be a stripper

Poor Mr. Adorable; once again I plan on laying the blame for my extreme blondness directly at his feet. You would think that after fourteen months of dating, the helium might be escaping his balloon, but no. He just gets more adorable, funnier, and downright intriguing as time passes, which keeps me in a perpetual state of dizzy blondness. I can’t think straight, wear mismatched shoes, and leave my flat with half my unruly hair straightened and the remainder looking like an electrocuted puddy cat. Or maybe I should blame this morning’s misadventure on Cam Newton? So many men, so much blame to mete out.

After previously residing in North Carolina for 17 years, it was necessary for my survival to become a Carolina Panthers fan. Then Cam’s brashness, swagger, and ridiculous talent hit my radar screen like a lovebug on a bumper. I was one hooked fan and saw a glimpse of heaven when my beloved boys were headed to Santa Clara. All those years of loyalty were about to pay off…not. By halftime I was in shocked disbelief and by the end of the 3rd quarter I was bereft. Bed and vats of cabernet would be my consolation prizes.

Waking at 5am to Mr. Adorable’s alarm, I decided to shoulder on and not exercise my Kervorkian cola option, though suicide certainly seemed like a reasonable reaction to my disappointment. Instead, I took my red, swollen-eyed self down to my dark, underground parking garage to head to my perfect part-time job as a church secretary (I know, I know, insert uproarious laughter here, but I love it!) and knew I was screwed the moment I pressed the remote to unlock my car. I clearly remembered arriving home in the rain on Saturday, completely distracted by my date that night, what I would wear, the art festival we were attending on Sunday and where we might have lunch. This handsome man scrambles my brain like potato chips in a juke box. Exiting my tiny car in the very dark garage, I turned on my interior light to make sure I had collected all my stuff and completely forgot to turn it back off. All I could think was that at least I had purchased jumper cables last year when this fate first befell me and Mr. Adorable on a dark and deserted beach. But, they were in my car, which I now couldn’t unlock. Aapis Crappis.

I decided to try my resort’s doorman prior to calling AAA, as today was, OF COURSE, the very day that a brand new pastor was starting at our church. Awesome first impression to be two hours late for the new minister dude. Oscar, our doorman, very sweetly inquired if I remembered that in the days prior to technology we actually inserted a metal key into one’s door lock to gain entrance. A jump box was located and soon my day proceeded, but not before 3 building employees gathered guffawing around my vehicle and had to hear the story of how I had not only left my light on for 36 hours, but had apparently forgotten the concept of locks and keys, as well. Surely the world needs more smart-mouth doormen possessing advanced college degrees?

For all you young sprockets who firmly believe life is over at 50, I can assure you there are many more important numbers that truly matter. Having, in your 60’s, the amped up hormones of a 14-year-old, the possible dementia of a 90-year-old, and the will and desire to live until you’re 85 simply because you are having such an amazing life!





elaine dancing

Ahh, those blissful dreams where you are on your fourth job interview and you look down and realize you are stark naked? And the times you simply could not stop snorting with laughter during a loved one’s memorial service? And the teenage dates where your impossibly pimply new boyfriend is perched uncomfortably on the edge of your couch, while your hidden Boston Terrier lets rip a silent but deathly from her invisible hidey hole under your Mom’s couch?

Trust me…none of those compare with the night I was summoned to the front of my second ballroom dance class and handed back a refund in full. Josephina, the autocratic Austrian dance instructor, sniffed disdainfully as she informed me, “My dear, please do us both a favor and never, EVER, under any circumstances consider that dance has any meaningful place in your life. Not only should you never darken the door of this studio again, I implore you to please never inflict yourself upon any other dance teacher, EVER. I’m sure you must have several things you do well, but trust me, dear, THE DANCE and YOU were never destined to be friends in this lifetime.” I briefly pondered whether Arthur Murray Dance Studios were covered by this lifetime prohibition.

Chastened and mortified, I slunk out of that crowded room wondering how my Fred and Ginger fantasies could take such a wicked downturn. Sure, it was true I had stepped on many feet during those two lessons, and of course, I went left instead of right at least 80% of the time, and even excluding that awkward incident where I stumbled over that sweet elderly couple and took them straight down onto the hardwood floor…jeez people! Isn’t that why it’s called a CLASS? Instruction? If you already know how to do it all beautifully, why would I need to shell out $300 for lessons?

