Some Days You Just Have to Pee in Your Seaweed Wrap

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shaving

Making lists of spring cleaning chores to get the house, the yard, and my car cleaned up for summer, and it made me wonder why I wasn’t doing the same for ME. I looked down at my body and peered into the mirror at my face, and decided I needed the same summer tune-up the rest of my life got every spring. I’ve got more miles on me than my car, so if IT needed help, God knows I did. Called up a local spa and booked a 5-hour “Rejuvenation Package” for half a month’s salary, promising to put the glow back in my face and the shimmy back in my shaker.

When I arrived, I was ushered into the softly lit back room, with the sounds of baby whales and lightly cascading waterfalls in the background. I was handed a plush, soft terrycloth robe (I’m SO taking this home) and instructed to leave my clothes and personal belongings with Brooke, who would store while I was having my “experience.”

First stop was the Weigh-In room. Since I ALWAYS weigh in naked (do you know how many pounds clothes can add? Or sneakers? Or hair gel?), I balked, not ready for Helga to see what I don’t show the neighbors. If I’d have know then what I would know 5 hours later, when Helga would know more about me than Kenny did, I would have dropped that robe and stepped up without a backward glance. At that moment, however, I still had a shred of dignity intact. That wouldn’t last.

Next stop, the Mud Bath. Large vats of, well…mud, that I was instructed to sit in (yes, still naked) to “detoxify” my pores and rid my body of poisons from my recent trip to The Burrito Palace and last night’s second bottle of wine. 20 minutes later, I may be detoxed, but I’ve got mud in places Helga was never going to get it out of, and we headed for the Wrap Room.

Helga raved about the youthful properties of the seaweed wrap, designed to “sweat out impurities and excess water” (maybe it’ll get to that leftover mud, but I’m not sure God himself could find it at this point), while she proceeded to paint me in green gunk which I assumed was the “seaweed” portion of the seaweed wrap, then tightly wrappeded me in giant sheets of saran wrap until I look like a shrink-wrapped bratwurst. She helped me lie down, then dimmed the lights and told me she’d return in 30 minutes. It was at this point I realized I had to pee.

I’m not talking “Gee, at the next gas station, could you pull over?” kind of have-t0, but the “I’ve got to pee RIGHT FREAKING NOW” kind of have-to. I looked frantically around the room for a bell or some way to call her back, but the door was shut tight and I was sucked tight as a Space Saver bag, so I did the only thing I could. I peed. In the seaweed wrap. What the hell, there was at least 4 pounds of sweat and impurities already inside the damn thing, just waiting to be hosed off. If Helga knew, she never mentioned it. She’s so getting a big tip.

Next up, the Waxing Room. Helga laid out half a dozen paint brushes, then brushed hot wax on my eyebrows and upper lip. A minute or so later, she rips my tiny hairs out by their screaming follicles, and repeats the process on my legs. (Apparently youth is best exhibited by one’s resemblance to a hairless cat.)  Then I saw her eyeing my lady parts. Oh, hell no. Since I haven’t worn a bikini in roughly 3 decades, and I’m never planning to go to Brazil, I told her to just get that thought out of her mind.

After the facial (an hour of Helga glaring at my pores through a 5000x magnifier, “tsk, tsk’ing” while she attacked them with a tiny weed whacker), and the mani/pedi (pumicing so much skin off my feet, I felt like I’d been on a Tony Robbins fire walk), we were done.

Helga was right. I did look 5 years younger, and I positively glowed in the dark. I figure if I do this 7 more times, I’ll look 20 years old. I might have to rethink that Brazilian bikini wax after all.

 

 

 

I’m Right. You’re Wrong. Why Are We Still Fighting?

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funny-angry-cat-bed

I love my in-laws. They’ve been married almost 60 (as in sixty) years, and they still hold hands. Dad-Ralph is very much like Kenny. He’s passionate, stubborn, proud, and not afraid of a little high-volume conversation. But I’ve never seen Ralph and Lois actually fight. So I recently asked her if, in all their seemingly blissful years together, they had ever hit a bump in the road.  She smiled and replied, somewhat dryly, “Well, let’s see. Kenny is the apple. Ralph is the tree. What do you think?” Yep, I love this woman.

