I'm a Hottie

As if receiving my AARP (American Association for Retired Persons) membership in the mail when I turned 50 wasn't bad enough...look at what my postman dropped in the box today.

Yep, that's right...it's MENOPAUSE time. But, hey, lucky for me...if you read the fine print...there is good news...Yippee!

I'll finally be getting rid of those monthly inconveniences. Wow, this is good news...no more bills!
Can you believe it? You see those two nice ladies above? They are taking on my monthly bills...and couldn't be happier about it.

But that's not all...I'm gonna be hot. And flashing.

It took fifty years, but I'm finally going to be considered hot!. Apparently I will now be considered so hot, that I can run around the streets flashing. YES!... a reason to wear that London Fog I bought last year.

Who woulda thunk it...hot and flashing at 50! This aging thing just gets better and better by the month.

It's hard to believe this time has come. It seems like just a mere 38 years ago I became a "lady" for the first time.

I remember it like it was yesterday. It was 1964, fourth grade, when my elementary school had seperated the boys and girls...taking us into the auditorium for that special "talk". By the time the "talk" was over, all I knew was that soon, I would have a new "friend" and I would become a "lady".

This friend, who might also be referred to as "Aunt Flo" or "The Visitor" , would be coming for a weeks stay each and every month.

For the next three years, I would look out the window once a month, waiting for a nice little old Jewish lady named Aunt Flo, to show up at my door (perhaps with a babke).

And every month the same thing...no Aunt Flo.

But one day, after waiting at that window for three whole years...on a warm summer California day at the beach...my visitor came...Aunt Flo had arrived.

SURPRISE...Aunt Flo was no aunt. And she didn't bring a babke. And I felt like no lady.

And this "friend" would show up on my doorstep the same time each month (unless, of course, she chose to surprise me and arrive a little late).

She would show up doing her best Mike Tyson impression...socking me in the stomach, leaving me doubled over with cramps.

Hmmmm, that doesn't sound like a friend I would keep around for very long. But this "friend" stuck by me for more years than I care to say.

How loyal...longer than most marriages. I guess you could say, that because of her, I was able to have two children.

And now, partly because of her, at the age of 50, I am finally considered HOT!

Maybe she wasn't such a bad friend afterall.

A Post Of Substance...Finally

After much contemplation, introspection, and review of the comments I received on my previous post, I have decided to accept Neil's challenge to write something of substance.

Now, since it really is not me to write politically, I have chosen another subject which I deem as apropos, educational, and psychologically relevant.

I have to give a hat tip to my own mother, who just this morning sent me this provocative article.

It comes via the year 1955, which is, coincidentally, the exact year I first made my appearance on this earth. (Well, Shirley Maclaine might not agree, but let's just go with it).


I thought that perhaps, I could address the psychological soundness of each of these points, as they relate to my own personal marital relationship.

Although I will be speaking on a personal level, I know that my conclusions may be generalized and thus, beneficial to the "world" marital population. So, let me begin:

Point 1:
Apparently, I have provided well for my husband in this particular area. I have been known to not only make advance reservations, but I have plenty of turkey sandwich materials at the ready, at all times.

Point 2:
Why, resting is first on my list! I think that a day of soap operas and Oprah, eating icecream and dousing myself in J.LO perfume, is a definite fulfillment of this suggestion.

Point 3:
(Be a little gay...hmmmm) Does offering to have Stacy Keebler of "Dancing with the Stars" join our evening festivities (wink wink) suffice? I think... probably.

Point 4:
Don't let cockroaches, ants, or various other sundry bugs that seem to gather from hiding old icecream bar and bon-bon wrappers underneath furniture, be a deterent to tidying up the house.

Point5:
Cheering your husband on as he accidentally takes a little ride on a skateboard left out in the hallway bodes well for this particular point.

Point6:
Yes, a fire is important in aiding in the cleanup of chocolate bars eaten throughout one's day.

Point7:
I have found, through the years, that tying my children up after a short beating has worked well in keeping them attentive and quiet around their daddy's arrival home from work.

Point 8 and 9:
Wrapping myself in nothing but Saran Wrap has notoriously worked well as a warm welcome, (except for the time he brought his partner home for dinner).

