Fan vs. Fanatic...you be the judge!

Good evening all!

So it's Rick Springfield week here in the Milwaukee area.  Basically what this means to me is that for two nights this year, Wednesday and Saturday, I get to be, for a moment, 16 again.  Rather, I get to be the 16 year old I wished I could be if I'd had more permissible parents...or money...or a car...or friends...

ANYWAY....

Now most people, normal people, who are going to go to a concert get ready by maybe brushing their teeth, touching up their makeup, and going to the concert.  FANS, and more specifically, FANATICS have a different ritual. 

Remember, as always, these points are just from my observations meant to be humorous and should not be taken as a statement of fact. If you aren't finding my work funny and you think I'm serious and need a debate, then you've come to the wrong girl my friend!

Sorry...sometimes my sense of humor doesn't always translate the way it should to people who are mired in a world without laughter.

Anyway...here are the points I think of when I think of a semi normal fan preparing for a concert and a FANATIC.  Where do I fall in this?  You be the judge:

1)  Clothes

Fan:  A fan might have a favorite pair of concert jeans and a t-shirt.  Comfy footwear is a must.

Fanatic:  Planning for the perfect concert outfit starts the day the tickets are purchased.  Jeans, jacket, shoes, shirt, all chosen for their eye catching qualities, not for comfort.  Shoes will definitely be heels, jeans will definitely be tight.  Partial boob view is a must.  T-shirts that say, "Mrs. "  followed by the last name of the artist are a bonus.

(I  have a favorite pair of jeans, a t-shirt and sandals.)

2)  Hygiene

Fan:  A fan might shower after work.  If body hair needs removing, a fan will probably remove whatever is visible and leave it at that.  Hair will be done the way hair is always done, and deodorant will be applied.

Fanatic:  A fanatic times everything so that her eyebrow wax and hair color fall just long enough before the concert that she doesn't have red welts above her eyes, but close enough to the concert date that everything looks shiny and fresh.  Legs are shaved all the way up, even if it's winter and the fanatic is wearing jeans.  Showering is followed by all manner of lotions, sprays, powders, and perfumes.  Hair is either "Done" at a beauty parlor or DONE in a way that involves so much product to the get the right look fanatic is officially a fire hazard.

(um....yeah...I'm pleading the fifth on this.  The concert is two days away and I'm coloring my hair right now.)

3)  Carry ons

Fan:  Maybe a purse, but the savvy fan will have the following in pockets in some nice, but practical jacket:  credit card, drivers license, cash, chap stick, maybe a breath mint, and a sharpie...just in case.  A purse might be necessary if said fan needs...feminine stuff.

Fanatic:  Well, the fanatic is OF COURSE carrying a purse made out of the musician's latest record cover.  She cannot go to a concert without the following:  three things to autograph.  Three sharpies, one of which will be silver,  all of her makeup; comb, brush, hairspray; perfume bottle, toothbrush, tweezers, and an extra pair of pantyhose.  AND A BIG POSTER with the musician's name.

(While I HAVE carried a satchel of stuff in the past, I've slimmed it down to a wallet and a sharpie.)

4)  Extra stuff:

Fan:  A fan might put on some nail polish, perhaps do the toes if she's wearing sandals, but that's always just an option.  Jewelry is generally simple, but nice.

Fanatic:  Manis and pedis for everyone!  Jewelry will be made of guitar picks or the actual teeth of the musician. 

(If I wear the sandals, I'll do my toes because I have toenails that seem to attract toe jam like a magnet...and that's gross.  But I really can't wear fingernail polish because I have a chronic issue with hangnails and getting nail polish or worse, nail polish remover in my hangnails is not fun.  But, since it's probably going to be cold, at least for the show on Wednesday, I'm not really worried about the toes because I'll probably wear my pink clogs.  While I won't be wearing any guitar picks, I do have an Italian charm bracelet and one of the charms is a photo of Rick...so there's that.)

Well my friends, how do I rate?  Fan or fanatic?  I'm eager to hear the results!

If I were a 34DDD my life would be far simpler!

Good evening!

