Friday, December 7, 2012

G-d Bless Ye, Ass-men, Everywhere!

When you’re a woman busy raising a family, you tend to lose track of certain things: world events, names of former co-workers, and, oh yeah: your ability to attract men. Once you’re elbow-deep in diapers and breaking up sibling warfare, you tend to stop caring whether you‘re a “hottie“ or not. You’re too busy working to “work” it, and you no longer care that your unwashed hair is tied back with one of your kids’ socks.

But when you find yourself “unhalved” and on your own after a decade or two, the differences between you and the other gals tends to get spelled out in vivid relief. Suddenly, little things begin to loom large: skin of younger women, firm and glowing; the ability of their breasts to defy gravity without the use of pulleys, weights and levers; the sounds of males necks snapping as they swivel to get a better look. Meanwhile, you've got new problems: turkey-like loose neck skin and wisps of scowl-hiding bangs getting caught in your crow‘s feet. You’re darned right it’s not for sissies.

The hell with it: post-divorce, I went to work at a nursery. Plants, that is, not kids. Primarily because plants don’t talk back or look at you funny when you try to flirt. Plus, the clientele at the nursery tends to be benign: gentle retirees, young moms toting pre-schoolers, lost husbands seeking anniversary gifts. Sweetly unthreatening, just the way I wanted it.

But as it turned out, there were unexpected perks to the job. It turns out the perkiest one of all was something I had been sitting on all my life! I don't want to brag, but it turns out I have a cute butt. Yes, my behind, which I had never noticed (mainly because it’s not in front of me) was suddenly attracting a great deal of attention from my male co-workers. I’m convinced the nursery job application included the question: “If Male, are you an Ass-man? Yes/No. If "No," please do not continue.”

I seemed to have stumbled upon a Secret Order of Worshippers of the Female Gluteus Maximus, and they had made me their Goddess Divine.

Now, there are those of you who think I’m being all conceited, so let me just say this to you: Shut up. I have gone from being a nondescript soccer “Ma’am” to a “Spank-a-licious Mama,” and if you ruin it for me, I will hunt you down and stick my finger in your eye.

“Are you going to wear those black pants tomorrow?“ our 21-year old Houseplant maven, Paul, asked anxiously. I had to laugh: that was Paul’s day off, and he didn't want to miss The Show, starring my Lil Ol’ Moneymaker. Pinch me: younger dudes were anticipating my outfits and hoping for wardrobe failure!

Our 27-year-old Pond-and-Chemical guy, Sean, was particularly pointed in letting me know that he wanted to take my ass-thetic attributes out of the showroom for a road test. It’s flattering, but it’s not the chemistry that’s stopping me, it’s the math: as I’ve mentioned elsewhere, I’ve been sexually active longer than he’s been alive, and it’s my policy not to erase the fine line between “Who‘s the hottie?” and “Is that your son?” (See my essay, "Miss Thing is Delighted to Announce.") But when Sean invited me out to a bar recently to meet his friends, I figured, Why not? By the time I got there, he had already had a few drinks, and greeted me warmly.

“You made it!” he called out. He gave me a bear hug and lead me over to one of his friends for introductions. I got a glimpse of the young man’s face before Sean turned me around, pointed at my bottom and announced, “Dude, check out this righteous booty!”

Before I could say anything, Sean was leading me around the bar, backwards, so my still-fine behind could have a meet-and-greet with the rest of his posse. I didn’t get to see what they looked like, and you know what? I didn’t care.

I've written a song for Sean, for my co-workers, and for Dorsal Fanciers everywhere. It’s a bar ditty, of course, to be sung in an Irish accent, in Sean’s honor. Please keep in mind, this song is not about me, but a tribute to Ass-Men everywhere. It's best sung with a cold one in your hand, and begins with a hearty: 

Oh, back her on in
And feast yer eyes, lads,
On the finest caboose in the land!

It rides firm and high,
From her back to her thighs,
In a way altogether most grand!

Oh, the way that it sways
Makes the angels sing praise:
"Hallelujah! We've seen the Divine!"

