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.

Honey, does this make me look fat?

DISCLAIMER: NOT MY HUSBAND!

But that is how many women feel about their husbands.

I, on the other hand, see my husband as my Knight in "maybe-needs-a-little-polishing" armour. Not a perfect person, but, hey, like I am?

He is my best friend.

He is the man who thinks I look good with no make-up (well, okay, sometimes he says "hey Cruisin...just add a little lipstick").

He is the man who still thinks I'm funny, even after hearing the same old stuff for 23 years.

He even thinks my butt still looks good (let's hear it for declining vision).

No matter how many times I say, "let me just tell you how I feel about this", he takes a deep breath, bucks-up, and listens.

Even if I'm a raging, PMSing, crazed out of my mind, woman (who now can shoot a gun...scary, huh?)...he just looks at me and waits it out.

He can fix anything and build anything. You name it, he can do it.

He is unassuming and loves simple things (hence, his marriage to me).

He gets angry with me when I put myself down, or sell myself short.

My husband is not a believer in the "prescribed" holidays...i.e.,Valentine's day . His theory being, "no one will tell me how and when to love and celebrate the people in my life".

Now, while that may sound curmudgeony to you...here is what I know.

This man has come home to me and my children, every single night of our marriage. He has never taken a trip without us. (the poor man!).

He surprises me with tickets to concerts he knows I'm dying to see (although, he forgot Paul McCartney...oh well, no one's perfect).

When I mentioned, in passing ( about 6 months prior), that what I'd love to do for my 50th bday is go to Disneyland...just the four of us...he and my kids surprised me the morning of my 50th with a trip to Disneyland. (not to mention a surprise party the next night). He LISTENED.

He surprises me with a gourmet dinner when I've been at a professional training all day. (that's more than he gets...hey, you got a problem with turkey sandwiches?)

He is the funniest person I know. (Don't tell David Letterman I said that)

He has been my number one supporter and inspiration for this blog.

Let me explain:

I have been trying to get my computer challenged brother to read this thing for months...but he is, well, computer challenged.

So, today...my husband, who believes in my writing so much... went to the trouble of actually printing out every page of this blog, to send to my brother to read.

He did that, not because I asked him to, but because he so loves what I write and feels that my brother is missing out on knowing a different side of his baby sister.

Woah...may not seem like a lot to you...but to me...there are no flowers, or candy, or jewelry that could ever compete with that.

I am guilty of not always expressing what I feel (Mr. Cruisin's reading this and thinking, "Christ, when don't you express what you're feeling?)

I want my husband to know, that I do not take him for granted. I have known, from too early of an age, that life can change in the blink of an eye. And so, I keep my eyes wide open and take in all I can.

Afterall, how many men will sit on the couch and forcibally watch American Idol with you, while eating a gallon of icecream, and screaming: "ooooooo, Ace is sooo cute!". And let's not forget Dr. McDreamy (right, girls? are you with me?).

Just wanted you to know, Mr. Cruisin-mom...I'm still crazy about you. (okay, no jokes about the "crazy").

Most people who know you, don't know what I know.
The gifts you give are laughter and love and heart and soul. I saw those things in you, and I knew that with you, my life would be full.

I guess you are my Knight in shining armour, after all.

So, what's the deal with...

I notice there are times, I will have the very last comment left on someone's blog.

What's the deal with that?

Is it because my comment is so brilliant, no one can follow it up?

Have I stopped people dead in their tracks, because what I've said makes no sense?

Have I offended the sensibilities of the 25 other commentors?

No, really, I want to know. This is a bizarre phenomenon. And it's happened too many times to just be a coincidence.

Now, it's no secret that I think I'm hysterical. (Remember, if I'm going to spend time here inside my head, I may as well enjoy it). So, if the problem is that no one can keep up with my sense of humor, this I can understand.

But more brilliant than the other commentors? C'mon...even I know that's not true.

Making no sense to the other commentors? Well, yeah, that's a good possibility.

And what's the deal with commenting for the first time on someone's blog and getting no response? Not even a "hey", or "hi", or "welcome", or "my God, you're sick!"

NOTHING, NADA, BUPKIS. This has happened to me more times than I care to mention. Do I take it personally? Should I take it personally? What is the protocol for responding to new commentors?