Marriage experts all agree that couples fight. No matter how in love you are or how averse you may be to conflict, it’s just not possible to get out the other side of sixty years together without having a difference of opinion, ever.

But marital fighting, like any sport, has rules. These are designed to keep a fight about why you’re never, EVER supposed to squeeze the toothpaste from the middle of the tube from becoming grounds for an expensive, protracted divorce, bankrupting both parties and reducing Saturdays to parking lot exchanges of the kids at McD’s.

There are zillions of articles written about The Rules of marital discord, but experts generally agree on the following guidelines:

1. Schedule your arguments. In other words, take a breath and agree to talk about this later, when nobody is bawling, screaming, or threatening to Bobbitt your reproductive regions.

2. Allow time-outs. Hey, it works for kids. Go to your corners, go for a run, or go check your email. (But for the love of God, DO NOT go on Facebook. The universe does not need to know that Hubs is currently being an all-star jackass, and you wish you’d never married him, and furthermore, he has hair plugs. Remember, you will love him again, but if he sees this, he might not feel the same way about you.)

3. Don’t “kitchen sink.” Try to stay focused on the disagreement at hand. Arguing about why he never feeds the cat is NOT the time to rehash (again) his impromptu, drunken karaoke version of “I’m Too Sexy For My Shirt” at your company Christmas party.

4. Don’t involve other people. “I think you’re an idiot, and so do all the women in my book club” is virtually guaranteed to escalate even the tiniest spat into a full-on body contact sport.

5. Listen to what your partner is saying. This goes past not interrupting and includes combative, non-verbal responses. If you’re looking for a smackdown drag ‘em out fight, eye-rolling, yawning, or smirking while your partner is talking will get you there before you can run for cover.

6. Set off-limits topics. If you previously forgave him for sleeping with your roommate while you were dating or running over your beloved Shitzu on your last birthday, let it go.

With these in mind, Kenny and I had a recent tiff (big surprise…two bulls in a china shop for 14 years), and he huffed, “I’m really pissed at you.” “Do you want a divorce?” I asked. “WHAT?? No!” he shouted, looking insulted and horrified. “Well,” I said sweetly, “That means that intend to forgive me at some point. If you’re going to forgive me LATER, why don’t you just forgive me NOW and save us both all that silly stress in the meantime?” As he slammed the door, I heard him mumbling about “Hating you just a little bit right now.” Oh look. His truck is peeling out of the driveway. That must mean he’s taking a time out, I sighed happily. Yep, we’re good.

What Doesn’t Kill You Makes You Thinner

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wisdom weighin

Those of you who have been reading my blog for the last few months (Bless you. Your share of my lottery winnings are in the mail) know that I love Hollywood. It’s fun, silly, and just weird enough to make me feel normal. A recent issue of Star Magazine (yes, I subscribe…don’t judge), featured an anorexic child actress extolling the virtues of a new diet pill, saying it “gave her back her figure” (From where?? In your 16 genetically-blessed-and-never-had-a-baby years on this planet, what, were you up 8 OUNCES?)

This got me thinking about my weight battle over the years. When your sister is a size 2 and your mother is a size 6, a size 8-10 makes you the chubby one. My youth is littered with remnants of stupid diet tricks that scream “What was I thinking?” (Here’s where you ask, “So what did you DO?”) Okay, here goes. My personal All-Time Dumb Diet Ideas That I Actually Tried:

In my 20s:

1. Smoking. My 92-lb. college roommate assured me that if I smoked when I got hungry, I’d lose weight. Six months later, I was a chubby smoker. Yeah, that got me dates.

2. Laxatives. Great idea if you plan to live your life locked in your bathroom. And even if you could come out long enough to go anywhere, every dating conversation was interrupted with promises to “Be right back!” as you scrambled for the nearest ladies room at 60 second intervals. (One particularly promising evening, by the fourth time I came back, he’d gone home. Ended the date and the diet.)

3. Purging. A fancy word for “making yourself throw up.” (Hey, it was good enough for Princess Diana.) Still, the thought of sticking my finger down my throat to make myself throw up pretty much made me, well…throw up. Moving on.

In my 30s:

4. The Martini Diet. Second cousin to the Smoking Diet, but with gin. Since I don’t like gin, I substituted Kahlua and cream. Gained 4 pounds in the first week.

