The Ones That Got Away

Tergiversate

2012-01-29T14:54:00.001-08:00

As some of you may know, tergiversate was the 2011 Word of the Year. For those who didn't know, it was – at least according to Dictionary.com, anyway. Not familiar with the word that won the top spot, I had to look it up. It's a verb. Ter-JIV-er-sate: to repeatedly change one's attitude or opinions (i.e. flip-flopping). Given what's going on in the political world today, it seems apropos. I believe one of the runners-up in this annual word contest was austerity, by the way. See what I mean? Apropos.

Politicians are always accused of saying one thing and doing another, changing their positions – flip-flopping, as it were – or, dare I say, tergiversating. There, I said it. (You know, I never thought I'd actually use this word.) Are they really flip-flopping, though? Or, is it more likely that over time their positions naturally change? If you believe in a candidate and support their views – which may be different from those previously held – then they've evolved; but if you don't, they're spineless flip-floppers with no convictions. Personally, I tend to support the former half of this statement.

Let's look at some issues. How about Global Warming. Even the die-hard Global Warming enthusiasts have softened somewhat on this issue – don't they call it Climate Change now? That aside, when this first came up, you could see the potential merit. We'd been polluting the land and water, jets have been contaminating the skies and we've been to outer space where we've left behind debris (yes, we've littered on the moon!). None of this is good – common sense would tell you that. So you can see how someone could quickly get on board the go-green-and-take-care-of-the-environment train. And while good stewardship of the planet and recycling materials just makes sense, I still don't totally buy the whole Green initiative. Take electric cars. (Chevy Volt anyone?) As one comedian once said, "Where do you think electricity comes from, jelly beans?" There's a bigger agenda behind Green Technology. If this were a crime-themed plot (and I'm not saying it's not), the detectives would be following the money trail. Maybe we should worry less about those who've changed their position on the severity of this issue and look to see who's actually driving this train.

How about this dicey topic. Roe vs. Wade. (Gasp) This is a big one, I know. I will tell you when I was younger, I considered myself Pro Choice – which is not to say that I was pro abortion. I just felt that a woman should have the right to make that decision for herself and the federal government shouldn't have a say. For me, it was about taking away a right we currently had – it's always hard to take back – and I bought into the brainwashing or… the glossing over of the real issue. See, when this is discussed, it's often spoken of as a condition. The condition, of course, is pregnancy. Should a woman have the right to terminate her present condition, pregnancy? I don't know how much support this issue would have if the question was, "Should a woman have the right to kill a baby?" This is the point Pro Lifers have been trying to make for years. I know this raises all sorts of questions on when is it actually a baby, and I don't have the answer to that; what I do know is that since abortion is legal and, therefore, a viable option to those who find themselves with an unwanted pregnancy (see, condition again – no mention of baby), it's been completely abused. Do you know that according to Planned Parenthood statistics (parenthood - anyone see the irony here?) they typically abort over 300,000 babies a year? This figure does not include abortions done at private institutions. And what's worse (as if it could get any worse) is that the tax-payers (you and me) help pay for it. Yeah, Planned Parenthood is subsidized with our tax money and that is just wrong. Why should the federal government be involved in this otherwise personal situation? The fact of the matter is this program makes it too easy for irresponsible people to have irresponsible sex and act irresponsibly thereafter. Abortion is not a quick fix. If it were illegal, would we have women wildly horseback riding and jumping out of trees hoping to induce miscarriages? Maybe, but the one sure thing is that the number of terminated pregnancies would drop dramatically if abortion wasn't so readily available. So what's my position now that I'm a little older? I can't really be Pro Choice anymore since that is, in essence, pro abortion, so I'm Pro Life. If that makes me a flip-flopper, so be it.

On a lighter note, let's look at the issue of spending. My father always told me to put away some of my paycheck each week into a savings account. "Make paying yourself the same as paying a creditor," he'd say. I didn't listen. Youth, as they say, is wasted on the young. When you're in your 20s and the money is flowing (or in Congress with a surplus) and there's not only clothes, but shoes to be had, who puts money away for a rainy day? Back in the 80s no one paid heed to the term fiscal responsibility. Again, with a little age comes wisdom. I am not irresponsible with money now. I do not spend it frivolously. I live well within my means – in fact, I may actually be living below my means. I wish I had been more responsible with my money sooner. What's important, though, is that I am responsible now. I recognized the error of my ways and made the necessary changes for my future. Did I cut back on some things? Yes, of course. Am I better off today because of it? Absolutely. Does that mean my attitude regarding spending has changed? Hey, if the shoe fits…

Changes of opinions are not necessarily flip-flops. Many of them are based on continuing education, maturity and growth. Years ago, one of my favorite bands began to change their style. Sometime around Abacab or shortly thereafter, Genesis went down more of a 'pop' path than they had been known for. When asked about this, Phil Collins said, and I'm paraphrasing here, "As you grow, you don't read the same types of books, do you? See the same types of movies? Or even eat the same foods? So why should we play the same type of music?" Their change in style saddened me at the time, but he has a point, doesn't he? Why shouldn't we change our minds, attitudes and opinions on things as we grow? It's natural. Think about this, if we didn't, we'd all still be playing with LEGOs and eating Pez.

Ever-evolving,

~ M.

Traditions

2011-12-24T10:41:00.001-08:00

I had a sixth grade teacher who once asked our class why we had traditions. At 11 years of age, I think many of us asked her what she even meant by traditions. She was talking about holidays, rituals and customs, of course. Mrs. Dickerson posed that question long ago and here I am, 36 years later, still contemplating it.

I suppose in December it's not surprising to think about Christmas – in terms of holiday traditions that is. For most of us, there's a routine we typically follow this time of year: cards are written, we make (and eat) lots of tasty treats, homes get decorated. We write our lists – and check them twice – ensuring we don't miss a single thing.

I've mentioned before that I'm an organized, list making person and – if I may digress for a moment – as many know, I've long employed the use of Post-It notes to aid me in my organizational strategy (see www.otga.blogspot.com 5-23-10 Craig Wilson). I rely on those little yellow squares to keep my mind calm and clutter free. With everything that Christmas entails aside, these past few weeks have been busy ones for me and, as such, I had Post-It notes coming out my ears. I had mini lists organizing what I needed for: my Dad's birthday party, my sister-in-law's birthday party, my impending house guests, my Thanksgiving contributions, and last, but certainly not least, the snack bag for our upcoming trip to Disney. I'm already a single woman with two cats; did I really need to be that lady, too? You know, the one with Post-It notes tacked all over the place? What would be next, hoarding? No, I'm not a hoarder. I'm too neat and tidy to be in jeopardy of that, but the lists… (insert eye roll, add Oy vey). To gain control over a burgeoning compulsive behavior problem, I pulled them all off the front of my fridge and stacked them in their chronological order of importance and placed them discreetly along side my grocery list. Okay, disorder averted, back to traditions.

I mail Christmas cards out right after Thanksgiving. In many of the cards I receive back, "Yours was the first one I got this year," is written in as a P.S. For these folks, that kicks off their holidays – "Oh, her card is here, 'tis the season!"

I make peanut brittle each year for a few people who tell me Christmas wouldn't be Christmas without it – and, naturally, that's why I do it. I'd rather be a contributing part of their experience than one who diminishes it somehow by not having the crunchy confection for them.

And, of course, the biggie – I decorate my house the very same day I put away the autumn decorations. No better example for the passing of time than to box up what's past and prep for what's coming. I set up the village and put all the knick-knacks in their designated places.

When my family comes over, it's always my nephew who marvels at all the decorations. "I turned the lights on in the village," he says with glee. "They were waiting for you," I say in reply. Already knowing the answer, he lightheartedly asks, "Are there Nestle Crunch jingle bells in the snowman jar?" Amused, I just respond with a simple, "Yes." After all, that's why they're there – I know he's going to ask. "Oh, I love this guy," he says as he tumbles the small Santa shaker that's enthralled him for years. Taking it all in, I smile and say, "I know you do."

His joy has become part of my tradition and even when he's older, when he may no longer light the town, or want a chocolate jingle bell (although this isn't likely) or shake the little Santa snow globe, I'll remember his childhood enthusiasm and cherish the memories attached to those things.

Griffin's nearing the age I was when Mrs. Dickerson posed that question: Why do we have traditions? The answer is too deep for a child to really understand. We have them because they anchor us to who we are, our past and what's important to us. It's why nostalgia tugs at our heart strings – traditions are the ties that bind.

Merry Christmas,

~ M.

The New Dating Game

2011-11-27T14:41:00.001-08:00

Have I been out of the dating field so long that they've completely altered the whole arena without me even knowing? I'm talking about 'style' dates. Are you familiar with these things, you know, dates with a theme… dates du jour, if you will?

Here's one type: Prankster dates. Example: Pretend to be a couple looking to buy a new car, maybe. Doesn't that sound like fun - totally yanking the chain of someone else trying to earn a living? Or why stop there? Why not pretend to be a married couple who needs to put an aging parent in a home? Together you can tour assisted living facilities and giggle behind the backs of those showing you around. Oh, what fun! They say prankster dates do bring out your playful side.

Another one is the 'Best Of' dates. Examples may include trying to find the best ice cream parlor in town or, say, the best microbrewery. In these instances, while getting to know not only each other, but a particular town, couples can eat themselves into oblivion or drink themselves into oblivion – the best of both worlds – either way, I think chances are good each will end up vomiting – and, really, what better way to get to know someone than when they're at their worst?

Or how about this: Scavenger Hunt dates. This is apparently the adult version of that childhood classic I Spy with my Little Eye. Example: "Would you like to go to the boardwalk and see how many people we can spot wearing hats?" I don't think I need to add any additional commentary on this one, do you? Seriously, could you imagine being asked out on a date like this? I mean if you're already in a relationship and happen to be out taking a walk and decide to throw in something like… like… nope, not even then, forget it. What would follow a date like this, you know, assuming the relationship progressed? "Say, honey, how about a road trip? Let's see which of us can find a license plate from Alaska first." Unless you're dating a seven-year-old, I'd say this indicates your search for Mr. Right (or Mrs.) is far from over.

I'd be remiss if I didn't mention the Errand Date. Pretty much self-explanatory, and again, picture you're not in a relationship with this person, you're being asked out on a date. "Say, if you're not doing anything this weekend, the hull of my boat needs refinishing…" It's not a euphemism. The theory behind this one is that tedious chores become fun dates. Could you imagine? Think about it, yard work, grocery shopping, house cleaning, ooh, laundry – you know, with this line of thinking the fun is nearly limitless – and why not get to know someone by sorting through their dirty laundry? This is what seems to interest people nowadays, anyway.

I don't know. It's probably just me (it usually is), but does anyone ever just do dinner and a movie anymore? Maybe this sort of date could regain its popularity if it had a trendy name? What do you think about The Retro Date? Call me old-fashioned, but I kind of like the sound of that.

~ M.

Creepy-Crawlies

2011-10-23T08:24:00.001-07:00

October is the perfect month for Halloween – the days are shorter, the air is crisp and there's a slight howling to the sound of the nighttime wind. Leaves blow around and trees look dead. Throw a full moon in there and you have all the makings for a full-on creep fest.

Halloween, as it's become, is a far cry from its Festival of the Dead origins. I don't believe that spirits rise and wreak havoc on this day, as some do; no, for me, I think of Halloween as a day for kids to dress up in costumes and amass a lot of candy. Still, with that said – and even though it's just one day – I think all the associated autumn decorations can add a certain degree of spookiness to the entire month of October. A spookiness that could make someone a little jumpy, maybe… especially if that someone is me – someone who gets creeped out by little things like those fake spider rings that kids like to leave lying around. And, if I don't care for fake spiders, you can bet I'm not that fond of the real ones. Now listen, spiders outside – even tarantulas – don't really bother me, but in my house, that's a different story.

My blood ran cold and my heart skipped a beat as my breath caught in my throat one night when I came in late and found a spider the size of a plum clinging to my kitchen wall up where it meets the ceiling. As I stood there, frozen in fear, I couldn't imagine what I was going to do. My ceilings are 12'-0' high. I knew I couldn't leave it there. What if it wandered off? Where might it go? Where might it lay eggs? These are just a few of the things that went through my mind as my heartbeat picked up speed and I began to perspire. I mulled over my options: call my brother for help, no; spray with Raid thereby saturating my wall and ceiling, no; could I leave it there, no – definitely not. I knew what had to be done and I was the one who was going to have to do it.

I steeled my resolve and got the necessary supplies – namely, a telescoping duster and what I call my scorpion killer, which is really just a Swiffer sweeper wrapped in paper towel. (That's a story for a different day.) The plan was to stand on a stool and using the fully extended duster fling the eight-legged wonder to the floor after which I'd hop down and exterminate this poor in-the-wrong-place-at-the-wrong-time creature with the use of my previously prepared squisher Swiffer.

Here's where my plan went awry. Standing on the stool, I had to stretch over my hutch to reach this thing and as the duster grazed one or two of the legs, it didn't fling him – as I had hoped – but merely knocked him off his perch. I nearly fell off my own perch as the spider wafted down the wall and fell behind the hutch. I quickly grabbed the Swiffer and got on my knees to locate the fallen threat on the floor beneath the hutch. The problem was he wasn't there. Oh my.

I was in a full body sweat at this point. Where did it go? Placing my cheek to the wall, I strained to look into the ½" space behind the hutch. Ugh, there he was, clinging to the back of the hutch, hanging on like… like… well, like Spiderman. Now what was I going to do? That hutch weighs a ton and it was too close to the wall to get anything behind it. It's amazing what a little adrenaline can do. I managed to move it about an inch and half, and still, my adversary held fast. This was becoming a battle of the wills.

I once again grabbed the extended duster. I swooshed it along the back of the hutch. I missed. I swooshed again. Success! He dropped to the floor. I grabbed the Swiffer and pushed it back and forth under the hutch until the paper towel revealed the tell-tale wet spot of a spider that once was. With legs loosely strewn about, I had squished him into oblivion. It was horrible, but I did what I had to do. Many of our spiders are poisonous and I couldn't just leave it there.

I don't advocate killing

It's certainly not thrilling

But when the fear is bone-chilling

You've got to be willing

They'll creep and they'll crawl

And they'll cling to your wall

With eight legs in all

They're not likely to fall

Some are tan, some are brown, some are black

All will send chills up your back

You cannot cut any slack

You must give them a whack

You simply can't risk being bitten

These are lethal spiders, not kittens

For 'kill or be killed,' it is written

So, adios, Spidey – good riddens

~ M (the exterminator)

Unplug and Get Connected

2011-09-25T08:13:00.001-07:00

I subscribe to Real Simple. For those not familiar with this magazine, it often contains bits of wisdom, useful advice and general suggestions to make your life easier – in fact, that's its tag line: Real Simple ~ life made easier. It typically features product comparisons, frugal repurposing ideas and organizational strategies, not to mention quick-and-easy dinner recipes – all things designed to help you manage your life. But one of the other things it has that I enjoy is 'the simple list' – a monthly dose of entertaining trivia tidbits, as it were.