I started dancing when I was thirteen, in the 1960’s. No one needed to touch anyone when you were jerking, twisting, locomoting, and hanky pankying to Twist and Shout, Runaround Sue, Brown Eyed Girl, and Mustang Sally. In the event that you did slow dance with a boy, no skill was required; simply clutch each other tight and pretend you were sharing a full-body condom, then lightly shuffle feet. Perfection guaranteed, and as a bonus gift, often a baby nine months later!

For over forty years I have managed to not quite kill anyone on a dance floor, whilst still able to keep my hip rhythm nicely intact, thank you very much. I assure you not a single husband or boyfriend has withered from mortification at my performance on the dance floor. Not until my arrival in Paradise anyway.

These zany bastards actually want to touch you when they dance. Yep, and not only that, they want to twirl, spin, and dip you, all to some foreign roadmap I have never been exposed to. Was I absent from school the week they taught this stuff in eighth grade? Maybe it happened the year I went to school in a quonset hut in Bad Hersfeld Germany while my Dad was in the Army? Because every other woman in Paradise knows about this secret dance situation…except me.

I am utterly perplexed by how they know, seemingly intuitively, when to go right or left and when the dude is preparing to twirl them around. I go to many dances and keep my CIA-trained eyes latched onto these women, searching, longing to know their secret.

I truly believe it must occur when the Mothership spirits them away for their nocturnal adventures. I realize that when Whitley Strieber wrote in his NY Times best seller “Communion” about the anal probings he was subjected to…he was really referring to The Dance, Boss, The Dance.

So, Mr. Adorable, here’s my deal. If you expect me to dance like a real girl at disco night tomorrow, I suggest you get me an express ticket on the Mothership tonight, because I now understand what is really happening on these alien invasions.

Featured image courtesy of NY

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angelstarzOne year ago, amongst the embers of a dying relationship, I first began to hear you.

You began as intuition, inner nudges that were nonsensical at the time, but, mystical creature that I am, I listened and decided to fine tune that radio dial…the better to hear you.

“Leave  him, leave there. Too much is missing. You are compromising so many of your wishes and desires to fit into his life. Leave him. And while you’re leaving him…leave big; come closer to me. Let go of your safety net. Leave it all…your job, your home, your friends, your only child. Come closer to me and I will be your home.”

So, defying all common sense and logic (a skill I excel at), I channeled my inner 1960’s hippie, sold almost all my possessions and moved to an alien place where I had no job and knew no one. Prior to this relocation I knew I was a pretty tough cookie, but that single action took a breathtaking and daring leap of faith that had my heart pounding and me doubting my sanity. Because, while I heard your beckoning, I did not yet know you or how I would recognize you when I stumbled upon you.

Upon arrival I realized it would be up to me to tune in closely and listen more intently in order to find this mysterious whisperer in this foreign place. This led to all those hilarious but utterly pointless encounters with Senior Senile Senor dating. I persevered because the clarity of my vision of you was more clearly drawn with every flip of the calendar page.

I could feel the strength of your character, the extreme goodness and kindness of your soul. Trust, truth, and gentleness emanated like a beacon from all around you. I reveled in anticipation of the towering strength I felt from you and your ability to walk through your own personal hell and ultimately emerge, smiling and intact, at the far end of that tunnel. Yet, where were you? Who were you? Impatient, I kept demanding a sign from my deceased mom, fearful of just narrowly missing you.

The night you opened the door to your house to welcome me and my friends in, the sense of recognition was palpable and overwhelming. I was home. Oh, and that sign I asked for from my mom? How about having the same name and initials as my dad?

One of Cupid’s wee ironies was having us almost side by side at the same event for seven long months, both completely oblivious to one another.

I’ll never know for certain if my finding you was the result of whispers from a loving and benevolent Universe or because I spent so many hours visualizing exactly what I desired that caused you to materialize. I do know that for years I have chased after the feeling behind that mischievous grin that my parents always had in every single photo…a look of pure glee that they had defied the odds and found one another. They weren’t just fortunate to have found each other, they were also smart enough to understand and pay respect and homage to the amazing love they were gifted with.

