every girl needs a greek chorus

a blog about hope

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Resting Place

Resting place

His clan tartan and a wee dram.

Greetings from the Twilight Zone!  Rod Serling is lurking behind a tree waiting to step out and sum my life up for you in a few pithy, ironic remarks.  I wish he’d sum it up for me.  This story is so weird that you may think that I’m making it up, but I have witnesses.

Yesterday, I was cleaning out a storage room in the basement of our veterinary clinic.  I was sorting old records for shredding and reordering and stacking boxes.  A large box of holiday decorations (plastic pumpkins and black cats, a wreath of Easter eggs, and a revolving ceramic Christmas display of dogs and cats) was sitting about 3” from the wall on a shelf.  I tried to shove it up against the wall to make room for more boxes, but it was hitting something.  I slid the box about 6” to the right and saw a plastic zippered bag stuffed in the back corner.  In the dim light, I couldn’t tell what it was, so I pulled it out.  It appeared to be full of gray, unmixed cement.  I pulled it out farther and saw what appeared to be small white stones in it.

“Wuh-oh!”  I held the bag by one corner and made sure that the zipper was secure.  I was pretty sure that I was holding a plastic baggie of the Veterinarian.  Not a bag that belonged to the Veterinarian, mind you, but a bag containing what is left of his earthly incarnation.

Had I found this bag within a year of his death, I instantly would have been hysterical.  Instead, I smiled and started laughing.  No, I wasn’t delusional (I don’t think).  Absolutely nothing surprises me anymore.  I was pretty annoyed with the person who had hidden him there, but, just for a moment, it struck me that I was holding the love of my life in my hands for the first time in almost four years, so I smiled (and then cursed him in my next breath, before smiling again).

I told you — my life is sooooo weird!

I suppose I should tell you how the Veterinarian came to be resting in the basement of his business.  It’s not like he’s a vampire, and I keep his coffin in the clinic crypt (sorry, you know me; I couldn’t resist the alliteration).

In the summer of 2011, as fans of the British television series “Doc Martin,” starring Martin Clunes, we decided to watch an earlier series starring Clunes as an undertaker, “William and Mary.”  As we binge-watched the series on dvd, we talked about death and dying.  We agreed that we wanted to be cremated, his ashes strewn at sea or at his favorite dive sites, mine at my church.

Life may be weird, but you can learn a lot, if you’re paying attention.  When he died suddenly, three months later, I knew exactly what he wanted.  I asked his friends for just one favor, to take his ashes to his favorite dive sites.  They looked at one another and smiled.  That’s exactly what they had already promised each other.  One of them put himself in charge of making water-tight, weighted, non-floating (!) containers for the ashes, and those certified in the deepest dives, decided where they should lay him to rest.  I turned the plastic container of his remains over to them, and, when the Veterinarian’s Little Dog died six months later, I suggested that they commingle their ashes, so they could be together for eternity.

Within a year, his friends told me all about the dives and where they left him and how much that site meant to him.  One of the places was a spot he had planned to explore but had not visited.  Another was a place where he loved to dive.  A third was the place where he died.  A fourth was the place where he dived more often than any other.  I was content.

Until today.

Yeah, I could be angrier with the jerk in charge of the ashes than I already was, but I won’t waste my breath on him.  Once a jerk, always a jerk.  Nothing new there.  My immediate concern is that I have this baggie of the Veterinarian and the Little Dog that needs a final resting place.  I might put them into an empty wooden box that once contained a bottle of Macallan single malt whisky, and then I’ll toast him with the little bit of vintage 1965 whisky that’s left in the bottle.  He must have left it for just that purpose.  I’ll pull out my Book of Common Prayer and pray the graveside service that wasn’t said at his memorial service.  This time, the BFF can attend.

When do I send him off, yet again?  On August 18, which would have been our 43rd wedding anniversary?  On October 13, the fourth anniversary of his death?  On June 3, 2016, which would have been his 64th birthday?  I’ll figure it out.  Right now, I like having him around the house.  We’re both resting in peace.

DATE UPDATE

My online dating days are drawing to an end when my subscription expires on August 25, unless they give me free months.  I’ve run through all the interesting men, who weren’t interested in me, and endured the ones who were interested in me.  I have found it enlightening and sometimes harrowing.  And pretty depressing.

Just last week, I met a lovely, younger married couple who met online and encouraged me not to give up.  Of course, the odds are better for them than for me because there are more men in their 40s and 50s still alive and in “marriageable” condition.  Everyone that I know who met their significant other through online dating was under the age of 60.  What does that say for the eligible over 60 seeking companionship?

After spending time with 15 men in 12 months, I have concluded that men over 60:

  1. Are delusional and looking for the impossible. (Have your mid-life crisis elsewhere.)
  2. Are angry at their exes. (You know, I’d have left you, too.)
  3. Are looking for sex. (What was it about me that said I wanted you to grope me between my neck and my knees on our second date?)
  4. Are looking for a financial lifeboat after decades of living recklessly. (Sorry, I’ve been careful with my life.)
  5. Are looking for a housekeeper, cook, and playmate. (I’m a lousy housekeeper, reluctant cook, and tired of games.)
  6. Are on ego trips.  (You’ve dated how many women?!)
  7. Are clueless about what women want.  (See #s 1-6, above.)

Fifteen  dates and not one serious prospect among them.  Some had possibilities on the first date but blew it on the second date, when their true selves showed up, the bigots, the misogynists, the misanthropes.  I’ve been told that finding a mate is like getting pregnant; sometimes you just have to relax, and it will happen when you least expect it.  As a 63-year old woman who had a hysterectomy at the age of 24 and didn’t adopt until age 47, I don’t have any time left to invest in this theory.

I have learned a lot about myself.  I’ve learned what I’m willing to tolerate for companionship; being lied to, groped, insulted, and stood-up are not among them.  I’ve learned that the company of good friends is preferable to trying to figure out confirmed bachelors (look up the word “compromise,” guys).  As the Daughter said to me not long ago, “I’m really starting to like where I am in my life.”

Me, too.  I’m starting to find some peace and comfort.  It just may be time to kick back and relax, to put all kinds of things and people to rest.  So, who am I to complain?  Life is good (mostly).  Soli Deo Gloria!

 


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Deceit Detector™

Actual profile photo from dating site.

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:

Horror stories

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:

photo (9)

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”:

photo (10)

“…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!


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Dating Go-Round

Stress Relief

Stress Relief

[Note:  Names except Ridewithlarry have been changed to protect the innocent.  smh]

For about a month, I’ve undergone some soul-searching.  I thought that I had been unfair to the men trying to find dates online who had the misfortune of communicating with me.  I say “communicating” because some of it isn’t, technically, verbal.  Although I clearly said in my profile that I wouldn’t respond to anything other than an email, I still received “winks”, “favorites”, and “interesteds.”  In theory, I sort of understand what they mean, but in practice, they mean nothing.  I conducted an experiment.

If someone “winked” at me, I wrote to them.  If someone “favorited” me, I wrote to them.  If they clicked on “interested”, I wrote to them.  NONE of them wrote back.  So, I asked myself, what is the meaning of this?  Or, more specifically, what is the point of this?

Here’s the point:  there is no point to any of it.  I’ve played nice, to no avail, so now, the gloves are off.  Here’s what’s been happening for the past month.

Big Bob claimed to be from Sarasota.  He listed his favorite “Hot Spots” as all being in West Palm Beach (on the opposite side of the state, if you don’t know Florida) but claimed in an email that he was back in Maryland caring for his “aging parents.”  All of his photos were either of him in sunglasses or pictures of his alleged grandchildren.  He stopped writing after a couple days, but, about a month later, he sent a one sentence email, “Shouldn’t we meet for dinner?”  I replied, “How about you send me a photo of yourself without sunglasses, first?”  He still hasn’t answered.  It’s been three weeks.

