If somebody has to look up the definition of an airhead, it means they may be one. It also means someone’s head is likely full of empty space. To clarify though, three airheads together could mean something entirely different. Like just the lack of being educated in well, most newer things. One of which is technology.

So this blonde, brunette, and redheaded medley of brainiacs were together one day at the brunette’s condo. It has an underground garage in which you need both a key to get into or the car remote, and a key to the elevator to get to the third floor condo. We were, I mean they were congregated in the condo ready to drive the blonde home. The brunette had her five month old granddaughter with her, because her visiting daughter and son-in-law needed some alone time. But they weren’t alone long after leaving their child in the care of female clones Larry, Moe, and Curly.

The three stooges grabbed the car seat and headed down to the garage. Because any highway regulated authorities will tell you to buckle up for safety. And not many successes are achieved in such endeavors without the likes of three mind you, rather intelligent human beings. A half hour later we still, I mean they didn’t have the baby seat securely fastened into the vehicle. Apparently you need to turn the traveler around in the other direction for the safety belt to wrap through indentations specifically manufactured for said strap, which affixes the whole apparatus properly. What’s more, you need to be fully informed how the actual seat clamps into the base of the contraption. The three women who had children once themselves never did get it right. But in our….excuse me, their defense, it was a dark and dimly lit garage. Which totally made the redhead want to contact the architect to ask him what he was thinking while designing a garage that would eventually retain silly people. And it was a pitch-black colored seat to boot. Plus, the actual car had an ebony interior. Not neon yellow. Or at least tan, so they could see things a bit better.

The redhead was holding the baby in one hand and talking on her mobile phone with the other, while the brunette’s cell went off underneath the diaper bag inside the car. The brunette began drilling the redhead with directives to quickly find the dang thing. It was like a horse trainer rearing a stallion. So the woman holding the baby and her own cell phone began a desperate attempt in searching for the ringing gizmo. Meanwhile the blonde, who was inside the vehicle, was borderline blasphemous. She sat pulling the seatbelt practically out of its socket to get it to fit all the way around the blasted baby holder. And obviously the baby was still a couple years away from educating them. The women’s discomposure resulted in the garage bulging with echoing sentiments I’ll not mention. There may have even been a little leakage. And I’m not talking from overhead pipes in a parking structure. None of them could contain themselves long enough to stop the drainage. Why suffer from stupidity when you can enjoy every second of it?

The brunette’s daughter caught up with us them before the accomplices began their transiting…taking the baby back for the child’s health and well being. I guess taking the tot out again was purely provisional unless the brunette stuck within all the guidelines of general baby care. The farcical threesome proceeded, stopping at the grocers for a few items. Forty-five minutes and two cartfuls later, the car was brimming with three middle aged babes and their bags. After dropping off the blonde, the brunette and redhead ventured back to the condo and entered the garage, or what was originally known as comedy central. Or the scene of the car seat crime, whichever way you want to look at it. They got to the elevator and the brunette announced that she had given the key to her daughter. Another forgetful female approached asking if we had a key to get in because she left hers somewhere. She called her hubby to come let everyone in. While waiting, the blonde called asking the brunette to look in her car for the bottle of Rum she had left behind. The brunette walked all the way back to her automobile and found nothing. The blonde called back again confessing that she had never purchased the bottle at the store in the first place. Because as she ultimately recalled, the cashier never rang her up. This of course is concluding that all the hair bleaching did not completely circumvent her brain. And obviously she hadn’t yet consumed the alcohol, which could have been more motivation for mindlessness. It must be the same way you feel when the air is sucked out of a blowup mattress. Which is assuming you are a mattress.

After liberating from that disruption, the brunette’s daughter subjected them to a half hour seminar on how to basically work a baby seat. Which was all the brunette and redhead could have wished and prayed for. But by that time, was unequivocally exhausting. So I, I mean the redhead, decided it was time to leave them to their own devices.

This boils down to one thing. You should not have these three women together let alone one by herself trying to figure out modern mechanics. Because women over the age of thirteen are just depositories for repeated badgering. And for maximum effectiveness, a lap harness pulled completely out of its retractor (broken) can only hold a very large occupant when it comes to fast acceleration and strong deceleration during transportation. Which is how one must feel when riding a roller coaster, or a jetting sports car. At least with the brunette’s I know anyway.

(Posts can be seen every weekend in The Parson’s Sun newspaper in Kansas)



When my granddaughter was able to talk, I shuddered at the sound of Grandma and would rather pass a kidney stone than be called Granny. After mulling over millions of names for myself, I came up with Mimi. If I left it to her, who knows what she would have called me. She and my daughter flew in for a few days to help me cry over my birthday. Except I did most of the crying. But if things really do get better with age, then I am approaching fantabulous. My granddarling knows how crazy I am and chooses to still be seen with me in public. Which is more than I can say for her mother.

