Mick and Me

Mick and I have a long and complicated history.

In 1970, I adored him.  I saw him in "Performance" (a very strange film) at the San Francisco film festival.  His androgyny thrilled me to my core.  I had liked the Stones, but found that Mick was the most spectacular performer I had ever seen.

Now the truth is, I didn't see all of the movie.  I was dating a young man who was a labor lawyer and we started sort of making out about half way through the film.  I think I closed my eyes and thought of Mick.  Know what I mean?

At some point, Mick married Bianca and I realized he and I would get together one day, but not until he and the gorgeous Latina woman broke up.

In the meantime, I listened to "Some Girls" and waited patiently.  Oh I had husbands and lovers during those years I waited, but I knew for sure, one day it would be up close and personal for Mick and me.  I wasn't wrong.

In 2005, the Rolling Stones came to perform in the San Francisco Bay Area.  My husband got tickets but I dislike crowds so I encouraged him to go with a friend. At the last possible moment, I changed my mind and got two tickets, inviting my friend Andre to join me.  It turned out these last moment tickets were in a just opened area right in front of the stage.

I clutched Andre's arm as we stood in the cool evening fog waiting for the Stones to come on stage.  Andre had thoughtfully brought along a silver flask filled with good scotch for us to sip while we waited.  My heart was pounding in my chest as I waited for Mick to appear.

A roar came up from the sold out crowd and there they were!  The Rolling Stones!  Right in front of me!  It took a moment for me to realize that Mick and changed somewhat drastically since 1970.  It wasn't that he was older.  I had expected that.  Something else nearly knocked me over.

Mick was tiny.  He was about half my size.  He was skinny as a super model.  (Actually, all of the Rolling Stones were tiny men.)  For just a second, our eyes met.  For just a second, I thought "There he is!"

And then I started laughing.  Uh, no way.

The Bane Of My Life

At  almost 13, I could not wait to get my first one.  I pestered my mother until she took me to the Emporium "Foundations Department" and had a sales lady help select my first bra.

I tried on the slightly padded 28 triple A cup and felt like a bona fide sex bomb!  Okay, the bra was cotton and had a tiny bow between the cups, no lace or sexy stuff at all, but it was a bra!  I really couldn't wait to get to gym class to show it off.  (Sadly, I've always felt that way about my underwear.  I know, that's not ladylike, but it is what it is.)

Fast forward 30 years.  Walking in the house after work the only thing on my mind was to get that mutha fugga off of me as soon as the front door closed behind me.  Bras had become my worst enemy.

I wear a 38 D bra.  In other words, I need an underwire to give me support.  While I'm all about the support, is it necessary to have a steel wire to hold me in place?  Bras have to be the most uncomfortable clothing item every made.  The bands are constrictive and they impair my ability to breathe.  The wires dig into my flesh.

I've tried different styles of bras over the years, including some without the underwire.  Unfortunately, my boobs will slip right past the place the underwire should be and be effectively cut in half.  That seriously is not my best look.

I can walk for miles in stiletto shoes and never complain.  I can sit for hours at the salon letting people put weird chemicals on my hair to give me that perfect natural champagne moonlit platinum blond color and never complain.  But I hate bras the same way some people hate spiders or rattlesnakes.  (Actually, I have no real problem with spiders or rattlesnakes.)  I have more hatred for bras than I have for serial killers and that i guess is saying something.

If it was acceptable to do so, I would walk around with my hands securely cupping my bosoms to hold them in place but I'm afraid that might give me the wrong kind of reputation not to mention attention.  I do see some women jiggling along the street untethered by a bra, but it's not really a great look for women in their 60's. 

So be forewarned.  If you come to my house and I expect you, I will put on a bra for your visit.  If you do not tell me you are coming, all bets (and bras) are off.

So Three Ladies Walk Into A Bar - Version 3

I really had no idea what to expect.

Hell, I'd been on the road since 10:00 AM, and didn't arrive in Phoenix until nearly 4 PM.  (Traveling with Zoe our pit bull proved to be a bit challenging.)

Harry was cool.  He lay in the cargo area on his mattress and slept most of the trip.  Zoe walked back and forth on the back seat panting and squealing at the top of her lungs.

"Do you think she needs to pee?", "Do you think she needs to poo?", "Do you think she needs water?".  It seemed we needed to stop at every rest stop area between Indio and Phoenix.  I felt dirty with grime from the road, and we really had not eaten since leaving our hotel in Indio.  I don't "do" breakfast, but Alex does.  Oh wait, I didn't eat the night before either.  We drove from Alameda to Indio in about 7 hours.  By the time we got to Indio, nerves were frayed and restaurants were closed.  Bummer.

