Monday, October 11, 2010

Don't Let Ignorance be Your Guide...

Imagine meeting your soul mate. The person you have always dreamt about finding. The one that knows the things that make you happy, your deepest fears and the secrets you've never told anyone else. Out of all of the people in the world and after years of searching, you have finally been blessed enough to find your true love.

Now imagine being told that your feelings for that person weren't real, were wrong or that it is an abomination against God.

For as long as I can remember, I have been attracted to guys with dark hair and dark eyes. Whether it was Jeff, the boy in my 2nd grade class, Chris, my high school crush, my movie star fantasy men (Johnny Depp, Colin Farrell, George Clooney in case anyone wants to pass the word along to them) or baseball's all around good guy, Mike Lowell (Go Red Sox!), I just always preferred the boys with dark locks as opposed to the fair haired ones. I couldn't help it anymore than those that like someone with a little junk in the trunk, go crazy for a red head, or lean towards girls with the body of a supermodel or guys built like professional wrestlers. It was just simply my taste.

Sure I dated a blond or two. But the primal attraction from within always drew me towards the brunettes. Anything else, with maybe the exception of Brad Pitt, felt forced and unnatural.

For millions of men and women being attracted to the opposite gender is forced and unnatural. Don't think that gay men haven't tried to like girls or that most lesbians have never dated a man. They have. It's not like they chose to be gay because it would be easier. After all, it would have been much simpler to be what society dubs as "normal."

No one wants to be considered abnormal. It doesn't make for an easy plight. When someone is different, they are often ridiculed, teased, even shamed. The reason for this is because people have a hard time embracing what they don't understand.

For years religions, countries and nationalities have fought wars because they simply don't understand the other's views or beliefs. They view them as too contradictory to their own and believe their own views are the only ones with any validity.

Christopher Columbus was ridiculed for going against what people had believed for hundreds of years: The world was flat. Italians used to believe that eating eggplant caused insanity. Christians are taught to believe in the theory of Creation: God created Adam, then He took a rib from Adam and Eve was created and from them spawned Humanity.

It took one trip for the masses to realize Christopher Columbus was right and follow along. Eventually, enough Italians ate eggplant without going crazy for the population to realize hey, maybe we were wrong about this eggplant thing and Viola! Eggplant Parmesan was born.

Unfortunately, religion has not been so open minded, especially when it comes to homosexual relationships. For years, I have heard individuals use religion as a platform against homosexuality. "God says it is an abomination for a man to lay with another man" or the ever popular "It was Adam and Eve. Not Adam and Steve."

These people, most that have never read the Bible, jump on the bandwagon and spout this religious propaganda. Surely, if they are accusing others of blasphemy, then they must be living their lives in full accordance with the Bible. I mean after all, those that live in glass houses shouldn't throw stones, right?

Just for fun, let's check.

Let's start with any easy one:

First, let's delve into two of the Seven Deadly Sins. Gluttony is defined by Wikipedia as the over-indulgence and over-consumption to the point of waste. Have you ever eaten out of boredom? Gone to a buffet and taken more than you could finish? What kind of car do you drive? Is it an old clunker that gets you from point A to point B or is it shiny and pretty complete with air, a GPS, and six CD changer?


Now let's look at another Deadly Sin. Have you ever looked at someone's physique and thought, "I work out constantly, eat nothing but celery and water and look like this and she eats anything she wants and never works out and looks like that? Or thought, I work twice as hard as (insert name here), yet he makes more money than me. Congratulations, you are guilty of Envy.

Shame on you.

I know. I know. Most people are guilty of that, so we should probably overlook it. I mean if everyone does it, they probably aren't really important Commandments. But the Bible says…

The Bible also says: Fornication, the illicit sex acts of unmarried persons which is likewise forbidden (I Corinthians 5:1; 6:13, 18; Ephesians 5:3). Good thing none of us had sex before we were married, even with our husband/wife to be, eh? Seriously, nowadays, most people wouldn't get married without first, ummm… how should I put this, sampling the goods.

Now let's review some of the Commandments: Honor thy Father and Mother. Ever talk back to your parents or fail to become a lawyer or doctor like they imagined?

Remember the Sabbath day and keep it holy. For six days you shall labour and do all your work. But the seventh day is a Sabbath to the Lord your God; you shall not do any work—you, your son or your daughter, your male or female slave, your livestock, or the alien resident in your towns.

Have you ever missed church on Sunday or done yard work, clean the house, etc?


(Notice the part about slaves? That is in the Bible, yet we are intelligent enough to condemn that as being wrong and even recognize it in the Constitution.)

Then there is my personal favorite: Though shall not murder.

Why is this my personal favorite? Because often, the same people that fight so vehemently against homosexuality are the same people that have ribbons on their doors in "Support of the Troops" and favor the death penalty. Don't get me wrong. I support our troops wholeheartedly, but we are fighting a war forged out of greed and envy (which we have already learned are two of the Deadly Sins), and a murder is defined as anyone that takes the life of the innocent. We have all heard the term "casualty of war." Are all of the soldiers destined to a life of hellfire?

And for those that defend the death penalty saying it is not considered wrong in the Bible. Answer me this: How big were Moses' stone tablets? Was there room for asterisks?