Ridewithlarry claimed to be from Roland Park, a well-to-do neighborhood in Baltimore City.  His first email was well-written, and he claimed to be a “wine aficianado.”  I wrote back with my test line, “What wine would you have with Thanksgiving dinner?”  It took him a couple of days, but he responded, in broken English this time, with “pinot noir,” an acceptable wine choice, but a poor grammar choice.  I googled his profile photo, and it came up “Beware:  Photo used for scamming since 2009.”  I wrote back, “Nice try, scammer.  Take it somewhere else.”  He did.  He changed his city of residence to Burlington, Ontario, Canada.  When I reported him to the fraud section of match.com, they did absolutely nothing.  Ridewithlarry is still an active account.

A 53-year old guy who called himself “Jerry” wrote me a bunch of wacky emails.  Now, I enjoy wacky humor, but your wackiness has to make a certain amount of sense to be appreciated by someone who isn’t actually living in the same body with you.  He emailed me three silly questions, one of which was “Is your voice any good?”  I checked out his profile, which showed him with disheveled hair, a loosened tie, and shaking hands with Henry Kissinger, the same Dr. Kissinger who was the Secretary of State of the entire nation back in the 1970s.  Curious, I replied,  “Yes, my voice is taking me to Carnegie Hall in January with my chorus, so, I guess it’s passable.  What secrets were you passing to Dr. Kissinger?”

He answered with a lot of weird emails, until I finally said, “If you want to hear from me again, please answer my question about you and Dr. K.”

He replied, “He’s a friend of my mother’s, whose name is Suzanne.  They share the same birthday.”  I told him that his mother having my name was pretty creepy.  I gave him the link to this blog and haven’t heard from him since.  I keep saying that this blog is a date killer.

Mr. Terp, who said he was a widower, wrote to me that he enjoyed reading my profile and that he hoped we could “correspond.”  His profile was entertaining, so I wrote back.  Several days passed without a response, so I wrote to him again, “Sorry, I guess I misunderstood.”  He wrote back that he’d been having “internet problems” at home and wasn’t comfortable using the University of Maryland-College Park’s system.  Eventually, we exchanged phone numbers, and he asked me to call him.  I did.  I felt as if I was pulling his teeth.  If I didn’t ask a question, he didn’t say anything.  He, a man with a master’s degree, couldn’t carry on a conversation.  (Of course, I couldn’t count the number of times The Veterinarian did that to me, too.)

Mr. Terp said he had lived in the Baltimore area and still returned regularly to see friends.  In fact, he said, he would be in town in a few days and would call me.  Thank God that I didn’t drop any plans and sit by the phone, because, of course, he hasn’t called.  He’s a Steelers fan, so I’m not entirely surprised.

Blarney, aged 40 and looking for women 25-40, IM’d me (aged 63) one night with “Hey, gorgeous!”  [Excuse me while I barf a little, again.]  I was on the phone with The Daughter, so I clicked on “I’m busy.”  Blarney, the fool, emailed me, “I did not think my picture was that bad.”  I replied and apologized and explained that I was on the phone with my daughter the nurse who needed to vent about a difficult patient.  I also wished him “happier connections!”  He took the hint.

Seamus, divorced, wrote “I felt it was time to write to you instead of letting you remain in favs and possibly risk the chance of not meeting you.[sic]”  I hadn’t replied to his “favorite” because he obviously hadn’t read my profile which said that I only respond to emails.  So, we had a very brief email conversation, the gist of which was:

Me:  I was married for 39 years.  I know better than to expect fireworks.  Right now, I’ll settle for getting to know someone, to share our stories, to join me at the movies or the theater or lunch or dinner…Suzanne

Him:  Dear Susanne [sic] I have never viewed love relationships or marriage ( and yes I was also married for 28 years) as anything but a dedicated commitment to each other…perhaps a time together in a kitchen with an excellent bottle of wine would be a nice way to loosen up and communicate.

Me:    …a glass of wine with you sounds like a good introduction.  I could meet you somewhere halfway…Suzanne

Him:  I welcome whatever conversation you’d like to broach with me that depicts the person you are and albeit some reservations are needed I never want you to feel as if you can’t talk about or discuss anything in a manner that’s not you. Okay… I look forward to meeting you as well Susanne [sic]

Me (suspecting that he is either a complete moron or a scammer):  My mama told me to never lie, and I learned early in life that exaggerating and fabricating only lead to trouble. I have no secrets and answer any and all questions. 🙂    That being said, I am a discrete friend and know how to keep other people’s secrets. I also believe that truth and love go together, but sometimes telling someone the truth can be hurtful, as in “Yes, those pants make your hips look big.”

I’ve had no reply since, July 3.  God is good!

Crab Lover approached me with gushing emails about my looks and the BFF and how he knows someone with whom I sing.  Then, he invited me to lunch and inexplicably insulted my chorus.  “Oh, I could never sing with them because they’re just an amateur group, and I have a degree in music.”  (A bachelor’s degree, by the way.)

“Well, you’d be wrong about that,” I laughed at his sheer ignorance.  “I think that a group that is repeatedly asked to perform at Carnegie Hall must be pretty good.”  He wasn’t convinced.  I think he was just pissed off that I don’t think Ocean City, Maryland, where he has a second home, is the be-all and end-all of travel.  He has only been out of the country once, with his son’s college chorus on a trip to England. Then, he maligned the French (and you know how I feel about that).  We did spend almost three hours together and laughed a lot.  I could say some really uncomplimentary things about him, but I’m not that kind of person.

This brings me to my most recent dating fiasco.  You may recall from a few weeks back that I listed the kind of men that I won’t respond to.  Among them are guys who take photos of themselves in a mirror.  So lazy.  So lame.

I received an email from one such man.  Although he appeared attractive, in a Ted Baxter sort of way (google “Mary Tyler Moore Show”), I had passed him by because he didn’t seem to know how to take a decent selfie (warning bell #1).  Now, here he was in my in-box.  He lives nearby, enjoyed my “levity,” blah, blah, blah.

We corresponded briefly, and, when he told me he was from Pittsburgh, I ignored warning bell #2, because he also said, “I relate better to fellow transients [sic] as we have actually travelled outside of Baltimore County and Ocean City, MD.”  (If you aren’t from Maryland, see my comment about Crab Lover, above.)  We exchanged phone numbers, and when he called me, we had a lovely chat and discovered some other things that we had in common besides being “Outlanders” in Baltimore.  We agreed to meet at 6:30 pm for a drink at a restaurant that I only eat at if I have a gift certificate or someone else is paying (warning bell #3).

“We’ll see how it goes and maybe order an appetizer or two,” he said.

I thought 6:30 was a good time because I could eat a light dinner and not feel obligated to order a meal.  (I hate these “one and done” meetings where the man pays.)

On the appointed day, I allowed myself plenty of time to get ready, choosing and ironing my outfit ahead of time, putting on make-up, and driving to the restaurant, which is about one mile from my house.  I arrived at the restaurant at exactly 6:35.  I don’t want to sit alone and wait for a man.  It makes me feel like a tramp, especially because I’m usually over-dressed.  I may look ordinary to most people, but when I use make-up, wear heels, and put on an outfit that is “tight enough to show that I’m a woman but loose enough to show I’m a lady,” I expect men to start throwing money at me.

