Wednesday, August 28, 2019

My Grocery Store Check Out Line ROAD RAGE!!

It was a quiet day in the grocery store.  People were seen picking up items they needed for current and future meals. I secured a few things in anticipation of my daughter’s visit over Labor Day weekend.  As I approached the check out line section, I handily avoided my strong desire to grab the cheddar drenched popcorn and barely made it past the candy bars whose wrappers were waving at me.  I had my cloth grocery bag ready to accept the nutritious items in my cart and began searching for the shortest checkout line.  I could have tried standing and waiting for self check out.  But I had already checked myself out in the mirror in the morning and felt two times in one day was overkill.

I started to engage check out line #4 but saw that #1 had only 2 people and the last person in line only had one item.  Without signaling, I used my best pickleball moves and scooted into line #1.  Just as I reached the end of the conveyor belt and was ready to place my items on it, the husband of the woman in front of me with one item showed up with full cart in tow.  I wanted to call “no cutsies”, but thought better of it as I am polite.  After removing said items from his cart plus the one item the wife had, he proceeded to keep the empty cart behind him rather in the preferred front position, preventing me from putting my items on the belt.  I took this to be a rather aggressive move, but being the non-confrontational person that I am (along with being polite is a great combo!), I simply reached forward and lightly released my items air born so as to land on the belt and prepare me to be ready for checkout when my time came.  

Without looking backward, “husband” aggressively shoved my items back almost pushing them off the belt.  So much for being polite and non confrontational.  This was grocery store road rage time.  I would have rolled up my sleeves, but I was wearing a short sleeved shirt.  I thought through my strategy of what I could do to retaliate.  I could whip out a banana but that wouldn’t scare him as I only bought over ripe ones for banana muffins.  I could pummel him with the frozen blintzes I bought, but then I might be arrested for assault with a frozen weapon.  I could sushi him to the ground, but then I wouldn’t have food for dinner.  So, instead, I puffed out my chest (and if you have recently seen my chest it really doesn’t make a big impression.  I know that because I did the self check in the morning), took a deep breath and thought nasty things to say….but didn’t say them.  You see, I am an avid Judge Judy watcher and I know that any rage at any time can turn back on you.  So, I gave him my evil eye (but his back was to me so he didn’t see it), but it did scare a few people in self check out #1 & 2 (or perhaps it was my puffed out chest that scared them).  The moral of the story?  Don't buy over ripe bananas!

Saturday, April 27, 2019


I recently read that a survey showed that Netflix is negatively affecting the sex life of its viewers.  It seems that men and women prefer streaming to sex.

I learned about sex in the Fifties from Lucy and Ricky Ricardo.  Sex happens in separate twin beds.  Thus, why it took me so long to find a husband that could fit into my mine.  Once that was accomplished, things went along pretty well for 32 years.  The beds got larger and we streamed 2 daughters. Then 8 years ago I found myself alone and left to my own devices.  I took that to mean electronic devices.  My mix master was too dangerous, my electric knife was a no go, my Keurig was a possibility, and my belt sander was a bit too rough.  So I did what any normal single woman would do…I tried using the vibrating feature on my cell phone…without much success.

Thankfully, someone understood my dilemma and created Netflix.  Now, not only is Netflix NOT ruining my sex life, it is actually my “go to” source for my sex life, along with HBO, The Comedy Channel and National Geographic.  So let me say thank you to all those streaming stations that allow me to feel like a vital woman again.  (And don’t get me started on the “streaming” feature.  My bladder streams all night long).

Forget John Boy.  Give me John Snow!  Bye, bye Lucy.  Hello “Sex Education”  (a UK based Netflix series starring Gillian Anderson).  I still love my twin bed and until something changes, me and my remote control are  sublimely happy together.

