Pancake Meditates

Posted on by hot pants

I have been listening to Guided Imagery CD’s from Belleruth Naparstek, a psychotherapist, to help me sleep better. Here’s what Belleruth looks like:

Image

Perfect, right?

So I was in bed a few nights ago listening to her CD, with one Pancake right next to me. The room was dark, Belleruth’s voice was soothing, and I was concentrating on relaxing and the lovely guitar music that was playing underneath her words. As I breathed deeper, I thought to myself, “God, I hope this works.”

A few seconds passed. Then I heard some surprisingly hardy snoring right next to me. It was from this little girl:

Little Miss Dainty can really chop wood while she sleeps!

Well at least meditation is working for someone!

 

Jeanne & Geography

Posted on by wiggles

“I’ll just mosey up Route 17. Why are so many cars honking?”

Our Mother Jeanne has always been a bit of a kook. Not for nothing did her children refer to her behind the wheel as “Mrs. Magoo” – and that was when she had all her marbles. As a risk-averse person, I considered being her passenger as a kid a solid 100 on the Terror-O-Meter. (Not that Daddy’s driving would have won any awards, either, but that’s another story…)

Anyhoots, the residents of Bergen County can rest assured that Hot Pants has taken possession of Jeanne’s snazzy little dinged-up roadster.

Now all Mah’s geographical adventures take place in her head. Bob & Jeanne have a woman named Indiana who helps them out with life’s daily demands. Seriously, her name is Indiana.

Well, Mah was yakking on the phone with H.P. and said, “I wonder when Kentucky will get here.”

“You mean Indiana?” my smartypants sis inquired.

“Oh, right, of course,” Jeanne didn’t miss a beat.

Well, I’ve gotta hand it to her. Indiana and Kentucky do border one another. And the source of my geographical certainty comes from the Broadway hit Show Boat. As any theater hag can tell you, baby Kim’s name was based on the Mississippi River location of her birth – the meeting up of Kentucky, Indiana, and Missouri – K I M.

I imagine Mah dredging up some long ago school assignment on the map of the USA. Indian, Kentucky – what’s the diff?

To quote Bob’s favorite American, Abraham Lincoln:  I laugh because I dare not cry.

The Freewheelin’ Jeanne Adele

Posted on by hot pants

 

As readers of this blog know, our mother Jeanne has had some memory issues of late, which have resulted in my not posting as much, since I am spending more of my free time helping my darling Ma-ma. This help has mostly taken the form of driving her to her hair appointments at a salon called “Aesthetics,” where, I would bet, many of the customers and employees would not know how to spell the name of the shop, should their lives depend on it.

But anyway, our devoted and dazzling brother Andy has created a calendar which lives on Bob and Jeanne’s dining room table, front and center in the gloom that is their Hackensack apartment, on which Andy writes Jeanne and Bob’s many upcoming medical appointments. The other day, Jeanne confided in me that she doesn’t much care for the calendar. ”Why?” I asked her. “I like to be more freewheeling,” she explained.

Here she is, the freewheeling Jeanne (in this photo, with her saucy sister, Sandra). Bob Dylan would be proud.

 

I Still Know How to Shake it!

Posted on by hot pants

I did something last night that I haven’t done in ages: I went to a dance party. My friend Nancy talked me into it; though honestly, she didn’t have to do too much arm-twisting when she told me it would be  50s and 60s music. I was so worried my feet would hurt that I wore sneakers that Sassafrass had grown tired of, with jeans and a $7 t-shirt from Target. I looked like a 15 year old – a 15 year old wearing some very nice jewelry, that is.

I wasn’t too nervous until Nancy said to me, “Are you nervous?” Then I thought, who am I kidding? I’m 50. I don’t know how to do any of these dances. Eek! Meanwhile, Nancy was off in the bathroom changing into a flippy skirt and her dancing shoes.

Then we got to the dance and here’s what it looked like:

Whew! Twirl me, baby!

 

All I could think was, I said yes to Nancy and she will kill me if I bail. I have to stay here at least an hour. So I stood up straight and smiled. Then someone asked me to dance. And someone else, and someone else. This is New York, so there were all manners of kooks and weirdos of both genders, but there were lovely people, too. And what I really liked about it was that there was no hidden agenda – it was all about the dancing. It felt so great to get out of my own head and move my body to something other than an elliptical trainer. Every time I looked at Nancy she was swinging away, with her eyes closed in total bliss.

Now I’m on the mailing list. And guess what? There’s a Motown dance in a few weeks. Hopefully my sore tootsies will recover by then.

“Girls” Is NOT the “New” “Sex & the City”

Posted on by wiggles

And THIS is NOT the "new" Carrie Bradshaw.

I watched. I shuddered. I can hold my tongue no more.

Girls, the heavily promoted new HBO series following the escapades of a quartet of twentysomething young women, has been heaped with praise. Its more accurate title should have been American Horror Story, but, unfortunately, that was taken.

Lena Dunham, its producer, writer, star, and, apparently, wardrobe mistress & (non) makeup artist, has created “people” so vacuous, aimless, self deluded, and aggresively unattractive – and I mean that literally – that I am agog at the this pointless exercise. It’s like a female, un-hot version of Entourage, minus the much-missed Jeremy Piven pizzazz.