Once in a while, a commentor comes along that is completely inappropriate, and then you have a whole other problem on your hands. Do you acknowledge that person? Do you encourage them? Do you delete them?

I think a blog is very personal; a part of you; an extension of you, if you will. It can be very violating when someone attacks you on your own blog.

I won't stand for it. I wouldn't stand for it in person, and won't stand for it on my blog.
Even though it's public, it is still MINE.

So, please, comment...say your peace, be funny, witty, intelligent, whatever. But if you can't be nice...then be prepared to be deleted.

And hey, if it makes you feel any better...If you're the last comment here, it probably means you were brilliant!

I'm Ready For My CloseUp

"In the future, everyone will be famous for fifteen minutes".
"It's not what you know, it's who you know".

Well, did I learn a lesson over the last few days.
Fame is fleeting.
And fame is best achieved when you associate with someone famous.

Now mind you, it was never my intention to associate with someone famous.
Actually, for "15 minutes", it was I who was famous.
I was the esteemed winner of Seraphic Secret "guess the 10 year old contest".

As the official winner of this contest, I was immediately sent a Chanel gown (cut on the bias, no less), Jimmy Choo heels, and Harry Winston jewels to wear while retrieving my prizes.

As many of you know by now, I went to a shooting range with Robert Avrech the day I picked up my winnings: The Hebrew Kid Book and a Seraphic Press Cap. (By the way, the gown cut on the bias was just perfect...it moved, it breathed...the heels on the other hand, not so perfect...not easy to maintain a steady stance when shooting the Dirty Harry gun).

I also, as you know, brought the Avrech's a chocolate chip babke (well, actually, I had purchased two, but was so nervous about shooting a gun for the first time, I ate one of them on the way over to Robert's to calm my nerves).

I came home and immediately sat down to write about my "adventures in shooting". I knew that Robert would too, but of course, mine would be much funnier and endearing.

What? He's a professional screenwriter, you say? Don't let that impress you, no really, don't.
Okay, okay, so it is impressive that he's a professional Emmy award winning screenwriter, award winning children's book author, and well known, award winning blogger.

Which brings me to the point of this story.

I had 27 comments to my post within 2 days. A record. I was something!
I knew I was hot. I had what it takes. I had hit my stride.

And so I figured it was time to move on to my next post. I wrote a lovely, heartwarming tale about my Bird From Hell. I worked hard on the story, giving it my all.

I knew I was pretty famous now, and that of course, people would be lining up to read anything I had written.

I woke up the next morning to 3 comments. Don't get me wrong...those comments are from 3 of my loyal commentors: Pearl, Regina, and Wanderer. But that's all I got...3 comments!

Just the day before I had been famous, the toast of the blogging town...people were coming in droves just to read me.

But now I knew the truth. It was unavoidable. The lack of commentors could only lead me to this one conclusion.

I was famous by association. I was famous because I knew someone famous. I don't know, maybe it was the babke, or the fact that I could aim and shoot for the throat (heck, even Dick Cheney couldn't do that).

But my heart tells me, NO! People were coming to read me because I knew someone famous.

Whatever the reason, I now knew that my 15 minutes had come and gone. I was famous for knowing someone famous. NOT because of my great, funny, endearing, might-as-well- be-professional writing. My fame had flown the coup.

But I will persevere, move on, and continue to write. Commentors may come and may not.
That's okay...I'll always remember that special day, that moment in time that I was famous. I will always remember the Chanel, the babke, and the bullets.

And we'll always have...

The Shooting Range

A Very Tweet Story

Meet my bird. I will not reveal it's name in order to protect the bird's anonymity and privacy.

Although some of you are familiar with my bird from Seraphic Secret, I felt this bird deserved a post of it's own.

For sake of easy identification, we shall call the bird "Bird from Hell", or BFH for simplicity. (perhaps this will aid as a clue to the personality of said bird).

Nearly 21 years ago, when honeymooning in Hawaii, the hotel, in an attempt to create a tropical atmosphere, had scattered birds around the lobby and various parts of the hotel. My husband was fascinated. That was the beginning of our road into bird hell.

