Some of the Dog Guests Here at The Waldog Astoria

Teddy and Eric back to back

Cody the Golden Doodle!

Isabelle is as big as a minute

These are some of the dogs who have been staying at the “Waldog Astoria”, better known as the Pessin house.

I Am A Doppelganger for…

(yikes!) Greta Van Susteren.  At least that’s what my husband’s friend told me. I would have been highly insulted except that I (gulp) see the resemblance. Kind of scary.  What I was too afraid to ask him was if I look like Greta before or after the eye job. She’s from Wisconsin.  I went to college in Wisconsin.  Separated at birth perhaps? Or perhaps we merely share a hairdresser (she lives in the same area I believe only I’m sure in a tonier zipcode.)

She tends to cover the same subject over and over and over again.  Recently, I’ve come to call her program the “Casey Anthony” show.  She’s a smart gal but holy smokes!  Can’t Fox afford to get her a stylist?  She is the worst-dressed woman on television on any network, in any country.  In all of television history in fact.  Dress me up like Barney but not like Greta.

I think she feels in order to sound authoritative, she has to look masculine.  Now, I don’t think she should look all provocative like Ann Coulter whose boobage is usually so exposed, you can’t pay attention to anything she is saying. Greta has a standard uniform.  An oxford shirt buttoned all the way to the top and an ill-fitting blazer.  No make up, no jewelry, no style. Is this the scientology uniform?  (I believe she is a Scientologist but so is Kirsty Alley and you don’t see her dressed like a man.  A really poorly dressed man.)

The most offensive part of Greta’s outfit is the color scheme.  She will wear a magenta blazer with a black oxford shirt.  Where is Stacey London, from the show, “What Not To Wear”, when you need her?  I’m no fashionista but when I see Greta on the screen, I have to look away. It hurts my eyes. Couldn’t she add some pearls or earrings, bangs or make-up?  She must care about her appearance. If she didn’t care, she wouldn’t have had her eyes done.

Annoying License Plates and Bumper Stickers

In front of our ship during our Hawaii cruise ca. 2008

A Prius with a plate that said, MPG55.  I wanted to take a rock and throw it through his windshield. Can people be more obnoxious?  Well, as a matter a fact, they can!  The people who have 26.2 oval stickers should have their cars taken away so they can’t brag on their bumpers.  Besides, if they can run that far, they don’t need a car.  They can just walk to the store.

And to the Triathletes with 70.3 on your car bumpers, is that your IQ? I just bought one to put on my car that says “98.6 — NO FEVER!”

I am the first one to appreciate a good pun on a license plate.  That takes some cleverness as well as a long-term commitment to a joke. My husband and I usually hang onto a car for over 10 years and I don’t think anything is funny for beyond, say eight and a half years. It’s not like a fine wine.  It doesn’t get better. Except for the following: remember those bumper stickers that you usually saw on old Jalopies that said “My other car is a Mercedes?”  One of my favorite bumper stickers said, “My other car is also a piece of crap.”  I also like the ones that say “my kid beat up your honor student.”  A little mean?  Perhaps. When your kid splits the atom, you are entitled to put up a bumper sticker.  Not for getting an “A” in coloring.

The worst is when people have inside jokes and put them on their vanity plates.  You almost get into a car accident trying to figure out what they are saying. I want to honk my horn and ask if I can buy a vowel.  Some of them truly need a vowel movement.

No Good Deed Goes Unpunished

Save The Alpacas! We volunteered at an Assistant Living facility that had a petting zoo one Sunday. This guy was SO cute!

We regularly donate money to the Lupus Foundation and the Alopecia Foundation because our friend’s teenaged daughter suffers from both of these conditions. In gratitude, one or both of these organizations sold our name and address to other charitable organizations seeking donations.

Today, we received in the mail, the Tony Soprano version of a solicitation for a financial donation. It was for an organization that surgically repairs deformed cleft palates of children.  I’m sure you’ve seen the photos on the metro or on the side of a bus.  There’s nothing more pathetic. You cannot get out your Visa card fast enough when you see one of these adorable blue eyed babies in a pastel onesie with a huge harelip.

I don’t object to the heart-rending photo. What was so offensive was the shakedown of a salespitch. “If you make one gift now, we promise we’ll never ask for another donation again.”  The implication of this is that if we do NOT make a donation, they will pester us until we do so or we can expect a visit from Pauly Walnuts and company.   It seems pretty implausible that we would never hear from them again based on the relentless requests we receive from the charities we have given to in the past. Then I thought about it. Of course, they don’t need any more gifts from us. Once we give them a gift, they will make a killing selling our name and address to other 501(c)(3) organizations! Duh!

Hoarders Are Us

Taking a break from hoarding in Martha's Vineyard a few years and wrinkles ago

I try to be so organized and always have back-up supplies.  This comes from growing up in a house with 7 people where one small tube of toothpaste was shuttled from one bathroom to the next.  (No wonder I’ve had eleven root canals!)

When we ran out of toilet paper, one of my parents would drive twelve miles to the A & P to purchase one roll of toilet paper.  I’m not talking about one 4-pack of TP – I am talking about one ROLL of single-ply tissue so scratchy that could take the paint off your car – I think it must have been imported from France.

It wasn’t a money issue.  It was just a way of thinking.  A very inefficient way of thinking.  Apparently, my folks didn’t want to tie up their cash reserves in Charmin.