5. The Tapeworm Diet. Okay, I didn’t actually try this one. But I thought about it. A tiny little guy that lives in your tummy and eats all the junk you ingest before it hits your hips? That’s a better fairy tale than Snow White. Alas, since I couldn’t find a store that actually sold tapeworms, it was not to be.

6. The Phen/Fen Diet. Basically, this stuff is Chinese speed. Didn’t lose any weight, but damn, I got stuff done. By the 3rd consecutive night of NO SLEEP, I looked like crap and faceplanted into my fettuccine at Ye Old Spaghetti House, snoring into my cream sauce until Hubs carried me out, shouting to the patrons about the “bad shrimp.”

In my 40s:

7. The Praise the Lord Diet. This program tells you that God wants you to be hungry, as a sign of humility and gratitude. By day 5, I was decidedly UN-grateful and quit going to church. (I eventually went back because they were having their annual potluck after the service. God and I made up over homemade mac ‘n cheese, and He told me He never authorized that book. Ha. I knew it.)

8. The Cookie Diet. These are large “cookies” made up of oats, bran, fiber and sawdust. They taste like drywall and are intended to replace food you actually like. You can’t drink enough water (okay, wine) to swallow these, so I substituted 2 boxes of Girl Scout Thin Mints. The next morning’s weigh-in suggested that “Eat Cookies and Lose Weight!” was a bit misleading.

9. Fasting. This worked until I got, uh, hungry. The world’s only 3-hour diet. Whose idea was this?? If I had the willpower to NOT EAT, the aforementioned Dumb Ideas #1-8 would be limited to The Wine Lover’s Diet (no, you won’t lose an ounce, but WHO CARES?).

And now, in my 50s:

10. The Screw It, I Feel Great Diet. Ooh, is that a brownie?

 

Call the Accountant. Maybe It’s Tax Deductible

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flat broke

A couple of weeks ago, two selections from Laugh Lines were selected for Book 4 of the Life Well Blogged series (“Parenting Gag Reels, Hilarious Writes and Wrongs, Take 26″). Like most new authors, I was beside myself with excitement at the thought of seeing my writing IN PRINT. When my first shipment of books came (I ordered 10, thinking to use them as advertising if friends and family responded with “No thanks. I already read your blog, so I’m good”), and I saw the box on my doorstep, I tripped over the stair going into the house and almost lost a finger jamming the box cutter into the overtaped edges to get to my beloved FIRST BOOK. I promptly passed out 3 to my biggest cheerleaders (Thank you, Mom & Dad, Marta, and Keren!), then stacked the remaining few in my office so I could periodically stare at them and pet them whenever I walked by.

The next day Kenny asked if I was going to post anything on Facebook about my new book.  I excitedly told him about My Big Idea.

I thought it would be cool to offer a FREE BOOK (I had 7 left. That should take care of it) to anyone who signed up as a Laugh Lines subscriber within 24 hours of my Facebook post. “Hmmm,” replied Kenny with a small frown, “What happens if you get, like, a whole bunch of new people?” “Not to worry,” I reassured him, while pointing enthusiastically to my 7 books. “I have these left over. I’ll probably get 4 or 5 new subscribers, and it will be FUN!” “What does it cost to send out a ‘free book’?” he asked. “About $10,” I replied, “but I already have these, and they’re paid for.” “Okay,” he grumbled, “but I just want to go on record as saying I don’t have a good feeling about this.” Since, historically, whenever I pitch a new idea to Kenny, I’ve learned to treat even the tiniest shred of agreement as a full-on green light to go, I immediately posted a picture of me and my first book on Facebook with The Big Offer.

Within the first minute, my computer made the little dinging sound it makes when I get an email. Ding. Mail Chimp says “Congratulations. You’ve got a new subscriber to Laugh Lines.” Whoopee! A minute later, another ding and another email from Mail Chimp. Then another. Then another.