Point 10, 11, 12, 13:
I will attempt to tie these 4 together for sake of time and space.
I never greet him with complaints of the day...I always let him speak first. He says "hello", then I speak. I gently and slowly reveal how my day sucked, what broke, which kid drove me crazy, and which celebrity died that day. But all of this is done after he has had a chance to set down his keys and give me a kiss.

Point 14:
Why of course, I have never complained if he stays out all night. I silently change the locks.

Point 15 and 16:
After screaming at him in a gentle voice for 15 minutes about the ills of the day...while he makes his turkey sandwich...I invite my husband to lay comfortably on the floor, while I control the t.v. remote...I don't want him to exert any precious energy after a hard day at work.

Point 17:
I make all the decisions in our marriage, because I understand that my place is to NEVER question my husband.

Point 18:
I can only conclude from the preceeding answers, that I am, indeed, a good wife. I know and understand my place.

I only hope that I have achieved my goal of writing a post that will contribute to the psychological well-being of married couples everywhere.

I only hope, that today, my blog, like others I faithfully read, will contribute something of substance...finally.

If I can achieve this, then I will know this blog has not been written in vain. ( or is it vein?)

It's Quittin' Time

I QUIT!!!




(Well, probably not really, but that's how I feel).

Now, I know this will seem like a plea for comments...so let me just say upfront,

IT'S NOT

It's just me, speaking aloud, my thoughts and feelings.

As I go around the blogosphere, I come to many blogs that are actually talking about important things.

Politics, war, literature, poverty, changing the world.

And here I sit typing about game shows, a dog I loved and lost as a child, pizza toppings, stripping in hotel rooms, and plastic coverings on furniture.

Basically, I write about absolutely nothing of consequence, importance, or bettering the world.

So, I go back to the question, as so many bloggers seem to do at one point or another (in fact, I think I may have already written about this...see, that's what being 50 does, the memory brain cells decrease).

Why do this? Why write inane little stories, that do nothing to make a difference in this world?

Actually, in all honesty, I have no idea.

And, why put it out for public consumption?
I have been enjoying this new pursuit of writing, so why not just keep my own private journal?

The feedback is fun, no doubt about it. For some unknown reason, people come by and read my inane little posts and even take the time to comment.

But, I found myself waking up this morning feeling quite guilty and pathetic all rolled into one.

YUCK...BLEH...BLAH

Why bother writing if you aren't making a difference? Why bother writing if you have nothing provacative to say?

When ever I see another blogger asking similar questions of themselves, I think:

"Oh shut up and write. If you enjoy it, write. If you don't, don't".
So, my conclusion?

No clue...

I can't become something I'm not...highly political, a well-read literary scholar, a current events aficionado, or an expert on child-rearing.

So, do I just keep writing inane things...wake up feeling guilty and pathetic every few weeks... eat some chocolate and hopefully get over it for a few more weeks?

(Christ, even this very post does absolutely nothing to help better the world).

Or, do I really try to become someone important. Someone of value. Someone of substance. Someone who is really making a contribution.

I just don't know.

Send chocolate, and I'll let you know later.

Hey Howie!

Deal or No Deal...









What's the deal with this show? My younger son and I are addicted.

We yell and scream at the t.v.

We know which case to open...
why don't they listen to us?

We know when they should take the deal...
why don't they listen to us?

And then there are the models, but that's another show in and of itself.

I call it...

Real or No Real!

This show is almost as good as ice cream.

("I am younger son, and I approve this post")

I smell a rat...pack, that is

Call me a relic, call me what you will
Say I'm old-fashioned, say I'm over the hill
Today' music ain't got the same soul
I like that old time Standards

Have you ever found yourself feeling like you should have been born just a tad earlier?

I love the Standards...the music of the 30's, 40's, 50's, and even the non-rock-n-roll music of the 60's.

Don't get me wrong. I have always LOVED rock and roll. So much so, that when I was eight years old, my girlfriends and I would play "Beatles". I, of course, always married Paul when we played this particular game. He was the cute Beatle, after all. (He even had a second chance to have me, and apparently forgot to take it)

I loved (and still do):
The Beach Boys
The Doors
Chicago
Crosby, Stills, and Nash, and Young
Rolling Stones
...just to name a few. The list could go on and on, but that's not really the point.

