A  woman’s self-esteem, as it relates to her hair, cannot be understated. And when things go wrong, it’s akin to being stripped naked and paraded through a shopping mall on the eve of an unfortunately overdue Brazilian. (Thanks, Sandman, for bringing me that horrifying dream, you sick fuck!)

A hair disaster can bring on nothing short of social paranoia. The Aggrieved Unfortunate is convinced everyone is staring at her. (Writer speaking in the third person to protect her nearly pulverized psyche)  Even if they don’t know her and therefore couldn’t possibly know what her hair looked like pre Hair Apocalypse, she thinks they’re staring.

They are.

She feels it.

She cinches her hoodie tight around her fried noggin, her posture reduced to the slump of the publicly humiliated.

Not even her friends recognize her as she reveals the source of her shame. Their greetings, once warm and comforting, have been replaced with dismayed half-smiles of “Holy mother of God, what has she done?” and ever so slight recoils of disgust… as if getting too close might infect them with her hair-brained disease.  She gives them a cryptic warning. “Don’t bother with the hand sanitizer. It’s airborne. I caught if from breathing in some cockamamie idea I got from a hairstyle magazine that made me believe I wanted to look like Miley Cyrus.”

They stare a little harder.

“Yeah. Yeah. I know. If Andy Warhol and Tilda Swinton had a love child, it would have this hair color. I’m going to get it fixed on Saturday.”

And Saturday comes….

Alas, the fixing has failed.

And it’s worse than she could have imagined. Any trace of what remained of her erased…washed away in a diabolical brew of chemical color not found in nature or otherwise.

“Now you look Irish,” one helpful friend blurts out.

“It’s just not you,” another offers, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. (from a safe distance, of course)

“Then who the hell am I,” Andy-Tilda The Irishwoman cries. “Who? Who? Who??!!”

And thus begins the slow, agonizing process of rebuilding the woman she once recognized in the mirror as Herself.  She’s come to terms with it now. Every day a little better. Every therapy session one step closer to regaining the self-esteem she so cavalierly tossed away that fateful day.

Oh, what a price we pay for our mistakes, my sisters. Oh, what a price.





If You Stop Swimming, You’ll Die!

My husband has the attention span of a lightning bolt.

And he’s a little rough around the edges but his heart of gold makes up for it.  He’s the kind of man who wears generosity like some people wear t-shirts.  He drags home interesting people he meets at airports or on golf courses and comes to the aid of friends and supports his community and recycles and lots of other great stuff that I love.  In a word, he’s a character. And I just love characters!

I’m thankful that his ADD isn’t ADHD which is to say his attention deficit doesn’t come with hyperactivity.  He’s not frenetic in his energy but rather……hmmmm… do I put it??  He kind of flows like a river…. A really fast moving river….with lots of big boulders that he just rolls over like they’re not even there because, after all, that river has to get somewhere fast, right?

So, the other day we’re in LA for a wedding and in typical flowing river form he’s in a hurry to get to the wedding so we can be there early so we can wait for said wedding to start.  If he had his way, he would have gotten that wedding going ahead of schedule because, well, he arrived early and it would be really great if we could get this show on the road so we could all hurry up and get to the next event and get it started early and so on and so forth until he’s rushed about 4 years off his life.

As he was rushing me along as is his M.O. (he hates it when I wash my hair because that means blow dryer and blow dryer equals more time to get ready which equals the possibility of being on time rather than early) and I got frustrated.


God damn it!  You’re like a fucking shark!  You think if you stop swimming, you’ll die.  Now leave me the hell alone so I can put on my mascara without putting my eye out!

This stopped him in his tracks.

Then he laughed out loud.  The kind of laugh that makes my heart sing because it was me who caused it and I love to make him laugh.    And this guy can laugh at himself like nobody’s bi-nuss.  Something else I love about him.

When we got home, I was determined to get to the bottom of that shark swimming reference because I had read something about sharks and drowning if they stop swimming.

Ah ha!!  Found it.

It’s called “ram ventilation” and there are certain breeds of modern sharks that actually will drown if they stop swimming.

Naturally, I sent him a text to extol the brilliance of my shark death research:


I was right, shark man!


Then I guess I should keep swimming.

Good point!

The Discovery

Sometimes I buy things on-line that shouldn’t be bought on-line.

Like desk chairs.

Big mistake.

This one required assembly and I do not possess good assembly skills.

It was also too big and I kept whacking my toes on it because it stuck out from the desk too far and nothing pisses me off more than fucking up a fresh pedicure so something had to give.

