Friday, August 31, 2007

Purse Contents

How midlife purse contents differ:

My purse is bigger at this age. I need more stuff. I have stuff that compliments my station, my health, my need for beautification, cleanliness and my addictions:

*Cell phone - du'uh
*Old movie tickets - from my addiction
*6 pens - I'm a pen kleptomaniac
*4 lighters - can't smoke unless the fire is lit, and I also steal these
*1 Pack of Winstons at all times
*4 packets of Tic Tac - to keep my breath fresh after all my cigarettes
*1 small bottle of Victoria's Secret, "Love Spell" - to spray over upper torso after cigarettes
*lipstick and lip gloss - so people will know that I actually do have lips
*Whistle - for protection aganist perrverts (if I had time to rifle through my purse to find it in time)
*Pepper Spray - see above
*Gentiana Drain Fire Formula - Chinese herbs (not sure what they do, but it sounds good)
*Checkbook - because I'm still a dinosaur and write checks
*Credit cards - gas, Visa, bank card, AAA cus I know nothing about cars and my USO sponsoring member card (my tithing charity)
*AARP membership card - for senior citizen discounts
*$40 in cash
*Check I wrote to myself for $500,000 (from Harper Collins as affirmation that this publisher will buy my first novel)
*Foldable fan - for hot flashes
*Grocery coupons in an organized folder (free money)
*5 Valium - for when I smoke pot, so I won't get paranoid
*Monogrammed toothpick holder - for movie addiction
*3 band aids - you just never know
*Kodak portable camera- because people are funny when you least expect it
*Small bottle of hand sanitizer - to wipe off grocery cart germs
*Tobacco bits - from a broken cigarette that escaped it's box
*One old note on a crumpled piece of paper that reads, "Mutant Message Down Under" (I have no idea what this is)

I carry everything I need as you can see. I'll have to investigate the Mutant Message thingy, but if middle-aged purse contents are any indication of personality disorders, I'm in the club.

Ditto on everything mentioned above but my purse is bigger than KK's. I generally have lotto tickets and Weekly Grand scratch off cards in my wallet. I have old ones in there too because I'm afraid that the lottery people will someday say, 'Oh! We gave you the wrong winning numbers and here are the real ones! Sorry. Apparently Sally Jackson has won 30 million dollars!'
I also have grocery lists crumpled in the bottom of my purse with stuff like Pepsid, BreathRight Strips (I snore) and prunes on them. They are in my purse because I'm never near a trash can and I don't want some stranger seeing my list if I leave it in the cart. They won't know who I am but you can tell a lot by someone's grocery list.
I am hypoglycemic (low blood sugar) so I have protein in the form of nuts or a protein bar handy in case I start feeling that petulant feeling coming on. It starts with that petulant feeling and if I don't get protein fast I start monsterizing people. By that I mean that the slightest infraction will bring on cutting words, a short temper and my unbridled wrath. To illustrate:
Check out girl: "Do you have your Randall's card?"
SalGal: "Why do you always ask me that when you know good and goddam well that I lost it two years ago and all you have to have is my telephone number!? God! Get some training for Christ's sake. Shit."
And then I stomp off in righteous indignation.
I have Bert's Bees red lipstick so I'll know where to talk out of and forty dollars for martinis.
I have Xanax for auditions because I get so nervous my head starts shaking and it is very embarrassing cause I'm a good actor. I got a job once because of that though. I started crying in a callback for 'Judging Amy' and my head started shaking and the director loved it. I also take a Xanax before going up on stage to do stand-up.
I have a yellow highlighter for highlighting my lines on scripts in my acting class.
A half-smoked joint that's been in my purse for a year because I keep forgetting about it.
After Labor Day we get to go to Target and get new purses for fall. They have ones that look like Prada but they are only twenty bucks and nobody knows.

Tuesday, August 28, 2007


How midlife dating differs:

Because my mindset is that of a 35-year-old, I realized I was looking in the wrong age group for my next sweetheart. When I was in an airport waiting for a delayed flight a few weeks ago, I sat in the bar with my Bloody Mary and decided to participate in my own experiment. I was people watching and noticing all the cutie patooty 35-year-old men as they strolled or ran down the concourse for their flights. I decided to start looking for those men whom I deemed to be my age or even slightly older. What a shock! My thoughts ran from , "Jeeez, I'll bet that old geezer is my age!" to, "There's a man who's looking for a nurse."

I have to hold the notion that there are attractive, tall, svelte men in their fifties. There is one out there who hasn't met this west Texas tornado yet, but who will meet me and fall madly in love. It tickles me to know that he's out there and I'm fascinated at the prospect of our initial encounter.

Dating for the middle-aged, unless they were slutty in their twenties, is less stressful. I know that I ain't sleeping with any of them on the first, second or even third date, but kissing will be high on my check-off list. Unfortunately for them, it will cost them more to take me out, because of the dinners at nice restaurants, canoodling in expensive bars and travel to exotic locations with separate rooms. I've grown particular and finally figured out what I don't want. I'm worth it, and I know I'll find someone who deserves my best.