The point is this...I love the Standards. I love the music of George and Ira Gershwin, Cole Porter, Henry Mancini, Irving Berlin.

To me, there is no better voice than Frank Sinatra...NONE...don't even bother to try and convince me otherwise. (unless you want to end up with a horse's head in your bed).

Dean Martin sets me swooning, and Nat King Cole... fah-get about it.
Sammy Davis Jr., well, an amazing all around entertainer.

I could listen to this music all day and night.

Oh, and showtoons...Pu-leeeze, is there anything better? NO, I don't think so. There is nothing quite like finding your inner broadway star, and running with it.

I recently found a radio station that plays showtoons every evening...poor Mr. Cruisin.

About a year and 1/2 ago I discovered a singer, Steve Tyrell...he sings all of the standards but with a great kind of raspy voice. He is a producer and music arranger as well.

With Rod Stewart doing several albums of standards, and the success of Michael Buble, it is obvious to me, that I am not alone in my thinking.

Maybe it's just because the melodies and the words are timeless. Can't every generation relate to and appreciate beautiful music and romantic lyrics?

Perhaps it's my age, but I think that's just too easy. I would be willing to bet that some of you... even younger than me...sneak a little Frank every once in awhile.

Come on now...

ADMIT IT!

My night as a Stripper

Got your attention, didn't I

It was about 22 years ago, and "the girls" and I decided it was time for a weekend trip to Palm Springs. I was already seriously dating Mr. Cruisin, but you know, there's nothing like quality time with the ladies.

Bear with me, because it's hard to remember every detail. But what I do remember, is a night I will never forget.

Being in our late 20's, all of us working hard to support ourselves, none of us could afford to stay at a Ritz Carlton. So we took the practical route and registered for one room at something comparable to a Best Western. We figured, if we all crammed into one room...we'd save loads of money. (More to spend on food, of course).

So we checked into our "luxury" suite to unpack, get our bathing suits on and get to the pool and sun as fast as we could. While checking out our weekend digs, we noticed the floor to ceiling window in the front of the room.

This window not only had drapes that could be drawn, but a layer of mylar covering as well. Mylar window coverings really took off in the 60's as a way to block out heat. Perfect for Palm Springs.

Here's how it works...if you are looking at the window from the outside...it looks like a mirror. From the inside of the room, it looks like a regular window and you can see to the outside.

In other words, you did not need to draw the drapes, because from the outside, it was as if you were looking at a giant mirror.

The room was anything but great, but it was cheap, had a couple of beds, a shower and toilet. What else did 5 swingin' gals need? We were ON VACATION!!!

While sunning by the pool, I began to feel sick. Lucky me...finally on vacation, and I'm going to spend it being nauseated. GREAT.

When you're in your 20's and single, the whole goal of a trip to Palm Springs is to get a tan, eat, drink, and look for men (not me of course, I was spoken for).

So, after a full day of sun, it was time to go in and start getting ready for an evening of "women on the prowl". (okay, it wasn't really that bad...but what's a story without spicing it just a little).

As I sprawled out on the bed, continuing to feel sick...all of the other ladies were busy readying themselves for the evening. One by one, showers were taken, and as most women will do after a shower, they were in underwear putting on make-up, lotion, blow-drying hair...you know, all the normal things women do after taking a shower.

Talking and laughing ensued while getting "beautified" and trying to decide where to dine and spend the evening. I was laying there moaning and wishing my queasy stomach would just disappear.

As the the ladies continued to get ready, the phone in our room began ringing. It was a woman calling to tell us that we might want to pull the drapes shut.

Why, you might be asking? I'll tell you why. What we forgot to take note of was this...

Mylar, while during the day acts as a mirror on the outside...at night it works in reverse.

While we were now looking at a mirror on the inside, what we failed to realize was, that the mirror on the "outside" had now become a window.

The woman was calling to tell us we had, um, an audience.

We opened the door, only to discover about 20 people sitting in lawn chairs, just watching and laughing and applauding.

HOLY CRAP!!!

