3lastnamesblog

Nothing Says I love You like Chicken Cutlets July 30, 2012

Filed under: Humor,Women's Humor,Women's Issues — 3lastnamesblog @ 12:45 am
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It must’ve been about ten years ago. My friend Nancy was driving us to Jones Beach. It was a bright sunny morning; the windows were down, our hair was blowing, the radio blasting when suddenly I yelled out “OH MY GOD, THE CHICKEN CUTLET!! Not  a sentence most people say, but I kept screaming “THE CHICKEN CUTLET! THE CHICKEN CUTLET”!!

You see my nephew Sam was away at sleep away camp. The only thing he asked my sister to bring him on visiting day was one of Aunt Jackie’s chicken cutlets. I had one frozen in the freezer and was supposed to drop it off and I forgot.  Fortunately, my sister lives around the corner and was able to pick it up.  If he didn’t get that chicken cutlet I would never have forgiven myself.

Sounds ridiculous, I know. But in my family, my chicken cutlets have become an expression of my love.  It’s an “event” when Aunt Jackie is making her famous chicken cutlets. Word gets around and the family gathers together for what is sure to be a special meal.  It takes me hours to prepare. Not only do I prepare enough for the dinner, but I make enough to give home to both my nephews (who are now 23 and 26). It is somewhere around the second hour of frying that I think to myself “Why can’t they like my roast beef?”

Now, just so you know, my nephews, for whom I would throw myself in front of a train, refer to me as “Crazy” Aunt Jackie. They try to tell me it’s a term of endearment.  So while writing this blog I texted them and asked them to give me some examples of why I’m “crazy”. Well the good news is, they didn’t come up with anything off the top of their heads. The bad news is, about 24 hours later they called me with a long list, and yes, I’m indeed crazy. It’s enough for a blog of its own.  But the one thing they didn’t mention was the time I took them out for lunch to the International Café. They were probably 5 and 8 years old.  I didn’t know the restaurant only accepted cash so I had to leave to go to the bank and I left them as collateral.

My nephew, Robby, is getting married in just a couple of weeks. I recently attended his fiancée Lindsay’s bridal shower. The invitation asked to bring a recipe. I wrestled with the idea of giving her my chicken cutlet recipe, but I just couldn’t do it. If she had the recipe then Robby wouldn’t have to come to Aunt Jackie’s for his chicken cutlets; he could get them right at home. That was not happening! Instead I gave her a “recipe for a successful marriage”. I wrote, whatever advice I give you, do the opposite!

I’m sure you all have your own favorites- your mother’s chicken soup, your Nana’s banana cake, your aunt’s sweet potato pie. But is it really that much better than any you’ve ever had, or does it have more to do with the person that’s making it? People ask me all the time what makes my chicken cutlets so special. I tell them, it’s not the ingredients; it’s being around the table with the people you love most that makes everything taste better.

So I’m sure Robby and Sam will add to their list that I wrote an entire blog about chicken cutlets.  Yes, I’m crazy, but I think they love me all the more for it!

       

 

Om Sweet Om July 7, 2012

Filed under: Humor,middle age,Women's Humor,Women's Issues,Yoga — 3lastnamesblog @ 12:03 pm
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If you’ve been reading my blogs, you should be able to sense that I think… a lot…all day long…about every possible scenario… in every aspect of my life. I tend to “what if” the hours away, which can lead to a”bit” of anxiety (those who know me are laughing right now at the “bit”). Ok, I’m a little on the nervous side. But I’ve been that way my entire life. For instance, my daughter is now in Eastern Europe and Israel for the summer; I wouldn’t even go to day camp. At least I own up to it.

A little over a year ago, I was discussing the approaching summer vacation with my therapist.  She knows I become anxious over the summer because I have too much time to think. She suggested I take up yoga. Now why didn’t I think of that!? It’s meditative and I happen to be pretty flexible (which if you’ve been lucky enough to be with me at a party  that’s serving alcohol,  you’ve probably seen me attempt to put my leg around my neck.)