Did God put: "Thou shall not commit murder *unless someone really deserves it"?

My objective isn't to tear apart the Bible. However, even the Bible has been amended over the years. You have the Old Testament that speaks of a mean, vengeful, "eye for an eye" God and even describes Him as being a "jealous" God and therefore you are not allowed to worship any other Gods. Jealous…Envy…hmmmm.

Then you have the New Testament where God is much kinder and forgiving. More like a hippie. Maybe he started taking Zoloft.

The Bible was originally passed down orally, and then eventually documented in Hebrew with some parts in Aramaic. Have you ever played operator? Things tend to get exaggerated when spread by word of mouth(Heck, my family usually can't even get a simple phone message right). Plus, even after it was documented, it still had to be translated. Isn't there the slightest chance something could have been misinterpreted or translated wrong?

The point that I am trying to make is that you cannot condemn someone without condemning yourself. You cannot take the parts of the Bible that you prefer and cast aside the ones that you do not like or that don't gel with your own life.

Heterosexuals have been screwing up marriage for years, just check today's divorce rate, which, by the way, is against Catholic beliefs. Why not give homosexuals a chance to get it right? And PLEASE don't cry about how it affects the economy, medical benefits, etc. To those people I say, eat another doughnut, smoke another cigarette, or sit on the couch watching television instead of exercising.

Also, break your arm, go to the hospital and get your bill. Then tell them that you don't have insurance. See if they change the price. I bet they lower it a few hundred or thousand dollars. Yet they would have billed the insurance company the higher rate.

Illegal aliens receive health care benefits. Medicaid provides for those less fortunate. It also provides for those that continue to have children to get more Welfare money.

But I'm sure it is the working, married homosexuals that are raising the rates.

And speaking of children, studies have proven that children raised by homosexuals tend to do better in school and be better adjusted than children brought up in a more "traditional" manner.

We need to stop looking for reasons to hate and discriminate. If you don't understand someone's ways or beliefs, ask them about them. If you still don't get it, don't worry about it, but don't condemn them for something you don't comprehend. There is word for that: Ignorance.

The Bible says: "Thou shalt not hate thy brother in thine heart; thou shalt in any wise rebuke thy neighbour, and not suffer sin upon him. Thou shalt not revenge, nor bear any grudge against the children of thy people, but thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself: I am the Lord."—Leviticus 19.17, 18.

Why not focus on that? Love your fellow man. And while you may claim to "know" God, my guess is you have never sat, had a cup of coffee or a glass of wine with Him and said, "So God, what are your thoughts on divorce, sexuality, and war?" So, until you have, stop judging what other's do and how they live. If someone is lucky enough to find true love, let them enjoy it. After all, aren't we all just a bunch of souls? When we die, our body does not go with us. Therefore, if we are going to pass judgement, shouldn't we do it based on a person's soul, not whom they date?

And to the poets that still spout out, "Adam and Eve. Not Adam and Steve," congratulations, you are sleeping with you sister, brother, mother, cousin, etc. I suggest you either practice abstinence or quit worrying about everyone else's sex life. And I promise…you "can't catch it" either. And trust me, even if you could, homosexuals wouldn't want you on their team. Truth is, we don't want your ignorant ass on our's either.

Have fun in your Heaven. I guess I will enjoy Hell with the soldiers, the homosexuals and anyone that has a different religion or set of beliefs than you. Although, to be honest, that sounds like Heaven to me.

Tuesday, September 21, 2010

Move over Booty Pop-Another Million Dollar Idea I Gave Away

Normally I try to keep my blog pretty light. However, after what I saw the other night, I decided I simply had to amend my views and share my new found knowledge with the world. I feel it is unfair to keep it to myself.

I am of course talking about Aciphex.

Aciphex, pronounced "ass affects," is a product designed to relieve acid reflux and heartburn. As I was thumbing through my channels and came across this commercial, I paused for a moment certain I was watching some old Saturday Night Live skit. Surely the next thing I would see would be Tina Fey beaming about how it stopped her embarrassing anal leakage, Will Ferrell bragging about how it turned his saggy old man ass into buns of steel or Amy Poehler boasting about how just a few drops of Aciphex in her husband's morning coffee turned him from a complete boarish, tactless ass to a sweet, sensitive teddybear. But nope, this was a legitimate commercial and the name of the product was actually "Aciphex".

All I could think was how the hell did that get past research and development and ever reach the marketing department? It made me think of another unfortunately named product. I mean really, who could ever forget Nads? The informative commercial featured a woman with an Australian accent explaining how she developed the miracle product for her Wolfman-like, hairy daughters with ingredients she found right in her own kitchen. Okay, note to self: If you are invited over to this woman's house for dinner, DON'T ACCEPT. There is a pretty good chance there will be hair in your food.

