SQUIRRELS AND SQUIRRELS AND BATS, OH MY!

SQUIRRELS AND SQUIRRELS AND BATS, OH MY!

It’s a thriller themed squirrel Howloween with Norton....
and here’s the text to howl along with him ...  Now it’s your big chance to show Norton some fancy MJ foot work! 

Woof woof woof ha ha ha! 
Woof woof woof ha ha ha! 
It's close to midnight
Something evil’s creeping thru the park
Under the moonlight
I see a sight that almost stops my heart
I try to YAP...
But terror takes the sound before I make it—
I start to CRAP!
Then horror looks me right between my eyes I’m DOGGIE-FIED!

'Cause it’s a squirrel!
Squirrel-night
And no one’s gonna save me!
From the beast with beady eyes...
You know it’s Squirrel—
Squirrel night!

Scream and howl to fade...

My Husband Rinses His Ham

"My husband rinses his ham."

My husband rinses his ham.

It all began in our kitchen a few years ago while Bob and I were having a mindless chat about oh, let’s say my obsession with Amazon Prime. 

“Why do you buy fourteen pairs of shoes at a time?” he asked.

“I’m only keeping a couple of them. What’s the big deal?”

“Marianne, the big deal is that you blow up our credit card and even though you ‘only keep a couple of them’ the other dozen sit on our bill until you muster the strength to pack them up and take them to the UPS Store.”

“C’mon, Bob!  Think about how much money I save us when I get a refund for the shoes I’ve returned!” 

Somewhere in the midst of my completely illogical defense that I make money by returning shoes, the doorbell rang. 

“Oooh… Amazon Prime!” I squealed as I ran to the front door.   

When I popped back into the kitchen Bob had obviously started making himself lunch.  I knew because he had all his fave fixings, Sandwich Slims, Pepper Rings, spicy mustard, sunflower seeds, lettuce and toasted bread lined up in an anal retentive protocol usually reserved for the coronation of a king. What was missing was the meat.

That’s when I noticed Bob was at the sink holding several slices of deli ham under the faucet. 

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Rinsing the ham.” 

"Oh, gonna barf!"

“I see that. But, why? Why are you rinsing your ham?”

“Because it’s slimy.”

“Oh my God, Bob, you can’t eat that. It’s gone bad. Throw it out!”

“No way. I rinsed it. It’s fine. I do this all the time” he said as he popped a slice into his mouth.

He rinsed off a couple more putrid slices and stacked them on his sandwich. As he took a giant bite I stared, waiting for him to convulse, retch, go pale, something. 

Not taking any chances I called 911.

“My husband just poisoned himself with a ham sandwich.”

“Stay calm, ma’am. Can you tell us how old the ham was?”

“I don’t know. 10 days, maybe 2 weeks. Please, you have to hurry.”

“Do you know if it was slimy when he ate it?”

“Yes. Yes, it was slimy…viscous, actually. Is he going to die?”

“He could get sick depending on how much ham he ate and whether or not he rinsed it first.”

“What? Rinsed it? Yes, he did, but wait, is that a thing? Who the hell rinses their ham?”

“I do all the time. Drives my wife crazy. Look, I suggest you calm down and keep an eye on him. He should be fine. If not, call us back.”

Bob survived. This time.

Then one day while chatting with our friends, Craig and Mika, I asked if they had viscous ham issues. 

Mika rolled her eyes, “Craig’s like Bob. Eats anything— just like a frat boy.”

“Hey!” Craig protested.  “There’s nothing wrong with the ham. I just give it a quick rinse. But, hey, if it’s really gone bad, you know, BBG bad as Mika calls it, I’ll chuck it.”  

“BBG bad?” I asked.

“That’s Mika’s term for something so foul even he won’t eat it.  BBG… Beyond Bob Goen!”

That’s when I gave up trying to save Bob’s life and promised myself I would never again prevent a man from rinsing his ham.

###

I'm Too Loud for Golf

10/07/18

I’m Too Loud for Golf

Bob and I are thinking of retiring sooner than later in, despite the obvious cliche, Florida.

When I told my gal pals they uttered a collective gasp. “You can’t be serious?"  “You’re not that old yet!” “What about your skin?”  "Don’t you have to be a meth head to live in Florida?!”  “Or Jewish?!”  

I laughed off the hysterics until Shari offered her two cents.

“Marianne, you can’t move to Florida. You don’t golf.”

“How about tennis?

“You’re way past the legal limit of cortisone shots,” Shari shot back.

“Volleyball?” 

“Face it. Your spine is shrinking. How do you plan to get the ball over the net? Next?”

“Zumba?”

“Good luck finding a sports bra that’ll hold those puppies up through that crap.” 

“Then what’s left? Chair Yoga? Mah Jong with the Jewish widows at the deli? By the way, why is all Jewish deli food beige or gray?” 