No more driving by his house just to think of what he must be doing inside, and you can't call them anymore just to hear their voices because of that damned caller ID. I look forward to that first flush of passion, but I wish I could skip the part where the man is all I think about, I lose weight because I lost my appetite, I ignore my girlfiriend's invitations, and I spend a LOT more time in front of the mirror just trying to keep up with a 35-year-old beauty for whom he might also have eyes. We have to try harder and stay in shape to attract the peacocks, but thank god for lighting. No more, "Hey baby, let's turn the lights up all the way." I have dimmers on all of my lights and would demand the same in any location where those personal exchanges of DNA might occur.

Sooooo, If you're fifty-ish, in great shape, like to travel and dance, don't want to marry me, have enough money to court me properly for the rest of my life and can laugh at all of my jokes, I triple-dawg-dare you to ask me out!

Well, KK, you have managed to create your very own online dating service! But here's the thing...we still haven't figured out how to allow people to make a comment on our blog. Duh. Will someone please respond and tell us how to do this so KK can find a boyfriend?
Also, the boyfriend must like me and my jokes too. This is a must. I'm likeable though, don't worry.
I am not looking for a relationship at all. I prefer work and being free of the distractions that come with men. With me, cats last longer than relationships anyway and they don't care if you talk too much, come home drunk, drive like an Asian or like to watch 'The Next Food Network Star' at 2am.
You go get 'em, KK

Friday, August 24, 2007


How middle-aged movie going differs:

I haven't seen a single scary movie since my sister forced me to go see The Exorcist with her in 1975. I had to sleep with her that night for fear of 'pea soup' coming at me from all directions.

The first movie I remember seeing at a theater was Babes in Toyland when I was seven years old. It was also the first time I was introduced to 'movie' popcorn. I ordered five small boxes, one after the other and missed a good portion of the movie in so doing, but that was the beginning of my addiction to 'movie' popcorn. If I had a nickel back for every bag of popcorn I've purchased since my addiction began, I'd be richer than Bill Gates, seriously.

As I grew, so did my habit, going from five small boxes to a family-sized box that I alone consumed, and I went back for the free refill. My friends have always been gobsmacked at the amount of popcorn I am capable of consuming during one movie.

When I had dates with boys who even hinted that they would purchase a medium bag for us to share, I became agitated. I told them that they were welcome to purchase any sized bag of popcorn they wanted, but that I would be getting the biggest size offered and NO SHARING. I lost many a second date with those cowards who didn't understand my addiciton.

And, here's the thing. I can only eat movie popcorn after the lights go down. I don't like it as much if I can see it. The joy and high comes from fingering the bag, lifting each handfull, sniffing the chemical butter and crunching until my jaw aches. I have a process. And, because I have so many kernel shucks attached to every tooth after the bag is done, I also carry a sterling silver, monogrammed toothpick holder in my purse, given to me by someone who really understands my process. It doesn't matter if I'm crying cups full of tears during a sad part in the movie, I have to pick my teeth. I like longer movies so I can complete my process before the lights go back up. Oh, and I always order a small bottle of water to go along with my popcorn, taking occasional small sips only to liquify the huge amount already in my stomach so that more can fit in there.

I was supposed to be talking about movies, right? I am a movie slut because of my addiction, but can't really remember most of the movies I've seen after I get into my car in the parking lot. I'm not in it for the films, but I do know which movie theaters serve the very best popcorn in town. There are whole movie chain companies who will never see a penny from me, no matter which movies they show because they don't get the mixture of chemical butter and salt exactly right.

Here's the really bad part while I'm confessing. When I order my popcorn from the teenagers at the concession stand, I demand that they scoop the popcorn from the top and not the bottom of the popcorn machine. It makes a difference because all the soft, puffy kernels rest at the top. They look at me like I'm insane, but when one has as few real teeth left in their mouths from having eaten thousands of pounds of popcorn like I have, it's easier to gum those soft pieces now.

Okee dokey...want to go to the movies with me?


Oh, my God, that brings back such memories of going to the movies in the fifties. Do you remember that the popcorn was in long, tall sacks that looked like we tots were walking through the grand foyers holding big, ole elephant dicks? And the large cokes were the same size as the small ones are these days. It was so exciting to walk up the grand staircase and sit with our feet up on the edge of the balcony. If our friends were there we threw popcorn down on them. Plumes of smoke rose through the dark in front of the screen and there were ashtrays built into the backs of all the seats. It was a smoker's world, baby and NOBODY looked sexier than Lauren Bacall with a cigarette in her hand.
My first scary movie was 'House on Haunted Hill' and it was in black and white and it scared the shit out of me. People were in a basement in the house on Haunted Hill and this really creepy dead woman glided by them on skates and I never got over it. The strange thing is I still love them and go to them all the time. It's such a good feeling to be completely frightened and then walk out into the sunshine and realize that nothing was real in that dark theater. The last three scary movies I worked on as a Casting Director were horror films. One was called, 'Hack' and it was the worst movie job I ever got and I didn't even get the 'Casting Director' credit because my 'partner' was such an egomaniac and that's alright because that movie sucked. The next one was, 'Texas Chainsaw Massacre/The beginning' and it was pretty fun. 'Transformers' is probably not really in the scary movie genre but it had lots of horrifying special effects. You can look up my credits on IMDB.PRO and I am going to try to post a link to my page there.
I have to go to the movies with KK and she likes those English period pieces but I go with her for the popcorn. She only lets me get the small bag of popcorn because I am on 'Operation Modify' for weight control/loss and she is my monitor. So I have to sit there and eat one kernal at a time while she stuffs her face with a bag of popcorn the size of a laundry basket. It's so unfair. Great role model, KK.
But I have always wanted to work in the movie business and I have missed a lot of films because I was on some movie set from 5AM to 10PM trying to help make one. I can't get KK to go see scary movies with me so I go to them with friends, although I have lost two friends who have labelled me a 'movie Nazi' because I can't stand people who talk during movies. I get so drawn into the world of the story that if anyone next to me makes a comment it makes me want to kill them. I give them a look that literally wilts them and they never go to a movie with me again and that's fine with me.
I remember that at the Lensic Theater and The Ritz in Midland, Texas in the 50's the black people had to sit in the balcony. I'm glad things have changed so much since then but I would love it if the ashtrays were still on the backs of the seats.
See you in the movies,

