Baby Boomer humor | every girl needs a greek chorus

July 28, 2015
by maggiex4 Leave a comment

Deceit Detector™

Actual profile photo from dating site.

Dating scammers, be gone! Dr. Phil and I have railed against it for months, but a feature on a recent CBS This Morning about the “heartbreak of online dating,” subtitled “Older Singles Lose Millions in Online Dating Scams,” finally motivated me to action. An “older” woman lost her entire life savings when a man, posing as a contractor from Virginia, hit her up for $300,000, because he, allegedly, was stranded in Africa by an emergency kidney transplant. Oh! And she had never met him face-to-face.

ARE YOU KIDDING ME???!!!! Why would anyone of any age send any money to someone in a foreign country that she’s never met? It’s obvious to me and should be to anyone else, regardless of her age. The Shrew who lives in my head doesn’t think she’s even as old as I am. However, we agree that the poor lady needed my Deceit Detector™.

“As you age, your ability to decipher deceit declines, so you have to be even more vigilant,” said the “expert” providing commentary. My Deceit Detector™ works like a charm, so I should market it, don’t you think?

The expert also gave tips to recognize potential scammers, such as frequent spelling errors, fake photos, people working overseas, and requests for money. I also smugly report that she said that men are more susceptible to online dating scams, while women report them more often. Ha! Same reason that men don’t ask for directions, I’ll wager.

Haven’t I been telling you about dating scammers for months? I’m not talking about the exaggerations and the liars. I’m talking about stolen photos attached to the profiles of real people. I report several each week. I’m just one woman on a crusade, but some of these other women need to pick up the slack.

Yesterday, a guy “favorited” me. His profile said he was from southern Maryland (a good 50 miles from me) and likes to kayak in Indiana (500 miles from me) on the weekends. The Deceit Detector™ wailed like a banshee. Susceptible Susie would have thought,

“Wow! He lives near the Patuxent Naval Air Station, so he could be a Navy pilot who flies his own private plane. I would love to date a guy with a plane, especially a Naval officer. It’s my lucky day! He’s only 60. He’s cute and young-looking and — uh-oh…”

The Deceit Detector™ did a Google image search of his one-and-only photo, which matched a photo on a dating site in San Francisco. Not only is he not an eligible Naval Officer in southern Maryland, he’s a gay man looking for men in California. See how easy that was, folks? It took less than a minute.

Another guy, from Niagara Falls, Ontario, Canada, wrote to me two months ago and continues to visit my profile regularly. He doesn’t write anything else to me, so it really creeps me out wondering what he’s doing, but I won’t let my vivid imagination go there. This guy registers as a Perv on the Deceit Detector™.

I wrote to another repeated voyeur and said, “Are you just going to keep looking, or are you going to say something?” He’s still looking. I think I need to block him, don’t you?

I replaced the tasteful photo of me on the beach with one where I’m holding a slice of pepperoni pizza, thinking that I needed a more approachable look. I mean, who doesn’t like pepperoni pizza, besides vegans? It must have worked, because, overnight, I had 40 views!

Yikes! The Deceit Detector™ is screaming. As I write this, a guy with no photo and just letters and numbers for a profile name “winked” at me. Clearly, he didn’t read my profile, because it says that I only answer emails. “Hey, MBE67 from city-I’ve-never-heard-of, MI —-“ [Screaming intensifies.] He’s from Michigan!

Susceptible Susie would rationalize that he’s attracted to the Michigan State Spartans shirt I’m wearing in one of my photos, although, since it’s dinner time, maybe he’s winking at the pizza in my hand. Oh! He, too, is a pilot. He says he likes to “fly up to Lake Tahoe”. If Susie is geographically challenged, she doesn’t realize that Lake Tahoe is in California. His profile continues, “I really enjoy biking with my friends along the Monterey peninsula, as I used to live down there and have a lot of friends in the biking community. Most lunch times you will either catch me at Crossfit or on my bike. Also look forward to playing golf with my friends and completing another Ironman.”

He competes in Ironman? Susceptible Susie is really impressed and overlooks that the guy bikes on the Monterey peninsula, which is also in California. Excuse me while I reset the Deceit Detector™ and take a minute to report him for fraud.

I’m back. Today is a big day for “winkers.” Yep, it’s got to be the new pizza photo. After all, the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, isn’t it? I heard you could boil cinnamon sticks and vanilla beans in a small pan of water on the stove to entice men, but I think pizza may be better. And all you need is a photo of a slice or an empty pizza box.

A new winker said he’s from New England, so, while I don’t usually respond to winkers, the Deceit Detector™ was humming. I wrote, “Since you’re from New England, if you don’t mind, may I ask, who’s your favorite NFL quarterback?” If he’s legit, he might try to curry favor and say “Joe Flacco” of the Baltimore Ravens, but if he says pretty-boy-turned-ball-deflater Tom Brady of the NE Patriots, he definitely won’t pass the Deceit Detector™.

Then, there was the guy who wanted to chat who said he was from Lancaster, Pennsylvania, just up the road. I was very carefully answering his questions, while I checked his profile and discovered that he was in “construction,” yet all his photos showed him in business attire (ie, dress shirts, ties,and jackets). Ok, so maybe, he owns a construction company but only makes $25,000 a year. After the Deceit Detector™ turned up a nice guy who lives in Florida on Google image search, and after I was able to find the guy’s photo on Facebook with a different name and completely different family, I took over the questioning.

“Have you lived in Lancaster all your life?” I asked, “Which is your favorite Amish restaurant?”

“Just the last 15 years since I moved to the states.”

“Oh. Where were you born?”

“Riga, Latvia, but my mother was born in Alabama.” The Shrew started laughing crazily.

“The Amish is a great restaurant,” he said. By then, the Shrew and I were both cackling.

“Really? The Amish are a religious group, not a restaurant,” I retorted. “Take it elsewhere, scammer.”

And, yes, we reported him to match.com, for all the good it does.

Finally, a 53-year old man in Los Angeles (allegedly) wished to chat. “Jeez,” I asked, “could all these guys from California be the same guy? I must ferret out this mystery in the same way that sexy Australian private detective Phryne Fisher does, using my wits and my devastatingly seductive haircut, if not Phryne’s pearl-handled pistol.”