Shari got that Shari-look in her eye. “Bob’s got a birthday coming up, right?”

“What’s that got to do with Florida?”

“You’re buying yourself golf lessons for Bob’s birthday. You’ve got a few months to take them. Then, on his birthday, you take him golfing and show him you’re ready for the Sunshine State.”

The notion seemed faintly romantic until I remembered the day I met Bob’s brother-in-law, David, who asked, “Do you golf?” Bob chimed in before I could answer. "No. No, she doesn’t." 

This was going to be a tough task. 

By the time Bob’s birthday rolled around I was ready for an easy round of nine holes—didn’t want to “over impress” him after all. 

Imagine his surprise when his surprise gift was a round of golf with me. That was a fun moment. But, he was a trooper and off we went to the links.

With each successful whack of the ball, I let out an excited “Whoop! Whoop!” and did a “Dab” or two.  

“Hey, I was only 6 over par on that hole! Whoop! Whoop! Is that still a bogey?”

“No, Marianne,” Bob groaned leaning on his club. “There’s no term for being 6 over par other than being 6 over par. And, can you keep it down with the whoop, whoops? This is golf…not beer pong.” 

“But, I’m having so much fun.  Geez, not like those guys behind us. They look miserable. Hey, guys! Watch me birdie this next shot!” I yelled at them and waved.  They just sat in their carts and stared.

 “What’s their problem?” I asked Bob.

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe they’d like you to take less than 30 minutes to finish a hole so they can get back to the clubhouse before the next presidential election.”  

Bob didn’t seem to be having as much fun as I was but I wasn’t going to let that ruin how much I was enjoying his birthday present.

Four hours later we finished the ninth hole. I was exhausted but exhilarated. I shouted one more “Whoop, whoop!” and did a final "Dab" to celebrate. I was now a golfer and could officially move to Florida. 

“So, Bob-alu, how’d you like your birthday present?”

“It was a very sweet idea. Torturous…but sweet.”

“Oh, come on. By the time we move to Sarasota, I’ll be much better, I promise.”

“I’m sure you will. But, I won’t be golfing with you.”  He sighed when he saw my disappointment and then said, “Marianne, I love you and you know that. But, I have to tell you the truth.  You’re too LOUD for golf.”

The carts with the foursome who were behind us rolled by overhearing Bob.

They looked right at me with their first smile of the day and together said, “Yes. Yes, she is.” Then they let out a loud “Whoop! Whoop!” One of them even did the "Dab." 

Mah Jong at the deli it is. Pass the pastrami.

That’s The Pill I Take When I Go To Visit My Sister...

by Marianne Curan

3/24/2018

I love reading “birth order” theories. Experts say the first born will be a leader, responsible, focused and in control. The middle child will be the peacekeeper and people pleaser always looking for compromise. And, the youngest, which I am, will go from being a creative and fun- loving child to become a self-centered, narcissistic asshole as an adult.

By the way, that description of the youngest was written by my sister, let’s call her “Kay,” who is the oldest. As I always told my parents, “God had the good sense to place my two brothers between us so no one died.”
According to the birth order experts these are my personality traits (accompanied by my proof of their validity):

Fun-loving:
Uncomplicated: Manipulative: Outgoing:
Attention seeker: Self-centered:

Have you seen the “Farting Preacher” on YouTube?
(Here’s the link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dtW5upD5oW4) Hmm... Just don’t ask my ex, my husband or my shrink.
Gee, thanks for trying to understand me ... (starts to cry)
Got TSA agents to sing “Fig Newton” commercial song,twice. (Here’s the link https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UyI3IL46yq4) See above.
I’m sorry. What we’re you saying?

While we were growing up in cookie-cutter suburbia, Kay, my then super smart, responsible, older-than-her-years sister doted on me. I’m eight years younger so until I hit puberty posed her no threat.
But, in my teenage years, Kay, now in her 20’s saw every leniency my parents gave me as a double standard. “I never did that when I was your age” I’d hear ad nauseam when I got to wear a bikini, stay out late, get my ears pierced, date and on and on.
My parents allowed me to do these things because a) they’d learned by child #4 what will and will not kill you and 2) they’d seen my sister chase boys to the point of dropping out her freshman year of college because she only took classes that had good-looking guys in them! Needless to say she fell 3 1/2 years shy of getting that coveted M.R.S. degree.