I'm so sorry...Blogger was down much of the last two days, so I wasn't able to give you a Laundry List Friday...well, Blogger was down and I forgot the brilliant list in my head.  I really must write these things down!

Anyway, yesterday, for no real reason...and CERTAINLY NOT because I 'm going to a Rick Springfield concert next week.. (Yes, Dee had to call me today and remind me that the concert is NEXT week, NOT the following week.)  I went bra shopping.

Like most women, I hate bra shopping.  Oh sure, I know the stats, two thirds of all women are wearing the wrong sized bra.  Well, I would WEAR the right sized BRA if BRA makers would MAKE BRAS to a standard size.  BUT, like every other piece of clothing made for a woman, bra sizes vary from company to company and from style to style.  I've held up a 42 C and a 44 C in a bra  and the cup was completely different.  Hey, more inches doesn't mean a bigger cup.  A C should be a C should be a C.

I'm betting if that were the case, more women would wear the correct size bra.  But I could go get measured  (oh yeah, naked for a store clerk...like it's not humiliating enough when I have to get naked for a doctor.) but really, every store is going to measure for the right size for the bra in their store.  Since I can't afford the bras they sell in the stores where they offer free bra sizing, I sort of have to go with what feels right.  And that varies, like I said, from size to size, cup to cup, maker to maker, and style to style.

Let me bring up, too, how bras are displayed in most stores.  On those stupid plastic hangers with the A cups either in the front or at the top, meaning that the C cups and D cups are either behind everything or at the bottom.  It's sort of like hunting for a buried treasure.  "AHA!  I've got a 44C  Whoop hoop!"  If the Titanic was a 44C bra, we'd still be looking for it.

Guys, you have no idea how much work goes into bra shopping.  Seriously.  You guys go in to buy underwear and your biggest decision is Boxers or Briefs.

We have a menu that would make Gorden Ramsey confused.  Push up, minimizer, deep plunge, full coverage, padded, under wire, wire free, side support, racer back, strapless, cotton, T-shirt, satin, padded shoulders,  colors, white, beige, and, my favorite "modesty petals."


Now I love to shop at Kohl's because I'm one of those people who enjoys the use of their liberal return policy.  Having worked at Kohl's I can tell you that finding a plus sized bra there...even in their "plus sized" bra department...is truly a quest.  I'm sorry, just "plus size" should denote both cup size and band measurement...not just cup size.  I saw a 34 DDD in there.  Seriously...Other than Barbie, who is wearing a 34 DDD?  Not a plus sized girl, that's for certain.  But apparently, in the world of Kohl's  (and Walmart, Target, Sears, any shop that isn't  "specialty" shop that will cost you half your paycheck just to get one bra)  bra sizes STOP at 44.   Period.  Game over.  No one who shops at any normal store is EVER GOING TO NEED A BIGGER BAND THAN A 44.  And by the way...the 44's are all that common, so let's just bury the one we have under 16 of those 34 DDD's we've got.

Do you understand now why US women aren't wearing the right bra size?  It's too hard to find!

Most of the time I just wait until the Playtex bras in the little plastic bags go on sale.  They're clearly marked, they're one step up from jog bra  (I actually prefer them to jog bras...which tend to ride up my neck and itch.)  and it's quick dive into the bra department and back out.  No fuss, no muss.

But ya know, every once in a while a girl likes to fancy up her girls.  Every once in a while, say about the time a girl is going to a...concert maybe...she wants a bra that makes her feel a little more like a female person and less like someone forced to wear a couple sweaty dough balls under her shirt.

So I went to Kohl's in search of a bra that would lift  the girls a bit, point them in the same direction, and maybe take ten years and 50 pounds off.  (Who am I kidding.  I'm always looking for something that will take 50 pounds off.)

Oh there are miles and miles and MILES of bras that lift, curve, soften, minimize, form fit.  I found one that said, "Age appropriate lift."  That's good...after all, I'm not 20, the girls are not going to be at level 1 anymore.  It wouldn't look natural.  But age appropriate lift?  Sign me up!

Shopping for the right size: It's the "Where's Waldo" of the undergarment world.

