Top 10 Things to Avoid Doing While Sleep-Deprived

Having only had approximately 3 hours of sleep total for the past three nights, I present you with a list of things you shouldn’t do in my state of mind.

10.  Eat 14 Almond Joy bars in a row in the hopes that the combination of caffeine and sugar will make you more alert on your drive home from work.

9    Down three Red Bulls while performing brain surgery because some mobster insists you’re the only one who can do the job on his son.

8.   Operate heavy or light machinery, including a mascara wand.

7.   Propose or accept a proposal of marriage.

6.   Enter a professional bagel-slicing competition.

5.   Attempt to write grammatically correct sentences.

4.   Hand-launder the knickers of the leprechaun who has followed you around since your insomnia started.

3.   Braid the unicorn’s mane.

2.   Have sex with the triplets your husband or boyfriend has turned into. A menage au trois isn’t ever a good idea, and that’s especially true when there’s a 95% chance you will fall asleep during foreplay.

1.   Count to ten backwards…

Yappy New Year

I slept in late this morning. Not because I was out drinking champagne and partying the new year in, but because I spent New Year’s Eve with four dogs, none of whom get the concept that explosives are a good way to celebrate an event. They prefer cookies or a quick run at a squirrel. Sure there may be some barking during the squirrel chase, but it’s never timed to theme music and usually doesn’t go on for 45 minutes non-stop.

The nice thing about being where I am in my life (at the corner of Here and There), is that the pressure to prove things is off. I don’t have to put on a slinky dress and a pair of heels and hit the town to show that I’m happy that the old year has ended and that a new one is beginning. I can sit on the sofa in my PJs (I don’t own a pair of Pajama Jeans or a Snuggie), down a glass of sparkling grape juice and call it a night at 10 p.m. (knowing full well I’ll be up again at 11:30 until the fireworks peter out mid-morning). I don’t even have to watch Lady Gaga or Justin Bieber or Kathy Griffin stripping to her underwear and pretend I’m having a good time. (BTW, Kathy, I’m suggesting “Get therapy” as resolution #1 for this year for you.)

The truth is, I was never much of a party animal. At any celebration that ran past, say, 9 p.m., I was usually more of a party vegetable. Why can’t we celebrate birthdays and holidays at 3 p.m. when blood sugar is low and we all need a little cake and wine pick-me-up? Where is it written than if it happens before sunset, it’s lame? We morning people have let the night owls call the shots for too long now. We are the 60% and it’s time to make our voices heard. I realize that there would probably be less drinking at early bird parties, but is that really such a bad thing? You party people are starting to look a little worse for wear while we early birds who stay at home with cats or hounds on our lap  have the energy of four dachshunds on Liver Snaps.

However you celebrated and however hungover or sleep-deprived you may feel today or for the rest of the week, I wish you a 2012 that far surpasses your best expectations. May you laugh harder, love stronger, and whine (or wine) less than in 2011.

Who Am I?

I applied for a lower-rate credit card the other day on the phone, thinking that would be easier than online because whenever I apply for something online I end up on the phone with someone eventually anyway. I figured I’d just cut to the chase.

A nice man named Tom with a southern drawl led me through the process. Towards the end, he said he would ask some questions about my history to verify that I was who I said I was.

“Which of the following addresses have you ever lived at?” [Yes, you and I both know that's a grammatically incorrect question, but I was not going to interrupt him and put my 6.9% APR at risk]

My heart started to beat faster. I’ve lived in my current house for 18 years and plan to be here forever or longer, if I can manage. My general memory for things is three years at best. I might be in trouble.

Tom rattled off an address I didn’t recognize. “Nope, I never lived there.” Then another that had no familiar ring. And it was in Indianapolis. I’ve never lived in Indiana. But wait, ex-husband #2 did.

“Uh, I think that may be where my ex-husband lives,” I noted. Apparently, when it comes to credit, neither death or divorce do you part.

Tom continued to list addresses.

“Yeah, that was mine, I think,” I said brightly. Then, “Nope, that was my most recent ex’s mother’s address. He lived with her for awhile before…”

I trailed off because I could hear the sound of Tom typing at the other end. Probably something about how someone who had been through two husbands couldn’t be trusted with her own credit card.

He then changed tacts and started asking about vehicles I had owned. Really, is that fair?  Except for the Honda Accord which I loved like a dog (and after 15 years of hauling canines, it may well have been one), I don’t know the make and model of anything I’ve driven. I’m a girl — ask me about the brand of make-up I wear or what scent I prefer in my shampoo.

