather than a rider (don’t they have to weigh under 100 lbs?) but once again I’m humiliated beyond belief as Hip proposes that the horses have just done the unthinkable! All the jockeys hold their noses at our imaginary disgusting stench. What is up with this guy and his obsession with odors? But the audience seems to really enjoy this and so I play along, all the while planning my seductive striptease where I can more than likely redeem myself in front of Dennis before I broadcast that I’m the expectant mother of his first child.

It dawns on me that everyone else on stage seems to be genuinely hypnotized as they prance freely around and I can’t believe I’m the only one held prisoner by my inhibitions and hang-ups.

“What’s your name and where ya from?” Hip closes in on me with his microphone and I try to make my eyes appear dreamy and awestruck, the way I imagine they should look in a trance.

“Sharon Henderson from California,” I recite zombie-like.

“That’s a strange racehorse name,” Hip persists.

F*ck I think, I’m blowing it. I quickly add, “otherwise known as Lucky Lady from Laughlin,” I toss my hair like a Clydesdale mane, but decide that actual neighing noises might be too over-the-top. And that’s when I notice Hip’s eyes narrow at me just a bit before he moves on.

Next we’re skiing in the Alps, only we’re doing it barefoot. Easy. Just shiver uncontrollably. After that, we’re at the beach and one of us, (thankfully not me) has a hole in a prominent spot in their bathing suit. Another cinch. I fake a shocked expression while the crowd bursts into bawdy howls. But now I feel my whole body tighten because it occurs to me that after this, it will be time for all us females to become x-rated exotic dancers. I scope out my competition and that’s when true despair sets in. I didn’t realize there were so many beautiful young girls up here. Is that one even legal, I wonder, knowing that alcohol has been served all night long. I can only hope that afterwards, Dennis will be so ecstatic over my pregnancy announcement that he’ll make generous allowances for a clumsy, horselike, foul-smelling stripper reject. I let myself glance at him momentarily, but he seems to be staring down motionless at his shoes.

A sudden prod on my shoulder and I’m introduced to the audience as “Cherry Jubilee,” direct from Paris. I recognize the bump and grind music from some old Broadway production. Great, he has to go and make me a French girl, I lament. I flounce around on an elevated platform twirling my sweater, then sashay stage left because I know Dennis sits off to the right. Hips. Swivel your hips and get your ass into it, I encourage myself and now I’m swirling and swaying pretty good for someone who’s seven weeks along. But the audience starts to taunt, “Take it off Cherry, take it all off!” and I know Dennis would want to see me loose and carefree so I fling the plaid sweater at some man in the front row and start to undo the top part of my silk blouse. I’m indebted to Hip for stopping me mid-button, but not at all grateful for what he spits out next.

“Why, you big ham you! You’re not really under at all, are you? Thought you could fool us fools? But let’s give Sharon a big hand anyhow for her participation thus far,” he says and gives me a hard thrust toward my seat as people hesitatingly clap. As I stare in disbelief wondering what about my dancing could’ve given me away, I hear Hip continue enthusiastically, “But it looks like someone in our audience is highly suggestive and has gone completely under. Let’s bring him up here, shall we? Audience?” Everyone thunders away and I notice Buxomy Blondie next to Dennis wildly waving her hands and pointing fingers at my lethargic husband who appears drunk and perfectly content to be accompanied up the steps of the stage by a stunning red-haired assistant.

It could be my imagination but it almost seems like both the blondes stick their feet out in the aisle to trip me as I try to squeeze by and return to my seat with some semblance of dignity. “Going Thru!” I whisper to them.

All eyes are now on the intriguing newcomer in the spotlight, and I watch as my husband, (now seated in the exact chair I just previously sat in) gregariously introduces himself as ‘Dennis the Menace.’ Hip snaps his fingers and in response, Denny instantly slumps forward in a genuine daze.

