Tipped Off

Glen Arbor is a long way away from SoHo, y’all.
It’s 45 minutes away from the nearest Wal-Mart even.
Needless to say, it’s a long, long way away from Navy French Tips.

I drove home from my manicure Tip tapping on the steering wheel and wailing Lady
Gaga to the on coming traffic. If I’m not the hippest thang in a Buick Enclave, I’ll kiss your cold, white patootie.

And, certainly, the hippest mom to sell a Glen Lake Lakers hoodie at the football game! Am I right? Huh? Am I?   …..you can see where this is headed.....

My spirit wear selling colleague, whom I barely know and is already suspicious of my Big City Southern Fudgie ways, didn’t notice anything at first. I knew when she did because of the little “Oh!” she emitted while I was making change. I turned around expecting to see stark naked envy on her face. She was choking on her tongue trying not to laugh.

“Jeez o’Pete!”, she gasped. “Let me see your nails!”

She looked from my hand to my face like she was expecting to see Amy Winehouse or a Vegas stripper.

“Pretty sassy, huh?”, I beamed. “I just felt like doing something a little different!”

“I guess I’ve never seen something like that before.”, she murmered, smiling indulgently at me.

“It’s new! It’s very “in” right...um...now” I was starting to pick up on the vibe here.

There was no fist bump. No “Dang, sista! You are rockin’ those tips!”.
No “I’ve got to get me some of that business so I can be as cool as you, girlfriend!”.

Oh my god. What have I done? Who do I think I am? This is ridiculous. Ree. Dick. U. Luss.
I’m a middle aged Mom selling t-shirts at a freakin’ football game in a town the size of my Dallas Pilates class. Who in the hell am I kidding? Good Lord... I need a cotton ball and a bottle of acetone.

We were saved from our awkward, gaping mouth moment by a beautiful Freshman asking if we had any Smalls left. She looks at my nails. Then up at my face. Then over at the stands - no doubt, seeking salvation from one of her equally adorable covey.

(Okay. A few years ago, I was at Disney World. A teenaged FiFi walked by and I said brightly, “Hey! I have that same shirt!”
The look of horror that passed across that child’s face.... wow.
She was looking at someone’s Mother who was telling her she had the same shirt???
She gasped, grabbed her friend’s hand for support and was trying to get that shirt off her body as fast as possible. Humbling....)

My totally topped off tips were getting that same reaction right now.
The face. The choking horror.
My dawning realization that the flush I was feeling was not the flush of greatness but a hot flash working it’s way up my neck.

“Wow! Those are awesome, Mrs. Merlot.” Mrs. Merlot???

I told her I didn’t have any damn Smalls left and she should buy the Large now and put it in her closet because one day, before she knows it, she will puff up like a blowfish and the only things that will fit her are shoes and purses and then she will be forced to desperately try to recapture her youth by slapping on some ridiculously trendy shit on her nails.

It just looked so cute on the [key word] girl sitting next to me........



Aside: It took me over two weeks to get back to CJ and my boring old Mom Mani. During that time, everyone got a big laugh, I made a new friend at the Spirit Booth and the kids admitted that they did think it was kinda cool. I mean, they weren’t posing for pictures with me or anything, but I think they might be starting to get used to me.

Gettin' Tippy

It just looked so cute on the girl sitting next to me.

I was getting my nails done and she had this dead sexy red - just on the tips.
Like a French manicure? But with color? So more of a Naughty French Maid vibe.

As sassy as I like to think I am, I tend to keep the Ho on the Down Low.
French tips on the nails - Hooker Red on the toes.
I figure if someone is looking that close at my feet, they have a little nasty thang goin' anyway, right? I make their day.

The truth is, I wave my hands around a lot when I talk.
If there's color on there, people start getting all glassy-eyed and try to follow the streaks flashing through the air.
I worry they aren't really listening to me.
I worry they are starting to get hypnotized.
I worry about whether or not they've ever dropped acid and what is the proper etiquette when a PTA mom has a flashback in the middle of pie and coffee.

But those nails….. I don't know….. they were kinda speaking to me.
They were saying things about adventure and spontaneity, reckless youth and whole days without Ibuprofen.

