Cruisin for a date

I had just broken up with someone.

Well, that's not true. I had been dating someone, who, after a weekend ski-trip with the boys, came back to tell me he had met someone else. He told me...over the phone. Just as I was about to see a client. Nice.

I already knew Mr. Cruisin, as he was a friend of a relative. We would see eachother at various events, but he had a girlfriend. Although I thought he was cute, and funny...I didn't look at him in that way, you know, potential husband material...because he was, well...taken.

But as fate would have it...one evening right after a$%hole dumped me...I ran into Mr. Cruisin at a local restaurant. He proceeded to tell me that he and the girlfriend had broken up.

Now, you think I would have been jumping up and down ecstatic at this point, right? I mean, come on...nice Jewish boy, cute, funny, good job, tall, good dresser, hair on his head...what more could a girl ask for?

Well, being the "girl" that I was...I was too immersed in a self-pity party. Afterall, someone actually had the nerve to DUMP me! I was unable to see past my own sorrow, to notice that this perfect speciman of a guy was now available.

A few days later, the relative who was friends with Mr. Cruisin, told me that Mr. Cruisin wanted to ask me out. The relative told him not to...HUH? Well, as it turns out, the relative was just being protective, not wanting me to be a rebound, "transitional" person...and possibly get hurt.

Since I was still in a stupor and wallowing in self-pity, I didn't even react to this. I figured, okay, whatever.

Luckily for me, Mr. Cruisin is a self-made man. If you tell him he can't do something...he's all over it.

So, a few days later, to my surprise, I received a message at work...from none other than Mr. Cruisin. I proceeded to return his call, totally unaware that he was about to ask me out.

And sure enough...that's exactly what happened. We were having a fun, polite conversation, when out it popped...the question..."would you like to go out Saturday night?".

My head was spinning...how could I go out with this guy when my relative had just told me it wasn't a good idea to go out with someone who was on the rebound? Not to mention, I was still having a wild time attending my own self-pity party.

What to do?

I pretty much had to go out with the poor guy...I mean, he did just break up with someone...wouldn't it be rude to say no? I had known him for years, afterall, and he was my relative's friend, and I felt kinda sorry for him, having just broken up and all.

So, I said YES. We set up the date and that was that...or so I thought.

When I hung up the phone, a thought occured...

Should I really go out with him on a Saturday night?...afterall, Saturday night was notoriously "date" night. I didn't want to say no, but I didn't want him to think I was really interested in that way, since I had been warned by my relative that I would probably end up hurt.

So this was my quick-thinking plan.

I would call him back, and explain that I couldn't go out Saturday night...something had come up, but I could go out with him Wednesday or Thursday night. He said it would be no problem and we changed the date to Thursday.

It just so happens that following my phone call to Mr. Cruisin, my mother called. I proceeded to tell her about my upcoming date...telling her of the switch from Saturday to Thursday, and the carefully thought out plan behind this decision, when she had this to say to me:

"Cruisin-mom (she always called me that)...don't you deserve to have a date on a Saturday night? You don't have to marry him...just go out on a nice date...there's no harm in that."

Panic quickly set in...my mother (as always, dammit) was right. Why shouldn't I go out on a nice date, with a nice person, who could at the very least, end up being a good friend?

I picked up the phone, and called Mr. Cruisin back. I explained that the plans for Saturday night had been changed and I could go out afterall.

Mind you...this is all happening within a 20 minute time frame at the most.

Let's recap: Mr. Cruisin calls for Saturday night date. I say yes. I rethink, and call back within 5 minutes to change to Thursday night. I talk to mom 5 minutes later. I call Mr. Cruisin back to say Saturday night is good afterall. Cruisin Mom appears to be "nuts" at this point in time.

Thankfully, Mr. Cruisin was still in a bit of his own stupor, having just broken up with his girlfriend...so throughout all of this he was just kind of like "whatever".

By now the guy knows I'm nuts, but decides to show up for the "Saturday night" date anyway.

Since that phone call, (or calls, I should say), I had developed the cold of the century. I was sneezing and coughing... and producing enough mucous to fill Dodger Stadium.