By now, I’m giddy with excitement, feeling like Sally Field at the Oscars (“They like me! They really, really like me!”) doing the happy dance (admittedly more goofy than sexy…kind of a cross between a football touchdown dance and a seizure) up and down our hallway, while Kenny is raising his arms up and yelling “TEN BUCKS!” every time the computer dinged. I’m not sure what the neighbors thought, seeing me through the blinds, shimmying up and down the hallway to the “Doo Wa Diddy Diddy Dum Diddy Doo” in my head, while Kenny repeatedly jumped up from the couch yelling “TEN BUCKS!” whenever I went by. One can only assume they thought I was rehearsing a truly horrible middle-age pole dance, but I didn’t care. This was my moment, and I was taking it.

By the end of the night, I had 38 new subscribers and Kenny was wandering around the house grumbling, “I knew it. I knew this would happen.” I crawled into bed, exhausted and happy. As I drifted off to sleep, he leaned over and whispered, “I’m really proud of you, you know.” “I know,” I smiled sleepily. “But I need to order 4 more boxes of books tomorrow.” “No, you don’t,” he sighed, “I already ordered them. Tomorrow, you’ll write.” Done.

Today I Came Out On My Blog (No, It’s Not What You Think)

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funny-Betty-White-shooting

My mother used to call it the “elephant in the room.” It’s that one thing everybody knows, but nobody wants to mention at any group gathering. Uncle Buck’s not at the family Christmas dinner because he ran off with little Suzie’s kindergarten teacher, but nobody asks about his empty seat at the table. Bob got fired last week, and now everybody at the office summer bbq pretends they never knew anyone named Bob. Sally had breast cancer last year and still has hair the length of a Chihuahua, but no one at her reunion knows if it’s okay to ask how she’s doing.

We have an elephant at our house. It’s called Parkinson’s.  I was diagnosed a few years ago, after 2 years of left-hand tremors which I steadfastly ignored. The fact that my mother has it and I was extremely familiar with the signs demonstrates the rather remarkable ability of humans to deny what they don’t want to address. I was a pro. In fact, 6 years later, this is the first time I’ve admitted in writing to having this intensely private, albeit physically obvious, condition.

When I could no longer hide the tremors (and Kenny was threatening to throw me over his shoulder and drag me to the doctor, kicking and screaming “There’s nothing WRONG with me!” the entire time), I went to a neurologist, who confirmed what Kenny and I already knew. Yep. I had Parkinson’s. Well, crap.

For several days, we sat shell-shocked, trying to figure out how much our life would change, and it was months before I told anyone. I didn’t want to the that girl. “You know that woman that works at the boutique downtown? She has Parkinson’s.” “That cool yellow Mercedes you see around town? The woman who drives it has Parkinson’s.” Suddenly it’s like your entire life’s accomplishments vaporize into a single hushed word. My response to questions about my tremor was always, “I have a pinched nerve.”

As the years went by, my innate irreverence and political incorrectness grew stronger than my fears, and I learned to laugh at the impact this disease made on the daily activities of my life.

A couple of months ago, I bought a stupidly expensive smartphone that supposedly take high-def, fabulous photos. How would I know? My hand shakes so bad when I hold my arm up above boob-level, that unless the shutter speed is defaulted to “Olympic Sprinter,” you’re going to be seriously out of focus or without a head.

The good news is that if you need a garden or yard seeded, I’m your girl. My arm is permanently set to “sprinkle lightly,” and I can fertilize an acre of lawn faster than Kenny’s rolling seed sprayer. I’m thinking of hiring out for this one.

I have cut and colored my own hair for years (It’s 1/2″ long and I’m too cheap to pay for a buzz cut). I hold a mirror in one hand and the buzzer in the other. So now either the mirror is shaking and I can’t see what I’m doing, or the buzzer is shaking and I risk losing an ear. If Hollywood brings back the military head shave (circa 1984), I’ll be the first boomer on my block to rock it.

I finally had to sell my beloved Vespa. My left arm caused the handlebars to shimmy and the resulting continual swerving of my bike got me pulled over one too many times (much to the delighted merriment of passing drivers) for possible drunk scootering.

If I’m relaxed and warm, the tremor is only slightly noticeable. But if I’m cold, stressed, excited, or just downright pissed off, I shake like a cracked-out seal. Kenny loves this, because I can no longer answer the age-old husband question “What’s wrong, honey?” with the time-honored humph of “Nothing.” He takes one look at my arm flapping like a Three Stooges comedy schtick, and says, “Uh, huh.” Kind of takes the sport out of that question.

