every girl needs a greek chorus

a blog about hope

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A Closet Full of Hope

The Daughter made me buy a deeply discounted party dress the other day when we were cruising the outlets.

“Where am I going to wear this?”  I asked her.

“I don’t know.  You go places,” she responded.  “Maybe New Year’s Eve.  You have to buy it, it’s just so classy.  It’s so You.”

“Oh, I just don’t know…”  I carried it to the dressing room.  I only have one plan for New Year’s Eve, and it involves my couch, the television, and a bottle of Champagne.

“You have a million party dresses that have only been worn once,”  The Shrew who lives in my head piped in, as I stood, looking at my image in a charcoal gray dupioni silk with embroidered silver polka dots, fitted waist, and slightly poufy, knee-length skirt.

“Season-spanning,” I told The Shrew.  “Versatile.  A great buy.  I have a pale gray Pashmina I could wear with it and about five different pairs of shoes, not to mention a wide selection of rhinestone earrings and bracelets, representing a lifetime of never cleaning my closet.”

“You already made up your mind before you even tried it on, didn’t you?”  The Shrew looked back at me from the mirror.  “You’re pathetic.”

“So, we can buy it?”  I smiled brightly as The Shrew rolled our eyes.

I am addicted to the sparkly.  To the glittery.  Like a crow to bits of glass in the sun.  Me.  A woman who spends more of her life in jeans or yoga pants or leggings, writing or going to the grocery store or to rehearsal or church.  There’s hope in the flash, the distraction.  I have an overstuffed closet full of hope:

Oooo, look!  Here’s the sequined dress that I bought for a veterinary gala in 1986, when I was still a brunette.  And here’s the beaded black silk cardigan that I always wore with a floor-length skirt when we went on cruises.  Here’s the gold metallic sweater that I wore once with the striped evening pants.  The silver lace mini-skirt.  I forgot I had the white angora shrug with the silver beading.  It would be perfect with the new dress.  The clear slingbacks with the rhinestone trim.  The silver satin slingbacks.  The black strappy sandals.  The black pumps with the rhinestone heels.

After I hung up the new dress in my Closet of Hope, I realized that my New Year’s Eve plans call for a Spartan green sweatshirt and black yoga pants with the Sparty logo, and the Cotton Bowl at 8 in the evening.

I wish it was the Rose Bowl, because the Rose Bowl is on New Year’s Day and was always the pinnacle of football success in the Dark Ages, when I was a kid.  It has the best parade with the most amazing floats made out of flowers and vegetation, marvels of engineering and art.

Now, we have this farce of playoffs and playing for the national championship.  We can’t just have tradition.  The Cotton Bowl doesn’t even have a parade any more.  According to Wikipedia (if you can trust it), the parade became the Comerica Bank Parade and then died.  Kinda like my dating hopes.

But we’re in a major bowl game!  Anything can happen!


Another of my friends recently began a relationship with a man she met on match.com, so I re-enrolled on Sunday.  I posted all new photos, changed my profile name, and wrote a lovely, non-sarcastic profile.

Am I stupid or what?

The first man to contact me was on when I was on last year.  In all nine of his photos, his grandchildren are crawling all over him.  They are the “joy of his life.”  Great.  Enjoy them.  I’m not a baby-sitter.

The second man is a scammer from last year.

The third is a self-professed widower from Texas.  A Google Image Search shows that his profile photo belongs to a man with a wife in Illinois.  He wrote an interesting email, so I responded, “Aren’t there taller and richer women in Texas?”  He said I shouldn’t discount love whether it is found in Texas or Maryland.  Do you see my problem?

Overnight, there was another self-professed widower, a local guy without a profile photo, whose profile name was one thing, but he signed his email with an entirely different name.  He was witty and flirty and literate.  His profile says he’s looking for an “honest, sincere woman.”  He asked me to meet him for coffee.

I told him, “I make no promises, especially since you have the advantage of being invisible…I’ll consider having coffee with you, if you can reveal yourself a little more. Looks aren’t everything, but it helps if your written description is corroborated in some way.”

His reply?

“I couldn’t use my own email address here…I don’t know how to post photos…meet me for coffee so we don’t waste time on photos.”  And he wants an “honest, sincere woman.”  Ha!

