A Lot On My Plate

Buy a lottery ticket, say yes to an opportunity, explore an idea - do something to capitalize on the luck that is flowing your way now, Leo. Can you feel the vibe? Can you sense that something has shifted, and that your luck is growing increasingly fabulous? You need to be ready, willing, and able to take on any positive chance that comes your way. You need to be aware of the power you now have to change your life for the better. Your intuition is astoundingly accurate - something has shifted. Your luck is on the upswing!

This morning I read my horoscope and immediately went back to bed with my computer waiting for the good news to come my way.  I checked my email for job offers, publishers reaching out with a 10k advance, or an Ellen DeGeneres'  staff member wanting to book me for her show.  Nothing.  Refresh.  Refresh. Refresh.

Wait a minute!  I just got a text!  At this point I will settle for a message from ALDO SHOES saying they CAN get the black gladiator sandals in a 9 AAA.  Yes, that would be increasingly, fabulous luck, as my old black gladiator sandals now resemble the shoes Charlton Heston wore in Ben Hur.   

Alas, it is not from ALDO, but from my ex husband's new wife. Could it be she is reaching out to make amends?  I agree, it's time to bury the hatchet and co-exist peacefully.  Perhaps she wants to meet for lunch or coffee.  We can have a girl's day out, shooting the breeze and then doing a little shopping. (I am not sharing a dressing room, that is where I draw the line.)   Better yet, perhaps a nice dinner out, where we sit like two grown up ladies drinking martinis.  I'm definitely feeling the  let's be friends vibe.

WTF?  The text reads as follows, "Amy, it is ___  We want to hang a TV on the lanai and the metal plate is missing?  Do you have the metal plate? We need the metal plate."

I'm starting to feel the "Dude. Seriously?" vibe.  I lived in that house for 7 years with 4 teenagers.  I spent months packing it up, and trying to figure out how to discard cracked bongs found beneath beds without alerting the drug squad.  I could have paid my taxes had I taken all the empty Red Bull cans found in closets and cabinets to the recycling center.  I packed up 27 years of kitchen knick knacks, family China, and saved t -ball uniforms.  I emptied closets, bathroom cabinets, (still having PTSD from what I found under there,) and sat on the floor days at a time crying over boxes of photos.

Yes, when the day came and I walked out of that house for the last time leaving memories and beautiful Persian Pearl granite behind, I suddenly thought, "Wait! She can have my husband and my beautiful home but she is NOT getting the metal plate on the lanai wall!"

So, what do I text back?  How about, "I'm so sorry, I was awarded the metal plate in the divorce settlement.  Speak to my attorney." 

But no, I can afford to be generous and magnanimous.  My luck is on the upswing!  I answered,  "I did not take that TV so I do not have the metal plate.  Sorry.  Hope all is well."

She texted back, "Thank you, same to you," which I think means "I know you have the metal plate you evil bitch." 

Yes.  Something tells me she doesn't quite buy my story and we all know my intuition is astoundingly accurate.

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You Made Your Bed...

There are many milestones in a second relationship, that bring the two people involved ever closer.  First would be a weekend away, which as you know M and I survived, as opposed to the hotel bathroom which pretty much didn't.  (See post "STAY OFF THE SAUCE")  Then comes the introduction of the children to the new love interest.  Some of you may remember that in our case, that took place on a street corner in downtown St. Pete, where M and I went to retrieve my son from some very understanding policemen. (See post "MOMMY'S NIGHT OUT")  NONE of us understood why someone would light an illegal substance at an INDOOR concert, but whatever.  The meeting was pleasant enough.

If all of that goes well, the next step may be moving in together.  Sometimes this can lead to disagreements if, say, one person is wonderfully bright and creative and likes parrot murals in the bathroom and the other person has no vision and likes a very dull monochromatic look which he INSISTS is contemporary but I think is depressing and makes me feel like I should be filling out HIPA forms at a doctor's office.  Perhaps in this case the couple will compromise and have a big framed picture of a parrot over a ceramic cube the color of mud.  Perhaps.  I am still debating.