As a reaction to my upbringing, there are at any given time, 42 jugs of Wisk in my linen closet keeping company with 35 boxes of Crest. If our basement is ever flooded, we’d never know it because all of the paper goods stored down there could absorb the same amount of water contained in Lake Michigan.

We have enough batteries on hand to power a small electric car.  We stock so many cans of chick peas that in case there’s a national hummus emergency, we’re on FEMA’s speed dial.  ( As a corollary to that, we store an equal amount of Beano).

Remember the plastic sheeting and duct tape crisis we had a few years ago when the government had convinced the local populace that Saran Wrap could save you from a deadly biological attack?  We purchased enough plastic sheeting to shrink wrap New Jersey.

We have so much bottled water delivered to our house that the Deer Park delivery guy is included in our holiday card.

I thought I was being so smart when my son liked a particular pair of pants.  I went back to the store and purchased  300 pairs in the next six sizes so that I wouldn’t have drive back to Target for several years.  Of course, this strategy failed miserably when, the following year, my son decided he no longer liked that style.

Our family motto is the same as the boy scouts or the U.S. Coast Guard – “Semper Paratus” which translated from the Latin means, “compulsive-neurotic hoarder.”

Having A Pet Doesn’t Make You Live Longer — IT JUST FEELS LONGER!

To assuage my guilt from giving my child neither a sibling nor a dog, we regularly watch other people’s dogs (but not other people’s siblings).  Eric has named the business the Waldog Astoria. Although our “guests” don’t get their own terrycloth robes, they do get a lot of love and attention.  But not from me. I’m not a dog person. I’m a “make-life-as-easy-as-possible” person. And having a dog ain’t easy. Especially when you are watching one the size of a pony who has a predilection for puking. In our room.  On the carpet.  We are fairly prepared for most eventualities but our cream colored bedroom rug isn’t. At 5:00 A.M. I like to be sleeping instead of hunting down the bottle of Resolve.

It is a shame because this Golden Doodle is the sweetest dog who will do whatever you tell him. He even listened attentively as I reviewed some legal documents with my mother-in-law.  The Doodle was rapt with curiosity about the in terrorem clause I was attempting to explain to my MIL who was fast asleep as was my husband. Either the dog was an eager beaver law student in a previous life or he was signaling a need to use the outdoor facilities communicating through the use of telepathy. According to his owners, telepathy is his main form of notifying us that he would like to go out.  He doesn’t bark the way other dogs do like when the mail is delivered or a rabbit is in the vicinity.  He doesn’t beg at the table like some of the other pooches we watch. He can deal with anything except for his own gastrointestinal tract.

Currently, we are watching one of our favorite boarders who unfortunately went into “Addisonian crisis” on our watch.  This involved a trip to the 24-hour emergency vet where we had to leave him overnight.  We were all frantic with worry but apparently, it doesn’t take a lot to set off a dog (or person) with Addison’s disease. (Yes, I know President Kennedy had it — that’s what people keep telling me when I inform them of the dog’s condition.  However President Kennedy also had the power of speech and a helicopter to take him to Bethesda Naval. This poor dog had no way to tell us why he was so miserable and his transportation a bit more shabby — our 11-year old minivan.)

My husband, who has also been begging for a dog, keeps telling me about the statistic that people who have dogs live longer and are healthier because petting a dog releases endorphins. For me, caring for a dog releases toxins that require me to nap for two hours every day.  I am not buying my husband’s argument.  You may live longer but you end up spending all that extra time cleaning up after your dog.  (Next time, just clock it, you’ll see!)

The silver lining is that when we spend an entire weekend of trying to scrape loose poops and dog barf off of neighbors’ lawns, I am relieved of any feelings of bad parenting of not getting my son a pooch of his own. My family and friends think I am an awful person because I do NOT WANT A DOG.  As my son said, “come on Mom, have a heart.”  I told him I have one.  It’s just that my brain trumps this time.

My Wardrobe Nightmare

Clearly I need wardrobe help -- I look like Bluto from the Popeye Cartoon

My friend Sue was aghast that I actually got sucked into bidding on one of those Internet “Groupon” type deals.  “You mean you spent $80 for someone to go shopping with you?  I would have done that for you for free!”  I explained that it was a great bargain because normally, the woman charges more than double that amount.  Sue then muttered something about how that it’s kind of like getting half-priced tap water.

The truth is, when it comes to clothes shopping, I am overwhelmed and completely paralyzed when I walk into a store. If I find something I like, inevitably, the price is something equivalent to the GNP of a small Carribean island nation. But mainly, nothing looks or feels quite right.

I don’t even attempt to shop at places like TJ Maxx, Marshalls, Ross, etc.  (BTW, whatever happened to Frugal Fannies?) That’s just pandemonium.  I can’t even cross those thresholds.  TOO. MUCH. STUFF.  Racks of “irregulars” all crammed together with sizes arranged randomly.  Most of it garbage — that’s why it’s here!  (Although not a discount store, I find the above applies to Macy’s too).  Unabashedly, the store throws in blouses stained with lipstick and sweaters with small holes.  They don’t have to defend it because of the low price.

Can someone please introduce a bill in Congress to outlaw the following garment nightmares: polyester, empire waists (EVERYONE wearing these appear to be pregnant), cap sleeves (holy sausage arm city Batman!), gray tops or sweaters (EVERYONE looks ashen and on death’s doorstep in this non-color), A-line skirts (whom do these flatter?  June Cleaver?)…should I go on?  Some styles need to be put to bed. FOREVER.

