Yes, You’re Old And We’re Going To Prove It!

I try not to think about how old I am. The thought of aging just pisses me off. But sometimes, it’s thrown in my face like a shaving cream pie of reality.

I made a plane reservation the other day. I don’t remember where I was going.  I just remember putting in my birthday:  month, day, no prob.  Then…year.  I was right-hooked upside the melon as only a drop-down menu of dates can deliver. I paged down and down and down some more as my sinking heart begged for mercy. Jesus Christ on a cracker. Really?  Who thought of this soul-crushing process disguised as convenience? Why not just give me the fucking blank space so I can type in my four benign little numbers that remind me of nothing?  Would that be so hard?  Instead, I have to see the seemingly endless parade of decades that have passed before. To you geniuses, I say this…

Dear Soul-Crushing ,Tech-Nerds,

Take a clue from the kind folks who eradicated the term “bifocals” with a vaccine called “progressives”.  There is no Age Related Stigma attached to glasses called progressives.  See the marketing genius there?  I want to kiss those guys. I want to have their babies if only I still had a uterus. But you? You’re cruel and insensitive. One day, you, too, will be making a plane reservation on-line. And it will hit you as it hit me.  And you will regret the folly of your youth. The callous disregard for the self-esteem of others. Your day will come, tech-nerds Oh, yes. Your day will come. 

Namaste, assholes.

 

 

Call Me Lisa

Romper RoomMy niece’s husband has a great sense of humor.  He fits in well with our family because we all enjoy taunting each other to see who can get the most laughs at someone else’s expense. No one is safe and nothing is sacred in this wholesome Lord-of-the-Flies-meets-a-Don-Rickles-Celebrity-Roast family tradition.

Recently, it was my turn to suffer through the taunts when aforementioned nephew-by-marriage [we’ll call him Sean]  had control of the conch. He summoned the other family members via a group e-mail and it was game on.  He sent a picture of Santa consulting a long list of good children he would reward. All my sibling’s names were on it. But not mine. He found it quite amusing.

Little did he know the deep, painful history this would conjure.

A history I will disclose to you now in all its dysfunctional glory…

It all started in The Time Before Cable Television,The 1960s,  In other words, four channels in glorious black and white one of which was host to my most cherished memory:  Romper Room.  It’s where I learned to be a good Do-Bee [despite forgetting what that meant during my adolescence and subsequent failed marriages where I engaged in lots of Don’t Bees but that’s for another time]. It’s where my fascinating with entertainment started. I was mesmerized from the start.  I wanted to be one of those kids.  What star were they born under that bestowed on them such a coveted gig?

Regardless of my misguided envy, I held out hope. Hope that one day, Miss Nancy would speak my name at the end show when she looked through her magic mirror. If I couldn’t be one of those privileged kids, at least I might hear my name uttered by the golden voice of my godess-like idol. Each day I would wait patiently for the end of the show, teetering on my Romper Stompers for good luck.

But she never spoke my name.

EVER!

Each day, I would collapse in a heap of steaming hot despair, gnash my baby teeth, wail to the highest heavens [there’s medication for fits of this nature today, but alas, I was behind the curve in those early years]. It brought my parents great distress.  My older sisters, on the other hand, would point and laugh and claim I needed a good spanking.

And now, thanks to the man who shall henceforth be called “Sean of the Doom”  I learn that my name didn’t even make it onto Santa’s top-twenty list fifty m-effing years later?! Even after all the years of repentance, all the years of self-improvement, all the years of I’m-sorry-I-was-just-too-young-to-knows…I still can’t make the grade.

Come to find out, my name didn’t even make it into the Top 100 Most Popular Female Names of the 1960s. Yes…I looked it up.

The number one name was Lisa.

I knew a couple named Lisa during my childhood. I have no good memories of either of them. One tortured me during lunch in the third grade, the other had an aversion to bathing and smelled like urine.