I picked up two bras, two different companies, both 42 C.  Now I know...I'm a 44...but I've lost 21 pounds.  Some of that had to be back fat, right?  Besides, I'd worked up a sweat looking for a 44 C to no avail.  I should be a 42, right?

Next stop, the check out.

Have you been to the Kohl's check out?

I know every store has their own credit card and they want you to have that card, but Kohl's is on a mission.  It's the one thing that bugs me.  Every five minutes they break into the MUZAK and blather on about the great discounts Kohl's customers get.

Well, Hubby has a card.  We abuse that enough.  I've applied for my own, and been turned down.  There is NOTHING like being turned down for a store credit card while you are in line at that store.  Never, ever again.  I just use his.

But I didn't have his this trip, I was using the good old debit card. 

"Do you have a Kohl's card?"

"My husband does."

"Do you want one of your own?"

"No, thank you."

Now at this point a normal person would check out my stuff and move on. Not this terrier in a Vera Wang cardigan.  Oh no.

"Are you sure?  You could save so much money today."

"No, thank you."

"You know I have one, I use it then I go to customer service and pay the bill right away."

(So then I would have to check out my bras twice at the same time?)  "No, it's okay, thanks."

"But you'd be saving so much money and then you'd have your own card."

SERIOUSLY?  At this point a line is forming and I, because I don't like being a bother to anyone, was feeling a bit embarrassed.  (I know...me....right?)

"No, thank you.  I do not want a card today."

Vera Wang Cardy sighed.  "I thought I'd get one with you."

Why?  Am I wearing a sign:  Pester me, I'll sign up for your credit card?  Really?

So I got home, pretty much in a rage.  Not only did I have to spend an hour trying to find a bra...but the check out harassment made me furious.

What is it they say, "Don't try on bras angry?"

Oh, did I not mention that I LOATHE the try on rooms in stores?  Please.  They are evil, they are small, the smell weird, and I can't get over the idea that someone is watching me.  So I try on stuff at home.  Hence I shop at Kohl's because of their return policy.

So I got home, raging, and struggled into bras...which did not go well.  I broke one of those stupid plastic hangers...tore the tags off of one of them while trying to adjust the straps which were set to the tightest setting. (Something I didn't realize until I'd tried to put it on..the lift was not age appropriate...it was stifling!) 

And will someone please explain why bras need SIX TAGS?

Now, 24 hours later, I'm happy to relay to you that I've found a bra, after my second trip, that fits nicely and makes me feel pretty.  I probably should save one of the six tags so that when I get paid next I'll go buy six of them...if I can find six.  Since it's a 44C, I'll probably have to go to six stores.  If only I could be a 34DDD...my life would be so simple!

No teenagers were harmed in the writing of this blog...yet.

Good morning all!

First let me get this off my chest:  TWO WEEKS UNTIL I SEE RICK SPRINGFIELD IN CONCERT!

Whew!  Thank you, now I return to you to my regularly scheduled rant.


Those of you who have teenagers will recognize this story very well.  Skippy is seventeen and as such, he believes that he is all grown up and therefore on his own completely.  Now, this does not cover things like his phone, most of his gas money, car insurance, laundry...cleaning his room, or lunch money.  But other than that, he's completely independent of us!

Generally, as long as he tells us where he's going and who he's with, we don't dig too deep. We've met most of his friends, and most of their parents.  As for a curfew, he has one, and the rule is if he thinks he's going to be late, he needs to call.  So far, that hasn't been a problem.

Well, a couple weeks ago, Skippy decided he was even more independent of us than normal.  "I'm going to a bonfire tonight," he calls over his shoulder on his way out the door for his school day.

That was the last we saw of him for a lot of hours.  He didn't come home after school.  I sent him a text asking where he was.  No response.  Another text.  No response.  After the third text I got back a terse response that he was at a bonfire, as he had informed me.

What followed was a flurry texts that all parents can construct and all children have ignored.

I was sort of frantic.  Hubby, far more laid back and therefore far more trusting, said, "He's fine.  He's with his friends."

He went to bed.  I fell asleep on the couch.

I woke at 1:30 in the morning with that gut feeling that something wasn't right.  I checked the driveway and sure enough, Skippy's car wasn't there.