I look at my watch and realize the show is nearly at its conclusion except for the ending stunt where everyone makes a single outrageous confession. I’m sad not to be able to blurt out my amazing baby news, but I still feel a few eyes on me so I chortle along with the rest of the crowd as one girl proclaims her bisexuality. Another man dressed in Walmart garb surprises people by declaring he’s a multi-millionaire. One of the younger girls admits being hot for Hip the Hypnotist and everyone shouts, “Go for it!”

Dennis greedily snatches the mic out of turn and leans closely in, characteristically clearing his throat before he talks. I almost think Blondie next to me blows him a coy little kiss, but maybe she’s only swatting at a gnat.

My husband hesitates one suspenseful moment before speaking…

“I don’t love my wife Sharon anymore. I’m having an affair and I’m leaving her.” His burning voice seems to come to me from everywhere and nowhere all at once, singeing my ears as the words blaze into my mind’s eye; an explosive inferno of divorce papers, wedding albums, and abortions ignite together as blonde looks of pity smolder in my direction.

Wow, I’m really going under tonight.

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Women Who Wear Wedding Rings So They Won’t Get Hit On (And the men who take theirs off to hit on them!)

art.cheatingMe: Oh my goodness, congratulations! When did you get married?

Friend: I didn’t. I just finally had to start wearing this diamond so guys wouldn’t disturb me in the supermarket.

Me: (Blank Stare)

Friend:  You know — so they know that I’ve been taken.

Me: Been taking what? Benadryl?

I discreetly gave Tiffany my gal-pal, the once over while wondering about the accuracy of her statement. Seriously? Yes, she’s attractive in that well-preserved apricot jam type of way, but really? Are there actually women who have so many men coming on to them that they cannot concentrate enough to knock on watermelons or end up rereading the same line of their grocery list due to the ever-present distraction of having to decline dinner dates?

Who were all these males that Tiffany (and apparently others) were giving the proverbial (ring) finger to? I just had to find out.

Little Miss Menopause Interviews Men About Jewelry

Me: Thanks for helping me with my research, guys! So what do you think about the Engagement Band?

Guy: (Mid-20’s) Do they play pop-rap or alternative rock?

Me: No, I’m talking about a real rock. You know, the kind women wear on their left hand to send signals to men?

Guy: (Mid-40’s) The only signal I get is to take out the trash.

Guy: (Early 30’s) Which body part does your wife wear the garbage thing on? I think mine’s got on a “mow the lawn” anklet.

Me: Now now, there’ll be no strategic chopping off of appendages, please. Alright so do you find a ring on a woman to be a strong deterrent?

Guy (Mid-20’s) You mean like Tide or Gain?

Me: You just listen from now on, okay?

Obviously my Jewelry focus group for men is going nowhere and the subject is getting more confusing, so bear with me as I change the format to . . .

5 Tips About Important Jewelry Everyone Should Know

  1. Symbolic — Since women are putting wedding rings on when they’re unattached and men are taking wedding rings off when in fact they ARE very married, nowadays this golden loop most likely stands for total random nonsense. Instead everyone should display Zoo ticket receipts. If you haven’t been to a zoo recently, then you’re unmarried. Trust me on this.
  2. Promise Rings — Men who give women this particular piece of jewelry are in actuality saying, “Promise that after you wear this, you’ll still be interested in sex”  Women who give a promise ring to their husband should insist he recite these words as he slips it on:  “I hereby promise not to remove my real wedding ring when I see a hot blonde.”
  3. Family Heirlooms — We get it, you want her to think you’re super sentimental. But Great Grandma Pearl’s dying wish was to be buried in her double strand of fresh-waters, so you goofed-up (big time!) at the funeral. Put ’em back, buster.
  4. Size — When ring shopping, she’ll try to convince you that the number of carats equals your amount of love. Tell her you need to think about that statement, but you’ll definitely give her “a ring” tomorrow. Then telephone her the next day and break-up.
  5. Earrings — Go ahead and summon up the courage to get your ears piereced together and even buy His n’ Her matching ruby studs — but when you’re brave enough to get hitched, literally link yourselves together thru the ear holes by sharing one hoop earring. It’s the modern day ball & chain. Ain’t nobody picking someone else up in the produce section now! Problem solved.