So I immediately began to investigate the best yoga studio. All arrows pointed me to Om Tara Yoga Studio in Massapequa. Next, I had to get a great yoga outfit. If I was going to make an ass out of myself, I at least wanted to be fashionable doing it. And let’s not forget I needed a fancy yoga mat with matching carrying case. Studio- check.  Outfit- check.  Mat- check. Now all I had to do was actually go.

I’ll always remember my first class.  I didn’t want anybody going with me. When I was there, I didn’t want to make new friends. I just wanted to remain anonymous. My instructor’s name was Barbara, a young sweet girl. There were lit candles and incense burning. It seemed quirky yet somehow soothing.  I had NO CLUE how to do the poses, but it was a supportive atmosphere. During a part called “savasana” you’re supposed to just lie there and not think, but of course I was making a grocery list.  At the end, everyone (except me) chanted “Om”, which up until then I thought was just a myth and quite frankly seemed silly.

Fast forward a year.

My goal of remaining anonymous failed tremendously. Within a few sessions I made a dear yoga buddy and it turned out my yoga instructor, Barbara, was not only Jewish, but she blogs! Now, I don’t “do” yoga, I “practice” Yoga. I call poses “asanas” and I know them by their Sanskrit names. I know the 7 chakras and the colors associated with them. I use ujjayi breath, yoga mudra, focus on my drishti and “om” louder than anyone in the room.  Plus, I have a killer collection of yoga pants.

But I still have a far from perfect practice. My shoulders need to relax during Virabhdrasana 2 (Warrior 2) , my hips are uneven during  Trikanasana (Triangle Pose)  and the owner of the studio has remarked that my pinky toe (yes, my pinky toe) is positioned incorrectly during  Dandasana  (Staff Pose).  Alas, I will never be going to the yoga Olympics.  However, if there’s a cute, straight guy in class, I can hold in my stomach continuously for an hour and half while stretching, extending, inverting, twisting, bending and balancing. How many young yoginis can say that?

I may still make a “To Do” list in my head during savasana, but I can say without hesitation that I am my happiest, calmest self when my yoga class is over…at least until I check my cell phone. Hey, temporary peace is better than no peace.  Namaste.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Prom June 16, 2012

Filed under: Humor,Women's Humor,Women's Issues — 3lastnamesblog @ 8:53 pm
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I’m starting a support group. It’s for mothers of teenage daughters going to the prom. The first topic of discussion will be shopping for the dress. My daughter, Gabby, insisted we go to Estelle’s Dressy Dresses, along with the rest of the south shore teenage population. It was jammed with girls and their mothers all grabbing wildly for the same tacky dresses. Nobody told me I was going to need armor. But like soldiers in battle, Gabby and I kept our heads down and plowed on through until we had at least a dozen dresses to try on.

 We waited 20 minutes just to get into the dressing room. When we finally got in, it was sheer mania; hoards of hysterical girls shrieking and crying like at a Justin Bieber concert.  After navigating the mounds of dresses and hangers on the floor, we were lucky enough to find a dressing room with a semblance of a curtain.  My modest daughter had me hold the fabric tightly together so that not a crack of light could be seen through it. She didn’t want anybody seeing her get changed yet she didn’t mind coming out in a dress that exposed 90% of her body.  Naturally, every time I liked a dress I got the “Ma, are you kidding me” look.  But eventually we managed to find a dress we both liked that didn’t have a pull or snag in it. For that reason alone we had to buy it.

Next, it’s all about the hair and make-up. The appointments are set, as are the mani/pedi and eyebrows. We are still in negotiations over the spray tan.  These can all be topics for future support group sessions.  The mothers out there who have been through this before know exactly what I am talking about.  After all the pampering and primping, there’s no guarantee she’s actually going to like it. The up-do may have a strand out of place, the make-up may be a shade off, there may be a stray eyebrow hair or a dangling cuticle. Any of these can lead to an international incidence.