Anyway, somewhere along the way, didn't someone say, "Excuse me? Furry lady with the Austrailian accent…I don't know if it means something different in Australia, but in the United States "Nads" is slang for men's balls. So unless you only want to sell to immature guys that buy them as a joke for friends, you may want to rethink the name. "

And don't get me wrong, the product had great success. But how much better could it have done if instead of Nads, it went with a more women friendly name like "Naturally Gone" or "Hair 2day…Gone 2moro"." I mean if you are a woman and you are standing in the isle of a drug store which box are you going to grab? I mean, really? It's like standing in the isle and deciding between a 1 day cure for a yeast infection or a 7 day cure.

And finally, this blog would not be complete if I did not mention the other great sensation sweeping the nation: Booty Pop. This is basically a pair of spandex pants with a stuffed booty sewn inside. This will make all the girls, and hell, I guess guys too-I won't discriminate, that are lacking in the derriere department able to fill out their jeans/dresses more aptly. Allow me to say, being teased since I was seven for having a "bubble butt" and still having ample "junk in da trunk" I cannot speak on this product with any authority. All I can say is first of all, kudos to anyone that has the guts not only to go to a store and actually buy this product (I saw it first in a Bed, Bath & Beyond circular), but to do so with a straight face. Second, explain this to me: Once you have walked around in this thing…we won't even get into how you will explain where your booty disappears to when you put on a swimsuit. Although if you do wear it with a bikini, which conjures images of the bottom of the nude colored shorts sticking out of the bathing suit & a soggy, saggy baby diaper-esque image to mind (can you say "SEXY?!?"), I have to believe it could serve as a flotation device, much like water wings or Pamela Anderson's breasts.

Now with that thought thoroughly engrained, let me get back to my original question. Your newfound booty has attracted your dream man. You have decided to take it to the "next level." Bow chicka bow bow. You take off your push up bra that gave you the cleavage of a Goddess, revealing your C's are actually A's, the Spanx that gave you that slim trim stomach, allowing your muffin top to sprawl out gasping for air and lastly, you take off…your butt. I mean at what point does the guy A) Not go "Yeah, this is just too much artillery to go through"; B) Have a valid lawsuit for false advertising; C) Acknowledge that , holy crap does THIS chick have some serious issues; and D) Say, "WTF? Did you just take off your ass?!?"

Like I said, I cannot speak on authority about these products. I mean, who knows? Maybe Booty Pop comes with an instruction guide on what to do when your lover shrieks in horror about the whole snap on-snap off ass/sex deal. You know, an instruction guide or the number of a good therapist.

Wait! I've got it. Here is another million dollar idea I'm about to give away. Maybe the makers of Booty Pop can come out with a male equivalent and call it "Penis Pop." That way when the woman gets undressed and takes off her spandex ass, the guy can slip off his padded package and instead of being embarassed or horrified they can call it even.

You know, as long as everyone's NADS are properly groomed;]

Saturday, May 29, 2010

Happily Never After...And That's Okay

Happily Never After…And That's Okay;)

When I was 17, I remember Christmas shopping for my first real boyfriend. For months I had listened intently to everything he had mentioned even remotely liking. I ran from store to store purchasing each item certain if I didn't buy it immediately, it would be sold out or they would no longer have his size. Some of the things, well, in my opinion, were downright ugly, but I knew he really liked them and I wanted to make him happy.

During one shopping excursion, as I carefully listened for more last minute ideas while my boyfriend and I wandered aimlessly around the mall, I spotted a piece of art and I immediately fell in love. It was an abstract picture of a man giving a woman flowers that would go perfectly over my bed.

My boyfriend catching my excitement asked, "Which one? The purple one or the black and red one?"

"The black and red one," I replied, marveling at it.

A week later I received a call from my boyfriend. "Hey, I'm at that store. Which picture did you like?"

"The black and red one of the guy giving the girl flowers. The abstract," I replied excitedly.

"Okay," he said hanging up.

A few minutes later my phone rang again. "You're sure it was the black and red one?" he asked.

"Yes," I said with certainty, "I'm positive."

"Okay, I just wanted to make sure," he said hanging up again.


"Hello?" I said.

"Hi, it's me again. I'm here and the girls at the store all really like the purple one of just the girl's face. Are you sure you don't want that one?"

"No," I said, thinking this present was more trouble than it was worth. "I like the black and red one. I don't like the purple one."


The phone rang again.

"What?!?" I asked with frustration as I answered the phone.

"It's just that the girls really like the purple one…"

"Then date them and buy it for them," I instructed angrily. "I don't. I like the black and red one. Just forget it. Don't buy it."

Christmas morning, I opened up my picture. It was the black and red one.

"Thank you," I said.

He smiled, "I still can't believe you didn't like the purple one better."

Needless to say, that relationship didn't work out. Fast forward ten years. My husband-to-be was a huge fan of the Giuseppe Armani statues. Armani, although beautiful, was a bit Old World and detailed for my taste. I preferred the more contemporary, sleeker statues of Austin. For a wedding gift, I bought my husband a beautiful Armani. For his wedding gift to me, he bought me an Armani.

Over the years, this trend would continue in one way or another. Being an artist, I had always wanted to work with oils. You can achieve richer vibrancy of color with oils than you can with acrylics. My husband, although not a painter, never liked oil paintings feeling they had a messier look. When I asked for art supplies for Christmas, I received brushes, canvases and acrylics. Then most recently, before we separated I had told him I wanted a Chi for my upcoming birthday. Once I managed to get it through his head that it was a hair straightening device, not a Chia pet, he told me that was a stupid gift and to pick something else.

