Real Women Don't Bake Quiche

I’m what you would call an avid sports fan.  For better or for worse, usually worse, I root for the NY Jets and overall, I consider myself a football fanatic.  When I say a fanatic, I mean I know football inside and out.  I don’t watch it because my husband watches it or because I want to see young men in tight uniforms.  I watch it because I love the thrill of athletic competition and I’ve made it my business to know the game.

But as a woman and a sports fan, I find the token women “sportscasters” who are popping up all over the sidelines particularly annoying because if they didn’t have an earpiece or a cue card to read off of, wouldn’t know if they were standing on a gridiron or a waffle iron. 

I also have trouble with the ‘cutesy’ women fans who have no other inclination than to jump on the band wagon for whatever team wins the most; and in my neck of the woods, that’s the Giants and Yankees. 

A young girl I work with has a NY Giants candy dish on her desk.  As I stood nearby one day I heard a Dallas Cowboy fan convey his hatred for his team’s NFC east rival.  The young girl giggled and commented that she rooted for both the Giants and the Cowboys.  Now anybody that knows football knows it’s not humanly possible to root for both the Giants and Cowboys.  It’s like saying you don’t care who wins the seventh game of the World Series between the Yankees and the Red Sox (if they could play each other) because you like both teams.  It’s just not done.

I’ve often wondered if my husband would rather I kept my mouth shut and didn’t argue with him over whether or not Eli Manning is an elite quarterback or if he would prefer it if I just sat back and drooled over the young men in their tight uniforms.    Truthfully I wish he’d button his mouth and ogle the cheerleaders.

Now I Know My ABC's

Have people in general lost their collective minds when it comes to sound parenting skills?  Because, as a society, they are raising over-indulged, ego-maniacal, know-it-all twits. 

My husband told me that on his way home from work one night he saw, hanging in front of a house, a 4’ by 8’ banner emblazoned with the phrase  “CONGRATULATIONS ON GRADUATING FROM PRE-K.” 

Now a few things come to mind here, not the least of which is: can a Pre-K kid even read that?  And secondly, what’s the requirement for graduating from Pre-K:  Competitive Pooping?  Vomiting for Distance?

Be afraid.  Be very afraid.

Next Time Mayan Your Own Business

It’s December 21, 2012 and I’m sitting at my desk at work.  It’s 8:04.  Damn Mayans.

I didn’t set my alarm this morning but my dopey dogs woke me around 5:00 am.  I heard the intense wind and rain.  It was all very promising.  The guaranteed time for my earthly departure was promised to be 6:11.  I wasn’t going to get up but my dogs wanted to eat.  I tried to explain that they didn’t want to go to the afterlife bloated, but they didn’t care.

I woke my husband at 6:00 and told him he had 11 minutes left.  He asked me if I wanted coffee; I told him no.  Who wants to be spinning towards the netherworld with a full head of steam? 

The appointed time came and went.  I blinked at 6:11 but I was still here.  Nobody keeps their word anymore. 

Do you know that people actually prepared for this?  I heard that some folks were building strong houses, quite nice in fact, with enough food to last them a good long time.  They were prepared.

Amateurs.

You want prepared?  I didn’t clean my shower or shave my legs.  

Damn Mayans.

Now, not only do I have to pick up take out tonite for dinner, since the only food I have in my house is the brown rice I was leaving for the cockroaches, but I imagine I will have quite the wait at motor vehicles.

What do you want to bet somebody institutes a class-action lawsuit due to extreme credit card debt?

Damn Mayans.

The Art of Gift Giving

My husband is a very generous man.

One year on Christmas I was playing Santa Claus, handing out the gifts that were under the tree.     

I pulled out a big box and looked at the tag.  It said the gift was for me and was from Santa.  Was that supposed to confuse me?  I mean, it was my husband Jack's handwriting and I’m not 4 years old.

I un-wrapped the gift, opened the box and to my surprise and pretend delight found that inside was a genuine Riddell NFL Jets helmet.  I mean, I’m a big Jets fan but what on earth was I supposed to do with that thing, use it as a shower cap?  Not to mention the fact that the stupid thing cost $285, but what the heck, it was Christmas, right, and aren’t we just supposed to be gracious and say thanks?  So that’s what I did.  I thanked Jack.

I pulled out the next big box and looked at the tag.  It said the gift was for Jack and was from Santa.  That confused me because it was my husband Jack's handwriting.  He generally acts like he's 4 years old.

