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Ixnay on the Itchy Trigger Foot

Y'all, 47% of Florida's elderly population is driving with an itchy trigger foot. This appears to be an age-related entitlement, and there's nothing we can do about it because they would get really, really cranky if we "youngsters" started telling them what to do. Then they'd start withholding the Christmas Florentines, the Eye-talian cream birthday cakes, and the annual Bludgeoned Chickenfest—while firing up the guilt grill. No sir, that will not do.

But back to the itchy trigger foot. See, here's why it's a problem. When the old farts take their daily joy ride to the nearest post office, a disturbing number of them are exiting the parking lot via the building's front windows. Why, only a month ago, a woman said she was startled by something falling from the sky, so she accelerated into the post office lobby—prompting the police to schedule a pickup. Perhaps the sky was falling, or perhaps it was air mail. I'm not here to judge, but I doubt this is what the USPS had in mind when they started their "Stay Connected" campaign. This year in Central Florida alone, there have been eight sudden detours.

Fortunately, the USPS isn't punishing folks by calling out fake take-a-number tickets. "Heh, heh. What, nobody has #999? Heh. What about 633? No? Heh. 4,286? We've got all day, folks." No, they're actually asking Floridians to stop crashing into their post offices. Like this: "Please stop crashing into our post offices." And the USPS is being really nice about it by saying "please" and including helpful tips. Pretty sure there's one that goes, "Don't get behind the wheel while the key is in the ignition. Please."

Now I'm sure, when I get very, very old, a joy ride to the post office will be on my agenda too. Along with a leisurely stop-and-shop at the Cracker Barrel and the hand-scribing of an unfiltered letter about our nation's imminent Apocalypse due to POTUS's ideology being a tad different from mine. I mean, what is this? America? I can even imagine myself after an unfortunate rendezvous with my post office lobby, where my official statement will be:  "It's the darnedest thing, Whippersnapper. I stomp on the brake, and I'm always surprised at how much faster I go. Weeee! Hey, anybody seen my teeth?"

But to ixnay the itchy trigger foot, I suggest the USPS and the police combine forces with a new service called, "Priority Tracking and Confirming Your Old Farts." This just shows you love them. You could go online and, instead of looking up a zip code, you could GPS the location of your old farts, then request a certified return receipt to ensure your package arrives undamaged at his or her destination, steering clear of sidewalks, glass, and screaming postal workers.

Naturally, this would necessitate your oldest farts getting tattooed with a Forever Stamp on their foreheads. To stay connected. They'll go for that, right?
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I Need a Pop-Up

If there's one thing I'd change about dating sites, it's the pop-ups. Actually, it's the lack of them. I'm just sayin', a girl could use some helpful screeners—intuitive little truth-telling identifiers—to aid in the "should I or shouldn't I" process.

Boys, there's an itty bitty issue with some of your advertising, and I'm not talking about your snackpack. See, I value upfrontness. Unfortunately, some stuff that's not in your profile is actually quite important but gets buried behind the really big questions like, Do you have a car? So I just got to thinking, what if we girls could do Q&A that a magical pop-up screener could then dissect for us BEFORE we go on a date with you? All we'd have to do is decide if we're okay with your real truth. Sweet. Can someone invent this for me?

To plead my case, here are just a few random pop-ups that would have saved me a lot of trouble recently:

Me: You say you only date one woman at a time and expect me to do the same, but what you really mean to say is:

1. I get first dibs.
2. I want to elope with you right after dinner.
3. I fear failing miserably by comparison to any other man on the planet, except Todd Akin.
4. I'm secretly a big nerd and would do anything to get in your pants.

Me: When you said you were five feet six inches, were you thinking that fell within the 3" margin of error?

1. Wha-what?
2. Wow, you're a girl AND you do math?
3. Ptthp. I've got something else that's longer.
4. What height works to get me in your pants?

Me: If I let you kiss me, what will it feel like?

1. Your pillow. I can't help it.
2. A honey badger. I can't help it.
3. A slimy squirmy sea snail. I can't help it.
4. Who said anything about kissing, I just want to get in your pants. I can't help it.