"I'm kinda diggin' Sue's nails.", I said, casually, to CJ, my hunky MANicurist. "What do you think?"

"It's new. She does black sometimes, too. Wanna do it?", he ventured.

"Oh Lord, no - I'm too old. I'm really not that hip. I could never commit to a color. Way to old."

I kept up in this vein for a good five minutes until CJ stilled his mighty file and said, "It's paint."

Good point - the paint. Not a tattoo. Not a life choice. Paint.

And still, it took me two more trips. Two more exposures to Sue's completely cool nails.
(Black the next time, "shattered" silver after that.)

"Let's do this thing", I told CJ, with much boldness and bravado.

"Atta girl - pick a color!" and he pointed me to the Wall of Choices.

I'm walking. I'm walking. The Wall is getting farther and farther away. I swear I see twin girls standing in front of it. I'm waiting for one of them to whisper "Redrum. Redrum."
I look back at CJ, my panic evident. He rolled his eyes and possibly mumbled "Oh, for the love of God…" under his breath. Or maybe "Redrum". God knows he was thinking it.

Okay, so red goes with everything. But it's a little obvious. I already have these naughty little piggies working.
Black is damn sassy but I'm a 45 year old mother. That’s trying too hard. Next thing you know I'll have a toe ring.
Blue? Kind of sassy - kind of safe. A little childish. I think I saw a 5 year old with blue nails yesterday.
What if I call it "Navy"? That's classy sounding….
Navy says, "I'm wearing a Ralph Lauren blazer now but in the '80's I was all Devo, baby."
Oh yeah. I am makin' a statement now, by crackie!

Overthinking? Perhaps.

And, of course, there is no "Navy" so I make CJ mix two colors to get the exact level of classy-sassy a girl like me requires.
His eye is twitching but he's a trooper.
I already make him crazy with the PInk & White and the buffing when everyone knows Shellac is the way to go.

By now, the entire salon is invested in this decision.
The "entire salon" being three technicians giving two manicures to septuagenarians and one pedicure to a diabetic who just hauled himself out of the scooter.
To say I had the floor is an understatement. To say it was due to my comic timing is an overrstatement.
This was big entertainment for a Tuesday afternoon. At Meijer.
(oh! did you think I was at FiFi's FooFoo Salon? Nope. Best mani in town is just a slab of glass away from the checkout line, baby!)

 
So. Much ado and 20 minutes later, I was tipped and hip and ready to show the world just how fashion-forward I can be!

I sashayed through my shopping, clicking my New Nails on the cart handle the whole way.






I felt young and hip and ready to whirl off on an adventure at the drop of a hat!
What's this? A new Rubbermaid line? Purple handles on the storage bins? Oh hell yes!!!  I am so getting that.


That was Day One - Hour One.

Then I got back to Glen Arbor.

…..to be continued......

Pedal Pusher

The fresh breath of summer. Crisp, cool mornings erupt into sun-drenched afternoons then dissolve into picture perfect sunsets. The lakes warm to a balmy 62 degrees and fill with hardy wake boarders, skiers, surfers and Frisbee flingers.

And like the annual onslaught of swarming black flies come the color-coordinated, spandex-assed bikers riding three abreast on the winding lakeshore roads.

People like to stay healthy and fit. The allure of not too hot/not too cold calls out to you weekend warriors. I get it. Ok – not really, but I sympathize (yes "sympa" not "empa") with your need to exert.

Hey – “mi blacktop, su blacktop” and all that. But, really? Really?  I’m driving a huge Mom Mobile. I’m right behind you. There’s nowhere for me to go except right smack over your tight, healthy little tushie.

I don’t mean to be snarky. (oh no…never….) but you do realize that except for the runners, joggers and speed walkers, everything on the road is much bigger than you, right? And faster?

Oh wait. No, not faster. Because I am behind you and although I see your little clipped-in feet going all hamster-on-a-wheel fast, you’re still going slower than I can idle.

In all these years, I’ve only flipped one biker the bird and it turned out to be my buddy, Action Figure Dave.  Busted.

Truth be told, I got talked into a bicycle up here one summer.

The BoogerButt was at that youngling age where he could ride for days and never get tired of it. Stud Muffin, being a stud muffin, could/can hop on anything and go for days.

