How can becoming a lady of the night be all bad? There’s no need to feign scandal or use hush tactics with such a profession. I dare any solid upstanding woman to be different by defying the conventional. Though I’m sure someone would probably condemn me for consensual debauchery. It outweighs unemployment or employment with no time off for good behavior in an otherwise proper setting. I would tell my grandkids I’m a self employed hobbyist.

Call girls shouldn’t be mistaken for anything less than Ivy League attendees who read Voltaire and the Sunday funnies just because one would become street smart by banging for bucks. I’ve been pondering this whole lack of consistent work thing. So I decided to do some dissecting of my own to determine a future as a concubine, climbing the whore-porate ladder to a possible high class Madame. Cause hey, if Heidi Fleiss can attempt to take it all off, so can I. At least in Nevada where there are licensed brothels, with the exception of my declining energy levels. But I won’t have any better chance of scoring if I stayed home to play Dominoes.

Aside from the illegality, prostitution comes with wonderful perks. Flexibilty, tax free wages, work in a cushy environment. Mattress manufacturers are thrilled that their products are being used so often. Stripping is far more lucrative and less dangerous than waitressing. I may not be able to cure the world’s perplexities by being promiscuous. But being an insomniac would guarantee that I could work through the night. Wearing fake eyelashes and ruby red lip shimmer could easily escalate me to a sultry six figure income, though I’d be in dire need of falsies and a cellulite concealer. And a good set of blindfolds for my patrons. It wouldn’t be necessary for a humongous wardrobe except to stock up on scanty bedclothes, and stash some cash for a tummy tuck. There’d be no place for my usual driveling dialogue. And sleasy attire can keep a girl somewhat modest and when harboring sexagenarian skin. They can also be an enthralling head turner for any get together unless I’m sporting a girdle. Who would have thunk that whipped cream could be used for more than a sundae, and fishnets could buy me that Audi Spyder GT. But if my escort wants to skimp on the green stuff, I’d be ready to tell him a thing or two. I’m no cheap date. He could easily hire someone in another red light district, because I don’t work on any clearance corner.

Also, in spite of the Eliot Spitzer scandal, I would never work for pimp daddies. Not when they take entire earnings from people they call prostitutes. Harlot sounds so much nicer. Even if someone did consider me “hot,” it would be justified with the flashes and all. I would wear a Cinderella bracelet at all times to reassure myself that I wasn’t the paradox of porn. And I’d have to cut myself off from eating whole tubs of Hagen Daas that could make me look like an extremely large hussy. This profession may not be good for the fundamentalist Christian out to break a scale.

Just in case the feds misconstrue my street walking, I can always use the excuse that I’m waiting for a friend to take me to a Halloween party. If it’s not October, I’ll say I’m in the performing arts headed for a casting couch and I’m on my lunch or dinner hour, and just happened to be in the neighborhood. Although a leather mini and stilettos could be a bit skeptical on a sixty year old. And I may have to get tipsy to get gutsy enough to pull off this bodywork, but I’ve always loved my martinis. They say pay depends on appearance, experience, and drunkenness. Okay, youths would bring a premium. But I’m an expert on toe massages, and waiting on people hand to foot.

I just have to remember not to fall asleep. I won’t have much hooker humor if a guy takes off with my dough. And I can’t get fuzzy and mix names. That could ruin my chances of getting asked out on another disreputable date. It would be a good idea for me to show up incognito by wearing a wig, doubling up on the blush, penciling in wider eyeliner, and camouflaging age spots……just in case my next trick is a young gun, or somebody I know.


I’m into unconditional love. Though, love does vary. It could be anything from my favorite beehive hairdo in my teens (where I stored my diary key) to the yellowjacket that swooped down recently to sting me. Love is easy, unless you woke up on the wrong side of a war trench. My love of the day happens to be the southern California coastline where every angle is a postcard image and is majestically perched for all admirers. And I love tourism, yesiree, boosting the economy. But I love it even better when the beach is back in the hands of local residents. Kiddies return to school and the onslaught of transients stop trashing the sand. I can even say that I love Weird Al stereotypes who show signs of being a little lopsided. It beats suicide mission madmen walking around with ammo strapped to their torsos.

My love extends to my kids, even if they did introduce me to mastitis. And my granddaughter is a gem. This is love in the purest form. I’d be there for any of them, even if I had to crawl through hot sand or another superstorm Sandy. I’m usually quite busy. But designing things with duct tape can be postponed. I love that I used the many colored industrial strength adhesive as kitchen pipe fittings. I’ll always make myself available for everything and everybody, provided powerful water waves or the desert doesn’t get in the way.

