You Made Your Bed...

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

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

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

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

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

Suit Yourself

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sayonara Mr. Roboto

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Treading on Thin Ice

When I started dating after my divorce, I felt I had to try to reinvent myself into a fun, interesting person, instead of a divorcee and mother who gets her accolades when Words With Friends posts “Amy just played davenport for 63 points.” To build my self confidence, I would begin chanting over and over to myself, “I am fun and intelligent” as I walked out the door for a coffee date, but then my confidence would wane as I realized I was at the wrong Starbucks and had already spent close to five bucks for my vente low fat latte. This does not make for a fun and fascinating woman.

I knew I had to do a little reinventing (aka lying) when I started dating. I mean sure, I find the Food Network utterly fascinating, but I had a feeling my dates probably wouldn’t. ( I did have one date however, who after finding out that I think Family Guy is funny, printed me out a picture of Quagmire and presented it to me over cocktails. Dude. Srsly?) Anyway, I knew I had to step up my game a little bit, which is how I came to be taking skiing lessons at Bill Jackson’s in St. Pete, Florida. Yeah, Florida. Ski lessons.

A guy I had been out with a few times had mentioned how he loved skiing, and how he had been doing it since he was a kid. He made it sound awesome, the clean air, the glimmering snow, total peace on the mountain. He had me so entranced with his heartfelt description, that when he asked “Do you ski?” I of course answered “Oh, yeah.” I then admitted, “Just a few times, but I really loved it,” which was what I call a slight exaggeration but what others might call a total fucking bold faced lie. I have never had skis on my feet and I haven’t even seen snow in about six years.

This was not a problem until about a week later when he invited me out to Park City, Utah for a long weekend where we would be getting “12,000 vertical feet” in every day before lunch. What? I’m lucky to finish my coffee and Facebook stalking before lunch.
Anyway, I really liked this man and I really wanted to go soI really needed to learn how to ski in the two weeks before the trip.

I had been in Bill Jacksons’ to buy long underwear for a trip I was taking to New York City a few years back and remembered seeing a sign for ski lessons. I immediately called and booked four lessons in the next two weeks. Seriously, how hard can it be?

I showed up for my first lesson in tennis socks and running shoes and was immediately escorted by my instructor Brian, to the back room where I first had to purchase a pair of ski socks. Just a heads up for ski newbies here, if you already have large feet, ski socks will give them a very Bugs Bunnyish appearance. With my ski socks on, I then was fitted for ski boots. There are two words to describe this process-inhumanely painful. Once they found a pair that was somewhat bearable, he said I had to walk around the store in them. Here, try this-stick each of your feet into a Chinese vase and then walk around. I am clomping around the store, with my feet in two blocks of cement and wander into the hunting section, where conversation and tobacco spitting had come to a stand still. Gentlemen! Lay down your arms! What sounded like a herd of deer entering was in fact a middle age woman in Gap capri pants and ski boots.

FInally, Brian leads me back to the ski area where there is a ramp covered in blue carpet that is going to act as my mountain. He attaches skis to my feet, hands me two poles and tells me to climb on slowly.

I get situated at the top of this contraption, and he carefully turns on the ramp which begins to slowly move. I step on and point my skis into a v (known as a wedge to us ski bums,) and immediately fall flat on my ass, emitting a groan much as a water buffalo makes when giving birth. This of course aroused quite a bit of interest as people gathered from all areas in the store to see WTF was that?

After two weeks of lessons, I realized the only way this could be even more fun is to put me into freezing temperatures on an icy mountain. Oh- and add really beautiful people whizzing past me from all sides as I make my way down the mountain, most likely by sliding on my ass. Good times...good times.

As I said goodbye to Brian after my final lesson I thanked him for his patience and asked him for final words of advice. The only words of encouragement he could offer was “As soon as you get there, sign up for lessons.”

I’m sure you are wondering how I made out in Park City on my romantic ski vacation and I will be glad to tell you in my next post. The more important question, however, is when does a lie go from being little and white to, if you’ll excuse the pun, mountainous?
Here is my advice, when it comes to death defying sports, tell the truth. My desire to appear fun and exciting may very well lead me to a broken leg or displaced hip. Realize that just because you haven’t skiied before does not mean you are not a fun, exciting, vibrant person. In my opinion it means you are afraid of pain and looking like Marvin the Martian in that ridiculous helmet. Also consider this, it may be that your desire to try something new will be a real turn on to a new man who wants to be your first...at skiing anyway.

It's Howdy Doody Time

OMG every night I go to bed and pray..,"Please G-d, let low rise skinny jeans NOT be the trend for Fall. Please. And I know you're really busy, what with the the loss of New Jersey and all, but I just read that Japan is beginning to recover from the tsunami, the water is really receding, so that should free you up a little bit. Also if you could do something about the over the knee boot..."

Please, please, I am so tired of sucking it in, tightening it up, straightening it, extending it, lifting it and injecting it. I am afraid at some point it will cause more harm than good. I can sum it up in two words...ELSA PATTON. Google her.

The other morning, I took a sip of my much beloved Dunkin Donuts coffee, only to feel it dribble down my chin, and then watch it land on my bathrobe. My second sip produced the same result. It became clear to me that I had suffered a stroke during the night. Clinging to the wall, I slowly made my way to the bathroom mirror. Each step was a struggle, as I fought to stay lucid and awake. My right foot was numb, and I had to drag it slowly behind me.

Finally reaching the bathroom, I glanced in the mirror anticipating hideous slackness and drool, when I noticed the little red spots above my lip and remembered: Oh yeah, Doc C suggested more botox around the mouth. Dude. You didn't tell me I would end up speaking like Dick Clark on his last New Year's eve show. Sure he was amazing and may he rest in peace, but COME ON.

This brings us to a very important question: Is it better to have a few lines around the mouth or be line free and spew vile spittle in people's faces when having a conversation? Which is more of a turn off? Six of one I guess...

Most likely I will never give up my botox, or restlyane or juvederm. Or Pearlane. How can I look in the mirror and see my face hit my shoulders when I know there is a man around the corner with a vial of poison that can keep all lines off my forehead. So what if I look like I'm working a ventriloquist doll when I speak?

Eventually, Doc C is going to suggest calling in the Cavalry and doing a little slice and dice, instead of just injectables. I know that day is coming and I need to be prepared. I would like to tell you that that is where I will draw the line. I would like to tell you that when that day comes, I will look Dr. C. in the eye and say "Dr. C, this is who I am. I have earned each of these smile lines. This one is from when my daughter made the winning shot in her lacrosse game. This one is from when they removed my sons' house arrest bracelet. These are part of me." Yes I would LIKE to tell you I will say this, but I'm afraid what I WILL say, is "How much and how long before I can start wearing make up again?"

Hair Today, Gone Today
originally posted: February 8, 2013

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I am a writer and blogger in the Tampa Bay area. I have been featured on Huffington Post and Blog Her network. Novel in progress, slowly but surely.