He un-wrapped the gift, opened the box and to his pretend surprise and delight found that inside was a genuine Riddell NFL Giants helmet.  I mean, he’s a big Giants fan, but what on earth was he supposed to do with that thing?  He’s going bald for God’s sake.  Not to mention that fact that the stupid thing cost $285, but what the heck, it was Christmas right, and aren't we just supposed to be gracious and say thanks?  So that's what he did.  He thanked himself.

We scrimmage out in the front yard.

When the Time is Right, You'll Be Frozen

Can someone please explain to me the significance of the bathtubs in the Cialis commercial for erectile dysfunction?   

If you haven’t seen the commercial, I’ll paint a picture:  two bathtubs, side by side, outside, usually overhanging a cliff, and all you can see is the back of two people’s heads; one in each tub. 

Was there a study done that claims that if a man sits in a tub long enough his erectile dysfunction will go away?  Is that the connection?  What if the water is cold?  Didn't we learn anything from Seinfeld?  Or are they pointing out that a side effect of the drug is that you will develop an intense need to invest in mountain living and outdoor plumbing? 

Then they interview couples to discuss “when the time is right.”  And although they don't come right out and say it, they mean when the time is right to have sex.  If the time is right, wouldn't it make more sense if they were both in the same tub?  That's the commercial I'd like to see.

Sign O' The Times

Was Netflix not the single greatest invention of its time since Al Gore patented the microwave oven?  I mean, really, could we get any lazier as a society? 

All I had to do was roll myself to my mailbox with my donut and Latte to receive a veritable plethora of movies that they pulled from my ‘queue.’ Then I rolled myself back to my couch where I sat on my cellulite ridden behind for hours on end watching an endless parade of films and TV shows with no threat of late fees. 

Then, when I decided I’d seen enough and wanted something different, all I had to do was waddle my way back down to the mailbox.  The most strenuous thing that was required of me was that I put the flag up.  And I could probably have paid somebody to do that for me.

Now, as if all that wasn’t easy enough, you can stream almost anything you want instantly to whatever device you have.  How did that come about?  Did somebody complain because toddling to their mailbox had become too cumbersome?  Honestly, how quickly do you have to watch every episode of American Idol?  Pretty soon they’ll start beaming the movies right into our heads while we sleep so we can critique them over a dozen eggs, a pound of bacon and a loaf of toast at breakfast.

Thanks to the Internet, we are rapidly becoming a society that will have no need for honest to goodness face to face contact with another human being. 

Personally, I can’t wait.    

See It, Be It

Since I’m a world famous blogger, with millions of fans around the globe, I have to have a keen eye for the bizarre.  I have to be at the ready at all times so that when I see it, I can make a note about it so I can comment on it later.  I know you’re all counting on me.  And I’m up to the task.  I’m the ultimate professional.  I carry a pen and notebook. 

The other day I found a piece of paper with one of my observations on it.  It said “Popsicle Sticks on the paper.”

As soon as I remember what the heck that means, I’ll be sure to tell you about it. 

I’m sure it’s hysterical.

It's No Free For All

Professional sports is the only place on earth I can think of where small, old white men, without weapons, can step in the middle of big black men fighting, order them to stop, and not only get away with it, but penalize them for it as well. 

Picture Perfect

My husband and I took a ride out the other day and as we drove down our block I saw that a neighbor of ours was having a patio put in.  There were 4 or 5, what I am assuming were Mexicans, doing the labor. 

On our way back home I realized that another neighbor, who seems to have some sort of allergic reaction to lawn mowers, had his lawn professionally mowed every week by, you guessed it, Mexicans. 

At that moment it occurred to me that when we had our property professionally landscaped many years ago, it was done by a team of, well, Mexicans.  In fact, every time we need some maintenance done on our property, it’s done by Mexicans. 

Then I got to wondering, why isn’t all of Mexico a nicely landscaped place?  It’s obvious these folks have a real knack for mowing, seeding, planting shrubs and building patios and decks.  So why does it always look so dilapidated and run down?  When I posed this question to my husband he said it’s because of a bad economy and because the people that live there are too poor to purchase what they need. 

What a shame.  Clearly these people have the know-how and ability to create some magnificent landscapes.  Somebody should tell them that tourism would increase ten-fold if, after they snuck out of the country and fixed up our property, they snuck back into theirs smuggling grass seed and Scott’s turf builder.