Me: When you say you have no strong political stance, what you really mean is:

1. All libs are unpatriotic, immoral pagans who talk bad about poor rich people, the NRA, and sadly misunderstood major corporations.
2. I can't wait to take you to the next Newt rally!
3. Rush, Hannity, Colter, Bachmann and Bachmann's rainbow posterboy hubs should fill the next presidential cabinet—OH YEAH!
4. A vote for me is a vote for getting into your pants!

Me: You didn't mention your T-level, but I'm gonna need clarification on which team you play for.

1. Fabulous that you noticed, but I'm, like, totally so male.
2. Just cuz I said "Fabulous" five times in five minutes while gesturing and giggling like a centurion in a Roman bath house, does not mean I don't love boobs and vaginas.
3. Betcha my male anatomy can still give you a fabulous salute.
4. Know what would be fabulous? If I could still get in your pants.

Sigh.

There. The defense rests.
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Total Crap

This post is an experiment in stream of consciousness writing, which means no self editing, which means it's full of crap. You have no idea…

See, I'm a perfectionist. Not that I'm perfect; I just think I need to be. Maybe you already figured that out. Usually, people see things in you that you don't like to acknowledge, long before you come clean about it. I could use a 12-step program. Step One: Admit you are powerless to your compulsion. Here's my admission: Crap!

I also have a teensy problem with being unnecessarily thorough in the pursuit of covering all my bases. And occasionally I fast-pitch sports analogies. Right across the plate!

Speaking of the plate, I have a stomach issue, which causes nausea that stifles my hunger sometimes. The Doc, before he runs expensive tests, gives me pills to take. Of course, pills first, pinpoint the exact problem later, right? But what really amuses me is the fact that Doc gave me Aciphex, which seems an ironic name for an intestinal issue.

Speaking of intestinal issues, my gold crown popped off my molar while I chomped on an over-cooked chicken fajita, and I promptly—to my horror—swallowed it. Since what goes in must come out . . . Talk about your ass effects. When and if that sucker shows up, submerged and glistening in the porcelain deep, I'll not be "proctpecting" for gold. Nope. Waving and flushing, cuz I'll be damned if I'll rescue a piece of forged metal from the crapper just to pop it back into my mouth. Murphy's Law would have a field day with me.

Speaking of swallowing, the crown might as well have been my last meal, since I subsequently spent three torturous hours in The Chair at the mercy of a masked dentist and her incompetent assistant, Tabitha (her name sounds all innocuous, but no). Tabitha tried to drown me three times and rip my mouth open, until she figured out that a ton of pressure and a smidge of suction was the sure path to her patient's expiration. And yippee, I get to go back and see Tabitha when the new crown comes in. Something to look forward to.

Told ya, total crap. Unedited. Heh. I know you're not buying that. Whatevs. There's no cure for perfectionism; you can only treat it. Mostly with restraints on the hands and electric tape over the mouth. Plus, I'm a notorious bucker of rules—even my own. So I edited. I'm weak. And I don't own restraints—none that come off the bed post. Probably shoulda edited that last part out, but no.

And we are back to Step One: Crap!

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Cliff Diving, Or How I Became 0 for 7

Friday, I leave work early to spend time at the pool. Uh-oh, here comes my neighbor, a muscle-bound gym junkie, who's pretty adorable. Alas, he's too young for me, and he says things like, WE could do this, and WE could do that. But—and this is kind of important—we just met. I am always surprised by this. I think, Don't you want to get to know what you're not going to like about me first, before you dive in?

Couple weeks ago, I met International Sales Guy Michael online. Holy shit, we hadn't even had our first face-to-face and I felt like a mail-order bride. Don't get me wrong. Michael is model handsome, physically fit, intelligent, fun, yada yada. Of note, we'd both been dumped by people we adored and trusted, so why he wanted to talk exclusivity is beyond my emotional IQ. But I was 0 for 6 with nothing to lose. Might as well check him out, right?