I read about a brilliant scheme in the local paper.  A VERY expensive blue jeans store in Bethesda was busted for providing free alcohol to customers as a kind of spending lubricant.  How come no one ever offers me a Bud Light when I’m shopping at Old Navy?  I think this would help to alleviate a lot of my shopping anxiety.  Not so subtly, they served booze to women to reduce their negative feelings about shopping for jeans which is only marginally less miserable than trying to find a bathing suit that fits and looks good.

*Postscript: this post was originally published on April 1. The store giving out champagne to its blue jeans customers is now closed.  Hmmm. I wonder why. Seeing a $275 pricetag has a sobering effect on all but the most inebriated shopper.

When the Power Goes Out, Turn on Your Husband

by…cleaning! We were very lucky that during Hurricane Irene, we didn’t lose power.  However, two days after the hurricane, for some reason, the power went out a little before 7 AM.   Probably the Pepco guys working in the vicinity of our grid sneezed too hard or spilled coffee on the motherboard.

I spent yesterday throwing away all of the ice I had made in anticipation of Irenemaggedon.  So at 7:15 this morning, I ran up to the gas station to buy $15 worth of ice to preserve $10 worth of lunch meat.

I couldn’t turn on my computer to check my e-mail. I couldn’t work on my blog. I couldn’t make the banana bread from my rotting bananas as planned. I couldn’t play my electric guitar. So, I had to resort to (yikes!) cleaning.  I went on a cleaning binge. I used soap scum remover on the tub and wall tile. I scrubbed the outside of my bedroom windows (they fold inward — I don’t do ladders — fear of heights and my weak bones are a bad combination). I polished the bedroom furniture.  I folded the laundry. I was a Whirling Dervish of cleaning.

Three hours into my endeavor to rid my bedroom of dust (and happily finding lost items like the spare remote and a bologna sandwich — I am kidding!  We don’t eat bologna — it was turkey), I noticed the clock blinking.  It took me a while to process that the power might be back.  I checked first to see if it was a cruel joke in that perhaps, the lights were flashing because the clock had a battery back up.  Well it actually did but being B-minus people in a Type-A zipcode (I wrote a song with that title — coming to YouTube soon!), there was no battery therein.  I called my husband to tell him the power was back. His response: “Keep cleaning!”

I know most of you are shocked but if you want to know why I do not have a cleaning lady, just remember what happened with Maria Shriver’s cleaning lady. Eric doesn’t want a sibling that badly.

The gorgeous piano I might sell

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Charging for Bags

I am having no problem with this new law in our County that charges us a nickel per bag.  But apparently, the people who work the checkout counter are.  They say snarky things like, “so, I guess you didn’t bring any bags did you?”  I always feel as though I have to be apologetic about ruining the environment.  But hey, it’s my environment too!  And I do reuse my own bags once of purchased them.  Usually just once though. Please tell me where I am supposed to put my disgusting pool shoes after I am done with water exercise class.  Directly into my canvas bag so they will leak out all over my car seat creating a mold and mildew stew inside my vehicle?  I feel like a rich snob when I am willing to pay for bags at the store.  Like some giant chemical company who will pay big fines to pollute because in the long run, it’s more cost effective.

Eric and Izzy snoozing

How am I supposed to pack my husband’s Fred Flintstone-sized lunch every day?  In a suitcase?  I actually need to double bag his lunch with those plastic bags because he takes three bottles of drinks to work for the day.  PLASTIC bottles!  Please don’t send me hate mail —  my husband needs to stay hydrated!  I also pack a lot of fruit and veggies for him.  He can’t be bogged down with reusable containers so I use…you guessed it — plastic baggiess.  Sometimes I use foil.  Another big no-no.  What do other people do?  Take a smelly tupperware container that makes the sandwich tastes like dishwasher detergent residue (or do highly committed green folks even use dishwashers?  – I think they do now that they took away our beloved phosphates.  I’m sending you a bill to the legistators who took away my phosphates so they can  replace my filmy dishes with white crap all over them!)

The grocery store folks actually try to save me money and cram everything into as few bags as possible. Not helpful.  I leave the store and the bag breaks, smashing my jars and denting my cans.  Usually on my driveway.  Maybe people will appreciate the disposable bags a little more when they start getting sick from cross contamination of using their multipurpose re-usable bags for food and then for some biohazard like pool shoes (if you have ever had a case of athlete’s foot, you’ll know what I mean.  I thought I had grown webbed feet when I had it!)

Mommy Merry Go Round

02 The Mommy Merry-Go Round by Sally Pessin

Here is a song I wrote for a woman’s website.  She wanted me to write a humorous song about what it was like to be a new mother.  (A little parental warning here.  Some of the content a little PG-13.)

One way to thin out traffic

I read an article in the paper that talked about a country where women are not allowed to drive.  (BTW, I want to live in a country where women aren’t allowed to clean!  LOL:)  I will not mention that country’s name because I don’t want to become the female Salman Rushdie of humor bloggers.  However, I think we all know what hot, dry, oil-bloated country I am talking about.  To take a page out of Seinfeld’s book, here’s a hint: it rhymes with a part of the female anatomy whose mention is also outlawed in this country.

A few women protested by coordinating a “drive-in” — they all went out for a joy ride at the same time.  One woman went on the Internet and posted a photo of herself driving.  She was subsequently arrested.

The men in power in this country won’t let women drive because they claim that driving degrades a woman’s dignity.  We all know that by contrast, waiting for a bus in the rain (or in this case, in a sandstorm) is a much more dignifying experience.  Does every woman in this country really  have their own chauffeurs?