Raise yer stout and yer beer,
For we're all Ass-men heeeeeeeeeeeeere!
Thank the Lord for the Female Behind!"

G-d bless you, Fanny-fans, one and all! We know you're behind us 100%!

This is a Repeat Treat from 2008. For more essays, go to the Home Page and click on the year you'd like to view.

Sunday, November 11, 2012

This is a repeat in honor of Veteran's Day. I dedicate this essay to my friend, Jeffery Martinez, who saw action in Iraq and has since etired from the Navy.

Come Veteran's Day, I am a mess. When the San Jose Eagle Scouts' Color Guard begins its slow march east on Santa Clara Street to the foothills, I am already choking back hard sobs. Several lovingly-restored vintage military vehicles join the procession, where only an hour before, G.I. buffs had shown all the cool equipment to my kids. They even let them climb onto the tanks and into the ancient ambulances - "that's a litter, son, not a bed," they solemnly explained. Now they roll by, and their ramrod straight backs tell you everything you need to know about their pride.

Today, we honor those who have risked their lives for our liberty. It is because of their dedication that we are not forced to show  loyalty to a tyrant or a distant sovereign. Today, we pay tribute to the men and women who have risked everything to defend a Constitution where each of us is considered American, regardless of their political opinions, religious beliefs or ethnic origin. Today we take the time to thank them.

Slowly, open air convertibles roll by with city officials waving from the back seat; groups like Rotary and Eagles and Moose make their appearances as well. But I'm here, like so many others in this flag-crazed crowd lining the street to see The Show. That's right: the vets themselves. Here, in the shadow of high-rise buildings representing high-tech creativity, march the men and women who guaranteed that those industries could thrive in safety.

And leading the way, marching proudly, are vets of World War I, bless them, maybe for the last time. Here come the Nissei warriors, Japanese-Americans who fought hard in Europe and liberated death camps even as their families were interned at home. Here are the Negro Unit Veterans, who, even after fighting for their country, were still not allowed to swim in public pools in the South - but Nazi POWs there were welcomed. Then come the Philipino troops who bravely fought alongside the Americans in the Pacific. Bravely marching by now are the Korean War. Veterans of the Viet Nam war, once vilified upon their return home, now hold their heads high, waving, and one of them smiles and waves back.

"God bless you!" I manage to call out through my constricted throat, "Gam san nida!" - that's Korean for "thank you," if I remember my M*A*S*H reruns correctly. Okay, they're not Korean themselves, but I am moved by the spirit to thank them as many ways as I know how. The polite but firm mounted officer has to remind me three times to stay back, ma'am. I am flailing my arms, a one-woman welcoming committee. Tears are streaming down my face, and my kids are doing their best to ignore their overwrought mama as they throw down loud "poppers" they bought from a sidewalk vendor for fifty cents.

The crowd greets all the veterans enthusiastically. The vets are beaming. It's great to be here at home, we all seem to be saying to each other. Yes, this flag we now wave madly or bear majestically has flown over some things we wish it hadn't, things like segregation, political corruption,  lynchings, the internment of Japanese-Americans.

And yet . . .

And yet, each one of the vets, each of us waving from the sidewalks - we all seem to understand that this flag stands for some things greater than all of us put together. We all share the belief that people have the right to taste the sweetness of freedom. That wrongdoers and bigots and crooked politicians will have to answer for their actions. That we all benefit from justice. That being able to work hard and make something of oneself, regardless of one's status, is a freedom worth fighting for. That it's crucial to one's soul to be able to wear a yarmulke,  or pray the rosary, or worship freely. That it's vital to one's heart to be able to express oneself as an artist, or write a controversial novel, or even join a group of fellow Pomeranian fanciers, without government interference. For this American mom, that means everything.

So on the vets march, past billboards printed in English and Spanish and Vietnamese and Tagalog. I wish that whoever has opposes us could experience what we're feeling today. I wish they could understand that Veteran's Day is not a gloating show of military strength as it is in totalitarian regimes. It's not there to glorify an enemy's defeat. There are no displays of might, no weapons shaken in the air or fired as a challenge to future threats. It's not a celebration of our imperialistic intentions, or whatever it is they're accusing us of this week.