Date #1, Friday. The wining and dining commenced, followed by a walk down Sixth Street where we ducked into Pete's piano bar—always a good venue for revealing my true colors with a boisterous sing-along to the crudest songs known to man, wherein my date either gets me or he doesn't, or he's tormented by the thought of introducing me to his mother. I do come with a warning, which I should wear on my boobs so when he loses focus and is startled to hear profanities from the sweet and petite girl, he is reminded, "Oh yeah, she did mention a proficiency in sailor talk," which is NOT the same as, Me love you long time. However, enter the Disney Whore.

Date #2, Saturday. Great time, good chemistry, and Michael danced me around the room like Fred Astaire. Didn't make me laugh (vital if you want to get to first base), but I mused, if anybody could breathe new life into this broken heart, maybe . . . Still, my gut instinct had already assessed the situation and blinded me with flashing neon lights:  What up with this "I'm only seeing you" expectation, cuz—I'm just tossing this out there—WE JUST MET!  He went from "Call Me Maybe" to "Hey Baby, Let's Go to Vegas."

Some people meet and instantly fall in love, and maybe when I was much younger I did too. But with experience comes reservation, and usually I'm a toes-in-the-water girl before I cannonball in. So, barely wet, this guy's rush to cliff-dive into a relationship scared the livin' shit out of me.

So sorry, you are not for me. So sorry, c'est la vie!

And so it goes, the count rises. I'm 0 for 7 now, with one in the batter's box and one on deck. Let's see if this season at least somebody gets on base.
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Warning to New Moms, Or, How I Asked For It

I have four daughters, and I always encouraged an open and candid communication exchange with them. We actually talked about stuff when they were growing up—highly personal stuff. That's how I gained a freakish knowledge of all things catty, hormonal, and melodramatic. While not for the faint of ego, this up-frontness takes a whole lot of complications OUT of the mother/daughter dynamic. Now that they're adults, saying pretty much whatever comes to mind is an ingrained practice. All topics, including the bat-shit crazy, gory, juicy details, are fair game. I know this isn't every mom's cup o' whiskey, but I prefer it. Let that be a lesson to you.

Take my 29-year-old, who feels competent and entitled now to pay back all the sage dating and relationship advice I gave her, lo those many moons ago when she was still sneaking smokes in the garage, ditching first period, and pretending to have cramps. I was on a "first" date the other night, when she texted me and told me to "do" something to him, which I cannot actually repeat here because MY mother reads this blog, and well, she is a little more old fashioned about conversations concerning men and sex. Anyway, I later replied to my daughter, and the convo went like this:

Me:  You're gross.

Daughter:  U did it, didn't u??!! LOL

Me:  My lips are sealed. (A) because you don't really want to know, since I'm your mother, and (B) because, well, see A.

Daughter:  LOL. I know we are past the mother/daughter privacy thing, so I have to assume it was all rated "G". Booooooooo.

Me:  Yeah, it was all G. Except when he . . . and then I . . . and then he . . . which made this thing happen . . . and then OMG! PLUS, then he did . . . and so I couldn't help myself, and I . . . Well, it's all too much to put in a text message. Let's just say it was, um, not G.

Daughter:  So in other words, he kissed u goodnight and u like him a lot. Glad I had a good time, Disney. LOL.

Me:  He sure did kiss me goodnight. He likes to say goodnight. I mean, he could not stop saying it. And pretty soon I thought, if he doesn't stop saying goodnight, somebody's gonna be saying good morning!

Daughter:  So UR the Disney whore.

Sigh. Your efforts to actively engage your children WILL come back on you like a well-chugged cerveza. Still, for me, it does feel good to be able to express myself to loved ones, knowing they will return the favor when they need to confide something important or just express something outrageously inappropriate. See, I don't judge them nor make them feel like total idiot savants for offering their unsolicited and misguided opinions, which I do accept wholeheartedly, out of pure unconditional love. And it's what makes being a mom so fun.

Just think, my daughter's probably passing all my parental wisdom down to her own two daughters right now. Aaahhh, let me just sit back and bask in the sunny glow of my greatest accomplishments.

Love you, Critter.
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I Feel Faint

After keeling over, I'm now so comfy!
Where's the laudanum?

I have a new sofa. Actually, it's a "fainting couch."