Then somewhere in her 30’s and me in my 20’s Kay decided to hate me. Okay, let’s change that to “dislike” since my Mom hated the word hate. “Hate is a strong word,” she’d say, hating it.
I was having the time of my life in my late 20’s. I had a dream job doing sketch comedy and getting acting gigs, I had a great group of friends...and I was thin. Yes, I had the audacity to like staying in shape something my sister was slowly and sadly losing interest in doing. Kay’s rocky relationship with her live-in was getting rockier, she hated her job and she was eating her way through it all.
But, why did she take it out on me?
Kay was then, and still is, a “grass is always greener” kind of person. She never missed a shot off the bow to let me know how lucky I was. Never a comment about my hard work... only constant comparisons to her lesser fortunes—as self-imposed as they were.
This pattern got to be pretty old. I longed for the days when she was a straight A student and teen model and I was a gangly grade schooler with braces, glasses and stringy hair. She liked me a lot better then.
Over the years I learned to expect Kay’s notions of my “grand life” and let them roll over me. It wasn’t until my father passed away suddenly and we were in the car after his funeral that she unleashed a pent-up tirade that explained it all.
I learned that day that she tells everyone how “self-centered” I am, how I only traveled to my parents to be the “entertainment,” that I manipulated her to avoid helping take care of our parents and on and on. She conveniently left out that I lived 3,000 miles away, worked 2 jobs and came home any and every chance I got to be with my parents. By why sweat the details?
According to Kay, I am the poster child for the birth order youngest child (see above). I refrained from telling her that she is the poster child from a Stephen King novel.
My father’s death sent me down a black hole for quite some time. I was on anti- depressants and tranquilizers for months. But, as I weaned off my grief and my meds I had an “Ah-Hah” moment about my sister.

I was with some actress friends meeting a director for our new stage comedy, “The Hungry & Horny Show.” One of the gals got a blinding headache and asked if anyone had an aspirin. I pulled out my “Pharmacy Purse Pal,” emptied its contents into my hand and watched our new director shriek in horror, “What is all that?” (I didn’t know at the time that she was sober from an alcohol and drug addiction.)
So, not knowing that, I calmly stated “the little blue pills are Alleve which I take after the gym if I’m sore. Those pink & white caps are my anti-depressants—THANK YOU JESUS!! Oh, and those whopping white puppies are Excedrin—probably best for your headache-since they’ve got caffeine. These tiny white ones are Ambien—I am such an insomniac! They make me sleepwalk... and cook dinner. I know it sounds scary, but it is so great to wake up the next day and have dinner made...even if the gas stove is still lit!”
That’s when our new director, mouth aghast, asked, “What in God’s name is that giant orange one?”
“Oh, that’s my fave! That’s the pill I take when I go to visit my sister.”
Everyone laughed, even me. That’s when I realized I was turning a corner back to humor and... sanity.
I was determined to hold on to that last orange pill. I planned to never take it...even when I did go to visit my sister.
That neon orange life vest is really meant for emergencies...and as much as my sister, let’s call her “Kay,” makes me crazy... it’s never an emergency. At its worst, it’s a time to remember my beloved Mother reminding me that, “Hate is a strong word.” 

"You Gonna Need a Box?"

“You Gonna Need a Box?”

by Marianne Curan

In my profession, which I’ll loosely call “Show Biz,” performers often describe themselves as a “working” actor/writer/host, etc —which even the least hip to that phrase assume that means you’re an “unemployed” actor/writer/host, etc—

If you do claim to be a “working” anything you better be ready to answer the inevitable, “Oh, great! Where can I see you?” 

To prevent stammering into an inelegant babble of bullshit I keep these quick shut-em-up answers handy:

1) “You can’t actually see me because I'm doing a lot of voice-overs… dubbing movies into English. I had no idea Farsi was such a musical language!”

2) “You can see me on “Law & Order.””  Here’s why this works:  Anyone who’s ever held a spear in a high school play has worked on “Law & Order.” No matter what scene or character you describe there’s an episode of it in re-runs that they’ll buy is you. You were undercover, right? I know this because not only have I seen EVERY episode but I also did an episode of “Law & Order.”  (Bet you just made the “dun-dun” noise, right?)

3) “I’m a strict Method Actor and I’m rehearsing a new project about being an unemployed radio host…the hardest role I’ve ever had. But it’s coming along.”   

Okay, I added that last one because I just became an unemployed radio host.

I can honestly say I’ve never been personally fired from a job…any job.  Yes, shows I’ve been on were canceled, pilots for new shows weren’t picked up and I’ve been replaced by younger, cheaper talent.  But, the news always came from my agent, someone on MY side, so it never had the same sting.

That was until recently. My husband and I were co-hosts of a popular morning radio show nearing its 6th full year on the air.  But, one day on our way home from the studio, the phone rang.

A few hours later we found ourselves seated across from our boss, let’s call him Mr. Boss, and the head of HR, Ms. Helfinger. Mr. Boss, shifting in apparent discomfort at the unpleasant task ahead, leaned in to tell us that they were “going in a different direction.” 

