Sunday, August 9, 2015


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Um...a post script to this blog posting from 2012...I haven't had a date since...


Okay, perhaps it was not the right thing to say on a first date, “Those aren’t your real top teeth, are they?”  I shouldn’t have gone on when he answered, “No.”  “Do you take them out at night and put them in a glass of water?”  It was when he answered, “Yes” to that question that a very disturbing visual arose in my head, with the glass and the teeth and his top lip all sucked inward without his teeth.  You’ve seen those photos, I know.

I fully expected him to turn tail and run, but, oh no!  So, in order to continue to try to push him away, I made a perfectly innocent comment about his looks, “You look like a the gold chain on...overly tanned...has anyone ever told you that?” He smiled with his overly-large, perfectly-shaped, gleamingly-white false teeth, gave me a creepy wink and said, “Yeah, actually they have.”  “THEY?”  

And, I should never have asked our server to take a photograph of us, although I wanted proof of the mess I’d gotten myself into through a dating site. I needed to show my friends what I was talking about when I was quizzed, post-date...”OMG!  You wouldn’t believe it!”  My silly request must have given him what he thought was a green light to sidle up to me, put his hand on my upper-inner (yes, I said, inner) thigh, turn to the camera and show his pearly whites.

After our server left, he stayed too closely ‘put,’ and began to discuss his sexual prowess, talents and knowledge of how to “make a woman happy.”  If I had a nickel for every man who has said that to me, then missed the spot all together (sometimes for years on end), I’d be Bill-Gates-rich. While discussing his ‘strengths’ in this area, he actually leaned over and bit my neck!

By the way, I am not embellishing this experience one little bit, although it sounds like I’m making it all up, doesn’t it?  As Sal has often said to me, “ANOTHER fine mess you’ve gotten yourself into!”

Can you women guess what happened when the check came?  I thought it polite to say, “Shall we split that?”  Now, here’s the confusion that all women our age experienced in the 60’ love, bras burning and equal rights does NOT mean that the woman should split the check!  When she asks you that, it’s ONLY to be polite, and  if you reply, “Sure,” as my date just FLUNKED!

And, lest you judge me for my innocent remarks, he whispered in my ear as we left the bar, “You better stop all this, because I could REALLY start to like you.”

I have since removed my dating site profile.  If it’s the single life for me henceforth...SO BE IT!!  I’m carrying on regardless.  He’ll find me. Oh Gawd!

3 things not to do when you go on a date with KK:

1.     Put your hand between her thighs and wink.
2.     Let her pick up her half of the check.
3.     Bite her neck.

Sounds simple enough but…duh!  This was the first date, asshole!  Don’t put your hands all over the woman to where she feels like the goat at the petting zoo, for Godsakes don’t let her pay for anything, and then don’t, I repeat, don’t…bite her like she’s an apple in the dunking contest at the fucking carnival.  Helloh!  What were you thinking!

“Oh, she’ll love this; works every time…I’ll tell her that I know how to satisfy a woman in bed and that way she’ll go home with me tonight, fuck my brains out, and then make me some banana waffles for breakfast.”  Are you kidding me?

Men, please!  I’ve actually had dates do the exact same things to me, but never all three things in one date...and the first date. Even after KK emailed him and told him NO nicely, well, as nicely as KK can say such a thing, he kept calling her and texting her saying that if she would just meet with him as a friend..’you never know what could happen from there.’  KK finally just ate 17 oyster shooters at The Sand Bar and cancelled her subscription to match(dot)com, unfriended him on facebook, and put a Mickey Mouse bandaid over the teeth marks on her neck.

Seriously, guys, get a clue, hint, or crash course on how we ladies like to be treated.  Buy some flowers, order the most expensive thing on the menu and then leave a big tip for that waitress that you both noticed is really a man.  Tell a woman that she is really pretty, offer to take her to dinner on your yacht, and then… fix that pesky plumbing problem in her guest bathroom toilet.

If you do that last thing, she will be yours forever.


Thursday, July 9, 2015

Gratification...Delayed vs. Instant

I could probably go three or four days without french fries...I’m sure I could.  I think that’s delayed gratification, but, don’t dare me.  And, I like the really soft, greasy kind that bend like...a stick of licorice.  I’d rather eat french fries than the burgers that accompany them, frankly.  I’m not into sweets...give me potatoes and watch me smile.