Wednesday, August 22, 2007


The tattoos everybody is getting these days are really starting to bug me. This is a typical example of the emperor's new clothes. Everyone is telling him his robes are beautiful when they know damn good and well that he is nekked as a jaybird. It's the same with tattoos. I am guilty of telling someone that their tattoo of a purple ghekko around their belly button is really awesome but I was just trying to be nice. I didn't want to hurt their feelings by saying what I really thought which was, "Do you know that when you are 55 years old that stupid thing is going to warp into a wrinkled or bloated rendition of itself? Are you fucking crazy? That thing is going to turn into either a dead snake or a plum if you don't watch your weight.

I would kill to have the nice, smooth skin of a 25 year old and yet they are covering their arms and backsides with statements and pictures that will be totally embarrassing when they are 20 years older. Way not to see the big picture of life. Way to exhibit their shallow, immature outlook on what they think is meaningful.

I completely understand the military tattoos and feel they have long standing meaning for those who get them. I also understand the ones that say 'Mother' or the face of a child. Those I get and even appreciate. But a little red devil at the base of the spine that shows above a girl's jeans and points down to her ass? I don't want to see that. It makes me want to spank her and send her to her room with Depak Chopra book.
I bet you think I'm an old fuddy duddy but I am saying this from experience. I'll have you know I've had a tattoo for 35 years. It's a little, yellow rose of Texas right next to my heart. It's got a little, green leaf that comes up behind it. But...with age comes sagging. And now my little, yellow rose of Texas is down here next to my waist and it looks like a picture of LBJ with liver disease and an elf hat.
I'm jis sayin'
Beware what you do after the sage, basil Mojitos at Fino's were to good to have just one,


How midlife drug-taking differs:

When I was in my twenties, I took every drug I could get my hands on. Marijuana does lead to other drugs, don't kid yourself, and I was delighted to try just about anything. Having been raised as a"good girl,' I only took small amounts of everything. I spent that decade deciding on my drugs of choice. I settled on booze, pot, LSD and speed. Taking small amounts of all these drugs created an entirely new sense of well being because they all canceled each other out, so the high felt like I'd just gotten a fabulous shiatsu massage. Music was all important to me during that time, and now when I hear old songs of that period, my throat glands squirt with the phantom sense that I've just swallowed something I shouldn't, and with each song, I remember which drug it was. Great memories, both tactile and hilarious.

In my thirties, I settled down a bit and rid my brain of all the psychedelics. I was too busy trying to be perfect, but pot continued to entice me. I had reached a level of paranoia with marijuana; however, so I had to take a half a valium to counteract the feeling that the police were about to break down my front door at any moment. That decade brings back memories of all the times I embarrassed myself while trying to act normal. Like the time I ran into a man who had ashes on his forehead and I laughed as I told him that his face was dirty so I rubbed it all off. I was just trying to be helpful. I wasn't a catholic.

My forties introduced me to cocaine, but not the lines that were a foot long...just a little toot of some from under my fingernail. I was still 'a good girl.' I liked it, but again wanted that feeling of calm, so I would add to that little toot, a glass of wine and half a reefer. The canceling out process again took me to the perfect high. I could laugh, grind my teeth, be charming and go to sleep whenever I wanted to. I usually had these little parties by myself and would do the white-woman boogie all around my little apartment so the music must have still been good.

Now that I'm in my fifties, I take drugs that counteract all the drugs I took before like gingko baloba to enhance the memory I lost with all the pot, I take calcium to strengthen the bone mass that eroded from the cocaine. I take Lipitor to counteract all the munchie attacks from the pot that made my cholesterol sky high, and I take Ibuprofen for any potential hangovers from the wine I still drink. It's all in the balance. Although I continue to embarrass myself at parties, it has nothing to do with drugs's just my predisposition towards saying the wrong things to the wrong people.