“Going in a different direction.” Ha! Why is that the only thing management can come up with instead of saying what is actually happening… you’re being fired?  

Are they really going in a different direction? Did the radio show suddenly decide to manufacture hubcaps? Are they now grooming dogs?  Running a Mathnasium franchise?  That would be “going in a different direction.”

Nope. They’re still a radio station. They still play music on the radio, only now with new hosts.  And we just got fired.

Ms. Helfinger handed us the requisite “Don’t-Sue-Us-Cuz-We-Didn’t-Mean-It-Paperwork” and asked for our keycards (i.e. so we can’t go postal and pin Xeroxed copies of our asses on the break room bulletin board).

We all stood up in awkward silence. I was wavering between giggles and grim when Ms. Helfinger asked, “Are you gonna need a box?”

I almost laughed out loud at the sudden revelation. When you get fired they give you a box! That’s when I knew I’d really never been fired before. I never got a box.

That’s when I spotted two empty file boxes behind Ms. Helfinger’s chair. They were our boxes.

Bob and I looked at each other. “Do you need a box, sweetie?” I asked.  

“I don’t know. Do you?” he replied. 

“Well, I do have my stuffed Minion doll...

 and my Daffy Duck pen holder.” 

“Yeah, I only have a couple of baseball bobbleheads but something tells me I’m not taking them home.” offered Bob.

“No. No, you’re not.” I said with a grin. 

As we gathered our sparse belongings it appeared we would need only one of those boxes. Just one. Our entire 6 years on this show fit into one box.

Mr. Boss and Ms. Helfinger made their heartfelt goodbyes to us and we headed to the elevator for our last trip home from “work.”  Before the doors opened I grabbed Bob by the arm and led him to the stairs.

“No one in radio takes the stairs!” I said. “There’s much less of a chance we’ll be spotted making the “Box of Shame” walk!”  We laughed and quietly sneaked out, my 1st Place Chili Cookoff trophy poking out of “the Box.”

It’s a few weeks later and I’m settling into unemployment. I’m certainly not missing my 7 p.m. bedtime and my 3 a.m. wake-up calls. But, there’s much I do miss… entertaining people. It’s always the first thing you miss if you do what I do.

I found out that the hardest part of my new life is remembering what day of the week it is. Although I solved that by checking my Pill Minder box each morning when I pop my anti-depressants and blood pressure pills. “Oh, look! It’s Tuesday!”

Tomorrow will be Wednesday and so on, and so on. I’ll figure it out. I always do.

By the way, did you see me on “Law & Order?”  

Dun. Dun. 

That's The Pill I Take When I Go To Visit My Sister....

That’s The Pill I Take When I Go To Visit My Sister…

by Marianne Curan 

3/24/2018

I love reading “birth order” theories. Experts say the firstborn will be a leader, responsible, focused and in control. The middle child will be the peacekeeper and people pleaser always looking for compromise.  And, the youngest, which I am,  will go from being a creative and fun-loving child to become a self-centered, narcissistic asshole as an adult.

By the way, that description of the youngest was written by my sister, let’s call her “Kay,” who is the oldest.  As I always told my parents, “God had the good sense to place my two brothers between us so no one died.”

According to the birth order experts, these are my personality traits (accompanied by my proof of their validity):

Fun-loving: Have you seen the “Farting Preacher” on YouTube? (Link: https://bit.ly/2uDVj7Q

Uncomplicated: Hmm… Just don’t ask my ex, my husband or my shrink.

Manipulative:         Gee, thanks for trying to understand me … (starts to cry)

Outgoing:               Got TSA agents to sing Fig Newton song...twice!  (Link: https://bit.ly/2uzEFGm)

Attention seeker: See above.

Self-centered: I’m sorry. What were you saying?

While we were growing up in cookie-cutter suburbia, Kay, my then super smart, responsible, older-than-her-years sister doted on me. I’m eight years younger so until I hit puberty posed her no threat. 

But, in my teenage years, Kay, now in her 20’s saw every leniency my parents gave me as a double standard. “I never did that when I was your age” I’d hear ad infinitum when I got to wear a bikini, stay out late, get my ears pierced, date and on and on. 

My parents allowed me to do these things because a) they’d learned by child #4 what will and will not kill you and 2) they’d seen my sister chase boys to the point of dropping out her freshman year of college because she only took classes that had good-looking guys in them!  Needless to say, she fell 3 1/2 years shy of getting that coveted M.R.S. degree. 

Then somewhere in her 30’s and me in my 20’s  Kay decided to hate me.  Okay, let’s change that to “dislike” since my Mom hated the word hate. “Hate is a strong word,” she’d say, hating it.

I was having the time of my life in my late 20’s. I had a dream job doing sketch comedy and getting acting gigs, I had a great group of friends…and I was thin. 