As you can imagine, humiliation set in, BIG TIME! My first (and admittedly selfish) thought at that moment was, "boy, am I glad I'm sick and laying here fully clothed"!).

My selfish thoughts, very quickly turned to my friends and the shear humiliation they were feeling. We didn't know whether to laugh or cry, because let's face it...at first it seemed kind of funny. I mean, really, how could we have been so dense as to not realize that the mylar reversed at night?

But any laughter quickly turned into this very icky feeling of disgust and fear. All of these people had seen my friends in their underwear. YUCK! I was teetering on feeling guilty for not being one of the girls sauntering around in my delicates too.

At that point, we all looked at eachother and agreed...we had to get out of there as quickly as possible. (The really awful part, was that there had been women sitting out there in the "audience", who didn't seem to feel an allegiance to "the sisterhood" and call us on the phone a lot sooner, to let us know of the free show we had been putting on).

We packed and ran out of there in record time. We couldn't get out of there fast enough.

And so began our trip back home. Vacation...gone. Rest and relaxation...gone.
HUMILIATION...here to stay, big time.

Of course, we hadn't eaten dinner yet, so on our way home we stopped to eat at Marie Calendar's. We all needed some nice warm soup to calm down our nerves. We ate, and talked, and laughed, and cried...knowing this would be a vacation we'd never forget.

I decided I had better call Mr. Cruisin to let him know I was on my way home...that our vacation had been brought to an abrupt halt.

I picked up a pay phone (yep, no cells in those days), and when I heard Mr. Cruisin's voice, I broke down in tears...

"Mr. Cruisin...you won't believe what happened to us tonight..."

And they called it...Puppy Love

This post is inspired by Wanderer's sweet pup, Bella

Some memories are forever etched into your heart.

I was 9 years old. My dad, who was battling with Leukemia at the time, was a 4th/5th grade school teacher. Not knowing he was ill and dying, I had no idea that every moment I spent with him, was leading up to final moments.

I was a lucky little girl. My dad, unlike most dads, came home early each day. He'd pull up in his Volkswagon Van, and I knew all was warm and safe with my world.

Being a school teacher, he had plenty of work to do at home. Papers needed to be graded, and I was chosen to be his "assistant".

I did not take my job lightly. I was given the all-powerful red pencil, and allowed to mark away.
Of course, I was given this task on "simple answer" assignments, but I knew I was important, nonetheless.

So the days would come and go. I'd get home from school, change into play clothes, devour milk and cookies, play Barbies, and wait for my dad to come home.

But one day, all of that was to change. My dad came home, just the same as always, but someone else was with him.

That someone else was a little beagle. My heart stopped. I couldn't believe my eyes. The only animals that had ever crossed my path were a goldfish, and a tiny little pet turtle named Sam.

My dad had been leaving his school, when he noticed this little beagle sitting by the schoolyard. He was alone and lost, and needing a place to go. So, my dad did what any gentle person would do, and brought him home to a safe, warm place.

My heart, my soul, and everything inside me was melting. This little beagle couldn't get enough of me, and I of her. She licked me and loved me like nothing I had ever before experienced.

I knew this beagle was meant to be mine.

She had no collar, so we didn't know her name. I knew that the first order of business would be to give her a name. I looked her in the eyes, and stared, searching for a clue to what that would be...and within an instant I had it!

Meatball...her name would be...Meatball!

Don't ask me why, but it just fit. Some people wait to gaze at their newborns to give them a name...they look and just know. Well, that was how it was with Meatball. For me, at the age of 9, it was as if someone had just handed me my new baby.

My dad told me we would keep Meatball over night, but if someone claimed her the next day, we would have to return her to her owner.

Now, I knew that was impossible. Meatball had come to me. It was no accident that my dad had found her. She was meant to be mine. I knew that with every fiber of my being.

She spent that night with me. We played and laughed and jumped and licked. It was an instant mutual love. I knew that Meatball would be mine forever!

The next day, my dad went off to work, with Meatball in tow. I hugged and kissed her, but had no doubt that she would be returning that afternoon.

All that day, I dreamed of Meatball. I thought about my new friend, how much fun we were going to have together, and how much we loved eachother.