His first mistake: he opened our conversation with “Hello, dear. How are you today?” No American male calls a woman “dear.”

Mistake #2: Here’s his well-written and inadvertently ironic profile, probably copied and pasted from a real profile:

Mistake #3: In the IM chats, his writing is considerably less polished, to put it kindly. I’ve observed that journalistic standards have plummeted in recent years, but, when I asked him, “As a journalist, for whom do you write?” he responded with:

I replied, “I’m looking for someone honest. Are you honest?” Of course, he ignored my question and started telling me about his “ideal soulmate”:

“…man in the military on here…” stopped me dead cold. Are you a journalist or a “man in the military?” I’ve heard that posing as one of our troops is one of the big scams to gain sympathy, followed by money. This was more disgusting than the guy from Niagara Falls who looks but doesn’t write. It’s way more disgusting than cheating naïve widows by claiming to be sick or incarcerated in Africa and all the others put together. The Shrew was even speechless, so we blocked him. I’m not sure it’s even worth reporting, because I’m convinced that match.com does not care. CBS This Morning’s report said much the same.

Oddly, the news show’s next feature unwittingly provided a possible alternative to online dating. “Robots are replacing humans at a surprising rate,” followed up Charlie Rose, introducing the segment. Of course, this got me thinking…just get rid of the human interaction altogether. Give me a cute robot with a gentle, erudite wit and soft voice, maybe with a southern accent. Hey! Instead of The Jetsons’ Rosie the Robot Maid, give me a robot clone of Charlie Rose the Talk Show Host. He could interview me and write down what I say for this blog. If he gets too annoying, I can always disconnect him, so, who would I be to complain? Life is good (mostly). Soli Deo Gloria!

July 21, 2015
by maggiex4 10 Comments

The Condensed Version of Me

Me – c. 1956

[This is my first-ever blog post, published July 22, 2014. I like to think of it as a measuring stick of the past year. My surgery sites were still raw; my abs were a flabby mess; I hadn’t started exploring online dating; and I had no idea why I was telling my story. People tell me that I’m brave for being honest and that they share many of my frustrations with modern life, which has lost so much graciousness, despite technology and political correctness. If nothing else, I make most of you laugh, so, who am I to complain? Thanks for joining me on my spiritual journey!]

Last night, I did something with my daughter that I never would have done with my mother. We stood in front of my bathroom mirror comparing our naked breasts. Stay with me.

Did you ever do that with your mother? Neither did I. I’m 62, raised in the 1950’s & ’60’s by a mom of the 1930’s and ’40’s. Her most damning phrase was “That’s tacky.” Until I was nearly 40, I worried about being dirty, wrinkled, mismatched, frizzy, and tacky. My two earliest childhood memories are learning to tie the laces of my white high-topped, leather shoes into tidy bows and being fitted for white cotton gloves. I couldn’t have been older than four, but I was mesmerized by the little drawers of gloves in the girls’ department at the J.L. Hudson, Company in downtown Detroit. Plain or bows? Are you kidding me? I wanted the ones with the shiny pearl buttons!

Maybe your parents were “progressive.” Mine came from that pragmatic, Depression-Era generation of hardworking blue collar-to-middle-class families with what are currently called “traditional values.” My father, a first-generation Italian-American and proud Marine Corps veteran, leaned toward the conservative. My mother’s family was from the fearless stock of English-Scots-Irish who settled Kentucky in the 18^th century. No whining allowed. Have a problem? Figure out how to solve it or climb over it and move on. My sister and I were expected to go to college and graduate. I learned to sew, cook, manage money, mow the lawn, change a tire, check the oil, mix concrete, and lay bricks. Before feminism took hold in the 1960’s, we were learning to survive.

Mom was a minor progressive on matters of feminine independence. When I begged for one of the newly-marketed “training” bras that my girlfriends proudly wore, my mother scoffed, “What are they training? You don’t want to wear a bra. They’re uncomfortable, and besides, you don’t have anything to put in one.” [Be careful what you wish for.]

In the 5^th grade, the girls in my class, accompanied by their mothers or a female guardian, were treated to the Disney-produced and Kotex-sponsored The Story of Menstruation. (Sex education in the mid-20th century.) On the walk home after the screening, armed with pamphlets, Mom’s only comment was, “When your ‘time’ comes, they’re in the linen closet.” Well, yes, I saw a small box of Kotex pads, but what were those mysterious paper-wrapped sticks in the Tampax box that was replaced much more frequently than the Kotex box?

Two years later, my ‘time’ arrived. Mom showed me how to loop the gauzy ends of the bulky Kotex pad through the metal teeth in the “Sanitary Belt” yet encouraged me to use tampons. At the age of 12, I was squeamish, more by the idea of having such a conversation with my mother than the actual process. Well, I lie. Probably more by the process.

She rolled her eyes and said, “You don’t know what you’re missing.” Huh? I’m going to put that hulking dry, cardboard thing where? [Listen to your mother.]

By the time I was 17 and desperate to wear a bathing suit for my waterskiing boyfriend, she had the last laugh. “I can’t help you with this. You have to go into the bathroom and do it yourself. Here’s the hand mirror.”

She was right, of course. They were waaay better than the monthly bulkiness, the shifting, and the inevitable leakage. She-who-claims-to-know-everything suddenly turned into a font of wisdom.

Seven years later, at age 24, I was recovering from a complete hysterectomy. (No, it wasn’t due to the tampons.) I had a raging case of endometriosis. Cysts as large as volleyballs and baseballs, according to my doctors, pulsated in my ovaries, and others were exploding like tiny time-bombs, gumming up my insides. In her droll and always honest way, my mother asked, “What are you going to do with all the money you save on tampons?”

Now, my own daughter is 22 and has little knowledge of and no use for white cotton gloves, but, I am proud to say, she recognizes “tacky” when she sees it. I’m not going to embarrass her by discussing her introduction to tampons, but let’s just say that it involved a mirror, a wet suit, and sharks. Well, no, there were no actual sharks in the bathroom with us, just a discussion about their olfactory sensitivity. There was also no dry, hulking cardboard in sight, just marvelous, smooth, modern plastic.