Said chair now resides at a re-sale shop associated with a very worthy and distinguished charitable organization that, hopefully, is not frequented by buyers who don’t like fucking up their pedicures. 

Perhaps a nice man will buy this otherwise perfectly fine desk chair.   I’m sure he wouldn’t mind the Ragin’ Cajun polish chips embedded in the chair’s wheels.

After I wrestled this behemoth out of the back of my car and wheeled it in to my friends who volunteer there, I took a load off and had a chat during which time another generous lady dropped off a dusty, vintage box that contained something that looked like a vibrating grenade. 

Fortunately, it wasn’t a grenade because I don’t think they take grenades as a rule just like another shall-remain-nameless resale shop wouldn’t take the baby gate I tried to unload on them because they don’t take anything “that protects babies”.  They did not seem at all bothered by the dry-cleaning plastic that covered a coat I was donating.  I hope somebody with a baby doesn’t get that plastic wrapped coat since baby safety is not a priority with this shall-remain-nameless resale shop.

The vibrating grenade turned out to be a Stimu-Lax machine.  Now, to me, anything that contains the word “lax” conjures images of something that wouldn’t necessarily be the size of a grenade so said vintage box required a closer look.

The Stimu-Lax was a hand held vibrator from probably the late 50s or early 60s thus the vintage packing.  The woman who dropped it off cheerfully told us that she used it all the time when she was a kid.

Uh  huh. 

After she left, we opened it. 

Inside we found a pocket-sized paperback.  A national bestseller called How to Make Love to a Man by Alexandra Penney.  It was bright pink with a pair of lipstick lips on the front of it. 

It was “The sexiest book of the year” according to Self Magazine.

Naturally, I sharked the book since a blog opportunity of this magnitude does not come along often.  After all, a totally fine desk chair was a fair trade for a 25 cent book and there was no way in bloody hell I was leaving that store without that book.

I mean, come on! An entire book devoted to making women feel like sexual idiots?  I was in h.e.a.v.e.n.  I tore into it with the enthusiasm of a little boy with a book of matches and a can of flammable liquid.  I hadn’t been this excited since I found a travel-sized dildo in a Gucci purse my friend wanted to put on E-bay.  She was quite happy to be reunited with it, by the by.

But I digress.

The book was better than I thought.  I was on ridicule overload.  I think I actually had a spontaneous orgasm when I read the chapter headings:

Beating the Jitters (Funny. But it would have been funnier if it was Beating Off the Jitters don’t you think?)

Giving Yourself Permission(To use the Stimu-lax?)

Oral Sex Step-by-Step (There’s actually a learning curve?)

Gee, I had no idea that “learning oral sex is a little like learning to swim” and that “…in swimming, you’ve got to remember your breathing” (as opposed to holding your breath until you pass out which is always a mood killer).  Thanks, sex book!  You’ve saved my husband some future 911 calls!

Here’s the kicker….

Just before I absconded with the sex book, another lady of similar age spotted the Stimu-Lax .  “Oh, I used to play with one of those when I was a kid.” 

Uh huh.

Miracle Ear

Since I’m obsessed with those As Seen on TV products (even though none of them work worth a shit), I’m on the verge of ordering one of those nifty eavesdropping devices.   The ones that sort of looks like a hands-free cell phone receiver? 


Of all the products I’ve seen and ordered, this one has got to be the coolest!  I am dying to find out what my neighbor says about me when I go to my mailbox sans bra in a stretch-out wife beater tank and my favorite plaid flannel jammie pants with the frayed bottoms.  Or better yet, what salespeople actually say about me after I walk out the door with a pair of jeans designed for someone half my age that I will more than likely return once that lunchtime martini wears off and I’m left with a brutally honest full length mirror that I swear my husband purchased from a carnival as a cruel joke. 


This is what I suspect he/she is saying as I walk out the door with my over-priced pair of jeans:




OMG!  Like, she was so, like, not red-carpet, you know?  I mean, she was like, a size 29!!


Actually, they were probably a size 30 but I subscribe to the belief that size does NOT matter.


So…I’m still debating which one of those gossip magnifiers to buy.  There’s one called Loud ‘n Clear and another one called Listen Up.  It’s a tough choice but that As Seen on TV products web-site is full of super cool products and sometimes I have trouble staying focused.