Wednesday, July 25, 2018


As I face my upcoming significant birthday, I look back on the many things I have had to say goodbye to.  Here is a short list:

1.       Thick hair (on legs, arms, head, and well, you know where)
2.       My waist (we gave it a good run)
3.       High heels (I’m afraid of heights)
4.       Loud music and concerts (I can’t hear you now)
5.       Patience  (I’m sure I had some at one time)
6.       Bikinis (I’ve been asked not to show up wearing one…again)
7.       Toenails that don’t look like they belong to an elephant
8.       My arches (and we’re not talking about McDonalds)
9.       My desire to clean toilets or bathtubs (I can’t even get out of a bathtub, let alone clean one)

I have faced the facts of growing older and have coped well, I believe.  Things happen, things change, things drop, droop, slide, squish and plop.  But today I read an article on elder sexuality that shook me to my core (it’s somewhere where my waist used to be that is now missing).  The one thing that I thought would stay with me through thick glasses and thinning hair I am now told is dying.  I am bereft to learn that at my age, one’s vaginal nerve endings are dying.  I’m sure there is a special prayer for dying vaginal nerve endings, but I am too upset to find it.  Who knew that one’s VNE would one day turn on me like my lactose tolerance did.  Is Russia behind this?  If I knew my VNE were going to abandon me, I would have enjoyed them more when I was using them.  

But now I only have regret and a bald spot on the back of my head.  So here I sit, in my bikini, in my bathtub, with my arches (I’m eating a McDonald’s burger), playing loud music, observing my silky no-hair arms, legs and you know what, while I patiently attempt to bend over my gut to cut my elephant toenails that are peaking out of my never worn high heels.  Now can someone call 911 cause I can’t get up!

Saturday, April 7, 2018

What is Your Identity Worth?


I just read that you can insure your identity through your homeowner’s or renter’s policy for as little as $25.  So of course I signed up, because there shouldn’t be an insurance policy in existence that I don’t have! 

But the questions that arose after I aroused myself from my slumber, sleep walking, sleep peeing, snoring and thrashing were these.  What is my identity, i.e., WHO AM I?  WHY AM I HERE?  WHERE AM I? WHAT AM I? And most importantly, WHO CARES?  Well, obviously the insurance company cares because they want my $25.  But is my identity worth more than that?

A pickleball friend recently downgraded my nickname from MaxiMillion to MaxiDollar. Was this because he saw my stock market portfolio or was he acutely aware of the true value of my identity?  So I needed to investigate this further by answering the questions that I had to write down so I could remember them to answer them.

First identity question:  WHO AM I?  I look in the mirror, but all I see is my mother’s face looking back at me.  And she looks really, really old…grey hair (thinning), wrinkles (deepening), teeth (losing).  Is this me or a mere reflection of what is to come (or is already here)? 

Next identity question:  WHY AM I HERE?  Well, obviously if I am looking in the mirror, then I am in the bathroom and if I am in the bathroom, then I am here to pee.  And that has great value!

Question #3:  WHERE AM I?  This is a question that is asked every morning when I arouse myself.  And then asked again multiple times during the day.  The problem is I don’t have the correct answer as many times as I ask the questions.  I’m trying to use the Hansel and Gretel method of bread crumbs (or leftover matzo crumbs) but find that I eat more than I drop.

Question #4:  WHAT AM I?  Old lives matter.  That’s what I am and I value what it took to get me here (where am I?  No, problem, I have some bread crumbs leading me back to the bathroom).   I have value and as soon as the stock market rebounds, I will have more value.  Hopefully enough to pay for an Uber to get me home.

Last Question:  WHO CARES?  Answered already which is why my State Farm agent is now my bestie.

Saturday, November 4, 2017


I just booked a flight to Florida to get away for a few days and was pleased and surprised to see the many fares from which I could choose (I was a journalism major so I know not to end with a proposition…or is it preposition?)  Here were my choices from most expensive to least expensive:

VIP SEATING (otherwise known as Tax Reform Bill beneficiaries):  You will be warmly welcomed by the airline staff.  Free libations, snacks, blankets, reclining seats, pillows, foot massage, paraffin treatment for your hands, liposuction and early boarding. A limo awaits your arrival.

YOU THINK YOU ARE RICH, BUT YOU’RE NOT SEATING:  (otherwise known as Tax Reform Bill wanna be beneficiaries): Airline staff wave at you upon boarding.  Your seat reclines almost all the way back, but not quite.  Only one foot gets massaged, and one hand gets a paraffin treatment.  No liposuction, but a meat baster is available. A pillow, but BYOB (bring your own blankie). Directions to the cab stand are provided.

