A local reporter here in Eugene, OR filed this wonderful story about the real reason I wrote a funny book about dating for single women in a relationship with a dog (or more than one). You can check it out here: http://www.kmtr.com/mediacenter/local.aspx?videoid=4012397.
Posts tagged ‘humor’
A few years ago while watching Oprah, I heard someone say there’s a rule that if woman is standing up there’s supposed to be a space between her thighs. Oprah was shocked, as was I. A space? How big? I’m sure that if someone used a microscope they’d probably find a molecule or two separating my right and left thighs, a molecule that keeps my legs from chirping like a cricket when I walk down the street. But there’s not enough space to say, shine a light through. What’s the space for anyway? So men can watch the game when we’re standing between them and the TV? Or are we supposed to store a roll of stamps – or paper towels, depending upon the size of the space – in between our thighs in case of an emergency?
Isn’t it funny (insert your choice of alternative words for “funny”: “irritating,” “annoying,” “unfair,” “justifiable homicide”) how we women have “body rules” and men don’t? It’s no wonder we’re the ones buying control top pantyhose and body-shapers, while the guys walk around thinking they’re perfect just the way they are. That’s because their bodies aren’t cramming for a pop quiz every day.
A friend of mine, who should know better because she’s at least my age, told me there’s a “Perfect Leg Test” for women too. According to the experts (I assume these are people who don’t have jobs and therefore have too much spare time on their hands), there should be a four inch difference between the circumference of your ankle and your calf, and a seven inch difference between your calf and thigh. Says who? Really, who are these people who run around measuring women’s ankles, calves, and thighs? Perhaps they’re an offshoot of the What Not to Wear squad? After I heard about the test, I thought about measuring my legs for about a nanosecond before I realized that (a) I don’t know where the measuring tape is and (b) I really don’t care. If worst comes to worse, I’ll just start wearing padded socks to make up the difference.
Most guys could care less about the circumference of their calves and thighs. They operate on the “Do my pants fit?” principle. If they do, fine and if not, the dryer was clearly set too hot again.
Then there’s “The Pencil Rule,” in which you put a pencil under your breast and if it stays where you put it, you need a bra. If it falls on the floor and lands where the cat coughed up a hairball, you need a new pencil. Imagine the guy who developed this test (I’m sure it was a guy). He probably thought of using a number of different objects before he came up with pencil: “Paper clip? Always falls to the floor no matter how well-endowed the woman is. Frying pan? Too heavy. Telephone? Hasn’t been invented yet…”
Men don’t have a Pencil Rule either, even though I’ve seen a few who could use a bra (or two). When looking at their chests, men rely on the “They’re not breasts, they’re pecs, watch me flex them” policy. Ah testosterone, we women could all use a little more.
Of course, the rules don’t end with our bodies. There’s also the “Cyclops Test.” To take this test, we women are supposed to picture a third eye between our two eyes (if you already have a third eye, I’m sure there’s another test for that). If there’s not room for a third, your eyes are too close together. I’m not sure what you’re supposed to do if you fail this test; I’ve heard of having your eyelids lifted but is there something that lifts and separates the eyes themselves? Or are we supposed to use eyeliner out to our ears to give the appearance of “normal” looking peepers? Me, I wear mirrored sunglasses 95% of the time anyway so no one can tell where my eyes are.
If you can possibly focus those too-closely-set eyes of yours, there’s the “Halo Test.” You’re supposed to stand in front of a mirror, turn off all the lights, and focus a flashlight down on the top of your head. If you appear to have a halo, then you have split ends! Have you ever even once heard a guy talk about his split ends? Or, for that matter, how wide his eyes are?
I hope no women, no teenagers, no young girls take this stuff seriously, but unfortunately, they do. We need to teach our sisters, our daughters, and our friends to use the guy test when it comes to our bodies: “If it ain’t broke, it’s perfect.”
Leigh Anne Jasheway’s new book, Date Me, Date My Dog: Finding Mr. Right for You and Your Pack is available from Kimberley Cameron & Associates on Amazon for Kindle today! It’s doggone funny, filled with good advice, partial proceeds benefit Greenhill Humane Society in Eugene, Oregon, and smells like chocolate. Okay, maybe not the latter so much 🙂 PLEASE buy a copy, tell all your single dog-loving women friends about it, write a review, or all of the above. http://www.amazon.com/Date-Me-My-Dog-ebook/dp/B00C15TTVS/ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8&qid=1364302749&sr=8-3&
One of the advantages of aging and having your breasts sag slightly lower than they did when you were, say 3, is the your annual mammogram is a lot easier. It’s not so hard to pull your breast tissue away from you body, when it’s already been headed in that directions for years. Mine have moved so far south, they’re living in a trailer park in Arkansas, drinking Lone Star and watching Wheel of Fortune.