I made some guesses and Tom typed some more.

“Just one more set of questions,” Tom said. “Other than a house, can you name one major purchase you and Ian made?”

Ian, I wondered, who is Ian? It took me a full minute to realize who he was talking about.

“Oh, you mean Ivan, my first ex-husband.”

I could hear poor Tom trying to stifle a chuckle. I jokingly said “Ian” and I didn’t purchase anything big because he was cheap. Tom didn’t laugh; he just continued typing.

“Well, that’s it, ma’am. Your application will be processed and if approved, will arrive in 2-3 weeks.” He exhaled slightly and I thought I heard him whisper, “Don’t hold your breath.”

Can We Walk?

I typically walk three small dogs these days — my two dachshunds Penny and Justin and a “loaner” dog Pumpkin, possibly a dachshund/Pom mix.

We’re very popular in the neighborhood, and by “we,” I mean the dogs. No one runs across the street breathlessly inquiring of me, “Can I come talk to you and tell you how beautiful you are?” No, it’s the dogs they want to pet and whisper sweet nothings to. I’m woman enough not to let this be a blow to my self esteem. After all, I am mother to two of them, so I can take some of the credit for their beauty.

They say a woman with dogs is three times as likely to engage in conversations with strangers as one without. I’m not sure whether this is true because as far back as I can remember, I haven’t been allowed to go for walks without my dogs. It’s in the adoption paperwork. I have permission to leave the house only if I’m wearing make-up because that signifies I’m either going somewhere to buy food for the dogs or going somewhere to make enough money to buy food for the dogs. If I don’t put on make-up, my canines know I’m not leaving the neighborhood, so they will block my path to the door with their long bodies.

Walking is good for us. We get fresh air and exercise, we get to sniff the bushes to keep up on community news events, and occasionally we get to dart across the street to chase a squirrel. Sometimes I have to point the squirrels out, especially to 12-year-old Justin, but that’s why the dogs  bring me along on these outings. That and for the endless supply of pink biodegradable poop bags I carry in my pockets at all times.

But mostly we walk for the compliments.

Boy, Do I Send the Wrong Signals

As a humor writer, I do a lot of “research.” Sometimes I need to know Lady Gaga’s shoe size and other times I want to be sure I spelled Dominique Strauss-Kahn correctly. Thank you Google!

Yesterday, in my never-ending quest for knowledge I found a website called How To Know If A Girl Is Interested In You. So I decided to check it out.

A little backstory may be necessary here. You see, I swore off dating and relationships soon after my latest divorce two years ago. It’s just so much easier to go to the airport and get patted down. Especially now that they’re so thorough and even the first time with a new TSA agent is like a third date.

Dating is difficult at my age. If I date anyone younger, I’m called a cougar, which annoys me. I prefer “puma,” it sounds faster and thinner. But men my age seem to want either a college cheerleader type for arm candy or a woman their own age who is willing to be their companion as they move into their senior years. And I’m just not ready to put that cheerleader outfit on again.

But for some reason, I put out signals that say I’m interested. I’m not sure what those signals are because I’ve avoided all the tricks I used when I was looking for a man. I don’t bat my eyelashes (primarily because there are so few of them), lick my lips (my organic free-range lip gloss is too expensive to waste), twirl my hair, put my hand on a man’s arm or knee, or wear a sandwich sign that says, “Take me home and have your way with me.”

I thought maybe the website could show me what I’ve been doing that tells guys I’m into them. And am I glad I did!  Here are some of the things I’ve been doing that according to the website’s author are signals that a girl is interested. I share this with you as a public service, in case you too have been sending the wrong signals without knowing it.

A girl is interested in you when…

1. She re-initiates conversation when you stop talking. Oh, I’m so busted! I always jump right in and hold up my end of a conversation because I find long uncomfortable silence, well, uncomfortable. I’d rather wear thong panties than sit quietly waiting for anyone to find a new topic to discuss.

2. She doesn’t mention her boyfriend. Usually I avoid doing this because I can never remember who the last TSA agent to pat me down was. It’s more of a memory issue than keeping him (or her) a secret.

3. She asks for your name. Really? Damn my southern upbringing. I was taught it was polite to not only ask for someone’s name, but to repeat it until you remembered. Well, I’m going to stop this behavior pronto!

4. She uses nicknames for you. Well see, that’s what I have to resort to when I don’t know your name, Skippy. Which is why #3 is going to be hard for me to give up if I also have to give up #4.

