Oh, That Man Of Mine

Every woman I know can tell you, in detail, the type of man who drives her insane: some prefer the tall, dark and handsome man, a few like the bad boys, or the blue-collar guy. One friend longs to meet a "guy just like that guy from The King of Queens," while another pines for "an old-fashioned, hard-working Amish man." 

My type? I like 'em big and crazy. 

I have been on many a date with good-looking, secure, ambitious men, mechanically saying all of the right things and smiling, all the while thinking that I could be home watching "Jeopardy." But put me together with an eccentric man who has a worm farm and believes that aliens invented Cheetos, and, girl, I am enthralled. Really, I don't understand where this comes from. My beloved Dad was Ozzie Nelson, for goodness sakes. Somehow, my wires crossed and I ended up with a thing for the Ozzy Osbourne types. 

The main problem with a relationship with an odd person (What's that, you say? There could actually be a drawback to having a relationship with a loon? Who'd a thought?) is that I am forced to play the sane one.  Let me assure you, any relationship in which I am the "sane" one is doomed from the start.  

Take, for example, the relationship with a man to whom I was once married. We'll call him Aquarius Moonbeam. Well, ol'  Moonbeam and I were quite a happy couple until the day I just happened to notice that he was certifiable nuts. I think it was the day I came home from work to find him creating adoption papers for the pot plants he grew in the spare bedroom. 

"If we adopt the plants," he explained to me, with the conviction of a true believer, " then no one can take them away from us." That moment crystallized something very important to me: Being with an eccentric is one thing, but I vowed never again to get mixed up with anyone who is on the Most Wanted List from either the  FBI or Sheppard Pratt Hospital. 

Still, my attraction to the eccentric lingers. So the next time you see a grown man roller skating down the busy intersection, wearing an old beanie cap with a propeller on the top, please do your best to avoid hitting him. He just might be my new beau. 

Build Me Up, Team!

Recently I participated in an office "team-building" retreat. This is where you spend an entire day with co-workers and do all kinds of groovy activities--building models together, guessing fun facts about each other, playing  hot potato with Play-Doh.  Had we been allowed to nap, it would have been just like kindergarten.

We also took "personality" tests, which, thank goodness, I passed. I always suspected I had one, now I know for sure.  Each of us were also given I.Q. tests.  I won't reveal my score, but let's just say that I don't think MENSA is looking for me. On the other hand, I do have a few more brain cells than my cat. Just for the record, by the way, the cat disagrees.

So what did I learn during this team-building day? All kinds of useful things for the office, like:

1) Play-Doh is a timeless classic. Every day should have some built-in Play Doh time.

2) The co-worker who suggests we "share our most private secrets" is just as big a pain out of the office as s/he is in the office.

3) A good, free lunch goes a long way to making an all-day seminar a success. Don't skimp on the cookies.

4) Most people don't like being lectured on religion, politics, or sexual orientation. Believe me when I tell you that no one wants to hear opinions from you or your tee-shirt.

5) Doctors get real fidgety if you ask them about ghosts.

6) They also don't like to be poked. Trust me on this one.

7)  Nap time is woefully underestimated in the American workplace.

8) If you have to show your I.Q. test results to the cat to prove that you are the smarter one, then you, my friend, have already lost.

The whole team building day just totally exhausted me, so I am gone downy oshun next week. To relax. To recuperate. To walk along the water's edge, thinking about creative ways to get out of the next team-building day.

Unless, of course, the day will include a free lunch. With cookies. 

The King is Dead and Buried in the Back Yard

All this month, the radio has been playing Elvis music, in recognition of the anniversary of his death. I don't know why Elvis's death anniversary doesn't stick in my head. I'm going to make a fried peanut butter and banana sandwich and ponder this.

The music does remind me of the three weeks I spent in Memphis. Let me tell you, there is more to Memphis than Elvis. There's Beale Street, with lots of blues clubs, including B.B. King's place. I spent many a night investigating everything that Beale Street had to offer,  carousing up and down more often than a whore's drawers.

But, really, Elvlis is the heart of Memphis. Even though I'm not a big Elvis fan, I had to see Graceland. Just had to. The first thing about Graceland is that its not set in some bucolic surroundings; it's right there, in the middle of sub shops, shoe stores and car dealerships. Seriously, imagine Graceland right smack in the middle of Pulaski Highway and you get an idea of what I mean. 

The other surprising thing about Graceland is the size. It's not some big ol' Tara type of  mansion, its just an average size house that would fit right in Middle River or Hamilton or Parkville. But nobody who loved Elvis really cares about that. To his faithful fans, Graceland is the Mecca in the Church of Elvis.  

The tours won't let visitors upstairs to Elvis's bedroom or bathroom, where he died, ingloriously, on the toilet. But I did see the infamous Jungle Room. 

Oh my. 