DAY 1…
While unpacking, my daughter asked her young’un, “What possessed you to bring four rolls of duct tape?” My beau said, “She was probably ready to take some hostages on the plane!” It’s not like she had all the time in the world for Ductivities. We had way more important things to do with our time together. Like tease relentlessly. And giggle a lot. We went to lunch where she ordered a hamburger, putting me in the mood for something different. Like devouring grease, and acting colossally competitive. Once we got back, she locked eyes with the board game Aggravation and you would have thought she used the duct tape to secure herself to it. Needless to say, we played every day.

DAY 2…
I wasn’t about to let the chicklet sleep in, and would have stunned her into an awakened state by licking her in the face like a dog does…. because we’re close like that. But I didn’t want to run the risk of her carrying the Ebola virus, or something worse, like all those germs from school. She finally woke just to put me under more board game duress. She’s never shied away from beating me, massively. Especially when we played Animal. Which also left me massively hoarse, and usually out first. She knows animals I’ve never heard of. Before long she’ll know the ways to insider trading. She’ll probably get some sort of Scholar Award. I’ve had to settle for a mere mention at Starbucks when my coffee is ready.

I have yet to learn how to out-wit a nine year old. You see, my grandsweetie and I have a lot in common. I like writing, she likes writing. I like bike rides, she likes bike rides. I like winning, she likes joking and putting me back into the start position every chance she gets. I’m not sure what controls the mind of an errant child when I turn my head for two seconds. She is obviously a brilliant schoolgirl who majors in making her Mimi feel a few levels less that stupendous. Name calling was big, as was my interest in using that duct tape. But we kept it clean, and adhesive free.

Aggravation has a name that is quite fitting. It was a ball playing hazard to be lagging directly in front of her. Or behind her. Or anywhere else she could overtake me. It’s as if I’d been granted a stay of execution. Playing Duck Duck Goose was so much simpler. I had longer legs. I inquired, “What have you been studying in school? Doublecrossing?” I thought, let her win? Or possibly need prosthetics for the rest of my life? I saw how happy winning made her. And I always liked the idea of seeing more smiles than frowns. Which is why I distracted her with Snickers so I could sneak ahead twenty spaces. Just kidding. What kind of grandmo…I mean Mimi would I be if I was deceitful. I did actually get through school without cheating. But I do require an external catheter supplied with a sedative solution for losers.

She and I are dissimilar in dieting styles. But because I was nervous, I scarfed down three Snickers myself. This is how other addictions get started. I’m surprised we didn’t shower with the board and balls. This is also where a career in fortune telling would have come in handy. Maybe the whiz will end up with her own future in marble collecting. That, or trapping.

DAY 3…
What could have possessed my daughter to bring along little miss smarty pants? Having a grandchild has taught me a valuable lesson in embarrassment. Although Snicklefritz does allow me to sing without putting her hand over my mouth. When I was mothering, I had to sing outside, and not in the car. There were plenty of insects out there who loved it when I chanted tonelessly to them. Now everyone had to sing to me for a change. I’d say my birthday was sunny with a chance of another hamburger. Which was exactly what the ground beef addict wanted when we went for dinner. The debate resumed. My daughter didn’t want to ascribe to such disturbing degrees of saturated fats. After winning the battle of the burger, Snugglebunny steered me towards more Aggravation.

DAY 4…
The two of us boarded bikes attempting the Le Tour de Coronado. That perfect propel-sion of females on wheels. Our mouths and pumping legs barely missed passing vehicles. Because when you approach aggressive intersections, you are suppose to apply the brakes and pay attention to your surroundings. But what a feeling of ferociousness and finishing first when following a fellow athlete. We went for lunch before crying all the way to the airport for their return flight. Guess what my granddearie ordered? Her groan inducing mother suggested alternatives with duct tape in hand. It was a sticky situation.

Now that my beloved have left, I’d like to test my game against five fourth graders at the nearby elementary. Although I may need to bribe them with burgers or threaten them with duct tape to play. I need to find a kid who can’t dumb me down with a four ball lead.