Years later, we were vacationing in Las Vegas, where the hotel felt it was incumbent upon them to provide daily entertainment by the pool. I guess allowing the guests to acquire the rest and relaxation that they had been pining away for, was not their idea of proper entertainment.

The entertainment just happened to be a "bird show", including several kinds of parrots doing various tricks and such. The birds were beautiful and entertaining to watch. So of course, my husband got the big idea that we needed to have this kind of entertainment at home.

Because, at the time, running after a 4 year old and 1 year old was not enough entertainment.

So, as he does with everything he takes seriously, (you should have seen what the poor guy had to go through before marrying me) he began researching the pros and cons of owning a blue and gold macaw.

To my not-so-good fortune, he found that they could easily acclimate into a family and home situation. So, about a year later, we were making our way to a bird store to purchase BFH.

Now, what you need to know about birds, is they bond with one person. Usually that person is the one that feeds and tends to them the most. So, of course, BFH took to my husband like a duck takes to water (pardon my bird-pun). Every day he would feed BFH through a tube until BFH could eat on it's own.

I have to admit, BFH was quite sweet in the beginning...even endearing. BFH would regergitate food for my husband, because that is how a bird shows love and loyalty...isn't that sweet?

Since you cannot outwardly detect the sex of a bird, we referred to BFH as a male.

As BFH grew, it became feistier, and more talkative. Never on command though...would just sit on it's perch and say "hello", hi, and could say it's name.

Since my kids could never see fit to walk all the way into another room to find me, they would yell "MOOOOOOOOOOOOM" from another room, and of course I would always yell back, "WHAAAAAAT". It did not take long for BFH to learn that when the kids yelled "mom", it was the cue to yell back "WHAAAAAAT". There were some benefits to this, as I didn't have to answer them anymore, BFH took care of that for me.

Too bad the damn bird couldn't have learned something useful, like cooking.

As time went on, the bird became, well, frankly, a pain in the ass. Messy as all get out.
And bite...this bird loves to attack...and God forbid you get near my husband...you are toast.

But, BFH was here to stay.

About 2 years ago, BFH gave us quite a surprise. For about 2 weeks, it was continually misbehaving, ripping up newspaper under it's perch, climbing up and down, and not listening at all. I thought, this is it...I've put up with enough from this damn bird...poops, bites, screaming, paper ripping...ENOUGH WAS ENOUGH!

It was the night of the academy awards and I'd had it. I put BFH away in it's cage for the night. A little while later, one of my kid's called us to come running, because the bird was SCREAMING and SCREECHING. BFH was agitated and climbing up and down the perch.

(warning: the following is graphic)
You could see the bird's rear end growing bigger and bigger, when suddenly....PLOP...out of our "Male" bird's behind, an egg came tumbling out.

"WHAAAAAAAAAAAAT"??? We all screamed. I of course, cried with joy. BFH was a GIRL.

After 12 years of referring to this Bird from Hell as a boy, we were now looking at a girl.

Suddenly everything became clear...BFH was not really a bird from hell. Turns out BFH had long been experiencing gender confusion and PMS. I don't know any other woman who, under these circumstances, would not have been a bitch on wheels as well.

For years, others had been squelching her feminine side, and her God-given right to want to shoot someone's head off during that special time of the month.

Since this discovery, things have definitely calmed down. Once a month we make sure she has infinite amounts of icecream and chocolate and we can safely make it through.

My poor husband can only dream about a day when I will (once a month) be as calm as "the Bird from Hell"

Anything you can do, I can do better

Did you ever end up doing something you swore you would never do? Well, today I did just that. Thanks to my friend Robert Avrech of Seraphic Secret.

Turns out...Annie Oakley ain't got nothin' on me! Yep, that's right.

Since I was the esteemed winner of the Seraphic Secret "guess the 10 year old" contest, Robert was going to send me my winnings: an autographed copy of The Hebrew Kid and the Apache Maiden and a Seraphic Press baseball cap.

Being that we only live 35 minutes from eachother, I thought, why not just pick up my prizes directly from Robert. And while I'm there, we can swing by the shooting range.

WAIT A MINUTE! REWIND! PLAY THAT BACK!...The shooting range???

Robert has tried for nearly a year to convert me...no, not to orthodox Judaism.
But to a gun toting, card carrying, Bush loving Republican.