L-L-L Losers and the Jets

I was born into the wrong family.  I don’t mean a family without money either; I mean I was born into a family that roots for the Mets and Jets.  You know, losers.

The N.Y. Jets have a quarterback issue right now in that their current quarterback, Mark Sanchez, stinks.  As a football fanatic, I listen to all of the Sports talk radio shows and this is what the experts are saying:  one of the reasons the Jets have to play Sanchez is because of his 5 year contract.  In 2012 he stands to make about $11+ million and another $8+ million in 2013 and similar amounts in 2014-2016.  And because he stinks, the Jets can’t trade him because no one will want him at that price.  Rex Ryan, Jets head coach, has staunchly supported Sanchez week after horrible week.  Why you ask?  As one analyst put it, coaches have to be very careful with their quarterback’s psyche, because if they criticize them, they’ll play even worse.  Yesterday, during the football game I actually heard Brian Billick, TV announcer and former coach, say that if the Jets coach pulled Mark Sanchez, he would be “done” emotionally. 

Really?  At $11 million, he can afford a team of competent psychiatrists to help ease his bruised ego.  Not to mention any number of apt female companions, all willing to “help” him through his pain.  As far as his contract goes, they’re gonna have to pay him if he wins and pay him if he loses.  I say let him sit on the bench and give someone else a chance. 

More importantly however; and something no one is addressing:  what about the psyche of the average fan, me in particular, and how this has negatively affected me?  And what about the psyche of my poor dog who, after Sanchez threw his third pick, got hit in the head with the towel I threw.  

Curses to my mother and father.

Tell Me Where it Hurts

Men have all the luck when it comes to heart attacks.  Their symptoms are very clear:  chest pain, numbness in the arm and then boom, heart attack.

In women, the symptoms are much more vague and can appear to be any number of different ailments.  For example, women’s symptoms are:  feeling tired, sick to the stomach, scared or nervous, headachy and pain in the belly.

Add a jelly donut and that’s my day.

Fairy Tale Reprise

My husband is an idiot.

I’m sure you’ve all heard the children’s story ‘Jack and the Beanstalk.’  Well, boys and girls, here’s a little story I like to call ‘Jack and the Power Washer’, or ‘The Idiot and the Industrial Strength Machine He Should Not Have Used Since He’s An Idiot.’  And it goes like this.

Once upon a time there was an Idiot named Jack who wanted to power wash his house so he borrowed a very, very big, very, very powerful industrial strength Power Washer from a Professional who performed that task for pay.  The Professional was an Idiot too, of course, because he lent it to Jack, who was an Idiot.  When he was done with the house, Jack decided that he needed to power wash his dirty, filthy sneakers with the industrial strength power washing machine.  The only problem was that Jack, who was an Idiot, was still wearing the sneakers at the time.  Poor Idiot Jack.  Because of the sheer force of the water, and the point blank range, Jack couldn’t control the industrial strength Power Washer and he missed his sneakers entirely and power washed his right leg! 

Everything turned out OK for poor Idiot Jack because even though he ripped the skin clear off his leg, the 3200 PSI of water immediately cauterized the open wound and there was no blood at all!  Isn’t that fascinating? 

The Moral of the Story is this boys and girls: Never let an Idiot do what the Professionals get paid for.  The End.

The Only Thing We Have to Fear is Food Itself

I was listening to talk radio one night and the topic was phobias.  As an acute sufferer of claustrophobia, I would never be one to criticize, but the woman who called in actually said she had a fear of – are you ready for this – condiments. 

At first I thought I had heard it wrong, like maybe she said condoms, or condominiums, but no, it was condiments.  She went on to explain that if she were to attend a BBQ she would be afraid of what was going to be put out on the table. 

I don’t think the radio host was prepared to discuss how to handle a fear of deranged catsup bottles, malicious A1 sauce or homicidal mustard so he said thanks for calling and moved on to the next nut. 

And I thought to myself, as a child, was this poor woman attacked by an errant jar of relish?

The Drinks are on the Ho...use

Have you ever heard ‘The Pina Colada Song?’  If you’re not familiar with this little ditty let me fill you in.  It’s about a guy who decides to cheat on his wife after looking through the classifieds.  Let’s take a look at the lyrics: 

‘I was tired of my lady.  We’d been together too long.

Like a worn out recording of a favorite song.

So while she lay there sleeping, I read the paper in bed.

And in the personal column, there was this letter I read.