Sooo, Mr. Adorable, I can’t wait to ride this wave with you, to see where it will lead. One thing that is certain…we will both honor the journey and laugh our butts off to the end of the highway.

The next time you hear that little voice inside your head urging you to do something totally outside your wheel house, give it a second listen. The Universe might just be trying to offer you a delicious gift.

Feature image courtesy of



trust monkeyWhen I moved to Paradise, Somewhere In This World, last spring, I stumbled upon a genie in a bottle in my new home. Three wishes, he assured me, were so outre, so yesterday. Modern times required that the wish list be condensed into one bold desire…only one. So I wished for a wonderful mate, a man so special and unique I knew he could not exist on this earth plane. I went so far as to draw up a detailed laundry list for this impossible man, one with more than two dozen requirements. I knew this extreme pickiness would insure that I would never find him and therefore never be forced to open myself up to yet another betrayal. Clever girl, I congratulated myself. No SOB is ever going to fool me again.

Smugly secure in the notion that my diligent genie couldn’t possibly fulfill my single wish, imagine my surprise when this very man opened the door to his home to me one night in early December. Just like that…karma… universal benevolence… finally my turn? The word gobsmacked flits through my consciousness.

Which leads me to wonder…did my visualization of my future and the surety of what I desired manifest this person? Was it the work of my loyal genie? Or is it simply his turn and my turn? Our time to be happy and secure in the knowingness that this time, finally, for both of us, there might be no betrayal, no misplaced trust? But then…HE appeared, my Trust Monkey, attempting to wreck it all.

Cynicism and mistrust never entered my vocabulary until November 2005, when my husband of 18 years committed suicide, leaving behind a trail of devastation and horror that took seven years to clean up. My son, who was twelve at the time, is only now, at age 21, starting to emerge from the epic nightmare that was his Dad’s suicide. We survived my husband’s mistress and his leaving us $90k in debt. I knew my trust was broken, and yet, when pure evil entered our lives in 2007, I willingly and guilelessly opened our home and bank accounts to Satan himself.

What followed was a stint in a battered women’s shelter and living in terror for over two years. Now, Satan has my inheritance and lives in my dream home. At least once a week I practice a fun visual exercise. I imagine The Monster, in his perpetual state of drunkenness, falling through the glass shower doors of my master bath  and bleeding out on the white tiles over the course of three days. No one gives a damn about him, so no one would check on him. What a lovely shiver of joy this image brings me!

Then there was The Gift Horse, who signed his endless love notes to me “From the Last Man You’ll Ever Love”. Only when we were safely broken up and I lived 16 hours away, did two friends come forward with a litany of lies and deception that he had told me. Guess my picker is not working too well; I will need to take it into the dealership for a tune up, no doubt.

I’ve searched high and low at my local library for a primer on how to learn to trust again, after three consecutive betrayals. It is so unfair to paint someone new with the brush used by past liars. I know this, yet that Trust Monkey continues to pop up, whispering incendiary and divisive little nothings in my ear.

These are the earliest days of a fledgling relationship, which are tricky enough to negotiate, without a meddling Trust Monkey determined to undermine us. Therefore I’ve decided that darn monkey must be polished off, once and for all. Haven’t landed on how exactly to go about it though. I have an extreme aversion to guns, so shooting him is out. Stabbing him to death would leave blood spatter all over my white leather furniture. I thought of locking him in my trunk and leaving him there to perish, until I remembered my vehicle doesn’t have a trunk. My Trust Monkey has some trust issues of his own and refuses to ingest anything prepared by my hand, so poisoning is not an option.

Then, lightening quick, the solution to my vexing problem appeared as I was reading through some of my past blogs. Jimmy Tightlips! He has mob connections and must know hit men. Now that my plan of extinction for my Trust Monkey is it place, I think Valentine’s Day lends itself perfectly to the deed.

Must sign off now. Have to pick out a black dress to wear to Trust Monkey’s funeral, then prepare for my Valentine’s date with Mr. Adorable. It will be a refreshing change of pace to be just the two of us, without that meddling monkey along for the ride.

