Featured Image -- 2425

They Left the Suds in the Bucket and the Clothes Hangin Out on the Line #40

Originally posted on SAY GOODNIGHT GRACIE:

Funny how real life so often imitates a really good country song. Crazy people and Eastern North Carolina go together like a duck on a June bug, like cheese on a cracker, like a spray tan on Snooki. It’s a land where teeth, literacy, AND common sense are optional. After fourteen years, I am about to conclude that the folks around here who clean houses are MORE than a few bricks shy a load. For the past fifteen months, every second Friday, a swarm of ants arrived at my house armed with vacuums, mops, brooms, and all manner of their favorite cleaning products. 30-45 minutes later these industrious little ants leave and presto, chango, I have a deliciously sparkling clean, lemony fresh home, making mama one happy little camper.
I have been delighted by the work they do, and on the rare occasion when they overlook something, I just…

View original 1,369 more words

horrible old man in leisure suit

Senior Senor Senile Dating #116

OMG. Children, get over this OH MY GOD crap; in my world it means OLD…MOSTLY GONE. This acronym totally describes my dating life since I moved to Paradise, Somewhere In This World. Why has it not occurred to me to share all this fun & frolic with you in the past three months? What a selfish chica I must be. Never mind, move over, we gotta have some coffee talk.

Oy, gefilte fish, where to begin? First, dear female readers, those of you who dread turning 30? Oh baby, the best is still ahead. The 30’s are when your superpowers are red hot and you are gorgeous and too fab NOT to be worshipped and adored. Problem is, at 62 I don’t feel any different than I did in my 30’s, when I could have fueled a nuclear power plant single handedly. The only time I realize I am no longer that person is when I have that dreaded daily encounter with the mirror, otherwise, exactly the same. Seriously girls, this should be heartening news indeed!

That being said, it should be clear that the desire for dating and letting the colts out of the stall from time to time (or possibly even 3 times a day!) is still quite intact, which has resulted in some howlers regarding senior dating. Allow me to ruminate. In the interest of full disclosure I must tell you that these encounters all result from on-line dating (yeah, yeah, I know, but I am now poor and have nothing left to steal!), or are acquaintances of my hippie friend Mentah, who is determined to dance at my wedding, one which she and only she will arrange. The day we met she told me, “You will not be out there long; somebody is going to snap you up in a nano-second. You are so vibrant and full of life. I have dozens of guys I want to fix you up with.” Hysterically, here are my results to date.

All names have been altered to protect the perpetually stupid, the droolers, and the socially autistic. Just saying.

First there was Rich, who said he was 66, but was at least ten years older. (Insider secret: they all lie by 2″ and 8-10 years). Met him on July 4, hold the fireworks. He looked like a sad Bassett hound, minus the soft floppy ears. At the end of our date he said, “If we went out again, I’d be dead within a month! You are too vibrant, vivacious, and energized for me”. Translation: you’d want sex 3 times a day and my Viagra RX doesn’t extend out that far. NEXT

Then there was Chuck. Cute as a button, rocking bod, dumber than a brick. It took me 20 minutes to guide him 2 miles to our meeting location, despite his possessing a GPS, which he couldn’t seem to operate. Within 10 minutes, he was seeking advice from ME about how to fix three major problems in his life. Don’t date guys whose chandelier is short multiple bulbs. NEXT

Then there was super wealthy Ed, who arrived wearing a pink and white gingham shirt and looking so much older than his photos I totally ignored him for 15 minutes, fully thinking he was a pleasant elderly grandpa waiting to meet his little family for lunch. Three hours of listening to his accounting of every possession he owned and exactly how much it cost, followed up by an after-dinner drink of  how all women are gold diggers, yech. I think he should be dating Price Waterhouse and Cooper instead of mere mortal women. NEXT

And then there was one of Mentah’s specials, The Giraffe. I know this statement goes against the grain of most females on the planet, but I don’t favor tall men, despite having been married to two of them. Give me 5’10” and mirroring my size. Keep the beefeaters with the tree-trunk legs and wrists at bay please. Also the super hirsute gorilla boys; yech. So my darling friend Mentah tells me Giraffe Boy is 6’4″. I protest; that’s waay too tall. “No, really, he’s lovely. Give him a chance; you’ll see!” She is quite persuasive, so off I go.  Sitting with him at the bar I realize this could possibly be the shyest man I’ve ever had the misfortune to meet. He can’t look directly at me for the first hour. Looks like Clint Eastwood 15 years ago and then he announces that he can only be involved with women who do not work as he leaves the island every January-February, due to the tourist overwash. A requirement for any girlfriend  of his was that she not be employed. Well Mentah, since my existence on Planet Earth requires 2 jobs, this match makes perfect sense, in an alternate universe. As we were leaving the restaurant I realized my shoulder came up to his belt, probably making him more like 6’6″. He thought we were a match made in heaven; I promptly went home and blocked his number. NEXT

My next one is so super special, he can’t fit in a synopsis; he deserves a blog of his very own. Look for “Dr. Prepper” coming next!