I couldn't keep my eyes off the classroom clock, watching and hearing every tick tock in slow motion.

At last, the bell rang...I couldn't run home fast enough. I changed, had milk and cookies, and waited outside for the Volkswagon Van.

AT LAST!!! My dad pulled into the driveway. I was sure the whole neighborhood could hear my heart beating. I ran to his van faster than a speeding bullet.

But I noticed, something wasn't right. He slowly climbed out of the van, his head hanging low.

NO MEATBALL

How could this be? Where was she?

My dad had to gently break the news. Meatball's owners had come to claim her. She would be returning to her rightful home.

My beating heart had come to a halting stop. Meatball was forever gone. My new friend had been taken away as swiftly as she had entered my life. This was the first time I would come to understand the meaning of a broken heart.

From Meatball, I would learn about love, and loss, and moving through to the other side of grief.

I have often wondered if I knew at some deeper level that my dad was ill (even though I had not been privvy to this information).

I have often wondered if my unique and quick attachment to that sweet puppy, was something to hold onto amidst the impending chaos that would soon unfold in my life.

Perhaps that is overly analytical. But then again, maybe not. They say that children sense and know all that goes on in a home.

Maybe Meatball was there to teach me about the grief I would soon be facing.

When I think of her, memories of love and warmth come flooding back.

That furry little puppy taught me a lesson in love and loss, that I would never forget, even if it was for just a tiny moment in time.

And for that, I will forever be grateful to Meatball.

I Coulda Been a Contender

Yes, that's a picture of me.

Oh, I can't fool you anymore.

NOT really me. But, if I were the Queen, that's probably the position paparazzi would find me in.
So you're probably wondering, how is it that I've become so delusional, that I now see myself as the Queen of England.

I found out today, that this was not only a possibility, but an all out likelihood.

Mr. Cruisin sent me an email today with a link, detailing the SAT scores and grades for a few of our Presidential contenders (as well as one winner).

The results (assuming this is real, which we will for the sake of me having something to blog about) were quite shocking.

While the SAT scores were nothing to write home about, their grades were even worse.

Bush, Gore, Kerry all getting B's, C's, and D's in various courses, including government. And, yet, they all went on to be of high political stature.

Quite interesting, don't you think? Well, not exactly a shocker when it comes to our beloved President.

But, it started me thinking. I could have been president. I could have been Queen. WHY, I COULD HAVE BEEN KING.

I quickly wrote an email back to Mr. Cruisin, saying:

"Hey, Mr. Cruisin...according to this, I could have been president, or perhaps King of the World".

And you know what that man wrote back?...

"Actually, I was thinking more along the lines of the entire universe".

Isn't that sweet? He sees me as King of the Universe!

But that started me thinking...how did he mean that?

Was he saying I'm so special and incredible, that I could actually be King of the Universe?

Or was it possible that he was saying:
"Yeah, yeah, old big mouth...always think you're right, never wrong, controlling everyone and everything that crosses your path."

Whoa!...I opt for the former.

Now, the reason all of this got me thinking, is because I remember my SAT scores. Actually it's something I've tried to forget my entire life. They were not something to write home about.

As a matter of fact, I didnt' even tell my husband what they were until we had been married for two years, I was in the will, pregnant, and feeling like, "okay, this guy isn't gonna dump me now...too much on the line".

But the very thing that drove me underground, to never speak of again, I now come to find out, could have gotten me to the highest office in the land.

So what's the lesson learned here? It seems that all of the pushing and stress we put on our kids, the SAT courses starting at the age of 12, prep courses, algebra 2 in the 8th grade, etc., etc. all adds up to one thing...

Undo PRESSURE...and for what? Maybe we just need to let the SAT and grade "chips" fall where they may.

Who knows, you may be tucking in the next president of the United States tonight.

We're not in Kansas anymore, Toto!

Inspired by Danny Miller's wonderful post about the Oscar's, I just had to do a little research of my own.

The song that won for best original this year was, well, ORIGINAL.

What happened to the good old days of Oscar winning songs like, Over the Rainbow, or You Light Up My Life?

Now, I know I take the risk of being politically incorrect, but this is MY Blog, and I'll cry if I want to. So, here goes.