In any case, once the dust has settled and everyone is in place, you begin to make purchases together.   Our first big one was a mattress. On a Saturday morning in early April, we set out on a quest for the perfect mattress where we would rest our weary heads for years to come, not to mention watch hours of reality TV, play Candy Crush on our Ipad and write blogs while drinking coffee.  I for one, can multi task while reclining.

We enter the Beds R Us store, and I immediately head for a mattress with a smooshy, squishy pillow top, a layer of clouds.  I pictured myself diving into it, and losing myself to blissful hours of sleep.  But wait...M is heading to a BRICK on the other side of the store.  We are miles apart when Doug our salesmen appears.   He begins to fire off questions to us:
"Do you sleep on your side, back or stomach?"
"Side" "Back" we reply simultaneously.
"He snores," I add.
"Do you like a firm mattress or something softer?"
"I like firm but not too firm, but not too soft either" M answers.
That totally narrows it down.
Doug directs us to something he says is in the middle.  He instructs me to lie down on it.  As I lie there contemplating the ceiling tiles, Doug says to M, "You see that she is leaving huge indentations?"
"Yes I see that" answers M.
"That's gonna be a problem long term, I can tell ya," Doug informs him.
What I believe Doug is trying to say is, "Dude.  She's only going to get bigger."

Based on the results of that test, M and I purchased a mattress that I believe an Army tank could roll across.  However, I believe it's not the mattress that fills your life with peace,  letting sleep come easily but the person lying beside you, on it.  Not to mention,  my new parrot bed spread is going to look AWESOME.

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SMOKING HOT

I’m a woman in midlife, and I make no bones about it.  I’m fine with it.  Admittedly, after my divorce, I went through the “I need to look younger” phase, where I wore only tight skinny jeans and form fitting tank tops.  Then one day I looked at my 26 year old daughter wearing the same outfit and had what I like to call my Christopher Columbus moment: “Honey, that ship has sailed.”  Now, I color my hair, get a shot of botox now and then, exercise, and do the best I can with what I have.  I feel good about myself, and then, something will happen that turns this “proud to be 50” woman into that braces wearing 10th grader, trying to sneak by the cheerleaders without them making fun of my skirt.

In this case it was a restaurant review that I was hired to write ( yes, I consider 4 cents a word being hired!)  My assignment: The Smoke Shack.  Actually it was more of a food truck review as this Smoke Shack is actually a free standing truck that serves BBQ.  So what?  A free hunk of meat slathered in sauce and a side of beans?  I’m so down with it.  I will make almost enough money to cover my gas to get there - throw in my lunch and I’m actually ahead.

My mouth is watering as I drive over the bridge to Tampa. I wonder if they have fries.  I pull up to  the the truck, and  my nose follows the aromatic smoke  to the counter.  “I’m looking for Matt,” I say to the girl behind the steam trays.  “I’m Matt!” I hear as a young man turns around from the fridge. Suddenly I am face to face with George Clooney, who now apparently owns a BBQ truck in Tampa.  One look at those baby blues,* and  just like that, I am transported.  Light is shining off of my braces as the head cheerleader points at my shoes giggles.

Don’t get me wrong, Matt was very sweet and accommodating. Obviously, he had no idea that his blue eyes and dark wavy hair, were causing me to have butt sweat.  He answered all of my thought provoking questions such as, “So, um...doesn’t it get hot out here?" and “I love the food channel, don’t you?”  I am the new Christiane Amanpour.

Then he offered to bring me out a sample of his wares.  “Oh gosh, what should I have?” I blathered.  “I have just the thing,” he said.  Three minutes later he appeared with a pulled pork sandwich the size of a human head, piled high with juicy pork and the tangy sauce I had been dreaming of.  In my dream  I was savoring every bite while sauce ran down my chin.  In reality, there was no way I was going to hoover down this sandwich while George stood there watching drops of grease and sauce hit my shirt, nor was I going to tuck a napkin into my collar like a senior citizen at Lobster Fest.  

