Queen of Hearts

Well, here it comes again… February 14th… the national day of love.

Women have built Valentines Day WAY up. If you could read the letters I get from readers who are fretting over every detail of Valentines Day or worse yet, are worried sick about being forgotten, you would be astounded. You would not believe the angst associated with being someone’s Valentine. And by the way, these letters are never from men. February 14th seems to mean a great deal to the ladies and puts many guys into a cold sweat.

For every man who embraces his role as Prince Charming for a day, there is a much larger number of guys who would sooner choose being audited by the I.R.S. than deal with Valentine’s Day.

So, what happened? I think (and it pains me to admit it) that women are responsible for adding so much stress to this otherwise innocent little holiday.

I recently read somewhere that a group of men were surveyed on questions relating to “amour” and a whopping 38% admitted that they had considered ending a relationship just before Valentine’s Day. That’s NOT good.

Since we girls got ourselves into this mess, it is up to us to set it all straight. It really is our fault. We are victims of our upbringing. Even when we were little girls, Valentine’s Day was a huge deal. Remember the classroom Valentine exchange? The more cards you got, the cooler you were. There was something so exciting about getting that special recognition and feeling the love.

Nothing has changed except that being someone’s Valentine costs considerably more when you’re a grown up.

Can we talk about this? Flowers, for example, are such an extravagance. They are beautiful, but can long-stemmed roses that cost the same as a weeks worth of groceries really bring a person happiness? Yes, if you are a florist!

Candy is nice, but many of us are trying hard to get our fat butts into a swimsuit this summer, so chocolate is not always appreciated.

Every girl dreams of jewelry from her man and every guy sweats bullets thinking abut selecting it. Wait until March and make these decisions together. It will be on sale by then, anyway.

Sexy lingerie, now you’re talking! It’s not because I sell it that I think it is the perfect “love” gift, it’s because I love it and I think it’s magical, that I make it my life’s work. It doesn’t die, it isn’t perishable and you can wear it on February 15th, May 23rd or whenever.

And what if you don’t have someone special to buy you lingerie this year? Well that’s ridiculous... because you DO have someone very special who thinks the world of you. It’s YOU, silly. So go buy yourself something frilly and fabulous, look in the mirror and say “I love you” to that gorgeous creature looking back at you. Don’t let this holiday get the best of you, girlfriend. Don’t forget, you are WOMAN, I can hear you roar!

Warmest Regards

Most every morning of my life begins with a big mug of freshly brewed coffee. I then curl up on the sofa with my dogs to watch the news. The top stories for days have been about the heavy snows throughout most of the country and the crazy unseasonably warm weather in California. I watch the footage of bundled up people trying to make paths to their homes and cars and can’t even imagine what that is like. I have friends and family who live in the Midwest and on the East Coast, and I know they are struggling just to get to work. It all makes me feel so guilty.

First of all, let me tell you that I am not happy about this heat wave. It has been high 70s to low 80s for 2 weeks now. I want my winter! When I say my winter, I mean the kind I have always known. Cool, crispy, sweater weather. I was born in Los Angeles and the only snow I ever saw was when my mom and dad would take us on a day trip to the mountains to build a snowman and throw snowballs at my siblings. I have always liked the winter months. I appreciate winter food, like soups and stews and hot chocolate. It is by no accident that I have never even rented an apartment that doesn’t have a fireplace and of course, I bought a home with a lovely hearth. I make a fire every night I am home from fall through winter. Unfortunately, I have to turn the air conditioning on at the same time in recent days.

It really plays with your mind and your time when the seasons don’t cooperate. Right after Thanksgiving I painstakingly put all my sexy sandals and blingy flip flops in storage to make room in my closet. Now it’s 80 degrees outside and I keep thinking it’s only temporary, so I am stuck wearing closed toe shoes until this damn weather figures itself out. I shouldn’t complain. I don’t have to shovel snow, or defrost my car door locks or do anything that most of the country is forced to do. Right now, I can sit out on my back patio with very little clothing on in January without being the slightest bit chilly. It may sound lovely if you live in Buffalo, but I get more than enough warm weather in the summer months. I have adorable wool hats and scarves just waiting to be worn and I am fearful that it may not happen. This ridiculous warm weather doesn’t seem to have an end.

