My Husband Has a Fiance in His Closet

If he gave her anything like this, I want it back.

If he gave her anything like this, I want it back.

The Lord and Master has been a busy, busy man, romantically. Not only does he have two, count ‘em, two previous wives, but also a fiance.

After 31 years together, I’ve just learned of her existence. You think you know your mate, then this happens.

She had to have turned up between Wife #1 and Wife #2, because the L&M and I dated during most of his marriage to Wife #2. Got that timeline?

In fact, Wife #2 had been seeing the man she still is with since before her marriage to my beloved. So, she was thrilled when she caught wind of my existence, making her feel less guilty about pulling the plug on their obviously ill-matched relationship. I think of her as the place holder who kept my Romeo warm until I turned up and fell instantly, hopelessly, permanently in love with him. So, I thank her for her services on my behalf.

But this hussy of a fiance I have no use for. Imagine if that marriage had happened and – heaven forbid – lasted. I could have been cheated out of a lifetime of wonderful. All I can say is, that interloper had better stay far away from me and my husband. I’m not sharing.

And if there’s any jewelry involved, please return. No questions asked.

Vintage is always welcome.

Vintage is always welcome.

This Just in From Planet Jeanne: I will Marry Again

My Auntie Sandra called me last night to tell me that my mother has revealed the news that I recently married “a very distinguished black man.” We are “very happy” and my mother is “delighted.” He even attended the Christmas party at my parents’ nursing home with me!

I told my Aunt that NONE of this is true, though I like that Jeanne’s focusing on the next chapter of my life and that it’s a happy one.

But here’s the weirdest part – I was sharing this story with my friend Lynn this morning. After the initial giggle, SHE SAID THAT SHE HAS A FRIEND WHO’S A WIDOWER, IS BLACK, AND WANTS TO START DATING!

I think Jeanne just may be clairvoyant!

Stay tuned.

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Wiggles Has a Heart Attack. Wait, No, Just Bad Gas.

A cautionary tale:

Never eat a pile of cake frosting. On a spoon. Like I did.

What happened was, I ate a cupcake. A lovely, frosted cupcake.

Sassy dyes all the vanilla frosting she makes. Custom frosting, who can resist?

Sassy dyes all the vanilla frosting she makes. Custom frosting, who can resist?

See? A real beauty. Home made by Sassafrass herself.

And I loved it. So, so much, that I thought maybe I’d eat another. But, then, there were so few left and I didn’t want to be the PIG that ate too many cupcakes. Solution! Why not eat the itty-bit of leftover frosting? How could that hurt?

How? I’ll tell you how. Never mind that I’m already on twice daily prescription anti-heartburn meds.

Kaiser's finest generic capsules for Pepcid lovers. 2x/day, mind you.

Kaiser’s finest generic capsules for Pepcid lovers. 2x/day, mind you.

I was rolling around on my bed like a Human Pinata wondering whether or not to wake the Lord & Master and tell him to get me to the Emergency Room. I truly suspected I’d finally done it, finally burst the old ticker with my frosting, my cashews, my coffee candies, my KitKat fetish [Freeze them. You'll be hooked].

To boost the meds, I popped two Phaysyme. Well, generic, I’m not gonna waste good money on name brand. Please, I’m not a reckless idiot. At least not about my drugs.

If I believed in those Imaginary Friends, I'd have been praying around now.

If I believed in those Imaginary Friends everyone visits on Sundays, I’d have been praying around now.

The heaven-sent simethicone broke up the log jam and I began a blessed round of much needed farts. With every spew my tummy deflated. It took a couple of hours, but I finally expelled enough gas to drift off to dreamland. Where absolutely no dancing cupcakes, frosted or not, cavorted.

Take heed, fellow food abusers. Cupcake frosting should only be ingested atop a cupcake. And to all, a good night.

In Defense of the 15-Minute Phone Call

Originally posted on Robertacaploe's Blog:

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Please God, keep it short! (the conversation, that is)

 

When I was in high school, I’d talk on the phone at night with my best friend Liz for hours. Literally, hours. We’d see each other all day in school and then we’d call each other after dinner to dissect the day’s events. And these were the days of toll calls (she lived in Westchester and I was in New Jersey) and there was no call waiting. My father would say to me, “What do you two have to talk about when you just spent 8 hours together?” Liz’s father took a different approach. One evening, as we cheerily tripped into our second hour of conversation, he simply came into Liz’s bedroom and ripped the phone out of the wall.

It was effective.

At the time, we thought he was a madman. But I have come to understand and respect…

View original 351 more words

Well, Shut My Mouth

The question is:  Can I?

I know I’m a chatterbox. I even was dumb enough to believe I was a stupendously enjoyable blabbermouth. Funny. Pithy. Educational, even. I thought the Lord & Master and Sassafrass enjoyed my tidbits from Vanity Fair or whatever book I’m reading. I thought my hilarious bon mots were a pleasure for them.

I thought wrong.

Lately, after the umpteenth time Sassy has flailed her arms and said, “Oh my God, her monologue never ends,” my sweetheart of a hubby replied, deadpan, “Welcome to my world.”

For the first time, I heard them. And now I can never un-know what I’ve heard.

Holy crap. I’m the problem. They don’t want to hear what I’m blathering on about. They’re praying I’ll shut the hell up.

Is this why I’ve seen parents from Sassy’s elementary school cross the street when they see me coming? Am I that long-winded bore everyone’s trying to avoid? Am I Daddy? Whom we loved to kid about his ever-ready jokes? For years we had a caricature someone drew of him standing at the bathroom sink, looking into the mirror, asking, “Hey, buddy, did you hear the one about…?”

Like father, like daughter. Two misfits looking for a laugh.

Like father, like daughter. Two misfits looking for a laugh. This is our father’s Boston Latin School senior yearbook entry, just before he set off to Harvard.

I’m not embarrassed. After you’ve shoved an entire human being out of your vagina in front of strangers, albeit ones with medical degrees, you don’t embarrass easily.

I guess, like Barack Obama tweeted after being awarded the Nobel Peace Prize, I’m humbled. Just not humbled for quite so wonderful a reason.

So, as I bump up against 60 years on the planet, I must consider an entirely new way of being. A quiet way. It’s gonna be quite the adventure. Unlike my previous embrace of Oscar Wilde’s advice: Be Yourself, Everyone Else is Taken, now I must not be myself. Lest I drive my family stark raving mad.

Stay tuned for updates on how I navigate this fine mess.

P.S.  This place is like a morgue without me talking.

Jesus Gives Carrie Underwood Two Thumbs Down, Too

Probably shielding his eyes from Carrie's bad acting.

Probably shielding his eyes from Carrie’s bad acting.

Carrie Underwood responded to scathing reviews and internet buzzkill with a tweet:  “Mean people need Jesus.”

Sweetie, Jesus isn’t blind or deaf. He agrees with the rest of us – you can’t act. The truth is the truth. “Mean” has nothing to do with it.

Shoot, girl, you should be able to get a good, teary country song out of the whole deal.