When Ms. Dunham’s character accosts her parents, who’ve informed her they no longer will support her while she writes her Great American Novel, with her “manuscript” she proffers what appears to be about a dozen pages. Possibly hand written. Oi.

No wonder my daughter Sassafrass cannot find friends her own age. These girls chase after boys who are obviously uninterested in them, have meaningless, joyless sex (and I’m all for meaningless sex, but, dammit, it better be joyful), and sit around talking idly and taking baths together. First, Sassy has no interest in propping up the male ego. (Of any age bracket) Second, she’s pursuing her dreams by working like a one-armed paper hanger seven days a week. Third, when she presents herself to the public, she wears clothes that fit & flatter and makeup.

"Though art as lovely as a summer's day...."

These girls make me feel sad. Where’s their self-respect? Their gratitude? Their sense of fun? I’m fairly certain none of them have ever seen an episode of Sex & the City. They oughta.

To quote Our Mother Jeanne, "None of us is so beautiful that she couldn't use a little makeup."

How Did I Get Baby Jane’s Hands?

Posted on by wiggles

So pretty in the bottle; so scary on the hand.

I don’t know whatever happened to Baby Jane, but it seems her hands have landed on my body. I scooped up the latest from L’Oreal: a bottle of L’Orange, thinking myself in the thick of the Spring 2012 color block stampede. Alas, the result was more horror show than haute chic.

Forgive me, ladies.

Uh-oh: Someone ATE Pancake’s Ball

Posted on by hot pants

I took my Pancake to the dog run with a new acquistion: this wonderful mini squeaky tennis ball, perfect for her to hold in her mouth comfortably while she gets her belly rubbed, is humped, and otherwise frolics with the other hounds.

But today, that ball caused trouble.

It all began when a big old lovable lab/retriever sort whom I will call Henry went wild when he smelled Pancake’s ball. He was sweet but strong, and was nosing around us as soon as we got there. His owner was a very nice young woman who kep dragging Henry away from Pancake, who was both taunting Henry with her small prize (ie, sticking her face right in his and wagging her tail, saying, “Look what I have! And you want it but ya can’t get it!!”) and valiantly guarding it with petite woofs and growls.

But eventually Pancake got distracted by a big humper named Juicy Fruit who literally would not get off her tail -  and that’s when Henry dove in, grabbed the ball – and swallowed it.

The collected dogs and owners went crazy. The owner was pissed and told me that Henry had swallowed balls before and would probably poop it out – but that I shouldn’t have brought out a little ball at the dog run where there are lots of big boys. I suppose she has a point and I did feel terrible. But shouldn’t she have better control over her dog? He was the only one chasing after the `Cake.

Is it just me?

 

 

 

I’m a Weight Watchers Dropout

Posted on by wiggles

Who can resist the power of frozen Girl Scout Thin Mint cookies? Not I, said the not so little Wiggles.

The good news:  I’ve kept off 30 or so pounds for over three years.

The bad news:  The siren song of sweet and salty snacks keeps ringing in my ears. I consider the fact that carbs are bad for me to be proof positive – as if I needed any – that there is no god.

Mmmmmm. Chips.

When I was in college and weighed so little that they turned me away at the blood donation drive, I could regularly devour an entire large bag of Lay’s Classics, no problem, no weight gain, no nothing. Those were, indeed, The Days.

Not to mention my late-in-life munchies issue as I continue my intergalactic journeys courtesy of medical marijuana baked goodies.

I’m truly at a crossroads. I don’t want to be a roly poly. I certainly don’t want to be pre-diabetic, let alone full blown diabetic. I could do without open heart surgery. You know, those pesky medical issues fueled by obesity.

But, gosh, as I begin the long slide down toward the Big D, shouldn’t I be having some fun? And shouldn’t some of that fun come from the delectable chewing of bread, pasta, potatoes and such? Cause, really, isn’t food one of life’s grandest pleasures?

Or should I keep my big mouth shut and maintain a body like this? The eternally unsmiling Victoria Beckham, mother of four, best know for her high fashion line and not having eaten in decades. What’s it all about, V.B.? Is it just for the proteins we live?

Hef came to Bob & Jeanne’s!

Posted on by hot pants
Bob, aka Hef

Bob, aka Hef

 

I went to Bob and Jeanne’s this weekend to celebrate Jeanne’s triumphal return from her second visit in as many weeks from Hackensack Hospital. Brother Peter, who’d flown into NJ to slap some sense into his aged parents, made a Chicken Parm Surprise for lunch. Bob wanted to eat in front of the TV, which he likes to blare at a dulcet volume level of 85 so he can watch CNN around the clock and hear 10% of what the reporters are saying. But his beloved children prevailed on him to come to the table, so he reluctantly wheeled himself out wearing a devastating ensemble of Depends and a blue velour bathrobe, circa 1975. You can see how he looked, in the first image above. Andy took one look at him and said, “Hef? Is that you?”

Bob nodded amiably as he speared some ziti. Then he debonairly took a sip of Diet Pepsi through an ancient straw. Come to think of it, Hef and Bob probably do look a lot alike these days.