I love all my neighbors as I love thyself. But it doesn’t mean I won’t shoot a tranquilizer into your dog the next time he pees on my petunias. And hey, a big fat I love you to the obnoxious adolescents whose tantrum rages hemorrahage out of control. Then I remember that I too was a child once. If I am ever curious to look up “pesterer” in the dictionary, I’m concerned I’ll find my name next to it.

I loved the funny fellow telling jokes at the deli who was clothed in a mossy sheer tank top adding to the stunning attire of ripped green shorty shorts. He looked like Adam without Eve in a lettuce wrap. But love doesn’t necessarily come with a relaxing cocktail if I have to rub elbows in an alehouse with someone who is IPhoning his gamblers anonymous support leader and going into the third act of Snorkel Bob, all while goosing my girlfriend. My friend did tell Sir Galahad that his lordship texted and wanted him to return to Camelot. Since I love everyone to some degree, I offered to buy him a five year bus pass, strictly designated for the Yucatan Peninsula.

On the whole, if you want to lay some love on me, take me to any sweet spot like the Gelato Paradiso in Laguna Beach. Of course I need more sugar like I need to be a manure handler on a farm. Or even Target. Everything is good at Target. But a store marked and with concentric circles as a logo has to make a gal wonder who the real target is.

Not too wild about doctors or dentists. I could cancel my next visit at fear central for that gum grafting surgery. I have a better chance at a lasting relationship with Dr. Scholl. Love is anything that doesn’t compromise my immunoglobulin. I’m also a firm believer that where there’s a will, there’s a way I should be written into it.

Assuming that Roy Rogers never loved Colonel Sanders, I love both of them, along with cooking and eating. Well, except for that bizarre broiling incident. Apparently most meats doused with tequila don’t comingle well with severe heat. And let’s see. Grocery stores. I hunt piles for those perfect potatoes, turn left into oncoming traffic with worry that I’ll wipe out a carefully pyramided end cap, sicken myself watching the girl who got her mitts on the last of the Dovebars, and race the gazillion other fellow patrons sprinting for the checkout lanes all at once. Love ranks predominantly lower here.

I’m not in love with anything more abrasive than sandpaper, and positions itself right up there with kneading bread and 1-ply toilet tissue. Or aging, when I get winded and all squinty threading a needle. But I love anyone despite their cataracts, lisp, and mange. Herman Munster always had love and a smile on his face despite his looks and job as a gravedigger.

Lotsa love to those faces I see from third world countries who have never sipped purified water and haven’t a clue the taste of Cordon Bleu.

I have less love for grass ticks and fleas who hitch a ride indoors.

Lovin that my life has a cast full of characters.

No love for Sid Vicious, or his name.
Moreso for murderous muggers.

Love living outside the 9 to 5 paradigm.

True love is freebasing garlic mayo aioli. And I love and applaud the genius who invented happy hour. He croaked from cirrhosis of the liver, but nevertheless….

Have a ginormous love filled day, unless you have something better to do.


My ever so knowledgeable first born daughter is conducting this class. I should teach
one on self defense.

It’s the norm now for all my girls to talk about me behind my back. Funny thing is, sometimes they turn around and tell me everything. Because they have fully agreed that they aren’t happy about their own beginning development of genetically scrambled characteristics, they think it’s alright to take stabs at me with some blame thrown in for fun. “If it’s not one thing, it’s your mother,” they’ll repeat. Along with, “You’re losing it.” But aren’t most other antiquated insomniacs pruning all their body hair at 4 am? A mother should receive at least three sugar coated comments a day. Instead, as my eldest puts it to me, “Get used to disappointments!”

On occasion, they’ve been Daffy Ducks themselves. In a recent conversation with each other, I heard I was on the hit list for well over three hours. To think it took precedence over shopping baffles me. Apparently one asked the other, “Why are we turning into our mother?” The oldest sister replied, “I dunno, cause paybacks make me twitch, osmosis is back by popular demand, and mom planned all this?”

Two of my Smothers Brothers in female form decided they would make me a birthday present, a board game calling it Pattyland, their version of Monopoly. It would be in Braille because of my declining eyesight, have a voiceover since I’m hearing impaired, and would read something like this….The last six martinis blurred your vision, back to GO. Wore white after Labor Day, skip the spa hotel. Mandates Oreos for breakfast, pick a Chance card then parachute off Park Place. Learned new jargon, free parking everywhere. Dyed hair bad shade of salmon, go directly to jail for three consecutive life terms. Motherly brainiac mumbo jumbo, scoot to Water Works and chop ten onions. Deer in the headlights look, buy a house on the other end of the earth.

Before I take a turn for the worse, hand them a caregiver’s survival handbook, and am still somewhat of sound mind and body (which is still debatable by the gene pool), I have a few things to add to this assaulting symposium. I can’t control this aging process. And it sure makes me nervous getting random postcards from cemeteries.