I think the true reason behind this policy is to thin out traffic.  Could you imagine if we could remove 50 percent of the population from the roads? It would eliminate road rage because there would never be traffic.

If they really want to take away women’s “drive to drive”, then they should import crummier cars.  Currently, the photos show these women in tricked-out Land Rovers and Mercedes SUVs.  Why don’t they import some Kias and Chevy Novas? (My apologies to those of you who own those cars, but seriously, get with the program and buy a Honda!)  The women wouldn’t be so eager to be seen in a car like that!

A picture of me driving a pretty tricked out SUV in Rocky Mtn. Nat'l Park, Colorado last summer

The Secret to A Strong Marriage

A trip to Paris is romantic but have two TVs is the best way to keep a marriage strong!

They say that the biggest issues in most marriages is finances.  That and getting along with each other.

Financial issues are not a problem in our marriage.  My husband, Andy and I agree on almost everything. We have the same taste in food, furniture, music, what makes us laugh.  This is a lifesaver for me because if my husband didn’t think I was funny, I’d have to go out and get a real job. But luckily, I’m a good cook and am somewhat amusing to him.

The only thing we do not agree on is what we like to watch on TV. I like Anthony Bourdain on the Travel Channel, Rachael Ray, Suze Orman on PBS, VH1 Music Videos from the 80′s and of course, anything on Bravo.  By contrast, my husband likes any channel or program with any of the following words in the title: Sci Fi, History, Military, World War II, General Patton, Alien, UFO, the Loch Ness Monster, and most unfortunately, Family Guy.

We have friends who take separate vacations from each other. I get that. Andy likes to go to museums, monuments and historical sites. I like to go to the outlet mall and the pool.

We know couples who pursue their own separate hobbies and interests. We have the same hobby: complaining about the lawn guy and Parisians.  The one thing we just cannot do together is watch television. Sometimes we try to compromise on something we can both tolerate but aren’t passionate about. It’s usually something on Animal Planet or National Geographic channel. By the end of the program, we are both usually asleep.

For my husband’s birthday, I will watch a TV movie about the Cuban Missile Crisis with him. (There is usually a malt-based beverage involved for me as a palliative.) For my birthday, I will give Andy a King Sized bag of M&Ms and he will watch The Real Housewives of New York City with me as he goes into insulin shock. Now, that’s true love!

Do Kids Really Need Snacks at Soccer?

There was a whole e-mail exchange amongst our soccer team parents about whether or not to continue with soccer snacks.  Our kids are in eighth grade and one parent’s position was that they can live off of their body fat for at least an hour and a half.  One mom said she was ok with continuing the snack policy as long as healthy snacks were provided. This, of course, led to a whole discussion of what precisely constitutes a healthy snack.  Everyone agreed that Tofu on a Stick was healthy because the stick could be a good source of fiber.  Although personally, I enjoy a hearty tofu dish, some say it’s like eating your pillow.

What kids REALLY want is a snack with a prize in it like cereals that include a little matchbox car.  Remember when Cracker Jacks had really good prizes like a secret decoder ring?  The prize had no connection to the food.  It would have been more useful if the Cracker Jacks came with a prize of dental floss for all of the popcorn hulls that get stuck between your teeth.  If I send my husband to the grocery store, he inevitably comes back with bags of products that come with a free prize; it doesn’t matter what the prize is.  The last time, it was a pink shower cap that came with the purchase of a bottle of shampoo.  We don’t use that brand of shampoo, but if there’s a prize, my husband will buy it.  Very Pavlovian!

Kids Say the Darndest….

Eleanor is a friend I have made at our pool.  She is a hospice nurse. She is a saint. Really. She spends her days going to people’s homes to help them die. That ought to make her eligible for canonization or at least a free camera (I can hear the groans coming through my modem). Or at least beatification (which, by the way, for those unfamiliar with the term doesn’t refer to an Extreme Makeover.)

I asked Eleanor if her young girls (2nd and 4th grade) knew what she does for a living. That’s probably a grim thing to have to explain to a 7 and 9 year old. She said they do know what she does, but, Eleanor explained, they don’t truly understand the abstraction of it.  To wit: The younger daughter was out walking in the 100 degree heat and said, “Mom, it’s SO hot! I am dying! Please call hospice!”

Another favorite anecdote is from our friend whose daughter Jackie swam at the same indoor pool we did when our kids were around 3 or 4. They made announcement over the PA system that the water aerobics class was about to start in the shallow pool. Startled to hear a booming voice appearing out of nowhere, Jackie looked up at her mom and said, “Is that God?” I love that!

And finally, when my son Eric was around 4 or 5, he wanted to know more about his Grandpa for whom he received his middle name and whom he never knew because he passed away five years before my husband I had even met. I told Eric that his grandfather was in heaven and had died because he had smoked for so many years and had developed lung cancer.  My subtle attempt to alert my son to the dangers of smoking down the road produced an interesting effect. Eric remarked, “So, Grandpa Leo is up in heaven smoking?”

This is the heaven I am envisioning

Yo Hablo Espanol Muy Badly

My ratatouille didn't come out this beautifully

My mother-in-law’s cleaning lady, Maria (most of them are named Maria or Rosa — it’s a cleaning lady requirement) speaks only Spanish. (Why is Maria accorded the nobility title of “lady” while I’m a mere “housewife?” See older post where I rant about the term housewife but I digress.)