What it is, is simply pride in making a stand for something so simple yet so precious: a safe place for anyone who dares to dream.

What it is, is simply our home, the United States of America.

Friday, November 2, 2012


To Dr. Amy with Affection, Gratitude and Astonishment.

You will  be relieved to know I see a therapist. 

When someone asks, “How often do you see her?"
I  reply, “As much as possible and not a minute too

soon!” She of Infinite Wisdom, Blessed Be Her

Name, has guided me away from many a near-  

fatal faceplant. I call her Dr. ABC, not only 

because those are her actual initials, but also

because she keeps me grounded in the basics. 

Such as gently, steadfastly asking me whether the 

direction I’m headed is the only one, and if not, 

what are the alternatives? Like, maybe not the one 

headed for the brick wall?

Recently, I dragged myself to her office from the

Valley of Cherry Garcia. For those of you who are

unfamiliar with this bleak terrain, count yourself

lucky. (You can learn more about these sad state if you read my essays “Love, Loss and Strutting into the Future” and Okay, Speed It Up!”.)  If you have ever found yourself in that Pit of Despair, I don’t have to describe it to you. You already know that you can not fix a broken heart with a month of facedown bed rest and a constant supply of sugary snacks.

Time to call in the specialist.

Dr. ABC has acquainted me with an unusual 

concept known as “Mindfulness.” It sounds 

bizarre, but it’s where you actually stop and think
about whether or not your emotions are based on 

facts.  It turns out there's a difference. Example:

let’s say you have a nightmare that you’re being

chased by a monster and wake up in a cold sweat 

with your heart beating 100 miles a minute. 

Someone tells you the monster isn't real, but your 

agitated state suggests otherwise. 

That’s how your emotions trick you into thinking

they’re an accurate gauge of reality. You feel

them, so they must be legit, right? But when you 

look at the facts of what actually happened ("It

was only a dream"), you realize you can climb 

right back in the cockpit and fly the plane. 

Once you’ve removed the dire, “prepare-for-crash-

landing” panic, you can move freely about the 

cabin, as if the pilot had turned off the “Fasten

Your Safety Belt” sign. Lower the tray table and 

order a drinky-poo, if you'll allow me to pound 

this metaphor into the dust.

It’s good to have different choices of how to

respond, rather than automatically downshifting 

into despair. When you choose to let the facts 

steer you, suddenly the "road not taken doesn't 

look so appealing.

Especially when you can see that road would have

taken you right over a cliff. 

That's when it's good to have a friend in the
control tower. 

Saturday, October 27, 2012

Lame Things Guys Do If They Think There's a Problem in Their Relationship: 

(That's right: not a goddamn thing.)

Sunday, October 21, 2012

Lorraine and the Pacific Ocean

I came across this story I wrote many years ago and was surprised to see how pertinent it is to Vixenhood. Every woman is entitled to step outside the narrow boundaries of her expected role at least once in her life. I hope it will remind you of any dreams you may have let go of, and think about making them come true, "just because." I'll let Lorraine explain it. Enjoy! - SW  

Lorraine and the Pacific Ocean

Everyone who knew I was taking this trip thought I shouldn't go. My daughter Jilliene kept glaring at me, or she’d work it into the conversation somehow. Like, Kimberly, don’t talk to your grandmother that way. She’s leaving for California and God knows if she’s ever coming back! And her hand goes on her hip and here comes the glare again. So I said, Oh, for Pete’s sakes, Jilliene, of course I’m coming back, don’t be ridiculous. I don’t know what she was thinking.

They all thought they had good reasons for me staying. That’s the disadvantage of living in Brookside: you don’t do anything but everyone knows about it. I’m not saying it doesn’t have its advantages. It does. Just ask all the young couples trying to get houses there. But I think they’re looking at the houses and not the neighborhood. They think living in a close-knit suburban community is the American Dream, because of TV. But unless you actually live there, you don’t really know.