I walked into the lounge area of the restaurant and sat at a table facing the main entrance.  There was only one couple at the bar, so I knew my date wasn’t there.  The waitress took my order for a glass of wine, and I waited.  At 6:48, I heard my phone ringing in my purse.  By the time I fished it out, the caller was leaving a message.  When I played it back, it was my date, highly indignant that I had stood him up.

“I waited from 5:20 until 6:30,” he complained, “I don’t know what happened, but you can ask the cute little brunette waitress who will tell you that I was there.”

I searched my brain for the details of our one and only phone conversation.  I was positive he had said 6:30, because 5:30 would have meant dinner and not just drinks, but, feeling guilty for the miscommunication, however it may have occurred, I called him back immediately and got his voice mail.

“I am so sorry for the miscommunication,” I apologized.  “I thought we agreed on 6:30.  I must have just missed you.  Perhaps we can try some other time…or not.”  By this time, I was thinking “or not” would be just fine.  I ordered a small pepperoni pizza to go, because, who doesn’t need pizza when they’re upset?  Even if they’d just eaten a light supper at 4?

I texted The Daughter.

“He should have called earlier,” she insisted.

“I guess so,” I agreed.

The waitress brought me my pizza, so I asked her.

“Was there a man here from about 5:20 to 6:30 tonight, waiting for someone?”

“Yes, there was.  He said he was waiting for a lady,” she smiled.  I explained what had happened.

“My daughter says he should have called earlier.”

“Of course he should have,” she replied.  “He asked me if I thought it was socially acceptable to stand someone up, but he sat here for well over an hour.  He should have called you.”

“I hate this online dating stuff.”

“Well, I’ll tell you this,” she leaned in.  “You should be happy that you’re going home with pizza.  I wouldn’t worry about it too much.”  I was feeling somewhat relieved.  After all, I had three warnings.

“I tell you what,” the waitress continued, “you should meet all your dates here, and you can call me, and I’ll tell you whether or not they’re worth meeting.”

Sounds like I dodged a bullet, so, who am I to complain?  Life is good (mostly).  Soli Deo Gloria!


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Attraction Satisfaction Survey

Attraction Satisfaction Survey-page-0

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

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.

Attraction Satisfaction Survey-page-0

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…

  1. the funniest profile you ever read.
  2. the snarkiest profile you ever read.
  3. completely misleading.
  4. enigmatic.
  5. None of the above.

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

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

While we chatted, you kept wishing that I had…

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

Geographically, I…

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

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

  1. Goldie Hawn (69)
  2. Susan Sarandon (68)
  3. Jessica Lange (64)
  4. Christie Brinkley (61)
  5. None of the above

On a first date, I should wear…

  1. more make-up.
  2. less make-up.
  3. higher heels.
  4. a 5th grade Girl Scout uniform.
  5. a bag over my head.

When ordering while on a date, I should…

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

If I have my own money, I should…

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

From a male perspective, I most likely…

  1. can’t attract a man smarter than a 5th grader.
  2. am the scariest woman you’ve ever met.
  3. will be sued eventually for defamation.
  4. will never hear from you again.
  5. 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!


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Fathers and Daughters

Happy Father’s Day to all you dads, whether you parent your own child, someone else’s child, or a child with more than two legs!  You teach your children more than you can possibly imagine, more than you ever intend them to know.  I know this, because I had a great dad.  He was not a frivolous guy, didn’t gamble or golf or bowl or boat or party hearty.  He was a hard-working man who had well-defined expectations of himself and of me.  I was to be a person of faith, hard-working, honest, kind, generous, try my hardest, do my best, and graduate from college.  I don’t recall him asking any more of me than that.

It seemed to me that my dad could do anything.  He could take a car apart and put it back together and made sure that I could change a tire and check the oil in the car before he ever let me drive it.   He was patient.  The second time that I backed the car out of the garage, I caught the outside mirror on the garage door hinge and ripped it off the car.  I burst into tears, of course.  But you know what?  He was more upset because I was terrified that he would be upset about the mirror than he was about the damage.

He could build anything.  He built that garage and added a family room to our house.  He also helped the Veterinarian and me build our veterinary hospital, from the cinder block walls in.  But I learned as much from observing how he lived his life as from what he taught me to do.

One sunny spring Saturday, as I sat at the big maple desk in our living room, writing a book report, I heard my dad stop the lawn mower and chat with someone.  Our house was on the corner of a moderately busy street, whose sidewalk saw lots of pedestrians and strollers and bicycles.  In our neighborhood, everyone knew everyone else by sight or by their kids or by their cars, if not by their name.  I pulled aside the sheer drapery to see who was passing our way and saw him with a white-haired lady in a lilac-flowered house dress, rolled-down stockings, and wool felt slippers.

My Mother came up behind me.  “Who’s Daddy talking to?” she asked.

“I don’t know.  Some lady.”

“I’ve never seen her before,” she said.  We watched my dad shake the lady’s hand.

“Well, why don’t you rest here under the tree in the shade?” he said to her and looked up at the window where we were standing.  My Mother raised her eyebrows and hurried out the side door.

“Lenore, this is my wife,” my father gestured to My Mother.  “Lenore lives at the nursing home down on Allen Road.”  Lenore had walked about two miles.

“Oh!” I heard My Mother’s surprised reply.

“She’s walking to her son’s house in Toledo,” about 50 miles away.

“Well,” My Mother replied, without skipping a beat, “that’s a pretty long walk. Let me get you a drink of water.”  She looked pointedly at My Father, who nodded, and quickly came into the house and headed for the telephone.  She notified the police and drew a glass of water.

“The home already called the police,” she whispered to me.  “They’re on their way.”  She hurried back outside, where Lenore was attempting to leave.

“Why don’t you have the water, first, before you set out again?” He encouraged her.  “It’s pretty warm today.”

“Yes,” Lenore accepted the glass. “You have such a nice yard.”  She sipped deeply at the water.  “You remind me a lot of my son.  I don’t get to see him very much anymore, you know.”

I stepped into the side yard, and Lenore looked up.

“This is my daughter,” my father introduced me.

“Hello, dear, you have a very nice father.”  I smiled shyly and thought she was exactly correct.  Within minutes, a police car pulled slowly to the curb.

“Well, Mrs. Ratkowski,” the driver called to her, as he took his hat off and approached her, “out for a walk again today?”  He smiled at my parents.

“Oh, yes, officer,” Lenore replied.  [That’s how we spoke to police officers in those days.  We called them “officer” or “sir.”]  “Yes, I’m on my way to see my son.”  She looked warily from the policeman to my dad.

“I see,” the policeman placed his hand lightly on Lenore’s elbow.  “Your friends at the home didn’t get a chance to say good-bye and are worried about you.”

“Tell them that I’m fine. I’m just chatting with this nice man and his family.”

“Well, ma’am, we need to get you back there.”  He started to steer her towards the patrol car.

Lenore stopped, her face confused, and she looked at my dad.

“I think you should go with him and let them sort it out,” he reassured her.  “They’ll make sure you get in touch with your son.”

“But he’s expecting me,” she didn’t cry, but there was such sadness in her voice.

“He’ll be very worried, if he doesn’t know where you are,” my dad took her arm and started walking to the car.  “And I’ll feel better, if I know you’re safe.”  Lenore allowed him to settle her in the back seat of the car.

“Well, thank you!”  She smiled and gave a little wave as the car pulled away.  We waved back.  My dad, who had lunch with his own mother every Wednesday, shook his head and returned to cutting the grass.

It seems like such an insignificant incident in anyone’s daily life, but it has stayed with me for 50 years.  I learned from my dad that we are all dependent on the kindness of strangers, especially when we are confused and lost and not ourselves.