I don’t care.  I’m going to change my name anyway.

So, please. Next time you see me?  Call me Lisa.

 

 

 

See? See?!

This wasn’t a morning different from any other.  I woke up early, I stumbled to the kitchen for coffee which I can do with my eyes closed.  Thank the gods of sight for that because I had no idea where my glasses were.

For the record, my eyesight has decided to go south for the winter for some crazy reason [age] and I’m now reliant on my glasses more than ever before. I have contacts but they make me feel like I’m wearing SaranWrap on my eyeballs.  Since “protecting  taste, texture and quality” only applies to left overs, I keep the SaranWrap-wearing to a minimum.

In an effort to torture myself just a little more and illuminate the downward spiral of my visual prowess, I recently bought the 13″ MacBook Air. It’s  tiny and weighs nothing and it’s very easy to pack around.

I wish I could find it.

Anyhoo….so I’ve had my first cup o’ Joe and I can see slightly better than before, but it’s only enough to avoid  running into large objects like couches and baby grand pianos. If I want to write, I need my glasses.

So I went on a search, using the walls for guidance and patting the flat surfaces of my house in hopes of feeling them.

I hit pay-dirt on my night stand…

…And a conspiracy theory was born.

If you think there’s only ONE magnetic field phenomenon present on planet earth and it’s off the coast of Florida? And it only targets aircraft and boats? You’d be wrong, according to me!

These magnetic fields are everywhere!  Even our own houses!  Like a diabolical play-at-home version of Jeopardy or Wheel of Fortune without the nerds who collect beetles or Vanna and her oversized head. [okay, that was mean but kinda true, right?]. Only we’re not playing but rather being played!

Think about it.

If you ask me? One of these days, Spielberg is going to make a film about this cosmic force and there’s going to be a scene where scientists come upon two things:

1) An oasis of eye glasses in the Mohave desert stretching as far as the eye can see [unless, of course, the scientists are of a certain age and have to stumble over them rather than see them, but you get my drift]….

And..

2) A mountain of single, “disappeared” socks from every dryer in America.

…and all will become clear.

 

 

 

 

“You Might Get…Hairy”

A few years back, I travelled to Korea often on business. I started noticing that women there “of a certain age” seemed to all adopt the same look.  It was like every woman who was about the age I am now had the same curly-permed haircut and wore a blue windbreaker.   I didn’t give it much thought…until now.

First of all, I’m not terribly distressed over my age because I don’t feel like I’m as old as I am. BUT…my world is changing in subtle ways that I find fascinating.

Forgive me. That was a lie.  What I really mean is, it’s fucking irritating as hell!

For example, my doctor really, really wants me to have a colonoscopy all of a sudden. “Happy Birthday! We have a teenie, tiny, little camera with your name on it ready to be shoved up your bum along with the 400 other middle-aged folks we’ve got scheduled on the same day. Who knows? You may be the lucky winner of the Colon  ‘Sweep’stakes where we’ll feature your colonoscopy LIVE on YouTube!”

With all due respect to the Colon Paparazzi…..Please stop talking. I have bigger fish to fry.

Hormones…..An important component of my Avoid The Blue Windbreaker campaign.

HORMONE DOCTOR

Got your tests back. Good news! You’re not menopausal!

ME

Oh. I guess I’ll have to be nicer, then. I thought there was a medical explanation.

HORMONE DOCTOR

You’re a bit low on HormoneX, though. 

ME

Is that the one that dictates…temper?

HORMONE DOCTOR

Not exactly but I want to start you on a replacement regime just to be safe.

ME

You mean, my safety or the safety of others?

HORMONE DOCTOR

There are potential side-effects.

ME

Like stomach upset, dizziness, loss of appetite, high blood pressure, thoughts of suicide, risk of blindness, speech disorders, kidney failure, liver damage stroke, death?  You know, the usual stuff?