Class, take your seats. Time for a history lesson, a la Fragrant Liar. I want you to put yourself in the shoes—er, the corset of a Victorian-era woman. Go ahead.

Ready? All cinched up nice and tight? Imagine tighter. You can't breathe-tight. Now imagine all that pomp and frill beneath your skirts. Not your vagina pomp and frill, but long knickers and stiff crinolines. It might be 20 degrees outside, but you are freakin' sweaty and suffocating. Where do you turn? WHERE DO YOU TURN?

To the fainting couch, of course, which catches you at the very instant you keel over.

So says, not verbatim, the Great Oracle Google. But I question the veracity of a tightly strung corset figuring into the need for a fainting couch. Sure, a bunch of women dropping like flies could necessitate a special sofa for recovery, but during that same era, women rode horseback, played tennis, and performed other vigorous activities in corsets, no problem. More likely, women had a racket going.

Thanks, Hilary!

See, in Victorian times (1837-1901), the fainting couch served another purpose. Disease. Or more precisely, the inconvenient disease of female hysteria. If you had that disease, you could get special house calls. Professionals were standing by, conveniently, to perform therapeutic treatments on you. Therapeutic, as in manual pelvic massage. I'll just let you absorb that for a moment.

And it was also likely that you'd require constant, weekly treatments that could take hours of you supining on your fainting couch under a professional's careful machinations. Anybody feeling faint? I'm making a sign of the cross right now (just in case), in divine thanks for medically prescribed sex. Tut, tut! No judging.

Ahem, so if you were a 19th century woman of breeding, you owned a fainting couch and you damn well took advantage of it if you had any inkling of its true bennies. I'd be droppin' it like it's hot twice a day! Don't you know, those Victorian women begged their old fart husbands for a fainting couch. Please, please, sir!

Speaking of breeding, is it coincidental that the Victorian era saw a huge spike in fertility rates? I think not. Perhaps manual pelvic massage included other, shall we say, special instruments? That, or wives were so grateful for their disease relief that they actually had thank-you sex with their old fart husbands and thereby produced heirs.

I am feeling faint and hysteria.
How inconvenient.

So we've come a long way, baby, but I think in this case, we women totally got robbed. I, for one, am contemplating a return to simpler times, where female hysteria was a perfectly acceptable reason for stopping mid-day to get a good hand job. I'm asking my boss about instituting a new policy tomorrow.

Ho hum, it's all stormy and rainy outside in Austin, and to be honest, I feel a strong bout of hysteria coming on. I better go lay down on my fainting couch. Good thing I have a medical practitioner on speed dial.

See you in a few hours.
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It Was a Dark and Stormy Sunset

I love sunsets. When I go to Mexico—or any coastline, for that matter—my mission is to catch every sunset, usually from a reclining position with a cold beverage in my hand and something utterly profound percolating between my ears. Same for the lake. There's just something about the sun melting into the horizon that makes me feel happy. Maybe because it means I've conquered another day and can relax before the next one rises to make demands on me.

Waiting for the sunset.

Or maybe because I know that after the sun sets, the stars come out. Which means, with the vast universe growing before my eyes, I can utter profundities about my infinitesimal smallness and ponder my existence with all the philosophical credentials of a single-celled organism. They don't call me Princess Amoeba for nothin'. I am single and I have a cell. Therefore, I am primed for the kind of insightful commentary that reinforces my position in the evolutionary hierarchy. Like, Blah, blah, blah, I'm supposing all kinds of shit that reveals how truly little I comprehend about the universe's grand mysteries—but I did hear some of us are going to catch an astral plane, if we make some crazy connection. Me, I'm not so sure. But anyway, pry out another cork and put on some tunes, will ya?

While that sort of esoterica is actually quite stimulating for me, I would never bore you guys with it. Nay, nay! Cuz without concrete answers to the questions of why and how we highly intelligent Earthlings fit in the galaxy, this pondering consumes two perfectly good minutes that are better absorbed by a good dirty joke and a coupla giggles. Case in point, your most recent two minutes here. Oh, but wait, I'll make it up to you. Have you ever read The Grand Canyon? By Bea Gapusi? You're welcome.

