We’re Baaaaack

So. Where was I?

Blogging fell apart as life starting going biblically wrong. Disappointing our dozens of readers, for which we apologize. But good news, fans and foes, Roberta and I have decided it’s time to resume our scribbles.

Amid all the tragedies, life has continued on its usual cray-cray way.  Another typical day in the life of Wiggles:

Guess who’s accompanying her hard-of-hearing hubby to a computer repair store run by a heavily accented, pidgin English speaking Taiwanese man? You know what the vows say, “for better or for worse.”

Not to mention the Lord & Master’s next stop at the DMV, where he’s going to take both the vision and written driving tests. (For a professor, he’s got a surprisingly intense case of test taking anxiety.) And then he’ll have his mug memorialized onto the new license with a honking huge upper lip cold sore the size of Montana.

When the new license arrived, the L&M groaned that he looked like a Russian mobster. He did. An angry one. “I thought I had a pleasant expression,” he protested. Well, now he knows his version of pleasant looks more like “one step closer and I’ll blow your brains out.”

I have landed smack dab in the middle of a goddam Tennessee Williams play. Clearly, a lesser known gem. Perhaps you’ve heard of it: A Crumbling House to Match Our Crumbling Lives? We’ve got our very own Big Daddy and the requisite forlorn heroine – yes, dear Sassafrass has returned to the nest – lolling the day away in her cluttered quarters. But I, Wiggles, am a reformed JAP from the east coast, now mellowing out in SF. How did I wander into this production?

Among other reversals, I am reduced to taking care of my hair myself.

Among other reversals, I am reduced to taking care of my hair myself.

Our father, who art in the Actors Home in Englewood, New Jersey, used to quote his beloved Abraham Lincoln: “I laugh because I dare not cry.” Daddy, I concur.

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Wiggles Surprises Everyone By Being All Substance, No Flash

Dateline: The Foggy Grey Splendor of San Francisco

Our security system consists of being the most run down house on the block.

Hot Pants clued our dozens of followers into the yummy Katz’s Delicatessen details and even managed to slip in a snapshot of myself and The Lord & Master (shhh – don’t ever let him know his actual face has appeared on this site!).

So what have I, Wiggles, to say about the renewing of our vows? On the serious side, renewing vows was way more fun than taking them as a 32 year old basket case with the emotional sophistication of Gidget. The L&M and I dressed down, skipped the rings, and just stood together before our family and friends and told the truth. And when the truth is as beautiful as our lives, that’s powerful stuff. I have done countless stupid things in my life. But when it mattered most, I fell in love with a man so indescribably wonderful that every other aspect of my life has been bettered by our relationship. I know this is rare, and I cherish him and our life together.

Of course, I wouldn’t be Wiggles without loads of dumb moves. How is it that I didn’t learn from Sassafrass’s high school graduation that I should not appear in public wearing ivory pants? Even when they fit properly, such bulk and bumps do not look good in light colors. Apparently, I am incapable of seeing myself in a mirror. It’s all a blur, topped with makeup and jewelry. Most unsettling.

Fat & Happy. I cannot complain. But I do apologize if this burns your eyes.

Also, I must confess that my industrial strength two week old blow-out was quite the worse for wear having slogged through the worst of the Jersey summer heat and humidity. Even more startling, I managed to eke another week out of said ‘do until I finally plopped into the magical hands of Hamideh, my Hair Goddess. I maintain it’s her hair; it just happens to be on my head.

Multigenerational gorgeousness.

Allow me to close with just a heartfelt thank you to all the people who made it such a great day: Andy & Susan for letting us trash their home, Roberta for shlepping the food from NYC, Jeanne for wearing one of her snazzy new dresses and playing the piano for everyone, Tucker for being Tucker and looking more fabulous than ever while doing so, Leigh Ann and Josie and Matt for wasting their Saturday by being with us, Peter and Sue for trekking in from Chicago amid enormous challenges, and, most of all, Sassafrass for blessing us by singing “Our Love is Here to Stay,” which celebrated us as a couple and as a family.

My Immortal Beloveds [to steal a phrase from Kelly Ripa]

I promise never to be this serious again, folks!

Most Women Would Slim Down For Their Vow Renewal. I Clearly Am Not Most Women.

This was my short lived dream. Dressed, of course.

The Lord & Master and I are renewing our connubial vows before our Nearest & Dearest as our 25th anniversary approaches. As Bob says to Jeanne on theirs, “Another year of goddam wedded bliss.”

Why, you ask? Because we are grateful to be lucky in love; because we still enjoy spending (almost) all our time together, because – let’s face it – no one else would have us.

Unfortunately, we’re enjoying ourselves so, ahem, fully in the run-up to this “picnic with ‘mush'” as the L&M refers to it, I’ve backed off the traditional ‘lose weight/look great’ idea, and sunk into the more forgiving, indulgent ‘be happy/look’ crappy mindset.

So I’m gonna resemble this luscious lady instead.

Of course, after two weeks of Big Jersey high life, by the Big Day, I’ll be a Big Mess.

Ah, the good old crispy pre-SPF days.

P.S. Memo to Hot Pants:  Battle of the Figurines? It’s ON, Babycakes!

I Still Know How to Shake it!

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”

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?

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.