My dossier is still on hold, that pending shiny letter of maternal recommendations befitting me. If I were to tally up all my infractions, I can only be cited for not wearing much more than curlers, dolphin slippers, and a sarong while chasing them towards the bus with their lunches in hand, yelling their names. So what if things I’m doing at any given moment could be illegal in Neligh, Nebraska. Doughnut holes are banned from being sold there (that’s a fact) so I doubt I’d be doing any worse than that. My kids consider me crazy when the world is loaded with nuts, then wonder why my purse holds a hard hat, a muzzle, a stun gun, and a nutcracker.

But what makes crazy, crazy? If I’m slicing bodies into pieces, then I’m crazy. Although they deem me frequently forgetful, significantly senile, and with a brain full of frayed wires, they seem to ignore how I suffered before, during, and after the umbilical cord cutting and more tremendously during their sensitive years. When I buckled them safely in the Pat-mobile, they thought there was no harm in heaving wrappers out the window. I looked up praying, “Forgive us all our trash passes!” Then as teens, they thought me, the fashion police, would be on their backs. Okay I was. But they blamed me for bullies. They blamed me when their football team kept losing. They exemplified sarcasm. Their own hearing devices were out of order because they never listened to a word I said. They couldn’t read directions on a macaroni and cheese box. A sense of urgency came over them when keeping up with the Jones’s kids. And I had to wear full hockey gear if I grounded them.

So before anguishing with grief and exhaustion over my mental inescapabilities, my children need to know that crazy youngsters turn into crazy old folks. And quite honestly, I’m surprised I’ve lived this long. In muskrat years, I’d already be dead. But if I live to be 150, I’m concerned they’ll revolt, and send me to some vile senior facility in Walla Walla Washington, a place too slow paced for me. Meanwhile, I can exchange all things cringeworthy. With all their eyerolls received, I guess I can be glad they have strengthened corneas.

Even after my darlings express the gamut of discussion that is chafing me, I love them. Let me count the ways. Vomit wipe-ups, all the woe-is-me remedies, countless Rice Krispie treats. And given the choice, if someone were to push my three daughters into quicksand and I could save only one, I would have ten Toblerone & Cointreau combos, then jump in myself. That’s love.


How to start out the year, not so right. From my window, I observed a person hidden behind a hoodie, lurking and holding a knife and rag. The stranger ignites a fire bomb by dousing the cloth with gasoline and throws it towards my wooden front door, then heaves the knife into my Collie to prevent barking. Not to mention he killed my ranunculus. I felt the same pulse of panic as if I’d stepped on a land mine, or an alien had just landed on the lawn. There I was immersed in smoke, flames, with a dead pooch and no real escape plan. I knew I shouldn’t have sneered at that gangbanger a week earlier, figuring he found out where I lived.

I woke from that awful dream. I’ve got to stop watching horror movies right before bedtime. And I doubt shitake shingles really would go ablaze any quicker than a red clay roof. Nor would rooms paneled with Ouija boards and tiled in soybean mosaics. Who dreams like this? I don’t even own a dog. A charred look would only get me placement in a crematorium. But I’m not ready to go to my grave quite yet. On the verge of turning the big 6-0, I better figure on financing my funeral before stocking up on those Bingo cards and senior bibs, and not leave that messy job to my kids. They’d probably rather bury me in a body bag in somebody’s back yard along with who knows how many other previously deceased pets.

Speaking of burial plans, my girlfriend owns a Cadillac which she bought when she was gainfully employed. We’ve now both been out of consistent work so long I can’t even afford a mule. But the long standing joke between us with staggering careers has been considering the Thelma and Louise approach of driving off a cliff if we decide to take her Caddy out of the shack and go out in style. Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like going home, by way of high class chrome. But the recourse to a cliff would actually require gasoline. And with fuel prices skyrocketing, it’s probably best to take our unrest outside, scream bloody murder, and come back in refreshed. It would also prolong pumping petrol with pennies. Besides, we would hate to wreck an optimum manifold system.

We kid about doing this more than we would actually act on it. What keeps us alive? Too many terrific specialty martini drinks at the Yard House, not enough time. But with duties dangling and provocations piling, the couldas, wouldas, and Buddhas are no help. It makes us want to call Brad Pitt though, to scold him for partly instigating this whole idea of cliff diving.

I left Michigan for the west coast because I thought I’d meet my deadly demise by way of frozen arteries. But California borders an ocean. I don’t fear death, unless I’m in a dinghy surrounded by huge finned fish with massive teeth and I am on the brink of becoming shark chowder. And let’s not talk about earthquakes.