I have been divorced now for five months. Whenever someone asks if I'm dating and I reply, "No, I'm single," I get the look. You know the one: head cocked to the side, the look of Awww, poor thing in the eyes followed by a pat on the arm and the ever comforting, "You'll meet someone. When the time is right and you're ready, you'll meet someone." The words are said out of kindness in an attempt to be reassuring, although sometimes I am not certain whom they are meant to reassure: me or them.

People don't like the idea of a person being alone. It makes them uncomfortable to think about someone eating alone, spending nights alone and not having the security of another person being there. It is difficult for society to comprehend the possibility that maybe someone would choose to be alone.

I used to think that too. After all, marriage provided love, security and the ability to know that someone loved you for who you were. Or at least that is the general concept.

Now, at the ripe old age of thirty-five, I have a very different opinion. Marriage doesn't guarantee security or unconditional love and support and as, I have discovered, there are a lot of advantages to being single. For instance, I have never been a picky eater, so instead of going through the trouble of cooking two dinners, I often just made what I knew my husband would eat. The same would go for choosing restaurants. Now, I am free to eat Mexican or sushi every night of the week, at whatever time I choose or just curl up with a bowl of cereal if I'm not in the mood to cook at all.

My house is always clean. No dishes with dried up food found around the house. No dirty clothes left wherever they may have fallen. No resentment about chores left undone or not getting help bringing in the groceries.

My schedule is completely up to me. If I feel the creative urge to paint or write, I can, whether it is 1pm or 3am without worrying that my partner is feeling neglected, that I am holding us up from doing something or because I am too tired from staying up late. I can watch the same movie twice in a row. I have always loved to travel but there were places I had always wanted to go that my ex-husband had no interest in visiting so we chose other spots that were mutually desirable. Now, I can go to those places without feeling like I'm making him do something he won't enjoy. I also have the ability to pick up and go on a moment's notice. I have a friend that opens language schools around the world. Last week he asked me if I wanted to come visit him in Guatemala-free rent, free food, just pay for airfare. I had never thought about visiting Guatemala before and when I was married, this is something I could never have even considered doing. But now, why not?

And while the ability to do what I want to do and not having to answer to someone else is a great appeal to the single life, I have discovered something even more priceless. I like me. I like the person that I am and I feel that person deserves to be happy. For the first time in my life, I am making myself a priority and I have to tell you, it's kind of nice.

So for all of you out there that are worried about me or look at me with pity or like I have just admitted to being an alcoholic or drug addict because I have fessed up to being single, try looking at it this way: I am involved in a relationship with a thirty-five year old hot blond that knows exactly what I like, takes care of me, makes me laugh, has a great group of friends, loves me for who I am, but still encourages me to achieve my dreams and even spoils me on occasion. Will I get ever get married again? Who knows? Maybe I will. Maybe I won't. Maybe I'll never date again or maybe I'll take a lover in each new country I visit. But there is one thing I know for sure; if I ever do date again, that person will have to treat me as well as I treat myself. Otherwise, why should I bother? I like this new adventure I am on and the endless possibilities that lie ahead of me.

Now if you'll excuse me, I want to get back to that hot blond that I've been neglecting. Turns out…she is pretty cool;)

The New Busy is not the too busy. Combine all your e-mail accounts with Hotmail. Get busy.

Wednesday, April 21, 2010

Congratulations...You're a Fogey.

I would like to know when do you officially become old? I'm not talking about the number of years you've been on this Earth or the number of birthdays you've celebrated. No, I'm referring to the day you become a "fogey," as in "old fogey."

Is it the first time you hear your mother or father's voice coming out of your mouth? "Don't make me have to come back there. If I have to come back there, I swear I'll turn this car around!" Who said that? Mom? Dad? OMG, it was me!

Is it the day you find yourself running out of the house with curlers in your hair? Or perhaps for men, it's the day they commit to a hairstyle. You know the style I'm talking about...the one that they are sporting during what they perceive as the best time of their life so they continue to wear it decade after decade, long after it has gone out of style and male pattern baldness has set in, hoping that somehow people will still see them as the football hero or cool corvette purchaser they once were. Maybe it's when you're driving in the car with your kids and you realize, as they are belting out every last word to "Blah, Blah, Blah" or "I'ma be.." that you have no idea what the song on the radio is or who sings it and you find yourself thinking I'ma be changing the station over to Adult Contemporary or Classic Rock despite the backlash you might endure.

And of course one of my personal favorites to the gateway of old age is when you go to bed relatively healthly, yet you wake up and your wrist is sprained or your leg is, well broken. Funny, I don't remember engaging in full contact football in my sleep.

It seems to me that fogeyism isn't so much of an age thing, as it is a mentality. For the record and to make myself feel better, I would like to say that my nieces and nephews think I am the coolest aunt in the world. For rizzle. Not that I know what that means. They don't care that they are in their early teens and I am celebrating my 21st birthday for the 14th time. And I think we all know people like that. The grandma that is still hip enough to attend rock concerts. The uncle that still plays basketball. The ones that refuse to grow old.