HA! Who does he think he's dealing with? Me... A lifetime liberal democrat. Not so Bush loving. Not so gun loving.

Then I turned 50. And something else took over. That something else being... you better try a few things you would never try, because you aren't exactly getting any younger.

But, I thought to myself, what's left. Afterall, I've had several brushes with fame.

Jay Leno has flashed me, I've dined with the voice of Bart Simpson, luncheoned next to Mickey Rooney and I married a man who will probably be the next American Idol...what could possibly be left?

And then I remembered. My friend Robert had offered to take this mild-mannered little Jewish girl to a shooting range.

So, that was it. I knew I had to do it!

I showed up at Robert's right on time (with a chocolate chip Babka cake, because my mother taught me well. Anytime you go shooting, make sure you bring your host a babka cake. They'll appreciate the gesture and perhaps be less likely to turn the gun on you at the range).

We drove off in Robert's car, but because I talk too much and wouldn't stop hounding poor Robert with questions, we missed our exit and got a tour of parts of L.A. that, well, let's just say you wouldn't wish on your worst enemy. But, not to worry. Afterall, I was on my way to becoming a "sharp-shooter".

We finally made it to our destination. Upon arriving, we were asked to sign an affidavit stating we were not crazy. I fooled them. I signed, left a thumbprint, and off we went.

Robert had 3 guns for me to choose from. A rifle and gun from the old west (just like Wyatt Earp would have used, he explained). The other, a 45 Dirty Harry type somethin' or other (well, probably not really...but it seemed like it to me).

Robert carefully showed me how to take my stance, breathe, hold the gun, point and shoot. I loaded and unloaded the guns.

And then, like Annie Oakley herself...I took my first shot. Up and over the target the bullet flew. Okay...just my first shot. No big deal.

So I kept going...bang, bang and bang again...I HIT!!! A little low, but I hit.

Now I was feeling it. Power baby, power. I continued shooting with the gun from the old west.
Until it was time to move on to the 45. I shot...woah...that thing had some power...scary.

Then it was time for the rifle...much easier...steady, aim, fire...YES...I hit the head, the abdomin, the throat.

As I turned around to report to Robert..."hey look at me, I'm hitting"...he very kindly suggested that I might not want to turn with the gun, as it was pointing toward him...OOOPS!

I continued to shoot. Hitting almost every time. Robert pointed out that I was pretty good for a first time shooter and that I had an unusual amount of hits to the throat.

"Nobody aims for the throat, Randi, that's unbelievable", he explained.

Apparently, my goal was not only to kill 'em...I was gonna shut 'em up too!

Oy, listen to me. Just yesterday, I was a peace loving, non-violent, sweet woman.

I came home to excitedly show my husband the targets I had shot at.
He's still sitting in a corner cowering.

One advantage to this whole thing? I can sit on my couch eating icecream, watching t.v. and I don't think anyone's gonna try stealing the remote from me.

No longer am I just a pushover mom, or dutiful wife... no sir, not me.

Thanks Robert...for a fun day...(and lucky for you, I'm no Dick Cheney) not so sure the rest of my family thanks you...but, hey, who cares.

NO ONE WILL BE MESSING WITH ME FROM NOW ON!!!

My Link to Letterman

Here is what I didn't reveal in my last post...

While Jay was toddling by in his stinky little car, his head swiveled, did a double take, and yelled out, "Hey, you look familiar!"


That's me, age 7. Quite a hairdo for a 7 year old, don't you think?

And those teeth...can you say braces?

Little did I know that about 15 years after this photo was taken, I would discover I had a male "look-alike".

I was always an avid Carson fan. Throughout the 1970's and 80's, I'd end each night with Johnny and his guests.

One night, a young comedian made his first appearance doing stand-up.

I was mesmorized, couldn't take my eyes off the screen. A shiver went down my spine and goosebumps up and down my arms. Every cliche you could think of, I felt.

Upon completing his routine, Carson waved the young comedian over to his desk...the holy grail of approval from Johnny Carson, that every new comedian sought.

I couldn't move, I couldn't speak. I was dumbfounded. The icecream bowl fell from my hands.

It was just like looking in a mirror.