For someone whose first mammogram caught on fire (you can read my Erma Bombeck award-winning piece about that here: http://www.accidentalcomic.com/columns/firstmammo.pdf), Friday’s visit to Jiffy Squeeze and Lube was uneventful. Well, there was another, much younger, woman named Leigh Anne there. I’m sure she spelled her name differently, but because both of us disrobed and made it to the waiting room with our stretchy keys around our wrists at the same time, there’s always the chance that our results will get mixed up and I’ll get a phone call from the mammography tech asking me how I’ve managed to get my boobs to be young and perky again. A girl can hope.
Oh, and the tech did tell me I have incredible pec muscles. She may have been flirting, but I’m never sure. I attribute my fine musculature to walking three dachshunds who always insist in traveling in opposite directions at great rates of speed whenever a squirrel crosses the road. Who needs the Mark Eden Bust Developer? Actually, who, besides me, even remembers it?
I hope to get a phone call on Monday from a nurse telling me that everything is fine. If so, I’m going to order a copy of the photos and send them to Seth McFarlane, so he can add them to the “We Saw Your Boobs” song the next time he feels compelled to sing it.
If you think dating is hard work, you should try surfing the world of books on the subject. I recently took a long detour through Amazon.com’s current list of books about dating, relating, mating, and a little bit of hating. It wasn’t just fun and games– I’m working on an e-book that will be available to everyone with a Kindle (fingers, toes, eyes, and legs crossed) next month and I needed ideas for a cover design.
The list is peppered with books for women who want to date older men, younger, men, schlumpy men, metrosexuals, geeky guys, guys with fetishes, commitment phobes, saints, sinners, and god. (I’ve dated guys who thought they were god, so I’m staying away from God, Allah, Buddha, Donald Trump, etc.) There’s even a book called Dating Your Vibrator (it’s a cheap date and requires little to no wine.)
My first thought as I reached page 99 of the list, was why stop there? If you truly believe there’s a cover for every pot–a philosophy I DO NOT ascribe to because I’ve got six pots with no covers in my tiny kitchen–where are the books for women who want to date:
Aliens (if we agree that men are from another planet, why not take that next step?)
Deaf men (what better way to always get the last word?)
Electricians (when the spark wears off at least they can rewire the kitchen)
Elvis impersonators (suggested title: Elvis is in the Bedroom)
Furbies (great for crazy cat ladies)
Ghosts (especially if they act like Patrick Swayze in the movie)
Guys who were kicked off The Bachelorette in the first round
Massage therapists (I could go for one right about now)
Mimes (someone’s got to love them)
Rednecks (for women who really can’t live without a transmission in the bathtub)
Sasquatch or guys who could pass for him (been there, have the plumbing bills to prove it)
If and when I start dating again, I’m going to need some advice. I learned my dating moves in the 80s. Am I still supposed to flip my hair and lick my lips, or are there emoticons for that? Do we go out or is everything done via text-messaging (if the latter, I may actually be dating because I get texts all the time, but my eyes are too bad to read them, so I just hit delete all.) How much younger does a guy have to be than me in order for me to be considered a cougar? I don’t want to be a cougar–I prefer to be thought of as a puma.
Maybe I’ll stick to reading books about the topic. I don’t have to get dressed up to experience the thrill of victory and the agony of a bad first date. I’ve got a thousand books that can deliver these to me right here at my house.
o When I say I love you, I only mean it only slightly ironically.
o Your texts make my heart vibrate.
o After we kiss, I don’t wipe my mouth with antibacterial hand wipes.
o Now that we’re dating, I’ve changed my Facebook relationship status from single to single-ish.
o You make my heart beat faster. Well, maybe it’s the energy drink.
o No matter what Autocorect says, I think you’re great.
o I’d show you how much I love you if not for the recent Botox injections.
o If we were on a reality show together, I’d never vote you off.
o Your sex contract doesn’t intimidate me.
o I retweet everything you tweet. It must be love.
o You may be a gun-toting conspiracy theorist and I may be a peace-loving hippie… oh, wait, never mind.
o You make your own sweaters from cat hair and it hasn’t scared me away. There may be something wrong with me.
o If the world were coming to an end, I’d share my Snuggie with you.
o You’re like Pinterest. I can’t stop thinking about you.
o I can’t make you love me, but I can Google Map your house.
