If You Need Me Just Look Under My Bed

So, I’ve been thinking of where I want to retire.  Go East Old Wrinkly woman, go east?  Or venture West back to the  Balboa Rockies, or was it Rocky Balboa?  I could go South because I love hush puppies, but then you have to take them out for a walk multiple times a day.  And finally there is True North, but you need a compass for that and I don’t like pointy things.

No, I have decided that the best place for me to reside is simply under my bed.  I have Panaphobia you see.  This is a fear of everything, and in particular natural disasters.  Just a few weeks ago I spoke to my oldest daughter, Rachel, who explained that when she got to work, there was a bomb squad on the premises.  But "not to worry."  Who says that to a mother?  Then I called my youngest daughter, Ali,  who explained she couldn’t talk to me because they were having a terror attack drill and she had to walk down 18 flights of stairs.  But "not to worry."  The snipers that guard her workplace would protect her.  Who says THAT to a mother who worries about everything from adult acne to Food Network chefs who don’t know what to do with the ingredients in their mystery basket?

So if you need me, you can check under my bed.  I welcome company, but just one at a time.  Bring your own flashlight, pillow and munchies.  I promise to come out for joyous occasions like reruns of “I Love Lucy,”  and an occasional bathroom run.   Like now, except I think I am stuck.  Call 911 or TemPurpedic.   I told you I have a fear of natural disasters and the worst disaster of all is a full bladder!

Beyond ANGRY BIRDS

The internet has brought us Angry Birds that are slung through the air at a structure in order to demolish it (this explanation is brought to you by the last person on earth that doesn’t have this app on her phone – namely, me!)

Recently though, I have been contacted by a number of angry persons and inanimate objects (which shall be named later…actually they’re named in the next paragraph, so keep on reading) that would also like to sling some things at their targets.  So here are my suggestions for some new Angry apps:

The Angry Politicians app:  where empty words are flung at each other in an attempt to destroy their opponent’s credibility.  There needs to be a pill to make this app go away.  I guess it is called a remote.

The Angry Fliers app:  where customers fling their suitcases at the CEOs of the various airlines (except Southwest where fliers fling kisses). And then they are made to sit in coach for 6 hours next to a crying, vomiting baby.

The Angry Toilets app:  where commodes fling all the items that aren’t supposed to be flushed at the people who don’t comply with the signs asking them not to flush anything except toilet paper.

The Angry Feet app: where tootsies fling the ridiculously high heeled shoes at the designers who created this trend.  Perhaps, just perhaps, my anger on this point is more jealousy because if I tried to walk in them I would end up on the sidewalk on my ass?  No, I think it is just about the pain.

The Angry Drivers app:  where drivers who don’t text while driving fling their phones, fingers, liter etc. at those who do. 

And finally

The Angry App Developer app:  where my loyal followers fling money at me for spending a good portion of today coming up with ideas for apps that someone hasn’t already thought of while I’m sitting on the toilet in my high heel shoes watching political ads before I have to get in my car dodging text-maniac drivers who are on their way to the airport.  Now where is my remote?

63 Shades of Maxine

                                                        

So I hear people talking about this series of books called “50 Shades of Gray” and immediately I figure they are talking about the latest hair color choices produced by Clairol or L’Oreal.  And like, I’m excited because there NEEDS to be at least 50 Shades of Gray for folks in their 60’s and older.  But like so many of the political ads these days, it is all a big lie.  However, I am still intrigued.  So, I ask a friend to lend me her latest selection of fine reading material which shall henceforth be called “ooh la la” and I begin my journey into the dark place.

Now for those of you who have not ventured into the “ooh la la” dark place, I shall summarize.  This is a story about “subs” and “doms”.  And if you are like me (and who wouldn’t want to be except for the granny panties), your favorite  “subs” include tuna, deli and that old favorite, meatball.  And of course my favorite Dom was of the DeLouise brand.  But nothing prepared me for the “sub” and “dom” activities in this trilogy.  Hey, I’m all for a playroom, but I like to use a cue when knocking balls around on a pool table.  And don’t get me started on the proper use of clothes pins. 

As I read and said to myself how silly this “ooh la la” stuff was,  I thought for sure my hot flashes were making a comeback as the sweat was dripping from my face and my panting had to be from allergies.   Dom DeLouise never got that kind of a reaction from me for sure!