My MIL speaks no Spanish so I have to be the interpreter for all transactions between the two of them. My Spanish skills approach that of the average Mexican two-year old.

Unfortunately, most of the communication between Maria and myself takes place by phone. Without the help of lip reading, wild gesticulatons, and other visual cues, I am at a huge disadvantage.  I’m sure Maria thinks I am a complete moron. It doesn’t help that she speaks a mile a minute despite my pleas for her to speak  ”mas despacio.” Every once in a while, she will throw me a bone and will insert an English word in here and there — “no puedo venir Wednesday” (Translation: I can’t come on Wednesday).

This must be how my hard-of-hearing dad feels when he calls me (every day) and tries to decipher what I am saying. On a recent phone call, he asked what I made for dinner.  The word “Ratatouille” just doesn’t have the harsh sounds that can come through clearly on a cell phone to someone who has crummy hearing aids. (Sorry Dad, but technology from 18 months ago is no longer state-of-the art! I’m sorry if they cost you $5000 each).  It was late at night and I was walking one of our boarder dogs, strolling up the street screaming into my iPhone at the top of my lungs: “RATATOUILLE” around five hundred times.

Spelling out a long, French word wasn’t a good option, especially when my Dad misses a couple of letters — it’s like playing Wheel of Fortune on crack.

Like me, my dad is a big cook. So I decided on a different game show approach (think Password with Alan Ludden, the late husband of Betty White — a little trivia).  I started to name the ingredients one by one, because I knew my dad could probably guess what I had made for dinner:  Eggplant! Green pepper! Onion! Zucchini! Tomatoes!

Finally, my Dad said, “OH! Ratatouille!” And my annoyed neighbor screamed though her open window, “Hey, Rachael Ray, keep it down, we’re trying to sleep in here!”

Humorist versus Comedian

In front of Half Dome in Yosemite two years ago

I would like to be known as a humorist rather than a comedian.  I used to be a stand-up but there’s too high of an expectation of how funny you have to be.  If you are a comic, people want you to make them laugh so hard that they actually start coughing up blood.  I don’t need that kind of pressure or exposure to a biohazard.

When I did stand-up in the early 90s, I  had a gig for a corporate Christmas party in a hotel ballroom of about 300 people.  The thermostat was broken and it was approximately 110 degrees in there — sort of like a sauna with party clothes.

The crowd was already angry because it was hot and they were waiting over two hours for their tardy CEO to show up before they could be served dinner.  The reason these party-goers were especially cranky is that they weren’t drinking. Why not you ask? It was a cash bar.   Anyone can get laughs out of a bunch of drunkards.  But try not getting heckled from an overheated, starving, and SOBER crowd.   That was one tough room. Except for a table just in front of me of kindly Filipinos who spoke no English but smiled at me continuously for support. It was surreal. (At least I KILLED at the Christmas party for the American Society of Highway Engineers. All 16 of them LOVED my material. I will always be grateful that they got my geeky humor. Did I mention that they had an OPEN bar?)

To say I was booted off stage was an understatement.  I was literally chased out of the Bethesda Holiday Inn by an angry mob.  But, luckily I was paid up front and the check cleared, so no harm no foul.  Just incredibly humiliating and my agent dumped me without first hearing my side of the story.  Agents can be pond scum.  Now, as oxymoronic as it may sound, I merely want folks to take me seriously as a humorist.

Retail Therapy Redefined

For most women, retail therapy involves going to a shopping mall for great clothes or at least one cool new item. This doesn’t work for me because I feel as though I hate everything that I see. And I’m talking about even BEFORE I try it on.

It’s just all ugly and clingy and polyester. Yuck! I want simple, flattering, roomy, REASONABLY PRICED clothing made of cotton! Is that too much to ask???  No nylon or rayon or lycra (except in my pants — can’t get enough spandex in my pants to accommodate the menopot!)  And I definitely do not want modal (what the heck is that anyway? Is modal the fabric equivalent of melamine — that all-purpose chemical used in both Pergo flooring and in baby formula — in China only?)

Preppy bland clothes from Lands End or L.L. Bean do not quite fit the bill.  Talbots — too frumpy. J. Jill — colors too washed out and way over-priced. Coldwater Creek looks great in the catalog but not in person.  Chico’s — too “mature.”  Macy’s — too much stuff and therefore, overwhelming.  HELP!!!!!

So, I have to get my retail fix at office supply stores and grocery stores. It’s therapeutic because I am spending money on things that we really need like colorful paperclips and toner. No guilt attached to the pure, unadulterated high of swiping a Visa card when it’s for Scotch tape and Post-Its (how about that for a plug for the 3M company?)

My latest addiction are these Popcorner Chips (sea salt flavor) which BTW, are NOT available at Whole Paycheck stores

Then, there is the shopping-from-hell experience. Costco is one of these. I’ve got a whole song about Costco that will appear on as an MP3 one day.  And Whole Paycheck (you know who I mean) is the other toxic retail experience.  Where else can you spend $150 on two bags of groceries and still not be able to put a meal together? Where else are there scores of pale, gaunt women who eschew make-up and chemically treated hair?  The gals don earth-tone apparel made of hemp and flax and troll the never-ending tea aisle looking for eco-friendly, over-priced, fair-trade sh*t.  I don’t want every item in my shopping cart to come with its own political agenda. I just need to feed my family.