It has long been believed that Parkinson’s is not hereditary. Some medical professionals are beginning to rethink this, due to the large percentage of Parkinson’s patients with up-line family members who have the same disease, but it’s still rare for lightening to strike twice in one generation. So I figure my getting it reduces my brother and sister’s chances to virtually nil. You’re welcome, sibs, and don’t feel obligated to get me something really expensive for my birthday. Really. You don’t have to.

I decided last year that I wanted to learn to shoot. Kenny bought me a pistol, and we went out to the local Sportsman’s Club for some practice. The cool old guys in their WWII vet hats took one look at my waving arm and scrambled for cover behind the nearest wooden table. Amid shouts of encouragement and instructions to “Use your GOOD ARM! YOUR GOOD ARM!” they ultimately decided that trap shooting was probably the best (and safest) bet. I’m totally hooked. (The old guys tell me there’s something called an “open choke” that helps beginners shoot a wider spray, increasing their chances of hitting the clay pigeon. Ha. I just hold up the shotgun, let it wave around the general vicinity, and pull the trigger. Pigeon down.)

So if you see me on the street and notice the tremor, go ahead. Ask about it. And it’s okay to laugh.

It’s All Fun & Games Until Somebody Puts On Their Fat Pants

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funny-seal-underwater-standing

Kenny has always been super fit. He’s a natural athlete who excels at everything he tries (yeah, that’s never annoying), and he’s been in construction for 30 years, so his work is very physical. For years, he was able to buy jeans simply by size. If they were a 34-34, they fit. Dressing rooms were an enigma to him. “Why do people need to try things on?” he’d ask. “Can’t they just read the label?”

A few years ago, when my dad had a stroke, Kenny agreed to take a career sabbatical and work with him on his physical therapy, as well as managing his personal and company affairs. This went on for 3 years, during which time Kenny spent a LOT of time driving between homes and properties, and in daily meetings.  Not exactly ripping up the calories. As the months crept by, his weight crept up.

One day he announced that we needed to go shopping. Apparently all his jeans were too tight. “Are you using different soap?” he asked, looking confused when he couldn’t button his beloved Levi’s. “It’s not the soap, sweetie. You need a 36.”  “How is that possible??” he stuttered, “I wear a 34.” “No. You WORE a 34. You WEAR a 36.” “Well, this just sucks,” he sighed. He wasn’t happy about it, but neither of us mentioned it again. Until the 36s didn’t fit.

We were shopping for slacks for our son’s upcoming wedding, and the sales guy looked at Kenny and smiled, “So, Sir, a 38 pant?” Oh crap. Kenny looked horrified, grabbed me by the arm and hauled me into the dressing room. ‘

“A 38 PANT??” “Well, honey,” I scrambled for an answer that wouldn’t hurt his feelings but was still grounded in reality (he was getting pretty porky.) “It’s not about YOU. Lots of clothes are made in Taiwan, where the fit models are tiny little people, so THEIR 38 and OUR 38 may be very different. Plus, there’s a lot of play in the seam allowances. You need to ignore the size and go for the fit.” (Seriously, I was starting to babble here.) “So do you think I’m fat??” he insisted. “No! You’ve just put on a little weight because you’re not as active. Nothing to worry about.” “Well,” he humphed. “As long as you don’t think I’m fat.” “No,” I smiled, reassuring him as best I could manage. “Honest.”

Eventually Kenny went back to work in his field and his weight returned to normal. As we were packing to move to our new house, he found the pants from that fateful day. He held them up, pulled wide, and announced, “Look at these! Wow. These FIT ME last year.” “Uh huh,” I replied, trying quickly to change the subject.” “You said I wasn’t FAT,” he looked over at me, frowning. “These are for a fat person. I WAS FAT.” “Well, fat is a subjective term,” I stammered. “And what was all that crap about ‘tiny Taiwanese people?’ he demanded. “It doesn’t matter if they’re tiny. They were making clothes for Americans, in a size 38, which I WORE. And that seam allowance thing?? I BELIEVED you.” “Well, what was I supposed to say?” I scrambled to defend myself. “I asked you if I was fat, and you said NO,” he accused. “Why didn’t you tell me??” “Well, you don’t tell a fat person they’re fat,” I replied. “That’s just mean. But now that you you’re not fat anymore, I can tell you. Holy crap, you were fat.”