But that’s not all, there is more to plan for.  It seems that after the prom, the new tradition is to go to a “Prom House”.  Apparently there is security and a chaperone (probably someone’s 22 year old brother and sister).  No one is allowed out, no outsiders are allowed in. No alcohol is permitted. There is a pool but no life guard.  There are about 30 kids and they reside there for two nights. Somehow I was convinced that since they stay in one place, this is a “safer” alternative. I MUST HAVE BEEN DRUGGED!

Yes, I have completely LOST MY MIND and am allowing my daughter to stay two nights at a house in Sag Harbor with her boyfriend. The truth is, she’s been dating this boy for quite a while and he is a very reasonable, mature young man.  I trust the two of them to make responsible choices.  WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME!!?

I think I gave in partly because I am living vicariously.  I think back to my own prom, MHS 1980. I wore the same gown I wore to my sister’s wedding. I did my own hair and for make-up, my sister put eye shadow on me. I polished my own nails. What’s a pedicure? My date was “just a friend”. Is it any wonder I’m looking forward to my (I mean Gabby’s) prom?

But the truth is that my prom date and I have remained dear friends till this day. We went our separate ways romantically (no he’s not gay) but our friendship has lasted more than 3 decades. Come to think of it, Gabby should only have the enduring relationship with her prom date that I had with mine.  So, to Gabby and Danny, have a wonderful, magical time.  And remember, I AM TRUSTING YOU TO MAKE GOOD DECISIONS!!!

Hopefully Gabby and Danny won’t be drinking any alcohol, but I can assure you, I will be having plenty!

 

March 6, 1930 May 31, 2012

Filed under: Humor,Women's Humor,Women's Issues — 3lastnamesblog @ 2:19 am
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If you have been enjoying my blogs, then I must give some credit to my dad.  He had a gift for storytelling and a knack for descriptive language like no one else. I’d like to think I inherited at least a small portion of his talent.

First, a brief description of my father. He was a salesman. He sold wallpaper, but if you ever asked him what he sold he would always say “himself”.  He was a sincere salesman, which in most cases is an oxymoron, but not in his case. He had white hair, dressed impeccably, drove a huge Caddy and always had a cigarette in his hand. He traveled the country non-stop, yet most of my childhood memories include him sitting in his chair in our living room reading the newspaper- dressed to the nines, of course.

Here’s an example of how my father expressed himself. A typical dinner conversation would include: “Cecile (that’s my mom), I’ve eaten in 5 star restaurants throughout the country. I’ve dined where celebrities and royalty have dined, I’ve been to restaurants so exclusive they don’t even have a sign on the door, but none of those meals Cecile, none of those meals can compare to your meatloaf.” And the truth is,  he truly meant it.

Back when I was in college we were on vacation in Hollywood Florida at the Diplomat hotel. It’s one of the very rare times I remember seeing my father in a bathing suit. Let’s just say he wasn’t the “outdoorsy” type. Picture a man in designer bathing trunks, a matching button down short sleeved top, a perfectly blow-dried comb-over, a gold watch, gold bracelet and the palest skin ever seen outside of Antarctica. I remember him walking slowly toward us with a slight limp, even whiter from the 3 bottles of suntan lotion he put on… ”Cecile (long drag on the cigarette), Cecile, I’ve had impacted wisdom teeth, I’ve had my neck in traction, I’ve had my gall bladder removed, but nothing Cecile, can compare to the pain between my toes from these rubber thongs.”

Anyone who knows my father knows you can’t mention him without mentioning “the diner”. The Shore East Diner to be exact.  Somehow, we always wound up at the diner. Even after a night on the town in the city, we found ourselves having coffee and hot chocolate at the diner. We would eat there every Saturday for lunch without fail. When my mother, sister and I would start complaining about the table we were seated at and my father would say, “For God’s sake, we’re not moving in!”

