Tuesday, December 29, 2009

Music and Lyrics

It was a stupid movie that featured Hugh Grant.


My mother once mailed Hugh Grant pictures of me, advising that I was perfect for him. 
Now all the Hot shots of me in my 20's are gone.  But it's a funny story.  The fact that my mother believed what she saw on TV.

Below is "the song".  The best woman in the world, Charlotte Vale Allen sent me her recipe for Chicken Divan and I'm gonna cook it for my nephews.  All is not lost.  Oh yea, I forgot to mention...The King dumped me. 

You don't know who your real friends are...until you need them.


That's him.  Just a playboy I'm thinking now. 

Saturday, December 26, 2009

A Christmas Story

"Simba...Remember who you are."

Sometimes you need family to remind you. 

After a last minute change, heart broken, I spent Christmas with my local family:  My Aunt and cousins.

Christmas is about family.

It was the best Christmas eva!  Moments after arriving at the Brentwood style mansion owned by my cousin Dara (nuclear scientist) and her husband Tom (attorney) I was brought to the backyard to meet Molly (age two.)  She was squatted, like a dog, on the backyard patio, having removed her diaper and pants, she pooped on the ground.  Yep, right there on the Mexican Tiles.

"At least she didn't do it in her diaper.  We're trying to potty train her", my cousin said.

"When Molly turns twenty one (21) I'm going to tell her what she was doing the first time I met her." I said.

An hour later the little cherub wrapped her arms and legs around me and it was love. I carried her around in my arms until they hurt.

Her twin sister, Clair, had white-blond hair twisted into curls and airy whisps like a fairy sprite from A Midsummers Night Dream.  If she'd had gossamer wings you'd be hard pressed to imagine they weren't meant to be there.  No two (2) twins could have been more dissimilar. One born with a clenched fist, the other with dreamy stars in her eyes. (It was the little hell-raising adorable devil child most drawn my way.)

I haven't seen my cousins or Aunt in years.  I was busy. I made up excuses.

My Aunt couldn't believe I showed up.  She is the woman that emmigrated to America with my mother when they were 23 years old. She married my mother's eldest brother.  She cooked a delicious rack of pork marinated in garlic, Rosemary and Thyme with roasted vegetables, Au Gratin Potatoes, Butternut Squash, Sauteed Kale and Homemade rolls slathered in butter, parsley and garlic.

Everyone had a story to tell about the first time they met me, as if they knew I felt disconnected.  Andrea (cousin Gavin's wife) recalled meeting me when I was 19.  She said I was cooking in Aunt Mary's kitchen.  I exclaimed, "I don't know what to do!  What does Saute mean?  I don't know what Saute MEANS!"  (Funny because my mother and I started a catering company a year later.)

The kids opened presents, jumped and screamed.

The house was perfumed with delicious aromas, kids squeeling and running wild with dogs poking their noses into this or that.  I was feeling the love.  For the first time, I needed it.

We watched a video on a TV screen larger then my apartment, of the girls singing in a Church Christmas Pageant.  It was hilarious.

I called my little sister Briana. My phone was passed from person to person. "God I just love her," my cousins chanted.  Cousin Thurlow called in on speaker phone, "Merry Christmas Molly.  Merry Christmas Clair."  The girls gravitated to the sound of his voice, touching the phone like it was magic.

There was Prosecco, dessert and conversation.  Tales from our mutual pasts and present day updates.  It was with this family I spent many childhood holidays.  We played in the mud.  My father sprayed us with a garden hose as we ran in circles...shrieking with delight. Later, after our father's died in close proximity...we lost touch.  Their father was my Godfather.  He had a heart attack while cycling with my cousin Thurlow. Thurlow tried to revive him. He died in his arms. His mother, like mine, never re-married.  Maybe real love ruins you.

Life and sorrow got in the way.  I stayed away for 20 years.

My sweet cousin Elva sat me at "the kids table" and read a story aloud from a childrens book.  A 45 year old woman read a 48 year old woman a book called, Gerald the Giraffe Can't Dance. See, Gerald was "different".  He needed a "different" song to dance to.  My cousin paused and gazed at me.  We giggled. Time seemed never to have passed.

Except certain people were now bald.

My Aunt Mary (Mary is my middle name) and Cousin Dara begged me to stay the night. "Don't go Charmaine" they trained one of the two-year olds to say.  (The air mattress was already on the living room floor and Molly, naked, was jumping up and down on it.)  

On my drive home Elva called:  "I love you," she said.  "Thank you for making Christmas special this year. You changed things. We've never had so much fun. You're such a bright light," she said.

How lucky am I?  I'm broke...but I feel rich.

Friday, December 25, 2009

Balancing Eggs...even when you don't have them anymore.

 I have a scientific obligation to inform you that the whole "can-only-balance-an-egg-on-its-end-on-the-day-of-the-Winter-Soltice...is a lie.

There is no abject gravitational pull.  Of course, I already knew that. but, ahem, I wasn't sure...so I tested the theory because I will go to unknown lengths to...um, help you.

So I balanced the egg the next day.  It took me 30 seconds.  It had nothing to do with gravity...it was just a good egg. Alone in my kitchen, I could do it.

I tried it with other eggs.  It didn't work. The point is, it's important to know when you are being lied to.  There is only one way to find out.  Test. Use your mind, not your heart.  Of course this is a metaphore for my life.

Don't people understand metaphores anymore?  Have we all become lazy and literal?

Monday, December 21, 2009


The man I date teaches me new and amazing things every day. In fact, as the months pass, I can literally feel my I.Q. rising.

Todays lesson was: "Did you know that you can only balance an egg on its end during the Winter Soltice."

"Really?" I said sarcastically.

"Yep.  My Aunt Polly used to do it every year.  Google it." he said.

It took 3 seconds to debunk poor Aunt Polly. 

After ending the call, my scientific curiousity got the best of me.  Hey man, if Aunt Polly could do it.... I snuck into my own kitchen and...er...pulled out an egg.

I checked the glass doors and windows...(I didn't want to be caught in this absurd excercise.)

Hot Damn.  I did it.  It's been upright for 5 hours.  I swear to God, no tricks.

Have I channeled Aunt Polly?  Is the theory true? 

Tommorrow we will put Aunt Polly to the test.

You can't get this kind of hard-hitting news reporting on Channel Four (4).

This is Charmaine reporting from the kitchen, debunking myths as a public service to you, my gentle reader.  Tune in tomorrow, won't you?

Monday, December 14, 2009

A New Reserve

I won't be weak like I've been before.

I won't walk away from things or people I fear.

I won't walk away from love.  But I think, with regard to love, it may be too late. 

Such horrible pain I feel, but wondrously happy to know that I can indeed feel love.  I can.  And I can fight for it too. 

I don't think I'll win.  But I WILL die trying.

I guess it's all normal for you.  Love is just a consequence of living for most people.  Not for me. My heart has been dead for 28 years.  The day my father died, I was done.  All the battles I fought  and won afterward...the lawyers, the doctors, trying to finish college, starting a business...my life was not my own.  There where other people to think of. My family.  It was alot for a 20 year old to deal with.  But I did it. Something in me died. 

I've made a mess of things.  Love.  The minute I saw it...I pretty much wanted to slit it's throat.