HORMONE DOCTOR

Hair. Four percent of women get hairy.

ME

I have a really good waxer. 

HORMONE DOCTOR

You may experience increased aggression.

ME

If I were any more aggressive, I’d be considered a virus. 

HORMONE DOCTOR

Easy peasy. We can fix that with other pills. 

Coming Soon:  Bone Density and Mood Swings: Are Happy California Cows The Answer?

 

 

 

 

“The Debate On Spanking The Dead….”

These are my glasses. They’re a lovely tortoise shell. I’ve been told they make me look studious.  One guy at a coffee shop told me they made me look rich. I had no response to that except something like…”uh….thanks, I think. Can you leave room for cream?”

But these glasses, although lovely and expensive-looking, have a fatal flaw.

They’ve stopped doing their job.

Now, don’t get me wrong. They didn’t just  become like a French airline employee and suddenly go on strike.  Nothing like that.  It was a long, slow process.

I first noticed a problem when reading news headlines on my laptop.

George Clooney arrested outside a Sudanese Bakery

Wow. Did he get a lousy bagel or what?

Oh, wait…It was outside the Sudanese EMBASSY.  Damn.

And then last week there was this shocking headline:

The Debate on Spanking The Dead 

What kind of demented mind thinks of  spanking a dead person?  That’s just downright twisted. Then again, so are those Real Housewife shows so I guess it’s not that far-fetched.

Ruh roh…wrong again. It’s the debate on spanking IS dead.  Ooops.

Time to retire, my lovelies. Tortoise or otherwise, we have grown apart.

By the way, I just read that  Moby Is Sworn In As President of Egypt.

Maybe some groovy techno will calm some of that unrest.  Let’s hope!

 

“Say Hello To My Little Death-Ray”

It’s a fact. Wrinkles suck.

And I am vain. I am not ashamed to admit it.

But there is hope for the wrinkly:  lasers.  They come in may forms, these lasers.  Fraxels, Yags, CO2s, Titans, IPLs, Palomars, Pearls, Active Xs.   I don’t really care what they’re called, I just want them to work. So yesterday I chose one. It was called the Something-Something-Ultra.

Oh yeah! Ultra! Bring it on!

It went like this:

A lovely technician in a white coat slathered my face with some kind of special ultra-super-mega cream.

ME

What’s with the primer?

LOVELY TECHNICIAN

It intensifies the laser.

ME

Does it make the Ultra extra Ultra? Or does it make the Ultra Mega?

LOVELY TECHNICIAN

Please stop talking.

ME

Okay, but—

She slapped some duct tape over my mouth, donned a hazmat suit and pulled out what looked like a ray gun and flipped the switch to On.   It sounded like the positron collider from Ghostbusters.  Her eyes  began to change, serpent-like, their eerie blue glow seared a hole in my psyche.

Hmmmm….I should have read the FAQs. I tried to mumble out a question but I just ended up sounding like Kenny from South Park and gave up.

I closed my eyes and thought of a calming mantra: A 25% reduction in fine lines. A 25% reduction in fine lines. A 25% redu—-

When I regained consciousness, I was sitting at the desk of an overly cheery receptionist who was grinning from ear to ear. She had little ceramic fairies all over her desk. She sees me eyeing them with disdain and giggles.

OVERLY CHEERY RECEPTIONIST

Aren’t they precious? I call them the Age Fairies. They’re our little laser clinic mascots.  Get it? Laser clinic Age Fairies?

ME

I want to smash the holy fuck out of them.

My foul mood did nothing to damper her irritating sweetness. She leaned forward, peered over her desk and whispered in a baby voice.

OVERLY CHERRY RECEPTIONIST

So?  How are we feeling?

I gingerly touched my face to check for open wounds.

ME

I don’t know about this “we” shit but I feel like a parboiled tomato.

OVERLY CHEERY RECEPTIONIST

How about an ice-pack?

