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!





I bet this title has Mr. Adorable shaking in his boots and scratching his chin. I’m guessing his blood pressure just shot up ten points wondering where his little Parsley Snip might possibly be going with this one? Don’t fret honey; this is just a little family story, all about baby Jesus, his Papa, and all my crazy-assed Texas relatives.

As always, I digress. When I was either five or six, and being raised as a pious Irish Catholic Texican on a cattle ranch outside of Nowhere Texas, our family had a nightly ritual. Every evening, right before bedtime, my parents, grandparents, and whichever spare relatives with five names apiece were on the premises, had to come sit on my bed and listen to my prayers.

Laredo Porter Wagoner T————–, known to all as Big Red, needing a prayer for that threshing incident back in 1953. I could have foretold that having conjoined twins fighting for control in the cab of that thresher wasn’t going to end well. Then there’s Austin Johnny Cash T—————, fondly called Cap Tee; he need praying because, at age 47 his erstwhile music career (playing both the spoons and banjo simultaneously) still hadn’t gotten off the ground and it certainly was looking like a job down at the Feed and Seed was in his future.

Next comes Beaumont George Jones T———-, nicknamed Gator. Poor Gator had never been quite right in the head ever since that midnight skinny-dipping situation when the water moccasin bit him on his willy; no cousins would be added to our family tree from that uncle. Lastly, Laramie Loretta Lynn T————–, called by all Maria. That little filly needed our prayers most of all, since she became the very first lesbian cowgirl in our family’s history. That situation still could have been salvaged if only she hadn’t tied Grandpa’s favorite pet calf “Smelly” to her Ford F150 and pulled it all the way to Kansas before marrying her wife. Yep, my family needed a big bucketful of prayers every single night.

Once I was chock full of the holy spirit from all that praying and was safely tucked in and left alone, I always added one special little request that was uniquely my own, “And please God, don’t let me die a virgin”. I certainly didn’t know exactly what that meant, but I knew it was BIG and a really huge deal.

It was with equal certainty that I knew I would never outlive my teenage years; impending death and dismemberment lurked around every corner of that ranch. Falling from the roof of the 3-story barn, slipping out of the towering mulberry tree, slicing yourself open on rusted barb wire and dying from tetanus. Getting a fatal rattlesnake, black widow, scorpion, or tarantula bite. Really, what chance did a scrawny little kid have to grow to adulthood?

It was that concern for my future and needing to lose my virginity prior to my imminent and premature death that had me petitioning Jesus each and every night until my 18th birthday, when my BFF Mother Nature stepped in and rendered that whole situation (and resultant prayer) moot.

With those ruminations rattling through my memory, it was with GREAT surprise that I woke up yesterday morning to discover it was my 63rd!! birthday. Who ever would have thought? I am quite proud of my twin accomplishments of avoiding BOTH geriatric virginity AND premature death.

“The Catholic church convinced me that God and chocolate are great substitutes for sex. Now I’m a nun, a virgin, AND have diabetes.”

“What do you call a 13-year-old girl from Kentucky who can run faster than her brothers? A virgin”

For all you virgins out there (do you still exist??), have an amazing weekend and keep your situations intact!


Image from

Image from

Oh oh, my first encounter with trouble in Paradise. I’m either about to be arrested for MAJOR cocaine possession, or El Chapo, the escaped Mexican drug lord, is about to show up on my doorstep demanding to know why I have about 3 kilos of his white powder laid out on my lanai floor. Either way, my future is not looking so glowing.

My road to perdition began about one month ago, when I drew back my Bahamian curtains to greet the sunshine and morning and saw…my entire white lanai floor covered in chocolate brown sand, which had definitely not been there the previous night. As my sleepy brain was trying to process this situation, I couldn’t fail to notice that the entire floor was in motion. Stepping out to investigate, I realized that my outdoor living space had been high jacked by approximately 10,000 teeny ants. Thinking they were fire ants, after years of living in Texas and the Carolinas, I immediately grabbed my laptop and googled “Tiny Evil Bastards”.