If you enjoyed my “sparkling” sense of humor with this silly jewelry piece, please visit an oldie of mine RIGHT HERE about how women can convince a man that size really DOES matter.

How Captain Von Trapp Chose Between Maria and The Baroness

sound of musicAt long last, we’ve discovered a never seen before authentic “Pros and Cons” list inside the props box from The Sound of Music set. The Captain wrote it to help decide which woman to make his wife and the new mother of his 7 children. Let’s peek, shall we?

Baroness Elsa

PROS

1. She’s got that classy, reserved icy blond, Austrian nobility thing going on. I’m up for the challenge of making her bleat like a mountain goat! 2. Says wise and profound things. “Somewhere out there is a lady who I think will never be a nun.” I wonder what she’d say if she knew I was hoping for a nun who will never EVER be a lady? 3. Easy to end a date with. You don’t have to launch into a whole song and dance routine, “So long, farewell, auf wiedersehen, au revoir, sayonara, shalom, etc.” It’s just “bye-bye bitch.”

CONS

1. Not a performer and she’s a bit selfish. I doubt she’d walk out to finish my song for me if I were to break down on stage in the middle of lyrics I know like the back of my hand. 2. She doesn’t really care for yodeling. Which means my best joke will be lost on her. “Knock-knock. Who’s There? Lil Ole Lady. Lil Ole Lady Who?” Ha ha ha! 3. Given half a chance, she’ll send all 7 of my children to Boarding School. Wait, this goes on the pros list.

Fraulein Maria

PROS

1. I sure would like to handle a problem like Maria. I fantasize about being her personal troubleshooter. 2. Has a mathematician background and counts like nobody’s business.  “You are 16 going on 17.” Maybe one day she’ll star in a movie called “10” and introduce me to Bo Derek. 3. Won’t be a chronic dieter like my buddy’s wives. The only scales she’s obsessed with are Do-Re-Mi. 4. I love a woman who’s easy to buy for on Valentine’s or Mother’s Day. I have my list for Maria for the next 5 years. 1. Bright copper kettles. 2. Crisp apple strudel 3. Warm woollen mittens. And I don’t even have to giftwrap (brown paper packages tied up with strings) Easy to please. Aww screw it. Something tells me she’d be just as happy if I didn’t cut the whiskers off kittens. 5. Somewhere in her youth or childhood, she must’ve done something good.  She deserves me! photo (16) 6. Ever see anyone blush like that? I bet she’ll make a beautiful blushing bride. Of course that could be because the train on her wedding gown will be so long and heavy, half of Salzburg will have to carry it down the aisle for her. 7. Whenever there’s a thunderstorm, she’ll invite people into our bed. Mmm, I like me some kink.

CONS

1. She brought music back into the house. And now my kids play the Top 40 at decibels that would blow the roof off a Nazi regime. 2. Obsessed with puppets. Which means she thinks she can pull my strings. 3. She’s not great with names. Keeps forgetting “Kurt.” How will I feel if one night in bed she moans (off key) and says, “Mmm, that feels so good. God bless you, Whatsyourname?” 4. Tea, a drink with jam and bread. Seriously woman? Every single solitary time? I’m a Starbucks shareholder. 5. Hates whistles. I suppose that twisted Snow White fantasy I have of her singing, “Just Whistle While You Work” while sweeping the front porch in a Nun’s habit is out of the question? 6. She might force me to wear boxers she stitches from our dining room blinds. Yeah, but that’s an easy fix. Sell her Singer. It’ll be curtains for that sewing machine of hers! Hey!  As long as I’m considering Thrifty Recycling Movie Heroines, I know a racy raven-haired vixen who also made her gown out of the living room drapes. Maybe there’s a 3rd option here. Who says I can’t be a Cross-Film Actor and marry . . .