Feature image courtesy of







dumb blondWith a BioSperminator named Padraig Ryan, hailing from Tipperary Ireland, one could safely assume I am as Irish and ginger-haired as can be. Until last night that is. But suddenly, after last evening’s EPIC FAILURE, I’m left to wonder if maybe the hospital mixed up its babies? I suspect my father might really be called Thor Gundersonn from Norway, if my extremely blond behavior yesterday is any indication.

As any of you reading between the lines might have guessed by now, my long-running comedy show of Crypt Keeper dating is currently on hold, due to the appearance in my world of one Mr. Adorable, who just so happens to be celebrating his 63rd birthday.

Birthdays and Christmas can be a slippery tightrope to traverse in a budding dating situation. What is too little? Too much? Too soon? Like Goldilocks, I wanted to get this just right. Times of sunset and tides were checked, 5-star reservations were made, and a venue was primed for late-night dancing. Dresses and heels were donned and hearts were pumping. First stop…a beautiful beach with an exquisitely timed sunset accompanied by iced champagne and chilled flutes. The lovely lap of gentle waves upon the shore didn’t quite complete my romantic vision of the PURRFECT evening, so I decided to throw a Cesaria Evora CD into my car’s player. Nothing like a little Portuguese song to weave its magic. After an hour or so, and nary a drop of champagne remaining, it was time to hop in my tiny car and head for dinner. We were both starved and hadn’t eaten in anticipation of this incredible dining experience.

Giggling like children and full of our lovely birthday adventure, I turned the key in the ignition and got….nada. Immediately, I remembered a hair appointment I’d had when my kid was twelve. He opted to wait in my car during the 2-hour ordeal while listening to heavy metal music, rather than risk the humiliation of being caught dead in a salon. I tore him a new hiney hole that day because I had to buy a new battery and wait in the North Carolina heat and humidity for AAA to arrive. Mama was not a happy camper that day and I remember asking him how he could be so goofy not to realize you can’t listen to music indefinitely without your vehicle running. Tonight’s dead battery was a long-delayed return of karma, but boy, did it bite me on the butt.

No problem, we’d just pull out the jumper cables and ask one of our fellow sunset worshipers to give us a boost. Oopsie, I forgot….I don’t have jumper cables. By now, it’s growing dark and the beach is becoming increasingly deserted. Mr. Adorable walked over to the one remaining car, owned by an auto mechanic, who sheepishly admitted that, much like the cobbler’s children, he also possessed no jumper cables. Still highly amused by this slight delay to our plans, I pulled out my phone to call a tow company, only to realize their phone number was at home in my wallet. The tiny purses I carry on date nights were meant to hold only a single mosquito, so I only bring my driver’s license, insurance and Amex cards. At this moment I also realized my phone battery was almost dead. I quickly called a friend who is staying with me, who called the tow and told us that someone would be there within one hour. Phoned the restaurant and moved our ressies from 7 to 8.

Two hours later, sitting in the blackest of dark nights, with nary a tow truck in site, I came to the cosmic understanding that champagne is only for rent; you can only hang onto it for just so long before it demands to be released into the wild. But God it was DARK and the thought of being devoured by a Burmese python whilst squatting on the ground to pee in my beautiful lace cocktail dress was not part of this birthday vision. Desperate to pee and squinting through the inky ebony night, I spied what looked to be a structure, a maintenance shed perhaps, just a short walk away. Any port in the storm was better than the jungle at this point, so off I went. The heavens parted when I drew open the door, as it was an honest to God restroom, complete with running water! Two minutes later I emerged with many mutterings of  “Thank You Jesus and your lovely mother Mary too” and headed back to the car. A tow driver had called us an hour earlier to determine our precise location on this deserted beach and we were heartened to hear he would be arriving momentarily. As I slid back into the driver’s seat and reached for the keys I remarked about how lucky my timing was with the bathroom, as the doors locked automatically at 9PM, and it was now one minute til. LUCKY ME! I reached for the car keys to reinsert them into the ignition, only to realize I’d thrown them on the diaper changing table in that restroom. Oh hell no! Secretariat never ran as fast as I  did, only to twist that door handle to find it…locked. Right about then, I was pondering this. If blondes had their own theme song, what would it be?