The Daughter and I, pre-op, May, 2012.

Two-and-a-half months ago, I had reduction mammoplasty (google it—I’m still my mother’s somewhat-squeamish daughter). You see, my five foot-tall frame appeared to be on the verge of toppling over at any moment, as I could no longer straighten my shoulders. I stuffed myself into minimizer bras and swathed myself in baggy sweaters. What seems like a glamorous blessing really is a pain in the neck—and the spine and the shoulders and the self-esteem. Turns out, I was carrying over two pounds of extra weight on my chest, like strapping a Yellow Pages directory between my armpits.

My daughter, the critical care nurse, was a great caregiver. You know. What we hope our children will be for us in our old age? During the three-and-a-half hour outpatient (!) surgery, she returned to her nearby apartment to play with her cats and to catch something on Xfinity On Demand (which, to me, means it can be watched at any time other than when your dearly beloved is in surgery).

In fairness, I easily survived the surgery; she drove me home, stayed overnight, changed my massive ice packs, expertly stripped, emptied, and measured my bloody drain tubes every four hours, and force fed me oxycodone. OK, OK. She didn’t shove it down my throat, but she gave me the Nurse Ratched routine and insisted I swallow it. [Note to self: Revisit that mirror/wet suit incident and a caregiver who is my sole heir.]

Last night, there we were, looking at our naked breasts, noticing how different they are. My rehabbed pair appear to have been transplanted from a stranger and are oddly and happily perky for a 62-year old woman. They are also subtly scarred, bruised, and lumpy and will be for at least another year. Just like my hysterectomy scar, traces of this recent surgery will always remain. But, I figure, the boy for whom I was willing to experiment with tampons has been gone for three years, and I don’t expect anyone other than a medical professional will ever get close enough to notice.

Oh, come on! Put your tiny violins away! Insurance paid for most of the surgery. I feel fabulous and can see my feet for the first time in years. My girlfriends say I look 20 years younger. My new, youthful bustline (as Jane Russell would say in the old Playtex commercials) has inspired me to work on my abs, now that I can see how flabby they are.

My mother, at 86, still knows everything and feels free to dole out advice. These days, she rarely tells me

Playing with a selfie stick, July, 2015.

that I look tacky, but I still wouldn’t dream of sharing my breasts with her in a mirror. My daughter isn’t embarrassed to discuss anything with me, although I have learned to text “TMI” to her when she makes me squeamish. I am easily old enough to be her grandmother, so the generational chasm between us is often profound. And, yes, both she and my mother approved this post, so, who am I to complain? Life is good (mostly). Soli Deo gloria!

June 22, 2015
by maggiex4 Leave a comment

Attraction Satisfaction Survey

Everybody has an “Exit Survey” now. You get your car’s oil changed, and they email you a “How Did We Do?” survey. You spend two hours and 12 minutes on the phone with your cable company only to be told that they can’t restore your service, and they send you a “Customer Satisfaction” survey. [I made that up from the anecdotal reports of my family and friends. I can’t get no internet satisfaction in my neighborhood.] Even two centuries ago, the entertainment industry was asking. “Other than that, Mrs. Lincoln, how did you like the show?”

I’m thinking of creating an “Exit Survey” for my online dates. You know, how could I have been a better date, so I provide better service to others in the future?

For instance, am I a boring dresser? I’ve been told that I still have my “dancer’s legs,” so I try to wear a dress or skirt on a date, except once in the winter when it was really cold, and I wore leggings with a fitted, knit tunic, and booties. Another time, I wore a small fuzzy pink turtleneck with a faux black leather skirt, black tights, and the same black booties, which I thought was really hot, but, then, the date was so boring that I was dejected that I had wasted a hot outfit on a not-so-cool guy. Ditto a short skirt with gray suede high-heeled boots, which got a rave from the hostess at the restaurant but nary a word from my date.

Of course, I thought those outfits were hot, but, I’m a woman, so I only know what other women think is hot. The joy of having a long-term spouse is that they A). don’t notice and B). think everything you do is hot. The Veterinarian didn’t care much one way or the other. He once said that I dressed better than his mother, the implications of which are pretty unsettling, even 40 years later.

How much is too much make-up? I don’t wear a lot on a typical day, usually just lipstick to keep my lips from sticking to my teeth. My eyes are deep-set, and I’ve always had a problem with mascara. My eyelashes smack around my eye sockets every time I blink, so the mascara ends up making those raccoon circles around my eyes. I trained The Veterinarian and The Daughter to alert me when I needed to tidy them up, but, alas, now I am on my own, so I quit wearing mascara. As the years roll by, I’ve noticed that my eyes are disappearing, so, when I don’t want to look like one of the pale portraits of Elizabeth I, I haul out the eyeliner and mascara and blame the smudges on the “smokey-eye” look. Hmmm…it could also make me look like I just rolled out of bed, couldn’t it?

Fashion victim

I always make sure I wear 3-4” heels, because the only thing I lie about in my dating profile is my height. 5’ ½” just sounds unbelievably short, even to me, like a perky rodent or something. My profile says I’m 5’ 2”, which I’ve always used when I go on auditions, for the same height reason. Last week, I went on a lunch date in 4” wedges, all the while envisioning myself face-planted on the floor of the restaurant, like I had been almost three years to the day earlier on my 60th birthday. The EMTs told me that I was the third fashion victim to take a ride in their ambulance that day. I fell off my 4” platform wedges and fractured my patella (knee-cap) in two places and spent the summer in a brace. Happy Birthday, Old Lady!

Do you drink alcohol on a date or not? I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t get sloppy drunk on one glass of wine, but I’m picky about the wine that I drink and don’t want to stick the date with a $12 glass of pinot noir. I’d rather drink iced tea, since I don’t drink beer. And hard liquor? I think that sends the wrong message at lunch time, don’t you? PLUS, I spent years warning The Daughter about the risks of leaving a glass unattended on a bar, a magnet for all kinds of “date drugs.” I don’t want to explain to her how I fell victim to that old ploy. Do senior citizens drug their Old Lady dates? For what? To watch them fall off their shoes?