Love can hurt you.  Love can destroy all of your dreams, your entire life really.  So I've spent my life...fighting against it. 

SSP (fellow blogger) asked me if I'm okay.  People are always asking me if I'm okay these days.  It fascinates me. 

But somehow...in my current weakness...I know there is strenght.  Admitting weakness is a form of strenght. 

But then you have to get up and fight again.  Fight for your life..


Sunday, December 13, 2009

Jesus Christ, Superstar!

I made a mistake.

I don't know why I did it..   Let this post erase the former.

I was on the ground, literally face down on the carpet.

Then he arrived... then her...and countless others.  Like they knew.  My nieghbors.

They all asked about Dan. I'm nothing more then a conduit to him. I'll deliver the goods.

That  is...if we ever speak again.

I just want to know...when did he become Jesus Christ and when did I turn into Mary Magdalene?

Friday, December 11, 2009

Crimes of the Heart

There weren't any.  He had no interest in the woman.

Nobody will convince me the blond at Thanksgiving was not flirting with my boyfriend. But flirting is not a crime.

The minute The King read my blog detailing my suspicians about her, he came over, climbed my stairs and declared, "Don't you know you're the only one?"

"No," I retorted. 

"I love you," he said. 

"Yea well," I replied... (I make intellectual remarks like that.) . 

I've been loved by men that never gave me a minutes cause to wonder...where are they now?  Because they thought they loved me, they let me run over them.  I'm not proud of this, I'm just saying I've done it.  I always knew I needed someone stronger.

You never know if you're "the only one" unless there's a ring on your finger.  And even then, you don't know. 

There is a time limit.  Mine is one (1) year.  At my age, years accumulate like dog years.

I don't waste time. One year is reasonable in order to discern character.

We laugh so loud I need to close the windows.

Oh crap...it's raining.  I live in a bungalow with no insulation.  The rain falls on the roof like pebbles crashing upon a tin roof.  Impossible to sleep so...I'll keep talking.

1.  He calls my mother when she is lonely.  He talks to her because I don't want to.  He takes the time.  She adores him. (She doesn't adore anyone.) She is the Patron Saint of irrascible bitches.

2.  He calls my little sister too.  Just to say, "hi".

3.  He fixes my computer and installs my christmas lights.  When I cook, he pays for the ingredients. He washes my dishes (he LOVES washing dishes). He fixes my light fixtures. He can, literally, fix anything.  It's miraculous. He even helps my neighbours.  It makes me proud.

Like I'm gonna let a guy that loves to wash dishes get away? 

4.  When we go to a neighbours house for a party he is charming and jovial.  He makes comments about my beauty, jokingly.  He always holds my hand where ever we go.  He kisses my hand.  As a duo, my neighbours are endlessly fascinated.

5.  He'll watch Gone with the Wind with you.  He cries at films depicting families experiencing heart break.  He's impressed by the fact my father was an Eagle Scout. (Of course I love that about him.)

6. His father calls him every night.  His Uncle calls him every day.  He is present and available to his family. 

7.  He does NOT take any of my shit.  And people, you don't know, I can be irrational and attacking. He doesn't retaliate...he simply walks away. He arrives at the doorstep with a handfull of band-aids.  He drops them into my hand and says, "I knew we could patch things up."

He goes for the laugh, perhaps to hide the pain and fear, like I do.  I understand this.  It's who I am.

I haven't had an easy life. I tend to look for the worst, expect the worst...see the worst.

This strategy has worked well.  It's helped me maintain ambivalence in every relationship.

It's not a good thing. 

I have to challenge my misconceptions, see the worst and move past the negatives I invent in my mind.  That is, if I am ever to experience happiness.  I can't run away.

Don't try to protect me. I'm no shrinking violet. 

Whenever I differentiate myself from a doormat, people call me a "bitch".  When I fail to judge, people call me a "doormat". 

If I cared what people thought...I'd be in trouble.


Monday, December 7, 2009

Tuesday, December 1, 2009


It wasn't a guy knocking.  It was my neighbour.  She was worried about me. 

I mean, seriously...

I'm not the type to be a victim of love.  I'm ambivalent, remote and aloof.

The book I'm reading, Blink, purports that peoples' understanding of themselves is often so wrong as to be laughable.  Our self-definition(s) are so manufactured they border on the hilarious.

It means the reverse is true.  I'm vulnerable, I care what people think and I'm plugged into you.

You should have seen me with The King.  My eyes scanned him, up and down, like a lecherous old lady.  I'd start at the top of his bald head then scan down to his calves. I thought he was perfect. Arms, legs, hands...personality, lips and wit.

I hope someone loves me like that someday.  See's me like that.  Head to toe, perfect. They may have, I didn't notice.

It's not healthy to want someone...

It won't happen again.  From now on I'll just pretend to be vulnerable. Like her (the one from Thanksgiving).  She obtained it all, the mansion, someone elses husband...the brass ring.  But still, her house was cold. Trying too hard to be "cool" cold.  Mexican tiles with brown leather sofas cold.  A fireplace with no fire cold.  Ever-Ready fake wood cold. Adultress cold.  No boundaries cold. Looks innocent but isn't cold.

I'm not as intimidated as all that.  I wouldn't want to be her.  I'm not the adultress type.  Plus, I'm more interesting...better read and when I'm not lying, I'm honest.  I'm just not streetwise...like her. And I would never steal your husband.

I'm a Janis Ian song right now.

I may not be happy, but I'm respectable.

The plants are all dying and the house is a wreck.  My cell phone is dead...I'd better do something.

Monday, November 30, 2009

Secret Agent Man


(I always thought the song was called; Secret Asian Man.)

Okay.  I'm done. He's knocking on my door.  I have to go. 

Not him.  A different him.

Apparently...I'm irresistable. 

I'll tell you about it tomorrow.

Tom Bailey

Where in the hell did HE come from?

Did you read his comment on my last post?  He said I was not "emotionally stable".

Self aggrandizing fucker.

But maybe he's right.

I'm reading this book called, "Blink".  It's kind of a stupid book about rapid cognition and the snap judgements we make in fleeting moments.

It's about thinking without thinking (my favorite thing) and why our instincts are right.  (When they are wrong we are thinking too much, looking at evidence that will betray us.) The author, Malcom Gladwell, sites the time the Ghetty Museum almost bought a fake statue. 

It looked authentic...it was in good a shape.  Too good to have been in the ground for 200 years.  The experts wanted to believe...

Moments before the deal was done another expert was called in to authenticate it.  His first words were..."It just doesn't look right."

You have to trust your gut.

I'd met her before. My first thought was...homewrecker, selfish self-serving disingenuous homewrecker.

I ignored my instincts.

She married a wealthy man, She had an affair with him...ripping him away from his wife and kids.  (I'm not excusing him...I'm just saying I don't respect either of them.)  Then BINGO...she's divorced and living in a mansion.  Then she went for my boyfriend.

I was there for Thanksgiving. I'm never going back.  She put the moves on my boyfriend, doe eyed and innocent...on the way home he and I broke up.

She's not innocent.  She's fucking brilliant.