We pulled into the Phoenix Biltmore Embassy Suites and it felt like a true oasis in the desert.  Lovely lobby, great suite of rooms, even a little private patio.  Although I was scheduled to meet sister-bloggers, Barbara Schuster and Ann Curry for dinner shortly, I was ravenous.  I sent Alex out asking that he bring back something to eat as quickly as possible.  I jumped in the shower (badly needed), and then applied cute make up, and finger combed my long curly locks of hair.  Okay, that was a lie.  I pushed my hands through my crew cut.  I was goofy tired and starved but at least I looked clean and smelled better than I had before.  Still, I was a bit stressed and dehydrated and hungry.  Did I already mention hungry? I threw on some clothes and my trademark Prada stilettos and a tiny spray of Coco by Chanel, and I was ready for action.

I was just shoving a bite of a turkey sandwich into my mouth when Barbara called from the lobby letting me know she had arrived.

Barbara is a bubbly, beautiful, high energy gal.  She is warm, funny, adventurous and has a 1,000 megawatt smile.  I loved her at first sight.  We went back to our suite and I introduced her to Alex and Zoe and Harry.  Alex was polite, Zoe not so much.  I continued to try and shove more turkey sandwich in my mouth realizing how crude I was being but I couldn't help it.  Barbara pretended not to notice.  (I told you she's adorable.)

Ann telephoned and gave Barbara directions to the bar where we would rendezvous with her.  It was a short ride away.  I left Alex and the pups to their own devices and we took off.

At first glance, I knew Ann was landed gentry.  She was perfect!  Her stylish rich girl hair and diamond studs wowed me!  Never mind that, the woman looked to be made from crushed pearls.  Prettiest darned skin I've ever seen on anybody over the age of 3 months.  (Yes, at one point, I did fondle her ankle.  It was just as smooth and perfect as it looked.)  When Ann speaks, it conjures up visions of mint juleps and manicured lawns on plantations.  She is a magnificent example of pure Southern womanhood.  She bowled me over!

I drank two margaritas in rapid succession.  Damn that tasted good!  Further, we drank some wine with our dinner, and then followed it up with a brandy later.  We talked and laughed for what seemed like hours!  I loved these girls!

When it came time to go back to my hotel, I realized I had never checked to see what our room number was.  (Did I mention I was tipsy by then?  Okay, maybe I was pretty tipsy.)  The lobby would not give me Alex's room number since my last name and his are not the same, but I finally figured our I could call Alex and ask him to let his drunk-assed wife into the room.

The next night, Alex and I had dinner with Barbara and Ann.  It was another fun and lovely evening.

I wish Barbara and Ann lived in my neighborhood! 

By The Time I Get To Phoenix

I love baseball.

I was sitting around vaguely wondering what was peeling my Meyer's lemons at the top of my lemon tree in the backyard.

These lemons are peeled but left perfectly intact.  So what (or who) is peeling them, leaving them on the tree intact except for their peels.  Now I like a vodka tonic once in a while, and a little slice of lemon peel adds a bit of panache to that sort of thing, but frankly I'm more of a gin girl. 

I've wondered about rats, raccoons, opossums, even hummingbirds or bats.  The peels are perfectly removed.  It's even made me think about aliens with a vodka tonic penchant. 

After looking at about 10 perfectly peeled lemons, I came back in the house and did what I always do to calm my mind.  I went on Facebook.  I saw that a friend, Barbara, had left a fascinating message for me.  Barbara is a very interesting girl who has done so many things in her life that I can't even imagine.  She moved to Tanzania in Africa for heaven's sake.  Her blog is pretty amazing (Tanzania 5.0). 

Barbara indicated that she and Ann Currie (a Southern woman with a sly wit and a talent for fabulous photography) were meeting in Phoenix next week to have dinner and she asked if I wanted to join them.  Ann's blog is My Life, a Bit South of Normal, and she has kept me coming back for ages because she's amazingly funny and a bit quirky too.

In any case, I went in and told my husband Alex that I was flying to Phoenix and meeting the girls for dinner on Wednesday.  He was slightly surprised, seeing as I don't leave the house for months at a time.  (Okay, I exaggerate.)  But still, I very seldom leave him for an overnighter.  Alex asked me if I wanted to use his SW Airlines points and I said yes.  He had turned that strange shade of yellow green when I mentioned that I might catch a San Francisco Giants Spring Training game.  (Jealousy is an ugly emotion on anybody.)

Never mind.  We're both going. 

Problem solved.

Now what in the hell is peeling my lemons?

Short Men and Red Roses

Today is Valentine's Day.

Since our marriage in 1989, I have received red roses on Valentine's Day every year from my husband, Alex.  I also get a sweet mushy card and give him one as well.

Okay, Alex always gives me a gift on top of the roses and the card.  Some years it's a piece of jewelry.  Some years it's a nightgown.  Some years it's a ticket to the Monterey Aquarium.  He's a good husband.