I recommend that site to everyone regardless of the bogus claims that the products actually work.  I’m like a moth to a flame every time I go there.  I strongly suggest checking out the Personal Care section.  There, you’ll find a DVD collection called Better Sex Video Series on the same page as a product called Blo and Go. 


Am I crazy or do those two products contradict each other?

I Am Not A Heartless Woman!

Why did I just think of Richard Nixon??

Anyway, I feel the need to post a disclaimer on The Life is Sacred Winnebago  story.

Although my post is based on initial observations brought on by long suppressed voyeuristic tendencies, I feel that they may have come across the wrong way and that’s bothersome to me  (as if admitting to being a voyeur  isn’t bothersome enough).

The RV is occupied by a woman, not an unfortunate family down on their luck.    I do not poke fun at people down on their luck (exception politicians and/or assholes who deserve it).

Where I live, odd people and odd goings-on are part of the landscape.  It is what I love about living here.  There is an ecclectic mix of bohemian artists, aging hippies, young successful people who bring a vibrance to the landscape, older rich people who give alot to the community, immigrants, military folks, people who have come here because of an inexplicable pull that they cannot escape;  every type of humanity you can conjure resides here. 

And it is fertile ground for those of us who love to observe (notice the subtle way I inject the word “observe”) and find humor or poignancy, whatever strikes the fancy.  It is an endless source of fascination.

A few examples of real people in my community:

A guy in Carmel from a wealthy family who dresses head to toe in tartan.  Maybe he auditioned for Braveheart but didn’t get part and never got over it?  Not sure but he’s a nice enough guy and all the bartenders around town know him.

Or the funny little man who shuffles around town (at a pretty good clip, I might add) with a paper shopping bag full of I don’t know what.  He motors EVERYWHERE muttering to myself but never speaking to anyone.  No one seems to know where he’s from.

My personal fave:  the woman in Pacific Grove who uses a Shetland pony as a service animal.  This seems like it would be cumbersome but it works for her.    I just LOVE ponies!

Or the woman who fought to have chickens in her back yard (they have cute names like Chloe and Diana, I think).  They’re quiet so who cares?  But it did cause quite a neighborhood split with pro-chicken people pitted against non-chicken-loving people.    The woman won (a Russian immigrant) who just wanted fresh eggs, damn it!

And yes;  Winnebago Lady. 

Damn!  Guess my pleas to the po-leece of  “Do your job and get that fucker outta here”  will go unheeded.



I have this annoying….. affliction.

Every time I have blood drawn, I faint.  Not your average, run-of-the-mill lightheaded out-for-a-second episode  but rather the flat out, goodnight Irene, should-we-call-911 sort of thing where I wake up face down with office-issue carpet fibers in my teeth.  It’s a bummer.

I have tried to work my way through this with mind-0ver-matter b.s. that seems to just make it worse.  On top of that, nobody ever wanted to believe me when I said I was a fainter.  It would go something like this:


Uh, listen.  I’m really sorry but I’m one of those people who faints and knocks over everything in the room.  Since there’s a whole lotta metal around here, it’s libel to break an eardrum when I drop.


Oh, that’s what they all say, sweetie.  We’ll just lean you back and you’ll be fine. Just don’t look.


I never look.  But I really need to be supine.


We really don’t have a place to lay you flat.   This’ll be over in two shakes of a lamb’s tail, hon, so let’s just get the show on the road, okay?


Um…. I really need to be—


Listen up, candy ass.  Have you seen that line out there?  I’ve got 2 elderly regulars  who want to feel me up, followed by five  felons from county and at least 20 others who, all together, probably won’t whine as much as you.  Now roll up that sleeve and shut your cake hole.

I do as she says.  And I do as I said I would. 

It has been an ugly and stressful cycle that, over the years, has forced me into a sort of  no bloodwork moretoreum which is not a healthy thing.  

But I have found a cure:   mind altering pharmaceuticals.

I was first turned on to them by my dentist who promised a pain-free, “sedation” experience.  All I can say is…. I freakin’ LOVE my dentist.   The drug she gave me was the bomb!  I didn’t care what they did to me.  They could have given me a mouth full of Mickey Rourke gold and I wouldn’t have cared. 

So I got this bright idea.  Why not take this miracle one step further? I’ll take it before I get a blood test!

Since I now have this really awesome doc with a very caring staff, I approached him with the idea.


Doc, I want to take this really cool mind altering drug before I have my blood test.  I want your nurse to lay me down flat, put a blanky over me and let me drift off to dreamland while you do that medieval blood drawing shit, kay?