Turns out Evita wasn’t the only thing brought here from Argentina; Linepithema Humile came along for the ride as well. As luck would have it, they eat the honeydew that is produced by honeysuckle, which covers the entire lanai side of my flat. Am I a lucky girl or what?  For some reason this season the landscapers had decided to leave the gorgeous orange honeysuckle untrimmed until its bloom cycle finished. This left the shrubs pushing hard against my screens, creating expressways for my miniscule roommates to move in.

Enter my new favorite Man of My Dreams, Joey the exterminator, who sadly informed me that all his beetlejuice would do is kill off the workers, forcing the queens to produce more and more replacement ants. “Don’t even waste a dime on poisons, totally worthless, and yeah, that’s coming from me, an exterminator. If you tell property management I said that, I’ll deny, deny. Get these bushes trimmed back and spread baby powder all around. It doesn’t kill them, just scares them shitless. Trust me on this.”

Always one to bow to authority, especially ones with a giant cockroach on top of their service vehicle, I promptly headed to Dollar Tree and bought their entire inventory of talc. The curious cashier couldn’t resist inquiring, so I opted for livening up her dull day. “I just kidnapped 8 newborns from the hospital down the street and if you don’t stop with the questions, one of those squirts is gonna get it!”

In a hormonal homicidal rage I raced home and fired up the industrial strength shop vac Mr. Adorable had loaned me and began dispatching both the living and the dead to their maker. I was chuckling like a mad woman as I spread that baby powder over every square inch of my lanai; I even poofed it onto the screens themselves, as a way of having the final knockout in this battle.

As a testament of my gratitude to Joey, whose wily expertise allowed me to regain my precious outdoor real estate back, we are currently planning an October wedding. If you think talcum powder is just for stinky baby butts…you would be wrong, soooo wrong.

The only downside to my happy ending is…this powdery substance is apparently permanent; it refuses to be vacuumed or swept up. It is seemingly a part of the floor, which has lead to some inquisitive and lingering glances from the two narcotics officers who live across the way.

As for El Chapo’s eminent arrival, I’ve got that covered. Stocked my bar with a bottle of Gran Patron Platinum, have a succulent platter of enchiladas suizas in the oven and a huge skillet of frijoles refritos simmering on the stove. Figure I’ll get the chubby little Mexican drunk and stuffed, then hand him a rolled up hundred dollar bill, send him out to the lanai and ask him to breath deeply. BTW, I fully intend to collect on his bounty!


comcast suxIt took COMCAST only five days to do what no one else has successfully achieved in 62 years. They turned this flower child, peace-loving, OM chanting pacifist into a heavily armed and dangerous weapon of redheaded annihilation. I want to terminate every single Indian citizen in New Delhi or Calcutta who works for any call center. I am now officially a racist.

Those elitist snobs (generally liberal Democrats who voted for President Obarfup) who sniff disdainfully at something foul in the wind when asked about their TV viewing habits and will only reluctantly cop to watching PBS? Not me Sista. I am an unabashed TV baby. My DVR holds such a special place in my life that I prepare it kosher meals and set an extra plate for her at dinner. We get manis and pedis together; she is truly my BFF.

So, when one of our daily violent lightening storms blew her up last week, I was understandably devastated. Since this wasn’t my first rodeo with a scorched DVR, I went through all the usual checklist before embarking on that dreaded 90-minute phone call with Raj or Samir in India. Reboot, check, 3 times. Swap out cables, check, twice. Not even Mr. Adorable, with his backpack of skills, could fix my issue. Nothing revived my darling DVR; she was officially DOA and my 48 episodes of “The Barefoot Contessa”, 20 assorted movies, “The Millionaire Matchmaker”, and 79 “House Hunters” would have to RIP beside her.

Grief-stricken and verklempt, I fortified myself with two Grey Goose dirty martinis prior to placing that dreaded call; here in Paradise COMCAST will not send a repair tech to your home until you have been ground down by Raj or Samir for a requisite 90 minutes. It’s like penance for a Catholic; you can’t achieve relief until you ante up the vig. First, you are required to input every personal identifier God could create, not simply your account number and name, like any other company with a conscience and a soupcon of customer service. DOB, SS#, complete address, how many ounces of lint are currently residing in your belly button, and what was the maiden name of your eighth grade boyfriend’s mother?