The resemblance was nothing short of amazing. I knew in my heart that this could not be a coincidence. There had to be a connection.

And his humor...why this guy was almost as funny as me! That's when I knew for sure, that I had to find out...who was this fresh, new comedian? And why did he look just like me?

I knew these would not be easy questions to answer. My work was cut out for me. This would be my personal journey, my Mount Everest, my Olympic Gold Medal, my Oscar.

I followed the career of the young comedian closely. I would not give up until I knew...why, how could this person be my veritable twin?

Soon, he would have an irreverant Late Night talk show (predicated on throwing produce off of tall buildings) that would gather a loyal following.

As his popularity soared, my quest to find my connection to this man intensified.

Years have gone by, and I still search for the answer to my question. I may never know or understand how this man, my clone, my comedic equivalent...is connected to me.

But, I will continue to wonder and search and know, that somehow, someway... David Letterman and I share a link, a heritage, a genetic pool.

For now, that will have to be good enough.

My very own "Tonight Show"

Here's what I love about living in L.A.

My husband and I, unlike the normal masses of America sitting down to watch the Superbowl this afternoon, decided to go out for a Sunday drive.

It's 81 degrees here today, slight breeze, wispy clouds throughout the sky, sun shining. You couldn't order a prettier day.

As we were driving down Ventura Blvd. through Encino into Sherman Oaks, we happened upon a crazy little open-air "steamer" car, blowing lot's of stinky steam out the back as it toddled along Ventura Blvd.

From the back, we could see the man's tossled gray hair and his outfit consisting of blue jeans and a work shirt.

My husband turns to me and very confidently says, "That's Jay Leno, you know!"

Well, being the dutiful, submissive, always agreeing wife that I am...I of course, gently state back, "The hell it is. How would you know that anyway?"

My husband lovingly says back to me, "I know he has that car, because I read". (As if to say to me, "something you might like to try").

However, I continue to press on..."Yeah, but how do you really know that's Jay Leno? It can't be Jay Leno. Why on earth would Jay Leno be driving down Ventura Blvd. on Superbowl Sunday, all by himself, where everyone will recognize him? Why wouldn't he with his wife on his day off?"

It just didn't make sense.

So, I told my husband to drive up along side him, so we could get a look at who was really driving this stinky little car.

Sure enough, it was Jay Leno. Sweatin', and crankin' and working like a dog to drive that stinky little car. This man makes millions. Where was his limo? More importantly, where was his wife?

Well, now I was on a mission. I was going to get Jay to say hello to me.
And why not? If he was out there, all alone, in full view...then I figured he was fair game.

He was going so slowly down the street, that we couldn't help but get way ahead of him as we were making our way down Ventura Blvd.

So we decided to pull over (and of course get a Starbucks) and wait for him to drive by. While I stood on the street waiting for Jay Leno, my husband waited inside Starbucks, clandestinely plotting to clear the place out by yelling "There goes Jay Leno", and thereby moving to the head of the line. But he managed to contain himself.

I, on the other hand, could not (contain myself, that is)...I stood on the sidewalk...patiently waiting for Jay to make his way down the street. It took a few minutes, but there he was!!! I gave Jay a great big sexy smile (okay, it was a stupid, goofy smile, but, hey, this is my story to tell any way I please, isn't it?).

Lo and behold, I caught his eye (must have been the sexy smile)...and he smiled back and flashed me (no, don't go there) a peace sign.

So, just remember...While the rest of you were gorging yourselves on hot dogs, chips, and beer, I was having a brush with fame.

And, I know just what Jay was thinking. "What's that gal with the incredibly sexy smile doin' all alone on a Sunday afternoon?"

Translation: Geez, how desperate can that broad be, standing on Ventura Blvd. all alone on a Sunday afternoon, with nothing better to do than wave down a huge celebrity like me.

There once was a boy...

There he was...the new boy...cute, bitchen (a term for the time), a pompadour in his hair, tan, tall, and did I mention... cute?

I knew it...he was the boy I'd marry. At the very least, my boyfriend.

His name was Marty. It was mid-year and he was brand new to our school.

It was 6th grade (still elementary school in those days) and I was 11...with the confidence of a wet noodle.

