Preview: Wiggles Is Coming to NJ to Renew Her Wedding Vows: Jeanne is thrown into a Clothing Quandry

Posted on by hot pants

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Yep, you read that right. Seems Wiggles is putting down her nail scissors (or should I say, her saw?) and she and the L&M are getting on a plane to come East and re-pledge their love. It is shaping up to be a hell of a party, complete with deli platters, Sassy as officiant, and special appearances from Bob and Jeanne, the latter of whom has been mulling her outfit for the past few weeks. I expect the rumination to intensify, and I will start to hear more of the following:

Are you wearing a dress to Wiggles’ party?

Joan Rivers has been showing a lot of new clothes lately. Should I get a new outfit?

I do have white pants I could wear.

I think I need a new skinny belt.

One of the girls bought me a skinny belt. It cost $2!

That skinny belt doesn’t fit. I think I need to loop two together.

Let’s go to Banana Republic so I can get something to wear for Wiggles’ party!

Eesh. It will be a bloody miracle if I make it to this bash.

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I Gave My Husband His Semi-Annual Mani/Pedi

Posted on by wiggles

Be grateful this picture is not in Smell-A-Vision.

My adorable husband, The Lord & Master, received his long overdue mani/pedi this morning. I’m still reeling from the aroma and the struggle. Neither of us is as limber as we used to be – like the good old days when we had at it in the back seat of his Camaro! Those were the days! – but it’s been months since his nails have met up with a scissors.

I once asked him what he did about tending his digits before he met me, to which he replied, “My nails never grew until I met you.”

I’m beginning to believe him. Or, maybe that’s why the first two wives left.

Amazingly, I only stabbed myself with the scissors once while performing this at-home surgery.

Service with a smile. And a Band-Aid. Where’s that hydrogen peroxide?

The UPS guy thinks he’s a Comedian

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I was having a lunch with a colleague and telling her about a thorny personal situation. We were winding up on our conversation as we got onto the elevator, where there was a UPS delivery guy. He was in his uniform from head to toe: starched brown shirt, cute shorts, dark socks and UPS-issued footwear.

He Looked Kinda Like This

He Looked Kinda Like This

As my friend got off the elevator to return to her office, she said to me with great gravity, “It’s all on your shoulders now. You know what you need to do.” The doors closed.

We went up two floors and the doors opened for the UPS guy. Taking the exact same stance as my friend Mary, he turned, looked me right in the eye and said,  “It’s all on your shoulders now. You know what you need to do.”

Thanks a lot, Mr. UPS. You’re a real riot.

 

Pancake Meditates

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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:

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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

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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!

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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.