I, being a Southern Dixie Princess, fell over getting out of the driveway and had a bladder infection within a block.
My hair was plastered to my forehead, my mascara was running and the stitches on the spandex were stretched out so much it looked like I was wearing a corset.

There was no “clipping in”; no logo-laden unitard. There was a butt-ugly helmet borrowed from my mother-in-law (c. 1978) and clothespins on my pant legs.

I stuck it out for about 45 minutes then peddled over to the Dune Dog stand for a Chicago all the way and some fries.

Not being one to give up on my (deeply) buried athletic abilities, Stud Muffie bought me the perfect bike. Big, cushy seat, high handlebars and an electric motor.

From afar, my new rig looked like a normal person’s bike.
It sounded a little like a mosquito but all I had to do was not fall over. Even that takes enough effort for me to break a sweat, trust me.

Whirrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.   Off I go. I’m lovin’ it. The wind whistling through my helmet vents. The beauty of nature a bright green blur beside me. My legs pumping furiously……

Wait a minute. My legs are not pumping. This is an electric bike. I’m just perched on top of it – riding.

And now a car is coming. Awkward.

I lean over the handlebars, scootch my butt back on the seat and start pedaling my heart out. I don’t smile and wave – I’m way to into my fitness, man. Plus, I have to throw a hand signal out so they know I know my stuff.

The problem is the bike is actually in some high (or low – I don’t know which) gear and the pedals are ridiculously loose. I’m going up enough of a hill that even I know I should be in one of those “grind it out” gears and here my legs are in Hamster Mode.

I do this five more times.
Perch and ride.
Car coming.
Get low and pump.
Car passes.
Perch and ride.

I’m faking all this effort and, still, my thighs are starting to burn.

Then I get to Burdickville Hill. It’s a real long hill, y’all. Highest point on the lake. At the top is a scenic lookout called Inspiration Point. It’s beautiful. You can see Big Glen, Little Glen, Sleeping Bear Dunes and, on a clear day, on out to Lake Michigan and the baby bear islands.

The little motor on my bike starts to wind down. Then sputter. It ain’t makin’ it. You’re kidding me.

I pedal a little to give it a break. This works for five minutes. Long enough for me to turn beet red and scrape my ankle on the chain twice.

The motor farts once and quits. So on the biggest BEAST of a hill, I have to actually exert – a lot! – on a bike that, due to the motor, weighs a kajillion pounds more than Tour de France boy’s– who just passed and hollered, “Lookin’ good! You can do it!”

And now, of course, there are two Suburbans, three Jeeps and a Model T climbing up my ass.

The guy behind me toots his horn just a little. I look back.
It’s Dave.

He’s laughing while he flips me the bird.
Ah.... the irony.

* For more about Anita’s non-athleticism, click to read “Natural Born Leaner”.

The Morel Whisperer

Since I wrote about my fungus failure, I’ve been inundated with offers to take me to some Very Secret Spots. I have to confess that strangers wanting to blindfold me and drive me into isolated areas make me a wee bit nervous.

One offer, however, had me grabbing my mesh bag and lacing up my hiking boots. He is, none other than, The Morel Whisperer.

I was wearing the traditional morelling attire. (Although it was pointed out that full camo was overkill since morels don’t tend to run away). I think my guide was actually the one in camo since his costume was exactly the opposite of what They tell you to wear. He’s tricky, no? Those little turd-heads will never suspect a thing.

He was incredulous to watch some other car pull into his double-secret spot. There were mumbled curses and not so subtle gesturing.

“Just pull up a little further. We can climb this hill then drop back down in the valley behind them.”

“Um. Climb the hill?”
 Had this guy ever met me?

I grabbed a water bottle and a compass and we headed out.

The Whisperer was very impressed with my attention to detail. I stopped often to take a good look around. A really, really good look. He was far enough ahead. He couldn’t hear me gasping for oxygen.

When I caught up, he was standing, hands on hips, shaking his head.

“Nothing here but stupid fake ones.”

I was standing in a field of mushrooms. Smack dab and I never even noticed them. Novice.