About 10 years later, when I was confused, he gave me an excellent piece of advice.  Raised a Catholic, I was contemplating being married by a Presbyterian minister of whom The Veterinarian was quite fond.  I asked my dad if he would be upset, that I didn’t want to cause the trouble in our family that was raised when he married My Mother, who was not a Catholic.  He said, “You have to do what is right for you.  I appreciate that you’re concerned about it, but you have to live this life yourself and do what works for you.”

Always there

Always there

Here is a photo of me at that very confusing moment in my life, when I was about to be married by that Presbyterian minister.  I am 20 and terrified that I’m making a mistake.  You can see the tears in my eyes, but the show must go on, so I smile.  My Dad is not smiling.  He, too, thinks I am making a mistake.   We both know that I am too young to be married but that I had made a commitment.  We both know that God will watch out for me.  My dad knows that he couldn’t have picked a better man to be my husband, so, here he is, supporting me, whatever comes, waiting to pick up the pieces, to make things right.

What a great dad!

DATE UPDATE:

A recent date told me that some men just wink or write to women to see if they can get an answer, not because they’re really interested in them.  Oh, great!  This bit of information confirmed what I have suspected.  I couldn’t figure out why I wouldn’t get any response when I emailed men who claimed to be interested in me.  Well, I’ve tried playing nice, and I’ve been honest about who I am and who I’m looking for.  Where are all the honest men like my dear old dad?  Herewith my new, totally honest profile:

“I didn’t know how to do this when I was 17, so I latched onto one guy and stuck with him until he up and died on me when I was 59 — yep, I was faithful to one, and only one, guy, so that kinda makes me a 63-year old virgin, if you think about it. Betcha don’t know many of those, do ya?

I have two more months left on this subscription, and my daughter says I am wasting my $$$ if I hide my profile. My friends say, “Surely, Mr. Right is on his way.” (I have the funniest friends.) So, instead of selling myself as the ideal woman, let’s see if I can entertain you. I am always entertained by reading some of your profiles, especially those of 60-something hipsters looking for women 25-45. Someone who is still engaged in life is a must, but I’m not into delusion. If you’re over the age of 12 and believe in love at first sight, don’t contact me.

I don’t lie. I don’t fake my photos, age, height, or weight. Yes, I’m short and old (as are most of you guys — old, I mean), but I consider myself a 30-ish trans-Brazilian supermodel, if that counts for anything, so you are not allowed to discriminate on my lack of stature. (Stop reading if you have to google “stature”).

I don’t have stretch marks.  [See?  I figured how to work that into my profile.]   All my body parts are original equipment, except one of my teeth (BMI-21). I own my own home and car. I dress nicely. I’m smart. My manners are impeccable. I am a lady, except when I’m swearing (in case that’s a turn-off). I think I’m kind and generous, but, who am I to say?

I’ve only visited four of the seven continents. I like the French, especially their wine. Of course, I’ll drink almost any country’s wine, but I won’t drink anyone’s beer. I don’t get seasick. I don’t faint at the sight of mice, spiders, or snakes. I don’t panic in emergencies, unless you find that exciting, in which case, I can shriek with the best of them. Sorry, I’m just not completely helpless, but I can pretend to be, if that helps. I try to leave the drama on the stage, where it belongs.

On the other hand, if you want a mountain-biking, rock-climbing, hog-riding, golfing/skiing/backpacking buddy with breasts, check out reality tv.

If you really do want someone beautiful inside and out, funny, intelligent, honest, confident, and financially independent (which most of you do want, apparently), and YOU are handsome inside and out, witty, honest, dependable, intelligent, financially independent, and know your way around a chainsaw, give me a call. (I live in the woods and am afraid of chain saws — hard to believe, I know) If not, my dog is a great snuggler, although also quite a snorer.

I used to answer every person who contacted me, but I think it was some kind of trick, because I rarely got a response to my response, so I don’t answer winks or interests or favorites. If you have something to say, say it in clear, grammatical English. (I speak two other languages, but let’s stick with English.) I dislike snobs, bigots, bad manners, and narrow-mindedness, this includes men who think they are hipsters (see above).

Don’t contact me if you’re married or still angry at your ex-wife. Don’t contact me if you don’t like to travel outside of a 25-mile radius of Baltimore.  If you can’t recognize the state of Michigan by its silhouette, pass me by.

That’s it. I have nothing left to say. I’ll start googling convents now. Maybe I can find one that will let me bring my dog and my Champagne. Thanks for letting me entertain you!”

So far, it’s working great, because out of 136 people lured by my sweet photo in the past week, only one has winked at me!  Think of all the bullets I’ve dodged, so, who am I to complain?  Life is good (mostly).  Soli Deo Gloria!

 


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Twins

geminiAngelina Jolie and I have more in common than you might think.  We are both Gemini and share the same birth date, June 4.  I’m not bragging or anything, but she and I have been incredibly lucky in life.  We’re both fabulous actors.  We both were married to incredibly handsome and accomplished men and adopted beautiful children from exotic locales.  Well, in my case, Denver isn’t that exotic — exciting but not that distant.

Ms. Jolie and I are also missing our uteri.  When she wrote in the NY Times about her hysterectomy at the age of 39, I almost wrote to her to say, “Don’t worry.  It’s a piece of cake.”  I was 24 when I had my hysterectomy, and my life clearly didn’t end. I didn’t shrivel up.  I didn’t grow a beard or start singing bass.  I didn’t gain 50 pounds.  My husband didn’t leave me.  In fact, men still hit on me when he wasn’t around, because they just can’t tell.  You think no one’s going to hit on the beautiful Angelina Jolie because she’s missing a few body parts?

I’ve been without my uterus for almost 40 years and can’t say that I’ve missed it.  So what if I have a little untimely sweating?  It’s a small price to pay to stop menstruating, and pregnancy has never looked like a day at the beach to me.  When I was a little pudgy around the middle a few years ago, a stranger ask me if I was pregnant.  Was I embarrassed?  Heck no!  I was pretty excited that they thought I was young enough to be pregnant.  Woohoo!

Twins

Twins

Strangers frequently comment on how much The Daughter and I look alike.  Coincidentally, we are both short, and the corners of our mouths turn down naturally.  Our hair is the same color, thanks to my hairdresser.  (I have no idea what color mine really is any more, but I suspect it’s mostly white.)  I blame the “Stockholm Syndrome,” where the captive begins to identify with the captor.  There’s a lot more to parenting than passing along your DNA.  If you’re good at it, you pass along your values and instill your child with courage, perseverance, kindness, and hope, the character stuff that hasn’t yet been isolated on a chromosome.

I’ve had a lot of practice making lemonade out of lemons in my almost-63 years, and I’m always amazed at how a miracle pops up to lift me when things seem especially dark.  Why, just last week, it dawned on me that, because I’ve never been pregnant, I don’t have any stretch marks.  It made me laugh out loud, it was such an absurd thought.  On the other hand, find another 63-year old woman who can say that.  Now, I just need to figure out how to work that into my online dating profile.

Happy Birthday, Angelina!

DATE UPDATE:

I decided to give the dating site Zoosk a look-see because it claimed to be free.  Actually, it’s so confusing that I can’t tell what’s free and what isn’t, because now they tell me there’s stuff I can’t see, people I can’t contact, whatever.  Anyway, they have a feature called “Carrousel” where faces flash up, and you’re supposed to click “No”   “Maybe”    or    “Yes”.  You get a gold coin for each “Maybe” or “Yes.”  I have no idea what the coins are for, and I really don’t care.  This isn’t my kind of game.  I’m not a gambler, although online dating is a crap-shoot.