Mercy dictates that I spare you the rest of the gory delays and the LONG hours we sat waiting for rescue from this grueling evening, but the good news is that Mr. Adorable remained calm and affable throughout, which is a pretty good test of character, when faced with plummeting blood sugar levels and loss of that intricate Napa Valley wine you were counting on. Jumper cables have been purchased and stowed to avert future disasters, bar food was eaten at an extremely late hour, the birthday dinner was rescheduled, and yours truly escaped being a python’s dinner entrée.

All  in all, not a bad date, despite my incredible blondness. I did warn y’all that this boy is sooo appealing I am semi-comatose and non-functioning throughout most of my waking hours. This night was incontrovertible proof.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY JPS…if you’re still speaking to me!!

Feature image courtesy of


spongebobI am firmly convinced that all the wackadoodle things that tumble through my life exist for the sole purpose of providing me with blog fodder. What other explanation could there possibly be (cue the ghostly music)? Case in point….

When I headed to Texas, following the interlude of the Monster Madness, and fell headlong into the protective arms of my crazy ranching relatives, sure that this would be my final watering hole, I crossed paths with a gentleman who resembled a geometric building block more than a homo sapien. Turns out he was our family’s accountant. He stumbled through our kitchen a few times while doing some tax work for my uncle. Imagine a man, probably no more than 5’6″, weighing roughly 300 lbs., who was completely formed in the shape of a square. Now envision only about 14″ of this critter being legs. Think SpongeBob SquarePants on steroids. His beefeater arms hug to his hirsute knees, as did his capris. Suffice it to say that after a few sightings of SquarePants, you would never mistake him for anyone else, even with multiple shots of tequila coursing through your veins.

I overheard snippets of whispers from my cousins, Laredo Porter Wagoner and Austin Johnny Cash, hinting at our accountant’s murky past, something about New York or Jersey, and a scandal, possibly involving a family named Gotti. So loyal and secretive was SquarePants towards his former affililates that my family had nicknamed him Jimmy Tightlips. Call me crazy but I think the ability to keep closely guarded secrets of the clients who provide your livelihood is an exemplary trait in a CPA.

You can only imagine my shock some months later when I walked into my friend’s house for brunch, and there, nearly crumbling the dining room chair he was perched on, sat Jimmy Tightlips. He seemed to recognize me, yet couldn’t quite place the face, after all, we were in a world far removed from Texas. From the little that my friend, Sleuthing Susie, has been able to deduce from Jimmy and his equally taciturn wife, is that they are here in the tropics in the witness protection program. The couple rarely speak or proffer information, while they both watch you furtively from beneath downcast eyes, perpetually processing and assessing everything around them, whilst never revealing any details of their lives, past or present. Sleuthing Susie is ruthless in her pursuit of the true origins of Jimmy and his wife, and therefore eagerly agreed to housesit their five Pomeranians whenever they leave Paradise. To date, her exhaustive efforts have been fruitless, no photos, no old letters, nada. The place is as sterile as a Holiday Inn, and none of the Five Pomegranates are talking barking. Which causes me to ponder…Can I turn in someone in witness protection? And if so, to whom? And would there possibly be a reward involved? Would I become the mascot and poster child of the FBI or America’s Most Wanted? Or would I fare better by approaching the mob directly? I do so passionately adore both Italian food and Italian men, so that route holds delicious potential.

Speaking of potential…I might have a little secret I’m keeping from you.

Remember that blind date my hippie friend Mentah set up for me last Saturday? Imagine if Val Kilmer (before the weight gain), Kurt Russell, and Jeff Bridges mated (now there’s a visual)…this man could be the result. He was so unrelentingly gorgeous I kept glancing over my shoulder, sure I would spy Allen Funt and his Candid Camera crew filming this. He spoke fluent Chinese and French, was impeccably dressed, with nary an ascot in sight. He was so smart and attentive and absolutely PERFECT….on paper. I spent the entirety of our three hour lunch racking my brain over which of my single girlfriends I could fix this adorable boy up with. Mon Dieu, I know what you’re thinking! After all the Crypt Keepers with their walkers and man boobs she’s gone out with, and now she wants to throw this one back in the water?!?

Well children, it isn’t only Jimmy Tightlips who can keep a secret. Yours truly has one too. Suffice it to say I’ve been walking around Paradise, Somewhere In This World, with a huge shit-eating grin on my face since early December.