Ah, yes, I was a beautiful, red-nosed sight. And I had to decide what to wear on this okay-I'll go out with you on a Saturday night-but don't want you to get the idea that I'm interested-because you are on the rebound and I don't want to get hurt-date.

I decided to go casual, sweater and cords...nice but nothing fancy (hey, at least I wore something besides my blue jeans).

It was time, and Mr. Cruisin arrived...I opened the door, and there he stood...ADORABLE!!! My heart did that thing it does when you first realize you are actually attracted to someone...I believe it's called "skipping a beat" or "all a flutter" or "tingly all over" or "the need to throw up"...well, you get the idea.

There he stood...wearing a tie!!! I was dressed casual and he was wearing a tie...YIKES!

So of course, being the genteel gal that I was, I immediately blurted out, rather loudly I might add, "You're wearing a tie!!!" ...(Duuuuuh)

You know what that adorable man with hair on his head did? ... he bravely ripped off the tie! He could sense my discomfort (the scream may have tipped him off) . "Wow,...this guy is already getting me", I thought to myself, as I proceeded to blow mucous into a kleenex.

Off we went. We drove into Westwood (the ultimate date destination in those days) for a wonderful dinner and movie. A new movie starring Dustin Hoffman and Bill Murray had just opened (Tootsie) and we stood in line to see it. We talked effortlessly, really getting to know one another, while I proceeded to blow and hoch up buckets of mucous.

How could any man resist that?

Well apparently, this man couldn't. Here we were on a Saturday night, out on a non-date, date, having the time of our lives. The connection was undeniable. The conversation and laughter endless...not to mention the mucous.

He brought me home. We talked (yes, really, that's all) until the wee hours of the morning. At one point, I excused myself to the bathroom. And here is what Mr. Cruisin told me later about that moment:

He spied a mastercard bill sitting on my dining room table (open, so it wasn't like he was going through my mail). It was for a grand total of $32.50. It was at that very moment he knew he could spend his life with me.

Afterall, what woman has a mastercard bill of only $32.50? So, she screams and blows mucous and calls me 3 times within 20 minutes to keep rearranging our date...she has a mastercard bill of only $32.50. He knew then, I was the woman of his dreams. Needless to say, those bills have a few more zeros tacked on them now.

The evening was coming to a close...and he asked me out for a second date.

There was no turning back now. This man, apparently thought I was wonderful...mucous and all.
And I knew, that any man who could take in stride and laugh at endless streams of mucous and being screamed at on a first date, was most likely the man for me.

We danced the first dance at our wedding to...

the theme from Tootsie.

BLOCKED

It has been 10 days since my last post. I think that may be a record since I began blogging (for real) in December.

I'm blocked.

And I don't mean constipated.

I mostly like to write stories.

I don't like to write about what I did today, or rant too much...I really enjoy the challenge of turning a feeling, a thought, a memory, or an experience...into a full fledged story.

So what does one do, when one is blocked?

I decided the only route, is to fill you in on a few things that took place this week. We'll just have to see where that takes me.

Today, we all got new cell phones. (Hence, the picture of Ernestine the operator. Phones... operator...you get the idea).

This was quite an ordeal. Enough decision making was involved to make one's head spin right off of one's neck.

Should we get phones with or without cameras. With or without a speaker. With or without game upload abilility. With or without video capability. Text messaging or not.

We finally decided on purchasing one phone that allowed us to get 3 more for free (of course free means, they pretend it's a phone worth $200 and then charge you the tax on that amount). But still a pretty good deal, I suppose.

It's funny how different things are today from when I was a kid. We had one phone line. I know for sure, that one of the 3 phones we had in the house, was a lovely shade of avocado green. I had to beg and cajole my way into getting my own phone line upon entering teenhood.

Today it seems, that every teen has their own phone, with a camera and internet access to boot.

Is this really a good thing? I suppose, in the long-run it is. We can find our children anywhere, anytime...isn't that great? But for whom? (or is it *who*...always confuse those two). Certainly not our children.