I really do place the blame for all these dating difficulties on my ex-boyfriend. It’s extremely challenging to stomach anyone age appropriate when you have spent two years with a younger man who has the body of a 35-year-old. While being a cougar certainly had its purrfect moments, I am now suffering the repercussions. Perhaps a voodoo curse should be placed on his head? NEXT

Oh ladies, so many horrible dates, so little blog space…to be continued

Feature image courtesy of http://www.teamjimmyjoe.com

dead cupid

Cupid and The Cadaver #115

“Why, oh why do I have all these spots on my face Mama?”, I used to wail when I was little. With a gentle smile my mom always assured me that “Each freckle is where an angel kissed you goodbye before you came back down here to Earth”. I’m pretty sure one of those angels must have peeked at my birth chart and said “We better give this one a super heaping helping of humor, because she’s surely going to need it!” I certainly needed it last night, when Cupid played a little practical joke on me.

Had a blind date with a Cuban writer/newspaper publisher. Great photos and my girlfriends all agreed that he was super hot, not the usual Crypt Keepers I’ve been going out with. He’d chosen a beautiful venue right on the beach at sunset and since I have a strong leaning to bronze Latin types with dark hair and eyes, things were looking quite promising indeed. I’ll never forget the first time I was in a movie theatre and saw “The Godfather”. I decided right then and there it was time to haul my Texas self off to NY and claim one of those lovely Italian boys for my very own. The pink-skinned, blond, blue-eyed farm boys of Texas just weren’t ringing my bell.

Moi…serenely sipping a chilled Chardonnay, relishing the dramatic sunset laid out before me, and awaiting the arrival of Mr. Tall, Dark, and oh so Handsome. I couldn’t help but notice black and roiling storm clouds gathering in the distance. In retrospect I think this was a message from my BFF Mother Nature giving me a clue about where this evening was headed. And suddenly, just like that, there he was…Tall, Dark, and oh so Handsome’s……grandpa. And while there was more than a passing resemblance to the photos I’d seen, THIS was clearly not THAT!  His photos were labeled April; yes, but of what year? 1994? To top it off on this lovely tropical evening, he was wearing layers, just in case that zany thermometer should dip down to 77 degrees and he might need the extra layer to keep his dentures from chattering.

And that was the high point of the evening. For the next three hours he pontificated about small town politics and his ten cats, which caused me to inhale the aroma of Chanel Feline No 5 throughout dinner. He only furtively glanced at me perhaps a dozen times and instead kept his eyes steadfastly cast down on the salt and pepper shakers the entire night. I desperately wanted to grab him by the chin and scream, “Hey buddy, eyes to the right 10″ and 18″ to the north”. The last time someone so steadfastly refused to look at me during conversation was when my son would tell me a huge whopper about his shenanigans.

Finally my inner gremlin took control and I placed by hand on his arm and solemnly asked him if he ever had any fun. To which he soberly replied, “No, I don’t ever have fun. Well, I do enjoy breakfast with the old men in town, and traveling to train shows where I yell at everybody. And Friday nights are good, when I put the paper to bed”! It was about that time when something from high above me in the restaurant caught my eye, a brief movement. Peering closer, high up in the rafters, there sat Cupid, holding his chubby little sides and rolling with laughter. He thought pairing party-loving, concert-going, dancing, laughing me with this dour loner was hysterical. That vertically challenged, half-naked, hefty little angel should remember that payback is a bitch and Mama has a very long memory and a deadly aim.

By this time there was a violent lightening storm pounding rain sideways, completely befitting my mood. If you want to slow the passage of time, please let me give you this gentleman’s contact info. He can make three hours feel like three days. I think having a moldly priest read me actuarial tables in Russian would have made for a more exciting evening.

I greatly amused myself on the soggy drive home by imagining describing the evening to my girls. Here goes. Imagine you are deep in the bowels of the NYC subway system and you absolutely HAVE to use the facilities. Flat out…there is no other option here. You reluctantly sidle in and see a dozen large dead cockroaches turned on their backs from their death by pesticide. They have been urinated on by many of NY’s finest homeless and disenfranchised in the two weeks that their festering corpses have been lying there. Then, imagine someone comes along and forces you at gunpoint to eat them.