Even when I was buying things for my trip, I had to hear about it. I just wanted some hand wipes, hand lotion, a fresh compact and some Pepto-Bismol for when my stomach gets nervous. But Ray behind the counter has to quiz me, What are you going to do out there, Lorraine? And I said, I won't know till I get there, will I? Then he says, Nothing good ever came out of warm weather. Besides, don’t you watch the news? Before I could answer, he says, What would Mike have said about all this? Can you imagine someone saying that right to my face? I looked him right in the eye and said, If you recall, Ray, we buried Mike six months ago, and if he had any objections, he should’ve spoken up before then.

All of this excitement, all because Jilliene’s friend Sarabeth told her I was running off to California to be with a stranger I met at the gas station! See what I mean? You never know what’s going to come flying out of people’s mouths. I told her, Jilliene, don’t be ridiculous. Just because I talked to someone I don’t know doesn’t automatically mean I’m running away with him. Honestly. And Jilliene says, Aha! So you were talking to a stranger. Like she’d solved some great mystery. I said, Yes, as a matter of fact, I did happen to chat with a young man who was also filling up a while back. And I would very much like to know how Sarabeth or you or anyone else got the idea I was running away with him. Jilliene said, Well, maybe you’re not, but Sarabeth said he had wild hair and crazy eyes. And I said, Oh, now really, that is just plain ridiculous! I was the only one who was close enough to see his eyes. That shut her up for a second, but I could see she had another dozen questions, so I suggested we just drop the whole thing. She started up with her But-but-but's, but I just said, Jilliene Lee, I’m going because I’m going, and that’s that. It doesn’t matter how old your children are – sometimes you have to talk to them that way.

Just for the record, I don’t make a habit of talking to strangers, and he was the one who started talking to me. And I thought, this isn’t so bad. Yes, his hair was a bit messy, and he wore lots of layers of clothes even though it wasn't cold out. But he had a nice smile and he was friendly.  And, his eyes were not crazy, they were blue, if anyone's asking. Of course, I didn’t say any of that out loud. We just chatted, back and forth about how he was going to college back east and that he was going to see his parents in California and how seeing America was pretty amazing. And I just said how nice it was of him to  go see his mom and dad, and how I have a daughter and grandchildren. And then I just said to him, I’ve always wanted to see California. I’ve always thought it would be beautiful there. I didn’t know why I was saying any of this to him! I was kind of shocked the way it just popped out. But this young man, David, acted like it was the most natural thing in the world. He said California was truly amazing, and why didn’t I ever go? And I said, I don’t know why. Because, truthfully, we could’ve afforded at least one trip out there. And Mike wouldn’t have minded. But it seemed too far away to drag Jilliene, and then time went by, and we never did go.

Anyway. This young man says, When are you going to go, then? I laughed, but he said, No, I mean it: when are you going to go?  Because there’s only one Pacific Ocean and you’ve never seen how amazing it is.  He kept using that word, amazing. And before I could say anything to that, he looks me straight in the eye and says, If you’ve always wanted to go, you owe it to yourself to do it. Just like that! Not, Wouldn’t-it-be-nice? You owe it to yourself. Well, there was something about the way he said it, because it got me thinking: I never have set eyes on either ocean except for pictures and TV – when did I think that was supposed to happen? What’s to stop me from getting on a bus right now and going to California? Then I said to myself, Now you’re just being completely ridiculous – that’s enough of that.

This young man and I wished each other well and waved goodbye and that was the end of that. I can assure you, we made no plans to run off together. But when I got home, I took a good, hard look in the mirror. I said to myself, Of all the crazy notions. What do you think you would do out there? But then I said, Lorraine Ensley, if you live your whole life without ever once doing something just because, well, then you were never alive to begin with. And seeing the Pacific Ocean is the best just-because I can think of. I didn’t say it exactly that way, but I did make up my mind to do it. And after that, there was no turning back.