If you like Pina Colada’s and getting caught in the rain

If you’re not into yoga, if you have half a brain

If you like making love at midnight, in the dunes of the cape

I’m the lady you’ve looked for, write to me and escape.’

So let’s recap.  The guy is lying in bed, obviously horny, trolling the personals looking for someone to fool around with.  Isn’t that a refreshing musical concept?  You can really tap your foot to that one.  You know what I say?  No more newspapers for this guy.  That’s what I say.  Instead of reading them, he should be getting hit over the head with them.  Clearly they present too much stimulation.  I can only imagine what he’s doing on the Internet. 

And the song continues:

‘I didn’t think about my lady.  I know that sounds kind of mean.

But me and my old lady had fallen into the same old dull routine.

So I wrote to the paper, took out a personal ad 

And though I’m nobody’s poet, I thought it wasn’t half bad.

Yes I like Pina Colada’s and getting caught in the rain.

I’m not much into health food, I am into champagne.

I’ve got to meet you by tomorrow noon and cut through all this red tape

At a bar called O’Malley’s where we’ll plan our escape.’

Isn’t he clever?

So now we learn that the guy is so desperate to get away from the “old lady” that he places his own personal ad because he must escape the following day by noon.  Why the rush?  I mean, was the wife chasing him around the kitchen with a meat cleaver or putting itching powder in his shorts?  And all he really knows about the woman he is desperate to escape with is that she’s a horny, out of shape 

drunk who doesn’t know enough to come in out of the rain.  ‘I didn’t think about my lady – I know that sounds kind of mean.’  Kind of mean?  Really?  That’s kind of an understatement, no?  I’ll bet he doesn’t even like Pina Colada’s.  Isn’t that a girlie drink?

Moving on:

‘So I waited with high hopes then she walked in the place

I knew her smile in an instant; I knew the curve of her face.

It was my own lovely lady and she said ‘oh, it’s you.’

And we laughed for a moment and I said I never knew.’

What a twist!  It was the wife all along!  Isn’t that hysterical?  It must have been, because they laughed for a moment.

In the end what we have here are two equally deceitful cheats with such disdain for each other that they are willing to hook up with the first lunatic who answers their ad and run away with them.  But once they find out it was the other, well ho ho ho, never mind.  Frankly, they deserve each other. 

What an uplifting song.  Why it didn’t win a Grammy, I’ll never know. 

I See a Tall, Dark Idiot in Your Future

I graduated from Douglass College in 1983 (insert joke here:  98% of the women in New Jersey are good looking; the other 2% go to Douglass).  My degree was in Theater Arts, specifically Playwriting.  For those of you who are wondering how that parlays into lucrative employment;  it ranks right up there with Basket Weaving.

I had a lot of electives to fill so for the heck of it I took various Psychology courses.  I remember a particularly fascinating article I read in one class that said a study was done in which 500 college students went to see a psychic and each one of them was told the exact same thing.  Amazingly, 496 of them said the psychic hit the nail on the head.   People are stupid.

On my way home from work every night I pass the same little pink house with a sign out front indicating the woman is a psychic and Tarot card reader.  The sign always reads “Open” but I’ve yet to see a car in the parking lot.  So I was wondering, if she’s psychic, wouldn’t she know beforehand when someone was going to be dropping by wanting a reading?  Shouldn’t she only open up when she knew someone was going to come by?  Or am I missing something?

Tip This

Is there any establishment, anywhere on the planet that doesn’t feel compelled to stick a tip jar in front of my face these days?  It isn’t bad enough that we have to supplement the salaries of underpaid waiters and waitresses, now you can’t walk into a Dunkin Donuts without finding a bowl on the counter with a sign that says ‘Tips for the Workers’ with a big smiley face on it. 

I recently saw a tip jar on the counter of the ‘take-out’ section of a restaurant. Isn’t that priceless?  I ordered the food, drove to the restaurant, got out of my car and walked into the building to pick it up and after the pimply faced kid behind the counter took his finger out of his nose, he turned around, removed my order from the shelf behind him where somebody else had placed it, and handed it to me.  And I was supposed to tip him? 

Here’s a tip for you.  ‘Go to college and become a doctor so you don’t have to depend on the kindness of people like me.’

It's Beautiful, Baby

Can someone please explain to me why bald men who wear toupees don’t realize that what they’re trying to hide doesn’t look half as bad as what they’re trying to hide it with?

