Confessions of an Imprisoned Housewife

To shave or not to shave? That is the question. That basically sums up the state of my personal hygiene these days. Two of my friends have great benchmarks for this. One said, “It was getting difficult to sleep.” The other said, “When I can see the hair without my glasses, that’s my cue.” For, me it’s when I go to scratch my leg and get pricked. But, who even has time to shave these days? I have so much time on my hands, yet I have no time at all. That’s the biggest phenomenon of this shelter-in-place lifestyle. When I finally get out of bed after reading tweets, news articles, useless Facebook posts and zoning in and out of whoever is gabbing on MSNBC, it’s about 10 am. Then somehow it’s already 4 pm. I really don’t know what the fuck I’m doing with my time. 

As for my attire, I haven’t put on a bra in days; I’m hoping my baggy sweatshirts camouflage the lower quadrants where my nipples actually make contact with the material. My daughter hasn’t screamed in horror yet, so I think it’s working. She’s the only other human I see, so no need to take out the underwire. I haven’t even attempted to get on the scale or put on pants with anything other than a drawstring or elastic waist. I just can’t go there now. This is one, long snowstorm, where carbs jump out from every cabinet, garage shelf and both fridges and freezers. Combine that with my nightly bottle of wine, and I’m sure to earn my Lane Bryant loyalist card soon. I’m so exhausted for no apparent reason that I couldn’t even finish my run today. If this pandemic ever ends, I’m ‘gonna need a big comeback tour, like Britney after she melted down and shaved her head. 

I haven’t put on a bra in days.

Appearance isn’t the only thing that has gone unchecked. My manners may be slipping a bit, too. I’m sure you have all been seeing and receiving the funny Corona-related memes. When I received the same ones at the beginning of this nightmare, I would pretend I hadn’t seen it before. Then, I started saying, “I saw that one. It’s so funny.” Now, I have no filter and write, “That one came out like two weeks ago. Where the fuck have you been?” I swear if I get the one of the Trump impersonator, the quarantini or the lady rolling out her flabby stomach with a rolling pin again, I may burn some rolls of my sacred toilet paper. Even my patience with my poor, quarantined son has been wearing thin. He’s been in his room for over a week, since he had signs of Corona—a low fever for a couple of days and no sense of taste. I bring him every meal on a tray. Just now he asked me for batteries, I almost screamed down the hall, “Get it your fucking self already.”

And joy of joys, today is the day I change my own sheets. I wish I had remembered that before I went running, because I’m basically working out twice today. Making up a king-size bed is no easy task. I need to put on a workout bra just to tuck the corners of my fitted sheet underneath my heavy, thick mattress. My bed has a footboard on it, so I can say goodbye to the skin on my knuckles as I tuck the sheets and blankets in there. My hands are so dry already from the constant washing. Add to that the lack of a manicure, and we’ve now just arrived at leper status. I’ve never appreciated my cleaning woman so much. That woman deserves a raise! If my net worth hadn’t just plummeted in the markets, she’d be getting one. (Okay, I’ll still give her one.) After the doctors, nurses, community leaders, and all the other frontliners, my gratitude is solidly placed in the housekeeper column. 

Well, I was just summoned to join a Zoom happy hour. Like I said, besides a 16-year-old begging me if she can see her love interest, it’s pretty much the only human interaction I have. For my sanity, I need to go do that. I bid you all a comfortable isolation with lots of deep breaths, sips of alcohol and chocolate. Stay safe. Oh, and please keep sending me memes. I was kidding! I’ll be nice!

My dedication is obvious. It goes out to all the doctors, nurses, and everyone else putting others’ safety in front of theirs. This is also for the families who have lost people they cherish from this crazy, rampant plague. I’m so very sorry. 

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Posted in community, confessions, day-to-day, death, disgust, environment, exercise, family, friendship, health, idiosyncracies, Judgment, Uncategorized | 1 Comment

Who Am I ???