Today, I found myself in their store (out of desperation for whipping cream) and approached the “chef on call” who is supposed to answer all of my spice and herb questions. He was sweating profusely all over the raw goat cheese samples that he was trying to foist upon me. When I refused one, he took it as a personal affront (goat cheese doesn’t improve with age or perspiration). I asked Mr. Sweaty Toque if the store sold those lovely-smelling lavender wipes available on the endcaps which they provide to keep the plethora of immuno-compromised customers from keeling over from MRSA while they are shopping. If these anemic folks even walk by the conventional produce, they will go into severe anaphylactic shock.

Mr. Spice guy told me they don’t sell my lavender wipes there.  When I expressed my disappointment and wanted to know why, the condescension oozed out with the the droplets of sweat: “BECAUSE we’re a grocery store you moron!”  He didn’t actually use the word “moron” but it was right there in the tone. I reminded him that his sanctimonious store does, in fact sell cleaning products. Clearly, he’s making minimum wage because he couldn’t hack it on the chef’s line after culinary school and somehow, that is MY fault. Dude, get some freakin’ manners and a sweat band. They must have an eco-friendly one on aisle 9.

They didn’t lose me as a regular customer because I never was one any more than I’m a regular customer of 7-11.  I patronize both these stores only in a true gastronomic emergency — like when I need something critical like marshmallow fluff.  I guess it was apparent to spice guy that I was a lowly Giant customer and I was experiencing a shunning of sorts.  Yeah, I’m suprised they didn’t call their PETA goon squad to throw red paint on me because I was wearing make-up and had highlighted hair all from products that were (thankfully) tested on animals. One of their many missions is about being kind to animals (humans not so much).  How do they explain their extensive meat department?  Oh excuse me, benevolently-treated animals.  Dead animals.

Please Don’t Think Me Rude…

Eric's enjoying Monet's Waterlillies in Paris

…if I don’t respond to your “chatting” on Facebook.  The truth is, I don’t understand it and I rarely see it. I need an aural cue like a loud alarm or even a punch in the nose to let me know you want to chat with me.  When will they come up this? In the meantime, instead, why don’t you send me an e-mail? Can other people see us chatting? Why do people like to talk to me on Facebook? Why is that so cool? If you send me an e-mail, I will answer it very promptly. I promise! I’m really very good about that.

I don’t know about you but when I have to “chat” with the customer service folks at Land’s End, I get very anxious. I wonder why it is taking so long for their response and if I have gotten cut off.  I fear they won’t stick around unless I type and send my message really fast. I wait with baited breath for “Constance” or “Lloyd” to tell me they don’t make sexy bathing suits in my size. (Note how unusual the names are of people who work in customer service.  They can’t get other jobs because employers can’t get past their names on their resumes.  I wrote a song about unusual names called, “Remember When Morgan and Chase were Banks?”  One day, it will be available on my website. But since I don’t even understand the “Chat” feature of Facebook, it is unlikely to appear as an MP3 before the next Presidential election.

Also, I don’t understand why people text my phone instead of sending me an e-mail.  Do they assume I am ALWAYS out shopping? (As a matter of fact, I usually am since we are ALWAYS OUT OF BANANAS!)  It seems that these folks who text my phone need to urgently notify me of something important like that the local library will be closed for renovations in the Fall of 2015.   FYI, my computer keys are significantly bigger than my phone’s keys so when I respond to you, I don’t have to erase three-fourths of what I’ve written due to a million typos.

I work at home. I’m at my computer all the time. I have my cell phone on only when I leave the house. Even if I leave it on when I am home, my cell is usually downstairs in my mudroom (aka, the piano bench) and I’m upstairs so I can’t hear it. So, don’t you see, I don’t get your text unless I’m out on errands. And then I am driving (unless I’m in the banana aisle) so it’s not safe for me to respond.

Now I know I shouldn’t complain and shouldn’t alienate the 67 friends I have on Facebook.  I am such a loser!  Even my cleaning lady has 300 friends.  They’re all cleaning ladies too! But seriously, I think there should be some standard for whom you can friend on FB. It should be someone you really would want to have a beer with. Because after all, FB is like a virtual bar without the buzz. But I swear I know people who friend everyone in the White Pages. And by white pages, I mean all white people.  These are the same people who claim to be all about diversity. Just not on their FB.

My poor son always has to explain new technology to me.  I asked him why people can’t just send a text to my computer where I am located most of the time when I am not in Trader Joe’s.

“Mom, people cannot send a text to your computer.”  I get very frustrated because I feel like with all this “cloud” stuff, that can’t possibly be true.  (The cloud thing is such an abstraction to me that it might as well be explained to me in ancient Greek).

In frustration, I blow up at Eric. “Well, why can’t Bill Gates or Warren Buffett do something about the text message to computer thing?”  (I know Warren Buffet is not a computer guy but with his money and friendship with Bill Gates, I figure he is fairly influential and gets the job done!)

My son responds, “Is Warren Buffet that dude with the Pina Colada song?”  Some things will always be generational. My son and his generation are tech savvy by nature.  On the other hand, my generation spent their adolescence “…wastin’ away again in Margaritaville…”

My Neighbors’ Recycling

While walking around my neighborhood for exercise, I take note of what is in people’s recylcing bins. I don’t actually pick through them to see what’s underneath the top layer because in the words of Jerry Seinfeld, I would “cross the line between man and bum.” (Giving Jerry attribution puts me in the all-clear for a plagiarism lawsuit and it also avoids my being accused of something far worse: using politically incorrect language.)