I admire the pioneer spirit of all the folks who carry on their lives during snow storms. I traveled to the East Coast for business every 2 months for decades. I have had my fair share of trying to get around a snowy city to do business. I am no stranger to canceled flights and icy sidewalks. I remember my first experience with “black ice”. You don’t know it’s there until you step on it. It’s bad enough when it’s you, but when you watch elderly people doing bad James Brown impressions down Madison Avenue, it’s really sad. Although I am German, English and Scottish, I am just not built for snowstorms. The only blizzard I can deal with is the kind that comes from Dairy Queen. I am too much of a candy-butt to power through the snow on a daily basis.

All of you who treat it like part of life deserve all the rewards that come with it. I will never wake up to a white Christmas at home, or be able lay down in my yard and make a snow angel. I can’t cuddle up with my husband and watch the snowflakes fall while the fire roars. I actually don’t have a husband OR snow where I live, but it is far more likely that I will have a snowmobile in my driveway before I have the other.

When you don’t grow up in cold weather, you miss out on a lot. A few years ago, one of my dearest friends and I were had dinner in NYC. As we walked to his car so he could drive me back to my hotel, we kept going in circles until we realized that his car had been stolen. I saw him the next day after the theft, and the police had already found the car, stripped to the frame. The only thing he was upset about was that his favorite snow scraper was in the trunk and now it was gone. He went on and on about how this scraper was the best one ever with all the bells and whistles. So I set out to find him the most deluxe, amazing state-of–the-art-snow-thingy ever. Sounds simple, right? I walked into this giant hardware place and realized that I had no idea what one of these gadgets even looked like. I timidly asked a clerk where the snow scrapers were. He immediately asked me if I wanted one with a chisel or a snow brush. I said “yes” and pretended that I knew what he was talking about. I did have on a very stylish wool coat and killer cute faux-fur-topped boots, so I looked like I belonged. I went to the aisle he told me and I was more confused than ever. I finally had to bare my soul and confess that I was from LA and that I needed the Star Wars equivalent of a snow scraper for a very dear friend. After he got finished chuckling, I got a comprehensive lesson in the finest tools available to remove ice and snow from car windshields. I bought my friend the most spectacular combination ice chisel/snow brush with a telescoping handle in the most gorgeous shade of fluorescent orange. My friend was completely delighted and also very amused. I sang “Ice, Ice, Baby” and danced while he opened up the bag. Presentation is everything, you know.

I have always thought that there is something very romantic about snowy conditions. Ever since I saw Dr. Zhivago, I have been enamored with the thought of falling in love in bone-chilling weather. A hug has to be twice as delicious when two shivering bodies embrace and create mutual warmth. In the movies, when you see lovers toast with glasses of fine spirits on a cold night, you can feel the passion ignite as they sip and look into each other’s eyes. It just doesn’t happen that way on a warm California day in freakin’ JANUARY.

So, to all of you who are wishing you were in Southern California instead of say... Minnesota, stop wishing. It’s not so great. The flowers are confused. They think it’s April. The news even said that the bears are messed up and coming out of hibernation early because of this crazy warm weather. What’s worse, is that I am confused. Do I pack up my sweaters and Ugg boots? Do I reclaim my flip flop wardrobe from the garage? For now I will just send all my dear readers who are battling the elements bunches of love. Keep warm and know that I think you rock.

Standard Operating Procedure?

I want to thank all of you who sent me “Get Well” wishes and prayers. I am happy to report that it all worked beautifully. My surgical experience was successful physically, but my hospital stay—if you can call it that—was very perplexing.

It has been over 30 years since I last had a serious operation. Things have really changed a lot in surgeryland. My stay 3 decades ago was 4 or 5 days and I was treated like a princess. There were floral tributes and a procession of visitors to help me with the healing process. This last stay was 4 or 5 hours long and the only flowers and visitors I saw were ones coming in the front door as I was being wheeled out. Don’t get me wrong, I was well taken care of, medically speaking, but the whole process is way different now.