I’m shallow.  I’m a visual person.  I always judge books by their covers, which is probably why I haven’t found a serious date yet.  There seems to be something wrong with every photo that I see.  Again, I can’t stress enough that the fault lies with me, not with what are probably perfectly ideal men for normal, God-fearing, kind, decent, gracious, loving women.  No, I’m persnickety.  For instance, I am not attracted to profile photos of a man who

wears a Crocodile Dundee hat,

a cowboy hat,

a cowboy hat with a string tie and leather vest,

or a straw cowboy hat with a picture of a spitting cobra;

a bad toupee or a woman’s wig, even if it’s part of a Halloween costume;

a sombrero, beret, balaclava, or any kind of headscarf, including bandanas;

a captain’s hat, unless he’s in the Navy or Capt. Stubing;

a baseball cap with a suggestive slogan and especially not a backwards cap;

or a “Steelers” cap.

I don’t want to know anyone whose profile name includes the words “Snake bit” or “Luv,” “Hung,” “Kiss,” “Baby,” “4 U,” “Skin,” “Brst” (regardless of your choice of vowels), or “Steeler.”

I always skip photos of men whose eyes are closed, have partially hidden faces, look dazed and confused or Tased or are frowning;

or out of focus;

who are missing all or most of their front teeth  (please, no hate mail);

who wear more jewelry than I do and/or forget to remove their wedding bands (I told you I was persnickety);

who are covered in sweat or standing in a cemetery or using fingers to “shoot” at the camera (yep, I’ve seen ’em all).

I am wary of men whose style-icon is Donald Trump;

who look like they still follow the Dead, with locks longer than mine and carrying AARP cards;

who were stuck all winter in Donner Pass without a razor.

Men, don’t choose photos if your cellphone is visible as you take your selfie;

your computer monitor is reflected in your glasses so your eyes look like they’re glowing;

you’re being hugged/kissed by a woman who clearly isn’t your mother (especially on the mouth—ew!);

your photo shows five men, and you’re……..which?

your photo is date-stamped 2005;

your photo is an actual photo of Jack Lord from the original “Hawaii Five-0” (true);

you have photo-shopped stars and/or hearts on it;

you appear to be choking your dog/cat while restraining it;

you are up to your elbow in the mouth of a catfish;

your motorcycle is bigger than you are;

your car is the most prominent feature in your photo;

your dress shirt is unbuttoned to your belt buckle, exposing things that are best hidden until we know each other better—if ever;

you’re wearing a sleeveless sweatshirt, tank top, or wife beater, even if you have guns of steel.

And, for the love of all that is good and holy, NO SHIRTLESS PHOTOS!!!!

Especially if you’re on a beach in swim trunks with a Crocodile Dundee hat and a Duck Dynasty beard, because nobody, but NOBODY wants to see that.  (Having seen that, I may never be the same again.)

I couldn’t make this stuff up, folks.  It writes itself, so who am I to complain?  Life is good (mostly).  Soli Deo Gloria!


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The Case of the Vanishing Toilet Paper

Stand back, I’m on a rant!

What have they done to toilet paper rolls?  Paper towel rolls seem to get bigger and bigger and barely fit on the spindle of my paper towel holder.   You can get extra shampoo in a humongous bottle.  However, you have to scrape for scraps of toilet paper in the middle of the night, when it runs out unexpectedly and you can’t find the box of Kleenex in the dark.

TMI

Do they just not care that I know the rolls are smaller?

I use more rolls now than I did when The Veterinarian lived with me.  That’s crazy for one little woman, using just three sheets at a time (yes, I count).  I’m not draping it around the neighborhood.  I’m not wrapping presents with it.  My BFF Fiona isn’t unrolling it (it’s not challenging enough for her; she prefers Kleenex, paper towels, and socks).  There should be plenty in my house.  I’m not flushing that many stink bugs away.

When shopping, I look at the size of the cardboard roll, compare the number of sheets per roll, and still go through two rolls each week.  Rolls are narrower, too.  A decade ago, a full roll of toilet paper barely fit the width of my holders.  Now, it flops loosely like a belt on a supermodel. And the word “toilet” does not appear on the packaging, so, I guess that a bear wiping its behind with the tissue is more acceptable.

And while I’m on a rant…

Cans of pet food, beverages, soup, and tuna get smaller, while the price continues to go up.  Do they think we don’t notice?  Do they think we don’t care?  Or do they know that we know that we have no choice?

Unfortunately, we do notice.  They can change the package’s shape or the label, but we can see it when we open the can and feel it when we pick up the box.  The games manufacturers play.

Take cereal.  (Please, take it.  I don’t eat cereal.  If I must eat breakfast, I want it hot, not icy cold.)  Why are the boxes of all the fiber-heavy stuff so much smaller in size and denser than the Frosted Flakes, Special K, and Honey-Nut Cheerios?  And why are they more expensive?  They’re all just cardboard-y grains, aren’t they?  Metamucil comes in a little capsule.  Why does bran come in a box?  Why does oatmeal come in a round box that doesn’t fit on the shelf with other boxes?

And that brings me to this…

Why don’t they sell fragrance-free deodorant in the warehouse stores?  I could smell like Degree’s Fresh Energy, Dove’s Cool Essentials, Sure Regular Scent, or Speed Stick’s Fresh Rush.  None of those “fragrances” is descriptive.  Yes, I would like a fresh rush but not from my deodorant.  I can’t begin to imagine what those things smell like, and I have a pretty wild imagination.  My favorite is Fresh Clean.  Huh?  Isn’t that nothing?  If you’re fresh and clean, you shouldn’t smell at all, should you?

Finally, why do we need so many darn different sizes of batteries?  My living room television remote uses two AAAs, yet the one in my bedroom uses two AAs.  One brand of electric candles uses two AAs, but another brand of the same-sized candles uses two AAAs.  My Fitbit uses lithium batteries size 2025, and my electronic car key, which is larger than the Fitbit, uses a lithium size 1632, which is smaller than the 2025.

My smoke detectors use 9-volt transistor batteries as back-ups when the power goes out.  And what else, nowadays, uses transistor batteries?  My portable radio operates on either solar cells or cranks to generate power in an emergency.  Remember transistor radios?  Remember the 80s when “boom boxes” used about $20 worth of D-cells?  The only thing that uses D-cells now is my Mag-Lite flashlight, which, when loaded, becomes a lethal weapon.

My digital camera uses a stubby lithium battery, but I have four different sizes of stubby batteries rolling around my battery box.  I have no idea where they go.   And why do I have so many C batteries?  I can’t find a single thing in or around my house that requires them.  They must have been purchased for a battery-operated toy at 4pm one Christmas Eve when we were desperate to ensure a merry Christmas morning memory.  The toy and its owner have moved on, but the batteries linger.

If I had been paying attention in my college physics class, I could probably become a billionaire by coming up with a solution to what must be a common dilemma.  Alas, I was not.  If you or anyone you know, comes up with a solution, please be sure to cut me in for 1% of the profits, which will be a mere drop in the bucket to you.  Then, get busy on the toilet paper problem, please.

DATE UPDATE:

After a relatively quiet spring, in the past 48 hours, the scammers have been out in force.  It’s the end of the month.  Maybe they have a quota to fulfill.  Herewith is the photographic evidence.  It may seem cruel to highlight these people, but I, in no way, imagine that they are sincere.  In fact, when I did a Google search of three of the profile photos, they turned up connected to the websites of legitimate professors and business men.  I’m gonna guess that men with advanced college degrees have better grammar.  One of the photos matched a photo from 2009 on a site that exposes scammers.  I sent the link to match.com when I reported it, but they haven’t blocked the guy yet.

