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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.

“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.

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?

Is It Wrong That We Siblings Had a Blast Teleconferencing About Our Invalid Parents?

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Ever ready at the mike, our New Jersey brother calls in to the 1st Annual (Weekly?) Brothers & Sisters Conference Call.

The purpose of our teleconference was to brainstorm ways to foist support and help upon our resistant parents, who prefer to think of 911 as their sole personal rescue plan.

The result, to my everlasting joy, was a hoot-filled laugh riot as Bob & Jeanne’s offspring called in from San Francisco, Chicago, New Jersey and Manhattan.

Ever the organizer, Hot Pants set up the call. I, boob that I am, agreed to a time during which I was getting my weekly hair shampoo & blow dry. What the boys were up to, I’m sure we’ll never know. Unfortunately, H.P. dialed some other number, where she found herself the only one in the “conference room.” “Hello? Hellooo? Anybody there?”

There's Hot Pants and our Chicago brother soaking up the suds in Arizona during more lighthearted times.

Finally, she found the rest of us as we shared our individual and combined efforts to impress upon our parents that a man with Parkinson’s Disease and a woman who’s an alumna of open heart surgery, diabetic, and, now, with growing memory issues, may not be giving each other the best home health care.

But the truly unexpected surprise and delight of the call was how easily we all fell back into a loving and laugh filled sibling experience. Suddenly the decades of going our separate ways disappeared and the closeness of our childhoods bloomed back into reality.

I doubt if Bob & Jeanne intended this result, but, oh, what a blast.

Imagine the hilarity that will ensue when we actually present them with our plans. Extra in home helpers! Eventual institutionalization! Woo-hoo!

Whoever Invented Elastic Waist Pants Should Win the Nobel Prize

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Seriously. I hereby decree that the unfortunately unheralded Clothing God Genius who invented the modern elastic waistband deserves unlimited acclaim. Zippers? Buttons? Burning red indentations along the tummy? Why, why, why?

My latest pair in my favorite color: pukey green.

I feel so sorry for my husband, The Lord & Master, whose only elastic waists are on his “at home” leisure duds. Watching him straightjacket himself into the zipper/button/belt/belted suspenders monstrosity that is his regular slacks makes me wince. That male corset system is but a bygone relic of the era of suits, hats, and gloves for all.

Why, Miss Hot Pants, do you shudder at the thought of my wardrobe favorite, the supremely comfortable, forgiving, soft, dare I say gentle, elastic waist pants? Sure, when I was a 107 pound weakling Pretty Young Thing, I, too, happily zipped up into all sorts of lovely tailored ensembles.

But this is fast advancing Old Age, Babycakes, and attention must be paid. To easy pants. To weightless shoes. To life. Or, what’s left of it.

I'll have you know, H.P., someone said these are dead ringers for a Prada pair. HA!

Ladies, Do NOT Take Your Dog to Your Manicure Appointment

Posted on by wiggles

What color shall I paint my digits this week? So many choices.

I’m ashamed to admit that the array of nail polishes crowded onto that dish represents the winners I kept after getting rid of at least as many other colors. Am I out of control? Yes, but it’s a pretty cheap thrill, considering I favor Sally Hansen, Revlon, and Essie. Strictly bargain brands for my hands.

Like our mother Jeanne, I spend one day a week indulging in an old-fashioned beauty regimen. First, I bop into Sisters Salon & Spa for my weekly shampoo and blow dry. As I’ve told my stylist, “You know that soft, touchable hair? Don’t give me that. I want a ‘do that even a tornado cannot move.” The Lord & Master is well trained not to attempt running his hands through my hair, lest he get the equivalent of a paper cut.

Spray that hair 'til it's hard, hard, hard.

Stop number two is She-She Nails. When I think back to the old days when I painted my own nails, I shudder. Thank goodness my neighborhood is chockablock with nail salons.

Could you resist that face? Not I.