Rock on,

Sunday, August 19, 2007


How midlife partying differs:

SalGal and I went to a party last night. The party didn't begin until 8:30 pm, when we're usually preparing ourselves for bed, but we were determined to go. We knew that if we didn't go out for a pre-party cocktail or two, the hour of the party would come along, and we would look at each other and just say, "Fuckit, let's not go." It took us an hour to beautify ourselves and discuss wardrobe and accessories. One tiny upward curl of the lip upon viewing the other's choice of garb will always send both of us back to start if there is the slightest disapproval. When we get a final thumbs up from each other, we're dolled up and ready to go. We say,"Ciao" to the Ancient One (Mother) and out the door we go...insanely happy to be away from our caregiver duties for just one night.

Even though we know that three drinks puts us in that category of 'cute and charming,' a fourth or fifth will drag us into the next category of overbearing and obnoxious, but we're OUT so we throw caution to the wind. After paying $44 for two glasses each of the best Chardanay the bar has, we're ready to go to the party. When we get in the car, we prepare for what the next morning might bring in the form of a midlife hangover, so we pop two Ibuprofen in anticipation as we drive. We forgot to bring a reefer, which is just as well, because it would make us sleepy and we would drive home to bed instead of to the party. The fact that we forget to bring a reefer is further proof that our party priorities have changed over the years.

The party is in full swing when we arrive. There are the outside groups who are lingering in the front yard near the drum circle. There are three women dancing with abandon to the beat. We call this dance form the 'lesbytarian shuffle.' They're fun to watch for about five minutes so we go inside the house where the real drinkers are located. There are 35 different bottles of wine brought by the partygoers so we pick our poison. We're still cogent and sure that the people we meet are completely enchanted with us as we offer up the party description of who we are, what we do and how we think. We've gotten good at going through this ritual in a hurry so we can move along.

The announcement is made that the fire dancer will begin in five minutes. Then the police arrive, which is always fun to watch. If we hadn't been AT the party, we probably would have been the old fuddy duddies who called them to bust up the rowdies down the block. They peruse the crowd, realizing that this is just a group of people who forgot that they lost the peace revolution of the sixties, pose no danger and will probably all make it home without too much trouble. After discussing the situation with the tipsy hostess, they get back into their black and whites and drive away to look for real criminals somewhere else in the night.

After hugging our hostess and declaring our drunken, undying love for her, we stagger down the block to the car. We try to guess what time it is without looking at our cell phone clocks. We're sure it's almost dawn, but the car clock tells us that it's 11:45 pm. We are so proud of ourselves for having accomplished our goal for the evening as we crawl home at 20 mph. It's beyond bedtime when we pop another two Ibuprofens each. We talk about how much fun we had and how adorable we must have been as we hug each other, declaring our drunken, undying love for the other and go to sleep.


Yeah, KK, last night was fun and it did remind me of the sixties. I'm just an old hippie. I've been smoking dope for 40 years and I just don't see any reason to stop now.
Times change though, drugs are so expensive these days. Last week at a comedy club downtown I paid TEN dollars for three skinny joints and a 'That's it, dood!' Sheesh. I can remember when TEN dollars got me a, "Well, hello there, little darlin", and a lid of Columbian as big as a horse's dick.
Groovy and far out,

Friday, August 17, 2007


How midlife travel differs:

We just do it, I mean. We're dug in wherever we are and the wanderlust has mostly wandered off. Air travel sucks for any age group, as we know. When I was a little girl, we put on our dresses, black patin shoes and gloves to get on an airplane. The stewardesses had theirs on too, and it was such an exciting adventure.

When I prepare for air travel now-a-days, I make sure I have my blow-up pillow to place in the seat at my lower back. I have another one for use around my neck so that when I sleep my head doesn't wind up in my lap, with drool soaking the sweat pants I've worn for comfort. I carry Neosporin in my gigantic purse. I put a dab around the inside of each nostril so I won't get sick from all the re-circulated air. I've already swallowed the Airborne tablets in water to futher protect me from travel germs. I wear eye covers with the little elastic strap around my head and ear plugs to block out the screaming babies. It's not a pretty sight.

I no longer converse with my immediate neighbors on airiplanes. Let's face it, I'll never see them again after we 'disembark,' so I don't care that they might think my silence rude. Now I'm ready for my 45-minute flight.

When I see those travelers with one tiny bag for their entire journey...and it fits in the overhead bin, I'm embarrassed for them. They will have so few choices of what to wear when they 'reach their final destination.' Of course, this requires me to wait as long at baggage claim as the length of the flight itself, but I will have options, and they will not. Shlepping my enormous suitcase, gigantic purse and additional carry-on bag is a bother, no doubt, but I'm prepared for anything.

I've picked a hotel that suits me. No room service, no me at their estabiishment. The days of walking down a long hallway to the ice machine in my chenille robe are over. I require a gift basket upon arrival and more sample bathroom cosmetics than will fit in my carry-on bag for the return trip home. I find space for them somehow and then keep them in my bathroom for years. It's just that they're free (aside from the extra fees that hotels charge for nothing).