Is my vocabulary too obscure? I was IM-ing a prospective date the other day and used the word “ephemeral.” He texted back, “I have a graduate degree and don’t know what that word means. Here’s my number. Call me tomorrow, if you want to talk. I have to go let my dog out.” Yikes! Don’t need an exit survey for that one.

I laugh at my date’s jokes, even when they’re not funny. I try to keep my own info light and funny. I don’t talk about my late husband unless I’m specifically asked, and even then, I don’t cry or appear maudlin, because, well, I’m not maudlin. I don’t comment on politics or religion or sex, which no date has ever mentioned to me. Must be the racoon eyes. Well, at least they know what I look like in the morning.

Speaking of s-e-x, how much physical contact do you have on a first date with a stranger? Every one of the men has given me a hug, which seemed innocent enough, especially when I was wearing a coat. No one groped me or anything like that. And, how do you end the date? That never gets easier. What do you say? A handshake? Another hug? A kiss? If I say, “Let’s keep in touch” because I mean it, it sounds so vacuous. Everyone says, “Let’s keep in touch,” even when we know that we don’t ever want to see one another again. I always send a “thank you” email, which seems polite. If they respond to that, it might be a favorable sign…or not. Maybe it’s just best not to be polite and cut things off quick and, relatively, painless.

And I haven’t figured out, yet, if there is an appropriate point on a first date to say, “What, exactly, am I doing wrong that you keep looking at your cellphone every five minutes?” Maybe they’re coordinating their next dates. It’s a known fact that women over the age of 50 outnumber men that age 2 to 1, which is why we can’t find anyone to date us. We’re overdating them, wearing them out, and killing them!

Well, every woman for herself! I need to fine-tune my game-plan to remain competitive, and the “Attraction Satisfaction Survey” may just give me the ammunition I need. If not, maybe I can come up with a “Frequent Dater” loyalty program. Naw, I can’t think of any benefits I’d be willing to award.

Thank you for taking the time to help me perfect my dating technique, as I aim to be the best darn drinking/dining/hiking/traveling companion for ~~all~~ your reasonable dating needs! Your honest critique will provide a valuable service to women everywhere!

On a scale of 1 to 5, your overall satisfaction with our date was _______.

You found that my written online profile was…

the funniest profile you ever read.
the snarkiest profile you ever read.
completely misleading.
enigmatic.
None of the above.

When we met, your first impression was, “She looks…

…nothing like her photo.”
…like she sleeps in her car.”
…like she just rolled out of bed.”
…shorter than a 5th grader.”
…like my ex-wife’s poodle.”

While we chatted, you kept wishing that I had…

shown more cleavage.
laughed harder at your jokes.
been dumber than a 5th grader.
stood you up.
All of the above

Geographically, I…

am too far away.
am too close for comfort.
am undesirable.
am an alien.
couldn’t be found on a map by a 5th grader.

I (at age 63) most closely resemble which of these gorgeous, mature ladies…

Goldie Hawn (69)
Susan Sarandon (68)
Jessica Lange (64)
Christie Brinkley (61)
None of the above

On a first date, I should wear…

more make-up.
less make-up.
higher heels.
a 5^th grade Girl Scout uniform.
a bag over my head.

When ordering while on a date, I should…

skip the appetizer and go for the main course.
offer to share a single entrée.
choose the cheapest thing on the menu.
drink more alcohol.
not ask the server to “card” me.

If I have my own money, I should…

pay my share.
fight for the check.
let my date pay.
skip out while you’re “sharpening your skates.”
put a twenty in your pants.

From a male perspective, I most likely…

can’t attract a man smarter than a 5th grader.
am the scariest woman you’ve ever met.
will be sued eventually for defamation.
will never hear from you again.
All of the above

Finally, would you recommend me to a friend or family member? ______

Actually, I don’t need an exit survey to tell me that my customer attraction factor is really low. But my dog adores me, so, who am I to complain? Life is good (mostly). Soli Deo Gloria!

June 9, 2015
by maggiex4 3 Comments

Fashionable Foolishness

Scarlett and her personal assistant

This morning, The Daughter sent me an article about “waist trainers.” Because she is a medical professional, it was an article using quotes from physicians debunking the latest fashion fad. That’s right, you women who just got used to Spanx, corsets have been revived to give us an hour-glass shape, because — listen carefully — “men are attracted to women with hips.”

Pardon me while I put down my mug of sweetened tea and laugh myself silly. I love to start my day with a good laugh! If men are looking for women with big hips, then I’ve been highlighting the wrong body parts in my dating profile photos.

Although I’ve already written about accepting the girth of my hips (“How I learned to love my hips”) and the pudginess of my tummy, I just have to throw in two more cents’ worth of commentary.

This new lunacy is touted by those Krazy Kids in Calabasas, California who have turned their own questionable life-style into a national media frenzy. Middle-aged women (including you, KKs), who already have enormous hips and thighs, are popularizing corsets to “train their waists and lose their pregnancy fat.” As the physicians and nutritionists in the article rightly point out, and as any other middle-aged woman can tell you, you can stuff your gut into tight jeans and lay on the floor to get them zipped, but, when you stand up, there’s going to be a new roll of unpleasantness mocking you with the name “Muffin top” between your breasts and your waist. It’s gotta go somewhere, above or below, but it ain’t going away, regardless of your age, your bank account, or your celebrity.

Why not just have some of your ribs removed? That would be easier and, in the long run, way more comfortable. Who needs those ribs, anyway? They just protect vital internal organs that no one sees, a minor detail. When you squish your guts around, you impede your digestion, and I don’t know about you, but I find acid reflux to be an unpleasant side effect. The article also says that constricting your lungs makes breathing more difficult (duh), leading to pulmonary ailments. This illustration from the Irish Examiner shows you better than I can tell you.

It’s all gotta go somewhere.