In the September issue, the list included this little gem: "53% of 16 to 22-year-olds around the world would rather give up their sense of smell than their favorite personal technology device." Did you catch that? 53%. This statistic was derived from research culled by McCann Worldgroup. Could that really be true? 53%? That's over half. Sadly, I guess it is. Don't these people realize that without a sense of smell, there isn't a sense of taste?

Hey, if I could digress for a moment – and I can – perhaps this could be an answer to the burgeoning obesity problem, you know, if there was actually a way to cut off one's sense of smell… I mean, why eat if you can't taste anything, other than for fuel, of course, and let's face it, people pushing high triple digits aren't eating just for fuel so… I think I could be on to something here.

Anyway, back to my point (yes, I have a point). People shouldn't be that attached to electronic devices that they'd be willing to compromise a basic bodily function. I think attached is the key word, and it reminds me of something I read once from The USA Today's Craig Wilson.

In one of his columns he talked about sitting on his porch watching people pass by. All were occupied with one device or another – Bluetooth, iPod, Blackberry – people just strolling along talking, toe-tapping, texting and tweeting, with unseen entities, not engaged in the immediate world around them. He said it was a while before he spotted one "sad sack" walking by with only his own thoughts for amusement. I can't remember now for sure, but I think he, like me, identified with the sad sack.

I think there's something disengaging about being plugged in all the time. It's not real living – not really.

I had a conversation recently with a fellow hiker about a similar topic: Is texting real communication? My opinion is no. Our discussion got a little heated as she ardently defended that it was. She's obviously a big texter – and texting is fine, it certainly has its place – but I held fast to my opinion. Think about it. You get a long-awaited promotion, achieve a life-long goal, get engaged, have a baby, whatever the case may be, do you text this news? Got it! Did it! Gonna do it! Done it! Maybe it's just me, but that seems a little dry. Or, how about the flipside, when the news is not so good? Say you lose your job, or your health, or worse, a loved one. What do you do then? Send out an email blast? Got fired. It's cancer. They died. No, I say in these moments, you need to reach out, if not face-to-face, at least voice-to-voice, and connect with another human being.

It's like I told my niece, who has hundreds, if not thousands, of Facebook friends, this type of communication is simply not real – and I couldn't resist pointing out that her Facebook friends aren't real either. She disagreed, of course. She's only 11, and I didn't want to scare her, but that didn't stop me from pointing out that 'Katey' in Boise was not only not a real friend but could potentially be a 47-year-old deranged man sitting in some basement somewhere. When she asked why a grown man would pretend to be a young girl I told her to ask her father. The point I was trying to make was that she doesn't truly know who these people are. It is not real!

Attention all Facebookers, Ben Johnson once said, "True happiness consists not in the multitude of friends, but in the worth and choice." I don't know who Ben Johnson is – I got that quote from a daily inspirational calendar – but he seems pretty wise to me.

We shouldn't go through life with glazed-over computer eyes, with a residual ringing hum in our ears and cramped fingers. We should be engaged in living in the real world with real people making true connections – so, turn off the computer, pull out the earbuds and put down the device. Hey, here's an idea, why not go out and take a walk with friend, and who knows, maybe stop along the way and smell the roses – while you still can!

~ M.

Hmm? I wonder...

2011-08-28T08:04:00.001-07:00

Throughout life you'll often come upon points to ponder. Sometimes they're profound existential type things and other times it's inconsequential stuff; either way, from time to time, we find ourselves musing, "Hmm, I wonder why…" or, "Hmm, I wonder what…" Sometimes it's even where – as in, "Hmm, I wonder where I left my keys." You can always recognize a contemplative soul-searching thought by the way we momentarily freeze while our eyes dart round as if they're looking for the answer in the back of our heads. Perhaps, though, as we age, the answers aren't to be found there.

As Bill Cosby opined years ago, the brain may actually be located in the behind. The way he told it was something to the effect of you find yourself getting up for something, but then you stop in your tracks because you don't know why you're up or where you were even headed, so you sit back down. Just as your cheeks hit the seat, you remember. "Oh, yeah," you proclaim as you jump up again to resume the task at hand. I don't know if this has ever been scientifically – or anatomically – proven, but I think he may have been on to something.

I've often remarked about the effects of aging, and really, all the comments have had to do with what happens to us physically, I've yet to discuss the mental side of things (could be denial). I'm beginning to think that along with flapping triceps, cleavage wrinkles and muffin tops, a slight decline in mental acuity may be part of the inevitable process of aging. I shudder to think that, but I think it just the same – and I'm not the only one. The folks at Shoebox, you know, that tiny little division of Hallmark, they think so too.

A card I purchased recently for a friend's birthday read: "Is this the birthday when you start asking yourself life's big questions?" The inside message continued, "Like, why did I come into this room? I knew a minute ago." My friend and I are both in our… mid-to-upper 40s and we can easily relate to this. The fact that the card exists is proof to me that we are not alone. Maybe reaching this point in life – when we experience little mental lapses – is a mid-life rite of passage. Who knows?

Speaking of age and birthdays, here's something that's plagued me for the past few years now – it actually started in my late 30s. I'm never quite sure how old I am anymore. Should I be worried? I don't think so. It's not like I think I'm 14, I just always seem to make myself one year older than I actually am. See, I'm the baby of my peer group, so my friends are always turning the next year older before I do. One can get conditioned to hearing a particular number, you know. And the other thing that stumps me is when I try to rely on math to calculate my age. This never works. I was born in October so subtracting the year of my birth from the current year doesn't help at all because I won't be that age until the 10^th month. What this really means for me is that birthdays have become a little anti-climatic.

In a few years I'll be 50 (ooh, I got chills), but I can just see it now. When I turn 49, I'm going to think it's my 50^th, then I'll spend much of that year thinking I am 50, and when I actually do turn 50 the following year, I'll be thinking, "Wasn't I 50 last year?" See? Anti-climatic. I've digressed. Shocker? No? I know.

To be frank, I'm not so sure I really believe these mental lapses are truly due to an aging brain. I just think as we get older we have a lot more going on up there. We're juggling schedules, taking care of homes and family matters, dealing with work responsibilities, fulfilling commitments to organizations, etc… We're processing a lot of data, and as women, we are processing much of it all at once.

So for me, I'll try not to worry if I find myself in a room without immediately knowing why I'm in there, or if I age myself prematurely, or if I find Pledge in my refrigerator (didn't actually happen, almost happened – as I stood in front of the open fridge, with can in hand, I caught myself and asked, "What the hell are you doing?"). None of these things are that tragic.

What is beginning to worry me, though, is forgetting my train of thought while in the middle of an actual conversation. Forgive the pun, but this one gives me pause. Has this happened to you yet? You're clipping along, "Blah, blah, blah…" when all of a sudden you have no idea what it was you were talking about and so you're forced to ask your listener, "What was I saying?" They respond, "You were telling me a story." "Oh," you say, "was it any good?" That's when you have to wonder.

~ M.

Murphy!

2011-07-31T08:19:00.001-07:00

Murphy's Law ~ a universal rule, standard or regulation that dictates a customary course of conduct for forces which conspire against you in a manner that contradicts all expectations: i.e. what you don't want to happen will and, conversely, what you'd like to happen won't.

Articles of Annoyance

i. Business and Commerce

a. Cram to complete a project on time and the minute it's finished the deadline is postponed. Murphy!

b. Wait months for responses to work inquiries and they all come in the day before you leave on vacation. Murphy!

c. If you stand and watch a multiple page fax get pulled through the machine every page will go, but look away for a minute and pages get pulled through together – and the recipient never tells you, "I see you were trying to send seven pages, but I only got six." Double Murphy!

d. Throw away some old files and you will need one of them the very next week. Murphy!

e. You finally make a purchase after much deliberating and it goes on sale the next day. Murphy!

f. You book a non-refundable airline ticket and the following day you're notified of an on-line super-saver special. Murphy!

g. Discard a coupon declaring that you'll never use it only to find yourself in the issuing store shortly thereafter. Murphy!

h. Unable to locate an item in a store you finally ask for help only to have said item pointed out right in front of you. Murphy!

ii. Automotive and Technology

a. When you're already late, you get every light red. Murphy!

b. When you're in no rush at all, you sail through every light green. Murphy!

c. Your car makes a funny noise so you bring it in for service; of course, now it purrs like a kitten. Murphy!

d. You finally get around that jerk on the road only to have him sit right behind you at the next red light. Murphy!

e. You're running late to the airport so, of course, your flight is on time; but arrive a little extra early and your flight is delayed giving you even more time to hang out at the gate. Murphy!

f. You're waiting for an important phone call, but you have to go to the bathroom. The minute you sit down the phone rings. Murphy!

g. Just as you're making a phone call, Call Waiting beeps in. Murphy!

h. Bring your phone to the couch while watching TV and it will not ring, but leave it in the kitchen and it rings every time. Murphy!

i. Lie down to take a nap and the phone will ring. Murphy!

iii. Leisure and Entertainment

a. You play Solitaire to kill time and win the first hand. Murphy!

b. You get up early every day – whether you have to or not – but on the day you must be up early, you oversleep. Murphy!

c. You struggle to get your kids up for school, but on a Saturday, they're up at 6:00 am raring to go. Murphy!

d. You almost always have an umbrella with you, but the one day you don't, naturally, it rains. Murphy!

e. Routine weekends come and go but then you get invited to two events on the same day. Murphy!

f. Dinner's on time and your guests are late; guests are on time, dinner isn't ready. Murphy!

g. You'd like the refrigerator door to stay open while putting groceries away but it closes constantly; yet, reach in for one thing, expecting it to close behind you and it stays wide open. Murphy!

h. When doing a Word Search, if you start at the top, the word you're looking for will be at the bottom and vice versa – start at the bottom and that word is hiding at the top. Murphy!

i. Ideas come to you when you're without any means to record them and when you do get the opportunity to write them down you can't remember a single thing. Murphy!

j. Tell someone repeatedly about a funny show they just have to watch and when they finally do the episode they see is a clunker. Murphy!

ODE TO MURPHY – that cosmic mo-fo

What would we do without you?

You're reliable, dependable, steadfast and true

We count on you, time after time

To annoy us as you mess with our minds

We expect one thing and another will happen

That's just how it is and always has been

I don't like to grumble, I don't want to complain

But it gets on my nerves and drives me insane

I'd like to turn the tide, if only I could

If it were possible, believe me, I would

I'd like to get you – just once – for a change

I know this vendetta may sound kind of strange

And, of course, I'm aware that it simply can't be

So I'll just grit my teeth and blurt out "Murphy!"

Constantly vexed…

~ M.

Adjectives are Subjective

2011-06-24T07:52:00.001-07:00

Adjective: n. a word used to modify a noun or other substantive

Okay, I'm pretty sure we all know what adjectives are, but have you ever noticed how their meanings can vary depending on either who's using them or the situation involved? Take adjectives like pretty, hard or scary for example. I think we're all familiar with these words and their definitions, but let me illustrate what I'm talking about.

Pretty. A fellow hiker once told me I was the prettiest girl on the trail. After an uncomfortable moment I said, "Really, even with my gray hair, pointy nose and this fang?" Then, after flashing a smile to reveal said fang – to which he was largely unamused – I just humbly said, "Thanks." See, that's what he thought and he's entitled to his opinion. Who am I to argue with what he deems pretty. Beauty, as they say, is in the eye of the beholder.

Here's another one: Hard. When I first started doing crossword puzzles, I found them challenging, and since their difficulty increases as the weekdays progress, the NY Times Sunday puzzle was extremely hard for me – well, often the Thursday puzzle was just as tough (as any puzzler knows) – but that's not the case anymore. Don't get me wrong, it's not that they're effortless, but they've gone from hard to, not only doable but, enjoyable. So, although I wouldn't describe these puzzles as hard anymore, others still may. Or on a completely different note, take push-ups. Many people can do these – some can even add fancy claps in between or do them on one hand. I can't do them at all. So, where brain-teasers are easy for me and hard for others, push-ups are easy for some, yet hard (more like impossible) for me. Get it? The meaning changes depending on the person.

Or how about this: Scary. There are those (who are out of their minds) who enjoy bungee jumping. These folks describe this activity as exhilarating. I'd describe it as scary – more like terrifying, actually. Now, I've performed live on stage many times, which I find exhilarating, but I know there are others who find that prospect terrifying. In fact, I know people who'd rather jump off a bridge than perform on stage – see, it's subjective.

So, here's the latest contradiction of terms, if you will: Fun/Humiliating. My sister-in-law asked me to participate with her in a fashion show at our local Anthropologie. "It'll be fun," she said. Fun? Nothing fits me in that store. I'm a shoulder less, small-chested, short-waisted, long-legged deformity with a big behind. Fun? Try humiliating. And to really seal the deal with that one, I'd have to walk in heels while showcasing my flouncy outfit. I've been in sneakers and flip-flops for years. When I walk in heels I look like a man in drag on his first day on the job. At the risk of being redundant, fun? Fun for whom, exactly? Well, I'm a good sport if nothing else, so without mincing words, I agreed. "Yeah, okay," I said, "it'll be… fun."

Well, what could have been disappointment to someone else was a major relief to me. Turns out they had enough participants (read: people who actually wanted to be there), so my services were not needed. (I feel I should tell you that their roster was full and I was excused without ever being seen.) But here's what's interesting – once the pressure was off, my initial relief did sort of turn to a mild disappointment. You know, it might have been fun.

~ M.

To Tip or Not to Tip?

2011-05-29T15:25:00.001-07:00

Granted, this may not be as deep as contemplating one's mortality, but still, I think it's a question that bears some pondering. Not that long ago, this was basically a non-issue. I don't mean that people didn't tip. I just think it was pretty clear on who did get tipped – not so much nowadays.

Because they work at a reduced rate, waiters and waitresses have long received tips/additional compensation from their customers which naturally encourages them to provide decent service. It's similar with bartenders, and this can work greatly to your advantage. If you go up to a bar that's three deep and generously tip your mixer, you're guaranteed to get good service the rest of the night. It's a two-way street, you-scratch-my-back-I'll-scratch-your-back, quid pro quo sort of thing. People wanting good service, from people providing a service, are able to reward those for said service, acknowledging the quality of the service provided. Too wordy? You get it, though. It's a win-win. No problem tipping these folks.

Then, of course, there are what I call seasonal tips. These were probably born of a time when workers received Christmas bonuses and liked to spread the wealth – so to speak. To digress for a moment, this was so long ago that they were actually called Christmas bonuses without any fear of PC repercussions – that wouldn't fly in today's standards, but most don't get bonuses (by any name) anymore so… In spite of that, though, we still have those who get a few bucks or a "holiday" gift card from us at the end of the year: postal carriers and/or regular delivery/service people, for example – but should they?

And what about others, like, say hairdressers or pet groomers who may be seen regularly throughout the year? Should I be giving year-end, seasonal tips to them, too? I don't. I tip these people at each service – never mind that they're owner/operators and tip etiquette dictates they shouldn't be tipped at all, I still do. They don't seem to mind.

