I Want My Sexy Back

Tom and I went to see the movie Les Miserables last Saturday night in Asheville, and afterward we ate Italian with our friends, Ken and Laura.  The restaurant was packed so we sat at the bar while waiting for a table.  I was sipping my water when Tom leaned over and whispered, "If I were single, and I saw you sitting here, I'd hit on you."  It took me a few seconds to absorb what I had just heard and then put it into some context that made sense.   "HEH?" I replied. My response was so loud everyone in the bar stopped and looked our way.  I wasn't sure I'd heard him correctly.  (It's my hearing; not so good anymore.)  At sixty-six (two and one half years short of seventy) there ain't no way I could be considered a pick-up for a sexy rendezvous.  Not possible. Nope.  Nah. Can't be.  Doesn't compute.  He repeated it again and yes my husband did say that.  Now you're probably thinking that I was thinking his comment warranted a sweet response.  Nah.  I leaned over and said, "Do I know you?"  Then I left with the twenty-seven-year-old bartender.  Hey!  It could happen. If J-lo can do it, I don't see why I can't!

LIAR, LIAR, PANTS ON FY-EER!

Okay. I'm lying.  I left with with Tom.  Well, he had the car keys, and the bartender didn't return my winks (I find I'm invisible to younger men) so I didn't see I had many options.

The truth is I'm not sure I want my sexy back.  It did nothing but get me in trouble when I was single and hanging out at bars.  Well, I didn't Hang Out at bars,  but I did frequent them on occasion.  That is what young people did before Internet dating became an option for finding love.  I tried finding my Prince Charming in places other than bars:  car repair shops, Harley motorcycle clubs, Jiffy Lubes, Wal-Mart's gun and hunting department, Ace Hardware, construction sites, cigar shops, but to no avail.

I was looking for candlelight dinners, eye contact, hand holding, tender touches, sweet nothings whispered in my ear, walks along a sandy beach, long intimate talks, promises made.  That is what I wanted when I sat down on those barstools all those many years ago.  I was looking for love, but my sexy back betrayed my intentions and cried out,  "MY CLOCK IS RUNNING OUT, GUYS! I'M DESPERATE!"

Then one cold January day in 1980 it hit me:  Tractor Supply.  Why hadn't I thought of farmers before?  They like sexy backs, too. So I slipped into my cowgirl boots, Carhartt overalls and camouflage baseball cap and hurried down to a 160-acre farm on Morgantown Road in Greenwood.  And there he was.  My husband-to-be.  The father of my future child.  My happy-ever-after.

Oops!  It appears my pants are smokin'.  Nope, they're definitely on fy-eer.  I hate it when that happens.

Mood Swinger

I'm grumpy.  Snippy.  Testy.  Prickly.  Not happy. Walking mad woman.

I only mention my state of mood because I'm thinking that you're thinking I'm an excellent example on how to live your life:  one who is always happy, who loves unconditionally, is eager to please, a friend to everyone, never judges, complains or holds a grudge, and doesn't sweat the small stuff. I'm thinking you're also thinking I'm loving and affectionate, too.  From what you've read about me in my blog, I think you think I'm someone to emulate, to strive to be more like.  While you're desperately treading just to keep your head above the sludge of life, you see my happy, stress-free existence as an inspiration, a goal to attain. You do think that, don't you?

Hello?  Hello?  Is anyone there?

It's true.  I'm a mood swinger. There!  I said it! I'm not the perfect person you thought I was.  But I've noticed lately that you're not "all that and a box of Cracker Jacks" yourself.  We are in this together, honey.  You and me.  Just like Oprah, we need to claw our way out of the sewer, crawl with bleeding fingers up to the high road, forsake our old self-destructive ways, strive to reach our personal best, hire excellent publicists, and then set up a secret bank account in Switzerland.  Are you with me on this?

Hello?  Hello?

There you go.  One vulnerable moment, a weakness revealed, and you're off to another blog, seeking inspiration and guidance elsewhere. But that's okay because I've found my own personal life coach.  For ten years she's been right under my nose, leading by example.  She is perfect in every way, and I'm going to follow her example on how to live life, except I'm not going to lick my butt.  I can't reach it.

Maggie want a treat?

The 25% Rule

My ears hurt.  My lips and tongue have gone to sleep from inactivity.  My eyes are half closed but you don't notice.  You've forgotten the 25% rule:  four people in a group, each person gets to contribute to the conversation 25% of the time.  With you, with me, it would be the 50% rule.  You get half, I get half. You talk, I talk, you talk, I talk.  Not you talk, you talk, you talk, you talk.  Get it?  I hope so.  There'll be a manners and math test later.

