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.