I find that my neighbors suffer from some internal paradox in what they consume. There are packages from pesticide-free products, cage-free egg cartons, Greek yogurt cups, Horizon milk sans the hormones, and omega-3 rich sushi boxes.  There are clam shells from organic blueberries.  (BTW, not real clam shells — it’s what they call those plastic containers produce comes in.) In the other half of the recylcing bin containing the aforementioned items are a plethora of wine, beer and soda bottles. Did I miss the part of the food pyramid that includes , Sam Adams and Diet Coke? These individuals are washing down all of their purified, locally-produced antioxidants with nitrates, fermented yeast and aspartame.  There are also lots of black plastic Chinese take-out containers.  What this tells me is that the folks on my street start out with a really healthy breakfast and then, as the day moves along, nutritionally, it’s all downhill from there.

Delicious ice cream from the famed Berthillon in Paris. Worth the 45 minute wait you ask? Not so much.

Versailles — L’Etat C’est Moi (The mental state of those who cut in line!)

Waiting on line at Versailles

Well, I know it started with Louis XIV who used his halls as a latrine.  But our trip to Versailles highlighted the arbitrariness of rules and the lack of their enforcement in France.  Inasmuch as my husband and I are both attorneys, we were rather taken aback by this.

To start out, we planned to take a 9:55 AM train to Versailles which is about 40 minutes outside of Paris.  The train arrived early at 9:50 which was when we boarded.  At 9:52, the train left. THREE minutes before it was scheduled to leave.  Here in the states, the train would leave as scheduled or later but not BEFORE.  Is this any way to run a railroad?

We bought our tickets online for Versailles so we wouldn’t have to wait “on line.”  Wrong.  We stood in line for an hour and a half in the blazing sun.  About 45 minutes into our wait, with our backs turned for a second, some German tourists jumped in line ahead of us.  Then the same thing happened behind us with French tourists.  To say we rule followers almost started an international incident is an understatement.

We finally got into the chateau and there were huge signs, billboards practically, bearing a drawing of a camera with a giant black line through it — the universal symbol for “no photographs.” Duh.  We walked through the museum and flashes were going off like crazy; it was like strobe lights everywhere. All of the tourists were snapping away at their cameras.  I was incredulous.  I asked one of the guards.  He said that we were allowed to take photos.  “But what about that gigantic sign downstairs?” I asked.  He shrugged his shoulders and said, “this is France” (i.e., we don’t follow our own rules).

We walked through the gardens for about 2 hours or so.  By the time we got to the far reaches of the estate, our feet (and hips and backs) had given out.  Actually, it was just me who could barely move. We saw a little tram that would take us back to the chateau.   The tram, on an endless loop of the entire estate, was practically empty.  We took out our wallets and the tram operator told us he didn’t have any more tickets.  “But you have all these seats” we implored.  Well, apparently, they are only allowed to sell a certain amount of tickets and after that, they can’t let anyone else on even if the car is completely empty.  Is this any way to run a tram service as well as a country whose economy is based on tourism?

Post-Holiday Malaise

This time of year is for napping!

Now that we have all stuffed ourselves with too-sweet treats, overindulged in spirits, and fought with our relatives, it’s time for a full-on recovery. This involves a lot of sleeping. And by a lot, I mean like 16 hours per day.  And that doesn’t include the lounging around in one’s pjs.  And by pjs, I mean whatever you happen to fall asleep in.  This is the result of the power of eggnog before bed.

We are too lethargic to return to the mall with unwanted gifts that don’t fit or that we already had. So they sit in a pile in our dining room with our unpacked suitcases.  (I have a relative who actually regifts you back gifts that you gave to them in prior years. Unsure whether or not this is intentional).  This fog between Christmas and New Years is pretty universal from what I can gather: no one has been posting on Facebook.  But perhaps, if I didn’t check it every 12 minutes, there might appear to be more activity.  Perhaps if I had more than 71 friends, I would also have more FB traffic.

For those of us who went away for a few days and are sick of restaurant food, we are stuck in a catch-22 of poor nutrition. All of those cheesesteaks and fries are rendering us too sluggish to shop or cook for anything healthy.  So it’s frozen meals and canned soups with saltines.  This is akin to being home sick.  I love the holidays!

People Acting Paradoxically

Our Friends Pele and Teddy Staying with us a while back -- although both cockapoos, they're not related.

Due to all of my digestive enzyme deficiencies (don’t laugh, I used to be able to eat at a Mexican restaurant with abandon too),  I returned to the fancy pants Apothecary.  For those who are not local, it is like a high end GNC on steroids (bioidentical ones) with a compounding pharmacy as well as lavender creams and anything by Burt’s Bees.  It has that yeasty, health food store smell.The customers who shop there are well-heeled (looking to be well-healed) and a little zombie-like filling their baskets with supplements that promise longevity, serenity, and all that jazz.  I just want to be able to eat beans and onions without ending up in ER with severe stomach pains caused by trapped gas.

There was a young disheveled looking guy (maybe 27 or so) with overgrown hair who looked like an extra from a production of Les Miserables.  Perhaps to get into character, he smelled as though he had refrained from showering.  He was just standing in the middle of the store spacing out and eating from a bag of what looked like granola from a bulk foods bin.  The problem is, this store doesn’t sell food except for those disgusting Lara bars, which taste like bad, raw cookie dough.  Well, I figured, he wasn’t my problem and I stood on line to pay for my purchase.  The young man went to exit the store and as he was leaving, he stopped to repeatedly use the Purell machine.   I found it rather amusing that despite his personal hygiene issues he still was able to recognized the fact that most germs are transmitted via the hands.