I found out how much a round-trip bus ticket to Los Angeles was, which was not cheap, but not as bad as I thought. I felt so bold! Which is what I was, really, because I had never done anything like that before. But I didn’t dare say a word of it to Jilliene or anyone else because I knew they’d just try to talk me out of it, which they did. But it didn’t work, obviously.

Jilliene said I was just being ridiculous not telling her my plans. She kept saying, What if you end up in the hospital? What if this? What if  that? Right up until I got onto the bus. But I wouldn’t say a word, because I didn't want anyone back home to come looking for me. But mostly because I don’t know myself. I have enough money to stay at a motel for a week, according to the AAA Guide. With a side trip to Hollywood to see the stars’ homes. Other than that, I just don’t know. Walk around, maybe? See what there is to see. I’ll just have to decide once I get there.

I know just what I’m going to do when I see the Pacific Ocean. I’m going to kick off my shoes and run in up to my knees and splash around and wriggle my toes in it. And then I’m going to sit down on the sand and watch it for a long, long time.

Wednesday, October 17, 2012

What a Relief It Would Be!

I'll admit it: I'm a bit scattered and absent-minded. (Can you hear the bitter laughter of my friends as they say, "Yeah, just a bit!"). A wonderful innovation for people like me has been the way you can find your phone just by dialing the number.

Why stop there?

I think there are a number of important personal items that need the same kind of monitoring system. Wouldn't it be great if there were an app that found them for you at the push of a button? We could call it the "Relief Map App," and here's how it works:

You know how when you go the Visitor's Center of a state park, you sometimes find a relief map of all the important sites? Often, these can be lit up. In other words, when you press a button, a light goes on, showing you exactly where to find the restrooms, handicapped access, campgrounds, etc. 

Wouldn't it be great if we could push a button on our phones to find out where missing items are in our own personal Relief Maps? Think how much time we'd save!

Here are some of the things I would like to have set up so I can find with the push of a button:

- keys;
- glasses;
- sunglasses;
- checkbook;
- money;
- lip gloss;
- the nearest nice single man (hey, I can say what I'd like to have, right?).

I'm serious, you guys: this one's not that far-fetched. Think about it: we have an app that allows us to play Scrabble with a stranger in Scranton. Why should a few items vital to our very existence stay undetectable in the immediate vicinity?

Will someone please design this? I'll be happy to split the returns, 50-50.

Tuesday, October 16, 2012

"I SOOOO Don't Got You, Babe," But "If I Could Turn Back Time," What Would I Do Differently? (With Apologies to Cher)

Did you ever hear that “It is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all?” I call bullshit. No one wakes up alone and says, “Well, at least I used to have someone kiss me good morning. How lucky was I?”

I believe in the other cliche, “Love conquers all,” because it happens to be true. Most days, you'll find me with clenched teeth, uttering these words: “OK, Love, you win! I’m alone! Happy now!?”

Looking back, I took my relationships way too much for granted. I never knew how much a part of me the bond had become until it wasn't there anymore. (Cue Joni Mitchell's "Big Yellow Taxi:" bop to the beat, weep for the words.) Sure, you miss the grand things that everyone can see, like having a built-in date to events, or being part of a one-word identity, as in “Bob-and-Betty are getting a new car.” But those are the first things you let go of. It’s the little things that leave a gaping void: kisses before you've said goodbye, funny messages left on the voicemail, meeting at the usual places. Those are the niggling, maddening moments when you realize, “Oh. I can’t do that anymore.”

And that’s when you know your heart’s not done grieving.

Sometimes, when I drive by a familiar haunt, I expect to see a younger version of myself strolling out, naive, carefree, unable to imagine life alone.

What would I say to that girl? Would I tell her to appreciate the good things about the relationship while she can, 'cause they ain’t gonna last forever? Would I warn her, “Sure, it's great - now. Pretty soon, though, it'll become a circus run by evil clowns."?

But it wouldn't matter what I would say: there would be no use talking to my younger self, because she never listened. And if she did, she wouldn't have believed any of it.