So, I just gave away a Poland Spring 5-gallon jug of water. I don’t feel heroic, I don’t feel charitable, and I don’t feel awesome. You know how I feel? Fucking stingy!! I should have given two. I offered, and they said, “No.” I should have insisted. But, this Coronavirus panic is making me like a greedy, little Scrooge. I’d rather write people checks than hand out my emergency supplies of food, water and toilet paper. I went to the markets no less than seven times within three days and worked my ass off to amass this handsome stash of butchered meats, pasta in all different shapes and frozen delicacies, which I will grill, bake, boil and sauté. I have more bread—rolls, sliced, buns, even in the tube—than I’d use in a full year. I waited on lines that snaked their way through the store, beginning in the refrigerator aisle at the very end of my Shop Rite. We actually had a cop directing traffic, pointing shopping carts in the direction of different checkout lanes. I met some nice folks on those lines. I’m hoping to bump into them in the produce section in healthier times.

If they ask if a friend can stop by, I secretly assess the eating habits of that kid.

If I felt like a low-ranking soldier at Shop Rite, then I was a fucking Green Beret at Costco. Finding parking was like basic training, and it progressed from there. Costco has those mega shopping carts, so immediately the tone is set for you to fill that cart to maximum capacity. You know exactly what I’m talking about—you’re ‘gonna have to move your head to the sides of the cart just to see around the stacks of paper towels and laundry detergent piled high. It’s as if you need a special license just to steer it, especially when it gets weighted down and you have to maneuver around people dilly-dallying and stopping for the free nacho samples. Do these people not know that this is time to buckle-the-fuck down? This place is a nightmare on a normal day, so hurry up and grab your 4-pound-Fred-Flintstone block of cheddar and move it! The line to check out there also started at the back near the refrigerated foods, but this is no Shop Rite—Costcos are like aircraft hangars. I think I was in gridlock for about 30 minutes. (In the scheme of things, that doesn’t sound so bad.)

My kids are on strict instruction to not touch our supplies until we are truly locked down and can’t run out for or bring in food. If they ask if a friend can stop by, I secretly assess the eating habits of that kid. I think, “Does he eat a lot? Will he go for the Pop Tarts or the food housed in the fridge? Is he one of those kids from a healthy house, where his mom keeps the family away from chips and cookies, because it’s those kids who then annihilate my pantry?” Then, I move on to, “Well, he’s a male, so he will use less toilet paper.” Nowadays, when I pull off the last square of the toilet paper roll, I’m a mess, and I have 100 rolls in my garage. My friend told me she has 36 rolls of toilet paper, but she has four females in her house. That’s a lot of wiping per day. I feel worried for her but pretended she was well-stocked when she asked if I thought that was enough. I do realize how this sounds. I’m embarrassed and mortified that this whole pandemic has made me psycho, cheap and paranoid. I’m normally not anything like this Mommie Dearest skinflint I’ve become. “No. More. Frozen. Waffles!” ( I swear I entertain a ton and offer everything I have from top-shelf liquor to shrimp and good cuts of meat. )

I’ve been drinking every night and have been letting my underage daughter have a glass right along with me. She’s unusually nervous about this whole nightmare, so now’s as good a time as any to break the law in the privacy of our own home. These teens read all of this false information on social media and really believe it. Oh, how I miss the days of my youth, where if we were home, we were just home. If channels 2, 4, 5, 7, 9, 11 or 13 didn’t tell us, then we were happily oblivious and went back to writing in our Partridge Family diaries or calling our BFFs on our teenage landlines. Anyway, I’ve just learned that these kids believe a scenario just like in the movie The Purge is going to happen. “What the hell is that?” I thought. Here, I just ripped this synopsis off from the internet: In an America ravaged by crime and overcrowded prisons, the government sanctions an annual 12-hour period during which all criminal activity — including murder — is legal. So, these kids think during these days of quarantine, this will happen. I told my daughter that no way will that happen. We have an alarm, and we will lock our doors. And, all 5’2” of me will protect her. Somehow, I didn’t ease her fears. And, thank you very much, daughter, for scaring the living shit out of me now also. 