She's got at least 15 years on me but looks half my age.  Plastic surgery and a trainer will do that. She pretends to be vulnerable.  Her act is a scientific marvel.

You should have seen her, bending over in front of the stove every time my boyfriend was in the kitchen.  She was wearing one of those belly necklaces...I don't know what they are called.


Sunday, November 29, 2009

The last day of feeling sorry for myself.

It never ceases to amaze me how quickly you dissapear.

You're all over me when I'm witty, kicking some man ass or punching some guy in the gut...

What are you so afraid of?  My sadness?

Don't be scared.

Hello? Are you there?

Bachelor number two (2) is already in the wings.  I won't be deliriously happy...but I'll be safe. Safer.

He's not as dashing as our friend, The King. He is, however, more sincere.  The right guy is always the one you least suspect, don't notice at first...but he stays...there is not a thing you can do to dissuade him.

He's a brilliant artist, kind and compassionate and...slightly crazy. I understand crazy. I understand HIM.  Weird. He's all fire and passion.  Yet, there are moments when is kinder to me then anyone I've ever known.

Train wreck alert.

I need a break from heartache.  It's depleting.  It made me say something I have not uttered in years...I said, "Dad, help me". 

He didn't respond.  Dead people are like that.

They never speak up.


Friday, November 27, 2009

THAT Kind of Guy

He's the kind of guy that says, "I love the Kaleidoscope that is you."

He's the kind of guy that, despite being big and strong, cries when he talks about his dead grandmother or at movies depicting a dying child.

He doesn't have to "act" macho.  He IS macho.

He's the kind of guy that says, "You're beautiful," when you're not wearing make up.  "I love your pimples," he says.

If you yell at him; "You're a terrible driver!" he's the kind of guy that replies, "I love when you yell at me."

His confidence is unstoppable. When you're in his arms you're inside a fortress.  It's a bliss I've never known. I wanted to be there...forever.

He's the kind of guy that bribes you to help yourself. He bribes his kids too.  Bribery works.

He's the kind of guy that says, "I won't be late this time."  Then he is. It's a psychological "fuck you" in my humble opinion.

If you're in his arms having a hot flash (getting his cheek sweaty) he says, "I always wanted a woman to be hot for me."

I'm grateful...this Thanksgiving because "THAT" guy is my boyfriend.

Woops.  I spoke too soon.  He picked up his tools and left. We had an argument.  I said some things.  I took him to my friend's sister-in-laws house for Thanksgiving. We were in a mansion surrounded by zombies. So much money...you should have seen the place.  I'm the only one that acknowleged it. She looked at me with disgust when I said, "your house is beautiful".  I remember where she lived before.  I guess your not supposed to remember.

Our millionaire hostess was flirting with him I think, with pretend vulnerability.  She told us her life story with her last billionaire husband.  The vulnerability that women convey mesmerizes me.  I know it's false because when it's REAL...all you do is try to cover it up.

She never said a word about her life...until my tall strapping boyfriend was there.

I miss Lynn.(Her mother) Had I been granted access..I would have saved her.

I don't think you know the effort it takes to save someone from this crazy healthcare system. You have to take on doctors, learn everything about the malady your loved one is facing (so they respect you). 

Then you have to fire the physicians that behave as if your mother/whomever is already in a coffin. You have to find watch dog organizations to oversee them (they hate that).  But everyone performs better when they know someone is watching.  You have to show up, make a million calls, ask the radiologist to give you a few months of anti-naseau meds because they are not covered by insurance. Sit on his desk, flip your hair....do things you would never do because life is on the line.

You'd do it again...if you loved someone.

So you call other doctors, nurses, hospice joints to get the goods on who IS the the right physcian.  You don't stop.  Not ever.  Then you find him.  The right physcian...the one that treats your loved one like a human being and it works.  She lives.  (exhales)

"Don't you know you're the only one?" he says.

No I don't. 

Then I escalate things, end things because I don't think I could handle getting hurt or rejected by him. I love him.  Love is a stranger to me, I don't know how to behave.  All I know is how to protect myself, you, my sisters and mother...anyone really...even him.

I'm abnormally good at endings. This time, he did it.

The little boy next door is singing "Jingle Bells" beneath my window.  His Golden Retriever is smashing against my gate...Life goes on.

Saturday, November 21, 2009

Swine Flu and Other Tragedies

When I majored in Biology, the notion that a virus could jump species was unheard of.  I didn't do so great after transferring to the Molecular Dept.  "The Recombinant DNA does what?"  You want me to splice it?  Where's my lab partner?

Oh yea, he dumped me after my stupid Chlorine gas accident.

I faked a car crash in order to get out of taking my Organic Chemistry final.  I smeared white makeup on my face so I would appear more... "tragic".

"Professor, I simply can't go on.  Can't you see the blood has drained from my face? I'm going to faint.

Then, once, I missed a Ballet final.  My professor was from the ABT.  "If you miss one performance you're out," he said.  I missed a performance and went to see him afterward, head hung sorrowfully to announce, "I'm sorry I missed the performance.  I have cancer," I said.

I belonged in the Drama Department. 

As a child I directed plays on the front lawn.  My reluctant cast included my younger sisters.  I staged bike crashes, poured ketchup on their faces, turned their bikes upside down...spinned the wheels to convey a sence of immediacy.  I positioned their little heads hanging over the curb.

Eventually I was in a community theatre play.  My sister, in retaliation, sat in the front row.

The Denver Post and The Rocky Mountain News were there. It was review time.

I had a death scene. It was my moment. I had to die in an evening gown, rolling out of a chair, onto my head and ultimately collapsing. It was ludicrous.  Eventually she was howling.  I was dead on stage and joined her, laughing so hard I cried.  Ahh ha ha ha. Snort.

The audience was silent. My howling sister and the snorting corpse on center stage pierced the quiet.

I don't know which is more painful... watching a video of that performance or the procedure, filmed by my gynocologist to treat Endometriosis that featured my ovaries through a laprascope.  Ewe.


Friday, November 20, 2009

I Had a Dream

Nighmare really. I dreamt you were dead.
I know…it’s a terrible thing to say and confess.
In my dream, one of your kids called me. I showed up at the funeral. I felt out of place and stood in the back.
I know you think I’m stupid. If you’re ever in the hospital in real life, you’ll appreciate this stupid Molecular Biology drop out. Test me. No don’t…I can save you.  I've done it before.
Then the procession. People walked by the casket. Open casket. We all stood in line.
When I reached you, I climbed in.
I grabbed your arms and tried to make them go around me.

It wasn't easy to get in there.  I was wearing heels.  And looked terrific, by the way.
Someone screamed.

It was just a dream.  Don't get all crazy.

Oh, here she is again.  The Golden Retriever from next door. (Like she knew I was feeling a little blue.)  She's in my bedroom with a pair of underwear in her mouth.  She's trying to escape to the front yard. 

I'm tackling her.  We're in a tug of war.  "Cassie, let GO of my underwear"...tug tug tug...

She looks at me, I look at her...we both crash into the wall beside the door.  Wha...now she's fleeing with my flip flop...kerplunk down the stairs...she wants me to chase her.

I love that dog.

Thursday, November 19, 2009

Sonnet # 9.

Let's start with my favorite sonnet, shall we?

I'm so excited.