Yes, I had the audacity to like staying in shape something my sister was slowly and sadly losing interest in doing. Kay’s rocky relationship with her live-in was getting rockier, she hated her job and she was eating her way through it all. 

But, why did she take it out on me?  

Kay was then, and still is, a “Grass is always greener” kind of person. She never missed a shot off the bow to let me know how lucky I was.  Never a comment about my hard work… only constant comparisons to her lesser fortunes—as self-imposed as they were. 

This pattern got to be pretty old. I longed for the days when she was a straight A student and teen model and I was a gangly grade schooler with braces, glasses and stringy hair. She liked me a lot better then. 

Over the years I learned to expect Kay’s notions of my “grand life” and let them roll over me.  It wasn’t until my father passed away suddenly and we were in the car after his funeral that she unleashed a pent-up tirade that explained it all.

I learned that day that she tells everyone how “self-centered” I am, how I only traveled to my parents to be the “entertainment,” that I manipulated her to avoid helping take care of our parents and on and on. 

According to Kay, I am the poster child for the birth order youngest child (see above).

I refrained from telling her that she is the poster child from a Stephen King novel. 

My father’s death sent me down a black hole for quite some time. I was on anti-depressants and tranquilizers for months.  But, as I weaned off my grief and my meds I had an “Ah-Hah” moment about my sister.

I was with some actress friends meeting a director for our new stage comedy, “The Hungry & Horny Show.”  One of the gals got a blinding headache and asked if anyone had an aspirin. I pulled out my “Pharmacy Purse Pal,” emptied its contents into my hand and watched our new director shriek in horror, “What is all that?”  (I didn’t know at the time that she was sober from an alcohol and drug addiction.)

So, not knowing that, I calmly stated “the little blue pills are Alleve which I take after the gym if I’m sore.  Those pink & white caps are my anti-depressants—THANK YOU JESUS!!  Oh, and those whopping white puppies are Excedrin—probably best for your headache-since they’ve got caffeine. These tiny white ones are Ambien—I am such an insomniac!  They make me sleepwalk… and cook dinner.  I know it sounds scary, but it is so great to wake up the next day and have dinner made…even if the gas stove is still lit!”

That’s when our new director, mouth aghast,  asked, “What in God’s name is that giant orange one?” 

“Oh, that’s my fave! That’s the pill I take when I go to visit my sister!!”

Everyone laughed, even me.  That’s when I realized I was turning a corner back to humor and… sanity. 

I was determined to hold on to that last orange pill. I planned to never take it…even when I did go to visit my sister.

That neon orange life vest is really meant for emergencies…and as much as my sister, let’s call her “Kay,” makes me crazy… it’s never an emergency.  At its worst, it’s a time to remember my beloved Mother reminding me that, “Hate is a strong word.” 

###

Norton's Night Before Christmas

Twas the night before Christmas and as you can see

The ornaments hang at the top of the tree.

The ones at the bottom ‘ol Norton destroyed

So we hung them up high a vet bill to avoid.

The gifts are piled safely locked up in his crate

Away from his jaws and so as not to be “ate.”

“Guilty as charged” he was put in his place

but we just can’t get mad at that heavenly face!

Puppies are cute (which is why he’s still here)

to join in a holiday filled with good cheer!

We’ll keep him and love him and when he grows up

maybe we’ll remind him what he did as a pup!

Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night!!

It’s Tax Day and, according to the IRS, my occupation is “entertainer.”

It’s Tax Day and, according to the IRS, my occupation is “entertainer.” 

Unlike accountants, gynecologists or coal miners, being an “entertainer” can mean having a myriad of careers as an actor, singer, dancer, comic, writer, artist or any combo of those.

Being an entertainer also includes street performers like those freaky frozen living statues, chainsaw jugglers or city kids pounding out percussion on plastic buckets. Oh, let’s not leave out New York’s famed “Naked Cowboy” who struts around Times Square playing the guitar wearing only a pair of tightie-whities, cowboy boots, and a ten-gallon hat. Call him crazy, but this crazy guy rakes in about $150,000 a year in tips from tourists who’ve only had, up till this moment, the excitement of getting their picture taken with the Easter Bunny at their local mall.

*NOTE TO READER: I have not included “reality stars” in the entertainment category out of personal disdain for their misleading oxymoron of a moniker. These stagnations of humanity, i.e. ALL of The Kardashians, ALL of The “Real” Housewives, ALL of the Honey Boo-Boos, Mama Junes & their camouflage be-decked inbred kin, etc., do not exist in any form of reality. More simply put, they alone, and collectively, have no discernible talent to deign them a “star” —even with a small “s.”  I hold the Naked Cowboy and his ilk in higher regard.  At least he can play the guitar.

Moving on.

