And I doubt there was any "oops" (thanks Britney) about it. My husband has been out of town all week, as we were hit with a total of 19 inches of new snow. He's not just away but in LA (and San Diego) where it's been 80 degrees. He sends pictures of the beach and the Santa Monica pier; I return photos of snow tunnels and snow-boarded doors. His joints are loose and limber. I can barely stand up straight from the shoveling.
I will hold it against him (new Britney title "Don't Hold it Against Me"http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GJSm_QMO6zA). Please don't hit me one more time (old Britney title "Hit Me Baby One More TIme http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C-u5WLJ9Yk4) with any new snow.
Who knew Britney Spears could be so inspiring?
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Did I really say that?
"When are you going to die so I can start sleeping around," I blurted out to my husband recently in the context of our estate planning discussions. I don't want him gone, really I don't, but I want to know when it's going to be. So I can be prepared.
Apparently, it's not enough for me to plan the financial future. I need to plan my future sex life. And as I reassured my husband, there's nothing wrong with ours. The only thing possibly missing is, by definition, the excitement of a new relationship. But that has been replaced by the comfort of an old one. Not an old shoe, but my favorite shoe.
This is about something different. It's the ability to treat sex purely as sex. Not as the prelude to a relationship or possibly marriage. Pregnancy is unlikely. Disease still has to be addressed. But, reputation doesn't matter. Nor does the "number."
You know what number . . . the sex partner count. Just recently, one of my friends was tallying her pre-marriage men and still is somewhat mortified. And her data is a quarter-century old.
Does anybody really care what an old widow does? I'm not talking about the 30 year old hot neighbor who shovels snow in a bikini. I'm picturing a middle-aged mother, possibly with grown children, making a new life for herself. At that age, most women are invisible anyway (a subject for another post). Others are involved in their own lives. There's no longer a scorekeeper at the game. And that sounds like fun. And freedom.
Apparently, it's not enough for me to plan the financial future. I need to plan my future sex life. And as I reassured my husband, there's nothing wrong with ours. The only thing possibly missing is, by definition, the excitement of a new relationship. But that has been replaced by the comfort of an old one. Not an old shoe, but my favorite shoe.
This is about something different. It's the ability to treat sex purely as sex. Not as the prelude to a relationship or possibly marriage. Pregnancy is unlikely. Disease still has to be addressed. But, reputation doesn't matter. Nor does the "number."
You know what number . . . the sex partner count. Just recently, one of my friends was tallying her pre-marriage men and still is somewhat mortified. And her data is a quarter-century old.
Does anybody really care what an old widow does? I'm not talking about the 30 year old hot neighbor who shovels snow in a bikini. I'm picturing a middle-aged mother, possibly with grown children, making a new life for herself. At that age, most women are invisible anyway (a subject for another post). Others are involved in their own lives. There's no longer a scorekeeper at the game. And that sounds like fun. And freedom.
Monday, January 24, 2011
A Knock-Knock Non-Joke
Who's there? The child you gave up for adoption 45 years ago . . . That's the big Oprah secret I'm secretly watching now: a long-lost half sister born to Oprah's mother. This woman spent years looking for her birth mother, only to be rejected again and again, before ultimately putting together the story. Touching, wonderful for them and so on . . .
But, it takes me back to my teenage beliefs and the case against secretly giving a child up for adoption, as teenage girls were often urged to do. Simply, it's never really a secret. First, you always know you have a child in the world. And then, you live in fear (or hope) for that ringing doorbell. Assuming, the pregnancy was unintended and unwanted (and even accidental against all odds), you never escape.
Oprah talked about this, although in different terms, with respect to her mother: that she never got over the shame of giving up her child and that that is why she didn't initially want a reunion. Oprah went so far as to even thank her deceased sister for revealing to the rags that a young Oprah had given birth to a child who died, because it freed her from the indignity.
More interesting though is what was not said (at least not during my viewing time): not a word about the father. No one seemed to be looking for the father. In other words, daddy gets off scot-free while the woman suffers a life-sentence.
Thoughts?
But, it takes me back to my teenage beliefs and the case against secretly giving a child up for adoption, as teenage girls were often urged to do. Simply, it's never really a secret. First, you always know you have a child in the world. And then, you live in fear (or hope) for that ringing doorbell. Assuming, the pregnancy was unintended and unwanted (and even accidental against all odds), you never escape.
Oprah talked about this, although in different terms, with respect to her mother: that she never got over the shame of giving up her child and that that is why she didn't initially want a reunion. Oprah went so far as to even thank her deceased sister for revealing to the rags that a young Oprah had given birth to a child who died, because it freed her from the indignity.
More interesting though is what was not said (at least not during my viewing time): not a word about the father. No one seemed to be looking for the father. In other words, daddy gets off scot-free while the woman suffers a life-sentence.
Thoughts?
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Sample Me
Perusing the aisles at Costco, and checking out the day's samples, I was reminded of a year-old incident: During a cheesecake sampling at Costco, a man started to "chat me up." When I mentioned my husband and children, he got annoyed: "You're supposed to wear a ring," he barked. A wedding band I presume.
Today, a young guy asked me to sample his nuts. . . cashews, all kinds of flavors. He promised to serve me himself.
I declined. I didn't want to take any chances.
Today, a young guy asked me to sample his nuts. . . cashews, all kinds of flavors. He promised to serve me himself.
I declined. I didn't want to take any chances.
Bio Pun
My ninth grader made some off-color remark about his biology class. I recounted my high school bio teacher asking "does any one know how to make a hormone (aka whore moan)?"
My kid: are they allowed to say that?
Probably not. But, I do still remember all these years later.
My kid: are they allowed to say that?
Probably not. But, I do still remember all these years later.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Ice (R)Age and Rant
This ice storm has put me over the edge. As if the mounds of snow and ice already covering my little plot were not enough, now I must contend with an additional frozen crust atop water and slush. The cars are iced over. The ice/snow/slush is heavy and hard to move aka shovel. And yes, I, the lone woman in a household of men/boys, was left to do the heavy lifting. In the frozen rain. Again.
For the past year, I've been pushing for a move to LAla land, even though I don't exactly fit the demographic. But, I need a warmer clime and different lifestyle. I long to be the crazy old lady running errands year-round on a pink bicycle.
With this storm, though, a return to apartment dwelling is increasingly attractive. Winter house maintenance is the pits: shoveling, salting, chopping, chipping, ice damming, ice floing, icicling, dripping, slipping . . . and so on. My home is my first experience in house-life and although I've been here 17 years, I fear I'll never adjust. It gets harder not easier. I don't want to do it anymore. (look at the picture I found; how perfect).
For the past year, I've been pushing for a move to LAla land, even though I don't exactly fit the demographic. But, I need a warmer clime and different lifestyle. I long to be the crazy old lady running errands year-round on a pink bicycle.
With this storm, though, a return to apartment dwelling is increasingly attractive. Winter house maintenance is the pits: shoveling, salting, chopping, chipping, ice damming, ice floing, icicling, dripping, slipping . . . and so on. My home is my first experience in house-life and although I've been here 17 years, I fear I'll never adjust. It gets harder not easier. I don't want to do it anymore. (look at the picture I found; how perfect).
Monday, January 17, 2011
Commercial Crazy
Does anyone else actually listen to the words in ads? One really caught my attention last night: Take Abilify with an antidepressant to relieve symptoms of depression. Say what? In order for this drug to work, you need an antidepressant. What then does Abilify do? Imagine frozen orange juice concentrate directing that you defrost and add orange juice.
Who writes this stuff?
Who writes this stuff?
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