“You have no credibility anymore,” he stated. “But should I save these in case I ever get not fat again?” “Can’t hurt,” I said. “You can put them in the bottom drawer with mine.”

Fat pants. Apparently they’re not just for women anymore.

 

That Dog Don’t Hunt

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bird dog

The office I work in is next door to our local DMV, giving me a direct view of government business as waves of people deal with their licensing issues, title transfers, and best of all, their driving tests. Looking out of the large picture window, I can usually tell quite quickly if Tiffany passed her birthday driving test or if Bradley is going to be able to use the family car for tonight’s big date. I’ve seen smiles, happy dances, disbelief, and even the occasional teary wail, “I’m NEVER going to get my license, EVER!” (Trust me, Tiffy, it ain’t that big a deal.)

Many (oh so many) years ago, when it was my turn to learn to drive, Dad fired up the tractor, drove it out into the orchard, and I excitedly donned the coveted John Deere baseball cap that each kid got for tractor graduation, ready for my first official lesson.  (Dad wisely determined early on that he wasn’t putting half a dozen teenagers behind the wheel of the family car each year as we hit 15, one right after the other like falling dominoes.  Learning mistakes were going to be made on a virtually indestructible John Deere, to a tree, not another car or an unsuspecting pedestrian.)

My dad came from a long line of hunters, and he also trained each new generation of hunting dogs.  Darling little German Shorthair Pointers that he’d spend hours and hours with, teaching the pups to point out birds in the brush, then gently fetch the fallen and bring them in.  When I turned driving-lesson age, Dad had a beautiful little guy named Bailey that followed him around with a wagging tail and adoring eyes. Bailey was as excited about his lessons as I was about mine.

So with Dad and his ever-present Bailey standing beside me, I fired up the tractor, stepped hard on the clutch, ground it into first gear with a loud crunch, and shot forward, throwing me backward and promptly running over Bailey’s leg. OMG. Poor Bailey was yelping, Dad was yelling “Drive forward! FORWARD!! “Put in the CLUTCH!!” while I dissolved into complete novice-driver panic, screaming, “How do I do that?? WHAT DO I DO??” Dad grabbed me off the tractor, jumped up and drove it off little guy’s foot. We scooped him up and raced to the vet, who pronounced Bailey miraculously okay. With lots of “I’m so sorry’s” and doggie treats, Bailey’s tail was wagging again by nightfall and all was well.

Until the next day…

Dad took Bailey out for a pointing lesson, and when he tossed the bird into the air, Bailey’s nose went straight forward (beautiful), his tail went straight up (good boy), and his right leg shot straight OUT at a 45 degree angle. WTH? Dad gently pushed Bailey’s paw back so the leg pointed straight forward, let go, and TWANG, it bounced back to a perfect, and apparently permanent, 45 degrees to the right. Uh-oh. For an award-winning Pointer to be, well…award winning, all three of his pointing parts need to point in the same direction.

“Well, if it helps,” I suggested, “at least it’s a perfect angle. It’s actually quite impressive.” The expression on Dad’s face told me it didn’t help, and I determined now would be a good time to stop talking.  I heard later that Bailey’s first group hunting trip didn’t go well and the poor guy was the laughingstock of all his little pointer friends.  Eventually he learned to point just using his nose and tail, keeping all four paws firmly on the ground, salvaging his reputation by establishing himself as a rebel.

To this day, I’ve never mastered the stick shift and the John Deere cap hangs in our entry way, silently mocking me. I recently saw an ad for an adult driving class that promises to teach stick driving. I signed up for spring. Maybe you can teach an old human new tricks.

The Bikini. Men, You Invented it. You Wear It.

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unpaved

Kenny and I were window-shopping downtown, and we saw a cute boutique with swimsuits in the window. Notwithstanding the fact that it was barely 60 degrees, it’s also APRIL. In the Pacific Northwest. We could still wake up to snow, people. But Kenny grinned widely and pointed to one impossibly tiny handkerchief on a string and announced, “You’d look great in that! You want to go in and try it on?” Seriously?? “Look at the mannequin.” I said. “Look at me. Now look at the mannequin again. Do you see ANYTHING different about the two of us???” “Well, I’m sure they have bigger sizes.” (Yeah, now I feel better.) “Let’s go in and try one, okay?” You got to love a man who thinks a “bigger size bikini” is going to solve the problem. Sighing, I followed him in.