Scarlett O’Hara

PROS

1.  That 18 inch waist 2. Never worries about anything — she’ll think about it tomorrow. We all know what “it” is. Heh heh.

CONS

1. Oh who the hell cares anymore?  Frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn.

Any woman who can tilt her head like this without a neck ache is the one for me!

Any woman who can tilt her head like this without a neck ache is the one for me!

       

 

 

 

 

Please visit me on The Huffington Post to see why I think publishing is similar to Fifty Shades of Grey right HERE

You Rock!

photo-426Myself: 17%
Together: 25%
I gave guidelines:  11%
I gave direct hints: 13%
He surprised me: 34%

What are these statistics for? These are the results of a survey given by The BAA (Bridal Association of America) to recently married females.  The question:  “Who picked out your engagement ring?”

I am focusing on the bottom 34%.  This is NOT directed at couples who decide together to get engaged and then opt to go together to get the woman a ring.  Nope.  I am thinking about that hopeful guy who has gathered up all his courage after a thoughtful shopping trip and then goes the extra mile to propose marriage inside a fortune cookie or on a Jumbotron at a basketball game.

This is also the result of a conversation I overheard today (Warning:  Yes, I AM on the loose in public places, eavesdropping for ideas to write about!) in a Starbucks.  Shall we listen in?

Bride-To-Be:  Just look at this pathetic ring.

Friend:  I can’t. I left my magnifying glass at home.

Bride-To-Be:  OMG — How can I ever put this on Facebook?  Doesn’t he know he’s supposed to spend at least three months of his salary?

Friend:  Maybe he thought that was after taxes?

Bride-To-Be:  Can I say “yes” to his proposal of marriage, but ‘no’ to this ring?

I cannot ignore this poor Bride-To-Be  (and others like her) in her time of need.  But first a guide to preventing this in the first place.

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Who remembers this episode? “Only a real diamond will cut a glass window!”

HOW TO GET THE RING YOU DESERVE AND STILL BE SURPRISED

Drop hints with food:  1.  When you order fish in a restaurant, bypass the shrimp on the menu by looking coy (not Koi!)  and exclaiming, “I think size really does matter, don’t you?” (Expect this to carry over into the bedroom that night)  2.  Consistently munch on two or three whole carrots whenever you’re in his presence. 3.  Keep digging through boxes of Crackerjacks, remarking that you can’t wait for the ‘prize.’

The Letter C:  Tell him how important you think the 4 C’s are  (and not Caviar, Cars, Children, and Chutney!)

Marilyn:  Dye your hair platinum and sing verses like, “A kiss on the hand may be quite continental!  A kiss may be grand but it won’t pay the rental.”

Names:  Tell him your parents almost named you Tiffany. And that he looks like a Harry Winston.

Movies, Television & Music:  1.  Keep renting the James Bond film,  “Diamonds Are Forever.”  2.  Rewind the Cave of Wonders scene in Aladdin where Jafar calls him a “Diamond in the rough.” 3.  Cheer and applaud every time Charlie Brown mutters, “I got a rock.” 4.  Sing anything by Neil Diamond (except “You Don’t Bring Me Flowers Anymore” which will cause him to pull roses from a neighbor’s garden.

Symbolic:  Explain that you believe the size and quality of a diamond represents the depth and strength of your committment, not to mention that it will be interpreted as a measure of his success in other people’s eyes. Does he really think it’s a coincidence that “ring” rhymes with “bling?”

Fidelity:  The larger the diamond, the more visual a “Stay away” sign sent to other men.  And the larger a reminder for you not to flirt — Otherwise you might forget and he wouldn’t want that.

Aging:  Don’t hesitate to add that if it’s too small, you will be forever squinting to see it — and that will cause wrinkles.

Telephone:  Instead of telling him to call you later, ask him to “give you a ring.”

Cubic Zirconia:  Tell him how romantic it would be for him to propose with a “placeholder” ring. And then once you say “yes” you can go shop together for the real diamond ring.  Awwww.