People who clean receive instant gratification.  I receive the same gratification when I hand them the money to clean, thus giving me a similar sensation but without the groundwork involved.  As some of you know, I do like to sweep, but should the wind come along, my gratification is delayed as I curse under my breath until the next time I attempt to brush away the refuse in my life. I get twitchy when I see a pile of leaves on the deck but can be persuaded to forestall any efforts toward that chore if tempted by french fries. 

I am gratified at the site and taste of a perfectly shaken martini.  That can be both instant and delayed...instant with the first sip that is always the best and the delicious ribeye that follows is delayed until after I gratify myself with the second martini.  I call that a win/win, especially if the steak has a side dish of pommes frites.

Waiting for a loved one to arrive at the airport is delayed gratification, but being with that person for about thirty minutes can sometimes make you look forward to the instant gratification that comes along with their wave goodbye.  Then it’s off to Sonic for a small order of, you guessed it...fries.

Gawd, I must be hungry or something, huh??  Don’t even get me started on how I feel about au gratin, mashed or escalloped!


Instant gratification for me involves the following:

Petting a cat
Eating a Frito pie
Drinking a martini
Smelling a gardenia
A cool shower on a hot day

Delayed gratification is different.  It involves waiting.  It involves anticipation and angst.

Winning the lottery
Meeting Mr. Right
Auditioning for Martin Scorcese

I have come to realize that my whole life was one long journey into gratification.  Talk about delayed.  Sheesh.  I always put my head down and went to work.  I sold kitchen ware, worked as a messenger and cast actors in major motion pictures for twenty five years.  The latter gave a sense of importance and I enjoyed the prestige but it never took me anywhere.  Certainly not to any kind of gratification.  It was all just one mind-numbing attempt after another at paying the rent as time went on and I got older and more fed up with working for assholes.

It’s been a long haul but this old eighteen-wheeler now knows the way from here to there.  It turns out the ‘there’ is what makes you happy, drives you to be driven, and makes you laugh until your mascara runs and you have to re-do your make-up.  A happy problem.  The ‘there’ is where you are now.  My ‘there’ is making mischief with my sister, putting peanut butter on my cat’s tongue and telling the truth about what lies beneath a middle-aged woman’s polite, don’t-fuck-with-me smile.

I have reached Nirvana, and it is called self-gratification.  It has finally allowed me to give all of myself to my life.  It was a long time coming but having all of me present makes me able to accept my foibles, order a wine and know how to taste it properly, and make my sister double over and spit out her coffee with laughter.

I plan those moments when I can do that with her and my friends…or even strangers.  It’s a form of delayed gratification.


Saturday, June 13, 2015

Our Annual Love Letter to Daddy...

I love the word, Daddy.  It just sounds like someone you would love.  Of course, I tend to think about things as if they are chapters from a good southern novel, so a Daddy for me connotes a big, strong, handsome man in uniform in an old black and white Polaroid from 1943.  He’s with his Navy buddies on a crowded ship in the middle of the Pacific.  They’re off duty, drunk, smoking and playing poker on an overturned bucket from their bunks below deck.

I picture a Daddy tying his little girl’s shoe laces and teaching her how to make the loop go under and through.  He is patient and funny.  The little girl knows her life parameters from the inside of his embrace. When she looks up at him, she knows his strength.  She hears laughter roar from his mouth, then drift down to her level as cool air does from a ceiling fan on a hot day.  That’s enough to make anyone smile.

A Daddy to me is someone who is more comfortable and emotionally available with his baby girl child than he could ever be with his wife…just those moments in time where his intimacy is distinctly a Daddy’s, vulnerable and sweeter than a chocolate truffle.  His little girl is the prettiest, smartest and toughest prodigy on the planet…and he’d beat up anyone who disagreed.

Daddys smell of fresh aftershave and starch.  When they’re dressed up, they look so smart.  They seem indestructible and pretty at the same time.  To see a Daddy open the door for his daughter, no matter what age, is crushing in its simplicity and gentleness. To watch this couple dance can break the heart.  To see a Daddy kiss his baby girl goodbye on her way to college can make you cry in your car as you drive by…a total stranger, brought to your knees with that  soft, sweet gesture.

Daddys are protective of their young ladies.  You’d better be a better man than her Daddy if you want to marry his daughter.  He’ll watch you and if you hurt her, he will act like he could kill you, but he’ll rush to her aid and tell her to forget all about you instead because, “Daddy’s here now.”  Daddys buy their girls the best presents when they’re sad.  Nothing is too good or costs too much for a Daddy to see her smile again.