Well, I must now drive to the Jersey Shore to meet with the men who are repairing my water main line. Presently I have no water in the house. Why worry about this now? Because, when the murderers and robbers come get me during the imminent “purge,” I’ll need a place with running water to escape to very soon. I had to let the men in this morning without me being there to get the job started. They needed access to my basement. Wait!! That is where I store my extra toilet paper and Clorox wipes. What if they’ve taken it??!! See, I’m certifiable. Maybe I’ll try out for Fatal Attraction, the Sequel

I dedicate this blog to all of us, but especially to the people who are sick and to the people who are going to have trouble paying their bills. And, I hope with all of my hope strength that we get this orange fucker out of office, so we can get our country back on its feet. Still think COVID-19 is a hoax, asshole?

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Posted in aging, community, confessions, day-to-day, environment, errands, family, health, idiosyncracies, Judgment, medical, political, shame, social media, trends | 7 Comments

Is There Anybody Out There?

So, when people write “lol,” do they really mean they are laughing out loud? I know my sister laughs on the inside, but she doesn’t make any sound. Her face is stone, but her eyes at least show a little bit of expression. When she is wearing sunglasses, though, I check for a pulse. I have at least two friends who always write “lol,” but I think they write it to shoo me away like a fly. They are probably in the middle of actually brokering some kind of deal in an office or are in a paper gown with their feet tucked into stirrups. They know if they give me too much encouragement, I’ll keep on running with whatever I thought was funny.

If you text with me, then you know I am a pretty quick text-responder, and I’ll send back a thoughtful reply. I want you to know that I have really read your text including your typos in all of their glory. I am skilled at speaking autocorrect, so I understood when my friend wrote “Bringing Judy just in case.” We have no mutual friends or people in our lives named Judy. Of course, I wrote back, “I didn’t know Judy was joining us. That’s lovely.” I obviously knew she meant to type “just” not “Judy.”

What I want to know is who you people are who barely—or don’t—respond to texts.

Please don’t take the fact that I text often as a sign I have nothing better to do. What you may not realize is that a lot of the time, I’m on my computer while your texts pop up on my screen. I answer them even faster than I can from my phone, because I’m using a keyboard. I was a teen of the 80s, so I took an actual typing class. I can kick ass on a standard keyboard. All of my ten fingers can hit their home keys and the neighboring ones in lightning speed. And, you should see my right thumb stroking that space bar. I am actually in about seven different text chains right now as I write this. Not exaggerating. 

What I want to know is who you people are who barely—or don’t—respond to texts. I just don’t understand you. My own mother barely answers, and, I’m talking about texts that should matter to her, like a picture of her granddaughter or details about her imminent flight. When I asked her about it, she said something like, “What do you mean? I read them and love seeing the pictures.” So, she appreciates them but doesn’t feel the need to acknowledge them. Wow, that makes tons of sense. “It must be a generational thing,” I thought. But, my pretend-mother-in-law, who is the same age, always responds. And, lo and behold, she even generates texts herself and knows how to include pictures. So, there went that theory. My aunt, who is 84, claims she doesn’t know how to text or even check them. I, myself, have walked her through it about seven times. (“Here’s the green box with the white, speech bubble inside. Simply touch it.”) Yet, miraculously, I will receive a picture via text from her every year or so. She once asked why my kids don’t answer their phones. I told her that she’s better off texting them, since they will respond immediately. She then said, “But, I haven’t got their email addresses.” I was done. 

Let’s get back to my contemporaries, who are non-responders or one-worders. If you are under age 70, wtf is wrong with you? Besides it being bad manners, are you really that busy or self-important? I think it’s more that you are just a textflake. (I just made up that word. I like it.) You are actually healthy in the fact that you are not attached to your phones, or you may be just going about your day, not caring about anything not deemed an emergency. But, don’t you understand that in 2020, we need immediate fulfillment? We can’t wait for anything anymore. I need to know if you can have dinner on the 20th; I need to know if I can pawn my kid off on you next week; and I need to know who your plumber is, damn it! And, isn’t my very current, pop-culture meme hilarious? Why aren’t you answering me???? It’s the newish friends that really baffle me. I’m more likely to answer a new person than an old friend, so where the hell are you? That’s not a very good text-impression you’re making.