But I knew I could make Marty like me. Somehow, someway, he'd see that I was the one. The one who'd change his life. The one who would make him feel welcome to this strange and new school.

And so began my quest.

A week or so had gone by since Marty's arrival. Several recesses had come and gone. Finally, I knew the perfect time had arrived. The time to reveal myself to Marty. The time he would meet his future girlfriend, and eventual wife.

So, I did what any 11 year old girl in love would do. It had to be just the right moment...the perfect opportunity. And one day, it happened. There may as well have been a rainbow shimmering in the sky. Everything in my entire being knew that this was the moment. My heart was beating fast, my palms were sweating, my breath, shallow.

And then...it happened. It was recess, once again. I slowly began walking toward Marty on the playground. With several girlfriends behind me for support, he was surrounded by the boys.
As my heart continued pounding, I continued walking. Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion. Closer, closer, and closer I came to Marty.

He gazed into my eyes, and I knew this was it. My one moment in time. I walked right up to him, like a brave diva. I mustered up all the confidence I could and...
WHACK...I kicked him as hard as I could in the shin.

How else could a girl show her love, her intentions, and make her thoughts known?
There, I had done it...I had shown Marty how I really felt.

Apparently, Marty saw fit to express his feelings as well. He lifted his foot and once again, everything moved in slow motion. WHACK...he kicked me right back.

Only difference was, Marty was wearing Wing Tips. (for those of you who aren't familiar...these were hard, heavy, black shoes with a nicely formed point at the toe).

I was humiliated. Devastated. I slunk away with my head so low, it would have taken a crane to lift it. How could this have happened? How could Marty have kicked me back? How did I seem to know that his kick didn't have the LOVE behind it that mine had had?

Somehow the humiliation passed, and the semester was comimg to an end.
It was 6th grade graduation.
There was going to be a party for the boys and girls in someone's home.

I worked hard, and took my time to look pretty. It was to be my first ever boy/ girl party.
I was scared, excited, nervous...but maybe this would be the night...my last chance to prove to Marty that I was the girl for him.

Don't ask me where the parents were, but somehow we played a game of spin the bottle.
The bottle began spinning, and I watched as it came to a stand-still.

Thank goodness it didn't come to me first.

The boy and girl kissed. I looked on as they stuck their 2 sets of lips together and didn't move. While the two held their breath...the rest of us counted the seconds out loud...to see which couple could hold their lips together the longest...1 one thousand, 2 one thousand, 3 one thousand, and so on, until they had stuck like glue for up to 12 seconds!

My heart was about ready to jump out of my chest. I wanted to be anywhere but at that party. I didn't feel pretty, I was scared, I had no idea how to kiss. I just wanted to run.

Now, it was Leanne's turn. My bestfriend in the world. She was to spin the bottle toward her destiny. And don't you know...she spun that bottle...right to Marty! HOW COULD THIS BE?
How could my best girlfriend do this to me? And let me tell you, she did it alright! They kissed, we counted.

1 one thousand, 2 one thousand, 3 one thousand...all the way up to 15 one thousand!

My life was ruined...over, ka-put. It was just too much to bear. Right then and there they had become boyfriend and girlfriend. My best friend and the boy I was to marry.

I don't think life could have gotten any worse than that moment. I couldn't wait to get home. I can't remember now how I got home or how quickly. I just know that when I came home, I knew I had changed. I knew that life was never going to be the same. It had happened. My first heartbreak. My first betrayal by a friend.

Life wasn't supposed to be this hard. Just the year before my father had died. Wasn't that enough? How could life be so cruel? And, yet, what I learned that night was invaluable. I learned that every boy will not like you just because you think they should. Every friend you make, will not necessarily stand by you.

These were important lessons to learn at such a young age. And I'm glad I did. I would go on to date other boys until the real love of my life would come along. The man who would see me as beautiful even without makeup and dressed in torn up blue jeans. The man who would accept my "kick" and love me anyway (and not kick back).

And I would learn, who my true friends were to be. Who would stand by and support me and not try to sabotage the things I found important.

I am grateful for these lessons.

But, I still think of Marty, and what could have been.

And what could have been was a beautiful, unscarred leg...because right where Marty kicked me, right smack in the middle of my shin...a great big scar remains...to forever remind me of the love that was never to be.