IMG_5206

I’m frequently sorry about my photos, too, but I don’t post them unless they’re mine.

IMG_5208

He is not my prince, even if his profile says he’s “Executive Management.”

IMG_5207

Probably not, especially since you’re wearing a striped jail costume.

These guys are deceptive enough to create the names of deodorants and packaging for toilet paper.  And I may not be smart enough to create a universal battery, but I do know deceit when I see it, so, who am I to complain?  Life is good (mostly).  Soli Deo Gloria!


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Queen of All I See

I tend to swear a lot when I drive alone in my car.  Other drivers aggravate me when they tailgate, drive too slow, drive too fast, fail to signal, abruptly cross lanes of traffic to exit, stop in the middle of the road, drive without headlights, come at me with their high beams, don’t clear the snow off their windshields, play music too loud, park too close to my car, bang my car with their doors, park in restricted spaces without authorization, and on and on.

However, I am a lady.  It would never occur to me to set their car on fire.  Or smash their windshield with a baseball bat.

Instead of a bat, I want a magic wand.  I would wave my glittering wand in their direction and POOF!  The offender would disappear instantly, transported to their final destination — their earthly destination, that is — so that they couldn’t endanger anyone else.

When an inconsiderate fool with 20 items gets into the express lane for 15 items and under, instead of shoving my cart into their backside, I would wave my wand and POOF!  They would be transported to the end of the longest line in the store.  While they wait contentedly, they could enjoy the tabloid headlines: Sleep your Fat Away, Baking Wedding Cakes with Three Common Household Ingredients, Self-Mowing Lawns, etc., etc., etc.

When a clerk talks on her cellphone while waiting on me, instead of slapping it away from her ear, I would use my wand to send her on a break and replace her with one of the wacky characters from the British television classic Are You Being Served?  We customers would be gently amused and served tea out of fine bone china while our purchases are wrapped in discreet packages with elegant ribbon.

When my flight is delayed for mechanical issues, instead of ranting and raving to the gate agent, I would wave my wand and POOF!  I would be transported with my loved ones to a private beach on my own private island — in a comfy chair under a shady palm tree with an infinite supply of good books — and a cooler full of iced beverages — and nothing to do all day — forever.  No jerks.  No fools.  No swearing.  Queen for Eternity.

With a private chef.  My idea of heaven includes a skinny me eating all my favorite foods, guilt-free, no fat, no calories, no carcinogens, and food that I didn’t even know existed.  Ambrosia.  The Nectar of the Gods.  All that crazy good stuff.  Transports of delight.  Even food that I can’t stand.

IMG_5067When I was a child, I ate three vegetables, corn, green beans, and potatoes.  It’s a wonder that I survived, isn’t it?  When I learned to cook, I discovered a whole new world of earthly delights.  For example, asparagus.  I always hated asparagus when I was a kid, because it came in a can and was a slimy, drab olive green.  It smelled bad and tasted like the can.

What a treat to find out that the real thing, properly prepared, tastes almost sweet, especially when garden-fresh.  I look for stalks that are a uniform diameter, either all tiny or no bigger than ½” in diameter.  I look for heads with tight “petals,” preferably almost purple.  If I’m not preparing it immediately, I cut off the bottoms to even them up and stand them in ½” of water.   When ready to cook, I break off the tough bottoms by flexing the stalk until it snaps.  (It actually does the work for you.)  If they’re larger than ½”, I scrape them with a vegetable peeler.

IMG_5073Don’t be intimidated by asparagus steamers.  Even I, the collector of obscure cooking equipment don’t have one.  Just follow these super-easy directions:

In a skillet large enough to lay the asparagus in one layer, bring 1” of water to a boil.  Gently lay the prepared stalks in the boiling water.  Reduce heat and simmer for 3 minutes or until a bright green, never drab green.  If your stalks are under ½” in diameter, reduce cooking time to 2 minutes.  Turn off heat, remove skillet, and carefully drain the stalks.  Return stalks to the hot skillet and roll in 2 Tablespoons of butter and 1/8 teaspoon of freshly grated nutmeg.  If desired, sprinkle with freshly squeezed lemon juice and sea salt to taste.  Serve immediately.

After 40 years, I’ve learned what asparagus smells like when it’s properly cooked.  When it’s overcooked, it smells like that stuff in the can.  Of course, asparagus is one of those foods whose fragrance returns to haunt you a few hours after dinner, if you know what I mean.  Of course, I’m a lady and wouldn’t dare use the “p” word…wink, wink.

DATE UPDATE:

Things have been really sloooow.  100 men (I assume they were all men) viewed my profile last week.  I like to reset my view counter each week to see how many men I have frightened away.  Of the 100 potential suitors (that sounds idiotic, even to me), several were brave enough to wink, like, or favorite me.

An attractive man winked at me, so I returned a wink, but he did not respond, so I still don’t understand the purpose of winking.  Maybe he was winking at someone else.  If he winked at me in public, I would have made eye contact and smiled.  If he turned away, I would have looked around to see if he was winking at someone else.  You know, that embarrassing moment when you realize that someone is not waving at you, as you wave back at them? Maybe it was a pity wink.

I received another message from match.com about a different attractive man that read, “So-and-So is interested in you.”  He only lives 15 minutes from me, so I read his profile and, thinking that I should have written to the other guy instead of just returning a wink, I commented on a photo of him on a sailboat, asking where he was when the photo was taken.  That was three days ago. My email box says the message hasn’t been read.  Does that mean that it was deleted or just not read? Maybe I shouldn’t have commented?

No one tells you these things.  I googled “Online Dating Etiquette” and found conflicting information.  Maybe he didn’t read it (match says he’s been online every day).  Maybe he deleted it (no way of knowing).  The “experts” say that I should just move on to the next guy because the more that I look and the more that I answer the more chance I have that the next guy who is interested or winks or shows up in my “Daily Matches” could be THE one.

I’m having my doubts.

More from the “experts”:  Guys who wink instead of writing are “players.”  Guys who wink instead of writing are just shy.  Guys who click “interested” without writing are just shopping.  Guys who click “interested” fear rejection.  Guys who are still married say they’re “currently separated.”  Guys want confident women who write to them first (ha!).  Guys of a certain age don’t like women who initiate contact.

You should answer every email, even if you aren’t interested.  It’s ok to ignore email from guys you don’t like.  Send a second email, if the guy doesn’t respond.  Never send a second email, if the guy doesn’t respond.  Don’t lie about your age.  It is expected that everyone shaves a couple years off their age.  Contact guys who want much younger women because much younger women don’t want them, anyway.  Don’t contact guys who want much younger women because they’re delusional.

Where’s Emily Post when you need her?  This is why manners are de rigueur to me.  We all understand the rules of the game when we follow proper etiquette.  Hey!  Guys!  How about just being honest?  If you don’t intend to start a conversation, DON’T DO ANYTHING.  If you’re married, talk to your wife!  Why frustrate two women?

In browsing what the site calls “Matches,” there was a 63-year old guy about 30 miles from me who said he’s a veterinarian.  I looked at all of his photos but didn’t recognize him.  Okay.  So, maybe I don’t know every veterinarian in Maryland (could be industry or government), but I know most of them.  And, yes, he didn’t want a woman older than 55 (wth is with these old guys?).  I wrote to him anyway, saying that my late husband had been an avian veterinarian and asking if he was in private practice.  As a divorced man, I guess he doesn’t want another long-suffering veterinarian’s wife, because I ain’t heard from him, either.  Silly me. I’m only one year younger than he is.  My email box says the message hasn’t been read, either, whatever that means.