How is it then, that after 30 years of earning a living and paying taxes as an “entertainer” that I can single-handedly lull my $150 an hour therapist to sleep? 

No, he wasn’t just closing his eyes to better focus on my weekly “woe is me” diatribe and self-absorbed whining. This guy actually nodded off. He was full chin to chest. His lower lip succumbing to gravity was hanging slightly open. His pen was in a slow motion descent from his sleepy grip. 

I had to assume he was in that first stage of sleep— which I Googled while he dozed.  It’s considered a very light sleep from which one is easily awakened. So I decided to blow my nose not too loudly but just enough to get his attention back on the task at hand—listening to my bullshit.  But hey, it’s my bullshit. And, it’s real for me.  Not to mention that his hourly fee could nab me 3 pairs of shoes at Nordstrom Rack. Perspective, people!

My subtle nose blowing roused him. I pretended to be mopping up a case of tear induced sniffles so he wouldn’t guess I’d witnessed his brief nap. He pushed his glasses back up his nose, retrieved his pen from the floor and jumped right back in, “So, how are you doing with your insomnia?”  

The words “Not quite as good as you” started to form but I controlled myself. Barely.

If this were the first time I wouldn’t have thought twice about it. Dear God, if I had to listen to people like me all day I’d need a nap—or maybe a bullet in the head. But it wasn’t the first time. And I guessed that if I didn’t get more “entertaining” it wouldn’t be the last.

I remember going to the beach for a girl’s day with a friend who is a therapist. I was so proud of her winning struggle to put herself through grad school which landed her a job working at a prestigious celebrity-studded rehab. 

Yet, on our beach day, she was unloading a tote bag full of tabloid magazines onto the blanket. There they were. The Kardashians, the Boo-Boos, the Housewives… all those “entertainers” I refused to acknowledge above. 

“Are those for research?” I asked since her clients often graced the covers of these rags.

“God no! It’s my day off.” 

“So…you’re going to read them…for fun?”

“Marianne, do you have any idea what I listen to in my office hour after hour, day after day? Yes, I know it’s my job. But you try listening to people whining about their problems and how tough their lives are. It’s exhausting.” 

“Yeah. I guess that would be exhausting.”

As she thumbed through the “Mama June’s Revenge Weight Loss” issue of US Magazine, I asked, “So, have you ever, you know, dozed off during a session? I mean even for a little bit?”

“Oh, my god, yes. At least a couple of times—that I remember.”

To which I thought, “That you remember?!!” 

Now she was on a roll. “Once, I nodded off and only woke up when I let out of those snorts. Wow, that snapped me back to life. It was pretty hilarious.”

“You were snoring? Like actually snoring?” I couldn’t believe it. 

“My client didn’t even notice. When I came to she was still ranting about her blackouts…didn’t miss my blackout for a minute.”

With this in mind, I arrived at my next therapy session determined to entertain Dr. Freud. Keep him fully alert. 

I’d already decided it would be my last session and I wanted to go out with a bang. 

So I channeled my inner New York Naked Cowboy. I entered his office wearing a pair of tightie-whities, cowboy boots and a ten gallon hat—and, yes, donning a tube top to cover my backup singers. I strummed a kiddie guitar while I sang George Benson’s “On Broadway.”  

I got a one-man standing ovation. And, after signing my autograph on a check, I booked my next gig. On the couch. Entertaining my therapist.

###

Diagnosis: I’m A Shitty Sleeper

…I have the auditory capability of a fruit bat.  I can hear someone break a sweat or drop a hint from forty yards

It’s 3:43 a.m. and I am awake. 

I’m not a doctor on call with a patient in labor or a farmer with cows to milk and I don’t have a paper route.  Nope.  None of the above. I am awake because of an accurate diagnosis by my psychiatrist/sleep disorder expert who is also the Chief of Staff of a major psych hospital and a published expert on everything from bad moods to Double-blind Crossover and withdrawal of Neuroleptics in Remitted, Recent-onset Schizophrenics—one of many doorstop sized books in his office.

I am awake because this guy, Dr. Crazy Smart, says that I am, and I quote, “a shitty sleeper.”

This all started when I was about ten. My bedroom was right above the living room where my big brothers were watching TV switching between “Combat” and “Hogan’s Heroes.”  The screams of soldiers in battle would alternate with the bellowing of “Schhhhhullltzzz!” by Colonel Klink—all of it rattling the floor beneath my tiny twin bed.

Jarred from cozy slumber I’d shuffle across my bubble gum pink shag rug and park myself at the top of the stairs. Then in my best future-theatre-major delivery, I’d implore Mike and Bobby to  “Turn. That. TV. Down.” This would be repeated at higher and higher decibels until said TV. Was. Turned. Down.  