Mo-Whisp taught me the difference between False Morels and the yummy ones; how the caps are not attached to the stems the same and how the insides look all fluffy. If I’d been alone, I would’ve been squealing and doing a Hunter-Gatherer Dance. Then I would have poisoned all my friends.

Alas, no morels. This spot was spent. Time to move on.

Ever the gentleman, my guide warned me that the next spot was a little bit of a hike. This dude had way more confidence, not only in my willingness to exert but also in my patience for tromping through underbrush.

I put the water bottle back and grabbed the flask.

It’s important to note that morelling involves staring intently at the ground. This means you walk through lots of spider webs, get whapped in the head with lots of branches and find lots of non-fungus-type stuff. I recommend a hat. I don’t recommend big ‘ole Texas hair. Just sayin’…

Tromp. Stare. Trudge. Whap. Curse. Sip. Stare. Tromp.

There's alot of things in the mighty forest. I found pretty little Trillium...

a log covered with something - I'll call it "lichen" because I like the way that word sounds.

I think I found a little pot patch and I definitely found a bad, bad ‘shroom because it was promptly slapped out of my hand.

“Do the deer eat morels?” I ask.
“Nope. Nothing eats morels except us.”

Then what the hell are they hiding from? Why the subterfuge? What’s the harm in making morels a nice bright yellow or something? Who can find these things?

Can you see it??

I forgot to put quotation marks around all that but I was indeed yelling this into the forest. I was ignored or even worse, indulged.

“When I was little,” quothe he, “I made all kinds of noise while we were morelling. My dad finally told me that if we weren’t quiet, the mushrooms would scoot back down in their holes.”

Can’t argue with that.

I swear – I looked high and low, moist and dry, around trees and under leaves. Nothing.

Then there it was. My first morel.

“I found one! I found one!” Whoop! Whoop!

Mo rounded the corner looking doubtful.

“Hey! You did it! There’s another one!” Double whoop!!

Another thin layer of fudge fell away from my Dixie personage.

Here's me with my pretty manicure. Oh, and the "lucky purple" bag of morels.

We found several more and he’s frying them up for me tonight.

My personal Morel Wrangler. What a sweetheart, huh?  I think he’s quite awesome.

Uh oh, y’all…. I’m getting all mush-y.

Big Butt Little Britches

It has come to my attention that certain people think I’m a little too big for my britches.

I’ll admit to not giving my badonkadonk enough of a vote while shopping. The Girls are loud and it’s two against one. Then sometimes I forget to turn around in those blinking florescent dressing rooms. Sometimes they’re just too darn small. Sometimes I forget to care.

For instance, if the last three get-ups I’ve strapped on have been bathing suits, it doesn’t really matter what comes next. A) I can’t focus properly because I’m still snow-blind from the Thigh Exposure and b) if it buttons without oxygen deprivation – buy it!

If I’m having some doubts, I let the price tag be the gauge.

“Oh hell, for $21.99 I can make this work.”

“What? Half off? Surely I can find something orange to match these shoes!!

or my favorite

“OMG! I love this! When I lose 10 pounds it will zip right up!”

I’ve ‘bout $20-dollared myself into the Poor House at TJ Maxx, y’all. I have a closet of cheap orange clothes from 1999 still waiting for that 10# to slough off.

So, yes, usually, my butt is too big for my britches. Oh wait, that’s not what you mean?

It’s the Fudgie thing again, isn’t it? Too hoity-toity?

Maybe that’s it – you’re threatened by my advanced vocabulary. Words like “hoity-toity” and “badonkadonk?

Well, I’m fiddinda ‘splain a few things to you, idjit.
(probably that sentence, to start…)

If you feel like I’m talking over your head, it’s probably because you’re staring at my ta-tas. Look up.

Perhaps you don’t understand my accent? Do all my words sound like sound like I’m suckin’ on a big ‘ole cherry Popsicle? Dude, I mean it. Look UP!

Do my southern colloquialisms confuse you? Really? Gee, I’m sorry. You’re right. It’s not funny.

Here’s a little secret. (I’ll probably lose my Scarlett Card over sharing this) Sshhhhhhh…

YOU’RE WEIRD, TOO.

But, you don’t think so. Which makes it twice as funny.