I can’t forget about the text avoiders. You know who you are, and unfortunately for you, I know who you are, too. Sometimes in a group text, one of us needs a favor or says something a little controversial. Immediately one or two in the group go radio silent. We all know you’re still there. Duh. You avoiders are thinking, “Let me see if someone else will donate blood for our dying friend first.” So, you can keep doing that, but maybe next time just take the honest route: “You know guys, I think I’ll keep my plasma for now. I’d love to help another time.”

I’ll finish by saying that of course I sometimes receive texts and don’t respond, but 95% of the time, it’s because I am out at night. If it requires more than a quick answer, I can’t be rude while I’m with friends. I’ll make a mental note to respond the next day, and I always start by saying, “Sorry for the delayed response.” Then there have been times, where I have completely forgotten. That’s always because of those extra tequilas. I did this recently on a three-way text with a cousin (who I haven’t spoken to in a while) and a friend who had coincidentally met on a trip. The text came all the way from Israel, and it came on a night when I thought I was still 22. I felt so badly when the next text came a full week later: “I want to make sure you got this text. Betsy is awesome!” I apologized twice and texted upward and onward. 

It’s funny how my boyfriend seems to answer me quickly. He has a lot more to lose, I guess, even if it is an aging vagina. 

I dedicate this text to all of the good and fast responders in my life. I appreciate your time and humor. Keep making me laugh and giving it to me fast, like I like it! xoxo

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You Didn’t Hear This from Me

Can you keep a secret? I mean really keep a secret? “Oh, I only told my husband. Big deal!” Yeah, you’re right. It is a big deal. Telling your spouse, sibling or mother is not allowed in the rules of trust. I once confronted a friend who had betrayed me, and she said, “I thought telling family was okay.” Um, no, that may be overlooked behavior in nursery school, but once you know right from wrong, I’d say that’s pretty shitty. Think about the key players in your life right now. We know in our guts who shares too much and who locks up information so tightly that an overdose of truth serum couldn’t even make them talk. So, we have no one to blame but ourselves, when in a moment of emotional weakness (perhaps wine-induced), we tell the wrong person the wrong thing. No matter how lovingly that blabbermouth looks at us with the face of a concerned grandma, don’t spill the beans. Don’t do it! 

I loved that both mother and daughter knew I’d wire her money, take her to the gyno or pick her up from a frat house at 3 am if that’s what she needed.

I have to bring my mother into this. (Sorry, Mom). I have three kids and have had four pregnancies (no, one was not in high school or college). How many times do you think I told my own mother I was pregnant before the three-month mark? From my easy setup, I’m sure you were correct in guessing “zero.” She was just too darn excited to be a grandmother, and I knew in my heart she would tell her Siamese-like-sister, mother and close friends. I did feel badly about this, but I couldn’t risk having what was sacred to me shared without my blessing. I did her a favor, though, didn’t I? I mean, when it was safe, she could blab it all over the golf course and canasta table guilt-free. She could brag in all her glory, as she chipped, putted and melded.

I still smile to myself when I think of a young girl telling me this: “You’re my person. My mom told me that if I ever needed anything in the world, I could call you,” she said. I can’t remember exactly what I said back, since this happened years ago, but I know I told her I would of course be her person. I was honored she felt that I was up to the part. Mostly, I was touched to know that this teenager trusted me. Her mother assigned me the role of her daughter’s confidante and life preserver. She did this without ever asking me first. I loved that both mother and daughter knew I’d wire her money, take her to the gyno or pick her up from a frat house at 3 am if that’s what she needed. I have two daughters myself, and I never thought to appoint someone their person. I know both of them would be resourceful enough to find a trusted adult if they thought they needed to reach around their dad or me. I would be grateful to whomever they’d use their one phone call on if they were ever ever handcuffed with mascara smeared down their face and fresh ink on their ankle. (Please don’t let me have just jinxed myself.) 