That's something we have in common.

Sunday, October 7, 2012

Vixen asks, "But didn't you say I was the love of your life?"

Lame Guy responds, "I said that?"

Vixen says, "Must've been a meaningful moment for you. 

Here's a meaningful moment for me: go piss up a rope."

Sunday, September 30, 2012

Dating Cheat Sheet #2: Lame Things Guys Text to Gals They Met Online

"Hello, Beautiful!" - Translation: I can't remember your name.

"Sorry I was unavail. for the last 2 weeks, busy @ work" - Translation: Mr. Air-Traffic-Controller eased previous girl-plane into departure and is now ready to signal holding pattern girl-planes in for a landing. And guess what? You're the first girl-plane in the queue!

"Now I'm TOTALLY COMMITTED to you!" - Translation: "I'll act interested - until someone hotter comes along."

"Let's REALLY get to know each other!" - Translation: "Will sex be in the picture, and if so, how soon?"

Vixen replies: "Glad to hear your tray is in the upright and locked position, but you can consider my flight cancelled. Hope the next girl-plane has a safe landing. Roger and OUT."

Thursday, September 27, 2012

Lame Things Guys Say:

Lame Things Guys Say While Breaking Up With You:  "Who knows? Maybe we'll get back together someday."

Vixen says, "Nuh-uh. You have put the 'END' in 'boyfriend.'"

Sunday, September 16, 2012

"Good News: We've Found You a Match! Bad News: It's Your Stinkin' Ex!"

A dear friend of mine recently signed up for an online dating service. “Look Who We Found For You!”, the subject line proudly proclaimed. And who should it be but her lying ex-husband! Yes, none other than the doofus she'd been trying to turn into a faint memory, right there on her computer. 

Is this the Universe’s idea of a sick joke? What are the sheer astronomical odds of being thrown together with someone you’ve already been (badly) matched with? I told my friend, Lightning obviously does strike twice, so go buy a lottery ticket in case it strikes a third time as a big payout. In the meantime, try to find a way to reach into the screen and bitch slap him into next week.

Think it can’t get worse? Think again.

My friend's jaw dropped when she saw that her ex had profiled himself as the “56-year-old CEO of my own business.” 'Couple of minor problems there: first off, he's actually 67, okay? And the “business” has been defunct for ten years, having been bankrupted by his careless overspending. Let's take a look at one of his extravagant indulgences, shall we? Here it is: a trip to Thailand with the woman who broke up the marriage - all on the company dime. Lovely. Looks like they had a good time, judging from the picture he posted of the two of them smiling for the camera. Say "Cheesy!"

In fact, he posted a lot of pictures of his much slimmer, less gray self, many from as far back as 13-1/2 years ago. How do I know the precise date? Easy: he left the time stamps on them. This one could come straight out of "Deceit for Dummies": when lying about your age - or anything, really - the first thing you do is get rid of the evidence. 

But that's not all. What else do we have for her, Johnny?

The dating service provided a complete-the-sentence self-description for anyone who may need some prompting. The sentence began, “In my spare time, I like to _________”; he filled in, “Think about the universe.” When I heard that, I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. I have no doubt Mr. Sincerity considers himself to be a Thinker of Deep Thoughts. And, really, when I knew him, he did spend a lot of time staring at the ceiling, spacing out. Of course, spaciness can always be covered up with a classic come-on like, “Single man ISO woman who likes cuddling in front of the fire”: he doesn’t have to specify how many hours he actually spends gazing at stuff burning. Or whether he even has a fireplace.

Truth is, none of us has any way of being certain that someone is who he says he is. A bit of cropping here, a touch-up from Photo Shop there, and bada-boom-bada-bing: say hello to the New Guy, same as the Old Guy. I'm paraphrasing "Won't Get Fooled Again" by The Who, but in this case, the more appropriate song would be "Who Are You?" Because with guys like these, you really wanna know.

I won't give up, though. If the dating service can match up a divorced couple against outrageous odds, they can find a nice guy for me. 