Sure….whatever you want.

Ditto on the  love thing here.

So yesterday I put my theory to the test with stellar results! 

The only down side is that this drug knocks you on your ass and also has a sort of “amnesiac” affect. You have to have a designated driver to take you and pick you up.  My good friend, Jen was the lucky contestant!

Another downside:  you have absolutely no inhibitions and people can ask you ANYTHING and you’ll tell them.  A potentially dangerous proposition if said designated driver wants to ask you questions about your shady past. Jen, dear girl that she is, spared me and kept her questions to herself. 

Ummmm…… at least I think she did.

Why hasn’t she called?

You Take Package And Go!

A funny thing happened to a friend of mine recently. 


A delivery or stuff she ordered went astray and she had to track it down.   It was quite an impressive bit of detective work, I must say.  In another life, I think she was a sleuth of some sort. Yeah, that’s it… a sleuth.  That’s a cool word… sleuth.  My favorite word is tsunami but I think sleuth just made it into the top ten.


The following is based on true events but the  names have been changed to protect the innocent. 


The Story Goes: 


A lithe young woman bounds up the wooden stairs of a compact Victorian apartment building.  This is CHLOE.  She knocks on the door and waits.  No answer.  She pulls a notepad and pen from her backpack and scribbles a note, sticks it on the door


Day Turns to Night:


Chloe drives up slowly and eyes the front door of  the Victorian.  The note on the door is gone.  She climbs put of the car and knocks on the door.  There are tentative footsteps beyond the door, then silence.


CHLOE:    Hello?


MAN’S VOICE:  Go away.


CHLOE:  Um… I think you have a package of mine.  UPS said they delivered it here by mistake.  I left a note?  With my phone number?  I didn’t hear from and thought—-


MAN’S VOICE:  I say go away!  I have restraining order.


CHLOE:  What?


MAN’S VOICE:  You are conniving woman!  You play tricks on me!


CHLOE:  Look, dude. You don’t even know me.  I don’t know anything about a restraining order but I do know you have my package.  Now open up or I’m calling the cops.  And by the way, conniving is not a flattering word.


MAN’S VOICE:  You are in… uh…. cohorts with ex-wife.


Chloe’s patience is being tried at this point but she really, really wants that box and calls on her inner zen-child to get the job done.


CHLOE:   No I am not. And the word is cahoots, not cohorts.  I am NOT in cahoots with your ex-wife.  I don’t know your ex-wife, whoever she is.  Look, I’m freezing my ass off here and I really just want my package so please just hand it over and I’ll get out of here, okay?


MAN:  Maybe you are ex-wife.


CHLOE:  Uh…. clearly, if you open the door, you will see that I am NOT your ex-wife.


The door opens slightly and a dark eye peers out at Chloe from behind the chain.  The door shuts and the chain rattles.   The MAN opens the door just enough for Chloe to see inside.  Beyond the MAN is a mattress on the floor, stacks of books on translating Turkish to English and a cardboard box with its contents strewn about the room.  On the outside of the ravaged box is printed:  As Seen On TV.


Chloe is pissed and all decorum goes out the window.


CHLOE:  That’s my stuff!


Chloe cranes her neck to see around the MAN.


CHLOE:  Those are my Tater Mitts…. and my Strap Perfect bra converters. 


MAN:  I call my attorney.


CHLOE:  Call this buddy!


Chloe shoves the door open and the MAN stumbles back.


CHLOE:  Give…me…my….stuff.


The MAN sees she means business and scrambles to collect all the products that are scattered everywhere.


Chloe points at a small box buried under some bubble wrap.


CHLOE:  And don’t forget that.  Those are my Smooth Away Hair Removal Pads.  I haven’t shaved my legs in 10 days and I’m getting extremely cranky.  Just get everything and there won’t be any trouble.


The MAN shoves the box at Chloe and she stomps away.


CHLOE:  Freak




Chloe gets a text from an unknown, but local, phone number. 


TEXT:  You are cute girl.  Maybe should we meet.

I Am Not An Advertising Victim

The other day I read an article in the Economist entitled The Way The Brain  It talked about marketing firms and the experimental tactics they use on all of us out here in consumerland as they try and figure out how to get us to chose this brand or that or convince us that not using Janitor in a Drum will undoubtedly result in a slow decline into filth that will land us on Oprah’s couch  pouring our hearts out about how we got in this germ-infested mess and can she please, please hook us up with one of her experts?  She has one for every disorder. 

