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!

Advertisements

“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."

Crap. Now I’ve Hurt MY Back

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.

Filthy Lucre

Now that I, Wiggles, have entered the American workforce, I am learning its hazards. Particularly, how truly dirty money is. I spend my work days counting out large amounts of good old cash to many (presumably grateful) folks. The upshot of rifling these bills has been a hellacious cold. I guess the hand sanitizer at the counter isn’t just for the customers.

Of course, the Lord & Master does not see my runny nose and post-Nyquil wooziness as an impediment to his own carnal pleasures. Especially with Hot Pants arriving by the weekend, he requested, ever so gallantly, that I fulfill my marital obligations. So I did. Never mind that I had a tissue wadded up my right nostril. I did what had to be done.

I am Woman, hear me sneeze.

It’s a Gas – or – The Up Side of Anger

All my nerves are in my stomach, and lately that’s meant heaps o’ heartburn. My own little world putters along dreamily, but suddenly there’s a cluster of female friends weathering tough times in their marriages. And I do feel their pain. Smack in the middle of my chest. I’m popping generic Phasyme like their TicTacs. It’s hard to believe one female body can hold – and let go of – so much gas. I’m sure the Lord & Master and his nose are grateful to be sleeping on the lower level.

So there I am, rolling around in my bed worrying, when I should be mid-nightmare. I cannot get through a decent night’s sleep when those I love are in pain. I lie in bed catching the various digital combos roll by. (Yes, lie in bed, people. One of my chief grammatical pet peeves is the misuse of “lay” for “lie.” One lies in bed. One lays a suitcase upon the bed. Make sure you have an object to lay and you’ll be okay! That’s my grammar lesson for today. And it rhymes. But I digress.) Among spotting 12:34 morph into 2:22 then 3:45, whisking the dog out for a multliple pees by the light of the silvery moon, and the shock of sunrise hitting my eyeballs at dawn, I’m a wreck in the daytime.

One of my divorcing girlfriends just discovered her spouse had been receiving trust fund buckaroos for years without her knowledge. Nice. What’s hers is his; what’s his is his. Steam shot out of my ears when she told me. “You gotta let it go, Wiggles,” she cooed. What is wrong with this picture? Where’s her anger? I think anger gets a bad rap.

I, for one, am mad as hell, and I don’t want anyone to take it anymore. Or is that just sheer exhaustion talking?

Queen of the May

With the recent passing of May Day, my thoughts turn to Nicky Fedora* [*not his real name. Jeanne has requested the we protect the privacy of a boy with whom she attended elementary school.] You see, Mr. Fedora was the very first boy to kiss our mother. “He gave me a big smacker,” Jeanne reported to her wide-eyed children.

Apparently, back in ye olden days, the first of May was a time of juvenile merriment and budding passion. Grade school swains ran around stealing smooches while reveling in the springtime. Our Jeanne, as a ravishing fifth grader, caught little Nicky’s eye. As I do every year on this date, I called to ask her if she’s thinking of her long ago Romeo. “Of, please,” she brusquely harrumphed, “I don’t think about Nicky Fedora ever. I can’t believe you ask about him.” Methinks the Lady doth protest too much.

Then again, by the time she was an alrmingly mature fifteen, Jeanne was busy batting her big brown eyes at her 22 year old paramour, Bob. Wow. She must have been one hot number. Still in high school, already landing a Harvard College graduate. He’s lucky he didn’t get arrested before he made an honest woman out of her.

The first time Jeanne invited Bob for dinner, he queried, “Don’t you need to tell your mother I’m coming over?” to which she shot back, “Oh, I already told her.” Not shy. Not insecure. Only underage. (At least I know from whence my hussy side springs.)

Apparently our grandparents, did not mind in the least that their socially precocious offspring was throwing herself at an older man. In their generation, if a guy was Jewish and didn’t have a criminal record, he was a suitable marriage candidate. That’s all it took. Nana Julia and Grandpa Haskell were, in Jeanne’s words, “the only Jewish parents unwilling to spring for their children’s college educations,” so Bob came along just in time to scoot Jeanne out of their household.

Over in Bob’s family, you not only had to go to college, you had to go to Harvard. And then spend the rest of your life talking about the fact that you went there. Ha!, his lofty academic pedigree was wasted on Jeanne’s folks.

Happy May Day, Nicky Fedora, wherever you are. You should have held onto Jeannie when you had her.