Please give.....me a break

I am tired of being harassed by snot-nosed kids who stand outside supermarkets and large box stores dressed in their football uniform or cheerleading outfit collecting for their squad so they can either buy new uniforms or go to some ridiculous competition in Florida.  Like I care about that.

I don’t mind donating, but if somebody wants me to reach into my pocketbook for some cash, it’s gonna have to be for a worthwhile cause or disease, not so some mope can play sports.  And I’m not talking about ADHD or ODD either.  I’m talking about a genuine disease that kills scads of people or a natural disaster that creates unparalleled panic and widespread grief.   Those are the good ones.

The parents can pay for new uniforms or for trips to Florida.  And if they can’t afford it, that’s too bad.  These kids won’t die if they don’t play football.  They're probably not that good anyway.

And to you, snot-nose:  the next time I walk past you and decide not to contribute and I hear you sarcastically tell me to “have a nice day” I’m gonna key the first car I see in the parking lot that says ‘Football Mom.’

Walk Fit

As a nation, parents are raising lazy, fat, coddled children.  At least they are in my neighborhood.

One morning on my way to work I made the mistake of taking a short cut through a residential area.  The road I was on was 1.1 miles long and the bus made 14 stops.  I am not making this up.  I counted. 

The bus stopped at every corner and each time it stopped, one kid got on.  That was after he made a show of hugging and kissing his parents good bye, of course.  Can you believe this behavior?  And the parent’s went along with it!  Sometimes the bus couldn’t even make it to the next corner; it would stop at some kid’s driveway, where there would be more hugging and kissing.  It was a regular love-fest. 

And the parents were all in their pajamas, slippers and robes.  I thought that somewhere along the way I must have slipped into Oz because it didn’t look like anybody worked for a living.  I had to look out my window to make sure there were no yellow bricks under my tires.  Or midgets. 

Why are parents allowing their children to be so lazy?  Couldn’t they walk a few blocks to catch their bus with some other kids?  I mean, come on.

Now I’m not gonna lie and say I walked 8 miles to school, uphill, barefoot, in the snow, but I at least walked 3 blocks to catch my bus.  And no one kissed me goodbye. 

I’m not even sure my parents knew where I went to school.

Hoity Toity

I’ll bet I know who invented the concept of ‘covering one’s plate’ at a wedding:  the first woman to have the gala event at a place she couldn’t afford.  Or Al Gore; this sounds like him. 

If I get invited to a wedding at the Ritz Carlton, why is it that the dollar amount of my gift has to be sufficiently large enough to pay for the food I’m eating when, if I attended the same wedding for the same couple at the local VFW, I could get away with giving the happy duo a Crock Pot?   Why do I have to fork over more of my hard earned money than I want to because some people want to show off?  Shouldn’t the theory be that if you pick an expensive place it’s because you can afford to pay for it, not because you’re expecting your guests to give you big gifts to make up for it?  If I have no say as to where the wedding is being held, then it’s the couple’s responsibility to pay for it.  Because if I have to pay more for a fancy place like I’m a financial backer for the shindig then I’m coming along on the honeymoon.  And I’m bringing my dogs. 

So to anyone out there considering inviting me to your wedding:  I’m giving you what the going rate is, possibly less, irrespective of where the event is held.  You picked the place; you cover my dish.  And my drinks.  Oh, and my parking.  You’re lucky I’m coming. 

This is why I hang around with poor people with low expectations. 

Baby It's Cold Inside

I used to think I was thrifty.  I keep the air conditioner set high in the summer and the heat set low in the winter.  I’m trying to economize but my husband tells me I’m cheap.  Truthfully I don’t know anymore. 

One night last winter I left a carton with some uneaten ice cream in the sink and the next morning it was still there.

Chimps Only, Apply Within

I was thinking the other day about that horrible story where the woman kept a chimp in her house that attacked her friend.  I have a question.  Where were the lawmakers in this situation?  Obviously you feel bad for the person that got attacked, but as an animal lover, I also felt terrible for the chimp that had to be killed. 

Now I don’t profess to know all the facts, but I doubt the chimp answered a “Room for Rent” ad in the paper and went to live with the old lady voluntarily.  So why are we surprised when animals, who are taken out of their natural environment and placed in a situation they have no business being in, act like animals? 

I live in a small town where the ordinance says you can’t have more than 4 dogs, but I wonder if there’s anything on the books about chimps. 