George stood there expectantly waiting for me to take my first bite.  I daintily bit into the edge of the bun and extracted a piece of meat which lodged itself firmly between my two front teeth as BBQ sauce formed a Hitler mustache under my nose.  George had the manners to look away as I extracted the pork before asking me, “What do you think?”

What do I think?  I think this is so good I just want to lock myself in the outdoor port-a-john and inhale it.  That’s what I think.  I tell him, “It’s delicious.  As a matter of fact, I think I will take the rest of it home so that I can share it with my family.”  “Great!” he said, blue eyes twinkling while kindly not staring at what I knew was a grease stain on my right nipple.

We parted ways, and I began the drive home.  Needless to say that sandwich was gone before I hit the interstate, with only an empty carton and greasy fingerprints all over the steering wheel to prove it had ever existed.  

The Smoke Shack got rave reviews and I hope, a lot of new business.  

The moral of the story?  Um...I love BBQ and George Clooney is very handsome.

*Yes, I know George has brown eyes, but try imagining him with crystal clear blue ones.  

Dude. Seriously.

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Sayonara Mr. Roboto

As time goes on I am beginning to notice a few differences between M (my significant other, partner, love connection?) and myself.  First off,   he makes the bed. Every morning.  Super weird, right? He doesn't like clutter.  Also, he believes if something is worth doing, it is worth doing right.  I believe if something is worth doing, I will do it until I get bored, and then go tweet my breakfast.  Also,  he actually SEES the dog hair on the floor while I wade blissfully unaware, albeit covered in a fine coating, through it.  It was his awareness of the latter, that brings me to our topic today.

It is something called the NEATO robotic vacuum cleaner, and it specializes in picking up pet hair.  M thought this would be an answer to our problem, (since when is wall to wall carpeting made up of English Mastiff hair a problem?)  and was actually giddy in anticipation of its arrival.  It arrived from Amazon and I decided to surprise M and set it up.  I remove it from the box and see there is a book AND a video you have to watch before this thing picks up hair one.  Let's put it this way, I got through about five minutes of watching a birthing video in LaMaze class before I lost interest and left the class saying I think my water had broken.  If I could not make it through a "How to Bring A Human Being That You Will Be Responsible For The Rest Of Your Life Into This World" video, no way was I making it through "How to Program Your Vacuum to Get Those Super Gross Crumbs Under the Table" video.

 I pull this thing out of the box and it looks like a fat frisbee.  I stick two batteries in it and I get a message on the screen to program language.  Scrolling down quickly, I hit the Japanese button by accident.   It took me an hour and finally a call to the company to figure out how to Americanize this thing.  Arigatou for taking an hour out of my life that I will never get back.

So, here's how it works: you turn it on and this thing maps out every room in your house, much like my creepy Terminex guy, only in this case the vacuum has no plan to come in and try on my underwear when I'm not home.  It goes around the whole house and then plugs itself in when it needs to recharge!  It's like having a cleaning service who doesn't watch the Spanish soap opera channel and drink all my diet Dr. Pepper.  I am falling in love.

That night we are awakened by a sound that made me think the DEA had discovered the pot my son had hidden in his math book and were landing by helicopter on our roof.  I jumped up to grab a robe when I realized, no it was not the DEA.  The Neato had just noticed a crumb from my Weight Watchers bar on the kitchen floor and was hot on its' trail.  I picked it up and put it back on its charger.  Goodnight now.

Thirty minutes later, I hear a computerized whistling coming from our new family member.  I go to see what the problem could be and it is flashing a "Please empty my filter bin" sign.  I do so, and once again tuck the little guy in.  I tell him "If you go to sleep now, tomorrow night you get a story."  Forty minutes later, I find him tangled in  my string mop,  buzzing away and flashing "PLEASE CLEAR MY PATH!"  So far I have been up with this thing more times than I was with my newborn who needed my boob every hour and a half.  It's time to have the talk with M.