Here we go. It's just Shakespeare...not rocket science.

Is it for fear to wet a widow's eye
That thou consumest thyself in single life?
Ah! if thou issueless shalt hap to die.
The world will wail thee, like a makeless wife;
The world will be thy widow and still weep
That thou no form of thee hast left behind,
When every private widow well may kee
By children's eyes her husband's shape in mind.
Look, what an unthrift in the world doth spend
Shifts but his place, for still the world enjoys it;
But beauty's waste hath in the world an end,
And kept unused, the user so destroys it.
No love toward others in that bosom sits
That on himself such murderous shame commits.

Here's what it means, according to me:

Are you afraid of dying dumb ass?  If you are, that's fine.  But people will still morn you. 

If you forgot to have children...you're supid.  In a childs eyes we live forever.  Don't you know that?

As a woman, your beauty is fading minute by minute.  The fact that you don't use it to hook some man is a crying shame.  You murder your own importance by not using it.  It's a crime. You don't love anyone...bitch.

Okay, next time we'll go line by line.  I'll be more literary.  I'll tell you what each word means, like "issueless" in this sonnet.  It means childless.

I won't swear next Friday.  I swear.


"Don't," he said.

"Don't come back here" he said, arm outstretched and hand flexed like a traffic cop trying to stop a truck.

He was in my bedroom, dressing after a shower.

"How sweet," I thought.  He's afraid if I go back there he will be overcome by desire and we'll be late for dinner.

I tried to go back three (3) more times. 

"Stop" he said.

Then I smelled it.
I'm the only person in America that could turn a fart into a romantic fantasy.

Tune in tomorrow, won't you.  I'm going to recite (write down) a Shakespearean sonnet every Friday.  Are you still there?

You won't get bored cuz I'm going to explain them.

Don't roll your eyes at me. It will be fun.

Is it Friday yet?

I'm so excited...I'm watching the clock.  Tick tick...what's taking so long?

The sonnets are all about love. And loss. Regret, adoration and tragedy. Things we experience yet never speak of.

In other words, life.


Wednesday, November 18, 2009

What's YOUR Motto?

Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove.
Oh no, it is an ever-fixed mark.

Okay. I’ve altered. So shoot me. You still have to love me. It’s the rules. Didn’t you go to the school of Shakespeare?

I noticed I was the only one there. I hoped you were invisible… like everyone else.

I knew you weren’t there. But I felt you coming. It’s the reason I checked out of the school of Shakespeare. I had to find you. I had to.

Too much literature and romance can screw a person up.

Now you’re here and I don’t know how to deal with you. I guess you’re love. I’ve been in the dark for so long; maybe my eyes can’t see anymore? ...is that you? Then I retreat to my friend…darkness. (He’s a bastard, by the way.)

You’re smarter then me. Not in the classic sense, the streetwise sense.

I run away. You tolerate this. It’s a ridiculous habit. I don’t want to repeat this mistake. But I do because there is something you don’t know about me.

Something I’m trying to say…

Okay, I’ll just say it. The only reason I feel like I’m alive at ALL is because I became good, a long time ago, at keeping an emotional distance. “I don’t care what you do, do whatever, it’s nothing to me. You can’t hurt me.”

That’s my Motto.

I don’t feel that way anymore. Still, I want my Motto back. It’s hiding under the couch, down the ally or beneath the bed…I can’t find it. You keep cleaning my house so my Motto is running out of places to hide.
Stupid Motto.

Never-around-when-you-need-it Motto.

When you come back, Motto, things are going to be different around here.

Dr. Cop-A-Feel

This is a re-posting of my third or fourth date...a timeless classic.

I charmed the 59 year old physician from India with my spectacular knowledge of his country, Salman Rushdie, Ganges River issues and the whole Hindu/Muslim thing.
I fascinated him with my understanding of Nehru, Lord Mountbatten and Edwina. (I studied, uh hem…prepared for the date.)
My Uncle (an Irish intellectual/physician) called to offer relevant material such as current events in India and Pakistan so I would "have something to talk about”. (Dating for me… it takes a village).
I added my own unique contributions such as reciting Shakespearean sonnets.
“Why would you memorize sonnets for no reason? " he asked. Trying to sound like an intellectual I responded, “Just cuz”.
He was smiling, grabbed my hands and rubbing my arms. “I had no idea we would have so much in common” he said.
There would definitely be a second date.

Doctor Cop-A-Feel picked me up for Date two (2)  in his shiny Lexus. I slipped into the car and met a confident grin that insinuated…."You think I'm sexy, don't you?”
One had to admire his confidence. (He was a nice but "sexy" did not spring to mind.)
Soon we were gliding down the Pacific Coast Highway. I adjusted my passenger climate settings, jacking down the temperature because I was sweating. I already knew he was too old for me.  I did not, however, know I was having a hot flash. 
We arrived at Sapphire Grill in Laguna Beach, a hip new restaurant. Rivers of women, alone and in pairs watched...looked, strolled and trolled.No one was getting their hands on my doctor.
We drank wine for hours waiting for our table. We had an excellent meal. The doctor was giggling and enjoying my sparkling conversation.
He ended dinner with “Would you like to come to my house for a night-cap” “or was it “would you like to see my etchings”? I don’t recall because of the wine haze. "Sure…hiccup…why not? " I replied.  I forced myself. I HAD to get over my shyness.  (You have no idea what an uptight prude I am.  Really, you don't.)
He gave me a tour of his overly decorated mini-mansion.
After pouring two amber glasses of desert wine we strolled to the tiny couch in front of a gargantuan plasma screen.
Then…it happened.
It’s what I dread, the second date kiss.

I’ve been known to bob, weave, accidentally trip...ANYTHING to dodge the terrifying second date kiss.
This time I was going for it. My date had been married for 24 years. It would be a well rehearsed kiss.

Seconds after our lips touched, with the focus of a pit bull, the doctor attempted to suck every last drop of blood from my lower lip. I couldn’t believe it. The sheer pain of it.

I moved, adjusted, pulled back and in every manner available to me... tried to shake him loose.
If you can visualize me pulling away from his face…my lower lip stretching out between us because he would NOT LET GO.
I thought for a second, maybe this is some new technique?  But my eyes started tearing up… I couldn’t take it.

After extricating myself and tracing my lips with my fingers to check for blood, he looked at me seriously and inquired, “Are you breasts real?”

I tilted my head to the side like a dog responding to a high-pitched whistle.  Uh...“yes”.
Then, in a moment I replay in slow motion in my head, the man reached out and grabbed my right breast.
It was no fondle or any manner of caress, it was a grab.
“You are correct” he said. "They are real".

My mind was in a swirl. I didn’t know how to respond. I was speechless. I looked him in the eye and said intelligently, “I can't believe you grabbed my breast”!
With a considerable Indian accent he retorted, “Eets ok. Omm a doctor”.

I laughed out loud.

Then I went home.

The next morning I saw it in the mirror as I was brushing my teeth. There was a purple bruise on my lower lip.
Doctor Cop-A-Feel gave me a lip hicky. Wha the?