Sports:  Take a sudden interest in baseball Diamonds and boxing Rings.

If None of This Works and He Proposes With a Ring You Don’t Like:

Get a pink satin jacket, bob your hair, and wear the ring on a chain around your neck, claiming you’re a product of the 1950’s.

Tell him you’re highly allergic and break out in a rash with any diamond under a full two carats.

Explain that the ring didn’t fit but when you took it in to be resized, the jeweler dropped it down into a floor heater grate.

First make sure he’s not an I Love Lucy fan.  Next, tell him the ring slipped off and fell into a bucket of mortar.  Now it’s somewhere inside a brick BBQ that you were building with your friend Ethel.

Tell him you are superstitious and if a woman permits another woman to try on her engagement ring, the other woman will steal the heart of her betrothed.  Whom did you let try on your ring?  Your mother.

You take your Beatles very seriously and while listening to “Lucy in the Sky w/ Diamonds, your ring flew away, attached to a kite.

Or just do him a huge favor and try the honest approach. Say this:  “I want a large diamond to compensate for the fact that I have a very small heart. If you can’t understand why this issue would be so important, maybe you should find a girl that doesn’t care about such things.”

He will get down on one bended knee to thank you.

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Lucy didn’t care about her the size of her ring – – she just wanted the original one back for sentimental reasons.

Football & Fashion? — Black-Tie Touchdowns ?!

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Sack the Quarterback!!”

             or

“Sax Fifth Avenue!!!

 

“It’s the Cotton Bowl!”

             or

“It’s 100% Cotton!”

 

Can a relationship exist where both parties feel equally passionate about football AND fashion? Would it bring them closer??   I’m dying to find out!  With my two ex-husbands, I was constantly left alone on the sidelines during sports season, not to mention wandering solo through shopping malls because they could care less what I wore.

But I’m determined to ‘weave’ together football and fashion ‘seamlessly’ with the great new man in my life.

“You’d be amazed how much the two subjects have in common,” I gushed enthusiastically to my guy last night, as his eyes riveted to the screen during Monday Night Football. I sat conspicuously nearby, turning the pages of a recent fashion spread in Vogue.

“Oh no! Look how she  FUMBLED  with her purse, searching for lipstick!” I shouted, pointing to a statuesque blonde on page 28. “Betcha never saw color-BLOCKING  like that before! I wonder how much  YARDAGE  of silk that took?”

He narrowed his eyes suspiciously, yawned, then promptly focused his attention back to the set.

 One more time, giving it that old college try. . .

ME:  Well, whadya know! Vera Wang is finally gonna  TACKLE  the issue of  HIKING  up hemlines during the  KICKOFF  of her new fall line.

HIM:  Shhhh, Stephanie – – I can’t even hear the announcer.”

 A new tact was definitely required. . .

ME: (cozying next to him and purring) Well hello there! Did you ever stop to wonder if their team jerseys are made of 100% pure Jersey Knit? Or do they sneak a little Lycra in there?

Six men smashed their bodies together and I winced.

HIM: (mindlessly munching Doritos)  Uh huh.

ME:  What daring trendsetters those brutes are – – bringing back the 80’s shoulder pads like that! I think the chinstrap could be a bit much though. A simple helmet would streamline their look, while still accessorizing those head concussions perfectly. And whoever does their make-up! Haven’t they heard of waterproof mascara? It’d prevent those under-eye black marks.

The Asymmetrical thing?  There always has to be some avant-garde "Football Fashionista."

The Asymmetrical thing? There always has to be one avant-garde “Football Fashionista.”

Runny Mascara or a Turn-On for men?

Runny Mascara or a Turn-On for men?

 

HIM:  (looks at watch)  Isn’t there some fashion show luncheon thing at Nordstrom, starting right about now?”

ME: (coyly)  Why? Would you accompany me to it, Coach?