In a panic, I sent several texts to Skippy, with no response.  That's when I rousted Hubby from his slumbers.  He got out into the car and started that drive by of every spot where we know Skippy hangs out.  Meanwhile, I continued the frantic texting.

Every parent has this fear, that something has happened to their kid and they have no idea where the child is.  Images of crashed cars, flashing lights, kids in traction, run through our heads.  Such was my brain until 2 AM when Hubby sends me this message:

"His car is at his friend's N's house."

Having found the car, and seeing that car wasn't crushed, I was relieved.  Which, if you know your Cosby Show references, meant we moved on to the next parental emotion:  RAGE.

Hubby texted N, responded right away that yes, Skippy was there and yes, he had fallen asleep and N could not rouse him.

Satisfied that the boy wasn't dead, Hubby returned home and promptly went to bed.

How are men so able to just fall asleep like that?  Seriously, Hubby could fall asleep in the middle of a rock concert during a thunderstorm.  Nothing phases him when it's time to sleep, not bills, not thoughts about the kids, nothing.  The minute he lies down, he is asleep.  Period.  Game over.

So Hubby is asleep and so, apparently is Skippy.  Who's sitting, wide awake, on the couch in the middle of night?

You guessed it!

I must have drifted off at some point because when I woke around 8, Hubby was up and asked, "When did Skippy get home?"

I never realized he was home, but sure enough, there was his car, parked in the driveway.

We of course had some questions for Skippy.  Somewhere between his time of waking  (noon) and his time of showering  (noon o seven)  We had a conversation that went something like this:

"Why didn't you let us know where you were last night?"

"I told you.  I was at C's house for a bonfire."

"No, you said you were going to a bonfire.  I've never heard C's name."

"Well, I told you, you don't listen."

(I let that one pass.)

"So we tried texting you and you didn't respond."

"I did."

"One time to one text.  But we asked you questions about where you were and you ignored the texts."

"I didn't have my phone most of the time at the bonfire.  Then we went to N's house and my phone died."

(Since the day he got the phone, I haven't seen him without it.  I had been under the impression he texted in the shower.)

"Why didn't you let us know you were at N's house?"

"Because my phone died."

"So you couldn't use N's phone to let us know what you were there?"

"That's N's phone."

Ah...and there, my friends, is the real problem.  I was not aware of this but apparently cell phones only work when being used by their owner.  Sort of like some Harry Potter wand thing or something.  I know I've let other people use my phone and it hasn't been a problem, so it must be some evil spell that's cast over a teen's phone.  That seems to be the theory Skippy is sticking to.

Our wands...and our cell phones...ONLY work for us!

The good news is, no one was actually injured, because everything Skippy told us was the truth.  I guess,  it's nice to know that his party animal energy runs out at 9 PM on a Friday.  It's even nicer, I suppose, that he did manage to get himself home, albeit late.  But of course, that's probably my St. John's Wart talking. 

You can be sure, though, that Skippy's phone is fully charged...and will be from now on.

Laundry List Friday: 5 Things that have changed in our culture.

Hello all!

I'm not sure if anyone else has noticed, but there are a few things that have changed, subtly, in our culture, and as I notice them, I realize some of these changes are funny!  So of course I'm going to share them with you!

5)  Seriously, a messenger pigeon might be a good idea.


In a culture where we have mail, email, land lines, cell phones, texting, instant message, Face book, and Twitter, have you noticed that you still have to get a hold of people to ask them if they are coming to your event?  I used to sell Party lite Candles, and I know that if you invite someone to anything, they are not going to get a hold of you. Granted, this is only a problem if, you know, you're feeding these people and need to know just how many servings of bananas Foster you need to have ready.  Yes, I'm totally guilty of it, too...My friend, let's call her Babs, invites me to parties all the time...and I'm woeful in RSVP-ing...(And Babs...I have to see, but I do want to come to your Tupperware party...just have to check!)

4)  Yes, but if you wait 4 hours to call a doctor...you're a moron.