However, I will definitely be checking the pictures for anything that looks remotely aged or airbrushed

It will give me something to do while I wait for that bitch slap through the screen technology to be invented.

Monday, September 10, 2012

“Stephanie, Jesus Thinks You're HOT!"

Scrolling through my email, I saw this subject from an online dating service: “Stephanie, Jesus Thinks You're HOT!" Really? Was the Son of Man flipping through the headshots when He came across mine and said, "O, Woman! Verily, thou art most fair." Or have I finally become so desperate that I need Divine Intervention for my social life? Then it dawned on me that “Jesus” was just some guy's name. Oops. Note to self: cancel plans to build a shrine around computer. 

Dang! Why couldn’t this email have appeared on a tortilla?

Receiving a potential "match made in Heaven" made me think about the real Jesus Christ. Not the first name you associate with dating, but what would his J-Date profile read like? 

"Itinerant rabbi ISO Woman of Faith.  Object: Marriage

on Earth as it is in the Kingdom of Heaven. Prefers someone as

comfortable at the seaside as in the wilderness. Must have

experience feeding the hungry, clothing the naked and tending

to the sick a must. Loaves and fishes provided. Ownership of 

beast of burden a plus." 

You can almost imagine this ad was written at the behest of his distressed Mom: “Nu? Enough already with the shmying up and down the Galilee, Mr. ‘I’m-Gonna-Save-the-World!’ You're 33! Time to start a family!” 

If Jesus had decided to marry, the record shows that He treated women, even fallen or leprous ones, very fairly. This was pretty daring during a time when girls were basically told, “Sit there and look pretty while Daddy marries you off for some cattle.”

As full of love as Jesus and His Mom were, I remember being frightened as a kid by Their statues as I walked past Our Lady of Peace Catholic Church. I am Jewish, and therefore somewhat leery of what we Jews perceive to be a “graven image,” which the Third Commandment says is forbidden. (One time in the desert, there was this Golden Calf and . . . actually, I'd really rather not to talk about it.) The figures I saw when I peeked into the Sanctuary were so stern-looking, and their physical conditions? Like a nightmare version of Lucky Charms: Crowns of thorns! Nailed hands! Bleeding hearts! I don’t mean to make light of anyone’s suffering - it’s just that these images stayed with me as I walked home and even when I went to bed, giving me the creepy sensation that they were still watching me. 

So I was a little surprised when I came across a travel-size glow-in-the-dark statue of the Madonna at a garage sale, and thought: Hmm, this isn't so bad. In fact, She looked very kind and understanding, Her hands clasped in prayer. Maybe She'd pray for me to find a boyfriend as nice as Her Son. I wouldn't mind that at all. Breaking more than one personal taboo, I bravely brought the Blessed Virgin home and put Her on my nightstand. 

Now it’s the two of us, just two Jewish moms watching “The Wire” together.

She’s good company, really. I just wish she’d eat something.

Sunday, August 12, 2012

"Cheat Sheet" for Online Profiles of Straight Men

“Wicked sense of humor”            - Asshole.

“Loves long walk at the               - Cheap
beach and quiet nights at             bastard.
home, cuddling in front
of the fire.”

"ISO a real connection               - Must have
with possible life partner."           ginormous

"My friends say I'm funny."        - Long-winded.
“Stocky build.”                          - Unable to see his  
                                                   own toes.
“Loves outdoor                          - Prepare to
activities.”                                   clean a lot of fish.
“Passionate about life.”             - Has a temper.

“I believe in achieving               - Super-critical.
the goals I set for myself.”             

(Response to question):             - "I'm creating an aura
“I’ll tell you later.”                       of mystery, since I
                                                  don't have any     
                                                  interesting stories.  
                                                  Is it working?"

“I’m honest to a fault.”              - Smug and rude.

“I consider myself a bit             - Clingy.
of a romantic.”

“Relaxed, easy-going                - Couch potato.
I am an active semi-               - "I'm looking for a
retired male who likes               future caregiver." 
to play golf."                       

See anything you like, ladies?