When the weather’s frigid and the car heater blows cold air, I try to avoid stopping beside trucks and SUVs. The reason? One of my hands may be shoved down my pants front. There’s no party going on there; while doing survivalist research for an article, I learned that putting ones hands under the arms or between the legs can quickly return blue fingers to their original pink color. That stated, if I’m desperate and it looks like I can’t avoid idling beside a tall vehicle, my mantra is: My hands are frozen. Who cares what guys hauling bananas think?
I usually watch the State of the Union address to support our President, but not this year. My inability to stop staring at John Boehner’s face during the SOTU renders me incapable of hearing and understanding Obama’s words. I’m not sure if the Speaker takes a tranquilizer before assuming his seat at the top, but he always looks as though he’s just returned from being taxidermied. Sitting beside the ebullient Biden makes him look particularly dour. I’ve seen the Tan Man cry, so I know he’s capable of emotion, but apparently the buck — and the ducts — stop here.
I don’t care how wired the world gets, I pray that the Sunday morning newspaper lands on my doorstep until I can no longer focus my eyes. I’m the first to whine about sacrificing trees to produce pulp, so call me a hypocrite. My weekend ritual requires hot, black coffee and the comforting pages that launch the week. Coupons? Scissors ready. Front page? You bet. And though my horoscope never mentions winning the lottery, gotta check it out. I try to avoid the real estate news. The value of my home and rising mortgage rates would likely ruin my bliss.
My Nikon died and the price of the red point-and-shoot digital camera (no shipping charges!) was irresistible so I hit the send key and in an instant, suffered buyer’s remorse. Don’t get me wrong — I want the camera — but details about my shopping and buying propensities flew into cyberspace in that instant and landed me in the jaws of Groupon. It’s been a week. The camera has yet to ship, but I’ve had an onslaught of offers to buy more stuff at discount prices. Something tells me this wasn’t the best shopping move I’ve ever made. Even with free shipping.
Need a mid-winter jolt? Rent the Israeli film Lebanon. Envision six Israeli soldiers confined to a tank and isolated on the wrong side of the Lebanese border. Brilliant editing and remarkable lighting heighten the tension. This is no film for claustrophobics, the skittish or folks protective of their fingernails. Between the studly guys awash in the body odor I swear I smelled to the irony of getting differing orders from superiors on the fly, if you already consider war to be incomprehensible and downright stupid, you’ll confirm your opinions exponentially by the time the credits roll.
Mike Huckabee believes that libido-crazed women want to behave like rabbits on the government’s dime. Seriously? Everybody knows that the smart phone crowd has no interest in sex — it might tear them away from their favorite accessory: their smart phones. Chatting on those small rectangular devices has become the best birth control method of all these days because if you don’t count that monthly cell phone bill, the smart phone contraception method is free. Which reminds me: Is it true that if a woman puts a smart phone between her legs she can’t get pregnant? Perhaps I’ll ask Mike.
Justin Bieber arrested for racing his yellow Lamborghini? How stealthy. Before Beebs put the car in gear, he fueled up with prescription drugs, booze and pot before turning a residential street into LeMans Speedway. Like Miley Cyrus, who’s busy perfecting her twerk before age renders her incapable of booty shaking without risking hip replacement surgery, Justin is experiencing delayed adolescence, triggered by too much spotlight without benefit of sunscreen. His arrest will clog media news until the next kid celeb acts out. In the interim, Bieber followers may wish to scour clothing racks for prison orange separates. It’s trending, Dog.
I couldn’t bring myself to purge the slum serving as headquarters for my huge stash of baggie ties, but my New Year’s resolution solved that: I trashed them all and made sure I didn’t suffer buyer’s remorse by spiriting them to the dumpster immediately. I felt powerful. Free. Until Tuna stole my current bagel baggie tie. He smugly watched me search unsuccessfully but hopefully for one tie left behind, until I gave up and used a paperclip to secure the bagels. That’s when Tuna pulled his hidden stash from behind the utensil holder. I hate it when he mocks me.
Had I checked the page count on Donna Tartt’s best-seller, The Goldfinch, I might have been too intimidated to reserve the book from the library. Despite having a last name that might best be left off book dust jackets, Tartt’s story — about a young boy and his mom visiting a museum when a terrorist bomb explodes — has so many twists, turns and developments, I marvel at the writer’s mind. Reading a long book can be a struggle for me, but I’m so invested in Tartt’s ability to surprise me, I am sure I’ll make it to page 771.
My dating site mailbox has been filled since the New Year began. I continue to hear from youngsters longing to bed older women and I’ve begun long conversations with “regular” men that lasted for weeks. When you hear from someone nearly every day, it’s kinda jarring when they just disappear, leaving me wondering, “Was it something I wrote?” I understand that frog kissing is part of the arduous process, but I’m still curious about where these men go when they drop off my radar. Guys: Man up. It’s okay to write, “I’m no longer interested.” I won’t consider suicide. Promise.