ME

How about an air-lift to a burn unit?

OVERLY CHEERY RECEPTIONIST

You’re so funny!  Melanie said you did just fine.

ME

Melanie, huh?  That’s its name?  I hope Species in there doesn’t escape and mate with a human male or we’re all in deep shit. Do you take American Express?

OVERLY CHEERY RECEPTIONIST

Of course!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ten Reasons I’ll Never Look Like Gwyneth Paltrow

There are more than ten reasons and all of them are obvious so I won’t bother.  What I will bother saying is that it’s starting to get disheartening these days when everything I read seems to want to convince me to try.

The other day I was getting my hair done. It’s torture but I have to do it in order to stay a natural blonde. The only redeeming quality to having products laced with chemicals that will certainly one day shrink my brain to the size of a chick pea slathered on my melon is that I get to sit quietly and read. In an attempt to boost my fledgling ego, my gal usually gets me the latest Who-Has-The-Most-Cellulite issue of US Magazine.  I am ashamed to say it makes me feel better to know that I share the bane of a dimpled ass with the likes of Reese Witherspoon.

Last time, however, it wasn’t US iMagazine that awaited me but rather something called New Beauty: The World’s Most Unique Beauty Magazine.  It was a “special edition”. Two hundred glorious pages of how to be all I can be.

It was enlightening, this New Beauty.

I will now share 10 Pearls of Wisdom gleaned from these hallowed pages for those still cowering in the dark recesses of Old Beauty.

1.  I can “look like I feel inside” [I didn’t realize that looking more dazed and confused than I already do is attractive but, hey, whatever works]

2.  How to identify when a wrinkle becomes a crease [When scotch-taping my neck skin to the back of my head stops working?]

3.  You can Unlock the Code to Visibly Younger Skin [Aha!  It really IS an ancient Chinese secret and it has nothing to do with clean shirts!]

4.  There exists a Powerful Combination That Delivers Flawless Skin [just be sure you have 220V power in your basement for the belt sander. It’s Step #1]

5.  How To Find Your Perfect Scent [Newsflash: it’s not Mitchum-for-Women-who-sweat-like-men deodorant which was my first guess]

6.  SculptMyDream.com is NOT a web-site where you can build your very own cyber-lover.

7.  There are selfless male medical professionals who have “spent their entire careers focused on facial aesthetics.” [I love you, man!]

8.  How to Fight Fat The Right Way [And I thought all I had to do was give up cheeseburgers and Doritos. Silly me!]

9.  There is an innovative new treatment that uses the “prey-paralyzing protein found in Temple Viper Venum” to fight those nasty crow’s feet [Note to self: get professional help dealing with my Ophidiophobia before use.]

10. I have many anesthesia options. [Phew! Biting down on that hickory branch was wearing out my teeth enamel]

But the learnin’ don’t stop there, beauty seekers!  There’s whole list of cool new terms and product names to learn and remember:

Thermo-active firming serum, idebenone, accelerated retinol SA, Effectiose, Retinaldehyde, eye-illuminating duo luminous, lutein-rich Environ Iozyme C-Quence, Vespera Bionic Serum, Optilight Essentials, peptides, pore-minimizers, pre-flight face defense, post-flight hydraters, and a bunch of other p-words with no vowels.

If you’re not into the chemical shit, here’s a list of really natural stuff [from all around the world if you’re into increasing your global consciousness] that cool products are made from:

Hibuscus, centella asiatic, knotweed, arctic cloudberry, gardenia, Himalayan raspberry root, Tibetan goji berry, Icealandic moss, mineral-rich Dead Sea algae, Mississippi River Mud pack, Three-Mile-Island-guess-you-didn’t-know-that-toxic-waste-was-good-for-you foaming face wash, and a whole host of other exciting things…and that was just in the first 50 pages!

I take back what I said.  Jules as Gwyneth may not a pipe dream after all.

Thanks New Beauty!