Sugar, I know my sky-high shoes are too slut-puppy. 

 

But, did you notice that you’re wearing birth control on your feet?

No, the new Mephisto sandals are still not cute. Nice try.

Go ahead and cluck at me while I’m lapping up a juicy steak, a loaded baked potato and a fat glass of merlot.
I’m sure your leafy greens, hardy legumes and Tofu Tar Tar are just yum yum yummy.



I will still leave a prettier corpse: young, plump and smiling.
You will need extra embalming fluid and a Beano.

You say, my hair’s too poofy and my butt’s too poochy and my boobs are too poochy AND poofy.
I say, didn’t your mama teach you The Three B’s?
Blowdryer, béarnaise, for Newton’s sake, brassiere!





If I showed up bra-less, in Birkenstocks and
hemp pants, sayin’ “soda” and “you guys”,
Mama Merlot would fall over in her collard greens.






Newsflash: I’m not from here.
I’m not gonna fake it.
Okay, I am gonna fake it – but not the Yankee part.

You want fudge?
I can slather that with Fluff and graham crackers and southern fry that.
But don’t bite off more than you can chew.

Too big for my britches? Ya think?

Wanna Boogie?

In the grand scheme of things, a booger hanging out of your nose is not monumental. It wasn’t even a very big booger – it was peeking out quite politely, as far as boogers go.

It’s the discovery that is jarring.

How long has it been there?
How many people have I talked to?
How adorable did I think I was being while this booger was mocking me?

I’m pretty sure it wasn’t there when I got pulled over this morning for going 85 in a 55. I distinctly remember checking my lip-gloss in the mirror and practicing my “Golly Gosh Officer Sweetie Pie” grin.

Which, by the way, has never, ever gotten me out of a ticket. I have a lot of looks but “innocent” has never been one of them. I look alarmingly like Anita Spanken.

Today I must have looked like southern fried Fudge because my Texas license and, yes, dern dang adorable drawl kept me out of the pokey. I think a booger would have blown it for me, don’t you?

I met my Studmuffin for lunch and he didn’t say anything. Well, that’s not true – he said lots of things – but he never mentioned errant mucus. Although he’s the kind of guy that might just let it hang there for a cheap laugh.

It was only after a very serious conversation with a wig-fitter did I make the dread discovery. The horror!

Despite my effort to be business-like while surrounded by disembodied, yet well coiffed plastic heads, it was a challenge trying to describe the exact dimensions and hue that a chick like me requires.

Evidently “Big Ole Texas Hair” is not that common Up North. She needs details.

“Big.”, I say gesturing around my head. “Tall and big and… big.”

Blank stare. “What era?”

“Era? I don’t know… Texas!” More gesturing. “Texas Hair transcends an era!”

Crickets….

I feel like my father-in-law playing Pictionary. He draws two lines and then does Hurry Up Hands for the remaining 3:45 minutes.

I throw out more examples: NFL Cheerleaders, Miss America, Cher, Beyonce.
I actually watch the light bulb snap on above her head as she starts to form the mental picture. It was more like watching the florescent bulb in the garage flicker and slowly gain strength, but it was illumination. I’ll take it.

“What color?”

“A nice merlot, please.”

Do you think she thought I was a lunatic and felt too sorry for me to point out the booger? Like, that little booglet was the least of my issues?

She did look a little scared. I get that a lot. I always thought it was the accent. Or the cleavage.

Which brings us back to Officer Sweetie Pie…. 

Liverspot of the Seas

So, about this cruise….

We’re on a humongous boat, right? Freedom of the Seas holds something like 4500 passengers. That’s a lotta flesh lolling around on the pool deck, sister.

And it’s Spring Break so, as you would expect, there were a lot of families – who, evidently, all brought their grandparents. No sane adult would book a cruise during March unless they were related to that whining, snot-smeared mess. And yet, there were so many Maw Maws on that boat, they shudda re-named it Liverspot of the Seas.

Fortunately, all of them lusted heartily after The Cojones Brothers, which flattered and frightened them both. They’re cute that way.