While perusing Oscar songs of the past, I found myself becoming nostalgic for the good ol' days of beautiful and meaningful love songs.

It's hard to imagine a boy serenading his girl in the back of a Chevy with the words "you know it's hard out here for a pimp". Now, I don't know about other women, but I might think twice about making out with a guy in the back seat of his car while singing the following to me:

Wait I got a snow bunny, and a black girl too
You pay the right price and they'll both do you

Call me old fashioned, but I tend to "get my romance on" when I hear:

Some day, when I'm awfully low,
When the world is cold,
I will feel a glow just thinking of you...
And the way you look tonight.

Let's see which song people will still be singing in 30 years.

The next discovery I made while doing my Oscar research was this:

While a lot of attention has been given to Brokeback Mountain and it's groundbreaking portrayal of a gay relationship, it became imminently clear to me, that this is a subject that has long been on Hollywood's mind. Why, just take a look at some of the movie titles that have given birth to Oscar winning songs:

The Gay Divorcee
Swing Time
Papa's Delicate Condition
Lovers and Other Strangers
Shaft
An Officer and a Gentleman
Dick Tracy
The Prince of Egypt
The Wonder Boys

All of those associated with Brokeback Mountain would like to take credit for this new idea, but I say this is obviously a theme as old as the first Academy Awards.

I mean, really, wasn't Oklahoma just the musical version of Brokeback Mountain?

(And, as Mr. Cruisin pointed out, Brokeback Mountain is nothing more than Same Time Next Year, with a special twist).

Maybe next year they'll try and sell us yet another "brand new", "groundbreaking" concept...Jewish Cowboy's Cattle Drive...(Not That There's Anything Wrong With That)

Who's fooling who? I think we all know that's City Slickers.

I can just hear the song now...

You know it's hard out here for a Jew...

I'm Okay, You're Okay

It's no coincidence that under the heading Cruisin-mom, are the words: "ramblings of a 50 year old".

Turning 50 is significant, a milestone, a road marker, if you will. Now, I really didn't do anything extraordinary to get here. Lot's of people turn 50. I'm well aware of that.

But when it happens to you, you tend to take notice.

I like to kid alot about looking good and having a funny personality, for someone 50, that is.

Make no mistake. All of that is bravado. It's the swagger I display to cover up what's really there.

What's really there, you ask? Well, where do I begin?

If you look back to my post about myself and David Letterman, that might provide the first clue. How good can a little girl feel when her teeth enter a room before she does? (My luck. Some women have their breasts enter a room before they do. Nope, not me. ME?...teeth.)

I was ridiculously shy growing up. Heaven forbid a teacher call on me in class. It was all I could do not to be noticed. Just try doing that with those teeth.

I quietly forged along, never feeling very good inside, or out, for that matter. I'm not alone in those feelings, I know that. Many kids grow up feeling low and wondering what and who they will become.

What is self-esteem anyway? How do you achieve a healthy dose of it? Some think it comes from parents telling their children how wonderful they are.

In the 80's, a trend began, to give every child on a team a trophy, whether or not they won the game; whether or not a child achieved excellence. The thought was, that no child should feel like a "loser".

Around this time, our school district spent thousands of dollars to change the report card format. Instead of the usual A,B,C, D, and F...the children were to be graded with S=Satisfactory; N=Needs Improvement; or E=Excellent. The teachers were ready to lose their minds. Their work load was significantly increased, and all for...WHAT?

So our children wouldn't have low self-esteem when they saw a D on their report card. Apparently, an N is much easier to swallow. While this was all well-intentioned...it wasn't realistic. The world is a competitive place. If you want to get ahead, you must work hard and achieve.

The report card was a big flop and changed back to the regular format the following year.

While it's true that children need to hear positive feedback from the people who love them...there truly is no substitute for personal achievement.

My mother could have told me I was wonderful until we were both blue in the face and my teeth fell off. But here is the truth...

Until I began sticking my neck out, working hard, taking risks, and seeing myself achieve...there was nothing anyone could have said to raise my self-esteem.

There is no substitute for personal achievement...plain and simple.