Long ago, I was on the receiving end of an ask for help from another young person. She was pregnant and couldn’t face her mom, because she knew the disappointment would be too much to bear. She was crying and felt alone and scared. It was clear she was too young to be a mother and didn’t want this mistake to ruin all the good things she had coming her way. So, I did what any one of us pro-choice women would do. I offered to pay for her abortion and took her back to my house to sleep it off afterwards. My kids didn’t know she was ever at our house, and I have never told anyone. Though I’m talking about it here, I will never reveal her identity. Never. I know she thought I “saved” her, and I know I gave her the care and relief she needed. What she didn’t realize, though, is that she made me feel as good as I made her feel by trusting me. Actually, I think she made me feel even better. 

I do think there are certain moments when it’s okay to reveal a closely-held truth. Psychologists are allowed to do it if they think someone is in danger of hurting herself or being hurt. I agree with that sentiment, especially when it comes to teens. Since most people have big mouths, I hear a lot of gossip. I’ve heard that certain teens have an affinity for sucking on the penises of boys at parties. Unfortunately I’ve heard this about teens I know well. I choose not to tell their parents. Being a slut isn’t life threatening; it just ups your chances of finding your name written on a bathroom wall. If I heard they were driving drunk or hitchhiking, then I’d pick up the phone. But, hey, Rizzo was okay in the end.

If you think keeping secrets is easy, then I’d have to say you’re one of those people I wouldn’t trust. It’s tough stuff at times. If it were easy, then there wouldn’t be an overabundance of loose-lipped people in the world. It can be tempting to spill something, especially when you think it can help someone else. On the less respectable side, the “I know something you don’t know” feeling gives people a sense of superiority. The more insecure they are, the more they want to share their news with others to show just how “awesome” they are.

Tony Montana once said that all he has in this world are his balls and his word, and he “don’t break them for no one.” I may not have balls, but I do have my unbreakable word. I take that very seriously. Once that’s gone, it’s like a crashed hard drive. There’s not much you can do to get it back. And, this is why I will never reveal the identities of any of the people mentioned in this blog, so please don’t bother asking me who they are. My ability to keep a secret is one of the traits I’m most proud of about myself. Winning the arm hang competition in third grade was nothing compared to this. 

I dedicate this blog to my fellow vaults. I know who you are, and you know who you are. Enough said. 

**Tap on the FOLLOW button at the bottom of your phone or computer. (Move your finger or mouse around, and FOLLOW will appear if it’s hidden.) You have to open the email the site sends you to complete the FOLLOW process. Thank you from this woman and her popped cork.

Posted in community, confessions, confidence, day-to-day, friendship, improvement, Judgment, privacy, sentimental, Uncategorized | Tagged | 1 Comment

Amazon, You Rock My World

I’m an Amazon junkie. I wouldn’t be surprised if I walked into a family holiday dinner, and a “long lost aunt” was planted on the couch to head up an intervention for me. My addiction doesn’t make me unique I know, since there are more than 145.2 million people using this app. Amazon offers around 120 million products and sells 4,000 items every minute. Now that’s some badass E-commerce. If I told my kids that Amazon started as a book-selling app—and I mean the old-fashioned hardcopy or paperback types—they’d tell me I was nuts and that my stories about writing out driving directions were made up, too. 

We all know why we turn to Amazon so quickly—because we are inherently lazy, and it makes our lives so much easier. How else can I check seven items off of my TO DO list in the time it takes me to drive to a mall? Plus, I don’t have to get out of my robe. I also don’t have to take the extra step of going to FedEx to ship some special mattress topper to my daughter in California. I can donate to a friend’s kid’s charity fundraiser with the click of a few buttons. And, I don’t have to make any calls to locate a hard-to-find protein bar my other daughter “needs.” Now, if Amazon could just put away my laundry and screw my boyfriend for me, too…

How else can I check seven items off of my TO DO list in the time it takes me to drive to a mall?

I get so much joy from sitting in front of my computer for hours scrolling through different types of napkin holders and garage hooks. I just last night purchased a window decal. I swear I actually needed this, since two people tried to walk through my porch storm door. One ended up with a bloody nose, and the other ended up with a nasty headache and had to lie down on my couch. The strangest thing I ever ordered on Amazon was a goldfish tank that was shaped like an ultramodern condominium. It looked so lovely on my counter until I noticed the fish floating on top one day.