So, one time back in my twenties,  my back went out and my sister had to take me to the emergency room. I remember lying on a table in the waiting room because I couldn’t sit upright.  My sister bought me a hamburger, mashed potatoes and a donut from the hospital cafeteria. It was literally one of the best meals I’ve ever eaten (other than my mother’s meatloaf, of course). Shortly after, my parents arrived. They had been in the city having dinner. My mother was in her mink coat (not yet politically incorrect) buttoned up to her chin.  It was 6 thousand degrees in the hospital but for some reason she refused take that coat off. Finally at 2:00AM, after 4 long grueling hours and a huge needle stuck into my back, it was time to go home. My sister wheeled me into the parking lot with that look on her face that she was clearly tired of waiting on me. I had that look on my face that one might have after getting a shot in her back. My mother was still in her mink, her face beaded with sweat. My father took a puff on his cigarette and said “Meet at the diner?” And, of course, we did.

Many years later my parents moved to Florida because, as Jerry Seinfeld puts it, it was the law. One of the last conversations my mother had with my father in the hospital after his heart attack was, “George, the girls are coming down”. He could barely speak, but whispered from under his oxygen mask, “That’ll be nice… just the four of us… like old times.”  But my sister and I didn’t make it in time.  He passed away while we were in flight. That was 15 years ago.

March 6 was his birthday. He would’ve been 82.  And in honor of his birthday – you guessed it- I’ll be going to the diner.  Happy Birthday, Daddy. I love you.

daddy in bathing suit

 

The Unfriendly Skies

Filed under: Humor,Women's Humor — 3lastnamesblog @ 2:17 am
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WARNING:  DO NOT FLY ON April 9!! I can predict with greater certainty than the Farmer’s Almanac that on that day there will be some type of major weather event or unnatural occurrence which will lead to unprecedented delays.  How do I know this? Because I’m flying on that day.

I think back to Christmas Eve 2010. As my daughters and I were enjoying our filet mignon and potatoes au gratin at my best friend Liz’s house, I had my eye on the Weather Channel app on my phone. For those who don’t know me, I am a weather junkie.  Nothing excites me more than tracking a line of thunderstorms on Doppler radar.  With my phone app, I can get my fix whenever I want.  But this time I wasn’t doing it for the sheer joy; there was talk of a blizzard arriving the day after Christmas- yes, the day my girls and I were supposed to fly to Florida. Santa wasn’t the only one up all night; Jim Cantore, (the Weather Channel anchor) and I were up all night too. Around 5:00AM I made the decision that we needed to get out of New York asap. I called Jet Blue and rescheduled our flight for just a few hours later.  That was the easy part. The hard part was dragging my daughters out of bed at the crack of dawn. I needed them to pack fast, and we needed to go!!  They tried to convince me it was sacrilegious to fly on Christmas. I reminded them we’re Jewish.

The next time I flew it was hurricane season.  Now being a weather fanatic, I particularly love hurricane season so I can watch the Tropical Updates at 10 minutes before the hour. I track hurricanes from the time they’re just a tropical wave off the coast of Africa. Hurricane Irene was no exception. The track was uncertain, but it seemed a pretty good bet it was going to make landfall in South Florida on the EXACT DAY Julie and I would be landing in West Palm Beach. But with hurricanes there’s always that cone of uncertainty, so like an obsessed lunatic I watched that station until I was convinced the hurricane was going to miss Florida. We were able to go. We got “lucky”.

It started as an ordinary flight.  The pilot explained the flight plan was altered slightly so we wouldn’t run into the hurricane and we should have a nice, easy, smooth flight. We were next for take-off. The plane was picking up speed when suddenly it came to an abrupt halt. “Ladies and gentleman, we are sorry for the inconvenience but JFK has been indefinitely closed” HUH??? Good thing Jet Blue has TV’s so we were able to see on CNN that there had been an earthquake in Washington DC.

I called my mother, “Ma, there was an earthquake.”