The pasty-white American MeeMaws and PeePaws toddled around with hats and UV blocking pantsuits and discreet little gin & tonics. Appropriately polite and demure, they wandered in slo-mo around the pool deck or huddled in confusion in front of the elevators or stairs or buffet lines. Basically, smack dab in the middle of every ingress or egress.

The uber-tanned European Nonnies and Poppies bowled us all over going too fast, too loud and wearing too little. I agree that “tan fat looks better than pale fat” but, dude, if I can’t even tell if you are wearing a swimmie suit under there??  While I was pulling my Miracle Suit down over my own flat ass cheeks and up over my squooshed in uni-boob, I kept looking for Nonni’s thong strap. Any strap.  The…uh… vertical strippy strap was deep in the abyss. The waist straps were visible only one at a time during the side-to-side hip sway portion of the program.  Luckily, they were just a blur of body hair as hustled to cop a lounge chair in the sun.


We saw a unidentified “rap star’ with a bevy of women he rented from the Playboy Mansion. Beautiful bodies of indeterminate origin. They did not wiggle or bounce. Nor were they able to make facial expressions. But, as far as ornamentation goes, they won the prize. Even, I, Anita Merlot, an admitted aficionado of the high: heels, hair and hooters, stared in morbid fascination. Males, both toilet-trained and non, stared with a different kind of fascination. And found out later why they have that big table of jewelry on the Promenade Deck…

There was the guy that sang “My Way” at every single karaoke. He was pretty good. But, here’s a tip: no one likes a karaoke ballad. Ballad = Boring Buzzkill.  Even Frank himself would have left to go find Dino in the Casino.

There was the reallllly tall guy whose hands touched the ceiling when he got his boogie shoes on at the nightclub. Oh whoops… we know that guy! Step back from that ledge, my friend….  His own wife wouldn’t dance with him but some broad with too much badonkadonk for those skinny jeans was. Oh hell…. That was me.

Aside from that, our little grouplet was perfect. Duh.
No one got too drunk to find their stateroom, no one showed their boobs or butt (although one of us came perilously close during karaoke), our teenage Studmuffins-in-the-making made lots of friends and curfew and, most importantly, my water-proof mascara held up well.

I think next time, I go on a cruise, all y’all should go with me.

Everyone is a Fudgie when you’re in the middle of the deep blue sea!

The Cojones Brothers

I’m probably the only person to come home from a cruise less tan than when I left.

I was religious about schmearing self-tanner on my previously chronicled lily-whiteness. My embarkation photo is sun-basked and glowing. An excellent start.

But, as the week progressed, the nights got longer, the mornings got earlier, the shower got smaller and, frankly, I quit giving a flip.

To tell you the truth, I was feeling pretty superior. (never believe anyone who starts a sentence with “to tell you the truth”.)


By enduring three weeks of no-booze & no-carbs, I successfully lost enough of the winter lard to fit into my swimsuit without scaring small children. I got on the boat, had a couple of drinks with umbrellas and some crackers.

Poof! The next day, I looked in the mirror and saw the Michelin Man with orange streaks. Mrs. Puff Goes on Vacay.





My Shower Experience was a cross between a porn movie and the shower scene from Psycho. There was some part of my nekked body pressed up against that glass the entire time.
Evidently, it was not that sexy because when I stumbled out, I ran into my husband coming at me with a steak knife.





I got to shake my Groove Thang on 70’s night, throw down a little Benatar on 80’s night and embarrass the young people by singing Ke$sha. I’m a multi-generational exhibitionist.

I did not fall off my sky-high hooker heels or have any wardrobe malfunctions. Oh, there was bouncin’. And I had to stop and pull my Spanx outta my crack a couple of times.




But enough about me, (and you have no idea how it pains me to say that…) the absolute highlight of the trip was watching my Studmuffin, and his equally studly brother, AKA The Cojones Brothers, prance around on the karaoke stage.

Having been raised good little Lutherans; the boys can carry a tune. That being said, having been raised good little Lutherans, they’d just as soon raise a little hell.

