There’s an old expression that says: Don’t put the cart before the horse. It’s a saying that unless you’re at least a half century old probably makes little sense because the last time most of us saw a cart and horse together it was in a travel ad for Amish tourism and the cart was more than likely following behind. But in my era, (and yes, it was an era of the combustible engine) it meant doing things ass backwards.
Like planning where you’ll spend the honeymoon before you’ve gone on the second date, or sending off for a Harvard info packet when your kid is four years old and still in diapers. Or buying that size four dress for your high school reunion when you’re still a size six and the reunion is only weeks away. Not that I have of course, I’m just sayin’.
Yes, I’ve done things in the past equally as silly, but I’ve put a new label on it. I call it: “Visioning.”
Recently, when my husband and I were house shopping, my visioning made me suggest we purchase a home in a gated community to help guard against any obsessed crazy fans that might want to break into our home once I become a famous author. I believe it was he who used the term “cart before the horse,” right before he gave me a look that implied the only crazy to fear was me.
My other visioning involved being interviewed by Oprah on her show to promote my book. I’ll admit I even eyeballed some blue blouses at the department store because a Google search revealed blue looks good on TV. Never mind the fact I’ve never been published, nor seen my name in print—if you don’t count my birth certificate and those credit card bills. Plus, that vision is a total bust now that Oprah is off the air.
And I’ve wasted hours mentally reviewing what I’d say to Howard Stern on his radio show. I even had an emotional debate on whether or not to show him my breasts if he asked. The jury is still out, but if I’m not on his show soon there’s a good chance the point will be moot because I’m sure Howard is not interested in geriatric ta-ta’s, no matter how well preserved they are.
Now you’ll have to excuse me, I’m in the middle of another visioning moment. There’s a fabulous designer dress on Ebay that would look great on the red carpet when I get that Best Screenplay Oscar.
Mindless Musings of a Menopausal Maniac
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Monday, May 23, 2011
RIDICULOUS LAWS
I admit it. I’m a chronic law breaker.
On any given day, I’ve been known to drive over the posted speed limit, dash across the street outside the perimeter of a crosswalk, or answer my cell phone without my hands-free attachment. And just the other day, I broke the law six times in less than sixty seconds by ripping off the “Do Not Remove Under Penalty of Law” tags on some decorative pillows I’d purchased for my client.
Most laws are put into place to keep us safe from harm and to protect the lives of others. But there are many laws, both new and archaic, that are downright ridiculous. Here is a small sampling of some dumb laws:
It is illegal to sell peanuts in Lee County
It is illegal to wear a fake moustache that causes laughter in church.
It is illegal for a driver to be blindfolded while operating a vehicle.
Boogers may not be flicked into the wind
Animals are banned from mating publicly within 1,500 feet of a tavern, school, or place of worship.
It is a misdemeanor to shoot at any kind of game from a moving vehicle unless the target is a whale.
Women may not drive in a house coat.
City Laws in California
Blythe:
You are not permitted to wear cowboy boots unless you already own at least two cows. (Are you permitted to wear them if you own at least two boys?)
A man can’t go outside while wearing a jacket and pants that do not match.
It is illegal to drive more than two thousand sheep down Hollywood Boulevard at one time.
Indian Wells:
Drinking intoxicating cement is prohibited.
It is illegal to walk a camel down Palm Canyon Drive between the hours of four and six PM.
It is illegal for a man to beat his wife with a strap wider than 2 inches without her consent. (With her consent it’s considered S&M, which is also illegal.)
It is illegal to cry on the witness stand.
Toads may not be licked.
Zoot suits are prohibited.
It is illegal for a secretary to be alone in a room with her boss. (Is it legal for a boss to be alone in his room with his secretary?)
Prohibits elephants from strolling down Market Street unless they are on a leash.
Persons classified as “ugly” may not walk down any street.
It is illegal to sell your children.
A special law prohibits unmarried women from parachuting on Sunday or she shall risk arrest, fine, and/or jailing.
If an elephant is left tied to a parking meter, the parking fee has to be paid just as it would for a vehicle.
Men may not be seen publicly in any kind of strapless gown.
Having sexual relations with a porcupine is illegal.
One-armed piano players must perform for free.
Kisses may last for no more than five minutes.
City Laws:
The fire department is required to practice fire fighting for fifteen minutes before attending a fire.
Horses are forbidden to eat fire hydrants.
Within the city limits, a man may not wink at any woman he does not know.
Hollow logs may not be sold.
More than 8 women may not live in the same house because that would constitute a brothel.
It is illegal to use a lasso to catch a fish.
City Laws
It is illegal for a woman to call a man for a date.
You may not have more than five inoperable vehicles on a piece of property. (Yeah, right.)
It is illegal for a woman to drive a car unless there is a man either running or walking in front of it waving a red flag to warn approaching motorists and pedestrians.
It’s illegal for frogs to croak after 11 PM.