I know the poor old lady lost her husband and kid and was looking for companionship so I felt sorry for her.  But for God’s sake if you’re that lonely and unstable, get a fish and name him Harvey.

Take My Family, Please

A dear friend got me a tee-shirt with the following words printed on it:

‘Friends are God’s way of making up for relatives.’ 

You betcha.

It's Not That Easy Being Green

I often wonder about things that define certain aspects of my life.  Since I’ve been married 3 times I periodically ask myself, ‘Is it me?  Am I the one to blame in my failed marriages?  Do I do stupid, foolishly thought out or childish things?’  And I generally answer myself, ‘No, I don’t think so.’  But then I wonder...

Many years ago when I was in college, there was a very attractive young man in one of my classes who I wanted terribly to strike up a conversation with.  One day while peeking at the teacher’s roster I noticed the name “Kermit” printed on it.  A host of things started swirling through my mind like, honestly, who names their kid Kermit?  I thought this might be an interesting ice breaker with my handsome classmate, Buddy.  

A few days later I worked up the courage to approach Buddy.  I asked him if he knew there was someone in the class named Kermit.  He smiled politely and asked me if I was kidding.  Knowing he would be ridiculously impressed by my sense of humor, I continued.  I asked what he thought a Kermit might look like.  If he thought he might be green or have a pig for a girlfriend.  Oh, we had quite a laugh.  I babbled on for a few minutes, making joke after Kermit joke.  The next thing I knew Buddy was taking something out of his pocket.  What was this I wondered?  Why, it was his driver’s license!  But why was he showing me his driver’s license?  Oh.  After that I’m kind of fuzzy on the details. 

When I think back on that occasion, I ask myself, how am I to blame here?  I mean honestly, who names their kid Kermit?  Buddy was just fine. 

Oddly enough, we never dated.

A Picture Is Worth a Thousand Words

Why is it that people in the workforce who have offices insist on facing the pictures of their loved ones towards the hallway so that the rest of us have to look at their wives and children as we walk by?  Isn’t it humiliating enough that they have offices; do we have to be subjected to looking at pictures of their suntanned faces as they lounge on a boat in the Caribbean?

Besides, if they love their families so much shouldn’t they want to be the ones looking at them? 

Do you like to look at the pictures of co-worker's families?  I don’t.  I don’t look at pictures of my own family.  Hell, I don’t even have any pictures of my family in my cubicle.  I only have pictures of my dogs. 

Do people who have offices just keep their families quiet by bringing their pictures to work and pretending that they’re looking at them when they’re really not?  Do these people turn the pictures to face themselves when their loved ones come to visit?  And what do you think the loved ones would say if they knew that their pictures were facing the exit door when they’re not there?  Why on earth do these people want to visit our office anyway? 

Years ago I asked my husband why he didn’t have a picture of me on his desk.  Honest to God this is what he said:  “But...I sit out in the open.”  What a guy. 

And It's One, Two, Three Strikes You're Out

On my drive home from work every day I pass the same local AA ballpark which, from time to time, advertises concerts and flea markets when there are no games going on.  Every upcoming event is emblazoned on an enormous electronic street-side billboard which I believe is visible from outer space. 

One night the billboard boasted that Bob Dylan, Willie Nelson and John Mellencamp would be performing there together.  Was that supposed to be some sort of geriatric coup?  Bob Dylan and Willie Nelson used to be icons; what was John Mellencamp there for, to throw out the first bedpan?  And when was the last time Bob Dylan put out an album; the Nixon administration? 

What goes through a man’s mind when he agrees to take a gig at a AA ballpark whose main food staples are peanuts and cracker jacks?  The seating capacity barely exceeds 3,000.  What’s that, like, 1,000 fans per guy?  I know people with more friends than that on Facebook.  Are these guys that strapped for cash?   

I think that when you’re reduced to doing concerts at Major League Baseball AA affiliate ballparks; it’s time to call it quits.  Or perform at the Super Bowl.

Labor's Pains

People need to stop being so plural these days.  I simply cannot stand it when I hear men and women using the phrase ‘We’re pregnant.’ 

Explain to me how exactly both of them ended up pregnant.  She is.  He’s not.  End of story.  And you know that all of that sharing and good cheer will go right out the window the first time the little bundle of joy poops himself.  That’s when the pregnant husband decides that ‘YOUR kid needs a diaper change.’