But does everybody deserve a tip? What I'm getting at is the tip jar. The ubiquitous tip jar. You know what I'm talking about. It's on almost every counter nowadays: delis, Starbucks, ice cream shops, mailing centers, dry cleaners, the list goes on – basically you'd be hard-pressed to come across a service counter without a tip jar. Now the thing is I can't go behind the counter and make a bagel, pour coffee or scoop gelato, nor can I ring up packing popcorn or retrieve my own dry cleaning. This is why these establishments hire employees, and they pay them accordingly to perform these services – some even have health benefits. This overhead is built into the cost of the consumer goods. So, if we're already paying $2.50 for a bagel, $5.00 for a froo-froo cup o'joe or $6.95 to have a shirt cleaned, I say we're already doing our part – get rid of the stupid tip jar already. I don't even like when grocery stores let teens come in and bag groceries for tips – and this has nothing to do with the fact that they don't understand simple bagging techniques. This is a service the store should provide. I think the teens can come in (squished fruit aside), but the store should make the donation – maybe on an hourly rate, whatever they work out – not the patron. It's enough already!

And here's the latest. In the early Spring, I was traveling for work, and as such, stayed at a hotel – not some cheesy little flea-bag motel, no, a pleasant hotel designed for extended stay business travelers. I've stayed at this place before. I like it because their rooms are suites with nice amenities. On this most recent visit, the clock in my room displayed an incorrect time. Now I'm fairly bright and up until this point I'd never come across a clock radio with programming that was beyond my capabilities but, darn it, I could not figure out how to reset the time.

"Well, I won't use the clock," I thought, "I'll just phone down to the desk for a wake-up call." Who was I kidding? I'm too OCD to have a clock display the wrong time. According to the time on my cell phone, this clock was 3 hours off local California time. I was still on MST which already had me off by an hour, so between my phone, my watch and this clock, I was in quite the time warp. I had to fix it.

Willing to risk looking like an inept fool – is there any other kind? – I called down to the desk to inquire about fixing the time. "Oh, we'll send someone right up," was their reply. I responded, "You don't have to do that, just tell me how to do it." "You can't do it," they said, "it's locked." Locked? Has there been a run on time-setting tomfoolery that I don't know about?

Anyway, the maintenance guy comes up, unlocks the back of the clock and resets the time. Easy-peasy. Even with the chit-chat, this only took about a minute and a half. While thanking him, I gestured toward the door. To say he was lingering is an understatement. He didn't move. Thoughts raced through my mind. Am I supposed to tip this guy? I'm not tipping him. It's not like I requested some special service – no, I'm not tipping him. This room costs over $200 a night, the clock should have been set correctly – I refuse to tip for this. If the clock wasn't locked (ridiculous), I'd have fixed it myself. I am not tipping this guy. I turned, walked to the door, opened it and thanked him once more. Clearly put off by my lack of tipping, he left. "I should not have had to tip that guy," I said aloud to no one.

With that behind me, I grabbed my bag and headed down to the restaurant. Guess who I met at the elevator? I smiled, then said, "Oh, by the way, here's a couple of bucks for helping me with the clock." At the Lobby level, we parted ways. He was $2.00 richer and I rationalized how it was worth the two bucks not to anguish anymore over not tipping him. But I gotta tell ya – I shouldn't have had to tip that guy!

At the tipping point,

~ M.

Whoa, Nellie!

2011-04-23T10:55:00.001-07:00

As I've mentioned, I hike Pinnacle Peak regularly. I've been hiking that trail for years now and it never ceases to amaze me how, in spite of the fact that it is the same trail, the hikes are always different.

There are days – probably when I'm a little tired – when the climbs seem steeper than others. Some times, after a slight rain or a dewy morning, the path is so slick that you really have to watch your step lest you slide right off the mountain. And then of course, my favorite, days when the wind is so gusty that you feel like you're walking through a sand-blasting zone. Yes, the hikes are rarely the same.

Well, recently, my trusty hill offered me a whole new experience – an unprecedented experience (is that redundant?). I should point out that there are rules and regulations posted at Pinnacle Peak to inform those who may not be in the know of trail etiquette how to conduct themselves. They're really common sense type things:

- No smoking (no kidding, this is posted – like who would climb a mountain while smoking?)

- Only service dogs are allowed on the trail (how many blind people do you think are hiking up there – and how are they reading the sign?)

- Keep right (this is a challenge for some, believe it or not – makes me wonder how these people drive)

- Runners yield to walkers (makes sense – no need to mow anybody down)

- People – whether running or walking – yield to horses (horses?)

In all my time up there I've often wondered why they had that note about horses. I have never seen a horse up there, and even though I've yet to see an actual horse, I finally saw evidence – a lot of evidence – to support that horses may sometime share the trail. Who knew?

At first there were scattered horseshoe-shaped prints in the dirt. These were quickly followed by more scattering – and I'm not talking about hoof prints anymore. There were volumes – wait, is that the right word? Does volume only apply to liquid quantity? You know what, it doesn't matter; if it does, it still applies. There were massive, voluminous piles of horse poop everywhere. I don't think the… let's call it… output was normal. Maybe the poor boy (assuming – you know most males can go anywhere) was sick or perhaps he's an I.B.S. sufferer, who knows? What I can tell you is that the trail was covered in such an unnatural way, it made negotiating it quite difficult. I guess riders don't have to worry about curbing their horses.

In any event, it reminded me of a riddle I heard many years ago and I didn't hesitate to amuse my fellow hikers with it:

What's brown and sounds like a bell? DUNG!

Giddy-up…

~ M.

Extra! Extra!

2011-03-27T15:15:00.001-07:00

I'm a newspaper subscriber. I know, they say no one's buying papers anymore, or I suppose what's really said is that no one is reading papers anymore. And, in spite of the fact that I get regular home delivery, I do sort of fall into that category. I've admitted that I don't get the paper to stay up on events – current or otherwise – although, I do scan the headlines. No, I get the paper for the puzzles. Translation = big dork. There, I've said it (once again). Hey, I'm not the only one who does puzzles, you know. It's people like me who make big business for others. Think about it, where would Will Shortz be without all of us puzzlers?

There are others, too, whose entire careers lie in creating brain-teasers for people like me – addicts, who are hooked on solving these mental conundrums. I know I'm digressing but what non-puzzlers don't realize is that these things really do stimulate the brain, and if you do them like I do, over lunch, it helps to pace one's ingestion and, therefore, digestion. If not for the puzzles, I'd eat my lunch in four minutes flat. But anyway, as I said, I've digressed.

So, I've been getting home delivery for over seven years. Every morning, no matter what time I'm up (as early as 4:30 in the summer) my paper is always there, in my driveway, waiting for me. I have a very dependable carrier. I've never met him, but we exchange Christmas cards every year. Without fail, some time during the middle of December, folded within the newsprint, I find a greeting card wishing me all the best for the holiday season. This enables me to reciprocate with yuletide wishes of my own along with a gesture of appreciation for his steadfast commitment.

I assume my carrier is an elderly gentleman – possibly a retired veteran. I say elderly because his name is Newton. You just don't see that name that much anymore – at least not among the younger generation, that's for sure. And I say retired vet because of his reliability and dedication to his customers. I've already told you how my paper is always there, but it's also always tucked safely away in a plastic protective sleeve, and on the rare days we have rain, he double bags the paper. This is no slouchy young person doing a half-assed job; no, this is someone who takes pride in his work.

Now this is where I have an issue. (You knew I had to have one.) Lately, someone – a likely dog-walker, indeed – is taking the plastic bags off my paper (read: stealing). I'm sure the perpetrator (correct word for alleged crime committer) doesn't think there's anything wrong with this. In fact, I'd bet they just assume I discard the bags once I bring the paper inside. And guess what? They're right. But that's not really the point, is it?

Newton places my paper in the protective – operative word here – bag for a reason. To protect it. Newsprint is already filthy. Do I need road dust and grime all over my paper, too? Or how about bird poop? That's always nice to see while the paper sits on my kitchen island – where I eat! One day it drizzled and my paper was dotted with water marks. And another time, on a breezy day, I had to retrieve wind strewn papers from my front yard. Should I have to tolerate this? No, I don't think so. It's my paper – I'm paying for it – and it's my sleeve. It should remain on the paper, protecting it, until such time when I remove it.

As I said, I don't think the thief sees the crime, and I certainly don't mean to be petty, but it is my property. I mean, how cheap can you be? If you're a dog walker and you know you need to pick up poop, buy a box of bags already.

Well, I did just that. I bought a box of quart-sized Ziploc bags and placed them in my driveway with a note taped to the top of the box that read: To whoever is taking my newspaper bags, please take this box of bags instead. The box was never taken – it sat out there for over a week (risking an HOA violation). But here's the thing, my newspaper bags have remained untouched ever since, and that is a good thing.

Ode to Dogwalkers

I don't mean to whine

But the paper is mine

And I don't like to squawk

But if you've a dog to walk

Who poops as he goes,

Then heaven knows

Prepared you must be –

Bring a bag or two, or even three

Because petty theft, I cannot condone

So, please, leave my paper alone!

Reporting it as it is…

~ M

Unrequited Love

2011-02-27T13:49:00.001-08:00

I once read "the love that lasts longest is the love that's never returned." Do you think that's true? I think in some ways it can be. It actually reminds me of a line from Steel Magnolias. In one scene, while talking about love, the Truvy character says, "Unrequited love. My favorite." I get this – totally, and the reason why is that it's romantic: A love that never was – feelings of longing, unfulfilled; or, a love that never fully blossomed – cut short before having had a chance to develop. See the thing is, in these instances, the love is left to linger – shrouded in all the possibility of an endless series of daydreaming what-ifs. It lives in the mind, tugging at the heart, and while certainly romantic, not entirely real.

Valentine's Day was this month. You can bet the hype and marketing behind selling a piece of jewelry, a red rose or a box of chocolates had nothing to do with spreading love. I know it's been said to death, but Valentine's Day really is a Hallmark holiday. I know what you're thinking, 'she was stiffed,' but that's not it. True love is not expressed with some token gift on one day in the middle of February. It's a way of being, day in and day out, all year long.

I remember a joke I heard years ago about true love. It went something like this:

As a man lay dying, his wife dutifully at his bedside, he says, "Ethel, as I think back over our life together, it occurs to me that you have always been there."

E: Harry, I love you. I'll always be here.

H: When I got my draft notice, you were there.

E: I was.

H: Then I went off to war, but you waited for me, Ethel.

E: I did.

H: Remember that car accident I had?
E: I do.

H: You were there for that.

E: I was.

H: And when I lost my job, you didn't leave me.

E: I didn't.

H: Even now, in this hospital room, you're still here.

E: I am.

H: Ethel, I realize now… you're obviously a jinx!

I like that joke, but it is just that – a joke. And there's really nothing to be laughed at about a life long relationship.

I love seeing an elderly couple walking hand-in-hand, like in that jewelry store ad where the young couple passes the old couple in the park – you know which one I mean. Our lives go by so quickly. One minute we're in our 20s, then 30s, blink – 40s and before you know it, you're up there. What could be more romantic than to take a wrinkled hand and look into the eyes of a face that shows the passage of time and still see the young person you fell in love with, the person you grew with, the person you shared your life with?

Years ago, when I was involved with Randy (The Ones That Got Away, Chapter 27), he was always looking for compliments about his physicality, and although his appearance deserved them – he was tall, had a manly build and was handsome – I didn't comment on those things. I often commented on how clever I thought he was, his quick wit and how he always made me laugh. I told him I was attracted to his mind. And isn't that better, really? I don't think he thought so, but I do. The mind is the essence of who we really are – it's our thoughts and dreams, our fears and concerns, our hopes and aspirations. Everything else fades away.

So, if you have the good fortune of sharing your life with someone – through all the trials and tribulations, all the ins and outs, all the ups and downs – that is certainly not a jinx. It is a bona fide blessing.

Unrequited love may be Truvy's favorite, and it may make for great drama, but it's not the stuff real life is made of.

~ M.

Time in a Bottle

2011-01-30T13:34:00.001-08:00

Jim Croce wanted to save time in a bottle, but that's just not possible – or is it? While it may be true that we can't save up time, hoarding it away, keeping it stashed and on hand for some future use, can't we capture it – in little bits and pieces – and hold on to it? The folks at Kodak thought so – remember the Kodak moment?

I have decades worth of time frozen images, albums upon albums, stored in my bedroom in a densely packed rattan wicker trunk – there at the ready, offering up a lifetime of memories. I have sepia shots of my grandparents, my parents' pictures from my youth and a multitude of photos that detail my life's experiences which include a fairly large collection of snapshots from many of the community plays I've done.

I enjoy trodding the boards of Memory Lane, revisiting casts and crews, reliving rehearsals and performances, remembering the highlights – which often include when things didn't always go as planned (like when our set nearly collapsed on Lend Me A Tenor). For those brief moments, I'm transported back in time.

And let me tell you, if an album can do that for me, just imagine what a video could do. I have about a dozen performances on tape. I haven't watched them in years – not since they were first recorded, actually – but this past Christmas, Tim and Kanna converted them to DVDs for me, so I've been watching them – reliving them. From my couch, I've been spending time with old friends, people who were dear to me, some that have passed on – how great to see them so full of life; how great to interact with them again; how great to, once more, share a piece of my life with them.

Albums and recordings are obvious means to capture memories, but for me, almost anything has that ability. Last month I was back in NJ for my sister's wedding. Driving around the State was like driving through shades of my history – ghosts of my past everywhere I looked. That's one of the things I love best about going back there. I lived there for 39 years. I simply cannot go from Point A to Point B without recalling some memory. It's impossible. As I cruise from here to there it's a constant barrage of I remember the time when… and oh, that's where so-and-so and I were… It's always something – some little slice from my life. I enjoy that.

And the cool thing is that memories are always being formed. Peter Gabriel penned, "Nothing fades as fast as the future and nothing clings like the past." I wholeheartedly agree with that. I don't live in the past, but as the present slips into it, I guess I do hang on – it's the fabric of my life. It's who I am. Some would call me a sensie (sensitive, sappy, sentimentalist) and that's okay. I admitted long ago – in Chapter One of The Ones That Got Away, actually – that I'm very sentimental and that almost everything holds some special meaning for me. And it's true.

Case in point: I just received my December Visa bill. Yes, the Visa bill stirred up feelings of nostalgia – scoff if you must. As I scanned the details of account activity, it took me right back to the weekend of Linda's wedding. The charge from the All Seasons Diner brought me back to Eatontown, NJ to the post-wedding brunch with the newlyweds. The Lukoil entry placed me at the GSP Cheesequake rest area, sitting in my rental car, chatting with my dad – discussing why the gas was pumping so slowly and, more importantly, why that fool would pull into the pumps like that and block the flow of traffic. And the Budget charge took me directly to Newark Airport – returning the car, hopping on the Airtrain, heading down to the gate – the magical weekend behind us, looking forward to going home.

Our lives go by day by day, just like turning pages in a book. Our experiences are what make up our individual books – our books of memories. And the thing is, you never know what's going to stick. You think it will be the big things, but oftentimes, it's the little things: sharing ice cream with your brother, covering a flubbed line on stage or getting gas with your dad.