UPPER MIDDLE CLASS SEATING: (otherwise known as possible Tax Reform Bill beneficiaries depending on how many children and how many houses you own):  Airline staff smile upon boarding.  Your seat reclines and then pops back up in a secure and upright position.  Anything you want, you can have.  You just have to fork over your 401K to pay for it.  You are allowed to look at your hands and feet but not your ass.  Find your way home.

MIDDLE CLASS SEATING: (otherwise known as thought you were benefiting from the Tax Reform Bill, but you were wrong): Airline staff laugh at you when boarding. You are lucky to have a seat so stop bitching. You get to see pictures of what everyone in the forward cabins are eating and drinking that are not available to you. You can look at your hands, but not your feet and certainly not your ass.  Home?

YOU CALL THIS A SEAT SEATING?  (otherwise known as you get what you pay for):  Airline staff pretend not to notice you.  Your luggage is your seat.  No food, no drinks, no pictures, no windows!  Blinders are available so you don’t have to see others enjoying their flying experience (at a cost). One free potty trip.  You are not allowed to see your hands or your feet, but since your ass is hanging off the back of your luggage seat, they can’t stop you from looking at it.  There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home.

Obviously, I could not afford the first 3 seating classes.  So, I’m checking out my backside as much as possible before my trip so I don’t forget what it looks like.  My campaign slogan for 2018 is Make Airlines Great Again!!

Friday, June 30, 2017

Kids Might Say the Darndest Things, but Look Out for Granny!

                                              Image result for kids say the darndest things                                                           

Children say the “darndest” things.  Well, I’m here to tell you I have been known to say the “damndest” things as I have aged.  Here are a few:

·        Forgive me for I would love to sin again
·        Tell me, does this fat make my butt look big?
·        I’m taking a 12 week online course.  When finished, I should be able to change the channel on my television.
·        Mirror, mirror on the wall, who is …  that looking back at me?
·        When you are young, farting is funny.  When you are old, it’s just a fact of life.
·        I love to play with my 2 year old grandson because I usually win every game.  But not always.
·        Now where did I leave my G Spot?
·        They say “It’s only money”. They say that because they have some.
·        When in Rome, do as the “Roamings” do.  And when you are roaming and can’t find your way home, do as I do… call Uber.
·        I just saw the musical “Anything Goes”.   It made me laugh.  So I went.  Damn that bladder.
·        Rudyard Kipling wrote “never the twain shall meet”.  Well, I met a twain in Cleveland and took it to Denver.  So I don’t know what he was talking about.
·         As a Virgo, I am shy and don’t like being the center of attention.  Huh? 
·        I was recently stopped by a local policeman for a “California Roll” (it’s a traffic violation). Since he mentioned it, I asked if he wanted to go out for sushi.  I was hoping he would frisk me (see the first entry on this list).   I am hoping to be paroled soon.

Sunday, October 16, 2016

My Memory Foam Mattress Has Dementia

I am saddened to announce that my Memory Foam Mattress is showing signs of early dementia.  It’s been coming on slowly, but last night when I expected my mattress (I call him Matt) to couch me in sublime comfort, instead Matt seemed confused.  Where I typically sink into the softness, Matt pushed back, dipping where I billow and billowing where I dip. And what’s worse, I count on Matt to be my backup memory on so many things (when you pay big bucks for a memory foam mattress you expect more than just a good night’s sleep).  Like how many times did I get up at night?  How many times did I sweat through my nightie? When did I last wash my sheets?  Did I pee while I was sleeping? How many times did I call out a man’s name, and what was the name of the man...please remember what was the name of the man?

Matt and I have seen some good times….times I don’t remember but expected Matt to remember for me.  But things have changed.  Now I spend my time with Matt doing Fit Brain and other memory-enhancing apps.   I show Matt pictures of when he was just a little bunch of chemicals and when he grew into spongy foam, trying to bring back memories from his inception.   I don’t know if any of my efforts will work, so I’ve had to come up with Plan O.

Plan O stands for my little grandson, Ori.  He, too, is spongy and I love when he sinks into my loving arms.  I am counting on him to remember the sweetest moments we share together, remembering my laughter, my tears of joy, my total and complete love for him.  I can’t wait until he is old enough to spend the night at my house. And hey, if he can remember the names of any of the men I call out at night...any of them at all...then who needs a memory foam anyway?