We get mixed messages from the media, don’t we? On the one hand, they parade diet trends and unrealistic fashion standards before us, and, on the other, we are told not to criticize ourselves or others because we don’t fit these standards. “Be the authentic you!” They shout. If I hear the words “authentic you” one more time, I’m going to show someone the “authentic me” and unleash World War III.

No, for the love of God, don’t be the authentic you. Who I want to be or who I think I am is not necessarily who I should be. I’m a shorter-than-average 63-year old woman who has a soft middle, regardless of the number of crunches that I do. No waist trainer, no surgery of any kind is going to change that. Should someone provide me with free Louboutin shoes because I think I would be happier if I were taller and more chic? Should someone give me a television show because I think I’m the most fascinating woman in the world? (Well, probably, since most everyone else has one.)

Fortunately, I surround myself with people who remind me to have some self-respect and dignity. That I am not the center of any universe, including my own. To be prayerful and introspective, to change the things that I should change and to accept the things that I cannot. It’s called discernment, which I desperately need to practice, because my ideas can be pretty wacky, and that Shrew who lives in my head cannot be trusted.

Remember Scarlett O’Hara in Gone with the Wind, that politically incorrect classic about mid-19^th century US history? After Scarlett gave birth to her first child, she braced herself with her bedpost while her personal assistant (in this day and age, a more “pc” title than the character’s actual name) tightened her corset. She was trying to regain her 18-1/2” waist, but the best that her “assistant” could manage to pull in was 20”. A 20” waist…can you imagine? Nope, I don’t think my waist has ever been that small. I think it might have been 24″ when I was a 90-pound teenager, but that was so long ago, and my memory is so bad that I am most likely mistaken. Which brings me to my point, as Scarlett’s personal assistant tells her, she has lost her girlish waist by having a child, by being a woman. We are no longer girls, no matter how much we may look back fondly at a fleeting moment in our lives. And I, for one, frankly don’t give a damn.

DATE UPDATE:

Yesterday, I read that Jerry Seinfeld and other comedians will no longer perform at college campuses because the academic environment is too “politically correct,” which seems to be a complete reversal of what was going on when I went to college. In my day, we questioned everything. Humor was used to examine life’s fallacies without condemnation. Now, they condemn us if we don’t all think the same way. And what “way” would that be? Who is the new standard of perfection? The vegan tri-athlete who says “anything goes, unless I don’t like it?” The wildlife hunter who says “anything goes, unless I don’t like it?”

I think this is the problem with the online dating format. Most people are trying to be inoffensive and end up saying nothing about themselves. There is no nuance. We present facts about ourselves by answering a series of questions, and, ironically, facts don’t tell us anything. He’s short. He has a motorcycle. He likes to work out. He likes to eat at home. He’s never going to tell you that he’s human and sometimes cranky or over eats or has bad knees or is sometimes too “tired” for sex. I get that. I, too, am unbelievably human and flawed, which is reflected in my written profile and undoubtedly why I haven’t had any luck. I’m not selling an idealized vision of who I am.

Last week, I came across a perfect combination of honesty and self-aggrandizement, a man exactly my age, right down to the same birth month. He claims to be an Ivy-league graduate, a professional by day and a musician by night. His profile photo shows a good-looking middle-aged man with mirrored shades and a hipster haircut, and other photos show him with his colleagues in business attire, playing with his band in t-shirt and jeans, and several more where he is surrounded by glamorous young women. I was amused and perplexed and intrigued. Who is this guy? Not, his name, but what kind of human is he?

He says he’s looking for an “adult relationship” with someone who “gets the concept of ‘living in the moment’ [sic]” and discourages women who are separated or are aged 25-30 and looking for someone “35-85 within 2500 miles.” I looked at the age preferences of this 63-year old man…”42-50 within 25 miles.” I burst out laughing and wrote to him, “Is this profile for real, or is it a parody?” I wasn’t looking for an answer, but I just can’t believe he’s for real, no matter how literate and hilarious his profile may be. He’s probably looking for a woman who uses a waist trainer.

Now that I reconsider the matter of personal authenticity, I hope my next date does bring his “authentic self” along when we first meet. I don’t want any surprises, and I reserve the right to determine if his “authentic self” doesn’t match my values and standards, which, after all, make up my authentic self and are every bit as valid as his.

We all want to be loved just the way we are. Your waist may be smaller than mine. Your hips may be bigger. Your fashion sense or taste in men may differ. I may disagree with you, but I will love you. And if you don’t love me back, that’s ok, too. I have my own friends, so who am I to complain? Life is good (mostly). Soli Deo Gloria!

June 5, 2015
by maggiex4 Leave a comment

The Myth of Red Velvet Cake

Red Velvet Cake with Buttercream Frosting

There are red velvet cakes, and then there are Red Velvet Cakes. In the past five years, that staple of Southern cooks has been co-opted by trendy websites, blogs, magazines, chain restaurants, and cooking shows. Somewhere along the way, the original recipe has permutated. I, myself, have adapted the recipe that was passed on to me by My Mother, who got it in the 1950s from her sister who lives in Atlanta. Turns out, it may not have originated in the South at all.

As in religion, mythology explains the creation of something. It doesn’t mean it isn’t true, it only posits a basis for everything that came after. A search on Google shows as much speculation about Red Velvet’s origins as it does about its ingredients. Some say it is based on so-called “velvet” cakes of the 19^th century, which incorporated a little cocoa or almond flour to soften a cake’s texture. Some say that the characteristic “red” color began with the redness of the cocoa or that of the brown sugar that was used. Some say it originated at the Waldorf-Astoria. Some say it originated at Eaton’s Department store in Toronto. Some say its current incarnation was promoted by the Adams Extract company in Texas.

As with religion, no one can agree, so I’ll stick with my own lore of what a Red Velvet Cake should be, how it should look, and how it should taste. I simply NEVER buy one in a bakery or restaurant, because they never correspond with the mythological essence stored in my brain. I am a Red Velvet connoisseur. I’ve been eating them for over 50 years. It is my birthday cake of choice, and a birthday cake should always be exactly what I expect it to be when the fork hits my mouth.