And that’s all you’re getting out of this Jenny Tightlips for this blog!

Happy Weekend!


Feature image courtesy of



I had to take an eight-week holiday from my Senior Senor Senile dating because even God rested on that seventh day. But…like that scab you just can’t stop picking, I jumped back in feet first. I must be channeling my inner optimist to think things might improve with this new lot.

bad blind dates

Last week’s flavor was Rick, a fashion marketing genius whose career in NYC intersected with my modeling career.  He was cute, with adorable laughing eyes full of mischief. This was showing promise before the first glass of Pinot Noir.  Note this was your typical balmy evening in the tropics and I was wearing a silk sleeveless dress. He was wearing a tee shirt under a plaid button-down shirt, with a sleeveless sweater vest, topped off by a blazer. At least this one left the ascot at home. He easily looked 10-15 years older than his photos and refused to back down on that issue even when I called him on it. He was extremely proud of his 32″ waist, which was the same as in high school. I just wanted to take this poor gaunt critter who looked like he was just released from Auschwitz and feed him a yummy fattening meatloaf with lots of mashed potatoes. Those protruding bones of his looked like they could etch glass.

I’ve concluded that in the interest of we ain’t getting any younger, I will need to know a man’s net worth prior to agreeing to that wee meet and greet. Any figure OVER a certain dollar amount and he is OUTTA here. Every seriously wealthy man I’ve met since moving here (and they are thick as clotted cream) can’t stop preening over their bank accounts, houses and condos (usually in multiples of three), their yachts and/or sailboats. This particular Rick actually suggested that I pack up and spend the month of March in Vail with him. This despite snow, ice, cold, and skiing being four-letter words in my Webster’s. And those laughing eyes? This man was somber as a judge and didn’t crack a smile, nor did I. After 2 1/2 hours of torture and not a single funny bone being tickled, I made my escape, straight into the arms and wishful mind of one Bobby Barrettes.

In Bobby’s photo he looked like a dashing dark-eyed Yul Brynner. The reality…imagine a 65-year-old totally bald Jim Carrey, with his contorted rubber face in ceaseless motion. Add to this a soucon of a lisp caused, I fear, by a poorly fitting upper denture, which resulted in a projectile spittle spewing forth with every third spoken word. Note to self…pack a raincoat.

As he picked me up to drive me to my favorite beach, he was attentive enough to warn me that “I am a very aggressive driver, especially in parking lots”. This mere moments before narrowly avoiding plowing down my lovely neighbor and her three bichons. I can only imagine my discomfort at having to attend the quadruple funeral in front of my disapproving neighbors.

Then, glancing sideways at him, I saw……them. Errant 2″ long eyebrow hairs gamely attempting to leap off his face and into any future that didn’t involve life with HIM. Dudes, if you are over fifty, I beseech you to check your eyebrows; grooming tools are actually manufactured to help you escape the fate of brows of death. If you can braid them into dreadlocks we seriously need to chat.

And if the joy of his upper section wasn’t enough to make my heart race, what I saw looking South certainly completed the picture. There, at the intersection of Shinbone and Happy Feet, resided a pair of CROCS! Ladies, we all know that the presence of CROCS equals the total absence of SEX…. ever. The first time I laid eyes on CROCS, I was certain they were external birth control devices, meant to eliminate procreation for all eternity.

Then, reluctant eyes moving Northward, praying for no more surprises…were two legs covered in an angry red rash. Bobby never made mention of this oozing, festering concoction decorating said legs, so I was only left with my imagination. Measles, chicken pox, a curse placed by his angry ex-wife?

Apparently Bobby misread my signals when I decided to let him live instead of garroting him on the spot and became emboldened enough to attempt to put his arm around my shoulders and pull me towards him. Each time I leapt sideways to the left with the swiftness and agility of an amped up gazelle.

When he had the audacity to ask me to his house in order to “make me dinner” I sweetly declined, whilst reaching into my beach bag and handing him two Hello Kitty barrettes, the better to contain the antlers leaping from his forehead.

I grew up Catholic. Does anyone know what is required to enter a convent later in life? Cause that’s my increasingly enticing backup plan…