Can you save time in a bottle? No, you can't. But, you can certainly store its treasures in your heart.

~ M.

Destined to Spend Christmas with Danny Aiello

2010-12-19T15:20:00.001-08:00

One of the best things in life is that we don't know what the future holds. This can be a double-edged sword, though.

I had no idea that last Christmas would be my last Christmas with Lillie and Izzie. I lost them both this year. I'm not complaining. I was truly blessed to have them for nearly two decades. I knew they wouldn't live forever, but it's been hard. I still miss them.

Since their passing, I've been going through the expected this is the first so-and-so without Izzie, which became – much too soon – this is the first such-and-such without Izzie and Lillie. And now, naturally, this is the first Christmas without them.

As I began to decorate my house this year, I could not bring myself to fill my large decorative bowl with the red glass ornaments like I usually do. Lillie always enjoyed sleeping in that bowl and, at Christmastime, Izzie always sat beside me while I filled it with the glass balls. No, this year, the bowl would remain empty. I made that decision while holding the boxed ornaments in my garage. Placing them back on the shelf, I saw the picture of Danny Aiello that's on the newspaper sleeve that safely protects them all year long. Looking at it for an extended moment, I sighed, "My first Christmas without Lillie and Izzie… or Danny Aeillo." (See 12/7/08 post) Or so I thought.

Shortly after Thanksgiving I received an email from – you'll never believe this – Danny Aiello's press agent. It seems Danny released a Christmas CD and she wanted to give me a copy. Whaaa? I guess I was destined to spend Christmas with Danny Aiello, after all. I graciously accepted her offer.

The CD is dedicated to his son – whom he lost this year to pancreatic cancer. I lost my beloved pets. He lost his son. I can't even imagine what that's like.

The CD opens with a touching intro about Danny's youth, a time when life was simple – living was harder, but life was simpler. The songs that follow are classics arranged in jazzy combos that give them a fresh fun feel. As I listen, I can imagine sitting at a small cocktail table in an upholstered circular booth in a dimly lit intimate club watching the show live – I love it. His version of "Santa Claus is Coming to Town" is reminiscent of something performed at Club Babalu – a welcome change to the over-played rendition by Bruce Springsteen. (Sorry Springsteen fans.) Rounding out the collection is a dedication to his son – a heartfelt "My Christmas Song for You" – a song about the simple joys of the season.

What we shouldn't forget is that this season is built around the celebration of the birth of Jesus. Jesus came to give us hope, to redeem us, to save us – through him, life goes on.

I know it sounds silly, but getting this CD reminds me of that very thing. I didn't bring out those ornaments, and as such, thought this would be a Christmas without Danny Aiello, but then his CD shows up – a CD dedicated to his late son. Life goes on – you can't stop living.

As I write this, like Lillie before her, Bailey's climbed into that bowl – good thing it's empty, I guess. Next year will be different. Next year – God willing – when decorating my house, I'll remove the Danny Aiello article to unwrap the red glass ornaments, I'll have him crooning Christmas carols in my living room and I'll look to Bailey and Zoe and say, "Well, girls, it's another Christmas with Danny Aiello."

Merry Christmas ~

Great Expectations

2010-11-28T14:02:00.001-08:00

Who was it who said expectations were great? You're thinking Charles Dickens, of course; but he didn't really say that. His simply titled one of his stories Great Expectations – and there's a big difference.

Personally, I don't think expectations are so great. In fact, I think they can be the pitfall to disappointment. Sometimes when you eagerly anticipate something, the expectation grows, and more times than not, the reality cannot live up to the hype. Here's a simple example, but you'll get the point: You hear raves about the latest comedy – it was so funny, I was hysterical, just awesome – so you run out to see it, only to sit there wondering if this could possibly be the same movie you heard so much about. The same thing happens with circumstances and events in our lives – except we create the hype. We build things up in our minds, setting ourselves up with unrealistic expectations.

Likewise, you can sometimes have expectations of unpleasant things, things you may be dreading – be it a business encounter, a personal confrontation or some future event. It's the expectations that cause the dread to grow, and let me tell you – from experience – the reality is rarely as dreadful as what you were concocting in your head. Plus, the reality only happens once, as opposed to the perpetual loop of doom that your imagination runs up until the time the incident actually comes to pass. See, here again, expectations… not so great. Truth is they almost never are.

I think the key to a peaceful existence lies in having little to no expectations. But how can you go through life like that? You can't. Expectations are inherent with living. As we go through life we're constantly experiencing things, and like it or not, those experiences set us up and mold our thoughts for the future.

I think, often times, our biggest disappointments come from other people letting us down – unfulfilled expectations. Our feelings get hurt. I'll tell you what, those blasted 'feelings' are another source of disappointment in life – that's a whole different topic, though. But to digress for just a moment, how many people do you think are on anti-depressants or abusing drugs/alcohol because of how they feel? Anyway…

Someone once said, "It's easier to please people you don't know than it is to please people you do know." I agree with that – and it's all because of expectations. We simply expect more from those we know. But – and this is a big but – do we live our lives as if those we know are expecting more from us? And then act in such a way as to fulfill those expectations? I don't think so, but just imagine the world we'd be living in if we did – wouldn't that be a pip?

~ M.

What's in a Name?

2010-10-24T08:38:00.001-07:00

It was Romeo who said, "What's in a name? That which we call a rose by another name would smell just a sweet." And while Shakespeare was certainly right about that, I think there's a little more to it. A lot more, actually.

Growing up as a child I didn't realize that Wrigley's gum was named after the man whose company shared his name – how could I? a.) I was seven. b.) I favored the less corporate-promoting variety, Juicy Fruit, and c.) I was interested in the gum more for the wrappers – remember those super cool L-link chains you could make?

So, it should be safe to assume that if I didn't realize the gum was named after the magnate, you can bet I didn't know Wrigley Field was named after the same guy. Wrigley Field. It just doesn't sound like an ego stroke. It sounds like a ballpark. Wrigley Field.

I feel the same way about Shea Stadium, which I just recently found out was actually named William A. Shea Municipal Stadium after – you guessed it – William A. Shea who is, as they say, the man responsible for bringing National League baseball back to New York. With an accomplishment like that, it makes sense to dedicate a baseball stadium to him; but, again, it doesn't feel like an ego stroke when it's a bestowed honor; plus, it sounds like a ballpark. Shea Stadium.

I touched on this topic in my book, The Ones That Got Away – A Dating Memoir, when I mentioned going to see a concert at The Spectrum. The Spectrum. Now that sounds like a stadium – especially if you say it with a deep reverberative tone: The Spectrum. It's not called that anymore. I don't even know what it's called – or what it was called the last time I was there. It was named after some bank, and with all the recent folds, mergers and acquisitions who knows what it might be called now.

I'm sure it's me, but I just don't care for those corporate named stadiums: Staples Center, Bank One Ballpark which, of course, has already been changed to Chase Field (which does sound a little better, but still) or University of Phoenix Stadium (that has a catchy ring to it, huh?) which has nothing to do with Phoenix, Arizona (and is actually located in Glendale).

I like a name that's rooted in history or tied to a specific area or team – think Candlestick Park, Fenway or The Astrodome. Now those are stadium names. So, what's in name? Ego, that's what.

It's my understanding we have Anheuser-Busch to thank for the first corporate branded stadium. See, that's what happens. After the first one does it, everyone follows. He did what? I want to do that! He has what? I have to have that! What worked for them? Oh, let's do that! I call it the "Me, too" syndrome.

This doesn't just apply to ballparks, either. Think back to old TV commercials. Remember how, back in the day, struggling wanna-be actors used to portray normal everyday folks in an effort to hawk shampoos, beauty products and hair dyes, not to mention things like cereal and sneakers. Now you'd be hard-pressed to see an ad for these types of products without an accomplished actor, model or athlete peddling these wares. Why? Because someone did it first and everyone else followed suit; and thanks to that person we'll probably never have another Mr. Wipple or Dunkin' Donuts guy. These two no-names became icons – but those days are over. It's all about the recognizable name now.

And the latest trend? I read recently that Sheryl Crow – a breast cancer survivor – donated a large sum of money to an establishment which is now named The Sheryl Crow Imaging Center. While I think it's great she made such a large donation, I can't help but wonder what this means for the future. How many will now follow in these footsteps? It'd be different if the imaging center was named in memoriam – think Susan G. Komen – but it wasn't, and to me, there's something very ego-y about that. She probably had nothing to do with it; it's likely the facility just wanted to publicly express their gratitude – hospital wings and the like are commonly named after their benefactors. I just think it would have been a greater gesture had the donation been made anonymously.

But anonymity, my friends, has no name… and therein lies the rub!

~ M.

Say, what?

2010-09-26T14:01:00.001-07:00

"Gimme Shelter" used to be one of my favorite songs. I suppose, in some way, it may still be. That song is tied to a memory which will likely keep it tethered to my heart. It's just that now I'd rather think of the memory and imagine the song without ever actually hearing it again. Why? Well, because I finally found out what they were saying.

Prior to Rock Band, I had no idea what the majority of the lyrics were. I liked the music, dug the melody… "Love, sister, it's just a kiss away, it's just a kiss away…" You know I hesitate to even quote that, since it's probably wrong. Anyway, one day – while basking in nostalgia – I watched my brother rack up a lot of points to this song as colorful blocks flew up the neck of his guitar. The basking ended abruptly when the words "rape" and "murder" ticked along the screen. I sat straight up. "What? Rape? Murder? Just what the heck is this song about?" I'm sorry, but knowing the lyrics has ruined this song for me. I simply cannot bop along belting out lyrics like "rape" and "murder."

I'm certainly not the first person to misunderstand lyrics. Rosie O'Donnell thought "Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds" was about a girl with a bowel disorder – and who could blame her? It does sound more like a girl with colitis goes by than a girl with kaleidoscope eyes. And I once heard that Bob Dylan was shocked at what he thought was pure boldness on the part of The Beatles to sing "I get high" on "I Want to Hold your Hand" when, in fact, they're actually singing "I can't hide."

Everyone misunderstands lyrics.

For years my sister thought Jimmy Buffett cut his heel on a Pop-Tart before cruising back home. Never mind that that doesn't make sense or the fact that I've told her multiple times it's 'pop-top' – to this day, in her mind, it was a Pop-Tart that lacerated his foot in "Margaritaville."

Sometimes we just sing along without ever considering if it makes sense or not; other times we may over think it – like Linda did with England Dan & John Ford Coley's "I'd Really Love to See You Tonight." She'd sing, "I'm not talkin' 'bout the linen…" Again I was there to set her straight (which I'm sure she loved). I said, "It's not linen, it's movin' in." She told me it was linen and that the word was being used as a metaphor for all the stereotypical duties a woman incurs when a man and a woman get together. (See what I mean? A little over thought.) I said, "It is not linen. It is not a metaphor. It's movin' in."

Then there are the times we get the lyrics right but miss the point. Years ago, a friend of mine who loved The Kinks' classic "Lola" had no idea that Lola was a transvestite. She actually sang the correct lyrics – for the whole song – and still didn't know. I asked her what she thought the end meant when they say, "I'm glad I'm a man, and so is Lola." She said Lola was happy the guy was a man. And while I'm sure he was happy about that, I said, "That's not it. Lola's a man, too." All she said was, "Oh…" as the logic gently washed over her.

Back in the 70s long before PC was prevalent, my other sister, Laura, believed that Three Dog Night loved the natives when, in fact, it's the ladies they loved as they sang "Joy to the World."

Although I knew it didn't make any sense, for years I thought the boys of CCR didn't need a pinhead just to hang around "Down on the Corner" (even though pinheads are often fun to be with). It wasn't until I paid attention to the word nickel in the next line that I figured out they must be saying 'penny.'

And while I had no idea why Billy Preston's Willie went 'round in circles (I first heard this song as a child when I really enjoyed spinning), I just thought we had that in common.

There are probably thousands of stories of misunderstood lyrics. After my experience with the Rolling Stones, I think sometimes it may be better not to know. As my friend Elena used to say, "I have no idea what they're saying, but I give it a 10 'cause I like the beat!"

Rock on –

~ M.

Place your Bets!

2010-08-22T14:32:00.001-07:00

Pwish. Plink. Kerplunk. "I'll set 'em up again," I said as my little brother reloaded the BBs. Dad, calling out from the front porch, asked, "What are you kids doing?" We responded in unison, "Shooting soda cans." It was the mid '70s, BB guns weren't an issue and this was what you did when you grew up in a rural part of town.

"Let me have a shot," Dad said. As he pumped the gun, he turned to us and offered what seemed to be a deal – an opportunity – too good to pass up. "I'll bet you fifty cents that even with a 20 second lead I can hit you with a BB." (I know what you're thinking, and you're right – good times.) Timmy turned to me wide-eyed, but not in wonder, it was more like fear; while I, on the other hand, stared back with eyebrows raised as I took in the possibility of it all. Fifty cents? Hey, that was a couple of packs of chewing gum back then.

"I'll have a 20 second lead?" I needed to verify some particulars before making my final decision. "Yup." "And you get one shot?" "Right." Hmm… I could run pretty fast… He won't hit me… Uhhmmm… "Alright, you're on," I blurted out with great enthusiasm.

As my adrenaline began to pump, my dad pumped the gun. "Go," he yelled, and I took off running. I ran for all I was worth and as I neared the woods, I heard the shot – PWOOSH – sail right past me. Quite pleased with myself, I strode back toward my dad and brother. Almost simultaneously, I said, "Well, I did it," as my dad said, "Double or nothing I'll get you with just a 10 second lead." No time to bask in the glory, I guess. Hmm… only a 10 second lead this time? Still charged by my victory high, I accepted the challenge. "I'll do it!"

4-3-2-1, PWOOSH. Missed again. "Ha, I'm like lightning," I called out, "You owe me one dollar!" Then he said these fatherly words that I will never forget, "Double or nothing I'll get you this time." (Parenting was different then.) "You're on!" You have to remember, at this point, I was running for two bucks. Two dollars was a lot of money back in 1976.

3-2-1, PWOOSH – PWULPT! I was hit. That BB got me in the back of my right thigh just below my butt. I went down with my hand clasped to my leg, "Arghhh!" As I rolled on the ground writhing in pain, my dad walked over to me. And with the BB still deeply embedded in my leg, held tightly beneath my white-knuckled hand, he said these words: "Gambling does not pay."

The welt only lasted a few days, the lesson a lifetime.

~ M.

Party On!

2010-07-25T14:13:00.001-07:00

What'll they think of next? Sure, debutantes have long had their balls, young Jewish girls their Bat Mitzvahs and Latino chicas their Quinceñeras. But why are the festivities limited to only a select few? Well, they're not – not really. Why any girl has always had the opportunity to celebrate her Sweet Sixteen if she wants to. And then there's this other thing… Don't tell me you haven't heard about the latest reason to throw a party?

I'm taking about menarcheal rituals. For those not familiar with that term, it is the adjective form of the word menarche which is defined, according to Merriam-Webster, as the beginning of the menstrual function, especially the first menstrual period of an individual. Apparently mothers everywhere are now hosting 'first period' parties. Do I need to repeat myself? What will they think of next?