To Kenny’s delight, the baby salesgirl handed me a bikini. “Come out and let me see, sweetie!” he smiled expectantly. Yeah, no. If the building were on fire and this was what I was wearing, I’d go up in flames before anyone ever saw me in this Kleenex on a string.

The bikini bottom is essentially a thong. So if you’re 12 and built like a tongue depressor, have visible pelvis bones, AND you’ve never given birth, this is for you. (Jake repeatedly tells me I can’t continue to blame him for my “post-baby weight.” He’s 24. Ha. I just reply that when one pushes a schoolbus out of a garage built for a Volkswagon Beetle, one has earned the right to put at least partial weight blame on said schoolbus forever.)

Then there’s the bikini TOP. Two tiny triangles held together by a piece of dental floss, with the support strength to hold up two Chiclets. Puberty pretty much wiped out any hope of me ever wearing a bikini top. On to the “tankini.”

The tankini is a cross between a one-piece and a bikini, but can even more difficult to pull off. It has a bikini-like bottom, with a slightly higher waistline, and a spandex top that bares the midriff. So many, MANY ways this can go wrong on the average boomer.

If you can’t wear (or shouldn’t, but do…and please, stop that) midriff-baring t-shirts with microshorts, you can’t wear a tankini. High-waisted thongs are still THONGS. Unless you’re one of those people who works out 3 or more hours per day and can bounce a quarter off your peaches, thongs are NOT your friend. And tankini tops? Think of your body like a Weeble made out of Play-Doh. What you push IN on one end is going to ooze OUT at another. So that little spandex t-shirt/thong combo makes you look like a Chinese Shar Pei stuffed into an ill-fitting tube top. I might as well just slap a big ol’ glittery sticker on my navel that says “I <3 my belly fat.”

By this time, I was done. The salesgirl suggested a one-piece (“And we even have some with skirts for older women!”) Wow. All I wanted was a glass of red wine and a box of Oreos. No amount of reassurance from Kenny or pitching from the silly salesgirl was going to get THIS body back into THOSE hankies.

Working online later that day, I saw a quiz called “Get Swimsuit Ready by Summer!” Hmm. I answered the stupid questions (“Do you prefer vegetables or chocolate as a mid-day snack?”), only to discover that I need to entirely revamp my eating habits, give up wine, and get to the gym right freaking now. Awesome. When I asked the “Personal Online Fitness Coach” if that would get me swimsuit ready by summer, she BURST OUT LAUGHING and replied, “Summer 2014, sweetie!”

My workout today is to stab her though her size 0, 19-year-old, bikini-wearing heart. I feel thinner already.

I Love You Too. Now Shut Up

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twinkle twinkle

Ask any longtime married couple the secret to wedded bliss and you might get a few answers like “shared interests,” “patience,” or even the occasional “great sex.” However, MOST marital decathlon winners will tell you the secret to long-time happiness is knowing when to SHUT UP.

Coming from a family of multiple-marriers (brothers and sisters, all 2-3 times; mom, twice; dad, 5 times), the one lesson I’ve learned is that when it comes to “helping” your spouse learn a new skill or sport (tennis, guitar, Spanish), or achieve a personal goal (lose weight, quit smoking), the best thing you can do is applaud, when asked to do so as a show of support, but otherwise be very, very quiet.

Since the dawn of man, no spouse has EVER correctly answered, “Do you think I’m getting fat?” A friend could say, “Well, you might be up a little, but you’re still hot,” and we’d hear “You look great. Let’s order another glass of wine.” A SPOUSE could say exactly the same thing, and we’d hear “Yes, because you hoover Oreos like a shop vac, and you might want to dial down the wine, you lush.” Ask a friend, “Why can’t I quit smoking?” and he’ll say, “Those things are addictive,” meaning “It’s not your fault.” If a SPOUSE replied in kind, we’d hear, “Because you’re a spineless loser, and I should have married Bob.” And God forbid we should ever offer advice when asked by our partner on mastering a sport. “My tennis game sucked today. What am I doing wrong?” RUN to the nearest exit. THERE IS NO RIGHT ANSWER. Happily married couples instinctively know that “I now pronounce you husband and wife” instantly and irrevocably establishes your position as CHEERLEADER, not COACH.