“OH MY GOD!!  OH MY GOD!! GO HOME !! DON’T COME!! GET OFF THE PLANE NOW AND GO HOME!!!”

“Ma, we weren’t IN the earthquake, we’re just delayed and I’m calling you because I don’t know how long we’re going to sit here. They’ve closed the airport”

“OH MY GOD!!! HOW’S JULIE?? IS SHE OK??”

Ma, Julie hasn’t looked up from her Sudoku book. She’s fine”

Then my phone lost the call. Not because of the service, but because the day before I dropped my brand new Blackberry in the toilet and was reduced to using an old phone which was only a notch above one by Fisher Price.

Anyway, we FINALLY got to Florida very late, and the next day I turned on the weather channel, curious as to where Irene was headed. Last I heard it was supposed to make landfall in the Carolinas, possibly veering off into the Atlantic. Well, that had all changed.  Now it appeared, the hurricane was headed straight toward Long Island. As a matter of fact, the eye looked like it was going to pass over the very block I lived on, which happens to be by the water and an evacuation zone. SHIT!

“Ma, Julie and I have to go home! I have to prepare my house for the hurricane!”

And back home we went.

I’m not through.  The next time I flew was the end of September. Gabby and I were going to visit my mother for the Jewish Holidays.  It was a beautiful, sunshiny day.  What could possibly go wrong? Let me make a long story short. There were severe thunderstorms surrounding us which were spawning tornados.  All the flight paths (“highways in the sky” as the pilot put it) were closed. I didn’t know they could close the air, but apparently they can. SIX HOUR DELAY!

So in the last three consecutive times I have flown, I encountered a blizzard, a hurricane, an earthquake and tornados. What are the chances of that?  I’m not sure, but if I were you, I’d stay home on April 9.

 

 

 

My Blog is My Boyfriend

Filed under: Humor,single,Women's Humor,Women's Issues — 3lastnamesblog @ 2:12 am
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When I was at my therapist last week, she asked me if I’ve been dating or had an interest in anyone. I thought about it for a while and then I had an epiphany. My blog is my boyfriend.

It’s everything I’ve been looking for. “He” is good company when I’m bored. He lets me tell all my stories in great detail without interrupting.  He allows me to express myself creatively. He shares my opinions.  My friends enjoy his sense of humor. My family likes him. He relieves my stress. And most importantly, he leaves me feeling fulfilled.

I told my therapist this relationship was the real deal, one that can finally go the distance. She pointed out that I’m telling her I’m finally enjoying a relationship with someone (thing) that doesn’t talk back, has no thoughts of its own, and does whatever I say. Puzzled I ask, “Is there something wrong with that?”

I tried to explain I’m not totally crazy. I’m actually thinking rationally.  I realize there are some things my blog can’t do. ”He” can’t help around the house or take care of the kids or rub my feet. But let’s face it; does such a man even exist?  I’m aware I have to sacrifice things such as being taken out for dinner. But believe me, I can live without the scintillating conversation of “pass the butter” and “how’s your soup?”  And I don’t have to put out in the end.

I finally thought I had her convinced until she suggested we meet more often.

But I’m sticking to my guns. Don’t expect a break-up anytime soon. I’ll be sharing my stories for quite some time to come. And who knows, maybe one day I’ll meet a man with all the same qualities as my blog and I’ll be calling myself 4lastnames.

 

 

 

 

The Sweetest Place on Earth May 29, 2012

Filed under: Humor,Women's Humor — 3lastnamesblog @ 9:30 pm
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As Memorial Day weekend approaches, I think back to one of my most memorable. It was when Julie, Gabby and I went to Hershey Park.

Now for me, driving to Hershey Park was a journey. It entailed the Belt Parkway and a bridge. But the drive was part of the adventure and we were prepared. We had snacks, maps and Julie made a CD of songs we could all sing.

We decided to leave Friday night so we could go to the park first thing Saturday morning. We stopped for an early dinner to avoid traffic and by the Verrazano Bridge we were already hoarse from belting out songs. Happiness abounded.