In all fairness, I understand about progress and the amazing strides that the medical community has made, but some things just shouldn’t go so fast. Granted, my two surgeries were very different, but the reality is that for both they knocked me out and cut me open. My recent procedure entailed removing a funky gallbladder (the name of my new band, by the way) and with the one so many years ago, they sent me home with an adorable daughter.

I arrived at the hospital on surgery day bright and early, with my sister and middle daughter in tow. They were there to support me and also protect the hospital staff. Since I couldn’t have anything to eat or drink after 12 a.m., which meant that I could not have even a drop of coffee. Can you spell HELL? I was not in the best mood.

We were sent to the second floor Surgery Waiting Room for further instructions. That’s where they would be picking me up and also where my daughter and sister would wait. As we opened the door, the scent of freshly brewed coffee hit my nostrils. Are they kidding? How mean! I knew it was for the benefit of the family members, but it still hurt. I didn’t have to endure the heavenly aroma for very long before someone called my name and took me to my surgical event. I must say that even though the staff was very nice, I still found them a little suspect. The same lady who called my name in the waiting area and then escorted me to my gurney, asked me my name and then wanted to know what I was having done. A little strange, I thought, since all my info was in their computer and my wristband clearly stated who I was. Though caffeine deprived and cranky, I went along with it obediently. I was then handed a paper hospital gown, a bag for my personal belongings and a pair of butt ugly socks with non-skid rubber stuff not only on the soles, but all over the tops as well. I could only deduce that the socks prevented me from escaping either by running or crawling. Let me jump ahead for a minute... when I was getting ready to leave the hospital, my sister and daughter wouldn’t let me leave the damn socks behind. They were both adamant that I would certainly have a use for harvest gold, stick-to–the–floor, mid-calf socks in my real life. I was too groggy to be insulted so I packed them up and smiled gratefully. I figured they probably cost me $250 anyway, so now they are mine.

OK, now comes the truly exciting part. The paper gown they gave me was amazing! Not your standard issue throw-away hospital gown, no sir-ee! This one had back ties, side ties, mysterious openings and flaps. It even had this curious thingy on the side that looked like the place where you hook up the bag to the vacuum. I returned to my gurney area only to be greeted by a new nurse, a man this time. Guess what he wanted to know... my name and the reason for my visit to the hospital. Don’t these people talk to each other or write anything down? I sweetly answered while he checked my wristband.

Then the fun began! They asked me if I wanted anything. “A non-fat latte with extra foam”, I replied. By then there were 2 more nurses and they all laughed. I told them I was cold and before I knew it, they had attached a hose that spits out hot air right into my gown! Do you remember the old fashioned bonnet hair dryer for home use? Same principle. As I laid there in my bouffant body bag, they put one pillow under my head and another under my legs. I was very happy and comfortable, but I was aware that I probably couldn’t look more hideous. I was wrong. At that very instant, someone put a poufy paper Martha Washington hat on my head. And then my adorable doctor arrived with a sweet reassuring tone of voice and a sweet smile on his face. I had every confidence in him until he asked me what my name was and what I was having done. Really?

Alright, I get it. This is some kind of safety measure so they don’t take the wrong organ out of the wrong person. Funny thing is, they seem to get the insurance “bill to” info and the co-pay collected on the first go-around.

My anesthesiologist was darling. We chatted for a brief moment as he inserted something into my IV. The next thing I remember is waking up in recovery. The attending nurse was very sweet and asked me if I would like something to eat or drink. I guess they lost my latte order, so we settled on Jell-O and graham crackers. Soon I was released, my sister and daughter showed up, and I was wheel-chaired out of there, gallbladder-less.

All and all , my surgery experience was easy and very efficient. However, I can’t help wondering what surgery will be like a few decades from now. When my sister had her gall bladder out 25 years ago, she spent nearly a week in the hospital. What will surgical procedures be like 25 years from now? Maybe drive-thru... who knows. Or perhaps the patient will just press their iPhone screen against the area to be treated. Maybe there’s already an app for that. My poor sister has a scar the size of tree branch down her belly and I have a 1” slit under my breasts and two little tiny ones on my torso. A big difference, let me tell you. The whole experience left me with a lot of questions, but none as burning as where can I get one of those body warmer machines and a good supply of those Jiffy Pop disposable gowns? Fabulous!