My friends, ads for medicine have taken over TV, and some of them are horrifying.  I'm not telling anyone anything they don't know.  Just turn on the TV and listen.  When my grandmother got her first television back in the dawn of time, the first thing she saw was an animated cartoon pig pulling on a girdle.  She turned off the TV immediately and said, "If that's the sort of filth that TV brings, we are not watching it!"  Now...my 14 year old daughter knows all the side effects of pills for erectile dysfunction. 

3)  Well, that song is number one among teen boys age 13-14 with low self esteem and brown hair...so it's a chart topper.

What's your long distance dedication?

When I was a teen, we listened to Kasey Kasem count them down.  Everyone knew the top 40 songs of the week.  Everyone...yes EVERYONE was singing "Physical" by Olivia Newton John...and not getting the joke.  (There Todd, that's for you.)  Now, I don't pretend to be cool when it comes to music.  I love Rick Springfield and anything 80's and frankly, I'm happy in my cocoon.  Granted, I am aware of the noises emitting from my children's rooms and I do listen to County music at work.  Not because I like it  (I don't) but because that's what we've agreed upon as work day background noise.  But what I've seen in the last few years is a  loss of unity when it comes to music. 

Skippy goes to concerts by groups like "Jimmy Eat World" and "Yellowcard."  If you've heard of these bands, you rock.  Peaches, now beyond the Hannah Montana days, enjoys the musical stylings of "All time Low" and "Never Shout Never."  I'm not well versed in these groups...but it would seem, neither are a lot of people. 

Oh yes, there's still a countdown...but with iTunes ruling the musical world, and opening the door to a lot of artists that would never have made it to note one in the Music Video Age of the 80's, there are so many more options, that even the rebellious kids aren't rebelling to the same anthem.

2)  Just wait honey, the nice lady dancing on the pole will bring you a root beer in a moment.

Okay...what is UP with everything being "FAMILY FRIENDLY?"  Seriously...try finding an eatery that doesn't gleefullly promote "KIDS EAT FREE!"  There used to be places adults could go to avoid the mewling wails of other people's children.  No more.  Now that my kidlings want little to do with me, I like to go out and enjoy a grown up time.  But I can't because every place has a kids' menu, which means kids go there. 

But wait, you say...what about that bastion of adult activity...LAS VEGAS? 



Nope.  Let's ignore the porn brochure dudes on the street or the car toppers on every cab showing a young misguided girl making a bad career choice.  Vegas is marketing itself to families...with children!  I was watching "Top ten water parks in the world" and guess what?  VEGAS HAD ONE OF THEM.

Strollers on the Strip.   Kid's menus at Caesars Palace.  It's a sure sign of the Apocalypse.

1)  BYOB....everywhere!

Growing up if you were thirsty, you went in to your house and you got a drink of water or something.  If you were someplace other than home, you looked around for a water fountain.  (Okay, for my Wisconsin readers...BUBBLER.  I was raised in Michigan...I'm bilingual.)



Now no one goes anywhere without a beverage in hand.  It's like everything is Vegas, only instead of free margaritas, we're carrying $4 coffees, flavored waters, or diet sodas everywhere. 

And when I say everywhere, I mean everywhere...I see people bringing bottled water in to church!  (Now, I've been known to smuggle an adult beverage into a movie theater...so would it be wrong to maybe bring a wine cooler to church if I know the sermon is going to be extra long?  That would be wrong...right?)

I wish I were the guy who invented plastic bottles and then the guy who convinced us that we were so thirsty all the time we could NOT POSSIBLY GO A MINUTE WITHOUT A BEVERAGE IN HAND!

If I'd been that guy...I wouldn't be sitting here today!

That's my list for the week friends.  Happy Weekend!

Well, at least I have a career goal now.

Warning...this evening's post pokes gentle fun at the older section of the population. (I'm taking a break from poking huge fun at myself.) If you are easily offended...well you probably haven't ever read this blog before!  Please do not be offended....no one was actually harmed in the writing of this blog...





Good evening!

I'm taking a bit of break from editing my soon to be released suspense novel "Lies in Chance"  (got you thinking now, don't I)  to share with you one of those moments in modern life when you simply want to commit some sort of physical violence. 