Then, suddenly, there is the ear-splittingly high-pitched, heavily accented voice of one Raj, who persists in calling himself Joe, Bob, or Jim. They love to spin the fantasy that they are just around the corner from wherever you are, and are American to boot. “Oh hello Miss Ree Knee. So pleased to be allowed the most intense pleasure of the possibility of perhaps assisting you in your utmost troubles this very evening. How can your faithful servant Joe facilitate your joy this most pleasant day?” If obsequious was a scent I’d be inhaling that and chicken curry vindaloo through the phone line.

Predictably, after 90 minutes of rug-burned knees, holding a flashlight between my teeth and twisting my arthritic bits into positions that would make Swami Muktananda proud, and wriggling around like a Thalidomide baby, Joe sighs. “My most humble disappointment at being unable to assist you in your sorrowing troubles will be most vexing to me for long time to yet come, I am sure. My failure to resolve your sadness will bring deep shame upon my family’s name for many centuries forward. I apologetically request that you drive over two hours tomorrow and the headquarters will replace your annihilated box and cable, most enthusiastically I’m quite certain.”

Joe’s strikeouts continued when Headquarters smugly informed me that they changed policy and no longer allow customers to swap out their damaged boxes. Would I like to schedule a tech house call 4 days hence? No… but what I really wanted to do was rearrange all of your teeth, without benefit of anesthetic.

Arriving home, after a 2-hour drive to and from Paradise, with my deceased BFF on the seat beside me, I received a call from Samir, Joe’s more demonic and much less polite coworker. He demanded that I immediately reconnect all that Joe had put asunder the evening prior in order that his advanced technical team could run diagnostics. Looking down at the rug burns on my knees and elbows, I sweetly demurred; I would wait the four long days. “In that situation it will be most essential to cancel the technician visit; they cannot be scheduled until we resolve your trouble, which we most unreservedly do, over 120% of our chances.” Garrotted and defeated, I once again hit the carpet, knowing at least another 90 minutes of skin to surface pleasure was on the menu. When Samir was thwarted in his resurrection attempts, he promptly hung up on me. Yep, no exchange of pleasantries or good wishes for BFF’s successor, no marriage proposal, no plans to meet to break garlic naan…just a dead phone line.

Today, Day 4 arrives, as does COMCAST tech and hero Adam, who diagnosed and corrected the problem in under 3 seconds. My dear BFF was rescued from the jaws of death and pronounced fully restored, no replacement needed. Did I mention Adam is completely and resoundingly AMERICAN. Amen.

COMCAST…Satan is preparing a special place in hell for you and your imperious ways as we speak. And that, my friend, is the most polite thing I am allowed to say about how much you suck on this PG rated blog.



IMG_0521After uttering Oy Vey for the twelfth time yesterday, my new Paradise friend quizzically inquired, “You inject sooo many Yiddish words and expressions into your speech. Are you part Jewish?”

Lounging by the pool later I realized it was true. Bubbe, bupkes, chutzpah, feh!, goy, kibbitz, klutz, kvetsh, mazel tov, mentsh, mishegas, nosh, oy vey, plotz, shalom, schlock, shmendrick, schmaltzy, schmooze, schmuck, spiel, shiksa, shmutz, tchotchke, yenta all lace my speech heavier than I lay on the jalopenos.

Twenty-three years in NYC certainly played a part, but it was the two years I accidently rented a huge pre-war flat in Midwood Brooklyn, not realizing I was in a hotbed of Hasidic Jews, that really enhanced my knowledge of all things Yiddish.

The day after the movers left, I innocently headed out to Avenue M, the closest shopping street, to purchase mops, brooms, and groceries. I thought it strange that there was not a single soul out on the streets, but turning onto the avenue I got the shock of my life. All the stores and businesses were closed, with heavy metal doors pulled down and locked over storefronts. I cursed my decision not to set up my TV the day before, because I knew with certainty that the Arabs had come and World War III was surely at hand. As I raced back to the safety of my beautiful, rent-controlled apartment I pondered how I wanted to spend my last surviving days on earth.