I love sugar. Cookies, cake, candy, hot fudge sauce, whipped cream… hell, I’d suck a hummingbird feeder dry if it were my only sweet option. But I’ve come to the realization that all that sugary goodness is taking its toll on me. The sad fact is that sugar and I must break up.
Most women know what it’s like to be attracted to a bad boy — despite your brain screaming, “He’ll break your heart and probably roll you down a mountain in his Jeep,” other parts of you smile knowingly and think, “Oh, but the ride will soooo be worth it!” Even when you’re hanging by your seat belt, upside down and teetering over a cliff, that bad boy will still weave his magic spell over you.
Sugar is just like that.
I’ve read all the articles about how sugar causes… well, every disease known to man and probably a few we haven’t yet discovered. I know from personal experience last month that inhaling four gingerbread men, three rum balls, two caramel turtles, and a pecan pie while standing next to a pear tree can make me feel more bloated than a PMSing gray whale.
And yet, I want more.
I tried swearing off sugar completely, thinking that as with any bad boy, the best technique is to break up and never look back. But three days later, I called sugar up late at night. “Maybe I was too hasty,” I said breathlessly. “One more roll in the, uh, pantry couldn’t hurt, right?” I oozed chocolate from my pores on that walk of shame.
Now I’m trying a new approach, cutting way back on my addiction, but not going cold tofurkey (, I’m a vegetarian, so cold turkey means nothing.) I’m choosing foods with the lowest sugar counts I can find and focusing on those that come from honey and other more nutritious sources. It’s like making a list of bad boy characteristics (rides of motorcycle, plays with fire, heckles comedians, steals from constructions sites, is rude to waiters) and choosing those I’m willing to live with (rides motorcycle). I’m also chewing things more slowly so I can taste what little sugar there is in everything. Who knew almonds were sweet?
Whenever the cravings are so severe, I start crawling the walls and feel I’m going to be led into temptation, I eat a banana while watching Die Hard. It gets all of my bad habits out of my system at the same time.
I am streaming live. All day, every day. What I mean by that is that I live a life that is reality-based. I go outside (yes, I’m brave enough to wander out despite global warming and potential for zombie attack). I interact with actual human beings and other creatures rather than adopt a pseudo persona and try to pick them up in virtual bars or kill them for fake-stealing my car. I frequently, and I know this will be hard to believe, have lunch with friends–and we eat real food and drink real drinks. It’s freaky.
In other words, I’m ancient.
And not only I do not know certain things about the technology in my life, I don’t care. And no matter how far back your roll your eyes or point and laugh with your similarly clad coworkers, you can’t make me care. I care about the environment, dogs (those who live with me, those in need of homes, those strapped to the roof of cars by uncaring politicians), chocolate, friends and family, social injustice, reproductive freedom, chocolate, kittens drinking from the shower, art, music, chocolate… but not upgrading from 3G to 4G. You are speaking robot to me and when I get in my car I roll my eyes at you and point and laugh.
I do not know how to download photos from my smart phone to my computer. In fact, my phone is in the bottom 10% of its class; I prefer it that way so that I can at least be smarter than one piece of technology in my house. Even stranger, I’ve never used it to send a text. That’s right, you heard me! And I have no idea what operating system my computer uses. I figure that’s a private matter between my computer and its maker.
The following sentence does NOT make me hot: The new laptop comes packed with an Intel Core i5-2467M processor, 8GB of RAM, and a 128GB SSD. It also features built-in Wi-Fi 802.11n/a/b/g, a built-in webcam and microphone, and a full-size backlit keyboard. It runs a 64-bit version of Windows 7 Home Premium, and relies on integrated Intel HD 3000 graphics. This one does: His breath is so close and so hot my neck melts a little each time he exhales. As he moves his rough hands from my hair to my shoulders, I lean back against the wall, waiting for his lips to find mine, for his…
The next time I come in to your store and ask you if a piece of technology is good, just nod yes or no. Please do not try to explain why you believe this to be true because in my head your voice sounds like a swarm of locusts hovering right above me, looking for a place to land. And for pete’s sake, don’t try to sell me the warranty. I may be old, but I know that whatever I’ve chosen to purchase will be outdated and no longer manufactured the second I hand over my debit card.