Yep, best date ever!

Featured image courtesy of pathumpunchihewa.BlogSpot.com


This Caveman is Paleo Perfect #114

Oh ladies where do I begin? Finally a man who doesn’t lie or deceive you. True to their word. No half truths or bullshit. One who lives up to his hype. It’s true! And because Texas women are not by nature hoarders of anything they stumble upon that is this delicious, I am going to share him with you, ALL of you. Yer welcome! Once you’ve played around with this one for only a few days, you will be dancing with delight, and wondering how you ever lived without him, so please don’t leave me off your Christmas card list.

Where did I stumble upon such a treasure? Match.con? POF? Mais Non. At my local library. Can you believe it? It beats trolling around the frozen food aisles of your local supermarket looking for starving widowers, while freezing your ass off.

ARE YOU READY? I discovered a Caveman and he has given me a new lease on life, in the form of the Paleo diet. I’d heard of this previously, but assumed it would be as much of a struggle as all the others I have briefly slow danced with in the past five years. Let’s see…there was Weight Watchers, which DID work until I realized I really didn’t want to poison my body with processed fake food that came in boxes labeled Smart Ones. Atkins, of course, but does anyone really feel good about eschewing fruits and veggies? Barry Sears had The Zone, but I spent so much time doing the math and ratios that I had no time left to actually eat any food. Michael and Mary Eades were slightly better with their Protein Power, but still, existing on 35 grams of carbs a day takes balls of steel and just couldn’t be sustained by me for long.

Like so many of us on the wrong side of 50, I shrugged my shoulders and surrendered to Chunky Monkey status and size 12 for the duration. Then, at my library…EPIPHANY! Loren Cordain’s Paleo Diet book came rushing headlong into my arms, we kissed and vowed to never part. The rest is history.

I’ve lost, effortlessly, 20 lbs. since July and fully expect to reach my old modeling weight by Thanksgiving or Christmas. Lumps, bumps, and bulges simply melt away. This could make SPANX an historic artifact. Even better than seeing the weight melt off is the incredible energy you have when you remove pasta, bread, sugar, starchy veggies, and dairy from your diet. What the devil is left to eat, you may be wondering. Protein, always and lots, then fruits and non-starchy veggies. I am discovering, here in Paradise, fruits I never knew existed. Dragon fruit, star fruit, jackfruit….

Since childhood I have had blood sugar issues, needing to eat every four hours or risk fainting. When you are busy working, those little snack interruptions can be a pain in the tukus. By the fourth day of eating Paleo, I have not wanted or needed a snack, ever, AT ALL. Some days I have to force myself to eat three meals. I no longer wake up and have to eat something within 30 minutes or risk turning into Linda Blair. Now I roll out of bed, walk 4-6 miles, go to yoga class, then weight training, all without even thinking of food. This is liberation. Another crazy side benefit…hadn’t slept properly through the night in several years. Within a few days of eating this way I began to fall into a deep sleep, and stay there until the alarm goes off. No more insomnia, tossing, turning, and fretting about how sleep deprived you will feel tomorrow.

My favorite part, after the incredible results, is the fact that you can access all the information to do this without spending a dime. It’s all online and at your library. No NutriSystem or Jenny Craig boxed crap to purchase, no cattle-call weekly weigh-ins at Weight Watchers. No more feeling like a lowly worm because you feel dreadful  in every garment in your closet.

It isn’t difficult either, trust me. My ex-boyfriend was always trying to fool me with cauliflower mashed “potatoes”, but I wasn’t playing well with others. I thought I would expire if I couldn’t have my beautiful Yukon Gold potatoes, scrumptious pastas, and bread, heavenly warm bread just out of the oven, lovingly dripping with yummy butter. But once you have been through the first week and see the results with your own eyes, those tantalizing items lose their allure, quickly. I have learned to embrace spaghetti squash and “riced” cauliflower is a perfectly acceptable substitute for rice or couscous.

Because I don’t have the discipline of either Gandhi or a Himalayan monk, I opt for the 85/15 rule. I adhere strictly to the Paleo plan 85% of the time, and three meals per week I eat whatever I want. I make sure it is something I’ve been pining for all week and indulge. I think this weekend it might be bagels and lox, possibly also risotto Milanese. This keeps you from feeling deprived and is a terrific reward for your week of discipline.

A totally unexpected reward has been…men; they are coming out of the woodwork! Don’t think they would be chasing me as ardently in my size 12’s. I have vowed to remain faithful to my one true love, however. Who could turn their back on a Caveman who has given me my body back?

