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.
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.”
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.
Last night Sleep and I broke up. We disagreed over a bar of dark chocolate. Sleep said, “You’ll regret eating that.” But of course, I ate it anyway. I should have listened because sleep was right. And I had all night to think about it.
My dark-chocolate buzz made random thoughts swirl in my head like an inter-cranial tornado, thoughts like, why can you give someone short shrift, but not long shrift? Why is abbreviation such a long word? And why are your loins the only part of your body you can gird?
Bingo wings are not the latest spicy appetizers; they’re the flabby upper arms so many of us boomers are fighting. This genetic condition also goes by many lovely names such as bat wings, Jello jigglers, flabby dabbys, shakers and movers, Miss Wigglys, and Parma hams. And like a ham, they’re big and hard to hide, especially with today’s sleeveless fashions.
When I was a child, my mother lost part of her vision. Too cash-strapped to pay for eye tests, my parents never discovered the reason. Back then it was a choice between glasses or groceries. But Mom made the best of it. She found if she held a book farther away, she could read it. Sometimes she’d say, “This is mice type. My arms are too short to read it,” and I’d hold the book for her. Anything too close, or too far away, she saw in soft focus. She said it was like watching an aging movie star filmed through gauze, a technique that makes everyone look younger and prettier.
To my cat, doors are the enemy. That includes the hall door where the evil vacuum lives, and the dreaded bathroom door, which she has learned to push open—self taught—to the surprise of guests who mutter, “Wait, wait. There’s someone in here.”
When my friend’s mother died, she inherited a steamer trunk. She assumed it held the sentimental detritus of her childhood: photos, baby shoes, grade school report cards, artwork from her early poster paint period
including the cubist rendition of her family who seemed to have triangular heads.
I just found out that I am too stupid to live. This saddened me because I’d always thought I was fairly smart. But I did something idiotic that crushed my ego flatter than an old Buick at a salvage yard.