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.
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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.

SEX

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.

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.

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.
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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.

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...
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It’s so hauntingly beautiful that I’m considering becoming a Hindu myself.
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The Kings x-wife became a Hindu before she dumped him. How’s that for irony?
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The King, making women into Hindus…one woman at a time.

Senseless

There is a scene from my favorite movie, Sense and Sensibility.
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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.”
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“Yes. No.” She sobs. “He’s not so unworthy as that. It was never declared but every day implied.”
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Then she almost dies of a broken heart. See, Willaby needed money. He had to marry a rich woman.
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The young protagonist married a hero instead, Colonel Brandon.
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Bring me my Colonel.

I’m as indifferent as she was. The Colonel’s abiding love changed her.
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He didn’t talk about his x-wife. He didn’t do a thing to make her jealous because love, doesn’t do that.
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Love is infinitely kind.
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Thanks Braja.
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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."
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"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.
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"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.

Taxes

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.
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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.
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The neighbors thought I was retarded.
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A canopy of trees bent over Old King’s Highway South. Shafts of sunlight lasered down through the branches.
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It was on this road I decided to run away.
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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.
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 I always returned. Not for them, for her.
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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.
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Thank God she grew up to become an attorney.
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She can bail me out of jail.
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Whew.

He loves me, he loves me not.

Do you remember playing with daisey's?  Plucking off the tiny white petals? 
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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?
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 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?”
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“He had it comin’,” I submissively responded.
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I’ve heard the thinly veiled lies of the submissive woman. I just heard my neighbor talking to her husband.
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She hates him.
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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. 
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Lately I’ve been trying to be sweet muzzle myself. But it feels like I’m wearing somebody else’s clothing.
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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.
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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…
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I’ll do it…
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Don’t look at me like that.
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I have a bulldozer.

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.

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.
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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?

Sisterhood of the Traveling Hormone Patch

Menopausal dating should be adapted to film. 
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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.
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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?

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.