I can see the Hallmark cards now:

Adolescence is over

It's come to an end

And now you have

A monthly friend

You've hit puberty

Let's shout for joy

Good-bye little girl

Oh, boy – oh, boy!

Expect some cramps

And bloating, too

Shedding a uterine lining

Is not easy to do

Your head may ache

And moods will swing

But, you can procreate –

That's a cool thing

So what if it's painful

And you retain water

You're a woman now

My sweet baby daughter

Congratulations on your first period Honey!

I realize this is a milestone in a young woman's life, but it just doesn't seem like something you'd actually celebrate…

Now later in life when 'your friend' may be tardy,

but shows up, after all, that's when you party!

~ M.

Say, "Cheese."

2010-06-20T15:00:00.001-07:00

I've talked about the effects of aging before. It's a fascinating topic.

You know, when you're young, all you really hear about, in regard to aging, is some drivel about gray hair and a few wrinkles. And if you're like me, you grew up hearing trivializing things about it like Clairol's ad campaign, "I'm gonna wash that gray right out of my hair," or that laugh lines are okay; so what if you look like you have a ventriloquist's dummy's hinged mouth – it shows character. No, for some reason, no one talks about the other stuff.

It's not until you begin to undergo certain changes for yourself that you realize you're becoming part of a secret club: induction through experience. Now there may not be a secret handshake among club members, but there are definitely tell-tale signs that you are one of them. Club members don't typically go braless or wear sleeveless garments, for example. Recent inductees may eschew these sensible guidelines and walk around without any mammary support – their nipples aligned with their navels – or in tank-tops with triceps flapping like raglan sleeves; but this doesn't mean they're any less part of the club.

What I don't understand is why all the secrecy? Why not let us know what's in store? What's wrong with a little heads-up? Is it because it's just too horrifying to imagine, when you're young, what happens to your aging body, yet manageable to deal with, somehow, when it happens slowly, over time, in little increments? Maybe that's it.

Anyway, if you think of this aging thing like karate and with each new level you get another belt, then I'd guess I must be about a green belt already.

The latest development has me asking, "What's going on in my mouth? What is happening with my teeth?" I think they're on the move. I don't know how this is possible. I haven't had any teeth extracted and, as far as I know, my mouth is still the same size so… how is it they're moving? I obviously don't know the answer to that question; I just know that they are. Things are forever getting stuck between them now.

There was a time in my life when, over a meal, I could freely converse and even let out a toothy grin, in response to something amusing, without any fear of sickening my dining companion by exposing some uneaten particle wedged between my teeth. But, as any floss-carrying green-belt knows, those days are over.

And what is it about the mouth that distorts all size relativity? You know what I'm talking about: A caraway seed feels like a 2x4, a raspberry seed like a boulder, and a strand of chicken feels like the entire bird has taken roost amid the molars.

Did you ever have a piece of lettuce or tomato skin cling to the roof of your mouth? It feels like a tarp. This doesn't happen to me often, but when it does, it actually incites mild waves of panic as I first begin to try and discreetly remove it with my tongue. My eyes naturally begin to dart around as I focus on dislodging the suffocating blanket that is holding steadfast to my upper palate. These episodes almost always end with me in a cold sweat saying, "Exth-thcoothez me, there'thz thumthing sthtuck in my mouth." Earnestly repressing my gag reflex, I've often no choice but to distastefully remove the gossamery offender with my finger.

Well, I veered off a bit, but there you have it. I've entered the tooth migration stage of this inevitable process, but I'm not worried. So what if I now have a tiny spit-hole between my two front teeth; add that to my fang on the top right and my crowded English choppers on the bottom and my smile is still just as dazzling as ever! Say, "Cheese."

Wondering what the next belt will be…

~ M.

Craig Wilson

2010-05-23T14:17:00.001-07:00

I don't know if you're familiar with Craig Wilson or not, but I love this guy. So what if he's an openly gay man – that I've never actually met – who's been involved in a committed relationship for over 25 years. I don't care. I love him just the same.

I always look forward to his Wednesday column in the USA Today – nary one goes by unread. I appreciate his witty style, easy going disposition and overall demeanor. I relate to him. I don't know why. Maybe it's because we both grew up in the Northeast? Or that we're close in age? I don't know, but after one of his April columns, I became convinced that we must be kindred spirits.

This past April marked the 30 year anniversary of the Post-it note. Well, according to what he wrote in his column, he, too, has an affinity for these little wonders – 'love affair' was the term he actually used. I get that – totally.

Like Craig, I'm also a list maker and these little gems couldn't be handier for that. I not only use these for weekly grocery lists, but as anyone who knows me can testify, I have an entire year's worth of financial expenses stuck right to my check book. Also like Craig, I've been known to keep a Post-it note in the upper corner of my At-A-Glance calendar blotter detailing special 'to do' items for work. And ever the traditionalist myself, I, too, use only the canary yellow – let's face it, any Post-it user worth his salt wouldn't be caught dead with anything else.

I keep the 3x3 pads in my right-hand desk drawer, in a drawer in my kitchen and in my night table. They're always there at the ready to record a message, note some task that needs attending or, my favorite, to capture a brilliant idea. I've been known to tip-toe out of the shower, soaking wet, not willing to risk forgetting something clever that came to mind. And I've also jotted down reminders after waking from a sleepy haze lest I forget some ingenious insight I had.

Now, the problem is although the Post-it note will never let you down, our feeble minds are just not as reliable. I awoke one morning to find the words 'cloud nine' scribbled down and, for the life of me, I have no idea why – it was obviously worth noting at 3:00 a.m. but… perhaps it will come to me one day. In the meanwhile, as anyone who's read The Ones That Got Away – A Dating Memoir knows, I can happily live without a man in my life; but I don't think I could live without Post-its. I'm sure Craig Wilson would attest. And who wouldn't love that?

~ M.

LOVE

2010-04-29T08:36:00.001-07:00

I Corinthians 13:13 says, "And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love."

The love Paul is talking about is patient and kind – one that's not rude or self-seeking; one that always protects, always trusts, always perseveres.

The 13^th chapter of I Corinthians is read at many weddings and it's my opinion that spouses can only dream of attaining this type of pure love. See, the problem is that men and women are both human and, for most humans, things get in the way of pure love. Things like envy, pride, anger – the very things Paul says love is not.

Animal lovers know that pure love can be found with our pets. They're always there for you and they give love unconditionally; and when you nurture that relationship, they will become precious babies that you can interact with.

They greet you in the morning when you get up, follow you throughout the routine of your day and snuggle up with you at bedtime. And they have their own habits, as well – from napping locations, to play times, to preferred toys – that showcase their individual personalities.

I've had two Himalayan cats for over 17 years. Don't let that number just glide over you – 17 years is a long stretch of time, a long time. Think about it, 17 years ago Bill Clinton had only just begun his presidency, the only economic downturn anyone spoke of was still the Great Depression and terrorism hadn't quite fully made its way to the US yet. Do you get it? Seventeen years is a long, long time.

On April 8^th I lost my Izzie. Princess Isabella Serina passed away, leaving me genuinely broken hearted. There are no words that can convey the depth of my feelings to make any reader understand what she truly meant to me – it's personal, an unsurpassed special bond that was forged over nearly two decades.

To make my sorrow even deeper, I watch her sister, who's 17-1/2, look for her everywhere – not understanding. Her life is different now, my life is different now. And what's crushing me is that I know it's only a matter of time before I'll lose Lillie, too – or Queen Lillie Chandra as she's known on the registry of the Cat Fancier's Federation.

Of course I understand that loss is inevitable, but knowing that doesn't help at all – the pain is brutal. My Izzie was the cutest Iz that ever was or ever will be. She was like my shadow – always by my side. I'll miss her forever. And Miss Lil will always be my first baby girl – nothing will ever change that.

With a hole in my heart…

~ M.

Genesis

2010-03-28T08:17:00.000-07:00

IN THE BEGINNING a few classmates got together and formed a band. Over four decades later that band finally received the long overdue recognition that loyal fans always knew they deserved. On March 15, 2010 Genesis was inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.

I first became a fan, as a teenager, back in the early 80s with the release of Abacab. I actually won that album at a boardwalk game of chance at the Jersey shore and that, as it turned out, was just the beginning.

Their music spoke to me – the melodies, the stories – and I just couldn't get enough. They became a hobby of mine. I got all their past albums, interview records, picture books, you name it – if it could be had, I got a hold of it. I spent hours admiring album cover artwork while taking in the lyrics listening to these guys.

Killing time one day back in '87, I jotted down a list of all their albums in the order in which they were released. I then decided to see if I could write down the titles of all the songs on each album – I couldn't do this today, not by a long shot, but I could back then; these were my boys and I loved everything about them. With the list before me, I wondered how many song titles I could use in writing one little story.

What you'll read below is the fruit of my labor, a fictitious letter to a fictitious cousin – song titles italicized in bold…

Dear Cousin,

What's up? Yes, that's right, it is I again. How are you? I'm fine. Have you see any good movies lately? I did. The other night, me and Sarah Jane and Harold the barrel went to the cinema show. There was a double feature – Return of the Giant Hogweed and a mystery called Who Dunnit? After that we stopped at The Fountain of Salmacis for a while. Typically, Harold had many too many drinks and began reciting the Ballad of Big; but at least he didn't sing that Boy Scout fireside song like he usually does. Sarah wasn't much help either. She spent the whole night looking for someone. It wasn't too bad, though, me and Virgil, the bartender, had a nice conversation. Please don't ask me how I get into these situations.

I was sorry to hear that you've been down and out because your girlfriend broke up with you – but don't limit yourself, broaden your horizons. Like it or not, I've got to tell you that acting like the lonely man on the corner isn't going to help matters at all – you're taking it all too hard. It's gonna get better once you realize that the lady lies! Your mama always said that you have your own special way, so stop throwing it all away on everything and anything she does. True, you may be hurting right now, but keep it dark – after all, you're a man of our times. Don't let her keep you in limbo forever. Am I very wrong for telling you this? I hope not. You know one day you'll find the girl of your dreams.

Hey, did you hear we're moving? Now we have to get 'em out by Friday. We bought a home by the sea – it's our second home by the sea, actually. This one is the center house in a cul-de-sac. I still won't go swimming, though, not since that incident with the undertow – you remember. I suppose I don't really mind moving, after all, back in New York City there are constant incidents of robbery, assault and battery – that town is like a land of confusion! But still, I'm sure I'll miss the Broadway melody that you can sometimes hear during twilight as the light dies down on Broadway. Oh, I don't know, I just wish I had a place to call my own. Do you ever miss the city now that you live out in the wilderness?

Oh, remember the illegal alien I wrote you about, you know, the Brazilian? Well, we went out again and he gave me another gift – this time it was a musical box. Do you think I'm getting in too deep? Last week we went to that new club, For Absent Friends, and I felt like I was dancing with a moonlit knight. Then later, while walking home in the glow of the night, I could swear I saw a silver rainbow! You know how it is with me, entangled in romance – more fool me! Oh, did I tell you he calls me Duchess? But I don't know, in the beginning when he asked me about my feelings, I gave him no reply at all. But he's like the conqueror – he's got some sort of invisible touch on me. Yet, I'm just not sure, I mean, I know what I like, but, well, you might recall what happened after the ordeal with the eleventh Earl of Mar. I don't want this relationship to be overcome with stagnation just as the sour turns to sweet. Perhaps I should stop trying to read behind the lines – that type of thing could create a misunderstanding. I just don't know what to do. That's why I'm alone tonight writing to you instead of going out. Forget dating casually, that whole scenario is typically all in a mouse's night, just a job to do, really that's all it is. On the other hand, sometimes I feel as though I'm stuck in the waiting room of some sort of chamber of 32 doors, meandering up and down each aisle of plenty, counting out time, trying to avoid the serpent while looking for that one for the vine. But who am I kidding? What's really out there is nothing more than a grand parade of lifeless packaging – a bunch of dodo/lurker types. Maybe it's all part of some big plan, or maybe it's just a trick of the tail, who knows? But enough of that!

Thanks for those harlequin romance books you sent me. I agree with you – Visions of Angels is definitely better than Scenes from a Night's Dream. Thanks again! Hey, what did you think of Uncle Duke's travels? I can't believe that he actually climbed to the top of White Mountain! What's really unbelievable, though, is the knife he found that supposedly dates back to The Battle of Epping Forest! Oh, and you should see the necklace he brought back for me – it has seven stones in it. It's gorgeous!

I was listening to Unquiet Slumbers for those Sleepers in that Quiet Earth by Genesis. Have you ever heard of them? Anyway, it just ended so let me go and turn it on again… I'm back. I decided to put another record on instead so now I'm listening to Abacab.

I'm just noticing from looking out my window that it's nearly dusk and amidst the afterglow of the setting silent sun, mad man moon can faintly be seen while the breath from the watcher of the skies gently creates ripples that glide across the sweet, pink water of our pool. Who can deny the evidence of autumn?

Well, Cuz, I've got to go, supper's ready. We're having Domino's pizza. Don't stay in hiding – keep in touch. Talk to you soon,

Los Endos.

Love always,

Lilywhite Lilith

PS: Did you hear about my new pet? I actually got a squonk! I heard that you got a… wot, gorilla? That's a little hard to believe! Take care. J

That letter used 106 song titles from 14 albums. So, okay, I obviously had a lot of time to kill back then. Plus, as I've been known to say, what's the point of having a disorder if you're not going to be obsessive and compulsive about it?

I'll let some other crazed fan write the returned response using post 1987 song titles and the earlier ones I didn't use – I just don't have that kind of time anymore. But make no mistake, even though the amount of free time I have may have diminished, my fondness for the band has not.

So let me say Congrats to the boys – they've come a long way since playing Upstairs at Ronnie's. Genesis – a musical REVELATION.

I know what I like…

~ M.

Rain, Rain, Go Away

2010-02-28T13:48:00.001-08:00

They say El Niño is the reason

We've had so much rain this season.

Seven inches is what we're used to,

But over twelve months – not just two.

I don't mean to be cranky; I don't want to complain,

But I can't take one more day of rain.

I try not to be grumpy, or get upset,

But it's the desert – it shouldn't be wet.

Everything's soggy – puddles abound;

Our poor saguaros are falling down.

Those good ol' boys – so old, so tall –

Can't take this much rain, at all.

Rain is essential for life, I know.

It's our friend, and not our foe.

I understand that, I know that it's true,

But I'm a little spoiled – what can I do?

Normally our days are sunny

And all this rain isn't funny.

I'd like blue skies back, that's for sure –

Because, as I said, I can't take much more.

But, oh, the beauty this rain will bring;

We're sure to have an awesome spring.

We'll see the bright side to all these showers

When the desert's awash with wild flowers.

It won't be long until our days

Are filled, again, with beaming rays;

Then we'll get back to outdoor fun,

Living life in the Valley of the Sun.

Until then, try to stay dry…

~ M.

100 YEARS

2010-01-24T14:00:00.001-08:00

Another decade has passed us by. The first month of the new year, gone. To say that time flies is a huge understatement. Heck, I'm 45 already – that's almost half a century old.