I told M I thought we had decided we didn't want any more children.  I already have four kids, a cat who neighborhood security has videoed lounging and pooping at the neighbor's pool, and a 150 pound dog with recurring anal infections.  Honestly, I cannot be a caretaker to one more thing.

We reached a compromise.  Turns out, you can program this thing to come on at certain times.  I guess that little tidbit of info is in the video, which is somewhere in my junk drawer never to be seen or heard from again.  M has programmed Neato to come on when I am at work, so it will have to pick up as much hair as it can in those three hours a week.  For now peace reigns supreme and the matter of Neato, the little vacuum that couldn't, has been swept under the rug.


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Suit Yourself

This post will be addressing a topic that strikes fear into the hearts of  most women over 40.  Just thinking about it right now, is causing the sweat to pool across my hair line and heart to race.  It is another unGodly, heinous thing that cause midlife women undue stress and heartache.  It is:  THE BATHING SUIT.

Like most women over 50, I assumed the days of bathing suit wearing were over.   Sure I live in Florida, so what?  Haven't  you guys ever heard of board shorts?  A pair of board shorts with a cute tee, is perfectly acceptable beach wear...in my opinion.  Very appropriate for a woman my age.

As far as actual pool swimming...no one does that down here.  Yes we all have pools, but we don't use them.  They are used as scenery for our "lanais," something to stick our toes into while we are waiting for our steaks to cook.  I do think I stuck my foot in there once,  after inadvertantly stepping on a lizard.

Anyway, I thought the whole bathing suit issue was water under the bridge, until tragedy struck: M, the man in my life, bought a boat.  With a SWIM PLATFORM.  Happily, he already had our first excursion planned. We would head out to a little island about an hour from here where we would anchor up, have lunch and then jump into the water to cool down.  I think he was picturing the two of us splashing around like Brooke Shields and that guy in Blue Lagoon, happily playing footsie under the water.  I believe Brooke was wearing a bikini top made of coconut shells, not a collared Polo shirt. Whatever.

So, off to Macy's to do the unthinkable, bathing suit shop.  Believe it or not, I found a cute little Kenneth Cole number with a halter top and a bottom with a little ruffled skirt.  Right, I said skirt.  Yes, it has come to this now.  Anyway, it was passable.

The day arrives and the boat is here.  I immediately fall in love with the little sink and built in ice chest where M has thoughtfully stored my favorite bottle of Chardonnay.  Also, there is a little table where we can sit and eat our lunch.  How adorable is this?

I put on my new bathing suit (outfit, getup?) and was very pleased when M commented, "You look great!"  Perhaps all is not lost, I mean if I can pull off a skirted bathing suit, there is still hope! I climb aboard with my new found confidence, empty Solo cups and Publix sub sandwiches.   I love boating!

An hour later we are at our island paradise, (along with a boatful of drunk Gator fans..ew.) I am sipping my Chard and enjoying the pleasant rocking of the boat with the sun beating down on my heavily sunblocked (#70!) face.   "Let's jump in and cool down," M says.  I head for the dreaded swim platform when M says, "You're probably going to want to take that skirt off and just swim in your  bathing suit, the salt water will ruin it."

"THIS IS MY BATHING SUIT!" I inform him, before lowering myself into the murky deep.

"Oh, sorry, I didn't realize that was attached."  Smooth.  Very smooth.
You gotta love a man who can skirt around an issue like that....and I do.







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Hair Today Gone Today

Last week I had another awesome few days in the city that never sleeps but makes me very tired.  Of course I'm talking about New York baby!  I am always jazzed to be there and am like a woman who has been raised by wolves when I first arrive.  Entering the city by cab from JFK I stare open mouthed at the food carts.  Dude, I'm not talking pretzels and hot dogs,  I'm talking like whole authentic Indian meals now-from a freaking cart!! I point while making gutteral sounds at the amazing window displays, showing spectacular fashions that have yet to make it to the Bella Moda boutique in downtown St. Pete.  The people, the hair, the clothes, the energy-I am so down with it.