When we were 17 and going on a date, the boy picked you up, met the parents, and off we went. Of course, we had a curfew, and hopefully came home on time.
But did we ever talk to our parents during the date?

HELL NO!!!

Too bad for our kids...cause now we can track them down anywhere, anytime. And...we do!
But at what cost? And I don't mean monetarily speaking. I mean emotionally and psychologically. Is it really good for our children's growth to be calling and checking up on them?

I know it relieves my stress levels...but are they learning to make decisions and be independent if parents are always on their backs? Food for thought.

Another event that took place this week, was the anniversary of my marriage to Mr. Cruisin. Twenty one years is a long time to be with one person, don't you think? And no easy feat in this climate of divorce and affairs.

Someone asked me the other day, what our secret to a long marriage was. That's an easy one for me...

Marry someone you like. Marry someone with similar values. Marry someone who makes you laugh and thinks you're funny. Have a husband that accepts you even when you're going nuts.

But here's the most important one of all, that no one ever tells you. Marry a man who can fix things. This will keep him too busy and tired to ever want to even explore the idea of having an
affair, let alone actually having one. And let me tell you, when you start watching everything on your 50 year old body heading "south"...this is a good trick to have up your sleeve. That's the real reason "honey-do" lists were invented.

If you want to know how I feel about my husband of 21 years...you can read here. That post pretty much sums it up.

I bought myself two skirts on Friday. They are long and crinkly. One is black, and one is white. I figure this will get me through every season. And it's the only way Robert Avrech will allow me back into the lovely lecture/brunch he has annually, to honor his son, Ariel. Since I mostly love wearing my blue jeans...I guess you could say that welcoming two new skirts into my wardrobe was a move out of my comfort zone.

Ace was given the boot on American Idol this week. I suppose he deserved it. Pulling the hair back was not a good strategy.

I LOVE, LOVE, LOVE Taylor. He is completely full of joy, and exudes it all over the television screen. And although Catherine has an amazing voice and should probably win...Taylor should at least come in second.

Well, that's all I have to say.
I feel a little less blocked now.
Thanks for listening.

Death...Cruisin style

There are, of course, two things we all must face in our lifetime:

taxes and death

Yep, no choice in either one (well, i suppose you could choose not to pay taxes, but I don't really want to eat bread and water for the rest of my life or acquire a new friend named Bubba).

Since God invented accountants, let's just say, that worrying about taxes isn't all that necessary...send to the accountant...POOF, it's done.

But death, on the other hand, is something to worry about. There are many things to consider when facing the inevitablity of one's own demise.

Although cremation makes the most sense from an environmental standpoint...I just can't bring myself to go against religious mandate in this area (even though I'm not exactly what one would call religious).

Of course the first thing to consider, is what to be buried in. I have never been one for those fancy cadillac caskets. Just seems like a big waste of money, because let's face it...it's never going to be viewed by anyone after the funeral, and if I can't enjoy it...well, what's the point.
A nice plain pine box for me, thank you.

Now here's something that has always struck me as odd. Why is it that loved ones assume that putting someone in their best suit or fanciest dress is the way to go when dressing the body for burial?

I suppose it's one thing if this is what the person spent most of their time wearing...okay, that makes sense. But for me? My favorite item of clothing is blue jeans. Wouldn't it be strange not to bury me in my most beloved piece of clothing?

To bury me in a dress would just be absurd. For crying out loud, I didn't even know you're supposed to wear a dress when attending an orthodox Jewish shul...why on earth would I be buried in one?

But here's the dilemma...and any woman will understand this. What if, on that fateful day, I can't get into my blue jeans. I mean, what if the mortuary employee is given my favorite pair of jeans to put on me, and I'm having a "fat day"?

How humiliating would that be? I guess the good news is, I'll be lying down. When I was in junior high, all of us girls would lay down on the bed and force each leg into our skin tight jeans, pull on, and suck it all in while trying to get that zipper up. I guess I can only hope that I will have dieted plenty before my demise, as to not have to face this one last humiliation.

Next, the funeral service itself. Why is it that even your mean Aunt Beatrice, who abused every family member by making them kiss her smelly face and eat her dry boiled chicken for years, becomes a woman of valor on the day of her funeral?