Restaurant Date Review
Sapphire Laguna

It's a place to be and be seen. Just try to get a reservation on Friday night. Go ahead. Try.
The vibe is cool and casual. Lot's of locals. I had the braised short rib perched above a potato and celery root puree peppered with pieces of caramelized parsnip and carrot. It was lightly perfumed with clove and melted off the bone. Despite devouring it completely, the effects of drinking wine for 2 hours straight were upon me. I might have actually had the Duck.

Tuesday, November 17, 2009

My Dad

Hey Dad.  How are you?

Why are you dead? I thought I'd never get over it.  You know, when you died? Just the thought of you  missing my entire life. It makes me mad.

I tried to sue the moronic Cardiogist that killed you. I did all I could. I was too young.

Mom's okay.

Sunday, November 15, 2009

Rent Me.

Due to these hard economic times, I had to lower my rates.

During a mid-life crisis, I dyed my hair brown.  Considering my new career path... should I have opted for blond?

My hair color is as unstable as Uranium.

Trying to "act sexy" when uptight AND of Irish descent sitting on a van bumper in a neighbourhood where drug deals were taking place...was no easy task.  Did I mention "unstable"?

What was I doing there?  Oh, you know...just advertising picking up a piece of furniture.  I was with "The King".  Unlike most men, he likes to read about himself in my blog.  Most men go ballistic. (Like their mother is reading my blog.)

Talk about a guilty conscious.

Speaking of new careers: I tried to become a famous rap star but it didn't work out. (See below) My nephew and I rap on a hip hop radio station. 

When Auntie Charmaine comes to town...let's just say my nephews are introduced to new experiences. 


Saturday, November 14, 2009

Turning Point

There are turning points in every relationship.
My "turning point" generally includes a left turn, sending me through the guard rail, over a cliff and onto jagged rocks below.

"Soaring through air I exclaim, "Wee, this is fun.  I'm flying".


I tend to take my eye off the road.

Mesmerized by the beauty of the landscape, I drive directly into it. It only hurts for a minute.

The King and I drove to pick up an Armoir he generously purchased for me. (Very unlike me.)  It wasn't expensive enough to ingratiate me (a little over a hundred bucks at a consignment joint) but appreciated! There was a time I NEVER would have allowed a man to buy me ANYTHING.  I don't need help.

Maybe I do, just a little.

We rented a van and proceeded to the warehouse.

It was located in a sketchy neighbourhood.

We witnessed a drug sale. The drug pusher was a woman wearing pajamas and slippers. (You NEVER would have suspected her.) The client looked like walking death.  He watched us. He knew we'd witnessed the transaction.  He was too drunk to care. 

Skid row types limped past, taking swigs of Vodka.  Folks meandered looking forlorn and homeless. A granny shuffled past with a grocery cart. A man slept on a plot of grass.

I felt nothing but compassion.  I wasn't afraid in the least.  I said, "See King? Without friends or family (and unemployment insurance) that could be me. Nobody cares about these people."

The King took me by the arm.  He opened the passenger door and whispered, "Please get in.  It's not safe here.  I don't want anything to happen to you."

That was my turning point.

If I wrote a note to God (below). 


Monday, November 9, 2009

Charlotte Vale Allen

She's a writer. She was relevant in my life.  She lived next door. I loved her middle name.  I still do. I mean, my middle name is Mary.

I didn't know it at the time.  I was 15.  Later, when we reconnected, I knew.


She knew my mother. The hell of my mother.  

Her first book was called, "Love Life".  She survived abuse.  Then she became a woman's advocate.

I remember the day she brought the manuscript of her first novel to our house in Connecticut.

She was consequently published 36 times.

She adopted me and my two (2) sisters.  She took us everywhere.

She was glamorous, beautiful, impudent and brilliant. Now she is mostly kind.

I'm lucky.  Not lucky in love.  Lucky in other ways. I get to know interesting people.

The Lyin' King

(Another reprisal.  What can I say?  I have nothing new to report.)
The Lyin' King's match.com name is "Blue Eyes Looking for You".

In the first paragraph of his profile he admits lying about his age. (What's the point if you're going to confess?)

He asked me out. I said I would agree if he changed his profile to reflect his real age. He did.

After making an "honest man of him" we met at Bandara restaurant in Corona Del Mar. I go there on match.com dates.

The receptionists are beginning to look at me funny.

We met for drinks to test his theory that women want to kiss him after one Martini.

If you know anything about me ...you KNOW I disproved that one.
He was very good looking.

It was one of those dates where the man tells you who he is as opposed to BEING who he is...like reciting his biography. "I'm this, I'm that, I like walks on the beach".

He's a lawyer. I like lawyers. Really, I do.

When I returned home he called to say how much he enjoyed meeting me. He said I was warm (obviously doesn't know me) and attractive. Then today, at work, another email. He sent "virtual flowers" and expressed how lucky he felt to have met me. Then more...and MORE emails.  I had to return a call to the IT department.

"Your emails are congesting the network," said Fred.

"Shut up Fred," I demurely responded.

He's coming on strong...I like it. But I've learned not to get my hopes up. The minute I do...CRASH.

One of the first things he said was, "I was recently layed off".

Question: Is that a Red flag? I'd hate to be judged similarly.

Wait for round two.  The part where he asks me for a  job. 

Sunday, November 8, 2009

I Miss Him

I don't know why I run away. I go days without speaking to him. 

I'm conflicted.  I think I shouldn't be dating a man with a minor child.  I think his kids should be up and out before he get's involved with me. 

I think of them before I think of myself.

Then I look at a picture of him.

Heart melts.

Saturday, November 7, 2009

I want to be Jewish.

That's a weird thing to say.

I've been to Israel.  I climbed the mountain.  

Do I have to be Barbara Streisand?  Yentle?  Read the Torah?

I never read the Bible but the Catholics let me in.

Check out my friends video below (if you need a laugh). 


Friday, November 6, 2009

Ireland, Love and Life.

There were mounds of haystacks as far as the eye could see arching above miles of verdant green grass. You can't understand green until you go to Ireland.

Not the new variety of haystack, the homemade variety. The kind a 5-year old could climb as her father pulled her leg causing her to topple off.
Climb, pull, giggle. Climb, pull, giggle.
The farm belonged to Auntie Eileen. She resided outside of Dundalk, Ireland.
Visiting her was more mysterious then going to the moon.
We were American and rich. She didn't have indoor plumbing. We had to pee in a pot hidden under her bed beneath a lace doily.
It was very glamorous.
We sat at her table with dainty china cups clinking, drinking extra tea with pinkees extended just to gain the opportunity to pee in that metal pot.
That is what it means to be Irish. The illusion of grandeur, the mystery of shame...and laughter.

Thursday, November 5, 2009

Come Outside

Ring Ring

I fail to answer.

Message:  "What are you doing back there?  Are you locked up?  Are you hiding? I'm at the front house.  I'm taking the dog for a walk.  Come outside." he says.

Bark Bark. An adorable Golden Retriever runs up my steps and lurches against my gate. Bang.
Knock knock.  I don't answer.

"Charmaine" she says from the alley.  (It's my neighbor this time.)  I go outside.

"Can you believe this guy?  Our neighbor cut one branch from his tree.  The only branch whose removal doesn't allow light to spill onto our little garden below.  That schmuck."