(Posts can be seen in the weekend edition of The Parson’s Sun newspaper in Kansas)



We just recovered from New Year’s when my boyfriend decides to throw a celebration of my natal day. He was discussing everything from attendees to my cake of choice. Now half the state of California is coming. It started out with just family. Then some friends. Most of which are HIS friends. I think he tried inviting a few famous football players. He even wanted to invite the waiter at the last restaurant where we dined. He finally trimmed it down to a football field full and did indeed think that a stadium would be a more suitable place to host this party. I told him, “you know sugar pie honey buns, you can keep your sporting events on the whole time we are trying to enjoy your guests.” After a lifetime of learning, I’m probably the only woman ever known to browse game times on her birthday.

With this many people attending, I politely suggested, “Costco has great cake batter. Maybe you should just get a sheet cake.” It was my funny man’s moment to out-humor me when he responded, “I’ll HAVE to get one to hold THAT many candles!” If I didn’t know better, I’d swear I was dating Billy Crystal. He’ll probably get a Good Humor cake. Which is basically a box of popsicles. But I’m a Capricornial goat. Unafraid to break traditions and try new things. The only thing that could improve my party enthusiasm is if he walked in with a ten tiered decadent devil’s food topped with chunks of chocolate and fudge. Because size does matter.

My squeeze, who took his role as a party planner rather seriously, and who also wanted to show off his BBQing skills, said he wanted to smoke some baby back ribs all day. That is until he realized his smoker wouldn’t hold the ribcage of a pig. He was then about to order slabs from his favorite meat market when he found out they were closed for renovations. It wouldn’t befit the griller to embrace the simplicity of bologna sandwiches, or just leave a lot of peanuts laying around. Nor is the Capricorn very picky about such incidentals (Ahem). She’ll just drink most of her dinner anyway.

What’s another birthday when you’re already showing all the signs of deterioration. We’ve timed it now. It takes both my beau and I exactly fourteen minutes to pull up Netflix streaming with their library of videos. Not to mention the fact that we can’t see which buttons to push on different operational devices, one of which is connected to Playstation. I don’t want my entertainment to be anywhere associated with Marvel Super Heros vs Streetfighters. I was hoping he was able to interact with guests at some point while trying to access the playoffs. He doesn’t know it yet, but I got him a present for my birthday. It’s a universal large font remote.

Yearly I’m consumed with taking all those anti-aging pills. In emergencies, like waking with ballooning bags under my eyes, I take double. But if I’m to have a fabulous birthday, I need to forget the age factor. Let my boobies fall where they may. But I’ll need all the strength and actability I can accumulate to blow out my candles. I certainly want most of my wishes to come true. I realize it’s better that I’m over the hill than a few feet under it. It’s a day of reflection, as long as it’s not through a mirror. Capricorns aren’t characteristically callous. Though if you push me right to the edge, you just might be the one going over. My belief in astrology is inversely proportional to my planetary positioning. Which basically means I don’t know where the heck I’m going from here.

Birthdays are one day closer to finding out if there are really heavenly beings and a divine leader and pearly gates and if my Grandpa and Amy Winehouse are really behind them. And, if worms will eventually digest my decomposing Donna Karan designs as I rot away in a funerary chamber. If cremated and scattered, I do hope my ashes blow towards the northern end of Los Angeles. Santa Barbara would be nice. It’s also one day closer to Depends. Because if this party is anything like our New Years Eve bash, there will be three times the jokes and laughter to help me dampen my derriere.

Back to the party attendees, because I don’t plan on kicking the bucket till well after my party. I suggested no presents, just the presence of anyone who needed something to do that day. And in return, all they had to do was leave the house slightly cleaner than when they got there. As it turned out, eighteen people took off before I could say thanks for the memories. Six brought me a card. Twelve wanted to get me a card but didn’t have time to stop at a store. A number of them just wanted to see me. Most of them just wanted to see me loaded. All the others didn’t know who I was but wished me a happy birthday anyway.

I asked God to grant me the serenity to accept another year, courage to go further into my sixties, and wisdom to know the difference between good ultra-lift anti-wrinkle firming creams and ones that are rip-offs. And as they say, forget about what you’ve done before, you can’t change it. Forget about the future when you can’t predict it. And forget about all those presents I could have gotten if I’d kept my mouth shut.

Birthdays come. Birthdays go. I’ve learned to cosmeticize, minimize, acclimatize, and tranquilize. And luckily I’m past the point of getting pregnant. But I sure am glad my parents were completely careless with their contraceptives.