And, if a Daddy’s young woman-girl has a baby girl of her own, he’ll melt at the sight of her, swoon at her whimper and gasp when she giggles.  He gets to do it all over again, and you’ll have to beg him to leave when it’s way past her bedtime.  He’ll begrudgingly go home, and when he sees his own love, the woman who gave him his baby girl and her own girl, he’ll cry in her arms at the excruciating beauty the world can hold.  Daddy’s an old softie.

A Daddy is even more handsome when his own skin is old and soft.  He still smells of aftershave and starch, but also like a tree who will lose its leaves come Fall.  He stands stooped like the tree, but with wisdom that comes from all the seasons of his growth.  Daddys finally learn how lost their girls would be without them and how rooted they are in the periphery of those lives.  They carry a predisposed sadness with them wherever they go, underneath their crooked smiles and inside their clothes…just waiting to go.

I have knowledge that  Daddys are all of these things.  My women friends tell me stories and I laugh and cry with them.  I use their Daddys as my own.  My Daddy died before I started school, went to my first dance or drove for the first time.  He’s watching me though and smiling down at his baby girl child.

Happy Father’s Day, Daddy



I have a few more memories of daddy that KK does because I was every bit of eight years old when he died so suddenly.  My memories of him are like a series of snapshots, all laid out in a row like faded and yellowing pictures of a daydream.

It’s strange, the things that stick in your mind.  I remember his shoes in the bottom of the closet.  He wore black or brown, leather, wingtip shoes.  I can see the bottom of that closet as plain as day in my mind.  I was there often because that’s where our cats always had their kittens.  Mother had a towel in the bottom of the dark, cool closet because she knew Jennifer, our Persian cat, would go there to have her litters of squirmy, wormy baby cats.  I would go and hold them….and look at my daddy’s shoes.  They were big and hard, and smelled of leather and baby powder.

My big, handsome daddy sat in his favorite reading chair every night and read books.  He was known for being an avid reader and would even retreat to a corner with any book he could find, even at a party at somebody else’s house.  Anyway, he would sit in his chair with a book, and with the reading lamp glowing all around him, he looked like a movie star.  Lots of people said he looked just like Ray Miland.  If you ever saw the movie, ‘Golden Earrings’ with Marlene Dietrich, and you saw him come out of the gypsy wagon, (hands on his hips and all decked out like a gypsy), you would know what dashing is.  I would go and sit in his lap and ask him to tell me the story in the book.  I don’t remember what he would say.  I just remember his big hand around my waist, his kiss on my cheek, and his pretty eyes.

I have a telling memory about this big, strong, oilman.  I sat in his lap on the couch and watched the movie, ‘Little Women’ with him.  When Amy died, he cried.  I think he loved little girls.  I put my tiny hand on his face.

I have a very faded picture of me on my daddy’s lap.  He has on a red, flannel shirt and his large man-hands are wrapped around my knees.  I have on my favorite green, velvet dress.  I think I’m four years old. It’s like I actually remember when this photo was taken.  But that’s impossible….isn’t it?  Our faces are like childhood and wisdom, but seem to go together anyway, in a compatible and yet stunningly different way.  Like the difference between a hard leather shoe…and a kitten that fits inside it.  My memories of him are in a cool, dark place, safe and soft and handled with care.

Our daddy who art in heaven,

Happy Father’s Day,


Saturday, May 16, 2015

Soon...Summertime Fun!! Pish Posh

And, HERE are many reasons why we settled on moving to PARADISE!!

Original posting from July 8, 2011:

If I were to make a list of fun things to do this summer in central Texas, it would be short:


Some people just don’t listen. Sal and I see those whose minds have completely left them, jogging in the afternoon when the temperature hovers around, well, it’s going to be 103 degrees here today. They don’t care.  Human beings were not meant to run any further than the ‘flight or fight’ trajectory.  Run just as long as it takes to escape the predator, which is usually not 26.5 MILES.

If you want to escape the summer heat...well, let’s can’t, because global warming is doing away with lovely, cool breezes in the shade anywhere.  And, don’t go to Arizona...with the behemoth dust storms.  You could go to New’re having fires all over the state, so breathing would be difficult.  There’s always Montana for a little fishing, just as soon as they clean up that pesky oil spill in the’ll have to wait a bit...say...20 or 30 years.

You’ll want to skip the middle part of the country altogether because of the floods.  The standing water has produced mosqweetos the size of dung beetles, but at least there is water in that area...plenty enough to fill your canteen while you continue to look for the perfect location for some summertime fun.  You could go to the Carolinas, but you’d better hurry, because it’s hurricane season, and those people are usually in the line of fire where gales are concerned. 