And there is no question that these two young people were ingesting some kind of energy drink because no one can be that “active” that many times in one day.  I know.  I tried….years ago of course before the granny panties faze of my life.  Now I’m just 63 shades of Maxine and with the help of my sponsors, Clairol and L’Oreal, it ain’t Gray!

It's All In A Name

I am one of those people who never really liked my name.  I would have preferred Myra or my middle name, Temma.  Something more exotic.  Something that congers up a picture in your mind of someone exciting and sophisticated.

Well, let me tell you, after hearing the name of a guy who died at age 137, I will never complain again.  A Chippewa Indian, this fellow’s name, Ga-Be-Nah-Gewn_Wonce is translated as…are you ready for this?....WRINKLED MEAT.  I kid you not!   If I had such a name,  I’d “Gotta-Be-Now-Goin”, not Once, but twice or as many times as it took to avoid the name calling.  “Hey Wrinkled…how’s your meat?”  And whereas I have had to endure nicknames for 6 decades, this poor guy had 137 years of:  Dear  “Mr. Meat” or Dear “Wrinkled”.  What was his mother thinking?   Mother: “Hey honey, what shall we call our son?  How about Robert, or John, or David, or Tiny Penis or Wrinkled Meat?”   Father  “I like Tiny Penis but I’m afraid his friends will make fun of him so let’s go with Wrinkled Meat”.   I didn’t see where Wrinkled had any siblings, but I can just imagine a sister named “Dried Prune” or “Sun Ripened Tomato”.

Now that I think of it, if I ever decide to be a stripper, I’ll certainly consider “Wrinkled Meat” as my stage name.  And as I walk out, everyone will nod their heads and say “Yeah, that makes sense”.

The Daddy of All Mistakes

I am a proud graduate of The University of Texas at Austin (Hookem Horns).  I am also proud to say I worked on the PR for the opening of The Lyndon Johnson Library.  So, you can imagine my embarrassment when I read that the 2012 graduation program from my alma mater was printed as follows:  “The Lyndon B. Johnson School of Pubic Affairs”.

 

So, that got me to scratching….I mean thinking.   Certainly John Edwards, Bill Clinton, Tiger Woods, and so many others can claim they had pubic affairs.   But of all of the crazy mistakes I have made in my life, I can say with certainty that I would never make such a blatant spelling error.   Not when I helped create pubic legislation in my political days.  Nor when I went pubic with Mark’s proposal of marriage.  Not when I checked out the pubic financing of our local politicians at our local pubic library, nor when I have chosen to take pubic transportation when my car broke down. There is nothing worse than pubic humiliation. You know I love a little pubicity, but sometimes you just get too much pubic attention. 

 

So, beware of making mistakes that will haunt you for the rest of your pubic life.  I know I will.

Can You Hear Me Now?

                   

This getting old thing is REALLY getting old!  I’ve come to accept the drooping ass, boobs, arm flesh, eyelids and what used to be called my abs which is now a shelf for my dinner plate.  But now I just read that even one’s voice starts to sound “old” as we age.  It seems as you climb the hill of voice destruction you develop breathiness (I like to think of it as sexy), weakness and loss of range (I know exactly where my stove is located).  All of this is called “aging of the larynx”.  And all this time I thought that was an endangered animal.

So, what’s an aging larynx to do?  The experts say collagen injections can plump thinning vocal cords.   Great, they want to fatten up the only part of my body that is thin.  Forget about it!  I have my own solution.  From now on I plan to scream instead of talking in my mild manner way.  I even plan to scream in my emails and at the recorded messages from politicians (especially them!). 

The article I read continued saying that a focus group reported that older voices sound “doddery”, “vague” and “rambling”.    Hey, I planned on being “doddery”, “vague” and “rambling” when I turn 105, but I have no intention of having my voice go along with it.  I promise to do my best to keep my voice Sexy, and always to know where my stove is at all times.  As for the endangered larynx, he’s on his own.

My 7 Bad Habits

I recently read an article that listed the 7 Bad Habits of Insanely Productive People.  Well, I consider myself somewhat insane (okay you can stop nodding your head in agreement), mildly productive, and I certainly consider myself a person (although some would challenge that statement).  So I thought I had better check out the list and see if any of these bad habits apply to me. 

