We’ve all heard of cougars, those 40-something female predators who stalk bars, hoping to sink their finely sharpened claws into the tender flesh of innocent young men. Luckily, these modern-day Mrs. Robinsons—who’ve exchanged their garter belts for Spanx—have been exposed by the media and are now easily avoided. But young men, don’t breathe a sigh of relief just yet because there is a new danger out there, lurking in cafes and restaurants, preying on your naiveté, dining out on your trust. They’re called leopards.
I don’t know about you, but I’m really tired of seeing people’s underwear. News flash! It’s called underwear for a reason. I don’t care if it’s Calvin Klein; cover it up. Underwear is supposed to be private, not paraded around like the Stars and Stripes on the 4th of July. Continue reading “I See Paris, I See France”
During the half-time show on Superbowl Sunday I kept thinking about the infamous wardrobe malfunction, and all I could say was, “You call that a wardrobe malfunction?” Next to my malfunction that fleeting glimpse looked like a Little Miss Sunshine Pageant. Continue reading “Give the Little Lady Another Hand”
I let my friend Andrea drag me to a singles mixer. Bad idea.
The Marriott ballroom, decorated in early bordello, was filled with men in dark suits who sported enough ear hair to knit sweaters for the entire US Olympic ski team. It looked like a convention of retired undertakers. I whispered to Andrea, “When I said I wanted to start dating again, I didn’t mean carbon dating.”
Disaster seems to follow me like its a hungry stray and I’m dangling a hot dog. My latest disaster resulted from a chain of events that started with a nasty cold and ended, well—I’ll get to that. Continue reading “Fuzzy Thinking”
Every woman needs a really mean cat who adores her. The kind of cat that when the vet sees him coming, he pulls on elbow length leather gloves like he’s about to wrestle an alligator. The kind of cat who has a big red sticker on his medical file that says, “Caution: I bite.” Continue reading “One Mean Cat”
Every woman needs a really mean cat who adores her. The kind of cat that when the vet sees him coming, he pulls on elbow length leather gloves like he’s about to wrestle an alligator. The kind of cat who has a big red sticker on his medical file that says, “Caution: I bite.” Continue reading “The Missing”
It was the worst job interview of my life. Worse than the time an employer asked where I needed to improve and I blurted out, “I need to stop stealing office supplies for drug money.”
Though I’ve been told I have a big head, lately it’s not big enough to hold all the information I’m collecting. My head is stuffed full. Too many entries are crowded willy-nilly in my mental data bank, making retrieval difficult, sometimes impossible. If only my brain had a delete button so I could dump some old memories to make room for new ones. Of course, a few embarrassing moments should be retained to keep me humble, and a few sad ones–not too many–to keep me grounded. I wouldn’t have to delete much, I just need a little more room. I want a pill that relieves over-crowding and creates extra space, like Beano for the brain. Continue reading “My Head Ate Too Much”
I feel weird getting naked in someone else’s home. I was spending the weekend with friends, and decided to take a shower before bed. From inside the bathroom I could hear my hosts talking, and there I stood, one door away—stark naked.
Suddenly I flashed on the first time I had to get naked in front of people, an event that traumatized me for life—my first day of junior high gym.
For my husband’s birthday I made his favorite dish: pasta Bolognese. In the three decades I’ve been making this meaty sauce, this was the first time the planets aligned in a harmonic convergence which culminated in one batch of unequivocal, undeniable—perfection. This accomplishment should fill me with pride—right?—but all I feel is doomed.