Another death defying tale comes from a friend I consider a normally brilliant part of our brainy bunch. As we confer on the stark realities of our imperfect and fragile lives, she had left for work one day pre-occupied with the intimidating meeting she was about to attend. She stopped first for gas then drove away. Continuing on, she heard honking and saw a male driver waving at her. She thought he was being amorous and waved back with a “toodaloo!” A minute later another male driver honked and she thought to herself, I must be looking pretty darn good today!!! Then a truck pulled up next to her and motioned for her to look in her rear view mirror. To her dismay, she had driven off with the fuel nozzle and hose still attached to her car. She thought, what’s girl to do? Pull over, take it out and leave it there? Or go back concerned that she may have to replace a whole city block? She was petrified and realized she could have major singeing on her Mercedes, or could have possibly been blown to bits. She said three Hail Mary’s, and she’s Jewish. If she happened to fall lifeless into a deep sleep, I’d hate to think of taking her off my birthday list. She was actually thinking of a less lavish life of igloos and dogsleds, with no more meetings, no more crooks, and no more drivers’ dirty looks.

I’ve come a long way, maybe. Three million distances by car, fifty four airplane rides, and all those amazing races between parent and kids when childrearing… many laps of lunacy which were enough to kill me alone. If I were to gather mileage points and near death experiences, I’d equate it with going around the world eight hundred times in tornado force, gasping for oxygen.

I accumulated some appropriate Prince lyrics. “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to get through this thing called life. Let’s go crazy! When I woke up this morning, could have sworn it was judgment day. So tonight I’m gonna party till it’s 1999.”

It’s now 2013, and I’m still here partying, and going crazy.


Let’s face it. Life is messy. Oil pipe and roof leaks. Dramas. Mud baths. Birds singing in a sycamore tree. Okay, not so messy, unless you happen to be standing under the branches and some feathery friends drop doo doo on your head. Therefore, I couldn’t let the year end without tidiness and resolutions, prompting me to execute them prematurely. I also wasn’t about to let the world end before opening my Christmas presents, and letting everyone summarize my silliness through my launched blogspot. I’m all about comic cures. So what if my lab results are a little cryptic or show signs of being cuckoo. I’m lucky I’m still breathing after nearly fifty nine years of cleaning with Clorox, and all the hits, battering my brain. Now if my home catches fire, it’s likely I’ll run out grabbing the Chia pet, bypassing my treasured photo albums.

So twas nights before New Years and all through the house, the writer in me was stirring and all my commitments to reforming reflectionary habits were completed entirely ahead of schedule. Not that I’m an arbitrary advisor on life’s natural alignment of things. I prefer pre-planned organization over procrastination. I could probably be prized at a California Closet convention. I must say though, all this determination was interceded with a snort laughing mango margarita-vention. I know what drives me and it isn’t my car, or its payment, or the  insurance.

There’s a national epidemic of anxiety ridden Americans guilting themselves into diets and their own D-Days (decisions days of resolution). I give them a 10/90 ratio that 90 per cent will fall off the weakness wagon within two weeks. I doubt I have calmer counterparts in quests for change. I outsmarted myself by finishing all resolutions BEFORE New Years. I’m smelling a Nobel Year End Organizational Achievement Award. If I can do this, by jolly so can you. Start by flashing your Colgate cuspids and smile on my beloved readers, now & forever.

In December alone, I slept little, motorcrossed even less, stayed blindfolded reading all the needless markup catalogs, stopped scarfing deep fried funnel cakes, benched my search for determining if Dr. Oz eats cheeseburgers, became energy efficient by charging with Centrum Silver and changing to LED bulbs, abolished ideas of narcotics peddling to pay the bills, lowered my inner thermostat because there are no perks to being panicky, quit bashing those babes from the Jersey shore and began my blog, cleaned the grout in the Taco Bell bathroom, helped the less fortunate with a more gratuitous attitude, gave free hugs while singing the theme song to “Friends” to all passers by (even if they did stare strangely), and practiced my golf swing by going all GLEE-like, the Sue Sylvester style (Jane Lynch) of dismantling the Christmas tree by pitch wedging the ornaments into a cement wall. With such Claus and effect, I plan on spending the next three pine needled holidays in Belize anyway. Besides, with all the baking, absence makes the oven grow fonder. Those attempts at world peace were a bit of a handful. And digging up ancestral roots seems fascinating but time consuming. The only roots I’ll attend to are the ones on my head.

I know I can always numb myself with martinis to forget that life can be so messy, choosing between naughty and nice. Why dust when I can do daiquiris or Drambuie. That’s the perk of being….me. Although if I’ve learned anything from Judge Judy, it’s that I shouldn’t get sloshed and spew superlatives at a police officer.

Now it’s January 1st with nothing to do. I’m pondering my next moves. But with the risks of daringness and starving artist syndrome suicide, when I get to the next fork in the road, will I go left, or will I go right? Or will I freak and freeze? Hold that thought till the next installment of DAMSEL IN DIS MESS……