While singing The Kink’s Lola, a poor, unsuspecting, military-looking gentleman was recruited from the audience and wooed onstage. We’re talkin’ “wooed” with a capital “Woo!”  I’m not sure he knew what that song was about at first, but he certainly did by the end! Woo!
Shooting Star seems like a nice little ditty on the surface. But until you’ve seen one dude stomping and strutting the lead like Billy Idol meets Bruce Springsteen and Mr. Harmony grinning ear-to-ear, bouncing between an arm-waving Tigger dance and a few well-placed pelvic-thrusts, you ain’t seen it done right.


The crowd was enthralled or appalled, depending on how you interpreted the bug-eyed, slack-jawed stares (shock or awe?). I do know that at one point, Tigger threw down a few Stephen Tyler screams that had the Red Hat Club squealing like it was Beatlemania.

For the rest of the cruise - on the elevator, at dinner, at the pool – all of a sudden we’d hear, “Hey! It’s the Cojones Brothers!”

Billy/Bruce accidentally walked in on the You’re Never Too Old To Line Dance class. Backing away slowly….

A screech: “Look! It’s one of them Karaoke Boys!!”

I’m not sure exactly what happened but he came outta that room a little mussed, a little flattered, a little scared. There were nine Maw Maws and the dude from Lola. I’m not sure who got a hold of him. Woo!

They loved it! Oh, they hemmed & hawed and look all “Aw Shucks-y” about it, but let me tell you, forty-something year old married men will take whatever adulation they can get. Or get away with.

Unfortunately, I have been threatened with a fate worse than death if I posted any pictures or video that I may or may not have of The Cojones Brothers. Actually, that’s not true. One Cojone begged me to post them and the other Cojone did the threatening. Which adds up to: I just don’t have the balls.

Great White Exposure

It’s the middle of March and I’m itching to expose myself.

If not all of me, at least the long expanse of albino giraffe neck I’ve been hiding under turtlenecks for six months. Okay, four months – whatever. In October, I was all excited about it. Soooooo over it now.

Now, I’m all geared up for the Great Seasonal Closet Switch! Out with the dark, moody sweaters, the bemoaned turtlenecks and, god knows, those damn puffy vests. In with short sleeves, bright colors and open-toed shoes!!!

…I woke up to six more inches. And not the good kind. The cold, wet, “Get out the shovel, Myrtle” kind. Really?

Here’s the deal. Spring Break is coming up and I’m going on a cruise. To the Caribbean. To the sun. Halle-freakin-lujah.

And, somehow, I have to transform Anita Snoshew into Anita Kittenheele. Anita Puffer into Anita Tankini. Anita Merlot into Anita Mojito.

The first step is seeing if my winter ass still fits into my cruise-y capris. Well, actually, the first step is hauling the tubs of summer clothes up from the basement. I guess I’m all ready for summer since I’m sweaty now.

Second step is preparing some Numbing Juice, which I swish and swallow. You can buy this locally under the brand name, Grey Goose.

I’m ready for the Trying On Process. Since I’m currently on a diet and plan to lose this last 26 pounds in the next 10 days, I think it’s fair to wear Spanx to try on stuff, don’t you?

[Hours pass. Dogs hide. Husband fetches more Juice. Then runs.]

I think most of it will work but I can’t really tell because of the glare coming off my ghost-like skin. I’m a beacon of bright whiteness. I practically glow.

The only people that would think I’m hot are my dermatologist and Colonel Sanders.  I am in no danger of UV damage and I’m sporting the whitest breast meat on the market.

I put self tanner on my Meijer list. Along with pumice stone and lots of shaving cream.

As I’m flipping around in my flops, I start to notice a little ouchie between my toes. My soft, sock-cradled piggies are rebelling against this strappy interloper. It’s clear I’m going to have to toughen up my Thong Toe.

There’s still two feet of snow in my front yard and I’m still using my dogs as foot-warmers at night. But, I’ve put away my fuzzy slippers in favor of lime green “training” flip-flops. My closet is now a cheerful rainbow and the boots are in the basement.

The signs of spring have sprung!


In the South, we look for blooming daffodils, fresh, green grass and symptoms of hay fever.








Up North, well… my neighbor took the plow off his truck. I can see the blacktop on the driveway and my flower boxes are starting to unfreeze so I can finally pull out the fake poinsettias.


Personally, I’ve committed to consistent shaving
and a Mystic Tan.




Honey? You can come out now…