Oh yes, the luxury of Amazon is so fulfilling. It’s like finding the perfect shape of Tupperware to fit your leftovers. But, just like with everything seemingly utopian, there is a dark side here, too. This site brings up some uncomfortable feelings for me. I’ll start with the guilt. I feel very wasteful and un-green because of the massive amounts of cardboard and packing materials they use for even the smallest orders. Why do I need those air-filled pieces of plastic to buffer a pack of printer paper? (Throwing those things away are a nightmare. I have to stab each air-puff with a scissor just to fit it into my garbage pail.) I also feel badly that Amazon is killing both mom-and-pop shops and big businesses. It partnered with Whole Foods and Nike, because these companies figured “if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.” Since Amazon now delivers about a quarter of its own orders, UPS and FedEx must be shaking a bit. Basically, every time I shop their site, I’m contributing to this destruction.  

Another negative is that I’m actually spending more money than I would if I went shopping in a real store. It’s not because their prices are higher; it’s because of these three reasons—my son, and my two daughters. For them, it’s a store where everything is free when they log into my account, which is linked to my credit card and not theirs, right? When I went to check out the other day, I noticed face tattoos and bright wigs hanging out in my cart. Trust me, I didn’t put them in there. Then I’ll get the Amazon alerts letting me know that my fishnet stockings and dodgeball costume are about to arrive. Um, I didn’t order these either. The scary thing is that it wasn’t even Halloween season. I know you’re thinking I should just change my password. I do, and then they wiggle it out of me for some “emergency,” where their friends will all pay them back. “Oh, I’ll Venmo you the money, Mom.” And, then they’ll sell me some water at the river’s edge. 

Who knew an app could make me feel so insecure also? I will be shopping for a picture frame and find what I think is the perfect one for me. It even has that AMAZON’S CHOICE stamp on it. I then scroll down and read the reviews. I immediately become completely paralyzed. One person writes, ‘This is the best frame I ever bought. It is exactly how it appears in the pictures and is sturdy and well-made!” The next guy, Frank, writes, “What a complete piece of shit! I’d like to shove this broken and cheap frame up the seller’s ass. I want all my money back now!!” So, I continue reading, become even more confused, and the paralysis sets in further. That frame will now sit in my cart for days, until I eventually just hit PLACE YOUR ORDER and pray Frank was wrong.

I haven’t even gotten into Alexa, and how she’s taken me into a stratosphere of lazy that I didn’t even know existed. “Alexa, what’s the weather?” “Alexa, add tomatoes.” “Alexa, reorder my printer ink.” All this, and I don’t even have to rub a lamp. And, so it goes: I sit, I scroll, I click, I pay. I sit, I scroll, I click, I pay. I sit, I scroll, I click, I pay.

I dedicate this blog to the new 20s. You used to be roaring. This go around, I’ll take times that aren’t full of hate, racism and ignorance. Plus, I don’t want to wear beaded slipcover dresses and headbands wrapped around a bob haircut. I’m pretty sure I would have like the speakeasies, though.

Oh, and let me add a thank you to my friend who once sent me a gift from Amazon. Along with the gift came a leather bound journal. Yup, her kids had left it in her cart.

**Tap on the FOLLOW button at the bottom of your phone or computer. (Move your finger or mouse around, and FOLLOW will appear if it’s hidden.) You have to open the email the site sends you to complete the FOLLOW process. Thank you from this woman and her popped cork.

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Thank You, Donald Trump

Thank you, Donald Trump. I may not like you or respect you, but you have helped make me more aware of the state of the world. You say stupid things, you pick on people and you lie. And, that makes me—and the rest of the world—look. You are getting exactly what you want. I know this, because when my kids used to kick and scream in their twos, they wanted exactly the same thing—attention, and a lot of it. It’s never the well-meaning student council president in your high school who commands the spotlight; it’s the kid who throws his peanut butter sandwich at the cafeteria wall to see if it sticks. A buffoon like him is much more fun to watch. So, thank you for being the asshole who makes us want to read more, vote more and sometimes even march in the rain. 