The cab pulls up to my sister's apartment and I now know the drill.  I have the money all ready and counted in my sweaty hand.  I exit the cab on the side near the curb instead of walking into oncoming traffic, which nearly caused an international incident last time I did that, as if our relationship with Iran is not bad enough.

As I only have two days  here, my time has to be spent wisely.   First off there is the restaurant selection which only gets bigger and better each time I come.  One thing about NYC, do NOT just wander off the street into a New York restaurant and expect to be served.  You need a reservation and this must be done like, weeks in advance of your actual meal.  Then, the restaurant actually calls you to remind you to be there!  I didn't even get a reminder call for my colonoscopy appointment, much less a confirmation for my pizza time. BTW-  God help you if you are a no show.  You will never get served in this city again.  Never.

So that taken care of, (Smith's the first night, Marea the second,) my sister and I decided to do a little shopping but first she just needs to stop in her hair salon and have a touch up color.  She looks at me and says, "Um maybe I can see if Micah has an opening for you?  Maybe a nice hair cut or something?"
"What?  I just had my hair done, what's wrong with it?"
"It looks a little.....Kate Gosselinish"
I dont know if she meant after the make over or before, but either way, I don't really need to look like a mother of octoplets or whatever you call those kids.
As luck would have it Micah just had a cancellation and can see me at 3:30.

At 3:30 we enter the salon which is very chic in black and white with a touch of red.  My sister is whisked away with a fresh iced tea in hand and I sit down to wait for Micah.  Do I need to tell you what the clients in this place look like?  Like Giselle Bundchen, Gwynth Paltrow or Kate Moss.  That may even be Kate Moss, I mean this is New York, after all.

Micah makes his way over to me and after exchanging pleasantries, he starts messing with my hair.  The more he messes with it the more my pulse begins to race.   I am going to look like a real New Yorker when I leave here.  Micah will see to that.

"Your cheek bones are amazing.  You can SO rock short hair.  Are you okay going short?"
He calls Mylissa the colorist over.
"OMG Look at these cheekbones!  Those eyes! Don't you think she should go short?"
"Oh honey you HAVE to go short.  Show that  face!"
Well of course I have to go short.  My cheekbones, my eyes.  I am drinking the New York cool aid and I can SO rock short hair.

"Yes Micah! Do it! Make me fabulous!"
He begins to cut and says "This is so making my day.  I NEVER get to do short cuts, all my clients wear their hair long."

30 minutes and $300.00 later we are back on the street.
"How do I look?" I asked my sister.
"Well that was so worth it," she answers.  "You look like a fine young man now."

We make our way up the street, her hair blowing in the wind, my ears turning red from the cold.







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Stay off the Sauce

What is it about a new relationship that makes getting full on just appetizers possible?  This is a phenomenon I have heard of but never actually experienced until now.  M and I were definitely becoming a couple and in between the phone calls, hourly text messages and predate primping, I just wasn't hungry.  My Spanx were a thing of the past,  tucked away in the drawer with my stirrup pants and leg warmers.

We were about to take a major step towards solidifying this new found union, spending a weekend away, together in a hotel.  M had a business trip coming up and invited me to attend a food show with him in Orlando.  Normally the words food and show together would set my salivating glands in motion but all I could think about was lingerie.  I guess it was in the middle of Victoria's Secret, rummaging through the 3 for 1 thongs (question: why bother wearing them?) when I thought of something that struck a wave of fear in me so intense, I almost dropped my panties:  sharing a bathroom, more specifically, USING a bathroom with a man only three feet away.

I began to sweat profusely, table of thongs swimming before me.   One thing you should know about me, during 25 years of marriage I used the bathroom at the other end of the house.  I know couples who leave the bathroom door open during, uh, private time.  I would rather run naked through Times Square.  I lock the door, run the water, put on the fan and that's just for number 1. This was mind blowing to say the least.