I say go to Europe, but stay abreast of when the next Greenland volcano will erupt, because that will surely screw up your air travel plans.  How about Mexico?  Or, the middle east? Oh, nevermind.  And, the earthquakes would give me pause when considering South America...besides, it’s winter there, but it would be cool.

I’m exhausted from all this virtual travel.  A martini, cigarette and Sal’s company on the porch in the hot shade of an evening is about as ambitious as I can get these days.

We could go lie down nekked on the tomatoes in the HEB produce department.  That’s about all I can come up with.  How about a cruise to see the glaciers in Greenland?  Well, that might not be too safe.  Apparently chunks of ice as big as Elizabeth Taylor’s diamonds are breaking off and falling into the ocean.  That sounds depressing.  I think I would rather go watch mud slides in Malibu.

It is just too hot here.  I hate it.  People here in Texas are crazy.  Even when the temperature is 103, you can still see the trailer park food trucks passing out fried avocados and red velvet cupcakes to the throngs of thong-wearing, tee-shirted idiots who still think there is a reason to go out for lunch in what amounts to a preheated OVEN!   The thongs I’m referring to are those rubber ones that come in all colors and can be found flopping under the consistently red-painted toenails of any Texas woman with a brain and disdain for style.  We saw a guy riding his bicycle up Shoal Creek road the other day, wearing the other kind of thong, which was so small the back strap had completely disappeared inside his butt crack.  He had Jesus hair and running shoes with knee-high brown socks and nothing else.  That’s what the heat will do to ya – make you completely, fucking wacko.

Yes, it’s Friday night in Austin and a cocktail and a smoke on the front porch sounds like the ticket.  After that, KK will go stand in her bathroom exactly 28 inches from the sink and 3 feet from the back wall.  That’s were the air conditioning vent blows hardest and coldest in the house.  She made the mistake of showing me that.  This time, when I push her out of the way of that blast of delicious, cold air, I will try not to break her other arm.

Oh, come on, it was an accident!

Saturday, April 18, 2015

Calling all you MOTHERS in Heaven!


“Which Mother do you want to speak to, honey?  We have a LOT of mothers here in Heaven.  You’ll have to be more specific, and I don’t have all day.  Actually, I do have all day and all of eternity, but I’m really busy, so just give me a name.”

“Sheesh.  I didn’t realize there was a switchboard in Heaven.  How fantastic!  Just look up The Ancient One.  Believe me, there’s only one person who fits those parameters.”

“Connecting you now......please hold, and have a nice life.  See you when you’re ready...unless the Devil get’s you first, nyuck, nyuck, tee hyar hyar.”

“KK?  OH...MY...GOD!  And, wait until you see HIM!  Why, he looks just like the God that that adorable Michelangelo painted on the Sistine Chapel.  I’m running off to play mahjong, sweetie, what can I do for you?”

“Well, Mother...I wanted to know how you’re doing, catch you up on goings on down here on earth and just have a nice long chat.”

“Oh Kelly, my darling.  I KNOW everything and see everything and it’s all just marvelous, what you’re doing, how you and Sal are getting along, the amazing things that are going to come The Midlife Gals’ way.  Once they de-veined me of all the judgments I used to have about everything, I have never been happier...EVER!  Oh, and that beautiful male cardinal you saw just outside your window not long ago...that was I.  Hee, hee...just checking in.”

“I KNEW IT!  I knew that was you.  So, that was my only visitation?  A bird?  Should I go to a medium if I want a really long visitation?”

“Hell no!  That’s just bells and whistles...same thing as in church with all the incense and the hoo ha.  We do like the choirs though.  Just see me in everything you do, say or feel, and I’ll get the message.  Listen, I’ve just got to go.  I’m so late and don’t want the shuttle to leave without me.  Oh, and your Daddy sends his utmost love.  Ta Ta!!”

“WHOA, WAIT a minute!  Daddy is there?  And, you’re together again?  And, he’s a handsome 38-year-old, just like he was when he died?  Don’t hang up!  I need more information!!”

“Miss?  Sorry, The Ancient One, being new around here, is just way behind on everything.  She’s got a lot to learn about the way we do things up here.  We can’t seem to shut her up...all the time laughing and giggling and dancing with your Daddy.  She’s a mess, but we’re SO happy to have her.”

“Well...........okay then.  Thanks very much.  Tell her we love and miss her!”