I’m not exactly sure where we were, but suddenly something happened with Julie’s contact lens and apparently she was going to need a corneal transplant if I didn’t pull off the road so she could get her contact solution out of the trunk. So I quickly pulled off the next exit and surgery was averted. However, it was a lot easier to pull off the highway, then to get back on. I must give credit to Julie’s navigational skills, she managed to get us back where we belonged but this was not after a scene which resembled The Exorcist meets Fight Club.

At about 1:00AM my car finally rolled into the hotel parking lot. The three of us got out of the car drained, dazed and disheveled, but with a sense of pride that we actually made it.

We all got right into bed and drifted off to sleep immediately. However, I was awakened by what sounded like hogs with the flu. I quickly realized it was snoring, coming from both my daughters. They were like drunken truck drivers. I swear it was making my bed vibrate. I gazed over at them trying to take solace in their beautiful cherub faces fast asleep, but all I could think of was their poor husbands…

The next morning they woke up ready and raring to go. I was like a limp noodle, but that was ok because my only plan was to sit on a bench and drink coffee while they made a mad dash from roller coaster to roller coaster, each more death defying than the other.

The day had just begun. It was only the second roller coaster. I saw Julie and Gabby on the ride and we waved at each other. It was then I happened to run into my school’s PTA president. We engaged in quite a lengthy conversation and when it was over I looked for Gabby and Julie. They had to have been off the ride, because I waved to them at least 10 minutes ago. I couldn’t find them anywhere. I couldn’t call them because I was holding their cell phones. So there was nothing else I could do but sit on the bench and wait.  After about 20 minutes I started to get pissed. Those selfish bitches couldn’t wait for me? They had to run off to the next roller coaster without me? But I knew I couldn’t leave that spot because then they’d never find me. I waited another 20 minutes which felt like 2 hours. Now my anger was turning into fear. Where could they possibly be? My imagination was starting to run away with me. I waited another 20 minutes and now I was hysterical. My children were missing! In a panic, I asked a vendor if it was possible to have someone paged and he said no. So I found two security guards walking the grounds.

“MY CHILDREN ARE LOST!” I cried.

“Ok, Mam, stay calm. Where did you last see them?”

“ON THE RIDE!”

What are their names Mam?”

“JULIE AND GABBY. ONE IS WEARING A BLUE SHIRT AND THE OTHER WHITE…”

“And their ages, Mam?”

“TWENTY-TWO and FOURTEEN”, I sobbed!

Just as the guards gave me a look like I was nuts, I spied from the corner of my eye Gabby and Julie walking slowly toward me with a worried look on their face. Why in the world is Mommy talking to security? Did something happen?

Filled with relief, I ran over and gathered them in my arms. It turned out they had been waiting in line the whole time and had just gotten off the ride. I have no idea who I waved to, but apparently it was not my own children. I’m not sure who thought I was more crazy, the security guards or my own kids but for the rest of the day, every time I passed any security guards they looked at me kind of weird. I think word got out. “Crazy Lady walking!” as my daughters put it.

To get back at me, the girls made me go on a ride with them. It was a kiddies’ roller coaster with a mouse’s head on the front of each car, but don’t let that fool you. They didn’t call it “Wild Mouse” for nothing.

Sometimes a picture speaks a thousand words.

 

 

 

 

Just Relax

Filed under: Humor,middle age,Women's Humor,Women's Issues — 3lastnamesblog @ 9:16 pm
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I don’t know about you, but when I’m given the command to “relax”, it causes me to do just the opposite. Nothing relaxes me less than having someone tell me to do so. That being said let me tell you about the day of the year I hear it the most.

It’s the day my sister (older by 3 years, 9 months) and I have our annual visit to our gynecologist for a checkup and our radiologist for a mammogram. The reason we go together every year is because they are both in Manhattan, and I don’t do Manhattan- not alone anyway. The offices are on chic Park Ave, so we powder and puff, put on our best shoes and handbags and off we go.