I was talking to a woman I know a while ago who was lamenting how tough it was to find a "good man".  She had recently joined Match.com and another dating site and was having no luck at all even after having about 30 "dates" and numerous contacts.  This woman was horrified that the men on these sights lie about their height.  She is about 5'8" tall and wanted to meet a man who was at least 6' tall.

Now, I completely understand caring a whole lot if a man I met told me he was single and he was lying.  I would be horrified if a man told me he was a salesman and neglected to mention that crack cocaine was what he sold.  I might even be upset if a man failed to mention that he was actually a little bit pre-op on the female to male sex change operation.  But height?  Who even asks somebody how tall they are to decide if you want to date them or not.

I know a guy who meets some women on dating sites and he gave me the skinny.  If you put that you are 5'6" tall, nobody wants to date you.  So, he uses 5'9" on his profile just to keep from being completely ignored.  His feeling is that a woman just might like him if she met him and she might not notice the 3" he's adding.

I don't get it.  I've been married to two men who were, well, short.  Alex is a short guy.  I am taller than he is in heels.  (I've also been married to tall people because I'm an equal opportunity bride.)  Maybe it's just me, but I really don't have rigid rules about who I will be attracted to.  (I don't actually "date" now that I'm married, but you get my point.)  When I was dating, I dated men who were old, men who were young, men who were fat and men who were skinny.  I also dated rich men and poor men and healthy men and sick men.  I may or may not have even dated a couple of girls along with the good men and the bad men.

Love is about the person, not the measurement, whether height, weight, salary, or I.Q. 

I'm never joining "Match.com".

Me and My OCD

I look somewhat normal, but don't be fooled.

I have just decided that I suffer from Obsessive/Compulsive Disorder.  I guess I've had it for a long time, but never really recognized my symptoms.

I cannot buy enough shoes.  I have to pick up anything that is out of place immediately.  I refuse to get out of bed before 9:00 AM.  As if that's not bad enough, I only appreciate white flowers.  I love flowers, but if they are not white, they are somehow "wrong".  And when something is "wrong", it makes me nervous.

I get on kicks where I read about one subject obsessively.  But that's not all.  I'll get so that I have to research anything about that subject that is mentioned in the book.  This would be great if I was reading about something that would further my education in a practical way, but it never is.    I'm so venal that I pursue knowledge about the harems of the Ottoman Empire.  Now how often does that come up in conversation?

Recently, I've been reading about war.  Not just one war, but everything I can find about all wars.  Got a war in China in the 13th century?  Great, let's read about it.  How about the war on drugs?  Fine!  "The Art Of War"?  Superb.  The Civil War?  Oh yeah.  WEB Griffin has written a lot military fiction, maybe 50 books.  I've read them all.

Before that, I was on a Polygamy kick.  I think I read 27 books about polygamy in a row.  Now, I know I have discussed having "Sister Wives" and I still think it's a good idea.  I want young strong sister wives who like to cook, clean house, do laundry, iron, walk dogs, and clean up dog poop.  I know the polygamous community is not usually all that great for some people, but I think it would work fine for me.  I am not a jealous woman, but I am a lazy one.  I am still hoping that Nicky and Ziva decide to join us one day.  But I'm open to adding one or two more sister wives if they bring the right skill set to the table so to speak.  If she could sew or do a little plumbing, it would be awesome.

With sister wives, I would have much more time to read and buy shoes and arrange white flowers.  

Or maybe I should just get a pill for the OCD.  That might be a lot cheaper.

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I am getting a ton of "blog" commentary these days.  Many of them look very much like they are written by the same person who sent me the above comment.  I'm sort of thrilled with the attention, because I love attention.  Don't we all?

What confuses me just a bit is what kind of a blog am I being invited to visit.  Who are these people who send me about 25 "comments" a day on my blog?  I'm offered a lot of options.  I can learn to increase my skill at playing poker.  I can find out about "male enhancement therapy".  I can lower my car insurance.

Frankly, I'm sort of fascinated.  Most of the comments are fine if you don't mind that they really have not bothered to read the post.  The comments tell me I have done a wonderful job of explaining a difficult situation.  Or sometimes that I am truly gifted.  (I sort of like that one.) But frequently, they are very quick to invite me to check out their sites.

Now I feel a little guilty because I have never clicked on any of these links.  Does somebody pay these people to peruse blogs and leave comments?  Does anybody ever reciprocate and go to these weirdo sites?  

Okay, I don't really need a loan for bad credit.  And, frankly, I play poker just fine.  The "male enhancement therapy" that most interests me has to do with electrical wiring and even a little painting and plastering expertise.  But that may be just me.

My husband was telling me about a contractor who was held at gunpoint by a woman for 3 days while she forced him to do numerous home repairs for her.  Sadly, I understand where she is coming from.  But I digress.

Who are these people and why do they feel compelled to comment on my posts using the name 'Anonymous'?