We also know the other spectrum: Those individuals that are in their 20's yet act like they are 100. Their back aches. Their feet hurt. The music is too loud. You just want to look at them and say, "My God! Why don't you go home, take your Geritol, lay in your Craftmatic Adjustable bed, "clap" on your TV and watch Gunsmoke or Matlock reruns while you wait for the sweet kiss of death?"

Yes, some people are just born old.

This brings me to my parents. Now, I don't know for certain that they were born old, but I have never seen them act young. My father is 76 and has been acting that way since he was about 46. My father's favorite topic of conversation is his car. If you want my dad to like you, tell him you like it or ask him a question about it. Every time you get in the car with him, he will act like it is the first time you have ever seen it.

"See this? I can have the key in my pocket and just walk up to the car and the door will unlock. Your side should be unlocked. It's not unlocked.Why isn't it unlocking your side? The battery must be going dead. That's okay. See this? Push this button. The car starts itself. Don't even need the key. And see this button? If I push it a little man comes out, pats me on the back and tells me how awesome I am for buying this car." Same conversation - every time.

It gets even worse once he starts driving the car. Driving with my dad is like being stuck driving behind an old man in a hat - no place to be and all the time in the world to get there.

"Dad, my appointment is at 10am. Can you speed up a bit?"

"What's your hurry? You're always rushing me."

"Well the speed limit is 50 and we just got passed by an old lady with a walker."

"I know what the speed limit is.You're being very obstinate (his favorite word to use. Everything is obstinate. Me, the toaster, the government, you name it and in my dad's book, it is being obstinate.) I'm going 35. Your always rushing me. You'll make your appointment. Stop getting so flustrated."

Flustrated is a word my dad coined several years ago. It started out with the word flustered and was interchangable with the word frustrated. Eventually he got tired of having to choose between the two and voila' the word "flustrated" was born.

The part that really flustrates me is his incredible double standard. If you have some place to be, you could walk faster than he drives, but if he has some place to be...look out! Suddenly he is like Mario Andretti or Kyle Busch in the final lap and you had better get out of the way because he will run your ass down! The little man that comes out to pat him on the back to tell him what a great job he did for buying the car now serves as a score keeper counting the amount of "yellow" lights (wink*wink) my dad runs and the number of pedestrians that have to take flying leaps out of the way to avoid becoming road kill.

This however, is still better than driving with my mom. My mom doesn't like to drive, and she shouldn't because she sucks at it. I am convinced she has the brake and the gas pedal confused. At any given moment, even though there will not be a person, car or traffic light within a 100 mile radius, she will hit the brakes narrowly avoiding some pedestrian, squirrel or other invisible object. I always recommend taking a Dramamine and a barf bag if you are going to get in the car with mom. Once, while my best friend and I were driving behind her, she infuriated my friend so much, that she could no longer contain herself, "OMG! Would you freakin' drive you big Brake head!" Since that day we have affectionately referred to my mom as a "Brake head."

If you're the one driving, she is even worse. For no apparent reason, she will make oh crap sighs and grip the passenger side door handle making you think a car is about to plow into you, causing you and anyone in the car behind you to slam on your brakes. If you say something to her about it, she claims she has no idea what you are talking about even when you point out the fact that she is still white knuckling the door handle.

Yes, it is always an adventure with Mom and Dad. They fight like cats and dogs - angry, rapid cats and dogs. And of course one of the things that they fight about is the car. This is another one of those old people fights that I just don't get. My mom will try to sway me to her side by explaining the argument. She'll say something like, "Your father is in the garage again with that damn car." I know what you're thinking. He must be working on the car. Nope. He is just in there sitting in a lawn chair with a beer in his hand and the garage door open next to the car. This antagonizes my mother for some reason. I have yet to determine why. She continues, "So, he just sits there."

The nerve.

"Did you want him to do something?" I ask, knowing she just woke up from a nap and wasn't planning on spending quality time with him.

"No," she changes her focus. "Can you hand me the thing off of the thing?"

Ah yes, the thing off of the thing. For years I tried to determine exactly what this was. I would try to engage her in a game of 20 questions: the purse off of the counter? The remote control off of the couch? She'd always look at me like I was stupid and say, "You know..." I didn't. Eventually, I gave up and just began bringing her random things.

I handed her a lamp off of the end table. She looked at it puzzled for a minute then asked, "Why are you giving me this?"

"I thought that's what you wanted," I replied.

She went to the cupboard, grabbed the paparika off of the Lazy Susan (yeah, 'cause I would have guessed that!) then instructed me to go ask my father something she really didn't care about that was code for go see what your father is doing.

I headed out to the garage, where my dad greeted me with a smile and a "Hi, honey." I asked him what ever irrelavant thing my mom wanted to know.

"You know she is mad at me 'cause I'm sitting out here right?" he says thinking he is whispering, only he is mostly deaf so it is loud enough my mom and anyone within 10 blocks to hear.

"Why?" I ask.

He waves his hand and says, "But I'm not going in 'cause I don't want to hear it."

Hear what?!? What is this fight about?