The drive into the city is an adventure in and of itself. My sister drives her giant SUV like a bull in a china shop- she just plows right through.  Now, if I was ever in a war, I’d want my sister driving my tank, but not so much on the FDR Drive. Every trip, we have at least 3 brushes with death.  “Relax” she says.  Relax? I’d rather be getting my pap smear than be in that car.

Our first appointment is at the radiologist. You ladies know the drill. My sister and I are escorted to small rooms to put on the blue gown, opening in the front.  The rooms are a calming pale blue with magazines, so we can “relax” and forget that our breasts are about to be pressed into tortillas. The doctor comes in (who happens to be a stunning woman) to give me a quick look. As she examines me, she always asks me where my sister and I are going for lunch. I tell her we’re going to the small café down the block, but the truth is we’re going to the Jackson Hole and getting the biggest burger known to man, with double cheese, sautéed mushroom and onions, french fries and extra pickles. No bun of course, we’re not pigs.

One year, I had the dreaded “We just need one more picture”. Usually that’s code for “The doctor sees something suspicious and wants to get a better look”. With sheer panic and fear I set out to find my sister in the maze of small, blue rooms.  After barging into two wrong rooms, I finally found my sister. I slammed the door open and wailed”THEY WANT ONE MORE PICTURE” and quickly continued on to meet my fate. But in that second, I stopped thinking about my impending doom. I couldn’t get the vision of my sister out of my head. Why is it that her blue gown looked like a designer dress from Bloomingdales while mine made me look like a Holocaust victim? Only my sister could have it wrapped and tied so perfectly she could wear it for a night out on the town. She was even accessorized.

Next we go to the gynecologist. It’s just down the block. We walk hand in hand; the reason being I’m afraid we’ll get separated and I won’t be able to find my way. (Yes, down the block, but it’s the city!) My gynecologist is the kindest, most gentle, elderly man with a South African accent that could melt your heart… except when my legs are in stirrups and he’s coming at me with a contraption that resembles the jaws of a triceratops. Yes, I know; I must”relax”.

Well, this year’s visit ended with a kicker. We were walking back to the car discussing our exams when my sister told me the most upsetting thing I had ever heard. The doctor told her he could tell she wasn’t in menopause because she had the vagina of 23 year old! WHAT?????  I mean, my podiatrist told me I had the feet of a woman half my age, but that still makes my feet older than her vagina, and who really cares about feet anyway?  This meant she had me beat! No matter how good I try to look, no matter how thin I try to get, she’s won. She has the younger vagina.

So now I have to wait an entire year until our next visit and I will not”relax” until I find out the age of my vagina. And it better be 22!

 

Four

Filed under: Humor,Women's Humor,Women's Issues — 3lastnamesblog @ 9:14 pm
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On Saturday Night Live they do a commercial spoof about the birth control pill Seasonique, which I happen to be on. The commercial begins with serene women in flowy skirts strolling in the park on a beautiful spring day. They are chatting about how freeing it is to be on Seasonique because you only  have  your” friend”  4 times a year…but when you DO .…the commercial then cuts to these same women  who now resemble Rambo, wielding machetes and slinging machine guns . To you this may be funny. To me this is my true life story.

It starts as an ordinary day. The sun is shining, the children are laughing and playing, the mailman whistles a happy tune. Then slowly the storm clouds start to gather overhead. The birds stop chirping. People in the street start running for cover. Dogs start barking because they sense something undetectable by humans. Yes, I have ovulated.

But, I will never admit to PMS.  It’s YOU not ME!  Must you crunch those pretzels so loudly? Do you really have to blink?