Panhandlers must first obtain a $10 permit before begging on the streets of downtown Memphis
Males may not be sexually aroused in public.
An ordinance forbids anyone to sing the song “It Ain’t Goin’ To Rain No Mo’.
It is illegal not to drink milk.
It is illegal to detonate any nuclear weapon.
Birds have the right of way on all highways.
A husband is responsible for every criminal act committed by his wife while she is in his presence.
No one may have sex in the back of an ambulance if it is responding to an emergency call…
Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to run and make a citizen’s arrest. There’s a potential felony in progress between a labrador and a schnauzer on the front lawn of the school across the street.
Monday, May 16, 2011
DREAMS THAT MAKE YOU GO HMMM…
Maybe it’s the hormones, or lack of them, but I have the most bizarre dreams. And not the prophetic kind you’d find in the Bible, like Jacob’s ladder or Pharaoh’s seven cows and heads of grain on a single sheath, a dream so profound he needed Joseph to interpret them. No, instead, mine are strange and defracted, with no meaningful correlation, sort of the Cirque du Soleil of dreams, and if they were ever interpreted I’d probably be committed.
One morning, in the early stages of writing the first draft of my memoir, I woke up after visiting the land of Nod
Monday’s dream: I’m in a living room I don’t recognize that is over-filled with furniture. My daughter is a young child and has a cold. I wipe her runny nose with a tissue from my pocket, but instead of cleaning her face, the snot falls to the floor and instantly turns into scrambled eggs, which I sweep up with a broom I find in the corner of the room.
Tuesday’s dream: I’m in a deserted park, sitting in the passenger seat of an old VW bug, and a man is crying, begging me to marry him. The man is the comedian Tim Allen and he’s wearing a woman’s wig and a floral housecoat, and a shade of lipstick that doesn’t suit his complexion. I say no to the proposal.
Wednesday’s dream: The details are hazy, but it involved me, a bathtub, and a German Shepherd I swear was grinning.
Thursday’s dream: I’m stuck in a deep pit, sort of like that one from The Silence of the Lambs, with the character Eric, from the show Entourage. We take a brief pause from our escape efforts to make-out, before making a rope out of our hair and climbing out.
Friday’s dream: I’m hanging out with the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. This is possibly a continuation of a dream I had years ago (that my daughter’s will never let me live down.) In that particular dream I was dating the turtle Raphael. At least I think it was Raphael, all of those Ninja turtles look alike.
Saturday: I throw away the notebook, have two glasses of wine and some Nyquil so I can get a decent night’s sleep, and pray for a normal dream, the kind where someone is chasing me with a pick axe while wearing a mask of Ronald Reagan.
And to think—Albert Einstein’s theory of relativity was inspired by a dream.
Thursday, May 12, 2011
THE PAIN OF AGING
My poor husband is in pain. His back has gone out. I guess that’s what he gets when at our age he does something as strenuous as cliff diving and street luge, or in this case, lying on the floor with the dog watching Glee.
And as much as I miss him at night while he sleeps in the other room, the one with the firm mattress, I wonder if he has any clue about the amount of pain I have suffered through in the quest to stay looking young for him. (Okay, let me be honest…in the quest to stay looking young for ME.)
First, there was the “Lipo-dissolve,” guaranteed to dissolve the fat globules around the thighs and mid-section, a procedure where you are injected with some type of venomous poison that’s supposed to miraculously dissolve the unwanted fat, making you svelte and smooth. Instead, I returned home in more pain than is conceivably possible, swollen and puffed as a cream-filled donut, and tossed and turned for three nights straight, despite the Vicodin, while my beloved snored beside me. And the only thing it dissolved was the money in my checking account.
There was the Blue Chemical Peel, where blue dye is added to the acid they apply to your skin with the intent to smooth out the tiny lines and wrinkles. The dye is necessary so the doctor can monitor how deep the acid is permeating, lest they let it go too deep and you wind up looking like the Two-Face character in The Dark Knight Batman movie where DA Harvey Dent gets his face burned off. My husband missed that lovely experience where I was as blue-green as a lizard for twelve days until the outer layers of my skin peeled off in shriveled tendrils. And the reason he missed it was because he wasn’t my husband yet, and there is a good chance he never would have been if he’d seen me. That experience was so painful the procedure is done with full anesthesia. I vaguely remember someone in the operating room shouting at me to “keep breathing!” FYI, the wrinkles are still there but the memory of the pain lingers.
Laser hair removal, billed as “painless,” was anything but. I left there hair free, but with burn marks in the shape of a heart around my…bikini line. I should have known there was going to be some pain involved when the technician handed me a tennis ball to squeeze and a box of tissues. That procedure is one that actually works, but I might have reconsidered if someone ever told me there are certain body parts—that as we age—are better off left hidden.
The plucking, the tweezing, the waxing, the pre-op, the post-op, and everything in-between, there is nothing painless about trying to stay looking young. Now excuse me while I head out for my monthly botox, and Honey, hand me your Percocet.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)