I couldn’t spend my final hours listening to my beloved music; the stereo wasn’t hooked up. Couldn’t send any “Farewell, I love you” messages to dear ones; laptops and cell phones didn’t exist in my world in the mid-eighties. At a loss, I settled for crawling under my beloved brass bed with my two Siamese cats, Pancho and Bailey, a bag of Cheese Puffs, a magnum of Dom Perignon, and a carton of OJ. That way, when the Palestinians broke down my door to annihilate me, at least I’d be semi-comatose.

The next morning, emerging from my war-ravaged hidey hole, I couldn’t resist edging out to the street, the better to see what my destroyed neighborhood looked like. Quel surprise! Skies were blue, the sun was shining, folks were as loud and boisterous as ever, and all businesses were open. That little war I envisioned? Turned out to be nothing more than Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year, soon to be followed by Yummy Kippers. You better believe that little holiday didn’t catch me by surprise.

Trust me when I tell you that assimilation into this neighborhood was not easy for this Irish Texican. Every summer walking home from the subway in my 5″ stilettos and Wall Street power suits, I had to run the gauntlet of elderly Hebrew women sitting in their aluminum folding chairs, clucking disapprovingly as I passed by. My approval rating didn’t shoot up when I began dating a wealthy gentleman who sent his black chauffeur to pick me up in a stretch limo, always with an armload of yellow roses in hand.

After two long and arduous years of being the scorned woman on the block, I decided to marry the first stockbroker, attorney, Indian, or Chief I could wrangle and get the hell out of Dodge. Because all those clucking old ladies? They had apparently decided collectively that any port in the storm might be preferable to their darling 50 year-old dentist bachelor nephew dying without a wife…any wife, even a scrawny titian-haired Gentile. Invites were starting to pour in to come to dinner and meet Chayim, Efraim, and Yitzhak. I realized my future could not include a man whose name sounded like a cat yakking up a fur ball.

So it was only fitting when my darling but totally neurotic doggie, Reggae, had to start wearing a muzzle for her own self-protection, that muzzle tov immediately leapt to mind. Her only animal companion for the past 13 years went northward to visit Jesus in November (there’s that darn month again!) and she is so lonely and anxious being an only child that she has begun to chew hotspots on her leg, leaving me with $200 vet bills on each occasion.

None of the muzzles we tried were effective at keeping her from aggravating this wound every time I left her alone or went to sleep. Shofar giving her a dreidel to play with and hanging a mezuzah by the door have not helped either. Clever shiksa wench I am, I finally settled on the Blue Daisy Cone of Shame Therapy hat. The Xanax and Dom Perignon I give her as treats haven’t hurt either.



Grumpy Cat/Image from

The Prom Queen/Image from

Were Hollywood to film our two dental practices as their hottest new reality show, it would undoubtedly be entitled “Daughters of Anarchy”. Envision The Shootout at the OK Corral, starring estrogen-soaked ladies with access to loaded weapons…wide open and lawless. Don’t misunderstand, both of my docs are highly skilled and respected by their fiercely loyal patients. It’s the staff who bear the shrapnel scars of gross mismanagement.

Our issues stem from the fact that the owner refuses to use titles for his administrative staff, which leaves us adrift with no management or structure. The three of us dental practice administrators have over 62 years experience between us, yet are not allowed to manage a single aspect of these practices. Dr. Lymp Biskit, our employer, is a total control freak who micromanages every appointment slot and patient communication. He even refuses to order post-it notes in pretty colors because it might provide us a modicum of joy.

This is but a prelude to explain how Grumpy Cat and Prom Queen were allowed to be birthed into existence. Grumpy Cat and The Prom Queen are both Registered Dental Hygienists who share open-bay operatories side by side. Most of their downtime at work is spent plotting to kill the other, much like the old Tom and Jerry cartoons.

Grumpy Cat is consistently early to work and faithfully sets up Prom Queen’s room, while Prom Queen arrives 30 seconds before her first patient is due, redolent of cheap perfume and good intentions. GC makes sure her patient is never left alone while waiting for a doctor check, and makes certain every detail of her day is in order. PQ abandons her patients for long periods of time so she can sit in the kitchen, in full view of the doctors, and catch up on her texting.

These two loathe each other so much, they prefer to pay outside dental offices to clean their teeth, rather than cleaning one another’s. Imagine lying back, defenseless, while your sworn enemy wields floss and an explorer.