And it doesn’t end there.  I remember hearing a professional golfer, whose wife was diagnosed with cancer say “we are starting treatment in July.”  Is he kidding?  I’m pretty sure that when she’s puking her guts out, he’ll be on the back nine.      

I Do, I Do, I Do

I’m on my third marriage.  When people ask me how long I’ve been married, I say “to this one, or do you want an aggregate total?” 

I was told recently by a friend who had gone to marriage counseling that first marriages are now considered ‘starter marriages’ and that people really don’t know what they’re truly looking for until the third time around.  Who knew I could be such a loser and trendy all at the same time...

My first husband was Czechoslovakian.  My father used to say he was a Pollock with a job.  The day we got married I realized the reception hall was located between a Medi-Merge Emergency Hospital and a bar.  In hindsight I should have either gone to the right and gotten drunk or to the left and had my head examined.  That marriage lasted two years.

My second husband wanted to get a tattoo on his arm of the Tazmanian devil with a thought bubble over his head with my name in it.  I immediately told him not to, citing concerns over dirty needles and possible diseases.  And all the while I’m thinking ‘marriage is one thing; tattoos are forever.’ 

For our first Christmas he got me a vacuum.  A few years later on my birthday he bought me a Dirt Devil.  I can’t help but think there’s a message in there somewhere.  Actually I think it was less a comment on my housekeeping and more of a statement of his romantic side.  When I sent him out to buy stamps for our wedding invitations, he came home with the Lunar Landing.

My current husband and I went away and got married in a hotel room in Baltimore by some man the hotel recommended.  I think he was a minister; or he could have been the mayor; or maybe a ship’s captain.  He could have been a hot dog vendor at Camden Yards for all I know. 

We got married on New Year’s Eve which happened to be a Sunday that year and you can actually see the NY Giants on the TV in the background in a few pictures, because nothing screams wedded bliss like an NFL linebacker. At least our heads weren’t cut off in that shot.  Remember these words, all you soon-to-be brides, from someone who knows:  Never let the man who parks your car take your wedding pictures. 

Is This Wrong?

Consider the following lyrics:

“Imagine no possessions

I wonder if you can.

No need for greed or hunger

A brotherhood of man.

Imagine all the people, sharing all the world.

You may say that I’m a dreamer, but I’m not the only one.

I hope someday you’ll join us, and the world will be as one.”

John Lennon 1940-1980

“Sister Suzy, Brother John, Uncle Ernie, Phil and Don

Uncle Michael, Auntie Gin, open the door, let em in….

Someone’s knocking at the door, somebody’s ringing the bell, someone’s knocking at the door, somebody’s ringing the bell.  Do me a favor, open the door and let ‘em in.”

Paul McCartney.  1943 – Present.

I’m not trying to offend anybody here but is it possible that Mark David Chapman got that backwards?

And it Makes Me Wonder

If Pfizer, Bristol-Myers and Johnson & Johnson all merged, would they be called P, B & J?  Just something I was wondering about.

Do I Know You?

I was driving to work the other day and it occurred to me that you can tell everything in the world about someone just by reading the back of their car. 

Here’s what you can find out:

Their profession

Their religion

How many kids they have

Their kid’s names

What sports they play

What charities they donate to

Where they spent their vacation

What their other car is

Their nationality 

If their kids are smart

What sports their kids play

If their kid is a cheerleader

What animals they rescue

What their hobbies are

What sports team they like

What university they attended

Their favorite rock band

What radio station they listen to

If they carry a gun

If there are any children in the car

If they lost someone on 9/11

If they are a union member

What diseases they have

It’s endless.

But strike up a conversation with someone in line at the supermarket and you’re a weirdo.

Boobies Here, Boobies There, Boobies, Boobies Everywhere

I was listening to a debate on talk radio the other night and the topic was whether or not it’s acceptable to breast feed in public.  Frankly I don’t like it.  One of the arguments “For” is that it’s a natural biological function.  Is that supposed to make it OK?  Because the last time I checked, going to the bathroom was a natural biological function too, but I’m pretty sure there are laws on the books prohibiting public urination. 

So why the double standard?  Is it because of the innocent association with babies or because the law makers are men and there are boobies involved?

Many years ago I was at a friend’s house and she asked me if I minded if she breast fed her daughter.  It was her house; what was I going to do, tell her no?  So I said, “sure, it doesn’t bother me.”  Now, my friend sports 40 DD’s on a non post-pregnancy day.  I don't think I can estimate how big this thing was.  All I can say is that when she whipped that thing out it was like a cannon engulfed the room.  I didn’t know where to look. 