5. Her skin tone becomes red while being around you. Hey, that’s not fair. I  blush easily and turn red when drunk, aerobic, or laughing. And I’m usually at least one of those things most of the time.

6. She laughs while talking to you. Okay, this is a problem. I laugh while talking to anyone, including myself — and I’m not that interested in myself.

7. She exposes the palms of her hands. Usually I only do this when I’m confused or asking for money, so I think I’m safe here.

8. She rubs her chin or touches her cheek. This should not apply to middle-aged women because we could be checking to make sure it isn’t time for another facial wax.

9. She leans in to you. Hearing loss.

10. She is playful. Oh, come on. Now I have to give up being playful? That’s it, I give up! I’m just going to have to keep on confusing the guys with my beguiling blushing, laughing, chin-rubbing, playful behavior.

I may even start twirling my hair and playing with my jewelry just for fun. Mothers, lock up your middle-aged boys!

Just Numbers in Your Head

I used to subscribe to a magazine for women of a certain age (no, it wasn’t Seventeen) but I got so tired of the monthly advice on how to prevent looking old by adopting fashion and beauty trends of younger women. This reminds me of that old cliche from childhood, “If all the other kids are jumping off the roof, would you do it too?” Only in this case, the magazine insisted that I do it in 4″ stiletto strappy sandals and false eyelashes. And that I post my status to both Facebook and LinkedIn on the way down.

The best way not to let aging get you down is to stop thinking about how old you are and get on with your life. If you let a number stop you from doing something, wearing something, or thinking something, you’re letting math win. And that’s worse than letting the terrorists win.

On Monday, I gave a presentation to the Lions Club. I showed up wearing an above-the-knees black & white polka dot skirt and orange v-neck blouse. I know Lions — they’re mostly men in their 70s, 80s and 90s and I wanted to make sure the oldest stayed awake. (Side note: I once did a presentation at a nursing home and afterward a woman came up to me and gushed, “My husband didn’t fall asleep once!” High praise indeed.)  I was the younger woman and I got a free neck massage and dozens of great laughs out of the morning.

On Wednesday, I went to a comedy show in which several of my friends were performing, including Virginia Jones from Portland. I wore jeans and a casual, yet somewhat sexy shirt. I sat with the comedians, who ranged in age from 22 to 30-something.  I was the older woman and I got lots of laughs and lots of great conversation out of the evening.

If I’d said to myself, “I’m only 50, I don’t have anything in common with 80-year old men,” I wouldn’t have enjoyed myself so much with the Lions. If I’d said, “I’m over 50, I shouldn’t be out at 11:30 at night on a Wednesday hanging with people half my age,” I wouldn’t have enjoyed myself so much at the comedy club.

I have a quote on my office wall that says, “Some people pursue happiness, others create it.” If you want to create a happy life, forget your age. Act your strappy sandal size instead.

Photo Ops

I had my first colonoscopy last week and I have the photos to prove it. If I were Anthony Weiner, I’d send one to a stranger or post it as my new profile pic on Facebook.

The most distressing part of the procedure was reading the doctor’s notes afterward. Under “General constitution,” next to 5’7″, 149 pounds, she wrote “well-nourished.” Well-nourished? I dare her to lie down in a compromising position with her backside exposed and not look a little well-nourished herself! Besides, everyone knows the camera adds 10 lbs.

To add insult to injury, when I showed up in the procedure room, I hadn’t eaten for 38 hours (you have to stop eating solid food at 10 p.m. the day before the day before a colonoscopy and survive on nothing but clear liquids; for a few hours I wondered if Vodka counted. A quick phone call to the nurse on call assured me that it did NOT). I was definitely under-nourished. When the technician handed me the backless gown, I calculated its fiber content before putting it on.

On the other hand, there were really good drugs involved. I say this as a person whose heaviest drug use involves an estrogen patch and an occasional Ibuprofen. But a friend had told me she was partially awake during her colonoscopy and, in her comforting words, “It didn’t hurt at all. It just felt like a snake crawling through my intestines.” So when the doctor said she was going to put me completely under, I nodded and drooled like a junkie knowing her next fix is right around the corner.

I remember saying, “It might take a lot of drugs to knock me out because my mind never shuts…” The next thing I know I was being awakened by the smell of pizza and garlic bread. Okay, maybe the room smelled more of rubbing alcohol and fear, but I was just so happy to be finished and given the green light to eat again that I bolted from the room in my backless gown. I figured everyone there had already seen my well-nourished backside, so why bother getting dressed. I swear I heard a pie calling my name.