At this age, when I visit a new locale, I prefer to find an outdoor cafe and sit for hours. I've seen all the museums and galleries years before. Besides, I'm exhausted from the trip and feel that local color can be found by just sitting instead of hiking. If I walk at all, it's to the nearest adorable boutique that I've researched on the Internet. My suitcase has a zipper which extends its depth for just such occasions. That way, I have even more options for travel wear.

My trip has been a wonderful one. I've seen all I can see from the comfort of my little outdoor cafe, eaten everything they have on the menu, and I'm ready for the trip home. The reverse travel process plays itself out until I am happily ensconced back in my comfortable home, and I'm exhausted.

All this talk about travel has caused me to rethink my next trip. I'm not sure I'm up to it.


Wednesday, August 15, 2007

The Ancient Ones

How the middle-aged view the Ancient Ones:

My mother turned 85 yesterday. You'da thought it was the end of the world. She'd been bitching and moaning and complaining about it for days. She didn't want to celebrate it and didn't want to go anywhere because it meant that she had to get off the couch where she velcroes herself daily. The night before her birthday, she started in again about how awful it was to be 85 and "we're not going to do anything about it, please, for God's sake." As a positive thinker of the first order, that was IT...the straw that broke my camel's back. "Listen, Mother...we ARE going to celebrate the fact that you are still on this planet, by God! We're going to get you up off that couch before it collapses under you from such heavy use, and we're going to Maudies for a lovely Mexican lunch whether you like it or NOT, Goddammit!"

She must have had a change of heart during the night because she woke up on her birthday, bright-eyed, bushy-tailed and ready for anything! I guess brow-beating the naysayers into positive submission really does work sometimes. Either that or she knew that if one negative syllable passed her lips, there would go her only caregivers...right out the front door. I don't care why she changed her mind, but it proved for a lovely day on everyone's behalf.

My mother is both a stinker and the source of all of my own wisdom, strength and power. SalGal and I have to go out on a regular basis and bitch, moan and complain about her bitching, moaning and complaining over a few martinis. Then we're fresh and ready to take on another day with someone who so wants to 'let go,' but doesn't know how or when it will happen.

For those of you out there who are caregivers for the Ancient Ones...we feel your pain and we say this...Drink about it, vent with the like-minded, use up your friends and love those old pricklies in spite of themselves!


Yeah, yesterday turned out to be good and what a nice lunch we had. It only took us 2 hours to get mother on her walker from the front door to the car. You did a nice job on her hair as the last time I fixed it she looked like she had just escaped a tornedo and seen a ghost in it.
Just think - when we are 85 years old, 85 will be the new 65 and we will still be going strong. I'll admit my body can't take what it did when I was 25. When I was stomach used to say, 'Give me that hamburger!' and my liver said, 'Bring on the Bourbon!' Now that I'm in my 50's, my stomach says, 'Uh, oh...give me an Alkaseltzer.' and my liver says, 'Bring on the Bourbon!!'
Anyway, talking with mother is sort of like doing Yoga. You get all twisted up, you spend a lot of time looking at your feet and deep breathing is essential.
God knows we love her though, bless her heart.

Tuesday, August 14, 2007


How the middle-aged view friendships:

I remember when I graduated from high school. Even though I had been voted 'most obnoxious' of my senior class, I did have friends, and we all told each other that we would be friends for LIFE, no matter what. Of all those grandiose promises, I have 8 of those friends left from high school. The girls I smoked my first cigarettes with, the ones with whom I hung out at Kingburger on Friday nights and the ones who knew that behind my obnoxious, bossy, controlling behavior, there was a diamond in the rough. Although I'm still obnoxious, bossy and controlling, they still love me.

As I've grown older, I have formed what I call my 'golden circle.' It's a circle of friends with whom I share my deepest, darkest secrets. And, they share theirs with me. They love life like I do and appreciate every moment. They love me no matter what and, I, them. We all appreciate what a short trip it is and we want to be in it together. The ones who complain, moan and enjoy their suffering have fallen by the wayside for me. I just don't have time to waste a minute being negative. I can't accept that life is not to be lived to the very fullest as we laugh at all the symptoms of the aging process.

I'm not an easy friend. I have demands of my fellow travelers. I'm loyal and true and steadfast to my 'golden circle,' and I expect the same in return...and I get it. What a blessing to know that whatever happens, they'll be there for me, and I will be there for them...through divorces, diagnoses of cancer, family deaths or any of the other curve balls the universe lobs at us. I LOVE my friends. I don't feel alone or afraid knowing that they're watching my back. I hope the same for you readers out there who need helping hands on occasion, a shoulder, a fierce protector and the calm in your storms.

I'm waxing sentimental this morning with no apologies. Get over it.


