Sunday, August 23, 2015


I know there are more like me out there. You know who you are. Like me, we are the ones with the magical refrigerator vision who can see where the mustard is parked in the door shelf. Or the two gallon jug of milk on the top shelf, in front, when "those who live in our shadow" peer and peer into the box of chill and see nothing.

We are the only ones who are able to manage "The Google" and can find the articles/instructions/recipes that are required immediately, because planning ahead is another skill lacking in those who are not us.

We are the only ones who know how to make the washing machine remove all the dirt and smells and instruct the dryer not to shrink the clothes before we impart our magical folding skills that annihilate all wrinkles.

We are the only ones who can enter the grocery store and exit with the exact items everyone in the family wants without overdrawing the checking account.

We are the ones who, in a medical emergency pinch, know exactly the medicine/ointment/pill to use because we are the only one who can calmly read a label in the midst of death throes screaming.

Perhaps it's a backhanded way of saying "I love you." More likely it's an anointed tribal position where we are designated the family medicine woman/man.

It doesn't matter that they could all figure things out themselves if they had to. It's just that we can do it ever so much faster/better/cheaper.

My 89 year old mom is understandable. She is old. She is in the years where watching the aftermath of forgetting is as entertaining as her crossword puzzle.

My sweetie is a man of great accomplishment who is used to having a personal assistant take care of the day to day minutia. But there is no more P.A. present. Just my magical self.

Then there is the teenager. The 16-year-old who wants to be so independent. "Mooooommmmmm, you don't have to worry...I can take care of everything myself. But would you please do my laundry/pick up my room/find the bread/find me a bandaid.... etc.

Understand, I love being needed so. It's a sweet elixir of existence. And oh so addicting. Of course I'll do that for you, because you could NEVER IN THIS LIFETIME DO IT AS WELL YOURSELF.

It's absolutely true. I fear for my loved ones, because I know that some day I will be old. And I will forget things myself. Like where the mustard lives in the refrigerator door shelf and how to google where the nearest pharmacy is for my old woman pills, and how the check is magically delivered to the place that makes the air conditioning run. It's going to happen. And then what will they all do?

So I'm reading this.....

Get back to me in 70 years to see if it's worked. 

Monday, February 09, 2015


When men see a hot woman sitting at a bar, all alone, they will crawl over each other to talk to her, send her drinks, slip her their phone number. Then they will high five each other in the bathroom or back at the table, after one of them actually scores. But only one. At a time.

These same men, when confronted with an identically hot woman who is with her boyfriend/husband/brother/male cousin/dentist will pat her companion on the back, give him a congratulatory thumbs up on choosing the finest woman in the room, and then shrug his shoulders as he walks back to the waiting guys to deliver the news that she is "taken." Because "taken" means off limits. Stand back. Respect the territory. 

When women sees a hot man at a bar/restaurant/grocery line/gas station pump/proctology waiting room, either all alone or with friends or with his wife and 5 children, they will walk over each other's dead bodies, their stiletto heels sinking deep into each other's eye sockets, to seductively ask the man if there is anything

 (as in A N Y T H I N G)

they can get him, as they slide their business card with their cell phone written on the back sealed with a zitz of perfume and the note "call me...I'm SOOO lonely), into the first pocket they find. Then they will hunt down any woman with him or who has approached him, talked to him or thought about him, befriend her and take her down any way they can. The same behavior applies for job openings, shoe sales and the last pint of Ben and Jerry's Cherry Garcia ice cream on a dateless Friday night.

Women have no code when it comes to territory. There is no respect whatsoever for territory. The stronger one woman mistakenly believes her territorial boundaries to be set, the more powerful the onslaught will be from other women. It's rather like throwing down the gauntlet or slapping a dueling glove into an annoying little minx-ette's face. 

Young, old, fat, thin, well dressed, sane or crazy - a hot man of any connection is open season. Unless he is gay. Then, honey, watch out because you will be destroyed. No one is more deadly than a protective male gay lover. We attached females can learn from their elegant and lethal techniques. I wish one of them would write an instruction manual. Honestly. 

For the rest, if you have the challenge of being in a relationship with a hot man, especially one who sees nothing wrong in flirting aggressively because he likes the attention and considers it the incorrectly labeled "hapless" woman's fault if she thinks there is actually a party at the end of the invitation, then you will need to prepare some defensive and offensive techniques. Because these women are going to keep coming back for a perceived offer of "more" and will stalk your boyfriend/husband/dentist until they finally realize nothing will actually come of it. Or unless your boyfriend is in reality a cheating 'ho who has lost the power to say "no," and these women have no self respect whatsoever or are completely delusional and believe they are going to win in the end. And you have yet to receive relationship ending confirmation of said philandering behaviors. 

I am in such a position. It is not fun. It sucks the light out of the room, and the air out of the lungs. It is exhausting and disrespectful. But I soldier on, because I do love the man and have prepared some, so far effective, techniques. One involves a large trunk at the end of the bed. 

I would detail them more here, but remember, we have no code, so why the hell would I share?

And, by the way, one of the places where I have found the worst examples of this behavior on the part of we heartless women is church. Especially when it's the pastor who is the hottie. That one baffled me, until I came to learn how pervasively awful we women are to each other. 

We have no code. And there is no code medicine. Maybe it's the instinct we need to keep the herd going. I don't know. 

Next time around, I want a different planet.

"Can I get you .....anything else??"