In our newlywed years, Kenny decided it would be fun if I learned to play golf. Yeah, no. First of all, I have the patience of a crack-addled squirrel, and secondly, the appeal of whacking the crap out of tiny, recalcitrant ball, trying to drive its reluctant a** into an equally tiny hole a half mile away, eludes me. Acres and acres of green grass that my ball was apparently allergic to because it never landed there. It was magnetically attracted to sand, water, or trees, period. As we trudged from hole to hole (18?? SERIOUSLY???), Kenny was nonstop “helping” with advice that only made sense to golfers, like “Drop your shoulder,” “Relax and swing through,” or “Let me check your grip.” Touch me one more time and die. At the thousandth hole, I finally stopped and snapped, “Here’s the deal. When I write you a check for $60, you can give me ALL THE LESSONS YOU WANT. Until then, SHUT. UP.” We finished the final few holes in blissful silence and made up over a glass (okay, 3) of red wine in the clubhouse.

“You know,” said Kenny, “a lesson might be a good idea.” So the next day, I spent an hour and a half with Rick, the golf instructor. When it was over, I bounded over to Kenny and breathlessly repeated all the advice Rick had given me. “He told me to drop my shoulder, like this,” I exclaimed, “and to relax and swing through, like this. AND he even showed me how to grip the clubs! He’s amazing!” “Gee,” Kenny said, dryly, “I wish I’D said all those things.” “You did,” I replied, “but since I wasn’t PAYING you, it wasn’t a lesson. It was annoying.”

And so we agreed that from then on, marital coaching would be replaced by cheerleading only. All “help” offered on new sports, skills, or self improvement would hereafter be limited to “Way to go!”

And they lived happily ever after.

Can I Just Order Cold Pizza To Go?

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home early

Kenny was out running an early-morning errand, so I decided on cold Hawaiian pizza from last night’s dinner for breakfast. (It’s my favorite “If you were choosing your last meal, what would it be?” breakfast. Throw in a couple of frosted brownie with walnuts and I’m ready to face the hereafter. Yeah, I’m a cretin.) My criteria for any new pizza is how it will taste cold, the next morning. Many (oh, so many. I didn’t get this body from carrot sticks) have been tried; few have been chosen. But we’d gone to our favorite pizzeria in Portland the day before and purposely ordered large sizes so I’d have breakfasts for the next several days.

Grabbing a plate, I happily cut two generous slices, unknowingly dropping a small cube of pineapple onto the kitchen floor. As I turned towards the table, I stepped on slippery little fruit guy, shooting one leg out in a front split and the other out in a side split (NEITHER of which God built me to do), toppling the rest of my body forward, frantically waving my arms towards the counter for stability, only managing to smack the edge of my plate, tossing loaded pizza slices into the air (and since what goes UP, must come DOWN), crashing me and the entire mess (tomato sauce in my hair?? REALLY??) onto the floor in an extremely undignified heap, ironically achieving a Reverse Plow position no amount of coaxing from my long-suffering yoga instructor has ever been able to manage, while simultaneously providing unrestricted viewing of limbs that haven’t seen a razor since last October. (It’s winter, people. If you can’t see it, I’m not shaving it).

With perfect marital timing, Kenny came home and walked in to see me sprawled on the kitchen floor, lying on my back like an upended beetle, covered with Canadian bacon and pineapple, blinking up at him through bits of melted cheese (note to self: next time, skip the “extra toppings”). As I waited to hear his first comment, my mind did a mash-up slideshow of the times he’s come home to caved-in garage ceilings, dryer fires, buzz-sawed yard plants, tire tracks in the grass, prematurely ripped up house flooring, screaming smoke alarms going off in the kitchen, and an incensed neighbor the day I accidentally ran over his no-longer prize-winning cat’s tail, so I wasn’t quite sure where he’d go with this one.

He took a long look and announced, “Unless you’re hurt, DON’T TELL ME. I don’t want to know.” Then he calmly stepped over me and continued down the hall. My first thought was, “Hey buddy! A little help here??” Then I decided he’s right. Some things are better left alone.