"Let's call the city again," I say.  "But I'm afraid we won't win this time.  The tree no longer interferes with the powerlines. How did he manage to correct the problem and STILL not give us what we want?  Fucker."

He's bald and I'm hybernating.

He made me bloom like a Persian  rosebush.
He's bald.  But I think he's the most attractive person.
I don't want to talk to him today.
The complexity of his life, and mine (which isn't complex) makes me want to run.
Plus, look how gigantic his ear is.


Political Stability

Just kidding.

I wanted to see if I could make a post wherein nobody commented. 

It's not self sabatoge...just an experiment.

There is an interesting woman running for the Senate in my state of California.  She is the former President of Hewlett Packard. I catered an international party for them when I was 21.
She was fired and given a 21 million dollar golden parachute.

She's running against Barbara Boxer, who I like... but don't know why.  I like the way she looks. Yes, I AM that shallow.

She points out that Barbara has done little during her 17 year tenure but write books.  She comments that Barabara is generally on a book tour as opposed to doing anything meaningful in the Senate.

"Let's give Barbara her dream and make her a full-time novelist" she says.

People don't like her.  She's a woman with money and a novice to politics.

But I like her. She's gutsy. If she was able to survive in a male dominated computer manufacturing firm for even a year, I know what kind of woman she is: Ninja.

Wednesday, November 4, 2009

I See Dead People

I’m dating a wonderful man..
I admire him. (That doesn't happen every day.)
He looked up my father on the Internet, who was born in Minnesota… where he was born. He was trying to figure out if we were related.
He was impressed by the fact my father was an Eagle Scout and Aerospace Engineer.
I miss my father.
I remember looking at the front door, expecting him to walk in.

He wouldn't.  He couldn't.

I can still see the hospital room…and the Cardiologist. I could pick him out in a line-up. I can't find my car keys, but I can draw a picture of his face. He killed my dad. He didn't mean to.

I grilled him for 2 hours and he endured it.

My mother, sisters, friends and neighbors fled to the corners of the waiting room, crying, after the Cardiologist emerged through swinging doors to say, “We did all we could”.

I stayed with him.

The man that watched my father die drew diagrams with a blue pen on his green scrub pant legs in response to my endless questions. I could not release him from the converstation until I obtained his confession.

"During the Angiogram we hit a plaque formation...it caused a massive heart attack" he said."Yes, your father was watching on the monitor, Yes he knew. Yes, his death is a result of the procedure." 

I was 20 years old.

I launched a lawsuit. Back then, malpractice was unheard of. Nobody helped.  Plus I was trying to study for my English Lit class…I failed despite the fact I am terrific at English Literature.I started failing everything...My 4.0 turned into "we regret to inform you" letters.

Nobody noticed.

I was too young to save my father.

I’m not too young anymore.
I saved my mother from a sea of doctors. They declared she would be dead in a month due to her particular cancer.
I fired them, called in cancer specialists, monitored her medications and met with her physicians. I made sure they knew I was watching. I hired a watchdog organization to oversee things when I wasn’t there. I flirted and threatened. I showed her how to use her feeding tube with tears slipping from my left eye. It worked. She's not dead.
An Eagle Scout raised me.
By example, he taught me how to do the right thing.

I couldn't save him.  I saved his wife instead.

Sunday, November 1, 2009

Something's Fishy

When you're 57 years old, are you too OLD to dress up for Halloween?
I painted fish on our face(s). We traveled across town giving "kissing performances".
The fish looked better in the dark. (The camera flash destroyed the affect.)
He opened his mouth wide showing teeth... transforming into a Piranha as I appeared to swim innocently into his mouth.
The day I marry a Senator, this picture will re-surface.
I don't know anyone who would allow me to paint a fish on his cheek and then, gleefully, agree to take the show "on the road. You need to enjoy the spotlight.  He does.
The link below is my Halloween e-card. Go ahead, click on it. Watch me slap my butt as a werewolf.  It's wholesome family fun!

Tuesday, October 27, 2009

Men, Sex, Food, Football

 I didn't say "sex" did I?

I had a man over for dinner on Sunday. I made beef stew served with crusty french bread because it was chilly.  (In Southern California "chilly" means 75 degrees.)

Why is Charmaine cooking for a MAN?  Because he fixes things.

If you've been single for life AND you're the type of woman who doesn't know where her vacuum cleaner is, things tend to fall into disrepair.

 "You're improving the property value for my landlord" I objected.  "This medicine cabinet is disgusting. I'm replacing it," he replied.

Sigh.  (Batting eyelashes)

I'm a recovering Feminist.  A year ago, if you'd tried to give me anything I'd have thrown it back in your face.

Because he'd been helpful, I allowed him to watch a football game.

"You probably don't watch football," he commented. 

"Yes I do,"  I lied.

To demonstrate my enthusiasm, after watching the Giant's player fail to complete a pass out of bounds and then foolishly repeat the misstep, I screamed at the TV, "What in the hell is WRONG with you?  Are you going to do the same thing over and over you moron?"

"Charmaine, that was an instant replay" he said.

Tuesday, October 20, 2009


I thought I might obtain new readers with that one. 

My sister was reading my blog, "Jesus, how much time do you HAVE?" she said.

Well, let's see.  I stopped talking to The King and I still don't have a new job.  I'd say, plenty.

She's having a bad day.  It's her birthday. She spent the night in the hospital with my nephew Brody.

He's the little blond fella. Let's visit her at  My three sons.   Say,"Happy Birthday".

While you're there, if you have legal questions, feel free to ask.  She's an attorney.  I force her to help all my friends.  I tell her, "Pro Bono work is good for the soul".

Then my friends like me more. 

I told her I was no longer speaking to The King.  "Jesus Christ!" she said. 

We are a very religious family, we can't go five (5) minutes without bringing up The Lord.

Monday, October 19, 2009

The Mantra

Braja sent me an Indian Mantra. The hypnotic beat of a drum is set behind strands of forlorn violins.  A man and woman sing/chant.  The lyrical beauty of it is captivating.

It is sung in Sanskrit so the lyrics are indecipherable:

Oh Hare Krisha
I don't think that I am here....I can't say.
Ohhhhh yeaaaaaaa
Oh Krishna Krishna
I really want a beer...I can't say.
Oh Oh Yea yeaaaaaAaaa
Oh Krishna Krishna
There's something in my ear....I can't say (namaste?)

Hey man, I'm just telling you what I heard.

Sunday, October 18, 2009

Baah Humbug

Look at who is at the bottom of my steps.  It's him.

Not "him".  The "other" him.

Did I forget to mention there were TWO hims?

Oh, he's just visiting my neighbour.  He wouldn't DARE come up my steps.  He wants me to know.. he's here.  But I'm full of garlic and, uh, not available.  (garlic burp)

I'm cooking lamb to forget about men. 

Braja, just so we're clear, lamb is NOT cow.
My house smells of garlic, roasted lamb, thyme and a buttery bread crumb mixture...who needs men...when there is lamb?

If you could smell my house, you'd want to marry me. 

Hell, I want to marry me. But things change fast around here.  In 30 seconds I might pull a gun. 

Just to shoot the lamb.  Not the baby lamb, I mean the intruder. 