Now, normally Theo Fannybrice does not accompany me on my Day of Beauty. But this week, the power of his pleading face overcame my good senses and he came along. The hairdressers often have their own little rascal at the shop, plus, they know Theo, so he’s treated like a long-lost canine prince. I do believe he was stuffed with treats for the entire length of our visit.

The nail salon, well, that’s another story. In a vain attempt to keep Mr. Fannybrice occupied, I scooped up one cow’s trachea at the local pet store. This rigid white skeletal monstrosity was easily double the length of my doggie. Still, he seemed enchanted. Unfortunately, cow’s trachea make disturbingly loud sounds when knocked against ceramic tile floors. Wouldn’t you know it, some other patron complained to me that Theo’s noisemaking was ruining the Zen experience of watching her nail paint dry. The gaggle of Vietnamese employees scooted a towel under my boy and his toy. Which worked, as long as he stayed on the towel.

By the time my turn came around, my Zen experience was kaput. I skipped the massage, the lotion – everything but the basics. We beat a fast retreat out of there, with Theo still dragging his beloved trachea along.

I love you, my pet, but Never Again. Beauty may know no pain, but it does know when my dog should keep out.

Va, Va, & Voom.

Crap. Now I’ve Hurt MY Back

Posted on by wiggles

I hope they have this modified straight jacket in my size. I knew I should have strengthened my core when I had the chance.

Hot Pants & I love to do things together, even though we live at opposite ends of the USA. However, I may have taken our closeness too far by throwing out my back in solidarity with HP’s own spinal troubles.

Uncensored yelps of pain have been shooting out of my mouth.

In retrospect, my pride at hauling in all five bags of groceries (and my pocketbook) in one mighty dash from car to house may not have been my smartest move after all. Since that Olympic-quality lifting episode, I’ve been lurching around like Frankenstein and barking out “Ouch”  - along with a roster of handy curses – at every step. Even lying down – quite possibly my favorite position in life – offers treacherous moments in my futile search for a neutral pose.

Adding mental anguish to my physical pain, I’ve learned that as a Shop Girl, my paid sick time expired at the end of the calendar year. Little did I realize that we worker bees must time our getting ill to the latter months when we can get paid for our suffering. Silly me, injuring myself in January.

"May I help you?" never sounded more ridiculous as I gasp for breath and clutch the counter. The customers want to help me instead.

The Lord & Master has been most solicitous, though lurking behind his concern is the fear that it may be eons before I’m physically able to engage in acrobatic sexual hijinks with him. (And given our mutual lack of fitness in general, we’re forced to invent ever more original poses to achieve the desired, ahem, …results.)

My husband wants his wanton wild wifey back.

Even sitting here at my desk hurts like hell. So, Dear Readers, I shall jolt my way back to bed with an ice pack, if you don’t mind.

Is a Little Bread Mold Really So Bad?

Posted on by wiggles

It's mostly un-moldy. I think.

I don’t want to imply that my husband, The Lord & Master, can be a wee bit picky about what food I toss into his trough, but his report on Monday’s lunch bag offerings went like this:

Wiggles:   Did ya like your lunch?

L&M:         [gesturing a big thumbs down] No. I did not like that weird bun thing.

Wiggles:    How about the meats and cheese inside? Good?

L&M:         How could I tell? All I could taste was that crummy roll.

Cut to: tonight, making yet another sandwich for the man I worship and adore. I knew the detested brioche roll was out, so I grabbed some whole wheat slices. Unfortunately, just a skootch of mold had developed. Only on the outer edges. I swear. Finding two mainly spared specimens, I picked off any offending greenish developments. He’s not going to notice those raggedy edges, right?

Our nephew Max, back in residence in the Sassafrass Suite, happily accepted my offer for a brioche roll lunch feast.

And he’s promised me that should the L&M develop any peculiar tummy troubles, mum’s the word.

Deny, deny, deny. Who’s to say a bissel mold ever hurt anybody?

Honest, I threw out this funky junk.