Tugged in Too Many Directions

toomanydogs

I just got back from walking four dogs: Justin and Penny, my two dachshunds; Pumpkin, my daily doggy day care visitor; and Arrow, who is here for a 10-day sleep-away camp (although I can think of no other camps where the counselors allow the campers to sleep on top of them because they miss their parents).

Walking one dog is always a pleasure. I always know who is on the other end of the leash and what he or she wants, whether it’s to sniff every shrub along the way or to get the walk over as quickly as possible. Two dogs is a little more work, but not much, especially if they’re my two because I know that whenever Penny tugs at her leash she’s trying to eat something she shouldn’t and I know that unless I keep him in check,  Justin will attempt to walk down the center of the road (as if he’s been asked to walk the line by the K-9 cops to prove his sobriety).

With one or two dogs, the walk is mostly fun, with only a little stress (usually caused when a skateboarder rolls by. My two DO NOT like skateboards. Perhaps they get it from their mother).

Three dogs at least doubles the frustrations. First because with three, I have to have two of them leashed together with only three feet of play between then. Yes, it is kind of funny to me when Penny tries to jump the curb and Pumpkin flies up in the air unexpectedly, or vice-versa, but they’re not laughing. They long for freedom, I can see it in their eyes. Either that or they long for snacks. Those are very similar looks. And with three, I’m never really sure who’s where and what they’re doing.

Four dogs is craziness. No one is happy because they’re all on short leashes. One is trying to pee while another is dragging her down the street to chase the squirrel that just darted by. Justin is starting his jog home while Arrow wants to cower under a bush because some other dog somewhere on the planet is barking. And I’m yanking everyone and asking them why they can’t just all get along.

Why am I telling you this? Well, what better analogy for taking on too many things at a time (some of you know I am talking directly to you). Sure, maybe you can handle four dogs or four children or four projects at the same time, but is it any wonder you’re always frustrated and impatient? Have you noticed that you’re not having nearly as much fun as you used to? And that you yourself aren’t any fun anymore?

Arrow goes home next week. The week after, Pumpkin will have her mom home for summer break from school. I’ll be back to the days of two dogs — more freedom, more fun, and less cursing. I think I may just have to apply the philosophy of less to more of my life … and not just this summer.

Personal Ads for Carbon Daters

Carbon daters

You’re old enough to know by now that most of what people put in personal ads is a lie. And although you may have had the code all figured out when you were younger, carbon daters (those 40+) use a whole new set of fabrications. Here is a handy guide to interpreting carbon dating personal ads:
• Adventurous (man) – I like sex outside, but only if it’s not raining and my trick knee from an old football/cheerleading injury isn’t flaring up.
• Adventurous (woman) – Willing to try new restaurants within a three-mile radius of my house.
• Attractive (man) – For a bald guy.
• Attractive (woman) – I wear support undergarments even to bed.
• Bachelor – My mom just died and left me her house.
• Divorced (man) – Still married, but I’m planning to leave as soon as the Rogaine starts to work.
• Divorced (woman) – For the third time. Or is it the fourth?
• Down-to-earth (man) – I let people walk all over me.
• Down-to-earth (woman) – I no longer shave anything.
• Emotionally available (man) – My last lover just left when she discovered I had a Britney Spears page saver on my computer.
• Emotionally available (woman) – My therapist says I’m very emotional.
• Energetic (man) – Horny.
• Energetic (woman) – I take a lot of vitamins
• Feisty (man) – I like to argue with the reporters on CNN and Fox News.
• Feisty (woman) – Horny.
• Financially independent (man) – I have enough money to afford to date younger women exclusively. Don’t even think about answering this ad unless you still get carded in bars.
• Financially independent (woman) – I can pay for the check myself, but usually don’t.
• Fit (man) – I fit into relaxed jeans
• Fit (woman) – Hey, I’ve had three kids and this is as fit as it gets.
• Former athlete – I drink. A lot.
• Friends first (man) – Will require a prenup before allowing you to leave a toothbrush at my place.
• Friends first (woman) – Will require a thorough background check, medical examination, and three letters of reference before sex.
• Gentleman – I’ll hold the door open for you if you don’t hit me for it
• Good conversationalist (man) – I love to talk about myself.
• Good conversationalist (woman) – I complain about my ex a lot.
• Good personality – Well, one of them is.
• Great sense of humor (man) – I still think fart jokes are a scream and expect you to laugh when I tell them over and over in front of your boss and other people you’re trying to impress.
• Great sense of humor (woman) – I laugh on the inside so I don’t ruin those Botox injections.
• Height/weight proportionate – To the amount of food I eat and how little exercise I get.
• Kinky – I need a good massage.
• Loves to travel – I bore easily.
• LTR (man) – I need someone to help me raise my kids.
• LTR (woman) – My tub needs caulking .
• Open-minded (man) – I am not too old to try something kinky as long as it doesn’t throw my back out.
• Open-minded (woman) – I’m thinking about becoming a lesbian.
• Outgoing (man) – I like to stray.
• Outgoing (woman) – Finally got over my agoraphobia.
• Passionate (man) – Horny.
• Passionate (woman) – I have a lot of hobbies to keep me from thinking about sex.
• Playful – No one’s been able to make me grow up yet, so don’t think you’re going to be the one.
• Quiet evenings at home (man) – I have digital satellite and watch games 24/7.
• Quiet evenings at home (woman) – It takes too long to get gussied up at my age.
• Retired (man) – I’ve got very little money and plenty of time to hang around irritating you.
• Retired (woman) – I quit caring about how I look now that I don’t get paid to do so.
• Wanted “lady” – Want someone to wait on me and worship the ground I walk on, i.e., I’m delusional.
• Well educated – I’ll correct your grammar during dinner.