I heard this line – or something close to this line – on Ray Romano's new show, Men of a Certain Age: "...in 100 years there'll be all new people." And I don't know why, but it just hit me – in 100 years there will be all new people. Not only won't I be here in 100 years, but NO ONE I currently know will be here, either. Now I don't know what you call that. A sobering thought? A humbling realization? At the very least, it should certainly be an eye-opener.

Life is short. Time is fleeting. We've all heard this over and over again. But the thing is, it's true – and we need to enjoy life while we're here. I'm not saying party like it's… like it's… 2099 (necessary update; but think about that for a moment. When Prince's song first came out in October of 1982, 1999 seemed like a lifetime away and now it's already 2010.) Nor am I saying to throw all caution to the wind with wild abandon (although, if you are going to throw caution to the wind, it probably should be with wild abandon – just makes sense). And I'm not saying to shirk all responsibility and live life high on the hog (I don't even know what that means, really. Somebody get Wilbur on the line…). I'm actually suggesting just the opposite – more of a 'stop and smell the roses' type of thing. Why not live with 'an attitude of gratitude,' as they say, and appreciate all the things we have TODAY. Most of us have it pretty good – even those who don't think they do, do.

With the holiday season already far behind us (more unnecessary support for the trite time flying theory), I think back to one night in particular. As I sat in an outdoor shopping/dining area (hey, Scottsdale, AZ) waiting for a friend, I watched many people coming and going. Most weren't speaking. Some couples looked like they were barely tolerating each other. Others looked to be mad at the world. And others still walked by as if on auto-pilot. Of those actually interacting, they did so mostly with the aid of an electronic device – texting and tweeting into cyberspace – ignoring those physically in their presence.

Why is it that, these days, so many people need to be plugged-in and entertained by external stimuli? Why does contentment seem to be an elusive thing of the past? I don't think it has to be.

The past is gone and the future is quickly slipping into the past – one minute at a time, like sand grains in an hourglass. I think people need to wake up, appreciate what they have and be content with the little things. The clock is ticking, and in 100 years from now there'll be all new people so…

Enjoy life –

It's Automatic...

2009-12-27T13:16:00.000-08:00

Are you one of those people who are always prepared? You know what I mean: Big bag o'snacks for even the tiniest road trip, never leave home without an umbrella, always travel with extra underwear. Well, are you? I am.

On a related note, I was never one perplexed by the folks aboard the S.S. Minnow. Who on earth would have all that stuff with them for a three hour tour – who? Me, that's who.

I always pack a crazy big bag of snacks and goodies for every trip. I nearly brought an entire deli on board my last trip to South Carolina – talk about your in-flight café!

I always keep an umbrella in my car – and I live in the desert. Old habits die hard, I guess.

I always travel with extra underwear. I don't know why, really; there was never an episode that launched this pattern of behavior. Well, there was one incident back in kindergarten, but that's a different story – and I was five. Nevertheless, even for an overnight stay, I always have extra panties packed safely away in a Ziploc bag.

You may be wondering, why the Ziploc? But you're only wondering that if you are someone who is not always prepared. See, the… let's call it the… emergency pair or EP if you will, the EP is always kept in the carry-on. This way, if your luggage gets lost, you'll have, at the very least, some clean underwear for the next day. On a normal trip the carry-on is usually filled with the aforementioned snacks, books, magazines, newspapers and miscellaneous electronic devices; not to mention travel documents, itinerary papers and, occasionally, a map – although Garmin is making this item unnecessary. Anyway, who wants their EP floating around with all this stuff, unprotected? Seems unsanitary – hence the Ziploc. See, always prepared.

Now, for an overnight stay, one may travel with just a carry-on so, in addition to all of the above, now the bag also includes clothing and toiletries (only 3 oz. bottles, please). This does not matter – the same rule applies: EP in a Ziploc. Hey, you can't really call it a disorder unless you're obsessive and compulsive about it.

Well, my behavior has not only been validated but, I'll go as far as to say, vindicated, as well. See, over the years, even though the snacks are always eaten, and I have had occasion to pull out the umbrella, I've never really needed my EP – never, not once – until recently, that is.

I was traveling back from a hop-skip to California when I noticed there was a flight set to depart for Phoenix much earlier than the one I was scheduled on. Could I make it – hmmm? That's the thing about Southwest – they're so accommodating. I was rebooked – hooray!

I rushed down to the gate to see passengers already lining up. Did I have time to go to the Ladies Room? I really had to, so I made the mad dash.

I entered the narrow stall and put my pocket book and carry-on on the hook. I haven't shared this with you before but, I'm not a sitter in a public restroom. I squat. Honestly, between this and my hiking, I could probably crack walnuts with my thighs! Anyway, I pulled down my pants to find that I'd been greeted – unexpectedly, and prematurely – by my perimenopausal (mid 40s), irregular friend. "Oh, you've got to be kidding me," I thought, when all of a sudden, it hit me, at long last, I could finally use the EP!

So picture this now. I was standing between the bowl (gross, didn't want to touch it) and my bulky bags bulging off the door hook. You've been in these stalls – I had a full 11 inches of space in which to make the change. Time was a-wasting… I went for it!

First, I stepped out of my right sneaker, shimmied off my right pant leg, and stepped my right toe back into the open Ked. Still on the ball of my right foot, I used that heel to remove the back of my left sneaker. I then removed the left pant leg and stepped my left foot back into its open Ked. I held my jeans under my chin while retrieving my EP from the carry-on that was nearly hitting me in the forehead, by the way. With the Ziploc in hand, I crammed the jeans through the carry-on strap. Now, while standing on the balls of my feet, I – one leg at a time – stepped out of the soiled panties, and hung on to them with my left pinkie. I used my right hand, with an assist by my teeth, to open the Ziploc. I then moved the Ziploc to my left hand and extracted the EP with my right pinkie. Switching the bag back to my right hand, I dropped the soiled panties into the Ziploc and sealed. I then shoved the Ziploc under my jeans and back into the carry-on. Next, I slipped on the nice, clean, sanitary EP – one leg at a time, of course. This was quickly followed by my jeans, which I pulled off the door and stepped into – also, one leg at a time. I re-stepped, almost simultaneously – and with a bit of a shuffle – completely, and flat-footed, into my sneakers. Raising one foot at a time, I did a balancing act while tying each shoe.

All the while the toilet's been flushing. Pwish! Pwish! Pwish! One flush right after the other. Pwish! Pwish! Pwish! Splashing water continuously. Pwish! Pwish! Pwish! My guess is it flushed 27 times before I hoisted my carry-on onto my shoulder and whipped my pocket book off the hook.

And you thought this was a story about being prepared. Those automatic flushers are a huge waste of water – they never work correctly. I'll spare you the story of how I had to Hand-Jive just to make the sink work! Thankfully, the paper towel dispenser was manual. I pulled out a sheet, dried my hands and hustled back to the gate just in time to board. I exhaled deeply as I took my seat.

I had been prepared. You know, when something's been years in the making, the satisfaction you get when it finally pays off is automatic.

Pleased as punch,

~ M.

Ssshh!

2009-11-22T14:16:00.001-08:00

There are many types of talkers.

There's the close talker. Remember this guy? Judge Reinhold famously portrayed this boundary-challenged character on Seinfeld back in 1994.

Then there's the slow talker. D'ya know this guy? It takes him forever to get the words out of his mouth. "How's the… um… did anyone… um… see the… er…" Spit it out already!

And, of course, there's the low talker. (See Chapter 28 of The Ones That Got Away – A Dating Memoir). As some of you know, I dated this guy. Bill. Bill the low talker. Ours was a relationship doomed to failure. He didn't say much and – since I'm not a lip reader – I couldn't understand what little he did say.

Then there's me. I'm a loud talker. I don't know why, really, I just am. The reason could be psychologically rooted. Perhaps, as a middle child, I was overlooked growing up and felt the need to speak up in order to be heard. I doubt that, though. Maybe it has to do with all the community theater I've done. We were never mic'd, and even though the venues were small, we still had to project our voices so that the people in the back could hear us – project without screaming (read: talk loudly). This probably isn't it either. Is it possible that my hearing is partially impaired and, therefore, I'm unaware of how loudly I'm actually speaking? Now this is a theory with potential.

So I'm a loud talker. Can I really help that, though? Not if I don't realize it, I can't. But see, that's the thing. There are people all over the place willing to help me realize it. I call them The Ssh'ers – and they're everywhere. These vigilantes are out there diligently working to help me keep my decibels down.

The original Ssh'er is my dad. He often alerts me when my voice begins to rise. "Ssh," he says, while motioning his splayed palm downward, "not so loud."

My educators were big Ssh'ers, too. But honestly, for them, I really don't think it was a volume issue; I think they just had trouble, in general, with my constant need to chit-chat. Hey, I wasn't nominated Class Chatterbox for nothing.

And, there's apparently a whole posse of Ssh'ers out there – incognito – living among us, just waiting for the opportunity to shut down a loud mouth. Out of nowhere they appear – extended index finger planted firmly to the lips – "Ssh," they indignantly reprimand, doing their part to keep the volume under control.

I've been ssh'ed at the movies; but truly, this is not my fault. Although I do sometimes lose track of my volume, I know, by now, my tendency is toward loudness so I rarely speak once the movie starts. One of my friends, on the other hand… bit of a talker.

A woman once ssh'ed me at a Giants game – if you can believe it – and yet, chose not to ssh the crazed fanatic yelling and cursing two rows back. Heck, who could blame her – I was easier to subdue.

I was even ssh'ed at a Peter Gabriel concert. This was before the concert began. I couldn't believe it – the preshow hadn't even started yet. What was the big deal? Who cared how loud I was? Quite frankly, if you ask me, some of these ssh'ers are a bit out of control. Side story: I once went to a Genesis concert where a fellow fan sitting behind me screamed, "CHESTER THOMPSON!" for the better part of the show. Chester Thompson is the touring drummer. "CHESTER THOMPSON! … CHESTER!! … CHESTER THOMPSON! … CHESTER!!!" You get it. I took that for a good half hour before timidly turning around to say, "Dude." I said it with a smile. He smiled back and said, "CHESTER!" Laryngitis finally got him just before the encore.

I've also been ssh'ed on an airplane. I had the rare pleasure of being seated next to a very friendly woman from Philadelphia (city of brotherly love… and cheese steaks). My initial intention was to read – my book was actually on my lap the whole time – but we just chatted like two old friends. At some point the flight attendant came by, and it wasn't to offer a beverage, or even peanuts, but rather to ask that we keep our voices down. Ssh'ed on a plane…

And here's the cake-taker. I was recently ssh'ed on Pinnacle Peak. Pinnacle Peak mountain, that is. That's right – in the open air of the great outdoors, some 2,000 feet above sea level, I was ssh'ed. Here's what happened. I had just encountered a 4'-0" long diamondback and decided to cut my hike short. A fellow hiker, noticing my retreat, called out asking me why I turned around. I was probably a little over excited with the adrenaline rush that fear produces, so I suppose it's possible that, as I answered him, I may have been somewhat on the loud side. It was during this exchange that another hiker came by and – you know what's coming, right? – said, "Ssh! Keep your voice down." WHAT? Why? It's not like I was in a library. Who was I disturbing? A cactus? Some rocks? Other hikers? I don't think so. I wasn't shouting out the ingredients of my new favorite recipe, after all. I was sharing the story of my near miss with a deadly snake. I always appreciate knowing where danger may lurk on that trail, and it's not only common sense, but just good trail etiquette to share that information with others, as well. So what if I was a little loud – too bad, so sad.

When you have something that's worthy of alerting others about, you don't do it in hushed tones. Alerting, by its very nature, requires volume. Think about how different things might be today if Paul Revere was a close, slow or low talker. Imagine if he whispered, "The British are coming… the British are coming." You can't do it, can you? No, you can't, because it's unreasonable. Paul Revere was obviously a loud talker – and good for us that he was. Loud talkers unite!

Reaching the back row,

~ M.

COUGAR TOWN

2009-10-25T09:11:00.001-07:00

I think ABC has a hit on their hands with Cougar Town.

As a 40-something myself, I can relate to Courtney Cox's Jules. How horrifying to be a 40-something and in the dating pool. At least in Jules' case, she's only back in the pool; while, technically, I've never really left – but I have seriously considered opting out.

Still single at 45 years of age, I've begun to think that it is, in fact, me and not any of them. But as I really mull it over, I'm not so sure. Take a look at three recent experiences:

1. After an exchange with a decent looking guy, I agreed to give him my number. Turned out this 45 year old man lived with his parents. They didn't live with him. He had not moved back in with them – no, he NEVER moved out. When plans for a date were cancelled because he couldn't get the car, I told him to lose my number. Is this really what's left out there for us?

2. I finally agreed to check out a singles function at my church. This was an 'over 40' function – problem was most of the people there were 40 years OVER 40! 90% of the men had white hair – that's for those who had hair. I met men named Kermit (swear), Bo, Sherm. These are not names from my generation, or even my parents' generation; these are names from the days of the Great Depression – no pun intended, but it was pretty sad.

3. At a local wine bar, my server was an adorable, blond-haired young man. He had a nerdy-cool thing going on with his modern Clark Kent frames, and as he offered up Chardonnay choices, I actually contemplated the 'cougar' thing. He was probably about 29 years old – could I do a Mrs. Robinson – hmmmm? I wondered. Well, it turned out that he was nursing a broken heart; the poor thing, dumped recently by some guy named Stanley. Check, please!

Do you see what I mean? Is it me? Who knows… As I mentioned, dating has almost become a horrifying prospect these days – although I've never really had much success with it anyway. My life is chock full of things like the above and they're chronicled in my book: The Ones That Got Away – A Dating Memoir. My story is an elaborate answer to the repetitive question, "Why are you still single?"

So what if I'm 45 and single – I've come to accept that. And even if I do stop putting myself out there, I can always tune into Jules' life and continue to date vicariously – at least this way there's no hangover!

Looking forward to Wednesdays,

- M. Hill

E.D.

2009-09-27T16:16:00.000-07:00

You know, it's funny, after I formulated the OTGA quiz for the previous post, there was one question – that was cut from the quiz – that nagged at me.

It went something like…

You know your man has issues if he:

a.) Can't get it up

b.) Can't keep it up

c.) Shoots off early

d.) Doesn't shoot at all

Let's face it. The fact is he has issues if any of the above situations apply; but that's not what haunted me. It wasn't the delicate nature of erectile dysfunction, per se; no, it had more to do with the actual letters E & D – which, yes, I know, stand for erectile dysfunction.

Think of all the words out there that start with the letter E that can be associated with this. Here are a few: Erection (obviously), Ecstasy, Emotion, Erogenous, Erotic, Energy and Engorge – although, within our topic, there's a certain deficiency seriously associated with this one.