There was emerald green carpeting...on the floor and the ceiling...and lots of brown furniture and orange decoration against a wood-paneled wall. There were also lots of posted signs that said, "Please DO NOT Touch The Furniture." Which I, of course, interpreted as a dare. I did touch the furniture, and a lot of it, I'm sorry to say, was cheap plastic. Not even vinyl, but plastic. The tour guide said that Elvis himself had gone  into a local furniture store and selected every piece of furniture in only 30 minutes. I just stared at the room, thinking,"Yeah, 30 minutes. That would have been my guess, too."

Oh, and Elvis is buried right out back. [Uh-oh. Hey, guys, Elvis is dead. Real dead. Okay, Junior, Bubba, Vance, let's me and y'all get out the shovels and start digging. How about that real nice place behind the septic drain?} Actually, I think Elvis had a good idea about that. When I'm gone, just bury me in the back yard, near the four o'clocks. I'll go to my maker with flowers in my hair.

The one thing that really touched me at Graceland wasn't Elvis' decorative taste, or all of his gold records, which were on display, or even his burial place in the back yard of Graceland...it was the faces of the faithful.  For many of the other tourists, this was a once-in-a-lifetime trip to pay homage to a man who's music was as much a part of them as their blood or bones. Elvis is the ultimate American Icon...a man who started with nothing, worked his way up to something, and died from ingesting everything. The quiet reverence that his fans showed moved me to wonder if I had been missing something. I have to admit, I still don't quite get it, but there's no doubt that hordes of people still love him tender. 

All I know is, if I ever get to Memphis again, I'm going back to visit Graceland. Maybe I'll see you there. Let's make a pact to meet at the Heartbreak Hotel with the rest of the hound dogs.

Divided Loyalties

I've traveled up and down the East Coast quite a bit, and there is always one consistency: people above the Mason-Dixon line comment on my "southern" accent, and folks below it call me "Yankee."

I admit it, I like southern culture for the most part. I love southern food, the slower pace of life, and the friendliness of southerners. On the other hand, I don't like NASCAR, only use white sheets for bed linen, and have never slept with my brother.

I lived.....very, very briefly...in the south a couple of years ago. The very day I had moved into my new home, two elderly sisters just waltzed through my front door to welcome me to the neighborhood. After introductions, Miss Erlene, I believe it was, asked me "Honey, have you found a church yet?" Honestly, I haven't had time to find the bathroom yet. Then she and Miss Eulala sat on my sofa for two hours while Miss Erlene related her whole life story, including her childhood crush on Huey Long.

Southerners might be a  bit chatty, but Northerners are absolute masters of articulate brevity. True  exchange between  me and a store merchant in Stowe,  Vermont:


Me: "This label says that the blueberry jam is home-made. Is that true?"

Merchant: "A-yep."


Me: "Like, made by  your family?"

Merchant: "A-yep."

Me: " So you have a farm, or something?"

Merchant: "A-yep."

A looooong silence followed.

Me: "Can you change a 20?"

Merchant: "A-yep."

Honestly, if I wanted to talk with someone who only answered in monosyllabic grunts, I'd get married again.

So am I a Yankee or a Reb? 

Probably a little of both and a whole lot of neither. Call me what you want, just don't call me late for the corn bread. 

 

Loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah

, February, 1964

I'm sprawled on the living room floor, playing a cut- throat game of Candy Land with cousin Patty. Patty's sister, 14-year old Vicky,  was glued to the "Ed Sullivan" show. Our television had Ed on every single Sunday night. Not to watch Ed was un-American.

I had just moved my game piece three spaces down Lollipop Lane, when cousin Vicky emitted this loud, feral scream.

"Paul. Paul. I love you, Paul!" she chanted, all the while shimmying and shaking like that one time at Christmas when Grandmom had too much eggnog and danced the 'Charleston' until she passed out under the tree.

I stared at my parents black and white RCA television set, trying to determine what was driving Vicky absolutely  mental.  All I saw were four young men, dressed alike in gray suits,with the shaggiest hair I'd ever seen on a man. In my whole five years on Earth, I'd only seen men with no hair, short hair, or crew cuts like my Dad, the ex-Marine, always wore.

I immediately started to scream along with Vicky, because screaming was fun. These young men,  it seemed to me, had some mysterious ability to get girls to do naughty things, like use their outside voice in the living room. These were bad boys

I liked them.

Thus began my life long love affair with The Beatles.

The Beatles, it seemed, had a knack for getting me in trouble. Once, in the seventh grade at St. Thomas Aquinas Elementary School, I asked sister if I could bring a Beatles album into school to play the next time it rained and we were stuck inside for recess. She agreed, much to her regret. 

When it rained a few days later, I  put "Abbey Road," on the classroom record player, and started to get down. or, least, getting down as much a 12-year old Catholic girl can do.  Everything was fine as kind until "The Ballad of  John and Yoko" came on. 

"Christ, you know it ain't easy, you know how hard it can be, the way things are going, they're gonna crucify me," John sang.

Sister sprung into action with an agility that belied her age, which I believe was about 187 years old. She ran to the record player, turned it off, and gingerly lifted the album off the turntable. She only used her thumb and forefinger, as if she was afraid that the devil his own self would somehow leap from the vinyl into her very soul. Sister slid the album into the sleeve and  returned it to me without a word. The next time it rained, the class got to spend the entire recess and lunch breaks listening to the groovy musical styling of Jim Nabors. 