Me?...I want it all out there...the good, the bad, and the ugly. In fact, a sort of Broadway show would be nice. Okay, maybe off broadway...no need to set my sights so high. You know, like a one woman tribute show to ME. (But who would star...any thoughts?)

The music is always so somber at these things. I'd like some show tunes, of course, with a chaser of Beatles music. If people want to dance...all the better. The show, I mean funeral, should end with Gloria Gaynor belting out "I Will Survive". Now that's a funeral service!

After the funeral, the tradition is to go back to someone's home to delight in deli and reminisce about the deceased. Don't get me wrong, I love good deli. In fact, I don't really mind attending funerals, because I know I will be going back to someone's home to stuff myself with deli and babke.

But here's the deal...while deli is always a sure-fire hit...I say, why not be daring and fun and alive at the after funeral gathering.

That's why I propose In and Out Burger. I know that some of you reading this from other than the left coast, may not be familiar with In and Out. Let me just say that they are thee best burgers this side of heaven (well, I'll let you know for sure when I get there).

And here's the best part: In and Out has a special cookout trailer that will come to your home and cook their delicious burgers right on the spot for you!!!

That's right...no deli at my after party...burgers, fries, and diet cokes will abound.

Quite frankly, this is something that each and everyone of us needs to consider seriously. Don't leave your loved ones wondering what to dress you in, how to memorialize you, and most of all...what to eat at the after party.

I say, even in death...leave 'em laughing, singing, dancing, and eating well.

(Humor is a way for me to express feelings about death and grief, that I have known since the age of 10...I hope this post is taken in the good spirit it was intended. It is not meant to be hurtful in anyway to anyone who is grieving or has gone through the journey of grief).

You can "quote" me on that.

Well, it's Sunday, and I had a little spare time between paying bills and cleaning up this joint (who am I kidding...I've been on this damn computer)...so I thought I'd ramble a bit about favorite movie quotes.

Below are just a few of my favorite movie quotes. Of course, I could go on all day, so I just picked a few.

"Nobody puts Baby in a corner".
C'mon, don't you love when Patrick Swayze tells Baby's father..."nobody puts Baby in a corner"?
I mean, really, the guts to stand up to the doctor who just saved his best friend's life...amazing.
Such conviction, strength and fortitude. I say the doctor deserved it, afterall, who names their kid, BABY?

"It's supposed to be hard. If it wasn't hard, everyone would do it. The hard... is what makes it great".
This is a quote from A League of Their Own. I adore this movie. Tom Hanks was in a bit of a slump when Penny Marshall had the genius to cast Hanks in this role.

This quote just gets me everytime. It's like the ultimate life lesson wrapped up in three little lines. Hank's character is referring, of course, to playing baseball. Geena Davis' character wants to give up, stating it's just gotten too hard. This is Hank's response.

But isn't it true for all of life...for anything you choose to do? Aren't the things we struggle and work hard for more meaningful than those that just fall into our laps?

"There's no crying in baseball".
This quote has no deep meaning. But it is one of thee funniest scenes, ever, in a movie (well, at least to me). If you've seen it, you know what I'm talking about...it just makes me laugh hysterically everytime.

"I'll have what she's having".
The quote from the greatest relationship movie ever. That line comes right after Meg Ryan shows us that women can, well, um, let's just say...pretend. It's the perfect surprise ending to a most unexpected scene.

"Plastics"
Just that one little word conjures up an entire movie. There are many great lines from The Graduate, but all you need is that one word. I love this movie and could watch it over and over. Anne Bancroft was genius in this role, and was just a few years older than Dustin Hoffman at the time.

"Show me the money".
Okay, so Tom has lost his mind, but Jerry Maguire is still one of my favorite movies. The scene when Cuba Gooding makes Jerry yell show me the money is hysterical every time I see it.

I could go on and on. Let's not forget the scene in China Town when Faye Dunaway reveals who her daughter is, sister is, daughter is...well you get what I mean.