By now, you’ve figured out I’m in the liberal camp. I’m not so far left, where I want to ban the manufacturing of Barbie Dolls. I do still use some plastic for convenience, and I didn’t think it was necessary for Kelly Clarkson and John Legend to change the lyrics to “Baby It’s Cold Outside.” I support the Me Too movement, but I don’t get terribly insulted if a man gets flirty with me (kind of like it sometimes). Hey, even feminists think the original song celebrates a woman taking control of her own sexual choices. I believe people can sleep with whomever they want, whether they’re female, male, both, neither, purple, pink or green. Love is love. You can do what you want with a pregnancy, and please don’t hate someone for being different from you or for moving here from another country.  

I believe people can sleep with whomever they want, whether they’re female, male, both, neither, purple, pink or green.

I’ll step down from my soapbox now, so I can explain how Trump has helped me. I’ll start with the isms and how I understand their meanings on a much deeper level due to his use of them. Can you name the ism represented by these quotes? 1. “Why are we having all these people from shithole countries come here?” 2. “It is a very scary time for young men in America, where you can be guilty of something you may not be guilty of…Women are doing great.” 3. Referring to neo-Nazis: “…you had some very bad people in that group, but you also had people that were very fine people, on both sides.” 4. “Nobody knows more about taxes than me, maybe in the history of the world.” 5. “[Ivanka] would’ve been great at the United Nations…” 6. “We had no Democrat support…They weren’t going to give us a single vote, so it’s a very difficult thing to do.” I’m ‘gonna guess you scored an A, but just in case, here’s the answer key: 1. racism 2. sexism 3. supremacism 4. narcissism 5. nepotism 6. partisanism 

I’ve also been able to brush up on words with foreign origins. We’ve got the Steele dossier, a French derivation, which means a bundle of papers with a label on the back. Then there’s quid pro quo, of Latin origin, meaning a favor granted for something in return. Oh, and we can’t forget about the Spanish word hombres, as in “…we have some bad hombres here, and we’re going to get them out.” Too bad it’s not 1985, and I’m taking the SATs. These could’ve helped.

Then there’s the impeachment. I was taught in junior high about Andrew Johnson, the first US president to be impeached in 1868. I lived through the second one, where Clinton, a blue dress and an intern were front page news in 1998. Now Trump is about to be put on trial for impeachment. A lot of Americans think that impeachment is the end of the line, but we know from Clinton that you can stay in office. Obviously, it’s a big stain on your legacy, though. It’s like a grand jury handing down an indictment in a criminal procedure, but the difference is that impeachment is a political proceeding and not a legal one. So, how did Nixon escaped being impeached despite the three articles of impeachment filed against him? He resigned before anything else happened. Thanks for this refresher course, Trump. 

The Trump circus has definitely made me a more thorough reader, an avid watcher of MSNBC and a stronger supporter of human rights. Plus, I never ever wrote about politics. Now, when I see those viral videos of a racist, ignorant person yelling at a Mexican to go back to where she came from, I often wish I was in that store or parking lot, too. I would love to step in and let my anger take over as I verbally take down that piece of scum. See, look how a moron like Trump has changed my fantasies. I used to think it’d be nice to have the voice of a Broadway star or to hang out with Madonna or Beyonce. Gee, how I’ve grown. 

I dedicate this blog to all good people everywhere. (I’m really tired tonight.)

**Tap on the FOLLOW button at the bottom of your phone or computer. (Move your finger or mouse around, and FOLLOW will appear if it’s hidden.) You have to open the email the site sends you to complete the FOLLOW process. Thank you from this woman and her popped cork.