It made me blush that day almost 30 years ago, and I feel certain that I wouldn’t need to witness it, 30 years later, at Motor Vehicles.     

An Apple a Day

You know what I’m sick to death of hearing about:  Kids who have ADHD.  As far as I’m concerned, they don’t have a medical condition, they’re just bored, overindulged kids with ‘non- parenting’ parents who either can’t or won’t discipline them.  And the kids know it too.  There’s no such thing as giving your kid a firm swat on the butt anymore.  You can’t.  If you do, you’ll be brought up on charges because your five year old has DYFS on speed dial on his Smartphone. 

Instead, we have the ridiculously inefficient disciplining tool called ‘Time Out.’  And when that doesn’t work, the parents load the kids into the Cadillac SUV and haul them off to the doctor’s office for evaluation.  The doctors, who wouldn’t dream of telling the parents to discipline their kids, have instead created an entire disease state dedicated to this ‘condition’ and simply write prescriptions.  The parents, in turn, can then medicate the little offenders into a drug induced coma.  It’s an epidemic I tell you. 

And if that wasn’t enough, the other day I was reading about something called ODD.  If you haven’t heard about this doozy, I’ll fill you in.  ODD stands for Oppositional Defiant Disorder which I take to mean ‘Child will behave opposite of how you want them to.’  This isn’t a disorder, this is a disobedient child and boy did my father have the cure for that.  I believe the Latin term for ODD is Rottenbrattius Wontlistenus Nincompoopus. 

The day parents were told they could no longer hit their children because it was bad for their self esteem was the day it all went down the drain.  If I were a doctor I'd write the following on my prescription pad:  Hit Daily or as Needed. 

‘Time Out’ indeed.  Whatever happened to ‘Teeth Out?’ 

I fear for the next generation.      

Brave New World

Here’s my definition of 21^st century irony in the workplace.  The other day a Puerto Rican woman I work with was complaining about all of the Indians.

Lofty Aspirations

Here’s the job I want:  naming nail polish colors.  Ladies have you seen this?  The last time I was at the Salon waiting for the nice Chinese lady to ring me up, I started to look at the nail polish on the counter. 

I noticed that a certain brand had colors in a series.  One series was obviously “French” because the individual polish names were ‘A Oui Bit of Red’, ‘Bastille My Heart’ and ‘I’m Fondue of You.’  Isn’t that clever?   

What I want to know is; what are the qualifications for this job?  Do you need a college education or would attending a frat party be enough?  Because personally, I think I could be good at it. 

I’d like to do a series called Medical Afflictions.  I’d have a shade of orange called ‘Clogged Arteries,’ a nice shade of blue called ‘Erectile Dysfunction’ and a soft shade of purple called ‘Kidney Stones.’  Now that’s clever!

Hey Jerry, I've Got Something For You

Have you looked in the oral hygiene aisle in the supermarket lately?  Choosing a husband is easier than picking toothpaste.  It’s amazing.  The choices are endless:

Iso-active whitening

Antibacterial dry mouth

Enamel Strength

Enamel Shield – Protection Against Acid Attack

Pro Health – Night

Essential Care

Multi Benefit

Multicare Whitening

Total Whitening Gel

Total Whitening Paste

Age Defying

Fluoride and Liquid Calcium

Whitening Booster

Training Toothpaste

Baking Soda and Peroxide

Baking Soda and Peroxide Whitening – Oxygen Bubbles – In two great flavors    

Advanced Fresh

Advanced Whitening

Gentle Whitening

Extra Whitening

Tartar Control plus Whitening

Tartar Protection Whitening

Fresh Impact

Full Protection and Whitening

Triple Protection - Healthy Gums-Strong Teeth-Fresh Breath

2x Whitening

Whitening Plus Scope – Three great flavors

Sparkling White – Two great flavors

Luminous Enamel Strengthening – Two great flavors

Mint Strip Gel

Clean Mint Paste

Max White Mini Bright Strips

Max Fresh with Mini Breath Strips

Whitening Expressions – Six great flavors

Brilliant Sparkle

I don’t know about you but I think there’s something wrong with a society that has more choices of toothpaste than the South has teeth. 

There were more but I was getting a lot of dirty looks because I was blocking up the aisle writing down the names of toothpaste. 

If the old Seinfeld cast gets together to do a reunion movie I have the perfect topic.