As many of you know, I do a lot of volunteering, especially at Peaches' parochial school where, it seems, while we have more than 150 children, none of these children have parents.  Just mine and a few of the other kids are fortunate enough to have parents.  The others, if you look at whose is volunteering, were apparently hatched on the steps of the school and left.

Anyway, since I'm one of those moms who knows her way around the school kitchen, I have, in recent months, been in charge of ordering and picking up decorated cakes for various events.  I'm not saying I've picked up a lot of cakes this spring, but today the bakery didn't even need my name when I showed up.

I get my cakes from one of those giant members only food club places.  (I won't mention names....let's call it  "Ham's Klub.")  The bakery is at the back of the store, which is about a mile and a half from where I parked my car at the front of the store.  (KRAM, take note...I was not slacking today.  I was just getting my steps in elsewhere.)

I picked up the cake, and hauled it to the check out, at the front of the store.  If you've been to one of these places you know that a couple of things are absolutely certain:

1)  There are never enough cashiers for the number of people checking out.

2)  The cashiers that are there are either just coming off of a break, getting ready for a break, or thinking about a break, and therefore are not really in tune with what is actually happening in their line.

3)  There are no express lanes and you will, no matter which line you get into, wind up behind the person who is filling every vending machine in the Upper Midwest.  And all his items have to be checked one at a time.

I thought I'd gotten lucky, however, because I got behind a woman who only had five things.  And the person in front of her was practically done checking out. 

So I broke my rule of never getting into a line where a man is the clerk. (Sorry...what's the line from Up in the Air?  "I stereotype...it saves time.")  Bonus, the gent was a bit older...but I was feeling really, really lucky.  After all, I had one item.  ONE. This was going to be a breeze.

I got in the line and then I do what all good shoppers do, I looked for that plastic bar that separates my stuff from the stuff in front of me and the stuff behind me.  There was only one bar and the guy behind me was holding 6 cases of that five hour energy stuff.  Really...six cases. He looked tired, so I put the only plastic bar I could find down behind my cake, which was the only thing I was getting, and we started chatting a bit.  (Turns out, the load of energy stuff isn't for him.  He's smuggling it to the Wisconsin North woods where a friend of his loves it but doesn't want to pay $3 a bottle.)

Anyway, as the woman in front of me was checking out, I held back my cake so that it wouldnt' get confused with her stuff.  She checked out, and it was my turn.  I handed the octogenarian my card  (and I'm all for active seniors in the workplace, but this gent was not exactly what I would call..."active. " Or...."Alive."  Think "Night of the living Dead," and you're a bit closer.)

The gent scanned my cake, set it in my cart and I swiped my card.  Game over, right?

Would I be blogging if that were the case?

Better than a "No Trespassing sign."

While Mr. Crypt Keeper was capable of keeping my cake separate from the order in front of me without the aid of a plastic bar...the presence of a plastic bar behind me was a speed bump he flew over altogether...and he started ringing up cases of energy stuff. 

Really...who ignores the plastic bar?  I recall a comedian talking about how that plastic bar was THE most powerful thing known to man because it could stop anything....Except, I guess, Captain Spongebath Ancient Pants.

Chatty Dude behind me was strangely silent...like I was going to nicely pay for his contraband.

Yeah...no.

"Those are not mine."  Says I.  "Only the cake is mine."

This caused a general raising of heads...Chatty Dude looked up from staring at his feet.  General Geriatric looked up from his scanning. 

"Really?"  Says the doddering darling.

"Really," says I.

Insert great dramatic sigh here.  Not mine...the check out guy's.  "Well, I have to get a manager to over write this."

I'm thinking, in this day and age, all he would have to do is call said manager with the magic touch to come to his register.  But such is not the practice at "Ham's Klub."  No, no.  Superoldman then left his register in search of the manager. This search took, as you can imagine, a couple minutes because, well, he wasn't exactly hustling.

He returned with manager in tow.  She cleared something on the register and then left.  She left with such speed I didn't even see her leave.  However, she left too soon because Mr. Lord of the Tree Rings stared at his register for another couple of minutes before announcing that he needed to get the manager again to clear something else because he'd rung up "high value" items. 