My reply?

“Get back to me when you’ve resolved your issues.”


He won’t be seeing me in the cute gray dress with the silvery polka dots.

MSU 2015

Of course, I’ll be on my couch with smoked salmon mousse and Champagne cheering on the Spartans in my green Spartan fan-gear. After we swiftly staunch the Tide (and I know all my Auburn friends will be cheering with me), I’ll turn off the drunken celebrities slurring their top-40 hits in Times Square.  I hope to be asleep at midnight when the neighbors start the fireworks, cherry bombs, and automatic rifles, at which point the BFF will run from window to window, barking ferociously, setting off the glass breakage alarm.  The alarm company will call and ask repeatedly,

“Are you all right?”  “Are you sure you are all right?”  “Is everything secure?”  “Do you need assistance?”

My answers will be, “Yes.”  “Yes, I am.”  “Yes, it is.”  “Send a cute and honest man with a bottle of Champagne, asap.”

Still, it’s better than being in a crowd of couples who probably met on match.com, kissing at midnight.  The BFF may not be much of a kisser, but she’s honest.

There’s hope for 2016.  College basketball season is upon us, so, who am I to complain?  Life is good (mostly).  Soli Deo Gloria!


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Pessimistic Happy Thoughts

It’s another gray day interfering with the start of spring.  I’ve taken a bit of flack recently for being negative, angry, and a real downer, so I took one of those ridiculous online quizzes, which said I was a pessimist.  I’d blame it on the weather, but I’m just back from 10 days of friends, sunshine and warm breezes, and one of the best massages I’ve ever had in my life, so I have no legitimate excuse to complain.  I wrote a rough draft about my air travel nightmares, but I’m determined to write about happy things.  I’ll complain about air travel next week.

Ok.  So.  Here I go.  Happy thoughts…happy thoughts…

March SnowdropsOh!  I know!  When I came home, my snow drops that disappeared for a month under mounds of dirty snow were visible and blooming.  Usually when the snow melts, they’re brown and dead, however there is still a pile of dirty ice off my deck, but…happy thoughts…happy thoughts…

March Madness, baby!  While I thought my team wasn’t going to do very well, they’ve made it to the Sweet 16 (Go Green!), which was really exciting, but it’s, like, a miracle, and it will be a real nail-biter when they play for the Elite 8, maybe, so, I guess I won’t get my hopes up, and I know I’ll have to flip the channel back and forth when the game gets close, but…happy thoughts…happy thoughts…

Crab cakes!  I’m having a crab cake tonight!  All during the ice and snow debacle that was February, 2015, when I was trapped in my home for two weeks by a lane full of ice, I craved crab cakes.  Of course, I’d rather have one of my crab cakes, but this restaurant makes a decent crab cake, although the crab isn’t from Maryland, and the price is through the roof, but…happy thoughts…happy thoughts…

National Puppy Day!  Yesterday was National Puppy Day, so I went through my photos of the BFF when she was a puppy.  What a doll she was!  And so smart!  She was housebroken quickly, unlike my sweet but dimwitted Pomeranians, and never chewed the furniture, like my sweet but perpetually bored Shelties, or gnawed the heels of my shoes, like my ungrateful Shih Tzu.  No, she didn’t.  But who knew that my sweet little puppy would grow up to swallow inanimate objects like paper towels, socks, gloves, and underwear and has had emergency surgeries for swallowing a needle and eating a corn cob (she did husk it quite neatly, first), which cost a fortune, even though I got a professional discount, so…happy thoughts…happy thoughts…

OMG!  Number One Reason to be Happy:  I FOUND MY MOTHER’S BIRTHDAY PRESENT!!!   Break out the Champagne!  If you read this blog last October, you’ll know that I lost My Mother’s birthday gift the very day that I was to give it to her.  I searched my house from top to bottom and couldn’t find it anywhere and gave her a lame gift card, instead…happy thoughts…happy thoughts…

So, when I arrived home from my vacation last week and was getting into bed at 2am because my flight was delayed…happy thoughts…happy thoughts…and knocked over my bedside table…happy thoughts…happy thoughts…and had to pick up my phone, my lamp, my flashlight, my security alarm and tv remote controls, assorted dirty Kleenexes (so the BFF wouldn’t eat them)…happy thoughts…happy thoughts…THERE IT WAS! On the floor, where I’d looked for months.  Where I’d vacuumed.  Where I’d restacked the books I haven’t read yet.  Where I’d reorganized my slippers and picked up countless pens, paper clips and coins and wads of dog hair and dead stink bugs.