Deficiency… yes, that's quite the word, isn't it? And, a perfect segue into the letter D. Here we go: Diminished, Defunct, Deadened, Disgust, Displeased, Dissatisfaction, Dismayed, Defective, Devoid, Deprived, Depressed, Dreadful, Dire – it seems this list may be endless. Is it just me or has anyone else noticed how many negative words start with the letter D? Delightful. (intentional) How is it that that poor word has taken on a negative bent over the years? Hardly anyone uses it to describe a truly delightful situation anymore – it's almost always used sarcastically these days. "I've been on a diet – another negative word – for three weeks now and I actually gained two pounds. Delightful, just friggin' delightful." See what I mean? I've gone off point.

Well, anyway, these words just swirled around in my brain until they bore the following:

Erection Defection – the haiku

Erotic Despair

Erogenously Dismal…

Ecstasy Doubtful

Quick, somebody call Pfizer…

- M

Are You Good at Dating?

2009-08-23T14:48:00.001-07:00

Take the OTGA Quiz and find out…

You have a crush on a boy from school. He unexpectedly calls you looking for a French homework assignment. Do you:

a.) Babble like an idiot with gleeful excitement

b.) Give him the homework and get off the phone

c.) Regale him with fun facts about France

d.) Grill him like Perry Mason about how he got your number

In high school you secretly pine for:

a.) The quarterback with broad shoulders

b.) The rebel bad-boy with a heart of gold

c.) The Class President with a Poindexter personality

d.) The Art major who, later in life, will be arrested for homosexual pedophilia

It's time to loose your virginity. You do that:

a.) At a luxury seaside resort on your wedding night

b.) In the backseat of a car while the radio plays "Paradise by the Dashboard Light"

c.) In some dingy stockroom because you lost a bet

d.) At a dude ranch in upstate New York – before horseback riding

You go on a blind date only to find you've already been on a blind date, once before, with the same guy. Do you:

a.) Call it destiny and run off together

b.) Figure, what the heck, and make the most of the evening

c.) Grin and bear it

d.) Take off leaving skid marks

You've just been with a well-endowed man. Do you:

a.) Compare him to a horse and say, "Whoa, Nellie…"

b.) Walk funny for a day or two afterward

c.) Tell all your friends and crack inappropriate penis jokes

d.) All of the above

You post-pone ending a relationship because:

a.) You don't want to lose your date for an upcoming wedding

b.) Your guy gets called out of town unexpectedly

c.) He spills the beans on a lavish upcoming birthday surprise

d.) His house burns to the ground – on Thanksgiving

You're on date #3 with a Midwestern Adonis. Do you:

a.) Suggest an all-you-can-eat BBQ rib buffet

b.) Quiz him on middle America trivia

c.) Not shave your legs to ensure the night won't get out of hand

d.) Get drunk on Tequila and ride him like a mechanical bull

You know your boyfriend is a wack-job if he:

a.) Is jealous of your cats

b.) Gives you the silent treatment when he's mad

c.) Gets cheap thrills out of frightening you

d.) Tries to make you think you're developing a disability

You know it's time to stop having your friends set you up on dates if they set you up with:

a.) A retail worker who lives with his mother who cancels on you for a Donna Summer concert

b.) An AARP card-carrying, insecure gasbag who loves the sound of his own voice

c.) A lactose-intolerant man-child who can't take the time to iron his shirt

d.) A twice-divorced guy with an open restraining order and a weeping sore on his face

After a night of drinking, your date insists on one final nightcap. Is he:

a.) Simply stalling, trying to prolong the date

b.) Trying to get in the Guinness Book of World Records

c.) An alcoholic

d.) Working up the nerve to give you a High-Five

It's time to opt out of Internet dating when your would-be date:

a.) Has issues with how you speak

b.) Asks for your exact physical measurements

c.) Picks heated political fights with you

d.) Is a contact cage fighter

Things you do not want to hear on a date:

a.) Every blessed detail regarding broccoli rabe – or any vegetable

b.) All the reasons why anal sex is the way to go

c.) Anything at all about an 'ex'

d.) That the guy has Restless Leg Syndrome and a small winky-dink

Scoring:

1. a-2,b-3,c-4,d-1; 2. a-3,b-4,c-2,d-1; 3. a-4,b-2,c-1,d-3; 4. a-1,b-4,c-3,d-2;

5. a-3,b-1,c-2,d-4; 6. a-3,b-1,c-2,d-4; 7. a-1,b-2,c-3,d-4; 8. a-2,b-1,c-4,d-3;

9. a-1,b-3,c-2,d-4; 10. a-4,b-3,c-2,d-1; 11. a-1,b-3,c-4,d-2; 12. a-1,b-4,c-2,d-3.

Well, let's see how you did…

37-48 points: You've got a pretty good head on your shoulders – Go out and have a good time!

25-36 points: You make good choices; you make bad choices – Hey, who hasn't been there?

12-24 points: You may not be the best judge of character – Be careful out there.

Quiz questions were culled from The Ones That Got Away – A Dating Memoir. My modern day story hysterically answers the question, "Why are you still single?" with such open and honest candor that one reviewer wrote, "It's like delighting in your best friend's dirty details without having to divulge your own."

The Ones That Got Away – A Dating Memoir by M. Hill is available at Amazon.com and Barnesandnoble.com. For more information visit www.honeybeepublishing.com.

Dirty Little Secrets

2009-07-26T14:05:00.001-07:00

I was recently privileged to be a guest on The Polka Dot Banner's Authors Blog. The Polka Dot Banner is a website for authors – an author's gathering place, if you will. Check it out sometime at www.polkadotbanner.com. The guest blogging consisted of an initial post followed by a one day Q&A. Below is a slightly edited version of the initial post.

DIRTY LITTLE SECRETS

What is it about secrets that make them so appealing? It must have something to do with the inherent mystique that, by their very nature, is infused in them. I actually have a theory about secrets: If you want something to remain a secret – are you ready? here it comes – do NOT tell anybody!

For me, I really don't have many secrets. My life is an open book – literally. The Ones That Got Away – A Dating Memoir chronicles 40 years of my life in, what some have deemed, wince-inducing candor. For possible reasons why I'm so open and frank, see Diff'rent Strokes post of 6-21-09.

So, what was the biggest secret with my book? Well, the book itself, actually.

I think it was Aristotle who claimed one's life would not be complete if not for accomplishing three things: build a house (did it), raise a child (I say hundreds of 'em in Sunday school count) and write a book (done). Seriously, though… Write a book? Really? How about that? See, the thing is, all of us have a story to tell – it may not always be the most interesting story, but it's ours and if we can tell it in an entertaining fashion then, why not?

This is how my book began: the idea popped into my head, then my opening sentence, which was followed quickly by the title, and then my closing sentence came to mind; after which, almost immediately, the entire 'meat' (read: beefcake – pun absolutely intentional) fell into place like dominos. I was on fire. I couldn't wait to get home to begin writing. And write I did – I banged out the first three chapters as if they were writing themselves. After that I wrote here and there, whenever I had some unfettered downtime (that's my favorite kind of downtime, by the way); then I'd go back over what I wrote – rereading it, altering it, tweaking it.

In 10 months I completed my story – and here's the thing: no one knew. No one. I never told anybody what I was doing. It was a secret – but in many ways, it was much more – it was like my secret lover.

There'd be times I couldn't wait to get home just to change out a particular word with one that was more suitable – one that really nailed what I was trying to convey. As I've previously quoted, Mark Twain once said, "The difference between the right word and the almost right word is the difference between lightning and the lightning bug." I couldn't agree more. When hiking, I'd be consumed with thoughts surrounding whatever – or whoever – I was writing about – just as a lover consumes one's thoughts. Other times, I'd daydream and reflect on recently written passages as if I'd just lived the experiences for the first time – I fell in love, I laughed with friends, I was living life to the fullest. And for whatever reason, I didn't tell a soul. For nearly four years I kept my deep, dark secret all to myself.

After finally deciding to publish my book, the time came to reveal this secret to my family – to my poor, unsuspecting family – who, at the mere mention of an impending announcement regarding a special project I'd been working on, began to throw out their best intuitive guesses: "You're becoming a spiritual leader," my brother declared. His mother-in-law quickly chimed in, "Are you buying a timeshare in Sedona?" My own mother threw her hat in the ring with this mind bender, "You're adopting a baby!" Well, certainly no question remains about where I get my creativity from.

I have to tell you that when I informed them that I'd written a book, it sort of fell on deaf ears. I looked around at faces yielding little to no reaction until finally my 8-year-old niece said, "A book? Am I in it?" As I nodded yes, she enthusiastically did the truck driver pull-down and bellowed, "Alright!" That actually broke the silence as if a horn really did sound, and then the questions began: A book? My goodness, what's it about? When did you write it? Has it been published? Where do we get it?

I answered all the rapid-fire questions and then they asked, "But… how did you do all that stuff?" Well, not without some key people, that's for sure; one of which is none other than The Polka Dot Banner's own Jamie Saloff. Without her help, The Ones That Got Away – A Dating Memoir would still be nothing more than a Microsoft Word document in a three-ring binder.

In the world of publishing, writing is actually the easy part – there is so much more that goes into making a story a book and I simply could not have done it without Jamie. I write in pencil (getting my story into a Word doc is about as high-tech as I get); I am not computer savvy; I cannot text; I'm not on Facebook; I do not Twitter. All that technical stuff is just geek – that's must have been a slip – Greek to me. But Jamie is a genius – an absolute genius – and with her help my big, fat, juicy secret became a bona fide book. A book in which one reviewer said, "It's like delighting in your best friend's dirty details without having to divulge your own!"

You have your own details, though – don't you? You have your own ideas. So, what's up? Why haven't you written your story yet? You don't have to build a house or raise a child first; but you do have to start. Many people have asked me for advice on how to write a book and I tell them all the same thing – write! Don't worry about initially writing anything good, coherent or cohesive – just write. It's much easier to fix something than to create something. So pick up that pencil and get some words down – perhaps you have some secret you'd like to share with the world…

Write on!

- M. Hill

Diff'rent Strokes

2009-06-21T17:20:00.001-07:00

Well, it's been a full year already since I released my book, The Ones That Got Away – A Dating Memoir, and began this blog. Whew! Time sure does fly.

One year ago I was just getting ready for my annual trip home to the Jersey shore where I first announced, to many friends and family members, the news about my book – how exciting. And now, a year later, let's take a look at where I am.

Support for what I call OTGA (Ones That Got Away) started off strong – reviews were great, people were laughing and loving it. I was thrilled. Who wouldn't be? But then, unfortunately, I hit a little bump in the road. I shared the announcement of my book's release with a woman I know from church. You may already be thinking that wasn't the wisest decision – especially if you've read my tale, but we're pretty friendly and I thought I prefaced it correctly: I'm only sharing this with you because I'm proud of my accomplishment; I'm not expecting you to buy it; it's probably not your cup of tea – especially since things like Sex and the City don't appeal to you. "I'm very candid," I warned as she expressed her interest in it. Well, she bought the book – she and a couple of others as it turned out. Gulp!

So, six months pass and not a word. Hmph? Well, okay, I suppose the rule of thumb is 'if you don't have anything nice to say, say nothing at all.' But, really – nothing? Not a word? Not one single word? This is a funny book – if I do say so myself – how could you not have one word to say?

I've said this before, but it's true so it bears repeating. There's a reason the saying 'if I knew then what I know now' exists. Another true – and apropos – saying is 'be careful what you wish for.'

After six months of wondering, I found out what she thought. She was appalled… horrified… disgusted. Well, that was a far cry from what I was used to hearing: clever… witty… hysterical. I'll tell you what, I like clever, witty and hysterical a whole lot more than appalled, horrified and disgusted. After apologizing for offending her, I couldn't help but remind her, "judge not lest ye be judged," to which she plainly responded, saying she was not judging me – although it was clear that she was. Now, it may be true that she wasn't judging me on my transgressions, but she just couldn't get beyond "why, as a Christian woman, I would write such a book." Before reminding her that my book was a 'dating memoir' and not a book about my Christianity, I half-heartedly defended myself saying, "For entertainment." You know, the OTGA is supposed to be a light, fun read that women – of all varieties – could relate to.

One of the things that surprised her most was how open – and detailed – I was. I had warned her about that. I don't know. I must have a distorted sense of what's private – and should remain private. I have no idea, really, why I'm this way.

I think back to my mid-teen years, specifically to my first gynecological appointment – talk about horrifying. Lying recumbent with my feet up in the air (we've all been there), I could barely breathe as they inserted that cold, stainless steel device (you know the one I'm talking about – looks like a juicer made by Oster). Trying to just get through the experience, I focused on my breathing (shallow) and continued to answer the doctor's get-her-mind-off-of-what's-going-on casual questions.

Gyno: So, what grade are you in?

…pop open the Oster device like an umbrella

Me: I'm a… junior.

Gyno: Do you like school?

…insert fingers

Me: It's... okay…

Gyno: Anything special going on at school?

…pushing and probing

Me: I just… auditioned for… Grease

Gyno: How'd that go?

…finger up the poop-shoot

Me: (Gasp! Ohmigod, what the… break out in full body sweat)

Gyno: Did you get a part?

…remove finger

Me: What? Oh… I was cast as Patty Simcox. (Did I just poop?)

After my exam I told my mom what had happened. "Yes, they do that sometimes," she said. Boy, a little heads-up would've been nice. When I told my sister this story, before I even got to the part that my mother knew what went on in there and didn't tell me, Linda said, "Oh, I know – I hate that part!" What?!? Why wouldn't either of these women – the two closest to me in my life – warn me about something like that? Because it's private? Bullshit – this stuff needs to be shared.

I believe this episode could be at the foundation of my open candor. Many of us have similar experiences throughout our lives. Why must we go it alone? Isn't there comfort, safety and community found in sharing? If something happens to you and a friend says, "Oh, me, too," doesn't that make it better somehow? Whether it's made less sad (commiserate over a broken heart) or more funny (swapping an adult poop in the pants story, for example) – it's better. It's better because it's shared and, to me, it's the details that make it fun.

My mom often said that I told her things that "no mother should hear." My mom is a retired nurse so she knows a lot about, say… anatomy. Who better to talk to about varying penis shapes and sizes? Right now some of you may be thinking, "shapes?" while others already get it – because, like me, you've been there. See, the fun is in the details. We're all part of a larger collective called the sisterhood – we should embrace that and be not afraid to share.

I actually thought in the overall scheme of things, my story was pretty tame. After all, I am a monogamous person – just one at a time, please. I go for only one gender: male – no crazy mixing-it-up for me. And, I use just the one hole – call me old-fashioned, I know. Yet, am I proud of everything in my book? Of course not – I've made mistakes. We all have. I wrote to Barbara Walters recently on this very topic – as a fellow member of the Hester Prynne Club for Girls of Questionable Morals, I thought she could relate.

As I mentioned to Susan from church, the OTGA is a story about my dating experiences (and, yes, even Christian women have them) and I think there are many women out there who can relate to this material.

So I put myself out there – completely. 'Brave' and 'courageous' were the words my editor used. I didn't really see it that way at first – I just thought I was being honest – but I get it now. The fact is, whether I shared my story or not, it's still my story – it's still who I am.

I think the following quotes are not only applicable, but poignant:

"Weakness is a greater enemy to virtue than vice"

- François de La Rochefoucauld

"The only difference between the saint and the sinner is that every saint has a past and every sinner has a future."