"Did you ask him?" Mom is now standing in the door way that connects the garage to the house. Both are giving eack other a look.

"Well, this has been fun, but I have to go," I announce, pulling my keys out of my pocket.

"You're leaving?" they ask, both realizing they have scared off their buffer. Mom hugs me and returns back to the kitchen, giving dad one last dirty look as she leaves.

Dad confides in me that he will stay outside for another hour or so, just because. As I begin to walk away, he calls me back over. "Hey, did you see this? Key is in my pocket, but the door unlocks."

"That's great, Dad," I say smiling as I get in my car and ponder whether they have been married for over 50 years out of love or just to spite each other. I begin fooling with the radio, flick on the Adult Contemporary Station, start rocking out to my '80's music and hope to make it home before my night blindness sets in. Oh goody! I remembered my glasses. As I put them on, pull up to a light and break into my best Steve Perry, "Don't Stop Believeing" impersonation, I notice the teenage girl next to me has her window rolled down and is motioning for me to do the same.

"Ma'am, do you know where..."

She called me ma'am. I'm officially old.

It's all very flustrating.

Tuesday, April 6, 2010

Teaser excerpt from my book,"Why Am I still Single"

Excerpt from my book, "Why Am I Still Single?" Chapter title: The Savior:

Johnny had gotten a job as a mechanic and I, already having worked in the insurance industry, quickly found a job as a customer service agent. Our days were spent together and every night, we fell asleep in each other's arms. He held me so close that if I moved even the slightest bit, he would grasp me tighter and beg me not to leave him. Some nights I used to wake up feeling his tears on the back of my neck only to find him sound asleep admist a dream. I would hold him, stroking his hair until he calmed, assuring him everything would be okay.

Every once in a while I would catch him deep in thought. Puzzled, he would look at me and ask me why I was with him. It always bothered me. Several times when we were out, he would see a professional looking man in a suit or driving a nice car and comment about how that was the kind of guy I should be dating. I would make a joke about not being into threesomes and we would change the subject. But when he would come out and ask me, I always gave him the same answer. I didn't give a damn about how much money someone had or what another guy looked like, they would never be him. This appeased him for the most part.

The truth was, I didn't even look at other guys when I was with him. We had this undeniable, all encompassing bond right from the start. I had never felt that way before with anyone. I guess he felt the same, which is why one night when we were sitting in a parking lot talking, he looked at me and said, "You know I love you."

I smiled, held his stare and said, "And I love you."

"No," he said, his eyes taking on a strange intensity, "I really love you. I'm like crazy about you."

"I'm crazy about you too."

He put his head down, then looked back up at me, his eyes gravely serious and said, "If you ever cheated on me, I would kill you."

Tuesday, March 30, 2010

The Carrollton Dinner & Betty...The Hot Potato

Recently I had lunch at the Carrollton Diner. Yes, the Carrollton Diner. Never heard of it? Well you're not alone, neither has most of Carrollton, or by extension, most of the world. It is home to the best chicken noodle soup in the world and cakes the size of small end tables.

Before I get into the diner, I guess I should explain a little about Carrollton. In order to be considered "backwards", Carrollton would still need to take 3 steps forward. It is a place that hasn't been discovered yet, and frankly, that is just fine with most of the inhabitants. Despite society slowly making its way in and invading the town, the locals are resisting change with every fiber of their being. Town attractions include the jail, AppleBee's and the live auction barn. Recently, a big cross standing approximately 200ft high was erected to, well I'll say "welcome you" to town, but it actually tends to serve more as a warning: We are God fearing and if you don't believe in God, and do not have a confederate flag located somewhere on your Ford pick-up truck, we will not hesitate to crucify you. See, we already have the big cross.

When I say "we," I of course do not mean "me," as I am a Northerner and the whole Southern hospitality thing seemed to skip most of Carrollton. It is all very Hatfields vs McCoys, insiders vs ousiders, Marsha vs Greg over who has rights to the attic. I lived here 3 years before my first neighbor, Gloria, ever spoke to me. When she did, she informed me that she was from Chicago, lived here for 15 years, and well, no one would speak to her either. She also told me that all of the neighbors...the ones that don't speak to her, assumed that my now-ex husband and I were drug dealers because we came in, put up a 3 board style fence and have "all of those attack dogs."

The attack dogs she is referring to are 5 white fluffballs called American Eskimos that stand almost knee high. Not only are they not attack dogs, but if you actually came onto my property, the only threat you would face would be if they licked you to death and, if you happen to have a cookie on you and wanted to share it with them, they would probably take you right into the house and show you where the valuables were. Still, I decided to withhold this piece of information from Gloria, who I'm pretty certain didn't tell me the drug dealer remark to help explain why no one was speaking to us, but more to see if she could score some good reefer. I figured, let the neighbors think we are drug dealers. No one will ever complain about my grass being too long or my dogs barking.

Now that you have a little idea about Carrollton, let's go back to the diner. The diner popped up about 3 months ago in a location that has changed hands at least 500 times. It is hard for a business to make it in Carrollton because the locals, for the most part, won't even try it. The owners will therefore, do anything to get someone's business. When I first went to the diner, I noticed a sign posted that read: Per Popular Request, We Are Now Open 24HRS.