And, so throughout my 20's, 30's and 40's...I worked hard to do things that would increase my "left-over" view of myself from childhood. I began forcing myself to speak in front of groups; conversing with people I might have been terrified to speak with years ago; confronting new and scary situations, and finding I could survive.

So, that brings me here...to 50. I feel pretty good. Now I can stand up before a group to speak without the worry that my teeth arrived and began speaking first. (okay, a little orthodonture helps)

I can sit here and tell myself (and you) I'm funny, because, even if I'm really not...who cares, I'm 50.

As for how I look at 50?...it doesn't really matter.

Because every line on my face, every inch of cellulite, every age spot (which, by the way, are great for playing connect the dots when you're bored) all add up to one thing...

They are the road map to my life. I've earned each and every one of those wrinkles and spots.

They are what give me the self-esteem to say (translation: to be completely delusional)...
Hey, I look great for 50, and I'm funny as hell.

(Besides, you don't know what I really look like...so what's a little lie among friends?)

WARNING: THE INTERNET IS DANGEROUS

Yes, that really is me...sitting at the computer.

Recently, the news has been full of reports concerning our children and their internet habits regarding MYSPACE, chatrooms, livejournal, and the internet in general.

Millions of teenagers have signed up with myspace, where they reveal personal information and pictures for anyone on the internet to view.

There have been several cases where teenage girls have run off from home to hook-up with sleazy old men, when lured through conversations in chat rooms, myspace or livejournal.

We parents are told over and over again to talk with our children about where they go on the internet and who they are communicating with. We are told to monitor their every move, so they do not run off to meet with strangers.

Next week, I will be meeting a few L.A. bloggers for dinner. They shall remain nameless to protect anonymity (they know who they are and are welcome to say so in the comments).

Also, just a few weeks ago, I met Robert for fun and thrills at the shooting range.

So here I am wondering...what the heck do you tell your kids, when you are doing the very thing you are supposed to be warning them NOT TO DO?

Kid: "Where are you going mom?"
Me: "Oh, off to the shooting range, dear."

Kid: "Really, mom?...but you don't believe in shooting guns."
Me: "Well, that's true, dear, but mommy's getting old and needs to try new things."

Kid: "That's cool mom, I get it. So, who are you going shooting with...Dad?"
Me: "Uh, well, umm, uh, no...I'm going with my friend Robert."

Kid: "WHO?"
Me: "Oh, he's my friend I met on the internet"

Kid: "WHAAAAAAT!!!...You're going to meet someone, all alone, that you met on the INTERNET?"
Me: "Why yes dear, but don't worry, it's safe. He's Jewish. He's a Hollywood screenwriter. He likes babka."

Kid: "EXCUUUUUSE ME?...have you lost your mind?"
Me: "Why no, dear. Your father knows all about it. And completely approves. It is absolutely safe. Believe me, the only thing this guy is interested in is getting me to be a gun-toting, Bush-loving Republican.
He's not interested in mommy's good looks and cooking skills like your father is.
Really... it's completely safe for mommy to go shooting guns, in a terrifying part of Los Angeles, with a complete stranger I met on the internet less than a year ago, dear."

Me: "Oh, and did I tell you that I'll be going to meet a whole group of people I met while surfing the internet for blogs to read?"
Kid: "And I suppose they're all Jewish too, and only want to meet you because you are such an amazingly talented and witty blog writer, who just happens to look superb for 5o.

Me: "Why yes dear, how did you know? Now you're getting the hang of it."
Kid: "That's great, mom...so you won't mind when I go to meet that group of bloggers called 'girls gone wild', right?"

Me: "WHAAAAAAAAAT...have you lost your mind?!!!!!!!!!!"

the preceding dialogue is completely fictional. (DUH) I have promised my offspring that I will not write about them.

Prayers for Pearl

Toronto Pearl needs our help.

Her father has taken ill and is in the hospital. I think she would like her blogging friends to pray for her dad.

Pearl is the second person I met in the blogosphere and has become my friend. She is generous and caring and worries about EVERYONE.

Now it's our turn to do all we can to worry about her. And her dad. And her family.

So, whatever your faith, or beliefs, or ways of putting a good word in upstairs are...this would be the time to find it in your heart to do so.

We are all with you in thought and spirit and heart, Pearl.