(Posts can be seen every weekend in The Parson’s Sun newspaper in Kansas)


At the twilights last gleam of 2013, I started pondering resolutions. That cleansing ritual of determination that demands whatever will power you can muster by sticking to it past January. Three decades later, I’m no more devoted to resolutions than I am ready to call it quits on cosmopolitans. I was a bit groggy and achy after New Year’s Eve from sleeping on my glass, and my champagne flute. So I’ve already taken it down from one cosmo a day to sucking on lemon wedges. Somehow I’m not feeling the same sort of love. Yet I’m all about staying hydrated. So I promise to keep moisturized by all the wet bars of north America. If only auto repair shops could have taprooms. Life would be complete.

For me, there’s no resolution rush. Being a writer is such an opportune excuse for not getting much else done. I wake up with doggedness and go to bed with more doggedness. Which gave proof through the night that I’m still not into housework. Or that maybe I need a house pet. The maid disappeared well into the first season of Breaking Bad and the dust accumulation hasn’t reached allergic levels yet. Using household appliances holds the same allure of using a field plow. If only there were a horse ahead of me to pull me around.

I guarantee this year not to make complaints and general inquiries to anyone I can’t see at the far end of the phone. But with the shock and lunacy of the telly bill each month, the phone company must think I’m having a telethon with the Aussies. It always costs me a couple of hours and meditation with the ashram. Several distractions later, since I have the attention span of a snail, what a frustrating and paradoxical system Bell has devised. Seeing as I’m not normally a terrorist, if they can forget my rants, I can forget their enormous extortions by cutting all ties to them and give up my landline. Then Martin Cooper invented mobile phones. Hence came butt dialing. It’s enough that I have to pay for bad cell service let alone that kind of hindsight.

Last year I survived bombs bursting in air by not relocating to Beirut. Though the thought did cross my mind. Woman meets tall dark handsome adventurer. Woman gets swept off feet and lands in Beirut. Woman revives after injection wears off and realizes she’s being mistaken for a hooker. Woman awakens from her nightmare super glad she’s still in the good ole U S of A. And as I think more on it, I’m not sure I want to go gallantly streaming through streets wearing a bullet proof vest. Although their yearly mortgage interest rates amount to only ten dollars. I know I’d ever be lonely in Beirut. The average call girl makes $120.00 an hour, and clients like older women. I could also give up my citizenship for Singapore. But I’d have to squint my eyes a lot to feel at home there.

Another directive is to watch my health. Which really amounts to snatching cookies right before suppertime without taking the alternative and rather ravenous approach to hunger with collards. I never wanted to be a greens keeper. Who would have known my thighs would react so vehemently to pizza. Even though I try hard not to dwell on physical changes. Apparently if onlookers in produce see you fondling root vegetables, you might be a healthy eater. Au contraire. I fondle anything I can put in my chops when I’m hungry. If it weren’t for those gag reflexes every time my throat chokes down wheatgrass, I’d probably live long enough to see my children’s children have children.

Youthfulness is something we all want to keep. Except I’m glad my kids grew up so my circuits don’t have to be crazily cross-wired anymore. I don’t have to spend my remaining years pushing people into cleaning their rooms. There are turtles with more movability. One of my daughters now pushes me for communication. She contacts me every morning and couldn’t reach me today because I was actually sleeping in. A manner in which I should be… retired. Knowing I’m up early she texted, “You awake?” Several minutes later, “Mum?” Half hour later, “Where are you?” Once I rebounded from that awesome dream of being with someone tall dark and handsome, only not in Beirut but on the French Riviera, I responded. She said, “Don’t do that to me. I thought you had one of those old lady heart attacks or something.” I also resolve to teach her not to panic while I’m bopping her with my cane.

So about those 49ers. I need to focus more sharply on my attention span. I could be talking face to face with someone and be as far away as Hollywood, wondering what Martin Short does on his days off. And I look at all the holidays that come with another year. I’d like to bypass all of them but my birthday. Or not have them for at least two years so it gives me something to look forward to. And c’mon. Why not have national Turkish Toffee Day, or a love those lint rollers day. Or a worship day for women. With the many perilous fights in this world, it would be nice to look forward to a future with globalized prosperity, less spiders and holiday chaos. I have this lungular condition due to humanoids and arachnids. I vow to use more reverence towards anyone I kill and have a special burial plot designated just for them.

No matter what eye shapes we have, I’m grateful to see everyone else’s with mine. I resolve to look at my crow’s feet with pride, and will say “I love you” more often. Yesterday I told the person behind me at the grocers. He was sound asleep in his stroller, but his mother gave me a nice nod.

(Posts can be found every weekend in The Parson’s Sun newspaper in Kansas)


I feel pretty, oh so pretty. I feel pretty and witty and surprised.