Bad Habit #1:  Being thin skinned.  Yeah, I don’t think so.  At my age, my skin is more like an elephant’s with veins that look like rivers on a map and errant hairs in the most ridiculous places.  And my hearing is so poor that if people are talking about me, I don’t even hear them.  Forget this habit.

Bad Habit #2:  Flakiness.  You got me on this one.  I just want to know who told these guys about my dandruff.  Are there cameras in my bathroom?  I just hate the paparazzi following me all the time. It’s hard being a famous blogger.

Bad Habit #3:  Selfishness.  Yes, I am Jewish but I still like my seafood.  Oh, I thought this habit was about liking shellfish.  I guess my eyesight isn’t so good either.

Bad Habit #4:  Greed.  Yes, I am greedy.  I want to be younger, I want to be thinner, I want to eliminate my wrinkles, I want world peace, I want the politicians to stop running ads….I want it all and I want it now.   And I wouldn’t mind having a crack at George Clooney either now that I think of it.

Bad Habit #5:  Distractibility.  Who, what, where…what did you say?  Not me!!

Bad Habit #6:  Self doubt…is it me?   Well, when I looked in the mirror this morning, it WAS me, me and my elephant skin, me and my flaky head, me still wanting a crack at George Clooney.  But then things can change when I get distracted (see bad habit #5).

And finally, Bad Habit #7:  Arrogance.   So, why do you think I keep stalking you?  Cause it’s all about me…..unless something changed in Bad Habit #6. 

So, after reviewing these bad habits, I thought I should start a Good Habit List.  It sounded like a sane, productive thing a person would do.  But then I got distracted (see Bad Habit #5) so maybe I’m wrong (Bad Habit #6).  Are you talking about me now (Bad Habit #1).  Well, that’s okay cause at least you are focusing on me (Bad Habit #7). Now where did I put George Clooney’s phone number (back to Bad Habit #5).

The First Step in a Journey...

I recently saw this quote which really touched me.  “The first step in a journey is to lose your way”.  Actually, it didn’t just touch me.  It sort of mauled me and then stood back and smirked.  The quote sounds so lovely and makes you desire to begin that journey, but if you are me (and who wouldn’t want to be?) you would know this is not a journey to be taken lightly. 

 

So let’s begin.  First, the quote explains, you have to lose your way.  So instead of a journey that takes me from Davenport to Paris, or from Tel Aviv to Johannesburg, my journey begins by getting lost trying to get from my bedroom to the living room.  I have to pass a bathroom and as soon as that happens, not only do I lose my way, but I lose control of my bladder.  So I have to stop and use the facilities and by that time I have no idea where I was going, but it sure as Hell didn’t end up in Paris.

 

Then there is the journey from the mall parking lot to the entrance to the mall.  Instead of roaming the gloaming in Scotland (a journey that sounds pretty nice), I end up spending a weekend trying to find my car.  Even with the help of the car fob that triggers lights and noise, there is no help for me on this journey and no frequent walking miles until I find my destination.  I always seem to remember where I parked the weekend before, but not 60 minutes ago.  Now I don’t leave home without a stick and a white flag to wave indicating I am giving up.

And then there is losing your train of thought.  Another fabulous journey that occurs, oh, I don’t know; every couple of minutes?  And the scenery along this journey is really unpleasant.  Talk about the “first step”….I can’t take a step without a post it note and pen in my hand, just in case I have a thought.  Because given any distraction along the way from the first step to the next step and I am a gonner.  A conversation with me includes innumerable “now what was I saying” interludes.  And even when the other person remembers what I was saying, I have already lost the purpose of the comment in the first place.

So don’t talk to me about what a great thing it is to take a journey by losing your way.  I believe in taking a journey the old fashioned way, with a guide and a limo.  Now I just have to figure out how to get the limo into my apartment and find a guide who has stock in post it notes.  Oh, and I wanted to mention…………damn…….I lost my train of thought.  And the journey continues.

Blah, Blah, Blah, Blob

After my last post, someone wrote that they enjoyed my latest “blob”.  At first I thought they must mean “blog”.  But then I started thinking about all the blobs in my past and present life and thought perhaps she knew something I forgot about (not a hard concept to embrace).  So, I thought back…way back….before computers, but after electricity.