Popular request means some no teeth having, overall wearing guy named Earl came in one night and said through tobacco chew filled gums, "Eh, how come y'all ain't open 24 hours?" And, like a genie in a lamp, the owners granted Earl's wish and now they are. It seems Earl, thinking he has influence, told all of his friends about the diner because when I went there for the first time, it was packed.

The place was set up like a real diner, with booths, a counter you could eat at and glass cabinets displaying desserts that made my thighs grow two sizes just by looking at them. The owner spotted me, and fearing I had been in the door for 2 full seconds with out being spoken to, hurdled a table and came to greet me.

"How many?" he inquired, happy a new customer was trying the place.

"Just 1," I replied, as he gave me the awwww, I'm sorry you have no husband and no friends look and seated me at a booth set up for 6. Obviously, he saw me eyeing the cakes and assumed I would need a lot of room, that or he too could see my imaginary friend entourage.

The waitress came and took my order, then I sat quietly trying to figure out something to do. Usually, I bring a magazine or something, but today, eating was a spur of the moment idea, so I was empty handed. I glanced around the diner and began to eavesdrop as I heard the women in the booth across from me speaking to the waitress.

There were 3 of them. Two white, one black. Each was at least 150 years old if they were a day, and all were clearly locals. They were dressed in their finest for lunch. Two wore hats, all wore pearls. Clearly, they had been friends from the time they were old enough to carve their first hieroglyphics on the cave wall. They couldn't have been any cuter.

They asked the waitress about the desserts, even though they hadn't ordered their food yet, and in their little, old lady sweet crackling voices said, "Oh, isn't that lovely?" as the waitress described them. The waitress proceeded to take their order, then made her way to the kitchen.

The older black lady, that beared a remarkable resemblence to Aunt Esther from Sanford & Son, sat back, her voice strong and opinionated, " So... I'm just sayin'," she went on as if they were in mid-conversation, "she was all up in our grill, but now that she got a man..." she trailed off, then started again.

" And poor Betty. She just dropped poor Betty like a hot potato. She was all up in Betty's grill. But since she got herself a man, she can't be bothered with poor Betty."

"Mmmmmm-hmmmm" the other two women agreed, one reminded me of Bea Arthur with her large frame and almost manly mannerisms, the other waved her E.T. like finger at Aunt Esther."

"You just know..." Aunt Esther stopped and put a smile on her bulldog like face as the waitress approached the table and placed their meals in front of them.

"Oh, this looks lovely. Everything just looks so wonderful, " she commented once again in her crackly, old lady voice as she smiled at the server.

"Yes...but where is the bread?" Bea Arthur's twin inquired, her voice also quite weak and barely audible.

"Bread?" the waitress asked making sure she understood the whispered words. "It doesn't come with bread, but I can get you some, if you like?"

"Oh, yes please, that would be so kind of you," Bea commented gently placing her frail hand on the waitress' wrist and using what looked like all of her day's energy to smile. The waitress hurried away to oblige the request, pleased she could make the old woman happy.

"What the hell is that?" the Golden Girl remarked to her friends with the same intensity and strength in her voice that Esther had displayed when speaking about poor Betty. "Who doesn't serve bread with a meal. I mean, what is that?"

"I know. I know," the other two chimed in disgruntled agreement.

The waitress returned with the bread and the woman accepted it with a weak, muffled, "Thank you," then gave the waitress a dirty look and an aggravated laugh as she dipped her bread into her gravy. "So go on," she instructed Esther.

"I'm just sayin' she is going to be all up in Betty's grill again when that man dumps her. Dumpin' her like a hot potato. And if she thinks she is gonna be up in our grill again..." she wagged her foreboding finger at the women as she sat back in her seat and noticed me looking at them.

Realizing I had been watching them like a sitcom, I put my head down and pretended to play with my phone, which isn't an I-phone and does nothing but call people. I flagged the waitress down, got the check, paid and left. I was afraid if I didn't, I might be the next one on the town crucifix...if it wasn't currently being occupied by the "Betty dropper."

"Please come again," the owner yelled as I walked out the door.

Of course I will. Where else can you get lunch and entertainment like that for under $10? Although, maybe next time, I'll invite Betty since I couldn't help but notice for all of the outrage they had and complaining they were doing about the mystery woman, they failed to realize, no one had invited poor, dropped like a hot potato, Betty to lunch.

Thursday, March 25, 2010

Me vs The Red Box

I have recently developed a love/hate relationship with the Red Box located at most Wal-Marts and 7-Elevens. When I was visiting a friend in Florida and he first introduced me to this awesome machine I thought, well, this rocks!

See, I am what most people would call a "movie freak." I am also what most people would call "poor" and "forgetful." This means I love movies, but I can't justify going to a theater and paying nine gazillion dollars for a ticket, plus popcorn, because you have to have popcorn, add a drink which brings the total up to approximately thirty gazillion dollars for what usually turns out to be a mediocre movie and two hours of my life I'll never get back.

They take credit right?