Personally, I’m not so gullible as to be taken in by some ridiculous ad campaign that promises something I know it can’t deliver.  Really!  I’m not!  Take these golf balls for example.  Clearly, they are targeting a male audience.  They use suggestive phrases like “get long” on the packaging.  The back of the box promises even more:  Are you experienced?  Then you know it’s all about being free.  Free to groove your swing.  Free to hit that thing. Free to play the day away”. 

What guy wouldn’t want to groove his swing or hit that thing? 

How do I know what’ s on the back of the box, you ask?  Well… I bought them.  For myself.  But I want everyone to know that it I did NOT buy them because I’m sucked in by the subliminal messages or the catchy phrases or any of that other psycho-nonsense they described in the article.  No, no no!

I bought them because they’re so cool! 

Come on!  MOJO!?  

And the colorful box!? 

And they’re Nike, the coolest company with the coolest athletes. 

I will be a totally cool golfer with these puppies. 

I hope I don’t lose them all. 

But I can buy more, right?

Found It!


I thought I’d lost my holiday spirit. 

I was beginning to worry.

But then I found it.

And then I ate it. 

Well, not all of it.  I had accomplices;  my fellow diabetics-waiting-to-happen, Lauri and Jen.

Please ignore the unadorned cookie at the top that resembles a hand flipping the bird.  It’s a hand flipping the bird which isn’t very festive.  It was made especially for my husband by his restaurateur bud, Joe Rombi.  It’s his and wife Lauri’s kitchen we used to shake and bake these puppies.   It’s full of cool cooking stuff and monster-sized ranges and hulking refrigerators.  Jen and I explored every single one.  Laurie was patient but kept a close eye on us.  We were, after all, searching for our Holiday Mojo and I’m sure she thought we’d catch something on fire or break the Robo Coupe machine that blends all the awesome I-talian food she’s always shoving our way which, of course, we’re obligated to eat since we usually pay for it.  Oh, what a glorious day it was.  The restaurant was closed and we had the place to ourselves.  It was better than any grade school field trip I remember, that’s for sure. 

We wore chef suits…..



Some of us needed help with the buttons.  Sooooo complicated, you know.

I got mine buttoned on the first try because, well, I have superior kitchen skills and this is my blog and I said so.








Here is the nimble hand of the masterbeater whipping in the blue dye with lightning speed  (It’s probably Laurie but I don’t want to name names).  I did not know blue was a holiday color but it was  Laurie’s place and we didn’t feel right pointing it out since she was being all nice to us and we were making a ridiculous mess.  So… since this is my blog (did I mention that?)  I’m going to say it now:   Laurie, blue is not a Christmas color.  I’m just sayin’!!!!

Wait!  There’s more to this picture…..

Look closer…..

Notice the lone spoon on the table smeared with the evidence left behind by some carbo-starved perp who thought it wouldn’t be noticed.  This is how it starts, my friends.  First it’s an innocent taste and then…..




Well… it’s sad.  So very, very sad.


(But I’m getting help.  It’s my ’09 resolution)









Just remember not to drink ALL the cupcake batter.  Gotta have a little left over to bake! 








And don’t forget to pay tribute to your favorite Rastafarian.  R.I.P. Bob Marley.


Happy Holidays, y’all.  




P.S.  I love you Laurie and Jen!  And Joe… even though you made a mockery of the holidays with your bad-finger cookie.

Do Not Attempt

I’m into safety as much as the next guy but sometimes I wonder why so much time and money is spent on trying to save me from myself.  I never thought I was particularly  dangerous but maybe there’s been a paradigm shift in the universe that has put me on a collision course with some unknown force of nature that will eventually destroy me unless I’m warned about…I don’t know…. the  dangers of synchronized driving  with 20 identical compact cars on a closed  course.  They must think I’m a moron. I don’t even KNOW that many people with the same car as mine. 


And another thing; I would never, I mean never, wear a gorgeous red evening gown while crushing an old washer and dryer with a steamroller.  So, advertising guys, no need for the DO NOT ATTEMPT warning at the bottom of my T.V. screen.  I think I know enough to put on a pair of 501s for a job that big, okay?  Jeez, this is getting tiresome!


Last week, I walked into my spin class ready for an hour of torture by an 85 pound woman whose perkiness makes me want to commit a felony holding my personal cooling device (also known as a cheap plastic fan) under my arm only to be greeted with an odd safety question by one of my fellow spinners:


“Is that a helmet?” she asked. 


I forgive you, Kord.