Featured Image -- 2372

Yo Mom! You’re Gonna Be a Grandma! #99

Renee Moore:

Reposting some of your favorites while this site is undergoing a make over

Originally posted on SAY GOODNIGHT GRACIE:

Monday morning. 8AM. Home phone rings. Caller ID shows it is Number One son, Paco. Dread stabs heart. It must be state troopers calling to say they have just discovered his rolled-over Mitsubishi in a ditch. They are calling from the cell phone deceased son was clutching in his hand, desperate to reach 911 (or his beloved Mom) in his last moments.

Second possibility. Son is calling to find out where his weekly allowance is. Naw, it’s waaaay too early for that; he wouldn’t be up for another three hours at least. Mystified, my hand slowly and reluctantly reaches for the receiver.

“Hey, Mom, how’s your day going so far?” Oh crap, there is way too much cheer in that voice for the early hour.

Wary. “OK so far, but what’s up?” Both elbows braced on the kitchen countertop. The better to keep me from tumbling to the floor when…

View original 642 more words

Featured Image -- 2369

Tom Mollies #97

Originally posted on SAY GOODNIGHT GRACIE:

Little kids misconstrue grown up words in the most curious ways.

When I was five or six, my Mom and her neighbors would toss all of us kids in the back of the station wagon and head to the drive-in theatre for $1 per car movie night. We were instructed to go to sleep under a blanket and be quiet while the mommies enjoyed their film. Of course, Nosey Parker had to peek over the seat from time to time. One night the scene on the huge screen depicted (or rather implied, it was the 1950’s after all) a woman being raped. Several Mexican gardeners stood around helplessly, one of whom was holding a yard rake. In my child’s brain, the words rape and rake were inexplicably interwoven. It wasn’t until I was eighteen that I realized rape rarely involved landscaping tools of any sort. For years I refused to help my parents do yard work…

View original 772 more words



You know those big red FRAGILE stickers that you slap on boxes? Well, I’m fairly sure when I was born I had a big one slapped on my behind that screamed “MELODRAMA”. I’m guessing there must have been witches, warlocks, and Moldovian gremlins in that delivery room as well, because apparently nothing quiet and simple can occur in my life, unattended by mayhem and much drama. Case in point.

Landed a fabulous new job five weeks ago, something of a challenge when you live in the tropics. This was the last cog in the wheel of my brand spanking new life, and it was perfect. Managing four practices for a plastic surgeon and his dentist wife. Piece of cake. Work a few more years, retire, enjoy my palm trees, tropical breezes, and my egrets. Loved my new coworkers, commute was a delight, except for one office which was an eighty mile drive. First ten days, easy breezy. On Friday August 1, one of our female managers announced her grandpa in NY had passed and she would be absent from work through the following Thursday. I swallowed hard and prepared to step in while she was out. The following Monday morning I came in to the announcement that my doctor, the plastic surgeon, had a family emergency in NY and we would have to reschedule all his patients to the following week. Those Mensa members out there might already have caught on to my wee tale, alas, I did not yet connect the dots.

Wealthy socialite ladies who have booked their facial “freshening” procedures in the Caribbean, so that they can recover far from the prying eyes of neighbors and friends, did not take too kindly to the news of my doctor’s absence. I remember being called names that would have made my mama blush and a virgin become pregnant. So, you can only imagine the extreme joy we felt when we were informed the following week that our doctor’s crisis in NY was extending and that we must reschedule these already pissed off females yet again. Fast forward to week three and it was deja vu all over again.

The dentist wife had now become a constant presence in all four offices and was micromanaging like Satan on coke. The girl was angry and amped up and looking for trouble. After assuring us that our doctor would definitely be back practicing after Labor Day (they don’t even have this holiday here!), we were told that the little missus was flying to NY to check things out for herself. Quick trip, that. Sunday, the five of us who were the most recent hires, received phone calls telling us that our doctor would be in NY indefinitely and therefore, we were being “liberated” from our duties effective immediately. You really have to love the Brits. “Liberated” from duty? Like this was a favor, like parole from prison?

Listen, I am a major fan of shagging and all that implies, but heavens to Betsy, this couple had just had twins two months earlier. You seriously have to give up a thriving practice to run off with the native island girl who manages your office? Note to the good doctor, after two years, that pussy is not going to look or feel much different than your poor wife’s. What the hell gets into these men? Somehow I don’t sense a happy ending to this story.

Sex has been my undoing many times over in my life, but, despite having been undone, unhinged, and thoroughly discombobulated by it on numerous occasions, I’m quite certain this is the first time I’ve ever found myself “liberated” because of it.