HIM:  Coach?? As in your Coach brand purse?? Look Steph, I know what you’re trying to . . .

ME:  Shhhh, I can’t even hear that official man in the black and white stripes, blowing his sterling silver whistle necklace. Didn’t anyone tell him pinstripes are so yesterday? And white pants after Labor Day! Seriously? That’s a makeover just waiting to happen.

I made lots of loud tsk-tsk sounds.

 

Just then a Levi Jeans commercial flashed on — my hopes immediately renewed. But to my surprise I didn’t have to utter one word to get him engrossed.

She's got the Runway Pose down pat.

She’s got the “Astroturf Runway” Pose down pat !

 

“Hey, I’d sure like to  HAND-OFF  to that  TIGHT-END!”  He nodded approvingly at the backside of a gorgeous model, clad in size 2 slim fit jeans. We’d  HUDDLE  together and talk about our next big  PLAY  – – then I’d make a smooth as satin (or should that be 100% silk?) PASS at her.  Mmm, those little stitched back-pockets would put me into  OVERTIME  for sure.”

 

“Uh Listen, I’ve been thinking.” I stammered, abruptly changing the channel. “Separate interests are actually super healthy for couples. It gives them a sense of independence and brings variety to their relationship. A nice balance, if you will. No sense in both people liking the same thing.”

 

“I thought you might see it that way,” he said with a knowing smirk. “So next time you’ll be more careful what you wish for?” Sheesh, this guy really gets into teaching someone a valuable lesson, doesn’t he?

Football + Fashion will always lead to this. "Fornography!" "Pornball?"

Football + Fashion will always lead to this.
“Fornography!”
or   “Pornball?”

 

Before I responded, I leaned over to grab my Kate Spade purse, which I then launched (with a perfect spiral!) across the living room, where it landed in the center of the coffee table.

 

“Uh, whaddya chuck your handbag for?” he asked incredulously.

 

“Just demonstrating I can throw a winning  “CLUTCHDOWN”  pass better than any San Diego Charger quarterback around,” I smiled smugly.

 

“Stick to writing humor blogs, Stephanie. I’ll be your biggest cheerleader!”

Then he slapped me hard on the behind as I complimented his Christian Dior-DiScore shirt, his Calvin (K)Line-backer pants, and his Bill Blass n’ Pass shoes.

And that was the end of Football versus Fashion week.  Tied Score.  We’ll see who goes to the Play-Offs.

Nope!  This is just WRONG.

Nope! This is just WRONG.

 

Any comments are more than welcome!  Don’t know what to say?  Answer this – – have you ever taken up an interest/hobby just to please your significant other??

Do Opposites Attract?! (Maybe if you have a Magnetic Personality)

  Blech!

Blech!

“Birds of a feather flock together.” Maybe that just means you should marry someone who also owns a parakeet. In honor of February and Valentines Day, I’m trying to find out if there’s any truth to that age old theory that opposites not only attract; they make for long sustaining unions?

First I will confess to writing Snopes.com to convince them to list this notion as an urban legend based on my past, personal (and polarized!) relationships, which went downhill faster than Lady Gaga can belt out, “Bad Romance.” Now I’m not talking the Donny and Marie syndrome, (“she’s a little bit country, he’s a little bit rock n’ roll”) I mean true fundamental differences at the very core of your personalities. So can extreme opposites ever really work out in the long run?

I’ve been married nine times. Note: In reality I’ve only walked down the aisle twice but I’m trying to disguise my situation because my ex-husbands are best buddies and claim they’ll collaborate to sue me if I ever blog about them. (Like you can copyright aggravation!) Maybe after reading this, they’ll join forces and search for the seven other stashed away, missing ex-husbands instead!