The red color has always been controversial. Before anyone was talking about carcinogens in food, one of my fourth grade classmates objected to the Red Velvet cupcakes that my mother sent to my class in honor of my 10^th birthday, in 1962.

“EWWW!!!” Teddy Rollo (name changed to protect the innocent) shrieked, after biting into one. “It’s OX BLOOD!!!” He dropped it on the floor.

“No, it isn’t!” I shouted at him, as kids all over the classroom spit out my favorite cake.

“Then, why is it red?” He stuck his buck-toothed, freckled face in mine.

“It’s food coloring!” I snapped.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” our teacher yelled over the clamor. “It’s cake! There’s no blood involved, Teddy. Settle down, class!”

“It’s just too weird,” one girl said to me apologetically and shrugged.

I was horrified to see half-eaten and uneaten cupcakes dumped in the trash. What was the matter with these kids? My mother had slaved over three dozen cupcakes for nothing. I felt bad for her. I felt bad for myself, and then I saw several untouched cupcakes left in the box for me, me, me!

Ten years later, the Soviets released a study that concluded that Red Dye No. 2, whose common name is amaranth, was a carcinogen. Responding to public outcry, the FDA began its own study, which concluded that, in high dosages fed to female rats, there was a significant increase in the number of malignant tumors in the rats. It was banned in 1976.

Uh-oh. Would this be the end of Red Velvet Cake? Nope. Even though Red Dye No. 4 was eventually also prohibited as a food dye, Red Dye No. 40 continues to be acceptable in the US, despite the fact that it is banned in Europe, which, along with Canada, approves of Red Dye No. 2. Did you follow that? I had to google them all several times to make any sense of it. Long story short, I buy my Red Dye No. 40 in bulk, so you can’t take Red Velvet Cake away from me. I use two full ounces of it in mine, so that I get that authentic oxblood color. I see those wimpy pink imposters that only use one ounce. Tsk-tsk. smh

Perfection!

I prefer a good French buttercream or my faux French buttercream frosting made with hot milk and granulated sugar, because I’m not a cream cheese frosting fan. I find that the tang of the cream cheese clashes with the almond flavoring in the cake, and, if the cake is made traditionally with buttermilk and the vinegar-baking soda mixture, it doesn’t need any more tangy-ness. In my so-called research, I found Red Velvet cupcakes frosted with almond-flavored cream cheese that might be tolerable, but I’d still rather have the frosting that my brain and stomach tell me belongs on Red Velvet cake. Why mess with perfection?

My Sister made me a Red Velvet Cake for my birthday yesterday because she is The Best Sister Ever. The cake was soft and tender; the frosting did not have a single crunch of undissolved granulated sugar (my biggest challenge in making that frosting). And I had a big giant slice of perfection for breakfast this morning, also a family tradition. After all, there are no calories on your birthday or the morning after, so, who am I to complain? Life is good (mostly). Soli Deo Gloria!

RED VELVET CAKE

Ingredients:

2 oz red color

3 Tablespoons cocoa powder (do not used Dutch-processed)

½ cup vegetable shortening, softened (I use ¼ cup unsalted butter and ¼ cup shortening)

1½ cups sugar

2 eggs

2¼ cups all-purpose flour

¼ teaspoon salt

1 cup buttermilk

1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract

2 teaspoons almond extract

1 Tablespoon vinegar

1 teaspoon baking soda

Directions:

Preheat oven to 350°.

Grease three 8” or two 9” cake pans with butter and line the bottoms with buttered parchment paper. Set aside.

In a separate bowl, sift together the flour and salt. Set aside.

In a large mixing bowl, blend food coloring and cocoa to form a paste. Add the shortening and sugar, and cream thoroughly. With mixer running, add eggs one at a time until blended.

Mix in ¼ of the sifted flour mixture, alternating with ¼ cup buttermilk. Stop mixer and scrape bowl and beaters. Continue adding the remaining flour, alternating with the remaining buttermilk, beating thoroughly and scraping the bowl and beaters after each addition of buttermilk. It’s important that the flour doesn’t clump into ugly white blobs in your pretty red batter.

Stir in the vanilla and almond extracts.

In a small bowl, stir together the vinegar and baking soda and then stir the mixture into the batter.

Pour batter equally into the prepared cake pans. To decrease the number of large air bubbles trapped in the batter, run a sharp knife in an “s” shape through the batter in each pan. Lift each pan about 1” off the counter and let drop onto the counter. The larger bubbles will rise to the top and either break or can be broken with a toothpick.

Place pans in preheated oven and bake 30 minutes. Insert a tester (toothpicks work just fine) into the center of each layer. If it does not come out clean, bake another 5 minutes and retest with a clean tester. In my oven, an 8” layer is usually done in 30 minutes. The thicker 9” layers may take an extra 5-10 minutes. But be careful that the edges of the cake don’t become brown.

When tester comes out clean, remove pans from the oven and place on a wire rack. Let cake layers cool in the pans for 10 minutes. You should see the cake’s edges pull away from the pan as it cools. If not, gently run a plastic knife around the edge and wait 5 more minutes.

Place another cooling rack on top of the pans and flip. Remove pans from the layers and the parchment from the cake and cool completely. Frost with your favorite white frosting.

CAUTION: I always lick the bowl and beaters, because I’ve been doing it for over 50 years, but it makes my mouth really red. It also might give me salmonella, if the raw eggs in the batter are bad. I don’t worry too much about it. The red dye probably will kill me first.

January 12, 2015
by maggiex4 2 Comments

How to stuff a not-so-wild bikini

At 100 pounds, in the wildest bathing suit I ever owned, c. 1971 – The “hippie” glasses had lavender lenses.

I made the mistake of trying on bathing suits yesterday. I know. January is not the month for that. I assumed that it would be a more pleasant experience than in recent years, having lost some weight and rearranged a couple of crucial body parts. Unfortunately, I forgot that there was pasty white skin lurking beneath my clothes. I went to a shop that only sells beachwear, so the lighting in the dressing room was forgiving and designed to make skin look pinkish, but it couldn’t disguise either the marks around my waist from my jeans or the elastic from my socks around my calves.