It's not that I don't appreciate my friends but they are all actors and since I was a Casting Director for film for 25 years, they always wanted me to cast them in my latest movie. 'TWINS' comes to mind.
We were casting for Arnold and Danny Devito's mom and my best friend was bound and determined to get the role.
"Ahh could ply Arnold Schwartzennegger's muther jist as wayal ayas innybahdee ayalse!"
Oh, please! First of all, we would have to get you a blonde wig, and second of all, you are only thirty five years old! Give me a fucking break, Shaneequa!
So I find myself producing in Texas having moved here from Hollywood in March. It's okay. I'm a Texan and my mother needs help.
KK and I have lots of fun and she is my best friend. You can see from the picture.
Sometimes KK and I like to do something fancy. Doesn't everybody? So last week we went to the Four Seasons Hotel for 'High Tea'. All they had were some tiny, little cupcakes and some baby cucumber sandwiches. Hello! I come from Texas where High Tea is HIGH! And that means...4 o'clock on the ninth hole with a six pack of Bud, a bag of Fritos and a hash pipe.
Oh, well...look at the pictures of the film I produced and tell me if you want to see more.
Ta Ta for now darlings,

Sunday, August 12, 2007


How midlife exercising differs:

Walking - Power walking, schmower walking. I lollygag. If I walk too fast, I miss the full visual of the 3rd house from the corner. I don't have time to fully judge the beauty, or lack thereof, of its front porch, whether I like the color scheme of the paint job or the placement of the wicker chairs and plants. I have to stop when I see a cat in the yard, call to it and spend a few minutes cooing to it and giving it a good morning petting. If I see a house under remodel, I need to look into the windows to determine if I approve of the layout or not. Those houses for sale with photo pages in the little clear boxes attached to the for sale signs need to be perused so that I can drop my jaw at the outrageous prices. It's a hard job, but someone....

Yesterday morning I decided on a new route through a neighborhood of lovely, stately homes. I was besotted with the gentle breeze, the fragrance of the jasmine and magnolia blossoms as I passed each garden. There was so much to see and judge, and I lost all track of time and place. I swam out too far...forgetting that my walk back would take at least as much time as my walk out. When I finally wound around to locate the route home, I was exhausted from all the lollygagging. And, there were nothing but hills to climb on these new streets. It started getting hot with the morning sun. I damned myself a few times, sat down and called my sister on my cell. "Hayulp," I moaned. "Come and get me!" She did, bless her heart. I was approximately 1.5 miles from home.

Water aerobics - I get exhausted just discussing this form of exercise. The first thing I have to do is disrobe from the safety of my oversized terry cloth robe to reveal all the signs of a female, middle-aged body in a bathing suit. My legs are so white they could light a dark room like two skinny flashlights. I look like I'm wearing white nurse stockings under my swimsuit. To add insult to injury, there are the vericose veins protruding from my knees. I don't know where they came from and why they are on my knees, but there they are, bulging out from what is normally the smooth, flat surface of the knee cap. At least that takes the oggler's eyes off the spider veins around both ankles, like starbursts of some purple mineral deposit in rock. When I was a child at the pool, I used to stare at 'the old ladies' with this phenomenon, and think, 'Eeeeeeeeuuuuuuw. that will NEVER happen to me.

It's time to get in the pool before I run back to the comfort of my terry cloth robe. Ahhh, now I'm in my element. No more prying eyes. I confidently begin to warm up by swimming a few laps. As a competitive swimmer all of my growing up years, I glide down the lane doing the most difficult stroke...the butterfly, certain to impress all those who might still be gawking. It nearly kills me. By the time I've completed the 50 meters down the pool, I hit the wall, completely out of breath and coughing up water and the rotten air from the 25 cigarettes I smoked the day before. Not pretty.

I make a feeble attempt at running in place under the water at the deep end, moving my arms and legs like a skinny crane attempting it's awkward landing on the water for the first time. This is ridiculous. Who ever thought of this form of exercise was completely insane. The water feels more like a flour batter of pancake mix as I attempt to push through it. After about five exercises, my face is red, my chest is throbbing, my eyes bulging with a blood rush, and I feel like I'm drowning. I dog-paddle to the ladder and try to get my
Jell-O legs up the side and OUT of the pool. Whew! As I wobble back to my poolside station, I vow to never ever do that again. At this age, pools are meant to be looked at. I'm much more comfortable watching the little children screaming, laughing and playing with complete abandon in the pool as I read my latest novel, drinking a cocktail with one of those little tropical umbrellas in it. I will come back to the pool next week, but this time, I will be wearing a hat, a full length caftan and ankle socks.

Yoga- I prefer nekkid yoga, which must be done in a room with a lock on the door and no mirrors. I have done yoga for 245 years, and I'm pretty good at it. Things have shifted on my body since I was in my twenties...llike when I'm laying on my back, my bosoms migrate toward the sides of my body leaving my chest as flat as it was when I was 10. When I am in the downward dog pose with my butt reaching skyward, the extra skin on my thighs melts down to almost cover my knees. And, when I'm on my back in an inverted shoulder stand, my stomach makes the slow, middle-aged journey toward my chest, replacing the bosoms that now reside in my armpit. It isn't attractive, but I keep doing yoga so I won't end up looking like my mother. I have renamed the cobra posture. It's where I lie on my stomach and raise just the upper torso of my body off the floor. I now call this posture the "I've Fallen and I Can't Get Up." When I reach the point where I really can't get up, that will be it for yoga. I'll just watch it on TV.