I would only EVER shoot, the intruder.

Descent into Hell.

"I'm coming over" he said.

"No you're not" I replied.

"Why don't you come down to Laguna Beach?  I'm at a great party." he said.

"I don't want to". I responded.

"You're still pining over that bald guy" he replied.

"No I'm not." I lied.

"Okay, I'll call you on my way home," He said.

"No, don't." I cleverly retorted.

"Fine" he said.  "I'm just calling you back",

"Fine" I said.  I'm just calling YOU back because you called me like nine times today.

In my quiet town, the fog horns were blaring.  Fog horns, warning ships they might crash upon the rocks.

It is precisely how I feel.

Don't come near me, there are rocks.

Saturday, October 17, 2009

Screw this.

I'm deleting my self pity.  If you read something before... now it's gone.

Braja sent me an Indian Mantra that I REALLY want to share with you. There is compassion and resignation in it. Send me your email and I’ll forward it to you. charming_mary@hotmail.com Resignation doesn't really appeal to Irish folks  We like to fight and blow stuff up. But still...
It’s so hauntingly beautiful that I’m considering becoming a Hindu myself.
The Kings x-wife became a Hindu before she dumped him. How’s that for irony?
The King, making women into Hindus…one woman at a time.

Friday, October 16, 2009


There is a scene from my favorite movie, Sense and Sensibility.
The older sister says, “He loved you dearest. He made us all think he loved you. Did he leave you with any understanding? Based on your behavior I assumed he had.”
“Yes. No.” She sobs. “He’s not so unworthy as that. It was never declared but every day implied.”
Then she almost dies of a broken heart. See, Willaby needed money. He had to marry a rich woman.
The young protagonist married a hero instead, Colonel Brandon.
Bring me my Colonel.

I’m as indifferent as she was. The Colonel’s abiding love changed her.
He didn’t talk about his x-wife. He didn’t do a thing to make her jealous because love, doesn’t do that.
Love is infinitely kind.
Thanks Braja.
You’re my hero today. But I can’t marry you cuz you’re a girl and…uh, married.

Why is he calling?

My neighbour texted, "Please go to my house and take my dog for a walk."
"Of course" I responded. 

She texted another.  A single guy, my age. We arrived at the same time.

If I didn't know better I'd think she planned it. 

He's cute. So cute, in fact, I'm certain several 23 year old blonds would trample me just to get to him.  I 've met him before.  But he put the moves on me in a way that does NOT work.
"Do you want to cook me dinner tonight?" he said, scratching the Golden Retrievers head. 

"No." I responded.

"Do you want me to stay the night?" He implored, rubbing the pooches belly.

"No." I said.

Now he keeps calling. If he wants sex he has a better chance of getting it from my neighbours dog.

I can't help it.  This is just the way I am.

Thursday, October 15, 2009


It never ceases to amaze me how much I pay in taxes. 

I'm flat broke.  So much so that last April whatever (I can't bring myself to remember the day) I had to file an extension.

"Don't tell me what I owe" I said to my tax guy.  Let me live in denial.

Today, there was no beating denial.

I drove to his house to pick up the bad news.  I was met by his wife, Missy who is, frankly, the nicest woman on earth. 

"Hey girl, she said, hugging me.  Aren't you married yet?  You haven't changed a bit.  You look great."

I stopped receiving invitations to my tax guys Christmas party a while back.  He had a goofy gift exchange, I was quite the hit one Christmas Eve.

Maybe my tax guy flirted with me a little.  He said, "you look great Charmaine". He wasn't flirting, he was just being kind.

I was never invited back.

I know why.

I pay the price for single women that behave badly and have affairs with married men. If I ever meet that kind of woman...the type responsible for making married women fear me just because I'm single...I'll smack her in the head.

Real Love

The King and I went for a bike ride on the beach.

This time, the chill of autumn was in the air.

In my mind the scent of Connecticut permeated everything. It’s a place I think of when the temperature cools to a crisp. I smell apples and dried branches. We had a bit of land then. It was full of trees.
The leaves quivered and turned golden as we gazed upward, into the afternoon sun. We were raking dead foliage with my father…making little piles on the lawn.  Whirlwinds of dried leaves spiraled and scratched against the pavement. I jumped into these dervishes. Like magic, they always disappeared.
The neighbors thought I was retarded.
A canopy of trees bent over Old King’s Highway South. Shafts of sunlight lasered down through the branches.
It was on this road I decided to run away.
My little sister ran after me as I paced down the road darkened by twilight. “Don’t go’ she said running behind in her pajamas.
 I always returned. Not for them, for her.
You think things change with time…but they don’t.

I still want to run away. And, to this day, if someone hurt my kid sister, I would kill them.
Thank God she grew up to become an attorney.
She can bail me out of jail.

Wednesday, October 14, 2009

He loves me, he loves me not.

Do you remember playing with daisey's?  Plucking off the tiny white petals? 
Do I love him?

Seriously, I can’t tell. He says, “if you can’t tell you are in love, you're not”. I say, “So why did you divorce two women? You thought you were in love. You could tell, right?

Then there is the whole “in love” vs: love dilemma. I have a new one for you, I’m in love with him but I don’t think I love him. How’s that for a twist?
 My friends and neighbors say, “Why can’t you be a bit more submissive, just be sweet. You’re so nice, I’d like to introduce you to my friend Salim. He’s not good looking but he’s rich and lonely. By the way, why did you bulldoze Bill’s house?”
“He had it comin’,” I submissively responded.

I’ve heard the thinly veiled lies of the submissive woman. I just heard my neighbor talking to her husband.
She hates him.
He was perched on a ladder painting the house.  Darling, you have a phone call and there is a Voice Message" she said.  "Must you bother me?" he replied. 
Lately I’ve been trying to be sweet muzzle myself. But it feels like I’m wearing somebody else’s clothing.
How do you know if you’re in love? One minute I think I am, the next I want to chop off his head and feed it to the dog next door.
That’s kind of violent, isn’t it? But so help me God, if he brings up his x-wife again, her glorious pot roast, her innumerable plastic surgeries or pathetic friends…

I’ll do it…
Don’t look at me like that.
I have a bulldozer.

Sunday, October 11, 2009

Don't Piss Me Off

I have a neighbour.  He pisses me off. 

His crime? He parks behind my garage preventing me from pulling out.  I've told him a million times to stop.  He won't.  After 15 years I took action.

I rented a bulldozer and plowed down his house. 

Descending from the CAT I felt justice had been served.   It's not like I did something drastic. I mean, I didn't rent a machine gun or anything.

That's better.  Now I have plenty of room.

Walking away I thought, "Okay neighbours, which one of you wants to piss me off next"?

It's menopause. We bulldoze for sport.

Thursday, October 8, 2009

Menopause Test

Ring Ring

King:  Did you get the picture message?
Me:    When did you send it?
King:  A while ago.
Me:    I can't find my phone. I've looked everywhere. This is ridiculous.
King:  I'll call it.
Me:    It's probably in the car.
Beep beep.
Me:    I found my phone.
King:  Where was it?
Me:    Uh, I'm talking on it. (I haven't had a "land line" in 5 years.)

Because of our descent into dementia, I suggested we do something appropriate.  Bingo at the Elks Club.