- Oscar Wilde

"The eye – it cannot choose but see;

We cannot bid the ear be still;

Our bodies feel, where'er they be –

Against or with our will."

- William Wordsworth

And my favorite one of all…

"It is better to be hated for what you are than loved for what you are not."

- Andre Gide

My book has its audience, for sure. Granted, it's probably not found among a typical group of church ladies, and that's okay. My audience is more likely found among a coffee klatch of Cosmo-girls. You know what they say… different strokes for different folks!

And speaking of different folks, I'd love to hear about some of your stories. If interested in sharing, please visit www.honeybeepublishing.com and click on the 'contact me' link. Drop me a line with your best blind-date-gone-wrong story. I will send a complimentary copy of The Ones That Got Away – A Dating Memoir to the person with the best/funniest story. Please realize, though, that I may use some of your material in future posts – so change names if you must (for story only – not contact info, of course.)

Looking forward to hearing from you…

- M

The Fighting Irish

2009-06-07T14:25:00.001-07:00

When I was a kid we had thirteen channels to choose from on TV. Well, that's not really true. The numbers, 1 -13, were, in fact, on the knob – did you catch that? knob – but I suppose we really only had about five channels from which to make our viewing selections: there were the three major networks, of course, then WPIX out of New York and PBS. I'm wondering, now, what the other numbers were for – the future, I suppose. Did anyone back then have any idea of what was really in store for us? It's good that everything is digital now – you know, cable boxes and remote controls – if not, could you imagine the size of a knob that would hold 900+ numbers? Yeesh!

I went to Mexico recently with my brother and his family. The kids watched TV – beamed in by satellite – the majority of the time it took us to get there. Oh, sigh… No guessing games, no memory games, no counting license plates, no reading billboards. To be fair, the only license plates you really see on that trip are AZ plates; here in the Valley you could count license plates all day long – so many recent transplants, part-timers (don't feel comfortable calling them snowbirds in June) and general vacationers – but on the road to Rocky Point… AZ tags mostly, almost exclusively. And billboards? Well, if you've ever driven through Ajo or the very lovely Lukeville (a runner-up in the 'Land that God Forgot' contest), you would know that mildly entertaining, conversation sparking billboards are only a road warrior's pipe dream and nothing more – not a one to be found. Truly, those folks on 95 are not fully appreciating the 60 or so miles on either side of the famed 'South of the Border' roadside rest-stop and travel attraction extraordinaire. Ah, once again, I've digressed.

It's not just TV, either. Things are just different now. Again, from my childhood, I remember a little radio that we kept in our kitchen – tuned, always, to WABC. Was it still only AM? I can't remember. I do remember FM broadcasting being a new thing at one time, though, so maybe…

Today, my niece and nephew carry Ipods, those dainty, little devices the size of a large domino, which can store 10,000 or so of your favorite songs. Have I mentioned they're both under 10? Honestly, these kids know more songs from the 70s than even I do. Back then, when these songs were newly gracing the airwaves, I was busy decorating my bicycle (yes, I had a very cool banana seat) with musical eighth note decals distributed by 7-11 for WABC (I suppose, now, in retrospect, that it must have been in honor of the FM launch) and riding all over the neighborhood.

While I enjoyed WABC's free stickers, my sister enjoyed the music the station actually played – singing constantly into her pseudo-microphone (aka, hairbrush) – so she knows all the tunes; and thanks to modern day gadgets like Rock Band, so do my niece and nephew. I'll tell you what; the three of them together could probably do just as good a rendition of "My Sharona" as The Knack themselves – I am not kidding.

Now, I'm not sure this is what he meant, but Bob Dylan was certainly right when he croaked, the times they are a changin'. But you know, even though some things do change, some things will always remain constant – like childish bickering and fighting, for example.

When you're young, it seems sibling infighting is a fundamental part of the natural process one must go through on the road to maturity. I often try and mediate when Liv and G go at it – after all, I have a lot of experience in this department.

My brother and I had, on several occasions, been sent to our separate rooms – like boxers to their respective corners – for extended cooling off periods of time.

We'd been on road trips where the backseat was delineated in half, by a pillow that, out of nowhere, was gripped, grabbed and slammed down by, really, what must have been an elastic arm, from our father, who, while behind the wheel, threatened to, "drive right off the goddamned road, so help him… if we didn't stop fighting, shut our mouths and settle down." I can remember how my brother and I would glance at each other – without really moving our heads – out of the corners of our eyes, giving each other the look that said, "Wow, what's up with him?" See, kids just don't get it.

Maybe it was our Irish descent that had us fighting all the time – I don't know. Do all siblings fight? I didn't fight with my sister; we're four years apart though – maybe that has something to do with it. My niece and nephew fight, just as surely as my brother and I did. It's kind of funny now, but Tim and I don't really remember actually fighting all that much; but we do remember getting in trouble for it quite a bit so…

I remember this one time, in particular; it's a classic. 'Deer in the headlights' would hardly describe the look on my face when I was caught by my father, who had come home from work early one day, to find me, post-fight, smearing a banana down my brother's locked bedroom door (I don't know why). He was nearly apoplectic when asking me if I lost my mind; and since it was a rhetorical question, he didn't wait for me to respond before reminding me – in his loudest voice – that that was his house, his door and… his goddamn banana! (Sidenote: I do not have any entitlement issues today. Thanks, Dad).

This was a different father from the road trip father (remember, I have two) and yet, a very similar reaction – what's up with that? I guess it was us – me and my brother – we're the common denominator. We fought right up until the time he went away to college. I like to think that college matured him. He was always the antagonizing instigator, after all; but, of course, that's just what I say.

When Liv and Griffin go at it, fighting over what to watch on TV – or whatever, declaring their disdain for one another, I always remind them that one day they may find themselves packing up their lives, like I did, and moving 2400 miles across the country just to be near the other. As their disgusted facial expressions shout, "Oh, please," I just smile back and ask, "So, who wants to play the Grocery Game?" and without waiting for a response, I say, "I'll start. I went to the store and bought apples…"

Keeping them engaged, and making memories.

Erin Go Bragh!

- M

Ode to the Peak

2009-05-24T06:56:00.001-07:00

Okay, ode is probably not the correct word; commentary is more like it – but what kind of title is Commentary to the Peak? First of all, if that were the title, it would have to be Commentary about the Peak – which is really what this is; but since that's hollow and lacking in sentiment, I'm using the word ode: Ode to the Peak.

'The Peak,' of course, is Pinnacle Peak: mountain home to my hiking exercise trail.

As I intimated a few posts ago, I have, once again, begun to hike in the morning. We're in triple digits now so the afternoon hikes are just out of the question for me. No, from now until some time in November, I'll be on that hill before roosters wake farmers, before six – or more to the point – before our sizzling fireball rises up, high in the sky, pushing morning temps beyond the 80s. Can you imagine 89 degrees at 6:00am? It's not that now; now it's around 78 – which makes the morning hikes feel like heaven on earth. It's as we creep toward summer that dawn temperatures will be around 89, but keep in mind, when daily highs are anywhere from 108 to 115, a good 20 to 25 degree swing cooler is actually pretty pleasant.

Anyway, it's always great getting back into the morning routine. It's like a reunion of sorts up there – I've seen all the regulars again. There's DL with the red back pack and his posse of hiking compadres. This is one serious group of retirement age hikers who seem to be more committed to hiking than, say, Admiral Byrd. Pinnacle Peak must be their home base for regular exercise, but through overhead conversations, I know they hike all over the Valley. They've hiked the Grand Canyon. Why, many have hiked Machu Picchu – I wouldn't be a bit surprised if one or two of them have scaled Kilimanjaro.

In addition to this group, there are also the independent hikers, like me, who share this early rising, communing with nature, appreciation for the great outdoors. There's Tim the Fireman, Ray the Contractor, Mr. Incredible, the Banker and the Anchor. These last two are obviously friends – I rarely see one up there without the other. I think their job descriptions alone could be parlayed into a sitcom: The Banker and the Anchor – two men, one conservative by nature, the other dynamically daring; come enjoy this revisionist version of a modern day odd couple as they comedically travel through the conundrums of life's ups and downs – this fall on CBS. No? Okay…

And there are others – Teddy Bear, Panama Patty, Safeway guy, Walgreens Lady and, of course, Speed Racer. Speed Racer is the fastest hiker I've seen – I'm sure you've already ascertained that by the nickname I've given her. She speed walks that trail as if jet propelled by a rocket up her you-know-what. I move at a decent clip and she passes me like I'm standing still – not that she ever acknowledges my presence, by the way. There's never an excuse me, pardon me, or on your left, and there's certainly no thank you when I step aside, clearing the path, giving her a wide berth. Some people are just like that, I guess – not me.

I sometimes feel like I'm up there personally spearheading the Congeniality Committee (I may have mentioned this before). I'm smiling, I'm waving, I'm saying, Good morning, How ya doin? or sometimes just, Hey – but the Hey is almost always accompanied by the smiling chin-bob. There are those that respond and those that ignore. Yeah, ignore. I don't understand it, really. I'm not trying to enroll anybody in network marketing, or have them join a pyramid scheme; I'm simply saying 'good morning.' Oh, what nerve, huh? Whatever… honestly, I've been hiking up there for so long now that I've sort of gotten used to that unfriendly, closed-off, antisocial behavior that it hardly even fazes me anymore.

What does faze me, though, is the sometimes lack of social decorum that's exhibited up there. I find that a lot of men think nothing of openly spitting, at any time, anywhere on the trail – not giving any regard to the fact that there are other hikers RIGHT THERE! Don't get me wrong, I've actually hocked a loogie or two in my day, but I've done it discreetly, making sure no one was nearby. Spitting is, after all, voluntary – it's not like vomiting. We have control of if, and when, we let the phlegm-balls fly.

One day, I had a man no more than six feet behind me doing his absolute best to bring up a lung. I cannot even begin to describe the repulsive, guttural, throat-clearing sounds this man was making. All I can tell you is I was having one heck of a time controlling my overly sensitive gag reflex each time he was successful in forcefully expelling one of these hard-won muculent globs. Wondering if any of his sputal spray was actually getting on my back, I eventually gave a half-hearted turn and said, "Sir, please," to which he responded, "What? I have to." Have to? Honestly, if he really had to perhaps he shouldn't have been out hiking. Have to? Didn't we just determine that spitting is voluntary? Have to? I don't think so. I managed to subdue an overwhelming urge to vomit and ran off – I actually ran – thinking, "Well, here's hoping he won't have to poo a little further down the path."

That man not withstanding, I love that hike. It always reminds me of life – there are parts that are difficult and challenging on the way up that are easier on the way down. There are people you meet along the way that are friendly, and those who are not. To me, life is like that – tough at times, easier at others. Sometimes, a lot of times, I think, it's the tough times that we experience that make the future times more manageable – we learn, we grow, we develop character from the tough times. No pain, no gain as the saying goes. And, some people we encounter along the way will be friendly and make our walk more enjoyable, others not so much – but, these folks are there also (they will always be there) and we need to deal with it. If that means running ahead before you're spit on, then so be it. It's all part of the journey!

On the run…

- M

You lookin' at me? Uh, no.

2009-05-10T15:48:00.001-07:00

I can remember how waves of panic would instantly flow through me on a Saturday when, as a teen, my dad would unexpectedly announce an immediate trip to Rickel Home Center. Rickel did not enjoy the same popularity that, say, Lowe's or Home Depot currently does, but it certainly was a forerunner for those mega home improvement centers of today.

In today's times, one may run into any number of known associates, friends or neighbors when strolling up and down the aisles of these local do-it-yourself behemoths. Back in the day, it was generally just the Mr. Fix-its – those who held a subscription to Popular Mechanics and the like – that frequented a store such as Rickel.

The departure announcement to Rickel was like a death knell to me – I did not like going to that store. See, being of the female persuasion (warning: gender stereotype coming up), I cannot relate to, nor understand, how someone can take 15 minutes (an eternity to a kid) to make a decision between one bolt or another, between one type of putty or another, between one gasket or another. As a teenage girl, a quarter of an hour is too long a time to spend pacing the O-Ring aisle while expressing disinterest with dramatic repetitive sighing.

The only thing that could have made those trips more unbearable would have been to run into someone I knew, someone from school – or worse, a boy from school. And although that generally did not happen, there was one occasion, however, when it did. Being caught in such an uncool place as Rickel was bad enough, but to be there unshowered, without make-up, with greasy Farrah Fawcett wings, killing time near the toilets and be seen by John Murphy (my future prom date) well, that's truly the stuff nightmares are made of. Oh, the horror.

Now, it's completely possible an experience like that could mold a person's future behavior. One could become an early riser, for example, up by dawn, showered and dressed, ready for anything – at any time. Or, perhaps just the opposite could occur. One might come away from such an experience giving up any regard for all personal appearances whatsoever. For me, it didn't really have either of those effects. I was unchanged – hence the aforementioned waves of panic caused by these impromptu trips to the store.

But see, as we get older, we know when we're going out; and as an adult, we're generally put together in such a way that's deemed appropriate for public appearance. We don't go out in our PJs, for example – no matter how comfy or 'lounge-wear' like they may be – we just don't do it. But does that mean hair and make-up are always perfect? Not for me, it doesn't.

One day, as I was getting out of my car at the Post Office, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror and actually said to myself, out loud, "It'd be nice if I cared just a little bit more about my appearance." Then, closing the door and seeing my image again in the car window, I added, "Or… at all." See, for me, time management always trumps vanity. I went in and out of the PO unnoticed.

Most times, I think it's like that. People just really aren't looking at us the way we think they are. Don't believe me? Did you ever run into a previously bearded man after he just shaved? When seen for the first time, most people don't realize that the beard is gone. All they know is something is different. New shirt? Hair cut? What is it?

I, myself, had – keyword there, had – very long hair. It fell to well below my mid back. In fact, when pulled in front of me, it covered both boobs like Pocahontas with her braids undone. It became a nuisance at that length and I had six inches cut off. Six inches – that's half a foot. NO ONE noticed.

Speaking of boobs, a woman I know just had an augmentation – that's very popular out here. Hers was tastefully done; a lift with some fullness restoration – the right size for her frame. She told me that no one really noticed – no one said a word. I actually think if it's done right you shouldn't notice. Let's be real, it shouldn't look like balloons are pushing up your clavicles. Maybe some people did notice, but were just being polite. Perhaps some just felt too awkward casually saying, "Hey, nice boob job." I don't know.

I even read an article about this kind of thing once. A group of people were sent in to different social environments wearing Barry Manilow concert T-shirts. Most of the participants were initially horrified when shown what they'd be wearing and had reservations about even continuing with the experiment. Poor Barry, how did that ever happen to him? That's not the point, but it was the point behind the experiment – sort of. The end result was that the majority of people surveyed, when asked to describe what the 'test subjects' were wearing had no idea. The closest anyone got was a concert T-shirt of some sort.

See, people just aren't paying any attention to us. Let's face it; unless you're a bride walking down the aisle, all eyes are not on you. Isn't that liberating? It is to me.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to twist my hair up into a clip and head out to Lowe's.

Just being me…

- M