I have a smile these days straight out of a toothpaste commercial. Let me start by saying that I’ve sifted through enough suitors till I considered outsourcing my relationships to India. It never occurred to all the moderately mannered men I met that I clearly wasn’t interested. In them that is. Although I always did love the chase. I met many guys with potential, if the potential meant something as simple as hygiene. Or wearing shoes other than ratty sneakers. Which are clearly wrong. Wear ratty jeans and an unshaven face. Never ratty shoes.

When you’re accosted by a sweater salesman you say, “Sorry, it’s not going to be a good fit.” This same thing has applied to men. I should have gotten Chris Hansen from Dateline to do my dirty work of dissecting all my dates. Perverts notwithstanding, I’m not sure how I made it through dinners filled with tiresome topics. Or fellows with the charisma of cantaloupe. And studies show people behave more irregularly when exceedingly inebriated. I’d rather sit home counting the commas in the dictionary. One date showed up to a restaurant with a cold and I went into the frenzy of de-germing the salt and pepper shakers. Thankfully he didn’t touch my lips. One misled me into thinking he had a yacht, then made me paddle the thingy. Which brings me to my middle-of-a-date fibs. My grandmother needed me for more than forty emergencies. And sometimes I introduced myself as Penny. I mean if the Von Trapp family can lie about their identity and whereabouts, why can’t I?

After years of boyfriend shopping, I met my man. Now I’m not one to post things really personal. It’s enough that there are satellite pictures of my privacy, and I’m captured by cameras in stores and on street corners. But I can’t help but share my jubilation. With the guidance of my girlfriend who was with me when I met him, we both had our doubts. Our brows were cocked like Clouseau, but he came out squeaky clean and surprisingly different. Not to mention he’s generous, fun, funny, and has a warm and most welcoming family. Although it may be a contest who is funnier. And the gun he keeps under his pillow might be questionable.

He isn’t pushy like your average bulldozer. His plans of attack came later. Early into this love tingle, my (girlfriend) sister in shining armor stood straight up on my behalf and threatened him with his life if he even considered cohabitating carnally with me. One night while staying with her, I was out having dinner with the canoodler. I called her to make sure she left me a key to get in. While I was on the phone he interrupted, “You can stay at my house!” Knowing how the male psyche maneuvers, my mildly passive protector overheard his proposal and remarked, “You let me talk to that man!” Mind you, other passive aggressive personalities would have asked, “What are your intentions?” I handed him the phone and she blatantly yelled, “Don’t you dare touch her buster!”

Sometimes you want to feel like a teenager. Sometimes you don’t.

He didn’t give me that look that says, “Baby I want you, but I also want every other female on the side.” Now one of two things would happen. He would have the patience of a gentleman, or run for the hills. He was ballsy enough to hang in there. Except ballsy is a just a euphemism for horny. Then he professed his love for my same music, movies, and rustic breads, and I sunk into a love so strong that a bond was being set. Sort of like epoxy with its reactive polymers. Or birds of a feather sticking together. We also share the commonality of major memory loss and foot cramps. We’re a match made in pain hell. I had momentary pity about punishing this guy. So the next date I had him show up at my house with me dressed in a trench coat. His heart went pitter patter the moment I started to disrobe. He hoped I would be wearing something skimpily lacy, or I’d been a lady of the evening in a former life. What he found was an extremely graphic expose of my arm moles. I just wanted to show him the cute swimsuit cover I found on clearance at Macy’s.

His conversational musings didn’t include exes, and other things that don’t need mentioning like the decay in western society, or reasons our congressmen are idiots. I figured once dates pick on the president, eventually they’d pick on me. My heart grew fonder seeing no signs of dust on his furniture. Which brings me back to that good hygiene hypothesis. And what man will go to the extremes of impressing a gal by camouflaging a chipped tooth by Super gluing part of a napkin to it? And the man’s definitely got devotion. We were out together and I wanted to stop at my favorite shoe store to pick up some insoles. He said, “Let me get your door. And give me a kiss in case I never see you again.”

I delegate many duties to myself. Tasks related to my womanliness, such as showering, cleaning the shower, primping, perfuming, things like that. Those things so relevant to keeping the flame lit. Like wearing my boy shorts. They’ve been documented therapeutically to beat the comforts of Maidenform. I wear them undeterred by his own decision to wear a faded IN-AND-OUT burger t-shirt to a fine restaurant, and pointing it out to everyone. I wonder if he would mind if I modeled my boy leg briefs in front of the wine steward.

Now I just need to hand him a list of my neuroses to see if he pasts the true test of attachment. But as songstress Ingrid Michaelson describes, “he takes me the way I am.”
(Posts can be seen in the weekend editions of The Parson’s Sun newspaper in Kansas)