Husband #6 (really #1 but shhhh!) seemed like your typical romantic bachelor during courtship, but I soon realized he was a Sciencemathologist. That’s code for being a total left-brained thinker. (Note: I’m a right-brained creative, emotional personality type – just in case fabricating seven extra marriages and concocting the word “Sciencemathologist” didn’t tip you off)

This husband expressed his affection by custom ordering Valentine conversation candy with the periodic table elements on them. I found this slightly endearing – after all, how many chalky, heart-shaped Pepto-Bismols proclaiming, “crazy4u” can you consume? And there’d be instances when I’d need the atomic number for both helium and aluminum, right? Suppose I simultaneously bought a party balloon and a roll of Reynolds Wrap?  Hey, it could happen.  photo-155

“Oh Honey, No diamond engagement ring, please. I’ll just loop some carbon atoms around my finger,” said no Bride-To-Be ever!

Instead of anniversaries symbolized with the traditional gifts of paper, linen, silk, bronze and pearls, he favored titanium, sulfur, lithium, sodium (sodium got me a saltshaker) hydrogen, and chlorine.  No, that last one doesn’t mean he built us a swimming pool. My friends deemed it “quaint” but I wasn’t sticking around for the big ten-year gifts — plutonium and arsenic.photo-156

A certain other husband (who shall remain numberless) was a painstakingly slow decision maker, a fastidious planner, and tossed food out days before the sell-by dates. I’m carefree and spontaneous, (sounds better than saying disorganized and impulsive) and happen to know Dannon puts premature expirations on their yogurt. Heck, I even throw caution to the wind and buy day-old donuts. Needless to say, leaving the house simultaneously was impossible, let alone going away on vacations. Miles ahead, I’d sneak through airport security, (harboring full-size tubes of Colgate, mind you) while back home, he hunched over the bathroom sink, deliberating, “should toothpaste really have baking soda in it?”

Yep, he highlighted expiration dates.

(above) Yep, he highlighted expiration dates.

And SEX! So how was intimacy, you might inquire? Scheduled and organized. Or maybe that was just a game of “Twister” we always played? (“Left hand on red negligee!”) Where was his soap-opera push me down on the pillows passion play? Things were entirely too calm in the boudoir and elsewhere. Grocery shopping was equally regimented, with elaborate lists written for a week’s worth of dinners. Do you know on Sunday if you’ll be in the mood for beef-stew on Wednesday in the dining room? Or (ahem) “Beefcake” on Friday in the bedroom?!

I’m certainly not the only one grappling with these oil & water issues. My friend Tiffany (who promises NOT to sue me if I mention her scenario) enjoys expressing herself with eloquent and flowery phrases that even Hallmark has plagiarized. However her boyfriend (who doesn’t care enough to send the very best, but still expects a little somethin’ somethin’) is one of those “Love Ya” kinda guys.

You know the type. They can’t even be bothered to spell “love” correctly, so she gets “Luv Ya!” And exactly what part of speech is “Ya” anyhow? Pretty sure it’s an exclamation like “duh or “meh.” If a man can’t commit to using a solid personal pronoun, then he shouldn’t be dangling his participles in your direction. But yesterday Tiffany excitedly called to report a new revelation . . . he switched to “Wuv You!”  Not wanting to shatter her “Tiffany Epiphany” I said, “Congratulations, Tiff. Now you can say you’re in a relationship with a guy who speaks fluent Kitten.”

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I still haven’t come to any definitive conclusions on this whole opposite dilemma but as you read this, I’ll probably be answering the door to find both my exes standing united, holding an official court summons.

On the porch will sit a Bunsen burner and some stale Sourdough rolls. “Even though you didn’t use our real names and you changed our marital numerical order, we still recognized ourselves in your blog” they’ll accuse in unison. And I’ll be hard pressed to deny it – after all, personality traits as distinctively irritating as theirs are hard to camouflage.

But I’ll finally have my answer to the age-old question. Do opposites definitely attract? No, but they definitely attack!

Have you been drawn to your opposite?  Did it last? I’d love to hear.

           

Bad Bitter Butter!

Bad Bitter Butter!

  

He HIGHLIGHTED the exp. date!
He HIGHLIGHTED the exp. date!

                .

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