Last night when I tried to open a plastic bubble pack, my scissors slipped and instead of opening up the package, I opened up my finger. Over the bathroom sink, as my blood recreated the shower scene in Psycho, I fumbled with a Band-Aid wrapper. “Where’s the string you pull?” I asked my husband. Continue reading “No Strings Attached”
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.”