It's Good to be Bad

It's good to be bad.  It's cool. It's camp. It's just a silly little phase we're going through.  We, an intelligent, thoughtful, and mature society, will eventually get sick from our over-indulgent, insatiable appetite for mean and rude and gross and despicable "lowest-common-denominator" behavior and say, "ENOUGH! WE'RE MAD AND WE'RE NOT GOING TO TAKE IT ANYMORE!"  We will individually and collectively climb up on top our soap boxes and demand change.  Our children (our future) will see us take a stand for good form, decency and civility and learn that bad really isn't good after all.

IT'S ABOUT THE MONEY, STUPID!

Oh, okay then...never mind.

Touchy, Feely

I'm dead.  At least if she has her way, I'm dead.  She hates me and I feel I've done nothing to deserve her ire.  She won't accept me for who I am, and I don't know how to change to please her.  She's never actually said it to me, but I can tell by the way she looks at me she thinks I'm the scurge of the earth.  Me.  The scurge of the earth.  Now that hurts.   She's obsessed with killing me, so I'm telling you that if something happens to me, it's her.  She did it.  She murdered me.

I just want to be close.  Is that a sin?  I'm touchy, feely.  It's my nature.  I love to tickle her cute little nose, nuzzle against her ear, play with her hair.  We even eat from the same plate. She says I bug her.  I invade her space.

They say opposites attract.  That is sooooo true in my case, but not for her.  I like being with her but over time, she's grown to hate me. Did I mention she wants me gone?   Not just a "see ya later gator, bye bye now sucker, adios amigo" gone.  She's contemplating murder.

I pooped in her French Onion soup today.  I didn't think she saw me, but she did.  I hurried away but then I could see she was really, really mad so I came back and she tried to smack me.  Now is that nice?

I have a feeling my days on this earth are short.  In fact, she could do me in today.  I need to stay clear.  Take cover.  Fly under the radar. Hide from this crazy woman.  If only I were a fly on the wall, I could watch her every move.

Wait a minute!  I am a fl...SPLAAAAAT!!



Another perspective

Is Reality TV Real?

A mother, with her seven-year-old daughter in tow, storms into a restaurant.   While screaming obscenities at a group of stunned people seated at a table, she knocks everything on their table to the floor.

While Sister #1 is lying on a sofa with her legs spread wide apart, Sister #2 takes aims with an electric shaver; they both giggle.

A beautiful twenty-something young woman is sobbing out of control on the bathroom floor.  It seems the man she loves, the man she's known for one week,  is also dating twenty-four other equally beautiful women...and sleeping with many of them.

A famous singer, who has had the respect and adoration of the American population for decades, shows 30 million people on national television (in just one hour) that she is cunning, deceptive, mean spirited, and unstable.

A mother with multiple children (as in six all the same age) belittles and screams at their father over and over and over again, until he screams back and then leaves the family.

A father walks into his twelve-year-old daughter's room to discover she is doing her homework with a neighbor boy who is also her age.  He loses his temper and screams obscenities at the boy and tells him to leave; then turns his ire on his daughter.  

IS REALITY TV REAL?

Absolutely!  It really happened.  I saw all of the above while I was channel surfing, trying to find something worthwhile to watch within my 800 channel selection after a very long day of retirement.

I was going to keep my occupation a secret--don't let anyone tell you retirement is not hard work--but I've never been able to keep a secret, so why try now.  I'm a sixty-something baby boomer. Actually, I'm lying.  I'm closer to seventy; not a baby boomer at all.  I only mention my age here because it's the reason I'm upset about what is happening on television these days.  Is anyone else as disgusted and appalled as I am? Something needs to be done.  We seniors need to raise our voices and say "Why is Reality TV discriminating against old folks?"

OLD PEOPLE DISCRIMINATION

Reality television is focusing too much on youth and ignoring the drawing power of us old folks. Imagine the following scenarios and tell me people wouldn't like to see...

Ten ninety-plus-year-old women hobbling after the only man in their wing at the nursing home.  His wheelchair is faster than they are, but as he rounds a corner he slides out onto the floor.  He frantically crawls to the bathroom where he can be heard sobbing uncontrollably.

An elderly couple walk into a restaurant and ask for the early-bird special.  When the hostess tells them the special ended at 6:00p.m., they plummet her with their canes.  