"May the Force be With You"...In 1977, I thought this was the greatest line I had ever heard (hey, that was 29 years ago, give me a break).

Well, it's time to go pay bills...really...and clean up the house...really...no more quotes...

You're welcome to throw out a few of your favorites.

Bathroom Blues

Can you tell what that picture is? Well, if I could have taken a picture of myself the first day of junior high, that is what you would have seen.

That is a person inside a bathroom stall.

Why am I posting a pic of a person in a bathroom stall, you ask?

The comments in my last post were so surprising and really quite unexpected. I displayed a little ad I received in the mail about menopause, wrote a humorous little ditty to go along with it, and lo and behold people had many memories stirred from childhood.

But one of the themes that seemed to run through many of the comments was that of embarrassment.

So it got me to thinking...back to my most embarrassing moment from girlhood.

So, here it is.

The first day of junior high, which was 7th grade, was a scary one. I was not quite 12 (my visitor hadn't even arrived yet), and there I was, starting this all important day in my life.

I woke up, put on a dress, (yes, in those days, girls actually had to wear a dress to school. It was not until 9th grade that we were allowed to have "pants day"...that's right, one day in the whole school year to wear pants. Oh, just one more aside: we weren't allowed to wear patent leather shoes because a boy could look in the shoes, and see your underwear...Holy Crap).

I went to all my new classes, scared but excited at the same time. The day went pretty well, as well as a day can go in a new school.

Everything in my life was different at this point. Since my dad's death a year and a half earlier, my mom had gone back to work part-time, and wasn't going to be home after school, like she had always been before. But, I was almost 12, and very mature (or so I thought)...so this wasn't going to be a problem.

I had arranged to meet a friend after school by a certain post. But as nature often does, it called to me at the end of the day. So before meeting my friend, I figured I would go use the bathroom.

So off I went. I found a bathroom and went in. A few girls were in there when I entered. I went into the stall to do my "business".

While sitting in the stall, recounting the not-so-bad events of my first day in junior high, I realized that it had grown very quiet. No big deal...all the other girls had left the premises.

Suddenly, I heard a man's voice shouting, "Is anyone in there?" "Is anyone still in here?"

Now, for some unexplicable reason, I had decided in my head, that the man's voice was not directed at me, let alone to anyone in this particular bathroom. I still ask myself why I thought that...but still don't know the answer.

So...since the man's question, in my mind, wasn't for me...I continued to sit...and not rush to finish my delicate business.

But while I sat, I heard a strange noise...kind of like a lock turning...well, NOT KIND OF...it WAS a lock turning!!!

That man was the janitor, and he was making sure the bathroom was empty so he could lock it for the night.

You've never seen anyone finish their delicate business so quickly, jump up, (sorry, no time to wash hands) and run to the door.

And I began BANGING on that door. As hard as my little almost 12 year old body would allow. It seemed like my heart was pounding louder than I was banging on the door.

How could this be? Why didn't I know he was talking to ME? Was I destined to spend my first night of junior high in the girl's bathroom? Would I have to eat toilet paper for dinner and breakfast? What was to become of me?

Well, here is what became of me. After what seemed like an eternity (maybe 5 minutes), the janitor came back and unlocked the door.

I HAD BEEN SAVED!!!

But here was the embarrassing part...when the door opened...there stood the "popular" girls. One of them had heard the pounding and found the janitor.

But they stood there. And laughed. And giggled. And made faces. All as if to say...LOSER!!!
(and that wasn't even an expression in those days).

What luck. There is something about me and toilets.

I walked out of that bathroom, humiliated and downright embarrassed. I tried not to look at them...and just kept walking...head not so held high.

I found my friend, who was waiting by the post we had decided on earlier that day. We walked home.

I entered an empty house. I called my mom. Upon hearing her voice, I remember breaking down in tears. The day had just ended so wrong.

But maybe it's moments like those, that eventually lead to strength. Because without moments like those, it's hard to imagine ever learning to live through life's tough little moments. It's hard to imagine ever learning to laugh at one's self.

As you can probably imagine...that's one thing (besides finding my way to toilets) thatI'm pretty good at.

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