Here’s an example of one of my typical PMS outbursts. One day I came home to find the butter out. To me, butter is like LSD, it can only lead to destruction. In a PMS rage I bellowed, “WHAT HAS BEEN GOING ON IN THIS HOUSE WHILE I WAS OUT!!?”   “IS THIS HOW I RAISED YOU?” “MUST YOU INFLUENCE YOUR  SISTER?” “IS THIS WHERE YOUR LIVES ARE HEADED?” And of course, no matter what the fight I have to throw in, “DO YOU KNOW WHO PAYS FOR THIS BUTTER?  And finally I collapsed into a torrent of PMS tears.

Of all the wonderful traits I could’ve passed on to my two daughters, PMS seems to be the most dominant.  Occasionally, the three of us have PMS simultaneously. This means triple the sobbing, triple the yelling and triple the cursing. This continues until our house literally implodes upon us. And there we are, digging our way out of the rubble; the shattered pieces of our lives surrounding us. We silently stare at each other knowing we are all thinking the same exact thing…….wanna get some frozen yogurt?

For all my friends and family who have experienced my PMS and have lived to tell about it, I thank you. At least now it is only once every season.  My next one will be around Valentine’s Day. I wear black on Valentine’s Day.  Need I say more? Don’t say I didn’t give you fair warning.

 

 

 

 

 

 

1 in 5 ?

Filed under: Humor,middle age,single,Women's Humor,Women's Issues — 3lastnamesblog @ 9:10 pm
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The TV commercial for Match.com says that 1 in 5 couples now meet on online dating sites. If that’s the case, then perhaps my online dating experience can be of some help to society.

First, the basics. Everyone’s age ends in a “nine”.  Thirty-nine means you’re in your forties. Forty-nine means you’re in your fifties and fifty-nine means you’re eighty. “Separated” means married and looking to cheat. “Slender” means fat. “Entrepreneur” means unemployed and a baseball cap in every picture means balding.

At 49 (now for perpetuity) I seem to be the “it “girl for the 60 and over crowd. Men with white hair fill my in-box promising me compatibility even though they’re a “bit” over my age range. A BIT over my age range? Methuselah is younger than these guys.  So needless to say, I can’t wait around for men my age to email me, I have to search them out.

I have a very intense screening process. When I finally do send an email it’s after three days of examining the pictures and profile like it’s a crime scene investigation. And no matter how handsome and successful he may portray himself to be, if he doesn’t capitalize his I’s or know the difference between “your and you’re”- he’s out.  Smiley faces is a deal breaker too. Pictures of his pets- enough said.

So let’s say he gets through the first round and we email each other. I’m not interested in having a pen pal so I suggest the phone right away.  When he calls for the first time, I do not answer the phone. This is not game playing; this is the next part of the screening process. I have to listen to see if I like his voice and I must analyze his message. “Okie doke” and “Alrighty then” will not get him a return phone call.

If he can survive the phone message and the obligatory first conversation, we set up a date. The chances I’m going to like him are slim to none. For instance, I schlepped all the way into the city only to be met by a man wearing the same brown, suede earth shoes I wore in seventh grade. That was it for me. On another date the guy was wearing “slacks”. You know, the kind with a belt that’s pulled up practically to his chin. He reminded me of my Uncle Itchy and as much as I love my Uncle Itchy, I do not want to date him.  One guy had a tattoo of a bull’s-eye over his heart…NEXT!   Another  guy  had me meet him at the Spartan Diner. He sang Broadway tunes so ridiculously loud from our booth everyone in the diner started singing along. I picked up the check. He thought it was because I liked him, but it was so I could get the hell out of there as fast as I could.

A couple of months ago I had a nice date set up, but I was dreading it all day. My mother said I was the only girl she knew that had a date with a Jewish doctor for dinner at a nice steak house and was in a bad mood from it. But just as I expected, I didn’t like him. He said his “ch’s” funny. And he had bad eyebrows. But the creamed spinach was delish.

I admit it; I’m a man’s worst online dating nightmare. There’s probably a skull and crossbones next to my profile picture. But, I’m on a hiatus from Match right now and have hidden my profile. So all the men out there on the internet can take a big sigh of relief. There’s no chance our paths will cross anytime soon.