I had no idea a $36 case of energy juice was high value.  Wonder what he would have done if he'd mistakenly rung up a flat screen LED TV.  

Anyway....this now involved another search for the manager, who, as I mentioned, had taken wing and flown away.  So using all the powers he had, Captain Caveman wandered aimlessly for a few more minutes looking for the manager.  He found her, brought her back, had her say some magic words or something (at this point I was on the verge of a good old superhero quick change myself.  David Banner, anyone?)

After roughly a lifetime...or a good solid 20 minutes, I finally got through the line...of course, I'm moderately positive my debit card got hit for two cakes and roughly 90 gallons of 5 hour energy, but at least I was free.

Until I got to the door and a woman, who I think played golf with Babe Dietrich, had to check me out.  (Because you know, once you've gone through the line at these places, the very next thing you're going to do is shoplift a 50 pound bag of bread flour on the way out the door.)  Now I shouldn't have had to even slow down for this one...but when the very first Miss America wants to read the inscription on the cake...well, you let her I guess.

So let's review:  Pick up a cake.  3 miles of walking, 20 minutes of standing, roughly $100 in debits I'm going to have to clear up with my bank tomorrow, and a "Oh very nice" from the oldest living woman in the world.

Ya know what?  I can't WAIT until I'm old and I can irritate the young and the hurried...it's a career goal!

You've made your point, now please put some clothes on!

Good morning!

My friend Marie is going to think that this story is one that she shared with me a while back, but I will tell you...it is not!  And I will say that when Marie shared her story with me, I thought...well, that will happen in a city like the one Marie lives in, but certainly not in my hometown.  NOT IN MY HOME TOWN.

Well, it happened.

You all know that I go to Gold's gym.  I'm one of those people who will either be dressed for a workout before I come in, or if I'm getting into the pool, I'll typically go into a stall and change in there.  Sometimes I'll change by a locker, but most of the time I'm too self conscious.  And, it has been my experience, so are most of the women who frquent the locker room there at Gold's.  While there might be the momentary nudity near the lockers, it's fleeting and, if nudity could be described this way, modest.

Until a couple weeks ago.

I'd just finished the brutal hour that is Body Vive.  It's brutal for a bunch of reasons, the biggest of which being it's on a Saturday morning. 

Anyway, Dee and I were grabbing our things from the locker room when SHE appeared.

By SHE, I mean this tall, perfectly tanned  woman.  SHE was standing in the walkway from the lockers to the door.  SHE was...I'm not sure what she was doing in front of the mirror.  Her hair was perfect, her make up was on...

Oh yeah, and she was COMPLETELY NAKED.

SHE was probably in her mid to late 40's, judging by her face....I was trying really hard not to look anyplace else.  I've never seen any woman of any race with so perfect a skin tone, her arms were exactly the same skin tone as parts of her body that, on a mere mortal, would never feel the warm rays of the tanning bed.  And if everything in her physique was real, then I might be inspired to do a bit more weight lifting because I've never seen a woman over the age of 20 with such perfect, perfect...you know...mammary glands.  Seriously, I have to wear bras with all manner of shaping support and iron bars to get the effect SHE had just standing there in front of the mirror.

Everyone in the locker room noticed SHE. You could not miss SHE.  And there was a definite air of awe, as if some sort of ancient diety that we aren't quite familiar with but we know we should give respect to just showed up.  The rest of us pale, non-naked human females scuttled around her hoping small dusting of the gloriousness she was so graciously sharing with us would perhaps fall on us.

After a good workout at Gold's, a quiet moment in the park is what every tall, perfect, naked woman longs for.

And there SHE stood.  In front of the mirror.  Just looking at herself.  

I give Dee a huge gold star because Dee, who works at the club and pretty much knows everyone there, stopped and chatted with her for a moment.  I don't know what they talked about because all I could hear in my head is, "Yes, you're perfect...PUT SOME CLOTHES ON!" 

Now friends, you know I'm hardly a prude.  I've got R rated movies in my DVD collection.  I've read "Wifey" by Judy Blume.  I write love scenes for my novels.  But when it comes to uneccessary...and dare I say it...blatant boastful nudity, I'm out the door. 