First, I had to struggle with size. What size am I now? My old suits don’t fit. The tops stood away from my body, which horrified me that I ever wore such a thing in the first place, not to mention that it fit! The first tops that I tried on were too small. I wasn’t sure how to take that. Should I be happy that I still have some womanly curves or concerned that I still have that pesky “arm pit fat” that I didn’t know I had until the surgeon pointed it out to me?

And I still have hips. I’ve always had hips, even when I weighed a hundred pounds. With hope in my heart, I tried on a size “small” bottom, but it dug into my fat — er — skin, so I went with the medium bottom, which I’ve always worn. The more things change, the more they remain the same. There was a time when I wore real bikinis. I’m always shocked when I see what I used to wear, but, like most of the fleet, that ship has sailed.

So, what style? High-waisted bottom? Skirted? Low cut top? Screaming red? Horizontal stripes? Metallics? One piece? Tankini? I’ve always worn black and navy, so it would be nice to enliven my color palette (as the magazines say).

I decided on tankinis, those two-piece suits that allow you to cover up your midsection. Since I never go into the water (except a hot tub or briefly into the pool to cool off), I like their convenience. I prefer to sit in a lounge chair, basting and turning like a chicken, while I read the latest chick lit and sip on a cold drink. This can take a few hours, so I usually need to visit the ladies’ room from time to time, and I have no patience with tugging at a one piece. If the cold drink is an adult beverage, I may not be coordinated enough to manage it.

Timidly, I tried on a black number that was jazzed up with a little crocheted lace trim and a little skirt for the bottom. I texted a selfie to The Daughter for her opinion.

“Lingerie?” She jumped in her car and drove to meet me at the mall. God only knows what kind of senility had overcome her mother.

I tried on another suit with a little ruffle around the bodice and the bottom. Again, it was conservatively black, although the narrow ruffle was a print, predominately coral. It had a built-in bra. Much more appropriate for a 62-year old woman. Surely, the Daughter would approve.

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about what your daughter thinks,” the kind saleslady advised, as she took away a ghastly horizontally striped two piece in hot pink and navy. “Age is just a number.” Yeah, sure. You just want to make a sale. I’m the one who’s going to hear about it while we’re on vacation.

For many years, when I was in my 30s, I kept a New Yorker cartoon on my bathroom mirror. It showed an older woman in a lacy, off-the-shoulder, debutante-style dress with a bow in her hair and a cameo necklace. The caption read, “Clara never realized that time had passed.” Of course, 30 years ago, “Clara” was seen through a glass dimly, but I kept it as a reminder. Unfortunately, I lost that cartoon when we remodeled the bathroom, but, somehow, “Clara” has started appearing in my mirror.

“Maybe it’s the skirted bottom,” the helpful saleslady brought a plain bottom to the dressing room. “Try this one. It’s not as busy.” She was right. It looked sleeker and less like a tap costume. Still, there was no bra in the top, and, no matter how perky my recent “rearrangement” left me, I felt a little too exposed. I sprang for the ruffled suit and asked them to hold the one with the lace for the Daughter’s approval. I met her outside the store.

“Listen,” I said, “they’re holding that black suit for me that you thought was lingerie. I’m not sure I should buy it, so, when I show it to you, say you don’t like it.”

“OK,” she agreed. We walked into the store, and the saleslady produced the suit.

“OMG!” The Daughter exclaimed. “I love it. You should buy it.” Traitor! I gave her The Look.

“You see,” she explained to the saleslady, “my mother is doing online dating now but doesn’t really present herself all that well. She needs to be more exciting. Mom, you should definitely buy that suit, and, if you don’t like it, you should give it to me.”

DATE UPDATE:

I have six weeks left on my Match subscription, and I think I’m done. I’ve tried everything. I tried being myself. I tried being non-offensive. I tried being someone else for about 24 hours. Now, I’ve hidden my profile until my membership expires. The Daughter is concerned that I’m wasting money, but it all seems to have been a money waster from the beginning. I’ve emailed over 20 men who appeared to be “matches” and only heard from the one who said tersely, “We are not a match.” I was advised that men like to be the pursuer and are turned off by women who approach them first. I was advised that it’s a new world and that women shouldn’t wait for a man to approach them. A Catch-22 situation all around.

Last week, I heard from multiple scammers, including another woman who claimed to be writing for her boss. I also heard from one of the many inappropriate men on Match. He was 65, never married, and agnostic with shoulder length hair (!), who described himself as an “underachieving wiseass…looking for a drama free woman.” He wrote, “Would you take a chance on a hippie who is now attoning [sic] for his misspent youth?”

Oh, you have got to be kidding me. I’m one of the few people of my generation who has never smoked weed. I wasn’t a hippie when everyone flirted with being a hippie in the 60s and 70s, not even beads and peace symbols or even macramé plant holders. I still can’t stand the smell of patchouli.

In my Peter Pan collar and box-pleated skirt, sitting on the lawn next to my French instructor with cigarette in her hand.

My freshman year in college in 1971, I had a French language instructor who owned one pair of ripped jeans, two ribbed turtlenecks (one navy, one mauve), a pair of lace-up moccasins, and a necklace of beaded flowers. Her fashion sense was to ring her eyes with kohl and plaster her lips with Max Factor Erace (that old grease-stick concealer). We had a mutual dislike for one another. I wore skirts and bell-bottomed slacks with real shoes and was the best student in the class. It drove her nuts.

She also chain-smoked during class, one of those ghastly things that people are no longer allowed to inflict on others. One day, she finished a cigarette, dropped it on the classroom floor, and, while rubbing it out, ground a hole through the bottom of her moccasin and burned her foot. You know what they say about Karma…

In answer to your question, sir, “No. No hippies. No one of any kind who hasn’t gotten over their misspent youth or even their misspent middle-age.”

Maybe I should just misspend my “Golden Years.” Maybe I’ll keep that little lacy black tankini for myself. Since the geezers my age think I’m too old for them, I can always blame it on senility, so who am I to complain? Life is good (mostly). Soli Deo Gloria!