I was with you at the pool yesterday. Thank you for noticing. Your lithe body is one I covet. There you go analyzing your perfect body as I lumber up to the diving board, thighs wobbling and do a dive that makes me look like a spastic, potbellied pig on crack. Thank you for not laughing.
I only walk if I need to: to the bathroom, to get food or to the car so we can go to happy hour.
I must admit I do like water aerobics. Floating and swimming, using water weights that weigh one ounce - that's where I do my lollygagging.
As for Yoga, doing it nekkid is just wrong. I must have my skivvies on and please tell me where you do your lotus position so I don't accidentally put my face on the rug where your asshole was.

Friday, August 10, 2007


How firefighters are viewed by middle-aged females:

There was a small house fire across the street last night. At 2 am, five fire trucks converged on the scene in our little neighborhood with sirens blaring and lights flashing. My immediate concern for the neighbors dissolved into utter fascination at the conflagration of those tight-bodied, helmeted, uniformed young men who give their lives to protect us.

Truth be told, I couldn't take my eyes off them. Again, my years in NY came to mind. The NYFD has the most gorgeous, sculpted, able-bodied guys on the planet. Whenever they zoomed down a Manhattan thoroughfare, I always stopped to gawk and wave. It was my opportunity to fantasize that they were coming to save me, all courageous, sweaty, and prepared to carry me to safety as I looked longingly in their steely eyes with their eyelashes beckoning me to bury my head into their chiseled chests for comfort (and maybe more after I had fully recovered). NY firefighters are very aware of their reputation for being buff and bad-ass The calendars of them can attest to this.

Our local firefighters looked equally exquisite though a little sleepy last night. Knowing that they had everything under control early on allowed them to mingle and linger so we could get a good look at'em. Tee shirts belied those heaving chests underneath, and the pants with the suspenders were adorable. It made me want to take off one suspender at a time, very slowy. And, they smelled of smoke...what an aphrodisiac! One of them came to our door where my sis and I stood gawking. He sweetly asked if we could move the car parked in front of our house so more fire trucks could pull up. I was just sick that I did not have on my see-through, black negligee that I save for very 'special' occasions...instead, I had to appear in the night in my chenille robe and enormous bedroom slippers shaped like rabbit ears.

Perhaps it's time for me to go out again, find a beau and start anew, because I could hardly sleep the rest of the night for dreaming of those firefighing hunks!

By the way, the fire did no damage, as it was from an electrical line outside in the back of the house across the street. Thank God...hehehe.

Well, KK, thank you for a chapter from a really cheezy romance novel and some good fantasizing for a middle-aged woman. But let's get real here. We are in our 50's and those dashing young men in their red trucks are too young for us. It's a shame but it's true.
Come on now, give it up for that rich, old white haired man who loves us because we don't care that his long balls are hanging down to his knees. (Our boobs are hangin' down there too). And let's have a little appreciation for the fuzzy chest of that gray-haired mogul who appreciates a fine, menopausal woman 'cause she doesn't care that his ass looks like a damn Sharpei puppy face.
I'm just sayin'...

Thursday, August 9, 2007


How midlife driving differs:

I live in a neighborhood of blue-haired drivers, and I'm beginning to understand them. This is both dangerous and frightening. Back in the day, when I found myself going 20 in a 35 mph zone, it was because I had just taken the last puff off a big fatty with my friends in the car, and it never occured to me that my mental state had been altered in such a way as to emulate the blue-hairs.

Now-a-days, my patience level has replaced the haze of THC in my brain, and I applaud those who take their time on the road. Of course, after living and driving in Manhattan for 12 years, I also appreciate those lunatics who pull out of a strip mall, flying across oncoming traffic to swerve into my lane about 6 inches in front of my car. "Nice NY cabbie move," I say to myself. After being captive in the back seat of many a NY cab, I know that when it's your chance, you must take it, seize the day, make your move and hope for the best. The purest example of this was when my NY cabbie was in the far right lane of a 5-lane, one way street on 2nd Avenue and wanted to turn LEFT when the light turned green. I was pissed off because I knew where I wanted him to go, but he had obviously missed his opportunity. How silly of me. He studied the cross-street light, knowing more about split-second moves than a cat with his tail on fire. I could tell from watching his head bob and weave as he studied the scene that he'd been driving all night on speed and crack and was in no mood for pansy-assed weenies who were going to 'do the right thing' when the light changed. I braced myself, held my breath, and as the cross-street light turned yellow in anticipation of ours turning green, he made his move, tires screeching black rubber on the pavement. "Hold on!" he said. The stunned drivers on our left were only just lifting foot off brake toward the gas pedal and their forward progress. He had turned left, pulled to the curb and turned off his meter as he fist-pumped the air in triumph before they knew what had hit'em (or hadn't). When I realized that I was still alive by exhaling a month's worth of old air, we both burst into triumphant laughter. With wobbly knees and Jello legs, I exited the cab, gave him a $20 tip and said, "Nice move.'

Things have changed over the years. The other day I found myself sitting behind a young woman at a red light in the early morning on our ways to work. She had obviously left her house on the fly forgetting a few things. I watched as she adjusted the rearview mirror toward her face and proceeded to put on her mascara. I was mesmorized as she deftly moved the mascara wand gently up and down over and over. Of course the light had changed to green before she ever got to the left eye, but I didn't honk, I didn't scream and I didn't jam her back bumper for fear of blinding her. I just waited. Just as our light was turning yellow, she realized that she was in a car and not in front of her vanity mirror in the bathroom. She hit the gas and waved to me, still with mascara wand in hand, in thanks for my patience as if it was the most normal thing one would do in a car in traffic.