I’m tempted to buy a Mother’s Day card for The Ancient One, even though she’s not here anymore.  I mean, she’s here…but not ‘here’ here.  Does Hallmark have greeting cards for mothers who are in the outer-body experience?  What would they say?  “Thanks, Mom, for teaching me how to make Hollandaise Sauce.”  No, I don’t think they have Hollandaise Sauce in the spirit world.  I once heard that’s why everybody up there wants to come be here in the three-dimensional world of tasty delights.  No more Eggos, Fritos, or cream-chipped beef for The Ancient One.  But I don’t think she really minds.  She would rather dance with Frank Jackson and play with Puddin,’ her favorite Airedale who died in 1991.

No, it would not be fair to put a picture of any kind of food on the front of the Deceased-Mother’s-Day Hallmark card.  It might remind them of what they are missing.  Maybe the card should say something like, “Dearest Mom - Hope you are having fun in heaven.  Wish you were here.”  What with earthquakes, volcanoes, and ‘Survivor,’ maybe you should be glad you’re not.

Happy Mother’s Day, Deedles.

And please tell grandma Bapoo that I still use her recipe for baked bananas.


Sunday, March 8, 2015

It's the Little Things You Notice...

Ever been in a packed elevator, standing behind someone who, although they probably bathed that morning...has not washed their hair in about 6 days?  It’s that ‘odor’ that permeates the immediate space around them...and anyone who is close enough to have a conversation.  I hate to say this, but it’s usually the mens who are guilty of this personal hygiene offense.  Guys, if you take the time to shave, WASH YOUR HAIR!

And, how about the person with whom you are conversing exhibiting that little string of saliva that goes from their top center lip to their bottom center lip.  It is impossible not to laser focus on that string.  It’s morbidly fascinating to watch as they talk, because you’re waiting for the string to break or just go away.  You want them to simply lick their lips, which would eliminate the problem, but they never do.  I have often been tempted to just reach to their mouth and peench it OFF!

Ear hair is bothersome to me...I mean, I don’t have ear hair...but I notice it on those who do...again...usually men.  It’s such a shame that there is no way to use a mirror to look into your ear.  You know who you are though, so buy one of those laser thingys that they sell for $19.95 on TV and get rid of your ear hair.  It’s just offputting.

Finally, don’t ever sniff your fingers while you’re talking to someone.  It doesn’t matter where those fingers have been.  This is just not something that one does in polite company. I used to ‘know someone’ who frequently rubbed his ear lobe, then sniffed his thumb and forefinger as they were pinched together.  It’s not something you can ask them about...”Honey, why do you sniff your fingers like that?”  I’ve just never been curious about how an ear lobe smells.

These are but a few, select, disgusting curiosities that have always intrigued me.  And you are probably, at this very moment, thinking of a few of your own!

I notice the big things.  I especially notice when big, fat women wear really tight Spandexish tank tops and shorts.  They have just given up.  Their muffin rolls around their wastes are bulging out, their arm fat is hanging down behind them to touch the roll, and they look like they are just proud as punch to be the biggest hippopotamus on the beer isle at ‘Safeway.’  Come on!  Have some pride!  I’m overweight too but I cover up my muffins with linen shirts, and I wouldn’t be caught dead in a pair of shorts.  You have so much cellulite on your thighs that it jiggles like the lime Jello you made for your Bubba-hubby for lunch at the Frisbee park.  So you think, ‘Oh, I know, I’ll just put on those day-glo, yellow, beach trunks that my man bought at the Disney Land gift shop in 1973,’ and hit the Safeway store for the afternoon’s daily sustenance.

I hate feet.  I have never seen a pretty pair of feet.  It seems like every person with funky toes and crusty heels feels like they need to wear flip flops so that everybody can see their contorted feet.  Sorry people, but putting on a pair of jewel-encrusted flip flops is not going to help the fact that your feet look like a commercial for toe-mold jelly.  Put some shoes on for God’s sake!  Or at least put on some sandals that cover up that bunion that looks like the blunt end of a hammerhead.  I don’t want to see it sticking out from under the red-and-white-checked, plastic, table cloth while I’m trying to order baby-back ribs at Tony Roma’s.

And finally, women, after you take a nap in your Barco Lounger while snoozing through ‘The View,’ and you decide to run to the dry cleaners to pick up your 86-year-old mother’s 27 house dresses, remember to fluff out the back of your hair so that your bald spot doesn’t show and your hair isn’t flattened into what looks like a crop circle.  It just bugs me.

Try harder to present yourself to the world in a way that is marginally acceptable.  I’m just sayin.’