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.


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.




When Fish Attack

It’s a television show.

I ran across it during one of my late-night channel surfs.

I guess When Fish Attack is better than I Didn’t Know I Was Pregnant…..

….Or I Survived which is show on the Biography channel where some poor innocent describes how a deranged killer tried to sever their head with a rusty piano string or some such gruesome-ness.

And they run the clip over and over and over while I’m all alone, late at night, chasing sleep with a nice light Bio on Barry Manilow and WHAM…wide awake and scared shitless.

I need to just step away from the remote.

Why I’m Grumpy

Besides women who leave public toilet seats wet with their own urine, I’m grumpy because of Free Credit Report dot com. 

Since I sleep alone often (not by choice but rather circumstance), the T.V. is a nightly companion.   I turn the volume down really low when I’m ready to fall asleep… just enough to drown out any creepy noises.  

I hate creepy noises.  Always have.

Generally, I’m pretty brave but something  about shutting my eyes and surrending to sleep when I’m by myself has never been easy.  

Okay…I’ll say it!  I’m yellow… a fraidy cat….lily-livered, mamby pamby, a chicken. 

Happy now?

Well, I for one feel better for admitting it and this place is, after all, all about me so there.

And now back to why I’m grumpy (as if anybody really gives a shit but see previous statement).

There is one thing that can turn my middle-of-the-night fraidcat-ness  into full frontal aggression and that’s being jarred awake at 2 a.m. when that fucking Free Credit Report dot com commercial comes on and turns my subtle T.V. volume from soothing to sleep-through-this-regardless-0f-your-Ambien alarm clock.

Why is it that commercial has mega-watt sound?  It’s like, 20 times louder than even those male enhancement commercials which, given their time-slots and the fact that most people are watching them in bed with their partners (except me), might actually make sense.

Isn’t jarring volume used as a torture device in certain cultures?  (uh….like ours?)

Does anybody else find this irritating?

I’m assuming, of course, that there are other freaks out there with the same I-can’t-sleep-alone-without-the-T.V.-on problem which is presumptuous on my part.

I’m thinking stronger prescription.

Or I could just turn the fucking thing off.

The Dream Gods Must Be Crazy

Yeah, I know what you’re thinking:  “Holy shit!  Another post about this woman’s f-ed up dreams!”

But this one takes the cake.

Cast of characters: 

Jerry Paris who played Jerry the Dentist on the old Dick Van Dyke Show.

Ed Asner (yeah, Lou Grant but it’s not as crazy as Jerry from The Dick Van Dyke Show, right?)

My dog Kobe who inexplicably became BFFs with the neighborhood cat.  I can’t tell you how out of character this would be if it were real.

And last but not least, Zsa Zsa Gabor.   This is not a joke.  (Uh…is she still alive?)

Zsa Zsa was telling me what a great writer I was and how much money I was going to make.  I swear she said something about a million dollars for something I’d written.  I can’t place what it was but, damn, it must have been good.   I mean, if Zsa Zsa said it, it must have been good, right?  RIGHT? 

I remember in my dream thinking I better wake up and write this down.  Then I dreamed that I woke up and wrote it down, which I didn’t.  I had to wait until I actually woke up to piece it together which is no easy task since dream memory takes on a Swiss cheese quality once you get too far from it. 

Since the dream took place on a movie set, I suppose this motley crew kind of made sense but I still find it a bit disturbing.  I’ve struggled with it this morning.   I need to figure it out on my own since I’m certain this is waaaaay outside the expertise of the dream dictionary.

Ed Asner…okay…as long as it wasn’t weird.  Jerry Paris….right, he’s the director.  I can accept that.

Why Zsa Zsa?  Why her? 

Well, here’s my answer to that:  Last night I was watching a trailer for the new Celebrity Apprentice and Joan Rivers is one of them.  Holy cow, does she look awful.  Maybe I replaced Joan with Zsa Zsa in my dream?  If I remember correctly, Zsa Zsa didn’t look as awful as Joan. 

The mind has a way of protecting us in an odd way, doesn’t it?

Those Silly, Silly T.V. Shows

I’m not a big T.V. watcher. 


But I do spend a lot of time going through the program guide.  Browsing through 500 channels of crap keeps me constantly entertained.  My sister LOVES all those animal rescue shows.  I, on the other hand, can’t watch them.  Just seeing Animal Rescue Atlanta on the menu makes me cry.  Don’t get me wrong, I send kudos to the brave souls who give their time to rescuing animals in distress.  But my heart will shatter if I actually SEE them in distress even though I know they will be saved which is the whole point of the show.  My sister has a much stronger constitution.  She’s a teacher.


For me, the health and medical channels are the most interesting.  I never actually watch the shows, but the titles intrigue me.  One of these days I’m actually going to watch that show called The 400 Pound Tumor. 


But even more fascinating is the odd pattern I’m starting to see.  Here’s an example of the line-up I saw last week (actual shows):


My Small Breasts and Me


My Large Breasts and Me


I Didn’t Know I Was Pregnant


I wonder if it featured the same woman.