My Latest Book Review on WIROB

The Washington Independent Review of Books published my latest book review on a memoir by Mindy Kaling or “Kelly Kapoor” of the TV show, “The Office.”

http://www.washingtonindependentreviewofbooks.com/?s=Mindy+Kaling

Sexism in Sizing (Good Scrabble words!)

At Yosemite two years ago

I wish I had been born a man. Not in a Chaz Bono kind of way.  I just don’t like having to shop for clothing because I am overwhelmed by the choices.  Most specifically, I am perplexed by the sizes.  These days, most women’s clothes are offered in three sizes: S, M, and L.  Somehow, all American women, sizes 0-18 are all supposed to squeeze into one of these three categories.  The garments will just sort of fit.  Occasionally, they will throw us a bone and give us “P” (for petite) and “XL” for women who need a little extra coverage.  (Some wonderfully democratic stores charge more for the larger sizes as a kind reminder that they require more fabric).  The lack of precision in sizes is very upsetting.

Of course, this issue does not exist in men’s clothing. Men’s clothing measurements are so exact that even inexpensive stores like Kohl’s sells shirts that offer different sleeve lengths (i.e., 32/33) and various neck sizes (e.g. 16 1/2).  If I walked into Bloomingdales’ and discovered that I could choose from different sleeve lengths, I would think I was hallucinating.  Of course, men are afforded this same precision in pants — waist size AND inseam!  And then, even in a discount place like Syms, if the pants in your $99 suit needs to be taken out a little, they have a tailor onsite to alter your pants, shorten your sleeves, hem your cuffs, etc. for practically pennies.  Yet, if a woman buys an $800 designer suit at Lord and Taylor, she’s buys it “as is.”  If the skirt is snug, they will merely tell you to go drink a can of SlimFast.

This sizing discrimination starts very young. Even in Boys Department at Sears, the pants are available in not only numbered sizes but also regular, slim and husky.  I just bought leggings.  The medium was too small and large was too big.  All I could hope for is that the same dry cleaner who shrinks the rest of my clothes would be as successful with the Large leggings.

Chicos, my new favorite store, as of today does one better in terms of size options: they offer their wares in sizes 0, 1, 2, and 3.  The true range of the size of the clothing is like a 4 through 18 but with this scheme, everyone thinks they are a small size!  That’s what I call brilliant marketing! And I fell for it hook, line and sinker. Don’t ask what I spent but I finally understand what the expression “retail therapy” means — now if only we can get insurance to cover it! I just hope my husband doesn’t read this post.  I plan to hide the evidence (credit card receipt.)

George Plimpton and Me

My co-author Janice and I with my live idol, Dave Barry at the Bethesda Barnes and Noble at his book signing

I want to be George Plimpton.  Except I want to be alive. And remain female. It’s not his money I want but if someone gave it to me, I wouldn’t complain. I want to be like George in that he was lauded and respected for being a dilettante.

George actually competed in almost every professional sport (as a journalist)) and then wrote about it. He sparred with famous boxers. He went through training camp with the Detroit Lions.  He worked to be an ice hockey goalie with the Boston Bruins. I want to do the same thing except instead of pro sports, I’d like to go on a cruise, get a massage, drive a free Lexus, and eat at great restaurants — all without charge, and write about it on my blog.

George did a little of everything. And he squandered a much fancier education than I did — Exeter, Harvard, Kings College in Cambridge.

But the biggest thing I squandered was an opportunity to discuss this lifestyle with George.  I was at George’s Long Island East Hampton estate with two college friends in July of 1979.  Every summer, the Plimptons hosted a huge party with his own private fireworks. Not included on the guest list were my two college friends and myself. My friend Judy crashes the party every year.

The difference that year was that by the time we got there, the soiree was over and we stumbled upon only George and his wife du jour.  Dilettantes by their very nature are a bit ADD and have commitment issues; George and this particular wife eventually split up. When the Plimptons learned we were trespassers, they kindly (in that Locust Valley lockjaw way Mr. P. was known for — think William F. Buckley or for the TV viewing crowd, Thurston Howell — the “millionaire” — on Gilligan’s Island) asked us to leave the premises. VERY embarrassing.

Judy had invited me out for the weekend to hang out with her and our other friend Ellen who also lived nearby.  Judy’s family summered in the Hamptons in a huge modern glass house on the beach that must have been worth millions.  Her father had a seat on one of the stock exchanges. Previously, I had no exposure to this level of wealth and opulence and also had no idea Judy came from this kind of money. She was very down-to-earth.

After that summer, I transferred to another university but I saw Judy and Ellen over our various school breaks a few more times but then we lost touch.

Recently, I decided to use the Internet to see what Judy might be up to. Judy’s name is very common so I knew finding her would be basically impossible.  Luckily, Judy’s father had a unique name (I have a steel trap of a memory for things that do not make any money). Because Judy’s dad was a big muckety muck on Wall Street, it wasn’t hard to track him down on the Internet.  Well wasn’t I surprised that both Judy AND her father made hundreds of millions as business partners with (drum roll please)……Bernie Madoff. Needless to say, it didn’t end well for them but at least they weren’t prosecuted. My sense of awe of this family had turned to pity and sadness. Judy had been a nice gal pal during a difficult time in my life.  But isn’t that always how it is? When the media interviews the neighbors of someone who has run so afoul of the law they are always shocked and say, “He was so nice and used to help me shovel my driveway.”