Entire books have been written about The Beatles and their influence on society. All I know is this.....I can watch old clips of  early Beatles, and will still find myself screaming, using my outside voice. 

After all these years, those boys still have it. 

Questions for the Grey-Haired Goddess

Q: Dear Grey-Haired Goddess, where did you get your sense of humor?

A: I traded in my sense of direction. I might make you laugh, but you don't want to drive anywhere with me.

Q: When are you at your funniest? 

A: When I am drunk and attempting to explain the difference between op cit and ibit.

Q: What does your family think of the blog? 

A: Oh, you think I should tell them?

Q: It appears this entire blog is just an opportunity for you to talk about you, you, you, you, you. 

A: First, that is not a question. Secondly, I like to think of it as an expression of self-evolvement, not self-involvement.  And, thirdly--bitch. 

Q: What skills do you not possess but wish you did? 

A: Domestic skills. My friend Carolyn is a country gal who can lasso a cow, butcher it, clean it, then turn it in to the world's most delicious steaks. That is mighty impressive to someone like me who considers defrosting  a culinary skill.

Q: Do you think you've sold out? 

A: No, but not for lack of trying. You just missed my big Fourth of July sale, but I am slashing prices on myself for Labor Day. Somebody, please, make me an offer.


Q: Do you write every day? 
A: I try to, but these people at the office won't leave me the hell alone.

Q:  What is your favorite thing to write?

A:  My name on a big, fat check.

Q: Do you have a degree?

A: I have several degrees. A Bachelors Degree in Communication Arts. People wonder what, exactly, does one study to get a degree in C.A.? Um, actually, I don't quite remember, but I did have fun getting it. I also have a  Masters Degree in Dirty Looks and a Ph.D. in Whining. Of all the degrees, the Ph.D. in Whining has been, by far, the most useful.
 
Q: What advice do you have for younger writers? 
A: Write for the pleasure of writing, even if you never make a penny from your efforts. Plus, get out of my way. 

Q. I understand you have some esoteric philosophical views. Do you really believe in reincarnation?
A: Absolutely.

Q. What makes  you so sure this is true?
A: I don't mean to be rude, but you've already asked that question.

Q: I did. When?
A: In a past life. 

Q: Any parting words for all of your readers? 

A: You three are the best people ever!

Losing My Virginity....The Second TIme

A certain young whippersnapper that I know has suggested that the name of this blog is misleading. She said it sounds like a blog that's about the three B's of the aged....Bingo, Bunions and Bowel Movements. I am not there.....yet....so before I permanently retire to the Rest Home for the Terminally Groovy, I will rename this blog. Let me know if you have any possibilities. Now on to this week's subject....losing my virginity for the second time.

I have never understood the saying, "losing your virginity." What, it's been misplaced?You think you're going to find it one day? And if you did find your virginity, what would you do with it? I guess you could call your OB/GYN.

"Hi, Doctor. You won't believe what I found in the garage this morning. My virginity! Is that a hoot? After all this time, there it was, wedged between two old plastic Halloween pumpkins. I swear, its been so long I hardly recognized it. Maybe I can come in and you can, you know, reinstall it. Boy, is this going to surprise Harry."

If this were to happen to me, it would set off a real internal debate between the various sides of my personality.

"Sell it on EBay," would scream the mercentile side of my personality, whom I've named J.P. (as in Morgan). "Do you know how much money you get for  slightly used virginity? Think of the potential market...teen-age Disney stars, Congressmen's daughters, Amish sluts...."

"No, donate it to...to a woman's shelter," the altruistic side of me would suggest. " You know, maybe to someone who had her virginity taken away without consent."

"Or," would suggest my dreamy, romantic side, whom I've named Esme," put it back in and have an old-fashioned wedding night with your next boyfriend."

"Yeah, like that would ever happen, " would snap my inner bitch, named Joan Crawford. I try not to let her out too often, especially around wire hangers. "Let's see.....you are overweight, over the hill, and wayyyyyy over 40.  Do you honestly think there will EVER be another boyfriend?" ( I told you she was a bitch.)

I guess I could also call my old boyfriend, the one who originally took my virginity. (There's that language again. He took my virginity? " Hello, Police? I want to report a robbery. I had my boyfriend over for Sloppy Joe's, and when he left, I realized that my 'Peter Frampton Comes Alive' album and my virginity are both gone. That sticky-fingered rat bastard."

The last I heard, the virginity-taker was going on 35 years of marriage, and was expecting his 3rd grandchild. Sleeping with someone's Paw-Paw? Ewwwwwwww.

So, if I had to lose it all over again, here's what I would do...nothing. Seriously. Nothing. If the opportunity would present itself  (take a hint, Johnny Depp), than I would let nature takes it course. Otherwise, be looking for my tombstone outside the Rest Home for the Terminally Groovy. It'll read, "Here lies Stacie. Held onto her virginity as long as she could. Both times."