On Sunday, I received a first email from a man inviting me to a “music circle” at his brother’s house on “Friday night” at which I “wouldn’t be expected to sing or anything” with a “group of men with guitars.” That sounds like the plot of a slasher flick.  No, thanks.

You may be amused to hear that the widower who doesn’t like the French emailed me that I am geographically undesirable.  For once, distance worked in my favor.  I didn’t need to bring out the wand and make him disappear, so, who am I to complain?  Life is good (mostly).  Soli Deo Gloria!


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Secret Ingredients

I received a wonderful gift for Mother’s Day.  My Mother fixed dinner for us.  We were in shock.  In the TVLand of the 1950s, the stereotypical mother cooked three fabulous meals a day for her grateful family.  Mine did not.  At least once a week, My Dad would walk into the house, note that the stove was empty, and say, “I guess we’re going out to eat.”

Although it seemed like a great treat to have her fix dinner for us, there was some trepidation on our part.  For the past 40 years, I have been the family cook for Important Holidays and Other Significant Occasions.

“She says she’s making roast beef,” My Sister informed me.

“What?!”  I was incredulous.  I’m the succulent beef roaster, served with freshly-grated horseradish root, port-laced au jus, glazed carrots, and crispy Yorkshire Pudding.

“Mm-hmm.”  She muttered.

“But she doesn’t like to cook.  Maybe we should order out Chinese or Italian.”

“I offered, but she said she wanted to make roast beef,” My Sister sighed.

I considered bringing a bottle of red wine, because I can eat anything, even mushrooms, if I gulp them with copious amounts of wine.  My Mother thinks that all meat should be served well-done, which means gray and dry.  After living with The Veterinarian for 42 years, I now eat beef medium-rare and, occasionally, even carpaccio, if the kitchen is trustworthy.

When dining out with My Mother, we pray that she orders fish.  I have seen her fight with waiters over meat that she said was presented still “mooing” and have seen chefs in perfectly fine restaurants refuse to serve her prime rib well-done.    We grovel with the waiter when she orders beef, begging them for an “outside cut.”

It turns out that we needn’t have worried.  She made pot roast, one of  my favorite recipes.  Still, she grumbled.

Secret Ingredient

Secret Ingredient

“I couldn’t find canned French onion soup at any of the grocery stores,” she said, “no Campbell’s, no Progresso, not even a generic store-brand.”

The key to her pot roast is two cans of Campbell’s French Onion soup.  It’s the only soup that I ever cook with, and I only use it to make pot roast, because, well, it tastes like Mom’s.  It isn’t too salty, like that dry soup mix, and it doesn’t have mushrooms.  You simply dredge a piece of lean chuck roast in flour with salt and pepper, brown it on all sides in hot oil and drain on paper towels.  Then, you pour one can of the soup in the bottom of a Dutch oven or slow-cooker, top it with the meat, whole peeled carrots, and celery (with the leaves), pour another can of soup over the top, bring to a boil, reduce the heat to very low and simmer for at least 2-1/2 hours.  Alternatively, you can cook it, covered, in a 325° oven, which My Mother did.  Hence, roast beef.

Of course, a lot of sliced onions and beef broth will give the same effect, but I think that  piece of pseudo Swiss cheese in the soup can makes a richer sauce.  Yes, I’m delusional.  Although I’ve not read the soup can’s label, it’s probably a mess of chemicals, but I just don’t care.  It’s the taste and the memories that make the difference.

My Mother finds gravy a challenge, too, although this time it was nearly perfect.  She strains the broth to remove the vegetables and globs of fat and meat and reheats it in a saucepan.  Then her technique gets a little “dicey,” as she takes her ancient, empty jar of Taster’s Choice instant coffee crystals, into which she places flour and — yikes! — cold water, which she shakes vigorously, increasingly complaining that it won’t smoothly blend.  She stirs this into the hot broth and tries to stir out the inevitable lumps with a spoon.  This produces more grumbling.  I offered to make the gravy, but she wouldn’t let me near the stove.

Let me tell you how to really make gravy.  You start with two tablespoons of hot fat — strained pan drippings or butter — and slowly whisk in two tablespoons of flour, until the mixture is smooth and bubbling.  To make more gravy, use more fat and flour, in equal proportions. Then, and only then, do you slowly whisk in enough hot broth to make a thick gravy.  It’s better to have gravy that’s too thin, because you can always reduce it by simmering (or boiling, if you’re really pressed for time).  If it’s too lumpy, just pass it through a sieve.  No sweat.

With My Mother and My Sister, 1958

With My Mother and My Sister, 1958

All in all, our meal did just what a Mother’s Day dinner should do, evoke memories of family and love, which puts the comfort into food.  No one had to get dressed up or grovel with waiters or dodge the traffic in downtown Baltimore headed to hear the Artist-Once-Again-Known-as-Prince in his “Rally 4 Peace.”

DATE UPDATE:

I had two dates with a mostly pleasant widower a couple of weeks ago.  I don’t think I’ll hear from him again, which is ok.  We disagreed about voting (I do; he hasn’t for 20 years), current events (he doesn’t pay attention to the news; I do), and the hospitality of the French.  I have never had a bad time in France.  He hates the French.  That’s a quote, not a paraphrase.  He said that the French are only nice to me because I speak French.  I pointed out that The Veterinarian didn’t speak French at all.  I pointed out several occasions when the French have been extremely gracious to me, my family, or my friends, but he wasn’t convinced.

I told him about a train trip in France where some young people made rude remarks about Americans.  Two middle-aged Frenchmen sitting in front of us got up and chewed the kids out.  On their way back to their seats, the men came to us and apologized in English.  I replied in my choppy but intelligible French with beaucoup smiles.  Graciousness when traveling goes a long way to effective communication with others.

My date remained unconvinced, and in the end, I didn’t see myself traveling any place with him, much less through the remainder of my life.  Oh, yeah!  And he doesn’t drink wine.  Maybe that’s why he doesn’t like France.  Maybe that’s why I don’t like him.

I received an email from a man who said he was a medical researcher and teacher with a PhD.  He wrote to me, “Hi!  Cute photo!”  I read his profile essay, which said he was born in Canada, and skimmed his other profile information, noting that he had traveled a lot and lived abroad.

I thanked him for his compliment and said, “I grew up in Detroit.  Where in Canada were you born?”

His response?  “Hmmm.  I guess you didn’t really read my profile…”

Mystified, I re-read his profile, which still only said that he was born in Canada, but down below, under the notes section, where I noticed again that he refused to comment on his “Faith,” that he speaks English and French, and then, near the bottom, under “Favorite Hot Spots,” between “Love NYC and San Francisco” and “lived in Tel Aviv” that he was born in Montreal.  Oops!  My bad.  That’s why I was a better English major than chemistry major, failure to note the minutiae.

I replied, “Sorry.  I did read your profile, but the items under “Hot Spots” didn’t stick in my memory.  Bonne chance! [Good luck]”  I wanted to say, “Sorry, Professor, I read your profile but didn’t realize there would be a quiz.”  Yes, I made a mistake, but a little graciousness on his part would have been nice.

Yesterday, a man who lives 50 miles away in Washington, DC and whose profile claims to only be interested in women within 40 miles, asked me to Skype him.  I know how lame I sounded telling him that I don’t have access to the internet except through cellular data.  I told him I would be happy to correspond by email, citing my geographic undesirability.  Of course, he hasn’t responded.