NetFlix is fine if you have time on your hands. Unfortunately, right now, I do not. If I do find myself with 2 free hours to kill and I choose not to sleep or save the world, how can I possibly predict what type of movie I'm going to want to watch at that particular moment in time? Will I be in the mood for a comedy, something suspenseful, or will I just want to stare mindlessly at the television while Johnny Depp or George Clooney grace my screen with their presence? Frankly, I'm not psychic and I don't appreciate the kind of pressure NetFlix inflicts.

I need the ability to pick up a movie when I want it and not for the crazy $5 a movie price tag Blockbuster charges. No $5 for five nights doesn't sound too bad, especially if you are renting it for more than one person. But as much as I would like to pretend that I am spending my evenings surrounded by friends, stimulating men, or even nice arm candy, the truth is, it's usually just for me. And being quite familiar with myself, I know that if you give me a movie for five days it becomes a non-priority and five days turns into fifteen. Soon I'm paying $15 for Failure to Launch when I could have bought the dang thing for $7 and to be honest, it just wasn't that good.

Enter: The Red Box. This wondrous machine fits my lifestyle to a "T." It is convenienly located, has the latest releases and only charges $1 per night. That's right. You me: ONE DOLLAR. The clouds disappear. The sun shines. The angels sing.

...until I go to return the dang thing.

The instructions describe how to place the dvd into the jacket and insert the jacket into the Red Box. The dvd is then returned leaving you free to rent another movie or go along on your merry way. Sounds simple right?

Well, apparently, I am too stupid to do this. After watching a movie I was really glad I had only paid a dollar to see, I made my way up to the Red Box, pressed the "Return Movie" button, put the clear plastic jacket complete with the dvd into the machine and was about to go on my merry way when something went wrong. The machine spit the movie back out at me. WTH? I tried it again, but once again, it was rejected. I looked around trying to see if there was anyone that could help me. There wasn't. I pulled the silver disk from the container, made sure the bar code was facing the right way and that the disk was in the jacket correctly, then inserted it into the machine once again. And once again, it spit it back out at me.

"Is it broken?" I asked the man now standing behind me with his arms folded waiting to rent a movie. As soon as the words left my mouth, a little, blond-haired girl approximately six years of age, ignoring the line, skipped up to the machine, pressed the button, returned her dvd, smiled at me, then skipped over to her family and they continued on their merry way.

Little sh--, I couldn't help but think.

I took the dvd out once more, cleaned it, put it back in it's jacket and then finally...I let the man behind me rent his movie because the stupid machine still wouldn't accept mine! After he made his selection, I stepped up to the beast, gave it the evil eye, pushed the button and fed the red monster the movie as I cursed at it and called it's mother an unfortunate name or two.

Victory! This time it accepted the dvd placed in it's clear plastic jacketed home in the same exact manor I had placed it the other twelve times.

"That's what I thought," I said cockily as I walked away from the machine knowing I had won this battle. However, there was no skipping and I wasn't merry.

Will I use the Red Box again? Definitely. But I have resounded myself to the fact that it will cost me $2 when I want to watch a movie. One for the rental fee and one to pay the little sh..uh..girl to return the dang thing for me.

Wednesday, March 24, 2010

After Wife

Why After Wife?

Well, I am recently divorced and therefore most of my blogs will consist of things done after I was a wife. Don't worry, I'm not going to get all sappy and sentimental and talk about how my ex sucks or how I wish I had him back. Neither is true. Besides, it isn't my style.

However, I do find myself being in the odd, yet very common position of being newly single and having to decide what the hell I'm going to do with my life now. Yes, sorry to say the vision I had of white picket fences and 2.5 kids didn't quite pan out. Although to be honest, my vision was more like a contemporay house near the beach with a couple of dogs running around. Besides, who ever heard of .5 of a kid? Still I digress.

This is the second time my life has done a complete 180, which in theory, should now bring me back to where I originally started. When I was 20, I was in a car accident that left me barely able to read or look at a computer. Once on the Dean's list, I was forced to drop out of school and quit work. Suddenly, the intelligent, former Miss Teen All American Semi Finalist that had the world by the butt had been reduced to a life that consisted of surgeries and living on my parents' couch. But, like a good little girl, I overcame. I pulled myself out of the hole, found a new life, with new dreams, and eventually a new husband.

Um yeah, about that...

So, here I am. Only I'm not 20 years old, living with mom and dad (thank God for that), and able to run around with my single friends. No, my single friends are all married.

Now, I'm living in Georgia, being hit on by men that are either married (ewww), old enough to be my father (even more ewwwwwww), or are so young that I am not certain if they are trying to pick me up because they think I'm hot or because they want me to buy them beer.

That said, my blog will consist of a number of things ranging from the mobile vet that recently texted me after getting my phone number off the contact sheet I filled out when my dog got his shots - Seriously, you drive around in a mobilized operating room. Doesn't that just scream modern day Jack The Ripper? -to the furry, moldy, angry looking cheese I found behind the veggie drawer in the bottom of my refrigerator that I am certain is trying to recruit the other cheeses and plot a takeover.

It is my hopes that sometimes my blog will make you laugh. Sometimes it will make you think. But it will always make you realize, you are not alone and someone out there is going through the same craziness that you are...maybe even more so.