Two sisters, who appear to be in their late eighties,  are sitting on a sofa.  One lays down and spreads her legs while the other plugs in an electric mixer.  In the background a voice yells out, "No! Edith. No! Electric shaver, not mixer."  The sisters giggle.

A ninety-five-year-old man is wheeled into an Emergency Room by his wife who has a huge smile on her face.   He's holding a bottle of Vitamins, he thinks.  "That's Viagra, not Vitamins," the doctor says.  "How many did you take?"  His wife giggles and holds up four fingers.

An elderly, never married sheep farmer...oh...nevermind.

The Lady at Lowes Doesn't Like Me

When Jason was five I bought a home on Old Mill Court in a subdivision on the southwest side of Indy that was built in a weekend.  Tiny thousand-square-foot houses were sprouting up overnight in a cornfield off Mills and Mann Roads that my ex-husband J.J. used to farm.  With just twelve feet separating the homes on our cozy little cul-de-sac, being a considerate neighbor was key; it was also important to not tick off your neighbors.  I see that now in retrospect.

Ticking off my neighbors (and people in general) was not something I set out to do.  It was a side-effect of my self-absorbed cluelessness.  For example, when it was hot, I wore a bikini to cut the grass.  It never occurred to me that would upset all of the married women on the court.  It also never crossed my mind that I should not have blown all the grass clippings into the street and my neighbors' yards. And, when Jason spent Halloweens with his father, I would turn out all the lights in the house, and put "NO TRESPASSING" signs* all over my yard.  In my defense, I was a first-time homeowner.  I didn't know better.  Eventually, I figured it out but by then it was too late.

You know how sometimes when you meet someone new, you instantly don't like them?  No?  That's never happened to you?  Really?  Well,  it's never happened to me either.  I like everyone, especially you.  Who wouldn't like you? I know how wonderful you can be when you try really hard. Sometimes, though, it happens to me in reverse.  For some reason that I have never been able to understand, I am, on occasion, disliked immediately.  This happens before I've had a chance to show people how wonderful I have the potential to be.

Just the other day, while shopping at our new Super Wal Mart in Franklin, my cell phone rang while I was in line checking out.  Not wanting to be rude to the person calling me, I took the call and since I was concerned my caller couldn't hear me, I raised my voice ten decibels.  "HELLO.  OH, HI CINDY!  YES I DID SEE THE BACHELOR LAST NIGHT! OMG! IT WAS UNBELIEVABLE!  CAN YOU BELIEVE SHE DID THAT? WHAT?  SORRY, CINDY! YOU'RE CUTTING OUT.  I'LL CALL YOU LATER!  OKAY! BYE."  

As I was leaving Wal Mart, I thought about how the cashier appeared to dislike me.  Was I imagining it? She didn't even know me.  How could she not like me?  She didn't know how wonderful I have the potential to be. She was nice and chatty to the person who checked out before me, but she was cold, unresponsive, and the smile she showed the previous customer was now gone.

After leaving Wal Mart, I called Cindy back to talk about the latest disgusting behavior on Bridezilla, Toddlers and Tiaras, and The Kardashians.  I was so engrossed in our conversation that I inadvertently ran a red light and pulled out in front of an older couple in a Cadillac while turning left onto Highway 64 on my way to Lowes.  They pulled up beside me, rolled down their window, and yelled mean, hurtful things.  It was obvious they didn't know about my potential.

The lady at Lowes doesn't like me. When she encounters me at the checkout, I always say the same thing, "What?  How could it be that much?  Could you check to see if there has been a mistake?"  Every time she checks, the receipt is correct, but I went in to buy only one box of nails and a few other miscellaneous items,  and the bill is always over $50.  How could that be?

I'm sitting in the drive-thru line at McDonalds and the girl behind Window #1 doesn't like me.  I don't get it.  I'm a nice person.  I'm busy.  I have things to do.  McDonalds has WiFi, which means I can check my emails and write my blog while ordering lunch.  Ever heard of multi-tasking?  My computer is in my lap leaning against the steering wheel, and I am rummaging through the ash tray for all the quarters I can find to pay the bill.  All I need is $.57 more and the only coins left are pennies.  One, two, three, four...just fifty-three pennies to go and I'll be out of her hair.  If only she knew how wonderful I have the potential to be.

five, six, seven, just fifty more pennies to go.  Ping... Oh, hold on, I have a text message.

*Okay,  I didn't really put the signs in the yard.  I used yellow "Do Not Cross" tape.