WHY DIDN’T I SEE IT BEFORE?  Am I going blind?  Stupid?  Crazy?  Is this dementia? Five months!  It took five months to find something that was in plain sight.  Next to my head, every single time I slept in my bed.  Now, I’m worried that it might be too dirty (it still was wrapped in tissue in the original Talbot’s bag).  And it’s too late to return it.  And it’s too small for me.  Should I wash it before I give it to her?  Then it will look used.    Should I give it to her now?  Maybe for Easter?  (No, I’m making an Easter project for my family—ha, ha, ha—more blog fodder.)  Mother’s Day?

Now, I’m feeling anxious…happy thoughts…happy thoughts…Is there a troll under my bed playing with my mind?  Probably not…happy thoughts…happy thoughts…

The BFF is sleeping peacefully at my feet.  Did she eat something?  Is she sick?…happy thoughts…happy thoughts…The snow that was forecast for today hasn’t materialized.  Is it waiting to snow when I have to go out tonight?…happy thoughts…happy thoughts…There are buds on my camellia…um…um…I got nothin’ but happy thoughts…happy thoughts…


In my new quest to be “cheerful and upbeat” (“No one wants to be around someone

March Madness, baby!

March Madness, baby!

negative,” an online dating “counsellor” wrote), I also changed my profile photo to an upbeat, smiling photo of me in a dark green shirt with “Michigan State Spartans” on it.  I figured it was good for March Madness, shows I’m up on sports (which I am, BTW).  I also changed my profile name from some letters and numbers to include part of my real first name, so that, when if when (happy thoughts!) men write to me, they have a name to which to address their emails.  You know, put a name with the face?

I also changed my profile, yet again.  Last month’s was a dreamy, kind of sweet thing.  Now, I’m more my real self, i.e., funny and, as one guy put it, irreverent.  It opens with

“I am really tired of scammers (I get 3-5 each day) and am waiting to hear from a serious man who will follow through with a conversation.”

The aging hippie, that I rejected last fall, wrote and questioned if I really get that many scammers each day.  Unfortunately, he “followed through” by emailing me two days in a row, asking how many scammers had contacted me so far that day.  I told him four the first day and six the next (both true).  That seems to have shut him up, thank goodness!

My profile now says

“I was actually stood up on a match.com date. Can you imagine?”

A guy wrote and said he would like to make up for that and described himself as having neglected himself over the years, which his profile photo confirmed, and wants someone to help him get back in shape.  Sorry.  I was already in a relationship with a work-in-progress for 42 years and won’t do it again.

Yesterday, I had another email from the private pilot who emailed me last fall and never followed up on his date offer.  Maybe my name and photo change confused him?  Naw. Turns out he’s a scammer, because he wrote the very same text that he wrote last fall (“I used to keep a plane in Fallston”), but with the profile photo of a woman and his profile name changed to reflect her gender.  His masculine name was signed at the bottom.  Of course, the guy is 72 and may be confused by his own identity.  He probably can’t find things next to his head either.  Two delusional people are not a match.

In the new profile, I also indicated that

“I learned to put on my coat by myself when I started kindergarten and still remember how to do it (at least, as of this writing)…I make the best Key Lime pie…I can snuggle by the fire with my sweet dog, but she’s a slobbery kisser and steals food off my plate.”

I didn’t mention that she also eats socks and underwear.

I end with

“My alternative is to gain 20 pounds, let my hair turn gray, sell my house, move into a retirement community, and drink myself senseless on all that fine wine in my cellar, a lifestyle which, quite frankly, scares me to death. For heaven’s sake, save me!”

I should have known better.  One guy wrote, “I’d like to meet you, but I’m not sure you need saving.”

Oh, well.   That means more Key Lime pie for me, so, who am I to complain?  Life is good (mostly).  Soli Deo Gloria!