I’m not implying Grumpy Cat doesn’t have her reasons to be pissed at the hand she has been dealt, heavens no. She has a disabled husband who will only ingest meat, potatoes, and pizza. As a Foodie, that is indeed a bitter pill to swallow. They are a single-income household due to his infirmities, so Grumpy Cat can’t even purchase amusement and distractions. But is that any reason to come in cranky every morning? Course, if I sported that do atop my shoulders…In addition to the Miley Cyrus haircut abortion she proudly dons CROCS! And those of you who read Bobby Barrettes know only too well that CROCS are the government’s attempt to stop procreation in its tracks.

Grumpy Cat’s demeanor is a perfect match to her strident, bellowing Chicago accent, which cuts like a rabid boomerang through our tiny office. A simple “Good morning” aimed in her direction earns you a snarl and a suspicious, “What’s so f…ing good about it?” She is a resplendent vision in her grey hair, ashen skin, and steel grey scrubs.

The Prom Queen WOULD be beautiful, with her thick mane of blond hair and perfect features sitting atop a perfect 29-year-old body, honed by excessive hours of Cross Fit. WOULD be…were it not for the “I is stoopid” tattoo inked across her high forehead. Each sentence uttered is littered with many “like…like” and “ya knows?” A Valley Girl’s English couldn’t top this chirping little cricket.

Her topics of conversation only number two. How soon will Grumpy Cat die and is there any way she can hasten her demise? And why are the only men interested in her the Gym Rats with heads the size of watermelons? She remains perplexed about why they never call her after having sex on the first date.

Were any of the three managers actually allowed to manage, GC would be given a reprimand and a write-up and PQ would be snipping locks at Great Clips. When the long-anticipated homicide finally does occur, the only mystery will be who shot who first.

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This is the sign I’ve decided to needlepoint for the door to the restroom of our dental practice where I toil my life away. While we do have killer water views, we are extremely space challenged and patients and staff must share the same bathroom, which I’m sure must thrill Dr. Lymp Biskit, my germaphobic employer.

Last week an elderly patient disappeared in said bathroom for a suspiciously long time. When she finally emerged after thirty minutes, she made an odd comment to the front desk receptionist, “Going to the bathroom at my age can be hard.”

My translation of that cryptic remark was, “When you get older you have to pee a lot more often, which is tough.” Several minutes later, when one of our unsuspecting dental assistants innocently wandered in there, then immediately emerged gagging and retching, I realized my translation skills for ELDER SPEAK were nil. Does Rosetta Stone sell a language tutorial entitled Geriatric?

Moments later the hapless assistant re-entered the scene of the intestinal crime, dressed head to toe in a hazmat suit, hazmatwhere she proceeded to clean up the explosive diarrhea left behind by this patient, who was dripping diamonds from at least seven fingers. Now I was beginning to understand her comments about going to the bathroom being “hard”.

HARD…as in it’s hard for me to see the splattered poopage decorating the walls and floor of the bathroom due to my recent cataract surgery.

HARD…as in it’s hard to flush that toilet handle whilst being weighted down by all these carats on my wizened hands.

HARD…as in it’s difficult to smell the olfactory mayhem I left behind since my most recent rhinoplasty.

The best fun was still to come. When the patient was finally seated in an operatory, having her cavities filled, she was once again overcome by yet another round of gastrointestinal mischief. All eleven of us were now running around opening doors for fresh air, spraying gallons of Lysol, and profusely apologizing to our other trapped patients. I had a gleeful moment imagining Dr. Lymp Biskit being forced to sit through this while he was filling her cavities.

In my twenty years of working in dental practices it has always been an unwritten rule that “Whosoever shall discover it…must also deal with it”. Whether it be geriatric poopage, diapers, drug paraphernalia, bodily fluids of various types, shrimp a patient wanted to barter, or even that baby goat. You stumble upon it, you inherit it.

So, in between rounds of gut-busting laughter the rest of that afternoon, I did remember to look heavenward several times and offer up a wee prayer of gratitude to Allah, Trigger, and Rin Tin Tin, that I wasn’t the poor SOB who stumbled upon that carnage.

dog who pooped

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