December 30, 2014
by maggiex4 1 Comment

Resolutely not making resolutions

I resolve not to make any resolutions for the year 2015. Why disappoint myself? I’m not going to follow them anyway. I don’t even make it for a week. I’m clever enough to justify breaking my own rules for any occasion, which defeats the entire purpose of making a change in my life. Good grief! My life mutates so much that I have enough trouble coping, without throwing any more changes into the mix.

Resolutions assume that I control my destiny. Past experience tells me — not likely. As Woody Allen allegedly said, “If you want to make God laugh, tell God your plans.” I don’t believe in pre-destination. I’m more of a reactionary than a resolver. As they say in acting class, be a reactor, not an actor.

Resolutions assume that there is something about me that needs to be changed — desperately. I have high blood pressure and high cholesterol, but, after losing 20 pounds last summer, neither my blood pressure nor my bad cholesterol dropped. Thanks so much genetics! It won’t do me any good to exercise more or eat more healthily, so I can cross those two resolution possibilities off my list. I’m not sure I have any other flaws that are in dire need of correction.

Sun-damaged glory

Maybe I should moisturize more and stay out of the sun. The humidity makes my skin softer, and the sunlight recharges my endorphins.

Maybe I should cut back on my alcohol intake. Sadly, thanks to the POTUS, I can now bring back my favorite Cuban rum, legally.

Maybe I should quit smoking. Too easy. I don’t smoke.

Maybe I should cut out chocolate. It’s an essential part of my carefully-controlled diet.

Maybe I should clean my house more. No one sees it but me, so who cares?

Maybe I should cut back on buying shoes. No, they need good homes.

Maybe I should just cut myself some slack. January, the bleakest month, is no time to torture myself.

Nope, I’ll find every shred of hope I can to get me through January. On Sunday, Downton Abbey returns, which probably calls for a real cream tea commemoration (ie, scones and clotted cream). My vestry retreat follows the next weekend, which means we will pray, plan, and snack non-stop for almost 24 hours (and fellowship is really virtuous). The aforementioned trip to the tropics follows, with deep-fried conch fritters and sitting on the beach, reading, and exerting about 0 calories a day. My favorite show, Justified, returns for its final season, and watching all those folks in the “hollers” slugging moonshine and good Kentucky bourbon makes me thirsty.

In between, there’s a cavalcade of celebrities strutting down red carpets at the People’s Choice, Golden Globes, and the SAG Awards, which means I’ll have a big bowl of popcorn by my side, as I record all that blog fodder to feed our dark little souls!

Finally, Super Bowl Sunday is February 1, which, especially if the Ravens make the cut, means every manner of gut-bombing food and drink. If the Ravens are out of it, I’ll be drowning my sorrows.

DATE-UPDATE:

My friend Christine alerted me to a segment on “Good Morning America” about online dating.

“How honest should you be about yourself?” one of the slick hosts asked the viewing audience.

Apparently there’s a new online dating site called “Settle for Love,” which encourages people to present themselves “honestly.” For example, don’t shave years off your age or post photos of yourself from high school, as some people do, apparently. The founder actually posts a photo of his thinning hair, so prospective dates won’t be surprised. I get that. While I post photos showing me without make-up in my sun-damaged glory, there’s certainly been a lot of fudging from those that I’ve encountered.

“Getting real,” he says, “is the only way to find love…Admit flaws…Why don’t you show them right now? Represent who you are.”

Conversely, they also featured “relationship expert” Donna Barnes, whose website describes her as “a New York University Certified Life & Relationship Coach, [who] specializes as a Heartbreak Coach.” (Wow! You can get paid for that?) In terms of full disclosure, Donna also runs her own online dating site, which uses something called “Online Dating Protector” and ensures “genuine members.” Apparently, they are genuine only as far as they need to be to follow Donna’s advice for finding love.

“Less is more,” she said. “Too much information is a turn-off…An open book is not sexy.”

Boy, am I dumb. My Mother taught me that honesty is always the best policy. So, it’s ok to say that I’m 5’ 2” tall, which is only true if I’m tottering in heels, but it’s not ok to say that I know how to hang dry wall and really understand football, which is totally true?

In this week’s adaptation of my dating profile, I say that “I won’t sleep with someone on a first date (and probably not on a second or third, either),” which I readily can see is “not sexy.” I also say, “Like my dog, I’m loyal and faithful but a much better kisser.” Ahhhh…I see what my problem is. I’m not trying to be sexy. Now I’m really screwed, because I have no idea what that means. I’m just scary little old me, stumbling through life. Where are you, Justin Timberlake? I don’t just need to bring sexy back, I need to find out what it is, if it isn’t being my true self.

Would you salsa with this woman?

Faith is probably not sexy, so I’ll drop the line about it being important to me, although I did say “I don’t proselytize on street corners.” Oops! “Proselytize” may be a high-fallutin’ word, so I’ll drop that, too. Let’s see, be faithless, be younger, be taller, be helpless, be stupid, be crass, be promiscuous, be a liar. I get it now. Be like the people I see on reality television because no one wants reality any more. Got it.

However, I simply will not use the ubiquitous phrase “I love holding hands on long walks on the beach at sunset and snuggling with that special someone in front of a roaring fire after a night of salsa dancing” that shows up on nearly every profile, male and female (yes, I’ve checked out the competition, such as it is).

I’ll delete, “Yes, I’m really 62 and holding up nicely. Yes, my photos were all taken in the past six months. Yes, I’m shorter than a supermodel.” Be gone, “I’m sophisticated, which means that I know which fork to use and think camping means staying at a two-star hotel.” I can keep, “I’m a modern woman who swears when she drives,” because, truthfully, my bad language isn’t confined to the interior of my car. And swearing is sexy, isn’t it? It isn’t?

There you go! My 2015 New Year’s Resolution is to stop swearing — or maybe just swear less (justifying already, you see?) — so that I’ll be sexier, find my “last love,” and live happily ever after. Perhaps I will try out the beach-fire-salsa line. It must work for some people, right? I might even learn to like snuggling with strangers on a first date. Ha-ha-ha! I love writing fiction. So, who am I to complain? Life is good (mostly). Soli Deo Gloria!

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