You can tell who the aliens are in my town, those who have moved here to change it into the same place they left in frustration. They honk at the slightest insult to their own driving habits and assume that they own their patch of road. It is actually illegal where I live, to honk unless one is in "imminent danger." They don't care. They're in a hurry, they're late, they are driving under the influence of rudeness. I just giggle and wait.

I will do almost anything to avoid getting on a freeway, consequently, I know every 'alternate route' known to man or woman. But I also know every beautiful neighborhood with canopies of trees, squirrels crossing the street, kids in strollers and birds flying low alongside my car as we both gently wind our way with the currents of the wind to our destination. I find myself looking at the birds and saying, "Nice move."


Well, I don't know what to say to that as I am still prone to shooting the finger at bluehairs who have no business being on the road and 'Jesus, Fucking Christ' is still my favorite epitaph when driving. I'm a really good designated driver when partying with friends at the local clubs because I am a safe drunk/stoned driver.

Wednesday, August 8, 2007

Grocery Shopping

How midlife grocery shopping differs:

The first thing I do is look for a parking space in the shade as close to the front door as is humanly possible. I have a handicap tag which I borrow from my ancient mother and I try very hard not to abuse it, but if it’s raining, it’s every handicapped for him/herself. I’m not above feigning a slight limp on my way in either, just in case I run into someone in a grocery scooter who is legally entitled to park in these spaces.

Next up is getting all germs and bacteria off the shopping cart handle before I touch it with bare hands. God knows how many small children have wiped their drooling, snotty, little noses and then asked Mommy if they could push the cart. And, I’m always appalled whenever I see an even smaller tot with its little bottom sitting in the front section of the cart which is so obviously constructed for womens’ purses. I would never ever ever put any fresh produce, for example, in that section of the cart for fear of cross contamination from those little, diapered human butts.

No more endless chit chat when confronted by someone I either know or knew and haven’t seen in years. These people always seem to turn up at the grocery store when I do. I have no idea why. It’s manspeak for me, “Hi, Genie, great to see you, planning a party, gotta run. Ciao.” They usually haven’t spit out their own salutation before I’ve rounded the corner from aisle 4 to 5. No time, not interested, looking for important items.

And, speaking of important items, they have changed over the years. I now seek flavored “dried plums” which is groceryspeak for prunes. When once I purchased items to keep my body looking good, I now seek those that serve the purposes of daily functioning only, and fiber is key. I am intimately familiar with the frozen food section. Cooking is for the young. I still shop in the makeup section of the store, but only for eyebrow pencil because my eyebrows went bald several years ago. I buy both wine and catfood in gallon containers. In addition to toothpaste, I throw a box of denture cleaner in the basket. I have to find room in the basket for these groceries because the middle aged always buy at least one potted plant on our way in or out of the store.

Muzac in grocery stores hasn’t changed since the Eagles had their first hit song which pleases me as I do the middle-aged-white-woman-boogie through the produce section. I have to contain myself from singing at the top of my lungs. My embarrassment at doing this went the way of my embarrassment over buying baby wipes to go along with the 8-pack mega rolls of toilet tissue.

Then we come to the check-out counter. I no longer reach for the National Enquirer, but eagerly scan through the Reader’s Digest Abridged Edition as I await my turn. I hand the clerk the sixteen coupons I have cut out of the Sunday paper. If I had a million dollars, I would still cut out coupons. It’s free money. I can’t help myself. I watch the items being purchased by the eighteen-year-old, tanned, tight-skinned young boy in front of me as they slowly roll along the conveyor belt and giggle under my breath at his stupidity and bad habits. I do also furtively glance at whoever is waiting their turn behind me, because I know they are judging my choices and giggling for entirely different reasons.

The only exercise I get on grocery days is schlepping my groceries from the cart out to my car myself so that I don’t have to do the superficial bagger chat with the nice young man or woman who would otherwise help me to my car, “Nice weather finally, isn’t it, Ms. Midlife?” “Why, yes it is.” (No, it’s not. It’s hot as hell.), “Oh, nice car, ma’am.” “Thanks.” (It ought to be. I earned it), “There you go, have a nice day.” “And the same to you.” (Right, whatever.).

If any of you middle aged have ever had just one of these experiences, please raise your hand. I thought so.


All of that is so true, especially about the baby's butts in the shopping carts.
When I go to the grocery store my cart is pretty colorless as I only like to eat things that are white; mashed potatoes, vanilla ice cream,, old, white men.
Yes, it's true, you can find rich, old, white men at the grocery store too. Just hang out at the Pepto Bismal shelf and if the pickins are slim you can sometimes find them loitering near the Stilton cheese with a bagette and bottle of Chateau Margeaux tucked under their elbows. Gifts for a dinner hostess no doubt. That's the kind of man I like, ones who comes baring gifts.