I realized to my dismay that I actually dated a number of “blobs” along with a smattering of Bobs, Richards, Mikes, Davids, Jeffs, Marks, Jims, Rons, Eds, and a whole lot of faces I recall but names that I don’t.  It’s all a big blob now.

Then there were the awful teenage blobs that crop up on your face as one’s hormone levels race up and down.  No matter how hard you tried to rid yourself of one blob, 2 more would crop up usually right in the middle of your forehead, nose or chin.  Or if you were like me, all 3 at one time.

At this age, I have just one large blob on the back of my neck from hunching forward too much trying to shovel food into my mouth.  Some call it a hump. Take your pick.  Hump, blob, it’s all demoralizing.  And just so my neck blob doesn’t feel lonely, I have added thigh blobs, tummy blobs and underarm blobs.  Here a blob, there a blob, everywhere a blob blob.

And the worst blobs of present are our presidential blob hopefuls.  When I turn on the television, all I can hear is blah, blah, blah, blob.  It’s a blob eat blob world out there and the blobs seem to be winning.

So join me in my crusade to rid ourselves of the blobs.  Send this message to 10,000 people and ask them all to send me $5 a piece.  Hey, if politicians can have Super PACS, I can have a Super BLOB.  Soon I will be known as the BlobMeister, the Blobinator, one of the Blobashians, the Blob & 8 makes 9, J Blob, Snoop Blob, Puff Blobby or perhaps Ms Blob USA .  Hold the applause please and just send the money. 

OMG….. perhaps my friend really did mean “blog”?  Sorry.  Ignore this blob…I mean blog.  But you don’t have to ignore the part where you can still have your 10,000 friends send me money!   Power to the Super BLOBBER!

Thumbthings to Consider

So, I went to the orthopedist to find out why my thumb was not working properly and was told that I have texting thumb, even though I don’t text much.  My problem comes from crocheting too much.  So I guess you could say I have crotch thumb. Not only does it hurt, but it prevents me from accomplishing many tasks.  Let me list them (cause you know how I love my lists).

• Since I can’t use my thumb when I hitchhike, I have to expose my leg which is a bit unattractive with my knee high hose engorged under my kneecap.  Sadly, my thumb is the sexiest part of my body.
• No more sucking of the thumb.  I tried using my big toe, but pulled out my back in the process.
•  Have you ever tried pulling your pants up without the use of your thumb?  Not a pretty site.  You think you have it made and then they slide back down again.  Although I would still have problems even if I had 10 thumbs. It’s getting the damn things over the hips that is the obstacle. I am working on training my pants to jump up, but I haven’t found the right incentive yet.  Maybe I could train my big toe to help cause it obviously isn’t doing anything right now.
• Try and latch a necklace without the use of your thumb.  If I can get one on, I can’t get it off.  And without someone to help, I now have 18 necklaces on and can’t lift my head up straight due to the weight. 
• Forget about buttons.  If I can’t pull it over my head or pull it up, it doesn’t go on my body.  I have been known to have to sleep in my clothes and my coat.  The EMT’s just laugh at me and 911 won’t answer my calls any longer.
• This ailment hasn’t affected my driving.  I don’t use my hands for that anyway.
• You might think my typing would be affected since you need a thumb to depress the space bar.  But I’m Jewish, so I just use my nose.  And then, I still have that unemployed big toe as a possibility.
• No more “thumbs up” for me when something goes right.  The only finger that someone recognizes instantly is my middle finger and somehow I don’t get the same response when I smile and say “atta girl/guy” and give them that finger. 
• I can’t hold my toothbrush so I just don’t brush my teeth anymore. Tried using the big toe again, but fell on the floor and you don’t want to know where the toothbrush ended up.

Well, my big toe, back and thumb are all throbbing now  (not to mention where my toothbrush ended up), so I’ll end my list and say “atta girl/guy for reading my blog.  I’m sending you a big smile and giving you Maxine’s version of a “thumbs up”.   

The Case of the Missing Panties

I was wondering where those panties went!  Sadly, they look better on her than on me.  From the back, it's actually hard to tell us apart. Well, I'm the one with the nose job.  I guess that's what you get for letting someone horn in on your favorite things.  From now on, no more nice guy/girl/rhino...whatever.  You should have seen her in my baby doll pajamas.  And now they are missing too!  You just never know about jungle animals.  It looks like I will be looking for a new friend.  One that doesn't wear the same size that I do.