Sunsets, on the other hand, are much simpler and require far less profundity, which I would gladly utter if you insisted. I mean, I don't want to disappoint anyone by not uttering when my utterances have been requested.

This is a dark and stormy sunset.

Anyway, when I spent the day at my pal Julie's house on Lake LBJ, it was with great anticipation of another watercolor sunset—something to soothe my soul. Instead, we got pummeled by a storm. Thunder and lightning and sideways rain. Crazy cool! And because living out on the water is one of my highest aspirations, didn't matter so much that I didn't get my sunset. Just being there, present and fully engaged with my good friend, I got what I came for:  happiness.

And cold beverages. But, again, I'm not currently uttering profundities. Unless you insist.

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Where in the World is FL?

Maybe you're thinking right now, what the hell happened to that damn Fragrant Liar? Which would be rude, because I would never use your name in vain, probably, but whatever. I get it. You're no doubt mad at me. And to that I say, Get in line.

Other than ensuring that the people who love me most can shake their heads and yell all Cher-like, "Snap out of it!", mostly I've been reflecting on and reconstructing—and deflecting and deconstructing—the last year, in which I invested considerable time and energy to a lost cause—precious and perfect though he was to me. Am I richer now, or poorer because of it?

Wasting a whole year of your life saps tremendous energy, leaving you little more than a shadow of your former self, which would be ideal for Halloween, but not so much for bikini season. But I'm not thinking it was wasted. Loving someone completely can never be a waste, though mostly the sting of loss prevents me from feeling much else—other than cravings for sappy rom-coms, pizza, and Corona. And frogs. Maybe if I kiss enough frogs, it won't sting anymore.

They say what doesn't kill you makes you stronger. For some, it cripples their emotional capacity and facility for love, and even someone who loves them beyond measure can't save them from themselves—though not for lack of trying.

Sometimes, he is the caliche to your monsoons, and your rich nutrients just can't seep deeply enough to oxygenate—or resuscitate—what lies beneath. Sometimes, even though he has every single piece of you—every. single. piece—you have to find a way to get you back.

I'm still looking for a way. But I am still here. If only it wasn't bikini season.
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The Boogie Man

So I'm driving to work last Monday morning, thinking about what a great weekend I had with my BF (yes, my BF, Hot Sexy Man, who embodies all the qualities normally reserved for a Greek god—you're welcome, baby), when what to my wondering eyes should appear, but a guy in my rearview mirror.

He drives behind me in a white BMW SUV. Professional, thirtyish, white shirt, clean cut. With. His. Finger. Up. His. Nose. I'm all, Dude, no! You are NOT alone! STOP THAT! I beg you.


But he's committed, and it's like watching a drilling rig haul out the survivors of the Chilean mining disaster. You root for a successful rescue, of course, but you're unsure what shape the little guys'll be in when they emerge from the depths. I want to shield my eyes, but that is impossible because I'm driving—and because I can't believe what I'm witnessing. I am riveted to my rearview, where Beamer Boy remains knuckle deep in Operation Liberation for about three green lights.

Next thing I know, I shudder to say, a grown man, laboring with one finger up his nose, then makes a conscious decision to ingest what he finds there. At this point I'm beyond asking, Why? Why? WHY? Oh no. I've moved on to What's wrong with flicking?

Now, I'm all for nurturing your inner child and having a sense of play in your life. I'm partial to trampoline jumping on my mattress—and yours if you're not looking—but this sort of reckless abandon stretches the concept a mite too far. If he was in my car, I'd slap him silly. But he's not, so when I veer into the left-hand turn lane at the red light and Beamer Boy pulls up next to me, I can't resist getting his attention and tapping my nose while making the "Ew, OMG, ew!" face. When the light goes on in his eyes that his secret mission has been compromised, he exits stage right with a sudden tire-spinning turn. And he's not even in the turn lane. That's right, Beamer Boy, get far, far away.

Except you can never get that far away from a woman with a blog. This happened April 23, and when I searched for an image to post, looky what I found.

Dude, the International Diocese for Idealistic Observances That are Stupid (IDIOTS) have determined what you did was okay. I, however, may slap you silly if I ever see you again.
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