Pulling myself together I realized that M would be busy at the show most of the time and that I could probably have some private time then.  If I was careful and stayed away from dairy products, (I diagnosed myself as lactose intolerant when I was about 5,) I should be fine.  I picked out the perfect thong for a weekend away (which I may still have on and just forgot about, how would I even know?) and left feeling a lot better with my plan in place.

It was both strange and exhilarating going to a hotel with a man who was not my husband.  There were different clothes hanging in the closet, different toiletries in the shower.   This man did not leave dirty wet towels on the floor and I felt somewhat embarrassed when he said,   "Ohhhhh, THAT'S  where these go," as he stepped over mine.  At times, we were almost shy with each other,
"Do you want to shower first?"
"No please, you go."
 Still, it was exciting, fun and romantic.

That morning we attended the food show which consisted of rows and rows of unbelievably savory offerings.  There were gourmet pizza samples, cheesecake samples, wine, cheese and even sliced pieces of rare filet with special seasoning rubs.  There were organic coffees, teas, fresh baked pies and the latest craze, gourmet cupcakes. We wandered up one row and down the other arm in arm.

"You have to try this," M would say pushing some delicious morsel up to my mouth.
"Oh no, I'm too full" I would say though I really hadn't eaten anything since we arrived.  I could not see any way of stuffing a wad of pepper spiced filet into my mouth without looking like a camel chewing straw so I politely declined.

M had several business meetings lined up for the afternoon, so I saw this as my time to get back to the hotel, have some private time, brush, floss, and tidy myself up.
"I have a great idea," M said.  "Why don't you make a tennis court reservation for 5:00.  I'll be back around 4:30 and we can play some tennis, then shower and go out for a nice romantic dinner."

Plan in place we parted ways and I made my way through the convention center back to the hotel.  All at once I found myself starving, ravenous, famished.  For the first time in months, I needed to eat.  I looked around and low and behold at the entrance was a sandwich stand offering fresh roast beef sandwiches on sour dough rolls.  I literally ran up to the counter and ordered a hot roast beef sandwich and a coke.  The sandwich guy took my order and then asked "Do you want horseradish sauce on that?" If I could change anything about the last year of my life it would be my answer to that question.  Mouth watering, I looked at him and said, "Yes."

I wolfed that sandwich down before I even made it outside.  Once inside my hotel room, I kicked off my shoes, removed my makeup, brushed my teeth and booked our tennis court.  I lay on the bed, put on Judge Judy and started to doze off.  Moments later I was awakened by a sound I can only describe as ominous.  It didn't take me long to realize it was coming from my stomach. Please God no, this cannot be happening.

Let me put it this way, from 1:30 pm to 4 pm, I was having private time.  I emerged from the bathroom on shaky legs, white as a sheet and dripping sweat, and I hesitate to tell you the bathroom had seen better days as well.  I had just crawled over to the bed when the phone rang.
"Hello?" I croaked.
"Hi baby!  On my way, did you reserve the tennis court?"
Just the thought of my white tennis dress in the closet caused my stomach to clench.  I was now at a loss, M would be in the room within the next five minutes and my private time was about to go public.
"I have been sick since I left you, I think it was something I ate."
"What could you possibly have eaten since I last saw you?"
"Um... a roast beef sandwich from a concession."
"Oh no, I should have told you NEVER eat at a concession outside of a food show.   They have been standing around out there for days trying to sell those sandwiches."
"Well they found a taker," I said, "And I am sick."

Five minutes later M came through the door, went directly to the bathroom, (I tried to warn him,) and came out with a damp face cloth, which he laid on my forehead.  We lay on the bed together watching the news for a few hours, until miraculously I began to feel better and had an intense craving for sushi.

That evening before heading up to the room I made one pre-emptive strike at the bathroom in the lobby, but really, it was too late.  The cat was out of the bag and I had learned a valuable lesson: horseradish sauce is considered dairy.

















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