Okay, you may proceed to roll your eyes now. I know I am.
I’ll be the first to admit the passion has been all but snuffed out. Gone are the days when simply saying ”Barack” brought goose bumps; when I not only wrote his name on my notebook, I put his picture on the rear bumper of my car; when someone else would declare his or her love for him and I’d interrupt, reminding everyone, “I loved him first! Back when you were drooling over John Edwards and Hillary Clinton!”
Yes, I know that our waning ardor was inevitable. After all, the honeymoon is long over and it’s hard to feel that rush of desire that once was so powerful that hardly a moment went by without me thinking about the Big O and smiling like a fully satisfied woman. But our loss is sad nonetheless and I refuse to sit back and do nothing. It’s time for me to do what it takes to put the spark back in my relationship with Barack.
I know he feels the same way. Just last week, he reached out to me, inviting me to a romantic dinner. Sure the national media would be there and he’d invited millions of others too. And yes, I’d have to win a random drawing first and he wanted my money, but I could feel that his heart was in the right place. He knew we had to do something and he was willing to take the first step. It takes a big man to put aside his ego and reach out to his soul mates.
Now it’s my turn. And while I realize that a picnic in the park or long walks on the beach are probably out (it’s hard to reconnect with Secret Service surrounding us and the sound of helicopter propeller blades chopping the air), there are some steps I can take to rekindle our love. I plan to:
1. Make more time for him. Often I go days without thinking about Barack at all. His wants, his needs, his plans for troop withdrawal in Afghanistan don’t even register on my list of things to do. I take full responsibility for my failure to be there for him. From now on I will devote myself to visiting his FaceBook page several times a day and liking him as often as I can.
2. Listen better. Whether he’s giving a weekly radio address or fielding questions from reporters about his thoughts on Paul Ryan or who he likes on So You Think You Can Dance, I will listen. And rather than barely tuning in while sorting laundry or doing the dishes, I will give him my complete attention. In fact, just moments ago I watched an old video in which my man said, “I have faith that we will emerge from this trying time even stronger and more prosperous than we were before.” I feel better about us already.
3. Praise him for the good things he’s brought to our relationship. Couples tend to focus too much on the little things that go wrong, such as job loss, failure to get angry enough, and lack of commitment to slowing down global warming. But so many things have gone right and I need to make sure to let Barack know how much I appreciate even the smallest effort. Whether it was appointing Elena Kagen to the Supreme Court (and no, I am NOT jealous), asking the Pentagon to eliminate Don’t Ask Don’t Tell, restoring the Environmental Protection Agency to Cabinet status or installing energy efficient lights in the White House, there are so many things I have been taking for granted lately. And look, just last week, he finally took a stand on gay marriage. My man is slowly evolving and I need to make sure he knows I appreciate it.
4. Laugh together. In the beginning, we giggled all the time. He was on The Daily Show and I snorted soy milk through my nose. I hurt my tailbone falling off my chair laughing at his appearance on Saturday Night Live. What happened to the fun times we used to have? Sure, we’ve had to get serious and face our problems, but we need to remember to take time to laugh and let go. I think I’ll send him that funny YouTube video of the Tea Party flash mob video featuring cats in Glenn Beck masks. I know that will crack him up.
5. Make him his favorite meals. It’s been forever since I cooked for my man, so tonight I’m going to prepare all his favorites: nuts, seeds, raisins, broccoli, and spinach. How could I forget that the way to the leader of the free world’s heart is through his stomach?
6. Flirt. Flirting is what our relationship was built on at the start. He promised me change and I flashed him a coy smile. His eyes bored into mine through the fiber optic cables that bring me the news and I twirled my hair and batted my eyelashes. Just because he’s thousands of miles away and sometimes too busy to get away from his job, that’s no reason for us not to make sparks fly again. I know his @Twitter name and there’s nothing to stop me from sending him sexy messages. If he can get his sound bites down to fewer than 140 characters, I know I can do the same with mine.
You know what? I feel more connected already. In fact, if all goes well, I see us renewing our vows later this year. He looks so handsome in the fall.
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!