And yes, I am using that as my biggest reason why I haven't been back to Gold's in nearly two weeks.  Yes, that's my reason and I'm standing by it...it has nothing to do with the fact that I've been lazy lately.  Not at all....really.  So when I do show up, no one gets to pick on me....

The trees do TO talk to each other!

Good evening all!

When you are in a long relationship with someone, you find yourself returning to certain things over and over.  It might be an inside joke.  It might be a movie line that you quote to each other.  Maybe it's a song lyric.  It's some little, generally verbal, thing that is one of the million tiny bricks in the wall that is your relationship.

Hubby and I do all of those things, often to the embarrassment of our children.  But the thing we come back to, like a sportscaster bringing up whether or not Pete Rose should be allowed into the Baseball Hall of Fame  (see...I speak MAN), is this question:

Do trees communicate with each other?

I know, I know.  It seems like a completely stupid question because of COURSE trees communicate with each other.

Wait...what?

You don't agree with me?

ARE YOU COMPLETELY WITHOUT A SOUL?

Okay, let me back up.  When we were dating, you know, before movie rentals and the Internet and cable TV took up our time,  Hubby and I went for long walks.  In the interest of not revealing too much because the children might be listening, I will say that we walked...and walked...and WALKED for miles.  Walking and talking and that's ALL WE DID ON THOSE WALKS EVER.

And when all you do on a date is walk and talk, sometimes, even the most pretentious college students can run out of things to debate.  And Hubby and I were hardly what you'd call pretentious.  So we'd resort to just saying words until something sounded like a topic of discussion.  Such was the case of the trees. 

We were in my hometown of Manitowoc, WI...and for those of you who have read or are about to read Dream in Color, yes, Cobia is patterned after Manitowoc...(and for those of you who haven't read the book...what is WRONG with you?  Romantic comedies make AWESOME mother's Day gifts!)...and we were walking along New York Avenue, where my parents had their house.  (Take a self guided tour of Sarah J. Bradley's old home town!)

Since it was late and I was really tired of walking and talking I looked up at the trees, because that's what people in love do sometimes when you are in a town where pretty much everyone knows either you or your dad, so getting caught making out in your boyfriend's car while parked in the cemetery is just not an option.  (Oh...wait...I mean, when you've been WALKING AND TALKING FOR HOURS because your parents won't go to bed so you can make out in the living room...oh this is not getting better, is it?)  And looking at the trees, I spouted out these words:

Do you think that trees, like really old trees, maybe trees that have grown up in front of a house and been there when the kids grow up and move away and the grand kids come and stuff...do you think those trees sort of communicate with each other?

Oh I can hear you all scratching your heads right now.  Believe me, Hubby, in the foolishness of his youth, howled out loud with laughter.  Well, he did until he realized I was being serious.  Which I didn't realize I was being until he laughed at me.

And thus a debate was born.

He's the sensible, grounded one who says no, of course trees don't communicate.  "Trees are plants.  They don't talk."

I'm the  flighty one who says, "Who said anything about talking?  I mean communicate, like a whisper among themselves."

Believe it or not, this debate has withstood the test of time.  In twenty plus years of marriage, we've come to agreement on the topics of religion, parenting, politics, and whose relatives to invite to Christmas Eve dinner.  (Answer...invite everyone and let them decide if they're coming.)

But the tree thing...that rages on.

I had a major victory a number of years ago when "Lord of the Rings" introduced those of us who hadn't gotten past "The Hobbit" to the magical creatures called "Ents."  These Ents, as you might have guessed were TREES!  Tolkien agrees with ME!  Score one for ME!

Well, until Hubby points out that Tolkien wrote FICTION...

Whatever dude.  The trees communicate with each other.  Don't believe me?  Then tell me it's not a conspiracy that every single tree in our yard doesn't drop leaf ONE until AFTER the final city leaf pick up in the fall.  That's the trees getting even with Hubby for not BE  wait for it  LEAVING.

And now, my friends, I bid you farewell, and good night.  I'm off to watch Mr. Rick Springfield in Hawaii 5-0.  YEEE  and HAAAA!