The TV really didn’t need to be too loud since I’ve been blessed with the auditory capability of a fruit bat.  I can hear someone break a sweat or drop a hint from forty yards—which is a great attribute if you’re training to be a guide dog or cracking a safe.  But when you’re just an exhausted human being trying to sleep— it’s a pain in the ass.

I mean it’s truly a pain in the ass. 

I’ve been known to dismantle a clock in 30 seconds if it’s emitting even the faintest “tick, tick, tick.”  I’ve buried my husband’s left arm under spare pillows to shut up his beloved Rolex which he only takes off to shower.  How can a watch that expensive be that loud?!!  I keep earplugs handy to mute certain inescapable rackets like the ear shattering explosions and roars of “Duuuddddde!!! You got so destroyed!” coming from my stepson’s Xbox game down the hall. 

I use earplugs to quiet the gnawing grind of leaf blowers erupting like a plague of mechanical locusts at 7 a.m. up and down my block. Heck, I use earplugs so I can’t hear myself think. Even that keeps me up at night.

I especially need earplugs to drown out my Labrador Retriever’s snoring.  Stogie has always snored, but now at 84 (in dog years) his snoring, as Spinal Tap would gauge, “Goes to 11.”  

Every night I’m jolted into consciousness by his strained, wheezy gasps for air followed by raspy choking noises and implosive sighs.  It sounds like someone being strangled and taking an inordinately long time to die.

Older dogs sleep in a semi-comatose state which means Stogie is now immune to the sweat socks I bean at him from across the room.  I’ve always kept a pile right by the bed for just these occasions.  The gentle “thwock” of the rolled up socks used to be enough to gently stir him.  He’d look up, slightly stupefied, then grunt and quietly go back to sleep.

So would I, until I married the above-referenced husband and had the added challenge of his snoring keeping me awake.  Something told me it would not be a good idea to throw socks at him.

Instead, I would gently nudge him. And, just like our dog, Bob looks up, a little stupefied, then defiantly grunts at me.  (Translation: “I wasn’t snoring.”) Husbands never do.

Light also keeps me awake. Even the tiniest glimmer.  Every night I black out our bedroom like a Vegas hotel, turn the alarm clock’s glow toward the wall and, as Bob settles in with his latest novel, I don my sleep mask since they have yet to design a reading light that only illuminates the damned book.

So, yes, my doctor is right. I’m a “shitty sleeper” and have been all of my life.  But, it used to be mild and occasional. 

Then, in my early 40’s I stopped sleeping. Period. This descent into sleep deprived madness was the result of personal and professional life traumas so overwhelming that I told Bob, “Sweetie, I know I promised to grow old with you.  I just didn’t think it was going to happen in three months.”

So here I was in the prime of my life being treated for major depression and sampling anti-depressants like Pez to see which one had the least disruptive side effects. I’m sure you’ve seen the commercials rattling off a laundry list of symptoms that should scare anyone in their right mind from taking this shit.  But, ah hah!! I’m depressed. I’m not in my right mind. So, pop, pop. Happy, happy!! And…AWAKE.

Most antidepressants warn against “difficulty sleeping.”  Difficulty? Hmmm… I know difficulty sleeping.  But now, I simply don’t sleep. Dr. Crazy Smart thought it was anxiety so he prescribed some giant horse pill tranquilizers to down with my sleeping pills at night. Pop. Pop. Zzzz. Zzzz. Oh, what a relief it is!  I popped those puppies going to bed and again with my “Up with People” meds in the morning.  Suddenly I was Judy Garland— without the voice. But, now, life was good. No, not good. Tolerable.

These were the years I also got hooked on Law & Order.  Dun. Dun. Numb. Numb.  I’m pretty sure I watched every single episode of every single version which is approximately 6,382 shows, not including reruns.  SVU was my fave. I’m not sure why watching crimes that are “particularly heinous”  was a mood lifter.  Was it because it made me feel like my life was better than the poor prostitutes they’d find strangled and stuffed into Hefty bags? Or, is it because I loved staring at Christopher Meloni? 

Heck, I’m just grateful that eventually modern medicine, Dick Wolfe, and the healing effects of time and a new job helped turn my life around.

I finally crawled out of my black hole into the light of day, went off medication and awaited my new found slumber.  And I waited. And I waited. Usually while watching Christopher Meloni dig prostitutes out of the trash at 3:43 a.m. Dun. Dun. Numb. Numb.

Back I go to Dr. Crazy Smart… bleary eyed and haggard, but happy to be laying on his couch, or any couch for that matter. “Are you taking the Ambien?”  he asks. “No.? I whine. “I’m tired of popping pills.”  Not impressed he asked, “Quick question. Are you still a shitty sleeper?”  

I shot him a dirty look and held out my hand for the prescription.

Stop Calling Me “Ma’am!”