Then, there was this guy, whose grammar is questionable: “Oh boy do I love the sarcasm.  I am that way as well.  Your profile is a great read & in person I bet it’s a million times better.  Now that I am retired I had made several considerations.  I opted out on all of them except for going to hell in a hand basket.  I haven’t been there yet.  Oh wait, I’ve got that covered.  I use [sic] to live in New Jersey…”

“Do I sound that wacky in my profile?”  I fretted.  I reconsidered myself and rewrote my profile to sound more gracious; sweet, gentle, kind, patient, forgiving, loving, tolerant, demure, meek, etc., etc., etc., a ruse that I have tried in the past without success.

Today, I received this from a man in Pennsylvania, “I enjoyed reading your profile.  It was clear, direct plain … and positive.  I do not seek a reply.  You have a very interesting personality.”

I translated this as:  “For God’s sake, don’t write to me, crazy lady!”

By the way, My Mother, who isn’t crazy about France, either, loved the blouse that I bought for her birthday last October and then lost and didn’t find in time for Christmas and finally gave her for Mother’s Day.  She gave me a giant Tootsie Roll, my favorite childhood candy.  We shared love and comfort on Mother’s Day, so, who am I to complain?  Life is good (mostly).  Soli Deo Gloria!


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An Open Letter to My Fitbit

Dear Fitbit;

You call this

Fitbit – You call this “progress?”

I received your email at 1:01am today with my “Weekly Progress Report,” and I sense that you are a little frustrated with me.  You didn’t come right out and say it, but I can tell.  I see the red downward arrows for “Total Steps” and “Total Distance.”  There’s no need to be so passive-aggressive about my laziness.  It only makes me want to reach for the chocolate.  I would appreciate it if you would be more encouraging when I am struggling.

You should know that I lost my rhythm when I was on vacation in March.  Mind you, I took my Zumba dvd with me and even used it three times in 10 days, on the hard tile floor of the condo, during the morning, when I was fairly certain that the guests in the unit downstairs were off scuba diving.  The tile was too slippery for me to plank, so the old abs didn’t get much of a workout, either.  I have returned to planking on my soft wool rug, but I just can’t get motivated to “aerobicize” myself.  Please cut me some slack.

Is it really necessary to rub my nose in the success of my two “Fitbit” buddies?  My friend, Sassy Soprano, has infinite energy, plays tennis and hikes every single day, rain or shine, snow or swelter.  The Daughter is a nurse, for crying out loud, and not only walks a million miles each shift but also runs and bikes for no apparent reason when she isn’t working.  Honestly, I’m getting tired just thinking about them.

I must confess, though, that I lied to you about my weight.  My heaviest was actually 120, but it wasn’t my fault.  I ate French fries because I didn’t want to look like a picky eater in front of my date (who was the first decent man I’ve met in eight months), and then I was served loaded mashed potatoes at a wedding reception and didn’t want to ruin the happy couple’s big day.  What could I do?  Shove them in my purse when no one was looking?

Please tell me what business it is of yours how much I am sleeping.  Are you mocking me for buying the cheapest version of you, which doesn’t track sleep?  If it means that much to you, I’ll have you know that, NO, indeed, I have not been sleeping well, lately.  As the weather changes from winter to spring, I’m having more hot flashes, which means I wake up to throw off the covers and realize that I have to pee again because of all that water that you make me drink, creating a horrible sleep pattern.  I fall asleep at 10, awake at 3, review 62 years of foolish mistakes from 3-5, then doze off until 7, when The BFF butts me with her head for breakfast.

Why doesn’t your activity log include the things that I actually do besides Zumba? Like yard work.   I’ll have you know that I blew or raked all the wet leaves in my side yard that I didn’t remove last fall and whacked all the early weeds.  That took two hours and was really strenuous.  Doesn’t that count?  I dug dirt, hauled cinderblocks, and rebuilt the border of my garden.  Surely, that counts for something, doesn’t it?

How about working at church?  I walked so much at church last Sunday, going up and down stairs, serving at one service, teaching Sunday School, singing at the spring concert in the afternoon, that I was thoroughly exhausted.  You have no interest in religion, do you?

You gave me a paltry 78 calories burned for 20 minutes of dancing at the wedding reception.  That’s 20 vigorous minutes of the Twist, the Boogaloo, the Frug, the Jerk, the Swim, and the Pony.  In gold sandals with 3” heels, no less.  That’s quite an accomplishment for a Senior Citizen who was happy she could even remember the names of the dances of her youth and thrilled to sing along with the great 1960s tunes.  You get quite a workout shouting “R-E-S-P-E-C-T” while dancing off loaded mashed potatoes, especially when you’ve made it into your 60s, so show a little r-e-s-p-e-c-t and find out what it means to be me.

Let me give YOU a weekly progress report.  Every day, I wear you close to my heart (literally). Sometimes, I can even feel you

Snarky little thing

Fitbit – A snarky little thing

poking into my sternum. I regularly change your expensive lithium batteries.  And how do you repay my loyalty?  When I’m exercising and want to know if I’ve burned enough calories to quit for the day, you refuse to sync with the app on my iPhone so I can read it.  What’s up with that?  All I get is your snarky little face with your nasty tongue sticking out at me.  Not nice, Fitbit, not nice.  You need to develop a more generous, forgiving attitude, if we’re to remain in a relationship.  Speaking of relationships…

DATE UPDATE:

How much food should you eat on a blind date?  Does it depend on where you’re eating?  Who’s paying?  Time of day?  What do you do when the date suggests a restaurant you don’t like?  Should I just have salad for dinner?  Should I have a cocktail or a glass of wine?  Or should I stick with water?  My dates have always said they would pay because that’s how men of our generation were brought up.  I think that the invitee should pay for the invited, but because there is rarely a second date with these men, I feel a little guilty.

Last week, a guy that I didn’t want to date (even after I asked him to read this blog and reconsider, thinking it would scare him off), invited me to a diner for coffee at 6:30pm.  There were so many problems with this that I should have listened to the Shrew in my head and cancelled.  It was an unremarkable diner.  It was dinner time.  It was 40 minutes away at rush hour. I don’t drink caffeine after 6 or coffee without food.  I didn’t want to be there.  He was so insistent and so clever in his emails that my silly heart said, “Go for it” while the Shrew was groaning, “Are you nuts or what?”

The first thing he said when we sat down in the booth and the waitress handed us menus was, “I’m not hungry.  I don’t get up until noon and eat on a different schedule.  But you have whatever you want.”

“Ok,” I shrugged.  After all, it was a coffee date, but I saw the waitress purse her lips.  I felt even worse for myself because I was starving.  “Well, I’m going to have a bowl of chicken noodle soup.”  I needed it for my soul.  He very graciously paid the $2.95 plus tax and tip for my soup, but I’m still not going to see him again because that was the only gracious thing he said or did in the one hour and fifteen minutes that our date lasted.

The previous week, a different date seemed insistent that we split an appetizer and an entrée.  How do you agree on what food to share with someone you barely know?  He should have picked a cheaper restaurant or skipped the appetizer.  We shouldn’t have had either one, because something violently parted company with my body in the middle of the night.  I also didn’t hear from him again, which was fine with me.  He doesn’t drink wine.  Which brings me to another point…

How many dates should I have with someone who doesn’t drink wine at all?  It’s not like they don’t consume alcohol.  They do, just not wine.  I’m pretty sure that The Veterinarian wants me to be happy, but I’m not sure he wants me to share his fine wine with someone who doesn’t appreciate it and is making moves on his widow.   Of course, it’s my wine now, so, who am I to complain?  Life is good (mostly).  Soli Deo Gloria!