Okay, now let’s practice writing some ads. Use the following examples to get you started:

You are a 47-year old woman with two grown kids. You sell Amway and enjoys spying on your neighbors and flirting with the Fed Ex man. You are looking for a man who is handy.

Youthful self-employed woman who enjoys keeping up on world events. I am sensuous, fit, and feisty. ISO LTR with man who enjoys getting wet.

You are a 52-year old guy who just broke up with your younger girlfriend because she couldn’t stand your pot belly and the fact that you and never want to try anything new. You love watching sports on TV and drinking beer. You’re looking for another woman half your age to fetch your beer and change the batteries on your remote when it goes out.

Well-rounded man, emotionally available, former athlete with television aspirations. ISO of girl of my dreams with a great sense of humor and lots of energy.

Okay, now try writing your own ad!

Royal Ruminating

I remember the wedding of Diana and Charles. Many of my then-twenty-something friends gushed with delight over her dress, jewels, her royal carriage… not many gushed over her prince, but most grooms tend to get lost in the ceremony.

And what a ceremony it was. I’ve had three and if you add all of mine together, I probably spent less than whatever it cost Diana to get her nails done that day. For the price of Kate’s ring, I could have gotten married three more times AND have a fully funded retirement plan.

In 1981, the date of Diana’s wedding, I’d been married to my first husband for a little over two years. When we were wed, I chose a dress I could wear to work later and the ceremony was held in a gazebo in a city park in  Abilene, Texas. I thought finding a gazebo in which to hold the ceremony was very romantic. By the time the royal wedding rolled around, I wasn’t jealous of the glitz and glamor of the day as much as I was of the fact that at least Diana wouldn’t have  a mother-in-law who would buy her brown golf shirts at garage sales and expect her to wear them.  Queen Elizabeth seemed cool compared to my mother-in-law, although I bet she didn’t bake a to-die-for apple pie.

For my second wedding, I decided to go all out. I spent $27 on a secondhand wedding dress at a consignment shop and rented out a hotel ballroom for a reception. I thought that paying more attention to doing the wedding “right” would make the marriage right. It didn’t, but it was fun to make all my friends get gussied up and attempt to use proper manners for the day. Groom #2 and I could afford this fanciful dream wedding because I agreed to a cubic zirconium engagement ring. Needless to say, there wasn’t a prenup.

#3 happened in a bar at noon on Friday the 13th. I wore a miniskirt and had a newly inked tattoo. Despite the fact that I had “reserved” the bar, there were two drunks on stools watching the nuptials. I tried to get a ladder to walk under and a black cat to jump on me during the ceremony, but it wasn’t in the budget. My wedding bar has now been razed and there’s a TJ Maxx there. As far as I can tell, my last ceremony took place in the boy’s underwear department.

I won’t be glued to my set when Kate and William say “I royally do,” but I’m sure I’ll catch snippets of the ceremony as I try to find out who’s in and who’s out on American Idol. I wish the royal couple all the good luck in the world. Even a wedding that took a small army to plan and a larger one to implement is a breeze compared what happens after. But if Kate still needs something borrowed, I may still have that miniskirt in my closet because I heard it’s good luck to hold on to your wedding gown.