Because in Hollywood: 2 + 3 = “Sharknado 5.” Kate + 8 = “Television.” And… Actress + 40 = “DEAD.”

Stop calling me, “Ma’am!”

When I tell people how old I am, the common response is, “Really?” accompanied by a slight gasp and an eyebrow raised in suspicion.

Embarrassed, they quickly add, ”You look great!” as their voices trail off with that tell-tale (dot, dot, dot) which means I know what they’re really thinking, “You look great…for your age.”

They seem incredulous that someone “my age” isn’t lying prone on a Carnival Cruise deck chair recalling the revolutionary impact of control top pantyhose while eating a 7 course meal — through a straw. So perhaps hearing “You look great! (dot, dot, dot) should be considered a compliment. I’d raise an eyebrow in suspicion of that theory but I’ve had so much Botox I can’t move anything above my knees.

By the way, I’m 55. There, I said it. And there you are with your facile forehead saying, “You look great!” (dot, dot, dot) Thanks. I think.

An embroidered pillow on my bed reads “Aging Gracefully Is Overrated.” I believe that’s true. And, I believe I need to get over it. By “it” I mean my — and perhaps all of society’s expectations of where my life should be by now.

Let’s not get started on where my butt and boobs should be. If they keep sinking, I’ll need a Navy Seal to dredge them up. Hmmm…what a fantastic idea. “Hello, Sailor!”

So taking this all in I channel my 70’s inspired, yet delusional, Helen Reddy goals. By “this age” I was supposed to be roaring and soaring — managing my 401k, winning a 10k, all while maintaining a size six with bowls of Special K.

None of this has happened.

So, today my choices are to find a way to feel good about my accomplishments — or not. I can accept my life “at this age” while shouting “I’m 55 and Fabulous!” as I wave my AARP card for 15 cents off a McDonald’s coffee — or not. I can don stretch capri pants and let my hair go gray like Jamie Lee Curtis in a yogurt commercial — or not.

I choose “or not.”

I’ve lied about my age since I was 40, shaving off five years knowing I could pull it off which worked until I turned 45

Ageism hit me hardest at the gym when I found myself lying to the elliptical machine. It would prompt: Input program: (1) Walk in the Park — nope, too easy. (2) Run Up Big Hills — nope, too hard. (3) Lie Through My Teeth About My Age. Bingo! I press 3. Then it prompts: “Input weight.” I cover the LED with my hand like I’m shielding my pin number at an ATM as I enter the ungodly number.

Then it prompts, “Input Age.” What’s that got to do with bobbing up and down on a machine? By the time I pound the numbers 55 into the machine my time is up and another gym member is waiting. “Great workout! It’s all yours!” I say to Barbie as I mop my brow and collect my dignity — and my More magazine.

I stopped denying my age the day I found out I had a Wikipedia page. It was put together by some over-eager yet well-meaning cyber geek who’s apparently one of the six viewers of my TV host stint on Game Show Network. Right there on the World Wide Web is my birthdate glaringly displayed for the entire universe to see.

It’s not hard to edit a Wikipedia page — believe me it’s not if I can do it. But every time I went online and shaved five or six years off my birthdate, this unseen “Julian Assange” went back and restored it.

How does Mr. Wiki-Stalker know I’ve changed it anyway? And why does he care that I’m so emotionally immature I can’t bear to see the numbers 1–9–6–1 lined up in that order?

Besides, MY Wikipedia page is about MY life. I can fake, forge or revise my own damned history, thank you very much. Who is this basement dwelling Wiki-Weirdo? This pleather-belt-wearing, mouth-breather who’s cutting and pasting my life on some makeshift encyclopedia? Who has that kind of time?

Okay, confession. I do Google myself — occasionally. Maybe because it’s much easier to look at photos of my younger self than face the face I see in the mirror now — the one with the jowls of life.

It is really crazy how crazy I can let my age make me. And it is just a number, right? Which I’m sure is how my silent editor feels as he posts what he decides are “Just the facts, Ma’am.”

Stop calling me Ma’am!! Being called Ma’am is like hearing, “Hey, aging lady with a coupon for chocolate calcium chews who’s buying Fresca and writing a check, how are you today, Ma’am?”

I blame modern technology for making us all so self-aware and too self-important. Why else do we constantly check email, texts, Tweets, Facebook and Wikipedia? Is it to reaffirm our existence and our worth? Or is it to find a Groupon coupon for half off some modern technology that can make us look half our age?

Is anyone else tired right now? I am. But then, I’m 55. I had much more energy last year. Yet, I so want the oomph to embrace my age, my aging and technology’s grasp on my truth.

Perhaps I should get rid of that pithy little pillow and learn to age gracefully because it is, after all, “Just the facts, Ma’am. Just the facts.”

Which I’m jiggy with it…on one condition... that you stop calling me Ma’am!