Posted in community, confessions, day-to-day, disgust, environment, improvement, Judgment, political, Uncategorized | 2 Comments

Touch Me, Don’t Touch Me

Here’s the thing about massages—they feel so good, yet they’re a complete and total mindfuck for me. A spa is like one, big aphrodisiac. It’s as if they’re sliding a tray of oysters down your throat the moment you walk in the door. You hear the new age music with the sitar solos humming softly in the background. The smell of sandalwood and eucalyptus oils wafts right up into your nostrils. The woman behind the desk speaks your name so softly that you almost need to read her lips as she confirms your full-body, deep-tissue something or other. Instinctively you answer in that indoor voice you always told your kids to use at a restaurant to sidestep telling them to “Shut the fuck up.” You’re directed down a hallway with dim lighting and a minefield of closed doors. You put on a warm, clean-smelling robe and the kind of white, terry slippers that you untuck from each other. You start to hear birds chirping softly over the sound of a harp. I’m already limp from the most tender sensory overload I’ll ever experience. I am 100 percent being seduced by Thai women in silk robes and the sound of babbling brooks, and let me tell you, I am fully surrendering to it. 

“Shit, that’s it? I wanted her to do my feet longer.”

During the first ten minutes of this complete stranger touching parts of me I don’t even let Ray go near, I am on a vacation, away from all things that bother me in my suburban life. During the next ten, I’m falling in and out of a light sleep. But, then she needs me to do a position change, and that’s when the shit goes down. The thoughts start…”Please don’t let this be the last time she’s ‘gonna touch my left shoulder!” “Shit, that’s it? I wanted her to do my feet longer.” “Why didn’t she use the same amount of pressure on my right calf as she did on my left?” I then start to focus on how my tits are mashed underneath me when I’m on my stomach. I wish it was like the beach, where I could dig boob holes in the sand. I begin to cringe when she grabs my danger zones—the love handles, the back fat, the inner thighs. I swear I can hear an alarm sound when she takes hold of these double-black-diamond areas. I know she’s touched people who are much fatter, much hairier and have really gross things growing from their bodies. That’s not comforting to me, though. I don’t care about other people; I’m much too selfish when I’m on that table. 

Maybe if I were one of those massage people (MPs), it’d be different. I have friends who I consider massage sluts. “Just touch me anywhere. I love it,” the biggest massage whore has told me. She doesn’t care if she’s full-on naked, spread-eagle on that table. Yet, in real life, she slanders herself for being fat and gross. I just don’t get it. Then there are the MPs who have standing in-home appointments. Their masseuses lug in a table every week and know to set it up in the back corner of the living room. They also know exactly how hard to press and which areas are the G spots. If I were an MP, then I probably wouldn’t have these racing thoughts. I know I’d have another go at it week after week and wouldn’t be so worried about it ending. I know she’d be used to my saggy and Rubenesque areas. But, I’m not an MP at all, not even close; I’m more of a triennial, getting occasional massages only on vacations or girls’ weekends.

I haven’t yet mentioned the prep, which is just like it is for the gyno. It’s exhausting to make sure I’m as clean and hairless as humanly possible. It’s like I’m playing Twister in the shower. Then after the massage, I have to play another round, since I have to scrub the oils and creams left behind in every crevice. Wtf is in those products? Crisco? And, my last beef is not getting enough time to sleep it off when it’s over. Can’t I just rent the table for a couple more hours? There’s nothing harder than sitting upright and putting your feet on the floor afterwards. At least bring me a damn cigarette. No, I don’t smoke, but maybe I would after the shitshow that just went on in my brain. At the end, I say thank you and tell the masseuse how amazing it was, still using my indoor voice of course. She smiles and closes the door behind her, never knowing how badly I need to go back into therapy. 

I dedicate this blog to my Aunt Gwenn. Her unveiling is this Sunday. There are so many times I think of her and want to call her. I know what would make her laugh, what would make her happy and what would really piss her off! I hope she knows what’s going on with me and all of the family she loved so much. If Theresa Caputo is for real, then Gwenn does still know. I can still hear her voice and her laugh. I’ll be sure to bring her a Reese’s on Sunday. 

**Tap on the FOLLOW button at the bottom of your phone or computer. (Move your finger or mouse around, and FOLLOW will appear if it’s hidden.) You have to open the email the site sends you to complete the FOLLOW process. Thank you from this woman and her popped cork.

Posted in confessions, day-to-day, disgust, idiosyncracies, nudity, pet peeves, robes | 1 Comment