With youthful minds, in contrast to our opponents, we were certain to redeem ourselves and escape with the winnings. Here's what really happened.
Me:  Huh?  I have to have a diagonal AND a horizontal line to win?
Old Lady:  Yes, but you can't use the free space on the diagonal..
Me:  WHAT?
King:  Did he just say N 39?
Me:  No, that was, like, 10 minutes ago.
King: I have a diagonal line.
Old Lady:  You need to have them on all 6 cards.
Me:  Is that a joke?
King:  Did he say N 47?
Me:  Just look at the board.
King:  Where?
Me:  What did he say?
Elks Member Assistance:  Are you okay?
Me:  I shouldn't have had wine with dinner. 
King:  I'm going to the bar. Will you watch my card?
Me:  Are you insane?
Old Lady:  How did you two even find this place?

Saturday, October 3, 2009

Sisterhood of the Traveling Hormone Patch

Menopausal dating should be adapted to film. 
At 47 I needed hormones (Estrogen and Progesterone). I chose to wear a small circular patch on my belly. 

It stays put...it's sticky.  One day I learned "the patch"  had a mind of its own.
I was in my Boudoir with the man I adore.  I hadn't been "there" in a while so I was a little nervous.  I gazed down to find the patch affixed to the end of a particular part of his anatomy. Cue blood curdling scream.

He didn't appear to notice.  (And they say it's a sensitive organ?)

The patch had traveled before, affixing itself to the underside of friends' flip flops, bathroom tiles, my shirt sleeve...etc.

But this was different.

Should I pull it off like a band-aid? Should I gently remove it...diverting his attention, do a card trick and THEN make my move?

"It's an Estrogen delivery system" I admitted. I had to say something before, um, interfering with his manhood.

Later that night he blinked innocently and said, "Charmaine, my breasts are sensitive and I have cramps. Do you have a heating pad?

Thursday, October 1, 2009

Who drinks spoiled milk?

I do.  Duh. 

I thought I smelled it.  About 20 minutes later....

Well I don't have to tell you.

It was grosser than that Director from my last post.  No...I'm not going out with him.  I'm not going to let him kill me like Alan Spector.

I'm capable of poisoning myself.

What a dumb ass.

The worst part was that my neighbour is painting his house. He spent the day on a ladder inches from my bathroom window.

In return for his proximity I treated him to the Charmaine Throws Up Show.

Wednesday, September 30, 2009

Hooray for Hollywood.

He's some famous producer/writer.

The last time we spoke he deleted me from plentyoffish.com. 

I'm no star gazer and not easily impressed. One night he called me and yelled.

His scruffy exterior suits me.  He is completely brilliant and insane.

What I don't understand is how a man who is, supposedly, brilliant can't figure out how to post a picture without chopping off the corner?

I remember Alan Spector. I'm not signing up for that. Not without a 45 in my back pocket.

Love Boat

“Love, exciting and new. Climb aboard…we’re expecting youuuuuu”.

Man oh man I wanted on that boat. I knew I’d make a better cruise director then…what was her name? Julie?

I hated her hair. I just KNEW she was a hussy and a drug addict. It’s in the eyes people.

Finally I got my wish. I climbed aboard The Love Boat.

It really WAS “exciting and new”.

One night we both cried while in an, er…compromising position. I was overcome with emotion and reckless in my failure to observe decorum and, um, possibly drunk.

Just gazing at him, my hand caressing the remaining strand of hair on his head was enough to send me.

On our final day together he said he was SO busy I would have to drive to the 405 freeway to meet him for breakfast. He had an important meeting to attend.

30 minutes later he called to say he had rented a van and was speeding to his x-wife to help her move.

I guess he wasn’t that busy after all.

Tuesday, September 29, 2009

I was sick.

It was little over a year ago. I had a fever of 105.
That’s high for an adult.
I was incapacitated on my couch..
My cell phone was in the bedroom. All I had to do was walk the 14 steps to retrieve it and call 911…
I didn’t want to because I was cold. I knew what they would do to me…put me on one of those ice beds to reduce my body temperature. Death was, frankly, more appealing.
I was wrapped in a million blankets, heat blaring and still…I could not move. I began to hallucinate but I’m not certain cuz I was hallucinating, I think.  What's that blurry image, Mommy is that you?
This is what it means to be single. To know your cell phone is steps away, completely incapable of reaching it…

Monday, September 28, 2009

Alec Baldwin


I had to break up with The King befause I'm actually in love with Alec Baldwin.  He called his little girl a "fat pig".  Then his wife, Kim Bassinger and her daughter dropped out of sight.

But look at him.  He's all over the telly. It seems you can't stop a man that behaves badly. 

I forgot to tell you what happened.  I just forgot, that's all. I'll tell you soon enough. 

Or never.

Sunday, September 27, 2009

To My Little Sister

This song is for you: Listen.http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1e_j66mgTDE
Erin. That’s her on the left. She lies, cheats and steals as a matter of course. She was an attorney and mother.
Erin, listen to me. There is only one way out of this morass…you have to stop stealing and cheating.
Your most recent escapade wherein you are attempting to steal from our mother again (who lives on Social Security) will not be tolerated. Not this time. Briana and I will stop you.

You’re better then this. You were such a smart and beautiful young woman. I think something terrible may have happened to you.

Bad things happened to all of us. You’re not the exception except for the fact you leverage your injury to hurt others.
For once in your life, choose wisely. Choose family. We don’t have the luxury of time. Not anymore.

Wednesday, September 16, 2009

The Cure for Pneumonia

Not these guys (The Cure).  The cure for Pneumonia, silly.
I'm like Madam Curie.  But I cured Pneumonia!

Curie was the first woman to receive a Nobel Prize. Then she was the only person in history to receive two Nobel Prizes in two sciences (Physics and Chemistry)?  She discovered radiation and two elements (Polonian and Radium).  She named the first element, Polonian, after her birthplace, Poland.  And folks call people from Poland stupid?

I'm the only person I know with a t-shirt emblazoned with the Periodic Table.  (I love that shirt.)
Enough suspence, I announce to you, the people of America and a couple of kooks in London, the CURE for Pneumonia:

Read with the voice-of-God-amplification:   HUNGARIAN BEEF SOUP.
I don't know if it's the soup or the way it sends comforting aromas whispering throughout the house.  But I feel better. 

When I cook soup I see my grandmother in the kitchen.  Her hair is done and she is wearing a broach with a strand of pearls. (I'm lucky if my wife beater has less then 3 stains on it.)

I have NO idea what was in her soup.  I try endlessly to re-create it.

It probably had some weird immigrant ingredient, like Pig lips.

I was 16 before my mother confessed her Irish Steak and Mushroom pie did not actually contain mushrooms.  The weird looking things were kidneys. Yes, I felt betrayed. I worked it out later ...with dolls.

You're a mushroom you bastard, "says Barbie, "No I'm NOT." replies the kidney". "Yes you are, I'm gonna beat you until you're dead,"I say.  "I'm already dead you dumbass, I'm a kidney".  "I don't care, I'm gonna beat you until you become a mushroom,"  I say.

"Good luck with that," the kidney responds. 

 I hate kidneys. They're so arrogant.